Livia hugged her back, then pulled away to smile again at Jane. “It’s the same with me. I’m so glad you found us. Now! Shall we be on our way, before we both turn into watering-pots?”
Jane smiled too, happiness making her feel all light and floaty again. “I’m ready.”
“Good! And there’s an excellent chance that Cook will have some more of those delicious York biscuits. In case we need something to tide us over till dinner.”
“Oh, do let’s ask,” said Jane, and went away with Livia, cheerfully disregarding the fact that her feet, in those charming borrowed slippers, pinched her toes quite dreadfully.
“I say, Father, the most ripping thing happened today.”
Anthony was stretched out on top of the covers of Wakefield’s bed, both of them propped up on pillows. Flickering light from a three-branched candelabrum played over Wakefield’s still-damp hair, which Nurse had, after Wakefield’s bath, parted on the side and vigorously combed flat as she always did, giving Wakefield the appearance of a very small businessman. Who happened to be wearing a white ruffled nightshirt. The bedclothes were tucked up around his armpits, and snuggled against him was the little pug Snuffles, who was curled up in a ball and snoring in a quiet, peaceful way which Anthony found very soothing. He said:
“Do tell.”
“On the way home from the vicarage, just as we passed the lodge-house, Higson ran over a toad.”
“Did he?”
“Yes, and Father, the toad was absolutely flat. I had Higson pull up so I could get down from the cart and look.”
“Did you pick it up?”
“Well, I would have, but Higson told me not to, or I’d get warts.”
“I once found a dead toad over by the lake when I was just your age.”
“Did you pick it up, Father?”
“Of course. I didn’t have a groom breathing down my neck.”
“Did you get warts?”
“No.”
“I told Higson he was wrong,” said Wakefield bitterly.
“Instead of warts I developed the most spectacular rash. My entire right hand and arm was a blistering scarlet for a fortnight.”
Bitterness evolved instantly into admiration. “I say, Father, how splendid.”
“Yes, in the sense that I had complete control over Nurse the entire time. I only had to threaten to touch her with the afflicted limb and she fled the room.”
“I knew I should have picked up that toad.”
“Unfortunately, my arm felt like it was on fire.”
“Oh.”
“Yes, altogether a mixed bag. So do keep it in mind the next time you see a dead toad.”
Wakefield looked thoughtful, then said, “Father, will you talk to Higson about letting me take the reins again? He’s being very ibstoperous about it.”
“Do you mean obstreperous?”
“Yes, that’s what I said. Just because I ran us off the road last week. The cart did turn over, but the pony wasn’t hurt, and that’s what matters. We weren’t hurt either. Oh, Father, you should have seen Higson. He rolled into the ditch just like a ball.”
“Maybe that’s why he’s reluctant to have you drive the pony-cart again.”
“I didn’t do it on purpose, you know. Higson broke wind and I was laughing so hard that I wasn’t paying attention.”
“An entirely reasonable distraction, old chap, but when you’re holding the reins it’s all your responsibility.”
“Yes, Father. Did you overturn carts when you were little?”
“Several times.”
“Did it make you a better driver?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll do better, Father, I promise.”
“I know you will. I’ll talk to Higson.”
Wakefield smiled beatifically, which made him look for the moment more like a cherub in a Renaissance painting than a businessman. “Thank you, Father! Can I drive the pony-cart to lessons tomorrow?”
“Yes. By the way, you’re to have a new schoolfellow.”
“I am? Who is it?”
“A young lady named Miss Kent.”
“A lady, Father?”
“Yes, she’s a relation of the Penhallows. I met her today over at the Hall.”
“Oh, Father, she’s not like Mrs. Penhallow, is she?”
“Which one?”
“The older one, with the white hair. She was very nasty to me at the fête last year.”
“Was she? Why?”
“Well, I was rolling a hoop past the cheese stall, minding my own business, and—”
“Did you roll the hoop into her?”
“I say, Father, that’s an awful onsanuation.”
“Do you mean insinuation?”
“Yes, that’s what I said.”
There was a brief silence, modulated by the soft, pleasant sounds of Snuffles snoring.
“I did roll the hoop into her, but not very hard.”
“Ah.”
“I apologized, Father, but she only said that I was a menace to society. Which I’m not.”
“No, not yet, at any rate.”
“I’ll tell you what, though, she was so nasty it made me feel like I wanted to be a menace to society.”
“I know the feeling.”
“Would you mind terribly, Father, if I became one when I grow up? A pirate, for example, or a highwayman?”
“It’s hard to say. Perhaps we can revisit the subject when you’re a bit older.”
Wakefield nodded, then put out his hand to stroke Snuffles’ soft little head. “So what’s she like, Father?”
“Who?”
“The lady who’s going to have lessons with Mr. Pressley and me.”
“Miss Kent? I’m not sure. We hardly spoke.”
“Does she seem like the type of person who would call you a menace to society if you rolled a hoop into her just a little?”
“I don’t know, my boy. You might want to refrain from rolling hoops in her presence till you know her better.”
“I will,” promised Wakefield. “I say, I hope she’s not going to turn out to be another boring grownup. Will you read to me now, Father?”
“What would you like tonight?”
“Tales from Shakespeare, please.”
Anthony reached onto Wakefield’s bedside table and pulled the Shakespeare book from among the stack, and opened it. “We’re up to Romeo and Juliet.”
“What’s that one about?”
“It’s a sad love story.”
“A love story? Ugh. Something good, Father.”
“How about Hamlet?”
“Is there sword-fighting?”
“Yes, and a ghost, too. Also graves and a skull.”
“That’s better. Is there hugging and kissing in it?”
“A little, but it turns out badly.”
“Oh, that’s all right then. Read that, Father, please.”
And Anthony, secretly glad to not be reading about a sad love story, turned the pages of Romeo and Juliet and started in on the unromantic Hamlet.
Chapter 4
Jane had been ushered into the vicarage by the dour housekeeper Mrs. McKenzie, and into a large, orderly study lined with bookshelves. There she met Mr. Pressley the vicar, who, she was extremely relieved to see, was very different from the Nantwich schoolmaster, being a pleasant, soft-spoken man of about Cousin Gabriel’s age, or perhaps a few years younger. She also met the Duke’s son Wakefield, tall for his eight years, wiry and fine-boned, with neatly trimmed hair the same light-brown color as the Duke’s, though his eyes were brown and not the deep blue of his father.