Big Guns

28

Big Guns

    The great black bulk under the immense black hat was seen to flow up the steps of the Beresford town house... Peg staggered, and grabbed at Alice’s arm.

    “Déjà vu!” she gasped.

    “What was that, Peg?” replied Alice faintly, staring. Surely it could not be—

    “No, it—it wasn’t you with me, before, of course: it was Anne. I—I could have sworn that was Great-Aunt Portwinkle,” croaked Peg.

    “Yes,” agreed Alice, swallowing hard. “I think it was.”

    “Mayhap another Portwinkle connection has blotted his copybook,” offered Peg valiantly.

    “Mm,” she agreed faintly. “That—that must be it.”

    As her older sister was now standing stock-still in the salubrious street in which the gracious Beresford residence was situate, Peg took a deep breath, tucked her hand in her arm, and said firmly: “As the alternative would seem to be to run away to Lincolnshire, and I for one have only some small change in my purse, we had best go in.”

    Alice was very pale. “Yes.”

    Peg scowled. “Whatever she says, remember I am wholly on your side, dearest Alice, and so is Aunt Beresford!”

    “Big guns, indeed,” allowed Alice with the faintest of smiles.

    Peg did not voice the thought that she was very sure her sister was sharing, to wit, that the poor efforts of the rest of humankind could not possibly be considered any such thing when faced with Great-Aunt Portwinkle in full battle array; she just led her on grimly, her chin well to the fore.

    Indomitable though she was, Mrs Portwinkle owned to herself that, imprimis, she was rather tired after her precipitate journey, secundus, she was not entirely sure what tack to take with Alice, and tertius, as the household had no engagement for the evening, the Season not yet being in full swing, it could not signify if she did not speak to her immediate. And so retired to her bed soon after a dinner eaten en famille in an atmosphere which even the most charitable-minded could only have described as strained. As a consequence, of course, Peg and Mrs Beresford both slept rather badly and Alice hardly slept at all.

    “I wish to speak to Alice alone on a matter of some urgency,” said the old lady grimly over the breakfast table to the remarkably silent Mrs Beresford and the two young women. –There was no sign of Jack Beresford, and Mrs Portwinkle had silently acknowledged with considerable annoyance that that was so like the male sex. The slightest hint of a family emergency, and they were off like the wind!

    “Er—yes. Shall we leave you, then?” replied Mrs Beresford, making to rise.

    “Do not be ridiculous, Rowena! After breakfast, of course! Pray resume your seat! –What on earth is this jam?”

    “What?” replied the unfortunate Mrs Beresford distractedly. “Oh—that! It is a peach conserve: I know not why, but Fanny has sent us a dozen jars, with a very odd message for Jack attached.”

    “You are becoming obscure, Rowena,” warned the old lady, helping herself to some of the peach jam.

    They watched nervously as she tried it.

    “Odd,” she pronounced.

    “Yes, we thought so,” Mrs Beresford agreed faintly. “Er—I beg your pardon, Aunt Portwinkle: I did not mean to be obscure. Fanny’s message read: ‘If one taste be not sufficient, pray take as much as you please.’ Jack at first laughed and then was rather cross, though we could not see why; but he said of course we should not waste the jam, and it is quite a delicacy, and, er, that he trusted it meant she has decided to take Alec Ramsay at last—though none of us could see what that had to do with it!” she added quickly.

    The old lady sniffed. “That is certainly obscure,” she allowed.

    “Yes,” agreed Mrs Beresford thankfully.

    “Yes,” added Peg in a small voice.

    Mrs Portwinkle gave her a sharp look but said only: “Well, Alec Ramsay is too good for her—but he was ever a fool to himself, I dare say he may offer.”

    Mrs Beresford managed to return a strangled “Mm,” to this, but the two Buffitt sisters only achieved respectful nods.

    … “Sit down, Alice,” the old lady ordered as the silent Alice, having choked down a cup of tea and half a slice of bread, followed her obediently to the small morning room.

    Numbly Alice perched on the edge of a hard chair.

    Mrs Portwinkle herself was on a sofa. “Where I can see you, girl!” she snapped.

    Numbly Alice pulled her chair closer.

    “I am at a loss as to what to say to you, Alice, so I wish you to listen very carefully, and—and not to interrupt. And not to prejudge!” she added sharply.

    “Yes, of course, Great-Aunt Portwinkle,” she said numbly.

    “In the first place— No,” said the old lady, frowning. “In the first place, Alice, please understand that whomsoever you take or do not take this Season, I have set aside a thousand guineas for your dowry.”

    It was a considerable sum: Alice could not restrain a gasp, and flushed up very much. “Thank you very much, Aunt,” she said in a trembling voice.

    “Not, however, if your choice be as unsuitable as your mother’s—did I not tell you not to interrupt?” she said sharply as her great-niece was seen to open her mouth. “In that case I shall tie up the capital so as he cannot touch it, and the interest will come to you and afterwards to your children.”

    “Thuh-thank you, Aunt!” she stuttered.

    “And in the case you do not marry,” she added, frowning, “the same sum will come to you in my will.”

    “You are too good,” said Alice faintly, tears starting to her eyes.

    “No, for if I were that, I should have figured out some way to tie it up so as that family of yours should never touch a penny of it!” she said sharply. “Still, at least little Anne is well out of it. That fellow’s a ninny, of course, but his grandfather was a man of solid worth.”

    “Yes—was he? That’s good,” said Alice distractedly. “You—you should not have troubled yourself to come all this way, dear Great-Aunt Portwinkle, merely to apprise me of your generosity—”

    “I thought I said, do not interrupt? And you have thanked me enough; you know I do not care for fulsome expressions of gratitude, Alice.”

    “I beg your pardon, ma’am.”

     The old lady sighed. “Yes, well, I did not come here for that at all... I received a very odd communication, and after it a visit, as I thought I had best interview the fellow myself.”

    As she seemed to have stopped—indeed, to have lapsed into a frowning abstraction—Alice, who at first had gone very pink and smiled, now eyed her nervously and ventured: “Er, yes?”

    “There is absolutely no need for you to take Fogarty, now or at any time in the future!” she said crossly. “It was merely a suggestion! I know not how you girls fix such notions in your heads!”

    It had, of course, been considerably more than a suggestion, but Alice merely nodded respectfully.

    “—At least he has the manners to wear a decent pair of knee-breeches when he dines in a respectable household,” she added on a grumpy note.

    “Oh, did you have Mr Fogarty to dinner?” returned Alice, smiling a little. “Yes, of course he—”

    “Not him, you ninny! Geddings!” she snapped.

    Alice’s jaw sagged. “Er—Lord Geddings, Aunt? I was not aware you knew him.”

    Mrs Portwinkle of course had not meant to utter this name until very much later in the proceedings. “It is not your business to know with which persons I may or may not be acquaint, Miss, and I must request you to cease these continual interruptions!”

    Alice was obediently silent, though now looking very puzzled and not a little apprehensive. The thought had inevitably sprung to mind, had his Lordship spoken to her great-aunt about his connexion and—and perhaps expressed a wish that he not ally himself with a Buffitt? But she had not even seen Mr Corrant this Season, and though he had—had seemed to admire her last summer, he had certainly not hinted at any warmer feeling—and nor should he have, on such brief acquaintance! Oh, dear, was the reason that he had not yet called not that that he was not yet in town, but that his august connection had ordered him to have nothing to do with a mere Miss Buffitt?

    Mrs Portwinkle drummed her gnarled fingers on her knee. “We had best get the first hurdle—if such it be—out of the way. Please answer me without any sort of prevarication. Alice. Do you care for Chelford?”

    Alice had reddened but she held her chin up, looked the old lady in the eye and said steadily: “No, ma’am. I respect him, and like him, but I am not in love with him.”

    “Hm,” she said sniffing a bit, but not appearing displeased. “I dare say. Then you should not marry the man—for his sake, as much as yours, girl!”

    “He has not offered,” she murmured.

    “I thought I said without prevarication?”

    “I do beg your pardon, Aunt. I thought, when he did not take up residence at Chelford Place this summer, that perhaps he had decided I should not suit. But he did call recently. I think that if he does offer, and—and if no other gentleman for whom I could care should make an offer—then I ought to take him, for he would be the saviour of the family. Paul and Mr Valentine are both keen to do something for George, but they have their own families to think of. And Bertie should be sent to the university, and then there are the little ones as well. And—and of course you have not seen how they live, of late years, dear ma’am, but—but any right-thinking man who had the means to do so, would surely rescue Ma from such a situation!”

    “Hm. She did marry the fellow with her eyes open, y’know. I spoke quite plainly to her when she wished to engage herself to him—and the subject of seeing her brats in rags was mentioned, Alice,” she noted drily. “But I agree: any decent man with the means would get ’em out of it. –If so be as he had he strength of character to stand up to your father,” she noted.

    Alice bit her lip. “Mm.”

    “Or possibly,” said Great-Aunt Portwinkle on a careless note, looking at her out of the corner of her eye, “the nous to offer him a sufficient bribe to get him out of it. –Not a monetary one, girl, before your open your mouth!” she snapped.

    “Er—no,” said Alice, rather startled. “Not a monetary one—no, ma’am.”

    “Chelford could certainly offer him anything in England—or I dare say, America,” she added, horribly dry.

    Alice swallowed. “Yes.”

    “But as I say, you must not take him if you don’t love him.”

    Had she said that? Alice rather thought she had said she should not, not she must not. She looked at her nervously, wondering what on earth Lord Geddings could have said to her.

    “Very well,” said her great-aunt on a brisk note, “who is this other fellow whom you do fancy you love?”

    “I do love him!” she cried, going very red. “And if his noble connection has forbidden it, then of course there is nothing more to be said, but—but it is wholly unjust! Pa may be an eccentric, but his birth is respectable!”

    Mrs Portwinkle’s eyebrows had risen. “Hmf. I’m glad to see you showing some animation about the thing at last, girl!”

    Alice gaped at her. Animation was usually the last characteristic which Mrs Portwinkle wished to see displayed under a lady’s roof—or at any other venue.

    “So you are in love with the Corrant fellow, eh?”

    “Yes,” she said on a defiant note, holding her chin up. “And whatever adverse report you may have had of him, ma’am, allow me to say that I find it very hard to credit. His amiable manners mean that he is not an easy man to read, but every word I have ever heard him utter is entirely right-thinking, and he speaks most sensibly and feelingly on serious subjects.”

    “Any mountebank with an ounce of nous may do that when talking with a pretty woman.”

    Alice drew a deep breath. “I an not a fool, ma’am, and not a little girl, either. I do not believe myself to have been taken in by Mr Corrant.”

    “Hm. What did Rose think of him?”

    She blinked. “Ma liked him very much, ma’am. She said to me that though he is clearly a man who is used to the company of women and feels at ease with them, he did not attempt any kind of flattery, even when I was not in the room.”

    “He’d be a fool an he did, if he had the brains to size up Rose’s intelligence. No, well, don’t fly up at me, child,” she said on a tired note. “Nothing you have said either proves or disproves he ain’t a mountebank, and I dare say you can see that as well as I. And the proof of a pudding will always be in the eating.”

    “Mm.” Alice gripped her hands tightly together in her lap. “So what did Lord Geddings say of him, Aunt Portwinkle?”

    “Nothing to suggest he’s a mountebank, at all events,” she said drily. “Now, tell me how you would feel about marrying a fellow who has nothing of his own, who lives on his grand relation’s sleeve, and, intelligent and sensible though he may be, has nothing but his connections to offer you?”

    Alice’s jaw shook. “If it were not ‘a fellow’ but Mr Corrant, I should take him without hesitation! –Though I should understand your wishing to tie the dowry up in my children, in that case,” she added lamely.

    “What? Oh! Er—yes. Naturally,” said Mrs Portwinkle lamely. “Well, that is clear.”

    “So—so would we have Lord Geddings’s permission?” she croaked.

    “What? Oh, I dare say—yes.”

    “Then he has spoken to his Lordship on the subject?” she cried, breaking out in smiles.

    “What? Be silent, girl! Of course he— No, he—You are distracting me!”

    “I—I do beg your pardon, Aunt,” croaked poor Alice, staring.

    “I believe,” said Mrs Portwinkle coldly, with an awful frown that put Alice, perturbed though her sentiments were, irresistibly in mind of Horrible Laidlaw, “I am not a raree show? Kindly do not goggle at me!” Alice was still staring: she added irritably: “The whole thing is ridiculous and the fellow is besotted, and I told him to his face he has not acted like a man of sense!”

    “Wh-who?” she stuttered.

    Mrs Portwinkle drew a deep breath. “I must beg you—nay, command you—to keep silent, Alice. I think you had best ring for— What is the time? –Oh,” she said, looking at the pretty little gilt clock on the mantel. “Ring for a tray of tea, if you please.”

    Numbly Alice rang.

    An interval ensued, during which Mrs Portwinkle stared into space, frowning, and from time to time drumming her fingers on her black silk knee, and Alice tried not to goggle but could not refrain from glancing at her every so often to see if she were still frowning. It was a relief when the tea arrived and the old lady criticised the footman’s livery as such, its specific state in this instance, his specific and general dilatoriness, the tea-set chosen, the quality of the tea, and the fact that the tray held an unrequested plate of biscuits. She then proceeded to drink quantities of the tea and eat most of the biscuits, but Alice was past even remarking on these two points, let alone finding them amusing.

    “Yes, well,” she said finally, “I gave my word that I would tell you the whole, so I had best do it. Though I must urge you again not to prejudge him, Alice.”

    “Nuh-no, Aunt,” she faltered. “I do not think I... Um, yes, Aunt, of course!”

    “The man whom you know as Mr Corrant is in fact no such thing. He is Geddings,” she stated grimly.

    Alice blinked. “Er—no, dear ma’am, I fear you have confused the two gentlem—”

    “I am not in my dotage yet, Miss!” she shouted. “Geddings wrote me a confession of the whole, I invited him to present himself and explain in person, and he did so!”

    Alice just stared at her.

    After a moment Mrs Portwinkle said in a kinder tone: “Well, I dare say it does seem mad, and you may well assume that any person who presents you with such a tale is either raving or in their dotage. Not to say that any fellow who— Never mind. His Lordship never met you in town, but apparently he saw your picture.”

    “Luh-Lord Geddings saw my picture?” she croaked.

    “Exactly. And pray allow me to remind you, Miss, that an unattached young woman does not run off unescorted to artist fellows’ studios! And allowing him to take your portrait without the permission of a senior member of your family was entirely ineligible.”

    “Oh! Mr Greenstreet! He did do a little sketch of me. Um, he is quite harmless, Aunt, and the street is quite respectable. I—I believe Lord Geddings is said to be very fond of pictures. But, um... I’m afraid I do not catch your meaning, ma’am.”

    “I am not surprised,” she said drily, glancing at the clock again.

    “Er—dear Great-Aunt Portwinkle, if you should wish for something stronger than tea, it can scarcely be thought inappropriate in your great-nephew’s house, in especial as—as you have, if you will forgive my saying so, clearly been under something of a strain.”

    She sighed. “Yes, but as I have tried to indicate, Alice, my wits ain’t yet wandering. Very well, ring the bell. I shall take a glass of Madeira.”

    The footman who had served them earlier and been reproved by Mrs Portwinkle was Joseph. This time it was Henry who appeared, looking very point de vice, and bowing most respectfully, though Alice did not think she was imagining a wary look in his eye. “Henry,” she said quickly, “you may remove the tea things, and be so good as to bring Mrs Portwinkle a glass of Madeira.” She gave him a hard look.

    To her relief this seemed to work, for he bowed again, murmured, “Very good, Miss,” and exited, his face impassive.

    “It will be all round the house in five minutes that I am taken to drink in my old age,” noted Mrs Portwinkle drily. “That fellow had a demned fishy look in his eye. Is it his job to serve this room?”

    “Well, they—they take it in turns, I think,” faltered Alice.

    She sniffed.

    Alice eyed her nervously but did not dare to speak, and they waited in silence for the Madeira. When it came it was not a mere glass but a whole decanter, on a silver tray. The quailing Alice did not find the fortitude to meet her relation’s eye, but all Mrs Portwinkle said was: “Very well, fellow, pour me a glass and be off with you. –And straighten that wig!”

    “Mm,” she said, having tasted the Madeira. “Tolerable. Better than the stuff his father used to serve up, at all events. The man had no palate, and Rowena, of course, has none either. Well, Geddings may have behaved in a manner which I shall not hesitate to characterise as harum-scarum, but he can recognise a decent glass of port when he is offered it. –Though whether that speaks well of a man or no, I leave it to your common sense to decide.”

    As she seemed to be expecting some sort of reply, Alice faltered: “It—it must speak well of his palate, at any rate. You—you served him Great-Uncle Portwinkle’s port?”

    “Naturally. His position in Society required it,” she replied grandly.

    Well, yes, but when had that sort of thing weighed with Mrs Portwinkle? The Fürstin von Maltzahn-Dressen had taken l’Amiral du Fresne to call when they were in Bath and the old lady had offered nothing but Bohea. It was, of course, a considerable drive from the town and doubtless they had been expecting dinner and beds for the night. None of the Beresford household had been present on that joyous occasion, but they had certainly heard of it afterwards. Fanny had been coldly unamused but the Admiral, who was rather a jolly personality, had thought it was funny.

    Mrs Portwinkle finished her glassful. “Apparently he fell in love with your portrait. An absurd start, you may well say.”—Alice had not been going to say any such thing; she merely stared blankly.—“At that stage he had no intention of embarking on a silly masquerade. He did not manage to see you, as he was called to the bedside of an elderly relative in Lincolnshire.”

    “Er—ye-es. Old Lady Darley. Dear ma’am, are you sure—”

    “Alice,” she sighed, “I shall never get through this rigmarole if you continue to interrupt me. –I see that that fellow has presumed to set out two glasses. You may refill mine and pour half a glass for yourself. I shall signal when you may consume it.”

    Numbly Alice obeyed her.

    “Lord Geddings,” said Mrs Portwinkle pointedly, “went to visit this dying relative in Lincolnshire. There is no such person as Mr Corrant. Is that clear?”

    Alice went very white. “Yuh-yes, ma’am!”

    “Good. Drink half of that, if you please.”

     Numbly Alice drank.

    “I do not think that I have entirely grasped the chronology of the thing, but it cannot signify. Geddings found out that Chelford was paying court to you—the whole of Brighton was apparently aware of it, so it is scarce surprising that it should have reached his ears. And had my opinion been solicited I should have advised Rowena most strongly not to take a parcel of unwed girls to any of that Portuguese woman’s rowdy entertainments! Where was I? Oh—yes. Chelford.”

    “He—he did not find Lady Stamforth’s summer masque amusing,” croaked Alice, not really knowing what she was saying.

    “Then it should have been instantly clear that your temperaments could never suit, Alice. The Corrant thing was entirely fortuitous. Geddings met that man Monday when he had rid over to see whether your father was as bad as his reputation suggested, did not wish to flaunt his title in an obscure country neighbourhood, and introduced himself merely as Jeremy Corrant. He had no intention of continuing the deception, but on thinking the thing over, it occurred to him that if he were to pay his court, you might well prefer the position of hostess to a man with an established position in Society to that of, though he did not put it so crudely, prop and mainstay to a rather dim young fellow with nothing but his exalted rank to recommend him. –Pray do not speak.” She drank half of her second glass of Madeira. “He had not yet met you and was half convinced that the fancy for you would vanish when he met you in person. Though he did not put that so crudely, either. However, it would seem that when he did meet you, he was completely—er—bowled over. –He did put that that crudely. Drink that wine up, girl!”

    Numbly Alice drank.

    “The summer apparently confirmed his preference. Unfortunately it then dawned, somewhat belatedly, that confessing that one has assumed that the lady to whom one intends offering one’s hand and heart would have accepted the offer for merely worldly reasons might pose some difficulties. In short, that the lady might take it as an insult to herself, her sense of honour, and her reasoning faculty.” She sniffed. “Just like a man.”

    Alice just stared at her numbly.

    “Can I put it more clearly?” she said irritably. “He has behaved like a gaby, but the silly fellow wanted you to love him for himself, not for his demned title and position, Alice!”

    “Oh,” she said faintly.

    “In your shoes, I would have been furious had any fellow dared to confess to such a masquerade,” she noted, pouring herself a third glass of Madeira. “Indeed, at your age I would doubtless have slapped his face for the insult, and walked out on him forthwith. The thing smacks of the underhand, do it not?”

    “Ye— N— Buh-but in a way it is understandable!” she gasped.

    “Is it?” Mrs Portwinkle sipped the Madeira, and sighed. “Well, I have made but a poor fist of explaining it, but as I told him, at least my doing so has ensured that you sat through it.”

    “Um—yes. Oh! I see.”

    “Aye, so do not prejudge him as lacking the bottle to face you with it, either,” she said drily, finishing her glassful. She looked at the clock. “He will be here in half an hour, so pray attempt to compose yourself. I have told him that he may speak to you alone. I shall see that you are not interrupted. Ring the bell for that footman; he may give me his arm.”

    Weakly Alice tottered to her feet and rang the bell. Henry shot in so immediately that even in the midst of her disturbance the thought surfaced: had the man had his ear to the door all this time?

    “Shall I clear, madam?” he murmured, bowing.

    “Certainly not! Miss Buffitt is not on course to drink herself silly on your master’s Madeira, fellow, and I will thank you not to imply any such thing!” snapped the redoubtable old lady. “You may give me your arm, that is what you may do!”

    “Yes, madam,” croaked Henry, looking cowed. He hastened to her side and offered his arm.

    She sniffed. “Spindly,” she pronounced.

    “Let me take your other arm, dear ma’am,” said Alice quickly, as the footman was now standing there looking at her helplessly.

    “Don’t fuss, girl!” Nevertheless Mrs Portwinkle allowed Alice to put a hand under one elbow and assist her to her feet, what time Henry, taking the hint, assisted her from the other side. She went slowly over to the door, leaning heavily on the footman’s arm. “Just bear in mind, Alice,” she said, “they are all fallible.”

    “Whuh-who?” she faltered.

    “Men. They say no man is a hero to his tailor or his perruquier. Well, a man ain’t a hero to his wife, neither, and any woman who expects as much of a mere mortal is a ninny. –Don’t just stand there, fellow, help me out! And shut that door after you, this is a gentleman’s home! –Fallible, Alice,” she said, as the cowed Henry closed the door behind them.

    Alice’s mind and emotions were in such a turmoil that it was a full twenty minutes before two points dawned on her. The first was that Mrs Portwinkle’s “fallible” was not meant as one of her usual pithy sentences passed on the male half of humanity but rather intended to recommend Lord Geddings to her—or at the least was, if not a positive encomium, an indication that the old lady both liked and felt sorry for him. Great Heavens! Mrs Portwinkle feeling sorry for a mere man? Alice essayed a smile but found it turning to tears. Oh, dear, this would not do, he would be here any minute and—and— Her eye fell on the decanter, and the second point dawned on her. Her great-aunt had made sure the Madeira was left behind on purpose! And of course she would never have demeaned herself to admit as much to Henry! Gratefully Alice poured herself another half glass.

    Mrs Portwinkle discovered Mrs Beresford, Peg and Jack in the downstairs salon. “Agog,” she said in unpleasant tones, allowing Henry to assist her to a seat.

    “I beg your pardon, Aunt?” croaked Mrs Beresford.

    “Your expressions. –Thank you; leave us,” she said to Henry. “And if I find your ear applied to this door, man, I shall advise my nephew to dispense with your services. Is that clear?”

    “Yuh-yes, madam!” he gasped, disappearing.

    “That was Henry,” said Peg with a frown, “and he is very fond of all the household.”

    “You may be silent, Miss. –So you’re back from wherever you ran off to, are you?” she added, eyeing Mr Beresford with disfavour.

    “I merely went for my morning ride, ma’am,” he said weakly.

    She sniffed.

    Attempting to give her young relatives a warning look that would be unobserved by her aunt, Mrs Beresford said: “I do not wish to pry, Aunt, but I trust that relations between yourself and Alice are as cordial as ever?”

    Mrs Portwinkle awarded her a glare. “In that case, Rowena, I should blush to be present when you do wish to pry!”

    Jack opened his mouth angrily but his mother said quickly: “Hush, Jack. Dear Aunt Portwinkle, Alice is the best young woman in the world, and if you have some concerns about this new suitor, well, he is not possessed of one of the highest titles in the land, to be sure, but we are all agreed that though His Grace of Chelford is a most amiable young man, he is not the man for our dear Alice.”

    “No, for he has a mind like day-old suet pudding!” burst out Peg with an awful scowl.

    “I believe I told you to hold your tongue, Miss?”

    Peg stuck her chin out. “You did, Aunt Portwinkle, but I cannot do so when Alice’s happiness is at stake! Mr Corrant by all accounts is a most worthy man, with all of Alice’s intelligence, and—and completely right-thinking! And—and Sir Horace Monday thinks very highly of him!”

    Mrs Portwinkle snorted. “That last is scarce a recommendation, girl!”

    “Rubbish!” said Jack crossly. “Monday is a thoroughly decent fellow, and spent long enough last summer in the man’s company to more than get his measure!”

    “Aye, and was took in by a valet’s masquerading as a baronet, an I mistake not,” she noted drily. “Well, in this case he was took in again, though I dare say the fellow is worthy enough. And certainly intelligent enough. But he ain’t a Mr Corrant!”

    Her relatives stared at her.

    “There is no such fellow. It was Lord Geddings,” said the old lady baldly.

    “What? Nonsense!” cried Jack with a scornful laugh.

    “Scarcely, Aunt. We do know Geddings,” said his mother on a tolerant note.

    “No—wait,” said Peg, looking at Mrs Portwinkle with an arrested expression. “Of course we all know Lord Geddings, but Alice never met him last year: she wasn’t in town long enough to do so, and he was not in Brighton. And none of us ever actually laid eyes on Sir Horace’s famous ‘Curran’, did we?”

    “Er—Peg, my dear, you are becoming frivolous,” murmured Mrs Beresford, eyeing Mrs Portwinkle uneasily.

    “On the contrary, she’s the only one of you with a mind capable of elementary logic!” said the old lady tartly.

    “Uh—well, it’s true none of us ever met the famous Curran—no, very well, Mamma, Mr Corrant,” conceded Jack. “But what the Devil would Geddings be doing prancing about Lincolnshire telling Sir Horace he was a mere Mister? Er—though I concede the family name be Corrant.”

    “The man does tend to get the wrong end of the stick, Jack,” said Mrs Beresford uncertainly.

    “But Geddings?”

    “Well, yes,” she agreed. “It seems in the highest degree unlikely.”

    They looked limply at Mrs Portwinkle.

    “Do not believe me, then. But he is coming to call on Alice, and I have told them they may be alone for a little. He should be here shortly.”

    “Aunt, I—I don’t wish to doubt your word,” said Mrs Beresford limply, “but Jack is in the right of it. Why should a man like Geddings pretend to be someone he is not?”

    “He knew Alice was being courted by Chelford and he wished her to love him for himself alone,” she said tiredly. “Pray do not ask me to explain the ins and outs of it, Rowena; it was quite exhausting enough trying to explain them to Alice.”

    “But he had not even laid eyes on Alice, at the time Sir Horace first met him, surely?” ventured Peg.

    Mrs Portwinkle sighed heavily. “Logical as ever, Peg. You are correct. The misconception gave him the opportunity to attempt the masquerade, and let us leave it at that, please!”

    “Yes,” said Jack quickly, giving his mother a warning look. “You’re tired, Great-Aunt Portwinkle. Let me ring for the brandy.’

    “Brandy? I’ve just had several glasses of Madeira, Jack: I am surprised the report has not yet reached your ears. That footman of yours was all agog.”

    Suddenly Jack gave her his most charming smile. “A footman’s life ain’t a very exciting one, dear ma’am! Let me order cake and a pot of tea for you, then, and the brandy for myself!”

    “Prevaricator,” replied his great-aunt drily. “Very well, then.”

    “So!” said Jack gaily, having given the order. “Do I collect we should drink to Cousin Alice and Geddings?”

    “I’ve given him my permission to pay his addresses, for what that’s worth,” returned Mrs Portwinkle drily. “The rest is up to her.”

    Peg had been very quiet—not obeying Mrs Portwinkle’s injunction, as several persons present in the downstairs salon had reflected, but mulling it all over. “Is she not mad as fire with him?” she ventured.

    Mrs Portwinkle gave her a sardonic look. “You would be, Miss, and in my day I should have been, too: I had just that hasty temperament, always rushing to judgement. Well, it’s a Laidlaw trait; Rowena has it, too.”

    “Do I not have it, as well, Aunt?” asked Jack meekly, swallowing a laugh.

    She snorted. “You! Who was it who assumed poor young Bobby Yattersby had broke my conservatory window?”

    The sophisticated Mr Beresford was seen to gulp. “He had been playing with the croquet set, ma’am.”

    She sniffed. “Rushing to judgement. –It was his sister,” she said to Peg. “Little Milly. Silly little thing, with an irritating simper—Rowena tried to throw her at Jack one summer, but of course it did not answer.”

    “You see, Cousin,” said Mr Beresford dulcetly as his butler entered with the tray, “I am known for my inability to support the simper, as well as for my tendency to rush to intemperate judgement.”

    Peg smiled. “How old were you, Cousin?”

    “At the time of the episode of the croquet ball? At least eight.”

    She broke down in delighted giggles.

    Smiling very much, Mr Beresford said: “I think we should drink to them. Or at least, drink to the poor fellow’s success, hey?” He handed his great-aunt a glass of brandy. “Tea, Mamma? Or do you feel in need of a bracer.”

    “I—well, a drop of brandy in the tea, perhaps, Jack. –He wished to be loved for himself? Geddings?”

    “Possibly,” said Peg in small voice, “he is but a man, under those fancy coats, after all.”

    Jack poured a minute amount of brandy into a cup of tea and handed it to her. “Possibly he is! Like the rest of us poor human creatures! –That will taste very strange and the innards will feel strangely warm after it,” he warned.

    “Yes—will it? Thank you!” she gasped, very flushed.

    Jack poured himself a cup of tea. “Well, here’s to it, then! Success and happiness to the mere man, eh?”

    By this time not all of those present in his downstairs salon were any longer quite sure that Mr Beresford was toasting Geddings: but they duly drank the toast, smiling. Even the redoubtable Mrs Portwinkle.

    Mrs Beresford had decided it would not do for Alice actually to receive Lord Geddings alone—the servants were doubtless gossiping enough already—and so she was seated in the morning room with her cousin’s daughter when he was announced. She did not fancy she was imagining the disappointed look in Henry’s eye as he noted her presence.

    She rose and held out her hand, saying: “Good morning, Lord Geddings. How very pleasant to see you,” though at the same time registering that the footman was still with them. She had previously decided that Alice should be spared the embarrassment of any sort of false introduction, so she merely said: “Do, please, be seated.” And as Henry was still hovering, asked in steely tones: “Was there something, Henry?”

    He jumped. “Miss Alice has still got the Madeira, madam. Shall I clear it?”

    Certain obscure mutterings of Mrs Portwinkle’s in re Madeira and “that pesky fellow” now became somewhat clearer to Mrs Beresford. “No, thank you. Please go and polish the cruet sets. All of them. If my son’s butler should question you, you may say it is my order.”

    Looking very crushed, Henry muttered: “Cruet sets; yes, madam,” gave a shaky bow, and exited.

    “All of the cruet sets, Mrs Beresford?” asked Geddings with a laugh in his voice.

    Mrs Beresford smiled at him. “I gather the man has had his ear to the door—various doors, I think—all morning. He may count himself lucky not to be dismissed. I shall leave you and Alice to have a little chat.” With that she left the pair together, very pleased with herself for having managed not to cram her great boot into her mouth—or whatever it was of which her son had once accused her!

    Geddings of course had risen and bowed her out. He returned to his seat, smiling a little, and said to Alice: “I really do think that all of the cruet sets must constitute too severe a punishment, do not you?”

    “There are several which are over-elaborate,” replied Alice in a trembling voice.

    “So I should imagine! –I think,” he said, giving her a narrow look, “that Mrs Portwinkle will have told you the full sum of my idiocy?”

    “Um—yes,” she owned, swallowing.

    His mouth tightened a little “She predicted you would be mad as fire with me. Are you?”

    None of this was as Alice had imagined the scene. “Not—not really,” she said faintly. “Hers is a—a different temperament from mine.”

    “Mm. But did you feel annoyed, at first?”

    After a moment Alice lifted her delicate oval chin and said firmly, looking him in the eye. “Yes, Lord Geddings, I did.”

    “Yes,” he said, wiping his hand across his face. “That’s a relief, at all events.”

    “A—a relief?” she faltered.

    He made a face. “Mm. To know that the emotion is there, Alice.”

    “Oh,” said Alice numbly, swallowing.

    Geddings passed his hand over his face again. “I prepared the most telling speech for this morning—well, an hundred—but finally sorted out what I wished to say. But now, I— Well, I suppose I should admit that I embarked on the Corrant masquerade—which initially was a pure misconception, that I let ride: did Mrs Portwinkle— Oh, she did,” he said in relief as she nodded. “Yes. Well, I admit that I embarked on it with the thought that if we should not suit I could withdraw quietly from the thing with no fuss.”

    “Yes. Or if you found that the way Pa and Ma live was too unsuitable,” said Alice in a very low voice.

    “No!” he cried. “Did she not explain? I had met them well before I decided to take Chelford Place for the summer!

    “I—I must have had it wrong, or—no, she said she did not think she had the chronology quite right. Oh, yes, Ma said you called with Sir Horace.”

    “Certainly, and fell completely under her spell.”

    “Did you? Maria said Ma liked you, that’s right, and so did she.”

    “That must weigh in my favour, then,” he said shakily.

    Alice looked at him doubtfully, wondering if he was joking. But his face looked very strained, and  he was clenching his hands nervously on his knees. She knew she should speak but could think of nothing appropriate to say, and merely gave a jerky nod, and looked away from him.

    Jeremy Corrant looked at the elegant curve of her cheek and the delicate downcast eyelids and owned to himself that if she would not have him, then he cared not what became of him. And he would tell damned Arthur to his face that he had had enough of being his mouthpiece and never wished to soothe another ruffled feeling in his wake as long as he lived!

    “I’m sorry,” he said lamely. “I should never have done it. But it was not, truly, done out of pride.” She was silent. He added desperately: “I did it because I—I fell in love with your picture, Alice, and then, so much more with the real woman! And—well, knowing your family’s situation I was afraid if you knew me as—as myself, you might feel it your duty to accept an offer, for your family’s sake. I—forgive me, but the whole town was saying that you were in expectation of an offer from Chelford.”

    “I—I thought I could, but I—I can’t,” she said in a voice that was scarce more than a whisper.

    Geddings felt very sick. “Can’t what?” he croaked.

    “Accept an offer from Chelford. If—if he should. Not even—even out of family duty.”

    “No,” he said, sagging where he sat. “Of course you cannot. No feeling woman could! The mere idea is abhorrent!” She was still looking away from him but that elegant cheek had pinkened. Heart thudding, he asked softly: “So, will you accept an offer from me, Alice? Merely—merely for love, not for the title and the—the damned nonsense?”

    After a moment she lifted that lovely chin, looked him in the eye and said: “For love on both sides. Yes, I will.”

    At that Geddings fell to his knees, seized both of her hands in his, buried his face in her lap and wept.

    “It’s taking rather a long time, isn’t it?” ventured Peg uneasily.

    “Hush, my dear!” replied Mrs Beresford with a smile in her voice.

    “A respectable young woman,” said Mrs Portwinkle on a testy note, “does not remark on such matters.” She directed a glare at the salon’s delightful porcelain clock.

    Solemnly Jack withdrew his pocket watch and checked the time. “That clock is quite correct, Great-Aunt Portwinkle.”

    The glare switched to him. “That will be enough, thank you, Jack.”

    “Else she will remind you who widdled on his sainted grandmother’s drawing-room rug!” gasped Peg, suddenly going off in gales of giggles.

    “That will do, Peg!” snapped the old lady.

    Mr Beresford looked plaintive. “As I was in long coats at the time, can be I blamed for it?”

    “Well, yes, for it was,” noted Mrs Beresford in a voice that shook, rather, “a delightful and very valuable Persian rug.”

    There was a short silence. Peg rolled her lips tightly together and looked into her lap. Then Mrs Beresford’s eye met her son’s and she broke down in laughter, ably supported by the former miscreant himself. Promptly Peg joined in, shaking helplessly.

    Mrs Portwinkle eyed them not unkindly, but did not unbend so far as to smile. When they seemed to be over it she said mildly: “Well, well, it was a long time ago. Do you still have that miniature of him that was took at about that period, Rowena?”

    “Of course!” said Mrs Beresford, mopping her eyes and smiling at her. “It is on my dressing-table as we speak. Shall I fetch it?”

    “I should like to see it again,” she owned. “But send one of the servants, my dear.”

    Obligingly Jack rang the bell, noting: “If it be Henry who answers this, he shall be damned forever and aye, yea even unto the fourth and fifth genera—Oh, it’s you, Crocker,” he said lamely as his butler appeared.

    Crocker gave a stately bow. “May I help you, sir?”

    “Well, first of all you may assure us that dashed Henry is polishing the cruets, as my mother ordered.”

    “Certainly, Mr Beresford.”

    “With a baize apron over that ridiculous livery, I sincerely trust!” snapped Mrs Portwinkle.

    He bowed. “Of course, madam.”

    “Good. Pray send someone upstairs to fetch the miniature of Mr Beresford which was took when he was a small boy.”

    “Certainly, Mrs Portwinkle. Which one, may I enquire?”

    “Ooh, is there more than one?” cried Peg.

    Crocker bowed to her. “Indeed, Miss Peg.”

    “Fetch the lot, let her know the worst!” said Jack on a wild note.

    “There are only three, Miss Peg,” explained Crocker kindly. “The one which Mrs Beresford has on her dressing-table was taken when Mr Beresford was a babe. Then there is one showing him aged about four—I think you have seen it, Miss, it is in the show-case on the landing.”

    “Good gracious, is that dear little boy with the mop of black curls him?” cried Peg.

    “Certainly, Miss Peg.”

    “He’s deteriorated since,” explained Jack dulcetly.

    Ignoring this, his cousin cried: “So what is the third one, Crocker?”

    “A delightful picture taken of Mr Beresford and his sister, Miss.”

    “That’s in Mamma’s room, too,” he admitted. “That was why I rang, Crocker: Mrs Portwinkle would like to see the one from Mamma’s dressing-table.”

    “But  the others as well!” cried Peg. “Stay, I could run and—”

     “No, Crocker will send one of the menservants,” said Jack quickly before his damned great-aunt could crush her. “Thank you, Crocker.”

    Bowing, Crocker withdrew silently.

    There was a short silence, during which, for various reasons, no-one looked at Mrs Portwinkle.

    “I believe Peg is a fit young woman, possessed of the usual complement of lower limbs?” she said coldly.

    Jack winced. “I feared you might not think it seemly for her to be running errands, ma’am.”

    She sniffed. “Very well, then.”

    “It is but a step. And the servants have their work to do,” said Peg in a small voice.

    Jack smiled at her. “Of course, Peg. But I was unsure of the etiquette which my great-aunt might prefer, you see. But were we alone, of course I should let you run upstairs.”

    “I should hope you would not!” snapped his great-aunt.

    “What? Oh—no!” he said with a laugh. “I should run up meself, of course!”

    Peg for some reason had gone very pink. “That’s silly,” she said gruffly.

    “Very!” he agreed, laughing.

    Peg gave a confused laugh and looked away. After a moment she said: “It’s all very odd, isn’t it? I mean, Alice’s whole future is being decided, and here we are, concerned with—with etiquette, and miniatures of the children, and—and naughty Henry’s peccadilloes... I wonder if he truly is wearing a baize apron?”

    Jack had been wondering just that for some time. He broke down in frightful splutters. Tears streamed down his cheeks and he was incapable of speech.

    “That will do, Jack,” said his mother mildly. “I suppose it is a case of life must go on, Peg, my dear.”

    “The everyday,”  added Mrs Portwinkle with a frown, “is also significant, my dear child.”

    Peg looked at her in astonishment. “Why, yes, dear ma’am! You are so right!”

    Unmoved, Mrs Portwinkle returned majestically: “At my age, I hope I have learned some sense. –I must say, Jack, that it is now all too horridly clear from whom your impertinent servants take their tone. In your shoes, I should speak to that butler.”

    “But I find Crocker suits me very well, ma’am.”

    “He spoke to Peg as if he was an old family retainer!” she said sharply.

    Very, very mildly Jack replied: “Well, perhaps he is in training to be so, Aunt.”

    Mrs Beresford coughed suddenly. “Do not be flippant, Jack, dear. The man performs his duties satisfactorily, Aunt, and he knows a great deal about wine. One has but to give him the menu for a dinner party, you know.”

    “Yes, and he told me all about how they make Madeira!” put in Peg eagerly, if perhaps unwisely. “It is the most fascinating process!”

    “Er—yes, my dear, I am sure it is, but I do not think we wish to hear it just now,” said Mrs Beresford quickly. “Ah, here are the miniatures! Thank you, Crocker,” she said as the butler handed the miniature from her dressing-table to Mrs Portwinkle and Joseph—smiling rather more than perhaps a well-trained footman should, true—presented the other two, which he had placed on a salver, to Peg.

    “Thank you, Joseph!” she beamed. “Was it you who ran upstairs to fetch these?”

    “Yes, Miss!” he beamed back. “It were my pleasure, Miss Peg!”

    “Good. That’ll do,” said Jack faintly, fearing he was about to break down again.

    “I can see the likeness, now!” cried Peg, examining the miniature of the four-year-old Jack eagerly. “Why, the artist has just captured the way the ringlets tumble over his forehead!”

    “Uh—unruly, was the word bandied about at one point, I think,” said Jack feebly, feeling his forelock.

    “It looks very pretty, I think. Your nose has grown so much, though,” she said in tones of regret. “And your cheeks. –Is it not odd, how so many boys’ cheeks do that?” she said to Mrs Beresford.  “Sort of—sort of lengthen. It makes it very hard to see the child in the man. And yet there are some men who remain just as round-faced and rosy-cheeked as they were when they were tiny boys! Look at Sir Horace!”

    Jack gulped.

    Giving him a warning look, his mother replied: “Yes, I have often thought it odd myself, for it is something one cannot predict. Jack had such a button-nose as a boy! And yet his father always said it would become very like his grandfather’s, and so it has. And I dare say your Sir Horace was just such a button-nose!”

    “Yes, indeed: there is the most charming picture at Monday Hall of him and two of his sisters, taken when he was about five, and one cannot mistake him!”

    “I’d have said he was coarse-featured, if anything,” said Jack limply.

    “Of course his features have coarsened, he is an elderly man. But they are basically the same round cheeks and the same round nose! –You still look quite unfledged in this other picture, Cousin. How old were you when it was taken?”

    Jack came to look over her shoulder. “Oh—that thing. Have not looked at it this age. Well, it was before Papa died, for he commissioned it himself. About thirteen, I think. Too old to appreciate being dressed up in a frilled shirt to match my little sister’s frilled tucker, I do assure you! And Brutus, the puppy under my arm, squirmed so much that in the end the painter had to use artistic licence, as it were, and concoct the pose from his sketches. Though I will concede that Cassius, the one in May’s lap, was entirely well-behaved throughout—so much so that Papa declared he was completely misnamed and would have renamed him, but for the fact that May had taken to callin’ the creature Cassie in any case!” He laughed.

    “Oh good gracious, yes, Brutus and Cassie!” cried Mrs Beresford. “I had forgotten their names until this moment! No, stay: did not John take to— Oh, dear; yes, he did!” she recalled as Jack chuckled. “Brute and Cassie!”

    “Help!” said Peg with a laugh. “It is a very pretty picture, though.”

    “Ugh! Too pretty!” protested Jack. “Ask yourself what Bertie’s reaction would be were he asked to pose for such a thing, Peg!”

    “Oh, dear. You are perfectly right, of course. But I think it is pretty.”

    “Of course it is,” agreed Mrs Beresford. “Come and look at the others, Peg.”

    Eagerly Peg came to look at the miniature which Mrs Portwinkle was holding. She went very pink as the old lady handed it her. “Oh,” she said in a tiny voice.

    “John insisted on the frame, though I did say at the time that pearls and sapphires were too much,” murmured Mrs Beresford, looking over her shoulder. “Well, I say it as shouldn’t, but was he not the most adorable baby?”

    “Oh, yes!” breathed Peg. “Look at the tiny black curls!”

    “Yes; we were very, very pleased with that artist.”

    “Our Tommy was a very pretty baby, too,” said Peg on a wistful note.

    “I am sure he was, my dear.” She patted her shoulder kindly. “You must look forward to having your own pretty babies some day, Peg. Now, show Aunt Portwinkle the others.”

    Peg was very pink. She jumped. “Oh—yes, of course. Oh—thank you, Cousin,” she said in a small voice as Mr Beresford proffered the salver.

    “You have seen them before, Aunt Portwinkle,” he said as she picked up the one of him and May.

    “Mm. –Over-pretty, yes. Still, your father was pleased with it. I cannot recall the other— Oh, yes. Why had you cut his curls, Rowena?”

    Mrs Beresford’s eyes twinkled. “Because he was a very boyish little boy, dear Aunt, even aged four, and the ringlets continually became so tangled, that I had had enough! And he was very happy to dispense with ’em, I might add!”

    “Just like Bertie!” beamed Peg. “Is that a little blue suit he is wearing, Aunt Beresford?”

    “Below the dashed lace collar, I collect she means,” drawled Mr Beresford.

    Peg smiled up at him. “Every little boy must wear his prettiest collar to have his picture took, dear sir: you know nothing of a female’s sentiments upon such an occasion!”

    “Exact!” agreed Mrs Beresford, laughing a little. “That is tatted lace, Peg, very fine work. –As a matter of fact Sissy made it expressly for you, Jack.”

    He grinned. “Then I shall cease to feel any remorse for having inflicted Horrible upon her last Season! I say, would it be ineligible if we were to order up something to eat, at this delicate juncture?”

    “What is the ti— Oh, good Heavens!” cried Mrs Beresford, gaping at the clock. “Yes, order up— No, wait—I had best ask him if he cares to stay— Oh, dear! I suppose it is all right?”

    “Do not be such a ninny, Rowena,” said Mrs Portwinkle majestically. “The man would have left the house a good half-hour since, had she had turned him down! But it is certainly high time they were interrupted.”

    “Er—yes.” Mrs Beresford hesitated.

    “I’ll do it, Mamma,” said Jack, getting up with a smile.

    “Well, I— Oh, dear. It would look so pointed were I to knock—but then, one does not wish to burst in—”

    “I said, I’ll do it,” he said mildly, walking out.

    Behind him silence reigned. The three women avoided one another’s eyes, Mrs Portwinkle affecting to be entirely engrossed in the miniature of Jack as a little boy, Peg taking up the one of him and his sister May again, and Mrs Beresford merely staring distractedly at the clock.

    Finally Peg squeaked: “Will he—will he knock, do you think?”

    “It is his own house,” replied her great-aunt with an awful frown.

    Peg subsided. “Mm.”

    When Jack walked into his own morning room in his own house Lord Geddings and Alice were merely sitting demurely side-by-side on a sofa, which was, given their good manners, pretty much what he had expected. Though given Geddings’s age and experience he was damn’ sure the man had kissed her. Certainly her cheeks were pink enough to indicate he had. Well, good show!

    “I hope congratulations are in order, Geddings, for the household has been wanting its midday meal for some time, now!” he said breezily.

    Geddings got up, smiling, and turned to assist Alice to rise. “Yes, you may congratulate me, thanks, Beresford.”

    “Call me Jack,” replied Jack, wringing his hand hard. “And allow me to wish you both all the happiness in the world!” he added with a laugh, pecking Alice’s cheek.

    “Thank you, Cousin Jack,” she smiled.

    Yes, well, cool as a cucumber, weren’t she? Never mind the pink cheeks. Well, she would make the man a gracious helpmeet, indeed, and he wished the both of them well. They struck him as ideally suited.

    “Ideally suited,” he said firmly to his mamma very much later that evening.

    Mrs Beresford was already in bed. She leaned back against her pillows and sighed. “Yes, well, I think so. Though there is no denying his mistresses have—well, littered the town, I think is not too strong an expression, Jack, for years past.”

    “Yes, but he’s never asked any of them to marry him, has he?”

    “Well, no. Oh! I see what you mean...”

    “Aye. He has always struck me as a decent man. And he spoke just as he ought about damned Buffitt and the children, did he not?’

    “Oh, indeed! I was very pleased with what he said!”

    “Mm. And I would say that he has the diplomatic skills to get Buffitt out of that damned hovel and down to Medways—if anyone in England has.”

    After moment Mrs Beresford said in a hollow voice: “Has anyone?”

    Jack rubbed his chin, “Remains to be seen, don’t it? But if he don’t manage it, I shall pay a visit to Sir Horace and get him to chuck the man out.”

    “Jack!”

    He grinned. “No, think about it, Mamma. It’ll force him to accept Geddings’s offer.”

    “But he is so—so contrary... No, you are right. He would have no other recourse. Good gracious, Jack, that is positively Machiavellian of you.”

    Jack’s mouth tightened. “Anyone that came slap up against Buffitt, Mamma, would realise sooner or later that Machiavellian tactics were all that were left to him. –Goodnight.”

    “Yes,” she said weakly as he bent to kiss her cheek. “Goodnight, my dear.”

    Jack went over to the door, smiling a little.

    “No, wait,” she said. “I—er—thank you for—for supporting me—no, supporting us—today, my dear.”

    “Supporting you?”

    “I mean, when we thought that the two of them had been together long enough,” said Mrs Beresford on a lame note.

    “Oh—that! It was nothing, Mamma!”

    “It was not nothing to me, I can assure you!” she said with a shudder. “And Aunt Portwinkle herself was hesitating: you must have remarked it!”

    “Er—was she?”

    “Of course she was! Thank God you were there!”

    “Uh—well, ain’t it usually the task of the head of the household, Mamma?” he said with a laugh. “Think nothing of it! Goodnight!”

     Mrs Beresford blew out her candle as he closed the door. “Head of the household—yes,” she said to herself. “I shall write to Sissy first thing tomorrow—and to Mary, too. It is such a good sign! And,” she added to herself with a chuckle, “the dear little thing was so struck by the pictures of Jack as a tot!” A somewhat muddled statement, this: markedly lacking, in view of the momentous events of the day, in any reference to Alice’s great romance.

    On the morrow, of course, she was very much herself again, and so the letters to Sissy Laidlaw and Mary Beresford expressed very properly her pleasure at the engagement of Alice and Lord Geddings. And tactfully glossed over the whole “Corrant” affair. But it must be admitted that they wandered off—especially the one to Sissy—into the byways of exquisite tatted collars which had been laid by in lavender, Jack’s adorableness as a tot, and Peg’s reaction to the pictures of the same. Byways which neither Miss Sissy nor Miss Beresford had the least difficulty in interpreting.

    Though Miss Sissy did remark, reading over the final paragraph, in which there was a reference to Mrs Portwinkle’s presence in the house in addition to something about cruets and footmen: “Good gracious! So Aunt Portwinkle was there? The poor souls—how terrifying! I should have thought she would have mentioned it earlier.”

Next chapter:

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