Dorincourt didn’t like me, and cared scarcely more for my parents, watching us all as if to make sure we said nothing to hurt St John any more than he’d already been. However, Mother had weathered numerous London seasons, and a little masculine hostility didn’t faze her. She steered the conversation toward Pamela and her exploits as a child, to her grandson’s rapt delight.
“Mama really brought her pony into the chapel?”
“Indeed she did.”
He clapped his hands. “Of course! If the ass and the ox were in the stable at Jesus’s birth, why should the pony be any less welcome?”
We—Mother, Father, and I—exchanged startled looks. Those had been Pamela’s precise words. Mother looked away, Father’s mouth twisted, and I…I was annoyed with myself for having been so blasé about the circumstances surr
