Mrs Parker Does Her Best

29

Mrs Parker Does Her Best

    On her return from the Continent Henry had planned to stay for a little at Harpingdon Manor before crossing Devon, being under the foolish delusion that she would spend the remainder of the autumn at home. However, her mother had decided that it would be so convenient for the Parkers to meet up with the travellers at Harpingdon Manor.

    “Delightful!” cried Mrs Parker, fingering the garments she had unpacked from Henry’s trunks. “Lady Winnafree has exquisite taste: exquisite!”

    “Yes, indeed,” said Henry, forcing a smile.

    “Er—Henry, my love, who was the very kind Italian gentleman whom you mentioned held a ball for you girls, shortly before you left Rome?” she added carelessly.

    “The Conte della Giovampaola.”

    “A count! I see! And I think you did not mention his wife, Henry? Is he a widower, perhaps?”

    Henry flushed up. “No.”

    Mrs Parker fingered a lace-edged silk wrapper, and sighed a little. “Dearest, was there not a son?” she said in a careless voice.

    Henry took a deep breath. “Yes. A very pleasant young man. As he has friends and relatives in Florence and Venice he and a friend joined up with us for the trip.”

    Mrs Parker nodded carelessly, still fingering the wrapper absently.

    Henry took another deep breath. “Mamma, that wrapper is too grand for me, and Lady Winnafree has given me far too much, she has been incredibly generous. Would you like to have it?”

    Mrs Parker protested, but eventually allowed herself to be persuaded. Henry was not, however, deceived into thinking she had completely side-tracked her.

    Lady Harpingdon had done her best to persuade her mamma that if the girls had seriously affected any of the gentlemen whom they had encountered abroad, not only they themselves but also Lady Winnafree would of course have informed them, but Mrs Parker refused to give up hope. And in fact embarked on the topic with her eldest daughter very shortly after departing Henry’s room.

    “There was that pleasant young man at the Embassy in Paris, was there not?”

    Alfreda went very red. “Henry wrote me that he was all that was attentive but she could not care for him, Mamma.”

    “Could not care for him? Nonsense, my love, the child does not know what she is at!”

    Alfreda swallowed a sigh.

    “Now, wait! In Rome, there was also— Stay! Was he not the nephew of the Ambassador himself?”

    “Yes, Mamma. Henry did not like him. She found him lacking in intelligence.”

    “Oh, nonsense, Alfreda, my love! Henry still has this silly notion fixed in her head that every pleasant gentleman must be as clever as your dear papa! But a gentleman may please without that, you know!”

    ‘‘Mamma, truly I am persuaded Henry could never develop serious feelings towards either of those gentlemen!”

    Mrs Parker ignored this. “An Englishman would be preferable, of course... Well-born, naturally. One must not forget that dear little Henry now has very gratifying connections, must one?”—She directed a coy glance at her daughter. Alfreda smiled palely.—“And with dearest Theo’s inheritance, she may be said, indeed, to belong to a wealthy family!”—Alfreda gave her an amazed look, but said nothing.—“And then. she is so very, very pretty! My love, do you not think she is much improved? But naturally a foreign title, provided it be respectably come by and not one of those horrid creations of that Bonaparte creature, would not be unacceptable!” She gave an airy laugh. Alfreda just looked at her limply. “Sadly, the Conte della Giovampaola is married. But then, I think the young Conte Pietro is the eldest son, is he not?”

    Alfreda protested again, but in vain. Mrs Parker had the bit between her teeth.

    All this did not mean, though both Alfreda and Henry had been conscious of a faint hope in that direction, that Mrs Parker had forgotten all about Henry’s supposed expectations of Cousin Aden.

    … “Christmas at Harpingdon Manor? Dear Christian, that is most generous of you, and normally I should— But to tell you the truth, my dear boy, we are in expectation of an invitation from Cousin Tarlington, for Chipping Abbas! We had decided between us, you know, last Christmas, that it was all so very cosy and delightful that it should become a positive habit! But I shall be with you later in the year, of course, dear boy: my dearest Alfreda shall have her mamma with her when her time is nigh!”

    Christian smiled politely and said all that was gracious and appropriate; but he experienced a certain amaze. To his knowledge Aden had no intention of opening up his house at Christmas for a second year running. Or, indeed, of celebrating the festive season at all. Fliss had written Alfreda very bitterly on the subject, and Lord Rupert had reported to his brother: “That fellow is like a bear with a sore head! All l said was, should a pheasant or two need knockin’ off round his way when the colder weather be upon us, I was up for it. And he bit me head off! Then he said I could go and slaughter Papa’s birds at Blefford Park, and when I said that last Christmas there had been more than enough for me, thank you very much, he comes out with: ‘It cannot have been more unpleasant than mine.’ So I said he was a fool and did not know when he was well off, words to that effect, y’know, and at any rate he would have a decent Christmas this year, for he could come to you, since we is all comin’. But he bit me head off again and said he didn’t care for baccy-somethings—Greek, I think—and the spectacle of Aunt Parker comin’ the hostess in Alfreda’s own home was somethin’ he could well do without! Can you credit it?”

    Lord Harpingdon had been reduced to looking at him weakly, the more so as this last scenario seemed all too horridly likely. It was just as well that his darling Alfreda was the sweetest-natured woman who ever walked.

    No invitation from Mr Tarlington having been received, Alfreda repeated her husband’s invitation to her mamma—in private, in case Mrs Parker might wish to express her feelings; but Mrs Parker merely became pettish, passing some remarks about darned linen and the standards to be expected in a household whose head was to occupy a great position. The sweetest-natured woman who ever walked found herself, at that moment, filled with a fervent wish that Mamma would go home, and leave them in peace!

    In the end it became clear that none of the highly eligible foreign gentlemen Henry had met on the Continent had expressed any intention of an immediate journey to England. But the thing was not out of bounds, not by any means! Travel was so easy these days, with the monster Bonaparte safely penned up! And there was always next Season! And in the meantime—

    Mrs Parker had persuaded Theo to take the house in London again for that autumn: just while the Parliament was again sitting. For his Cousin Dimity’s sake! She had not perceived that the reason her quiet son needed very little persuading was that he hoped to see something of Lady May Claveringham in town.

    “Venetia, my love,” the Vicar had found himself forced to say very firmly: “there is absolutely no question of Pansy’s accompanying you to London. She will naturally want to spend some time with her sister, after not seeing her for so many months. And recollect that Delphie has not been well.”

    Oh. No, of course: how could Simeon imagine she— Of course Pansy must stay in Bath with dear Delphie! But as for Christmas— And there always next Season to look forward to! And in the meantime, Henry—

    The Vicar had sighed, but had held his peace, for the nonce.

    Mrs Parker did her very best, but Henry remained quietly adamant that she did not wish to spend the Little Season in London. It was only when Dimity burst into tears and admitted she could not face another sojourn in town without her—she clearly meant as the sole focus of her aunt’s match-making schemes, but Henry kindly refrained from saying as much—that she gave in.

    “There! She has seen sense at last!” a radiant Mrs Parker declared.

    The Vicar sighed, but nodded. He had been looking forward to having Henry at home with himself and the little ones.

    “The Twin Stars back in London again,” Mrs Parker then said on a very grim note. “Well! We shall see what we shall see!”

    The Vicar sighed again, but refrained from any speech on the subject of the vanity of worldly ambition. He was in no doubt that Venetia was about to learn this lesson for herself.

    Mrs Parker had talked Theo into buying a barouche. Henry had rolled an astonished eye at Dimity when this fact was revealed, but her cousin had given her such a pleading look that she had bitten her tongue.

    “It—it is not wholly ineligible, Henry, dear,” Dimity faltered when the girls were alone in it with only two footmen up behind. “I mean, when Theo has a wife… And after all, a gentleman who has his mamma living with him…” Her voice trailed off.

    Henry sighed, but nodded and squeezed her hand.

    The barouche jogged on.

    “Who is that?” hissed Dimity, eyes wide, as Henry smiled and bowed to a very grand lady indeed, muffled in chinchilla and green velvet. With a crest upon her barouche’s door. And as the lady smiled and bowed back.

    “Madame la Comtesse de Marty-Joinville. She is a sister of Mme Plouvier de la Reysne. She mentioned they were to be in England this autumn: how very pleasant.”

    Dimity swallowed. “l suppose her husband is a diplomatic gentleman?”

    “Why, yes!” she said with a laugh. “l think he may be said to be! Mme de Marty-Joinville is fully as intelligent as her sister, and even wittier. But with a much sharper tongue,” she added with a little dry, appreciative smile upon her lips.

    Dimity looked at the smile, and swallowed again.

    The barouche jogged on.

    A very grand lady in silver fox was smiling and beckoning to them. Henry bent forward and directed the driver: their barouche pulled in alongside hers. This lady was apparently English: that was one consolation. If the only one. Henry performed introductions smoothly. Dimity smiled and greeted the lady politely, but with a dreadful sinking feeling. Lady Middleton! She was quite insufferably grand, and a friend of Lady Hubbel’s into the bargain! And her husband was something impossibly political: in the Cabinet!

    “She is not foreign, at all events,” she said glumly as Lady Middleton, having assured Henry in the warmest tones that she would expect to see her and her cousin, with her mamma and brother, at her reception on Friday, went on her way at  last.

    “What? Oh: no. She is a sister of our Ambassador to Rome.”

    Dimity nodded glumly. It had had to be something like that.

    “Um, she spoke so very graciously to you, I fear,” Henry admitted, swallowing, “because she has two hopeful sons to marry off.”

    The barouche jogged on—but not very far.

    … As the smiling Lady Naseby moved on, after the usual exchange of compliments and with gracious hopes to see them again very soon, Henry allowed with a twinkle: “I suppose that if I may have two, you may at least have one! Was she not completely elegant?”

    “I scarcely know her,” said Dimity numbly. ‘I cannot understand why she singled me out. She is a musical lady, and very clever. Alfreda greatly admires her.”

    “Mm: good works.” agreed Henry on a dry note.

    “Um—well, yes,” faltered her cousin, looking at her dubiously. “But why was she so gracious to me? She has no sons! I mean, she has one, but he is already married!”

    Henry laughed. “I am very well aware that it is not Lady Naseby’s ambition to become your mamma-in-law, dearest! No, doubtless Alfreda has solicited her interest on our behalf.”

    “Then why did you sound so... odd?”

    “Did I? Oh, well… It was the combination of the good works with the delightful bonnet and pelisse and that delicious fur muff and wrap,” she admitted. “Did you remark how the ostrich-feather tips on the bonnet—tips alone are so tasteful, of course—exactly matched that unusual soft blue-grey of the fur?”

    “She favours soft shades, I think. She is always terribly elegant. She is said to be the best-dressed lady in London. –Oh. l see what you mean.”

    “Mm. Well, the two are evidently not incompatible. Though her dress allowance would support an orphanage or two, I am very sure.”

    “Yes,” Dimity agreed in a small voice.

    Henry eyed her sideways. “It is the way of the world.”

    “Henry, it is not like you to be so—so hard!” she burst out.

    “l think the word you are looking for is ‘cynical.’”

    “Yes, it is!” she said crossly. “If there were no ladies like her to concern themselves with the welfare of the poor, they would be very much worse off! Even if she does spend a lot on dress! And many ladies spend every groat on their backs and do not care if the people on their husband’s land die in ditches like dogs!’

    “I know. But I’m pleased to see you seem to have realised it, at last.’

    Dimity gulped, and smiled weakly. After a moment she said: “Cousin Theo has talked to me a lot on such subjects.”

    “Good.”

    Dimity sighed. “It is a pity that we are so nearly related.”

    Henry looked at her in astonishment.

    “No!” she gasped. “I mean, I like and admire him so much, but he is like a brother to me and could never be anything else!”

    “I see. Yes, it is a pity. I think you would be good for each other.”

    Dimity gaped at her. “You mean he would be good for me! And, indeed he has been, this last year.”

    “No, you dear little goose!” she said, laughing, and patting her knee. “You would also be good for him, for there is so little of the frivolous in his nature that without encouragement to frivol, he is danger of turning into a dry old stick before his time.”

    “I see,” said Dimity doubtfully.

    “He needs something pretty and gay and sweet in his life,” said Henry with a sigh.

    Dimity was now a glowing puce. “Mm.”

    Henry looked at her with a smile in her eyes. “Did you see anything at all of Lady May, this last Season?”

    “Very little. Um—Lady Hubbel acknowledges our acquaintance, but only just. I thought Theo’s fortune would make her come round, Henry!”

    “So did I,” admitted Henry glumly.

    Dimity sighed deeply. “It is such a waste.”

    “Yes, indeed. He could be spending his money on glossy chestnuts for Lady May—l think it was spirited chestnuts she once mentioned she affected?—instead of putting it into the education of the poor.”

    “Silly! That is not what I meant, and you know it!” she cried, giggling.

    Henry grinned but acknowledged: “Of course.”

    “He—um—he did manage to get some dances with her last Season... This summer she took her off to stay with the horrid old Duke of York because some beastly German prince was there that showed signs of taking an interest in her!” she revealed bitterly. “And when he did not, it did not answer, either, because although she then let her spend time with Lady Sarah and Mr Quayle-Sturt, she made them promise not to let Theo near her!”

    Henry did not comment on the confusion of personal pronouns. “Dimity, that seems a trifle exaggerated.”

    “No, for Lady May wrote the whole to Gwennie Dewesbury, and Gwennie showed me the letter.

    “I see.”

    Dimity’s lips trembled. After a while she said in a muffled voice: “It has all gone wrong since you went away.”

    Henry did not think that she meant very much more than that Mr Winnafree had not made her an offer over the summer, as had been expected. There was clearly no doubt that Mrs Parker had encouraged her to hope where she should have preached caution. However, she patted her hand and said: “Never mind, perhaps things will improve, now.”

    Dimity endeavoured to smile, and nodded bravely.

    Mrs Parker did her best to smile airily and say lightly: “That sounds very pleasant,” when Dimity reported in awestruck tones the results of their little drive out. But she did not flatter herself that she had convinced even Dimity of her indifference. But after all, was it not just what she had expected? Henry had been sent abroad to get some town bronze and to move in unexceptionable circles. And if they were indeed to receive an invitation from Lady Middleton, then so much the better! They would see their little Henry shining in diplomatic circles yet!

    Mrs Parker had got into the habit of sleeping late while she was in London. Well, she confided to the girls, she had spent nigh on thirty years of married life rising with the sparrows— Henry had laughed and kissed her cheek. giving her permission to stay abed until three à la Lady T., an she wished! Mrs Parker, rather flushed, had smiled, but had been conscious of a very odd sensation indeed. Henry had suddenly seemed so... old. Well, not old, that was absurd! Grown-up.

    So on this particular morning it was not particularly early when she came into the morning room to find the girls sitting quietly, reading. She had just taken up her work and was asking Henry for some further details of the Plouvier de la Reysne and Marty-Joinville families, for Lady Tarlington had told her there was a Marty-Joinville son, when a footman came in with a posy on a salver.

    “Goodness me, how very pretty! Now, who can it be for, l wonder!’

    The posy was for Dimity. Mr Felix Lilywhite. Dimity gave it a lacklustre glance.

    “Well, that is very— Of course, he is not the oldest son, but… Never mind, he is a most respectable young man, and it was a sweet thought. –Stay, my love: how did he know you were in town?”

    “He was out walking when we went for our drive yesterday, Aunt.”

    “Really, my dear? By himself, was he?”

    “He was not with an earl, nor yet a comte, or even a baronet, if that be what you mean,” said Henry drily.

    “Really, Henry! That is not amusing.”

    “No, he was with Lilywhite Minimus,” said Dimity conscientiously. “But l did hear they are distantly connected to the Travers-Cootes!” she added with a sudden loud giggle.

    Promptly Henry collapsed in sniggers.

    “Girls! That is not at all amusing! And Henry, you are teaching Dimity some very silly foreign ways!”

    Regrettably, the girls laughed even harder.

    “Of course,” said Gwendolyn Dewesbury, nodding her strikingly smart bonnet impressively: “town, as Mr George Quayle-Sturt remarked to me just yester morning, is so thin of company, at present.”

    Henry and Dimity shrieked, and collapsed in giggles. Perhaps fortunately, Mrs Parker had kindly left the girls to chat in the little morning-room, so she missed this display of town bronze.

    “But Gwennie, let us be serious,” said Henry when she had recovered. “Where did you get that perfect bonnet?”

    “Help, I owe Quentin five guineas,” replied Miss Dewesbury in hollow tones.

    “Why?” asked Dimity, mystified.

    “Imbecile!” gasped Henry. “Obvious!” She went off in fresh paroxysms.

    “He bet me that Henry would, um, return home a sophisticated lady,” said Gwennie a trifle weakly, removing the bonnet from her lint-fair head. “Try it on, Henry.”

    Henry took it eagerly and went over to the mantel but said as she adjusted it before the mirror: “Pooh, I would wager Dimity’s fortune that he said no such thing! What were his exact words?”

    “l do not dare,” said Gwennie, primming up her mouth. “You look so grown-up in that delicious morning gown, Henry.”

    “If it were something along the lines of betting I would not return from the Continent a half-boy who runs around the country in my brother’s breeches, pray do nor spare me,” she said drily.

    Poor Gwennie turned positively beetroot and gasped: “No such thing!”

    Henry turned from the mirror. “Well, as to my essential nature, I think he has lost his bet. But l have certainly developed a weakness for dress, yes. –Like Lady Naseby: that is, an l had her income at my disposal,” she added drily.

    “Um, yes,” agreed Dimity on an uneasy note.

    “Where?” said Henry fiercely to Gwennie.

    “What— Oh: the bonnet! Mamma has at last consented to take me to the milliner that Cousin Gaetana patronises!”

    “The Marchioness of Rockingham’s milliner?” gasped Dimity.

    “Yes. –Give it back on the instant, Henry, l find l cannot bear to see it on another woman’s head. –It suits you,” she explained mournfully as Henry, laughing, handed it back. “It was ether a justification or an apology, I cannot decide which, for her decision to bring Katie forward, since I have not taken, in London. Or rather, not captured,” she said with a moue.

    “Your sister? But Gwennie, is she old enough?” asked Henry in surprise.

    Gwendolyn eyed her drily. “Time has moved on since last we met, Henry, dear. As a matter of fact she is in town now, for Mamma thinks the Little Season is ideal for a girl to get her toes wet in the waters of town life; but l did not bring her with me, for I wanted you all to myself.”

    The Parker cousins managed to smile and nod.

    … “Much as l like her,” Dimity concluded when the door had closed behind their caller: “that is just typical of Gwennie Dewesbury! Leaving poor little Katie at home merely because she wished to gossip about hats and the Paris fashions!’

    “And the Rome fashions. And the gentlemen of Paris and Rome. Well, yes, l agree. She is a charming and amusing girl but even although she has such a sensible mother, she is innately selfish, I fear.”

    “Yes. And Captain Dewesbury is an idler!”

    Henry goggled at her.

    “His own father said as much to me!” she said on a cross note.

    “Though not while his own mother was listening, I dare venture.”

    “No!” she squeaked, collapsing in giggles.

    Henry smiled, but wondered a little at such heat. The town was full of idlers: did it matter if Captain Dewesbury were one of them?

    This mild mystery was soon resolved. Mrs Parker having done her best, unavailingly, to persuade the girls that they should let Theo purchase—or at the least hire, Henry, dear: hire only—some mild-mannered mounts suitable for ladies, but having failed in the face of Henry’s determination not to waste her brother’s money when they might walk for exercise, the household shortly sustained a morning visit. Captain Dewesbury himself, in full regimentals.

    “M’father asked me to assure you, Mrs Parker, that he would be delighted to mount the Miss Parkers. –No, no, you would be doing us the favour, ma’am. Gwennie and Katie are at a loss for company on their rides, with town so thin! And naturally I shall be only too delighted to offer my humble escort.”

    ... “It was hard to tell whether that ingratiating smile was meant more for you, Dimity, my love, or for Mamma!” declared Henry with some heat.

    “You see?” she burst out

    Wincing, Henry conceded that she did see, indeed. Clearly Mrs Parker, not content with building up Mr Winnafree’s attentions in Dimity’s head as meaning much more than they did, had done her best to throw her in Quentin Dewesbury’s way all last Season. Poor Dimity.

    Mrs Parker had just taken up her work when a footman entered the little morning room with a posy on a salver.

    “Captain D. An offering on the altar of Dimity’s fortune,” suggested Henry heavily.

    “Be silent, Henry! Anyone would think you were jealous of your cousin!”

    Henry and Dimity rolled their eyes wildly at each other. Mrs Parker affected not to notice them. She picked up the posy.

    “Well?” said Henry in a bored voice.

    Very flushed, Mrs Parker replied: “Of course it is! He is a most attentive young man, and these are clearly intended for you to carry at his mamma’s party this evening, Dimity!”

    “They will clash with my gown, Aunt Venetia.”

    “Then you must wear a gown that they will not clash with, my little puss!” she said with horrid geniality.

    … “Let me look at you,” said Lady Lavinia Dewesbury with a smile.

    Henry tried not to shrink while the Marquis of Rockingham’s aunt raised her lorgnette. It was very like those hand-and-nail inspections at Miss Blake’s school...

    “Well!” she said with a little laugh. “I have never seen you look more becomingly, my dear Miss Parker!”

    “Thank you, Lady Lavinia,” replied Henry a trifle limply. “This dark blue gauze is a gown Lady Winnafree chose for me in Paris. I am very fond of it.”

    “Paris! Well, no wonder! Now, I must introduce you to my little Katie.”

    Katie Dewesbury was a little, plump thing, much shorter than the tall and graceful Gwendolyn, but with the same big china-blue eyes and very fair hair. She seemed very, very shy and quite overawed to meet Miss Parker, who, as her mamma did not neglect to inform her, had just returned from a tour of the Continent!

    ... “I feel an hundred and two!” confided Henry bitterly to her cousin that night.

    “I feel an hundred and four,” replied Dimity deeply. “Did you see that white mouse who was on my left at dinner?”

    “l did not take much notice. Who is he?”

    Dimity took a deep breath. “He is—believe it or believe it not, Henry—Min— Um, Minimmi— Um, well, at any rate he is the third Lilywhite brother!”

    Henry uttered a shriek, and collapsed in a gale of giggles. Whereupon Dimity did, too. Nevertheless they both felt very, very old.

    Mrs Parker came into the little morning room to find the girls, already changed from their ride, sitting quietly, Henry reading a book and Dimity endeavouring to net a purse.

    “Why, I did not hear the door! Was this posy just delivered, girls?”

    Dimity did not look up. Henry replied into her book: “Pooter Potter. Dimity’s fortune. Altar.”

    Mrs Parker sat down, looking very annoyed, and took up her work.

    The news having speedily got about—possibly Captain Dewesbury had been an instrument, here—that the little Twin Stars were back in London, Henry and Dimity very soon began to encounter certain gentlemen upon their morning rides. So much so that Miss Dewesbury was driven to say to little Miss Katie: “See! Did l not tell you we should meet all the eligibles in London, this way!”

    “That gentleman with the laughing eyes was as old as Papa, Gwennie,” she quavered.

    “What, Mr Bobby Amory? Pooh, I dare swear he is ten years or more off Papa’s age!” she said with a toss of her head.

    After a moment Katie said: “Well, that is old. Who was the other gentleman, Gwennie?”

    “Lieutenant Grant-Fermour. You may have him: he is a cousin of the Lilywhites and looks as like ’em as possible without actually being a white mouse.”

    “No!” she said, very red. “l do not mean him! The—the older gentleman who—who seemed greatly to admire Miss Henrietta Parker.”

    Gwennie eyed her drily. ‘If you mean the very fat gentleman, it was the Duke of York. But,” she said with a twinkle in her eye as her little sister turned an indignant puce: “if you mean the tall, handsome, dashing one, it was Commander Sir Arthur Jerningham: he is one of the Jerninghams who are Hammond connections and thus a connection of our own; call him ‘Cousin’ next time we meet, Katie.”

    “You are truly horrid, Gwennie Dewesbury, and l wish l had never come to London!” she cried loudly, bursting into tears and rushing from the room.

    Gwendolyn raised her eyebrows very high but considerately did not inform Mamma that little Katie seemed to have developed a tendre for their very eligible but not exactly youthful Cousin Jerningham.

    “Why, what is this?” said Mrs Parker, coming into the morning room, determinedly bright. “How delightful!”

    “That really pretty one with the blue ribands is for Henry, Aunt Venetia,” said Dimity in a very helpful voice.

    “I scarcely know him,” murmured Henry.

    Mrs Parker picked up the posy with the white blooms and the mixture of dark blue and pale blue ribands. “Charming! What exquisite taste! –Commander Sir Arthur Jerningham, Henry? I do not think…”

    “He is a Naval gentleman, a friend of Admiral Sir Chauncey’s, Aunt Venetia,” said Dimity helpfully.

    “But Sir Chauncey is not in town. Who introduced you, Henry?”

    “We met by chance in the Park, several days ago. Captain Dewesbury introduced him, Mamma.”

    “Why did you not mention it, my dear? Jerningham... Why, they are Hammond connections, I believe. And a friend of Captain Dewesbury’s—yes, most suitable, indeed!”

    Dimity collapsed in sniggers.

    Henry was now very red. She said quickly: “Mamma, that posy is a joke.”

    Dimity was in agony.

    “A joke, Henry? What can you mean?’

    “Commander Sir Arthur must be near Papa’s age. We had a silly argument over—over naval and military matters,”—Dimity uttered an ecstatic shriek—“and, um, he said he would convince me to favour the Senior Service. –It is not that funny, Dimity.”

    “Nonsense, Henry! A gentleman of your papa’s age does not play silly games with a child like you. –Dimity, that will DO!”

    Dimity put her hand over her mouth in a vain effort to contain the hysteria. Strange squeaks and gulps escaped from behind the hand.

    “Well, possibly Commander Sir Arthur does not see me in quite that light, Mamma,” said Henry politely. “But I can assure you he means nothing by this posy, so please do not build up your hopes.”

    “Build up my— Really, Henry! What an expression!” Mrs Parker looked at the posy in a baffled way. Henry returned quietly to her book.

    “Well, who sent this unusual mixture of French marigolds and chrysanthemums?”

    “Mr Edward Claveringham. For Dimity,” said Henry politely.

    “On—my—altar!” shrieked Dimity, falling face down on the sofa, shaking helplessly.

    Henry looked up. “I would not endeavour to speak to her in that state, Mamma.”

    Lips tightly compressed, Mrs Parker took up her work and went out with it.

    Henry allowed herself to grin.

    Lady Mary Vane’s dinner. Dimity was allotted a Lilywhite and the admittedly good-looking, but amiably vacuous Captain Lord Vyvyan Gratton-Gordon. Henry was even luckier: an inarticulate young gentleman with the obligatory choking neckcloth and the stout Mr Tobias Vane. It was no consolation at all to discover later that the inarticulate young man was a duke’s son.

    Though it was some consolation to have Lord Rupert Narrowmine, Captain Lord Vyvyan, Captain Sir Peter Wainwright and Major Burton come up to her, Fliss and Dimity afterwards and brutally dispatch the minimal Lilywhite and his brother about their business. The fact that there were now four gentlemen to three young ladies in their group did not trouble any of them. Though it was true to say it did not go unremarked.

    The three Parker ladies were sitting quietly in the morning room when a footman entered to ask if they were at home to callers. Mrs Parker’s face brightened. “Who is it, Herbert?”

    “A Mr Bobby Amory, Mrs Parker.”

    “Really? How very pleasant! –Yes, what is it?” she said as Henry leaned forward urgently.

    “Mamma, he will have come to ask after Alfreda,” she murmured.

    Mrs Parker nodded graciously. “Very like, my love. Pray show Mr Amory in, Herbert.”

    The girls exchanged resigned glances. Although she had put on her gracious face, yet Mrs Parker did not bear all the appearance of the mamma of a viscountess about to receive kind enquiries from her daughter’s erstwhile suitor. Not entirely.

    ... “It was a little strange that he did not invite one of you girls to drive out with him.”—The girls exchanged desperate glances.—“Though of course it will take him some time to get over his tendre for our dearest Alfreda.”

    Henry got up quietly. “Pray excuse me, Mamma. I have a headache.”

    Dimity watched resentfully as her cousin escaped. If only she had thought first to have the headache!

    Mrs Crichton-Haugh’s dinner. Dimity got Quentin Dewesbury and Mr Edward Claveringham. Henry was awarded Mr Shirley Rowbotham, but also Captain Sir Peter Wainwright, who was a very dashing hussar indeed and possessed of a few more brains, not to say a few more years, than his friends Lord Vyvyan and Lord Rupert.

    As on the other side of the table Gwennie was seen to be struggling with Mr Felix Lilywhite and a very young naval sub-lieutenant, and little Katie, entirely silent, was squashed between the latter and Pooter Potter, the Parker cousins might have been said to have been going up in the world.

    “Mamma, may I present the Princesse Paola, Mme de Marty-Joinville, Mlle de Marty-Joinville, and M. d’Arresnes,” said Henry composedly as the barouche drew up, obedient to the signal of the very grand ladies in another barouche.

     … “Henry,” said her mother limply when it was over: “who are they?”

    Henry eyed her drily. ‘‘They are sables and chinchilla, is that not enough? –No, l beg your pardon! Well, I think I wrote you of la Princesse P. If she is in London it is possible that l’Amiral du Fresne will not be far behind.”

    Mrs Parker gulped.

    Suddenly Dimity said with a loud giggle: “And the very grand lady ln the chinchilla is a comtesse, Aunt Venetia, and that quiet, pleasant young man is a vicomte!”

    Mrs Parker drew a deep breath. “It is only to be expected. Henry has made such unexceptionable acquaintances, abroad!”

    ... “‘Unexceptionable acquaintances’ is a good one,” noted Henry when the girls were upstairs removing their bonnets.

    “Absolutely! What would she call a king, l wonder?”

    “I think she might go so far as to call him a desirable acquaintance, Dimity.”

    Dimity collapsed in giggles.

    “Now, girls,” said Mrs Parker on a desperate note, “l trust we are not going to be flippant or ungrateful about these delightful posies.”

    Suddenly Henry got up and kissed her mother’s soft cheek. “I’m sorry, Mamma, have l been a pest? But one cannot take the conventional offerings of such pathetic young men as Mr Edward Claveringham or Ensign Claud Quayle-Sturt very seriously, you know. Nor can one claim that any of these gentlemen truly affect either of us.”

    “I think you are much admired, Henry,” said Dimity.

    “Thank you, my love, but l must return the compliment!” replied Henry, laughing. “These are from Mr Rowbotham for me, and from his brother for Dimity, Mamma. They have said they will call. Um—I promise to be very kind to poor Mr Rowbotham,” she added, biting her lip. “I think he truly did feel something quite deep for Alfreda.”

    “That is my good girl,” said Mrs Parker in some relief, patting her shoulder approvingly.

    “However,” said Henry with a twinkle, “pray do not expect us to spare Mr Shirley, Mamma.”

    “He has writ a silly poem!” gasped Dimity, unable to hold it in any longer.

    Mrs Parker took a deep breath and held out her hand for it.

    Mr Shirley’s effusion contained about a dozen lines and featured rhymes upon “star” and “dark”, both “afar” and “hark” being acceptable, if expectable, and upon “golden”, somewhat awkwardly in harness with “beholden” and “me embolden.”

    “Rubbish,” she said firmly. “The merest doggerel.”

    “Nor to say tactless. Unless he supposes we are flattered to be known as the Dark and the Golden Star in the clubs,” noted Henry.

    ‘Well, quite!” Mrs Parker crumpled it up fiercely in her hand and said kindly to Dimity: “You need not drive out with him or carry his posy if you do not wish it, my dear. His birth is unexceptionable but l have to admit he is a very silly young man indeed.”

    … “Was it the rhyming of ‘star’ with ‘thee adore from afar’ and ‘my heart do not jar’ that did it?” wondered Henry the moment the two were alone.

    “Something must have!” admitted Dimity. “Ooh, what a relief!”

    Mrs Brinsley-Pugh’s rout party. The usual crush, only a scattering of orders, and barely a new face to be seen.

    Mrs Brinsley Pugh overpoweringly gracious to Theo. Expectable: she was bringing forward a daughter in preparation for the Season next year.

    Mrs Gratton-Gordon also overpowering gracious to Theo. Also expectable: Rosalind and Clarissa were not yet off her hands.

    Mr George Quayle-Sturt came up eagerly and bowed to Miss Dimity Parker but was not received with marked delight, even though her aunt nodded encouragingly at her and beamed upon him.

    An unknown young gentleman with dark curls in artful disarray and laughing dark eyes came up eagerly to Miss Henrietta Parker and reminded her in a foreign accent that they had met in Paris. Laughing, Miss Henrietta Parker proceeded to engage him in lively conversation in French, somehow neglecting to introduce him to her mamma until it was too late.

    “Henry, I have never heard of the name Pons,” she said cautiously as the young man, haying bowed far too low over Henry’s hand, promising to call, was swallowed up in the crush.

    “He is a cousin of the Vicomte d’Arresnes, and at present secretary to l’Amiral du Fresne. l cannot imagine what he is doing here: I scarcely think the Brinsley-Pughs move in those circles,” she said lightly.

    Mrs Parker swallowed and found herself incapable of reproving her daughter for encouraging a young man who was only a secretary.

    “Good gracious, my love,” said Mrs Parker in a stunned voice, as their barouche proceeded slowly through the Park and Henry smiled and bowed to two Naval gentlemen in a curricle who were trying to attract her attention. “Was that— Surely that was not—?”

    “The Duke of York,” said Henry composedly. “He is a close friend of Admiral Sir Chauncey’s.”

    “And the other gentleman is Commander Sir Arthur Jerningham, is he not handsome?” sighed Dimity.

    “Indeed. So that is— A married gentleman, of course? No? Well, that is— And such distinguished looks! I know not why you claimed he was your papa’s age, Henry, my silly little puss! Why, I dare swear he is not a day above thirty-nine!”

    “Certainly we are at home to visitors, Herbert,” said Mrs Parker to the footman. “Pray ask the callers to step in.”

    Herbert announced immediately: “Lady Georgina Claveringham, Mme de Marty-Joinville, and Mlle de Marty-Joinville, madam.”

    Mrs Parker bounded to her feet with a gasp.

    The elderly Lady Georgina was immensely gracious in heavy bronze silk with an enormous sable wrap and muff. The monkey on her shoulder was likewise. Well, he was not gracious, but he was most certainly in bronze silk trimmed with sable. The tall black footman in a white wig and conventional Claveringham livery merely stood impassively behind the dowager’s chair, but this was not felt to be an anticlimax.

    Lady Georgina had come to thank the Parkers for their kindness to her granddaughters, to express the wish that her heartfelt gratitude be conveyed to Miss Ogilvie, and to invite Miss Henrietta Parker to drive out with her tomorrow. Mme la Comtesse de Marty-Joinville and her daughter seemed merely to be accompanying her Ladyship. That was not altogether an anticlimax, either. Especially not Madame la Comtesse’s silver fox or laughing reference to Pansy’s conquest of “ce cher André de la Marre.”

    “Henry, you are made!” gasped Mrs Parker the moment the august guests had been bowed out.

    Henry replied calmly: “Was not that monkey adorable? He is very like Davey Monkey, I expect they are related. –Well, if I am made, Mamma, I think we have to admit it is entirely due to the Ogilvie connection: I had nothing whatsoever to do with helping the Claveringham girls.”

    “Yes,” she said limply. “Indeed.” She brightened. “I shall write to dearest Pansy this minute!” She rang the bell violently.

    Henry eyed Dimity drily.

    After quite some time Dimity said faintly: “It is a wig, of course, everyone says so...”

    “Yes: a lady of over seventy, as I think Lady Georgina must be—she is Lord Hubbel’s mamma, remember, not his sister—would not have black curls. –l think that magnificent diamond and emerald brooch with which she had favoured the monkey must be the one Lady Jane mentioned.”

    Dimity gulped.

    “The one that forms part of the Claveringham patrimony and that her Ladyship has refused to give up to Lady Hubbel!” choked Henry, collapsing in giggles.

    Dimity also collapsed in giggles.

    Mrs Parker did not reprove them. Any girl might be allowed to feel a trifle hysterical, after such condescension from one of the highest-born ladies in the land.

    … “What was it like, Henry?” breathed Dimity the following afternoon on Henry’s return from her drive with the lady who refused to be known as the Dowager Countess of Hubbel.

    “Yes, my love, tell us!” urged Mrs Parker.

    Henry smiled. “Apart from the fact that one was deliciously muffled up in furs and feathers? I don’t know if you could see from the front windows, but Lady Georgina was in a golden-brown woollen pelisse with the most miraculous feather wrap, all shades of bronze, green, brown and gold, and a giant muff to match, with more on the bonnet! The barouche was piled with fur rugs: everything from bearskin to what I am very nearly sure were sables.”

    “Sables? For a carriage rug?” gasped Mrs Parker.

    “She is said to be wickedly extravagant and to cost Lord Hubbel a fortune, quite apart from the enormous settlement which came to her on her widowhood. Well, as I was saying, apart from the fact that one was deliciously muffled in scented furs and feathers, it was not unlike a drive with Lady Winnafree! –Gossip, Mamma!” she said with a gurgle.

    “Er—well…” Mrs Parker looked cautiously at Dimity.

    Henry smiled. “Almost all of it quite unfit for the ears of both of you, I am afraid!”

    “Really, Henry!” said her mamma with a protesting laugh, her cheeks very pink.

    “But I will just pass on two morsels. One, it is perfectly true about Sir Noël Amory and Lady Ivo, for Lady Georgina was up in Scotland for the grouse herself and witnessed it. And two, it is also perfectly true that Lord Keywes is to have Sweden.”

    “Who?” said Mrs Parker in bewilderment.

    “What?” said Dimity in bewilderment.

    “And the Bon-Duttons are reliably said to be furious about it!” Henry added with a laugh, going out to get out of her outdoor things.

    Mrs Parker and Dimity looked blankly at each other.

    “Look at the invitations!” sighed Mrs Parker. There were so many clustering upon the mantelshelf and in the frame of the mirror that one could hardly see one’s face.

    “They are nearly all for boring receptions or political dinners, Aunt Venetia,” murmured Dimity.

    “So much the better: there will be plenty of—” Mrs Parker broke off hurriedly.

    “Gentlemen,” Dimity agreed innocently.

    Mrs Parker cleared her throat. “Dimity, let me see how you are managing with that crochet pattern, my love.”

    … The barouche. The Park. Mrs Parker’s eyes were everywhere. Her nods and smiles were infinite. The Miss Parkers’ initial gaiety had measurably diminished by the end of the drive.

    … Herbert entered with two posies on a salver. Henry eyed them without interest. Dimity eyed them with visible hope; hurriedly Henry picked them up before Mamma could notice her cousin’s expression. Mr George Quayle-Sturt: for Dimity. His expectations from the old uncle or cousin or whatever he was must be considerably less sure than Mrs Quayle-Sturt had at one period given the Parkers and Tarlingtons to believe. The other, for herself, was from Mr Rowbotham.

    “‘In thanks for a pleasant drive,’” read Dimity from the card, since Henry had abandoned it.

    “Exactly,” said Henry firmly. “He spoke very touchingly of Alfreda, and l would prefer not to discuss the topic.”

    Mrs Parker opened her mouth but thought better of it.

    … “Whom did you meet on your ride this morning, my dears?”

    Fortunately Theo had hurried upstairs, so Henry was able to reply blandly: No-one, Mamma. It was misty in the Park. I suppose that had deterred people.” Blandly she ignored the fact that Dimity’s eyes were bulging and her cheeks had turned puce.

    “No-one?” hissed Dimity as they reached the landing.

    “It was literally true. We did not meet anyone. Lady May Claveringham and Sir Peter Wainwright were with the group from the outset.”

    Dimity collapsed in giggles.

    … More posies.

    “Gardenias. From Captain Dewesbury,” said Mrs Parker in a meaning voice, beaming and nodding over Dimity’s. ‘”You must carry this tonight, my dear.”

    Dimity gave it a look of sour dislike. “l hate them. Their scent is overpowering.”

    Mrs Parker took a very deep breath. “These are pretty,” she said grimly to Henry over the Vicomte d’Arresnes’s camellias.

    “Very. Unfortunately they will be brown before evening.”

    Frowning, Mrs Parker took up her work.

    Lady Lavinia Dewesbury’s little dinner and hop for the young people. Little for Lady Lavinia.

    Mrs Parker had expressed the hope on the way there that the Vicomte d’Arresnes would be present. He was. The kind hand of Fate, or at the least the kind hand of Lady Lavinia, the which for many of those present that evening felt very much like the same thing, had ordained that he should be seated on Mrs Parker’s right.

    Dimity was awarded her hostess’s son and Major Burton. Some might have said, a mixed blessing. Henry had Captain Sir Peter Wainwright on the one hand and the stunningly handsome but not young Commander Sir Arthur Jerningham on the other—by request, the latter revealed in an undervoice, twinkling very much. Doubtless the Parker cousins were going up in the world but this was not wholly a consolation to Mrs Parker. Major Burton might be charming but was known to live on his pay and have nothing but his name to recommend him. And, alas, Dimity was not encouraging Quentin Dewesbury, while Henry, giggling very much with both neighbours impartially, was making herself remarked to no end: it was obvious even to the most hopeful match-making mamma that neither the naval nor the military gentleman cherished any serious intentions.

    Their hostess had awarded her elder daughter Mr Felix Lilywhite and the stout Mr Tobias Vane—Gwennie was undoubtedly being punished for some sin or another, her friends could not but conclude; and her younger daughter the minimal Lilywhite and the inarticulate young duke’s son—possibly only because of Katie’s youth, not a deliberate punishment. The cousins looked at them with genuine pity.

    On the other hand, Mr Parker had got Lady May Claveringham! Could Lady Lavinia know?

    “Henry, my dear,” said Mrs Parker with a sigh as the carriage took them home, very late: “did you have to dance with absolutely every single gentleman there, save only your own brother.”

    “Yes, Mamma,” said Henry primly. “Commander Sir Arthur had bet me that I could not.”

    Mrs Parker’s bosom swelled. “If this is the sort of behaviour that you have learned abroad, Henrietta—”

    “Well, yes: I think it is!” said Henry with a laugh. “It was great fun!”

    “It was harmless, Mamma: I think everyone there was quite a close acquaintance of the Dewesburys’: little more than a family party,” murmured Theo.

    Atter a moment Mrs Parker said: “if this were a bet, Henry, what did you wager, pray?”

    “If I lost, I would have had to award all the dances the next time we meet to Commander Sir Arthur, so you see, l had to win!” she said with a gurgle.

    “He should know better, at his age,” said Mrs Parker grimly.

    “Mamma, I do not think they ever know better,” she murmured.

    Mrs Parker swallowed. Henry sounded horridly like Lady Winnafree.

    Dimity giggled. “So what did you win?”

    “Girls, I think that will do.’

    “Mamma, she will tell Dimity the moment they are out of your hearing,” said Theo with a smile in his voice. “Would it not be better to know the worst?”

    “Dear boy, you are teazing. Er—very well, then. Henry. Go on.”

    Henry laughed. “l won a visit to the Admiralty to see what really goes on there! But he has warned me that they do nothing but push papers round their desks and drink tea all day!”

    Theo gave a shout of laughter.

    In the dimness of the coach Dimity’s and Henry’s eyes met for a fleeting instant. It was very obvious to them that being seated next Lady May at dinner and then three dances with her was what had put him in such a good mood. But if his mamma had not noticed, so much the better!

    Dimity was frowning over her crochet pattern, Henry was buried in the Morning Post, and Mrs Parker had just taken up her work when the door opened and a footman entered, bearing an immense pile of flowers. “For the young ladies, madam.”

    Seeing her mamma was bereft of speech, Henry said calmly: “Then pray leave them on this table, thank you, Herbert.” Considerately waiting until the door had closed behind him before saying: “I wager his family and friends call him Bert, without exception.”

    “Hush, Henry! Really! Is this a time for silly— But just look at these beautiful blooms! Who can they be from, I wonder?”

    Henry returned drily: “If there be twin bouquets there, they will be from Sir Lionel D.: he was positively falling over his feet to see us both in blue last night. Twin blue stars, you see. A pure coincidence, of course, but I did not have the heart to tell him so.”

    “Henry, that will do, you are being very— Oh, glorious!” she cried as Dimity picked up a great mixed bunch of mauve and white chrysanthemums and Michaelmas daisies.

    “Overdone. ‘Quentin Dewesbury’ written all over ’em,” said Henry drily.

    Dimity gulped. “Well, yes.”

    “There, my dear!” cried Mrs Parker. “What did I tell you? He had eyes for no-one but yourself last night!”

    Dimity was very red and cross looking. Henry said hastily: “The tasteless yellow ones with the red ribbons will be... Let me see. Not Mr Shirley Rowbotham, he has taste—all the Rowbothams do. A pity it is not accompanied by brains in any but Sir Cedric; though I have not yet met Claudia, true,” she said as Mrs Parker opened her mouth.

    Dimity was reading the card on that bunch. “You will never guess, Henry, you are just being— Well, l forget the word, but Theo would know it!”

    “Vainglorious.” said Henry with a grin. “It will not be Mr Tobias Vane: his bunches to Alfreda were always exquisitely tasteful, if the first was also exquisitely imbecilic.”

    “Henry!”

    “It had a very silly acrostic attached, Aunt Venetia. Even Alfreda laughed!’ said Dimity quickly. “Of course it is not from him, do not be so silly, Henry, he has never even spared me a glance!”

    “But he has spoken to you of tea: you are not entirely safe.”

    Dimity collapsed in giggles.

    “Is it for you?” asked her cousin.

    Dimity nodded helplessly.

    “Ah. Then my guess is,” decided Henry, eying the acid yellow of the chrysanthemums and the vivid scarlet of the ribands narrowly: “either Mr Edward Claveringham, or... Ah-ha! The gallant Ensign Claud!”

    “Yes!” shrieked Dimity helplessly, going off in positive hysterics.

    “Girls, really! Dimity, that is most unkind and ungrateful, I am sure he is a most worthy young man!”

    “Pooh, he is a miserable little fortune-hunter,” drawled Henry. “And mark, the first to cut us when— No, very well. These white things with the blue bows will be Sir Lionel, I collect.” She read the cards. “Yes.”

    Dimity snatched one up. “Ooh, help.”

    Henry nodded wryly.

    Dimity collapsed in renewed hysterics,

    Crossly Mrs Parker snatched up a white posy and read the card. She gulped.

    That left two more white posies. Hot-house blooms.

    “It will be two of the fortune-hunters, grown desperate.” declared Henry. “I know the signs: Pansy experienced just the same phenomenon when M. Lamartine of the flashing eyes, teeth and hair had hopes of her.”

    “Stop it, Henry,” said Dimity weakly.

    Mrs Parker, with the look on her face of a mother ignoring her child’s prattling idiocies, had picked up the delicious posy of gardenias. The scent was glorious. She sniffed rapturously. Then she read the card. Her face took on a puzzled look. “For you, Henry.”

    Henry shrugged. “Someone has made a mistake. then. He should check his information at White’s: it is not the Dark Star who has the fortune.”

    “Henry, you are being tasteless, that is enough! These joking manners may be all very well abroad— Great Heavens,” she said, reading the card of the final offering. “Henry! Who is Henri-Louis?” she said sharply.

    “What?” said Henry blankly. “I beg your pardon, Mamma. What did you say?”

    “Some impertinent Frenchman who dares to sign himself by his first name only, when he sends flowers to my daughter, that is what!” cried Mrs Parker, recovering from her stupefaction.

    “Pray, Mamma—”

    “I should never have entrusted you to Lady Winnafree!” she cried.

    “Mamma—”

    “Really! I never heard of such a thing! These manners may be fit for the Continent, but he will very speedily see that they will not do for London!”

    “Mamma, he is a Prince de Bourbon!” cried Henry desperately.

    The little morning room rang with silence.

    “What?” croaked Mrs Parker.

    “Henry, a—a royal prince?” quavered Dimity.

    Henry took the camellias from her mother’s palsied hand. “Princes are necessarily royal, Dimity.”

    “You never told us you met a real prince!” cried Dimity, ignoring this.

    “I did,” said Henry with a sigh. “He is very young, about Ludo’s age, I think, and he grew up in Leamington Spa—Dimity, l wrote you all of this—and dislikes France very much.”

    ‘You never said he was a real prince, however!”

    “You most certainly did not,” agreed Mrs Parker.

    “Mamma, I did. He is only a very minor Bourbon connection, I am sure I said as much.”

    “A prince!” sighed Dimity. “Sending you flowers!”

    Henry groaned. “It is a courtesy only, he is the merest boy.”

    “Rubbish, Henry!” cried her mother. “Hand me that card at once, my love!”

    Henry did so, pointing out drily: “If you will look closely you will discern a very small fleur-de-lis. In addition to the words ‘Henri-Louis,’ of course.”

    Ignoring this, Mrs Parker cried: “Oh! I can scarce believe it!”

    “Mamma,” said Henry, now very flushed: “you must please stop this nonsense. It is a courtesy, to let me know he is in London.”

    “Oh, pooh! A card would be a courtesy, but flowers? I dare say you were the prettiest girl in Paris„ my love, you were ever prone to underrate yourself! And Lady Winnafree has such exquisite taste: of course he saw you at your best! Dimity, my love, quickly! Pray check those invitations, I am very sure there is one for a reception at the French Embassy amongst them!”

    Dimity rose obediently and collected the invitations.

    Sighing, Henry laid down Henri-Louis’s camellias and picked up the gardenias. She read the card, and smiled.

    “Henry,” said her mother sharply: “pray give that here: we do not know any Alec Ramsay!”

    “It is General Ramsay, Mamma!” Henry explained with a laugh. “So he is in London! How delightful! I am so looking forward to seeing him again!” She rose. “Dimity, you may look through those invitations until you turn blue in the face, they will not make Henri-Louis fall in love with me. I am not the type he admires: he very much admired Lady Winnafree and in fact greatly preferred Pansy to myself.” She picked up the Morning Post and the gardenias. “Pray excuse me; I shall finish my reading quietly with Theo.”

    “Well!” said Mrs Parker with shining eyes as the door closed quietly behind her. “A prince of the royal blood! Now we shall see that cat Lady Hubbel sit up and take notice! Just you wait, my dear!”

    Dimity looked at her dubiously and did not dare to say that Henry had seemed very sure that the prince was not interested in her, and very, very unlike a young lady who wished a prince to be interested in her.

    Mrs Parker, the bit well and truly between her teeth, did not even notice the look on her niece’s face.

    The barouche. The Park.

    “Is that he?” Mrs Parker peered eagerly.

    “No, Mamma.”

    They drove on. Mrs Parker smiled, nodded, bowed or waved to the more favoured, and peered.

    “Well, is that he? With the Vicomte d’Arresnes?”

    “No, Mamma. I have said: Son Altesse is a quiet-looking young man with brown hair.”

    Mrs Parker told the barouche to pull over anyway.

    … Invitations. Mrs Parker pounced. Her face fell. “Well, this is very odd, very odd indeed! Nothing at all from the French Embassy!”

    Henry took a deep breath but restrained herself.

    … “Dear Henry has made such unexceptionable acquaintances abroad,” sighed .Mrs Parker.

    Lady Tarlington looked sourly at Henry going down the dance with M. le Vicomte d’Arresnes and at her own daughter dancing with Pooter Potter while Lord Rupert Narrowmine propped up the wall with a group of friends, laughing and talking. “Quite.”

    … “Of course you must drive out with Mme la Comtesse de Marty-Joinville, girls, since she has been so very kind as to invite you!”

    “Aunt Venetia, she and Henry will talk French!”

    “Gossip in French, you mean. Well, yes,” admitted Henry.

    “Dimity, pray do not argue: one cannot possibly slight such unexceptionable acquaintances!”

    Dimity scowled and did not bother to point out that Madame was more than unexceptionable.

    … More posies. Dimity gave them a sulky look.

    M. Pons. For Henry. With a note asking if she would be permitted to drive out with him.

    “Henry, it will not do to encourage such a young man. He is very pleasant, I know, my love, but in spite of his connections, he is a nobody.”

    Henry was very red. “Mamma, so am I a nobody. And if I refuse it will offend Admiral du Fresne.”

    “Very well. One drive.” She picked up the other posy, since neither girl was showing any interest in it. “Very tasteful indeed,” she approved incautiously, not having read the card.

    “Who is it from?” said Henry without interest.

    Mrs Parker was rather flushed. “From Mr Shirley Rowbotham again. For your cousin.”

    Dimity got up suddenly and went out.

    “Theo,” said Henry in a low voice, “l do not like to poke my nose in, but—but l fear Dimity is pining because we have seen nothing of Mr Winnafree. His name was certainly mentioned in the Morning Post the other day: I collect he is in town?”

    “Well, yes. The House is sitting.” He hesitated. “I have seen a little of him: he is very interested in my scheme with Dr Fairbrother and Miss Blake. But his time is very much occupied with committees and so forth. And—well... Well, this is only a guess, Henry,” he said, rather flushed, “but he is not at all a wealthy man, though the family, of course, is not poor. l think he—he perhaps has had second thoughts about being seen to be hanging out for Dimity’s fortune.”

    “What? Well, he must be a nincompoop!” she cried angrily. ‘‘If he were a sensible man, such considerations would not weigh with him!”

    “It is a sensitive issue,” murmured Theo. “But also… Well, Henry, it did seem to me at Guillyford Place this summer that to an outsider it would not have appeared that Dimity was giving him any more encouragement than she awarded to not a few of the younger gentlemen present. She—uh—she has such pretty, taking ways.”

    “Gazetted flirt, you mean. Help,” said Henry in a hollow voice. “But I think she—well, from what Alfreda has said, she truly affects him, Theo.”

    Theo nodded sadly.

    Henry retreated from this interview with a cross feeling that John Winnafree. M.P.. must indeed be a nincompoop. She did not, however, attempt to persuade Dimity to her way of thinking.

    Mrs Parker did not actually say “At last!” but her face expressed it very clearly as they reached the head of the receiving line and the young prince, smiling delightedly, bowed far too low over Henry’s hand.

    “I shall call, if I may?” he said with a twinkle.

    “Not if you mean to ask me about Theo’s horses!” replied Henry with a giggle as they passed on down the line.

    “Henry, what was all that about? That was no way to speak to a prince!” gasped her mamma, the moment they were out of earshot.

    “Oh, pooh, Mamma! He is Ludo’s age, as you see! And very happy to be treated like a younger brother: he was miserable in Paris. The French court is incredibly stuffy, apparently on the strength of having missed having their heads chopped off.”

    “Henry, be silent! This is the French Embassy!” hissed Mrs Parker in horror.

    “Everybody is shouting their heads off, comme d’habitude, talking of heads off: no-one will hear me.”

    “But why Theo’s horses?” asked Dimity.

    “I’m afraid they are nothing remarkable,” murmured Theo.

    “I mentioned in Paris that I missed my morning rides, and so he offered to mount me, an offer which of course I refused,” she said as her female relatives gasped, “and then he just went on talking horse-flesh for an entire morning! Well, as l said, he is Ludo’s age.”

    Mrs Parker was reduced to looking at her limply.

    Lady Blefford had come up to town—even though Mrs Parker’s latest news from Alfreda was that her papa-in-law was not very well. She was honouring Mrs Parker with her company at Mrs Gratton-Gordon’s little dance for the young people. Both ladies were aware that there was only one reason for her doing so: to present a united front to her world and thus prevent any breath of gossip about Lord Harpingdon’s marriage to a portionless girl from a country vicarage

    “Hm,” she said as Lady May Claveringham was seen to be led out for the waltz by the Prince Henri-Louis. “I suppose that is slightly more suitable than throwing the chit at York, as she did the eldest daughter.”

    Mrs Parker swallowed.

    “Blefford is urging me to bring a cousin’s daughter out next Season,” she said without any sign of either pleasure or displeasure, watching her daughter Lady Viola being whirled in the waltz by that expert exponent, Mr Rowbotham.

    “Indeed? She will be company for Lady Viola, that will be pleasant for both of them.”

    “They are country nobodies.”

    Poor Mrs Parker swallowed again, but managed to offer desperately: “Does not Mr Rowbotham waltz divinely?”

    To which her Ladyship returned coldly: “He is a fribble.”

    “H.-L. has promised to accompany us on our ride tomorrow,” said Miss Dewesbury, looking completely innocent.

    Henry replied immediately : “Gwennie, is this a plot?”

    “Well, only if you can get your brother to come, Henry, dear!” she said with a gurgle. “For there is absolutely no doubt that May will be with us!”

    … “I think May does affect Theo,” concluded Henry, on their return from the ride.

     Dimity replied crossly: “Pooh, so what if she does, Lady Hubbel will never let him near her, you may be very sure! And he is too good and proper to dream of eloping, and mark my words, he will never get her any other way!”

    “Dimity,” said Henry with a troubled look: “do you not think that perhaps we should talk a little about Mr Winnafree?”

    “NO!” she shouted.

    “Dimity—”

    But Dimity had run out of the room, slamming the door behind her.

    … Mrs Potter’s card party. With lottery tickets and spillikins for the young people. Henry had given up on the spillikins: Porky Potter cheated. She would have joined her cousin but Dimity was seated with Captain Dewesbury at a very little table over spillikins à deux. Whence gales of giggles and cries of “Cheat!” were duly proceeding. If that was the way she had behaved last summer, it was scarcely surprising that Mr Winnafree had not perceived she preferred him to the gallant Captain.

    Mrs Parker was trying another tack. Re-trying.

    “Of course we shall see dear Aden for Christmas, if not at Chipping Abbas then at dear Harpingdon Manor!”

    Lady Tarlington looked blank. “I do not think so. –Aden never tells me anything!” she added crossly.

    Mrs Parker, on thinking it over, had not been sure of this were grounds for hope, or no.

    ... “But of course you must come to us for Christmas at Harpingdon Manor, my dear child!”

    Fliss’s lip wobbled. “Mamma is very cross.”

    Mrs Parker swallowed. “With whom, my dear?”

    Fliss’s lip wobbled again. “Our Cousin Rupert.”

    Mrs Parker was only able to smile palely and pat her hand.

    ... “Of course, as Aden’s oldest friend. Mr Rowbotham, you will be going to Chipping Abbas for the festive season?”

    “Wouldn’t say I was his oldest friend. Think his Cousin Harpingdon may have the advantage of me, there. Noël Amory ain’t no spring chicken, neither.”

    “No, I—”

    “Oh, aye: see what you mean, ma’am. No, we is all off to Flytterden, Ceddie has promised us waits and I know not what. Yule logs, or some such. Mince pies,”

    Mrs Parker looked at him dubiously: the elegant Mr Rowbotham did not sound precisely thrilled at the prospect. Possibly Sir Cedric’s Flytterden was as stiff, cold and unwelcoming as Blefford Park?

    But the elegant one then revealed mournfully: “Last time I was down there when the lads was home they stuck me bed full of hair-brushes and ridin’ crops and I know not what. Said the chaps at Eton call it an apple pie. I never heard of no apple pie what had hairbrushes and so forth in it.”

    Mrs Parker barely raised a pale smile, and expressed herself forcefully to her daughter and her niece at the first opportunity as to her relief that Alfreda had not preferred that man, for he was quite an imbecile!

    Mr Rowbotham, as he himself could have informed her, had been on the town for more than a while: and was not so much of an imbecile as all that.

    “Pumpin’ me,” he revealed glumly to his younger brother.

    “Well, she would,” acknowledged Mr Shirley.

    Mr Rowbotham grunted.

    Mr Shirley eyed him cautiously. “Did you write to Aden?”

    “Yes,” he grunted.

    “And?”

    Scowling, Wilfred revealed: “Silly fellow said he would not spend Christmas at Flytterden or anywhere.”

    “Oh,” said Mr Shirley weakly.

    Henrietta whirled in the waltz in Commander Sir Arthur Jerningham’s manly arms. Manly but not precisely youthful. Mrs Parker frowned.

    ... “Merci mille fois, Amiral!” said Henry, laughing, as Admiral du Fresne bowed very low over her hand after their country dance. The Admiral replied with a speech in French. Mrs Parker was not absolutely sure of everything that was in it, but certainly Henry giggled delightedly and told him, in French, not to be so foolish. Her mother’s lips tightened.

    ... Captain Sir Peter Wainwright bent far too low over Miss Henrietta’s hand after their waltz and said something in a very low voice. Henry smacked his arm lightly with her fan, laughing, and told him not to be so silly. Mrs Parker frowned. Captain Sir Peter was young enough. In fact, he was about Aden Tarlington’s age. And eligible enough, if he was not wealthy. But Mrs Parker had never seen a man look less serious in her life.

    ... M. le Vicomte d’Arresnes, looking airy, emerged from a little alcove off the Crichton-Haugh ballroom. His buttonhole was adorned by a pink camellia that had certainly not been there when be went in. Grimly Mrs Parker waited. Her daughter emerged from the alcove, looking airy. She was carrying a posy of somewhat crushed pink camellias. Mrs Parker took a grim breath. It was pointless to encourage him: Mme de Marty-Joinville had casually let drop the name of the member of one of the great houses of Europe for whom the young Vicomte’s august family had destined him.

    ... “But of course they are not serious, Mamma, and no more am I! Why, if life were nothing but serious things, no-one would bother to come up to town at all!”

    “Henry, this is not like you!” she cried.

    Henry put her head on one side. “Certainly it is not like what I used to be, no. But I thought you wished me to acquire town bronze and become accustomed to the attentions of gentlemen?”

    “Not like that!” she cried. “And in future I shall require your brother to report every gentleman you encounter on your rides, Henrietta!”

    Henry gave her a dry look but did not point out that Theo on these rides was usually too busy looking for May Claveringham to notice has sister or his cousin partaking in anything much less than an orgy or an elopement. And she had her doubts about the latter.

    The barouche. The Park. A clutch of naval gentlemen, not in their first youth, waving and smiling at Henry.

    “A mere bow will suffice,”  said Mrs Parker coldly.

    “I do not think so, Mamma.”

    “Henrietta—”

    “She means that one of those gentlemen is the Duke of York, Aunt Venetia!”

    Mrs Parker took a grim breath and directed the driver to pull up.

    … “For myself, I do not care if I go or stay,” said Dimity indifferently. “These drives with the Comtesse are all the same. She and Henry start off with the best intentions but within three minutes at the outside they are jabbering in French. Sometimes Mlle de Marty-Joinville translates but it is either gossip about people whom I do not know, or stupid politics. And in any case she is a dull pudding.”

    “Then you may refuse, Dimity. Henry, you will please me by refusing also. Mme de Marty-Joinville is not a good influence for a young girl.”

    “Not going will alienate not only Mme de Marty-Joinville, l’Amiral du Fresne, and the French Ambassador and his lady—for whose opinion I realise you do not care a fig—but also Madame’s good friend Lady Georgina Claveringham and quite possibly Lady Lavinia Dewesbury as well: I think Lady G. is Lady Lavinia’s aunt, indeed.”

    “Very well, go! Go for as many drives with the woman as you wish! But let me tell you, Henrietta Parker, you will end up as hard as the woman is, herself!”

    “It is not entirely fair to say she is hard, though I grant you she is somewhat cynical. But I think that is very largely the result of her marriage’s having been arranged for her.”

    “OH!” shouted Mrs Parker, suddenly bursting into furious tears and rushing from the room.

    Henry shrugged.

    “I’ll go to her,” gulped Dimity.

    “I would not just yet, if I were you. Persons who find themselves hoist with their own petard generally take quite some time to get over the shock of it.”

    Dimity stared.

    “Say it, say it,” said her cousin with a sigh.

    “Henry, you are doing it on purpose!”

    “Not entirely. I very much enjoy Mme de Marty-Joinville’s company. And I certainly very much enjoy dancing with all those charming gentlemen who cherish no serious intentions towards me whatsoever! But I will grant you that although I did not come up to town with the express intention of rubbing Mamma’s nose in the results of her own plotting, I find myself quite enjoying the sensation.”

    “She is right: you are become hard and cynical and unfeeling!” she cried, rushing out.

    Henry shrugged. “You did not look, but I was always cynical, and probably hard. And I can assure you, my dear cousin,” she added to the ambient air with a curl of her lip, “that I am working as best I may on the ‘unfeeling.’”

    Mrs Parker had attempted to put Theo under interrogation.

    “She will tell you whom we met herself,” he said with a tiny smile.

    “Theo Parker, I never thought to see that look on your face!”

    “Er—I beg your pardon, Mamma. But you have but to ask her: prevarication is quite foreign to Henry’s nature.”

    “It was, once,” returned Mrs Parker darkly.

    Theo sighed a little but said: “Very well then, Mamma. This morning we met Sir Lionel—”

    “Not him!”

    “I was about to say, accompanied by Admiral du Fresne, M. Pons, M. le Vicomte d’Arresnes and Mr Amory, Mamma.”

    “Mr Bobby Amory?” she said sharply.

    “Mm. He did not appear interested in either Henry or Dimity.”

    Mrs Parker was very red: Theo had sounded so dry, not like her dearest oldest son at all! “I did not ask you that, Theo.”

    “No. Then, after we had ridden on a little, we came across His Royal Highness the Duke of York, Commander Sir Arthur Jerningham, Captain Quarmby-Vine, and Admiral Dauntry. I believe the Admiral is an old friend of the Duke of Wellington’s, Mamma: he—”

    “I know who he is!” she snapped.

    Theo waited.

    “So this Captain—did you say Quarmby-Vine, my dear?”

    “A Naval captain. In his mid-years.”

    Mrs Parker glared.

    “That was all, Mamma. Except that we saw young Mr Lilywhite at a distance, with Mr Shirley Rowbotham and Mr ‘Val’ Valentine. I think they may have been returning home, they were in evening clothes.”

    His mother gave him an amazed, indignant look

    “Oh—I forgot. Admiral Dauntry and Captain Quarmby-Vine are also old friends of Admiral Sir Chauncey’s.”

    “That is ENOUGH!” she shouted. “Never did I think to hear such impertinence from your lips, Theophilus!” She burst in tears and ran out.

    Theo looked limply at the slammed door. “But they are,” he said feebly.

    “Who is that?”‘ said Mrs Parker sharply as her daughter’s face lit up.

    “It is General Ramsay, Mamma! –Oh, General!” she cried, bounding to her feet as the tall, handsome man with the white slash in his dark hair and the scar on his cheek approached: “I am so very, very glad to see you at last!”

    General Ramsay was explaining, smiling, that he had had to dash up to Scotland: a flood on the estates, and— But Mrs Parker scarcely heard a word. He was as old as all the rest!

My dearest Alfreda,

    I have done my best, my very best, but it has all gone for Nothing, and I am sure I cannot tell where I went wrong! Your sister is become Impossible and encourages all the wrong gentlemen, and when l try to speak seriously to her will only laugh, in the horridest manner, Alfreda, for all the world like Lady Winnafree, nay, worse, the Marty-Joinville creature herself, and say it is all a Nothing, and Town Life is all Nothing in any case, so I should not disturb myself over it! And she agreed to walk out with Commander Sir Arthur Jerningham even tho’ I had begged her not to, yes, Begged her, Alfreda, and it came on to rain as I knew it would and he brought her back in a hire-carriage. Closed!! And she would only laugh and say l had said myself that he is her Papa’s age! And that if he had squeazed her hand a little it was Very Nearly Avuncular! Her very words, Alfreda, and never did I think to hear them from a daughter of mine! Very Nearly Avuncular!

    I would have forbid her to come to Mrs Gratton-G.’s little dance immediate, only that I was so sure that there would be some pleasant young men, but when we arrived it was all the Same and she would not dance with any but the Old Men! And the Vicomte d’Arresnes, but as we know, it is Useless, and so I have told her: I am persuaded she did it to annoy! And as for letting Captain Quarmby-Vine take her in to the supper! He is fifty if he be a day, if he is a widower, and known as the  greatest Naval Bore in London! And then l find her sitting with three—yes, three gentlemen, Alfreda, and I am sure I do not care if they were Captains or Generals or even Field-Marshalls, they were all old and unsuitable. Teaching her to play whist, or such was their claim! Of course I could not Speak, in especial as that cat Mrs G.-G. was watching, but the moment we were in the carriage I demanded to know what her flowers were doing in the three gentlemen’s buttonholes, and all she would say was that as it was play or pay, she had had to pay, and the posy was all she had about her! She is turning into a Hoyden and Flirt, and it is all Lady Winnafree’s fault, for if she had never gone Abroad she would not have learnt these Free Ways and we would have our own dear Little Henry, still!

    And as for Dimity! Sulks! She will not go anywhere, she will not ride—tho’ as the weather has become so inclement I have forbid them to, unless at be a very mild morning indeed—and we have seen no sign, not a sign, Alfreda, of Mr Winnafree, tho’ Theo has assured me I know not how many times that he is in London for the Parlt.! I was never so deceived in a man in my life! And if the horrid Parlt. is to stop sitting directly I am sure I do not Care! And I am very sure that with the least encouragement we could expect an offer from Mr George Quayle-Sturt, and it is not true that he is penniless, he has definite expectations. Or Captain Dewesbury: he has been most attentive indeed these past months, and I am sure if Dimity would but encourage him a little more he would offer! Or even Lord Rupert, I am persuaded that it is a Hum set about by Lady T. that he ever cherished serious intentions towards F., for he has scarce been near her. And Dimity is much prettier and besides would bring him a more than respectable portion, for let us not blink at facts: your sons must cut him out, my dearest. But she will not encourage any of them and refused point-blank to accompany us to the G.-G. ball. Dimity! I never thought to see the day! And it is all the fault of that stupid J.W.: said I not from the first that he was all wrong for her?

    And then my lovely Theo: Alfreda, my dear, you would scarce recognise him, he is become a positive Grouch, and what is Worse, is becoming as unfeeling and Cynical as Henry! And I do not believe for a single instant that it has been Lady May C. for over a year: that cat Lettice Tarlington has spread it about town to spite me! When it is scarce my blame if both my girls are the toast of the town and she has failed to snare poor Lord R. for F.!

    There was more: much more; but Alfreda barely glanced through it to see that it was, indeed, all in the same vein, and went in search of Christian.

    “Oh, dear. Well, my love, I shall go up and fetch them. This cannot go on.”

    “Thank you, dearest,” said Alfreda in relief.

    … “My dearest, dearest boy!” sobbed Mrs Parker, throwing herself into her son-in-law’s arms. “I have duh-done my buh-buh—”

    “Yes. Hush, Mamma.”

    “—best!” she wailed.

    Harpy patted her back and said all that was kind and soothing. Silently reflecting that she had, very clearly, not only done her best, but done far too much.

Next chapter:

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