Hopes And Fears

 16

Hopes And Fears

    When Susan had decided not to make one of the company for The Towers Mrs Maddern had sighed but not attempted to persuade her. As Dorothea retired to rest soon after the others left, she suggested that Mr Parkinson might take Miss Dewesbury for a drive: the weather was cool, but fine.

    The Vicar had been reading. He put the book down and said: “I should be delighted to, Mrs Maddern.”

    After their departure Mrs Maddern said with a sigh to her old friend: “Miss Dewesbury is a lovely girl, my dear.”

    “Indeed,” agreed Mrs Parkinson.

    “I will not scruple to mention to you, my dear, that at one stage we had thought your Hilary had shown a partiality towards our Hildy, but…” Mrs Maddern’s voice faltered: both ladies had been taking a little turn in the grounds in the vicinity of the shrubbery at the time of the shouting match earlier.

    Mrs Parkinson went rather red but managed to say: “Your Hildegarde is such a spirited girl, my love; I dare say Hilary spoke to her as he should not have. For he forgets sometimes, how young he still is, and—and takes rather too much upon himself.”

    Mrs Maddern sighed. “Do not attempt to excuse her, my dear Mrs Parkinson. ‘Wilful’ was ever her middle name.”

    Biting her lip rather, Mrs Parkinson fell silent.

    “She would not so much as write Sir Julian a line of thanks for all those posies!” she said abruptly.

    Mrs Parkinson looked at her sympathetically.

    “And what he can have done— Why, he is the mildest creature! I dare say it was an argument over something and nothing, that is Hildegarde all over! And now she is positively aux anges over this Urqhart woman; oh, why cannot she behave like a good, conformable girl and encourage the pleasant young gentlemen?” she cried.

    Mrs Parkinson could find no answer to this.

    Mrs Maddern sighed deeply. “Well, you will have nothing to complain of in Susan Dewesbury, should he favour her,” she said gloomily.

    Mrs Parkinson flushed a little. “My dear, he has scarcely spoken to her, I think.”

    “One need scarcely speak to her to see what a lovely, well-behaved young lady she is,” she said glumly.

    “Indeed,” Mrs Parkinson agreed, albeit a trifle limply.

    “And although her grandpapa was a marquis… Weil, I cannot see that Sir Lionel and Lady Lavinia could raise any objection, she has had two full Seasons now, and besides, your side of the family at least is quite irreproachable. Though I do not mean to imply that the late Mr Parkinson was not always the perfect gentleman, of course!” she said hurriedly. “And so my dear Aunt Lucy always maintained!”

    “Yes, well, it is too early to speak of such matters, Patty,” she murmured.

    Mrs Maddern sighed. It was never too early to think of them, though. And if only Hildy had not been such a wilful, disobedient, badly behaved and—yes—pig-headed girl, it could have been she enjoying Mr Parkinson’s company this very moment!

    Perhaps Mrs Maddern’s sore heart would have been soothed had she been able to witness the behaviour of the two in the Manor’s dogcart. Hilary scarcely spoke, though it could not have been said he was impolite, and Miss Dewesbury was respectful of his evident wish for silence, only venturing one or two conventional remarks on the beauty of the countryside.

    Only one event, if such it could be called, took place during the course of the drive: they passed a donkey in a field, which suddenly brayed, and Susan gave a gasp, and then said: “I’m sorry,” to which Mr Parkinson replied with a forced smile: “Not at all. It was a sudden and unpleasant noise.” To which Susan murmured faintly: “Yes.”

    However, by the time they reached the house again Hilary was feeling soothed, as indeed he had been the previous day at the priory, by her quiet presence. And Susan had silently admitted to herself that life could hold no greater happiness for her than to journey along at Mr Parkinson’s side as his permanent helpmeet.

    So although the two were not nearly within sight of the picture envisaged gloomily by Mrs Maddern, perhaps it was not so unlikely as Mrs Parkinson had claimed to believe it to be. For naturally she would not be averse to her son’s marrying the granddaughter (and cousin) of a marquis and the daughter of a wealthy baronet. So long as he could be happy with her, of course.

    By the end of the week it would have been fair to say the situation between Hildy and the Vicar had not improved. She had not done anything else that was overtly shocking, but although he had managed to accompany her on two entirely proper strolls in the grounds during which he had earnestly tried to bring her to an admission of the error of her ways, she had not shewn herself repentant. Hilary was still torn between strong disapproval of her and strong admiration, but to the disapproval was being added considerable irritation at her stubborn refusal to admit that his attitude was both right-thinking and desirable.

    For her part, Hildy, though her heart still beat faster when he smiled at her, was being to be a little bored with Hilary Parkinson.

    Her opinion of him was not perhaps ameliorated on the occasion of the first stroll, by his apologizing humbly over the way he had distressed her in the shrubbery. Hildy knew perfectly well that she had been almost entirely to blame in that scene, and she could not respect a man who crawled to her in that way. The more so as, on thinking it over, she decided, very flushed and disturbed, that it implied he respected her less than he would an equal: as if she were a stupid toy that could not take the truth but needed to have its whims and fancies pandered to!

    On the Saturday evening he was so incautious as to reproach her for frivolity in the wake of her public declaration that sooner than accompany the family to church on the Sunday she would stay at home and hem a sheet.

    Hildy gave a crow of laughter. “Mr Parkinson, I could barely hem a sheet to save my life! I was jesting: surely you must have realized that?”

    “I— No,” he said lamely.

    “Of course Hildy will come to church with us as usual, sir,” put in Amabel hurriedly, looking nervously over to the other side of the sitting-room. Fortunately Mrs Maddern was engrossed in expounding once again to Mrs Parkinson the inadequacies of the stillroom and the peculiarities of the linen cupboards in the wake of That Woman’s tenancy of the house.

    “Yes,” Hildy admitted. “Though I do not guarantee to listen to every word of Mr Stalling's sermon,” she said drily.

    Even Amabel had to swallow: Mr Stalling was a worthy man, but his sermons were as stolid as his person, and frequently, as witness the recent emphasis on his espaliered apricot tree, little to the point.

    Hilary permitted himself to smile just a little. “And next I am quite persuaded we shall see you with a needle in your hand, Miss Hildegarde, as industrious as Miss Amabel herself!” he said gaily.

    Amabel at the precise moment had not a needle in her hand but her tatting shuttle; she did not attempt to explain this to the Vicar, merely staring at him in a numb way with the said hand suspended over the work.

    “That part was not a joke, Mr Parkinson,” said Hildy on a weak note.

    Hilary smiled. "Come, come, Miss Hildegarde, you cannot catch me out that way! Every young lady learns to sew a fine seam!”

    “Then possibly I am the exception that proves the rule Though I did learn—that is to say, poor Mamma endeavoured to teach me. But I am afraid I was a lost cause. If it was not pricked fingers and thumbs it was puckered work and ugly stitches!”

    The Vicar laughed merrily.

    “Tell him, Amabel, for Heaven's sake, before I scream!” said Hildy wildly.

    Amabel set down the shuttle and patted her knee. "Hush, dearest. It is true that our dear Hildy is not an accomplished needlewoman, Mr Parkinson,” she said bravely, “but she has other accomplishments.”

    He swallowed. "Yes, I am sure," he agreed gamely.

    “You need not say so, sir, for it is a bouncer,” said Hildy calmly: “I have no accomplishments whatsoever: in addition to being unable to set a stitch straight, I have no talent for sketching or watercolours, I cannot read a note of music, and I have a voice like a—well, Hal will tell you it is a corncrake, but Tom maintains a bullfrog is the better comparison!” she ended with a gurgle of laughter.

    “But she reads several languages, sir!” said poor Amabel desperately.

    “I know that Miss Hildegarde has had an excellent education,” he agreed doggedly.

    Hildy get up. “Not a ladylike one, though, I’m very thankful to say. Here comes Susan with her stitchery, so I think I will go upstairs, I see in her eye that she is about to ask Amabel’s advice on the pattern, and I am sure you do not wish to witness a scene of unladylike hysterics, sir.” She went out of the room without further ado.

    Susan, not having overheard what she had said, came and sat down by Amabel, smiling, and said: “I think this fashion of forming the monogram will please you, Amabel: it is one of Mamma’s. But I cannot quite recall her trick of filling in the very corner of the letter.”

    Amabel stared numbly at her pattern; there was an appreciable pause before she managed to look up and say: “I have seen it finished with a French knot.”

    The two fair heads bent over the work. Mr Parkinson could not but look upon them with great approval and, alas, compare them with Miss Hildegarde to her disfavour.

    Hildy did not reappear that evening. Fortunately Christabel diverted her mother’s thoughts from the topic by inviting Miss Dewesbury to play. Susan demurred politely but was overborne and the door into the next room, where the new pianoforte lived, was flung wide.

    Paul had purchased the instrument because his Tia Patty had sighed and reminisced over how she used to play in this very room when she was a girl. To no-one’s surprize but his she had not touched the instrument since its arrival. She had, however, urged Amabel and Christabel to practise and had declared unequivocally that Bunch must learn! Floss, who had been shaking in her shoes, had almost fainted at the sensation of relief.

    To everyone’s astonishment once the female twin had been forced to sit down at the instrument her twin had been unable to keep away from it. So Paul had now engaged the services of a spinster lady from Daynesford, a Miss Fewster, to teach them both. True, she did not look capable of controlling a litter of kittens, let alone the Ainsley twins, and it was more than probable that her looks did not bely her. Most fortunately, however, Bunch, though very evidently less talented than her twin, was thumping out scales and simple tunes with huge energy, and Bungo was too busy soaking up music like a sponge to misbehave. Miss Fewster had murmured sentimentally to his brother: “Almost a little Mozart, Mr Ainsley,” but Paul had choked, alas.

    Now Susan sat down at the instrument with her usual quiet composure and, since her mamma was not there-to urge her pieces which were beyond her capabilities, played entirely creditably. Then Mrs Maddern urged Paul to play and sing. Shyness being foreign to his nature, he fetched his guitar and, smiling at the company, commenced a selection of Spanish songs which, to say truth, might have been written by any European composer of the previous hundred years and did not at all reflect the native style of the Spanish people.

    Afterwards Mr Parkinson, clapping very much, said smilingly to Christabel: “I had no notion your cousin could sing, Miss Maddern!”

    “Yes,” said Christabel, blinking rapidly: “Was it not delightful?”

    “Now,” said Gaetana with a giggle, “shall we have Francisco?”

    “I think that is enough, my dear,” said Mrs Maddern hurriedly.

    ‘But do, pray, elucidate this mystery,” said Mr Parkinson to Christabel. “Who is this Francisco?”

    “Merely Paul’s man,” she said, turning very red. “He sings in his own language.”

    “Nay—caterwauls, I fear!” said Paul, coming over to them.

    “It is... an usual sound,” murmured Christabel.

    “But this is most intriguing!” pursued Hilary unwisely.

    “No, most caterwauling!” choked Gaetana.

    Hilary began to feel the sort of ruffled irritation that he did more and more in her Cousin Hildegarde’s company. He fought it down bravely. “I presume he is a Spaniard?”

    “Sí, sí, but the tunes of the peasants are not pretty, I do assure you,” said Paul.

    Gaetana was very, very bored. She did not sew or tatt, any more than Hildy. In fact less than Hildy. And although Miss Dewesbury’s playing had been audibly not bad, she had found it quite uninteresting to listen to, though she had no notion why. And there was no-one to talk to, with Hildy out of the room. Added to which she was in a very bad mood in any case. “Do let us have him down!” she cried, in a very animated way.

    “Now, you cannot refuse your sister, Mr Ainsley,” smiled Hilary.

    Paul saw that Christabel was beginning to look distressed. And indeed, he quite agreed that Francisco’s singing was no fit sound for an English lady’s salon. So he got up, said repressively: “Come, Gaetana: I wish for a word with you,” and looked hard at her.

    Gaetana sat back in her chair. “Well, have it here, my dear brother.”

    Paul said between his teeth in Spanish: “You will leave this room with me instantly, or I will drag you by the hair!”

    Scowling, she got up and went out silently. Paul followed, grabbed her arm, and dragged her well away from the sitting-room door. “What is wrong with you?” he hissed.

    “Nothing! Why are you bullying me?” she cried.

    “Why are you misbehaving?” he hissed.

    “Why do you always take THEIR side against me?” she shouted.

    Paul opened and shut his mouth. Then he said: “Perhaps to some extent, I do. But you are here to learn the ways of the English ladies, and so far I have not seen very much sign of it.”

    “That is unjust and untrue!” she shouted.

    “Oh? But you have just attempted to embarrass the family in Tia Patty’s drawing-room. Added to which you took the trap and drove out on the road when you—”

    “That is NOT FAIR!” she shouted.

    “Well, perhaps not. But it is certainly true. You are behaving like a silly spoilt Miss; one could almost believe you had a mother as silly as Muzzie Charleson’s!”

    Gaetana burst into tears.

    “I’m sorry, querida— No, don’t pull away from me!” he said as she shoved him angrily in the chest with both hands, sobbing. “What is it?” He got both arms round her and said softly into her hair: “Is it the Marquis of Crabapple? Shall I ask him to dine?”

    “NO!” shouted Gaetana furiously, giving him another shove. “He’s old and beastly and I hate him! And he can HAVE that stupid Lady Charleson, and I wish them joy of  each other!” She ran off down the passage, still sobbing.

    Paul swore fluently himself in several languages for some time. He could see the trouble was the Marquis of Crabapple, but if she didn’t want him to invite the man to dinner, than what did she want? Or did she really want him to but was hiding her true feelings? Oh, dear, if only Madre was here! He went back to his guests but was nothing like his usual merry self for the remainder of the evening.

    Lady Charleson put a small comfit into her mouth. “Call at the Manor? But I have already done so, this week.”

    “Not this week,” objected Muzzie, pouting.

    “Within the week,” she replied, sounding bored.

    “Very well, Cousin, if you should not wish to,” said Mr O’Flynn politely: “I shall not press you. But I think I shall ride over, to see how young Mrs O’Flynn and Baby go  on.”

    “I shall come with you!” cried Muzzie, bouncing up. “You may have darling Daffa-Down-Dilly, dearest Uncky Cousin, ’cos I know he is your asserlutely favourite, and I shall take dear old Brownie!”

    “That will be lovely,” said Mr O’Flynn, smiling kindly at her, “and perhaps we might take a posy of flowers for Miss Dewesbury, I believe this is to be the last day of her stay.”

    Lady Charleson stared at him. “Flowers, Liam? –Run and change, darling puss, if you wish to ride,” she sighed.

    Muzzie hurried out, not looking back: there was always the chance that Mamma might change her mind.

    “Flowers, Liam?” she repeated.

    “Not if you should dislike my picking your flowers, dear Cousin!” he said with a laugh.

    Lady Charleson chose another comfit, very slowly, and said: “Who is this Miss Dewesbury?”

    “Miss Dewesbury? She is the daughter of a Sir Lionel Dewesbury and his wife Lady Lavinia, née Hammond.”

    She frowned slightly. “I do not think he has a sister of that name?”

    “What? No, my dear, I imagine she would be the present Marquis’s aunt.”

    “Oh: she would have lived at the Place before we moved to the district,” she said without interest. After a moment she added: “He has his young half-sister with him at the moment.”

    “Indeed?” said Mr O’Flynn.

    “A girl,” said Lady Charleson with narrowed eyes, “of very much dear Muzzie’s age.” She put another comfit into her mouth and closed it upon it with a definite pout.

    “Oh!” he said. “I see!”

    “If we are good enough for him to come and discuss his horrid drains and dykes with, why are we not good enough to be invited to his house to meet his sister?” she complained.

    “I—er—well, dear Evangeline, you have often mentioned that there is very little entertaining at the Place.”

    “I cannot understand it,” she complained.

    The good-natured Mr O’Flynn swallowed a sigh. “Well, mayhap he does not have a lady to play hostess for him.”

    Lady Charleson was silent, pouting, for quite some time. “There is some sort of a cousin to chaperon the girl,” she said finally.

    “Oh. Er—well, you know the sorts of cousin that one chooses for that sort of thing, my dear!” he said with a desperate little laugh. “Mayhap this chaperone is not—er—quite up to snuff, as they say!”

     There was a short silence.

    “I cannot understand it,” she complained. “We have shown him every courtesy.”

    Mr O’Flynn repressed an urge to tug at his neat neckcloth.

    “Anyway, why this sudden urge to take flowers to this Miss D— She must be his cousin!” she discovered crossly. “If her mamma is his aunt!”

    “Er—yes,” he agreed limply. “It is not a sudden desire, my dear Cousin Evangeline, I merely thought it would be a courtesy, and since your garden is full of lovely blooms—”

    “Take them, take them all,” she sighed, “I am sure I do not care. Matthew Adams will say I am destroying his efforts with the flowerbeds yet again, but take them, it is nothing to me.”

    There was another silence. “Evangeline,” he said cautiously: “I am very sure this is not a deliberate slight on Lord Rockingham’s part—” He broke off.

    Too late, Lady Charleson had burst into tears.

    Mr O’Flynn proffered his handkerchief but this did not work. He found a bottle of smelling-salts and offered those but that did no good, either. Desperately he asked if she wished for her maid. Lady Charleson shook her head violently, sobbing. Desperately Mr O’Flynn dropped to his knees and put an arm round her heaving shoulders—Lady Charleson was in her usual position, to wit, feet up on a charming pastel brocade chaise longue, her charming pastel-clad person draped in pastel scarves and shawls.

    This worked in that she drew a shuddering breath, laid her still-pretty fair head, adorned with the merest gesture of a lace cap with a pale blue ribbon in it, on his shoulder, and sighed: “It is such a comfort to have an understanding man in the house, dear Liam!”

    So on the whole poor Mr O’Flynn would have preferred it not to have worked.

    “We shall miss her,” said Amabel, smiling and sighing, a little later.

    “Indeed!” he agreed eagerly.

    “She has been with us a little over the fortnight, of course... Still, there is always the hope that her mamma may permit her to return later in the summer. I should think the hustle and bustle of Brighton must be rather enervating to the constitution, even though the sea air is said to be beneficial.”

    Mr O’Flynn was entirely in agreement with these sentiments, and said so, and mentioned that he himself had never been to Brighton.

    “It can be very pleasant,” said Dorothea in a very low voice.

    Captain O’Flynn had taken her there just after their marriage. Her friends looked at her very sympathetically and murmured agreement.

    Miss Dewesbury had been riding with Christabel and Gaetana, but all three young ladies at this moment coming in, having changed out of their habits, Mr O’Flynn and Muzzie were able to present their floral offering.

    Susan was quite overcome—for, indeed, the flowers were very beautiful, Lady Charleson’s garden being well known as the loveliest in the district.

    Muzzie then expressed great envy of her going to Brighton and demanded to be told exactly what the Pavilion was like, and if Miss Dewesbury had ever seen the Prince Regent—and was duly stunned, though unfortunately not silenced—to learn from Christabel that His Royal Highness had attended Susan’s ball.

    Riding home again with Uncky Cousin she was silent for some way.

    “What is it, my dear little puss?” said the kindly Mr O’Flynn at last, rousing himself from his own reverie with an effort—Miss Amabel had been wearing the simplest, most charming gown imaginable, palest green with a tiny print of gold and white flowers. And a heart-shaped gold locket at her slender throat; Mr O’Flynn had been unable to stop himself wondering jealously whose miniature it might not shelter, unaware that it held only a lock of her dearest papa’s hair.

    “It is not fair!” said Muzzie with a gulp. “I wish that—that my grandpapa had been a great lord, and that I might have a ball in London where the Prince Regent would come!”

    Mr O’Flynn swallowed a sigh. “Yes. Well, I dare say the Dewesburys’ circle is—is very political, as well as very grand, my dear. I do not think that in reality you would care for that sort of life. You would have to know all about the Parliament, and so on, Or the great lords at table might find you were unable to converse with them, you know!”

    “But a lady does not have to know such things.”

    “Er—well, perhaps not a very young lady, but Miss Dewesbury herself is certainly an extremely well-informed young woman.”

    Muzzle sighed. “Ye-es... I wish I were not so short!”

    “Well, where one may always improve one’s political knowledge by careful reading,” he said with a twinkle, “I fear that there is nothing to be done about one’s height!”

    “No. –Miss Amabel does not know all those scary political things, I think?” she said hopefully.

    “No, Miss Amabel is—is a much more domestic sort of lady,” he said quietly.

    Muzzie did not notice the tremor in Uncky Cousin’s quiet voice. “Yes. She sews so beautifully, and does the most exquisite embroidery. And that tatting stuff, that is drefful diffy, Uncky Cousin!”

    “Yes. She is a very talented young woman.”

    Muzzie pouted.

    “My dear little Muzzie, it is but a matter of applying oneself.”

    “They make me feel I cannot do anything!” she burst out.

    This feeling was, as far as Mr O’Flynn could see, founded in fact. Muzzie had had a series of governesses, none of whom had taught her very much and all of whom had proven unsatisfactory in one way or another—largely in not having the sense to sympathize with Lady Charleson’s sighs and complaints, her cousin suspected. The subjects offered by these ladies had been entirely proper and commendable, but this did not mean that Muzzie had absorbed anything very much from her lessons. Mr O’Flynn, though in his heart of hearts he did not admire intellectual women who could talk about politics, thought it was a pity. And a great pity she had not at least learned the more domestic skills. For Eric would of course inherit the estate and Muzzie could not expect a large portion. Evangeline’s trustees did their best but they were two stout, doating elderly relatives of the late Member of Parliament, whom the plaintively pretty Evangeline could wind round her finger with little effort.

    “Well, should you wish to improve your stitchery, my dear, I am very sure Miss Amabel would be only too happy to help you.”

    “Ye-es... Mamma says I must not ride all that way by myself, and most of the time she will need the pony-cart herself!”

    Mr O’Flynn’s heart beat just a little faster but he said steadily: “Well, should you ever wish to ride over to Ainsley Manor, my dear Muzzie, I am quite at your disposal.”

    “Really truly?” she cried.

    “Certainly, my dear,” he smiled.

    “Oh, goody-doody! You are the kindest Uncky Cousin imaginable! –If I was to write Miss Amabel a ickle note, do you think she would agree to teach me that diffy tatting?”

    Privately Mr O’Flynn thought a good stiff course in hemming sheets would not come amiss, but he assented to this.

    Muzzie decided she would write the note this very day! And send it tomorrow  with a drate big posy! But could any of the menservants be trusted not to crush it sadly?

     Mr O’Flynn’s heart beat faster once more and he said: “Perhaps I could take it, my dear? It would not be a bother, I assure you.”

    Muzzie accepted the offer blithely, not remarking anything in the least odd about a gentleman who was a contemporary of her mamma’s offering to run an errand for her. For she was, as the Madderns and Ainsleys had noted with some amusement, just as self-centred as Carolyn Girardon, as well as just as silly.

    "I think he must have run mad,” said Lady Charleson next morning with a pout. “Rid out at this hour with another posy of flowers?” ‘

    Muzzie rearranged the ribbon bows on her mamma’s lace wrapper in a more becoming way. “It is not so very early, ickle p’etty Mamma,”—Lady Charleson was still in bed—“and besides, I dare say he wished for the exercise.”

    Her Ladyship sighed faintly. After a moment she said: “It must be one of those young women.”

    “What, Mamma?”

    “Cousin Liam,” she said, pouting and frowning. “He must affect one of those young women.”

    “Silly ickle Mamma! They are all much too young for him!” she cried with a giggle.

    Lady Charleson’s petulant rosebud of a mouth tightened. “That has never been known to stop a gentleman yet, silly little puss.”

    Muzzie stared at her.

    “How long has he known them?” she demanded.

    “I—I have no notion, Mamma, has he not told you?” she faltered.

    “No,” she said, pouting. “It has been ‘Mrs O’Flynn this’ and ‘Baby Catherine that’ until I declare I could scream with vexation, but I had no notion...”

    “I wish I had known Captain O’Flynn, I have never met a wicked man,” she said regretfully.

    “Be silent, Millicent!” screamed her mamma, forgetting she was a lady.

    Muzzie goggled at her.

    Lady Charleson burst abruptly into tears.

    “Do not cry, dearest ickle Mamma,” said Muzzie, enveloping her in a hug, “for you are much, much p’ettier than all those young ladies!” –A downright lie but Muzzie, without being in the least calculating about the matter, knew it was what her mother wished to hear.

    “That is not—true!” she sobbed.

    “Yes, of course it is true, darlingest! And Cousin Liam is too old for my darlingest p’etty ickle Mamma, and very dull asides!”

    Lady Charleson did not remonstrate with her daughter for speaking so freely, though had she been less disturbed she would have done so, for she had a strong sense of the proprieties. She just gave a shattering sob. It was not that at heart she cared a fig for Liam O’Flynn, and she did not approve of marriage between near relations, in any case. But having any man prefer another pretty woman over herself was anathema to her—and then, it was convenient to be able to avail herself of his escort. Eric, of course, now that he was old enough, could always be commanded to accompany her to any social occasion, but her Ladyship knew all too well that he would either sulk or remain tongue-tied throughout, and in all probability both.

    “Well, at all events Miss Dewesbury is gone, now,” said Muzzie on a hopeful note when the tears began to abate.

    “Ye-es... Well, possibly it was not her after all, in spite of yesterday’s bouquet. Did he appear to affect her, dearest puss?” she said, blowing her nose on a scrap of lace and cambric.

    “Um—I did not really notice, Mamma... Well, I would say not.”

    Lady Charleson gave her a sharp look. “Was Mr Ainsley present, dearest puss?”

    “No, he had rid out with his agent and Mrs Maddern’s sons,” she said blithely.

    A slight frown creased Lady Charleson’s forehead and since it was not on her own account she hastily smoothed it away with a forefinger. “I see,” she sighed.

    “And Mr Parkinson will be gone, now, too,” reported Muzzie sadly.

    Lady Charleson was not altogether displeased to hear this: her plans for Millicent did not include her pretty little daughter’s tying herself up to a country vicar. However handsome. “Indeed?” she said colourlessly.

    “Yes. He is to escort Miss Dewesbury some part of the way,” said Muzzie on an envious note.

    Her Ladyship’s brows rose. “Oh?”

    “Not in the carriage! On his horse, Mamma!” she said quickly. “And of course Miss Dewesbury has her maid with her. And also there was to be a groom, or possibly two, and postboys, and Sir Lionel Dewesbury sent his own carriage!”

    “I dare say,” she sighed, losing interest.

    “I wish our carriage were not so old and heavy and old-fashioned,” she said, pouting.

     Lady Charleson wished this, too. “Indeed,” she sighed. “But I fear in our circumstances, my love…”

    “Why do we have circumstances and other people do not have circumstances at all?” cried Muzzie crossly. “It is not fair! I am very tired of horrid circumstances!”

    Lady Charleson was, too. After a moment she said: “Well, Uncky Georgy and Uncky Charleson have agreed to my selling that silly piece of swamp to Lord Rockingham for his silly ditching or whatever it is he wishes to do.”

    “Then we may buy a carriage with the money!” she cried.

    “Er... Well, I should like to,” she confessed. “But if we are to visit with your Aunt Faith and you are to have your come-out next year—”

    “Ooh, yes, we shall both need clothes for London!” she agreed eagerly.

    “Indeed. Though my health will not permit of my spending the entire Season with you, my little puss,” she sighed. Lady Charleson’s poor health was a fiction, but it enabled her not to do anything which she did not wish to do, such as escorting her daughter to endless boring débutantes’ balls.

    Having Aunt Faith keeping an eye on her would be bad enough, but having Mamma as well—! So much though Muzzie loved her mamma she said in a caressing voice: “No, dearest p’etty Mamma, and I would never wish you to endanger your health ’cos of ickle me! Of tourse you must take care of yourself and not think of me! ’Sides, I dare say we shall have some splendid times, nevertheless!” She squeezed her hand.

    “I dare say,” sighed Lady Charleson.

    Muzzie looked at her hopefully. “Uncky Cousin has promised he will ride over with me any time I wish to visit Ainsley Manor, Mamma, so—”

    “There! I knew it!” she cried, bolt upright.

    Muzzie looked at her in horror.

    “Oh, I am the most unfortunate woman in the world!” wailed Lady Charleson, collapsing limply onto her befrilled pillows in a much more characteristic pose and raising the wisp of cambric and lace to her eyes again.

    “Oh, no, Mamma, you are the asserlutely most dearest mamma in the world!” said Muzzie earnestly, squeezing her hand again. As no sobs eventuated, she then ventured: “Shall you get up today?”

    “Not this morning, I declare I feel quite exhausted,” she said with a sigh. “Ring the bell, my darling puss.”

    Muzzie rang the bell, waited until her Ladyship’s maid had come, embraced her, and went away quite cheerful. She did not, of course, then sit down to any busy or useful task. And indeed, without her mamma’s presence to encourage her, it was hardly to be expected that she would.

    That morning was to one of the happiest of Mr O’Flynn’s existence. As Muzzie had pointed out, it had not been so very early when he left for Ainsley Manor. When he arrived he found that Mrs Maddern with Mrs Parkinson, Miss Maddern and Mrs O’Flynn had driven out very early in the carriage to Ditterminster, the nearest large town, which lay a considerable way to the west of the Manor, in quest of curtaining fabrics. Deering, bowing, believed that Miss Amabel was in the young ladies’ sitting-room, however—?

    Mr O’Flynn, who had no notion of the perceptive powers of London butlers, was labouring under the belief that he was disguising from the man the eager hammering of his heart. He replied that as it happened he had a message for Miss Amabel, so—

    Deering bowed him into the little sitting-room with an indulgent look in his eye that the visitor entirely missed. He then went straight off to the kitchen and intimated to Berthe that he would accept ten to one on Mr O’Flynn’s succeeding with Miss Amabel, should she care to bet against the gentleman; but Berthe, pas si bête, merely gave a fat chuckle, and favoured him with Señora Ainsley’s receet for a cake rich in fruit and marzipan that would be ideal for “les noces.”

    Naturally Mr O’Flynn greeted Miss Amabel in an entirely proper way and naturally Amabel replied in kind, then inviting him to be seated. She herself was on one of the sofas, so Mr O’Flynn, though he knew that it would be more proper to take a chair, boldly sat down at her side.

    “I was giving dear little Maria some help with her embroidery—though indeed, her work is so exquisite that I fear the boot was on the other foot! But she has gone for a little ride: she and Gaetana are coaching Hildy and Marybelle, this morning,” she said, a little awkwardly.

    “I am lucky to have found you in, then, dear Miss Amabel,” said Mr O’Flynn a trifle hoarsely.

    “Yes,” said Amabel in a very small voice, swallowing.

    Mr O’Flynn then remembered with a start that he had a message for her, not to say an huge bouquet of flowers, and proffered first the flowers, which Amabel accepted with blushes and thanks, and then the note. As he had expected, she declared herself to be entirely at Miss Charleson’s disposal.

    He smiled and said: “That is so like you, dear Miss Amabel! I fear my little cousin has never learned to apply herself; but I have great hopes that your example may help her!”

    “Oh—no,” said Amabel, very faintly. “You are too good.”

    “She could not have a better,” he said in a voice that shook.

    Amabel blushed very much and dropped her eyes.

    Mr O’Flynn swallowed loudly. “How—how very lovely you look this morning,” he said huskily.

    “Oh—pray—” said Amabel very faintly, raising a protesting hand but not looking at him.

    In perhaps the most daring move he had ever made in his life, Mr O’Flynn seized that little hand and pressed his lips to it.

    After a moment Amabel, though she felt she might swoon, managed to say: “Oh, pray, Mr O’Flynn!”

    “I— It is too soon— You must be aware of—of the very great regard I bear you, dear Miss Amabel!” he said, releasing her hand.

    “Pray do not,” she whispered faintly.

   Mr O’Flynn’s lips trembled. “I should not have— It was most forward and—and improper of me. Can you forgive me?” he said hoarsely.

    Amabel swallowed, but could not speak.

    “I would understand if you thought my conduct unpardonable, dear Miss Amabel,” said Mr O’Flynn with tears in his eyes, “for—for at my age a man should—should conduct himself with more propriety. And indeed, my age makes it almost ineligible that I should dare to—to even approach you.”

    “Oh—no,” she said faintly.

    After a dazed moment Mr O’Flynn said in a voice that trembled more than ever: “Am I— Dare I to hope that I am forgiven, then, Miss Amabel?”

    “Of course,” she whispered, not looking at him. “There is nothing to forg— How could you think— After your kindness to our dear Dorothea; I—” She fell silent.

    He gave her a searching look, and saw that she was still very flushed and that her bosom rose and fell agitatedly—the which was most delightful indeed, and his own blood raced the more because of it—and did not, modest though he was, believe that all this flutter was because of his kindness to Dorothea or, indeed, because she was shocked by his forwardness. So he said, very low: “It is such a beautiful morning. Would you care for a little turn in the grounds, Miss Amabel?”

    “I should like it of all things,” replied Amabel in a shaking voice, “and if you will excuse me, I shall just fetch my bonnet.”

    Mr O’Flynn rose immediately and bowed her out.

    Amabel went out with her head lowered, not daring to look at him. Mr O’Flynn saw that her eyelashes fluttered a lot and that her bosom still rose and fell in that enchanting way, and was very satisfied.

    When she came back she was looking very shy but met his eye bravely and said: “Well, I am ready! I hope I did not keep you waiting overlong, sir?”

    The minutes had fled by in a waking dream, during which a certain amount of noise in the hinterland had gone unnoticed; he jumped a little and said: “Oh—no, not at all !”

    “Miss Fewster—the twins’ music teacher, you know—is here for a lesson, and I was obliged to sort out a little dispute on the subject of who should play their new piece first,” she said with a little blush, “so I fear you must have thought I had been kidnapped, Mr O’Flynn!”

    “I did not regard it,” said Mr O’Flynn, smiling at her and envisaging very clearly, if rather mistakenly, the sweetness with which she would have settled the dispute. In fact Amabel had been reduced to allowing the two, at Bungo’s suggestion, to toss a coin for the honour. She had not known what else to do, as poor Miss Fewster had been near tears. Unsuitable, indeed, undesirable though this solution might have seemed, both twins had been utterly satisfied with it.

    He offered his arm. Miss Amabel smiled and blushed, and, lashes fluttering very much and once again avoiding his eye, took it.

    Mr O’Flynn led her carefully onto the west lawn, feeling as if he were stepping into Paradise.

    They did not say much of note to each other during the stroll, and certainly Mr O’Flynn did not hint further at his feelings. He stayed no longer than was proper, though his heart was racing terrifically and all he wanted to do was hurl himself at her tiny feet and pour out his heart to her. But it was far too soon to approach such a declaration. And in any case, he must speak to her mamma first, when the time should come. But he rode away in a happy dream.

    Amabel went upstairs and, first taking off her bonnet very carefully and putting it away, looked round her pretty bedroom unseeingly and suddenly sat down, plump, on her bed and burst into tears of pure joy.

    When a gentleman escorts one’s carriage on his horse one does not see very much of him, except when one stops to change horses. Miss Dewesbury would scarcely have been human had she not wished that the Vicar’s tall and handsome person were beside her in her carriage rather than occasionally glimpsed from her window. However, she had sufficient intelligence to recognize that there could be considerable awkwardness and, for herself, not a little pain, in undertaking a journey side-by-side with a gentleman who was suffering in the wake of his rejection by another lady. So on the whole it was better that he should only be glimpsed in those occasional snatches.

    In spite of all her good sense, Susan Dewesbury was not of course indifferent to Mr Parkinson’s beauty, and her journey afforded her the time—when she could concentrate, instead of wondering how far it would be to the next posting-house and whether perhaps he might accompany her inside to sit down for a little in a private parlour and have a glass of milk, and nonsense of that sort which, though it was unworthy of her, she could not entirely banish from her mind—her journey, then, afforded her the time in which to examine her heart very closely and to think very deeply about whether she felt—so—about him merely because he was the best-looking man she had ever seen.

    On the whole, she did not think it was that. His personality was as pleasant, his manners as agreeable, and his character as estimable as his person was handsome, decided Susan seriously. Many a young lady no doubt had decided this about other gentlemen in the past and would no doubt do so in the future; but perhaps with rather less cause. In Hilary Parkinson’s case, it must be admitted, Miss Dewesbury had rather more of right on her side than did these many other young ladies. For indeed he was as good as he was beautiful—though Miss Dewesbury would never have phrased it so of a gentleman.

    Unlike Hildy, she did not ask herself if perhaps Mr Parkinson’s character was rather too good, or if his mind and manners were so conventional as to become exceeding boring on closer acquaintance. For she knew he was all that was estimable—and indeed, he had said to her only yesterday that, however agreeable the comforts of Ainsley Manor were, he had a duty to his parishioners and should not be absent from them another Sunday, even though he was sure his relieving curate was managing splendidly. And besides, Miss Dewesbury had been educated most carefully, not brought up in part by an absent-minded scholar and in part by a mamma who was by turns too strict and entirely vague in regard to her conduct and beliefs.

    Sir Lionel was to meet his daughter at the last posting inn of the day, where they were to spend the night before going on to Dewesbury Manor, and Hilary had intended originally to leave her to accomplish the second-to-last stage alone, for that was the point at which he could most comfortably turn off and take his rather circuitous route home. But when it came to the point he found he did not like to leave a young lady to journey even one stage in the company of only her maid, her papa’s groom, Mr Ainsley’s groom, and a couple of postboys. And if her papa was late, she would have to sit all alone at the inn with only her maid for chaperone! No, it would not do. So he declared firmly he would accompany her, and overrode her objections.

    He did not enter the carriage, and Susan looked rather wistfully at the overcast sky and was conscious of an unworthy wish that it would pour, so as she might insist he get in. However, out of an oddly proprietorial feeling that arose out of his decision to look after her, he rode close beside her window for that stage. Miss Dewesbury’s heart fluttered in the most uncontrollable and, she feared, unladylike manner for the whole stage.

    Sir Lionel was not late in meeting his eldest daughter and was rather staggered to see that a young man had accompanied her. The more so as Susan blushed and stumbled over the introduction in a way that was most unlike her. He was, however, pleased that that his daughter had been escorted by more than a pair of grooms and a couple of postboys and, cheerfully dispatching Paul’s man with a quite unnecessary guinea pressed into his hand and a clap on the back which Lady Lavinia, had she been there, would undoubtedly have felt was also quite unnecessary, insisted Mr Parkinson step into the inn and refresh himself.

    It had been a long day and Hilary had the prospect of a long ride still in front of him, so he accepted the offer gratefully.

    Susan was a trifle shocked to see a vicar down a pint of ale as thirstily as did her own hearty papa, and denied to herself rather crossly the curious fluttering sensation she experienced on seeing the workings of Mr Parkinson’s strong throat above his very modest neckcloth, when he tipped his head back to drink.

    “Better, eh?” said Sir Lionel with a grin.

    “Yes, indeed, sir!” replied Hilary, laughing a little. “That last stage was exceeding dusty: the country hereabouts seems very dry, though the innkeeper at the last halt informed me that it has been a cold summer so far and they have scarce seen the sun.”

    “Aye: the rest of the country has been cold, too, though round our way we’ve had a lot of rain; and they say ’16 will be Europe’s coldest, darkest summer ever known,” said Sir Lionel in a pleased voice, motioning him to sit, and immediately, on his daughter’s leaving them to freshen up upstairs, breaking into a dissertation on the sad state of the English countryside this year and the expected poor harvest.

    Hilary was a little surprized, for he had gathered that Sir Lionel, though of course he possessed a handsome country seat, was rather more heavily involved in London life and London politics than in country affairs. After a little Sir Lionel revealed that his wife preferred town life—Hilary was not surprized, though he was a little taken aback at the older man’s frankness—and went on to say that what he himself most liked about London was the music. Before Hilary could do more than nod he favoured him with a disquisition on the rival merits of Mozart and Gluck. Hilary listened somewhat dazedly.

    Susan came back into the room smiling a little and said: “Papa is very fond of music, Mr Parkinson. He forgets at times that others have not such technical knowledge as he.”

    “Indeed!” agreed Hilary with a twinkle. “I fear you lost me entirely, Sir Lionel, though I very much enjoy listening to music. And, indeed,” he said, favouring Susan with his lovely smile: “Miss Dewesbury honoured us at Ainsley Manor by playing some delightful pieces during her stay.”

    “Eh?” said her father, staring.

    Susan blushed a little and murmured: “Only simple pieces, Papa.”

    “Glad to hear it,” he grunted.

    “Mr Ainsley’s pianoforte is really very nice,” she added.

    Sir Lionel sniffed faintly. “Mm. So you enjoyed yourself, did you, my dear?”

    “Yes, indeed, everyone was so kind!” she said earnestly, looking very pink and as if she might cry.

    “Well, no need to bawl over it!” he said quickly.

    Mr Parkinson looked upon the scene with complete approval: Miss Dewesbury’s emotion was entirely estimable. And so was the fact that she did not cry, but merely blinked, smiled, and said: “No, of course, Papa.”

    Sir Lionel, it must be admitted, took leave of Mr Parkinson without any special regrets, and did not notice at all as he ate a hearty dinner in his daughter’s company that she had fallen very silent.

    In the carriage next day on the last lap home he said wistfully: “I’m dashed sick of Brighton. Well, Prinny had a decent little musical evening t’other week, y’know, but otherwise there ain’t a thing doin’. Now, wouldn’t it be pleasant if we was to drop in at the Place for a bit? Giles has been mugging up some more of that B—”

    “Oh, yes!” she cried. “It would be of all things the most delightful!”

    “—Beethoven fellow,” finished Sir Lionel, goggling at her. “What the Devil’s got into you, girl? It won’t be that pleasant, if Giles is still moonin’ about lookin’ like a week of wet Sundays!”

    “No, but I could see them all at the Manor, again,” said Susan in a squashed voice.

    “Oh—right; dare say you could,” he agreed uneasily: it was not like Susan to fly into raptures. And he knew Lavinia did not fancy the idea of the Dagoish-looking son of Sir Harry Ainsley as a son-in-law.

    ... “Well?” demanded Lady Lavinia, as the baronet engulfed a large meal. The providing of which had caused the chef considerable anguish, as his master had arrived before the usual dinner hour but later than Lady Lavinia ate luncheon. The boiled ducks which had been destined to become confits for next winter had had to be sacrificed—indeed, hastily disguised as spit-turned, the baronet’s preferred dish. With a lot of shouting about basting with that fat, were you DEAF? And put a DISH under them!

    “Don’t ask me, thought you had gone up to her room express to have a heart-to-heart?” grumbled Sir Lionel. “You may give me some more of that duck, Chivers, what’s come over you?” he added unpleasantly.

    The butler bowed impassively and handed him the duck again.

    “I think you may leave us, now, Chivers, Sir Lionel may serve himself,” decided Lady Lavinia.

    “Only don’t forget the next course!” added Sir Lionel jovially as the butler bowed.

    “Of course, Sir Lionel,” he said, bowing again and withdrawing quietly.

    “Now he thinks you’ve run mad,” Sir Lionel informed his spouse.

    “Do not be ridiculous, Lionel. Now, perhaps you would care to tell me why Susan has gone to bed with the headache instead of joining you in the duck?”

    “The journey, I dare say. Bit knocked up. Only a girl,” he offered.

    “I am aware she is but a girl, thank you, Lionel, and I should like to know who this young man was who accompanied her on her journey!” she snapped.

    “Said he’d met you. Fellow’s a vicar.”

    Lady Lavinia glared at him.

    “Well, I forget his name—dash it, met him for two seconds, downed a tankard of ale, shook his hand and bade him goodbye!” he said aggrievedly, omitting the pastoral and musical bits entirely.

    “A Mr Parkinson, your daughter informed me,” she said coldly. “According to her report, he has been staying with the Madderns this week past, and is the son of Mrs Maddern’s oldest friend!”

    “There you are.”

    Lady Lavinia took a deep breath.

    “Ring the bell, there’s a good girl: I could fancy some— Is it roast beef?”

    “No, not nigh on two hours before it could possibly be expected to be cooked. There is an excellent cold ham. And pray do not call me by that absurd appellation!” she added, a flush rising to her large cheek.

    Sir Lionel winked. “Don’t often dine without a parcel of servants hangin’ round, do we? Well, never, really. Nice, ain’t it?”

    Lady Lavinia did not manage to glare. With a rather weak look on her face she rang the bell.

    “I’ll have some beef,” said Sir Lionel the instant the butler appeared.

    “Beef, Sir Lionel?” the man faltered.

    “Just bring the next course, Chivers,” said Lady Lavinia tiredly.

    “Yes, my lady. One of our own hams, Sir Lionel, with a remove of—”

    “Yes, yes, just bring it, there’s a good fellow.”

    Concealing his mortification at this appellation, the butler withdrew.

    “Lionel, I have told you before, I should be vastly obliged if you would refrain from addressing Chivers as ‘there’s a good fellow’!”

    “Oh. Sorry, my dear. Well, what about this Parkinson? Does the girl affect him, do you think?”

    “I am asking you!” cried Lady Lavinia in a voice that was most unlike her usual measured tones.

    “Oh—er—oh. Sorry, my dear,” he said, eyeing her uneasily. “Now don’t bawl, for the Lord’s sake; yesterday I rode I don’t know how many miles to that damned inn—”

    “YES! That is ENOUGH!”

    “And my throat’s dry as a bone,” he grumbled, refilling his wine glass.

    Lady Lavinia immediately removed it from his hand and poured him a glass of water. Sir Lionel drank it glumly, without remark.

    “Now,” she said grimly, handing him back his wine: “Speak.”

    Sir Lionel shifted in his chair. “Um— Oh, good,” he said weakly as the butler reappeared with a footman, the parlourmaid, and the next course.

    “Go on,” said his wife grimly when these persons had disappeared.

    “Um—well—dashed pretty fellow,” he offered glumly. “Um… quite pleasant. Parson, you know. Well, dammit, Lavinia, I only met him for a few minutes!”

    There was a short pause. Sir Lionel ate ham uneasily. He had told the butler to remove the remove of tartlets of fricasseed kidneys in a cream sauce, as he didn’t care for fal-lals, but Chivers had not obeyed his master in this instance. After a few moments he absently helped himself to the dish.

    Finally Lady Lavinia sighed and said: “You may pour me a glass of that wine, Lionel.”

    “Not feeling peaked, old thing?” he said anxiously, pouring.

    “No. Thank you, my dear,” she said taking the glass. “No—no tartlets, I thank you. It is just,” she said, sipping her wine and sighing, “that Susan seems very... odd.”

    “Knocked up after the journey,” he suggested for the second time.

    Lady Lavinia did not bother to wither him: after all, he was a mere man. “I do not believe that is it.”

    Sir Lionel ate ham uneasily.

    “Who are these Parkinsons?” she asked heavily.

    “Um... “

    “Sir Lionel, you are hopeless! The man escorts her all the way from— Yes, and she told me he should have turned off a full stage earlier but insisted on going out of his way to accompany her for the last stage!”

    “Not the last,” he corrected pedantically, “the—”

    “You know what I mean!” she snapped.

    “Er—yes. Well, dare say he thought it wasn’t the thing to leave her. You know parsons: bit particular. No, no, no, my dear, wasn’t implying you wasn’t!” he said as her bosom swelled. “Only that he might be a bit over-nice in his notions. You know: a trifle ladylike.” He gave a faint sniff.

    Lady Lavinia bit her lip. “I see.”

    “Dare say she might not mind. Never can tell what girls will like,” he offered.

    His wife sighed. “Well, I cannot tell what Susan will like, and I admit it frankly. I must have introduced her to— Well, two score of eligible partis this past Season alone, I dare say!”

    “Oh, hundreds,” he agreed, nodding. “Hundreds.”

    Lady Lavinia glared.

    “I’m agreeing with you, old g— Lavinia.”

    Sighing, she said to the mere man: “Yes. Did she not mention his family, Lionel?”

    “Mm? Oh—no. Um—said he has a sister who’s a widow. Um—got a little girl, around one. Comes from—er—some dashed place. The mamma, too. Rang a bell, but damned if I can remember why. Uh...” He fortified himself with another couple of tartlets and washed them down with more claret. “Tunbridge Wells,” he said mildly, looking smug.

    Lady Lavinia had just raised her claret to her lips. She choked violently.

    “Steady on, old girl! Ain’t got bones in it!” he protested, handing her his napkin.

    She mopped her ample front. “Tunbridge Wells?” she said in a hollow voice. “It cannot be!”

    “Ye-es... Yes, is, definitely. Susan said the Madderns live not far from there.”

    “I know that,” she said in a hollow voice. “Do you not remember that night we were in Giles’s box at the opera?”

    “‘Course I do! Così fan tutte!” he said, greatly injured. “La D’Angelica was in good voice but not as fine as—”

    “Yes!” almost shrieked Lady Lavinia. “Be silent! I am trying to tell you!”

    “I’m tellin’ you,” he said with tremendous patience. “Tunbridge Wells.”

    “Lionel,” said Lady Lavinia in a shaking voice, “if you say those two words once again this evening, I shall go out of my mind!”

    “Eh?”

    “Do you not remember?” she hissed. “They must be the very same! The young widow with the child and the widowed mother! Miss Maddern mentioned them: I can hear her voice as if she were in the room at this instant!”

    “Er—yes. Mm. Fine upstandin’ figure of a girl. Reminds me of you as a young woman, y’know.”

    “Lionel, you are being frivolous,” she warned.

    “Well, I can’t see what you’re upset about, me dear.”

    “I am persuaded the woman is Giles’s mistress!” she screamed.

    After a moment’s blank staring Sir Lionel said: “Oh. Ah.” He coughed. “Dare say the place ain’t all that small, after all, me dear. Could well be other candidates?”

    “Rubbish! I cannot bear it!” she cried, clutching her head.

    Sir Lionel shot to his feet. “Here, steady on, old lady! Now, now, no call to go into hysterics!”

    “Two Seasons—two Seasons, Lionel!” she said, taking a deep breath and controlling herself with an effort that was far more terrible than the head-clutching had been, but that Sir Lionel, being more used to such self-mastery in her, did not remark: “And then she has to go and fall for the brother of a woman who—who—”

    “Well, maybe she ain’t. I mean, maybe Susan ain’t fallen for him.”

    “You saw him,” she said grimly. “And now that I realise who he is, I cannot but admit that I was most struck by his looks when we saw him at Almack’s.”

    “Er—um, yes—Almack’s, eh? Yes, pretty fellow. But Susan’s got a head on her shoulders; she—”

    “She said to me—of course I did not realise at that point who he is, or I assure you I should have been on the qui vive immediately—she said to me,” said Lady Lavinia, drawing a painful breath: “‘You may think me fanciful, Mamma, but I have never before met a gentleman whose elegance of mind so truly matches the elegance of his person.’”

    “Ouch,” said Sir Lionel simply.

    “Indeed. Had I known whom she meant— Elegance of his person? Why, the man is an Adonis!” she cried.

    Sir Lionel hurriedly poured her more wine. “Here.”

    Lady Lavinia drank it silently.

    “At least he ain’t Byronic,” he offered, sitting down again and pouring himself another glassful on the strength of it. “Neat as a new pin. Country wear, y’know.”

    “He was riding his horse!” she said in astonishment.

    “Er—yes. Well, a horse, don’t think it was his. Well, hope it wasn’t: dashed bony brute,” he said, shaking his head.

    “I suppose there is no use asking you whether he appeared godlike on a horse,” she said, closing her eyes for a moment.

    “Uh—no. –Here, never tell me Susan said that?” he choked.

    “No. Not in so many words. What she did say was: ‘It is remarkable how one man may appear quite ordinary upon a horse but another may appear almost a Centaur.’ Of course at the time I imagined she meant Mr Ainsley. Which was bad enough,” she added grimly.

     “Yes: don’t augur well. Centaur, eh? When they start gettin’ all Classical—”

    “Thank you, Lionel, I am aware of that.”

    “Poetical, y’know?”

    “Thank you, Lionel!”

    Sir Lionel refilled her glass but she pushed it away with a frown.

    “Um—could ask Giles straight out,” he said glumly, after a long silence.

    “He is like to reveal something like that to me!”

    “Um—no. Meant me, old girl,” he said humbly.

    “Oh. Well—well, thank you, my dear,” she said in astonishment. “But do you think he would admit it?”

    Sir Lionel scratched his chin. Lady Lavinia looked at him hopefully. “Er—probably not, no,” he said at last. “Fellow’s as close as an oyster. Never knew anythin’ like it. And getting worse in his old age, what’s more!”

    “Do not refer to Giles’s age, if you please, Lionel, I have had more than I can take for one evening.”

    Another gloomy silence. Finally he offered: “P’raps she ain’t fallen for him.”

    His wife snorted.

    “Um—well, keep her amused, take her to concerts and so forth, maybe she’ll forget about the fellow!”

    Lady Lavinia just looked at him tiredly.

    “Um—well, I dunno! Never had a grown-up daughter before!”

    “Nor I,” she said sadly.

    “Uh—no,” he said, rather taken aback at this sudden admission of weakness in her.

    Another silence fell, even gloomier.

    Finally Lady Lavinia said: “I do not like to ask it of you, Lionel, even for Susan’s sake, but I fear you must find out whether Giles is mixed up with this man’s sister before—before— Well, before we can take any further steps at all.”

    “For or against—quite,” he agreed glumly. “Very well, I will. Well, I’ll do me best.”

    “You must!”

    “I can’t make him speak,” he said plaintively.

    “No. –Was there not some story of her being Anne’s protégée?” she asked, frowning.

    “Um... don’t know. Well, dare say there might have been.”

    “Lionel! One of the Miss Madderns mentioned it! Miss Maddern herself, I think.”

    He waited for her to say she could hear her voice as if she were in the room, but she didn’t. “Oh, uh, well, mm. Dare say you are right, my dear, you always are.”

    She sighed. “I had best write to Anne.”

    “No, I say, Lavinia! Can’t do that ! She is the man’s mother—I mean to say!”

    “I shall merely inquire if she is acquainted with his woman and—and mention that someone said she was her protégée.”

    Sir Lionel looked dubious. “Might work. Though it won’t prove much, y’know.”

    “I am aware of that, thank you.”

    “I’ll— No, look here, the fellow’s at Daynesford, how the Devil am I going to ask him casually after a journey like that?”

    “You will not ask him casually, Sir Lionel,” she said grimly.

    “I thought I’d just sort of work up to—”

    “No!”

    “No, s’pose it wouldn’t do. Um... Oh, Hell.”

    Lady Lavinia stared miserably at the table. “Even if the sister is not... Well, I have never heard of any Parkinsons.”

    “Derbyshire family,” he said instantly. “Oldest son’s in leading-strings, though.”

    “Precisely.”

    “A parson’s respectable enough,” he offered.

    She sighed.

    “Well, would you rather it had been that black-eyed, foreign-looking fellow?”

    “Yes. He will be a baronet.”

    “Lavinia!” he protested, shocked.

    “Well, he will,” she said, reddening. “And whatever his father may have done, Mr Ainsley is a mere boy, he cannot have been involved in anything...”

    “Smoky.”

    “Dubious,” she corrected firmly.

    “No,” he agreed. “Giles says he’s—”

    Lady Lavinia rose abruptly. “Pray do not mention Giles’s name again today, Lionel, I really do not think I— In fact I think I shall retire.”

    “So shall I,” he said instantly.

    “Lionel—”

    “You can always lock your door,” he said glumly.

    “I have never locked my door!” she said, very red.

    “Yes, you have, old girl: that time when Quentin was a little fellow and you blamed me for him falling off his pony—”

    “I was a mere girl!” she gasped.

    “Yes, well, only saying... Anyway, I won’t if you’d rather not,” he said glumly.

    Lady Lavinia sighed. “I should be glad of some human comfort,” she said dully.

    In spite of this not very encouraging response, Sir Lionel cheered up immensely, patted her on the shoulder, as an afterthought retrieved the decanter of claret, and ushered her out, beaming.

    “Going to bed early, Chivers,” he said to his startled butler in the hall. “Knocked up after me long ride yesterday, and all that. Lock up, there’s a good fellow.”

    Chivers bowed impassively.

    Sir Lionel got as far as Lady Lavinia’s bedroom before he broke down and had a terrific sniggering fit. “Fellow didn’t believe a word of it!” he gasped. “Thinks we’re both run mad, now!”

    She smiled faintly. “Indeed.” She sat down on her dressing-table stool. Sir Lionel immediately came up behind her and began to undo her gown. Lady Lavinia, though it could not have been said she did so with marked enthusiasm, permitted him this familiarity. She then permitted him further familiarities.

    When they were lying side by side in the dimness of late evening the baronet said plaintively: “Look, Lavinia, couldn’t we both drive over to the Place?”

    Lady Lavinia was rather softened by the preceding events. And besides, it was not by any means all papas who would have agreed to do as much for their daughter. So she patted his thigh and said: “Very well, my dear, if it would be easier.”

    “Much,” he said with relief, yawning and closing his eyes.

    He was soon snoring. Lady Lavinia, who had some very odd notions about fresh air which her spouse did not share, arose and stealthily opened a window. Then she got back into bed, sure she would not sleep.

    But of the trio of anxious mamma, devoted papa and lovelorn oldest daughter, it was the last-named whose rest was the most fitful, that cool, cloudy summer night.