Égyptienne

19

Égyptienne

    The narrowboats had tied up and the cargoes were being discharged. Pansy would have liked to stay and watch, but Mr Quayle-Sturt thought they had best look for the Égyptienne, for the day was drawing in. Pansy was quite prepared to set off along the quays in search of Sir Noël’s yacht by herself, but Mr Hanley quietly supported Mr Quayle-Sturt’s stance, and she gave in. Mr Quayle-Sturt was at first not prepared to allow Pansy to accompany them in the search, either, but in this instance George Hanley came down squarely on Pansy’s side, so he gave in. The Claveringham ladies, however, he decreed, must stay belowdecks until the yacht should be located. Lady Jane and Lady Sarah were only too happy to agree to this, in especial as London had brought back all of Lady Jane’s fears and she was in a state of quivering nerves.

    “The best thing would be to take Swan’s dinghy and see for ourselves what vessels are in port,” said Pansy.

    Mr Quayle-Sturt swallowed. “In the Pool of London?”

    “Don’t think Harley much fancies the idea of tossing about in the Pool in that little cockle-shell,” said George with a grin. “Let’s try what inquiry may do for us, eh?”

    Mr Quayle-Sturt consented heartily to this proposition. Pansy sighed but accompanied them silently.

    Fortunately Mr Hanley knew the correct offices at which to enquire, or the search might have taken them some time. As it was, the pearly summer twilight was upon them before they came upon the elegant yacht.

    “Stop!” gasped Pansy, tugging at Mr Hanley’s sleeve. Lights and music were spilling forth from below, and two very smartly-clad sailors could be observed at the head of the gangplank.

    “Good Lord, the fellow’s having a damned party!” said George Hanley with a laugh.

    “After all, he could not have known we would arrive on this particular evening,” said Mr Quayle-Sturt feebly.

    “No!” he agreed, shoulders shaking.

    “What on earth shall we do?” said Pansy in dismay. “The ladies cannot possibly come aboard if he has guests: why, some of them may know them!”

    “Aye: what an idiot!” gasped George.

    “Stop laughing!” she cried aggrievedly.

    “Shall I go aboard and have a quiet word in his ear?” suggested Mr Quayle-Sturt, forgetting the appearance he presented.

     “No! They would smell a rat immediately!” cried Pansy.

    “Er—oh,” he said. looking down at himself ruefully.

    “We’ll go,” she said tersely. “You stay here.”

    Mr Quayle-Sturt directed an anguished look at Mr Hanley, but there had been no need to: the lock-keeper was replying calmly: “Better not you, Pansy. You might have to meet some of the guests socially some time in the future.”

    “Rubbish!” she said roundly. “And in any case, I am sure they are all so stupid they would never remember me!”

    “It would be unwise to take the risk. Scandals spread quickly, in London,” said Mr Quayle-Sturt.

    Pansy was about to rubbish this, when she recollected her Parker cousins’ unfortunate experience. “Very well. Only mind you insist on speaking to Sir Noël alone, in private. –No, wait: he doesn’t know you, or you he!” she gasped, as Mr Hanley was about to depart.

    “Tall, well set-up, fine pair of shoulders on him, carries a quizzing glass,” murmured Mr Quayle-Sturt in answer to Mr Hanley’s raised eyebrow.

    “He has brown hair and, um, sort of light brown eyes,” said Pansy on a sulky note.

    “I shall ask for the vessel’s owner. Shan’t be long!”

    They watched anxiously. Mr Hanley could be observed speaking to the sailors on duty at the gangplank, and not being admitted aboard. Then one of the sailors went off.

    “Taking a message,” murmured Mr Quayle-Sturt.

    “Yes. Surely he has had the gumption to tell his men he expects a messenger?” she said on a cross note.

    “I would imagine so.”

    They waited…

    “It is ridiculous! What he got on board, an orchestra?” said Pansy in exasperation as the music swelled.

    “String quartet, I fancy,” he murmured.

    “If that is a joke—” she began dangerously.

    “No! My dear Miss Pansy!” he said in some amusement. “Why would I joke on such a subject? It is indeed a string quartet: it is not an unusual sort of entertainment, at parties.”

    “On a boat?” said Pansy incredulously.

    “On a fashionable gentleman’s boat: certainly.”

    Pansy swallowed. “Oh,” she said lamely.

    Mr Quayle-Sturt directed a not unkindly look at her and said: “What do you think of the yacht’s lines?”

    “She is a splendid craft,” she admitted.

    “Mm. Well, I have no specialist knowledge,” he said with a smile, “but I own she seems an elegant thing, to me.”

    “Yes. I suppose he has all spanking clean canvas to go with his spanking new rigging.”

    In the pearly twilight, Harley looked at her grim little face uncertainly. “Er—is it?”

    “What I can see of it: yes.”

    “Mm. Perhaps he has had her—er—fitted out for the summer season?”

    “Re-fitted,” said Pansy with a sigh. “Very like.”

    Harley Quayle-Sturt hesitated. “Noël is not a poor man,” he murmured. “And he has always been very keen on the yacht. And, then, of course, if he intended spending the summer at Brighton—” He broke off.

    “Well?”

    “Er—well, he may have invited the Prince Regent to a—er—nautical party,” he said uncomfortably, “and would naturally wish to have everything on his boat looking at its best for such an occasion.”

    “Does he know the Prince Regent?” asked Pansy dazedly.

    “Why, certainly.”

    “Do you?” she said, looking up at him in wonder.

    “I have met His Royal Highness, yes. Though I doubt he would remember my poor self, personally. Last summer in Brighton myself and my mamma were favoured with an invitation to one of His Royal Highness’s musical soirées at the Pavilion, and the Prince spoke very kindly to us of my grandfather. He was a military man, Miss Pansy.”

    Pansy swallowed loudly.

    “Noël Amory—oh, and his Uncle Bobby—were most certainly in Brighton that season and were both present at the soirée,” he added, not unkindly.

    “I see,” said Pansy in a tiny voice.

    Mr Quayle-Sturt looked at her sympathetically.

    After some time, during which nothing appeared to happen on the yacht and Mr Hanley continued to wait at the gangplank, she said: “Mr Quayle-Sturt, he—he wouldn’t have had to upset his arrangements for the summer, would he, to come up to London?”

    “Er—well, the Brighton season must now be pretty well in full swing. But Noël is a free agent, Miss Pansy: he could have refused us his aid, had he so chosen. Or he could merely have loaned us the boat, as Aden suggested, without joining in the enterprise personally.”

    “Yes,” she said in a small voice.

    They waited.

    Finally a tall, well set-up figure with a fine pair of shoulders—though in the soft twilight neither the brownness of the hair nor the quizzing glass were immediately apparent, from their vantage point on the quay—appeared on deck, and hastened to wring George Hanley’s hand and clap him on the back. Then Sir Noël came over to Miss Pansy and Mr Quayle-Sturt, his hand held out, beaming all over his handsome face.

    “Well! You made it! What an adventure, hey?”

    “Indeed. How are you, Noël?” said Mr Quayle-Sturt, wringing his hand.

    “Oh, splendid! –Miss Pansy, I would not have known you: you look the complete girl of the river!” he said with a chuckle, bowing.

    “Then perhaps you should not have bowed to me,” she said grimly.

    “Nonsense!”

    “Have you had to cancel your engagements in order to help us?” she demanded abruptly.

    “Er—possibly I am missing one or two very boring parties, yes,” he owned in astonishment.

    “What about the Prince Regent?”

    Sir Noël’s eyebrows rose a little, but he replied politely: “His Royal Highness is not due to grace Égyptienne with his presence for a full fortnight, by which time we shall be safely tied up at Brighton.”

    “Good,” said Pansy limply.

    “So how are your charges?” he asked in a lowered voice.

    “They have withstood the journey very well,” said Harley.

    “Withstood! What do you mean?” cried Pansy indignantly. “They had a lovely time, and Sarah told me she was never so happy in all her life!”

    “Yes—ssh,” he said nervously. “That is true, of course, but the elder, you know, is just a little edgy at the present moment.”

    “Understandable,” agreed Sir Noël.

    “Sir Noël, why on earth are you having a party?” said Pansy on a desperate note.

    “Er—one felt one had to do something to alleviate the boredom of sitting at the London docks waiting for you, ma’am.”

    “Unfortunate you should have chosen this evening,” noted Harley.

    “Not entirely!” he said with a laugh. “My guest list consists of Aden and his sister, Rupert Narrowmine, and the Winnafrees!”

    “Dr Fairbrother’s relations?” said Pansy numbly. “I did not knew you knew them, sir.”

    Sir Noël had been an extremely close friend of the charming Portia, Lady Winnafree, for some time now. “Yes, I have known Sir Chauncey and Lady Winnafree for quite some years,” he replied tranquilly.

    “Has Dr Fairbrother let them in on it?” she demanded.

    “Yes. I gather he wrote to Sir Chauncey on Mrs Mayes’s recommendation,” he said smoothly.

    “Er—yes,” agreed Mr Quayle-Sturt in a stifled voice.

    Sir Noël grinned at him. “That woman has a head on her shoulders!”

    “She does that,” said George Hanley sturdily. “And what was the Admiral’s advice, Sir Noël?”

    “It was to steer well clear of Lord H. in a rage, I fear. But he and Lady Winnafree have most generously offered to extend their protection to the two ladies; I think Lord H. will think twice before contemplating a court action against Admiral Sir Chauncey!”

    “Mm,” said Mr Quayle-Sturt thoughtfully. “Have there been any whispers going round, Noël?”

    “None that have come to my ears, certainly.”

    “Good. The ladies’ parents will very likely agree not to proceed further, if the whole thing can be smoothed over.”

    “Yes,” agreed Sir Noël. “Lady Winnafree proposes to make it seem the two have been her guests all summer.”

    “But they are going to be my guests!” cried Pansy crossly.

    Sir Noël returned courteously: “That is most generous of you, of course, Miss Pansy, and naturally the two ladies must make their own choice in the matter. But they will be much more comfortable in Sir Chauncey’s house.”

    Pansy glared at him.

    “Truly we have not been plotting behind your back to take the whole thing out of your hands, my dear Miss Pansy.”

    “Nay: it only seems like it,” said George Hanley drily. “Well, don’t let’s stand here arguing about it: as Sir Noël says, the ladies must decide, Pansy. And if you’re sure of your guest list, Sir Noël, we’ll be off and fetch them.”

    “Not along the quays!” gasped Pansy.

    “No: I’ll lower a boat,” said Sir Noël. “But will you not come aboard, Miss Pansy?”

    “No, I’ll go back with the boat. Mr Quayle-Sturt can go aboard with you, he doesn’t fancy tossing about in the Pool of London in a little cockle-shell,” said Pansy grimly.

    Sir Noël’s eyebrows rose just a little; but he merely bowed very slightly.

    But when Pansy and George Hanley had set off he said lightly to his friend: “Blotted your copybook, have you, Harley? Or is it just your weak stomach?”

    “Well, that and my prudish nature! No—well, to say truth,” he admitted a trifle sheepishly: “Miss Pansy and I have come to a tacit agreement that there is much about each of us that—er—displeases the other and—well, in short, that we don’t suit!” he ended with a weak laugh.

    After a moment Noël said: “I see.”

    Harley looked at him awkwardly. “She is the most gallant little creature. And brave as a lion. I have never seen such courage in a girl.”

    “No.”

    “Er—Wynn Fairbrother has it that she is still a child, and—well, I think he is pretty much in the right of it,” he murmured.

    “Indeed: I had come to that conclusion myself. –Well,” he said with a twisted smile, ”I could hardly refuse to lend my aid to the enterprise, Harley, since she helped save my life—to a continuous running commentary of sheer disparagement, I might add, from the old fellow who was captaining their boat—but, yes. Very young for her age. Er, and in addition— Well!” he said on a rueful note: “doubtless you have seen it for yourself, dear fellow. That amount of determination and, I fear, intransigeance, would be quite impossible to live with, y’know.”

    “Yes, indeed,” Harley agreed.

    Portia, Lady Winnafree, was, as Pansy had indicated to Lady Sarah, a lady in her late thirties. She had been married to Admiral Sir Chauncey for fifteen years, now. In spite of the dire predictions of every member of her family save her easy-going brother, she did not appear to have any regrets about the marriage. She was an exceedingly pretty lady, not very tall, with a pair of sparkling brown eyes and a mop of very shiny brown ringlets, which she wore dressed artlessly Cupid-style, with a ribbon threaded through them. Too youthful for her years: yes. For an evening with music aboard Sir Noël’s yacht she was clad in a pale pink embroidered satin gown, cut very low at her fine bosom, and much swagged and flounced as to the hem, with many tiny rosebuds and strings of tiny pearls and tiny knots of ribbon about it. She was a plumpish little lady and there was more than one person aboard Égyptienne that evening who perceived immediately, with varying emotions, that she resembled Miss Pansy Ogilvie not a little.

    The Admiral was most certainly a gentleman in his later years. In figure he bore a certain resemblance to His Royal Highness the Prince Regent, and tonight, having chosen to adorn his large person with a bright yellow brocaded waistcoat above his satin knee-breeches, he presented a figure that would have stood out in almost any crowd. His neckcloth was amazingly high and elaborate in spite of his chins, he was hung about with fobs and chains and much beringed as to his wide, plump hands, he had a deep, wheezing voice, very red cheeks, and very little hair, though what there was amazingly curled and fluffed, and all in all the expectations of Miss Pansy Ogilvie, Mr George Hanley, and even Mr Quayle-Sturt, in the wake of Dr Fairbrother’s references to his brother-in-law, were not disappointed. It was clear that he was a very genial man, for he greeted them all with great cordiality, but it was very soon also clear to Mr Hanley and Mr Quayle-Sturt, at least, that he was also a man of considerable acumen.

    “Well,” he said in his deep, wheezy voice, once the ladies from the narrowboats had retired to their cabin under the kind supervision of Lady Winnafree and Miss Tarlington, and the gentlemen had by common consent repaired to the after-deck, there to blow a companiable cloud: “dare say we may manage to smooth it all over. We’ll get ’em down to Brighton all right and tight, first, though: don’t like the looks of Lady J. Nervous type, is she, Noël, my boy?”

    “I am afraid she is; yes, sir.”

    Sir Chauncey sniffed slightly. “Aye. Well, I shall write to Hubbel directly you dock. Dare say he will not wish to cross me!” He gave a rumbling laugh.

    “I’m very sure he won’t, sir,” agreed Mr Tarlington.

    “Pity they ain’t contracted an eligible connection while they’ve been about it,” he noted airily. “Dare say that would soften the blow for Hubbel. eh?”

    “I dare say it would, sir,” replied Mr Tarlington limply, since no-one else seemed capable of speech.

    “So Harpingdon’s determined on offering for this little country Miss, hey?” the Admiral then demanded of Lord Rupert.

    “Yes, sir! So he told Papa!” he agreed, all but saluting.

    “Aye. Pity. Still, if Lady J. don’t fancy him, there’s naught to be done. Portia had some idea she might talk her round, y’see,” he explained. “Well—woman to woman, eh?” He gave a rumble of laughter.

    The other gentlemen studiously avoided one another’s eyes.

    “Aye. Well, can’t be helped,” he concluded. “And Portia’s been wanting a companion this age—someone to take about with her, y’know the sort of thing! Gets lonely, with no chick of her own. Dare say Lady Jane may suit.”

    “Yes—er—but is there not a niece?” ventured Mr Tarlington.

    “Eh? Oh! Yes. Portia plans to launch her next Season. Well, she don’t count,” he explained to the company. “Idea is to marry her off.”

    “Of course,” said Mr Tarlington limply.

    “Pretty enough, I suppose,” he said dubiously. “Tall. Dark girl.”

    “I predict she will be all the rage, sir,” said Mr Quayle-Sturt kindly. “For tall, dark-haired women are quite the fashion still, you know.”

    “Skinny. Prefer more of a cuddly armful, meself,” noted the elderly gentlemen.

    Again his companions avoided one another’s eyes. And again Mr Tarlington was the only one capable of speech. “So do many gentlemen, of course, sir,” he said smoothly.

    Belowdecks, Portia Winnafree had seen Ladies Jane and Sarah firmly into their bunks. The yacht of course was most luxuriously appointed, but as apart from the saloon and the crew’s quarters, it had only two cabins, Pansy and the ladies were sharing accommodation.

    “Now, my dears, you shall have some beef broth directly and then I think you must go straight to sleep. If only I had thought to bring Pringle, she could have seen to their clothes!” she added to Miss Tarlington.

    “Yes, but Lady Winnafree, we did not know the ladies would be coming aboard tonight.”

    “No, very true. I think these garments had best be disposed of.”

    “No!” gasped Lady Jane. “That gown belongs to dear Swan!”

    “My love, we can buy her a new gown to replace it,” replied Lady Winnafree on a firm note. “Now, Pansy, dear, if you are ready, you may come and have some supper with us.”

    Pansy, to her own annoyance, had experienced a sinking feeling at the sight of Lady Winnafree in pale pink satin and Fliss in pale blue muslin. Not to mention the gentlemen in evening dress.

    “Very well,” she said grimly. “I am not in the least tired.”

    “No.” Lady Winnafree looked at her grimy print gown and the small woollen scarf of indefinable colour which was knotted over her shoulders. and sighed.

    “No-one cares what I look like,” said Pansy grimly.

    Portia immediately perceived that this was not in the least true. “Of course not, my love!” she said gaily. “But I am sure you will be glad of something clean, for tomorrow! Sir Noël tells me he intends to sail with the tide, so I shall send Pringle along very early.”

    “You are very kind, but I have a bag with me,” said Pansy.

    “Well, in that case, my dear child, you must let Pringle take all your things, to have them laundered, and we may return them to you in Brighton,” she said firmly. “Now, come along, my dears! Yes, that’s right, Fliss, show Pansy the way! I think I had best speak to the galley myself!” she decided, shepherding them out.

    Pansy followed Fliss silently, with something of a numbed look on her face.

    Very much later that evening, Mr Tarlington, having delivered Fliss to their mamma’s house and returned to the yacht, stretched his long legs out in the saloon and slowly blew a smoke ring. “So,” he said thoughtfully.

    “What?” replied Sir Noël.

    “l had thought at one stage,” he said, eyeing him sideways. “that Harley was all set to cut you out with little Miss Pansy. Only it appears he has his eye on Lady Sarah.”

    “I certainly had that impression, yes.”

    Mr Tarlington nodded. “I had a quiet word in George Hanley’s ear, and he confirms it. What an excellent fellow he is!” he added enthusiastically.

    “Yes, indeed,” agreed Sir Noël.

    Mr Tarlington gazed at the ceiling. “Did it answer? Coming down to Oxford, I mean.”

    Sir Noël frowned.

    After a moment his friend added: “Not sorry you agreed to lend Egyptienne for this mad scape, are you, dear fellow?”

    “What? No, no, of course not!”

    “Well?”

    “Oh, very well, damn your eyes! I have to admit that seeing Miss Pansy again—though of course I am only too glad to lend my aid, dear fellow—um—seeing her again has made me think that I, um, was mistaken. –To say truth, Aden, I found myself both exasperated and—and bored!” he confessed, reddening.

    “I see,” said Mr Tarlington slowly. He was not altogether surprized by this avowal, but he was rather disappointed. For his experience of Pansy had been rather the contrary, at Oxford, and though of course he could see that she was not entirely suitable, he had felt that it would not be at all a bad thing if she were to settle down with his friend.

    After a moment Sir Noël added wryly: “I found myself thinking how much improved she would be with a strict governess.”

    Mr Tarlington gave a startled laugh. “I see!”

    “Aye... Well, it was the pretty face, the derring-do, and the—the fact that she was so entirely from different all the Society dames, I suppose,” he admitted.

    “Yes,” said his friend sympathetically.

    “I am as much of a conventional fellow at heart as Harley Q.-S., in short!” he concluded with a shrug.

    Mr Tarlington gave him an anxious look. “That is not entirely a bad thing, Noël.”

    “No.” Sir Noël lit a cigar.

    After quite some Mr Tarlington time said: “Look, talkin’ of brown curls, big brown eyes, and cuddly figures—”

    “Were we?”

    “Yes,” he said firmly. “How much have you been seeing of Lady W.?”

    “Er—this year or last, old lad?” he drawled.

    Mr Tarlington choked.

    Very pleased, Sir Noël blew a smoke ring. “Well, old Chauncey don’t mind: told me to me face she had a partiality for a damned groom, year before last, and he’d be obliged if I could wean her off the fellow!”

    Mr Tarlington coughed wildly.

    “Glass of something, dear lad?” he offered blandly.

    “Yes!” he gasped. “Good God, Noël!”

    Sir Noël dispensed brandy and sat down again.

    Mr Tarlington sipped, eying him uncertainly. “Supposing you was to settle down with a suitable woman—no, don’t eat me—should you give up the pretty ladies like the fair Lady W., or Lady C.?

    “I never got over the first fence with Lady C.!” he said indignantly.

    “That ain’t how Lucas Claveringham tells it,” replied Mr Tarlington, unmoved.

    Sir Noël sniffed. “Uh—well, the first fence, maybe. –More of a low hedge,” he muttered.

    Taken unawares, Mr Tarlington choked.

    “Yes, of course I would!” he said crossly.

    “Eh? Oh,” he said weakly. “Glad to hear it.”

    Sir Noël swallowed a sigh and refrained from telling his erstwhile commanding officer that if any other fellow had asked him that, he’d have decked him. Over-developed sense of responsibility, was it? Something very like that. Well, Aden had had it since his schooldays, come to think of it, but—yes.

    Pansy woke to the sensation of a good keel moving beneath her. She got out of her bunk very carefully, as the Claveringham ladies were still fast asleep, scrambled into her dress, and hurried up on deck. She hesitated a moment and then went forward.

    “Oh!” she said at the sight of a broad back that was certainly not Sir Noël’s bent over the rail.

    The Admiral turned, beaming, and bowed. “Good morning, me dear! Glorious morning, ain’t it?

    “Good morning, sir. Yes, indeed, it is! So we are under way!” said Pansy eagerly.

    “Aye, that we are!” he said with satisfaction. “For meself, can’t wait to get out of these damned estuarine waters! Hate crawlin’ downriver when there’s a decent ship beneath me feet!”

    “And I!” said Pansy eagerly, coming up to his side. “But we are not precisely crawling, sir!”

    The Admiral grunted. “She’s not bad, for a toy.”

    “She’s a fair-sized toy!” said Pansy with her frank laugh. She leaned on the rail and sniffed the air rapturously. “Mm! I can almost smell the sea, already! Where are we, Sir Chauncey?”

    “Lord, haven’t you ever sailed from the Port of London, my dear?” The Admiral explained where they were, pointing out several landmarks, and gave her a detailed description of the further landmarks they might expect to see, and a rundown on just when they could expect, with a decent wind and all canvas set, to sight the North Foreland, and so forth. He thought, optimistically, they might see themselves lunching in Dover! Pansy then enquiring the time, he produced a large enamelled watch and consulted it gravely, and Pansy, whose temperament was as optimistic as the old Admiral’s own, agreed happily they might expect to lunch in Dover. She proceeded to interrogate him narrowly on such topics as the Pas de Calais in a storm, finding oneself off Gravesend in a fog and a flat calm, and so forth. After which the conversation proceeded naturally to Admiral Sir Chauncey’s adventures on his flagship Regardless. The Admiral then revealing that she was docked in Portsmouth as they spoke, and Pansy expressing an eager wish to see her, he issued an immediate invitation to accompany him on an inspection, the which was immediately and rapturously accepted.

    They were well past the docks and Sir Noël had himself taken the wheel of his big yacht; Mr Tarlington, who was lounging at his elbow, had a good view forward from the little wheelhouse, and after some time nodded at the ill-assorted pair in the bows and said: “S’pose that is all right, old man?”

    “Mm? Oh,” said Sir Noël with a smile. “You need have no fears on that score, dear boy. The old man may put his arm round her, but it won’t go further than that. He don’t misbehave himself with innocent little maidens.”

    “I’m relieved to hear it,” admitted Mr Tarlington.

    “You might have brought your sister, after all!” said Noël with a laugh.

    Mr Tarlington shut his eyes and shuddered. “Well,” he admitted, “they’re going down to Brighton day after tomorrow in any case: Mamma talked me into taking a house for ’em, did I say?”

    “Several times,” he said tranquilly. “—Blackett, go forward and ask Sir Chauncey and Miss Pansy if they would care for breakfast,” he added to the sailor who was standing by.

    “Right you are, sir!” he said, touching his forelock.

    “Oh, and Blackett,” said Sir Noël.

    “Yessir?”

    “Mind you salute the Admiral,” said Sir Noël in a terrifically neutral voice.

    “I’ll do that, sir,” he said stolidly. As he moved forward, however, they could see his shoulders were shaking.

    Old Navy man,” explained Sir Noel superfluously.

    “So I should suppose! –Lord, though, ain’t it somethin’ of a responsibility, having the old man adopt you as his flagship, Noël?”

    “It weighs heavy,” he agreed sardonically.

    “No! Honestly!” said Mr Tarlington, laughing.

    “Er—well, he’s nimble enough on a deck, Aden.”

    “I grant you. But what if he starts ordering you to—um—clap on canvas, or some such?”

    Sir Noël smiled. “He won’t do that.”

    “I wouldn’t take any bets!” he said with feeling, as they observed Blackett saluting smartly and the Admiral nodding condescendingly.

    “No, no: the captain is always in charge of his vessel, dear boy!”

    “Oh?”

    “Mm: true! Ask Miss Pansy, I’m sure she’ll verify it, she knows more of Naval etiquette than I do,” he said on a dry note.

    “Er—mm,” said Mr Tarlington uncomfortably.

    Sir Noël smiled a little but said only: “Want to take the wheel, Aden?”

    “Hell, no!” he said in horror. “I’ll wait until we’re in the open sea, I thank you!”

    At this a burly man who had been standing by silently said with feeling: “Aye, that you will, Mr T.! And you won’t take her then, lessen we have a following wind and low seas!”

    “There you are: I shall abide by Walker’s opinion,” said Sir Noël smoothly.

    “I suppose you’ll let him steer while you have your breakfast?” Aden retorted nastily.

    “You’re out there, Mr Tarlington,” said Walker immediately. “If Sir Noël says as he’ll take her down, he’ll take her.”

    “Mm. Might have a bite at the wheel,” he explained, grinning.

    “You sailing men are too much for me,” decided Mr Tarlington heavily. “I think I’ll retire to the saloon, and a civilized meal.”

    “But you’ll miss everything!” said an astonished voice from behind him.

    Mr Tarlington leapt where he stood. “Er—yes. Good morning, Cousin Pansy. I trust you slept well?”

    “Yes, thank you. I didn’t realize you were coming with us, sir.”

    “Can’t imagine why he is, if he intends spending the time stuffing his face with breakfast belowdecks,” drawled Sir Noël.

    “No, indeed!” she beamed. “But Sir Chauncey said to tell you he would care for a bite, sir. And so should I, only I was wondering if I might have it on deck?”

    Sir Noël smiled. “I think that could be managed.”

    “Will she not be in the way of a boom, or a stay, or a rigging?” asked Mr Tarlington in a pointed voice.

    “No! Get out!” he choked.

    “Do you not mean, ‘Get below’?”

    “Throw him out, Walker,” said Sir Noel.

    “Ave, I will that: come on, Mr T., you’re distracting the man at the helm!” said Walker with a grin.

    “Oh—very well. Miss Pansy, I think you have not been introduced to Captain Walker?”

    Pansy beamed and greeted him eagerly.

    “I collect the ladies are still abed?” added Mr Tarlington.

    Pansy nodded. “Yes. I don’t think we should wake them, sir; Lady Sarah is not a good sailor.

    He winced. “No.”

    He and Captain Walker vanished; Pansy remained at Sir Noël’s elbow.

    “I suppose you would like to take the helm?” he murmured after a little.

    “Yes; but I do not know these waters at all, sir.”

    “No. Well, would you care to, for a little, if Blackett and I stand by to correct your mistakes?”

    “Very much. But only if you’re sure.”

    “The channel be clear as clear, Miss, and the waters be right deep hereabouts,” said Blackett helpfully.

    “Good! Then I shall! Thank you very much, Sir Noël!” Pansy took the wheel eagerly.

    “Don’t panic, Blackett, she’s an experienced sailor,” said Sir Noël drily.

    “I can see that, sir,” said his henchman stolidly.

    “Er—yes.”

    Pansy’s eyes remained on the river or the sails, but after a little she asked about the number of crewmen. Sir Noël explained there were five sailors besides Blackett and Captain Walker, but he had sailed Égyptienne with as few as three men.

    “Aye, only then we don’t get fancy vittles!” said Blackett with a chuckle.

    “No,” said Pansy, her eyes on her canvas.

    Blackett smiled, and relaxed his vigilance just a trifle.

    At the wheel Sir Noël had drunk a cup of coffee and eaten several bread rolls with a quantity of ham by the time breakfast had been laid for two on the foredeck.

    “This is so pleasant!” said Pansy with a laugh, sitting down to it.

    Admiral Sir Chauncey beamed at her; but he had himself fastened the top button of his coat, and he said: “Not too breezy for you, me dear?”

    “No, indeed: it’s exhilarating! –I did not realize, sir, that you intended to make the trip with us?” she said, as he embarked on a substantial breakfast.

    “No, well, I didn’t, but Portia urged me to take the chance, y’know, while it was offered. And James is in town, the rascal, and will escort her down to Brighton. Oh, and by the way, me dear, she sent a load of pretties for you and the two ladies, which I trust they have delivered to your cabin?”

    Pansy was rather red. “Um—I’m not sure. I didn’t really look.” She took a bowl of strawberries and cream.

    The Admiral, without asking if she wished for it, immediately sugared them liberally for her.

    “Thank you, sir!” she beamed. “This deliciously sybaritic breakfast is a trifle different from hard tack, I think?”

    “Aye, ain’t it, just!” he wheezed, terrifically pleased. He began to tell her of a voyage he had made to the West Indies, for the Frogs had got up to all sorts of rigs and rows out there, and our sugar plantations had been at grave risk…

    The Admiral appeared to have wholly deserted his earlier topic; but at the conclusion of the West Indian narrative, the point of which, as far as Mr Tarlington, returning on deck in time to catch the last of it, could tell, might have been the prevalence of hard tack on a long voyage or might have been the defence of the sugar plantations or might have been something else entirely, he returned abruptly to an earlier theme, saying: “’Twas a big wicker basket, me dear, that Portia sent. Dare say her frillies will fit you well enough; you are much of a size.” He eyed her complacently.

    “It was very kind of her,” said Pansy limply. “I will check, after we have finished, sir.”

    “Aye, aye: no hurry,” he said mildly. “Which of ’em is it, again, that young Quayle-Sturt fancies?” he added to Mr Tarlington.

    So far as Mr Tarlington was aware, the topic had not been broached in Sir Chauncey’s hearing: he said very weakly indeed: “I believe it is Lady Sarah, sir.”

    “Oh, aye: the one that ain’t so skinny, that it?”—Mr Tarlington nodded feebly.—“Aye, Portia would have it he had his eye on her,” he said complacently.

    “Yes, I think he admires her very much, sir,” said Pansy.

    Sir Chauncey sniffed slightly. “Mm. Pretty enough, I s’pose.”

    “Oh, yes! She has most refined features!” she said eagerly.

    “Aye, aye,” he said glumly. “She has a look of my niece. –Thin, y’know.”

    Mr Tarlington’s shoulders shook silently: it was clear that in spite of their assurances last night the Admiral was still not convinced of his niece’s being able to form an eligible connection.

    “Thought she or her sister Miranda might do for Noël,” the old man then confided.

    Mr Tarlington could scarce forbear to gulp, but managed: “Indeed, sir? Is Miss Miranda the older or the younger?”

    “Eh? Oh: older,” he said glumly. “Old-cattish.”

    “Oh,” said Mr Tarlington feebly.

    “Twenty-seven and still unwed,” he added glumly. “Portia did everything she could: girl didn’t take.”

    “That’s a pity, sir,” he said politely.

    “Aye. Same type,” he said heavily. He speared a fat slice of ham and looked at it glumly. “Thin,” he said mournfully.

    Mr Tarlington swallowed and was incapable of speech.

    Fortunately for Mr Tarlington’s nerves the meal was over soon after that. Pansy, at the Admiral’s urging, retired below to look for the wicker basket, and the old man himself remained on the foredeck, with his hat pulled well down over his face.

    Aden betook himself on shaking legs to his friend’s side. “He’s still going on about his niece,” he reported feebly.

    Sir Noël grinned. “Said she was skinny in front of Miss Pansy, did he?”

    “Something like that,” he croaked. “Godfather, why didn’t you warn me, Noël?”

    “Didn’t know he meant to sail with us. Turned up just before you did, with his kit.”

    Mr Tarlington groaned. After a few moments he said: “Have you met the elder niece? Miss Miranda?”

    “Miss Winnafree: they are Lord Lavery’s sisters. No. But I am reliably informed—”

    “Don’t go on,” he groaned.

    “That she’s as skinny as her sister!” choked Sir Noël.

    “Just keep him off me for the remainder of the voyage,” he pleaded.

    “I am afraid that is beyond my poor powers, Aden.”

    “You could take to your bunk, Mr T.!” suggested Blackett, grinning widely.

    “Aye, so y’could, Aden. –Get forward, we’ll set the jib,” decided his master.

    “Aye, aye, sir!” Blackett hurried forward.

    “Go on, take to your bunk,” drawled Sir Noël.

    “I may do so!” he said with feeling.

    “Dare say Miss Pansy may draw him off,” he drawled, watching Blackett set the jib.

    “Well, she ain’t skinny, certainly.”

    “Oh, absolutely: not skinny—indeed, cuddly, I believe was the word bandied about last night?” said Sir Noel nastily. “And as keen on sailing as he is himself!”

    “Keener,” said Mr Tarlington, glancing at the large figure dozing under its hat.

    “Always takes a nap after his breakfast. He’ll be keen as mustard later,” noted Sir Noël, shoulders shaking.

    “My godfather!” he replied with feeling.

    “Heard him on the subject of Nelson’s tactics at the Nile, yet?” he drawled.

    “No, but I have just heard part of a very muddled account of an encounter in the West Indies: I’m damned if I know whether its point was his blockading of the Frogs off Guadeloupe, or the near-collapse of the sugar trade, or what!”

    “He’s even better on the Battle of the Nile.”

    “Was he in it?” he asked feebly.

    “Good gad, no. One concludes Nelson had packed him off to the West Indies express to get him out of the way. Well, he retired upon his return, y’know.”

    Mr Tarlington gulped.

    “He ain’t all bad, old man,” he murmured.

    “No, but he is very hard to take!” he said with feeling.

    “Who is?” said an interested voice from behind him.

    Mr Tarlington leapt. “Don’t keep doing that!” he gasped.

    “I merely enquired,” said Pansy with a twinkle in her eye.

    “Are the ladies awake, yet?” asked Sir Noël, his eyes on his canvas.

    “Not yet. Who is very hard to take, Sir Noël? Or should I not ask?”

    He smiled a little. “Mr Tarlington was referring to the Admiral, Miss Pansy.”

    “I like him,” she said firmly.

    “Then you may keep him entertained for the rest of the voyage,” said Mr Tarlington, even more firmly.

    “I shall be glad to. It is like... Like talking to a piece of living history!”

    She went forward at this, so the two gentlemen were able to laugh unrestrainedly.

    Dover was in sight—though it was well past lunchtime and in fact the good sailors on board had long since consumed a sustaining repast—and the Admiral advised glumly: “Think you had best think about puttin’ in for the night, dear boy. Lady Sarah don’t appear to me to be in very good heart. She had best not sleep aboard. Don’t think she has the stomach for it.”

    “No. Well, it’s not likely that Lord H. will be watching the Channel ports!” said Sir Noël with his glinting smile.

    The Admiral shook, and wheezed. “No!” he gasped. “Now, I can recommend a very pleasant little hostelry: very clean, y’know, but simple, where the ladies won’t be likely to meet anyone who’d recognize ’em. Fellow who runs it was once a coxswain of mine—aye, and that were not yesterday!” He sighed gustily, but to the younger men’s relief did not appear to be falling into a melancholy, for he then added briskly: “And Mrs Crooks will do us a splendid Dover sole, with burnt butter: I’ll wager you lads have never tasted anything half so good!”

    The gentlemen allowing that very likely they had not, the Admiral enlarged on this topic until Sir Noël, who knew that Sir Chauncey knew these waters very well, resigned the wheel to him. The Admiral beamed all over his wide face, and took them in to dock very capably; though it was to be hoped he was not aware of the tenseness that hung about Captain Walker’s shoulders as he did so.

    Lady Jane burst into nervous tears at the thought of going ashore in full daylight; but poor Lady Sarah was very green. So Pansy and the Admiral took Lady Sarah ashore and the gentlemen and Lady Jane waited for twilight.

    The Jolly Sailor Inn was reached without mishap and as it was, though certainly clean and respectable, very evidently not a place where they might expect to meet gentlefolk, Lady Jane was able to relax. And to admit that she was, indeed, peckish and would be delighted to try some of Mrs Crooks’s famous sole. The landlady forthwith bustled about, very pleased.

    “Shall you change, my dear?” said Lady Jane as she and Pansy repaired to the room they were sharing: for the Jolly Sailor did not have very much accommodation and Mrs Crooks had thought the sick lady had best have a bedchamber to herself.

    “Um—oh,” said Pansy glumly, looking down at her crumpled print dress. “t suppose I had better.”

    “Well, shall we see what kind Lady Winnafree has sent?”

    Pansy assented, and Lady Jane attacked the wicker hamper which had come ashore with them. “Oh, my goodness,” she said as the contents were revealed.

    “What is it?” gasped Pansy, fingering a cobwebby shift.

    “I think it must be the finest Indian muslin. Is it not the most delicate thing you ever saw?”

    “Yes—but pale pink?” gulped Pansy. “Do—do ladies generally wear coloured undergarments, Jane?”

    “Er—no,” she admitted, much pinker than the shift. “Not in general. I collect this must be Lady Winnafree’s own taste.”

    Pansy was looking at the petticoats. “Yes. –Look at this lace, Jane!”

    Lady Jane touched it gingerly. “Valenciennes point,” she said numbly.

    “She was certainly frilly enough in appearance, the other night. She—she must be frilly and lacy all the way through,” said Pansy in awe.

    Lady Jane held up a nightdress. “Indeed.”

    “That—that is not a nightdress, surely?” she croaked.

    “Yes.”

    “I have never even had a dress half so fine!”

    “Well, as an unmarried daughter I have certainly never been permitted to wear lace half so fine,” admitted Lady Jane.

    “Lace is very expensive, is it not, Jane?”

    “Very. And certainly lace of this quality.”

    After a moment Pansy said in an uncertain voice: “Sir Chauncey must—must buy it for her.”

    “Well, certainly encourage her to buy such things, yes,” said Lady Jane faintly.

    Pansy stared at the pretty, frilly garments laid on the bed, frowning.

    “What is it, my dear?” said the gentle Lady Jane.

    She swallowed hard. “I don’t know. I had a funny feeling... I wonder what it would be like, to—to be her.”

    Lady Jane looked at her doubtfully.

    “I mean, to—to have a doating husband and be spoiled, and be expected to wear things like these,” said Pansy hoarsely.

    “Well— I— Well, aspects of it would be most agreeable, I think, my dear,” she faltered. “Even though he is, of course, a very much older gentleman.”

    “Yes: he was turned sixty when they married... I don’t think I should care to be married to a very fat gentleman, however agreeable he was.”

    “Nor I, indeed,” she said faintly.

    Pansy bit her lip. “It is the most lowering feeling, to—to find oneself positively coveting such garments!”

    Suddenly Lady Jane put an arm round her waist. “Well, in that case, it is a feeling that we share, my love!”

    Pansy gulped.

    Lady Jane smiled. “The pink muslin gown will suit you, I think, Pansy!” she said gaily.

    “Um—if you would not dislike it,” said Pansy in a very weak voice, “I have a—a craving to wear the frilly white one, with the pink ribbons. –Not the nightdress, the other one!” she added with a gurgle.

    “Splendid! Then I shall take the pink! Now, I shall ring to see if something can be done about ironing them for us.”

    “May one do that?” asked Pansy in a small voice.

    “But of course, my dear! Oh—are you thinking that in so small a house they may not have the staff? I think it will be all right, for as they have several rooms, they must expect to cater for visitors,” she said cheerfully.

    So it proved to be, and once Miss Polly Crooks, the former coxswain’s and Mrs Crooks’s granddaughter, had finished oohing and aahing over the contents of the basket, she ironed them all most beautifully.

    The gentlemen had also changed, though not, of course, dressed for dinner, and Mr Tarlington and Sir Noël rose hastily to their feet with somewhat stunned expressions, as the two young ladies entered the tiny private parlour in all their borrowed finery. The more so as Lady Jane and Polly Crooks between them had ruthlessly brushed out the tangles in Pansy’s hair, and, exclaiming at the length of the curly locks, had wound them high on her head, allowing the ends to dangle becomingly in ringlets. Just like a real Lunnon lady, as Polly had put it. And tied the result up with a couple of pink satin ribbons of Lady Winnafree’s providing.

    The Admiral heaved himself out of his large chair, huffing and beaming. “Well!” he wheezed. “Well! What a sight for sore eyes, eh? Now, that is something like, my dear Miss Pansy!”

    The dress was only white muslin, but it sported ruffles round the low neck and rows of ruffles at the hem, and every ruffle on it was trimmed with a tiny lace edging, while tiny pink satin bows nestled in the puffed sleeves and in the ruffles at the hem. Pansy beamed at him. “It’s the loveliest dress I have ever seen, sir! It was so kind of Lady Winnafree to lend it me!”

    “No, no: she means you to keep it, me dear! –Told her when she bought it that it was too young for her,” he noted by the by. The gentlemen winced: he winked and admitted: “Aye, did not go down at all well; you would think an old buffer like me would have learned by now, eh? No, well, one would say it had been made for you, Miss Pansy: you keep it, me dear! –And by George, Lady Jane, that soft pink do not half become you! Just her colour, ain’t it?” he said to the gentlemen.

    “Yes, indeed,” agreed Sir Noël kindly, perceiving that Aden was bereft of speech. “Do, pray, come over to the fire, Lady Jane.”

    Lady Jane protested that she was quite warm, but allowed him to seat her next to the little fire.

    Sir Chauncey urged Pansy to a seat at his side, patting her hand as he did so. Mr Tarlington eyed this activity somewhat askance, but there was no need to worry: Sir Noël had been correct and the old gentleman, though clearly very taken indeed with Miss Pansy, did not overstep the line.

    Nevertheless at the conclusion of the evening, when the Admiral had puffed off upstairs, Mr Tarlington collapsed into a large chair with a groan.

    “Never mind, old man, we’ll make Brighton easy, tomorrow,” said his friend, grinning.

    “Oh, God,” he said with his eyes shut. “Never mention the words ‘ship of the line’, ‘Nile’ or ‘Trafalgar’ to me again as long as I live!”

    “’T’wasn’t I that mentioned ’em in the first place,” he said, grinning.

    Ignoring this, Mr Tarlington added: “And never mention the words ‘skinny girl’ again, either!”

    “Well, it was certainly not me what mentioned them!” he said indignantly.

    Mr Tarlington opened his eyes, groaning. “No. What is it with the old boy, an ideé fixe?”

    “Well, clearly!” replied Sir Noël, laughing. “No, sorry!” he gasped as Mr Tarlington looked round wrathfully for something to hurl at his head. “Er—I think Portia’s failure to get the sister off rankles, dear boy!”

    “Godfather,” said Mr Tarlington deeply.

    Sir Noël collapsed in a terrific sniggering fit.

    “How do you stand it?” he cried.

    Sir Noël’s sherry-coloured eyes danced. “Well, we have topics of mutual interest!”

    “Mutual—!” Mr Tarlington choked violently.

    “No, no: sailing! It’s a great bond; y’know!”

    “It must be,” he said, eyeing him grimly.

    “Best get off to bed, we don’t want to miss the tide,” said Sir Noël blandly.

    Mr Tarlington sighed, but rose and accompanied him out. In the little, dim passage, however, he saw with astonishment that Sir Noël picked up his cloak and headed for the door.

    “What the Devil—?”

    “Sleepin’ aboard. I shall leave the snores to you,” he explained gracefully.

    Mr Tarlington choked.

    “Good-night,” said Sir Noël politely.

    “No, by God, Noël! This is too much!”

    “Let me know, an you should manage to get a wink, for it will be a record,” he said politely.

    “I’ll come with you,” he said grimly.

    “Certainly not. It would not do for the ladies to sleep in the inn alone with Sir Chauncey,”

    “Rubbish, he’s old enough to be their grandfather! –Great-grandfather,” he amended evilly.

    “Aye, but given his reputation—” Sir Noël eyed him blandly.

    Mr Tarlington opened his mouth, but thought better of it. Finally he said: “Look, I’ll sleep aboard, you may share with Sir Chauncey.”

    “No, I’m sleeping aboard. –It’s my yacht,” he ended nastily.

    “Well, damn your eyes, Noël! –Look, what if I had not come?”

    “What if he had not come?” he returned blandly.

    “Well, why ain’t he sleepin’ aboard?” he demanded heatedly.

    “A man of his girth?” said Sir Noël, beginning to lose control of his mouth. “Pray do not be absurd.”

    Mr Tarlington gulped.

    “Good-night,” said Sir Noël blandly, going out.

    Mr Tarlington took a deep breath; but there was nothing for it, and he went upstairs to the snores.

    The next morning Lady Sarah felt quite recovered. She refused all sustenance but a cup of tea and went aboard pale but determined to finish out the voyage. The wind was fresher and so, advising her to stay on deck, Sir Noël provided her with a rug and a chair, which was placed amidships, all the knowledgeable persons on board—none of whom suffered from mal de mer themselves—assuring her that that was the place on a vessel where the motion was felt least.

    The ladies were all quite nautical in appearance this morning, for Lady Winnafree, amongst the lacier offerings in the wicker basket, had provided three white dresses of fine cambric, trimmed in various ways with navy or pale blue. Sarah had not been at all interested in what she wore, so Jane and Pansy had both had their choices. Lady Jane’s was high to the neck, with a tiny pleated edging in navy blue which framed her gentle, heart-shaped face most charmingly. The sash was also navy, and the pleated edging was repeated on the double flounce at the hem. The straw bonnet which Lady Winnafree had provided with it was very simple, but the pleated navy effect was carried out again in the smart white and navy rosettes which adorned it. Pansy’s dress was almost as seamanlike, with a very wide collar edged with three stripes of pale blue ribbon, and three flounces, again edged with the pale blue. The bonnet was rather less nautical: a simple straw, but featuring wide ribands of blue-dotted white muslin. Sir Chauncey had sighed upon seeing it and said he remembered her La’ship wearing it with a dress of the dotted stuff when they were off Gibraltar.

    Soon the Admiral had a chair placed for himself beside Lady Sarah’s and began to favour her with tales of his voyages. Captive audience, certain other passengers could not but conclude. Mr Tarlington, with a desperate look in his eye, begged Lady Jane to take a stroll about the deck; she laughed, and took his arm.

    Captain Walker was not in the little wheelhouse today; after a little Sir Noël sent the faithful Blackett forward, promising him that he would ignore Miss Pansy’s assurances that she knew all the waters off Brighton like the back of her hand.

    Pansy had not said any such thing: she laughed, but did not ask to take the helm.

    “Well, have you enjoyed the trip?” he said kindly.

    “Very much! Égyptienne is a splendid yacht, Sir Noël!”

    “Mm. Rather less—er—shipshape than your friend’s Finisterre, though?” he murmured slily.

    “Commander Carey certainly does not have all those padded sofas and carpets in his saloon, no!”

    “No. Or strawberries and cream for breakfast?” he said slily.

    “No! It was the most delicious breakfast I have ever had!” admitted Pansy, laughing.

    “I’m glad.” They were standing well out to sea; he gazed over the dancing waves, today just topped here and there with white horses, and said: “Er—so it is true that Harley Quayle-Sturt favours Lady Sarah, then, Miss Pansy?”

    “I think so: yes. And Mr Hanley thought so, too: he is very too clever about people,” she said shyly.

    “Yes. And does it appear to you that Lady Sarah reciprocates?”

    “I think so. She used to talk to him a lot, when she was riding Old Horse.”

    “I see,” he said with a little smile. “And to whom were you talking at the time, Miss Pansy?”

    “Mr Hanley, mostly. He has a fine intellect,” she said seriously.

    Sir Noël glanced at her in some amusement. “Mm. Well, I should be glad if Lady Sarah could care for Harley, for he is a fine fellow.”

    “Yes,” said Pansy on an uncertain note. “Um... Lady Sarah is very elegant, do you not think, sir?”

    “Certainly.”

    “Yes. And—um—Sir Chauncey thinks the younger Miss Winnafree is a little like her.”

    Sir Noël became aware that she was peeping at him hopefully. He stared firmly out to sea, hoping very much that he was not going to laugh: the old Admiral must have expressed his hopes in that direction to the little thing!

    “Um—I don’t know much about ladies and gentlemen, but—um—would not the Admiral’s niece be very suitable for you, sir?” she said in a rush, going very pink.

    Sir Noël hesitated and then said: “More suitable than yourself, Miss Pansy?”

    “Well, yes.”

    “Mm,” he said, very dry. “I have yet to meet her, y’know.”

    “Yes. Um—I really do not think we should suit, sir,” said Pansy, now a glowing scarlet. “Even though we are both very fond of sailing. And—and Delphie says I must have hurt your feelings, earlier, and—and I am very sorry, if I did!”

    “My dear child,” he weakly, “there is no need at all to apologize. Indeed, I have come to the conclusion that we should not suit, myself.”

    Pansy sighed deeply. “That’s a relief. I am sure you need an elegant lady who—who knows how to, um... behave in Society, and, um... be a hostess!” she finished on a pleased note.

    “Er—mm,” said Sir Noël limply. “Come and take the wheel for a spell.”

    Pansy did so, looking eager.

    “Just concentrate on that, mm?” he said heavily.

    “I am!” she replied indignantly.

    “I mean, do not try your hand at matchmaking.”

    “Oh,” she said in a squashed voice. “I beg your pardon.”

    “One cannot force these things. And I cannot possibly know if the Admiral’s niece and I should suit.”“

    “No,” agreed Pansy in a vague voice. “Check the compass, would you? I think we’re bearing too far east.”

    Sir Noël checked his heading. They were. Pansy altered course competently.

    By the time the domes and minarets of His Royal Highness’s startling addition to the architecture of Brighthelmstone-on-sea hove in sight, Mr Tarlington and Sir Noël had realised that it might not be wise to land the ladies in the town. So they sailed on to Guillyford Bay.

    Once they had dropped anchor in the little bay, Pansy explaining the depths at high and low tide, it was plain to be seen that poor Lady Sarah was almost at the end of her tether. So Captain Walker in person carried her down the rope ladder to the little boat, Lady Sarah with her eyes tight shut, clinging to him for dear life, and the party was ferried ashore.

    And within a very few minutes after that Ratia Bellinger had opened the door of Elm-Tree Cottage, and Delphie had come running, and Sarah had burst into tears and collapsed on her shoulder. Whereupon Jane burst into tears of mixed relief and sympathy. And it was clear that neither lady was in a fit state to go any further today, let alone make any decisions about their ultimate destination. So they were both put to bed in the tiny attic rooms and Ratia went running for Mrs Bellinger and Mrs Bellinger’s special cordial as fast as her legs would carry her.

    “We shall leave you, for the nonce,” said Sir Noël with a smile, bowing over Pansy’s hand. “But I warn you: Lady Winnafree will not leave them to you for long!”

    “No, for she is determined to have ’em!” wheezed the Admiral heartily. “And to have the both of your pretty faces in Brighton, too, me dears!” he added, beaming at the stunned Delphie.

    “Well—well, perhaps we shall see you soon, then,” said Pansy limply.

    “Be sure of it!” said Sir Noël with a chuckle.

    “Sir Noël, I cannot thank you enough—”

    “No, no: no thanks. I was glad to do it. –And it has all turned out for the best, mm?” he said in a lowered voice.

    “Yes,” said Pansy, looking at him gratefully. “It has.”

    Mr Tarlington then made his farewells, adding that he would be up at the Place for a while and would hope to see something of them. Pansy also attempted to thank him, but he merely laughed and said he thought thanks were due rather to herself, her sister, and Dr Fairbrother.

    Delphie closed the door weakly behind them and looked at her sister limply. “Pansy, where did you get that gown?”

    “Um—Lady Winnafree.” she gulped. “And—um—there’s more in there.” She nodded at the wicker hamper which was now taking up a great portion of the cottage floor and causing Horatio Nelson grave suspicions.

    Delphie looked at her limply. After a moment she said: “And Sir Noël?”

    “We’ve had a sorting out. It’s worn off, thank goodness,” said Pansy frankly.

    “Are—are you glad, dearest?”

    “Yes. Though I do like him. But not enough to want to marry him. And he truly, truly has changed his mind, Delphie!”

    “Good,” said Delphie limply. She eyed the basket.

    “Let’s open it!” said Pansy abruptly. “Some of them are for Jane and Sarah, of course, but—”

    They opened the basket. Delphie duly gasped and exclaimed. Ratia and her mother came in and also gasped and exclaimed.

    After that, and after the cordial had been administered to the two ladies upstairs and Mrs Bellinger had seen them both laid down with their eyes shut, Pansy settled down with Horatio on her knee to an account of her epic voyages. With plenty of nautical and navigational details of the sort Delphie had been expecting.

    But Delphie was not deceived. Pansy had changed. Whether it had been meeting Swan Coddles again as a wife and mother, or all the weeks in the company of the gently-bred Claveringham ladies, or the shock of meeting Lady Winnafree for the first time in the flesh, or the experience of Sir Noël’s luxuriously appointed yacht, or—or just beginning to grow up... Or perhaps a combination of all these factors and more? Well, whatever it had been, Pansy had changed.

Next chapter:

https://theogilvieconnection.blogspot.com/2022/08/excitement-at-lower-beighnham.html