replied the other.
“Picturesque be blowed,” said the first woman with spirit. “It is a wonder we have anyone in the audience at all. Only the most devoted will have undertaken such a journey.”
She smiled at John who gave his best bow and smiled back.
The first woman dropped a very small curtsey. “Are you coming to see our masque, Sir?”
“I am indeed. Allow me to present myself. My name is Rawlings, John Rawlings, Madam.”
She extended a hand with a grandiose gesture. “And I am Frances Featherstonehaugh. Lady Featherstonehaugh. I am one of the Princess’s ladies.”
He kissed the hand, managing to instil a certain reverence into the embrace. Lady Featherstonehaugh looked duly gratified. Not to be outdone, the meeker of the two introduced herself.
“And I am Lady Kemp.”
John took her hand and kissed it with equal fervour. “You are acquainted with Princess Amelia?” It was Lady Featherstonehaugh who spoke.
“Not as yet, I’m afraid. My wife is a friend of Priscilla Fleming and is taking part in the masque. She is Emilia Rawlings. Do you know her?”
Lady Featherstonehaugh gave a merry laugh and her face vanished in a sea of wrinkles. “I have seen her I believe but that is all. A pretty little thing.”
“Yes, she is. Very.”
“And where did you travel from this morning, young man?” Lady Kemp spoke.
“From Kensington. We have a small country place there which we share with my father.”
“And who might he be?”
“Sir Gabriel Kent.”
The ladies exchanged a glance, then smiled simultaneously, endorsing yet again the notion that they were very alike. Was it John’s imagination or had the mention of his father’s name made them approve of him a little more?
They proceeded up the stairs, the Apothecary walking a couple of steps behind. At the top the ladies turned to the left staircase and, having mounted this, made their way along a short corridor, done out in a deep compelling blue. Then they entered a salon in which quite a crowd was already gathered. John, thankful indeed that he was wearing his new suit in that dashing material called Midnight in Venice, surveyed the scene through his quizzer.
Everybody was dressed to kill, men and women alike. He had never seen such a sparkling array of people nor quite so many glittering jewels. John recognised the Prince of Mecklenburg, Lord Clanbrassil, Lord and Lady Southampton and Lord Pelham. Realising that he was in extremely distinguished company, he adopted a nonchalant expression and was just about to stroll amongst the guests when he felt a plucking at his elbow. He saw that it was Lady Kemp.
“My dear Mr. Rawlings, allow me to present you.”
“I’d be honoured, madam.”
She turned to a group of middle-aged ladies who were eyeing John with varying degrees of suspicion.
“Madam,” Lady Kemp addressed one of them, presumably the most senior, “may I submit Mr. John Rawlings to you?” The woman, who had an extremely painful expression, as if her feet hurt, gave a curt nod. “The Countess of Hampshire, Mr. Rawlings.”
“Chawmed,” she said in an affected tone with an underlying accent.
“Madam, the honour is mine.”
As he bowed before her John wondered about her origins, thinking that she had once been extremely pretty; indeed her eyes were still lovely. An inspired guess told him that she had been on the stage at some point in her life. But he had no time to study her further because he was being introduced to a name he recognised.
“Lady Theydon, may I present Mr. John Rawlings?”
“You may,” said a plummy voice.
John looked up from a deep bow and found himself gazing into one of the most vacuous faces he had seen in an age. Eyes big and brown and cow-like were staring into his from a large doughy visage. Suddenly the woman simpered and everything crinkled except for the eyes which continued to look with the same fixed regard.
“How dee do?” she continued, and as she spoke the Apothecary saw that
“Picturesque be blowed,” said the first woman with spirit. “It is a wonder we have anyone in the audience at all. Only the most devoted will have undertaken such a journey.”
She smiled at John who gave his best bow and smiled back.
The first woman dropped a very small curtsey. “Are you coming to see our masque, Sir?”
“I am indeed. Allow me to present myself. My name is Rawlings, John Rawlings, Madam.”
She extended a hand with a grandiose gesture. “And I am Frances Featherstonehaugh. Lady Featherstonehaugh. I am one of the Princess’s ladies.”
He kissed the hand, managing to instil a certain reverence into the embrace. Lady Featherstonehaugh looked duly gratified. Not to be outdone, the meeker of the two introduced herself.
“And I am Lady Kemp.”
John took her hand and kissed it with equal fervour. “You are acquainted with Princess Amelia?” It was Lady Featherstonehaugh who spoke.
“Not as yet, I’m afraid. My wife is a friend of Priscilla Fleming and is taking part in the masque. She is Emilia Rawlings. Do you know her?”
Lady Featherstonehaugh gave a merry laugh and her face vanished in a sea of wrinkles. “I have seen her I believe but that is all. A pretty little thing.”
“Yes, she is. Very.”
“And where did you travel from this morning, young man?” Lady Kemp spoke.
“From Kensington. We have a small country place there which we share with my father.”
“And who might he be?”
“Sir Gabriel Kent.”
The ladies exchanged a glance, then smiled simultaneously, endorsing yet again the notion that they were very alike. Was it John’s imagination or had the mention of his father’s name made them approve of him a little more?
They proceeded up the stairs, the Apothecary walking a couple of steps behind. At the top the ladies turned to the left staircase and, having mounted this, made their way along a short corridor, done out in a deep compelling blue. Then they entered a salon in which quite a crowd was already gathered. John, thankful indeed that he was wearing his new suit in that dashing material called Midnight in Venice, surveyed the scene through his quizzer.
Everybody was dressed to kill, men and women alike. He had never seen such a sparkling array of people nor quite so many glittering jewels. John recognised the Prince of Mecklenburg, Lord Clanbrassil, Lord and Lady Southampton and Lord Pelham. Realising that he was in extremely distinguished company, he adopted a nonchalant expression and was just about to stroll amongst the guests when he felt a plucking at his elbow. He saw that it was Lady Kemp.
“My dear Mr. Rawlings, allow me to present you.”
“I’d be honoured, madam.”
She turned to a group of middle-aged ladies who were eyeing John with varying degrees of suspicion.
“Madam,” Lady Kemp addressed one of them, presumably the most senior, “may I submit Mr. John Rawlings to you?” The woman, who had an extremely painful expression, as if her feet hurt, gave a curt nod. “The Countess of Hampshire, Mr. Rawlings.”
“Chawmed,” she said in an affected tone with an underlying accent.
“Madam, the honour is mine.”
As he bowed before her John wondered about her origins, thinking that she had once been extremely pretty; indeed her eyes were still lovely. An inspired guess told him that she had been on the stage at some point in her life. But he had no time to study her further because he was being introduced to a name he recognised.
“Lady Theydon, may I present Mr. John Rawlings?”
“You may,” said a plummy voice.
John looked up from a deep bow and found himself gazing into one of the most vacuous faces he had seen in an age. Eyes big and brown and cow-like were staring into his from a large doughy visage. Suddenly the woman simpered and everything crinkled except for the eyes which continued to look with the same fixed regard.
“How dee do?” she continued, and as she spoke the Apothecary saw that
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