the post. Then they proceeded slowly forward, one behind the other, their sheer weight of numbers being sufficient to scare off any highwaymen. Once through without incident, Tom took the King’s Old Road to Kensington, but beaten by snow turned off and went to the village via the main track.
It was dark when they entered the place, growing bigger as its popularity continued to increase, and made their way immediately to Church Lane. Here, in the house on the end of the row, Sir Gabriel Kent,
John’s adoptive father, resided. Pausing outside the front door while Irish Tom saw to the luggage, John remembered his first encounter with the great man. He had been three years old, begging on the streets of London with his mother Phyllida Fleet. Even now he could recall the brief bleak pain as the carriage wheels passed over them, the moment when Sir Gabriel had lifted them up and carried them inside that same carriage and back to his home in Nassau Street.
At that moment the rest of John Rawlings’s life had changed irrevocably. That Sir Gabriel would fall in love with and eventually marry his mother, that he should be taken on as a proper son, that he should sign indentures with an apothecary and himself become successful, were things the child he had been could not have known. But now here he was, arriving at his country retreat unannounced, but certain of a great greeting as soon as he set his foot over the threshold.
John rang the bell and heard a pair of footsteps come to answer. Forestalling any short-sightedness on behalf of the servant, the Apothecary called out, “It’s me. John Rawlings. Is Sir Gabriel at home?” then paused, amazed, to see his father himself, bearing a candle tree, standing in the doorway.
They stared at one another for a second, John thinking how fine the octogenarian looked in his deshabille of flowing gown and turban fashioned, as always, in black and white. A glittering zircon, a vivid blue in shade, brought a little relief to the stark ensemble, but other than for that Sir Gabriel’s rig-out was dramatic in its darkness.
“Father,” said John and smiled broadly, seizing the older man in an embrace.
“My boy,” answered Sir Gabriel, holding the candles high above his head. “What an unexpected pleasure. Are you alone?”
“Yes, Sir. I’m on my way to fetch Emilia. May I come in?”
“Of course. You are here for the night?”
“I most certainly am. That is if the bedroom is free and you expect no other guests,” he added.
The door opened wide and all the warmth and comfort of the house flowed out into the dark lane. With a sigh of pleasure, John entered his second home.
A short while later he sat in the dining room, picking over a substantial supper, Sir Gabriel had dined at four as was the custom with the old-school, and had then settled down to an evening of reading, having given the footman the night off.
“So where are you going tomorrow exactly?” he asked.
“To Gunnersbury House. The summer home of Princess Amelia, who has decided, to be contrary, to celebrate Christmas there.”
“Ah yes, I have played cards at her place a couple of times.”
John stared. “You’ve been there?”
“Yes, dressed to the hilt I might add. The Princess, a strange lady, once small and elegant but now grown corpulent, is an inveterate gambler and likes nothing better than to give parties for the purpose of playing cards. Horace Walpole is a regular visitor.”
“And what about her nephew, the King?”
“He goes from time to time, I believe.”
“But not to play”
“Certainly not.” Sir Gabriel laughed.
“But why were you only invited twice? Surely, Father, you did not commit a faux-pas ?”
“My dear child, how could you even think anything so inelegant. Truth to tell, it’s rather a journey from here and, quite honestly, now that I no longer have my own coach it was that which put me off. When the Marquis of Kensington is invited, should I receive an invitation
It was dark when they entered the place, growing bigger as its popularity continued to increase, and made their way immediately to Church Lane. Here, in the house on the end of the row, Sir Gabriel Kent,
John’s adoptive father, resided. Pausing outside the front door while Irish Tom saw to the luggage, John remembered his first encounter with the great man. He had been three years old, begging on the streets of London with his mother Phyllida Fleet. Even now he could recall the brief bleak pain as the carriage wheels passed over them, the moment when Sir Gabriel had lifted them up and carried them inside that same carriage and back to his home in Nassau Street.
At that moment the rest of John Rawlings’s life had changed irrevocably. That Sir Gabriel would fall in love with and eventually marry his mother, that he should be taken on as a proper son, that he should sign indentures with an apothecary and himself become successful, were things the child he had been could not have known. But now here he was, arriving at his country retreat unannounced, but certain of a great greeting as soon as he set his foot over the threshold.
John rang the bell and heard a pair of footsteps come to answer. Forestalling any short-sightedness on behalf of the servant, the Apothecary called out, “It’s me. John Rawlings. Is Sir Gabriel at home?” then paused, amazed, to see his father himself, bearing a candle tree, standing in the doorway.
They stared at one another for a second, John thinking how fine the octogenarian looked in his deshabille of flowing gown and turban fashioned, as always, in black and white. A glittering zircon, a vivid blue in shade, brought a little relief to the stark ensemble, but other than for that Sir Gabriel’s rig-out was dramatic in its darkness.
“Father,” said John and smiled broadly, seizing the older man in an embrace.
“My boy,” answered Sir Gabriel, holding the candles high above his head. “What an unexpected pleasure. Are you alone?”
“Yes, Sir. I’m on my way to fetch Emilia. May I come in?”
“Of course. You are here for the night?”
“I most certainly am. That is if the bedroom is free and you expect no other guests,” he added.
The door opened wide and all the warmth and comfort of the house flowed out into the dark lane. With a sigh of pleasure, John entered his second home.
A short while later he sat in the dining room, picking over a substantial supper, Sir Gabriel had dined at four as was the custom with the old-school, and had then settled down to an evening of reading, having given the footman the night off.
“So where are you going tomorrow exactly?” he asked.
“To Gunnersbury House. The summer home of Princess Amelia, who has decided, to be contrary, to celebrate Christmas there.”
“Ah yes, I have played cards at her place a couple of times.”
John stared. “You’ve been there?”
“Yes, dressed to the hilt I might add. The Princess, a strange lady, once small and elegant but now grown corpulent, is an inveterate gambler and likes nothing better than to give parties for the purpose of playing cards. Horace Walpole is a regular visitor.”
“And what about her nephew, the King?”
“He goes from time to time, I believe.”
“But not to play”
“Certainly not.” Sir Gabriel laughed.
“But why were you only invited twice? Surely, Father, you did not commit a faux-pas ?”
“My dear child, how could you even think anything so inelegant. Truth to tell, it’s rather a journey from here and, quite honestly, now that I no longer have my own coach it was that which put me off. When the Marquis of Kensington is invited, should I receive an invitation
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