Changes At Guillyford Bay

21

Changes At Guillyford Bay

    “Help,” said Pansy limply as the slender figure in black descended from the post-chaise. “Who else can have died?”

    “Um, I think they must still be in their blacks for Great-Uncle Humphrey,” gulped Delphie guiltily.

    August was now well advanced and, the weather continuing very warm, Pansy was wearing the nautical white dress with the pale blue trim that had once been Lady Winnafree’s. She swallowed, but went forward gamely to greet Henry.

    ... “We never thought my aunt would let you come!” she owned, when all three girls were ensconced in a private parlour of Brighton’s Swan Inn, and Ludo, who had escorted his sister, had gone off eagerly for a tour of inspection of the seafront.

    “No, nor did I,” admitted Henry. “But since she received Lady Blefford’s horrifically gracious letter and Papa consented to Alfreda’s becoming engaged to Cousin Christian, she has been in such a state of rapture, not to say ferment about the bride-clothes, that she would have consented to my spending a month with Bluebeard himself, I rather think!”

    “We’re flattered, then,” noted Delphie primly.

    Promptly Henry and Pansy both collapsed in giggles.

    “I thought you would have had your two house-guests with you,” said Henry, after recourse to her handkerchief.

    Her Ogilvie cousins exchanged glances.

    “What? Help, don’t tell me Lord Whatsisface has caught up with you!” she gasped.

    “No, nothing like that,” said Delphie. “Shall I explain, dearest?” she added to Pansy.

    “Yes, go on. –No, wait, I’ll ring for refreshments, and then you can explain.”

    Pansy rang, the refreshments were brought, and, Henry having taken off the smart black bonnet, which she explained was sticking into her head in fifty separate places, and having further explained, redundantly, that Mamma had insisted they all go into mourning for Great-Uncle Humphrey and that Theo had paid for the clothes, not to say the post-chaise, Delphie began.

    “Well, it was like this. Um… Which shall I start with?”

    “Tay hit chron’log’lly,” said Pansy thickly through a sandwich. “Eazhier.” She swallowed. “Sorry. Easier.”

    “Yes. Um, well, first Sarah went to spend a little time with Lady Winnafree.”

    “We wrote to you about her,” Pansy reminded Henry.

    “And him: are they still in Brighton?” she asked eagerly.

    “Yes, and don’t worry, we are slated to dine with them tomorrow evening!” said Pansy with a loud laugh.

    “Ooh, good!” she beamed. “Go on, Cousin Delphie.”

    “When she says Sarah went to spend a little time with Lady Winnafree,” said Pansy before Delphie could speak, “she means more properly that Lady Winnafree dragged her off, willy-nilly.”

    “Well, yes,” owned Delphie with a laugh. “I’m afraid so!”

    “Buh Zhane hin’ wan’ hoo,” explained Pansy thickly.

    “Pansy!” cried her sister.

    Pansy swallowed. “Sorry. I’m starving, I was out betimes in Poppet his morning. Matt and I had to help lift the lobster pots because Mr Dawson had a big order from one of the hotels.”

    “Probably this one!” said Delphie with a sudden laugh.

    Henry’s lapis-blue eyes twinkled very much but she just said: “And, um, the ladies still have not heard from their parents?”

    Pansy shook her head.

    “So if Lady Sarah is with the Winnafrees, Lady Jane is still with you, then?”

    “No,” admitted Pansy.

    Henry was surprized to see her sister look at her anxiously. Pansy did not elaborate, and Delphie said on a nervous note: “Um, dear Lady Jane had been eating quite well, but Mrs Bellinger and I were a trifle anxious about her, because she seemed so—so down in spirits.”

    “Yes. I cannot understand it!” said Pansy on a cross note. “She had seemed so pleased to arrive, and—and I thought that once we’d got her here she’d be splendid!”

    “Ye-es... Well, so did I, really,” agreed Delphie.

    “I think she could well be suffering from reaction,” offered Henry uncertainly.

    “That’s more or less what Mrs Bellinger said,” agreed Pansy with a sigh.

    “Yes, but also,” said Delphie, blushing a little, “there is the added point that—that she feels somewhat bereft, or at least, so we think, because Sarah is on the point of forming a—a very eligible connection.”

    “Really?” said Henry in astonishment. “Who with?”

    “Well, it is not official yet, but we know he has spoken to her,” said Delphie. “It is Mr Quayle-Sturt, Henry.”

    “Well, that’s splendid!” said Henry heartily. She paused. “Oh, help: I see.”

    “Mm,” said Delphie, biting her lip. “Of course it happened, more or less, on the trip downriver, and no-one realized that it had not dawned on poor Jane that Mr Quayle-Sturt and her sister had become so close.”

    “Oh, dear!” she cried sympathetically.

    Pansy wrinkled her little turned-up nose. “Yes. Jane’s very pleased for Sarah, of course, but it was a terrible shock for her. She— Well, I had invited them to live with us, as I wrote you, and I think from something she said that she—she had it all planned out in her head how the future would be.”

    Henry swallowed hard. “I see.”

    “Yes. She was quite overset,” said Delphie, her gentle grey eyes filling with tears.

    “Though of course she did her best to hide it from Sarah,” added Pansy.

    “Yes. So—so what happened?” she asked fearfully.

    Delphie glanced anxiously at Pansy again but said reassuringly: “Oh, nothing very terrible, dear Cousin. We were both out, and it was a terribly windy day and Ratia Bellinger did her best to persuade Lady Jane not to take a walk but she evidently became most upset, declaring she felt stifled in the house, and so Ratia let her go.”

    “And?” said Henry.

    Delphie bit her lip. “We do not know what she had in her mind, Henry.”

    “I think,” said Pansy on a grim note, “that she had nothing explicit in her mind at all.”

    “No,” said Delphie in some relief. “That is very likely so, my love. Certainly she cannot have been thinking very straight, we think.”

    “What happened?” gasped Henry in horror.

    “Nothing,” said Pansy grimly.

    Delphie bent forward and touched Henry’s black-clad knee. “Truly, my dear, nothing terrible happened. Though possibly the fact that nothing did, is—is due to Commander Carey’s timely intervention.”

    “Yes,” said Pansy on a sigh. “Thank Heavens he was at home that day!”

    Delphie nodded. “Indeed. Well, what happened was this—”

    The wind was howling round the little gabled house on Guillyford Point that day and old Mrs Carey had remained, to the relief of the entire household, in her bed. The wind made her edgy, and if she was downstairs there was no telling what she might take it into her head to do. One windy day last spring she had thrown her best black silk bonnet on the sitting-room fire, possibly, though no-one had enquired closely into her reasons, being under the misapprehension that it belonged to a strange hussy who was haunting her house; and on another occasion during the preceding winter she had possessed herself of the sabre which at that point had adorned the downstairs study mantelshelf, and rushed out into the wind with it to attack the laurel bushes at the front gate. Being under the impression that they were Boney’s men crouching in ambush. The bushes had been so gravely wounded that Commander Carey had had to put them out of their misery. Though it was true he was glad of the excuse, and the entrance to Buena Vista looked much brighter without them. And it had taken all the efforts of both himself and William Chubb to get under the old lady’s guard and disarm her. After that the sabre had been retired to the crow’s-nest. And Cook and Mary Potter had been ordered not to serve Mrs Carey anything that required the use of a sharp knife.

    Although the day was very windy and it looked like rain it was not cold, and Commander Carey, who had been out and about early, remarked to William Chubb as that stalwart was about to retire indoors for his midday meal: “Thunder in the air, I think, William.”

    “Aye, feels like it, sir. Mr Middy and that Matt, they took the li’l boat over to Sandy Bay,” he added casually.

    The Commander grunted.

    “Dare say as that old Dawson, he won’t be letting ’em come to no harm, if we does have a storm,” admitted William Chubb.

    The Commander smiled suddenly, patted him on the back and said: “No, indeed!”

    William Chubb looked at him out of the corner of his eye. “That Ratia Bellinger, she were tellin’ my Jenny as how Miss Pansy went and give that fancy feller his marchin’ orders.”

    “That was months ago,” said the Commander unguardedly.

    “No: she done it again, sir! When she come round from Lunnon on ’is fancy yacht!”

    There was a little pause.

    “I see,” said the Commander evenly. “Well, I am rather sorry to hear it, William. For from what I have heard of him he seems a thoroughly decent fellow, in spite of the tendency to—er—fancy ways.”

    “Uh—yessir.”

    Commander Carey looked unseeingly at a pale yellow rose. “Miss Pansy needs a decent young fellow to look after her, now that she has inherited all this money.”

    “Aye,” he agreed glumly.

    The Commander sighed. “You need not breathe a word of this, William Chubb, but I have a feeling that after this summer we won’t be seeing very much of Miss Pansy and Miss Delphie at Guillyford Bay.”

    “I’d worked that one out for meself!” retorted his henchman huffily.

    “Mm. Well, cut along, I think there’s meat and tater pie!” he said with a forced smile.

    William Chubb grinned and rubbed his hands, but as he rounded the corner of the/house the grin faded and he shook his head slowly.

    The Commander remained in the front garden for some time, eventually coming to with a start to find he had picked a huge bunch of flowers. Oh, dear: what on earth could he do with them? The last time he had put some in his mother’s room she’d hurled them, vase and all, from the window. Give them to little—? Leith Carey bit his lip. No.

    He went slowly inside and rang for Mary.

    “Can you put these in a vase, Mary?” he said on a weak note when she came in, beaming.

    “I can, Master, only if Mistress sees ’em—”

    “I know. I have to go over some accounts later today, so why not put the flowers in the downstairs study?”

    Mary agreed enthusiastically to this plan. Having reassured her that he would remain on hand all afternoon in case they had a thunderstorm and Mistress went into a fit (Mary’s phrase), the Commander went off to wash his hands before luncheon.

    The accounts were more or less getting done, though with some pen-biting and a considerable amount of vague staring out of the window of the rather bleak little room in which he had placed the desk so as he could see the cliff-path and the sea, when there was a terrific gust of wind and a rending crash—from outside, not indoors, so it was not his mother throwing things. Rather uncertainly, Commander Carey went out into the passage.

    Mary Potter panted in from the back regions. “That were a slate off the roof, Master!”

    “Oh, damnation. I thought we’d fixed all the loose ones!” he said crossly. “Er—yes; thank you, Mary.”

    “William Chubb, he’s down to the village, sir.”

    “Mm? Oh: yes. The kitchen garden isn’t standing up to the wind at all well. He’s talking to someone about putting up a decent brick wall.”

    Mary nodded. “Harry Bates, that’ll be.”

    “I think so, mm.”

    “Would you like a tray, sir?” she asked on a hopeful note.

    The Commander produced his watch from his pocket. “Not just yet,” he said limply.

    Mary looked at him sympathetically. “Our Annie, she says as her George gets into a terrible state, the day as he does his accounts. Acos they sums, they be ’orrible hard, like.”

    Annie Potter that was had done very well for herself and was married to a small shopkeeper in Brighton. “Yes,” said the Commander weakly. “It is not the hardness of the sums, exactly, Mary. Er... I think you had best send Cook to me.”

    Mary gulped, nodded, gasped: “Yessir!” and shot out.

    Commander Carey went slowly back into the uncomfortable little study, shaking his head. It was not at all easy to deal with well-meaning servants who plotted behind his back for his own good.

    “Yessir?” said Cook, twisting her hands together.

    He smiled at her. “Cook, you seem to have been managing quite magnificently these past few months.”

    Cook looked at him warily.

    “But I confess I am somewhat at a loss,” said Commander Carey, biting his lip a little, “as to just how you have managed. I know for a fact that we had a fine lobster last week, and there is no mention of it in these accounts. And then there was a wonderful roast of beef a little before that, and—er—all those green beans.”

    “Some of they beans come out of the garden, sir.”

    “Mm.”

    There was a short pause.

    “William Chubb said as how you wasn’t to be bothered, sir!” she burst out.

    “I see. I am afraid I must ask you to bother me, however, Cook,” he said evenly.

    She swallowed. “It was the bees, sir. When we had that swarm, sir, and you said as how it were a second colong-something, sir, um, like a bee family, and we had our queen, only this was a new ’un, and you said as how William Chubb could give ’em to young Mrs Yates, well, old Granfer Yates, ’e come up and said as how they couldn’t take nothing for nothing, and his beans was doin’ splendid this year, and he would keep us in green beans for as long as they lasted!”

    “I see. That seems very fair.”

    “Ye-es...” Cook eyed him dubiously. The Commander merely looked mildly expectant, and she burst out: “I bottled a whole lot, sir, and I did say as it seemed like we was doin’ best out of it, only Granfer Yates, he said as how bees, they last, and beans don’t!”

    “I quite agree,” he said calmly.

    Cook gulped. “Yes, sir; thank you, sir.”

    There was another short pause.

    “And that splendid lobster?”

    Cook licked her lips. “Well, Miss Pansy said as how it were a thank-you, like, acos she were always a-usin’ of that there Matt, like when he were supposed to be workin’ for you, sir, afore her and Miss Delphie come into that money. And—and how they had enough tarts and suchlike off of me. And she wouldn’t take no for an answer, Commander, sir, not nohow!”

    Commander Carey swallowed a sigh. “I see.”

    “I did tell her, sir, as how you said that I were to do them a few tartlets and such-like, when I was baking for you—”

    “Yes, of course. It’s perfectly all right, Cook.”

    Cook looked doubtfully at his face, which didn’t look as if it was perfectly all right. “I did try to say as how them big hotels in Brighton, they would pay good money for a fine lobster like that ’un, only—”

    “Yes. I make no doubt that Miss Pansy reimbursed the Dawsons for it. –I presume it was a Dawson lobster?”

    “Aye. Well, she lifted it herself, only it were catched in a Dawson pot, right enough.”

    “Of course.”

    Cook looked at him doubtfully. “I could make ’em a fruit-cake, Commander, sir.”

    The Commander smiled. “Aye: a fine fruit-cake with some brandy in it!”

    “Right you are, I’ll do that, then, sir!” she beamed. “Acos they young ladies, they don’t keep so much as a drop in the house! And Mrs Bellinger, she had to send that Ratia down to the tavern especial, like, for a drop for the lady that was poorly!”

    “Yes,” said the Commander weakly, trying not to think of the probable quality of anything Mr Potter had supplied for the delectation of the Miss Ogilvies’ guests. “Well, that would be splendid, then, Cook.”

    Cook looked so pink and pleased with herself that he hesitated to continue the interrogation. But really, the beef had been the better part of a side, and she had had to salt a good deal of it, for their little household had been unable to get through a quarter of it fresh.

    “And did Miss Pansy also supply the beef, Cook?”

    Cook gave a jolly laugh. “Lawks, bless you, no sir! Where would she get a hunk of decent meat like that?”

    “Quite,” he said on a dry note.

    Cook went very red and gave him an anguished look.

    The Commander took a deep breath. “William Chubb?” he asked grimly.

    “No, indeed, sir! It weren’t no such thing! And Jenny Chubb, she said as how ’e’s been a changed man, ever since the moment you said as how he were to live with you, Commander!”

    Not quite since that moment. There had been the episode of the pheasant and the episode of the three fine trout and the episode of the brace of fat guinea-fowl. Not to say the back garden gate that had mysteriously appeared overnight, fully formed, in the Commander’s garden hedge. But it was true that since the episode ten months ago of the strange dinghy that had appeared overnight, fully formed, next to Poppet in her little boatshed, there had been no further episodes.

    “Mm,” said the Commander.

    “It come from the Place, sir, with a message as to how we wasn’t to send no thanks nor nothin’, sir!”

    “Eh?” said the Commander limply.

    “Only that I were to salt some down for Miss Delphie and Miss Pansy, sir! What I done. And to cook a fine bit fresh and see as how them and the ladies had it to their dinners that very day. So I made a fricassy, sir, seeing as how ladies likes that sort of thing. And Mrs Bellinger, she warmed it over for ’em herself, acos that Ratia, she woulda boiled it to—”

    “Yes,” said the Commander limply.

    “—to nothing, sir.”

    “I collect,” he said with some difficulty, “that it was from Miss Pansy’s connections, then?”

    Cook twisted a corner of her apron up. “Aye. That Tim Bellinger brung it. And he said as how the young master hisself, he ordered it up and writ the note with ’is own hand an’ all!”

    Commander Carey’s lips tightened. He got up suddenly and went over to the window. Cook looked anxiously at his straight back.

    “Mr Tarlington himself penned the note?” he said, not turning round.

    “Aye, so that Tim reckoned, sir. Acos Miss Pansy and Miss Delphie, they is like cousins of his’n. Well, I dunno exact, only—”

    “Yes. Thank you, Cook.”

    “And he would of sent it direct, only he didn’t think as they could manage it, sir.”

    “What? Oh—no.”

    “And he were right, there, acos that Ratia, she don’t have no more idea of how to make a decent piece of corned meat nor the man in the moon!”

    “I am sure.”

    Cook continued to look at him anxiously but the Commander didn’t turn his head.

    “It be in the picklin’ barrel, sir, and what I thought was, every so often I could send them a nice piece. Acos it be good with greens and mustard. And once it be salted good, even that Ratia won’t be able to ruinate it.”

    “No…” he said vaguely.

    “Sir, if you was wonderin’ about all that cream, sir, there weren’t nothin’ to it, only—”

    “No, please do not go on about the cream, Cook,” said the Commander, passing his hand through his short iron-grey hair.

    Cook swallowed loudly. “It were only as how Mrs Lakey from Derrydown Farm, she were right keen to get a cuttin’ of your orange climber, sir, and me and William Chubb thought as how—”

    “Yes. Pray do not explain, Cook, I am not worried about the cream.”

    “No, only Jenny Chubb did say as onct he—”

    “Mm,” said the Commander, wincing. “That was when he was a much younger man, however.”

    “Yes, sir.”

    The Commander stared out at the cliff path, where a slender figure in a print dress, shawl and straw bonnet could now be seen, making very slow progress against the wind.

    “Them peas—”

    “Never mind about the peas.”

    “No, sir,” agreed Cook on a relieved note.

    “I think that’s all, then,”

    “Yessir, thank you, Commander, sir!”

    “No, wait!” he said on a sharper note, still not turning round. “Come here, if you please, Cook.”

    Cook came up obediently to his elbow.

    “Who is that lady?” asked the Commander, frowning.

    Cook peered. “Oh, that be one of they ladies what’s stayin’ with  Miss Pansy, sir!”

    “Mm, I thought as much.”

    They watched as the slender figure swayed in the wind.

    “Master, she’s a-goin’ off the path,” said Cook uncertainly.

    “Ye-es...” The lady’s wavering steps were taking her towards the edge of the cliff.

    “Master, I think there be somethin’ wrong!” said Cook urgently, grabbing his sleeve.

    “Aye— My God!” he said as the lady seemed to crumple in upon herself, and suddenly dropped like a stone. Simultaneously came a shriek from upstairs.

    “She ain’t gone over,” said Cook, very white.

    The Commander had seen that for himself. He dashed for the door and flung it wide. “No; I think she may have fainted.”

    “Aye!” she gasped, rushing to his side.

    “Master!” shrieked Mary, hurtling down the stairs as he opened the front door.

    “Come on—quick!” shouted the Commander as he ran down the front path.

    Fat Cook and the panting Mary followed him as fast as their legs would carry them.

    “I seen—from Mistress’s—room!” gasped Mary. “It be one of Miss Pansy’s—ladies! She just dropped in ’er—tracks!”

    Cook nodded breathlessly.

    The Commander reached the still figure in the print gown first. He knelt beside her and felt for her pulse. The wrist was so thin: he had a heart-stopping moment in which he thought she was dead, and then he found the feeble flutter.

    “Fainted, I think,” he said as Cook and Mary panted up to him.

    The pale eyelids fluttered and the lady said, so faintly they scarcely caught it: “No. Too... silly.”

    “Lawks, she do be pale, sir!” faltered Cook.

    Commander Carey gathered her up carefully in his arms and stood up. “Aye. Whether or no she lost consciousness, she is obviously unwell.”

    A tear trickled down the lady’s thin cheek. “The wind... so strong,” she whispered.

    “Yes. Don’t try to talk,” he said gently.

    Cook’s warm, fat hand engulfed the lady’s frail one. “Lordy, Master, she be as cold as a frog!”

    “Yes. And she weighs next to naught,” he replied, setting off carefully for the house.

    “Shall us put her to bed, Master?” ventured Mary.

    “Yes. Run and get the best spare room ready, Mary, my dear.”

    “Aye! And see you makes a warming-pan!” ordered Cook.

    “Right you are!” Mary was off like the wind itself.

    “Miss Pansy did say as how one of the ladies, she needed feedin’ up.”

    “Mm. Well, if it isn’t this one, the other must be in sorry state,” returned Commander Carey grimly.

    “Aye. I’ll get some beef broth made for her, direct, sir,” she decided.

    “Thank you, Cook.”

    “Please…” said the lady, very faintly indeed. Another tear trickled down her cheek.

    “Ssh,” said the Commander, frowning. “Don’t try to talk. –I don’t know what Miss Delphie and Miss Pansy can have been about, not to see she was in need of proper care and attention!” he added irritably to Cook.

    “Aye, well, they be but slips of girls, sir.”

    “Indeed,” he agreed grimly.

    “Just... tired,” whispered the lady.

    “Then you were very silly indeed to venture out upon the cliff in this wind,” returned the Commander.

    Another tear slid down her cheek. She didn’t reply.

    Commander Carey scowled ferociously and gnawed on his lip.

    “I’ll put a drop of brandy in that broth,” decided Cook.

    “Aye: it cannot do any harm, Cook. And the minute William Chubb returns, he can take the trap into Brighton for Dr Lumley.”

    “Aye. That Tom Peach, he be still about the place, sir, so I’ll send him for William Chubb, shall I?”

    “Yes. Thank you, Cook.”

    Cook sniffed faintly. “Not that you’d know if he’d ’a been next or nigh the horses, acos they look the same as what they done afore he started! And William Chubb says as it be all very well to be wishful to oblige Mr Peach, only ’e won’t do, Master!”

    Commander Carey sighed. “Well, I shall speak to William about it. Mayhap Tom Peach merely needs supervision.”

    “Supervisioning that one with your sleeves rolled up and a ’orse whip wouldn’t get no idea of elbow grease into his noddle, sir! Runt of the litter, is what he be!” said Cook forthrightly.

    To the Commander’s surprize, at this there was the faintest ghost of a laugh from the frail form in his arms. He looked down at her doubtfully. The delicate pale eyelids were closed, but as he looked they fluttered up and she whispered: “Not litter... crop.”

    “What?” he said feebly.

    Lady Jane’s pale lips opened but for a moment no sound came out. Then she said in a tiny little voice: “Peach crop.”

    The Commander gave a startled shout of laughter.

    “Well!” said Cook, very pleased, shaking all over. “Ain’t she a one! And me thinkin’ she were out like a light! Peach crop, eh?” She chuckled richly.

    Lady Jane’s eyes were closed again, but she smiled very faintly.

    ... “Hm,” said Dr Lumley thoughtfully, some hours later.

    Mary Potter looked at him fearfully, but did not ask questions, merely led him downstairs again to the Commander.

    “Well, there seems to be nothing organically wrong,” said the doctor cheerfully, accepting a glass of Madeira. “Your health, Commander Carey!” he added with a twinkle. They both sipped. “She’s in a state of exhaustion, as you must have seen for yourself.”

    “Yes.”

    “Your Mary was jabbering some nonsense about Miss Jones’s attempting to chuck herself off the cliff,” he said, eyeing him sideways.

    The Commander winced. “Cook and I both saw the incident, also. We are both of the opinion that the lady merely collapsed from exhaustion.”

    Dr Lumley smiled a little. “Well, I shan’t attempt to verify the story by interrogating your cook, Commander Carey! And I can’t say I’ve much experience of gently-bred ladies in a near-suicidal state, so I couldn’t swear to it she didn’t have that in mind. But for what my opinion’s worth, I’d say she didn’t. However, she does seem...” He paused, and sniffed. Finally he said: “Unhappy, certainly. And very confused. Though she has all her wits about her, I don’t mean that.”

    The Commander smiled suddenly and told him of Lady Jane’s “peach crop” joke.

    “Aye, well, if she can come out with that sort of thing, she ain’t suicidal!” said the bluff doctor, grinning.

    “No, that is what I thought,” he agreed in relief.

    “She seems under a strain,” noted the doctor, again eyeing him sideways.

    The Commander sighed. “She has certainly been through a period of great strain, yes.”

    “Prolonged, was it?”

    “Er—yes. Look, I’m damned sorry, Lumley; I should like to put you in possession of the facts, but— Well, will you excuse me if I leave the names out of the story?”

    The bluff, grizzled doctor did not say anything about professional discretion, he just nodded. With some relief, the Commander told him what he knew of “Miss Jones’” story. “Mm. Well, she’s a nervous type, as you can see for yourself,” the doctor concluded. “To get up the courage to run away together… Yes, would have taken it out of her. And now, just when the poor creature thought their future was settled— Aye, I can see that.”

    “You agree the sister’s engagement must have seemed like the last straw, then?”

    “Yes. Sounds as if she’s the stronger character, eh? No doubt this one feels she can’t cope with her new situation without her sister’s continued support.”

    “Aye... As I said, one of the young ladies who rescued them has offered Miss Jones a permanent home with them, however.”

    Dr Lumley sniffed. “This wouldn’t be one of those harum-scarum girls that are camping in that little cottage just out of the village, would it?”

    Commander Carey smiled a little ruefully. “Well, yes. Of course she is scarce more than a child and, well, I dare say her aunt will be dragging her off to London sooner rather than later.”

    The doctor drained his glass. “Quite. One more thing calculated to unsettle this Miss Jane Jones. –Don’t tell me that your little sailor friend is steadfast and true to her word, or any such thing, my dear sir. I make no doubt she is,” he added as the Commander looked at him in annoyed surprize, “but that ain’t the point. What counts is how this nervy Miss Jones perceives her situation.”

    “Oh,” said the Commander slowly. “Why, yes. Of course: you are very right.”

    Dr Lumley sniffed again. “Aye. Her position must seem to her very insecure indeed. Dare say it wouldn’t matter a fig to a stronger personality. That ain’t the point, as I say. –Here, what’s the accommodation at this dashed cottage like?”

    “Er—well, it is warm and comfortable enough. But certainly not what Miss Jones has been used to all her life,” he said, swallowing.

    Like old Mr Venn, Dr Lumley had remarked the pink uselessness of the false Miss Jones’s little hands. Not to say her refined manner of speech and the general air of good breeding that was hers. “No,” he agreed drily. “Well, for what it’s worth, my professional recommendation is that you don’t permit her to go back there. She needs a sound roof over her head, bed-rest, and three square meals a day. Though to start off, I’d recommend half a dozen small bowls of beef-broth a day. And then feed her up on something delicate but sustaining.”

    “Yes,” said Commander Carey, swallowing. “I suppose the fare at Elm-Tree Cottage may well have been rather more—er—robust than the poor lady is used to. Well, Cook can certainly remedy that.”

    “Good. Plenty of fruit, milk and eggs,” said the doctor. “And as to the rest of it, I can give you my unprofessional recommendation, if you’d care for it. Or even if you wouldn’t,” he noted drily.

    Dr Lumley, although he had been looking after Mrs Carey for some three years, now, could hardly be said to be an old family physician. And Commander Carey certainly did not expect of him that he would take the tone of one. Therefore he gave him a wary look and said: “Yes?”

    Dr Lumley was visited by a forcible impression of what it must have been like to be a quailing midshipman or some such, hauled up before the Commander for some frightful naval misdemeanour. Repressing a desire to swallow hard, he replied as coolly as he could: “I’d get the whole mess sorted out. If those damned girls haven’t seen to it that the ladies’ parents are apprised of the whole. as I apprehend is the case, I’d get it done. See the father and sort the whole thing out. –Because if you don’t, I’ll more or less guarantee that your Miss Jones won’t get better,” he added grimly.

    Commander Carey had gone rather white. “I see. Er—I was refraining from sticking my nose into the affair, I have to admit, because it seemed to me that there were already too many fingers in that particular pie. But you’re right: it must be sorted out.”

    “It must be if that poor, frail creature you have in your best guest room is ever to have any peace of mind: yes.”

    The Commander nodded, and held out his hand. “Yes. Thank you, Lumley.”

    Concealing his immense relief that the man hadn’t taken his forthright speech the wrong way, the doctor shook it hard.

    Commander Carey then offered a second glass of Madeira and asked if the doctor would take a look at his mother. Dr Lumley agreed he would, but pointed out his opinion would not vary from the last time he had examined her. The Commander merely nodded, and when he had finished his drink, led the doctor upstairs. Mrs Carey first hurled a pillow, then screamed that it was one of Boney’s agents, and then shrieked that he would not have dear Cousin Alphonsine’s virtue if she had to sacrifice herself in her stead. Apart from the startling addition to the little-known history of Cousin Alphonsine, this was all quite expected. Dr Lumley got her calmed down and duly examined her. Subsequently reporting to her son that she was, indeed, little changed. And had she volunteered to stay in bed today?

    The Commander replied that she had.

    Dr Lumley made a face, and shrugged a little.

    “She is not generally becoming apathetic, however,” said the Commander stiffly.

    “No. Well, as I said, that may well happen slowly, over a series of years.”

    Commander Carey nodded silently.

    Dr Lumley said no more, but wrote out a prescription for a tonic for “Miss Jones”, added the cheerful rider that it couldn’t do her any harm and she’d believe herself to be getting better if she took it, wrung the Commander’s hand and took himself off without ceremony.

    The Commander was about to go upstairs when he bethought himself of something, and went into the downstairs study.

    … “Oh,” said Lady Jane faintly, as the tall figure appeared in her room behind a large bowl of flowers. “How lovely.”

    Mary was sitting with her; indeed, holding her hand. “That’s a good idea, Master!” she approved. “Now Mistress can’t be a-hurlin’ of ’em out the window.”

    “Quite.” Commander Carey set the bowl on the bedside table. “Well, my dear Miss Jones, you are ordered bed-rest, a tonic, and delicate but nourishing food!” he said cheerfully. “And Dr Lumley has put me under orders not to let you return to Elm-Tree Cottage.”

    Lady Jane went very red and did not know what part of this speech to reply to first. Finally she said weakly: “I cannot impose.”

    “Good gracious, it will not be an imposition! For Cook is positively bursting to have someone in the house who can fully appreciate her fricassees and ragoûts and tartlets and— What was that thing she made the other day, Mary? The fluffy thing.”

    “Uh—oh! With the cream, sir? It were a silly bub,”—the Commander had known this was coming: he refrained from catching the patient’s eye—“and William Chubb, he said as how there weren’t nothing to it, and it were silly by name and silly by nature. Acos you bit into it, and there weren’t nothink there. And how a fool be foolish enough, only at least it do have a decent gooseberry or two, or it might be a raspberry, about it. But silly bub be ten times sillier!”

    The Commander looked cautiously at the patient, who had swallowed loudly. “Quite. And then he demanded, or so I am told, a piece of cheese to take the taste away. Poor Cook was most upset.”

    “I am very fond of syllabub,” said Lady Jane, very faintly indeed.

    “There you are, then,” he said blandly.

    “Aye! I’ll tell Cook! Acos we can get cream any time: we—” Mary went very red and broke off.

    “Precisely,” said the Commander drily.

    Poor Lady Jane looked up at him in bewilderment; he smiled and said gently: “Well, you see, Miss Jones? You are entirely welcome. And besides, Dr Lumley has said you must not be moved.”—An exaggeration that was forgivable in the circumstances, he felt.—“But he has assured me that there is nothing to worry about, and if you obey his instructions you will very speedily feel much more the thing.”

    “There! Didn’t I say, Miss? There ain’t nothink to fret about, let alone to go chucking yourself off of cliffs for!” said the hearty Mary.

    “I truly did not intend—” she began agitatedly.

    The Commander’s hand closed hard on Mary’s sturdy shoulder, and the good-hearted maid gasped. “Of course you did not, and Mary will not refer to the matter again. Dr Lumley has assured me you are merely suffering from anxiety and exhaustion.”

    “The wind was so very strong.”

    “Yes. And now, Mary, you had best get downstairs again. I will sit with our patient for a little.”

    Mary got up uncertainly. “Master, it ain’t proper.”

    “Rubbish,” he said, frowning. “But if you do not consider it proper, then you need not mention it in the village.”

    “Master, I wouldn’t!” she cried, turning scarlet.

    Commander Carey was of course aware that every single detail of daily life at Buena Vista was reported to the Potter ménage. He replied calmly: “I’m glad to hear it. Miss Jones is in no danger from me. I merely wish to have a few private words with her, and then I shall let her sleep. And please tell Cook I shall come down and speak to her directly.”

    “Yes, Commander,” said Mary glumly, bobbing and going out.

    Commander Carey sat down in the chair she had vacated.

    “Sir—” began Lady Jane desperately.

    “No: don’t try to talk,” he said, smiling at her. “I, er... perhaps I should start by saying that Miss Pansy and Miss Delphie have told me something of your story.”

    “Yes,” she said faintly.

    “I am aware that your name is not really Jones, but Pansy has refused to tell me your real name,” he said on a dry note. He had not felt it necessary to apprise Dr Lumley of the fact that, though he knew exactly who had done what to aid the ladies, he had never learned their name.

    Lady Jane blushed very much and looked at him anxiously.

    “I believe Admiral Sir Chauncey Winnafree has interceded with your parents on your behalf?” he said kindly.

    “Yes. Papa has not... written back,” she whispered.

    “And that is as far as it has gone, is it? Forgive me, I don’t wish to tire you, but I think we must get this sorted out,” he said, as her eyelids fluttered down.

    “Yes,” said Lady Jane weakly with her eyes closed. A tear leaked out and slid down one pale cheek.

    Even though it was doubtless improper, Commander Carey at this took her hand. “Don’t cry. I shan’t betray you. But I think you would feel better if your future were settled, would you not? And if there was no longer the fear that your father might insist on your returning home hanging over your head.”

    “Yes.”—Her voice was so faint that Commander Carey had to bend his head to catch her words.—“I have no money.”

    “No,” he said softly, squeezing her hand a little. “And of course dear little Pansy declares that need not be an obstacle. But I think it would be more sensible if we could come to an accommodation with your father about a small allowance.”

    After a moment she whispered: “Mamma would not permit him.”

    Since her eyes were still closed Commander Carey allowed himself to raise his eyebrows a little and pull a face. “I see. I understand your fears, but I think if perhaps Admiral Sir Chauncey and I speak to your father together he will see reason.”

    Lady Jane opened her eyes with difficulty and looked at him dubiously.

    The Commander smiled reassuringly. “And objectively, there is no reason why an unmarried daughter of thirty should not have a small establishment of her own, or become companion to another lady, as she wishes.”

    “Twenty-nine,” she murmured.

    The Commander’s wide mouth twitched a little. “Twenty-nine, then.”

    After a moment she murmured: “I expect Pansy will marry.”

    “I expect she will,” he agreed, unconsciously squeezing her frail hand rather hard.

    Lady Jane swallowed. “Papa might... But you do not know my mamma, sir.”

    “True. However, I think the news of your sister’s engagement may sweeten the pill. This fellow she fancies will be acceptable to your family, will he?”

    “Yes.” She paused; Commander Carey could see she was gathering her forces: he just waited. “He is the head of his family. Mamma dislikes his mother, but they are a very good old family. At one stage...”

    “Mm?” he said, bending over her.

    “Some years back... she wanted him for Pamela,” she said faintly.

    “Another of your sisters?”

    She moved her head in a slight gesture of assent and the Commander said cheerfully: “That sounds most promising, then.”

    He waited again and she whispered: “Very cross... She wished me to… viscount.” There was another pause. “Vulgar,” said Lady Jane, very faintly. Another tear stole down her cheek.

    The Commander returned grimly: “I quite agree. It is entirely vulgar to wish one’s child to marry a title merely because it is a title.”

    Her hand moved in his and she whispered: “I should not have said...” More tears ran down her cheeks.

    The Commander produced his own handkerchief and carefully wiped them away. “Don’t cry. You shall never again be forced to do anything you do not wish for, I promise you.”

    Her eyes closed, but her hand squeezed his. Commander Carey just waited: he wanted to make sure she understood his intent, even though he could see she was very weak.

    “I am Lady Jane Claveringham,” she said at last, opening her eyes.

    “Thank you. Lady Jane. And what is your Papa’s name?”

    “He is Lord Hubbel.”

    “I see. Perhaps your mamma’s worldly ambitions for you become a trifle more understandable, then. But don’t worry: Admiral Sir Chauncey and I have boarded and disabled worse foes in our time!” he said cheerily. Then feeling that that had been rather too hearty for a poor, frail lady like she was.

    To his astonishment she gave a weak smile and said: “The Méritoire?”

    “Er—no; I was not with him in the West Indies.”

    “The Regardless,” stated Lady Jane.

    “Yes, indeed,” he said numbly. “Sir Chauncey has been telling you about his campaigns, I see.”

    “Yes. ...Interesting.” Her eyes closed.

    “Say, rather, a dead bore,” said the Commander, looking at her dubiously.

    “No. Truly,” she whispered.

    “Mm. Well, be that as it may, I will get off to Brighton tomorrow and speak to Sir Chauncey.”

    “He has been... so kind,” she whispered.

    “Aye, his heart was ever in the right place,” said “Trafalgar” Carey firmly. Ignoring such minor points as the wrong places the Admiral’s fleet in its time had got into, Lord Nelson’s reported animadversions on the same, and, indeed, the late, great hero’s statement in his own hearing as to the whereabouts of Sir Chauncey’s reasoning organ.

    Lady Jane’s hand tightened on his again: the merest touch. Her eyes were still closed.

    “I shall let you rest,” he decided. “And you are not to worry any more about anything at all.” He squeezed her hand, released it and got up.

    “Pansy…” she murmured.

    “I shall deal with Miss Pansy,” said the Commander firmly. “I’m not in the custom of taking my orders from any cheeky little Mr Middy, I can assure you!” He went over to the door, hesitated, and said softly: “Sleep well.”

    Lady Jane did not reply or open her eyes, but her lips smiled.

    The Commander went out quickly, his one eye filled with tears. He stood for a moment in the upstairs passage, blinking fiercely.

    Then he squared his shoulders and with a tug at his waistcoat went downstairs to attempt the not particularly easy task of getting Cook to understand that, while syllabubs would definitely be required for their new guest’s sustenance, he did not wish to hear about the provenance of the cream for these delicacies, but that at the same time this specific instance of indifference should not be taken as a precedent in the matter of deliveries of lobster, beef, green beans or, indeed, any other foodstuff whatsoever that should make its appearance at the kitchen door of Buena Vista in the foreseeable future.

    Delphie had finished her narrative.

    Pansy got up, looking grim. “There you have it. Mind you, he hasn’t succeeded in tracking down Lord Hubbel yet, so Jane’s fears can’t be said to have been banished. –I think I’ll go and look for Cousin Ludo.” She put her bonnet on and went out.

    Henry looked limply at Delphie.

    “I’m sorry, Cousin Henry: I couldn’t think how to—to warn you tactfully. Added to which I wasn’t sure that a letter would even get there in time to do so.”

    “Is she very angry with Commander Carey, then?”

    Delphie made a face. “Well, yes, she is. She feels he has taken over the whole adventure, you see. And that he’s treating her like a little girl. Well, I suppose he is,” she added fairly.

    Henry did not evince any surprize at this evidence of detachment in the more sentimental of her Ogilvie cousins, but merely nodded.

    “And of course,” said Delphie with a sigh, “it’s adding insult to injury that when she wrote him about it, he did not take it entirely seriously and wrote back that he could not envisage any scenario where she would need to be smuggled out of London.”

    “Help,” said Henry in a hollow voice.

    “Mm. Well, it was largely Pansy’s own fault, for she didn’t tell him nearly the whole. I think she had the feeling, even then, that if she did so he might take the reins of the affair out of her hands.”

    “Yes. Or tell the ladies’ parents?”

    “Quite possibly,” said Delphie calmly. “His is a conventional mind, in many ways. And of course he has spent the greater part of his life in a service where everyone accepts as the natural order of things that one’s so-called superiors have the right to one’s respect and obedience. Quite possibly if Pansy had told him then who the ladies’ father is he would have contacted the Earl immediately.”

    “Mm.” Henry thought it over. “Delphie, are you implying that his actually having met Lady Jane has made the difference?”

    “Yes,” said Delphie calmly. “He is the sort of man who feels an immediate need to protect and succour the weak.”

    After a moment Henry said in a very dry voice indeed: “The weak in this instance wouldn’t have been wearing a pink dress on the day she collapsed under his windows, would she?”

    Delphie gulped. “Um—well, I don’t know, literally. But you’ve certainly put your finger on it, Henry! Lady Jane has been in his house nearly a fortnight, now, and it’s very clear that—that... Well, that Commander Carey sees himself as her protector, to say no more. And she clearly thinks the world of him.”

    Henry wrinkled up her straight little nose. “Aren’t men peculiar? You were so sure that he greatly admired Pansy.”

    “He did,” said Delphie serenely. “And he still does, to some extent. But now that they have crossed swords, he is clearly beginning to think of her as just a stubborn little girl.”

    “Help. And what about Miss Blake?”

    “We’re sure he’s got over that. I wrote you about it,” she reminded her.

    “Yes; I don’t mean his current feelings for her, but the fact that he could fall in love with two such very strong characters as O.B. and Pansy, and now apparently has conceived an affection for someone as different from them both as Lady Jane! It seems so—well, peculiar.”

    “It is, yes,” agreed Delphie placidly.

    Henry gave her an indignant look.

    “Well, I’m no expert!” she said with a little laugh. “But it has occurred to me that while possibly he truly believed that that sort of strong-minded woman was the type he admired, in fact he has an inner need to—well, serve and protect?”

    “Help,” said Henry numbly. “I think you must be right.”

    “It’s all for the best, really. He must be thirty years older than Pansy; it would not have done. I think the Commander himself must long since have seen that. Of course I saw some time back that he much admired Pansy, but he has never treated her as anything but—well, as just his little Mr Middy. Do you know,” she said with a smile, “I think he would be perfectly happy to have her as his daughter!”

    “Mm... Yes.”

    They smiled at each other.

    After a moment Delphie began gently: “Henry, my dear, you know we got to know your Cousin Aden, a little, during our visit to Oxford—”

    “Don’t,” said Henry grimly. “I thought he was a sensible man. –Talking of the peculiar conduct of the male half of humankind,” she added, even more grimly.

    Delphie had had a suspicion that that why the word “peculiar” had been bandied about. She said as kindly as she could: “We all became very fond of him. And he was very good with your mamma.”

    “He is more than capable of buttering up Mamma merely in order to spite his own mother.”

    “I dare say. But it was evident it was no such thing.”

    Henry took a deep breath. “Do you mind if we don’t talk about him, Delphie?”

    “But I am persuaded you are mistaken in him, Henry, dear!” she cried.

    “I am not. It is totally ludicrous. Why, if nothing else, he is near to twice my age!”

    “Yes,” said Delphie weakly. “I suppose it would be about that.”

    “And in any case I am not interested in forming an eligible connection.”

    Delphie sighed. “Nor is Pansy.”

    Henry looked at her dubiously. “She wrote that she and Sir Noël had agreed they should not suit.”

    “Mm. But the silly thing is, that after agreeing to it, they then seemed to be getting on splendidly! She has been on his yacht, with Lady Winnafree to chaperon her, of course, I dare say above half a dozen times, and one day when they all came over here he went out in Poppet with her!”

    “I fail to see why two rational adults who have interests in common should not be able to enjoy each other’s company without falling madly in love,” said Henry on a sour note.

    “I suppose there is no reason why not, no,” agreed Delphie glumly. “Um, has Aunt Venetia said any more to you about next Season?”

    Henry grimaced. “Yes. She is absolutely determined to drag Pansy to London and make her miserable.”

    Delphie sighed heavily.

    Lady Sarah had driven over from Brighton, as she, Delphie and Henry purposed going up to Buena Vista to see Lady Jane. The Commander and Sir Chauncey had gone to Chypsley, the Claveringham family home, to see Lord Hubbel. Harley Quayle-Sturt had accompanied them and it was clear to everyone from Lady Sarah’s blushing demeanour as she imparted this last that he meant to ask her papa for her hand. Which must, as Pansy had noted, soften the blow for Lord Hubbel. What a splendid thing it was, to be sure, that it was not Ensign Claud who favoured Lady Sarah! She departed for Poppet and the Channel on this last.

    Lady Sarah looked quite dismayed, but Delphie took her arm and explained placidly that Pansy was not in the least jealous: it was just that she was rather disturbed by all the romance which seemed suddenly to be in the air.

    “I suppose,’’ said Sarah, her delicate features colouring up again, “it is not so very surprizing, with young women of our ages.”

    “Mm. But Pansy is not used to thinking of herself as a young woman,” said Delphie drily, not looking at Henry.

    “I see... Lady Winnafree and I were saying just the other day, how becoming that new gown we helped her choose is. And she took a great interest in choosing the pattern and the ribbons, you know.”

    “The white muslin with the very pale grey ribbons? –Yes,” agreed Delphie. “She has grown up a lot over the past months. But she is not, I think, quite ready to admit it to herself. Come along, or Ratia will come out and give us another diatribe!” she added with a laugh.

    Smiling, the young ladies set off with her. Ratia had waxed very bitter, the moment she laid eyes on Lady Sarah, over the Commander’s kidnapping of Lady Jane—and on the very day when she had had a tasty rabbit stew a-waiting for her dinner, too!

    Lady Jane was discovered sitting downstairs in the morning room, with Mary Potter in attendance, holding a skein of wool for her. In a very lofty tone Mary ordered the little tween-maid who had opened the front door to tell Cook they would have a tray of tea immediate. Forthwith explaining to the ladies that she couldn’t get up, or the wool would tangle, and Missy Jane was going to teach her to crochet a jacket for Annie’s new baby!

    “She knows the basic stitches,” explained Lady Jane placidly. “It is a rather cunning pattern, for the little jacket is worked all in the one piece. Do you recall, Sarah? I made it for Pamela’s little Bobby, and it turned out rather well.”

    Lady Sarah nodded, and kissed her cheek, and they all told her she was looking well. Jane owned she was feeling much brighter.

    “Aye, but last night as ever was—” began Mary.

    “It was nothing,” said Jane hastily. “I was over-tired, merely.”

    “A note came from Master. A feller in a liv’ry, fine as fivepence, brung it.”

    “And?” said Sarah fearfully.

    “It were nothing, Miss Sarah, it didn’t say not a thing! Only she ups and bursts into tears and we couldn’t get her to stop nowise, and I were thinkin’ as we’d have to send for Dr Lumley—”

    “Please, Mary,” said Lady Jane faintly.

    “Only then William Chubb, he made her drink a good swallow of brandy, and she stopped.”

    “It was silly. All over nothing,” murmured Lady Jane, blushing. “The note merely said that Commander Carey’s party had reached Maidstone and would push on to Chypsley the following day.”

    The girls looked at her kindly.

    “We shouldn’t never have let her sit downstairs to her dinner. Only she would do it, and then—”

    “We understand, Mary. No doubt my sister was overtired, indeed,” said Sarah firmly. “But tell me, how is your mistress taking the presence of a hussy in her house?”

    Mary brightened. “Ah! Now, you’ve put your finger on it, there, Miss Sarah! And never did I think to see the day!” Mrs Carey, it appeared, had allowed Lady Jane only yester morning to arrange her pillows and read to her for a little. Without throwing anything or reference to hussies. And had said she would take it very kindly if Miss Jones, as was her declared intention, presented her with a warm shawl of her own making.

    “It will not take long,” said Jane. “And I enjoy the work.”

    “Yes. Mamma was used to say that it was a useful art but not a particularly ladylike one,” revealed Sarah unguardedly.

    “But she can make beautiful lace, an’ all!” cried Mary in astonishment.

    “Mamma meant the making of useful garments such as shawls. And babies’ jackets!” said Sarah with a little laugh.

    “Lawks,” said Mary numbly. “But a baby will always need little jackets and such-like, never mind if it be borned in a grand house!”

    “Exactly. But Mamma did not think it fitting that Jane should be the one to provide them for our sister’s baby.”

    “No,” agreed Lady Jane mildly, still winding wool. “So it is so very pleasant to find myself in a household where my work is in demand!”

    “Aye. Acos next—well, nextest it will be Mistress’s shawl, out of course—but next after that, she’s a-going to make William Chubb a muffler and mittens!” reported Mary proudly.

    “Yes,” agreed Jane placidly. “Jenny Chubb tells me he is very hard on his things, and is always in need of such items.”

    “And when Commander Carey heard that, he was right-down jealous!” said Mary with a laugh. “And said he must be nextest after that, then!”

    “What for?” asked Henry feebly. She had now been privileged to meet the Commander, and quite failed to imagine that tall and very ship-shape figure in woollen mittens. Though at a pinch she supposed he might wear a muffler. On a very cold day.

    “A spencer. For his chest,” said Mary.

    “Yes,” said Lady Jane, blushing. “Not crochet-work, for a gentleman, of course, but knitted. Mary tells me he had a nasty cough on his chest last winter.”

    Mary nodded.

    By now the young ladies had all three perceived that it was going to be impossible to have any private conversation with Jane this afternoon. So it was fortunate that there was, really, no private news to impart.

    Jane, however, had news of her own, and after the tea-tray dispatched Mary kindly but firmly, saying that she thought Cook might not be managing too well with only little Betsy for help.

    “Dr Lumley called in the day before yesterday,” she began.

    “Jane, are you truly feeling better?” said Sarah sharply.

    “Yes, of course, my love. He was in the district, so he dropped in to see how Mrs Carey and I were going on. I thought Delphie would be interested to know that he has been over to Merrifield just recently, in order to call in at the school.”

    “At Miss Blake’s? Surely the girls must still be on holiday?” said Lady Sarah in surprise, while Delphie looked anxious.

    “Oh, certainly. But Miss Blake had called him in for one of the maids, who has broken her arm. I’m sorry, Delphie, but I forget the name.”

    “Not Pointer?” said Delphie anxiously.

    “Yes, I think that was it.”

    “Oh, no! Poor dear Pointer! I shall go over tomorrow to see how she goes on,” said Delphie determinedly.

    “Yes, of course. I’ll come, too!” agreed Henry.

    “You must borrow the trap, in that case. Commander Carey,” said Lady Jane, with a blush, “said you must take it whenever you need it, you know.”

    Sarah immediately produced a counter-offer, on Lady Winnafree’s behalf, of the barouche, but Delphie replied that there was no need, as Jack Bates regularly drove over to Merrifield in the mornings. The Claveringham sisters, ascertaining that Mr Bates was a carter, refused to countenance the notion of the Ogilvies and their cousin travelling to Miss Blake’s on his cart. Delphie looked at them with considerable amusement but confined her reply to a mere grateful acceptance of the Buena Vista trap.

    “But that was not all Dr Lumley’s news,” said Jane with a twinkle in her gentle hazel eyes.

    “No?” said Delphie on an anxious note.

    “Is O.B.—I mean Miss Blake—all right?” asked Henry,

    “Very much so!” she said with a little laugh. “My dears, you will never guess, so I shall give you a hint. There is a new inmate of the school. With two arms and two legs, but it is not a girl!”

    “Surely Miss Blake can’t be taking on little boys?” said Delphie feebly. “Why, the notion of taking on very little girls as day pupils had scarcely been mooted, even, when we were there.”

    “Miss Blake moves fast once she has made her mind up,” Henry reminded her.

    “But even so—! Well, it must be a little boy, then.”

    “No!” said Lady Jane with a giggle.

    “There are only two sexes— Stay, it is a trap!” cried Henry. “It’s a new teacher, isn’t it, Jane? ‘Not a girl’!” she quoted in disgust.

    “No!” said Lady Jane with another giggle.

    “If you dare to tell us it is another maid—” began Delphie.

    “No. Nor a boot-boy,” she said naughtily.

    “A groom,” said Henry, glaring at her.

    “No.”

    “Very well, a coachman, and you are too naughty, Jane!” cried her sister.

    “It is certainly not a coachman.”

    “She would not have a footman, surely?” said Delphie feebly.

    “No: they eat huge amounts,” agreed Henry. “Taunton was saying—” She broke off. “Um—that is Lady Tarlington’s butler,” she said to the Claveringham ladies, her cheeks very pink.

    “Then he would know. And indeed, Mamma is forever complaining that the menservants eat us out of house and home,” said Lady Sarah Claveringham kind}y.

    “William Chubb certainly eats huge amounts,” Lady Jane allowed with a twinkle in her eye. “I thought you would not guess it, even with my clue! Well, I shall give you a further hint: the new inmate is not a servant, not a teacher, and not a pupil.”

    “It must be a pupil-teacher, then, and if you say it is so, I will emulate your hostess and hurl a clock or some such at your head,” said Henry grimly.

    “No! Certainly not!”

    “She does not have that kind of tortuous and—er—cunning mind,” admitted Sarah.

    “Oh,” said Henry weakly. “It is just the sort of mean and devious trap my younger brothers would set.”

    “So one would have thought!” agreed Delphie, laughing, while Sarah dissolved in giggles. “Well, frankly, my dear Jane, I think we will have to say you win. Unless— No, wait! Is it an elderly relative, or perhaps a relative of Mlle la Plante or even of Pointer, or—”

    “No; to my knowledge your Miss Blake has not taken in any relative, elderly or not, of anyone at all.”

    “Let us approach this logically,” said Henry grimly, just as Delphie was about to urge Lady Jane to tell. “Not a girl, not a boy, not a teacher, not a manservant, not some relative, not a new maid—”

    “A new cook!” cried Sarah.

    “No,” said her sister placidly. “Neither an indoor nor an outdoor servant. In fact not a servant of any description.”

    “Then all I can say is, O.B. has run mad and got herself married!” cried Henry aggrievedly.

    “No!” said Lady Jane with a giggle.

    After a minute Sarah said in a horrified voice: “Jane, is it a baby?”

    “That is even less likely than O.B.’s marrying,” said Henry scornfully.

    “Well, yes,” owned Delphie. “For the indoor servants are not young.”

    Sarah swallowed. “No, um—”

    “Of course: Mile La Plante has been seduced by ‘ze partnair de mon frère cadet’ at last,” noted Henry scornfully.

    Delphie began weakly: “Henry, dear, that is not particularly... Um, well, Mlle La Plante must be nearly fifty,” she explained to Sarah.

    “With a greater moustache than the partnair du frère cadet,” noted Henry.

    “Um—yes,” agreed Delphie feebly.

    “It is not a baby,” said Lady Jane placidly. “Neither a baby nor a husband.”

    “Do you see that clock on the mantel?” said Sarah cordially to her sister.

    “No, no, don’t!” she cried, laughing very much. “You all give up, then?”

    “Yes,” replied Delphie and Sarah with relief.

    “No,” said Henry grimly. “I am going to recapitulate. Not a baby, not a boy, not a girl, not a teacher or pupil-teacher, not an indoor or outdoor servant of either sex, not a relative, not a husband.” She paused. “Does this mysterious person live indoors or out?”

    “Oh, indoors.”

    “It must be a new cat,” said Delphie.

    “Delphie! It has two arms!” cried Henry.

    “Oh, of course, yes. But surely we have ruled out— No!” she gasped.

    Immediately Jane broke down in a gale of giggles.

    “Jane! Dr Fairbrother has not sent her a monkey?” shrieked Delphie.

    “Yes!” she squeaked helplessly.

    Henry and Sarah gasped indignantly and cried out upon her, but Jane only laughed the harder. They smiled feebly but were unable to laugh. Though Henry did admit: “Well, I would never have guessed, Jane.”

    “Nor I. Even though I have had the advantage of acquaintance not only with Percival Cummings the Second, but also with Grandmamma’s monkeys,” admitted Sarah, smiling.

    Henry leaned forward eagerly. “Did the doctor say what Miss Blake’s monkey is like?”

    Lady Jane blew her nose hard, smiling at her. “He said it appeared a destructive little beast, to him. And just when I was thinking that he could not be as sympathetic a personality as I had hitherto believed, he added that personally he would not care to expose a delicate little creature like that to the mercies of a houseful of great girls!”

    The young ladies all smiled very much, and nodded.

    “Well, we shall see it tomorrow,” said Henry with a deep sigh. “How perfectly splendid! O.B. with a monkey!”

    They took their leave soon after that, for they could see that Jane, in spite of all the merriment—or perhaps because of it—was starting to look tired.

    “She is really very much better,” said Sarah as they walked slowly back along the cliff path.

    “Yes. I think she has improved, even in the short time I have been here,” agreed Henry shyly.

    Delphie nodded firmly. “Indeed. But of course Commander Carey is right in saying that she will be better off remaining in his house. It is so very comfortable.”

    “Well, yes. But I love your cottage!” said Henry, smiling at her.

    “We love it, too,” Delphie agreed. “But one must admit it does not feature such delights as that marvellous sofa-thing that Jane was on.”

    “A chaise longue,” murmured Sarah.

    “Was that what it was?” replied Delphie, unabashed. “I have never seen one before. Though I remember that Miss Worrington and Mlle La Plante from Miss Blake’s once impressed upon me that they are very fashionable.”

    “Yes,” agreed Henry. “I must say, whoever chose the furnishings for that house has exquisite taste; do you not think so, Sarah?”

    “Indeed,” she smiled. “Did Mrs Carey perhaps bring her furniture from her old home, Delphie?”

    “I believe not. I think it must be the Commander’s taste. Mrs Carey was used to reside in the family house in town: having, one gathers, cavalierly possessed herself of it upon the death of her husband. By rights it should have gone to the elder son, you see. But General Carey was in India.”

    “Oh, of course: they are those Careys!” said Sarah.

    “Um, yes,” agreed Delphie uncertainly. “The Commander has a married sister, too, but I believe she lives in Scotland.”

    “Yes, of course: Mrs Frederick Lowell. We know the Lowells quite well.”

    Henry shot a glance at Delphie. “That’s good,” she noted drily.

    Sarah swallowed. “Surely you cannot be implying that—that...”

    “She blushes every time she mentions his name, Sarah, you must have noticed!” said Henry.

    “Oh, goodness,” she said faintly. The cousins were looking at her anxiously. She managed to smile at them and said: “Well, of course, the house is very tasteful, yes, but… Well, it is so very small. I am not sure that Mamma and Papa… Though for myself,” she ended with sudden determination, “I think that that sort of simple, domestic life would suit dear Jane very well!”

    Henry nodded hard in agreement with her.

    “Yes, indeed,” said Delphie sympathetically. “And Commander Carey is not the sort of man who desires a fashionable town life. Well, I have scarcely met any men of the world, of course, but I do not think a man such as Sir Noël Amory, for instance, could make dear Lady Jane truly happy.”

    “No, nor do I,” agreed Sarah with some relief.

    “Nor Pansy, either,” added Henry on a firm note.

    “No,” agreed Delphie. “I’ve been thinking about it since we last spoke on the topic, Henry, and I think she would bore him, to tell you the truth. And I don’t think that she could ever be happy with the sort of life such a man would expect his wife to lead.”

    “No, indeed, Delphie, my dear, I quite agree,” said Sarah. “I think that perhaps dear Pansy would be happy with a much simpler sort of life.”

    “No stupid town parties: yes,” agreed Henry.

    “Well, more of a country-house sort of life, certainly,” said Sarah temperately. “I envisage her in a country house of the comfortable and somewhat casual variety, surrounded by cats, puppies, children and ponies, with a library full of books and an informal garden full of flowers!”

    “Near to the sea,” added Henry, twinkling at her.

    “Of course: near to the sea!”

    “Splendid,” said Henry on a dry note. ”Now you have only to find a gentleman to provide all these comforts.”

    “Well, yes!” she owned, laughing. “Though Lady Winnafree has that well in hand, I have to admit!”

    The cousins nodded and laughed, though Henry also winced a little.

    “We call him,” said Miss Blake with a conscious laugh, next afternoon, “Davey Monkey. For a brother of Pointer’s who died young. He arrived shortly after poor Pointer broke her arm, you see.”

    “Of course!” agreed Delphie, smiling very much.

    The little marmoset had been coaxed onto Pansy’s shoulder. She stroked him gently and asked: “How did Pointer do it, Miss Blake?”

    Miss Blake sighed. “She fell off a ladder after she insisted upon picking our plum tree herself. She does it every year, Lady Sarah,” she explained politely, “and every year I try to insist that she allow the garden boy to do it.”

    “It’s lucky she didn’t break her back, then, Miss Blake!” cried Henry.

    “Mm.”

    “Is she in bed, Miss Blake?” asked Delphie.

    “In bed? Pointer? No, indeed!” she said, laughing. “However, Cook and I have both spoken to her most severely, and she is in the garden in an old basket-chair.”

    “Well, good!” beamed Delphie.

    “Wait,” advised Pansy, looking at Miss Blake’s face.

    “Stringing beans one-handed,” said the headmistress, very drily indeed.

    They all gulped and laughed a little.

    “Dr Lumley has told her the arm will take longer to heal if she does not rest it entirely, but— Oh, well,” said Miss Blake with a sigh and a smile.

    “I shall go out and speak to her,” decided Pansy.

    “Yes; and I!” cried Henry.

    “She will be there for a little, I think. Shall we have tea first?” returned Miss Blake, ringing the bell.

    The tween-maid having come in, looking overawed, received her orders, and gone out again, still looking overawed, Delphie then asked: “But how comes it about that Dr Fairbrother sent you a monkey, Miss Blake?”

    “Did he hear of Pointer’s accident?” ventured Pansy.

    “No, it was not that.”

    The young ladies looked at her expectantly; Miss Blake flushed a little and said: “He wrote some time since, offering one. The boy, Jacky, had been training it, but Percy was jealous of it.”

    “You do not mean Little Nole?” asked Pansy.

    “No, no. This was earlier, my dear. Before your Great-Uncle’s death.”

    “Good. I wouldn’t like to think little Lizzie Amory had been deprived of her monkey!” said Pansy with a grin.

    “No, indeed,” said Delphie faintly.

    “But why did he think you would desire a monkey?” persisted Pansy.

    Miss Blake swallowed. “I really cannot imagine. Though certainly I—I admired Percy when Dr Fairbrother called here.”

    “Well, that explains it,” said Lady Sarah kindly. She had perceived, she fancied, certain facts about this matter that the Ogilvie sisters and their cousin had not. She did not think the headmistress’s flushed cheeks were due entirely to having to explain the oddness of her school’s now featuring a wild animal.

    “I suppose I... Well, I did not refuse,” said Miss Blake feebly. “For to say truth, I did not take the offer seriously. And since he had written quite fully of some of his research, I—I expressed an interest, and—”

    “I see!” cried Pansy, laughing very much. “That is Dr Fairbrother all over! You admired Percy, you did not specifically state in so many words ‘Please do not send me a monkey, it will be the most terrible nuisance in a school,’ and into the bargain you seemed interested in his work! The only wonder is, that he did not send you a cageful and urge you to report your observations to him!”

    “Er—quite,” said Miss Blake, smiling weakly.

    Pansy grinned, and stroked little Davey Monkey, who incidentally was in the smartest little jacket ever seen upon a monkey, navy with a red trim, and the work of Mlle La Plante’s own hands, plus the smartest of tiny leading-strings ever seen upon a monkey, of bright red silk in fine crochet, the work of Miss Worrington’s own hands; and it was not until after the tea-tray, when she was preparing to go out into the garden with her sister and cousin, and duly surrendering Davey Monkey to Miss Blake, that she paused and said on a surprized note: “But how did he get here, Miss Blake? Surely Dr Fairbrother did not come to the district without looking in on us?”

    “No, of course not. A young man delivered him. He introduced himself as James, and said he was bound for Brighton with a message for Sir Chauncey Winnafree, and had been pressed into service as—er—an animal-carrier!” said Miss Blake with a weak laugh.

    Pansy abruptly went very red. “Oh: him,” she said. “Come on, Delphie: come on, Henry.”

    “What on earth—?” said Miss Blake limply as the red-faced Pansy positively dragged her sister from the room, Henry following in their wake looking puzzled.

    Lady Sarah laughed. “Did the young man not tell you his full name, Miss Blake?”

    “Well, no. I assumed he was one of the persons to whom Dr Fairbrother refers as—er—‘Chauncey’s Couriers’.”

    “Of course you did! He is so naughty, he lets people infer that! Pansy and I met him once, and he had a message that time, too, from Dr Fairbrother, and quite deliberately let us think that was who he was. But he is not, in fact, one of the couriers at all.”

    Miss Blake stared. “Well, why did he let me suppose...”

    “I must swear you to secrecy on this point, Miss Blake, or Lady Winnafree will never forgive me!”

    “Er—very well. Certainly,” said Miss Blake, going rather red.

    Lady Sarah Claveringham was certainly aware of the thought that was going through her hostess’s mind; she did not refer to it, however, but said: “That young man is Sir Chauncey’s eldest nephew, and in fact the head of the Winnafree family. It was James Winnafree, Baron Lavery, Miss Blake.”

    “That was Lord Lavery?” she gasped.

    “Yes. Sir Chauncey and Lady Winnafree are very proud of him. But I have to admit that in spite of his really quite prominent place in political life, he is also what Lady Winnafree calls ‘a very naughty boy!’ He is used to travel about quite unescorted, and makes nothing at all of riding many miles delivering messages for his uncle. Though I rather think,” she added with a little smile, “that he does so partly out of love for the old gentleman, and partly because it affords him the opportunity to see a great deal of the situation of the common people throughout the country.”

    “I see,” she said slowly.

    “I met him a second time, shortly after I went to stay with the Winnafrees. He came to collect his younger sister: they are spending the rest of the summer at his home. And the reason that I must beg you most particularly not to reveal his identity,” she said, her fine, aristocratic features suddenly breaking out in smiles: “is that Lady Winnafree has destined him for Pansy!”

    “Oh, good gracious,” said Miss Blake limply.

    Lady Sarah nodded. “The more so since I injudiciously let it out to her that on the occasion of our encounter, Pansy appeared very much struck by him.”

    Miss Blake just nodded limply.

    “I have no notion,” said Sarah simply, “whether they will suit or no. Certainly he is the most dreadful teaze—and Pansy, I think, has not been used to that?”

    “No, indeed. Well: brought up by an elderly professor, with no brothers of her own…” The headmistress’s voice faded out.

    Sarah nodded. “We shall just have to wait and see. But dear Lady Winnafree would never forgive me an I divulged his identity to Pansy. She is persuaded that James—of course I should say, Lord Lavery!” she amended with a little laugh—“that the soi-disant James, let us say, had some definite purpose in not apprising Pansy of his identity. Myself, I should doubt it, but—”

    “But you will not wish to disagree with her Ladyship: of course,” she said kindly. “Goodness, Lord Lavery! I suppose I have been reading the reports of his speeches in the House of Lords for... certainly over five years, now.”

    “Yes. I think he succeeded to the title about seven years since. The twin brothers—oh, he is a twin, I should have said, Miss Blake—they are about thirty-two years of age, I think.”

    “I see.”

    “I liked him very much, and—although Papa would be furious to hear me say so—one cannot help but admire his politics.”—Miss Blake nodded silently: although she was not aware of the Claveringham sisters’ situation, she was certainly aware who their Papa was, and that Lord Hubbel was the most conservative of Tory peers.—“So I think perhaps it might do,” Lady Sarah concluded.

    Miss Blake looked dubious. “I cannot see Pansy... Though if he is as eccentric as you have described him...”

    Lady Sarah nodded and kindly did not say that James Winnafree, Lord Lavery, was even more eccentric than she had described him!

    “Good gracious,” said Alfreda limply, laying down Henry’s letter.

    “Never say she has mentioned him!” cried Mrs Parker.

    “No, Mamma,” she said patiently. They had now received several letters from Henry and she had not mentioned Mr Tarlington’s name once. But Mrs Parker’s was a sanguine temperament.

    “Oh,” she said, her face falling. “So what is it, my dear?”

    “Pray read it for yourself, Mamma,” said Alfreda politely, passing her the letter. “But—well, it is the most extraordinary thing. You recall her headmistress, Miss Blake, of course? Henry seems convinced that Miss Blake has—has formed an attachment for our Ogilvie cousins’ kind friend with the monkeys.”

    “Good gracious: Dr Fairbrother? But have they even met?” she cried.

    “Well, yes. I would say it is a hum, but Henry seems to have discussed it with Lady Sarah, who is as convinced of it as she.”

    Mrs Parker nodded: Henry had disclosed to her Mamma that the Claveringham ladies were staying in the district, though tactfully not mentioning Lady Jane’s precise whereabouts. She read the letter through eagerly.

    Alfreda, meanwhile, was reading the letter that the kind-hearted Delphie had inscribed to Mrs Parker, on being informed breezily by Henry that she thought one letter would do for the household, and as she was writing to Alfreda she need not write to her Mamma this week.

    “This is extraordinary!” said Mrs Parker at last on a cross note.

    “Well, yes,” she owned. “Though I suppose Miss Blake and Dr Fairbrother are much of an age—”

    “Not that!” she cried. “Though I agree, my love, it is extraordinary. But all Henry seems able to write about apart from that is this monkey—well, they are very sweet, I suppose, though destructive little things—and Pansy’s boat; there is nothing at all about anything Delphie has written of!”

    “Er...”

    “Alfreda, Delphie has written very fully of Lady Sarah’s expected engagement to Mr Quayle-Sturt—such a very pleasant man, did I say, my love? And I was so sure he affected Pansy!” she lamented. “Where was I? Oh, yes. Dearest Delphie has written fully of that, and of their suspicions that Commander Carey and Lady Jane Claveringham have formed a mutual attachment, and of Sir Noël Amory’s having removed from Brighton—but Henry has not breathed a word about any one of these persons!”

    “She mentions that Commander Carey took them sailing on his yacht.”

    “Commander Carey! He is forty-five if a day and I dare say more, and now Lady Jane is to have him! And not a word about whether they might have been on Sir Noël’s yacht! And what about the story that he was to entertain the Prince Regent on it?”

    “Mamma, that was—”

    “Not a word!” she said crossly. “She is the most irritating daughter imaginable, and what I have done to deserve her, I know not!”

    “We must be thankful that Henry is having a peaceful and pleasant time and recovering her spirits, Mamma.”

    Mrs Parker looked sulky. “I dare say she will be as cross as a bear, holiday or not, if one but breathes his name! And when his conduct has been only what is entirely admirable, indeed noble—!”

    “Yes, Mamma.”

    “I suppose Pansy will not say any more than your sister has!” she noted resentfully.

    Alfreda opened Pansy’s letter and scanned it rapidly. “It is very short, yes.”

    Mrs Parker held out her hand.

    Limply Alfreda passed her Pansy’s missive. She watched nervously. Mrs Parker did not immediately burst out, however. Instead she fell silent, her brow furrowed.

    Finally she said: “Dearest, does it not strike you that this is rather odd?”

    Alfreda nodded silently.

    “Yes,” said Mrs Parker, frowning again. “For if Henry has written only nonsense about monkeys and silly predictions as to whether Miss Blake and Dr Fairbrother will produce human or furred babies,”—Alfreda had to swallow—“and stuff about going out in Pansy’s boat, there is certainly enough of it! Oh, and about the food: what is so extraordinary about spit-roasted meat or salt beef with greens, I ask you? But as I say, she has written screeds, and if she has not mentioned poor Cousin Aden at all, well, I suppose you are right, my love: her spirits seem recovered enough on the whole. And dear Delphie has written so freely of Lady Sarah’s and Lady Jane’s having attracted two pleasant and eligible gentlemen!”—Alfreda nodded mutely.—“Yes. But Pansy has said almost nothing: almost nothing! Scarce a quarter of a sheet!”

    Alfreda bit her lip. “Mm.”

    “Dearest, there must be something wrong!”

    “I—I think it is largely shock, Mamma. Too many changes all coming at the once to her little world. Do you not think? Our cousins seemed to have become very close to the Claveringham ladies, and of course Pansy had some scheme that Lady Jane might live with her as her companion, and now suddenly both ladies are on the point of contracting engagements. And—er, well, you know she had become very fond of Commander Carey, and of course to a child of her age the likelihood of his ever wishing to change his circumstances must have seemed very remote; and then, she must surely have seen Miss Blake and her school as a—another fixed point in her quiet little existence—”

    “Of course! And not only that! Why, she must see the woman as stealing dear Dr Fairbrother away from her! For with her papa gone, he is the nearest thing she has to a father, Alfreda!”

    “Yes, I am sure that is right, Mamma.”

    After a few moments Mrs Parker said: “I see. Yes: too many changes, coming all at once...”

    Alfreda nodded, blinking a little. “Poor little girl. Well, let us hope that the girls are mistaken in thinking there may be an attachment forming between Dr Fairbrother and Miss Blake, at the least! After all, what is a monkey?”

    “Mm…” Mrs Parker thought it all over, frowning a little. Finally she said: “In the meantime, my love, we must do something about dear Delphie! Why, she has never had a chance, the poor love!”

    Alfreda did not object that perhaps Delphie might not care for the bustle of a London Season. She reflected on the fact that she would never have met her dearest Christian if she had not gone to London, and smiled her gentle smile. “Yes, Mamma.”

Next Chapter:

https://theogilvieconnection.blogspot.com/2022/08/something-is-done-about-delphie.html