Irresolution

7

Irresolution

    The journey up to Lincolnshire had been excessively tedious. In fact an experience over which it would be preferable to draw a veil for the rest of one’s life. The meeting with Damian Buffitt had been… Put it this way. Mr Beresford was still not over it, on his return to London.

    “For me?” said Miss Sissy in surprise, as her tall nephew, having hugged her tightly while he was still in his overcoat, handed her a small package. “How exciting!”

    “The best the shops in damned Lincoln could do, I’m afraid!” he said with an off-hand little laugh. “Open it, Aunt Sissy.”

    Miss Sissy was reminded so vividly of the twelve-year-old Jack that at this point she had to swallow. She opened the little package. A brooch of sapphires, in the shape of a little spray of flowers. Forget-me-nots?

    “Er, silly, I know,” said Mr Beresford in a sheepish voice.

    The little brooch was more suited to a girl than to a woman of his aunt’s age, and, in fact, if they were forget-me-nots, clearly designed as a keepsake. She smiled very much, and pinned it to her thin bosom. “It’s delightful, my dear. Do you not think so, girls?”

    “It’s lovely,” agreed Peg with a smile.

    Horrible had stood by with her mouth slightly open throughout this exchange. Now she gulped, and managed to croak: “Yes. Lovely.”

    Mr Beresford cleared his throat. “Good.” He produced two more little packages from his pocket. “Er, just a little something for you both,” he said stiffly.

    Both girls were very red. Horrible, indeed, was incapable of speech, Mr Beresford registered with a certain amount of pleasure. He pushed her gift into her hand. “Coals of fire, Horrible.”

    “Yes!” said Horrible with a loud, awkward laugh.

    Miss Buffitt just said in a tiny, tiny voice: “For me?” as he handed her hers.

    “Open them, my dears!” beamed Miss Sissy. “That was very thoughtful, Jack!”

    Horrible’s was also a little spray of flowers, rather like Miss Sissy’s, but in her case the petals were little seed pearls. “I think it was the man’s own design. Not easy to choose the right stones, for a red-headed girl,” said Mr Beresford stiffly, as she said nothing.

    “Yes. Thank you. I haven't got a brooch,” said Horrible in a choked voice.

    Suddenly he patted her shoulder. “No. Bit hard, being the second girl, eh? Saw Nobby had a pretty string of pearls, last time I was down in Bath.”

    “Mm. Of course. She’s been out for a while. Thank you very much, Cousin Jack!” she said with a sudden beaming smile.

    “Open yours, Peg, my dear!” urged Miss Sissy.

    Peg’s present was also a brooch, but quite different from the other two: composed of a double ring of gold, the inner circlet plain, the outer dotted with some tiny seed pearls. She pinned it slowly to her bosom. “Thank you very much,” she said in a whisper.

    Mr Beresford looked uncertainly at her bowed head. “Do you not like it? Er—only a trifle. Dare say we might think about having some of the stones on those things Aunt Fanny gave you reset for y—” He broke off, very disconcerted: Peg had burst into tears and run out of the room.

    “She is overcome, that is all, Jack,” said his aunt calmly. “I dare swear that a gift from you was the last thing she was expecting.”

    Mr Beresford strode over to the window and stared out unseeingly at a view of one of London’s most desirable residential streets. “Poor little thing,” he said in a choked voice.

    Horrible at this point was heard to swallow loudly. Miss Sissy looked hard at her, and then looked at the door. Gulping, Horrible vanished.

    “Was it very bad, then, Jack?” asked Miss Sissy calmly.

    He swallowed. “Appalling.”

    His aunt just waited.

    Mr Beresford swung round. “The house is tiny; some of our estate workers have roomier accommodation! Why, Bill Herbert’s house is twice the size!”

    Miss Sissy knew that Bill Herbert was the estate carpenter, a very handy man indeed, and also a very valued man at Beresford Hall, who earned a more than decent wage. She just nodded silently.

    “And in the most shocking condition—oh, not the fabric: Sir Horace Monday struck me as a very good sort of man. But shabby curtains what have never seen the sight of a needle, torn seat-covers ditto, carpets full of holes… Don’t think the woman bothers to oversee the servants hardly at all. Why, there was a giant cobweb in one corner of the dining-room ceiling! The next girl—Anne, her name is, even prettier than Peg but not with that look of distinction to her—she was in an apron when we got there, like a serving wench—”

    “Jack, my dear, in such a household the daughters would very naturally be expected to help in the house,” she said gently.

    “I know that, Aunt Sissy; but when she took it off, it was plain the print thing she had on was made from two older dresses, for it had one pattern to the bosom and the greater part of the skirt, and another pattern entirely to the bottom eighteen inches of the skirt and the sleeves!”

    “Er—yes. Peg tells me that Anne is quite handy with her needle, though not the fine seamstress their eldest sister, Maria, is.”

    “If she is a fine seamstress, I wonder she does not make her little sisters a few decent gowns to wear.”

    “My dear, she has her own little family; and then, they do not live very near.”

    “No, I found that out,” he said with a sigh, collapsing onto a sofa. “My God! The little ones were in rags! Layers of rags. The little boy is around four, I think, and when he came in from the garden it was plain that he was badly in want of changing, if you take my meaning, but the woman did nothing: left it up to little Anne to discover the fact and take him upstairs. –She,” he said grimly, “was reading a book when I got there, with her feet up on the sofa, while on the front doorstep the little girl was shrieking her head off.”

    “This would be little Lilibet? What was the trouble?”

    “She had fallen down and scraped her hand, poor little brat. Lance picked her up and brought her in—I couldn’t manage, with the dashed arm,” he said with a frown.

    “No, of course.” Miss Sissy rang the bell. “I shall send for the Madeira,” she said firmly.

    “I need it, do I?” said Mr Beresford on a mad note. “By God, you are not wrong, there!”

    Over the Madeira he revealed: “Damian Buffitt—though I think you know this, Aunt Sissy—is a lost cause. All of Lance’s woolliness, with a large dose of fanaticism to boot.”

    “Yes? I remember him as a very clever young man, but rather out of touch with reality.”

    “You may take it,” he said grimly, “that he has completely lost touch with reality and that the cleverness has turned to fanaticism. Sir Horace Monday is quite out of charity with the fool, and no damned wonder!”

    This was the second reference to Sir Horace: Miss Sissy’s eyes twinkled just a little, but she merely asked placidly: “Did you meet Sir Horace, then, my dear?”

    “Aye. Well, told the Buffitts I would put up in the village, since there was manifestly no room in their house, and bumped into him at the inn. Very decent fellow; found out whom I was visiting, immediately asked me up to Monday Hall.”

    “That was well done of him, indeed!”

    Jack grinned ruefully. “No, well, the Buffitts is his nearest neighbours, y’see: think he was desperate for rational conversation! Reminded me of Uncle George, in a way. Well—thoroughly decent, bluff country-squire type.”

    That was certainly George Beresford: she nodded.

    Jack then told her a great deal, very fast, about Sir Horace’s lands and his methods of agriculture. Miss Sissy nodded and smiled, but allowed her mind to dwell on other points.

    Eventually Jack leaned back in his chair, sighing. “We must get her out of it.”

    “Who, little Anne?” said his aunt in a vague voice.

    “N— Well, her, too, of course. No, dammit! Peg! –I mean Miss Buffitt.”

    “Ye-es… For the moment she is out of it, Jack.”

    Mr Beresford was very flushed. “I meant permanently. The father is amoral—pray do not ask for the details, but I assure you it is so—and the mother don’t care.”

    She looked at him uncertainly. “I think, from what Peg has said of her home, that Rose is a loving mother, if not precisely a conventional one. But she certainly has not the means to do anything for the children.”

    “She has, one must presume, needle and thread, with which she could do a little,” he said coldly. “No, well, I am glad to know you think that, and she certainly seemed fond enough in her manner. But we cannot possibly send our little cousin back to rags and cobwebs!”

    “No-o… My dear, do not suggest Charlotte take her,” said Miss Sissy brazenly, taking the bull by the horns. “She has a large family of her own, and though of course she would be willing, there is all the expense of Nobby’s wedding to be borne, and then, the three younger girls coming along; and little Paul will be up at the University, this year: does not time fly? And that is always expensive. And Jack has been quite worried about the older boys: Micky’s not settling down, and Lukey’s not being able to make up his mind about a profession. I think they have more than enough on their plates. Well, I am sure that dear Lady Stamforth will do her best to help us find Peg a husband, this Season. But it will not be easy: as you have so rightly pointed out, they have nothing: less than nothing. I rather think kind Sir Horace does not even charge them rent for the house.”

    “No. Well, naturally he did not speak of it to me. Terribly good sort of man, as I said. But I got it out of Buffitt, easily enough. And there is nothing—literally not a penny—put by for his daughters!”

    “No.”

    Mr Beresford got up and strode about the room. “If only we were nearer related— But then, giving Buffitt money is clearly pointless, he’d throw it away! I shall try to do something for those boys, however. If he’ll let me,” he added with a scowl.

    Oh, dear, thought Miss Sissy. “Jack, dearest, I know he is a very odd man and not a desirable father, but I did get the impression that the children all adore him. If you wish to do anything practical for them, I think you must manage to get both him and Cousin Rose on your side.”

    “Yes. Bertie was saying he wants to go to sea,” he said tightly, “and I merely said to Buffitt that we know heaps of good fellows what have gone into the Navy, and could manage a commission for him easily, but the fellow went into a diatribe.”

    “I see. Bertie is about fourteen, is that right? Yes, well, if his father will let you, perhaps you might start by sending him to your old school, Jack.”

    “Mm. I liked him,” he said, frowning.

    “Bertie?” Miss Sissy nodded. “I am sure you did, my dear. Peg says he is the brightest, and he certainly sounds a very boyish little boy.”

    “The thing is,” said Mr Beresford, chewing on his lip, “how much can one do, when the parents are like that? Um, well, I was wondering if I ought to offer to adopt him.”

    Oh, dear! Not that she was not very glad that such a generous thought had occurred to her self-centred nephew. “That would certainly give him an excellent start in life. But then, such arrangements do not always work out as one hopes. Do you remember the Stephen Hallams? Such a disappointment when they had no sons of their own, so they took their cousin’s boy into their home. Not one of dearest Mr and Mrs Anthony’s, of course!” she said with a little laugh as her nephew frowned. “I don’t think you would remember them: she was a Hallam, Violet Hallam, that was it, and she married a rather horrid little man called … Oh, dear, what was it?” Under cover of the twittering she looked at him closely. Jack was still frowning. “Something quite ridiculous, so it was not surprising that the boy should wish to change his name. Pobbles? Podsworthy? Oh, no: silly me! Pudworth. Little Gordon Pudworth. A very pretty boy, with golden curls. He was twelve when they took him, I think. But when he was turned eighteen, lo and behold! Dear Mrs Stephen produced a boy, most unexpectedly. Of course the Stephen Hallams did nothing so cruel as to cast the lad off; the which, in a way, could not but make it worse. For of course they doated on their own little son, and very naturally wished to leave the greater portion of the property to him, and so poor Gordon’s portion was much reduced. It was all very sad, and he became most embittered over it. In especial when he wished to marry one of the Gresham girls, and Sir Harry told him to his face—now, he was always a very hard man, Jack—that if he were their true son, it would be a different matter, but as it was, he could not afford to support his daughter and he did not propose offering him the wherewithal to do it. –I forget, now, whether it was Martha or Harriet.”

    “Jane,” said Mr Beresford in a bored voice.

    Miss Sissy jumped. “Was it? Why, yes, I think you are right! Very pretty, but not a very bright girl.”

    “No, or she would have had the sense not to fall for a pudding like Gordon Hallam. Did you have a point?” he said in a bored voice.

    Miss Sissy looked at him apologetically. “Only that the most well-meaning acts can sometimes led to unforeseen consequences, dear boy. And then, the Stephen Hallams’ property was not entailed, of course…” She let the sentence trail off artistically.

    Jack Beresford swallowed. “No.”

    “Whether or not you marry, dearest Jack, with the arrangements your grandfather made, I do not think there is any way he could inherit, is there? That sort of arrangement can result in a great deal of bitterness, alas. And it does sound to me, my dear, odd though the parents are,” she said with a sigh, “that they are a very loving and close family. Would little Bertie be happy, taken away from them?”

    There was a long silence. “I take your point,” he said heavily.

    “Did you make the offer of school, my dear?”

    “Not exactly. Well, Damian Buffitt had me so damned riled up, with his ineffectualness and his absent-mindedness—not to say his damned physical absence, nine tenths of the day! He has built himself some sort of dashed hut a mile upstream near what was a weir until he started ruining it, and immures himself up there with his dashed experiments.”

    “Er—Peg did mention an episode of a dammed stream,” she ventured.

    “Locks,” said Mr Beresford with a groan.

    “I beg your pardon, my dear?”

    “Locks—canal locks, Aunt Sissy! You may well stare. He is designing not just a better canal lock, as he even he has perceived that our great waterways do actually function perfectly well: no, not a better lock, but a mechanical one,” said Mr Beresford evilly.

    “What?” she said faintly.

    “It entails, believe this or not as you please, the harnessing of the water from the weir in order to produce quantities of steam to run an ingin. The which he will then hitch up to the canal gates in order to drive them. Mad, see?”

    “Er—your dear mother did write that you had heard a very interesting paper at the Royal Society on the recent experiments with steam, Jack.”

    “They do not, however, entail moving giant canal gates against giant masses of water! Have you any idea of the weight of water against a lock gate?”

    “Ye-es…” Miss Sissy gave him a bewildered look. “I thought one emptied the lock first?”

    “Please—don’t,” said Jack faintly, holding his head.

    She gave a sudden giggle. “I see! Well, I suppose it keeps him out of mischief, which is all one can hope for!”

    “Quite.”

    She got up. “I shall go and see if little Peg has recovered. I am glad you thought of her, Jack, dearest boy.”

    “Mm? Oh: the brooch. It was nothing,” he said tiredly.

    Miss Sissy just smiled a little, and trotted out.

    Mr Beresford leaned forward, propped his head heavily on his one good hand, and sighed. The question of Lancelot Buffitt was, of course, not resolved; merely shelved. And very likely Mamma would be happy to have little Anne come to them next Season, but should he suggest it? Mrs Beresford was not, after a all, a young woman, and rounds of parties… And then, there were the boys, and though of course he would be more than happy to do anything for them, would damned Damian Buffitt let him? If he were more nearly related, the thing would be easier, but— It was a Hell of pity that Paul Hilton, decent young chap though he was, had only the money he earned. Mr Beresford’s thoughts went round and round in circles…

    The morning had called to Mr Valentine, and so he had emerged from his chambers, and strolled over to Jack’s house, to see if the fellow felt like—not tooling the curricle, no, he supposed, with the dashed arm; and Jackson’s was out the question, of course: a fellow could not box one-handed. Well, stroll in the Park? Lovely day.

    A footman showed him into a small salon and asked him to wait. Mr Valentine wandered over to the fireplace and examined the portrait above it with interest.

    “It’ll be the Lely,” he said finally to himself, with satisfaction.

    “Why, yes, it is!” said an excited voice from the doorway. “Do you know about pictures, sir?”

    Mr Valentine turned without much eagerness. He had not yet been privileged to meet good old Jack’s female guests, and if Jack’s description of ’em was to be relied upon, he didn’t care if he never met ’em: “a red-headed little termagant what ain’t grown up yet” was one, and t’other was: “a dashed country cousin with a damned naggin’ tongue in her head. And damned yaller eyes.” Two frights, en effet, Mr Valentine had concluded.

    His jaw dropped.

    Peg smiled at him. “I’m sorry; did I startle you?”

    “Not at all, ma’am,” said Mr Valentine, hurrying forward with his best bow and nicest smile. “Lovely thing, ain’t it?”—Jack must be mad! Or blind. Since the fellow wasn’t unnatural, those were the only two possible explanations.—“Jack’s always been fond of paintings, and since he inherited his old Great-Uncle Jack Bartlemy-Jones’s fortune, has the wherewithal to indulge the taste. That’s Lady Belinda Delahunty, and by all accounts the old Earl was more than happy to sell her off. ’Low me to introduce myself, ma’am: Lucius Valentine, most humbly at your service.”

    Peg held out her hand, smiling. “How do you do, sir? I am Mr Beresford’s cousin, Peg Buffitt.”

    The country cousin with the tongue and the damned yaller eyes. Jack was both mad and blind, then! They weren’t yaller, they were— Mr Valentine could not describe the precise shade, but the word “amber” came to mind. Um, could you have amber with green lights in it? Well, they were wonderful; and someone with a genius for dress had put her into that tobacco-coloured morning gown with the pale yellow sash and the tiny rosette of pale yellow at the neck, that was certain-sure!

    He became aware that he was staring and that Miss Buffitt had pinkened. Hurriedly he urged her to be seated, and, making sure that he conducted her to a sofa, sat down beside her.

    When Mr Beresford entered the room he was greeted by the spectacle of the pair of them chatting away as if they had known each other all their lives.

    “Oh, there y’are, Jack,” said his old friend casually. “I made so bold as to introduce meself to Miss Buffitt. D’you know she comes from Chelford’s part of Lincolnshire? Teddy B.-D. was sayin’ to me not so long since it was a dashed pity his pa and brother never cared for the house: pretty place, but going to waste, y’know. He was thinking of asking Chelford if he might use it, since his marriage to the Brinsley-Pugh gal: she has relatives somewhere up that way, quite keen on the notion—but since Chelford’s gone, dare say everything will change.”

    “Y— Uh—Chelford’s dead? When did this happen, Val?” he croaked.

    “Oh, just over a week since, I think, old man. While you was up north. Funeral was down at Dallermaine, out of course. And Stamforth was right about the heir. They're layin’ bets in the clubs over just how impossible he’ll be. Hatters is betting he’ll sport a purple velvet waistcoat and dine in the ermine!” He grinned.

    “Hatters would.”

    Mr Valentine cleared his throat. “Lord and Lady Reggie are reported to be mad as fire over it.”

    “No doubt. Did you want anything in particular, Val?”

    “Thought we might take a stroll in the Park, Jack.” He looked at him hard. “Dare say t’other one might care to come out, too.”

    Mr Beresford sighed. “I dare say. Go and ask Horr—Hortensia,” he said with an effort to Miss Buffitt, “if she wishes to come for a stroll with Mr Valentine.”

    Nodding, Miss Buffitt hurried out.

    Mr Valentine looked limply at his old friend.

    “What?” said Mr Beresford irritably.

    “Look, leaving aside remarks that was passed about country cousins and yaller eyes—and if you’ve ever seen anything more exquisite than the picture she presents in that gown, I’d like to hear of it!—leaving that aside for the moment, why in God’s name are you ordering Miss Buffitt about like one of your footmen, Jack?”

    Mr Beresford went very red. “No such thing.”

    “Pooh!”

    “She is more or less a niece,” he said, frowning.

    “Not unless I’ve mixed ’em up entirely, she ain’t. Daughter of your mother’s cousin, ain't she? That makes her your second cousin.”

    “Go on, then, Val, give me an etiquette lesson on the behaviour to be shown to one’s mother’s cousin’s daughter,” he said nastily.

    “Shouldn’t need to,” replied Mr Valentine repressively. “And won’t need to, if you’re still at it by the time your ma gets home from Vienna! –When is she due back, by the by?”

    “No idea,” he said with a shrug. “May’s baby is expected at the end of the month. Some time after that, possibly.”

    “So who’s chaperoning the gals?”

    “You should write a whole book of etiquette, it clearly is your vocation!”

    Mr Valentine merely gazed at him with a look of mild expectation on his round, amiable face.

    “My Aunt Sissy. I told you, I got her over from Bath!”

    “Eh? The fubsy little dame what was at May’s wedding? She chose that exquisite gown?”

    “No,” he said tightly.

    “Miss Buffitt’s own taste, then? Well, she greatly admires your Lely. Wouldn’t have said it were impossible, but a very young woman what’s in her first Season—”

    “NO!” he shouted.

    “No need to shout, is there?” said Mr Valentine mildly.

    Mr Beresford passed his hand through his curls. “If you must know, it was Lady Stamforth.”

    Mr Valentine’s jaw dropped.

    “Tell me it is unlikely that she would have the taste to do so—”

    “No! Out of course! One of the best-dressed women in London! N— Uh— But I say, Jack!”

    Mr Beresford, his mouth tightly compressed, said nothing.

    “Does he know?” he croaked.

    “You are a ninny, Val,” he said evenly.

    “I may be a ninny, but I know damned well you were at the P.W.’s feet for two years on end!”

    “I remember that,” said an interested voice from the doorway. “That was years ago: when she was living in Bath.”

    Mr Valentine turned eagerly, but this was the redheaded one, not that she wasn’t a pretty enough little thing, but he never had cared for that shade. Mind you, she was exquisitely dressed, too: fine pale green and white stripes, with a tiny bunch of daisies at the little frill of crocheted lace at the neck. He accepted introductions gracefully, acknowledging that he’d met her brother, Mendoza.

    Miss Hortensia Laidlaw then said: “Lady Stamforth has been helping to chaperon us; was that what you were fighting about?”

    “Not fighting,” said Mr Valentine’s old friend tightly.

    “It sounded like a fight, to me. –The family thinks he’s over her,” she said helpfully to Mr Valentine.

    “Oh—ah—yes! Absolutely!”

    She narrowed her eyes.—Unremarkable, grey-green; Mr Valentine had a clutch of cousins of his own with just that shade of eyes, though their hair was even more ginger.—“There was another lady, more recently, but I never met her, because I was still in the schoolroom.”

    “Pity they didn’t leave you there for at least another year,” drawled Mr Beresford.

    She ignored that. “Was she Italian? I think my brothers might have met her, but they never tell me anything.”

    “Y— Um.” Mr Valentine coughed desperately, but no winged chariot descended from above to whisk him out of harm’s way, so he was obliged to say: “Half-Italian, think was the story: the little Contessa. Pretty little thing. Dark. Bit like the P.W., actually.”

    “I think that will do, Val,” said his old friend in a very bored voice.

    Mr Valentine knew that voice: meant he was gettin’ ready to clock a fellow. Dashed good thing he had the broken wing, wasn't it? “Aye. Ancient history,” he said desperately to the red-headed cousin.

    To his huge relief she seemed to accept that, and informed them that Peg would be with them directly: Aunt Sissy was just finding her a shawl.

    When she reappeared Mr Valentine could not but reflect that if he hadn’t already known the old aunt never chose that gown, he would now have guessed it. Because the shawl, which was not bad in itself, greenish thing, absolutely swore at it. Swore at it. Nor did it have anything to do with the charming straw bonnet, which featured bows of brown ribbon and some delightful little pale yellow silk roses.

    “Peg,” said the redheaded chit dubiously, “I don’t think that shawl goes very well with your gown, does it?”

    “I suppose it doesn’t, but Aunt Sissy insisted I wear something warm.”

    “But droves of eligible gentleman will not fall at your feet if your shawl clashes with your gown!” she said with a giggle.

    Mr Valentine was just opening his mouth to say: “Not much, they won’t,” when his old friend said grimly: “In any case, you cannot walk out looking like a guy. Give that shawl to your cousin. I’ll find you something appropriate.” And vanished.

    Miss Buffitt handed over the shawl and Mr Valentine politely assisted Miss Hortensia to drape it round herself. Then returning to Miss Buffitt’s side and firmly taking her arm. Not unaware that Miss Buffitt gave a little jump and pinkened as he did so. Smoothly he began to chat.

    When Mr Beresford came back with a more acceptable shawl—fawn and cream—he was then forced to endure Mr Valentine’s officiously taking it off him, officiously wrapping Miss Buffitt in it, and officiously repossessing herself of her arm. And walking off with her.

    Mr Beresford looked grimly at his cousin’s daughter. “Come on, then.”

    Horrible took his good arm with a giggle. “I say! This is something like! Being squired to the Park by a real Corinthian!”

    Resignedly Mr Beresford set off with her.

    If, on his return from Lincolnshire, Mr Beresford had silently made up his mind to make more of an effort to take Miss Buffitt about a bit, he speedily found himself pre-empted. That first stroll to the Park resulted not merely in approximately fourteen imbeciles having to be disabused of the notion that Horrible was another of his Aunt Fanny’s daughters, which given the red hair she shared with Anna’s oldest sister, the Princess Adélaïde, was not perhaps surprising, merely damned irritating when it happened for the fourteenth time—but in something like twice that number of imbeciles hurling themselves at Miss Buffitt’s feet with offers of more strolls in the Park, rides in their phaetons or curricles, picknicks at Richmond with their sisters, visits to St Paul’s Cathedral, visits to Greenwich, visits to the Royal Academy, more strolls in the Park, invitations to little parties which their mothers, sisters, or aunts were giving, in the case of one particularly misguided young idiot an invitation to a salon which his mother was giving, and yet more offers of yet more strolls in the Park…

    “My God,” he groaned, sinking into a large armchair and closing his eyes, when at last it seemed to be over and damned Val Valentine had been reminded that he did not live here.

    Miss Sissy had dispatched the girls upstairs. She gave a loud giggle.

    “Greenwich,” groaned Mr Beresford with his eyes closed. “Why?”

    “I expect one of them expressed an interest in the Royal Observatory, my dear!” she said brightly. “Little Peg, I expect; she is very much prettier than Hortensia, is she not?”

    “Aunt Sissy, she is completely penniless,” he sighed.

    “I expect they were very young gentlemen!” she said with another giggle.

    “Some of ’em don’t even shave yet,” he groaned.

    Miss Sissy gave another giggle.

    Mr Beresford sat up and opened his eyes. “You knew it would be like that and you deliberately let me walk into it, did you not?”

    “Well, my dear, they have driven out with Lady Stamforth in the barouche quite several times, now, and been to half a dozen evening parties and, you see, they are beginning to be known.”

    “You do realise that not one parent of any dashed boy we met this morning will countenance a match there for an instant?”

    “Mm, well, we shall see.”

    Mr Beresford bent forward in alarm. “Aunt Sissy, for God’s sake don’t encourage the girl to form any false hopes! A pretty face is not enough! Lord, that little idiot Bobby Cantrell-Sprague asked her to one of his mother’s dashed literary salons! The woman will eat her alive! And all the C.-S. boys must marry money, the whole of Society knows that!”

    “Well,” said Miss Sissy, holding up her tatting and examining it critically, “I dare say she will be the only lady below the rank of countess there, apart from Mrs C.-S. herself, but she will certainly brighten the thing up, if all one has heard of those salons be true. –This pattern is coming along nicely!” The tatting shuttle flicked back and forth busily.

    Mr Beresford sighed, and slumped in his chair.

    “Mr Valentine seemed quite struck,” she murmured.

    “Amused, merely,” he said grimly. “Val is my age.”

    “Well, exactly, my dear. High time he was settling down. I was used to know his dear mamma quite well, you know: quite well.”

    “And?”

    “I know she would be very happy for him to find a suitable girl and settle down, dear,” she said mildly.

    He frowned.

    “I think he is the eldest son?”

    Mr Beresford got up abruptly. “You know he is,” he said grimly, going out.

    Miss Sissy tatted placidly.

    Mr Beresford got back from his club rather late, to be informed by his aunt that he had just time to run upstairs and change, dear. And of course they were going out! Dinner with the Stamforths, then on to the Gratton-Gordon dance—and it was Peg’s first really big party, so make sure you pay her some attention, dear! Mr Beresford tottered upstairs repressing an urge to clutch his forehead and groan.

    Most other hostesses of dinner parties—nay, all other hostesses—would have remained in their houses to be on hand to greet their guests, but Jack Beresford was not totally astonished to descend to his salon and be met by a breathless Lady Stamforth. She had just rushed over to make sure the girls—etcetera. Resignedly Mr Beresford took the cloak which she had apparently been too rushed to consign to the footman, and offered to conduct her upstairs. The P.W. gave one of the delicious gurgles of laughter which he knew only too well, said that she knew the way, refrained with an almost visible effort from either patting his cheek kindly or calling him “dear boy”, and rushed out. Mr Beresford took a very deep breath and poured himself a glass of Madeira. He was still far from wondering whether she might not be the perfect woman after all, but he was conscious of a fleeting and disloyal thought, to wit: How did Stamforth stand it on a daily basis?

    When they finally came down in a bunch the girls and Miss Sissy were already in their cloaks, so all that remained to do was re-swathe the P.W. in hers and rush out to her carriage. Mr Beresford refrained from asking how she proposed they get home from whatever damned thing she was dragging them to tonight, because quite undoubtedly she would have that all planned out, too.

    When they got to Blefford Square the girls had to be rushed upstairs for final primping. Mr Beresford allowed himself to be shown into a small withdrawing-room where his host and his hostess’s amiable young brother, Dom Baldaya, with his pretty little wife were already assembled, chatting amiably with Lord Geddings and— God Almighty! The Duke of Wellington. She was the one woman in London, Jack Beresford had no doubt whatsoever, who would dash over to someone else’s house on an evening when Old Hooky was expected! Very, very fortunately His Grace was disposed to be completely affable, and chatted amiably about the bother of Jack's having a broken wing, and several other equally unexceptionable and unexciting topics. –Not to say apolitical; and, just by the by, what the Devil was he doing in the P.W.’s house? Because never mind that he had been publicly at her feet since the first day she set her dainty toes upon the cobbles of London town, he and Stamforth had been virtually at loggerheads since well before the day his Lordship, then merely Colonel Vane, had first opened his mouth upon the floor of the House of Commons to rubbish every word of Old Hooky’s latest speech in the Lords. Well before.

    Mr Rowbotham turning up while there was still no sign of either their hostess or her lady guests, Jack was enabled to pull him aside and mutter: “Wilf, what on earth’s all that about?”—jerking his head at where His Grace was now apparently discussing sailing boats with young Mr Baldaya.

    “Boats, I think. Didn’t know Old Hooky was interested in sailing.”

    “You know what I mean!”

    Lowering his voice, Mr Rowbotham explained: “Don’t think it’s political, dear old boy. More matrimonial, if y’take me drift.”

    Mr Beresford blinked. “Eh?” The P.W. had long since successfully married off her pretty little step-daughter to a comfortably-situated country squire whose stepfather was a nabob, and her pretty little sister to a nabob’s son, and Old Hooky had not long since carried through a successful campaign to link the Wellesleys to the House of von Maltzahn-Dressen by way of a match between his nephew and the Fürstin’s eldest daughter, the redheaded Adélaïde.

    “Step-daughter,” said Mr Rowbotham helpfully. “One of Hugo Benedict’s gals.”

    Jack did frantic mental arithmetic, goggling at him.

    “She was out last year: dare say you never noticed. They thought there might be a match with the second Lacey boy, but it never come off. But you won’t have seen her in town this year, because the poor gal’s had measles. The P.W. was sayin’ the little ones had ’em, y’see, and the poor girl comes down with ’em just when they’re all ready to bring her up to town. Over ’em, now.”

    His Grace was not accompanied by any of the minor sprigs off the Wellesley tree. Jack goggled at him.

    Mr Rowbotham eyed him drily. “Preliminary scouting expedition.” He dug his elbow into his ribs. “Here they come. That’s her: the fair gal.”

    Mina Benedict? Jack remembered her as a whey-faced little thing with her hair down her back, quarrelling over little Georgey Laidlaw’s damned pug-dog.

    It was Mina, and come to think of it, she would be a year or so older than Horrible: she had grown into a tall, slender girl. The very fair hair was in neat ringlets, and the soft shade of blue chosen for her dress suited her. “So it is,” he admitted somewhat limply.

    Mr Rowbotham then said something under his breath, his eyes on stalks.

    “Yes?” said Mr Beresford coldly.

    The elegant one cleared his throat. “Oh, total admiration, dear boy! Total! Spider gauze, is it?”

    Mr Beresford looked at Peg, her head a mass of carelessly tumbled bright gold ringlets, the big eyes gleaming, the gown a drift of soft white, brightened with tiny bunches of gold ribbon in the flounce and sleeves. “No doubt.”

    “Mistake,” murmured Mr Rowbotham.

    “What?”

    “No, no: not to dress her in white and gold, dear boy! Exquisite: allow me to compliment you. No, her and the little Benedict gal.” He shook his head. “Tall girls don’t look well in muslins, but the P.W. wouldn’t dress a gal of that age in silk. But mistake to have her stand next your cousin, dear fellow. Takes the shine out of her, do you see?”

    Jack did see. He ignored him totally, and stepped forward to greet young Mina kindly.

    At the Gratton-Gordon dance Miss Buffitt was mobbed—mobbed, there was no other word for it—by young imbeciles in very new dress clothes and choking neckcloths. There was absolutely no need at all for Mr Beresford to act on his Aunt Sissy’s advice and make sure that dear little Peg did not sit by the wall. He would have retired to the card room with Val, but Val was making as big a cake of himself over her as any of the young imbeciles of Bobby Cantrell-Sprague’s age. Even the sophisticated Mr Rowbotham requested a dance of her.

    “Bright little thing,” he reported after it, ambling over to Mr Beresford’s side. “Dare say you cannot dance too well, old man, with that broken wing?”

    “Quite.”

    “Decent of you to come,” he said in a vague voice.

    “They are living in my house. I could hardly refuse to escort them,” he said grimly.

    “Dare say not,” said Mr Rowbotham vaguely, his eyes on a lady at the far side of the room.

    Mr Beresford had already registered that Lady Reggie Bon-Dutton was present. Not dancing, it would hardly be decent with Chelford scarce cold in his grave. And tactfully in black. It could not be said that it gave the impression of mourning, however.

    “Mamma ain’t in town, y’know. Well, getting on, y’know.”

    “Yes. Er—is she well, Wilf?” said Mr Beresford with an effort.

    “Oh, in splendid condition, thanks! Don’t fancy town life no more, though. Wrote and said it was her bet that Lady Reggie would be back in town in her usual haunts within a week of the funeral.” To Mr Beresford’s intense irritation he then counted on his fingers; announcing: “Dare say if one was strict about it she’d have lost. Near enough, though. –Fancy a hand of piquet, Jack?”

    “No, I don’t. And if you don’t go and do your duty and dance, the hostesses will stop asking you,” he said unpleasantly, walking away from him.

    Mr Rowbotham watched him with interest, but he did not approach either his pretty little cousin or Lady Reggie B.-D. “Ah,” he said thoughtfully to himself.

    Possibly it was merely Lady Reggie’s tacit indication that she was back in circulation, or possibly it was the sight of his little cousin being mobbed by young gentlemen at the G.-G. dance—but whichever it was, certainly her Ladyship was gratified by a visit from Mr Beresford the following afternoon.

    She had evidently been resting on a chaise longue, and made no attempt to sit up when the visitor was announced. “Jack, darling boy,” she cooed, holding out a languid white hand. “It seems such an age. One was forced to go down to Dallermaine, you know, and support the rigours of the entire tribe of B.-D.’s grinding their teeth over this odd American stepping into Chelford’s shoes.”

    “Of course. How are you, Lady Reggie?” he said, kissing the hand.

    Lady Reggie was a dark woman; the curls were possibly helped along a little, these days, for, as poor Mrs Beresford had long since registered, she must be nigh on forty. Fascinating with it, though: rather plump, and the curls generally very much in evidence, tumbling in soft clouds about the forehead and neck. This was not quite in the current mode, but then, Lady Reggie Bon-Dutton was one of those women who took care to maintain a style just sufficiently different from everyone else’s. She was in black silk, today, but it was most certainly not within the definition of an afternoon dress. For one thing, it had tiny sleeves, hardly puffed at all, and a very low-cut neckline. The bosom and the arms were artistically veiled by a great drift of black gauze, edged with fluttering ostrich tips, draping over the skirt and falling to the ground off the edge of the chaise longue. Some kind of wrapper? There was a wide black silk sash at the raised waist, and a huge black silk rose just above it, at the strategic point. The neck was veiled by a strip of black gauze to which another great black silk rose was affixed. The effect was rather as if Lady Reggie was a bunch of white roses, bursting out from amongst a larger bunch of black.

    “Dearest Jack, so formal!” she protested with a laugh.

    “Er—are you not expecting callers this afternoon?” he said on an uneasy note.

    “Certainly not: I have told them to deny my door to everyone,” she said with an arch look.

    Jack Beresford did not point out that her servants had just let him in. Nor did he enquire whether his were the only name on the list of those who did not constitute “everyone”—though he did just wonder. He merely laughed, pulled up a chair very close to the chaise longue, kissed the hand again, lingeringly, this time, and said: “How are you, Clementine?”

    In her débutante days Lady Reggie had been known as “the divine Clementine” and there were those, not numbered amongst her admirers, who claimed she had never got over it. She wriggled the bust a little, fluttered the great dark eyelashes a lot, and cooed: “Ra-ather better now, dear boy!”

    Mr Beresford, a gentleman who knew a cue when he heard it, kissed the wrist this time—the divine Clementine very obligingly shuddering all over as he did so—and murmured: “Could Jack make it very much better, Clementine?”

    “Oh—well,” she said, batting the eyelashes terrifically. “One had taken a vow, you know, not to be naughty any more.”

    Had one? thought Jack Beresford blankly.

    “But since,” she said, this time lowering the lashes modestly, the which, those non-admirers might have concluded, gave her plenty of opportunity to ascertain just how immediately interested he might be, “one is not, after all, going to be a duchess, one might as well give up the effort to be terribly good and pwoper. Do you think?” She peeped at him.

    Mr Beresford thought, actually, that all of that was a bit rich for a woman of her age. On the other hand he was aware of several points, not least amongst which was the fact that she only lisped like that as a signal that she wished to be extremely intimate with one. And as, though he certainly could not have put up with the affectations on a full-time basis, he was very far from immune to the rest of it, he obligingly got up and went to see that the door was securely locked.

    Lady Reggie licked her lips and allowed the lashes to flicker up and down his person as he returned, so Mr Beresford, being aware that her Ladyship was now fully aware that that was all right, simply got on top of her on the chaise longue. There was a certain amount of squirming, giggling and protesting, all of which they both fully enjoyed, and then she allowed the privilege. Several privileges.

    “Poor Reggie,” she said, as Mr Beresford was resuming his outer garments, “is tewwibly miffed, you know.”

    “Mm? Oh; this unknown heir turning up; yes, understandable,” he said without interest.

    “Quite. Pass me that box, dearest one.”

    Obligingly he passed her the box.

    Lady Reggie chose a sweetmeat from it, and ate it slowly. “One had quite been looking forward to being a duchess, though of course it would have been a bore.”

    “Absolutely. Duchesses have to be good, y’know.” He sat down and pulled his boots on.

    “Mm. Um, Papa was saying that, since it has all turned out so vewwy disappointing, and Reggie, though a dear in his way, has been quite a naughty boy, perhaps a weeny, teeny divorce bill might be in order,” she said on a plaintive note.

    Mr Beresford blinked. After twenty years, and six brats? “N— Uh, but what about your position, Clementine?”

    Lady Reggie chose another sweetmeat. She stretched out languidly on the chaise longue, held the sweetmeat up very high and slowly approached it to her mouth. “Position, dear boy?” she murmured huskily. She allowed her lips to close over it.

    Jack Beresford, alas, was of a sudden possessed of a desire to laugh. The words “Silly woman” were suddenly as bright and clear in his mind as if they were writ on the very wall in front of him. He coughed. “Mm. Being Reggie’s wife gives you a certain cachet, don’t it? Don’t think you would enjoy the position of divorced woman, old girl. Well, don’t they generally have to go and live in obscurity in darkest Ostend, or Leamington Spa, or some such?” He got up. “I must go: wouldn’t do to stay longer, I’m afraid.”

    Lady Reggie’s, round, plump face was very flushed. Not that she had really thought— No, well, but he might have shown some sympathy! And as for calling her old girl! She allowed none of her thoughts to show in her expression or voice, however, but held out her hand with her usual languid grace. “Dearest boy, wun away if you must. It was delicious, as ever.”

    He kissed her hand. “My pleasure!” he said with a laugh, going.

    Clementine Bon-Dutton waited until the front door was heard to close behind him. Then she rose and very deliberately hurled every one of the soft, feather-filled, silk-covered cushions on the chaise longue to the other side of the room. “Not,” she said breathlessly, “that one had any hopes, really! But it is not fair! And not even a kiss on the lips for goodbye?” Swishing the trailing gauze wrapper irritably out of the way, she rang the bell hard.

    “Bring me the brandy,” she said shortly to the footman. “And some cake—any cake.”

    Resignedly the footman went to do so. Brandy and cake in the afternoon? There’d be a screaming match before evening, or his name wasn’t Hubert Johnson. And to think they’d thought, with Mr B. turning up again, it’d be all smiles for a bit!

    Miss Buffitt was discovered alone in the downstairs sitting-room, pulling on her gloves.

    “Where to, today?” said Mr Beresford, making an effort to sound bright and interested.

    She smiled at him. “The Royal Academy; is it not exciting?”

    “Er—mm. Thought the débutantes were all supposed to find such things a frightful bore?” he murmured.

    Peg laughed. “That is so silly! Why, at Miss Gratton-Gordon’s ball, I actually overheard her say to her dance-partner, in the same breath, Was the Season not a bore, and Did he not find the waltz so thrilling?”

    Mr Beresford smiled reluctantly. “Mm. Well, the G.-G. gals ain’t famed for their brains. Whoever their pa was.”

    “What?” said his second cousin, staring.

    It was so much a commonplace in his circles, that he had quite forgotten to mind his tongue. “I beg your pardon, Miss Buffitt,” he said stiffly.

    “You cannot mean that Jane Gratton-Gordon— I would have said she looked very like her papa,” she said faintly.

    “Er—mm. Well, dare say she does, yes.”

    Peg stared at him.

    “Miss Buffitt, such things are not uncommon in Society,” said Mr Beresford with a sigh. “I suppose I had best tell you, before you put your foot in it. Several of Mrs G.-G.’s children are not his, but—er—reliably reported to be Lord Curwellion’s.”

    Her jaw sagged. “That lovely man who is Mrs Baldaya’s uncle? I cannot credit it!”

    “Wha— No, of course not! Er, beg pardon, did not mean to shout. No: the late Baron Curwellion, Miss Buffitt: Mrs Dom Baldaya’s late and unlamented papa.”

    Very faintly Peg said: “Is he unlamented?”

    Mr Beresford’s well-modelled lip curled. “Aye. A very nasty fellow. Er, not to the ladies, however,” he added, as she was looking horrified.

    She continued to look horrified.

    “Miss Buffitt, there is nothing more I can say, I fear. As I say, these things are not uncommon.”

    After a moment Peg said faintly: “What about the Cantrell-Spragues?”

    “Which ones? –They are a large family.”

    “I—I meant Mr Bobby’s family,” she said faintly.

    Unaccountably Mr Beresford felt very, very annoyed with her. “Think the brats are all his pa’s. Not that you will find old C.-S. at any of her dashed literary salons. She is reputed to have had an affaire with a poet, true; but bless us, what’s a poet?”

    “Nothing to you, obviously,” said Peg limply.

    “Oh, nothing at all, Miss Buffitt,” he said with a mocking look in his eye. “Less than a painter, indeed. Who is escorting you to the Royal Academy?”

    “Mr Valentine. He knows a great deal about paintings,” she said happily.

    “He knows a very little,” corrected Mr Valentine’s close friend coldly. “Who else is going, or is it to be tête-à-tête?”

    “No: Lady Stamforth said that would not be quite proper for a very young lady. But Horrible and Mina are not interested in pictures, so Aunt Sissy said she would accompany us. We shall take the barouche, of course.”

    He sighed. Aunt Sissy standing around for hours looking at the Academy’s latest efforts?

    “Horrible and Mina said they would much rather go with Cousin Mendoza and his friend to the Spanish Bazaar, so Lady Stamforth decided to accompany them.”

    The P.W. at the Spanish Bazaar? Mr Beresford gave his head a little shake. “Er—mm. Er, Miss Buffitt,” he said cautiously, “Horrible and Mina Benedict have known each other since they were about ten years old, when Lady Stamforth—Lady Benedict, as she was then—was widowed and came to live in Bath.”

    “I know. Horrible is so pleased she is over the measles, and come up to London after all,” she said, smiling at him.

    “Yes. Um, try not to feel left out if they wish to do things together, mm?”

    “I am not such a gaby!” said Miss Buffitt with a laugh.

    No. Added to which, she weren’t short of escorts, neither, he reflected, as Mr Valentine’s knock was heard. “I shall see if Aunt Sissy truly wishes to go: it entails a very great deal of standing around.”

    Miss Buffitt’s lovely face had fallen but she said faintly: “Out of course, it must do. I’m sorry; I didn’t think. We could do something else, instead. Just go for a drive, perhaps.”

    Mr Beresford sighed. “If she does not wish to come, I’ll chaperon you.”

    “Oh. Thank you very much,” said Peg dubiously.

    Miss Sissy appearing only too glad to resign the reins of chaperonage into his hands for the afternoon, Mr Beresford duly set off with the pair of them. Val kindly offered to sit with his back to the horses, but his old friend withered him with a glance. The disposition of the parties of course resulted in Mr Beresford’s having an excellent view of his second cousin’s lovely face framed in its enchanting straw bonnet with the little yellow roses as Mr Valentine then exerted himself to fascinate her…

    The pictures were the usual mixed bag. Mr Valentine declared some of the landscapes to be “dashed odd.” Mr Beresford agreed with him, though not on which of them were odd. “Yes,” he said as Miss Buffitt admired a semi-classical effort from the brush of Mr Turner and expressed a wish it had more landscape and less allegory. “That is my usual feeling about his things, too. Er, there is more than one gallery in London, you know; in fact the fellow has a gallery of his own. Should you like to go, some day?”

    Miss Buffitt agreed on a rapturous note that she would. And did not the gentlemen admire the quality of light in the painting?

    Mr Beresford did. Mr Valentine looked at it dubiously and finally produced: “M’father’s always maintained that you could never go past Constable for a solid English landscape with the light on the trees, and for my part, I tend to agree with him. Turner don’t know where a cliff face ends and a dashed cloud begins, ask me.”

    And to Miss Buffitt’s surprise Mr Beresford smiled, patted his back and said: “You are perfectly right, Val: and if Uncle George were not so fond of the Constable I would have it in the town house.”

    Mr Valentine beamed and nodded.

    “I—I have heard of Constable,” ventured Peg.

    “Oh, Lord, yes!” said Mr Valentine happily. “Our finest English landscape artist. No, well, they is all in private hands, I suppose. –Think Wellington snapped one up not long since.” He eyed Mr Beresford thoughtfully.

    That gentleman grinned and said: “It will look good in that dashed yaller room of his, hey?”

    At which both gentlemen collapsed in what, it was plain to the mystified Peg, were mean sniggers. “Um, I know His Grace has a fine collection,” she ventured. “He was speaking of it at Lady Stamforth’s dinner party. He was so good as to invite me to view it.”

    The gentlemen’s jaws sagged. And Mr Valentine gasped: “That would be beyond the pale, my dear Miss Buffitt! He may be dashed eminent, and England’s hero, but—ah—but—”

    “Not immune to the sex,” said Mr Beresford, very dry indeed. Even though his own jaw had sagged. “Er, no, don’t think she means alone. –Do you?”

    “No,” said Peg, frowning at him and sticking out her chin. “What a notion! Even I know that would not do! No, with dear Lady Stamforth, out of course.”

    Mr Valentine gulped.

    His friend gave him a sardonic look. “That would be perfectly acceptable.”

    Peg nodded pleasedly. “And she will be able to tell me what they all are: she said privately she would very much have liked to come today, but of course she has already had a private viewing. Shall we see if we can find her portrait?”

    Mr Valentine gallantly offering his arm, they strolled off in search of it, Mr Beresford kindly refraining from noting that the thing was widely reported to be a mistake.

    “Here ’tis,” said Mr Valentine on a dubious note.

    They looked at it dubiously.

    Lady Stamforth was portrayed seated on a small gilt sofa, the torso turned a little away, with one arm along the sofa’s back, and the head done full-face.

    “The P.W.,” said Mr Valentine at last, “was never that stiff in her life!”

    “No. A great pity that Gainsborough is no longer with us,” said Mr Beresford.

    “Aye… Well, more that type, mm? In his later period, with the softer brushwork,” he agreed. “No, but I say, dear boy: Rubens!”

    Mr Beresford’s long mouth twitched. “Oh, precisely, if one is utterly to enter the realms of fantasy.”

    To judge by the look on Mr Valentine’s face, not one that any of the pictures on view today had as yet produced, he had entered them already. “Why not?”

    “It—it is very like her,” ventured Peg.

    Mr Valentine jumped, and came down out of his rosy cloud. “Oh—ah—quite. Decent likeness, yes. Bet Stamforth don’t hang it, though. Well, do you think it catches her essence?”

    Peg shook her head hard.

    “There y’are, then,” said Mr Valentine happily.

    They wandered on. Eventually Peg said firmly: “I think this one is the best of the portraits.”

    Poor Mr Valentine was in agony, had anyone been observing him, which fortunately Miss Buffitt was not: she was looking up at a large portrait of a seated lady; facing the viewers, bent a little towards them, one plump pink-white arm on the arm of her chair, the other in her lap with a half-opened rosebud just released from her rosy-tipped fingers. The hair was a soft, dark cloud, the rosy lips were just parted, and the soft pink, grey and white garment was gently moulded to the soft billows of her form. The pose discreetly half-veiled the neck and what was left of it was discreetly veiled in any case by a drift of long pink gauze scarf which trailed over her shoulders and down to the floor…

    “Very lifelike,” said Mr Beresford on a sardonic note.

    “Yes,” agreed Mr Valentine, very, very faintly.

    “Oh, indeed! One would think she is about to speak!” cried Miss Buffitt.

    Mr Beresford was aware that several pairs of eyes were now fixed interestedly on their small group. “Yes. It is very good,” he said stiffly.

    “Old Reggie paid for this?” croaked Mr Valentine.

    Mr Beresford swallowed a sigh. “According to Wilf Rowbotham, he had it done in the expectation of her becoming his duchess.”

    Mr Valentine was seen to gulp. After an appreciable pause he croaked: “You knew it was here?”

    “Oh, Wilf was not the only one to make quite sure I did,” he murmured.

    “Er—no. S’pose not; no,” he croaked.

    “School of Raeburn, I think,” said Mr Beresford on a brisk note.

    Mr Valentine jumped. “Oh—ah—aye. Dashed pity he had to pop off, weren’t it?”

    “Depends how many unfortunate portraits of H.M. one wants, dear boy.”

    Mr Valentine grinned, coughed, and said: “They say the old boy can’t last, y’know.”

    “No, well, possibly we shall be spared the fol-de-rol of a court presentation for Horrible next year, then.”

    “Eh?” he said feebly.

    “He means Hortensia!” said Peg with a laugh. “Do you not know that is what she is called, in the family? –I think, that if I were ever to have my portrait painted, I should choose this artist! What do you think?”

    Feebly the gentlemen agreed that they, also, would choose the artist who had painted Lady Reggie Bon-Dutton; and, at long last, got her away from the thing.

    … “My God!” said Mr Valentine with feeling to his friend, after they had delivered Miss Buffitt into Miss Sissy Laidlaw’s hands and he had dragged Jack willy-nilly into his study and firmly closed the door. “You might have warned me!”

    Mr Beresford eyed him sardonically. “I could hardly do that, Val, in front of her. Well—the more so as I had just had to explain my casual reference to the doubtful parentage of the last G.-G. girl.”

    Mr Valentine’s face twitched mirthlessly, and Mr Valentine tottered to a chair.

    “Quite,” said Mr Beresford acidly. “Glass of something? Claret?”

    “Brandy,” he said feebly.

    Shrugging, Mr Beresford rang for brandy.

    “Didn’t she know?” whispered Mr Valentine, clutching his glass tightly, lest the nerves in his hand give way entirely.

    “Know? About the G.-G.s? She don’t know anything, Val!” Mr Beresford sat down heavily in an armchair with his own glass of brandy.

    “Er—no.” Mr Valentine sipped blindly. “No, quite. Um—sorry,” he offered feebly. “Well, the gal was dead-set on going. Nobody told me that dashed Reggie B.-D. had had that thing done!” he said aggrievedly,

    “No. –Damned good, isn’t it?’ said Mr Beresford, a little smile hovering on his mouth.

    Mr Valentine looked at the little smile, and groaned. “Wilf Rowbotham was right, then.”

    “Thought we was agreed on that?”

    “Eh? No! Right that you are still seeing the cow!”

    Mr Beresford shrugged.

    “Look, Jack—”

    “Yes?”

    “I know she is a luscious piece, but—but good gad! Years older than you, half a dozen brats, the oldest girl due for her come-out next year— And with that in the house?”

    “With what in the house?” he said acidly.

    Mr Valentine was very red: he had not meant to say that. “Miss Buffitt, dammit!”

    “Ah.” Mr Beresford rolled his brandy glass thoughtfully in his fingers. “You are not declaring an interest there, after all, Val?”

    Mr Valentine licked his lips. “No—ah— Thing is, delightful gal, out of course.”

    “But not a penny to her name,” said Mr Beresford nastily.

    “If you didn’t have that arm, I’d drop you for that!” he said heatedly.

    “You’d try, you mean. –No, sorry, Val.”

    “Pa and Ma wouldn’t let that weigh for an instant!” he said on a scornful note.

    “Lucky you,” said his friend heavily.

    Val eyed him uneasily. “Um, thing is, lovely girl, as I was saying. Bright as a button, too. Well, that’s the thing, really. Clever, ain’t she? Too dashed clever for yours truly,” he admitted.

    That thought had also crossed Mr Beresford’s mind. He had to bite his lip. “Er—mm.”

    “Lovely looks,” said Val on a longing note. “But kind of gal what expects a fellow to hold a conversation with her, if y’know what I mean. Thought she was the one, for a bit, but she ain’t.”

    “Mm. I’m sorry, Val.”

    “No, well, are you?”

    Mr Beresford was a little flushed. “Yes,” he said shortly.

    “I’d have said she was just the girl for you. Well, bright, as I say. And prettiest gal the town’s seen this many a long year. No, well, ’t’ain’t just that.” He rubbed his nose. “Distinguished,” he produced. “She has a distinguished look to her.” He gave Mr Beresford a hopeful look.

    Mr Beresford ignored this entirely and drank brandy.

    Val Valentine, had, however, remarked the flush. He was sure there was something. And then, Jack was far from immune. Of course, Miss Buffitt was very much not the Lady Reggie type—though she had that full figure what old Jack always had gone for, didn’t she? Witness, to name but two, the little Contessa, and the glorious P.W. herself. Er, on t’other hand, they were both—all three, actually—dark, and little Peg Buffitt was gloriously golden… Bother.

    “Er, I like those curls,” he ventured, coughing. No reaction. “Not yaller, in the least. I’d say the colour of well-polished brass, if that weren’t to give the wrong impression. –Gold. Real gold,” he pronounced.

    Mr Beresford shrugged. “Have the sister. Just as golden, big blue eyes—much more conventional look to her: you was ever one for the conventions, I think, Val? She would probably enjoy reading that book of etiquette of yours, too. And not a fraction of Miss Buffitt’s brains. Aye—have the sister.”

    “I dashed well might!” he said crossly.

    Mr Beresford just shrugged, and Mr Valentine, looking cross, got up and left him to it. It was some time before it dawned that he had not managed to ascertain if Jack cared the snap of his fingers for little Miss Buffitt and if he would envisage giving up the frightful Lady Reggie in the event that Miss Buffitt should smile upon him. Well—damn the fellow!

    Having decided never to darken Mrs Jolson’s door again, Mr Beresford was this evening favouring Lady Hathaway’s house with his presence. Lady Hathaway did not run anything so vulgar as a gaming house, out of course: merely, one might be very sure of deep play there. And, merely, the bank, which was usually held by one or two very dear friends of Lady Hathaway’s, usually happened to win. Mr Valentine and his younger brother Rollo got there very late, having come on from, firstly, Mrs Lilywhite’s rout party: sad stuff; secondly, the Marchioness of Wade’s ball: stiff as bedamned—anything the Wades gave was bound to be; and, thirdly, David Lacey’s card party. Everybody there well over forty and well into their fourth bottle: damned dull work. Rollo, being young and innocent, was about to go up to Jack’s side, but Val held his arm in a grip of steel.

    “Ow!” he gasped. “What are you pinching me for?”

    “Wait, y’fool!”

    They waited. Lady Reggie Bon-Dutton swayed— No, what was t’other word? Ah: undulated, that was it! Undulated up to Jack’s side. All over him, smiles, dimples, lashes going nineteen to the dozen, takes his arm and does the thing with the bosom. Young Rollo is heard to gulp, and no dashed wonder!

    “Wait,” he warned.

    Rollo nodded breathlessly.

    Jack was seen to give her one of them cool smiles of his, and the divine Clementine, after several more unavailing efforts which got the same treatment, not to mention taking the money out of his hand and placing his bet for him—he’d love that, would Jack—was seen to laugh lightly, tap his arm with her fan—his bad arm—and undulate away.

    “By Jove,” croaked Rollo.

    “Quite.”

    “Is he giving her up, then?” he hissed.

    Val shook his head slowly. “No notion. Thought not, y’know. He was definitely seeing her again.”

    Rollo nodded feelingly.

    “But now…” Val looked cautiously at Jack preparing to take the bank. “No notion,” he repeated slowly. “And,” he concluded brilliantly, “I don’t believe he has, neither!”

Next chapter:

https://pegbuffitt-aregencynovel.blogspot.com/2023/06/the-rivals.html