The Frost Fair

bosom, bulging cheeks and tiny pig-like eyes. Hanging on her son's arm for support, she explained that they had been delayed because she had had one of her attacks. Susan was amazed. Mrs Cardinal looked uncommonly healthy to her.

    Jack Cardinal was the real surprise. He was a neat, compact man of medium height with a shock of black hair that rose up from a high-domed forehead. Only his mother could have deemed him handsome. His face was craggy in repose and slightly comic when he was animated. Susan was completely disarmed. Cardinal was no threat to her. If anything, she felt sorry for him. Even at a glance, the man was so burdened by a demanding mother that he looked years older than his true age. When he was introduced to Susan, he was too shy to do more than give her a token bow. She began to relax. The evening might not be as onerous as she had feared.

    It was an hour before she had a conversation alone with Cardinal. Before the meal was served, Brilliana contrived to divert the majority of the guests by inviting them to see the recent portrait of her that hung at the top of the staircase. Serle had been primed to assist Mrs Cardinal up the steps and to listen to the endless litany of her symptoms. Susan found herself in the parlour with Jack Cardinal. He examined the bookshelves.

    'Lancelot has tastes not unlike my own,' he remarked.

    'In what way?'

    'I, too, am fond of poems. I read them to Mother sometimes.'

    'Can she not read them to herself, Mr Cardinal?'

    'Not when her eyes trouble her,' he replied. 'Poor sight is one of her many problems. What about you, Miss Cheever?' he asked, turning to look at her. 'Are you interested in poetry?'

    'I am, sir.'

    'May I know whom you admire?'

    'Many of those you'll find on those same shelves,' said Susan. 'But the poet I revere most is not in my brother-in-law's collection.'

    'And who might that be?'

    'Mr Milton.'

    He was astounded. 'John Milton?'

    'I know of no other.'

    'I'd not have thought he'd appeal to a young lady such as you.'

    'He certainly does not appeal to my sister,' confessed Susan, 'and Lancelot has strong political objections against him. Mr Milton, as you know, was Latin Secretary to the Lord High Protector.'

    'That's what makes him so intriguing, Miss Cheever.'

    'Intriguing?'

    'Poetry transcends political affiliation,' he said solemnly. 'Because I do not agree with a man's politics, I am not unaware of his poetic skills. I take John Milton to be a man of infinite genius. I'm proud to call myself a Royalist but that does not stop me from telling you that Paradise Lost is the finest poem I've ever read.'

    'You are a religious man, I see.'

    'Far from it.'

    'Then wherein lies its appeal?'

    'In its scope, its ambition and its sheer intelligence.'

    'You have surely not read it to your mother.'

    'No,' he replied with a rare smile. 'Mother has no time for John Milton or anyone of his persuasion. She believes that he should have been beheaded as a traitor. That attitude does not put her in the ideal frame of mind for appreciating his work.'

    Susan warmed to him. 'Lancelot tells me that you are a prodigious reader.'

    'I know of no greater pleasure.'

    'What about shooting and fencing? You excel at both, I hear.'

    'They are manly accomplishments and nothing more.'

    'You are too modest, Mr Cardinal. I understand that you are an expert.'

    'Hardly! What has Lancelot been saying about me?'

    'He talked of a duel that you had with Egerton Whitcombe.'

    'Oh, that,' said Cardinal, his face clouding. 'It was a big mistake.'

    'But you were the victor.'

    'The bout should never have taken place.' 'According to Lancelot, the other man goaded you into it.'

    'He did, Miss Cheever, and I was foolish to go along with it.'

    'Why?'

    'Because I did not realise how seriously my opponent was taking the whole thing. Egerton Whitcombe was so confident that he would get the better of me that he'd made a number of wagers with friends.' He gave an apologetic shrug. 'Losing the bout cost him a sizeable amount of money.'

    'No wonder he was so embittered.'

    'He keeps asking for a return meeting to recoup his losses but I'll not measure swords with him again. Too much rides on it for Egerton - and for his mother, of course.'

    'Lady Whitcombe?'

    'She was there to cheer her son on the last time,' he said. 'Lady Whitcombe was so outraged that I proved the finer swordsman that she's not spoken to me since.'

    'My brother-in-law tells me that she's very grand.'

    'Very grand and very determined.'

    'In what way, Mr Cardinal?'

    'She has the highest ambitions for her family,' he said. 'She drives them on. Lady Whitcombe expects that her son - and her daughter - win at everything.'

        Egerton Whitcombe paced angrily up and down the room like a caged animal. He was not accustomed to having his demands rejected. Tall, slim and striking in appearance, he was immaculately dressed in a blue doublet and petticoat breeches. His gleaming leather jackboots clacked noisily on the oak floorboards. When he finally came to a halt, he turned to his mother with an accusatory stare.

    'Has work begun on the house yet?' he barked.

    'No, Egerton,' she replied. 'The ground is still too hard for them to dig the foundations and the stone they need will not be brought in by boat until the ice has vanished from the Thames.'

    'Then we still have time to cancel the contract.'

    'I've no intention of doing that.'

    'Do you know who the architect is, Mother?'

    'Of course. I've met Mr Redmayne a number of times.'

    'His brother is in prison on a charge of murder,' he said with disgust. 'I only heard about it today and I was shocked. We cannot let ourselves get involved with a family such as that.'

    'We are not getting involved with a family, only an individual.'

    'His brother is a killer. That means his name is tainted.'

    'His father is the Dean of Gloucester,' she retorted, 'and that says far more about him. It's unfortunate that this other business has cropped up, I agree, but it will not affect my judgement of Christopher Redmayne. He's not merely a brilliant architect, he's a delightful young man.'

    'With a criminal for a brother.'

    'Egerton!'

    'People talk, Mother. What will our friends say?'

    The quarrel took place in a room that he had rented at a tavern in Holborn. Lady Whitcombe and her daughter were staying with friends in London but they were spending the evening with the man in their family. Hoping for a joyful reunion with her son, Lady Whitcombe was disappointed to find him in a combative mood. Letitia was too distressed by his truculent behaviour even to speak. Instead of listening to an account of her brother's adventures abroad, she was witnessing a fierce argument. She made sure that she kept out of it.

    Lady Whitcombe was imperious. 'My decisions are not subject to the dictates of my friends,' she declared. 'I saw what I wanted and engaged the architect who could give it to me. There's an end to it.'

    'No,' retorted her son. 'I'm the person who'll spend most time in the house.'