Clotted Cream

20

Clotted Cream

    A week of Brighton jollities gave Mrs Beresford ample opportunity to observe Peg’s demeanour both in and out of her son’s company, Jack’s demeanour both in and out of Peg’s, Alice’s attitude to Chelford and his to her, and of course Mr Valentine’s undoubted feeling for Anne and Anne’s for him. This last, she owned to her sister, pleased her very much. Miss Sissy just nodded and smiled and did not ask her about the rest. For the week had also offered ample opportunity to observe Peg’s encouragement of Lord Michael Fitz-Clancy, Peg’s encouragement of Mr Bobby Cantrell-Sprague, and even, alas, Peg’s encouragement of Admiral Dauntry. Not to mention Fanny Beresford von Maltzahn-Dressen’s outrageous encouragement of l’Amiral du Fresne, which the Laidlaw sisters had admitted to each other they could not understand in the least. For Fanny had so recently owned in so many words to Rowena that there was nothing to that rumour, and had laughed at the very notion in Sissy’s hearing, and had even given his absurd courting gift to Peg!

    The week was to culminate in an entertainment at Stamforth Castle: an afternoon performance of what was described as “A Musical Masque”, followed by dinner and a masquerade ball. Some of those invited pointed out that music generally accompanied masques, but most of the members of the Upper Ten Thousand enjoying the salubrious airs of Brighton grasped eagerly at the chance to attend one of the very rare functions offered by the P.W. at her own home.

    “I was so very flattered to have been asked,” said Chelford earnestly with his pleasant smile as he escorted the eldest Miss Buffitt tenderly along the front.

    Alice had owned it to nobody, but during the period in Brighton she had become very, very bored with the amiable Chelford, and even the gratitude she felt for his having promised Cousin Beresford to look into Paul’s case—not to say, the propriety of his not having breathed a word of the matter to herself—was failing to compensate for it. “Oh? Why?”

    Chelford stuttered. Scarcely knowing the Viscount and his lady, their known exclusivity when in their country home, the short time he had been in England, and Lady Stamforth’s kindness all featured in the stuttering.

    “I should have thought your consequence alone would have guaranteed you an invitation,” said Alice in a bored tone.

    He stuttered again.

    Alice put a simper on her lips, stopped listening completely, and stared determinedly out at the sea.

    … “One collects,” said Peg with a sparkle in her eye, as Nancy Uckridge pointed out that scarce anyone was ever invited to the Castle, “that one should be flattered, then. Though of course you might well expect just such an invitation.”

    Unaware that she was the fourteenth person to have congratulated Peg upon the invitation, Nancy replied blankly: “What do you mean? You know Lady Stamforth far better than I.”

    “That is true enough. But I believe you have a close acquaintance, to say no more, who customarily receives invitations to the castle for the summer?”

    Poor Nancy went very red: this was a reference to Wilfred Rowbotham’s visit of the previous year. “That is really horrid, and I would have expected better of you, Peg!”

    “The Vanes are reputed to have a houseful of snappy little pugs; you had best remind him of the fact, for terriers and pugs never—”

    But Nancy had risen and declared, lips trembling, that she would go home on the instant.

    Peg merely shrugged, and did not attempt to detain her. And owned to herself that she rather wished Nancy would be foolish enough to persuade Mr Rowbotham to take the pink-harnessed Dicky, now answering to his new name at least half the time, along to the afternoon at the castle. A fight between the terrier and one or two of those pugs would certainly enliven the soi-disant “Musical Masque.” The phrase alone was more than enough to put one off, and in fact Horrible had already persuaded Aunt B. to allow her to stay behind. Mrs Beresford had given in on the point with the reflection that she, too, would give almost anything to get out of having to sit through another of Mr Perseus Brentwood’s notorious summer masques, and the child might as well enjoy her girlhood while she could: next year, with Charlotte now threatening a Court presentation, she would not be let off so lightly.

    Lord Michael Fitz-Clancy, Mr Bobby Cantrell-Sprague, Admiral Dauntry, and, just incidentally, the very young Captain Lord William Fitz-Clancy, Lord Michael’s nephew, had all begged for the privilege of escorting Miss Peg Buffitt to the castle. Having observed Alice endeavouring to hide her boredom in Chelford’s company, Peg had somewhat grimly accepted Lord Michael’s offer. As she had done so without referring the point to her Aunt Beresford, she was speedily informed that it would not do: not a drive of that distance.

    “But it will be an open carriage, Aunt Beresford,” she said, her chin firming.

    “Nevertheless it would not do, my dear, and I am surprised,” she said lightly, “that a man of his age could be so heedless as to suggest it. It is the sort of thing that one might expect of a boy like Bobby Cantrell-Sprague.”

    “Indeed?” returned Peg grimly. “That is odd, for Admiral Dauntry suggested the precise thing, whilst Mr Bobby very properly offered me a ride with his mamma and sisters.”

    “I am glad you had the sense to refuse that,” said Mrs Beresford lightly, “for Mrs C.-S. would have made the journey extremely painful for you. Speaking of which, my dear, I dare say a dozen people have told you this, but nevertheless I feel I had best reiterate it: the C.-S. boys have nothing in their own right, and are expected by their family to marry money.”

    Several people had indicated as much, but no-one had actually used the phrase “nothing in their own right” to Peg, and she had to swallow. “I know that, ma’am. Um—well, nothing?”

    Mrs Beresford suppressed a sigh. “Mr Bobby, and his older brother Johnny as well, live upon an allowance from their father; do you understand, my dear? I dare say not an inconsiderable sum, certainly to anyone in your own family’s circumstances. But although it probably could support a wife and little brood in a small house in the country, Mr and Mrs C.-S. would never permit a son of theirs to live that sort of life. You must not hope for it. –Before you attempt argument, Peg,” she said firmly as Peg opened her mouth, “ask yourself whether pretty little Mr Bobby has the strength of character to support the simple life with equanimity.”

    Peg went very red. After a moment she owned grimly: “I suppose he does not, no.”

    “I do not know him very well, but I should say not,” agreed Mrs Beresford calmly. “A young man of character, one cannot but feel, would have found some useful occupation or profession for himself by this time, instead of hanging on his father’s sleeve.”

    “Y— Um, many persons of fashion expect no more of their sons,” said Peg weakly.

    “And many are very pleased to see ’em go into the Army, the Navy, or the Church,” responded her aunt drily.

    “That is true. Though of course your son,” retorted Peg sourly, “has not chosen to do so.”

    Mrs Beresford eyed her drily. “His circumstances have not required him to: he is the head of his house, an only son, and a wealthy man in his own right. Or do I not need to point it out?”

    Peg had gone very red again. “No. And that was unpardonably rude of me; I apologise, Aunt Beresford.”

    “Thank you, Peg,” she said graciously.

    Peg chewed on her up. After a moment she burst out: “But he does not do anything!”

    “Jack? Not very much, no,” said his mother frankly. “Though he does more than you think: when he closets himself in his study he is not merely reading the morning paper, you know. He has many business interests which normally occupy several hours of his day. I think you have seen his man of business, Mr Chudleigh, coming and going? Yes,” she said as Peg nodded mutely. “But I would be the first to agree that he does not take as much of an interest in the property in Cumberland as he should. However,” she noted at her driest, “I would also be the first to concede that that is partly my fault: I should not have removed to Bath when John died.”

    “Aunt Sissy says that Beresford Hall is very isolated,” ventured Peg in a small voice.

    “Yes,” said Rowena Beresford with a sigh, “that is certainly the excuse I gave—to myself, as well as others.” Peg looked at her uncertainly, and she owned: “You cannot understand, my dear, and God knows I hope you will never be in a position to understand. But although I did not admit as much to my relatives in Bath, I could not support the loneliness of the place with dear John gone.” She bit her lip. “Er, not just its physical isolation, though with Hailsham House unoccupied, it is true there was no neighbour for twenty miles.”

    Peg nodded, swallowing hard.

    Mrs Beresford smiled rather sadly. “Don’t look like that, dear child; it is nigh on twenty year agone.”

    “Mm,” Peg agreed, chewing on her lip.

    “Well!” she said briskly, giving herself a shake, “I am sure I do not know how we got onto such a mournful topic! I think we were speaking of Lord Michael’s offer to drive you to Stamforth Castle? I shall suggest he may like to take a barouche, and make up a little party: perhaps take Anne and Mr Valentine, with Sissy to chaperone you all, mm?”

    “Yes, or—or would there be room for him in the barouche with us, Aunt Beresford?”

    “Let me see: well, Jack will ride alongside, of course, and Hortensia is not coming… I think we may squeeze him in.” She gave her a narrow look. “Would you prefer that, Peg?”

    Peg swallowed. “Y— Um, it is only that I do not think that—that Mr Valentine likes him very much, Aunt.”

    Say, rather, that Mr Valentine did not approve of such an elderly fellow’s dangling after Peg: this had become very plain over the last week and it was a point that disposed Mrs Beresford very much in Val Valentine’s favour. She eyed her a trifle drily but said only: “So I have observed. Very well, then, I shall pen Lord Michael a little note asking him to ride with us.”

    Peg thanked her politely and would have gone out, but that her Aunt B. said: “One moment, Peg.” Peg paused, trying to smile. “Admiral Dauntry?” said Mrs Beresford, perfectly neutral.

    Peg gulped. “I refused, ma’am!”

    “So I should hope.”

    “And—and since Mr Beresford so kindly spoke to him,” she said, turning positively puce, “he has been very proper.”

    There was a little pause. “Very proper except for the offer to drive you all the way to Stamforth Castle in his phaeton, one collects,” said Mrs Beresford at her driest. “Do he still have that rig-out? Black, picked out in yellow, at least it certainly was when he was pursuing the little Contessa dalla Rovere.”

    Peg’s jaw dropped.

    “Oh, had you not heard that one?” she said lightly.

    After a moment Peg managed to croak: “Admiral Dauntry’s phaeton is picked out in pale blue, Aunt.”

    “He must have had it refurbished, then,” she said without a flicker. “Run along, my dear.”

    Peg tottered out, and Mrs Beresford permitted herself to smile a little. Though she then said under her breath: “Jack so kindly spoke to Dauntry? What in God’s name—?”

    Interrogation of Sissy produced nothing but a series of stutters and maybes. Though she was quite sure that he had spoken to Fitz-Clancy. In his study! The picture that this conjured up of the middle-aged explorer standing meekly on the mat was just so ludicrous that Mrs Beresford had to shake her head hard to chase it out again.

    “Never mind, Sissy,” she said heavily.

    “Dear Jack has behaved just as he ought throughout,” said Miss Sissy on a very firm note. “And was quite determined to help Paul Hilton, and you see, he has managed it!”

    Rowena Beresford smiled at her. “I know. I am very glad to hear you think he has behaved just as he ought. I have certainly noticed a much more responsible attitude in him.”

    “Oh, indeed, my dear! It has all been the making of him!”

    Mrs Beresford did not think it had, quite. Not yet. But she noted drily: “Yes; perhaps I should have stayed in Vienna.”

    “No, my dear,” said Miss Sissy quickly, very evidently not pausing to consider her words, “for silly Mr Buffitt and his silly edicts are like to undo it all!”

    “Only if one desires to bring about a match between Jack and Peg, I think,” she said drily.

    Her sister’s jaw sagged. “Uh—”

    “Do not bother to protest, Sissy: it is plain as the nose on your face that you do.”

    “Wuh-well— You do approve of her, Rowena?” she faltered.

    Mrs Beresford’s mouth firmed. “Yes. And more than that, I think she is a girl of sufficient character to stand up to Jack. But my approval is scarce the point, is it?”

    Was it not? It certainly had been in the past. Mrs Beresford had not approved of either the pretty little Contessa’s frivolity or her family background, though it was true that as far as Miss Sissy knew it was the latter that had been the bar to her being accepted into the Beresford family. She looked at her sister limply.

    “Does he want her, that is the point, Sissy,” she said grimly.

    “We—we were all so sure that he did,” she faltered. “And I am sure he is jealous of Lord Michael! But—but now silly Mr Buffitt—”

    “Sissy, if his feelings were truly involved, he would not let her father’s nonsense weigh with him for an instant. Not, that is, if he were a man instead of a mouse,” she said grimly.

    Miss Sissy looked at her helplessly. Rowena—Rowena—was implying that her ewe-lamb lacked character? “Um, perhaps he does not know his own mind,” she offered feebly.

    “He has appeared to know it in the past,” said his mother grimly.

    “Ye-es. My dear, he is older now. It is understandable if he does not wish to rush into anything, or—or be rushed.”

    “Mm. I dare say. But without rushing, I confess I am at a loss to see how we are to keep Peg with us for the rest of the summer, Sissy. Or had you forgotten that aspect of the aforesaid edicts?” she said drily, going out.

    Miss Sissy sat there limply. Oh, dear, oh dear: that was right, of course! And—and did Rowena want Jack to take Peg, or not?

    Miss Peg Buffitt, on a glorious summer’s afternoon, was in the palest of jonquil yellows, a fine lawn, ornamented only with a multiplicity of tiny tucks above the hem. The wide-brimmed hat, if the latest mode in style, was merely a natural straw, under which the golden curls rioted gloriously. Both it and the dainty parasol were enchantingly trimmed with silk jonquils and olive-green ribbon. Small wonder that Lord Michael Fitz-Clancy, gluing himself to her side and assuming the demeanour of the man in possession, had no eyes for any other lady in the crowd assembled on the great expanse of greensward inside the huge grey walls of Stamforth Castle.

    Miss Anne, immediately claimed by Mr Valentine as she descended from the barouche, was equally enchanting in a simple blue-sprigged white muslin. Bright blue ribbons featured on the white straw hat, the under-brim of which was cunningly decorated with tiny blue and white flowers, setting off the riotous golden curls to perfection. The parasol, of which Mr Valentine immediately possessed himself in a manner silently characterised by some of the less charitably inclined onlookers as uxorious, was a frivolous affair of frilled white cambric, dotted with little bows of the blue ribbon.

    Chelford had as immediately captured Alice, Miss Buffitt, even though Lord and Lady Stamforth’s entertainment featured a great many ladies of very much greater distinction to whom he perhaps ought to have been paying attention. Alice did not present such a girlish picture as her little sisters: she was quietly elegant in a gown of narrow grey and white stripes, with a tiny frill of crocheted lace at the neck. The hat was pale grey silk, ornamented with bows and rosettes of the grey and white striped fabric, and her parasol was plain white, with but one grey silk bow on the long handle.

    Clotted Cream: A Musical Masque as presented by Mr Perseus Brentwood’s company of players was fully as silly as predicted, and was received most amiably indeed by the crowd assembled on the immense lawn of the castle before the great grey bulk of the old keep. The more so as trays of refreshment circulated before the thing began and during both intervals. Miss Anne Buffitt owned shyly to her escort during the first of these that she thought the plot was rather far-fetched, and Val, who had laughed uproariously most of the way through it, at this had to clear his throat and explain that one was not supposed to take it seriously.

    “Oh. So—so will the heroine discover that she is a princess and not a milkmaid after all?” –The programme indicated: “The Princess Rosebud, Disguised as A Milkmayde: Mrs Antoinette Avon.”

    “Oh, bound to!” he said cheerfully.

    Anne looked dubious. The thing was, the hero, a completely charming young man with the most wonderful smile, was only a shepherd. Timidly she put this latter point to her admirer, though not mentioning the smile.

    “Oh, the fellow will turn out to be a Grand Duke at the very least, you will see!”

    “Oh.” Anxiously Anne consulted her programme. “Colin, A Shepherde: Mr Julian Beaujean” was all it said.

    “Dear Miss Anne, it is all a joke, this producer’s famous for them. It was his company that did The Bride and The Bear in London, y’know! –Oh, uh, some years back,” he remembered lamely. “No, well, often puts ’em on down on the south coast in the summer, y’see. Sir Jeremy Foote often has him over at his place, too.”

    “But if she turns out to be a princess, will not that horrid old man that is the prince get her?” said Anne fearfully, consulting the programme again. (“Prince Baseheart: Mr Emmanuel Everett.”)

    “Uh…” Val pulled his ear. The thing was, only little bits of gals like dear Miss Anne would ever dream of referring to Mr Everett as a “horrid old man”, for the ladies all adored the fellow. “Well, not sure,” he admitted, clearing his throat. “But it will all turn out happily, mark my words!” Miss Anne still did not look convinced, so he was reduced to rising, holding the parasol open suggestively, and inviting her for a little stroll.

    “For my part,” said Peg gaily to her escort, “I am convinced that Rosebud will turn out to be the Wicked Witch Cassandra in disguise, that the shepherd will be released from the spell holding him in thrall and turn back into a frog, and that Prince Baseheart will turn into Prince Nobleheart and marry the Wicked Witch Cassandra, who will turn out to be the true Princess Rosebud!”

    Lord Michael had not thought the thing funny at all: damned silly, if you asked him. “Er—yes,” he said feebly, trying to smile. “Silly, ain’t it, Miss Peg?”

    “Ineffably!” said Peg with laugh. “My cousin Hortensia predicted as much, and refused to come!”

    Sensible gal, thought his Lordship glumly. “Yes, um, think this is the theatrical company Lady Stamforth often invites for the summer. They generally put on something very light.”

    Not for the first time Peg reflected that Lord Michael, on any topic other than his actual adventures abroad, was as exciting as—as suet pudding! Since the Buffitt ménage very often served up this solid article, known for its efficacy in filling up the children, she was very sure her image was the right one. She did not pause to reflect that in fact she had never made the effort truly to get to know the man, or his tastes, but, thinking crossly that suet pudding along with the big red nose was too much, took a deep breath and managed to say: “Shall we stroll for a little?”

    Nothing loath, Lord Michael rose, took the parasol off her, raised it tenderly over her, and offered his arm.

    Chelford, had he not been seated by Miss Buffitt, would have considered the thing a complete waste of time. She had not laughed very much; he said on an anxious note: “Not bored, I hope, dear Miss Buffitt? It is rather a frivolous piece, I fear.”

    “No, no, I was not bored, Duke. I was wondering what possible further ramifications might be introduced into the plot. Now, I suppose it is too much to hope for that the King and Queen will turn out to have been swapped at birth with the milkmaid’s parents?”

    “N— Uh, why should they have been?” he said groggily.

    “Oh, there is no why in such pieces,” said Alice lightly. “Though the plot may offer an explanation for the princess’s being disguised as a milkmaid, of course.”

    “Y— Uh, but that is a why, surely?” he said with a forced smile.

    Mrs Beresford was seated at his other side. She leaned forward. “Not at all, Duke!” she said with a laugh.

    Alice at this also laughed.

    “Oh, I see, you are funning, Miss Buffitt,” said Chelford.

    Alice met Aunt B.’s eye and had to swallow.

    “Something like that,” said Mrs Beresford at her driest. “Perhaps you would care to take Alice for a little stroll, Duke? The intervals in these summer things at the castle are always lengthy.”

    Gratefully His Grace rose, adjusted Alice’s parasol tenderly over her, offered his arm, and led her off.

    “Inane,” said Mrs Beresford grimly to her son, on her other side.

    “The P.W.’s damned summer fol-de-rols always are,” replied Jack, suppressing a yawn.

    Mrs Beresford lowered her voice, though in view of the hubbub, there was probably little need to. “Not the piece.”

    Jack directed a sardonic glance at her. “Put a stop to it, then.”

    Her hands clenched on the handle of her black silk parasol. “I cannot. It would be the making of the girl’s family.”

    He raised an eyebrow slightly, but smothered another yawn.

    Towards the front of the select gathering, Miss Nancy Uckridge had been honoured with a place between Mr Rowbotham and his eldest brother and head of his family, Sir Cedric. It had been some time before she managed to summon up a laugh.

    “Not bad, mm?” said Wilfred with his pleasant smile, having captured a passing footman with no effort whatsoever and procured glasses of suitable refreshment for them all.

    “I think it is very amusing, sir,” said Nancy shyly. “I wonder if the shepherd will turn out to be a prince in the end?”

    Gravely Wilfred consulted his programme. Gravely he shook his head. “No knowing.”

    His sister-in-law leaned forward from Sir Cedric’s other side. “Of course the shepherd must turn out to be a prince, Wilf! Why else would the milkmaid be described as a princess in disguise?”

    “There’s a prince here, though,” said Wilfred, shaking his head.

    “But he is so horrid!” hissed Nancy, shuddering.

    That was precisely Sir Cedric Rowbotham’s opinion. “Exact,” he said pleasedly, beaming upon her.

    “Rubbish, my dear, that is Emmanuel Everett!” said Lady Rowbotham crossly.

    “Exact. Horrid,” said her spouse with satisfaction. He rose, and bowed before the stunned Nancy. “Dare say you might care for a little stroll, m’dear? Take my arm. –You need not come, Wilf,” he added brutally, walking off with his prize.

    “See!” said Lady Rowbotham with a giggle as the two were swallowed up in the crowd. “I told you Ceddie approved, Wilf!”

    “Aye,” he said limply, sagging in his seat. “’Pears he do: aye.”

    His sister-in-law sipped champagne, twinkling at him over the rim of the glass. “And if I may offer you a little good advice, my dear?”

    “What?” he said edgily. The older members of his family were only too prone to offer Wilfred good advice.

    “In your shoes,” said his sister-in-law sweetly, “I would not mention to Miss Nancy that your customary practice is to sleep through these shows.”

    “Well, at least it ain’t Shakespeare,” he conceded fairly. “Anyroad, she’s enjoying it; wouldn’t dream of nodding off.”

    Lady Rowbotham just smiled kindly at him. Wilf had been known to nod off in the company of anything from the most formidable of dowager duchesses to the most sought-after of the Season’s belles. Not to mention, in that of the very sought-after widowed Lady Hartwell herself. Lady Hartwell’s birth was unexceptionable, her widow’s portion was not small, and she had an established position in Society, besides being generally considered, though not a beauty, quite fascinating. Added to which she had clearly indicated that she did not find Mr Rowbotham an antidote. Lady Rowbotham, however, did not like the fascinating Lady Hartwell. She was very, very pleased to see Wilf apparently intent on fixing his interest with little Nancy Uckridge instead. There would be no fear of scandal from that direction, and every hope of seeing Wilf with a snug little family of his own in a few years’ time!

    The second act of Clotted Cream included a great deal of dancing, a considerable amount of incidental music, which a considerable proportion of the audience recognised as owing more than something to the genius of W.A. Mozart, and some very pretty costumes: possibly just as well, for the plot became more and more involved and obscure.

    As the second interval dawned, programmes could be seen to be fluttering all over the lawn.

    “Do not bother,” advised Mr Beresford, who was seated on Miss Anne’s Valentine-less side, as his youngest guest was observed to be frowning over the list of characters.

    “But I cannot make it out at all, sir! Do you think the Wicked Witch Cassandra is in fact meant for Rosebud’s mother?”

    Mr Beresford had an idea she was meant for Lady Jersey; if, that was, the masque’s “King Porgy” was meant to represent England’s King George IV, the which most of the audience had by now concluded he was; the girth alone being a fair indicator. However, Miss Anne was by far too young to understand that reference, so he only said: “No idea, I’m afraid, Cousin Anne. What do you think, Val?”

    Val endeavoured to glare at him over Anne’s puzzled head. “No idea. And why try to guess? Ain’t it more fun to wait until the surprise is revealed at the end, Jack?”

    “Why are you squinting, Val? Sun too much for you?” he said languidly.

    Mr Valentine rose with great dignity. “Certainly not, thank you. –Shall we stretch our legs, Miss Anne? Dare say we might look for your friend Miss Nancy, hey?”

    Anne agreed, smiling, and he bore her off. However, as they went she might have been heard to say earnestly: “But surely they cannot mean to turn it all on its head! Rosebud must turn out to be a princess in the end, must she not?” And Mr Valentine might have been observed to smile desperately.

    “I think,” said Alice primly to Chelford, “that Rosebud must turn out to be a princess in the end, do not you?”

    “Oh, I am sure. Well, the programme indicates as much, does it not?”

    All at once the well behaved Alice Buffitt felt she might scream if she did not very quickly remove herself from His Grace’s orbit. She rose quickly. “Of course. Pray excuse me: I promised Cousin Hortensia I would deliver a message to Mina Benedict for her, and I see she is just over there.” Forthwith she hurried away before His Grace could recover his wits and offer to escort her.

    “For my part,” offered Miss Sissy with a smothered giggle, “I am convinced the milkmaid will turn out to be a princess, the shepherd will turn out to be a prince, and the wicked Prince Baseheart will be dragged down to the nether regions in a puff of coloured smoke!”

    “The music did indicate as much, at one instant, I fancy,” drawled her nephew. “The only question being, which of King Porgy, Horace The Cottager, and Sir Geoffrey The Deceased Knight will unbend from his monumental solidity to bring about his end?”

    Given that all three of these parts were taken by Mr Perseus Brentwood himself, Miss Sissy, Mrs Beresford and Peg all collapsed in splutters. Though Mrs Beresford did say weakly: “If they intend to carry through the Don Giovanni motif it must be the Deceased Sir Geoffrey, dear boy, surely?”

    “They are all equally solid, though!” squeaked Miss Sissy, collapsing again.

    “Yes!” said Peg eagerly. “And did you notice, in that last scene, though the Deceased Sir Geoffrey was in his marble cloak with his marble helmet and wig, he was wearing the shoes of Horace the Cottager still?”

    Her relatives collapsed, nodding helplessly.

    Lord Michael Fitz-Clancy had noticed, but he had not found it particularly amusing. Tolerantly he said: “They are managing quite well, really. It is such a small company, for all those parts.”

    Alas, at this Peg gave a helpless wail and buried her face in her handkerchief.

    “Er—quite,” said his Lordship limply. “Dare say we might fetch the ladies some refreshment, what do you say, Chelford?”

    Thankfully the young duke agreed, and the two gentlemen made good their escape.

    “Dear me,” said Mrs Beresford neutrally. “It seems that only we ladies find Clotted Cream either amusing or Mozartesque.”

    Miss Sissy promptly collapsed in giggles of the most agonising sort, shaking her new grey-brown silk bonnet helplessly at her sister. And Peg, alas, gave another helpless wail and had recourse to her handkerchief again.

    “Well, that serves me out for darin’ to joke,” said Jack Beresford, grinning all over his lean face.

    “Yes,” agreed Peg limply, blowing her nose, “Oh, dear. What a pair of dull puddings! Though I suppose Chelford may never have had the opportunity of hearing any Mozart, in Boston.”

    “One may give him the benefit of the doubt, then, as far as the Mozart is concerned,” said Mrs Beresford drily. “But I hope you are not about to excuse Lord M. on the excuse of his having been abroad for the last sixty years?”

    “Not sixty,” said Peg limply.

    “Well, I am not perfectly sure when Don Giovanni would first have been produced. But something very like it.”

    “I dare say, but dear Aunt B., it was revived in London this very year! We went!” said Peg with vigour.

    “Then there can be no excuse whatsoever for him,” she said placidly.

    “Unless he has no ear,” drawled Jack in a bored voice.

    “Nonsense, my dear! He observedly has two very large ears!” hissed Miss Sissy, collapsing all over again.

    Mrs Beresford’s eyes twinkled very much, but she rose and said calmly to her sister: “Sissy, my dear, you are becoming over-excited. Come for a little stroll.” And led her off.

    After a short silence, Mr Beresford ventured: “They go with the nose.”

    “Stop it,” said Peg in a muffled voice.

    He grinned, but desisted. After a moment he said “I’m glad to see Val getting on so well with your little sister.”

    Peg looked at him doubtfully. “Are you?”

    “Yes. He’s a very good-hearted fellow, and she’s an unspoiled little thing with, I would say, considerable sweetness in her nature. I think his family will like her.”

    Peg was rather flushed. “Good,” she said in a stifled voice.

    Jack looked sideways at her but did not ask if it felt odd to see her little sister getting off before herself. Though he had certainly felt somewhat odd when his little sister grew up and contracted a very eligible engagement—all at the once, it had seemed. “I was glad that your mother consented to let her visit with his family this summer. But do you think your father will ever allow it?”

    Peg bit her lip. “I don’t know. Pa seems to have—to have taken one of his unreasonable dislikes to him.”

    “He does that, does he?” said Jack lightly. She looked at him blankly and he reddened, and was forced to elaborate: “Takes unreasonable dislikes to fellows.”

    “Oh!” said Peg, reddening in her turn. He must think she had meant to refer to Pa’s reaction to him, how dreadful! “Um, yes. Well, not only fellows: anybody. There is a Mrs Draper in the village whom he abhors, though no-one can discover why. She seems a completely harmless woman.”

    “Mm. Well, fortunately your mother has sense: let us hope she prevails if he does try to come between Val and Anne.”

    “Yes, well, in all probability Ma has not shown him the invitation. She will just let him assume that Anne is with Aunt Beresford, still.” She took a deep breath. “And I must say that after your kindness to Paul, for Pa not to write even a line is the most ungrateful thing ever, and I apologise for him, sir!” She was very flushed, and looked at him with her chin a little lifted.

    Mr Beresford was also a little flushed. “Please do not. I did very little.” He hesitated. “And yourself? Will you be allowed to come on home with us?”

    “I don’t know,” said Peg in a voice that shook. “I should like to see how Lance is getting on, but—but I think perhaps I should go home… It seems a long time since I saw Ma.”

    “Oh. Of course,” he said lamely.

    Peg licked her lips, and looked into her lap. Mr Beresford said nothing: she began to feel the silence was unbearable. Eventually she said: “Is it true you have a lake?”

    “What? Oh: at home. Yes. They call it a mere, locally: Beresmere. It’s not very large: I could row across it easily by the time I was ten, though I don’t claim I could manage it end-to-end, unaided. But then Papa taught me to sail: that was great fun!”

    “And do you still sail, sir?”

    To her surprise Mr Beresford pulled a sour face in response to this harmless remark and said: “If you’re asking me if I sport a sea-going schooner like that thing of old Q.-V.’s, no.”

    Peg looked at him in bewilderment. “Who? Do you mean Captain Quarmby-Vine, sir?”

    “Who else? Threatened to bring it round to Brighton this year, has he?”

    “I don’t know: I have not spoken to him for some weeks,” said Peg dazedly. Why on earth did he appear so annoyed? “Um, I suppose I might have deduced that he would be likely to own a yacht, thought I do not think I had heard that he does. But, um, do not the gentlemen sail at a place called Cowes, rather than Brighton?”

    Sagging, Mr Beresford tried to smile at her, and failed. “Yes, well, old Q.-V. certainly does. Sorry, I thought— Forget it.”

    Peg went very red. “He has not behaved unseemly or, um, approached me with any sort of advance since you spoke to him, sir. And I—I must express my gratitude, Mr Beresford.”

    Jack was now also rather flushed, but he said with a creditable assumption of ease: “Pray don’t mention it, Cousin. There is no harm in old Q.-V., after all.”

    “No. He is rather like an uncle,” she said with some relief.

    His shoulders shook. “Ain’t he, though? Well, poor old Q.-V.! And I do still sail, Cousin. I have a little sailing dinghy at home.”

    Peg expressed interest, and the two were chatting amiably when Mrs Beresford and Miss Sissy returned. The two ladies exchanged pleased glances, but refrained from remark.

    The rest of the visit to the castle passed off very much in the same vein: Chelford and Fitz-Clancy appearing eager, Miss Buffitt and Miss Peg Buffitt appearing, on the whole, docile but bored in their company, and Mr Valentine and Miss Anne Buffitt appearing as blissfully happy together as were Mr Wilfred Rowbotham and Miss Nancy Uckridge.

    A little impromptu hop was held that evening, and if Peg appeared pleased to dance several with Fitz-Clancy she appeared even more pleased to dance one with Mr Beresford. And the latter was certainly not observed to be paying any marked attentions to any other lady.

    “Well?” said the P.W. eagerly to her husband as Mrs Beresford’s party took their departure.

    Stamforth eyed her drily. “Surely you are not soliciting my poor opinion?”

    “Stop eet, Lewis!”

    “All I can say is that it seemed just as you predicted. The odds are that Chelford will offer for the oldest Miss Buffitt, I would say. And Valentine seems as struck as ever.”

    She glared.

    “I am not omniscient,” he said mildly.

    “Then why deed I ever marry you?” returned the P.W. with feeling. “For I had thought that like all gentlemen, you must be!”

    Bath society had expected merely the usual mild gratifications of a wedding from the nuptials of Elizabeth Charlotte Cecilia Laidlaw and John Charles Francis Morton, the chief points of interest being, firstly, though she was born and bred in the town he was a stranger, and secondly, the possibility—faint, true—that the bride’s Great-Aunt Portwinkle might forbid the bans at the last moment. Even the most hopeful gossips, however, not being able to adduce any supporting arguments in favour of the latter, except that the old lady was rumoured, in the wake of the expedition to Portsmouth, to be madder than ever. Bath was, then, positively thrilled—it was not too strong a word—by the arrival for the occasion of the bride’s very distant connexion the Fürstin von Maltzahn-Dressen, complete with a huge cortège of carriages laden with servants, baggage, and, it was rumoured, her own bedlinen. And escorted by a Froggy admiral in person! Sadly, only a Royalist one, as one, Mr Roly Kernohan, brilliantly remarked to the bride’s completely obscure younger brothers. Young Paul, who was due to adorn Oxford University this coming September, merely looked down his nose at him, but Freddy, a year or two older and, at least in his own opinion, quite up to snuff, sniggered obligingly and replied eagerly: “Aye! She called here, Roly, complete with the Frog, and Mamma nigh to passed out! And you should see the present she brought for Nobby and John! It is a great sort of—uh—”

    “Pot,” said Paul languidly.

    “No!” he cried crossly. “Um, well, it is china, and gilded, and the Lord knows what one would use it for—I mean, the only thing y’could call it is a dashed great—”

    “Urn,” said Paul languidly.

    “N— Uh, actually, you’re right, dash it! An urn, Roly! And the lid by itself is so heavy y’can scarce lift it—and absolutely hideous! Smothered in dashed cupids and leaves and fruit and flowers and stuff—”

    “Garlands,” said Paul languidly.

    “Aye, garlands,” agreed Freddy eagerly, this time missing the point, “and stands as high as m’knee!”

    “Eh?” said Mr Roland, dropping his extremely elegant cane with the knob of chased silver.

    Obligingly Paul picked it up and handed it back to him, noting less obligingly: “You ought to get lessons in handling this thing, Roly. Dare say Beau Nash would show you. Oh, no, didn’t he pop off about thirty year since?”

    “Very funny!” he snapped, above Freddy’s sniggers. “Oh, there y’are at last,” he said with relief as Mendoza strolled into the room with his hat in his hand. “We off, then?”

    “Yes, might as well get on out of it, the house is Purgatory at the moment, with the wedding coming off so soon. Oh—seen l’Amiral du Fresne yet?”

    “We were just telling him,” drawled Paul.

    “Then I shan’t bother,” said Mendoza calmly.

    “Uh—no, I say!” cried the sophisticated Mr Roland. “What is he like?”

    Mendoza, who was considerably his junior, eyed him tolerantly. Although he did not know the Admiral well, he had seen him box at Jackson’s and was aware that the claim of those gentlemen who did not care for him—or, perhaps, did not care for his undoubted popularity with the ladies—that the well-born Frenchman was “short, stout, overdressed and over-scented” was far from accurate. “Well, same as he is in town, really. Shortish, very natty.” He paused, eyeing Mr Roland’s cane thoughtfully.

    Suddenly Paul collapsed in a terrific sniggering fit. Gasping, as he mopped his streaming eyes: “I was killing myself, not to say it!”

    “I’ll wager,” agreed Mendoza, on the broad grin. “Come on, then, Roly.”

    “No—uh—what?” he stuttered.

    Mendoza held the door wide. “Carries a cane just like yours,” he said smoothly.

    Freddy collapsed in hoarse guffaws, gasping: “Aye! That’s right, so he do!”

    Very red, but horribly dignified, Mr Roly stalked out.

    “But why has she come?” gasped the plump Miss Diddy Carey.

    Rowena Beresford had known her all her life and therefore replied repressively—though in the full knowledge that nothing could stop Diddy: “For the wedding, obviously. She was very kind to Nobby during her Season. Try some of this cake, Diddy.”

    Miss Diddy took a piece of case but continued relentlessly: “Yes, but she is not even a Laidlaw relation!”

    “True,” the Fürstin’s sister-in-law agreed calmly.

    “We thought,” offered Peg on a desperate note, “that perhaps she is on her way to somewhere else, and—and very kindly stopped off.”

    “Quite,” agreed Mrs Beresford. “Charlotte did send her an invitation, of course.”

    “Well, but as a courtesy only, Rowena!” Their caller bit into the cake. “Mm!” she said through it, nodding. Swallowing quickly, she added somewhat thickly: “She never expected her to come!”

    “Well, she has come,” said Mrs Beresford flatly. “How is poor Selina?”

    The elder Miss Carey had recently broken her ankle. Her sister replied dismissively: “Oh, much improved, though she will not keep off it as the doctor ordered, but never mind that! Who is this French admiral?”

    Mrs Beresford took a deep breath.

    “He is Admiral du Fresne, Miss Diddy, a very eminent gentleman,” explained Anne helpfully. “He was in the Fürstin’s train in Brighton, but after all, she is so very pretty and—and elegant,”—even Anne, her sisters noted with wry amusement, could not bring herself to call the Fürstin gracious—“that I am sure it is no wonder. All the older gentlemen admire her. There is a Russian gentleman who often escorts her to parties, too.”

    “Prussian,” murmured Alice.

    “Is he? Well, never mind. The admiral is retired from his naval career, now, Miss Diddy, so I suppose he has nothing better to do. And fashionable people do pay country visits in the summer, don’t they?” she ended sunnily.

    “Er—yes,” said Miss Diddy very weakly indeed. “I suppose they do, my dear—yes.”

    … “Accept this medal with the congratulations and grateful thanks of the entire household, Anne,” said Peg solemnly, holding out her hand as the door closed after the vanquished visitor.

    “What—oh!” gasped Anne, grasping at nothing. “You are funning! Um—what did I do?”

    “Routed the unquenchable Diddy Carey!” said Mrs Beresford with a laugh.

    “Oh—did I?” said Anne, smiling weakly. “I didn’t mean to.”

    “I suppose it is a trifle odd,” admitted Peg, “but why should Her Highness not wish to attend a wedding of a young connexion, after all? She is not alone in that!”

    “No,” agreed Mrs Beresford with a sigh. “And I confess I see no reason why Fanny should not trail an hundred French admirals round the countryside in her train if she so wishes.”

    “Of course,” agreed Alice soothingly, “but there is no reason why you should be put under interrogation on account of it, dear ma’am. Perhaps you could tell the servants you are not at home for the rest of the day?”

    The robust Mrs Beresford eyed her drily. “Diddy having been the last straw, Alice? You forget I am used to Bath and its nine days’ wonders.”

    Peg laughed suddenly.

    Her Aunt B. looked at her and smiled. “Yes! But never dare to hint at it, my dear!”

    Perhaps because she was thoroughly sick of the subject, Mrs Beresford had not mentioned to her son that his Aunt Fanny escorted by l’Amiral du Fresne constituted Bath’s latest nine days’ wonder, and so it burst on poor Mr Beresford like a thunderclap in the course of what had been a pleasant little card party at the Dorian Kernohans’ snug little house.

    “What?” he croaked. “Did you say a Froggy admiral, Romney?”

    Val Valentine laid his cards down. “Eh?”

    Lieutenant Hallam nodded happily. “Aye, seen him with me own eyes, Jack: natty as y’please, and almost as high as me shoulder!”

    Mr Roly Kernohan was over his, so he sniggered and contributed: “Aye, we saw him helping your aunt out of a barouche: they was callin’ on old Mrs Throgmorton—me and Romney was strolling down t’other side of the street, y’see. Courtly, we though was t’only word, hey, Romney?”

    “Courtly it is. Short, portly and courtly,” said the brilliant naval man.

    “Y’must have seen him in town, Jack!” urged Mr Roland as this witty sally had no effect.

    “Yes, one sees him forever,” he croaked.

    “Yes. He was in Brighton, too,” said Mr Valentine, very faintly.

    Mr Beresford endeavoured to pull himself together. “Uh—heard he was having his portrait taken. You fellows will not have heard of Lawrence’s portrait of Old Hooky, of course, but you may have, Dorian.”

    Mr Dorian Kernohan’s own table having broken up, he had strolled over to see how his other guests were going on. “Of course, dear boy,” he said easily. “My father-in-law took us to view it, the year Johanna had her come-out. Like to him, with that definite suggestion of chill, hey? Though I admit,” he said with a smile, “to see him whirling in the waltz with some Society dame, that would not be the attribute that sprang to mind!”

    “No, exact,” said Jack, smiling at him. “Well, l’Amiral du Fresne has ordered his picture to be taken in, believe it or believe it not, the exact same pose.”

    Dorian gulped. “Never!”

    “True’s I sit here wondering why the Devil your brother played that last card. –Them pointed red ones are diamonds, Roly,” he said unkindly to the elegant Roland.—“Chalk and cheese, yes,” he said to Dorian over Roly’s indignant splutters.

    “I would have said so! And—uh—well, I suppose one does not hear so much of the French navy’s exploits as of our own, but did he ever actually admiral anything, Jack?”

    “Not ‘admiral’ anything, you fellows are dashed irritating!” said Lieutenant Hallam, coming to. “Should’ve played a heart, Roly,” he added unkindly. “Them red ones with the rounded tops to ’em. No, well, I ain’t never heard of nothing he did, except— Now, let me see, when was it? Well, ages back. Before Trafalgar, even.”—His friends sighed: in ’05 Romney could not have been more than 05, himself.—“I’ve got it! Back when Admiral Nelson sent old Admiral Sir Chauncey Winnafree off to the West Indies—”

    “Get him out of harm’s way: yes, yes, we know,” said Dorian smoothly.

    “You think that is funny, but you ain’t far wrong,” replied the naval man sternly. “Anyroad, it was back then, because du Fresne was in charge of the Froggy fleet—no, well, one ship o’ the line and two frigates, think it were—and he lost the Méritoire.”

    Dorian cleared his throat. “Er, were not the Méritoire on t’other side, dear boy? Wasn’t that the point: Sir Chauncey captured her and—”

    “Yes! You is not listening!” he said crossly. “They had took the Méritoire, see, and Winnafree puts a prize-crew on her, and they was joined up with du Fresne’s lot, and Winnafree decides they will split up for the next operation—well, come at the Frogs and Spaniards from two directions, y’see—and the Méritoire can go with du Fresne’s lot—under our flag, of course—so off they go and the fellow loses her!”

    There was a short silence.

    “Loses track of her, one collects,” murmured Dorian.

    “Yes! That is what I’m saying!” he said testily. “Y’wanted to know what du Fresne is known for, well, that’s it! Fellow what lost the Méritoire!”

    “There y’are,” said Mr Roly, grinning. “He looks it, too. Wants his picture took like Old Hooky, do he, Jack? Just like a Frog, hey?”

    The gentleman agreeing cheerfully—though the sapient Dorian Kernohan with a distinctly wry look in his eye—that this was, indeed, just like a Frog, attention turned back to the cards.

    … “Jack,” said Mr Valentine cautiously as they strolled back towards Mrs Beresford’s house, “don’t think I have it wrong, have I? Didn’t you tell me that the Princesse P. had asked you express to tell your aunt to sheer off old Bompey du Fresne in the case you wanted her to keep her claws off of young Lance?”

    Jack sighed. “You have it exactly right, Val.”

    “Well, Hell!” he said in horror. “What’s she playing at? Uh—well, difficult woman to talk to, the Fürstin, know that. Did you maybe not manage to make it clear to her?”

    Jack bit his lip. “I made it very clear to her, Val, in fact too clear, looking back, and the immediate result of that was her turning up at some dashed party or another escorted by du Fresne in person. And the odds shortened at the clubs. But after that I didn’t see her with him at all, so I concluded that—uh—that it had momentarily got under her skin, though I’m damned if I can see exactly why. Well, probably got on her high horse at being sent messages at second-hand by the old bitch, and I dare say, though I did my poor best, I didn’t butter her up enough, or some such— Well, Hell, I know she’s my aunt, but she’s a damned spiteful woman, Val, and I concluded she had done it out of mere spite, both against me and against the Princesse P., and that she had got over it.”

    “Mm,” he said, swallowing. “And Brighton?”

    Jack sighed. “Well, partly spite against the Princesse P. again, and to some degree spite against yours truly—turning the knife in the wound,” he said grimly—“and, at least this is what I thought at the time, partly simply because she wanted an escort, and Hans van Bolternstern’s uncle has ordered him to offer for some Bavarian Fräulein whose mother’s a Hohenzollern, and he’s gone off there for the summer to pay court to her.” Sourly he reminded him who the Prussian’s uncle was.

    “Oh! Oh, good gad, yes, he would not wish to rub him up the wrong way! Uh—well, yes, that sounds logical.” He thought about it. “Ye-es… But why in God's name bring the Frog to Bath, Jack?”

    Jack sighed. “Spite again?”

    “Uh—but it’s going a bit far, ain’t it? Um, I mean, how tactless were you, old boy?”

    “I thought I was extremely tactful, actually, but it seems I was wrong.”

    “Mm. Uh—a woman like that don’t like any implication she’s—uh—losin’ it, dear boy.”

    “Uh—you’re right,” said Jack, blinking. “Though I don't think I implied that. But I dare say that is what she concluded. And as you say, it seems going a bit far, but what else do silly women like Aunt Fanny have with which to occupy their minds?”

    “Mm. Uh—s’pose we couldn’t be wrong about it and she do seriously intend to accept the fellow’s offer? Odds was shortenin’ in the clubs, you ain’t wrong about that. And there’s nothing wrong with his birth.”

    “Val, she don’t want him, she admitted as much!” said Jack angrily. “And she knows that it would incense the Princesse P.!”

    “All the more reason,” said Mr Valentine slowly, “for a woman like that to go ahead and do it.”

    “Regardless of whether the old bitch might take it out on Lance, I suppose?” he said angrily.

    “Yes,” said Mr Valentine succinctly.

    Jack walked on very fast, saying nothing.

    The house was in sight when Val offered: “Don’t take this the wrong way, old boy, but didn’t your ma pop in to see the Fürstin when she got back from Vienna?”

    Jack stopped short. “Eh?”

    “Think she mentioned it,” he murmured.

    “By God!” he cried. “That’s it! She’ll have put her foot in it somehow, her and that damned mouth of hers!”

    Val bit his lip but nodded.

    “I’ll get the truth out of her if it’s the last thing I do!” he cried, making a rush for the house.

    Val shook his head slightly, but made no attempt to hold him back. For one thing, it would not work, and for another— Well, in the first instance he had just heard Jack say the sort of thing about his hitherto admired Aunt Fanny that the sophisticated Mr Beresford of two years back would not having dreamed of coming out with, and in the second instance, he had just heard Jack actually criticise his mother, and though he did not approve of breaches in families, it was his considered opinion that any loosening of those particular apron strings could not do the least harm and would most certainly be to the benefit of—not to name any names—any young woman whom Jack might take to wife.

    By the time Mr Beresford had run upstairs he had managed, if not precisely to collect his thoughts, at least to decide how to phrase them. So he knocked at his mother’s door and waited for her “Come in!” rather than bursting in.

    Mrs Beresford was sitting up in bed, reading. “What is it, Jack?” she said mildly.

    “I should like to hear, Mamma, exactly what passed between you and Aunt Fanny on the subject of Admiral du Fresne when you called on her in London,” said Jack in a hard voice.

    “What?” she said in bewilderment. “Well, uh, nothing very much, my dear. What is all this?”

    “Just take it that I need to know,” he said tightly. “What did you say to her, and what was her reaction?”

    “Um—she was on her chaise longue,” said Mrs Beresford feebly. “I thought she might not be well, but concluded she was—well, not to put too fine a point upon it, merely in the sulks!” She essayed a light laugh.

    “Pray do not put too fine a point on it, if you please,” said her son grimly. “Go on.”

    “Well, I—I cannot recall exactly what was said, dear boy.”

    Jack said nothing.

    “I— Well, General Ramsay had sent a kind message, so I conveyed that, and, well, she did not receive it very well, but I mentioned du Fresne—only as the mildest of jokes, Jack—and she said that she supposed it was all over the Continent and there was even less truth in it than there usually is in such stories. –I assure you those were her exact words!” she said as he frowned.

    “Was that all she said?”

    “Er—no,” admitted Mrs Beresford. “She—she said something—not exactly à propos, but it was what prompted it, I think—about old age and boredom.”

    Her son drew a deep breath. “And?”

    “I think that was all. We mostly talked about Anna and Geddings,” she said, swallowing in spite of herself.

    “What?” he said dangerously.

    “I merely offered to tell Peg not to give him any more encouragement, if Fanny did not wish her to!” she cried defiantly.

    “You idiot, Mamma!” said Jack angrily.

    Her large cheeks flushed. “Really, Jack!”

    “Tell me that did not infuriate the woman and I will eat my damned hat!” he said angrily.

    “I would not use the word infuriate,” said Mrs Beresford very weakly indeed.

    “Rubbish; when did she ever support anyone’s poking their nose into her business? And the whole town has been sniggering all Season at her unavailing attempts to haul Geddings off Peg and sic him onto Anna—not to mention at damned Wellington’s signalling his approval of the man’s pursuit of Peg!”

    “Um, yes,” she admitted glumly. “I suppose she was very annoyed—but as I say, she was in the sulks from the word ‘go’—”

    “She was in the sulks from the word ‘go’, and you rushed in with your hob-nailed boots on and made it worse!” he shouted.

    Mrs Beresford was very flushed but she said with a creditable assumption of composure: “Pray do not bellow at me, Jack. You may be a grown man, but I am still your mamma. I spoke to Fanny with the best of intentions—or perhaps you wish Geddings to continue to pursue your Cousin Peg?”

    “That has nothing to do with anything,” said Jack coldly, his lips thinning. “Does what you have just said accurately reflect the sequence of events?”

    “The—the what?” she faltered.

    “The—sequence—of—events,” said Jack clearly.

    “Do not address me as if I were an imbecile!” she cried angrily.

    “Does it?” he said impatiently.

    “Jack, stop it! What has happened? What has Fanny done to upset you? I always thought you admired her!” she cried.

    Jack took a deep breath. Then he let it out again. Then he said: “You always thought I admired her too much, I think you mean. Well, you were right: I did. But I have come to perceive that along with the wit, the charm and the beauty, she is a very silly, spoilt woman possessed of a very great deal of spite which she does not hesitate to loose on whomsoever she pleases. And completely devoid of the milk of human kindness,” he added grimly.

    Mrs Beresford’s substantial jaw sagged. “Devoid— She has not a sympathetic nature, but is that not going rather too far?” she croaked.

    “No. She is a selfish, spiteful— Never mind,” said Jack, compressing his lips together tightly.

    “What has she done?” she asked faintly.

    “I was not going to tell you this, but so be it. She has publicly encouraged—no, flaunted—publicly flaunted Bompey du Fresne, when the Princesse P. had sent her a message asking her to drop him if the family wished to see young Lance remain safely out of her clutches,” said Jack tightly.

    His mother gaped at him.

    “Yes! I am ashamed to own the woman as a relative!” he said angrily.

    “Y— Buh-but dear boy, I grant you the flaunting, but that is merely silly— And she was angry because of her—her advancing years, I do see that, looking back, and—and I think, very angry at the idea that anyone could imagine she would be reduced to accepting du Fresne’s offer—not that he is not well-born, but scarcely in the same category as the late Fürst. And of course he was the horrid old Princess’s lover, everyone knows that, but—but striking some sort of bargain with Fanny and dragging little Lance into it? My dear, you are reading too much into the thing—it is absurd!”

    “It is not absurd, Mamma, because the Princesse P. gave me the very message.”

    “Used you as her messenger? Well, these great ladies— But her message cannot have said that, Jack, Fanny must have given you quite the wrong impression: it is just that you were so worried about Lance—”

    “Verbally! In so many words!” he shouted.

    Mrs Beresford’s jaw sagged again.

    “From her own painted lips,” said Jack slowly and evilly. “Now has it sunk in?”

    She nodded numbly, her colour fading.

    “God!” he said, passing a hand through his curls. “Why can you never believe a word a fellow says?”

    His mother’s lips trembled. “That is unjust, Jack,” she said faintly.

    “No, it ain’t!” said Jack Beresford with feeling.

    Mrs Beresford swallowed hard. Eventually she said very faintly indeed: “I’m sorry. But I could not know it would make it worse.”

    “No,” he said tiredly. “No.”

    “I suppose you will say,” she said with angry tears in her voice, “it is typical of me!”

    Jack sighed, and sat down suddenly on a small bedside chair that had been in his mother’s room ever since he could remember. “Well, yes. But as you say, you could not know. But good grief: offering to put a stop to things between Peg and Geddings when Aunt Fanny herself had not managed it?”

    Mrs Beresford produced a handkerchief and blew her nose hard, saying nothing.

    “Don’t sniffle,” said Jack, biting his lip.

    “Jack,” said his mother in a trembling voice, “you can be very hard. And I know you scarce remember your Grandfather Laidlaw, but his face would take on that exact expression— And I have not been spoken to, so, since I was a girl at home!” she choked, the tears suddenly spilling over.

    “Oh, Lor’,” said Jack in horror. He got up and put an arm round her substantial shoulders. “Now, don’t bawl, Mamma. I did not mean to reprove you so harshly.”

    Mrs Beresford blew her nose hard again, sniffing. “No,” she said faintly. “But you did mean to reprove me, however.”

    “Well, yes,” he said, sitting down again. “I was furious with damned Aunt Fanny, and terrified for Lance; I apologise for taking it out on you.”

    “You did right. I suppose I did rush in with my hob-nailed boots on,” she said, trying to smile. “My mother would use the very phrase.”

    “Would she? And I suppose Grandfather Laidlaw would use something very much colder, eh? I can’t recall much of him, but I do recall he chilled me to death.”

    “Yes. I was glad to get out of Bath, though I missed Sissy and my other sisters, and my old school friends…”

    “Er—yes,” said Jack, blinking. “I see: when you married Papa.”

    “Yes, of course.” She grasped his hand. “Jack, I do believe you about the Princesse P.’s message, and of course you are perfectly right in your conclusions about Fanny—she has got steadily worse since the Fürst died, though I never thought she cared much for him,” she noted by the by, “but would the Princesse P. go so far as to attempt to abduct Lance?”

    Jack pulled a very sour face. “She is known to be without scruples of any kind. And there was an incident, some years back, of a young man’s disappearing from some town in Italy. Ah… Genoa? Think so. He was the illegitimate scion of some great family of the locality. He vanished completely for several years, then turned up in the old hag’s house in Paris.” He shrugged. “No explanations were ever offered, as far as I know, as to how he got there.”

    “When was this?” she said groggily.

    “Uh, well, some years back, as I say. I had it off the Vicomte d’Arresnes: the fellow turned up in Paris the year he was there dangling after—” He broke off.

    “Lady Winnafree,” said Mrs Beresford drily. “Quite. Well, he would have been about eighteen, that year, so I suppose it was perhaps ten years back. That fits.”

    There was a little silence.

    “I—I didn’t really notice how the Princesse P. seemed, in Brighton,” said Mrs Beresford in a voice that shook a little. “She does not show her emotions. And with that paint it is very hard to read her, in any case. But I did not remark anything out of the ordinary when we saw her at Stamforth Castle.”

    “Nor I, though I confess I was not really looking. But then, Aunt Fanny was not there that day to rub salt in the wound, was she?” he said in a hard voice.

    “No.”

    Jack got up. “I shall be sorry to miss Nobby’s wedding, but I think I had best go home and stick very much closer than a brother to Lance for the foreseeable future. I’ll take Goodwin, and I’ll tell him the lot.”

    “Ye-es. Well, one is tempted to say, but this is England, and you are not nobody, my dear, but…”

    “Better safe than sorry. Don’t think the old hag cares what she does or whom she offends,” he said tightly.

    “Yes. Well, she may not bother, but with Fanny deliberately provoking her— And after she had lowered herself so far as to ask her to give the admiral up, too!” she said in horror.

    “Quite. I’ll leave first thing.” He got up and bent to drop a kiss on her cheek.

    Mrs Beresford grasped his hand urgently. “Jack, should—should I do anything?”

    “No. My speaking to Aunt Fanny did no good, and your speaking to her, however innocently, manifestly made things worse. Any further attempt would probably induce her to marry the Admiral immediately: leave it, Mamma.”

    “Very well, my dear,” she said meekly.

    Jack hurried out, so preoccupied that he did not really take in the fact that his commanding mamma had just asked him if she should, rather than announcing that she would, and had acquiesced meekly in his decision that she should not.

    Mrs Beresford groped for her handkerchief, and blew her nose again. “Oh, dear,” she said limply to herself, sounding for all the world like her sister Sissy. “He was so—so grown-up!” A tear crept down her cheek but she wiped it away determinedly and murmured with a shaky laugh: “Well! I had best speak to George about getting the dower house in order, I suppose!”—the which was intended as a joke, for she was not in the habit of spending so very much of the year in Cumberland, after all; but suddenly she blinked and said: “But George and Mary! Oh, good gracious! Will he wish them to stay in the house after he is married? And will the girl wish—? Well, I cannot see Peg turning Mary out of her home, and of course she is used to a house bursting at the seams with her family— But then, any young woman…” Suddenly she had a vivid memory of her own swamping relief when her widowed mamma-in-law had removed to the dower house on her son’s marriage. But the house had not been lived in for twenty years, now: it would certainly need some seeing to! But it must be done, and however difficult it might be, she would broach the subject—tactfully, of course!—with dear Mary. And then the two of them could speak to George, that would be best. Because, never mind if it were their old family home, it was Jack’s turn now.

    Mrs Beresford blew her candle out and settled down, mentally planning the complete refurbishment of Beresford Hall’s dower house…

    Some might have said that there Rowena Beresford went again, and of course they would not have been far wrong. One disconcerting interview with one’s adult son does not, after all, change the habits of a lifetime. Nevertheless, she had taken several very considerable steps in the right direction—as she herself was not unaware, for she was, in spite of the hob-nailed boots, an intelligent woman. And in fact even Mr Valentine himself would have recognised pleasedly that those apron strings had been well and truly loosened this evening.

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