Джорджетт Хейер: The Masqueraders

The truth was she was too well used to a precarious position to be easily disturbed, and certainly too used to an exchange of personality with Robin to boggle over her present situation. She had faith in her own wits: these failing her she had a rueful dependence on the ingenuity of her sire. Impossible to tread the paths of his cutting without developing an admiration for the gentleman’s guile. Prudence regarded him with affection, but some irony. She admitted his incomprehensibility with a laugh, but it did not disturb her. She danced to his piping, but it is believed she lacked the adventurous spirit. Now Robin might fume at the mystery with which the father chose to wrap himself about, but Robin enjoyed a chequered career, and had an impish dare-devilry that led him into more scrapes than the old gentleman devised. Withal he surveyed the world with a seriousness that Prudence lacked. He had enthusiasms, and saw life as something more than the amusing pageant Prudence thought it.

It seemed he had taken this last, unlucky venture to heart. To be sure, he had had a closer view of it than his sister. She supposed it was his temperament made him enthusiastic for a venture entered into in a spirit of adventure only, and at the father’s bidding. She remembered he had wept after Culloden, with his head in her lap at the old house in Perth — wept in a passion of fury and heartbreak, and dashed away the tears with an oath, and a vow that he hated lost causes. To Prudence it was a matter of indifference whether Stewart Charles or German George sat the throne; she suspected her sire of a like indifference, discounting heroics. They were swept into this rebellion for — God knew what cause; they were entangled in its meshes before they knew it. That was Mr Colney’s way. He made a fine speech, and it seemed they were all Jacobites. A year before they were entirely French, at Florence; before that there was a certain gaming house at Frankfort, whose proprietor of a sudden swept off his son and daughter to dip fingers in a pie of M. de Saxe’s making.

French, German, Jacobite — it was all one to Prudence. But this England was different. She conceived a fondness for it, and found it homelike. Doubtless it was the mother in her, that big, beautiful, smiling creature who had died at Dieppe when Robin was a child.

She remarked on it to Robin next morning, before their departure for London.

Robin laughed at her; he was busy with the painting of his face. “Lord, my dear, you’re the very picture of English solidity,” he said. “Do you ride with the mountain?”

“So I believe,” said Miss Prudence. Her eye fell on John, packing away Master Robin’s razors. “La, child, have you shaved? And you with not a hair to your chin!”

This drew a grim smile from the servant. “You’d best have a care, the pair of you,” he said. “We’re off to put our heads in a noose. The gentleman with the sleepy eyes sees things, I’ll warrant you.”

“What, do you shy away from the mountain?” Robin said. “I might engage to run in circles round it.”

The man looked upon his young master with rough affection. “Ay, you’re a cunning one, Master Robin, but the big gentleman’s awake for all you think him so dull.”

Prudence sat saddle-wise across a chair, and leaned her arms on the back of it. Chin in hand she regarded John, and said lazily: “Where’s the old gentleman, John?”

There was no expression in the stolid face. “I’ve lived with him more years than you, Miss Prue, and I don’t take it upon myself to answer that.”

“How long have you lived with him, John?”

“Since before you were born, mistress.”

Robin put down the hare’s foot, and got up. “Ay, you’re devilish close, a’n’t you, John? Maybe you know what he’ll be at now?”

“Maybe I do, maybe I don’t,” was all the answer vouchsafed him. “What’s to be your ladyship’s dress today?”

Robin came down to the coffee-room twenty minutes later in a dimity gown and pink ribands. The hood was cast aside in favour of a straw hat with rosettes, and more ribands, but Prudence, very sober in fawn breeches, and a coat of claret-coloured cloth, carried a fine mantle over her arm, which was presently put about Madam Robin’s shoulders.

Miss Letty was agog to be off. They set forward in good time, Robin and the lady seated demurely in the chaise, with the seeming Mr Merriot and Sir Anthony riding a little way behind, for escort.

There were questions, of course: Prudence was prepared for them and knew no faltering. She spoke of a home in Cumberland — it seemed remote enough — and of the Grand Tour. Sir Anthony had made it: that went without saying. They conversed of foreign towns amicably and safely. Prudence displayed a remarkable knowledge of places; indeed she had the greater part of Europe in her memory, as it were, and an intimate acquaintance with haunts unfrequented by the fairer sex. Once she saw the straight brows rise, and tranquilly awaited developments.

“You’ve seen a vast deal for your years, Master Peter,” said Sir Anthony.

“They number twenty, sir,” she replied. If the truth be told they numbered twenty-six, but she looked a stripling, she knew. “But I lived abroad with my parents some years before my mother’s death. She could not support the English climate.”

Sir Anthony bowed politely, and desired to know where Mr Merriot might be found in London.

“My sister is to visit my Lady Lowestoft, sir,” Prudence answered. “I am her escort, and I believe her ladyship will give me a lodging. Perhaps you are acquainted with her?”

“Faith, all the world knows Lady Lowestoft,” said Sir Anthony. “If she denies you, or you grow tired of the petticoats, my dear boy, you may command a lodging with me at any time.”

Prudence flushed in sudden surprise, and looked sideways at the gentleman. This was unexpected; it seemed Sir Anthony was developing a kindness for her. She thanked him gravely, and learned that he owned a house in Clarges Street.

They came to London in the dusk. Prudence sat straight enough in the saddle, but she owned privately to fatigue. It was necessary to restore Miss Letty first to her father, where also they left Sir Anthony. The lateness of the hour was pleaded as an excuse for not entering the house with Miss Letty, but Miss Merriot promised to wait upon her as soon as might be. The chaise drove on to Arlington Street, and drew up at my Lady Lowestoft’s door.

Prudence came down out of the saddle with a sigh of relief. Robin touched her shoulder. “Bravely done, child. Journey’s end now.”

“A halt,” Prudence amended. “No doubt we’ll ha’ done with our travels when we get to heaven.”

My lady’s black page it was that ushered them into my lady’s withdrawing room. This was a spacious apartment, resplendent with gilt and yellow brocade. My lady, it seemed, had a taste for the new French furniture. The page went away to carry Mr and Miss Merriot’s names to his mistress, and Miss Prudence looked round with a comical grimace. “Faith, it seems my Lady Lowestoft is the same Thérèse de Bruton,” she remarked.

The door was opened, and swiftly shut again behind a lady who came in with a swirl of a silk gown over an enormous hoop — a lady with black eyes like slits in a thin, vivid face, a powdered wig, and many jewels. She stood with her back to the door, her hand still on the knob, and as she looked sharply from one to the other of her visitors the narrow black eyes narrowed still more, and her face was all alive with laughter. “Eh, but which is the man of you, my little ones?” she demanded.

Prudence made her bow. “So please you, madam.”

My lady came to her with quick jerky steps. “Never! Do I not know thee, my cabbage? Eh, Prue, my dear!” She cast her arms about Prue’s large person, and kissed her on both cheeks. Robin fared the same, but returned the caress with greater alacrity than his flushing sister. Prudence had never a taste for stray kisses.