Mr Beresford Disposes

21

Mr Beresford Disposes

    Mr George Beresford had not expected to see his nephew again just yet, and being very much the bluff, country-squire type, did not hesitate to say why on earth was he not in Bath for his little cousin’s wedding. Lance also expressed surprise, but this surprise was of the mildest and very soon gave way to an eager demand that Cousin Jack come and inspect himself riding Thunderer, Timothée’s prowess in coming to heel, the progress of the flock under Mr Adams’s care, and etcetera. Ad infinitum—yes. It was some considerable time before Jack managed to get Uncle George alone and demand his assurance that there were no suspicious strangers—in fact no-one unexpected at all—lurking in the neighbourhood. George Beresford informed him comfortably that he was an old woman. Jack began to get very heated but his uncle told him to calm down: the Princesse P. might be a mad old bitch but this was England. And he could ask anyone, there had been no Froggy spies in the neighbourhood. Jack demanded heatedly who had taken Hailsham House but his uncle had no notion and suggested he stop fussing like the aforesaid old woman.

    Inquiry in the village of Mellyn Halt resulted in the discovery that no strangers had been seen apart from Parson Pettigrew’s young nephew, vouched for not only by the burly, rubicund keeper of the inn, but also by one, Mr Scruby, the verger, one, Roger Huddle, unofficial assistant to the latter and assistant gravedigger as required, and finally the vicar himself. Who immediately seized the opportunity to beg Mr Beresford to read the Lesson in church this coming Sunday. For the parish would be so gratified, and though of course Mr Beresford’s uncle would read whenever required, er— Grinning feebly, Mr Beresford conceded that Uncle George barked it out like a military dispatch, and he would be delighted to read. But what about young Lance? Mr Pettigrew at this reddened and admitted that, though young Mr Buffitt was exceedingly well-read—exceedingly!—he seemed to have no grasp of the sacred nature of Holy Scripture, and not three Sundays back had paused in the middle of the reading to inform the startled congregation that, if the Greek were such and such, the interpretation might well be as it was, but if on the other hand it were such and the other, then— Oh, dear! Nobly Mr Beresford forbore to laugh, and explained that Lance’s education had been somewhat unconventional. And, interpreting Mr Pettigrew’s hopeful eye, promised to have a word with him about what was expected of the reader of the Lesson, if Uncle George had not already—? Something in Mr Pettigrew’s expression stopped him in the middle of this query. Sadly Mr Pettigrew noted that dear Mr George Beresford was not, of course, a young man. Oops: slept through the lot. Well, probably just as well!

    The short, rotund Mr Proudy who, in addition to his more general business as solicitor to the neighbourhood, handled whatever business there might be relating to Hailsham House, was perfectly willing to enlighten Mr Beresford. The estate was sold, the new owner being a Mr Matthews. Mr Beresford had been expecting something along the lines of a Monsieur Nom de Plume or Barone Qualcuno, and he sagged where he sat, incapable of uttering more than a feeble “Oh.” Mr Proudy eyed him kindly and refrained from mentioning either the last tenant, one Senhora Baldaya, formerly the Contessa dalla Rovere and still referred to by half London as “the little Contessa,” or Mr Beresford’s mother’s known disapproval of this young lady.

    “Well—uh, well, who is he?” said Jack feebly.

    Mr Proudy screwed his round pink face up and sniffed slightly. “We-ell… quite a gentlemanly person, Mr Beresford.”

    Ouch. Jack couldn’t see Mamma socialising with that! What a pity, for they had no near neighbours at all. But Hailsham House was large and the estate was considerable: what the Devil could the fellow have made his pile in? “Retired tradesman, is he, Proudy?” he said briskly.

    “Something of the sort, sir—yes,” revealed the solicitor on an apologetic note. “But quite determined to do right by the estate!”

    “Yes, well, let’s hope he mends his damned walls.”

    “Indeed, sir! I did just venture to mention the point, for as you well know, that sort of neglect do create ill-feeling in a neighbourhood, and Mr Matthews had happened to say that he had never lived in the country, but his wife had taken a fancy to the house. So I ventured to suggest, sir, that he would no doubt be glad of a recommendation to a reliable agent—”

    “Bless, you, Proudy!” said Jack Beresford with feeling. The more so as Chelford had vanished to Dallermaine shortly after the entertainment at Stamforth Castle and nothing had yet been heard of Paul’s business.

    The middle-aged Mr Proudy smirked. “Thank you, sir. Mind you, I had to explain to him what such a man would do. But once I had made me point, he said it was the same as in business, for nothing would run right if you didn’t have a competent manager, and he’d thought he’d be bored in the country, but now he could see there’d be plenty to keep him occupied! And would be grateful if I could recommend someone. So naturally I said that it was yourself as was the great landowner in these parts, and would be happy to give him a recommendation yourself, and writ out the correct direction for him with my own hand.”

    “But I haven’t heard from him!” he cried.

    “No, well, you wouldn’t have, sir, because it was only yesterday. Which,” said Mr Proudy, fixing him with a stern eye, “I would have broached the matter earlier, sir, when first approached by Mr Matthews’s man with reference to the estate, had I but known that you were seeking a post for your connexion.”

    “Uh—yes. Mea culpa,” said Jack on a rueful note. “Uncle George mentioned it, did he?”

    “Indeed, sir. And young Mr Buffitt.”

    “Yes. Uh—this Matthews taken possession, yet?”

    “Well,” said Mr Proudy temperately, “he has signed the papers, yes: that was what he was in for, yesterday. But as to taking possession— Well, there’s nothing much in it, Mr Beresford. Most of the old furniture went to auction. And, er, some of what the foreign lady had,” he said with a slight cough, “was hired, sir.”

    “What? Oh: yes: chuckin’ old Baldaya’s gelt away with both hands,” he recognised with complete indifference. For a mad moment Mr Proudy found himself wondering if it might be considered his duty to write to apprise Mrs Beresford immediate of the fact.

    Jack hesitated. “Well—uh, no harm in riding over to see if he is there.”

    “I think he was putting up at the Blue Boar, sir.”

    “What? I’ll ring that fellow’s neck! No, sorry, Proudy: thing is, old Ingham swore there’d been no strangers through for this age!”

    “Well, Mr Matthews has been before, sir, you see,” said the country solicitor limply.

    “Been before? Pettigrew’s been our vicar for twelve years and they still call him the new Rector!”

    “Thirteen next Michaelmas: yes,” said Mr Proudy limply.

    Mr Beresford wasn’t listening. “How many other— By God, there could have been fleets of ’em stayed here before, and the numbskull— I must go! Thanks, Proudy!”

    “Master Jack, if you’d just tell me what the matter—”

    But Mr Beresford had rushed out.

    Mr Proudy had managed to half-rise as the door closed behind his visitor. He sat down again slowly. “Hasty,” he said with a sigh. “That’s the Beresford temperament, and always were. Hasty.”

    At the creaky, tumbledown old inn, the burly Mr Ingham pulled his ear slowly. “Ah.”

    “Don’t ‘ah’ me, Ingham!” shouted the driven Mr Beresford. “Whom have you had staying here this past month?”

    “Ah. If it be strangers, now… Well, that Mr Matthews that’s buying Hailsham House, ’e’s here now. I say now, but ’e ain’t in, sir, he’s rid over to look at the place. Not a stranger, though, acos he’s been before.”

    “Yes! List all your guests for the past month!” he shouted furiously. “Plus anyone who was not born in these parts who stopped in at the inn at all!”

    “Not born in these parts?” he echoed dubiously. “Ah… Well, young Mr Lance, out of course!” He beamed proudly.

    Mr Beresford took a precarious breath. “Yes. That’s one. And possibly his strange little grey dog, that’s two.”

    “There ain’t no call to get your dander up, Master Jack. Lemme see… Well, afore Mr Matthews come, there was this feller what ’e sent, see. Mr Duckworth. On the look-out for a likely property, and ’ad the cheek to say as the ’All might do very well! I said to ’im, never you mind your very wells, me lad, there been Beresfords at the ’All since Enery the Eighth!”

    “The Fifth, if you believe Uncle George,” admitted Jack, breaking down and grinning. “Well done, Ingham!”

    “Thank you, Master Jack, sir. Fancy a pint, sir?”

    He did: he felt, though it was still well before noon, that he had more than earned it this morning.

    The elderly landlord waited until young Mr Beresford had sunk a couple of inches before venturing: “Thing is, are you counting seed merchants and such-like, Mr Jack?”

    “Nuh— No, hold on. How well do you know these seed merchants, Ingham?”

    “Ah, well, when it comes to knowing ’em! Can’t say as I know any of ’em. But Mr Potter, ’e been coming over our way for the last ten year.”

    “Then we can rule him out,” said Jack with a sigh. “Go on.”

    “Ah… Then there were Mr Rigg.”

    Perhaps understandably, Mr Beresford misinterpreted this last and asked: “Higgs?”

    “Nothing of the sort, sir! Mr Rigg!”

    “Oh, beg your pardon, Ingham. How many years has he been coming over our way?”

    “Well, three years or so, I s’pose. Only this time, it weren’t ’im.”—Mr Beresford eyed him wildly.—“Little dark feller it were, like to naught as a gypsy, too. Only dressed respectable enough. Ordered a pint of porter and a pie. Then ’e says that Mr Rigg, ’e’s a-working in the office and ’e come in ’is place. ’E ’ad a list,” said Mr Ingham heavily.

    “Eh? Oh—of fellows to see! Well, I hope we were on it!”

    “Not you personal, out of course, sir, but the ’All was, all right and tight, acos in the end, he read it out. What if a label’s nice and clear, or it might be a notice, I can read it nice as pie,” said Mr Ingham on an indignant note, “only this were all ’andwriting, and a terrible scrawl it were, too! And then he goes and says, were this all? ’Cos if so the firm’ll go broke! Looks of a gypsy and cheek of a gypsy,” concluded Mr Ingham darkly.

    “Quite. I think we can discount representatives of known seed merchants. Was there anyone who didn’t seem to be here on legitimate business?”

    “’Ow’s that again, sir?”

    “What? Oh. Um, well, who did not seem to have a, um, real reason to be here.”

    “I get your drift, Master Jack. Thought it ’ad something to do with being born out of wedlock, meself. Like what the new Rector was saying Bessy Mitchell’s baby was gonna be, if someone didn’t tell that Jimmy Carter to pop the question right smart.”

    “Er—yes,” said Jack feebly. “Mr Pettigrew would have said ‘illegitimate’, Ingham.”

    “Dessay you’re right, sir. Fancy another?”

    “I would, but I shan’t: that’s a powerful brew, Ingham!”

    Proudly Mr Ingham retorted that he betted they didn’t get nothing like it in Lunnon Town. Adding that old Mr Wilks came but you couldn’t count him: he was Mrs Tomkins’s brother and would have stayed with them only that the house was full for the golden wedding, and took all his meals there.

    “That all, then?”

    “Mr Medlow from over to Broadmere come to look at a pig, only Mr Crabbe come down and took ’im off to ’Igh Tops. And I can’t say as I know ’im, but I know ’oo ’e is, Master Jack. And Mr Crabbe knows ’im, all right and tight.”

    “Of course: Medlow from Broad Acre Farm, known him all my life,” said Jack automatically.

    “Well, ’e did say as he knowed you, sir,” admitted the landlord. “Fancy a bite o’ dinner? My Molly’s done a nice lamb pie, or she’ll whip you up a dish of liver and onions in a trice!”

    Jack Beresford was aware of several points. First, and not least, any “lamb” pie produced by Molly Ingham would be at least half rabbit; second, it was a considerable ride from the village to Hailsham House, where it was highly unlikely they’d be able to offer him so much as a glass of porter; and third, there was nothing in the world so tasty as Molly Ingham’s liver and onions. “Liver and onions with whipped potato?” he asked hopefully.

    “Not whipped, no. Nice new potatoes, they be. With fresh farm butter.”

    Mr Beresford smiled. “My young cousin informs me there is nothing like our fresh Cumberland farm butter!”

    “That’s right, sir, and Master Lance”—when had Lance been thus demoted, or on second thoughts, was it promoted?—“and Mr George, they come only t’other week, after the market, and had a dish of it to their dinners!”

    That seemed to settle it, and Mr Beresford agreed to a dish of liver and onions with new potatoes and fresh farm butter. If he was sure he fancied it, Molly could sprinkle it with a mite o’ parsley—Jack was sure. Mr Ingham shrugged, but nodded.

    “Thing is,” said the landlord apologetically as he handed him his steaming plate, “we don’t get ’ardly no strangers through, Master Jack. What was you a-wanting to know for?”

    Belatedly it dawned on Jack that old Ingham thought he was hoping that there would have been some strangers— Oh, good God!

    “Well, um, heard there might have been some rascally fellow, um, hanging round up to no good,” he said feebly.

    “Round ’ere? We ain’t ’ad no-one like that since old Loony Len fired Jim Collins’s rick, and that were four year back come Michaelmas. They were going to lock ’im up, only Mr George, ’e got the new Rector to get ’im a place in the workhouse. So there ain’t nothing for you to worry your ’ead over, Master Jack!”

    Apparently not, no. Oh, well, the liver and onions were excellent, and the potatoes little short of superb.

    A solid figure that must be Mr Matthews was discovered on the front sweep of Hailsham House, looking up at the mass of creepers that shrouded the frontage of the old stone house.

    “Don’t tell me,” he said heavily before Jack could take a breath, let alone dismount: “repointing.”

    “Very possibly. There is a claim hereabouts that it’s only the creepers that are holding the place up,” responded Mr Beresford politely.

    “Aye,” he said, grinning slowly. “Dessay there’s a claim that it was the weight of ’em what caused the stable block to collapse, then?”

    “Only the old stable block,” said Jack primly. “Most of the one that was put up in Charles II’s day is still standing.”

    “Ferdinand Matthews,” responded the burly man, holding out his hand.

    Jack dismounted, grinning. “Jack Beresford. Welcome to the district, Mr Matthews.”

    “Very pleased to meet you indeed, Mr Beresford!” he beamed, shaking his hand hard. “They tell me you’re the great man in these parts. Good of you to drop in.”

    “Not at all,” he said smoothly, and waited for the retired merchant to make the next move.

    Mr Matthews shoved his hands into the pockets of his breeches and turned without haste to look at the house again, rocking a bit on his heels. “Thought it was all Charles II?” he produced at last.

    “This house is, yes, but it was built on the site of an older one—I think, Elizabethan. The old stable block and several of the outhouses date from that period.”

    “Ah.”

    “So does the lodge at your gates,” said Jack on a very neutral note: the lodge was missing most of its roof and the gates themselves, in a very beautiful wrought-iron pattern, were in shocking condition and had certainly not been closed in Uncle George’s lifetime.

    “Can wrought iron be restored?” asked Mr Matthews glumly, evidently reading his mind.

    “I would say not, when it has been neglected for nigh on two hundred years, but I am no expert.”

    “Thought as much. The gates took,” he said glumly, “Mrs Matthews’s eye.”

    Jack repressed a wince. “It would be possible to have the pattern reproduced, Mr Matthews.”

    “Looks like I’ll have to,” he said glumly. “Who were these Hailshams, anyway?”

    “Newcomers,” said Jack with a faint sniff.

    “I get you, Mr Beresford: only come to the district when Queen Elizabeth was a lass, did they?”

    Jack gave in and grinned. “Precisely! The Hailsham of the day had a small success at the Court, amazingly enough retreated therefrom with his head and the greater part of his fortune, and built the original house.”

    “Would that’ve been anything like that there Shakespeare’s cottage at Stratford upon Avon?” asked Mr Matthews on an exceeding cautious note.

    “No, indeed, not in these parts: it is generally the local stone, round here. We have always left the half-timbering nonsense strictly alone!” said Jack, now frankly grinning.

    “I don’t mind telling you, sir, that relieves my mind tremendously. Tremendously,” he said solemnly. “For when I couldn’t buy her that there cottage, Mrs Matthews went straight into one of them things that ladies have and never come out of it for three months on end.”

    Jack eyed him warily. “The cottage is said to have that effect on the ladies. Er—a boudoir?”

    “Nay!” he choked, suddenly going into a paroxysm and slapping his ample thigh. “Though she wants one o’ them, and all—and I tell you what, Mr Beresford, I hadn’t never heard the word afore, so I looked it up it the dictionary, and blow me down flat, it’s from the French word that means the sulks!”

    “Quite,” said Jack, allowing himself to grin.

    Mr Matthews at this nigh to laughed himself into an apoplexy. Admitting after he’d blown his nose heartily: “That did me good. –Married man yourself, sir?”

    “Not as yet,” said Jack steadily. “Sufficiently acquainted with the sex, however.”

    “Aye, well, they’re all the same. –I got it!” he cried, snapping his fingers. “It were a decline! Well, near to. Only she ate hearty enough through it. Don’t suppose there would be any way of ensuring the news that they pulled down the Elizabethan house don’t never come to ’er ears, would there?” he added wistfully.

    “I think not,” said Jack, doing his damnedest not to laugh. “You will just have to be careful to avoid the topic of the house’s history.”

    “Aye. That and build her a boudoir.”

    “Of course, though I think there possibly is one. Well, a small upstairs sitting-room.”

    “Been upstairs, have you, sir?” asked Mr Matthews in a friendly way.

    Exactly how much gossip had Ingham, Proudy, et al., poured into the fellow’s ear— Oh, forget it. “Not since I was a lad and undertook the customary expedition to dare the Hailsham ghosts—there are none, by the way, so I hope Mrs Matthews was not holding out hopes in that direction. In more recent times I have been into the chief reception rooms. They appeared in fairly good repair. The house is remarkably solid, if a trifle gloomy.”

    “Oh, Lud, sir, we shan’t regard that,” said Mr Matthews in a heavily ironic tone, “for in two twos Mrs Matthews will have it all decked out in pale straw satin hangings.”

    “That will lighten it somewhat,” conceded Mr Beresford primly.

    “Will it not!” he grinned. “Oh, well, I don’t mind telling you, sir, I’ve made me pile, and if she wants to spend it on a country house, why not?”

    “Indeed. Er—might I ask why Cumberland, though, Mr Matthews?”

    “Well, Mrs Matthews is from Manchester, herself, but she got the idea out of a book. No, I tell a lie: at least three books. Two was poets, don’t ask me what their names were, and one was a guidebook writ by a lady. So we come, and nothing would do for ’er but a house with a view of a mere.”

    “Wordsworth? Coleridge?” said Jack, raising his eyebrows and grinning at him.

    “Dare say. Daffodils?” he ventured.

    “Oh, definitely!” choked Jack, suddenly—why at this precise point he could not have said—giving way entirely and laughing himself nigh into a fit.

    Mr Matthews merely watched him tolerantly and said, when he had pulled himself together and was beginning to apologise: “Don’t, Mr Beresford. It’s laugh or cry, when the womenfolk take a fixed idea into their noddles, ain’t it?”

    “Indeed,” he agreed weakly, blowing his nose and stowing his handkerchief away. ”But I’m afraid, though there is a delightful view of Hailsham House’s artificial lake from the drawing-room—indeed from all the rooms on that side of the house—that it is not a mere.”

    “No, that Proudy fellow told me the nearest is Beresmere, and it’s quite a ways, cross-country, from here. So how big does a lake have to be before it can be called a mere, Mr Beresford?”

    “Oh, in these parts very little larger than a mere pond,” said Jack with a wicked twinkle in his eye. “The size is not crucial. But you see, a lake built something like fifty years back by a gentleman who had been impressed by various estates that had come under the hand of the great Capability Brown falls outside the local definition.”

    Mr Matthews shook slightly. “I see that! But would it hurt to call it Hailsham Mere?”

    “Not the least in the world, only the local people will not of course recognise it by that name, however much you insist. Including your gardeners and so forth, I’m afraid.”

    “In that case, when Mrs Matthews’ sister Janey comes to stay we’ll just have to see she don’t talk to no gardeners or such-like!” he said, rubbing his hands. “Good! Talking of which, overgrown, ain’t it?”

    “Mm. Hiring a decent head gardener would be one of my priorities, in your shoes.”

    “I’ve never had a garden or a gardener in me life,” replied Mr Matthews heavily.

    Jack looked at him with a certain sympathy. “No. Well, Proudy mentioned you are in want of an agent. I can recommend a man who is extremely capable, and can certainly take over the task of interviewing all applicants for positions on the estate.”

    “Aye, he said you knew a good fellow, Mr Beresford. Experienced at hiring gardeners and such, is ’e?”

    “He is experienced with all aspects of managing a large estate, Mr Matthews.”

    “Hm. Then why ain’t he managing one as we speak?”

    Jack grimaced. He was not surprised that Mr Matthews had asked this question and in fact would not have been surprised had he come out with it even sooner: the man was, obviously, very far from being the simple retired merchant he had envisaged. “I had best admit straight out that he is married to a connexion of mine. He is a thoroughly good fellow who has recently lost his position through no fault of his own.”

    “Ah,” said Mr Matthews neutrally.

    “It’s a longish story, in that it has to take into account the idiocy of a simple-minded young female, the prejudice of an unpleasant older woman, and the downright snobbery of a family which most certainly ought to know better. Uh—could we sit down, perhaps, Mr Matthews? I’d be happy to tell you it all.”

    “Well, Mr Beresford, we could go inside and have a sit-down, aye, though there’s nothing to whet your whistle in there, unless you fancy a black bottle with foreign writing on it,” said Mr Matthews in a lugubrious tone.

    “I rather think I do!” said Jack with a laugh. “Do it say ‘Porto de Lisboa’, or something of the sort?”

    “No. ‘Vin du pays’,” replied Mr Matthews insouciantly, and in very passable French.

    “Lequel pays, monsieur?” replied Jack Beresford sedately.

    Shaking slightly, Mr Matthews owned: “It’s a nice little claret, sir. The shipper’s based in Bordeaux, all right and tight.”

    “In the trade yourself, were you, Mr Matthews?” asked Jack with a smile as they made their way to the house.

    “No, sir, that’s me brother-in-law,” said Mr Matthews calmly. “There is some port, only it ain’t in no black bottle: it’s a barrel.”

    “My God: she left a barrel?” he said limply.

    “Seems like it,” said Mr Matthews cheerfully. “I’m assuming it goes with the house.”

    “So would I!” said Jack Beresford fervently. “Uh—it ain’t empty, is it?”

    “By the sound of it I'd say it was three-quarters full. I tasted it, to be on the safe side,” he said in a prim voice.

    Jack Beresford eyed him warily. “Oh?”

    “It ain’t gone off,” said Mr Matthews primly.

    At this Mr Beresford collapsed in a choking fit and Mr Matthews, opening his front door wide, ushered him into his new possession with a broad grin on his face.

    … “I see,” he said at the conclusion of Jack’s narrative. “Bon-Dutton, eh? Seems to me I’ve heard the name afore… Ah! Lord Peter Bon-Dutton, that right?”

    “Yes: he’d be Lord Frederick’s brother: quite a pleasant place down in the southern counties somewhere. Hampshire, I think.”

    “Right. He had three dozen of as a decent a burgundy as I ever tasted off me brother-in-law, on the excuse he was trying out a new wine merchant, and Jim’s never had so much as a sniff of his gelt from that day to this. About three year since, that were.”

    It was not positively unknown for a wealthy man to neglect to pay his wine merchant for such a period; nevertheless Jack Beresford shrugged a little and made a face. “Sounds like him—aye.”

    “Ah. Well, I’d like to talk to this Paul Hilton of yours before I make any decision.”

    “Of course, Mr Matthews. Shall I send for him to come over to you?”

    Mr Matthews scratched his chin slowly. “Ah. I’d like to see him here—hear what he makes of the place, y’know. Only I got to get back to Mrs Matthews and stop her ordering the furniture sent over before I’ve made sure the roof won’t fall in.”

    “Of course: you won’t want to take up residence while the place is being refurbished, it would be most uncomfortable.”

    “Aye, that’s it. –‘Take up residence’,” echoed Mr Matthews mournfully, sighing. “Aye. Only what if they do it all wrong?”

    Jack smiled, just a little. “Dare I say it, Mr Matthews? It is for that sort of thing that one hires a reliable man of business!”

    “You got me, there,” he said, winking. “Well, you’re right, of course. Tell you what, what say you send Hilton down to me—we’ll be at home, she’s decided I got to leave the London office entirely to me eldest son and me son-in-law, now that I’m a landed gent—and then, if we like the look of each other, maybe he’d like to come on over here with me and take a look at the place, eh?”

    Jack did not blink at the mention of a London office: he had begun to take the measure of Mr Matthews, and was now inclined to the opinion that the man could buy and sell him, Jack Beresford, several times over. “That sounds an excellent notion, sir. –Thank you,” he said, as Mr Matthews, having produced a card, wrote his Manchester address on the back of it. –The card was extremely illuminating, in that it announced: “F. Matthews” and, in smaller letters “Matthews & Son. London, Manchester, & York.”

    Mr Matthews watched with an odd little smile on his wide face as Mr Beresford stowed the card away carefully without posing any questions. “I’m a banker, Mr Beresford.”

    “I see. I bank with Rimmer’s, myself.”

    “That right, sir? Very old-established English firm,” said Mr Matthews on a completely neutral note.

    “Mr Matthews, if you know something to their discredit, for God’s sake tell me!” said Jack in some alarm.

    Mr Matthews’ shrewd brown eyes twinkled. “Nothing to their discredit, sir; quite the contrary. No, well, it’s known in the City, out of course. Well—thing is, when old Mr Rimmer went, they were bought out, but still kept the name.”

    “It is a Mr Conway with whom I deal,” said Jack dubiously.

    “Yes, of course, Mr Beresford. I know Thomas Conway quite well—very solid man.”

    “For God’s sake! Spit it out, man!”

    “It’s a Continental bank what owns ’em.” Mr Matthews cleared his throat. “Meinhoff & Cie.”

    “Mein— The Jews, is that what you’re trying to say, Matthews?” said Jack limply.

    “Well, yes. Had the privilege of meeting the old man himself, once—in Amsterdam, sir, didn’t hardly never come to England. Side-curls, the little hat—the lot,” said Mr Matthews uncomfortably.

    “In that case,” said Jack Beresford primly: “I can only conclude my money is considerably safer than the Bank of England.”

    Mr Matthews gave a shout of laughter, slapped his thigh, and went into a spluttering fit that lasted for come considerable time. And, having made a quick trip down cellar, admitted as the two sipped the Senhora Baldaya’s excellent port: “Between you and me and this here porto, Mr Beresford, a little bird in the City told me that it was Meinhoff what bankrolled England and Old Hooky when the ’ole of the ruddy Continent was for Boney. Well, could of backed both sides against the middle, true—but I do know as none of the others ’ad the sense to back the winning side at Waterloo!”

    At which Mr Beresford concluded that his money was, indeed, safer than the Bank of England.

    “What did you think of him, Uncle George?” said Jack a trifle nervously when, after a pleasant evening spent at Beresford Hall, Mr Matthews thanked Mr Beresford for his hospitality, bade Mr George Beresford and young Mr Buffitt hearty good-nights, and drove off in his carriage in the direction of whatever comforts Mr Ingham could offer him, having refused, politely but firmly, the offer of a bed at the Hall.

    “Do it matter what I think, Jack?” responded his uncle drily.

    “No,” said Lance before Jack could open his mouth. “What matters is whether Mrs M. will be found to be an encroaching toad-eater, or the daughters to have matrimonial ideas above their station!”

    George Beresford sucked his teeth. “The lad’s not far wrong, if it is largely your grandfather’s brandy speaking.”

    “Yes: get off to bed, Lance,” said Mr Beresford mildly.

    “No, I say—! I am old enough to have an opinion!”

    “But apparently not old enough to hold my grandfather’s brandy,” replied his cousin coldly.

    “You set yourself up for that, lad,” noted George Beresford . “Get off with you, or you’ll miss Jack tomorrow morning.”

    “Uh—but you ain’t off to Lincolnshire tomorrow, Jack?” he stuttered.

    “Yes. Go—to—bed.”

    “But why? You ain’t hardly got here! And what about Melly Peak?”

    “We can climb it this summer. I’ll be back very soon.”

    Lance went slowly over to the door. “Well, is it a promise?”

    “Yes. Bed.”

    Lance opened the door. “I liked him, anyway!” he said on a defiant note.

    “Good. So did I,” said Jack mildly.

    “Oh, good,” he said limply. “Well—goodnight, then.”

    “Goodnight,” said the Beresfords firmly in chorus.

    Lance went out slowly.

    George Beresford took a deep breath. “And shut the—”

    “I am,” he said, popping his head round it. “Promise you won’t let me sleep in tomorrow, though?”

    “Aye. Get off with you.”

    Lance was apparently satisfied with this, for he said: “Goodnight, then,” and shut the door looking cheerful.

    “I’m sorry, Uncle George,” said Jack limply.

    “No, well, think the lad thought you were fixed to stay on for the summer.”

    “Mm. But I should like to speak to Hilton myself, and,” he said, grimacing, “although I did drop him a line, I think I should speak to Sir Horace about possible envoys from the Princesse P. The more I think about that Curran fellow, the less I like the sound of it—not him, necessarily, but the way the old man seems to accept odds and sods of strangers so readily.”

    “He’ll say you’re making mountains out of molehills, too,” he grunted.

    “I dare say. What did you think of Matthews? –Putative encroaching wives and daughters apart.”

    “We-ell… Real cit, ain’t he?” He shook his head slowly. “No saying if he’ll settle.”

    “He seems determined to make a go of it.”

    “Aye… But the pace of country life ain’t nothing like what he’ll be used to, Jack.”

    “No. Well, wait and see, as far as that aspect of it is concerned. But the man himself?”

    His uncle rubbed his chin. “Shrewd fellow, I’d say, Jack.”

    “Very, I should say. Honest?”

    “He struck me as honest, aye. Only cunning with it, mind you. Wouldn’t take everything he said at face value, by any means. Sense of humour, of course—I could see that appealed to you and young Lance. Your father would have liked him, I think.”

    This was a good sign: Jack looked at him hopefully.

    “Aye…” he said slowly. “I liked him, Jack. Dare say he’ll make a decent neighbour, if he’ll settle. Only Lance is in the right of it, you know. It don’t matter what you think or I think, and so long as he don’t eat his peas off his knife it don’t matter all that much what Matthews is like, either. And actually, I thought your mother would quite take to him: she generally likes people with common sense, and he’s got that a-plenty, sticks out a mile, don’t it? But it’ll be the wife what’ll make or break him with the womenfolk, you know that, Jack.”

    “Mm. Well, as to the immediate neighbourhood, there is only Mamma and Aunt Mary, and I suppose Lady Stevens, though she and Sir John aren’t at the hunting box all that often… Mrs Pettigrew, I suppose.”

    “A long way after your ma—but you ain’t wrong.”

    Jack looked wry. “Mrs Langley?”

    George Beresford sniffed, and acknowledged: “That’d be right.”

    “And Lady Porton,” Jack finished heavily.

    “Right: twenty-five mile ain’t too far to catch the scent of an encroaching toad-eater with ideas above her station and a pack of daughters on the catch for young Harry Porton.”

    “Exact.”

    The two Beresfords looked at each other and—regrettably—burst into roars of laughter.

    On the morrow Lance announced he had decided he’d come over to Lincolnshire with Cousin Jack, but fortunately Mr Beresford had seen that coming and informed him that Uncle George needed him on the place, adding into the bargain did he want Uncle George to think he was giving up before he had hardly started? So Lance subsided, glaring—and in spite of their different colouring, looking very much like Peg. And Mr Beresford departed, not without issuing further and completely redundant instructions to the stolid Goodwin not to take his eye off Mr Lance for an instant and not on any account to let him ride down to the village alone!

    Sir Horace Monday had been horrified at Jack’s tale of Lance’s misadventures in London and was only too ready to discuss the matter in person, of course asking why had he not warned him earlier? Though noting that Curran had been a terribly decent feller, nothin’ of the hired henchman about him, gentleman to his fingertips!

    “Of course, sir,” said Jack politely, concealing his annoyance that the fellow had vanished with, as far as he had yet ascertained, no trace. “May I ask, did he mention his family, at all?”

    “Not a married man,” he grunted. “Seemed to take to Paul and Maria’s little ones, though.”

    “Er—I see. Nothing about his relatives or his family home, sir?”

    “I can see what you’re getting at,” said the older man huffily, “only there was nothing smoky about him! What d’you take me for?”

    Ruefully Jack begged his pardon, assuring him that he meant nothing by it, etcetera, etcetera…

    Sir Horace then heard Mr Hilton returning from his ride, and immediately called him into the room. He shook hands and thanked Mr Beresford fervently for his help with the Duke.

    “I merely made sure Chelford was aware of your case; nothing to thank me for. Nothing from that direction, as yet?” asked Jack, frowning a little.

    “Yes, indeed, sir: His Grace must have set things in motion, for Mr Fitton wishes to see me tomorrow!”

    Jack was blank for a moment. “Uh—oh! The Chelford Place agent? Well, that is very good news, Hilton! Uh—now, think I might have gone and complicated things for you. Well, hadn’t heard a peep out of Chelford, so—” He explained about the opportunity with Mr Matthews.

    “There, now! Told you Beresford would come up trumps!” declared Sir Horace, patting Paul heartily on the back. “Drink to it, shall we? ALFRED!”

    Alfred Dingley shot in, was ordered to bring the Madeira, and shot out again.

    “Which position shall you take, me boy?” asked Sir Horace genially.

    Mr Hilton reddened slightly. “Well, neither has as yet been offered, sir! But in the event both were to be available… Well, I should have to think it over very carefully. There would be advantages to both.”

    The old man sniffed. “In your shoes, wouldn’t hesitate to take the job in Beresford’s county—well, get you away from your damned pa-in-law, wouldn’t it? Added to which, you’d be your own man, in Cumberland!”

    “You would, yes, in that you would not be the assistant,” agreed Jack. “But on the other hand, Matthews is a sharp fellow used to keeping busy: much as I’d like to see you settled next to us, I have to say that I don’t think he’d leave you to your own devices.”

    “I see, sir. I’d need to meet him and see if our temperaments might suit, in that case.”

    “Mm.” Jack smiled at him. “We liked him. I think you might work well together: he knows nothing of country matters, and is the first to admit as such, but has considerable acumen, not only of the commercial variety. But as you say, you must meet him.”

    “Aye. See old Fitton, and mind you don’t give him any promises,” ordered Sir Horace, “and then get straight on down to see this Matthews, hey? ALFRED!”

    And, Alfred panting in with the Madeira, the gentleman were enabled to drink to Paul’s future.

    Mrs Hilton was over with her parents today, so a little later in the day Jack managed to talk to Paul alone, in the library. He was more forthcoming than Sir Horace about the mysterious Curran, if even more horrified by Mr Beresford’s reason for asking. “My wife and her mamma liked him very much, though I think it did not occur to Maria that he was the sort of gentleman who does not expect to be disliked by the distaff side.”

    Jack grinned. “I get you! And did you like him, Hilton?”

    “Well, yes. He was extremely pleasant to me.” His steady brown eyes twinkled a little. “Even when Sir Horace was not in the room,” he murmured.

    “Entirely unlike any B.-D. what ever walked, then!” said Jack with considerable sympathy.

    “Yes, indeed,” admitted Mr Hilton. He hesitated. “I’m afraid this is hindsight, Mr Beresford, but he did not mention very much about his family or connections… He did say that he had been visiting an ailing elderly relative over near Darley Hall. Er—Sir Horace may have said to you,” he said on an uncomfortable note, “that it was old Lady Darley herself, but Mr Curran most certainly did not say as much in my hearing. Though I believe it is true that her Ladyship has been unwell. Um… Are you acquainted with a Commander Sir Arthur Jerningham, sir?” Jack nodded and he said: “He mentioned him, and also a close friend of his whose name I cannot recall—also a retired naval officer.”

    “Captain Quarmby-Vine?” said Jack slowly. Mr Hilton conceded he thought it had been, and he nodded. “Derbyshire families. I know the Q.-V. property very well—it is not the Captain’s, but his brother’s. I was at school with the eldest son, Bobby Q.-V… Derbyshire? The name Curran rings no bells in that connection. Can you think of any other names he mentioned?”

    “Well… We got onto the topic of politics one day, Mr Beresford, and he spoke— Let me phrase it exactly,” said Mr Hilton, frowning over it. “I was about to say very freely, but that is not it. He spoke both knowledgeably and naturally of several very eminent men indeed.”

    “Naturally?” said Jack sharply.

    “Yes. Not in the least as if he wished to impress.”

    Jack ran his hand through his crisp black curls. This was getting odder and odder. “Which eminent men, can you remember?”

    Looking very apologetic, Mr Hilton reeled off a list of names. They were eminent, all right. Up to and including Wellington himself.

    “Wellington? Look, are you sure he was not doing it to impress?”

    “Quite sure, sir,” said Paul Hilton firmly.

    “Uh—well, was he a Whig or Tory?” said Jack on a mad note.

    Mr Hilton’s firm mouth twitched a very little. “I would say a Tory, sir, most definitely, but—er—”

    Mr Beresford cocked an eyebrow. “Not a convinced one, hey?”

    “Not quite that, no. If I said that Mr Curran was a Tory with no illusions about either his party or its policies, that might sound as he were a disillusioned man, and he did not give that impression, by any means.”

    “Uh—a realist?” he groped.

    Mr Hilton nodded, and smiled. “Very much so, sir. Between you and me, I gained the impression that he had very little truly in common with Sir Horace, but that it was that shared trait, together with Sir Horace’s common sense, which inclined him to like him very much.”

    “Y— Uh, hang on; you mean inclined Curran to like the old boy?”

    “Yes,” said Mr Hilton succinctly.

    There was a little silence. Then Jack said limply: “You have painted the portrait of a dashed likeable man, there, Hilton!”

    “Yes. We did all like him, even the children.”

    Jack looked at him weakly. “Right. Well, nothing to worry about there.”

    “No, indeed, though I agree that it can do no harm to have Sir Horace on his guard.” He drew a deep breath. “Mr Beresford, please allow me to express my gratitude for all your good offices on my behalf, and—and to assure you that whichever position I might be so lucky as to secure I—I will not disappoint your trust in me.”

    Jack saw the poor young man’s lips were trembling a little. He clapped him lightly on the shoulder, and said: “Rubbish, Hilton, don't mention it: know you won’t. Mrs Buffitt wrote Miss Peg a most graphic account of your refusal to poach Sir Horace’s trout, y’know! Now, that sounds like Mrs Hilton and the children coming back: why not cut along and tell her the good news, hey?”

    “Yes. Thank you,” he said shakily.

    Jack Beresford allowed his hand to be wrung painfully hard and subsided slowly onto a chair, contemplating for the first time in his easy existence the reality of what it must be like to be a fellow with a family to support and one’s way to make in the world.

    —Aye: all that and damned Damian Buffitt for a father-in-law? Well, thank God for Sir Horace Monday!

    “Jack has written with some excellent news,” said Mrs Beresford, coming into the salon of the Bath house where the Buffitt sisters were sewing or reading. “He has found Paul a likely position.”

    “Oh!” cried Anne. “Huzza!” She burst into tears.

    “That is splendid news,” smiled Alice, handing Anne a clean handkerchief. “In addition to his speaking to Chelford, Aunt Beresford?”

    “Yes, indeed, my dear. Well, at the least this will give Paul a choice, but it is a much better situation.”

    “Really?” said Peg limply, sagging. “Whereabouts, Aunt Beresford?”

    “It is the next property to Beresford Hall: Hailsham House!” revealed Mrs Beresford, all smiles.

    “Lance did write it was sold,” recalled Alice.

    “Yes: the new owner is a retired merchant who knows nothing of managing a country property, so of course Jack suggested Paul.”

    “That will certainly give our dear brother-in-law something to get his teeth into—will it not, Peg?” smiled Alice.

    “Um, yes,” said Peg in a wavering voice. “So—so it is not in Scotland?”

    “Scotland?” said Mrs Beresford in bewilderment. “Whatever gave you that notion?”

    “Wuh-well, at one point, when we spoke of the matter, Scotland was—was mentioned.”

    Anne blew her nose hard, and beamed. “Maria will be so glad to be near to Lance!”

    Peg got up. “Yes. And he will be spared the bother of devising an infallible scheme for conveying Mrs Whosis’s knitting pattern to her, and duh-don’t ask me how, but I am absolutely convinced that Puh—Pa will manage to spoil this, too!” Forthwith she burst into sobs that were far more convulsive than Anne’s tears of joy had been, and rushed out of the room.

    “Dear me,” said Mrs Beresford with complete placidity into the stunned silence.

Next chapter:

https://pegbuffitt-aregencynovel.blogspot.com/2023/05/peg-makes-decision.html