He chuckled to himself, “You’ve Richard’s look,” he said. “You’ve his evil temper—I’ve horsed him for it many a time. Ay, and he’s dead—isn’t he?”
“For all I know. Or overseas.”
“Or overseas!” he repeated slowly. “Your mother now—does she know?”
“My mother thinks him dead.”
“She was a fine, upstanding lass,” he said, pulling at his pipe. “Ay, ay, years since. And she wedded Richard—he-he—for all that Charles and his wife might do. She feared and hated us all, except Richard. She’s paying Charles coin for coin. What’s she said of us to you.”
“Little, and that’ll I’ll not say, sir, by your leave.”
His brow grew dark; he muttered, “Years since—not so many—and you’d not have answered so. You’re bold—hey, you’re bold. Little she said, but no good—hey?”
“Why should she speak well of you?” I said, quietly. “You were her enemies.”
He chuckled, “Ay, and so she kept you hid from us all these years. You’d not be in the house but for Bradbury. Cunning dog, Bradbury.”
“And even for Mr. Bradbury,” said I, “I’ll not be staying, sir.”