I’d been father, I wouldn’t even have given Lottie the allowance. However, even with it, Mr Randall will find his wings clipped. More fool he,’ Magnus said with satisfaction, ‘not to discuss the dowry before he committed himself. But it’s all of a piece! Anyway, I’m so angry about the whole thing that I don’t think I could be civil. I don’t want to meet the fellow, and if I go to the Highlands I can’t avoid it. So I shan’t go. And if I don’t go,’ he pointed out conclusively, ‘the children can’t.’
‘No,’ Lucy said thoughtfully. ‘They can’t, can they?’
2
During the next few days, even Luke noticed his mama’s abstraction. Blaming it on Vilia, he became even surlier than usual. Vilia ignored him. On that first day he had caught her at a very low ebb indeed, deeply depressed by her own situation, physically and mentally exhausted from supervising the disposal of her father’s possessions, and quaking with nerves at the prospect of having to come to terms with new guardians and a new life. More than anything else in the world she had wanted to fly to the sanctuary of Kinveil – the Kinveil of her childhood, not of the here-and-now – and the last thing she had been prepared for was an attack on the weakest point of her defences by a spoilt, smug, ignorant little boy. Afterwards, she knew where the attack was coming from and was armed. Not once in the three months since she had come to live in St James’s Square had she done more than find release in a swift flash of temper, and even that had happened only rarely. She had been quick to see that Luke’s malice would lose its savour if she didn’t respond, although she hadn’t expected it to take so long. He was quite the most self-absorbed child she had ever encountered, and tiresomely possessive – about his mother, his father, his grandfather, Kinveil, even the chair he liked to sit in and the books he chose to read.
Even so, obnoxious small boys could be ignored. It was harder to ignore the gentle, solicitous Lucy, with her relentless kindness and sweet, unchanging smile. It had not taken Vilia long to decide that Lucy’s delicate health was a myth, and setting her down as a fraud and a hypocrite had made it easier to reject her interference and her weak-willed anxiety that everyone should be happy and content. The trouble was that Lucy remained blind to her guest’s determination to keep her distance. Nothing short of downright rudeness, Vilia thought despairingly, seemed likely to have any effect, and to be rude would have conflicted with all Vilia’s instincts, as well as the tenets according to which she had been reared.
A state of war existed between them, but it was a ludicrously polite war. ‘Indeed, my dear,’ Lucy would say. ‘There can be no question of putting off your blacks for several months yet, but I do think we might find something less oppressive. Not even the highest stickler could expect black bombazine of you.’
Vilia liked black bombazine. It suited her sense of the dramatic. If one was forced to mourn for someone for whom one hadn’t cared very much, why not do it in style?
Lucy said, ‘I saw a charming black cambric the other day, embroidered with silk dots. It would be perfect for you, made ankle-length rather than down to the ground, and half-high, to the base of the neck rather than up to the chin. Pray be persuaded, my dear! You will see how delightfully you look.’
Vilia did not wish to look delightfully. It was too soon after her father’s death, she conveyed, for her to concern herself with such frivolities as fashion.
Regretfully, Lucy abandoned the subject of dress and turned her attention to Vilia’s hair. ‘That heavy knot is too old for you,’ she murmured, shaking her own silken head. ‘You could clasp your hair high on the crown, perhaps, and let it fall from there? When you make your come-out, of course, you will wear it in a Grecian coil on top, with one or two tiny wisps
‘No,’ Lucy said thoughtfully. ‘They can’t, can they?’
2
During the next few days, even Luke noticed his mama’s abstraction. Blaming it on Vilia, he became even surlier than usual. Vilia ignored him. On that first day he had caught her at a very low ebb indeed, deeply depressed by her own situation, physically and mentally exhausted from supervising the disposal of her father’s possessions, and quaking with nerves at the prospect of having to come to terms with new guardians and a new life. More than anything else in the world she had wanted to fly to the sanctuary of Kinveil – the Kinveil of her childhood, not of the here-and-now – and the last thing she had been prepared for was an attack on the weakest point of her defences by a spoilt, smug, ignorant little boy. Afterwards, she knew where the attack was coming from and was armed. Not once in the three months since she had come to live in St James’s Square had she done more than find release in a swift flash of temper, and even that had happened only rarely. She had been quick to see that Luke’s malice would lose its savour if she didn’t respond, although she hadn’t expected it to take so long. He was quite the most self-absorbed child she had ever encountered, and tiresomely possessive – about his mother, his father, his grandfather, Kinveil, even the chair he liked to sit in and the books he chose to read.
Even so, obnoxious small boys could be ignored. It was harder to ignore the gentle, solicitous Lucy, with her relentless kindness and sweet, unchanging smile. It had not taken Vilia long to decide that Lucy’s delicate health was a myth, and setting her down as a fraud and a hypocrite had made it easier to reject her interference and her weak-willed anxiety that everyone should be happy and content. The trouble was that Lucy remained blind to her guest’s determination to keep her distance. Nothing short of downright rudeness, Vilia thought despairingly, seemed likely to have any effect, and to be rude would have conflicted with all Vilia’s instincts, as well as the tenets according to which she had been reared.
A state of war existed between them, but it was a ludicrously polite war. ‘Indeed, my dear,’ Lucy would say. ‘There can be no question of putting off your blacks for several months yet, but I do think we might find something less oppressive. Not even the highest stickler could expect black bombazine of you.’
Vilia liked black bombazine. It suited her sense of the dramatic. If one was forced to mourn for someone for whom one hadn’t cared very much, why not do it in style?
Lucy said, ‘I saw a charming black cambric the other day, embroidered with silk dots. It would be perfect for you, made ankle-length rather than down to the ground, and half-high, to the base of the neck rather than up to the chin. Pray be persuaded, my dear! You will see how delightfully you look.’
Vilia did not wish to look delightfully. It was too soon after her father’s death, she conveyed, for her to concern herself with such frivolities as fashion.
Regretfully, Lucy abandoned the subject of dress and turned her attention to Vilia’s hair. ‘That heavy knot is too old for you,’ she murmured, shaking her own silken head. ‘You could clasp your hair high on the crown, perhaps, and let it fall from there? When you make your come-out, of course, you will wear it in a Grecian coil on top, with one or two tiny wisps
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