1
Maison Buffitt
Miss Buffitt sat on the broad branch of the ancient apple tree that was a feature of the Buffitt garden and swung her legs, scowling. Fate was about to grasp her innocent self in its bony hand, and Miss Buffitt, though perfectly willing to resist, knew it was pointless. In this instance, not only Fate was against her, but also Ma and even dearest Pa. Also lined up solidly against her were Aunt Honeywell, Aunt Eliza Buffitt and Great-Aunt Portwinkle, but they’d have been against her in any case. She could have declared her intention of marrying a duke, and they’d have found something wrong with him, be he the Duke of Wellington himself! Miss Buffitt sighed, and wished she had been born a boy, and early enough to have campaigned with the Duke; and scowled, swinging her legs…
Soon the dread summons came. Well, actually it was only little Tommy, piping: “Ma wants you, Peg-Peg!”
There was no doubt that Ma had the cunning to have sent him on purpose, poor little scrap, knowing Peg couldn’t be hard-hearted enough to round on him with a snarl. Oh, well. Resignedly Miss Buffitt descended from the tree, took Tommy’s proffered sticky paw, and stumped inside. Rather crookedly: she was not precisely a Peg-Leg, as her brothers maintained: merely, she had been born with one foot very slightly twisted. Not enough to stop her leading a very active life. And after all, the late Lord Byron had had a club foot, and that hadn’t stopped him!—George had asked, with a hoarse laugh: “Stopped him what?” but had been sent from the room by Mrs Buffitt.—The boys were, of course, forbidden to use the unkind soubriquet; but that didn’t stop them, when they were out of their parents’ hearing.
“Go on,” she groaned, stumping into the untidy parlour.
“Don’t stump, Peg, darling: it will not convince me either that you are an object of pity or that you are unfit to be sent to stay with your cousins,” replied Mrs Buffitt smartly.
Peg made a face but repeated resignedly: “Go on, then, Ma. Tell me the worst.”
Mrs Buffitt made a face back at her. “’Tisn’t the worst, silly one!”
“The worst would be to be sent to Great-Aunt Portwinkle, like poor Alice,” noted George.
“Yes. Closely followed by having to marry Cousin Honeywell!” squeaked Anne, collapsing in giggles.
“Or the Reverend Mr Fudge-Whiskers!” croaked Bertie, also collapsing in giggles. Broken ones: his voice was at that stage.
“Yes,” said Mrs Buffitt pleasedly. “Um, the Reverend Mr Foster-White,” she corrected feebly. “I thought I told you children to run along?”
Reluctantly George and Bertie dragged themselves out. Though not without remarking that they knew it all, it was stale news, and not exciting in any case.
“Can’t I stay?” asked Anne hopefully.
Mrs Buffitt eyed her thoughtfully. “On the grounds of your sex, Annie-Pannie, or in order that the experience might stand you in good stead when your turn comes?”
Reddening crossly, Anne roared: “You can be really horrible, Ma!” and rushed out.
“Good riddance,” said the brutal Mrs Buffitt. “Shut the door, Peg-Peg, and come and sit down.”
Peg shut the door, and though noting: “Sitting down won’t make it any better,” came to sit beside her on the battered Buffitt sofa.
Mrs Buffitt took her hand and squeezed it hard. “Now, Peg, you’re being silly about this. It’s a splendid chance for any girl.”
“Give it to Alice, then,” she suggested sourly. “Aunt B. will never know the difference. She's never set eyes on us; I don’t think she knows one of us from t’other.”
“Um, actually your Aunt B. offered the treat to Maria, because she knows that Great-Aunt Portwinkle has taken poor darling Alice. Well, she specifically said she knows Alice is taken care of, Peg-Peg, so it cannot be her. But she cannot object if I send you instead of Maria.”
Peg gulped. “Glory,” she muttered. Maria Hilton, née Buffitt, was an elderly woman of twenty-three, happily married with two little Hiltons at her knee. Or more likely at this hour, suitably incarcerated in their nursery: Maria was far more conventional than the rest of her family.
“The thing is, I think I might have forgotten to write her when Maria married Paul Hilton. Well, there was such a lot to do, dear, and Tommy was only a baby. And there are hundreds of relatives on that side,” she ended on a weak note.
Peg eyed her shrewdly. “And at that stage it hadn't dawned that Aunt B. might be willing to do something for one of us.”
“Something like that,” admitted Mrs Buffitt insouciantly.
“Ma, the flesh might be willing—though it isn’t—but I don’t think the spirit would be capable of sustaining the fiction that I’m well-behaved, virtuous and twenty-three for a whole beastly London Season.”
Mrs Buffitt did not reveal that it would probably be more than the one Season. Sufficient unto the day. “You are virtuous, you cuckoo.”
“Not in the sense that Maria and Alice are, Ma!”
“That’s true. But don’t worry, there will be no fiction. I am writing to explain.”
Peg took a deep breath. “Ma, you are being the utmost hypocrite over this thing. You have said a thousand times that you despise all the fol-de-rol of the marriage mart.”
Mrs Buffitt reddened a little, but said steadily: “I know that, Peg. But you see, if a girl cannot establish herself creditably, there is nothing for her. Certainly not for a girl of your class.”
“Pa wouldn’t mind if I just stayed at home,” said Peg, very cross.
He mother squeezed her hand hard. “Nor would I, my darling old cuckoo, but the thing is, it's getting harder and harder to make ends meet.”
“I know,” she growled, very red. “Don’t worry, I'll go.”
Mrs Buffitt bit her lip. “Peg-Peg, the world would say it is the most marvellous chance. Cousin B. moves in the best circles: her husband left her very well off, you know, and then, his sister married some foreign princeling or another: I forgot all the details, but I do know she’s settled in England now, and has a huge house in the most fashionable part of London. And Cousin B.’s own daughter married a—a belted earl or some such. Um, possibly not an earl— Well, I have it writ down somewhere.”
“And on the chance you did not, it could not signify, for Aunt Honeywell, Aunt Eliza Buffitt and Great-Aunt Portwinkle all have chapter and verse in any case,” she said sourly.
“Well, yes!”
“Ma, I’ll go, and I know all the world would say it is a marvellous chance, and I will do my best. But do not pin your hopes on my catching a belted anything,” said Peg earnestly. “You have to be both pretty and rich to do that. And I’m a peg-leg without a penny to my name.”
“Don’t say that of yourself!” cried her mother. “The limp is the slightest thing, only noticeable when you’re over-tired!”
Peg eyed her drily. “You're partisan, I fear, Ma. Be that as it may, I’m certainly penniless.”
Mrs Buffitt cleared her throat. “Cousin B. is prepared to dower you, Peg-Peg.”
Peg’s jaw dropped. “She must be mad,” she croaked.
“Er—well, I remember her as a frighteningly sensible woman. No, well, I think the thing is, she is the sort of person who does anything thoroughly, an she does it at all. She must realise as well as anyone that even a gazetted belle can scarcely hope to make a good match in these pragmatic times without a penny to her name. Now, it will not be a great sum, dearest, but it will certainly be respectable. –Here.” She produced a much-creased letter.
Peg unfolded it and smoothed it out slowly, perusing it with a frown. “Ma, this letter is over a year old. What if she has changed her mind?”
“Why should she? See: she says this Season or next, whichever should be convenient. And now it is next!” she said gaily. Peg looked unconvinced. “See—here? And you need not worry that she will have changed her mind about the dowry. Rowena would never dream of going back on her word.”
“Does Pa know about the dowry?” croaked Peg.
“Not yet. Sufficient unto the day,” she said airily.
Peg scratched her head. “I suppose it won’t dawn… ”
“No,” said Mrs Buffitt. “Not unless he happens to ponder the matter. But I doubt he will. It ain't either Greek or mechanical.”
“No.” Peg looked at her sideways, hesitating. “Why did you marry him?” she produced.
“Well,” said Mrs Buffitt calmly, “I could see that he would be a hopeless provider, poor Damian. But then, he was shatteringly handsome, and very much in love with me, and not in the least conventional. I thought I could stand him. All the rest of my suitors were hopeless bores.”
“You were lucky,” said Peg soberly.
“Lucky to find him? Yes. I would have gone mad as the wife of a more conventional man.”
Peg nodded glumly.
“Peg-Peg, you are not in the least like me!” she said with a little gurgle. “Well, only a very little. I never had that practical streak. –I think it must come from Cousin B.!”
“Horrors,” muttered Peg.
“As well, you know, I saw that with Damian I would always rule the roost. I like that,” said Mrs Buffitt calmly.
Peg gulped, rather, but conceded: “Yes. Um, but I think I'd quite like that, too.”
Mrs Buffitt narrowed her eyes. “Ye-es… To a certain degree. But you like things to work smoothly. I’m not like that at all: I quite like chaos.”
Peg winced, as, à propos, the sounds of mayhem floated down from the nursery on the floor above them. “Yes, I take your point. Um, should I look for a man who doesn’t like chaos?”
“Ye-es… Well, most of them want a wife to be nothing but a competent housekeeper with a snug little nest-egg,” said the incorrigible Mrs Buffitt calmly. “They mostly loathe chaos, you see. I think I was trying to suggest that a man who would prefer his household to be run capably but would actually be capable of ruling you when you need it, might suit, Peg-Peg.”
“Oh, a Mr Knightley?” replied Peg on a nasty note.
Alas, at this literary reference Mrs Buffitt collapsed in helpless giggles, gasping: “What—a—hopeless—prig!”
Peg grinned. “Yes. I shouldn’t like being married to a hopeless prig.”
Mrs Buffitt gave her hand a little pinch. “No, and you would hate being married to a man like Pa!”
“I don't think there are any such,” said Peg cheerfully.
“No, indeed! That reminds me: I know it seems unfair to ask, after inflicting the fate of a Season with my Cousin B. on you, but the boys are such cowards, and Anne is apt to panick, when cornered.”
“I’ll do it,” said Peg stolidly. “What is it?”
Mrs Buffitt’s eyes twinkled a little: that was Peg all over: reliable to the core, bless her! “A note be to be taken over to the Squire, apologising for Pa’s damming his stream for his dratted mechanical experiments.”
“You mean, damming his stream and flooding his Broad Acre. I don’t mind, I’m not scared of Sir Horace,” said the stout-hearted Peg.
—Alone of the neighbourhood, reflected Mrs Buffitt on a somewhat guilty note. Poor old Peg: it was mean to foist the task upon her. But then, she thought, standing at the parlour window to wave her off, that was the fate of the reliable of this world, was it not? To have unpleasant tasks foisted upon them by their weaker brethren. Weaker but very much more cunning, reflected Mrs Buffitt calmly, returning to her sofa and placidly taking up, not the boys’ mending, the which was very much in need of attention, nor yet little Lilibet’s new petticoat, which was going to be outgrown before it was finished, but a new novel. New to the Buffitt household, that was: it had been circulating in the rest of the British Isles since the year 1820, now almost a decade in the past; but a household that could only afford meat once a week, unless it was something off Sir Horace Monday’s land provided sub rosa by old Tom Dingley from the village, had no money to waste on such fripperies, and so in general was at the end of a long line of sisters, aunts, cousins, second cousins and the like when it came to anything approximating to light reading. This thing was rather hard going: it was horridly, nay doggedly Mediaeval, the style was somewhat heavy though not as bad as some that had come their way from Cousin Clementine, and it had been obvious from the word “go” that of the two heroines provided, it was not going to be the dashing Jewess that got the stodgy English hero. Mrs Buffitt sniffed, but nonetheless proceeded to plunge herself in it…
Peg, meanwhile, stumped bravely up to the Hall, rang the bell, and insouciantly asked for Sir Horace.
The door was answered by one, Alfred Dingley. He eyed her tolerantly. “If this ’as got summat to do with your Pa goin’ an’ floodin’ Squire’s Broad Acre, I wouldn’t.”
“Well, it has, but shirking an unpleasant duty, though I admit highly desirable, won’t actually make it go away, will it?” said Peg cheerfully. “So you’d better let me in.”
“’E’s in a filthy mood,” said Alfred, not opening the door any wider.
“I’m sure he is,” agreed Peg calmly.
“’E’ll roar at yer,” he warned.
“Yes, but he can’t eat me,” replied Peg firmly.
Alfred gave a loud sniff, but let her in. “’E’s in the study. Brooding.”
“If you’re afraid, you don’t have to show me in, I can find my own way,” said Peg kindly.
Alfred Dingley was tempted—very tempted. But if Squire found out it was him what let Miss Peg in, he'd tear a strip off him, and Mr Forrest would have his guts for garters, no question… His dilemma was resolved by the butler’s appearing in person.
“Hullo, Mr Forrest!” said Peg cheerfully.
The butler eyed her tolerantly. “Forrest to you, Miss Buffitt,” he said—but quite kindly. “We hear you’re bound for London town and the Season, like a proper young lady.”
“Young ladies have to call you Forrest, do they?” said Peg glumly. “Very well, I'll try. I’m here to see the Squire.”
“Alfred will take you,” said the butler on a lofty note.
Gloomily Alfred led Peg off to the study.
They could hear him rampaging in there, quite clearly.
“Rude words,” noted Peg with interest.
“Yes. Think ’e’s kicking the coal scuttle, too. You sure?”
Peg was sure. Resignedly Alfred showed her in.
Sir Horace Monday stopped kicking the coal scuttle, and glared at his visitor. “What the Devil do you want?” he shouted.
Peg stuck her chin out, and glared back at him. “I hope you weren't kicking poor old Blackie.” The squire’s old black spaniel was cowering behind a large armchair.
“Don’t be a damned fool, girl!” he bellowed.
“Good,” replied Peg calmly. “I know you’re cross about Pa flooding your meadow, anybody would be. We’re all very sorry about it. I’ve brought a note of apology.” Firmly she held it out.
Sir Horace took it automatically. “What the Devil good does he imagine this’ll do?” he grumbled, opening it.
“None, I don’t think,” said Peg, not pointing out that actually Ma had written it, and forged Pa’s signature at the bottom of it. She usually did, on such occasions. Mr Buffitt would start out with the best of intentions but his attention was apt to be distracted and it was more than likely he’d forget to finish the note, let alone to have it delivered.
The Squire read it through, scowling. “Huh!” he snorted, hurling it into the fireplace. “Now tell me the fellow means well!”
“I don’t think he does,” said Peg dispassionately. “Though I’d like to tell you so. When he’s working with one of his inventions, all he thinks about is the invention. Regardless of the consequences, I’m afraid.”
“Why don’t he invent something that’d feed the pack of you?” inquired Sir Horace on an unpleasant note.
“That would be good, but he’s not that practical.”
He grunted.
“Um, are you going to—um—prosecute him or—or something?” asked Peg, gulping in spite of herself.
“What?” he roared terribly.
The stout-hearted Peg quailed, but stuck her chin out horribly on the strength of it.
“Who the Devil gave you that idea, girl?” he roared.
“Um, the whole county, I think!” admitted Peg with a nervous giggle.
“Get out of here before I really lose my temper!” he roared.
Peg edged towards the door. “So you won't do anything?” she squeaked.
“Do anything? I'll take me boot to the feller’s bum next time I see him, and you can tell him that from me!” he shouted.
“Um, yes. I would, too, in your place. Thank you,” said Peg, sliding out thankfully.
“And tell him from me to go to the DEVIL!” he roared after her.
“I think he can do that for himself, in any case, poor Pa," admitted Peg sadly under her breath, hurrying back to the front hall.
Alfred was bravely on guard alone. “Did ’e roar at yer?” he hissed.
“At me, but because of Pa, mostly,” said Peg with a sigh. “It wasn’t too bad. –Help, he’s roaring for you, now: you’d better go.”
Sure enough, a roar of: “ALFRED! Where the Devil is the damned feller? ALFRED! Get in here!” could very clearly be heard from the direction of the study.
Gloomily Alfred Dingley let her out, and squaring his thin shoulders, headed for the study…
Peg was almost at the elaborate gates of Monday Hall before the panting footman caught up with her. “From—’im!” he gasped, holding something out.
Peg stared. “What?”
“Master!” gasped Alfred, his chest heaving. “Told me—sure an’—catch yer!”
“Get your breath,” said Peg kindly.
Alfred panted and wheezed, but was finally able to say in congratulatory tones: “It's for you, Miss Peg. ’E must like yer, after all.”
It was quite an ordinary little purse, but it would certainly come in handy. Provided she ever had anything it put in it!
“This is very kind of him . I haven't got a little purse of my own.”
“Nah; in it!” said the footman scornfully, pushing it into her hand.
It felt oddly heavy… Uncertainly Peg opened it. Her eyes bulged.
“’E must like yer, after all. ’E said to say, it’s for Lunnon. To buy yerself fripperies with. And not to give a farthing of it to yer Pa, or ’e will court him over Broad Acre,” reported Alfred conscientiously.
“Ten guineas!” gasped Peg.
“See? Like I said, ’e must like yer after all.”
“Help,” she said numbly. “Um—I’d better go back and thank him.”
“No, acos ’e said as I was to say, ’e don’t want no thanks. –’E don’t like fuss,” he explained kindly.
“No. Um—perhaps I should write him a little note. A virtuous young woman like Maria would embroider him a pair of slippers, or some such,” said Peg glumly.
“You could do that!” Alfred encouraged her.
“I can’t set a stitch straight. Ma let me give up on my sampler. She said I was cack-handed,” reported Peg gloomily.
“Write ’im a note, then. ’E don’t want no thanks in any case. ’Cos see, ’e’s got pots,” explained Alfred laboriously.
“I know, but he certainly didn’t need to give any of them to me!”
“Mr Forrest says as ’e likes people what stands up to ’im,” Alfred ventured.
“I don’t know that I did that,” said Peg dubiously.
“Yer must of! Acos most young ladies—what I mean, ’is nieces and them—they bust out a-bawling if ’e so much as yells at ’em. You never done that, did yer?”
Peg shook her head, smiling.
“There you are!” said Alfred triumphantly.
“Yes. Um—well, I shall pen him a little note. And please tell him thank you from me, Alfred. Um, I’m sure he will expect such a message, even if he told you he does not wish for one.”
A relieved expression broke over the footman’s thin face. “Right you are! –And ’ere! Good luck for Lunnon, and I ’opes you finds a real gent!”
“Thanks, Alfred. I merely hope to come through it unscathed!” replied Peg with a grin.
Alfred winked, assured her she’d be right, and retreated up the drive, whistling.
Holding the purse very tight, Peg headed for home. She wasn’t at all sure she’d be right. Not under Aunt B.’s auspices, and not in any case. Oh, well: it probably couldn’t do her any harm. And London Seasons did not, thank the Lord, last forever. It would doubtless be a sharp agony, but a relatively short one.
Um, would giving the ten guineas to Ma be contrary to the spirit of the Squire’s wishes? …Er, yes, alas. What a pity. Presumably they would have to be spent on—um, silk stockings and—um, gloves and ribbons and—um, whatever else fashionable young ladies threw away good money on. What a terrible waste.
Waste though it was, Peg’s face had brightened and she walked on faster. She had not been looking forward, frivolous and unworthy though the thought was, to turning up on Aunt B.’s august doorstep with nothing in her pocket. Like the poor relation that she was, quite. Well, blessings on old Sir Horace!
Rose Buffitt had been a Miss Laidlaw before her marriage, from a respectable family long settled in the environs of Bath. That was, the Laidlaws as a whole were respectable. Rose’s immediate family was slightly less so: her father, who had died when she and her numerous brothers and sisters were all still under age, had been a gambler and spendthrift—though certainly a very charming one; and her mother was one of those vague, pretty, ineffectual-seeming creatures who actually survive very well on the charity of their more practical but on the whole less determined relatives. “Determined” was not the word that would have sprung to mind on first setting eyes on the wispy, lachrymose, widowed Mrs Margaret Laidlaw, but by the time she was old enough to register such things, her daughter realised very clearly that it was so. Mamma got whatever she wanted, and generally pretty much when she wanted it, too. Rose Laidlaw did not in any wise condemn her for it: after all, they had to survive, did they not?—and Papa had left nothing but debts. She could see the same trait in herself, too, and was quite glad to have inherited it. Her Laidlaw relatives would have been very happy to help Rose to a respectable establishment, but when Damian Buffitt happened across her path, that was the end of that. Even Grandmother Laidlaw herself, a determined woman with a commanding presence but not sufficient intelligence to perceive when she was being manoeuvred by Margaret Laidlaw, had declared that she washed her hands of Rose. Though relenting sufficiently to see that a small amount was tied up in trust, the interest to be paid to Rose every quarter for the rest of her life.
This was just as well: Damian Buffitt, the youngest scion of a family of very minor Somerset gentry, had nothing but a similar annuity, left him by a grandfather of similar solid sense and decent instincts.
Rose at the time had had a clutch of hopeful admirers, in spite of the lack of fortune: for she was very pretty and had a great deal of impish charm. And one of these admirers, a stout widower approaching his fortieth birthday, by name Horace Monday, very generously offered the Buffitt ménage the use of a small house on his property. Even though it was in a very obscure part of northern Lincolnshire, Rose and Damian immediately accepted. Neither of them cared where they lived, and Rose at least was aware that in the case something drastic should happen, it would be as well to have a solid protector to hand.
In the twenty-five years that had passed since then, Sir Horace had had plenty of time to regret his offer and to work up a loathing for Damian Buffitt. The two households no longer socialised together: in fact it was twenty years since Sir Horace had bothered to get one of his sisters to play hostess in order to entertain any of his neighbours. He was more than happy enough with his hunting, his horses, and the management of his lands; and, if the truth were known, had long since ceased to regret that it was Damian Buffitt whom Rose had chosen and not himself. For it was plain as the nose on your face that she did not make the effort even to give them brats a decent home!
Sir Horace was not alone in his opinion of the Buffitt ménage. The vicar’s wife had more or less given up calling: what with the frequent discovery of Rose Buffitt with her feet up on her shabby sofa reading some trashy novel at a time when all decent women should be busied about their household tasks, the discovery that Rose Buffitt did not bother even to supervise her own preserves and pickles but deputed it all to That Woman Who Cooked For Her; and, last but not least, Rose Buffitt’s casual remarks on the interest of the Greek pantheon as opposed to the “stuffiness” (her very word) of the Established Church! Undoubtedly picked up from That Husband of Hers, the which was not a point in her favour, at all. Damian Buffitt did not attend church. True, Sir Horace’s face was only rarely to be seen in the Hall’s pew of a Sunday, but that was different: he was the Squire! The senior Monday of the time had always been the Squire, hereabouts, and the baronetage bestowed on Sir Horace’s late parent had made no difference. Sir Horace was always ready to read the lesson, should the Vicar ask it of him. And never missed a Harvest Festival. But Mr Buffitt had informed the scandalised Vicar that no argument, either ontological or teleological, had ever convinced him of the existence of a Creating Being! (His very words.) Poor Reverend Jarrett had been so shocked that it had been a whole day before he had even found the strength to impart the horrifying news to Mrs Jarrett. And on the arrival of young Mr Foster-White to assist him with his large, scattered country parish, had enjoined him most straitly to have nothing to do with those Buffitt girls, if he valued his immortal soul!
Mr Foster-White did value his immortal soul, but nevertheless had wondered whether they ought to not regard the Buffitt children, rather, as brands to be snatched from the burning? Since this pious inquiry was made after he had caught a glimpse of the bright golden ringlets of Miss Buffitt and Miss Anne in the course of a country stroll, Mr Jarrett merely ordered him sternly to look to his conscience. And, since this did not seem to have the desired effect, to examine his motives. At which Mr Foster-White went very red and made his exit.
It did not, of course, occur to the upright Vicar and his upright spouse to wonder if, though the Buffitt household was undoubtedly the most chaotic in their parish, perhaps the Buffitt children were amongst the happiest? Because if chaos and inattention to practical matters reigned there, so too did love. Damian and Rose both adored all of their children. They were neither doating nor saintly, and if discipline was more lax on most matters than in more conventional households, nevertheless the Buffitt children had a set of rules and regulations to which they were expected to adhere, and were duly punished when they transgressed. Thus, interrupting Pa when he was at his Greek, touching any of Pa’s experiments without permission, taking any of Ma’s books before she had finished reading them, getting JAM on any of either Pa’s or Ma’s books—etcetera. They were quite strict in the matter of paying attention to one’s lessons, too—though not so strict on the regularity of said lessons. But since they were both well-read people who understood the value of an education, they had long since decided that if nothing else, their children should know the pleasures of the mind. Sending the boys to school was out of the question, of course: Damian himself taught them mathematics, Latin and Greek. And Rose took the girls for French and Italian, and all of them for English composition and geography. They had a globe: presented by Sir Horace on the occasion of Maria Buffitt’s first birthday, when he had still been in his besotted stage.
The Buffitts had been disappointed that their eldest child had shown no particular interest in things of the mind, being far more interested in helping Cook or, when her stitchery had far surpassed Rose’s, which it did before she was fourteen, learning fine embroidery from Miss Little in the village. When Paul Hilton had offered, they had been very relieved, even though they themselves had almost nothing in common with the conventionally-minded, worthy young man who worked as the agent’s assistant on the large estate which bordered Sir Horace’s property. But they could see that he was a decent, hard-working fellow who suited Maria down to the ground. And Rose had confessed to her husband, with a guilty laugh, after waving the newlyweds off to their new home: “I am just so relieved! For I was beginning to wonder if we had hatched a cuckoo, who could never be happy with our harum-scarum ways!”
Since she frequently addressed the children, and not infrequently himself, as “cuckoo” it had taken a minute. “Oh! Yes, well, not an entirely felicitous image, my love, and not wholly apposite: after all, she has never shown any inclination to oust the other nestlings, has she?” Rose was beginning to glare; not noticing, he added placidly: “And I dare say Paul will actually like all them table napkins and mats and so forth she’s everlastingly stitching at.” At which Rose laughed very much, and agreed, pinching his arm: “Like and approve! Indeed!”
Maria, if something of a cuckoo, had never been truly a worry to her parents; and, indeed, none of the children were that. Nevertheless, by the time she decided to accept Cousin B.’s kind invitation, Rose had begun to worry. Because Lance was already nineteen and, never mind if he was eagerly absorbing everything his father could teach him, ought long since to have been up at the University. And George, at nearly sixteen, was helping him to eat them out of house and home. And not as bright, and obviously would never be content to live at home and help Pa with his blessed experiments, and what on earth were they going to do with him? Beg Sir Horace to purchase him a commission? Oh, dear. Damian disapproved so of the military life, but it really did seem as if there might be no other option. Unless perhaps Paul might get him into the agent's office, as—um—assistant to the assistant? Oh, dear, oh, dear. And Bertie was turned fourteen and, though a ragamuffin and scamp, the brightest of them all and ought really, pace his dearest Pa, to go to a decent school and then definitely on to the University… And it was no use Damian’s saying that he showed a true bent for matters mechanical, for what future was there in that? Perhaps her Laidlaw relations might be persuaded to do something for him? Rose could not think what, precisely, except send him to school. Cousin Jack Laidlaw’s boys were at—um—Harrow, she thought. No, well, one of the older ones, and Rose could not remember which, had been sent to Winchester, but that was because old Uncle Philibert had insisted on sending him at his own expense to his own alma mater. And why he could not have chosen one of her boys, instead of one of Jack and Charlotte Laidlaw’s, who didn’t need the assistance… Well, it was too late now: Uncle Philly had died some years back.
And as for the girls—! In a way their situation was far worse. For at a pinch, a boy could always be sent off to earn his living. But there was nothing that a young woman of their class could respectably do, except become a governess. Rose Buffitt had shuddered all over at the thought of that fate for one of her daughters. No: they must, by hook or by crook, find husbands for them. And, even though the children had made a joke of poor Mr Foster-White, had seriously begun to consider the Reverend Fudge-Whiskers as a possibility—well, not for Peg, perhaps. She was far too bright for one who was, from what little they had seen of him, rather a stupid young man. But for poor little Annie-Pannie? In a year or two? Anne, not quite a year older than George, was going on seventeen, and very pretty, and very giggly with it, and there had already been an episode of a nephew of Sir Horace’s, having encountered her out walking, showing far too much interest and having to be sent back to his home by his empurpled uncle. No, well, a penniless girl did not have a hope of catching the squire’s nephew, pretty though she might be. But a curate was respectable, and once he got a living of his own would be able to support her, and if Annie-Pannie could be coached not to quote Pa on the subject of the Established Church… Ugh. But what other opportunities were offering themselves?
When Cousin B.’s offer came Rose’s first instinct had been, frankly, to leap at it. But, alas, Maria was already married, and Peg, back then, had not yet been turned seventeen: Damian had strong views on the launching of immature young girls into so-called Society. The thing had had, therefore, to be postponed for a year. Then she had considered sending Anne instead of Peg: there was the limp, and then, Peg was so bright, she would see through all the nonsense of the marriage mart and not hesitate, for she was also, alas, so outspoken, to say so. But no: it would be highly unfair: Peg was the older, she would be eighteen this year, and it must be her turn. And besides, perhaps Cousin B. might take Anne later! thought the ever-optimistic Rose. Yes, it should be Peg-Peg, bless her. And goodness knew Cousin B. was outspoken enough: there was no reason why they shouldn’t get along perfectly well, thought Rose firmly, guiltily suppressing the thought that if it was her, she would do almost anything to escape a sojourn under Cousin B.’s straight-laced and horridly respectable roof. And if nothing else, it might, at the last resort, introduce Peg to a decent family where she might eventually go as a governess, thought Rose glumly.
Being Rose Buffitt, she did not immediately write to ascertain, as almost any mother under the sun would have done, if Cousin B.’s kind offer were still open. And when Sir Horace Monday informed them that he knew of a most respectable family whose governess was leaving them, heading south, at around the very time Peg was due to leave for London, and who would doubtless be happy to chaperone her from Lincoln, she felt that it all seemed as if it was meant! This Miss Whatsername was headed for Northampton, which was the very place where dear Cousin Kate Winsett’s Harriet lived! Well, a little out of the town, but it could not signify. Doubtless Cousin B. would send her carriage up that far for Peg, or, failing that, Cousin Kate’s Harriet would be able to see her safely on the stage for London! It was all working out perfectly. And Lance could go as far as Lincoln to make sure that Peg caught the stage there, so Cousin B. could not possibly say that they had sent her without proper chaperoning!
Various minor crises intervened, but a whole two weeks before Peg was due to set off, Rose Buffitt sat down happily to write what for almost any other woman under the sun would have been a fiendishly difficult letter. A letter which had to explain that they did want to accept Cousin B.’s very generous offer, though they had not responded when it was received; but for Peg, not for Maria, because Maria was now married; and that the reason they had not apprised kind Cousin B. of this important factor was— Rose Buffitt actually enjoyed writing this letter. It was a challenge, into which she put all her skills of persuasion. She felt brighter and more invigorated, at the end of it, than she had for years.
The day on which Peg Buffitt left for her stay with her Aunt B. was a day of typical mild chaos in the Buffitt household. Cook had sprained her right wrist, but was grimly carrying on in despite of it. Little Bessy Dingley, who helped in the kitchen, was bearing the brunt of it, but Anne, who had volunteered to assist with the breakfasts, had certainly come in for her share; as had the misguided Bertie, who had chosen this very morning to slip a small frog into Bessy’s apron pocket. The screams had been heard all over the house: indeed, in any other household the assumption would have been that she was being murdered. Damian Buffitt had not even emerged from his study to ask what the commotion was—nay, had not even raised his head from his book. Rose had merely said mildly to her third daughter as they hastily packed several items which she had forgotten to give her earlier: “Slow-worm?” To which Peg had replied, trying to be light in spite of the dreadful attack of nerves she was undergoing: “Frog, I think, if it’s the product of Bertie’s visit to the pond yesterday.” And had added: “You don’t need to give me your gloves, Ma; I can buy some with dear old Sir Horace’s ten guineas.” Upon which Rose had gratefully reclaimed her one good pair of gloves. Noting by the by that it was a pity that Peg-Peg did not own a decent pelisse, but there, she was sure that Cousin B. would outfit her from head to toe. And not on any account to let her trick her out in blue.
“It depends how conventional a mind she has,” said the golden-haired Peg.
“Very,” replied Rose glumly.
Peg licked her lips uneasily. “Oh. Taste?”
“I can’t remember. Well, Rowena was one of those rather handsome, dark, high-coloured young women; rather hearty: you know the type?”
Peg knew all of the village, and the Vicar’s family, and had met a handful of Sir Horace’s relations, and had had the dubious privilege of visits from Aunt Honeywell, Aunt Eliza Buffitt and Great-Aunt Portwinkle; but outside of the pages of literature, that was all she knew of humanity, so she shook her head blankly.
“Oh,” said Rose somewhat numbly, for the very first time in her life consciously contrasting her girlhood in the busy town of Bath with that of her daughters in their rural fastness. “Um—well, anyway, she is that type. The sort that never could look well in muslins and—um—frilled tuckers, I think it was, in those days,” she said vaguely. “And rather a lot of hair.”
“Like the picture of Sir Horace’s mamma and sisters at the Hall?” asked Peg with interest.
“Um—sort of. Were they still wearing large hats in those days?” she asked herself. “Well, Cousin B. is older than I: I was still in the schoolroom when she married John Beresford. She always looked very well on a horse.”
There were no dashing lady equestriennes in their own little district; Peg looked blank.
Rose bit her lip. “Not that one rides much, in Bath… But she is that type of lady, or was,” she said limply.
“Oh. Well, I don’t care if she does trick me out in blue.”
“Peg-Peg, with your yellow-green eyes, the effect would be disastrous!”
“What an exaggeration,” said Peg mildly, giving her back a tippet of tired lapin. “I shall absolutely not deprive you of this, Ma. You will still need it, I’m sure spring will be as chilly as it always is. And if it’s cold in London, I dare say Aunt B. will always take a carriage, so I shan’t need it.”
Obediently Rose took it back.
“Anne said perhaps they could be described as hazel,” added Peg without much interest.
“Er—not really, Peggums.”
“I see. I’m odd in that, too, then,” owned Peg, shrugging.
“Unusual,” said Rose firmly. Peg’s eyes were very odd indeed. Not hazel at all. In some lights they looked a very light golden-brown: rather like Cook’s caramel when the sugar had just started to colour—on the rare occasions on which the Buffitt household could spare that much sugar. If she wore yellow, they looked more golden; and if she wore green they looked more green-gold. And if she wore blue she looked yellow all over and the eyes looked horridly dull. Rose tried in vain to remember if her cousin Rowena Laidlaw had had dress sense. To no avail: after her husband died Rowena had always been in severe black; and from earlier days all she could recall was a large, jolly presence in what seemed like an acre of muslin topped with frills… Bother. Some of the acreage must have been bust, the adult Rose reflected: her cousin had always been buxom. She cleared her throat. “Um, corsets.”
“All right, I’ll let her stuff me into one,” said Peg glumly.
“Yes. Um—try not to breathe, or something, when you meet her!” said Rose with a guilty giggle.
“I don't think I can hold my breath for a whole Season, Ma!” returned Peg with a forced laugh.
“No, no: just as a first impression.”
“A corsetless, non-breathing niece: that’ll go over well, will it?”
“Never mind! The woman’s agreed to have you: she can’t renege on it now!” said Rose breezily, unwisely expressing her thought.
Peg brightened. “Ooh! Perhaps—”
“No,” said her mother with a certain regret. “She will never break her word, once given.”
“I suppose that’s a point in her favour, though it smacks of rigid thinking. –Talking of breaking, how are we going to fasten this hamper?”
“Straps.”
“What straps, Ma?”
“We had a lot, once… Well, when we came here,” she said vaguely, looking round as if a selection of leather straps might suddenly materialise from the corners of the girls’ bedroom.
“Pa will long since have used them all for his experiments.”
“I'll ask Cook,” decided Mrs Buffitt.
Peg sniffed slightly. “Wrist,” she said to the ceiling.
Her mother stopped dead in the doorway. “Oops.”
“I saw Dick Dingley in the garden, earlier. He’ll find me a piece of rope,” said Peg.
Mrs Buffitt counted on her fingers. “Is it his day?’ she said vaguely.
“No: he’s driving us to the stage halt,” Peg reminded her, rushing out.
“Yes,” said Rose dully to the suddenly empty bedroom. She drifted over to a lumpy bed and sat on it. “Bother,” she muttered as a tear trickled down her cheek.
The sounds of mayhem floated up from the kitchen. From the garden, Dick Dingley could be heard shouting, possibly at the boys. After a while, one of the lumps in the bed moved and a large ginger cat emerged, and came to sit on Rose’s knee. She stroked it mechanically, making no further effort to tidy the muddled packing in Peg’s hamper, or to fit in the few last odds and ends. And quite neglecting to consult the list which the helpful and practical Maria had drawn up to guide her relatives in their efforts at packing for a young lady’s sojourn in the metropolis.
Eventually the hairy old straw hamper was tied up with a stout piece of hairy rope, and the helpful Mr Dingley, who had not only provided the rope but done the actual knotting, got up on the small cart which he had brought up from the village and informed the crestfallen Lance Buffitt that he would drive it.
“We’re going all the way to Furze Halt,” Peg reminded him.
“I know that. Get up,” he grunted.
Obediently Miss Buffitt, awarding little Tommy a last hug and then the jealous Lilibet a very last, last hug, mounted into the cart. Perforce in the back with the hamper and a large sack of something-or-another, since Lance was occupying the place next the driver.
“Wait! Can’t I come?” screeched Anne at the last minute.
“Let her go," said Damian Buffitt mildly. “It’s not a geography day, is it?”
Rose opened her mouth in indecision.
“No,” said Dick Dingley grimly. “It’s too far: we won’t be back till past dark. –Get up!” he added fiercely to the bony old horse.
The horse jolted into a reluctant and ungainly gait, and Miss Buffitt was off on her great adventure.
“Good-bye! Good-bye!” cried the assembled Buffitts.
Peg waved very hard, and cried: “Good-bye!” and tried to look cheerful.
At the very last moment, as the cart rounded the bend in the muddy, rutted lane, the Buffitt front gate was observed to give way under the joint weights of Bertie, Lilibet, and Bessy Dingley; and the last sight that Peg had of her home was of a commotion and a tangle of flailing arms and legs; and the last sound that of loud yelps of surprise and pain…
“Your lot all over,” grunted Mr Dingley into the silence that had fallen.
“Yes,” admitted Lance with an uneasy grin. His experience of the wider world was little more than his sister’s, but certainly the example of his brother-in-law’s house, and a never-to-be-forgotten visit to Aunt Honeywell had suggested to him that normal people did not live in a state of continual chaos.
“I like it,” said Peg in a small voice.
Mr Dingley sniffed. And silence fell again.
Next chapter:
https://pegbuffitt-aregencynovel.blogspot.com/2023/06/best-laid-plans.html