Free Caxton by Edward Cline Page B

compatible, and
so I wear my riding clothes.” In a lower voice, Etáin added, “Many of the ladies
here opine that it is not lady-like to pose as I must to play the instrument.
But my harp will not accommodate my hoops. I shall even be seated behind the
pianoforte, for modesty’s sake.”
“Then those same ladies must not think Britannia lady-like.”
“Britannia?”
“The goddess-like symbol of our country. Here.” Hugh drew a bronze penny from
his coat and showed the girl the relief of the seated figure, whose one arm
was raised to hold a spear, while the other rested on the top of her shield
that was planted upright on the ground.
“Yes!” exclaimed Etáin, studying the figure. “Of course! What a pretty thought!”
Hugh pressed the coin into her palm. “Please, Miss McRae, keep this, as a token
of my esteem, and as a reminder to yourself, the next time you hear someone
complain about your musical pose.”
Etáin beamed with delight. “Thank you, Mr. Kenrick. You are too kind.”
Hugh shook his head. “I am not a kind man, Miss McRae.”
Etáin frowned. “Why do you say that, Mr. Kenrick?”
“Kindness is a sort of forgiveness, or an intentional oversight — or the cowardly
waiver of a wrong. It is — a tolerance for the intolerable, and very often that
is akin to the commission of a heinous crime.”
The girl looked down at the floor. “I meant…that you were generous, Mr. Kenrick.”
“Then, please, forgive me for having misconstrued your meaning, Miss McRae,”
said Hugh with some concern. “I am wiling to be called ‘generous.’”
“Would you think me a coward, if I forgave you?”
“No. I would think you honest,” Hugh said with a smile. “Honesty is nearly an
antonym of kindness.”
“And generosity: What is that nearly the antonym of?”
“Profligacy,” Hugh said, enjoying the exchange. “However, generosity is very
nearly a synonym for justice.”
“You are oddly persuasive, Mr. Kenrick, though I have not heard such notions
before.” Etáin’s glance wandered for a moment, and she noticed that some guests
were staring at them. She bowed her head. “There I go again, staring at you
as though you were a talking statue!”
Hugh turned and scrutinized the curious guests, who averted their glances and
moved to another part of the crowded room. He said to Etáin, “Ancient lore has
it that a dying Amazon would hold her slayer’s eyes, and cause him to fall in
love with her, so that after she was gone, he would pine away in regret. Love
of her was her cruel retribution.”
Etáin looked up at him with curiosity.
Hugh said, “I am merely trying to embellish your lapse from a silly custom,
Miss McRae. Or to attach to it a better justification.”
“It is a strange courtesy you pay me, Mr. Kenrick.” The girl paused. “Has an
Amazon gazed into your eyes?”
After a moment, Hugh said, “I no longer think so. She is not slain, and has
married a Boeotian.” He paused. “It is the stuff of one of Mr. Garrick’s plays.”
“One of his tragedies,” remarked Etáin, saying it before she meant to. “I have
read some of them.”
“For my role in it, yes,” Hugh said, who seemed to have forgotten the girl’s
presence. “For hers, a farce that was not so amusing.” He smiled with bitterness.
“You see, she wrote me a kind letter.” Then he remembered where he was
and to whom he was speaking. “My apologies, Miss McRae,” he said, bowing slightly.
“I did not intend to raise tragedy on such a festive occasion.”
“I am sorry to have caused you to have such a sad memory.”
Hugh shook his head. “No, no. Do not feel sorry. The fault was all mine.”
The girl was uncertain whether he was speaking of the present or of the past.
    * * *
    There was a rustle of movement in the ballroom and an ebbing of the hubbub.
Madeline McRae appeared again and said to her daughter, “Dear, Mr. Vishonn is
about to open the ball. You