New York_ The Novel - Edward Rutherfurd [101]
Riverdale House was not a palace, but a substantial mansion near Hanover Square. From the two-story hall, they mounted a grand staircase to the piano nobile, where a grand saloon ran from the front to the back of the house. The company was not large. His Lordship, who appeared to be an older, stouter version of his son, was a widower. His sister acted as hostess. Captain Rivers had invited a couple of his military friends. Mercy was placed on His Lordship’s right, where he made much of her, thanked her for their kind invitation to his son, and talked interestingly about the capital’s affairs.
There was plenty to talk about. News had arrived in the morning that across the Atlantic, British forces had defeated the French up at Quebec. Though the daring young British general, Wolfe, had tragically been killed, it seemed that Ben Franklin’s wish was about to be realized, and the French kicked out of the north. When Mercy told Lord Riverdale about their visit to Franklin and his views on the empire’s destiny, he seemed delighted, and begged her to repeat it to the whole company.
Yet if the old aristocrat was charming, the colonel on her right did not please her so much. He was a military man. She did not mind, therefore, that he was proud of British arms. “A well-trained redcoat is a match for even the best French troops, Mrs. Master,” he declared. “I think we’ve just proved that. As for the lesser breeds …”
“The lesser breeds, Colonel?” she queried. He smiled.
“I was out in Forty-five, you know.”
The Forty-five. It was not fifteen years since Bonnie Prince Charlie had landed in Scotland and tried to take back the old kingdom from the Hanoverian rulers in London. It had been a wild, romantic business. And utterly tragic. The redcoats had moved against the ill-equipped and untrained Scotsmen and smashed them.
“Untrained men can’t stand against a regular army, Mrs. Master,” the colonel continued calmly. “It can’t be done. As for the Highland Scots …” He smiled. “They’re little more than savages, you know.”
Mercy had seen plenty of Scots arriving in Philadelphia and New York. They didn’t seem like savages to her, but it was clear that the colonel believed what he said, and this didn’t seem the time and place to argue with him.
A little later on, however, the conversation turned to Irish affairs.
“The native Irish,” the colonel said emphatically, “is little better than an animal.” And though she knew that this was not to be taken too literally, the Quaker in her found such judgments arrogant and unseemly. But no one at the table disagreed with him, she noticed.
“Ireland has to be ruled firmly,” Lord Riverdale said quietly. “I’m sure we all agree.”
“They’re certainly not capable of governing themselves,” the colonel remarked, “not even the Protestant Irish.”
“Yet they have an Irish Parliament, surely?” Mercy asked.
“You are quite right, Mrs. Master,” Lord Riverdale said with a smile. “But the truth is, we make quite sure that the Irish Parliament has no power.”
Mercy said no more. She smiled politely, and the evening continued pleasantly. But this she knew: she had seen the heart of the empire, and she did not like it.
Young James Master didn’t know what to do. He loved his parents. As the new year began, he had talked to his father, but not his mother.
Since coming to London, he’d grown in confidence, and also in height. For he was already an inch and a half taller than when he arrived, and the fine new coat his father had bought him was in full retreat up his arms.
“I believe you’ll be taller than I am,” his father laughed.
It was not surprising that James had fallen in love with London. It was, indisputably, the capital of the English-speaking world. The city was so full of activity that, as the great Doctor Johnson was to say: “A man who is tired of London is tired of life.” In his tutor, James had gained a guide; in young Grey Albion, an admiring younger brother. The English fellows of his age accepted him as one of themselves. What more could a