Foreigners In Cumberland

25

Foreigners In Cumberland

    At the tumbledown old village inn the burly Mr Ingham experienced quite a start when a parcel of strangers arrived, and was almost about to send a message off to Mr Beresford at the Hall, when it dawned that the less fancy of the two ladies in the party had the same last name as young Master Lance. Not but what t’other one’s bonnet were enough to make you suspect they might be anything at all—why, even the foreign lady that had taken Hailsham House that time had never worn nothing like that on ’er ’ead!

    “Scarin’ the five wits out of the buffer, Gwennie,” noted the amiable Lord Ferdy Lacey calmly as the innkeeper, bowing profoundly but with a last wary look at the bonnet, departed to fetch them refreshment. “Told you that dashed hat weren’t country wear.”

    “He always says that, my dear,” Lady Ferdy explained affably to Peg. “Ignore him completely: I do.”

    That was rather horridly self-evident: autumnal through the weather was, the hat was a very pale blue, a shade which the lint-fair Gwennie Lacey much affected, and which certainly became her. This—together with the matching pale blue pelisse—would have been enough to offend the sensibilities of most genteel persons, true, but into the bargain the hat was positively laden with enormous bunches, in two toning shades of blue, of silken leaves and—alas—acorns. Certainly a triumph of the milliner’s art, but Peg was in no doubt whatsoever that Gwennie Lacey, who had, she had now realised, a particular sense of humour, had ordered the thing up express. The which was immediately confirmed by her adding dulcetly: “And I had thought I was doing the right thing by wearing my new rural hat.”

    Naturally worried about Maria though she was, Peg at this collapsed in giggles, gasping helplessly through them: “I do—beg—your pardon—Lord Ferdy!”

    Lord Ferdy grinned at her. “Quite all right, dear Miss Peg. Lord knows I don’t mind what she gets around in, though it do tend to put backs up, rather, in the rural parts. Wore a fancy thing last time we was here, too,” he added. “Ages back, that were. That time the little Contessa threw that huge engagement party for the Stevenses—’member?” he said to his wife.

    Gwennie endeavoured to give him a repressive look. “Yes.”

    “Not that she was the Contessa at that point, come to think of it. The Senhora Baldaya,” explained Ferdy helpfully. “It was after she was widowed again: come up here chasin’ poor old Jack again— Eh?” he said as his wife’s glare registered. “Oh! Well, ancient history, now,” he said kindly to the red-cheeked Peg. “Jack ignored her. Think he did turn up to the party—well, not just the neighbourhood, y’see: half the Upper Ten Thousand was up here for it: Stevens ain’t nobody, and then, Lady S. is a Bon-Dutton, of course.”

    “Ferdy,” said Gwennie through her teeth, “be silent, if you please!”

    “Eh? Oh—sorry, old girl. Sorry, Miss Peg. Well, as I say, ancient history.”

    Peg drew a deep breath. “Yes, of course.”

    “My dear, she is married very happily and settled out in Portugal,” said Gwennie quickly.

    “I think I had heard that, Lady Ferdy,” she agreed stiffly.

    “Now see what you have done!” said Gwennie angrily to her spouse. “We had quite agreed it was to be ‘Gwennie,’ I think, Peg, my dear?”

    “Yes, of course. I beg your pardon: Gwennie, of course,” she said, trying to smile.

    Lord Ferdy looked at her hopefully. “Ferdy.”

    “Yes, of course. Ferdy,” said Peg limply.

    Fortunately the landlord at that point resurfaced with a tray of refreshment and his Lordship buried his nose in his tankard. It was, of course, terribly kind of them to have insisted on bringing her over from Derbyshire in person, rather than putting her on the stage, but although she was very grateful, Peg could not help wishing that they had refrained. It had not hitherto dawned on her—though of course she was aware that Gwennie Lacey knew all the town gossip of the last ten years or so—that they were so well acquaint with Mr Beresford’s personal history. Not that, she assured herself quickly, she gave a fig for that, it was absolutely nothing to do with her!

    And, Mr Ingham having agreed to send messages over to Beresford Hall and the unfortunately named Ten Oaks House occupied by the Hiltons—not without a digression into the vainglorious of history of the ten oaks, only a couple of which were standing as they spoke—the travellers settled down to sustaining plates of liver and onions, and, in Lord Ferdy’s case, some of Mr Ingham’s best ale.

    … “They have been,” said Peg, smiling a little shakily, after the first greetings were over and she was sitting quietly by her sister’s bedside, “so very, very kind to me.”

    Lady Ferdy had insisted on peeking in on the invalid. Maria had not been unimpressed by the blue outfit. “But Peg,” she whispered: “they are so very fashionable!”

    “Well, she is, yes,” admitted Peg. “But as well, I have discovered that she finds it all a terrific joke! That absurd hat, to which, I may add, she refers as her new rural hat, is entirely deliberate!”

    “Finds—finds the fashions a terrific joke?” faltered her sister.

    “Them, too! But I meant the fashionable life as a whole!” said Peg with a laugh. “I like her: my first impression that she was merely an empty-head with nothing but gossip on her mind was so wrong! Not that she is an intellectual sort of woman, but she is very, very sharp, you see!”

    “Yes,” said Maria limply. “But—but who are they, dearest?”

    “But I wrote you that, months back!” said Peg in surprise. “Gwennie—Lady Ferdy—was our first fashionable caller, back when Horrible and I had only just come to town.”

    “Yes: the lady with the tunic, I remember that. And I do grasp that she is the lady with whom you have been travelling.”

    “Yes: she collected me from Valentine Manor and then we went to Derbyshire and stayed with her sister, Lady Jerningham, and that’s where Paul’s letter caught up with me.”

    “Yes, but who are they?” cried Maria.

    Peg was about to say it was not relevant, but thought better of it. “Um, well, they are not connexions of Aunt B.’s or Horrible’s, if that was what you were wondering. Um, well, Gwennie’s mamma and papa are Lady Lavinia and Sir Lionel Dewesbury. I think I may have written that we went to a musical evening that Sir Lionel had arranged: he is very musical.”

    After a moment Maria said: “You did mention several concerts, yes… Lady Lavinia?”

    “It cannot signify, but she is the paternal aunt of the present Marquis of Rockingham.”

    There was a short silence.

    “Maria, I really do not think that Gwennie can be held responsible for her mother’s family connexions!” said Peg, attempting to be brisk.

    “Lord Ferdy?” croaked Maria.

    “Uh—well, nor can he be held responsible for who his papa is, and as a matter of fact, I have found out that he does not care for him, and that is why he was very glad to have Sir Lionel build them a pleasant house near to Dewesbury Manor.”

    “Peg Buffitt!” she hissed. “Tell me whether his father is an earl or a duke, before I run mad!”

    “Or a marquis?” said Peg with a feeble grin. “Um, duke. The Duke of Munn, it is a Scotch title, but it cannot signify: they see very little of them.”

    Maria swallowed.

    “I have never met His Grace and I am in no expectation of ever doing so.”

    “No,” she said faintly.

    “And as a matter of fact, Ferdy is a very unassuming fellow.”

    Maria licked her lips. “Mm. Should—should you call him by his pet name, dearest?”

    “He asked me to do so. Don’t look at me like that, he is as—as amiable as Lance, and almost half as bright as George!” said Peg on a desperate note.

    Maria gulped. “Oh.”

    “And as I said, very, very kind,” said Peg on a note of finality.

    “Yes. All—all this way?” she faltered.

    “They insisted. And don’t fuss, they will not stay here, but will head over to Beresford Hall.”

    “Oh, thank God!” said Maria frankly.

    Peg’s eyes twinkled. “Pooh! We had liver and onions to our dinners!”

    “Not—not at the Blue Boar?” she croaked.

    “Is that its name? The sign was so murky, we could not decipher it!” said Peg gaily. “Yes, the most excellent liver and onions I have ever tasted!”

    Maria lay back on her pillows and just looked at her limply.

    “Have you still got Jenny Dingley?” asked Peg briskly.

    “What? Oh—yes, of course. She is not coping very well,” she admitted feebly.

    “I can imagine. And was there something about your cook’s leaving you in the lurch?”

    “Yes. Aunt Beresford found her,” said Maria faintly. Peg winced, but managed to nod encouragingly. “And Miss Beresford said privily that she did not think she would stay, because we are too remote, and it would be much better to take a local woman, even if she were not so expert. And the very day after Aunt B. went back to Bath, she up and left us! And Peg, the worst thing is, Mrs Matthews’s cook his left her, too!”

    “Ouch,” said Peg kindly, though to say truth she did not much care if the Matthewses had a cook or not. Though not, of course, wishing Maria’s husband’s employers to starve.

    “It was the same thing. She came up from Manchester with them—though she was not their old faithful cook, for she had retired, but a woman from a Manchester agency. I think she thought it would be a very fine thing cooking for a country house.”

    “Um, would it not? The house sounds very fine,” said Peg kindly.

    “Yes but it is the isolation, Peg.”

    “Oh, of course.” Peg allowed Maria to give her quite considerable detail about the tragedy of the Matthewses’ cook before she got her back to the subject of her own household. Maria had largely looked to the little ones herself, of course, back in the days of the tied house with the little flock of black sheep on the Chelford Place estate, so there was no nurse—though Aunt B. had suggested she should get one—but only Jenny Dingley, aged fifteen and some months, in the position of nurserymaid. Fortunately not appearing to feel the isolation. The kitchen was adorned by one, Peggy Huddle, a local, and there was a Mrs Gagg who came in three days a week including wash-day.

    “Gagg?” said Peg in spite of herself.

    “G,A,G,G. Paul said it might be the local version of something else, but then admitted he could not imagine what!” said Maria with a sudden smile.

    “Quite!” agreed Peg, grinning. “Any more?”

    “Jimmy Gagg,” said Maria on a dubious note. “He does not really know about sharpening knives, but Paul is teaching him. And he does the boots quite well, now.”

    Peg nodded calmly. “In the meantime eating you out of house and home, do not tell me! The local version of a Dingley, in short!”

    “Mm,” she admitted with a conscious smile.

    “And who was that neat maid who opened the door to us?”

    “Mrs Matthews sent her over,” said Maria with a sigh. “Carver. One is not supposed to call her Jane. And I have not been able to discern that she does anything more than open the door! Well, and hand Paul his dinner, she is apparently not above handling a dish, provided that someone else has prepared it.”

    “She can go back whence she came, then!” decreed Peg robustly. “The last thing you need is a parlourmaid who fancies herself too good to soil her hands!”

    “Yes. Fred Dart looks after the horses and the garden, and he is entirely reliable, Paul selected him himself. But he is an outside man, of course.”

    “I see. Might there be a Mrs Dart?” said Peg, smiling at her.

    Maria bit her lip. “Well, there is, but to tell you the truth, Peggums, it is I who have been helping her, because—well, I suppose you might say it was an injudicious match, but the man adores her and does not care that she cannot cook.”

    “Oh, help.”

    “No, truly! The most romantic thing, really, for she is half his age—he was a widower, you see. But she is only seventeen and there is a baby, as well.”

    Peg took a very deep breath and rolled her eyes.

    “She is very willing, however,” offered her sister.

    “Good. I think she will need to be, unless we can very quickly find you another cook.”

    “Yes. –It is so frustrating!” she burst out. “For I know it is all going wrong, but I cannot get up to see to it!”

    “Yes; hush,” said Peg, patting her hand. “I’ll see that your orders are carried out, don’t worry.”

    Maria sank back onto her pillows again. “Thank you so much, dearest Peg-Peg! I cannot tell you how much it is has relieved my mind, to have you here!”

    Peg smiled somewhat weakly. There was, very evidently, little hope that Paul had been panicking unnecessarily and that after a week or two making sure the household was running smoothly she might make good her escape from Cumberland.

    “So?” said Paul without much hope, sinking into his big chair by the fireplace.

    His sister-in-law sighed. “No. You did say that you had made appointments for two to call, did you not?”

    “Mm.”

    “Well, only one turned up. She was intensely ladylike—almost as much as Mrs Matthews,” Peg noted drily; Paul winced, but nodded—“and informed me that the situation was not what she had expected and she could not see her way clear unless the barouche might be made available for her to visit with her sister in the town once a week.”

    His jaw had sagged.

    “I thought it couldn’t possibly be the usual thing for a cook,” admitted Peg cheerfully. “So I said there was no barouche but we could manage to borrow a cart for her if she did not mind taking her half-day between the hours of three and eleven in the morning on market days, and so she went away again!”

    He grinned feebly. “I see.”

    “We did think that that agency might not turn up trumps for you,” Peg reminded him.

    “I know. But I’ve tried every other avenue!”

    “Mm. Mrs Matthews appears to be having even worse luck: she called this morning to tell me the latest in the saga. Of the last three the Manchester agency sent up, one was very obviously about to produce an infant, one was used to the great houses and informed her grandly that an establishment with fewer than eight footmen and a private sitting-room for herself would not do, and the third fell asleep in the middle of the interview. The which, as Mr Ingham from the Blue Boar was only too glad to report, probably had something to do with the amount of flesh and blood—whatever that be—she consumed in his establishment before heading over to Hailsham House!”

    The proper Mr Hilton tried without success to control himself and broke down in a dreadful fit of the sniggers.

    “Yes!” said Peg with a laugh. “Poor Mrs Matthews, it isn’t really funny! But the silly thing is that she is a superb cook herself, only now that they are landowners, it would not do!”

    He blew his nose. “No, of course not. Er—Peg,” he said cautiously, “you did not let her cook for us, did you?”

    Peg swallowed. “Only a batch of cakes. I couldn’t stop her. She sailed into the kitchen looking gracious, took one look at the stove and knew exactly what to do! It was the dampers, apparently: Peggy Huddle had them all wrong. So in a trice she had an enormous apron over her silk gown, her sleeves rolled up, and was screeching at Peggy—yes, positively screeching!” she assured him with a laugh, “to get the fresh butter, girl, and quick about it!”

    “I’ve never heard her utter anything louder than a ladylike coo,” he croaked.

    “No, she thinks that is what’s owed to their station. But she was perfectly splendid, Paul!”

    He blinked. “Er—good. Well, so long as she was happy!” he admitted feebly.

    “Yes, and now that the stove is working properly again, you may look forward to pie—though I don’t promise that my pastry will be even one tenth as good as Maria’s!” He was looking at her hopefully. “Er—not today,” admitted Peg, “there was not time, so it is soup again, I’m afraid. But there are cakes for dessert!”

    “Oh, good,” he said with a feeble grin.

    Mr Beresford walked into his downstairs sitting-room with a frown. His Aunt Mary was sitting placidly by the fire, tatting. “Aunt Mary, what is this I hear about Cousin Peg’s working in the Hiltons’ kitchen?”

    Miss Beresford joined a motif through a picot, finished the round, and held the work up critically. “Ye-es… What was that, dear?”

    “Cousin Peg! Why the Devil is she cooking for Hilton?” he cried.

    “They have lost their cook, dear—I did try to tell Rowena that the woman would never stay—and as yet have been unable to find a replacement.”

    “And this justifies Cousin Peg’s slaving in the kitchen, I gather?” he said coldly.

    “Someone has to do it, Jack,” replied Miss Beresford placidly. “If dear Maria were on her feet it would be she.”

    “That would not be particularly fitting, either,” he said coldly. “Why the Devil ain’t something been done about it? What is Matthews about, to let them go without proper help in the kitchen?”

    “But Mr and Mrs Matthews have no cook, either, Jack.”

    “Very amusing, Aunt Mary!” he snapped.

    “No, it’s true, dear,” she said mildly. “She went back to Manchester: she could not support the isolation. The Manchester agencies have sent up a selection of candidates but they have all either been impossible or decided the place is too remote.”

    “What about the local agencies?”

    “There is only the one, and none of their candidates were suitable, either. Paul has tried them, too, before you say anything.”

    “Well—well, surely! There must be someone in the district! Why not ask Cook if she knows of someone?”

    “I did think that her cousin, Mrs Willow, might be the solution for Mrs Matthews, but she said that she found her too coarse. Well, she is just a countrywoman, of course, but she has worked in some excellent kitchens.”

    “Um, well, would she do for the Hiltons instead?”

    “She is used to cooking for very much bigger houses, dear. She can do better for herself, you see, though of course she would like to be near her cousin.”

    “I see. Perhaps you could suggest that Mrs Matthews relax her standards somewhat?” he said drily.

    Miss Beresford held the work up and peered at it. “Mm… I am biding my time, Jack.”

    “Really? May I suggest you do not bide your time in the matter of the Hiltons’ cook?”

    “I’m not,” replied his aunt simply, “but I’ve run out of suggestions. I mean, Mr Hilton did not turn down anyone whom I did suggest, but for one reason or another they were all unable to take the position.”

    Jack thought he saw. His mouth tightened. “What is wrong with the Hiltons?”

    “Nothing. You have the wrong end of the stick, Jack. Mrs Mounsey suddenly had to go to her sister at the White Stag up in Keswick—their elderly mother had become bedridden and there was too much for one woman to cope with. Then, Miss Peters would have been ideal, but her brother in India suddenly sent for her. He is a former regimental sergeant-major who has been offered a post as assistant-manager at a tea plantation, dear. No, well, it is not relevant but it explains why she could not come to Maria.” Miss Beresford tatted placidly. Jack glared at her in a baffled way. “Higginbotham might have done it, she has certainly seen excellent service with Lady Porton and young Mrs Langley, but you will never guess! Her childhood sweetheart came back from sea and married her!” She beamed at him.

    Jack took a deep breath. “Aunt Mary, if this Higginbotham is the ladylike person who was doing parlourmaid for young Mrs Langley—”

    “Cook-parlourmaid, dear, that is why she would have been so suit—”

    “Yes! She is forty-five if a day and sports more whiskers on the upper lip than a whole battery of regimental sergeant-majors!”

    “I don’t think so, dear, they are usually so spruce, are they not? Lovely uniforms!”

    “My point is that at her age she can hardly be about to produce offspring for this sailor sweetheart: why the Devil can’t she come and cook for Maria and Paul, married or not?”

    “He has taken her to Portsmouth,” she said simply.

    Jack gulped. “Oh.”

    “There is Dolly Ingham,” she said slowly. “The blacksmith’s daughter, dear, not one of the Inghams from the inn.”

    Mr Beresford had to swallow. “Uh—ain’t there a pair of fatherless twins that go along with her?”

    “Well, yes. Mr Pettigrew thinks he has found a respectable widower who might employ her, but of course, like all men, he has failed to take the wider picture into consideration.”

    Jack was about to say that he, the Duke of Wellington, and all their sex thanked her, but recollected a few of His Grace’s recent speeches in the House, and did not. “What?”

    “His house is run, and has been for many years, by a very competent spinster sister.”

    “Pettigrew must be mad,” he noted sourly.

    Miss Beresford tatted briskly. “Quite. And neither Maria nor Paul is sufficiently broad-minded to support the fact of the twins with equanimity. If it were only Peg, of course I should not hesitate!” She beamed at him. “But that is why I have not put Dolly forward.”

    “Er—no. Quite right,” he agreed feebly. “So that’s it?”

    “From the village, certainly.”

    Jack eyed her doubtfully. “But?”

    “Lady Stevens sent a little note over from the shooting-lodge to say that Sir John does know of a man who is looking for a place.”

    “Aunt Mary, Paul and Maria don’t want a full-blown chef!” he said in alarm.

    “No, dear, not that.”

    “Oh—for the Matthewses? Dare say she’d quite fancy herself with a chef. Tell Lady S. to trot him over there.”

    “No, Jack, you have the wrong end of the stick again.”

    “Aunt Mary, you keep holdin’ out the wrong end of all these sticks!”

    “No, I do not: you men never listen,” she said placidly.

    Jack sat back and crossed his arms, looking resigned. “Very well, I’m listening: go on.”

    “It’s a man who worked for Sir John when he was abroad—something diplomatic, I think,” she said, looking vague. “Let me see: when was it, when he was in India?”

    “What? Years back! Before the Peninsula War!” he croaked.

    “Yes, his first wife died while he was out there: so sad. But then he came back—I think that was during the War, I think he had to run a blockade—or was it after Trafalgar? I forget, but at any rate after that they sent him out to Portugal, of course! That was diplomatic!”

    “Mm, mission to soothe all them feathers Old Hooky was rufflin’. And?” said Jack on a grim note. He was pretty sure that, if she did not know all the ins and outs of it, his Aunt Mary did know that Lady Stevens was a cousin of the little Contessa—who was now, be it noted, settled in Portugal and in fact had had Sir John and her Ladyship over on a visit not long since. If she was about to say that this fellow was some Portuguese cook—

    “He had been a soldier, but did not wish to return home after he was wounded—something to do with his wife having taken up with another woman: so sad.”

    “The Army gave him the choice, did it?” said Jack on a sardonic note, doing his best to hide his relief.

    “Um, well, Lady Stevens does not— No, well, read it for yourself.”

    Limply Jack took Lady Stevens’s note. Former soldier, had been taken on by Sir John (function unspecified), and had taken over very capably when he had lost his Portuguese cook. Now looking for a quiet situation in a small household. Why he had not come back to England when Sir John did and continued to cook for him, unspecified. If it hadn’t been the Stevenses in question Jack would have concluded the thing was dashed smoky—but one could simply not apply the word, they were both entirely upright. But on the other hand…

    He took a deep breath. “Has it not occurred that if the man did not return to his Army duties after his wound—given that Stevens would be the last man in the world, possibly barring Old Hooky himself, to take on a dashed deserter—that he must have lost a limb?”

    “Or an eye,” agreed his aunt with the utmost tranquillity.

    Jack had to swallow. “Well, quite. I’m not doubting the Stevenses are genuine about this offer, but John Stevens is no gourmet—in fact, I’d say he is the sort of man who don’t take much notice at all of what he eats. What is the betting this fellow can do no more than singe a piece of meat?”

    “Can there be any harm in trying him? It will at least get Peg out of the kitchen.”

    “Uh—yes. I suppose they could try him.”

    “There does not seem to be any other immediate solution,” she said placidly, tatting.

    “No.” Jack fidgeted. Finally he said: “Uh—get on over there, shall I? Speak to Stevens?”

    “Why not?” replied his aunt with the utmost mildness.

    Mr Beresford nodded, and strode out.

    His aunt laid down her tatting. “Ah, hah!” she said with glee.

    It had now dawned on the small Cumberland neighbourhood that Sir John and Lady Stevens did not precisely keep the shooting-box, which he had not had for very long, in order to slaughter the brute creation in the company of a crowd of equally well-born acquaintances. More like—though neither of them would ever have dreamed of saying so—in order to get a few weeks’ peace and quiet every year away from the said acquaintances. In fact Sir John had not had a house party since the year he and his lady had become engaged and the little Contessa had thrown that huge party at Hailsham House to celebrate the event.

    “Hullo, Beresford,” he said mildly, wandering round the corner of the small stone house with a trio of furry corpses in his hand just as Jack dismounted.

    Jack smiled a little: in town Sir John, a tall, thin, man with something of a look of Old Hooky about him, was known for his excellent, quiet style. Today he was in a pair of patched breeches, heavy gaiters, and one of the most worn-in shooting jackets it had ever been Jack Beresford’s privilege to see. Just like Uncle George’s, in fact.

    “’Morning, Stevens. I’ve come in response to Lady Stevens’s kind note to my aunt.”

    As usual, the thin, hooked-nose face gave nothing away. “Yes?” he murmured.

    “Put it like this, anything that can cook will be welcome at the Hiltons’ house.”

    He smiled just a little. “Both Mrs Waters and Corporal Barker himself will be glad to hear that. The atmosphere in the kitchen is become somewhat competitive.”

    Jack eyed him suspiciously. Stevens was most certainly as upright as Old Hooky, but unlike His Grace, he had a particular sense of humour. “Corporal Barker?” he drawled.

    “That was his former rank, of which he is very proud,” said Sir John mildly. “Do you mind the back door?” he added with the charming smile that very few of the Upper Ten Thousand were ever vouchsafed.

    “Given your boots, Stevens, I think it had best be the back door,” replied Jack coolly. “Lead on.”

    By now he wasn’t in the least surprised—though why in God’s name Stevens should be testing him he knew not—when he was led into the kitchen itself. Mrs Waters, neat and clean in a large apron and mob cap, was presiding over a simmering pot, while at the big, scrubbed table a small girl was being instructed in the art of chopping something or another by an extremely burly, broad-shouldered fellow, also in an apron.

    Mrs Waters beamed and bobbed respectfully, what time Sir John said nicely: “Here are the promised rabbits, Mrs Waters, and I cannot wait for the pie! And this is Mr Beresford, Corporal Barker, come in person to see if you might do for his cousin’s cook.”

    Corporal Barker had got up quickly and was now at attention, saluting smartly; though as none of them was in the Army— No, well, presumably this was part of the test. As was the man’s size: he must be well over six foot, a towering giant of fellow. The rest being whether Jack would react to the fact that the saluting was being done with the left hand, the other arm having been removed above the elbow. And how the Devil he managed in the kitchen with only one arm—!

    “Er—morning, Barker. Looking for a position, are you?”

    “Yessir!” replied the ex-corporal stiffly.

    “Uh—right. Well, my cousins need a plain cook,” said Jack feebly.

    “At ease, Corporal,” murmured Sir John. “Plain English cooking is what is required, I think.”

    “That’s right, sir!” agreed Mrs Waters on an eager note—scarcely surprising if the giant Corporal Barker had been trying to take over her kitchen. “Plain roasts, a good stew, and a decent pie! And Mr ’Ilton, ’e fancies a nice cream or blancmanger, now and then!”

    Corporal Barker brightened. “I can do all them, right enough, Mr Beresford, sir!”

    “Good show,” said Jack feebly. “And, uh, well, this is a pretty obscure district, y’know, and my cousins’ house ain’t too handy to the village. You can bake bread, can you, Corporal?”

    Suddenly Sir John’s long, hard hand clapped him on the shoulder. “Lord, yes, dear man!” he said with a smile in his voice. “Excellent crusty loaves! –Barker, if you will come through to the parlour, you may explain to Mr Beresford that, though you did pick up a few excellent Portugee receets, you will not favour the Hiltons with a load of dashed Dago meals!”

    “Yessir! Beg pardon, Sir John, them boots won’t do for ’er Ladyship’s parlour.”

    “No, quite right: I’ll take ’em off in the passage,” said the baronet cheerfully. “This way, Beresford, dear fellow.”

    Jack tottered after him, concluding that it damned well had been a test and that he had—though he was damned if he could see how, exactly—passed it.

    Peg opened the front door looking flustered. Mr Beresford had intended to be extremely gracious with a slight touch of amusement allowed to show through as he produced Corporal Barker. This intention evaporated like the dew and he said on a grim note: “Good morning, Cousin. May I ask why you are opening your sister’s door in person?”

    This was the first encounter with Mr Beresford outside the company of the Laceys and his aunt since her arrival in his county. Peg stuck out her chin. “I have sent Carver back to Mrs Matthews with a note of thanks. She was not contributing sufficient to the household to compensate for the amount she ate, let alone her extortionate wages. Though it was very good of Mrs Matthews to think of offering her, of course.”

    For obscure reasons Mr Beresford was now very flushed. “Hilton thought her wages extortionate, did he?”

    “I think he did, but if you mean was that his phrase, no, it was not, it was mine, and if you further mean did he volunteer how much she is paid, no, of course he did not: I asked him. And I had observed for myself how much she ate.”

    “Comprehensive,” said Mr Beresford on a sour note.

    Peg took a deep breath. “I am afraid I am very busy this morning, sir, so if this is merely a morning call I must ask you to excuse me.”

    “Uh—no,” he said lamely. “I have brought you a cook. I mean,” he said quickly, with something of the crestfallen little boy in his tone which Miss Buffitt, alas, did not pick up, “a candidate for cook, of course. It is up to you and the Hiltons to see if he might suit. Barker!”

    Peg stared uncertainly as the large person in the Beresford Hall trap—which, very mundanely, Mr Beresford was driving today instead of the glossy equipage she was used to seeing him drive in town—got down.

    “Corporal Barker, this is Miss Buffitt, Mrs Hilton’s sister and at present looking after her house.”

    The giant stood smartly to attention. “’Morning, Miss Buffitt!”

    “Good morning,” croaked Peg, taking in the lack of an arm. She took a deep breath, awarding the man her friendly smile and not looking at her cousin at all, for the horrid suspicion had now had time to surface, that he was doing it on purpose, and whether he expected her to laugh at the poor fellow or to be completely put out of countenance she knew not—but the former would have been very unkind, and she was not going to give him the satisfaction of the latter. “I’m very pleased to meet you, Corporal Barker.”

    “Beg to correct you, ma’am! The honour is mine!” barked Corporal Barker smartly.

    Mr Beresford swallowed in spite of himself. “Corporal Barker served Sir John Stevens in Portugal.”

    “I see. Thank you very much for thinking of us, Mr Beresford,” replied Peg firmly.

    “Uh—not at all, Miss Buffitt,” he replied lamely.

    “You must tell me all about your cookery experience and see my sister’s kitchen and tell me honestly whether you think we might suit: it is, as you can see, only a small household, and there are two little children.” –This last had been very much a sticking-point with several of the candidates.

    “Yes, ma’am! Used to cooking for children, Miss Buffitt!”

    “Er—yes,” said Jack, casting a glance at the small figure still in the trap and trying not to wince. “The thing is, Cousin, Barker is quite experienced in both English and Portuguese cookery, but, uh, well, he has his daughter with him,” he ended lamely.

    “Your daughter?” she cried. “But she must come in!”

    “Thank you, ma’am!” beamed the giant corporal. “Thing is, she don’t speak much English, being as ’ow her Ma was a Portygee and we was living over there.” He then called out something and the small figure got down from the trap and came up to them, eyeing Miss Buffitt warily.

    “This is Maggie, Miss. What over there, they called ’er Magnolia, but—”

    “Oh, why yes!” cried Miss Buffitt, her face lighting up. “That is the same name as a lady whom we know in London, is it not, Cousin Beresford?”

    Well, yes: if she meant the Portuguese Ambassador’s wife, a bosom-bow of damned Aunt Fanny’s. “Er—mm.”

    “It is a very pretty name indeed! Good morning, Magnolia!”

    Corporal Barker then, presumably, adjured his daughter to say good morning to the lady, because she muttered something and sketched a bob.

    “There is no need for you to curtsey to me,” said Peg kindly, holding out her hand. “Come along, we’ll go inside, shall we?”

    “Cousin,” said Mr Beresford hurriedly: “I trust you have grasped the point that Barker will need accommodation for both himself and the child.”

    “She don’t eat much, Miss,” offered Corporal Barker.

    “She must eat as much as she likes,” said Peg, smiling warmly at him and ignoring her cousin completely. “And my sister has two little ones for her to play with.” She opened the door wide. “Thank you so much, Cousin Beresford,” she said in a dismissive voice.

    Jack went very red, bowed stiffly, replied: “Not at all. Stevens vouches for him. Send him back there if he don’t suit,” and retreated precipitately.

    “I am sure you will suit, Corporal Barker,” said his second cousin’s voice as he mounted into the trap, “but if course you must see if we suit!”

    Jack drove off, his mouth tight.

    “He took over immediately!” explained Peg with a happy laugh. “And turned the dough I had but started in to torture into a miraculous pie for our midday meal—and whether he just added some herbs to the meat I could not say, but it tasted wonderful—and produced a treacle pudding for the children into the bargain!”

    “Oh, good,” smiled Miss Beresford. “So he does not just cook foreign food?”

    “No, no! So far there has not been a sign of anything Portuguese! And he prepared the loveliest tray for Maria without my even having to ask him!”

    “Splendid. And, er, how did Maria take it, my dear?”

    “She ate up every crumb!” beamed Peg.

    Miss Beresford had to clear her throat. “I am sure. But, er, not that, my dear. Jack mentioned that the poor fellow has only one arm, and, er, is rather large.”

    “Well, yes,” said Peg, smiling. “Though one soon does not even notice it, I do assure you. Maria was a little taken aback just at first, but one taste of the pie was enough to reassure her that we could not possibly do better! And he even went to the trouble of finding a little spray of berries and leaves to put in a vase on her tray, and selected a pretty tray-cloth himself: the effect was so much better than anything I had achieved that she could hardly argue he was not used to the ways of a genteel household!” She laughed merrily.

    “Oh, good,” said Miss Beresford somewhat limply.

    “But of course he can cook Portuguese dishes, and he has been telling me about some of his receets,” said Peg eagerly.

    “Oh, yes?” she said valiantly.

    “He did not know the English words for many of the dishes, and I confess I had not heard of half the fish and shellfish he mentioned. But he assures me that even with our ordinary resources something very special may be managed!”

    “I see. Sissy has written that Lady Stamforth sometimes offers the most delightful Portuguese dishes,” said Miss Beresford valiantly.

    “Of course! They make the most delicious creams: I think you might call them Spanish creams, but Corporal Barker assures me that is wrong!” said Peg with her merry laugh. “And wonderful pastries and little savouries, quite unlike our English receets!”

    “Er—yes,” said Miss Beresford valiantly. “Delightful. Though possibly Paul and Maria may not care for the more—more exotic dishes, Peg, dear.”

    “Oh, no, I assure you: Paul has told Corporal Barker he is so looking forward to a real Portuguese stew: he has done it in the past with wild boar, but he says that beef will be just as good!” she said eagerly. “He puts red wine and spices in it: does it not sound interesting?”

    Valiantly Miss Beresford nodded, and tried to smile.

    … “I have to admit,” she disclosed to the household over their very English saddle of mutton that evening, “that dear little Peg seems to have—well, to have got the bit between her teeth, somewhat, over this Barker man.”

    “Run mad over him, has she?” said Lance tolerantly. “Peg all over. –Claims she had some sort of weird and wonderful Portugee meal at Lady Stamforth’s house,” he said to his frowning cousin, “that time you and Aunt Sissy came up to Lincolnshire to fetch Anne.”

    “They won’t be able to obtain the ingredients for anything weird and wonderful up here.”

    “No, well, sounded like fried fish and fried pastries, to me, but dare say they had God knows what in them!” he said cheerfully.

    “She said Barker made a lovely treacle pudding for the children!” put in Miss Beresford.

    George Beresford swallowed his mouthful. “Good show. Don’t matter if the feller’s one-armed, do it?”

    “George, I never said that!” she cried.

    “Implied it, I think. Fried pastries?” he said to Lance.

    “Yes!” said Jack loudly over Lance’s spluttering fit. “I have had that dish at Lady Stamforth’s board and it is entirely delicious! And may we please concentrate on our own dinner instead of discussing the Hilton household’s?”

    “Very well, dear,” said his aunt placidly. “Lance, please pass George the potatoes.”

    Lance passed the potatoes and they ate in silence for a while.

    “Stirring and beating would be the most difficult, I think,” murmured Miss Beresford thoughtfully.

    Lance opened his mouth and thought better of it.

    “But Peg says the little girl holds the bowl for him!” she revealed brightly.

    George directed a quick glare at Lance, who was now shaking silently. “Jack, pass them carrots down, would you? Jack!”

    His nephew came to with a start and passed him the dish of carrots.

    “They do seem to eat a lot of fish… Well, we are not so very far from the sea, and of course there are trout… Though Peg did say that one of the receets he told her about was bright yellow,” offered Miss Beresford dubiously.

    “Saffron, one can but assume,” said Mr Beresford sourly.

    “I have had saffron cake,” replied his aunt. “But would one put it in a fish soup?”

    “Yes!” snapped the driven Mr Beresford. “They put it in everything, all over southern Europe, as far I as I have been able to ascertain! I’ve had yellow fish soup at both the Portuguese Embassy and at Lady Stamforth’s house—and, come to think of it, at the French Ambassador’s as well—and may we drop the subject, please?”

    “I don’t think Paul and Maria would fancy bright yellow fish soup,” said his aunt in horror, apparently deaf to this last request.

    “I’d like to see it,” admitted George.

    “You may soon have the opportunity of doing so, Uncle,” said his nephew sweetly.

    “You will if Peg’s got it into her noddle she’s going to serve up Portuguese muck!” agreed Lance cheerfully. “Once a notion’s in there, no gettin’ it out, y’know. –May I have some more mutton, please, Uncle George?”

    Obligingly George carved for Lance, himself, and, unasked, for his nephew. Refraining from offering his sister more, as the giant platterful he had earlier carved for her was as yet scarce touched. “Eat that meat, Mary,” he grunted, à propos.

    “And there is the point that— Mm? Oh, yes, dear,” replied his sister. “It is excellent, I must tell Cook. But then, I dare say dear Paul may drop her a hint. What do you think, George?”

    “Yes, excellent. Ought to be, one of our own sheep.”

    “What?” she said in bewilderment. “Oh! Not the mutton, George, you men never listen.”

    Her brother merely gave her an exasperated look, so Lance said kindly: “Was it about Paul dropping Peg a hint, Aunt Mary? About not wanting Portuguese muck served up to him?”

    “N— Lance, my dear, do stop calling it that. No, about calling the man Corporal Barker.”

    “Thought it was his name?” said Lance blankly.

    “According to Stevens, the fellow prefers to be known by his former rank,” said Jack grimly. “Although I do not advise you to ask him if it be true.”

    Lance eyed him knowingly. “Wouldn’t dream of it: not that green. His word’s more than good enough for yours truly! Made a fool of yourself, did you, Cous’?”

    “No,” he said tightly.

    Grinning, Lance concentrated on his meat.

    “Why shouldn’t Peg call him Corporal, Mary?” said George Beresford on a grim note.

    His sister gave him an artless look. “Well, dear, it is hardly suitable for a cook.”

    “Might have referred to him as Corporal Barker, Aunt Mary, but that don’t mean she’s addressing the fellow as that,” said Lance kindly.

    “She is,” said Mr Beresford tightly. “And by all means blame me: I went and introduced the fellow as Corporal Barker.”

    “Be doing it to needle you, then,” said Peg’s brother simply.

    “Quite. Possibly if we all ignore the point,” he said, giving his aunt a hard look, “she will become bored with it. In especial,” he noted, giving his cousin a hard look, “if no-one indicates they find it amusing.”

    “All right, I shan’t,” agreed Lance amiably.

    “I am obliged to you,” he replied coldly.

    The Beresford household ate dinner in silence.

    The second course had been cleared, Lance having congratulated Aunt Mary heartily on the treacle tart, noting casually that before that time he’d had a splendid treacle tart at Cousin Jack’s town house he’d never had it with cream, and all three Beresfords, whatever their private preoccupations, having been driven to smile weakly at him, when Miss Beresford murmured: “Supposing I drive Peg over to thank Lady Stevens for sending them Barker?”

    “Think she’ll have already sent her a note,” offered Lance. “Not that bad, y’know.”

    “No, of course she has already written her! No, but if she hears her Ladyship referring to the man as Barker, rather than Corporal Barker, surely she will see that it is not amusing and not the done thing?” She smiled artlessly at her nephew.

    Lance looked at hard at the table. George directed a sour look at his sister and then glared at the sideboard—so much so that the butler, waiting to give the junior servants the signal to clear, cast an uneasy glance in that direction to assure himself there were no smears on the pristine varnish of its surface.

    Then Mr Beresford rose. “A labour,” he said with horrid precision, “of Sisyphus. But by all means attempt it, Aunt. –Allow me to get the door for you.”

    Limply Miss Beresford went out.

    George removed his gaze from the sideboard. “You didn’t need to bite back, Jack, though I won’t say she ain’t been needling you all evening. I remember when we were children, Pa took us all for a seaside holiday—over near Grange over Sands, it was, don’t ask me why he chose to go there—and Mary found these damned rock pools and spent almost the entire holiday poking sticks into the damned sea anemones.”

    There was a short silence.

    “Um, I ain’t ever been to the seaside, Uncle George,” said Lance feebly.

    “Eh? Good Lord, lad! Why didn’t you say so? Could have got on over to the coast this summer! Um, no, well, sea anemones ain’t plants, they’re little animals, horrid little squashy bits of things, see, and they move—no, more than that: flinch; close up, sort of thing—if y’touch them. Get it?”

    Lance thought about it. “Yes. How old was she then, Uncle George?”

    “Eh? Six or so. Got nothin’ to do with it. In her damned nature,” he said sourly. “Where’s that damned butler?”

    The butler shot to his elbow. “Yes, sir?”

    “Pour us all a damned brandy, man, is your wits wanderin’?”

    Obediently the Beresford Hall butler stayed the beleaguered male members of the household with brandy.

    “Ah!” discerned Mr Ingham pleasedly at the sight of Mr Hilton entering his establishment around midday. ‘Morning, Mr ’Ilton! Dessay you’ll be wantin’ a bite o’ decent English food, for a change!”

    Used though he was to tiny rural neighbourhoods, Paul had to swallow. “Barker has only offered us a Portuguese meal once, Ingham. It was very interesting,” he added valiantly.

    Mr Ingham sniffed. “If you say so, sir. Only that weren’t ’ow Master Lance told it! Miss Peg was in Fawcett’s only t’other day, asking if they stocked some furrin muck or other—don’t ask me what its name were, mind, acos the way Mrs Fawcett tells it she ain’t never ’eard nothing so outlandish in all ’er puff! –Molly’s done salt codfish with whipped potato on top.”

    To the uninitiated this might not sound tempting but Paul now knew that Mrs Ingham’s baked salt codfish with whipped potato on top was little short of miraculous: how she did it he could not imagine, but the fish was not near so salty as Maria’s efforts always turned out, the sauce was of a silky, creamy consistency, and the potato was always fluffy and lightly browned on top. “Wonderful. I’ll have that, then,” he said weakly.

    “Right you are, Mr ’Ilton!” agreed the landlord, pushing a pint of beer across the counter to him without asking him if he wanted it. “Talking of furriners, does Mr Beresford still want to ’ear of strangers what’s stopped in?”

    Paul lowered the tankard. “Uh—yes,” he said limply, staring. So much had happened since Mr Beresford mentioned his fears for Lance that he had well nigh forgotten the matter.

    Mr Ingham pulled his ear slowly. “Ah. Thought ’e might, aye. This one’s a real furriner. Talks real funny.”

    “When was he here?” he said tightly.

    “Ah. Well, now, I’m not saying ’e was ’ere. Still is, see?”

    Paul looked round in alarm.

    “Not ’ere, Mr ’Ilton. Took the private parlour. Only ’e ain’t in there at the moment, ’cos ’e went off on a ’orse.”

    “Where to?” he demanded sharply.

    “Well, now, what ’e said was, what was the way to Beresford ’All.” Mr Ingham sniffed. “More or less. Come out more like ‘Berry’s Ford’. Only I didn’t like the look of ’im, see? So I said did he ’ave business at the ’All, and he said it didn’t regard me—you may well stare, Mr ’Ilton, sir, only I kind of figured ’e meant it weren’t none of my business—cheek of a gypsy,” he noted by the by. “So I said they got their own regular seed merchants, up to the ’All, and he said ’e wished to see the master of Berry’s Ford ’All on a private matter. Only I seen straight off ’e weren’t no gent. So I sent ’im off on a wild-goose chase over to ’Igh Tops way.”

    Even though the unfortunate foreigner was in all probability perfectly innocent Paul sagged against the bar counter. “Thank God! Uh—well, he may be quite harmless, but—”

    “’Armless is as ’armless does,” pronounced Mr Ingham with heavy significance.

    “Yes. I’d better get off to the Hall— No, stay! Have you seen Mr Beresford or Mr Lance this morning?”

    For once in his life the loquacious Mr Ingham answered succinctly. “No.”

    “Then I’ll get off to the Hall straight away,” said Paul grimly.

    “’Ere! What about the salt cod an’ potato pie?” cried Mr Ingham in disappointment as Mr Hilton headed for the door.

    “I’m sorry, Ingham, can’t stop!” he called, hurrying out.

    Mr Ingham leaned heavily on his shining bar counter and contemplated the matter in silence for some time. Finally concluding: “Not stopping for a plate o’ Molly’s salt cod and potato? I knew there was something fishy about that furriner!”

    At Beresford Hall only Miss Beresford was in. Jack had gone out with George, she informed Mr Hilton placidly. “You’ve missed him by about half an hour, Paul, my dear. There is nothing wrong at home, I hope?”

    “What? Oh! No—thank you,” said Paul distractedly, passing a hand over his neat brown locks.

    “And how is dear Mar—”

    “Miss Beresford, have you any idea where they went?” he interrupted tensely.

    “Not precisely, my dear, but George was muttering about the mess in Home Wood, so I think they may have gone to inspect it. I dare say it isn’t a mess, but George is very disgruntled over Bill Biddle’s dying so unexpectedly, poor man. Ned Biddle is very willing, but if he won’t appoint him head forester, the man’s hands are in a sense tied, aren’t they?”

    “Uh—yes. I think I’d better— Uh, Lance is with them, I suppose?”

    “Not today: he went over to your house this morning, claiming that Barker had promised him something really extraordinary if he liked to come for the midday m—”

    “Did anyone go with him?” he croaked.

    “No, I just said: Jack and George have gone over—”

    “Yes! Not that! I mean, was he alone?”

    “Well, obviously. Paul, my dear, what on earth is the matter?”

    Poor Mr Hilton gave the spinster lady an agonised look, claimed with transparent mendacity there was nothing the matter, and rushed off.

    “Something and nothing, I dare say: they are all the same,” concluded the spinster lady with the utmost placidity, returning to her interrupted crochetwork.

    The misnamed Ten Oaks House was quite near to the border of the Beresford Hall estate with Mr Matthews’s property, but nevertheless it was well into the afternoon by the time Paul and his flagging horse reached it. The house was pervaded by an extraordinarily spicy smell, but both front parlour and dining-parlour were empty. Mr Hilton’s sister-in-law, young son, and very small daughter were discovered in the kitchen with Corporal Barker and his daughter, the buxom Mrs Dart, complete with infant, Jenny Dingley in the neat nurse’s apron which Maria with her own hands had made for her but without the matching cap, and Peggy Huddle with the usual grimy apron adorned with even more colourful smears than usual. Mrs Gagg and Jimmy were not in evidence, the former possibly because it was not wash-day. That or she had been, eaten, and gone. The company was doing nothing more strenuous than sitting and gossiping over the empty teacups. Or, in the case of Paul’s children, empty glasses of something he could only hope was not Barker’s gaspingly sweet Portuguese cordial.

    “You’re early,” said his sister-in-law placidly.

    “Where’s Lance?” replied Paul grimly.

    “Lance?” replied Peg in surprise. “He went off to Home Wood—theirs, not yours.”

    “By—by himself, Peg?” he croaked.

    “Unless you count that bony brute, Thunderer. Is something the matter? You look odd.”

    “I— Um, no, Peg,” he lied.

    “Rubbish!” cried his sister-in-law loudly, disregarding their fascinated audience. “You are the worst liar I ever met, Paul! What is it?”

    “Nothin’ wrong at Beresford Hall, sir?” put in Barker at this point.

    “No,” said Paul, noticing in spite of his distraction that Peg had paled and was looking at him fearfully. “Of course not.” He hesitated, and then said: “Barker, I have had a report of there being a foreigner staying at the village inn. Are you expecting a visitor? An acquaintance from Portugal, perhaps? Or—or might Sir John be expecting someone?”

    Coming smartly to attention, Barker replied: “Nossir! Not expecting no visitors, Mr Hilton, sir! And beg to report, Sir John and Lady Stevens ain’t expecting no-one, neither. Begging your pardon, sir, but Sir John did say as they didn’t need no dashed visitors invading their rural peace, Mr Hilton.”

    “Thank you, Barker. That’s very clear.”

    “Yes: you have a very logical mind, Corporal Barker,” approved Peg.

    Barker, though remaining smartly at attention, beamed in gratification, but did not neglect to direct a worried look at his new master.

    “When did he go, Peg?”

    “Who, Lance? What is all this? I suppose about an hour ago.”

    “Beg pardon, Miss Buffitt, ma’am, but Mr Lance left the house one hour and forty-five minutes ago by the kitchen clock,” corrected Barker.

    Paul looked limply at the kitchen clock.

    “It gains a bit,” offered Peg.

    “Y— Uh, never mind that. Are you sure he was headed to Home Wood?”

    “All I can tell you is what he said, that our cousin and his Uncle George would be there, so he thought he had best get on over. He did ride off on Thunderer in that general direction. And if you won’t tell me what the matter is, I can’t help you!” finished Peg loudly.

    “Beg pardon, Mr Hilton, but Mr Lance did say that ’e was pretty sure the Home Wood business were a fuss about nothing and that Mr Beresford and Mr George Beresford would most probably not stay long.”

    “Um, yes, he did say that, come to think of it,” agreed Peg.

    “So will he have gone there or not?” cried Paul wildly.

    Peg shrugged. Barker bowed, came back to attention, and declared there was no telling, sir.

    Paul chewed on his lip. “Uh—where’s Dart?” he said to that person’s blushing but nonetheless avidly interested spouse.

    “Dunno, rightly, Mr ’Ilton, sir!” she beamed. “’E did say as you’d asked ’im to get a load of firewood in!”

    “That’s right; when did he go?”

    The assembled members of his household were seen to blench slightly. Mrs Dart went redder than ever and avoided his eye.

    After a moment Peg said in a very firm voice: “He went directly after his midday meal, having spent the morning performing a great many heavy tasks around the place.”

    “Aye, that’s right, sir!” agreed Mrs Dart in patent relief.

    “That’s right, sir: Mr Dart’s a great help with the lifting and digging,” agreed Barker.

    Paul swallowed a sigh. And, presumably, a great admirer of Barker’s cuisine. “Yes. Where’s Jimmy Gagg?” he asked without hope.

    “He went with him,” explained Peg.

    Paul refrained from saying the lad wouldn’t have been of any use in any case: it would inevitably get back to both the boy and his mother. “Mm.” He looked at the clock, and frowned.

    “If you go over to the Beresford Hall Home Wood now, the likelihood is,” noted his sister-in-law dispassionately, “that none of them will be there by the time you get there.”

    Paul took a very deep breath, refrained from telling her she sounded like his father-in-law at his most annoying, and said: “Quite. In that case I’ll have to get back to the Hall.”

    Peg got up and went to peer out of the kitchen window. “Not on Hairy Harry, I trust?”

    Little Jimmy Hilton at this collapsed in delighted sniggers.

    Paul sighed. Jimmy had, apparently, noticed his elders’ amusement at Rosie’s naming of Sir Horace’s Big White Spot and had somehow got the notion it was a huge joke to give horses silly names. It was a perfectly acceptable nag, acquired locally, and originally named Henry. Unfortunately Maria had declared this not to be a horse’s name at all, and had suggested Hereford, as being more picturesque—whether she possibly meant Hereward Paul hadn’t asked. Jimmy, sniggering at his own wit, had immediately put forward the counter-suggestion of Hairy Harry. Of course Maria had tried to veto this, but to little effect—the more so as Jimmy’s Aunty Peg had delightedly taken the name up the minute she heard it.

    “He looks exhausted,” explained Peg.

    “He isn’t exhausted!” snapped her beleaguered brother-in-law.

    “Begging pardon, sir, but if I was to give the nag a bucket o’ water and a handful of oats, and you was to maybe ’ave a nice cup o’ tea, then it won’t be nothing but a minor sortie to the Hall!” offered Barker eagerly.

    “’Airy ’Arry’ll go faster too, sir,” offered Mrs Dart on a hopeful note.

    “Uh—yes,” he said weakly. “I think that’s what Barker meant. Well, yes: thank you, Barker.” He looked round in a vague way.

    Peg followed his gaze. “Um, Bella, if you let Jenny hold Baby Billy for you then maybe you could water Hairy Harry while Barker puts the kettle on,” she said on a weak note.

    “Right you, are, Miss Peg!” beamed Mrs Dart.

    “I’ll come, too!” cried Jimmy eagerly, bounding up. “Come on, Maggie!”

    “Come on, Paul,” said Peg kindly: “we’ll go into the front parlour, shall we? –Yes, Rosie, let Papa pick you up!”

    Limply Paul picked up his small daughter and retreated to the front parlour, not pointing out that Jenny Dingley, complete with Baby Billy Dart, was following them.

    “Um, sorry,” said Peg cautiously, having poked the parlour fire into vigorous life and sat down by it.

    “What?” he replied dully, sinking into his big chair.

    “Um, we just sort of sat down in the kitchen and, um— Sorry. I can’t seem to be as organised as Maria.”

    “That’s all right, Peg,” he said with an effort. “Don’t let it worry you.”

    Peg took a deep breath. “Jenny, why don’t you take Baby Billy up to the nursery? He can have a nap in Rosie’s bed.”

    “Think ’e needs changing, Miss Peg,” replied Jenny Dingley stolidly.

    There of course never was a Dingley that could take a direct order: Paul felt his choler rise.

    “Jenny, please do as you are asked,” said Peg steadily.

    Paul goggled as Miss Dingley, going bright puce, gasped: “Yes, Miss Peg! Beg pardon, Miss Peg!” and forthwith exited.

    Peg bit her lip. “That was my Aunt Beresford voice,” she admitted.

    “I should think so! You ought to use it more often!” replied her brother-in-law with feeling, rather forgetting himself.

    “Mm. Um, the thing is, I believe that people’s feelings matter,” said Peg awkwardly.

    Suddenly Paul smiled at her. “Of course you do! But from time to time, that voice is just what a Dingley needs!”

    “Mm,” said Peg gratefully. “We did all tell Maria it was fatal, but she insisted—well, the Dingleys had been very good to all of us, and good places are not that easy to come by, at home. Has she been driving you mad?”

    “Not really: I don’t see all that much of her. And Maria seems to cope quite well, most of the time. But I have to admit I have seldom managed to give her a direct order and have it obeyed.”

    “They’re like that. –Go on, you can tell me now. What’s Lance done?”

    “Mm? Oh—nothing. It’s nothing like that.”

    “He must have done something,” replied Lance’s sister.

    “No—truly.”

    “Well, what was all that about foreigners?”

    “Uh—just that Mr Beresford asked Ingham to let him know of any that might turn up.”

    Peg stared. “Why? And don’t claim you don’t know!”

    Paul gnawed on his lip. “Peg, I don’t think Mr Beresford would care for me to tell you.”

    “Why not?” she replied grimly, very flushed.

    “Because he didn’t tell you himself,” he said uncomfortably.

    “When did he not tell me himself, pray?”

    “I— Well, earlier. And please do not pursue the topic, Peg. It is for Mr Beresford to tell you, if he thinks fit.”

    Peg’s mouth tightened angrily, and she was silent.

    After a moment Paul offered lamely: “I can assure you it is nothing to do with, um, Portugal, Peg.”

    This effort did not have the desired effect, because his sister-in-law got up, looking alarmingly grim, and stalked out.

    The refreshed Hairy Harry, Hereford/Hereward or just plain Henry having carried him faithfully back to the Hall, the luckless Mr Hilton discovered that although Lance was back, neither Mr Beresford nor his uncle was. According to Lance there had not been a sign of them in Home Wood, nor indeed of Ned Biddle or any of his helpers—but on the way home Fred Biddle had been sighted with a great cartload of wood! Paul took a very deep breath and managed not to shout at him. Though he did reflect sourly that there was considerable justice in his own father’s observations, at the time of his courtship of Maria, about the unwisdom of allying himself with “that lot.”

    Miss Beresford was just saying that perhaps they would not wait dinner for them after all and urging Paul to stay for the meal, when the two male Beresfords came in, very wind-blown but cheerful, George reporting that old Foster’s black mare was in foal to the big grey again and if the result was anything like the four-year-old the old rogue had sold to Sir Henry Porton—

    “You have not been over to Foster’s?” cried Lance aggrievedly.

    “You could have come, if you hadn’t been so dashed keen on stuffing yourself with Portuguese muck,” replied George cheerfully. “Hullo, Hilton; stayin’ for a decent English meal, are you? Jolly good!”

    “But I thought you were only going up to Home Wood!” cried Lance aggrievedly before Paul could speak.

    “We did. Then we went over to old Foster’s,” said Jack, eyeing Paul uncertainly.

    “It’s true the man is next-door to a rogue, Paul,” Miss Beresford assured him. “Mr Pettigrew has been trying for years to persuade him to attend church, or at least send his wife and daughters, but—”

    “A two-hour drive at the least: the farmhouse is miles back from the road,” Jack interrupted ruthlessly. “And two hours to get back, after nigh on two more listening to old Pettigrew’s maunderings: meanwhile the unfortunate fellow’s wondering where his meal is coming from. Like some others I might name. –Nothing wrong at home, I hope, Hilton?”

    “No, but if I might speak to you, sir,” he said with an agonised look on his face. –In amongst the urgings to stay for dinner and the attempts to ascertain whether his description of Corporal Barker’s famous Portuguese meal marched with Lance’s, Miss Beresford had not ceased to wonder over his calling twice in the one afternoon.

    “Yes, of course. Come into the study. –No,” said Jack brutally as Lance opened his mouth.

    “It’s probably nothing, Mr Beresford,” said Paul uneasily as his host closed the study door firmly. Somewhat lamely he reported on Ingham’s foreigner, not omitting the wild-goose chase up to High Tops.

    “Good for Ingham,” said Jack feebly. “Uh—no indication of what sort of foreigner, I suppose? –No.” He chewed on his lip.

    “Oh—there was one thing. Ingham asked what he wanted at the Hall and the man said it didn’t regard him.”

    After a moment Jack said slowly to himself: “Ça ne vous regarde pas?”

    “French, sir?” ventured the young agent.

    “Ye-es. Well, the Princesse P. is half French, half Italian, and the husband was—uh— Well, I forget, but there is a German connection of some sort. But there is certainly a villa in Italy—though the old hag has a house in Paris, too. Well, she could well have Frenchmen in her employ.” He look a deep breath. “Look, it’s not beyond the bounds of possibility that the fellow is here after Lance—but he could be a messenger from my brother-in-law—from Vienna. Though in May’s last letter they were all well.”

    Paul looked at him in dismay.

    “Or even from Georg—my cousin, Aunt Fanny’s eldest son. Or—well, God knows! From Admiral du Fresne—news of Aunt Fanny, good or bad. When did Ingham send him off on this wild-goose chase, do you know?”

    “Some time this morning,” replied Paul glumly. “I’m terribly sorry, sir; if I’d thought it through I’d have gone after him.”

    “No, you did quite right to make sure Lance was safe. If the man is legitimate I dare say he’ll make his way here at some point, but I’d better send a message to Ingham, I think.” He rang the bell and asked for Goodwin to be fetched. “Sit down. Speculation is fruitless,” he said firmly to the fidgeting Paul.

    “Yes,” he agreed limply, sitting down all of heap.

    “Aunt Mary been bending your ear unceasingly, has she?” said Jack with some sympathy.

    “I—well, yes! Not that she— I mean—” He broke off.

    “Aye. She don’t nag, precisely, and she certainly don’t bully it out of you, like Mamma, and you couldn’t even say she insists, but she goes on and on, don’t she?”

    “Well, yes, it is precisely that!” he admitted in some relief.

    Mr Beresford rang the bell again, looking wry, and asked for the Madeira.

    “Yes, sir,” said the footman respectfully. “Pardon me, sir, but Miss Beresford asked me to remind you that the household will not be changing for dinner this evening.”

    “Thank you, William,” replied Jack levelly, not daring to glance at Paul.

    Looking very relieved, the young footman bowed himself out.

    “There you are,” said Mr Beresford very drily indeed to his cousin’s husband.

    Paul gulped, failed to control himself, and broke down in sniggers.

    “Quite,” said Miss Beresford’s nephew, smiling reluctantly. “God save me from the hinters, is all I can say!”

    Paul blew his nose. “Yes,” he agreed in some awe.

    “Maria don’t do that, eh?” said Jack with a little smile.

    “Oh, Heavens, no!” he said unguardedly.

    “No. You’re a lucky man.”

    “Thank you.” Paul hesitated. Then he said: “It is not in her nature, any more than it is in that of any of her sisters.”

    William reappeared with the Madeira at that moment, so Mr Beresford was spared the necessity of replying—or of pointing out that the well-intentioned young man was damned well doing it himself!

    As might have been expected the sturdy Goodwin greeted his employer’s explanation of exactly why he wished him to ride hot-foot down to the Blue Boar with, firstly, a ruminative silence, and then a dry: “Well, I won’t say as it’s impossible, sir, but I will say, a feller from Lord Keywes or your aunt seems a sight more likely to me than someone after Master Lance.”

    “That was my thought, too. However,” said Jack, pouring a generous helping of Madeira into his own glass, “the further thought has since occurred that Aunt Fanny may have followed up her performance in Bath with an actual engagement to damned Admiral du Fresne.”

    Goodwin sniffed. “She’ll of taken the Froggy to Bath to annoy your ma, sir, mark my words.”

    “Well, yes. And very likely to throw a fright into me, too.”

    “Aye. Always did have a deal of spite in her nature, did Miss Fanny.”

    “Quite. –Goodwin’s known Aunt Fanny since his boyhood,” said Jack with a little smile to Paul’s face of astonishment.

    “That’s right, sir. I was Miss Fanny’s lad, when I started off in the stables. Looked after her Jolly Roger, what was her first proper horse—a black, he was, Mr Hilton, with a crooked white blaze to his nose what she would maintain looked like the skull and crossbones. Started off as a joke, but the master, he went and made the mistake of saying it weren’t no such thing, and Mr John and Mr George, they backed him up, so that made her stick by it. Turned fourteen year of age by then, she were, and the master told her to ’er face she were old enough to know better. See, opposition always did make Miss Fanny the more determined. Well, runs in the family, mind you.”

    “Exactly,” said his master, unmoved, handing him the brimming glass. “Drink that, and stop maundering on. Mr Hilton hasn’t even met Aunt Fanny—lucky man.”

    Goodwin drained the Madeira. “Thanks, sir. Not a bad drop. No, well, obstinate she were, but a fine horsewoman: ride like the wind, and take anything, fence or wall, ditch or water. Then she had to go and marry a foreigner.” He shook his head. “Right, I’ll be off, sir.”

    “Good. And if the fellow’s there, bring him—”

    “I’m not deaf yet,” noted his henchman with dignity. “Cook said to tell you there’s a game pie, Mr Hilton, if so be you’re staying for your supper.”

    “Thank you,” said Paul feebly, as Mr Goodwin touched his forelock and exited.

    “You must stay,” said Jack on a wry note, “but I have to warn you no mere male will be able to stop Aunt Mary speculating as to the reason for your presence. And though Lance probably won’t wonder why you’re here— No, let me rephrase that. You may well find that his taking completely for granted the fact that you are here insensibly becomes—as the evening wears on, you understand—fully as irritating as anything Aunt Mary can offer—nay, even more—”

    “Stop!” said Paul with a sudden loud laugh.

    Grinning, Jack patted him on the shoulder and ushered him out.

    The game pie was fully as excellent as Mr Hilton had expected, if the company, alas, was about as irritating. Lance insisted on telling them in minute detail what Barker had given them at midday—incidentally revealing not only, as Paul had suspected, that Mrs Gagg, Jimmy Gagg and Mr Dart had all been present at the feast, but that into the bargain one, Bert Pretty, a brother of Bella Dart who was supposed to be gainfully employed on Mr Langley’s land, had also been there. When this saga was over the grievance over the visit to Mr Foster had to be aired at length… Paul was not sorry to have Mr Beresford take him, his uncle and the brandy into his study, firmly shutting the door on the protesting Lance.

    “Go on,” said George Beresford on a grim note.

    “It’s probably nothing…” Uneasily Jack told him.

    The senior Mr Beresford looked at the clock on the mantel, and sniffed. “Too soon to panic. –I suppose I could volunteer to go and beat the lad at billiards.”

    “Leave him alone and he’ll settle down with a book,” replied Jack calmly.

    “He’ll try to, y’mean: Mary’ll have him holding yarn for her before he’s read half a page.”

    “Good, then he can bore on at her about his damned Portugee feast, and good luck to the both of ’em!”

    “What’s she done now?” asked Miss Beresford’s brother resignedly.

    “Nothing, in particular,” said Jack heavily. “Hilton, here, turned up this afternoon—twice—without a good lie prepared.”

    “Mistake,” grunted George Beresford. “Fancy a hand of écarté?”

    The two other gentleman agreeing, Jack produced the cards from his desk drawer.

    The level in the brandy decanter had sunk considerably and Miss Beresford had sent three messages by William, all about nothing in particular, by the time George Beresford looked at the clock again and admitted: “Fellow should be back by now.”

    “Not if the man wasn’t at the Blue Boar, Uncle George,” replied Jack temperately.

    “Mm.” He got up. “Billiards?”

    Paul rose uncertainly. “I’d like to, sir, but Sir Horace Monday claimed I couldn’t give him a decent game.”

    “You can’t be as bad as Lance,” he returned simply. “He won’t practise, y’know. I keep telling him the billiards room’s here whether I’m in the house or no, but it don’t sink in.”

    “Mm: he has not been taught the habit of application,” admitted Paul.

    “You can say that again!” replied George Beresford feelingly, heading for the billiards room.

    Paul held back. “Mr Beresford, is—is Lance not settling to the work?” he asked in a low voice.

    “I’d say he is settling to it as much as anyone might, with his temperament—and without, as you so correctly put it, the habit of application. Uncle George has found that, as with the billiards, he needs constant encouragement and constant oversight. Not that he will not work at a specific task, if it’s been explained to him, but he don’t look round for other tasks that might need doing once it’s done. I’m not saying he’s lazy: what he will do, is come and ask what he might do next. And if there’s no-one to ask, he drifts off and picks up a book.”

    Paul bit his lip. “No initiative—mm. I think that is partly temperament, but partly, I have to say it, because my father-in-law never encouraged any of his children to show initiative or took any interest when they did.”

    “Exactly. But Peg—” He broke off.

    “That is temperament, too. George and Bertie are rather like her, in that—though George of course has not half her brains,” said Paul mildly.

    “Mm.” Jack took his arm. “Has Maria heard from home lately?”

    “Yes: a letter came the day before yesterday. Mamma-in-law was preparing to set off for Valentine Manor with the two little ones. Mrs Valentine is very kindly sending not only the carriage but also a responsible nurse to see to Lilibet and Tommy.”

    “That’s good news,” admitted Jack. “So, uh, that leaves George and Bertie at home with their father?”

    “Mm. Peg had a letter from George but refused to allow Maria to read it,” he admitted uncomfortably.

    “Er—complaints?”

    “We think either that, or requests which she considered unreasonable.”

    After a moment Jack went very red.

    Paul looked at his face, and bit his lip. “I have offered to take him, but his father refuses to hear of it.”

    He took a deep breath. “I think I get it, Paul: so I’m not the only one, eh? Do I dare ask how the Devil you persuaded the damned fellow to let you have Maria?”

    “I didn’t,” said Paul on a rueful note. “Her mother did—I have no idea how.” He hesitated, and then admitted: “There was the point that Maria has very little in common with her father.”

    “I dare say, but nor does George!” he said with feeling.

    “No,” said Paul glumly. “Maria thinks we should give him time. Possibly her mother may prevail…”

    “Aye. Well, she seems to have managed to talk him into letting Anne become engaged to Val—God knows how,” he noted sourly.

    “Don’t you—” Paul broke off.

    “No, and as a matter of fact, I’d be quite interested to hear it!”

    Paul swallowed. “I’m so sorry, Mr Beresford.”

    Jack sighed. “Call me Jack, for the Lord’s sake.”

    “I—I should like to, Jack, very much, but— Er, well, what will the neighbourhood say?”

    “The neighbourhood,” said Jack Beresford very drily indeed, “will take its tone from me, I do assure you! –Go on: what magic did Rose Buffitt work for dear old Val?”

    “She threatened to leave the man. Um, very circumstantially, we gather, Jack,” he said, looking dubiously at the other man’s face.

    “I get it. He began to envisage having to manage the servants and see to it his dinner was served up to him, hey?”

    “For myself, I think it was precisely that. Maria maintains that his feeling for her mother came into it, but—”

    Jack Beresford snorted.

   “Quite,” said Paul very drily indeed.

    The balls had been punished innumerable times, and Lance, appearing completely good-natured throughout, had been trounced soundly by George Beresford, by his Cousin Jack, and even by his mild-mannered brother-in-law, and still there was no sign of Goodwin. George had begun to fidget so much that even Lance had noticed it, and had been dispatched to bed on the strength of it—or rather, on the strength of having remarked on it aloud just when the younger Mr Beresford was readying his cue.

    “I suppose we ought to tell him—put him on his guard,” noted George uneasily.

    “If the fellow does turn out to have been sent by the old bitch—yes,” agreed his nephew. “Not otherwise, I don’t think. Anyone fancy another game?”

    No-one did, and the three gentlemen returned to the study and the brandy.

    Miss Beresford had sent two messages via William and had finally popped in herself to bid the gentlemen good-night and to remind Paul to send a message to Ten Oaks House if he did not intend returning tonight and had been shouted at by her brother for her pains, and Jack had sent a groom over to Paul’s house with instructions to leave his message with Corporal Barker if Miss Buffitt were abed, and to ask Corporal Barker for a bed rather than attempt to return tonight, and George had just begun to worry aloud that something had happened to “that damned fool, Goodwin” when Goodwin in person turned up.

    “Well?” said his master sharply.

    Stolidly his man checked that, firstly, William had not his ear to the other side of the study door, and secondly, that the catch of the study door had caught. “Dunno what ’e is, but he wouldn’t come across with ’is business, sir, so I’ve got ’im.”

    “Good. Where?” replied Jack grimly.

    Mr Goodwin had incarcerated the mysterious stranger in the kitchen of his own cottage, with Peter Goodwin (his brother, and about as stolid and unimpressible a personality as the head groom himself), in charge of him with a pistol in his hand.

    “Well done,” approved George, handing him a glass of brandy.

    “Thanks, sir. Want ’im in here, Mr Jack?”

    “No, there’s no need for the whole house to know of it. We’ll come out,” decided Jack.

    Rather fortunately Goodwin’s neat little cottage was situated quite near the stables. Sure enough, in the spotless kitchen the burly Mr Peter Goodwin was sitting on a hard wooden chair, his pistol trained steadily on a person trussed like the Christmas goose and bound tightly to another wooden chair. What with the gigantic gag covering half the face, his own mother would probably not have recognised him.

    “Let’s have the gag off him and we’ll see if he has been sent by the old bitch,” decided Jack.

    “You can ask, sir,” replied his man grimly, removing the gag.

    “Villainous-looking chap,” noted George. “Don’t like the look of them red whiskers.”

    “He isn’t very old,” responded Paul dubiously.

    After a moment Jack Beresford said in a weak voice: “Take his hat off, Goodwin.”

    Casually Mr Goodwin brushed the young man’s hat off, revealing a shock of red curls.

    “Hullo, Wilhelm,” said Jack Beresford very weakly indeed to his Aunt Fanny’s third son. “What the Devil are y’doing, skulking about the neighbourhood refusing to tell people your business?”

Next chapter:

https://pegbuffitt-aregencynovel.blogspot.com/2023/05/aftermath.html