An Expedition To Oxford

13

An Expedition To Oxford

    Mr Tarlington stalked into his mother’s sitting-room unannounced, scowling. Fliss got up quickly, looking nervous, for she was aware that he had been in a dreadful mood since Mrs Parker had announced her decision to take all three girls home to Lower Beighnham.

    “What the Devil are you sending me urgent messages for?” he said without preamble.

    “Aden, I—I did not know what else to do. Mamma has driven out to Richmond to visit with our elderly Tarlington cousins, and—and—this is Miss Ogilvie and Miss Pansy!” she finished on a gasp. “The Parkers’ cousins! I think you met them when they were at Miss Blake’s school.”

    “Oh, so it is, yes; how are you?” he said without interest.

    The Miss Ogilvies had risen. They looked at him uncertainly, but Delphie managed to say: “Good morning, Mr Tarlington.”

    “Aden, I did not know what to do,” faltered Fliss.

    “You said that. I imagine the thing to do would be to tell Taunton to have bed-chambers prepared for the Miss Ogilvies.”

    “No!” she said angrily. “They have not come to stay!”

    “Er—order up a nuncheon?” he said, rising his eyebrows very high.

    “Aden, do not be so disobliging!” wailed Fliss. “They have come to see Aunt Venetia on their way to Oxford, and—and she has gone!”

    “Well, yes: you have missed her by a whole day, ma’am,” he said to Miss Ogilvie indifferently. “Um—thought it was the other one that was Miss Ogilvie?” he added in a puzzled voice.

    Delphie had felt it necessary to inform Fliss of the masquerade: they both gulped.

    “No!” said Pansy crossly. “Never mind that! We have had an urgent message that Great-Uncle Humphrey Ogilvie is very ill, and we are on our way to Oxford to see him.”

    “Oh: sorry to hear that. Well, we can certainly give you a change of horses.”

    “Aden!” cried Fliss, almost in tears.

    “Just be quiet, sir, and listen!” said Pansy crossly.

    Mr Tarlington swallowed a smile. “Go on, then.”

    “We do not require a change of horses,” said Pansy, glaring at him, “for we came on the stage and mean to continue to Oxford the same way. But the message informed us that Great-Uncle Humphrey wants urgently to see not only ourselves but also Aunt Venetia and our cousins.”

    “Why the Devil didn’t he send to Lower Beighnham, in that case?”

    “I must suppose he did! But we thought we might contact them much faster if we came here!”

    “Oh, I see: you wish me to ride ventre à terre in pursuit of Aunt Parker,” he said to his sister.

    “Very well, don’t!” she snapped.

    Delphie was looking in a distressed way from him to Fliss. “Look, Miss— You is Miss Ogilvie, right?” he said to her.

    “Yes, sir,” she faltered.

    “Yes! Can it signify?” cried Pansy loudly.

    He rubbed his straight nose. “Might do. How old are you, then, Miss?”

    “Seventeen,” she said, scowling horribly.

    “Ah. And did you sustain a visit something like a month since from Noël Amory?”

    “Yes,” she said shortly, going very red.

     “That could explain considerable, then,” said Mr Tarlington in a satisfied voice. “As I was saying, Miss Ogilvie, you have just missed Mrs Parker.”

    “Yes, but— Oh, dear,” said Miss Ogilvie, suddenly sinking limply onto a chair.

    “I could go after them, you know,” said Pansy thoughtfully.

    “Pansy! No! Not by yourself!” she gasped.

    “Er—my Aunt Parker is fond of the old fellow, is she?” said Mr Tarlington cautiously.

    “No! She has not seen him for years!” said Pansy crossly.

    “And I believe the last time she saw him he threw something at her head,” agreed Delphie.

    “Oh, yes: so she said,” recalled Pansy. “He said she was throwing herself away on a country parson and need not think to see a penny of his money.”

    “She won’t want to chase after him to Oxford, then,” he noted drily.

    “No, but Aden, that is just it! He has changed his mind, it seems!” cried Fliss.

    “Um—yes,” said Pansy, swallowing. “It seems so. Well, the message said that he wishes to see Aunt Venetia and our cousins as well as ourselves about the disposition of his property.”

    “And that he is very weak, poor old man,” added Delphie.

    “So you see, Aden?” cried Fliss. “The Parkers are travelling post, and they have scarce a day’s start, do you not think—”

    “They are travelling post and they have a day and a half’s start,” he said, ringing the bell. “I am still not proposing to ride ventre à terre after them.”

    Fliss glared at him.

    “If you intend ordering up a nuncheon, sir, I could certainly do with something,” said Pansy hopefully.

    “Pansy!” gasped her sister in horror.

    “Well, he might as well feed us. Look at the style of the house, Delphie: they will never miss the food.”

    Mr Tarlington’s shoulders shook slightly but his face remained impassive. “Taunton,” he said as his mamma’s butler came in: “have something sustaining brought up for the Miss Ogilvies, would you? Something with—er—cold roast beef in it would be the thing, I fancy. And—er—whatever young ladies drink. –What do you drink?”

    “Milk, please,” said Pansy.

    Taunton gave Miss Ogilvie a kindly look. “Would you care for a pot of tea, Miss?”

    “Oh—thank you,” she quavered.

    “Milk and tea, then, Taunton. And do not forget the roast beef. And send round to my house at once, if you please: Tomkins is to saddle the black and get himself ready for a journey, and be here as fast as may be.”

    “Certainly, Mr Tarlington.” Taunton bowed himself out.

    “Huzza! So you will go!” cried Fliss.

    “No. Tomkins may go. Though I feel I should point out,” he said in apologetic tones to the Miss Ogilvies: “that since Mrs Parker is a woman of great good sense, she may not find it needful to turn round and retrace her steps on the reputed word of a mad old uncle whose last speech to her seemingly cut her off definitively.”

    “It is not for that, sir,” faltered Delphie. “Poor Great-Uncle Humphrey may be dying.”

    “Well, yes. And Aunt Parker is the sort of person who would feel it her duty to go to him on that account,” said Pansy. “Though as to the inheritance, I quite agree with you, sir, and for my part, would not bother to cross the road on the expectation.”

    “Quite!” he gasped, going into a wheezing paroxysm. “Then why are you present, Miss Pansy?”

    “Delphie was insistent we must go to see the old creature, if he is dying,” said Pansy with a sigh, “though as he doesn’t like us, I don’t see that we can be of any comfort to him.”

    “No!” gasped Mr Tarlington.

    “He may have—um—repented,” offered Delphie.

    “And in any case, it would be foolish not to go, if there is the chance he may leave his fortune to you,” noted Fliss.

    “Oh, quite!” gasped Mr Tarlington. “—Is it a fortune?”

    “We don’t know,” admitted Pansy. “We know he inherited a large sum from his brother, many years back, but how large we have no idea. And he gave us five thousand guineas on the understanding that we need expect no more, nor bother him again!” she added, her eyes twinkling.

    “Let us hope, in that case, that he has indeed repented,” he replied gravely.

    Pansy bit her lip. “Mm!”

    Mr Tarlington grinned at her. “What’s all this about the stage?”

    “It was great fun!” she revealed, beaming. “On the first stage there was a fat woman who had oranges, and she gave us one each: they were delicious, were they not, Delphie? Then there was a woman with a baby which cried, and that was tedious, but when she got out a stout man took her place, and guess what he was, sir!”

    “Public hangman?”

    “No!” gasped Delphie in horror.

    Pansy narrowed her eyes. “That was not a bad guess.”

    “Your Cousin Henrietta has just that trick of narrowing her eyes,” he said, smiling.

    “Why, yes!” agreed Fliss. “You are not really alike, but that makes you look so like her! –I wish I had such great long, thick, curled lashes.”

    “You may ignore that: girls like her go on about that sort of thing all the time,” explained Mr Tarlington to Pansy, grinning.

    “I know: almost all of the girls at Miss Blake’s were like that. Guess again, sir.”

    “Retired highwayman?”

    “N— Bother, would you say that was colder or warmer, Delphie?”

    “Um—I don’t know!” she gasped. “Dearest, I’m sure Mr Tarlington does not wish to—”

    “Of course I do, ma’am!” He rubbed his nose. “Colder or warmer, eh? Wait: retired hangman?”

    “He was not a hangman at all!” she  choked.  “That is warmer, though!”

    “Ah-hah! Retired...”

    “Retired housebreaker?” ventured Fliss.

    “Would he have revealed it, an he was?” said her brother.

    “He might have, but the stage was rather full. Anyway, he wasn’t,” said Pansy, “I shall give you a hint: his former occupation was quite within the law.”

    Mr Tarlington saw a smile cross Delphie’s face at this point. He laughed suddenly. “I have it, then! A retired exciseman!”

    “Wrong, but that is an excellent guess!” cried Pansy, clapping her hands. “Cousin Henry was right, you have a very keen mind! Has he not, Delphie?”

    “Indeed,” she agreed, smiling but blushing a little.

    “Thank you. I think he must have been a retired Bow Street Runner, then?” said Mr Tarlington, grinning.

    Pansy nodded, laughing.

    “I wish I had made that my preferred guess. Only I thought an exciseman, because—”

    “Because we were coming up from the sea-coast: yes! Famous!” cried Pansy.

    “That’s it,” he agreed.

    Over the nuncheon Mr Tarlington, who had refused food but accepted a cup of tea from Delphie, continued to draw Pansy out on the subject of their journey on the stage. He appeared vastly entertained, and so she was very much taken aback when, as the girls finished their meal he declared firmly that they must not continue on the stage: he would have his carriage brought round.

    Delphie was not so surprized: she smiled a little, though joining her sister in demurring. Mr Tarlington ignored their objections and rang the bell.

    “Taunton, would you send to my house and tell them to pole up the travelling coach and a team. And I shall need a bag packed for a few days, and Dashing Boy saddled.”

    “Dashing Boy; certainly, sir.”

    “You do not mean to go with them!” cried Fliss.

    “I certainly do not intend to allow two young ladies to journey unaccompanied any further. –I feel my aunt would not wish me to,” he explained courteously to the Miss Ogilvies.

    “Rubbish! We got here safely by ourselves!” said Pansy stoutly. “And the persons who travel on the stage are very respectable, though of course wealthy gentlemen like yourself cannot be expected to know that!”

    “Nevertheless, Miss Pansy, I shall escort you.”

    “Oh, it is not fair!” cried Fliss loudly. “Everyone is gone, and now you are going, too, and I have to stay here with Mamma! Oh, Aden, take me with you?”

    “No.”

    “It will be pretty dull,” warned Pansy.

    “I shall not be bored! Oh, pray, Aden! It’s so miserable without the girls! And now Mamma is saying she does not think it worth the trouble to take me to parties if we are only to be ostracized!”

    Aden was frowning: he had not realized that his mother was already beginning to shirk escorting Fliss, though he should have known it, he told himself. And there was the added point that he had already created an unfortunate scandal on the road with one young lady who was not nearly enough related to him, and did not want to create another by going off to Oxford with two other young ladies who were not his sisters, either. If Fliss came at least no-one could say the enterprise was improper.

    “Well— Oh, why not, if you wish for it! If you can bear it, Miss Ogilvie?”

    “Why, yes! Of course we shall love to have her company!”

    Fliss bounced up and embraced her brother rapturously.

    “Go and pack. A small bag. And you can’t bring a maid, mind. We shall be travelling fast, and very like not staying long.”

    “I do not mind! It will be an adventure!” Fliss rushed out of the room, eyes shining.

    “Er—sorry,” said Mr Tarlington apologetically. “Hope it really is all right.”

    “Of course. She’s actually improved, I think, since she left school,” noted Pansy with interest.

    “Aye: it’s my Cousin Alfreda’s influence,” he said with a grin. “We’ve all remarked it, too.”

    Delphie smiled but said: “Mr Tarlington, it really is too good of you, but—”

    “I am determined to escort you, Miss Ogilvie,” he said, smiling at her. “Besides, you don’t want a scene if Fliss perceives I have changed my mind, do you?”

    “Blackmailer!” said Pansy, chuckling.

    “Brothers get like that,” he said, straight-faced. “Look, I’d better just write a note to Mamma.” He rang the bell again. “Pen and ink, please, Taunton.”

    “Yes. Mr Tarlington. And Mr Quayle-Sturt has called, sir.”

    “Mr— Not Harley?” he said in surprize.

    “Yes, sir.”

    “Well, you had best show him in, then.”

    “Sir, if we’re in the way—” began Delphie uncomfortably.

    “Mm? Oh, Lor’, no. Cannot imagine why Harley is callin’ at Mamma’s house, however! –Yes, very well, we see him,” he said, as Taunton endeavoured to announce Mr Quayle-Sturt. “What the Devil are you doing here?”

    Harley Quayle-Sturt’s eyes danced: he replied primly: “Good afternoon, Aden. I might ask the same of you. But I have merely come to call.”

    “Well, you is out of luck. There’s no-one here.”

    Mr Quayle-Sturt looked dry.

    “He’s being silly,” said Pansy briskly. “Evidently we are here, but you may discount us, sir, for we have merely called in. But it is true that Lady Tarlington is driven out. But Miss Tarlington is at home, though I’m not sure if it’s the thing for gentlemen to pay calls on unmarried young ladies. –Is it?” she demanded of Mr Tarlington.

    “Introduce me, Aden,” said Mr Quayle-Sturt immediately, grinning all over his face.

    “They’re goin’ away again, immediate,” he warned. “But if you wish it. This is Miss Ogilvie, and the one that don’t hang back is her sister, Miss Pansy. Oh: this fellow is Mr Quayle-Sturt.”

    Poor Delphie by this time was ready to sink: she held out her hand limply. Mr Quayle-Sturt bowed over it very properly and professed himself delighted, very properly, but it was apparent to Delphie that that he was teazing.

    “How do you do?” said Pansy.

    Mr Quayle-Sturt bowed very low her, too, and replied: “Do you know, I am of a sudden in extreme health and spirits?” –Not properly.

    “Keep ’em to yourself, then,” recommended Mr Tarlington brutally. “What are you doin’ here, anyway?”

    “I am in the hopes of seeing Miss Parker, as a matter of fact.”

    “Then you are out of luck: she has gone.”

    “Er—gone?”

    Mr Tarlington shrugged. “My Aunt Parker has packed the lot of ’em off home.”

    Harley Quayle-Sturt looked at him in some consternation.

    “The rationale behind her decision was not conveyed to me,” he added drily.

    “Fliss appears to know,” said Pansy cautiously.

    Mr Tarlington eyed her sardonically. “Fliss no doubt has an explanation, yes. That is not at all the same thing.”

    “No!” said Pansy with a sudden laugh.

    Mr Quayle-Sturt perceived that Miss Ogilvie was looking distressed: he said in a kindly tone: “I am very sorry to have missed them. But shall we all be seated? Allow me to assist you to this sofa, Miss Ogilvie.”

    Delphie allowed herself to be sat down, and Pansy and Mr Quayle-Sturt then followed suit.

    Mr Tarlington also took a seat but warned: “You need not make yourself comfortable, Harley, for we shall all be off directly Fliss is downstairs again.”

    “Though as she is possibly the slowest packer in the world that may not be directly,” noted Pansy.

    Mr Tarlington looked somewhat disconcerted. “Er—you’re right.”

    “May I ask where you’re all off to, Aden?” said Mr Quayle-Sturt. “Oh, dear: not illness in the family, I do hope?”

    “Not precisely,” said Mr Tarlington, eying him mockingly.

    “How could he possibly guess? You are most unfair!” said Pansy roundly. She promptly told Mr Quayle-Sturt the whole, not neglecting such points as the five thousand guineas and Dr Fairbrother’s house being full of monkeys and parrots and therefore not fit for the Tarlingtons to stay in.

    “Where shall you stay, then, Aden? For what with the wildlife on the one hand, and the lack of fires and candles on the other—!”

    “We shall stay in the best damned hotel the place has. –Come with us, old fellow?” he suddenly offered, grinning. “You may ride along with me and keep me company!”

    “How can I refuse such an offer?” replied Mr Quayle-Sturt, laughing.

    “But won’t you miss all the silly London dances and parties?” said Pansy, looking at him with interest.

    “Oh, Lor’, yes, Harley: you will miss, at the least, old Lionel Dewesbury’s third musical soirée, with Prinny present, and—er—”

    “The Claveringham ball,” he said, grinning. “In that case, I’ll definitely come!”

    “But we can’t wait around for you to pack,” objected Pansy with an anxious eye on the clock. “We have wasted far too much time, as it is.”

    Mr Quayle-Sturt got up, grinning all over his attractive face. “I shall dash home and change instantly, Miss Pansy. If you are taking the Oxford road, my house is on your way: I’ll be waiting for you!”

    “Lord, are you stayin’ at your mamma’s, Harley?” said Mr Tarlington, also rising.

    “Well, it is actually my house, y’know,” he said on an apologetic note.

    Mr Tarlington wrinkled his straight nose, clapped his friend on the shoulder and said: “Aye, so ’tis. Well, be ready, or we shan’t wait, mind!”

    “I shall. –Oh,” he said pausing in the doorway: “I had forgot to say: the purpose of my visit was to present Miss Parker with a rondeau related to the subject of tea; but I shall do myself the honour of reading it to—”

    “Get out!” said Mr Tarlington with a loud laugh, giving him a push.

    “—all of you, later!” finished Mr Quayle-Sturt, allowing himself to be propelled from the room. “A tout à l’heure, chères mesdemoiselles!”

    “Will he come?” said Pansy dubiously as Mr Tarlington, having seen his friend out, returned to the sitting-room, grinning.

    “Usually does what he says he will. Dare say he is regrettin’ havin’ come up to town. His mamma’s in his house, y’see.”

    “Er—so we had gathered, sir,” said Delphie faintly.

    Mr Tarlington smiled a little, but suggested kindly that the Miss Ogilvies run upstairs to freshen up. And to give Fliss a hurry-up.

    He bowed them out and strolled over to the window. There he stared unseeingly into the street. He jumped when there was a quiet cough behind him.

    “I believe you asked for pen and ink, sir,” said his mamma’s butler.

    “Oh, good God! So I did. Thank you, Taunton. Er—we is all off to Oxford to see Mrs Parker’s uncle.”

    “Indeed, sir?” he said politely.

    Mr Tarlington eyed him sardonically. “Though if you prefer to know nothing whatsoever about it, Taunton, I shall quite understand.”

    “Now, Mr Aden—” began the butler in quite a different voice.

    Mr Tarlington laughed. “I don’t think Mamma will object! Be glad to get Fliss off her hands for a few days! And it is a harmless expedition, after all.”

    “Of course, sir. –I believe there is a rainstorm coming up, sir, the sky is darkening. You had best take a heavy greatcoat, if you mean to ride.”

    “Very well, if they don’t send me one of mine I’ll take one of Papa’s. –Oh, Lor’: I’m due to dine with Mr Rowbotham tonight: would you see he has my apologies? And—dammit,” he muttered.

    “I shall see that any note you might care to leave is delivered, sir.”

    “Mm. S’pose I had best write to Lady Lavinia Dewesbury... Yes: thank you, Taunton.”

    Taunton bowed, and withdrew.

    Mr Tarlington sighed and took up his pen. But after he had written his notes his gaze became abstracted again. Harley Quayle-Sturt falling for little Miss Pansy? Good God. It certainly seemed like it. Though perhaps it was but a distraction of the moment. He bit the end of his quill, but in the end did not pen a note to Noël Amory. For if the pair had had some sort of a—well, a resolution, or a confrontation, or whatever it had been, when Noël had disappeared so precipitately with his uncle’s curricle, then it did not seem to him that apprising him of the fact of Miss Pansy’s having turned up in town and then immediately disappeared again could serve any useful purpose. And he didn’t think that Noël would wish to know, really, that the charming Mr Quayle-Sturt was to form one of the Oxford expedition. No... Best leave it, he decided uncertainly.

    By the time Mr Tarlington’s travelling-coach stopped off at the Quayle-Sturt house it had already begun to rain. Mr Tarlington was riding, but Mr Quayle-Sturt, though he was in riding dress, remarked cheerfully that his campaigning days were over and got into the coach with the young ladies.

    “Now!” said Fliss after greetings had been exchanged. “Have you really written a rondeau on tea, Mr Quayle-Sturt?”

    “Certainly a rondeau. But not precisely on tea: related to tea.” Straight-faced, Mr Quayle-Sturt produced a rolled scroll, tied up with blue and gold ribands.

    “How pretty,” said Fliss on an envious note.

    “My Cousin Alfreda will be so sorry to have missed it, sir,” said Delphie politely.

    “Yes!” choked Pansy. “I dare swear! And so will Henry! Go on, sir, do read it!”

    “Er—should I first explain the background, though, do you think, Miss Tarlington?” he said delicately.

    Fliss shook her head ecstatically.

    “No: because my Cousin Henry has written us all about Mr T.V.!” squeaked Pansy.

    “Oh, well, in that case—!” Mr Quayle-Sturt’s eyes twinkled naughtily but he read his poem out very soberly.

    Delphie and Fliss smiled and clapped, exclaiming in admiration of the poet’s genius, but after a moment Pansy, the big brown eyes narrowed so that the thick, curled lashes came together in the most entrancing way, gasped: “Give that here!” and snatched the scroll out of the talented one’s hand.

    “OH!” she choked. “Look at the ends of the lines!”

    “Yes,” smiled Delphie: “is it not pretty? Each line begins with a letter of the name Alfreda.”

    “No!” gasped Pansy. “Begins and ends! No wonder your style is somewhat laboured, sir!” She went into a helpless sniggering fit.

    After that of course Fliss had to see the scroll, and gasp and exclaim, and after her Delphie, her slender shoulders now shaking helplessly. Fliss then interrogated Mr Quayle-Sturt as to how on earth he had heard of Mr Tobias Vane’s “TEA” acrostic, but Mr Quayle-Sturt assured them it was all round the clubs and he had barely walked into White’s before three people had come up to him and repeated it.

    The remainder of that day’s journey was accomplished in a very merry fashion indeed and, Mr Tarlington being persuaded by Delphie to come in out of the rain and get out of his horrid wet coat at the end of the first stage, he joined in with a will and proved himself every bit as sharp as his friend in the matter of acrostics, jingles, puns and very bad poems on such matters as the terrors of Countess Lieven’s lorgnette, Great-Uncle Humphrey’s miserliness (Mr Quayle-Sturt managing to rhyme “Humphrey”. “palfrey” and “gallimaufry” and Miss Pansy going into a helpless choking fit over it), and, regrettably, Ensign Claud Quayle-Sturt’s passion for ordnance.

    By the time they stopped to dine it was very dark indeed and the rain was still coming down in torrents: Mr Tarlington deciding they must rack up here for the night, no-one demurred. The inn was pleasant enough, if rather crowded, but they got the last private parlour, and the ladies professed themselves very satisfied, and went upstairs to freshen up.

    Mr Tarlington, tankard in hand, then possessed himself of his friend’s scroll and read the rondeau over, grinning. “How long did this effort take you, Harley?”

    “Er—not above ten minutes,” admitted Mr Quayle-Sturt. “Was waitin’ for Bobby Amory at White’s, the third fellow in a row comes up to me and tells me of old Tobias Vane’s sparkling intellectual production for Miss Parker and—well! Sat down and dashed it off. –It was not that hard,” he assured him.

    “I can see that! By Jove, you have managed the thirteen-line form, though, Harley: well done!”

    “That was fortuitous,” said Mr Quayle-Sturt with the utmost solemnity.

    “Never say so!” he gasped.

    “Now, rhyming ‘Alfreda’ upon ten lines would have presented a challenge,” said the poet thoughtfully. “Let me see: A,L,F,R,E,D,A, P,A,R— No, it cannot be done. Ah: hold! M,I,S,S, P,A,R—”

    Mr Tarlington choked, and threw the scroll at him.

    Mr Quayle-Sturt was lounging in one chair before the fire, sipping from his tankard and murmuring something along the lines of did not Aden agree that the use of assonance must add to the Mediaeval resonance of his opus, and Mr Tarlington, lounging in a chair opposite him with his long legs stretched out before the blaze, was threatening to make him eat his opus, ribbons and all, when the door opened and the landlord came in, looking apologetic.

    “I hope you ain’t here to tell us that the saddle of mutton is burned,” said Mr Tarlington.

    “Oh, no, indeed, sir. It’s coming along nicely as we speak, sir. Er—I was wondering, sir, since there is no private parlour left, and since you has young ladies in your party, sir, would you be agreeable to two young ladies joining you?”

    Mr Quayle-Sturt and Mr Tarlington exchanged glances.

    “Two young ladies?” murmured Mr Tarlington languidly.

    The burly landlord reddened. ”They are truly young ladies, sir, very nicely spoken and all, or I would not suggest it.”

    “Er—quite. Where have these two young ladies sprung from, landlord?”

    “Well, they is off the Reading stage, sir,” he said apologetically.

    Mr Quayle-Sturt and Mr Tarlington again exchanged glances.

    “Perhaps you had better trot ’em in before my sister and her friends come down,” murmured Mr Tarlington.

    “Yessir!” he gulped. “Step this way, please, young ladies!”

    In a moment two damp, blushing, and very scared-looking young ladies were in the private parlour.

    Mr Tarlington and Mr Quayle-Sturt shot to their feet, looking astounded.

    “Lady Jane! Lady Sarah!” said Mr Tarlington. “How comes it—”

    The landlord gave a quiet cough.

    “Oh: yes, yes: of course these ladies must join us,” he said quickly. “And pray send a message up to my sister that I desire her presence as soon as may be. And—er—some appropriate drink to warm all the ladies, I think.”

    “Yes, sir; of course, sir.” Looking relieved, the landlord bowed himself out.

    “Do, pray, come over to the fire, Lady Jane—Lady Sarah,” said Mr Tarlington. “Harley, you know Lady Jane and Lady Sarah Claveringham, I think?”

    “Yes, of course; good evening,” said Mr Quayle-Sturt.

    “Good evening, sir!” said Lady Sarah on a gasp. “Thank you so much, Mr Tarlington—if we are not discommoding you and your party?”

    “No, of course not,” he said, gently taking the shivering Lady Jane’s elbow. “Why, you are quite damp, dear Lady Jane. And forgive me—but how comes it about that you and your sister are travelling on the common stage?”

    Lady Jane said in a trembling voice: “We—we had not enough money to travel post. And—and the stage stopped at another inn but the man said it was full but to try here. And—and so we walked here, but it is raining, and—”

    “Yes, I see,” he said soothingly. “Well, come by the fire.”

    She gave him a shrinking look but let him lead her to the fire, and held out her hands to the blaze.

    Mr Tarlington saw with horror that she was trembling, not, as he had first supposed, merely shivering with cold. “What is it? Are you in trouble?” he said baldly.

    Abruptly Lady Jane burst into tears, gasping: “Pray do not tell Mamma! Oh, please, sir!”

    Lady Sarah put her arm round her and glared at Mr Tarlington.

    “We shall not tell anyone anything at all,” he said soothingly. “Sit down here, Lady Jane. –Ring the bell, Harley, dear fellow: I think she had best have a little brandy.”

    Mr Quayle-Sturt rang and considerately went over to the door to catch the waiter, rather than let the man come in and see what a state the lady was in.

    After a little Lady Jane was calm enough to sip the brandy. “Oh!” she said faintly. “So strong!”

    “Drink a little more, dearest, it will do you good,” urged Sarah.

    “Lady Sarah,” said Mr Tarlington in a low voice: “I do not wish to pry, but perhaps you could tell me how you and your sister come to be in such straits.”

    Lady Saran scowled, but said: “I suppose you deserve some sort of an explanation. But I warn you, you cannot stop us.”

    “I don’t think we wish to stop you. But where are you going?”

    “To Cousin Miranda Ottaway, sir. You would not know her, I think: she is an elderly lady, who lives not far out of Reading. We—we had designed to go as far as Reading on the stage but—but had not quite enough money,” said Lady Sarah, biting her lip. “I thought that perhaps we might take a cart or some such, from here.”

    “And will she be sympathetic to your cause?”

    Lady Sarah nodded mutely.

    “She has said to come to her at—at any time,” said Lady Jane faintly, “because she hates Mamma. And Papa, of course.”

    Mr Tarlington nodded, and said in an undervoice to Lady Sarah: “Give her a little more of that.”

    Lady Sarah held the glass to her sister’s lips once more: Lady Jane sipped and shuddered a little, but got it down.

    “Good,” he said. “And now, you had best tell me, I think, Lady Sarah: is this fugue on your own account, or your sister’s?”

    She bit her lip again. “On Jane’s, sir. Mamma has insisted that she receive Lord Harpingdon’s addresses.”

    Mr Tarlington paled. “My God, has he offered?”

    “No, but he wrote a note asking might he call tomorrow. And Mamma said there could be no question but that he would offer. So we ran away. And—and I could not let Jane go alone. And—and you do not know what it is like, but—”

    “Hush,” he said, gripping her shoulder hard. “I have a damned good idea what it is like.”

    “Yes, indeed,” agreed Mr Quayle-Sturt in a very kind voice.

    “I suppose all of horrid London Society knows, then!” cried Lady Sarah, angry tears in her eyes.

    “Your Mamma has made no secret of her ambitions,” said Mr Tarlington, not unkindly.

    “I cannot,” said Lady Jane in a stifled voice.

    “No, of course you can’t,” he agreed mildly, going over to her. “Now, if you are feeling a little brighter I think perhaps you might go up to Fliss’s bedchamber and change out of your wet pelisse.”

    “Oh: is your sister here, sir?” she gasped.

    “Yes. And our Ogilvie connections: you will not know them, I think, but they are two very pleasant girls. So why do you not go up? Or perhaps you have already booked a room for yourselves?”

    “No,” said Lady Sarah, reddening. “We inquired but it was too dear. So we thought we might sup and then look for a—a carrier or some such person.”

    “Mm. Well, you won’t do that,” he said, ringing the bell. “How far is it to this old cousin’s place?”

    “I—I don’t really know,” she faltered.

    “In that case you had best stay here tonight and I’ll hire you a carriage tomorrow. Don’t argue: Broughamwood may pay me back, if he deems it necessary.”

    The waiter came in and he asked for a room for the ladies and requested that his sister be asked to descend immediately.

    “Broughamwood does not know, sir,” said Lady Sarah faintly.

    “I didn’t imagine so, no. Why the Devil didn’t you seek his aid? I am sure he does not wish to see his sister forced into a loveless marriage.”

    “Papa was so angry over Lucas’s marrying dear Dorothea,” she said faintly. “Broughamwood supported Lucas and his health suffered sadly. And—and though he has been so well this year, we—we did not like to—to involve him.”

    “I see. –Thank God, there you are; what the Devil have you been up to?” he said as Fliss came in, panting.

    “Nothing; I— Good gracious!” she gasped.

    “Yes: as you see, Lady Jane and Lady Sarah. They are on their way to stay with an elderly cousin and have been delayed by the weather. Take them upstairs, there’s a good girl.”

    Fliss looked at him uncertainly. Mr Tarlington gave her a hard look. “Er—yes, of course!” she gulped. “Pray come with me. Let me help you, dear Lady Jane!” she gasped as Lady Jane got up with a wavering, uncertain motion.

    Mr Quayle-Sturt was before her and put his hand under Lady Jane’s arm. “I’ll see her upstairs,” he said in a low voice to his friend.

    Mr Tarlington nodded, and Mr Quayle-Sturt and the ladies went out.

    Mr Quayle-Sturt returned very shortly: Mr Tarlington raised his eyebrows at him.

    “Miss Ogilvie has taken her in charge,” he said with a smile.

    “Good. Fliss is an idiot, but with a little luck Miss Ogilvie may stop her asking a thousand questions. –Poor things,” he added, frowning.

    “Indeed: they must be quite desperate, to have fled their home. I—er—well, I don’t know your cousin Harpingdon all that well, Aden, but is that rumour true, then?”

    Mr Tarlington was frowning. “I had not thought it, no. In fact... Well, I don’t think Christian would mind your knowing, Harley. I spoke to him on the topic, and he assured me that he felt deeply for Cousin Alfreda.”

    “I suppose he would not be intending to call merely to tell Lady H. it was no go?”

    “That is a possibility, isn’t it? Oh, dammit, Harley, I don’t know! And I don’t know what he may have said to Alfreda, either. But I am sure as I am standing here that she cares for him!”

    “Mm. Well, the odds was shortenin’ at the clubs,” he said on an apologetic note.

    Mr Tarlington sniffed. “Aye.”

    His friend looked at him uncertainly, but did not speak.

    Finally Mr Tarlington sighed, and said: “Look, dear boy, I don’t like to ask this of you, but could you take care of the girls tomorrow? If I ride back to town tonight as soon as we have eaten, I should be in time to catch Christian and—and stop him making a damned cake of himself, if such is his intention.”

    Mr Quayle-Sturt nodded: he had thought that must be what was in Aden’s mind. “Of course, Aden. I should be delighted. Escort the Claveringhams to their cousin’s, hey? And then carry on to Oxford?”

    “That’s the ticket,” he said with a rueful look. “Sorry, Harley.”

    “Oh. Lor’, don’t mention it! It will be my pleasure! Or if you prefer, I could ride back to town?”

    “No—er—thank you, Harley, but I think he would take it better from me.”

    Mr Quayle-Sturt nodded, in some relief. “Will you speak to Lady Hubbel?” he added.

    Mr Tarlington grimaced. “I don’t know. I suppose if I tell her we met those miserable girls on the Oxford road she will draw the obvious conclusion and come to wrench them away from the old cousin.”

    “Mm... Though if she sees it is pointless to hope for anything from Harpingdon’s direction?”

    Mr Tarlington rubbed his nose. “Lord, I don’t know, Harley! God knows I don’t want to betray their trust—and to send Lady Jane, in the state she is in, back to a woman like that, strikes me as the height of cruelty!”

    “I agree. If it were up to me, I would keep mum. But I don’t want to tell you your duty, Major, sir,” he ended with a little smile.

    “Mm? Oh!” said Mr Tarlington with the ghost of a laugh. “Um—I shall have to think it over. Well, the ride back to town will certainly give me the opportunity to do so.”

    Mr Quayle-Sturt nodded, and, Miss Tarlington and Miss Pansy coming in at that moment, no more was said.

    Somewhat to the gentlemen’s surprize, Lady Sarah joined them for dinner. Jane had drunk some soup and gone to sleep, she reported.

    “She seems... drained,” said Delphie with an anxious look.

    Lady Sarah nodded. “Yes. But she is never at her best under Mamma’s influence. You will see, dear Miss Ogilvie: she will be brighter tomorrow, and very much better once she has had a few days’ peace with Cousin Miranda!”

    “I am sure,” agreed Delphie, though she still looked worried.

    Mr Tarlington drew her aside just before he set off back to London. “What do you  truly think about Lady Jane’s state, Miss Ogilvie?”

    Delphie bit her lip. “As I said, sir, she seems quite drained. I would say, of even the will to live, if—if that is not too fanciful a thought. But of course she was very tired, with the strain of the journey and—and the effort of getting away from her mamma’s house.”

    “Mm.”

    Delphie swallowed. “I know it must go against all the principles with which you were brought up, Mr Tarlington, but if you could see your way clear to not informing Lady Hubbel of their whereabouts—?”

    He looked at her in some surprize. “Does it not also go against all the principles with which you were brought up, Miss Ogilvie?”

    “Well, no: we were brought up on quite different principles!” said Delphie with a little smile. “Largely, those of thinking for ourselves!”

    “I see,” he said, silently thinking that he was beginning to see a fair amount, and it was no wonder that Noël Amory, who came, after all, from the most conventional of backgrounds, had apparently made no headway with little Miss Pansy. “Er—well, I incline to agree with you in this instance. But I can’t see how I might inform the family that the girls are safe without also indicating the direction in which they fled.”

    “No, exactly,” she admitted.

    Mr Tarlington chewed on his lip. “I’ll think about it. –I had best be off: good night, Miss Ogilvie. And thank you!”

    Delphie looked a little surprized, but wished him good-night and good luck.

    … “What do you think?” said Pansy on a fearful note as her sister entered the bedchamber they were sharing.

    Delphie shook her head slowly. “I don’t know, my love. I think he will not betray them—he certainly appears to wish not to.”

    Pansy sighed. “It all depends on how conventional he is.”

    “Quite.”

    “You can tell Lady Sarah in the morning,” offered Pansy.

    “Thank you!” said Delphie on an indignant note.

    Pansy smiled a little. “It’s only that you would do it with tact and make her see that he hasn’t gone up to London in order to tell their parents where they are. Represent to her the inadvisability of Lord Whosis’s being permitted to open his great mouth  and make an offer.”

    “l shall do so, but not in those words!”

    “Mm,” she said, twinkling at her. “Delphie, do you think—um, well, it seems our Parker cousins really have been mingling with lords and ladies, doesn’t it? What would Lady Sarah’s and Lady Jane’s papa be?”

    “I think he is an earl.”

    Pansy nodded. “And what sort of lord is horrible Lord Whosis that Lady Jane doesn’t wish to marry?”

    Delphie shook her head. “I’m not sure. It must be a courtesy title, if his papa is still alive.”

    “Oh, must it?” she said, yawning.

    “Er—I think so.”

    Pansy yawned again. “I see. I’m glad it was Henry, and not me.”

    “What was?” she said limply.

    “That got the chance to accompany Dimity Parker to London and be brought out and all that rubbish.”

    Delphie gave her an anxious look. It had not escaped her notice what a very different sort of life the Parkers had been living in the Tarlingtons’ mansion in town from that of herself and Pansy in their little cottage. She could not help feeling that perhaps Pansy, even if at the moment she did not want it for herself, should be given her chance. Only, if they spent a large portion of the five thousand guineas on that—and Delphie had no doubt it would have to be a large portion—what on earth would they do afterwards, if Pansy did not find an eligible gentleman for whom she could care? Well... go back to school-teaching?

    “What is it?” asked Pansy anxiously.

    “Nothing,” she said, smiling bravely and climbing into bed. “Let us hope we are not too late to see poor Great-Uncle Humphrey.”

    Pansy sighed. She didn’t care if the grumpy old man was alive or dead. Though if he were dead it would be nice to think he had left Delphie, at least, something in recognition of all the times she had called to see him with (in winter) nourishing soups and (in summer) brawns or jellies. “Well, we shouldn’t be delayed too long tomorrow morning. Mr Quayle-Sturt said the landlord told him that Tall Oaks, Mrs Ottaway’s house, is not so very far from here.”

    “Mm.” Delphie blew out the candle. “Did you like him, dearest?”

    “Who?” said Pansy blankly.

    Delphie swallowed a sigh. “Mr Quayle-Sturt.”

    “Yes, of course! Was not his awful rondeau a delight?” she said with a gurgle.

    Delphie smiled faintly, though that wasn’t precisely what she had meant. “Indeed.”

    “I think he’s quite intelligent,” said Pansy without much interest in her voice. “Let’s go to sleep, we shall need to get up early.”

    Delphie swallowed another sigh but obediently closed her eyes.

 

   “You can see why it is called Tall Oaks!” said Pansy next day, craning her neck from the carriage window. “What splendid trees!”

    “Yes, indeed,” agreed Delphie. “And such a pretty house!”

    “Yes: it is small, of course, but reckoned to be very fine. It is a Jacobean house,” explained Lady Sarah.

    To the Miss Ogilvies the house was not small at all, of course. They swallowed.

    “The chimneys are most typical,” said Lady Jane faintly.

    “Yes, indeed!” agreed her sister brightly, squeezing her hand. “Now, in less than ten minutes Cousin Miranda Ottaway will have you tucked up in bed with a glass of her special negus, my love, and you will start to feel a lot more the thing!”

    “Yes,” she said, smiling weakly.

    The carriage drew up outside the front door and Mr Quayle-Sturt, who had been riding alongside, dismounted and came to the door. “Lady Sarah—”

    “I shall get down,” she said.

    Mr Quayle-Sturt endeavoured to give her a warning look but Lady Sarah did not see. He bit his lip but let the steps down for her.

    “Oh!” she said in dismay, looking at the door-knocker tied up with crape.

    “Yes,” he said, gnawing on his lip. “I think you must prepare yourself for bad news, my dear Lady Sarah.”

    She took a deep breath. “It may only be a—a relative or some such. Pray knock, sir.”

    Mr Quayle-Sturt knocked. After a few moments the door was opened by an elderly butler, very red-eyed.

    “My Lady!” he gasped.

    “Yes, Ludbury, it is I,” said Lady Sarah with forced cheer.

    “My Lady, if you have come for the funeral you are too late, for it was two days since! And—and—”

    “Who is it, Ludbury?” said a voice from the hinterland, in an odd sort of wheeze which broke on a squeak.

    “Sir, it—it is Lady Sarah, and—”

    “I will deal with this!” said the voice, now sounding, as well as wheezy and squeaky, very annoyed.

    “But Mr Ottaway, she will have come to—”

    “I know what she will have come to, Ludbury, and I repeat I will deal with it!”

    The butler bowed apologetically and retreated, and his place was taken by a fat but quite young gentleman, dressed in the deepest of mourning, though with many gold fobs and seals about his person and an amazingly high and elaborate neckcloth.

    “Cuh-Cousin Ottaway!” faltered Lady Sarah.

    “As you see, Cousin,” he replied unpleasantly. “Ludbury will have informed you, I think, that you are too late for my Aunt Miranda’s funeral?”

    Lady Sarah’s gentle hazel eyes filled with tears but she managed to reply: “Yes. I—I am so very sorry. Cousin. Jane and I had hoped—”

    “What: the both of you have come?” he cried, the squeak very much to the fore. “Why, this is beyond anything! Well, you need not hope for pickings, madam! My aunt’s will is as it always was!”

    “Sir—” began Harley grimly.

    “No, it’s all right, Mr Quayle-Sturt,” whispered Lady Sarah, plucking at his sleeve. “Mr Ottaway has always imagined that—that Jane and I were rivals for his inheritance, buh—but—”

    Mr Ottaway had whisked out a handkerchief, which Harley Quayle-Sturt perceived to his astonishment was edged not merely in black but in what appeared to be Chantilly lace, and was patting his fat, florid face with it, wheezing. A strong scent of musk now pervaded the air. “Imagined! Imagined, madam!” he squeaked. “Why, ’twas not in my imagination, I believe, that your sister had the miniature of Great-Uncle Henry that was always promised to me off the old lady! Nor was it my imagination that—”

    “We shall leave immediately,” said Mr Quayle-Sturt with strong distaste. “Come along, my dear Lady Sarah.”

    “Yes,” she whispered. A tear stole down her cheek but she added loudly: “We had come merely to visit with dear Cousin Miranda, Mr Ottaway, and I can only say I am sorry that we could not be with her at the last!”

    “Impertinence!” squeaked Mr Ottaway.

    Harley put his hand under Lady Sarah’s elbow and assisted her back into the chaise.

    “And do not imagine, Miss Impertinence, that there will be a welcome for you in this house in the future!” squeaked Mr Ottaway from the front door, flapping the handkerchief angrily at her.

    “Is it—is it dear Cousin Miranda?” whispered Lady Jane.

    “Yes: she is gone. That horrid creature has got the property, I am afraid,” said Lady Sarah, taking her sister’s agitated hands in both of hers.

    “What shall we do now?” she gasped.

    “You must continue on with us,” said Delphie firmly.

    “Yes, indeed!” cried Fliss. She peered out of the window. “Ooh, help, he has found a stick and is shaking it at you!”

    “Is he, by God?” said Mr Quayle-Sturt wrathfully, swinging round. He made a bound up the front steps but Mr Ottaway slammed the door of his new possession in his face.

    “Help,” said Pansy limply.

    “He has always imagined,” explained Lady Sarah dully, “that we were his rivals for his inheritance, but it was not so, ever.”

    “No, no, of course!” said Delphie hurriedly, patting her hand. “Mr Quayle-Sturt, pray tell them to drive on. –And you must not worry any more, dear Lady Jane!”

    “No,” she whispered. “So kind... “

    Delphie bit her lip and silently wondered if they were wise to continue on with their journey: poor Lady Jane seemed so overset. But they could hardly do otherwise, for at the moment they were in the middle of nowhere.

    When Mr Quayle-Sturt ranged alongside on his horse and said: “Miss Ogilvie, it appears we may continue straight down along this road and rejoin the Oxford road a little further on,” she nodded, therefore, and said: “Good. Let us do that, then, sir.”

    “But—but we cannot become a burden to you, dear Miss Ogilvie!” faltered Lady Sarah, as the coach set off.

    “No, indeed,” said Lady Jane faintly.

    “You will not be a burden.”

    “No; and I tell you what:” said Pansy eagerly, patting Lady Jane’s knee: “once we have seen Great-Uncle Humphrey you must come back to Guillyford Bay with us to our little house: your mamma will never dream of seeking you there!”

    Lady Jane smiled wanly. “Would it could be so,” she whispered.

    “It will be so!” said Pansy with great determination. “We have a whole extra bedroom, do we not, Delphie? Ratia Bellinger will be happy with a cot in the kitchen, for it was where she expected to sleep in the first instance!”

    What with the detour to Tall Oaks and the pause at a pretty little inn so the ladies might all eat luncheon and Lady Jane take a little rest, the journey took longer than Mr Quayle-Sturt, at all events, had anticipated. Though possibly Mr Tarlington, who had a trifle more experience in the field, could have warned him that with females in the party it was always best to double one’s original estimate.

    The party itself had been further augmented by two by the time they reached Dr Fairbrother’s house in Oxford: the innkeeper’s wife’s cat had kittens, and Fliss had fallen in love with them immediately: they were very pretty and fluffy, the merry-faced hostess explaining with a laugh that her Tibby had been got at by that Persian tom from up the Big House. He was what they called silver-blue, she thought, young ladies, and were his get not pretty? Only as Tibby was a prime mouser, they could not be doin’ with another cat around the place— It had not needed this hint for Fliss immediately to decide that there could be no possible objection to her owning a little cat! For she had never had one in her life before, and were they not adorable? And for herself she would have this one, he was the fluffiest and the sweetest, only she was sure that his little brother would be just the very thing to cheer Lady Jane up! See: he was both fluffy and stripey, in silver and blue-black: was that not adorable?

    Lady Jane, upon the kitten’s being presented to her, did indeed seem to think he was very sweet—the innkeeper’s wife had not been slow to adorn his stripey little neck with a small red ribbon on hearing that the lady lying down in her best bed-chamber might like to have him—so Delphie and Pansy merely exchanged glances and did not point out that in the first place two kittens might be a troublesome addition to the already full carriage, in the second place Percival Cummings the Second, to name no other, did not care for cats, and in the third place, supposing they ever got him home to Guillyford Bay in one piece, there was always the horrid chance that Horatio Nelson might mistake him for a rat, and eat him.

    “I shall call him Stripey,” said Lady Jane, stroking him.

    Fliss exclaimed at that: it was a very boring name!

    “Leave her alone: it’s her cat, she must call him what she pleases,” said Pansy firmly.

    “Hyacinth is a much prettier name,” said Fliss smugly, stroking her much bluer kitten.

    “It will be difficult to call him with, though,” said Pansy.

    “It is not altogether easy to call ‘Here, Horatio Nelson’, either!” said Delphie with a sudden gurgle.

    Mr Quayle-Sturt had been looking on somewhat limply, wondering how the kittens could be managed in the carriage. “What?” he said, at this.

    “Horatio Nelson is my cat,” said Pansy with a grin. “I admit I named him when I was much younger. We generally just call ‘Here, Horatio!’“

    “We generally just need to open the kitchen door!” amended Delphie, laughing.

    “I see: good trencherman, is he, ma’am?” he said, grinning.

    “He eats huge amounts, Mr Quayle-Sturt!” cried Fliss eagerly. “And he is the most enormous cat you ever saw! And to see him with a great rat in his mouth—!” She shuddered in mixed ecstasy and horror at the memory.

    The Ogilvies looked at her in amaze: they had not thought for an instant that Miss Felicity Tarlington had truly appreciated their Horatio, in their mutual period at Miss Blake’s.

    “I wish I might meet him!” said Mr Quayle-Sturt, laughing.

    “You may if you come back to Guillyford Bay with us,” said Pansy simply.

    Mr Quayle-Sturt looked at her eagerly and smiled, but Delphie at least remarked that Pansy did not seem to notice.

    Dr Fairbrother’s door was opened by a plump, smiling, apple-cheeked woman in an apron.

    “Mrs Mayes!” cried Pansy, leaping from the coach and unaffectedly embracing her. “Are you looking after Dr Fairbrother now?”

    “Not I, me dear, for he can’t afford me, much as I would like to!” she said, chuckling. “Only as he was expectin’ young ladies, we thought as I had best be here, for this week!”

    “Oh, good!” said Pansy with a sigh of relief. “For as you see, there are more than just us, and—and two of these are real ladies!”

    However this might be, Mrs Mayes very quickly saw that one of them was a very exhausted-looking lady indeed, and in an extremely short space of time she had Lady Jane tucked up cosily in the bed that had been intended for Delphie. And Lor’, was that a little cat in the basket, Miss? Well, out of course it could go on the bed, it wouldn’t be Dr Fairbrother as would raise no objections to that, considerin’ what he let sleep on his bed! Lady Jane and Lady Sarah looked at her in faint amaze, but Lady Jane, at least, was too tired to inquire further. Mrs Mayes got a glass of warm milk liberally laced with brandy down her, and saw her off to sleep.

    “Now, you don’t need to be tellin’ me anything at all, me deary,” she said as Lady Sarah, blushing very much, then attempted an explanation. “And if it ain’t purple liveries with messages from Lunnon, it be talkin’ birds and monkeys like little men and I dunno what, in this house! And he has took the chimney-sweep’s boy, what’s more, and I said to him, that scamp won’t be no more use to us than me old gran’s boot, in fact less, only would he listen?” She shook with chuckles. “That’s Dr Fairbrother all over! And the sweep threatenin’ to court him, and I dunno what!”

    “To— Oh: to sue him?” she said faintly.

    “Aye, that be it, Missy! Only Dr Fairbrother, he don’t pay no mind! Now, you come along here: this is the very nextest room, you see? So you shall be quite close to your sister. And if ’tis a bit small,” she said, eyeing Lady Sarah’s fine pelisse and beautiful Cashmere shawl askance, “’tis none the less cosy for that!”

    “Oh—no—it’s wonderful!” she gasped, suddenly bursting into tears.

    Mrs Mayes evinced no surprize, but gave her a motherly hug and patted her back until the tears had dried up. “There, now! You pop into this here bed, me deary, and I’ll bring you up some supper—for the Lord only knows when Dr Fairbrother might take it into his head to be back!”

    Lady Sarah demurred but was overridden.

    “Now,” said Mrs Mayes firmly to the Ogilvies in the little room she had allotted them, “I ain’t askin’ and you don’t have to say, only seems to me it might be best if I was to know precisely what trouble them two ladies is in!”

    Delphie licked her lips nervously. “Well, they—they have left their home, dear Mrs Mayes.”

    “I ain’t blind, Miss Delphie, me love!” she retorted strongly.

    “It is quite legal: they are both of age,” said Pansy, scowling.

    “If that’s all you can say, me dear, you can save your breath. –Come along, Miss Delphie; is it a man?”

    “A— Oh,” said Delphie, sinking limply onto the bed. “Not—not in the sense I think you mean, dear Mrs Mayes. Lady Jane’s mamma is forcing her to—into an undesired marriage, in short.”

    Mrs Mayes sniffed hard.

    Pansy at this juncture tried to explain that they were not absolutely sure the gentleman had offered, but was not listened to.

    “Aye, well, be that as it might, what sort of powerful lord is their pa, to be gettin’ yourselves on the wrong side of?” she demanded.

    Pansy and Delphie exchanged horrified glances.

    “Aye,” she said. “Well, best speak to Dr Fairbrother. And if you two has the sense as you were borned with, which I ain’t sayin’ as you haven’t, and I don’t suppose I would have left them two innocents by the roadside to fend for themselves, neither—but as I say, if you has any sense at all, you’ll tell him to send to Sir Chauncey right smart. ’Cos if there’s a-goin’ to be trouble and courtin’ in it, he’s the one as will know what to do to stop this lord in his tracks.”

    Delphie gulped. “Yes. –Oh, dear.”

    “Their papa may never discover it was us helped them,” said Pansy hopefully.

    Mrs Mayes gave one of her sniffs. “Don’t count on it! –Now, what about that other little girl?”

    “Oh—Fliss,” said Pansy weakly. “Um, she’s merely a—a cousin of our Parker cousins, and wanted to come along with us. Her brother was escorting us, only he had to go back to London.”

    “Eh?”

    “Pansy, perhaps I had best explain to Mrs Mayes,” said Delphie. “Um, run downstairs, if you are ready, dearest, and see that Mr Quayle-Sturt is—is comfortable.”

    “He’s got the fire and the Morning Post in the parlour, why wouldn’t he be— I’m going!” she said hastily as Mrs Mayes’s eye encountered hers.

    “She ain’t changed,” noted Mrs Mayes, shaking her head, as Pansy’s print gown vanished.

    “A little, I think, but not in essence,” said Delphie with a smile. “Now, dear Mrs Mayes, it is like this—” She proceeded to tell Mrs Mayes the whole. There seemed little point in not doing so.

    Mrs Mayes shook her head over it but conceded they had done their best, and recommended again that Dr Fairbrother be urged to consult Admiral Sir Chauncey Winnafree’s advice. And went quickly up to the attic to check on “the other little girl.”

    Miss Tarlington had been something taken aback to be put into an attic bedroom with the remark: “It ain’t fancy, only it be cosy, Missy, and a little thing like you don’t need no more.” But she had quietly changed out of the dress she had travelled in, and washed her face and attempted to comb the tangles out of her hair; and when Mrs Mayes came in, panting, was sitting quietly on the edge of the bed stroking Master Hyacinth.

    “Well, bless me, ain’t he a pretty one!” gasped the housekeeper. “Here—’tis a tom, eh?” She seized the kitten and unaffectedly turned it on its back. “Aye. Well, it’ll be nothin’ but a blamed nuisance. but at least it won’t be producin’ litters of kittens every year!”

    “Yes,” said Fliss faintly. “I have called him Hyacinth.”

    “Aye, well, that’s a right handsome name, but handsome is as handsome does, I always say!” she said, chuckling. “Lord, ain’t you goin’ to do your hair, Miss?”

    Fliss reddened. “My maid usually does it. I—I did try.”

    Mrs Mayes sniffed. “Well, I ain’t no lady’s maid, but give us your comb, me deary! –Lord, now, I see what: it’s been cut and curled and I dunno what by some Lunnon fellow, has it? Well, we shall just tie it up nice with a ribbon!” She tied it up nice with a ribbon. The result made Fliss look about fifteen years old, but as the tiny mirror propped up on the attic washstand was rather green and spotted, this was not particularly apparent.

    “Come along, Missy, we’ll go downstairs, you and me, and I’ll have that leg of mutton carved up for your supper in a trice!”

    “Thank you. And—and may Hyacinth have something to eat?”

    “Try and stop ’im would be more like it. I should say! Aye, he may, and while I thinks of it, we’ll get the other little creature from that poor lady’s room, shall us?” She led the way.

    Fliss followed dazedly, clutching her kitten.

    Further shocks were in store for Miss Tarlington’s system that evening before she was able to crawl into the narrow little bed in the attic room.

    Firstly, they did not wait supper for their host, for Mrs Mayes declared he could be home in a minute or never if he had stopped off at one of the Colleges to argify. And the supper itself was not precisely what Fliss was accustomed to. The leg of mutton was excellent, being served up with a caper sauce which Mr Quayle-Sturt pronounced the best he had ever tasted—but Fliss did not generally care for mutton. It was accompanied by glazed carrots, which were quite acceptable, a big dish of plain boiled potatoes—whereas Felicity was more accustomed to pommes de terre Chantilly, and such like—and another dish of what Mrs Mayes referred to as “a mess of greens and if it were left to him, they would be raw like as if young ladies and gentlemen were a lot of cows, what’s more!” Mr Quayle-Sturt, who was greatly tickled by the forthright Mrs Mayes, laughed very much over this, and Pansy was encouraged to tell him of their papa’s adventure into vegetarianism. The “mess of greens” proved on investigation to be turnip tops, which Miss Tarlington had never been offered in her life. But the Ogilvies and Mr Quayle-Sturt were eating them, and she was terribly hungry… Fliss ate her turnip tops.

    Secondly, their host rushed in, still in his overcoat and unwinding a muffler from his neck, just when Mr Quayle-Sturt was exclaiming over the excellence of the tart made with preserved cherries and served with fresh cream, and crying: “As God’s my witness, I’ll strangle Percival Cummings with my bare hands if I have to support another minute of his company!”

    “What’s he done?” cried Pansy in alarm.

    “Eh—oh! The First, my dear, the First!” Dr Fairbrother flung his muffler to the floor, grinning. “And how are you both, my dears? And who are these—your cousins, is it?”

    Introductions were speedily effected. Dr Fairbrother, though shaking his head over it, reported that Mr Humphrey Ogilvie was weak but otherwise unchanged. Mrs Mayes, tutting loudly and exclaiming over the state of her master’s boots, came in and retrieved the muffler—and his greatcoat, which he had apparently forgotten he had on—and Dr Fairbrother, rubbing his hands, then sat down and called loudly for mutton. Not appearing in the least disturbed to have learned that Fliss and Mr Quayle-Sturt were neither related to each other nor to Pansy and Delphie, and that there were two more ladies in bed upstairs.

    He and the Ogilvies were chatting nineteen to the dozen and Mr Quayle-Sturt, appearing vastly entertained, was joining in with a will, and the remainder of the leg of mutton was fast disappearing, when Miss Tarlington’s system sustained her third great shock of the evening, after which nothing seemed to matter at all, any more, and points such as turnip tops paled into utter insignificance. For out of Dr Fairbrother’s untidy brown coat peeked a little, dark, fluffy, whiskery face!

    “Oh!” gasped Fliss, dropping the nut she had just peeled. And: “Oh!” as Percival Cummings the Second scampered across the table, grabbed the nut, and retreated to his master’s shoulder with it, chittering.

    “Likes almonds,” said Dr Fairbrother calmly. “Don’t often get ’em peeled in that gentleman-like manner, though, do you, Percy?”

    “He’s a marmoset, is he?” said Mr Quayle-Sturt with great interest.

    “Aye: South American, ain’t you, Percy, sweetheart? Cheep, cheep, cheep!” said Dr Fairbrother to his pet.

    “Look at his fluffy hair!” gasped Fliss.

    “No, it’s his ears,” said Delphie, smiling very much. “See?”

    Fliss saw: she nodded, eyes shining. “And only look at his little hands!” she whispered. “Oh, is he not perfect?”

    Dr Fairbrother winked at Pansy. “Aye, he is. But you don’t have to whisper, Miss Tarlington. Just don’t shout or shriek, he don’t like it.”

    “No. Um—he doesn’t like cats, either,” said Pansy.

    “Hell, didn’t bring Horatio Nelson, did you?” said their host.

    “No, but—but Lady Jane and I have each a kitten, sir!” gulped Fliss, very red.

    “Oh. that’s all right. Just don’t bring ’em into the sitting-room. Where are they?”

    “Mrs Mayes has them in the kitchen.”

    “No need to worry, then. Got a head on her, that woman,” he noted approvingly.

    “Yes, indeed. She advised we—um—seek Sir Chauncey Winnafree’s advice on the subject of Lady Jane and Lady Sarah,” said Delphie nervously.

    “Why?” asked Mr Quayle-Sturt, straight-faced.

    “He’s my brother-in-law,” said Dr Fairbrother simply.

    Harley Quayle-Sturt’s eyes twinkled very much, but he just nodded.

    “Who’s their papa, then?” said Dr Fairbrother, having thought it over.

    Delphie gulped. “I’m not sure.”

    “Must be a— Dunno. Duke?”

    “It is not quite that bad, sir. He is the Earl of Hubbel,” said Mr Quayle-Sturt.

    “Bad enough, then,” said Dr Fairbrother simply. “Hope he ain’t in the habit of endowing colleges, or anything of that sort?”

    “I do not think,” said Harley sedately, “that he is in the habit of giving a groat away, sir.”

    “Oh,” he said sapiently, nodding. “Like that, is it? Mm. Well, makes it worse, in a way, though I wouldn’t like to get on the wrong side of the Master of Balliol or such-like, if an endowment was to be withdrawn.”

    “No, quite,” said Harley smoothly.

    “Not a bad old stick, is he, Percy, sweetheart? Cheep, cheep, cheep! The Master gave you a comfit, didn’t he? –Was visitin’ an acquaintance, the Master was in the  quad, y’see,” he said to Mr Quayle-Sturt.

    “Perfectly, sir.”

     Dr Fairbrother eyed him drily, but said only: “Mm. Best seek Chauncey’s advice, then.”

    “But Dr Fairbrother, the Earl of Hubbel could not possibly find out that you, or indeed we, had anything to do with his daughters’ flight!” protested Pansy.

    “These great lords have their ways. Not that I’m saying he’ll want to have them back. Only he won’t like being made to look foolish in front of his world. And I dare say he won’t care for people to say he did not care enough to look for his daughters, either,” he said thoughtfully. “No, he’ll have men on the trail very soon, you can bet your boots. Best be prepared.”

    “They must come home with us,” said Pansy, scowling. “He will never find them there.”

    “Mm... Well, could work. –S’pose you wouldn’t care to marry one of ’em?” he said hopefully to Mr Quayle-Sturt.

    “No, I thank you. Not even to oblige yourself, sir.”

    “No. Just a thought. I wouldn’t either, not that I know ’em, of course. But I don’t wish to marry anyone.”

    Pansy began: “Mrs Mayes would make you a splendid wi—”

    “Rubbish. They all nag a fellow to death, once they have the ring on their finger. Start puttin’ cushions in the parlour, and God knows what.”

    “In any case, would not Mr Mayes object?” murmured Harley.

    “There is no Mr Mayes,” said Pansy.

    “But she said she has five children!” Fliss objected. “Oh, I suppose she’s a widow. How very sad.”

    Dr Fairbrother shook his head. “No.”

    Fliss began: “But then there must—” Then she went very red.

    “It’s a courtesy title,” said Pansy indifferently. “Like a cook.”

    “Like a cook?” she fumbled.

    “Ignore her,” recommended Dr Fairbrother as Pansy, considering the topic closed, began chirping at Percy to encourage him onto her shoulder in order to offer him a cherry.

    “Our papa had a cook who—who was a Miss,” murmured Delphie, “but was always called Mrs.”

    “There you are,” said Dr Fairbrother immediately.

    “Oh,” said Fliss.

    “Anyway, I don’t wish to marry the woman. Pansy has always thought it would be the ideal match,” he explained to Miss Tarlington and Mr Quayle-Sturt.

    “I see, sir,” said the latter solemnly.

     Dr Fairbrother winked and reached for the remains of the cherry pie.

    “Accompanying the Miss Ogilvies to their home would seem to be the preferred solution, then,” murmured Harley.

    “Eh? Oh—for the ladies: mm,” agreed Dr Fairbrother.

    “Unless they have a relative they might go to,” suggested Delphie.

    “Yes. Or wait: would Lady Winnafree have them?” said Pansy excitedly.

    “Pansy, we could not ask it of her!” protested Delphie.

    “No-o... Well, dare say Chauncey would not wish to get in bad with this duke,” explained Dr Fairbrother.

    “Earl,” said Delphie firmly.

    “Mm? Oh—yes. Earl.” He ate some cherry pie. “Oh, that reminds me: the reason Portia did not descend on you girls: she has broke her ankle.”

    “Oh, poor Lady Winnafree!” cried Delphie sympathetically.

    “Ssh, Delphie, you’ll startle Percy. –Yes, poor thing,” he said. “Laid up complainin’ like fury. What is more they were in Bath at the time, so that did not go down well at all.”

    “Does she not like Bath, sir?” asked Fliss dubiously.

    “Hates it. Only goes because Chauncey takes the waters. Wrote us one of those violet-scented epistles of hers moanin’ about how Bath was the worst place in the world to be laid up.” He engulfed cherry pie. “I wrote back recommending the Circulating Library,” he admitted with a grin.

    “That was very unkind!” said Pansy with a giggle.

    He winked. “Mm. –M’sister never picks up a book from one year’s end to the next,” he explained to Mr Quayle-Sturt. “Unless it might be a roman à clef, or something of that sort.”

    “Then she must, indeed, be desperate in Bath.”

    “Yes. Thought she might like a monkey, but Chauncey sent it back: said it ran up the curtains and Portia couldn’t control it.”

    Harley looked in a startled way at Percy.

    “Not Percival Cummings the Second. One of his cousins.”

    “Oh: so you have more than one, sir?”

    Dr Fairbrother stared at him, a forkful of pie suspended.

    “He has a whole roomful, sir,” said Pansy helpfully. “He is a zoologist.”

    “A roomful?” quavered Fliss.

    “In cages. Not so tame as Percy,” said the zoologist, recommencing on his pie.

    “You might have sent her a parrot,” said Pansy.

    “Did. Some time back. Captain Canada. Fine bird.”

    “Canada?” said Mr Quayle-Sturt in spite of himself.

    “In memory of one of my brother-in-law’s earlier voyages.”

    “Er—oh! Admiral Sir Chauncey Winnafree: of course! And do you also have a roomful of parrots, Dr Fairbrother?”

    “Not precisely. I don’t study them, just like ’em. Interesting birds. In the wild they generally live in flocks, you know: strange that they are so amenable to being tamed and handled by humans. –No, I have but a small aviary.”

    Mr Quayle-Sturt swallowed.

    “Fifteen at last count. But Chauncey and Portia have an egg,” he noted hopefully.

    Mr Quayle-Sturt just looked at him.

    “He is being deliberately provoking, Mr Quayle-Sturt,” warned Pansy. “He means the parrot pair, not the human. –But that’s very good news, Dr Fairbrother: so Portia has laid at last?”

    “Yes. I built her a brand-new nesting box, and she took to it immediately. That was it, I think: wanted to feel special,” he said, apparently with the utmost seriousness.

    “Yes, of course!” agreed Miss Ogilvie, nodding pleasedly.

    “Yes: that will be it,” said Pansy.

    Mr Quayle-Sturt took one glance at Miss Tarlington’s face, and went into a helpless paroxysm of laughter.

    It had not seemed to Mr Quayle-Sturt over the dining table that Dr Fairbrother was taking the matter of the Claveringham ladies’ fugue quite seriously, but this was not so. Once the Miss Ogilvies and Miss Tarlington had been dispatched to their beds the zoologist settled down to discuss the matter in depth. But the two gentlemen did not get any further, really, than recognizing they were in something of a quandary. For if it seemed unduly cruel to betray the ladies by informing Lord and Lady Hubbel of their whereabouts, on the other hand to let the parents remain in ignorance did not strike as either politic or considerate. Though Mr Quayle-Sturt did remark that in his opinion any woman who endeavoured to force her daughter into a marriage that she did not wish for was not deserving of consideration.

    Dr Fairbrother interrogated him as to what steps he thought his friend Mr Tarlington might take, but Mr Quayle-Sturt was unable to enlighten him. Possibly Aden would merely inform the parents the girls were safe, without divulging their whereabouts.

    “The trail will be cold, after you left Tall Oaks,” said Dr Fairbrother thoughtfully.

    By now Harley Quayle-Sturt had realized that the zoologist’s mind, first impressions to the contrary, was more than as sharp as his own, so he evinced no surprize either at this deduction or at Dr Fairbrother’s having remembered the name of the house, which he rather thought he had mentioned but once. “Yes. And I don’t think the old butler will betray us. But Ottaway himself, I fear, will be only too glad to mention what direction we took. And a check along that back road will speedily find the inn where the ladies picked up the kittens: we will not be forgotten there for a while, I fear.”

    “No. Pity you had to go and do that.”

    “Have you ever travelled with a pack of females?” retorted Harley hotly.

    Dr Fairbrother grinned. “Got more sense. Oh, well: can’t be helped. Then you would have rejoined the Oxford road: change horses again, did you?”

    He sighed. “Yes. They will but have to question the post-boys, and I fear they will be led straight to us.”

    “Mm... Pity we can’t get em away quietly somewhere else.”

    Mr Quayle-Sturt hesitated; then he said: “I fear, from what the ladies have let slip, that there are few possibilities: their other relatives seem scared stiff of Hubbel.”

    “Mm... What about the grandmamma?”

    Harley’s jaw dropped. “You—you mean the Dowager Lady Hubbel, sir?” he croaked.

    “Aye. She don’t call herself that, do she?”

    “No. Er,” he said, swallowing: “I believe she calls herself Lady Georgina Claveringham. She was… a Fordham, I think. It’s said she could not support being known as the Dowager Countess. You don’t know her, do you, sir?”

    “Aye. –Call me Wynn, for the Lord’s sake. Makes me feel like a damned don, to be called ‘sir’ all the time.”

    “Very well, I should like to,” agreed Harley, smiling. “My name is Harley. Er—may I ask how you know Lady Georgina, Wynn?”

    “She had a monkey off me, not long since. Hers had died. She has always had a monkey, I believe.”

    “Yes. It’s become her signature-tune,” he said weakly.

    “Yes. Game old girl, ain’t she? That black hair must be a wig, eh?”

    “Yes. I think she must be well into her seventies: well, Hubbel is not young: in his mid-fifties, I imagine. Broughamwood, that is his heir, is a year or two older than me.”

    “Aye. She genuinely likes ’em, y’know: it’s not just a pose.”

    “Uh—oh! Monkeys! Well, I’m glad to hear it. Um... It is said that she dislikes Hubbel, but whether she would take his daughters’ side against him...”

    “Mm. Well, see what the girls think, eh? But it could be a refuge for them. Hang on: is the old duck financially dependent upon the Earl, though, Harley?”

    “I believe not,” said Harley, eyeing him with some respect. “Her widow’s portion would have been considerable.”

    “Mm. Sounds possible, then.”

    “Well, ye-es...” Harley hesitated. “Look, Wynn, I scarcely know her Ladyship myself, but frankly I think her advice to poor Lady Jane might be to marry the man and console herself with a lover!”

    “Mm. And would she?” he asked simply.

    “No,” replied Harley Quayle-Sturt equally simply. “She is not that sort of woman, at all.”

    Dr Fairbrother nodded.

    Harley said dubiously: “It may make it simpler if it turns out Harpingdon only wants to inform Lady Hubbel that he’s not interested: but I can’t see Lady Sarah agreeing to return to their home on the strength of it.”

    “I see. Well, I won’t try to suggest that, then.”

    Harley looked at him with considerable liking, and nodded agreement.

    Dr Fairbrother got up. “Best be off to bed: Jacky’s a good boy but he doesn’t like it if I’m not there to give him a hand with the monkey cages in the morning. Come round as soon as you like, Harley: I’ll be up.”

    Harley got up and held out his hand. “Thank you, Wynn. I should very much like to see the monkeys and the parrots tomorrow; if it’s not inconvenient?”

    “No, no: they rise with the sun, y’know!” he said, grinning.

    Harley Quayle-Sturt had not meant that at all, but as he was perfectly well aware that Wynn Fairbrother was aware of this, he merely grinned, shook his hand hard, and said: “Good-night, Wynn.” And took himself off to his hotel.

    Dr Fairbrother went out to his kitchen. “Are you still up?”

    Mrs Mayes was nodding in a rocking-chair by the stove. She jumped, and blinked. “Lor’, you didn’t half give us a fright, sir! Well, is it all settled?”

    Dr Fairbrother made a face. “No. Though at least Harley Quayle-Sturt don’t seem set on sending those ladies back to their home.”

    “That’s a relief, then!”

    “Aye. –Listen: you put your mind, over the next few days, to thinking of some way we can get those two ladies out of Oxford without leaving a trail a mile wide for a blasted Earl with pots of money to follow!”

    “I’ll do that,” she said with determination.

     Dr Fairbrother nodded, patted her solid shoulder, thanked her for the wonderful meal, bade her good-night, and went up to bed. As he was neither stupid nor naïve, of course it occurred to him that other persons might have found it curious that he should have consulted his temporary cook-housekeeper on such a matter. But he knew that Mrs Mayes, though she had almost no education and could barely write her own name, had a good deal of intelligence, and considerable cunning besides. So why not?

Next chapter:

https://theogilvieconnection.blogspot.com/2022/09/mr-tarlington-and-friends.html