Then, unless I had to be at the hospital, we sat together at our
embroidery--Cecile, Annora, and I--while the Abbe read to us. It was
very hard to poor Nan to sit still, work, and listen. She had been
used to such an active unsettled life during the war, and had been
put to so many shifts, having at times for months together to do
servant's work, that she knew not how to be quiet. Embroidery seemed
to her useless, when she had cooked and washed, and made broths, and
scraped lint for the wounded, and she could not care for the history
of the Romans, even when Eustace had given her his word they were not
Roman Catholics.
She used to say she had the cramp, or that her foot was asleep, and
rush off to play with the children, or to see if my mother wanted
her. My mother did not care for the reading, but she did want Nan to
learn to sit in her chair and embroider, like a demoiselle bien
elevee, instead of a wild maiden of the civil wars. However, my
mother spent most of her day in waiting on the Queen of England, who
was very fond of her, and liked to have her at her levee, so that we
really saw very little of her.
My brother, when not needed by his Queen, nor in consultation with
the cavaliers, or with his lawyers, would often join in our morning's
employment. He was not strong, and he liked to recline in a lager
chair that I kept ready for him, and listen while the Abbe read, or
sometimes discuss with him questions that arose in the reading, and
this was a great relief to Nan, who seldom declared that her feet
tingled when he was there.
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