Encounter At Tunbridge Wells

 5

Encounter At Tunbridge Wells

    “This, Mamma?” said Christabel faintly as her mother held the deep blue, glowing length up under her chin.

    “Certainly,” said Mrs Maddern with dignity, entirely avoiding her eldest daughter’s eye. “Why not, pray? It will set your looks off to perfection, dear Christa!”

    “Yes. You are so lucky, being able to wear both blue and green,” said Amabel wistfully. “I confess I do sometimes wish I did not have these yellowish cat eyes!”

    “They’re beautiful. Just like Mrs Spofford’s,” said Gaetana firmly.

    “Yes, dearest Mrs Spofford is delightful. Only I,” said Amabel, looking wistfully at her sister, “am not a cat. And I do not have Christa’s height, either. The fashion is not for short women: I dare say I will be considered a sad little dab of a thing, in London.”

    Christabel abruptly went very red. “This fabric is not at all practical, it will be wasted on me, Mamma,” she said in a grim voice.

    “Nonsense, my dear! If you should like the shade, it will be the very thing!”

    “Of course I like the shade, Mamma, who would not,” she said uncomfortably, “but—”

    “Splendid. We’ll take it. It is just the deep sapphire of your lovely new set,” she added. “I dare say we might consider—yes, one of the new necks, with ruffles, and your brooch just showing at the throat!”

    “She will have to have a new gown, then,” noted Amabel.

    “Certainly,” said Mrs Maddern with dignity. “You are all sadly in want of walking dress, so it shall be a gown that you might wear under the pelisse or even without it, on a very clement day. And naturally you will all need a pretty evening gown for my dinner party—just something very simple, however.”

    “Mamma, I fear this is costing you a great deal,” said Amabel uncomfortably.

    “Yes,” agreed Christabel.

    “Nonsense, my dears, I am determined you must have your chance! And I have quite decided to shut the house up entirely, I do not care a fig what Hal may say!” she said on a defiant note.

    “Good,” said Hildy grimly.

    “Now, this topaz-yellow for Amabel,” said Mrs Maddern firmly. She held it up under Amabel’s chin. ‘‘Oh, yes! Do you not think, girls?”

    The others agreed but Amabel said nervously: ‘‘Do you not think it makes me look all yellow, though, Mamma?”

    “No, my darling child, your curls look positively ravissantes! And I have seen the very white silk bonnet to accompany this in La Belle Assemblée, and if you should not mind, dearest, I shall get Miss Cutty from the village to make it up for you: you know what marvels her nimble fingers can work, and even Mrs Shallcrass was deceived into thinking that winter bonnet she made for Christa was straight from London!”

    This was true: Amabel nodded pleasedly, the more so since it represented a considerable saving to her Mamma.

    “And dark gold ribbons to trim it,” added Mrs Maddern. “I think you must have your grandmamma’s topaz set, dear one, now that Christa has her sapphires.”

    She passed on to Gaetana and Hildy. She was not deliberately working her way through them in chronological order, though it seemed to the two amused younger ones she was doing so. Christabel had been very much on Mrs Maddern’s mind and she was determined to show her looks off to the very best advantage this Season. For, handsome though she was, there was no denying she was very nearly on the shelf! And the blue fabric had very naturally, in view of this preoccupation, caught her eye immediately.

    Mrs Maddern thought this very delicate silvery green for Hildy: it brought out the unusual colour of her eyes without being too obvious, what did people think? People agreed. Amabel pointed out, however, that it would be almost impossible to match the shade for the bonnet. Mrs Maddern became very thoughtful. The girls watched her respectfully. Finally she said: “Yes. I have been thinking of this for some time, my loves, and in my big trunks in the attic”—she sighed a little—“I have packed away several of the silks I wore as a girl. Skirts were much more voluminous, then,” she added on a wistful note. Her daughters nodded, privately considering that poor Mamma must have looked a real guy, certainly if she had worn a hat anything like the preposterously large one in the portrait for which Mrs Shallcrass had sat on the occasion of her marriage. “There is an underskirt of this very shade, I am quite sure I have not misremembered it,” said Mrs Maddern on a brisker note, “and if it matches, we shall see what Miss Cutty can do for Hildy! And if not, we shall fail back on a plain straw trimmed with white ribbons: that looks most charming on a young girl!” she assured her. Hildy nodded dumbly.

    “But for dear Gaetana,” said Mrs Maddern firmly: “I have quite decided: we must buy that bonnet you so admired on our way here, my love, the one with the coral ribbons, and you may wear your pretty coral brooch with it!”

    “Yes, Tia Patty,” responded Gaetana dubiously.

    The process of finding something to set off the bonnet took some time. Mrs Maddern was tempted by dark green but ultimately rejected it as too expectable: Gaetana looked puzzled. A bright tan was rejected out of hand. Christabel found a delightful shade of pale fawn which would look delicious with the bonnet; but somehow it seemed to kill Gaetana’s skin stone dead. It was Amabel who finally discovered a most delicate shade of sliver-grey. Immediately on seeing it next to her niece’s pointed face Mrs Maddern decided that was it. And she had made up her mind: she would give Gaetana those small coral earrings she had had for this age past: after all, the colour was hardly suited to her, at her age! Gaetana flushed and demurred but all three of the Maddern girls agreeing loudly with their mamma, she gave in gratefully.

    The question of pelisses for Maria, Marybelle, Florabelle and Elinor had been discussed in depth on the journey over to Tunbridge Wells. Mrs Maddern had decided on a glowing crimson for Maria. She leaned wistfully towards dressing Marybelle and Florabelle alike but as they had fought against this ever since Marybelle was aged about eight, there was no point in considering it. Hildy suggested a dull olive for all three of the youngest ones but this was generally considered to be with malice aforethought. Mrs Maddern finally chose a sea-green for Marybelle: yes, quite an adult shade, but then dearest Marybelle would be out within a couple of years! And she did not know what the girls thought, but since dear Floss had grey eyes, like Christa’s, this steel blue? There was a thoughtful silence. Finally Amabel pronounced that Floss would love it, especially if she thought it made her look like Christa, so Mrs Maddern decided she would risk it.

    That left Bunch, and Mrs Maddern knew the girls would say she was being foolish, but after all it would take so little of the fabric and dear Elinor would look so sweet and— Mrs Maddern wanted to trick Bunch out in a holly-green velvet.

    Finally Amabel said faintly: “Mamma, it is more of a winter shade. And it is already spring, do you not think—”

    “Very well, then. We shall spend next Christmas at the Manor, out of course, and darling little Elinor will look delightful in a velvet dress of just this shade, with a lace-trimmed apron and lace collar!”

    Several people had to swallow.

    The salesman then eagerly proffered a fine woollen cloth of the very same shade and the girls were just so relieved that the velvet was not to be delivered up to the tender mercies of Bunch Ainsley that they approved it in chorus.

    Mrs Maddern thought Christabel could wear her white gauze for her dinner party: it was still very good, hardly worn. Christabel nodded a trifle resignedly. But, declared Mrs Maddern firmly, she was determined that she must have a new satin underdress, for herself she did not care if she ever saw that pink again and besides, though dearest Christa could wear anything, pink was not her particular colour! Mrs Maddern chose a sapphire-blue satin. No-one was surprized.

    “She’ll be very tired of blue by the time summer comes,” said Hildy dubiously.

    Gaetana thought so, too. She looked uncertainly at Tia Patty.

    “No, for she will not wear that gauze again at all after this, I am waiting to see what a real London modiste can do for her!”

    They gulped, and were silent.

    Gowns for Hildy and Gaetana for Mrs Maddern’s dinner posed no problem: white muslins were the only fabrics suited to very young girls about to make their come-out. And if Gaetana would wish to wear the coral earrings, then it must be coral ribbons for her!

    “Would green ribbons be too expectable for me?” asked Hildy seriously.

    Her mother gave her a sharp look but saw that for once she was not being deliberately provocative. In fact if anything, she looked a little bewildered by it all.

    “No, my dear little goose,” she said, patting her cheek—Hildy looked startled—“it would be the very thing! But we shall choose the shade most carefully, of course: you did not see Pamela Shallcrass at Lady Underdale’s waltzing ball, of course, my dear, but I can assure you the ribbons she chose were positively grassy! Grassy!”

    “Yes,” agreed Christabel. “A mistake, especially with her complexion. But Hildy could wear yellow ribbons, Mamma, what do you think?”

    “No, not yellow. Though you are perfectly right, my dear, of course she could, your taste never falters! And so could you, my dearest Gaetana, and in fact when we get to London— Well, it is all very exciting, is it not?” she said with a laugh. “But I have quite determined that Amabel shall wear a jonquil shade this time, and you may wear the white satin underdress with it, my love, and far be it from me to harbour uncharitable thoughts of any young lady, but if Mrs Shallcrass is so foolish as to dress Pamela in that bright lemon shade again, we shall just see what we shall see!” She nodded with terrific portent.

    “At least Robert Shallcrass is only her brother,” replied Hildy to the thought behind this speech.

    “Nonsense, my dear, I was not thinking of Robert Shallcrass at all!” said Mrs Maddern airily.

    There was a disbelieving silence.

    “Mr Shallcrass is a pleasant enough young man, but he has no presence,” pronounced Mrs Maddern.

    This time there was a puzzled silence from all three of the younger girls. Christabel, however, went rather pale and agreed in a stifled voice: “No, exactly, Mamma.”

    Fortunately the silk warehouse had the precise shade of jonquil muslin that Mrs Maddern had in mind. Christabel, looking anxious, then murmured something in her mother’s ear, but Mrs Maddern gave an airy laugh. “Nonsense, my dearest! We are not thinking of anything diamond-trimmed, you know! Besides, you are not to worry your pretty head about that sort of thing, you are still a daughter at home! And lately,” she said airily, “you have been taking far too much responsibility on those pretty shoulders, and I am determined you shall have your girlhood while you have the chance!”

    “Hardly girlhood, ma’am,” said Christabel in a hard voice.

    “Young womanhood, then, my love: you still have your bloom, you know!” She gave another airy laugh and said hurriedly to Amabel: “I dare say we may find a pretty sheaf of yellow flowers for you to wear in your hair, my dear!”

    Amabel jumped. “Thank you, Mamma.”

    Mrs Maddern then, to her daughters’ silent amaze, rather defiantly purchased a length of heavy silk of the most delicate shade of silvery mauve for herself for a dinner gown. Miss Cutty would work her usual miracle, there was no need for an expensive Tunbridge Wells dressmaker. And frankly, my dears, Mrs Maddern did not care if she ever set eyes on that hideous old black silk again: in fact, unless the family was obliged to go into mourning she was quite determined never to touch black silk for evening wear again! Amabel volunteered to remove the beads, in a faint voice. Mrs Maddern agreed to that but pronounced sternly that the garment was going straight to the ragbag. Amabel murmured something very faint about petticoats, or even an apron for Bunch—or an apron for Berthe, there was much good stuff in—? But her mother gave her a very firm look and she subsided.

    “I think we might leave the choice of fabrics for your walking gowns until— No, hold!” said Mrs Maddern. “May I just see—?”

    Soon there were ells of fabric suitable for walking dress spread all over the counter and Hildy at least was looking extremely lost. She took Gaetana’s arm. Gaetana squeezed it hard against her side. They smiled at each other.

    Mrs Maddern finally decided on a deep gold and white print for Amabel, a fine blue and white vertical stripe for Christabel, a coral finely spotted in white for Gaetana, and— “Amabel, not grey for Hildy, please!” she cried, very flushed.

    “This?” suggested Gaetana. It was a lightweight fabric, but a deep violet in shade.

    “Trimmed with knots of white ribbon,” agreed Amabel, trying not to look too eager and wondering how she could tactfully suggest that dear Mamma was becoming overtired and a retreat to Mrs Parkinson’s house was in order.

    “Come here, child,” directed Mrs Maddern. Hildy came obediently. Mrs Maddern held the fabric to her cheek and sighed. “A poem! My dears, she could wear amethysts!”

    After that it was directly back to the milliner’s because you never knew. But fortunately no other lady had snapped up Gaetana’s very own bonnet, so they bought it. Mrs Maddern made Gaetana remove the thing she had on her head and with the milliner’s complete agreement, it was consigned to immediate oblivion, and Gaetana put the new bonnet on. After Madame Clara had retied its strings in a more modish fashion it actually had the effect of making the brown pelisse appear very nearly acceptable.

    Mrs Maddern, or so her two elder daughters silently considered, then went completely mad and purchased a pale green bonnet for Hildy—not at all the shade of the embryo new pelisse, though almost as pretty, with sprigs of palest primrose flowers amongst its darker green bows—and forced her to put it on. She looked very sweet in it but there was no bonnet under the sun that could have hidden the fact that that pelisse had once had three lots of tucks in the skirt, all of which had now been let out.

    “Well, they’re both acceptable from the neck up,” noted Miss Maddern drily.

    Her mother frowned. “That will do, Christabel, I’m surprized at you!”

    Amabel put her arm through Hildy’s and squeezed it. “You look lovely, dearest.”

    “Amabel, pray have some consideration!” said Mrs Maddern sharply. “Those two shades of green clash quite disastrously, pray do not stand next your sister like that!”

    The astonished Amabel in her leaf-green pelisse moved away from Hildy.

    “Mamma,” murmured Christabel tactfully: “all this shopping is very tiring, do you not think we—”

    “Tiring?” she cried, very flushed. “Gracious, child, if you are tired at this, how will you stand the rigours of a London Season, I ask myself?”

    Christabel suppressed a sigh. “I am not tired at all: I merely thought that you—”

    “Nonsense, be silent,” she said, frowning. “—Yes, thank you, Madame Clara, I will see those turbans now.”

    Mrs Maddern then tried on every turban in the shop. Turbans that were suitable for day wear, turbans that were clearly designed for evening wear, and turbans that frankly only a dowager duchess of the most formidable aspect would have thought of going anywhere near. Naturally there was not a single one that came near matching the silvery-mauve silk she had chosen for her new dinner dress.

    “Could you not wear the mantilla with one of my combs, Tia Patty?” suggested Gaetana shyly when the shop was littered with turbans and Hildy had swallowed several yawns.

    “Ridiculous child!” she cried with a high-pitched tinkle of angry laughter.

    Madame Clara offered respectfully to make Mrs Maddern up a turban of the very— That was out of the question, and when Mrs Maddern should have her millinery made to order, she would do so in London. Though no doubt Madame Clara had meant it kindly.

    Miss Maddern and Amabel looked at each other. Amabel rose, looking very firm. “Mamma, I believe I have seen the very thing in La Belle Assemblée. And even if it has nothing suitable, we may always return in our carriage, you know, once Mr Ainsley is back from town.”

    Mrs Maddern had opened her mouth. At this she closed it again.

    “But in the meantime,” said Amabel untruthfully, “I must confess that I am near exhausted, and the younger girls are looking very pale. If we are to be at Mrs Parkinson’s in time for a nuncheon...”

    “Yes, I’m terribly hungry,” said Hildy wistfully.

    Mrs Maddern returned majestically: “Very well. Though a lady does not admit to hunger, Hildegarde, but then I suppose we must remember that you are not quite out, yet.”

    Christabel gave Hildy a quick glare and she said hurriedly: “No, Mamma. I’m sorry.”

    “Come along, then!” said Mrs Maddern on quite a genial note.

    The girls rose immediately.

    Mr Liam O’Flynn had fallen into the habit of quite regularly calling on Mrs Parkinson to see how she and his niece by marriage were going on, so it was no great surprize to Mrs Parkinson when he did so on this particular afternoon.

    He expressed pleasure at meeting Mrs Maddern, Miss Maddern and Miss Amabel again, and professed himself delighted to be introduced to another Miss Maddern and her cousin Miss Ainsley. Did they not have the little girls with them, today? Mrs Maddern must be sure to remember him to Miss Florabelle and—with a twinkle—any time her bonnet should suffer from further fly-away tendencies she was to be assured he was at her service! Mrs Maddern gave a rather embarrassed laugh, for it was kind of him to bother to remember little Floss, but on the whole she had rather that that episode had been forgotten.

    Mr O’Flynn was a gentlemanly man, the second son of a woman who had married late in life. The late Captain O’Flynn had been the only offspring of his elder brother’s marriage, due to the brother’s falling from his horse in the hunting field when he had been but a twelvemonth old. His mother had remarried very soon and possibly the Captain’s subsequent wild career might have been blamed on this event, had it not been for the fact that his step-papa was a most amiable and affectionate man who had brought the boy up without distinguishing between him and his own sons. He had even purchased the young man a commission, which in the opinion of the relatives on his side, was more than could reasonably have been expected of him. However, after that, the more especially in view of the Captain’s exploits at the gaming table, it was hardly to be expected that Mr Protheroe—such was his name—would leave a mere stepson anything very substantial in his will, as he had his own numerous family to provide for, and indeed, he had not. The Captain’s late father had been a very dashing sort of man, as perhaps the manner of his death suggested, and what little fortune he had possessed at the time of his death had very rapidly been dissipated by the son on coming of age.

    Mr Liam O’Flynn, however, temperamentally most unlike his brother and nephew, had inherited a small property from a distant cousin of his father’s and had by dint of careful husbandry turned it into quite a respectable little fortune. In his late twenties he had been engaged to a pleasant-seeming girl of around his own age and of most respectable fortune, but this lady had inexplicably run off three months before the wedding date with a person whom Mr O’Flynn’s sympathetic and amiable connection Mr Protheroe had had no hesitation in stigmatizing as “a scoundrelly fortune-hunting Scotsman.”

    It was to be presumed that this experience had soured Mr O’Flynn’s attitude towards matrimony, for he had never married, retiring to his house near Tunbridge Wells with his elderly widowed mother and rather shunning polite society for some years. Whether or not the elderly widow had encouraged him to look about him for a nice little wife was, of course, a moot point. But in Mrs Parkinson’s view she never had, being one of those unpleasant creatures that were quite content to see their children sacrifice themselves on the altar of their own domestic comfort.

    The widowed Mrs O’Flynn had passed away about four years since and her son, though reportedly in black gloves for rather longer than was either necessary or customary, had begun to socialize to a greater extent with the more genteel of his neighbours and had even begun to appear at the occasional assembly at the time of the Parkinsons’ removing to Tunbridge Wells.

    Dorothea, though greeting him this afternoon with quiet pleasure, showed no evidence of increased vivacity in his company, so Mrs Maddern concluded that it was highly unlikely that Mrs Parkinson’s hopes in that direction—which by now had become very evident to her old friend—were to be gratified. Mrs Maddern, indeed, began to feel very much more hopeful for Christa, and although of course Christabel’s horizons were shortly to be greatly widened, looked with approval upon Mr O’Flynn’s engaging her in a gentle, funning conversation about little Floss and her exploits.

    Keen though her instincts were in such matters, Mrs Maddern did not notice that while Mr O’Flynn spoke amiably with Christabel, his gaze went more than once to her pretty blonde sister’s face as Amabel sat quietly by Dorothea, or that the conversation insensibly moved away from Floss to the interests and well-being of Miss Amabel.

    For her part Christabel, not being in the slightest interested in Mr O’Flynn, though she considered him a most gentlemanly, considerate man and was prepared to look with extra graciousness on him because of his kindness to dear Dorothea and her child, was not particularly surprized that he should ask after Amabel: older gentlemen were frequently taken with her sister’s gentleness and sweet-faced beauty. She replied readily enough and, since he seemed to wish her to continue, went on to detail, with a twinkle in her handsome grey eyes, Amabel’s foiled attempts to make something useful out of their mother’s despised black silk.

    “That sounds so like her!” said Mr O’Flynn with a smile and a tiny sigh.

    Mrs Parkinson at this point proposed—for she was sure they were all close friends and, if she might say so, dear Mr O’Flynn, family—that Baby might be brought down for a short period.

    Amabel agreed eagerly to this proposal. Mr O’Flynn saw Baby very often but he smiled and agreed eagerly, too. Mrs Maddern and Christabel consented with due propriety if not over-eagerness, and the younger girls followed their lead. Dorothea did not react in any way, however, and her mother, biting her lip a little, rang for Nurse as if she had noticed nothing.

    Miss Catherine O’Flynn was at this period recently turned one year of age and had just taken her first steps—hence her grandmamma’s eagerness to show her off to the company. Her new skill was duly greeted with cries of encouragement and admiration and Amabel, Hildy and Gaetana immediately got down and unaffectedly joined her on the excellent rug of Mrs Parkinson’s smaller drawing-room. Soon Mr O’Flynn, who was visibly the slave of his great-niece, joined them, loudly encouraged by Catherine’s grandmamma.

    Not surprisingly the noise of a carriage in the road went unnoticed and thus they were fairly caught when the door opened and Mrs Parkinson’s normally impassive Charters announced in a strangled squawk: “Lord Rockingham, Sir Julian Naseby, and Miss Naseby, ma’am!”

    The Marquis had not ventured on an epic journey to deepest unexplored Tunbridge Wells in the driving storm unaccompanied. Julian Naseby was his closest friend, though many of Rockingham’s acquaintance audibly wondered—although not in his Lordship’s hearing—why. Rockingham’s was such a dour nature, and Sir Julian was the pleasantest fellow alive!

    In many ways this was true: Julian Naseby was a very easy-going man who had rarely been heard seriously to criticize a living soul. Nonetheless, he had been brought up by a papa and mamma of strong principles, one of which was the belief, not common in polite society, that a man born to possessions and a title owed a duty to his dependents and to society in general. It would have been impossible for anyone with a normal quantity of decent instincts brought up by such a man not to have experienced considerable disgust at the discovery that the larger proportion of the Upper Ten Thousand did not conform to the maxims laid down by Sir Ludo.

    Julian had known Rockingham, who was some years his elder, only slightly as one of the greats at school, had bumped into him once or twice thereafter, and might never have realized that the Marquis, though he did not advertise the fact, did a lot of charitable work, had not his recently-widowed mamma been taken faint one day when visiting an orphanage. Rockingham had delivered her to her home and had advised the stunned Julian, then scarcely twenty-one years of age, to see to it that his mamma didn’t wear herself out in charitable work in an effort to forget her grief over Ludo’s death. Julian had not even known that the Marquis was an acquaintance of his father’s, let alone that they had been on first-name terms.

    Lady Naseby had been ill for some time thereafter, and Julian, though he didn’t see himself in the rôle, had taken her place on the board which ran the orphanage in question. He had discovered that under his bitter manner Rockingham had a compassionate heart and a dry wit, the former never being shown to polite society, where in fact he was rarely seen, and the latter only to close friends. A chance encounter at Jackson’s Boxing Salon which resulted in the rapid flooring of the vainglorious Julian had sealed the rather odd friendship.

    Julian had continued to socialize widely, for his pleasant, unassuming charm made him popular in his world. But in addition to these frivolous activities he gradually, over the years, found himself invited to take his father’s place on various charitable bodies. It began, also, to be a regular thing for Rockingham and he to spar together, to drop in for the occasional visit to Cribb’s Parlour, and to attend boxing matches together. The Marquis suggested cocking but found Julian did not care for it. Rockingham drove a four-in-hand, but Julian, as he frankly admitted himself, was a cack-handed fellow, barely capable of tooling a tilbury. Nevertheless they became fast friends and it became an accepted thing that Julian, with his widowed mamma, young wife and baby daughters should spend Christmas with Rockingham and alleviate what the latter declared frankly was the intolerable boredom of the prosy Hammond odd-fellows that took it for granted they would infest Daynesford Place at the festive season.

    Then, six years since, by which time Julian was seven and twenty, his wife, a prim young woman rather older than he, whom he had married when he was only twenty in order to gratify Sir Ludovic’s dying wish that he should join their two families, had stated, very quietly but with frightening determination, that she was leaving him. And if Julian could not manage a divorce, for of course there would have to be an Act of Parliament and he might not care for the notoriety, she would understand. But she could not stay with him.

    Poor Julian had assumed there must be another man and—though that would have been hard enough to take—had been completely bowled over when Tabitha had explained that no, there was not, she was going as a lay sister to an Anglican sisterhood, in order to devote her remaining days to God. And she was sorry, but she knew Mamma-in-law and his sisters would look after dear Romula, Ermyntrude, and baby Tabby.

    Julian’s female relatives had immediately concluded that the birth of baby Tabby had overturned poor Lady Naseby’s brain. She herself stated in her quiet way that no, on the contrary, it had clarified things for her and that, even though some might have said she had a duty to stay and give Julian an heir, God had spoken to her and she knew she had a higher duty.

    Mad as a hatter, some of Julian’s grimmer aunts had declared.

    Julian would never have stood in the way of another creature’s doing their duty to their Maker, though he had no great faith himself, and of course he let her go. She had not come back. Julian and his mamma, who knew her determined nature, had not expected she would, though his aunts and sisters had continued to hope for a full two years. At the end of that period Tabitha had died of a brain fever.

    Well, that explained it!

    Julian and his mamma attended the quiet funeral service with the sisters at the convent. Julian had never divorced Tabitha but she had not wished to be buried as Lady Naseby and they accepted that. She was buried as “Tabitha, A Dear Lay Sister,” in the little graveyard of the convent.

    Though Julian had never been in love with Tabitha he had grown to respect her calm ways and considerable domestic capabilities, and he had been greatly shocked when she left him. Her death, after two years of a sort of stunned numbness, came as the final blow. It was clear to his family and closest friends that Julian was in a desperately miserable state and considered himself a failure as a man and a husband. He had always been a dutiful father but now he ceased altogether to visit his little girls, who were living with their grandmamma in the country, and shut himself up in the town house and brooded.

    It was Rockingham who winkled him out, telling him loudly he’d kidnap him and take him off by force if he wouldn’t come willingly, then bearing him off to his yacht. The seas were not exactly safe at this period, though the Marquis did not attempt to brave Boney’s blockade in the Channel. His venture was nearly as desperate, though: he set off in a spring gale with only Captain Richards and three loyal crew members to sail around the coast of Britain.

    By the time they got back to the yacht’s home port Captain Richards’s hair had some grey strands in it that hadn’t been there before, they’d acquired a cabin-boy who couldn’t cook any more than they could, and both the Marquis and Julian Naseby were burnt brown and hugely bearded. And Julian was cured of his desperate misery: in fact, as he would tell it, he’d been so dashed busy being sea-sick and clinging on for dear life in forty-foot seas, that he hadn’t had time for the dumps!

    Little Ermy and smaller Tabby had not recognized their papa at all, but Rommie had burst into tears and thrown her arms around what she could reach of him, even though, having just shaved off the beard, he presented a very odd appearance indeed. Since then Julian had seen rather more of his little girls than was the custom for landed gentlemen to do.

    He was not, however, in the habit of jaunting all over the countryside with them, particularly not in dashed curricles driven by raving lunatics, to use his own phrase, and Miss Naseby, now twelve years of age, would not normally have accompanied him. But her governess had just left them in the lurch, her sisters’ nurse had the influenza, her grandmamma had a committee meeting, and her grandmamma’s elderly butler had frankly begged Sir Julian. Because the nurserymaid could cope with the little ones, but Miss Rommie— Not that she was naughty, of course: it was that she had a—an enquiring mind!

    “What’s she been enquiring into now, Fellows?” Julian had replied with his easy grin.

    “Well, frankly, sir, she declared her intention of accompanying young Fred on his day off, to visit his family in”—Fellows winced—“Billingsgate, sir, and—”

    “Who the Devil’s young Fred?”

    His Mamma’s butler had replied in tones of deepest gloom: “The boot-boy, sir,” and Sir Julian had laughed himself silly and declared he’d take the brat with him, and if Rockingham didn’t fancy it he could dashed well lump it!

    The butler had expressed heartfelt gratitude without casting so much as a mental glance in the direction of the Marquis’s wishes or comfort.

    So Rommie had come. Most fortunately she had been so completely overawed at the sight of “Uncle Giles” with four matched greys tossing their highbred heads, that they had been driving for an hour before she had even ventured to ask why he was wearing a funny spotted neckcloth. And for over two before she had demanded to take the ribbons.

    Before the fluttered Mrs Parkinson could do more than spring up at her parlourmaid’s unexpected announcement the callers were in the room and the Marquis looked down at the scene on the floor and said: “Good God!”

    “You find us quite en famille, my Lord!” gasped poor Mrs Parkinson.

    “En famille? I should think so!” he replied, lips twitching. “And to think I was about to offer my profuse apologies, ma’am, merely for introducing this brat to your drawing-room!”

    At this Hildy gave a snort of laughter.

    The Marquis looked at her, grinned, and said: “You must be one of the Ainsleys’ cousins, I conclude.”

    Gaetana had turned deep scarlet at the sight of him. Now she said huskily: “What on earth are you doing here?”

    “Yes, my arm is very comfortable, thank you,” he replied cordially.

    She gulped, turned scarlet all over again, and was silent.

    “My Lord—” began Mrs Parkinson in a trembling voice.

    “Don’t take any notice of this fellow, ma’am!” said Sir Julian hastily, wondering what the Devil was the matter with Giles: he wasn’t usually gratuitously insulting to very young ladies; in fact usually he ignored ’em totally. “Why, it’s Miss Parkinson, surely?” he added in a weaker voice as the pale figure in the corner registered.

    “How do you do, Sir Julian?” replied Dorothea faintly.

    “Mrs O’Flynn, sir,” said Mrs Parkinson weakly. “My daughter is a widow.”

    Sir Julian had met her at a rather dull dinner party. He couldn’t honestly remember much about her, except that she had been a pretty enough little thing with a merry laugh, but he was shocked to find how changed she was. Still—widowed, eh? Poor little creature! “I’m very sorry to hear that. Look, this fellow won’t introduce us, y’know, if we stand here till the cows come home!” he said to Mrs Parkinson with a pleasant smile. “I’m Julian Naseby, ma’am, and this is my eldest daughter, Romula—we call her Rommie.”

    Mrs Parkinson greeted her limply, remarking in a distracted manner that Romula was a most unusual and pretty name. Then she asked Sir Julian and the Marquis to sit down. Then she realised that she hadn’t performed introductions—

    “I know this one; don’t bother,” said Rockingham on a dry note, glancing down at Gaetana. She glared at him. “And I collect you are Harry Ainsley’s cousin, ma’am?” he added.

    “Yes: Mrs Maddern. Allow me to present Lord Rockingham,” said Mrs Parkinson in a thread of a voice, noticing that there was a large cake crumb on the carpet just there and if the Marquis put his foot—

    He did.

    “We are some sort of connections, you know,” he said, bowing over Mrs Maddern’s hand.

    Though almost as stunned as Mrs Parkinson, Mrs Maddern had not been quite so horrified because, although admittedly it was two of her daughters sitting on the floor, it was not her house. So it was with tolerable composure that she introduced her eldest daughter—the Marquis said: “Don’t you favour the floor, ma’am?” and Miss Maddern replied coolly: “No, sir,”—and, in a more defiant tone, her younger daughters.

    Amabel, to her great relief, got up neatly without fuss, made her curtsey, and then retired to a seat by Dorothea.

    “And of course my niece, Miss Ainsley,” Mrs Maddern finished on a firm note.

    “Same pelisse, different bonnet,” he noted, sitting down next to Mrs Maddern on the sofa.

    Gaetana coloured up again and gave him a defiant look and Hildy said immediately, glaring horribly: “True, but at least she is not wearing a silly hanker round her neck and a striped waistcoat that would be visible to a blind man at five hundred yards!”

    “Hildy!” gasped Mrs Maddern, clapping her hand to her mouth.

    “I did not make the first personal remark, Mamma,” said Hildy grimly, sticking out her pointed chin.

    Julian had been staring at her in immediate entrancement. He now gave a shaky laugh and said, sinking to his knees beside her on Mrs Parkinson’s excellent rug: “No, but by George you capped his! Piqued, repiqued and capotted, Giles!”

    “Ooh, do you play piquet?” said Hildy eagerly.

    He nodded, eyes dancing, and she said: “My cousins have been teaching me, but I never played any card game before, so I’m not getting on very fast. I play chess, though.”

    “Do you, indeed?”

    “Yes. Our old vicar taught me. I think the important thing when teaching a child,” said Hildy earnestly, “is not to let it win, thereby giving it a false idea of its capabilities. Dr Rogers grasped that: he’s the only person I ever met that did.”

    “I grasp it,” said Rommie suddenly, coming over to her. She sat down on the rug and looked at Catherine. “Are you her mamma?” she said abruptly to Hildy.

    “No: the lady in the chair is.” She nodded at her. “Mrs O’Flynn. Catherine’s papa died very bravely in the big battle at Waterloo.”

    Sir Julian held out his hand to baby Catherine. She looked at him doubtfully.

    “Va au monsieur!” said Gaetana encouragingly to the little girl.

    “Go to the gentleman, Catherine,” translated Hildy with a twinkle.

    “Yes: come on, Catherine!” urged Rommie. “—Can she?”

    “Yes, but sometimes she sits down, plump!” said Hildy with a laugh. “She has only just started walking.”

    “My mamma is dead now. She went away to be a nun,” said Rommie out of the blue. Her father looked at her in amazement: he’d never heard her volunteer this information before.

    “A nun?” gasped Gaetana in horror. “In England?”

    “Help!” gasped Hildy.

    “Yes. She loved God more than she loved Papa. My aunts and great-aunts say she was mad. What do you think?” she demanded of Hildy.

    Hildy bit her lip. What a dreadful thing it must have been for the poor man! How—how humiliating! So why did she so want to laugh, oh, help! “Um—I think most ladies would prefer to be married to your papa,” she said in a stifled voice.

    “Yes. I would,” stated Rommie firmly.

    “Most ladies would prefer to marry any man rather than become a nun!” objected Gaetana.

    At this point Mrs Parkinson visibly winced and Mrs Maddern shut her eyes for a split second. Mr O’Flynn, who had quietly removed himself to a chair, began to engage Amabel and Mrs O’Flynn in forced conversation. They replied with some constraint, aware that the Marquis’s sardonic eye was on them.

    Rommie was replying serenely: “Yes, so my Great-Aunt Agatha maintains.”

    “Your mamma must have been a most unusual woman,” decided Hildy, all of a sudden recovered from her desire to laugh. “Very few people can put love of God first.”

    “Yes, that’s what Papa says,” agreed Rommie.

    Sir Julian had been chirruping at the baby throughout this exchange and she suddenly tottered forward and threw herself at him. “There!” he gasped. “Well done! Clever girl! Clever girl!” He picked her up and swung her up very high. She gurgled pleasedly.

    “Was she—if you would not mind telling me, Rommie—a Catholic nun?” croaked Gaetana, swallowing.

    “I don’t know,” she said, frowning.

    “No, no: Anglican sisterhood: they have a few,” said Sir Julian. He kissed the baby and set her on her feet again but she immediately sat down, plump.

    “Nuns of the Church of England? In England?” said Gaetana in a hollow voice. “Oh, no!”

    “Mm... Why not?” he said.

    “I collect there is some personal motive for this consternation,” said the Marquis in a detached voice.

    “Yes: if Maria finds out there are Anglican nuns all is lost!” cried Hildy. –Mrs Maddern had endeavoured to join in the conversation initiated by Mr O’Flynn but at this she winced visibly.

    “Who the Devil’s Maria?” said the Marquis.

    “My sister. At the moment she is determined to become a nun—bonne catholique, vous savez?” said Gaetana. “Only Madre has sent her to England expressly to—to get her out of it!”

    “Your sister much like you?” asked Sir Julian with a smile.

    “No, she’s very Spanish-looking and very serious-natured. Though very pretty, sir,” said Hildy.

    “Very pretty, eh? I wouldn’t worry!” he said with a chuckle.

    “No, sir, that is exactly what I say!” burst out Mrs Maddern. “And this very day I have bought her the most delicious stuff for a new pelisse—and Hildy, I beg of you, do not mention that this little girl has said there are English nuns!”

    The Marquis’s shoulders shook. Sir Julian bit his lip and became very busy with baby Catherine.

    “Of course I won’t, Mamma. I’m as concerned as you. I can respect a true spirituality,” said Hildy with a frown, “but I cannot think that Maria’s obtrusive piety partakes of that nature.”

    “I get it. Sort that walks round with her prayer-book in her hands fingering her dashed beads?” said Sir Julian. The two girls nodded earnestly and he said: “Wouldn’t lose a wink of sleep over that. One of m’sisters was just the same when she was about—um—sixteen, if I remember rightly.”

    “Maria is fifteen, sir!” gasped Mrs Maddern.

    “There y’are, then. Wore off the minute the curate with the bulgy eyes moved on and Mamma bought her a new party dress.”

    “Well, that is a great consolation!” decided Gaetana, beaming at him.

    Alas, at this point the Most Noble the Marquis of Rockingham broke down and laughed helplessly.

    “It’s not funny!” she cried.

    “Well, no. Not to us. I can see it might be to an outsider,” conceded Hildy.

    “Oh, don’t count me—as an outsider—Miss Hildy!” he gasped. “We are quite en famille!”

    “That’ll do,” said Sir Julian, getting up with baby Catherine, his face one broad grin. “Think this belongs to you, Mrs O’Flynn,” he said, twinkling kindly at her. “It’s a bit dampish, if y’know what I mean.”

    “Oh! I’m sorry, Sir Julian!” she gasped, taking the baby.

    Mrs Parkinson immediately rang for Nurse, and Miss O’Flynn was removed. At the same time both Mrs Maddern and Christabel endeavoured—to Rockingham’s considerable enjoyment—to give Gaetana and Hildy admonishing looks that would yet be unnoticed by the company, in an endeavour to get them to rise from the carpet. Gaetana looked as if she was set to remain there all day, as Rommie had initiated a conversation about Roman Catholic convents, but Hildy, looking resigned, got up and said: “Even though we favour the floor,”—Rockingham’s shoulders shook, what time Miss Maddern’s face took on a rigid, stuffed look—“I suppose we’d better get up, Gaetana.”

    “What? Oh—sí. –Yes, there are some orders where they take a vow of silence, I believe,” she said to Rommie.

    “Wouldn’t suit you,” noted Rommie’s father briskly, taking a chair next to Amabel and Mrs O’Flynn.

    Rockingham stood up and held out his hand to Gaetana. “Before you say you can rise without assistance, Miss Ainsley, let me assure you I am convinced of that fact.”

    “Then why are you helping her, Uncle Giles?” asked Rommie with interest.

    “Gentlemen do that sort of thing,” said Gaetana. She took the Marquis’s hand but didn’t meet his eyes as he assisted her to rise.

    “Yes, isn’t it ridiculous?” said Hildy. “Well, pointless, really: an absurd social form.”

    Miss Maddern looked more rigidly stuffed than ever, Mrs Parkinson repressed a wince, and Mrs Maddern shut her eyes briefly.

    “If we were to examine, for example, the typical lives of the cottagers, we’d find that the women labour as hard as the men at tasks requiring considerable physical strength,” added Hildy.

    “Hildegarde, dear,” said Mrs Maddern in a strangled voice: “I am sure the gentlemen do not wish to hear about the lives of—of the cottagers.”

    “No, Mamma, I am very sure they do not,” agreed Hildy on a dry note. She sat down on a small, uncomfortable chair on the edge of the group. Not quite far enough away to have been accused of ill manners, but far enough to let herself drift gently out of consideration in the conversation.

    “Ladies are different, though,” objected Rommie, following her. She drew up a footstool and perched on it at Hildy’s knee.

    “Ladies are educated to be different. I cannot see that we are intrinsically so,” replied Hildy.

    During this exchange Rockingham had urged Gaetana to be seated on a sofa opposite Mrs Maddern’s. She had given him a look of loathing but had seated herself. He had immediately placed himself beside her. Now he said to Mrs Parkinson: “I trust we find Mrs O’Flynn in better health and spirits, ma’am? Mamma charged me most particularly to enquire after her, should I—er—happen to find myself in Tunbridge Wells,” he added in a totally neutral voice.

    “Actually, we came on purpose!” Rommie hissed in a hoarse whisper to Hildy.

    Hildy nodded vigorously.

    “Being a lady’s silly!” hissed Rommie.

    Hildy nodded vigorously.

    Mrs Parkinson found herself able to return only a most disjointed answer to his Lordship’s kind enquiry and interrupted herself to urge the latest arrivals to take tea. Because she was just going to ring for it, she assured them mendaciously.

    “Elevating,” summed up Rockingham drily as they drove off.

    “Your contribution helped, of course,” noted his friend. “What the Devil have you got against little Miss Ainsley?”

    “Gaetana,” corrected Rommie in a smug voice. “She said I could call her Gaetana!” she added proudly.

    “Yes, because you asked,” said her father grimly. “And just be careful, or I may tell Mamma!”

    “But I only asked her because Hildy said I could call her Hildy!” Rommie objected.

    “Give in, Julian, the brat’s got a better head on her shoulders than you’ll ever have, and besides, she could argue the hind leg off a donkey,” noted his friend.

    Julian ignored this. “What have you got against Miss Ainsley, Giles?” he insisted.

    “Nothing,” he said shortly.

    “I know who she is!” said Rommie loudly.

    “Who?” said her father in a voice that indicated his preparedness to disbelieve every word she was about to utter as completely as he disbelieved this last remark.

    Rommie returned vigorously: “She’s the daughter of the man who owns Ainsley Manor, of course! The one who ran away to France and became a spy for Boney!”

    “Where the Devil did you get hold of that story?” gasped her father.

    Rommie returned calmly: “Last Christmas, when we were staying with Uncle Giles at the Place. Hollings told me. Miss Wentworth and I went for a drive that way and we saw a fat man go in at the gate of Ainsley Manor, and when we got home I asked Hollings who lived there, and—”

    “Yes, yes, don’t go on,” sighed her father.

    “I wish I could meet him, I’ve never met a spy,” she said sadly.

    “Well, you can’t: he’s gone off to—Spain, was it?” he said to Rockingham.

    “Fat-wit,” his friend replied witheringly.

    Julian rolled a perplexed eye at him.

    “Sir Harry Ainsley was not a spy for Boney, whatever servants’ nonsense Hollings may have put into your head,” Rockingham said grimly. “He was a spy for Lord Wellington—yes, all right, I meant the Duke!” he added loudly as Rommie corrected him, “who—er—put himself in considerable danger by masquerading as a spy for Boney.”

    Julian’s jaw had sagged. He gaped at Rockingham. “Eh?”

    “Ooh: that’d be even more exciting than being a spy for Boney!” squeaked Rommie. “Is that what’s called a double agent, Uncle Giles?”

    Sir Julian began weakly: “No, it’s what’s called a farrago—”

    “Be silent, Julian, you know nothing of the matter!” he said loudly and, to Julian’s astonishment, with a tremor of real anger in his voice. “Yes, that is a double agent, Rommie, and it’s the most dangerous occupation there is in time of war.”

    “Yes!” she breathed, eyes shining. “And to think we met his daughter!”

    “No, really, Giles—” began Julian faintly.

    “I saw Wellington two days since. Verified it for myself,” he said on a grim note.

    “Wellington said that?” he gasped.

    “Yes. It’s common knowledge at the Horse Guards, ask anyone!” he said impatiently.

    Julian just looked weakly at him.

    Rockingham drove on in silence, frowning.

    Eventually Julian said feebly: “Why, for the Lord’s sake?”

    “What? Oh—well, they are connections of mine. And the boy’s in town, you know—seeing Sir Harry’s man of business. They’re opening up the Manor: I believe he’s going to put it in order.”

    After several minutes’ silent cogitation Julian said slowly: “Look, correct me if I’m leaping to conclusions, but would all this Ainsley stuff have anything to do with that dashed nasty hole in your right arm that wasn’t there when you left for Belgium, and suddenly was there when you came back?”

    “Ooh, did the double agent shoot you, Uncle Giles?” gasped Rommie.

    “Fat-wit,” he said shortly.

    “Well?” demanded Julian.

    “You’re leaping to conclusions,” he said in a dry voice.

    Julian glanced at his face. He hesitated, then said: “Where did you meet Miss Ainsley, then?”

    “Ostend. She and her brother were at the tavern where Carolyn insisted I had to hire a room.”

    “I’d have stayed on the yacht!” interrupted Rommie eagerly.

    “No doubt. My sister, however, informed me that the yacht was full of rude sailors and she could not abide the shouting. –A ruse, no doubt,” he added sourly to himself.

   Julian looked at him uncertainly.

    He shrugged. “Miss Ainsley and her brother were considering eating at this particular inn. Rather than at another where they—or possibly merely the younger members of the family with a servant, the details were not made clear to me—had stayed overnight, which served over-cooked fish.”

    “Over-cooked fish?” said Julian dazedly.

    “Yes. And indifferent coffee.”

    “Look, what is all this?” he said dazedly.

    “Papa! It’s perfectly clear!” cried Rommie. “Uncle Giles bumped into Gaetana and her brother at the inn! You’re so dense!”

    Over her head Rockingham said mockingly: “You’re so dense.”

    “I’m not that dashed dense, believe you me!” he replied with meaning.

    Rockingham shrugged.

    “Why don’t you like her, though, Uncle Giles?”

    “Yes, why?” said Julian with a laugh in his voice.

    “I neither like nor dislike her. I had a considerable conversation with her brother whilst she was upstairs and he appears a blameless and amiable young man,” he said in a colourless voice.

    Julian made a rude noise, and after a moment Rommie confessed: “I fail to see how the son of a double agent could be blameless and amiable, precisely, Uncle Giles.”

    “Well, if you met Paul Ainsley, you would understand!” he said impatiently. “He’s a perfectly pleasant young fellow!”

    “I see. You bumped into this perfectly pleasant young fellow in a dashed quayside inn in Ostend, and went haring off to— Where is Wellington? In town. or— Well, it’s immaterial. But you went off and interrogated Wellington on the strength of it,” noted Julian.

    “I wished to be assured—” He hesitated.

    “What, that the environs of the Place weren’t about to be infested by a pack of Boney’s ex-spies?” drawled Julian.

    “Something like that, if you like—yes.”

    Rommie thought it over. “Is being a double agent respectable, then, Uncle Giles?”

    “Ask your papa, he’s the one that goes in for the respectability nonsense.”

    “No, I’m asking you!”

    Rockingham sighed.

    “Go on! Comes with takin’ up with us respectable fellows that produce lawful offspring!” choked Julian.

    “Oh, witty, witty,” he returned. “Er—no, I suppose being a double agent is not precisely respectable, Rommie, however much one may applaud its—uh—daring. But it is not Sir Harry Ainsley who is in question—as I believe”—he directed a glare at Julian—“that I may have tried to suggest. It is his son. And Mr Ainsley is a very respectable young man.”—Here he involuntarily thought of Gaetana’s remark about piquet.—“And blameless,” he added firmly.

    “Why are you scowling, then?” said Rommie simply.

    Rockingham returned in a blighting voice: “I was not aware that I was doing so. Thank you for apprising me of the fact.”

    “Yes, that’ll do,” agreed Julian, giving his reddening daughter a bit of a squeeze. “So the young fellow’s quite a decent sort of chap, then? Not—er—a Captain Sharp?” he said, raising his eyebrows.

    “Not in the least. Well, I believe he won considerable sums off both Welling and Truscott in Brussels, but—” He broke off, Julian was laughing helplessly.

    “Ooh, he is a Captain Sharp, then!” gasped Rommie.

    “Nonsense!” said Rockingham, scowling terrifically. “Welling and Truscott are a pair of damn’ fools with about as much card sense as—as Mrs O’Flynn’s blasted offspring!”

    “I liked her,” said Rommie in surprize.

    “So did I. Dear little thing!” agreed her father.

    Rockingham took a deep breath.

    “Yes, all right: no card sense, quite right,” said Julian hurriedly.

    “Precisely. And I should be obliged if you would mention to my butler next time you are at the Place, Romula, that in the first place, Sir Harry Ainsley acted with the Duke of Wellington’s full knowledge and approval at all times,” he said without a blink—Julian swallowed—“and that in the second place, Mr Paul Ainsley is an entirely respectable young gentleman without a stain on his character.”

    “Ye-es... You could tell him yourself, Uncle Giles,” she pointed out.

    Rockingham took a deep breath. “I may do that.”

    Julian gave her another squeeze. “That’ll do; Giles seems to be in one of his moods.”

    “Were you bored, Uncle Giles?” she asked dubiously.

    “I said that’ll do!” said Julian hurriedly.

    They drove on. It had finally dawned on Rommie that “Uncle Giles” was not in the best of moods, so she was silent, only pointing out to her father such items of interest as an old white horse in a field, a boy with a donkey, an elderly man in a dogcart, a tree that looked as if it might just possibly have been struck by lightning, and a herd of cows. Brindled.

    “My dearest, I declare I feel utterly exhausted!” gasped Mrs Parkinson, collapsing on a sofa when her guests had all finally departed. “Was it not appalling?” She shuddered.

    “No, I do not think so, Mamma,” said Mrs O’Flynn, a trifle colourlessly.

    Mrs Parkinson had been about to have recourse to her vinaigrette but at this she ceased fumbling in her reticule and said: “Dorothea! A marquis in my drawing-room, and the girls and Mr O’Flynn sitting on the floor with Baby?”

    “I think they looked very sweet, and I am sure if Lord Rockingham is a sensible man he could not have thought otherwise, Mamma.”

    This was quite a long speech for Dorothea. Mrs Parkinson looked at her dazedly.

    “At all events, the other gentleman did not appear shocked.”

    “What? Oh—Sir Julian— Sir Julian— What is his name, dearest? It has gone right out of my head!”

    “Naseby.”

    “Y— Oh, yes, his mamma is that Lady Naseby who is known for her charity work: I remember. Your papa once suggested I might be on some committee or something, my love, and I believe Lady Naseby was on that, but for some reason it came to naught. Well, at least he was not above his company, I suppose,” she said with a sigh, “but I could have died when he sat on the floor, too!”

    “I think he was very much taken with dear Hildy,” said Mrs O’Flynn in her quiet way. “and I am sure one could not wonder at it, she has the truest, sweetest nature one could hope to find!”

    “Ye-es...”

    Mrs O’Flynn rose. “I find I am rather tired, Mamma. If you should not mind. I should wish to take a little rest before supper.”

    “Supper? Oh, my land, is that the time! Yes, of course, my dear: run along! And Dorothea, pray do not forget that dearest Mr O’Flynn is to take us for a drive tomorrow!” She beamed encouragingly.

    “No, Mamma,” said Mrs O’Flynn in a resigned voice, going out.

    Mrs Parkinson sighed. She had recourse to the vinaigrette. Then she began to do sums. Oh. Well, never mind, in a very few months Dorothea could at least— Well, grey ribbons. Though if only she had a little more colour in her cheeks, she would look delightfully in her widow’s weeds, fair women frequently were set off by black! But just at the moment... Well, never mind: there was the summer coming up before very long, and the fresh air of the country at Ainsley Manor would do her a world of good, and—

    Mrs Parkinson sat up very straight on the sofa, eyes shining, making plans.

    “Do not speak,” warned Mrs Maddern, sinking back against the upholstery, as Mrs Parkinson’s carriage conveyed them homewards.

    The girls looked at her doubtfully.

    Finally Amabel said: “But Mamma—”

    “Amabel, did I or did I not warn you not to speak, if you please!” She looked at Amabel’s anxious face. “No, well, you at least have nothing to reproach yourself with, my love: your behaviour was impeccable throughout.”

    “Yes,” agreed Christabel grimly.

    “Please, my love,” said Mrs Maddern very faintly, closing her eyes.

    The girls looked at her doubtfully. Mrs Maddern continued to lean back against the upholstery with her eyes closed.

    After quite some time Hildy said in a common-sensical voice: “It was hardly our fault that we were seated on the floor when a belted marquis came calling, after all.”

    “No,” agreed Gaetana gratefully.

    Mrs Maddern took a very deep breath, still with her eyes closed.

    “Ssh, girls,” murmured Amabel.

    There was a pause.

    “I couldn’t see how to get up without making a spectacle of myself!” burst out Hildy.

    “Nor could I,” agreed Gaetana in a relieved voice.

    Mrs Maddern shuddered delicately.

    “You could have followed Amabel’s example,” noted Christabel grimly. Amabel bit her lip and looked anxiously at the younger two.

    “No, we couldn’t: she’s graceful!” objected Hildy.

    “Yes,” agreed Gaetana gratefully.

    “You, at any rate, Gaetana, had no excuse in that regard,” pronounced Mrs Maddern awfully, opening her eyes.

    Gaetana went very red. “I’m sorry, Tia Patty,” she said in a strangled voice. “I—I did take his hand.”

    “She was taken aback,” explained Hildy quickly.

    “Be silent, Hildegarde,” said Mrs Maddern awfully.

    Hildy swallowed, and was silent.

    The rest of the journey home was accomplished in silence. Even Amabel refrained from pointing out such items of interest as a boy with a brown dog, or a man in a dogcart, and a herd of cows.

    Very much later that evening, however, the younger girls having been firmly banished to the nursery with the little ones—without a word, thank you: she did not care to hear an apology, Gaetana, it was Too Late For That—Mrs Maddern confessed to her elder daughters: “I confess, I wished that I could sink right through the floor!”

    Christabel poured tea. “So did I.”

    “They were not so very bad. And it was a—a shock,” murmured Amabel.

    “Shock!” she cried.

    Miss Maddern handed tea. “I must confess I found Gaetana’s behaviour surprising,” she confessed.

    Mrs Maddern put her cup down hurriedly. “Surprising! Say, rather, appalling!”

    “Yes, she was rather rude to Lord Rockingham,” admitted Amabel. “But you could see she was very off-balance, Mamma. You don’t suppose—?” She looked dubiously at her sister.

    “Rubbish!” said Christabel strongly.

    “What? Pray do not speak in riddles!” said Mrs Maddern crossly. “And I warn vou. Amabel,” she said before Amabel could speak, “that if this is to be the story of one of Harry’s exploits, I do not care to hear it! He may choose to take it into his head to—to insult marquises all up and down the breadth of Europe,” she continued, with more energy than geography: “but let me tell you, England is quite a different case, and so is my oldest friend’s drawing-room!”

    “I was not thinking of Sir Harry, Mamma,” said Amabel earnestly.

    “Please, Amabel!” sighed her mother, putting her cup down once more and raising her hand to her forehead.

    Christabel endeavoured to give her a warning look, but Amabel missed it.

    “Well, you must have noticed, Christa! Could it not be that Gaetana was most—most struck with his Lordship?”

    “No,” said Miss Maddern grimly.

    “What? Nonsense!” gasped Mrs Maddern, bolt upright.

    “Of course she is very young: could that not explain her—her truculence?” persisted Amabel.

    “No,” said Miss Maddern, glaring at her.

    “No, wait, Christabel!” commanded Mrs Maddern, raising a hand.

    The two young women waited. Miss Maddern endeavoured as she did so to make it plain by her expression that she was most displeased with Amabel’s injudiciousness in introducing this topic, but unfortunately Amabel’s big amber eyes were fixed on their mother’s face.

    “Could it be?” said Mrs Maddern at last.—Miss Maddern winced.—“My dearest Amabel, I am very nearly sure you are right!” she gasped. “Oh, it would be the most wonderful— But, stay, does he—”

    “No,” said Christabel firmly.

    “It was clear he—he was most amused by her,” said Amabel uncertainly—this was the weak point in her argument.

    “He was also most amused by little Rommie. And, indeed, by Sir Julian’s picking up Baby when she was damp,” said Miss Maddern blightingly.

    “Yes, but did you not see the way he looked at her when first he came in?” she said eagerly.

    “No,” replied Christabel unencouragingly.

    “Nor did I,” admitted Mrs Maddern on a regretful note.

    “I remarked it most particularly, Mamma!” Amabel assured her. “He was utterly taken aback. I have seldom—” She broke off. “Never seen a man so shaken,” she finished weakly, aware of her sister’s eye upon her. Christa had charged her most straightly—most straightly—to say nothing to their mamma of her suspicions about Mr Parkinson and Hildegarde. For it was clear there was almost every chance against an union there: the Vicar had not even come to call, since. Which any gentleman must have done, were he interested in a young lady, as even the Romantick-minded Amabel had had to admit.

    “Well, I have seldom seen a man so rude!” said Christabel roundly. “And he spoke not to her, but to Hildy, in the case you did not remark it!”

    “Yes, but he looked first at Gaetana!” said Amabel eagerly.

    Now Amabel came to mention it, Mrs Maddern was very nearly sure she remembered this. “Indeed, I think she is right, Christa, dear!” she agreed.

    Christabel swallowed a sigh.

    Mrs Maddern thought about it. “What was that he said about his arm?” she said in a bewildered voice.

    “Some polite inquiry our cousin omitted to make, no doubt, Mamma,” said Christabel grimly.

    “It was odd...” murmured Amabel After a moment she added: “But surely it indicated the hope to be—to be remembered kindly by our little cousin!”

    “Well, he was not, it would seem,” noted Miss Maddern.

    “No,” agreed their mother uncertainly.

    “But that is what I’m trying to explain! Dearest Gaetana is so young, she did not know how to go on!” cried Amabel. Here Mrs Maddern’s eyes showed signs of closing in exquisite pain, so she added quickly: “And she was so strange and abrupt because she was embarrassed at seeing him like that! –Did you not remark how her gaze kept returning to him when she thought he was not watching?”

    “No,” said her sister.

    “Nor I, dearest,” admitted Mrs Maddern regretfully.

    “Well, I most clearly remarked it, Mamma! And it was just the same with him!” said Amabel.

    “Amabel,” began Miss Maddern: “this is ridiculous. Lord Rockingham is not only a great gentleman—”

    “Pooh, I am sure an Ainsley is good enough for a Hammond!” cried Mrs Maddern loudly. “And besides, dearest Marinela’s papa was also a marquis!”

   There was a moment’s stunned amaze.

    “Well, something like that,” she amended weakly. “A Spanish title. Possibly a—not an earl, a count, it would be. And now it is Gaetana’s uncle who has the title, so I do not see it would be at all unsuitable!”

    “No, indeed!” cried Amabel eagerly.

    “The man is twice her age!” cried Miss Maddern angrily. “It is a ludicrous idea!”

    “Well, he is clearly not interested in poor dear Dorothea: in fact, I wonder that he bothered to call at all,” said Mrs Maddern on a smug note.

    “True,” agreed Miss Maddern firmly. “And Gaetana is even younger than Mrs O’Flynn.”

    “But she has so much spirit and—and liveliness, dearest!” urged Amabel. “I am sure it would be no wonder if any gentleman—”

    “Amabel, these are mere fantasies. I am astonished at you,” said Miss Maddern firmly.

    Mrs Maddern swallowed. “Perhaps—perhaps we are reading too much into it, dearest. Well, there is such a disparity in their ages... Besides, is the Marquis a single gentleman?” she ended, very weakly.

    “Mamma!” cried Christabel.

    “Yes, he is. Dorothea told me. Evidently he was engaged at one period to a lady in whom—in whom he became vastly disappointed,” said Amabel sadly. “So very like poor Mr O’Flynn’s sad story.” Her soft voice shook a little; her round cheeks flushed up slightly.

    Her relatives looked at her in a numbed way. Finally Mrs Maddern said weakly: “Dearest, that is—well, it is certainly very sad, but—”

    “Extremely unclear,” finished Christabel crossly. “Pray try to say what you mean, Amabel!”

    “Well, I do not know the details, and though I did not press Dorothea for them I am very certain she does not, either. But apparently it is common knowledge in polite society that Lord Rockingham was disappointed in his youth.”

    “Very common indeed, if it came to Dorothea’s ears,” noted Miss Maddern drily.

    “Never mind that!” said their mother impatiently. “It is certainly very sad, and if he has never married all these years, then—”

    “Then possibly he is a confirmed old bachelor, like Mr O’Flynn,” said Miss Maddern, though not entirely unkindly.

    “Never say so, my dear! I am persuaded that Dorothea will have him, and that he intends it, else why should he come calling so very often and pay such particular attention to little Catherine?” returned Mrs Maddern strongly.

    “She does not appear to favour him, Mamma,” said Christabel politely.

    “No,” agreed Amabel, very faintly.

    “Well, possibly not at the moment, my loves,”—Mrs Maddern took a refreshing sip of tea—“but I am persuaded she will come to it in time, it is early days yet! –Christa, dear, this tea is quite horridly cold!”

    Miss Maddern took the cup and refilled it without remark.

    “But as to Gaetana...” Mrs Maddern drank tea thoughtfully.

    Amabel looked at her with hope writ large on her pretty round face, and Miss Maddern with foreboding on hers.

    “We shall wait and see. I am determined she must be dressed exquisitely in London. Exquisitely.” She nodded. “I shall speak to dearest Paul—but of course there is no question but that he will want his sister to have everything of the best!”

    “‘Same pelisse, different bonnet,’” quoted Miss Maddern drily. Mrs Maddern choked into her tea.

    “That shows he remembered her!” cried Amabel loudly.

    “Indeed, I am convinced Amabel is right, my love!” agreed Mrs Maddern eagerly.

    “He remembered her, Mamma,” said Christabel on a tired note, “but as an older gentleman remembers a little girl, surely?”

    Mrs Maddern pouted, scowling. “Rubbish. In any case, she is not a little girl!”

    Christabel had been restraining herself, because after all when they got to town and Lord Rockingham did not come near Gaetana it would be clear that this was all some Romantick notion of Amabel’s; but now she forgot her good resolutions and leaning forward, said strongly: “Ma’am, I beg you, do not encourage yourself in these hopes! Lord Rockingham is a mature gentleman who—who is not apparently of a tender disposition! Even if he were to favour little Gaetana, surely you could not wish for such an union?”

    “Pooh, nonsense, Christa,” replied Mrs Maddern uneasily. “He—he is not a very sociable person, perhaps, but after all not all gentlemen show their—their full characters at—at first acquaintance! I am sure one has heard no ill of him, at all events!”

    “How could we have, buried in our country fastness, Mamma?” returned Miss Maddern grimly.

    “But we know of his kindness to Dorothea! And you did not feel his Lordship to be a bad person, did you, Christa?” cried Amabel.

    “No-o... Well, no. But I was as taken in by Captain O’Flynn as all of you,” she reminded them.

    Mrs Maddern admitted reluctantly: “No: you did say he had rather too much charm and you had an instinctive feeling he was not a trustworthy person, dearest.”

    “Yes, you did,” remembered Amabel .

    There was a little pause.

    “But at all events, you have not had such a feeling about the Marquis!” said Amabel pleasedly.

    “No. But I barely exchanged two words with him. And I do not feel that his is an attractive or sympathetic personality,” she said firmly.

    Mrs Maddern did not feel this, either. She sighed.

    Amabel found that her sister was giving her a hard look. “Well, he— But at all events, compare his conduct this afternoon with what it might have been if he had been a gentleman who was truly high in the instep!”

    “Amabel, that is not a particularly pleasant express— Oh,” said Mrs Maddern thoughtfully.

    “It would have been truly dreadful, Mamma!” urged Amabel.

    Mrs Maddern could see that. She had to swallow.

    “Very well, I will concede that his Lordship acted with considerable forbearance,” conceded Christabel. “Nevertheless his character did not strike me as either kindly or conciliating,” she said firmly, ringing for Bateson. “And he is far, far too old for Gaetana and, Spanish marquis for an uncle or no, far above her. –Pray recollect that Sir Harry’s conduct has not been exemplary,” she said in a low voice.

    Mrs Maddern scowled but could not deny this.

    “And I beg you, Mamma,” added Christabel, still in a low voice, “even if you should cherish certain hopes yourself, please, please do not impart them to little Gaetana! Because a girl of her age— Well, I think she could be very hurt, if we encouraged her to think of his Lordship and it came to nothing.”

    “Good gracious, Christa, of course I should not dream!” she cried with a little laugh. “I know what silly little Misses girls can be, never fret yourself! Why, it would be the very worst thing! For either she would become even more unpleasantly truculent out of sheer shyness, or she would put herself forward in a most unbecoming and—and giggly manner!”

    “Yes,” agreed Amabel, “or else she might become entirely retiring out of mere nervousness.”

    Neither Miss Maddern nor her mother could imagine this, not in Gaetana’s case, but they nodded.

    “Yes,” concluded Mrs Maddern, “I shall not say a word to the little puss! But I am determined she shall have her chance! –Yes, thank you, Bateson, please clear,” she added. “And Bateson. the tea was distinctly lukewarm, distinctly. Pray make quite sure the pot is warmed in future.”

    “Yes, Mrs Maddern,” agreed Bateson woodenly. Her eyes met Christabel’s. Christabel shook her head very, very slightly. Bateson exited, looking rather pleased.

    “I shall write to Mamma’s dear friend, Lady Georgina Claveringham,” Mrs Maddern decided.

    “Is she still alive, Mamma?” asked Amabel.

    “Certainly! Why, only yesterday se’en-night in the Court circular—”

   The girls listened resignedly. When it was over Amabel murmured: “But Lady Georgina must be a very old lady, Mamma?”

    Mrs Maddern rose. “Nonsense. Why, if dearest Mamma had lived, she— And Lady Georgina was younger than she, you know! I dare say she is not above— Well, not a day over seventy.”

    Miss Maddern accompanied her to the door and opened it for her. “I am sure she will be delighted to be apprised of your intention to remove to town, Mamma.”

    Mrs Maddern opened her mouth to explain that that was not precisely what she had meant. She thought better of it. “Yes, indeed! Lady Georgina! How it brings it all back to me, my loves! Well, I must say goodnight: it has been a busy day—and you, my dearest,” she said to Amabel with a titter, “have certainly given me much to think of!” She kissed them both fondly, and went out.

    Miss Maddern closed the door firmly after her. “Idiot,” she said grimly to her quailing sibling.

    “But I really am convinced of it, dearest!” she protested.

    “The more reason for keeping it from Mamma, then.”

    “Christa!”

    “She will be unable to prevent herself from giving Gaetana hints, you know that, Amabel, and if you truly wish for this entirely unsuitable union, I can think of no surer way to circumvent it,” she said in a hard voice.

    “Then you ought to be pleased!” cried Amabel crossly, pouting.

    Miss Maddern gave a short laugh. “True.”

    Amabel looked at her dubiously. “Dearest, would it be so very—very unsuitable? He seemed to me to be— Well, I thought that he was concerned to hide his feelings. But it seemed to be a—a caring—almost a fatherly sentiment he experienced towards dearest Gaetana! And she has such a taking way with her! Do you not think it might—might be the very thing?”

    “No. He is an old man,” she said shortly.

    Amabel went very red. “He is not! You are being very short-sighted, Christa! I would say he is not yet forty, and that is not old! He is in the prime of life!”

    “Like Mr O’Flynn, I presume? –I am very sure that Mamma has destined him for me, should Dorothea by some unlikely chance turn him down,” she added wryly.

    “Yes,” said Amabel faintly.

    “In any case Gaetana is a mere child. She needs time to—to look around her.”

    “Well, I do agree with that! And she shall have it, when we go to London!” She smiled eagerly.

    “Let us hope so.”

    Amabel hesitated. Then she said nervously: “Christa, is not Lady Georgina the friend of Grandmamma’s who—whose—”

    “Whose sister married the then Marquis of Rockingham? Yes, so I believe.”

    There was a short silence.

    “Would that have been his father or his grandfather?” asked Amabel uncertainly.

    “Was she not a deal older than Lady Georgina? I seem to remember that Mamma mentioned that Lady—Lady Margaret Fordham, that is it! That Lady Margaret was the eldest Fordham sister, whereas Lady Georgina was the youngest.”

    Amabel nodded. “She must be his great-aunt. And I think that if it were the case that she was his aunt, Mamma would have—”

    “Mentioned to his Lordship that she knows her: quite.”

    “Well, it would have been natural, dearest!”

    “Mm. Very well, she is his great-aunt, I agree,” said Christabel. “If she isn’t dead,” she added coldly.

    “She cannot be,” said Amabel, swallowing. “Not unless it was very recent.”

    “True. Although,” said Miss Maddern with a twinkle in her eye, “that Court circular was very out of date.”

    “Stop it, Christa!” she squeaked. “Oh, dear, one should not laugh at such a thought. Only I do trust that, er—”

    “That she has retired from town life. Otherwise Mamma will toad-eat her.”

    Amabel looked at her distressfully, but did not disagree with her. After a moment she ventured: “Sir Julian Naseby strikes as a most estimable man, do you not think?

    Miss Maddern sighed. “I agree that he seemed most taken with Hildy, if that is what you were about to say.”

    “Very well, it was,” said Amabel, pouting.

    “I thought she seemed merely flattered,” added Miss Maddern detachedly.

    “Oh, was that all?” said Amabel in disappointment.

    “Yes. Though many marriages, I am sure,” said Miss Maddern drily, “have been built upon no other foundation.”

    Amabel looked at her dubiously. “What is it, Christa?”

    “Oh—nothing,” she said with a forced smile. “I’m a little tired. –I am sure it would be an excellent thing for Hildy if Sir Julian did form an attachment there,” she added with an effort.

    “Yes. He seems a most kindly, sweet-natured gentleman!”

    Miss Maddern had thought he seemed a soft-natured gentleman. She could envisage very clearly the strong-willed Hildegarde walking all over him, completely ruling the roost, in a few years’ time. She did not believe that that would be very good for either of their characters. And not an ideal situation in a marriage, either. However, she responded kindly to Amabel’s speculations as they went up to bed.

    One could only hope. she decided, lying flat on her back an hour later and staring into the dark, that it would all come to naught. That it was all in Amabel’s imagination. After all, it was the first time the girls had been into company and—and met gentlemen! Well, apart from one or two courtesy calls in the neighbourhood. And although Sir Julian had seemed taken with Hildy, no doubt it had been the passing fancy of an afternoon. He was a man of considerable charm, who must know many ladies much prettier, much more sophisticated, and much better behaved than their little Hildy!

    And the same went for the Marquis of Rockingham, an hundredfold! Miss Maddern involuntarily thought of his “Don’t you favour the floor, ma’am?” and in the privacy of her bedroom permitted herself to smile. For she had not disliked the Marquis, odd and abrupt though his manners were. But he was much, much too old for little Gaetana. The thought of a child like that tying herself up to a grim-featured, mannerless man old enough to be her father— Miss Maddern shuddered a little. But fortunately Gaetana was so very taking—and then, one must not be mercenary, but there was no use blinking at facts, and she would have a respectable dowry. No, she could do better, in every matter but rank, than the Marquis of Carabas!