“But my sister is not to be buried in Buckinghamshire all the year round,” explained Hyacinth. “I shall fetch her here half a dozen times in a season; and her shortest visits must be long enough to take the country freshness out of her complexion, and save her from becoming a milkmaid.”
“Gud, to see her freckled!” cried Penington. “I could as soon imagine Helen with a hump. That London pallor is the choicest charm in a girl of quality—a refined sickliness that appeals to the heart of a man of feeling, an ‘if-you-don’t-lend-me-your-arm-I-shall-swoon’ sort of air. Your country hoyden, with her roses-and-cream complexion, and open-air manners, is more shocking than Medusa to a man of taste.”
The talk drifted to other topics at the mention of Buckingham, who had but lately been let out of the Tower, where he and Lord Dorchester had been committed for scuffling and quarrelling at the Canary Conference.
“Has your ladyship seen the Duke and Lord Dorchester since they came out of the house of bondage?” asked Lady Sarah. “I think Buckingham was never so gay and handsome, and takes his imprisonment as the best joke that ever was, and is as great at Court as ever.”
“His Majesty is but too indulgent,” said Masaroon, “and encourages the Duke to be insolent and careless of ceremony. He had the impertinence to show himself at chapel before he had waited on his Majesty.”
“Who was very angry and forbade him the Court,” said Penington. “But Buckingham sent the King one of his foolish, jesting letters, capped with a rhyme or two; and if you can make Charles Stuart laugh you may pick his pocket——”
“Or seduce his mistress——”
“Oh, he will forgive much to wit and gaiety. He learnt the knack of taking life easily, while he led that queer, shifting life in exile. He was a cosmopolitan and a soldier of fortune before he was a King de facto; and still wears the loose garments of those easy, beggarly days, when he had neither money nor care. Be sure he regrets that roving life—Madrid, Paris, the Hague—and will never love a son as well as little Monmouth, the child of his youth.”
“What would he not give to make that base-born brat Prince of Wales? Strange that while Lord Ross is trying to make his offspring illegitimate by Act of Parliament, his master’s anxieties should all tend the other way.”
“Don’t talk to me of Parliament!” cried Lady Sarah; “the tyranny of the Rump was nothing to them. Look at the tax upon French wines, which will make it almost impossible for a lady of small means to entertain her friends. And an Act for burying us all in woollen, for the benefit of the English trade in wool.”