Gossip And News

18

Gossip And News

    “You will never believe this!” promised Anne with a stifled giggle.—Miss Sissy looked at her expectantly, her sisters looked at her tolerantly, and Horrible merely looked bored.—“Lady Rowbotham, Sir Cedric’s wife, has invited Nancy to visit with them this summer!”

    Miss Sissy threw up her hands and exclaimed pleasurably, Alice nodded and smiled, Peg nodded tolerantly, and Horrible continued to look bored.

    “The family must approve!” explained Anne in awed accents.

    Happily Miss Sissy agreed. Alice nodded kindly. Peg looked as if she were reserving judgement. Horrible continued to look bored.

    “Don’t you think, Peg?” urged Anne, somewhat unwisely.

    “Not necessarily. They have invited her to see if their first impression, which is that she may have the stuff of which familial approvals are made, is to be confirmed or not.”

    “That is not funny,” said Anne in a shaken voice.

    “It wasn’t meant to be. It was merely literal.”

    “You don’t think so, do you, Alice?” she cried.

    “Well, yes, Annie-Pannie, dear,” admitted Alice, softening the blow with a kind smile.

    “But I thought it must be all but settled!” she cried.

    Horrible got up. “I fail to see what you should care, one way or t’other, if Nancy’s fate is settled in the direction of Mr Rowbotham. Though I reiterate my earlier point that he is twice her age.” She went out, looking horribly bored.

    “Ignore her, my dear,” advised Miss Sissy. “With the summer coming, the reality of Nobby’s being so soon to leave them cannot but weigh heavy on her mind, poor child.”

    “Um, yes,” agreed Anne, eyeing her sisters uncertainly. “Um, surely they would not invite a young lady with the intention of—of spurning her?”

    “Spurning’s a good word,” conceded Peg.

    “Really, Peg,” murmured Miss Sissy.

    “Well, don’t you think it is, Aunt Sissy? Certainly the direct opposite of approval. I could only think of the tepid ‘rejection’.”

    “Peg, stop it,” said Alice straitly.

    “I am right, however,” said Peg calmly. “In the unlikely event that Nancy should prove to be wholly unsuitable for Mr Rowbotham after all, the family—”

    “But she will not,” said Alice quickly.

    “No, indeed!” cried Anne, very flushed.

    “Of course she will not, my dear,” said Miss Sissy very firmly indeed. “Why, it is obvious that the two are ideally suited! It is the most charming thing, to see them together: for she, you know, looks as if all her reliance is on him, and he looks so proud and tender!”

    “Except when—” Peg caught Alice’s eye, and subsided.

    “Except when what?” cried Anne crossly.

    “I was only going to say, except when Dicky is pulling him through the Park at a canter.”

    Taken unawares, Miss Sissy coughed. Even Alice had to swallow a smile.

    “Oh, but he is very much improved,” said Anne happily.

    Peg opened her mouth. Quickly she shut it again.

    “I should think so,” said Miss Sissy firmly, giving her a repressive look.

    “Peg, why are you being so horrid about it?” cried Anne.

    Peg sighed. “I didn’t think I was. Just realistic. And I quite agree that it is highly unlikely that the Rowbothams will decide they don’t like Nancy.”

    “Then why imply it? Sometimes you can be as irritating as Pa!” she cried.

    “Sorry. I’m very glad they’ve invited her. And I believe Sir Cedric and Lady Rowbotham are quite sans façon at home: they have a tribe of boys, you know.”

    “Indeed!” smiled Miss Sissy. “I am sure dear Nancy will have a delightful time. Now, Anne, let me see that new tatted edging… My! You have come on amazingly, my dear!” The becapped grey head and the golden curls bent happily over the work.

    Peg looked at Alice, opened her mouth, and then thought better of it.

    … “The thing is,” she revealed, as she and Alice took a walk later that day, “I am very sure Mr Valentine means to invite Anne to his home this summer. I was bursting not to say something! And of course, the invitation will be issued with precisely the reservations which I tried to indicate—but she will not see that, you may be very sure!”

    “Peg,” said Alice with supreme calm, “you are confusing the particular with the general.”

    “I am not!” she said, very flushed.

    Alice hugged her arm. “Yes, you are, dearest. It is plain to all of us that Mr Valentine is besotted with Anne, there is positively no other word. He is not a very young man, remember: I am quite sure that his parents will be only too glad to see him fix his interest. And though I dare say he has told them something of Pa, I dare say, too, that he—er—watered the account down, rather, for their ears. And we may be poor as church mice, but then, they are not one of the great families, on the one hand, and on the other, Mr Valentine does not need to marry a rich wife!” She smiled at her. “And what could such a pretty-behaved, maidenly little creature do, to provoke the spurning, Peggums?”

    “Um—well, given that she’s never done anything wrong in her life, apart from encouraging Sir Horace’s nephew and that stupid B.-D. son, nothing.”

    “Exact!” she said, laughing. “So, you see? Though your argument must hold good for the general, in the particular case of Anne and Mr Valentine there is nothing to worry about!”

    “No-o… I keep thinking that Pa will do something really stupid,” she admitted.

    “That is not beyond the realms of possibility, but will it be something stupid that will bring him down here all the way from Lincolnshire?”

    “No,” admitted Peg, smiling.

    “No. The most he can do is write another silly letter,”—she affected not to notice as Peg went very red—“and I am quite sure that the combination of Aunt Sissy and Lady Stamforth will be able to circumvent that!”

    “Not if he writes it to Mr Valentine’s parents, though, Alice,” said Peg fearfully.

    “In order to do that he would have to have their direction.” Alice’s calm grey eyes twinkled. “Their exact direction.”

    Peg sagged. “You are right. Ma would never give it him!”

    The Beresford household was for once assembled in the morning room, doing nothing more exciting than read its correspondence in the case of some, or a book in the case of others, or attend to its tatting in the case of still others. Instead of gadding out to pay calls, or meet ineligibles in the Park, or— Quite.

    “Is that a letter from Lance?” asked Mr Beresford.

    “Why, yes,” agreed Peg. “Should you care to read it, sir?”

    Mr Beresford seized it gratefully. It was not that Uncle George did not write: he did, very regularly, but his letters were as like to damned military dispatches as made no odds: confined to the bare facts, with nothing of the speculative or descriptive about them. And Aunt Mary’s were worse: detailed descriptions of household linens or litters of kittens. Her last had contained a very full report on the state of Lance’s shirts. It was not that he really thought the wilds of Cumberland might be infested with the Princesse P.’s spies, all set to kidnap Lance. But he would like to be reassured that they weren’t.

Dear Peg,

    Uncle George and I had a bruising ride over the hills today, after we had inspected the farms up to the west of the property. He let me put my leg across old Thunderer, and you may say what you like about his age, he is still a horse with a lot of Go in him! Never had such a fine time in my life. Uncle George was on Lord Wellington. Of course Cousin Jack named him for a joke, he is the roan with the Roman nose. Great bruising brute of a thing, but Uncle George sits him like a rock, finest seat I ever saw, rides like a fellow half his age. Took the stone wall up to Whaley’s Peak like it was naught but a fallen log! Thunderer went crashing after him, and as you may imagine I had my heart in my mouth, but he sailed over with a foot to spare! Mrs Crabbe from High Tops Farm gave us a sup and a bite. I must say, the cheeses round here are the finest I ever tasted. And said that she remembers Cousin Jack’s father on Thunderer’s sire and could have sworn when she saw me coming across the yard that it was the Old Master in person! There! What do you think of that?

    Timothée is going on quite splendid and has caught three good rabbits now, young ones but plump, and Cook made the finest pies of them I ever ate in my life. Uncle George says never mind if he be Dutch or no, we are making a fine English dog of him, and I must say, he is right. The little fellow sleeps like a log every night, and even Aunt Mary admitts that there have been no more episodes of sucking on the bedcovers, so he is settled at last! There is nothing like the good clean air of Cumberland for a dog, after all.

    The sheep are doing amazing well, the lambs so grown they are nigh the size of their mothers. Uncle George says that some swear by a Scottish shepherd but for my part, I am inclined to agree that there is naught to beat your sturdy Cumberland man. Our Jack Adams is the most reliable fellow, & makes nothing of being out with the flock in all weathers. You & Anne had best be warned that by the time you come up, there will be nothing that looks like a lamb on our lands, I can promise you! Mrs Adams was intrigued to learn that Maria spins her own wool and showed me the fashion they have of knitting it up in these parts. To my eye, it was as fine as anything Maria has ever produced, and so I told her.

    You will never guess the great news of these parts! Hailsham House is sold at last! Never had no-one in it these past thirty years except for the summer the foreign lady took it. We will not know ourselves at Beresford Hall with neighbours! I say neighbours, but of course it is a fair distance, the Hall is not precisely your pocket handkerchief. Uncle George and I were in the village and had the news from Mr Proudy himself. Tho’ he could not furnish us with the name of the buyer, but assured us that of course it is a gentleman. To which dear old Uncle George replied that he did not care if it were a Raree, so long as he looks to those d— stone walls! For every field the place has is a Death-Trap when one is out on a decent horse!

    Tomorrow we are to get on over to Littlemere Farm, that is right on the far eastern side of the estate, so I had best close, as Uncle George is about to light our candles and Aunt Mary has already gone up. You must not expect to find us leading a fashionable life here. This is a working estate, I can tell you! Aunt Mary and Uncle George send all kind regards to you & the girls & Aunt Sissy.

Yours ever,

Lance.

P.S. Uncle George says that Timothée is such a feisty little fellow, that next year it is likely that Meg will have his pups. Then Lilibet could have one, what do you think of that? But don’t mention it at home, it is to be a surprise! L.

    The letter fluttered from Mr Beresford’s palsied fingers. He might have known. And if that curly grey thing could sire anything, he, Jack Beresford, was the Dutch one!

    “He seems very happy, sir,” said Peg uneasily, looking at his face.

    He jumped. “What? Oh! Yes, of course,” he said, smiling at her .

    “It—it is the very thing for him, and we are all so grateful,” said Peg in a voice that shook a little.

    “Mm? Oh—think nothing of it, Cousin.” He re-read the snippet that mentioned the visit to the village. Nothing about suspicious characters staying at the inn, or anybody staying at the inn… The mad thought crossed his mind that it was the Princesse P. who had bought up Hailsham House as a blind, in order to get her claws— Rubbish. “Er—beg pardon, Cousin Anne?” he said, jumping.

    “I said,” repeated Anne, pinkening, “might I be after you with Lance’s letter, sir?”

    “Oh—of course.” Feebly Jack passed it to her. “It’s thoroughly bucolic,” he warned.

    “Of course!” she beamed, reading eagerly.

    A bucolic blancmanger? Shaking his head slightly, Mr Beresford picked up his book. Well, at least dear old Uncle George seemed to be keeping a close eye on the boy.

    “A plethora of posies?” noted Horrible airily, as two footmen brought them into the morning-room on silver trays.

    “Good gracious!” cried Miss Sissy, clapping her hands in delight. “Who can they all be from, I wonder?”

    Horrible got up. “Pray allow me to do the honours. –Mina Benedict says that when they were in town before Lady Stamforth married him, Dom Baldaya—you know, her eldest brother,” she explained to the Buffitts—“always used to perform the office. Very often her La’ship wasn’t even down, but somehow or another that made it better!”

    “Mr Baldaya, dear,” reproved Miss Sissy limply.

    “Oh, pooh; I’ve known him most of my life, and the boys all call him Dom, why should not I?”

    Miss Sissy swallowed a sigh, but did not try to reprove her again.

    “I don’t think that any of these will prove as interesting as Lady Stamforth’s!” said Peg with a smile. “Added to which, there are several of us, so what would be a plethora for one, is hardly that when divided amongst us! But read out the cards by all means, Horrible.”

    Horrible picked up the nearest posy—white flowers with green and yellow ribbons. She gulped.

    “Go on, dear,” urged Miss Sissy placidly, tatting.

    Nobly trying not to wince, Horrible read out: “‘Jeune Vénus adorée—’”

    Miss Sissy put down her tatting. “What did you say, dear?”

    “Um, maybe it’s a quotation,” she offered feebly.

    “Whether it be a quotation or no, it is certainly ill-chosen,” noted Alice grimly. “For Peg, is it?”

    “Yes. It continues,” said Horrible, rallying: “‘Agréez mes compliments les plus respectueuses.’ Not so poetic. Then it falls off even further. ‘Miss P. Buffitt. R.V.S. Cantrell-Sprague.’ Given the reputation of his mother’s salons, I would have expected a stolen quatrain at the very least.”

    Peg was very flushed, wondering if the “Jeune Vénus” was a reference to Mr Greenstreet’s picture. “Um, yes. Um, piffling.”

    “Piffling it is,”  agreed Horrible cheerfully. “Want it?”

    Peg shook her head and Horrible replaced the posy on the tray, informing it: “Banished.” She picked up another. White and yellow blooms with white ribbons. “Disappointing. Though to the point: ‘Miss Peg Buffitt. Warmest compliments. Michael Fitz-Clancy.’” She raised her eyebrows at Peg.

    “Banish it,” said Peg grimly.

    Shrugging, Horrible laid it aside. She picked up another. “My, this is different! White blooms with silver ribands! ‘Miss Buffitt. Kindest regards. Chelford.’ Perhaps we should ask Peg’s friend Mr Greenstreet to record this on canvas for posterity?”

    “It is certainly the very first time a Buffitt ever received a posy from a duke!” conceded Peg, smiling.

    “Want it?” said Horrible baldly to Alice.

    “Why, yes, Horrible, thank you.”

    Looking wry, Horrible came and put it on the little occasional table at Alice’s elbow. Noting by the by: “That is very fine embroidery work, but I hope you don’t imagine that Dallermaine is in need of tray-cloths.”

    “It is not a tray-cloth at all, but a little dress for Lilibet,” replied Alice composedly.

    “Wasting fine embroidery on her?” cried Peg in horror.

    “She may wear it for best,” said Miss Sissy quickly.

    “Dear Aunt Sissy, Maria made her a lovely dress for best last Christmas, and on Boxing Day the little horror had a fight with Jimmy Briggs, rolling in the slush, and ruined it!”

    “It did wash,” said Anne on a dubious note.

    “Washed, wrinkled and shrank,” stated Peg definitively.

    “Never mind; this will not shrink,” said Alice calmly. “Go on, Horrible.”

    “This very different offering with the white and yellow blooms and gold ribands is for Peg, though this may surprise you,” she explained. Nobody looked surprised, though Anne gave a stifled giggle. Encouraged, Horrible went on: “The card is not very exciting, I suppose, compared to a French encomium or a ducal valediction.”—Anne giggled again, though putting her hand over her mouth and looking sideways at Alice as she did it.—“But it is handwritten, not a mere visiting-card. It says: ‘Miss Peg Buffitt. Many thanks for a delightful dance. Warmest regards. T.J.B.S.C. Dauntry, R.N.’”

    “I do not believe for moment that it says R.N.!” said Peg swiftly, rather flushed.

    “No, well, I got carried away. How many names has he?”

    “Just a moment, Horrible,” said Miss Sissy on a firm note. “Does that card say ‘Kindest regards’ or ‘Warmest regards’?”

    “Um, ‘Warmest’, Aunt Sissy. Ain’t it the same thing?”

    “Not quite,” said the spinster lady grimly. “Peg, my dear, you will not carry the Admiral’s flowers this evening.”

    “I was not going to, in any case!” said Peg, very flushed. “Banish the silly thing, Horrible!”

    Horrible banished it and picked up another. “Intriguing. Blue ribands and blue flowers mixed with the white. Can it be for Anne?”

    “Did Mr Baldaya perform this office so badly?” wondered Peg, as Anne went bright pink.

    “It is hard to conceive of,” conceded Alice. “Pray do not read out the card, Horrible; just give the posy to her.”

    Shrugging, Horrible handed the blue and white posy to Anne.

    “Delightful taste, my dear!” approved Miss Sissy extra-kindly.

    Anne was now looking at the card with her mouth open “Y— Um—”

    “Before certain persons cram their great feet right into their mouths,” noted Horrible airily, “it’s from a belted lord, actually.”

    “Not belted,” objected Anne. “And I did nothing to encourage him!”

    Peg leaned over and looked at the card. “From Captain Lord William Fitz-Clancy.”

    “With warmest thanks for the pair of dances. Are warmest thanks from a title of honour,” wondered Horrible, looking at Miss Sissy, “as bad as warmest regards from a horrid old—”

    “Hortensia, that will do,” said Miss Sissy with finality.

    Horrible was seen to gulp. “Um, sorry, Aunt Sissy.

    “I think you had better apologise to Anne.”

    “Um, yes. Sorry, Anne.”

    “That’s quite all right!” gasped the pink-faced Anne. “And you may put it with the banished ones!” she added valiantly.

    Smiling weakly, Horrible put the really very pretty posy with the discards. “Um, well, this one is from Mr Valentine,” she then admitted, handing Anne a blue one with white ribands.

    “There, my dear! I knew he would,” said Miss Sissy kindly in what she might have imagined to be an undertone.

    “It’s lovely,” said Anne in a tiny voice.

    “Yes, it is,” agreed Peg kindly. “You are so lucky to be able to wear blue.”

    “Indeed!” agreed Alice warmly.

    “You can wear blue, too, Alice,” said Anne generously.

    “Of course,” murmured Miss Sissy, tatting busily. “In especial that very pale shade which so few women can support. –Anne, dear, I find I have left my little scissors in my room. Would you run up and fetch them, like a good girl?”

    Smiling gratefully, Anne escaped with Mr Valentine’s posy.

    After a moment Horrible, looking very dry, went over to the little spinster lady and produced the scissors from her work-bag.

    “Yes,” she said calmly. “Don’t tease Anne about Mr Valentine, Horrible: it is the best thing that could possibly happen to her.”

    Horrible went very red. “I know. I wasn’t, really.”

    “No: for her, she was positively restrained. And pray reveal immediately who sent that brownish-yallerish confection and for whom it is intended!” said Peg gaily.

    Brightening, Horrible replied: “Well, you will never guess.”

    “The Duke of Wellington?” suggested Miss Sissy brightly.

    Taken unawares, Horrible choked. “Uh—no,” she admitted. “None of them is actually Lady Stamforth, after all!”

    “The mysterious Lord Geddings?” suggested Alice, smiling.

    “You only think he is mysterious because you have not met him. Actually he is very ordinary,” said Peg.

    “Peg, my dear! –He is a most pleasant-looking, gentlemanly man, with the most exquisite taste, and a delightful dancer,” explained Miss Sissy.

    “Ordinary, in short,” said Peg drily.

    “In any case, it would not be from him, because Old Hooky has not yet sent one,” explained Horrible, looking prim.

    Alice laughed. “No, quite! Does he ever say a word in the Lords that is not directly inspired by his patron?”

    “No, but then it is generally agreed in Society,” said Peg silkily, “that that is his function.”

    “Too cruel,” murmured Miss Sissy, though without much conviction.

    “That must prove it!” said Alice with another laugh.

    “Though he is a charming companion,” admitted Peg.

    “Thought he was rather like an uncle?” drawled Horrible, looking bored.

    “Yes, a charming uncle! Well, he is quite old,” Peg explained to Alice.

    “Though not as old, if he’s the one I think he is, as Lord M.,” noted Horrible. “Well, this thing is from Mendoza, with the hope of seeing you at Lady Chambury’s ball, Peg, but if you ask me, it has more to do with that argument he and Lord Ferdy Lacey had with you and Lady Ferdy over what really constitutes a tiger’s eye.”

    “What, my dear?” asked Miss Sissy in pardonable confusion.

    “It’s an agate. Peg’s box from the Fürstin was on the table in here when Lady Ferdy came on her latest spying expedition. She actually had Lord Ferdy with her, for once. He admired the little ball which flips open and said it was a tiger’s eye, and they had an argument over it. And Mendoza dropped in as they were in the middle of it.”

    Miss Sissy looked in bewilderment at Peg’s posy.

    Alice elaborated, smiling: “The comparison with marigolds arose, I know not quite how, dear ma’am. Cousin Mendoza said he would prove Lord Ferdy wrong and find some flowers that were much more like a tiger’s eye.”

    “Yes. This other thing,” explained Horrible, picking up the very orange posy, “is for me, from Lord Ferdy, proving Mendoza wrong—see?”

    Miss Sissy looked from Horrible’s bright ginger curls to the bunch of marigolds and tried to smile.

    “What a waste!” concluded Horrible cheerfully, dropping it onto the pile of discards.

    Suddenly Peg got up. “They shall not go to waste at all.” She seized the trayful of posies, and marched out with it.

    “Lor’,” muttered Horrible. “Surely she don’t intend to keep ’em after all?”

    “I think,” said Alice with a little smile, “that you will find she has gone down to the servants’ hall to give them to Harriet and the other maids.”

    “Oh! Good idea!” She ran out, crying: “Wait for me, Peg!”

    There was a little silence in the morning-room. Alice and Miss Sissy worked busily.

    Then Miss Sissy admitted, laying down the tatting with a sigh: “I do not know precisely what the outcome of Mr Baldaya’s officiating over Lady Stamforth’s posies was—though I can guess! But a plethora of posies does not mean that the cases are the same.”

    “I know,” agreed Alice sympathetically. “I own, I should very much have liked to see whose posy Peg might have chosen to carry this evening, if left to her own devices.”

    “Quite,” said Miss Sissy sadly.

    Letters had come from home, and the girls settled down to them happily in the morning room, what time Mr Beresford, having fidgeted for some time, retired to his study. Nobly his aunt forbore to follow him thither and assure him that, as none of the letters was from Mr Buffitt, there could be nothing to worry about.

Dearest Peg-Peg,

    A letter from Lance came yesterday, but as it was entirely equestrian and agricultural, I shall forbear to send it on! At least he seems happy, tho’ it is to be feared he is intent on turning himself into another George B. I remember him quite well, he was best man at Cousin B.’s wedding, but v. fortunately your Pa does not recall him.

    Here Peg winced, conscious of a fervent hope that Mr Beresford would not ask to read this letter.

    Has Maria writ that Chelford Place is empty again? Of course, we were all, up to, or should that be down from, Sir Horace himself, so very non gratae there that we did not hear whether the new duke kicked them out, or whether they were drove out by that icy Draft which Maria swears infests the smaller drawing-room of an evening in spite of all the Skreens the Place can provide, and of Lady C. de Burgh in person’s nagging of the luckless footman to do something about it. I must say, Annie-Pannie had a lucky escape there! Imagine that as a Ma-in-law!

    À propos: pray do not breathe a word of this to your Pa, but I have had a very gracious letter from Mr Valentine’s Mamma, and have agreed to let Anne visit this summer. I have writ to tell her, so pray stand by with the smelling salts! Well, Mr V. seems a pleasant man, if not over-endowed with brains. And then, would one of the clever sort do for our Anne, dearly though I love her? It would be a case of Mr Hethersett the apothecary all over again; such a sharp-witted man, but treats that poor little wife of his like an imbecile, the which she is not nearly, tho’ I grant you the head stuffed full of receets for eking out strawberry with apple and &c! The which springs to mind because she has just kindly writ it out for me, so I forbore to tell her that tho’ Sir Horace was so kind as to send all those splendid strawberry plants from Monday Hall and Maria and Lance got very keen and planted them out beautifully and strawed them up in the proper way, dratted George and Bertie recently staged a cutlass fight all over the bed. Poor Sir Horace has sworn he will not try again, and I must say, it is the better part of valour, with our Monsters. I have writ Lance of it but fear it was the wrong thing, he will be so annoyed to know that all his efforts have gone in vain. And will it mollify him, should I remind him that the said Monsters, are, after all, Buffitts? On the whole I think not. Not when it is a matter verging on the agricultural.

    Oh, dear, I seem to be wandering off the point, it is the effect of all this wonderful notepaper of Maria’s! Well, of Sir Horace’s. I started to tell you the family is gone from Chelford Place and to ask if you might have heard what is to be its fate?

    You will never believe, we had a letter from Aunt Portwinkle herself, waxing exceeding pompous over the imminent prospect of Alice’s becoming a Duchess! The old Creature actually Believes it! I must beg you not to disabuse her of the notion, for at the least, it is giving Alice a break from her immolation in that house at the mercy of the sermons, and at the most, she may attract the notice of a pleasant man like Mr V., who does not care about the lack of fortune. And then, too, tho’ she will be miffed that everything below ducal rank (very nearly the whole of British Isles, yes) will not have to curtsey to our Alice after all, there can be no doubt that your great-aunt will do something for her if she should contract an eligible connexion. Dearest Peg, of course Alice is as full of probity and Right Thoughts as an egg is full of meat, and had she not been I would never have let her go to Aunt Portwinkle at all. But could you possibly endeavour to get it into her head that if she does not care for him there is no need positively to marry this Duke? Just to get him to give Paul his job back, would be quite sufficient!

    Dear Sir Horace is giving him some employment in his estate office, tho’ of course he is not really needed, and he has voluntarily taken it upon himself to organise and catalogue Sir Horace’s library in thanks for letting his family eat him out of house & home and spill ink on reams of hot-press’d notepaper and &c. He means well, the dear boy, but there is the small point that Sir Horace cannot read. The which, with an Herculean effort, I did not raise. The effort was wasted: your father pointed it out immediately. Paul did not smile, merely said that every fine house should have its library organised on a proper footing. Help!

    Sir Horace was not too annoyed by the Strawberry Tragedy, for him, for he has made a new acquaintance, who allows him to beat him at billiards and piquet, where Paul, bless him, is too honest to do any such thing. Not to say, not good enough at cards to manage the thing. The gentleman’s name is Curran. He was staying at the village inn but of course Sir Horace swooped on him, ascertained in the blink of an eye that he was a right-thinking fellow, and bore him off to his lair in triumph! Maria finds him extremely gentlemanly, but I fear this may relate only to the height of the neckcloth and the set of the coat. Apparently he said, once Sir Horace had revealed the full story of the Treachery of the Bon-Duttons to him, which of course he did almost immediately, that it was well known there was bad blood in that family and it was the shabbiest thing he had ever heard. And has met the new Duke and will write to him and put the whole story before him! At which Sir Horace, never doubting that this chance-met acquaintance is on intimate terms with the entire peerage, thanked him very much and said that it could not hurt, but that Mr B. has that well in hand. The which I take leave to doubt, for nothing has eventuated thus far. Unless the chucking out of horrid Lord F.’s lot be the first step in the reclamation of Chelford Place by the rightful heir, its restoration to its former glory in the county (well before our time, yes), and—as an apotheosis, you understand—the reinstatement of Paul?

    Maria is writing you about the sartorial side of Anne’s visit, but in the case she should urge you to donate some of your dresses, just bear in mind, nothing yellow or green for Anne. Oh, and Peggums, may we beg you to drop a hint in Lance’s ear that the devising of an infallible scheme for rendering Mrs Whosis’s knitting pattern into written words in order to convey it to Maria without benefit of a visit to Cumberland is so Entirely Mad that it verges perilously on the Lock Ingin type of obsession and that George B. will not like it? Tactfully, of course.

    Lilibet and Tommy are writing you under separate cover, only too eagerly! And I think I have persuaded George and Bertie to write, though be warned: it will be all Self-Exculpation (in re the Strawberry Tragedy) and Bravado (in re the same, tho’ from a different angle), and both nautical and military, alas. Oh, and also equestrian, in fact George and your Pa had a terrible fight about this, so it was a trifle unfortunate that Lance’s letter should have come the very day. The thing was, Mr Curran was seen riding a very fine hack, and generously allowed Bertie to put his leg across the creature— You can imagine! By the by, Sir Horace has failed utterly to ascertain his purpose in the neighbourhood and with his usual supreme optimism has decided he must be about to buy, or at the very least lease, Chelford Place. Why, in that case, he should bother to make the offer of writing to the Duke about Paul, not explained.

    Well, my dear, I have reached the end of my side and shall not deprive Tommy and Lilibet of another sheet. Write soon, and remember that your little nothings and snippets of town news are all Grist to our rural mill!

Your loving,

Ma.

P.S. Tactfully to Lance, remember.

P.P.S. Dearest Peg, if you could possibly speak to Mr B. on the subject of Paul, it might at least show us where we are, tho’ I hate to ask it of you. But I have to admitt, our brave Maria is very down. XXX –Ma.

    Peg laid the letter down slowly, gnawing on her lip.

    “How are they all, Peg?” asked Alice with a smile, looking up from her own letter. “Maria’s is full of receets and the best way to cut the new sleeves economically. Oh, and some fellow who is visiting at Monday Hall, who seems to have made a great impression.”

    “Yes, Ma said Maria found him very gentlemanly,” said Peg with an effort. “They are all well, at least she does not say otherwise, so they must be. Um, it’s full of nothings, really.”

    “Of course! But her nothings are what make Ma’s letters so delightful! What does she write to you, Anne?” asked Alice, looking demure.

    Anne was very flushed. “It is too good to be true! She says his mother has invited me, and I may go!” Forthwith she burst into a storm of tears and rushed out of the room.

    “Good,” said Miss Sissy with huge satisfaction.

    Alice smiled. “I was about to say, that must be Mr Valentine’s mother, and Ma’s permission, but I see that you are a mind-reader, dear ma’am.”

    “Of course she is!” said Horrible with a grin. “I say, Aunt Sissy, Lukey writes here that it is all too true, and Mamma has got Dean Witherspoon to agree to do the actual ceremony! Do you know him, Alice? He is a feature of Bath, having come into an unexpected inheritance some time back and given up his Church post; but he still inflicts himself from time to time on the poor Rector of Bath Abbey, who is too soft-hearted to refuse him!”

    “My dear, it was a foregone conclusion,” said Miss Sissy, trying not to laugh.

    “See? She is a mind-reader!” said Horrible, returning eagerly to her brother’s letter.

    “Yes,” said Peg, swallowing. Suddenly she got up and walked out.

    Miss Sissy looked doubtfully at Alice.

    “I do not share your powers, dear ma’am,” she murmured.

    Horrible at this snorted into her letter.

    Calmly Alice went on: “Though I will say that, though she has not come right out and said so, Maria seems very worried about Paul.”

    “Then Peg will be speaking to Jack,” stated the maiden lady. “I must beg you on no account to disturb them, girls.”

    “Wouldn’t dare,” admitted Horrible, grinning. “How long are you going to give Anne to shed tears of joy?”

    “Another five minutes,” said Miss Sissy calmly.

    Horrible subsided, though still with the suspicion of a grin about her.

    As on an earlier occasion, Henry was on duty in the front hall and eagerly accompanied Peg to Mr Beresford’s study, opening the door for her before she could say she had best knock, for he might be busy.

    Mr Beresford did not appear busy, but he certainly jumped as his door opened and Henry announced in congratulatory tones: “Miss Peg, Mr Beresford.”

    “I see her,” he said limply. “I really think there is no need to announce the members of the household, Henry.”

    “Very good, sir,” bowed Henry, not, for some strange reason, sounding at all abashed.

    “Come in and sit down, Cousin,” said Mr Beresford with something of an effort.

    Peg remained standing. “Thank you. But I shan’t stay.”

    “It is not bad news from home, I trust?”

    “No. At least, nothing new.” She swallowed. “Ma says Maria is very down. Though—though to be fair, she herself has not complained and has writ Alice very fully of the way to cut the new sleeves.”

    “I see,” he said neutrally. “And how are Lilibet and the boys?”

    “Blooming. Well, George and Bertie had a cutlass fight and ruined the strawberry bed. I have not read Tommy’s and Lilibet’s yet.”

    Mr Beresford looked at the sheets clutched in her hand. “May I?”

    “Tuh-Tommy’s and Lilibet’s?” stuttered Peg. “They—they cannot really write a letter, sir!”

    “I know. Nevertheless I should like to read them, if you do not mind?”

    “No, of course I don’t mind.” Dazedly Peg passed him the two scrawled sheets and, not appearing to notice she was doing so, sank down onto the chair he had earlier offered.

    Tommy’s was very shaky, the characters very large:

D e a r  P e g,

I  c a n  W r i t e. [Here a patch of scribble intervened: Mr Beresford smiled to himself.]

B e r t i e  a n d  G e o r g e  w e r e  b a d.

T h e  m a n   h a s  a  h o r s e.  [A great deal more scribble followed]

Y O u r  L O v i n q  d r o t h e r,

T O mm Y

X X X

    Very evidently someone had helped Tommy with the spelling, and, indeed, with some of the characters, though Mr Beresford fancied the valediction was all his own. But Lilibet clearly had scorned any help:

Dear Peg,

    I can rite good. Sir Horrus says I am a Big girl. Bertie and Goerge were very nag nahty nawty. They had a KUTLAS fite. Ma says they are MONSSTERS. I saw the mans’ horse. Do not beleive Tommy. He did not see it. Maria give me a new aprin. Ma says it is to good. Goerge says you drink win in Lundin. But I now it is a Big LY. Lance writ us a leter.

Your Loving Sister,

Lilibet.

X X X X X X X

    “There’s a lot of food for thought in this!” he said, looking up from it with a grin. “Though not so much consistency. Why ‘W,I,N,’ for ‘wine’ but ‘L,Y’ for ‘lie’, do you think? Though I grant you ‘L,U,N,D,I,N’ and ‘A,P,R,I,N.’”

    “Oh, help, she hasn’t ruined another apron, has she?” said Peg in dismay.

    Grinning very much, Mr Beresford handed her back her siblings’ letters.

    “No. Well, she does not say so,” she said limply.

    “Well on the way to it, I’d say!” he said with a laugh. “May I ask if Tommy can actually write?”

    “He can write his name without help,” said Peg temperately.

    Mr Beresford had suspected as much: his shoulders shook.

    Dubiously Peg offered: “Um, possibly this ‘L,Y’ of Lilibet’s is explained by the vowel’s, I mean the diphthong’s, being the last letter, um, sound—well, not, um, preconsonantal?”

    “Very lucid,” he said, his shoulders shaking again.

    Peg was now rather flushed. “No, well, I did not come in here to show you these silly letters.”

    “My dear girl, they’re not silly at all! Quite delightful.”

    “Y— Er, delightful but silly. Lilibet is so obstinate, you see; she will not let Ma correct her spelling.”

    “That is blindingly self-evident,” he said, smiling at her. “What did you come in here for?”

    Peg licked her lips nervously.

    “Something in your mother’s letter—I see. Perhaps I had best read it for myself,” he said, holding out his hand for it.

    “N— Well, there is nothing in that you should not— Though I am afraid she is rather rude, well, the implication is rude, about your Uncle George. But I do not think she meant for you to read it yourself.”

    “Oh,” he said, rather dashed. “I was looking forward— Never mind. Tell me.”

    “I shall tell you,” said Peg on a firm note, holding her chin up well up, “because I think she meant for me to do so. But if you still wish to read it, of course you may. They were wondering if you had—had heard from anyone who might be able to employ Paul, sir.”

    Mr Beresford grimaced, and rubbed his chin. “Val has had a sufficiently vague note from Lochailsh. –I’m sorry, Cousin: that is the Duke of Lochailsh, who is a connexion on Val’s mother’s side. His Grace at the time of writing was in the process of acquiring a property which might be in need of an agent. I’m afraid he didn’t say whether it was in Scotland or no.”

    “Scotland?” said Peg numbly.

    “Mm. Oh—I beg your pardon. It is a Scottish title and the principal estate is up there.” She was looking at him in horror: “I see,” he said grimly. “Your family would not care for Maria to be so far away. Well, that is understandable.”

    Peg swallowed. “Yes. But—but of course if a position were offered, Paul would go. I—I had no idea Mr Valentine was—was helping, sir.”

    “He wouldn’t bruit it about—not Val’s style,” he said with a little smile. “But yes, he’s been racking his brains over it. Uh—I wouldn’t tell Miss Anne of the relationship to Lochailsh, if I were you.”

    “Why not?” said Peg, staring.

    His lips twitched. “Oh—I fancy a country visit at one’s admirer’s parents’ house is intimidating enough of itself, without the added knowledge that one’s hostess is some sort of second cousin to a duke.”

    “Oh! Yes, you are so right!” she cried. “How very thoughtful of you!”

    “Thank you,” said Mr Beresford, blinking. “Er… afraid the only other offer we’ve had thus far is from old Charles Q.-V. In the case that he do take a country estate, Paul will be first choice for agent. But I would not get my hopes up, Cousin: he’s been threatening to settle down and rusticate for—uh, well, since the P.W. came upon the town, certainly. That would have been… 1821? Something like that. Over a half dozen years. Thing is, he won’t do it until he finds the right lady to do it with.”

    “Oh,” said Peg, very dashed. “What a terrible pity, he would have been ideal: he is such a jovial man: I am sure Maria would like him. And then, he is English.”

    “Mm. Well, find him a wife!” he said with a laugh.

    Peg chewed on her lip. “Ye-es…”

    “God, not yourself!” he said in horror.

    “No, I mean— Well, I dare say he was never really— And then, I am too young for him,” she uttered, very flushed.

    Mr Beresford had spoken involuntarily, and was now rather relieved to see that Miss Peg Buffitt had apparently not read anything into his utterance. “No, well, back then the P.W. was scarce more than your own age,” he murmured. “Less than Alice’s, I think.”

    “Ye-es…”

    Mr Beresford had to swallow. “I really do not think, decent chap and certainly very jovial though he is, that old Charles would do for Miss Buffitt,” he croaked.

    “No, she would be bored by him,” said Peg with a regretful sigh. “Bother. It is a great pity that we do not have another sister who is more like Maria.”

    “I’m sure Q.-V. would agree with you!” he gasped, shoulders shaking helplessly.

    “Yes, um, never mind that,” said Peg lamely. “I’m so sorry, sir: I didn’t thank you properly for exerting your influence on Paul’s behalf.”

    Mr Beresford grimaced horribly. “There is nothing to thank me for, Cousin: nothing has come of it. –Though I must have written two dozen letters,” he owned with a cross sigh.

    “As many as that? That was very kind,” approved Peg. “I shall write and tell them so. At least… Do you think that might only tend to depress them further? But they will be glad to know of your kindness.”

    Mr Beresford found she was looking at him hopefully. “Lor’,” he muttered. Peg continued to look at him hopefully. “Well, uh, in your place, y’know, I should say only, um, ‘my Cousin Beresford is doing what he can,’ and, er, not that nothing’s come of it, as yet.”

    “Good; I shall!”

    “And something may yet… Well, my brother-in law has yet to hear from all his contacts. –Don’t disturb yourself,” he said with a smile as she appeared to become agitated. “Robert has more sense than to suggest Paul might seek a post abroad.”

    “Thank goodness!” said Peg frankly. “For while Paul would probably find the experience most interesting, Maria would hate it.”

    Mr Beresford could quite see that, in that pretty, domestic little home-body. “Of course,” he said nicely. “Now, shall you keep your promise to let me read Cousin Rose’s letter?”

    “Of course, if you truly want to,” said Peg feebly.

    He held out his hand for it, smiling, so she rose and gave it to him, perforce. And went over to the door, feeling that the interview was at an end, though she had not, really, thanked him enough.

    Mr Beresford hurried to open the door for her. “Don’t worry: I haven’t stopped thinking of Paul.”

    “Yes. Thank you. Have you—have you tried speaking to the Duke of Chelford?” squeaked Peg, not meaning to have said any such thing.

    He grimaced. “Well—thing is, the fellow won’t want fellows hanging on his sleeve the moment he arrives in the country, y’see. So I haven’t approached him directly; but I wrote to his man of business.”

    “But—” She broke off, flushing.

    “What?”

    “I suppose you must know better what is the correct procedure, amongst gentlemen,” she said dubiously.

    “Must I, indeed?” said Jack with a sparkle in his eye. “That, if I may say so, is something I never expected to hear you own, Cousin!”

    “Don’t be silly,” said Peg quickly. “Um, but the thing is, if the family have already decided about Paul, won’t their man of business just, um, well, not brush it aside, exactly, but take it that it is something settled that the new duke had best not be bothered with?”

    “Uh… You have a point.”

    “Yes, I think so. Also, you see, in the case he feels that Lord Frederick may have been in the wrong, where do you suppose his loyalties will lie? For my part, I think he will tend to take the side of the family members whom he has known forever, and—and not expose them to a newcomer,” she offered anxiously.

    “Dammit,” said Mr Beresford, scowling. “You have a fine analytical mind, Cousin.”

    “Is that a joke?” said Peg in a small voice, going very red.

    “What? No! No, it was a compliment. I had not half thought the thing through,” he admitted. “Well, it’s a besetting Beresford sin, to rush into things. Not to say, a Laidlaw sin, as no doubt Horrible would admit. My mother suffers from it to, if anything, an even greater degree, and has duly passed it on to me,” he said, grimacing horribly.

    “Pa always claimed it was the Laidlaw side— Sorry!” gasped Peg.

    “I fear he is correct. Why didn’t I see—? Oh, well, no use repining over spilt milk: I shall write— No, think it might be best if I spoke to Chelford in person—what do you think?”

    Miss Peg Buffitt did not appear surprised to have her opinion consulted by the sophisticated Mr Beresford, and replied readily: “I think that would be the best thing, for then he could see you are not one of those encroaching toad-eaters that hang on a duke’s sleeve.”

    “Oh,” said Mr Beresford, looking plaintive, “but are you quite sure I do not have the appearance of an encroaching toad-eater?”

    “Yes,” said Peg, trying not to laugh. “You know it very well, and stop fishing! Oh—but when you have read Ma’s letter, you may think there is no need to bother, after all. Though I have never heard of the name Curran.”

    “Who?” he said blankly.

    “There you are! Ma was right: Sir Horace is always picking up goodness-knows-who, whether in Lincoln or at the village inn, and bringing them home as the most decent fell—” Peg broke off: Mr Beresford had collapsed in helpless gales of laughter.

    “Oh, help,” she muttered. “Did he— Help. I see.”

    “Yes, he did!” gasped Jack Beresford, mopping his eyes. “In my ignorance,” he admitted, grinning, “I fancied it was because he must have recognised the name Beresford as being that of your mother’s connexions. But he makes a habit of it, does he?”

    “Well, yes. He once brought home a man who claimed to be a Sir Jeremy Needham, but it turned out he was a valet whom the real Sir Jeremy had dismissed. He stayed with Sir Horace for three whole months and would possibly never have been found out, but that his sister, Sir Horace’s, I mean, wrote that she had met Sir Jeremy in Bath—” Peg broke off: Mr Beresford had collapsed in laughter again.

    He mopped his eyes. “Don’t worry; I shall speak to Chelford. But—er—it is just possible that I may have to go away for a short while.”

    Peg nodded, looking very puzzled.

    “Uh—give me ten minutes or so to read your mother’s letter and then ask Aunt Sissy to come in, would you, Cousin?”

    “Yes, of course. Um, is it anything,” said Peg, holding her chin up, “with which I could possibly help you, Cousin Beresford?”

    Jack took a deep breath as the luminous golden-brown eyes looked firmly into his. “Not in this instance. But I appreciate the offer.”

    “If you think I have a fine analytical mind,” retorted Peg grimly, “why do you persist in treating me like a stupid child?”

    “But I don’t! I merely—”

    But Peg had whisked herself away.

    “Damnation,” muttered Mr Beresford under his breath, sitting down to read Cousin Rose’s epistle with the earlier feeling of pleasant anticipation quite gone.

    … “Damn,” he concluded at the end of it. “Laidlaw she may be, but if ever there were a Buffitt letter! This could mean anything or nothing! Some spy sent by the Princesse P., or another masquerading valet, or a genuine Curran who merely wishes to appear a bigger man than he is—the one is as likely as the next! …Curran? No. Be damned if I ever heard the name in me life before.”

    Miss Sissy was duly horrified to learn of her nephew’s anxieties, but on thinking it over carefully gave it as her opinion that he was worrying unnecessarily. For it would surely have taken but a few moments to ascertain that dear Lance was no longer in the neighbourhood—everyone knew everyone else’s business in a village, after all! So why would Mr Curran bother to stay on, in that case? Mr Beresford sagged: she was right, of course.

    “All the same,” he said, biting his lip. “I should have warned Sir Horace.”

    Miss Sissy thought perhaps he should, yes. She looked at him doubtfully.

    “Though granted,” he said with twist of the lips, “it is Cousin Rose’s conviction that he cannot write.”

    Miss Sissy had to cough.

    “No, well, I think it is all right at home. Though I would like to know who this unknown is that’s taken Hailsham House—could write old Proudy, the solicitor, I suppose. And joking aside, I’ll write Sir Horace immediately.”

    Miss Sissy nodded hard. “I would, Jack.”

    “Aye. If we did not have a houseful I’d get up to Cumberland to keep an eye on Lance, myself, but— No, it would be just like Aunt Portwinkle to snatch Cousin Alice back if she hears her host’s disappeared.”

    “Of course,” she agreed with apparent sincerity. “Jack, my dear, would you not contemplate telling Peg the whole?”

    Her nephew’s handsome jaw sagged. “About Lance and the Princesse P.?”

    “My dear, she is young, but not stupid, and not entirely unworldly. You need only say that it has come to your notice that he caught the eye of an unpleasant older woman of few scruples, accustomed to having her way.”

    “Uh—no, there is no need for her to know. Lance is in no immediate danger, and it could do her no good to know… No.”

    “Very well, my dear.” Quietly Miss Sissy rose and went out. For once her well-trained nephew neglected to rise and hold the door for her.

    Mr Beresford frowned over it for a while, but did not speak to his cousin. There was no doubt that Aunt Sissy must be right and the Curran fellow was quite harmless—at the most, some nobody puffing off a consequence that he did not have in order to butter up old Sir Horace. And he did not want to alarm Peg needlessly. At the back of his mind was the thought that she would accuse him of making a fuss over nothing; but he refrained from examining this thought.

    Chelford was not to be found at White’s. Mr Beresford was not sure that he had taken up residence at Chelford House—in fact he was almost sure that it was still infested by a crowd of the late duke’s daughters and sisters—but fortunately Mr Rowbotham was to be found at White’s and was able to enlighten him. Still infested by a crowd of the dashed B.-D.s—quite. Chelford was putting up at a decent hotel and before Jack said anything, he, Wilfred, thought the man was behaving very decently indeed—and Dallermaine was still infested by dashed Rosalie Chelford and a crowd of her daughters—yes. Jack hadn’t been going to ask, though he did wonder silently if the young duke would ever get his houses back, if he let the thing drag on. And duly went off to the hotel.

    Chelford was discovered in the sitting-room of his suite of rooms surrounded by piles and piles of papers and ledgers, with a couple of depressed-looking fellows in attendance with “lawyer” and “man of business” written all over them.

    “I’m so sorry to interrupt, Duke,” said Jack formally. “May I make an appointment to call at a more convenient time?”

    “Not at all, Mr Beresford,” replied the young duke with a tired smile. “I have been trying to get on top of some of the business to do with the properties, but it is something of an uphill struggle.”

    “Your Grace,” murmured the lawyerly-looking man, “there is no need to feel that you, yourself, in person—”

    “Mr Satterthwaite,” said His Grace heavily, “the ultimate responsibility must rest with myself in person. And after all, I am not unaccustomed to matters of business. Just—uh—not on this scale,” he added with a little grimace. “I’m so sorry; pray allow me to introduce you.” And to Jack’s astonishment he introduced both Mr Satterthwaite and Mr Rogers. Not that Jack had any objection—but that a B.-D. should assume that a couple of fellows who worked for their livings should rate any sort of introduction—!

    “Actually, it is to do with a matter of business, that I am come,” he admitted, having shaken hands and accepted an invitation to sit down.

    “I suppose it is not to take Chelford Place off my hands, is it?” said Chelford wryly.

    “Your Grace!” gasped Mr Satterthwaite. “You would not let the property go out of the family!”

    “I might, to pay the family debts,” replied Chelford very grimly indeed.

    Ouch! thought Jack. Well, there was no doubt the B.-D.s were dashed expensive, and there was little likelihood the last duke had ever bothered to ascertain just what the family might owe, let alone how the debts might be paid. “I’m afraid I’m not looking for another country place at the moment,” he said on a firm note, “but it is related to Chelford Place, yes.”

    “Really? A tenant would not be unacceptable at this juncture, I must confess,” replied Chelford.

    Ouch, again. “I’ll bear that in mind, Duke, if I hear of someone who is looking for a place. No, it is in regard to a young fellow who was in the agent’s office there: Paul Hilton by name. He is married to one of my Buffitt cousins.”

    “Really?” said the Duke, smiling. “The Miss Buffitts haven’t mentioned the connection.”

    Jack took a deep breath. “No. I am afraid that is because he has lately lost the place, and my cousins feel most strongly that he was dismissed unjustly.”

    There was a little silence. Then Mr Satterthwaite said: “Your Grace, perhaps we should leave you and Mr Beresford to discuss the matter alone.”

    Chelford’s pleasant mouth firmed. “No, please stay. Go on, if you please, Mr Beresford: I should like to hear the circumstances of this dismissal.”

    “Well, this is of course the Buffitt family’s version, but I have to say I see no reason to doubt it. Paul Hilton was dismissed because his wife’s little sister—Miss Anne, whom I think you have met—did not discourage Lord and Lady Frederick Bon-Dutton’s son, after Lady Frederick had ordered Mrs Hilton to see that she did. I think the boy is about nineteen.”

    “I—I don’t know all that side of the family yet,” said Chelford in a pardonably dazed voice. “Exactly what was Hilton’s position?”

    “Assistant to the agent. The property is big enough to warrant having a couple of capable fellows in the agent’s office. But perhaps Mr Rogers would know more of that than I.”

    “Mr Rogers only handles the town properties,” said Chelford, still dazed. “There must be more to it than that!”

    “I don’t think so, sir. And believe me, had I thought that Hilton had been remiss in his duties in any way I would not have come to you. Allow me to add that I and my family have known Lord and Lady Frederick Bon-Dutton for some years, and there is no doubt whatsoever that he is in the habit of allowing himself to be guided by her, and that she is in the habit of allowing herself to be guided by her prejudices,” said Jack tightly. “I would be extremely grateful if you could see your way clear to investigating the matter.”

    “I— Yes, of course. Who is the agent?” said Chelford to Mr Satterthwaite and Mr Rogers.

    Mr Satterthwaite swallowed. “That would be Mr Fitton, Your Grace. He has been in the employ of the family for many years—and his father before him. When we look at the estate papers I think you will see that it has been managed most capably.”

    “That is certainly the impression one gains in the county,” said Jack neutrally. “I suspect you will find this to have been an instance of an order from one of the family which the man felt he could not ignore.”

    Chelford’s hands clenched for an instant. “From a member of the family who had no right to issue any orders relating to the estate. Is that how things are done, in England?”

    Jack got up. “Very largely—yes, I’m afraid. Allow me to apologise once again for interrupting your morning, sir.”

    Chelford also rose, looking very firm, and held out his hand. “There is nothing for which to apologise, Mr Beresford. Thank you for bringing this matter to my attention. It will be looked into without delay and if a wrong has been done, it will be righted.”

    Jack shook his hand. “Thank you, Duke. Good morning.” And retired in fairly good order, though not without another mental wince or two. Never mind the fellow owned the best part of two counties, he would not be in his shoes for anything! If he really meant to sort out the B.-D. finances he would have his work cut out for him and no mistake!

    When he got home Alice and Anne were just getting into young Lady Amory’s barouche. He waved them off and hurried inside. Peg was in the sitting-room, but not alone: Aunt Sissy was with her. He hesitated—but it would look too particular, really, to ask to speak to the girl alone; and then, Aunt Sissy was just as concerned as any member of the family. So he said: “I have some news, which I hope you will consider good, without reading too much into it.”

    “We shall not do that, Jack,” said Aunt Sissy reassuringly.

    “No,” agreed Peg, looking at him with the hopeful, excited expression of a young woman who was about to read too much into it—damn!

    “Look,” he said, “I mean it, Cousin. I think you may be sanguine about Paul’s case, but as I say, do not read too much into it.”

    “So you have spoken to Chelford?” beamed Aunt Sissy.

    “Yes. I made it clear that I had only the family’s partisan view of the story—”

    “What?” gasped Peg.

    “Cousin, what would he think, if I said the fellow was my connexion and then claimed he must be blameless as the driven snow?”

    “But he is!” she cried.

    “Yes. I think Chelford understands that he was dismissed by a weak fool under the thumb of a prejudiced woman, and for no justifiable reason whatsoever, but—”

    “Did you say that?” she said sharply.

    “Not in quite those words, no, but I made it pretty plain.”

    Peg looked at him dubiously. “Well, what did he say?”

    “He said the matter would be looked into without delay and that if a wrong had been done, it would be righted,” replied Mr Beresford conscientiously.

    “There!” beamed Aunt Sissy. “Said I not dear Jack would settle it?”

    “Yes,” said Peg, swallowing. “That seems— I mean, thank you very much, sir,” she said, blushing. “It does sound most promising.”

    “I think so. But as I say, do not read too much into it—and please, do not write home over-stating the case!”

    “No, of course I shall not. I shall just say exactly what you said.” She took a deep breath. “But you must allow me to express my heartfelt gratitude on behalf of the family, sir.”

    “It was nothing, Cousin. Chelford, I am glad to say, is a reasonable man. But you must not expect results too soon. When I saw him it was very evident he was swamped with the affairs of the Bon-Dutton properties. The poor fellow is determined to get on top of the intricacies of the family affairs, but I think it will be many a long day before he sees his way clear, there.”

    “Surely the Bon-Duttons are not in any financial trouble, Jack?” murmured Miss Sissy.

    “Not that, no, though the last duke was a brainless nullity content to leave everything to underlings; and that on top of several generations of spendthrifts and gamblers— No, well, the estates are enormous and one glance at the lands round Dallermaine would be enough to assure anyone that they are in extremely good heart. And of course there are substantial town properties also, and interests in,” his eyes twinkled a little, “shipping and trade, though the most of the B.-D.s wouldn't care to have that advertised! The income is there—or at least it should be there. Figuring out where it’s gone to these last twenty years or more may well be beyond human capacity, however. Let’s hope for his sake he don’t attempt it, but merely takes the course of monitoring it all with a dashed tight rein from now on.”

    “I don’t see how a huge income can just vanish,” said Peg with a frown.

    He raised his eyebrows slightly. “Dare say poor Chelford was of your opinion, until he started trying to track it through the paperwork. No, well, you see, Cousin, it is only easy to see where the odd five hundred guineas here or five thousand there went to, if someone wrote it all down. I’m not talking about whatever Rosalie Chelford and that pack of daughters of hers chucked away on dress—though I grant you it will not have been insubstantial. No, there will be sufficiently large amounts gone to pay the gambling debts of, to name only two, Lord Peter B.-D.—he is an uncle of the present man, with a substantial property down in the south that he has the income from and don’t pay a penny in rent for—or Bobby B.-D., he’d be a cousin. And I think no-one in polite Society would claim that Bobby B.-D.—or his respected papa, Lord Ferdy B.-D.,” he added, his lips twitching—“ever paid for a horse in his life.”

    “To say nothing of what he has lost on other people’s horses,” said Miss Sissy with the utmost placidity.

    “Mm. Then I dare say the charge of that scandal of Lady Catherine’s fell upon—well, I forget whether it would have been her brother, the late Chelford, or their father, but it would have been family money, without a doubt. And what with the odd loan raised here and there which may or may not have been paid off yet, whether raised upon expectations or not, and the guineas shelled out here and there to see that so-and-so got his seat in Parliament—” He broke off, shrugging. “And I dare say there has been as much extravagance in the various households as there usually is without a careful mistress to oversee the housekeeper.”

    After a moment Peg said in small voice: “I see. I suppose the great families are all like that.”

    “More or less, yes.”

    “Buh-but would the Duchess be expected to oversee the housekeeper?”

    “Uh—oh!” said Jack, reddening slightly as it dawned that they were not necessarily discussing abstractions, here. “Well, not expected, no. But I think any careful mistress of a household would at least desire to see that huge amounts of new linen were not being ordered up when the closets were full of the stuff, and, well, that sort of thing.”

    Miss Sissy nodded brightly. “And to inspect the household accounts regularly, Peg, my dear. Any servant can get slack when the mistress does not take an interest. Though of course the accounts for such an enormous house as Dallermaine must be very complicated.”

    “Aye, but a comparison with the previous year’s would soon show if there was extravagance!” said her nephew on a rallying note.

    “Exactly, my dear boy.”

    “Yes. I see,” said Peg. She got up. “I think, if you will excuse me, I shall run up and pen a note to Maria immediately. And—and pray do not worry, Cousin, I shall not exaggerate the case.” She licked her lips. “Um, if you should care to write Paul a line yourself, I am sure he would be very, very glad to hear from you.”

    “Uh—certainly, if you think so.” He went to hold the door for her and gave her a searching look as she went out. “You do understand that although it may take some time, there is reason for Paul to hope?”

    “Yes,” said Peg, blinking. “Thank you.”

    Mr Beresford closed the door after her and went slowly over to lean his elbow on the mantel, frowning. Eventually he said on a grim note: “I’ve put my foot in it somehow, have I not? But I’m dashed if I can see how! I tried to make it clear exactly how the case stood.”

    “I think it was clear,” said Miss Sissy uncertainly.

    “The what the Devil was it? There was something troubling her!”

    “Yes. Something related to the B.-D.s?” ventured the little spinster.

    “Uh—now don’t tell me she’s silly enough to believe Chelford’s headed for debtors’ prison merely because the family accounts are in a tangle!”

    “No; I thought she seemed merely interested in what you said of the financial matters—though you could have refrained from mentioning Lady Catherine, dear boy!”

    “Eh? Oh. Oh, well, it was donkey’s ages ago. Uh—duchesses? Dallermaine?” he said, raising his eyebrows at her.

    “But Jack, it must be as obvious to her as it is to you or me that Alice would make a splendid duchess! And any young woman trained by Aunt Portwinkle, you know—” Miss Sissy broke off abruptly, as it dawned.

    “What?” demanded her nephew on a cross note.

    Miss Sissy took a deep breath. “I imagine that poor little Peg was comparing Alice’s capacities with her own, should a wealthy gentleman such as Lord Michael Fitz-Clancy ever ask her to be mistress of his household.”

    Mr Beresford had gone very red. “I see. Perhaps you should inform her, ma’am, that she need not worry, for with his nabob’s fortune, Fitz-Clancy will never notice shiploads of unnecessary household linens!” He strode out, scowling.

    Miss Sissy picked up her work, smiling a little. Well, well, well! Of course it was excellent news about Paul—but that last was even more welcome news!

Next chapter:

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