Free Caxton by Edward Cline Page A

version of her
mother. The woman wore a lavender satin gown and a lace-frilled cap over her
jet-black hair, the girl a green wool riding suit and no cap over her reddish
hair, which Hugh noted, was the only feature she seemed to have inherited from
her father.
“If you move to Brougham Hall,” inquired Mrs. McRae, “won’t you miss all the
distractions afforded you in Philadelphia?”
“Yes, madam,” Hugh said, “but that town only causes me to miss London. For the
time being, I have resigned myself to nostalgia.”
“How many people reside there, Mr. Kenrick?” asked Etáin. She spoke with an
odd but charming amalgam of Scots, French, and English accents.
“They say some forty thousand souls, Miss McRae.”
Ian McRae glanced around and saw Arthur Stannard. He made his excuses and left
Hugh with his wife and daughter.
Madeline McRae asked Hugh more questions, about him and about London. Their
conversation was cordial, but Hugh felt that there was an ulterior motive behind
the woman’s questions. Just when he thought that he had succeeded in concealing
his origins, the woman turned to Etáin. “Do not stare at the gentleman as though
he was a talking statue, dear. It is uncouth.”
The daughter blushed and looked at the floor with a grin. Her mother suddenly
leaned forward to Hugh and brought up her fan to muffle her words: “Your secret
is safe with me, milord Kenrick of Danvers. Have no fear that I will expose
you. But — you are a curiosity. You must call on us some day and tell me more
about yourself.” Before Hugh could reply, the woman folded her fan and drew
back again.
Hugh could only nod in acknowledgment.
“There are only a few thousand souls in all of Queen Anne, Mr. Kenrick,” said
the woman.
“It is a small county, compared with some.”
“What do you miss most about London, Mr. Kenrick?”
“The music…the concerts…the orchestras…the theaters…the galleries… the enterprises…the
shops…the busyness of the city, where almost everything one could want, is at
one’s fingertips, where so much is possible….”
Madeline McRae smiled. “I, too, miss all those things — and Paris.” She frowned
in mock admonishment. “Now you are making me feel…melancholy.”
“That was not my intention, madam,” said Hugh. He hurried to say, “The Moravians,
in Pennsylvania, near Bethlehem, have an orchestra. They play music by Bach,
and Vivaldi, and Boyce, and even by this newcomer, Haydn. I rode there twice
from Philadelphia to hear them. And Charleston, I have read, is a town greatly
enamored of music.”
“I shall play a new tune by Mr. Boyce this evening, Mr. Kenrick,” Etáin said.
“One that no one had ever heard yet, not even in London! And James Vishonn shall
sing the words to it, which were written by David Garrick.”
“What is its name?” asked Hugh.
“‘Hearts of Oak.’ It is a patriotic song, about the navy.”
“Mr. Garrick puts on so much foolishness on the stage,” remarked Mrs. McRae.
“And Mr. Boyce composes so much that is forgettable.”
“I look forward to hearing you play the tune, Miss McRae,” said Hugh. “I shall
also play some pieces Mr. Bach wrote for the harp,” said the girl. “Oh? Which
Bach?”
Etáin laughed. “I can’t remember, just now! There seem to be as many Bachs as
the fingers of one’s hand!”
“This is true,” smiled Hugh.
“Excuse me, Mr. Kenrick,” said Madeline McRae, “but our hostess is waving to
me. I must leave my daughter in your charge.” Without further word, the woman
swept away across the ballroom.
Hugh realized that he had just been paid a compliment by the girl’s mother,
that she trusted him to be alone with her daughter. By the look on the girl’s
face, he knew that she understood this, too. He indicated her attire, and asked,
“You will not dance tonight, Miss McRae?”
“No. I would not be permitted to. My gown and my harp are not