Whenever I saw him after an absence I noticed these things about him even more than usual, and I longed for one look of approval or even of interest. It never came.
He was aware of me to some extent, of course. He knew he had a daughter; he remembered my name, but I guessed he was not sure of my age whereas he knew everything concerning Carl.
His first remark was: “I believe the boy’s grown a few niches.”
“One and a half,” said Carl. “It’s by the cupboard, truly.”
He was referring to the schoolroom cupboard where his height had been measured throughout his life. There were others there too those of Edwin and my own father, for both of them had been brought up at Eversleigh. Carl’s ambition was to top his father. I sometimes thought my father wanted him to do that too. I felt hurt that girls should be considered of such small account because of their sex and I was almost glad that I had been involved in something of which I believed he would not have approved.
“That’s good. You’ll be almost as tall as I am one day,” said my father.
“I’m going to be taller,” boasted Carl. It was the sort of attitude which pleased my father. He gave my brother an affectionate push.
My mother slipped her arm through mine. She always seemed as if she wanted to make up for my father’s neglect of me, but I really should have preferred it if she had pretended not to notice.
There was a certain normality about the house now that they had returned and I realized how difficult it would have been to have hidden Jocelyn if they had been at home. I had been wearing the ring round my neck that day, and for the evening I put on a dress which exposed my arms and neck, so I took it off and put it carefully away in a drawer behind some linen.
I met my mother on the way down and she started to tell me about the new hairstyles they were using at Court.
“They’re wearing loose curls on the forehead. It’s all curls. I don’t think the forehead ones would suit you, but I like the style with the hair caught up with a ribbon to hang at the side of the face. These curls are called heartbreakers. They are supposed to be alluring.” She had turned to me and touched my light brown hair, which was fine but abundant and certainly not inclined to be curly.
“Oh,” she went on, “what’s that mark on your skin? I see. It’s that chain of yours.
It’s left quite a mark. It’s been pressing on your skin. I didn’t notice you were wearing the chain today.”
“I … I … er I was,” I said. I hoped I was not flushing as I feared I might be.
“But I didn’t see it, darling.”
“Oh, I was wearing it… for a time.”
It was only a small matter, but it was an indication of how careful one had to be.
She might begin to wonder and realize that I had been wearing the chain under my bodice. Now why should a girl want to wear a gold chain so that it did not show!
Over the meal my father talked a great deal about what was going on at Court. Monmouth seemed certain that he would get his father to legitimatize him.
“The best thing possible,” commented my father. “It’ll put York’s nose out of joint and that’s the best place for that to be.”
Edwin asked: “Have you spoken to the King about it?”
“I? My dear fellow, Charles would not listen to me or anyone. I’d be told-with the utmost good humour of course-to mind my own business. And, who knows, in a short time there might be a cooling of royal favour. No, Charles knows what he is going to do and nobody’s going to persuade him. He’s insisting at the moment that he was never married to Lucy Walter and that Monmouth is therefore a bastard.”
“In that case,” said Leigh, “our next King must be James.”
“There will be some who will not accept that because it means Popery.”
“What’s happening to Titus Oates?”
“He’s still in Whitehall. There have been certain voices raised against him. He’s not the most popular man in the country.”
“Do you think that if he falls out of favour all this persecution of Catholics will stop?” I asked.
My father turned to look at me and I was deeply conscious of his cool, appraising gaze. I felt bitter. I wished he could have looked at me with interest just once.
He shrugged his shoulders. “Charles is not interested really. He’s the most tolerant man alive. He loathes all the fuss.”
“Then why doesn’t he do something about it?” I cried impatiently.
“Too lazy,” said Leigh. “But he did save the Queen. Gates would have had the axe for her if he could have arranged it.”
“He’s a beast!” I cried.
My mother said: “It will pass. These things always do.”
“Yes,” I retorted passionately, “but in the meantime people are being hunted and executed. It’s cruel.”
“Some say that the King is secretly Catholic,” put in Christabel.
There was silence at the table for a few moments, then my father said: “He would never openly admit to it. He’s too shrewd … too clever. He knows the people won’t have it and he is determined to please the people. But the next King must be a firm Protestant. It will have to be Monmouth.”
