Best Laid Plans

2

Best Laid Plans

    Alas for the plans of mice and men! Not that any plans of Rose Buffitt’s could have been described as well laid, of course, but any plan of Rowena Beresford’s most certainly was. But in issuing the invitation to, as she thought, the eldest Buffitt girl, over a year back now, Mrs Beresford had not fully thought through the consequences of her action. Or perhaps it would be more accurate to say, had reckoned without Rose Buffitt.

    It had been a considerable disappointment when Rose had not accepted her invitation. For the invitation to Miss Buffitt—though Rowena Beresford was certainly a woman much given to charitable good works—had not been issued without a certain ulterior motive. The which might have been summed up in the figure of the handsome Mr Beresford, man-about-town, gazetted Corinthian, gazetted flirt, and still unmarried at the age of two-and-thirty.

    Mrs Beresford’s plan was not simply that she would marry Jack off to this little Cousin Buffitt or perish in the attempt—though at times she had felt a sentiment perilously close to this. She was not at all a stupid woman, and she recognised that if the two did not suit, there would be no point in pushing for the thing. And also recognised that Jack, as the master of a considerable estate in Cumberland, and the head of an old and respected family, could do very much better for himself than the obscure daughter of an obscure connexion on the Laidlaw side. The trouble was that for the last several years Jack had indicated very clearly that he had no interest in doing very much better for himself. It was not that he was not interested in women—far from it! Mrs Beresford was very much aware of this, and crossly aware that his inamorata of the moment was a well-born woman of forty-odd who, having a husband of her own, had no right to monopolise her Jack!

    Society, alas, having watched with interest Mrs Beresford’s unsuccessful efforts to shove “poor old Jack” into the arms of a succession of approved maidens, and at least two known successful efforts to steer him clear of unapproved young widows, was now observing this latest entanglement, and her fruitless attempts to distract him from it, with considerable glee. It was, as even his young cousin “Mendoza” Laidlaw had remarked with a wink: “Far too late for any of that!” Indeed it was. Jack Beresford could have had, not to put too fine a point on it, his pick of the débutantes any time these past dozen years, and had never observedly reacted to any of them with anything but boredom. Well, once or twice he had bothered to flirt with them, but only in order, it was quite clear, to raise false hopes in the bosoms of their mammas and his own. That these demoiselles might have had feelings of their own was a consideration on which Society never wasted a second’s thought and on which, alas, Jack Beresford did not, either.

    According to his forthright Cousin Jack Laidlaw (father of “Mendoza”, the Wykehamist, and a quiverful of other hopefuls sent to Harrow), Jack Beresford was damned spoilt. And ought to damned well take a pull. The cousins had always been very fond of each other, though Mr Laidlaw was considerably the elder; but at this Jack Beresford had given one of the shrugs for which he was well known in Society, and strolled out of his cousin’s house.

    Perhaps it was a little unjust to say that Mr Beresford was spoilt. His mother was too sensible ever to have spoilt him. But he was the only son, with just the one younger sister, of a woman who had lost her adored husband early; perhaps he had been allowed to get away with rather too much in his youth. And just possibly, if Mrs Beresford had not had quite such a care to the family name, Jack would now have been settled happily on his estates in Cumberland with the second of the two pretty widows, and a cluster of hopeful children at his knee. Rowena Beresford was bitterly aware of this. Nevertheless, for she was neither stupid nor a sentimentalist, she was not able to persuade herself that it would have been the best thing for Jack. He and the young woman could have lived a comfortable enough life on his estates, yes. But certain circles would have been closed to them: the girl’s background had not made her a suitable match for a young man who was accustomed to put in an appearance at embassy balls and receptions during the Season, at soirées at the Pavilion in the warmer months, and shooting parties on ducal estates in the autumn, and who took his membership of several of the most exclusive clubs and hunts for granted. Give it all up for love? Mrs Beresford’s good sense had said to her very loudly and clearly that if certain men would have been capable of that, and never blamed the girl afterwards, Jack was not one of them. And then, there was not merely the question of what he owed to the family name, there was the question of the children’s heritage. The girl’s mother was notorious, and if she herself was relatively well-behaved she was nevertheless known in certain circles—alas, those that counted—to be not the daughter of the man who had acknowledged her as such. Jack Beresford, very blue around the mouth, had entirely concurred in his mother’s opinion that it would not do. Perhaps if he had not been the head of the family— But as it was, no.

    That had been nearly half a dozen years back and there had been, alas, no-one in the least suitable at whom he had even glanced, since. Recently his mother had spoken to him seriously on the subject of the duty he owed to the family. Uncle George had never married, and there were only the rather ghastly offspring of his father’s second cousin Henry Beresford to inherit. Did he want to see Cyril Beresford, a young man whom Mrs Beresford did not hesitate to characterise as “vain, spoilt, and dissipated” in his father’s shoes?

    Jack had looked at her drily and drawled: “In the nature of things, it’s a sight I won’t see, ma’am.” But had then relented sufficiently to say: “No. But I don’t want to marry a dim little pudding who’ll allow me to bully the life out of her for the rest of our days, either.”

    Mrs Beresford was very flushed but she had tried to say quietly: “I dare say the débutantes are not all dim puddings, Jack. You may not realise it, but you have developed a habit of looking down your nose and scaring the life out of them.”

    Alas, he had merely shrugged and replied: “Q.E.D.”

    It was in the wake of this conversation that Rowena Beresford first seriously considered the idea of having her cousin’s eldest girl come to stay with them. Not necessarily in order to thrust the two of them together—no. But Jack had recently bought a large house in town, and the presence of a young girl in the house would be the perfect excuse for a series of parties to which the Season’s crop of débutantes would naturally have to be invited! In his position as the host, Jack could hardly ignore them all completely or refuse to attend. And if none of them did appeal, Rose’s daughter might do, after all. At least living in the house with the girl would give him the chance to get to know her, and give her time to get over the effect of that blighting look down the straight Beresford nose, and to behave less like a frightened rabbit and more like a sensible young woman!

    At this point in her plans Mrs Beresford had very nearly decided to give the whole thing up. The daughter of Rose and Damian Buffitt, a sensible young woman? Oh, dear. But the entire scheme need not be discarded on that account: the basic idea was still sound. It would force Jack to meet a range of suitable young women. And then, giving Rose’s unfortunate daughter a chance in life was of itself a charitable act that was entirely worthwhile. Yes, she would do it. …And it might sound fatuous to phrase it so, but after a while surrounded by nubile young women, why should it not occur to Jack that one of them might be his? Because he had always been a man who liked women. And surely in the end youthful smiles and plump cheeks must strike a natural man as more desirable than the over-mature charms of That Female!

    She was then, horridly let down when there was no response to her letter.

    Her daughter, May, who was aware of Mamma’s sentiments on the subject of Jack’s bachelor state and almost entirely sympathetic to them, had hugged her very hard and said: “Never mind, dearest Mamma. Robert is to have Austria, this coming September, you know: should you care to come with us?”

    Mrs Beresford was not an advocate of a woman’s inflicting herself on her daughter’s household; but then, Robert, Lord Keywes, was an extremely sweet-natured man and fond of herself, and she had never seen Vienna… She would think about it. When August rolled round and May hugged her very hard again and said: “Do come, Mamma! You may be there when Baby comes, you know!” she was very tempted. Even though May had been married for six years, now, and had had two little ones with no problems at all. Cunningly May pointed out that as Robert’s appointment was for at least a year, they were taking the children with them. Mrs Beresford, though with a twinkle in her eye, then kissed her cheek and accepted gratefully.

    “And if it does no more than take Mamma’s mind off blessed Jack and his bachelordom, it will have achieved its purpose!” said May with feeling to her handsome husband that evening.

    Lord Keywes, who was nearly twenty years older than his pretty little brown-haired wife, looked down at her and smiled, and agreed, not pointing out that His Britannic Majesty’s Government possibly had other purposes in mind in making the appointment.

    And so Mrs Beresford duly embarked for the Continent with Lord and Lady Keywes…

    Given the adage of the Scottish poet, not to say the bony hand of Fate, not to say Rose Buffitt’s casual attitude to anything smacking of an arrangement, it was not wholly surprising that the plan for Peg’s chaperoning between Lincoln and Northampton should have gone agley. The Petersons’ Miss Hunt was not, after all, waiting for Peg and Lance at the pleasant coaching inn in Lincoln.

    “What’ll we do now?” faltered Lance, uncomfortably aware of the large empty space in his pocket.

    Peg gave him a glance of scorn. “Stand here like helpless ninnies, wittering.”

    “Now, don’t you call him names, deary,” put in one, Mrs Gates, encountered on the Lincoln stage and since became almost a bosom-bow. “I dare say he can’t ’elp ’imself, like all on ’em!” She shook all over with plump chuckles. Lance gave her a look of dislike, but Peg grinned.

    “You can always come to us for the night,” added Mrs Gates comfortably. “’ERBERT!” she broke off to screech. “That there bag’s mine, you great lummox!”

    Herbert, a huge man with shoulders like a bull’s, grinned sheepishly, and proceeded to heave her bag down from the roof of the stage.

    Peg was thanking Mrs Gates and telling her she was very kind. “But I say!” gasped Lance. “We can’t! What if Miss Hunt turns up after all?”

    The middle-aged, voluminous Mrs Gates and his little sister gave him identical looks of matriarchal scorn. “We’ll leave her a message, of course,” said Peg. “I'm sure they’re accustomed to such things, at an inn like this.”

    “That’s right, deary!” approved Mrs Gates, nodding her huge straw bonnet comfortably. “Well, he’s a looker, no denying it;” she added to Peg in what she might have imagined to be an undervoice, “but there ain't nothin’ much under them black curls, hey?”

    “Nothing much practical,” said Peg fairly. “Lance takes after Pa, in both looks and temperament, you see. He is terribly clever at Greek.”

    “Greek!” cried the voluminous Mrs Gates, throwing up her hands. “Lordy, what’s the use of that?”

    “Absolutely none!” agreed Peg cheerfully.

    Lance was very red. He turned his back on them and got up on the roof of the stage to look for Peg’s hamper.

    Mrs Gates winked slowly at Peg. Peg collapsed in giggles. Mrs Gates, very pleased, then owned as her Harry and Billy were just the same: fine-looking lads, took after their Pa—’Erbert! The little bag, you forgot the little bag, and there were two baskets with jars in ’em, and be careful!—but not a ha’p’orth of sense atwixt ’em!

    “Yes. In my experience, they are all impractical,” noted Peg. “Well, some of them work very capably at their crafts: our Mr Cross, in the village, is a fine wheelwright, for instance,” she conceded.

    “Aye. But ask ’em to do something practical and sensible in life, what don't involve hammers or bits of wood, and that, and they’re lost!” declared Mrs Gates, shaking the bonnet.

    “That is so right, Mrs Gates! Why, Mrs Cross only asked him to keep an eye on the milk she had set to separate while she went out to bring the wash in, and the minute her back was turned, he started whittling, and when she came back, there was the cat, covered in cream, and all he had to show for it was a silly toy gun!”

    Mrs Gates sniffed. “Ah. None of ’em will never understand you can’t eat guns, and that's for sure.”

    “Yes. And this one didn't even fire,” said Peg with a twinkle in her eye.

    Mrs Gates collapsed in voluminous giggles on the spot, nodding the bonnet terrifically.

    “Useless but ornamental,” concluded Peg with a sigh as her brother was seen to descend from the coach’s roof empty-handed, and Mr Herbert Gates was seen to lower her, Peg’s, hamper from it.

    “You got that right, deary. Well, I don’t say as ’Erbert and my boys don’t got no backbone, only it ain’t that much use if you don’t know what to do with it.”

    Peg swallowed a sigh. “Mm. I don’t know that he even has that,” she said on a sad note, as Lance then allowed Mr Gates, already holding a large basket in one hand, to pick up her hamper with the other.

    Mrs Gates had already heard all about Lance’s current occupation (or lack of it) as assistant to his father, so she noted kindly: “Well, his life hasn’t give him the chance to show it, or find it, if ’e ’as got it, has it? But ain’t ’e ever noticed what it costs to feed a great lad like him?”

    “No,” said Peg frankly.

    Mrs Gates gave a gusty sigh and shook the bonnet. And noted: “Pity as these fine relations of yours can’t find a decent job to set him to, deary.”

    “Yes; it would be of far, far more use than giving me a silly London Season,” admitted Peg glumly. “But rich charitable persons are like that, I think: full of misplaced good intentions.”

    Mrs Gates thought this one over. “I get you. You’re not wrong, deary.”

    And, Miss Hunt not having turned up during this philosophical exchange, a message was left for her, and Peg and Lance departed to spend the night at the Gates residence.

    The visit was not wholly a success, alas. Lance was sulking dreadfully, which didn’t matter, but unfortunately it didn’t deter a Miss Kitty Gates, aged sixteen, and a Miss Daisy Gates, aged almost fifteen, from falling for him like several tons of bricks. Miss Kitty indulged in frightful giggling and eyelash-fluttering, and a certain pouting with the bust which her mother was observed to be observing with fire in her eye. Miss Daisy also indulged in giggles, but being at the bashful stage accompanied them only with deep blushes.

    “I’m sorry about Lance,” said Peg next morning, as she came into the Gates kitchen to find only her hostess and a large black and white cat in possession of it.

    “Eh? Oh! What you mean is, you're sorry about the effect what ’e’s ’ad on my dim lasses! I suppose it was only to be expected, with them looks.”

    “Mm. And sorry about the sulking.”

    Mrs Gates sniffed, but nodded. And noted, as she clattered with pots and pans: “Nervy lad, ain't ’e?”

    “Yes; much more so than Pa: Pa just lets everything wash over him,” said Peg, coming to assist her.

    “Aye, well, we better get you sorted, and then ’e can stop worrying. You got enough money to get to London?”

    “I only have to get to Northampton,” said Peg cautiously.

    “Dunno where that is,” said Mrs Gates frankly.

    “I think it is about halfway between here and London.”

    “Ah. Well?”

    “Ye-es… Well, I might manage the fare on the stage, but suppose something has gone wrong with the Northampton arrangements, too?”

    “You got a point. Lemme think on it, deary.”

    The result of Mrs Gates’s thinking was, when it was discovered that a message had come from Miss Hunt to say she was sorry but she had changed her plans and was not going to Northampton after all, that Peg and Lance ended up on a waggon beside one, Mick Bundy. Mr Bundy was taking the waggon all the way to London. See that there on it? That there was a gentleman’s wardrobe and he had the address writ out nice as pie on a piece of paper from the gentleman himself. What he was sending it down to his grandson for his wedding. Solemnly Mr Bundy produced a piece of paper from the interior of his battered hat.

    “That proves it, I suppose!” hissed Lance angrily in his sister’s ear as Mr Bundy and Mrs Gates, with some interpolations from the genial Herbert, then conferred further.

    “It must do,” said Peg tranquilly.

    “Peg, he could be anybody!” he hissed.

    “Rubbish, the Gateses have known him for years.”

    “What does that prove?” he hissed.

    “Don’t spit! Logically, it proves nothing, of course. On the other hand, if you can’t see that Mrs Gates would never send us off with a fellow of whom she had the slightest suspicions, you're an even greater noddy than I thought you were, Lance Buffitt.”

    Lance lapsed into scowling silence. He had earlier tried to persuade Peg that a portion of her ten guineas could well be spent on buying them inside seats on the stage. Peg had treated this profligate suggestion as it deserved.

    “Come up, then, up with you!” cried Mr Bundy. And the beaming Peg and the scowling Lance scrambled up onto the waggon.

    “My God,” said Mr Beresford numbly. The letter fluttered from his nerveless fingers.

    “Not bad news?” said his young connection, Mendoza Laidlaw, in alarm.

    “N— Uh—” The two gentlemen were breakfasting together, Mr Beresford having promised to take his Cousin Jack’s son to Jackson’s Boxing Salon this morning. A signal favour. “Read this,” he said numbly, passing him Rose Buffitt’s letter.

    Mendoza whistled. “Just as well my Aunt Beresford told you to open all her correspondence before sending it on, Jack, or the poor girl might find herself stuck halfway to London with Cousin Kate Winsett’s damned Harriet!”

    That had not been the first thought that had sprung to Mr Beresford’s mind. He goggled at him.

    “Oh, Lor’,” remembered Mr Laidlaw. “Added to which, she ain’t there, Jack! Had a letter from Mamma only t’other day, saying Harriet and Peter had gone off to his Uncle James for an extended stay.” Mr Beresford’s face still looked blank. “Expectations,” he explained kindly.

    “Y— What?” said Mr Beresford dazedly.

    “Jack, the girl’ll get to Northampton and find Cousin Harriet ain't there!” he said urgently.

    “Christ,” muttered Mr Beresford, taking the letter back. He looked at the date on it and winced. “The woman must be mad!”

    “Er—if she’s the Rose Buffitt what Mamma and Aunt Sissy and your mamma have mentioned, more than once, think she is, Jack,” he said cautiously.

    “She cannot seriously propose sending the girl all the way to London on the strength of a vague invitation from Mamma, last year!” he said loudly.

    “Think she has.” Mendoza took the letter back, and did laborious calculations. “Think so,” he confirmed.

    “My God!”

    “I’d get on up to Northampton without further ado, Jack.”

    Mr Beresford snatched the letter off him and did frantic arithmetic. This resulted in no more than a muttered: “My God.”

    Mendoza Laidlaw’s dark grey eyes looked at him thoughtfully. After a moment the young man said: “Ain’t your responsibility, out of course.”

    “What? Don't be an imbecile!” Mr Beresford got up and began to pace about the charming breakfast room of his graciously appointed London residence. Finally he said: “Would Charlotte have the girl?”

    Undoubtedly Mr Laidlaw’s mother would have the girl—yes. Leap on her with arms outstretched, in fact, in spite of her own numerous family which was pretty well stretching the walls of the pleasant Laidlaw house in Bath to bursting point. Mendoza replied slowly: “Um, dare say she would, old boy, but they’re all in a fuss about Nobby’s engagement, y’see, and then there’s the wedding coming off in a couple of months.”

    “Oh—of course.”

    Mendoza pretended to think about it. “Dare say Aunt Sissy would come and chaperon her,” he offered.

    Mr Beresford’s lean jaw was seen to sag. Mendoza looked at this phenomenon with some satisfaction. That had given the fellow a turn, and no mistake! He was very fond of Cousin Jack, but under no illusions that the word “responsibility” meant all that much to him. Born with a silver spoon in his mouth, that was Jack. Decent chap—oh, no doubt of it. But apart from that time that Mamma and Papa had gone off for a bit of a holiday and he had helped Aunt Sissy look after the brats—and that was more than half-a-dozen years back—had never been known to take the responsibility for anything in his life. Left the management of the place in Cumberland to his old uncle, most of the time. Well, retired up there in a huff after Aunt B. told him to sheer off the little Contessa, if you counted that. Stayed about long enough to upset all poor old George Beresford’s arrangements, too; at least that was the way the Laidlaws had heard it.

    “I do not envisage,” Mr Beresford then said in a very cold tone to his cousin’s son, “welcoming the damned girl into my household, so I doubt Aunt Sissy’s assistance will be needed.”

    “No? Well, someone’s will. Unless you’re proposing to bundle her onto the stage and send her back to Lincolnshire by herself?”

    Mr Beresford picked up the letter with shaking fingers. “Surely they cannot have sent her by herself…”

    “The way I read it,” said Mendoza calmly, “they ain’t exactly sending her by herself, but this governess female is definitely to leave her in North—”

    “YES!” he shouted.

    “So if you do mean to send her back, you’ll need to find someone to go with her, Unless you imagine you're a fit travelling companion for a chit of—”

    “SHUT IT!” he roared.

    “—seventeen or so,” finished Mendoza inexorably. “I’d send to Bath for Aunt Sissy post-haste, if it was me, Jack.”

    “Buh-but— Look, even if I send the coach for her today, she’s got to get down here, and— She’ll never manage it in the time!”

    “Wouldn’t think so, no. Well, think of some other respectable female. There must be one, somewhere in London,” said Mendoza hard-heartedly, going out.

    Mr Beresford looked numbly at the closed door of his charming breakfast room. “My God,” he said numbly.

    … Mr Jimmy Hattersby-Lough, who had known good old Jack almost since their cradles, collapsed in painful sniggers.

    “Yes, very funny,” agreed Jack sourly. “Do you, or don't you?”

    Flapping a hand helplessly at him, Mr Hattersby-Lough gasped: “Only—know—unrespectable—females—Jack! Like—yourself!”

    “Hilarious, Hatters,” said Mr Beresford coldly, turning on his heel.

    … Mr “Val” Valentine’s jaw dropped. “Eh?”

    “Come on, Val, not you, too! It’s a family emergency, dammit!”

    Mr Valentine scratched his beautifully arranged, abundant glossy dark curls. “Ma ain’t in town. Not comin’ up this year, got nothin’ to launch. Well, Maisie’s diggin’ her toes in, and Pa’s supporting her: says seventeen’s too young, and his gelt can damn’ well stay in his pocket for another year. Um—me sister Angie’s in town, but me brother-in-law’d call you out at the mere suggestion, old man. Sorry. What do you want to do with this respectable female, anyroad?”

    Mr Beresford sighed. “I do not wish to ‘do;’ anything with her. I need her to chaperon a young relative for a short period.”

    Mr Valentine nodded wisely. “I get your drift. Uh—tell you what, ask your Aunt Fanny!”

    Mr Beresford’s manly jaw sagged. “Ask Aunt Fanny to trail up to a Godforsaken hole like Northampton in this weather? You must be mad!”

    Mr Valentine grinned. “Probably am, but Northampton weren’t mentioned before this, dear boy. Dare say the Fürstin would do it: do anything for a pretty young man, and you're still pretty enough.”

    This was not a counter-suggestion: the Fürstin von Maltzahn-Dressen was Jack’s Aunt Fanny, and incidentally, that sister of the late John Beresford who had “married some foreign princeling or another” and had a huge house in the most fashionable part of London.

    “It would be,” said Mr Beresford firmly, ignoring the “pretty young man” hit and also the veiled reference to his advancing years, “tantamount to lèse majesté, Val. I couldn’t possibly.”

    “She might know someone, though,” said Mr Valentine mildly.

    Mr Beresford sighed. “In the highest degree unlikely.”

    “What you mean is, she’ll put you through a Spanish Inquisition if you so much as poke your nose in the door, and try to thrust yet another of those red-headed, pug-nosed daughters of hers at you,” he translated easily. “I’d say it’s her or no-one, Jack. ’Cos there ain’t hardly no-one in town, yet,” he elaborated helpfully.

    “No. Well, little Anna is neither red-headed nor pug-nosed, but she is certainly lacking in anything approaching either character or brains; and Aunt Fanny will certainly try to thrust her at me, yes,” he sighed.

    “There you are, then.”

    “I am certainly best placed to observe you contradicting yourself, Val,” he said acidly.

    Mr Valentine shrugged, mentally debated telling him to ask Lady Reggie Bon-Dutton’s advice in the matter, rapidly decided against it—Jack had a very hard fist and was, of course, accustomed to box at Jackson’s—and said mildly: “Done me poor best, then, Jack. Sorry.” And watched his exit without much regret.

    … Major Jerningham miscued. “Damn!” he gasped. “What for?” he gasped.

    Mr Beresford picked up a ball and began tossing it in the air. “To chaperone a young relative for a while,” he said wearily. “From Northampton,” he added wearily.

    “Why?”

    “I just— Oh. Why Northampton? Not sure, old man. The plan was, Mamma was to pick her up in Northampton. ‘That is all ye know on earth, and all ye need to know,’” he muttered.

    Major Jerningham was not given to literary pursuits. “Hey?”

    “Never mind, Cecil. Have you any respectable relatives or acquaintances what would be willing to do it?”

    The Major scratched his greying, thinning, fluffy fair curls. “Aunt Gert would, but she’s laid up with the rheumatics. Anyroad, eighty if she’s a day, old boy. Game old bird, though. Me sister Caroline’s increasing again. Anyroad, don’t think old Archie would let her go with you. Um—well, think me cousins Giles and Gaetana are in town. Sure she’d do it, Jack.”

    “Lady Rockingham?” he croaked. “I couldn’t possibly!”

    “Very decent woman, y’know. We-ell…” He scratched his head again. “Lady S.?” he said delicately.

    Mr Beresford reddened. “I don’t think the Stamforths are in town, yet, Cecil.”

    “Yes, they are, he was at Fioravanti’s only this morning. Gave me a bout with the foils: not up to his weight, I don’t mind telling you! Then he took on old Fioravanti himself: not even panting, but the old man got him in the end, used his famous passa. –Not saying he’d let her go with you, mind; only, thing is, ain’t they got a governess female? Frightful female, if it’s the one I'm thinking of. But dare say Lady S. might lend her you.”

    “Uh—yes,” said Jack weakly. “Thanks, Cecil. Good idea.”

    The pink-nosed, round-faced Major Jerningham just nodded amiably and said: “Chuck us that ball, old man.” But after Mr Beresford had gone he pulled a very wry face indeed and shook his head. For the charming lady who was now Lady Stamforth was the first of those formerly widowed young women whom, at least so Society had it, Mr Beresford’s formidable mamma had not permitted him to consider as a partner in life. Major Jerningham knew enough of that particular story to know that Society did not have it quite right, and that in fact the lady had never considered Jack B. for an instant. But he also knew enough to know that Jack had been quite considerably cut up by the thing.

    … Lady Stamforth poured tea, and passed him a cup. “My dear, I’m so sorry: Miss Gump ees not weeth us,” she said in the soft, low voice with the enchanting foreign accent.—Lady Stamforth was half Portuguese. And had been known in Society up until the time of her marriage to Viscount Stamforth as “the Portuguese Widow”. And was still referred to as “the P.W.” by most of the Upper Ten Thousand.—“She has stayed down at Stamforth weeth the leetle ones, thees year. Lewis theenks the country air ees better for them than the smoke and fogs of London.”

    “Yes, he’s right, of course,” said Jack, his throat a little constricted. He was over her, of course: but it still stuck in his craw when she called the fellow “Lew-wees”, like that. Well, it was not quite that, but just maddeningly different enough from the way everyone else pronounced it. And given that the fellow was twice her age and the ugliest man in London, with a face what would crack if it tried to smile—

    “Your Cousin Charlotte?” she suggested with that lovely kind smile, and the head tilted a little to one side, in that devastatin’ way of hers. When she did it, the dark brown ringlets with the gold lights in them tickled the neck—

    “Uh—no,” said Jack, dragging his eyes away from the perfect column of ivory neck above that tiny frill of perfect lace with the one little clip of pearls and amethysts in it. Exquisite taste: always had had. Remember that black velvet dinner dress, the very first time he’d met her, at Cousin Jack and Charlotte Laidlaw’s? “I don’t have time to get over to Bath and back. And Charlotte’s damned tied up, what with Nobby’s engagement.”

    Lady Stamforth expressed sympathy and dismay, and racked her brains, but could think of no-one! Town was so theen of company as yet—no?

    Mr Beresford retreated, grinding his teeth a little in spite of himself. She was perfect: exquisite, and so charming, and so sympathetic— Why in God’s name could he not find a woman like that?

    From the bay window Lady Stamforth watched his dashing curricle-and-four round Blefford Square and disappear, and shrugged her perfect rounded shoulders a little.

    “Why are you shrugging?” said a deep voice from the doorway.

    She turned, dimpling. “Were you hiding from the inept Mr B., Lewis?”

    “Is he?” said Lord Stamforth drily, coming to put his arm round her.

    “Well,” she said frankly, “he ees taking some responsibility for someone besides heemself at last, the which ees a great improvement, no? But I was shrugging because, although I would like to believe he ees growing up at last, I theenk perhaps eet ees too much to hope for.”

    “He needs a quiverful of brats at his knee,” he said calmly.

    “That ees a vairy odd place to wear a quiver,” noted Lady Stamforth sedately.

    The ugliest man in London, whose face would crack if it tried to smile, at this broke down in a terrific sniggering fit, gasping: “Sometimes I forget why I married you, Nan!”

    The perfect Lady Stamforth just winked one lustrous brown eye at him.

    ... “Goodness,” said Fanny von Maltzahn-Dressen placidly. “What a pickle, Jack.”

    “Yes. Well, do you know of any respectable female who might do it, Aunt Fanny? Uh—someone’s governess or some such?”

    The Fürstin von Maltzahn-Dressen’s house near the Park was bursting with unwanted females of all varieties. There was Anna’s former governess, now acting as some sort of companion to her when the Fürstin could not be bothered taking her to the more boring sort of débutantes’ party. There was the late Fürst’s Cousin Gertrude, who had foisted herself on them this Season with the complaint that no-one else in the entire family cared enough about a lonely widow to take her in. Fanny had taken her in, immured her in a splendid suite of rooms, and was firmly ignoring her. There was Cousin Gertrude’s companion, a Fräulein Hummel, even limper and more depressed, not to say depressing, than herself. There was Anna’s unmarried cousin Émilie, forty if a day and with a moustache to boot, foisted on the Fürstin by her august Mamma, who had married very well even for a German princess, with the remark that Émilie’s birth and fortune might outweigh the moustache with the English fortune-hunters, though they had not with the European. There was Émilie’s companion, a Fräulein Müller, even more horse-faced and masculine than the unfortunate Émilie herself. There were the maids of all of them. There was the Fürstin’s own maid; there was the Fürstin’s social secretary, a Miss Jepson, who did nothing all day but write out invitations and was incapable of keeping her mistress’s engagements sorted out even with the aid of the large white-leather bound diary with which she had been presented for the purpose—but who was very well connected on her mother’s side…

    “Oh, dear,” she said in the light, husky voice with the odd break in it for which she was famous in Society. “I cannot think of a soul. –Let me give you some tea, Jack.”

    The sophisticated Mr Beresford replied without thinking: “No, thanks, Aunt Fanny, I’ve just had tea with Lady Stamforth.”

    The Fürstin’s fine brows rose infinitesimally. “Ah. And she was not able to find you a re-spect-a-ble female?” she drawled.

    “No,” said Jack shortly.

    “What a pity.” Mentally she debated telling him to ask Lady Reggie Bon-Dutton’s advice in the matter, but regretfully decided against it: it would be too crude. “I do not think,” she said languidly, opening a box of sweetmeats slowly, “that there are very many people in town. Ah… I did see little Lady Ferdy Lacey, this morning.”

    “Oh, young Gwennie? Did you?” said Jack without interest. He knew Ferdy Lacey quite well, but that didn’t mean he’d let Gwennie waltz off to Northampton with him, Jack—and nor he damn’ well should!

    “She is become,” said the Fürstin with a little moue, “quite matronly.”

    Mr Beresford’s rather hard grey eyes twinkled a little. “Dearest Aunt Fanny, weren’t you busy having babies in the early years of your marriage?”

    She gave the slightest of shrugs. “An unpleasant duty. –Do but took at this enchanting box, dear nephew: are not these shades quite deli-ci-ous?”

    The sweetmeat box was covered in a watered bronzy-gold silk, striped with ribands of gold and green-gold; its interior was composed of a myriad tiny compartments in a dark brown lacquer, on which a delicate filigree pattern in gold leaf was painted. Each sweetmeat was wrapped in a green-gold gauze, tied up with a tiny knot of fine bronze ribbon. And the outer rim of the interior was set with a delicate tracery of—tourmalines? Mr Beresford blinked, and looked at it closely. Tourmalines and topazes. And some of the “sweetmeats” in the box were not edible at all, but little carved balls of gold, decorated with larger tourmalines and topazes.

    “Exquisite,” he said with a smile. “Just your shades, my dear.”

    “In-deed,” she murmured, picking up a small gold ball set with a giant square-cut topaz. “Regardez-moi ça.” She flicked at it with her thumbnail and the little ball opened up, to reveal a selection of comfits. “Silly, no?” said the Fürstin with a pleased laugh, proffering it.

    Jack rook a comfit, smiling. “May one dare to enquire, who is the inspired donor?”

    She wrinkled the straight Beresford nose that was a smaller copy of his own. “Well, my dear, it is so silly, that I do not mind telling you. ‘Bompey’ du Fresne sent it. He has decided to remarry, but I confess I know not why his choice should alight on my poor self.”

    He smiled a little. “Well, obviously. Who could look at anyone else, Aunt Fanny? But—er—what about the Princesse P.? Weren’t he at her feet for years?”

    “Oh, yes. But it is a position which he has not assumed for some time. One might be tempted to assume that her other, shall we say, predilections, have deterred him, had one not been aware that she has always had those,” she drawled.

    Jack choked.

    Fanny’s narrow, elegantly curved mouth twitched. “Eat that big one, dear boy, I beg: it has ‘fattening’ writ all over it.”

    “I don’t wish to get fat, either. Give to it to Anna, she’s a skinny little thing,” he said in an idle voice.

    “Unsubtle, my dear,” said his Aunt Fanny, closing the box. “Well, perhaps I should not detain you if you are on the hunt for a respectable female. Your search will be a long and weary one in London, I fear.” Gracefully she held out her hand to him. Gracefully Mr Beresford rose, bent to salute the hand, and strolled out.

    He would have been very surprised to see, as his curricle was clattering past the Park gates, the Fürstin standing in front of the big mirror over the mantel of her charming downstairs salon, with a horrid scowl on her delicate, oval, still-lovely face. “Haggish,” she said sourly to her reflection. “But if Bompey du Fresne dares to imagine that he represents my last chance—!”

    The Fürstin had married at eighteen. But her eldest son was now turned thirty-five.

    … “No luck?” said Mr Valentine languidly, yawning over a paper at Boodle’s.

    “No,” said Mr Beresford shortly.

    “I’ll come, Jack!” he said with a grin.

    “You will not.”

    “Two of us?” he said dubiously. “Might make it better.”

    “It will not. I shall give out the girl’s my sister, on the road. And kindly keep the whole thing quiet. My Aunt Sissy will be in town within the week,” he said grimly.

    “Out of course, dear boy: not a word!” Val assured him.

    “Val, are you positive you can’t think of— No. Then I’m off,” he said grimly.

    Mr Valentine sat up in alarm. “What, today? You'll miss the Rockinghams’ musical soirée!”

    “Good,” he said grimly, going.

    Mr Valentine blinked. The Marquis of Rockingham himself was going to play Beethoven. Could it be as urgent as all that?

    … Mr Beresford’s housekeeper was not an old family retainer, so he had not confided in her, merely said that a couple of rooms had best be prepared and she could expect Miss Sissy Laidlaw from Bath within the week. He hurried out to the travelling coach, frowning. It was highly undesirable, but there was nothing else for it.

    Peg thought that structure was an old mill. Lance sighed. Mr Bundy agreed with her. Look, what pretty cows, positively spotted! Mr Bundy agreed with her. Lance sighed. Everything on the road seemed to strike Peg as interesting or unusual, whereas actually nothing they had seen so far was that much different from the sights round their part of Lincolnshire. Except for the number and variety of wheeled vehicles, the which merely brought it home to one what a rural backwater they inhabited!

   … Mr Bundy thought, though he didn’t recall this part of the road so clear, it was a fair while since he’d been down this-a-way—Lance sighed—that they might be coming to a town soon. They could stop for a bite and a sup, what did they think? Peg agreed enthusiastically with him. Lance sighed.

    … “Well, you ain’t that far off Northampton, no,” allowed the landlord of the humble little tavern, scratching his whiskery chin judiciously. “You won’t make it tonight, though. Why not stop on ’ere?”

    Mr Bundy thanked him kindly for the offer, but refused. Explaining placidly to his passengers, once they were on the move again, that you never knew, sometimes these places was full of rascally fellows, and they’d be better off behind an ’edge, under the waggon, like usual. Peg agreed fervently. Lance sighed…

    It was growing dusk, and Mr Bundy had prudently drawn the waggon well in to the side of the road, having already had a near-collision with a great lurching stage, the roof laden with passengers, the driver cracking the whip furiously, and the guard blowing the yard of tin. Which would have been on its way to Lincoln, like as not, late.

    Suddenly there was a clatter of hooves, Mr Bundy swore violently, and a coach-and-four swayed round the up-coming bend at a dangerous pace.

    “Look out!” shouted Peg.

    “Danged FOOL!” shouted Mr Bundy.

    “Help!” gasped Lance, clinging to the side of the waggon for dear life.

    The glossy horses flashed past them, the body of the coach scraped by with barely an inch to spare, Mr Bundy swore loudly, pulling over his faithful Dobbin and Matilda as much as he dared, and the danger was past.

    “Gentry. Don’t care ’oo they kill,” explained Mr Bundy, pulling up Dobbin and Matilda with shaking hands.

    “My God!” said Lance with feeling.

    Peg turned and shook her little fist at the fast-disappearing coach in the dusk. She gasped. “Look out!” she shrieked.

    The other two twisted in their seats.

    “Glory, ’e’s lost a wheel!” shouted Mr Bundy as there came a rending crash, the sounds of horses neighing in panic and pain, and the sound of men shouting.

    “One of them nags—maybe two—’s broke a leg,” discerned Mr Bundy, head tilted.

    Lance shuddered, and Peg gulped.

    “You could stay ’ere, Missy. You, too, young Master, if you don’t fancy it,” said the sturdy Mr Bundy. “I’ll go take a look-see.”

    “No,” said Peg in a small voice. “They might be really hurt: we’ll come. Won’t we, Lance?”

    “Yes,” agreed Lance faintly.

    Grunting, Mr Bundy turned Dobbin and Matilda, and they proceeded cautiously up the road.

    “Don’t hurry!” shouted a very angry voice as they approached.

    “Can’t hurry: we been travelling all day, and my Dobbin and Matilda’s bone-weary,” replied Mr Bundy at his firmest.

    “For God’s sake give us a hand!” shouted the voice.

    “Come on,” grunted Mr Bundy, and they all got down.

    The shouting voice was revealed as belonging to one of the two postilions; the other was being sick in the ditch. A third man, as they came up, placed a pistol to the head of one of the horses. There was a loud report, and one set of agonised cries stopped abruptly. “Is that a lass?” he said loudly. “Don’t look, lass, ’t’ain’t nice!”

    “I’ve seen dead horses before,” said Peg in a firm voice. “Can we help?”

    “Yes; see to young master, in the coach. Think ’e’s hit ’is head,” said the man. “You fellows, give us a hand to cut the leaders free, will you?”

    There came another loud pistol shout and the cries from the second injured horse stopped. Biting her lip a little, Peg approached the body of the coach: lying quite on its side. “Can I help?” she gasped, trying to peer in. “Are you hurt?”

    A faint voice said out of the dimness: “The master’s hit his head something awful.”

    “Have you a light? A candle? A lantern?” said Peg briskly.

    “The master don’t like travelling at dusk with the lamp lit,” said the voice, sniffling, rather.

    “Unless I can see, I cannot help you!” replied Peg loudly and crossly.

    At this point another voice said, sounding very groggy: “I’m not dead. Stop—fussing.” And the owner of the first voice burst into noisy tears.

    “Really!” said Peg in loud exasperation. “Are you a man or a mouse? Pull yourself together!”

    “My—valet,” said the second voice faintly.

    “I don’t care if he’s the Grand Panjandrum himself: he’s behaving like an idiot! Stop bawling!” shouted Peg. “Have you got a light?”

    After a great deal of sniffling and snuffling, a certain amount of scrambling about, and a sharp “Ow!” from the second voice—possibly the idiot had trodden on his hand—the valet admitted he could not find anything with which to light the lantern. By this time Peg’s eyes had adjusted fairly well to the dimness in the coach, so she scrambled in and peered at the wounded man’s head. He was bleeding a little, but it didn’t seem much. His man was merely crying softly: there was no help to be expected there. So she removed the victim’s neckcloth and, dabbing the blood away, bound his head carefully.

    “You’re not bleeding very much. Do you feel dizzy?”

    “Yes,” he said sourly.

    “I suppose you told them to spring ’em. You deserve to feel dizzy: two of your horses are dead and it’s a miracle the postboys aren’t, too!” said Peg angrily.

    “I am on an urgent errand— Never mind,” he said with a sigh.

    “Can you sit up a bit?” He was sprawled on what had been the side of the coach, but was now its floor, his head propped against the seat.

    He sat up a bit, but gasped, and grabbed at his right arm. “Think—broken,” he said faintly.

    “Good,” said Peg unkindly. “Well, I can put it in a sling for you, but I certainly can’t splint it. –Be quiet!” she ordered the valet, who was now uttering a sort of keening sound.

    “Moffat, are you hurt?” asked the master.

    “No, sir,” sniffled the man.

    “Then be quiet.”

    Peg had not thought this would work, but the valet’s keening and sniffling stopped. She asked him, without much hope, for smelling-salts. Apparently “everything” was in the travelling-case, which had injudiciously been placed on the roof of the coach. Peg was now very cross, though she did not realise that a lot of this was due to alarm. She scrambled out of the coach, more or less hauled the valet out by brute force, and made him find and open the right case. Then she administered the smelling-salts. Much to her relief the man who had shot the horses then came up and competently lit one of the lanterns on the side of the coach. And Peg was enabled to get a proper look at the victim. He was a youngish man—well, not old—with, hardly surprisingly, a very pale face, and a tangle of short, crisp black curls.

    “Can you get out, sir?” asked the man.

    “His arm’s broken,” said Peg dubiously.

    “I know that, lass. Can you get out, sir?”

    Peg watched silently, wincing a little in spite of herself, as he hauled himself to his feet with his good arm, and reported: “Apparently nothing broken except the arm and the head, Goodwin.”

    “Serves you right for telling them monkeys to spring ’em,” retorted the man Goodwin sourly.

    “See?” cried Peg.

    Goodwin’s mouth twitched a little but he said sternly: “You show some respect for your betters, lass. –Now, sir, I'll help you out and we’ll look at that danged arm. Oy, Useless!” he said loudly to the hovering valet. “Fetch the master one of them seat cushions once he’s out, can you?”

    Soon the wounded man was sitting by the roadside and Mr Goodwin was inspecting his head and arm. Receiving with a grunt Peg’s information that he had said he felt dizzy, before.

    “Aye, well, if one of these noddies can find us a straight bit of stick, I can splint it, sir. Then we’d best head back to Northampton. Dare say this fellow can take us up on his waggon.”

    “No,” he said faintly. “We must press on.”

    “Rubbish. It were a mad start to head on north, in the first place. Nothing to say the lady was ever on the road at all. You can see a quack in Northampton, and much good may it do you.”

    “That’s right,” agreed Mr Bundy, coming up to his elbow. “Can you trust them postboys to stick with the coach and not nick yer stuff, though?”

    “You got a point,” allowed the sturdy Mr Goodwin. “I told you, sir—”

    “Very well,” said his master on an acid note. “Next time we will delay our journey for three weeks until our own postboys should happen not to be suffering from gout, exhaustion, or the odd pinched finger.”

    “What were they suffering from?” put in Peg.

    “Nothing, lass,” explained Mr Goodwin. “Jem and Bill done the first stage and stayed with the nags. Like if it’s one of our usual routes we got our own relays sent on ahead, out of course; only we don’t usual head for Northampton in March. And I always travel with the master, because we don’t trust no hired postboys, and that’s a fact. And if we was bringing the curricle, like as not Jenks ’ud be with us, that’s the master’s personal groom, what the gentry call a tiger, see?—but we didn’t want to risk the teams in this weather.”

    “Teams?” echoed Peg dazedly.

    “Goodwin, stop chattering to the damned girl and decide what to do!” said his master loudly and irritably at this point.

    Peg rounded on him. “He just did decide what to do, but you made it your business to contradict him!”

    “That’ll do,” said the stolid Mr Goodwin with the suspicion of a laugh in his voice. “Young lasses off of waggons don’t give chat to gentlemen. –Like I said, sir: Northampton. We don’t even know what's ahead of us.”

    “We can tell you!” said the unstoppable Peg eagerly.

    “Shut it, Peg,” muttered her brother uneasily.

    “You can find me a couple of straight sticks, lad,” ordered Mr Goodwin.

    “Me?” croaked Lance.

    “Yes; go on. Or ain’t you capable of that much?”

    “But it’s dark,” he said faintly.

    “Look in the ditch. Come on, I'll help,” decided Peg, leading him off.

    “That lass,” said Goodwin to his master with this time a definite laugh in his voice, “has got more spunk in ’er little finger than the lad has in the whole of ’is useless body.”

    “I dare say,” he said faintly.

    At this the burly groom knelt beside him and said anxiously: “Not dizzy again, are you?”

    “A little. Don’t fuss,” he said with sigh.

    “No, well, I've seen you come a purler or two with the Quorn and walk away.” Nevertheless he peered anxiously at his head. “Can’t see nothing, she’s done you up like a ruddy Turk.”

    “Casting aspersions on the length of my neckcloth as she did it, yes,” he said in the thread of a voice.

    Goodwin’s wide mouth twitched but he decided firmly: “You better not talk no more. Just take it easy.”

    His master sighed, but made no further effort to speak.

    … “What a fuss over nothing!” concluded Peg on a scornful note as, at long, weary last, the injured man and the cases which the tearful valet had declared were essential and must not be left with the coach had been tenderly carried into the posting-inn at Northampton.

    “I wouldn’t say that. The fellow was in genuine pain,” objected Lance. “I say, do you think he’s a Corinthian? Did you hear the groom mention the curricle and the teams?”

    “Corinthian!” retorted Peg with spirit. “I dare say he may be, whatever that is, but if you imagine that means that anyone in that stupid cortège of his will think to offer poor Dobbin and Matilda a drink of water, let alone some nice oats at their expense, you may think again!”

    “Aye. That’s gentry for you,” agreed Mr Bundy, spitting. “Come on, let’s get on out of it. I know a Ma ’Iggins what I dessay’ll put us up. But you better give her a shilling in the morning, lad.”

    Lance was very red, not knowing whether to say first not to call him “lad”, as the insulting Goodwin had done throughout, or that he could ill spare a shilling, while Peg had, of course, her ten guineas intact. Plus five whole shillings which Ma had produced from goodness-knew-where. Plus a halfpenny from Bertie.

    “Dear Mr Bundy,” said his maddening sister with a giggle, “before he can cry poverty, let me give Mrs Higgins a shilling!”

    And, it being agreed, they forthwith departed, Dobbin and Matilda now very slow indeed, for the establishment of Mrs Higgins.

    Mr Goodwin, having seen that a doctor was sent for and having prevented his master from countermanding the order, and having prevented the valet, almost bodily, from touching the bandage on his master’s head, and having ordered up brandy, since the master was clearly not up to it and Moffat was incapable of thinking of it, emerged at long last onto the forecourt of the inn to find their kind rescuers gone.

    “Dang me,” he said, standing there like a fool. “Where they pushed off to, then? Lor’, and we never thanked them or nothing. He’ll have me guts for garters.” He pulled a sour face. “That is, if that crack on the noggin ain’t a danged sight worse nor he's trying to make out.” Shaking his head, he trod heavily back inside.

    Given that they were several days late arriving in Northampton, Peg decided, the moment she awoke, that they must be off to find their relative without delay: poor Aunt B. must be wondering what on earth had happened to her. Lance pointed out they didn’t know where she’d be stopping but Peg retorted briskly that since she would be expecting her and Miss Hunt to arrive on the Lincoln stage, the logical place was the staging inn, wasn't it? They would start there. And if she wasn't there, they would ask the way to Cousin Kate Winsett’s Harriet’s house. So after a hurried bite, they set off. On foot: Dobbin and Matilda deserved a rest.

    The staging inn was considerably larger, and observedly much busier, than the one at which they had left the injured gentleman the previous evening; Peg looked up dubiously at its bulk. “I dare say,” she said under her breath, “that this is more the sort of house to which he is used.”

    “Hey?” responded Mr Bundy.

    “Nothing,” she said with her sunny smile. “Shall we ask if Mrs Beresford is here?”

    This being agreed, they went in. A harried inn servant informed them that it was the best private parlour, top o’ the stairs, and, with a disparaging glance at Peg’s rusty brown cloak and Lance’s creased coat, dashed off about his business.

    The words “best private parlour” were not calculated to inspire confidence in the heart of a nervous young man uneasily aware of the inadequacies of his own tailoring, of the disastrous appearance presented by his sister—Mrs Higgins had insisted on using her flat-iron on the brown woollen dress, which was at least clean from Peg’s hamper, but had been unable to do anything to revive the battered straw bonnet which had undergone all the rigours of the journey on the waggon—and of the fact that their grand relation was not expecting himself. “Um, you go on up, Peg,” he said, clearing his throat. “Bundy and I can wait in the tap.”

    Peg was as nervous as he was, but made of sterner stuff. Ignoring the minatory look which Mr Bundy was now directing at her brother, she replied in her firmest voice: “Very well. But Lance, you are not to let dear Mr Bundy pay for a thing.” And, handing her brother the second of her five shillings—the first having of course gone to the protesting but pleased Mrs Higgins—determinedly headed up the stairs, her heart beating very fast.

    On the first floor a neatly-dressed maid informed her that that there was the best parlour, Miss, and—glancing askance at the shabby dress, worn cloak, and dreadful bonnet—what was the name she wanted? Beresford? Aye, that was right! Go right on in.

    Peg knew enough to be aware that proper young ladies got shown into private parlours, not told to go on in. Squaring her shoulders, she smiled at the girl, and, reflecting that the dress was less worn than the cloak, removed the latter and draped it over her arm. Then she took a deep breath and opened the indicated door.

    The business of setting the arm had been painful, but Mr Beresford had supported worse. The damned sawbones had refused him laudanum, explaining that with a knock on the head he was better off without it, refused him any more brandy, and told him a good night’s sleep would see him right. He had not thought he would sleep, with the arm throbbing like the Devil, but had eventually drifted off. In the morning his head had felt a lot clearer, and with a certain amount of swearing at Moffat, he had managed to bathe and dress. His shirt sleeve had had to be split open to accommodate the wounded arm and of course he could not get it into his coat sleeve. So the coat was just draped over that shoulder. And after Goodwin had rearranged the sling for him it felt well enough.

    Then Goodwin had pointed out that it would be sensible to check again at the Rose & Crown, in the case that Miss Buffitt had turned up after all. And in any case it would be sensible to wait until today’s Lincoln stage got in. After a certain amount of swearing at Goodwin, Mr Beresford had decided that they would remove bag and baggage to t’other damned place, that they would stay there a further two days, and that in the meantime a letter had best be sent to Aunt Sissy at the town house, explaining that her damned cousin’s damned daughter had not as yet turned up. And that if he heard another word out of Goodwin, he would be the one to ride back to London with it!

    Naturally the damned female was not there. The stage was not due in until that evening. Angrily Mr Beresford ordered breakfast. Angrily he vetoed Moffat’s suggestion of bread and milk and a retreat to bed for the day. Angrily he sent the sniffling valet away…

    When the door opened he was very naturally expecting it to be his breakfast. And was very started indeed by what was revealed instead.

    “What are you doing here?” gasped Peg, goggling at the tall figure in riding dress who was standing in front of the fire.

    Mr Beresford smiled a little. On wakening he had told himself firmly that most of that, the previous evening, had been a compound of his imagination and the knock on the head: a cross, bossy, ministering angel, with golden eyes, the sweetest bow of a mouth he had ever seen in his life, and a mass of bright gold ringlets? Not to mention that straight little nose, with the lightest scattering of tiny golden-brown freckles on it.

    “I’m waiting for my breakfast,” he returned mildly.

    Somewhat belatedly Peg recalled that he had been hurt. “Oh. Um, how are you?”

    He looked at the big eyes and the wide, winged jaw that if it certainly did not belie that bossily determined character, yet culminated in the sweetest little pointed chin imaginable, and smiled again. The more so as, hideous though the brown wool dress was, its bodice was considerably tight on what was now revealed to be an exceeding curvaceous little figure. Without a corset, or he, Jack Beresford, was no judge of the sex. “Surviving very well, as you see. I think I owe you my heartfelt thanks, don’t I? Come over here, lass.”

    Trustingly Peg came, noting pleasedly as she looked up into the handsome face: “I thought that cut was nothing!”

    “Mm, it don’t spoil my beauty at all,” he murmured drily. The big eyes blinked at him; smiling, he put a hand under that determined jaw and that adorable chin, and swiftly bent to press his lips on hers…

    Peg had never been kissed by any man outside her direct family. And certainly never kissed in that way! For a moment she was motionless with shock. Then she wrenched herself out of his grasp and delivered a ringing slap to that handsome face.

    “Ouch!” gasped Mr Beresford, staggering back.

    “You PIG!” shouted Peg furiously. “I am not an unprotected country lass, and even if I were, you had NO RIGHT to do that!”

    Mr Beresford opened his mouth.

    “And my Aunt, Mrs Beresford, is staying in this very inn, and her son is a real gentleman who will very likely call you out, you CREATURE!” shouted Peg, wilfully omitting the fact that in all likelihood Aunt B.’s famous son was not within fifty miles of Northampton.

    He was seen to gulp. And after a moment heard to croak: “What?”

    “YES!” shouted Peg. “Ah-hah! See? He is an absolute gentleman and Corinthian, and will spit you on his dress-sword!”

    Alas, at this the long, narrow mouth that had just invaded Peg’s so rudely was seen to quiver. And he gasped: “I don’t think so!”

    “Like the Christmas GOOSE!” shouted the infuriated Peg, stamping her foot.

    “I think you have the terminology wrong,” he said politely. “One does not use a dress-sword in the—er—duello. And dress-swords,” he added on an apologetic note, “are not generally worn, in this day and—”

    “Be SILENT!” shouted Peg, stamping her foot again.

    He was silent, eyeing her mockingly. The inexperienced Peg did not register the significance of the slight flush on the high cheekbones, or note that the gentleman, in spite of the mocking glance, was breathing rather heavily.

    “WELL?” she shouted terribly.

    “Well, what? Er—you did tell me to be silent,” he murmured.

    “I am going to find my Aunt Beresford,” said Peg grimly, giving up the notion of forcing an apology out of the creature herself, “and then you will find out what is what.”

    “You will have a long trip, I fear,” he said politely.

    She paused, with her hand on the door. “What?”

    “Your Aunt Beresford—I should have thought that ‘Cousin’ would be more appropriate, given that she is your mother’s cousin, rather than sister—your Aunt Beresford could not come. She is abroad, with my sister and her husband. I,” said Mr Beresford with a low bow, “am her deputy. Her poor deputy.”

    Peg held onto the doorknob very tightly. “I don’t believe you.”

    He made a wry face. “You, I presume, are Miss Buffitt. Given Mamma’s report of your parents, I won't bother to ask what the Devil you were doing on a damned waggon.”

    “Don't DARE to insult my parents!” shouted Peg, now crimson-faced and very near tears.

    He shrugged. “Are you Miss Buffitt?”

    “I— You’re making this up. You are not Mr Beresford at all,” said Peg, lips trembling.

    “Of course I am, you silly little thing. How the Devil else do you imagine I know about the family connections?” he drawled.

    “I dare say any of your fine friends could have told you. I dare say he has any number of horrible friends like you,” said Peg, valiant but audibly unconvinced.

    He raised his eyebrows. “I thought ‘he’ was supposed, on the contrary, to be the sort of gentleman who would spit me like the Christmas goose—talking of silly little geese—in defence of your honour?”

    “I am not a guh-goose, and you are a PIG!” shouted Peg, bursting into overwrought tears.

    Mr Beresford grimaced horribly, but came to put his good hand on her shoulder. “Don’t bawl. I am your second cousin, Jack Beresford; and I suppose I owe you an apology, of sorts.”

    The sobbing Peg shook him off angrily.

    Mr Beresford hesitated. The sobs did not abate. “Look, anybody would have taken you for a country lass in that frightful bonnet, and riding a waggon with those—”

    But Peg kicked him in the shin and ran out of the room, still sobbing.

    Mr Beresford was wearing boots. The kick had made no impression on him, although her footwear was stout enough. He shrugged, and wandered back to the fire. After quite some time of staring into its depths he admitted aloud, with a very sour grimace indeed: “Well, if you were a simple country lass the both of us would be a damn’ sight better off, because speaking for myself I’d have been up you at this moment. And you could have had—well, a bath, first,” he allowed with the ghost of a smile. “But certainly a snug little house in town, and as many pretty dresses and bonnets as you— Oh, the Devil with it!” The pretty picture which his mind had constructed of its own accord, for he had certainly not done it consciously, of a pretty little house with a pretty little garden, discreetly on the outskirts of the city but close enough to be convenient, with Miss Sweetly Determined Country Lass in a succession of pretty little sprig muslins—and out of ’em—was rapidly fading. To be replaced by an all-too vivid picture of his mother’s face when Miss Buffitt’s report of this last encounter should have reached her ears…

    “Hell and DAMNATION!” said Mr Beresford loudly and furiously.

    “Beg pardon, sir?” replied a startled voice from the doorway.

    Mr Beresford glared at the waiter. “What the Devil do you want?”

    “Um, breakfast, sir.”

    “What? Oh, leave it, leave it. –Put it DOWN!” he shouted as the man hesitated.

    The Rose & Crown’s waiter deposited the tray glumly, and retreated without having been offered a tip. “Gentry,” he said sourly to Molly, as they met at the top of the stairs.

    “Aye. That lass what come to see ’im, she run out a-bawling not two minutes since.”

    The waiter sniffed, and raised a knowing eyebrow.

    “’E was generous enough to me,” reported Molly dubiously.

    “Yes, well, just watch out ’e ain’t too generous!” he replied with feeling, hurrying downstairs.

    Lance and Mr Bundy were discovered propping up the bar in the taproom. Angrily Peg poured out her story to them, ignoring the fact that a stout fellow in a leather apron had lowered his tankard and was unaffectedly gaping at her.

    “Yes, well, we can’t talk here,” said Lance with a hunted look.

    “Why NOT? Are you a man or a MOUSE?” shouted his little sister.

    “Look, Peg, it was a natural enough mistake, seeing you on the damned waggon.”

    “It is NOT a damned waggon!”

    “No, well, don’t start to bawl again. Look, come out here,” he said, grasping her elbow.

    Scowling and sniffing, Peg allowed herself to be propelled into a passage. Mr Bundy, who had accompanied them silently, now offered: “I’ll belt ’im one. Don’t care if ’e ’as got a broken arm.”

    “Er—yes, that’s true,” realised Lance. “Look, Peg, the fellow couldn’t have done you much harm in that state, had he wished to. And it was just a kiss, after all.”

    “JUST a kiss?” shouted his sister furiously.

    “No, well, understandable. That damned bonnet makes you look like a farmhand’s daughter,” he muttered.

    “And if you were a farmhand’s son, you would not protect your sister either, I suppose?” she cried.

    Lance shuffled his feet. “Look, thing is, it was an honest mistake. –Whatever the fellow’s morals may be,” he said on a firmer note as Peg started to tell him what Mr Beresford’s morals must be. “And after all, he is our connexion.”

    Pegs, jaw sagged. After a moment she managed to utter: “You howling snob, Lance Buffitt. Our connexion! What you mean is, Aunt B.’s son and a stupid Spartan!”

    “Sp— Corinthian, you imbecile!”

    “That’ll do,” put in Mr Bundy firmly. “You going to belt ’im, or shall I?”

    “No-one is going to belt him, because he is our cousin, and has a broken arm, and besides, it was a natural mistake,” said Lance firmly.

    Mr Bundy rubbed his unshaven jaw. “Natural—maybe. And don’t tell me the gentry are like that, acos I know it. But it weren’t hardly decent, young sir.”

    “No, indeed it was not!” agreed Peg fervently.

    “Have you never kissed a girl in the fields or—or a maid, or some such?” demanded Lance angrily, ignoring her.

    Mr Bundy rubbed the chin again. “Aye… Not one that didn’t want it, though. Never been that sort, meself. Though I know some what are, not saying as I don't.”

    “N— Well, naturally one only kisses the ones who— Never mind that,” said Lance hastily, feeling his sister’s eyes upon him. “Yes!” he said angrily as Peg began: “Have you—?” “Never mind that! One does. And I don’t say that he was right to— I am NOT condoning it!” he shouted as Peg began to tell him he was. “I’m just saying there is nothing to be done about it.”

    Peg tried to tell him he should demand an apology from Mr Beresford.

    “I would,” noted Mr Bundy.

    Lance threw him an impatient glance. “Yes, and you’d knock him down, broken wing and all!”

    “Dessay. I’m not a gent,” he said without emphasis.

    Lance was very red. “Very well, I shall go up and demand an apology.”

    Peg began to tell him she was not going all the way to London with a salacious pig, but Lance ignored that and marched upstairs. Possibly his courage might have deserted him at the crucial moment but Peg took it upon herself to open the door and give him a sharp push.

    Mr Beresford was eating ham and drinking from a large tankard. He lowered the latter without haste and said: “Are your her brother, or did I dream that, with the rest?”

    “Um, yes,” said Lance numbly.

    “Thank God. You can chaperon the damned girl to London; I was at me wits’ end,” he said mildly.

    “London?” gasped Lance, turning all colours of the rainbow. “Really? I say, sir!”

    “Do NOT call him sir!” shouted Peg furiously. “And there is no proof he is our cousin!”

    Mr Beresford gave her a look of cool dislike. He had now decided that a very large proportion of last night’s impressions had been due to the knock on the head, and that his cousin, far from being a luscious piece, was a bossy little harpy. True, the curved form, the mop of ringlets beneath the awful bonnet, and the great gold-green eyes were at the moment telling him otherwise, but he managed pretty well to ignore them. “You are Miss Buffitt, your mother is my mother’s Cousin Rose. Whom else do you require me to cite? Aunt Honeywell, perchance?”

    Lance at this gave a startled laugh. “I say! Do you know her?”

    “Mm. She not infrequently inflicts herself on my mother’s house in Bath during the autumn months. Why that season, I have no idea.”

    “Lor;’ frightful, sir!” he agreed fervently. “I say, I do beg your pardon; I’m Lance Buffitt,” he added, holding out his hand.

    “You are a pathetic COWARD!” shouted Peg, bursting into furious tears.

    Mr Beresford had risen without haste and was shaking Lance’s hand. “I must apologise for my conduct earlier this morning. I had no idea who your sister was, or even, if you will forgive me, that she was a lady.”

    “No, of course, sir!”

    “That does not make it all RIGHT!” shouted Peg through her tears. “Stop shaking his horrible hand this INSTANT, Lance Buffitt!”

    “Does she always bawl this much?” drawled Mr Beresford.

    “Oh, Lor’ yes, sir. Well, they all does, don’t they?”

    “How many sisters are you cursed with?” he asked with a smile.

    “Hundreds of ’em!” said Lance with a laugh “No, well, five, in all, though Lilibet’s only a brat. Maria, that’s the eldest, she’s an even worse watering-pot than Peg: claims to have sensibilities. Anne’s pretty bad, too: she’s the next one down from Peg. No, well, they are all pretty had.”

    “That is unfair and UNJUST!” shouted Peg, the tears drying up in sheer annoyance.

    Lance looked down his nose at her. “And that’s tautologous, but then, I wouldn’t have expected no less from one what mixes up the Spartans and the Corinthians.”

    “You pig, Lance Buffitt!”

    “Have some ham, Cousin Lance,” said Mr Beresford on a very dry note.

    At this Mr Bundy, who had been standing silently behind the Buffitts, stepped forward. “What I say is, you done the lass wrong. Not all that bad, I grant you,” he said as Mr Beresford opened his mouth, “but broken arm or not, you better say you’re sorry. Now!”

    “I have already said I am sorry to Miss Buffitt, but I am perfectly willing—nay, eager—to say it again,” responded Mr Beresford smoothly. “Miss Buffitt, my deepest apologies. No insult to yourself was intended, I do assure you.”

    “There, now!” said Lance pleasedly. “You can’t say fairer than that, Peg!”

    “Lance, can’t you see he is mocking me, and mocking you, and mocking dearest Mr Bundy as well?” said Peg, very tearful.

    Mr Bundy put a supporting arm around her. “I’d say so. Only ’e said it, eh? More’n most would.”

    “Most what?” asked Mr Beresford airily.

    Mr Bundy gave him a straight look. “Most fine gents, that’s what.”

    “You are probably right, Would you care to join me in this excellent ham? You, too, of course, Cousin Lance. –Miss Buffitt?”

    “No!” said Peg angrily. “And I hope it chokes you! Lance, surely you are not going to eat with the creature?”

    “Now look, Peg, that’ll do. The man’s apologised. It was a genuine mistake. You might at least try to accept his apology gracefully,” he growled, very red.

    “And at the same time, if you would favour us by removing that bonnet, I for one would vastly—er—relieved,” drawled Mr Beresford.

    “Um—don’t, sir: she’s impossible when she's got her dander up,” said Lance uncomfortably.

    “Is she, indeed? Perhaps she would prefer to retire? Miss Buffitt, there is a room prepared for you,” he said, ringing the bell.

    ‘I do not want any room that YOU are paying for!” shouted Peg.

    “Peg, that’ll do!” hissed Lance.

    “I wouldn’t, neither,” agreed Mr Bundy stoutly. “Thing is,” he said dubiously, as Peg offered eagerly to accompany him back to Mrs Higgins’s, “’t’ain’t really fit for a lady.”

    “Mr Bundy, I am not a lady!” she cried.

    “Be that as it may,” said Mr Beresford loudly as a servant came in, “you will stay in the room ordered up for you. –Show my cousin, Miss Buffitt, to the room prepared for her, please. Oh, and I will need another room for Mr Buffitt. And send my man Goodwin up, thank you.”

    “You better go, Missy,” said Mr Bundy awkwardly into the sudden silence.

    “Just because he orders the inn servants about like a belted earl!” said Peg scornfully. “Very well, I can see you are all in league against me,” she said as Lance opened his mouth, “and I shall go. In fact I do not wish for your company, ever again.” With that she went out.

    Mr Bundy shook his head slowly. But on Mr Beresford’s repeating his offer of breakfast, said: “Don’t think I will, thanks all the same, sir. Mr Lance, I'll come round later to say goodbye to Miss Peg.”

    “I dare say she’ll still be in a paddy,” replied Lance cheerfully. “She and Anne are both like that. I’ll say this for Maria, she don’t lose her rag. Well, not got the nous to,” he noted fairly. “But come round, by all means.”

    Mr Bundy waited a moment, but as no thanks for his having brought them down from Lincoln were forthcoming, slowly touched his forelock, and exited. Once safely in the passage with the parlour door closed behind him, however, he looked sourly at the finger that had done the forelock-touching and made a very much more expressive gesture with it, directed impartially, or so the onlooker might have concluded, at the parlour and both its occupants.

    Mr Beresford, that noted Corinthian and man-about-town, realised very clearly that he was behaving very badly. Oh, not in the matter of kissing the little cousin—no. He would not have treated a lady so, but certainly would not have hesitated to award any pretty little wench a casual kiss—or more, if the wench was willing. But certainly in the matter of encouraging the boy whilst needling the girl, deliberately winding the boy around his little finger, treating the absurd waggoner kindly in order to annoy the girl— Etcetera. He could, of course, see very clearly that Peg had ten times her brother’s personality and guts. In fact, he thought he vaguely remembered Goodwin saying as much, t’other night. Nevertheless, he did not wish to have a hoyden of a country cousin foisted upon him; he did not in the least wish to placate her; and he did wish to continue to needle her. True, the phrase “Poor little girl” had sprung unbidden into his mind as she had trailed out in the wake of the servant, looking very small and defenceless in the hideous brown dress and sketch of a bonnet. Mr Beresford, however, was wont to ignore anything that displeased him or disturbed him. He ignored the phrase “Poor little girl.” And ignored, too, the small voice of Conscience that was telling him he was behaving badly. And extorted himself to charm the inane brother. It was not difficult.

    As to why he was taking the pair of them back to London instead of packing them off on the next stage bound for Lincoln— Mr Beresford, did not, oddly enough, examine this point at all. Though he did tell himself that once he got her into Aunt Sissy’s hands, the whole thing would be resolved, and Aunt Sissy would no doubt be very happy to chaperon her all the way back to Lincolnshire, and to have the opportunity to visit with the damned mother. Yes, that would be best. She would be safe with Aunt Sissy.

Next chapter:

https://pegbuffitt-aregencynovel.blogspot.com/2023/06/who-are-these-coming-to-sacrifice.html