A Buffitt Crisis

12

A Buffitt Crisis

    It was a beautiful mild morning. Mr Beresford and Mr Valentine repaired to the former’s house feeling rather pleased with themselves. The former’s mood might have been attributed, at least in part, to the fact that he had got Val along to Jackson’s, shown him the workout Jackson had devised entailing the footwork, and made him do it with him. The latter’s, in spite of this invigorating exercise, was more probably attributable to the fact that Jack had let him handle the ribbons coming back.

    Their feelings of wellbeing lasted approximately two seconds after they had their feet across the threshold. At that point Mr Beresford’s cousin’s daughter burst out of the sitting-room, gasping: “Jack! Thank goodness you’re back! The most frightful thing!”

    Mr Beresford went pale. “What is it? Bad news from Vienna?”

    “No, no, nothing to do with May or Aunt Beresford,” said Horrible hurriedly. “But Peg—”

    “An accident?” he said, going a nasty greenish colour.

    “No, no! She is quite all right!”

    Quietly Mr Valentine put a supporting hand under his old friend’s good elbow. Severely he said to Miss Laidlaw: “Look here, you stop wittering on like a ninny, Miss, and tell us exactly what’s wrong.”

    “I don’t know exactly! But she’s had bad news from home!”

    “The brother?” said Mr Valentine in a low voice to his old friend.

    “Very possibly. I should have— Never mind. Is she in the sitting-room?” he said grimly to Horrible.

    “No, in her room. Aunt Sissy’s out. She won’t tell me what it is,” said Horrible awkwardly.

    Nodding, Mr Beresford ran up the stairs.

    Horrible looked uneasily at Mr Valentine.

    “Sorry I called you a ninny,” said that gentleman cheerfully. “I say, old Jack turned a very nasty colour when he thought she might have met with an accident, hey? Dashed good sign, don’t you think?”

    “Um—yes,” said Horrible weakly. “Um—well, will you come in, Mr Valentine?”

    Happily Mr Valentine accompanied her into the sitting-room.

    Mr Beresford gave the most perfunctory of knocks at Miss Buffitt’s door and went in without waiting for a response. Peg was sitting on her bed, her eyes very red, holding a letter.

    “Horrible says you have had bad news from home. What is it?”

    Peg wiped the back of her hand across her eyes. “Nothing.”

    “It is manifestly something,” he said on a grim note. “Is someone ill? If so, I will escort you—”

    “No. They’re all well,” said Peg, sniffing again. “–Thank you.”

    Mr Beresford handed her a flag-like handkerchief and sat down beside her on the bed, quite as if she had been his sister. “Thank God for that.”

    “The little ones have all had the measles. But they’re all better,” said Peg, blowing her nose.

    “Then there is nothing to cry about!” he said bracingly.

    “No. Not that. It’s so stupid,” she said, her lower lip wobbling.

    “Is it about Lance?” asked Mr Beresford grimly.

    “Um—no,” she said blankly. “At least, he hasn’t done anything, but he is being made to suffer for it: they are all being made to suffer for it, and it is so unfair!” At this a fresh burst of tears overtook her.

    Not unnaturally the first notion that this speech suggested to Mr Beresford’s mind was that the unfortunate Sir Horace Monday had finally got fed up with damned Damian Buffitt and sent the lot of them packing. “You had best tell me,” he said firmly. “And don’t worry: there are a couple of houses in Cumberland that they could be comfortable in.”

    She stared at him, tears rolling down her cheeks. “Cumberland?”

    “Yes. On the property. Old Monday’s sent them packing, that it?”

    “No, of course not!” said Peg, the tears drying up out of sheer amaze. “He is as cross as they are, but there is nothing he can do about it.”

    At this Mr Beresford simply removed the letter from her hand.

    There were sheets and sheets of it. He looked through them dazedly. One sheet was extremely neat, and had been crossed in one corner. It seemed to be about the measles epidemic. Several sheets, in a quite different hand, were so scrawled, blotted and—er—blotched?—as to be nigh illegible. He peered. Er—tear marks? Or had someone merely overset a glass of water nearby? Two whole sheets had been used up by large, wavering, childish hands reporting that the writers had had the meesels (sic). Finally he seized upon the sheet signed: “Lance”. Partly because his own name had started out of the page at him, and partly out of a desperate feeling that it was unlikely a fellow-male would write a whole letter about the damned measles.

Dear Peg,

    The lot of them are in a panick, out of course, but I dare say you can disregard the half of what they say. Even Sir Horace is at a standstill. The family are cutting him dead, would you believe they refused to Admitt him? No-one can think what to do. Maria is over every day weeping buckets. Even tho’ they have had to give up the carriage. Pa gets on out of it. Dare say one cannot blame him, only then the whole thing must fall on Ma. I was driven to say to him, “Sir, what about your parental responsibilities?” To which he replied that those were generally concluded to be over when one had married the girl off. As you may imagine, I became very annoyed, in especial as it was Anne’s blame, if anyone’s, not Maria’s, but it did no good at all. So then I said if he would not take them up, what about his conjugal ones? To which he had the gall to respond that he had more than fulfilled those and that was half the d— trouble! So I said, “Be d— to you, I will support Ma myself!’”

    I think the best thing might be if you were to ask Cousin Jack’s advice. I dare say he may know what to do. Pray do not get upon your high horse, Peg: this is a case of the greater good. And I know you do not care to accept suggestions, but you should say to him that the family name is Bon-Dutton.

    I did urge Paul to write to him himself, but he is far too modest to put himself forward in such a way.

    Timothée continues splendid. Sir Horace says he may be a Dutch breed of dog, what do you think of that?

Yours, in haste,

Lance.

    Mr Beresford looked dazedly at his connexion.

    “I am not asking you,” said Peg hurriedly, “and he thinks I do not know about that Lady Reginald Bon-Dutton, but I do, and I am sure I do not care!”

    “That’s good,” he said through his teeth. “For I can assure you, I do not care myself.”

    Peg took a trembling breath. “No, well, several remarks Ma and Pa have made upon very similar subjects now seem quite clear to me, sir, and all I have to say to that is, it is true that in such involvements the woman may always expect to come off worse, be it in one way or another!”

    Mr Beresford’s lips tightened but he said very firmly indeed: “Cousin Peg, I shall overlook that, because I can see you are very upset. This farrago of Lance’s tells me less than nothing except that your pleasant brother-in-law appears to be in need of my aid. What has happened?”

    “Nothing that you can do anything about, and it is just like Lance to try to push it onto you!” said Peg on a cross note, twisting his handkerchief tightly between her hands.

    At this Mr Beresford simply covered her hot, damp, agitated hands very tightly with his good one and said: “I think, if he has had to give up his carriage, Hilton must have lost his job, is that it? The new duke, was it? Or another of the damned B.-D.s?”

    “Yes, but there is nothing you can do!” cried Peg, tears starting to her eyes again.

    Mr Beresford, to say truth, was rather glad to hear it was nothing he could do, and not nothing he could do. “I certainly cannot do anything unless I know the facts,” he said mildly.

    Snuffling, Peg returned drearily: “Read Ma’s. The pretty hand.”

    He sorted through the sheets again. “This one?”

    “Yes. But there is nothing anybody can do,” she said dully.

    Mr Beresford began to read. The hand was pretty, all right, but not particularly clear: full of unnecessary loops and whorls.

Dearest Peg-Peg,

    Maria is writing you also, but as I am perfectly sure hers will be all measles & prisms, I thought I had best take it upon myself to warn you to ignore her every word—or if you do not precisely do that, exaggerate her every temperate utterance ten times over!—and apprise you of the facts of the case. It is not so very dreadful in its essence, tho’ its consequences have been fairly well disastrous for poor Paul. But dear Sir Horace is doing all he can, and I dare say will make it all come right. So I beg you, do not rush off at a tangent! But on the other hand, as I say, do exaggerate any attempt of Maria’s to pour cold water, for in spite of what she may write, she is over here every day crying her eyes out, poor lamb. The which does not help, for poor Anne is blaming herself quite enough without the constant presence of a tacitly condemnatory watering-pot.

    At this point, early though it was, Mr Beresford was inspired with a desire to wrench his hair out by its roots. He read on grimly:

    Of course you will recall that absurd episode with Sir Horace’s nephew. When Anne met him out walking, and he persisted in calling, and poor dear Sir Horace could not see that it was but a very young man’s fancy that would all blow over if left to itself, and so had to kick up a terrific fuss and send him packing to his home, poor boy. Well, she has done it again, poor little Annie-Pannie! This time not a nephew, at least not one of Sir H.’s. It was all the fault of the horrid measles. Tommy & Lilibet came down with them first and then Maria’s two, so I sent Annie-Pannie over there to help. Of course Maria was glad of the company, but she is so horridly competent that she did not really need her, and so Anne had plenty of opportunity for pleasant strolls. During one of which she met, inevitably, a pretty young man. He seemed pleasant and unassuming and was delighted to discover anything as pretty as our Anne living in the neighbourhood. Tho’ not disclosing his own precise address, the which was a pity, altho’ as she is not precisely famed for her good sense it would probably have made no difference in any case. The next day, lo! They happen to meet again. And so it goes on, for an entire week. He, as you must by now perceive, Peggums, is fully as silly as she and being some several years older, must be supposed to incur most of the blame. Or at least would, if the world were a sensible place.

    Alas, at this point Mr Beresford groaned aloud: “My God! Can the woman never get to the point?”

    “She is like that,” said Peg on an anxious note. “But it gives one a very good sense of the background to it all, do you not think?”

    “Er—yes,” he said, clearing his throat. “Of course.” Hurriedly he read on:

    I dare say Maria has long since wrote that the family is come to Chelford Place. However, the fact did not suggest anything to Annie-Pannie. Nor did the arrival of a gracious invitation to Mr and Mrs Hilton and their young guest to attend a soirée at the Place in the presence, I beg your pardon, gracious presences, of Lord Frederick Bon-Dutton, Lady Frederick Bon-Dutton, and family. –That is the family name, by the way. I am sure dear Sir Horace must have mentioned it but I could swear I had never heard it spoken in the neighbourhood in all the years we have been here! Well, Maria & Anne were in a flutter at the idea of visiting at the great house, it not having dawned on their pure minds that a soirée is what very grand people call it when they don’t intend to feed one.

    Mr Beresford choked in spite of himself.

    At last the great day dawned! It would have been instantly apparent to more educated minds that Lady Frederick Bon-Dutton is a Lady Catherine de Burgh. Maria merely reported dubiously that she reminded her very much of someone, but she could not think who, for she had never met a grand lady before in her life. Anne’s suggestion was Aunt Honeywell. Closer—yes.

    Mr Beresford choked again. “Lady Catherine de Burgh—Aunt Honeywell,” he said feebly to Peg.

    She nodded, smiling a little, he was very glad to see.

    The other company consisted of various other persons such as the vicar & wife, complete with the Reverend Mr Fudge-Whiskers, deserving of a certain notice, in especial if one wishes to establish one’s position in the districk. Getting them all over in one fell swoop—quite. Lady Frederick did not appear to feel that the fact she had not fed them was any excuse for Maria’s and Anne’s not being able to perform upon the pianoforte, however. Fortunately a squashed Miss Bon-Dutton was present, and able to show them up nicely. Fudge-Whiskers came and leered at her while assisting with the page-turning, but this did not go down at all well, and Lady C., I beg your pardon, Lady F. stated that she was sure he would wish to pay Miss Anne Buffitt some attention—in so many words, poor Annie-Pannie self-confessedly red as a beet, mixed indignation & embarrassment—and some sort of a cousin, a Major Thingamabob, must turn instead. Even this was not sufficient warning, and the innocent child then greeted with unalloyed rapture a young gentleman who had come in very late. Yes, I am sure you have guessed it, dearest Peg-Peg; the unknown encountered on those sylvan strolls was an actual Bon-Dutton. Not the new Duke, no, tho’ I am sure they have all behaved as badly over the thing as if he were. The thing is, Paul has since explained to us, this Lord Frederick has decided to grab Chelford Place for himself & his family before the new Duke, who extraordinarily enough seems to be an American, can point out that it’s actually his, and ignore it for the rest of his life like his predecessors. –Lance says the story is all round London that he is an American, so that would appear to be correct.

    Apparently Lady— Let us call her Lady Catherine and be done with it, the horrid old thing! Lady Catherine observed with a darkling eye the besotted one’s fawning upon Anne. It turns out he is the eldest son, so all in all her encouraging him was the most injudicious thing she could have done, was it not? But she did it in a spirit of complete innocence, poor lambkin. Having already done the musical thing Lady C. could not again show her up by asking her to play, so she ordered him—he is only a Mr, Lance says probably an Hon., let us call him the Hon. Con, for his name is Conrad—ordered the Hon. Con to pay some attention to a Miss Thingamabob, a friend of his sister and member of the house party. To which the silly boy, rushing upon his fate, responds with a laugh and the remark that he is sure the lady in question has seen more than enough of him over the past few days. Eventually Lady C. is driven to order up a tea-tray but even this does not succeed in separating the pair. And as they leave he goes and says in front of all the room, kissing her hand, that he will call on the morrow itself.

    The morrow, need I state it, never comes. A summons to poor Maria comes instead from Lady Catherine. (One would almost suppose she has read the book and bases her conduct upon hers. Tho’ in that case, she would surely be aware of the fatal results of said conduct.) The interview goes precisely as one would expect and Maria comes home, dissolves into tears, and tells Anne she must give up the Hon. Con forever.

    Now, my dear, the silly thing is that Annie-Pannie does not now, and never did fancy herself in love with the Hon. Con! Merely, he was a pretty boy who was pleasant to her and evidently admired her. And so she encouraged him. Not being an Eliza Bennet, she did not fire up and declare Lady Catherine de B. had no right to warn her off him, but merely said meekly, though not happily, that of course she would not see him again.

    Alas, the Hon. Con is made of sterner stuff than any of those feeble heroes in the books, and the minute Anne sets her nose out of doors, springs up from nowhere, tells her he don’t give a fig for his dashed family, and strolls on gaily with her. Does Annie-Pannie have the sense to send him smartly to the right-about? In a word, no. The sequence repeats itself, innumerable times, one gathers, and of course the inevitable happens: she is being helped over a stile in the manner which you might imagine when his mother’s barouche comes round the corner and discovers them! The subsequent scene would have had to be heard to be believed. All Maria could tell me was that Annie-Pannie had evidently sobbed all the way home, for her face was so swollen up that she could hardly see any more.

    Any sensible woman would have been satisfied with that, but when was a Lady Catherine de B. a sensible woman? Evidently there was a terrible scene at the house—my dear, Lord Frederick must be an entire jellyfish to allow her to get away with it—and the boy was sent to his august relatives at Wherever-It-Is. Under escort, Major Thingummy being commissioned express. We think the silly boy must have declared his undying devotion and his intention of offering for Anne the minute he comes of age (which is two years off), for then Lord Frederick, in a terrible rage, sent for Paul and informed him his scheming relatives would not be offered the opportunity to get their claws into a Bon-Dutton, and dismissed him. Whether or not, remark, he had the right to do so.

    I said to him, “My dear boy, surely it is the Duke who is your employer, not this Lord Whosis? Write to Whatsitsname Abbey and put him right on the matter!” But all he would say was that it would do no good: they would never take his word against that of a member of the family. The which I was forced to agree seemed only too likely. Then Sir Horace went over to the Place to tell Lord F. what a thoroughly decent fellow Paul is and represent how unreasonable it was to dismiss him for something that was not his fault. We do not know exactly what happened, Peg-Peg, but we gather that tempers were lost on both sides. Certainly Sir H. returned to Monday Hall very upset and said some very rude things about the family in general, this Lord in particular, and the two last dukes to boot. Calming down, however, to write him a very pretty note of apology. And subsequently riding over to put Paul’s case again, in the which instance Lord F. refused to see him!

    Anne of course has been in floods of tears almost continuously since. Tho’ I have told her I dare say a thousand times it is not her fault. Even tho’ she did behave like a silly goose and should have sent him smartly to the rightabout. Maria likewise in floods, the more so as they have had to leave their charming little house; it was a tied property, of course. Dear Sir Horace has been so kind and has taken them in at the Hall. But of course he does not need an agent, for Bunning and he do it all most capably between them. And in any case Paul would not dream of accepting an appointment made out of charity alone. I have not yet been driven to point out that one cannot eat pride, tho’ on one very horrid day when Tommy had a tooth coming and Maria and Anne were particularly lachrymose, I very nearly did! But fortunately Lance saw it coming & took him off to do some fishing. He only caught a couple of chub, but Paul caught a fine trout and, my dear, threw it back! Because it was Sir Horace’s trout! How could anyone but an imbecile sack a man like that? Probity is his middle name!

    Well, Peg-Peg, my dearest, that is our great to-do of the moment, but as I say, you are absolutely not to worry about it, because I am sure Sir Horace will succeed in placing Paul before long. Why, he knows people all over the country!

    Oh, I must tell you something really amusing. Our darling practical Maria, in the intervals of bawling her eyes out, went out and carefully clipped all the black wool off the little flock that the Place was letting her run in the field behind the house for her spinning! So at least the horrid hyphenated Lord F. will not have the wool, if the flock does have to be left behind! –I tell a lie. Naturally she did not clip all the wool: she did not clip the lambs, and she did not clip the young mothers very close, for the weather has been very damp and uncertain. But enough!

    Now, Peg-Peg, you are absolutely not to panick or come rushing back or anything of that sort, for there is nothing you can do, and as Paul does not let us eat trout, we shall not be able to feed you! If you feel you must try to do something, perhaps you could put in a word for Paul with Mr B.? Does he not own vast acreages? Cousin Rowena B. was used to ride over them: she had her portrait done in riding dress not long after her marriage; I recall Mamma saying she could hardly have chosen anything duller to hand down to her descendants. I am sure he could do with an agent, or even an assistant to the agent, so long as there was a snug little house to go with the position.

    Lance has just come in and looked over my shoulder and forbids you utterly to do any such thing! He is writing you himself. Apparently you should ask Mr B.’s advice, merely? Well, I will not say a word against him, august tho’ he has become, for he has been a tower of strength ever since the dratted thing happened. But even he cannot think of a way to make the two of them stop bawling. At least Maria is not favouring Monday Hall with the tears: Sir Horace rid over express only yesternoon to tell us what a brave little soul she is. One would say this is the silver lining, except that he is precisely the sort of man who expects women to bawl at any provocation, so why am I being favoured in his stead?

    By the by, he brought a great stack of paper, Maria’s little Jimmy spilled the ink over a new ream. But only the top few sheets were ruined, the rest merely had a mark down the sides. So I have said Tommy & Lilibet may write you very fully. Nota bene, it will be all about their measles and Lilibet’s campaign to get Timothée off Lance! My dear, where did he get him? He is being so coy about it that we are driven to suppose he was a gift from a lady admirer!

    Oops. The chief bawler has just returned from a lackadaisical stroll as far as the end of the lane. Which is as far as she dares set foot. I have told her that the odds are all against her meeting a third pretty young man connected to one of the large properties of the district, but she has no grasp of statistical probabilities. I shall try to persuade her to make us a PIE for dinner!

Your loving but distracted,

Ma.

P.S. Peg-Peg, what under God’s good sky has given Lance the idea that it is vulgar to say Ma and Pa? Or should that be Who?

P.P.S. The second bawler, in the intervals of the bawling, is planning to knit you a most miraculous shawl of the black wool, so be prepared!

P.P.P.S. Later. Lance went up to the Hall to see Paul this afternoon, and let Timothée chase & slaughter one of Sir Horace’s best bantams. So we are in v. bad odour there again. Oops! I don’t suppose Mr B. happens to keep immense flocks of bantams on those vast acreages, does he? In the which case, even the new august Lance would surely see that more than a hint would be appropriate! XXX –Ma.

    Mr Beresford handed this effusion back to his cousin. “I see.”

    Peg was very red. “That is a joke, about the bantams.”

    “I know. Your mother is a most amusing correspondent.”

    Peg blew her nose fiercely. “Yes, but I can see you think it is inappropriate!”

    “N— Oh. The tone? Just a trifle, perhaps.”

    “She is not unsympathetic, whatever you may think! But of course she does not truly recognise what dire straits they are in: Ma is the eternal optimist.”

    “Mm. Er—does Monday have friends all over the country likely to offer Hilton a position?”

    “No,” said Peg dully. “The thing is, he has lost touch with them all. She is thinking of the people they both knew over twenty-five years ago. And I dare say a fine gentleman like you cannot see it, but Paul is the only person of the entire family who was earning an income!”

    “Yes; I—”

    “His father is a farrier. It was a great thing for them, when Paul was accepted into the agent’s office. Well, he is very bright, you know, but there is not much opportunity in a small country town. But there is no point in hoping his family can help him.”

    Mr Beresford took a deep breath and got up, looking very firm. “No. Come along downstairs: we may have a cup of tea and discuss it calmly. I do not think Paul’s case is hopeless, at all.”

    “You don’t understand!” cried Peg in despair. “No-one will employ him, because horrid Lord Frederick dismissed him! He will never get a recommendation!”

    “No, well, that is one of things we need to discuss. Come along.”

    She got up slowly. In a small voice she said: “Might you help him, sir?”

    Mr Beresford put his hand very lightly on her shoulder. “You did not ask. But I may quite coincidentally be able to place him, yes. –Now, don’t bawl again. By the sounds of it, Lincolnshire is already under water, and we do not want London and the southern counties to sink in its wake.”

    “No; I’m sorry,” said Peg shakily. “Thank you.”

    “Don’t thank me, I have not done anything yet,” he said lightly, holding the door wide for her.

    She essayed a wobbly smile, and went out not quite meeting his eye.

    Mr Beresford followed in her wake, smiling a little. On the stairs he said lightly: “I wonder what under God’s good sky makes old Monday think Lance’s dog is Dutch?”

    Miss Buffitt’s only answer was a gulp.

    At this Mr Beresford allowed himself to laugh, just a little.

    In the sitting room he said succinctly to Horrible—and perforce Val, since he was still there: “We shall have a tray of tea. It is all a bit of a Cheltenham tragedy: Cousin Anne has made the mistake of encouraging a B.-D. sprig from the branch that’s taken up residence at Chelford Place, and it turns out the mother is a Lady Catherine de Burgh.”

    “Ooh, help!” gasped Horrible.

    “Quite,” he agreed, ringing the bell. “Tea, please, Henry,” he said cheerfully to the footman.

    “Yes, sir. Tea, sir?”

    “Is that a problem?”

    “No, sir! Beg pardon, sir!” Hurriedly Henry vanished.

    Solemnly Mr Valentine produced a large pocket watch and compared it with the clock on the mantel. “Fellow thinks you will be spoiling your midday meal.”

    Suddenly Horrible gave a loud giggle.

    “That’s better!” he said encouragingly. “So, this Lady Catherine came down strong, did she, Miss Buffitt? Sent your little sister’s admirer off, hey?”

    “Yes, but it is much worse—”

    “Sit!” said Mr Beresford loudly, taking her elbow and forcing her over to the sofa.

    Limply Peg sat.

    “Damned Frederick B.-D. and that cow of a woman he married,” said Mr Beresford briefly to his old friend.

    Mr Valentine whistled.

    “Quite. Blamed it all on Miss Buffitt’s brother-in-law: the agent’s assistant, very decent young fellow,” he reminded him.

    “Aye, you’ve mentioned him. Dismissed the poor fellow for spite, hey?”

    “How did you guess?” gasped Peg.

    “Stuck out a mile. Lord F.’s a nullity, but even higher in the instep than she is. –Don’t think her name’s Catherine, though; and if her late pa were anything above the rank of baron, I’ve yet to hear of it,” he added in a puzzled aside.

    “No, that was a literary reference, Val,” said Mr Beresford soothingly.

    Mr Valentine snapped his fingers. “Knew it! That dashed odd book y’made me read! –This fellow in it, he’s in love with this pretty little gal, y’see,” he explained to Miss Buffitt and Miss Laidlaw, “and he lets this other fellow put him off her for no reason at all! Ridiculous! Fellow’s his own master, owns a decent house.”

    “Hired, merely,” said Mr Beresford.

    “Eh? Oh, that’s right: went off back to town, hey? They thought he’d give the house up. Which a fellow would not, once he had signed the lease of a decent property,” he informed them severely. “Said to Jack at the time, the book may be all you say, dear boy, though personally I cannot see that that fat flawn of a cousin is amusing at all, and I’d like to have him at the end of me fist for two minutes, but this dame what wrote it don’t know a thing about men! The fellow would never have sheered off, not as struck as he was.”

    Alas, at this point Miss Hortensia Laidlaw broke down in a dreadful spluttering fit.

    “It is no use telling him it was a plot device,” said Mr Beresford mildly to Miss Buffitt.

    Alas, Miss Buffitt also broke down in helpless splutters.

    Mr Valentine looked at them both with a smile in his nice brown eyes.

    “Your poor little sister very cut up, is she?” he said kindly to Peg over the tea.

    “Not in the way you mean, Val,” said Mr Beresford before she could reply.

    “But she is! She blames herself. Well, he pursued her after his parents had ordered him not to, and she allowed him to.”

    “Most of the younger B.-D.s are pretty fellows,” acknowledged Mr Valentine tolerantly. “Which was it?”

    “His name is Conrad; they think he is the eldest son, sir,” said Peg timidly.

    “Ugh! –Er, beg pardon, Miss Buffitt. ’Fraid there’s no way that they’ll allow that. Your poor little sister will just have to get over it.”

    “Ma says her affections are not involved. Anne is upset because Paul was dismissed from his post as a consequence of her actions, sir. In especial as her Ladyship had—um, well, not ordered her: it does not sound as if she spoke direct to Anne. Sent an order, I suppose, that she was to have nothing more to do with Mr Bon-Dutton.”

    “No, well, that’s one less worry, then!” he said cheerily.

    “Er—oh! Anne’s affections. Yes.”

    Mr Valentine sipped tea. “Get on up there, then, shall we, Jack?”

    “No!” gasped Peg. “Truly, there is no need—”

    “I shall, certainly,” interrupted Mr Beresford calmly. “No need for you to come, dear boy.”

    “Rubbish. Be glad to. Doin’ nothin’ in town. –Y’did say they’d sent young Con packing, hey?” he said to Peg.

    “Er—yes.”

    “Pity. Just remembered: he was at school with m’brother Dicky. Could have had a word with him. You won’t know Dicky: he’s up at Oxford. Next one down from Rollo, y’see? Dashed if I know why Con B.-D. ain’t up, too,” he said, scratching the glossy dark Valentine curls.

    “Possibly he was rusticating, Val,” drawled Mr Beresford.

    “That’ll be it, aye!” he agreed pleasedly.

    “What could you have said, though?” asked Horrible dubiously.

    “Said!” replied Mr Valentine with feeling. “I’d— Er, never mind that. No, well, could have got him to ask his Pa to take the brother-in-law back.”

    “You still could, an you care to brave the rigours of Dallermaine,” drawled Mr Beresford.

    “Don’t think he’ll be there, old boy,” he said shaking his head. “Had it from Viccy Grey only t’other night that the heir’s turned up.”

    “Would this stop Conrad from repairing to the ancestral home, though, Val?”

    “No, well, thing is, it might be dashed Lord F.’s ancestral home,” said Mr Valentine, passing the plate of sandwiches, “but it ain’t young Con’s. Dare say they’ve sent him off to his maternal grandparents, if the Frederick B.-D.s have given up that dump of theirs in the fens. Dallermaine’s reliably reported to be infested by Rosalie Chelford, her pack of daughters, and that mother of hers. Not to mention that pack of aunts of the late duke’s. –Not just Lady Penelope B.-D.: Lady Verity Pontefract and Lady Charlotte Pugh, before you start,” he warned.

    “I wasn’t going to start,” said Mr Beresford mildly. “Have a sandwich, Cousin: they are going to waste. And if we don’t eat them, Val will.”

    Mr Valentine, smiling, again urged the plate upon her and Peg perforce took a sandwich. Though saying feebly as she did so: “There is absolutely no need for you to go all the way to Lincolnshire, dear sir.”

    “Oh, well, if Jack’s going, I might as well!”

    “Yes, but Mr Beresford,” said Peg, very pink, “there is no need for you to go, either!”

    “Of course there is. I shall be happy to see what I can do.”

    “Wants to ascertain the facts for himself, too,” explained Mr Valentine.

    Miss Buffitt looked dubiously at Mr Beresford but he merely ate his sandwich. Limply she ate her own.

    “May we come?” asked Horrible abruptly.

    “No,” said Mr Beresford calmly.

    “But—”

    “I feel Cousin Rose would class that as rushing off at a tangent,” he explained courteously.

    Peg swallowed. “Yes. Um, Ma has forbid me to rush home in a panic, you see, Horrible.”

    “Out of course. Sent you down here for the Season. Be a dashed waste for you to miss half of it,” said Mr Valentine comfortably.

    “Yes,” agreed Peg glumly.

    Mr Beresford hesitated. Then he said: “I think, if you should like the plan, Cousin, and your mother agrees, we might bring Anne back with us. What do you think?”

    “Oh, yes!” cried Peg radiantly.

    “Dashed good idea. Get the little thing out of it,” agreed Mr Valentine.

    Peg’s radiance was fading. “But—um—it’s terribly good of you,” she faltered, “but—”

    “Won’t be a nuisance, will she?” said Mr Valentine kindly.

    “No: she is a very well-behaved girl, sir. Much more so than I. Um, but I fear it is an imposition, Mr Beresford.”

    “The house is plenty big enough,” noted Horrible detachedly.

    “Exactly,” its owner agreed calmly. “I feel sure Mamma would say it is the thing to do, Cousin Peg. But if you wish, I shall consult Aunt Sissy the moment she returns.”

    “Aye. After that, we might as well be off,” said Mr Valentine. “If you’d be so good as to ring the bell, Jack, I’ll just scribble a little note to my man to back a bag for me.”

    Peg watched numbly as Mr Beresford rang the bell, Henry came in, was sent for pen, ink and paper and returned with them, and Mr Valentine penned his note and handed it to him. It all seemed to be settled.

    “Take the curricle, hey?” said Mr Valentine happily.

    “You cannot possibly go all that way in an open carriage!” gasped Peg in horror. “What if it rains? What about poor Mr Beresford’s arm?”

    “He ain’t made of paper, Miss Buffitt,” said Mr Valentine kindly. “A bit of rain won’t do the arm any harm.”

    “Quite. But thank you for the thought,” said Mr Beresford calmly. “We shall need the travelling coach for Miss Anne, y’fool,” he said to his friend. “But I dare say it can follow us; why not?”

    “There you are: it’s settled!” said Horrible quickly.

    It did seem to be. The more so as there was no likelihood at all of Miss Sissy’s vetoing the plan.

    And indeed she did not. In fact she competently decided that she would occupy the carriage along with Mr Beresford’s valet, vetoed the notion of Horrible’s accompanying her, and declared that of course Peg and Horrible must go to dear Lady Stamforth! And dashed off a note to her Ladyship immediate.

    The curricle was making good speed with Mr Beresford’s blacks poled up: the travelling coach was left well behind. Mr Valentine had been much occupied in assuring Jack that the moment he’d taken the edge off the team, he would be happy to tool ’em for him. And Mr Beresford had been occupied in pouring scorn on this notion. And also in vetoing Mr Valentine’s suggestion that they stop for refreshment at a likely-looking inn, Mr Valentine’s next suggestion, that they stop while he got out of his heavy greatcoat and changed into the lighter one that was in his travelling-bag on the back of the vehicle, and Mr Valentine’s further suggestions that he give that post-chaise, the Royal Mail, and another curricle the go-by. In style. Pointing out witheringly that the plan was not to exhaust the blacks before they had hardly started, but to make the best of their speed and stamina both.

    “Er, did you intend that, Jack?” ventured his friend as they shot past a shabby hire coach with a jaded-looking team poled up.

    “Yes: they’re travelling at a snail’s pace. The off wheeler’s on the verge of going lame, too.”

    “No! I mean, yes, of course it is, poor brute. Not that. Er—the girls ending up with Lady S.,” he said with a cough.

    “Don’t cough. It maddens me. Makes you sound like damned Moffat.”

    “Heaven forbid,” said Mr Valentine mildly, ignoring the sound of a smothered snigger to their rear: Jenks was up behind. “Well?”

    “Um, no, actually,” he said, biting his lip.

    “Discovered them feet of clay, have you, Jack?”

    There was a short silence. Mr Valentine preserved his calm and did not bother to cough.

    “Something very like that,” his old friend said evenly. “I am very sure she would be impossible to live with.”

    “Aye. Charming, of course: not denying it. But y’see, the fellows what claim Stamforth has to get round to Fioravanti’s every other morning to work it off, ain’t wrong.”

    “By God, yes!” said Mr Beresford with feeling.

    Mr Valentine nodded and forbore to say that the little Contessa had been very much the same type: he was pretty sure Jack had grasped that for himself. After a while he said: “Given up Lady Reggie, then, have you, old man?”

    “Apparently,” said his old friend in a hard voice.

    Again Val forbore to cough. “That’s probably just as well. The cat dropped some poison in poor little Miss Buffitt’s ear at that damned card party of Mrs Lilywhite’s, week or so back.”

    “What?”

    “Mm. Didn’t mention it, Jack, because it seemed to me that anything you did in either direction might make it worse.”

    After a moment his old friend said limply: “I suppose I thank you, Val.”

    “No, well, don’t thank me, because I assumed she’d let it be known she had an interest in your direction. Suppose I let the cat out of the bag,” he admitted glumly. “Terribly sorry, Jack.”

    Jack gnawed on his lip. Then he admitted with a sigh: “You or another, I suppose, Val.”

    “Yes,” he said gratefully. “Well, saw the cat speaking to her, got across the room fast as I could, but not fast enough, saw your cousin was very upset, made the natural assumption.”

    “Yes.” After a moment he added with difficulty: “What did she say, then?”

    “Lady Reggie? We-ell, managed to imply that you and the P.W. was having an affaire before she took Stamforth. And that Lady S. was—er—showing the girl such kindness in consideration of the fact.”

    Mr Beresford said a very rude word.

    “Yes.”

    “No wonder she took Lance’s reference in his damned letter!”

    “What?” said Val limply.

    “Oh—sorry. No, well, he assumed she didn’t know, so all he said was that she had best ask my advice about this crisis, and to be sure and mention the family name was Bon-Dutton.”

    “I see,” he said, eyeing him cautiously.

    “I suppose the boy is not all bad. But it was a waste of effort, for when I had read the letter she informed me in so many words that she knows all about it.”

    “I’m sorry, Jack,” he said miserably. “Um, I think she does understand that—um—that these things happen, and that everybody has ’em.”

    “Er—yes. You tried to explain that, did you?” he said feebly.

    “Mm. Well, she took the point, but I’m not claiming it cheered her up any.”

    “No.”

    They drove on in silence. Every so often Val looked at him warily.

    Eventually Jack Beresford said with a sigh: “Val, even if the arm weren’t still out of commission I would not try to draw your cork. Of course I didn’t want her to know—pace the odd upbringing, she’s an innocent young girl, for God’s sake! But—well, at least she ain’t accepted the notion with complaisance.”

    “No-o. Oh! I get you!”

    He smiled a little. “Mm.”

    Val looked at him with a smile but did not press the point. Instead he said: “What was all that about the boy not being all bad?”

    “What? Oh!” Jack hesitated. Then he said: “Look, old man, this is in absolute confidence. Nobody knows except me and young Mendoza, and if I’d had any choice in the matter he’d still be in blissful ignorance, too.” He told him the full story of Lance’s involvement with the Princesse P.

    At the end of it Mr Valentine noted grimly: “At least it was them two bitches and not damned Chubby Loomis. What in God’s name were you about, letting the boy get round with him, Jack?”

    “I— No, well, there is no excuse for me. Although I did not introduce them. But— No, well, as you say. Though Lance is not that way inclined—”

    “But dear man, he’s a pretty young lad, and Loomis don’t know what the word ‘scruple’ means!”

    “Yes,” he said, biting his lip. “I know. Believe you me, Val, every night since I’ve sent up a prayer of thanks that he didn’t manage to debauch him.”

    “Mm.” Mr Valentine perceived there were tears in the hard grey eyes, so tactfully refrained from expressing further sympathy.

    “Didn’t mention it to Hatters?” he said after a while.

    “Good God, no!”

    “Ah.” He eyed him thoughtfully, but said nothing.

    “Hatters,” said Mr Beresford grimly, “is a broken reed. I may have known him since our mutual cradles, but I freely admit it’s taken me this long to—” He broke off, frowning.

    Val had always been aware that Jimmy Hattersby-Lough, in spite of the undoubted charm, was a care-for-nobody who would always put himself and his own comfort first. He said nothing.

    “I suppose,” admitted Jack after quite some time, “that it’s only since I've been landed with the damned Buffitts that I’ve come to see, if it don’t sound too melodramatic to say so, who my real friends are.”

    “No, well, Hatters ain’t never been one for taking on responsibilities, his own or other fellows’,” said Val dispassionately.

    “Ain’t that the truth!” he agreed with feeling.

    The curricle sped on. An attractive inn was espied: heavy thatched roof, a draping of honeysuckle over the porch, one or two persons coming and going on the forecourt… Mr Valentine eyed it wistfully but said nothing. The team was manifestly not in need of a rest.

    “Thirsty?” said Mr Beresford with a smile in his voice.

    “Dashed thirsty!” he admitted, grinning.

    Eyes twinkling, Mr Beresford pulled in.

    Over the subsequent beverages in the dim taproom of the old inn, Mr Valentine ventured: “You thought what to do about the boy, then, Jack?”

    Mr Beresford grimaced ruefully. “I think you mean, about the whole damned family, Val!”

    “No, well, this Monday fellow seems to be looking to the parents, don’t he? Don’t say the younger lads may not need a patron, in time, however.”

    “A patron!” There was a short pause. “By God, you sounded just like my grandfather, Val,” he said limply.

    “I sounded like me own grandfather, too,” admitted Mr Valentine, grinning ruefully. “But it’s true enough, ain’t it?”

    “Mm. Um… I wondered, send Lance off to Beresford Hall? Uncle George ain’t getting any younger, and so far he’s refused to take on a full-time agent, but— Well, I thought he might care to train Lance up? Or would that be abdicating my responsibilities?”

    Mr Valentine rubbed his rounded chin. “Hm. How old’s the old boy, again?”

    “Well, he was Papa’s younger brother, of course, but— Sixty,” he admitted.

    “High time he had someone take the burden off his shoulders, then. Even if he don’t think so, himself. No, well, it might be the very thing, Jack. Much better than putting in an experienced man, for the old fellow would resent that like Hell, wouldn’t he? Even if he tried not to. And I dare say would be forever interfering with any innovations the new fellow tried to introduce, too. But he could train young Lance up exactly in the way he liked. Yes, think it would work. And as for abdicating your responsibilities… I see what you mean, but in this case, think the point ain’t valid. So long as you got up there regularly and made sure it was working out, and didn’t give the boy the impression that he’d been shoved off there out of your road, nor old George the impression that you’d used him as a mere convenience.”

    “That’s comprehensive,” said Mr Beresford limply. “No, sorry, Val.” He chewed his lip. “Um, do you really think so?”

    “Yes,” said Val definitely, draining his tankard.

    “Oh, good,” he said with a sigh. “I’ll write Uncle George, then. Put it to him that he’d be doing the boy a favour, and of course make the point that he can train him up as he likes.”

    “Aye. ’Nother round?”

    “Why not?”

    Mr Valentine procured them another round. He sipped. “Aah! Not a bad drop. –You could tell the boy he’d be doing you a favour, helping out old George.”

    “Of course!” he agreed with a laugh. Then his face fell.

    “What?”

    “Val, if I put Lance in as trainee agent at Beresford Hall, what the Devil am I to do about Paul Hilton?”

    “Omigod,” said Mr Valentine lamely.

    “Quite.

    The friends subsided into glum silence. After quite some time Mr Valentine admitted gloomily: “I can’t think of a soul who needs an agent.”

    “No. Um—Noël Amory?”

    “Think he’s doing a fair bit on the place himself, these days. His wife encourages it: it keeps him out of mischief,” said Val with a smile.

    “Mm. Um… No.”

    “Pa don’t need a man: the place ain’t big enough.”

    “I know,” said Jack, smiling at him.

    Further rumination ruled out Blefford, who had a very reliable man at Blefford Park in Oxfordshire. Likewise Sleyven, known to be very pleased with his man at Maunsleigh. Although there was also a very decent little manor in Kent: Jack could write him, at the least. Blefford’s place down in Cornwall was out, though: his brother was running it for him. Their old friend Bobby Q.-V.’s pa had a very decent property in Derbyshire, but he and his father were running it together, Bobby having taken to the rustic life like a duck to water since his marriage. Though Val thought Commander Sir Arthur Jerningham’s place nearby might be a possibility? Large enough.

    “He had a very reliable man there all those years he was at sea, who I think is not old enough to retire, though I suppose he may need an assistant. Well, no harm in asking.”

    “Aye. Um—talking of Derbyshire, Selth?” he said with a cough.

    “You’re coughing. He is a very decent fellow, actually. No, Bobby’s father was saying last time I was down that way that Selth has found a reliable fellow for Rayght Abbey at last.”

    “Jack, the man owns half the county! Who’s to say he don’t need half a dozen agent’s assistants?”

    Jack sighed, but agreed he would write the Marquis of Seth.

    “Um, Ma was a Dalziel, y’know. Well, only a cousin,” said the modest Mr Valentine hurriedly.

    “Mm, I know,” said Jack, smiling at him.

    “So I dare say I could write to Lochailsh,” said Val on a defiant note, sticking out his rounded chin. “S’pose I can call him cousin. And he does own half Scotland. Worth a try!”

    Weakly Mr Beresford agreed it was. And added hurriedly that it was very good of him to offer.

    “Not at all.” Val eyed him sideways. “There is one fly in the ointment.”

    “You mean he has an hundred reliable men already?”

    “No, not that. Didn’t you recently have to speak to his brother-in-law like a Dutch uncle?”

    Jack took a very deep breath. “Admiral Dauntry is not Lochailsh’s brother-in-law, as you are very well aware!”

    “Oh, ain’t he?” he said innocently.

    “No.” He drained his tankard and got up. “It is his older brother, Sir Humphrey Dauntry, who is married to one of Lochailsh’s sisters. And get up, we’re going!”

    Grinning, Val got up and ambled after him. “Old Tobias Vane overheard the lot, y’know, when you spoke to Fuzzy Dauntry at White’s,” he said meekly as they settled themselves in the curricle again and Jack took up the reins.

    “What?” he gasped.

    “Aye. He said he thought you didn’t see him: he were in his usual chair, in the bow-window, y’see. No, well, he won’t spread it around the town, Jack. Asked me if I knew, very delicately, y’see, and when I said you had mentioned it to me, told me the lot.”

    Jack eyed him with foreboding. “Whom else has he told?”

    “I said, he won’t spread it around. Decent old fellow. No, well, pardon me for coughing—”

    “Who?” he shouted.

    Val smiled apologetically. “’Fraid he told the P.W. Too good to keep to himself, y’see, and he knows she’s very fond of you.”

    “What with that and damned Clementine apparently spreading the story that she and I— I shall never be able to look the woman in the face again! –And you realise what that means, don’t you?”

    “Er—no.”

    “Val, if old Tobias told her, she’ll have told Stamforth!”

    “Dare say. You came out of it damned well, Jack. Tobias thought you managed it splendidly.”

    “Val, the entire thing was ludicrous! Ludicrous! Surely Tobias Vane made that point to you? –Don’t cough!” he shouted.

    “Yes, well, I don’t deny we both laughed till we cried. But that don’t mean you didn’t come of it very well, old man,” he repeated firmly.

    Jack sighed. “Very well, leave it at that. I came out of it very well and of the two of us, it is Dauntry who will be the laughingstock of all London, not I.”

    “And all Scotland,” said Val primly. “Old Tobias writes everything to that sister of his who married—”

    “Yes!”

    “Well—immured in a dashed Scotch castle? Nothing else to do, eleven months of the year, but correspond with all her—”

    “Yes! Very well, Val, don’t write to the damned Duke of Lochailsh!” he shouted.

    Val smiled. “Of course I shall, don’t be an imbecile. No, if anything, it’ll be a point in your favour, Jack. Lochailsh is very fond of old Humpy Dauntry, but he don’t care for the Admiral, y’know.”

    “Is that your point?” croaked Jack dazedly.

    “More or less, yes,” he said comfortably.

    Jack drove on in a dazed silence…

    Rose Buffitt, in spite of the bravado of her letter, fell on his neck and burst into tears on his arrival, so Mr Beresford could only conclude it was just as damned well he’d come. Buffitt, of course, was up at his damned hut. Lance tried to smile but it was pretty plain he was near tears, too. In that case, the sooner the entire thing was sorted, the better. Taking a deep breath, Mr Beresford mentally rolled up his sleeves and prepared, so to speak, to do battle.

Next chapter:

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