In Which Mrs Beresford Tempts The Bony Hand Of Fate

19

In Which Mrs Beresford Tempts The Bony Hand Of Fate

    Mrs Beresford was not the sort of woman to do anything in a panic, and she had certainly not panicked on receipt of Horrible’s letter. She had been intending to come home for the summer in any case, for May was in splendid health and Baby Paulina was doing splendidly, and May’s other children were well and happy. Her great-niece’s letter had merely been an added reason for refusing Robert’s and May’s invitation to spend the summer with them in Europe. On due consideration of this letter she did not, however, as she would normally have done, write to apprise her sister Sissy of the approximate date of her arrival in London.

    Somewhat unfortunately the result of this ploy was that she arrived to find the birds flown and only a skeleton staff on duty in the town house. The master and Miss Sissy had taken the young ladies to Brighton. Mrs Beresford’s face remained unmoved but she raised a mental eyebrow or several. And, after sensibly sleeping on it, decided to pay some calls.

    In Blefford Square Viscount Stamforth’s servant informed her apologetically that the family was gone down to the castle, ma’am. This was more or less what she had expected: Stamforth Castle was but a few hours’ drive from Brighton. After a little reflection she directed her coachman to drive, not to the Hôtel von Maltzahn-Dressen, as had been her first impulse, but to the pleasant house in Green Street owned by Sir Noël and Cherry Amory.

    Young Lady Amory had known the forceful Mrs Beresford all her life and was as putty in her hands, the quavering report encompassing Peg’s encouragement of both Lord Michael Fitz-Clancy and Mr Bobby Cantrell-Sprague, and Mr Valentine’s increasing interest in Anne.

    “Hm. Val Valentine is a nullity. However, if Anne is not very bright, I dare say they will deal extremely together. That is certainly the impression I had from Sissy’s letters.”

    “Duh-did you, ma’am? Good,” she quavered.

    Mrs Beresford eyed her drily. “Dare I solicit your impression of Mr Bobby’s mother’s reaction to this infatuation?”

    Cherry went as red as her name. “Thuh-they say she is not best pleased, Mrs Beresford.”

    “No, well, all the world knows those dim sons must marry money.”

    “Y— Um—” Lady Amory bit her lip and fell silent.

    Mrs Beresford pounced. “Yes?”

    Unlike Peg, Anne was very content to chat about Lady Amory’s little boys and similar cosy topics, not minding that her Ladyship did not furnish her with any artistic information about the pictures on her walls, and had become a frequent caller. Under that magisterial eye the poor little lady quavered out the report of Peg’s idea of a little house in the country.

    “With a sensible young man, one could see it,” conceded Mrs Beresford kindly.

    Lady Amory nodded eagerly.

    “But I do not think I ever heard that Bobby C.-S. was one of those.”

    Her hostess’s face fell.

    Mrs Beresford took a slice of cake. “Delicious, my dear: your cook is to be congratulated. I had a muddled letter from Sissy just before I left Vienna saying that Alice Buffitt was with them; may I ask what you know of that?”

    Cherry Amory gaped at her in horror. “Is that all you—”

    Mrs Beresford pounced again and before the slice of cake was finished had it out of her that Alice was if anything even prettier than Peg and had incensed the cats even faster than had Peg by her immediate capture of Chelford. Before he had even had time to buy himself a decent coat! Since she was aware that decent coats were very much a concern of Sir Noël’s she did not comment on this last point but merely nodded slowly, and said: “And Aunt Portwinkle?”

    Cherry had been exposed twice during her life in Bath to the formidable old lady and that had been more than enough. Very, very faintly she replied: “I cannot imagine how they did it, but she has agreed that Alice may spend the summer with dear Miss Sissy.”

    Rowena Beresford imagined that they had done it by pointing out that Alice Buffitt was on course to snare a duke. She nodded again and said mildly: “I see, my dear.” And, allowing her to freshen her cup, asked kindly about her own plans for the summer. Sir Noël and Lady Amory were not going down to Brighton, but to their home in Devon. They would go to Bath to see Cherry’s brother and his family, and all her dear friends there, and then take the Bristol road. Mrs Beresford nodded and smiled and said all the right things, but did not really listen. “And—and Wilf Rowbotham had planned to accompany us, but now we are not sure,” finished Cherry on an uncertain note. “He may wish to be nearer the Uckridges.”

    Mrs Beresford’s substantial jaw dropped. “You’re not telling me he has let Sir Ceddie talk him into—”

    “No, no! Dear Mrs Beresford, have you not heard? It is the other sister, little Nancy!”

    Forthwith Mrs Beresford dragged all the details out of her and, predictably, laughed until she cried. And finally took her leave, dropping a kiss on her hostess’s cheek and telling her she had not laughed so much in years, and could not wait to see Mr Rowbotham walking the thing on its pink lead in the Park!

    Little Lady Amory, however, had recourse to “that Maddy stuff which Sir Noël sometimes drinks, William.”

    On reaching the Hôtel von Maltzahn-Dressen, Mrs Beresford was somewhat surprised to find that the Fürstin was reclining on a chaise longue in her boudoir, clad in a wrapper. She did, not, however, remark on her sister-in-law’s not being up and dressed at this advanced hour, merely bent to peck her cheek. “How are you, Fanny, my dear?”

    “Oh, well, as ever,” she said with a sigh. “And yourself? You’re looking very well, Rowena.”

    “Yes, I am very well, thank you,” said Mrs Beresford composedly, pulling up a chair beside the chaise longue. Fanny then enquiring properly if colourlessly about May and Robert and their family, she provided the appropriate answers and duly asked after Anna. Anna’s mother shrugged and owned she was the same as ever.

    Mrs Beresford gave her a narrow look but passed no comment. “Do you plan to remove to Brighton, Fanny?”

    The Fürstin shrugged again. “Pour quoi faire? It will be as boring as town. I think Sissy and Jack have already gone?”

    Mrs Beresford agreed that they had, and at her sister-in-law’s request rang the bell for tea, asking mildly: “Are you sure you are quite well, my dear?”

    “Well but bored. How did you like Vienna?”

    “It was very much as you predicted,” said Mrs Beresford with a twinkle in her eye. “Full of conniving cats, all ready to get their claws into Robert, if he would but notice their existence!”

    Fanny did not smile. “He was always like that.”

    “Mm. Er—we were rather surprised to see Alec Ramsay there,” she ventured.

    “One would have thought,” said Fanny with a tiny shrug, “that he would have enough to do, with the Scotch estates and the mad old uncle.”

    “Cousin, I think, though you are correct in essence.”

    “Go on, whose train was it?” she drawled.

    “Surprisingly enough it was not anybody’s. He sends you his best regards, my dear.”

    The Fürstin sat up very straight and rearranged her cushions behind her back. “My very dear Rowena,” she drawled, her face expressing nothing whatsoever, “if Alec were as kindly disposed towards my poor self as you seem to be hinting, he would have been in London for the Season rather than Vienna.”

    “Perhaps he would, but I assure you I was not hinting,” said Mrs Beresford at her driest. “Though possibly he was: he did mention Bompey du Fresne.”

    There was a tiny pause.

    “I suppose,” she said with a moue of distaste, “that story is all over the Continent, is it?”

    “Apparently.”

    “Then pray feel free to write May and Robert this very night and apprise them of the fact that there is even less truth in it than there usually is in such stories,” she said in her customary languid tones as the tea was brought in. “This is China; half the town seems to have run mad over the new Indian teas, but I find I do not care for them: coarse and uninteresting.” She raised the lid of the teapot for an instant and lowered it again. “Like the rest of England, en effet.”

    “Fanny, what is the matter?” said Mrs Beresford baldly.

    The perfect bow of a mouth tightened. “Oh, merely old age and boredom, ma chère.”

    “Rubbish.”

    Fanny said nothing. She poured very weak China tea and handed her sister-in-law a cup.

    “Sissy wrote some nonsense,” admitted Mrs Beresford, taking the tea but setting it down, “about little Peg’s having distracted Geddings from Anna.”

    “That is certainly true, though I would agree that it is also nonsense.”

    “Have you spoken to him?” she demanded baldly.

    A tiny frown appeared on the alabaster brow. “Must you be so direct?”

    “Like the rest of England,” replied Mrs Beresford smoothly. “Yes. Circumlocutions bore me as much as they delight you, but I think you have always known that.”

    Fanny’s mouth twitched reluctantly. “Mm. Well, I have not spoken to G., no, for it was never at that stage. Merely, last winter Wellington and I agreed that he was sadly in want of a wife, and I mentioned that I was bringing Anna out this year.” She sipped her tea cautiously. “At which point he appeared to intimate that the thing would be entirely suitable.”

    “And?”

    “I use the word ‘appeared’ advisedly, Rowena. Since your cousin’s damned daughter appeared on the scene he has deigned to signal his august approval of her.”

    Mrs Beresford goggled at her. “Wellington has?”

    “That is what I said,” she acknowledged in an annoyed tone.

    “But Fanny, the girl is penniless! Er, well, I have promised her mother to do a little something for her, but I hardly think that would weigh with either G. or his patron! Forgive me, but are you quite sure he approves?”

    “I was quite sure at the point where half London observed his beaming fatuously upon the pair of them waltzing together, yes,” said Fanny sourly. “Since then, the on-dit is that G. is blowing hot and cold, and that she may decide she prefers Michael Fitz-Clancy’s nabob’s fortune to one of the oldest titles in England and a position as one of our senior political hostesses. I see you have heard that story,” she added as Mrs Beresford merely nodded slowly.

    “Yes, I have just had Cherry Amory’s version. I gathered Peg is offering Michael Fitz-C. as much encouragement as she is offering young Bobby C.-S.”

    “Oh, quite. The thing would be amusing were it not so manifestly grotesque.” She picked up a little cake but then put it down on her plate without tasting it. “In that case, one must presume you have also heard about the sister and Chelford?”

    “Mm. And about Wilf Rowbotham and the Uckridge girl’s pink-harnessed dog,” she conceded with a twinkle in her eye.

    Fanny did not smile at all. “If you will cast your mind back several Seasons, my dear, perhaps you will understand why the topic of lapdogs holds no interest whatsoever for me.”

    Mrs Beresford’s twinkle increased. “Has Adélaïde still got that horrid little creature?”

    “I have no idea,” replied the Princess Adélaïde’s mother coldly.

    Mrs Beresford’s substantial shoulders shook slightly but she merely tasted her tea, smiled at her hostess, and said: “Exquisite.”

    Fanny shrugged slightly, and they sipped tea in silence for a few moments.

    Then Mrs Beresford put down her cup and said: “My dear, we have known each other for so long, that I hope I do not have to beat about the bush with you. I did not suggest that Rose Buffitt send one of her girls to town for the purpose of cutting out your daughter. I find it hard to credit that G. is serious about little Peg or that Wellington truly wishes for the thing, but be that as it may, I shall tell the girl not to offer any further encouragement in that quarter, if that is your wish.”

    Possibly—just possibly—if the forthright Rowena Beresford had phrased this speech rather differently, then Fanny’s reaction would not have been what it was. But Mrs Beresford had committed several tactical errors. Firstly, she had referred, if implicitly, to the Fürstin’s advancing age. Then, she had admitted that she gave little credence to a matter which was seriously annoying Fanny. Not to say, little credence to Fanny’s own report of Wellington’s attitude. Also, she had indicated that where Fanny von Maltzahn-Dressen was powerless to act, she, Rowena Beresford, could settle the matter in an instant. At the same time, she had suggested that Fanny did, in fact, wish to lower herself so far as to request something be done about the thing. And finally, but perhaps not least, she had completely ignored the matter of the other sister’s sister snaring Chelford, not so much as hinting that Anna would be far, far more suitable for the position of his duchess.

    The perfectly curved lips tightened for an instant. Then she drawled: “My dear Rowena, you must do as you wish. More tea?” Mrs Beresford declined, and she poured slowly for herself. Then she said: “But you have not asked after Jack.”

    “He does write regularly,” said Mrs Beresford on an uncertain note. Did Fanny wish her to put a stop to Peg’s encouragement of Geddings, or not?

    “Of course.”

    “Er—well, naturally a boy does not tell his mamma everything!” she said with an uneasy laugh.

    “A man, I think?” drawled Fanny.

    “Yes, of course, how silly of me.  Er—is there something you feel needs telling?”

    “Oh, I make no doubt Sissy will have told you it all. But poss-i-blee she has not heard the story which is going the rounds of the clubs.” She paused.

    “Oh?” said Mrs Beresford limply.

    Fanny picked up the little cake on her plate, looked at it with dislike, and put it down again. “It is merely—though I am sure a woman of your intelligence will long since have guessed this, Rowena—that your little Miss Buffitt came up to town in your absence express to get her claws into Jack. Oh, and the coda being that she has since abandoned that quest as a greater prize—no, dear me, two greater prizes—appeared on her horizon. Am I mixing metaphors?”

    “I think so,” agreed her sister-in-law drily.

    Fanny yawned slightly, patting at her mouth. “Mm.”

    Mrs Beresford swallowed a sigh: clearly Fanny was out of humour. So she did not stay very much longer, but took her leave with every expression of amiability, kindly overlooking the fact that her sister-in-law merely looked bored and scarcely bothered to bid her a goodbye amidst the yawns. Most unwisely adding one last assurance that Fanny need not worry her head further over the matter of G.

    The Fürstin sat up very straight, scowling, and rang for pen and ink, dismissing angrily a suggestion that her social secretary, Miss Jepson, should also be fetched. She wrote two notes. The first was to l’Amiral du Fresne, advising him that she would after all be spending a little time in Brighton this summer and would be delighted to receive him there. The second, which Fanny Beresford von Maltzahn-Dressen penned with very tight lips, read:

Chère madame,

    Be advised that no sort of bargain with Yr. Highness can be viewed as acceptable to myself, whether or no with my nephew as intermediary. Be further advised that the pretty young person in whom Yr. Highness was pleased to take an interest this last Season is at present under his cousin’s protection.

F. von Maltzahn-Dressen

    The letter was dispatched immediately to the Princesse P.’s house. Even Fanny herself could not have said whether, in addition to the clear intention to spite the old hag, she really meant to throw a rub in Jack’s way by giving out the information that Lance was living in Jack’s house in Cumberland. For she had not, of course, actually said so.

    In Brighton Mr Beresford had hired a sufficiently roomy and pleasant house, of which Mrs Beresford, all smiles, approved. Owning to her relatives that she was so very pleased to be home, and to hear English spoken all round her again!

    “You see, she is quite common-sensical,” said Horrible as the girls repaired to change for dinner.

    Alice, of course, already knew this, for Mrs Beresford had been duly bidden at intervals over the last half dozen years to call on her Aunt Portwinkle. She nodded calmly.

    “She certainly seems to have a sense of humour,” owned Peg: Aunt B. had not delayed to introduce the topic of Miss Nancy, Mr Rowbotham and the pink-harnessed terrier, and had laughed uproariously over Peg’s account of the renaming.

    “Yes, but personally, I do not think it is funny!” hissed Anne crossly. “He is the most elegant of gentlemen, and very pleasant, and why should not Nancy have him?”

    Horrible collapsed in giggles immediately, and so did Peg, though gasping: “Why not, indeed?” but Alice merely nodded serenely. So Anne followed her into her room, closed the door behind her and proceeded to pursue the conversation.

    “Do you think Aunt B. approves of Peg?”

    “I think it is too soon to tell, Annie-Pannie.”

    “Well, um, do you think she will try to stop her taking Lord Michael?” she hissed.

    “Dearest, there is no need to hiss. I honestly cannot say. It depends whether her worldly sense outweighs her—shall we say, sense of the fitness of things?”

    “No! Her heart!” said Anne crossly.

    “Very well, her heart. But I do think that she will put a stop to the encouragement of little Mr Bobby C.-S.: he has not a penny to his name and in spite of Peg’s claims I doubt very much that he could endure life in a country cottage.”

    “Um, well, he is very fashionable.”

    “Quite.”

    Anne sighed, and sat down listlessly on the edge of Alice’s bed. “Do you think she might encourage Cousin Jack to offer?”

    “No,” said Alice with brutal frankness. “He has always been the apple of her eye, and there were very many more eligible damsels in Bath whom she considered not good enough for him, and discouraged him from pursuing.”

    “Mm,” said Anne, wiping the back of her hand across her eyes.

    Alice swallowed a sigh and came to put an arm round her. “Dearest Annie-Pannie, Peg will not have to take anyone for whom she cannot care if I can get Chelford up to scratch.”

    “No, but I do not like to see you making a sacrifice of yourself, either,” she said, sniffing. “And do not dare to say ‘Mrs Fogarty’.”

    Generously Alice refrained, though certainly saying it grimly in her own mind.

    “And I think,” said Anne on an aggressive note, “that Aunt B. does have a heart, and she will not allow you to take him if you cannot care for him!”

    Alice Buffitt refrained from pointing out that that was not up to Mrs Beresford. She just hugged her comfortingly.

    It was not very long before Mrs Beresford dragged Miss Sissy’s observations of Jack’s conduct towards Peg out of her—not quite in toto: the jealousy of Lord Michael was omitted and the disastrous impact of Mr Buffitt’s letter stressed. A quavered suggestion that Rowena might care to discuss this last point with dear Lady Stamforth was dismissed with a robust laugh.

    Miss Sissy smiled palely. Dear Rowena of course had never cared for Lady Stamforth—or rather, had never fully approved of her and had been very displeased by Jack’s interest in her back in the days when she had been Lady Benedict.

    “Peg seems,” said Mrs Beresford slowly, “quite an intelligent and sensible girl.”

    “My dear, she is more than that! The sweetest nature! And very firm-minded: more than capable of standing up to—” Miss Sissy faltered.

    “To Jack,” said Jack’s mother drily.

    “Well, yes. I am sure you have said yourself that a little doormat would not do for him.”

    “Mm. And so has he, in his saner moments,” she said drily.

    “Wuh-well, that must be an encouraging sign, my dear.”

    “Yes. I think,” she said, narrowing her eyes, “that he must have seen that Damian Buffitt’s intent in ordering him to offer for Peg was to ensure that he never would offer.”

    “Yuh-yes. Well, dear Lady Stamforth and I concluded as much, but—but of course I have not broached it with him. Or, indeed, with Peg.”

    “Very wise, my dear Sissy,” she said grimly. “If he could see that…”

    Miss Sissy looked at the scowl which made her sister look very much like little Horrible in one of her contumacious moods, and swallowed. “Yes, one would think that the result would be to make him do the opposite, I mean, to offer after all. But then, any gentleman needs some encouragement, do you not think, and of course she has not given him any!”

    “Mm. Well, I own, I took one look at those gold curls and the big eyes, not to say the precise sort of figure which Jack has always admired, and wondered why in Heaven’s name that had not been encouragement enough,” said Jack’s mother on a grim note.

    Miss Sissy swallowed again. “Yes, but Rowena, our dearest Jack is a man of sensibility! Of course he would not offer merely on that account!”

    Mrs Beresford sighed and admitted: “I know.”

    After a moment Miss Sissy ventured sadly: “It is a pickle.”

    “A pickle into which the added vinegar of Damian Buffitt’s pointless spite need not have been introduced, yes,” she said heavily.

    “Yes. Um, dear Lady Stamforth thinks that Peg might also have seen that her father’s intent was to put Jack’s back up and ensure he never did offer.”

    “Sissy, if the girl does want him, that will not make his lack of interest of any comfort to her!” she said tartly.

    Miss Sissy had not meant to imply that it would. “No,” she said dully.

    Mrs Beresford sighed. “I’m sorry, Sissy, my dear. I did not mean to snap.”

    “Everybody likes her,” she ventured after a moment.

    Jack’s mother sighed again. “So you say, my dear.”

    “Shall you—shall you speak to him?” she quavered.

    Her sister’s wide mouth tightened. “Why not?” she said grimly.

    Miss Sissy could think of several good reasons why not, perhaps the least of them being that Jack was a grown man and did not need his mother’s nose poking into his concerns. She looked at Rowena’s face and did not venture to express any of them.

    Rowena Beresford could see that Sissy was holding herself back. She did not, however, change her mind about speaking to Jack.

    The house was not nearly as large as the Beresfords’ town house and Jack did not have a study in which he might be cornered, so Mrs Beresford simply bearded him in his room as he was dressing and briskly dismissed the bowing Moffat. “Show me that arm, please, dear boy.”

    Mr Beresford rolled his eyes to High Heaven but showed his mother the now healed forearm. There was a discernible lump where the bone had knit. She frowned over it but merely said that if it gave him any pain, she had an excellent remedy.

    “I am not swallowing any damned—”

    “A salve,” she said unemotionally.

    “Oh, very well. Is that it? May I put me clothes on now?”

    “Don’t be silly, Jack.”

    Shrugging, he put his arm back into his shirtsleeve and got into his waistcoat. “Was there something else?”

    “Well, yes. This absurd business with little Peg.”

    Mr Beresford sat down on his bed and began hauling his boots on. “What absurd business?”

    “Her father’s— Jack! Pay attention, if you please!”

    “Go on,” he said resignedly, sitting up and paying attention.

    “Her father’s ridiculous order to you to offer.”

    “Glad you find it ridiculous, ma’am,” he drawled.

    “Jack, has it never occurred that after months abroad I might not care to hear my only son address me as ma’am?”

    “Er—sorry, Mamma. Er—no, well, it was ridiculous.”

    “Mm. What exactly, did you do to provoke it?”

    Mr Beresford went very red. “Look, there was nothing in it and no-one but a noddy could have taken it seriously, and in fact the damned fellow ain’t taking it seriously! He don’t want me to offer for the girl, he wants to make me so damned annoyed that I’ll sheer off for good and all, and allow to me to tell you, he has succeeded!”

    “No doubt. What did you do to provoke it?”

    “It was— No, very well, I kissed the girl, having no idea at the time that she was anything but a country lass off a waggon. She was on a waggon; I don’t know whether Aunt Sissy has conveyed that choice tidbid to you?”

    “Peg was on a waggon?” she gasped.

    He eyed her in some satisfaction. “Quite.”

    Mrs Beresford sat down on his window-seat with a sigh. “Go on, Jack. What was it, Rose sent her all the way to London on a waggon on the strength of an invitation over a year old?”

    “Not quite, but damned nearly.” Grimly he told her the whole.

    “Mm,” she said slowly. “What was she wearing, again?”

    “What? A damned woollen rag, several sizes too small for her, and a bonnet that gave the impression of being something a cat had slept in for the past twelvemonth! Anyone would have taken her for a carter’s lass!”

    “Yes. I suppose any right-thinking mother may be allowed to be a little taken aback at the news that her son is in the habit of bestowing embraces on carters’ lasses.”

    “I’m not in the habit—” He broke off, scowling.

    “I’m glad to hear that,” said Mrs Beresford drily.

    “Look, you’ve seen her for yourself: she’s the most—”

    “The most?”

    His mouth tightened. “Very pretty,” he said shortly.

    “Yes. I would say, more than that. Considerable strength of character, also?”

    He gave a short laugh. “Goodwin would agree with you! More guts in her little finger than the boy has in his whole body, I think was the expression!”

    “I have always thought,” said Mrs Beresford calmly, “that Goodwin was a man of considerable acuity.”

    He shrugged.

    After a moment his mother said slowly: “Of course, I have known Damian Buffitt for years, but was there any actual reason he should so dislike the idea of your offering for Peg? Apart from the fact that you are apparently the sort of man who kisses very pretty carters’ lasses.”

    “That is not funny, Mamma,” he said grimly. Mrs Beresford merely waited. “Well—uh—damned if I can think of any. Er, resented the fact that I had not kept a better eye upon Lance?” he said, reddening.

    Mrs Beresford stared. “What exactly did happen? Sissy wrote that you took him to Newmarket, but I thought he won rather than lost?”

    “Yes. Not that.” He gnawed on his lip. “Look, he made the acquaintance of Chubby Loomis, through no doing of mine, I might add, and he took him to a gaming house—perfectly respectable, dare say you may find fifty members of the Upper Ten Thousand there any night of the week—and he—uh—fell into undesirable company.”

    After a moment Mrs Beresford said very grimly indeed: “More undesirable than Loomis?”

    Jack bit his lip. “No. I admit I was at fault: I should have made sure, once I knew he’d met the fellow— No, well, it wasn’t that, or any of his ilk. A—an elderly harpy. Er—actually, the Princesse P.”—To his relief, his mother merely nodded.—“She offered him employment, but it had—uh—the conditions which you can imagine. So I got him out of it, and took him back home. If Buffitt blames me for the whole, he cannot do so more than I blame myself, I assure you. Though Lance appeared unscathed.” He hesitated and then admitted glumly: “In fact the phrase ‘water off a duck’s back’ came forcibly to mind: the thing seemed to have made no impression on him whatsoever! I cannot hope to explain it to you, but dealing with Lance is—is like trying to grasp a blancmanger!” He gave her a desperate look.

    “Yes,” said Mrs Beresford calmly. “The father was always like that, too.”

    “Aye,” he said gratefully. “And believe me, he’s got worse. Intractably stubborn… Oh, well.”

    “Yes. But Sissy gave me the impression that Lance is not that? She thinks he will settle in very well with George on the property.”

    “Suggestible,” said Jack with a sigh. “No, well, he does seem happy. His last letter had a glowing account of the mangold wurzels. –Don’t ask, Mamma!” he said with a sudden smile. “Uncle George’s latest obsession. In any case we shall see for ourselves, in a few weeks’ time. Um, you do intend to come home with me?”

    “Yes, of course. I thought, Bath first for Nobby’s wedding, and then home?”

    “Aye.” Jack sighed. “Would have taken straight off this month, to tell you the truth, only that Aunt Sissy thought the girls would care for a spell in Brighton. Well, dare say they’ve all told you that Alice—Miss Buffitt, I should say—seems on course to capture Chelford.”

    “Indeed,” she said composedly.

    “Seems a pleasant enough young fellow.”

    “Good. And the mother?”

    He shook his head. “Stayed on in America. No wish to come to England and cut a dash, apparently.”

    “Really? Good for her,” said Mrs Beresford slowly.

    “Quite. There’s two married sisters what stayed behind, too, but one’s come, with her husband, and two younger unmarried sisters and a brother. We have not seen them, they’re down at Dallermaine. Reading between the lines, being patronised to death by Rosalie Chelford.”

    She winced slightly but owned that it was all too likely. Though at least Her Grace would be able to put them in the way of things.

    “Mm.” He cleared his throat. “Talking of the B.-D.s—”

    “My dearest boy, you did so right to take dear little Anne!” she cried.

    He blinked. “Oh. Good.”

    “Though I have to confess, when I asked Rose if she would care to send us one of her girls, I never for a moment envisaged your being landed with three young charges,” she said with a twinkle in her eye.

    Jack gave her a dry look. “No. Not that Alice is a charge: more than capable of running the whole household and setting us all to rights. Er, you may not have seen it, Mamma: doesn’t show on first acquaintance. But underneath them pretty looks she’s more or less solid steel.”

    “Yes, well, it is not first acquaintance: of course I have seen Alice at Aunt Portwinkle’s. I certainly had the impression that she is both well behaved and extremely strong-minded, yes.”

    “Mm. Uh—Aunt Sissy had some notion the old girl might leave her the lot?” He cocked an eyebrow at her.

    “No,” said Mrs Beresford definitely. “She is very fond of Alice, under that unforthcoming manner of hers, but she would never leave the greater portion of the property outside the Portwinkle family. She may, however, leave her a suitable little legacy, and I think she will provide a small dowry.”

    “Thought so. Well, dare say the looks will outweigh the smallness of the dowry and the steel, for Chelford,” he said with a shrug.

    “Do he see the steel, Jack?” asked his mother drily.

    He looked dry. “Very much doubt it. Mind you, I’d say he needs a woman that can rule him. Dare say she’ll be the making of him.”

    “Mm… Jack, dear boy, all funning aside, Sissy has not the impression that the girl truly cares for him. What is your impression?”

    He hesitated. “Cousin Alice don’t wear her heart on her sleeve, Mamma.”

    “No,” she said with a sigh. “I did not suppose she would.”

    Mr Beresford tapped his fingers on his knee. “Look,” he said finally, “don’t you go reading too much into this, Mamma. Many such marriages work extremely well. But I’d say that on her side, there’s no… flutter.”

    Mrs Beresford did not smile at his choice of phrase. She just nodded very, very slowly.

    Jack got up, looking very dry. “On the other hand, I have no wish to play Darcy to your Bingley: pray don’t take my opinion as Gospel.”

    “What? Nonsense!” she said, laughing in spite of herself.

    His lips twitched. “By the by, you ought to hear Val on the subject.”

    Her jaw sagged. “You—you have not advised him to sheer off little Anne, surely?”

    “No! Not such a gaby! No, nothing of the sort: I meant his opinion of the likelihood of any fellow’s, let alone one what had just hired a decent house, taking another fellow’s word that the lady for whom he had fallen with a thump did not reciprocate.”

    Mrs Beresford got up, smiling. “I shall absolutely not ask for clarification, least of all on the point of the decent house! I shall see you at breakfast, my dear.” She went over to the door, but paused. “Incidentally, Sissy has some absurd story about Peg’s lurking in her room instead of coming down to breakfast with you.”

    Her son went very, very red. “What?”

    “It was something to do with the earliness of the hour, but it became very muddled. I shall go and see if she is lurking now.” She went out.

    Mr Beresford subsided slowly onto the edge of his bed again. “Lurking in her room?” he muttered angrily to himself. “Rubbish!”

    Peg was discovered lurking, or at the least, sitting by the window, reading a book, and was immediately asked to come down to breakfast with her aunt.

    “Y— Um, I thought perhaps you and Mr Beresford would care to breakfast alone together!” she gasped.

    “Certainly not. We have just had a comfortable cose, and in any case we may talk any time we like. Come along, my dear.”

    Peg came, perforce.

Next chapter:

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