Léonie was enchanted by Avon Court, and demanded to know its history. She walked with Justin in the grounds, and learned how Hugo Alastair, coming with the Conqueror, settled there, and built himself a fair dwelling, which was destroyed in the troublous times of King Stephen; how it was built again by Sir Roderick Alastair; how he was given a barony, and prospered, and how the first Earl, under Queen Mary, pulled down the old building and erected the present house. And she learned of the bombardment that partially destroyed the West Wing, when Earl Henry held all for the King against the usurper Cromwell, and was rewarded for it at the Restoration by a dukedom. She saw the sword of the last Duke, the same that he had used in tragic ’15, for King James III, and heard a small part of Justin’s own adventures, ten years ago, for King Charles III. Justin touched but lightly on this period of his life; his work in that attempt, Léonie guessed, had been secret and tortuous, but she learned that the true King was Charles Edward Stuart, and learned to speak of the little war-like man on the throne as Elector George.

Her education at Justin’s hands was a source of interest and amusement to her. Up in the long picture gallery he taught her to dance, with an eagle eye for the smallest fault, or the least hint of awkwardness in her bearing. Madam Field came to play on the spinet for them, and watched with an indulgent smile while they trod each stately measure. She reflected that she had never seen her unapproachable cousin so human, as with this laughing sprite of a girl. They danced the minuet, and the long lines of ancestors gazed down upon them indulgently.

Avon made Léonie practise her curtsy, and made her combine her pretty roguishness with some of the haughtiness that characterized my Lady Fanny. He showed her how to extend her hand for a man to kiss, how to use her fan, and how to place her patches. He would walk with her in the pleasaunce, teaching every rule of deportment until she was word perfect. He insisted that she should cultivate a certain queenliness of bearing. She soon learned, and would rehearse her newest lesson before him, enjoying herself hugely, radiant if she earned a word of praise.

She could already ride, but astride only. She was disgusted with the side-saddle, and for a while rebelled against it. For the space of two days her will held fast against Avon’s, but his frigid politeness disarmed her, and on the third day she came to him with head hanging, and faltered:

“I am sorry, Monseigneur. I—I will ride as you wish.”

So they rode together in the grounds until she had mastered this new art, and then they went out over the countryside, and those who saw the Duke beside this beautiful girl cast knowing glances at each other, and shook their heads wisely, for they had seen other beautiful girls with Avon.

Bit by bit the Court, so long bereft of a mistress, began to wear a more cheerful air. Léonie’s glad young spirit pervaded it; she flung back heavy curtains, and consigned ponderous screens to the lumber room. Windows were opened to let in the wintry sun, and bit by bit the oppressive solemnity of the place disappeared. Léonie would have none of the stern neatness that was wont to reign there. She tumbled prim cushions, pushed chairs out of place, and left books lying on odd tables, caring nothing for Madam Field’s shocked protests. Justin permitted her to do as she pleased; it amused him to watch her gyrations, and he liked to hear her give orders to his expressionless lackeys. Clearly she had the habit of command: unusual she might be, but never did she exhibit any lack of breeding.

Her lessons were soon put to the test. On one occasion he said suddenly:

“We will suppose, Léonie, that I am the Duchess of Queensberry, and that you have just been presented to me. Show me how you would curtsy.”

“But you cannot be a duchess, Monseigneur,” she objected. “That is ridiculous. You don’t look like a duchess! Let us pretend you are the Duke of Queensberry.”

“The Duchess. Show me the curtsy.”

Léonie sank down and down.

“Like this: low, but not so low as to the Queen. This is a very good curtsy I am doing, n’est-ce pas?”

“It is to be hoped you would not talk all the time,” said his Grace. “Spread out your skirts, and do not hold your fan like that. Show me again.”

Léonie obeyed meekly.

“It is very difficult to remember everything,” she complained. “Now let us play at piquet, Monseigneur.”

“Presently. Curtsy now to—Mr. Davenant.”

She swept her skirts right regally, and with head held high extended one small hand. Avon smiled.

“Hugh is like to be amazed,” he remarked. “It’s very well, ma fille. Curtsy now to me.”

At that she sank down with bent head, and raised his hand to her lips.

“No, my child.”

She rose.

“That is the way I do it, Monseigneur. I like it.”

“It is incorrect. Again, and the proper depth. You curtsied then as to the King. I am but an ordinary mortal, remember.”

Léonie searched in her mind for a fitting retort.

“Lawks!” she said vaguely.

His Grace stiffened, but his lips twitched.

“I—beg—your—pardon?”

“I said lawks,” said Léonie demurely.

“I heard you.” His Grace’s voice was cold.

“Rachel said it,” Léonie ventured, peeping up at him. “She is Lady Fanny’s maid, you know. You do not like it?”

“I do not. I should be glad if you would refrain from modelling your conversation on that of Lady Fanny’s maid.”

“Yes, Monseigneur. Please, what does it mean?”

“I have not the slightest idea. It is a vulgarity. There are many sins, ma belle, but only one that is unforgivable. That is vulgarity.”

“I won’t say it again,” promised Léonie. “I will say instead—tiens, what is it?—Tare an’ ouns!”

“I beg you will do no such thing, ma fille. If you must indulge in forceful expressions confine them to ’pon rep, or merely Lud!”

“Lud? Yes, that is a pretty one. I like it. I like Lawks best, though. Monseigneur is not angry?”

“I am never angry,” said Avon.

At other times he fenced with her, and this she enjoyed most of all. She donned shirt and breeches for the pastime, and displayed no little aptitude for the game. She had a quick eye and a supple wrist, and she very soon mastered the rudiments of this manly art. The Duke was one of the first swordsmen of the day, but this in no wise discomposed Léonie. He taught her to fence in the Italian manner, and showed her many subtle passes which he had learned abroad. She experimented with one of them, and since his Grace’s guard, at that moment, was lax, broke through. The button of her foil came to rest below his left shoulder.

“Touché,” said Avon. “That was rather better, infant.”

Léonie danced in her excitement.

“Monseigneur, I have killed you! You are dead! you are dead!”

“You display an unseemly joy,” he remarked. “I had no notion you were so bloodthirsty.”

“But it was so clever of me!” she cried. “Was it not, Monseigneur?”

“Not at all,” he said crushingly. “My guard was weak.”

Her mouth dropped.

“Oh, you let me do it!”

His Grace relented.

“No, you broke through, ma fille.”

Sometimes he talked to her of personalities of the day, explaining who this was, and who that, and how they were related.

“There is March,” he said, “who will be Duke of Queensberry. You have heard me speak of him. There is Hamilton, who is famous for his wife. She was one of the Miss Gunnings—beauties, my dear, who set London by the ears not so many years ago. Maria Gunning married Coventry. If you want wit, there is Mr. Selwyn, who has quite an inimitable way with him. And we must not forget Horry Walpole: he would hate to be forgotten. He lives in Arlington Street, child, and wherever you go you may be sure of meeting him. In Bath I believe Nash still reigns. A parvenu, infant, but a man of some genius. Bath is his kingdom. One day I will take you there. Then we have the Cavendish—Devonshire, my dear; and the Seymours, and my Lord Chesterfield, whom you will know by his wit, and his dark eyebrows. Whom else? There is my Lord of Bath, and the Bentincks, and his Grace of Newcastle, of some fame. If you want the Arts you have the tedious Johnson: a large man, my dear, with a larger head. He is not worth your consideration. He lacks polish. There is Colley Cibber, one of our poets, Mr. Sheridan, who writes plays for us, and Mr. Garrick, who acts them; and a score of others, In painting we have Sir Joshua Reynolds, who shall paint you, perhaps, and a great many others whose names elude me.”

Léonie nodded.

“Monseigneur, you must write their names down for me. Then I shall remember.”

“Bien. We come now to your own country. Of the Blood Royal we have the Prince de Condé, who is now, as I reckon, twenty years of age—ŕ peu prčs. There is the Comte d’Eu, son of the Duc de Maine, one of the bastards, and the Duc de Penthičvre, son of yet another bastard. Let me see. Of the nobility there is M. de Richelieu, the model of true courtesy, and the Duc de Noailles, famed for the battle of Dettingen, which he lost. Then we have the brothers Lorraine-Brionne, and the Prince d’Armagnac. My memory fails me. Ah yes, there is M. de Belle-Isle, who is the grandson of the great Fouquet. He is an old man now. Tiens, almost I had forgot the estimable Chavignard—Comte de Chavigny, child—a friend of mine. I might go on for ever, but I will not.”

“And there is Madame de Pompadour, is there not, Monseigneur?”

“I spoke of the nobility, ma fille,” said his Grace gently. “We do not count the cocotte amongst them. La Pompadour is a beauty of no birth, and wit—a little. My ward will not trouble her head with any such.”

“No, Monseigneur,” said Léonie abashed. “Please tell me some more.”

“You are insatiable. Well, let us essay. D’Anvau you have seen. A little man, with a love of scandal. De Salmy you have also seen. He is tall and indolent, and hath somewhat of a reputation for sword-play. Lavoulčre comes of old stock, and doubtless has his virtues even though they have escaped my notice. Marchérand has a wife who squints. I need say no more. Château-Mornay will amuse you for half an hour, no longer. Madame de Marguéry’s salons are world-famed. Florimond de Chantourelle is like some insect. Possibly a wasp, since he is always clad in bright colours, and always plagues one.”

“And M. de Saint-Vire.”

“My very dear friend Saint-Vire. Of course. One day, infant, I will tell you all about the so dear Comte. But not to-day. I say only this, my child—you will beware of Saint-Vire. It is understood?”

“Yes, Monseigneur, but why?”

“That also I will tell you one day,” said his Grace calmly.

CHAPTER XIV

The Appearance on the Scene of Lord Rupert Alastair

When Avon left the country Léonie was at first disconsolate. Madam Field was not an exhilarating companion, as her mind ran on illness and death, and the forward ways of the younger generation. Fortunately the weather became warmer, and Léonie was able to escape from the lady into the park, well-knowing that Madam was not fond of any form of exercise.

When she rode out Léonie was supposed to have a groom in attendance, but she very often dispensed with this formality, and explored the countryside alone, revelling in her freedom.

Some seven miles from Avon Court lay Merivale Place, the estate of my Lord Merivale, and his beautiful wife, Jennifer. My lord had grown indolent of late years, and my lady, for two short seasons London’s toast, had no love for town life. Nearly all the year they lived in Hampshire, but sometimes they spent the winter in Bath, and occasionally, my lord being smitten with a longing for the friends of his youth, they journeyed to town. More often my lord went alone on these expeditions, but he was never away for long.

It was not many weeks before Léonie rode out in the direction of the Place. The woods that lay about the old white house lured her, and she rode into them, looking around with great interest.

The trees were sprouting new leaves, and here and there early spring flowers peeped up between the blades of grass. Léonie picked her way through the undergrowth, delighting in the wood’s beauty, until she came to where a stream bubbled and sang over the rounded stones on its bed. Beside this stream, on a fallen tree-trunk, a dark lady was seated, with a baby playing on the rug at her feet. A small boy, in a very muddied coat, was fishing hopefully in the stream.