Temperance and Edith accompanied Lady Oxford to her coach. She paused a moment before stepping in.
“Mrs Edith,” she said, “methinks your good mother would fain see Mr Louvaine ere he depart. If so, she shall not be balked thereof. I have made inquiry touching Mr Marshall’s house, and I find there is a little gate from the garden thereof into Saint Andrew’s churchyard. I will call for her as to-morrow in my coach, and carry her to take the air. An ancient servant of mine, that is wedded to the clerk of Saint Andrew’s, dwelleth by the churchyard, and I will stay me there as though to speak with her, sending away the coach upon another errand that I can devise. Then from her house my Lady may safely win to Mr Marshall’s lodging, and be back again ere the coach return.”
“Your Ladyship is most good unto us,” responded Edith, thankfully. “I am assured it should greatly comfort my dear mother.”
Lady Oxford turned with a smile to Temperance.
“It seems to me, Mrs Temperance, that your words be something sharp.”
“Well, Madam, to tell truth, folks do put me out now and again more than a little. Many’s the time I long to give Faith a good shaking; and I could have laid a stick on Aubrey’s back middling often,—I’ll not say I couldn’t: but if the lad sees his blunders and is sorry for ’em, I’ll put my stick in the corner.”
“I think I would leave it tarry there for the present,” said Lady Oxford, with a soft little laugh. “God grant you a good even!”
The coach had only just rolled away, and four youthful Abbotts, whom it had glued to the window, were still flattening their noses against the diamond panes, when a clear, strong, sweet voice rang out on the evening air in the back road which led by the palings of Saint James’s Park. Both Edith and Temperance knew well whose voice it was. They heard it every night, lifted up in one of the Psalms of David, as Hans Floriszoon came home from his work with the mercer. Hans was no longer an apprentice. Mr Leigh had taken such a fancy to him, and entertained so complete a trust both in his skill and honesty, that six months before he had voluntarily cancelled his indentures, and made him his partner in the business. Nothing changed Hans Floriszoon. He had sung as cheerily in his humble apprenticeship, and would have done so had he been Lord Mayor of London, as now when he came down the back road, lantern in hand, every evening as regularly as the clock struck four, Mrs Abbott declared that she set her clock by Hans whenever it stopped, which it did frequently, for it was an ancient piece of goods, and suffered from an asthmatic affection.
“There’s Mestur ’Ans!” said Charity. “See thee, Rachel, I’ll teem them eggs into th’ pan; thou doesn’t need to come.”
Rachel sat by the window, trying to finish making a new apron before supper.