The Rivals

8

The Rivals

    Mr Bobby Cantrell-Sprague was a handsome young fellow with one of those oval, rather narrow-jawed faces which are often the mark of Irish ancestry. The skin very pale, the beard the sort that needs two shaves a day to look respectable, the brows and hair also very dark, the lashes very, very long, and the eyes a clear cerulean blue. And, in the specific case of Mr Bobby, a rather petulant, pouting mouth and a rounded chin over which the ladies were self-confessedly aux anges. Even without the aura of his mother’s literary salons to give him a cachet, he would have been a hit with the débutante set; as it was, he was claimed to be, variously, “a divine Apollo” (one Miss Ariadne Satterthwaite; since Miss Ariadne had but two hundred pounds a year, her mamma was not so enthused), “a walking Cupid as a young man” (a Miss Violet Potter, seventeen if she was a day, and the fourth of five daughters of a sufficiently impoverished country gentleman, so she might as well whistle for the moon), “Ariel in human form” (Miss Barbara Langridge, the type of girl who believed “Barbara” not to be a Romantick name and whose grasp of the great works of literature was, as witness the image, somewhat shaky), “the young Endymion” (talking of moons: Lady Annabel Gratton-Gordon, who might just possibly have read the poem in question, the Marchioness of Wade’s daughters being marginally better read, not to say brighter, than their G.-G. cousins), or “the cat’s dashed whiskers” (Mr Rollo Valentine, some years his elder and far more sophisticated, with a much more remarkable head of thick, glossy dark curls).

    Having been on the town for over a year now, Mr Bobby was, alas, not interested in the débutante set. Though willing enough to allow them to admire him. That petulant mouth did not belie him, and he was a rather spoilt young man, accustomed to have his own way simply because he was so beautiful. Very naturally he expected that Peg Buffitt would immediately prostrate herself at his feet like all the other young maidens. When she did not, he was very piqued indeed: she was the prettiest of this year’s crop, had not a penny to her name (the thought that she should therefore be all the more grateful for his notice was certainly there, if unexpressed), and they would, clearly, make the most striking couple in London. True, she had appeared thrilled to be invited to his mother’s salon, and Mr Bobby had duly preened himself. Though having to admit to Mamma that he had invited a total unknown, some sort of country cousin of the Beresfords, had not been a particularly enjoyable task. Mrs Cantrell-Sprague had shrugged and drawled: “Pretty, is she, Bobby? Peaches and cream?”

    Mr Bobby had replied hotly: “Gardenias and pure gold, more like!” and his mother, alas, had said: “Alliterative,” and laughed.

    Nevertheless he turned up to collect Miss Buffitt very, very pleased with himself indeed. And her appearance that day did nothing to disappoint him: it was a cool day, and she was in a little yellow-green velvet jacket, high to the neck, over a walking gown of a dull bronze shade. The bonnet was just a natural straw, but trimmed with ruchings of the velvet and bows of a yellow-green satin in a lighter tone: delightful. The tiny gloves and half-boots were plain tan. Quite exquisite taste, and Mr Bobby recognised pleasedly that Mamma would be unable to fault her.

    The old aunty was just giving instructions about bringing her back safely and in good time to change for her dinner, to which Mr Bobby was listening tolerantly, when Mr Beresford walked into the sitting-room. And from that point everything went downhill. Mr Beresford was in driving dress, the many-caped fawn coat draped over the bad arm. Bobby was not a short man, but Jack Beresford over-topped him by several inches.

    “Oh, yes: one of Marianne’s boys, of course,” he said, on the old aunty’s performing introductions.

    Mr Bobby was not aware that Mr Beresford and his mother were on first-name terms: he went very red but shook hands politely.

    “What is it today?” Mr Beresford then said. “Midnight frosts, west winds, Grecian urns, or the very Isles of Greece themselves?”

    Alas, at this Miss Buffitt gave a loud giggle.

    “I do not think so, though if we are very lucky Mr Coleridge might read us his Frost at Midnight,” said Bobby stiffly.

    “Unlucky, more like: the fellow may have the inspiration—which, however, I do not maintain—or he don't maintain it,”—Miss Buffitt giggled again—“but he certainly has the worst rendition of any writer I ever heard.”

    “Really? And you have heard them all?” said Mr Bobby nastily.

    “Well, no: don't think any but his intimates were ever privileged to hear poor Mr Keats, or at least not according to his publisher. Which since he may lay claim to be the greatest English poet since Shakespeare, is possibly our loss.” Mr Bobby was just opening his mouth to refute this claim brilliantly when Mr Beresford added smoothly: “Or not, of course, if he read as badly as poor Coleridge,” and Miss Buffitt collapsed in gales of giggles.

    Then Mr Beresford said: “Aunt Sissy, surely you are not allowing Cousin Peg to go alone with Mr Cantrell-Sprague, are you?”

    “He has promised to look after her,” said the old duck.

    “I am sure he will, too,” said Mr Beresford in the tone of a kindly uncle: Mr Bobby gritted his perfect white teeth. “But thing is, no sayin’ what may turn up at Marianne’s dashed salons. Anything from fire-breathing Scots with whisky in their eye, or I think I mean whisky-breathing Scots with fire in their eye—”

    “That was once!” said Mr Bobby indignantly; and, alack and alas, Miss Buffitt collapsed in giggles again.

    “—to Geddings himself,” the dashed fellow added, and that really finished it, of course. The old dame insisted that “dear Jack” go with them. Even though in the first place Geddings was not nearly that bad, in the second place he would not have the ill manners to try anything on in Bobby’s mother’s drawing-room, and in the third place all his inamorate, of whom there had certainly been plenty, had most definitely not been débutantes. And in any case, he, Bobby Cantrell-Sprague, was perfectly capable of protecting her: perfectly!

    At least Miss Buffitt stuck up for him; well, she said: “But if Mrs Cantrell-Sprague is not expecting him, will it be all right?” At which Beresford said in that nasty drawl of his: “Oh, Marianne won’t mind.” Since Bobby knew she wouldn’t, all the hags was only too eager to drag Beresford along to anything at all, especially any what had daughters—and there were three of his sisters still unmarried—what could he say? What could anyone say? So they went. Beresford stayed throughout, he partook in the discussion of the essay as a literary form with considerable intelligence, he capped some joke of dashed Michael Fitz-Clancy’s with a drawled remark over which all of the older gentlemen and most of the older ladies spluttered and which Bobby, to his chagrin, did not get, and he rode back with them. All, of course, in the dashing Corinthian outfit which Bobby was only too sharply aware he had every right to wear. Naturally every other fellow in the room was merely in conventional town coats and pantaloons— Oh, curse the fellow!

    After that fiasco Mr Bobby was more determined than ever to impress Miss Buffitt. And to do it well out of dashed Jack Beresford’s orbit. The more so as his mother had owned that she was “quite bright, and surprisingly well behaved”—high praise indeed. And his older brother Johnny, who was a real ladies’ man, had gaped at her with his eyes on stalks and begged for an introduction.

    He invited her to view the pictures at the Royal Academy. She had already been, and owned that though she would adore to go again—Mr Bobby brightened—she was not allowed to do so unchaperoned. But the old duck couldn’t do it because it would be too tiring, some such stuff. Mr Bobby was almost driven to ask Mamma if she would do it. Almost. After a great deal of racking of his brains he came up with a brilliant counter-suggestion. The C.-S.’s were connected to the Wyntons. Perhaps Miss Buffitt would like to come and view the Earl of Sleyven’s pictures? Blefford Square: quite convenient. She would, so Bobby then had to go cap in hand and beg Mamma to speak to the Countess. Apparently Mamma was put out because Lady Sleyven had laughed in the wrong place at one of her dashed literary dinners. She refused point-blank. Bobby then had to go the rounds of the dashed relations until he found one hag that had not had her nose put out of joint by Lady Sleyven’s laughing, dressing, wearing of the Wynton set, not wearing of the Wynton set (eh?), or just plain having carried off the Earl from under the noses of all the cats of London.

    Then, ye gods and little fishes, it turned out that they had an old aunty or cousin or some such of their own, and though Lady Sleyven, who was a delightful and intelligent woman whom Bobby simply could not imagine laughing, dressing, or doing anything else wrong, tactfully left them to it, the old dame toddled along beside them and insisted on taking charge of the whole thing! Not to mention telling them who all the frights in the portraits were, when it was plain as the nose on your face that Miss Buffitt, who was as bright as she was pretty, was only interested in the art itself. Never mind if Lady Whoever-she-was had married the Hammond of the day, disgraced herself by whatever-it-was, been banished from the family fold for ever and a day, and been returned to the bosom of the Wyntons. Whether the portrait or the lady in person, or both, unclear. Never mind.

    When they got back the redheaded cousin said: “How was it, Peg?” and Miss Buffitt, alas, gasped: “Beautiful pictures, but quite horridly educational!”—and collapsed in terrific giggles.

    After that Mr Bobby didn’t even contemplate the idea of taking to her to view the pictures at Hammond House, because there was absolutely no doubt that the Marchioness of Rockingham would have some dashed old aunty or cousin or something that would tag along with them, talking the hind leg off a donkey!

    His brother Johnny listened to his long and bitter complaint, and grinned. “Take her to one of the galleries, then, Bobby, or the studios. Turner’s place, or some such.”

    “Don't be an ass!” snarled the driven Bobby. “She will expect me to shell out hundreds like dashed Jack Beresford, to buy the damned things!”

    Johnny acknowledged ruefully this was so, and left him to his misery.

    “You are not going on the river with Bobby Cantrell-Sprague or any other half-witted youngster!” said Mr Beresford roundly.

    Peg’s face fell. “Oh. We thought it would be fun.”

    “Yes,” agreed Horrible. “Mendoza says he’ll come.”

    “He will not—or he may, but he will do so without benefit of your company! I am not going to be put in the position of having to explain your deaths by drowning to your unfortunate mothers!”

    “Mina was going to come, too,” said Horrible glumly.

    “Or stepmother, in her case,” said Mr Beresford grimly. “Never tell me that Lady Stamforth was idiotic enough to say you might go!”

    The young ladies were silent. Very evidently she had not been.

    “Jack, dearest—” began Miss Sissy.

    “No.”

    “But when I was a young girl it was quite the done thing to go by water to Greenwich, or—”

    “It is too cold on the water at this time of year,” said Mr Beresford with horrid finality. “I forbid it utterly. Think of something which does not involve death by drowning or pneumonia.” He opened the door. “Balloon ascensions are also out,” he said coldly. He went out.

    “Well, pooh!” cried Horrible loudly. “It is just nuts!”

    “Hortensia, dear, that expression would be barely acceptable from a child of ten,” said Miss Sissy mildly.

    Horrible subsided, very red.

    “Young ladies don’t seem to be able to do much,” noted Peg sourly.

    “Oh, you’ve noticed!” rejoined Horrible bitterly.

    “They have gone where?” he croaked.

    Miss Sissy tatted placidly. “Richmond. They left quite early this morning: they are to make a day of it.”

    “And why did you not accompany them?”

    “Mrs Uckridge was with them: I think that was sufficient chaperonage. And the barouche would have been too crowded.”

    Mr Beresford counted on his fingers, breathing heavily.

    “You have it wrong, dear boy;  they took two barouches.”

    “Oh, ho!” he said. “Go on.”

    “Dear Lady Stamforth—”

    “I knew it! How many of her imbecilic hangers-on were acting as outriders to this damned cortège?” he shouted.

    “Well, I am not absolutely positive, my dear; I get the names mixed up.”—Mr Beresford ground his teeth.—“That lovely naval gentleman,” said Miss Sissy vaguely.

    “Not Q.-V.?” he croaked.

    “He said something about your friend Mr Bobby Quarmby-Vine, certainly.”

    “My God: Charles Q.-V. is at the P.W.’s feet again?” he croaked.

    “A rather bluff naval gentleman.”

    “Yes,” said Jack limply. “Who else? Anything military and old enough to know better?”

    “A very pleasant elderly gentleman. I forget the rank. Major-General, was it? Sir Percy Something, at any rate.”

    “Wayneflete,” groaned Jack. “One of her staunchest admirers. Old enough to be the father of the lot of them, true—her included. And?”

    Miss Sissy held the tatting up and frowned critically at it. “Several younger gentlemen. I did not get the names but dear Lady Stamforth assured me she knows them very well. Pretty little Mr Bobby, certainly. Oh: one had very red hair: rather like dear Hortensia’s.”

    “Douglas Lacey? According to Wilf Rowbotham she tried to throw him together with young Mina last year and it didn’t come off.”

    Miss Sissy eyed the tatting thoughtfully. “I don’t think little Mina is the attraction in that house, Jack.”

    Mr Beresford gulped. “His father will love that,” he whispered.

    “He’ll get over it: he’s very young”

    “Was there anything—er—let’s say between the ages of Lacey and old Waynflete?”

    “Lord Geddings,” she said placidly.

    “What?”

    “He appeared bored.”

    “He always appears bored!” he said angrily. “Was he dangling after the P.W., or one of our girls? Or did he appear so bored you couldn’t tell?”

    “He came in with Lady Stamforth… Well, as I say, he appeared bored, but he certainly made a point of handing Peg into the carriage.”

    “And of getting in after her?”

    “Ye-es… Well, he was seated facing her and dear Lady Stamforth, Jack.”

    “Two strings to his bow: delightful,” he said tightly.

    “He was with the Duke that evening we dined at Stamforth House, Jack. Possibly he was merely joining in the expedition in furtherance of His Grace’s scheme.”

    “Yes, and possibly he was combining furtherance of His Grace’s scheme with one or two little schemes of his own! And in the case you were thinking Lady Stamforth will look twice at him, she won’t.”

    “I know that, dear!” she said with a little laugh. “She enjoys the company of gentlemen, but she is truly devoted to dear Lord Stamforth!”

    “Yes: that’s true. So where does that leave us? With Geddings monopolizing Peg for his own amusement, so that no serious contender can get near her?”

    “Rumour has it that his Lordship is looking for a suitable helpmeet and hostess.”

    “I don’t think he’d look in an obscure country dump at the back end of Lincolnshire for ’em, however.”

    “Well, I did wonder. You see, often an older man like that, a man of the world, will prefer a very young girl, so that he may mould her.”

    “Uh—oh,” said the sophisticated Mr Beresford limply. “Never thought of that.”

    “Though if he imagines little Peg’s political sensibilities are unformed,” said the maiden lady calmly, “he will be in for a considerable shock.”

    Mr Beresford smiled reluctantly. “Aye.”

    Miss Sissy began to tat again. “I think the other older gentleman”—Mr Beresford’s eyes bulged—“was Lord Michael Fitz-Clancy.”

    “Uh—well, he certainly can’t be accused of hanging out for a rich wife,” said Jack limply.

    “No; isn’t he the one who went on all those exploring expeditions to the Far East?”

    “Middle East and Far East. And returned rich as a nabob.”

    “Of course, he does greatly admire dear Lady Stamforth.”

    “They all do.”

    “Yes. But as she is not available…”

    “Aunt Sissy, it’s unthinkable! The man must be fifty!”

    Miss Sissy did not think his Lordship had reached his half-century yet, but she merely said mildly: “It is not unheard of.”

    “It is damned revolting, however.”

    “He struck me as an attractive gentleman, but of course, as you say, much too old for little Peg. But she needs someone who can look after her, Jack, and little Mr Bobby, if what I hear be true, could never afford to do so.”

    “No,” he said tightly.

     There was a long silence.

    “Um, Aunt Sissy,” said Mr Beresford, clearing his throat, “just how reliable a chaperone do you imagine Lady Stamforth to be, under such circumstances?”

    “I was wondering that,” she said placidly, tatting.

    “Of course, Mrs Uckridge is there, too, but… Damn,” he muttered.

    Miss Sissy just tatted placidly.

    “Are you coming?” said Horrible in astonishment as her father’s cousin appeared in the small salon two days later with his gloves in his hand.

    “Yes.”

    Horrible looked sideways at Peg, who was meekly allowing Miss Sissy to tie her bonnet strings in a more becoming fashion. “Um, not that you’re not very welcome, Cousin Jack, but—um—the Tower of London? Won’t you be horridly bored?”

    “Yes.”

    Horrible grimaced—horribly—but was silent.

    “Well, that will be very pleasant, Jack, dear. Though a lee-tle crowded in the barouche,” noted his aunt.

    “One, two, three four,” counted Mr Beresford.

    “But no! We are to pick up dear little Mina and Miss Nancy Uckridge!”

    “Then I shall ride alongside.”

    Horrible glanced at Peg. Peg said nothing. “Um, we do already have some—urn—outriders,” she said with an attempt at a grin.

    “You astound me,” he drawled. “We hang around waiting for ’em, do we?”

    “Yes,” said Miss Buffitt placidly.

    Mr Beresford took a deep breath but said only: “Why in God’s name the Tower of London?”

    “I have never seen it,” explained Peg.

    “Eh? You’ve been in London for weeks!”

    Peg stuck her chin out. “In order to see the Tower of London, one must, if of the feebler sex, first be taken there.”

    “Yes. This entails, believe it or believe it not, finding a dashed gentleman willing to do so,” agreed Horrible on a nasty note.

    Mr Beresford wandered over to the window “Thought there was thousands of those?” he drawled.

    “In the case of Peg, yes,” said Horrible calmly. “The thing is, something or another gave her the notion that, eager though they are in general, the notion of the Tower of London, or indeed, anything smacking vaguely of the historical, would not appeal.”

    “Historical or educational, Horrible,” corrected Peg primly.

    “I stand corrected. Historical or—”

    “Yes!” shouted Mr Beresford.

    Immediately Peg and Horrible collapsed in gales of laughter.

    “Yes,” said Miss Sissy, smiling and nodding. “But in actual fact, once dear Hortensia had broached the notion they all offered. So it was a question of picking which, really.”

    “Something over eighteen, I trust,” he said sourly. “And preferably under fifty, if that ain’t asking too much.”

    “I think pretty Mr Bobby Cantrell-Sprague is over eighteen,” said Horrible dubiously.

    “Well, yes. He told me. He is twenty-one. It was on a day,” said Peg, looking very prim, “when Lord Michael Fitz-Clancy had been needling him. Poor Mr Bobby did not have the nous to needle him back on the score of his being nigh on half a century.”

    Alas, at this Miss Sissy Laidlaw collapsed in gales of giggles, gasping through them: “Girls, you are too naughty!”

    The girls smiled, and Horrible conceded: “Well, he is said to be a great catch, of course. And rich as a nabob. But then, there is the nose.”

    “It is rather big and red,” explained Peg, looking prim.

    “I see. And does Mr Bobby have a similar—er—drawback?” said Mr Beresford feebly.

    “The pouts,” replied Peg immediately.

    “Possibly even harder to live with,” hazarded Horrible, screwing up her eyes very much, “than the big red nose.”

    “He does have good taste, though,” ventured Peg.

    “Fitz-Clancy or the C.-S. boy?’ said Mr Beresford dazedly.

    “Both!” squeaked Miss Sissy, going off , alas, in another paroxysm.

    “Yes. Though Lord Geddings,” said Horrible, looking airy, “has faultless taste.”

    “He is said to,” explained Peg earnestly, “but we, at least, have not been privileged to see it.”

    “You’ve seen his dress clothes, Peg!” objected Horrible.

    “Of course: silly me. So I have. There can be no question,” she said earnestly to Mr Beresford: “Faultless taste.”

    He had to bite his lip. But nonetheless noted: “I hope this doesn’t mean that Geddings is to form part of this expedition?”

    Peg looked soulful. “Oh, no, dear sir: he hates crowds, did you not know?”

    “Or possibly merely, in this instance, he cannot stand Nancy Uckridge’s giggles, for I do not think,” concluded Horrible sweetly, “that Mr Bobby, Mr Calhoun, and Mr Rollo Valentine constitute a positive crowd.”

    The eldest of these gentlemen was, at a guess, as much as twenty-three years of age. Mr Beresford took a deep breath. Clearly his rôle for the day was to be that of bear-leader to the infantry. He avoided his Aunt Sissy’s glance and drew his gloves on grimly.

    The Tower was the Tower, oddly enough it had not changed, the three young gentlemen were as inane as he had expected, they and Miss Nancy Uckridge were all as devoid of any knowledge of the history of their own country as he had expected, and every single one of them, including Miss Buffitt, of whom he would have expected better—not to say, including Aunt Sissy—appeared to be fully expecting to see Anne Boleyn walking with her head under her arm…

    “So what is the difference between a Beefeater and a Yeoman of the Guard?” said Miss Buffitt with a soulful look as, at long, weary last, Miss Benedict and Miss Nancy having been dropped off at their respective homes with parting reference to sore feet, the barouche pulled up at Mr Beresford’s front door. “Or is there none?”

    “Get down. I refuse to dignify that with an answer,” said Mr Beresford grimly, offering his good hand to assist her.

    Giggling, Miss Buffitt got down without assistance and ran into the house.

    Mr Beresford collapsed against the barouche. “My God!”

    Mr Rollo Valentine had not dismounted: he ranged alongside, grinning. “It weren’t that bad, Jack.”

    “It was every bit that bad, Rollo, and I shall not enquire what you spent your time doing at your school, because it is very evident that the answer will not be learning any history!”

    Roddy Calhoun ranged alongside on the other side: Mr Beresford was now effectively hemmed in between the pair of imbeciles. “Might have been boning up on Latin and Greek, sir.”

    “Might he? Does Colonel Calhoun know how you fritter away your time in the great metropolis?” he said arctically.

    “Absolutely, sir!” he said with a laugh. “Write him quite regular despatches, y’know!”

    “Oh, get in, get in—you, too!” he said loudly to the hovering Mr Bobby, now assisting Mr Calhoun to hem him in on that side. “I suppose we can stay you with something resembling a flagon!”

    Grinning very much, the three young men dismounted and headed eagerly for Jack’s house.

    … “He was rather good with the boys,” said Miss Sissy thoughtfully as the ladies went up to change.

    “I’ll concede that,” agreed Horrible. “All my brothers have always thought Cousin Jack’s the cat’s whiskers. Not merely because of the dashed Corinthian nonsense, either,” she conceded fairly.

    “I thought he might be blighting to little Mr Bobby,” she murmured.

    “Absolutely!” said Horrible with a laugh, looking sideways at Peg.

    “Lance liked him,” she said in small voice,

    “Of course,” agreed Horrible kindly.

    “Mm,” said Peg in a stifled voice, gnawing on her lip. “Excuse me: I’m very tired.” She hurried into her room.

    Horrible followed Aunt Sissy into hers, shutting the door behind her. “Ah, hah!” she said.

    Miss Sissy sat down on the edge of the bed; something that in her dear mamma’s house, of course, had been forbidden utterly. “Hortensia, dear, I fear that I share Nancy’s opinion about the effect of the Tower of London on the feet. Rational conversation is out of the question.”

    Horrible rang the bell. “You’d better have a bowl of water to soak them in, then. Mustard water, would be best. But rational or not, don’t you think some of Peg’s ideas about Cousin Jack might have been overset today? And for the better?”

    “I think she is beginning to see his good points, yes, dear.”

    “Yes. Do you think,” she persisted, narrowing the eyes horribly—Miss Sissy sighed—“that it would be best for her to encourage those imbeciles like Bobby C.-S., or not?”

    “Nobody could take them seriously,” said Miss Sissy with an effort. “Can we discuss it later, my dear?”

    “Very well,” she agreed. “But I shan’t forget, mind!”

    Miss Sissy smiled very, very faintly. Of course she would not forget. Horrible never forgot anything: she was horridly like dear Rowena, Jack’s mother.

    Lady Stamforth had invited them to accompany her to the opera, graciously including Mr Beresford in the invitation. He had been unable to stop himself doing the arithmetic: what with his lot, and their lot, and the hangers-on that inevitably popped up in the P.W.’s box— But Horrible did not wish to go. Jack wasn’t surprised: few of the Laidlaws were musical. That would render the crush slightly more acceptable, then. As the hour approached it became clear that Aunt Sissy was quite unfit to go: still not recovered from the Tower.

    “We should never have dragged you there,” he said, frowning. “Look, I think we’ll have to cancel the opera; it would be quite unsuitable for the pair of us to bowl up together.”

    “Nonsense, Jack, dear: send a message to Lady Stamforth,” said the old lady.

    Sighing, Mr Beresford sent a message explaining the situation. Though the simple word “help” would have been sufficient, wouldn’t it?

    The Stamforth carriage duly collected them. Mr Beresford stared a little: Miss Benedict was not with them.

    “Mina ees not musical, so we decided not to submeet her to the torture!” said Lady Stamforth with that soft, low gurgle of hers.

    “She is staying home with a good book,” said Viscount Stamforth neutrally.

    “A seelly novel, he means!” she corrected, going off in a giggling fit.

    The result of this parental forbearance was, of course, that the P.W.’s box would now feature the P.W., the man she had married, the man she had rejected—well, one of them, true—and a young lady not nearly related enough to the man she had— God.

    In the box the giant cape of gathered emerald taffety she was wearing was carefully removed, to reveal, naturally, a sight for sore eyes. Well, to reveal firstly the fact that the cape was fully lined with white fur, the which did not surprise Mr Beresford as such: he knew the P.W., having grown up in India, still found our climate very trying. The spectacle was a surprising one, though, and he could see that Miss Buffitt’s innocent eyes were on stalks. The silk gown was also emerald, but a very much darker shade. Very low-cut, naturally, the tips of the perfect rounded shoulders just revealed, in the style she favoured, the sleeves the larger puffs that were now in vogue, and completely unadorned save for a wide sash of the stuff at the raised waist. The which hardly signified, did it?—for the ivory neck supported an immense fall of giant emeralds set in gold.

    “Pretty, no?” she said, as Mr Beresford’s eyes glued themselves of their own accord to this astounding artefact. “Eet ees an Indian necklace.”

    “We rather think it was designed as a rajah’s stomacher. I’ve had it slightly reset,” said Stamforth neutrally.

    “Yes, eet ees now not quite too heavy to wear!” admitted the P.W. with that gurgle.

    “Astounding,” said Mr Beresford limply.

    “Guaranteed to put out the eye of every other lady in London,” said his Lordship, very, very mildly. “Allow me, Miss Buffitt.”

    Jumping, Peg allowed Lord Stamforth to remove her evening cloak.

    “Good; you are wearing the white gauze,” said Lady Stamforth placidly.

    “Ordained, you see, so that they would not clash,” murmured Stamforth, showing Peg into her chair.

    “Quite.” Politely Mr Beresford waited until his host should have seated himself, before collapsing limply into his own place. “Dare I ask, what Hortensia would have worn, had she come with us, Lady Stamforth? Not scarlet or yellow, one presumes?”

    “Seelly one,” she said placidly. “Vairy pale green.”

    Mr Beresford subsided.

    An innocent might have assumed that they would have a little space to chat before the thing started. Not being an innocent, Mr Beresford did not expect any such thing. They had time to draw breath, true, and then it commenced. That bluff sea-dog, Captain Charles Quarmby-Vine, was first. So like old times,—Jack had known him for years so he did not actually stare to hear this proceed from Q.-V.’s lips, he merely felt like it—delighted to see Lady Stamforth in such good looks, etcetera, etcetera. No, well, he had had time to start upon the etceteras before old Wayneflete’s hooked nose and full dress uniform appeared. Had Lady S., wondered Jack Beresford a trifle wildly, once told the old buffer he looked “threelling” in his dashed dress uniform: was that it? Because to his certain knowledge, Major-General Sir Percy had been retired from his Army career since the year after Waterl— Oh, forget it! Val and Rollo Valentine were next and though Val made sure to prostrate himself, it was pretty clear they weren’t there for the P.W. Which considering what he’d said about Miss Buffitt to Mr Beresford well within living memory was a bit damned rich.

    Eventually Val pulled up a chair beside Jack, leaving Rollo to it, and said in his ear: “Dare say a cat may look at a king.”

    Mr Beresford had time to respond: “Mm,” before Bobby Cantrell-Sprague, dashed Johnny Cantrell-Sprague, where in God’s name had she met— Oh, at their mother’s damned salon, out of course—and Roddy Calhoun all turned up in a bunch. The box was now filled to bursting point, so much so that it was, perhaps, not surprising that when two minutes later Lord Michael Fitz-Clancy stuck the nose in—it was rather large, if not particularly red—he was inspired to remark: “Oh, I say; a crowd. Dare say we may not have the privilege of seein’ Geddings tonight.”

    The P.W. went off into a trill of delicious laughter on the instant: Mr Beresford’s innocent young relatives were not the only persons in London to have been made acquainted with Lord Geddings’s famed dislike of crowds. And Mr Beresford got up with a sigh, saying to his friend: “Come on, Val, let’s stretch our legs, in the hope that one of us at least may be able to reclaim his seat before the thing starts.”

    “Was that a hit at your humble servant, or Fitz-Clancy?” said Val meekly once they were in the corridor.

    “Both.”

    “I’d have said he was more at the P.W.’s feet,” said Val helpfully.

    “Would you? You accompanied them on the dashed picknick to Richmond, did you?”

    “Eh? No,” he said foggily. “Not thinking of the visit to Kew, are you?”

    “N— Kew? When was this?”

    “Next week,” said Mr Valentine simply.

    Mr Beresford stared at him wildly but he appeared sincere.

    “I say: Q.-V.’s at the P.W.’s feet again, eh?” he next produced.

    “Quite.”

    Undeterred, Mr Valentine continued sunnily: “He must have got over—”

    “Yes!”

    “—the little Contessa,” he ended calmly.

    He and another. Mr Beresford sighed. “So he must.”

    “Geddings, too,” he said thoughtfully.

    The which made three of them: quite. Though unlike Mr Beresford and the bluff sea-dog, Geddings had never made a cake of himself over the P.W. immediately before making a cake of himself over the little Contessa under the interested eyes of all London. Mr Beresford did not point out that in fact Lord Geddings’s interest in the little Contessa had never got further than driving her out a couple of times, finding out that his patron, Old Hooky, would not care for the connection, and dropping her like a hot potato. “Yes!” he shouted.

    Mr Valentine’s large brown eyes looked at him thoughtfully. “Though in his case, I would not say the P.W. was the attraction tonight.”

    “Really?” he said arctically. “We have not, actually, been honoured by his presence tonight.”

    “No; he don’t like crowds,” said Mr Valentine calmly. “But he’s sittin’ right opposite with his quizzing glass fixed on her.” Mr Beresford turned purple. “On your box, I mean,” Mr Valentine corrected himself insouciantly.

    Ignoring him, Mr Beresford turned on his heel and shouldered his way back into the crowded box. Mr Valentine’s eyebrows were then allowed to rise very, very slightly. And Mr Valentine permitted himself to say: “Ah.”

    … Peg had to mop her eyes as the curtain came down after the first act. “Oh—thank you,” she said shakily as Mr Beresford passed her his handkerchief. “It was so lovely.”

    He thought it was pretty average. “Mm.”

    “Will it—will it all turn out all right?” she asked fearfully.

    Mr Beresford’s handsome jaw dropped. Così fan tutte? “Er—oh. I suppose you know nothing of Mozart,” he said limply.

    Lord Stamforth leaned forward a little, the dark, unhandsome Vane face unsmiling. “This is supposedly a comic piece, Miss Buffitt. But whether one considers a Mozart opera of any variety to turn out ‘all right’, depends entirely on one’s opinion of conventional morality.”

    She thought that one over. “I see!” she said, nodding the golden mass of curls hard and beaming at the fellow. “So I was not imagining those—those undercurrents.”

    “Absolutely not,” he said, the face unmoved.

    After a moment Jack managed to croak: “The Magic Flute?”

    “Think about it,” said Stamforth mildly.

    At this the P.W. leaned forward—true, that precise movement from that lady was almost guaranteed to render any natural man incapable of rational thought for the next five hours, in especial when she was in full evening regalia—and said gaily: “Eet ees such a vairy interesting portrait of a meedle-aged marriage that has gone disastrously wrong, I have always thought!” She sat back, twinkling. “Amongst other theengs, of course!”

    Mr Beresford’s mouth opened slightly.

    “I tend to agree,” said Stamforth on a dry note as there came the inevitable tap at the door of the box and the curtains were, inevitably, drawn back before anyone had called “Come in.” “Oh, she is rather good on Shakespeare’s Midsummer Night’s Dream, when you're over that.”

    Jack Beresford stared wildly at the dark, unsmiling, middle-aged face.

    “Titania and Oberon,” he drawled. He turned his head. “Evening, Dauntry,” he said mildly to yet another long-time admirer of his wife’s. “What do you think of the piece? La Divinissima in splendid voice, is she not? –Also a middle-aged marriage,” he said to Jack, as Admiral Dauntry, kissing the P.W.’s hand hungrily, then pulled up a chair very, very close and began to tell her that her eyes were sparkling even more than the damned emeralds. “Though we saw an interesting version recently in which it was portrayed as a marriage between a very young and spoilt woman and a middle-aged husband, the gilt having now had the time to wear off the gingerbread.”

    Mr Beresford was reduced to absolute silence.

    “That is a very interesting interpretation, sir,” said Miss Buffitt eagerly.

    At this Stamforth actually allowed the face to smile. It did not crack, but the effect was frightening enough. Miss Buffitt merely smiling sunnily in response, they plunged into conversation.

    Mr Beresford just sat back dazedly and did not even register it when the box filled with a clutch of high-neckclothed young imbeciles in very new dress-clothes.

   … Mrs Cantrell-Sprague had also chosen that night to see the revival of Così fan’ tutte. She was not particularly impressed, even though La Divinissima was in quite good voice, and would have made this opinion known in the first interval, except that the two of her sons who were escorting her this evening abruptly disappeared.

    Miss Cantrell-Sprague immediately said with a sniff: “They have gone off to fawn over that frightful Buffitt creature again, mark my words.”

    “Very like. But to speak, so, does not become you, Clara,” said her mother blightingly.

    Miss Cantrell-Sprague, who was all of twenty-seven years of age and thus considered she had a right to her own opinions, reddened angrily, but did not retort.

    “I suppose she is quite pretty,” allowed Miss Prudence Cantrell-Sprague with a moue. Miss Prudence was the youngest of the three unmarried Cantrell-Sprague sisters and by far the prettiest, having the dark hair and cerulean blue eyes that characterised Mr Bobby, though not, of course, the dark-chinned look that sent shivers down the spines of many of his admirers. But very definitely the petulant mouth.

    Miss Lilian, the middle sister, was brown-haired and unremarkable, and therefore perhaps might have been excused for snapping immediately: “You mean, her golden look may act as foil to your dark!”

    Naturally Mrs Cantrell-Sprague did not see any reason at all to excuse her. “That is quite enough, Lilian.”

    “See?” said Miss Prudence with a horrible pout as her brothers then appeared in the Stamforth box.

    Mrs Cantrell-Sprague eyed the box icily but said nothing.

    “At all events,” said Miss Cantrell-Sprague on an evil note after a certain amount of concentrated staring had passed, uncorrected by their mother: “Mr Beresford’s nose may be considered to be thoroughly out of joint this evening. I will say this for Johnny and Bobby, they have sufficient looks and charm between them to distract the little country cousin from his famous Corinthian person.”

    “But possibly,” said Miss Lilian with a smothered titter, “it is not our dear brothers’ fabled charms, the which, remark, have failed to attract anything with over fifty pounds a year to her name, but just that Mr B. does not dare to make any move in that direction with a certain eye upon him!”

    Miss Prudence, who was but nineteen years of age, Mr Bobby coming between herself and Miss Lilian, looked blankly at the box containing Mr Beresford. “Um, I would not say that Lady Stamforth is even glancing his way: she appears completely occupied with that fat old Admiral.”

    “And the other fat old sailor, though at the least Q.-V. ain’t made a guy of himself in full dress uniform,” noted their mother acidly. “Quite. What has that to say to anything?”

    Miss Cantrell-Sprague at this permitted herself the faintest of titters and the remark: “You are such a baby, Prudence.”

    Very red, Miss Prudence cried: “What is that supposed to mean?”

    Miss Cantrell-Sprague, Miss Lilian and their mother exchanged glances.

    “Nothing at all,” said Miss Cantrell-Sprague on a languid note. She glanced at a box opposite the Stamforths’ and allowed herself to smile. “Nothing at all.”

    Miss Prudence followed her gaze, frowning. “That lady is old enough to be his mother!”

    Miss Cantrell-Sprague sniffed. Miss Lilian covered her mouth with her fan. Mrs Cantrell-Sprague gave a short, sharp laugh, but said: “That will do, thank you, girls.”

    There was clearly something. Miss Prudence looked hard at the box which contained a fat man in a dreadful pink waistcoat, a thin woman who looked cross and discontented, another fat man in dragoon’s dress uniform, and Lady Reggie Bon-Dutton.

    Three acquaintances of their mother’s then entering in a bunch, Mrs Cantrell-Sprague brightened amazingly, and the four proceeded to tear the performance to shreds. Under cover of the bombardment, the three Cantrell-Sprague sisters, who took no interest in the middle-aged persons of a literary and artistic persuasion whom Mamma encouraged to hang around her, were enabled to pursue the topic unchecked. Miss Lilian drew her chair closer to Miss Prudence’s and behind the shelter of her fan, nodded over at the box. “The dragoon is Major Lord Lionel B.-D. The acidulated thing in the black silk is his wife. And before you say that you had thought the family must be in mourning, let me assure you, that assumption is quite correct. Major Lord L. is there because he hangs on Reggie B.-D.’s sleeve, having long since lost his share of the B.-D. fortunes on loose play and looser—”

    “Lillian,” warned Miss Cantrell-Sprague.

    Miss Lilian shrugged her thin shoulders but conceded: “Oh, very well. Let us just say, he requires Lord Reggie’s patronage. That is to say, hers, out of course, since she has always ruled him with a rod of iron.”

    After a moment Miss Prudence said on a sulky note: “Very well, who is the other fat man, then?”

    Miss Lilian shrugged.

    “It will be the rich cit reliably reported,” drawled Miss Cantrell-Sprague in a very bored voice indeed, “to be the second favourite candidate after Jack B. Satisfied?”

    Miss Prudence gulped. “But—but— She is old!” she gasped.

    “Quite.”

    Miss Prudence would have said she did not believe it, but that would have been too naïve for words. She looked hard at Lady Reggie Bon-Dutton.

    “That,” said Miss Lilian acidly, “is her notion of mourning, évidemment.”

    Lady Reggie was in black, certainly. A very filmy effect, over shimmering satin. A froth of black lace encircled the plump white shoulders. More lace frothed above the plump elbows. A filmy veil of the most exiguous kind, scattered with what even at a distance were clearly lozenges of more black lace, mingled with the misty dark curls, floating down from a blaze of diamonds on the head… Miss Cantrell-Sprague, who had lately taken up a lorgnette, raised it with a languid air, and, since her mamma’s attention was elsewhere, focussed it on her Ladyship. “Ah,” she discovered with satisfaction.

    “Is it ?” said Miss Lilian eagerly.

    Her sister lowered the lorgnette. “No: the overgown is black gauze, merely trimmed with black lace at the bosom and sleeves. Over satin, as I think you can see.”

    “Paltry!” said Miss Lilian with a smothered laugh.

    … Miss Sissy and Horrible had not waited up for them: Mr Beresford bit his lip a little but escorted his charge into the downstairs salon, saying: “I expect they will have set out a glass of milk for you. Yes—here we are.”

    Peg embarked hungrily on the milk and the slice of cake which went with it. “Was it not wonderful? Thank you so much for escorting me!”

    “Er—not at all. I like the opera. At least La Divinissima was in good voice for you.”

    “Oh, yes! I never dreamed that the human voice could produce such angelic sounds!”

    He smiled a little. That was the very last word, judging by the reports of her, that could have been applied to the diva. “Mm. Well, there are plenty of concerts coming up: if you enjoyed the opera, we must see you get to them, eh?”

    “Thank you very much!” said Peg ecstatically.

    Mr Beresford ate a piece of cake in an absent-minded manner. “Pity Horrible ain't musical.”

    “Yes, but I am so woefully ignorant, I could not discuss the pieces in any meaningful manner in any case,” said Peg cheerfully. “I just know that for a whole evening I was transported into another realm of being!”

    “Good. That’s what it’s meant to do. It don’t matter, in the end, whether one can discuss it or not,” he said with a frown.

    Peg looked dubiously at the frown. She was very sure that his sister May had been taught to play an instrument and could discuss music like a proper young lady. “We have no instrument at home. Sir Horace has a spinet but Ma says it cannot have been tuned for the last fifty years.”

    He winced. “Mm.” If the woman knew that much, presumably she could play, so why she had not made the effort to ask the amiable Sir Horace if her girls might use his spinet— It was all of a piece!

    Miss Buffitt was saying something about the ladies’ gowns. “Er—I beg your pardon?”

    She smiled at him. “Of course, everyone was in their best at Miss Gratton-Gordon’s ball, but I think that tonight the older ladies were finer!”

    “Er—yes. Suppose they make an effort, for the opera.”

    “Yes. And many of them would be the ladies who would take no interest in a débutantes’ dance and do not yet have daughters old enough to attend!” she said with a laugh.

    “That’s true.”

    “There was one lady, opposite us, in black, who was very striking. A—a pointed thing on the head, in diamonds. Um, possibly it was my imagination,” she said eagerly, “but I thought she might be the lady in that wonderful portrait at the Royal Academy!””

    Mr Beresford winced. Damned Clementine, of course. “Er—very possibly. Er—that pointed thing was a diadem. I rather think,” he added grimly, “that she has a daughter who is old enough for her come-out.”

    Miss Buffitt looked surprised, but didn’t comment.

    “I’m sorry. You look lovely in that white gauze,” he said stiffly, reddening.

    Miss Buffitt laughed. “Do not be silly! I was not fishing! And I am already aware that I look like moon-dust!”

    “Which young imbecile—?”

    “Mr Calhoun. I did tell him that in my family,” said Peg, going over to the door, “it is not considered a compliment to be told that one resembles mouldy cheese crumbs! Goodnight!”

    The door closed after her. Mr Beresford blinked: he had had some stupid picture in his head of himself giving her her candle, and watching the reflection of the candlelight off that perfect little face as she went up— Rubbish. In any case, the skin might be perfect but the face was damned square… Mouldy cheese crumbs?

    “Oh,” he said lamely to himself. “Green cheese. Of course.”

Next chapter:

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