More Visitors At Guillyford Bay

10

More Visitors At Guillyford Bay

  
    Miss Blake had driven herself over to Guillyford Bay in the trap: she was a competent driver and it was a fine afternoon. She did not quite admit to herself that she did not wish word of her ultimate destination to get back to the school. She called first at Elm-Tree Cottage but Ratia Bellinger, with a deep bob, informed her the young ladies was both a-gone out, ma’am. Only if she cared to step in, she could have a pot of tea direct! Miss Blake graciously refused this kind offer, said she would call back a little later on, and went on her way, heading along the coast towards the Point.

    It was easy to find the house on the Point with the ridiculous name: Miss Blake, on thinking it over, had not been at all sure that “Buena Vista” was correct Spanish. Well, no doubt in any case it was some obscure joke of Leith Carey’s: whether at his own or other people’s expense it would be hard to say, for he had always had a rather odd sense of humour. She was a little startled by the small size of the house; but there could be no mistake: the blue-painted gate bore a well-polished brass plate with the ridiculous name upon it. Miss Blake looked at the house dubiously, not descending from the trap. It was nothing like as large as the house he and his family had been used to occupy in London, and nothing, either, in the style of the family home in the Cotswolds. Well, that, presumably had come to General Carey on the death of their father, but— Miss Blake bit her lip. Buena Vista was a pleasant, indeed a pretty little house, but it was not the sort of house which she had expected to find Commander Carey and his mamma occupying. The lower storeys were built of the local stone but with a wooden extension to one side, and a white-painted wooden attic floor, with gables built out of it. The white-painted front porch was also of wood, very much in the cottage style, with slender posts and a little latticework, over which a climbing rose and an orange-flowered vine which Miss Blake did not recognize were beginning to drape charmingly.

    The small front garden was filled with delicate summer annuals, and included a couple of frames with more roses climbing on them. And— Surely that could not be a bean? But it was: amongst the roses on one frame twined, indeed flourished, an exuberant runner bean; and now that Miss Blake looked more closely she could see that amongst the marigolds in one spot the Commander’s garden featured some sturdy staked-up tomato plants, and that on the trelliswork against the sunny garden wall to her left the riotous peas were not of the sweet but of the edible variety. And that broad-leaved vine which was rampaging so charmingly amongst the annuals, along with a gaily flowering nasturtium, was, she now perceived, none other than a flourishing vegetable marrow. Miss Blake bit her lip again. That sort of thing was all very well for the cottagers in the village, but in a gentleman’s front garden? She was in no doubt at all that it was another of Leith Carey’s oblique jokes, and felt a surge of that very particular impatient irritation which, along with the tenderer passion, she had believed herself to have long ceased to feel for Leith Carey.

    She took a deep breath and got down from the trap.

    “Another of ’em!” shrieked old Mrs Carey. “I will not have it!” She hurled a cushion.

    Delphie was sitting quietly with her. She often did so, when she accompanied Pansy for her navigation lessons. Mrs Carey had screeched at first, but now appeared reconciled. Though she did not always recognize her. It was Delphie who had instituted the cushions, removing all the ornaments of the sitting-room very firmly to high shelves or locked cupboards. Commander Carey and Pansy, grinning all over their faces, had pointed out that this was defeating the object of the exercise: now the sitting-room would never be free of these execrable objects! But Delphie, with great dignity, had replied that the fragments of china in the rugs were becoming an embarrassment, and that one sliver had worked its way quite through poor William Chubb’s shoe and pierced his foot. The Commander had retorted that that showed what he had said all along was the unwisdom of permitting William Chubb to become an inside-outside man, but Delphie had ignored this, for William Chubb had been with the Commander’s family very many years and was quite devoted, besides being willing and able to turn his hand to anything. Inside or out.

    Mrs Carey had soon settled to hurling the cushions which Delphie so thoughtfully positioned at her elbow, and if the Commander’s shoulders shook silently every time he saw his mother sitting on a sofa surrounded by piles of cushions—for Mary Potter had quickly followed Miss Ogilvie’s lead—Pansy at least was aware that it was no very bad thing that he had not lost his sense of humour along with his occupation; and his devoted household did not remark the amusement.

    Delphie rose gracefully and picked up the cushion. “It is not a very young lady, this time,” she murmured pacifically.

    Mrs Carey merely hurled another cushion.

    A neat, fresh-faced maid opened the blue-painted front door to Miss Blake. Mrs Carey had always in the past had menservants, and Naomi Blake began silently to wonder what had happened: the Careys had been a well-off family: had they lost their money?

    The maid bobbed and looked expectant, but Miss Blake could see she also was trying not to look astonished. They could not have many callers, then. She mentioned her name and that she was an old friend of the family, and would very much like to see either Mrs Carey or the Commander, if it was convenient.

    There was a short pause.

    “Perhaps I should just leave my card,” murmured Miss Blake, “and call at another—”

    “Well, Miss Blake, ma’am, the Commander, he’s upstairs, but I’m sure ’e’d be very pleased, seeing as you is a friend of the family, ma’am!” she gulped.

    “Er—splendid.”

    There was another short pause.

    “Begging your pardon, ma’am, I’m sure, but when you says you be an old friend of the family, like, um—well, how old, ma’am?” she gasped.

    After a startled second Miss Blake realized that the creature was not asking her her age. She frowned a little nevertheless and said: “I have not seen the Careys for some twenty years, but my family once knew them very well: we were neighbours, indeed.”

    “Twenty years, ma’am?” she gulped.

    “I think they will remember me,” said Miss Blake grimly, beginning to wonder just what instructions had been given the girl. And now recalling very vividly the last time her brother had called at the Careys’ town house. He had gone only to bid their old family friends farewell before escorting his mother and sisters to Uncle Timothy in Scotland: but Mrs Carey had not been at home to him.

    “Oh, I am sure, ma’am!” the girl gulped. “The thing is, ma’am, Mrs Carey—uh—well, she ain’t quite well, like.”

    “In that case I will not intrude. May I just leave my card—”

    “Oh, no, it ain’t that, ma’am! I mean, she be on ’er pins, like, but—”

    Miss Blake’s neat nostrils flared. “I understand perfectly: she is not at home to visitors. Pray convey my compliments to both Mrs Carey and her son.”

    “Oh, no, ma’am, I’m sure Master would be wishful to see you! Only thing is, Miss Blake, ma’am, if you wouldn’t mind just a-waitin’ in the hall?”

    “Certainly. Please give him this,” said Miss Blake on a grim note, handing the girl her card and entering the hall forthwith.

    The girl bobbed and gulped, and closed the front door. “If you would just be seated, ma’am.”

    Miss Blake sat down on a hard little occasional chair placed against the panelling of the hall.

    The maid scampered upstairs; there was silence, except for the loud, slow ticking of a large clock midway down the passage upon the wall. What on earth had happened to the magnificent long-case clock which had once stood in— Well, possibly it was still in the front hall of the town house: she should not forget that it was Barnabas Carey, not Leith, who was the elder son.

    “HUSSY!” shrieked a voice.

    Miss Blake leapt, and gasped.

    Nothing else happened; the clock continued its measured ticking. Miss Blake looked around her uncertainly. but all the doors were closed.

    Suddenly there was an inarticulate cry, she thought from the room behind her, and a flurried noise of footsteps, and then a rending crash, and the same raucous voice screeched: “THEY ARE ALL HUSSIES!”

    This time another voice could be discerned, though whether in expostulation or propitiation it was impossible to tell, and there came some strange muffled noises almost as of soft objects striking the panelling just behind Miss Blake’s head. Then the door to her right opened and Delphie Ogilvie came out, very flushed.

    “GET RID OF THE HUSSY!” screamed the voice from behind her.

    Delphie closed the door quietly, smiled and said: “Good afternoon, Miss Blake. I’m so sorry about this. I’m afraid she saw you coming up the path.”

    “Philadelphia, what is going on?” said Miss Blake, rising weakly to her feet. “And—and what are you doing here, may I ask?”

    “I was sitting with Mrs Carey,” said Delphie, smiling at her again. “She will sometimes accept me.”

    “I’m afraid I don’t understand. That—that was Mrs Carey?”

    Delphie blushed. “I’m sorry. I assumed you must know.”

    “I have not laid eyes on her or her son for over twenty years. I only recently learned this was their house.”

    “Oh, dear,” said Delphie lamely. “Then I’m afraid this may come as a little shock to you, dear Miss Blake. I—I’m afraid Mrs Carey is—is—”

    “I understand,” said Miss Blake, as the import of the maid’s description of Mrs Carey dawned on her. “You mean Mrs Carey is somewhat senile. Perhaps I should not intrude.”

    “Well, did you come to see her or the Commander, Miss Blake?” asked Delphie doubtfully.

    Innocent though Philadelphia Ogilvie undoubtedly was, the headmistress, to her annoyance, felt her cheeks flush at the query. “My family knew theirs, many years ago. I knew both mother and son.”

    “Then of course you will wish to see him! He is upstairs in his crow’s-nest!” said Delphie, beaming at her.

    “Er—yes, the maid has taken my card up to him.”

    “Good. Then shall we go in here?” Delphie opened a door and showed her into what was perhaps a morning-room, little used. “I am sure Mrs Carey will wish to see you, on another day. She often remembers the past very clearly: more clearly than she does more recent events. It—it comes and goes, you see.”

    “Yes.” Naomi Blake hesitated and then said in a low voice: “You say she saw me coming up the path; did she—did recognize me, Philadelphia?”

    “Well, it’s impossible to tell,” said Delphie frankly. “She has been known to label even the Vicar’s wife a young hussy and refuse to see her, and she is well into her fifties. Commander Carey thinks it may be any woman in a bonnet that she—she takes in aversion.”

    Miss Blake looked at her limply. Delphie was certainly not wearing one. “I see.” She hesitated. “How long has she been this way?”

    “We haven’t liked to ask,” said Delphie, smiling at her. “We know it is ever since they came to the district. So it would be over three years.”

    “I see.”

    Delphie looked at her anxiously. “I’m afraid it must have been a shock.”

    Miss Blake swallowed. “It is not what I expected, certainly.”

    “No,” she said sympathetically.

    Miss Blake took a deep breath and began determinedly to ask after the inhabitants of Elm-Tree Cottage.

    Mary had entered the crow’s-nest in her usual fashion: panting and gasping. As she was also holding out the card, the Commander took it from her. His lean cheeks whitened. No: it could not be!

    “A lady—Master!” she gasped.

    “Yes,” he said numbly.

    “She says as—she did use to know you—and Mistress!”

    “Yes.” The card read “Miss Blake” and there was an address of a school for young ladies in Merrifield. “Merrifield,” he said numbly.

    “It be—near eight mile—from here!” she gasped.

    “Yes. Pray get your breath, Mary.”

    Pansy looked up from her studies, smiling. “Merrifield? That is where Delphie and I were, at the school, sir!”

    “Yes. Merrifield Academy For Young Ladies?”

    Pansy nodded. “Yes.”

    The Commander swallowed. “You will know a Miss Blake, then?”

    Pansy and Delphie had not, understandably, told the Commander the details of their employment. They had let him assume that the bounty from Great-Uncle Humphrey had meant they need no longer work at school-teaching. So Pansy merely replied: “Yes. She’s the headmistress.”

    “I see… Is her name Naomi Blake?”

    “Yes. Why, do you know her?”

    “I used to, many years ago.”

    “Aye, the lady said!” beamed Mary, now having regain her breath. “Only she said it were twenty year a-gone, Master, so I didn’t like to be a-puttin’ of her in with Mistress.”

    “What? Oh, good God, no!” he said, springing to his feet.

    “It’s all right, sir, she’s a-settin’ in the hall.”

    “Thank you, Mary,” he said limply, passing his hand over his face.

    “I wager Mrs Carey spied her on the path, though. Is she in a bonnet?” said Pansy, grinning.

    “Aye, that she be, Miss Pansy, a right smart up-standin’ black bonnet with bows and feathers!”

    “Horrors! The worst sort!” said Pansy with a laugh. “I fear it is your duty to relieve the beleaguered watch below at once, sir!”

    “What? Oh—yes,” he said, smiling weakly.

    Mary looked at him doubtfully. “I could tell the lady to go away again, Master.”

    The Commander winced. “Don’t do that. I—I shall be down directly, Mary. Um—perhaps you could advise Cook that a tray of tea will be required.”

    “Yes, Master. Shall I tell the lady you’ll be with her direct?”

    “Er—no, thank you, I’m coming. Just see Cook.”

    Mary looked dubious, but bobbed and went out.

    “Commander, is something wrong?” asked Pansy bluntly.

    “No,” he said, biting his lip and striding up and down. “My God! Naomi Blake!”

    Pansy stared at him, her pen suspended.

    “For God’s sake!” he said with a mad laugh. He swung round. “How long has she been in the district, Pansy?”

    Pansy flushed up. He had never before called her by her name. It was always either “Miss Pansy” or the jesting “Cap’n Pansy”, or, when they did lessons, sometimes “Mr Middy.”

    “I believe she bought the school from a Miss Clinton about fifteen years ago, sir.”

    “Fifteen— God Almighty! She has been teaching school for fifteen years?”

    “Um—well, longer, I think. She was at several other establishments before coming to Miss Clinton’s. It was very run-down and she and her married sister between them bought it. Miss Blake has built it into the best girls’ school in the country.”

    “Her married sister?”

    “Mrs Warrenby. She is a widow now, sir. Um... Her name is Amelia,” produced Pansy with an effort.

    “Oh, yes,” he said with a sigh of relief. “The sister was Amelia.”

    Unused though she was to gentlemen, the situation was now pretty clear to Pansy. Under the nautical tan that several solid weeks of sailing had given her she paled.

    The Commander went to stare blindly out of the window. “What does she look like, Pansy?” he said in a croak.

    Tears started to Pansy’s big brown eyes; she swallowed hard and managed to reply: “She is a tall lady, very handsome, with dark brown hair just a little silvered at the temples and brow. She is very much admired for her—her capabilities.”

    “Yes.” he said on a sigh: “she was always capable. –I had best go down.”

    “Mm,” said Pansy, bending her head over her books.

    The Commander went to the door, and hesitated. “Will you not come down for tea, Mr Middy?”

    “Thank you. I expect you will like to be alone to talk for a little. I’ll come down later,” said Pansy into her book.

    “Very well, my dear. I’ll send someone up to fetch you.” The Commander went out.

    A tear ran down Pansy’s round, peachy cheek and fell onto the treatise on navigation which she was perusing.

    It had not occurred to Pansy Ogilvie until this very minute to be in love with Commander Carey. She had seen him every day since their first trip together in Poppet and had been entirely happy in his company, learning navigation, taking the wheel of Finisterre, and often, just talking. She had not paused to analyse the quality of this happiness—after all she was also entirely happy when out sailing with old Mr Dawson or young Matt. Now it came over her all at once that she loved him and he very evidently must once have been in love with Miss Blake and to all appearances had not got over it, and in any case was a Naval Commander of more than twice her age who thought of her as nothing more than funny little “Mr Middy.” More tears rolled down her plump cheeks and dropped unheeded onto the Commander’s textbook, and she recognized bitterly that had handsome, capable Miss Blake stood before her at this moment she would have happily run her through with the sabre that rested in a little stand on the mantelpiece of the crow’s-nest.

    Commander Carey took a deep breath, tugged at his waistcoat with the automatic gesture that had been his before going into battle—or, indeed, before facing an unpleasant duty—and entered the morning-room. The lady in the black silk gown and black bonnet rose immediately.

    He was very taken aback. He remembered Naomi Blake as a tall, good-looking, round-cheeked girl with a mass of riotous brown curls and a fine bosom, which the fashions of the day had certainly allowed her to display to advantage. She had not been precisely pretty, but she had had a lovely fresh complexion and a clear-eyed, eager look about her. Now all that was gone. Little Pansy had been right in saying that this woman was handsome: the cheeks had fined down and the strong bone structure was visible; the wings of silver that just showed against the dark hair under the bonnet lent her a very striking appearance indeed. The complexion was smooth and very little lined, but you would never have taken her for a woman of under forty. And “capable” was certainly writ large in every line of her. As to the lines themselves: the Commander had not realized how very clearly he had remembered the bosom until he automatically looked for it and found—well, it could not be entirely gone, and no doubt the corset was controlling it strictly. But she was certainly much thinner than he remembered her.

    Naomi had thought she was prepared for the eye-patch but she was not: she felt horridly jolted. This scarred, lined man with the sad mouth was not Leith at all! He had been such a laughing young man, full of fun—of which the proper Naomi Blake had not entirely approved—though at the same time very earnest about his profession. She looked at the head of short, iron-grey hair, positively silver at the temples, and the lines in his face, and the patch, again, and wished she had not come. The past was painful enough without adding the realization of time’s ravages. She was quite aware of what he must be thinking of her: that did not help.

    Then the long mouth twisted into a rueful smile, which was very much Leith, and the deep voice with an odd little break in it. that she had believed forgotten, said: “Good afternoon, Miss Blake. How good of you to call.”

    Her colour came up in a rush: she had determined to address him as “Leith”, like the childhood friends they were, in the hope that that painful episode of their young adulthood might be ignored. “How do you do, Commander Carey? I trust it is not an awkward time?”

    “Oh, not at all,” he said politely.

    Naomi’s heart trembled in her bosom: she sank back down onto her seat again.

    “I see Miss Ogilvie has been looking after you,” he said.

    “Yes,” she said faintly.

    “You know each other, I gather?”

    Delphie had been watching the two of them with bright-eyed interest. “Why, yes, indeed: it was Miss Blake who offered us employment.”

    “So you have become a headmistress, Miss Blake?” he said with an awkward smile.

    “Indeed. And you have become a Commander.”

    “Mm,” he agreed on a wry note. “Tempus fugit, in fact.”

    She forced a smile. “Well. yes! –I had not realized until just recently that you were living in the district.”

    “Yes. My mother and I have been fixed here for nigh on three years, now.”

    “So Miss Ogilvie was saying. And how is your brother, General Carey?”

    “Barnabas is well, thank you: still in India. Though he is talking of retiring. Madeleine misses him. you know.”

    “I’m sorry: Madeleine?”

    “Oh!” he said, flushing a little. “His wife. She was a Mlle du Hamel. An émigré family.”

    “I see.”

    “She was with him out there for a time, but the climate is very debilitating. of course. It was felt more suitable for her and the children to come back to England.”

    “Very understandable. And they are fixed at Dendledean House?”

    “Yes. I visit when I can, but—er—Mamma does not get on with Madeleine, I fear.”

    “She has taken an unreasoning dislike to the younger Mrs Carey,” said Delphie in her quiet way. “But that, as you know, of course, Miss Blake. is symptomatic of her condition. –Commander Carey, if you will excuse me I shall go and see that she is comfortable.”

    “Yes, please do that, my dear. Er— did I hear a crash, earlier?”

    Delphie sighed. “Yes. It was that large clock on the mantel that we were sure she could not move.”

    “I see. Well, it was hideous—but it kept good time.” he said with a rueful look. “Ask Mary to see the pieces are removed.”

    “Of course. Shall I ask her for tea, Commander?”

    “I have already sent a message to Cook. You will take some refreshment, will you not, Miss Blake?”

    Miss Blake acknowledged she would be glad of it; Delphie nodded, smiling, and went out.

    After a moment Miss Blake said: “It cannot be easy for you, with your mamma in that condition.”

    “On the contrary: I have a houseful of devoted servants who do their utmost to make it easy.”

    “I see. –You had always the trick of making yourself beloved by your servants.”

    “Did I?” he said in a surprized voice.

    “That is how I remember it, at all events.”

    There was a short silence.

    “I lost the eye at Trafalgar,” he said mildly.

    Naomi swallowed. “So I heard.”

    “I find it best generally to speak of it, rather than to avoid the topic. –Lucky not to go out with the Admiral,” he murmured.

    “What? Oh: Lord Nelson,” she said limply. “Of course.”

    There was another pause.

    Then the Commander said: “I had no idea you had been so long fixed in the district. Little Pansy was saying it is fifteen years?”

    “Yes. How on earth do you know the Ogilvies?” she asked weakly.

    He smiled. “Well, it is a tiny community! Us Guillyford Bay folks be knowin’ all the other Guillyford Bay folks! –I beg your pardon: you never did find the vernacular of the common folk either amusing or interesting, did you?”

    Miss Blake was very sure he had said that to needle her. That was very like Leith: indeed the predilection, which he appeared not to have outgrown over years at sea, and the remark were both like him. “No,” she said grimly.

    “Well, actually Pansy sought me out. First to hire my sailing dinghy,”—Miss Blake winced—“and then to learn navigation.”

    “Navi— What possible use can that be to a girl?” she gasped.

    “None whatsoever. Pragmatic as ever, Miss Blake,” he murmured with a little smile.

    “I suppose you will say that the intellectual pleasure of it is enough!”

    “Well, no: for it is a practical skill, you know,” he murmured.

    Miss Blake glared speechlessly.

    The Commander laughed suddenly. “Don’t let us cut up at each other, after twenty years of saying nothing at all!”

    She smiled reluctantly. “I did not intend to. It was you who were needling me.”

    “Oh, aye. l was always in the wrong: I remember that, too.”

    “In that case, sir, your memory does not fail you!” she said tartly.

    He smiled a little and said: “Well, tell me about your school. –You know, I made sure you would be married with a hopeful brood at your knee,” he murmured.

    Miss Blake gave a strange smile “I have a brood of over thirty at my knee.”

    “That must give you considerable scope. So when did you buy the school?”

    She hesitated, but there seemed nothing else to say. So she told him about buying the school, and by the time the maid came in with a tray of tea had in fact told him rather a lot.

    And Commander Carey guessed a lot more. Well, she had had had a hard time of it, and had come through magnificently, and the success of her school did her credit. But he did not forget, for he was neither a particularly sentimental man nor one given to voluntary self-deception, that very much of the hard time she had brought on herself. He would have married her in spite of her father’s disgrace and in spite of his mamma’s opposition, and she might have had a pleasant house of her own and a brood of children of her own and even grandchildren by now. There had been a little house near Dendledean which would have just done for them, and if his mamma was opposed to the match his easy-going papa had felt only sympathy for the Blakes. But Naomi had stopped him short before the first half-dozen words of the proposal were out of his mouth.

    As they talked, a little of that old bitterness came back to the Commander and he found himself wishing that he had never fixed on the windy, sunny spot on Guillyford Point as the ideal place for his retirement. Well, he supposed, she had had honour on her side, or some conception of it: honour and duty with it, she had mentioned. He had been too hurt and angry really to listen. But more than twenty years later it all seemed very much of a nonsense: fustian, rhodomontade. Honour and duty, maybe: but where had love and pity been? To have voluntarily thrown to the winds the life they might have had together— And never even to have discussed it with him! Well, that had always been Naomi’s way: to make up her mind and stick to it through thick and thin. Principles: oh, aye. Well, principles did not warm your bed at night and they did not give you a quiverful of children like Barnabas’s and Madeleine’s merry crew, and—

    Commander Carey swallowed hard and said: “Mary, my dear, tell Miss Pansy the tea is ready, would you? And don’t run up those stairs, there’s a good girl.”

    “Yes, Master! Um—Miss Delphie said as Mistress was not to have none.”

    “Not just yet, I think,” he said steadily. “Ask Miss Delphie to come in, please, Mary.”

    “Yes, Master!” Mary exited, beaming.

    “I do not quite understand, I must confess,” said Miss Blake, as the Commander stared abstractedly at his own foot, “what precisely Philadelphia’s function is. Is she acting as a companion to your mamma, sir?”

    “No.—Sweet little thing, is she not?—No, she comes along with Pansy to play propriety, I think. Her efforts with my mother are quite voluntary, I assure you.”

    “I see. She is sweet,” said Miss Blake firmly, conscious of a sense of desolation.

    “Mm. Not half the brains of her little sister, however!”

    “I would not say that, at all. Pansy is a fine mathematician, but Delphie speaks and reads several languages and has an excellent grasp of history.”

    “Quite,” he said with a distinctly naughty gleam in his one blue eye.

    “I do not think Sir Francis Drake, admirable man though he was, wrote those great plays which have endured for over two centuries.”

    “True. But each must play his assigned rôle: do you not teach your girls that?”

    “More or less. But I try to teach them also that each must make the best of the talents he is given.”

    “Admirable,” he said, frankly grinning.

    Miss Blake laughed. “In in some things, you haven’t changed at all!”

    “No. But then, in every personality.” he said thoughtfully. “whatever the changes occasioned by time and circumstance, there is a bedrock which does not change.”

    “A—a bedrock?” said Naomi Blake faintly. “Would you say so?”

    “Oh, certainly. An unchanging bedrock. It is more apparent in some than in others, of course.”

    She was silent, gripping her reticule very lightly.

    The Commander said nothing more on the topic: she did not know whether to be glad or sorry when Delphie almost immediately came back into the room.

    Pansy came down shortly after; Miss Blake rose and shook hands. “So you have been learning navigation, I hear?”

    “Yes; it’s quite a challenge.”

    Even though Pansy was in a shortish, rumpled brown print gown and certainly looked not a day more than her seventeen years, Miss Blake found she was returning on a hard note: “More so than teaching mathematics?”

    “I wouldn’t say that; but certainly of a different type.”

    “Indeed,” she said with a little sigh. “Well, sit down, my dear, and tell me of your doings. You have a boat, I think?”

    “Yes. Commander Carey has sold me his Poppet,” said Pansy flatly.

    Miss Blake looked at her doubtfully. “My dear Pansy, you have not been overdoing the navigation lessons and the sailing, have you?”

    “Dearest, I said you should not have stayed up till all hours doing those sums!” cried Delphie.

    “I’m quite all right. And it was not really till all hours. Any hour that needs the candles lit seems like all hours, in our cottage,” said Pansy with a forced smile.

    “I’m afraid it’s my fault: was that last lot of devoirs too much, Mr Middy?” said the Commander kindly.

    “No,” replied Pansy on an annoyed note. “You do not work me half as hard as Papa did. And three hours of navigation, however challenging, are not anything like as exhausting as one hour of teaching, let me tell you!”

    “I think I would agree,” murmured Miss Blake. “Well, if we are all assembled, shall we have tea before it gets cold?”

    Pansy immediately replied: “Yes. Delphie usually pours for us.”

    Miss Blake could see the child thought she was pre-empting her sister, but as it would have been, frankly, a minor torture to have to pour for Leith Carey she did not see it that way. The suspicion had already crossed her mind that Philadelphia was on such familiar terms with the problems of his household because the two cared for each other; now it grew stronger. It would scarcely be surprising: she was a pretty and virtuous young woman, and he was still, if no longer the Leith Carey she remembered, a very attractive man, in spite of the eye-patch. Was it not unjust, how so many men grew more attractive in their middle years, whilst women grew merely old? The thought had occurred to Miss Blake before, so she did not dwell on it. She watched with some attention as Miss Ogilvie played hostess.

    Over the tea the Commander attempted to draw Pansy out and show off her progress in navigation—like a proud parent showing off his little girl! thought Miss Blake with considerable amusement, but not without a faint tug at the heart-strings also; but Pansy became very gruff and retired into her shell.

    Miss Blake did not wish for any more time alone with the Commander: as soon as the tray had been cleared she rose to take her leave, kindly offering the two girls a lift into the village.

    Pansy scowled. “Thank you, but I’m in the middle of a lesson. I shouldn’t really have come down for tea.”

    “There: you are overdoing it, you see!” cried Delphie.

    “No: for I did come down for tea,” she returned on a dry note. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ll get back to it, Miss Blake.”

    Miss Blake bade her good-bye politely and in her wake said to her sister: “My dear Philadelphia, Pansy does not seem quite herself, indeed. Perhaps you should see that she—well, does not stew over her books for too long.”

    “She gets plenty of sailing,” said the Commander.

    “Yes; it is not that she does not get plenty of fresh air and exercise,” agreed Delphie on a worried note.

    “Possibly she was feeling a little shy. After all, it is not at all a usual subject for a young girl to be studying!” said the Commander with his twisted smile.

    Miss Blake looked at him drily. “I doubt very much that Pansy Ogilvie was ever shy in her life.”

    “She—she thinks a great deal of you, Miss Blake,” quavered Delphie.

    The headmistress gave her a dry look. “Mm.”

    “That will be it,” agreed the Commander. “She will not wish to forfeit your good opinion. –She was merry as a grig when she arrived.”

    “I see. I should have thought she would have more sense: l have never been opposed to the exercising of the mental faculties, as she must know. But tell me: how does she compare to the male students you have had, sir?”

    “Streets ahead of them. The brightest little midshipman I have ever had the pleasure of teaching. –That what you wished to hear?”

    Miss Blake’s fine grey eves twinkled. “Certainly; but is it the truth?”

    He laughed. “Aye, it most certainly is! In fact I have never encountered quite that quality of intelligence in any living being.”

    “She is very like Papa,” said Delphie.

    “I am sure, my dear,” he agreed, smiling. “But we are delaying our guest: allow me to show you out, Miss Blake: this way.”

    He conducted her to the door; Miss Blake could only be thankful it was a very short garden path, for he then took her down it and helped her into the trap.

    “It was brave of you to come,” he said simply, looking up into her face.

    She flushed a little but said steadily: “It would have been absurd not to. After all, we were friends in our childhood.”

    “Mm. Dendledean and that old life seem very small and far away.”

    “Yes. –Why did you not settle in the district?” she asked abruptly.

    “I could not bear to be away from the sea. Indeed, had I not the charge of Mamma, I think I might have bought a ketch and headed for the South Seas.”

    “You are not serious!”

    “Yes, I am. I have always regretted not having been old enough to sail with Cook.”

    “Sail with Cook and be killed by South Sea cannibals.”

    “There is always that risk.”

    Miss Blake gathered up the reins, looking annoyed. “Quite. Your friends must be glad that you did not have the opportunity.”

    “Poor sorts of friends you imagine I have! Now, little Pansy, for instance, would ship aboard tomorrow an I proposed the voyage!” he said with a little laugh.

    Miss Blake could not forbear to return: “And Miss Ogilvie?”

    “Gets seasick in anything more than a flat calm,” he replied drily.

    “I think I can sympathise with that. –Well, it has been pleasant, Commander.”

    She might have guessed, she thought crossly, that he would not return a conventional reply to that; he said: “Has it? Salutary, perhaps.” And slapped the horse.

    “Come up!” said Miss Blake crossly. The patient beast set off; she nodded briefly, said: “Good-bye,” and fixed her eyes ahead.

    “Good-bye,” said Commander Carey, standing bare-headed in the road.

    He went slowly up his little front path.

    Delphie was in the hall; she smiled and said: “We had no idea you and Miss Blake were old friends, sir!”

    “No. Well, I would not say old friends, precisely. Old enemies, certainly,” he said heavily.

    Delphie gave him a worried look.

    “She—she has become very hard, I think. Not that she was not always a hard woman.”

    “I think she has not had an easy life, sir.”

    “Doubtless. But it was her own choice.”

    The friendly Mrs Warrenby had poured out the family history to the Ogilvie sisters: Delphie replied: “Oh, no!” in a distressed voice.

    “Did she tell you that?” he said with a curl of the lip

    “Indeed, no! She has never mentioned her—her family’s circumstances, sir! But Mrs Warrenby—her sister, you know—er, told us all about their papa’s sad story.”

    The Commander snorted. “Did she, indeed? And did she tell you also that I would have married Naomi and given her a life entirely free of care and with all the creature-comforts she could desire—for both her and her mamma? And that she refused before the words were even out of my mouth?”

    Tears had sprung to Delphie’s eves. “No,” she croaked.

    He sighed, and passed a hand over his face. “Well, it is water under the bridge. Possibly we would have fought like cat and dog—we fought anyway, though we fancied ourselves in love. –I suppose I had better see Mamma.”

    “No: she has dropped off.”

    “Good; perhaps she’ll forget about the bonnet,” he said, essaying a smile. “I shall run upstairs to my Mr Middy, then; should you like to come up, my dear?”

    “Yes: I’ll just creep into the sitting-room and get my work,” said Delphie, smiling.

    Pansy hastily blew her nose when the Commander came in and bent her head over her books. He was just so relieved to be in the company of someone so young and fresh and, or so he fondly imagined, uncomplicated, that he noticed nothing.

    Her emotional state, contrary to popular belief, did not impair Pansy’s rational functions in the least, and she performed entirely creditably in the lesson.

    “Good,” said the Commander at last, rising and stretching. “Come out on Finisterre tomorrow and we’ll put the lesson to the test.”

    “Out of sight of land?” she said hopefully.

    “Maybe.”

    “Sir, you won’t!” gasped Delphie.

    “Oh, we’ll be just off-shore!” he said with a laugh. “Well, Cap’n Pansy?”

    “Yes, please. Shall we take the morning tide?”

    “Er—mm. –She will have to rise very early, I’m afraid, Miss Delphie.”

    Delphie replied serenely: “Then she may go to bed early tonight. Come along, Pansy, we must see about the dinner. And let us hope Ratia has not let the fire go out!”

    The Commander, as was his habit, strolled out to the gate with them. He said idly, leaning on it after he had closed it after them: “I mentioned to Miss Blake my idea for a voyage to the South Seas, Mr Middy.”

    “Did you?”

    “Mm. Got a mixture of disbelief and disapproval,” he revealed.

    “She would!” said Pansy forcefully.

    Commander Carey sighed. “Yes. She has not changed, in that. She was ever full of common sense.”

    “Not only common sense, I think, dear sir,” said Delphie in a restricted voice.

    “No,” he said with a sigh. “Duty and principles, I think were the words that got bandied about at one time. –I’m sorry, my dear girls, this is ancient history.”

    “If—if I could not have done it, sir,” said Delphie, blinking very fast, “I can see that she truly believed herself to be taking the honourable course.”

    “She did, indeed. –I’ll send William Chubb to fetch you in the morning, Mr Middy.”

    “I can get up without his assistance!”

    “Aye, but he is always up betimes. Well, just bear in mind: Finisterre don’t wait for any dashed midshipman to rub the sleep from his eyes!”

    Pansy replied grimly: “I shall be ready, sir. Good evening. Come on, Delphie.” And dragged her sister away.

    The Commander laughed a little, and sighed a little, and remained leaning on his blue gate for some time, watching the two print dresses and straw bonnets disappear into the hazy golden light of a mild May evening.

    They had not gone very far at all before Delphie said: “Pansy, is it not exciting! He was in love with Miss Blake!”

    Pansy grunted. Not discouraged, Delphie immediately retailed all the Commander had said to her, ending: “Would you—would you say she took the honourable course, Pansy?”

    Pansy frowned over it. “I can see she took what in her terms must indeed have seemed the honourable course,” she said at last.

    Delphie sighed. “Perhaps. She didn’t wish to be a burden. And—and one presumes she could not have brought him a dowry.”

    “No. I can see that that would not weigh with a decent man—and she must have seen that, too, she is scarcely stupid! Well, let us say there was the lack of the dowry and his mother’s disapproval weighing in the balance against a marriage.”

    “Yes. Mrs Warrenby said—oh, I think that was the day you were out—but she told me that there had been a gentleman, but his mamma was entirely opposed to the match, and—and not well.”

    “She can’t have been gaga twenty-odd years ago. Delphie!”

    “No,” said Delphie, flushing. “Don’t use that term, my love. –No: she was reputed to have a weak heart, Mrs Warrenby said.”

    “I understand perfectly. It has held out remarkably well, has it not?”

    “Yes. Poor Miss Blake.” said Delphie in a shaking voice.

    “Can she really have believed his mamma would have a heart seizure if he married her?”

    “It does seem a little exaggerated, put like that.”

    “Yes. But let us concede it was a factor. I suppose I can see that with the social stigma of her father’s bankruptcy and suicide, plus the combination of those several further factors, she felt that refusing his offer was the more honourable course. Actually,’’ said Pansy thoughtfully. ‘‘I think conventional morality would say the same. I can just see Elinor Dashwood doing exactly that!”

    “Oh, so can I!” agreed Delphie with feeling.

    Pansy thought it over, frowning.

    “On his side,” said Delphie, “there were not only the demands of the heart, there was surely also simple common sense. If he was willing and able to provide for her and her mamma, then surely accepting his offer must have been the sensible course.”

    Pansy walked on in silence. Finally she said: “I think it was very largely pride on her part. I grant she would have interpreted it, herself, in terms of the honourable choice and higher duty and—doubtless—self-sacrifice. And then there is also the point, as I think I have remarked before, that she is not capable of thinking beyond conventional morality.”

    “I entirely concur,” agreed Dr Ogilvie’s other daughter. “She must have lined up the conventional view of what honour consists of on the one side, and seen only that the other side consisted of the gratification of her own selfish wishes. Without, I fear, very much considering that it consisted also of making the man who loved her happy.”

    Pansy swallowed. “Yes.”

    Delphie sighed. “You know, there are some women who will always prefer self-sacrifice, my love.”

    “Like Letitia Worrington?” suggested Pansy after some thought.

    “Er—well, she is— I was going to say an extreme example!” said Delphie with a little laugh. “But I do not think she experiences anything in terms of emotions which could be called extreme. She is perhaps a very—very tepid example! But you are correct, Pansy: it is the same case, fundamentally: if common sense and happiness are ranged on the one side, and self-sacrifice and suffering on the other, that type of woman will always choose the other.”

    “Yes. I suppose our society encourages them to think that way.”

    Delphie took her hand and squeezed it. “I think it must do, my love. And then, woman’s lot in general is not so very satisfactory, is it? Perhaps with generations of their mammas, grandmammas and aunts impressing upon them, whether or not explicitly, that suffering is both expected and required of them, they will see it, when a choice is offered, as the nobler way.”

    “Yes.”

    After a moment Delphie added: “I am still sorry for Miss Blake, however.”

    “I am sorry for anyone who could deceive him- or herself to that extent!” said Pansy strongly.

    Delphie hesitated. “Dearest, that is not quite fair. It was not a voluntary thing.”

    “Then I do feel sorry for her,” said Pansy slowly, “for she is scarcely to blame for her own nature.”

    “Christian morality would say she must try to conquer her pride,” offered Delphie dubiously.

    “Then Christian morality is sensible, but wrong!” said Pansy strongly. “I agree it would be desirable for her to try: but the pride is innate! She did not ask for it or, possibly, desire it! –In Christian terms, it must have come from God; why give it to her in the first place, poor woman, if she is then required to struggle against it?”

    “You know the Church would say that is why,” said Delphie reluctantly.

    “The horrid old men who run the Church, at all events!” said Pansy with a sudden giggle. “Heavens, do you remember the row Papa had with Dr Thorogood over the Christian position on suffering?”

    “Indeed!” she said, laughing.

    “I shall continue to feel sorry for Miss Blake; indeed, to feel sorrow for the human condition,” announced Pansy on a firm note. “You know,” she added thoughtfully: “given her character and upbringing, I cannot see that she could have chosen otherwise.”

    Delphie at this squeezed her hand very hard indeed: “Oh, my dearest Pansy! That is so true! –You know, you sounded just like dear Dr Fairbrother! So free of prejudice, or indeed, of idées reçues!”

    “Thank you. I don’t think you could pay me a nicer compliment,” said Pansy, smiling, and squeezing her hand back.

    “This does not mean I am authorizing you to institute a monkey!”

    “No: Horatio wouldn’t like it,” said Pansy with a chuckle.

    “But poor Commander Carey!” added Delphie with feeing. “Twenty years of needless suffering!”

    Pansy looked sideways at her sister and wanted to ask her what she thought about Miss Blake’s and the Commander’s current feelings for each other; but feared she might betray herself, and so did not.

    “My dear Naomi, you have been such an age!” said Miss Worrington with a nervous titter, when Miss Blake returned.

    “Have I?” she replied with a strange little smile. “Well, I have been laying a ghost to rest, Letitia: I dare say it might be supposed to take a little time.”

    She went up to take off her bonnet before Miss Worrington could reply.

    Letitia was left to return to the sitting-room with a puzzled frown on her meek face. Laying a ghost to rest? Whatever could Naomi mean?

    Miss Blake had been very shaken by the encounter, and it would take her some days to recover from it. But even though she was fully sensible that Leith Carey had grown into an attractive middle-aged man, she recognized that she no longer wanted him as she had once wanted the young Lieutenant Carey. And that the phrase she had used to Letitia was substantially correct: she had, indeed, laid a ghost to rest.

    William Chubb came into the crow’s-nest that evening to find the Commander studying the stars through his big telescope. Some charts were spread out on his table: William Chubb could see they was them funny ones. And that funny measurer thing that he would squint through sometimes was also on the table.

    “So you is takin’ to the ’stronomy, again, sir?”

    “Just for amusement,” the Commander replied. “Ursa Major is very clear, tonight. Come and look.”

    Obediently William Chubb applied his eye to the glass, though he could never for the life of him see them shapes as the Commander reckoned was there in the stars. Still, if it kept him happy and busy! “You was not thinkin’ of a-goin’ off to the South Seas, was you, sir?” he ventured.

    “Mm? Oh, Lord, no!”

    “That be a good thing. Mistress is well enough, I s’pose, and me and Mary, we could manage, only little Miss Pansy, she would miss you.”

    “Would she, you think? Aye: she is a sweet child.”

    William Chubb looked at him sideways. “That were our Miss Blake from the Dendledean days, weren’t it, Mister Leith?”

    “Aye; she has changed... I would say, out of all recognition, only the more I think of it,” he said, staring blankly out of the window: “the more I see very clearly the seeds of it were always there.”

    “Aye: stubborn, she were. Hard, too,” ventured William Chubb. “Not but what it might have been a match; and your pa would have been pleased, God rest his soul.”

    “Amen,” he said with a sigh. After a moment he murmured: “So you have always thought she was hard, William?”

    “That I have,” said his henchman sturdily. “Only what with them curls and so forth, it weren’t so easy to see it, in them days. But no-one ever knowed her to give an inch, onct her mind was made up.”

    “You are very right... I suppose,” he said idly, fiddling with a pen, “that you wouldn’t say little Cap’n Pansy was hard, would you?”

    “What, our little Mr Middy!” he said with an amazed laugh. “Lor’, no, bless you, Mister Leith! She do have a head on her, and no mistake. Only hard is what she ain’t! Now, you take last week, when Mrs Potter were down with that cold and Potter still a-limpin’ round the place half crippled with the gout, and Mary nigh distracted: it were Miss Pansy herself as got down to the tavern and served the lads their ale, and no nonsense about her!”

    The Commander chuckled. “Aye, did she not!”

    “I grant you,” he said, suddenly cautious, “she didn’t let on to Miss Delphie, until she’d been and gorn and done it, but that ain’t hard, sir. Determined, she be, but not hard!”

    “No! Determined, but not hard! Thank you, William Chubb!”

    William Chubb grinned, and affected to tidy the room a little, though neither of them believed he had come for that purpose, and, reminding his master to get off to his bed, if he wanted to catch the morning tide, took himself off again, not displeased with the result of the encounter.

    The Commander smiled and shook his head a little, capped his telescope, and duly got off to bed. Feeling quite a lot better than he had done since the moment this afternoon of reading that card that Mary had handed him.

    The burly man who had come out of the tiny tavern wiping his hands on his apron eyed the visitor askance. “Elm-Tree Cottage, is it?” he said slowly.

    “Yes. I am looking for the Miss Ogilvies.”

    “Ah,” said the man. He looked hard at the pair in the curricle. While he was looking an ancient in a worn smock tottered out of the tavern.

    “Ah,” he said, looking hard at the blacks.

    “Seen them horses afore, has you, Granfer Yates?” said the tavern-keeper.

    “Ah.” He spat thoughtfully. “Seems like they be a pair from up to the Place.”

    “So I be thinkin’.”

    “Of course they are a pair from the Place, Granfer Yates! And for the Lord’s sake, if you recognize them—and you, too, Potter—may you not recognize me?” said the man in the curricle, starting off cross but ending up in a laugh. “Lubber that I am!”

    Granfer Yates gave him a searching look. “Lord, it be ’im what almost drownded!”

    Mr Potter gulped. “Beggin’ your pardon, Sir Noël, sir, I didn’t reckernize you, uh—dry, like.”

    “Quite!” said Sir Noël Amory with a laugh.

    “Won’t you be steppin’ in to wet your whistle, sir?” added Mr Potter, now beaming all over his rubicund countenance.

    Sir Noël hesitated. “Well, later, perhaps. I am looking for Miss Ogilvie.”

    “Aye, out of course you be, sir! Well, Miss Pansy, she could be out a-sailin’. Only Miss Delphie, she is like as not to home.”

    “Yes, but where is home?”

    “Eh? Oh!” said Mr Potter, realizing he had not, in fact, imparted this information. “Elm-Tree Cottage is out on the road to the Point, sir: last cottage. You goes past Mother Williams’s”—Granfer Yates here spat—“and then there be a gap, like. With trees and so forth. And you begins to see the sea to your right hand, sir. And just when you is a-thinkin’ there ain’t no more cottages along this ’ere road, why, there it be! With a right great tree next to it. Only it ain’t a elm, acos that fell down—uh—”

    “Thirty-five year ago come Michaelmas,” said Mr Yates firmly.

    “Aye. Near as makes no difference,” said Mr Potter to Sir Noël with a wink. “When I was a lad, sir. In the great storm.”

    “Thirty-five year ago come Michaelmas,” repeated Mr Yates.

    “Thirty-five year ago come Michaelmas, then,” said Mr Potter, straight-faced.

    Sir Noël grinned. “Thank you kindly, Potter. And will you not have one for me, meanwhile, Granfer Yates?” He tossed him a coin which the old man deftly caught.

    Mr Potter sniffed thoughtfully as the curricle drove off.

    “That be no carriage road,” noted Mr Yates. He bit the coin experimentally.

    “Aye, and that be no bad shillin’ as a gentleman like Sir Noël would be a-givin’ you, Granfer, neither!” replied Mr Potter with some feeling.

    Mr Yates gave a cackle. “Yer right for onct in your life, Jem Potter!” He held out his hand. In the grimy palm lay a golden guinea.

    “Ah,” said Mr Potter thoughtfully.

    Mr Yates spat.

    “Sweet on Miss Pansy, you reckon?” said the tavern-keeper.

    Mr Yates sniffed.

    Mr Potter shook his head. “I don’t like it. Not when they’re two young ladies on their own with only that daft lass Ratia Bellinger to see to ’em.”

    “What did you want to be a-givin’ out their direction for, in that case?” retorted Mr Yates smartly.

    Mr Potter sighed.

    Mr Yates sniffed slightly but conceded: “Anyroad, they ain’t two young ladies on their own, acos I seen the Commander in the little boat with Miss Pansy a-coming home to their dinners half an hour since.”

    “Then you mighta said so!” he returned huffily, retiring into his premises.

    Mr Yates cackled to himself. He tossed the guinea up, and cackled again. Then he stowed it away very carefully in the recesses of his person, hauling the smock up horribly in order to do so. Then he produced a gnarled pipe, lit up with great care, and expelled a long stream of smoke.

    “Ah,” he said.

    After that, since Jem Potter would have had time by now to get steamed up over whether he was ever going to see the colour of that guinea he went slowly back to the taproom. But he did not, of course, produce the actual guinea.

    Elm-Tree Cottage was very small indeed, and the road to it sufficiently horrible, and Sir Noël Amory looked at it in horror. Then the door was opened by a very small maid. He looked at her with horror, too. The more so as she greeted him with: “Lawks!”

    “Who is it, Ratia?” called a voice.

    “It be a fine gentleman, Miss Delphie!” she gasped.

    “It can’t be, we don’t know any— It’s not Dr Fairbrother, is it, you silly?” said Miss Pansy’s voice gaily.

    “No, Miss Pansy! He ain’t got a monkey!” she gasped.

    Pansy appeared at the door. “Oh! Good gracious!” she gasped.

    Sir Noël swept his hat off, and bowed. “Good day, Miss Ogilvie.”

    “She be Miss Pansy, actual, sir,” said the maid helpfully.

    “Um—yes,” said Pansy uncomfortably. “You—you are staying at Guillyford Place, are you, Sir Noël?”

    “Yes; just for a day or two.”

    “That’s nice,” she said weakly. “Um—would you care to step in, sir?”

    “Thank you.” He came in forthwith.

    The Miss Ogilvies had now acquired a dining table: at least, it was a round table of the sort perhaps more generally to be seen in a parlour, but it was not too large for the cottage, and would in fact seat four persons, and the girls were very pleased with it. At the moment it seated a slim, broad-shouldered, middle-aged gentleman with a patch over one eye, and Miss Delphie Ogilvie. And supported a selection of viands.

    “Please—don’t get up, Miss Delphie,” said Sir Noel. “I’m sorry. I seem to have interrupted your meal.”

    “That’s all right. Would you care to join us? We have plenty,” said Pansy cheerfully.

    It was rather early, but on the other hand Sir Noël had a distinct feeling that, there being already a strong sense of mutual huddling-together in the room, he could well find himself the odd-man-out if he refused to join them; so he accepted gracefully.

    Pansy then introduced Commander Carey, explaining, quite superfluously, in Sir Noël Amory’s opinion: “This is the lubber that I helped Mr Dawson and Matt rescue, sir.”

    “And how are Mr Dawson and Matt?” enquired Sir Noël, after he had made a more conventional enquiry as to the health of Miss Delphie and Miss Ogilvie. –Still not having grasped, in spite of Ratia Bellinger’s good offices, that it was Pansy who was the younger.

    Pansy told him a lot that he did not really wish to know about the Dawsons: what, indeed, appeared to be the entire doings, commercial and otherwise, of the whole Dawson tribe. The handsome baronet was aware that Commander Carey’s one eye was upon him with a distinctly sardonic gleam in it during this narrative.

    “And Miss Pansy, she do have a boat now!” said the small, scruffy maid helpfully, offering him a dish of boiled potatoes.

    “Thank you—no.”

    “They be good with chives and parsley on ’em, and a dab of fresh butter, sir!” urged the maid.

    “No, I thank you,” he said firmly.

    “Ratia, my dear, I think we have all had sufficient potatoes. You may take them out to the kitchen. And perhaps you could call Matt in for his, now,” said Delphie firmly.

    “These be real fine potatoes, Miss Delphie, we don’t want to be a-wastin’ ’em en the likes of Matt Dawson!” she returned, scandalized.

    “On the contrary, we do not want him to feel he is not part of our household,” replied Delphie, very firm.

    Ratia sniffed and tossed her head, but retired with the dish. She did close the kitchen door after her but could then be heard quite clearly calling Matt Dawson, screeching at Matt Dawson to take his great boots off, calling Matt Dawson a useless lubber, and screeching at him to wash his filthy hands before he touched them potatoes.

    Sir Noël began to give the Miss Ogilvies news of their cousins the Parkers. Out of the corner of his eye he could see that Commander Carey was carving great slices off the large piece of cold roast beef which graced the table. He was not left long in doubt as to the destination of these: the Commander then rose, went over to the kitchen door, opened it and said: “Here we are. You may both get some of this good meat inside you. And if Ratia tells you it’s wasted on you, Matt, you may remind her who gave her mother that fine sole last week!”

    “Ratia: don’t let Horatio have any, he’s eating too much!” called Pansy loudly.

    “Right you are, Miss Pansy!”

    The Commander came back to the table with what was suspiciously like a grin on his still-handsome countenance. “Pray forgive the interruption, Sir Noël,” he said smoothly. “Do go on with what you were telling us.”

    It did not need this damned impertinent speech to make Noël Amory aware that the fellow considered himself very much at home in the Miss Ogilvies’ cottage. He had realized that he must be the man of whom Pansy had written her cousin, and all his instinctive suspicions were in a fair way to being confirmed.

    Commander Carey took part politely in the subsequent conversation, but he was rather shaken to find himself filled with a hot surge of jealousy every time Sir Noël Amory smiled at his little Mr Middy. Just at first he had assumed it was merely a courtesy call, but when the fine London buck had actually condescended to join them in their meal he had realized with a shock that the fellow had his eye on little Pansy. Sir Noël was behaving with perfect propriety but it was evident that he couldn’t take his eyes off her. It was also apparent to the Commander that, though admittedly Amory concealed it well, he was shocked by the simple life the girls were leading.

    By the time Ratia staggered in with a huge pot of tea and some small tartlets to round off the meal, the Commander had decided that, imprimis, the London buck was not nearly good enough for Pansy, and secundus that he had better damned well keep an eye on the fellow in case his intentions were not honourable. –The  which would certainly have relieved Mr Jem Potter’s mind, had he but known of it.

    After the meal Sir Noël begged to be shown Miss Ogilvie’s boat, and Pansy suggested they could row across the bay, if he fancied it. Sir Noël did fancy it: in fact his handsome face lit up.

    “I shall stroll down to the shore with you,” said the Commander in a remarkably grim voice.

    “And I,” agreed Delphie in unmistakably relieved tones.

    “Who is he?” asked Commander Carey tightly as they stood on the little strand just along the road from Elm-Tree Cottage and watched Pansy rowing the London buck out in Poppet.

    “Er—well, he is a friend of the Tarlingtons, the family who own Guillyford Place, sir. Our cousins, the Miss Parkers, are connections of theirs,” said Delphie weakly.

    “And that is all you know of him?”

    “Not quite,” said Delphie in a strangled tone. She told the Commander about little Lizzie Amory, and how kindly Sir Noël had apparently treated the little creature when she had lived at his house. Omitting for the nonce the baronet’s mother’s decision that a child of that age was too much trouble.

    Commander Carey grunted.

    “He—he is very fashionable, I think, sir,” she added timidly.

    “Yes. Shall we stroll a little?” he said, offering his arm. Delphie took it and they began to stroll along the shore.

    “So these Tarlington relations are very fashionable, are they?”

    “Er—well, they are not our relations. It is the Parkers who are our cousins. But the Tarlingtons are certainly very fashionable, yes.”

    “I see.”

    “Um, my cousin Alfreda, Miss Parker, wrote that Mr Tarlington and Sir Noël were both in the Army, sir, at one stage.”

    “Oh?”

    “Yes. I think Sir Noël was a captain.”

    The Commander sniffed faintly. “Sold out after Waterloo, did he?”

    “Ye-es... I think so. I am not very sure, sir. I know he is the head of his family,” she said, flushing a little, “and that his father died a few years ago; not long before the battle, I think.”

    The Commander grunted again.

    “He—he does seem quite—quite struck by Pansy, would you not say?” she said weakly.

    “Mm. Well, I dare say his intentions may be honourable, but I should not let the two of them be alone together, my dear.”

    “No, I shan’t,” agreed Delphie.

    The Commander sighed. “If Mamma were not unwell, I think I should insist on the two of you coming back to Buena Vista with me. And I confess,” he added with a frown, “that I am astonished that a sensible woman like Miss Blake should have consented to your living alone in that little cottage!”

    “She saw it as a chance for us to—to think over our situation,” said Delphie in a small voice.

    “Think over your situation?” he said in some surprise. Seeing that Delphie only reddened and bit her lip, he added: “My dear, I know it’s none of my business, but after all I am old enough to be your papa; should you care to confide in me?”

    “Yes, I would very much, Commander. Only truly we are all right now, so you must not think there is anything you should be doing for us!” she said earnestly.

    “I shan’t, then,” he said with a kindly smile. “Go on, my dear.”

    With a tremendous feeling of relief Delphie proceeded to confess all their misdeeds to Commander Carey.

    Out in Poppet Pansy did not hoist the little sail, but rowed strenuously without speaking. Sir Noël attempted to persuade her to let him take the oars, but all she would concede was that he might row them back. He perceived that her intention was to cross the bay: as this would take them well out of Commander Carey’s hearing, if not out of his sight, he could not but be glad. He sat back, watching her with a little smile.

    At the far side of the bay Pansy rested on her oars, panting a little.

    “My turn now, I think?” he said gaily.

    “Yes. I’d take that hat off if I were you. And it’s a warm afternoon, you’d be better without your coat.”

    Naturally in the country Sir Noël Amory did not wear the sort of coat that Kettle had to ease him into, as was his habit in town; he removed his coat and took the oars. But he did not set off: he rested the oars, paddling a little: the tide was perhaps on the turn, but there was little movement in the sea as yet; they floated there quite comfortably.

    “Is it not a splendid day?” she said, beaming at him.

    “Indeed.”

    “You will have to get in some sailing while you’re down here; possibly the Commander will take you out on Finisterre, if I ask him!”

    The schooner could be seen at her mooring in the lee of the Point. “That glorious yacht is his, then?”

    Pansy nodded fervently.

    He smiled, not mentioning his own ocean-going yacht. “I own I should very much like a trip in her. Do you often go with him?”

    “Oh, yes. He’s teaching me navigation.”

    “Of course. You wrote as much to your cousin, did you not?”

    “Yes.” Pansy looked at him in some surprize. “Do you know Henrietta quite well, then, sir?”

    “Er—not really. Well, of course, as they are staying with Aden Tarlington’s mamma, I suppose I do see a certain amount of them.” He hesitated. “Actually, Miss Henrietta was so kind as to show me your letter when I—I expressed an interest,” he said in a low voice.

    “Henry showed you the letter I wrote her?” she said in astonishment.

    “Yes.”

    Pansy stared at him.

    “I—I was most anxious for news of you, Miss Ogilvie. I stopped at the Place on my way up to London last month and took the opportunity to call on you at the school, but your headmistress said you had left.”

    “Yes.”

    Sir Noël swallowed. “My dear Miss Ogilvie, how comes it about that you and your little sister are living in—in such very—very humble circumstances?”

    Pansy frowned. “I don’t see that that is any business of yours. And if you read my letter to Henry you must be aware that my Aunt Venetia and Uncle Simeon Parker know about it.”

    “Er—yes. But can they know that—that the place is so very small and—and you are living the life of—well, more or less of the cottagers?”

    “Probably,” said Pansy indifferently.

    “Dear Miss Ogilvie, I do not mean to criticize your conduct; but surely you can see that it is a highly ineligible existence for two young ladies! And—forgive me—but should you be exposing your little sister to such a life?”

    This was the second time he had said “your little sister”; Pansy winced, but said firmly: “We don’t think it is ineligible. We enjoy our independence. And many a poor drudge of a schoolteacher would envy us our freedom, let me tell you!”

    “It may be freedom, but it seems to me that many aspects of it must be very close to drudgery! You have only the one little maid, and—well!”

    “Delphie and I are both capable of handling a broom if need be,” said Pansy drily.

    “But is there any need?” he said urgently.

    “Not precisely. Well, we are not as poor as you seem to think, for our Great-Uncle Humphrey has given us a whole five thousand guineas to do with as we like! And so we have decided to stay on at the cottage and buy Poppet. And be independent.” She glared at him.

    “Five thousand— My dear Miss Ogilvie! You could live a much better life on such a sum! And—and give your little sister a chance in life!”

    The third time was too much for Pansy: she cried angrily: “She is not my little sister! That is the whole point! And you can’t know Henry very well at all, and what is more she cannot think you a—a likeable person, or she would have told you the truth! And in any case it was a joint decision and we are both perfectly content with it!”

    Sir Noël looked at her, frowning. Pansy glared back. She expected him to produce more platitudinous criticisms, at least of her turn of phrase, but instead he said simply: “Very well, then: what is the truth?”

    “I am not Miss Ogilvie at all, and Ratia Bellinger said as much, but very evidently you are the sort of person who does not think of a maid as a fellow human being: I dare swear you did not even hear her!”

    “If I did not, I think it was because my mind was on other things at the time,” he said with a little smile.

    Pansy went very red and glared horribly.

    “Well, if you are not Miss Ogilvie— My God,” he said, his smile fading away and the colour draining from his cheeks: “you’re not married?”

    “No, of course not! I am but seventeen!” cried Pansy.

    “What?” he said numbly.

    Scowling, Pansy told him the whole. By this time she was so off-balance that it was not a particularly coherent narrative, and she certainly did not manage to convince him of the rightness of her point of view. He was, not to put too fine a point upon it, shocked.

    “Very well, we shall agree to differ,” she said eventually. “May we go back?”

    Sir Noël took a deep breath. “In a little. Miss—Miss Pansy, I think I should tell you that I came down to Guillyford Place express to see you.”

    “Me?” said Pansy blankly.

    “Yes.” he said, flushing. “I—it seemed to me that you or your sister must be in some sort of trouble, and—and I had the idea that I could offer you—in short, offer you my protection.”

    She looked at him dubiously. “I think you’d better say what you mean.”

    Sir Noël passed a hand through his handsome brown curls. “I—I did wonder whether the trouble might have been—some man,” he said, swallowing.

    Pansy stared. “Oh!” she said at last. “Do you mean you thought I might be going to have a baby?”—He nodded numbly.—“Well, why on earth didn’t you say so?”—Sir Noël merely essayed a weak smile.—“What would you have suggested, if I had been?”

    He hesitated; but she was looking at him expectantly, so he said limply: “Er—I would have offered you my protection. Er—set you up in a pleasant little house and—and seen you were looked after.”

    “Good gracious!” she said in astonishment. “Even though it wasn’t your baby?  You must have a very generous nature, sir! Well, that’s all right, because it isn’t that at all.”

    “Er—no,” he said uncomfortably.

    After a moment Pansy’s big brown eyes narrowed. “I see! Then I would have had to be your mistress! No, well, you mustn’t feel that you owe me anything at all for helping to pull you out of the sea. I could never have managed it by myself. If you want to do anything for anybody it’s Mr Dawson and Matt you should be thinking of.”

    “That wasn’t my reason, Miss Pansy,” he said, flushing.

    Pansy looked blank.

    “I—I was going to add, that—that should it have been any other kind of trouble, I— In short,” he said in a very low voice, “I should like to offer you the protection of my name.”

    “You don’t mean marry you?” gasped Pansy in horror. “But I’m only seventeen! I don’t want to get married!”

    Sir Noël was now very flushed indeed. “No,” he said hoarsely.

    Pansy thought it over. “I see,” she said. “You thought I was grown up. I’m very sorry, sir.”

    “No, I— Well, of course, when I assumed you were the older sister, naturally I... “ He looked at her miserably. “Could you not consider at least an engagement?”

    “No. We don’t even know each other. Um—I suppose it was very gallant of you to make the offer, but I think you must be mad!”

    The fashionable Sir Noël Amory swallowed. “Believe me, my affections are seriously engaged.”

    “Are they? Well I’m very sorry for it,” said Pansy firmly.

    “You—you are being very cruel,” he said in a shaking voice.

    Pansy frowned. “I think it would be crueller not to tell you truth, straight out. Please may we go back?”

    “Please: just a moment! Can I not ask you to reconsider your position? I—I could offer you a comfortable life where you would want for nothing—”

    “I can see you think that’s an inducement, and I concede that for many young women it would be. And you are very handsome and everything,” she added, pinkening. “But I do not want to be a married lady and—and have to behave and run a house and pay boring calls and so forth.”

    Sir Noël took a deep breath. “I see. You—you really are very young.”

    “Yes,” said Pansy in relief. “I said. May we go, now? Shall I row?”

    “I shall row,” he said grimly, beginning to do so.

    He was not unaware that she watched his performance critically. But he did not disgrace himself by catching a crab: even though he might be lubberly enough to go astray in the awkward currents round Guillyford Point, he was quite competent in a boat.

    On shore he made his farewells and left them at once.

    Commander Carey, looking relieved, also took himself off.

    “It—it was very kind of Sir Noël to call,” said Delphie uneasily, looking at her sister’s face.

    “Kind!” she burst out. “He’s mad!” She poured out in a rush what Sir Noël had said.

    Delphie duly gasped and clapped her hands to her cheeks during the story, but at the end of it she looked at Pansy sadly. “Oh, Pansy.”

    “What?” said Pansy crossly.

    “Dearest, I fear you were terribly unkind to the poor man.”

    “Oh, pooh!”

    Delphie looked at her with a troubled expression. “Pansy, could you not see that his tenderest sentiments were involved? That—well, that a gentleman may feel just as much as a lady, when the—the softer passions are in question.”

    “Well, I couldn’t say yes, so what else could I have said to him?” she cried.

    “I—I think you might have let him down gently, Pansy.”

    Pansy scowled. “At any rate, he must be mad. He’s barely set eyes on me!”

    “That does not always count. And it was very gallant and generous of him indeed. to fly to your rescue when he believed you to be in trouble.”

    Pansy looked sulky.

    “Dearest, could you not care for him just a little? He is a very personable gentleman.”

    “All right, he is, and I think so too: so what?” she cried. “I do not wish for an establishment, and—and to live a stuffy life cooped up in his house, doing nothing but put up preserves and wear stupid silk gowns and pay boring calls!”

    “No,” she said with a sigh. “Very well, my love.”

    “And in any case I cannot care for him,” said Pansy, turning scarlet.

    “No,” said Delphie sadly. “I see.”

    She saw more than she cared to try to explain to her sister. Including the fact that Pansy, besides being too young to form a serious attachment, was also too young truly to grasp that the fashionable Sir Noël was indeed a fellow human being with feelings as tender as any of her own could be. She must, indeed, have bruised him terribly. The poor man! thought the gentle Delphie as they walked slowly home, her eyes filling in distress. She could only hope that he had realized that her sister’s cruelty was due only to her extreme youth, and that she had not intended to wound him.

    Beside her the stout-hearted seaman marched along scowling. After a while, however, she began to whistle defiantly.

    Naturally Pansy had not confided to Delphie that she believed herself to be in love with Commander Carey. Indeed. that point had not entered her head at the moment she had refused Sir Noël. Pansy was younger emotionally than even Delphie realized. Her horror at the idea of entering the boring, stuffy estate of matrimony was quite genuine and she had never even thought of imagining herself as married to Commander Carey. Her feeling for him was quite genuine and had it been necessary she would willingly have immolated herself for him. But it had not occurred to her to envisage herself wearing a silk gown and living in his house as his wife.

    Those who had witnessed Sir Noël Amory’s carefree demeanour during the Season might not have imagined that his dreams had been haunted by the memory of a certain pink-cheeked face with great brown eyes, a head of tumbled brown curls, and a curvaceous little figure since the day he had been ignominiously pulled from the briny. Pansy’s intrepid nature and frank manner had made her just that more intriguing—and so different from all the prunes and prisms Misses that one met in town! He had told himself firmly that the thing was absurd: Miss Ogilvie was only an obscure little schoolmarm, and an eccentric one at that: messing about in rowboats with two local identities! When he had called at the school only to be told the sisters had moved on, he had managed to persuade himself with a fair degree of success that it was just as well: the thing was ridiculous: the passing fancy of a moment. And had determined to put Miss Ogilvie out of his head for good and all. But when Miss Henrietta had revealed her whereabouts this firm decision had been as it if never was, and all the doubts he had initially had as to Miss Ogilvie’s suitability, and what would the family think, etcetera, had flown out the window. It had seemed that a second chance was being offered him.

    Sir Noël was now very hurt indeed, even though it had been plain to him, once Pansy had revealed her age, that he had had very little hope—and perhaps ought not to hope any more in that direction. But he had gone ahead because—well, because frankly, he could not stop himself.

    It was some time—indeed, he was well on the way back to town the following day—before his turbulent feelings calmed enough for him to be able to admit that she could have had no idea of just how cruel her words had been. Oh, dear, he thought, biting his lip: he should never have spoken: she was far, far too young. Was that all she imagined married life to be: boring calls and—and having to behave with dignity?

    He drove on, smiling a little, even though his heart still ached. But he felt, at the same time, that he had made a damned fool of himself, and that the fact that he had done so was entirely Miss Pansy Ogilvie’s fault. Pretending to be older than she was: really!

    Sir Noël was fully aware of his own worth, and though he had set off from London quite determined to offer Miss Ogilvie, should it prove at all possible to do so, his heart and hand, he had not been unaware of the honour he was conferring on a little nobody of a schoolmarm. Now he began to feel considerably affronted, not to say wounded in his dignity.

    By the time he reached the metropolis annoyance with Pansy had almost driven out the heartache and he felt more strongly than ever that it was entirely her fault that he had made such an exhibition of himself. He decided grimly that he would not give her another thought: it had been a stupid episode, and best forgotten.

    Shortly before Mrs Parker was due to set off to visit in Guillyford Bay, Mr Ludo Parker had arrived unexpectedly at the parental home. He had been up at the university since the start of the preceding Michaelmas term. He was not, it appeared, up any more. Temporarily, at all events. “Not everyone can be as good as Theo, you know, sir!” he protested after his Papa had called him into his study.

    Mr Parker looked up from the Dean’s letter. “Possibly not, but you might at least have tried to emulate his good sense! How many dogs?”

    Ludo looked sulky. “There was not above eight, sir. And I was not alone— Well, mum for that,” he added hurriedly. “Only the dons make such a thing about the dashed lawn, you know, and poor old Crichton got it in the neck merely because he was new, and none of his family had ever been up, and he walked on the dashed thing, not knowing it was a Mede and Persian!”—At this point his papa swallowed a cough, but Ludo, warming to his theme, didn’t notice.—“And you should have heard it, sir: they made a mighty racket, with those pot lids tied to their tails, and snarling and yapping like you never heard! And all the dons was taking wine and they came bursting out of the Senior Common Room like they had heard the Last Trump!” Possibly this last phrase recalled to his mind the fact that his papa was in Holy Orders, for he then added hastily: “Sorry, sir!”

    Swallowing another cough, the Reverend Mr Parker said: “Yes. Well, it was a silly prank, Ludo, and I hope you do not imagine that it means you will be let off your studies for the remainder of the term. You may settle to your books at home.”—Ludo’s face fell.—“And it was a cruel thing to do to the poor creatures, had you not thought of that?”—Ludo looked blank.—Sighing, his father said: “Apparently not. Well, I have a life of St Francis somewhere amongst my books: you may read it and write me a little précis of it.”—Ludo looked horrified.—“But in the meantime, I think you had best escort your Mamma to Brighton. It will mean Theo need not be away from his duties so long, and he may meet you there.”

    “Oh. Very well, sir,” he said cautiously, not quite daring to ask whether Mr Parker intended that he and Theo should both go on with Mamma to London, or only Theo.

    Mr Parker sighed again. “Yes. Off you go, then, Ludo. And try to remember that you are no longer a child.”

    Ludo went out looking chastened.

    “He got all sad,” he reported to his mother.

    “That is hardly surprizing, my love.”

    “Yes, but Mamma, he keeps expecting me to be as good as Theo! And I ain’t! And what’s more I shall never make a scholar! It ain’t fair, l can’t help it if I haven’t Theo’s brains!”

    “No. But you could make a push to work harder, my dear: it is not inexpensive keeping a son at Oxford. And your papa has had to delay sending Tim to school because of it.”

    “Well, couldn’t I come down? Sir Ferdinand is keen to have me in the agent’s office. And then Tim may go off to school!”

    “Your papa does not quite like the idea of your becoming Sir Ferdinand’s agent, Ludo.”

    “But I like the country life! And I do not care what Papa says, I shall never make a parson, Mamma! And I have to do something!”

    Mrs Parker sighed. “Very well, I shall speak your father.”—Ludo’s face it up.—“Only not just yet: I think we must give him a little time to get over the shock of having one of his sons sent down.”

    “Only for the rest of the term! And the Dean was not really furious, because he wasn’t in the Senior Common Room when it happened, and he can’t stand old Wills and the fusty old Fellows! And if you ask me, if old Wills had not kicked up such a bother, he would not have done scarcely a thing about it! He is a great gun!”

    Mrs Parker sighed again.

    It was a sparkling blue spring day when, having stayed overnight at a pleasant hotel in Brighton, Mrs Parker and her second son drove out to Miss Blake’s school. Ludo was left to kick his heels in Miss Blake’s sitting-room while his mamma and Miss Blake had a prolonged talk. He was happily unaware of the whisperings and stifled gigglings proceeding from time to time from the direction of the passage: for the height of his neckcloth and the glory of his waistcoat had been observed from the bay window of the boarders’ parlour. And although it must be admitted that sensible persons such as Floss Maddern were not interested, and other persons such as Maria Owen, Bunch Ainsley, Belinda Corcoran and Lizzie Amory were too young to be interested, Lilian Owen and her set were almost overcome by the thought that the waistcoat and the neckcloth, not to mention the yellow curls that had been glimpsed between the neckcloth and the hat, were sitting in Miss Blake’s room at this very minute!

    After a little Mlle La Plante, having finished her lesson for the morning, very kindly came and sat with the boy. Since she favoured him with a dissertation in very accented English on the latest maux de foie in her brother’s family, Ludo listened to her in a sort of dazed horror. But the laden tray which she caused to be brought in greatly raised his spirits.

    It being glorious sailing weather, it was not to be expected that Cap’n Pansy should be gracing Elm-Tree Cottage with her presence that day, and indeed she was not. Delphie and Ratia Bellinger were home alone—with Horatio Nelson, of course—and even though they had known she was due some time soon, were both entirely overcome at having Mrs Parker descend on them. Though in Ratia’s case it must be admitted that young Mr Parker’s yellow curls and neckcloth were in there, too. Delphie wept torrents, and Mrs Parker greatly enjoyed herself comforting her. So Pansy was hardly missed at all, really.

    Mr Ludo, meanwhile, wandered disconsolately out into the garden, kicking at the odd shrub and so forth, and when this occupation palled, wandered down the road a little to where you got a splendid view of the bay.

    Mrs Parker had been a little surprized to hear Delphie tell Ratia to lay the table for five; she was even more surprized to see her second son burst into the cottage, very flushed, panting: “Mamma! The greatest thing you ever saw! Commander Carey has a most wonderful yacht, and he says I may sail with them! And tomorrow he intends a whole day’s cruise: do say I may go, Mamma, it will be the greatest shame ever if I have to miss it! And I say, Mamma, you know Papa was saying he thought we might have another dog, now that poor old Bouncer is gone: well, Commander Carey’s man knows a splendid fellow whose dog has had pups! They sound just the thing!”

    Before Mrs Parker could utter, her younger niece burst in after Ludo, also very flushed, gasping: “They will grow into huge things that will eat you of house and home, Aunt Venetia, and so I have been trying to tell him! Oh—I beg your pardon!” She made a wobbly curtsey.

    Mrs Parker and Delphie exchanged significant glances; and Mrs Parker, who in the wake of Delphie’s pouring out the story of Sir Noël Amory’s astonishingly unexpected proposal had wondered if she ought to speak to Pansy, now decided she would not. Not yet. Delphie was right: Pansy was far too young to be thinking of marriage. But—well, there was next year: it was possible, with this money from horrid old Uncle Humphrey, that something might be arranged for next Season. And the interval would certainly give them the opportunity to see if Sir Noël’s affections would stand the test of time. For if Simeon must be allowed to have his way for the nonce, and the girls could be left to manage their own affairs in their little cottage for perhaps the rest of the summer, it was not to be thought of that it could be a permanent thing!

    Mrs Parker had, very fortunately for the harmony of the meal, not voiced this last decision to Delphie; and, introductions having been effected, they were all five soon sitting round the table, Ratia Bellinger having kindly brought in a kitchen chair for Mr Ludo. And having kindly explained to Mrs Parker that a pig’s cheek, if done up nice the way Ma recommended, had a good bit of eating on it. Commander Carey, lips twitching, also highly recommended the pig’s cheek. Relenting slightly to assure Mrs Parker that the dessert would consist of an excellent treacle tart sent down by his own cook.

    “Cook is spoiling us dreadfully,” said Delphie to her aunt with a smile.

    “Indeed,” agreed Mrs Parker, wondering if perhaps the Commander would do for Delphie. Though there was, of course, a considerable age gap. And, in spite of this speculation, very relieved indeed to find that his manner to both girls was positively fatherly.

    The matter of Mr Ludo’s sailing with the Commander then had to be sorted out: Ludo must come back with his mamma this afternoon, for they were expecting Theo on the evening stage. But while Theo and Mamma did some commissions in the town on the morrow Ludo might go out on the boat. Mrs Parker and Theo would drive out to Guillyford Bay in the afternoon to collect him.

    Ludo looked frantically at the Commander. Commander Carey merely looked dry.

    “Er—well, we may be back rather later than that, Mamma.”

    “We’re going to France,” said Pansy calmly.

    Mrs Parker gasped, and dropped a piece of potato. Horatio Nelson immediately came to investigate it

    “Thought we might go over to Boulogne, ma’am,” explained Commander Carey. “Drop it!” he added to Horatio.

    “He won’t take any notice, you silly; I keep telling you: he is a cat, not a dog!” cried Pansy, laughing.

    The Commander grinned. “I am trying what constant repetition will do. –I beg your pardon, Mrs Parker: as I was saying, we thought of returning on the afternoon tide. But that may wait for another day.”

    Pansy rose and removed the piece of potato from under Horatio’s nose, throwing it on the fire. “Yes.”

    “Oh, no: I say!” cried Mr Ludo.

    “Though if you should approve, ma’am, we could sail him back to Brighton,” said the Commander.

    Mrs Parker agreeing to this scheme after various technical details of the speed which might be expected of Finisterre with certain amounts of canvas set and a favourable tide had been explained to her, Mr Ludo then reverted to the dog theme.

    “Dearest, we cannot possibly take a dog with us to London: what would Lady Tarlington say?”

    “I dare say Mr T. would not mind,” he said hopefully.

    “No, but it isn’t his house, Cousin,” said Delphie.

    Mr Ludo looked blank.

    “Well, no: that is very true, my dear. Alfreda writes he is living in old Mr Jeremiah Aden’s house. I do hope— Er—well, the old man was reputed to be rather eccentric: but no doubt Mr Tarlington has—er—introduced some modern notions.”

    “Candles, for instance,” said Pansy drily.

    “Candles, my love?”

    Pansy explained eagerly about Great-Uncle Humphrey’s miserliness with candles, adding: “We had a letter from Dr Fairbrother only a few days ago, in which he says that Great-Uncle Humphrey now allows only the most meagre of kitchen fires to be lit at morning and evening. The poor housekeeper cried and asked Dr Fairbrother to find her another situation. Which he is doing; though as he suspects she was only hanging on there in expectation of inheriting Great-Uncle Humphrey’s money, he cannot feel very much sympathy for her. But personally, I think she deserves every penny of it.”

    Mrs Parker was horrified by this speech. “I had no notion things were that bad!”

    “Dr Fairbrother insisted on having a doctor to him: but he pronounced him to be well, but half-starved,” admitted Delphie.

    “Dr Fairbrother is now seeing to it that he is supplied with beef broth every day,” added Pansy.

    “What an admirable man he is, indeed!” cried Mrs Parker.

    “Eh?” said Mr Ludo, fork suspended.

    “Dr Fairbrother, you lubber!” choked Pansy.

    “Oh,” he said sheepishly. “Mm. –I say, who has the old fellow left his gelt to, Cousin?”

    “Really, Ludovic!” said his mother crossly.

    “Captain’s Report for you, young feller-me-lad,” noted Pansy. “—Well, yes: Dr Fairbrother is extremely kind, Aunt Venetia. I think he is admirable, indeed.”

    “Yes,” agreed Delphie, eyeing her nervously.

    “Well, he is not the only one,” said Commander Carey with a smile. “Mrs Parker, you must help Miss Pansy and me to persuade Miss Ogilvie that there would be no point in her journeying to Oxford to see to the old fellow: he has apparently told Dr Fairbrother that the five thousand guineas was on condition he—er—”

    “Does not have to see ‘those pesky bits of girls’ again,” finished Pansy placidly. “Cousin, if you have quite finished hogging that pig’s cheek, I would like some more.”

    “That’ll do, Mr Middy, or it’ll be you up on Report,” said Commander Carey mildly, as Mr Ludo went into a choking fit.

    … “Well!” said Mrs Parker with a laugh at the end of the meal, as Pansy and Ludo exited for an inspection of Poppet, Ludo having tried only once more to persuade his mother to let him have a pup. “What a pair of children!”

    Commander Carey perceived that she had been slightly anxious about her son’s reaction to two unknown female cousins: he smiled at her and said: “Oh, absolutely!”

    “Yes. Even though I do think Sir Noël Amory is a most pleasant gentleman, Pansy is much too young to think of marriage,” said Delphie unguardedly.

    “What?” said the Commander with an arrested look.

    “Oh, dear!” she gasped.

    “I do not think it would ineligible for you to know of it, as a friend, Commander Carey,” said Mrs Parker kindly. She explained Sir Noël’s offer.

    The Commander bit his lip. “Mr Middy said nothing of it to me.”

    Delphie sighed. “I am afraid I would have to admit, dear sir, that that is because she herself thought very little of it. And—and I am afraid she must have hurt poor Sir Noël’s feelings quite considerably.”

    “Well, she is very young, after all, and we cannot expect her to turn down her first offer of marriage with all the composure of a woman of thirty!” said Mrs Parker with a laugh.

    “Thought women of thirty, on the contrary, ma’am, were generally considered likely to jump at such offers?” said the Commander airily.

    At this Mrs Parker laughed very much, and even told him he was naughty. From which it was plain to her niece that Mrs Parker had fallen under pleasant Commander Carey’s spell almost as easily as she and Pansy. Not to mention Ratia Bellinger, Mary Potter, and the Commander’s cook!

    If Mrs Parker had been a little worried that Ludo might conceive a tendre for one of his Ogilvie cousins, having once met Delphie she found herself with quite the contrary hope in regard to Theo.

    Well, one should not be mercenary about these things, but there was no need to be unrealistic, either! And Theo was every bit as good-looking as his brothers and sisters: a tall, broad-shouldered young man, with guinea-gold curls like Ludo’s—or, indeed, his cousin Dimity’s. And besides, of such a very admirable character! He was seven and twenty now, a year older than Alfreda, and though but a curate at the moment, there was the possibility of a living, and on the whole Mrs Parker would not have been averse to seeing him settle down with a pleasant young woman like his Cousin Philadelphia. But when the two met on the following afternoon it was clear to the sharp-eyed Mrs Parker that there was little to hope for there.

    Theo was able quite honestly to agree afterwards with his mamma’s opinions, firstly, that Commander Carey was a most agreeable gentleman and it was fortunate the girls had someone so responsible to look to their welfare; secondly, that Pansy was a harum-scarum little scamp as yet but could confidently be expected to grow out of it, and that one should not hurry such things; and thirdly, what a mercy it was that Ludo had not developed an unsuitable tendre for either of the girls! Theo did not bother to ask why it would have been unsuitable: he knew from past experience that his mamma’s opinions on such subjects were not only not logical, they were not shakeable, either.

    All in all Mrs Parker was very pleased indeed with her visit, and was able to write a most reassuring letter to the Reverend Simeon Parker. It did not mention such points as Ludo’s not having fallen for either cousin, or Theo’s apparently not being particularly struck by Delphie’s charms, but then, after all, those matters had not been the object of the visit.

    “Now we can get back to normal,” said Pansy thankfully the following morning. “There won’t be any more visitors!”

    Delphie yawned. “Mm. –Pansy, are you up already? It is but barely dawn!”

    “Matt and I are going to help Mr Dawson lift the lobster pots,” replied Pansy firmly.

    Delphie yawned again. “Put on your oldest dress, then.”

    “Of course. –I wish I was a boy, then I could wear breeches,” she said wistfully.

    “Mm,” said Delphie into her pillow.

    “What would silly Sir Noël think of ‘Miss Ogilvie’, then, I wonder?” said Pansy with a naughty laugh.

    Delphie roused herself groggily. “Pansy, that is not—”

    But Pansy had danced out.

    “—kind. Or proper,” murmured Delphie with a sigh.

    Life at Guillyford Bay did, indeed, settle back to normal. Delphie was quietly content, reassured that Aunt Venetia approved of their living in their little cottage. If from time to time her thoughts wandered in the direction of that kindly gentleman with the cane and the bad limp who was Sir Noël Amory’s uncle, no-one could have guessed it from her demeanour; and she kept so busy, what with the cottage and the garden, and learning from Mrs Bellinger how to make mint jelly, rhubarb preserve, and so forth, that she did not have much time for idle thoughts.

    Pansy was blissfully happy, spending time with the Commander every day, sailing or studying navigation. Even in her own mind, she did not sort out precisely which of these factors provided the most happiness.

    Commander Carey was also happy. He was relieved that that awkward encounter with Naomi Blake had been got over; and, though he did not express it to himself in quite those terms, relieved that the old affection for the young girl had not renewed itself with regard to the woman. For he could not, really, have gone through such a turbulent and painful experience again; and he had little doubt that between him and Miss Blake any sort of relationship would be both: that bedrock of character which had always set them at loggerheads was very much still present in both of them.

    It had not occurred to him twenty-odd years ago, but it occurred forcibly now, that she had perhaps never been the right woman for him; and that, though he had admired her spirit and energy, he might well have been very uncomfortable indeed with these qualities at his breakfast table every morning.

    As for his feelings for Pansy—he pushed those to the back of his mind. He was aware that he thought of her as much more than just funny little Mr Middy. But he had no intention of allowing this to become apparent to Pansy herself. He was far, far too old for her. Not just in years, but in experience. He knew himself to be scarred emotionally as well as physically by what he had gone through in the past thirty-odd years; and not only scarred, but, decided Commander Carey with a sigh, peering through his telescope very late one night not long after Mrs Parker had gone on her way, tired. Perhaps that was why, he thought, the long mouth twitching ruefully, the mere idea of Miss Blake’s being opposite one at one’s breakfast table was enough, frankly, to make a man cringe!

    He did not, at this moment, reflect that if Pansy was not as “hard” as Naomi Blake, she was certainly filled with spirit and determination, and that having his little “Mr Middy” at his breakfast table every morning might be equally exhausting. Nor did he reflect that, if he whole-heartedly enjoyed their days on the water, there were times when he was very glad just to come quietly home, let William Chubb haul his boots off, and sit by his own fire with a pipe, then letting Mary Potter and Cook thoroughly spoil him with a tray of supper to eat off his knees.

    It would have been true to say that both Commander Carey and Pansy were at this time in a sort of emotional Limbo. Pansy was too young to be aware of it, and, very possibly, too young to wish for anything else. The Commander was not so young, and he was aware of it. But—well, there was no harm in it; and could not a man grasp at some ephemeral moments of happiness when they were offered? Pansy would have to grow up soon enough. But if he could have his little Mr Middy for just this one summer, he thought he could be content.

Next chapter:

https://theogilvieconnection.blogspot.com/2022/09/mrs-parkers-hopes.html