But in those days letters were slow of travelling, and our priest's took two months or more on its journey from Ireland to England: where, when it did arrive, it did not find my lady at her own house; she was at the king's house of Hexton Castle when the letter came to Castlewood, but it was opened for all that by the officer in command there.
Harry Esmond well remembered the receipt of this letter, which Lockwood brought in as Captain Westbury and Lieutenant Trant were on the green playing at bowls, young Esmond looking on at the sport, or reading his book in the arbour.
“Here's news for Frank Esmond,” says Captain Westbury; “Harry, did you ever see Colonel Esmond?” And Captain Westbury looked very hard at the boy as he spoke.
Harry said he had seen him but once when he was at Hexton, at the ball there.
“And did he say anything?”
“He said what I don't care to repeat,” Harry answered. For he was now twelve years of age: he knew what his birth was and the disgrace of it; and he felt no love towards the man who had most likely stained his mother's honour and his own.
“Did you love my Lord Castlewood?”
“I wait until I know my mother, sir, to say,” the boy answered, his eyes filling with tears.
“Something has happened to Lord Castlewood,” Captain Westbury said, in a vary grave tone—“something which must happen to us all. He is dead of a wound received at the Boyne, fighting for King James.”
“I am glad my lord fought for the right cause,” the boy said.