At Harpingdon Manor

30

At Harpingdon Manor

    December had blown in on gusts of misty rain, a chastened Mrs Parker had been installed at Harpingdon Manor for the festive season, and the Reverend Simeon Parker had just joined his relatives at the Manor, when he received three very odd communications. That they had reached him successfully proved that—well, that the activities of his family were not unknown to the correspondents in question, to say the least. He might have spoken to his eldest son on the subject, had Theo been present, but Theo was in Oxford, in spite of his mamma’s protestations along the lines of: “Shutting yourself away like a crusty old bachelor!” and even: “It is that house! You are turning into another Uncle Humphrey!” He had, he claimed, very much to see to: he had been neglecting his charitable activities; Dr Fairbrother’s and Miss Blake’s enterprise, to mention no other, was very much in need of his services.

    Mr Parker mulled the letters over for a while, and eventually sought his son-in-law’s advice.

    Harpy read through the first two letters quietly, his face betraying nothing but a mild surprise.

    “What do you think, Christian?”

    “It is a muddle, is it not, sir?”—Mr Parker nodded glumly.—“John Winnafree has always seemed to me a man of complete probity,” he murmured.

    “Yes, but Christian, this is taking probity to absurd extremes! Well, I do not know him, but surely it would have been far more sensible to come to me immediately, if he felt his situation to be awkward!”

    Lord Harpingdon nodded. “Mm. He has no leaven of humour in his nature.”

    “Er—I see,” said Mr Parker, looking at him limply.

    “That, I am afraid,” he said on a dry note, “is all on his twin’s side.”

    Mr Parker thrust a hand through his handsome silvered curls. “Well, yes!”

    These two letters were, of course, from the Winnafree twins. James had confessed the whole of his stupidity, admitted he did not know how to proceed with Pansy, admitted that he did wish to proceed with Pansy, and thrown himself on Mr Parker’s mercy. John had apologised for not having called while the Parkers were in town and explained that he felt it would not have been proper for him to do so, while his brother’s masquerade (John did not call it that) was still unresolved. He had begged Mr Parker’s pardon and begged, also, his permission to pay his addresses to Miss Dimity Parker, once the awkwardness (John did call it that) had been resolved.

    “It clearly started as a joke,” said Christian slowly, “which Lavery allowed to go too far.”

    “Yes, but why?” cried Mr Parker. “I have never heard of a grown man’s getting himself into such a ridiculous tangle!”

    There were worse tangles that grown men had been known to get themselves into. Lord Harpingdon did not say so, but looked at his papa-in-law with considerable affection. “I think, from something Sir Chauncey let slip, that although he does not at all give the impression of it when one hears him speak in the House, Lavery must suffer from a certain lack of self-confidence.”

    “I see what you mean,” said Mr Parker slowly.

    Harpingdon nodded tranquilly. After a little he murmured: “In John Winnafree’s place, I would have been very angry indeed with my brother.”

    “Well, yes!” agreed Mr Parker with some feeling. “And I! “

    “Though his is not a fiery temperament,” said Harpy with a tiny smile.

    “Er—no. Er, well, I dare say he and Dimity will suit well enough,” he said on a weak note.

    “I think so,” said his son-law-calmly.

    Their eyes met. Mr Parker swallowed. “Mm.”

    Christian handed the two letters back politely. Mr Parker smoothed them mechanically, frowning a little.

    “Are you annoyed, sir?”

    “Well... Not precisely, no. To tell you the truth, Christian,” he said with a sigh, “I am wondering whether Pansy is the right girl for Lord Lavery at all. I cannot approve of his actions, but let us say he was merely foolish. I cannot condemn him for that. But... I fear his must be a complex character. With all he must have to offer, to even wish to disguise himself to Pansy like that—!”

    “Ye-es. Sir, I think I will not be telling tales out of school if I tell you a little of his family. Sir Chauncey told me quite a lot about his parents, though I could not imagine at the time why he was doing so. Well, I think it was largely to relieve his feelings, poor old man!” he said with a smile. “And Lady Winnafree has told Alfreda something, too.” He related what the Winnafrees had said about the twins’ late parents.

    Mr Parker rubbed his chin. “I see. That does not sound like a very desirable example of married life for two growing boys, no.”

    “No. There is also the example of Sir Chauncey’s own marriage,” said Harpy tranquilly.

    Mr Parker had to swallow. He had been thinking along those lines, yes. “Mm.”

    “I think... I think Lord Lavery feared to expose himself to—to emotional risk,” said Christian. His voice trembled, just a little.

    “Yes,” said Mr Parker with a sigh. “And in especial since Pansy is in some ways such a hard-headed, indeed, hard-hearted little thing.”

    “It’s that very straightforward nature,” he murmured. “But I would not say there is any deliberate cruelty in her.”

    Mr Parker frowned. “Heedless cruelty can be just as painful for the recipient, however.”

    “I know: Alfreda has told me of her treatment of Noël Amory—though we must remember she was very young and, indeed, completely unworldly: I am in no doubt she found herself at a loss to deal with the situation. But on the other hand, she seems to have acted with feeling and consideration when the Comte de la Marre offered. –Wait: I shall fetch Cousin Delphie’s letter to Alfreda.”

    Mr Parker waited, with a dubious frown on his face. “I see!” he said in some surprise, having read the passage.

    “Yes. I think there is no doubt that Pansy has grown up very much this past year. And as to the episode with Sir Noël, frankly I do not think many girls of seventeen would have reacted very much better to an unexpected, unwanted proposal from a man of the world whom they scarcely knew,” he said gently.

    “No: you are very right,” agreed Mr Parker, mentally placing Henry in that position and wincing.

    Christian smiled at him. “I think perhaps Pansy’s straightforwardness and solid sense will be a stabilising factor in any union with Lord Lavery: it will counteract his tendency to levity. And Henry tells us he—or ‘James’, rather—is a great teaze: I do not think it will do Pansy any harm to be gently laughed at, from time to time.”

    “You are right,” agreed Mr Parker, in relief. “Well, what shall we do about it, Christian?”

    Christian twinkled at him. “If you would not dislike it, sir, I shall issue an urgent invitation to the twins to Harpingdon Manor!”

    Mr Parker gulped. “Pansy will be mad as fire,” he said lamely.

    “Yes, but if it drags on, it can only get worse.”

    “You are very right. Thank you, my dear boy.”

    Harpy smiled nicely and did not express his private thought, which was, that he had never envisaged himself in the position of giving advice to his father-in-law. Indeed, he had assumed on marrying the daughter of the upright, sensible, and intelligent Mr Parker, that the boot would always be on the other foot. Well—that was life for you!

    ... “Dearest, there is a funny side,” he said limply, when his wife looked at him in horror at the conclusion of his report.

    “But Christian, Mamma will positively explode!” she gasped.

    “I do not think so,” said Christian, trying not to laugh. “Lord Lavery has a most respectable position in society.”

    “But to masquerade as a courier all those months!”

    “Mm.”

    “I find it very hard to envisage Pansy’s forgiving him,” admitted Alfreda.

    “But we are agreed, are we not, that she has matured very much this past year?”

    “Yes, but dearest, her feelings will be so hurt! The idea that he—well, that he did not trust her to see him for what he was, if she met him as Lord Lavery!”

    “Yes,” said Christian, taking a deep breath. “I understand that, Alfreda. But they must resolve it for themselves.”

    Alfreda was conscious of a strong wish they were not about to do so in her house.

    “Lady Macbeth,” he murmured slily.

    She jumped. “What did you say?”

    “‘What, in our house?’” quoted Christian.

    “Oh, good gracious. Yes, she did say that, did she not?” said Alfreda limply. “Christian, you are too horridly sharp!”

    Lord Harpingdon laughed, kissed her cheek, and went off about his business, smiling.

    His wife just sat there limply. Men, however intelligent, considerate and sensitive they might be, just had no notion of a young girl’s feelings! Oh, dear.

    After quite some time Alfreda recollected that Christian had mentioned a third letter. He had not said who it was from, how odd. She was making a mental note to ask him, when there was a meek tap on the door of her little boudoir, and her father peeped in.

    “May I come in, my dear, if I’m not interrupting your rest?”

    “Not at all: I was just about to come downstairs. Come in, Papa.”

    Mr Parker came in and accepted an invitation to sit by the fire.

    Alfreda had been resting on her chaise longue: she came and took the chair opposite his. “Christian has mentioned the Winnafree twins’ letters, Papa.”

    “Mm? Oh—good.”

    There was a short silence.

    “Alfreda,” he said, taking a deep breath, “did Henry’s letters to you mention an Alec Ramsay?”

    “Alec… Oh,” said Alfreda feebly. “Can you mean General Ramsay, Papa?”

    “Frankly, I do not know,” said Mr Parker. He produced a letter from his pocket, and held it out to her. “This was delivered by hand. I gather the fellow is putting up at the village inn.”

    Alfreda read it over numbly. It was little more than a short note. She looked up numbly at her Papa. “This Alec Ramsay wishes to speak to you with regard to Henry and Cousin Aden?”

    “I am very glad it strikes you as odd, too, Alfreda, for frankly, I was beginning to wonder if it were I!”

    Alfreda smiled a little. “No, Papa. I think it must be General Ramsay. Christian said something about Aden’s knowing him, when Henry wrote us of him.”

    Mr Parker frowned into the fire. “I see. Well, if he is an older man, then I suppose it is understandable that he may have Aden’s best interests at heart.”

    “Mm... It is not very clear, but I think it may be that.”

    “But why on earth has Aden himself not approached me?” he said on an exasperated note.

    Alfreda read through the letter again. “I get the impression he has not actually spoken to Cousin Aden.”

    “What?”

    Silently Alfreda handed the letter back. Mr Parker read it through, frowning.

    “You see: he mentions that he saw Henry in London, but he says nothing of having seen Aden.”

    “No-o... Alfreda, it could be that he mentions Aden because he—er—he wishes to ascertain that there is nothing between them before making an offer on his own account.”

    “That is possible, yes, but... Papa,” she said in a low voice, “I am sure he must be at least your own age.”

    “All the more reason for such a cautious approach. Well,” he said with a sigh, “I suppose I shall have to see him.”

    “I think so, Papa.”

    Mr Parker chewed on his lip. “Can you speak to your mamma for me?” he said abruptly.

    Alfreda hesitated. Then she said: “Papa, although I would be happy to, I do not think I could prevail upon her not to build this up, one way or another, into more than it may be.”—Mr Parker winced, and nodded.—“It seems underhand, but I really think it would be far better for her own peace of mind not to mention this.”

    Mr Parker swallowed hard. “Yes. In view of her state when Christian fetched her from London,” he said on an apologetic note, “it would seem the wiser course.”

    Alfreda nodded, managing not to let her immense relief show.

    Mr Parker replied to Alec Ramsay’s note but decided that he had best have a word with Henry before he spoke to him. So he suggested they stroll in the shrubbery.

    His youngest daughter immediately tacked herself on to the party: as Lucy was being what Mrs Parker had described feelingly, more than once, as “a handful” this Christmas, he let her come, in order to give the nursery some respite from her. It was a cold day, but they were all muffled up warmly.

    “Henry, if it would not upset you, I should like to talk for a little of your Cousin Aden.”

    “Cousin Aden has not COME!” shouted Lucy.

    “No: hush,” he said, flushing up a little. “Run on ahead, Lucy, my dear. See if you can find—um—where a big rat might be hiding.”

    “If there is a big rat, I will SHOOT it!” shouted Lucy, rushing on ahead.

    “Blood-thirsty,” noted the Reverend Simeon with a feeble smile.

    “Yes. What about Cousin Aden?” asked Henry hoarsely.

    “Well, of course I have not seen him since Delphie’s wedding. But he occasionally writes me about the estates. And of course to let us know how Ludo is doing.”

    “Mm.”

    “I took the liberty of forwarding him your letters home.”

    Henry went very red.

    “He wrote to say he was very grateful to have news of you. I think he is very unhappy, Henry,” he said gently.

    Henry’s eyes filled with tears. She swallowed convulsively, and could not speak.

    “I see,” said the Reverend Simeon gently. “So you do care for him, is that it?”

    Henry nodded inarticulately. After some time she managed to say: “It is irrelevant. I cannot think he truly cares.”

    “Well, we had best find out for sure. I shall write him immediately.”

    Henry grasped his arm strongly, pulling him to a halt. “But—”

    “What is it, my dear?”

    “I—I haven’t seen him for months,” said Henry in a trembling voice. “What if—if it is only my imagination?”

    The Reverend Mr Parker was about to say that as he had just said, he fully intended to ask Aden what was truth and what was imagination. “Oh,” he said feebly. “I see: you mean you fear that you may be building your feelings for him up in your own mind?”

    Henry nodded. “Girls do,” she said in a low voice.

    Simeon Parker, to say truth, was not wholly averse to hearing his second daughter class herself with girls. “Yes,” he said with a tiny smile. “Girls do, indeed. In that case, I shall merely say very tactfully to Aden that you are grateful for his past kindness and you realise that you acted hastily. And that you would not be averse to seeing him again, mm?”

    Henry was now bright scarlet. “Mm!” she gulped, nodding hard.

    Mr Parker smiled, tucked her hand tightly in his arm, and strolled on without saying any more.

    Mrs Parker was keeping her hopes up, even though, on the one hand, Mr Ludo Parker had arrived at Harpingdon Manor unaccompanied by Mr Tarlington, and on the other hand, Pansy and Fliss had arrived together in a Guillyford Place carriage, escorted by umpteen grooms and outriders but not escorted by Miss Tarlington’s brother. Nevertheless Mrs Parker kept her hopes up. It was not nearly Christmas, yet!

    Lord Rupert had arrived with his friends Captain Sir Peter Wainwright and Major Burton. According to Mrs Parker this was a promising sign: of what, if anything, was not immediately clear, as the three gentlemen, with the able help of Ludo Parker, then proceeded to form themselves into a hunting and shooting group, exclusively male.

    Next to arrive were Sir Chauncey and Lady Winnafree. Portia apologised profusely to Mrs Parker, to that lady’s bewilderment, for not having brought Lord Lavery as she and Chauncey had originally planned. Mrs Parker could see that the pretty visitor was almost in tears over it: she could not make head nor tail of it, for they had never even met Lord Lavery! Christian, however, though he did not mention the point to Mrs Parker, was not puzzled at all by the old gentleman’s drawing him aside and saying gruffly: “Could not get my eldest nephew to come. Damned sorry, me boy.”

    Lady Winnafree also apologized for the absence of Mr John Winnafree, but the reason for this apology was of course crystal-clear to Mrs Parker: Dimity had watched the coach’s arrival from the morning-room window, turned as white as her linen when only the two muffled-up figures emerged from it, and run upstairs to her room.

    “Think the damned fellow has lost his nerve,” Sir Chauncey rumbled glumly to his host.

    Christian jumped. “Oh,” he said lamely. “Well, I would not necessarily presume so, sir. Though he would not be the first.”

    Somewhat to his horror, the percipient Sir Chauncey patted his shoulder, nodded, and said: “Noticed that. You’d better give that brother of yours a nudge.”

    ... “Should I, do you think?” said Christian to his wife.

    Alfreda chewed on her lip. “Dearest, although Rupert is of course very fond of you, and—and respects your judgement, that sort of thing is—is not always easy, between brothers, is it?”

    “You are right,” he said grimly: “he would resent it like Hell. –I beg your pardon, my dear.”

    “That is quite all right,” said Alfreda with a wan smile.

    “It bids fair to be a merry Christmas,” said Harpy on a wry note.

    “Dearest, do not say so! There is always the hope that the Winnafree brothers will get Papa’s notes in time to—to get here before Christmas.”

    “That is my hope, yes,” he conceded drily.

    “Who on earth is that?” wondered Fliss, peering from the sitting-room window.

    “Pooter Potter,” suggested Dimity sourly.

    “Don’t be ridiculous! It is an older gentleman...”

    “It may be their neighbour,” said Henry into her book.

    “What, Mr Arbuthnot? Of course it is not, I know him quite well!” replied Fliss crossly.

    “Mr Tobias Vane,” suggested Dimity sourly.

    Fliss scowled, and did not reply. The gentleman was admitted to the house. They waited, but nothing further happened.

    “Well, at all events he has not called to see us,” noted Dimity sourly. “Whoever he is,” she added sourly.

    Fliss got up, looking cross. “We are supposed to be going for a ride,” she reminded them.

    “It’s too cold,” replied Dimity sourly.

    Henry sighed, and got up. “I’ll come, Fliss.”

    Fliss went rather red. “If you would rather finish that book, pray do not regard me, Henry.”

    “No, that’s all right. I said I would come.”

    The two went out together, Fliss looking dubious.

    They were coming downstairs again in their habits, to a view of Lord Rupert fidgeting in the hall, when Mr Parker came out of the library.

    “Oh, there you are, Henry,” he said with a smile. “Would you join me in the library, please? Fliss, my dear, please excuse her. Rupert, you will look to Fliss. I know.”

    “Oh—right you are, sir. Well. I was goin’ out, anyway.”

    Fliss reddened crossly, but did not say he need not bother.

    “Don’t let her jump anything!” said Henry with a smile over her shoulder.

    “Not as stupid as all that,” grunted Lord Rupert.

    Fliss’s mouth tightened. Out on the sweep she said in a low, bitter voice: “You need not accompany me, Lord Rupert: I am not a child. And I am sure you would rather be with your friends.”

    “Ludo’s taken ’em in to Harpingdon village. No idea why: dull place. And I dare say old Parker would have me guts for garters if I let you go alone,” replied Lord Rupert moodily. “Uh—here: let me—”

    “No. Pray toss me up, Hindle,” said Fliss grimly to the Harpingdon Manor groom.

    Hindle tossed her up.

    Lord Rupert mounted silently. “Where do you want to go?” he said, as she just sat there pouting.

    “Anywhere,” replied Fliss through her teeth.

    “Uh—over towards the Three Sisters?”

    The Three Sisters were a clump of huge oaks, the middle one blasted by lightning so that it was split nigh in two, but both parts still growing. Fliss, however, was aware that it was not the romantic sight of the clump of trees that interested Lord Rupert, but the fact that the adjoining large field, also called the Three Sisters, was being re-ditched. She replied bitterly: “That is as boring as anywhere else, I suppose.”

    Looking dubious. Lord Rupert moved off.

    Fliss followed, pouting.

    “Henry, my dear, General Ramsay was in the neighbourhood, and has called to wish you the compliments of the season,” said her father, ushering her into the library.

    Henry’s face lit up and she greeted the handsome general with great pleasure. Mr Parker watched and listened with attention, but it speedily became very clear to him that his daughter thought of the dashing soldier as just a kind friend.

    They chatted for some time, and had a tea-tray and a glass of something for the gentlemen brought in, but eventually Alec Ramsay rose, saying: “Well, I must take my leave. I am heading over towards Chipping Ditter in a day or two, Miss Parker: may l give your Cousin Tarlington any message?”

    Henry went very pink: she knew her father had written to Aden. “Well—just my compliments, please, General,” she said in a tiny voice.

    “Of course; and I shall also tell him, if I may, what you mentioned about Wessex Saddlebacks.”

    “But I am no expert on pigs!” gasped Henry.

    “I thought it seemed very sound advice,” said Alec Ramsay with a twinkle in his eye. “And he has always the option of not taking it. It was delightful to see you again,” he said, bowing over her hand. “Now, if you will excuse us, I would just like a word with your papa before I go.”

    Henry bade him a polite goodbye and went out, trying not speculate whether his word to Papa would have anything to do with Cousin Aden.

    Alone in the library with Henry’s papa, Alec Ramsay took a deep breath. “You will perceive, Mr Parker, that what I said to you earlier was correct: she has no interest in myself except as a friend.”

    Mr Parker nodded silently.

    “I hope we are right, and that it is Aden Tarlington,” said Alec Ramsay steadily. “He is a very good fellow.”

    “Yes, he is.” Mr Parker hesitated.

    “Don’t say it,” said General Ramsay, the strong nostrils flaring. “It has been a privilege to have known your daughter.”

    Rather limply Mr Parker shook hands with him and showed him out.

    “That,” he said to his daughter as they stood at the sitting-room window watching the General’s horse gallop off down the drive, “is a very good sort of a man, Henry.”

    “Yes,” said Henry in a small voice.

    Mr Parker looked down at her, and sighed a little. “I think you must realize that he cares for you, my love.”

    “I—I hadn’t realized it, until today,” said Henry shakily.

    Mr Parker put his arm around her. “No. He is the sort of gentleman who would take care not to let it become apparent.”

    “Mm. Life,” said Henry in a choked voice, “is very unfair!”

    The Reverend Mr Parker did not attempt to offer any consolation. “Yes,” he said simply, squeezing her shoulders. “It is.”

    Lord Rupert had examined the ditching of the Three Sisters with great interest. Fliss had looked on, pouting. After some time his Lordship came to himself and said sheepishly: “Sorry, Cousin Felicity. This must all be dashed boring for you.”

    Fliss replied grimly: “That is precisely correct, Lord Rupert.”

    Lord Rupert looked at her glumly. “Well—um—what would you like to do now?”

    “Anything to warm me up!” replied Fliss crossly.

    “Oh,” he said, biting his lip. “Yes. Well, let’s gallop across the Three Sisters and—um—head for Spring Vale, shall we? Dare say Mrs Bellows will give us a glass of something hot.”

    “I am not supposed to drink spiced cider,” returned Fliss, scowling.

    “Uh—no. Out of course you ain’t. –Damn,” he muttered.

    Fliss waited but he did not put forward any alternative suggestion, or say that in weather like this one glass of hot spiced cider could not hurt; or anything at all, in fact. Scowling, she clapped her heels into her mount’s flank, and headed for the far side of the field, and thence Spring Vale.

    Spring Vale was duly reached, but Mrs Bellows was not home. Fred and Nancy Bellows emerged from the cottage volunteering this information and also volunteering to hold the horses.

    “No, thanks all the same,” said Lord Rupert firmly. “So where is your Ma, hey?”

    She was gone over to Harpingdon for the market, me Lord.

    “Oh—aye. Dash it, of course. Forgot it was market day,” he said, very crestfallen. “Uh—well, come on, Cousin Felicity, we had best be headin’ back.”

    “Pa says it’ll snow afore nightfall, sure as eggs is eggs!” piped Fred Bellows.

    “He ain’t far wrong,” acknowledged Lord Rupert, squinting uneasily at the sky. “Right, well: here.” He tossed the two children a few coins. “And cut along inside!”

    After a scramble for the coins Fred and Nancy vanished into the cottage.

    “Let’s go: dashed cold hangin’ about here,” said Lord Rupert to his cousin.

    “I dare say they might have given you a hot spiced cider had you asked!” snapped Fliss.

    Lord Rupert, of course, knew all the people on the estate. “No, they ain’t allowed: the jug’s too heavy for ’em.”

    Fliss scowled, and took off without looking at him.

    Glumly Lord Rupert kicked his mount into action. “I say: don’t go that way,” he said as, at the head of Spring Vale, Fliss turned for the winding track.

    “The other way is too steep.”

    “No, it ain’t! Straight down Five Acre, and one comes out at The Levels, and then across Big End Field and—”

    “I suppose YOU know every stupid name of every stupid field!” shouted Fliss, suddenly turning bright red. “Well, I do not care! I am not going down that slope or over that HEDGE!”

    “Uh—oh. No, don’t need to, you can just take it easy down Five Acre—no need to gallop—and there’s a gate what gets you onto The Levels—”

    But Fliss had turned her shoulder on him and was heading down the other way.

    Lord Rupert was suddenly very angry indeed. “Get up!” he said furiously, clapping his heels into his horse’s sides. They flew down Five Acre, Rupert not taking his own advice, and he set the nag’s head at the hedge.

    At the thunder of hooves down the slope Fliss, cross though she was with him, had reluctantly turned her head to watch. Now she bit her lip. “Don’t,” she said under her breath as the horse rose to the jump.

    “NO-OO!” she wailed as Lord Rupert, with a yell, flew over its head and landed with a thump that was quite clearly audible on the quiet, frosty air.

    For a moment Fliss was turned to stone. There was no sound. Lord Rupert’s horse slowed on The Levels, and stopped, looking round uncertainly.

    “You brute!” Fliss addressed it, angry tears of which she was unaware pouring down her cheeks. She kicked her horse hard, and headed it for the gate in the hedge at the bottom of the slope.

    The gate was too stiff for her to manage, seated: she dismounted, trembling, and opened it. Lord Rupert was lying on his face, motionless.

    Fliss fell to her knees in the mud beside him. “Lord Rupert!”

    He did not respond.

    “Don’t die!” gasped Fliss, tears still pouring down her cheeks. “Cousin! Rupert!” she shouted, tugging at his shoulder and trying to raise his face from the ground.

    After a few moments Lord Rupert grunted, and opened his eyes. “Winded,” he mumbled.

    “Oh! You’re not dead!” gasped Fliss.

    “Uh—no.” He raised himself on one elbow, grunting, and blinked groggily at her. “Thought I’d had it.”

    “Yes,” said Fliss faintly, wiping tears away with the back of her hand. “So did I. Can you sit up?”

    Painfully Lord Rupert sat up. He laid a hand experimentally on his rib-cage. “Ooh.”

    “Is anything broken?” whispered Fliss.

    “Ow,” he said, wincing. “Probably not.”

    Fliss was now very pale. “Can you move your legs?”

    “Uh—yes.” Lord Rupert moved his legs back and forth.

    Abruptly Fliss burst into a fresh storm of tears.

    “Uh—it’s all right. Nothing broken,” he said awkwardly. Fliss continued to sob. After a moment, very cautiously, he put his arm around her. “Don’t. I’m all right.”

    Fliss sobbed for some time, but finally wiped her eyes with the back of her hand again and said: “I thought you were dead.”

    “Yes. Been a damned fool,” said Rupert, swallowing.

    “Yes: the hedge is much too high,” she agreed, sniffing.

    “No,” he said, going very red. “Not that. Shilly-shallying.”

    Fliss looked at him doubtfully.

    Rupert swallowed painfully. “Suddenly saw it, y’know. What I’d missed.”

    “Whuh-what?” she faltered, thinking he must have hurt his head.

    Rupert’s jaw shook. “Damned fool. Knew what I wanted, back in Oxford that time. Might have had it all, by now: boy of our own, livin’ all cosy in the Dower House here. Could have done that damned nursery up in a trice, only needs a lick of paint. –Your kitten, and everything. One of Fairbrother’s parrots, if that’s what you’d fancy—or a pair. Your own hens,” he ended, scowling.

    “Yuh-yes... What?” croaked Fliss.

    Rupert looked at her miserably. “If it ain’t too late, will you marry me?”

    Fliss went very red. After a moment she said: “I—I think you may have struck your head, Cousin.”

    “No!” he said angrily. “I said, I’ve been a damned fool! Knew it was you, back in Oxford! Lost me nerve,” he explained glumly.

    “Why?” she quavered.

    “Why? Hell, I don’t know why! –Because I’m a damned coward,” he muttered.

    Fliss looked at him dubiously.

    “No, well,” said Rupert, taking a deep breath, and wincing, “I got cold feet and started thinking damned stupid things like—uh—bein’ able to spend the night on the town with Wainwright and Burton and those other idiots, and um—that sort of thing: damned town life and so forth—that it mattered. Only it don’t,” he finished glumly. “Sorry.” He stared miserably at the muddy grass.

    “I see,” said Fliss slowly. “It’s understandable. You’ve been a bachelor for a long time.”

    “Mm.”

    “You— I mean... That was us, that you described, was it?” she whispered.

    “Eh? Oh: in the Dower House. Yes. Suddenly saw it in me head. Son of our own,” he repeated moodily, plucking at the grass. “Damned idiot.”

    “Yes,” said Fliss loudly, going bright red. “I will!”

     “Eh?” he said, goggling at her.

    “If—if that was a proposal,” said Fliss loudly, still bright red. “the answer’s yes!”

    Lord Rupert licked his lips. “No damned long engagement.”

    “No,” said Fliss, sniffing.

    “And—uh—not one of those modern marriages,” he muttered.

    “What?” replied Fliss in confusion.

    “Fashionable,” said Lord Rupert, swallowing horribly. “Don’t want a wife what goes her own way and—uh—you know. Well, take damned Lord and Lady Ivo!” he said loudly. “Don’t know how he stands it!”

    “I wouldn’t!” cried Fliss loudly, genuinely horrified.

    “Um—no. Well, not only that. The damned woman—now, Noël Amory himself told me this, so you can’t say it’s a rumour,” he said, pointing a finger at her: “the damned woman not only refuses to share Ivo’s bed, she makes him sleep at t’other end of the house!”

    “How awful,” said Fliss faintly.

    “Aye. Well?”

    Fliss looked at him timidly. “If—if you are trying to say you—you want a wife who—who shares your buh-bed—”

    “I know it ain’t delicate, but we need to start off clear!” he said loudly.

    “Mm,” said Fliss, tears in her eyes. “I agree. I—I think we should have that pretty room with the roses over the window as ours, and—and not even have a silly dressing-room!” she ended bravely.

    “Oh, good,” said Lord Rupert limply. “Uh—well, when the babies come, you will not want me in the way, did not mean that, out of course.”

    “No, I mean, yes. I mean—um—is it agreed, then?” she said plaintively.

    Lord Rupert fumbled in his pocket. “Yes. Blow your nose.”

    Looking surprised, Fliss meekly took his handkerchief and blew her nose.

    “Can I kiss you?” he said abruptly.

    Fliss nodded mutely.

    Looking nervous, Lord Rupert approached his face very gingerly to hers.

    After a moment Fliss said: “That was not much of a kiss.”

    “Ho! Was it not, then!” he cried loudly, turning puce. “And who the Devil has been kissing you, Miss?”

    Fliss pouted.

    “WELL?” he shouted terribly.

    “Only stupid Pooter Potter and Edward Claveringham, and I only let them because nobody else wanted to, and I wanted to see what it was like!” she cried defiantly.

    Her new fiancé replied grimly: “It was not that nobody else wanted to, y’fool, it was that everybody else was too damned much of a damned gentleman to do any such thing! And by God, if you was my daughter I’d put you over me knee!”

    “Yes,” said Miss Tarlington meekly. “My papa does not care about me.”

    “No, well, I do!” said Lord Rupert angrily, pulling her into his arms. “Look, I’ll kiss you properly, but it’s only because we’re engaged: right?”

    “Yes.”

    Lord Rupert kissed her properly. Finding to his relief that Miss Tarlington had no notion of how to respond to this. After a moment he said in her ear: “Fliss?”

    “Mm?” replied Fliss on a squeak.

    “Look, uh—you kiss me like that, eh?”

    Fliss was silent and motionless.

    “Only if you want to!” he said quickly.

    “Um—yes. I might do it wrong,” she said in a trembling voice.

    He smiled a little. “You won’t. Come on.”

    Fliss kissed him timidly.

    Rupert went scarlet to the tips of his ears—in fact he felt very much as if he had been entirely dropped into a scalding bath—and reciprocated fiercely.

    “Oh!” gasped Fliss at last.

    “I sincerely trust you did not kiss damned Pooter or Claveringham like that!” he panted.

    “Don’t be silly,” said Fliss, biting her lip and looking at him under her lashes. “They were not proposing to give me pairs of parrots and babies.”

    Lord Rupert turned bright scarlet all over again, bore her back onto the muddy grass, putting most of his not insubstantial weight on her, and kissed her more thoroughly than ever. “I love you,” he said on a grim note, sitting up, “and don’t ever let me hear you breathe their damned names again!”

    “No, Lord Rupert, I won’t,” said Miss Tarlington obediently.

    He got up, grinning, and held out his hand to her. “You’d better call me Rupert.”

    “Mm!” she agreed, laughing and blushing.

    “Oh—and I suppose we’d better have a ring,” he said vaguely, as they wandered over to where the horses were now placidly cropping the grass.

    Perhaps none of the girls from Miss Blake’s would have credited it, but Miss Tarlington’s response to this suggestion was merely a vague: “What? Oh—well, if you think we need to, Rupert.”

    Mrs Parker was determinedly keeping her hopes up. It was not Christmas yet! She had greeted Fliss’s and Rupert’s news with a determinedly brave smile. Subsequently a certain controversy arose over Lucy’s requiring Whistling Canary to come downstairs and perform for Major Burton, to whom the little girl had taken a great fancy. Not all of those present at Harpingdon Manor for the festive season felt that all the blame, in this instance, was Lucy’s.

    John Winnafree was the first of the brothers to arrive at Harpingdon Manor. Both Harpy and Mr Parker had somehow expected the twins would arrive together: they were a little disconcerted.

    Mr Winnafree had a very proper interview with Mr Parker. Fortunately his goodness and earnestness were so apparent that the Reverend Simeon’s initial fear that he might laugh in the poor fellow’s face quickly wore off.

    Then Dimity was sent for. She could not have been aware of who was closeted with her Uncle Simeon in the library, because she came in wearing an old brown woollen gown under a crumpled apron, clutching a small dog and saying vaguely: “Did you want me, Uncle Simeon? I was just going to help Pansy to wash— Ooh!”

    Mr Parker perceived that John Winnafree’s pleasant face was all smiles at the sight of the elegant Miss Dimity in this unexpected guise. Smiling very much himself, he said: “Leonard’s wash can wait, I think, my love. Here is Mr Winnafree, who would like to say something very particular to you. I have told him he has my blessing:”

    “Ye— No— Don’t leave me, Uncle Simeon!” gasped Dimity, grasping the dog so hard that it yelped.

    Mr Parker merely smiled and said: “Give me the dog, my dear,” as he took the spaniel gently from her.

    “It is Leofric, not Leonard,” said Dimity limply.

    “So it is.”

    “Please, come over by the fire, Miss Parker,” said Mr Winnafree.

    Dimity gave a loud gulp and went over to the fire.

    Mr Parker went out quietly with Leofric, smiling.

    Dimity’s relatives were not destined ever to know precisely what was said in the library that morning. But whatever it was, it was evidently very satisfactory, for when they two emerged Dimity was red-eyed but smiling. And so was Mr Winnafree. And his ring was on the third finger of her left hand.

    “It is all right, is it, Uncle Simeon?” said Pansy, as she and Henry strolled out with him in the fine, crisp morning. “I must admit, I have never heard Dimity so much as breathe his name.”

    “She was very unhappy because we did not see him in London,” said Henry.

    Mr Parker nodded. “I truly believe she feels most sincerely for him.”

    “She must do!” said Henry with a sudden laugh. “He has given her the tiniest sapphire I ever saw and she is aux anges over it!”

    Pansy grinned. “Well, that is indicative. Good!”

    “I trust that Mr Winnafree intends that fortune of hers to be tied up safely so as she can’t fritter it away,” Henry added.

    Possibly the matter should not have been discussed in front of Pansy, but Mr Parker replied tranquilly: “Of course. He has said everything that is proper, as I knew he would. The bulk of the fortune will be settled on their children.”

    “Good.”

    “Was Dimity asked about this?” asked Pansy.

    “John spoke to her, certainly,” said Mr Parker. “She is quite in agreement with him.”

    “She appears to be so besotted with him that she’d agree to anything,” returned Pansy drily.

    “In that case,” said Henry firmly, “it is just as well that he’s a sensible and decent fellow.”

    “Yes,” she said, reddening. “I’m sorry. It’s just— Well, after all, it is Dimity’s fortune, surely she has at least a moral right to some say in its disposition?”

    “She is not the sort of young woman who would ever wish to flout her husband’s wishes in such a matter. Nor would she ever wish, I think, to have the responsibility of making such a decision alone,” said Mr Parker on a firm note.

    “No, I see.”

    Her uncle-by-marriage took a deep breath. “Pansy, my dear, I can see that you are thinking that you are in the same case as she.”

    “Legally, she is, Papa,” said Henry logically. Pansy’s mind being as logical as hers, she merely nodded.

    Mr Parker sighed a little. “Yes. But your trustees, as you must be aware, would never arrange anything that did not have your full agreement.”

    “No-o...” said Pansy slowly.

    “What is it?” said Mr Parker.

    “Um—Uncle Simeon, I can see that this idea may not strike you as—as very suitable, and—and of course I could wait until I am of age, but... I would very much like to go to Oxford and take an active part in the establishment of Miss Blake’s new school.”

    “I see.”

    “Delphie and Richard would not stand in my way,” she said, swallowing.

    “No, but Pansy, do they wish you to?” asked Henry gently.

    “No,” she admitted, flushing darkly.

    There was a short pause.

    “Uncle Simeon, if—if a poor man… What I mean is, how can one tell, if a man is only after one’s fortune?” ended Pansy loudly.

    “I think you could tell with the unlamented M. Lamartine?”

    “But he was very obvious, Papa!” cried Henry.

    “Yes. It is not altogether easy to say, Pansy,” said Mr Parker frankly. “Any fellow who proposed an elopement behind your guardians’ backs would, of course, immediately place himself under the gravest suspicion.”

    “Yes.”

    “You could always refuse to marry him until you were of age, and then when you were,” said Henry thoughtfully, “you could tie the fortune up so that he could not touch a—”

    “Yes. Hush, Henry dear,” said her father, touching her hand gently. “I do not think Pansy needs the topic to be discussed hypothetically.”

    “No,” Pansy admitted, biting her lip. “Not—not exactly. Um, say that a poor man did not propose, nor even give any hint that he—he wished to, would that mean he—he was to be trusted?”

    Mr Parker sighed. “I think you can see as well as I, my dear child, that it could mean that; but on the other hand, it could mean that he was very cunning indeed.”

    Tears sparkled in Pansy’s big brown eyes. “Yes. Goodness knows, he is intelligent enough.”

    A great light dawned on Mr Parker’s face.

    “But who?” cried Henry in bewilderment.

    “Nobody,” said Pansy in a stifled voice. “I think I’ll go back to the house.” She hurried off.

    “But Papa, there was no-one, I swear!” cried Henry.

    Mr Parker smiled. “I think there was!”

    “Papa, it is not a matter for jesting/”

    “Is it not?” said Mr Parker, giving way and frankly laughing. “Oh, dear! At least the silly fellow seems to have got something right! Inadvertent though it may have been!”

    “WHO?” shouted Henry.

    “Never mind! I dare say all will be revealed in time!” choked Mr Parker.

    Henry released his arm and rushed off furiously.

    The Reverend Mr Parker, deserted in the Harpingdon Manor shrubbery, laughed for some time.

    “A man has come to see Papa!” cried Lucy, rushing in breathlessly as the house party was breaking its fast.

    Mrs Parker shot to her feet. “Is it Aden?”

    “NO!” she shouted. “You’re silly, Mamma!”

    Mrs Parker took a deep breath. “Lucy Parker, you will go to your bed this instant. Go!”

    “NO!” she shouted, stamping her foot. “I’ve only just got up!”

    Mrs Parker took another deep breath, but Ludo was before her: he strode across the Harpingdon Manor breakfast parlour, lifted his little sister bodily, and bore her screaming form out of sight.

    The assembled quests got quietly on with their breakfasts.

    After some time a footman entered and informed Miss Ogilvie that her uncle would like her to step into the sitting-room for a moment.

    “Well!” said Mrs Parker as Pansy went out, looking mildly puzzled. “How very odd!”

    “Have some of this excellent preserve, Mamma,” said Henry hurriedly.

    Mrs Parker accepted preserve but was not, alas, side-tracked.

    Meantime, Pansy had gone Into the little downstairs sitting-room and stopped short with a gasp.

    “Good morning, Miss Ogilvie,” said James steadily.

    “Good morning,” returned Pansy with difficulty.

    There was a short silence.

    “Please be seated, sir.”

    “Thank you, but I think I should prefer to stand.” He hesitated. “How is Miss Parker?”

    “Henry is very well, thank you.”

    “Good.”

    Another short silence.

    “Do you have a message for me?” said Pansy timidly. “From Dr Fairbrother, perhaps?”

    “No. I am here on my own account,” said James, taking a deep breath. “I have something very particular to tell you.”

    “Oh.” Pansy waited, but he said nothing more, merely bit his lip and frowned. Eventually she said awkwardly: “Whatever it is, I shall not be shocked, or—or— What I mean is,” she said, going very red, “if it is anything you feel shy about broaching, please do not fear to speak.”

    James winced. “I am here to confess that I have been an utter fool, and to throw myself on your mercy, Miss Ogilvie.”

    Pansy stared. “What can you mean? –Oh,” she said, reddening again. “If it is about Lady Winnafree, sir, please do not: I fully understand: she is a very lovely woman, and—and Sir Chauncey is an elderly gentleman, and—”

    “No, it’s nothing about her,” said James, running his hand through his black curls distractedly. “Miss Ogilvie, there is no way to say it tactfully or gently, so I will merely out with it: I am not one of Chauncey’s Couriers, and I have certainly never been one of Portia’s swains: I am Sir Chauncey’s eldest nephew.”

    After a minute Pansy said kindly: “I see. It happens in the best of families, there is no need to feel shy about it with me.”

    “Wha— No! I am legitimately a Winnafree, Goddammit!” said James loudly.

    “Oh. Well, good,” said Pansy blankly, thinking he must be from a branch of the family that had fallen on hard times, and wondering that Sir Chauncey or Lady Winnafree had not cared to mention it. But perhaps they had wished to spare his feelings.

    “You still do not understand,” he said grimly. “I am Lord Lavery, Miss Ogilvie.”

    Pansy took a very deep breath. “Dear sir, please sit down and let us talk about it quietly.”

    “Miss Ogilvie, I am not raving!”

    “Of course not,” she said kindly. “And I am sure you are indeed Sir Chauncey’s nephew. Now I come to think of it, you have quite a look of him. But you know, even if you are older than the head of his family, one has to be the eldest son of the head of the house in order to—”

    “Miss Ogilvie,” said James desperately, taking her hand and holding it very tightly: “please stop being kind to the Winnafree maniac. I am James Alfred Zebedee Taunton Winnafree, fourteenth Baron Lavery. John Winnafree is my twin, and Sir Chauncey is the next brother to my late father. Old Perseus, whom you met in Paris, is my only other Winnafree uncle. And the reason I masqueraded as one of Chauncey’s damned Couriers all those months,” he said loudly and bitterly, “is that I am a damned idiot!”

    “Oh,” said Pansy lamely, staring at him.

    “Come and sit down on this sofa, and let me explain,” said James, leading her to it, “and then you can decide that I am a maniac.”

    Pansy allowed herself to be sat down, looking dubious. She attempted to draw her hand away, but he had seated himself beside her and was holding it very tightly. “You remember that first time we met, when you were on the narrowboat?”

    Pansy nodded mutely.

    “You took me for one of Chauncey’s Couriers, so I let you believe it, for a joke.”

    “I see,” she said dubiously.

    “You were so funny, in your boating gear, and so delightfully fierce, that I— Well, I suppose I had the feeling that I did not want to break the mood, and we should all look damned silly if I suddenly said ‘I am Lord Lavery’,” he ended limply.

    “Ye-es.”

    “After that I carried on with it for a joke,” said James lamely.

    “All those months?” gasped Pansy, with an expression of gathering wrath.

    “No! Just—just over the period of your sister’s wedding, and so forth. I— Well, it was not entirely a joke. I had some damned silly notion that, um, that I would like to see more of you without your knowing who I was, and, er, that perhaps you might see me as merely a man, if you thought I was but a courier. –Don’t say anything,” he added as Pansy opened her mouth. “Chauncey and Portia both told me in no uncertain terms it was a stupid scheme, but… Stubbornness is a Winnafree trait, not to say a besetting sin,” he said with a grimace.

    “But then you came all the way to Italy and back incognito!” said Pansy on an incredulous note, staring at him.

    “Yes. By that time, Miss Ogilvie, I very much hoped that you could see me as a man rather than as the holder of a title with, shall we say, a position in society fit to match your fortune,” he finished, his jaw hardening.

    ‘Oh,” said Pansy numbly. She attempted stealthily to pull her hand out of his: James held on.

    “Round about—I think it was just after Corsica—yes, it was: I had a change of feeling, but—er—it had gone too far. I felt that to tell you the truth then, might make the rest of the trip unpleasant for you.”

    After a minute Pansy said grimly: “Let us not blink at facts. You thought that I would be so angry that I would make the rest of the trip extremely unpleasant for everybody else. And no doubt you were right.”

    “Mm,” said James miserably.

    She thought it over silently. “When we were in Rome…”

    “That ride down the Via Appia,” said James with tears in his eyes, “was the happiest time of my entire life. I thought that you truly were beginning to see me as a man, instead of just as James, the courier, and I—I was quite glad about the stupid masquerade, after all.”

    “Oh.”

    “But then, in Venice, you spent all your time with those damned young idiots, and I—I could not get near you,” he said, gnawing on his lip. “What with that and Portia telling me every time she got me alone what a fool I was— Oh, well. I have no-one to blame but myself.”

    “Why didn’t you tell me on the yacht, coming home?”

    James swallowed. “Because I am a pathetic coward. Miss Ogilvie!” he said loudly.

    Pansy licked her lips nervously. “Oh.”

    They were silent. James looked at her anxiously.

    Eventually Pansy said: “I have read many of your speeches in the House of Lords, Lord Lavery.”

    He swallowed.

    “No wonder,” she said, taking a deep breath, “you could speak so knowledgably on the issues of women’s education, the franchise, the conditions of the people, and the poor laws.”

    “Yes. In the past the guise of courier has enabled me to see a considerable amount of rural conditions in England in—in a way which would not have been possible had I travelled as myself.”

    “I can see that the rôle was ready-made for you to step into, yes,” returned Pansy grimly.

    Lord Lavery had not meant that. He was silent.

    Pansy took a deep breath and pulled her hand out of his. “Thank you for telling me, Lord Lavery.” She got up.

    “No, wait!” said James quickly, stumbling to his feet. “That isn’t all!”

    “I think it is quite enough,” said Pansy grimly. “To think that I— Never mind.”

    “To think that you what?”

    “I was beginning to think that under the flippancy you might be a man of estimable character, with—with very right thoughts on serious subjects.”

    He had gone very pale. “I hope that I am.”

    “No doubt. It is beyond me, however, why you conceived such a low opinion of me that you could believe me incapable of perceiving that a man with a title might have such right thoughts.”

    “No! That wasn’t it at all!” he cried.

    “I think it was,” returned Pansy tightly.

    James seized her hand again. “Can’t you see that I wanted you to know me and to—to love me for myself, without the damned title, or—or the suitability of the thing getting in the way? –Look, ever since she laid eyes on you, Portia’s been plotting to throw us together: I couldn’t take that!” he said loudly.

    “Has she? Well, the plot has signally failed. Let me GO!”

    He released her hand, biting his lip. “Pansy, please listen!”

    “No. And do not call me Pansy.”

    “You once told James, a courier, that such forms mattered little to you.”

    “Did I? I don’t remember. But perhaps I did. You, however, are not a courier. You are a gentleman, nay, a nobleman, who ought to know better.”

    “That is it, is it?” he said, turning very white. “You were content to patronise James, the courier, and even to think that he might be a decent sort of a man under the livery.”

    “You never even wore it!” cried Pansy.

    “I am astonished you noticed. But it appears I was right: you are incapable of seeing past the title.”

    “Rubbish!” she cried furiously.

    “Then why should not James Winnafree call you Pansy, if James, a courier, may do so?”

    “I never let you do so! But allow me to tell you, my Lord, that from Lord Lavery it is an impertinence!”

    “You are a snob, Miss Ogilvie,” said James, his nostrils flaring.

    “Well, GOOD!” she shouted. “And you are impertinent, and patronising! And it is not true that I am impressed by your title: I have no respect whatsoever for it, or for you, James Winnafree!”

    “I suppose I deserved that,” said James, swallowing hard. “Please, can’t you see that I regret the whole thing bitterly?”

    Pansy took a very deep breath. “Very well, then. Let us say no more.”

    “Do you forgive me?”

    “Certainly, Lord Lavery.”

    “Please don’t be so cold. I—I came here to say that not only do I deeply regret my conduct, I have been in love with you from the very first, and to ask you—”

    “Be SILENT!” shouted Pansy, turning scarlet. “That is BEYOND ANYTHING!”

    “You have every right to be angry. But when you are calmer—”

    “I shall NOT be calmer! And GO AWAY!”

    “For God’s sake!” cried James, suddenly losing his temper. “You’ve been turning down eligible offers all over Europe! What the Hell do you want , if it’s not André de la Marre or the reins of the Plouvier de la Reysne fortunes, and it’s not—”

    “It is certainly NOT YOU!” she shouted.

    “I set myself up for that one, did I not?” said James, biting his lip. “But before you make up your stubborn mind to hate me for the rest of your life, just look honestly at your behaviour over these last several months, and ask yourself—”

    “I am NOT LISTENING!” shouted Pansy, clapping her hands over her ears. “And GO AWAY!”

    James had been very angry. But he looked at the determined little curly-headed figure standing there with its hands over its ears, and suddenly laughed.

    “Go AWAY!” cried Pansy, bursting into loud tears.

    “I’m going.” He took a step nearer to her and said very clearly: “But I’m not giving up, Pansy. A Winnafree is at least as stubborn as an Ogilvie. I’ve loved you since the moment I set eyes on you, I’ve spent over a year in Purgatory because of it, and I damn’ well mean to have my Madonna Beatrice in this world, and not the next!” He went out on this, smiling just a little.

    Pansy rushed to the sofa, threw herself face down on it, and sobbed and sobbed.

    Having been told all by Mr Parker and Alfreda, with the assistance of Lady Winnafree, Mrs Parker indulged in a burst of tears. But it was not very long before she was sitting up sniffing at Portia’s vinaigrette and admitting that it was not hopeless: no, not at all! And such a very old title! Their little Pansy: just fancy! She would write to Delphie this very day!

    Henry drew carefully, the tip of her tongue sticking out of the corner of her mouth.

    “Big piggy!” cried Daniel.

    “Um—yes,” said Henry, looking dubiously at her handiwork.

    “Where’s its curly tail?” asked Lucy.

    “Wait.” The tip of her tongue sticking out of the corner of her mouth, Henry drew a curly tail.

    “Huzza!” cried Daniel, clapping his hands.

    “It sort of looks like a pig,” said Lucy kindly.

    “Yes. Um—oh, dear, is that the time?” said Henry glumly, looking at the clock on the Harpingdon Manor schoolroom’s mantel.

    “Could we stop doing French, Aunt Henry?” asked Charlotte hopefully, looking up from hers.

    “No,” said Henry with a groan. “You have only been at it for half an hour.”

    “Well, what is fanfreluche?”

    Henry gulped. The piece was of the Narrowmine twins’ governess’s choosing. Unfortunately it would not be Miss Drayton who would correct it: she had been urgently called away to an elderly aunt’s deathbed.

    “I think the nearest word in English is furbelow,” she said feebly.

    “But that doesn’t make sense!” cried Veronica.

    “No,” agreed Charlotte.

    Henry sighed, and came to look at the piece. “Rubbish,” she muttered under her breath.

    “They’re all like that. There are no sensible stories in French,” said Charlotte, scowling.

    “No,” agreed Veronica.

    “Um—don’t say that. I suppose poor Miss Drayton must find it difficult to choose pieces which have only words and grammatical constructions that are within your capabilities.”

    The twins scowled, and looked unconvinced.

    “Um—well, how far have you— Oh. Well, just finish off—um, down to the end of that paragraph,” said Henry weakly.

    Sighing, the twins bent over their work again.

    “I can do French!” boasted Lucy.

    “What? Oh—bother,” muttered Henry. Under her picture of the pig she had already written “PIG”, very large, for Daniel’s benefit. Now she came back to it and wrote “LE COCHON,” almost equally large.

    “Le cotchen,” agreed Lucy.

    “Le cochon,” said Henry carefully.

    “Yes. Le cotchen,” she agreed.

    Henry sighed.

    “I trust it’s a Wessex Saddleback,” said a deep voice from the doorway.

    Henry shrieked, and hurled the slate across the room.

    Mr Tarlington bent gracefully to pick it up.

    “What are you doing here?” she gasped.

    “I’ve come for Christmas,” he said mildly. “Where’s the dashed governess? Thought Harpy said she was a reliable female.”

    “Y— Um— I am sure she is,” said Henry, aware of the twins’ round eyes fixed unwaveringly on the visitor, “but she had to go off to her aunt, who is dying.”

    “Circumstantial,” agreed Mr Tarlington smoothly.

    “Y— Um—oh, dear. Twins, this is—”

    “They know me. Hullo, Charlotte; hullo, Veronica,” said Mr Tarlington.

    “Hullo, Cousin Aden!” chorused the twins, beaming.

    “HULLO, Cousin Aden!” shouted Daniel suddenly, jumping. “I gotta pony!”

    “Hullo, there, Daniel!” said Mr Tarlington with a laugh, swooping on him and swinging him up very high. “A pony, eh? Good for you!”

    Henry watched numbly as he then kissed Daniel’s admittedly satiny but also admittedly distinctly grimy cheek.

    “Hullo, Lucy, sweetheart,” he added.

    Henry saw to her despair that Lucy had gone all shy. She had an impulse to close her eyes for a moment.

    “How’s Whistling Canary?” added Mr Tarlington, winking at Henry.

    “I’ll get him!” squeaked Lucy. Henry watched numbly as she shot out.

    “Gone all S,H,Y,” he noted.

    “Yes. Um, would you not rather come downstairs, Cousin Tarlington?” said Henry limply.

    “No, thanks.” Looking very cheerful, Mr Tarlington sat down at the end of the schoolroom table at which Henry, Lucy and Daniel had been struggling with PIG—still with Daniel tucked in his arm—and looked critically at the slate. His shoulders shook silently.

    “I cannot draw,” said Henry defiantly.

    “Not for toffee,” he agreed calmly. He wiped the slate, picked up the slate pencil, and began to draw. “I have no doubt that the Wessex Saddleback is a splendid pig, but in our district we tend to favour the Gloster Spot,” he murmured.

    Despite herself, Henry came up to his side to watch.

    Mr Tarlington drew a splendid and perfectly lifelike spotted pig.

    Henry gulped.

    “Real piggy,” said Daniel in awe. “Spotty!”

    “Yes.” Under the picture Mr Tarlington wrote: “PIG. Spotty.”

    Henry bit her lip.

    “Et en français?” he suggested, looking up with a twinkle.

    “Um…” Henry became aware that the twins were now breathing heavily at her elbow.

    Mr Tarlington’s shoulders shook slightly. “Never mind, let us have a black pig instead!” He drew another pig. Given the limits of the slate, it could have been black, yes.

    “Black piggy!” cried Daniel.

    Straight-faced, Mr Tarlington wrote “LE COCHON noir” under his second pig.

    “Hah, hah,” said Henry limply. “The Wessex pigs are usually black with a white band across the forequarters.”

    “Isn’t that right, Aunt Henry?” cried Charlotte.

    “Um—yes, of course.” said Henry weakly. “Le cochon noir: the black pig.”

    At this point Lucy reappeared, panting. “Whistling Canary!” she gasped.

    “Oh, good,” said Mr Tarlington calmly. “Put him up here, Lucy, my dear, let’s hear him whistle.”

    “He’s dreadful, Cousin Aden!” hissed Veronica.

    “He IS NOT!” she shouted.

    “No, of course he isn’t, Lucy. He’s perfectly splendid, isn’t he? –It’s all right, Veronica. I’ve heard him before.”

    “Forewarned is forearmed,” muttered Henry, grimacing.

    The twins gulped.

    Whistling Canary whistled—or jangled—to an accompaniment of dead silence. The twins were both puce with embarrassment. At the end of it Mr Tarlington clapped. So did Daniel.

    “Applaudissez, si vous voulez manger ce soir, toutes les deux,” said Henry grimly to the twins, clapping. She was not altogether sure whether they would understand the imperative, but they must have got the general idea, because they hurriedly joined in.

    “Might it be time to eat?” asked Mr Tarlington politely as the applause died away.

    “Yes!” cried the twins and Lucy.

    “Yes!” echoed Daniel.

    “No,” said Henry with a sigh, looking at the clock. “Lucy has to learn two more French words and you girls have to finish that paragraph, and then it will be time for a meal. –Well, as good as.”

    “Go on,” said Mr Tarlington with a grin as the twins pouted.

    Sadly they dragged themselves back to their devoirs.

    “Look: Cousin Aden drawed a real spotty pig and a real black pig,” said Daniel to his sister.

    “Ooh! Don’t wipe them, Henry!” she ordered loudly.

    “Um—it does seem an awful pity. Um—oh, very well, Lucy. Maintenant, lis-moi les mots ici, s’il te plait. ‘Le cochon…’ Tu vois?” she prompted her.

    “Si vous la tutoyez, elle n’apprendra pas le vouvoiement,” said Mr Tarlington politely.

    Henry took a deep breath. “Veuillez vous taire, mon cousin.”

    Mr Tarlington broke down in splutters.

    “Go and get out of that greatcoat, and change your boots or something,” said Henry with a sigh. “And then we shall have something to eat.”

    “Good!” he gasped, rising unsteadily to his feet. “Muffins, I hope.”

    “Very well, if Cook has any,” agreed Henry, doing her best to ignore the cries of “Huzza! Muffins!”

    “Merci, Tante Henriette,” replied Mr Tarlington with a grin, going out.

    “‘Tante Henriette!’ Isn’t that pretty!” cried Charlotte.

    “Yes!” cried her twin. “We could call you that!”

    “Mesdemoiselles, je veux voir cette page traduite!” cried Henry loudly in the very tones of Mlle La Plante. “Et silence, s’il vous plaît, ou yous n’aurez pas de—” She stopped, gulping.

    “What is ‘muffin’ in French?” asked Veronica with interest.

    “Le muffin n’existe pas en France,” said Henry grimly. “Get on with it.”

    The twins got on with it, but exchanged puzzled glances. After a few moments Henry heard Charlotte hiss: “It must do! Everybody has muffins!”

    “Regarde, Lucy, mon ange,” said Henry loudly: “Le cochon. Dis ‘le cochon.’”

    “Le cotchen,” said Lucy.

    “Oui, c’est ça. ‘The black pig. Le cochon noir.’”

    “Le cotchen noir.”

    “Very good, Lucy! You’ve learned two new words: cochon and noir! Now say ‘It is black.’”

    “Le cotchen noir.”

    Veronica gave a muffled snigger.

    “Y— Oui— Non. Not ‘The black pig,’ Lucy: ‘It is black.’“

    Silence.

    “Il est…” prompted Henry.

    “Il est noir,” said Veronica in a bored voice.

    “Veronica!” shouted Henry.

    “Those who want muffins had best hold their tongues,” drawled Mr Tarlington from the doorway. “May I come in? I’ve removed me greatcoat, but I’ve left me boots on. I hope that’s permitted.”

    “Yes. You may ring and order the tray,” said Henry, attempting to glare and failing.

    Grinning, Mr Tarlington rang the bell.

    Muffins, tea and milk having been ordered, there was silence for a while, apart from the squeaking of the slate pencil as Lucy copied shakily underneath Mr Tarlington’s version: “LE COCHON noir.”

    Mr Tarlington had taken up a position on the hearth. He warmed his coat-tails, smiling to himself.

    “Cousin Aden, what’s the French for muffin?” asked Veronica.

    Henry drew a deep breath.

    “There ain’t no such thing: Frogs never had the sense to invent the muffin,” Mr Tarlington replied easily.

    “Oh.”

    “Yes, and if you do not finish that page, Veronica Narrowmine, you will not get any!” said Henry loudly.

    “But it doesn’t make sense!” she wailed.

    “Then translate it into nonsense,” said Henry grimly.

    Looking flummoxed, Veronica returned to her spattered page.

    Mr Tarlington warmed his coat-tails, grinning.

    Eventually the clock struck the half-hour and the viands were brought in.

    “Cherry cake!” cried Charlotte, clapping her hands. “Huzza!”

    “It’s in your honour, Cousin Aden, I presume,” said Henry limply.

    “Don’t they usually get cake?”

    “Only for a treat, Cousin Aden,” explained Charlotte.

    “Oh. We’ve always had cake when I’ve been here.”

    “It was always a treat,” explained Veronica seriously.

    “Yes. Everybody go and wash your hands, please!” said Henry loudly.

    “I’ve washed mine,” said Mr Tarlington meekly as there was a general exodus.

    “Not you!”

    He smiled at her. “What do they usually have, then?”

    “What? Oh,” said Henry in confusion. “Of course it is rather early for supper, but they have a warm drink later, before bed. It’s usually bread and butter, with muffins or crumpets or buns. And on Fridays it’s always currant cake. And there’s always two kinds of jam: Lucy and Daniel cannot get over that!” she added with a laugh.

    Mr Tarlington smiled, and nodded.

    “I think in the warmer weather Alfreda has instituted cress or cucumber sandwiches. And—and on Sundays they also have boiled eggs, and often ham and cheese,” finished Henry limply.

    “Yes, l do know that, for Christian and I have always had Sunday supper with ’em, when I’ve been down here.”

    “I see. I believe,” said Henry, glancing cautiously at the door, “that it was Christian’s idea to join them, not the children’s. Lord Rupert once told me he was seventeen before he realised his parents actually ate. Um, that was an exaggeration, but—”

    Mr Tarlington was nodding. “Sheer Hell, life at Blefford Park. But fortunately Christian and Rupert and the girls had Old Nurse: the nursery and the schoolroom were human enough.”

    “Yes. Alfreda says—” Henry broke off.

    “What?” he said, smiling at her.

    “Oh—well, you probably know this already, Cousin. Um—when Alfreda was there last Christmas, even after most of the house party had gone and there were only the Earl and Countess, with herself and Christian, and l think their Aunt and Uncle Hubert, there were never less than fifteen side-dishes to each course.”

    “Oh, Lor’, yes. I once counted twenty-seven, and that was only for the benefit of Mamma and Papa and your humble servant. Oh, think Lady Mary was there: that was when Lady Blefford was throwing the poor girl at me.”

    “Twenty-seven? For…” To his entertainment, Henry counted on her fingers. “For six persons?”

    “Mm. They was brought in,” said Mr Tarlington, straight-faced, “by seven footmen. They each made two trips with a dish in each hand, save for the seventh. He made one trip with a dish in each hand and one with but a single dish.’

    “This is apocryphal!” cried Henry, turning very red.

    “No,” he said simply. “I said, it’s Hell. You ask Alfreda.”

    “Ooh, what is, Cousin Aden?”

    Mr Tarlington said to Charlotte without turning a hair: “Life at dashed Blefford Park: just be thankful they don’t make you go there.”

    “I am!” she said cheerfully.

    Henry sagged. She avoided her cousin’s eye.

    Veronica had followed her twin. “Miss Drayton says we’ll have to live there when Grandpapa dies and Papa is the Earl.”

    Cheerily Mr Tarlington returned: “I wouldn’t worry. No house that Alfreda’s mistress of is goin’ to feature twenty-seven dashed side-dishes and relays of footmen serving but six persons. –Now, who wants muffins?”

    Henry subsided thankfully onto a seat under cover of the cries of “Me!” “Me!”

    After the meal Mr Tarlington enquired what usually happened after schoolroom supper and the twins revealed that Henry would read to them. He ordered her to carry on. It was Gulliver’s Travels. Henry had reached the section on the Lilliputians and knew what was coming next. She turned a mottled puce colour. Mr Tarlington informed her that he had always thought, when he was a boy, that that was the best bit. But if she preferred, he would read it. Limply Henry handed over Gulliver’s Travels.

    All of the children without exception near to choked to death during the less unexceptionable section of Mr Tarlington’s rendition of Gulliver amongst the Lilliputians.

    “Pity Tim and Will ain’t here,” he noted, closing the book.

    “They’re still at school, Cousin Aden!” cried the twins.

    “Mm.”

    “Yes. Theo has sent Tim to school with Will and Egg,” said Henry.

    “I know,” he agreed, smiling into her eyes.

    Henry got up, very flushed. “Twins, you may talk to Cousin Aden for a while, but when I’ve corrected your French, I shall want to go over it with you.”

    “Go over mine!” urged Lucy.

    “Um—yes. If you like,” she agreed limply. She retired to the table and attempted to concentrate on the twins’ translations.

    Mr Tarlington, though knowing it was mean, remained through the subsequent going over. At first Daniel, having appointed himself to Cousin Aden’s knee, demanded a story, but soon his big cousin perceived he had nodded off. Mr Tarlington leaned his chin on Daniel’s curly head and watched and listened with a dreamy look on his face as Henry struggled with the Miss Narrowmines’ French. And Lucy’s.

    Old Nurse then entering to take charge capably of the nursery party, Mr Tarlington escorted Henrietta out in order that she might change for dinner. Having assured the twins that tomorrow as ever was he would listen to them play their new piece.

    “My room is along here,” said Henry feebly.

    “I am in the opposite direction. Might we make a habit of schoolroom supper, whilst you are giving them their lessons?”

    “No, um, there are lots of people here, Mr Tarlington!” she gasped,

    “I know. I’d rather avoid ’em,” he said frankly. “May we?”

    “If—if you wish. Though the gentlemen may expect you to—to do things with them. Cousin Rupert has some friends here. And some days Pansy takes the twins for their sums.”

    “I’ll avoid those days, then,” said Mr Tarlington simply, going off to his room.

    Henry tottered off limply. Help. Wessex Saddlebacks? Evidently General Ramsay must have called in at Chipping Abbas, then. What could he have said to him, though? And what, precisely, could Papa have written? Because Cousin Aden did seem in a terribly good mood.

    “I knew he would come!” cried a radiant Mrs Parker.

    “Aye: you never doubted it,” agreed Ludo on a sour note: Captain Sir Peter Wainwright had just trounced him soundly at billiards and Ludo had been seized by a sudden suspicion, in the wake of the trouncing, that perhaps Cousin Aden sometimes let him win.

    “That will do, Ludo,” said his father, very, very mildly.

    Ludo went out, swallowing a smile.

    “We shall see all three of them married before Easter!” predicted Mrs Parker.

    “Four,” corrected the Vicar mildly.

    “What?”

    “Four: you are forgetting Fliss.”

    “Oh: four, yes,” said Mrs Parker without interest. “Of course Alfreda’s wedding was very pretty, and as the Bleffords wished it to be at Blefford Park, we could hardly... But then, our little vicarage is so out of the way! What would you say to Henry’s being married from here, Simeon?”

    Mr Parker was driven to say that he would say Henry was not even engaged, as yet.

    But Mrs Parker, the bit well and truly between her teeth, was not listening. “Twin weddings!” she gasped, bolt upright. “Pansy and his Lordship, and Dimity and— Where are you going, Simeon?”

    “I promised Major Burton a hand of piquet,” said the Reverend Simeon Parker with utter untruth, making his escape.

    Mrs Parker scarce noticed him go. March? Though an Easter wedding could be pretty... Where exactly was Lavery Hall, in any case?

    Christmas was duly celebrated at Harpingdon Manor.

    Miss Lucy Parker’s Whistling Canary was determinedly shown off to all the gentlemen of the party, Major Burton in particular proving to be quite under its spell—that or, as Miss Henrietta remarked in her Cousin Pansy’s ear, tone-deaf; the waits played and sang; a light snow fell; and hundreds of mince pies were prepared and eaten, especially by Ludo, Egg, Tim, Will, and Lord Rupert and his friends.

    Lucy was remarkably good on Christmas Day itself, and in fact during Christmas week only burst into tears twice: once on Egg’s informing her brutally that Whistling Canary had a voice like a corncrake and as everyone had had enough of him, he could go back to the nursery, and once on discovering that girls were not allowed to shoot guns. Or at least not any dashed guns of Lord Rupert’s, as he informed her with feeling.

    Daniel only burst into tears once: on Christmas Day itself. This was on discovering that Tim’s and Will’s presents from Cousin Fliss were riding crops, whereas his was but a babyish, nay girlish, hoop. He was still rather little to manage a hoop but nevertheless Mrs Parker had been under the impression that he had wished for one for at least a year. He had certainly nagged enough about it. She had found herself reduced to apologising lamely to the disconcerted Miss Tarlington.

    Charlotte and Veronica Narrowmine burst into tears, together, twice. The first time was very early on Christmas morning when they crept out to the stables with pelisses and shawls huddled over their nightgowns, only to discover that Summer Dawn had not yet had the expected foal. But, they wailed, it was due on Christmas Day! Papa had said!

    The second time was even funnier, if your mind inclined that way, or even more embarrassing, if it did not. Everyone had now had all of their presents and they were sitting in the pretty little downstairs sitting-room: Lucy was on Major Burton’s knee being stuffed with sweetmeats and allowing him to admire the locket which Cousin Pansy had given her for Christmas, and Christian was handing punch, when Charlotte burst out: “But that isn’t all! Where is it, Mamma?”

    “Yes: where is it, Mamma?” cried Veronica.

    “Where is what, my dears?” said Alfreda in bewilderment.

    “Our baby!” they cried.

    “Whuh-what?” gulped Alfreda.

    “Twins, it is not due yet,” said Christian faintly.

    The twins burst into tears.

    It turned out that Charlotte and Veronica had confidently expected that—rather like Summer Dawn’s foal, though no-one managed to figure out if this was why they had got the notion into their heads—Mamma’s baby would arrive on Christmas Day. Lord Rupert gave a yelp and went into a spluttering fit. Captain Sir Peter Wainwright coughed and had to cover his mouth with his hand. And Major Burton was driven to hide his face in the innocent Lucy’s curls.

    “They are your brats: you explain, Christian!” gasped his brother.

    Alfreda looked at her husband’s puce face. Oh, dear. Even the best of men had—well, not feet of clay, that was absurd, but— “My dears, you had better come upstairs with me, and I will explain it all,” she said bravely.

    Lord Rupert went into further paroxysms.

    “Alfreda, my dear, let me,” said her mother.

    Alfreda was visited by a vivid memory of Henry, aged ten, asking her why Mamma thought babies came under cabbages, for Mrs Drake had one in her tummy, just like Mr Higgins’s mother cat. “Er—no, they are my daughters, Mamma.” She rose and led the twins off.

    “I wish I might be a fly on the wall!” gasped Lord Rupert.

    Mr Parker at this point was driven to say, even though he had hitherto been careful to address him by his title and not to treat him as he would Ludo or Egg: “Rupert, that will do! Kindly pull yourself together.”

    Sheepishly Lord Rupert pulled himself together and assisted his brother to hand round punch. “I’ll give you a toast,” he volunteered, when all the glasses were filled.

    His fiancée looked at him with a bright, expectant face.

    “Why, yes!” cried Mrs Parker. “Let us drink to all you young couples, by all means!”

    Fliss beamed; Dimity and Mr John Winnafree exchanged glances, blushed and smiled; and Henry stared at her feet, trying to ignore the fact that Cousin Tarlington was looking at her with a little smile on his lean, sardonic face.

    “Yes: what a pleasant notion,” said Pansy, smiling gallantly and raising her glass. And avoiding Sir Chauncey’s and Portia’s eyes.

    “Didn’t mean that,” said Lord Rupert briskly, raising his glass. “Perdition to Whistling Canary!”

    Spluttering, Major Burton gasped: “Aye! Here’s to it!”

    Whereat all the gentlemen without exception collapsed in horrible sniggers and drained their glasses.

    “Well,” said Mrs Parker tolerantly: “you gentleman must have your little joke. But if nobody else will, I shall propose it myself! Please refill everybody’s glasses, Lord Rupert.” She raised her glass determinedly.

    Certain of those present quailed: but Mrs Parker merely said brightly: “To the young couples!”

    Everyone drank thankfully. It could have been much, much worse.

Next chapter:

https://theogilvieconnection.blogspot.com/2022/04/return-to-guillyford-place.html