‘There is no rest foamy brother, and I cannot help; I am kept so poor I have not the smallest of sums. I do not wish to leave Wales—the people begin to love me; and can one be mistaken? I know if I am loved or hated. But if my lord will give me an allowance of money of some hundreds, I will do his bidding; I will leave England or I will go to Esslemont; I could say—to Mr. Woodseer, in that part of London. He would not permit. He thinks me blacked by it, like a sweepboy coming from a chimney; and that I have done injury to his title. No, Riette, to be a true sister, I must bargain with my lord before I submit. He has not cared to come and see his little son. His boy has not offended him. There may be some of me in this dear. I know whose features will soon show to defend the mother’s good name. He is early my champion. He is not christened yet, and I hear it accuse me, and I am not to blame,—I still wait my lord’s answer.’
‘Don’t be bothered to read the whole,’ Livia had said, with her hand out, when his eyes were halfway down the page.
Fleetwood turned it, to read the signature: ‘Janey.’
She seemed servile enough to some of her friends. ‘Carinthia’ would have had—a pleasanter sound. He folded the letter.
‘Why give me this? Take it,’—said he.
She laid it on the open pad.
Henrietta entered and had it restored to her, Livia remarking: ‘I found it in the blotter after all.’
She left them together, having to dress for the drive to the coach office with Henrietta.
‘Poor amusement for you this time.’ Fleetwood bowed, gently smiling.
‘Oh!’ cried Henrietta, ‘balls, routs, dinners, music—as much music as I could desire, even I! What more could be asked? I am eternally grateful.’