Everyone looked at her. How like Bersaba to say something serious when we all wanted to be frivolous.
She went on: ‘Father is disturbed about the ship money.’
‘Ship money!’ cried Rozen in dismay. ‘We are talking about fashions!’
‘My dear cousin,’ said Bersaba in one of her superior moods, ‘if there is trouble between the King and his Parliament there could be no more fashions.’
‘Which one are you?’ said Rozen quite angrily. ‘Bersaba, I’m sure.’
‘Of course,’ I answered for her.
‘Oh, Angel, do make her shut up,’ said Rozen.
I folded my arms and smiled at my twin. ‘I have no control over her,’ I reminded them.
‘It’s silly not to face up to what’s happening,’ said Bersaba crossly. ‘You know very well, Angel, that the people who come to see Father are very anxious.’
‘They’re always anxious,’ said Gwenifer. ‘The East India men have always complained about something.’
‘They’re doing wonderful work for the country,’ I supported my twin.
‘Oh, you two and your saintly parents,’ said Gwenifer. ‘Let’s talk about something interesting.’
‘So George Kroll is going to speak for Rozen?’ I asked.
‘It’s almost certain,’ replied Rozen. ‘And Father will say yes because the Krolls are a good family and Mother will say yes because she thinks George will be a good husband.’
‘That’s one ticked off the list,’ said Bersaba.
‘What a way to look at it,’ I cried.
‘Well, that’s what it is,’ insisted Bersaba. ‘Our turns will come.’
‘I shall choose my husband,’ I said firmly.
‘And so shall I,’ answered Bersaba equally so.
So we talked of balls and our cousins examined our clothes and the conversation was on a frivolous level, which pleased me, but I was aware that Bersaba thought it rather foolish. She retired into one of her silences which were so maddening because it seemed as though she were despising us all.
We dined in the great hall because we were quite a large party—nine in all, for Bastian and Uncle Connell, who had been out on the estate, came home in the late afternoon.
While we were dressing I said to Bersaba, ‘Let’s wear our blues tonight.’
She hesitated and a slight smile touched her lips. ‘All right,’ she said.
‘We could have some fun,’ I said, ‘pretending I’m you and you’re me.’
‘There are some who’ll know the difference.’
‘Who?’
‘Well, Mother for instance.’
‘Mother always knows.’
So we wore our blue silk gowns with their boned bodices caught at the waist with sashes of a toning shade of blue, and skirts open to our feet showing satin petticoats; they had lovely long hanging sleeves. We had had them last year, and although they had not been in the height of fashion even then they were becoming.
‘We’ll wear our hair piled high,’ said Bersaba.
‘They say it is no longer worn like that.’
‘It suits our high foreheads,’ she answered, and she was right.
So we stood side by side laughing at our reflections. Even though we were so accustomed to the likeness it sometimes amused us.
In the hall Uncle Connell kissed us heartily. He was the sort of man who liked women—all kinds, all ages, all sizes. He was big and blustering, not unlike Grandfather Casvellyn—at least seeing him gave one an idea of what Grandfather Casvellyn must have been like in his youth. Even he, though, sometimes seemed afraid of Grandfather Casvellyn and that made a difference because our grandfather would never have been afraid of anyone. He held us tightly against him and kissed us heartily and he put his hands under my chin and said: ‘Which one are you?’
I said, ‘I’m Angelet.’
He answered: ‘Not such an angel if I know anything about it.’
And everyone laughed.
‘And Bersaba, eh? Well, come here, my girl, and give your uncle a kiss.’
Bersaba went reluctantly, which made Uncle Connell give her two kisses as though repetition could make her like it better.
I had heard it said that Connell was a true Casvellyn and that he had several mistresses scattered around the countryside and more than one of the bastards in the servants’ hall had been sired by him.
I often wondered what Aunt Melanie thought about that, but she never gave any sign that she minded. I had discussed it with Bersaba, who had said that she took it as a way of life and that as long as it didn’t interfere with her household and family she turned a blind eye to it.
‘I should have something to say,’ I declared, ‘if I were in her place, wouldn’t you?’
‘I should find something to do about it,’ answered Bersaba.
Bastian came too. I thought he was as handsome as Bersaba drew him—or nearly. He was as tall as his father, and the fact that he had inherited his father’s looks and his mother’s nature made him interesting.
He looked from Bersaba to me and back again.
Bersaba laughed then and he said: ‘Ah, Bersaba.’ And he kissed her first and then me.
Uncle Connell bade us be seated and we obeyed him. He sat at the head of the long refectory table with my mother on one side of him and Melder on the other. Bersaba and I were on either side of Aunt Melanie and Bastian had seated himself next to Bersaba.
They talked mostly about the affairs of the countryside—all that had to be done on the estate; my mother mentioned the growing difficulties the East India Company were having to face and which she hoped would be a little eased if they could build their new Indian factory.
Bastian said: ‘There’s trouble everywhere. People don’t seem to realize it. They shut their eyes to it but one day it will creep up on us.’
‘Bastian’s a proper Jeremiah,’ commented Rozen.
‘There’s nothing so stupid as shutting your eyes to facts simply because they’re unpleasant,’ put in Bersaba, placing herself firmly on Bastian’s side. He smiled at her—a very special smile, and she glowed with pleasure.
‘The King is in disagreement with his ministers,’ began Bastian.
‘My dear boy,’ put in his father, ‘kings have been in disagreement with their ministers ever since there have been kings and ministers.’
‘What other king ever dismissed his parliament and governed—or made some semblance of it—without one for how many years is it? Ten?’
‘We haven’t noticed the change,’ said Uncle Connell, laughing.
‘It’s coming,’ replied Bastian. ‘The King believes he governs by God’s right and there will be people in the country to disagree with that.’
‘Kings … parliaments,’ said Uncle Connell, ‘they seem to have one motive, and that is to pile tax upon tax so that the people can pay for their fancies.’
‘I thought that when Buckingham was murdered that would have changed the situation,’ said my mother.
‘No,’ said Bastian. ‘It is the King himself who must change.’
‘And will he?’ asked Bersaba.
‘He will … or be deposed,’ Bastian replied. ‘No king can continue to reign for long without the goodwill of his people.’
‘Poor man,’ said my mother. ‘How sad his life must be.’
Uncle Connell laughed. ‘My dear Tamsyn,’ he said, ‘the King cares little for the approval of the people. He cares little for the approval of his ministers. He is so sure that he is right, guided by God. Who knows, perhaps he is.’
‘At least his home life is happier now,’ said Aunt Melanie. ‘I believe it was far from that in the beginning. He is a good man and a good father whatever kind of king he is.’
‘It might be more important for him to be a good king,’ murmured Bastian.