Excitement At Lower Beighnham

20

Excitement At Lower Beighnham

    The village dozed on a mild, windless day. In the parlour of Lower Beighnham’s vicarage all was peaceful—or at least as peaceful as was possible when the incumbent had a large family of varied ages.

    “Ooh, a big cawwiage!” squeaked little Lucy with her nose pressed to the window. “Look, Henwy! A gweat big cawwiage!”

    Henry had her nose in a book. “Mm,” she replied.

    Master Timothy Parker was seated on the parlour rug ostensibly fixing the wheel of Daniel’s toy horse but actually sulking, for he was still very bitter over not having been sent to school last term along with “those fellows,” and none of his relatives had thought to apprise him of the possibility, nay virtual certainty, of his suddenly rich brother’s sending him in the coming term. “Pooh, I wager it’s only a carrier! Or at the most Mr Babbington in his stupid trap!”

    “Mm,” replied Henry.

    “’Tis NOT!” shouted Lucy angrily.

    “’Tis!”

    “’Tis NOT!”

    “‘Tis!”

    “’Tis NOT!”

    Since Mrs Parker, Alfreda and Dimity had driven up to the big house to call on Miss Hannaway—Sir Ferdinand and Lady Hannaway at the moment not being in residence, in fact spending the summer season in Brighton as they not infrequently did—Henry was nominally in charge of the little ones. “Stop that,” she groaned. Not with much hope of notice’s being taken, however.

    And indeed no notice was taken. In especial as on the one hand Tim had a more recent grudge to brood over, to wit the fact that Ludo had taken Will fishing, leaving him behind, and on the other hand Lucy was full of the virtuous indignation of she who knows herself to be in the right but is unable to convince her stubborn elders of that fact.

    So when Fanny Higgins, into whose very Higgins-ish head Mrs Parker had drummed very firmly the notion that when the Vicar was in his study on Sermon Day he was on no account to be disturbed, opened the door to usher the unexpected visitor into the parlour, it was still going on.

    “’Tis!”

    “’Tis NOT!”

    “’TIS!” shouted Tim rudely, still not having bothered to look.

    “’Tis NOT!” screamed Lucy, bursting into furious tears. “It’s a gweat big ’normous cawwiage and it IS NOT Mr Babbington!”

    “No, nor it is,” croaked Henry feebly, having duly dropped her book. She staggered to her feet. “Ssh! Um, it’s all right, Fanny—BE QUIET, CHILDREN!—It’s all right, Fanny. I know this gentleman.”

    “Miss Henry, it’s a lord!” gasped Fanny Higgins, who had not had it drummed into her head, Mrs Parker not having expected the Lower Beighnham vicarage would be honoured by the appearance of anything more august than, very occasionally, the genial Sir Ferdinand, that no matter how grand the visitor, one always announced him primly, colourlessly, and correctly.

    “Yes,” said Henry feebly, as the two children stopped screaming and goggled at the lord. “How do you do, Cousin Christian?”

    Lord Harpingdon came forward with his lovely smile. “My dear Cousin Henrietta, how are you?”

    “Very well, thank you,” said Henry feebly, as he bowed.

    “And which little cousins are these?” he asked kindly, seeing Cousin Henrietta was apparently then struck dumb.

    “Oh! Um— Lucy, don’t suck your thumb or Mamma will put more of that nasty stuff on it. They are Lucy and Tim, sir. Come here, Lucy, let’s see if you can make your curtsey,” she added without hope.

    Still sucking her thumb, Lucy came to Henry’s side but did not bob or greet the gentleman, instead shrank into her sister’s skirts. Tim just stared.

    “This gentleman is our Cousin Christian. Um, well, it’s true he is a lord: he’s Lord Harpingdon,” said Henry feebly to her small siblings, “but, um— Well, you can call him ‘Cousin Christian’,” she ended limply. No response. “He’s nice,” she added feebly.

    Christian Narrowmine’s pleasant face was all twinkles. “Well, thank you for the compliment, dear Cousin! How do you do, Tim?” he said politely, holding out his hand.

    “Shake hands!” hissed Henry.

    Tim shook hands, eyeing his new cousin warily.

    “There, Tim shook hands nicely, now can you curtsey, Lucy?” said Henry without hope.

    Lucy merely shrank against her.

    “S,H,Y,” said Henry weakly to Viscount Harpingdon.

    “Of course. Both my little girls are shy, although they are much older than Lucy. In fact I think almost as old as Tim must be: they are turned eleven.”

    “I’m nearly twelve!” said Tim immediately.

    “What a lie,” said Henry limply.

    “I am!” he said, very red and glary.

    “I see. Then of course you must have started school?” said Lord Harpingdon kindly.

    Henry winced.

    “No, ’cos Papa will not send me,” he said, glaring. “And it isn’t fair, ’cos Ludo said I might have the money, he doesn’t even like Oxford!”

    “Ye— Um— Please sit down, Cousin Christian,” said Henry limply.

    Smiling, Lord Harpingdon sat down.

    Henry sank back into her chair. Lucy immediately clambered onto her knee.

    There was a short silence.

    “It was a cawwiage!” said Lucy defiantly.

    “Yes, it was my carriage, Lucy,” Harpy agreed mildly.

    “Wiv FOUR HORSES!” she shouted.

    “Help,” said Henry limply. “Did—um—did anyone come to see to them, sir?”

    “Certainly. A most obliging elderly man.”

    “Oh,” she said, sagging. “Pudden. Thank goodness; I’d forgotten it was his day. Well, in that case they’ll be all right: he used to be an ostler over at Upper Beighnham in his youth.”

    “It’s Sermon Day,” explained Lucy to the company.

    “We know!” retorted Tim scornfully.

    “An’ there were FOUR HORSES!” she shouted.

    “Yes. Ssh,” said Henry, hugging her.

    “An’ it WAS NOT Mr Babbington!” she shouted.

    “No. –Oh! I see!” said Henry with a smile. “The four horses certainly prove that it was not Mr Babbington: yes, you are quite right, Lucy.”

    Lucy subsided, only muttering with a last glare at Tim: “It was not Mr Babbington.”

    “Mr Babbington only drives a trap,” said Henry cheerfully to Lord Harpingdon. “She has quite a logical mind, although she is only six.”

    “I’m BIG!” she shouted.

    “Mm. Well, big for six,” said Henry temperately.

    “I can see you are big, yes,” said Viscount Harpingdon, smiling at her, “and someone told me that you have lately received a very exciting present, Lucy. Can that be right, I wonder?”

    He gave Henry a somewhat anxious look, but she grinned and said: “It’s all right, you haven’t put your foot in it again. She has received it. –Lucy, he means Whistling Canary. Would you like to go and get him?”

    “Whistling Canawy,” she muttered, eyeing Lord Harpingdon suspiciously. “He’s all mine.”

    “Most certainly he is all yours. And I have heard so much about him, but I have never heard him actually whistle, and I should so much like to.”

    “I’ll go an’ get him!” she decided, sliding off Henry’s knee.

    “Be careful on the stairs, Lucy,” said Henry.

    Lucy went out without deigning to reply to that insult.

    Lord Harpingdon sat back in his chair and frankly laughed.

    “Was it that funny?” said Henry cautiously.

    “Only that she had such a look of yourself on her face, just then! –I’m so sorry!” he gasped.

    “Yes, Mamma says they’re both as stubborn as mules!” said Tim pleasedly.

    “You need to be, in this family. Especially if you’re a girl,”  said Henry grimly.

    “I’m sure!” gasped Christian.

    She grinned sheepishly.

    Smiling, he said: “I collect your Papa is closeted in his study with an embryo sermon?”

    “Yes: it’s Sermon Day,” said Tim patiently, as of one addressing a slightly deaf and not at all bright person of advanced years.

    “Mm,” agreed Henry, glancing cautiously at the small clock on the mantel.

    “Don’t dream of disturbing him!” said Harpy hurriedly.

    “Um, he will probably not be very much longer. Mamma and the others have driven out.”

    “Not Daniel,” explained Tim helpfully. “He’s in bed.”

    “I see. He’s the youngest, I think?”

    “Yes, he’s only four.”

    “Of course.”

    “And Ludo and Egg and Will have gone fishing, and they wouldn’t take me,” he said, scowling.

    “That was most unfair. Brothers are like that, are they not?” Casually Harpy produced a snuffbox from his coat pocket. Henry had never before seen him indulge this habit: she looked at him doubtfully. He took a pinch, with a very elegant turn of the wrist, dusted his person casually with a flourish of his handkerchief, and returned the snuffbox to his pocket. He was not unaware of the dead silence in the room.

    Finally Tim said to his sister with a deep sigh: “Did you see that?”

    Henry nodded mutely.

    “That was something like! Ludo can’t do it for nuts!” he discovered.

    “No.”

    “I’ll get mine!” he cried, suddenly beaming all over his face. He rushed out.

    “Was that the exercise of supreme tact?” said Henrietta limply to Viscount Harpingdon.

    He smiled. “I was afraid you would see it, rather, as extreme cunning! Well, yes, I have to admit it was. Your mamma explained to me exactly what all the children were left by your great-uncle.”

    “Yes,” said Henry limply. “So I see. –Tim has been terribly jealous of Lucy’s bird, sir. So you did precisely the right thing.”

    “Well, I am very glad. Though I fear it can scarce make up for my awful faux pas over the school business!” he said gaily. “—Ah, here is Lucy. My, isn’t Whistling Canary altogether splendid?”

    “Yes! Wait till you hear him!” gasped Lucy.

    Henry sprang up and cleared some books and journals off a little occasional table. “Put him here.”

    The canary in his gilded cage was duly set down, and wound up, and by the time Tim returned with his silver snuffbox, had sung three times, and Lucy had come right up to Cousin Christian’s knee. And was explaining earnestly that only she was allowed to wind him, or Papa, and not the boys, and you had to wind him very carefully, ’cos he had a spring inside his works, just like Papa’s big watch, and it might break.

    “Will broke Papa’s watch,” explained Tim with considerable satisfaction.

    “Yes. Only it was an accident,” said Lucy dubiously.

    “Yes. But an expensive accident; poor Papa had to send it all the way to Exeter to be mended,” said Henry.

    “Pudden said Will was as ham-fisted with a watch as he is on a horse,” noted Tim with satisfaction.

    “Pudden thinks everyone save himself is ham-fisted on a horse,” said Henry firmly. “Show Cousin Christian your snuffbox, Tim.”

    “Silver! What a beauty!” said Christian admiringly. “Mine is but tortoiseshell: see?” He produced it again. “Quite pretty, I suppose, but nothing to this very handsome piece.”

    “Yes, I suppose it is very handsome,” said Tim carelessly.

    “Only men take snuff,” said Lucy on a cross note.

    “Well, yes. But Tim could learn the manner of it now,” said Christian. “In fact there is nothing to stop anyone learning the manner of it, should they care to.”

    “Good, let’s all learn,” said Henry instantly. “Though I realize that as girls we will never get the chance to do it in real life.”

    “Well, no. Though I have seen older ladies take snuff,” replied Lord Harpingdon, putting his box in his coat pocket. “Put yours in your pocket, Tim.”

    “We can just pretend,” said Henry to Lucy, pretending to put a snuffbox in her non-existent coat pocket. Solemnly Lucy pretended.

    Some time later the Vicar emerged into his passage from his study, his fingers very much ink-stained and his neckcloth and silvered curls distinctly rumpled, to hear the sound of a gentleman’s laugh, mixed with younger, lighter, more excited and more familiar ones, proceeding from the study.

    “Er—who is that in the parlour, Fanny?” he asked as Fanny Higgins shot into the passage.

    “Sir, he said as ’e were a lord, and ’e come with four horses in ’is carriage, and Miss Henry, she said as she knowed ’im!”

    “A lord? Which lord?” said the Vicar mildly.

    “I done forget, Vicar!” she gasped.

    “Oh. Are you sure he did not say he was a Mr Tarlington, Fanny?”

    “I do be certain sure ’e said he were a lord, Vicar! Only I couldn’t say if that were the name, or… Somethin’ like Herring, I did think, sir.”

    The Reverend Simeon took a deep breath. “Lord Harpingdon? A youngish man of—of pleasant address?” he ended weakly. Fanny Higgins was about Henry’s age.

    Sure enough, Fanny replied dubiously: “Well, ’e weren’t that old, I suppose, Vicar. Not as you might say, old.”

    “No. Have you taken in a tray, Fanny?”

    “No, sir. Miss Henry hasn’t rung, sir,” she said blankly.

    “No. Well, I shall join them, and I think you had best bring a tray of tea directly. And please tell Cook the best china, and if there is some cake, she had best send it in.”

    “Yes, sir! Sir, do ’e be truly a lord, then?”

    “Yes: I think it must be Lord Harpingdon. His family are distant connections, and Mrs Parker and the girls met him in London. Run along, if you please, Fanny.”

    Fanny bobbed, very pink and excited, and shot out to acquaint Cook with the exciting news that it were truly a lord, that it were an actual relation of Vicar’s, and that the cake and the best china would be needed.

    When the Vicar opened the parlour door he was presented with a scene of utter harmony: Henry and Lord Harpingdon were seated at either side of the hearth, Tim was on the rug at the Viscount’s knee, Lucy was on the actual knee, and his Lordship was telling them all about his home on the south coast of Cornwall, his two little girls, their little sailing boat, their dogs and their ponies.

    … “What did you think of him, my love?” asked Mrs Parker very much later that evening in her husband’s study.

    The Vicar sighed a little. “I liked him very much. Though of course one cannot know a man on first acquaintance.”

    “No.” She looked at him hopefully. “But he is very much liked, generally, I am told. And certainly he seems to have behaved just as he ought over that shocking business of the poor little twins.”

    “Indeed.”

    Mrs Parker eyed him cautiously. “Shall you permit him to speak to Alfreda, then, Simeon?”

    The Vicar sighed again. “I can scarcely refuse permission, Venetia: Alfreda is a grown woman and Viscount Harpingdon a grown man. But I have told him I cannot approve of an engagement, with his parents opposed to the match.”

    Mrs Parker swallowed. “No. Er—have you said anything to Alfreda, dearest?”

    “No,” he said wearily, running his hand through his curls. “I have not yet had an opportunity to do so. And in any case I have no notion of what I should say to her.”

    “Oh.”

    “Go on up, my dear. I need to think about it for a little.”

    Mrs Parker went slowly over to the door. “Did Lord Harpingdon actually ask if he might pay his addresses, my love?”

    “Yes.”

    She swallowed. “I see. And—and what exactly did you say, Simeon?”

    “I have just told you, Venetia,” he said wearily.

    Mrs Parker took a deep breath. “Simeon Parker, do you mean to tell me you actually told that poor young man you would not refuse him permission but you could not approve of an engagement?”

    He looked at her in some surprize. “Certainly. I could not reconcile it with my conscience to do otherwi—”

    “Not reconcile it with your conscience!” she cried bitterly. “What about your daughter’s happiness, pray? I suppose you never gave that a moment’s thought while you were reconciling your a precious conscience!”

    The Vicar had flushed brightly. “Alfreda is a young woman of principle,” he said stiffly. “I hardly think she would see her happiness as residing in the wilful flouting of the wishes of her affianced husband’s parents.”

    “RUBBISH!” shouted Mrs Parker at the top of her voice. She went out, not neglecting to slam the study door violently.

    The Vicar sat down sadly in his big chair and began to wrestle with his conscience. Was he perhaps acting selfishly, as Venetia had implied, in neglecting his daughter’s chance of true happiness while he pampered his “precious conscience”? Where did true conscience end and self-regarding and pride step in?

    Mrs Parker went to bed with angry tears in her eyes and did not say her prayers. Instead she tossed and turned for hours, alternately crying angrily and scheming fruitlessly, and in the intervals wondering when Simeon would come to bed and what she could possibly say to make him change his mind, and whether he would be angry or, much worse, in a state of sad self-reproach. Though in the latter case it might be possible to force him to her way of thinking...

    By the time the Vicar did eventually get to bed she had long since cried herself to sleep.

    “There must be something we can do!” cried Dimity.

    “There isn’t,” said Henry shortly. “And if you wish to go on about it, you may walk by yourself.” She strode on very fast.

    “No!” cried Dimity, scrambling to keep up. “Don’t be mean, Henry!”

    Henry merely scowled and strode on.

    “I have it!” gasped Dimity. Even though Henry was ignoring her she explained: “You must write to Cousin Aden, Henry!”

    Henry went very red. In the wake of Mr Tarlington’s speaking to her mamma (not to say Theo’s private word to her mamma), she had now received three letters from Cousin Aden. The first had been very brief, merely informing her of his intention to write to tell her of their summer doings, if she should like it. Henry had responded politely to this missive, saying little more than that she would be glad to hear of him and Fliss, and that the journey home had been accomplished uneventfully. She had therefore been a little startled by the next letter, which came almost by return of post, and in which Mr Tarlington had given her a very full account of Mrs Mayes’s complicated plot to throw Lord Hubbel off the scent of his fugitive daughters. She had written back a little shyly, feeling that she had very little to say, for nothing had happened at home except that Egg had fallen off Brownie but was unharmed, Dimity had performed the unprecedented act of donating a dress to be cut down for little Lucy (though it was true she had no hand in the subsequent cutting, which was all Alfreda’s), and she herself had helped Cook to make jars and jars of gooseberry jam, which had set, in Cook’s words, like a rock, and Tim, who had been roped in for the labelling, had labelled every jar “Rock Jam” before it was realized what he was up to.

    There had been a gap of several weeks before the third letter arrived and Henry had begun to feel miserably that he must have found her letter very boring indeed and decided that he no longer wished to correspond with a little country frump. She had revealed to no-one that her heart had pounded very hard yester morning when young Mrs Pudden at the little shop in the village had beamed and said: “Oh, and there do be a letter for you today, me deary! Sealed with wax, an’ all, it be!” And she had recognized the small, very black writing on the envelope.

    The third letter was written from London and reported the Claveringham ladies’ being safely away on the river, Portia Parrot’s having hatched her egg, Fliss’s tearful ecstasy over the fearfully ugly baby, and, just by the by, Mr Tarlington’s own intention of removing for the latter part of the summer, after the ladies should have been got safely to Guillyford Bay, to old Jeremiah Aden’s house near Chipping Bitter. With a very long account of exactly what he meant to do around the estate when he got there. Dimity, who had appeared even more thrilled than the blushing Henry over the receipt of this third missive, had given up not even halfway through this last section and handed the letter back to its recipient, saying in amaze: “Who does he think you are, Henry? What young lady could possibly be interested in hedging and ditching and—and all this croppy stuff?” Henry had merely folded the letter up tightly and not replied. Mrs Parker and Alfreda had exchanged glances at this point and Mrs Parker, though of course she would have been quite within her maternal rights to do so, had not asked to read the letter.

    As Henry did not say anything, just marched on, scowling, Dimity urged: “Couldn’t you? You haven’t replied already, have you? It only came yesterday!”

    “Not yet,” said Henry shortly.

    “Well?” she cried, catching at her arm.

    Henry halted in her tracks with a sigh. “I couldn’t possibly write to Cousin Aden about something like that.”

    Dimity could not fail to see that her cousin’s cheeks were very red: she said eagerly: “Why not? I dare say he would do anything for you!” ‘

    “Balderdash,” said Henry tightly. “And even if he would, there is nothing he can do, there is nothing anyone can do. Or are you implying I should beg him to pay an assassin to remove Lord and Lady Blefford? Or call Lord Blefford out, perchance?”

    “No!” she said crossly.

    “No,” agreed Henry drily.

    “No, but listen, Henry: Lord Harpingdon is his cousin, would he not listen to him?”

    Henry went even redder. “Dimity Parker, are you suggesting I should ask Cousin Aden to use his influence with Lord Harpingdon to persuade him to flout Papa’s wishes and his own parents’ wishes, and override Alfreda’s sense of duty and coerce her into agreeing to marry him?”

    Dimity burst into loud tears.

    Henry chewed on her lip. “I’m sorry, Dimity.”

    Dimity continued to sob.

    “Don’t,” said Henry, putting an arm round her. Dimity continued to sob, but after a little the sobs abated somewhat and Henry added glumly: “It would amount to that, you know.”

    Dimity looked up tearfully. “But it’s so silly! Alfreda wishes to marry him as much as he wishes to marry her! And—and the whole of Society knows that Lord and Lady Blefford are a pair of mean old pigs, so why should two lovely people like Alfreda and Cousin Harpingdon have to—to sacrifice their happiness to their horrid prejudices?”

    Henry was now very pale. “It is a matter of duty. Alfreda recognizes as much, herself.”

    “Have—have you spoken to her?” faltered Dimity.

    “Yes,” she said tightly. “It is as Papa said: although she would consent to an engagement if his parents gave their permission, she has told him that in the present circumstances, it is impossible. And I am sorry to have to say this, Dimity, but you remember that Papa also said when he spoke to us of it, that we were to endeavour not to discuss the matter.”

    Dimity looked very angry. “It is humanly impossible! And my uncle is just too good for everyday life!”

    Henry sighed and said unguardedly: “I fear Mamma would certainly agree with you, there.”

    There was a short pause.

    “Well, at least he is still here!” said Dimity on a defiant note.

    Viscount Harpingdon was putting up at the tavern in Lower Beighnham. He had written to his parents explaining the situation in full and endeavouring to impress upon the Earl and Countess of Blefford the utter propriety of Mr Parker’s and Miss Parker’s conduct, and was now awaiting a reply.

    “Mm,” agreed Henry glumly. “I don’t know if that’s helping or not.”

    “I heard her weeping again last night,” said Dimity sadly.

    Henry sighed. “Yes.”

    Dimity put her arm round her waist. The cousins walked on a little.

    “Are you sure you could not mention it to Cousin Aden, dearest?”

    Henry flushed up again. “I could not possibly urge him to a course of conduct which would be quite unethical.”

    “No, I see that. Only, if you explained the situation, perhaps he’d be able to think of something that we haven’t!” She looked at her hopefully.

    “What: because he’s a man?” said Henry on a scornful note. She walked on rather faster.

    Dimity, with her arm still round her, had to scramble to keep up. “No! Silly! Why, the whole family knows you are the cleverest, Henry, even though you are a girl! No, um, just because he’s—um... worldly,” she finished in a small voice.

    Henry smiled a little. “He is, I suppose. Well, worldly-wise, at least.”

    “Yes: worldly-wise,” Dimity agreed, terrifically relieved that this seemed to have gone over rather well. “Could you not?”

    “We-ell... I shall tell him,” said Henry with a little laugh, “that I am only asking his advice because you feel he is sufficiently worldly-wise to advance a suggestion that has not occurred to us country mice!”

    “Good!” she beamed, squeezing her waist.

    After quite some time she added: “Where are we going, Henry?”

   “What? Oh,” said Henry, coming to a stop and looking extremely foolish. “I hadn’t really thought...”

    “We’re nearly at the village, we must have come round in a circle.”

    “Um—yes. Well, I suppose, since we are here—”

    “Yes!” Dimity forged ahead eagerly in the direction of young Mrs Pudden’s little general store. Henry found, for one reason or another, she could not dredge up the courage to point out there could scarcely be another letter today.

    “Well, now!” beamed Mrs Pudden. “That do be a piece of luck, you young ladies comin’ into the shop today. I were just sayin’ to Mrs Drake that maybe I should be sendin’ up to vicarage, like, since there do be all these letters that done come for Vicar, and so forth!”

    This Mrs Drake’s husband, though a Devon man, was not apparently a descendant of the great navigator, the which was a source of considerable disappointment to the Parker children. In fact, he had never set foot on a deck in his life. And never even been as far as Exeter. Mrs Drake’s own experience of the wider world was about the same, but that did not mean she was stupid. So she nodded eagerly and said: “Aye, we were sayin’ as it might be best, young ladies. For there do be great seals and frankin’ and the Lord knows what all over them letters. So I were after sayin’ to Jessie Pudden, that maybe she did ought to send young Jem up to vicarage with ’em.”

    “Only you never do know, and if so be it do be bad news, does Vicar want to get it, is what I say,” added Mrs Pudden.

    “Puttin’ it off won’t be makin’ it no better,” noted Mrs Drake.

    “No, that’s very true. And certainly Papa does not believe in putting off the evil moment,” agreed Henry, smiling at her.

    Meanwhile, Dimity was eagerly looking through the letters.

    “One for you, Miss,” noted Mrs Pudden in congratulatory tones.

    “Why, so there is!”

    Henry looked over her shoulder. “I think it must be from Fliss: that looks like her strange way of making a circle over an I.”

    Dimity was delving in her reticule. “Yes! How like Fliss to write an enormous letter without thought as to how many sixpences the recipient might have to pay!”

    Henry smiled. “It will be all about the parrot baby, I dare swear. And these are for Papa, are they, Mrs Pudden?”

    “Well, not entirely, me deary, for there do be this great one with the wax, and the frankin’ , and all, for Vicar,”—Henry gulped, the large letter was franked “Blefford”—“and see, another for your ma,”—this one was also franked “Blefford” but the superscription was in a different hand—“and one for Miss Alfreda,”—likewise—“and this here, it be for the little boy, only I s’pose as you’ll have to read it to ’im, Missy!” She gave a comfortable chuckle.

    Henry went very pink. The last letter destined for the vicarage was addressed to “Master Daniel Parker” in the small, very black, rather crabbed hand she had latterly got to know very well.

    “Why, it’s from Cousin Aden!” cried Dimity in astonishment. “What can he be writing little Daniel about?”

    “I think he mentioned something about a puppy,” said Henry in a strangled voice.

    “I never saw any mention of a puppy,” said Dimity dubiously.

    “It was at the end,” said Henry in a strangled voice.

    The two villagers were looking at her with great approval.

    “Well, now, that do be a sweet thought!” beamed Mrs Drake.

    Henry licked her lips. She wished to make some remark about there being any number of local puppies available. but for some reason could not. “Mm.”

    “Come along, Henry, shall we go?” said Dimity eagerly, tucking the letters into her reticule.

    “There do be another letter, too. Franked, an’ all. For that lord what be courtin’ Miss Alfreda,” noted Mrs Pudden.

    “Truly?” gasped Dimity, clasping her hands.

    Mrs Pudden produced it and looked at it in a considering way. “Aye.”

    “His parents must have made up their minds to it!” gasped Dimity.

    “One way or another, yes,” noted Henry grimly.

    “But Henry, if they are still opposed to it, why would they write Alfreda?”

    “To tell her to sheer off,” said Henry grimly. “Come on.” She grabbed her elbow. “I would send Jem to the tavern with that, if I were you, Mrs Pudden. Good-day to you both.”

    “No, wait! We could take it!” gasped Dimity.

    “Whatever the contents of that letter may be—good or bad,” noted Henry grimly, “we shall not put poor Lord Harpingdon to the unspeakable embarrassment of having to receive it at our hands. –Come ON!” She dragged her cousin’s pouting form out.

    There was a moment’s silence in young Mrs Pudden’s dim little shop.

    “That there Dimity, she do be as thick as two short planks,” noted Mrs Drake.

    “Aye. The poor gennelman: imagine havin’ to open it with the two on ’em standin’ there watchin’ of ’im! Well, Miss Henry’s got enough brains for the two on ’em—and it do be just as well.”

    “Aye. ’T’ain’t just brains, though. I were sayin’ to my Fred just t’other day: she do have a heart as well as a head, that Miss Henry. You do be seein’ it more, now that she’s growin’ up.”

    “Aye.”

    Their eyes met.

    “And receivin’ letters from grand Lunnon gennelmen an’ all, bless ’er!” choked Mrs Pudden. “And you never seen anythin’ as pink as the cheeks on ’er, every time one comes!”

    The two matrons chuckled complacently.

    Alfreda having elected to read her letter in her room, Henry and Dimity were left alone with Mrs Parker in the parlour. The girls watched nervously as Mrs Parker opened her letter.

    The sheet fluttered in her hand as she read it over. Then she burst into torrents of tears.

    “Oh! No!” wailed Dimity in dismay.

    “No!” gasped Mrs Parker through her tears. “Not—that! Gracious!” Further tears.

    The letter had dropped to the floor. Henry snatched it up. The two cousins read it with bolting eyes, heads together.

    “Huzza!” cried Dimity.

    “Help,” said Henry numbly.

    “Is—it not—the most—gracious—thing?” gasped Mrs Parker.

    “Yes—um—do you need a handkerchief, Mamma?” said Henry hoarsely.

    Mrs Parker fumbled for a handkerchief and blew her nose shakily, her eyes shining. “Oh! I cannot believe it! Such a relief!”

    Henry read the letter over again. “Yes. What on earth can have persuaded Lady Blefford to change her mind?”

    “She must have seen the injustice of attempting to keep apart two such admirable persons, who most truly love each other,” said Dimity on soulful note.

    “Pooh!” replied Henry, scowling. “She says here something about wishing for a quiet wedding. I can believe that.”

    Mrs Parker gave a rending sniff and produced: “But of course! The Earl of Blefford is not well. Oh, my loves, our dearest Alfreda a countess! Imagine it!”

    “Say rather, our dearest Alfreda married to the man she loves,” said Henry on a grim note. “I am surprized at you, Mamma.”

    Mrs Parker went very red. “Henrietta, that is no way to speak to your mamma!”

    Henry gave her a hard look.

    Reflecting uneasily that when Henry was being particularly recalcitrant she had such a look of Simeon about her, Mrs Parker said: “Well, of course I am happy that she may marry the man she affects: that is the primary thing, after all! But to have brought up a houseful of children in abject—yes, I will not scruple to say it, girls—in abject poverty, and to see my lovely Alfreda wasting away into an old maid with no hopes of anything better than a Mr Babbington—and then this! Oh, it is too much!” She burst into tears again.

    Dimity was sneakily blowing her own nose. “She’s right, Henry,” she said shakily. “And if only I could have given dearest Alfreda half my fortune—”

    “We know,” said Henry, patting her shoulder awkwardly.

    “Henry,” ordered Mrs Parker through her tears, “run and fetch your sister immediately.”

    Henry went reluctantly to the door. “Mamma, she may wish for a little privacy.”

    “Rubbish! Fetch her at once! –I wonder if the Narrowmines will wish for them to be married from Blefford Park? Or, no, stay! Why, here is an idea! Dimity, my love, what do you say to this: your Cousin Alfreda may be married in Oxford from her brother’s house! Now!”

    Henry went out, frowning. She did not quite dare not to do her mother’s bidding, not because she was scared of any possible retribution, but because she was aware that if Alfreda did not speedily appear in the parlour, Mrs Parker would send Dimity for her. She went slowly upstairs and tapped on Alfreda’s door.

    “It’s only Henry,” she said glumly when there was no answer. “Mamma made me come up for you.”

    There was the faintest of laughs from inside and Alfreda opened the door. She had clearly been weeping, but also looked quite...

    “You look radiant,” said Henry limply.

    Alfreda nodded, and kissed her cheek, and Henry forthwith threw her arms round her sister and burst into loud sobs.

    “Ssh, my love. Come and sit down.” Alfreda led her into her bedroom and sat her on the edge of the bed.

    “Sorry,” said Henry eventually, sniffing.

    Alfreda gave her a squeeze. “Nonsense, dearest!”

    “I was absolutely sure the beastly old pair would never let you marry him, Alfreda.”

    “So was I,” she said shakily.

    Henry wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. “What on earth can he have said in his letter to persuade them?”

    “I’m not sure. I have an idea from something Lady Blefford has written that it may not be anything that—that Lord Harpingdon,” said Alfreda, her quiet voice shaking, “actually wrote, so much as—as his mamma’s feeling that he was adamant in the matter and that they have had enough scandal in the family, with that terrible business of—of—”

    “His first wife, mm.”

    “Yes. See what she says, here?” Alfreda showed her the letter.

    Henry read over the passage indicated. Her jaw sagged.

    “Um—yes,” agreed Alfreda weakly, swallowing.

    “Alfreda, it is beyond anything!” Henry read out numbly: “‘I will not pretend that the prospect of the match delights either Blefford or myself. You must be as aware as I, my dear Miss Parker,’—well, at least she’s calling you ‘dear,’ I suppose that’s something; um... ‘You must be as aware as I, my dear Miss Parker, of the inequality in your two stations in life. But as Harpingdon has indicated he wishes for it, neither his father nor I will stand in his way. You will understand that we are particularly concerned to avoid giving rise to the sort of unfavourable speculation which has plagued the family in the past. We are agreed that it will be best if you come to us this Christmas in order to learn the ways of the house and the duties that will be yours as Harpingdon’s wife.’ Good grief, she must mean Blefford Park! Well, at least you’ll see the famous gilded ceiling in the chapel. Is that the only reference she makes to his divorce?”

    “Mm. At first I did not think… But clearly it must be her main reason for agreeing to the match.”

    “Yes. Well, never mind what the reason is, she has agreed. You—you won’t do anything silly like saying you can’t after all, as Lady Blefford doesn’t truly wish for it, will you?” she said, looking fearfully into her sister’s face.

    Alfreda blushed, and laughed, and shook her head. “No! For I do not think I could! Oh, Henry, I am so very, very happy!” she cried, hugging her with all her might.

    “Yes,” said Henry in a strangled voice. “Me, too. I like him awfully.”

    “Yes. And—and when we are fixed at Harpingdon Manor,” said Alfreda, blushing deeply: “you must come to us very often. For it is only at the other side of the county, you know.”

    Henry nodded eagerly. “I’d love to!”

    “Good,” she said, kissing her cheek gently, and getting up. “And now, I think we had best not keep Mamma waiting any longer!”

    “Oh! No!” Henry scrambled up hastily and the two sisters went downstairs arm-in-arm.

    It then appeared that, after embracing her and crying a few more joyful drops, Mrs Parker had sent for Alfreda only to tell her to change her dress, for she ordered her upstairs to do so immediately. Adding that even though they were in mourning for Great-Uncle Humphrey—Henry and Dimity jumped and looked at each other guiltily—Alfreda must put on her white dotted muslin. With black ribbons. And great Heavens, had the girls been wandering about the village in those old print gowns? What would Cousin Christian think of them? Quick, quick: into their muslins!

    The girls retreated upstairs in a bunch. After which Mrs Parker bethought her— And hastened upstairs herself, to get into her best black silk afternoon gown.

    The Vicar had ridden out to pay calls that afternoon and was quite stunned on his return home to find his parlour bedecked by a bevy of feminine beauty.

    “Well!” he said with a smile. “You are all very fine, my dears!”

    Mrs Parker rose and embraced him mistily. “My dearest love! There is the most wonderful news!”

    Dimity by this time was considerably overwrought: they had been sitting up properly in their best gowns for hours—well, at least an hour, she was sure—and there was still no sign of Lord Harpingdon. “Yes, and if you do not agree it is the best news ever, Uncle Simeon, it will be too unutterably cruel!” she cried.

    “Hush, my dear,” said Mrs Parker mistily. “Simeon, my love, come into the study.” She led him off.

    “Fingers crossed, I think,” said Henry grimly. “I would not put it past Mamma to make a mull of the whole thing. In especial if she mentions the word ‘countess’,” she added with a nasty look at Dimity.

    “What did I say?” she cried aggrievedly.

    “When we were changing our dresses you said: ‘Alfreda will be a countess one day!’ And when we were coming downstairs, you said: ‘I wonder if she will wear wonderful jewels?’ And—”

    “Henry, dear, hush!” protested Miss Parker, laughing and blushing.

    “Thirdly, she said to me as we were about to enter this very room: ‘If Cousin Harpingdon does not give Alfreda an engagement ring as big as Lady Rockingham’s, it will be just nuts,’” ended Henry grimly.

    Alfreda swallowed. “Dimity, dearest, those sentiments were not entirely proper.”

    “No, but they were entirely human, and do not tell me the thought never entered your mind!” she cried.

    Alfreda looked towards Henry in despair.

    “Dimity, can you not see they did not, for Alfreda is not worldly at ail?” said Henry fiercely.

    Dimity pouted.

    “I— Well, no, I did not think of those things, my dears, that is true,” said Alfreda, blushing very much.

    Dimity pouted.

    For a moment Alfreda’s hands worked together nervously in her dotted muslin lap. Then she said: “I shall tell you what I did think, my loves, for I do not think that either of you truly understands yet that—that when one really loves a gentleman, considerations of—of rings and suchlike do not enter into it. I—well, what I thought was, that—that when he—he asks me, you know, will he—will he wish to kiss me,” she finished in a voice so low the girls scarcely caught the words.

    Their jaws dropped.

    After quite some time Dimity hissed: “Would a gentleman, though? After all, he is a viscount, Alfreda!”

    “I—I don’t know.”

    “Do you wish him to?” croaked Henry.

    Alfreda nodded very hard, going pinker than ever.

    “Help,” said Henry limply.

    After a moment Dimity admitted: “Mr Edward Claveringham wished to kiss me, at a silly ball. Only I smacked his face and told him I was not Miss Porky Potter and he had best take me straight back into the ballroom.”

    “So I should think!” said Henry strongly.

    “Yes. But then,” said Alfreda in a wavering voice, with a strange smile on her lovely countenance: “you are not in love with Mr Edward Claveringham, I think, Dimity?”

    “Ugh, no!” she cried. “...Oh,” she said. “No. I see what you mean.”

    “Mm.” Alfreda glanced doubtfully at Henry, who was sitting there very red-faced, but said no more.

    After quite some time Henry managed to say to her cousin: “See?”

    Dimity pouted. “Yes. But I shall never be that good, an I live to be an hundred. I cannot imagine not thinking about the ring, at the very least!”

    To Alfreda’s considerable astonishment, Henry then squeezed her cousin’s hand and said gruffly: “Never mind. We cannot all be as good and unworldly as Alfreda. And I must admit that I—I once...”

    “Yes?” said Dimity eagerly.

    “It sounds so silly! Only you know how Lady Lavinia Dewesbury always looks so very smart and—and… Well,” she said, taking a brave breath, “it was when we were out riding with Gwennie and her papa, not long before we left town, and Sir Lionel was worrying that it looked like rain; and I could not help wondering what it would be like to have a—a caring gentleman like that for a husband, who would—would put one in a lovely house and—and buy one silk gowns and... look after one if it should come on to rain,” she finished, gulping.

    For a moment no-one spoke.

    “That was a worldly thought, if you like!” admitted Henry with a grimace.

    “No, dearest!” cried Alfreda with a little laugh. “It was the most natural thought in the world!”

    “It is not that I affect Sir Lionel,” she explained hurriedly.

    “No, of course not,” said Alfreda kindly.

    “You imagined being married to him and wearing silk dresses, Henry?” croaked Dimity.

    “Mm,” she said, biting her lip. “Well, that—that situation.”

    Dimity goggled from her to Alfreda.

    “What is the verdict, Dimity?” asked Alfreda with a twinkle in her lapis eye.

    Dimity took a deep breath. “I can only say, that there is hope for her yet!”

    “Yes!” Alfreda agreed with a laugh. “Exactly my thought!”

    Henry grinned sheepishly. “Yes. But for pity’s sake, don’t tell Mamma!”

    They laughed, but promised kindly; though Alfreda at least had the thought that they would not need to, with all these letters Henry was receiving from he who had once been “Mr. T.”!

   The Vicar had been unable to stand the tension in the house: he was pacing in the garden. Mrs Parker and the younger girls, plus Lucy and Daniel, were in the parlour. Metaphorically chewing their nails, and in Dimity’s case, occasionally literally biting a knuckle. Alfreda was closeted with Viscount Harpingdon in the Vicar’s study.

    “What is taking them so long?” demanded Henry crossly at last.

    “Hush, my love,” murmured Mrs Parker.

    “But Mamma, he has only to say ‘Will you?’ and she has only to say ‘Yes’: surely it cannot take this long!”

    “Henry Parker, sometimes you can be a very silly little girl!” retorted Mrs Parker strongly.

    Dimity had opened her mouth to express agreement with her cousin but fortunately had shut it in time. She looked plaintively at her aunt, but did not dare to speak.

    Mrs Parker took a deep breath. “Where is the letter for Daniel? I shall read it to him.”

    Dimity ran and fetched it off the mantel.

    “Now, Daniel, here is a letter for you, for your very own!” said Mrs Parker pleasedly, pulling him onto her knee.

    “Letter,” said Daniel.

    “I want a letter, too!” cried Lucy aggrievedly.

    “Next time,” said Mrs Parker firmly. “Now, let us see what it says! Who can it be from, I wonder?”

    Henry sighed loudly and rolled her eyes in exasperation. Dimity flopped back onto the sofa with a huffing noise.

    “Sit up straight, please, Dimity, a lady does not slouch,” said Mrs Parker, not bothering to look at her. “Well, now, let us see! This is from your Cousin Aden, Daniel—can you say Cousin Aden?”—Daniel looked blank.—“Never mind. It is from your Cousin Aden, and it is about—”

    “A puppy,” said Dimity in a bored voice.

    “Ssh!” said Mrs Parker angrily. “You are spoiling his surprize! –Well! Well!” she said in a squeaky voice. “How did Cousin Aden know that Someone is going to be five soon, I wonder?”

    “I imagine you told him, when you were in Oxford,” said Henry in a bored voice.

    “Girls, if you cannot behave yourselves, you may go into the garden.”

    “No, for Uncle Simeon will give us another lecture on—” Dimity caught her aunt’s eye and broke off.

    “The virtue of patience,” said Henry sourly. “Doubtless belabouring the point that self-sacrifice is its own reward and that one must not expect a reward for it upon this earth, and that Alfreda’s receiving one should not be taken as a—”

    “Henry!” cried her mother angrily. “That will do!”

    “Well, I’m sorry, Mamma, only he seems to think that no-one of the family is capable of grasping that point save himself.”

    “Be silent.” Mrs Parker read over Aden’s letter to herself. “Now, Daniel, what does Cousin Aden say?”

    “Mamma, read it, for pity’s sake, before we go mad,” said Henry grimly.

    “That will do! I am surprized at you, Henrietta.”

    “Rea’ me letter!” cried Daniel aggrievedly.

    Dimity choked; Henry looked drily at her mother.

    Affecting not to notice this, Mrs Parker said airily: “Now then, Daniel, my love! What does Cousin Aden say? –It is all in very hard writing, you see, my angel, for Cousin Aden is a big man,” she said, showing it to him.

    “It is not that hard to read. Not as hard as Ludo’s writing,” said Dimity.

    Mrs Parker ignored this. “Well, it begins like a proper letter, Daniel!”—Henry sighed.—“‘My Dear Daniel’: there, see: D,A,N,I,E,L, that is your name!”—Henry rolled her eyes. She and Dimity exchanged grimly resigned glances.—“‘I thought that you would like a letter to yourself.’ Well, isn’t that sweet! See, Daniel, it really is specially for you!”

    “My name.”

    “Yes, that’s right, it has your name! See: D,A—”

    Henry got up and went out.

    Mrs Parker eventually got all the way through the letter, which was very short, merely offering Daniel a puppy and wishing him a happy birthday. By the end of it Dimity was feeling quite as desperate as Henry had. And there was still no sign of Alfreda and Lord Harpingdon!

    Mrs Parker then encouraged Lucy to fetch Whistling Canary, and Lucy hurried out.

    Dimity said in desperation: “Aunt Venetia, why is it taking so long?”

    Mrs Parker gave her a superior smile. “One of these days you will understand, my dear.”

    Dimity subsided, glaring.

    Lucy had brought the canary and it was whistling, or jangling, according to one’s age, musical education and prejudices in the matter, when Henry came back looking, her mother did not fail to note, both sulky and frightened. She sat down without saying anything.

    “Yes, lovely, Lucy,” said Mrs Parker placidly. “No, don’t wind him again: we don’t want his spring to wear out. –What is it, Henry?”

    Henry went very red. “Um—I went past the study. –I was only going to go out into the back garden!” she explained hurriedly.

    “Yes, my dear?” said Mrs Parker placidly.

    “Was—was Alfreda crying?” ventured Dimity timidly.

    “No,” she said, turning scarlet. “He was.”

    “Men don’t cry!” gasped Dimity.

    “He WAS!” shouted Henry.

    “Ssh. What a pair of little sillies you are,” said Mrs Parker tolerantly.

    “Little sillies,” agreed Lucy.

    Henry have her little sister a bitter look.

    “But Aunt Venetia—”

    “I dare say he was crying, poor dear Christian: he has been through a terrible strain these past several weeks, you know. And then, he has not had a happy life. You need not look like that, Dimity, my dear, there is nothing at all to worry about, let alone become hysterical over.”

    Dimity gulped a bit but did not burst into sobs.

    “I thought,” said Henry, clenching her trembling hands in her lap, “that perhaps he—he was telling her that he could not, after all, because—because…”

    “Because what, for gracious’ sake?” said Mrs Parker tolerantly.

    “I don’t know,” she muttered. “Some—some scruple.”

    Mrs Parker gave a superior and kindly little laugh. “Nonsense, child! –Yes, very well, Lucy, wind him up again,” she allowed graciously.

    Lucy wound up Whistling Canary and the jangling tune filled the parlour once more, effectively preventing further conversation.

    In the study Christian knelt with his face in Alfreda’s lap. Alfreda had been very startled, just at first, not because she had thought that gentlemen did not cry, but because it was not precisely what she had envisaged for this encounter. But now she had placed a hand gently on his brown hair and was saying: “Do not, my love. Ssh.”

    After quite some time he managed to look up at her and smile shakily.

    The proper Alfreda Parker forgot all about wondering whether the gentleman who was a viscount to boot might wish to kiss her and simply leaned down and laid her lips gently on his. She did not know enough to do more than that, but fortunately Christian did, and after a few heart-stopping moments had recovered himself sufficiently to get up, place himself beside his fiancée on the study’s hard little horse-hair sofa, and, pulling her into his arms, kiss her again. Very thoroughly indeed.

    “I thought,” said Alfreda in a muffled voice into his shoulder, “you might be too proper to do that.”

    “No,” he said thickly into the curls above her ear. “No.” There was a short pause. “Are you sorry?” said Christian with a smile in his voice.

    “No,” she admitted faintly.

    He laughed and held her very tight. “Good!”

    When the pair finally appeared in the parlour, holding hands, they were both looking radiant, though it was quite evident that they had both been crying. Mrs Parker, in spite of the tolerant and superior tone she had taken with the girls, immediately burst into floods of tears.

    What with the great excitement over Alfreda’s engagement it was fully two days before Dimity recollected there had had been a letter from Fliss, that eventful day, and retrieved it from the bottom of her reticule.

    “WHAT?” she shrieked.

    She and Henry had been strolling in the vicarage’s orchard, possibly in the genteel fashion recommended by Mrs Parker, but were now merely sitting on the grass.

    “What?” said Henry in a bored voice.

    “Fliss has discovered why the London cats were cutting us, Henry!”

    “Go on,” sighed Henry.

    “Wait, I have not yet finished… Oh. She cannot mean… Oh, dear!”

    Henry sighed. “Well?”

    “Oh, dear. Well, Viola Narrowmine—well, she must be Lady Viola, of course, I think she must be the youngest of Cousin Christian’s sisters—she is to make her come-out next year. So she has been spending a little time with her sister Lady Mary Vane in order to—”

    “Town bronze,” said Henry with a groan. “We know.”

    “Yes. Well, they also intend removing to Brighton. Stay, have they already—? Well, it cannot signify. But certainly Fliss met her in London.”

    After a few blank seconds Henry said: “Lady Mary or Lady Viola?”

    “Lady Viola, of course. Where was I? Oh, yes.” Dimity gulped. “Well, at this point I don’t think that Lady Viola can have known of Lady Blefford’s decision to give her permission for Cousin Christian to marry Alfreda after all. Um, though I suppose that is not relevant…”

    Henry goggled at her. “And?”

    “Um… Fliss was talking to Claudia Rowbotham and Lady Viola, you see. Um, and Claudia asked if it was true that Cousin Aden was corresponding with you. Though I cannot see how she could have heard about it. Um, but anyway, she did.”

    “So?” said Henry crossly.

    “Um—well, Fliss said to them that it was true, you see. That Cousin Aden was writing to you. And that you had written back. And—and she does not say so, but I think she must have let Lady Viola see that she was very pleased about it, because it meant that perhaps he might—um—offer,” she gulped.

    Henry had gone very red but she managed to repeat: “So?”

    “So, um, you will not like this, Henry, dear, but I—I think you should know. Um, I’m afraid that, um, Lady Viola said not if his mother had anything to say to it, for Lady Tarlington had told her mamma—Lady Blefford, of course—that she would never countenance his marrying a Miss out of a country parsonage. And Fliss was terribly upset, so she—she taxed her mamma with it.”

    Henry was now very pale. She did not speak. Dimity did not dare to look at her directly but she could see that her hands were trembling in the lap of her crumpled print gown.

    Gulping, she said: “And—and apparently Lady T. said that her Cousin Celia was certainly right in that if in nothing else, and that the whole idea was nonsense, and that even if it was because of Aden’s spanking you on—on a public highway that Society was cutting us, he need not suppose that he—he need offer for you on the strength of it. And—and that she had told him so,” she finished in a tiny voice.

    After a moment Henry said tightly: “May I read it, if you please, Dimity?”

    Biting her lip, Dimity gave it her.

    Henry read it through grimly. Fliss’s narrative was not all that much more coherent than Dimity’s monologue had been. However, the main point, that Lady T. would not countenance Mr Tarlington’s offering for one of his Parker cousins, was very clear. As also was the obvious conclusion to be drawn from it: that Aden, as usual, was ignoring his mother’s wishes and doing as he thought fit. In fact Fliss herself had drawn this conclusion, on a distinctly gleeful note, saying that it was all to the good that the story about Aden’s beating Henry had got about, even if they had all been ostracized on account of it, and predicting that Henry would be engaged to Aden by Christmas.

    Dimity looked at her fearfully.

    “What an idiot!” said Henry in a low, bitter voice.

    Dimity swallowed loudly.

    Henry crumpled up the letter fiercely. “Fustian! How any man of sense could suppose himself obliged to make an offer, merely for a thing like that! And why did he not say that that was what was causing Society to cut us all for weeks on end? He must have known!”

    “Um—yes,” she agreed miserably.

    Henry took a deep breath. “Very well: I shall write to tell him that his generous, not to say self-sacrificing, not to say kindly patronising gesture is not needed.”

    “Henry—”

    “And I NEVER WANT TO SET EYES ON HIM AGAIN!” she shouted, bounding up and rushing off towards the fields.

    Dimity burst into tears.

    After that episode, when the Miss Ogilvies wrote from Guillyford Bay some weeks later to ask if Mrs Parker would allow Henry to spend the last of the warmer weather with them, Mrs Parker could only conclude that she might as well go. For she was doing herself no good glooming round the house. Mrs Parker had, of course, got out of Dimity what the matter was. But she had not been able to see exactly what to do about it. Speaking to Henrietta had done no good: she had only declared she hated him and he was a patronising beast.

    Alfreda agreed that the break might do Henry good, but felt herself obliged to point out that, as Fliss had written to say that Aden had not stayed in Brighton even to see them properly settled in their hired house in the town, but had gone off to Chipping Abbas immediately, there could be no hope of Henry’s encountering him in the neighbourhood of Guillyford Bay.

    “No,” agreed Mrs Parker wanly. “And I shudder to think of what she must have written to the poor man!”

    Alfreda bit her lip. “Mm.”

    “Dearest, could you not ask dear Christian to—to intercede?”

    “I am sure he will be glad to speak to Cousin Aden, Mamma. But I think only he himself can persuade Henry that she is labouring under a misapprehension.”

    “If she is,” said Mrs Parker glumly.

    “Er—yes. But I would have said he truly affects her.”

    “Possibly. But I dare say she may have written something dreadful enough to put him off, you know what Henry is! Well, she had best go to Guillyford Bay. And we can collect her from there, my love, when we go to stay with Theo in the autumn. That will give me the opportunity to speak to Delphie about Pansy’s future, also.”

    Alfreda, dutiful though she was, could not but cringe at the thought of accompanying her mamma on such an expedition. But all she said was: “Yes, Mamma.”

    So Henry was allowed to go. She did not look very joyful when she got into the coach. But at least the vicarage would be relieved of her gloomy presence. And they would all be enabled at last to concentrate their minds on planning Alfreda’s bride-clothes!

Next chapter:

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