“I would rather let one of my daughters and the young man arrange it themselves.”
Alice clicked her tongue and talked of some peoples folly being past all understanding. But she was pleased with life. She enjoyed living in the big house at Chelsea; she had more maids than she had ever had in her life. Her daughter had married well; she would do her duty by her stepdaughters and see that they followed in Ailie's footsteps; and she would never forget for one moment that she was Lady More.
She went down to the kitchen, her marmoset following her. She went everywhere with her. She scolded the little thing, but it was an affectionate scolding, the sort of scolding she was fond of bestowing on her husband.
Good marriages for them all, she reflected. Either Elizabeth or Cecily should have Giles Heron, who ere long would inherit his father's title and lands. Elizabeth it must be; she was more suitable for the position. Cecily was inclined to be slothful, to lie about in the sunshine, under the trees or in the orchard, or wander about gathering wild flowers, spending too much time with her pet animals. Yes, Elizabeth, with her sharp wits, would make the better Lady Heron. Moreover, Elizabeth was the elder and should therefore marry first, for it was a bad thing when a younger sister married before an elder. Not, thought Alice complacently, that there should be any difficulty in finding a good husband for Cecily, a girl whose father was in such high favor at Court.
Fortune had taken a very pleasant turn.
“Lady More!” She whispered that to herself as she went about the house.
GILES HERON protested when his father told him that he would live for some time in the household of Sir Thomas More.
As Giles took barge for Chelsea, he was thinking of his father's remarks:
“There are two daughters. A match between our house and theirs would bring great benefits, my son. Sir Thomas More is in as high favor at Court as any man—not excluding the Cardinal himself, some say. You will one day have land and property. I would like to see added to that the favor of the King's favorite minister.”
That was all very well, but Giles was not interested in ambition. This river trip would have been most enjoyable to him if he could have idly drifted downstream, stopping perhaps to lie on the bank, breaking into song, chatting with merry companions; and then, when he was tired, turning the barge homeward. Instead of that, he was on his way to a new home; and he was uneasy.
Who wanted favor at Court? Not he. What did it mean? Constant work, constant fear that you would displease some high official of the Court—mayhap the King himself. Then you began to realize how much happier you had been lying in the sun, idling the hours away.
Then there was this daughter of Sir Thomas More. It was said that his daughters were almost as learned as he was. The girls were prim creatures who spent their days in a schoolroom writing Latin verses. Latin verses! Scholars! Giles wanted to laugh hysterically at the thought. He frantically sought in his mind for one little phrase which his tutors had taught him and which he might manage to quote; but his mind was a blank.
He had seen Alice Allington, a real little beauty, and not seeming very learned except in matters of manners and general fascination. But she was only a stepdaughter—no blood relation to the learned Sir Thomas More. He doubted if he would find another such as Alice Allington in the Chelsea house.
And one of these girls—there was, fortunately, a choice between two—he must try to make his wife. For, his father had said, if you do not, depend upon it others will. These girls have more than fortune. You yourself have wealth, but the More family can give you what you lack: the interest of the King himself. Marry one of these girls and the King, I am sure, could be induced to smile on you. Thomas More is reputed to be an upright man, a man who seeks no gain for himself; but I'll warrant he'll not be averse to taking a little for his daughters, since by all accounts he has a very deep regard for them.
Giles pictured the girls. They would be small, for sitting at a table, poring over books, did not develop the body; they would be pale; they would doubtless stoop; they would be ugly; they would give no attention to personal adornments; they would have Latin instead of good looks; they would have Greek instead of charm.
“O God in Heaven,” prayed Giles Heron, “save me from a daughter of Sir Thomas More.”
He had reached the privy stairs, and, leaving his servants to tie up the boat and take his baggage into the house, he mounted the stairs and went through the wicket gate.
He stood looking over the pleasantly sloping lawns, at the gardens of flowers, at the young trees and the house itself.
Slowly he made his way toward that great building. Which of the rooms, he wondered, was the schoolroom? He had heard of that schoolroom in which the wisest men in Europe taught the son and daughters of Sir Thomas More. He pictured the gray-bearded, solemn-faced tutors; they would be scornful of him. And the girls? They too. Perhaps they would despise him so much that they would beg their father not to let him marry one of them. Giles was hopeful by nature.
How beautiful it was on that summer's day! He could smell the scent of newly cut grass; and in the distance he could hear the sound of voices. He heard laughter too; that was the last thing he had expected to hear in this domain, but doubtless it came from someone on land nearby, for voices carried far in the country. Mayhap it was some of the servants. Or were the servants as solemn as the family? Did they have to learn Latin and Greek along with their household tasks?
He stopped as a boy appeared from a clump of trees to the right. This boy's gown was open at the neck; his face was hot for he had been running. He stopped short when he saw the visitor. Giles judged him to be about fifteen years of age.
“Good day to you,” said Giles. “Am I right in thinking these are the gardens of Sir Thomas More?”
“Good day to you,” said the boy. “And you are right. You must be Giles Heron.”
“I am. Would you please tell me who you are?”
“John More. Always known as Jack. We are worried about the rabbits. They are behaving in such an odd way. They are huddled together and making the strangest noises. I came to look for Father. He would know what to do. Would you … come and look at them?”
He turned without more ceremony and began to run. Giles followed him through the trees to a stone wall, on which sat a peacock displaying his gorgeous tail.
The stone wall enclosed a small garden, and in this a girl was kneeling by several rabbit hutches.
“What ails you, Diogenes?” she was saying. “Tell me, my little one. And you, Pythagoras, you are frightened. What do you see?”
“Any sign of what troubles them?” asked Jack.
“No.”
“This is Giles Heron. I found him coming up from the river.”
“Good day to you,” said the girl. “Do you know anything about rabbits? We have not had them long. Only since we have been at Chelsea. Can you imagine what could make them as frightened as that?”
Giles looked at her; her face was flushed; her fair hair was escaping from her cap; and her blue eyes showed her anxiety. It was clear that she was thinking more of the rabbits than of the newcomer. He thought her rather quaint, comparing her with the young ladies whom he met at Court.
“It might be a stoat or a weasel,” said Giles. “It is terror which makes them behave thus.”
“But where? I can't see anything…. Can you?”
“A dog, mayhap?” suggested Giles.
“But Socrates and Plato love the rabbits.”
Diogenes, Pythagoras, Socrates and Plato! thought Giles. Was that not what he would have expected? Even their pets must be named in Greek. Yet both the girl and the boy disarmed him.