The Favoured Child. Philippa Gregory

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       5

      Living with Uncle John was not all delight, as Richard and I discovered over the next few days. He ordered us each into the parlour and took us through a galloping examination to test our abilities and our learning to date. I was foolish enough to boast that I had learned Latin and Greek over Richard’s shoulder, and had two pages to translate for my pains. I had been confident about my French accent, but John rattled away at me and I could catch only one word in twenty and only managed to stammer a reply. Poor Richard fared even worse and came out of the parlour red-faced and seething. He muttered something about people coming back from India and throwing their weight around like nabobs – and flung himself out. I took myself into the dining-room with Richard’s school-books and my pride much humbled.

      That evening Uncle John announced that he had to go to London to see his papa, the senior director of the MacAndrew Shipping Company. ‘I am to serve as the company consultant on our Indian affairs,’ he explained. ‘But while I am there – consulting away – I shall make a final choice of the best man to be our manager here on Wideacre.’ He nodded to my mama. ‘Can I bring you anything back from London, Celia? Some patterns for gowns perhaps?’

      Mama glanced down at her well-worn dark dress. ‘I badly need some new gowns,’ she admitted. ‘And Julia has never had a new dress in her life, poor child! But I do not trust you to choose our fashions, John!’

      ‘I should bring you back scarlet saris,’ John said at once. ‘They’re what the Indian ladies wear. Quite ravishing the two of you would look, I assure you.’

      ‘Possibly,’ Mama said, laughing, ‘but I would rather Julia made her Bath debut in something a little more conventional. I have written to my old sempstress at Chichester to run us both up a couple of gowns to keep us going until I can consult her properly. Bring nothing back but your dear self. And don’t work too hard.’

      Uncle John was ready to leave as we rose from the breakfast table the next morning. ‘I cannot say how long I will be,’ he said, shrugging himself into his greatcoat. ‘But while I am away, you will all be busy enough. Richard – I want you to work harder at your studies. You will have no chance at Oxford unless you can show them a higher standard than I have seen thus far.

      ‘I do not blame Dr Pearce; there is no one to blame but you, Richard,’ Uncle John said, opening the door and taking Richard’s arm as he walked down the garden path in the pale spring sunshine. ‘You have not sufficiently applied yourself. If you hope to make your own way in the world, landed squire or no, you must learn to concentrate. I cannot say I am pleased with your progress. Why, Julia’s Latin is as good as your own, and she is only learning by proxy!’

      Richard, sunny-tempered Richard, smiled his angelic smile at his papa and said, ‘I am sorry, sir. I dare say I should have worked harder. My cousin puts me to shame, I know. She has always been quick-witted.’

      His words were a reprieve for me, for I had feared he would be offended by the comparison. Uncle John smiled at Richard’s generosity as he got in the coach and waved goodbye to us all and left for London.

      But Richard’s sunny humour lasted only until the coach was out of sight. As soon as it had gone, he announced he was going to do some studying in the parlour. At once I turned back to go into the house with him.

      ‘Not with you,’ he said roughly. ‘You will chatter and distract me. Go and sit with your mama. You heard what Papa said, he wants me to work harder. I will never get on if you are always wanting to talk to me or for me to come out for a walk with you.’

      ‘Richard!’ I said amazed. ‘I was only coming to help you with your work.’

      ‘I don’t need your help,’ he said untruthfully. ‘A fine pickle I should be in if I depended on your understanding. Go and sit in the parlour with your mama, Julia. I am working hard to please my papa.’

      I went without another word, but I thought him unjust. And I knew that it would take him twice as long without me to look up the words for him. I said nothing to Mama about that low-voiced exchange, but after I had finished some darning for her, I asked if I might go to the kitchen and make some of Richard’s favourite bon-bons as a reward for him for his sudden application to his studies. At dinner I had a little dish of creams for him, and then I had his thanks in one of his sunny smiles and a careless hug outside the door of my room at bedtime. I went to bed warmed by that smile and happy to be restored to his good graces. And I felt I had learned once again that a lady’s way is to return hard words with a smile, until everything is at peace again. It always works. Provided you can smile for long enough.

      We heard nothing from John for three long days, but on Friday morning, looming out of a miserable unseasonal mist, his carriage came quietly up the drive. Mama and I dropped our sewing to the floor in the parlour and tumbled out down the garden path to greet him. Uncle John swung down from the carriage and caught my mama up to him for a great hug and a smacking kiss which could have been heard on the coast.

      ‘Celia!’ he said, and they beamed at each other as if nothing more needed saying.

      Uncle John gave me a smile and a quick wink over my mama’s head. ‘And Miss Julia too!’ he said with pleasure. ‘But let’s get in! You two will freeze out here in this beastly weather. It has been foggy all morning. I stopped at Petersfield last night – simply could not see my way further forward! Otherwise I should have been with you yesterday!’

      Mama ushered him into the parlour and rang the bell for more logs for the fire and hot coffee. Uncle John held his thin hands to the blaze and shivered a little.

      ‘I thought I was home for summer!’ he complained. ‘This is as damp as an Indian monsoon.’

      ‘Julia, go and fetch your uncle’s quilted jacket,’ Mama asked me. ‘And perhaps a glass of brandy, John?’

      I ran to his bedroom at the top of the house for his jacket, then to the kitchen to tell Stride about the brandy and when I came back, Mama had him settled in a chair drawn up to the blaze and the colour was back in his cheeks.

      ‘Where’s Richard?’ he asked as Mama poured coffee and Stride heaped more logs on the fire.

      ‘At his lessons,’ Mama said. ‘He has been studying like a scholarship boy ever since you left! Do remember to praise him, John. СКАЧАТЬ