Postscriptum

 40

Postscriptum

    Eighteen months had passed since that decisive New Year’s Eve ball at Daynesford Place, and many changes had come to the district where the Ditter and its tributary streams flowed. Happy changes, some would have said.

    Mrs Urqhart, however, was not entirely of that opinion.

    “You can leave that!” she said sharply as Matthew Adams’s hand hovered over the small flowering shrub. He looked at her uncertainly.

    “A clippin’ from that won’t never travel, and well I knows it! Our garden at The Towers were full of ’em, and many and many a clipping—aye, and rooted, too, you need not give me that look, Matt Adams—did my Pa send out to us in India, and it weren’t never no use, for all that would arrive was sticks!”

    Eric Charleson looked uneasily at his head gardener but the man’s face was expressionless. “Er, well, yes, leave that, then, Adams,” he said weakly. “Um—well, I dare say we could do the roses: Mamma’s note says...”

    “Roses! At this time o’ year! Yes, if you wants to kill ’em stone dead afore they hits Calais!” said Mrs Urqhart awfully.

    The two men were silent, eying each other uneasily.

    Sighing, she conceded: “You had best get on with it. Though don’t say as I didn’t warn you, mind! Dead by the time they hits Calais! The lot of ’em!”

    She stalked off into the house.

    Immeasurably relieved by this mercy, Eric and Adams got on with it.

    In the house young Mrs Grey was anxiously sorting through her mamma’s drawers and comparing their contents with the list in her hand. “I don’t at all see,” she said, turning a flushed face to Mrs Urqhart, “why Mamma has required me most particularly to look out her flannel petticoats. Surely they have flannel in Paris?”

    “Don’t ask me, me dear. The whole thing is a mystery to me.”

    Muzzie bit her lip and looked at her anxiously.

    “There, me lovey! Don’t mind me, I is tired and fractious-like! But you should not be doing all this bending and so forth, in your condition, and on a warm day, too!”

    Muzzie laughed a little, and blushed a lot, and said: “Oh, I am very well, and Doctor says that mild exercise will benefit me, and Mother Grey recommends that one should try to be as active as possible at such times.”

    Muzzie had not had that season in London with Aunt Faith after all. Major Grey had turned very pale upon receiving Sir Edward’s kind but very explicit letter, the more so as he scarcely knew the man, and after screwing up the letter furiously without being aware of what he was doing, and a lot of pacing up and down, had consulted with his papa. Mr Grey, a kindly man, had hesitated and then said that there had been no formal engagement: if dear Charles wished to, it would scarcely be improper to drop the connexion.

    To say truth, Major Grey until that instant had not been very sure of what he wanted, but he suddenly found his mind made up, and said grimly that he was sorry to insist, Papa, but Muzzie must come to them immediately, and he would marry her as soon as Papa and Mamma thought proper. He would write to her mother, and then he would ride over himself, and he and Eric could escort her together. So Muzzie had been fetched well before the appointed date, and, though bewildered that everyone was being horrid to her mamma, and very upset that Mrs Stalling had ordered Linny not to speak, she was very happy to be with her Major at last. After a further exchange of letters it had all been settled—Major Grey incidentally finding the time actually to propose and be accepted—and Muzzie and her Major had been married very quietly in the village church near the Greys’ home that May.

    But Muzzie had not started a baby for nearly a whole year and had been very worried over it. Mother Grey, however, had only laughed and said things must take their course, and lo! She was right!

    Mrs Urqhart inspected what Muzzie had laid out. “Rag-bag,” she pronounced.

    “Yes. Well, that just leaves the heavier items.”

    She looked at Muzzie’s list again, sniffing. “Mm. Well, I don’t wish to say anythin’ against your ma, Muzzie, me dear, and for certain sure she has had her turn of bad luck, but if you ask me, more ’n half what she has writ here is rightfully Eric’s!”

    “Um—well, shall we go downstairs and—and check?”

    They went downstairs and checked. Mrs Urqhart conceded the gold clock on the mantel in the drawing-room might just possibly have been a present to her Ladyship, and she granted the Dresden figurine of a dancing couple, she remembered the day Ned had brought it down, and if Muzzie said the other china figure on the mantel had come to Mamma from Grandmamma, then she supposed she believed her. But all them others what Muzzie remembered having been in the house always could stay where they was.

    Muzzie then produced the case of miniatures.

    “Me love, most of these must stay,” she said firmly, sorting out the ones of Muzzie herself, her mamma, and her maternal grandmother.

    “Oh, but she will not have a picture of Eric!”

    “Lovey, they is not fixed in Paris for life, you know: he ain’t give up the house in Green Street.”

    Muzzie sighed. “No. Mamma wrote in her last letter how vastly she prefers the Parisian life, however.”

    In Mrs Urqhart’s opinion the creature would prefer anything at all that entailed Ned Jubb spoiling her rotten, as he obviously was doing! Letting her buy carriages and furs and jewels to her heart’s content, and taking her to the opera or any blamed place she had a fancy for. Not to mention taking her to Italy this summer! –And that reminded her, who would look after them plants and things if her Ladyship was gaddin’ off to Italy? Muzzie replied meekly that Mamma and Papa Ned had an excellent head gardener in Paris, his name was Jeannot, was that not sweet, you would think it were a girl’s name!

    From all of which it might be seen, not only that Muzzie’s French had not progressed much beyond the menu-writing stage, but also that Ned Jubb had in the end proposed lawful matrimony to Evangeline Charleson. And, oddly enough, been accepted. Though he had not done it until his daughter had had her promised Season with him in the town house and until, indeed, they had had a year together; and also not until he had been quite sure that Evangeline was minding her P’s and Q’s and helping Eric get the estate in order, and incidentally had quite given up hope of snaring the nabob.

    Evangeline, once she was over the shock of being proposed to, had determined on a huge wedding in Ditterminster Cathedral, the main purpose of which was apparently to spite Mr and Mrs Stalling and Mrs Purdue. Ned allowed her the cathedral, but a very quiet ceremony. It had featured only themselves, the bride’s son to give the bride away, the bride’s daughter as matron of honour, Timothy Urqhart as best man, and as invited guests Charles Grey, the groom’s daughter and her fiancé, and the groom’s dear old friend Betsy Urqhart. It being a winter wedding, Evangeline had been glorious in deep cream velvet, with three flounces at the hem, swagging and draping above that, and the latest sleeves. Plus the magnificent sables Ned had given her as the groom’s gift to the bride and the equally magnificent pearl set he had given her as her engagement present.

    Ned had let her get it away with it, after all a woman had her pride, but privately he decided that he would supervise her clothes very much from now on: for she could appear such a lady, dressed appropriately. He was now not only spoiling her rotten as was his old friend’s claim, at least in material things, but also keeping her very firmly in line in other matters. Such as small prevarications, the real total of her dress bills, her manner to her servants, catty remarks about other less fortunate ladies’ faces, dress, husbands—and most certainly her manner to other gentlemen. Evangeline, to say truth, did not much mind this sternness. It was so wonderful to have a man to rely on! And Edward was so masterful! And such a good lover. And was not shocked or surprized by anything that she herself might desire in the intimacy of their bedchamber. –That he was capable, of shocking her she had not yet discovered. Ned Jubb knew how to pace himself in most things.

    Ned was almost as happy as she, for he had always liked a feminine woman, and Evangeline was as eager in bed as he had always thought she would be, and was most certainly a woman who paid for good dressing and whom he was proud to be seen with at l’Opéra or the Comédie française or the innumerable parties to which his many friends invited them. He had written to assure Mrs Urqhart of all this, but she was not to be consoled. Ned had throwed himself away. And there were some women what always fell on their feet! Aye, you could say, like cats!

    Willow Court was not, of course, the only house in the district where flowed the Ditter to have witnessed changes during those eighteen months since the Marquis’s grand ball. Quite apart from the huge upheaval of Mrs Maddern’s settling into the Ainsley Manor dower house and the exciting advent of the new bride at the Manor itself, certain other changes, minor in the overall scheme of things, perhaps, but significant to those directly involved, had taken place in those two households. For one thing, young Melia Adams had volunteered to go and be Miss Hildy’s cook—though, true, at that point she and the Major were not yet wed. Neither Berthe nor the new Mrs Ainsley believed for one moment she was capable of filling the rôle, and Mrs Maddern had almost had hysterics on the spot. However, Hildy had accepted the offer unreservedly. A case, as Christabel Ainsley had not been able to refrain from remarking, of the one-eyed man leading the blind.

    Then, Bateson, to everyone’s astonishment, had volunteered herself to be Hildy’s parlourmaid. She had transferred herself with apparent equanimity to the Ainsley Manor dower house with Mrs Maddern, the furniture, and Mrs Spofford, but Mrs Maddern, with the kindliest of intentions, had made the mistake of installing a capable under-housemaid. It was true that Bateson was getting on in years and on warm afternoons had been known to nod off in her rocking-chair by the stove, but that did not mean she needed to be told her ways were old-fashioned by a niffy-naffy young slip of a thing half her age what had never even worked in a gentleman’s residence afore! Clutterbuck (an unfortunate name but Mrs Maddern could not bring herself to address her as “Jane”, her perfectly acceptable Christian name)—Clutterbuck had worked for a most respectable wealthy merchant in Ditterminster, but it was true he was not a gentleman. And she was by far too well-mannered to protest at this slur on her capabilities and, indeed, by far too well-mannered to do anything but defer to Miss Bateson—to her face. However, behind Bateson’s back she would quietly go her own way—not slyly, be it said, but only with the very best of intentions. Doing things such as airing the parlour by opening its windows even if it were a damp day, and lighting a fire therein if the weather were cold even if had passed the first of May, and so forth. So Bateson had not settled well in the new house. Mrs Ainsley had privily offered to take her, but Mrs Maddern had vetoed that, for dear Christa had her own household of servants, and she knew that Bateson would not care for working under a butler. They had been at their wits’ ends by the date in early August when Major Kernohan and Hildy had announced their engagement. Not that it had not long been already an understood thing, but the Major was a man who would do things correctly or not at all. And the house was only just habitable. With one of the new stoves installed—Mrs Maddern was not at all sure it would answer. And one of the new water-closets, which was certainly sensible.

    Bateson had not immediately volunteered, for she was a sensible and prudent woman. She had thought it over long and hard, and it must be admitted that Hildy’s acceptance of Melia’s kind offer had been a deciding factor. “For,” she had said to Mrs Maddern, “I makes no doubt that between the pair of ’em they’ll have the poor gentleman half-starved, Mrs Maddern, ma’am. And I dunno how it is, only it is a house as I have took a fancy to. If it ain’t to disoblige, ma’am.”

    Mrs Maddern had nigh fainted with the relief. The more so as she had had nightmarish visions of the sort of shambles which would result from Hildy’s and Melia’s managing the Major’s house together.

    So Bateson had forthwith removed herself and Mrs Spofford, who had not settled well, either. Not even waiting for the marriage, which was planned for late May of the following year. By which time the kitchen garden would be in full production and the orchard would be starting to look almost respectable. And if the waiting period had been a slow agony to the correct Major Kernohan, no-one knew it but himself.

    And while on the one hand Bateson was now happily sorting out Hildy and Melia, on the other hand Mrs Spofford had very speedily sorted out Diablo. He had become most humble and obedient. Though it was to be feared that, as the colours would soon reveal, that had not stopped him fathering the litter which was now on the way.

    Fortunately Dollery thought Miss Bateson was wonderful. And although on the whole Bateson could not be doing with men, she tolerated him well enough. He was a clean and hard-workin’ critter.

    Bateson and Dollery, therefore, were managing the correct Major Kernohan’s harum-scarum household for him, Bateson, in fact, having become its housekeeper. And Aurry was paying her accordingly. And in spite of the occasional session in the rocking-chair it was just as well, as the Major himself was the first to recognize. For marriage, even after a considerable engagement period and with the best of intentions, had not drastically changed Hildegarde’s character. Of which fact the description of the Major’s first morning of wedded bliss will perhaps suffice as illustration.

    The two had not wished for a honeymoon, he being as eager to have Hildy in his house as she was to be in it and, although Uncle Francis was all that was generous, there being very little money to spare. So they had gone straight home after a quiet ceremony in the Dittersford village church with only their immediate families, Mrs Urqhart, and the Marquis and Marchioness of Rockingham present. Very understandably, the Major had woken in his four-poster oak bed rather later the next morning than was his custom. He had smiled, with his eyes still closed, feeling a warm pressure against his calves, and had turned over drowsily, still with his eyes closed, in the direction of the warmth, nuzzling his face into the warm, silky tangle on the pillow next his...

    “By God!” he spluttered, galvanized bolt upright. “What the— Ugh!”

    The place next to his in the bed was empty, and he had kissed not his wife’s auburn curls but the silky black fur of Master Diablo. Who forthwith opened a yellow eye and gave him a glare. And the warm pressure against his legs was not his wife’s feet but the tabby bulk of Mrs Spofford, who was now giving him an offended glare also, for having disturbed—though he not shifted—her substantial person.

    The Major now remembered that at a certain point during the preceding evening he had staggered groggily out of bed, as the scratching against the door and the wailings therefrom had become unbearable, and let the two monsters in. Apparently they were accustomed to sleep upon Hildy’s bed. Or someone’s bed, they did not truly care whose, she had explained through a paroxysm of giggles, so long as it was a warm body! Only if Aurry hated it, perhaps he would prefer to sleep in the dressing-room? He had been considerably affronted by the suggestion and had proceeded to demonstrate why. Very much to Hildy’s surprise, for she had thought it only happened once in the twenty-four hours.

    The presence of the two furry brutes did not explain the absence of his wife, however. The Major ran his good hand through his hair, and finally, as she did not reappear and her side of the bed was cold, got out of bed, assumed his dressing-gown, and went to look for her.

    A series of muffled clonking noises led him to the kitchen. Melia in her huge cap and voluminous apron, clutching a wooden spoon, and looking very flushed and excited, and Hildy in nothing but her nightgown and a shawl, clutching a broom, and also looking very flushed and excited, were apparently attacking his recently repainted skirting boards. There was no sign of Bateson.

    “What the Devil—?” he said faintly.

    His wife raised a flushed and smiling face. “Oh, hullo, Aurry!”

    The Major now perceived that the sleeves of the nightgown were rolled to above the elbow and that her forearms were liberally smeared with flour. So also were Melia’s.

    “What are you up to?” he said limply.

    “Melia thought you would like fresh rolls for your breakfast, and she was not absolutely sure the dough had riz enough, so she just crept upstairs to ask me. –Oh, dear, we didn’t wake you, did we?”

     “Er—no.” The dough must have “riz” sufficiently, for he now realised that he could smell baking bread. “Why were you attacking the skirting boards?”

    “It were a rat, Major, sir!” gasped his cook.

    “Yes, a huge one, was it not, Melia? It came from behind the stove just when we had put the rolls in the oven, it must have been lurking in the warm.”—Melia nodded agreement.—“And ran across the floor and went behind the dresser, just there.”—She pointed to the place where they had beaten his new paint off. The Major winced.—“So we were trying to chase it out, for if it runs out the far end, it must absolutely head for the door. –Wouldn’t you say so?”

    “Aye, it’ll be out like the Black One afore you can shake a stick, if onct it sees that open door!” agreed Melia. “Only if it don’t, Major, sir, we’ll need a ferret!”

    The Major winced. “You will not introduce a ferret to my kitchen, thank you, Melia. Though it was an ingenious suggestion.”

    Melia looked dubious. “Is ‘a genius’ good?” she hissed to her new mistress, apparently under the impression that her master had gone suddenly deaf.

    “Yes, ingenious means very clever indeed.”—Melia beamed.—“Well, come on!”  said Hildy, brandishing the broom.

    The Major caught her arm. “Darling, I think we could leave the rat to the cats.”

    “Mr Dollery knows a man what’s got a terrier for sale!” offered Melia eagerly.

    “Bill Laffin,” noted the Major heavily. “Aye, so he keeps telling me. But how will Mrs Spofford and Diablo like a terrier round the place?”

    “Well, Hal or Tom usually had dogs,” said Hildy. “And after all, Diablo grew up in the stable yard at the Manor: I think they will both cope with a mere terrier!”

    The Major closed his eyes for a split second, remembering that scene of his first dinner at the Manor. “Er—mm. Possibly. Well, shall we introduce the two brutes to the dresser, before we decide definitely about a terrier? –They are, as perhaps you had not realized,” he said courteously, “snoring their heads off upon our bed as we speak.”

    Hildy choked.

    “Aye, I could run up and get ’em, Major, sir!” volunteered Melia eagerly.

    “Er—no, that will not be necessary, thank you very much, Melia. Mrs Kernohan may bring them down when we come down for breakfast.”—Hildy had jumped. She blushed and smiled. Melia grinned at her.—“You had best stay here and keep an eye on the rolls. And if it is not an impolite question, where is Bateson?”

    “Aurry, do not be cross,” said Hildy timidly, “but we have let her sleep in. She was up at four in the morning yesterday, so Melia tells me, scrubbing and polishing. And then with the excitement of the wedding and—”

    Aurry put his good hand gently on her shoulder. “I am not cross, my dearest. And I am very glad you are both taking care of our good Bateson.”—They both smiled at him in grateful relief and for a moment the correct Major Kernohan felt about an hundred years old and the grandfather to the both of them.—“Hildy, my dear, you had best come upstairs, your feet must be frozen. Where are your slippers?

    “I don’t know: I couldn’t see them, and I didn’t wish to disturb you,” said Hildy cheerfully. “Well, all right, if you think the rat will stay behind there. And it may run out the door by itself. –Melia, can you use the marmalade which Berthe gave us, not the one that Mamma provided, for this morning? Do you like ham for breakfast, Aurry? There is a beautiful ham from Mr Makepeace, we might use it.”

    The Major agreed that he would like ham and propelled her out firmly, realizing that force was the only way to keep her out of the kitchen.

    In the hall he remarked again upon Hildy’s feet and while she was looking nervous, laughed and swept her up in his good arm.

    “Oh!” she gasped.

    “Oh, what, Mrs Kernohan?” he said, grinning.

    Hildy went even pinker than she had already gone and gasped: “Am I not too heavy?”

    “No, or do you think all that energy I expended last night has sapped my strength?”

    Hildy had sort of thought it might have. She went redder than ever, but largely because of the word “energy,” for when she had remarked faintly last night upon how energetic Aurry was he had become most remorseful and after a lot of hugging and kissing and cuddling had whispered in her ear that he would do something different, and entirely nice and not energetic, and she must not be shocked. She had been a little shocked but had most thoroughly enjoyed it. And after quite some time had realized that that must have been what that odd book of Dr Rogers’s had meant, then! The correct Major Kernohan had laughed so much at this revelation that he had near fallen out of his four-poster bed.

    “Um—yes,” she now gulped.

    Laughing, the Major carried her upstairs and, after prudently locking both the bedroom and dressing-room doors, for he had now a very clear idea of the sort of tact to be expected from Melia Adams, demonstrated to her that he had plenty of energy left. And that he also enjoyed doing those other delightful things beforehand, for a change. The rolls had had time to cool nicely when the bridal couple finally appeared in the breakfast parlour.

    Over the breakfast Aurry noted that he supposed, now that Mrs Spofford was in permanent residence, that they could expect Miss Floss, also. At which Hildy gulped, admitting that Floss had brought the topic up again, yes. But she had stressed to her that it must only be for visits. Though Aurry was not to say he had not been warned!

    He agreed he had been warned and evinced no surprize whatsoever when Floss dropped in later that same day in good time for dinner, if—? But to her astonishment her new brother-in-law declared his intention of dining alone with his own wife, and packed her off home.

    That had been a month ago, and only the combined efforts of Mrs Maddern, Mr and Mrs Ainsley, Maria and Marybelle had managed to keep Floss out of the Major’s house as a permanent resident. For Hildy had always said she might one day live with her! That had been when Florabelle only a little girl and surely she knew better now? Yes, it was true that a promise was a... Well—well, later, dear. We should talk about it later. Once they are settled— Florabelle, that will do, of course they are not settled already, they are newlyweds, and if you shout at your mamma like that once again, you may go straight to your room!

    Things had not changed absolutely in the district where flowed the Ditter.

    Mrs Kernohan poured tea carefully. “Ugh!” she said. “Look at this, Melia!”

    Melia peered at the tea. “It do be weakish, like, Miss Hildy—I means Mrs Kernohan!” she gurgled.

    Hildy grinned. “I can’t get used to it, either: I keep looking over my shoulder for his mamma!” They giggled. “Um—no, well, what do you think we did wrong?”

    Mistress and cook looked at each other blankly.

    Finally Hildy said: “I shall consult the Book.”

    Melia watched respectfully while Hildy consulted the Book. The Book was a masterpiece. Mrs Maddern had written out all the good, sensible hints she knew for preventing starvation in a husband. Not to say preventing dyspepsia in a husband, and all sorts of other things. And Mrs Ainsley had quietly added one or two more modern receets. Cousin Sophia had written her own receet for elderflower wine—no, my dear, not elderberry, that is the point!—elderflower wine, which Mr Goodbody had declared to be as like to a nectar of the gods as anyone would encounter upon this earth! (Hildy subsequently writing at the top of the page in question: “N.O.G.”, and the potion forthwith becoming known throughout the Ainsley, Maddern and Kernohan families as “nog.”) Berthe had written in her careful kitchen French the plainest and most useful receets she knew, but kindly added those for Huevos Sucrés and crystallized violets by request. And Amabel had written out the best receet for a mustard plaster and how to turn sheets. None of this meant that Hildy or Melia could instantly cook any better, but these things came with practice. It was to be hoped.

    “Tea,” muttered Hildy. “Oh: here. Did we warm the pot?”

    Melia nodded, she knew to do that, Madam Bert had always made her do it.

    “‘One spoon for each and one for the pot’,” read Hildy. “We did that!”

    The two girls looked in despair at the large china pot, big enough to serve ten generously, which, after the one spoonful for each of them and one for the pot (that made three) they had, carefully following the instructions, filled with hot water.

    The tea-set was a joint wedding present from the Bath household of Colonel Clyffe and his sister (and the ancient uncle and the bulldog), and that of the elderly sisters Clyffe whose housemaid ruled them with the rod of iron. It was so hideous, the eight faces of every item in it being covered with a fine gold network upon which appeared large green and yellow medallions filled with a scrollwork which, if looked at from the right angle, resembled nothing so much as a sneering gargoyle’s face, that it had immediately become Hildy’s favourite, in spite of the fact that that they had also received another, very elegant tea-set which had belonged to General Sir Francis’s late grandmamma. The eight-sided cups were more or less murder to drink from but that fact had not yet struck the new Mrs Kernohan.

    “Shall us ask Miss Bateson?” said Melia cautiously.

    Hildy replied with equal caution: “Was she still nodded off when you looked?”

    Melia confirmed this and Hildy decided they had best not wake her until the company came, then: it was a such a very warm day and after all Bateson was no longer young. Melia nodded fervently: she was far more in awe of Miss Bateson than she had ever been of Madam Bert.

    Today was Hildy’s first formal tea-party, hence the anxiety over the brew. After re-examining the trial run gloomily and determining that it had not darkened, she decided Melia had best dispose of it. Melia nodded, and reminded Miss Hildy she had best change her dress. Hildy looked down at herself, gave a squawk, and flew for the stairs, pausing only to admit that it might be best if Melia let Bateson prepare the tea after all, and to watch her very carefully as she did it. Melia nodded, and Hildy rushed upstairs.

    “Dearest,” said Mrs Ainsley somewhat limply half an hour later, having kissed her sister and settled herself on the sofa and the six-month-old Master Vyvyan Paul Ainsley in his basket beside her, “that is not one of the gowns Amabel chose for you, surely?”

    “Yes, it is,” said Hildy in surprize. “At least, she chose this green silk. Do you think it’s pretty, Christa?”

    Mrs Ainsley nodded numbly.

    “I had it made up by Miss Kitson from Ditterminster.”

    There was a short pause. “I see, dear,” managed Mrs Ainsley limply.

    “Oh, dear, it’s wrong, isn’t it?” said Hildy.

    Mrs Ainsley bit her lip.

    “Miss Kitson said it was very fashionable,” Hildy revealed.

    Swallowing, her sister said as gently as she could: “My love, of course it is very fashionable indeed, with the three flounces at the hem and the—the swagging of the material”—she had to swallow—“above them and across the shoulders. But it—well, it is just that it is a rather heavy style, for a young, slender woman. And what persuaded you to have the black and gold figured silk worked in with the green for the swagging and—and so forth?” she finished limply.

    “She did, of course. And she’s made me a wrap from the remainder of the black and gold silk, with the most beautiful fringing.”

    “I see, dear.”

    “I thought it was very grand, but I might have known I’d be wrong!” Hildy grinned cheerfully.

   There was a short pause.

    “Er—Hildy, dearest, if you would not dislike it, would you perhaps let me take the dress and see what I can do with it?”

    “Well, yes, if you like. I mean, I should be very grateful, of course. But is it worth the trouble?”

    Mrs Ainsley assured her, repressing a shudder, that it was worth the trouble. Such a very delicate shade of green! Hildy thanked her but said she could not take it off immediately as she had nothing else pressed to wear. Christabel just nodded feebly.

    “Baby Vyvvie is awake, might I pick him up, Christa?”

    “Yes, my dear, by all means. –He is the most wakeful child in the afternoons! And yet Gaetana’s two sleep like little lambs, it is really quite infuriating!” she said with a little laugh.

    Hildy picked up Master Vyvyan Paul with due precautions as to supporting his head, though remarking how strong and big he was getting, and addressed him in the series of obligatory squeaks. “Yes,” she agreed, “but then Nurse Cummins says they roar half the night, so see how lucky you are! Mind you, that horrid barracks is huge: I dare swear that no-one but poor Nurse herself is disturbed by them. Though Giles has dubbed them Roarer and Rowdy and says they are fit only to be locked up!”

     Mrs Ainsley laughed but said: “Nonsense, he is devoted to them!”

    “Besotted, more like,” said Hildy, but smiling, and continuing to squeak at her nephew and encourage him to crow in reply.

    Gaetana had had twins, this last February. For the Marquis had not been able to wait beyond the first of May last year to be married: he was damned, he said, if he was going to make a cake of himself at the altar at the age of turned thirty-nine. The invitations to the exceedingly grand wedding in Ditterminster Cathedral—the only choice which would reasonably pacify the ragingly jealous breasts of both Mr Stalling from Dittersford Parish and Mr Brownrigg from Daynesford Parish—had thus been sent out at rather short notice, but surprisingly enough they had had no refusals.

    Gaetana had worn white silk, the style very plain but the stuff completely embroidered in a pattern of twining white roses and leaves, with a heavy white lace mantilla. And a rope of pearls fastened with a large emerald and diamond catch that formed part of the Hammond family jewels. The Dean had been concerned to find out whether she had been baptised into the Church of England but Sir Harry himself had assured him that of course she had. This was true: he had had all of his children baptised at the same time by an Anglican vicar he had found in Amsterdam (the second time around), largely in order to shut Berthe up on the subject of their growing up heathens. And also because, his allegiance being what it had become at that time, he had felt vaguely that you never knew. It must be confessed that Gaetana would in any case have taken her vows without a second thought. And that her groom would also not have given the matter a thought and in fact had not done so.

    The Marquis had been astounded to find himself the father of twins. At turned thirty-nine. It had certainly been pointed out to him that the indications were all in favour of that outcome, and that twins ran in the Marchioness’s family, but nevertheless he had been astounded. And had still not stopped saying proudly, regardless of his company: “Two for the price of one, eh?” Like Marinela’s twins, they were a boy and a girl, but to the relief of every single person in their joint families, they had not the ginger hair. Instead, little Lord Wymmering (Henry John Hugh, for his papa’s grandpapa and deeply gratified step-papa and uncle) and little Lady Anne Maria had both, it was fairly clear now they were four months old, their papa’s dark colouring. Rockingham was still hoping the muddy blue of their eyes might clear to a green-grey like Hildy’s: he rather liked that. Perhaps needless to state, the infatuated Marchioness was hoping that they would both have Giles’s eyes.

    Maria had been immensely thrilled, incidentally, at becoming not only an aunt but a godmother, and if anything had been needed to set the seal on her conversion to the Church of England after the experience of the glorious Hilary Parkinson in his pulpit, not to say more latterly gloriously assisting Mr Stalling at both Christa’s and Amabel’s weddings, that would have done it.

    “Have you ever heard,” Hildy said to her sister: “that a tea-pot has to be worn in?”

    “Worn— Oh, but of course! Cured, my dear!”

    “I thought it must be right, Melia said Bateson had said something of the sort,” said Hildy in a voice of doom.

    Mrs Ainsley managed not to wince, thinking of the afternoon’s refreshment to come. “Mamma recommends letting the cold tea stand in the pot overnight. And then repeat the process, for a week.”

    “That sounds an awful waste of tea. –Never mind, Vyvvie! Never mind, Vyvvie!” said Hildy in a squeaky voice, jigging her nephew a little. “The roses may have it! ’Es, Uncle Aurry’s roses may have it! –Does he not have the brightest look you ever saw, Christa? And I am sure he has Paul’s eyes, see how dark they are become!”

    “Yes, indeed. And his curls. I have always wanted a little boy with black curls; and I must confess, Hildy, dear,” said Mrs Ainsley, smiling but blinking away a tear, “that I feel myself to be very much blessed!”

    “Not always, surely?” said Hildy with a naughty twinkle.

    “Why, yes— Oh! You!” she cried. “Very well, not always. Of recent years.”

    “‘Of recent years’,” said Hildy sepulchrally into Vyvvie’s neck. “I wonder why? Do you wonder why, Vyvvie-kins?”

    Vyvyan Paul gave a crow, and Mrs Ainsley gave a conscious, and very pleased laugh.

    “His curls are adorable,” Hildy then admitted, pushing back his crochet cap, courtesy of his Aunt Amabel, and kissing them. “Who’s a pretty boy, then? Yes, pretty boy! Pretty boy! –I only hope I can produce a boy,” she added glumly.

    “Er—many gentlemen, I believe,” said Mrs Ainsley kindly, “very naturally long for a son. But Mamma assures me they never fail to be delighted at whatever arrives. It makes them feel so clever, you see.”

    Hildy smiled but said: “No, it’s not Aurry. I have a lowering feeling I could never cope with a girl. They are so horridly feminine.”

    Mrs Ainsley had to bite her lip. “But dearest, you were a girl.”

    “So I was,” said Hildy, looking very foolish. “Well, that makes me feel a bit more sanguine! On the other hand, could I cope with me?” she added in a hollow voice. “Ugh.”

    “It will be some years before she—or he, of course!—reaches the stage of possibly being a problem. And by that time you will have experience to aid you, dearest.”

    “Yes. Well, Aurry will make an excellent parent, I am sure. Which is just as well. You don’t need to remind me of it, Christa, I know I don’t deserve him and will never live up to him if I live to be an hundred. Only I mean to try. It is just that sometimes, on a day-to-day basis, I—um—don’t seem to manage it. Well, take this awful gown, for instance.”

    “My love, you did your best, that is all that anyone could possibly require.”

    “No, I didn’t, Christa, I did the easiest thing. I went into Ditterminster and laid the material in front of Miss Kitson and told her to get on with it.”

    “Hildy!”

    “Well, I did. I put it more politely, of course. When what I should have done,” she said, making a face, “was note what the young matrons of the neighbourhood were wearing for afternoon wear, and consult with you, and write to Amabel.”

    In view of the outcome, Mrs Ainsley could not disagree. “Er, well...”

    “I didn’t do my best, you see. And Aurry always does his best. Sometimes it’s very lowering. Though he doesn’t reproach me: he never reproaches me. Sometimes, that is the most lowering of all.” She sighed, and kissed the baby’s curls again.

    “My love, you are young yet. And it is very early days to feel cast down,” said Christabel, wishing fervently she had admired the awful dress and said how smart Hildy looked: never mind if it would have been a terrible prevarication, sometimes one should put another person’s feelings first, when ignoring the truth could do no harm!

    “Yes. Only it’s symptomatic,” said Hildy deeply. “And the tea’s gone wrong,” she admitted.

    “I see!” said Christabel, caught off-guard.

    Hildy made a face. “We did everything right: we followed the Book exactly, and it still came out almost colourless! And so we had to agree to leave it to Bateson after all, and it is so lowering, we had determined to do everything ourselves, so that Bateson would have to do nothing but bring in the tray!”

    “I would not worry, my love, Bateson prides herself on her tea. She very often would make it for Mamma.”

    “Yes. –I had a dream about the old house the other night, Christa. I dreamt I was still there and that it was my home: do you think that was very dreadful?”

    “No, I think it was quite natural: it was your home for many years. And I must admit that I had the most terrifying dream, I think it was two nights since, in which the house was on fire—the old house, Hildy!” she said, laughing, “and I screamed to everybody to get out, and all the family ran out onto the lawn, and I counted them, and they were all there, even to Mrs Spofford. And then I woke up and realized to my absolute horror that though I had included Paul in the family, Baby Vyvvie was not in the dream at ail! There! What do you think of that for a dreadful, unnatural mother?”

    Hildy had to laugh but she said: “I am very glad to hear that that makes two unnatural young women, then! –But that is not apocryphal, is it?”

    “No!” she said indignantly. “You may ask Paul! I kicked him dreadfully in my haste to escape the fire, and he has a horrid bruise on his leg!”

    Hildy laughed a lot this time, but then said: “So he does share your bed?”

    Christabel’s jaw dropped. “He is my husband, dear one.”

    “Not that, imbecile! I mean you normally sleep in the same bed, he does not sleep in the dressing-room!”

    “Er—well, no,” she said, going very pink: “he maintains that is unnatural.”

    “Good. So does Aurry,” she said, sighing. “Only, that cat Mrs Purdue came to call last week and—and somehow she made me take her for a tour of the house and of course the bed in the dressing-room is stripped, it has not even a coverlet on it, and—well, she passed a remark about gentlefolk!” she gulped.

    Christabel said grimly: “The woman shall not set foot over the Manor threshold if I live to be an hundred!”

    “Well, good,” said Hildy, smiling weakly. “’Es, oo is! ’Es, oo is!” she added to Vyvvie, who had made a happy gurgling noise. “I wish I could say the same. Only I haven’t got a Deering to keep her out. And I’m afraid she’s a match for Bateson.”

    “Never mind, possibly when she realises she is not welcome under my roof any more than she is under Gaetana’s or Mamma’s, she will take the hint,” she said grimly.

    Hildy sighed. “I can only hope so. Oh, Mrs Knowles also called, and she brought me a whole load of damson jelly, was not that kind? And three little pots of her special strawberry conserve: the most delicious thing! And said she wished she had a daughter of her own. I admit I contemplated the frightfulness of being Miss Knowles and could only agree with her by the exercise of the most rank hypocrisy! And only guess! She thinks she has found a wife for Mr Prim!”

    “Never!” said Mrs Ainsley avidly.

    Hildy nodded. “A most respectable young woman, a relative of the Bishop’s chaplain.”

    Mrs Ainsley’s jaw sagged. “Hildegarde Madd— Kernohan, if you dare to sit there and tell me that Mrs Knowles considers Lady V. a suitable mate for Prim—”

    “No!” she shrieked. “Oh, Christa, what a thought! I had not even envisaged—! Oh, dear! No, it is some sort of a depressed cousin of the chaplain’s own, a young woman of something like three and thirty, of a serious turn of mind. Even though it is not Prim who is the brother in Holy Orders, I could not help thinking of Charlotte—”

    “—Lucas! Exactly!”

    The sisters stared at each other, wide-eyed.

    Finally Christabel said with an effort: “So she honoured you with some of the strawberry conserve! My love, she must like you!”

    “I can’t imagine why. Perhaps it’s just that she is glad to have a neighbour within easy driving distance: Holmden House is rather isolated.”

    Christabel smiled a little and said: “That would explain the damson jelly, possibly, but not the strawberry conserve!”

    “No. Well, I shall offer her one of Mrs Spofford’s next litter.” Hildy looked at the mantel, whereon reposed her famous pineapple clock. “They will be here soon: good. All this talk of preserves has made me hungry. I told Melia to serve up the strawberry conserve with those special little cakes which Mamma taught her to make, by the by.”

    “Splendid!” said Christabel , laughing. “But I am not too early, am I, dearest?”

    “No, I asked you for earlier than the others,” said Hildy in a vague voice, pointing her chin at the baby, “—ah-boo! That’s a clever boy!—so as I could have a nice play with Vyvvie. –Boo! Clever Vyvvie!” she said, as he grabbed at her chin.

    Mrs Maddern had wept with relief on perceiving Hildy struck all of a heap by her new nephew. For not so very long since, at a family tea-party where the entire topic of conversation had been the forthcoming events happily expected by Mrs Ainsley, Mrs O’Flynn and the Marchioness of Rockingham, Hildy had been heard to say that although she supposed babies were all right, she preferred kittens, herself. Oh, dear! And she had said it in front of her fiancé, how terrible for the poor man! It must be admitted that Aurry also, though he had not thought it terrible that Hildy should prefer kittens to other persons’ babies, had experienced a certain relief at her immediate enslavement by Master Vyvvie.

    Christabel smiled, and nodded at her sister. Though privately she was thinking that possibly Hildy had also asked her early in order casually to bring up such subjects as gentlefolk’s sleeping arrangements, and mentally thanking Providence for ordaining that Hildy should live within such easy distance of herself. Rather than going off on her marriage somewhere to the depths of the country where not only might she have had no-one sensible to talk to, she might have had no-one sympathetic. The which in Hildy’s case, Christabel was in no doubt, would have been a much worse fate: for if Hildy could not feel comfortable with the person, she would not speak at all.

    Very soon the parlour door opened, and Bateson announced with a bob: “Mrs Dorian Kernohan, Mrs Kernohan, ma’am,” and Johanna came in, smiling.

   The ladies exchanged greetings and Jo had to admire Master Vyvyan, now back in his basket, though still very wakeful. Hildy then unaffectedly admired Mrs Dorian’s appearance, in a muslin gown of an unusual dark red shade worked with tiny gold motifs, and a matching loose scarf draped over her arms. –Mrs Ainsley meanwhile torn between a similar admiration of the gown, and a dread that Jo would find it necessary to say something in return about Hildy’s own gown.

    Johanna duly expressed her thanks, explaining the stuff was one of the lengths of saree material which her father had had laid by for her, and before anything else could be said, Hildy related her struggles with the tea and assured her that this afternoon’s brew would be Bateson’s.

    Christabel at this did not know whether to be sorry or relieved, for was Hildy’s ineptitude as a householder a better or worse topic than her failure to take due care over her dress? And did Hildy herself feel it more, or less? “Hildy,” she said desperately: “Aurry married you because you are you, not because he expected a—a perfect woman! And, indeed, which of us is that?”

    “Absolutely! I have yet to set an edible meal before poor Dorian!” confessed Jo, laughing. “I have no notion of combining dishes, you see! I have been driving poor Cook distracted because I never know what is in season or out, and request her to prepare things such as—as lobsters, or quail, when there are none to be had!”

    Hildy smiled a little and said: “I am sure your cook produces dishes which are in themselves very edible, dear Jo, even if the combinations are unusual. But actually there is a perfect woman, and Christa is it.”

    “That is not so!” gasped Mrs Ainsley, turning very red.

    “And even if it were so,” said Jo cheerfully, “—and I incline to Hildy’s opinion, dear Christa!—need we remind you, it was yourself that Aurry proposed to, Hildy, and not Christa!”

    Hildy was looking more cheerful, they were glad to see. “Well, yes, I suppose one can say he has brought it upon his own head. Fortunately he is very even-tempered and can eat anything. And Melia’s plain cooking usually turns out quite well.”

    “Of course,” said Christabel, smiling at her “And to demonstrate that we are none of us perfect, and that I myself am very much not the perfect woman, I shall relate to you my efforts to reproduce Mrs Knowles’s famous strawberry conserve! And don’t worry, dearest: you will not be rubbing salt in the wound by serving it up this afternoon!” she added with a laugh.

    “Strawberry conserve in the wound,” murmured Hildy. “Well, go on, but I warn you we are not prepared to believe a word of it, are we, Jo?”

    “No, indeed!” agreed Jo, laughing.

    Christabel took a deep breath. “It is all a tale of pride and folly. I had successfully produced some gooseberry jam by following Mamma’s receet most exactly, without Berthe’s help at all, and became puffed up in my own conceit. And nobody had thought to tell me,” she said with a twinkle, “that because of their acidity it is almost impossible to fail with gooseberries! So I embarked on this wretched strawberry conserve, having commanded Higgs to bring in three basketsful. Which completely stripped the strawberry garden!” she admitted, biting her lip. “Berthe did try to warn me, but I would not listen, and gave her the day off—well, ordered her to take the day off,” she admitted, grimacing. “And so I commenced. I had a receet, the one which Mamma had once had off old Cousin Sibylla, but decided that I would not ruin my strawberry conserve with the addition of apples or quinces, let alone the peelings therefrom, which the receet strongly recommended. –Those who know anything at all about preserves, my loves,” she explained with a laugh, “will tell you that was my fatal error! Well, I had started very early in the morning: time went by and eventually poor Paul came to see why there was no midday meal. By then I had ruined a basket of the strawberries, for the wretched stuff would not set after I had put it in the jars, and I had poured it all out and made poor Nellie Adams wash the jars, and boiled it all up again and repeated the process and it still had the consistency of water! So I decided that I had had the fire too low, and stoked it furiously and this time rendered the mixture down until it was brown and toffee-like, and had to throw it all away!”

    “Oh, Christa!” said Hildy, trying not to laugh.

    “You may laugh, my love, and of course it was ridiculous, but I was very cross at the time. And bit poor Paul’s head off. So he found some bread and cheese and the remains of a leg of lamb and slunk out with it.”

    “So what happened next?” asked Hildy avidly.

    “Next I ruined both the other basketfuls of strawberries, getting myself covered in red sticky goo in the process—not to mention poor Nellie, the unfortunate girl even had it in her hair, in spite of her cap—and by the end of the day I was so hot and cross and tired you would not believe! Nurse came in and said Vyvvie was crying to be fed, and I bit her head off, and she slunk out, and then I threw the wooden spoon across the kitchen—and at that point Paul came in and I burst into tears and threw myself at him, sticky as I was, and cried over him!”

    “Help, did it curdle the milk?” asked Hildy in awe. –Mrs Ainsley, in spite of her mother’s representations as to the unladylikeness of such a decision, was feeding Master Vyvyan herself. It was not that the district could not provide a wet-nurse… Very well, my dear, of course it must be your decision, so long as dear Paul— Oh. Very well, then, Christa, dear, but (rallying slightly), we must take care that Mrs Knowles never gets to hear of it, for that Purdue cat would spread it all over the district, and the woman will be sure to pass it on to her!

    “No, so we concluded that was an old wives’ tale!” replied Christabel merrily. “Since then, of course, innumerable people have told me the apples or quinces were the sine qua non of the receet!  So you see, Hildy, dearest, I am very far from perfect, and if I had not a perfect husband, verily believe I would have given up on marriage and housekeeping for good on the spot!”

    “So he was not cross at the loss of his entire strawberry harvest?” said Jo, her face all twinkles, having recovered from Hildy’s outspoken reference to her sister’s unladylike decision.

    “No, he said loved me far more than he did a few silly berries—though he could not vouch for Bunch’s and Bungo’s sentiments in that regard!” she said, laughing again.

    “Well, I still think you are very nearly perfect, Christa,” said Hildy, though smiling very much.

    Mrs Ainsley shook her head at her.

    “I don’t know about you, Hildy, but I have now determined never to attempt preserves of any kind!” Johanna then revealed.

    Hildy made a face. “I shall have to, we need to use everything the garden produces.”

    “Dearest, Bateson is quite competent,” said Mrs Ainsley nervously.

    “Yes, she has already made jars and jars of preserved gooseberries. Every time I look at them I can’t help thinking of Aurry’s story of the grilled mackerel with the gooseberry sauce,” revealed Hildy, grimacing, “and, of course, wondering if the dratted things will not recall it also to him.”

    Johanna knew this story, for Aurry himself had by now told it to his brother’s wife, since it redounded very much to her rather new husband’s credit, and she cried: “Oh, no, dearest! He’s much too sensible to be troubled by something like that!”

    Hildy sighed. “I hope so. I know he appears so, on the surface. But sometimes I cannot help wondering...”

   Mrs Dorian and Mrs Ainsley glanced at each other in dismay and were both at a loss for words. Finally Christabel swallowed and said: “Hildy, of course he is sensible. Why, did he not tell you the story himself?”

    “Yes,” she said, sighing. “Oh, dear, Gaetana’s late,” she murmured, glancing at the clock. “I hope you’re not both dying for your tea?”

    They assured her hastily they were not, and Jo proceeded to make a very amusing story out of Dorian’s chagrin at discovering that it was to be a tea-party for ladies only.

    The sisters smiled, and were not deceived for a moment into thinking Dorian could have nearly approached a sulk: he was, very obviously, living in as near to wedded bliss as was attainable upon this earth. For he and Jo had been married only this last March, after an extended courtship during which Jo had progressed from knowing she liked him to wondering if it was enough, to— Well, in short, a year’s devotion had paid off, and Sir Ned had consented gladly to their engagement the November after Jo’s London Season. And almost as soon as the new Lady Jubb and her husband had returned from their honeymoon, the marriage had taken place.

    It had been a London wedding, and most of the Kernohan tribe had been present for it, the younger ones at least in a state of high excitement; though Tarragona privately was very disappointed that Sir Ned had not, in his rôle as the bride’s father, worn round his neck the emerald big as a hen’s egg on a golden chain which Roland had sworn the nabob possessed. Mr Henry, though not wholly reluctant to see his son marry into a fortune of that sort, had initially been very doubtful about the whole thing—until he met Sir Ned. At which point all his doubts had vanished. The Romantically-minded Mrs Henry continued to have doubts, more especially on the score of That Woman, and could only be thankful that the older bridal pair (a) had not opted for a joint wedding and (b) would apparently be fixed abroad for some time to come. This did not prevent her making plans for ways in which her son might spend his wife’s fortune, of course, and she was very disconcerted indeed to have the amiable Dorian inform her firmly, with a little pleat at the corners of his mouth which reminded her forcibly of his paternal grandmother, that the majority of Jo’s inheritance was to be put in trust for their children, and that neither of them desired either a house in London or a country estate, and would be content with the little house that he and Papa had picked out for them near Aunt Maria’s. His mamma had burst into tears but these had no effect whatsoever on Dorian, except to make the resemblance to old Mrs Kernohan more pronounced. Mr Henry was very pleased with him indeed, and in fact over the last few months had taken to spending not a few of his evenings in the pleasant little house not far from Maria Clyffe’s.

    Hildy had excused herself anxiously to run out to the kitchen twice before at last the sound of a carriage was heard on the gravelled sweep. The parlour door opened, and before poor Bateson could announce anyone a loud and genial male voice said: “No need for all that nonsense, Bateson! Well, I’ve got her here at last, y’see, Hildy!” And the Marquis of Rockingham strode in with a shawled bundle in each arm.

    “You’re not supposed to be here!” cried Hildy unguardedly.

    “No, I know,” he said, stooping to kiss her cheek. “Hen party. And I ain’t here, come to that: on my way to see Makepeace. But someone had to ginger her up, or she’d never have made it.”

    “Miss Hildy, shall I announce, or what?” faltered Bateson.

    The Marchioness of Rockingham appeared in the doorway, smiling, and dropped a kiss on the old servant’s faded cheek. “No, indeed, Bateson, dear, for I am family, you know! And Giles and Roarer and Rowdy may be said to be at least family by marriage!” she added with a laugh. “Hullo, Hildy, querida, I’m sorry I’m so late! And don’t worry, Giles doesn’t mean to stay and spoil our tea-party! How are you, Christa? How are you, Jo?” Not pausing for a reply, she rushed on: “And I’m sorry about the babies, but Nurse Cummins was up half the night with them, the little horrors, so we thought we had best let her rest this afternoon”

    “And there was no-one at all in your huge house who could have looked after them for you!” agreed Christabel with a laugh, rising. She kissed Gaetana’s cheek gracefully and then took a baby off the Marquis. “Let me, Giles. Why, she is fast asleep!” she smiled.

    “Aye, they will sleep, generally, in the afternoons. –Here,” he said, suddenly shoving little Lord Wymmering at Hildy: “you take Roarer. Makepeace must be wondering where the Devil I’ve got to, I said I’d be with him not long after noon. Looking well, Christa!” he added, grinning. “And by Jove, Mrs Dorian, you look positively blooming! Don’t tell me matrimony agrees with you!” he said with a cheerful laugh. “Must be off. Don’t fret, Bateson, I don’t mean to stay and gobble up all your tea! –I’ll be back—er—well—before dinnertime, anyway, sweetheart!” he added to his wife.

    “Sí, sí,” replied Gaetana placidly. She sat down, and the black, silky bundle she had been clutching all the while now resolved itself into a sleepy spaniel puppy. “Please give Mr Makepeace my apologies for making you so late, Giles. And do not forget to ask him for the salve.”

    “No, no, I won’t forget!” He dropped a kiss on her cheek. “’Bye, ladies!” he said, going out. Bateson shot after him. A short altercation could be heard from the front hall in re door opening, then the door could be heard closing.

    Bateson returned, looking weak. “Shall I serve, Miss H— Mrs Kernohan, I mean!” she gasped.

    “In ten minutes or so, I think, Bateson,” said Hildy calmly.

    “I apologize for my husband, Bateson,” added Gaetana, twinkling at her.

    “Oh, no, Miss Gae— your Ladyship,” said Bateson limply.

    “And Bateson, you had best make sure neither of the cats comes in here,” added Hildy calmly.

    “You may be very sure of that, ma’am!” agreed Bateson, eyeing the puppy on Gaetana’s lap askance.

    “She has a sore paw, and the others pick on her, so I’m keeping her with me. Mr Makepeace has a special salve which Giles thinks may be of benefit,” explained Gaetana calmly to the company.

    “It ain’t house-trained, I suppose, your Ladyship?” said Bateson in a voice of doom.

    “Well, very nearly. Although Blackie is the smallest, she is also the brightest of the litter.”

    Bateson gulped.

    “¿Querida, should I not have—?” said Gaetana to her hostess, her face falling.

    “Well, we don’t have an endless supply of carpets, you see!” choked Hildy.

    “She widdled before we left and she has not had a drink since,” she said dubiously, “but I shall keep her on my knee, do not fear, dearest.”

    “Miss Gaetana, your dress!” choked Bateson in horror.

    Gaetana looked down at it vaguely. It was a very fine garment of heavy silk, vertically striped in bronze and gold, with a flounce at the hem with the stripes running horizontally, this motif being reflected in the sleeves. Its neckline was heavily trimmed with Valenciennes point. “Well, as a matter of fact I’ve decided that I don’t like it. It is made from one of the stuffs Madre brought from Spain, and I must admit that Amabel advised me to lay it by until I was older. Giles says I look like a wasp in it, so I dare swear he won’t be heartbroken if Blackie widdies on it!”

    “I shall fetch your Ladyship a cloth, said Bateson feebly.

    “Yes, do that, Bateson. And tea in ten minutes or so,” Hildy reminded her. Bateson bobbed and tottered out, and Hildy said sternly to her cousin: “You have spoiled our gracious afternoon, you and Giles between you, I suppose you realize?”

    “Querida, I’m so sorry— Oh!” she cried, seeing the twinkle in her hostess’s eye.

    Hildy went into a paroxysm. “It—was—supposed—to be—gracious!” she gasped eventually.

    “I had no intention of bringing Giles, actually, but I fell asleep,” confessed Gaetana. “It was such a warm afternoon. Poor Giles hunted high and low for me in order to tell me he was going to Mr Makepeace’s and ask if I required him to drive me. And he would still not have found me, I dare say, as I was on the window-seat in the library behind the curtains, only Blackie suddenly sprang out at him, and revealed our whereabouts!”

    The ladies laughed helplessly, what time Bateson came in with a heavy towel to spread on Gaetana’s knees under the puppy.

    Then Gaetana had to admire Vyvvie, who was still awake, smiling happily and placidly, looking up from his basket with his big dark eyes, and declare that his eyes were going to be just like Paul’s, and Christabel and Hildy had to peer at the twins’ faces, but without result, as they were both still fast asleep. And by the time Gaetana had admitted that of course any number of their servants would been only too happy to look to the twins, but Giles was so proud of them—the other three nodding and smiling—Bateson had staggered in under the tea service.

    Johanna had not seen it in all its glory before. She goggled. Hildy refrained from saying anything until Bateson had retreated, carefully closing the door after her. Then she explained, adding that she and Aurry felt the tea-set matched the clock. At which point alas, Christabel could not repress a wince.

    “What did they give you and Dorian, Jo?” asked Gaetana with interest.

    “The two households gave separate gifts—fortunately, I cannot help feeling,” said Jo limply, looking at the cups. “Hildy, are those cups actually octagonal?”

    “Yes; your eyes have not gone funny!” said Hildy cheerfully.

    Johanna gulped. “Er—well, the Miss Clyffes gave us a set of silver fish knives and forks, Gaetana, and Colonel Clyffe and his household—uh—” She gulped again.

    “Go on!” urged Hildy, who knew what was coming.

    Johanna swallowed. “Unfortunately Dorian was naughty enough to make Colonel Clyffe believe that he greatly admires the bulldog. So even although Miss Clyffe tried to stop him, he had it modelled and—and cast in bronze.” She gulped again.

    Gaetana gave a shriek and collapsed in laughter..

    Christabel had already heard the story; nevertheless her shoulders shook and she had to steady little Lady Anne carefully on her knee.

    “It’s about half life-size,” admitted Jo. “Dorian has set it upon the desk in his study nevertheless, and the dear old Colonel is just so pleased!” The girls smiled and Jo added on a guilty note: “Of course he has no idea that Dorian refers to it as ‘Bulldog Enthroned’ or that he now refers to the study as ‘The Throne Room.’ And—and bends the knee to the dog whenever he—”

    “Jo!” screamed Hildy. “He doesn’t!”

    “I am afraid he does, my dear. Dearest Papa Henry is not best pleased with him over it,” she owned.

    The ladies shook helplessly for quite some time.

    Christabel then suggested they should bank up the twins carefully on a sofa with pillows, so they did that, and then Hildy poured. Finding to her relief that the tea was normally tea-coloured. Everything else was also delicious, Mrs Knowles’s conserve of course being much admired, and the Marchioness, declaring they never had such delicious teas at the Place, eating quite half of a plateful of small cucumber sandwiches in proof of the statement.

    The two who had to make their way back towards Dittersford took their leave first, companionably journeying in Christabel’s barouche, leaving the Dorian Kernohans’ carriage to follow along behind.

    “I think Hildy is happy, at bottom,” said Christabel with a tiny sigh.

    “Why, yes! She was just a little anxious over the tea, I think,” returned Johanna with a twinkle.

    “Very true,” agreed Hildy’s sister, smiling at her. “I am just so thankful it was the dear Major that she took, rather than encouraging Sir Julian, for the more I think of it, the more I think she must have been miserable in his very proper household.”

    Johanna Kernohan was very fond of her brother-in-law and she agreed to this, but added uncertainly: “Would it have been so very bad?”

    “Not for you or me, no. Lady Naseby is all that is gracious and understanding: all that could be desired in a mamma-in-law, I am sure. But that does not mean that Hildy would not have found it very much a strain, attempting—well, attempting to live up to her standards.”

    “I see,” said Jo slowly.

    “Mm. And besides, even though she may well be the world’s worst housekeeper,” said Christabel with a twinkle in her eye, “at least in dear Major Kernohan’s house there is plenty for her to do. Whereas in Sir Julian’s, I am very sure she would have been moped to death very soon.”

    Johanna thought this over. “I think I agree. And she could certainly not— Well, I suppose she could take country walks,” she said dubiously.

    “But not run wild over the hills with her gown pinned up and no bonnet!” said Christabel, laughing.

    “No, exactly!”

    “Which reminds me, my dear Jo, I cannot thank you enough for forbearing to comment upon her gown, today!”

     Jo bit her lip. “It was a little... Oh, dear.”

    The friends’ eyes met: they both chuckled.

    “I must admit,” Johanna then said, “that Dorian said something—as tactfully as he could, you know—to Aurry about Hildy’s clothes, after she had worn a simple little muslin dress to dine at The Towers with us, but a very grand silk wrap with it; but Aurry said that he thought it was early days yet to be catching her up for things which could not signify in the scheme of things. He is such a dear man!” she said, smiling and sighing.

    “Indeed!” agreed Mrs Ainsley cordially. “Paul and I are so very fond of him. Paul often says that it could not have worked out better, if he had planned it himself!” She laughed a little.

    Johanna smiled, the more so as she could plainly see that the wonderful Paul’s approbation was, of course, a large factor in Mrs Ainsley’s own satisfaction with her sister’s marriage!

    “And of course, it is so pleasant, having both Hildy and Gaetana so near,” added Mrs Ainsley happily.

    Jo smiled and nodded again. When she arrived back at The Towers, however, and Mrs Urqhart demanded eagerly: “Well?” she replied in a somewhat uncertain tone: “Well, I think Hildy is happy, Aunt Betsy.”

    The old lady gave her a sharp look. “But?”

    Jo bit her lip. “Um—well, it is just that she—she does not seem very—very domesticated! Well, I suppose that will soon come, with—with practice, and a little time...”

    The old lady eyed her drily. “If you think he married her for her housekeepin’, you is a great looby, Jo Ju— Kernohan!”

    The rather new Mrs Dorian smiled and said: “Well, of course I do not think any such thing. But—well, every man wishes to be comfortable in his own house, even—even—well, however equable his temperament may be.”

    Mrs Urqhart gave a faint sniff. Then she said: “They come over to me for their dinners last week. And Hildy left her gloves behind. So as I was due to dine meself with the Gerritys next day, I dropped in on ’em on me way home.”

    Jo swallowed. “And?”

    “It wasn’t that late, me love, Sir Clinton keeps country hours!” she said with a laugh. “No, they was still both up, in that cosy little sitting-room of theirs. Don’t think they heard the carriage, so when Bateson showed me in they was both caught unawares, like.”

    Jo swallowed again.

    Twinkling at her, the old lady said: “He was a-sittin’ in his big chair, readin’ a book, with the fat old tabby on his knee, and she was a-sittin’ opposite, in a smaller chair, with that little black demon of hers on her knee. Readin’ a book.”

    “Oh,” she said limply.

    “And just as Bateson opens her mouth, Aurry reads out something from his book, and they both laughs like anythin’!”

    “Oh, well—well, good, Aunt Betsy!” she said valiantly.

    “Idiot,” said the old lady tersely. “It was a Latin book.”

    “Oh!” said Jo with a gasp. “Um—yes, I see! Well, yes, he is very clever, Aunt Betsy—”

    “NO!” she shouted. “Not that, you fool!—Well, out o’ course he is, and she wouldn’t have taken him, else!—No, the point I was trying to make was they was quietly happy together!”

    At this the rather new Mrs Dorian smiled very sheepishly indeed and said: “Oh, dear! I fear that I am, indeed, a looby, Aunt Betsy! Well, that sounds most satisfactory indeed!”

    “Aye. And in the case you was thinkin’ a burnt dinner can spoil any man’s quiet evenin’ before it hasn’t hardly started,”—Jo bit her lip—“well, maybe you is too young for it to occur, only it’s clear to me that the Major’s the sort of man that don’t half mind feelin’ comfortably superior—just now an’ then, y’know,” she said, very dry indeed—“to the little thing he’s married to.”

    Johanna gulped. “I see exactly what you mean, dear Aunt Betsy. Yes.”

    “And before you say it would not do for you, me deary, I knows that, acos I ain’t blind. Only Hildy is a very different kettle of fish. Even though she may not know it herself. But Lordy! Look at the men she has fallen for!”

    Jo just looked at her helplessly and the old lady added testily: “Well, for the land’s sake, Jo, if your pa ain’t the managing sort that likes ’em little and feminine, I dunno who is!”

    “Yes, but— Oh,” said Johanna slowly. “I see. You mean that—that there is something in Hildy that—that requires that sort of—of masterfulness from her partner in life.” She thought it over. Mrs Urqhart watched her with a not unkindly, if somewhat sardonic expression on her round face. “Yes,” she decided at last with a sheepish laugh. “You are perfectly right, Aunt Betsy! As always!” She embraced the old lady heartily.

    Mrs Urqhart, pretending she was not vastly gratified, merely sniffed faintly and said: “Aye, well, at my age if I haven’t learned a thing or two about human nature, there ain’t no hope for me!”

    She looked after her kindly as Johanna then retreated happily upstairs to put her bonnet away. She herself, though aware she was right in the main about the Major and Hildy, was also aware that no relationship could be summed up that simply. And that, whether a couple was temperamentally suited or not, if Nature had decided to take its course it would do so. Mrs Urqhart was not acquainted with the maxim “As flies to wanton boys are we to the gods” but had she been so, she would have conceded that the Bard had it right.

    But her long and varied life, if it had given her a fair degree of cynicism about such matters, had not diminished the helping of very solid common sense that had always been hers. She did not brood on the matter but, it being not yet time to change for dinner, sat back on her sofa, rearranged the shawl over her feet, and lapsed into pleased contemplation.

    Aye: things had not turned out so bad, for the young ladies and gentlemen of that Dittersford summer two years back! Little Miss Amabel was blissfully happy with her doating Liam and their babe—well, would never have occurred to her not to be! thought Mrs Urqhart with a tiny choke of laughter; and Muzzie and her Major likewise! Aye, the simple ones had it easiest in this world, when all was said and done. Dorothea and little Catherine were equally happy with Catherine’s new papa on his Uncle Henry Kenworthy’s place, whilst Lord Lucas, in especial now he had a little boy of his own into the bargain, was the proudest pa you could hope to meet in a twelvemonth—and neither of ’em was interested in doin’ the fashionable, so they had not been up to town onct, not onct, since the marriage, so it was sucks to Lucas’s cow of a ma!

    Christabel and Paul you would have taken for an even older married couple than they was—though the shrewd Mrs Urqhart did not make the mistake of assuming that it was not also a very passionate marriage and, unlike Mrs Purdue, would never have needed a glimpse of the dressing-room to be quite sure that Paul Ainsley did not habitually sleep in it. And Dorian and Jo, though she’d had her doubts about ’em, initial-like, was suited right down to the ground!

    And as for Gaetana and her Marquis! Mrs Urqhart smiled to herself. Well, that was a marriage made in Heaven, and no mistake! For where he was bossy and demanding, she was firm and common-sensical, for all her pretty face, and where she was uncertain of herself he was man enough to support her and gentleman enough never to reproach her for it; and where he was uncertain of himself she was steadfast and womanly enough, young though she was, to be strong for him. Mrs Urqhart had not, of course, witnessed that scene in the passage behind the ballroom at the Place eighteen months back but she would not have been at all surprized by it.

    Aye, well, take it for all in all, it had worked out as good as was possible in this world, for the young ladies and gentlemen. Mrs Urqhart smiled and sighed a little, shook her head and shouted: “BHAI!”

    When Ranjit had come, and had been dispatched in search of Bapsee, and Bapsee had come and salaamed and said: “Memsahib?” she jumped and said: “Eh? Oh: there you are. Why the Devil did I send for you?”

    Bapsee was used to these lapses in her mistress. She sat down on the rug and began to rub Mrs Urqhart’s feet, unasked.

    “Aye, well,” said Mrs Urqhart with a little sigh. “Poor young Noël has missed out, sure enough.”

    Bapsee went on rubbing her feet. “Yes, is true, Betsy Begum. But is much time yet for Noël baba to find a lady. And other young ladies and gentlemen are most happy. Most happy.”

    Mrs Urqhart sighed again. “Aye. As much as anyone can be, in this world.”

    “No-one can know future, Betsy Begum.”

    Mrs Urqhart looked at her with great affection. “No, you is right there, you heathen. No-one can know that, that’s the one thing that is for sure.”

    “Must just hope all is going well in future also, Betsy Begum. With young ladies all having many fine sons.”

    “Mm. Somethin’ like that,” she said drily.

    Bapsee rubbed her feet. “That is how world wags, Betsy Begum,’’ she reminded her.

    “Aye!” she said with a laugh. “Ain’t it, though!”