A Mischief in the Snow - By Margaret Miles Page 0,11

of her muff, then quickly attached her second skate. With this accomplished, she sank her bare hands into the circle of spotted fur, and set off on the long journey home.

Chapter 4

ONE OF THE most worthless things I've ever read,” Richard Longfellow declared, holding the floor in his candlelit study. “Claptrap, written to gain the applause of idiots,” he went on, clarifying his position. With a wry smile he raised high the volume in his hand, then gave it to Mrs. Willett for her own evaluation.

Moments earlier Charlotte had taken off her cloak. Now she sat in an armchair and began to examine The Castle of Otranto, a lovely book whose title was pressed in gold onto an ochre calf-skin cover.

“If that is true, then I wonder why you bought it,” she answered.

“Bought it? Hah! The thing was sent to me from London, by an acquaintance whose character I've begun to reconsider. I suppose he may have hoped to gain some satisfaction by passing it on as an annoyance.”

In a few healthy strides, Longfellow crossed over a Turkey carpet to examine the portrait John Copley had painted not long before; this showed his sister Diana during happier days.

“What can be so wrong with it, I wonder?” Charlotte asked herself softly.

“What is right, you may as well ask,” he replied as he gazed, his features set. “Mr. Walpole, it seems, has lost what little sense he once enjoyed. Unless he seeks to influence others of doubtful mental abilities. Possibly, to extend his own political influence?…” he mused.

“I'm afraid that I don't see—”

“Hmm?”

“Which Walpole is it?”

“Certainly not the former prime minister, who's been dead for twenty years, Carlotta.” Her neighbor turned back, his handsome features softening in a tolerant smile. “But since you sensibly refuse to follow the latest fashions, allow me to explain. The novel you hold was written by Horace, the son—a Parliamentary representative of the Whig party. Their claim to him proves how little that collection of traders and adventurers has left to recommend it—though lately they've managed to outwit the old Tories, that stubborn horde of country squires, who it seems have become impotent as a working body.”

“Oh.”

“Well. At any rate, Society knows Walpole as a scribbler, and something of a fop. An elder brother has inherited the old earl's title. But here's a detail you'll find interesting. Horace is a friend of a favorite of yours, the poet Thomas Gray. It was Walpole who first arranged to have his works published.”

“That, at least, shows some wisdom,” Charlotte answered, looking across the room to see if Diana might agree. Young Mrs. Montagu, wrapped in a cashmere shawl, reclined on an upholstered couch. For many minutes, she'd been staring into the starry night through a cleft in a pair of curtains—not unlike another woman she'd encountered that day, Charlotte thought uneasily.

“They were at Eton together,” Richard continued, “where, incidentally, Walpole was a friend to a pair of Montagus. Edmund told me their early alliance then deteriorated into a feud.”

“A feud, between Edmund and Mr. Walpole?” Charlotte immediately suspected the trouble had something to do with the captain's quiet work for the Crown, for whom he gathered information, one way or another. That, she knew, would be unlikely to please anyone with Whiggish sentiments in London or in Boston—or even in Brace-bridge. Such men resented the King's increasing power over Parliament at their party's expense—especially while he gave his particular friends opportunities to enrich themselves. Little of this, she thought, had much to do with common people on either side of the ocean. But men would take a stand, though it appeared to do little good.

“No, no—” Longfellow corrected her shortly, “two other Montagus. The captain was well removed from the fireworks, since he belongs to a different branch of the family. But it was for his sake that I read this idiot tale of Walpole's to its conclusion, thinking that one day, as new brothers, Edmund and I might discuss it.”

“The feud,” she returned, marginally interested as she read a few lines. “What was it about?”

“Well—it appears that Lady Mary Wortley Montagu offended quite a few gentlemen in her time, including Walpole, with her literary prowess. And, I would imagine, the frequent tartness of her observations. Walpole once visited her abroad, then claimed she had become a slattern, or worse. Malicious gossip, no doubt, something she herself was known to enjoy. But it does seem the lady was rather reckless in allowing herself to be hoodwinked and swindled by