More Tales From The Manor

13

More Tales From The Manor

    Susan Dewesbury had been very surprized, on dressing for dinner on her first evening at the Manor, to have her hostess bustle into her room and supervise the finishing details of her dress—not to say ruthlessly abolish the neat hairdo of her maid’s devising and institute a much prettier arrangement of her fair curls with her very own hands. Not to say embrace her heartily after having done so and depart with the assurance that she would send one of the girls to bring her downstairs, for she knew what it was like, being a guest in a strange house when one was young!

    After a dazed moment Susan had said to her maid: “I think this is prettier, Sanders.”

    “Yes, Mrs Maddern has certainly a knack with young ladies’ hair,” said Sanders, rather faintly.

    “Did you see how she did it?”

    “Oh, yes, Miss! I could copy it!” she said eagerly.

    “Good.”

    There was a short pause.

    “I don’t know as I was ever in a house before where one of the daughters took my young lady down to dinner,” said Sanders cautiously.

    Susan swallowed. “Nor was I. They—they are a very hospitable family, Sanders.”

    “Yes, indeed, Miss Susan.”

    There was another short pause.

    “Miss Mason has been with Mrs Maddern ever since she was a girl, Miss Susan.”

    “M— Oh, Mrs Maddern’s personal maid?”

    “Yes, Miss. Before that,” said Sanders impressively, “she was in a duchess’s household!”

    “I see. Are they making you comfortable, Sanders?”

    “Very comfortable, thank you, Miss.”

    Susan looked at her dubiously: she knew Sanders would not demean herself to admit to anything less.

    “I has a room of my own and a fire in it, Miss!” confided Sanders in a rush. “And Miss Mason has promised to teach me a tatting stitch with her very own hands that she had off the duchess herself!”

    Susan’s knees went weak. She sat down on her dressing-table stool. “Oh, good!” she said fervently.

    There was a short pause.

    “There certainly seems to be a large party of young people here, Miss Susan,” said Sanders in congratulatory tones.

    Susan eyed her warily. Sanders was an excellent maid, even if she never had any inspirations of her own in such matters as the arrangement of hair, but she was more than capable of reporting fully to Lady Lavinia—if invited to do so, naturally—on every incident that should take place during the visit, and on all the personalities—particularly the young gentlemen, thought Susan gloomily.

    “The gentleman in Holy Orders,” said Sanders airily—Susan repressed a sigh: there was no hoping that the Reverend Mr Parkinson’s astonishing looks would have escaped Sanders’s eagle eye—”would he be a relation, then, Miss Susan?”

    “No, he is the son of Mrs Maddern’s oldest friend. I believe she is to visit, herself, within a week.”

    Sanders nodded thoughtfully. “Has he only the one sister, Miss Susan?”

    “I believe so,” she said on a tired note. “I really know very little of the family. I believe Mrs O’Flynn is a widow.”

    Sanders nodded again.

    Susan took a deep breath. “The other young gentlemen are only Mrs Maddern’s sons and nephew, I think we could have expected them to be here, Sanders.”

    “Of course, Miss,” she said primly.

    Susan swallowed a sigh.

    “Well, if she is that bad,” said Hildy with a giggle, squeezing her hand, “she is probably spying on us from behind the curtains as we speak!”

    Susan glanced up involuntarily at the house, and winced. “Er—no,” she said, smiling and blushing, as Hildy gave a little gurgle of laughter: “I did not mean to imply that she—that she— Well, she is genuinely anxious for my welfare. One cannot blame her if—if she tells— If she is asked to report to—” Her voice faltered and she broke off.

    “To your mamma: no,” said Hildy, squeezing her hand again. “I understand: after all, you are the granddaughter of a marquis: your Mamma is taking a terrible risk, sending you to stay in a house full of the hoi-polloi!”

    Susan gave a loud giggle, but protested: “Do not say such things! Of course you are not— And Mamma would never dream of— Oh, dear, what am I saying?”

    Hildy laughed, and said gaily: “Forget about silly old Sanders! Come along, let’s go down and see how Harry Higgs is getting on with the fishponds. And mind, if you flirt with him, I shall instantly report you to Sanders!”

    Smiling, Susan allowed Hildy to tug her at a rapid pace which soon developed into a positive run, over the lawn, down the steps to the lower lawn, and away.

    “That poor child is relaxing at last,” noted Mrs Maddern complacently as she rested in her boudoir with her feet up.

    Amabel was in the window-seat with her tatting. “Yes. Hildy and Gaetana seem to be working wonders with her—I have never seen anyone so tense as she was on her arrival. I am afraid from what Mason was saying earlier that Sanders reports on her to Lady Lavinia—and I do not scruple to say, Mamma, that I am very sure it was not Sanders’s idea to do so!”

    “No. Although,” said Mrs Maddern on a guilty note, “I suppose one cannot but approve of her wishing to be assured of her daughter’s welfare.”

    “Pooh!” cried the gentle Amabel, suddenly very cross and flushed.

    Mrs Maddern looked at her approvingly. “Yes, my dear, I am bound to say I share your sentiments. However,” she said heavily, “we must not forget that Lady Lavinia comes from a—a very great family.”

    Amabel’s lips trembled. “He has not sent her so much as a posy! And I know he is in residence!”

    Not pretending she did not understand the reference. Mrs Maddern sighed. “Yes. Mrs Giles tells me he is very popular with his tenants, and the villagers at Daynesford had the flags out for him when he arrived with his party.”

    “I am sure I cannot understand why!”

    “Nor I, indeed. Well, his father was said to be a hard, cruel man,” recollected Mrs Maddern hazily, “but...”

    “Well,” said Amabel, tatting very fast, “I have said it before and I say it again: ignoring her is not the way to engage the interest of a very young girl like Gaetana!”

    “No,” she sighed.

    Amabel tatted furiously for a few moment Then she looked at her work, started, and began to unpull it.

    “Is that the tray-cloth design you had off Sanders?” asked her mother, momentarily diverted from the topic in hand.

    “Yes. I have done too many loops... There! Look, Mamma, do not these triple picots give a very pretty effect?”

    Mrs Maddern looked at it critically. “Very nice indeed. I wonder if we could adapt it for a collar? That little green dress of Bunch’s is sadly dull.”

    “Yes, the stuff has not made up very well,” owned Amabel. “I think it might be rather tricky, Mamma, this is worked straight... No, I have it! A straight band of lace, across the bodice!” She gestured at her own well-endowed person.

    Mrs Maddern eyed her narrowly, eyes half-closed. “The very thing!” she beamed.

    “Good! I shall get onto it directly.” Amabel tatted busily.

    Her mother understood that “directly” meant when Amabel had finished the work in hand. There was no doubt she would do that very speedily, so Mrs Maddern just nodded. “Another band on the skirt would be too much,” she murmured.

    Amabel nodded agreement.

    “Dearest,” said her mother cautiously, “did you not think that Hal appeared quite struck by Susan?”

    Amabel replied regretfully: “I am afraid not, Mamma. I was seated near them last evening and although he was talking animatedly it was actually about his friend Mr Daws’ sister. I think we may have to resign ourselves to the fact that he is most attracted to her.”

    “We have never even met her!” she said resentfully.

    “No. But am I sure she is most amiable.”

     Mrs Maddern sighed. “I suppose they will want the house,” she said glumly.

    “But dearest Mamma, it is your house.”

    Mrs Maddern sighed again. “Your Papa and I had an understanding that—that it should go to the eldest son.”

    “But that does not mean that you should move out for Hal, Mamma!”

    “His wife will not wish to live with her mamma-in-law,” she said dully.

    “Dearest Mamma, do not distress yourself. She will be a very lucky young lady, if she is to live in your house. Why, Christa and I were saying—I think it was the day on which we sorted out the stillroom,” she said, wrinkling her brow—“yes, I believe it was—we were saying to each other how very difficult it must be for a young woman to set up her first household alone.”

    “Well—yes. In many ways. But I can assure you,” said Mrs Maddern with a shudder, “when one is first married, the very last thing one wishes is to live under the eye of one’s mamma-in-law!”

    “Oh,” said Amabel blankly.

    “Dearest, use your imagination!” urged Mrs Maddern, a trifle desperately.

    Amabel’s wide, pale brow wrinkled again.

    “Well, perhaps you will understand when you meet a young gentleman you can care for,” said her mother limply.

    “Yes,” said Amabel, folding her work neatly. “I think I will go and fetch that dress of Bunch’s, Mamma.”

    “Very well, my dear,” said Mrs Maddern, swallowing a yawn.

    Amabel went out quietly.

    Mrs Maddern did not remark how long she was in coming back with the dress, for she had dropped into a doze.

    Mrs Parkinson and Dorothea were now due, escorted by Mr Parkinson.

    “Shuh-should we not stay at home, dear Hildy?” faltered Susan. “Er, if your friends are to arrive...”

    “They are not my friends,” said Hildy in a hard voice. “Mrs O’Flynn is chiefly Amabel’s friend, and I suppose Christa’s, and Mrs Parkinson of course is Mamma’s friend. And one might say that Mr Parkinson is Tom’s, Bunch’s and Bungo’s friend.” She gave her a dry look. “Though in the cases of Tom and Bungo, an impartial observer might not conclude that from their actions this morning.”

    “They have gone fishing,” admitted Susan in a small voice, looking at her helplessly.

    “Tom has always been like that. Dr Rogers was used to say he was cut out to be a sporting parson, and now I see,” said Hildy grimly, “that he was not funning.”

    “Wuh-well, is that not all the more reason why we should stay?” she faltered.

    Hildy sighed. “It will be all tea and cakes and gossip. It’s perfectly dreadful when Mamma and Mrs Parkinson get together. But if you feel it your duty to stay, Susan, by all means do so.”

    Gaetana had been present, though silent, throughout this interchange. Now she looked at them both very sympathetically and said: “In any case I shall walk out: Hildy is right about the tea and gossip. But Floss will be enough company for me, if you two think you should stay.”

    Hildy was now very flushed. “I’ll stay,” she growled.

    “Yes, so shall I,” said Susan in relief.

    Hildy sighed, and removed her hat. “I’ll put this away,” she said glumly. She went out, leaving the other two girls alone in the little morning room.

    Gaetana looked out of the window. “They are very busy round the corner of the house, they have made great progress!” she reported pleasedly. “–Do not regard Hildy, dear Susan. She does not know how she feels about Mr Parkinson.”

    Susan flushed. “I see.”

    “Of course, it is impossible to understand how or why one person may be attracted to another,” said Gaetana thoughtfully—Susan nodded weakly—“but although Hildy clearly does feel an attraction to Mr Parkinson, would you say that they were temperamentally suited?”

    “I—I could not say, Gaetana, I scarcely know him,” faltered Susan, cheeks bright scarlet.

    Gaetana looked at her sympathetically. So her suspicions had been correct, then: Miss Dewesbury, though behaving with the great propriety to be expected of one brought up by Lady Lavinia, had fallen for the beauteous Mr Parkinson! “No, of course: I was forgetting!” she said lightly. “Come through to the little sitting-room, I think the others are in there.”

    In the little sitting-room Amabel was holding a prettily trimmed green dress up against the scowling Bunch Ainsley’s chest and Christabel and Maria were darning sheets.

    “Ah, here is Susan, now we shall be three to darn!” said Maria at once.

    Christabel flushed a little. “Dearest, one cannot ask a guest to darn,” she said quietly. “You find us very domestic this morning, Susan!” she added with an awkward little laugh.

    Susan smiled at her and came over to sit next to Maria on her sofa. “So I see. I should be very happy to darn, Maria, though I fear,” she said, looking in awe at the girl’s work, “that my darning will not be near so exquisite as yours! What perfect work!”

    “Thank you!” beamed Maria. “The good nuns have taught me!”

    “‘The good nuns taught’,” murmured Christabel with an uneasy expression.

    “Sí, sí, of course! I get confused with the English past tenses! There are too many of them!” said Maria with a giggle.

    “I am exactly in accord with you, there!” said Susan, picking up a sheet.

    “Dear Susan, there is really no need!” protested Miss Maddern.

     Susan smiled at her. “I like to keep busy, Christabel. And my mamma would be shocked to see me sit by idle while there is mending to be done, I can assure you!”

    “There, she does the mending, too!” said Maria, beaming.

    Miss Maddern did not believe this for an instant. Not for an instant. But what could she say? In fact, what she did say, in a very weak voice, was: “We shall be most grateful for your help, in that case. I think Maria’s sewing box has everything you will need.”

    Susan inspected it with great admiration. “Yes, indeed! What a pretty box, Maria!”

    “¡Gracias!” she beamed. “Papa has g— gave it to me!”

    “Did he, indeed?” said Susan with a smile. “It is not many papas who would think to choose that sort of gift.”

    “No, and he chose it himself! Well, I took him to the shop,” she admitted.

    Susan’s gentle blue eyes twinkled but she said: “Of course. All gentlemen need a little pointer in such matters. But he chose very well.” She began darning.

    Gaetana sat down on a chair beside Miss Maddern’s. “Where is Marybelle?”

    “Upstairs. She will be down directly. She has been sorting out pillowslips. There are a great number of odd ones.”

    “Odd ones?” said Gaetana blankly.

    “Yes. Some lacking monograms entirely, some of a different quality of linen than everything else in the house, and some with a very odd monogram indeed,” replied Christabel tranquilly.

    “Mamma suspects that the last may have been left behind by the tenant,” explained Amabel.

    “I see,” said Gaetana limply.

    “Marybelle plans to unpick those,” added Miss Maddern.

    “Why?” said Gaetana wildly.

    “She likes to unpick,” said Maria placidly.

    “That was not what I—” Gaetana broke off.

    “They are excellent quality. We thought we might lay them by,” said Amabel.

    “For what?” said Gaetana limply.

    “For Marybelle, of course.”

    Gaetana just stared at her.

    “Do you not understand, dearest? For her trousseau.”

    “Her— But Amabel, she is only fifteen!” she gasped.

    “Nearly sixteen,” corrected Amabel mildly.

    “¡Sí, sí, Gaetana, people with houses do it, it’s a tradition!” said Maria eagerly. “Do you not remember that Geneviève de Breuil had a cupboard full of linen? And she was younger than me!”

    Amabel nodded encouragingly at Gaetana.

    “But what if the girl should not marry?” she said limply.

    “The linen may always be used,” said Miss Maddern firmly. “Or laid by for a niece, of course. In any case,” she added with a twinkle in her fine grey eyes, “Marybelle’s desire to unpick should not, I feel, be discouraged.”

    “No,” said Gaetana weakly. “Oh, here she is! Marybelle,” she said as Marybelle entered the room bearing a huge pile of linen, “where is Floss?”

    Marybelle set her pile down on an occasional table, puffing. “Whew! These pillowslips are heavier than they look! Are there not a pile of them? That Woman must have been mad, to leave so much good linen behind! –Floss and Hildy have gone for a walk, Gaetana; I thought you were going with them?”

    “What?” she cried.

    “Oh, dear!” cried Susan.

    Gaetana looked at her, and pulled a rueful face. “Lost her nerve.”

    “I am afraid so,” allowed Susan, smiling and blushing.

    “I suppose one ought to feel mortified, or at least guilty,” admitted Hildy, some ten minutes later. “They are all closeted in the little sitting-room doing useful work and here are we, escaped to the fresh air, doing nothing very much!”

    “Pooh!” said Floss sturdily.

    Hildy took her hand and squeezed it hard. “If it were not for your presence, Floss, I truly feel I would go mad here.”

    Floss turned puce. She squeezed Hildy’s hand hard in return and said in a choked voice: “I thought you liked Bunch better than me.”

    “No. I do like her, of course, and she is certainly a very intelligent girl, and thinks just as we do on the subject of their everlasting mending”—Floss nodded convulsively—“but you are my sister: of course I do not like her better!”

    “Good. I like her, too,” Floss admitted.

    “Yes, I know. You must not mind that she prefers to spend so much time with Bungo, you know,” said Hildy gently: “they are accustomed to be together against the world, I rather think! It is often so with twins, I believe.”

    “Yes, I suppose so. It must be a very odd feeling, knowing you were in your mother’s tummy together.”—Hildy nodded tranquilly.—“Do you think kittens from the same litter have that feeling?”

    “I am sure they do when they are little, but they lose it when they grow up,” replied Hildy seriously.

    “Yes, for Bateson swears that Bat-Ears was the father of Fluff’s first kittens, and you know they were brother and sister,” she agreed.

    “Yes. –Does Mrs Fred Bottle still have Fluff?”

    Floss nodded energetically. “Yes, and she says she is an excellent mouser, just like her mother!”

    “Good,” said Hildy, smiling. “I meant to go and see them before I left, but with all the fuss over hats and pelisses and so on…”

    “It seems odd to be calling Milly Jenkins ‘Mrs Fred Bottle’,” noted Floss.

    Hildy swallowed a sigh. “Yes. Well, everybody must grow up, I suppose.”

    “Yes,” said Floss glumly. “Kitty Jenkins is living with them, now.”

    “Yes, I know. She will give Milly a hand in the house, and be company for her: that cottage of Fred Bottle’s is rather isolated.”

    “Hildy, if you get married might I come and live with you?” she burst out.

    Hildy looked at her in amaze. “But Floss, what about Mrs Spofford?”

    “She could come, too! Hal does not even love her!”

    “Hal?” said Hildy in bewilderment. “I am sure he likes her, Floss, he is fond of cats. And what has he to do with it, in any case?”

    “Mamma says he must have the house, and she does not know what we shall do in reduced circumstances!”

    “Oh, dear,” said Hildy limply.

    Floss was looking at her hopefully.

    “In the first place, Hal has said nothing yet about marrying, and even if he was to marry he would not turn you all out of your home, Floss.”

    Floss looked unconvinced.

    “And in the second place,” said Hildy, reddening, “I am not thinking of marriage.”

    “But everybody grows up, you just said so! And they’re making you be a lady so as you can catch a husband!”

    “Don’t say that,” said Hildy weakly, “it’s terribly vulgar.”

    “Bateson says it.”

    “Yes, well, it would probably be wiser not to say anything that Bateson says,” Hildy admitted weakly.

    “No. May I, though, Hildy?” she pleaded.

    “Floss, the question doesn’t arise!”  said Hildy desperately, very red.

    Floss’s eyes filled with tears.

    “But of course you may, silly, if you still want to, if I ever do,” said Hildy quickly, squeezing her hand again.

    “And Mrs Spofford?”

    “Yes, if she will settle.”

    “She will settle when she is with me!” Floss declared, beaming and nodding.

    Hildy wasn’t so sure but she nodded.

    “And Pierrot, of course,” said Floss quickly.

    “Of course; I could not marry a man who disliked Pierrot,” said Hildy solemnly.

    “No, indeed. –Sir Julian Naseby greatly admires Pierrot,” she said hopefully.

    “Uh—well,” said Hildy, blushing once more, “he certainly seems to have spread the story of his saying ‘Vive l’empereur’ all over town, if that counts for anything.”

    “Yes, for the last time I saw him, he said Pierrot was a splendid bird and he had wagered fifty guineas I would be driving the Marquis of Crabapple’s team before the year was out!”

    “Fifty guineas?” gasped Hildy.

    Fifty guineas or five guineas were equally unimaginable to Floss, who had never had more than a few shillings in her purse. “I suppose that is an awful lot of money,” she admitted.

    “I should say so! Fifty guineas? To throw away on a mad wager on a parrot? That is positively profligate: the man has no sense of decency! When there are people starving in the streets of London!” she gasped.

    “I did not see anyone starving,” said Floss dubiously.

    “No, for your family took very good care you should not go anywhere near the poor quarters,” said Hildy grimly. “And indeed, though I have seen the occasional beggar, I have not been to the poorer areas, either. But it is impossible for a well-informed person not to be aware that there is great poverty and suffering in the big cities, Floss.”

    After a moment Floss said: “Bert Lobben went to that Man- Man- Man-place, only he did not like it.”

    “Manchester. I believe there is a lot of cotton-spinning there and the workers labour under dreadful conditions.”

    Dubiously Floss offered: “Many of the cottagers spin wool, Hildy.”

    “Yes, I know, but that is not the same: in the big manufacturing towns the working people are shut up in huge, dark, barn-like places with no proper fire, and made to labour for as much as fifteen hours a day. They would never earn as much as fifty guineas in the whole of their lives.”

    “It seems wicked,” said Floss timidly.

    “It is wicked,” replied Hildy grimly. “And for a wealthy man who buys his coats from the most fashionable tailor in town to throw fifty guineas away on a wager on a parrot is also wicked.”

    “Possibly he was only joking,” said Floss in a tiny voice.

    “Did he sound as if he was joking?”

    “We-ell... It is not very easy to tell, with Sir Julian.”

     Hildy looked at her pleasedly. “No! That is exactly what I find, Floss!”

    Floss beamed.

    After a moment Hildy said, half under her breath: “They are both good-natured, that is one of the problems.”

    Floss looked at her in concern, but was unable to say anything comforting. Eventually she said: “Where are we going?”

    “What? Oh! Well,” said Hildy with very naughty look in her eye, “it is nowhere you will need that stupid bonnet, for a start!”

    Floss grinned but noted uneasily: “I am supposed to wear it because of my freckles.”

    “Only in the sun!” said Hildy, eyes dancing. “But it is quite a dull day, and in any case if the sun should come out, we shall not be in it! Come on!” She ran off towards the woods, the far-from-unwilling Floss still tightly holding her hand, and scrambling along as fast as her shorter legs would carry her.

    Gaetana did not, after all, go for a walk. With the downright connivance of Ned Adams she got Dandy into the trap, and drove off carefully down the drive. The misguided Ned watched her depart, nodding proudly, as it was he who was largely responsible for her having learned to drive the trap at all. He was under the impression that she meant merely to go to the bottom of the drive and return, to repeat the manoeuvre as many times as she pleased. The which proved that he was not very well acquainted with Miss Ainsley’s nature.

    Gaetana drove down to the bottom of the drive. The tiny lodge was as yet unoccupied, for its roof was in a far worse state of repair than that of the house had been. However, the big wrought-iron gates stood wide, so she was able to drive straight out without pausing. She turned left. This was the way to Dittersford village and had Ned Adams seen this he would not have been particularly alarmed, for if she should come to grief, there would be enough passers-by along that stretch of road to help her.

    At the fork where you could turn sharp right, go round in a large meandering semicircle and, skirting a small wood, eventually come out in the tiny hamlet of Lower Dittersford, or turn slightly right and soon come to Dittersford itself, or carry straight on to the east, Gaetana carried straight on. The road bordered her papa’s home wood and the ill-kept preserves of the Manor for some way. It was a lovely morning, Dandy was keen, and there was nothing else to do; and besides, she had not been this way before by the road, though she had certainly ridden out over the hills and fields with Jake, Paul and Maria.

    Then the muddle of hedges and broken-down Manor fences at her left hand ended, to be replaced by a very high stone wall in beautiful condition. Gaetana made a face at this wall. She knew it ran for miles. On her right there was now a wood, which had merely a low fence, but also in excellent condition. Gaetana knew who owned this wood, too. She made a face at it, into the bargain.

    Dandy continued along gaily and to say truth the road, though not in bad condition, was not particularly wide, and Gaetana, though she had practised turning, was not confident of her ability to accomplish the manoeuvre in such a narrow space. So she kept on.

    On her left, the high stone wall continued, with the tops of magnificent old trees showing behind it. On her right, the woods continued. Gaetana knew little of forestry but she could see that these trees were smaller, so possibly he—someone—had planted them not so many years since. She could hear birds twittering occasionally and a little wind rustling in the trees, so although for some time she had not seen a soul she did not feel lonely.

    Eventually a carriage came towards her. She had to draw over to her left; she did so successfully and the coachman flourished his whip at her and winked, so that was all right. She drove on, feeling quite proud of herself.

    Then a waggon hove in sight. “Pull over, Dandy!” said Gaetana, easing him over to the left again.

    The waggon came closer and she saw with relief that it was not a very big one. It was driven by a man in a grimy smock, accompanied by a much grimier small boy.

    “Good morning!” she called, waving, once she had pulled over and drawn up.

    “Mornin’, Missy!” the man called cheerfully. The little boy just goggled.

    “Walk on!” she said to Dandy after the waggon was safely past. Dandy flicked an ear at her and walked on

    After that there was nothing at all on the road. Gaetana began to get very sick of the sight of tall stone wall and shortish forest. Why were there no cottages or farms in this part of the country? It was very boring! And why did the road not widen? Eventually she began to mutter to herself in Spanish. Dandy flicked his ear anxiously, but kept going.

    “Here is a bend,” said Gaetana at last in Spanish: “possibly this everlasting wall will stop! And I do not know about you, Dandy, but I am so thirsty, I would kill for a drink of water!”

    Dandy flicked his ear again. They rounded the bend.

    “¡Madre de Dios!” cried Gaetana angrily. “¡No es posible!”

    The road just kept on. So did the wall. And the forest.

    “Well,” said Gaetana, scowling terrifically, “we shall stop and turn, I do not care! And you at least may eat some lovely grass!” She drove on a little way to be well clear of the bend, this being a point that Ned Adams had drummed into her head, and pulled Dandy over.

    She sat there drooping, wondering why he wasn’t eating, then realized she had reined him in too hard. “Go on, eat,” she said glumly, loosening the reins. “And if there is a dandelion or some such down there, I will eat it myself!”

    She got down but there was nothing growing in the ditch bordering the road that she recognized as food, though Dandy cropped the long, soft grasses gratefully.

    “Bother,” said Gaetana crossly. “And those horrid trees are not even fruit trees; only an imbecile plants trees that don’t even produce food!”

    She crossed the road and glared at the trees.

    “Well,” she reported glumly to Dandy on her return, “one or two may possibly be hazels, though I do not guarantee it by any means. I think the most of them are silly English oaks, he will not see any timber from them in his lifetime!”

    Dandy flicked his ear.

    “Sorry,” said Gaetana in English, realising she’d been speaking in Spanish. She patted his neck. Dandy went on eating.

    After considerable patting of Dandy’s neck and considerable sighing, Gaetana got back into the trap. “Hue! Hop!” she cried in French.

    Dandy ignored her.

    “Oh, bother. Come up!” she said.

    Dandy raised his head reluctantly.

    “We shall turn round and go home and find you a nice drink of water,” explained Gaetana in English. “Um—walk on. No—over!” she gasped, hauling on the reins.

    The obliging Dandy, realizing what she was trying to do, turned to his right.

    “Yes—good boy! Over!” gasped Gaetana.

    Dandy stopped: the low fence was in his way.

    Gaetana swore in Spanish. “Back up!” she gasped in English. “Hue! No, damnation, not hue. What is the English word? Come on, Dandy, backwards!” she gasped.

    After quite some time of this and considerable sawing at Dandy’s mouth, she managed to get him backing.

    “Good, good, come on!” she gasped. “No—STOP!” she screamed, looking over her shoulder. “Ow—help!” she gasped, as one wheel of the trap went into the ditch, the whole apparatus swayed wildly, and poor Dandy went right down on one back leg.

    The trap wobbled alarmingly, but didn’t fall over. Dandy scrambled up, whinnying.

    Gaetana got down very cautiously. “Dandy, are you all right?” she cried, running to his head. He nuzzled into her bosom with a huffing noise. Gaetana leaned her cheek against his head. Tears began to slip down her cheeks. “I have already killed one faithful horse because of my selfishness and pig-headed stupidity; please don’t have a broken bone, Dandy,” she said in Spanish.

    Dandy whickered into her bosom.

    “I suppose,” said Gaetana, gulping, “I had best feel your legs.”

    Not surprizingly, Dandy did not reply. Gulping, she felt first his front legs—he did not react—and then very cautiously, his back legs. The one he’d gone down on last.

    “It feels hot,” she said. “Does this hurt?”

    Dandy made a huffing noise, peering round at her.

    “I don’t think it’s broken,” said Gaetana, sniffing. “But this stupid cart is pulling dreadfully on you, poor boy. If only I was a boy and not a stupid girl, I would have a good sharp knife and I could cut you free! Bother. Well, I shall just have to undo the nasty buckles, I suppose.”

    She began to free him from the trap. Dandy looked round at her mildly.

    The buckles were very stiff, but she eventually managed it. Not without a lot of Spanish swearing, though. She led him cautiously down the road a little, watching his gait carefully.

    “Oh, you’re limping, what shall we do?” she cried, bursting into tears.

    Dandy just began to crop the verge.

    Gaetana sat down on the grass, very near his head, and went on crying.

    When a solitary rider on a big black gelding came trotting gently down the road she had temporarily shelved the problem and had gone to sleep. Dandy was just standing there meekly, rather full of grass.

    The Marquis hurled himself off his horse, and, not pausing to reflect that she could not be dead, or who had unharnessed the horse, threw himself to his knees beside her, white as a sheet and trembling violently. “Gaetana!” he cried hoarsely.

    Gaetana opened her eyes and frowned. “Oh, it’s you.”

    “God, I thought you were dead!” he said, collapsing onto the grass beside her.

    “No, I was asleep,” she said muzzily.

    Rockingham buried his face in his hands.

    “I’m all right,” said Gaetana, giving him a puzzled look: “I was only asleep.”

    “Were you knocked out?” he said in a muffled voice.

    “No, I said, I was asleep,” she said, still sounding puzzled.

    “Asleep?” he cried violently, sitting up and staring at her furiously. “Why in God’s name were you asleep?”

    “I couldn’t think what to do.”

    “So you went to sleep on the verge! By God, you must be mad, girl!” he shouted.

    “There has been no-one come along this horrid road for hours and hours, so where was the harm? And in any case Dandy can’t walk, he’s hurt his leg.”

    “What?” he said stupidly.

    “The horse. He’s hurt his leg, he went down on it when the trap went into the ditch.”

    “When you backed it into the ditch, I presume, you damned little fool!”

    “Sí,” she said glumly.

    Rockingham got up, avoiding her eye, and went over to the horse. His hat had fallen off. Gaetana picked it up automatically, but just sat there, hugging it, staring at him in a numbed fashion.

    “The creature’s all right,” he reported at last. “Just a slight sprain. He’ll need to keep off it for a few days.”

    “So he won’t have to be shot?”

    “No, of course not!”

    She burst into tears, hugging his hat to her bosom and weeping into it.

    “God,” he muttered. “Look— Look, stop crying!” he said loudly. “There is nothing to cry for!”

    Gaetana continued to cry.

    Sighing, Rockingham got down on his knees beside her. “Look, stop it, the nag’s perfectly all right!” he said loudly.

    “I—know!” she sobbed. “I—hear you!”

    “Then why are you bawling?”

    “I—don’t—know!”

    Rockingham waited but she continued to cry. He touched her shoulder cautiously. “Come on, it’s all right. We’ll walk the creature home.”

    “He’s not—a creature!” she sobbed.

    “Well, he’s not a horse,” he muttered. “Come on, now, buck up!”

    “I keep—thinking—all—dead horses!” wailed Gaetana, sobbing more than ever.

    “What? Oh—God,” he muttered. “Waterloo?”

    “¡Sí, sí!” she wailed, throwing herself against his chest, hat and all.

    Rockingham wrenched the squashed hat out from between them and hurled it away. “Hush,” he said, holding her tight.

    “Brun—was dead, and it was—because of me!” she gasped eventually.

    “Yes, I know. It’s all over now,” he said, stroking her curls. “Hell, you’re hot,” he muttered.

    Gaetana gulped into his shoulder. Eventually she said: “I’m sorry.”

    “Don’t be an idiot,” he replied shortly.

    “Sometimes I have the—the—cauchemars.”

    “Nightmares. I’m sure you do,” he said grimly. “Where’s your bonnet?”

    “What?” she said, looking up at him muzzily. “Oh—I think I took it off, Giles. –I did not mean to call you that!” she gasped, going scarlet.

    “No doubt. Where did you take it off?”

    “I don’t know.”

    “Here,” he said with a sigh, giving her his handkerchief. “Blow your nose, while I look for the bonnet. I think you may be in for a headache, if you’ve been sleeping outdoors at midday with nothing on your head.”

    She blew her nose. “Is it midday? It is not very sunny.”

    The Marquis was searching in the ditch. “No; the farmers are predicting a bad harvest this year if this cool, dull weather continues,” he said in an abstracted voice. “Ah!” He straightened. “Actually it is nigh on two. –Here. Are you in the habit of throwing your bonnets into the ditch, Miss Ainsley?”

    “What?” she said blankly.

    “Never mind,” he groaned, kneeling beside her and placing the bonnet on her head.

    “If it is nigh on two, why are you not at home eating luncheon?”

    Sighing, he said: “If it is relevant, which I strongly doubt, I am not at home because at home there is my half-sister Carolyn and my elderly Cousin Eunice Heather who is supposed to be chaperoning her, the one in a state of permanent pouts and sulks, and the other in a state of permanent head-colds and megrims, and neither of ’em willing to sit down and eat a decent meal without whining for whatever does not happen to be set before ’em that day!”

    “Your half-sister is spoilt. Why do you have this elderly cousin to live with you, if she is like that?”

    “I don’t. She’s only come to chaperon Carolyn,” he said grimly. “Or rather, that was the idea, it not having dawned on my limited experience that a dame full of head-colds and megrims and with a taste only for barley water and thin gruel ain’t capable of looking to a two-year-old!”

    Gaetana smiled a little, but winced a little, too, and said, putting her hand to her forehead: “Children of two are very lively indeed, judging by the twins’ awful example at that age, and need a very young and energetic person to look after them, not an elderly cousin! –You are right: I think I do have the headache.”

    “Yes,” he said, laying his hand over hers.

    She went very red and withdrew hers. The Marquis went on feeling her forehead, frowning. “Well,” he said at last, “there is nothing we can do about it. You’ll just have to put up with it until we get you home.”

    “You don’t have to come, I can walk Dandy.”

    “Rubbish.”

    Gaetana swallowed. “Um—is there any water near here, my Lord?”

    “No. And why have you stopped calling me Giles?”

    “That was an accident!” she gasped.

    He looked at her searchingly, but said only: “Come along: you can go up on Midnight. Or do you think you will fall off?”

    “No, but I do not think I will go up on him, either: he is your horse, you should ride him.”

    “Very well, then, you have the choice!” he said loudly and angrily. “Go over my knee and be soundly spanked as you deserve—I wish I could think your brother will have the sense to do it, when he sees that poor nag,”—“or get up on my horse!”

    “If this is how you treat your sister, sir,” said Gaetana with spirit, “I am not surprized she spends her time in the sulks!”

    “Rubbish. Stand up.” He rose and held out his hand.

    Gaetana put hers in it but did not meet his eye as he pulled her to her feet. “You will have to help me onto your horse, he’s too tall for me,” she said in a small voice.

    “Yes.” He led her over to the black, not releasing her hand.

    She looked up at him uncertainly.

    Suddenly Rockingham cupped her face in both his hands, staring at her intently.

    “What is it?” she said faintly.

    “Nothing.” He released her. “Put your foot in my hand, I’ll throw you up. And don’t attempt to sit astride in that narrow print gown, Midnight’s nerves won’t take it,” he added drily.

    “I was not going to! And if I fall off it is all your fault!”

    “Nonsense.” He threw her up easily, for she had grasped the big black’s saddle and sprang up without needing very much assistance.

    “Can you steer him, or shall I lead him?” he said nastily.

    “Does he only speak English?”

    “He only speaks Horse, Miss Ainsley!” he said in astonishment.

    Gaetana smiled. “You would be surprized!” She gathered up the reins competently and moved the horse on a little. “He doesn’t like me sitting like this but we shall be all right,” she reported placidly.

    Rockingham perceived that she would. Fortunately Midnight was not the fieriest steed from his stables. “Good. I’ll lead your nag on the grass.”

    “Yes: thank you.” Gaetana paused. “Mind the ditch,” she said in a stifled voice.

    “Ho, ho, ho,” he replied coldly. He led the limping Dandy over to the forested side of the road and began to lead him along the grass verge there.

    Chewing her lip a little, Gaetana accompanied him in silence.

    They had nearly reached the three-pronged fork when they saw a square figure coming towards them on a solid cob.

    “Oh, it’s Ned!” said Gaetana in some relief.

    “So it is. Good afternoon, Adams, were you looking for something?” he said as the groom came up to them.

    “My Lord!” gasped the man, pulling his hat off and bowing low over the horse’s neck.

    “There is no need to bow that low, Ned, he is a marquis, not an emperor!” said Gaetana with considerable asperity: the more so as her head was thumping violently and the Marquis had not said a word all the way along the road, except to order her not to jump a fallen log on his horse. When she had not been going to.

    “You was not supposed to come out on the road, Missy!” Ned retorted angrily. “And what has come to the trap, pray?”

    “Well, it is stuck in the ditch, but I do not think it is broken.”

    “I could have heaved it out, but do you know, I found I had no strong desire to do so?” murmured the Marquis.

    “No, indeed, my Lord! I should think not!” gasped the man.

    “Pooh, you could not have done so in any case!” cried Gaetana.

    “Rubbish,” he said coldly.

    “Stop saying rubbish!” she cried.

    “Now, Miss Gaetana, don’t you go for to speak to his Lordship like that, it ain’t respectful,” said Ned Adams awfully. “Why, many’s the time I’ve seen his Lordship heave a great—”

    “That’ll do, Adams,” said Rockingham, lips twitching.

    “Aye, my Lord, but—”

    “Heave a great what?” said Gaetana, staring from one to the other of them. “You cannot leave it at that!” she protested as Adams looked uncertainly at the Marquis.

    Rockingham groaned. “Tell her, tell her, put me to the blush,” he sighed.

    Grinning, Ned explained: “A great enormous sack of oats, Missy. It be a competition as we have at the fair each year, you see, and usually it’s a competition atween his Lordship and Jem Meadows as to who can heave the biggest weight up.”

    “Jem Meadows? That huge blacksmith?” said Gaetana incredulously.

    “He ain’t all that huge, Missy Gaetana. It be seeing him in his forge with his apron and that. You get him in the light of day and you’ll see his Lordship has as a good a pair of shoulders on him.”

    “I said you would put me to the blush,” noted his Lordship.

    “Fairground games? Heaving silly great weights about in competition with that giant Jem Meadows at your age? That’s the silliest thing I ever heard: you could put your back out and be in agony for weeks!” declared Gaetana roundly.

    “He ain’t no giant, Missy! And there’s a knack to it, see.”

    “There’s a knack to it until your back’s gone, yes,” she said blightingly. “My papa put his back out simply by lifting a packing-case of kitchenware into a waggon. He spent the whole journey propped on cushions, groaning.”

    “That’s a salutary tale,” noted the Marquis, grinning.

    “Aye, it be that, my Lord!” agreed the man, also grinning.

    Gaetana perceived they were in a male conspiracy against her. She stuck her nose in the air and said: “I note you have not enquired tenderly after Dandy, Ned Adams!”

    “No, for I can see how he is, the poor beast!” he replied smartly. “Limping, that’s what he be!”

    “It’s only a slight sprain. He has not even scratched himself,” said Rockingham.

    “Aye, well, no thanks to her,” he said grimly.

    “Quite. Dare I ask who was responsible for her driving out alone?” he said politely.

    Flushing, Ned Adams replied: “It were all my fault, my Lord, and so I shall tell Mr Ainsley.”

    “No, you shall not, because I am the only person responsible for my actions!” cried Gaetana. “I led Ned to believe I would only go as far as the gate,” she explained to the Marquis, “and practise turning. Well, at first I had every intention of doing so, but the gate was open and it was a fine day and I just— Anyway, it is not your fault!” she said fiercely to Ned.

    “I’ll know better next time,” he replied grimly.

    “That’s right, Adams, don’t let her out of your sight without an armed escort,” Rockingham said lightly. “Well, shall we go on?”

    Adams turned his cob obediently, but Gaetana cried: “You do not need to come with us, Lord Rockingham!”

    “Aye: I could take Dandy, my Lord,” said Ned anxiously.

    “Rubbish. How does your brother go on, by the way?”

    “Robert, my Lord?” He nodded, and Ned continued enthusiastically: “He’s liking the place fine, sir! He—”

    The male conspiracy had clearly closed ranks against her. Gaetana lapsed into scowling silence.

    At the Manor gates Rockingham said: “I shall not come up to the house.”

    “As you wish, my Lord. Though Mr Ainsley will want to thank you.”

    “He did not do anything!” cried Gaetana indignantly. “It was I who set Dandy free, and everything!”

    “Be silent. You’re in the doghouse,” said his Lordship blightingly. He handed Dandy’s reins to Ned and came over to her. “Come along, I’ll lift you off.”

    “I can get down by myself!”

    “Nonsense. How is the head?” he said, placing a hand at either side of her waist.

    “I do not regard it,” said Gaetana stiffly, not looking at him, and wishing she didn’t feel so trembly all of a sudden.

    “I thought it had been like that!” he said with a smothered laugh. “You will need to lie down with a cold cloth on your head the minute you get inside.”

    “Aye, I’ll tell Miss Mason to make sure she does,” agreed Ned.

    Gaetana glared, but did not tell him not to.

    “Come along!” said the Marquis, swinging her down.

    She gasped, and clutched at his coat as he set her gently on her feet.

    “What?” he said, covering her hand with his.

    “Nothing—I was startled,” she said faintly.

    “See: I told you his Lordship could lift any weight!” said Ned pleasedly. “Sack of feathers is what you be to him, Missy!”

    “Pooh!” said Gaetana crossly, recovering herself. “I shall lead Dandy, Ned.” She went over to him without looking at Rockingham.

    “Missy Gaetana!” hissed the shocked groom in what he evidently imagined to be a whisper. “Where are your manners?”

    Sighing, Gaetana turned and said: “Thank you very much for escorting me home, sir. And for letting me ride your horse.”

    Rockingham was now on Midnight. He bowed, but said: “I appear to have lost my hat. Did you by any chance throw it in the ditch with your own?”

    “I don’t know,” she said blankly.

    “You astound me. Adiós, Miss Ainsley. Good-day, Ned,” he said, and was gone.

    “It will serve him right if something comes round a bend and hits him, going at that pace on a road like this!” declared Gaetana angrily, glaring after the galloping black horse.

    “Nothing won’t hit him, Missy. And I dare say you’ve made him late for an appointment.”

    “He was not—” She stopped. Very probably he had been going in that direction. “What is there down in that direction he could possibly have an appointment at?” she said crossly.

    “I dessay he’s a-going to call on Lady Charleson. A widow lady, she is. Some in the county do say she’s the right age for his Lordship, but meself, I wouldn’t go so far as that. I think she’s too old.”

    “How old is she?” faltered Gaetana.

    “She’d be about forty, I dessay, Miss Gaetana. Not that far off his Lordship’s own age. But she has a grown son and daughter, would a man want to take on a grown fambly when he don’t have none of his own?”

    “Forty!” cried Gaetana furiously. “That is too old for him!”

    Ned eyed her quizzically. “You just told him yourself, Missy, that he’s too old to go heaving great sacks of oats round with the likes of Jem Meadows.”

    “That has nothing to d— How old is he?” she asked in a squashed voice, beginning to lead Dandy up the drive.

    “Take him on the grass, Miss Gaetana, it ain’t so hard for his foot. Well, now, his Lordship is thirty-seven, and this July he’ll be thirty-eight. The whole of Daynesford and Dittersford have a big party for his Lordship’s birthday every summer!” he beamed.

    “Except when it rains,” she said coldly, glancing at the sky, which now was distinctly overcast, with a dull, leaden look to it.

    “Oh, a bit of rain don’t stop us, Missy! ’Sides, I misremember when it did rain, for his Lordship’s birthday. My old mother will tell you about the day he was born: the hottest day that summer, it were; they rang all the bells for miles around and had a great bonfire up to Daynesford Common when they heard it was a boy, and the old Markiss, that were his Lordship’s grandfather, he opened up the grounds and give free ale and cakes to all as wanted ’em, with three great beasts a-roasting over a pit!”

    “Good gracious,” she said faintly.

    “Well, there had been three sisters, afore him, you see.”

    “Oh. But— Oh. His mamma must be quite an elderly lady, then,” she said dubiously.

    “Nay... Well, she were the mere slip of a girl, barely seventeen when she married his father. Poor little thing,” he said, sighing. “She were nobbut twenty-two when he was born. After that she didn’t have no more while the late Markiss were alive, they say he wasn’t interested no more after she’d given him a son. Don’t seem natural, do it?”

    “No,” said Gaetana faintly. “Though I believe great ladies and gentleman often marry for—for family reasons, you know.”

    “Aye; wouldn’t do for me and my Martha!” he said with a jolly laugh.

    “No. I think it is terrible. My papa and mamma married because they were very much in love, and they still are, after all these years!” She smiled up at him.

    “Well, I’m right-down glad to hear that, Missy Gaetana! –The late Markiss, he were a hard man,” he said thoughtfully. “Hard on his horses, and hard on his people. To say truth, there was rejoicing in the farms and cottages the night he was carried home stark on a hurdle!”

    “Stark— Did he have a hunting accident, Ned?”

    Ned sniffed. “Not ’im. Well, he was thrown from his horse, right enough. No, he’d been drinking over to—- Well, never mind, Missy: a dirty tavern up to the far side of the Place, like what no true gennelman would be seen in. Set his horse at a stone wall when he were full of flesh-and-blood. Begging your pardon, Missy, that’s a common mixture of spirits that gentry don’t drink, normal-like. They said he were drunk on his own brandy afore he started on it, aye, and that’s more’n likely!”

    “So he was a drunkard?” she said faintly.

    “Aye, that he were. Rarely seen out of his cups.” He shook his head.

    “How dreadful. How old was his Lordship—I mean the present man,” she said, blushing, “when his father died?”

    Ned rubbed his chin. “Well, lessee, now—he was at his fancy school. Came home for the funeral, all in black, poor little fellow, white as a sheet. He’d have been no more ’n thirteen, Missy, it were afore he got his growth.”

    “Poor little boy,” she said softly.

    “Nay, it were a blessing, because the last time he were home for his holidays the late Markiss had beat him something terrible.”

    “Oh, no!” she cried distressfully.

    “Aye: beat his servants, beat his son. They say he would beat her Ladyship, too, if she crossed him,” he said, shaking his head. “It were as well the lad were sent to school.” Gaetana nodded hard. He smiled at her and added cheerily: “But once we was shut of the late Markiss, all was well at the Place, and her Ladyship’s brother, Mr Throgmorton, he come down and helped her run the place and kept her company, like, and old Mr Hughes—he were the agent, back then—he was able to get all the things done that had been wanting on the estate!”

    “I see. So the late Marquis was not a good landlord, either?”

    “No, he were terrible, Miss! –Now, lessee, it would have been when his Lordship were seventeen, I suppose, that her Ladyship ups and marries that funny Froggy friend of Mr Throgmorton’s, and what I says is, good luck to ’er! Only then later, when little Miss Carolyn’s naught but a tiny thing, she goes off to foreign parts with him, Missy.”

    “Yes, her husband is a Belgian, I believe. –It must have been very risky, crossing the Channel at that period.”

    “Yes, indeed, Missy! But her Ladyship is determined she will go! Only it never worked out, because His Lordship didn’t marry after all, not after that Miss Pouteney let him down,” he said, shaking his head.

    “What?” she gasped.

    “Aye: he were only a youngster, but everyone thought it were a good thing, there’d be a fambly at Daynesford Place once more, only it came to nought. They say the lady jilted him. ’Course, she were a furriner—not from these parts, I means, Missy!” he added quickly.

    “I see.”

    “Her Ladyship’s idea was, maybe it was her and the babe a-livin’ at the Place as were making the young ladies hang back, only it can’t ’a’ been that, his Lordship didn’t up and propose to none of ’em, or not that we ever heard,” he said sadly.

    “I see. –Ned, you seem to know very many of the details.”

    “Aye, acos my Martha, she were nurserymaid to little Missy Carolyn in them days, and didn’t she just bawl her eyes out when off they went to Abroad!” he grinned.

    “I see!”

    They were nearing the house. “Um, who was this Miss Pouteney, Ned?” she ventured.

    “Well, I don’t rightly know, Miss Gaetana. Like I said, she were a furriner. And his Lordship were naught but a lad. Twenty or twenty-one, he’d ’a’ been. Soured him, it did. He weren’t never the same after that.”

    “Oh,” said Gaetana faintly. “Did you ever see her, Ned?”

    “No. They say she did come to the Place once, with some grand ladies and gents, only I can’t say as I ever laid eyes on her, Missy. When the wedding didn’t come off, his Lordship went right queer for a bit. Took to strong drink, and we was all afraid he’d go the same way as his father. But her Ladyship, she pulled him out of it. Only he didn’t never have the gay parties with all the pretty ladies and the fine gennelmen after that, no more. Even at Christmas—” He shook his head. “In her Ladyship’s day they’d have a huge log in the Great Hall that burned all the Twelve Days, and cake and puddin’ and ale for the waits—and her Ladyship made these little tartlets, like, with her own hands, dozens she made, every Christmas, and they had dancing and them games where they dress up and act funny scenes, like you never saw, Missy! Only then it all stopped dead, like. And he never had no guests, rightly speaking, at Christmas no more right up until ... Now, I misremember, the first year they came. I weren’t working at the Place, by then. But quite recent, Sir Julian Naseby and his fambly, they started coming, and everyone thinks, well, maybe his Lordship will marry one of Sir Julian’s sisters! –Only he don’t. Still, the little girls—Sir Julian don’t have no sons—the little girls, they brighten the old place up, some.”

    “Yes, I have met little Rommie Naseby,” said Gaetana.

    Ned beamed. “You knows Sir Julian then, Missy?”

    “Yes, we have all met him.” She hesitated. “I think the Marquis is very fond of him,” she said in a muffled voice.

    “That he be, Miss Gaetana! And of the little girls: he’s bought a pony for each of ’em to ride, and all year they does little but eat their heads off! Then if the little girls is due, out his Lordship goes to the stables and starts a-bawling out the boys for letting the ponies get fat as butter!” He chuckled richly.

    “Oh,” said Gaetana with a disconcerted smile. “Um—I believe they are coming this summer.”

    “Yes, they be that, right enough, for his Lordship’s birthday!” he beamed.

    “Of course.” –Thirty-eight, thought Gaetana glumly. Help.

    “Here we be,” noted Ned.

    “Yes: do you take Dandy round to the stables, I shall go in and face the music,” said Gaetana, making a face.

    “No, that you won’t, Missy Gaetana! It be my blame, too!”

    “Well—well, shall we go together?”

    “Aye: that’d be best.” A stable-boy had come running. Ned dismounted and gave him the reins. “Where’s Mr Ainsley?”

    “In his study, Mr Adams, and Mr Pringle, he’s gone over to Old Oak Farm, and the guests ain’t a-come yet,” he said regretfully.

    “Well, you keep your ear open for them, Tom Higgs, and mind what I said: a good rub-down and we don’t give no horse what’s steaming a bucket of water in my stables, no matter what them furrin postboys may say!”

    “No, Mr Adams! Gawd’s truth, what’s come to the trap, Mr Adams?” he gasped.

    “You mind your own business, lad, you’ll hear soon enough. –And tell Will as I’ll be seeing to Dandy myself in ten minutes or so, but he can start a bran poultice for him.”

    “Poor Dandy,” said Gaetana, stroking his nose. “I’m very sorry. I’ll bring you a lump of sugar every morning until you’re better!”

    “Now there ain’t no call to spoil him, Missy, he’ll be all right. And if you encourages of a horse to expect sugar, it gets to be a pest. Why, I knowed a horse once, ate a lady’s bonnet, acos she had this silly trick of a-hiding sugar lumps for it here and there about her person.”

    Tom Higgs, who had not been addressed, gave a guffaw, and then looked abashed.

    “Get off with you!” said Ned crossly. “And keep an ear out for the carriage, mind!” he added loudly, as Tom, still looking abashed, led the two horses off. “He’s a good boy—willing: but ain’t got much atween the ears, Miss Gaetana,” the head groom revealed. “Come along, us’ll go in by the side door, eh?”

    Gaetana agreed and walked along by his side,

    As they entered the house she swallowed loudly and suddenly gripped his hand fiercely. Mr Adams evinced no surprize at this move, and accompanied her hand-in-hand to Paul’s study.

    As anyone but those overburdened with guilty consciences would have known, the wrath of Paul was not very terrible.

    “Of course you could not have guessed, Ned!” he said immediately Ned had explained his rôle. “It is not your blame, at all!”

    “No, it’s mine. You had better punish me,” said Gaetana glumly.

    “Sí. What shall it be?” he smiled. “Bread and water for a fortnight? Put you over my knee as Harry does?”

    “I would not wriggle,” said Gaetana gloomily.

    “You are too old to be spanked!” he choked.

    “Aye, more’s the—” Ned coughed hurriedly.

    “Yes, indeed,” agreed Paul, twinkling at him. “Where did you say the trap was, Ned?”

    “Out along towards the Place, sir. I don’t rightly know, it was his Lordship as found her, not me. But I’ll get two of my lads out to it right away.”

    Paul nodded but said: “You do not mean the Marquis of Rockingham, do you, Ned?”

    “Aye, indeed, sir, who else should I mean?”

    Paul smiled a little: he had long since realized that the Marquis was very much the great man of the district and beloved by Daynesforders and Dittersforders alike. Owing to the neglect of the Manor, indeed, the Marquis had apparently usurped the place the incumbent of Ainsley Manor might have had in the hearts of the Dittersford people. Paul was aware that he was not the kind of man to have done so on purpose, and did not resent it. But it was rather hard, having “his Lordship” quoted at you every other minute by all the local folk you spoke to!

    “Mm. Well, perhaps you had better hurry along and put his Lordship’s receet for a bran poultice on Dandy’s leg. I’ll come out in few minutes and take a look at him.”

    “Right you are, sir.” He went over to the door, and paused. “It ain’t rightly his Lordship’s receet, though I don’t deny it be the one as is used in Daynesford Place stables,” he said painstakingly. “No, that be a very old receet, sir, as dates from before his Lordship’s grandfather were born!” He nodded pleasedly, and went out. Fortunately shutting the door firmly after him, for Paul immediately had a terrific sniggering fit.

    “I cannot stand it, they quote the man every time they open their mouths!” cried Gaetana crossly.

    “I know!” he gasped. “Sit down, querida, you are not on the mat!”

    “On the— Oh. No.” Gaetana sat down and looked at him expectantly.

    “You do not look quite the thing, were you hurt?” he asked.

    “No, I have the headache. His Lordship says it’s because I went to sleep. –There, I have said it!” she cried angrily.

    Paul chuckled but said: “Well, mi querida, I think the headache and knowing Dandy’s leg is hurt are punishment enough.”—Gaetana bit her lip.—“You had best go and lie down upon your bed. The Parkinsons are not here yet: it is as I expected, they have not made the time Mr Parkinson said they would: I am very sure journeying with Mrs Parkinson is extremely akin to journeying with Tia Patty!”

    Gaetana shuddered. “Sí.” She got up and went over to the door.

    “Stay—did Lord Rockingham not come up to the house with you?” asked Paul.

    “No.”

    “You were not rude to him, I hope?”

    “NO!” she shouted.

    Paul merely looked at her mildly.

    “If anything, he was— Well, never mind that. But Ned said he was probably late for an appointment with a lady who lives to the west of us somewhere. And I do not care if he is nigh on thirty-eight,” cried Gaetana loudly: “if she is turned forty she is too old for him!” She burst into tears and rushed from the room.

    Paul raised his eyebrows very high. “Well, well, well,” he said slowly. “Good for you, Ned Adams!”

    That was pretty to be much Martha Adams’s opinion, too, and come the evening, after getting the whole story out of Ned in tremendous detail, she would award him a smacking kiss and a treacle tart to his supper. Which he would eat with a piece of cheese, the which might not have been to everyone’s taste, but was just how Ned fancied it.

    The afternoon was well advanced when the Parkinson party finally arrived, and the menders, who after a light luncheon had sat around the little sitting-room indulging in rather more ladylike activities in expectation of their guests’ arrival at any moment, had gone back to the linen. They had been joined by Mrs Maddern, who having with her own hands ruthlessly ripped a hopelessly holed sheet in two—watched enviously by Marybelle—had now “turned” it and was stitching it back together with what was going to be a flat-felled seam. And which the unsuspecting Bunch Ainsley was destined to finish. After which it would do very well for one of the menservants and indeed, William, Thomas, Gregory and Francisco might count themselves lucky to be given linen sheets at all, rather than coarse unbleached calico!

    Bunch was sitting on a footstool at Mrs Maddern’s feet, breathing heavily as, having been shown the trick of it by Marybelle, she unpicked an elaborate monogram on a foreign pillowslip. She was making a terrific mess, but at least she was quiet and occupied.

    There was no sign of Floss and Hildy, and Mrs Maddern for one was determinedly not thinking of what mischief they might be up to. Gaetana, of course, was now laid down, with Mason applying relays of wet cloths to her head. Miss Morton was also laid down upon her bed, she had been so all day: the fact that yesterday Bunch had brought in a dead mole to the schoolroom could just possibly have had something to do with it.

    So a quietly domestic scene was presented to Mrs Parkinson, Mrs O’Flynn, Mr Parkinson and Mr O’Flynn when Deering ushered them i.

    “Oh, my dear Mrs Parkinson!” said Mrs Maddern, looking up with a startled laugh. “You find us quite domestic this afternoon, I am afraid!”

    “Look, Mr Parkinson, I’m unpicking!” beamed Bunch before anyone else could utter.

    “Are you indeed, my dear Bunch?” smiled the Vicar.

    “Bunch, my dear, that will do for the nonce, you may tell Mr Parkinson all about it later,” said Christabel quickly.

    Mr Parkinson then drew Mr O’Flynn forward, as his mamma was now engaged in giving Mrs Maddern a breathless account of the journey mixed with a breathless account of Dorothea’s and the baby’s health, which seemed to necessitate Dorothea’s having her hand patted a lot but not being permitted to get a word in edgewise.

    Mr O’Flynn bowed, explaining that he had a cousin in the neighbourhood, a Lady Charleson, perhaps they—? No? Well, it was not very far distant at all, and so he had ventured to kill two birds with one stone! This was said very coyly and Miss Maddern, who could not abide coyness in a man, had to force herself to smile pleasantly and nod. Since the two elder ladies had now sat down on a sofa together and were talking nineteen to the dozen, regardless of the fact that Mrs Parkinson was still in her wrap and bonnet, Christabel then introduced their friend Miss Dewesbury to Mr O’Flynn. Mr O’Flynn professed himself delighted, and passed on to greet Amabel with considerable animation in his face.

    Amabel rose, curtseyed, and in answer to his enquiry said oh, it was only hemming a sheet. Mr O’Flynn greeted the younger ladies very politely and then drew up a chair close to Amabel’s and went into quiet rapture over the fineness of her work, Maria joining in with innocent pleasure that someone besides herself appreciated her cousin’s beautifully set stitches.

    Christabel was now able to draw Dorothea forward with an arm about her waist, her mamma having released her hand at last. The two fair ladies smiled at each other as they were introduced, and Susan, expressing the hope that the journey had not tired Mrs O’Flynn, drew her gently over to sit down in her own chair, quietly removing the work from under her elbow. Mr Parkinson, approval of Miss Dewesbury writ large on his beautiful face, immediately placed a chair for her and drew up one for himself beside it.

    After some time the two older ladies came to themselves and Mrs Maddern decided to accompany dear Wilhelmina upstairs—and should Christabel like to take Mrs O’Flynn up? For they would not stand on ceremony, and she made no doubt that dear Dorothea would care for a rest after the journey.

    Dorothea smiled apologetically, admitting that she would care to rest, if she was not being a nuisance, and on Mrs Maddern’s wave of exclamations and protestations was swept out, Miss Maddern following quietly along behind.

    “Well, Miss Marybelle, how busy you all are!” said Mr O’Flynn kindly into the sudden silence.

    Blushing, Marybelle replied hoarsely: “Yes, sir, there is a mountain of linen to see to in this house, you never saw anything like it! And I am unpicking.”

    “So am I!” said Bunch immediately.

    “So you are. My goodness, I declare you have got every last thread out of this!” he said as she handed him a crumpled, greyish pillowslip.

    Amabel beamed upon him.

    “Yes. Only you can still see the holes,” said Bunch sadly.

    “Yes, but I think they will wash out, dearest Bunch!” said Amabel quickly. “And even if they do not completely disappear, you know we may always embroider over them. Or even do an appliqué!”

    “Could it be an appliqué with a big A on it?” asked Bunch.

    “Well, I think, since you have worked so very hard, it might be an appliqué with a big EA on it!” said Amabel gaily.

    Bunch went very red but said: “No, it is not for me, I want it to be for Paul. For his trousseau!” she added proudly.

    There was a certain silence in the room.

    “Dearest, although one does embroider the gentleman’s initials, or possibly the lady’s and the gentleman’s intertwined, it—it is not usual for a gentleman to have an actual trousseau,” said Amabel gently.

    “Oh,” she said, her face failing.

    “But there is no reason that Mr Ainsley should not have a special pillowslip for his very own bed!” added Susan hurriedly, smiling at Bunch. “When my papa and mamma were first married, Mamma embroidered sets of pillowslips, and Papa’s had LJHD, those are his initials, you see, his names being Lionel John Henry, and Mamma’s had LED, her names being Lavinia Evadne.”

    “Lavinia Evadne Dewesbury: what a beautiful name,” breathed Bunch.

    “Yes, indeed, although Mamma thinks it is too ornate for modern tastes.”

    “Elinor is too ornate,” said Bunch, frowning.

    “No, I think it is a very pretty name,” said Susan in surprise. “Is that your real name?”

    “Yes, didn’t you know? –Well, could it be for Paul, Amabel?” pursued Bunch.

    “Yes, of course. But I think, you know, that he would like it so much more if the A were embroidered by EA!” she said with a smile.

    “Indeed!” laughed Mr O’Flynn. 

    “Yes, of course: Papa greatly valued his set of pillowslips because they were embroidered by Mamma,” agreed Susan.

    “I can’t,” said Bunch glumly. 

    “¡Sí, sí, querida, I will help you!” cried Maria anxiously.

    “Soeur Marie-Claude a dit— Sorry,” said Bunch to the company. “Soeur Marie-Claude said I had a hand like a—a— Qu’est-ce qu’on dit en anglais?” she demanded of Maria.

    Maria shook her head. “I do not know the word.”

    “Dis-le en français, Bunch,” said Susan and Mr Parkinson in chorus. They looked at each other in a startled way, and laughed.

    “Un marteau.”

    “A hammer? But how old were you, my dear?” asked Susan.

    “Seven, I suppose—was I seven?” she said to Maria.

    “No, eight, I think. Yes, your birthday was just after Henriette Langlois’s anniversaire, remember?”

    Bunch nodded. “I was eight,” she said to Susan. “Maria could sew good at eight.”

    “Not embroidery, though,” objected Maria.

    “It just takes practice, Bunch, anyone can sew. And although embroidery is difficult when one is very young, gradually one’s eye is more able to control one’s hand,” said Susan.

    Bunch looked at her dubiously. “I thought it was the mind that controlled the hand?”

    Susan returned calmly: “Yes, but in sewing it does it through the eye.”

    “Does it?” said Bunch on a suspicious note to the Vicar.

    “Certainly. Miss Dewesbury, I am quite sure, would not tell you a falsehood, Bunch.”

    “No,” she said seriously: “but sometimes ladies don’t know. Well, I’ll try. Only what if I make a mess of it?”

    “Ah, but it won’t matter, if it is appliqué! One may do another piece!” cried Amabel.

    Maria nodded hard. “Mais bien sûr!”

    “Good. Did you say your mamma made your papa a set?” she demanded suspiciously of Susan.

    “Yes, but perhaps if you do one, that will be an admirable effort. After all, it will be your first try.”

    “Absolutely. And his head can only rest on one!” said the Vicar cheerfully.

    Bunch beamed, what time the Vicar and Miss Dewesbury exchanged glances and smiled slightly. “May we start soon?” she demanded of Amabel.

    “Certainly.”

    “There’s all these sheets, though. And there’s still lots of unpicking,” she said uneasily.

    “Yes, but all seamstresses need a little variety; I think we can work in some embroidery,” smiled Amabel.

    “Indeed!” agreed Mr O’Flynn with a little laugh. “Though your stitches even in a hem, Miss Amabel, are so exquisite they are like finest embroidery!”

    Amabel blushed and smiled, and shook her head.

    “Maria’s darns are best, though,” said Bunch sturdily. “But Amabel can do lace!” She stood up. “See!” she said, thumping her chest proudly. “Amabel made it, with a little—um, is it a hook?”

    “No, a shuttle; the work is called tatting. It does look like lace, but it is not true lace.”

    The two gentlemen looked at the pink-cheeked, stoutish Bunch in her green dress with its band of lace—and its skirt very much covered in white fluff from her unpicking—and smiled.

    As the two young ladies went upstairs a little later to change for dinner, Amabel murmured: “I think it would be difficult to find two more kind-hearted or pleasant-mannered gentlemen anywhere in the world than Mr Parkinson and Mr O’Flynn.”

    “Indeed,” agreed Susan, smiling at her.

    Amabel looked up the stairs at the flying skirts of Bunch, Marybelle and Maria and added: “How many gentlemen would have bothered, I wonder, to listen so kindly to dear little Bunch and to encourage her over the embroidery!”

    “Very few, I am sure,” said Susan with her nice smile.

    Amabel nodded vigorously. After a moment she added: “Though I do think Mr Parkinson might have forborne to encourage her over the mole.”

    Susan laughed. “But she is so full of—of scientific curiosity! I think it is admirable of him to encourage her in it!”

    “Ye-es... But it is not very suitable for a girl. Well, I dare say he may not find anything on animal anatomy in my Grandpapa Ainsley’s library after all!” she said hopefully.

    Miss Dewesbury’s mouth twitched but she was both too kind-hearted and far too well-mannered to laugh at the gentle creature, so she just murmured: “One can only hope so.”

    “It’ll be safe!” hissed Floss. “It must be nearly dinner time, so we’ll just give them to Berthe and nip up the back stairs!”

    Hildy nodded, and they crept round to the back of the house.

    In the back passage, however, they halted abruptly and as one girl turned and fled.

    “That was a near squeak!” gasped Hildy.

    Floss panted. “Yes! What was Mamma doing in the kitchen at this hour of the day?”

   Hildy did not say “Or at all?” because Mrs Maddern had an incurable habit of going to the kitchen, she had been so used to doing it in her own small house. At first it had startled Mrs Giles very much—and no doubt in London it had also startled Deering, though of course he had not allowed this to be apparent—but Berthe appeared to accept it as the natural order of things.

    They tried the side door. It was locked.

    “Deering,” deduced Floss glumly. “He can’t understand that the country isn’t like London. Why, the country people are more like to put a basket of eggs or a fat hen inside your door if you leave it open than steal anything!”

    “Yes: do you remember the time Mamma fell over that speckled hen Mrs Jack Bottle had left?”

    “Over its basket, you mean.”

    “Yes: there wouldn’t have been much left of the hen if Mamma had fallen over it!” chortled Hildy. “Um—help, what shall we do?”

    “Deering might not give us away. We could try the front door.”

    Hildy groaned. “No: Deering’s all right, but if that stupid William’s there he’ll tell Mason. And then she’ll tell Mamma.”

    “Ye-es... I think it’s timidity more than stupidity, Hildy: she’s got him under her thumb because he’s her nephew. But it might be Gregory.”

    “Well, in his case it is stupidity. He’d take one look at us with those bulgy eyes of his and start beating the dinner gong and they’d all come down and catch us red-handed.”

    “Fish-handed!” corrected Floss with a loud giggle

    “Yes!” agreed Hildy.

    “No: red-footed!” cried Floss with a snort of laughter.

    Hildy looked down at her bare feet, grinning. “Mm. I don’t understand how my shoes could have got swept off that rock, streams don’t have waves!”

    “They have currents, though! –Maybe if we wait a bit it’ll be safe to go in by the back door, after all.”

    “Yes, and maybe,” said Hildy, abruptly shoving her bundle behind her back: “it won’t! Good evening, Ned!” she added loudly.

    “Evening, Miss Hildy, Miss Floss!” replied Ned Adams, grinning at the bedraggled pair.

    “He told me,” hissed Floss in what was scarcely an undertone, as the groom walked off: “that Mr Purdue caught a poacher on his land and had him up before the magistrate and he was transported!”

    “Very like,” said Hildy. “It would not have occurred to this Mr Purdue, whoever he is, that the poacher might have been wishful to feed his family, I suppose!”

    “No-o... Ned Adams says there is very little poverty in the district. He says the Marquis of Crabapple sees to that.”

    “Pooh! The richness of the arable land hereabouts see to that, I have no doubt!”

    Floss looked at her uncertainly.

    “It’s very good land for growing things, so there is much work on the farms and estates for the people,” explained Hildy.

    “I see. So if a person was born in a place that had poor land, Hildy, would they have to turn to poaching?”

    “Poaching or stealing: yes. Very like.”

    “Or smuggling!” breathed Floss, eyes shining.

    “On the coast of Cornwall and Devon, certainly.”

    “It would be more exciting to be a smuggler.”

    “Yes, but not if you were caught, I believe the penalty is hanging. Let’s try the sitting-room.”

    “Do you think anyone’s in there?” hissed Hildy, peering round the corner of the house at the closed French windows.

    “I can’t see from here, and I’m not risking it, that’s my petticoat round those trout!” said Floss with a smothered snort.

    “Ssh! At least you have not lost your shoes and stockings!”

    They retreated, giggling.

    “I have it!” Floss then said: “The room with all the books in it! No-one ever goes there!”

    “That was easy!” said Hildy with a giggle, as the library’s French windows proved not to be locked.

    “Yes. Give me the fish, I’ll sneak them down to Berthe.”

    “Put them under your skirt, after all it is where a petticoat should be!” choked Hildy.

    Floss gave a snort of laughter and held out her hands for the bundle.

    “Tell her ‘les truites’,” said Hildy.

    “She’s not stupid, she’ll know what they are! How will she explain them away to Mamma, though?”

    “Tell her—to say—Bungo—caught them!” choked Hildy.

    “With his fishing rod!” squealed Floss.

    They went into terrific paroxysms, Floss staggering about the room with her hands out ready to receive the bundle, and Hildy staggering about holding the bundle out.

    “Help!” gasped Hildy, hurling the bundle into the air.

    “Glory!” cried Floss, as fish, pulled grasses and petticoat rained down upon the library carpet.

    “Miss Hildegarde!” gasped the Vicar in horror, gaping at the wet, muddy, shoeless, tangled-haired urchin before him.

    “Good day, Mr Parkinson; welcome back to the Manor,” said Hildy with a cheeky expression on her face.

    “Surely you did not—” The Vicar fell silent.

    “Oh, no, Mr Parkinson,” said Hildy with huge irony: “they leapt out of the water and into my waiting hands without my having to do anything at all in the matter.” She  squatted and began picking the fish up. “Floss, help me gather up this grass, I think the trout need it more than the carpet does.”

    “Allow me,” croaked the Vicar numbly.

    “Don’t be silly, you don’t want your hands to smell of fish for dinner,” replied Hildy calmly, not looking up.

    Mr Parkinson swallowed, and was silent.

    Hildy wrapped the fish in the petticoat, and stood up. “Oh, by the way,” she said, going over to the door, “should you feel it your Christian duty to mention to Tom that it would be an act of charity, not to say an act which might save me from possible transportation, to lend me one of his fishing rods, I should be quite obliged, on the whole. –Come, Florabelle, let us leave the Vicar to his meditations.”

    She swept out. As much as one in bare feet and a wet and muddied gown could. Floss followed numbly.

    Mr Parkinson sank into a chair. As Hildy and Floss had not bothered to close the door, he heard quite clearly the interchange that followed. Floss said: “Tom will never lend you his rods, Hildy, not even if the Vicar does ask him!” And Hildegarde replied drily: “No, it would take divine intervention to do that, I fear; and in spite of the calling, not to say the face, Mr Parkinson has not quite attained to that level yet.”

    At this Floss hissed: “Hildy! He’ll hear you!” and Hildy replied: “Never mind, he couldn’t possibly be more shocked than he is already. –Come on, let’s give these fish to Berthe; if she can’t use them this evening she may serve them up for breakfast.”

    Mr Parkinson gave a sigh that was almost a groan and buried his face in his hands.