The Ringed Castle - Dorothy Dunnett [238]
The salt was on the table, and the covers set with covered bowls and gilt standing cups, all with the porcupine crest or the bear and ragged staff of the Dudleys. And Lady Mary herself, a soft, fair-skinned woman with a light voice, came forward smiling and said, ‘You are just in time. I am being taken to task by my kitchen. Come to table. And this is Mr Crawford? Or do I call you M. le Comte de Sevigny, since there are no Spaniards present?’
Lymond smiled at Sir Henry Sidney’s wife and made, automatically, the right impression in the right kind of way while he glanced at the rest of the company. There were no more than a dozen all told. Some of them, he guessed, were members of the Sidney household; companion, secretary, chaplain. The others, handsomely dressed, must be either relatives or close friends: the Sidneys were far too wise to expose Dee or himself to risk or discomfort.
Then he saw that he was wrong, and that there were in the room two people who were neither kinsfolk of the house nor inclined to be well disposed to himself, whether called Crawford or Sevigny.
One, standing by the window with his hands firmly clasped behind his well-cut doublet, was Austin Grey, Marquis of Allendale, whom he had last left standing trembling in the snow outside the inn where he had met … where he had spoken to Kate when in Berwick.
And the other was his wife, Philippa Somerville.
Chapter 7
‘I hope,’ Lady Mary was saying, ‘you do not object to surprises? Philippa could not call on the Muscovy Ambassador and she is so dear to her mistress that she is seldom free for those of us who wish to see more of her. Austin Grey I believe you have already met?’
Bowing, Austin Grey failed to offer his hand. Lymond turned smoothly to Philippa.
It was, of course, the girl he had left at Volos, remarkably tidied, in a square necked gown with a great many chains and medallions, and a brimless black beret and crespin, which was a little alarming when one remembered the brown hair, in Kate’s fashion, sticking to her neck and her cheeks. But she now had the best excuse, naturally, for indulging in all the fashions forbidden to the well-brought up single girl. He smiled at her suddenly, on this thought, because she was staring at him with Kate’s eyes, starkly distended, and because he was aware of how much he had changed, and of the two thousand miles of age and culture and experience which divided them now; and took her hand, and said, ‘I may hold you to your marriage if you continue to make such impressive improvements. Does that terrify you as it should?’
‘It doesn’t bear thinking about,’ Philippa said briefly. It had to be brief, because she could feel Austin’s protective anxiety like a feather mattress beside her and her breath had leaked away somewhere into the recesses of her buckram-lined bodice.
She had had a cup of wine before this particular meeting. She had come indeed fortified in every direction, and prepared for a full spectrum of Mr Crawfords, ranging from a rather nauseating opium addict she had once observed with her mother in Newcastle to a gentleman like the Duke of Alva, who would browbeat her one moment and try to pinch her the next.
There was also the little matter of her interference. At intervals of roughly two hours over the preceding three months, Philippa Somerville had wished she had never been seized with the idea of investigating Mr Crawford’s past history, and that, having done so, she had never, never written that letter and given it to Lychpole to send him.
On the other hand, it had been a reasonable letter, placing the whole matter in quite a proper perspective, and to a rational human being, these days, bastardy was no slur and