Sedition by Katharine Grant Read Free Book Online Page B

in the carriage and their father will want to get to the City afterward, and although they could walk—”
    “Walk!” Marianne was outraged.
    “No, of course not. Oh dear. I wish we lived here, Grace. It’s so nice in this square. When we moved to Stratton Street it was with the best intentions and now we’re surrounded by Jews. Jews! Think of it! Better to have Catholics.” Mrs. Frogmorton frowned. “Or perhaps not,” said Mrs. Drigg hastily. “I never quite know. What do Catholics actually do in their houses, I wonder. What view do they take on winter drapes, for example? Not that winter drapes are important. Though of course they are. Too early, yes, too early.” She subsided.
    Mrs. Frogmorton and Harriet exchanged a familiar look. “I think,” said Mrs. Frogmorton before Mrs. Drigg could start again, “that Stratton Street is hardly the end of Christendom. Still, if Marianne’s so keen, I’m sure nobody minds if she has the first lesson.”
    “I don’t want to go after her,” said Everina. She feared any comparison with Marianne’s self-professed musical superiority. “It will hardly wear out the carriage to make the journey twice.”
    Mrs. Frogmorton grew impatient. “As you wish. This is the order: Marianne, Harriet, Georgiana, Everina, Alathea. Is that agreeable to everybody?”
    They all nodded.
    “Good. We’ll leave it to Monsieur to suggest the number of lessons in a week. What about clothes? Do you think pianoforte playing requires a new type of garment, Elizabeth?” Silence. “Yes, I thought you might,” said Mrs. Frogmorton, “though I’m not sure you’re right.”
    This was how conversations with Mrs. Brass were always conducted. Mrs. Frogmorton and Mrs. Drigg had long agreed between themselves that since Elizabeth seemed incapable of answering for herself, they would answer for her. It was a pact meant kindly and had become one of the bonds uniting the three mothers, bonds that were born of their husbands’ close connections and grew in strength when Grace Frogmorton, disregarding the danger, billowed into Stratton Street when Everina Drigg had the pox, kissed Mrs. Drigg, and held Everina’s hand; when Elizabeth Brass sent a note, smudged, unsigned, and saying only “weeping,” to Grace Frogmorton after that first stillbirth; when Grace Frogmorton sent a tiny lace gown for Marianne Drigg when her own little girl (the second before Harriet) had, once again, needed only a shroud; when Elizabeth Brass turned up at Stratton Street, a weal across her face and her eyes glazed, and Agnes Drigg offered unquestioning shelter. Compared to the deep bonds of birth bed, marriage bed, and deathbed, the mothers’ daily mutual irritations were only a scab. That all three could remember each child the others had lost, however brief its flicker of life, was indissoluble glue. When particular anniversaries came around, something, perhaps a little cake, perhaps a posy, would arrive. Every year, each husband asked what for. The mothers felt wounded by their husbands on those days. Those wounds were bonding too.
    “Tea midlesson?” queried Mrs. Drigg. “How big a fire should be made? Is an hour’s tuition too long? Can the girls practice on their harpsichords?”
    Mrs. Frogmorton began to answer. Mrs. Drigg begged to disagree, or agree, or both.
    Alathea raised her voice. “What are we to play?”
    Cut off midstream, Mrs. Drigg thought, “Why does Alathea always sound so knowing? Why can’t she chat and giggle like the others?”
    “I expect Monsieur Belladroit will decide,” Mrs. Frogmorton said, thinking the same as Mrs. Drigg.
    “Let’s ask him.” Alathea unfolded herself.
    “Sit!” Mrs. Frogmorton felt proprietorial. This was her house and Monsieur Belladroit had, for the day, been hers. She would introduce him. “Are we ready?” she asked. They nodded. Mrs. Frogmorton rang the bell.
    Nobody heard his footsteps but Monsieur was among them at once, in gray breeches, dark