Pastiche

10

Pastiche

    “Thees,” said Lady Stamforth, all smiles, “ees Mr Chegwidden. –Dear Mr Chegwidden, pray allow me to present Miss Buffitt.”

    Miss Buffitt looked limply at Mr Chegwidden. He was a stoutish man in his mid-years, with very large, soulful brown eyes. And reminded her irresistibly of Sir Horace Monday’s black spaniel. The more so as he was dark. Though unlike Blackie, the black curls were very much pomaded and the top of his head, now very much visible, as he was bowing profoundly and professing himself delighted, was bald. Bald and pink. Limply she acknowledged the introduction. Mr Chegwidden was not, it was very clear, of the genteel classes. So why on earth did Lady Stamforth, who thus far had not introduced anything less than an Honourable or an Esquire, so much desire her to meet him?

    “Mr Chegwidden,” said her Ladyship, still all smiles, “ees a connection of a vairy old friend of mine, a Mrs Truitt.”

    “Née Fishe,” explained Mr Chegwidden on a soulful note.

    “Eendeed, née Fishe!” said her Ladyship gaily. “Mr Chegwidden’s late mamma was a Miss Fishe, ees that not so, dear sir?”

    Mr Chegwidden, it rapidly emerged, was to drive out with them this afternoon and, as he was very much interested in pictures, they would call in at the showing of the Royal Academy; and her Ladyship did hope that Peg would not be bored by another visit? Peg was able to reply quite honestly that she would not, and so they set off. Peg Buffitt was, of course, the sort of person who was willing and, indeed, able, to chat with almost any of her fellow creatures, and so she experienced no awkwardness at having to chat with the amiable and soulful-eyed Mr Chegwidden: largely on the subject of their respective relatives, a topic introduced by Lady Stamforth and with which Mr Chegwidden seemed perfectly content.

    “Dreadful, ees eet not?” hissed her Ladyship with a giggle, as they stood before her portrait.

    Mr Chegwidden shook his head, the eyes looking very mournful indeed—more than ever like Blackie the spaniel, registered Peg in spite of herself. “It certainly don't do your Ladyship justice, h’if I may be permitted the sentiment.”

    “I would not employ that artist to paint your daughter Miranda, sir,” agreed Peg kindly.

    The subject had been broached during the ride. Mr Chegwidden returned comfortably: “No, well, Mirandy didn’t have no notion of getting her picture painted until her hubby took the idea into his noddle. I said to him, ‘Joe Watt, you got ideas above your station, and what I says, Joe Watt, is, fair enough, so long as you don’t expect me to pay for them. And what do you say to that, Joe Watt?’”

    Peg’s eyes twinkled very much. There was rather more to the stout Mr Chegwidden than met the eye: the stress on the homonyms was very clearly deliberate. “And what did Mr Watt say?”

    “He ain’t that quick on his, if I may say so, mental feet, Miss Buffitt. Scratched his head and hummed and hah-ed and finally come out with, she were my daughter.”

    “Well, that ees vairy true, and you might hang the picture een your own house,” noted Lady Stamforth.

    “That’s right, your Ladyship, so I might, and it only took ’im until the next day to think of it.”

    Lady Stamforth forthwith collapsed in gales of giggles, so Peg did, too. Recovering from them to suggest they look at the picture of a lady she had admired on her earlier visit.

    “’T’ain’t a Raeburn, is it?” said Mr Chegwidden immediately the picture was reached.

    While Peg was still gulping—he had made the very same identification as had that sophisticated Corinthian, Mr Beresford—Lady Stamforth replied gaily: “No, no: the artist ees a Mr Greenstreet.”

    Mr Chegwidden scratched the pink pate. “Never ’eard of ’im.”

    “I had not, either, but Lady Sleyven knows of heem!” she said gaily.

    “Lumme. What sort of a lady would she be?”

    Peg was still pondering the precise meaning of this inquiry when her Ladyship responded gaily: “She ees a countess, Mr Chegwidden, and the most delightful person.”

    “A countess, eh? This ’er, then?” he said, looking hard at the portrait.

    “No, indeed: thees ees a Lady Reginald Bon-Dutton.”

    “Never ’eard of a lady called Reginald, afore,” he said solemnly.

    “That ees what they call her, because she ees married to the brother of a duke,” said her Ladyship composedly. “He ees Lord Reginald, you see.”

    “The brother of a duke, hey?” Again Mr Chegwidden looked hard at the portrait of the seated lady leaning forward. “The question is, would my Mirandy get so puffed up she’d be unable to bear ’erself, in the company of a lady what was married to a duke’s brother and a real countess?”

    Lady Stamforth immediately collapsed in giggles, smacking his arm lightly, and gasping: “You are too naughty, dearest Mr Chegwidden! Poor Peg ees wondering whether to take you seriously!”

    “No, I’m not,” said Peg sturdily.

    Mr Chegwidden at this frankly grinned at her. “Well, it’s true it’ll go straight to Mirandy’s head, Miss Buffitt. And I didn't have no notion that a lady could be called Reginald. –’Ere, she ain’t pulling my leg, is she?”

    Peg went rather pink but said sturdily: “No. I do not think she is that sort of person.”

    “Well,” said her Ladyship frankly, “I can be, alas: ask Lewis. But not weeth persons whom I like.”

    “I’m flattered, ma’am,” said Mr Chegwidden simply.

    Her Ladyship twinkled at him, tucked her hand in his arm, and said: “So, shall you get heem to do Miranda?”

    Mr Chegwidden sniffed. “Dunno, me Lady. Do I want Mirandy looking like a Raeburn?”

    Giggling, Lady Stamforth hissed: “But he can do any style wheech hees patron desires! Lady Sleyven swears he deed the most perfect Lawrence of her leetle boy, but Lord Sleyven deed not theenk eet amusing and refused to pay for eet!”

    Peg gaped at her, and gaped at the portrait of Lady Reginald.

    “Good,” said Mr Chegwidden simply. “Sounds like a fellow I can do business with.”

    “So!” said her Ladyship eagerly. “Shall we go and see heem?”

    Mr Chegwidden returned drily: “Lives in a district what Lord Stamforth wouldn’t like your Ladyship to visit, do he?”

    “Not exactly,” she said, rolling the eyes. “Though certainly he would desire me to have a protector weeth me. But eet ees not so bad as eet was, for since Mr Greenstreet has begun to paint commissions for the gentry and nobility, he has removed from hees former address over an undertaker’s establishment!”

    “I dessay that’s true,” said Mr Chegwidden solemnly to Peg.

    “Yes, but that makes it better!” she choked.

    “Aye. Well, maybe we could look round a bit, first?”

    “Oh, of course,” said Lady Stamforth remorsefully, hugging his arm. “Come along. But I must warn you, all of the landscapes are horridly allegorical, thees year!”

    “That Turner fellow,” said Mr Chegwidden to Peg as they strolled on.

    By this point Peg was beginning to feel that she would not be surprised by anything that proceeded from Mr Chegwidden’s mouth, and had mentally issued herself with several stern warnings about first impressions, and so forth. And so she was able to agree without blinking: “Yes; I found his work very allegorical, sir.”

    The rest of the pictures were duly viewed and Mr Chegwidden, assisting the ladies back into the barouche, noted calmly that there was nothing much there that he would care to give house-room. And the barouche set off for Mr Greenstreet’s studio.

    Disappointingly, the house was a very ordinary-looking one, in a respectable if rather dusty street. However, it was a surprise to have the front door opened by a Mediaeval page. Er—possibly late Mediaeval: he was wearing a crimson velvet flat bonnet with a feather on it, which reminded Peg forcibly of something seen in a Holbein at Wynton House. He swept this off and bowed very low, revealing a mop of yellow curls which were certainly long enough to be considered Mediaeval. And uttered the phrase: “Welcome to the Greenstreet atelier. How may I serve you?”

    “Lumme,” said Mr Chegwidden simply.

    “We should like to see Mr Greenstreet, eef he ees available,” explained Lady Stamforth, smiling kindly at him.

    The page gave her a shrewd look, very apparently sizing up the style and quality of the pelisse, the shawl, the silk bonnet with its ostrich feathers, and, behind her, the barouche. And invited them all warmly to step inside. Mr Greenstreet was at his easel, but would be charmed to see them. And would the ladies kindly excuse the stairs?

    The ladies mounted the stairs eagerly. The artist’s studio was only on the first floor, and after a brisk rat-tat at its door the page, having inquired their names, announced them in the grandest manner: “Her Ladyship, Lady Stamforth! The Honourable Mr Chegwidden, H’esquire! The Honourable Miss Buffitt! For Mr Frederick Greenstreet, if you please!”

    Mr Frederick Greenstreet was the most painterly sight imaginable: another crimson velvet bonnet, though without a feather, and a voluminous white smock, artistically spotted with paint. The neck was adorned by a great silk bow in palest pink. One hand held a brush, the other a palette, in a pose as of one whom inspiration was just about to strike. He did not greet the visitors, but instead made a sweeping gesture with the hand holding the brush, and uttered: “Ah! The muse!”

    “I see,” said Lady Stamforth in an interested voice. “She ees just about to descend.”

    Quite possibly any other artist under the sun might have been put off by this remark. Mr Frederick Greenstreet, however, closed his eyes, took a deep breath as of one sniffing the perfumed air from Helicon itself, and uttered: “Ah! Indeed, dear lady! Indeed!” And, opening the eyes, made a dash at the enormous canvas on the giant easel near his right elbow.

    Peg looked longingly at the canvas but did not quite dare to ask if she might see; her Ladyship, however, rustled forward immediately. “Oh, but do look, dear Mr Chegwidden!” she cried. “Eet ees positively Turner-esque!”

    Peg just stood there gulping while Mr Chegwidden, his face unmoved, went to her Ladyship’s side. He looked thoughtfully at the picture. After quite some time he noted: “He ain’t got the allegorical bits in yet, though.”

    Peg gulped again, but the artist replied grandly: “The figures go in later, my dear sir.”

    “One could not,” said her Ladyship, looking dreamily at the canvas, “make an effective dash at eet for that.”

    At this the artist pulled the velvet bonnet off, to reveal a mop of pepper-and-salt curls that were a faded version of the page’s, rumpled the mop, and said on a glum note: “All right, come clean. Who sent yer? Roland Lefayne? I’m warning you, I don’t do nothing for nothing, and we’ve given up the props business.”

    “Roland Lefayne, the actor?” asked Lady Stamforth, beaming at him. “Why, no! Do you know heem? Was he not quite marvellous as Oberon?”

    Mr Greenstreet scratched his chin slowly. “Not bad. Better nor anything he ever did before he married her, and that’s for sure. Not come up from Mr H., ’ave yer?”

    “No, no! Eet was Lady Sleyven who recommended us!” she said gaily.

    The artist eyed her warily. “Oh.”

    “Not—for—a Lawrence!” squeaked her Ladyship, suddenly collapsing in giggles of the most agonising sort.

    At this Mr Greenstreet frankly grinned and said: “I get it. Mind you, it was pretty.”

    “I’m—sure!” she gasped. Tears rolled down her perfect cheeks.

    “If it was the young lady,” said Mr Greenstreet, eyeing Peg with frank appreciation, “allow me to say, ma’am, it’d be an honour; or yourself, naturally,” he added with a low bow.

    “Thank you,” she said, mopping her eyes. “We deed truly admire your Raeburn of Lady Reggie Bon-Dutton, Mr Greenstreet, and I should like to commission something from you, but een the meantime, Mr Chegwidden, here, ees interested een having hees daughter’s portrait painted.”

    “Possibly,” said Mr Chegwidden on a cautious note.

    “Possibly,” agreed her Ladyship sunnily.

    “In that case, I’ll ring for tea,” said Mr Greenstreet calmly, “and you can tell me what you have in mind. Though I should warn you that I am rather booked up for the Season.”

    This was, very clearly, recognised Peg, an intimation that Mr Greenstreet was no stranger to the art of bargaining; and so, indeed, it proved. Mr Chegwidden revealing himself over the teacups as a foe more than worthy of the artist’s steel, battle—of the most genteel kind—was fairly joined. After some time of it Lady Stamforth and Peg removed themselves and began quietly to examine the many canvases laid out around the spacious, airy room. Several more Raeburns were discovered. And a clutch which her Ladyship declared to be after Sir Joshua. And something very classical and severe which made Peg blink, but which reduced her Ladyship to muffled hysterics. “Plus David que David,” she said, mopping her eyes.

    “Oh,” said Peg humbly. After that she did not quite dare to say that she thought, coming across a group of very pretty canvases piled together in a corner of the room, that she had discovered Mr Greenstreet’s native style. The which was just as well, because her Ladyship took one look at them, gasped: “Mme Vigée Le Brun!” and collapsed again.

    “Mr Greenstreet,” she said fervently as, the gentlemen’s business being at last concluded to the satisfaction of both parties, they took their leave, “I have seldom enjoyed myself so much! You are a true genius of the pastiche!”

    Peg looked in horror at Mr Greenstreet, but he bowed in the grandest manner over her Ladyship’s hand and returned deeply: “Praise, indeed.”

    “May I bring my husband?” she said eagerly. “He weell adore eet! And I promeese you he weell commission sometheeng. A Vigée Le Brun of myself and the leetle ones, vairy like.”

    Mr Greenstreet kissed her hand again and owned himself honoured, but then enquired on a cautious note how old they were? And, on her Ladyship’s owning frankly that they were not old enough not to wriggle, took a very deep breath—not as of one breathing the wafts from Helicon, this time.

    “Er—then perhaps just one of me,” uttered Lady Stamforth limply.

    Kissing her hand for the third time, Mr Greenstreet, reassuming his grand manner, allowed that something might be managed, and finally permitted the page to show them out.

    “What Pa usually does, yer Ladyship,” said the page in a confidential manner as they descended the stairs, “is he does several studies of the head from life, but uses a body from what we call stock. Like it might be a cupid, or some such.”

    “What if it’s the wrong shape, though?” asked Mr Chegwidden with interest.

    “It won’t be, see, because Pa’s got the eye!” he retorted sharply.

    “Sounds all right. If you don’t like it, me Lady, you can always refuse to pay. Like that lord you mentioned.” Mr Chegwidden helped her into the barouche and turned to give Peg his hand.

    “I would not do that. But I might suggest he use another body,” she said serenely.

    “Pray, what did happen to the Lawrence of Lady Sleyven’s little boy?” burst out Peg eagerly.

    “It went into stock, Miss. And may be viewed at Mr Greenstreet’s next public showing,” said the page calmly.

    “Er—oh. Yes,” said Peg feebly, realising that this was a hint.

    Hopefully Lady Stamforth, handing him down a coin, asked: “Was eet red?”

    “No, yer Ladyship. Pa admits to being a great admirer of the great Sir Joshua R., but he don’t share ’is opinions on colour: if anything he favours the Gainsborough approach. He brung it off in blue,” he said calmly, removing the bonnet and bowing as the barouche set off.

    Lady Stamforth then laughed helplessly most of the way back to Blefford Square.

    “Eet ees so late!” she discovered as they arrived. “Peg, my dear, you had best not come een; Mr Chegwidden weell see you home safe.”

    Was she supposed to offer to make a friend of Mr Chegwidden’s Mirandy? She would not in the least mind, but as Mrs Watt was around Maria’s age and had two little children, in whom, judging by her father’s account, she was almost completely absorbed, she did not think they would have much in common.

    “She don’t mean nothing by it, you know,” said Mr Chegwidden very mildly as the barouche set off for the short journey to the Beresford residence.

    Peg took a deep breath. “Sir, if you can believe that, then I fear you do not know her Ladyship very well.”

    The large, soulful brown eyes looked at her thoughtfully. After quite some time he said: “Maybe I know her better than you do, Missy. It’s like she said herself: she don’t do it with people what she likes. And what’s more, I know her well enough to know that she weren’t doing it behind Lord Stamforth’s back, neither.”

    Peg went very red. “Oh.”

    “And I know him well enough, though I’m not about to say a grand lord like him’s me friend, to say he will go back with her and commission a picture, and he will find the whole thing as funny as she does. And before you say another word, Miss Buffitt, she weren’t laughing at Mr Greenstreet, neither.”

    “No, of course! She was laughing because his pastiches cock a snook at the whole of silly Society that believes itself to know everything about art! And, indeed, at the artistic world itself,” agreed Peg on a firm note.

    Mr Chegwidden smiled slowly. “Now I see why she said we’d get on. Thought she’d run mad, at first, introducing me to a young lady.”

    Peg put her chin in the air and met those soulful brown eyes. “I am only a young lady in pastiche, sir.”

    At this the stolid Mr Chegwidden laughed so much he nearly fell out of the barouche. And on its drawing up offered simply: “If you’d like to see more of Greenstreet, I’m sure Mirandy would be only too glad to have company when she goes to sit for him.”

    Peg thanked him warmly, allowed him to assist her down, shook hands fervently, and, since Mr Beresford was just about to go into his own house, ran and pulled at his sleeve. And introduced him to Mr Chegwidden.

    The stolid Mr Chegwidden mounted into the barouche again looking very thoughtful indeed. “Ah,” he said to himself as it set off again. “I think I get it. –Oy!” he cried. “Not home, yet! Go back to Stamforth House!”

    Oddly enough her Ladyship had not gone upstairs to change. She was in the pretty pink downstairs salon which featured his Lordship’s Lely, a somewhat notorious ancestress whom, Mr Chegwidden was aware, his Lordship would have been quite happy to banish to an attic.

    “I met the Corinthian cousin what owns the Lely you say is a twin of this one,” he said without preamble as he was ushered in.

    Lady Stamforth replied without so much as twitching: “The sitters were precisely the same sort of woman. Though I do not theenk Mr Beresford’s was an actual meestress of the king. And she ees rather yellow, weeth touches of blue and green, while ours ees rather peenk, no? Would you care for some tea?”

    “Aye; thankee,” said Mr Chegwidden, sitting down. “She’s bright as a button, you were right. So what is your plan? And I won’t say, do his Lordship know?”

    “Great Heavens, Lewis does not know,” said her Ladyship with the utmost placidity, handing him a cup.

    “Look, if your Ladyship’s expecting me to pay court to that pretty little gal—”

    “No, no! Only to pretend to do so!” she said with a gurgle.

    Mr Chegwidden replied grimly: “That’s what I mean. And I don’t intend to raise no false expectations.”

    “Well, I was not going to suggest you pay court, as such.”

    “What, then?” he demanded grimly.

    “Only to make a show of eet, een front of the Corinthian cousin,” said her Ladyship airily.

    “He’ll see me as a likely rival, will he, ma’am?” he said sardonically.

    “But of course! For both I and hees aunt weell tell heem how suitable your fortune would be for Peg!”

    “Right; and my station in life?” he said drily.

    “I shall not beat about the bush, dear sir: Mr Beresford weell believe that we consider the difference een your stations een life ees more than compensated for by the difference een your fortunes.”

    Mr Chegwidden sniffed. “And what if it don’t work?”

    “Well, we shall be no worse off. But we must try sometheeng!“

    “And if the little lass believes I’m serious?”

    “I do not theenk she weell.”

    He frowned over it. “But if she do— No, it ain’t fair. Let her in on it?”

    “But dear Mr Chegwidden, we cannot, because she ees not admeetting to herself that she wants heem, any more than he ees admeetting to heemself that he wants her!” she cried.

    Mr Chegwidden sighed. “Look, if neither of them—”

    “But they do!” she cried. “That ees what ees so seelly! And eef we can just break down hees resistance—”

    Mr Chegwidden was, as Peg Buffitt had discovered, considerably more intelligent than he looked. Certainly intelligent enough to know when it was pointless to argue with a woman with a fixed idea in her head. He sighed, and sipped his tea, remarking after some time: “I don’t like it.”

    “But eet ees quite harmless, surely you see that?” she said anxiously.

    “No, your Ladyship, not the plan; I own it tickles my funny bone.”

    “I thought eet would!” she cried radiantly.

    “I meant the tea.”

    Her face fell. “Oh. I had eet off Tim Urqhart. It ees some of the variety they are trying een India.”

    “Mm.” Mr Chegwidden sipped again, and rolled the brew round his mouth. “They’ve dried it enough, and I’d say these was the tips.” He shook his head. “Characterless, ma’am.”

    “Oh, dear. So shall you not go eento the venture weeth heem?”

    “Depends. This the best he can do?”

    “He deed say eet was the best of their new Indian teas, yes.”

    Mr Chegwidden shook his head again. “In that case, think I’ll reconsider. Sorry, ma’am: know Tim’s your brother-in-law. But characterless tea? The British public deserves better.”

    She sighed. “I theenk I have not much of a palate.”

    “No, well, see what your husband thinks of it, ma’am.” He rose, and bowed over her hand.

    Lady Stamforth seized his arm. “Weell you do eet?” she said tensely.

    “Thing is, is this Beresford a decent man?”

    “Vairy decent, and only needs the responsibility of a wife and family to make heem wholly nice to know!” She smiled at him. “Lewis says he needs a quiverful of brats at hees knee.” She waited.

    Sure enough, that stolid merchant, Harold Chegwidden, replied solemnly: “Funny sort of place to wear a quiver, ain’t it, me Lady? Well, if he thinks so, I’ll do it. Good-day to you.”

    As the door closed after his solid form, the P.W. clapped her hands and cried delightedly: “I knew he would!”

    Astonishingly enough the reference was not to Mr Chegwidden’s having agreed to further her schemes, but merely to his having echoed her own joke about the quiver. But perhaps only the very small handful of persons who knew Nan Baldaya Vane very, very well indeed—Lord Stamforth and Mr Chegwidden himself being two—would have credited that.

    “Of course, you have met Mr Chegwidden. And this,” said Peg, looking very prim, “is Mr Eustace Bones. –Mr Bones, pray allow me to present my cousin, Mr Beresford.”

    Not managing to conceal his astonishment, Mr Beresford nodded in response to Mr Eustace Bones’s astoundingly low and sweeping bow. Mr Eustace Bones was pretty astounding all round: a shortish, very slim person with, the removal of the wide-topped hat had now revealed, a head of well-pomaded brown curls of the most intricate variety. His dress featured a great bow of a neckcloth, a very blue coat with immense peaks to the shoulders and a giant nosegay in the buttonhole, a waistcoat of the startling variety, a quizzing glass which enlarged the eye—he was now looking through it—to enormous proportions, and enough rings, fobs and chains to stock a small jeweller’s establishment. Limply Mr Beresford, dragging his gaze away from the grossly enlarged eye of Mr Eustace Bones, then acknowledged that he had met Mr—er—Chegwidden—yes. Mr Valentine was then submitted to the same process. He appeared to sustain it with fortitude.

    “What in God’s name,” said Mr Beresford in an undervoice as Miss Buffitt’s party then proceeded on their way and the two friends were left to the contemplation of the Park in full leaf and one small boy with a hoop and a nursemaid, “was that?”

    Mr Valentine rubbed his rounded chin. “Not too sure, old boy. Think it might be the cit what Rollo was sayin’ the P.W.’s throwin’ at your cousin’s head.”

    “Er—come to think of it, she did mention that it was Lady Stamforth who introduced her to the Chegwidden fellow.”

    “Aye. Very well-to-do, I believe. Known in the City. Think Tim Urqhart knows him.”

    “I dare say; but he knows very many queer fish!”

    “If you don’t like it, Jack, I suggest you go back and make it clear Miss Buffitt don’t need their escort.”

    “She told us herself they’re going off to watch young Mrs Whatsername’s sitting. I don’t wish to spend hours watching some cit’s daughter sit for her portrait, for the Lord’s sake!”

    “There you are, then,” said Mr Valentine placidly.

    Mr Beresford scowled, and strode on at a great pace. Saying nothing, Mr Valentine merely lengthened his stride to match his.

    There was some time before the concert was due to begin, so Mr Hattersby-Lough had leisure to look Miss Buffitt up and down. “Exquisite,” he approved, lowering the quizzing-glass.

    Mr Beresford ignored him.

    “Odd shade of yaller, ain’t it, but that white skin of hers glows above it. The P.W. chose it, did she? Sets off that black lace of hers, don’t it?”

    “Naturally.”

    Mr Hattersby-Lough raised the quizzing-glass again.

    “Will you kindly,” said Mr Beresford icily, “stop quizzing my cousin, Hatters!”

    Mr Hattersby-Lough ignored him. “Dare say we might all go on to supper, after.”

    He sighed. “Very well, if you insist.”

    “Is that the P.W.’s party or Geddings’s?” he then wanted to know.

    “I have no idea. Go and ask them.”

    Mr Hattersby-Lough ignored this. “Why ain’t you with them?”

    “You invited me, Hatters,” he said unpleasantly. “And I confess I am beginning to wonder why the Devil I accepted.”

    “You accepted because this quartet’s the finest in London. –Lionel Dewesbury’s having them at his musical soirée, next week.”

    “That proves it.”

    “Well, it does. You goin’?”

    “I have no notion.”

    “Rockingham’s to play Beethoven,” he advised.

    “Then possibly I shall go. –Will you stop doing that?” he hissed.

    Regretfully Mr Hattersby-Lough lowered the quizzing-glass. “Exquisite. Most gals would have insisted on draping themselves in dashed chains and bangles and God knows what. Saw them Abbott females—when was it? T’other night, I think.” He shook his head. “Shockin’. Draped all over with ’em. Positively jingling. Now, your cousin, by contrast—”

    “Hatters, I swear, if you raise that damned glass once more I will strangle you with its damned cord!”

    “Oh, very well, dear boy. Only going to say, exquisite. You are to be congratulated,” he said formally.

    Mr Beresford sighed. “No doubt.”

    “Shall we join ’em, after?”

    “What? Yes! –Er, look, they may not wish to go on, or they may have something else planned; go and ask them, and leave me in peace.”

    Eagerly Mr Hattersby-Lough forged off. Mr Beresford sighed, and allowed his chin to sink into the folds of his neckcloth…

    “Dear Mr Chegwidden,” explained the P.W., all radiant smiles and frothing Chantilly, “has arranged thees supper for us! Was eet not kind?”

    Mr Beresford acknowledged it was kind. Mr Hattersby-Lough did likewise and managed to insert himself at Miss Buffitt’s side. Where he could then be heard complimenting her on her taste in not over-adorning her drift of dull yellow muslin with jingling chains, etcetera.

    Miss Buffitt could then be heard to reply composedly that she only had the one brooch, which her cousin had very kindly given her. See? Was it not pretty? But Mr Beresford was not consoled. In the first instance damned Hatters would spread that tidbid all over London, in the second instance he was getting far, far too close in order to examine it where she had pinned it to her bosom—damn the fellow—and in the third instance, although the restaurant Mr Chegwidden had chosen was respectable enough, it was not a place much frequented by members of the gentry, and Geddings had already raised his eyebrows a little. And in the fourth instance they were now being joined by— Oh, God.

    “My late cousin’s wife, Mrs Paulina Wellington-Fishe,” Mr Chegwidden was explaining. “And her son, Percival Fishe—make your bow: that’s a good lad, Percy—and this is Mr Septimus Ward.”

    Mrs Paulina Wellington-Fishe was a very large, very colourful lady. The gown being bright puce silk, liberally bedecked with puffs, ruchings, drapings and rosettes of violet, the bosom into the bargain adorned with frills of somewhat frowsty lace. The trailing wrap, edged with yellowish fur, was striped in tan and silver as to the outer side, and as to the inner, lined with a rubbed green satin. The plump neck was encircled by a giant blue riband on which was affixed a giant puce silk rose—Mr Beresford was irresistibly reminded of Lady Reggie Bon-Dutton, and had to swallow—and the jewellery was most definitely designed not to appeal to Mr Hattersby-Lough’s sensibilities. A lot of it, and all rather tawdry: the stones not good. And the horridest mixture of shades: yellow topazes in the lace at the bosom, a profusion of amethysts sitting on the bosom itself below the rose, more in the ears, and a glittering clip that might be diamonds pinning the spray composed of a fan of lace, a large violet silk rose, and a large puce plume—wincingly, not the quite the same shade as the gown—in the elaborately arranged curls, plaits, twists and ringlets of the hair. This last an odd shade of fawn and very clearly a wig. The cheeks and lips were very bright indeed, owing almost nothing to nature. She was very much scented, and her breathing was of the audible, nay stertorous variety.

    Next to this large, colourful presence the persons of Mr Percival Fishe and Mr Septimus Ward paled into insignificance: the former being a meek-looking young fellow who gave the appearance of a clerk, and the latter a little, thin, wizened elderly man in respectable if rather rusty black.

    These who had wondered why the lady was “Wellington-Fishe” while the son was only “Fishe” were not left long in doubt: Mrs Paulina Wellington-Fishe proceeded to explain, unasked: in honour of His Grace’s great victory at Waterloo. What she had felt free to do, her Kenneth being long gorn. And she would not interrupt dear ’Arold’s party—with a throaty laugh—but she had just had to come over and congratulate him on being took up by such lovely ladies and—with a languishing look at Geddings over her immense fan of tired green and black feathers—gentlemen. And to meet dear little Miss Buffitt at last, what she had heard so much of, from Mirandy and ’Arold! And prettier than a picture, if she might do herself the honour of daring to claim!

    There was a stunned silence at their table as the trio took their departure. Then Mr Hattersby-Lough, Miss Sissy Laidlaw and Lord Geddings hurriedly began to talk on indifferent topics. Stamforth, Mr Beresford was not surprised to see, merely looked unmoved. She looked as if she had enjoyed every moment of it, and no doubt she had! And why he had ever thought her the perfect woman—! He must have been blind! He was in absolutely no doubt that the cat had meant for this encounter to happen. But as for why— Well, merely to annoy? Jack Beresford would not, now, have put that past the lovely Lady Stamforth for an instant. Not an instant.

    Miss Buffitt was drawing on her gloves in the downstairs sitting-room. There was no sign of Horrible, or of Aunt Sissy. “Are you intending to go out?” said Mr Beresford.

    “Yes.”

    He took a deep breath. “May I ask, with whom?”

    “Mr Chegwidden is very kindly taking me and the Princess Anna to see the Royal Mint.”

    Mr Beresford’s ears rang. He sank onto a chair. “What?” he croaked.

    “To the Royal Mint,” said Miss Buffitt clearly.

    “There is no need to shout, thank you. Let me just— No, well, in the first instance, why the Royal Mint?”

    “I have always thought it would be fascinating. And dear Mr Chegwidden said that he would take me, and it was refreshing,” said Peg, glaring, “to meet a young woman that had a brain in her head and thought about something other than beaux and fripperies.”

    “Very well,” he said tightly. “And Anna?”

    “You would not have noticed,” said Peg rudely, “but I received a Royal Command to attend at the Hôtel von Maltzahn-Dressen yesterday morning.”

    “Miss Buffitt, that was rude,” he said tiredly.

    “I know. I meant it to be. I went, and actually the Fürstin received me very kindly, so I take back the part of the rudeness that was directed at her. And she ordered me to walk out with the Princess Anna. So we went. And I could think of nothing to say, so I told her about the planned visit to the Mint, and she said it sounded much more interesting than anything she was allowed to do. So when we returned I asked the Fürstin if she might come, and she said, of course, and she was glad to see Anna beginning to look beyond the usual simpering débutantes’ concerns.” She looked at Mr Beresford’s dropped jaw with satisfaction. “See?”

    “Did you tell Aunt Fanny who you had lined up to escort you?” he croaked.

    “No,” said Miss Buffitt blithely.

    He blenched.

    “Coward,” said Miss Buffitt coldly.

    “Look, you little imbecile, Aunt Fanny could ruin you with the mere blink of an eye!” he said in exasperation.

    “The mere blink of a lorgnette, isn’t it? As I’m a nobody, I don’t think I could be much worse off if she did.”

    “Who did you let her believe was escorting you?” he demanded tightly.

    “I just said a friend of Lady Stamforth’s.”

    He winced.

    “It will all turn out to be a misunderstanding, and I dare say if I ask her, Lady Stamforth will write her a note of grovelling apology for daring to send the Princess Anna off under Mr Chegwidden’s wing. Though we shall not be alone with him.” She looked at him from under her lashes.

    “Go on,” said Mr Beresford grimly.

    “Dear Mr Eustace Bones and his aunt, Mrs Paulina Wellington-Fishe, née Bones, are coming too. You would call them vulgar persons, I dare say,” said Peg primly.

    “Where’s Aunt Sissy?” he said, getting up.

    “She has gone out with Horrible to visit an elderly Laidlaw cousin who lives in Kensington. Perhaps you would care to make a spectacle of yourself by preventing my expedition by main force?” said Miss Buffitt sweetly. “For I do not see how else you may.”

    “Look, Anna’s consequence will not suffer by jaunting about to odd venues with a parcel of cits, but yours will!”

    “You are shouting again. As I say, I am a nobody, so it cannot signify. And they may be cits, but I like them.”

    “I defy any sane creature under God’s good sky to like Mr Eustace Bones or that vulgar woman!” he shouted.

    “Perhaps I’m not sane,” replied Miss Buffitt calmly. “Do you think this pelisse and bonnet are suitable? One would not wish to appear overdressed.”

    Since she looked as exquisite as ever, in a deep mustard shade, braided and corded with dark brown, the bonnet a smart affair in the same brown, framing the bright gold curls in the most charming fashion, and set off with one great pale yellow rose, Mr Beresford merely gave her a bitter look. And Miss Buffitt, alas, gave a loud giggle.

    “Allow me to say, Cousin, that London has not improved your manners, whatever it may have done for your dress,” he said sourly, going out.

    Alas and alack: Miss Buffitt ran over to the door, flung it open and cried after him: “Pooh! I win! And you are the most complete snob and fuddy-duddy!”

    Attending Sir Lionel Dewesbury’s musical soirée was perhaps a mistake, Mr Beresford was to decide when it was over. There were a very large number of persons there: the Dewesburys knew everybody, she, of course, was a Hammond, and Society was not in the habit of turning down invitations to any entertainment they cared to give. Since Miss Buffitt was surrounded on her arrival by a gaggle of fribbles, and as she was being chaperoned by the P.W., who tonight was escorted by the stout Mr Chegwidden, Mr Beresford made his escape in the first interval. Only to find himself cornered by Miss Uckridge. Almost literally cornered: he encountered her between a pillar and the wall, the which at this point was hung with dark blue. The tall, fair Miss Uckridge took the opportunity, though not neglecting to grasp Mr Beresford’s sleeve firmly, to present him with an excellent view of the Grecian profile outlined against it. “Such a crush, is it not?” she sighed.

    “Yes,” said Mr Beresford shortly.

    Miss Uckridge turned the Grecian head with a slow, languorous movement and smiled into his eyes. “Most especially, dear sir, if one may venture to say so, around your dear little cousin! So delightful to see she has taken, so, in London,”—here there was the most delicate of pauses—“in spite of everything.” She opened her large, rather colourless grey eyes very wide and gave him a sympathetic smile.

    “In spite of what?” returned Mr Beresford grimly.

    Miss Uckridge fluttered the long, pale lashes. “Oh, well, dear sir, the lee-tle disadvantages which she bears so bravely! One scarcely notices the limp, at all,” she said kindly.

    “Hard to see it, when it’s surrounded by young Fitz-Clancy, the Chambury boy, Bobby Cantrell-Sprague, and McDiarmid,” replied Mr Beresford grimly.

    “Oh, but that is exactly my point! She has done so well for herself!” she cooed, favouring him with another sympathetic smile and then the profile, again. Mr Beresford did not say anything about Grecian urns, so after a moment she added: “Of course, those gentlemen are all very young.”

    “So is my cousin,” said Mr Beresford, attempting to pull his sleeve out of her grasp.

    Miss Uckridge’s grip tightened, though she turned a languishing look on him. “Oh, indeed! And of course her mamma is not here, to warn her, so perhaps I might venture to pass on a word of caution? Mamma does not think that any of those very young gentlemen, though no doubt their admiration is quite sincere, are—er—at all serious, dear sir.”

    “That’s a relief.”

    Miss Uckridge blinked. “Er—yes! Out of course. No, well, it must be such a consolation to you to know that she has such a steady older admirer. And of course, with him, those tiny disadvantages will not count.”

    “No; I dare say Geddings’s consequence could carry off worse,” he agreed grimly.

    Miss Uckridge released the coat sleeve at last, gave a trill of laughter, and raised her fan to her lips. “Not G.,” she said from behind the fan. “My brother claims the odds are shortening in the clubs that he is shortly to become your cousin, but not, alas, through that connection.”

    “Fascinating,” said Mr Beresford in a bored voice, walking away from her.

    Behind the fan, Miss Uckridge smiled.

    The second interval was longer, and small refreshments were served, although there was to be a supper, later. The P.W. was almost sure that dear Sir Lionel was to serve the delicious “curly pastries” which he had discovered on his visit to Portugal, but she could not see any! Resignedly Mr Beresford went off to look for them. Possibly there was some excuse for her: she was half-Portuguese, herself. On the other hand, possibly there wasn’t, because on that visit the Dewesburys had been guests of that other pretty little widow who had been known in London as “the little Contessa” and who had married a fat old Portugee who was, just coincidentally, the P.W.’s uncle… No: damn the woman! Every syllable of that speech had been deliberate, and she was getting at him! Though he could not for the life of him see why. Well—just because all women were cats?

    There was an immense crowd of dark dress suits and gay dress uniforms before a table over there, so Mr Beresford went and joined it.

    “Lookin’ for old Lionel’s dashed curly pastries?” said a laughing voice in his ear.

    The P.W.’s brother. Mr Beresford only just managed not to turn on him with a snarl. He smiled weakly. “Aye. How are you, Baldaya?”

    “Oh, een the peenk, thanks.” He cleared his throat. “Look, my brother-een-law Tim Urqhart’s got connections een the City, y’know. Um, well, theeng ees, these City fellows have clubs of their own. And word gets around, and so forth.”

    “Yes?”

    Young Mr Baldaya cleared his throat again. “Old Chegwidden’s a dashed warm man. And a vairy decent sort: your little cousin could do a dashed sight worse for herself, y’know. So what I wanted to say was, um, don’t take no notice eef he seems to be hanging on Nan’s sleeve. Nothin’ een eet. I mean, she may not geeve the impression of eet, when she’s at some dashed party or another, but she’s devoted to Lewis. Theenk she's encouragin’ old Chegwidden because she can see it’d be a good match for Miss Buffitt.”

    “Yes, I see,” he said heavily. “I suppose I thank you, Dom.”

    Mr Baldaya’s large dark eyes looked at him anxiously. “Tim Urqhart weell speak for heem, eef you have doubts, Jack.”

    “Thank you,” he said with difficulty.

    “Enjoying the quartet?”

    “Yes, very much.”

    Nodding, Mr Baldaya began to discuss the music…

    The supper duly eventuated, and the P.W. swept off her group all in a bunch. It had somehow become augmented by Val Valentine and Wilfred Rowbotham. Since the latter was not musical one could merely wonder what he was doing here. Not to say, hope that he would not utter any more obscure predictions of doom.

    “Who is that dashed fellow the P.W.’s got hold of, tonight?” he demanded, holding Mr Valentine and Mr Beresford back. “Looks like a dashed cit.”

    “Wilf, I dare say nothing can help that coat of Jack’s—his man wept tears when he told him to slit the sleeve—but Weston and I would quite appreciate it if you’d stop mangling mine!” said Mr Valentine on a heated note.

    “Who?” he persisted, considerately releasing the sleeve.

    “A dashed cit,” explained Val helpfully, since Jack just stood there scowling. “Tim Urqhart claims he’s worth near what he is.”

    “Never tell me she’s got the fellow in mind for little Miss Benedict!” he said in a shocked voice.

    Once again, no chariot descended on a fanfare to whisk Mr Valentine heavenwards. “Um—no.”

    “We apprehend, if young Baldaya is to be believed, the which I leave to your judgement to decide,” said Mr Beresford in a very bored voice indeed, “that she intends him for Miss Buffitt. –Excuse me, I’d quite like to eat some supper tonight.” He forged ahead.

    Mr Rowbotham rolled a startled eye at Mr Valentine.

    That worthy shrugged. “All over Boodle’s; dare say it ain’t reached White’s yet, Wilf.”

    “It has now,” he admitted. “Er, well, s’pose she could do worse. Dashed sure Geddings won’t come up to scratch, though he do seem mighty taken with her, hey? Near as much as he was with the little Contessa. Shouldn’t think he’d swallow the inequality in their fortunes as well as the inequality in rank, though at least there ain’t no dashed mother with a blotted copybook in this case. And one hasn’t heard that she ain’t the father’s: dare say there’s no objection there.”

    “Wilf,” said Mr Valentine faintly, “may I beg you—nay, plead with you—not to say that in front of poor old Jack?”

    “Shouldn’t dream of it! What do you take me for?” He coughed. “Mind you, old boy, there’s some as will.”

    Mr Valentine bit his lip. “Mm. Too damned free with that tongue of his. Not to mention that way he’s got of looking down his nose.”

    “Exact. Added to which, spent the last twelve years or so ignoring all the cats’ daughters. They don’t like that, dear boy,” he said, shaking his head.

    Mr Valentine shuddered slightly. “No. Overheard the damned Chambury hag— Oh, well. It don’t signify. And she ain't no different from the rest.”

    “You should give him a hint,” he said in a kindly tone, taking his arm.

    Poor Mr Valentine sighed. “Jack is impervious to hints.”

    “Aye… If you ask me, he’s mighty taken with Miss Buffitt. Only, not admitting it to himself.”

    Mr Valentine winced slightly, and did not reply.

    “Thought so,” said the elegant one smugly. “Reminds me of the way Noël Amory were over little Cherry A. Before he married her, I mean. Dare say you may not have heard the full story—”

    Sighing, Mr Valentine accompanied his burbling form to the supper room.

    The Dewesburys’ supper featured ices. Bobby C.-S., that little idiot Freddy Chambury, young Rollo Valentine and the stout Mr Chegwidden competed eagerly to see who could keep Miss Buffitt supplied, tempt her again, re-tempt her… After which, the P.W. declared they must circulate! Her idea of circulating seemed to be to order old Chegwidden to take Miss Buffitt’s arm and walk off with her, while she herself took Johnny Cantrell-Sprague’s and walked off with him. Grimly Mr Beresford went off to see if there was any brandy.

    He was propping up a quiet stretch of wall, quietly sipping, when a footman approached him, bowed, and handed him a card. Mr Beresford looked at it dazedly. The Princesse P.? Dazedly he looked around. There she was: seated on a sofa with the Montmorency hag, Her Highness in the simple, clinging black, no longer quite the mode, which she affected in the evenings, and La Montmorency, very much feathered about the head, in a pink thing which would possibly have been acceptable on a girl of seventeen. The Princesse P. caught his eye and gave the slightest wave of her fan. Grimly Mr Beresford went over to her. To his relief, she immediately got rid of Mme de Montmorency. And motioned him to the sofa beside her. Mr Beresford sat, perforce.

    “The quartet was quite acceptable, I think?” she said in the extraordinarily deep croak known in the capitals of at least five countries. Known and feared.

    “Oh, quite, Altesse.”

    “A pity Rockingham had to disappoint. Old Hugh Throgmorton is dying, they say.”

    “His uncle? I’m very sorry to hear that.”

    “I remember when his father died.”

    Mr Beresford was not sure whether she meant Rockingham’s, or old Hugh’s. God knew she was old enough to remember the latter. He said nothing.

    “What have you done with the boy?”

    He had been almost expecting that; Her Highness, when she spoke to one at all, which was seldom, was famed for her abruptness. Not to say, plain-speaking. “I took him home to his parents, madame.”

    She inclined the head of tiny, pitch-black ringlets on which tonight a magnificent diamond tiara was perched. “And how is Timothée?”

    Mr Beresford was at a loss. “I beg Your Highness’s pardon?”

    “The little dog. Timothée.”

    “Oh! Er—Lance writes that he is doing splendidly and his little brothers and sisters adore him,” he said limply.

    “That’s good.” After a moment she added: “The library at the villa still needs attention. And it would be a start in life. Though I suppose you will not permit him.”

    “Your Highness supposes correctly,” replied Mr Beresford tightly.

    She touched his hand lightly with the furled black fan. “I recall the first year you were on the town, quite clearly.”

    “I’m flattered, madame.”

    “You should be. –That little Italian slut took old Érico Baldaya, in the end, I think?”

    Mr Beresford went very red. “If Your Highness is referring to the former Contessa dalla Rovere, yes, she did marry General Baldaya. He died not long after and she has since remarried out in Portugal.”

    “You are well rid of her. The mother was notorious over half Europe, in her day. I forget who the father was, but he was not the man who gave the girl his name.”

    Mr Beresford was, of course, well aware of this fact. His lips tightened angrily.

    “You have a great look of your late father: he had just that grimace. Fanny has it, also: though one is not often vouchsafed a glimpse of it, on her.”

    “Votre Altesse a sans doute raison,” replied Mr Beresford colourlessly.

    “This is not the first time,” said Her Highness, beginning to fan herself gently, “that l’Amiral du Fresne has imagined himself to be at her feet. You are too young to remember: back then, she could not see past Fritzl. Well, he was considered charming before he got fat.”

    Mr Beresford did know that the red-headed “Fritzl” was not the late Fürst von Maltzahn-Dressen and also that his Cousin Adélaïde’s red hair was a gift from this gentleman. But then, so did half London. So what was she getting at? “So they tell me,” he said neutrally.

    The fan of finest black Chantilly mounted on ebony waved slowly back and forth. “He is an earnest fellow,” she said with a moue.

    “Y—er—l’Amiral du Fresne?” said Mr Beresford limply.

    Her Highness did not reply. The fan waved back and forth. Mr Beresford began to wonder if she were a trifle gaga, though no rumours had been circulating to that effect. He did not speak: she would not have appreciated his offering a fresh topic and he was almost sure she wished the previous one closed.

    “I could very easily get the boy back,” she said at last.

    “Permit me to say, Altesse, that your doing so is in the highest degree unlikely.”

    The little black eyes in the dead-white face looked at him expressionlessly. “Ces sortes de jolies petites personnes sont négligibles, mon cher monsieur, croyez-moi.”

    Mr Beresford went very red.

    “One concedes that while he is under your influence, he will be content to do what you say. On the other hand, were he under mine, and should I wish to retain his services, you would not find it so easy to get him back another time.”

    Mr Beresford got up. “He will not fall under your influence again, Princess.”

    She looked him up and down, the fan still moving gently. “Perhaps you would care to discuss the matter with Fanny?”

    Mr Beresford’s jaw dropped.

    “That is, in the event you both concede there is anything to discuss. –That is all, I think,” she said dismissively, snapping the fan shut.

    His mouth very tight, Mr Beresford bowed and turned on his heel.

    When at long last they returned to their own house, Mr Beresford followed his aunt to her room. “Do you have that last letter of Lance’s?”

    Placidly Miss Sissy produced it.

    He read it through, scowling.

    “Is anything wrong, Jack?”

    “No, I don’t think so. –I think,” he said to himself, “it was a bow at a venture.” He began to stride about the room. “I don’t know what to do,” he muttered.

    “No,” said Miss Sissy in a bewildered voice, sinking onto the chair before her dressing-table.

    “They are so damned isolated up there, and— Perhaps if I were to write to Sir Horace?”

    “Jack, my dear, what is wrong?”

    “Nothing is precisely wrong. Um, if someone from London were to—um—turn up in Lincolnshire, um, presumably one of the family would write of it?”

    “Why, of course! Dear little Anne writes Peg twice a week and even her mamma, though not a person of regular habits, writes every week without fail. As does Maria, of course. She writes that the new people are come to Chelford Place, is it not thrilling?”

    “Eh? Not the heir?”

    “I am not absolutely sure… No, well, there was definitely a party come up from Dallermaine Abbey!”

    “Probably one of the dashed B.-D.’s getting his foot in the door before the heir does turn up,” said Mr Beresford idly. “Er—no other strangers?”

    “The vicar’s nephew is come, but Anne writes that he has spots and a squint.”

    “Takes him off with his cloak over his face, then,” said Mr Beresford with a sigh. “I suppose that’s all right.”

    “Jack, my dear, if you do not tell me what is in your mind—”

    “It’s nothing.” He kissed her cheek. “Nothing for you to worry over.”

    Miss Sissy sat there worrying as the door closed after him.

    “What is it?” said Mr Beresford with a sigh as Horrible came into his study the following day wearing the horrible scowl which certainly went some way towards justifying the nickname.

    Horrible stood on one leg, hooking her foot round her ankle. “That Mr Chegwidden is trying to persuade Peg to let him pay for a portrait of her.”

    “WHAT?”

    She gulped. “So you didn’t know?”

    “No, I most certainly did n— Are you telling me Aunt Sissy knows?” he shouted.

    Wincing, Horrible replied: “Yes. She keeps saying that because Peg has nothing a match would not be ineligible. And I don’t care if he is intelligent: he is old and fat!”

    Mr Beresford had risen to his feet. He paused. “Uh—is he intelligent?”

    “He knows a lot about art. Peg claims he is intelligent, but lacking in education.”

    “Charming. Is she out with him at the moment?”

    “No, she’s gone with Mrs Watt for a sitting,” said Horrible glumly. “I’m sorry, Jack, I know I should have gone with her, only it’s incredibly boring! Mrs Watt is—um—well, she is good-natured enough, but—um—she toad-eats us,” she ended faintly.

    “The daughters of cits are apt to do so, Horrible. Do I collect Miss Buffitt enjoys it?”

    “No-o... She said that Mrs Watt can’t help it and—and something about its being an interesting phenomenon quite apart from the personalities,” she said in a bewildered voice.

    Mr Beresford had to bite his lip. “Mm. Do you have the direction?”

    Miserably Horrible gave it him. Mr Beresford strode out, shouting: “Henry! Send for the curricle!”

    Horrible returned glumly to the sitting-room, where Miss Sissy greeted her brightly with: “So?”

    She grimaced. “He is mad as fire, I knew he would be. He’s rushed round there.”

    “Good,” she said unguardedly.

    Her great-niece’s jaw dropped. “You advised me not to tell him! Aunt Sissy, what are you up to?”

    “Nothing. Well, Lady Stamforth and I are quite agreed that a steady man who is in a position to support her is just what Peg needs. He will be able to do a great deal for the family, you know. But as for the matter of the portrait—well, it shows he is a generous fellow, does it not? But of course he cannot be expected to know that such a gift to an unattached young woman would be quite beyond the pale of polite behaviour. It is quite right that Jack should put a stop to it. That is why,” she said airily, holding the tatting up and looking at it critically, “I said ‘good’. –I shall double the border pattern, I think.”

    Horrible eyed her narrowly. She appeared sincere; but nevertheless her great-niece was not wholly convinced.

    Mr Beresford blinked at the sight of the Mediaeval page but made a quick recover. “This is my card; please take it up to your master.”

    “Mr Greenstreet is h’occupied with a sitting at the precise moment, sir,” replied the boy in unctuous tones.

    How old was the creature? Was he perhaps a midget, not a boy at all? Mr Beresford peered, but it was rather hard to see, what with the bonnet, and the lack of light from Mr Greenstreet’s front hall. “I know. My cousin, Miss Buffitt, is with him, I believe. I am come to fetch her.”

    The boy squinted at the card. “Mr J. Berry— Berries— Lumme!” he squeaked. “The Mr Beresford what bought up Mr Raeburn’s Portrait of a Young Girl with a Cat what the King wanted for the Royal Collection?”

    “My fame has gone before me, I see,” said Mr Beresford levelly. “How the Devil old are you?”

    “Ten, and wot’s it to yer?” he snarled in the very accents of London town.

    “Nothing at all. Glad to see Mr Greenstreet is offering you useful employment. Are you going to take that card to him, or shall I break your door in?”

    “Ho, I’d like to see yer try! –’Ere, did yer get that at Jackson’s?” he said on a longing note, looking at the arm in the sling.

    “No, I wore it out beating some sense into cheeky ten-year-old urchins,” replied Mr Beresford in a bored tone.

    Grinning, the page conceded: “Yer better come in, sir; Pa won’t ’alf be chuffed! Lumme, Mr Beresford what bought the King’s Raeburn!” With this he ushered Mr Beresford into the front hall and headed for the stairs at a run.

    “Flattering,” said Mr Beresford drily to himself, looking round the hall. Disappointingly, it held no apparent evidence of the artist’s work; merely a couple of occasional chairs, a heavy carved wooden chest which was very probably not Jacobean, though it had a look of that period, and a large long-case clock. And a small, dark picture… Mr Beresford stood in front of this work frowning.

    “’Ead of a Girl. Period of Enery the Eighth. Said to be Queen Elizabeth ’erself in ’er youth. Possibly a Holbein,” said the page’s voice from the staircase, the lone H very aspirate.

    “Rubbish. Head of Miss Merlina Greenstreet in her youth, smothered in very dark varnish,” replied Mr Beresford acidly.

    Unabashed, the page winked. “Pa said ’e thought you ’ad the eye. Seen our Merlina, ’ave yer?”

    “Yes; I saw her in Roland Lefayne’s production of Three Belles And A Beau, last year. I thought she was very good.”

    “Not bad,” he agreed judiciously. “Silly sort of a play, though. –Step up, if you please, sir.”

    Mr Beresford duly stepped.

    Mrs Watt was revealed as a slim, fair young woman of a type not uncommon in England: a pink and white complexion, very little chin, and bulging pale blue eyes. At the moment of Mr Beresford’s entering the artist’s studio she was not toad-eating anyone: she was seated on a sofa, posing. Very evidently in her best: a stiff taffety creation of a powder-blue shade which was not quite the right colour to flatter her skin and which should certainly not have been adorned with a pink sash and knots of pink ribbon. After the inevitable exchange of compliments Mr Beresford was invited to view the canvas. His lips twitched. “Been to France, have you, Greenstreet?” he murmured.

    The artist bowed. “I had the occasion to take the Grand Tour, yes, sir. An experience to thrill the soul and inspire the muse! My sketch books were overflowing, and my brush—”

    “Pa, he spotted our Merlina was the Holbein,” warned the page.

    Mr Greenstreet paused in his flow. “Oh.”

    “Let me just correct that,” murmured Mr Beresford. “I spotted it was not a Holbein, and then I recognised the sitter.”

    Mr Greenstreet eyed him warily. “Oh. Well, I’ve been to the Continent, all right and tight. Went quite recent, actually. But also as a young man: my old Pa insisted, once the Frogs seemed to have stopped chopping heads off. Went with a company of travelling players what thought they’d try their luck over there with the Bard. That was an education, in itself. They got halfway to Paris and ended up broke, decided to go home. But I had an introduction to an American gent what Pa thought might do me some good, so I pushed on. Paris with Boney fancying himself as emperor had to be seen to be believed! Served the American gent for a while, had the honour to meet half the great thinkers of the day, all of the artists, and most of the famous ladies as weren’t ladies. Only then my gent heard rumours that Boney would be at war with England before the cat could lick her ear, so I came home.” He nodded at the portrait. “I've seen engravings of it, too. But the tender tones of the colours have to be seen to be believed, sir.”

    “Yes; I've seen it. May I ask, was the style suggested by the gown, or vice versa?” –Mr Greenstreet had posed Mrs Watt in her blue and pink as La Pompadour—even going so far as to exaggerate the fairness of the hair, so that one might, on glancing casually at it, assume that the lady was poudrée.

    “The gown dictated the style; once seen, it was inevitable, sir,” he said solemnly, bowing.

    “It's pretty, is it not?” put in Mr Beresford’s cousin eagerly.

    “Now that,” murmured the artist, “is a Greuze.”

    Mr Beresford’s cousin had removed her bonnet and shawl. The room was warm: her cheeks were flushed, the golden curls were a little tumbled, and she was hugging to her ample bosom a chubby yellow-haired infant.

    “Nonsense, my dear sir: it is a Raphael: Madonna and child,” he drawled.

    “If one but dared!” breathed Mr Greenstreet.

    “I advise you not to do so.”

    “Tempting though the thought must be, one does know one’s limitations, sir. But a Greuze might be possible? Or a more modern style? Are you acquainted with the works of Mme Vigée Le Brun?”

    Mr Beresford drew a deep breath. He had not intended to speak to the artist himself of the matter, and certainly not to speak in front of Mrs Watt— But so be it. “Mr Greenstreet, I must beg you not to attempt any portrait of my cousin unless commissioned by a member of her immediate family.”

    “But he said if I would pose, he would be able to sell it!” cried Peg.

    “You are not going to be hung on some unknown fellow’s wall, Cousin,” said Mr Beresford grimly.

    “If I may make so bold sir, Pa did say that he would be delighted to purchase the result, if so be it turned out as delightful as anticipated,” ventured Mrs Watt.

    “That is very kind of him, but I fear her family would not care for it,” said Mr Beresford grimly.

    “Pooh!” cried Miss Buffitt loudly. “What you mean is, your consequence would not care for it! But I am not a Beresford, and if I say Mr Greenstreet may do it and sell it to whomsoever he pleases, it is none of your business!”

    “It is my business while you are living in my house, in my care. Were the suggestion that Chegwidden might pay for your portrait to get out, you would be the talk of London.”

    “London,” said Miss Buffitt evilly, “is stupid, ignorant, and prejudiced!”

    “I entirely agree. Unfortunately you, I, Aunt Sissy and Hortensia,” said Mr Beresford, fixing her with a cold grey eye, “must live in it.” He watched with satisfaction as Miss Buffitt went very red. “Quite. –Has this idea been broached to Lady Stamforth, may I enquire?”

    “Not exactly,” admitted Peg. “But she did say that many artists paint pictures without being specially commissioned to do so and that the style of Mr Greenstreet’s portrait in this year’s Academy might suit me.”

    Mr Beresford took a very deep breath.

    “A lady, if you will permit me so to observe, of exquisite taste. And did me the honour to bring Lord Stamforth himself to this very establishment,” said Mr Greenstreet, bowing.

    “Greenstreet, if you bow once more I shall be constrained to point out to the members of the Academy that their apparent belief that you belong to the school of Raeburn is based on insufficient knowledge of your conception of what might loosely be termed artistic integrity.”

    “Wounding, dear sir: very wounding,” replied Mr Greenstreet, unmoved.

    “That would be mean, horrid and unjust!” shouted Peg. “And just the sort of thing to be expected of a snob who has never had to earn his living!”

    “Good for you, Miss,” approved the page unexpectedly.

    “Miss Buffitt, you are too kind, and may I say I never had a lovelier champion. Nor a stouter one,” said Mr Greenstreet hurriedly, feeling Mr Beresford’s gaze upon him. “But if I may venture to be so bold, I do not think the gentleman was wholly serious.”

    “No, I wasn’t,” said Mr Beresford tightly. “Paint as many damned pastiches as you please: I hope they hang ’em, every one. But I am serious in insisting that you do not paint my cousin.”

    “Your wish, sir, is my command,” he said, bowing deeply.

    “See that it is.” Mr Beresford because aware of a strange silence. “By God; you’ve started it, haven’t you?” he cried.

    “Only the most preliminary— Oh, Lor’,” muttered Mr Greenstreet as Mr Beresford flung the cloths off several large canvases and speedily discovered it.

    Miss Buffitt was portrayed seated on the floor, possibly as a farmer’s wife. Certainly she was wearing the sort of rough brown woollen garment that Mr Beresford had hoped never to see her in again. Her curls were tumbled wildly, and she was clutching to her half-exposed bosom the very same yellow-haired infant she held at this moment. Technically the picture was a triumph: the viewer looked down at the young mother and the child, and she looked up and laughed. Somehow or another this artistic expertise passed Mr Beresford by: he choked.

    “Some way after Greuze,” admitted Mr Greenstreet. “You may recognise some of the brown and green tones he— Er, mm. Not yet finished, but—”

    “This will never see the light of day,” said Miss Buffitt’s cousin through his teeth.

    “But it’s the best thing Pa’s ever done!” cried the page shrilly.

    “Um, we did think it was very good, actually,” admitted Mr Beresford’s cousin uneasily.

    “You,” he said evilly, “are coming home with me this instant. Give Mrs Watt her little boy, and come here.”

    Scowling, Peg obeyed.

    “Mrs Watt, I trust you can support being deprived of my cousin’s company,” he said grimly, bowing. “Good-day.” Holding Miss Buffitt’s elbow in a grip of steel, he went out with her.

    “Oh, dear!” gasped Mrs Watt.

    “It ain’t fair!” cried the page.

    “Shut it, Mercurio. Nip downstairs and see he closes the front door,” said Mr Greenstreet.

    Scowling, the page ran out.

    “My very dear Mrs Watt, I can assure you that there is nothing at all to be disturbed about,” said Mr Greenstreet, quite in the grand manner. “Pray do not allow a precious drop to sully those dawn-tinted cheeks, I beg. –Here,” he said resignedly, handing her a large and somewhat paint-stained handkerchief. “Don’t bawl, dear. That gent’s head over heels about pretty little Miss B., and if he ain’t back within the month offering me a small fortune to finish the thing for him, my name’s not Fred Greenstreet. Which if you ask me, was what your Pa meant in the first instance when he told me to start in on it.”

    “Buh-but I thought Pa wanted it for himself,” she said, sniffing dolefully.

    “Dare say he wouldn’t say no. But that there what we just witnessed was what they call a lovers’ tiff,” he said, winking at her and removing his velvet bonnet. “I’ll just ask Mrs Greenstreet to rustle us up a nice cup of tea, shall I? And then we’ll get on with it.”

    Mrs Watt wadded up his handkerchief, looking thoughtful. “Ooh, I say! Yes, it were a lovers’ tiff, an’ all!” She beamed at him. “’Ere, it ain’t half romantic, eh? Handsome gent, ain’t he? –I wouldn’t half mind a cup of tea, to tell the truth, Mr Greenstreet.”

    “Right you are, ducks,” said the artist insouciantly.

    Mr Beresford walked into his own sitting-room. Mr Chegwidden was there, taking tea with the ladies. Mr Beresford sat down, a grim look on his lean countenance, and took tea…

    … This morning Miss Buffitt and Horrible were preparing to walk out. Alone, it appeared. Mr Beresford announced he would accompany them. Did they have a destination in mind? The Park, and possibly Nancy Uckridge would be there: she had recently been permitted to adopt a small dog, and she was trying it with a pink leading-rein and little coat in the hopes of offering a challenge to Mrs— Mr Beresford stopped listening.

    Miss Nancy was not encountered, pink-coated dog or not. However, Mr Chegwidden and the frightful Mr Eustace Bones were encountered. Five minutes later, as they all strolled on together, Miss Buffitt and Mr Chegwidden chatting about art and Horrible drawing out Mr Bones on his aspirations to dandyism, Jimmy Hattersby-Lough was also encountered. He gave every appearance of being in ecstasy at the meeting, and no doubt was…

    … Mr Beresford had been under the impression that they were to have what his aunt called “a cosy family dinner” this evening. He walked into his own sitting-room to be greeted by the spectacle of a beaming Mr Chegwidden, the dark curls positively frolicking round the pink pate, a simpering Mrs Watt in the powder-blue taffety of her portrait, and a dough-faced person in badly cut evening clothes who was presumably Mr Watt? Yes. Mr Watt immediately asked him where he bought his boots. Ah! He had thought it was Hoby, for, if he might venture to say so, all the Pinks went there! Mr Beresford, that noted Corinthian, was aware that at this point Miss Buffitt muffled a snigger behind her fan…

    … Mr Beresford walked into his own sitting-room. Mr Chegwidden was there again, taking tea with the ladies. There was a giant bouquet on the tea-table, which his aunt did not neglect to inform him had been brought by “dear Mr Chegwidden” for Peg. The simmering Mr Beresford sat down and took tea…

    Miss Sissy having happily informed her nephew that they were to go to the play, Mr Beresford, being now tried in the fire, retorted grimly: “With whom, precisely? And whose party is it, exactly?”

    It was dear Lady Stamforth’s party and she was not absolutely sure who else was to—

    “I shall accompany you,” said Mr Beresford through his teeth.

    No kindly Providence intervening, the evening rolled round. The P.W. was glorious in deep violet and only some of her diamonds. Next her Miss Buffitt in white gauze over white silk, with tiny sprays of white silk flowers tied with white ribbons in the hair, the sleeves and the flounce, looked positively fairylike. Possibly Miss Benedict in pale blue and his cousin’s daughter in very pale green were also fairylike but oddly enough Mr Beresford did not notice them. Miss Sissy was shining in a bran-new grey silk but he definitely did not notice her.

    “Come along!” cried the P.W. gaily, having herself helped Peg into her evening cloak. The front door had been opened and the ladies were descending the steps before she added airily: “Dear Mr Chegwidden is to meet us there: I hope he weell be able to find us een the crowd.”

    Mr Beresford’s nostrils flared angrily. Silently he mounted into the coach…

    “Here we all are!” she cried gaily. “Now, take Peg’s arm, dear Mr Chegwidden: that ees right! Lewis, my dear, you may give Miss Sissy your arm, and I shall take Mr Beresford’s! And the girls may look after each other: perfect.” Smiling sunnily, she took Jack’s arm.

    “Lady Stamforth,” he said in a low, angry voice as they slowly mounted the stairs in the enormous press of persons flocking to see Roland Lefayne and Isabelle Amyes in the revival of The Vicar’s Dilemma, an even greater success—fou, if not d’estime—than Mr Lefayne’s previous appearance in it some years back had been, “pray disabuse yourself of the notion that I am not aware of your plot.”

    “Goodness, are you?” said the P.W. placidly.

    “Yes. And I have utterly forbidden that Greenstreet fellow to paint her portrait for the benefit of a certain person,” he said, glaring at the pink top of Mr Chegwidden’s head, all that could be seen of him and Peg for the crush.

    “Oh, dear. I was so looking forward to seeing eet,” she said placidly.

    Mr Beresford’s nostrils flared; he was so angry it was difficult to speak. At last he managed: “Do I collect you knew about it, ma’am?”

    “Well, of course; that was the plot,” she said giving him a bewildered look out of those great soft, dark pools of eyes.

    Breathing heavily, Mr Beresford did not respond.

    The P.W. merely laughed her gurgling laugh, and leant her bosom against his arm in that fashion…

    The first act of the thing had been greeted by their box with rapt, nay, open-mouthed attention. The leading man usually had that effect on the ladies. For his part, Mr Beresford, seated behind the distaff side, allowed his chin to sink into his neckcloth. He was not surprised to see Stamforth doing the same. The first interval dawned to a stunned silence, at least in their box. The rest of the theatre seemed to be buzzing with excited discussion. Eventually Horrible croaked: “Was it the same lady?”

    The eponymous vicar had two rivals for his hand—a part in which Mr Lefayne was very much in his element. One was a sweet little village maiden, the other a Society dame with considerably more years to her credit. The former all wide-eyed innocence, neat little aprons, and soft black curls; the latter—well, she was red-headed, but apart from that she reminded Mr Beresford vividly of Lady Reggie Bon-Dutton. “Dashing” was the most temperate adjective that could have been applied.

    “Of course,” replied Lady Stamforth serenely.

    As the excited discussion broke out Lord Stamforth caught Mr Beresford’s eye. “Stretch the legs?” And the two gentlemen escaped.

    “It is worse,” said his Lordship fairly after some much-needed refreshment had been procured, “when the fellow takes two rôles himself. Or three, on occasion.”

    Mr Beresford had been privileged to see some of the actor-manager’s other shows. “Aye. Er—well, I concede she can act.”

    “Mm. Well, adds interest to an otherwise meaningless piece.”

    “Exact,” he said sourly.

    Lord Stamforth eyed him tolerantly and did not suggest an immediate return to the box.

    The second act having been received with the same rapt attention, and Miss Buffitt having brutally shushed Mr Bobby Bon-Dutton, who had inserted himself unasked into the Stamforth box and remained there unasked, the second interval dawned to more excited discussion. Mina and Horrible were sure the pretty little maiden must get the Vicar in the end. Peg thought he might fall into the clutches of the Society dame and be damned for ever. Was that not conventional Christian morality? Mina gulped. Horrible sniggered, but clapped her hand over her mouth and glanced warily at Lady Stamforth. That lady smiled serenely. Mr Bobby endeavoured to explain to Miss Buffitt precisely what Christian morality in the true sense would ordain in this instance. Miss Buffitt let him get right through it before collapsing in helpless giggles, gasping: “I was not serious, you goose!” Mr Beresford began to feel marginally—very marginally—better. The P.W. put an end to that by announcing a “splendeed scheme” in which they were all to go down to Major-General Sir Percy Waynflete’s brother’s house at Marlow for a delicious lazy day, her expression, by the river: dear Mr Chegwidden had promised them a barge with music! Mr Beresford barely refrained from grinding his teeth. He did not look at Stamforth: he was perfectly well aware that that gentleman’s face would be completely expressionless…

    For the journey home, apparently Mina desired to ride with Horrible and Peg so they could discuss— Mr Beresford abandoned them to Aunt Sissy’s chaperonage and got into Stamforth’s coach.

    “Deed you see Lady Reggie B.-D. een a box a leetle way round the circle?” said the P.W immediately.

    “Yes. Still in mourning,” replied Stamforth unemotionally.

    His wife collapsed in giggles, hitting his arm with her fan and squeaking: “Stop eet, Lewis! –I do not theenk eet was my imagination that she was glaring at dear Mr Chegwidden?”

    “Nan is a little short-sighted,” said Stamforth unemotionally to Mr Beresford. “I certainly had the impression she was glaring, yes.”

    “But how odd! I do not theenk he has ever met her. He knows the portrait, of course: he vairy much admired eet at the Royal Academy. I cannot see why she should glare so at heem.”

    “I think you can, Nan,” said Stamforth in a very dry voice indeed. “And I think you owe Beresford an apology. But as I am not your mentor, I am not suggesting that you offer him one. Merely, that is my opinion.”

    Mr Beresford was now quailing at this revelation of the Stamforths’ version of wedded bliss; but to his astonishment the P.W. laughed and said: “Well, that ees one for me! And I do apologise, Mr Beresford. You know that Lady Reggie has lately attached a stout merchant to her train? I am vairy nearly almost sure that she ees meeffed because she theenks that Miss Buffitt ees offering her a challenge een the matter.”

    “What?” he said dazedly.

    “Well, the comparison would not perhaps arise, were eet not for your connection to both ladies een question,” she said on an apologetic note.

    “We can let you out now, if you prefer to walk the rest of the way home,” noted Stamforth. “But at least one intention is to offer you a friendly warning, I can swear to that. She is needling you at the same time, I do not deny it.”

    “Well, yes, but you see, that ees my nature, and that ees why we should never, never have suited, dear boy,” said the P.W., apparently completely unmoved. “I generally mean five different theengs at once. I am vairy lucky to have found Lewis: you see, he quite likes it.”

    “Most women bore me,” he murmured on an apologetic note.

    “To be frank, most people bore heem,” she added kindly. “But do you see?”

    “What?” said Mr Beresford dazedly.

    She put her hand lightly on his knee. “I am afraid Lady Reggie weell be vairy cross eef she believes Peg’s attaching of Mr Chegwidden to be a deliberate insult to herself. She may well attempt to do you or her, or both of you, a meeschief.”

    “I see. I suppose I thank you,” he said limply.

    “Oh, there is no need to go that far,” said Stamforth at his driest.

    At which the P.W., far from seeming abashed, merely laughed that gurgling laugh…

    “How does Stamforth stand that woman?” said Mr Beresford in spite of himself to his aunt, the girls having gone up to bed still discussing the wonders of the play.

    Miss Sissy looked at him without surprise. “I hope you are not thinking she has feet of clay.”

    “What would you call it?” he demanded angrily.

    “I would say, she is a very complex personality,” said the little old spinster placidly. “It makes for interest, of course, but I can understand your not comprehending that Lord Stamforth might actually enjoy it. But I think he is the sort of man who can very easily become bored. Look at Violetta Spottiswode,” she added with complete placidity.

    Mr Beresford had to swallow. He had not been aware that his aunt knew of Stamforth’s involvement, quite some years before his marriage, with this tempestuous personality. “Er—mm. Lady Spotton, she is now.”

    “Oh, yes; I had forgot,” she said placidly. “Rowena did write me of it.”

    “Aunt Sissy, how in God’s name do you know about her and Stamforth?”

    “Fanny is a regular correspondent,” she said mildly.

    He nodded feebly.

    “Well, do you see, Jack? Lady Spotton in her day had much of Lady Stamforth’s charm and looks but not, so they say, very much intelligence.”

    In short she was another Lady Reggie Bon-Dutton, even to the clouds of curls. And just what, by the by, might his delightful Aunt Fanny have written little Aunt Sissy of that?

    “I think Fanny said”—Mr Beresford twitched nervously—“that Lord Stamforth became bored with her, though she would have liked Society to believe that she threw him over.”

    “What? Oh: yes. Oh, I see,” he said limply.

    “Of course dear Lady Stamforth is not an easy woman to live with, but she is what he needs. She has none of that delightful frankness and straightforwardness that characterise our own little Hortensia, or dear little Peg.” She drifted out, looking vague.

    After quite some time Mr Beresford concluded sourly: “There ain’t anything she don’t know.”

    Merrily Lady Stamforth reported the Lady Reggie complication to the stout merchant, ending: “We must just hope that she weell be seelly enough to turn on heem!”

    Mr Chegwidden was of the opinion that ladies of that sort, on the contrary, generally knew very well which side their bread was buttered on. “Maybe. If you ask me, me Lady, if she turns on anyone it’ll be little Miss B. So just you watch out.”

    Predictably, the P.W. laughed and cried gaily: “Oh, pooh! Eet ees all working out perfectly!”

Next chapter:

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