The Last Of Bath

32

The Last Of Bath

    The Yeldens were as good as their word and duly collected Mrs Kernohan’s household the following evening in plenty of time for dinner. Mrs Kernohan had declared she would go, but as Maria had said there would be a little dancing afterwards for the younger ones, she would not stay for that, but would trust Horty to see that Hildy was properly chaperoned and got home safe. The matronly young Mrs Yelden, delighted to have the role of chaperone to an unmarried young lady thrust upon her, consented eagerly to this proposition, blissfully unaware of the twinkle in her grandmamma’s eye.

    Mrs Maria Clyffe was a woman of about forty-five years of age, the youngest of Mrs Kernohan’s children. She was a slender woman, of a faded blonde prettiness, and on first meeting her well-dressed person Hildy had wondered if this was perhaps another Lady Charleson. But Mrs Clyffe, though she had long been a widow, was not apparently interested in changing that state; she was, according to her mamma, “a nincompoop” who had turned down several good offers in the first ten years of her widowhood. Hildy had supposed that she must have been deeply in love with her husband. As she gradually got to know Mrs Clyffe a little better, however, she had begun to doubt that could have been the case. Mrs Clyffe specialized in complaining, not least about her late husband. And apart from him, if it was not the weather, or the vagaries of the Bath shopkeepers, or the impertinence of the Bath chairmen, or the dullness of Bath itself in and out of season, it was the state of her health or of her finances, or the vagaries of her children—or anything at all, really.

    Her health, according to her mamma, was excellent, and her finances were very clearly excellent: she lived in a large, handsome house and though dressing appropriately to her age and station, wore the finest silks and the handsomest bonnets that Hildy had ever seen. Mrs Clyffe, in short, dressed with style as well as taste. The which did not stop her complaining about the Bath milliners and dressmakers.

    As for the vagaries of her children: she had but the two: John, a solid, pale young man of some twenty-three summers, and Althea, a damsel who was just out, both of them conventionally well-behaved. Tarry, alas, had privily informed Hildy that Althea was the greatest cat ever born, and to watch out for her, for she would tell a lie about you as soon as look at you, though she was all smiling sweetness to your face. Hildy had not seen very much of Miss Clyffe, but judging by what she had said to her with smiling sweetness about earnest Ariadne, gentle Violetta, good-natured Hortensia, and even the proper Prosy, Tarry was in the right of it. Althea, though dressed appropriately to her years, was always also clad in the finest of fabrics, and was clearly the apple of her mother’s eye. She was to be brought into London Society next Season: London Society had best watch out for itself, then! Hildy concluded. Mr John Clyffe was of a serious disposition and did not haunt the Pump Room, except to escort his mamma. He was very much interested in Science. And clearly the sort of young man who would never give his mamma cause for complaint. That was all Hildy knew of him, really: he had not so far favoured her frivolous self with his notice.

    The late Mr Clyffe had been one of a large family, and Hildy was very far from having worked out the ramifications of the Clyffe tribe, though she had been introduced to several of its members. There were two unmarried sisters, Miss Prudence and Miss Vinnie, the one plump and vague, the other thin and vague, who lived together under the dominion of a stern old housemaid who was reputed to rule them utterly not only in matters of diet and household management but down to the clothes they put upon their back, the functions that were fit for them to attend, and the weathers that were fit for them to set forth in. Perhaps today’s function was not a fit one, for they were certainly not at it. Another household consisted of a very, very elderly uncle who was confined to a wheelchair, a retired Colonel Clyffe who had a limp and a bad-tempered bulldog, whom he much resembled, and the oldest unmarried Miss Clyffe. Who was reputed to rule them as utterly as their maid ruled her sisters.

    Several other of Mr Clyffe’s sisters had married, and Hildy had met a Mrs George Hallam, an intimidating matron with three unmarried daughters of a remarkable plainness, the variety featuring mouse-coloured hair and highly coloured cheeks. Mrs George Hallam also had this high colour, and it had deepened alarmingly on her first setting eyes on Miss Hildegarde Maddern—clad on that occasion in her dark green pelisse with the grey fur accessories. Mrs George was a great friend of Mrs Clyffe; possibly the ladies enjoyed sharing their complaints, for while Maria Clyffe’s was a lachrymose nature and Mrs George’s a robust, the latter’s was also a critical one.

    The Clyffes and the Hallams all socialized very much together—and it was Mrs Kernohan’s claim that Maria had forgotten she was a Kernohan at all. She had previously warned Hildy that the place would be infested with Hallams. Hildy had already met several of the Hallam relations, and in particular that Mrs Hallam, Mrs George’s sister-in-law, who was the wife of the oldest Hallam brother. Mrs Hallam was an elegant woman with a vigorous personality who reminded Hildy vaguely of someone, but she could not put her finger on it, and had not thought very much about it. Today, however, she was about to be enlightened on the point.

    As might have been expected, the robust Mrs George Hallam, the cowed-looking Mr George Hallam and the plain Miss Hallams were already present in the drawing-room when their party arrived. As were the Henry Kernohans, with Dorian, Angie and Miss Ariadne, attended by Mr Faulkener. Maria kissed her mamma’s cheek, kissed Hortensia’s cheek, and noted in a mournful way that she was glad to see Miss Hildegarde and did she not find that the east wind was dreadfully draining? Meanwhile, Althea was greeting her grandmamma with gushing enthusiasm, not apparently deterred by Mrs Kernohan’s tepid response.

    John Clyffe bowed over Hildy’s hand and expressed a hope that she was not allowing his Cousin Hortensia to drag her about doing too much. Hildy replied in surprize, for in all her stay she had only been on two harmless outings with Mrs Yelden and her little boys, that indeed, she was not! He sighed and informed her that his cousins, he feared, led a rackety life. Hildy looked at him in some astonishment.

    Dorian then quickly joined her, and Mr Clyffe, giving him a disapproving look, withdrew. Roly, Dorian explained, had gone off earlier in the day with Aurry to look at a curricle, and they would be a little late. And Prosy did not care to come, where there was dancing. But he was sure they did not need the other two, did they?—with a meaning look. Hildy replied with a laugh, did he fancy himself equal to three men, then? Dorian promptly assured her he was more than! Both of them, it was to be feared, not unaware of the jealous, resentful glances of Miss Angelica, on the once-again absent Miss Hawkins’s behalf, and of Miss Clyffe, Miss Hallam, Miss Beatrice Hallam, and Miss Maude, all on their own behalves.

    In a little while the Reverend Mr Anthony Hallam, his pretty dark-haired wife, their pretty young daughter, Miss Geraldine, and their handsome son, Lieutenant Romney Hallam, arrived, all smiling and excited: the parents, in spite of the Reverend’s ecclesiastical status, apparently as much so as the children. Hildy had met Mrs Anthony and Miss Geraldine before, and had decided, with some justice, that that branch of the Hallam tribe was by far the nicest. The brother and sister soon joined Hildy and Dorian, and the jealous glances of the other young ladies did not abate.

    An immediate impression of the handsome Lieutenant Hallam as a rather naïve young man was confirmed when he ingenuously informed Hildy, ably seconded by Miss Geraldine, that he had been named for an old uncle, but it had not served, y’know. Old fellow had died two years back leaving every groat to his dashed housekeeper: was there ever anything like it? And now he supposed they would all be put on half-pay, soon or late, and what sort of life was that for a fellow? Hildy at this juncture tried very hard indeed to avoid Dorian’s eye.

    But it was of no use, for the wretched man said solemnly: “So you will be hangin’ out for a rich wife, Romney, old fellow?”

    Hildy gulped. And the innocent Romney replied cheerfully: “Oh, well, y’know! A handsome fortune would not come amiss, and one must live!”—Hildy was in agony.—“Only, if it ain’t accompanied by a handsome face, old lad,” he concluded on a glum note: “one might as well be dead. And so I said to Mamma! Well, she has been very decent, y’know, and would not force me—but I said to Papa I would not offer for Henrietta, if she was the last girl on earth!” He directed a baleful look at the eldest Miss Hallam, she of the reddest cheeks and, unfortunately, squarest figure. “And I will say this for the old boy, he said it was quite understandable, and would not blame me in the least!”

    Hildy had to turn away and pretend she was having a coughing fit.

   They had all been chatting on cheerfully, the Lieutenant doing his best to compete with Dorian to engage Miss Hildegarde’s attention, for she was entirely delicious tonight in a drift of spangled white with tiny fuzzy white bows of something or another, he knew not what, but they reminded him of kittens, and he said so, kittens nestled in snow, eh?—when the door opened again and Major Kernohan and Mr Roland appeared.

    Before very long they had joined Hildy’s group. The dashing Lieutenant looked rather put out. As did Miss Geraldine, who was as prettily dark as Roly was prettily fair, when it became clear he still did not regard her as anything more than a mere schoolgirl whom he had known all his life! Miss Geraldine, a shy maiden, who had hitherto admired Miss Hildegarde very much, now began to experience certain resentful feelings towards her.

    “I say,” said Roly after a while: “we must all be here, surely? I hope they will announce dinner pretty soon, I’m famished.”

    “My Aunt Agatha and Uncle Thomas are not here, yet,” said the Lieutenant.

    “And I believe we are waiting on Algernon and Vi also, are we not?” added Aurry.

    “Oh, bother. She will be fussing over her dress,” Roly said glumly. “There was never anything like it when she was at home, Miss Hildy,” he informed her: “the girls was always late for everything, and it would be Vi changing her mind over her dress, you could bet your boots, that had held ’em up!”

    “It is not vanity, you understand, Miss Hildegarde, but anxiety that she will not appear the thing,” said Aurry. “Hers is a nervous personality.”

    “She always looks lovely,” offered Geraldine timidly.

    “Yes, indeed,” agreed Hildy.

    “You might try telling her that,” noted Roly glumly.

    Dorian laughed. “Cheer up, Roly! Go and fetch yourself a sherry, dear boy. And perhaps the ladies would care for a glass of negus?”

    He had returned with their glasses when the door opened again.

    “Bet it ain’t Vi,” noted Roly.

    Indeed, it was not, it was the Thomas Hallams, with—

    Hildy flushed to the roots of her red hair, and bit her lip.

    In a very few moments the indignant eyes of certain young ladies were registering that She had snared Another One! And it was indecent and—and unfair!

    It was very obvious, in spite of his good manners, that Sir Julian Naseby had known Hildy would be there: for after greeting his hostess politely and shaking hands with John Clyffe, he looked eagerly round the room and headed straight for her.

    Meanwhile, the indignant eyes of certain young gentlemen were taking in the impeccable cut of the dark coat, the unwrinkled pantaloons, the perfectly chaste waistcoat and the wonderful neckcloth…

    “Sir Julian,” said Hildy faintly. “I had no idea you were in Bath.”

    Sir Julian kissed her hand gracefully. “l am staying with my Aunt Agatha Hallam for a spell, Miss Hildegarde. Delighted to see you again.”

    “Oh—of course!” she cried. “It is your sister, Mrs Horsham, of whom Mrs Hallam reminds me!”

    “Aye: facially quite alike, are they not?” he said with a smile. Not at all displeased to have it made clear to the company, more especially the male members of it, who were looking at him like jealous dogs about to spring to the defence of their bone, that he and Miss Hildegarde were rather more than mere acquaintances.

    “Yes,” said Hildy on a weak note, looking at his smiling, pleasant face, his glowingly burnished brown locks, in a disarray even more artful than Roly’s and far more tasteful, and his customary beautiful clothes, and not knowing what to think or  feel. “How—how is Mrs Horsham? And—and Lady Naseby and the little girls?”

    “Oh, they are all very well, thank you very much, Miss Hildegarde. I mentioned to Mamma that I thought I might bump into you, you know,”—Hildy turned scarlet all over again: he had come on purpose, then!—“and she sends you her best regards, and wishes me to warn you that the minute you set foot in London, she shall have you for a contralto in her group or perish in the attempt!”

    Hildy was already aware that the Marquis’s promise—or threat—had borne fruit. “Yes, she wrote me a very kind note,” she said numbly. “But I can scarce read a note of music, Sir Julian.”

    “That will not stop Mamma, with the bit between her teeth: surely you have realised that?” he said with a teasing smile.

    “Um—yes,” said Hildy weakly. “Oh! I must present you—” She did so, very fumblingly, forgetting that of course he must know the Hallams.

    Sir Julian bowed with his easy grace and professed himself charmed to see Miss Gerry again, adding with a teasing smile that she had grown into a positive stunner, why had no-one apprised him of the fact? And if she was to be in London next year she must instantly promise him the first two dances at her come-out ball!

    The naïve Geraldine, far from behaving with the composure of a gazetted stunner, was looking positively stunned. Rather as if a shooting star had landed in their midst—or a giraffe, thought Hildy drily, beginning to recover herself.

    Sir Julian then held out his hand to Aurry.

    “It will have to be my left, I am afraid, Sir Julian,” he said simply, holding it out.

    Hildy cringed, but Sir Julian was not at all disconcerted, merely shaking the hand with his own left and remarking sapiently: “Waterloo, was it, Major? –Aye,” he said as Aurry nodded, looking wry. “Shocking business. Thankful we won, of course. but— Well, had one or two good friends in the thing, y’know,” he said, shaking his head.

    Hildy could not for the life of her tell if this were true. Certainly he had never mentioned to her any friends who had been wounded or killed at Waterloo! Once again she felt baffled by the screen of his easy manners, and wondered crossly, once again, if there was anything at all behind them.

    Dorian then, as easily as Sir Julian himself, proceeded to regale the company with the story of Hildy’s very elderly admirer at the Pump Room and his fulsome compliments—Roly joining in with a will, for he had seen at a glance that this dashed town beau outshone them all, d— his eyes!

    “Stop it,” said Hildy faintly, as the gentlemen all burst out laughing at a particularly witty sally. She took a deep breath. “You will perceive, Sir Julian, that you have come to Bath just in time to rescue me, for I am surrounded by—by monsters!”

    “In that case,” he said with a twinkle, “pray allow me to give you my arm, Miss Hildegarde. And perhaps I may procure you a glass of something?”

    “Thank you,” said Hildy very weakly indeed, taking his arm.

    And Sir Julian, a little smile on his lips which his audience did not hesitate to interpret as one of ignoble triumph, bore her off under the affronted eyes of all three Kernohan brothers and Lieutenant Romney Hallam.

    “Well!” said Roly in disgust. “Who is that dashed fellow, Romney?”

    “Er—well, he’s a Naseby. Aunt Agatha’s nephew, y’know. S’pose we can call him cousin. Scarcely ever shows his nose down here, mind you. Um—well,” he said to the young man’s wrathful face: “I suppose he is a bit of a town buck, in his way. Decent fellow, though.”

    “In his way!” choked Roly. “Did you ever see anything like that coat?”

    “Weston,” explained Lieutenant Hallam glumly. “Best snyder in town. Think he made for Beau Brummel, actually. Naseby never lets anyone else cut his coats.”

    “Never tell us!” said Roland with feeling.

    “A positive poem in the shape of a coat, is it not?” said Dorian slyly.

    The poet glared.

    “No, but it was smoothly done, dear lads, smoothly done: walking off with Miss Hildy under our noses like that!” Dorian admitted, shaking his head. “The man is a strategist!”

    “Say, rather, he displayed masterly tactics,” said Aurry calmly. “But we must not neglect the other charming young ladies here tonight, you know! Miss Gerry, Sir Julian is in the right of it: you are putting ’em all to shame this evening!” He smiled kindly at her.

    “Oh! It is kind in you to say so, but—but Miss Hildy is so very, very pretty, is she not? And so lively, too. I can never think of things to say to gentlemen.”

    “But I hope I am a gentleman,” he said with a twinkle, “though we need not regard such fellows as Dorian and Roly, you know!—and you are talking to me! Now tell me, does your mamma intend you shall be presented, next year?”

    With smiles and grateful blushes, Geraldine began to tell him about her planned come-out, as he led her off to a seat at a little distance.

    The gallant Lieutenant Hallam, far from taking Aurry’s hint and finding another neglected young lady to engage in conversation, merely glared in the direction of Sir Julian Naseby’s elegant coat, and went to get himself another drink. And the two younger Kernohan brothers sank visibly into gloom, reflecting that He had very evidently come down here in pursuit of her, and She had not appeared at all averse to the sight of him.

    Finally Dorian said: “Well, there is nothing for it, dear boy—and at least he has arrived very late on the scene, that is one point in our favour—we shall have to give him a run for his money!”

    “How?” returned Roly sulkily. “With a coat like that? And address like that? And I tell you what, Dorian: there is not one fellow in an hundred who could have brought it off like that when Aurry offered his left hand!”

    “Er—well, no. It was very well done of him.”

    There was a short silence. Then Dorian said in a shocked tone, very much lowering his voice: “I say, dear boy, you are not claimin’ Aurry did it on purpose, are you?”

    Roly pouted. “Well, I was not. But since you have brought it up, I would not put anything past him! You know what he is!”

    “Aye, but he is a gentleman, dear lad,” said Dorian.

    Roly sniffed resentfully.

    “Well,” said Dorian determinedly, but with a laugh in his voice: “we shall just—just surround her!”

    “Two of us. Yes.”

    “Aurry as well. And Romney, I make no doubt!” he said, shoulders shaking.

    “I dare say Aurry will not, he would say it was vulgar of us. And in fact the suggestion is vulgar. And all I can say is, Dorian,” said the poet with trembling lips: “that it is very clear you do not Truly Care!’’

    Although it was true they were little more than a family party, Maria Clyffe nevertheless did not favour Miss Hildegarde Maddern with a seat at table between the two older Kernohan brothers. Aurry was up near the top of the table, at one remove from his Uncle Francis, where he was clearly expected to bear his part in the conversation should it turn—as it inevitably did—to the late conflict and the present situation on the Continent. Dorian had been favoured with his Cousin Althea at his left and the second Miss Hallam, Beatrice of the Bulgy Eyes, as he and Roly privily referred to her, at his right. The gallant Lieutenant was even more fortunate: he was placed between the oldest Miss Hallam and the youngest, Miss Maude. There was nothing very much wrong with Miss Maude, if one could overlook the fact that she was not very bright, except for the high colour and the squarish physique that seemed endemic to that branch of the Hallam tribe. Romney Hallam of course was not very bright, either, but somehow this did not seem to lead him to affect Cousin Maude. Roly had the spot between Miss Maude and her sister Miss Beatrice. He did not appear happy about it. Nor did Geraldine, at one remove from Hildy on the other side of the table, sandwiched between Mr Groot and Mr Yelden.

    John Clyffe was at the foot of his mamma’s board and more than one person surmised dourly he had been placed there express to keep an eye on certain younger persons nearby. Possibly because she was a visitor, Hildy had been favoured with the position on Mr Clyffe’s right hand, where Miss Hallam was at his left. It was very probable that his mamma hoped for a match in that direction: Mrs George was of course, her closest friend. If so, she could not have been terribly pleased by the effect of tonight’s move, for John Clyffe, whilst addressing Miss Hallam very properly from time to time, turned to Hildy with very much more enthusiasm evident in his earnest face, favouring her as the meal progressed with a most detailed description of the principles and workings of the steam engine. Hildy was meanly glad to be able to counter with the account of the principles of the hot-air balloon which Bungo had not failed to impress upon every member of his family willing to listen to him, but as the meal wore on gradually realized that this was the wrong move entirely: Mr Clyffe thought she was, under the frivolous external appearance, a young woman of earnest mind who wished to encourage him! Oh, help!

    Possibly the only consolation the Kernohan brothers gained from their aunt’s seating arrangements that evening was that afforded by the fact that Sir Julian Naseby was up at the far end of the table with the nobs, about as far away from Miss Hildy as was possible within the laws of geography. Hah, hah.

    When the ladies retired Miss Geraldine, sensations of envy notwithstanding, immediately hurried to Hildy’s side and as they seated themselves on a little sofa whispered: “Oh, Miss Hildy, was it not a trial? Mrs Clyffe’s dinners are always like that, Mamma says. Only of course we could not refuse, they are connexions; but Mamma assured me she would have, if she could!”

    Hildy looked across the room to where the pretty, gay Mrs Anthony, who might be a woman of nigh on forty years of age but was very clearly the prettiest female in the room, with her pink cheeks, lovely smile, big dark eyes, and mass of dark curls as yet untouched with silver, was listening to Hortensia Yelden’s chatter about her little boys. “You are very lucky in your mamma,” she said with a smile.

    It was rather a forced smile: Mrs Anthony Hallam had been next Major Aurelius Kernohan at table, and he had seemed to enjoy every moment of her company unreservedly. Whether or no she was a relation—which Hildy, to say truth, at this moment was incapable of working out. Miss Geraldine, however, did not remark the quality of the smile, but nodded and agreed. And indeed, the thought of London next year would terrify her, were it not for the fact that dearest Mamma would be there to support her through it!

    “I shall hope to see you at Almack’s and so forth, then,” said Hildy kindly, if with a certain resignation. Geraldine was, after all, a lovely girl, if as yet lacking in her charming mamma’s self-possession, and she did not wish to hurt her feelings by tacitly refusing to discuss the topic which was very obviously nearest to her heart.

    Sure enough, Geraldine immediately began to interrogate her on the subject of Almack’s in especial, and London in general. Hildy answered politely, very glad that Miss Gerry’s good manners prevented her from extending the interrogation to the topic of beaux in general and Sir Julian Naseby in particular.

    However, she was not to be entirely spared. For after some time Mrs Agatha Hallam came across the room, smiling, and said: “I had no notion you were acquainted with my nephew, Miss Hildegarde.” The polite Geraldine immediately rose and offered her her seat. Hildy’s heart sank into her pretty shoes.

    “Yes, we—we have known him for some time,” she said faintly. “Through—through his connexion with—an acquaintance of Mamma’s friend Mrs Parkinson, really.” Oh, dear, why had she started this sentence? It was impossible to explain, the thing was too complicated!

    But fortunately Mrs Hallam merely smiled and nodded.

    “I did not realize,” explained Hildy, blushing. “that you were Sir Julian’s Aunt Agatha. He—he has spoken of you, of course. You—you have daughters,”—she could not for the life of her remember how many—“at Miss Blake’s, have you not, ma’am?”

    “Why, yes!” said Mrs Hallam with a little laugh that momentarily made her look very like Emily Horsham indeed: Hildy wondered wildly if she also were an admirer of Pride and Prejudice. “Were you there yourself, my dear?”

    “No, though my two elder sisters were. But my younger sisters are there at present, and my cousins, Maria and Elinor Ainsley.”

    “Of course!” said Mrs Hallam with another little laugh. “Lizzie and Pretty are in the senior class, but they have written me of little Elinor!”

    Oh, help, thought Hildy in a doomed way. “Indeed?” she said in a strangled voice.

    Smiling, Mrs Hallam nodded and said: “You will think that ‘Pretty’ is a very odd name. It is one of those silly family nicknames that arise one cannot truly say how. Her real name is Patience, but we have always called her Pretty.”

    “We call Elinor Bunch,” revealed Hildy.

    “Why, yes, that is it!” she said, smiling. “Lizzie did write it me, but I could not for the moment recall it. It seems they are settling in very well: your mamma must be glad, my dear.”

    “Yes, we are all very relieved. Maria in especial was very nervous about going away from home, but fortunately she and Marybelle, my next sister, are the same age, and great friends. They have all written us very happily about Miss Blake’s.” She did not add, and in some cases, very illegibly. Bunch’s in fact had lapsed into French, very illegibly.

    Mrs Hallam nodded. “It is an excellent school, and I think your mamma will be very pleased with the quality of the education.”

    Hildy thought her mamma would be very pleased if Bunch Ainsley and Floss Maddern learned no more than to hold their tongues in company, but very naturally did not say so.

    Mrs Hallam conveyed some more information about the quality of the education Miss Blake provided and went on to talk, like a very sensible woman, which most evidently she was, about the education of females in general. During the conversation Hildy could not help but reflect it was a great pity that Sir Julian did not possess the qualities of good sense and intelligence which characterized the female members of his family.

    Cards usually featured at Mrs Clyffe’s evening parties, and it was not very long at all before she was shepherding the younger persons into the adjoining room, a handsome chamber which evidently served as the music room, in order that the elders might settle to their preferred occupation. Miss Althea’s governess was pressed into service at the pianoforte, and soon all was ready for the little dance. Young Mrs Yelden and Mrs Groot, who did not care for cards, placidly took up seats in this music room near its pretty little fireplace, in order to chaperone the dancers.

    Sir Julian came up eagerly and offered Hildy his arm.

    “Thank you,” she said on a weak note. “How—how very graceful your Aunt Agatha is, sir.”

    “Yes, elegant creature, ain’t she? Pines a bit in Bath, y’know. But Lizzie is to make her come-out very soon, and then they will come up to town. Mamma cannot wait for it, I assure you!”

    Hildy looked at him under her lashes. “I collect that your Cousin Lizzie is a contralto, then, sir?”

    He gave a gratified choke of laughter. “That horrid bout of the influenza has not diluted your wit one iota, Miss Hildegarde! That was a wisty one!”

    “A what, sir?” said Hildegarde in shocked tones.

    Julian bit his lip. “Pray do not, dear Miss Hildegarde: you will overset me completely, and Mrs Clyffe and the fubsy dames will all be shocked, y’know.”

   Hildy had to swallow. “They—they are none of them precisely fubsy, sir. Certainly Mrs Clyffe is as elegant as your Aunt Agatha.”

    “Mm. Always was, so I believe. Sort of woman that was ever more interested in her dress than she was in her husband, poor fellow.”

    Hildy looked at him in some surprize.

    “Well, I barely knew him,” he said awkwardly. “But it appears to me she is that type.”

    “Yes,” she said thoughtfully. “I had not thought that gentlemen might think about ladies in just that way, sir. That is very interesting.”

    Julian looked at her in some trepidation.

    “The male counterpart, I think,” said Hildegarde slowly, “must be the sort of gentleman who is more interested in his horses and his sporting pursuits than he is in his wife and children.”

    “Er—yes. Dare say you are right. It—it was just a casual observation, Miss Hildegarde, on my part.”

    “But quite an insightful one, I think,” she said, smiling up at him.

    “Er—thank you, Miss Hildegarde,” he said weakly. “Shall we join the dance?”

    “I thought we had come in here express to do so, sir,” said Hildy, peeping at him naughtily.

    Sir Julian laughed, in a very pleased way. In fact had he not been so young and elegant it might have been said to be a laugh which verged on the fulsome. And there was also something distinctly proprietorial about it.

    Even though she had deliberately provoked this amusement, Hildy was abruptly and unexpectedly furious. He should not just walk back into her life as if—as if he had every right to take possession of her! Not after virtually ignoring her all that time in the country! And if she had not given him all the encouragement that he apparently considered himself to have needed, well—well, he for his part had not been man enough to do anything about it! And it was hardly the responsibility of a gently-bred young woman to take the first step, after all!

    She did not pause to consider that Sir Julian was now perhaps taking the first step, for she was too angry. Nor did she pause to wonder why she was so angry. And it did not consciously occur to her that to a very large extent she had been living for the last several weeks within—well, Mrs Kernohan’s image of a bubble was perhaps most accurate: living suspended within a happy little bubble, where the realities of her own situation, or even those of the persons going about their business in the bustling little world of Bath, did not impinge. And that Sir Julian’s sudden unheralded arrival had constituted an abrupt intrusion of reality into this pleasant bubble. And, further, that as a consequence of this, she might now be required to examine seriously her own feelings vis-à-vis the dark-visaged Major Kernohan. Which Hildy, it might be remembered, had made up her mind she did not care to do. Not as a separate being apart from the pleasant unity that was “the Kernohan brothers.”

    So when Dorian came up to her after the dance with Sir Julian, bowed low, and said with a naughty look in his eye: “I say, Miss Hildy: you would not be so cruel as to abandon your Bath friends for a London dandy, would you?” she replied, also with a naughty look: “Why, indeed, no, Mr Dorian. For although London society discerns a certain difference between what Sir Julian is and your true dandy, I must own I have in the past been gratified with the opportunity to enjoy many dances in his company. And since I am so soon to leave Bath, I really think I should take fullest advantage of all it can offer me, do not you? If you are offering, of course, Mr Dorian!”

    Even for Hildy, this was a speech that verged on the shocking, and Sir Julian flushed up, bowed very low and said, with a forced smile: “I see I must yield to force majeure, Miss Hildegarde.”

    Dorian also bowed. “That is correct, Sir Julian. For though I am not a military fellow, I perceive that it is four to one, is it not? –May I have the honour, dear Miss Hildy?”

    Hildy gave him her hand and allowed him to lead her into the dance. “That was very naughty, sir,” she said weakly.

    “Well, yes!” he said with a laugh. “But never tell me you prefer the attentions of a town beau, after all, Miss Hildy! For clothes do not make the man, you know. Much though Roly would maintain otherwise.”

    Hildy bit her lip: Mr Roland was indeed shining in extraordinary splendour this evening. The Pyrenees on his shoulders were almost as high as those favoured by Mr Luís Ainsley, indeed!

    The set now being made up and the music started, Dorian went down the dance  not unpleasantly aware that Naseby had—most improperly—not solicited another lady to dance, but was standing over by the wall, glaring at him!

    Julian of course was not aware that the Marquis had spoken to Hildy, for he had himself not spoken to Giles since he had flung out of his house in a rage, refusing to tell his bewildered little girls why their stay was so abruptly cut short. Nevertheless he felt very annoyed with her indeed, for surely he had made it plain enough, without going so far as to say so, for that would have been indelicate in the extreme, that he had come to Bath express to see her? And since he had cut off all relations with Giles, it had been by no means easy to discover where she had gone without making a great cake of himself. He had finally been forced into taking a spin to Tunbridge Wells in order to get news of her out of Mr O’Flynn.

    Julian, in short, considered himself to more or less have gone on a quest in search of Hildy. And perhaps in terms of the social norms by which he and his circle lived, he had, for it had been dashed embarrassing, even though O’Flynn was a very good sort of a fellow. As also had been the subsequent necessity of writing to Aunt Agatha, inviting himself to stay at her house. Not to speak of the scene in which the highly amused Mrs Hallam had got the truth out of him as to his purpose in honouring them with his presence!

    Unfortunately Hildegarde, had she been aware of the hoops through which he had put himself in order to find her, would not have considered his efforts in the light of a quest or anything near it. Which was somewhat unfair, for she herself was a shy person. But then, not altogether lacking in a sense of proportion, either, and, diffident fellow though he was, had he in truth done very much?

    When Dorian led Hildy off the floor, he very cunningly took her straight to where his brother Roland was standing with Lieutenant Hallam. Roly immediately solicited her hand for the next dance. Hildy could see that the three young men had combined in a plot against Sir Julian, but this did not, in her present mood, displease her. If he wanted her, he must come and—and fight for her! She allowed Roly to lead her off.

    After that it was the Lieutenant’s turn, and he of course had seized the correct tactic, and led her back to Dorian and Roland. They had not danced the intervening dances, which meant that Dorian had in fact missed two in a row. Which, considering that several young ladies were sitting down without partners, was very ill done of him. His older brother had observed this behaviour with a darkling eye and though he found his bad arm very awkward to manage in the dance, had himself gone up to Miss Hallam and solicited her hand. But Henrietta, who was sitting with Mrs Yelden and Mrs Groot, had informed him in a prim voice that she did not care for frivolous pursuits. So he had fallen back upon Miss Beatrice. Who did not appear to share her sister’s prejudice. And who, indeed, had a little earlier imparted the thought to her younger sister, in a cross whisper, that if Henrietta thought to catch Cousin John’s eye by such niminy-piminy behaviour, she was very much mistaken! –Mr Clyffe was in fact dancing, very properly. Though it was true to say that he did not look as if he was enjoying himself.

    Aurry had then found himself duty-bound to give Miss Maude a spin, and he now came up to his brothers’ group with her on his arm and said to Dorian without preamble: “Dorian, here is Miss Maude ready to dance with you, and very kindly willing to overlook the fact that you are a frivolous fellow, for I have assured her that you have the merit of being light upon your feet.”

    Miss Maude’s already high colour rose, and she gasped: “Oh, Major Kernohan! How can you! Oh, I am sure I never—”

    Dorian, perforce, bowed and gave her his arm.

    “And you,” said Aurry, simply glaring at his youngest brother, “may take yourself off and solicit poor Angie for a dance, for she has been sitting there against the wall whilst you mindless fribbles have been selfishly ignoring all considerations but your own.”

    Roly went scarlet to the roots of the careful disarray of the yellow curls, bowed dumbly to Hildy, and took himself off.

    “I suppose you have a scold for me, now, Aurry,” said Lieutenant Hallam glumly.

    “You may be very glad I do not mention the matter to your papa, at all events,” replied Aurry. “For I think you did not dance the dance before the last?”

    “No, sir,” he muttered, glaring at his feet.

    Trying not to laugh at the Lieutenant’s sudden realization he was being reproved by a senior officer, and not merely by a family connexion whom he had known all his life, Aurry replied: “No. Well, you have had the happiness of being honoured by Miss Hildegarde: now go and do your duty with your cousins.”

    “Yes, sir,” he gulped. He bowed to Hildy, said, though with a guilty glance at Aurry: “Miss Hildegarde, my absolute pleasure, believe me!” and hurried away.

    “Do I salute, sir?” said Hildy cheekily.

    Aurry bit his lip. “That will not be necessary: you are not in uniform.”

    “Well,” she said with a gleam in her eye, “my cousins maintain that a ballroom is the modern counterpart of the lists, so in that I am tricked out in my finery I suppose that I may very well be said to be in uniform! But I will not, if you think it inappropriate.”

    “Very!” he gasped, laughing helplessly. “That is an extremely apposite image! Miss Hildegarde, I think your cousins must be very like yourself!”

    “Well, yes,” said Hildy, twinkling at him. “Paul and Gaetana, at any rate. We get along famously; better than I do with my own sisters and brothers, to tell you the truth. I—I must say, Major Kernohan, if you will not think it impertinent in me, that I think you are most fortunate in having such a—a jokester as Mr Dorian for a brother. For when one’s siblings are all of a serious disposition, it—well, it means that there is little leaven in family life, I suppose.”

    He smiled. “Aye, I am very fond of him; but at times I feel he introduces so much leaven that the dough rises perilously near to the point of explosion.”

    “Um—yes!” she gulped. “Well—well, he is young yet, sir.”

    “Four and twenty is not so young, Miss Hildegarde. But he has never had to learn responsibility.”

    “Why, no,” she said, smiling a little, “I suppose it is that. For my Cousin Paul is the same age, and he maintains that he himself was a very frivolous person before he had the responsibility of his brothers and sisters and of the family home thrust upon him. But now, you know, in spite of his great sense of humour, he is become a most responsible person indeed, and—and all the family rely very heavily on him, even Mamma.”

    “I see,” he said, smiling at her. “His parents, I think, have remained in Spain?”

    “Yes. They are supposed to be with us for his wedding to my oldest sister, but we have still not heard exactly when to expect them, and Mamma is a little anxious.”

    “The posts cannot be very reliable between here and Spain, I would suppose.”

    “No, perhaps not. But Uncle Harry is a notoriously unreliable correspondent!” she said with a laugh. “It would be very like him simply to turn up on the doorstep!”

    “Well, that would be a pleasant surprize, indeed. –Do you care to sit this one out, Miss Hildegarde?”

    “I shall have to, since you have sent off all my would-be partners on dispatches!” she said with a gurgle.

    He smiled, and assisted her to a seat.

    “Do you—do you not care to waltz, then, Major?” said Hildy timidly, as it was a waltz they were sitting out.

    “My arm hampers me a little in the waltz, Miss Hildegarde,” he said steadily.

    “I see,” she murmured, flushing.

    “Pray do not upset yourself over it. It is nothing. But my sisters tell me that I tend to allow my hand to rest too heavily upon the lady’s waist, and I would not care to embarrass any young lady not nearly related to me.”

    Sudden tears sparkled in Hildy’s eyes. “I would not be embarrassed, sir, I would be honoured!” she said in a choked voice.

    “You would not, you know, for I have two left feet as well,” he replied drily.

    Hildy swallowed, and bit her lip. In spite of her genuine emotion, she had thought that her protest would persuade him. Oh, dear, would he think her a vain Miss? In fact, she had been thinking precisely as a vain Miss! After a moment she managed to say: “Unlike Nimble Naseby, then,” as he went gracefully down the room with the gratified Geraldine.

    “He is certainly a most graceful— ‘Nimble’ Naseby?” he said weakly.

    Hildy giggled, forthwith imparting the story of how her Spanish cousin had so dubbed him, and how it had caught on, till all London was calling him that.

    Aurry chuckled, assuring her he would not be to blame if the whole of Bath was not also speedily calling him that.

    “Oh, Major, that is most cruel of you!” she choked.

    “Aye: I think you have called me so before,” he said.

    Hildy stared at him numbly.

    Aurry perceived she had no recollection of the moment. His lean cheeks flushed a little and he said stiffly: “In jest only, of course.”

    “Yes,” she murmured.

    He saw he had disconcerted her and reflected that she was only a young thing, after all, and said in a softer tone: “John Clyffe was telling me you are a great expert on the principle of the hot-air balloon, Miss Hildegarde.”

    “Oh, help!” gasped Hildy.

    “He was most struck by your erudition,” he said, straight-faced.

    “Major, I do not truly understand a word of it, I have no scientific bent, but my little cousin has bored the family to tears with endless repetition of the—the facts, and to say truth, I think I must have learned them off like a parrot!” she gasped.

    “John will be most disappointed to hear that, Miss Hildegarde, for he has assured me you are a young woman of uncommon seriousness of mind. And that he dares swear that under your surface frivolity there is a steadiness of purpose to equal it.”

    Hildy stared at him. The Major’s dark face was expressionless. “He cannot have said that,” she said weakly.

    “Certainly. Surely you do not believe that I would on my own account describe your charming appearance as ‘surface frivolity’? It would be highly ineligible.”

    She stared at him. His face was still expressionless. “Major Kernohan,” she said in a shaking voice: “I have a strong feeling that we had best turn the subject. For if we do not, I have another strong feeling that I may go into strong hysterics!”

    “I could not cope with that,” he said simply. “For Mamma discourages it, within the family circle, you know.”

    “Sir,” said Hildegarde with a swelling bosom: “I am fast gaining the impression that you could cope with anything at all! I intend now to pass an unexceptionable remark on the subject of this dance, and if you do not reciprocate in kind I shall—I shall—”

    “What, Miss Hildegarde?” he said mildly as she broke off, out of breath and at a loss for a threat.

    “Explode like that overleavened dough you described!” gasped Hildy, going into a paroxysm. “Oh, dear: poor Mr Dorian, I shall never be able to look at him again without that image coming forcibly to mind!”

    Aurry frankly grinned. But he obligingly changed the subject and began to chat to her about Spain, asking whereabouts her relatives’ home was, and telling her a little of his own impressions of the country, and Hildy, with some thankfulness, followed his lead and did not—just yet—attempt a rallying tone again. For if she did not exactly believe that Major Kernohan could cope with anything, she had now perceived that his wit was at least a match for hers.

    Sir Julian then claimed her hand for another dance. It was obvious to Hildy that the Major’s brothers and the gallant Lieutenant were too scared of his wrath to come anywhere near her while she was still sitting with him, so Sir Julian’s was not such a signal triumph as his pleased smile indicated he believed it to be. His dancing was as graceful as ever, and though it was not a waltz, and they were necessarily separated by the movement of the dance, Hildy enjoyed it very much. He then offered to procure her a glass of lemonade, and she accepted gratefully.

    “I have had champagne, now, sir, did I tell you?” she said, smiling at him as she sipped. “To celebrate the occasions of my sisters’ engagements.”

    Many young ladies of course were expected to consume wines once they had come out, but it was not so in Sir Julian’s family and did not think it was in hers, either. “Oh; then it could not be thought ineligible,” he said, smiling at her in some relief.

    All at once Hildy experienced a strong desire to scream. She took a deep breath.

    Sir Julian then expressed his sincere congratulations on the subject of Miss Amabel’s engagement, for O’Flynn was a very good sort of a man.

    “Yes, he is all that is estimable,” said Hildy flatly.

    “Indeed. Er—very interested in hot-house plants, I gather.”

    Hildy choked.

    Poor Sir Julian looked at her numbly. “Have I put my foot in it, Miss Hildegarde?”

    “No— Oh, help!” gasped Hildy, shoving her glass at him and going into a painful paroxysm.

    Dorian had come up with Geraldine on his arm, and since Hildy had long since regaled him with the story of the pines, he said with a grin: “Here, Naseby, you was not mentioning hot-houses to Miss Hildy, I trust? For that is a subject which one must be entirely leery of, with members of her family, y’know!”

    “So I perceive,” he said numbly.

    “I do beg—your pardon—Sir Julian!” gasped Hildy. “He was saying, Mr Dorian, that Mr O’Flynn—my sister’s fiancé, you know—”

    “Oh, quite,” said Dorian. “Fellow who popped the question amidst the pines, eh?”

    “Very nearly!” she gasped. “Wuh-well, Sir Julian— I cannot,” she said limply.

    “Do tell me about O’Flynn’s hot-house, sir,” said Dorian smoothly.

    Julian was now very flushed, for though had quickly seen that Kernohan was jealous of his admiration for Miss Hildegarde, he had not expected her to align herself with the fellow against him. He said stiffly: “I doubt the subject could interest you, Mr Kernohan.”

    “No, no: I would be ravished, I assure you!”

    Hildy took a deep breath. “It was just that Mr O’Flynn expressed great interest in—in the methods of cultivating pines, that day, and—” She broke off, gulping.

    “Good Lord!” said Dorian in disgust. “What a fellow! On his engagement day? One would have thought he’d have better things to occupy his mind!”

    “Quite,” said Hildy in a strangled voice, rolling her lips very tightly together.

    “His is a wholly estimable character, and he is altogether a most hospitable and worthy fellow,” said Julian grimly. “And if anyone could be worthy of Miss Amabel Maddern—whom I believe you have not had the pleasure of meeting, sir?—it would be he.”

    “Yes, we are very glad for her,” said Hildy limply.

    “Of course,” agreed Dorian smoothly.

    Miss Geraldine had not followed all of the conversation, by any means, but she had seized one significant point, and now asked happily: “And when is your sister to be married, Miss Hildy?”

    “Um—late April, they think. It is not quite settled, yet,” said Hildy limply.

    “How exciting it will be!”

    “Yes,” said Hildy kindly, “I suppose it will.”

    Sir Julian then begged Miss Geraldine for a second dance, if her mamma would not think it unacceptable. Geraldine, blushing very much, said she did not think that Mamma would object to two dances, sir, and he bore her off.

    “Why, the fellow is naught but a piker, after all! And here was I prepared to do battle for the privilege of leading you out, Miss Hildy!” gurgled Dorian.

    “Mm. Only not, it would appear, with your formidable older brother, sir,” returned Hildy drily.

    “Well, no. He is a seasoned campaigner, you know! But you did not appear to be to unhappy to sit out with him.” Hildy’s cheeks reddened and he added on a kinder note: “Witty fellow, Aurry, in spite of his black-visaged look. I must own even I cannot always tell when he is shamming!”

    “No? I am very glad to hear it,” Hildy had to admit.

    Time was getting on, and a light supper was served; then, at Miss Clyffe’s earnest solicitation, Mrs Clyffe graciously permitted the young people just two more dances. Though possibly her consent owed less to Althea’s pleading face than to her own desire to get back at her brother Francis and Mr Hallam for that last rubber.

    The Anthony Hallams did not much care for cards, and the handsome Reverend and his pretty wife strolled into the other salon, arm-in-arm, to watch the young people—Mrs Anthony not without a pleased expression on her charming face at the sight of Geraldine’s hand being solicited by Mr Roland Kernohan. For although he was but a younger son, and far too young, she knew that Gerry had rather a fancy for him, and was the sort of kindly mamma, few and far between, who thought such innocent fancies could well be indulged when the two were but children, with no thought in their heads but the pleasure of the moment.

    Mr Henry Kernohan had privily had a word in his second son’s ear, and Dorian now very properly begged for the honour of leading Miss Beatrice Hallam onto the floor. Though he did not make the mistake of thinking this awful fate was Aurry’s doing: Mr Henry, as he informed Dorian pithily, had earlier looked in upon the room. And had not liked what he had seen, to wit, Dorian propping up the wall while young ladies lacked partners: did he fancy himself above his company?

    Henrietta Hallam was again not dancing, though it had not done her much good: Mr Clyffe had spoken to her only briefly, and then he had seemed interested only in soliciting her opinion on whether ladies’ tender constitutions could ever be expected to support the emotion of a balloon ascension, the which he did not himself suppose. The kind-hearted Mr Yelden, on seeing that this left Miss Maude out of it, led her into the dance himself. For he did not much care for cards, either, and did not mind a little frivol at a hop like this. He knew his good-natured wife, far from frowning upon it, would approve—and, indeed, Horty was nodding and smiling as he did it.

    Althea, Miss Clyffe, had the pleasure of being squired by the gallant Lieutenant, for his pleasant father had said in his ear: “Romney, old chap, whatever one’s inclinations may be, one has always a duty at such social occasions as these, you know. And though I know your leave is precious to you, still it will not do to neglect the daughter of the house.” And the gallant sailor, turning scarlet, had gulped: “Sir, was the Major speaking to you?” The Reverend Mr Anthony had replied mildly that no, he had not been: he had heard little Althea telling her mamma that Romney had danced with every lady but her. Romney had muttered an apology, not informing Papa, as he had done his cronies, that Althea Clyffe was the sliest little cat that ever walked, and gone off to do his duty. Mr Anthony had rejoined his wife reflecting that Major Kernohan must have made an excellent officer, for he clearly knew how to handle silly young fellows such as Romney, and what a terrible pity it was that he had been invalided out.

    Sir Julian very properly bowed before Miss Angelica Kernohan, who was sitting alone. The latter rose with alacrity, highly gratified. Though perhaps she would not have been so, had she known her elegant partner was wondering uneasily if perhaps that fellow—by which he meant, oddly enough, Major Aurelius Kernohan—had detained Miss Hildegarde in the other room. And whether, supposing he himself had instead solicited her hand, she would have wished to dance with him again. For he was beginning to suspect that perhaps she would not, and that his quest had been in vain. Well, it was true, he reflected on a guilty note, as he responded politely to Angie’s chatter, that she had ever been a tease, but... And to take that fellow Dorian Kernohan’s part against him was going too far, by George! He had felt a fool—and what in God’s name was so funny about pines, dammit? His own hot-house was full of the things—revolting, they were: acid.

    In fact it was General Sir Francis Kernohan who had detained Hildy, with a question about her relatives’ estates in Spain, for he rather thought Mamma had mentioned an area that he himself was acquainted with.

    Hildy replied with a little laugh: “Well, I hope it was not you who fought over a part of Tio Pedro’s land, sir, for he was most incensed about it, and is reputed to have said there was nothing to choose between the French and the English, for both armies were composed entirely of vagabonds and scavengers!”

    The General was greatly tickled by this remark, and noted that aye, Wellington himself had said he had an infamous army. And questioned her further about the mysterious “Tio” Pedro—did not that mean “uncle?” And Hildy explained that that was what her Spanish cousins called him, of course he was not her own uncle at all— And so forth.

    So, when she returned to the music room, the first dance had started. And the only gentleman without a partner was John Clyffe, oh, help!

    Mr Clyffe, an unmistakable gleam in his eye, immediately came and engaged her in conversation. Magnetism. Oh, help. And could he expect to see her and Grandmamma at the Pump Room tomorrow? Oh, help!

    He had just started to explain something of the principles of simple hydraulics on which all pumps worked—no, of course, Miss Hildegarde would not realize, but the humble scullery instrument, you know, was governed by precisely the same— When the dance finished, and the couples retreated from the floor. Hildy breathed a sigh of relief. But her trial was not over yet. Almost immediately Althea’s governess struck up a waltz.

    “You will not care to waltz, of course, dear Miss Hildegarde,” stated Mr Clyffe.

    Hildy’s jaw sagged.

    “I perceived,” he said, with a look that verged on the intimately understanding—oh, horror!—“that while the other young ladies did not hesitate to take the floor, you quietly sat out the earlier waltz with my poor Cousin Aurry.”

    From dumb amaze Hildy was abruptly plunged into red rage. “He is not ‘poor’, Mr Clyffe,” she said in a voice that shook, “and even if he were, I would not think it your place to dare to apply that appellation! For while he was serving his country on the battlefield, I make no doubt you were cosily ensconced in your science room, absorbed in nothing more praiseworthy than the gratification of your own curiosity. Which appears to me to be of the dil—”

    “—Delightfully insatiable variety,” finished a deep voice from behind their chairs.

    Hildy leapt where she sat and barely suppressed a scream.

    “Yes,” said Aurry, smiling, and strolling casually round to face them: “John has always taken a keen interest in all matters to do with the mysterious workings of the universe. But you are wrong about both Miss Hildegarde and me, you know, my dear fellow, for we are both at heart frivolous souls who adore to waltz. Will you do me the honour, Miss Hildegarde?” He bowed very low before her, his left hand to his heart.

    Hildy got up. ‘‘I should be charmed, Major. For you have assessed my character perfectly correctly: I am frivolous to the bone. There is nothing I adore above a waltz!”

    Aurry immediately led her into it. “‘Nothing’?” he said as he placed his hand—heavily, it must be admitted—at her waist.

    “What? Oh!” said Hildy, terribly flustered. “Well, I also adore crystallized violets. Though when I am waltzing, I suppose I do not think to make the comparison!” she added, rallying somewhat.

    “No,” he said, smiling a little. “Am I discommoding you?”

    “No,” growled Hildy, turning a deep scarlet and glaring at his neckcloth.

    “Perhaps I am, a little. I lack control of the force I apply.”

    “I see,” she said with difficulty.

    “Thank you for springing so gallantly to my defence, Miss Hildegarde,” he added on a wry note. “But there was really no need, with a well-meaning blunderer like dear old John, you know!”

    “Yes,” she said in a stifled voice. ‘‘I am afraid I lost my temper with him.”

    “I could see that. Well, if he had been boring on at you about pump engines, it is not to be wondered at.”

    “How long were you standing there?” she gasped.

    “Oh, long enough, Miss Hildegarde,” he said lightly.

    “Oh. Well—well, it had nothing to do with his boring on, sir!”

    He gave a funny little smile. “No.”

    “How dared he!” she burst out.

    “Ssh!” he said with a little laugh. “He meant nothing by it. He is fond of me, in his way, you know.”

    “But he was patronising you, Major!” cried Hildy indignantly.

    Aurry replied simply: “Yes. But I try to regard the thought behind the tone, rather than the tone itself.”

    Hildy looked up at him dubiously. “I see. That is wholly admirable of you, sir.”

    “Pray don’t make me into a hero, Miss Hildegarde: I am a very ordinary fellow,” he said drily.

    She replied grimly into his waistcoat: “I am not doing so. I would have defended any man in the circumstances, officer or common soldier.”

    “I see,” he said, smiling suddenly. “Well, it was very sweet.”

    Suddenly Hildy looked up. “Yes, and duly rewarded with a waltz, as if I were a little girl who deserved a treat! Well, there was no need, and we may sit down right now!” she ended crossly.

    “No!” he gasped, laughing. “Of course that was not my motive! I did it to afford dear, stolid John the sensation of baffled jealousy which, if you will glance his way, you will be in no doubt he is experiencing at this moment!”

    He swung her round in the dance: Hildy looked at John Clyffe and could see that he was sitting all by himself, scowling, his fists clenched on his solid knees.

    “Unworthy, I know, but I could not resist the temptation!” choked Aurry. “Dear old John: I dare swear he has never felt anything half so strong in all his ordered existence! And he will have forgot it entirely in a se’en-night, and be back to his blessed measurements and magnetisms and potions!”

    “That is not very flattering, Major,” said Hildy sternly, doing her best not to laugh.

    “No, but I fear it is true!” he choked. “What, did you think you were to leave four—no, no: five, I had forgot the gallant Romney—five broken hearts behind you in Bath, Miss Hildegarde?”

    “That is not amusing, Major Kernohan,” said Hildy crossly. “I know very well that none of your hearts has ever been in the least likely to be engaged! And—and it is indelicate of you to say such a thing!”

    “But I thought you would appreciate it,” he said sadly.

    Hildy sighed. “I give up, Major Kernohan, I shall never get the better of you in a verbal sparring match. May we just dance?”

    “Certainly,” he said with a smile.

    They finished the dance in silence. At the end of it he took her hand in his left and raised it briefly to his lips.

    “Thank you, Major,” said Hildy in a tiny voice. “It was a lovely dance.”

    “I did not tease you too much, I hope?” he said with an anxious look.

    “No,” she said faintly.

    “Dear Miss Hildegarde, you are overtired, I should never have— I shall ask Horty to take you home immediately.”

    Hildy did not protest, though she was not very tired. But she had had enough of dances and of warm salons, and of all these Hallams and Clyffes and Kernohans, just for the nonce.

    Sir Julian, on realizing she and her friends were about to leave, hurried over to them and begged the honour of escorting her to the Pump Room on the following day. For though he had decided during the dance with Angelica that Miss Hildy was a heartless flirt and he was wasting his time in Bath, he had had a sudden reversal of feeling. Mamma had been right all along: nothing venture, nothing win, should be his motto!

    Hildy looked at him in a wondering way, as if she had never seen him before in her life. “Oh,” she said, blinking. “Yes, that will be delightful, sir.”

    In the carriage going home she was very silent. The kindly Mrs Yelden herself wrapped the rug more closely round her, and worried that she should have taken her home immediately after the supper.

    Hildy went straight up to bed on reaching the house, for Mrs Kernohan had long since retired. But once she was tucked up warmly, she could not sleep for a long time. The sensation of being whirled silently in the waltz by Major Kernohan had caused her to experience a sudden anguished longing to be seized in his arms and held against his spare, strong chest for ever and ever.

    Which was ridiculous in the extreme, for during the dance itself, had he not indicated that he had no more serious feelings towards her than did his frippery brothers or the empty-headed Lieutenant Hallam? What a fool she was, to imagine… And in any case, she was not in love with him, she could not be in love with him. For the one thing they scarcely knew each other and for another thing, it was scarce two months since she had been sure she was deeply in love with Sir Edward Jubb!

    And before that there had been Mr Parkinson, and for several months she had wondered if it was really Sir Julian, after all... She was just a stupid, fickle Miss who did not know her own heart! Languishing after the Major because of his dark looks and his aura of sadness and—and because he was one of the heroes of Waterloo!

    ... And all in the space of less than a year. Ugh. How very lowering to the self-esteem.

    But reproach herself as she might, she still could not get the picture of Major Kernohan’s dark visage out of her mind at all. And when she tried to replace it with that of Sir Ned’s handsome face, she could not even remember the exact shape of his lapis-blue eyes! And strangely enough, she did not even attempt to envisage the pleasant, unassuming features of Julian Naseby.

    There were now only three days left of Hildy’s stay in Bath and she rose on the morrow determined to put all thoughts of Major Kernohan out of her mind. The three days were certainly filled with sufficient activity to assist her to this end.

    Mr Roland Kernohan, though he had most certainly been present when Hildy accepted Sir Julian’s offer to escort her to the Pump Room, turned up bright and early in the morning, in spite of his late night—in fact the two ladies had scarce adjourned to the morning room before the elderly butler appeared to ask Mrs Kernohan, with a disapproving look on his face, if she was ready to receive “Master Roly.”

    He was duly admitted, and having kissed his grandmamma’s cheek and greeted Hildy politely, and remarked by the by on the fact that Uncle Francis had been closeted since crack of dawn with Papa in his study, and if it was a plot to coerce Dorian into offering for Henrietta Hallam’s hand, it would have his willing support, took a seat opposite them.

    Silence fell.

    “That is a strange growth your hand has sprouted, Roland,” noted the old lady with a wicked glint in her eye. “Does it pain you, my dear?”

    “What?” he gasped. “Oh, I say, Grandmamma! No—um—I mean— Miss Hildy,” he said, gulping and suddenly getting up again and bowing very low: “pray allow me to present this poor offering to you with—with all my very best wishes.”

    Limply Hildy took the rolled scroll. It was covered in so many brown or green rosettes and ribands and adorned with so many silk violets tucked cunningly into them, that it was quite hard to perceive it was a scroll at all. “Thank you, Mr Roland.”

    “I think there may possibly be something hidden within the foliage, my dear,” noted Mrs Kernohan as she then just sat there limply with it in her hand.

    “Yes,” said Hildy in a strangled voice, thinking grimly that however dreadful it was, she must not laugh. She slid the paper out of its bindings. “How delightful,” she said. “He has called it A Rondeau: To Miss H.M., Mrs Kernohan.”

    “Clear. If possibly not original,” she noted.

    “I have not attempted that form before,” said Roly on an apologetic note.

    “No, indeed,” agreed Hildy numbly.

    The old lady choked. “Dare one enquire what he has rhymed it upon?” she wheezed.

    “Um, ‘fair’, and ‘—ad’. It is very clever, finding so many words with only the two rhymes to work upon. And it is very pretty,” said Hildy determinedly, “and it was most kind and thoughtful of you to write it for me, Mr Roly. I shall treasure it!”

    Mrs Kernohan held out her hand. Limply Hildy surrendered the offering to her.

    “Well, at least it is short: only the ten-line version of the form,” she noted. The poet glared.—“‘Farewell, lady fayre’?” she added.

    “It is a very pretty refrain,” said Hildy weakly.

    “Aye, and note the internal rhyme in the first line!” said the old lady immediately, reading it out: “‘Farewell, lady fayre, who our hearts did ensnare’—well, I will say this for you, Roland, you have chosen a useful rhyme there.” She read the poem out with some relish.

    “At least there is nothing inappropriate in it,” she finished, handing it back to Hildy.

    “Grandmamma! I would not!” choked the poet.

    “No, of course you would not. It is entirely appropriate and—and very touching,” offered Hildy gamely.

    “Say touched, rather. Was you trying for a Mediaeval tone, Roland?” enquired his grandmother genially.

    “It is a Mediaeval form,” said the poet with great dignity.

    “Indeed!” agreed Hildy quickly, getting up. “I think Sir Julian will not be long, so I shall go and change into my pelisse. Mr Roly, do you care to accompany us to the Pump Room?”

    “Oh, absolutely, yes!” he gasped.

    “He was not assuming that he would not accompany you,” noted Mrs Kernohan.

    Hildy swallowed hard. “The silk flowers and ribbons are a lovely touch, and I shall pin them to my violet pelisse, they will be just the thing.”

    Very gratified, the poet rose and bowed.

    Hildy seized the adorned page and hurried out.

    Silence fell. The poet eyed his grandmother uneasily. Mrs Kernohan tranquilly picked up her book. The fire crackled in the grate. Finally Roland cleared his throat desperately.

    “Was there something?” said Mrs Kernohan, looking at him over the top of her spectacles.

    “No—well, it is not as bad as all that, is it?”

    Mrs Kernohan raised her eyebrows very high. “‘Of jinks and enjoyments ’nuff could not be had’?”

    The poet swallowed. He had felt that to be a weak line. “Well, there is not that many words that will rhyme in ‘—ad’, you know!”

    “No doubt. And you had used ‘sad’ and ‘glad’ already. I suppose you could not easily have worked in ‘mad’,” she conceded. “Er—now, wait: what about: ‘Thy coming departure drives me nigh mad’? Or: ‘At news of thy leaving, I become nigh to mad?’ Or even: ‘Adored one, return, ere I become mad’? Now, that has a certain ring to it, whilst reducing the sentiment neatly ad hominem.”

    “We cannot all be as clever as you, ma’am!” he cried.

    “I should suppose not. Certainly if it has taken you since the day Aurry reported you were possessed of a rondeau to produce this happy tribute.”

    “I might have known that that fellow would not keep his mouth shut!” said the poet bitterly.

    “You might, indeed,” she returned drily, returning to her book.

    Roly lapsed into sulky silence.

    However, he brightened when Hildy reappeared clad in her violet pelisse with the flowers and ribbons pinned to it. And brightened still more when Sir Julian, on being shown the rondeau by Hildy, expressed his unalloyed admiration of it, saying wistfully that he wished he was a fellow with a few brains in his head, for he feared Miss Hildy must think him nothing but a dull chap. Roland did not perceive that Sir Julian’s good manners would not have permitted him in any case to do less than praise the poem; or that Sir Julian was incapable of distinguishing the highest art from mere doggerel.

    Hildy, of course, was aware of both these points and had to concentrate rather hard on burying her nose in the little posy Sir Julian had brought her. Hot-house gardenias. Though fortunately he did not mention the dread expression. She placed the posy carefully in a little vase before they left, so Sir Julian was as gratified by her reception of what he had referred to as his humble offering as Roly had been by her reception of his. There was a slight scramble as they both tried to usher her out—Mrs Kernohan was not accompanying them, it being once again a chilly, windy day—but apart from this small contretemps both gentleman appeared quite happy. On the pavement, they appeared even happier, for Hildy insisted on taking an arm of each.

    Hildy for her part felt quite strongly that she was in the place of Mrs Yelden taking her two little boys for a walk. What a pair of—of simpletons!

    In her cosy morning-room Mrs Kernohan did not neglect to have a hearty laugh over Roly’s awful rondeau. But she then sighed, and wondered very much how Henry and Francis were going on: for they had put it off before, but today was the day on which they had determined to speak to first Aurry and then Dorian about their intentions for them.

    At the Pump Room Roly noted in surprize the absence of his brother Dorian, but assumed happily that the fellow was still snoring. John Clyffe was also absent, though Hildegarde at least was not surprized. But Lieutenant Hallam turned up in fine fettle, reminding Hildy, beaming all over his handsome face, that they were to come to his mamma’s salon this very afternoon.

    Sir Julian observed with gloom that Miss Hildy did not, in the end, appear to be treating himself any differently from those other fellows. He could not for the life of him see how to persuade her otherwise. And apparently she was very busy until she was to leave, for when he invited her for a spin in his curricle, she thanked him but said she feared she could not possibly fit it in. Well, either it was true, or else—or else she did not wish for it. And Julian could not tell which it was.

    He was granted no opportunity alone with her, for although he certainly walked her home, so did both Mr Roland Kernohan and Lieutenant Hallam. And she did not appear to object to this.

    At Mrs Anthony Hallam’s afternoon party it was the same thing all over again, except that that damned middle Kernohan brother was also there, also pestering her with his attentions. And also being encouraged to do so. Then that evening, Julian’s aunt had arranged a dinner for some friends, so that was that.

    Kind Horty Yelden, though they had but a little house, had declared her intention of giving a little dinner party for Hildy that night. It was a very little party, indeed, for it featured only young Mr and Mrs Groot besides the Yeldens themselves, old Mrs Kernohan, and Hildy. General Sir Francis was dining with the Henry Kernohans that evening. He had called in briefly to report to his mother that all was splendid, and after he had seen his daughters, he would come back to Bath to collect Aurry, and they would go off and see what needed to be done to the property at Lower Daynesfold. And, if the boy did not yet seem over-keen, well, it would give him something to get his teeth into!

    The following day was the Sunday, and Agatha Hallam dragged her nephew off to divine service at the Abbey. Where he got barely a glimpse of Miss Hildegarde: she was surrounded. Mrs Hallam, observing his chagrin with some amusement, asked if he would not care to accompany her to sung Evensong, but Julian, reminding her that he was the unmusical one of the family, refused gracefully, very properly first ascertaining that she would not be lacking an escort. He therefore missed out on an opportunity to see Hildy, for instead of being mobbed by almost the entire Kernohan tribe, as she had been that morning, she was in the company only of Mrs Yelden, Roly, Tarry, and the General.

    Hildy thoroughly enjoyed the evensong, although the Major sang only a very little piece by himself. But the full choir was wonderful, as was the organ. They did not linger afterwards, for the wind was blowing strongly, and the General popped her into the carriage and took her straight back to his mother’s cosy house.

    The Monday was to be Hildy’s last day in Bath and it was a very busy day for her. She and Mrs Kernohan had designed to pay a little round of visits in the morning, such persons as the elderly Miss Clyffes who lived under the thumb of their housemaid having impressed upon them they must have a last glimpse of dear Miss Hildy! But before they could set forth they were gratified by a visit of three gentlemen.

    “If this is to be another rondeau,” said Mrs Kernohan frankly, “I shall retire to my room. With my smelling-salts.”

    “I say, it was not that bad, was it?” asked Dorian with interest. “He would not let us have a sniff of it, you know!”

    “Well, he asked me if I could think of a rhyme for ‘fair’,” noted Aurry. “Did he use it in the end, Miss Hildegarde?”

    “Yes, he did,” she said, glaring, “and it was a lovely, thoughtful gesture, and if you two monsters are to be horrid to dear Mr Roly, I shall retire to my room, too!”

    “And leave the world for you to bustle in,” noted Mrs Kernohan drily.

    “We shall not be horrid,” said Dorian meekly, “for we have a lovely, thoughtful gesture of our own to make.”

    “I would be very wary of taking that sentiment at face value,” advised Mrs Kernohan.

    Not entirely because Mr Dorian had already presented her with a bunch of hot-house blooms, not neglecting to assure her that they were such, Hildy replied grimly: “Quite.”

    “It was Aurry and me that discovered it,” revealed Roly, holding out the large package that he had been clutching. “But of course it is from us all.”

    “Be careful, Miss Hildegarde, it is heavy!” said Aurry quickly. “Roly, set it upon the table, you young imbecile!”

    Roly carefully did so.

    “It will not explode, and cover me with soot, I trust?” said Hildy, looking at it dubiously. “And if it is reptiles—”

    “No, no, dearest Miss Hildy!” cried Dorian in horror. “We are such monsters as that, y’know! No, it is quite—er—inanimate.”

    “It cannot be wild pines, then,” she noted, beginning gingerly to unswathe it.

    Roly here went into a terrific sniggering fit, and Hildy was a trifle surprised to see both of his brothers frown awfully upon him.

    The mystery of this odd sternness was soon elucidated, however, for when the object was finally unswathed from its wrappings, it was seen to be a clock. In the taste of the last century—or rather, in the worst of the taste of the last century. For it featured very much gold and many porcelain fruits, leaves and flowers as to the base, and the clockface itself was supported by two black porcelain figurines which put Hildy forcibly in mind of Lady Georgina’s footmen, though these were a lady and gentleman who wore only the suggestion of draperies round their middles. Their heads—and indeed, the very top of the clock itself, now that she looked more closely, were adorned by—

    “Pines!” she shrieked, collapsing in gales of laughter.

    “I knew she would like it!” cried Roly.

    “What a bouncer!” gasped Aurry. “You said it was in the poorest taste you had ever seen!”

    “That was before I had spotted it had pines as well as blackamoors!” he cried, greatly injured.

    Hildy gave a helpless wail.

    Mrs Kernohan also was laughing helplessly. “Oh, my dears! It is perfect!” she gasped at last. “Wherever did you discover it, Aurry?”

    “Oh, it was on one of my strolls around the back streets. We saw it in the window of a little curio shop, did we not, Roly?”

    “Aye,” he said eagerly. “The fellow was most reluctant to part with it. Until he realised we would give him his asking price, of course!”

    “I deeply regret not having been in on the discovery,” put in Dorian, grinning, “but of course the minute I laid eyes on it I insisted on being associated with it, Miss Hildy!”

    “Well, you would,” acknowledged his grandmother. “–Good gracious, the figures have gold rings in their ears!”

    “Aye, and if you look closely at the clock itself—not the face, I mean: the case,” said Dorian eagerly, “you will see that although the gilt is a trifle worn, it has a sort of scrollwork on it: the whole thing is meant to be a pine!”

    “It would pay for regilding, I am afraid,” admitted Aurry, smiling at Hildy, “but we thought you would prefer it in its original state, Miss Hildegarde.”

    “Oh, yes: I shall treasure it all my life!” she cried. “And if I ever have a drawing-room of my own, it shall have pride of place upon the mantel!”

    “You had best marry a man of large mind, then,” noted Mrs Kernohan drily.

    “Aye: or blind!” choked Roly.

    Hildy beamed at her clock. “I will not marry a man who cannot love my clock! In fact, I shall make it a test of his worthiness: if he cannot love my clock, then he is not the right choice!”

    The Kernohan brothers looked upon her with great approval, though from the twitching of Aurry’s long mouth, it appeared he was also trying not to laugh.

    The ladies’ carriage then being announced, the brothers took their leave, with smiling good wishes.

    But on the steps Aurry suddenly gave a gasp, and hurried back inside.

    “Master Aurry—!” protested the old butler, momentarily forgetting Mrs Kernohan’s grandson’s advanced age and military status, as the Major ran back into the little morning-room.

    The old lady had gone upstairs, but Hildy had already been in her pelisse when the gentlemen arrived: she was placidly adjusting her bonnet before the mirror over the mantel.

    “Miss Hildegarde!” gasped Aurry. “I am the greatest fool alive, I had quite forgot—”

    “In the excitement of the pines: yes,” noted Hildy, glancing at the little package he had laid down on a small table near the door when he came in. “Your grandmamma has already warned me not to touch it on any account, for it is undoubtedly an explosive device.”

    “No,” he said weakly, retrieving it and handing it to her. “Er—from me. Just a little token,” he said awkwardly.

    “Thank you. And if it explodes, I shall quite understand,” said Hildy cheerfully, undoing its mauve riband, “that your brothers had no hand in it! –Oh,” she said, going very pink.

    Aurry was also rather flushed. “You mentioned you adored them as much as the waltz—I hope it was not a joke,” he murmured.

    “No: I truly love them! I have never had so many presents!” she said naïvely.

    “Good,” said Aurry, smiling into her shining eyes.

    Hildy’s glance wavered and fell. There was a little silence.

    “Would it be all right to eat one now?” she ventured.

    Aurry gave a little laugh. “What, ruin your digestion? –Yes, please do,” he said with a smile as she looked at him dubiously.

    Hildy ate a crystallized violet, smiling shyly at him. She held out the box, but he shook his head and said simply: “No, I abominate the things.”

    “Good; for to say truth it would physically hurt to give you one! They inspire me with such greed! I fear you are encouraging my character to go to the bad, Major!”

    “No, there is no fear of that,” he murmured. He took a deep breath.

    Behind him the elderly butler coughed loudly.

    “Er—yes; very well, Briggs, my dear old fellow, it is most unacceptable, and not at all the thing, and what would all the Bath quizzes say?” he said drily.

    The butler looked at him reprovingly.

    “Yes, I am going!” he said with a laugh. “Goodbye, Miss Hildegarde. –And if you wish to eat them all at once, do so!”

    “Thank you again, Major Kernohan. And I shan’t, I shall make them last!” she said, giving him an ecstatic smile.

    Aurry Kernohan of course knew pretty much what her family circumstances were, and his mamma had not scrupled to say in front of him that she supposed the modish clothes must have been paid for out of the Ainsley estate and she wondered Mrs Maddern thought it proper; and he thought suddenly it was probably true that no-one ever had given the poor little thing so many presents before, and suddenly wanted very much to scoop her up in his arms and—and carry her off! To some place where she would be warm and protected and surrounded with crystallized violets and damned horrors of pineapple clocks to her heart’s content!

    He took a shaky breath: that was absurd, he scarce knew the girl, and besides— Well. It was a Bath fancy, that was all. The sort that stupid young subalterns were wont to suffer in watering places during the summer season. And which he was not at all sure she reciprocated in the slightest. He bowed, bade her goodbye again, and went.

    Hildy, for some strange reason, ran straight upstairs and hid the box of sugared violets under her pillow—and did not breathe a word of them to her kind hostess.

    The visits were duly paid, and though Hildy was a little distrait, her kindly Bath acquaintances noticed nothing amiss.

    Mr Henry Kernohan himself had promised to drive her out in the afternoon in one last effort to see old Great-Uncle Hildebrand Maddern, for the previous effort had been distinctly unsuccessful. It had been a pleasantly mild day, and Mrs Kernohan and Dorothea had accompanied Hildy in the Henry Kernohans’ barouche, with Mrs Kernohan’s own elderly coachman upon the box, and a footman up behind. After the latter had tried knocking and ringing at length, they had decided there was no-one at home, when suddenly an upper-storey window had been flung open and a cross old voice had cried: “Who the Devil is it? I am not at home, and if it’s me money you’re after you may take yourselves and your fancy carriage and be off!”

    Hildy, laughing very much, had stood up in the barouche and waved, calling out: “It is your great-niece Hildegarde, and I am not after your money at all! And I quite understand your wish not to be disturbed, sir, for I am of a reclusive nature myself! And we shall go immediately!”

    Which they had done. Mrs Kernohan had also laughed very much but Dorothea had been shocked, and so, indeed, had been her Uncle Henry on hearing of it. He had decided that possibly the old man had not been well, and that they should make an effort to see him again. Hildy thought that her mother would undoubtedly say she should have, if she did not, so she had agreed to kind Mr Henry’s proposal, though thinking sadly it would be a terrible waste of her last afternoon.

    As it was a chilly day, Mr Henry had brought his coach, and declared that his mamma must not venture out. She replied placidly that she had no intention of driving for an hour and a half merely to be shouted at, at the end of it, and besides, had a new novel which Agatha Hallam had assured her was a roman à clef, and vastly entertaining. And that she would not miss them.

    “Well, this is cosy!” said cheerful Mr Henry, beaming at Miss Hildegarde, as he settled himself beside her in the coach. Hildy agreed it was. It was true the coach was warm, and Mr Henry had provided a hot brick, and there was a fur rug besides, but in truth she rather hoped the drive, which would take about an hour, the hour and a half having been one of Mrs Kernohan’s exaggerations, would not afford her too much time to brood. No: to—to— Yes, brood.

    Mr Henry, after supposing kindly she must be looking forward to seeing her cousins again, then elicited some facts about their home—which Hildy did not realize was an attempt to get a little more information than he had had previously from his sister Wilhelmina Parkinson, not having been at that stage interested in the matter, or from the General, who had said infuriatingly: “Eh? Oh, over towards Dittersford way. The house is Jacobean, I believe. Quite a fine place. Let go, rather, last time I saw it. Why d’you want to know?” Miss Hildegarde’s naïve revelations informed Mr Henry—not directly, obviously—that her cousins lived in style and that the Manor lands were in exceeding good heart and must bring in a more than decent income. The which at least indicated that the Ainsley side of the family was one that could be received with perfect equanimity.

    He then, for he was a chatty, gregarious man, and besides, there was a connexion between the topics in his mind, turned to the matter of his and his brother’s decisions about Aurry and Dorian, and gratified Miss Hildegarde with a rather full description of the size and style of Beaubois House (which was pronounced “Bew Boys” and so Hildy was to think of it for some time), conceding that it was in a shocking state but adding hurriedly that Aurry would soon see to that. Hildy said timidly, blushing rather, that she was very sure her Cousin Paul would be happy to furnish Major Kernohan with the names of—of plasterers and so forth, should he wish for them. Aurry’s papa chuckled and said he would wish for ’em, all right, and did her cousin know of any roofers? Hildy replied seriously that he did, forthwith gratifying Mr Henry with a description of the state the roof of Ainsley Manor had been in and the dreadful fate of Grandpapa’s carpets, and the wonderful Persian carpets that Aunt Marinela had sent from Spain. Mr Henry was conscious of a certain regret that Miss Hildegarde was not a daughter of the Manor, merely a cousin.

    By the time he had finished telling her of his plans for Dorian as his own heir—for he was not sure which of ’em she favoured, and although they had had other hopes for Dorian than a portionless little girl like Hildy, still, she was a dear little thing, and if it should turn out it was what they both wanted he would not stand in their way—they were almost at Great-Uncle Hildebrand’s, and Hildy was a little surprized that the journey had seemed so short.

    The groom who was beside the coachman on the box jumped down. Mr Henry lowered his window and watched cautiously. “Well, nobody is shouting at us yet,” he noted.

    “No. But nobody is opening the door, either.”

    Mr Henry chuckled very much, and patted her knee.

    Eventually the groom, shaking his head, reported back to the carriage. Mr Henry was just telling him to hop up, and that they should drop in at that inn that they had passed a little while back, for he looked chilled, poor Appleton—Appleton appearing very gratified—when the upper-storey window was flung up. Before they could do more than look up, an article of bedroom china came flying down and crashed into a thousand pieces on the sweep. Fortunately nowhere near the startled Appleton or the horses.

    “I think that is clear enough!” said Mr Henry with a chuckle.

    “Oh, dear!” gasped Hildy, trying vainly not to laugh. “I do apologize for him, sir!”

    “Aye, well, I suppose every family has ’em,” he said kindly. “Tell Johnson to drive on, man, and that we will rest at the inn long enough to spell the horses and take a glass, eh?”

    Appleton agreed to this, and sprang up, smiling. They could hear him and the coachman laughing before Mr Henry put the window up again.

    What with the nuncheon Mr Henry pressed upon Hildy at the inn and the drive back, the day was quite advanced when they returned to Bath, and she was already looking eagerly for the coach from the Manor. They were to put up at the York House, Paul having declared firmly he would not discommode Mrs Kernohan, but the plan was to call first at the house.

    “It is too early, my dear,” said the kindly Mr Henry.

    “Yes. It is a long way.”

    “Aye, aye,” he said with a little sigh. “That is my only regret, you know, that Aurry will no longer be within arm’s reach of us. Well, I suppose we are used to doing without him, while he has been at the wars, but…” He sighed again.

    “Indeed, sir,” she said sympathetically. “But—but you must be glad, at least, that he is back among you.”

    “Aye, I will not deny it, my dear: it would be unnatural in us not to feel considerable relief that he is home safe and very nearly sound! Though he feels the loss of his career, you know.”

    “Yes, he must do,” she said in a tiny voice.

    Mr Henry looked at her with interest, and decided his first guess was correct, and it was Aurry the pretty little thing favoured. Well, well, it could have been worse. And he had certainly the impression that Aurry favoured her. For, to take but one instance, he had been exceedingly brusque with Dorian over the story of Romney Hallam’s idiotic image of kittens nestling in her sleeves, with which his brother had entertained the family this very morning, declaring he would have it all round Bath by the afternoon or be sunk in the attempt. Aurry in fact had offered to sink him, then and there. The fellow must be encouraged to make his move!

    Mr Henry decided he would come in, just for a moment. And when he had done so, after having bussed his mamma’s cheek, embarrassed Hildy very much by suddenly reaching into his pocket and presenting her with “just a tiny token.”

    “Oh, sir!” she cried. “You should not!”

    “Pooh. You have been great company for Mamma, you know.”

    “No, say rather, she has been great company for me!” cried Hildy.

    “Well, you have given me my ‘sweet tooth!’” pointed out the old lady with a chuckle.

    Hildy smiled. Mrs Kernohan had herself presented her at breakfast with a pretty little gold locket, in the case, she had said, that she might forget later in all the excitement of the day, and Hildy had then shyly presented her own little thank-you gift. It was a little comfit box, for the old lady was addicted to nibbling these: Hildy had found it in a funny little shop on a walk with Dorothea. It was made of a whale’s tooth, the tip being cut right through and hinged to form a lid. And perhaps originally might have been fashioned by a sailor to keep his baccy in. Fortunately it did not smell of baccy now, so Hildy, after some hesitation, had bought it, and presented it to her kind hostess lined with silver paper and filled with comfits. “For your sweet tooth, dearest Mrs Kernohan,” she had said, a trifle nervously. But there had been no need to be nervous: Mrs Kernohan had laughed delightedly over it. And the box had become her “sweet tooth” immediately.

    Mr Henry’s token was also a necklet—perhaps the Kernohan family had silently noted that Miss Hildy did not possess any trinkets save her seed pearls, a trumpery little ring brooch, and a gold bangle. This one was of tiny amethyst beads. Hildy was quite overcome, even though he assured her robustly they were nothing very much.

    It was the more embarrassing, then, when later in the day General Sir Francis Kernohan also presented her with a token. His was a little gold brooch in the shape of a bow. Hildy was delighted with it, of course, and informed him she had only the one brooch of her own. The General, with his mamma’s eye upon, only just stopped himself in time from saying that he knew that.

    The rest of the evening was spent in wondering if they should wait dinner, waiting dinner, then not waiting dinner, and fidgeting that the cousins had not come. At ten o’clock Mrs Kernohan retired firmly to bed, ordering Hildy to do the same: she was sure that at this hour the Ainsleys would go straight to the inn.

    So it was not until the following morning, when the two ladies and the General had just breakfasted, that the door to the morning-room opened and Briggs announced: “Mr Ainsley, Miss Ainsley, madam.”

    Hildy sprang up, laughing and crying, and hurled herself into Gaetana’s arms.

    “¡Querida, I have missed you so!” cried Gaetana, also bursting into tears.

    Paul was bowing over Mrs Kernohan’s hand. “I regret exceedingly that your cousin has been so miserable with me, Mr Ainsley,” the naughty old lady said.

    “Oh!” cried Hildy immediately. “I have not! And you know it very well!”

    Paul perceived that Mrs Kernohan did know it: the two were smiling at each other like great friends.

    In a very short time after that they were ready for the journey. Hildy kissed her kind hostess, and Mrs Kernohan patted her back and told her not to be a watering pot again, and if her family could spare her, she would see her at Easter; and so they were on their way.

    “Oh!” said Hildy, suddenly sitting bolt upright. “I forgot about Briggs! Should I have given him something, Paul?”

    “No,” he said with a twinkle, “for I slipped him a guinea myself.”

    “Oh, thank you,” said Hildy weakly.

    Gaetana squeezed her hand. “So you did truly enjoy yourself, Hildy?”

    “Oh, very much! At first it was so peaceful, you know, and then when Dorothea came I suppose we just led a dawdling life, which suited me very well at the time. And lately I have begun to go about a little more. And have been chafing a little at the kind Kernohans’ attempts to keep me swaddled!” she added with a little laugh.

    “Splendid,” said Paul.

    “Sí. I am glad you did not pine, Hildy, dearest,” said Gaetana.

    “Just a little,” she said with a smile. “I would see something, or hear an absurdity, you know, and think ‘I must tell Gaetana,’ and then of course, you would not be there!”

    “But we enjoyed your letters, querida,” said Paul , smiling her.

    “¡Sí, sí! Especially about the quizzy ones!” agreed Gaetana. “I would so much like to see Colonel Clyffe and the bulldog that looks like him!”

    “Well,” said Hildy, looking out of the window, “I cannot offer you that treat, but quick! There is General Lowell!”

    Her cousins peered unashamedly.

    “Help, he is so fat!” gasped Gaetana.

    “Hildy did write us that,” murmured Paul.

    “¡Sí, but to see it! Hildy, I would have been in hysterics through every flowery speech he made to me, in your place!”

    “It was funny, at first,” she admitted.

    “Sí,” said Paul on a grim note.

    “I should think so!” choked Gaetana.

    Paul eyed Hildy doubtfully, but said no more.

    It was not until the day was well advanced, and long past the time when they had stopped for a meal, and the horses had been changed more than once, when Hildy said abruptly: “Paul: do you know of Beaubois House?”

    “Er... Oh, sí: it is that empty place over in the direction of Lower Daynesfold. About a mile out of the village, I think. Giles was telling me that sections of the roof are reputed to have fallen in entirely. So whoever owns it will have an even harder task than did I, should he wish to put it in order! ¿Why, querida? Have you met the owner?”

    Hildy swallowed. “Yes. It is General Sir Francis Kernohan. He—he means to put it in order, and—and Major Kernohan is to be his heir, and live in it.”

    “Well, that is very nice, my dear,” he said gently.

    “Who is Major Kernohan?” asked Gaetana in bewilderment.

    Hildy swallowed again. “Winkin’.”

    “Oh, one of the three brothers?”

    “Yes. I wish I had not dubbed them so, in my letters,” admitted Hildy.

    “But querida, it was very funny! Especially the sayings of Blinkin’, and the idiotic poesies of Nod!” choked Gaetana.

    “Yes,” she said uncomfortably.

    “Does he wink?” asked Gaetana with interest.

    “What? No, of course not!” she said crossly.

    Paul’s foot touched his sister’s under the carriage rug. “Well, perhaps we shall see something of him; that will be pleasant, will it not?” he said.

    “Yes,” said Hildy in a tiny voice.

    A great light dawned on Gaetana’s face. She looked at her brother in excited speculation.

    Paul merely shook his head very slightly, though his eyes twinkled. Hildy’s interlude in Bath, he concluded, had not been composed entirely of the hilarious anecdotes which she had reported in her letters. Well, so much the better! For Ned Jubb would not have done for her at all, any more than would the prudish Holy Hilary; and Sir Julian Naseby, though a very pleasant fellow, was so lacking in decision! Paul did not truly think that a lady who had much admired the forceful Edward Jubb could be happy with such a man. Well, they must cultivate this Major!

    “Well,” he said mildly: “it seems all Mrs Kernohan’s relatives were very good to you, Hildy.”

    “Oh, yes! everybody was so kind!” she gasped, bursting into sobs.

    Gaetana put an arm round her and looked at Paul uncertainly.

    “She is a little tired,” he said softly. “A little overexcited.”

    His sister nodded, and gave him a significant look.

    Paul nodded back, but swallowed a sigh. Gaetana’s interlude without Hildy had unfortunately held no surprises—though he and Rockingham were now on first-name terms. Oh, dear. But he could not at all work out why Giles, instead of being cast down by Gaetana’s continued distant manner towards him—when she did not forget to maintain it and lapsed into treating him as one of the family, which unfortunately she did all too rarely—did not appear depressed at all. For if he did not look precisely cheerful all the time, at least he had a sort of hopeful and determined gleam in his eye. It was odd. Had he something up his sleeve? Paul hoped very much it was so. But he could not imagine what.