sharp-tongued and plain as a brown hen, Kate Somerville was priestess and nanny at once to her people, and a legend to her friends.
At the approach of the most beautiful creature in Europe, the mistress of Flaw Valleys was straddling her farmhouse wall, whither she had climbed to address a passer-by, a weeding-fork in one fist and a hog’s yoke, on its way to the yard to be returned condemned to the maker, round her sun-browned neck.
Observing the Crawford colours through the trees, she waved the weeding-fork, called to Philippa to warn the cooks and hopped down, dragging off the hog yoke. Her hair mostly unfolded with it, so she stuck the fork in the ground and was packing her coiffure into its snood again, elbows akimbo, as the group of travellers trotted up.
It was Richard. She smiled widely none the less and held up her face for his kiss; then turned warmly to the two women whose presence he was explaining so earnestly. The older, a cool, Italian noblewoman labouring under some slight stress, offered a cold hand, The other, wrapped in Richard’s cloak from head to foot, was being carried with great caution by Richard’s mammoth manservant as if she were about to brim over.
This one, according to Richard, was suffering merely from the changed food and climate. ‘Would you take her, Kate, just for a little—and Madame Donati? I have to go on to Midculter, but I’ll send for them as soon as she’s well. Joleta!’ He raised his voice a little, and Kate thought, ‘Paternity suits him, although it seems to have burst into full blossom rather soon.’
‘Joleta!’ said Richard again. ‘Here is Kate Somerville. She’ll look after you.’ And as the bundle in his man’s arms drew level, he reached out and gently turned back its hood so that Kate had her first good look at the contents.
A flood of rose-gold hair lay heaped over the wool, and within it two sea-blue eyes, bright with heat, lit a face disarmingly tinged with green. It smiled. Kate, finding her mouth slightly open, shut it again;and then grinned and said, ‘Excuse the bovine admiration. We consider ourselves lucky in these regions if there’s an eye on either side of the nose, and a mouth underneath it.’
Joleta’s voice, which had become very light, said, ‘You forget. I belong to these parts. Or very near them.’
‘You do?’ Kate Somerville said. ‘Then they either broke the mould, or gave it to someone to chew. Come along. You can have the Crawfords’ room. The house is yours.’ And Richard knew that, whatever her manner of saying it, she meant precisely that.
‘Well,’ said Kate to her daughter when at the end of that first day they were alone together at last, with Richard on his way home and the governess asleep in her charge’s room. ‘And what do you think of God’s gift from Malta to the Crawfords?’
‘I think Lord Culter doesn’t want, her at his own home,’ said Philippa with accustomed unexpectedness.
Kate, thinking of six possible answers at once, said, ‘Well, she can’t go to Jimmy Sandilands, can she? He wouldn’t have her anyway: she’d tell her brother far too much about what his lordship’s doing with the Order’s property in Scotland. And where else can she …?’
‘Lord Culter’s mother may want her,’ said Philippa. ‘Even though his lordship doesn’t. Or she could go to Tom Erskine’s.’ She waited, and said, ‘You think Lymond will come back from France soon, don’t you? I don’t think it matters. Joleta will hate him.’
‘Oh, Philippa ,’ said Kate, annoyed. ‘He forgot his party manners once, when you were a child, and you’d think he was Beelzebub’s brother. They’ll get on perfectly well when they meet. Besides, he has someone he fancies in France.’
Incautious answer. It was only because it was running in her head—Francis and an Irishwoman, Richard had said: a woman called Oonagh O’Dwyer who had been mistress of some Irish princeling, and whom Francis had filched
At the approach of the most beautiful creature in Europe, the mistress of Flaw Valleys was straddling her farmhouse wall, whither she had climbed to address a passer-by, a weeding-fork in one fist and a hog’s yoke, on its way to the yard to be returned condemned to the maker, round her sun-browned neck.
Observing the Crawford colours through the trees, she waved the weeding-fork, called to Philippa to warn the cooks and hopped down, dragging off the hog yoke. Her hair mostly unfolded with it, so she stuck the fork in the ground and was packing her coiffure into its snood again, elbows akimbo, as the group of travellers trotted up.
It was Richard. She smiled widely none the less and held up her face for his kiss; then turned warmly to the two women whose presence he was explaining so earnestly. The older, a cool, Italian noblewoman labouring under some slight stress, offered a cold hand, The other, wrapped in Richard’s cloak from head to foot, was being carried with great caution by Richard’s mammoth manservant as if she were about to brim over.
This one, according to Richard, was suffering merely from the changed food and climate. ‘Would you take her, Kate, just for a little—and Madame Donati? I have to go on to Midculter, but I’ll send for them as soon as she’s well. Joleta!’ He raised his voice a little, and Kate thought, ‘Paternity suits him, although it seems to have burst into full blossom rather soon.’
‘Joleta!’ said Richard again. ‘Here is Kate Somerville. She’ll look after you.’ And as the bundle in his man’s arms drew level, he reached out and gently turned back its hood so that Kate had her first good look at the contents.
A flood of rose-gold hair lay heaped over the wool, and within it two sea-blue eyes, bright with heat, lit a face disarmingly tinged with green. It smiled. Kate, finding her mouth slightly open, shut it again;and then grinned and said, ‘Excuse the bovine admiration. We consider ourselves lucky in these regions if there’s an eye on either side of the nose, and a mouth underneath it.’
Joleta’s voice, which had become very light, said, ‘You forget. I belong to these parts. Or very near them.’
‘You do?’ Kate Somerville said. ‘Then they either broke the mould, or gave it to someone to chew. Come along. You can have the Crawfords’ room. The house is yours.’ And Richard knew that, whatever her manner of saying it, she meant precisely that.
‘Well,’ said Kate to her daughter when at the end of that first day they were alone together at last, with Richard on his way home and the governess asleep in her charge’s room. ‘And what do you think of God’s gift from Malta to the Crawfords?’
‘I think Lord Culter doesn’t want, her at his own home,’ said Philippa with accustomed unexpectedness.
Kate, thinking of six possible answers at once, said, ‘Well, she can’t go to Jimmy Sandilands, can she? He wouldn’t have her anyway: she’d tell her brother far too much about what his lordship’s doing with the Order’s property in Scotland. And where else can she …?’
‘Lord Culter’s mother may want her,’ said Philippa. ‘Even though his lordship doesn’t. Or she could go to Tom Erskine’s.’ She waited, and said, ‘You think Lymond will come back from France soon, don’t you? I don’t think it matters. Joleta will hate him.’
‘Oh, Philippa ,’ said Kate, annoyed. ‘He forgot his party manners once, when you were a child, and you’d think he was Beelzebub’s brother. They’ll get on perfectly well when they meet. Besides, he has someone he fancies in France.’
Incautious answer. It was only because it was running in her head—Francis and an Irishwoman, Richard had said: a woman called Oonagh O’Dwyer who had been mistress of some Irish princeling, and whom Francis had filched
Similar Books
