In Which A Gentleman Has A Painful Fall

17

In Which A Gentleman Has A Painful Fall

    Mr Beresford blinked slightly, two mornings after the Livermore ball, at the sight of the eldest Miss Buffitt entering the breakfast room in riding dress, but said only, rising politely and going to set a chair for her: “You ride, do you, Cousin Alice?”

    “Yes,” said Alice composedly. She sat down gracefully. “Thank you. –Yes, Great-Aunt Portwinkle insisted I learn, as an accomplishment befitting a gentlewoman. Though I am not allowed to hunt.”

    “Very proper,” he said drily. “I trust you do not intend to venture forth to the Park unaccompanied?”

    “No, of course not,” said Alice placidly. “Peg is coming, too; she will be down in a moment. And we shall take a groom, naturally.”

    “I see. Perhaps I may charge you with seeing she does not call on a painter fellow named Greenstreet while you are with us?”

    “I know all about that, Cousin Beresford,” said Alice calmly, “and you may rest assured, Peg will not do so again without your express permission.”

    Mr Beresford rather thought he could rest assured, yes: though most unlike her facially, Alice Buffitt put him forcibly in mind of his redoubtable mother. “Thank you.”

    Peg was down very soon. Mr Beresford looked somewhat limply at the contrast the two sisters presented: Alice entirely proper in a black habit of severe cut, and Peg, of course, in the frivolous deep emerald velvet nonsense donated by the damned P.W. There was a little frill of lace on the cravat, and take her for all in all, she looked utterly adorable— No: ridiculous, of course! Ridiculous.

    Alice said nothing as their cousin threw down his napkin and strode out, his coffee half finished, but she looked at Peg from under her lashes.

    The Park was reached without incident. And, as it was still very early, the sisters rode up and down for some time under the watchful eye of Mr Goodwin himself without encountering anyone more exciting or threatening than a blushing Mr Rollo Valentine, still in his evening clothes, and a very young Miss Jane Gratton-Gordon and her equally young cousin, Lady Felicia Gratton-Gordon, on matching dapple greys, chaperoned by a groom each. They smiled shyly, and were evidently thrilled to be noticed by the dashing Peg Buffitt and her sister.

    “Lady Felicia is the youngest daughter of the Marquis and Marchioness of Wade,” said Peg on a grim note as the blushing damsels went on their way. “Those are two of the greys his Lordship breeds.”

    “I am wholly impressed, Peg!” Alice assured her with a laugh.

    Peg bit her lip. “You need not be. They are pleasant girls, but not very bright. And poor little Miss Jane— Well, there is some horrid gossip about her true parentage,” she said, swallowing. “So one cannot help but feel sorry for her.”

    “Indeed,” agreed Alice warmly. “Even if her grand relations do breed perfect dapple greys, while yours merely purchases you a brown thing!”

    Peg went very red. “He did not!”

    “Yes, he did, Peg.” Ignoring her sister’s scarlet face, Alice beckoned to Goodwin. “Is it correct that Mr Beresford lately purchased Peterkin from Lady Stamforth for Miss Peg?” she asked blandly.

    Goodwin beamed. “That’s right, Miss! Says he’s got a right to eat his head off in our stables, now, and I’m to take some of the condition off ’im!”

    “There you are,” said Alice blandly to her red-faced little sister. “Now tell me you don’t want him.”

    Peg’s jaw trembled. “I dare say he may re-sell him at the end of the Season, after all.”

    Alice smiled a little, and stopped teasing her. “That’s true. He is certainly a reliable mount for a lady.”

    “Mm.”

    They rode on silently.

    Gradually more persons began to appear in the Park, and Goodwin had just suggested that it was time to be thinking of heading back, when a plump figure in a pink print and a straw bonnet was espied, sobbing on a park bench in company with a small dog in a pink harness; and Peg pulled Peterkin up sharply, gasping: “That’s Nancy! What on earth can the matter be?”

    Miss Nancy Uckridge was accompanied by a large footman, at the moment standing by looking helpless, so it was not likely she had been accosted or harmed. Alice, who would not have panicked in any case, merely pulled her mount up gently and murmured: “Don’t saw at his mouth, Peggums. I cannot think this is as dramatic as it looks.”

    Ignoring her, Peg struggled to dismount. Goodwin came up swiftly and lifted her off bodily.

    “I can do it!” she gasped.

    “Dare say,” he said drily, setting her down. “Pick up your skirt, now.” He watched expressionlessly as she dashed over to Nancy’s side. “Thing is, Miss,” he confided to Alice, “Lady Stamforth would insist on giving her that green thing.”

    “Mm,” said Alice, trying not to laugh.

    “This here’ll be something and nothing, Miss, don’t you fret about it.”

    Alice looked drily at the sobbing Nancy and the pink-harnessed dog. “I have no doubt of that whatsoever, Goodwin.”

    Meanwhile, Nancy had cast herself on Peg’s green velvet bosom and was sobbing out the whole. Mrs Uckridge, incensed by the little dog’s (a) gnawing the corner of her sitting-room rug, (b) stealing one of her slippers, (c) chewing one of Miss Uckridge’s shoes out of all recognition, and (d) refusing to obey any and all commands she or Miss Uckridge gave him, had decreed that he had to go. And this was their very last walk together.

    “Oh, dear. Um,” said Peg, biting her lip, “perhaps you should not have chosen a terrier, Nancy. They are such feisty little dogs.”

    “What—will—become—of him?” she sobbed.

    “Well, um, surely she will allow you to send him down to your home in the country?”

    “No!” she sobbed. “She—hates—him!”

    “Um, give him to a friend?” said Peg uneasily.

     Nancy looked up at her hopefully.

    Peg went very red. A few weeks earlier she would unhesitatingly have offered—in especial as Nancy’s Endymion was so very like the portrait of Cousin Jack’s father’s dog that hung in his study. But now—and especially right on top of the news that he had purchased Peterkin for her— “Um, I can’t,” she said in strangled voice. “It is not my house.”

    Nancy burst into renewed tears.

    “Um, look, I shall think about it,” said Peg desperately. “Come along: you cannot stay crying in the Park. I shall walk along with you, and perhaps we’ll think of someone.”

    Nancy snuffled, but admitted that the barouche was waiting for her at the Park gates, so they would not have to walk far. And the party proceeded, very slowly. The more so since the pink-harnessed terrier, whether or not infected by his mistress’s distress would have been very hard to say, pulled hard on his lead and ignored every command addressed to him. They had only got him and Nancy as far as the next walk, when most unfortunately the fashionable Mrs Weaver-Grange and her two customary little sharp-nosed, foxy walking companions were espied, and she burst into racking sobs all over again.

    Resignedly Peg urged her onto another park bench, and put a warm arm round her. “Hush! Don’t cry: we shall think of someone, I promise you!”

    Eventually Nancy said soggily: “Your Aunt Sissy?”

    Peg reddened and said: “No.”

    Alice explained kindly: “She has a cat, and lives in rooms in the town.”

    “But—”

    “Nancy, she has but a tiny parlour, and is on the first floor, and could not possibly afford to feed a dog!” said Peg loudly.

    Nancy gulped. “Oh.” A tear ran down her plump pink cheek: she looked at Peg pathetically.

    “I dare say,” said that damsel, scowling horribly, “Cousin Mendoza could do with a carriage dog.”

    Nancy looked doubtfully at Endymion. There had been an episode—a recent episode, which perhaps went some way towards explaining Mrs Uckridge’s obduracy—of Endymion’s trying to leap out of the barouche in crowded traffic. “He is not very good in carriages,” she faltered.

    Peg gnawed on her lip, reflecting that if the worst came to the worst, she would ask Mr Beresford. “Have you no relatives who might take him?”

    Further tears dripped. “No: they are all horrid, and all on Mamma’s side, and now she is saying I have wasted my Season, pluh-playing round with a suh-silly luh-little beast!”

    “Er—oh! Endymion,” said Peg weakly.

    Nancy blew her nose on a soaking handkerchief. “Mm.”

    “Have mine,” said Peg glumly, passing her hers.

    Nancy took it, and blew her nose again.

    A glum silence fell…

    “Nancy,” said Peg cautiously at last, as two fashionably-dressed gentlemen were seen to be coming down the walk, “I really think we had best get on.”

    “Yes: your mamma will not be best pleased if you make yourself particular in the Park,” added Alice.

    Nancy looked up in a sort of numb surprise at this proper sentiment’s proceeding from the mouth of a sister of Peg’s.

    “Come along,” said Alice firmly.

    “Would not you like a dear little dog, Alice?” she quavered.

    Calmly Alice replied: “It is not possible, I’m afraid. Great-Aunt Portwinkle loathes dogs, and she has several cats.”

    Nancy collapsed in tears again.

    Sighing, Alice pulled her horse over, as the two fashionable gentlemen neared them. “Possibly one of these would care for a carriage dog,” she muttered grimly.

    Goodwin cleared his throat as Endymion, appearing to take an instant dislike to the two gentlemen, yapped shrill defiance at them.

    “–No,” concluded Alice wryly. “Oh—help! Grab him!” she gasped, as the terrier jerked his pink lead out of his lachrymose mistress’s slackened grasp, and rushed out onto the path.

    “Endymion!” cried Nancy wildly as one of the gentleman made a swift grab at him.

    Peg sprang up in horror, Goodwin, who had not remounted, started forward, and Alice, who was nearest, leapt neatly off her horse as the bolting Endymion’s trailing lead caught round the other gentleman’s legs and he crashed to the ground.

    “How—silly,” said the gentleman weakly, looking up into the face of a Botticelli angel.

    “Are you all right, sir?” gasped Alice.

    The gentleman felt his head. “Mm. Bit of a knock, that’s all. What was it?”

    Unaffectedly Alice put a supporting arm around him as he sat up. “Miss Nancy Uckridge’s pink-harnessed terrier,” she said grimly.

    The gentleman laughed weakly, and took a second look at her.

    “Let me see,” said Alice firmly.

    Meekly the gentleman allowed her to inspect the back of his head.

    Meanwhile his companion, having scooped Endymion up in one easy, mechanical motion, was holding him out to Miss Nancy.

    “Don’t, Mr Rowbotham: she manifestly cannot control him,” said Peg grimly.

    “No, you’re right, there,” said the elegant Wilfred, almost equally grim. He gave Nancy a very hard look. “Reminds me of nothin’ so much as the time the Princess Adélaïde von Maltzahn-Dressen let that dashed little brute of hers loose. That was in the Park, too: over in that direction, by the bushes,” he said, nodding. “It went for Cherry Amory’s pug. Before she married Noël, this was. That stupid little German gal had not even taught it ‘Come.’ Unfit to be in charge of a decent little dog! –Not that hers was. Dashed lapdog. Bane of the Fürstin’s life. They had to bell it, eventually.”

    Peg and Nancy stared at him, open-mouthed.

    “Put a belled harness on the horrid little thing. One of them fluffy dogs,” elaborated Mr Rowbotham with infinite distaste.

    “My Endymion is not a horrid little thing,” said Nancy through trembling lips.

    “No, he ain’t. Decent little dogs, terriers. But you ain’t fit to be in charge of him, Miss,” he said awfully.

    A tear slid down Nancy’s plump pink chink. “I have tried to teach him to obey, buh-but he is so wilful, sir!”

    “Of course he is. Terriers are. Used to have one, meself.”

    “Really?” she squeaked.

    “Aye. Best little dogs in the world.”

    “Oh, yes!” she breathed.

    “But they need training.” Still hugging Endymion firmly, Mr Rowbotham strolled over to his wounded companion. “All right, old man?”

    “Yes,” said the victim, grinning sheepishly. “Hit my head, but it’s nothing.”

    Alice had unaffectedly parted his neat brown locks and inspected the bump. Now she agreed with relief: “Yes: he is not bleeding. Let me help you up, sir.”

    Smiling, the victim allowed the Botticelli angel to assist him to his feet, and assured her he did not feel in the least dizzy.

    “He’s all right,” said Mr Rowbotham easily. “No thanks to you, sir!” he added sternly.

    Panting slavishly, Endymion licked his chin.

    “What’s his name?” he asked Miss Nancy.

    “Endymion, it is out of a poem—”

    “Well, no wonder he don’t obey!” said Mr Rowbotham in loud disgust. “Naming a decent little dog something like that, out of a dashed poem?”

    The crestfallen Nancy faltered: “Wuh-well, I thought it was very pretty— Um, sometimes I call him Dimmy, instead.”

    “Slightly better. Though it is not a dog’s name,” he said blightingly.

    “No, sir,” she whispered.

    Mr Rowbotham thought on it. “Added to which, terriers ain’t dim: it’s a dashed insult, hey, fellow? –Dicky,” he decided firmly. “Decent enough name for a decent little dog. Dare say he will answer to it in no time. Hey, Dicky?” he said encouragingly to him.

    The renamed Dicky licked Mr Rowbotham’s chin again.

    “Mr Rowbotham,” faltered Nancy: “would you like to have him?”

    He blinked at her. “Beg pardon?”

    Turning scarlet, Nancy blurted: “Mamma says I must give him up, and today is his very last day, and she will cast him adrift upon the world if I do not find someone to take him!”

    “Uh—”

    “Oh, please, sir! I am sure you will be able to train him in no time! And he likes you! Don’t you, End— I mean, Dicky?”

    Obligingly Endymion-Dicky licked his champion’s chin again.

    The eyes of the assembled company were now all fixed on Mr Rowbotham.

    “Y—Uh— Thing is, ma’am, I live in rooms!” he stuttered.

    “Oh, yes, but you often come to the Park, do you not?” she said eagerly. “It would be the very thing for him! And I am very sure that you would be able to train him to sit beside you in your carriage, while I do not think Peg’s Cousin Mendoza could.”

    “Eh? Mendoza Laidlaw? I would not entrust a decent little dog like this to a harum-scarum young fellow like that! Dare say the fellow might mean well. But young chaps of that age is forever goin’ off and forgettin’ their responsibilities!”

    “Exact!” she cried, clasping her hands to her bosom. “Whereas you could be trusted to look after him properly!”

    Mr Rowbotham perceived he had talked himself into a corner. He looked helplessly from the pink-cheeked Miss Nancy to the bright brown eyes of the eagerly panting little dog in his arms. And back again.

    “You will, won’t you?” she breathed. “And if you have him in town, perhaps I could still see him occasionally?”

    “Y— Er, dare say.”

    “Then you will?” she cried radiantly. “Oh, thank you, dear Mr Rowbotham!”

    Wilfred gave in. After all, he had always liked terriers, and this was a terribly decent little dog, and— Why not? “Delighted, ma’am.” he said, bowing. “Shall call him Dicky, mind.”

    “Oh, of course! It suits him so much better than Endymion!” said Nancy fervently.

    “Well, I should think so!” Lowering Dicky to the ground, but keeping a very firm grip on the pink lead, he offered her his arm in a stately way.

    Beaming, Nancy took it.

    “Er—forgive me: know the face, but I’m afraid you have the advantage of me,” he admitted, clearing his throat.

    —In the background, Peg clapped a hand to her mouth.

    The innocent Nancy replied, looking up at the knight-errant with big, trusting brown eyes that were about as worldly-wise as the renamed Dicky’s: “Of course, there is no reason why you should remember me, sir. I am Nancy Uckridge.”

    “Er—aye,” he said, clearing his throat again. “The little sister. Of course.”

    Suddenly Nancy gave a giggle, and peeped at him naughtily. “Yes! But there is no need to hold that against me!”

    Mr Rowbotham grinned. “Rather not, eh? May I escort you, Miss Nancy?”

    And the company watched dazedly as he led her and the pink-harnessed one off towards the Park gates.

    Alice, who of course was not so well acquaint with the personalities, recovered herself first, and asked: “Are you sure you are all right, sir?”

    And Mr Rowbotham’s erstwhile companion agreed: “Yes, perfectly, thank you, ma’am. –Pray excuse me, ladies: I am expected,” he added.

    “Yes, of course,” said Peg distractedly.

    Eyes twinkling, the terrier’s victim bowed, replaced his hat, and hurried off.

    “Did you see that?” said Peg limply to her sister.

    Alice nodded.

    “Mr Rowbotham!” said Peg dazedly. “I would have said he was the last man in London— That dog of Nancy’s is truly appalling, you know!”

    “If he’s used to dogs, Miss Peg, he’ll teach him to obey, don’t you worry,” said Goodwin reassuringly. “And he’s a young dog, dare say he won’t have got into too many bad habits.”

    “No,” said Peg limply. “Well, he chews things. And steals food.”

    “Peg, I think that is normal, for little dogs in need of training,” said Alice, repressing a laugh.

    “Ye-es.” Peg allowed Goodwin to assist her to remount, what time Alice got herself neatly into the saddle without fuss. “Alice,” she said in a low voice as the sisters rode on side-by-side: “Not only that. I mean, that was Mr Rowbotham!”

    “I think I have seen him before: was he at the Livermore ball?”

    “Yes: don’t you remember, you admired him in the waltz? He was partnering Miss Abbott.”

    “Oh, yes, he was the very graceful dancer.”

    “Alice, he is the best dancer in London, and a confirmed bachelor!”

    “Is he?” said Alice with a little laugh. “I think that last may be about to change, Peggums!”

    Peg swallowed. “They say he and Lady Hartwell have been—um—friends, for some years. Not the pleasant young woman whom we met at the Livermore ball: her mamma-in-law. She is reputed to be one of the most charming women in London. Not beautiful, but quite fascinating.”

    “Very possibly,” said Alice primly, “he has found he prefers pink-cheeked, plump, youthful charms to someone’s mamma-in-law, however fascinating.”

    Peg nodded dazedly, thinking of that very first stroll in the Park with Nancy, when they had seen Mr Rowbotham in his dashing phaeton… Faintly she croaked: “Nancy has never shown a partiality there, Alice.”

    “No, my dear? I dare say they have not discovered before today that they had anything in common.”

    “No… Miss Uckridge will be furious,” she said in a hollow voice. “Mr Shirley Rowbotham told me that Sir Cedric, that is their eldest brother and the head of the family, has lately been trying to arrange a match between them.”

    Alice smiled slowly. “This would be the same Miss Uckridge who informed me at the Livermore ball that whilst two dressed the same might be perceived as an effect, three could only occasion undesirable comment, would it?”

    “The horrid old cat!” cried Peg furiously. “She deserves every minute of it, and all I can hope is, Nancy will have the bottle to rub her nose in it!”

    Alice’s cool grey eyes twinkled very much, but she merely murmured: “Don’t say ‘the bottle’, dearest: it is a cant term, which only gentlemen should use. Though I utterly share the sentiment.”

    “Yes,” said Peg, very ruffled. “Sorry. Do you? Good.”

    Alice rode on in silence for a while, smiling a little. Eventually she said: “Peg, who was the other gentleman?”

    “What?” said Peg, staring at her.

    “He did not have the effrontery to introduce himself,” she murmured. “Or perhaps he was too shaken by the fall.”

    Peg looked at her blankly. “I don’t know.”

    “Not one of Mr Rowbotham’s brothers, then?”

    “Um—no. At least—” The gentleman had been perhaps Mr Beresford’s age. “I think I have met them all,” said Peg feebly. “Unless perhaps there is another one who has been away with the Army, or some such.”

    The gentleman had been wearing a very ordinary brown coat, nothing like Mr Rowbotham’s wonderful clothes. Nor did he look anything like the fine-boned Mr Rowbotham: though brothers, of course, did not necessarily always resemble one another.

    Eventually Alice said thoughtfully: “Possibly we could ask Mr Rowbotham next time we see him. I think Mr Beresford mentioned that he will be coming to our Thursday?”

    He had not mentioned it to Peg. “Oh,” she said in a small voice. “Um, well, Nancy is, definitely. So perhaps he will.”

    “Perhaps he will,” agreed Alice mildly.

    Since Peg had not mentioned their Thursday to above half a dozen persons, Anne had mentioned it to even fewer, and Alice did not know anybody in town to whom she might have mentioned it, it was a mystery, really, how word had got about. Mr Beresford’s sitting-room was bursting at the seams. Miss Sissy was quite overcome to see so many eligibles at their little entertainment. Mr Bobby and Mr Johnny Cantrell-Sprague were both there, Mr Rowbotham and his brother, Mr Shirley, were both there, Mr Valentine and his brother, Rollo, were both there, Lord Michael Fitz-Clancy was there, Admiral Dauntry, looking extremely jovial, was certainly there, though Peg swore she had not mentioned it to him, Lady Ferdy Lacey and her husband, the latter looking amiable and the former looking eager, were both there— A resounding success, in short.

    The entertainment was to consist mainly of talk and a very little music, with trays of very small refreshments. After some time of it Mr Beresford came up and said in his aunt’s ear: “We had best get out the Madeira, I think. This lot probably expects more than tea.”

    “Absolutely, my dear!” she beamed. “What a crush! –Oh, my goodness! There are dear Sir Noël and Cherry Amory! Come along, my dear—” Somewhat resignedly Jack went off to greet them. He had known young Lady Amory for years, she had been a neighbour of his Laidlaw cousins in Bath, and Sir Noël for almost as long: but he had certainly not expected to see the fashionable baronet at this damned do.

    “Wilf urged us to come,” explained Sir Noël, with a dry look on his face, after greetings had been exchanged and Miss Sissy had gleefully kidnapped his wife.

    “Oh,” said Jack feebly. “I certainly asked him, yes. Er—delighted and all that, old man, but why?”

    Noël Amory was Wilfred Rowbotham’s oldest friend. “Wilf,” said the baronet, looking drier than ever, “has very lately acquired a small terrier.”

    Mr Beresford looked blank.

    “Foisted on him by a close acquaintance of your delightful cousins,” he murmured.

    “Foist— You don’t mean that untrained little horror of that damned Uckridge girl’s?” he croaked.

    “Mm.” He nodded towards a sofa on which Mr Rowbotham and Miss Nancy Uckridge were now cosily ensconced.

    Mr Beresford’s jaw dropped. “Wilf? But he is the wiliest— ”

    “Oh, quite. Added to which, the on-dit is Sir Ceddie’s been trying to throw the older sister at him.”

    “Er—yes: he mentioned—” Mr Beresford goggled at the pink-faced Nancy and the smiling Wilfred.

    Very, very quietly, Sir Noël said in his ear: “What is she like, Jack?”

    Mr Beresford swallowed. “Well, uh, a thoroughly amiable girl. No spite in her. Bit of a giggler, but quite unaffected. And I would have said, a total innocent. No thought of—of entrapping him,” he said feebly.

    “Good. Not that we thought there would be, Wilf can spot one of those from ten miles off with the wind in t’other direction.” He smiled at him. “In that case, Cherry will be thrilled.”

    “Y— Um, Noël, the girl’s brainless,” he murmured.

    “So is he,” said Mr Rowbotham’s oldest friend simply. He twinkled at him, and moved on into the throng.

    Mr Beresford looked round wildly for the Madeira.

    … Alice had played and sung, Lady Ferdy Lacey, giggling terrifically, had allowed herself to be urged to the instrument and had played and sung, the blushing Nancy Uckridge had refused to either play or sing in front of such a crowd, Mr Rowbotham very sympathetically supporting her in this stance, Miss Abbott, whom each of the Buffitt sisters was quite sure she had not invited, had played for some considerable time, both tea and Madeira had circulated and trays of little cakes and sandwiches had been hurriedly sent up from the kitchen, one or two gentlemen who had failed to get near any of the Buffitt sisters had gone, but more had arrived to take their places—and still the throng chattered on. The elegant Mr Charlie Grey had produced a mandolin and was strumming on it.

    The frilled and furbelowed Lady Ferdy Lacey sat herself down by Miss Peg Buffitt, and, clutching her hand ecstatically, hissed: “It is a roaring success! Just like the little Contessa’s salons! Caro’s nose will be utterly out of joint!”

    Peg looked at her dubiously but she seemed perfectly genuine: her face was shining with simple enjoyment at the prospect of her fashionable sister-in-law’s nose being out of joint. “Um, we did not really intend it for a salon, as such,” she murmured dubiously.

    Ecstatically Lady Ferdy squeezed her hand again. “Never mind! It is! And Charlie is playing his mandolin: you are made!”

    Mr Grey had needed no urging to produce the mandolin: Peg nodded uncertainly.

    Suddenly Lady Ferdy stiffened alarmingly, and gasped.

    “What is it?” said Peg faintly, as the mad thought that the horrible Lady Reggie Bon-Dutton might have turned up struck her.

    “Chelford!” gasped her Ladyship, bolt upright and rigid in her seat.

    “Wasn’t that the duke who died?” said Peg uncertainly.

    “No! My dear! The heir!” she squeaked, gripping Peg’s hand unmercifully hard. “You are made, you are made! Oh, if only he would offer for one of you, the cats’ noses would be out of joint forever and a day!”

    Wondering madly if she ought to thank Lady Ferdy for this kind hope, Peg looked round blankly.

    Lady Ferdy approached her frivolous blue silk bonnet to Peg’s gold curls. “He has just gone up to Mr Beresford: Mr Rowbotham is introducing them: see?”

    Peg peered. She swallowed. It was the unassuming-looking gentleman whom Nancy’s dog had tripped in the Park.

    “He was at Mamma’s dinner last night,” said Lady Ferdy, craning her neck. “So were Sir Ceddie and Lady R., and Mr R.: evidently Sir Ceddie has asked him to take him under his wing.” She ceased to crane her neck, and twinkled at her. “Confidentially, my dear, we think he is hoping that Mr R. will do something about that awful American tailoring!”

    Peg nodded numbly.

    Lady Ferdy rose, looking determined. “Come along, my dear, I shall introduce you. Where are your sisters?” She looked around. Anne, very pink, was sitting rather close to Mr Valentine, the both of them appearing quite absorbed. But Alice was merely sitting quietly between Miss Sissy and the eagerly chatting Mr Roddy Calhoun. Capably Lady Ferdy captured her and bore her off with Peg to be introduced.

    The unassuming-looking, pleasant-faced brown-haired man in the admittedly awful coat smiled very much and bowed eagerly. Adding with a laugh that he hoped his humiliation in the Park had not damned him forever in Miss Buffitt’s eyes.

    “No, of course,” said Alice, smiling a little; but her voice was drowned by Lady Ferdy’s eager demand to know all about it. Eventually, however, she released them, and Chelford was able to conduct Miss Buffitt to a chair.

    “I am afraid the story will be all over London,” murmured Alice.

    “Aye! Can’t be helped, eh?” he said with a cheery smile.

    “Mm. Your consequence will no doubt carry it off, sir,” murmured Alice.

    “What? Oh,” he said with a little grimace. “I dare say. I must say, I cannot get used to it, at all.”

    Alice knew very little of the background to his succession, though her sisters had of course given her a very full and bitter account of his family’s horrid treatment of Anne, Paul and Maria. She said doubtfully: “No? But you must have expected one day to step into your—um, was it your father’s or grandfather’s shoes, sir?”

    “My uncle’s,” he said with a sigh. “No: I grew up in America, Miss Buffitt, knowing nothing of my father’s family: it was not until I reached my majority that he even revealed to me that he was a son of the Duke of Chelford. And I never expected to inherit: Father was the second son.”

    “I see. No wonder you find it difficult to accustom yourself, sir.”

    “Mm. We lived quite simply: a town life, my maternal grandfather was a successful merchant,” he said on a rueful note. “I had always expected to follow him and Father in the business.”

    Expressing sympathy and interest, Alice encouraged him gently to tell her of his life in America, and his brothers and sisters. Chelford talked for some time, very evidently happy not only to be able to talk about his old life, but to have such a sympathetic, charming audience. Not realising that the shrewd and capable Alice Buffitt was using every word that fell from his mouth to assess his true worth and character.

    … “My dears!” concluded Miss Sissy, clasping her hands, when it was all over at long, long last. “A succès fou! And to think, the Duke of Chelford came!”

    Anne was very flushed. “Yes, but Aunt Sissy, that is the horrid Bon-Dutton family who sacked Paul from his position!” she cried loudly.

    Horrible had refused absolutely to attend anything approaching a salon and had remained upstairs reading a book for the duration of the thing, only venturing back downstairs when Henry had been able to assure her they was all gone except Mr Valentine. “Yes, that’s true. But possibly the American branch will prove more reasonable than their cousins?”

    “It’s not impossible,” conceded Mr Valentine. “Seemed quite a decent chap, I thought; didn’t you, Jack?”

    “Mm? Oh—yes. Cannot imagine what Ceddie Rowbotham thinks the poor fellow is going to learn from Wilf, though.”

    “The best way train up a terrier, out of course,” said Mr Valentine severely.

    When everyone was over that and Miss Sissy was patting Horrible’s back and administering a sip of water, he admitted: “No, well, if Wilf can introduce him to a decent tailor, he’ll be doing the town a favour.”

    “Clothes,” said Alice primly, “do not make the man, Mr Valentine.”

    “No, but they make him easier on the eye, y’see, Miss Buffitt,” he returned with his nice smile. “What did you think of him, yourself?”

    Composedly Alice replied: “I thought he seemed a very ordinary young man, rather at sea in his new walk of life.”

    “Mm: dare say it will take some gettin’ used to,” he agreed easily.

    “Ordinary?” said Peg suspiciously.

    “Yes.”

    “Very pleasant, I thought, dear!” fluted Miss Sissy on an anxious note.

    “He does not appear to have an original thought in his head,” said Alice serenely. “But he was certainly pleasant enough, Aunt Sissy.”

    “Oh, indeed! And quite—quite unassuming!”

    “Well, that’s certainly a change from the rest of the dashed B.-D.s!” said Val with feeling.

    “Oh, indeed! Some of things they have been saying about him—!” Miss Sissy broke off. “I shall not repeat them, for they are all entirely prejudiced,” she said firmly. “We must hope to see him at some of the little parties we are due to attend! –But you must not expect him to dance, my dears,” she reminded them. “He must still be in mourning, of course!”

    Politely the Buffitt sisters agreed that they would not expect the Duke of Chelford to dance.

    … “Well?” demanded Peg fiercely, as the two younger Buffitts cornered their sister in her bedchamber as Alice was changing for dinner.

    “Well, what?” she murmured.

    “Alice!” cried Anne crossly. “What did you really think of the Duke of Chelford?”

    “Just what I said. Pleasant, ordinary, incapable of original thought.”

    They glared at her. Finally Anne offered: “I thought he was quite good-looking.”

    “Yes,” she agreed calmly. “Not as good-looking as Mr Valentine, of course.”—Poor Anne went very red, even though it was true that Mr Valentine was better-looking than the unremarkable Chelford.—“My dears, what more can I say?”

    “Did you like him?” demanded Anne.

    “Oh, well enough.”

    After a moment Peg said grimly: “Well enough for what, Alice?”

    Alice brushed out the long, thick fair locks which the old-fashioned Great-Aunt Portwinkle refused to allow her to have cut into a more modish style, looking thoughtfully at herself in the mirror. Then she turned slowly. “Very well, girls,” she said on a grim note. “I shall tell you, but pray do not repeat a word of what I am about to say. Not even to Horrible.”

    Her sisters nodded, watching her fearfully: clearer memories of Alice Buffitt in her youth were beginning to surface.

    “I did not immediately fall head-over-heels in love with him, and I cannot imagine myself head-over-heels about anyone with such an evidently mundane mind as his. But I would say there is no malice in him: that must, I suppose, count as a point in his favour.”

    “You suppose?” croaked Peg.

    Alice eyed her drily. “A dash of malice must add a little spice to life, Peg. On the other hand, a man who lacks it must be easier to handle.”

    Her little sisters gulped.

    “I thought he admired me—without, of course, knowing a thing about me,” she said with a little shrug. “So I shall encourage him: the connexion can do us nothing but good.”

    After a moment Anne ventured in a squeak: “Shall you persuade him to give dear Paul his job back?”

    “No, wait,” said Peg grimly, putting a hand on Anne’s arm. “Say, rather, shall you persuade him to give Paul his job back before or after you have persuaded the poor fool to lay his dukedom at your tiny feet, Alice Buffitt?”

    Alice turned and looked solemnly at her reflection in the dressing-table mirror. “Given that the town is full of pretty, well-born maidens who will be chasing him, can I, do you think?”

    “Yes,” said Anne simply.

    “I am very sure you can, for what you may lack in birth, you more than make up in cunning, and you are as pretty as the prettiest of them,” stated Peg grimly.

    “Good,” she said mildly. “It will certainly serve the damned Bon-Duttons out, will it not?”

    “Alice, you—you are not serious, are you?” faltered Anne.

    “Why not? You just said that you thought I could do it.”

    “Y— But if you cannot care for him?”

    “On first acquaintance, I do not dislike him. Very likely I would have to rule him all his days, not to say, teach him how to go on at Chelford Place, and that other place, the principal seat,” she said with a shrug. “But I dare say that would alleviate the tedium.”

    “Alice, stop it,” said Peg in a choked voice.

    Alice turned and looked at her mockingly. “Dearest Peg-Peg, our fortunes would all be made, if he were to offer for me. And recollect that my alternative is old Mr Fogarty.”

    “You can have Lord Michael Fitz-Clancy!” she cried.

    “He is certainly a man with a sense of his own worth,” she said drily. “But do you know, I found during our drive that my sense of his worth could not nearly compete with it.”

    Peg gulped.

    “What do you mean?” asked Anne blankly.

    “Oh, only that a solid twenty minutes’ dissertation on his adventures in the Near East became rather boring, Annie-Pannie,” she said lightly.

    “You encouraged him,” stated Peg.

    “Certainly I encouraged him to show his true self. He got quite carried away,” she said airily.

    “He—he is an older man, accustomed to—um—to run his affairs,” said Peg limply.

    “Accustomed to be lord and master, rather. I dare say I would cope, you know, but on the whole I prefer the prospect of moulding Chelford,” she said musingly.

    “Alice, don’t,” said Anne tearfully. “Not if you cannot love him.”

    “I very much prefer him to old Mr Fogarty!” she said with a smile. “In fact, I dare say we shall deal extremely.”

    “I—I can just see you as a duchess,” admitted Anne shakily.

    Alice glanced at her reflection. “They say the King cannot last; I wonder if I could possibly manage it in time for the next coronation?”

    “Alice, that is beyond the pale!” said Peg in a shaking voice.

    “Dearest Peg, I think we have had, more or less, this conversation in relation to your suitors, have we not? I should marry him in good faith, and fulfil the duties of a wife to the best of my ability. He would have nothing of which to complain. And admit,” she said with a little laugh, “you will both thoroughly enjoy the spectacle of the fashionable noses being rubbed in it!”

    Peg and Anne looked at each other uneasily, and Peg admitted: “Well, yes.”

    “But it—it seems cold-blooded, somehow,” said Anne in a low voice.

    Alice looked at her with great affection. “Yes; you could not contemplate it, I know. But we are not all so truly good as you. But if it seems too cold-blooded, Anne, dear, recollect that it is better than Mr Fogarty.”

    “Mm,” she admitted, biting her lip.

    “Yes,” conceded Peg. “Um—I thought the Duke seemed very amiable, though I suppose you are quite right in saying he was rather ordinary.”

    “Yes.” Alice turned back to her mirror, and brushed her hair vigorously. “On the other hand, I could lead him on to the point where he gave Paul his job back, and then refuse to marry him after all. Would that be more or less dishonourable and cold-blooded?”

    “More,” said Anne, looking at her in horror. “And—and very unkind!”

    “Also pointless,” noted Peg drily: “for unless he is a saint, he would dismiss Paul again, the moment he discovered you had been leading him on.”

    “We-ell… He might be a man of honour, Peg; but given that he is a Bon-Dutton, should we take the risk?”

    Peg’s nostrils had flared. “No,” she said tightly. “I do not think there is much honour in that family.”

    “That is what I thought,” said Alice serenely. “And I should quite like to be a duchess. Much more than I should like being Mrs Fogarty. In fact, I have made up my mind to it. And if either of you should find yourself lapsing into melancholy over it, just repeat the words ‘Mrs Fogarty’ to yourself, and I think your resolve will stiffen!” She twinkled at them, and began to braid her curls.

    “Alice, you are not at Great-Aunt Portwinkle’s now: I shall send Harriet to help you with your hair,” said Peg limply.

    “Thank you, Peg,” said Alice, smiling, and brushing out the braid again. “And if it should turn out that you do not capture a suitable gentleman and I do capture Chelford, I promise you I shall offer your Harriet a position!”

    “Um, thank you. Um, she is not mine, you know, but Lady Stamforth’s,” said Peg limply.

    On the contrary, Alice had got it out of Aunt Sissy that that it was Mr Beresford who was paying her wages. She merely smiled, and said: “Well, I shall offer. Now, you had best run along and change, both of you. And remember: enunciate the words ‘Mrs Fogarty’ very clearly from time to time!”

    “Yes,” said Peg on a grim note. “You are quite right, Alice, as usual. It will be the best thing for you, and certainly solve all the family’s problems. I dare say he will send the boys to proper schools, and the university. Come on, Anne.”

    “Yes,” said Anne in a small voice.

    Peg seized her hand, and they went out.

    Alice Buffitt looked a trifle wryly at her reflection. “At least Chelford is not an antidote,” she murmured. She wrinkled up her perfect nose, shrugged, and laughed a little. “Mrs Fogarty,” she enunciated very clearly.

Next chapter:

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