Interlude, With Bells And Lilacs

24

Interlude, With Bells And Lilacs

    The wind howled round the vicarage and an icy late November rain lashed itself against the windows. In the parlour, however, it was very snug. Mrs Parker stitched busily, humming. Miss Parker also stitched busily. Dimity was making crocheted lace with her own hands to adorn a set of pillowcases which she had already embroidered with the entwined initials of dearest Alfreda and dear Cousin Christian. She concentrated fiercely upon the pattern, moving her lips over her stitches. Delphie, even more slowly and laboriously, was also engaged in crochetwork. Mrs Parker had been quite sure that Colonel Amory’s new house would need innumerable napkins and tray-cloths, all with a neat little crocheted edging. And if Delphie did not practise she would forget all she had learned! Henry and Pansy had been set to hemming: Mrs Parker had been reduced to stating that Satan found mischief for idle hands to do.

    A considerable period elapsed. Happily, on the part of all but two of those present in the front parlour of the Lower Beighnham vicarage. Then Henry said through her teeth: “Mamma, pray—!”

    Mrs Parker stopped humming. “What is it now, Henry?”

    “You are humming that frightful tune of Whistling Canary’s.” said Henry tightly. “Please could you not?”

    Mrs Parker looked blank. “Was I?”

    “Yes. It is stretching my nerves to breaking point.”

    “Very well, my dear, l shall try not to hum, if it is that bad. How is that hem coming along?”

    Henry held it up silently.

    “Much better!” approved Mrs Parker. nodding. She returned to her stitching. Glumly Henry returned to her hemming.

    The wind whistled round the eaves; the rain lashed itself against the windows; the fire crackled in the grate. Mrs Parker began to hum again.

    Breathing heavily through flared nostrils. Henry got up and went out.

    ... “I shall speak to her,” said Mrs Parker, some time later, “but mark, it will do no good!”

    Mrs Parker was right. Henry reiterated grimly: “I do not wish to spend the New Year at Chipping Abbas, Mamma. There seems very little point in crossing southern England when I shall have to go halfway back again in early January to attend Lady Jane’s wedding. I should prefer to accept Miss Blake’s kind invitation to spend Christmas and the New Year period with her.”

    During the years of Henry’s and Dimity’s joint incarceration at the school Mrs Parker had been wont to declare—largely for Dimity’s benefit, true—that Miss Blake was a fine woman, an excellent disciplinarian, very learned, and with a splendid grasp of what a girl most needed to learn in her formative years in order to grow into a sensible young woman. Now she cried unguardedly: “But she is the most frightful bluestocking!”

    “Good,” returned Henry grimly. “I shall be able to talk to her.”

    Mrs Parker gave up, for the nonce, and went off to consult Simeon on the matter. Disappointingly, the Vicar of Lower Beighnham stated calmly that if Henrietta was being so obdurate it was clearly too soon for her mamma to attempt to throw her and her Cousin Aden together. Mrs Parker went very red and cried she was not attempting to “throw” them together and it would be of all things the most convenient, for they could drop Alfreda off at Blefford Park, and— Mr Parker pointed out that they might do this whether or no Henrietta was with them, and apologized for having used the expression “throw together”. He had meant, rather, “bring together”. The wind was thus pretty effectively taken out of Mrs Parker’s sails.

    Mr Parker later attempted to speak to Henry on the point of her Cousin Aden’s being a human being with feelings as delicate as her own. Henry retorted tightly that she had no doubt of that, Papa, but she was not in need of Mr Tarlington’s charity. There was much Mr Parker might have said at this point, but he judged it best to refrain.

    … “This is becoming ridiculous!” cried Mrs Parker in exasperation to her eldest daughter. “Henry wishes to go to Miss Blake’s and not to come to Aden’s house with us, but Pansy wishes not to go to Miss Blake’s!”

    “I think Pansy is very disturbed over the growing intimacy between Dr Fairbrother and Miss Blake, Mamma,” said Alfreda quietly.

    Mrs Parker sighed heavily. “So you claim.”

    “And of course she can never seriously have thought of Commander Carey, but you know what girls of that age can be like, Mamma.”

    Mrs Parker sighed heavily again.

    “It may be better for her to go quietly to Bath with Delphie.”

    Mrs Parker threw up her hands. “Then you may speak to her on the topic, my love, for I declare between the two of them, the little sillies are driving me distracted!”

    Alfreda duly spoke to Pansy. Pansy could see that the whole fuss over Christmas and the New Year could have been avoided if she and Delphie had just been left quietly to themselves in Elm-Tree Cottage until the date of Delphie’s wedding; but she looked at Alfreda’s face and managed to hold her tongue on this point.

    Eventually Alfreda settled it that Henry and Pansy should go to Miss Blake’s for the festive season and remain there until the date of Lady Jane’s and Commander Carey’s wedding. They would then return home to Lower Beighnham until it was time to set off for Oxford for Alfreda’s own wedding in March. By which time, though Miss Parker did not express herself to anyone on this point, let alone her distracted mother, it was to be hoped the pair of them would be in a better mood.

    The wind howled round the house and an icy December rain lashed itself against the windows. James Winnafree, fourteenth Baron Lavery, sat on the hearthrug of his Aunt Portia’s little sitting-room, hugging his knees and slowly consuming a sweetmeat. “It might be amusing to attend,” he murmured, shooting his aunt-by-marriage a malicious glance from under his thickly curled black lashes.

    Portia smacked his hand lightly with her fan. “Amusing to attend? You have not even been invited! And leave those, you will get fat!”

    Grinning, James pinched another sweetmeat from her box. “I am preventing you from getting fat, my dear aunt! No, but wouldn’t it?”

    Portia gave him a dry look. “In the guise of what?”

    “Aye, and attend which?” asked his uncle, looking up briefly from the Morning Post.

    “All of ’em!” he said, waving his hand airily.

    Admiral Sir Chauncey eyed him over the paper. “I dare say l could get you an invitation to Harpingdon’s.”

    “I thought it was to be very quiet?” objected James.

    “Weil,” admitted the Admiral: “it will be a smallish affair, aye. Blefford Park chapel ain’t large. And if you don’t count Prinny, quiet.”

    James had to swallow, but his blue eyes twinkled naughtily. “I see. Have you ever met Harpingdon, sir?”

    “Known him from his cradle, silly lad,” he grunted tolerantly, retiring into the paper again.

    James looked wildly at Portia, rolling his eyes.

    “There will be people there who know you, dear boy.”

    “Yes: but will they be people who will look twice at one of Uncle Chauncey’s grooms?”

    Portia bit her lip. Her shoulders quivered but she glanced uncertainly at her husband.

    The Admiral rumbled into his paper: “Won’t countenance it. Not with Prinny there. Not the thing.”

    Sighing, James took another sweetmeat. He lay down at full length on the hearthrug. “But how shall I get to meet her and gratify your dearest hopes, Aunt?” he sighed.

    Portia opened her mouth but shut it again in time.

    “Meet her as yourself, next Season; what the Devil is you afraid of?” said his uncle into his paper.

    James stared at the ceiling. “Oh—everything and nothing, Uncle Chauncey.”

    The Admiral gave a rich snort.

    “We are also going to Delphie’s and Colonel Amory’s, in early April,” murmured Portia, taking a sweetmeat. She popped it into her mouth and gave James a little, mocking look.

    “Lilacs,” rumbled the Admiral.

    Portia jumped. “What? Oh—yes, very like, my love, I dare swear the gardens of Bath will be full of lilacs.”

    “Where is it to be?” said James with a yawn. “Bath Abbey?”

    “Well, yes, but only a very small, private affair.”

    “You will need a courier to escort you, nevertheless.”

    “Bobby Amory knows you, James,” murmured Portia.

    “We have occasionally graced the same dinner table, yes. But I have a feeling he isn’t the sort of fellow who notices couriers!”

    “My dear,” said Portia with a troubled look: “if you have some—some Romantick notion that—that she must love you for yourself—”

    “Fellow needs his head read,” grunted Sir Chauncey sourly.

    “Yes. –James,” said Portia carefully: “even if an opportunity should arise to speak to Pansy in the guise of a courier or a groom, which at her sister’s wedding I must say is in the highest degree unlikely, what on earth can you hope from it? I grant you she is unconventional, but if you think the daughter of a respectable Oxford scholar will consider a servant as a man, you are very much out.”

    “I shall be the scion of respectable minor gentry—very minor—fallen upon hard times,” he said airily.

    “She won’t be impressed by the damned title,” said Sir Chauncey shortly. “Not that sort.”

    James’s gypsy-dark face was a little flushed. “That is precisely it, sir: I fear she may not be able to see past the title.”

    “Eh?” There was a short silence. “Up to you to make her do so, then,” rumbled the old man, looking very annoyed.

    “Mm.” James got up.

    “James—” said Portia with a troubled look.

    “I was funning, only,” he replied with a frown, going out.

    “Oh, dear!” said Portia in dismay. “What on earth—?”

    The Admiral laid down the paper slowly. “Damned unsure of himself.”

    “Y— But— But dearest, he is so very attractive! And—well, he has such charm! He is not vain, but he must be aware of that.”

    “Zeb’s marriage were not much of an example,” said Zebedee Winnafree’s younger brother in a sour voice.

    “Er—the second, my love?”

    “Yes, of course. Harriet was a damned decent woman. Hell of pity she died so young. Damned Christina was never anything but a dead loss. Don’t know why the Devil she married him.”

    “Perhaps she loved him once, Chauncey.”

    “Too lazy to exert herself to stop her mother pushin’ her into it, more like!” he said with feeling.

    Portia bit her lip. “Mm.” The second Lady Lavery had died many years ago, and Portia had scarcely known her, but from what was said of her in the family that did not sound entirely unlikely. She had been an immensely indolent woman, who after marriage had rapidly become very fat—Portia glanced at the box of sweetmeats and firmly closed its lid—and had been reputed to take no interest in anything except the breeding of Pomeranian dogs. And certainly not in her four children. She had been very pretty indeed, before she became so gross, and his family could only conclude that that was why Zebedee Winnafree had married her. He had been a highly intelligent man with a great sense of humour, both of which traits his elder son had inherited from him, so it must have been her looks: that and loneliness combined with the not unnatural desire for an heir.

    James, his twin brother and their two full sisters had been largely brought up by their eldest half-sister, Mrs Julia Lindhurst, whose husband had died at Trafalgar, and her next sister, Mary Winnafree. Presumably the first Lady Lavery’s good sense had prevailed over the Winnafree sense of humour in the matter of her daughters’ names; and presumably, too, the second Lady Lavery had not cared enough to stop Zebedee from naming his sons James and John, the which names could only be taken as acceptable if one did not stop to think about it, and his two youngest daughters, whilst in a prolonged Shakespearean phase, Miranda and Aeriel.

    Sir Chauncey stared crossly into the fire. “Cold feet at the thought of being leg-shackled for life?” he rumbled. “Wants to sound her out before takin’ the plunge?”

    “Well, I— Yes, perhaps it is something very like that, Chauncey. He—well, he would have been about seventeen when Christina died: I suppose that is old enough to have—have seen, and taken notice...”

    Sir Chauncey sniffed. “Aye.”

    “Our society does not, really, afford much opportunity to sound out the suitability of one’s future life-partner,” she admitted.

    “No. But I thought it was one of your tenets that that’s just as well?” he rumbled.

    Portia smiled. “Yes. But not in our darling James’s case!”

    “No,” he agreed glumly.

    “Mrs Parker might give Pansy up to us next Season... James will be in town to take his seat, of course...”

    The Admiral brightened. “Might answer. Hire a decent house in town, eh?”

    “We might persuade James to open up that hideous place in Blefford Square.” she said with a smile.

    The Admiral scratched his head. “Don’t think it’s even been aired since his father died! Uh—well, yes: goin’ to waste, eh? Get John out of them damned lodgings, too.”

    Portia smiled. “Of course!” The stolid Mr John Winnafree was temperamentally a very different kettle of fish from his twin brother, though they were imbued with very similar political ideals, inherited from Zebedee Winnafree. John was a Member of Parliament. In their uncle’s expressed opinion the modest lodgings the twins shared in London while the Parliament sat were unfit to house a damned dog. But they were both bachelors and entirely uninterested in entertaining or in impressing anybody with their style and consequence.

    “Might work,” the old man conceded.

    “Mm. I shall think about it.”

    “Aye. And for the Lord’s sake, try to talk James out of comin’ with us to any of these dashed weddings! Dammit, Prinny knew his father! Won’t do!”

    “No, my dear, of course. Well, I don’t think he was serious.”

    The Admiral grunted.

    Silence fell. The Admiral reburied himself in the paper; Portia stared into the fire.

    “How many of ’em are we going to?” he asked suddenly.

    “Er—well, all of them, my love!” she said with a gurgle.

    He sniffed. After a moment he noted: “That’ll offer him some scope, then.”

    Portia bit her lip. “I truly think he was jesting, Chauncey.”

    The Admiral scowled. “Don’t know what the Devil’s got into him!” he rumbled.

    “No,” said Portia sadly. “If only we could have got Pansy here for Christmas...”

    The Admiral grunted unencouragingly.

    The wind howled round the Admiral’s cosy country house; the rain lashed itself against the windows...

    The wind howled round the school and an icy December rain lashed itself against the windows.

    “In all human societies such events are celebrated with noise and jollity,” said Miss Blake on a dry note when, the fuss of greeting having died down, the travellers were at last seated in her little sitting-room before a roaring fire with Pointer dispatched to bring tea and muffins. “Why should your relatives be any exception?”

    “It is a—a natural human impulse, after all, Pansy, dear,” faltered Miss Worrington.

    “Yes,” agreed Pansy, sighing.

    “Yes, but Mamma has run positively mad over Alfreda’s bride-clothes,” said Henry heavily.

    “Very natural,” returned Miss Blake firmly.

    “Miss Blake, she’s spending a fortune on them! And it’s ridiculous, for Cousin Christian will be more than able to provide Alfreda with everything her heart should desire in the way of satin petticoats and fine linen and I know not what!”

    “Feathered hats in the latest mode,” said Pansy sourly.

    “Mm. Well, Mamma’s sketch did look very pretty. And l suppose you can hardly wear your old straw to your sister’s wedding,” admitted Henry with a reluctant smile.

    “Do not say one word more!” ordered Miss Blake, holding up her hand.

    The two girls looked at her in a startled way, and reddened.

    Twinkling, Miss Blake said: “Mlle La Plante has given us the strictest instructions that should such words as ‘hat, ‘linen’ or ‘bride-clothes’ be introduced into the conversation, not a further word is to be breathed until she is also present!”

    “Oh,” said Henry weakly, grinning.

    “She will be in very soon, she is just finishing off Miss Hambleby,” explained Miss Worrington.

    In the vernacular of Miss Blake’s school this did not mean that Mlle La Plante had turned homicidal, but merely that she was finishing giving a lesson to one of the young ladies from the little town of Merrifield who came to her for French conversation. The two girls nodded, and Pansy conceded: “Very well, we shall refrain. In any case it is not that interesting.”

    “No: Davey Monkey is a much, much more interesting topic!” said Henry gaily, attempting to entice him off Miss Worrington’s shoulder. “Cheep, cheep, cheep, Davey Monkey!”

    The schoolmistresses smiled and Miss Worrington said brightly: “Oh, my, you do sound so much like Dr Fairbrother, my dear Miss Henrietta!”

    Henry smiled. “Yes, for l learned it off him! And please, dear Miss Worrington, just call me Henry, as my family all do.”

    But Pansy’s face clouded over at the revelation that Dr Fairbrother’s ways had become so instantly recognizable to the personnel of Miss Blake’s school. Miss Blake noticed it, and had to swallow a sigh.

    The wind howled round the handsome country house that was Chipping Abbas and an icy December rain with a hint of sleet in it lashed the windows. Sir Gerry and Lady Tarlington were not, after all, present for the festive season, but this was scarcely their fault: there being no other suitable accommodation in the near neighbourhood of Guillyford Bay, the Earl and Countess of Hubbel had invited themselves to Guillyford Place for their eldest daughter’s wedding in the coming January, and Lady Tarlington had flown into a panic over it. She had, however, allowed Fliss to accompany the Parkers to Aden’s house.

    Mr Tarlington had apologized profusely to Mrs Parker for the absence of a hostess but it must be confessed that Mrs Parker had shown herself nothing loath to assume that rôle. So it had all worked out for the best. Well, more or less.

    Fliss was in a sulk because although coming to stay with Aden was preferable to being immured at the Place with Mamma panicking over the gold plate and the state of the linen, Lord Rupert had regretfully reported for duty at Blefford Park.

    Dimity was in a temporary sulk because even though Alfreda’s was to be a March wedding her Aunt Venetia had said repressively that furs would be quite ineligible for a very young girl and Lady Blefford would be unutterably shocked at the mere suggestion. Those of her companions who gave the matter an instant’s thought would have realised that this sulk would not last, but as the weather was so horrid and as Fliss was in such a bad mood and there were no other companions of Dimity’s own age, it was to be expected that something else would pretty soon arise to cause another sulk.

    Ferdy Tarlington was in a sulk because Ludo Parker was older than he was and a better shot than he was and his older brothers preferred Ludo’s company to his. And because of the foul weather which meant Aden had forbidden any riding for the nonce.

    Hilliard Tarlington was in a sulk because Aden had said that although he might fancy now that he preferred the life of a scholar to any other existence, it was too soon to decide his career and he must wait until he had been up to the university and got his degree before committing himself to a life of celibacy and scholarship.

    Paul Tarlington was in a sulk largely because of the foul weather which meant Aden had forbidden any riding for the nonce and partly because he had had a fist-fight with Will Parker, referee-ed by Egg Parker, and Will had won.

    Will Parker was in a sulk because his papa had said that it did not signify who had won, he did not care to see his sons indulging in that sort of mindless violence under the name of sport.

    Egg was in a sulk because his papa had said he was old enough to know better and to have stopped it. And that it did not signify who had won.

    Tim Parker was in a sulk because Paul Tarlington had said loftily that he, Paul, did not fight brats.

    Lucy Parker was in a prolonged sulk, which no-one until now had been aware Lucy was capable of, because she had not been permitted to bring Whistling Canary on the journey.

    Mr Parker was not in a sulk but he was unhappy that he had not after all persuaded Henry to accompany them, and uneasy at deserting his parish at the season of the birth of our Saviour even though there was a perfectly competent locum tenens in charge of it. And even though he was quite aware that at this time of year the villagers of Lower Beighnham celebrated something that more nearly approached to a winter solstice or, to put it even more accurately, to a bacchanal, than a Christian festival, in spite of all his efforts over the years. He was also worried about Theo.

    Theo was not in a sulk but he was torturing himself over whether he could do more good in the world by continuing in his chosen profession or by giving it up in order to concentrate on the responsibilities of his newly acquired wealth and property. He was afraid he was letting his feelings for Lady May Claveringham influence him in the direction of the latter choice. He had not spoken to his father on this point and he was also torturing himself over whether or not to do so. More fundamentally, perhaps, he was miserable because he didn’t think he had much of a chance with Lady May even if he did give up the Church.

    Edmund Tarlington, who was the brother who was up at Oxford and intending to take Holy Orders, was not in a sulk but he was rather pained because Theo did not seem inclined to discuss certain knotty theological questions with him.

    Initially Ludo Parker had not been in a sulk at all: he thought Cousin Tarlington was a terrific fellow and Chipping Abbas was a great place with some not half bad rough shooting. But ever since his father had taken him quietly aside and murmured in his ear that he knew Ludo had not realised it, but was he not monopolising Cousin Aden’s attention, rather, and he must allow him some time with his brothers, Ludo had been in a sulk. Added to which Aden had said they had best not take the horses out in this foul weather. Or the guns, old man.

    Mrs Parker, of course, was not in a sulk at all, but positively aux anges in her self-appointed role as hostess in Aden’s house. A trifle unfortunately this enjoyment took the form of bullying Aden’s meek housekeeper unmercifully, and ebulliently adjuring all her relatives and relatives-by-marriage to cheer up, what were those long faces for?

    Aden was damned miserable that Henrietta had not come. He was doing his best not to let it influence his behaviour towards the boys but that apart he didn’t flatter himself he was deceiving anyone.

    Little Daniel Parker was neither sulking nor ebullient, but quietly happy: but it must be admitted that this did not count for all that much in the general balance.

    The wind howled round the huge pile that was Blefford Park and icy December sleet lashed the windows. Lord Rupert lurked in the upstairs corridor.

    “Oy!” he hissed.

    Alfreda jumped. Rupert beckoned frantically from an alcove which sheltered a giant red marble plinth supporting a tortured gold mass of limbs: if you got really close to it you could see that it represented garlanded cherubim with a small garlanded kid, but it did not become much more attractive.

    “You won’t be near warm enough in that, y’know!” he hissed, as she came over to him.

    Alfreda looked down at herself in dismay.

    “Mamma will be in velvet, dare say with a flannel petticoat under it,” said Lord Rupert firmly.

    Alfreda bit her lip.

    “And this shawl ain’t near warm enough,” he said, fingering it disapprovingly.

    Alfreda was already hugging it to herself: the echoing corridor was extremely chilly. “But it’s my best one.”

    “Never mind that. You’ll have to change, if you don’t want an inflammation of the lungs. And listen: Aunt Paulina Narrowmine can’t stomach Mamma, she’s only here to cast her eye over you. And don’t mention Stamforth to her, whatever you do.”

    “Who?” she faltered.

    Lord Rupert replied impatiently: “Old Stamforth! Head of the Vane family!”

    “Uh—oh, of your sister Lady Mary’s husband’s family?”—He nodded impatiently.—“Why?” said Alfreda limply.

    “Ancient history. Hates him.”

    “Oh,” she said numbly.

    “And Uncle Hubert Narrowmine can’t stand Mamma or Papa—or Aunt Paulina, out of course: he’s only here to cast his eye over you. And for the free meals, out of course.”

    Alfreda swallowed, and managed to nod.

    “And listen: we all has to get through the damned dinner, and eventually when we join you ladies in the drawing-room, then we all have to have a glass of some foul spiced muck. Has little brown things floatin’ on it. Anyway, watch out, it’s almost pure brandy, but you can’t refuse it. Tradition.”

    “Mm.”

    “Then we has the waits in.”

    “Yes, Christian mentioned—”

    “Wait,” he said grimly, holding up his hand, evidently unaware of his own choice of phrase. “They’ll have had to hang around in the kitchen for hours, y’see, because Papa won’t hurry a meal on their account, and Cook or Torrens or someone will have filled ’em with punch, so we’ll be lucky if they remember a word of the carolling stuff or a note of the tunes they scrape out on their dashed instruments.”

    She nodded mutely.

    “Don’t laugh,” he warned, “or it’ll never be forgotten as long as you live. Aunt Hubert Narrowmine laughed, forty-odd years back, when she was engaged to Uncle Hubert, and Great-Uncle John still brings the point up every Christmas. –He will,” he noted heavily. “Used to be m’grandfather’s special task, and Great Uncle John took it over as a matter of course when Grandfather passed on.”

    “I see,” she said faintly.

    “Think that’s all for tonight,” he said, rubbing his nose. “Oh: old Great-Aunt Catherine Coulton-Whassett. One of m’grandfather’s sisters. Just ignore it if you spot her puttin’ the odd spoon or pepper-pot in her reticule. Torrens’ll be keeping his eye on her: he’ll get ’em back off her maid.”

     “Yes,” said Alfreda faintly.

    “Every family has ’em!” he said bracingly. “Heard of old Peregrine Jerningham?”

    “N— I don’t think so, Lord Rupert,” she faltered.

    “Rockingham’s second cousin, or some such. Reputed to have had a glove of chain-mail out of the Great Hall at Daynesford Place.”

    Alfreda looked at him numbly.

    “Go and get out of that gown, and into something warm.”

    “Buh-but I—I do have a velvet gown, but I was intending to wear it on Christmas Day,” she faltered.

    “Good. Wear it then, too. Get into it. And a flannel petticoat.”

    Nodding humbly, Alfreda scurried back to her room.

    Lord Rupert crossed his arms and leaned against the plinth, in full consciousness of duty nobly done.

    The wind howled round the house in Bath’s quiet Lymmond Square and an icy December rain lashed itself against the windows. Inside, however, all was warmth and jollity.

    The Amorys had experienced considerable difficulty over keeping Lizzie’s Christmas present from Cousin Noël a secret—though of course the fact that it would one day be coming was not a secret—and in fact Noël had been reduced to having his man Kettle smuggle it up to his room via the back stairs. This tactic had not been a marked success: he had had a very disturbed night indeed.

    But it was worth it, or so at least Colonel Amory and Delphie considered, when Lizzie came into Grandmamma’s sitting-room and saw Cousin Noël standing before the hearth with Little Nole on his shoulder!

    After that great excitement it did not much signify what anyone else gave or received, but in fact the Colonel was very touched indeed to receive a pair of embroidered slippers from his fiancée, and Delphie was overwhelmed to be handed a slim leather case by her fiancé.

    “I cannot!” she gulped, as the milky pearls were revealed. “It’s too much!”

    “Rubbish, my dear, of course you can,” said old Lady Amory briskly. “Trumpery thing, really. He can give you a better string once you are married; l dare say these might go to your eldest daughter.”—Delphie was by now a glowing peony hue.—“Put them on her, Richard!”

    Smiling, the Colonel slipped the pearls round his fiancée’s glowing peony neck.

    The wind continued to howl and the rain to lash the square but no-one in Lady Amory’s house noticed.

    Mlle La Plante fastened her well-worn brown lapin tippet firmly round her thin throat. “Mais naturellement, we are coming, my dear! Such a Romantick story: the gallant naval officer and his rescue of the distressed lady, non? One could not miss the dénouement! We shall just watch outside the church, bien sûr.”

    “But won’t you be cold, Mademoiselle?” said Henry limply.

    Mlle La Plante assured her that they would not be cold at all: dear Mrs Warrenby was very kindly lending her carriage, there would be a hot brick and a fur carriage-rug!

    In Miss Worrington’s room Pansy was saying uneasily: “There may not be much to see, Letitia. I mean, it’s such a cold day: they’ll probably just hurry into the church.”

    Letitia assured her that that could not signify, and she would see them come out!

    “Um—yes,” said Pansy uncertainly.

    ... “Well, we’ll be off. I am quite sure that any vehicle sent from Guillyford Place will be more than capable of overtaking us on the way!” said Miss Blake cheerfully.

    Henry smiled and nodded, though privately she would not have been in the least surprised if her connections at the Place had forgotten all about them; and the schoolmistresses hurried out  eagerly.

    “This’ll be it,” said Pansy with a sigh, ten minutes later.

    “Thank goodness, I thought they’d forgotten about us!” said Henry, bouncing up.

    Pansy muttered something, but Henry pretended not to have heard, and rushed out, narrowly beating Pointer to the front door.

    “Oh!” she gasped.

    Mr Tarlington was very pale. “Good morning, Cousin Henrietta,” he said formally.

    “Good morning,” said Henry in a tiny voice as her heart hammered furiously.

    There was a short pause.

    “Miss Henrietta!” hissed Pointer reproachfully.

    “What? Oh. Um—well, I won’t ask you to step in, we’re ready, and you’re a bit late. PANSY!” shouted Henry, before Pointer could move to go and fetch her.

    Pansy came out of the sitting-room buttoning her gloves. “What are you doing here?” she said in astonishment.

    “I’m invited to the Carey-Claveringham wedding. I did have something to do with Lady Jane’s ever setting eyes on Guillyford Bay in the first instance, if you remember?” he drawled.

    “Yes,” agreed Henry faintly.

    “Yes, but we thought you were at Chipping Whatsit,” said Pansy.

    “I was. I travelled. Come on, hop in,” said Mr Tarlington, avoiding Henry’s eye.

    They mounted into the coach. Mr Tarlington did not assist them with a hand under their elbows: Pansy was up the steps before he could move, and in the case of Henry, he suddenly felt he could not bear to.

    The journey to Guillyford Bay was one of the most agonized of Mr Tarlington’s entire existence. It was but poor consolation that Henrietta was clearly not enjoying it either.

    … The single bell of the tiny Guillyford Bay church pealed and Lady Jane, her sweet face glowing, came down the aisle on her new husband’s arm in a bonnet and pelisse of fawn wool trimmed with brown fur, with a matching little muff. Lady Sarah was her only attendant: she was almost as radiant, both on her sister’s account and because Harley Quayle-Sturt was in the congregation and his ring was on her finger.

    In the front pew on the bride’s side Lady May Claveringham mopped her eyes and smiled mistily, trying not to dwell on the fact that Mr Theo Parker had not come. Beside her, Lady Hubbel was majestically composed. Several persons amongst the small congregation reflected that it could have been worse. Lord Hubbel looked bored but then, few human beings had ever seen him anything else.

    Near the back on the groom’s side, Ratia Bellinger and Mrs Bellinger wept copiously. In the front pew on that side, the Commander’s lovely sister-in-law, Madeleine Carey, blew her nose and smiled mistily, and his two middle-aged connexions from Bath, Miss Carey and Miss Diddy Carey, also had recourse to their handkerchiefs.

    Mrs Carey was not gracing the ceremony with her presence. Whether or not she knew today was her son’s wedding day was unclear; though it was true that no-one of the household except the Commander himself had made much of an effort to convince her of it. For as Mary Potter had said, least said, soonest mended.

    Mary Potter and Cook were there, of course: near the back, though the Commander had wanted them to come up to the second pew, but they would need to hurry back to the house immediately.

    Portia Winnafree blew her nose and smiled mistily at her husband. “There!”

    The Admiral beamed and patted her hand. After a moment, however, he mouthed: “Where is he?”

    Portia made a face, and shrugged.

    The Admiral sniffed slightly and drummed his fingers on his knee.

    Lady Tarlington had graciously offered to house the wedding breakfast but the Commander and Lady Jane had refused, politely but firmly. They wanted nothing elaborate. A few selected guests were invited back to Buena Vista, that was all. And the happy couple did not intend a honeymoon: the Commander was only too eager to have Jane in his house at last, and Lady Jane was only too eager to be there.

    The wind was cold and everyone hustled quickly into their carriages.

    Delphie was staying with the Winnafrees at their hotel in Brighton. Colonel Amory had wished to escort her but his mother thought it would not be quite the thing, and she had travelled from Bath with the Miss Careys. She looked round for Pansy but could not see her and Henry in the crush, and the Admiral was fussing about the chilly wind, so she got in quickly.

    The Admiral stuck his head out of the window and looked round crossly. His eldest nephew and the head of his family lounged up to the carriage door, looking sardonic. Sir Chauncey had already spoken his mind on the topic of the rôle James had assumed, so he did not bother now to repeat himself. “It ain’t no use lookin’ round for her,” he said irritably. “Tell ’em to get going, dammit, can’t keep ladies hangin’ around on a day like this!”

    “I shall follow you, sir,” said James, bowing.

    “Do what you like,” he grunted, withdrawing his head. “Fellow’s incorrigible,” he said crossly to the carriage at large.

    “Who, sir?” asked Delphie in bewilderment. “Your courier? I thought he seemed a very pleasant young man.”

    The Admiral’s substantial chins sagged for a moment. “Er—mm,” he said, with a wheezy cough. “Quite.”

    … “All right?” asked Henry in a lowered voice as they moved slowly out in the wake of Ratia and Mrs Bellinger, Mrs Potter, Granfer Yates and other notables.

    “Yes!” replied Pansy crossly.

    Henry did not dare to take her hand, or anything of that sort.

    “I’d much rather walk,” admitted Pansy as they emerged from the little church.

    “Mm. Shall we?”

    The cousins were warmly wrapped up, and though the day was cold and windy there was no sign of rain or snow. “Yes! Come on!” hissed Pansy, and they slipped away.

    “Hell,” said James Winnafree under his breath as he spotted the two smart pelisses turning down a little side street. His horse was tied up behind the church. He hesitated. But the poor animal could scarcely be left, in this weather. He hurried round to fetch it. Back at the front of the church once more, he hesitated again. Should he? But if he did catch her up, what the Devil could he say to her, in the guise of one of Chauncey’s Couriers, in any case? Well, he might make a fist of it if she was by herself, but as it was... No, dammit, Portia and Chauncey were right, it had been a damned stupid idea! He mounted, tight-lipped, and turned the horse’s head for Brighton.

    Meantime, Mr Tarlington was looking round crossly. Where the Hell was she? Uncertainly he mounted the step of his carriage, and peered.

    “Sir, the young ladies walked off that-a-way,” offered Tomkins helpfully.

    “What?” he said wrathfully.

    “It ain’t my blame, Major, sir! They slipped off afore I couldn’t scarcely—”

    “Yes. No doubt they intend to drop in at the cottage.” Mr Tarlington got into his carriage.

    After a few moments Tomkins’s grizzled head looked in. “So shall I tell the driver we’re off, then, Major, sir?”

    Mr Tarlington jumped where he sat. “Uh—yes,” he said feebly.

    Giving him a look which, preoccupied though he was, his master yet had no difficulty in recognizing instantly as one of interested sympathy, Tomkins touched his forelock and withdrew.

    Mr Tarlington sat back in his seat, his lips compressed, his hands clenched.

    The young ladies were not encountered on the road to Buena Vista. The carriage slowed down in what its owner could not but feel was a marked manner as they neared Elm-Tree Cottage, but he made no move to halt it. Damnation. He had not done anything to insult Henrietta, he had acted with the purest of motives throughout—well, possibly apart from the actual spanking, but— No, he had maintained at the time and would continue so to do, that she had thoroughly deserved it! Lady Tarlington had apparently got wind of the fact that he had been writing to Henrietta and that the correspondence was now broken off: Fliss, he supposed. She had not scrupled to intimate to the heir to the baronetcy and the future head of his house that this was just as well and that, respectable though the Parkers were—

    Not that Aden had expected anything else.

    He stared grimly out of the window at a grey, blowy January day and drummed his fingers on his knee. He was damned if he saw where to go from here. Give Henrietta time to come round? Aye, but what if she never came round?

    ... “I apprehend you do not require a ride back?” he said coldly when, all the refreshments having vanished and the Earl and Countess of Hubbel having long since taken their leave, even old friends had done enough catching up and were preparing to depart Buena Vista.

    Henry looked round for Pansy. “Um—well, no, thank you, Cousin. We are to go back to Brighton with the Winnafrees and Delphie, and dine there.”

    “Then I’ll say goodbye, Cousin,” said Mr Tarlington in a hard voice.

    “Yes. Thank you,” said Henry feebly.

    Mr Tarlington bowed, went to shake hands with the Commander and bow over Lady Jane’s hand, and was gone.

    Henry blinked and for a moment felt, absurdly, as if she might cry.

    Both Henry and Pansy were very silent during the drive in to Brighton but as the Admiral was also giving the Miss Careys a ride and as the two middle-aged ladies were both in a state of high excitement, there was no question of an awkward silence’s falling. On the other hand, Portia, the Admiral and Delphie all most certainly remarked the cousins’ subdued manner.

    … “Well?” said Portia without hope as Sir Chauncey returned later that evening from delivering the two girls safely back to Miss Blake’s.

    The Admiral just shook his head slowly.

    The wind howled round the vicarage and an icy February rain lashed itself against the windows.

    Henry sank down onto the parlour sofa with a sigh. “Raining again.”

    “Yes. But if only I were at Elm-Tree Cottage,” said Pansy, scowling, “it would not signify. I should at least be able to get out for some exercise!”

    “Mamma worries if we venture out in weather like this, Pansy,” murmured Miss Parker.

    “Yes, but she does not worry if the boys do!” replied Pansy fiercely.

    Miss Parker swallowed a sigh. “I think she does, a little, my dear, and perhaps when we are mothers too, we shall all underst—”

    “It is not my ambition in life to become a mother, Alfreda,” said Pansy between her teeth.

    The gentle Miss Parker’s jaw sagged.

    Pansy got up, looking very cross, and marched out.

    “Alfreda, I—I must apologize for Pansy’s outburst,” said Delphie, going very red.

    Henry got up. “I don’t see why, Delphie. It was not your view, it was hers. And I have to admit, I question myself whether the female existence which looks forward to nothing more than motherhood, grandmotherhood and eventual death, can be said to be a worthwhile one.” The door closed sharply behind her. The other young ladies looked limply at one another.

    ... “From Ludo,” said Mr Parker two days later with a smile, warming his coat-tails before the parlour fire. “Jem Drake brought it up with a load of firewood.”

    Mrs Parker said eagerly: “Read it out, Simeon, my love: is there news at last?”

    Smiling, the Vicar unfolded Ludo’s letter. “Indeed, excellent news: Aden is writing to us himself, of course—”

    Henry had been staring glumly at the rug: as a correspondent, Ludo was on about the Fliss Tarlington or Dimity Parker level; but at this she looked up sharply.

    “Of course, you girls will not have heard of the scheme,” said Mrs Parker complacently. “Go ahead, my love.”

    The Vicar read out Ludo’s news that Cousin Aden had asked him if he would like to stay on at Chipping Abbas and learn estate management with a view to becoming his agent.

    “There!” cried Mrs Parker pleasedly.

    Henry got up. “Mamma, Mr Tarlington has a capable agent whom he has only recently appointed: a man of, I think, about his own age. How can you accept this—this piece of gratuitous charity with complaisance?”

    “Nonsense, my dear, it is no such thing!” she cried, very flushed. “Why, Ludo will be very happy in such a life, and then, you know, he will be company for his cousin! And though Papa and I felt it would not have done for him to have become Sir Ferdinand’s agent—”

    “Yes,” said the Vicar quietly. “Indeed, my dear Venetia. The charity, if such it be, is not all on one side, Henry. Aden Tarlington is a lonely man.”

    “Rubbish, Papa, it is a typical piece of misplaced generosity!” said Henry through shaking lips.

    “Henrietta, go to your room, if you please,” said the Vicar with a sigh. “I shall speak to you later.”

    “Papa, how can you be so BLIND?” shouted Henry.

    “Henry, do not shout at your Papa! What has come over you?” cried Mrs Parker loudly. “I had thought you were growing up at last!”

    “Nothing has come over me, but it appears I am the only one of this family to have ANY SELF-RESPECT LEFT!” shouted Henry, rushing out.

    The door slammed behind her.

    After quite some time Alfreda said in a trembling voice: “Papa, I—I think she truly does affect our Cousin Tarlington, and—and that is why—why she—”

    “That does not excuse her conduct, my dear,” he said with a sigh.

    “No, and it does not excuse her treating the poor man so shamefully!” cried Mrs Parker loudly. “When he has been so good to us all, and accompanied Delphie and Pansy to Oxford and looked after them as if he had been their own brother—which I am sure, my dears, you will recognise was on account of the family connection—”

    “Yes. Hush, my love, you are exciting yourself,” said the Vicar quietly.

    Pansy was now very flushed. “I see, Aunt Venetia. You mean he looked after us in the hope it would impress Henry with his generosity? Well, I fear it did not work, any more than this latest move.” She got up. “Pray excuse me, I do not feel like dinner.”

    She went out, shutting the door behind her very quietly.

    Those remaining looked limply at one another.

    ... “Henry, this behaviour will not do,” warned Mr Parker. “You have spoken most unkindly and improperly to your mamma, and in front of our cousins, too!”

    “Every word I said was true,” said Henry tightly. “He is patronising us unmercifully. Added to which, anything Theo has inherited is his own, not—”

    “That will do,” said Mr Parker, his neat nostrils flaring.

    “I thought you at least had the intelligence to see what Cousin Tarlington is up to!” said Henry bitterly.

    Not trusting himself not to lose his temper with her, Mr Parker left her.

    ... “Dearest,” ventured Miss Parker, “though one can see that this offer to Ludo may not have all disinterested altruism on our cousin’s part—”

    “I am not listening, Alfreda,” warned Henry, hands over her ears.

    Miss Parker left her to it, fearing she was about to lose her temper with her.

     ... “Pansy, if you do not instantly apologise to our aunt and uncle, I shall leave this house!” cried Delphie with tears in her eyes.

    “Pooh! What did I say? Every word I said was the truth!”

    “APOLOGIZE!” shouted Delphie.

    “If I do, it will be the rankest hypocrisy,” said Pansy between her teeth.

    “Be a rank hypocrite, I do not care!” cried her sister wildly. “That is better than being a spoilt little nuisance!”

     ... “I apologise for my behaviour, Uncle Simeon,” said Pansy, looking sulky.

    “Very well, Pansy,” replied the Vicar grimly.

    Pansy looked up at him uncertainly. The Reverend Simeon Parker’s face was very stern.

    “It’s all right for you, you’re a man!” she burst out.

    “Possibly if, instead of vainly envying me my lot in life, you endeavoured to acquire an understanding of what it means to be a man and responsible for the well-being of a family, you might manage to behave yourself rather more appropriately in my house,” replied Mr Parker.

    Pansy’s jaw dropped. She looked at him unbelievingly.

    “You are not the only person in this house with a modicum of intelligence,” said Mr Parker blightingly. “We should all be grateful if you would apply it rather more generally, instead of using it merely to brood on your own situation.”

    “Yuh-yes, Uncle Simeon!” she stuttered. “I’m suh-sorry!”

    “In that case, please apologize to your aunt.”

    “Yes, sir,” she muttered, beating a hasty retreat.

    ... “If you would but admit the justice of my argument, I would apologize,” said Henry tightly.

    “I do not admit the justice of your argument, Henrietta, for your position appears to me to be one of innate contradiction,” replied her father coldly.

    Henry goggled at him.

    “Imprimis,” said Mr Parker, ticking points off on his fingers, “you claim that Aden wished to correspond with you last summer not because he was failing in love with you—poor damned fellow,” he noted by the by: Henry’s cheeks flamed—“but because he had some notion that he owed you an honourable offer to make up for ruining your chances of an eligible match last Season. But secundus, you claim that his kind offer to Ludo is one of rank hypocrisy.” He looked at her sardonically. “If one asks oneself, of what precisely this hypocrisy consists, there can be only one answer.”

    After a moment Henry cried: “But—” She broke off.

    “So which is it? He truly cares for you and is being so kind to Ludo because of it, or—”

    “Stop it, Papa!” cried Henry, tears springing to her eyes. She clapped her hands over her ears.

    “Both points cannot be valid,” said Mr Parker clearly.

    “He is just PATRONISING us!” cried Henry.

    “That, of course, is an alternative explanation,” he returned courteously.

    Henry burst into tears and rushed out.

    ... “Henry, I have but this to say to you,” said Mrs Parker bitterly to the form prone upon its bed. “You are ruining our dearest Alfreda’s last month at home.”

    ... “I’m sorry, Alfreda,” said Henry miserably. “I’ve been a selfish pig.”

    Miss Parker looked at her limply. “I understand, Henry.”

    “No, you don’t, because you’re so good and you always feel the proper and—and appropriate things!” cried Henry bitterly.

    Biting her lip, Alfreda said: “Henry, if—if the feelings you may be experiencing towards Cousin Aden—”

    “I am NOT!” she cried, bursting into loud sobs.

    Miss Parker put her arm round her and leaned her lovely head against Henry’s untidy curls, and said nothing.

    ... “What is it, Pansy?” said Mr Parker with a sigh.

    Pansy swallowed. “Um—I truly am very sorry for my behaviour over the last few weeks, Uncle Simeon.”

    “Very well, Pansy, we’ll say no m—”

    “But please could you give me something to do?” burst out Pansy desperately.

    “But— Oh.” After a moment Mr Parker said: “Greek?”

    “Anything!” replied Pansy fervently.

    “Anything but stitchery: mm,” he murmured. “Very well, Greek it shall be!”

    … “She’s doing what?” said Mrs Parker limply.

    Mr Parker nodded, his eyes twinkling.

    “Great Heavens, Simeon!”

    “Why not?”

    “Well, it’s certainly better than moping around the house, getting on all our nerves!”

    “That’s what I thought,” he replied serenely.

    ... “Not Pansy again?” he said with a sigh, two days later.

    “Raising objections! Yes!” his wife cried radiantly.

    Mr Parker stared.

    “Over her dress, Simeon! Well, I must admit that that soft pink is the most delightful shade: it puts me in mind of the colour we used to call soupir étouffé in my youth— Never mind that! She said she would not wear the brown pelisse with the pink gown!”

    Mr Parker’s eyes twinkled. “I begin to see.”

    Mrs Parker nodded enthusiastically.

    After a moment he said: “I suppose there is no hope that Henry—”

    Mrs Parker winced. “She is trying to be good.”

    “We must give her time.”

    “That is all very well, but how long will her Cousin Tarlington wait?” she cried.

    Mr Parker sighed, but said: “It has only been a matter of months, my love. And Henrietta is still very young.”

    Mrs Parker looked unconvinced.

    He smiled a little. “And annoying though she is, also very pretty!”

    Mrs Parker looked more hopeful.

    “And as you have exquisite taste, my love, there can be no doubt whatsoever that Aden will see her at her best in Oxford.”

    Mrs Parker bridled, laughed and disclaimed. To the Reverend Simeon’s great relief she did not then make the point that Aden would only see Henrietta in Oxford if he turned up for Alfreda’s wedding. And even though Harpingdon was his cousin and friend, Mr Parker would not have found it in his heart to blame the poor fellow if he didn’t.

    The March wind howled round the immense pile of Blefford Park and a scattering of rain dashed itself against the windows, but the chapel’s bells pealed bravely. After a moment the bells in the nearby village church answered them, and Alfreda, looking radiant, came down the aisle on Lord Harpingdon’s arm.

    “Went off quite well,” grunted the Admiral.

    Portia nodded, squeezing his arm.

    “I’d take me dyin’ oath,” he said in a wheezy whisper, “that Prinny pinched her bum when he took her off to look at Blefford’s damn’ picture gallery t’other afternoon!”

    “Ssh! Yes!” hissed Portia, shaking with laughter.

    “At least Alfreda has the sense to see there was nothin’ in it,” he noted, looking hard at Pansy in her grey pelisse with the soft pink gown showing under it.

    Portia stared at him. “What can you mean, Chauncey?”

    “Eh? Oh: nothin’. Nothing to do with Prinny, that is. Only, talkin’ of sense, Pansy ain’t behavin’ with much.”

    Portia nodded, sighing. Pansy had refused to stay in Dr Fairbrother’s house, even though he had Mrs Mayes installed and Delphie would very much have enjoyed it. “She feels that Wynn has—has betrayed a trust, I think, Chauncey.”

    The Admiral sniffed.

    “And not only that: that Miss Blake, in—well, in encouraging him, which one must admit she is doing, that Miss Blake is—how shall I put it?”

    “Betrayin’ her principles?” he rumbled with an awful scowl. “Aye: damned bluestockin’.”

    Portia sighed again, but murmured agreement. They waited in silence for Prinny’s party to get itself down the aisle, while the bells pealed all around them.

    ... “But Henry, you must come to the dance tonight!” cried Mrs Parker in dismay. “When Lady Blefford has taken all the trouble to arrange something for the young people— You must!”

    “I’m sorry, Mamma, but I don’t feel like dancing,” said Henry tightly. “And as Alfreda and Christian have gone, there is no question of hurting their feelings, or any such. And I have no wish to spend an entire evening being patronized as a little provincial Miss by Lady Blefford and the Narrowmines.”

    “Henry, when they see you dancing with your Cousin Aden,” cried Mrs Parker unguardedly: “they will not dare to patronize you!”

    “You have the authority to force me to come,” returned Henry tightly. “But once we are there, you cannot force me to get onto the floor. And by the by, I thought we were supposed still to be in half-mourning for Great-Uncle Humphrey?”

    Mrs Parker burst into tears and rushed out of the room.

    ... “Where is she?” asked Mr Tarlington, very white.

    “Aden, I’m so sorry,” faltered Mrs Parker. “Henry is not feeling quite the thing, tonight.”

    “I see.”

    Mrs Parker looked at him in despair and did not know what else to say.

    “I think I will not stay for the dance after all,” he said evenly. “It’s a long ride back to Chipping Abbas, and I mean to start at first light. Please excuse me, Aunt Venetia.”

    “Aden, you can’t mean to ride, in this weather!” she gasped.

    Mr Tarlington bowed. “I’m flattered by your concern for my welfare, ma’am.”

    “My dear boy—” she faltered.

    He bowed again, and strode off.

    ... “Where is she?” asked James tightly.

    Portia bit her lip. “Mrs Parker tells me that she and her Cousin Henrietta did not wish to come to the dance tonight, James.”

    He raised his eyebrows. “Was a reason advanced for this odd behaviour in two young ladies?”

    Portia faltered: “I think Pansy is—is upset, because—”

    “Because she’s in love with that Commander fellow: is that it?”

    “No! And I have told you before, ignore everything Chauncey says on that subject! He is prejudiced, because Commander Carey is a naval man!”

    “Quite.”

    “James, it isn’t so! It’s far more complex than that.”

    “Then you can tell me about it when next we meet, dear Aunt,” he said sweetly.

    “Where are you going?” she gasped.

    “Anywhere but Oxford.” He bowed, turned on his heel, and strode out.

    The sun shone but a chilly April wind howled round the streets of Bath. In the squares the lilacs were lashed until their heavy heads bowed to the ground. Their scent was thick upon the air.

    The organ of Bath Abbey pealed and Delphie, looking shy but radiant, came down the aisle on Richard Amory’s arm.

    “Expectable,” muttered Henry as all around them handkerchiefs fluttered.

    “Ssh!” hissed Dimity crossly. “Does she not look radiant?”

    “Mm. Radiant. Radiant with a chinchilla muff.”

    Dimity turned puce. “If a gentleman may not give his bride a lovely fur to carry at their wedding—”

    “Yes. Hush, I meant nothing by it,” she sighed.

    ... The lilacs in quiet Lymmond Square were bowed to the ground. Colonel Amory hurried his new wife into their carriage.

    “Not a tear in her eye,” muttered the Admiral indignantly as Pansy smiled and waved cheerfully.

    “Ssh. She would not, in public,” murmured Portia.

    He sniffed.

    “Where is he?” she hissed.

    Cautiously the Admiral nodded. Portia looked across the square. A figure in breeches and a worn coat was leaning against the railings with its arms crossed, watching the proceedings outside Lady Amory’s house apparently idly. She winced.

    “Good luck, my dears, good luck!” cried the Admiral, waving briskly. “Come on, get into the house, damned freezin’ out here,” he grumbled, grasping Portia’s arm strongly.

    Limply Lady Winnafree allowed herself to be bustled back inside. James was being so naughty! And what he could hope to gain, Heaven alone knew.

    ... Pansy slipped out cautiously. Commander Carey’s connections lived in the very same square as old Lady Amory: she did not want to be caught sneaking out of her sister’s wedding reception. Even though the bride and groom had now left. Unfortunately none of the assembled multitude had taken this as a signal that they ought also to depart; and what with Dr Fairbrother sitting in a corner chatting happily to Miss Blake, Lady Jane and her husband arm-in-arm, shining with happiness—not that she begrudged them an instant of it, of course—Alfreda and Lord Harpingdon likewise, and Lady Sarah and Mr Quayle-Sturt positively billing and cooing— And then on the other hand, Henry sitting silently by herself, pulling at her gloves... Ugh.

    She walked rapidly round the square, breathing in deep lungfuls of wonderful fresh air, laden with the scent of lilacs.

    “Hullo,” said a sardonic voice. “First Mate Pansy, ain’t it?”

    Pansy stopped in her tracks with a gasp. “Who—? Oh,” she said numbly.

    The dark, gypsy face of James the courier looked down mockingly into hers.

    “How dare you call me by my name,” she said feebly.

    He raised his eyebrows. “Do you take much account of such fustian?”

    “Wuh-well, I— Um—not as a general rule,” said Pansy feebly.

    “That’s what I thought. Which of ’em is it today? The thin-faced one that was with you on the riverboat?”

    “Whuh-what? Oh! Lady Sarah! No, it was my sister’s wedding today.” She frowned suddenly. “You must know that, if you came with Admiral Sir Chauncey and Lady Winnafree.”

    “Well, they don’t normally tell me every detail of every visit, y’see. It’s more on the lines of ‘Ride on ahead and see the posting house has aired the linen, James,’“ he drawled.

    Pansy retorted smartly: “Then why do it?”

    “Oh, it’s a living, ma’am,” he drawled.

    “I suppose it is,” said Pansy, biting her lip a little.

    “Though if you’re thinking there are other occupations at which a man may work even harder and possibly with more profit, at least to his soul if not to his pocket, why yes, I grant you, there are,” he said lightly.

    “I was not—ֺ” Pansy broke off, frowning. “Perhaps I was sort of thinking that.”

    “Mm. But being one of Chauncey’s Couriers has its compensations,” he murmured.

    She went very red, and strode on very fast, not speaking.

    James lounged at her side, easily keeping pace with her.

    “Go away,” she said through her teeth.

    “But I assure you, Sir Chauncey would have me guts for garters an I deserted a young lady like yourself in the middle of a strange town.”

    “I’m not about to get lost in Bath!” said Pansy witheringly.

    His shoulders shook silently. “That wasn’t exactly what I meant.”

    Pansy took a deep breath. “I see. Well, no-one but yourself will have the impertinence to accost me, this is a very respectable neighbourhood, so you may be OFF!” –The “off”, truth to tell, coming out rather more loudly than she had intended.

    “Why? Because I’m a no-account person employed by your elderly acquaintance in the humble position of courier?” he murmured.

    “No!” gulped Pansy, turning scarlet.

    “Well, then, why?”

    She took a deep breath, stopped, turned, and looked him firmly in the eye. “Because far from being a no-account person, you are an impertinent man with the persistence of a gadfly. And I do not desire your company or your escort.”

    The bright blue eyes glittered mockingly. “I confess I’m delighted to hear you think of me as a man, First Mate Pansy. I’ll bid you good-day, then.” He bowed exaggeratedly low, and was off before Pansy could draw breath.

    She walked on very quickly, her cheeks a-glow, a curious tingling sensation pervading her whole body.

    “Come to us,” urged Harpy the next day, squeezing Mr Tarlington’s arm, as they took a constitutional round the squares of Bath.

    “No.”

    “Aden, my dear fellow—”

    “I’m so damned envious, Christian!” he said in a choked voice

    “I see.”

    Swallowing, Mr Tarlington said: “That sounds dammed puerile.”

    “No, it doesn’t: I know precisely what you mean. But I think you despair too soon.”

    “She never came to that damned dance your mother laid on, y’know. –The night of your wedding!” he said impatiently.

    “Oh,” said Lord Harpingdon lamely.

    Aden did not elaborate. They strolled on. It was another fine day, windy again, with much scudding cloud. As they rounded a corner and came into yet another square with a garden full of lilacs, Christian said with a pleased smile: “Lilacs. Is that not the most glorious scent, dear fellow?”

    “No. Damned sickening. –I’m goin’. Sorry, Christian.” He strode off without another word.

Next chapter:

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