Corrant

27

Corrant

    The new Season was beginning, though as yet town was still quite thin of company. Lady Bullivant did not take Diane to Lady Ferdy Lacey’s afternoon, fearing that it would develop into a romp. However, she and Diane very soon had the full story of the triumph, from such diverse persons as Miss Abbott, little Jane Gratton-Gordon, and Lady Ferdy herself. Lady Bullivant was not particularly amused at Gwennie Lacey’s laughing report that Chelford had been there and had appeared still very much épris of Miss Buffitt.

    Her Ladyship did not rush off at a tangent: instead she thought over the thing carefully. Her failure to get her brother and Miss Buffitt together last summer had been annoying, but Peg’s visit with them had enabled her to ascertain that the girl was intelligent, pleasant and sensible, and to decide that if the father was an eccentric, it could scarce signify, as he never came to town; certainly the Beresford connection was more than respectable. By breakfast time the morning after Lady Ferdy’s call, she had made up her mind. She rose from the table. “I shall call on your uncle.”

    “Y— Um, Uncle Jeremy, Mamma?” squeaked Diane.

    “Exactly.” Her Ladyship was about to order her to run and get her bonnet on, but thought better of it. “You may read quietly this morning, Diane.” She sailed out.

    Dazedly Diane took up her book.

    At Geddings’s commodious town house the footman showed Lady Bullivant into a small morning room with the assurance that his Lordship would be with her directly. “Directly” appeared to mean a full quarter of an hour. Her Ladyship sat stiffly upright on a pretty little Queen Anne sofa, scowling at the portrait over the mantelpiece of her paternal great-grandfather in a curled periwig. The more so as this ancestor bore a remarkable resemblance to the present Lord Geddings in one of his more irritating moods.

    “I cannot understand how you can abide having Great-Grandfather staring down his nose at you all morning,” she greeted him crossly as he came in at long last, shaven but in his dressing-gown.

    “I don’t use this room much. This is an unexpected pleasure, Susan. Nothing wrong, I hope?”

    Annoyingly, it was difficult to know how to respond to this speech. Grimly her Ladyship stated: “Good morning, Jeremy. There is nothing wrong, thank you. And whether or no you frequently occupy the room, in your place I would banish Great-Grandfather to an upstairs corridor.”

    “That’s comprehensive,” said Geddings, his long mouth twitching slightly. He came to peck her large cheek. “What can I do for you?”

    “In the first instance,” said her Ladyship tartly, “you may request your imbecilic servants to send in a tray of tea! I have been sitting here this age.”

    “Sorry. I was asleep,” said Geddings simply, ringing the bell.

    The tea having been ordered, and his sister not having spoken, his Lordship offered smoothly: “Late card party.”

    “What? I am not interested in reports of your carousing, thank you!”

    “Hardly carousing: it was at Lionel Dewesbury’s house: Lavinia won’t let him,” he explained sweetly.

    Lady Bullivant took a deep breath. “Talking of which, we had the dubious honour of a visit from their daughter Gwendolyn yester afternoon.”

    “Oh? Little Lady Ferdy? Why on earth was she callin’ on you?” he drawled.

    “Apparently, in order to apprise us that Chelford is back in town and is on course to cut you out with Miss Buffitt, Jeremy!” she snapped. “Though perhaps you are not interested in the fact?”

    “On the contrary,” he said slowly.

    Her Ladyship frowned. “I have seen him, but not been introduced. What is he like?”

    “Let me see... Seems completely unassuming, has only a limited grasp of the duties that pertain to the position. Not that his late unlamented uncle had much, either.”

    “Rubbish,” stated her Ladyship majestically.

    “No, well, he did at least have the advantage of having been born at Dallermaine and of having married a Vane. Dear me—two advantages,” he noticed.

    “You are not amusing, Jeremy.”

    “No? I beg your pardon, Susan. The late Chelford was a nullity, as I think you must admit was generally agreed. The present man is not that. Actually, he strikes me as a decent young fellow,” he admitted with a slight shrug as the footman bore in a tray of tea.

    “Ah—tea,” said her Ladyship pleasedly. “Thank you; you may go.”

    Regretfully the footman withdrew. The whole household was wondering why on earth her ladyship had come a-calling on her brother so early.

    “Lapsang,” said Geddings with a sigh as Susan then inspected the contents of the pot.

    “Good. I still prefer it, I own.”

    “I commend your good taste. May I remind you that I take it very weak?”

    Nodding, his sister poured him a cup of very weak tea. “I hardly think that the expression ‘a decent young fellow’ strikes the appropriate note, Jeremy. Not in reference to a man of Chelford’s consequence.”

    Geddings smiled, just a little. “Well, I think that was my point, my dear.”

    After a moment Lady Bullivant’s eyebrows rose very slightly. “Goodness.”

    “Mm.”

    She poured for herself, frowning. After a moment she said: “In that case I am sure you may cut him out whenever you wish.”

    “Oh, so am I,” he murmured.

    “You are being very irritating, Jeremy,” she warned. “I do understand your feelings, but after all, the likelihood is that any well-born young woman will be either of the hogget dressed as lamb variety, or of the dim-witted little débutante kind. Miss Buffitt may not be as well-born as some, but at least she has brains to add to her undoubted beauty. And on the mother’s side, she is well connected enough.”

    Geddings swallowed a sigh. “Aye. And since Arthur has signalled his approval, I ought to rush to cut Chelford out. There is one point, though: are you sure that it was she?”

    “What is that supposed to mean?” snapped his sister.

    “One is told that two of the Miss Buffitts are in town this year,” he murmured. “The elder sister as well as Miss Peg. I am assured that she is every bit as pretty and, er, with nothing of the harum-scarum about her, though Miss Chambury for her part,”—the cool eyes twinkled—“finds her a trifle null.”

    “She would! Talking of hogget dressed as lamb! And if you had not unnecessarily rushed off to old Aunt Harriet at Darley Hall last Season you would be in a position to judge for yourself! Um…” She swallowed. “I just assumed it was Peg Buffitt that Lady Ferdy meant. I mean, why else would she have bothered to rush round to apprise me of the thing?”

    “Merely, she was doing her rounds and your house happened to be next?” he murmured.

    Her Ladyship was observed to gnaw on her lip. “I suppose she did bore on forever... In your shoes, I would hot-foot it to the Beresford house with a posy for the girl.” She rose.

    Geddings bit his lip. “Don’t rush off, Susan: sit down and finish your tea. I am grateful for your interest, but… It is not what you think,” he confessed, swallowing.

    His sister sat down again. “What is not what I think, pray?”

    To her astonishment her self-possessed brother was then seen to lick his lips uneasily. “You will tell me I have been a fool. Well, it started out as— I mean— Well, as you know, I went up to Lincolnshire to Darley Hall to see old Aunt Harriet last year. It— Damn.”

    “So you did call on Peg’s parents?” she said sharply. “Forget anything that Fanny von Maltzahn-Dressen may have said on the subject of the eccentric father, my dear: she was miffed at your ignoring that whey-faced girl of hers all Season in little Peg’s favour.”

    “Yes, of course, Susan. Not that. Um... No, I had best start at the beginning,” he said with a sigh. “It was before I left London for Darley Hall. I called to invite Miss Peg for a drive...”

    Mr Beresford’s footman having informed him that Miss Laidlaw and Miss Peg were out, Geddings had been about to leave when the fellow added helpfully: “You might find them at Mr Greenstreet’s studio, my Lord.”

    “Oh? Oh—the painter fellow; yes, I know. Thank you.”

    Geddings had visited Greenstreet’s before, with or without a lady on his arm, and was therefore not overset at the sight of the Mediaeval page. He was shown up at once, and the artist, who did not have a sitter with him, greeted him obsequiously and asked what he could do for him. Adding that he had a few new sketches, if his Lordship might be interested?

    Geddings was aware that the fellow knew he liked drawings. But also aware that he could produce the things in almost any style one cared to name—having, indeed, found this out the hard way, after he had presented Arthur with a charming Head of a Girl, rather after the style of Raeburn—just a trifle—and then been presented, the following day, with a head of the same girl, à la Rubens, with His Grace of Wellington’s compliments. Arthur had thought it damned funny, and had admitted he had known for an age that the after-Rubens thing was a fake. And if Jeremy did not care to keep it, he would rather like it back. Geddings had cringed, but of course returned it, and the damned fellow had had the pair framed as a diptych. Oh, well. At least he had not gone so far as to hang them in that dashed yellow room of his with the good stuff.

    “I had an idea that Miss Buffitt might be sitting for you, today,” he said on a vague note.

    Mr Greenstreet eyed him with considerable interest which he was careful to veil. “No, alas, my Lord. I admit I did embark on a trifle, the urge being, if I may so put it, irresistible. Just a hint of the style of Greuze, though without the fausse naïveté, if I may so put it.”

    “I don’t know that you may,” said Geddings in some astonishment, looking down his nose at him. “There is nothing fausse about Miss Peg Buffitt.”

    “No, indeed, my Lord! Your Lordship has made, if I may so phrase it, my exact point!”

    His Lordship was here conscious of a strong itch, talking of exact points, in the exact point of the toe of his boot—an impulse not unknown to Jack Beresford in the same company. “No, you damned well may not! And while we are on the subject of fausse, perhaps I should warn you that His Grace of Wellington is now in possession of that Head of a Girl of yours. Wait,” he warned as Mr Greenstreet gasped and made a fawning bow. “And that he was very pleased to get it, as it makes the pair to his faux Rubens of the same girl.”

    “Oh, Gawd!” uttered Mr Greenstreet.

    “Quite,” said Geddings with some satisfaction.

    “Is ’e—Does ’e— Oh, Gawd!” The artist produced a large handkerchief and mopped his streaming brow. “My Lord, would it be of any use assuring you that the Rubens thing was an early mistake? A mistake which won’t recur, I swear! And—and only Rubenesque, on my mother’s grave!”

    “Well, Old Hooky had it off a fellow that swore it was genuine,”—Mr Greenstreet winced horribly, Geddings was pleased to see—“but he himself was never took in by it.”

    “No, of course not, my Lord,” croaked Mr Greenstreet.

    “And naturally did not pay the fellow’s price,” he drawled.

    “No, of course, my Lord!”

    “Don’t cheer up, Greenstreet; the whole of England knows that Wellington’s the most upright fellow that ever walked. At the moment he thinks the thing’s damned funny, but should any more such little trifles appear on the market, let me promise you he’ll come down on you like a ton of bricks.”

    Not appearing to wonder whether England’s Hero would bother with the peccadilloes of a mere artist fellow, Mr Greenstreet nodded fervently, and promised: “Not a line, not a jot nor tittle not bearing my very own signature shall ever exit my threshold again, my Lord!”

    “See it doesn’t,” said Geddings in a bored tone. “Where are these sketches?”

    “Oh! Of course, my Lord! Over here, your Lordship, thanking your Lordship kindly!” He seated him on a sofa and laid a large portfolio of sketches before him on a small occasional table. “Tea, my Lord?”

    “What? No.”

    “Something stronger?” said Mr Greenstreet unctuously.

    “No, thank you.” Geddings had just uncovered a large red chalk. Another head of a girl. Head of Peg Buffitt, in fact. It was unsigned. “Is this fixed?”

    “Oh, naturally, my Lord.”

    In other words, the fellow fully intended it to be for sale. Geddings took a deep breath. “Are you perhaps familiar with the pictures at Hammond House, Greenstreet?”

    “Oh, no, my Lord!” he said in shocked tones.

    “Really? Then there is no point in my saying that, had I not instantly recognised Miss Buffitt as the sitter, I should at first glance have taken this as the sister of Sir Joshua Reynolds’ sketch of the previous Marchioness of Rockingham: a study for the full-length portrait taken on her marriage which is down at Daynesford Place,” he said smoothly.

    Mr Greenstreet swallowed but offered gamely: “A remarkable coincidence, my Lord. Though of course I have always been a fervent admirer of the great Sir J—” He met Geddings’s eye and subsided.

    “Well?” said his Lordship sweetly.

    “Well, I have seen the full-length portrait, my Lord. My father was also in the artistic line, you understand, and took me to see it when it was first ’ung.”

    “And of course,” said Geddings affably, “the red chalk is just a coincidence. As also the fact that you have forgotten to sign this.”

    Sighing resignedly, Mr Greenstreet went over to a large cupboard and unlocked it. Geddings watched in some surprise as he withdrew another portfolio from it, bringing it over to the table. “If your Lordship will excuse me?” He laid the second portfolio carefully on top of the other and opened it. “Pa’s sketch of Sir Joshua’s sketch,” he explained, displaying what to Geddings’ starting eyes appeared to be the great man’s own red chalk. “We seen the ’ole set, sir: we ’ad the honour of being admitted to Sir Joshua’s studio.” Carefully he drew out the next sketch. “My sainted Ma, done by Pa à la Sir J.,” he said glumly as his guest was heard to swallow.

    “By God!” said Geddings numbly at last. “There’s a—a damned dynasty of you damned fellows!”

    “Wouldn’t say that, my Lord,” replied Mr Greenstreet, brightening amazingly. “Clever man, my Pa was, though. After ’e got on the great man’s bad side, he done a blue one; perhaps your Lordship would care to—?” Not waiting for a reply, he withdrew another large sketch from the portfolio. Blue chalk. It was clearly the same woman—Mr Greenstreet’s late Ma—and in the same pose. It was, however, manifestly not a Reynolds, but a Gainsborough. After a moment Geddings burst out laughing.

    “There!” said Mr Greenstreet, hugely gratified and, Geddings did not fail to note in spite of his amusement, also hugely relieved. “Knew your Lordship would see the funny side!”

    “Yes,” said Geddings weakly, mopping his eyes. “I only wish I could show Wellington— No, it wouldn’t do,” he said regretfully. “Is there a blue one of Miss Buffitt, or is that too much to expect?”

    “Not a blue one, my Lord: well, don’t really see Miss Buffitt as a Gainsborough,” revealed Mr Greenstreet, carefully packing away the fruits of his father’s genius and restoring their portfolio to its cupboard. “There is a nice little one after the style of Raeburn. Pencil.”

    Geddings looked at it thoughtfully. “I prefer her as a Reynolds,” he decided.

    “Oh, so do I, my Lord!” Looking very casual, Mr Greenstreet turned over. One of his large charcoal studies for the main figure of his portrait of Peg with Mrs Watt’s little boy was revealed. Geddings drew in a sharp breath.

    “Good, ain’t it?” said the artist simply.

    “It’s very good, though I would not say it puts me in mind of Greuze.”

    “No, only worked that in when I did the colour. Well, um, it sort of called for it. The gown was rough brown wool, you see, and the light were that quality… The way it happened, she were sitting on the floor, you see, in a brown pelisse, keeping Mrs Watt’s little boy amused while I was taking her portrait. And looked up and laughed, just like that, and I knew I ’ad to paint ’er…” Mr Greenstreet sighed gustily. “Best thing I ever done.”

    Geddings was looking at the charcoal again. “Yes. Oh, the painting? But where is it?” he said eagerly.

    Sadly the artist shook his head. “You’re too late, my Lord. Her cousin, Mr Beresford, come in like a whirlwind and bought it orf me afore I hardly knew where I was. And the last stroke of my brush not even dry.”

    “I see,” he said neutrally, turning over. The artist watched him uneasily, wondering if he was not going to buy a sketch of Miss Buffitt, after all. After a moment his Lordship said in a shaken voice: “Is this— This is not Miss Buffitt, surely?”

    Mr Greenstreet peered. He cleared his throat. “Ah—no. Not Miss Peg, no. Have you not met the eldest Miss Buffitt, my Lord? Miss Alice Buffitt. Lovely creature, ain’t she? Now, she could be a Gainsborough!” He half-closed his eyes. “Poudrée, out of course. Silver satin, over… pale blue?”

    “So—so this is Miss Peg’s sister?” said Geddings, not appearing even to hear the Gainsborough reference.

    “Yes. Um, the thing is, my Lord, she weren’t really supposed to come ’ere—though it weren’t no ’arm, of course,” he said as Geddings looked at him in astonishment. “Well, strictly speaking, it was Miss Peg as Mr Beresford forbade to come, because, um, I did the portrait without getting the family’s permission,” he revealed, glossing over the facts only slightly. “Only, Miss Alice—the elder Miss Buffitt, I should say—she got the story out of ’er and was most intrigued, and um, come ’ere orf ’er own bat. And could I possibly beg your Lordship not to mention it to Mr Beresford?” he ended miserably.

    Geddings eyed him sardonically. “Applied the toe of his boot, did he?”

    “Only metaphorically, my Lord,” revealed Mr Greenstreet glumly.

    “Can’t say I blame him,” he said carelessly, turning over. He stared. “In especial if he had had a sight of this!” he said loudly.

    Mr Greenstreet started forward in agitation, fearing that that young ape, Mercurio, had been and gone and put some of the sketches for the picture of Peg and Anne with Mr Bobby in the portfolio against his express orders—but no. He sagged. “It’s a composite, my Lord.”

    “It’s a composite with a damned impertinent title!” said Geddings roundly.

    “Meant as a compliment only, my Lord!” he assured him. “Miss Alice ain’t never visited along with the other two; only having seen the three of them, the, um, the comparison must arise.”

    “Mm.” Mr Greenstreet had, inevitably, titled his composite of the heads of Peg, Alice and Anne “The Three Graces”. “Has Beresford seen it?”

    “No, indeed, my Lord,” said the artist happily, scenting a sale. “Acos if ’e ’ad, ’e would’ve snapped it up, I make so bold as to say! Only ’e hasn’t been back since Miss Alice come ’ere.” He eyed his noble visitor sideways. “Very affable, she were, and spoke most kindly to young Mercurio and give him a sixpence, and deigned to take tea with Mrs Greenstreet and myself.”

    “I thought you just swore on her grave?” said Geddings on a nasty note.

    “No, my Lord,” said the artist unctuously: “I meant that the eldest Miss Buffitt took tea with the present Mrs Greenstreet: my wife.”

    “I see.”

    “Nothing of the pretentious about her, but a lady down to the rosy tips, um, to her fingertips,” he ended glumly, meeting his noble patron’s arctic eye.

    “Quite.” Geddings turned over, smiling a little as several sketches of a fair-haired child were revealed. “Charming.”

    “Yes: pretty boy, ain’t ’e? Wriggler, though,” revealed Mr Greenstreet on a glum note.

    Geddings’s lips twitched “I see: one of the hazards of the artistic life, is it, wriggling?”

    “My Lord, you got no idea!” he said earnestly. “Once the mother had seen the sketches for the portrait with Miss Peg, of course she wanted him took by himself, but in the end I had to fall back on a body from stock. Got the head all right, though. And one of the dimpled hands is his, but I freely admit to your Lordship, t’other ain’t. See here? I only got the left. What when you think of it, all them Madonnas with Infant, ’ow many does show both ’Is ’ands?” he said thoughtfully.

    His Lordship had to clear his throat. “Quite.” He turned over a few more pages and finally said: “This is not the same child, I think?”

    “No, my Lord; quite right. That’s Lady Sleyven’s little boy, little Viscount Froissart.” He watched with interest as his noble patron’s nostrils flared slightly and his mouth tightened.

    “Mm. He has a look of her.”

    “Of course, your Lordship knows Lady Sleyven,” acknowledged Mr Greenstreet smoothly.

    In fact Geddings had once escorted the Countess to the damned fellow’s very studio. He was in no doubt that Greenstreet was reading his every thought, down to, yes, the regret that the wide-eyed little boy with the firm chin so like his mother’s was not his. Damn the fellow’s eyes! Geddings was not in love with Lady Sleyven but, as he had once intimated to his sister Susan, he might, had he been a fool—and perhaps, had he been a younger man—have allowed himself so to be.

    “Now, the Earl, he’s a hard man,” noted Mr Greenstreet.

    “And,” said Geddings nastily, “a man who, in despite of his years spent in India with the Army, knows precisely which artist is being mocked by a damned blue velvet suit on a curly-haired boy lounging against a large chair covered with a painted canvas bearing only the slightest resemblance to a slab of granite!”

    “It come off really good, my Lord,” said the artist sadly.

    “Then you may comfort yourself for the loss of the commission with the reflection that your father would have been proud of you,” he replied coldly. “I shall take the portrait of the elder Miss Buffitt and one of the pages of the child you painted with Miss Peg.” He turned back. “This one.”

    Mr Greenstreet nodded: it was by far the best of his child studies. Cautiously he named a price.

    “Very well. –You may sign them,” noted Geddings laconically.

    Wincing slightly, the artist signed them and offered to parcel them up, if his Lordship would care to take them with him?

    Geddings got up. “Thank you: yes. If I were you I would offer the charcoal of Miss Peg Buffitt to Beresford. Though I would not advise you,” he added coldly, strolling over to examine a painting on an easel, “to offer him the red chalk. He knows the picture gallery at Hammond House very well.” He raised the cloth covering the painting. “Dear me. Fitz-Clancy en Grand Turc? An outmoded conceit.”

    “All Lord Michael’s own idea, my Lord!” said Mr Greenstreet quickly—whether mendaciously or not, was not apparent.

    “You astound me,” he drawled.

    The distinguished visitor having been shown out by Mercurio, the page, Mr Greenstreet scratched his chin slowly. “I’d take me dying oath ’e don’t know her,” he muttered to himself. “He could see it weren’t Miss Peg, only he had to ask me who it were—as much as a nob can break down and ask that sort of thing. Well, ’tis one of the best things I’ve ever done in pencil... No; odd,” he concluded.

    It was two days after this incident that Geddings received the news that old Lady Darley was gravely ill. His travelling coach had only got as far as Blefford Square when the coachman was very surprised to receive an order to make a detour. Obediently he headed for Mr Beresford’s house. One of the lackeys up behind jumped down, lowered the steps for his master and waited, holding the door wide for him.

    There was a short silence.

    “Er—no,” said Geddings. “Drive on, if you please.”

    And the steps were folded up, the door was closed, the lackey jumped up quickly, and the coach headed north once more.

    Geddings sat back, frowning. “Damned idiot,” he said under his breath. An onlooker would not have been at all sure whether he meant that calling at Mr Beresford’s house was the act of an idiot, or that his refraining after all from trying to get a glimpse of the eldest Miss Buffitt was the idiocy.

    Lady Bullivant had sat through her brother’s account in a puzzled silence. Now she said: “Er—I see, my dear. Well, if you were that much struck by the elder Miss Buffitt’s looks—“

    “No; compounded the idiocy, Susan,” he said, making a horrible face.

    Her eyebrows rose. “I shall ring for a fresh pot of tea and something to eat.”

    Geddings had had no intention, on first setting forth to Lincolnshire, of embarking on a masquerade. However, when he reached the obscure little village that was the nearest settlement to the Buffitt home he realised that to stay at the little old inn under his own name could only result in the Buffitts assuming that he was interested in Peg and was on a scouting expedition. Well, he was on a scouting expedition, but not on account of Peg. And had almost not come over here at all.

    He had got to Darley Hall and found that his elderly aunt was dying, as her physician, a bullying, hearty personality whom he had always disliked, informed him, but not immediately. The man told him outright that the old lady would most likely go this winter, advised him in so many words that it wouldn’t do to assist her to change her will at this late stage, she was wandering and the thing would not stand up in court, and departed, apparently cheerfully unaware to the last how damned insulting he was. His Lordship, not a man who lost his temper easily, had been very, very angry indeed. Possibly this emotion had been a factor in his deciding that dammit, it could not do any harm to get on over and get a sight of the Buffitts and—well, at least see if Arthur would find them completely beyond the pale. It was not so very far cross-country, so he had ridden over with just a small bag packed for an overnight stay. When he got there he very nearly changed his mind on the instant. This could not be right! The place was so small to that to call it a hamlet would have been to dignify it! However, the innkeeper assured him that Mr and Mrs Buffitt did live near: thataway, it were, on Monday Hall land.

    So Geddings shrugged and decided he would stay the night, ride out on the morrow and cast his eye over the place, and then get out of it. It was a stupid idea in the first place, for no matter how enchanting Alice Buffitt might be in the flesh—and there was every possibility that damned Greenstreet’s portrait had flattered her, he had had time to reflect—there was very little probability that the Buffitts lived in a style of which Arthur could approve. In fact the innkeeper volunteered that the ’ouse looked tumbledown but the roof was sound, Sir ’Orace saw to that, and that ’e was mad as a March ’are. Correcting crossly Geddings’ supposition of: “Sir Horace?” to “No! Good a gent as what ever walked, and ’is father and grandfer before ’im! No, ’im.” Spit. “Mr Buffitt.” Spit.

    Before he could retire to the inn’s doubtless uncomfortable hospitality, the genial Sir Horace in person intervened. Geddings did not reveal his title: he merely said, on the old man’s introducing himself and pressing him warmly to come up to the Hall: “Jeremy Corrant.” And, finding later that Sir Horace had taken the name to be “Curran,” did not correct the mistake. Could it matter?

    Paul and Maria Hilton, after the innkeeper’s report, could not but come as a pleasant surprise. On the morrow it proved impossible to ride out without Sir Horace’s escort, but the old man was headed to the Buffitts’ in any case, and with very little prompting poured the entire family history into Jeremy John Percival Wentworth Corrant’s horrified but fascinated ear.

    The house matched the innkeeper’s description of it, but Rose Buffitt, though shabby, was a delightful surprise. Charming, witty, and remarkably well-read. Get her into a decent gown and she would grace any dinner table. In fact, Arthur would probably take one look at her and transfer his allegiance from the P.W.! No, well, Wellington’s affaires were generally platonic, these days: they had certainly not been at the time of the Occupation and his lionisation in Paris, but since he had decided to play the rôle of elder statesman he had been terrifically discreet. But that did not mean he did not still admire the sex!

    Even Damian Buffitt was—not a pleasant surprise, that was going too far. But a strikingly handsome man—no wonder those girls were all so lovely, with both parents so good-looking—and with a little effort could be made to look presentable and turned into the more acceptable sort of eccentric connexion. Though one would not, of course, ask him up to London very often. There was even a little house they might have in the grounds of Medways—sufficiently far from the great house, too—and if waterworks were what he fancied, well, the famous Medways artificial waterfall had not worked this many a long year, but the original plans were all in the library somewhere… Hmm. Something might be managed—yes.

    He stayed longer than he had intended—Sir Horace made him very welcome, the Hiltons were pleasant people, and it was undeniably delightful to find himself a free agent, no position to maintain, no toad-eaters to brush off, no diplomats or elder statesmen to propitiate, no parliamentary bruised feelings to soothe on his patron’s behalf, and, in short, no responsibilities at all. And no Arthur Wellesley to answer to, Jeremy Corrant admitted to himself with a wry grimace.

    He very speedily had the whole story of Paul Hilton’s dismissal, of course, and only just stopped himself in time from offering the poor young fellow a position at Medways. Not that there was not already a very efficient agent, with two capable assistants—but good Heavens, room could be made for one more! Well, that could come in time. He thought the thing over but in the end did not write to Chelford. He did not like the Bon-Duttons, Arthur did not like the Bon-Duttons, and however amiable the new man might be, Geddings did not fancy having a brother-in-law in his employ. Well—should it come to that, of course! No, in any case he could do better for the man than assistant to the dashed Chelford Place agent! Turn him into a gentleman farmer, lease him one of the pleasant farms attached to Medways? Not Home Farm itself, of course: the incumbent’s family had farmed for the Corrants for as long as they had had Medways—but Rendell House was standing empty, there was an excellent farm attached, and the house itself was charming. Hmm. Well, it bore thinking about.

    When he eventually got back to town there was considerable propitiation to do in the direction of Arthur, his old aunt’s being at death’s door not apparently being sufficient reason to disappear from London at just that precise time, and innumerable errands to carry out for Arthur, not to say ruffled feelings to soothe in Arthur’s wake—and when he finally had the time to look around him, it was to find the Beresford household, with most of the fashionables, had disappeared to Brighton.

    Geddings loathed Brighton: it was a hot-bed of gossip, even more so than London, its smaller size seeming to concentrate the spite and speculation, and he knew that he would be unable to make the slightest move in the direction of the elder Miss Buffitt—supposing, of course, that he should wish to—without arousing unpleasant comment, which would be all the more unpleasant in that he must be seen to be rejecting the younger sister for the older. Wellington’s possible involvement in the sudden change of direction would of course feature in the speculation— No. Highly undesirable. Added to which, the Buffitt girls would not be there for long, would they? Miss Peg had told him they would be in Bath for a connexion’s wedding some time in June.

    He had planned in any case to go home at the end of the London Season: there were matters requiring his presence on the estate. So he went.

    “My dear,” said his sister sympathetically at this point in his narrative, “it was not so very bad, after all! And the daughters were not even home. If this Sir Horace introduced you to the parents without being aware that you are the head of the family, it can signify very little.”

    “No, Susan, it gets worse,” he groaned.

    Her Ladyship had consumed the better part of a plate of bread and butter but he had not touched it. “In that case, you had better eat something, Jeremy,” she said firmly.

    “Bread and butter will help, will it?” responded his Lordship wryly. Nevertheless he took a piece. He ate it and sighed. “As I was saying, I went home to Medways.”

    “I wrote you there,” she noted.

    He winced. “Mm.”

    Medways was its usual coolly elegant, welcoming self: the original house had been replaced during the early years of the eighteenth century by his great-grandfather who, most fortunately, or so his descendants all felt, had wished to demonstrate to the Howards and the Churchills that it was possible to build a modern house without falling into the twin traps of over-elaboration and brazen ostentation. It was a quietly tasteful house in the Palladian style. The rooms in which Geddings lived were light, airy and modern. Nevertheless he inspected them all anxiously and decided that these hangings and those chairs were looking shabby, and that that picture, which he had never liked, could go off to a dark corner of the picture gallery, and if there was no room for it, could go in an attic, he did not care if it were the Prince of Persia in a periwig, Mrs Hannaford, it was hideous! His housekeeper allowed herself a discreet smile at his Lordship’s deliberate alliteration, allowing that of course it could, my Lord. She then tottered after him on legs that had become suddenly weak to inspect his late mother’s bedroom. Good gracious! Did his Lordship intend marrying, then, after all these years? And them thinking he had never got over little Miss Garrity! –Geddings’s household, thanks largely to the alertness of his valet and personal groom, knew considerably more of his personal history than did most of the members of his own family.

    The immaculate grounds also came in for inspection and it was decided that the whole of the drive and the main sweep could well be, not just re-gravelled, but re-levelled, re-drained, and then re-gravelled, this summer. And what did Mr Jessop, the chief agent, think of an idea of constructing a terrace on the south face, looking over the prospect of the south lawns, the rose gardens, and over to the woods and the site of the artificial waterfall?

    Mr Jessop, a tactful man who had known his Lordship since his boyhood, replied that his Lordship’s grandfather had once planned a terrace in that very spot, my Lord, in the which case the room that her late Ladyship had used as a sitting-room might well have long windows added to it to open out onto it. Except that (very cautiously), it might get a little too hot in the summer.

    At this Kitchen, the head gardener, who had been standing by ready with advice on the time needed for levelling, the state of the drains, etcetera, put in excitedly: “Ah! Now, what would your Lordship say to say a pagoley?” (Accent on the second syllable.)

    Geddings did not correct this to the more usual English form “pergola”: for a man who could scarce read the words on the garden plans that dated from the estate’s Capability Brown days, this was quite a triumph. He smiled and said: “With flowering vines, eh, Kitchen? The very thing!”

    “Deciduous,” said Mr Jessop thoughtfully. “A very sound idea, Kitchen. Then the la—um,”—lamely—“anyone that used the sitting-room would get the benefit of the winter sun.”

    Kitchen of course knew “deciduous”, so he replied immediately, thus sparing his Lordship the trouble of formulating an answer which would indicate he had suddenly fallen selectively deaf: “Ah! That’s the ticket, Mr Jessop! Climbing roses, maybe? Now, I did ’ear tell as down at Quysterse—”

    Geddings let him ramble on—why not? Not pointing out that Quysterse, one of the show-places of England, true, was down on the southwestern corner of Devon, and into the bargain benefited from an extremely sheltered situation. Mr Jessop, observing his patron’s abstraction, took the opportunity to give poor Kitchen a short lecture on the meteorological patterns of southern England.

    “Mm?” said Geddings, coming to with a jump. “Oh—yes. Well, a few climbing roses would certainly be charming.”

    And they all three retreated to the site of the proposed terrace, to discuss the matter in more depth…

    The idea of “Curran’s” taking Chelford Place for the summer had been mooted—several times—by Sir Horace, but for some time Geddings had not taken the old boy seriously. But then he thought: why not? It would give him time to get to know Alice Buffitt unobserved of the London fashionables, Sir Horace was a pleasant neighbour—and why not? It did not occur to him that the Buffitt girls might not be coming home for the summer: after Brighton or Cowes, one went home. And Sir Horace had certainly assured him the girls were expected! –Sir Horace would have assured anybody he liked of anything, but Geddings, acute though he was, had not yet realised this.

    Geddings did not just order a minion to get the lease of Chelford Place for him. He did not intend for an instant to continue to masquerade as Curran, but when he saw Sir Horace would be time enough to put that misconception right. No, he would hire the place under his own name, but he did not want to give his household the impression that he was about to desert Medways—and he most certainly did not want his family members to get to know of it. He thought it over carefully and then spoke to his secretary, impressing upon him that he intended just the one summer visit, and that none of his family were to know of it.—He had, of course, completely forgotten that Susan had promised to ask Peg Buffitt to Bullivant Hall this summer.—Young Mr Brown immediately offered to get off to Dallermaine Abbey and speak to the Duke’s man of business, but Geddings vetoed this: Mr Brown would hold the fort at Medways, as usual—the secretary beamed in response to his Lordship’s most charming smile—and, given the recent history of Chelford Place, he himself would speak to Chelford.

    Respectfully Mr Brown agreed that that was an excellent plan, my Lord. And retreated in good order, at least as far as the housekeeper’s sitting-room, where he fell onto a chair and croaked: “What’s he up to, Mrs Hannaford? Is it a lady? But which lady? Whom does he know up Lincolnshire way, except for the Darley connections? And it cannot be one of them, I’ve heard him with my own ears say they’re dough-faces with minds to match!”

    To which Mrs Hannaford returned complacently: “I cannot say, Mr Brown, but I am very sure it must be a lady: why else would he wish her late Ladyship’s bedchamber refurbished?”

    At Dallermaine Abbey Chelford appeared very pleased to see him, insisted he stay at the house itself, and in fact appeared eager to get his advice on innumerable issues to do with the estates. Geddings did not mind staying on for a little and giving it: of course he had run his own place virtually since his boyhood—and the young duke proved himself a respectful and grateful student.

    His Lordship had been about to head north to Lincolnshire when letters arrived, forwarded by the conscientious Mr Brown. One was an epistle from Susan, containing, alongside a reminder that Peg Buffitt was staying at Bullivant Hall and a cross enquiry as to whether he meant to come down or no, a great deal of both London and family gossip, over which Geddings skipped with a shrug. The second was from a female cousin, who, though living retired herself, was a voluminous correspondent, with contacts who supplied her with regular gossip from all over the British Isles. He was about to crumple it up impatiently when his eye was caught by a name. He sat down and read it through slowly, frowning.

    I cannot recall when Susan wrote you had left for Darley Hall. You may not have heard the on-it, which I am assured was all over Brighton, that the new Duke of Chelford appears greatly taken by the eldest Miss Buffitt: Alice. Did you meet her? Said to be rather like the younger sister in looks, but far more mature in manner. A pity that Susan decided not to take Diane to Brighton, though one cannot argue with her decision that exposure to H.M.’s circle can do the child no good whatsoever! Be that as it may, Cousin Jane Fanshawe of course dragged Jimmy F. down and wrote all agog that Diane’s little friend’s sister is on course to hook England’s most eligible bachelor, C. being seen “everywhere” with Alice Buffitt, even to escorting her to the summer theatrical nonsense at Stamforth Castle!

    Diane wrote me that she had it off little Peg that Miss B. does not truly care for C., but will take him if he asks, for the alternative is an elderly neighbour of her great-aunt. Of course a child of Diane’s age did not dream of doubting her friend’s word—and Susan writes that Peg strikes as a straightforward girl—but the nonsense about the elderly neighbour may be discounted, I feel! What young woman in her senses would dream of turning down the greatest catch in England?

    He folded the letter up slowly. There was considerable food for thought in it. Not that one could entirely blame any young woman for taking a young and personable fellow like Chelford, leaving aside the fact that he owned the best part of two counties, in preference to an elderly neighbour of her great-aunt! But on the other hand, would a truly principled young woman take any man, no matter what he could do for her family, when she could not care for him? Geddings tried to put himself in the position of such a young woman and failed utterly. He fell back upon literature for a model—but that was not much help, either. Certainly Miss Eliza Bennet’s position upon the matter was very clear—but then, her home situation had been far more comfortable than Alice Buffitt’s. But on the other hand, if the Buffitts were paupers, they had kind friends and relatives who were manifestly ready to help them. And on another hand again, Chelford was very far from being an antidote. And in real life one was seldom offered the luxury of being able to stand upon one’s principles: and there was no doubt that Chelford could do a very great deal for Miss Buffitt’s brothers and sisters…

    His Lordship’s thoughts went round and round in circles for two whole days, though he did his best not to appear abstracted before his host. There was also the point that if he offered himself as an alternative, Alice Buffitt might well prefer the position of one of England’s premier political hostesses over the prospect of propping up Chelford for the rest of her days. And seeing Chelford at Dallermaine, Geddings was now pretty sure that whoever took on the position of his duchess would find that to be her rôle. The young duke was a well-meaning, hard-working man of decent instincts—but he was also the sort of man who, once he found a prop, would lean upon it.

    We-ell… In the immediate future, there was an alternative, was there not? Alice Buffitt might be merely a mercenary female who fancied becoming a duchess, or a young woman of good sense who was not averse to furthering her family’s prospects, or she might be rather more—but if Lord Geddings appeared at Chelford Place ready to lay his established position in Society at her feet he might never find out if she were the last. The masquerade as Curran was of course an absurd accident, but it was there ready to hand if he cared to make use of it. From one point of view it was certainly not the honourable tack to take—and it would not be entirely easy to reveal himself to her in the end, should he wish so to do: he could see that quite clearly. But the alternative? Never to know if she would have taken Jeremy Corrant, the man? Well—nothing venture, nothing win. Or, not to turn the thing into a Cheltenham tragedy, why not?

    So his Lordship thanked Chelford for his hospitality, wished him all the best, assured him that if he could render him any assistance in the future it would be a pleasure, and explained in the most casual of voices that he must be on his way back home to Medways.

    “You are not going straight up to Chelford Place, then?” said the duke innocently.

    “Why, no. I am so sorry, Duke: did I not make it clear?” he said easily. “I shall probably be up there myself later in the year, but the three months’ lease is on behalf of a connexion of mine, a Mr Corrant.” And with that he shook hands, and went on his way.

    Geddings’ sister took a very deep breath. “And did you find her all that you had hoped, Jeremy?”

    “More than that,” he said in a very low voice.

    Susan Bullivant had pretty well gathered that, from the tone, not to say the completeness, of his narrative. She took another deep breath. “Well, you are old enough to know your own mind—and still young enough not wilfully to deceive yourself!” she added on a tart note.

    “I am very sure I am not deceiving myself. She is a young woman of goodness and probity.”

    Her Ladyship eyed him a trifle drily, if not unkindly. “Mm. The absolute proof of that would be if she were to accept an offer made in the person of ‘Corrant’, accompanied by an admission that you are but a mere distant cousin of the head of the family, with nothing of your own and accustomed to live off his sleeve.”

    “Thank you, Susan!” he said angrily.

    She sighed. “No, well, I’m sorry, my dear. I am sure your logical mind has long since seen it. But,”—she bent forward and patted his knee kindly—“it would not do, of course.”

    “No,” he said, swallowing. He put his hand on top of hers and gripped hard. “No. But what the Devil should I say to her, Susan?”

    “A full confession would seem to be in order, Jeremy. If she cares for you, I dare say she will be able to overlook the slight. Or are you still afraid that she may take you for what you can offer, regardless?”

    His jaw firmed. “I do not think so. I think, if I do not offer, she may well take Chelford for what he can do for her family—but I do not think she will accept a proposal from me in that spirit.”

    “Yes, well, the Lord knows you are experienced enough to recognise whether a woman truly affects you.” Her Ladyship’s somewhat protuberant blue eyes narrowed. “So it is merely a question of ensuring that she does not find your masquerade so much of an insult to both her feelings and her family that she will turn you down.”

    He was about to snap at her but her hand squeezed his, and she added lamely: “I own I cannot see how you might phrase it, my dear.”

    “No. Um, would it be better to write to her?”

    “Er... It might answer...” Susan gnawed on her lip. “The comparison that must spring to mind, my dear Jeremy, is that of Darcy’s writing to Elizabeth Bennet.”

    “Well, no,” he said wryly, “for he wrote after his proposal had failed signally, did he not?”

    “Mm.” His sister withdrew her hand from his, fumbled in her reticule for a handkerchief, and blew her nose loudly.

    “I’m sorry, Susan, I had no intention of upsetting you,” said Geddings lamely.

    “No, of course, my dear... Oh, dear! Phrases keep going round and round in my head, but I just cannot see how to put it so that she will not be very angry! And—and if you propose first that will make it so much more of an insult when you reveal who you are!” She blew her nose again.

    “Mm.” He got up and rang the bell. “Bring the Madeira, please, Harrod,” he said when his butler entered.

    “Certainly, my Lord.” Bowing, the butler retreated in good order, his face not betraying by so much as a flicker of a muscle that he was fully aware that his master in the first place had deliberately refrained from asking why his butler in person was answering the bell in the little downstairs salon instead of the footman, and in the second place knew perfectly well that the answer to such a query could only be “rampant curiosity”.

    Lady Bullivant stowed her handkerchief away. “Was that Harrod?” she said dully.

    “Mm. All agog, apparently. Oh, well, at least he don’t dodder, like poor old Dunstan.”

    Dunstan was the butler at Medways and both Susan and Jeremy had known him all their lives. “Pension the poor old creature off, Jeremy.’

    “Susan, he don’t want to go!”

    “Then you will just have to put up with the doddering. And it is to be hoped it don't drive Alice Buffitt mad,” she noted with a return to her more everyday manner.

     “Chance would be a fine thing,” he said wryly as Harrod returned with the Madeira. “Thank you, Harrod. Pray add to your goodness by fetching me paper and ink.”

    “Certainly, my Lord.” Smoothly Harrod filled the two glasses on his tray, offered one to Lady Bullivant and the other to his master, and bowed himself out.

    “Oily,” pronounced her Ladyship with a frown.

    Geddings blinked. “I had it from my usual shipper.”

    “What? No, your butler! –So you have decided to write after all?”

    “No,” he said with a sigh. “Not to Miss Buffitt. I shall ask for an appointment with Mrs Beresford.”

    She winced. “My dear, the woman is known all over London as a bull at a gate! If she were to take the wrong tack with Miss Buffitt the effect could be disastrous!”

    “I know,” he said, biting his lip. “Nevertheless she is currently in loco parentis.”

    “Jeremy, however correct it may be, for God’s sake don’t do it!” said Susan strongly.

    “Uh—well, if you advise against it...”

    “I most certainly do!” she cried.

    The room rang with silence. Lady Bullivant looked rather conscious and said: “I do beg your pardon, Jeremy. I did not mean to shout.”

    “Not at all, my dear.” He got up and poured her another glass of Madeira. “But pray don’t suggest the parents as an alternative.”

    “I should not dream of it. Wait: there is a relative who has been virtually her guardian for several years. Old Mrs... Now, what is her name? Bother, I should have brought Diane, she would know.” Lady Bullivant drank Madeira in a distracted manner.

    “It would not be impossible,” said Geddings, beginning to smile in spite of his disturbance, “to return to your house, interrogate Diane, and get the n—”

    “I have it!” she cried. “Portwinkle!”

    Harrod had just entered—noiselessly, as usual. His master, in spite of his disturbance, was meanly glad to see him jump sharply.

    “Good. –Put those down, thank you, Harrod. –Can you recall her direction, Susan?

    “She lives in Bath, I think. Oh, yes, of course! She is Mrs Honeywell’s connection! It is outside Bath, then, but I do not know the exact direction.”

    “In that case, I shall not entrust it to the post, I shall send my own groom.”

    “That will be best. He has only to enquire for Portwinkle, outside of the town,” she agreed.

    “Exactly. Have a drop more of this excellent Madeira, Susan.”

    “I confess,” her Ladyship confessed, allowing him to refill her glass again, “I feel in need of it! Corrant? Really, Jeremy!”

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