Ainsley Manor

Part III. Country Life: Tragical, Comical, Pastoral

12

Ainsley Manor

    Paul had been down to Ainsley Manor several times during the course of the Season, so he had a very good idea of what to expect. The city gentleman who had hired it had taken it unfurnished—for he had wished to put his own furniture in it—and had naturally not mistreated the house. But it was true that the roof had been sadly in need of repair. Jake had seen to this last, and had also seen to the stored carpets and furniture being retrieved from the attics and replaced in the correct rooms, but many of the carpets that the city gentleman had not used had been ruined from being stored under the leaky roof, and had had to be thrown away. In the rooms where the tenant had had his own curtains, the old ones, rehung, now looked sadly shabby.

    The girls were enchanted with the exterior aspect of the house, for it was, as Sir Harry had rather vaguely indicated to his children, a Jacobean manor house. Not large, and the late Sir Vyvyan’s landscape designer had removed several horrid outhouses that had sprung up around its frontage and considerably improved the prospect. And his architect had thrown several of the smaller rooms into single larger rooms, so that Sir Vyvyan could entertain on the scale on which he desired. At the back of the house a ballroom had been added, together with a conservatory and a small pinery. The two latter now, sadly, empty. It could have been a very comfortable house. But—

    “Oh, my land,” said Mrs Maddern faintly, looking round the larger drawing-room. “What has happened to Grandpapa’s beautiful Persian carpets?”

    Paul put his arm round her. “I’m afraid they were some of the ones that were ruined under the leaky roof, Tia Patty. I’ve written to Harry about it. I think Marinela may allow him to send some of the carpets she inherited from her Tia Ana. If not, we shall buy new ones for this room.”

    Mrs Maddern nodded numbly. After a moment she said: “And the curtains: they look so faded!”

    “Yes. Well, they must date from my grandfather’s time, I think?”

    Patty Ainsley’s own parents having died when she was only a child, she had been brought up by Sir George and his wife. “Yes. My aunt had them new at the time of my come-out,” she said faintly.

    “They have seen honourable service, then, and must be instantly retired!” said Paul with his charming smile.

    “Yes,” agreed Mrs Maddern in a small voice.

    Paul squeezed her a little. “I could have asked Jake to see to refurbishing the house, but—”

    “Ask a man to refurbish a house! Never!” she cried.

    Paul’s eyes twinkled, but he refrained from laughing.

    “Well, I shall have my work cut out here!” she declared.

    “Aye, that you will, Mrs Maddern,” agreed Jake, somewhat incautiously. Paul gave him a quick glare. Jake continued, unperturbed: “I haven’t done a thing with the conservatory or the pinery, neither, seeing as how plants are not anything I ever learnt much about. Higgs tells me they could be set up to look real nice, though it will be difficult to restock the pinery. But he knows a young man with considerable experience in hot-houses as is looking to better himself, and—”

    “Old Higgs!” she cried. “Surely he is not still here, Jake?”

    Jake smiled slowly. “Not him, Mrs Maddern, ma’am, though the old fellow is still living: ninety-two and all his wits about him! No, it’s his grandson.”

    “His grandson?” she said faintly. “Good gracious, Jake, does it not make one feel old?”

    Jake shook his grizzled head. “Aye, that it does, Miss Patty—Mrs Maddern, I should say!” he amended with a laugh. “But it ain’t that bad: the son—that were George Higgs, you may not remember him—the son never were interested in gardening, so the grandson took right over from the old man. Trained him up himself, of course.”

    “I see. So he must be… How old is he, Jake?”

    Jake replied somewhat reluctantly: “He’s a man of around forty, Mrs Maddern.”

    “Forty!”

    There was a slight pause. The girls looked at her uneasily.

    “But wait!” she said eagerly. “It must be my little Harry Higgs, then!”

    Jake laughed. “Aye, that it is, Miss Patty, and he’s a-waiting at the French door to the little sitting-room as we speak, with the biggest bunch of fl—”

    But Mrs Maddern had rushed out.

    “Whew!” said Jake, mopping his brow, and grinning all over his heavy face.

    “¡Sí: it was touch and go there, for a minute!” chuckled Paul.

    “¡Sí, sí! I was sure Tia Patty was going to cry!” agreed Maria. “—I thought it was ‘go and touch’, Paul?”

    “No!” he gasped, swooping on her and giving her a big hug. “Come along this way, mi querida, and all of you children, too, for out on the side lawn I have something for you!”

    “Weeds?” suggested Hildegarde politely.

    “The drive is in a shocking state, isn’t it?” he said with a smile. “Jake has had men working on it, of course, but with heavy rains this spring—”

    “It is not so much the drive,” noted Miss Maddern on a dry note, “after all, at least it is not pot-holed; it is that waving hay paddock that forms the main prospect!”

    “After Pa’s tenant left there was no-one to pay the gardeners,” he explained. “Mr Pusey explained that Harry did not—er—authorize him to keep on a skeleton staff and he had not Power of Attorney.”

    Miss Maddern was startled into exclaiming: “Good gracious, Cousin! Why on earth not?”

    “Harry does not believe in putting his money into anyone else’s hands,” he said sedately, offering her his arm.

    “Nor in putting it into anything that will not give him an assured return,” agreed Gaetana.

    Jake sniffed. “Aye.”

    “Quite. Higgs will get a man onto it directly, dear Cousin. I own I had not realized just how high it would have grown by now. I ordered him to concentrate on the kitchen gardens and the orchard,” Paul admitted, “for I thought it best the household should not starve. –This way. My inexperience betrayed me, Cousin Christa,” he said, smiling into her eyes, “for I did not realise the man would interpret my every word literally, and use no initiative whatsoever in the matter of front prospects of waving hay!”

    “They are frequently like that,” said Christabel in a very weak voice, “especially with a new master.”

    “Yes; it was entirely understandable. This is the little sitting-room,” he said, bowing her in to a view of a very pretty little panelled room with curtains and chair coverings of a blue and white dimity.

    “Oh, this is pretty!” said Miss Maddern with a smile.

    “Yes. I took the liberty of having it refurbished,” Paul admitted, “though very much in the style in which Jake assures me it used to be when it was Grandmother’s sitting-room. I thought you would wish for somewhere pleasant to sit directly.”

    “Yes, we shall be very comfortable here. It was very thoughtful of you.”

    Paul smiled into her eyes. Christabel went very red.

    Meanwhile the twins, Floss, Marybelle and Maria had approached the window—rather uncertainly, for Mrs Maddern was talking excitedly just outside it on the little terrace with a burly man who must be the head gardener.

    “Look!” gulped Floss.

    Paul deserted Miss Maddern precipitately. “Gently. Don’t startle them.”

    “Paul’s gone mad, he’s got a horse for each of them!” gulped Hildy.

    “Look!” shouted Bungo.

    “That’ll do, you’ll startle them,” said Jake grimly, joining them on the lawn. “Aye, you can go up, Miss Floss, but don’t yell and don’t kick her,” he said, lifting Floss bodily onto a very pretty little dappled mare.

    Floss sat there still as a stone, bright puce.

    Mrs Maddern had come up behind them, unnoticed. “Of course!” she said smugly.—The girls jumped.—“We always had ponies and horses when Harry and I were young. –My dearest girls, what a picture you present, you in your primrose print, Hildy, and Gaetana in that green! I am glad we chose it, even if the little flowers are pink,” she added firmly.

    “Yes, a little pink looks all right with our hair, doesn’t it?” agreed Hildy.

    Mrs Maddern adjusted Hildy’s shawl in a more becoming way. “Yes, my dear. Keep your shawl round you, Hildy, it is not so warm a day as all that.” She sighed. “This scene does so bring back to me the days of my girlhood! Seeing the two of you standing there, I could almost have believed it to be myself and dear Cousin Sophia!”

    “Yes, Mamma,” said Hildy resignedly.

    “You would have had larger hats, however,” noted Gaetana seriously.

    “Yes, indeed. That reminds me, my love, we must check out the family portraits directly; I pray that dreadful cit did not consign them to a mouldy attic!” She nodded firmly and went to speak to Paul.

    Hildy rolled her eyes wildly. “Family portraits?”

    “You have two lovely portraits of Mr Maddern’s grandparents,” said Gaetana weakly.

    “Two!”

    Gaetana gulped.

    Hildy looked at Paul putting Bunch Ainsley up on a martyred black pony. “He will be commissioning silhouettes of the entire family next, so as not to forget Bunch’s curls,” she predicted grimly.

    “He will not need to, Amabel has already offered,” said Gaetana in a hollow voice.

    Hildy gave a shriek of laughter.

    Jake came over to them, grinning. “Don’t, Miss Hildy, you’ll startle the ponies! Neat, ain’t they?”

    “Very. Do you know, Mr Pringle, we were just saying my cousin has run mad,” she said in a conversational voice.

    Jake grinned. “Wait until you see what else he’s got in the stables, Miss Hildy!”

    Hildy gulped.

    Marybelle lay flat on her bed, groaning.

    “You didn’t have to accompany Mamma on a tour of the house,” Floss pointed out somewhat uncertainly.

    “On a tour of every scrap of linen in the house,” groaned Mary-belle.

    “Yes, well, exactly. You could have left it to Christa and Amabel.”

    Marybelle put one arm over her eyes. “No, for she has promised me some pieces of lace that belonged to her Aunt Lucy,” she groaned.

    “Oh. Um—did you find them?”

    “Yes, but by then I was too exhausted to care,” groaned Marybelle. “I think my feet have swelled to three times their normal size.”

    “Take your shoes off, then,” said Floss sensibly.

    “I’m too tired even to sit up,” groaned Marybelle.

    “Oh. Um—shall I?”

    “Angel,” groaned Marybelle.

    Floss unlaced Marybelle’s shoes with a very dubious expression on her face.

    “Thank you,” sighed Marybelle.

    “Um—I could get you some lavender water for your head.”

     Marybelle moved her arm to her forehead and squinted at her in surprize.

    “Are you getting old?” said Floss uncertainly.

    “Old and mad,” said Marybelle with a groan.

    Floss smiled uncertainly.

    Marybelle closed her eyes. After a moment she said: “Mamma says Maria and I may come down to dinner sometimes this summer, when they are not entertaining.”

    “You are getting old, and it is NOT FAIR!” shouted Floss.

    Marybelle squinted at her again.

    “You said we could look for tadpoles and start a wormery and climb the trees in the park together this summer and now it is ALL STUPID!” shouted Floss. She burst into tears and ran from the room.

    Marybelle sighed heavily. “I could have done with that lavender water,” she admitted to the empty room. She grinned. “On the feet!” she added with a snort of laughter.

    Meanwhile, the obliging Maria, in a large chip hat which was actually Amabel’s, was in the paddock at the rear of the stables, with Bunch’s pony on a long rein. It had not yet dawned on any of the family that Maria had almost no English equestrian vocabulary. She was teaching Bunch—and Bungo, it would be his turn in a minute—in a mixture of French and Spanish with a few English words thrown in. The twins understood her perfectly. Whether the ponies did was a moot point.

    Bunch circled carefully on her plump black pony, Le dos straight, les mains— Well, it was true she had not fallen off yet. Bungo had, but that was because he’d imagined he knew how to jump the paddock fence and his sturdy roan pony knew he didn’t. It had simply stopped, and Bungo hadn’t.

    Gaetana had elected to ride out on this particular day with Paul and Jake on a tour of the estates. It was no mere duty call, as Jake had a large notebook into which he was carefully inscribing all the matters which needed attention in the cottages, the walls and fences that needed repair, the trees that were looking dangerous, and such like.

    Though naturally very glad that “Master Paul” was apparently serious about remedying nigh on twenty years of neglect of the estates, the tenants and cottagers could not refrain from remarking—at length—how very like her pa’s cousin Miss Ainsley was, and, if they were older, didn’t that straight back of hers and that Ainsley nose remind you of old Sir Vyvyan himself? Nor from offering her glasses of milk and other assorted refreshment.

    “You won’t need any dinner tonight!” noted Jake with a laugh as they retreated from yet another cottage, the inhabitants, those that were home in the middle of a working day, smiling and waving at the gate.

    “No, I’m very nearly bursting!” agreed Gaetana, putting her hand on her stomach. “Surely they cannot all have a special fresh cheese recipe they wish me to try?”

    “Ah! Now that’s the big rivalry hereabouts, see, between Pringles and Higgses!” he said with a grin.

    “¡Sí, sí, and they are all either Higgses or Pringles, or both, do not tell me!”

    “Nay, well, there do be some strangers, Miss Gaetana: them Cumminses up to Top Farm, they be Daynesford folk!” he said with a laugh.

    “Oh,” said Gaetana, blushing fierily.

    “Foreigners!” said Paul with a laugh, under cover of which he gave her a sharp look.

    “Yes,” she said, smiling palely. “Foreigners.”

    “Twenty-four—no, twenty-five damson,” said Mrs Maddern from her perch on the steps in the stillroom. “At least they are not dusty—but I am very glad I wore this serviceable apron!”

    Amabel wrote the details down carefully.

    “What are those, Mrs Giles?” said Mrs Maddern. –The housekeeper’s surname was a source of considerable anguish to Gaetana, though only Hildy had realized this. Mrs Giles was a local woman who had worked in the house as a young girl, married and left the district but returned as a widow some years later. She had been recommended to Paul by the local Vicar’s wife. Mrs Maddern was trying her out to see how she would do. It was rapidly becoming clear to the girls that Mrs Giles’s relative youth and inexperience, added to her unquestioning docility, were strong recommendations in Mrs Maddern’s eyes. It would not have been true to say that Mrs Maddern was bullying her unmercifully, but she was certainly setting her feet on the path they should travel.

    “Five greengage, Mrs Maddern,” reported Mrs Giles obediently.

    “Greengage? That does not keep very well. Pray let me see.” She inspected a glass jar of jam narrowly. “Hm. At least it has not yet formed crystals. These had best go to Berthe immediately, Mrs Giles. Tell her they are confiture de reine-claude,” she added graciously.

    “Let me write it down for you, Mrs Giles,” said Amabel kindly.

    “Thank you, Miss Amabel. To tell the truth, I have never before worked with a French cook,” she said weakly.

    “In my uncle’s day,” said Mrs Maddern, reaching for a jar on a higher shelf, “we had never a female cook in the house! And of course my grandfather, the late Sir Vyvyan, would employ only a French chef.”

    “Yes, indeed, Mrs Maddern. The Manor kitchen was a byword in those days; why, the whole country still speaks of the great parties!” agreed Mrs Giles with genuine enthusiasm.

    Mrs Maddern beamed, unaware that for some reason the word “byword” had induced her eldest daughter to turn her back and stare fixedly into a shelf of pickles that had already been counted.

    “It must have been wonderful,” agreed Amabel. “But is it not exciting to be—to be bringing the house back to life again?”

    “Yes, indeed, Miss Amabel!”

    Mrs Maddern retrieved the jar with a grunt. “Ugh!” she said, startled. “I do not know what this is, Mrs Giles, but it had best go with the discards. And—and—well, I dislike waste, as I am sure I have mentioned, but the jar itself had—well, perhaps they might make use of it in the stables or the garden, once it has been thoroughly scrubbed,” she ended faintly. She wiped her grimy hand on her apron.

    Averting her eyes from the contents, Mrs Giles placed the jar in the basket of discards.

     Mrs Maddern descended the steps on which she had been standing. “Well, that is it!”

    There was a short silence as the four women looked round the very much depleted stillroom of Ainsley Manor in a numbed sort of way.

    “To be sure, one could not have expect Mrs—Mrs—whatever her name was, to leave her good preserves behind,” said Amabel lamely.

    “Perhaps not! But one might have expected her to at least clean out the upper shelves!” said Mrs Maddern with feeling.

    “When I—” Mrs Giles broke off.

    “Yes, what is it?” said Maddern graciously.

    “Well, when I was working under Mrs Kempton, Mrs Maddern,”—Mrs Maddern inclined her head, the late Mrs Kempton had been her aunt’s housekeeper—“she always taught us that a true lady would not only keep the stillroom spotless, she would leave it stocked if she left the house. But I suppose it is different, with a tenant,” she ended lamely.

    Mrs Maddern looked upon her with a kindly eye. “It is certainly very different with a tenant who is a cit, yes, and I do not scruple to say so! Why, every ounce of fruit and produce that was in her jars must have come from these very grounds!”

    “True. Although it was her sugar, Mamma,” said Christabel.

    “Then she should of course have left half,” said Mrs Maddern firmly.

    No-one was so foolish to point out that the tenant had paid for the use of the produce from the Manor’s grounds: they all nodded meekly.

    Amabel then sighed. “Perhaps she was not very interested in such matters. I own I would not have expected to find a box of buttons in a stillroom.”

    “Nor a hoop,” agreed Mrs Giles.

    Mrs Maddern stared.

    “I removed it, Mrs Maddern,” she said quickly.

    “Well, and so I am sure you ought, my dear! A hoop! Goodness gracious me!”

    “Did she have children?” asked Christabel.

    “I believe not, Miss Maddern.”

    “She must have been a very odd woman indeed, then!” cried Mrs Maddern. “Putting a hoop in a stillroom! –Well, what is the tally, Amabel, my dear? Read it out!”

    Amabel read it out.

    There was a pregnant silence

    “Of course, with the house being empty for a while...” said Mrs Giles weakly.

    “It is as well,” said Mrs Maddern very grimly indeed, “that dear Mr Pusey sealed and locked my uncle’s cellar! For I make no doubt they would have drunk all that up, too! For I will never believe that in a house that Mrs Kempton had charge of, the stillroom was not fully stocked when That Woman walked into it!” she added strongly to the housekeeper.

    “No, indeed, Mrs Maddern!”

    It was very plain to her daughters that the late tenant was destined to be “That Woman” to Mrs Maddern for a very long time to come.

    Later, as the two girls went to change their gowns, Amabel said thoughtfully: “Imagine having the responsibility of setting a big house like this to rights by oneself! Even with Mrs Giles to help me, I’m sure I would not know where to start!”

    “You are very right,” agreed Christabel.

    There was a short silence.

    “It cannot have been very easy for Mamma when she married, for of course Great-Aunt Lucy Ainsley must already have been unwell, I think, and Grandmamma Maddern was gone long since,” said Amabel thoughtfully.

    “Indeed,” agreed her sister sympathetically.

    “But even if her aunt had lived, she was so far away… Imagine having to write a letter and await a reply just to find out whether a pickle was spoiled as you suspected!” added Amabel with feeling.

    Christabel smiled. “You could always open the jar. But I agree, dearest, it must have been quite a daunting experience. Indeed, setting up house must be so for any young woman,” she added thoughtfully.

    “Yes. And many gentlemen would not understand if the dinner was spoiled because—because— Well, you know, Christa! Because of any trifling domestic accident!”

    “Or crisis, mm. As when Cook burnt the strawberry tartlets that Papa had ordered up specially!” she said with a twinkle. “I do not think you would remember; only Hal and I were old enough to sit up to dinner.”

    “No-o, I don’t think I do... He was not angry, was he, Christa?”

    Christabel smiled. “No. The only time I ever remember seeing Papa angry was when Polly Jenkins—you would not remember her, I think, she was the nurserymaid we had when Hildy was little—when she was not minding Hildy sufficiently and the poor little thing fell off a stile. She was barely two, but a very adventurous child! She had such a bump on the head, and Papa said it was all Polly’s negligence and he would send her straight back to her mother, for it was plain to be seen she was not fit to look after little children. Only Polly and Hildy both cried, so of course he relented and gave her a second chance!” She smiled reminiscently.

    “I see. But what about the tartlets, then, dearest?”

    “Oh!” said Christabel with a laugh, “I have quite side-tracked myself! Yes, well, the tartlets. I cannot remember exactly what went wrong in the kitchen, but poor Papa sat up at the table and rubbed his hands and said: ‘Now for my strawberry tartlets!’ and Mamma rang, and Bateson came in with a treacle tart!”

    “Oh, dear!” said Amabel.

    “Yes. Mamma said ‘Where on earth are the strawberry tartlets, Bateson?’ or words to that effect, and Bateson said: ‘They is all burned, Mrs Maddern, with Cook’s best apologies,’” said Christabel, sounding just like her. Amabel smiled. “Mamma jumped up with a great cry and rushed from the room like a whirlwind—she was slimmer in those days, of course—and we all just waited. Nobody said anything, not even Hal, though he has always loved treacle tart! And finally Mamma came back looking very cross and said: ‘My dearest Mr Maddern, it is so true! The dreadful woman has burnt them to a cinder! You may scold if you wish, and I am sure I am so cross that I have very nearly given her notice!’ Everybody looked at Papa, of course. And he just said: ‘Well, Patty, I suppose I must resign myself to treacle tart.’ And Mamma stared as if she could not believe her ears, and burst into tears! And I don’t know what Hal had been imagining, possibly that Papa would have the tart removed, but he suddenly threw his napkin up and shouted ‘Huzza for Papa!’” said Christabel, laughing but hurriedly producing her handkerchief and blowing her nose. “He was the dearest man!”

    “Yes,” said Amabel softly, hugging her arm. “I wish very much that I could remember him better. I remember he was very kind, of course. And that he liked to have me sit on his knee,” she said with a sigh.

    “Yes, indeed,” said Christabel, sighing a little, too.

    “I suppose,” said Amabel thoughtfully, “that—that it might have made a difference that he was an older gentleman.”

    Christabel looked at her doubtfully.

    “Well,” she said, blushing a little, “he had probably learned to be patient, and—and did not mind if Mamma’s household did not run perfectly smoothly at all times.”

    “Oh, I see what you mean. Perhaps that could have had something to do with it, yes. Certainly,” said Christabel with a twinkle in her eye, “one of my very earliest memories is of a picknick on the lawn with Papa and Mamma, and Mamma assures me that that was the day the pickles started exploding in their jars, and the house smelled so dreadful it was uninhabitable!”

    “Oh, yes, I have heard that story so often! She claims that Papa said: ‘Well, it seems that we will not have pickles with our ham today, but we must be thankful there is plenty of ham!’”

    “Yes, indeed! –Actually I think it is the ham that I remember most,” Miss Maddern admitted on a guilty note. “That and the excitement of eating out of doors. I do not think I could have been three, at the time.”

    “So Papa and Mamma cannot have been married very long! There, does that not prove my theory?”

    “It adds weight to it,” said Miss Maddern with a twinkle, “but I think it rather proves mine, which is that it is a man’s temperament which counts the most!”

    “Ye-es... I think the best combination,” said Amabel thoughtfully, ‘‘would be a gentleman who was not very young, and who had besides an equable temperament.”

    “Do you?” said Miss Maddern in astonishment. “I must own, that sounds a receipt for dreariness, to me!”

    “I do not think so,” said Amabel firmly.

    Her sister looked at her dubiously.

    “Sometimes I think,” said Amabel wistfully, “that if only one could try them out first, that—that would be the best thing.”

    “Try them— Before marriage?”

    “Yes: to see whether they are exacting to live with.”

    Miss Maddern frowned a little over this, and ventured: “But should one not have gathered that already, dearest?”

    “You never know!” said Amabel with a shudder. “Look at Captain O’Flynn!”

    “Very true,” said Miss Maddern in a shaken voice. “But then—well, I do not wish to speak ill of Mrs Parkinson, but I do not think Dorothea’s mamma should have encouraged her into so rapidly contracting an engagement with a man of whom her family knew virtually nothing.”

    “No,” said Amabel faintly.

    “Dearest, no-one will ever encourage you to marry a man whom we are not very sure you can truly love and respect.”

    “No. But how does one know?” said Amabel in a small voice.

    Christabel sighed a little, and tried not to think of blancmangers, and repeated that of course one should get to know a gentleman’s character before going so far as to contract an engagement. And explained that even if one could not directly experiment with treacle tarts or exploding pickles—Amabel did not smile—it should have become plain if the gentleman was of a choleric or an understanding disposition.

    Amabel agreed meekly to this last proposition but it was clear to Miss Maddern that she was not convinced. She sighed over it a little, but decided that possibly Amabel, from having had their dear Papa for such a little time in her short life, naturally missed the influence of an older man, and that as soon as she met a pleasant young gentleman for whom she could really care, such notions would be forgotten. And—somewhat contradicting herself—that Major Grey was not, after all, precisely a spring chicken. It did not occur to her that possibly one of the reasons for Amabel’s feeling so on this topic was that she had already met an older gentleman of gentle manners whom she did admire.

    The house refurbishing was going on apace. As it was rather too early in the season for the garden or the orchard to produce anything that might be preserved, the replenishing of the stillroom would have to wait, though Berthe had already produced, to Mrs Maddern’s unfeigned delight, a galaxy of different flavoured vinegars, using the products of the herb garden. But visits had been made to various warehouses, lengths of fabric had been ordered, and the local Vicar’s wife had recommended Mrs True from Dittersford, a very respectable woman, for the making of curtains. Mrs Maddern had agreed to try her, acknowledging with some relief Mrs Stalling’s casual mention that Mrs True, though a very genteelly-spoken person, was not a gentlewoman in distressed circumstances, but the relict of a respectable man who had been in trade in a small way—for these charity cases, as she explained to the girls afterwards, did not do: they acted as if it were they who were doing you the favour, and never had the promised piece ready on time!

    Gaetana had remarked that in that case there was a reasonable hope of Mrs True’s living up to her name. Mrs Maddern had replied unthinkingly: “Very true, my dear,” and then gasped, and they had all dissolved in giggles.

    But apart from such isolated incidents as this, it was very much noses to the grindstone at Ainsley Manor. Young ladies with an idle moment were pressed into service to hem sheets, and those who were fine darners were in high demand. Even Bunch Ainsley, over her loud complaints, was being taught to sew a neat hem, and Miss Morton’s fingers were hardly still from morn till night. Paul had murmured something about the purchase of new linen but Mrs Maddern had told him she would not listen for an instant: the linen presses were full of beautiful pieces, which just needed— Paul had not insisted: he had perceived that Tia Patty was thoroughly enjoying herself. But he had not raised any objection to his eldest sister’s riding out with him rather often.

    On this particular day Gaetana had again ridden out with Paul and Jake, Maria had accompanied them, more from a wish to ride her dear little chestnut mare (whom she had named, none knew why, Suzy), than from a desire to escape the darning, and Mrs Maddern, with Christabel and Amabel to assist her and Miss Morton partly to assist her and partly to keep an eye on Marybelle and Floss, had departed early in the morning in the very new barouche for Daynesford, which was much larger than Dittersford and indeed attaining the status of a town rather than a mere village, and where the shops were likely to be so much better. With an immensely long list of commodities which it was hoped the place could supply. Otherwise, they would have to range further abroad, Mrs Maddern had declared resolutely.

    Ramón Ainsley had departed even earlier in the morning with a fishing rod and a glint in his eye.

    On this particular day, also, Hildy had escaped in congenial company to the orchard.

    “C’est quoi?” demanded Bunch somewhat thickly.

    “Ne mange pas de prunes qui ne sont pas mûres, tu vas attraper un mal d’estomac,” warned Hildy.

    Bunch assured her she never got the stomach ache. “C’est quoi?” she repeated, gazing up at the big gnarled tree.

    “Eugh… encore un prunier?” hazarded Hildy. “A plum tree.”

    Bunch clambered up it and retrieved a small green fruit. “So is this a plum?”

    Hildy looked at it carefully, and smiled. “I think it's a greengage! –Je crois que ce soit une reine-claude, Bunch,” she explained.

    “Vraiment? –Ne dis pas ‘ce soit’ apres ‘croire’, Hildy, le mot mot ‘croire’ ne prend pa le subjonctif,” Bunch informed her helpfully. “Sauf au négatif.”

    “Merci, Bunch,” replied Hildy humbly.

    Bunch bit into the fruit, spat it out loudly, and threw the remains away.

    “Yes, well, it is not nearly their season: greengages ripen in high summer,” said Hildy in a feeble voice, aware she should be reproving her for her appalling manners but not wishing to spoil the moment. And also aware there would be something ludicrous in reproving one who had just pointed out the correct usage of the subjunctive mood with the verb “croire”.

    “Dommage, je les adore,” she said glumly.

    “I know,” agreed Hildy, smiling. “You told us the very first day we met—do you remember?”

    “’Course!” she replied scornfully. “Race you to the end of the orchard!”

    “No—wait,” said Hildy on guilty note: “is not that the sound of a carriage?”

    Bunch goggled at her.

    “Oh, well,” said Hildy, looking down at her ancient print gown, “I am not dressed to receive visitors, at all events.”

    “No! Come on!” gasped Bunch, jumping up and down. “Un, deux—”

    They raced away, laughing.

    “No, no, don’t trouble yourself!” said Mr Tom Maddern to his Cousin Paul’s butler with an easy laugh—though to say truth he was rather overawed by the size and style of Ainsley Manor, not to say the size and style of Deering. “I’ll find her! Through here, is it?”

    “Er—yes, certainly, Mr Thomas,” said Deering on a weak note. “Er—perhaps the other gentleman would care to remain—?”

    “No, no, he’ll come with me! Stretch our legs!” said Tom with a chuckle, seizing the other gentleman’s arm. “Been crammed in a dashed coach for hours, y’know!” He marched the other gentleman out of the small sitting-room, and onto the lawn. “Phew!” he said, when they were outside.

    “It is a very handsome house, isn’t it?” said the other gentleman weakly. “I own, I had not quite realized— Of course, your mamma has mentioned it once or twice.”

    “Once or twice?” replied Tom with an incredulous laugh.

    The other gentleman smiled. “It is, after all, her old home.”

    “Aye. –Amabel wrote me there would still be much to be done, and by Jove, she was right!” said Tom with feeling as they rounded the corner of the house. “That front lawn looks as if it needs re-seeding!”

    “Yes, I think that is probably the only solution. Although at least it appears to have been mown recently.”

    “Mown? By the look of the stubble I should think so! They won’t be running short of hay for a while, at all events!”

    “No,” he said with a smile. “So it would appear. –Good gracious!”

    “Hell,” said Tom more simply, running his hand over the end wall of what was evidently the stable block. “This will have to be repointed before winter, if he wants to use it!”

    “Yes, indeed. Well, there were men on ladders on the far side of the house, did you remark them as we came up the drive? Possibly they are working their way round.”

    “They’ve got a fair way to go, then! –I say, can you direct us to the orchard?” he called, seeing a groom crossing the yard.

    The groom came over to them, touching his forelock. “Morning, sirs. You’d be Mr Tom, no doubt?”

    “Er—yes. How on earth did you guess? It ain’t written on me face, is it?”

    The man smiled slowly. “That it is, young master! You’re the spit of Master Harry—Sir Harry, I should say—when he were a youngster!”

    The butler had taken the gentlemen’s hats. Tom felt his copper curls a trifle ruefully. “That so?”

    “Yes, indeed, sir. You’ll be wanting Miss Hildy, I dare say?”

    Tom nodded.

    “Aye, well, her and that Bunch, they’re in the orchard, right enough. Up to some deviltry, I makes no doubt. Fort’nately them trees is old enough to take it!” he added, breaking into a sort of shaking, wheezing fit.

    Tom went rather red—after all, his sister was grown up, and he did not feel this sort of remark was an entirely desirable one to be passed in front of his companion. “Er—yes. Which way is it?”

    “Just round the end of the stable block, young sir, and straight on: you’ll see the old wall right in front of you.”

    “Thanks,” said Tom, grinning. “What’s your name, by the way?”

     The burly man smiled and wiped his hand carefully on the side of his breeches before holding it out. “Ned Adams, sir. I’m Mr Ainsley’s head groom, and very pleased to meet you!”

    Tom shook hands and assured him he was, too, adding that if they did not reappear by the luncheon gong, Ned Adams was to send out a search party—Ned Adams had another wheezing fit—and took himself and his friend round the corner of the stable block as indicated.

    “Ne mange pas ça, petite imbécile!” screamed Hildy. “C’est une amande!”

    Bunch spat hurriedly. “Merde, je croyais que c’était une pêche. Ou peut-être une… Qu’est-ce qu’on appelle ces autres fruits qui ressemblent aux pêches?”

    “Like peaches… Oh! Apricots! –Des abricots?”

     Bunch nodded. “Oui, c’est ça.”

    “I think they need a wall, to ripen in England,” said Hildy dubiously. “Um, pour qu’elles mûrissent, Bunch.”

    “Des abricots, ce sont masculins,” returned Bunch seriously.

    “Mais... un abricotier, c’est bien masculin; mais les fruits?”

    “Sí,” she said definitely. “Je ne sais pas comment je le sais, Hildy, mais je te jure que c’est vrai: ‘un abricotier’ et ‘un abricot.’”

    “Merci, Bunch,” said Hildy humbly.

     Bunch beamed at her from her precarious position in the almond, and Hildy beamed back from a slightly less precarious position in a plum.

    Bunch looked at the green almond. “But where’s the almond?”

    “Inside it.”

    Bunch investigated. “Un pépin,” she said dubiously.

    “Mm? No, no, break it open: the nut is exactly the same structure as a peach—or an apricot, I suppose. I confess,” said Hildy wistfully, “that I have never tasted an apricot.”

    “Pas vrai?” she gasped. “I’ve eaten thousands!” There was a slight pause. “Well, quite a lot,” said Bunch in a smaller voice.

    “Mm,” replied Hildy peaceably.

    “Marinela says that you need very hot summers but a cold winter, for the apricots. Also the almonds, they do not do well in the damp, cool summers.”

    “No, possibly the tree was planted as an experiment. Though the blossom, of course, is very pretty.”

    “Sí,” said Bunch, grunting. “Ah! –Oui, t’as raison, la voilà, l’amande. Elle est toute petite.”

    “Oui, ne la mange pas,” said Hildy automatically.

    Bunch sighed.  “J’ai faim. –Hildy, why do English orchards have so many crabs?”

    “Mm? Oh—well, there is a reason, which I must confess I do not perfectly understand, but Dr Rogers explained it to me in great detail: he was interested in horticulture, but more from a theoretical point of view than from the practical. The yellow crab is evidently capable of—of pollinating the other kinds of apple.”

    “Oh,” she said, very puzzled.

    “But I think this orchard must have so many crabs because someone was very fond of crabapple jelly!” said Hildy with a laugh. “It is the most delicious stuff! Do you not remember, Bunch, Bateson gave us the very last of last year’s on some muffins for supper?”

    “Oh, yes, the red jelly! Yes, that was a good supper,” she said wistfully. “Do you think it is mealtime yet?”

    “No,” said Hildy with a sigh. “Deering will send Gregory out with the gong when it is.”

    Bunch nodded glumly, peering over at the house. Then she hissed: “O, merde! Some gentlemen!”

    “What?” said Hildy in horror, peering from her tree.

    Bunch, pas si bête, shrank back into hers: the gentlemen might spot you if you leaned out.

    “Oh!” said Hildy with a delighted laugh. “It’s Tom! Oh!” she gasped in horror. “That cannot be— Ow, help!” she cried, losing her balance entirely and falling out of the tree in a tangle of petticoats and crumpled print gown.

    “Hullo,” she said weakly, looking up from the grass.

    “Miss Hildegarde,” said Hilary Parkinson in a shaken voice, sinking to his knees beside her. “Are you are hurt?”

    Bunch jumped down hurriedly: “Is she all right?”

    “No, I’m not hurt,” said Hildy faintly. “Though I did come down thump, rather.”

    “Bit winded,” said Tom, looking down at her with a grin. “Get up, Hilary, you’ll ruin your pantaloons!” he added with a laugh.

    “Then he will ruin them in a good cause!” said Bunch crossly, glaring.

    “Hullo, Ginger,” Tom replied, unmoved.

    “Ginger yourself, poil de carotte!” returned Bunch furiously.

    “That will do,” said Hildy weakly, putting her hand to her head and finding in dismay that her curls were in even greater disarray than she had supposed. “Puisque nous sommes tous des rouquins... Ow,” she added, rubbing her elbow.

    Hilary had got up but was still looking anxious. “Let me help you, Miss Hildegarde.” He held out his hand.

    “Does your head hurt?” asked Bunch eagerly. “Perhaps you are going to have a concussion!”

    “Rubbish. Help me up,” she said crossly.

    “Mr Parkinson will help you up,” replied Bunch firmly.

    There was nothing for it: avoiding his eye, Hildy put her hand in Mr Parkinson’s large, warm one and allowed him to assist her to rise. “Thank you,” she said, still not meeting his eye.

    “There! She’s all right!” said her brother unfeelingly.

    “It’s lovely to see you again, too!” retorted Hildy grimly.

    Tom laughed and gave her cheek a careless peck. “Is this the greatly feared Bunch?” he added.

    “Oh—yes, I’m sorry,” said Hildy lamely. “Bunch, this is my brother Tom.”

    “The one that’s going to be a clergyman,” she ascertained.

    “Er—yes,” said Hildegarde a trifle limply, looking at Tom’s waistcoat. “Though to look at him—I will not say listen to him—you would never guess it. Tom, I do not care if they are all the crack in Oxford, that is the most outlandish waistcoat I have ever seen!”

    “Purple,” noted Bunch in awe.

    “Pooh, what would you know, Miss?” said Tom with a grin to his sister.

    “She would know a lot, because Sir Julian Naseby is practically a Pink, and he patronises Mr Weston for his coats, and he would not be seen dead in anything half so loud!” declared Bunch firmly.

    There was an astounded silence.

    “He told you, I suppose,” said Hildy weakly.

    “Well, no: his groom did. His groom’s name is Kelly, his father was an Irishman and Kelly says all Kellys know horses!” she informed the company. “He says that Sir Julian is one of the best-dressed men in town and it ain’t down to his valet, neither!”

    This last was evidently verbatim. Hildy winced. “Bunch, I know it’s difficult to seize the nuances of a foreign language, but ladies and gentlemen don’t say ‘ain’t neither’, no matter if grooms and such persons do.”

    Tom was staring at his sister. “What on earth have you been up to in town?” he demanded.

    “What? Nothing!” she said, pinkening.

    “The week before we left town, Sir Julian sent Hildy a different bouquet every day!” said Bunch impressively.

    Mr Parkinson went very white.

    “Bunch, be silent!” hissed Hildy.

    “Did he, by Jove?” said Tom weakly.

    Bunch looked at him narrowly. “Harry says that. You look just like him,” she reported. “Only not as fat.”

    “H— You call your papa Harry?”

    “Why not? It is his name. My mamma’s name is Marinela, she’s a Spanish lady. Harry says she’s very beautiful—though of course she is quite old,” she added dubiously. “Not nearly as fat as Tia Patty, though!”

    “Bunch, I think that will do,” said Hilary firmly. He took her hand and squeezed it gently. “You have not yet said you are pleased to see me!” he added with a twinkle.

    “Of course I’m pleased to see you, Reverend Hilary!” she cried. “Can one hug a vicar?”

    “A vicar would be delighted if one did so.” Hilary, who of course was very tall, bent down, and Bunch flung herself into his arms.

    Tom goggled at Hildy. She looked away.

    “Uh—you can certainly deal with her, Hilary,” he said in a shaken voice as Bunch then skipped along meekly by the Vicar’s side, holding his hand. “Ought to have a few yourself!” he added with a laugh.

    “I have lately been consulting with my bishop on just that point,” he admitted, not looking at Hildegarde.

    “Eh? Your bishop’s not the one to help you there, old fellow!” gasped Tom, going into a wheezing paroxysm.

    “That is not funny, Tom,” said Hildy coldly, biting her lip.

    “It was on the question of a celibate clergy: but this is obviously not the moment in which to discuss it,” said Hilary in a stifled voice.

    “Les prêtres sont tous célibataires: n’est ce pas curieux?” noted Miss Elinor Ainsley. “Figurez-vous: tous ces hommes qui ne désirent pas d’enfants! Pour moi, c’est contre la Nature!”

    “Little pitchers,” croaked Tom, swallowing.

    “Yes. And she speaks half a dozen languages, so do not bother with any pathetic ‘pas devant l’enfant’ stuff,” retorted his sister with satisfaction.

    “Bunch has a wide experience of life and considerable intelligence to boot,” noted the Vicar rather drily. “It does not do to categorize even the youngest amongst us too casually, my dear boy,” he added to the reddening Tom.

    “No,” he muttered.

    “Shall you stay for a meal?” asked Bunch eagerly of the Vicar.

    “Mm? Oh—certainly, my dear. Well, if I am invited,” he said with a sly twinkle in Hildegarde’s direction.

    “Yes, of course,” she said gruffly.

    “ Don’t be ridiculous: of course he’s staying the night!” said Tom.

    “Oh; I had assumed— Are you not on your way to somewhere in the neighbourhood, Mr Parkinson?” asked Hildy, not meeting his eye.

    “Er—not precisely. I know it is a rather roundabout route, but I am actually headed for Oxford to stay with the Master of my old College for a se’en-night.”

    “Oh. I had assumed you had both come from there,” she said limply.

    “No, no!” explained Tom breezily. “I’ve been with Fairburn for a while—don’t think you know him—then I went on home, found the place all shut up except for poor old Bateson, so Hilary very kindly invited me over to his house for a few days!”.

    “Tom, you knew we were all to come to Ainsley Manor,” said Hildy weakly.

    “Yes, but I had no notion Mamma would have shut the house up and put poor old Bateson on board wages!”

    “Don’t keep calling her ‘poor old Bateson’! And she has not had a holiday since I cannot remember when: I am sure she is enjoying having us all out of the house!” said Hildy crossly.

    “No, she ain’t. She misses you. Said to tell you one of Mrs Spofford’s latest was ginger,” he added.

    “Oh! Has she had more kittens?” cried Bunch aggrievedly.

    “Yes. And if you was there,” he said pointedly, “you would not have missed them!”

    “Tom, you forget that this is Bunch’s home,” said Hildy with dignity.

    “Eh? Oh—so it is,” he said lamely.

    “I am not altogether used to it, yet, either,” said Bunch kindly. “It is always so, when one uproots oneself. –Is it ‘uproots’?” she asked the Vicar. He nodded, and she continued: “Why, there are corners of the attics that even I have not explored yet!”

    “Uh—no, dare say,” said Tom numbly. He found that both Mr Parkinson and Hildy were looking at him somewhat mockingly. “Well, in any case that was how it was,” he said lamely. “I had to pick up some of my gear from home, of course.”

    “Yes. Well,” said Hildy, relenting, “if your gear includes your fishing rods, be warned in advance and keep them locked out of Bungo’s reach!”

    “Yes, he went fishing this morning,” agreed Bunch incautiously.

    “What with?” said Hildy weakly.

    “Um—well, the room with all the guns and rods in it doesn’t have a key,” she admitted. “Jake says he will get a locksmith to it.”

    Tom’s jaw had dropped but Hildy said quickly: “Don’t worry: Paul has inspected all the gun cupboards, and they are all locked, and he has taken all the ammunition and locked it in the safe.”

    “Very wise,” he said limply.

    “Ned Adams has a bolt,” noted Bunch.

    “Er—no doubt,” returned Tom feebly.

    “Though of course he could always use a pistol.”

    “Yes—er, look, Bunch, not in front of ladies, eh?” he said desperately.

    Hildy opened her mouth to say crossly that she was not a lady, and thought better of it. “No, well, I must say I did not like to see that poor dove of Amabel’s lying there dead.”

    Bunch swallowed, and subsided.

    “Tom,” said Hildy, finding him alone in the little sitting-room while the Vicar was still upstairs and Bunch was being scrubbed into a fit state for appearing at table with two gentlemen: “what on earth were you thinking of, foisting yourself on Mr Parkinson as if he were an old friend and—and calling him by his first name?”

    Tom smiled. “He asked me to. –Yes, both, before you start! And I feel rather as if he is an old friend, he was up at my College: didn’t you realize?”

    “No,” she said limply.

    “The Master thinks very highly of him.”

    “I am sure,” she said stiffly,

    “And so do I, he is a most splendid fellow, you know! Full of—of right thoughts,” he said, reddening a little, “but not preachy, or above his company, y’know!”

    “Mm. Tom, are you sure you wish to take Holy Orders?” she asked, swallowing.

    Tom grinned. “Yes. More so than ever, after talking with Hilary. Oh, I know I’m not of his quality, and never will be. But I’ll be a good enough practical parson, never fret!”

    “Yes. Well, many people desire no more than that,” admitted Hildy.

    Mildly Tom agreed: “Yes. –He reminds me of old Dr Rogers, you know.”

    “What? Rubbish!” she cried angrily.

    “Well, he don’t look like a wrinkled old prune, no. But he’s got a very good mind.”

    “And can beat you at chess?” she presumed sourly.

    Tom smiled, but with a concerned look in his eye, and said: “Yes. –What’s the matter, Hildy? I thought you of all people would appreciate Hilary.”

    “He is a prude,” she said, frowning.

    “No, he ain’t!” he said in astonishment.

    “Of course he is, Tom, you are but a boy, you know nothing of such matters!”

    “I’m older than you!” he retorted, goggling at her. “And what do you know of ‘such matters’, pray?”

    Hildy shrugged, pouting.

    “Look,” he said, tugging at his neckcloth: “who is this dashed Sir Whatsit that the brat was on about?”

    “No-one. Just a gentleman that—that we happened to meet.”

    “Happened to meet? A dandy that sent you flowers for a week?”

    “Very well, Tom,” said Hildy, sticking her pointed chin in the air: “he is a gentleman who admires me, and why should I not be admired, pray?”

    Tom stared at her. She was now respectably clad in a fresh cotton gown, white with a little floral print in coral, yellow, green and fawn, and a green ribbon sash. There was nothing remarkable about this simple gown or about her now neatly combed curls, but he swallowed hard and said weakly: “Have you become a fine lady or something?”

    “Is that not the fate of every girl?” said Hildy, giving him a hard look.

    “What’s wrong?” he replied baldly.

    “Nothing.”

    Tom frowned and opened his mouth, but at this moment Deering bowed Mr Parkinson into the room, and so he said no more.

    At an early hour the following morning, on the back road which wound through tiny Chipping Ditter and thence eventually to Oxford, Mr Parkinson, who had been leaning back in his carriage with a miserable expression on his handsome face, looking unseeingly at the pretty scenery, sat up with a jerk and pulled the carriage string savagely.

    “That be Miss Hildy, surely, Reverend!” gasped his coachman.

    “That is correct, William Jenkins,” agreed Hilary, very blue around the lips. “Pray wait here, while I see if—if she should perhaps be requiring a ride into the village.”

    William Jenkins, who was not, astonishingly enough, a son of that Mr Jenkins who was the Madderns’ tenant, but merely his nephew, replied obligingly: “Right you are, Reverend. Only it do look to me as if she’s ignoring us.” –Hildegarde had walked on determinedly, not turning her head, though William Jenkins had drawn up beside her.

    “You are imagining things,” said Hilary tightly, not pausing to reflect that such an exchange with his coachman was scarcely the thing.

    “No, I b’aint, Reverend, she do be the most determined young lady that ever was born,” he said, shaking his head. “Ignoring of us deliberate, that’s what she—”

    “That will do,” said Hilary hastily. He hurried after Hildegarde, not unaware that he must look ridiculous. And also that the minute they were home the entire neighbourhood would have the story from the lips of the sympathetically interested William Jenkins.

    “Good morning,” said Hildy coldly as he caught up with her.

    “Good morning,” replied Hilary lamely. She walked on rather faster so he perforce matched his step to hers. “Er—I was sorry to miss you at breakfast.”

    “Was anyone there?” she asked detachedly.

    “Uh—yes, Miss Maddern and Mr Ainsley very kindly— Did you expect me to breakfast alone?” he said numbly.

    “No. I expected Bunch to foist herself on you, and Tom, in spite of promises, to be still snoring his head off. Was he?”

    “No, of course he breakfasted with us!” said Hilary crossly.

    “You astound me. Possibly he is growing up at last.”

    “Er—yes. He is a splendid fellow,” he said stiffly.

    “How strange, he said the same of you. Is it a phrase fixte amongst the Oxford men?”

    Hilary drew a trembling breath. “That was not worthy of you, Miss Hildegarde,” he said in a low, shaking voice.

    “No? I thought it was rather good, myself,” she said detachedly.

    “What is it ? Surely you cannot still be angry over my stupidity in not apprising you that I had your bracelet?” he said huskily.

    Hildy rolled her eyes. “Surely not! Such trifling affairs as my incurring my mother’s anger for having lost it are insignificant in the face of the movements of the constellations!”

    The previous evening Hilary had incautiously expressed an interest in astronomy. As Bungo and Bunch had been downstairs for the occasion he had then been forced to deliver a somewhat prolonged dissertation on the topic. He reddened. “Of course I did not mean to imply—”

    “No, of course you did not! What did you mean to imply, pray?”

    Hilary clenched his fists. “I— Merely that I had believed I had apologized for my—my dilatoriness.”

    “But I had not accepted your apology,” noted Hildegarde.

    “Very well,” said Hilary with angry tears in his eyes, “I can only reiterate that—that I was inconsiderate and thoughtless and gave no consideration to how the matter might—might affect your comfort, Miss Hildegarde.”—Hildy did not turn her head but strode on faster than ever.—“Can you not forgive me for—for a mere human error?”

    Hildy stopped abruptly. She swung round and glared at him. “I had thought that to forgive was divine, Mr Parkinson? I am a mere mortal.”

    Hilary’s lips trembled. “So am I,” he whispered.

   Hildy saw the tears in his eyes with horror. She looked away quickly. “I— Don’t keep on about it,” she said hoarsely. “I forgive you: let us forget it.”

    “Thank you,” he returned faintly.

    She gnawed at her lip and walked on, head bowed.

    Hilary accompanied her in silence, not noticing that the faithful William Jenkins was following gently along behind them.

    After quite some time he said: “Your mother has been so very kind as to—to invite me to break my journey at the Manor on my way back from Oxford.”

    “Mm.”

    “I—I had thought,” said Hilary in a shaking voice, “that although the offer was terribly kind, I might write to say that I was unable to accept it, after all.”

    “Oh.”

    They walked on in silence.

    “If you are to be so unkind to me,” he said in a very low voice, “then I shall not come.”

    “What is it to do with me?” cried Hildy loudly. “You’re Tom’s friend, and Bunch’s and Bungo’s, not mine!”

    “But it is only your friendship that I wish for,” he said, very low.

    Hildy had gone very red. “I thought vicars were supposed to be friends of all.”

    Hilary swallowed. “I wish you would not—” He stopped. “I would never deny my cloth,” he said with difficulty.

    “I’m glad to hear it,” she noted drily.

    “But if you could think of me as—as a man, and—and an individual, and not just as a vicar, I would be very grateful,” he said, his voice shaking.

    Hildy frowned

    He looked at her nervously. “Could we not make a fresh start?”

    “Very well,” she said gruffly. “Only don’t patronise me, and—and don’t talk about silly things,” she ended on a weak note.

    “Silly things?” he echoed

    “Like saying you wished only for my friendship,” she said hoarsely.

    “Oh.” Hilary looked at her doubtfully. “It was the truth. Would you wish me to prevaricate, Miss Hildegarde?”

    “No, merely to be silent, if you cannot manage sense,” she said grimly.

    “I see. I beg your pardon, it was extremely forward of me.”

     She frowned again.

    “Please—may I visit, then, Miss Hildegarde?”

    Hildy swallowed. Her heart beat very fast. At the same time she was aware that she had often felt very similar emotions when with Sir Julian, so she felt very confused indeed. She looked up into his face. Hilary went very red and looked at her helplessly. “If you promise not to be silly,” she said faintly.

    “Yes,” he agreed, not knowing what he was saying. He took her hand and very gently held it to his lips.

    Hildy snatched it back. “That’s what I mean by silly!” she cried.

    “Er—yes. I beg your pardon.” He looked at her nervously. “So I shall see you in a se’en-night, then?”

    “If you still want to visit us,” said Hildy in a careless voice, glaring at the road.

    “I shall want to!” he said fervently.

    She recollected they had other visitors due. “Um—the house may be rather full. Actually, your Mamma is due to visit soon: I’m not precisely sure when.”

    “Not for another fortnight.”

    There was a pause.

    “Do you desire a ride?” he said abruptly.

    “What? Oh! No, I am sure Mamma would say— Wait, might I go on the box with William Jenkins?” she cried, very bright-eyed.

    Hilary looked her numbly. “It would scarcely be the thing.”

    “The thing!” she cried bitterly. “I have never ridden on a box in my whole life! We never had a carriage when I was little, and now that my one opportunity is before me—for you may be sure Mamma will never permit it now I am grown up—you say it would scarcely be the thing! I might have known it, you are exactly like all the rest! Old and—and hidebound and—and boring!”

    “Miss Hildegarde, I cannot encourage you to do a thing which would shock the neighbourhood and upset your mamma, even though the thing itself is—is harmless.”

    “No, exactly, Reverend Parkinson,” said Hildy grimly.

    “Pray do not be angry with me again,” he said weakly.

    “I am not angry. Merely disappointed.”

    “I see.”

    “Riding in a phaeton is not the same at all.”

    “Er—no. I’m sorry, but I do not intend to change my mind, it would make you most particular.”

    Hildy looked at him coldly. “I am not attempting to persuade you to change your mind, sir, I am not such a low creature as that. I can see that for you a principle is involved, and however ridiculous and unnecessary I may think that principle to be, I have no intention of urging you to betray it. –I had better go back, I may be missed. I hate being a young lady, it is of all things the most boring. However, you would not understand,” she said grimly. “For, to say truth, it seems to me a pity you were ever born a man, sir. I am persuaded that in temperament you are the most ideal young lady I have ever come across.”

    Hilary’s perfect mouth fell open in shock.

    “Pray do not look so surprized; surely in your own terms that was a compliment?” said Hildy naughtily.

    “It was no such thing!” cried the Vicar loudly.

    Hildy gave a loud giggle. “Oh, was it not?”

    “You are being deliberately provoking!” he discovered.

    “You noticed! Good, then perhaps you are very nearly human, after all!”

    Hilary had been very flushed. The flush faded and he said in a low voice: “Why must you be so cruel?”

    Hildy looked at him mockingly. “Why must you be so conventional, Reverend Parkinson?”

    Hilary drew a deep breath. His perfect mouth tightened.

    “I must go,” she said quickly. “I would hate to see a vicar lose his temper!”

    “You would enjoy it, you mean,” he said tightly.

    Hildy twinkled at him. “Well, yes. Only I should be sorry after. Well, not sorry for having done it, I suppose,” she admitted honestly. “But sorry if you had become upset over having lost it, sir.”

    Hilary could only look at her in bewilderment. “I—I do not think I understand you. You appear to be expressing such—such contrary sentiments...”

    “No doubt. But then I’m a very contrary person, sir,” she said, climbing a handy stile.

    Hilary started forward and held out his hand anxiously but either she did not see it or she deliberately ignored it—and by now he would not have cared to hazard a guess which. She jumped down into the field and turned and smiled at him. “Good-bye.”

    “I—I shall see you in a week’s time,” he said hoarsely. “Good-bye, Miss Hildegarde.”

    “Good-bye, William!” she shouted at the top of her lungs.

    An answering shout came from the box of the carriage, as she raced away across the field.

    “She can run like the wind—ah, she’s a proper handful, Miss Hildy,” noted William Jenkins on a proud note, drawing up beside the Vicar.

    Hilary had not asked his coachman to follow him. He sighed, but did not comment on this point or Jenkins’s remarks.

    “Is it onwards, then, sir?” asked the coachman.

    “What? Yes, certainly!” replied Hilary, reddening a little.

    “Ah. So is we a-going to come back this way, like you said we might, Vicar?”

    “Yes,” he said, going very red indeed and swinging himself up into the carriage without meeting the man’s eye.

    William Jenkins shook his head. “Ah,” he said. “Get up, now!”

    The horses jogged on. William Jenkins shook his head again. “She’s a right handful, that Miss Hildy,” he ruminated. “And you’re a true gennelman, Mr Parkinson, there’s no denying that!” A short pause. “But be you the right gennelman to handle her?” said William Jenkins thoughtfully to himself.