Further Trials

26

Further Trials

    Miss Burden came happily into the breakfast parlour and blinked, on seeing the Earl closeted cosily with a thin little lady in a black bonnet with a very upstanding poke over a frilled cap, and an immense silver-fox wrap.

    “Ah,” he said, rising: “here is Miss Burden now, Cousin Myrtle. Miss Burden, I think you have not met my cousin on my mother’s side? –Miss Partridge.”

    Before Midge could reply Miss Partridge beamed all over her thin, painted little face, clasped her hands together and said in ecstatic tones: “Such a pleasure! The mother of the future earl!”

    Midge went very red. “How do you do, Miss Partridge?” she croaked, holding out her hand.

    Miss Partridge clasped it warmly in both of her little claw-like ones: tightly encased in lavender kid. “So like poor dear Dorothy!” she sighed.

    “Why, yes: she is, a little,” agreed the Earl calmly.

    “Oh, do forgive us, Miss Burden, my dear! Chattering on about persons whom you do not know! Do you not find that is the most irritating thing about other persons’ relatives? For they all do it, you know!” said Miss Partridge on an arch note.

    “I—I suppose it is natural, after all,” returned Midge feebly. “Um—may I ask, who was Dorothy, Miss Partridge?”

    “The saddest thing! She was a cousin of my late brother-in-law’s: a Miss Plumb. A most respectable family: Norfolk, you know. Later Mrs Vernon Sandys. Not the senior branch. But poor Lieutenant Sandys fell most gallantly—in the Americas campaigns, was it, Jarvis, my dear? –Well, no matter!” she said brightly before the Earl could open his mouth. “He died for his country, and we must honour him for that. And poor Dorothy was left with the three boys and the little girl.”

    “Er—that must have been some consolation to her, ma’am,” said Midge feebly.

    “Well, of course, my dear! But then, of course, it all came out,” she said, nodding darkly.

    “Yes: shockin’ business,” said the Earl on a neutral note.

    “Oh, indeed, my dear Jarvis!” she cried, holding up the little lavender kid hands. “He had another household in Tunbridge Wells, my dear,” she said, nodding at Midge.

    “Oh, dear.”

    “Eleven children,” said Miss Partridge deeply.

    Midge avoided the Earl’s eye. “Goodness,” she croaked.

    “Of course there was no question of any legal claim on the property. But poor dear Dorothy was quite overset, as you can imagine!”

    “Yes,” croaked Midge.

    “However, she was not left lamenting long, for she remarried within the year,” noted the Earl.

    “He was a Sir Barnabas King: quite a respectable person, a Member of Parliament. They had three dear little boys, and everyone thought it was going very well, although a Plumb, you know, might have done better for herself, when he died in a fall from his horse,” she said to Midge, nodding darkly. “Fate, you see, my dear: malign fate.”

    “Um—yes,” muttered Midge.

    “Very sad indeed,” agreed Jarvis. “Although one must not forget that she remarried later, Cousin Myrtle.”

    “Quite some years later, my dear Miss Burden,” explained Miss Partridge. “When she was in her mature years, indeed. A Major-General Creigh. Perhaps you know Sophia, Lady Creigh? A sister of Lord Keywes of Vaudequays? No? Mayhap she is not in town at the moment. Major-General Creigh is her brother-in-law.”

    “I see,” said Midge dazedly.

    “He, of course, was a widower. Seven boys, and four girls.”

    Miss Burden could think of nothing to say in response to this tidbid, but: “Oh?”

    Miss Partridge shook her head sadly. “Well, poor dear Dorothy.”

    “Mm, a sad story.” said the Earl.

    “Ye-es... What happened to the Major-General, then, Miss Partridge?” ventured Midge.

    “Happened? Why, nothing, my dear,” she said blankly.

    “Oh. And Dorothy?” she ventured.

    “They live down in Kent. Farbridge Manor: quite a decent little place,” said Jarvis.

    Miss Burden stared at him.

    “Is it ducks she breeds, Cousin Myrtle?” he said.

    Miss Partridge nodded brightly. “Oh, indeed. Muscovy ducks.”

    Miss Burden opened and shut her mouth.

    “Yes, Miss Burden?” said the Earl courteously.

    “Nothing,” she croaked. “Er—so you are visiting London, are you, Miss Partridge?”

    Miss Partridge and her dear brother habitually visited the metropolis at this time of year, yes, and would be delighted to squire Miss Burden about and assist Lady Caroline to put her in the way of things, to the best of their poor abilities! Midge thanked her feebly.

    “Brother, you know, is a great expert on silverware,” said Miss Partridge brightly as Frederick came in bearing a fresh pot of coffee—silver.

    “Really?” said Midge feebly.

    “Certainly. And china,” said the Earl.

    “Oh, why, no, dear Jarvis! Brother would disclaim any such claim! He is very fond of china, but he is not a true expert such as, say, your estimable connexion Mr Julius Foxe-Forsythe! But silver,” she said composedly as the Earl poured for her, “is his special subject. –Just a very little for little me, Jarvis, dear.”

    “Cousin Partridge most certainly knows more about the family china than I do,” said the Earl calmly, pouring for Miss Burden. “Pray, have a roll, Cousin Myrtle. –Thank you, George,” he said, as George handed her the rolls. “He will be able to teach you what you should know, Miss Burden,” he said to Midge.

    “Y— Um—about the Wynton china?” she gasped.

    “Certainly.”

    Midge looked limply at the plate off which she was about to eat. It was quite pretty, having a small spray of flowers, centred, on a white background, and a broad band of dark blue with a gold edging at the rim.

    “Worcester, I think. But Brother would know,” said Miss Partridge. “This is not the set which Lady Jessamine and Lady Harriet painted in their youth, I think, Jarvis, my dear?”

    “No, I believe that is down at Maunsleigh. It is very like this, however.”

    She nodded happily, though noting: “You would find, in examining the floral motifs, that each one is a little different, on that set. I believe their Ladyships adopted a theme of hedgerow flowers for it: a charming conceit.”

    “I see,” said Midge feebly. China! In her blindness, she had hitherto believed that china was merely something one ate off. Help.

    She consumed a roll numbly, and then croaked: “I think I have not heard of Lady Harriet, before. One of Lady Caroline’s sisters, did you say, Miss Partridge?”

    “Oh, indeed, my dear: Lady Harriet Wynton, as she was. Such a sad story!”

    “Oh?” said Midge politely, hoping it was not a sad story such as that of Dorothy Plumb Sandys King Creigh, to which she did not feel she had managed to react appropriately.

    Miss Partridge sighed, and shook her bonnet at her. “Such a pretty young girl.”

    “Yes: she is the girl in the pink dress, in the long gallery at Maunsleigh. Reynolds. Oh, but you have not yet seen the pictures,” said the Earl.

    “She has not seen the pictures? But my dear! Family history!” gasped Miss Partridge.

    “Never mind, there will be time enough for that, at Christmas,” he said with a smile.

    “Of course; and then, there are some portraits here: we may make a start!” she declared with great determination.

    “Certainly,” he agreed politely.

    “But I was telling you about poor Lady Harriet, was I not, Miss Burden? –No, no, nothing more for me, Jarvis, my dear!” she cried as he offered the rolls again. “For to say truth, little me has already breakfasted! Lady Harriet: such a sad story,” she said to Midge.

    Lady Harriet Wynton, it transpired, had not had three husbands, let alone a husband with another household with eleven children in it. Though she was not living in Kent and raising Muscovy ducks. She had married very young, moved to an obscure part of the country, produced six offspring who lived and three who did not, and died at the age of seventy-eight, as a great-grandmother several times over. An unprejudiced listener would have had to say that, far from being a sad story, that sounded like a happy and fulfilled life.

    “Briggs,” concluded Miss Partridge, shaking her bonnet regretfully.

    “Uh—yes?” said Midge in bewilderment.

    “Later, of course, one of the brothers went out to India and did quite well for himself.”

    “Ye-es... One of Lady Harriet’s brothers-in-law, Miss Partridge?”

    Miss Partridge nodded the bonnet at her.

    “Old Freddy Briggs. Quite a nabob. Very decent fellow,” said the Earl.

    “Oh, it is so like you to say so, Jarvis!” she cried, throwing up her hands. “But it was generally agreed at the time, my dear Miss Burden, that Lady Harriet had thrown herself away.”

    “Oh, I see!” said Midge in great enlightenment.

    Miss Partridge shook her head again. “Very sad. She might have had Munn.”

    ... “Are they all sad stories?” said Midge to her almost-fiancé once Miss Partridge, nodding the bonnet hard and threatening the pictures of the Royal Academy, had taken herself off.

    “My dear Miss Burden, pray do not sound so fierce about it! Yes, of course they are: they all married beneath ’em. The odd second household of eleven persons—no, it would be twelve in all—though adding interest, is neither here nor there.”

    Midge glared impotently.

    “Did you not like her? The poor old thing is entirely well-meaning,” he murmured.

    She went very red. “I did not dislike her. And I could certainly see, after my experiences with some of Lady Caroline’s connexions, that there is no malice in her. But—but this insistence on who married whom, and who their families were—”

    “The Partridges are not particularly well-connected themselves, you see,” he murmured.

    “Apart from your gracious self and your Wynton china, Jarvis, dear!” she snapped.

    “Mm. She is genuinely fond of me,” he said, eyeing her drily.

    “I could see that. I beg your pardon,” said Midge, reddening again.

    “Not at all. I should be charmed for you to address me as ‘Jarvis, dear,’” he murmured.

    Miss Burden, now a glowing puce, glared determinedly at the far side of the room.

    “Possibly I should warn you of two points,” he said tranquilly.

    “Er—yes?” she said hoarsely, still avoiding his eye.

    “In the first place, she will not put herself forward so far as to ask if she may address you as Millicent. And in the second, she may ask if you have seen my locket, but she will not say she has saved my life twice.”

    Miss Burden goggled at him.

    “Well?”

    “Oh! Well, of course I shall ask her to call me Millicent. Or Midge, if she should prefer to. –Saved your life?”

    “Yes; the first time was when I was a little boy, about three, and we were staying with the Partridges at their house in Kent. Cousin Myrtle is eleven years older than I, so she would only have been fourteen at the time. Her mamma and mine had gone with the other adult members of the family to attend a wedding some twenty miles distant. I was a little feverish when they left, but several of the children had a bad cold, and Mamma assumed I was coming down with it. But it was the Boulogne sour throat,” he said wryly. “My nurse panicked: Cousin Myrtle undoubtedly saved my life. She had seen the local doctor do it; it entails putting some sort of acid, I think—something of the sort—on the membrane in the throat. A very tricky operation indeed.”

    Midge nodded numbly, looking at him in horror.

    “I would not say so to her for the world, but I would think that a very good measure of luck came into it. There was an epidemic of it when were in cantonments near Cawnpore, and although the same remedy was attempted, very many of the children died.”

    Midge gulped, and nodded.

    “Well, that was the first time,” said Jarvis with a smile. “To commemorate it, my papa bought her a gold locket, in which they put one of my curls—mm,” he murmured, as Midge looked involuntarily at his bald pate. “And when I went off to the wars, Cousin Myrtle insisted on giving me the locket, for luck. –Come here,” he said with a smile.

    Midge came up to him slowly.

    The Earl’s neckcloth was not elaborate: he loosened it, and felt within it. “Here it is,” he said, holding up a dented gold locket on a short chain. “I always wear it. See that dent? That is where a musket ball struck it when I was in a skirmish just after I’d got my captaincy. Fortunately for myself I had managed to overcome a certain male bashfulness at displayin’ myself to my peers with a lady’s locket round my neck.”

    After a moment Midge said strongly: “I can believe you might have felt that for about a week, at the age of eighteen: yes! You are the most strong-minded person I have ever met, so do not pretend you had any difficulty in ignoring the facetious comments of all the stupid young subalterns!”

    “I would not say I ignored ’em, exactly,” he murmured, slipping the locket inside his shirt again and looking thoughtfully at his own fist.

    “Er—no!” said Midge with a startled laugh. “I see!”

    “The ball was very nearly spent, else I think it would have ricocheted off the locket and finished me anyway: but Cousin Myrtle was, of course, thrilled to know that her locket had saved my life.”

    “Yes. In a way she must look upon you as her special property,” said Midge thoughtfully.

    “Mm. Almost as her son—in especial of late years, since Mamma died. –Well, she will be able to assist Aunt Caroline to put you in the way of things. And she is very eager to help, so I hope you will not spurn her efforts.”

    “No, of course I shall not,” said Midge stiffly.

    “And I confess I should like to see you learning something of the family history and—well! About the silver and china, and so forth!” he said with an easy smile.

    “No doubt Lady Rose Gratton-Gordon knew all those things as a matter of course, having absorbed them from her cradle!” retorted Midge crossly.

    “Well, some of ’em, maybe. I doubt she would ever have mistaken the First Earl in his periwig for a Gainsborough. But from what I have heard of her, she was entirely brainless: anything she knew was undoubtedly absorbed, rather than acquired.”

    “Yes, but in a Gratton-Gordon it did not matter!”

    “Oh, quite. Well, you’ve seen for yourself that Vyv’s received everywhere, and he ain’t got a brain to bless himself with!” he said cheerfully. “Now, if you will excuse me? I shall see you tonight at dinner.”

    “Oh, help, is it tonight we’re having the Wades?” croaked Midge.

    “The elder G.-G.’s: yes. You had best ask Aunt Caroline to let you study the guest list.”

    “You are not serious?” said Midge limply as he went over to the door.

    “Certainly I am, my dear Miss Burden,” he said calmly, going out.

    “I am afraid that will not do,” he said as they convened before dinner.

    Midge looked down numbly at her gown: the delicious fawn silk that had been made up to Lady Caroline’s orders. “Whuh-what, my gown?” she faltered. “I thought you liked it. sir!”

    “It is delightful, of course, but the Marchioness of Wade has seen you in it at least three times, by my reckoning.”

    “Oh, surely—!”

    “I think Jarvis is right, Millicent. Though it does become you,” said Lady Caroline mildly.

    “You had best run up and change. There is still time,” he said, smiling at her.

    “Y— Um—what into?” gasped Midge, forgetting to flutter her lashes or simper.

    “Perhaps the new dark green, Millicent,” suggested Lady Caroline.

    “The taffety? But it’s so stiff!” she gasped.

    “So is Lady Wade,” said Lady Caroline drily.

    “It—um—would you say it was suitable for a dinner, though?” she gulped.

    “With the Wades? Most certainly. –You will be pleased with it, Jarvis, I think: the colour becomes her.”

    Midge went limply over to the door. “I find it a trifle sombre.”

    “You may lighten it by wearing Jarvis’s brooch with it, my dear,” returned Lady Caroline, unmoved.

    Midge smiled weakly, and stumbled out.

    Lady Caroline looked drily at the Earl. “Three times?”

    “Oh, at least.”

    “I shall not ask if this sudden access of interest in Millicent’s wardrobe is connected with the arrival of Myrtle Partridge on our doorstep.”

    “Dear Aunt Caroline, she will take many tedious little duties off your shoulders. I have decided that I should prefer Millicent not to appear in public unchaperoned, but I should certainly not desire you to accompany her on every little shopping expedition or outing with her young friends; whereas that sort of thing is meat and drink to Cousin Myrtle.”

    Lady Caroline hesitated. Then she said: “Jarvis, Myrtle Partridge is a well-meaning creature, if she is an impossible snob, and I grant she is devoted to yourself; but I should not like to see her undoing all my good work with Millicent.”

    “I am eternally grateful to you for all your good work—she really likes that delightful fawn gown, does she not?—but I think that it is time that Millicent be exposed to some of the tedious stuff.”

    Lady Caroline looked at him in silence. The Earl looked bland. “Be very careful,” she warned.

    “I cannot imagine what you mean,” he returned lightly.

    She frowned a little, but said no more.

    Miss Burden duly descended in the dark green taffety. It was indeed rather stiff, but it was also rather low-cut about the bosom, so Jarvis found nothing to which to object. It was a very similar shade to the afternoon dress she had once worn for him: he smiled a little and said: “Where is the brooch?”

    Midge had it in her hand. “It is a Wynton brooch,” she croaked.

    “Yes, of course.”

    “Lord Sleyven, would it not be tactless of me to wear it? Given that the last time Lord Wade saw any lady wear it, it must have been his late sister.”

    “Tactless? Of course not. One would hardly expect the Wynton set to be buried with the previous countess. –Allow me.”

    In front of Lady Caroline Midge did not feel she could object further, either to wearing the Wynton brooch, or to having him pin it on her. He pinned it at the lowest point of the neckline, not making, as far as she could ascertain, the slightest effort to prevent his fingers touching her skin. “Thank you,” she croaked.

    “My pleasure, Miss Burden.” he said calmly.

    Miss Burden tottered to a seat by Lady Caroline, her cheeks a-flame.

    After that she did not care, really, when the Marchioness of Wade almost immediately said: “Oh: the ring-brooch from the Wynton set? It becomes you, my dear Miss Burden. And when may we expect the happy announcement?”

    “Basset?” croaked Janey. –Introductions having been effected, Miss Burden had explained what Mr and Miss Partridge were kindly teaching her this afternoon.

    “Yes; sit down, Janey,” said Miss Burden in a weak voice. “You, too, Katerina, my dear.”

    “Sit by me, Katerina,” said Yoly Renwick, trying to smile.

    Uncertainly Katerina subsided onto the sofa at Yoly’s side.

    Mr Partridge came to draw up a chair for Janey between Miss Burden and Miss Portia Waldgrave. Portia gave her a pathetic look.

    “I had thought,” continued Janey, clearing her throat, “that basset was rather an outmoded game.”

    “It is one of the games of which every lady should have a grasp. One never knows when one may be asked to make up an elegant card party!” explained Miss Partridge brightly. “Will you deal, Brother, dear?” Mr Partridge dealt competently, what time Miss Partridge told the young ladies a very long story about the time she and Brother had been honoured with an invitation to dinner at Castle Howard, where, cards being mooted after the repast, a game of basset was got up...

    … “One never knows when such a social skill may prove invaluable, does one?” concluded Janey brightly when the elderly brother and sister, all smiles, had at last bowed themselves out. Having ascertained with all the tact in the world that Katerina was not connected to the Pughs of Wynde Abbey—no.

    “Do not,” warned Miss Burden grimly. “Yoly and I had an hour of it before you arrived.”

    “And I had a half-hour,” put in Portia with a sigh.

    “But where is Amanda: why has she been spared?” demanded Janey aggrievedly.

    “She has gone, one gathers, on an illicit expedition with your cousin, Mr d’Annunzio,” said Midge on a grim note. “Fortunately Portia was able to inform me of the fact when the Partridges were out of the room, showing Yoly the iron-jawed countess in the large drawing-room, so I was able to warn her on no account to mention it in front of Miss Partridge.”

    “But she does not strike me as a dragon!” objected Janey gaily.

    “Foolish child,” returned Midge with a groan.

    Janey looked uncertainly at Portia.

    That damsel smiled weakly. “She is not a dragon, but very, very correct about such matters. She was upset to learn I had come in the barouche without my maid.”

    “Er—Portia, you have not got a maid,” said Janey cautiously.

    “No,” agreed Portia with a sigh. “Aunt Catherine’s coachman was on the box and Will Footman up behind, but they did not count.”

    “Help,” said Janey feebly.

    “Actually, Mr d’Annunzio has merely taken Amanda for a drive in the Park,” added Portia with a cautious eye on Miss Burden.

    “Well, yes; the illicitness lay in its not having being explained to Mrs Waldgrave in advance,” admitted Midge drily. “One could not object to the expedition in itself, unless one’s notions were as strict as those of Miss Partridge.”

    “And the iron-jawed countess in the large drawing-room?” ventured Katerina.

    “What? Oh!” said Midge, shuddering. “Yoly will explain.”

    Yoly looked at Katerina sadly. “It’s a picture. There is china, too. That lady collected it.”

    “Bright yellow. Hideous. Mr Partridge says it is very definitely Chinese Um, and beyond price,” said Midge heavily.

    “I think it was Chinese emperor’s... Um, he said so much that I…” Yoly smiled weakly.

    “See? Chinese Um,” said Midge.

    The girls at this all squeaked, and collapsed in giggling fits. Midge looked at them grimly. “Come tomorrow. She is procuring me a dancing master.”

    “We thought you had one,” said Janey, opening her eyes very wide.

    “Yes: is not his name Hallett?” agreed Katerina naughtily.

    “Oh, in that case, she has two, for the one I was thinking of is very tall, with glossy black curls, and his name is Grat—”

    She did not need to finish, the girls had collapsed in giggling fits already.

    “Very well, do not come,” said Midge with a sigh.

    “Dear Miss Burden, of course we shall come!” said Katerina warmly.

    “I shall make Amanda come, too,” said Portia with determination.

    “I really do think that it would be preferable to encouraging her to drive out with young men, however pleasant, behind your mother’s back,” acknowledged Midge drily.

    “Yes,” she said, reddening. “But he is much pleasanter than any of the ones Mamma and Aunt Catherine found. And Amanda likes him better than she does Mr Simon Golightly.”

    “Some of us had been wondering about that,” admitted Janey.

    “Well, yes,” said Katerina, smiling at Portia.

    “She says,” revealed Amanda’s sister, going very pink, “that Mr Golightly is a goop.”

    “Well, he is,” noted Janey reasonably.

    “He is not!” she cried crossly.

    “Girls,” said Miss Burden on a firm note: “this will not do.”

    “No. indeed: Miss Partridge would disapprove entirely of both the tenor and the content!” said Yoly with a smothered giggle.

    “We’ll forgive you for that, in that the entire history of the d’Arresnes family has just been paraded before your blushing maidenly ears,” retorted Janey swiftly.

    “Hah, hah,” said Miss Renwick weakly, blushing again.

    “Your Plantagenet blood must count for something, though, Yoly,” noted Katerina, extra-kindly.

    “Ho! You are not even distantly related to the Pughs of—”

    “Girls!” cried Miss Burden.

    “I do beg your pardon, Miss Burden,” said Katerina, reddening.

    “So do I. And yours, Katerina. And may Wynde Abbey, wherever it be, sink without a trace,” said Yoly remorsefully.

    “So I should think!” Midge rose and rang the bell. “We shall have more tea: I, for one, found that the last lot turned to dust in my mouth!”

    “Millicent would like to tell you about the china in these cabinets, Jarvis, dear,” said Miss Partridge on a firm note.

    “Certainly. –Please, Miss Burden,” he said, bowing.

    Midge stumbled through her party-piece.

    “Very good, Miss Burden,” he approved. “But I thought that the set of pink plates was Famille rose?”

    Miss Partridge nodded brightly at Midge.

    “No, um—these ones? No, um, you see, they are not really pi— Well, of course, they do contain very much—” Midge more or less proved they were Famille verte.

    “Splendid,” he said, smiling. “Cousin Partridge will make an expert of you, yet! And what about the china in the large drawing-room?”

    “Shall we?” said Miss Partridge brightly,

    “I am sure that his Lordship has things to do this morning,” croaked Midge.

    “Not at all,” he said firmly.

    Nodding brightly, Miss Partridge led her off to her fate.

    ... “I made the most abject idiot of myself,” she confessed.

    Janey immediately collapsed in horrible sniggers.

    “Did you call the yellow ones Chinese Um?” asked Katerina, trying not to follow suit.

    “No, I have improved: I called them Chinese emperor’s Um,” confessed Midge glumly.

    Katerina collapsed in horrible sniggers forthwith.

    “He is encouraging the woman!” said Midge in what was perilously near to a wail.

    “Of—course! Wyntonly—fiancée!” gasped Janey.

    Katerina nodded helplessly.

    Midge eyed them grimly. “Well, I have decided. I do not wish to learn about Chinese porcelain collected by the last Countess but fourteen—”

   “Two!” squeaked Janey, collapsing again.

    “However many it be; and as Mr Partridge—”

    “—talks—too—fast,” said Katerina unsteadily, blowing her nose.

    “Quite. Though I was going to say, as he is possibly the worst teacher who ever existed upon the face of the earth, there is little hope of my learning anything. He cannot conceive that the very concepts of which he speaks—”

    “Yes!” squeaked Janey helplessly.

    “—are completely foreign to his listener!” ended Miss Burden loudly.

    “Completely and hopelessly, I would have said,” said Katerina sedately.

    “You must forgive her, Miss Burden, for in the green salon yester night after that amazingly elaborate dinner, whilst Miss Partridge was assisting you at whist,” said Janey primly, “Mr Partridge sequestered her on a sofa and explained the distinction between the style of the Chippendale workshops and the style of merely after Chippendale. –After Chippendale is very mere indeed.”

    Midge stared. “But surely the furniture in the green salon is not—”

    “No: that made it so much easier for her.”

    Katerina laughed feebly, nodding.

    “In that case I most definitely forgive you, Katerina. And if you both wish to run away—though mind, I have not forgiven you anything, Janey Lattersby—you may do so.”

    “No, we have hearts of steel,” Janey assured her.

    “You will need feet of steel. She has brought Mr Junius Brutus Partridge and Mr Marcus Antonius Partridge, aged sixteen and fifteen respectively, to assist. –In the ballroom, assisting her to inspect it, as we speak.”

    Their jaws dropped.

    “Her nephews. The brother in question is a clergyman, and very fond of the Classics. There are several other sons; I cannot recall all of their names, but one is Caius Lucius.”

    “Horatius Quintus?” croaked Katerina, after an appreciable pause.

    Miss Burden replied with the utmost severity: “Certainly not: Horry Quinny Partridge is but three years of age, how could he assist us to learn the gavotte?” and the young ladies collapsed in ecstatic giggles.

    It was all, however, too horridly true, and the rest of the morning was passed in agony under the tutelage of a Signor Navanti.

    … “He is not Italian at all,” croaked Janey, aeons later.

    “No,” agreed Miss Burden. “A Mr Nates. From a family sadly fallen upon hard times. His mother was a—”

    “Do not tell us,” begged Katerina.

    “No,” agreed Portia faintly. The signore had been accompanied by his son, Signor Navanti Junior. All of seventeen. He assisted in partnering. He had not appeared unimpressed by Miss Portia.

    “What did he talk about, Portia?” asked Amanda curiously.

    “Nothing,” she said grimly.

    The young ladies stared: the junior Signor Navanti’s lips had most certainly been observed to move throughout his dances with Miss Portia.

    “I opine it cannot have been nothing, Portia, dear,” said Amanda faintly.

    “He counted,” explained Portia grimly.

    No-one laughed: it was too dreadful.

    ... “The creature is no more Italian than I! And he reeks of violet scent,” noted Lady Caroline grimly.

    “That will be a change from Cousin Partridge’s attar of roses, then,” responded the Earl politely.

    “Jarvis, I am warning you: you will try Millicent’s patience too far!”

    “Shall I?” he said with an odd little smile. “Well, we shall see.”

    “A mere nod will suffice, my dears,” decreed Miss Partridge briskly.

    Numbly Miss Burden, Miss Bottomley-Pugh and Miss Lattersby nodded—merely—at Captain Lord Vyvyan Gratton-Gordon, already with his hat in his hand and an expectant smile on his lips, and the pleasant-looking young man with him.

    The barouche jogged on, followed by the bewildered stares of the gallant hussar and his companion.

    After some time Janey ventured feebly: “What a pity. He was in his regimentals, too.”

    Smiling kindly, Miss Partridge returned: “My dear Janey, I fear that remark almost verged on being a non sequitur! Captain Lord Vyvyan is a mere younger son, you know. Pleasant enough, I grant you, but negligible.”

    Some further time elapsed. Then Katerina croaked: “Miss Partridge, forgive me, but the young man who was with Captain Lord Vyvyan...”

    “Henri-Louis: yes,” she said, nodding brightly.

    Several persons swallowed.

    Brightly Miss Partridge demonstrated to them the mereness of Henri-Louis de Bourbon’s connexion to that sad, sad family, the dubiousness of his claim to any title, the insignificance of his mother’s family and its connections, the inappropriateness of any young lady’s encouraging the attentions of a gentleman who must not only marry well but must marry European royalty (no-one daring to point out any lack of logic in her argument at this point) and, in short, the complete unnecessariness of their stopping to chat with two good-looking, unattached, and apparently interested young gentlemen.

    Mr Partridge proved to his satisfaction that a certain épergne in the Wynton House dining-room was German: silver-gilt, a fine example of the Baroque style. Miss Burden smiled palely. Brightly Mr Partridge, who was a short, plump version of his sister, noted that the épergne was from the same hand as the famous Baroque tureen in Maunsleigh Great Hall! Which he did not suppose—very kindly—that Miss Burden had ever seen? Extra fine, the bowl most curiously wrought, but the splendour of the piece being a Bacchus in his chariot upon the lid. No? The work in the supporting figures of the handles and feet also exquisite: though without that commanding energy combined with a speaking majesty, that characterized the Bar— Why, yes, Miss Burden! Most certainly! Two female figures: not nymphs, no, indeed: bacchantes! And the foot—

    “Yes. ‘Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards’,” she said limply. “I have seen it. Well, not the lid.”

    That set him off in fresh spate. but Midge did not hear a word. Maunsleigh “Great Hall”? Help.

    ... “I confess I do not see.” she said with a faint titter, “how a house that was built, an I mistake not, at about the same period as Castle Howard was commenced under the instructions of Sir John Vanbrugh, comes to possess anything that could be called a Great Hall.”

    “Was this Cousin Partridge?” replied the Earl, unmoved.

    “Oh, certainly! And Miss Partridge!” returned Midge brightly.

    “Mm. You have seen the Great Hall, Miss Burden: Bates would have conducted you through it. Possibly you assumed, as I confess I did on my first visit to the house, that it was the front hall, merely.”

    Miss Burden returned limply: “It was certainly draughty enough.”

    “Indeed. There is a fireplace large enough to take an—”

    “So I remarked,” said Midge grimly. “I collect that the famous Baroque punchbowl normally sits on one of those hideously ornate marble Baroque commodes?”

    “On one of them, or possibly one of the even more ornate but not necessarily marble Rococo ones: yes. Though possibly they are not technically commodes, but merely stands,” he said with a glint in his eye.

    “Thank you, Lord Sleyven! I shall be able to gladden your cousin’s heart by informing him that I have, after all, set eyes on Maunsleigh Great Hall,” replied Midge through her teeth.

    “If you think it wise,” he said politely.

    She stared. “Wise?”

    “He will be shocked, you see,” he said on a diffident note: “for of course I had no hostess at—”

    But Miss Burden had turned bright puce and flounced out.

    “This is very kind, Lady Rockingham,” said Midge limply.

    The pretty little red-haired Marchioness was considerably younger than Midge herself. She returned with a dubious look: “Not at all, Miss Burden. But are you sure you truly—”

    Miss Partridge had been inspecting a cabinetful of china further down the long gallery of Hammond House. She bustled back to them, beaming. “But of course, dear Lady Rockingham! So kind!”

    “Yes. Thank you so much,” said Midge feebly.

    “Well, I shall leave you to it, then.”

    “Thank you,” repeated Midge feebly.

    Little Lady Rockingham directed a sympathetic smile at herself and a kind one at the bobbing Miss Partridge, and hurried away.

    “Now this,” said Miss Partridge immediately, “is the Third Marquis! What a stern face, is it not? Not so fine as the full-length study by the same master which hangs in the Great Gallery at Daynesford Place, out of course, but—”

    The stern-faced Third Marquis of Rockingham, unless Mr Holbein’s brush had lied, was a dark-visaged man in his mid-years who could have passed for the twin of the fellow who was married to that laughing-eyed little red-headed lady with whom they had just been speaking: but what with Miss Partridge’s already having remarked brightly to her Ladyship on the coincidence of there being twenty years between dear Millicent and dearest Jarvis, and—very coy—she dared say, also between Lord and Lady Rockingham, Midge didn’t feel there was anything much she could say. Not while retaining both her gravity and her sanity. Finally she croaked: “It appears rather stiff.”

    Oh, but that was the style of the portrait, in those days! The miracle of Holbein’s work, or so dear Brother would say—and “little me”, of course, was not an expert—was that while the portrait appeared stiff in itself, one gained such an impression of the sitter’s character! Did not Millicent think? Midge thought that she would not care to meet either the Third Marquis or his Marchioness, even grimmer-jawed, on a dark night. Though with the mental reservation that in reality they might have been quite pleasant personalities.

Dearest Letty, wrote Midge grimly,

    I have now seen the picture collection at Hammond House. You may find this hard to believe, but it is worse than that at Wynton House. The title is a much older one and even Miss P. admits that the Hammond family is at least as old as the Wyntons, and there are even more sad, sad stories attached. All of them had at least fourteen wives, each of whom produced five dozen children, all of whom insisted on having their portraits taken before, during and after their sad, sad marriages, all of these portraits either being retained in, or returning to, the family fold, not necessarily—though this may surprise you—as a direct consequence of their sad, sad stories.

    Nota bene: some of them knew Mr Pope, tho’ as to whether it might have been the Fourteenth or Nineteenth Marquis, I cannot tell you. Also Sir John Vanbrugh, but my dear, everybody did: Castle Howard, of course! By the by, never point out to Miss P. either that Maunsleigh is no older than the latter, or that Daynesford Place is a very old structure indeed. The first turns her a sort of boiled purple shade and the second reduces her almost to tears. And also by the by—but of course someone who is a Franklin will know this, tho’ poor Colonel Langford may not, so I pray you will enlighten him immediately—D,A,Y,N,E,S,F,O,R,D reputedly does relate to the D,A,N,E,S, yes, but there was a Wynton who came over with the Conqueror! Which must prove it.

    Lettice collapsed in giggles on receipt of this missive, but the Colonel. though grinning, noted: “Serves her right.”

    “What can you mean, Charles?” she said, wiping her eyes.

    “Oh—nothing.”

    “What did the Earl say to you, when he came down on that flying visit?” demanded his wife suspiciously.

    “Oh—nothing, really.”

    Lettice subjected him to a ruthless interrogation, but the Colonel replied nothing more than: “Jarvis indicated—not in so many words, mind you—that Midge has been giving him a hard time of it. Now, don’t ask me any more, Letty, for that is all I know.”

Dearest Letty,

    I write today from Fullarton Hall. “Oh,” you cry: “what can she be doing at Fullarton Hall? And where is it?” Do not excite yourself, Miss P. dares say it is not above five miles from London—six at most—and we are but to spend a day and a night. Lady C. is not with us but Janey and Katerina have volunteered to sacrifice themselves. For we are not here for enjoyment, but in order to study the finest example of Renaissance something-work in England under Mr P.’s able tutelage, whilst also availing ourselves of the opportunity to look at some extraordinary Dutch genre paintings.—I think I mean filigree-work. Or possibly damascening.—And if you had hitherto assumed that any piece might be said to be within its own genre, then you were sadly out, my dear. Sadly out.

    Later. Sadder & Wiser.

    They are not dead game, as Katerina was predicting, nor flower studies, as d’après Janey, but neat bourgeois interiors. Why anyone would want to waste so much effort in depicting something so essentially dull, is beyond me. True, some delightful flower studies were sighted, but Mr P. hurried us past those: inferior. There is also a Lady Someone by the same hand as that extremely famous portrait of Charles I before they cut his head off, with his horse, and I think his K.C. spaniel, tho’ that may be apocryphal; but alack, I cannot tell you whether she be a Van-This or a Van-The Other or even a Not-Van-at-all, for my head has become utterly muddled.

    I forgot to say: the house belongs to Sir Bernard and Lady Grant-Fullarton and reading between the lines I think the Grants stole it off the Fullartons some centuries since, possibly about the time of K.C., tho’ it may have been earlier, and then legitimized it by a judicious marriage and hyphen. Rather like Henry VII? Do I mean Henry VII or has Richard III muddled me? Tho’ H. VII did not need the hyphen. Forgive me, dearest Letty, I shall have to blow my candle out and close my eyes: my head is spinning.

    The Morrow.

    I also forgot to say, she breeds them: K.C. spaniels, I mean. Possibly that is contributing to the muddle and the spinning. Must close, Sir B. claims he can get me a frank for this. We return to London tomorrow, but in the case anyone was thinking it would be better, it will not: Miss P. has promised us more Signor Navanti, and the Quadrille, for every lady must succeed in dancing the pas d’été with delicate grace. Help.

Yrs in mingled haste & despair,

Midge.

    “Was Jarvis with ’em, or not?” said the Colonel foggily.

    “Not!” replied his wife with a crow of laughter. “Dearest, how blind you are!”

    “Oh,” he said humbly.

    “Aunt Caroline writes that Sleyven is up to something,” reported Lady Judith.

    “Oh?” said the Dean cautiously.

    “Yes. Do you know he let Myrtle Partridge drag Millicent off to Fullarton Hall with those frightful bores Bernard and Miriam Grant-F.?”

    “Whereas you and your aunt,” he said, eyeing her drily, “would merely drag her off to Castle Wade with those bores the G.-Gs.”

    “Gratton Hall: they do not reside at the castle,” corrected Lady Judith, frowning. “Sleyven is like to ruin everything! Myrtle Partridge’s version of town bronze is calculated to give Millicent a disgust of the life she will be expected to lead as Lady Sleyven.”

    “Mm... Has he changed his mind?” he asked bluntly.

    Lady Judith went very red. “No! And he would not take such an underhand method of intimating to Millicent that he had done so, an he had!”

    “Does he suspect that she has changed hers, then?”

    “And—and is using the Partridge female to afford her a—an excuse...? Oh, surely not, David!”

    “Langford says he can be damned devious on occasion.”

    “This is not the occasion,” she stated grimly.

    “No, I don’t think it is,” he agreed mildly.

    “If only I could go to Gratton Hall with them!” said Lady Judith in despair, glaring at the offending ankle.

    “My God, don’t say they are?” he said in horror.

    “Yes! David, I have told you of this! They will spend several weeks on a round of country visits before returning to Maunsleigh for Christmas!”

    “Well, yes, but Gratton Hall?”

    “It appears Lady Wade approves of Millicent,” said Lady Judith on a careless note.

    Strong-minded man though he was, the Dean was reduced to a gulp.

Next chapter:

https://thepatchworkparasol.blogspot.com/2022/11/country-visits.html