The Elsingham Portrait by Elizabeth Chater

Elspeth’s face was a constant grim reminder of danger. Kathryn was spending most of her time in her bedroom, coming down only for meals and the long walks she took for exercise. She tried to force herself to remember where and when she was, and tell the child nothing which would harm or bring her into question among her contemporaries, if she should repeat it.

Challenged by Poll’s avid questions, she found herself discussing history and literature, quoting poetry, explaining Greek and Roman myths. Her eager young mind was stretching under the stimulus of Kathryn’s conversation, as the latter was well aware. She loved these quiet hours in the fine bedroom, working and talking with the fine lady. “One o’ them forrin places,” sighed Poll, enchanted, as she continued to sew the dress she was making for her mistress. Neither of them are in this country at all. “It was called Radcliffe-and then I went to Columbia. “But ma’am,” Poll had said, “I didn’t know them great places ever let a female in? Where was it you went?” Kathryn was the only woman she had ever heard of who had had that distinction. Poll, wistfully hungry for knowledge, insatiably curious, had soon discovered that the lady she served had been to a college. That dour and formidable woman went about her duties with a face of stone, discouraging conversation. Poll very quickly learned, though, not to try to share her enthusiasm with Elspeth Cameron.

She was convinced that Mistress Radcliffe was the most beautiful, kindest, cleverest woman she had ever met. Young Polly Bradley, introduced into the household at Bennet Farm as abigail, sleeping on a truckle bed in one corner of Kathryn’s room, soon succumbed to a serious case of hero-worship.

The Elsingham Portrait by Elizabeth Chater