Free Devil Water by Anya Seton Page A

lowering her long darkened lashes said, “You will put me out of countenance, sir, if you stare at me like that. Do you think me such a fright?”
    “You know I d-don’t, your grace,” said Charles. “I don’t know what to say, except I-I wish I could kiss you,” he went on in a desperate rush.
    “Oh la, sir, you go monstrous fast!” cried Henrietta, feigning anger so well that Charles was fooled.
    “Forgive me, madam,” he said miserably. “I don’t know what made me speak so. Forgive me.” And to cover his confusion, he added at random, “Your blackamoor, he has a silver collar with a crest on it.”
    “Why, ‘tis my crest, to be sure,” said the Duchess, seeing that she had frightened Charles and must let him recover. “Juba is my slave. Dr. Radcliffe gave him to me, and Juba was sent to him by some Colonial planter in the Virginias -- William Byrd was, I believe, the name of the planter, wasn’t it, poppet?” She turned indulgently to the Negro boy, who bowed solemnly.
    “Yuss, mistiss. I’uz born in the Quarters o’ Master Byrd’s plantation in Virginny, then Master he sold me ‘cross that big ocean to Dr. Radcliffe.”
    “And you like it better here, don’t you!” said the Duchess, patting the turbaned head. Juba’s intelligent brown face creased in an ingenuous grin. He rolled his eyes ecstatically, and made the expected answer.
    “Sho do, mistiss. Jest like heaven with you, no beatings, have ale an’ white bread ev’ry day. A pure angel you is, mistiss.”
    The Duchess laughed complacently. Not all her servants evinced such devotion, and she enjoyed seeing herself in this flattering light.
    “Sure you’re not homesick, Juba?” teased the Duchess. “Shall I send you back to Virginia with a Mr. Spotswood who’s going out as Governor?”
    “No, no, mistiss!” cried Juba kneeling and nuzzling a portion of the violet skirt. “Don’t make me leave you, never! I’d die ef I couldn’t see your beautiful sweet angel face a-smiling at me.”
    “Well, well,” said the Duchess. “It’s a good little black dog it is, and shall stay with me.” She waved Juba aside, and the page instantly sprang to his post behind the sofa, where he folded his arms and stood motionless.
    “How delightful,” said Henrietta, glancing sideways at Charles, “to be certain of one person’s affection in this miserable world.”
    “Your husband, madam,” answered Charles nervously after a moment. “For sure the Duke must dote upon you.”
    This piece of naiveté startled Henrietta, but it intrigued her too. She proceeded to explain with many sighs and flutterings of her lashes that the Duke was an old man, with no thoughts for her, that they seldom met, and in any case that doting affection was woefully vulgar in an aristocratic marriage. During this conversation, she moved gently nearer to Charles, so that he felt the warmth and pressure of her body against his side. His head began to spin and presently he found himself making amorous speeches which the Duchess no longer rebuffed.
    Betty, after one disgusted look at this scene, drank a cup of chocolate and allowed herself to be ogled by Sir Coplestone and Mr. Paulet, a pastime which annoyed her mother since the baronet was married to somebody in Devon and Paulet was a nobody.
    In fact, thought Lady Lichfield, there was no one here of any eligibility at all, just Roman Catholics and hangers-on. A situation not improved when the footman curtly announced, “Mr. Pope.”
    “Merciful heaven!” murmured Lady Lichfield as a tiny young man with a crooked back most obvious under a plain black suit, hunched into the room. “Another Papist! And a dwarfed linen-draper’s son to boot. I must say Dr. Radcliffe has a singular taste in friends.”
    The two ladies watched Alexander Pope wander towards the gaming table, where nobody welcomed him, so he took a cup of coffee and sitting down surveyed the company alertly. He had come because he was a protégé and