Mrs Maddern Receives A Shock

18

Mrs Maddern Receives A Shock

    Paul and Miss Maddern had reached the top of a hill—Paul keeping a careful eye on his cousin, for she was not yet very sure of herself in the saddle. Gaetana had been supposed to be accompanying them, but she had long since become bored with their dawdling pace, and espying Jake in the distance, had galloped off to join him. Paul had incautiously expressed the wish that Gaetana could marry Jake, as she seemed to enjoy his company more than that of any other man she knew. To his astonishment Miss Maddern, instead of reproving him for this shocking sentiment, had merely responded placidly that it would have been ideal, indeed, if only their stations in life were not so far apart. They had ridden on in a state of perfect harmony.

    “Madre de Dios, what’s that?” he said as they breasted the hill.

    Miss Maddern bit her lip. “I think it must be Miss Girardon: her note to me mentioned that the Marquis had had her horse sent over from Belgium for her.”

    “I think it must!” he gasped, collapsing in a helpless sniggering fit.

    “Ssh: the child will hear you!” she hissed, waving. “Oh, dear, I am persuaded they do not permit her to ride out without her groom!”

    “Absolutely!” he gasped. “I see that we are doomed to return the little pest to her home!”

    Carolyn galloped up to them, beaming.

    Miss Maddern smiled weakly. Quite apart from the startling pale blue habit and the blue harness on the white mare, Miss Girardon’s hat was fashioned like a shako and sported three large, pale blue ostrich plumes.

    “Fleur de lis! Royalist sympathies?” choked Paul.

    “Ssh!” she hissed. “My dear Miss Girardon, how are you?” she smiled.

    “Hullo, dear Miss Maddern!” cried Carolyn eagerly. “Hullo, Mr Ainsley, how do you do? Look: this is my dearest Fanfreluche! Is she not beautiful?”

    “Extremely,” grinned Paul. “And is your brother not doating? I am sure he could have bought you two horses for what it must have cost him to get her here!”

    “Well, he is very rich,” she said dubiously.

    “Very true,” agreed Miss Maddern drily. “Nevertheless one must admit it was a caring thing to have done.”

    Miss Girardon reddened. “Yes. I did not mean to imply otherwise,” she said anxiously.

    Christabel smiled at her. “Of course you did not, my dear! And what a splendid horse Fanfreluche is, to be sure!”

    “Yes, is she not? And she is the gentlest thing!”

    “I am sure,” replied Christabel politely.

    “Yet she is an excellent jumper! See that wall?”—Christabel nodded numbly.—“She flies over it like the wind!” said Carolyn proudly.

    “You do not mean to say you actually jumped it?” she faltered.

    “Why, of course!” said Carolyn in astonishment.

    Miss Maddern shuddered.

    Paul laughed a little. “My cousin is a mere novice,” he explained.

    “Oh, I see! Perhaps I could help to teach you, dear Miss Maddern?” she offered, pinkening.

    Christabel smiled at her. “That’s very kind of you, my dear. I should like it. But I should warn you that I am not only a novice: I am also a rank coward. So far I have successfully resisted all Mr Ainsley’s attempts to make me jump anything, from a log on the ground down to his own pocket handkerchief!”

    “Oh,” said Carolyn, disconcerted. “Well—well, perhaps you are not cut out to be a great horsewoman,” she said comfortingly.

    “No, I am very sure I am not! Just riding up and down gently is enough for me, I can tell you! I do not even have an ambition to canter, let alone gallop!”

    “Gallop?” cried Paul indignantly.

    Carolyn looked at Miss Maddern doubtfully.

    “It is only the fourth time I have been outside the paddock,” she confessed.

    “Oh, my goodness! Well, in that case, you must be sure to have a hot bath when you return, for there is nothing like riding to stiffen the—les muscles, if one is not accustomed!”

    “See?” said Paul.

    “Yes,” said Miss Maddern with a conscious blush. “You were perfectly right, Cousin, and I promise to have a hot bath.”

    Paul raised his eyebrows at her. She looked determinedly away, praying that he would not repeat his earlier and most improper suggestion—joke or not—in front of little Carolyn.

    He did not, merely suggesting that they ride on—perhaps towards the Place? Carolyn confessed sunnily that she was not sure of which direction that was.

    “My dear,” said Miss Maddern, recalled to herself: “where is your groom?”

    “He makes me take a stuffy English groom and I will not, they never let me gallop!” she cried.

    “You have rid out without anyone’s knowledge,” said Paul in a voice of doom. “Dismount.”

    “What?”

    Paul gave his reins into his startled cousin’s hands and leapt down. “Get off, Miss Girardon, I wish to be assured that your girth is tight enough.”

    “Of course it is!”

    “Get off, or I’ll pull you off,” he said simply.

    “But I cannot mount again without a step!” she wailed.

    “A block. Never mind, I will toss you up. I assure you, I am accustomed to do so with my sisters,” he said with a smile.

    “Well—very well.” Carolyn held out her arms to him. Rather surprized, but willing, Paul lifted her off.

    Christabel watched in silence, astonished and annoyed to feel a wave of jealousy flood her whole body.

    Paul tightened the white horse’s girth a notch and assisted Miss Girardon to remount. Christabel did not conceal from herself the fact that she was meanly glad that the little plump blonde thing looked most ungainly during the process.

    “This way!” he said gaily.

    “Are you sure, Mr Ainsley?” asked Carolyn.

    “Yes, indeed! But you have come a long way, it will be quite a ride!”

    “Oh, dear. Will it be too long for Miss Maddern?”

    Paul hesitated.

    “No, of course not, I am not such a poor creature!” said Christabel briskly. “Besides, I am used to take a long walk every day, you know!”

    “That is not precisely the same set of muscles, dear Cousin,” murmured Paul, lips twitching. “But if you are sure—? Très bien, en avant!”

    … “Oh, dear!” gasped Carolyn as, having come cross-country, they emerged from an extensive wooded area onto the drive of the Place to see her brother on the sweep before the mansion about to mount a large black gelding.

    “What a very fine house,” said Miss Maddern limply.

    “It is a horrid barracks,” returned Carolyn with a pout. “One could get completely lost in it! Though he says it is very fine, of course! Oh, dear, he looks furious! Could we not say I was with you all the time, dearest Miss Maddern?”

    “No, for that would be a lie,” replied Miss Maddern firmly—though, as Paul noticed with a little smile, without evincing any surprise at the suggestion.

    “Where the Devil have you been?” shouted his Lordship, when they barely within earshot.

     Carolyn licked her lips nervously.

    “Oops! I think he was about to look for you!” said Paul with a smothered laugh.

    “Oui,” she said faintly.

    “Get off that damned brute at once and get into the house!” shouted the Marquis as they rode slowly up to him. “I’m sending it back to Belgium tomorrow!”

    Carolyn immediately burst into tears.

    “And stop CATERWAULING!” he shouted.

    “Perhaps we should leave?” murmured Paul.

    “Coward!” hissed his cousin.

    Paul’s shoulders shook.

    “Get OFF!” shouted Rockingham furiously.

    “Sir, I don’t think she is very good at dismounting by herself,” said Paul loudly above the sobs.

    “What?” He strode over to her. “Get off that creature at once, you damned little nuisance!”

    “I—can’t!” wailed Carolyn. “She is too high! And if you send her home, you are the cruel-luh-est pig!”

    “All right, I’m the cruellest pig!” he shouted, wrenching her off bodily. “Get indoors before I spank your bottom!”

    Carolyn gave a sob, gathered up her skirts and rushed inside.

    “Lord Rockingham, she was very naughty, of course,” said Miss Maddern, taking a deep breath, “but she does not deserve to lose her horse, surely? I think she is missing company of her own age.”

    “Don’t be a fool, woman, I’m not seriously proposing to get rid of the brute!” he retorted angrily.

    “Lord Rockingham, you may address your half-sister as you please,” said Paul, reddening, “but kindly watch your tongue when you are speaking to Miss Maddern.”

    “What? Look, if I was rude, I apologize,” he said to her, passing his hand across his face. “I’ve been imagining all sorts of— There’s an abandoned quarry to the east of us which she declared to be Romantick: I was terrified—”

    “Yes, I understand, Marquis,” said Miss Maddern with dignity. “Naturally you have been very worried. But Carolyn is an excellent horsewoman. If you should not dislike it, we would be very glad to have her come riding with us quite regularly, would we not, Cousin?”

    “Yes, indeed,” Paul agreed. “And perhaps we could send a groom to fetch Miss Girardon?” he said to the Marquis with his charming smile.

    Rockingham frowned. “No. I mean, thank you for the offer, Miss Maddern, and of course I accept: you are right, no doubt she is lonely. But I’ll keep a closer watch on her in future, and send one of my own men with her when you wish to ride.”

    “Thank you, sir,” replied Miss Maddern calmly. “But when she is busy and happy, you will find there will be no need to watch her.”

    “Mm. I suppose she has been bored here. Well, she won’t read without Lavinia or Susan to set her the example,” he said, making a face, “and although Mamma assures me she is a competent needlewoman I have never seen her set a stitch, and really there is nothing for her to do except get into mischief.”

    “Perhaps it is a pity her mamma could not accompany her to England,” said Miss Maddern in her quiet way, “but if you will permit her to spend some time with me, Lord Rockingham, we shall see if we cannot encourage her to be busy.”

    “Can you get her to read?” he said, looking up at her with a laugh.

    Miss Maddern twinkled at him. “I do not absolutely guarantee it, sir! But except for Amabel we are all great readers, at home!”

    “Good. Though I think it will take more than that, it will take a miracle. Oh—damnation, Miss Maddern, I’m sorry: please come into the house!”

    “Thank you for the offer, my Lord, but I do not think I can or dare dismount,” said Christabel with a rueful smile. “I have never rid a quarter of the distance before, and I think I am become welded to this saddle.”

    “Oh, no!” cried Paul. “I knew I should not have— But we were in a cleft stick, sir: we could hardly desert Mlle Girardon, and I could not send my cousin home alone!”

    “I’d have deserted her, the little baggage!” he said grimly. “Come, let me unweld you!” he added to Miss Maddern with a laugh, holding out his arms.

    Christabel hesitated.

    “Come along!” he said impatiently. “Don’t be Missish! –HOLLINGS!” he bellowed over his shoulder.

    Paul watched in some amusement as a large and very dignified butler appeared on the front steps—if such the imposing portico could be called. “My Lord?”

    “Get them to draw a hot bath for Miss Maddern, she’s stiff as a board.”

    “Certainly, my Lord.” The butler bowed, and withdrew.

    Miss Maddern looked uncertainly at the Marquis.

    “Lift up your leg,” he said simply.

    She freed her leg from the grip of the side saddle, wincing.

    “That’s it.” He put his hands on her waist and pulled her off the horse without further ado.

    Paul watched in silence, astounded—though he had thought he knew his own feelings for Christabel fairly well—to find his blood boiling with bitter jealousy as Miss Maddern’s fair form was plastered to his Lordship’s broad chest.

    “Can you w—? No,” Rockingham discovered as she staggered and clutched him. “Come along, Mr Ainsley,” he said cheerfully, sweeping Christabel into his arms and walking up the front steps with her as if she had been a feather.

    Paul dismounted obediently. But he did not neglect to mutter through his teeth into his horse’s flank as he did so: “Sacré milord!”

    ... “Well built woman, your cousin!” said the Marquis cheerfully to him in the yellow salon, a little later.

    Paul glared.

    “Like that, is it?” he said with a laugh.

    “Yes,” said Paul, going very red. “It is like that. And even if it were not, sir, I take leave to tell you that I have every objection to your referring to my cousin in such terms!”

    “Rubbish. You’re green as grass you never thought to haul her off yourself!”

    “That is a lie!” he cried furiously.

    The Marquis lay back in a large yellow brocaded wing chair and looked at him mockingly over his glass of claret. “Don’t get your Spanish dander up,” he drawled. “What do you think of my claret?”

    Paul looked blankly at the glass in his hand. “Er—very pleasant.”

    Rockingham gave him a little, mocking smile. “Then drink it, Mr Ainsley. –I suppose I have to thank you for rescuing my fool of a sister,” he added.

    “It was nothing. But you should keep a better eye on her,” Paul replied grimly, drinking the wine.

    “True. But at least I do not encourage to get into breeches and take pot-shots at perfect strangers through inn windows. –How is your sister?”

    “Very well, thank you,” replied Paul stiffly.

    Rockingham eyed him a trifle wryly. “What is it? You’re not really cross because I mentioned your cousin’s magnificent physique, are you?”

    “I— No, not really... I suppose I was jealous,” he said in a low voice.

    “Is it that bad?”

    Paul did not reply.

    “My dear boy,” said Rockingham lightly, “if it’s like that, what are you waiting for? Pop the question!”

    “It is not so easy,” he muttered.

    “No? –Good gad, you’re not thinking of poor old Harry’s doubtful deeds, are you?”

    “What? No,” said Paul blankly.

    The Marquis’s mouth tightened for an instant. “No. That would be absurd. Well, what is the problem, then?”

    “She— You do not understand, sir,” he muttered.

    “Don’t she fancy you?”

    “I think she likes me, at the least,” he said in a stifled voice.

    “Well, that’s a start.”

    “She is a very fine woman,” he said. “It is she who runs her mother’s household and—and sees to it that all goes smoothly, sir. My aunt— Well, we are all very fond of her, and certainly she has a great capacity for—for domestic matters, but—uh—”

    “Can’t keep the brats in order, eh?” he said, raising an eyebrow.

    “No,” admitted Paul. “And she is rather given to panicks.”

    “Mm, I got that impression,” he said simply.

    “Er—yes,” said Paul, rather startled: he didn’t think his Lordship had been privileged to see much, if anything, of his aunt’s domestic arrangements.

    “Marry the girl, father a few of your own on her, and let her manage them,” said the Marquis in a hard voice.

    “Yes, she would manage them, and that is just the point!” he cried.

    Rockingham goggled at him.

    “She is worth ten of me!” cried Paul.

    “I make no doubt of it,” responded the Marquis coolly. Paul stared at him. “Ninety-nine women out of an hundred would have squeaked and carried on when I hauled ’em off that horse!” he explained with a wave of his hand. “Well?” he said impatiently as Paul just stared. “You’ve found her, why do you hesitate? Grab her before some other unworthy fellow does!”

    “You jest, Lord Rockingham,” said Paul stiffly, going very pale.

    Rockingham sighed. “No, I don’t, you young hot-head. I entirely agree, she is a fine woman, I’m in no doubt that she does manage that tribe of brats, and I’m also in no doubt that she would make you a splendid wife. And if you’re going to let some silly notion that she’s too good for you stand in the way of the happiness of both of you, then all I can say is, you’re an even greater gudgeon than I took you for in Ostend!”

    “Yes,” said Paul with a sheepish smile.

    “I’d say she’s no angel, even if she is worth ten of you,” he added drily: “that was flesh and blood that I hauled off that nag, her heart was going nineteen to the dozen all the way into the house!” He grinned.

    Paul grimaced. “I wanted to run you through,” he confessed.

    Rockingham smiled at him. “Aye, I felt you did. If she’ll have you, you’ll be a damned lucky man.”

    “I know,” said Paul, swallowing. “Only—I had thought that—that perhaps I should wait until I was more properly established, before—before asking her.”

    “Eh?” replied his Lordship simply.

    Very red, Paul said in a stifled voice: “I have done nothing. I am nothing.”

    “I see.” Rockingham got up and filled his glass again for him. “Well,” he said, standing over him and looking down at him drily: “I’d recommend you consider doing things together with her, because if you wait until you think you’re worthy of her, you could find yourself at nearly forty still having done nothing, and quite alone.”

    Paul took the glass in a hand that shook a little and said: “Yes. I see—thank you. My Lord,” he burst out, “do not speak of yourself like that! It is impossible to live in this county without becoming aware of your excellence as a landlord and of your many charitable enterprises!”

    Rockingham sniffed slightly and sat down again. He did not deny that his reference had been to himself and he made no attempt either to refute or to confirm what Paul had just said.

    Silence fell.

    Eventually Paul said: “We are greatly expanding the garden staff.”

    “Mm? Oh—about time. That’s right, re-establishing the conservatory, are you not? I heard Higgs was poaching amongst my young hothouse gardeners!”

    “Yes,” said Paul with a little smile. “We have taken on John Pringle; Higgs assures me he is an excellently trained fellow.” He hesitated, and added rather shyly: “Not only that, the gardens are in a terrible state. I have discovered the landscape plans that were drawn up in my great-grandfather’s time: it is shocking how the place has been let go.”

    “Oh, quite, Mr Ainsley,” he drawled. “I wish you the best of luck with it.”

    “No, you do not understand, my Lord!” Paul swallowed. “We are looking for apprentices as well as qualified men.”

    “Oh! The boys’ home!” he said with a little smile.

    Paul nodded. “Would it be a suitable occupation for them, sir?”

    Rockingham shrugged. “I imagine so. I’ll furnish you with the style and direction of the man who runs it—an excellent fellow. I have discovered,” he added with a sigh, ringing the bell, “that one cannot set up such an enterprise and then abandon it, for it may fall into the hands of some rascal who will browbeat the boys and— Yes, send Mr Wetherby to me, please,” he said to the footman. “What was I—? Oh, yes: some rascal who will browbeat the boys and pocket the money that should go to feed and clothe them. Each home must have a properly constituted board, and so on.”

    “So I should imagine,” agreed Paul, looking at him with respect.

    “Some of them will still go to the bad, mind you,” he warned.

    “What? Oh, the boys, sir? Yes, but I have discussed it fully with Higgs and Jake Pringle, Lord Rockingham, and we are agreed that we shall take the risk. Ned Adams needs stable-lads, too, though there are not so many places there.”

    “Good. –Ah, David,” he said as a slight young man with light brown hair came in and bowed, smiling: “Here is Mr Ainsley very anxious to take some of Feathers’s rapscallions off his hands and set ’em loose in his gardens! Would you see he is furnished with a note for Feathers?”

    “Certainly, sir,” he agreed. “I’m delighted to meet you, Mr Ainsley, and very pleased to hear you are willing to take on some of our boys. I shall write you a note immediately.”

    Paul had got up. He shook hands with him, smiling. “Splendid! We intend proper apprenticeships, you know.”

    “Good,” said David Wetherby, not revealing the fact that Mr Feathers would not have consented to anything less. “Sir, there was that other matter about the Board,” he added to the Marquis.

    “Oh, yes. Thanks, David.”

     Mr Wetherby bowed, smiling, and withdrew.

    “His father was the curate here at one stage,” said Rockingham with a sigh. “Seventeen children, would you believe? David’s a middle one.”

    “Seventeen?” said Paul weakly.

    Rockingham made a face. “Mm.”

    “That’s too many. Still, possibly he had not the benefit of the sort of fatherly advice Harry dishes out!” he said with a smile.

    “Good God, does he still—?” Rockingham broke off, grinning. “I’ll never forget hearing Harry on that subject in a damned tent in the middle of the Froggy encampment,” he disclosed.

    “Really, sir? When you brought him my grandfather’s ring, would that have been?”

    Rockingham nodded. “A mad escapade. Oh, well, we were all young once. Well, I’m glad he’s told you, I would not care to see Miss Maddern produce a brat a year.”

    “No!” said Paul, going fiery red and looking as if he didn’t know whether to laugh or not.

    Rockingham eyed him drily: he had rather thought, from Paul’s glibness, that the young man had never really thought of himself in the context of what his worldly papa preached! “Um, this other matter David mentioned: the board of the home is looking for another member. We try to choose them from amongst the gentry of the district as well as the more prominent of the local townsfolk: an even mix, otherwise one side or another will start raising objections over the Lord knows what. Will you be it?”

    “I, sir?” said Paul, his jaw dropping.

    “Why not? Lord of the Manor, ain’t you?” he said with a grin. “Sort of thing Miss Maddern would admire, I’m sure,” he added carelessly.

    “Du chantage,” noted Paul grimly.

    Rockingham laughed.

    “Well, I—I would be honoured, sir,” he admitted. “If the other members of the Board will accept me?”

    “Oh, they’ll accept my recommendation!” he said breezily.

    Paul was in no doubt of it.

    “Do you know,” said Miss Maddern thoughtfully, as they journeyed home together in the Marquis’s very comfortable carriage, “I rather like him. I would wish to see more of him.”

    “Would you?” he replied in a hard voice. “Why is that?”

    She thought about it. “Not merely because it is obvious he is a lonely and unhappy man—I mean, it is not that I am merely sorry for him,” she explained.

    “No,” said Paul weakly.

    “No. Although he is almost entirely without manners,” said Christabel slowly, “I think that he has a truly caring heart.”

    Paul had not mentioned his Lordship’s charitable activities to his cousin: he looked at her in some astonishment.

    “Only a person who truly cared for the needs of others,” said Miss Maddern with a twinkle in her eye, “would have insisted on my taking a hot bath at that precise moment!”

    “Of course!” he admitted with a smile. The smile faded and he added, frowning: “Or have insisted on carrying you indoors.”

    Christabel did not see the frown: she was looking out of the window, thinking. “Yes,” she said with a funny little smile. “It was such a—an odd sensation, cousin!”

    “Was it?” he said harshly.

    She looked round at him with an uncertain smile. “Yes: finding oneself suddenly—well, helpless, I suppose is the word! Am I being Missish, or—or fanciful?”

    “No,” said Paul through his teeth.

    “Cousin, is—is anything the matter? Do you not care for the Marquis? I had thought you liked him,” she said dubiously.

    “I do like him,” said Paul with difficulty. “He is all you say and more. I— He does much charitable work. Do you not know that he has established a string of homes for orphan boys, all up and down the country?”

    “No,” said Miss Maddern thoughtfully. “But I am not astonished to hear it. I conclude he does not advertise the fact?”

    “No,” said Paul, with a twisted little smile. “They are not called anything such as the Rockingham Homes, or the Hammond Foundation! No, the one in the district here is called the Anne Girardon Home—that is his mother’s name; but I think that is as close as he has got to—well, to acknowledging them publicly.”

    “That is wholly admirable,” said Christabel softly, cheeks very flushed.

    “Wholly admirable is very easy on eighty thousand pounds a year!” retorted Paul, very loudly and crossly.

    “Eighty—”

    “¡Sí, sí, that is the figure that is bandied about in the stupid clubs in London!” he said impatiently.

    “One cannot imagine such an immense fortune,” she said numbly.

    “No, and very obviously one cannot spend it, either! I dare say he could endow every orphan in the country and never notice it!”

    “Dear Cousin, what is the matter?” asked Miss Maddern in amaze. “This is most unlike your generous spirit! The point is surely not that the Marquis can afford to be charitable, but that he bothers to be so at all!”

    “I know. I am sorry,” he said briefly.

    There was a short silence. Paul’s lips were tightly compressed. His cousin eyed him uncertainly.

    Finally she said: “What is it, Cousin Paul?”

    “I am jealous, I suppose,” he replied in a hard voice.

    “Jealous?” she faltered. “Of—of the Marquis’s great wealth? Surely—”

    “No, imbecile! That he had you in his arms!” he shouted.

     Miss Maddern went very red. “He—”

    “And that you enjoyed it!” shouted Paul furiously. “And that he knew you enjoyed it, the—the sacré milord!”

    After a moment Miss Maddern said weakly: “You could not know that, Cousin.”

    “Of course I could know, you little silly! He told me!” he shouted.

    “He told—” Miss Maddern gulped, but rallied sufficiently to add: “That is the sort of thing gentlemen talk about in the stupid clubs in London, I collect?”

    “Yes, and also over their glasses of claret in their stupid yellow salons,” he said through his teeth.

    She gave a weak laugh. “Was it not dreadfully yellow?”

    “Christabel, be serious! I am trying to tell you I love you!” shouted Paul.

    “Wh-what?” faltered Miss Maddern, putting her hand to her mouth.

    Paul muttered to himself in Spanish. “I’m sorry, I never meant—”

    Christabel looked at him in bewilderment.

    “I did not mean to raise this topic precisely now, and—and certainly not in that way,” he said weakly.

    “No,” she murmured faintly.

    Paul clenched his fists. “I am making an idiot of myself,” he said grimly. “I knew I should: you—you turn my knees to jelly, did you know that?” He gave a mad little laugh.

    “I?” she said faintly.

    “¡Sí, sí, you are so far above me!” said Paul with another laugh that was almost a sob.

    Christabel swallowed. It must be admitted that she had imagined a declaration from Cousin Paul, in spite of her determination that he could never be hers, but she had not imagined its being anything like this! “That is nonsense, Cousin,” she said weakly. “I am not far above anyone.”

    “Yes,” he said miserably: “you are so wonderfully capable and—and— He broke off.

    “I am not particularly capable,” said Miss Maddern uncertainly.

    Paul stared miserably at his locked hands on his knees.

    “I have had to bear some few responsibilities, I suppose, but that is only natural, seeing I am the eldest.”

    “Sí.”

    Christabel felt rather indignant that he had not refuted gallantly the implied reference to her advanced age. She waited but he still said nothing, so she said: “Many women of my age have far heavier responsibilities to bear; I think you refine too much upon it, Cousin.”

    “Sí.”

    “In any case, you are very capable yourself!” she said desperately.

    “Nonsense, I have done nothing.”

    “That is not true, Cousin! You have brought your family to England and are looking after them very capably indeed!” said Christabel, beginning to wish she could think of a synonym for “capable”, because if either of them said it again she had a feeling she might scream.

    “I have had Jake to help me; do you imagine I could have got the children across the Channel and opened the house up and—and started to put the estate in order without his help?”

    “No, I suppose not; but—but then few of us are utterly alone in this world, Cousin!”

    “Possibly not,” he said dully, staring at his hands.

    She looked at him uncertainly.

    “Pray forgive me for—for speaking to you like this,” he said with difficulty, not looking at her.

    Unaccountably Miss Maddern felt very angry at this humble request and said loudly: “Forgive you? I fail entirely to see that there is anything to forgive you for, Cousin Paul! You have merely said that I am capable. I am sure I am flattered!”

    Paul did not reply.

    “I am sure every woman of my age wishes to be told she is capable!” said Christabel loudly and angrily.

    He chewed on his lip. “Now I have made you angry,” he said in a stifled voice.

    “Oh, not at all, Cousin Paul!” retorted Christabel furiously, glaring out of the carriage window. Tears prickled in her eyes and she swallowed convulsively.

    Paul watched her anxiously. Finally he said nervously: “I wish I had not mentioned it.”

    “So do I!” said Christabel angrily.

    He was silent for some time. Then he said: “So you do not care for me?”

    “What?” she gasped.

    “You are very angry— You do not— I should not have spoken!” he fumbled.

    “Cousin Paul,” said Christabel in a shaking voice, holding her head up very high, “if there is something you are trying to say to me, please would you phrase it in plain English, for I am very much afraid I have not the slightest idea what you are talking about!”

    Paul looked at her miserably. “I love you. Will you marry me?” he said simply.

    Miss Maddern gulped. All the noble, self-sacrificing speeches she had rehearsed in her head in the case this unlikely event should eventuate went straight out of it. “Yes,” she said hoarsely.

    “What?” he cried, suddenly very flushed.

    “Yes,” said Christabel in a nervous voice; “if you wish it.”

    “¡Querida, of course I wish it!” he cried, seizing her hand.

    “Then I will,” she said flatly.

    He gulped. “Christa, you—you would not have taken some mad notion into your head that you must accept because your mother wishes you to—to have an establishment, would you?” he croaked.

    Miss Maddern snatched her hand away. “No! But if that is why you have offered for me, Cousin Paul, then I must decline!” she cried angrily.

    “I am not such an idiot! I do not care if your mother approves or not, I am asking you because I love you!”

    “Oh,” said Miss Maddern lamely.

    He looked at her cautiously. “Why are you accepting?”

    She swallowed.

    Paul’s dark eyes began to dance. He took her hand again, very gently, and began to ease the glove down. “Is it because you love me, too?” he murmured.

    Miss Maddern swallowed again. “Yes,” she croaked.

    Paul kissed the inside of her wrist, very gently.

    “Oh!” she cried, trembling.

    He smiled, and kissed her wrist again.

    “Oh, Cousin Paul!” cried Miss Maddern, bursting into tears. “I thought you would make Amabel an offer and—and I am much too old for you, I should not have been so weak as to accept your very obluh—obli-hi—”

    “Hush!” he said with a laugh, gathering her into arms. “Stop this silly crying instantly, or I shall cry, too!”

     She sniffed and gulped valiantly.

    “Here,” he said with a twinkle, handing her his handkerchief,

    Miss Maddern blew her nose. “I am being a watering-pot,” she said faintly, not looking at-him.

    “Sí.” Paul put both arms round her again.

    “What are you doing? This is most improper!” she said faintly.

    “Of course,” he agreed into her neck.

    “Cousin Paul—”

    “If you call me that once more I shall scream,” he said into her neck.

    “Should I call you Mr Ainsley?” she faltered.

    “No!” he said with a startled laugh. “No, dearest imbecile, you should call me Paul,” he said, smiling into her eyes.

    “I could not possibly!” she gasped.

    “Then I shall have to persuade you,” said Paul gaily.

     Miss Maddern blinked at him.

    Smiling, he brought his face very close and laid his lips gently on hers.

    After quite some time Miss Maddern clutched his back convulsively.

    “Sí...” said Paul slowly, ceasing momentarily to kiss her.

    “Oh! I had no notion—!” she began in a flustered voice.

    “I know you had no notion. But I,” he said with a twinkle, “am not so totally inexperienced, you see, and I had a notion that it was there!”

    “Cousin, can such strong feelings be— I mean, I… Oh, dear,” she ended faintly.

    “I entirely agree: they are most improper, and most proper in such circumstances as these!” he said with a laugh.

    Miss Maddern looked at him in a dazed way.

    “And you have called me ‘Cousin’ again, so unless you can think of some way to stop me, I shall scream!”

    “Paul,” she gulped hurriedly.

    “That was not what I meant!” he gasped, shoulders shaking, “but it will do for a start! –Yes, hold me tight, Christa darling, when I am in your arms I am in Paradise,” he sighed.

    Christabel blushed brightly but continued to hold him tight and even to encourage him in the kissing. Which had been very strange and even a trifle embarrassing just at first but now was not.

    Finally Paul gave a great sigh and laid his head on her breast.

    “Oh,” she said faintly.

    “Ti quiero,” he said into her bosom.

    “Sí,” said Miss Maddern faintly. “Ti quiero, Paul.”

    Paul was silent, but after a little she realised that his shoulders were shaking and that for once it wasn’t with laughter.

    “Are you crying?” she whispered in horror.

    “Sí,” he said sniffing, and not looking up. “I had feared you did not care for me.”

    “You are mad!” said Miss Maddern with conviction. “Why, the first moment I—” She broke off.

    “Oh, it was so for me, too!” he cried, looking up.

     Christabel’s lips trembled. “That cannot be true,” she whispered.

    “Sí, sí: you came in looking so dignified in your old grey-blue pelisse and regardless of the fact that Floss was shouting ‘Look at my parrot!’ at that very precise moment, you said: ‘How do you do, Cousin Paul, I am so glad to know you’, and I looked into your big grey eyes and was lost!” he said, laughing and sniffing.

    “Oh—here!” Miss Maddern picked up the handkerchief from the seat beside her and thrust it at him.

    “Gracias,” said Paul, blowing his nose. “I expect English gentlemen do not cry on their beloved’s bosom!” he added with a twinkle.

    “I do not care what they do or do not do, I do not want an English gentleman!” she said fiercely.

    “That is good, for if a single one so much as glances at you, I shall kill him!”

    Miss Maddern swallowed. “Were you really jealous of the Marquis of Crabapple?” she ventured.

    “Terribly!” he said with a laugh. “He had the gall to tell me to my face that your heart was going nineteen to the dozen when he carried you into the house and to suggest it meant you were a woman of flesh and blood!”

    “Good Heavens,” said Miss Maddern faintly.

    “Only now I do not so much wish to run him through,” he said naughtily, “for I have discovered that it can go twenty-four to the dozen!”

    “Can it?” said Miss Maddern faintly.

    “Sí. When I do this,” he said, pressing his face into her bosom again.

    Christabel sat there, her cheeks bright red and her heart going twenty-four, nay, thirty-six to the dozen.

    “It is too much, I cannot bear it!” cried Mrs Maddern, sitting down, plump, on a sofa.

    Her family and friends were foregathered in the sitting-room. They looked at one another in bewilderment. Finally Amabel said very cautiously: “I would not say it is too much, precisely, Mamma.”

    “Nor I,” agreed Mrs Parkinson firmly. “Most appropriate, indeed.”

    “Appropriate!” she cried.

    “Well, yes, my dear,” said Mrs Parkinson, beginning to sound bewildered.

    Mrs Maddern took a deep breath. “Appropriate! When he ignores us for over a month and then— No, it is too much! I do not know what is in his head—and in fact, Wilhelmina, if you wish to know, it is my opinion that late events in London, which I will not mention in front of the children,”—here she looked hard at Gaetana—“may have turned his brain!”

    Mrs Parkinson swallowed. “Patty, my dear, you are agitating yourself unnecessarily. It is merely a—merely a pleasant gesture... A courtesy,” she ended limply.

    “A courtesy? I tell you, the man is mad!” cried Mrs Maddern. “Give it here, my dear!” she commanded Maria. “Mad!” she cried to the company. “See here, these are rubies, as I live and breathe!” She burst into tears.

    Mrs Maddern was not, of course, referring to the engagement between Paul and Christabel, of which she had not yet heard, but to the Marquis’s sending Maria a birthday gift.

    The parcel had come by hand addressed to “Doña Maria Ainsley” and at first Mrs Maddern had thought someone must have got Maria’s names wrong, and when that had been explained to her she had decided it must be a gift from Paul, sent down from London—for Paul and Christabel had not yet been back—and whilst various persons had tried to explain to her that the man had been a groom from Daynesford Place, Maria had, very naturally, quietly opened it.

    Florabelle’s muddied explanation that it was Marquis’s birthday this month, too, had not helped, at all.

    Amabel sat down beside her mother on the sofa, gave her a handkerchief, and patted her heaving shoulders gently. “I am persuaded they are but garnets, Mamma,” she said, when the sobs had abated a little.

    “Rubbish! Look at the lustre! And garnets were never this shade!” Mrs Maddern proved to her own satisfaction that the tiny stones set in gold around Maria’s medallion were rubies.

    “May I not have it, then, Tia Patty?” said Maria in a brave voice, although her lip wobbled.

    “What?” said Mrs Maddern, very disconcerted. “Why—why, of course you cannot return it, my dear, of course you must keep it! It was an exceeding kind thought in his Lordship to send it, and—and we shall think of something you may do for him, perhaps embroider a pair of slippers, and of course you must write him a lovely note of thanks...” She pushed the medallion into her hand with a distracted motion. “But why?” she wailed.

    No-one could answer this: they all looked weakly at one another. And most especially Paul and Christabel, who were standing in the sitting-room doorway quite transfixed at having walked into a domestic crisis.

    Eventually Mrs Parkinson said: “Well, these great men, my love... I dare say he took a notion into his head. And besides, it is not as if he cannot— Well, you know what I mean!” she added hastily, remembering she was a lady.

    “Yes, of course he can afford it: he can afford to smother the child in rubies if he so wishes,” said Mrs Maddern dully, not bothering to put up a pretence, “but why has he done it? And how did he even know it was her birthday this month?”

    The children looked guiltily at one another. Bunch even glanced at the door, but most unfortunately escape was blocked by Paul and Christabel.

    In the silence, Mrs Parkinson picked up the card that had accompanied the gift. “It does not mention... Well, it says merely ‘With compliments, Rockingham.’ I suppose it could be a coincidence...” Her voice trailed off as Mrs Maddern withered her with a look.

    More silence. But during it Mrs Maddern, who after all was a mother of some twenty-six years’ experience, did not neglect to look grimly at the children.

    Finally Florabelle said bravely: “We encountered him when we were out riding, Mamma.”

    “What?” she gasped.

    “He rides out a lot, I believe,” put in Paul weakly.

    Mrs Maddern ignored this irrelevancy. “Why did you not tell me of it?” she demanded.

    “Um—well…” Floss looked desperately at the twins and Maria, but no help came. “I suppose I never thought of it. –You said I was chattering on when I told you we had met Jake’s cousin Mary!” she remembered.

    “That is not at all the same case!” cried Mrs Maddern.

    Floss was not that stupid, she could see her argument was exceeding weak, but she attempted to look meekly injured.

    “Do you mean to tell me you just upped and informed the Marquis of Rockingham that it was Maria’s birthday this month?” pursued Mrs Maddern on a grim note.

    “No!” cried Floss, very injured. “Um...”

    “We were talking about birthdays,” said Bunch, though without hope.

    “Yes,” agreed Bungo weakly. “Um—about the fireworks, really. –-It is only a soppy medallion, Tia Patty, after all,” he added on a more hopeful note.

    “Silly child!” she said witheringly.

    Bungo fell silent, looking glum.

    “Um—yes, Mamma, and his Lordship asked Maria how old she was, we did not bring the topic up at all!” recalled Floss on an eager note.

    “Asked you?” she gasped

    “¡Sí, sí, Tia Patty!” gulped Maria, nodding frightfully and hanging on to the medallion like grim death.

    Paul had by now pulled himself together. He removed Christabel’s fingers, which were digging fiercely into his arm, and even though he could see quite clearly that his beloved was still turned to stone, patted her hand and left her by the door, to come over to his aunt and say gently but firmly: “Lord Rockingham is very fond of children, Tia Patty. And of course such a gift is nothing to him in material terms. But it was a lovely thought, and Maria must certainly write him a little note of thanks.” He smiled at his little sister, and added: “And I think you had better all run upstairs, had you not? Why, you are all in your outdoor things, still!”

    “Oh,” said Marybelle in confusion: “we’ve been riding. Yes, come on, Maria!” She seized her arm.

    “May I wear it, Paul?” she squeaked.

    “Absolutely, you must wear it!” he said merrily. “And if our dearest Tia Patty does not object, I think you and Marybelle must come down for dinner tonight, and you must wear it then!”

    Maria turned puce and could not speak.

    “Really?” gasped Marybelle.

    “Paul, my dear—” said Mrs Maddern faintly.

    “¡Sí, sí, because Marybelle is now sixteen, and Maria is very, very nearly sixteen, and because I have some special news which I would wish them to celebrate, tonight!” said Paul gaily, sitting down beside her on the opposite side from Amabel and picking up her hand and kissing it lightly. –In the doorway, Miss Maddern put her hand to her throat.

    “What?” said Mrs Maddern in bewilderment.

    “O-oh, why can’t we—?” began Bunch, but Bungo gave her ankle a swift kick and said: “Come on.”

    “Yes, off you go,” said Paul on a firm note.

    “I have never heard that the Marquis of Rockingham likes children,” said Mrs Maddern faintly as they filed out. As they went, Floss could be heard reminding Maria that the man from Daynesford Place had also left a long, mysterious brown-paper package in the hall and Marybelle could be heard shushing her loudly.

    “Yes, indeed,” said Paul quickly, kissing her hand again. “He keeps three lovely fat ponies for Sir Julian’s little girls—the smallest is, I believe, almost a miniature pony, that is for the little one who is only six; and then, you know, there are his orphans’ homes!”

    “What?” she said blankly.

    “What are you talking about?” cried Gaetana crossly.

    “Did you not know? He is much admired in certain Whig circles for his charitable work, querida,” he said gently. “There is the Anne Girardon Home—that is that big house on the road between Daynesford and Ditterminster, which is rather in the style of our own house. You may address further inquiries to the Bishop of Ditterminster, if you do not believe me!” he added with a twinkle. “Or to the Dean, he is a Dr Llewellyn-Jones, a very worthy man, and one of his Lordship’s staunchest supporters. But besides his work locally, the Marquis has established a string of homes for orphan boys, all up and down the country.”

    After a moment Hildy, who had kept well out of the preceding scene, said: “What about girls?”

    “Lady Naseby or Sir Julian would be the persons to ask about that, Hildy, dear,” he said gently.

    Hildy went very red and glared at him.

    “I have heard that Lady Naseby is known for her charitable works,” said Mrs Parkinson weakly.

    “Indeed she is!” agreed Paul. “And Sir Julian also, though he is not the sort of man to advertise the fact.”

    “Pooh!” cried Hildy angrily. “If this is a joke, it is not a funny one!”

    “Dearest Hildy,” said Paul with a troubled look, “it is not a joke at all; I would not joke on such a subject. Sir Julian sits on the governing bodies of several charitable enterprises. I believe he devotes considerable sums to such things as—well, homes for orphan girls and—er—unfortunate women.”

    At this point Hildy recalled two incidents: firstly, that when Sir Julian had collected her, his sister and the two children from Richmond that time, Rommie had mentioned he had been to a Board and he had laughed the reference aside in his usual joking manner; and secondly, that he had mentioned at the opera that his mother was interested in rescuing unfortunate women. She went very white, and stared at Paul in a transfixed way.

    “You are a painting a very incredible picture, Paul,” warned Gaetana between her teeth.

    “Querida, is it impossible for two wealthy gentlemen to take an interest in those less fortunate than they? They are not alone in such things: why, look at Lord—”

    “We are not talking about Lord This and That!” she cried furiously. “You have made it all up for devious reasons of your own!”

    “No,” said Christabel hoarsely: “he has not. For he was talking about it to Lord Rockingham this very afternoon.”

    They turned and stared at her.

    “Yes,” she said, swallowing. “We—we met Miss Girardon out riding alone and—and thought we had best escort her home.”

    “All the way to the house?” gasped Gaetana in horror. “¡Querida, you must be as stiff as a board!”

    “Well, I am not too bad!” confessed Miss Maddern with a mad laugh. “For Lord Rockingham insisted I take a hot bath!”

    “What?” gasped Mrs Maddern.

    Mrs Parkinson dropped the card with “With compliments, Rockingham” that she had been re-examining.

    “He is quite sans façon,” explained Paul airily. “Tia Patty, you look quite knocked up by all this excitement; let me escort you upstairs. And to say truth, there is something I would wish to confide in you privily,” he added, putting a hand gently under her elbow and assisting her to rise.

    The dread moment had obviously come: Miss Maddern swallowed hard.

    “Not more mischief of those dreadful children?” sighed Mrs Maddern, leaning heavily on Paul.

    “No, no,” he said, staggering slightly. “Nothing like that. Er—Christa will come, too. –No, Amabel, dearest, not this time,” he added with a smile.

    Amabel fell back, looking disconcerted. However, a speculative gleam lit up in Mrs Parkinson’s eye, for despite her preoccupation with her own children, she was very far from blind. But knowing dear Patty’s hopes for Amabel in regard to her cousin, she had not cared to drop her a hint, in case it came to naught, after all.

    Mrs Maddern went out, supported by Paul and Christabel, and there was a brief silence in the sitting-room.

    Finally Gaetana said sulkily: “I am sure he is exaggerating.”

    “Yes,” said Hildy grimly. “It may or may not be true of the Marquis—and now I come to think of it, Mrs Stalling did mention something about that home, and I thought at the time he must have endowed it, else why should it be named after his mother—only I cannot believe it of Sir Julian! Well, if any of it is true, I dare say his mother pushed him into it: he has as much decision about him as a bowl of yesterday’s gruel!”

    “Sí,” agreed Gaetana, scowling.

    “It is quite true about the ponies,” ventured Amabel.

    Gaetana ignored this and said in an angry voice: “I shall take a turn in the shrubbery!” And marched out.

    “Well,” said Mrs Parkinson with a little smile, getting up, “for my part, I shall go upstairs and see if Dorothea is waked from her nap—she fell asleep on her bed with Baby in her arms, did I say? You have never seen anything half so sweet!”

    “Indeed!” agreed Amabel, nodding and smiling.

    “Yes, you said,” sighed Hildy.

    Mrs Parkinson cast her an amused glance, and went out. It would not have been natural in her not to resent Miss Hildegarde’s callous treatment of her son, even though she had no wish to see Hilary united with one of the Maddern girls. And since she was fully aware that Hildy’s treatment of Sir Julian had been even worse, she was rather pleased to see her notions about the man so evidently overset.

    In the little sitting-room Hildy sat down slowly, looking sulky. Amabel watched her anxiously, saying nothing.

    Finally Hildy said: “I do not believe a word of it.”

    “He is such a pleasant gentleman, I am sure it is true, dearest. And although of course he is not rich if judged on the scale of the Marquis, he is certainly not a poor man. And you have said yourself that his mamma is on many committees, and so forth.”

    Hildy seemed to recall that the phrase had been “endless committees.” She scowled, and said nothing.

    “I—I do not know what you were so cross with him over, those last few days in London,” said Amabel cautiously, “only surely—whatever he has done—it could not be anything very bad, dearest? And this news of Paul’s reveals him to be of such an estimable character! Could you not—”

    “No,” said Hildy, getting up abruptly. “I could not. I am glad if Sir Julian devotes time and money to charitable activities, but that is nothing to do with me.” She went over to the French windows. “And I have yet to see it demonstrated that he has a brain in his head!” she added loudly and angrily.

    “No-o... That is not precisely what counts the most, dearest, with a gentleman,” she murmured.

    But Hildy had run out.

    “There, now!” said Paul, smiling, when Mrs Maddern was ensconced on the chaise longue in her boudoir with several cushions at her back and a shawl over her feet. He drew up a small chair beside her. “Sit down, Christabel,” he said with a twinkle.

    “Oh!” said Miss Maddern distractedly. “Yes. Thank you.”

    She sat down and Paul drew up a second chair for himself, very close. “Now, dearest Tia Patty, do not be too surprized at what I am about to tell you,” he said, twinkling at her, “but I should like very much to have your permission to marry Christabel!”

    Miss Maddern swallowed: it was far too abrupt, he should have—have led up to it... Though she could not for the life of her see how.

    “What?” said Mrs Maddern blankly.

    “¡Sí, sí! For I love her very much, you see!” said Paul gaily.

    “You mean Amabel,” said Mrs Maddern dazedly.

    “No, no, dear Tia Patty! Fond though I am of our dear Amabel, I have never for an instant contemplated marriage with her. For I must confess, the moment I set eyes on Christa, I knew she was the one woman for me!” –Here Miss Maddern turned a brilliant scarlet.

    “You wish to marry Christabel?” said Mrs Maddern dazedly.

    “Sí.”

    “But she is years older than you, dear boy!” she gasped.

    “Only three, and I am learning to grow up, I think,” he said meekly.

    “What? You are being silly, Paul, of course you are grown—” Mrs Maddern broke off. After a moment she faltered: “Dear boy, this is not some joke, is it?”

    “No, no, no, Tia Patty!” He seized her hand and kissed it. “Please give me your permission to marry Christabel, for I love her more than I can say.”

    “It is not a joke, Mamma,” said Christabel hoarsely.

    To her absolute horror, at this her unofficial fiancé turned his head her way and very solemnly winked one dark eye.

    “Oh! My dearest children!” faltered Mrs Maddern, pressing a hand to her bosom. “Oh, can it be true? I did not dream... It is of all things what I would most have hoped for! Oh, it is like a dream!” she cried.

    “Yes, a happy dream, only it is quite, quite true!” said Paul gaily.

    “Oh, my dearest boy!” she cried, enveloping him in a huge hug.

    Paul emerged from this embrace with his black curls ruffled but otherwise apparently unmoved. “So I have your permission, dear Tia Patty?”

    “Why, of course! Can there be any question?” She looked at her daughter and took a deep breath. “Christabel, my dear, I hope that what your cousin has just said—the honour he has done you—has not left you unmoved. For I must tell you frankly, it is the wish of my heart to see you at his side as mistress of Ainsley Manor.”

    “Er—yes, Mamma,” said Christabel feebly.

    “It is quite all right, Tia Patty,” said Paul with a little laugh, “for to say truth,”—he rose and possessed himself of Christabel’s hand—“I have already mentioned the matter to Christa, and she was waiting only for your permission to accept me officially!”

    Mrs Maddern goggled at her daughter.

    “Um—yes, it is true, Mamma,” she said, blushing very much.

    “Great Heavens, are you in love with him, then, my dear?” she faltered.

    Christabel swallowed. “Yes, Mamma,” she said bravely.

    Promptly Mrs Maddern burst into a storm of tears.

    “Go out,” said Paul into Christabel’s ear, “and get Mason, and do not come back unless I call.”

    “Buh-but—”

    “Go,” he said firmly, kneeling down by his Tia Patty’s chaise longue and putting his arms right round her generous person.

    Meekly Miss Maddern went.

    Fearing that something was wrong, Amabel had ventured upstairs. “What is going on?” she gasped, as Mason, who had already rushed into Mrs Maddern’s boudoir with a vinaigrette in her hand only to rush out again almost immediately, rushed back with some burnt feathers.

    “I cannot tell you just yet, dearest,” said Miss Maddern, waving the smoke away and grimacing, “but very soon I will.”

    “Mamma is not ill, is she?”

    “Um—no,” said Christabel uneasily, trying to hear what was going on behind the closed door, and failing.

    “What has Paul been saying— They are not going back to Spain, are they?” she gasped, grabbing Christabel’s arm.

    “No, of course not, my love, what a silly idea. They are fixed here—for—forever... Oh, Amabel, I am so very happy!” wailed Miss Maddern, bursting into tears and throwing herself into her sister’s arms.

    The astounded Amabel hugged her tightly. “Did you say happy, dearest Christa?” she ventured, as the sobs abated somewhat.

    “¡Sí, sí! –Oh, how silly!” said Miss Maddern, looking up and laughing, “now he has got me saying it!”

    “Yes,” said Amabel in bewilderment.

    “Dearest, come along here a little.” Christabel drew her along to where a little occasional sofa stood by the passage wall and pressed her onto it. She sat down beside her and took her hand. “Paul has asked me to marry him,” she said, unable to stop smiles coming and going as she spoke.

    Amabel went very white. “Christa, you mustn’t,” she whispered.

    “What?” said Miss Maddern in amaze.

    “I—I know Mamma wishes one of us— And I am very sorry, but I can never take your place, for much though I admire him, I could never contemplate marriage with our cousin—but you must not do it, dearest, however much Mamma may urge you to it! For a loveless marriage would be of all things the most abhorrent!” finished Amabel, shuddering.

    Miss Maddern’s jaw dropped.

    “You said yourself, that lady in the book you and Hildy and Gaetana are so fond of, she married a curate or some such, and it was dreadful!” cried Amabel.

    “What?” she said distractedly. “Oh, my Heavens, not Charlotte Lucas and Mr Collins?”

    “I—I do not know their names. That rather odd book,” said Amabel.

    “Yes,” said Miss Maddern wildly. “Amabel, you cannot be meaning to compare Paul with—” Suddenly she gave a shriek of laughter worthy of Hildy.

    “It—it is not funny, dearest,” said Amabel in bewilderment, hoping Christa was not about to have hysterics. Though it would be most unlike her—but then, any young woman might, on being forced into a loveless marriage.

    “Amabel, you goose!” gasped Miss Maddern. “I am hopelessly in love with Paul, I have been since the first moment of setting eyes on him! –And I cannot tell you the agonies I have suffered,” she added, more seriously, “believing that Mamma would force him to offer for you.”

    “I do not think that even Mamma could force a gentlem— Not really?” she gasped. “Oh, Christa, you are not saying this just to—to make me feel happier about it?”

    “Well, I certainly hope it will make you feel happier,” said Miss Maddern with a twinkle in her fine grey eye, “but, no, it is perfectly true. I—I love him very much,” she said, suddenly blushing and looking into her lap.

    This, of course, convinced Amabel utterly, and she threw her arms round her sister, crying: “Oh, I am so glad! Oh, my dearest Christa!”—and burst into tears.

    It was, of course, impossible that the news should not have been all round the house before the dinner gong sounded. And although she did not go so far as to admit their presences to the dining-room, Mrs Maddern graciously allowed the twins and Florabelle—all well scrubbed and in their best—to come downstairs before dinner and join in a little toast.

    “At home we have champagne!” protested Bunch Ainsley as she was handed a glass with a little water in it.

    “You are at home, imbecile,” returned Tom Maddern simply. “Just wait, all will be revealed.”

    Bunch scowled. Her and Bungo had pretty well guessed it ages ago, and what was all the fuss about? She did not, however, go so far as to say this with her aunt’s eye upon her in the drawing-room and with all the grown-ups in evening wear. Hal Maddern, in particular, quite intimidating in his.

    “Right: has everyone got a glass?” said Hal breezily.

    “Sí, but we have water in ours,” pointed out Bungo, scowling.

    “Look, if you brats can’t behave,” said Hal, sweating slightly as he perceived that the rôle of master of ceremonies which he had so cheerfully assumed was not such a complete sinecure after all, “you may go off up to bed.”

    The twins and Florabelle looked at him resentfully but said nothing.

    “Right. Well, come along, Deering, where is it?” he said.

    Deering permitted himself to smile, trod over to the door in a stately manner, opened it and said: “You may bring it in, now, Gregory.” And in came Gregory with a large tray bearing—

    “Huzza!” cried Bungo.

    “Two bottles?” said Mrs Maddern faintly.

    “Well, there is a crowd of us, you know!” said Paul with a laugh, kissing her cheek. “And after all, do we have a you-know-what in the family every night?”

    “Well, no!” she owned with a giggle.

    Deering solemnly filled glasses, though with his mistress’s eye upon him very careful to put only enough in the twins’ and Florabelle’s to make the water sparkle, and very little more in Maria’s and Marybelle’s, and stood back, looking benign.

    “Deering, fill a glass for yourself,” said Hal hospitably.

    Looking even more benign, Deering did so.

    “Now, ladies and gentlemen and twins, I’ll ask you to drink a toast to the happy couple!” said Hal, grinning.

    “Hal, you have not even announced it!” cried his mother.

    “But everyone knows— Oh, very well. I have the honour to announce, ladies and gentleman,” he said with a wink at Paul, “that Paul and Christa are engaged to be married, and a dashed good thing too, though even if he was not my brother-in-law I dare say he would not object to my coming over here to keep the pheasant population down!”

    “Hal Maddern!” cried his mother, outraged.

    “It is all right, Mamma,” said Christabel, very flushed and smiling.

    Mrs Maddern beamed upon her. “If only we had had that blue silk gauze made up, my love, it would have been the very thing for tonight! Never mind, you shall wear it at your engagement party!”

    “Look, Mamma, are we going to get to drink this stuff before it goes flat?” complained the almost-reverend Tom loudly.

    “Yes: come on, everybody, raise your glasses: Paul and Christa!” said Hal loudly, raising his glass, grinning.

    “Paul and Christa,” echoed the company solemnly, raising their glasses.

    Even though Floss, who had never before had a drink with bubbles in it, choked, the toast was voted to have gone off very happily, and the children went back upstairs fortified by the knowledge that Berthe, who on hearing the great news had whipped up something very special for dessert, had also on the quiet sent up helpings of it to the nursery. Which would be waiting for them right now.

    … “Well, I hope you do not mind that I am kidnapping your sister permanently!” said Paul to the two Maddern brothers, passing the brandy after the ladies had departed the dining-room.

    “Lord, no, takes her off my hands,” said Hal frankly. “So long as you can stand it, old boy?”

    This was too much even for the almost-reverend and he cried protestingly: “Hal!”

    “Well, you know what she is,” returned Hal, unmoved. “You won’t be able to call your soul your own, old boy,” he told Paul kindly. “Talk about keepin’ a fellow up to the mark!” He whistled.

    “Good, I shall look forward to that,” said Paul smoothly.

    Tom choked.

    “Er—yes. Well, good show,” said Hal uneasily.

    At this Tom broke down entirely and laughed till he cried.

    Paul sustained this with fortitude, as he did both brothers’ subsequent painful wringing of his hand—from the which, indeed, he gathered that they were both truly pleased about the engagement. Which to say truth was a considerable relief to him, for he was aware that in their hearts of hearts his male cousins thought him pretty much of a Dago!