Reflexions On An Engagement Party

 27

Reflexions On An Engagement Party

    Cousin Sophia Goodbody blew her nose. “It is such a lovely party,” she sighed sentimentally.

    “Yes,” agreed Hildy politely.

    Mrs Goodbody patted Hildy’s knee and gave her an anxious look. “When you are a little stronger, my dear, you will begin to enjoy parties just as much as ever!”

    “Yes,” agreed Hildy politely.

    Cousin Sophia blew her nose again. “It reminds me so much of your dear Mamma’s engagement party!” she sighed.

    Hildy felt she could hardly just say “Yes” again, but what else was there to say? Cousin Sophia had already reported three times the interesting comparison which had occurred to her. Finally she said: “Indeed?”

    Cousin Sophia heaved a happy sigh. “Is it not wonderful, how it has all worked out?”

    Hildy open her mouth to say something pretty sharpish. Then she saw that the ageing lady had evidently realized that this was perhaps not the right thing to say to a young girl who had barely had one Season, for she was looking at her in a— Well, Hildy could not have defined it exactly but it was more or less a crestfallen manner! How absurd—poor little thing!

    “Yes, indeed, Cousin Sophia,” she said kindly. “We are all so happy for Paul and Christa.”

    Cousin’s Sophia’s thin, rather bird-like little face lit up. “Oh, indeed!”

    They sat in silence for a while, Cousin Sophia smiling and nodding at the dancing young couples before them, Hildy just staring blankly through them and trying not to yawn. Mrs Maddern had advised her anxiously that she should not dance, as she was still so pulled after the fever—and to say truth, Hildy did not feel energetic enough to dance.

    Eventually, as Amabel circled gracefully past them in Mr O’Flynn’s arms, Cousin Sophia remarked in a low voice: “Our dearest Amabel is in great looks tonight.”

    “Is she not?” agreed Hildy with a malicious glint in her eye. Preoccupied though she and Gaetana had been with their own emotions for some months past, they yet could not fail to be aware of the growing feeling between Amabel and Mrs O’Flynn’s uncle. Mrs Maddern, however, now that he was no longer needed to be held in reserve in the case Christabel should need to fall back on him, appeared to have dismissed him from consideration entirely. Any hopes that some might have cherished that Amabel, as the second sister, would inherit him, had been doomed to be dashed.

    Gradually as Amabel, delicious in jonquil gauze, circled gracefully, smiling shyly into Mr O’Flynn’s face, Cousin Sophia’s sentimental smile was overtaken by a dubious expression. Hildy perceived this, but did not say anything.

    Gaetana then whirled by with Eric Charleson. It was hardly a waltz they were doing: more a prolonged moving mutual giggle.

    “Dear Gaetana is so lively,” murmured Cousin Sophia.

    “She only gives the appearance of it, Cousin Sophia,” said Hildy with a naughty glint in her eye.

    The deceived little lady had barely the time to look at her anxiously before she added: “In actual fact, she is merely vigorously attempting to keep her toes out from under Mr Charleson’s feet.”

    “Hildy, dear!” said Cousin Sophia faintly, sounding just like Amabel.

    “Well,” said Hildy with her urchin grin, “he is even less expert in the waltz than she!”

    “Her waltzing is greatly improved,” said Cousin Sophia firmly.

    “Well, yes. For Mamma has had them all hard at it practising in the music-room every morning for the past week,” admitted Hildy. “At least I was spared that, in my invalid state.”

    Cousin Sophia swallowed. “Do you mean she made the girls practise their waltzing, my dear?”

    “Yes; in fact, their dancing in general. And not only the girls,” said Hildy with a twinkle in her eye. “Have you not remarked how Hal has improved to the point where he now only steps on his partner every five seconds, instead of every two?”

    “Really, my dear,” reproved Cousin Sophia faintly, biting her lip.

    “Tom is a little better. His record is five minutes without actual physical damage,” said Hildy with relish.

    Cousin Sophia gave a smothered giggle. “Stop it, you naughty girl!” she squeaked.

    Hildy looked at the little lady with considerable affection. “Very well. But you must admit it was one of Mamma’s more signal triumphs, to make the boys practise.”

    Mrs Goodbody swallowed. “Indeed.”

    “They will, of course, take it out by departing with their gentleman friends to slaughter the wildlife during every daylight hour for the next week,” she noted, “but then, I am sure Mamma expects that.”

    “Yes,” said Cousin Sophia weakly. “It—it is quite a large house-party, is it not?”

    Hildy sighed. “Yes,” she said glumly.

    Mrs Goodbody patted her knee again. “My dear, you know there is no need for you to feel you must— Well, we all just expect you to get plenty of rest and—and recover your old self completely, you know!” She smiled anxiously.

    Hildy could not but be aware that Mrs Maddern would prefer it if she recovered a different self entirely, and not the old one. However, she smiled and murmured: “Mm. Well, fortunately I am not a gentleman, so there will be no need to feel I am missing out on all the fun.”

    “Er—no, my dear,” agreed Cousin Sophia weakly.

    Hal Maddern had just returned Johanna politely to her seat, bowed, and left them.

    “Well?” said Mrs Urqhart without hope.

    “Even dimmer than his brother,” replied Jo drily.

    Mrs Urqhart swallowed a sigh. “Aye, that he be,” she acknowledged fairly.

    “I grant you he is quite good-looking, in a lumpish way,” said Johanna with a twinkle in her clever brown eye. “But looks are not everything, Aunt Betsy!”

    “That’ll do,” she said with a grin. “Where’s me fan?”

    It was attached to her left wrist. Jo detached it gently and began to fan her.

    “Thank you, deary,” she said with a sigh. “Why does these affairs always have to be so blamed hot?”

    “It is the press of bodies, I think, in such a relatively confined space,” murmured Jo pacifically.

    Mrs Urqhart sighed heavily. “None of it has worked out the way I hoped it would!”

    “Um, no,” she agreed cautiously.

    Mrs Urqhart made a face. “I must own I had hopes of you and Timmy, or you and Noël—well, it’s natural, ain’t it?” she said fiercely.

    “Yes, of course it is. I’m sorry, Aunt Betsy.”

     Mrs Urqhart sighed but recognized fairly: “You don’t need to apologize, lovey: if there ain’t no spark there on neither side, wishing won’t make it so.”

    There was a short silence, during which the old lady stared glumly at the dancers without seeing them and Jo merely fanned her.

    Eventually, as Lucas Claveringham and Mrs O’Flynn, the pair of them quite obviously in seventh heaven, whirled by in each other’s arms, Johanna murmured with a little smile: “You must admit that for at least one of your house party it has worked out exactly as you’d planned!”

    “Aye, I’ll grant you that,” she conceded, grinning.

    Jo then looked dubiously at Charles Grey, who was dancing with Susan Dewesbury, and didn’t add anything.

    “That ain’t the one as he fancies,” said Mrs Urqhart instantly.

    “Aunt Betsy, do you not think that—well, that you would be more comfortable, if you just—just—um…” she swallowed.

    “Left ’em to it?” said the old lady with a grin.

    “Well—well, yes. Let Nature take its course, I suppose is what I mean.”

    Mrs Urqhart sniffed, but after a moment admitted: “There ain’t nothing else one can do, when you comes right down to it. Only I ever was one as likes to give Nature a bit of a nudge!”

    Jo knew that. She tried not to sigh.

    “What I is really afraid of,” the old lady admitted suddenly, putting her head rather close to the girl’s: “is that your pa’ll go and do something really silly, like asking that cow to marry him!” She nodded grimly towards Lady Charleson.

    Poor Johanna gulped. “He—he would not, would he? He does not even respect her, Aunt Betsy!”

    “Men is silly enough for anything. Especial,”—she glared at where Hildy was sitting quietly beside Mrs Goodbody—“when their feelings has been disappointed in one direction!”

    “Yes,” said Jo heavily. The old lady took the fan off her and tapped her smartly on the knee with it. She jumped, and gasped.

    “What we has to watch out for now,” said Mrs Urqhart grimly, “is that Ned don’t go off half-cocked and do something silly on the strength of it!”

    “Um—ye-es...” Johanna looked dubiously at Lady Charleson. The waltz had finished, and she was now giggling and protesting as Sir Noël attempted to offer her a glass of champagne. “Papa does not care for vulgar manners,” she murmured.

    “You is too young to understand,” said the old lady grimly, “but to a grown man, there be more to life than just romance! When he fancies a woman to his bed, a man’ll do any blamed silly thing without a-thinkin’ twice about it. Or thinkin’ at all. It ain’t the head as is in question, you see, me dear.”

    “But Hildy’s so—so dainty and—and ladylike and—and intelligent,” said Johanna in bewilderment. “There could scarce be two women more unlike!”

    Mrs Urqhart snorted richly. “You mark my words, the mood your pa is in just lately, he is ripe to do something stupid, given the right encouragement. And Lady C.,” she ended grimly: “is one as knows precisely what the right encouragement is!”

    “Yes,” said Johanna limply as Lady Charleson at last accepted the glass from Noël and he followed her to a sofa with a sort of—of humble expression on his face, thought Johanna numbly, looking at the handsome Sir Noël in bewilderment.

    “Just explain it to yourself like this, my lovey,” said Mrs Urqhart with a sigh, putting a warm, plump hand on her knee: “men is all male dogs under their fine clothes, and that one is a bitch as knows all about it.”

    Jo went very red. After a moment she said: “One cannot compare human beings to... I mean,” she said, swallowing, “we do have higher faculties, Aunt Betsy!”

    Mrs Urqhart perceived the girl was really upset. She bit her lip. “Take me word for it, me dear. And what you and me must do is see your pa stays well away from her!”

    “Yes,” she said faintly.

    Mrs Urqhart eyed Noël and Lady Charleson and reflected that at the moment the woman would make no serious moves in that direction, not while she was waiting for the nabob to come back. Only when it dawned as he wasn’t going to... Hm. Well, there was time yet.

    After much reflexion, Mrs Maddern had eventually issued an invitation to the engagement party to Mr and Mrs Purdue. Mrs Purdue had come, though she was under no illusion that the invitation had been issued with any other purpose than to show her the style in which Ainsley Manor entertained. Prepared though she was to register exactly this, there had so far been little to carp at. True, there had been several footmen in the hall and another pair outside the ballroom, but not sufficient of them to constitute vulgar display. True, the rooms were somewhat overheated, over-lighted and over-decorated with mountains of blooms, which she could only assume must have been bought in, the Manor’s gardens being scarcely yet in a fit state to provide a vaseful, but that was merely what one might have expected of the engagement party of the son of the house. Rather more deserving of note, however, was the fact that Mr Ainsley’s parents had not made it from Spain for his fiançailles. Mrs Maddern claimed that they were expected for the wedding, but— Well, wait and see. As Mr Purdue had assured her that the champagne was excellent, unfortunately there had as yet been little to criticize in the refreshments, either. But she was biding her time until supper should be served. True, there had been a dinner beforehand for the chosen few, but the Purdues had not been of that select band.

    Now she said, à propos of this last point: “Of course, you and your party no doubt dined here, Marquis?”

    “Eh? What, tonight? No,” said Rockingham.

    Mrs Purdue’s brows rose. “Indeed?”

    “Did you?” he asked bluntly.

    Mrs Purdue was more than equal to this “No, indeed: we are not close friends of the family!” she said archly.

    “Nor am I,” replied the Marquis simply.

    “Indeed?” purred Mrs Purdue, closing in for the kill. “But—forgive me—I had understood from Mrs Maddern that there was a family connection?”

    “Yes. There is. Distant cousins. –Excuse me,” he added before she could recover.

    Mrs Purdue glared at his retreating back. She had ever maintained that great position did not justify a man’s behaving like a hobbledehoy in company!

    “May I have the honour?” said Major Grey with a smile.

    Muzzie went very, very pink.

    “Run along, little puss,” said her mother tolerantly, not unaware that if Millicent was dancing she herself would be free.

    “Thank you, Major,” said Muzzie in a tiny voice.

     Smiling, Major Grey held out his hand. Muzzie put a trembling paw into it, but did not dare to look up into his face as he led her onto the dance floor.

    It was another waltz, but Lady Charleson, in her eagerness to rejoin Sir Noël, had overlooked this point. Mrs Purdue, however, most certainly had not, and her eyes rested on Muzzie with considerable significance. She nodded grimly at Mrs Stalling. The Vicar’s wife bit her lip.

    After completing a circle of the floor, during which time the Major addressed three unexceptionable remarks to Miss Charleson to which she replied in squeaky monosyllables, not looking up at him at all, Charles Grey said with a tiny laugh in his voice: “Do you not find this party very flat, Miss Charleson?”

    “Oh, no!” gasped Muzzie, looking up at him in sheer astonishment. “It’s wonderful!”

    He smiled a little, and held her a mite more firmly, not aware he was doing so, and said: “You will have to learn to get over that attitude for London, you know. Extreme boredom with everything is the fashionable débutante’s stance!”

    “Is it?” said Muzzie blankly.

    “Aye. They don’t appear to notice that it ain’t particularly flattering to a fellow to be told the party’s dashed flat while he’s actually dancing with ’em!” he said with a grin.

     Muzzie gave an explosive giggle.

    “Silly, isn’t it?” he said, twinkling at her.

    “Oh! Very!” she squeaked.

    “Aye.”

     After a moment Muzzie ventured in a timid voice: “Perhaps those young ladies are—are only shy, sir.”

    “One or two of ’em, possibly. Most strike me as hard as nails.”

    “Oh,” she said faintly.

    “Don’t you get like that, will you?” he said, twinkling.

    Muzzie swallowed. “No. I—I think you are exaggerating, sir,” she said uncertainly, peeping at him through her lashes.

    Charles Grey reflected it would be a damned pity if she ever latched on to exactly how fetching that little gesture was. Which, should she spend much more of her life in the company of her damned mother, he reflected irritably, she no doubt would do, very soon. “Only a little,” he replied. “Town life is pretty d— pretty boring, and so are the débutantes who feign to find it so.”

    “I—I do like the country and—and my darling horses,” said Muzzie in a tiny voice, “only I do think the balls and parties in London sound very exciting.”

    “Mm. Well,” he said with a little sigh of which he was unconscious, “you’re very young, yet.”

    “Yes,” said Muzzie miserably in a tiny, squashed voice, staring hard at his shirt-front.

    The Major didn’t notice her reaction: he had gone into a reverie. They circled the floor again.

    Finally he said: “I suppose I shall be in London for at least part of the Season, next year. –My youngest sister is not yet out, and the others are married,” he added. “But Mamma has lately expressed a wish to visit the metropolis. I think Papa would not be averse to my accompanying her—he does not himself care for town life, y’know.”

    “I see,” said Muzzie, peeping up at him with dawning hope.

    “My oldest sister is settled in town. I think it very probable that Mamma would wish to stay with her for at least some part of the Season.”

    “Yes—I see.”

    The Major frowned over her head unseeingly at the throng. Finally he said: “Perhaps your mother and your Aunt Faith would permit Mamma and me to call?”

    “They would be very glad of it, sir!” gasped Muzzie, turning puce.

    “Yes,” he said in a vague voice. “Good.”

    Muzzie’s heart beat painfully hard. She peeped up at him doubtfully, but he didn’t say anything more. Muzzie didn’t know at all what to make of it: he was not behaving in the least how she had thought a—a gentleman might, in such—such circumstances! So perhaps he didn’t mean... But then, why had he said it at all? Was he merely being kind to a little girl? She couldn’t understand it. Nevertheless her heart continued to beat very hard indeed for the rest of the dance.

    Charles Grey’s heartbeat had also quickened. He didn’t say anything further: it was far too soon, and Muzzie was far too young—and he shuddered to think how Mamma would react to her dreadful mother! Only—well, her very youth was a virtue: she had not yet had the time to pick up the worst of her mother’s tricks, and—well, at least she was young enough to be malleable, and—and to learn to fit in with their ways at home! And it was only natural that she should want a little excitement, a few parties and dances, of course! Any girl would. ...They could always come up to London for the Season and stay with his sister: her husband was a damn’ good fellow—

    The Major’s handsome cheeks reddened a little as he realized his thoughts had raced far ahead of him and had been dwelling on matters such as: London would not do when she was increasing; and: possibly hire a house when Mary Anne was old enough for her come-out, Mamma would be only too happy to have a daughter-in-law take that burden off her shoulders; and: the family home was big enough but the dower house, not at present in use, would be easier for a young family, especially with its delightful big, sunny upstairs room that would be an ideal nursery—

    Well, at least the fen country was a decent distance from Dittersford, her damned mother wouldn’t be able to visit too often! he thought with a wry grimace.

    “What is it?” she said timidly as the dance came to an end.

    “Mm? Oh—nothing, Miss Charleson, just thinking... I shall spend Christmas with my family, you know.”

    “Yes, of course,” replied Muzzie, looking at him doubtfully.

    “Though Mrs Urqhart has very kindly invited me back, should I care to... I believe there is excellent duck shooting hereabouts?”

    She nodded. “Yes. And it is not bad country for hunting. Eric says the Upper Daynesfold hunt is better than our local one.”

    “Yes, he has mentioned it.” He gave her his arm. Muzzie, blushing, took it timidly, and they walked off the floor.

    There the Major discovered that her damned mother had disappeared!

    Muzzie looked up at him helplessly.

    Aye, thought Charles Grey angrily, the sooner she is out from under that woman’s influence, the better!

    The ballroom was really vastly overheated. So much so that Lady Charleson had allowed Sir Noël to lead her onto the balcony—though she made sure she brought her shawl with her. She affected not to notice the care with which he adjusted the long drapes and then closed the French doors after them.

    “The fresh air is refreshing, is it not?” he said, drawing a deep breath.

    “Indeed. Though I fancy one can already smell the chill of autumn in the air.”

    He immediately agreed there was a chill in the air and came to stand very close beside her, murmuring as he adjusted her shawl: “Let me warm you a little.”

    “Sir Noël! “ gasped Lady Charleson as his arm then crept round her shoulders.

    She did not, however, pull away. Noël knew it was damned brass-faced of him, but he’d had an idea she wouldn’t be altogether averse to it. He was very aroused, even though he did realise she was what Luís Ainsley had described to him with feeling as an “hysterical clinger”, and that giving her this sort of encouragement when he didn’t mean anything serious by it was a damned stupid move. He pressed his face slowly into her neck, on the side where a bunch of pale yellow curls escaped entrancingly from a band of palest grey chiffon—she was again in the artful gown that had so incensed the older female members of the company on another occasion—and gently took the lobe of her ear in his mouth.

    Evangeline Charleson was conscious of a hope that he would not swallow her diamond drop, the earrings were quite fine and had been a tenth-anniversary present from the sufficiently besotted Sir William. At the same time a surge of heat filled her veins and she trembled, ever so slightly.

    After a moment Noël released the ear and breathed into her neck: “Darling.”

    “You should not,” she said, very faintly.

    “No,” he agreed, breathing heavily into her neck. The hand that was round her shoulders slid down to her waist and commenced to turn her firmly towards him.

    With a very slight show of reluctance, Evangeline let herself be turned firmly towards Sir Noël Amory, let herself be plastered to his front—with a little uncontrollable shudder of desire, as he pressed himself against her belly—and let Sir Noël kiss her…

    “By God!” said Noël in shaken tones, drawing breath at last.

    Evangeline swallowed. “Dearest boy, you must not,” she said in a very high voice.

    “No; I—” He bit his lip and turned away. “Forgive me,” he said in a stifled voice.

    Forgive him? She felt like hurling herself into his arms, begging him to take her away and, frankly, take her. Her knees trembled; she said hoarsely: “Of course I forgive you. We must just—just pretend it did not happen. I think we have both had a little too much champagne!” She gave a nervous laugh.

    Noël swallowed and turned round. “Indeed,” he agreed with an effort. “Doubtless supper will be served before long: I think we had best go back and counter the effects of the champagne with some food, do not you?” He held out his arm.

    “Yes,” said Evangeline with difficulty. She took his arm, and accompanied him back into the ballroom with every appearance of composure.

    Noël himself was thoroughly shaken. He couldn’t help wondering how stirred the damned woman had been, after all. She seemed as cool as a cucumber, now, Goddammit! He found her son and handed her over to him, bowing gracefully and withdrawing, aware that he should not make her too particular, and unaware that it was too late for that: Mrs Purdue had of course noticed their exit.

    … Curse the woman, did she want it, or— Just leading him on, he concluded glumly. The type that wouldn’t let you over the last fence unless the ring was actually on her finger, he’d been right about that! Damn her!

    “You have a choice,” said Paul into his sister’s ear: “accept the Marquis’s arm into supper, or be forced into accompanying Mr Prudence Knowles.”

    “Blackmailer,” replied Gaetana bitterly.

    Paul grinned.

    “You need not fancy you will get away with it: sooner than accompany Prue—or Prim, or Prissy,” she added hurriedly: “I would declare myself to have come down with the headache and retire from the room!”

    “From the lists,” corrected Paul thoughtfully.

    Gaetana grimaced. “It is exactly like that.”

    “Of course,” he said tranquilly. “Come along, which is it to be?”

    “He has his party to escort,” she said, scowling.

    “Rubbish, querida : Luís has taken in Carolyn and Anna, the both of them aux anges, not appearing to mind that they form two strings to his bow, and Miss Dewesbury and Lady Dezzie have just gone in with Mrs Parkinson and her son, did you not remark it?”

    “No,” said Gaetana weakly, swallowing.

    Paul got very close and hissed: “Is it not fascinating? Will Miss Dewesbury supplant Hildy in Holy Hilary’s affections, do you think?”

    “Stop it!” she said crossly. “It is terrible: just like a—a cattle market!”

    “I thought we were agreed, au contraire, that is it the lists, and you ladies merely gages?”

    Glaring, Gaetana said:  “I shall go off to bed with the headache!”

    “You will miss out on the lobster patties, and on Berthe’s salmis de volaille aux amandes,” he returned tranquilly. “Not to say on those exquisite sugary things that Bunch persists in referring to as ‘bouffes d’abricots’!”

    Gaetana made a face at him.

    “Well?” he said.

    Swallowing, she said: “You know I do not wish to, Paul; why are you being so cruel?”

    Paul hesitated; then he said: “Dear little kitten, I think it is you who are being cruel to the Marquis: I have seldom seen a man look so truly unhappy.”

    “And you imagine that taking the daughter of a spy in to supper will gladden his heart?” his little sister snarled.

    Paul’s jaw dropped. “Surely that is not what—”

    But Gaetana, eyes suffused with tears, had run out of the room.

    Lord Lucas had taken Mrs O’Flynn—this evening in white silk with lilac ribbons—into supper. Neither of them noticed what they ate or drank: they looked into each other’s eyes and smiled a lot. Lucas told her all about Uncle Henry Kenworthy’s plans for the estate. Shyly Dorothea responded with some facts she had gleaned from Uncle O’Flynn about his estates in Ireland. He was most interested, and promised to have a talk with Mr O’Flynn on the matter; Dorothea beamed. Then Lord Lucas encouraged her to talk about little Catherine. After that somehow they diverged onto mutual tastes, and reminiscences of their childhoods...

    Mrs Maddern, having ascertained that Hildy had seemed a little tired but had been quite cheerful at the point a little earlier on which she had retired to bed, and having verified her supposition that dratted Sir Julian had only spoken to her the once all evening, had sighed a little but consented to Cousin Sophia’s suggestion that they take a little supper. Now she said, smiling as she followed the direction of her cousin’s gaze towards the besotted pair: “Yes, indeed! And the best thing of it is, that we know all about his family, and Mrs Urqhart has assured dear Wilhelmina that there could not be a gentler, or more—well, my dear, more innocent young man,” she said, lowering her voice with a conscious little laugh, “under the sun!”

    Mrs Goodbody replied timidly—for the hearty, broad-shouldered Lord Lucas was very unlike the late Mr Goodbody: “Really, Patty? But he—he is a soldier, and—and…”

    Mrs Maddern gave her a superior little smile. “But a mere boy at heart. No, my dear, I am quite, quite sure that Mrs Urqhart could not be mistaken in such a matter!” she said, very low and very significant, but smiling.

    Cousin Sophia blushed. “No.”

    Not for the first time, Patty Ainsley Maddern was conscious of a wild surmise as to what on earth Sophia’s and Mr Goodbody’s intimate life must have— Yes, well, it had been no-one’s business but their own, after all!

    “And his Uncle Henry Kenworthy is a wholly admirable gentleman,” she added on a complacent note.

    “Oh, indeed! My dearest Mr Goodbody was a little acquainted with him, you know, my dear, and—”

    Tolerantly Mrs Maddern let her rattle on. Though she would not have wagered a groat that Goodbody would have been able to tell the difference between a wholly admirable gentleman and—and a rogue that deserved hanging at Newgate! No, well, that was a trifle too strong, but…

    Her eye wandered round the room. Good, dear Paul and Christabel had taken care of Amabel and were supping with her and Mr and Mrs Stalling, and little Linny—but what on earth had persuaded Paul to let that tiresome Mr O’Flynn join them? Really, the boy was too soft-hearted!

    Mrs Maddern could have become quite seriously annoyed over this, but at that moment Eric Charleson walked by Paul’s table with a plate in his hand, looking a little lost, and Paul immediately invited him warmly to join them and he sat down by Linny Stalling! Who was not even properly out! Surely Paul knew that his aunt had distinct hopes there for Marybelle? Why, next year she would be seventeen—and it would be so suitable, the Willow Court lands practically adjoined those of the Manor, and so she would have her sister for neighbour... And if not Marybelle, then he most certainly would be ideal for Maria! Tiresome boy! Yes, he was too soft-hearted, she would speak to him on the morrow without fail...

    “I’ve had enough of this,” said the Marquis sourly to his closest friend.

    “Aye, you are not alone in that,” agreed Julian grimly. “But I suppose we cannot leave yet: the girls seem to be enjoying themselves. And it would not do to be the first to leave.”

    “No,” agreed the Marquis sourly.

    There was a short pause.

    “Dear old boy, could you not have made a push to engage Miss Hildy’s interest? She was alone most of the time she was downstairs,” said Rockingham weakly.

    “Ho, so it is ‘Miss’ Hildy now, is it?” returned Julian fiercely.

    Rockingham goggled at him.

    “I did not make a push to engage her interest, as you so affectingly put it, Giles,” said Julian through his teeth, “because she has made it very plain she cares not the snap of her fingers for me!”

    Rockingham swallowed. “I would not put it so strong as that, old fellow.”

    Julian snorted.

    “Look, just come in here for a minute,” said Rockingham, drawing him aside into a little alcove.

    “I don’t feel like piquet, if that’s what you—”

    “Not cards, you fool!” cried his closest friend angrily.

    “Well, what? Look, if you mean to go on about Miss Hildegarde, you can just keep your nose out of it!” he said bitterly.

    “Um—yes.” Rockingham licked his lips nervously. Julian observed this gesture in some astonishment.

    Finally the Marquis said on an uneasy note: “Look, Julian, I did it for the best. I’m afraid I—” He broke off.

    “Did what?” demanded Julian, staring at him.

    “Uh—well, last Season, when they first came to London, I—er...” His voice trailed off. “I suppose I more or less asked Miss Ainsley to warn her cousin off,” he admitted glumly.

    There was a short silence.

    “Off me?” said Julian numbly.

    “Yes. Look, all we knew of her was that she was a bluestocking with a head stuffed full of Greek and Latin, and—and portionless into the bargain— No, I know that would not have weighed, but— Look, all I said was that she had better know that you might take it badly if she was to encourage you where she could not care for you!” he said loudly and desperately.

    There was a long silence in the little alcove with its card table and hard chairs. Julian picked up one of the packs that lay on the table and shuffled it mechanically.

    Finally he said in a nasty voice: “This could possibly go some way towards explaining why she’s been blowing hot and cold all year.”

    “I’m damned sorry, Julian,” said Rockingham uncomfortably. “But I thought—” He bit his lip. “I suppose I thought,” he said in a low voice, “that if you truly cared for the girl and she for you, nothing an outsider could say or do would have any influence.”

    “Dammit, I’ve never even been sure if she LIKES me!” shouted Julian.

    “Hush. –No.”

    Julian took a deep breath. “I know I owe you a lot, Giles—”

    “No,” he said uncomfortably.

    “Yes,” said Julian grimly. “I shall never be able to repay you for what you did for me after Tabitha’s death. But that does not justify this sort of unwarrantable interference in my private affairs!”

    “No. Sorry,” he said bleakly.

    Julian was now very white. Suddenly he turned on his heel and strode out.

    “Hell,” said the Marquis, sinking limply onto a hard chair. After some time he said sourly to the card table: “Well, at least I’ve told him.”

    Not surprizingly, the card table did not respond. However, after a little Rockingham said to it: “Aye, you are right. Cold comfort.”

    Paul lit a candle for his fiancée, smiling. “Did you enjoy the evening, mi querida?”

    Since there was no-one but themselves in the hall at the moment, Christabel responded frankly: “As much as one can, I suppose.”

    Paul’s slender shoulders shook.

    “I really had no idea,” she admitted weakly, “though of course we—we were in some sort bystanders when the oldest Miss Overton became engaged, that—that it entailed so much fuss.”

    “Never mind, my dearest one, once we are actually married it will be so much better!”

    “I sincerely hope so,” replied Christabel on a grim note.

    “Do not worry, I shall staunchly withstand every hint of your mamma’s that we should launch the younger girls into Society!” said Paul with a naughty twinkle in his eye.

    Christabel swallowed. “I must say I trust you will, my dear; I do not think I...”

    Paul bit his lip and said in a low voice: “I know I am expecting too much of you in any case, asking you to—to take over Harry’s brats—”

    “No! My dear!” she cried.

    “No, well,” he said uncertainly, “in any case Maria is but sixteen, and I would not wish to see her make her come-out until she is turned eighteen. Pushing very young girls into Society seems to me both”—he hesitated, and lowered his voice—“unkind and indecent,” he finished.

    “Yes,” agreed Christabel on a weak note, trying not to count how many years that gave them.

    “Of course, quite possibly,” he said in an affable tone—his fiancée eyed him warily—“by that time Luís’s wife will be only too eager to launch her sister-in-law, and we shall not have to bother.” He paused. “Whether the senior wife or the junior, it is immaterial,” he added airily.

    “Paul!” she hissed.

    Paul’s shoulders shook helplessly. “I never saw—a fellow,” he gasped, “more cut out to have—a hareem of ’em!”

    “That is not funny,” said Christabel without conviction.

    “Of course—it is!” he choked. “Did you see him tonight, my dear? At one point he had four of them!”

    Miss Maddern had been standing by to repel any hint of two strings to his bow, etcetera, but— “Four?” she said limply.

    “Aye, four,” said Paul, putting down Christabel’s candlestick and wiping his eyes. “Marinela’s claim that there is no Moorish ancestry in her family is a false one, I fear. –Querida, the Musselmen are permitted four wives!” he explained with a chuckle.

    “Oh,” said Christabel limply. “I see. “Um—well, I suppose, Carolyn and Anna and—and Muzzie Charleson?” Paul nodded. “Who was the fourth, then, my dear?” she asked limply.

    Shaking, he said: “It was little Linnaea Stalling, of course! Fated to be most junior wife, clearly, but I dare swear he will bestow his—”

    “Paul Ainsley!” she cried, shocked.

    “Ssh, you will wake those of the household who have already retired.”

    “You are being vulgar,” said Miss Maddern, biting her lip.

    “Sí,” he agreed mildly. He took her in his arms, very gently, and kissed her. Christabel suddenly shuddered, and clung to him. “Sí,” agreed Paul, evincing no surprize.

    “At times, such a very odd feeling comes over me,” she admitted faintly into his shoulder.

    Paul closed his eyes and pressed himself to her, now holding her very tightly indeed. “That is good, otherwise the line might die out. I would not care to leave the entire responsibility to Luís—”

    “Stop it!” she cried, very red, wrenching herself away.

    “That is what the matter is,” he said. “It is also, very largely, why you have been so edgy these past several days.”

    “Nonsense,” said Christabel in a low voice, swallowing. “It is the—the fuss and—and so forth.”

    “Rubbish.”

    “Stop it, Paul!” she said crossly. “You are talking nonsense.”

    “No,” he said, looking at her steadily,

    Christabel’s eyes wavered and fell.

    “I swear to you, if we have still not heard definitely by Christmas when Harry and Marinela are coming, we are getting married anyway,” he said grimly.

    At that Miss Maddern looked up and said in a very weak voice: “Really?”

    “Really,” said Paul grimly.

    She swallowed but said: “And if I say ‘no’, sir?”

    “I shall not give you the chance to say no.” He put a hand under her chin. “Look me in the eyes and tell me that you would really refuse because of some damned prescription of the social proprieties.”

    Christabel looked him in the eyes and said vaguely: “Do you not mean ‘proscription’?”

    Trembling, Paul put his mouth on hers. After some moments she flung an arm round his neck.

    Finally he sighed, released her, and said: “This living in the same house is not such a good idea as I had thought it was.”

    Miss Maddern swallowed loudly.

    “Go up to bed, my angel,” he said with a sigh, firmly handing her the candle. “But do not walk too fast,” he added with a little smile.

    “No,” said Christabel obediently. She paused. “Why not?” she asked feebly.

    “You will be immeasurably shocked, should I tell you,” he murmured, looking at her with a mocking little glint in his eye.

    “Very well, do not tell me!”

    He gave a tiny laugh, took the candlestick off her, set it down, put his arms about her again and said into her ear: “I wish you to walk slowly so as to prolong the pleasurable sensations which fill me as your delightful posterior sways from side to side as you mount the stairs, mi querida. –There, are you shocked?”

    Miss Maddern was silent, nervously licking her lips.

    “Well?” he said.

    “This is a joke, is it not?”

    “Not actually, no,” said Paul on a dry note.

    “Oh, dear,” said Miss Maddern, very weakly indeed.

     Paul immediately kissed her again.

    After a very long time she pulled back gently and looked at him in a stunned way.

    “Go on up, mi querida,” he said unsteadily.

    “Yes,” said Miss Maddern in a little girl’s voice. “Goodnight, Paul.”

    “Goodnight; my darling.”

    She was halfway up the flight before he was himself again sufficiently to say: “Slow down!”

    Miss Maddern could not have been herself at all, for, though she did not look round, she did slow down. The posterior, which was not particularly small, and therefore precisely as Paul liked them, duly swayed. He had much ado not to rush up the stairs and bury his face in it forthwith. But that truly would have shocked her!

    He watched her disappear and, smiling, went slowly back into the drawing-room and awarded himself a hefty Cognac. One way or another, he felt he deserved it.

    ... But, he reflected on a grim note, strolling over to the window to look out at the dark gardens, he had meant what he’d said to her: if Harry and Marinela didn’t indicate pretty soon whether the suggested date of the wedding would suit them, he damned well would marry her out of hand!

    Lady Charleson slept late the next morning. This was quite usual after an evening party and although Muzzle woke much earlier she did not approach her mother’s bedroom until past noon. When she did go in, to her surprize she found her mamma sitting up, swathed becomingly in a lacy blue silk wrapper to match the blue bow in her lacy cap, drinking tea.

    “Good morning, dearest Mamma,” she said weakly. “So you are awake?”

    “Mm? Yes,” replied her mother in a vague voice.

    Muzzie swallowed. “Did you sleep well, Mamma?” she faltered.

    Lady Charleson frowned suddenly, and her gaze focussed on her daughter. “Never mind that, Millicent, just come and sit by me: I wish to talk to you.”

    Looking rather bewildered, Muzzie drew up a little chair to her mother’s bedside, looking at her expectantly.

     “What do you think of Miss Jubb?” Lady Charleson asked.

    “She—she is very clever, I think,” she faltered.

    “No doubt,” replied her mother on a dry note. “Do you like her, Millicent, is what I would wish you to indicate!”

    “Um—yes, of course I like her, but I hardly know her, Mamma,” said Muzzie in bewilderment.

    “Yes,” said Lady Charleson thoughtfully, staring into space.

    Muzzie looked at her doubtfully, but did not speak.

    Finally her mamma said: “Has Miss Jubb ever spoken to you of her papa’s circumstances, Muzzie?”

    “No-o... I know he is very rich,” she said, pinkening, and fearing it was not a ladylike turn of phrase.

    “Not that!” said Lady Charleson impatiently. “His—his private circumstances!”

    Muzzie, very puzzled, endeavoured to think. “He has a house in Green Street, ickle p’etty Mamma,” she said at last in a small voice, “and Susan Dewesbury says that that is an extremely fashionable address.”

   Lady Charleson’s gaze sharpened. “Miss Dewesbury told you that? Not one of those tiresome Maddern girls?”

    “N-no, Mamma,” she faltered. “I believe Miss Dewesbury has relatives in—in the street.”

    Lady Charleson set her cup down with a little clink. “Yes. Well, he had told me it was Green Street, and I am aware that it is a fashionable...” Her voice trailed off.

    Muzzie was now looking quite bewildered.

    “Miss Jubb is set to stay with Mrs Urqhart for some time, I think?” was her mother’s next remark.

    “I—I believe... Well, for some weeks, I think. I did ask her whether Mrs Urqhart might bring her out, for you know she has only an aunt in Scotland on her late mamma’s side, who is not well, but she said Mrs Urqhart does not care for town,” she ventured.

    Lady Charleson’s gaze was now distinctly sharp. “Who will bring her out, then?”

    Muzzie went very pink.

    “Well?” demanded her mother, staring.

    “I think I have got it wrong, Mamma!” she gasped. “But she said that her papa would find a—a Society lady who—who did that sort of thing for—for remuneration, Mamma!”

    “As I had thought,” said Lady Charleson with some satisfaction.

    “But Society ladies do not do that, do they?” gasped Muzzie in horror.

    “Of course they do!” said her mother impatiently.

    Muzzie stared,

    Lady Charleson swallowed a sigh. “Little goose,” she said, patting her hand: “ladies of gentle birth who perhaps have had the misfortune to find themselves widowed with insufficient funds, are known to do that sort of thing. Well, it launches the girls; it—er—it satisfies a need on both sides, I suppose.”

    “Yes,” said Muzzie in a tiny voice, tears springing to her eyes.

    “What on earth is it?” said her mother, now staring in her turn.

    “Mamma, did I—did I do something wrong?” faltered Muzzie. “Did I—did I dance too many dances with—with a gentleman? Mr Luís Ainsley would ask me, and no-one else was asking me—”

    “Millicent, what is this rubbish?” said her mother tiredly.

    Muzzie gulped. “You—you have not changed your mind about sending me to Aunt Faith, dearest p’etty Mamma, have you?”

    “What? No, of course not! ...Well, not entirely,” she murmured

    “Mamma, I will do anything you say, only please do not send me to a strange Society lady who launches young ladies for remuneration!” gasped Muzzie.

    “What? Oh, great Heavens, child!” She looked at her drily. “I had no notion of any such thing. Where do you imagine the remuneration would come from, for a start?”

     Muzzie swallowed. “I know not.”

    “Nor I,” said Lady Charleson on a sour note. “No, I was wondering... Well, your Aunt Faith is most excessively good-natured, you know, my dear,”—Muzzie looked at her in bewilderment, but nodded obediently: although it was, indeed, excessively good-natured of Aunt Faith to offer to bring her out, Mamma had been known in the past to pass other, less felicitous remarks upon her sister’s character—“but well, with the two of us... It is only an idea at the moment, my dear,” she said with an airy laugh, “but would you not prefer to make your come-out with—well, with a sister, as it were?”

    “A—a sister?” said Muzzie, going bright red and involuntarily thinking of Mary Anne Grey.

    “Well, something of that sort!” said Lady Charleson with a little laugh. “A girl of your own age, who would be company for you!”

    “Yes, of course, that would be of all things— Not Miss Jubb?” she gasped in horror.

    “You just said you liked her!” replied her mother crossly.

    “Yes, buh-but Mamma, she is too clever and—and she reads hard books and half the things she says, I don’t understand!” wailed Muzzie. “And I am sure she thinks I am frivolous!”

    “Rubbish, Millicent, pray guard your tongue,” said her mamma, frowning. “That was a most unladylike speech.”

    “I’m sorry, Mamma,” said Muzzie glumly.

    “I think it would the very thing,” said Lady Charleson in a determined voice. Truth to say, she had not questioned Muzzie on her attitude to Miss Jubb because she was concerned as to her feelings in the matter, but more in order to air her scheme and test its probability, as it were. “Your Aunt Faith’s house is large enough, it would mean companionship for you—and certainly it would give Miss Jubb the advantage of being launched under they aegis of a respectable family!” she ended on a slightly acid note.

    “Ye-es... Oh,” said Muzzie, going very red. “I see.” She looked at her mother timidly. “You wish to become one of those Society ladies who—who—launch girls for a remuneration, Mamma?”

    “Pray do not be so indelicate, Millicent! Such an idea was never in my head! No, on the contrary: I wish to rescue poor Miss Jubb from such a fate. It will be greatly to her benefit to be launched from your aunt’s house, you know!”

    “Yes, but Aunt Faith’s house is not at such a fashionable address as Green Street,” objected Muzzie.

    Lady Charleson heaved a heavy sigh. “Sometimes I truly wonder, Millicent, where you can have inherited your brains from; indeed, I wonder that you can be my daughter at all!”

    “Mamma!” cried Muzzie, eyes filling with tears.

    “I wish to do Sir Edward the favour of launching his daughter respectably, Millicent, and the precise location of his town house is not in question!” snapped Lady Charleson.

    “No,” agreed Muzzie, gulping. “I see. It was stupid of me.”

    Lady Charleson was all the more annoyed because she had conceived certain designs for that house in Green Street. Moving herself, her daughter, sister, and at need her brother-in-law and his entire family into it for the Season was certainly one scenario.

    “Yes, well, never mind,” she said, sighing. “But do you not think it is an excellent plan?”

    Muzzie could not see why her Mamma should wish to do Sir Edward Jubb, whom she scarcely knew, any sort of favour; and she herself was in considerable awe of Johanna and could not see that a Season spent in her company would be comfortable for either of them. But she did have the sense to say obediently: “Yes, Mamma. How clever you are, ickle p’etty Mamma.”

    Lady Charleson smiled slightly: she was aware that her daughter meant nothing more by this than a mild, propitiatory compliment. “Thank you, my dear. Now, if you will run and get my writing-case, I shall pen a little note to Sir Edward immediately.”

    “Ye-es... Will you not need his exact direction, though?”

    As a matter of fact Evangeline had overlooked that small matter in her plotting. “Er—true. Well, we must send over to The Towers immediately to invite Miss Jubb to luncheon.”

    “Mamma, it is already past noon,” she faltered.

    “Oh. Very well, then, we shall call this afternoon. –And Millicent,” she said grimly: “do not breathe a word of what I have said while we are at The Towers. I wish it to be a surprize.”

    “Yes, Mamma.”

    “Well? Run along!”

    Muzzie got up slowly.

    “What is it?” said her mother on a cross note.

    “Nothing. –Mamma, should you mind if Major Grey and his mamma paid us a call next year when we are in London?” she burst out.

    Lady Charleson’s jaw sagged but she made a quick recover. “Did he mention this to you last night, little puss?”

    Bright puce, Muzzie stood first on one foot then the other. Her mother regarded this trick in considerable irritation. “Yes, he—he said they might, Mamma. I mean, he said might they?” she gasped.

    “We shall be very pleased to receive them,” said Lady Charleson, beginning to smile like the cat that had been at the cream. True, it would not entirely suit her plans to figure as the mamma-in-law of a man of turned thirty, but then was his home not in the fens somewhere? Sufficiently far from London, at all events! The happy picture of being able to more or less forget she had a grown daughter—certainly to the extent of presenting herself publicly as a much younger and unencumbered woman—began to form in her mind.

    “Good; I said that!” gasped Muzzie.

    “Clever little puss, I had no idea,” purred Lady Charleson.

    Muzzie smiled uncertainly.

    “Is that all he said, my love?” she murmured in a caressing tone.

    “Yes—um—he was rather strange, Mamma!”

    “Mm.” Lady Charleson tried to think back to that memorable evening of the faro at The Towers, when she had worn the lace overdress with the lilac silk: Millicent had sat with Major Grey for some time, but as she had not been paying attention... Never mind, she would observe him most narrowly when they called at The Towers this afternoon and encourage him to ride over to Willow Court whenever he pleased! In fact she might invite all the company to a little dinner... This notion conflicted somewhat with the course of action she had decided on, but she smoothed away a tiny frown with a careful forefinger and said: “Gentlemen who are beginning to experience the tender passion frequently appear a little strange, especially just at first, when one is not used to the phenomenon, my little puss.”

    “Ye-es...” said Muzzie dubiously.

    Reflecting that she had better find out rather more about Major Grey’s antecedents than that the family lived in the fens somewhere, Lady Charleson said happily: “Now, run along and fetch that writing-case, my little puss! And when I have writ my note, we must decide how to dress you for this afternoon, must we not!”

    “Yes, Mamma,” said Muzzie, now very pink and smiling. She went to the door and opened it.

    “Dearest, does Major Grey intend to sell out?” said Lady Charleson suddenly.

    Muzzie went pinker than ever and gasped: “Yes! I mean, I do not know it of my own knowledge, Mamma, but Miss Amabel said he had told her that he does!”

    This was rather a pity, in that following the drum with a soldier-husband would have got Millicent well and truly out of the way. Nevertheless, for she was not an entirely unnatural mother, Evangeline would not really have wished that fate upon her little daughter, so she smiled and said: “Well, I am rather glad to hear it, I do not think the life of a serving officer’s wife would suit my little puss! Now, quick, quick!” She clapped her hands and gave a tinkle of girlish, silvery laughter.

    Muzzie disappeared precipitately. Hand-clapping and tinkles of laughter had been known in the past to have been followed by tantrums and hysterics, if Mamma was not immediately obeyed.

    Evangeline sank back against her pillows very thoughtful indeed. Well! It was all working out splendidly—better, indeed, than she had hoped. In fact, if only the Major could be made to pop the question before next Season— Well, no, perhaps that would not do, for she would then have little excuse for offering to present Miss Jubb. No, stay: loneliness once her chick had left the nest! That would do very well! In fact, if her chick had flown, then possibly some of her plans might be revised and— Well, it was fairly obvious that Noël Amory would scarce wish to figure as the step-papa of a girl of eighteen. But...

    Evangeline, it will now be evident, had spent the morning reflecting deeply. During these reflexions she had come to the reluctant but very firm conclusion that it would not do to see any more of Sir Noël. For it was fairly clear that he did not have matrimony in mind. There was her reputation to think of. And quite apart from that, if it came to the nabob’s ears that she had been encouraging a much younger man behind his back... No, it would not do.

    She had, in short, determined upon a very definite course of action. The offer to launch Sir Edward’s daughter would be the first stage in it. She had little doubt that the offer would be accepted: after all, he was a mere tradesman, in spite of his wealth: he could not but accept gratefully the offer of the chatelaine of Willow Court to take his daughter under her wing! And in the unlikely event that he should refuse the offer, she would still encourage Muzzle to further her acquaintance with Miss Jubb, and of course they would call on her when they were in London, and… It would not be impossible.

    But in this scenario Sir Noël Amory very definitely had no part.

    On the whole, Evangeline thought now, frowning, it would be better to cut him out of her life entirely: he was too attractive, and— Well. But if Muzzie were to be off her hands… While she stayed in the neighbourhood there was no hope of passing herself off as younger than she was: Mrs Purdue, to name but one, would immediately scotch anything of that sort. But certainly in London, unencumbered by a grown daughter, she could give the appearance—and indeed, she did have the appearance!—of a much younger woman. One whom Sir Noël Amory need not hesitate to claim within the respectable bonds of matrimony!

    Her eye brightened, she sat up very straight, and said aloud to her pretty bedroom: “Yes! It shall be one or the other of them, and—and I do not care which!”

    Although he had been up pretty late, Paul woke fairly early the morning after the engagement party. He went over to his window, which overlooked the rose gardens, or what would be the rose gardens next year, now that Mrs Maddern and Harry Higgs had sorted them out, and looked out over them and down to the fishponds and the lower gardens, smoking a cigar.

    When Francisco came in he was quite disconcerted to find his master already up. No-one was awake yet: only the children, he said to Paul’s enquiry. Paul replied that that was good. He then gave him a searching look and asked whether Francisco was settling in, in England. Francisco replied in some dismay that he was, and his master was not thinking of— No, Paul was not thinking of removing, what a silly notion! And he clapped him hard on the shoulder. Whereupon Francisco burst into tears and revealed that there was a little maiden in one of the cottages and although she was but fifteen, her parents were willing, if Señor Paul—? And she was a good girl! Gulping somewhat at the notion of a girl of fifteen united to the monkey-faced, wizened little fellow, Paul nonetheless patted his back, and said, Of course, if that was what they both truly desired? They did, and Francisco embraced Paul fervently on both cheeks and, the tears drying up, assured his master he would be married before Señor Paul was! Adding hurriedly, if Señor Paul permitted. Paul looked slyly and murmured that the waiting was hard, was it not, whereat Francisco agreed fervently and the conversation became rather less proper than possibly either Miss Maddern or the fifteen-year-old Polly Higgs would have desired.

    When he was dressed Paul went downstairs, whistling softly. He breakfasted in the kind company of Bungo and Marybelle, the latter reporting that Maria and Floss were still asleep and the former that Bunch had disappeared and Miss Morton had the migraine, and then settled a considerable amount of business, not all of which was to do with the estate.

    One upshot of this business was that, a little later in the day, Gaetana looked at him in dismay and said: “But—”

    Paul took her very gently by the shoulders. “I know we said, little kitten, that you should go back with Tia Patty to keep Hildy company. But I have had a little talk with Tia Patty and we have decided between us that as this is the last chance the three older girls will have to be quite alone,”—he smiled a little, “with ‘their maidenheads still growing’,” he quoted; Gaetana, having had to translate this in her head, suddenly going very red—“it will be more appropriate for you to stay here. Cousin Sophia is most willing to be your chaperone and keep our little household in order. And there will only be you and Luís and I, you know, until Christmas,” he added quickly, as she began to pout, “and I must confess I would like that of all things.”

    Gaetana’s lips trembled. “I had not thought— Yes, very well.”

    “And Tia Patty thinks that Hildy should go to Bath, just for a month, perhaps, to stay with Mrs Parkinson’s mamma, and that will give her and the two older girls the chance to go up to London for the more tiring shopping, which we are agreed Hildy should not be exposed to.”

    “No,” agreed Gaetana. “We don’t want her getting overtired.”

    Paul kissed her forehead. “That will take us to about November, you know, and then perhaps Hildy could come straight here. How would that suit?”

    “Yes. Gracias, Paul,” she said in a small voice.

    He kissed her forehead again. “¡It will not be so dull mi vida! There will be shooting parties, and so forth. You have said you wish to learn to shoot: well, this is the chance for you to come out with the guns; and Hildy, you know, would hate that sort of thing.”

    “Yes, in some things she is not... not sensible,” said Marinela’s daughter, frowning thoughtfully.

    “Exactly! For how can one make a delicious pâté de lièvre or salmis de pigeons without first shooting the hare and the pigeons?” he said with a little laugh.

    “I tried to represent that very point to her!” cried Gaetana. “And she said that she now perceived her own hypocrisy,” she added in a squashed voice, “and—and that perhaps she should give up eating flesh altogether.”

    “¡Dios! I hope you did not encourage her in that?” he gasped. “For she is pale and weak enough already!”

    “No, of course I did not, I said it was nonsense, and in any case she did not hesitate to catch fish, and why did she imagine we have canine teeth, and meat must have formed part of the natural diet of mankind since time immemorial!” said Gaetana strongly.

    “Good!” he said with a little laugh.

    “So then,” said his sister, relapsing into gloom, “she said there was no need to persuade her, she was very fond of meat and could never give it up in any case, and must learn to live with her own hypocrisy.”

    “Oh, dear. –Was this before or after the influenza?” he asked cautiously.

    “Well, after: quite recently, after she had come home. I realise she was still feeling very pulled, but—”

    “Mm.” Paul leaned his chin on her head. “She needs a sensible man to take her in hand,” he decided with the suggestion of a smile in his voice.

    Gaetana pulled away. “Does she, indeed? Then it is a pity that you could not have fixed upon her instead of upon Christabel, for I am sure the neighbourhood does not offer much in the way of sensible men!”

    “Er—well, no. What with young Eric at Willow Court and the Knowles brothers over in the other direction, and nothing much in between ’em at all. Though we have yet to meet Mr John Purdue!” he reminded her eagerly,

    “Very amusing, Paul,” said Gaetana bitterly.

    Paul bit his lip. “I’m sorry. Well, Sir Julian is a sensible— No?” he said weakly at the sight of his sister’s face.

    “Paul, he’s as squeamish about blood sports as she, did you not know?” she gasped.

    “No,” he said limply. “Are you sure?”

    “Of course I am sure! She told me so herself, with the greatest approbation!”

    “I see.” He looked at her cautiously. “Possibly they are soul-mates, after all.”

    “You had best inform him of the fact, then, for judging by last night’s behaviour, he does not seem aware of it!” said his sister bitterly, going out.

    Paul sighed. But it had not been all bad news, by any means, and he went off slowly to his study, looking thoughtful.

    Gaetana went outside and walked up and down angrily. She had been looking forward to spending time with Hildy, but of course she was not averse to spending these last few months of his bachelordom with her beloved brother, so that was not what she was angry about. On the surface, she was angry with Sir Julian and his neglect of Hildy, and for some time as she marched to and fro she told herself that that was it. But finally she recognized sourly that what she was really annoyed about was that—typically of Paul—his motives in deciding she should stay at the Manor for the next few months had not been as straightforward as they appeared, and that though there was no doubt he did genuinely desire her company, there was also very little doubt indeed that he intended to use this time in order to bring her and the Marquis of Rockingham together. Well, she would not have it!

    Gaetana marched up and down crossly, determined that she would not allow Giles Hammond to ally himself with the daughter of a spy, never once thinking to ask herself if that was her whole motive, or whether, underneath her genuine concern for his honour, there might not be a whole lot of other very mixed feelings indeed. Such as fear of tying herself up to a very much older man, and a foreigner to boot; fear of the physical side of marriage; and fear, quite possibly, of definitively growing up and becoming an adult woman with the usual burden of adult responsibilities, and leaving her carefree girlhood behind her for ever. For she was, of course, still only eighteen.

    Her brother, who was quite as devious as she believed him to be, and far more sensitive to her emotional state than Gaetana had ever imagined, had read all of these possibilities in her behaviour. He had in fact earlier discussed the problem of Gaetana and the Marquis with Christabel in some detail, as one of those pieces of business that he had decided over his cigar must be seen to this day.

    Miss Maddern had agreed that he was right in concluding that the spy thing was the initial hurdle that was keeping her from encouraging his Lordship; adding that it was a great pity they could not give Lord Rockingham a hint. And that—with rather less conviction, of which Paul was quite aware—that he was quite correct in saying that as soon as Marinela arrived they must get her on the job, for she would know just what to do to help her little kitten see sense!

    So after his talk with Gaetana, Paul sat down and wrote a long letter to Madre. In the hopes that she might get it: for she seemed not to have received the last one, which had urged her and Sir Harry to let them know whether the suggested date of an early spring wedding would suit them or no. Because the waiting, Paul had not scrupled to explain to Marinela, was killing him!

    Carolyn came down the day after the engagement party very late, yawning. The stately Hollings was in the hall of the Place and informed her, bowing, that the rest of the household had breakfasted, but if Miss Carolyn should care to—?

    Carolyn did care, for she was quite hungry, but she said uncertainly: “Possibly I should join the others a little later for luncheon, then. –What is it, Hollings?” she added, noticing in surprize that the fatherly butler looked as if he were about to burst.

    “Er—well, Lady Desdemona is rid out, Miss Carolyn,” he ventured. “That is, she said she would be some time.”

    “Well, I dare say the others will have to eat!” said Carolyn with a little laugh.

    “Miss Dewesbury and Miss Anna have driven over to Dittersford to take luncheon with Mrs Stalling, Miss Carolyn,” he said, bowing.

    “Oh. Well, no doubt Sir Julian and the children will have to eat, I do not see that as a prob— Hollings, what on earth has happened?” she cried.

    Hollings coughed. “Sir Julian and the Miss Nasebys have left the Place, Miss Carolyn.”

    “Left? You mean gone home?” said Carolyn blankly.

    Hollings bowed. “Yes, Miss Carolyn,” he said gloomily.

    Carolyn gave a gasp. “Giles has had a row with him! I knew it! He was as grumpy as a bear coming home in the carriage, and when I said why had Sir Julian elected to ride, he bit my head off! Ooh, how like him!” she cried loudly.

    The butler looked at her with great sympathy but did not express his complete agreement with this sentiment.

    Carolyn’s eyes narrowed. “Do not say anything, I know perfectly well who is to blame in this instance,” she said grimly.

    Hollings had not been going to say anything, it was not his place to, but he looked at her in some respect.

    Carolyn drew a deep breath. “It is so like Giles, when he has only the one close friend in the world, to alienate him. I shall write to Mamma the instant I have eaten!”

    Hollings bowed deeply and showed her into the breakfast room, where he assured her that fresh brioches and strawberry preserves would be immediately forthcoming.

    Neither of them mentioned the fact that Lady Lavinia had ordained that this not wholly desirable fare should no longer form Miss Carolyn’s customary breakfast. In fact Hollings went so far as to murmur that her Ladyship (meaning Carolyn’s mother, of course), had enjoyed these viands with clotted cream—?

    “Oh, yes!” she cried, forgetting herself.

    Hollings permitted his eyes to crinkle. He bowed, and murmuring: “Of course, Miss Carolyn,” went out.

    “Goody,” said Carolyn to herself. But her smile soon faded and she sank into a reverie.

    She had finished her brioche with the clotted cream and, to say truth, most of the dish of strawberry preserves, when her brother came in, scowling, in his driving coat, and pulling the lashes of his whip between his fingers in a nervous gesture.

    “I am going to London on business,” he said without preamble.

    Carolyn eyed him coolly. “Indeed?”

    The Marquis’s hand tightened on his whip. “I may be some time. I have business at the Horse Guards, and then I may have to go into the country.”

    “Very well, Giles, we shall expect you when we see you,” she said calmly.

    He hesitated, then said curtly: “Goodbye,” and went out.

    The minute the sound of his carriage wheels had died away, Carolyn rang the bell.

    “Hollings,” she said, as the butler presented himself: “explain to me what is the Horse Guards, if you please.”

    Hollings explained. Carolyn looked at him in bewilderment. “He said he has business there.”

    “Business, Miss? I cannot think... None of his particular acquaintance... No, it is beyond me.”

    It was beyond Carolyn, too. She had assumed at first that Giles meant to follow Julian and make it up with him, but why should he bother to create a story about the Horse Guards?

    However, when Dezzie finally returned from her ride, rather muddy, and she buttonholed her on the subject, her half-sister replied immediately: “He’s looking for Old Hooky, of course.”

    “For— You do not mean the Duke of Wellington, Dezzie?”

    “Yes. Said this morning, did I have any notion of where the Duke might be, and when I said no more than the man in the moon, told me I was useless, and flung off in a rage. –Oy, you do know Julian’s gone?”

    “Yes!” said Carolyn impatiently.

    “Had a row with him; thought he must have, last night,” she said, nodding wisely.

    “Yes! Obviously! But what can he want with the Duke?”

    Dezzie gave a hoarse cackle. “Well, it won’t be to ask his help in getting a bill through the House, they’re chalk and cheese! –Politically, idiot,” she said to the puzzled pink face some way below hers.

    “Well—well, yes; I mean, of course I do not understand anything about politics, but I know that much!”

    “Would have had to be deaf, I’d say, to live in Lavinia’s house for any length of time and not—”

    “YES! Dezzie, you are no USE!” she wailed.

    Dezzie shrugged. “Dare say it’s something and n— No?”

    “Wait! The mention of Aunt Lavinia has— I HAVE it!” she shouted. She grabbed the startled Dezzie by the waist and began to dance round her, laughing.

    “Stop it! Look, what is it? Don’t, you’ll have me over!”

    Carolyn stopped treating her half-sister as a maypole and said, beaming: “It must be! It was something I overheard Aunt Lavinia and Uncle Lionel talking about: I do not think I was supposed to know. But evidently Giles went off to see His Grace of Wellington once before, to make sure that—that Miss Ainsley’s papa was—was on England’s side!”

    “Eh?”

    “Yes! Because he was concerned that the Ainsleys should be received in Society, because he has fallen in love with Miss Ainsley!” said Carolyn ecstatically.

    “Pooh,” said Dezzie uneasily.

    “Aunt Lavinia said it!” she cried.

    “Uh—well, yes, if Lavinia... Well, I grant you he seemed keen, the time that they came to dinner. But last night the girl was giving him the cold shoulder.”

    “Yes, and he has gone to see the Duke again, so as to—to sort it all out!”

    “You’re jumping to conclusions,” said Dezzie uneasily.

    “Pooh! What else would he want him for?”

    “Well—uh… But even Old Hooky can’t make the girl marry him if she don’t fancy him, Carolyn!”

    “No, but he can convince her that she is a fitting mate for Giles!” she cried.

    “Wellington?” said Dezzie in a hollow voice.

    “Wuh-well, would he not?”

    “Perform some damned ridiculous Romantick errand—and for a Hammond? No, he dashed well wouldn’t!” she said with feeling. “And to give him his due, even Giles ain’t so mad as to ask him to!”

    “Well, what?” said Carolyn sulkily.

    Dezzie thought it over. “Who says she ain’t a fitting mate for him?”

    Carolyn went very red. “Aunt Lavinia said if that was what the girl had taken into her head it was a ridiculous notion.”

    “Eh?”

    “Uncle Lionel had said that about a fitting mate, and—and would she want Gilles involved with the son of—” she swallowed loudly—“a spy.”

    “You did get an earful,” said Dezzie, staring.

    “This was not the same time! They were in the little morning room with the window open,” she said hurriedly, “and I was sitting nearby, on the rustic seat on the lawn: I could not help but hear!”

    “Eh? You mean this was when they were down here?” demanded Dezzie.

    Carolyn nodded. “It was when Hildy was sick, and Miss Ainsley did not come, and Uncle Lionel said if she was avoiding Giles it was a good thing, because of—of not being a fitting…” She looked at her pleadingly.

    Slowly Dezzie admitted: “If Giles thinks that, too, I suppose… Now look, don’t start making too much of it, but I suppose it’s not impossible that Giles is after Wellington to use his influence on Sir Harry Ainsley’s behalf. Uh—well, not literally a pardon, he hasn’t been indicted, but—”

    “YES!” she cried ecstatically, embracing her with fervour. “It must be! How wonderful!”

    “Look, just you keep quiet about it,” said Dezzie, breaking out in a sweat. “I could have it all wrong, and God knows what sort of mood Giles’ll be in if he finds we’ve been spreading crazy rumours about his private business all over the—”

    But Carolyn wasn’t listening. “Oh, isn’t it Romantick! –I shall re-open that letter to Mamma!” she decided, marching off briskly to do so.

    Abruptly Dezzie sat down on the nearest chair and closed her eyes. “My God,” she muttered.

    There was a considerable silence, during which Lady Desdemona thought hard.

    Finally she opened her eyes and said to the empty hall, where the entire conversation had taken place before she could so much as get her gloves off: “I think I’d better write to Mamma, too.” She swallowed. “And Lavinia,” she admitted in a hollow voice. She got up and went slowly upstairs, making faces to herself.

    Behind the swing door at the rear of the hall that led to the servants’ quarters, Hollings smiled. He had no doubt at all that with her Ladyship apprised of how matters stood at the Place things could not but start to take a turn for the better. He did not, of course, mean Lady Lavinia.