Amphillis felt as if her mind were in a whirl. Surely it was not possible that Mr Altham had known, far less shared, the dishonesty of his daughter? She could not have believed her uncle capable of such meanness.
“Sent to mine uncle?” seemed all that she could utter.
“Ay, but thine uncle, as I heard say, was away when the messenger came, and he saw certain women of his house only.”
“Oh, then my uncle was not in the plot!” said Amphillis to herself with great satisfaction.
“Maybe I speak wrongly,” added Perrote, reflectively; “I guess he saw but one woman, a wedded cousin of thine, one Mistress Winkfield, who said she wist of a kinswoman of thine on the father’s side that she was secure her father would gladly prefer, and she would have her up from Hertfordshire to see him, if he would call again that day week.”
How the conspiracy had been managed flashed on Amphillis at once. Mr Altham was always from home on a Wednesday, when he attended a meeting of his professional guild in the city. That wicked Alexandra had done the whole business, and presented her own sister to the messenger as the cousin of Amphillis, on that side of her parentage which came of gentle blood.
“Mistress, I pray you tell me, if man know of wrong done or lying, and utter it not, hath he then part in the wrong?”
“Very like, dear heart. Is there here some wrong-doing? I nigh guessed so much from thy ways. Speak out, Phyllis.”
“Soothly, Mistress, I would not by my good will do my kinswoman an ill turn; yet either must I do so, or else hold my peace at wrong done to my Lady Foljambe, and peradventure to Master Hylton. My cousin Ricarda is not of my father’s kin. She is daughter unto mine uncle, the patty-maker in the Strand. I know of no kin on my father’s side.”
“Holy Mary!” cried the scandalised Perrote. “Has thine uncle, then, had part in this wicked work?”