Another Miss Buffitt

16

Another Miss Buffitt

    The Buffitt sisters were returning, arm-in-arm, from an early walk in the Park. Having escaped Nancy Uckridge’s company this morning by the simple expedient of lying to her. At least, Peg had lied, while Anne had sat by mumchance, her cheeks on fire.

    “Who is that?” gasped Anne in horror, gripping her sister’s arm fiercely as a large, black-draped figure was seen to descend from a carriage outside the Beresford house.

    Peg stared. “It can’t be,” she croaked.

    They watched open-mouthed as the large figure was seen to flow, rather walk, over the pavement, up the steps…

    “It is! Great-Aunt Portwinkle!” hissed Anne. “No-one else walks like a big featherbed!”

    “She never comes to London,” said Peg very, very faintly.

    “She has now! Horrors, can Pa have writ her that he ordered Mr Beresford to propose to you?”

    “Don’t be silly,” said Peg, turning scarlet.

    “I know you don’t want to discuss it, Peg-Peg, but—”

    “I’ve told you a thousand times Pa did it in order to put his back up and prevent his offering!” she hissed angrily.

    “Ye-es… Well, knowing Pa, anything is possible. But don’t you want him to?”

    “No, of course not,” said Peg grimly. “We have nothing in common and have been at loggerheads ever since we set eyes on each other.”

    “You can’t have been: Lance said he was knocked out when you first—”

    “That’s enough!”

    There was a short silence.

    “It is her,” said Anne in a small voice.

    “Mm, I think it is. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to shout,” said Peg remorsefully, giving her arm a squeeze.

    Anne smiled faintly. “That’s all right. Um, Peg, do you think perhaps she’s come to stop us?”

    “From being turned into young ladies? Well,” she said, as Anne nodded vigorously, her eyes wide with horror, “given her reputation in the family, that is not impossible.”

    “Do you think he will be able to stop her?” she quavered.

    Peg snorted. “What, Mr B.? No! He is a mere man-about-town. It would take a Wellington to stand up to Great-Aunt Portwinkle.”

    Suddenly Anne gave a mad giggle. “You know him! Send him a message, quick!”

    Peg grinned reluctantly. “I don’t really know him, unfortunately! –I wonder if she’s brought Alice?”

    Anne stuck out the chin that was very like Peg’s. “Not, I can assure you, if she imagined poor darling Alice would consider it a treat!”

    Peg took a deep breath. “No. –Come on. Best get it over with.”

    Anne scrambled to keep up as she stumped on grimly.

    It was her. Occupying, by the time they got there, wholly three-quarters of a fair-sized sofa. What with the billows, and the black pelisse over the billows, and the layers of wraps over that— Aunt Sissy was sitting on a small chair looking positively miniature in comparison, not to say cowed. Horrible was next her, her face very red, so there was no doubt at all she had opened her mouth and crammed her great boot into it. And next to Horrible was a neat young woman in a dull snuff gown and an abysmal black bonnet—

    “Alice!” cried Peg, rushing forward. “She brought you!”

    Anne also rushed forward, and the three sisters embraced ecstatically, Anne into the bargain bursting into tears of joy.

    After quite some time they became aware that a cross old voice was saying: “Manners, Misses! Manners!” And they turned to face Great-Aunt Portwinkle…

    Peg’s dainty cambric gown, charming shawl and frivolous bonnet were condemned out of hand as “Fol-de-rol and furbelows.” Into the bargain, she should have known better (why, not apparent) than to let Anne parade herself in a pretty sprig muslin, with which the wearer had been very pleased until this moment. The à la modality of Anne’s straw bonnet rated “Unseemly nonsense.” No-one dared to enquire how a bonnet could be unseemly, and certainly not to comment upon the fact that Great-Aunt Portwinkle herself was sporting an enormous black hat of the sort hitherto glimpsed only upon the portraits of Sir Horace Monday’s mamma and sisters at Monday Hall. And rather more latterly upon a portrait of Miss Merlina Greenstreet which the proud father and artist had modestly characterised as “Gainsborough-esque.” And which the Mediaeval page, sniggering, had corrected to “Mrs Siddons, wivaht the wig!” All in all, Miss Sissy Laidlaw and Mr Beresford between them were leading the girls into habits of extravagance, frivolity, and vanity, the which was only to be expected.

    Throughout the entire harangue the face of Alice Buffitt remained serene and unmoved, but then, the girls had expected this: poor Alice had been with Great-Aunt Portwinkle since she was sixteen years of age, the which anniversary had coincided with a particularly exigent pecuniary crisis in the Buffitt household. Great-Aunt Portwinkle, apprised of the crisis by a desperate Rose, had descended, paid the debts, refused to give any Buffitt actual cash in the hand, and grimly removed Alice, remarking that she seemed docile and reasonably intelligent for one of his brats (Great-Aunt Portwinkle was a Laidlaw, not a Buffitt), and it would be one less mouth for Rose to feed. Had Alice lapsed into screaming hysteria Rose would of course have refused to let her go: but she did not. And in fact, when cornered by Rose, Maria and Peg as she began her meagre packing, had remarked coolly: “At least there will be plenty to eat in her house, and as she always naps in the afternoons, I shall be able to browse in Great-Uncle Portwinkle’s library to my heart’s content. And I don’t mind if she makes me read sermons to her, Peg: I can always occupy my mind, if all else fails, with an examination of the fallacies in the writers’ arguments.” Alice Buffitt, in short, had inherited all of the detachment which characterised both parents, and very little of the sensibility of either. And absolutely none of her father’s dreaminess and impracticability. If, in the wake of the removal, there had been tears shed into the pillow of the large bed in the lonely bedroom in Great-Aunt Portwinkle’s dark, quiet house several hours’ drive out of Bath, certainly none of the family had been apprised of them. Alice Buffitt, her hand having once been set to the plough, was not one to look back.

    Being a year younger than Maria, Alice was now twenty-two years of age; and since Great-Aunt Portwinkle rarely travelled, Peg and Anne had not seen her for the six years of her incarceration. She did not seem to have changed: she was a little taller, perhaps. She was one of the golden Buffitts, the hair very like Peg’s and Anne’s, but with a more oval face. Her eyes were a limpid grey, and the serene expression, which her sisters remembered very well, hid, as they also remembered very well, considerable strength of character.

    Great-Aunt Portwinkle not deigning to explain the reason for her unannounced arrival in her great-nephew’s house, the girls got Alice upstairs as soon as was humanly possible, and proceeded to interrogate her.

    Alice twinkled at them. “Well, my dears, Cousin Joseph Portwinkle has blotted his copybook, and we are on a rescue mission. No, more a sortie to crush the enemy,” she said with relish.

    Peg, Anne and Horrible did complex calculations on their fingers. “I thought he was dead?” produced Horrible feebly at last.

    “No, that was Great-Uncle Portwinkle’s brother, his grandfather. Cousin Joseph Portwinkle is the eldest son of Cousin Harold Portwinkle. You may not have heard of him,” she said to her sisters, “but I think Horrible will have.”

    “He isn’t the one she struck out of the family Bible, is he?” she croaked.

    “No. Goodness, do you remember that?”

    Horrible nodded palely. “We were visiting the week she did it. I think I was only about eight, but it was not something one could forget: like the wrath of God,” she explained redundantly. “Um—oh! In that case, is Cousin Harold the one that nearly married an actress?”

    Alice nodded, smiling. “Of course. Great-Uncle Portwinkle in person had to prevent it. Great-Aunt Portwinkle would not tell me in so many words what he did, but I think he simply paid her off. Then she got him safely married to a Miss Phelps from a respectable family in Portsmouth, who were prepared to give him a house and an income along with Miss Phelps.”

    “So it was passed along to the son, then, Alice?” said Peg eagerly.

    “The partiality for unsuitable women? Exactly.”

    “Buh-but how old is he?” croaked Anne, counting on her fingers again.

    “Old enough to know better,” she said primly.

    “We are all that, Alice!” Horrible reminded her with a laugh.

    When they were all over the resultant giggles Alice conceded: “Well, from the way Great-Aunt Portwinkle speaks of him, one would imagine he is a silly lad of no more than twenty summers.” She waited, but no-one was foolish enough to suggest he must be the youngest of Cousin Harold’s children, not even Anne. “Thirty-seven,” she said, looking prim.

    The girls could not forebear to gulp.

    “The which possibly explains the urgency of the rescue,” she added calmly.

    “It must do,” croaked Horrible.

    “Yes,” said Peg feebly. “Thirty-seven? Help.”

    “Who is she?” demanded Anne avidly.

    “What is she, would be a more pertinent enquiry, my dear,” replied Alice, twinkling. Peg picked up a pillow in threatening manner, so she added quickly: “A widow: our great-aunt has declared her a painted hussy and no better than she should be.”

    There was a dubious silence, and then Peg pointed out: “But Alice, she’d say that anyway.”

    “No, well, the Phelpses are all convinced she is after his money.”

    “Good luck to her,” decided Peg, sticking the chin out.

    “Absolutely!” agreed Horrible.

    “Yes,” said Anne, nodding. “Unless she is really horrid, of course.”

    Peg frowned. “She may be really horrid, but should not any man have the right to go to perdition in his own way? Added to which, why should Great-Aunt Portwinkle’s opinion be considered more correct than poor Cousin Joseph Portwinkle’s?”

    Alice looked dry. “My dear! Seniority, wisdom, greater judgement—” But Peg fell upon her with the pillow, laughing, and beat her unmercifully, and so the topic lapsed.

    “But will she let you stay with us while she goes on down to Portsmouth?” asked Peg some time later, holding her sister’s hand rather tightly.

    “Not if you continue to deck yourself in those frivolous and unsuitable garments, Peg-Peg! –No: I’m sorry!” she said with a laugh. “I think she may do, for it would not do to expose my innocence to the painted hussy.”

    The girls nodded, but after a moment Anne quavered: “How long will the interval be, Alice?”

    “I have no notion,” she said serenely. “But it depends in part upon the suitability of the fare at Cousin B.’s board.”

    The girls looked blankly at one another, and Horrible ventured: “There is nothing wrong with the food here, Alice.”

    “No, it is delicious, and only guess! Last night we had early strawberries!” squeaked Anne.

    “Frivolous and extravagant,” she said faintly, shutting her eyes.

    Peg got up determinedly. “Don’t worry: I shall speak to Cook and Mrs Best, the housekeeper.” She hurried out.

    Alice looked wildly at Anne. “Good gracious! Will she, Annie-Pannie?”

    “Yes: she has the servants eating out of her hand, did Ma not write as much?” she said eagerly. “For I certainly writ it to her!”

    “No, at least, we have been on the road at Great-Aunt Portwinkle’s pace for some time, so she may have done.”

    “Shall I leave you two alone?” asked Horrible delicately.

    Alice smiled at her. “No, please, Horrible; that is, if reports have not lied and you desire as much as we to see Peg and Cousin Jack B. united in H.M.!”

    “H.— Oh: Holy Matrimony,” said Horrible with a silly grin. “Yes, I do, actually. Um, Mamma has not written you, Alice, has she?”

    “Not me, no: she is forced to write our great-aunt regular dispatches, did you not know?”

    “Oh, yes,” she recalled feebly.

    “Help, but Alice!” gasped Anne. “Does that mean she knows everything?”

    “As much as Cousin Charlotte Laidlaw does, certainly,” said Alice, eyeing Horrible drily.

    That indomitable young maiden gulped, and admitted: “Mamma is as putty in her hands.”

    Anne looked from one to the other of them in horror.

    “We may live retired, my dears,” summed up Alice with considerable relish, twinkling very much, “but rest assured, every minutest item of your history, adventures up at Chelford Place with Bon-Dutton scions included, as well as every jot, tittle, and iota of Peg’s sojourn in London, is known to us!”

    Anne gulped. “Not every jot and tittle,” she said very, very faintly.

    “In that case, dearest Anne, I shall share that palatial bedroom which we know you occupy, and you can tell me the rest of it tonight!”

    “Um—very well,” she said limply. “Of course. Um, only Mrs Best will probably give you a room of your own.”

    “Never mind, I’ll creep in anyway.”

    “Yes,” said Anne, with a wary eye on the door. “I’m terribly glad you’ve come, Alice: me and Horrible don’t know what to do about Peg, do we?”

    “No, and even Lady Stamforth’s efforts have resulted in nothing. Worse than nothing, actually,” admitted Horrible, also with an eye on the door.

    “‘That Portuguese woman, no better than she should be’?” quoted Alice, this time frankly laughing. “I cannot wait to meet her!”

    Anne and Horrible smiled feebly and did not quite dare to inform Alice that Lady Stamforth was all that was charming and kind, and that only the prejudiced shared Great-Aunt Portwinkle’s opinion of her. Both of them, even the indomitable Horrible, felt a little cowed now that their humble selves were exposed to the unadulterated force of Alice Buffitt’s serenely determined personality.

    Mr Beresford had been out all day, and was late for dinner. The girls waited gleefully: Peg, Anne and Horrible in the meekest of white muslins, and Alice, having refused borrowed plumage, looking quite serene in a travesty of a greyish-fawn thing which their great-aunt had ordained she wear in the evenings. It had the most modest of necklines imaginable, and long sleeves. The fact that it was silk was beside the point: sackcloth and ashes was the impression, whatever the actual stuff. Great-Aunt Portwinkle herself, having napped most of the afternoon, was in fine fettle in acres of flowing black silk of the heaviest sort, topped with a giant lace tucker of a kind which Horrible could hazily remember Great-Grandmother Laidlaw having worn but which neither Peg nor Anne had heretofore sighted on an actual living being. The abundant white hair was piled up in a sort of bird’s-nest effect, under a giant muslin cap bedecked with more lace and a giant knot of black ribbon. The neck was encircled with more black ribbon, and over the mountainous bosom and its lace tucker dangled—no, spread, rather—a double string of large pearls, the which Alice had already apprised the girls she would not risk leaving at home and in fact had carried on her person in a black cloth bag all the way. This was supplemented by a heavy gold chain which supported the lorgnette, and a thinner gold chain which supported a large miniature of the late Great-Uncle Portwinkle framed in gold dotted with what Alice had ordered them to feign belief were small rubies. –Garnets, she had it from Aunt Honeywell herself. And not to mention that name unless she did.

    He came in. His jaw dropped. Alice remained serene, but the younger girls exchanged gleeful glances.

    “You remember Aunt Portwinkle, Jack, dear,” said Miss Sissy feebly.

    “Er—of course,” he said, with a visible effort. “Good evening, Great-Aunt Portwinkle.” The girls watched gleefully as he came to salute the handful of rings.

    She looked him up and down. “Fiddle-dee-dee,” she said.

    The younger Buffitts’ eyes shone. Horrible barely suppressed a snigger.

    “Er—may I welcome you to London?” he said feebly.

    “No, you may not. I never saw such a scarecrow in all me life. Where are your breeches, pray?”

    Horrible had not dared to hope for this. She shook helplessly. Anne gulped, and clapped a hand over her mouth.

    Naturally Mr Beresford was in black pantaloons. He was seen to swallow, but rallied to reply politely: “Satin knee-breeches are generally worn only at Court, ma’am.”

    “Indecent,” stated Great-Aunt Portwinkle grimly.

    Mr Beresford glanced helplessly at Miss Sissy, but she merely looked back at him apologetically. “Er—I could change. I fear it would mean delaying dinner, however.”

    “Delaying dinner further, I collect you mean. Certainly not. I think you have already insulted Sissy and your young guests sufficiently.”

    “Y— Uh—this is what I customarily wear for dinner, ma’am,” he stuttered.

    “Kindly do not play off your tricks with me, Jack Beresford. I remember you in long coats widdling on your sainted grandmother’s drawing-room rug.”

    Miss Sissy gave an audible gasp, Horrible collapsed in splutters, and Peg and Anne shook helplessly. Only Alice Buffitt remained completely unmoved.

    “That will do, Hortensia. If you cannot behave like a lady, you should not venture down to dinner. –You may apologise for your lateness, and then you may give me your arm, sir.”

    “Oh,” he said feebly. “I see. I apologise for my tardiness, Aunt Sissy—young ladies.”

    The young ladies looked at him limply. Eventually Miss Sissy quavered: “Not at all, Jack, dear; you are not so very late.”

    “Well?” demanded Great-Aunt Portwinkle.

    Attempting without success to smile, Mr Beresford gave her his arm in to dinner.

    The agony lasted three whole days. Horrible maintained that Cousin Jack’s first encounter with her was the best, but conceded that Mr Valentine’s morning call had been good. Mrs Portwinkle had supposed that he called himself a Pink of the Ton. Mr Valentine had attempted to issue a modest disclaimer but had been silenced by the information that in her day a gentleman would not have dared to show himself abroad without a decent pair of breeches. True, he did admit, as she graciously allowed him to squire the girls to the Park, having first obtained the fullest details of his circumstances and ancestry from him, that all families had ’em: nevertheless. Mr Roddy Calhoun and Captain Lord Ludo Delahunty, calling later the same day, had not dared to invite anybody to anything and had simply crept away again. And she had not even mentioned breeches or indecency! Certain innocent persons might have supposed that Lord Michael Fitz-Clancy would have been an harder nut to crack. No such thing. She remembered his eldest brother’s wedding very well, and supposed that he was a grandfather several times over, now. His Lordship retiring discomforted, Horrible was emboldened to say: “I suppose you would not care for me to kiss you, Great-Aunt Portwinkle?”

    The formidable old lady merely eyed her drily and said: “Very well, then.” And Horrible duly saluted her large, wrinkled cheek. Concluding, once she was safely upstairs for her afternoon nap: “I can see why you like her, Alice.”

    To which Alice replied simply: “Yes.”

    Well before Great-Aunt Portwinkle departed for Portsmouth, Alice Buffitt had had every known detail of Peg’s sojourn in London out of, variously, Horrible, Miss Sissy, Mina Benedict, and Lady Stamforth herself. All of whom were as putty in the capable eldest Miss Buffitt’s hands. She also put Peg under interrogation, in particular in re Mr Beresford, and got only angry denials from her. From which it was pretty clear that she did care for him, and that if Pa had not interfered, all might be well on the way to being resolved, and the Buffitt family’s fortunes, to put it crudely, made. Alice thought it all over carefully and then approached her sister again.

    “Once Great-Aunt Portwinkle goes, Peg-Peg, dearest, I shall be able to burst upon the gaze of the great metropolis in borrowed plumage, and take over any of your suitors whom you should not want. So I think we had best get it clear which of them you do want.”

    “I do not think,” said Peg, very flushed, and putting that chin in the air, “that any of them are serious. And I certainly do not think you are, so we may we drop the subject?”

    Alice replied calmly: “Of course I am serious: how many chances do you think I will have of getting to London? This is the first time in the last four years our great-aunt has gone further than the village.”

    Peg gulped. “Um, doesn’t she even go to Bath, any more?”

    “No. She orders her relatives to come to her, instead.”

    “Oh, help. I think Ma thought that—um—that’d you go to the Pump Room and so forth.”

    “I am sure. But we don’t,” she said briefly. “Well?”

    Peg licked her lips. “Um, well, Admiral Dauntry is just a silly old flirt.”

    “I see. And Lord Michael Fitz-Clancy, whom Great-Aunt Portwinkle routed so successfully?”

    Peg made an involuntary face.

    “You had best let me have him,” she said calmly.

    “I know you are waiting for me to mention his big red nose,” she said grimly.

    Alice’s clever eyes twinkled, but she merely nodded.

    “Very well, I admit it is an impediment, in my eyes,” said Peg grimly.

    Alice replied mildly: “It is a large nose, though not too large for a tall, strong-featured man, and I would not characterise it as particularly red, so shall we put him at the head of the list? I assure you, Mr Fogarty’s nose is far, far less attractive.”

    “Is that your curate?”

    “No, that is the younger Mr Fogarty. I meant his uncle. Great-Aunt Portwinkle thinks that he would be able to support me in comfort.”

    The family had heard nothing of this. “His uncle? How old is he?” croaked Peg.

    “Oh, a man of mature years. Well, he is a grandfather several times over, having buried two wives. But the neighbourhood is at one in agreeing he is hanging out for a third.”

    “Alice, why didn’t you mention this?” said Peg angrily. “You cannot marry a man who is a grandfather! Ma would have ten fits!”

    “No, well, our little district does not offer many opportunities. None, in fact.”

    “Then you must have Lord Michael.”

    “Thank you, but he certainly appeared quite épris, Peg,” she said cautiously. “Do you think there is any hope of my weaning his affections off you? –No, seriously,” she said as Peg opened her mouth to protest.

    Certainly she was at the moment dressed like a dowd; but Alice Buffitt was very pretty indeed. So Peg responded: “Well, seriously, yes. You are much prettier than me. And more mature. In fact, if you don’t mind the nose, it would be the very thing! Um, there is Lord Geddings, too, I suppose.”

    “Is there? I thought he was blowing hot and cold? And is there not the impediment of the Hero of Waterloo to be got over, there?”

    “I am sure if anyone could rout him, it would be you, Alice!” said Peg with a laugh. “Um, well, I suppose he is blowing hot and cold, yes. Well, we have been for several drives, now, and he has told me about his family home…”

    “That is promising,” said Alice, smiling, but watching her face carefully.

    Peg looked dubious. “To tell you the truth, although he is very charming, when we drive out he treats me rather as a niece, than anything. Actually, I think he is a lonely man, who wants a family.”

    Alice continued to observe her narrowly. “Peg-Peg, that seems very promising, to me. Perhaps if you were to exert yourself?” Peg looked dubious, and she murmured: “Smile at him encouragingly, perhaps?”

    “Well, perhaps I could try. There are plenty of models in London, if I cannot recall exactly how Anne used to do it with that nephew of Sir Horace’s,” she ended heavily.

    Alice bit her lip. “Peg-Peg, not if you cannot care for the man.”

    Peg moved uneasily. “I respect him too much to wish to marry him without loving him. Um, you need not remind me of my duty to the family,” she said, going very red.

    Alice had not been going to do any such thing. “No,” she said mildly. “It would not be wholly dishonourable, Peg, if you like him, and if he wishes to marry you. Provided that you fulfilled the duties of a wife to the best of your ability—which I am quite sure you would. Tell me a little more about him.”

    Peg gnawed on her lip and finally produced: “You know they say he is Wellington’s mouthpiece, of course?”

    Alice nodded. “Yes; I have read the reports of his speeches in the House of Lords.”

    “Yes; but he is more than that, I think. And—well, all the word knows he has ambitions…” Her voice trailed off. Finally she admitted in a small voice: “I do not think I would like to be a diplomatic hostess.”

    “Horrible thinks you would do it very well,” said her sister cautiously.

    “I think I could do it,” she conceded. “It requires merely a grasp of recent history and a knowledge of the personalities. But I am afraid that after a little, it would pall.”

    Alice’s serenity remained unshaken. She murmured: “Pall? When you would be living in the great cities of Europe, consorting with the people who make history?”

    “If you will look at the recent history of Europe, I doubt that is so. Consorting with the people most likely to have their heads cut off by the people who really make history!” corrected Peg vigorously.

    Alice’s limpid grey eyes twinkled, but she did not laugh. “Even so,” she murmured.

    “It would pall,” she repeated tightly.

    Her sister looked at her thoughtfully. “Peg, my dear, what do you want, if not that?”

    Peg went very red. “I don’t know,” she growled.

    Alice did not press the point. She said lightly: “Well, if Lord Michael Fitz-Clancy’s adventuring days are over, perhaps you had best decide to settle down with him, instead: persuade him to buy a snug little estate, not too far from town; then you may easily come up for the Season every year. That would afford a pleasant variety.”

    Peg looked cross. “A pleasant variety, with just me, him, and the nose!”

    “No, well, one of those pretty boys by whom, I am assured, you are surrounded?”

    Her sister responded without enthusiasm: “I suppose one might make something of Bobby C.-S., if one got him away from the stupid clubs and so forth.”

    “I see. I really think, Peg-Peg, that you had best allow me to take over one of the ones most likely to be able to support the Buffitt family in comfort for the rest of its life. Then you will not have to fall back on a Bobby Anything, and may take your time over the whole thing. –Pray do not tell me that is mercenary: it is merely realistic.”

    “Dearest Alice, you should not have to do it—it is not fair,” said Peg shakily.

    “You mean, not fair that I should be the sacrifice on the altar of family duty? But I shall be a willing sacrifice, where you would not! Recollect, my alternative is old Mr Fogarty.”

    Peg gave her a hard look. “Was any of that true?”

    “Certainly,” she said calmly. “Ask Great-Aunt Portwinkle.”

    Peg rose, a very determined look round her mouth. “I shall.”

    She did. Great-Aunt Portwinkle’s reply was: “Certainly we have hopes of Mr Fogarty for Alice. A most respectable man, and Alice feels just as she ought on the subject.”

    And Peg tottered off to find Alice, very white, and said to her: “I apologise for doubting your word, Alice. Take any of my suitors you wish.”

    “Thank you! I shall start the minute she leaves!” she said, laughing a little.

    Mina Benedict’s opinion was that the Buffitt sisters were about to discover that gentlemen were not like pieces of cake, to be handed round as one wished: but her stepmamma, laughing, merely declared “Wait and see!”

    They did not have very long to wait.

    … “Three of them!” said Mr Roddy Calhoun ecstatically. “It’s like that poem!”

    Mina gave him a sour look. “What poem? ‘When lovely woman stoops to folly’?”

    “No!” he gasped. “Um, something about nothin’ to show more fair.”

    “What? That is not about— Oh, forget it,” she sighed. They watched, Mr Calhoun enviously, and Miss Benedict sardonically, as the three Buffitt sisters smiled upon Mr Bobby Cantrell-Sprague.

    “You’re right,” she concluded. “It is like a poem. ‘Wee, sleekit, cow’rin’, tim’rous beastie, O what a panic’s in thy breastie.’ He don’t know which of them to flatter first!”

    … “The Three Graces,” explained Mr Rowbotham.

    “Been reading books, Wilf?” drawled Geddings. His Lordship had been thinking the thing over, and had almost decided that though Miss Buffitt was delightful, she was too young for him. The even more evident youth of the naïve Miss Anne Buffitt having, alas, been an influence in this regard. Not to say, the spectacle of the two of them giggling together like a pair of schoolgirls. The news that another Miss Buffitt was in town was not, therefore, of much interest to him. Nor, indeed, a topic he particularly cared for, at this juncture.

    “No: m’brother Ceddie says they’re like some dashed painting or another.”

    Geddings choked, in spite of himself.

    “They say t’newest one’s a bit like the Fürstin,” the elegant one reported.

    “God,” replied Geddings incautiously.

    Delighted, Mr Rowbotham went into a spluttering fit. “No,” he admitted, mopping his eyes: “in looks, only.”

    “Oh? But they are not Beresfords,” he murmured.

    “You’d know,” conceded Mr Rowbotham cheerfully. “Ain’t seen ’em yet, meself. Assured it’s a sight for sore eyes. Dare say they’ll be at the Livermore hop tonight. You going?”

    He shrugged. “I may.”

    Mr Rowbotham was quite pleased with this response, for the whole conversation had been a bow at a venture. And trotted off to report to his relatives that he would offer six to four on Geddings’s making an offer for the little Buffitt after all, for he had apparently taken the trouble to find out about the family. And by the way, he was dashed sure that whoever was fated to become the Fürstin’s son-in-law, it weren’t him. But if there was any takers, he’d be glad to offer three to one against G. To which his sister-in-law, who had at one point held out hopes for one of her own daughters there, merely responded with a frown. And to which Sir Cedric, who had very nearly given Wilf up as a lost cause, responded coldly: “I could only wish you would take an interest in just such a respectable young woman, Wilf.”

    Mr Rowbotham subsided, gulping.

    The Livermore ball was as boring as one might have expected. Even the spectacle of the three Buffitts taking the town by storm began rapidly to pall; the more so as the fifth misguided acquaintance informed the Fürstin that the third sister did so remind one of herself in her girlhood. The fact that Lady Stamforth had chosen this evening to wear a cloud of Chantilly while she herself was in black lace over pale lemon satin did not help. Nor did Admiral du Fresne’s informing her that her choice of shades was far more striking. The sacrée P.W. was half her age!

    His Grace of Wellington was tonight favouring the flattered Mrs Livermore with his presence: he came over, smiling, to join the Fürstin and l’Amiral du Fresne, remarking: “So those are the Three Graces of whom one has heard so much this past week!”

    “En effet,” Fanny agreed smoothly. “One must concede they are pretty, no? Whilst at the same time deploring Lady Stamforth’s decision to dress them in that fashion.”

    His Grace smiled: the three sisters were dressed alike, in white gauze over white silk, the three heads of glorious golden curls being adorned with a wreath of white flowers and silver ribands, a wreath of white flowers and gold ribands, and a wreath of white flowers and pale blue ribands. “But I would have said she does well not to feign to ignore the reference!”

    “Oh, quite: given the choice, you know!” agreed the Admiral, laughing.

    The Fürstin raised her delicate eyebrows. “You gentlemen must be the experts, of course.” And firmly changed the subject.

    During the course of the evening female opinion was consolidated pretty much in accord with that of the Fürstin, Miss Abbott going so far as to declare that the Buffitts were apparently under the impression that it was a fancy-dress ball.

    Oddly enough, consolidated female opinion did not prevent the three Buffitt sisters being besieged by gentlemen hopeful of a dance. All the usual suitors were favoured, and it was noted that Mr Valentine got two with little Miss Anne. After a while it became clear that there was a certain competition amongst the younger men, the object being to get dances with all three Graces before the night was o’er. Not unnaturally, the beauteous Mr Bobby Cantrell-Sprague was the first to accomplish this feat, and became odiously puffed-up on account of it.

    Mr Beresford had escorted his Aunt Sissy and his young guests, though perhaps, as the middle-aged Mr Tobias Vane was faithfully squiring Lady Stamforth, there had been no absolute need for him to do so. Although his arm was out of its sling, he was observed not to dance. After a while Mr Hattersby-Lough tracked him down to the card room.

    “This is a ball, y’know,” he drawled, as Mr Beresford’s whist table broke up, with Mr Beresford a heavy winner.

    He pocketed his winnings, shrugging. “In that case, Hatters, I suggest you go and dance.”

    “Where’ve they been hiding this third Grace?” he drawled.

    “If you are referring to one of my connexions, Hatters,” he said dangerously, “I shall have to request you not to do so.”

    “Er—very well, old fellow,” he said numbly. He fidgeted. “Look, was thinkin’ of gettin’ up a party for the Derby: you interested, Jack?”

    The Derby was still some time off, but Mr Beresford responded immediately: “No.”

    “Uh—me uncle’s place ain’t far, thought we might stay with them, drive over for the race—no?” he said numbly.

    “No.”

    Reddening, Mr Hattersby-Lough pursued: “Val said he might come down.”

    “Really? If you wish for his company, I advise you not to pass any remarks about any of my young connexions in his hearing,” he said sweetly. “Was there something else?”

    Very red indeed, Mr Hattersby-Lough turned on his heel and left him.

    Mr Rowbotham fared rather better. He came up and watched silently as Mr Beresford dealt himself a hand of patience and got it out. Then he said: “Well done, Jack. Not dancing, I see? Very wise. Your cousins are besieged: a fellow cannot get near ’em.”

    “Sit down, Wilf. Hand of piquet? –Play you for love,” he added drily.

    Mr Rowbotham blinked, rather, but sat down. “Must congratulate you on the eldest Miss Buffitt,” he said glumly.

    “Oh? –Cut.”

    Mr Rowbotham cut the cards. “Elegant thing. One cannot get near her,” he said glumly.

    Jack’s mouth twitched a little. “I see. They will all be at home on Thursday afternoon, should you care to call.”

    “Well, thanks very much, old man!” he said brightening. “Salon, or some such, is it?”

    “Miss Buffitt has certainly promised she will play and sing, but I would not go that far. Still willing to risk it?”

    “Oh, more than ever!” They played for some time, Mr Rowbotham’s opponent taking all the tricks, and then he said cautiously: “I think the younger Buffitt girls do not play an instrument?”

    “No,” murmured Mr Beresford. Mr Rowbotham merely looked mild, so he found himself explaining that Alice Buffitt had spent the last six years with her Great-Aunt Portwinkle, who had kindly provided her with music lessons.

    “I see. Pity Geddings ain’t here.” He played a card and looked mournfully at his opponent’s response to this incautious gambit.

    “Geddings?” said Mr Beresford neutrally.

    “All I meant was,” he said hurriedly, “sounds as if she’d be more suitable for him than the younger girls. Not that they ain’t perfectly charming!” he added hurriedly.

    Mr Beresford sighed; he was not all bad, poor old Wilf. “Mm. –Did you mean to play that?”

    “Yes,” he admitted, watching sadly as Mr Beresford prepared to capot him.

    When the supper was served the two gentlemen were still playing, and at Mr Rowbotham’s suggestion strolled off to it together. “Join my relatives?” suggested Mr Beresford kindly.

    Lady Stamforth’s party seemed to have become joined up with Mrs Uckridge’s. “No!” he gasped, grabbing at his sleeve.

    “Wilf, you’re mangling my coat.”

    “Eh? Oh, terribly sorry, dear old boy! Er—don’t let’s, if you don’t mind. Ceddie’s taken it into his head,” he explained palely, “that Miss Uckridge would do for yours truly.”

    “Then of course we shan’t join them,” said Jack kindly, refraining from pointing out that as Miss Nancy Uckridge seemed to have become bosom-bows with Peg and Anne, it was odds-on they’d be putting in an appearance on Thursday afternoon.

    “Thanks, old man. ’T’ain’t only that the Greek profile’s a bit much: thing is, she’s one of them cold naggers.”

    “I perfectly understand, Wilf.”

    “Could join up with your Aunt Fanny, if she’s given up throwing little Princess Anna at your head?” he suggested kindly.

    Mr Beresford followed the direction of his gaze. His lips tightened. Aunt Fanny, who had been observed when they arrived to be in the company of Admiral du Fresne, was now supping with him. “I think not.”

    “Lionel Dewesbury was offering six to four on du Fresne at White’s t’other day,” said Mr Rowbotham helpfully. “When you think it was ten to one, back at the beginning of April—!”

    Quite. Mr Beresford said nothing.

    “Er, nothin’ wrong with him, y’know, Jack,” said Mr Rowbotham in a puzzled voice to the silence. “Gave up the Princesse P. over a dozen years back: have that for a fact. Well, y’know she wanted to marry off that daughter of hers that they said was his to Lady Rock.’s brother, but it fell through? He found some French fellow for her, y’see, that’s his cousin’s son, so the odds are she weren’t his, after all. Had given her up years before that, of course, and m’brother Ceddie’s opinion is that finding this fellow was noblesse oblige—felt he owed her that much, y’see. Well, dare say you’ve seen him escorting her here and there more than once over the last few years—have meself—but y’see, Ceddie says that’s the same thing: noblesse oblige. Gentleman of the old school. Mind you, they say she’s still mad as fire with him.”

    Mr Beresford did not criticise the somewhat muddled selection of personal pronouns in this speech: he merely nodded grimly.

    “Er—does your Cousin Georg not care for it, that it, Jack?”

    “What? No. At least, I don’t know. Not that Aunt Fanny would take any notice of him. Or of anybody,” he ended grimly.

    “Er—no. Um—join up with me sister, Prue, then?”

    Mr Beresford agreed, and they made their way to the table of the unalarming Prue Armitage, who did not have any sons of marriageable age who might be tempted to dangle after the Buffitt sisters, and whose one little daughter had just become respectably engaged to a very young Mr Ketteridge. Jack knew the latter slightly: he was from a Bath family; and after the greetings and congratulations on the engagement were over, kindly allowed him to talk horseflesh to him, the which allowed his mind plenty of freedom to reflect that he had best send post-haste to Uncle George, warning him to make very sure that two stout fellows kept a strict eye on Lance every moment of the day. For if damned Aunt Fanny continued to flaunt Admiral du Fresne in her train in that fashion, there was no saying how incensed the Princesse P. might become. And better safe than sorry.

    “What did you think, Alice?” asked Peg nervously, as her sisters followed her to her room in the wake of the Livermore ball.

    “That the noses of most of the matrons and all of the débutantes of London town appear thoroughly out of joint, Peg,” replied Alice on a dry note.

    “Yes!” squeaked Anne, collapsing in giggles. “Everyone is calling us the Three Graces, did you know?”

    “Yes. Run off to bed, Annie-Pannie, you need your beauty sleep,” she said lightly.

    Reddening, Anne went slowly over to the door. “I am not a baby, you know!”

    “Stay, and be embarrassed, then,” said Alice drily.

    “Um—no!” she gasped, disappearing.

    Peg looked nervously at her older sister. “What did you think?”

    Alice sat down on the edge of Peg’s bed with a sigh. “I thought they were a collection of worthless fribbles. Including Mr Valentine, before you ask. But since Anne is not very bright either, I dare say they will deal extremely.”

    “He—um, I suppose there is nothing much to him. But I think he is a man of decent instincts,” ventured Peg.

    “In that case, I shall not ask you what Pa’s opinion of him was.”

    “N— Um, do you think he will not let him have Anne?” she gulped.

    “I think,” said Alice slowly, “though one should not say such a thing of one’s papa, that he will be silly enough to try to prevent it, yes. But I also think that Ma’s better sense will prevail.”

    “Yes,” said Peg, sagging. “Good.”

    “Lord Michael Fitz-Clancy,” she said slowly, “is perhaps not so bad, though.”

    Peg looked at her hopefully.

    “Well,” admitted Alice, “he has asked me to drive out with him, so we shall see. And Lady Stamforth certainly seems convinced he is in London in search of a wife and not of mere amusement.”

    Peg nodded numbly.

    “A pity Lord Geddings was not there tonight,” said Alice lightly.

    “Yes. Um, he did know I intended going… I think he has cooled off,” admitted Peg in a small voice.

    “Is that so bad?” she said lightly.

    “Not for me. But I thought he might do for you.”

    Alice rose, smiling, and came to kiss her cheek. “There will be time yet for me to meet him! Goodnight, dearest Peg-Peg.”

    Peg hugged her warmly. “I wish you had not had to go to Great-Aunt Portwinkle,” she said in a muffled voice.

    Alice smiled slightly. “I suppose I do, too. But looking back, I do not think I could have supported life with Pa. And she certainly saw to it that I acquired some accomplishments.”

    “Yes,” said Peg earnestly. “You would be a much more suitable diplomatic hostess then I!”

    Alice just smiled, and said: “Try to sleep late tomorrow: Anne is not the only one who needs her beauty sleep.” And went off to her room looking as serene as ever.

Next chapter:

https://pegbuffitt-aregencynovel.blogspot.com/2023/05/in-which-gentleman-has-painful-fall.html