Lord And Lady Sleyven

35

Lord And Lady Sleyven

    Slight having informed her Ladyship that his Lordship was in his study and would be grateful for a word at her convenience, Midge grimly drank two cups of coffee and ate a roll which she did not want at all, before going in there. Jarvis was alone. This meant that she did not have to be polite to Mr Crayshaw, but on the other hand it also meant that the evil moment could not be delayed.

    “Good morning, Midge,” he said politely, rising.

    Midge gave him a glare. “It may be a good morning for others, but as you must be aware it is not for me, why do you not skip the pleasantries? I am here to be growled at, so please get it over with.”

    Jarvis sat down slowly. “That is your picture of married life, is it?”

    “It is certainly my picture of ours, and it is the result of observation, not imagination,” retorted his wife instantly, sticking out her stubborn chin.

    “Then I can only apologise.”

    Midge merely gave him a nasty look.

    “I apologise for being a curmudgeonly husband, Midge,” said Jarvis with a sigh, passing his hand over his forehead. “Please sit down.”

    She sat down, eyeing him warily.

    “You are not on report,” said Jarvis, chewing on his lip.

    “Really? This humblest member of the chummery, oh gharib-parwaz,” said Midge, not as if she was beginning to relent her grimness, but quite to the contrary, “most certainly had that impression. Possibly it had something to do with being called into the Colonel Sahib’s study to find him on duty behind his desk at crack of dawn.”

    “I see. I did not meant to give the impression of calling you in here. I merely thought it would be conveniently private.”

    Midge’s face was completely unresponsive.

    Jarvis bit his lip. He got up, came out from behind his desk, and pulled up a chair next to hers. “Midge,” he said, taking her hands firmly in his and trying to ignore the fact that she tried to pull them away, “could we perhaps talk about how we would like our marriage to be?”

    “Um, very well,” said Midge warily.

    “Please, you first.”

    “Um… No, you go first,” she said on a weak note.

    “I think you must see that if you already have the feeling that you are on report, my putting my point of view first would not be helpful. Please: how did you imagine it would be, Midge?”

    Scowling horribly, his wife admitted: “I suppose I had no exact picture in my head at all. Um, I knew there would be horrible dinner parties at which I would have to wear a fancy gown and play hostess. Um, well, actually I have discovered I like wearing fancy gowns,” she admitted weakly.

    “Yes? That is a start.”

    “Um, yes,” said Midge inanely. “Um… I thought we would be at Maunsleigh more. I thought we would lead more of a country-house life.”

    “I have already—” Jarvis took a deep breath. “Yes. I’m sorry. I do have to come up to town for the damned sittings of parliament. And in addition there is considerable business which, in view of my late cousin’s practice, not to say those of every damned Earl of Sleyven who preceded him, I feel needs my supervision. Largely in order that the London real property is not allowed to turn into slums, out of which the Wyntons then grind inordinate sums.”

    Midge nodded.

    “Yes. Would you prefer to stay at Maunsleigh when I am in town?”

    “No,” said Midge in a tiny voice.

    “I am glad to hear it. I did not mean to interrupt you, my dear: please go on.”

    She licked her lips. “Um… I don’t know. Once I had got used to the size of Maunsleigh and got to know the people, I suppose I envisaged spending a part of the day on the household affairs.”

    “Yes, of course. You may do that here, too.”

    “It is all terribly well under control. And of course there is no dairy or anything of that sort,” she said wanly.

    Jarvis had not been aware that his wife took an interest in the dairy at Maunsleigh. He blinked, but nodded.

    “I like cows,” said Midge wanly.

    “Er—yes. I’m sorry, Midge, but you are not managing to make much sense.”

    “I know, and I can’t say, because I could never envisage it!” she cried loudly.

    “I see. Well, let us attack it from another angle. What would you like it to be, Midgey?”

    “I don’t know,” said Midge weakly. “I suppose… Just you and me, in a little house like Bluebell Dell, really. Well, with our parlourmaid, and Hutton for the outside work. Well, you asked!” she cried indignantly as he winced.

    “Mm. So I did. Could you perhaps try to be more realistic?”

    “I don’t know…” she said wanly. “I suppose I have not seen… Letty is so very different from me: I never for a second imagined I could be like her. And then, I have always known she was a very domestic woman. Um, well, Lady Caroline is a widow, and then, I think possibly hers was one of those very formal marriages. And Cousin Myrtle has only ever shown me the outsides…”

    “The outsides? Oh, I see.”

    “Lady Judith and the Dean seem to—to manage very well, even though she does fly up at him sometimes. But then they both have duties. I—I don’t know. How do the nice ones, luh-like the Rockinghams, manage?”

    Jarvis was glad to hear she was admitting that the Rockinghams were the nice ones. “I don’t really know.”

    “Well, it is clear they adore each other. And she is very young,” said Midge with a sigh. “I suppose she was more… malleable.”

    Jarvis bit his lip but did not say anything.

    “I suppose I had a stupid idea we might do things together. Though I don’t know what things. Well, all the things I thought of were impossibly bourgeois, and even at home I don’t know of any couples who do them.”

    “Er—what, Midgey?” he said blankly.

    “Take walks together, I suppose. Letty and Will did, when he was home, I do know that. Of course he wasn’t home very much. But Lady Ventnor and Sir William never seem to so much as stroll together, and nor do the Somertons, or the Vicar and Mrs Waldgrave. Mr Patterson hunts, but she does not. And I know nothing at all of their home life, but the whole district knows he spends hours in his strawberry gardens, and Katerina mentioned that he certainly seemed to be out there most of the time when they stayed there that time.”

    “You don’t wish us to be like the Pattersons, do you?” he fumbled.

    “No.”

    “I confess that is a relief. Um, well, we could take walks… I could set aside a time every morning, if you wish. We could either walk or drive. Or if you prefer, we could ride. I know you feel your riding is not up to the standards of the dashers one meets in the Park, Midge, but truthfully, is that a consideration?”

    After a moment, Midge went very red. “It ought not to be, I know. Um, well, if you were with me I wouldn’t mind nearly so much. So long as you didn’t ride off with… them,” she ended hoarsely.

    “Them? The dashers such as Mrs Everard Stanhope, or that cousin of hers, the Bon-Dutton hag? –Unmarried female. Coldly Classical looks: you admired ’em at the opera, Midge.”

    “Oh, yes: the dark lady. She looked very unhappy. Does she ride?”

    “Mm. Hunts, too,” he said drily. “I can promise you I would not ride off with any of them or any other lady, if you were by my side.” He eyed her drily. “At the least, by my side and not giving too much encouragement to fools like Micky Fox or Hallett or little H.-L.; I am only human, you know.”

    “Yes,” said Midge, chewing on her lip. “Um, we have not a gentle horse in town, though.”

    “I shall procure one for you. And in the meantime, shall we appoint a time for walking?”

    “Um, yes,” said Midge faintly, goggling as her husband opened the big desk diary. “I thought that was only for Mr Crayshaw to write appointments in. I see,” she said faintly as he shook his head: “you need to—to have your day completely planned.”

    “Er, say rather, I have that sort of nature in any case, and through having had a lot of administrative detail to handle in the course of my career, I have learnt that one must impose a timetable and stick to it, otherwise the day is frittered away.”

    Midge nodded numbly. She watched numbly as he chose a time, agreed with him numbly that it would be suitable, promised numbly that if she was too tired any morning, she would say and not pretend otherwise, and watched numbly as he closed the book, smiling.

    “There!” he said.

    “Yes. Juh-Jarvis, a puh-person cannot be entered into a timetable and—and fixed,” faltered Midge.

    “No, but it is a great step forward, don’t you think?” he said pleasedly.

    “Mm. Um, well, walking would be pleasant: yes.”

    “Yes. Then perhaps we might drive in the barouche? I do not think I can manage every day, but say, three afternoons a week?”

    Midge nodded feebly and let him choose the afternoons without pointing out that one's other social engagements were highly unlikely to coincide with the non-driving afternoons.

    “What else?” he said brightly.

    “Just—just spending time together,” she faltered.

    “Well, this arrangement will certainly allow us to do that!” he said happily.

    “Yes. I promise I will try not to flout your wishes deliberately,” said Midge feebly.

    “Well, thank you, Midgey, and I promise very sincerely not to behave like a curmudgeon, and to trust your judgement!” he said gaily, kissing her hand.

    “Yes. None of those imbeciles means a thing to me. Well, I like H.-L., but he is just a boy. Actually, I feel rather as if he were my son,” admitted Midge somewhat feebly. Oh, dear: he was looking so pleased, and yet she herself did not feel that they had resolved anything at all!

    “Ah,” he said, looking at her closely. “If you are worrying about not starting a baby, Midgey, darling—”

    “No. Please don’t find another doctor for me, Jarvis. Everyone from Lady Caroline down to Mrs Horrocks has assured me that one cannot rush these things and Nature must take its own time.”

    “Mrs Horrocks? Oh, little May’s grandmother!” he said with a laugh, squeezing her hands. “So you spoke to her, did you? That’s good. I am glad you are managing to see a little of the old things!”

    “Yes. When one calls,” said Midge, clearing her throat, “they are always sitting together in their front parlour, very—very companionably, you know.”

    “I’m glad to hear it,” he responded nicely.

    Midge looked at him with a sort of despair. Oh, dear, couldn’t he see? “Yes: they are very happy together,” she said limply.

    “Of course, of course! So much for my late unlamented cousin’s edicts, mm?” he said happily.

    Midge gave up. At least he was agreeing to spend time with her, that was a plus. Of course it would be too much to expect him to suggest something she might usefully do to occupy her time when he wasn’t conscientiously walking with her or driving with her. Nevertheless she ventured cautiously: “Um, I really need more to do. Not so much at Maunsleigh, of course, but in town.”

    “Well, the redecoration of the house is not nearly complete, is it? And if you wish to visit furniture auctions with Vyv G.-G., I promise I shall not kick up, and if any Society cat dares to mention the matter in front of me, I shall say I had full knowledge of it.”

    “Yes, well, next time I shall ask Susi-Anna to accompany us,” said Midge feebly. “I would have, last time, but there was no time, we would have lost that suite had we delayed.”

    “Of course! And my dear, you could usefully spend a little of your time endeavouring to promote a match there, you know.”

    Midge did not attempt to put the point that if two young persons did not care, no amount of promotion would help, and if they did, Nature would inevitably find a way without the help of the Countess of Sleyven. She merely agreed limply.

    “I suppose I could not go on giving Jenny some lessons, could I?” she added wistfully.

    “I am afraid that would not do,” he admitted regretfully. “All the cats would talk.”

    Midge sighed. “Would they talk if she were not your daughter?” she said dully.

    A flush mounted to his high cheekbones but he replied calmly enough: “Yes. The Countess of Sleyven does not give French or Italian lessons, my dear. I'm very sorry.”

    “I see. I had thought it was something like that, but I had to ask, because if it was only the other, then there are a couple of Lady Caroline’s granddaughters who might— No. I see.”

    “There would be no objection to your inviting a few young ladies for French or Italian conversation, of course, my dear,” said Jarvis on an anxious note. “You could have an afternoon, perhaps? Almost a little salon?” He smiled hopefully.

    “A little salon,” said Midge in hollow tones. “Yes. That is an idea.”

    “Good: you think about it! Now, we shall commence our little walks, or rides, tomorrow, and I shall see immediately about getting you a nice gentle mount for town. In fact—” Midge watched numbly as he made a note to himself.

    After that he seemed to think that they had settled everything and intimated very nicely that he did have an appointment—but of course he could have Slight ask them to wait if there was anything further at all she wished to bring up—?

    Midge looked at him numbly. He seemed to have completely forgotten the point that he had not revealed to her what his vision of the Sleyvens’ married life had been. “Um, no, not me,” she fumbled. “Did you— Um, I mean, is that what you want our life to buh-be?”

    “Mm? Oh, Heavens, yes, Midgey!” he said, smiling very much. “Making sure we have a regular time to see each other and spend some time together—why, yes! Ideal! Very cosy! And possibly we could try to spend more of our evenings at home, mm?”

    “But you have to go the House,” she croaked, rising numbly to her feet.

    “Yes, and of course on those evenings I should not dream of insisting you stay in all by yourself,” he said kindly, going over to hold the door for her.

    Midge was conscious of the indignant thought: Why not? After all, he was her husband, and shouldn’t he be saying he did want her to stay home and wait for him, rather than gallivanting about all over the town? She did not express it, for after all, he was being very generous and—and magnanimous, really. And driving out every other afternoon with one’s own husband would certainly be vastly preferable to driving out with Commodore Hallett or Commander Sir Arthur Jerningham or Micky Fox and their ilk. Vastly.

    “Yes. Thank you, Jarvis,” she said politely.

    He laughed, and put his hand under her chin, and kissed her very hard.

    “I do love you,” said Midge in a choked voice, tears starting to her eyes.

    “I know. It is just, living together is not so easy, is it?”

    “No.” Midge did not have any very strong feeling that it would start immediately to get better, however. Even though she said politely: “I shall look forward to our morning walk together, tomorrow.”

    “Of course! And I hope we shall see a little of each other rather before that!” he said in that teasing voice of his.

    Midge had by now had more than time to reach the melancholy conclusion that it must be a voice he had used with various ladies, not to mention any names, in the past, and that he was fully aware of its effect. Realising this of course did nothing to make her immune to it. “Yes,"’ she said in a small voice, blushing. “Good.”

    “Indeed!” he agreed with a laugh. “Oh, and mind: you have my permission to buy as much furniture for anyone you please, with Vyv G.-G.’s assistance!”

    Midge smiled feebly, nodded, and tottered off.

    Quite some time later Slight discovered her in the breakfast room. “My Lady!” he said in a shaken voice. “Did you—did you perhaps require more refreshment?”

    “What?” replied Midge dully. “Oh.” She looked around her dazedly. “No, thank you Slight, I am not in here for breakfast. I—I think perhaps I came back in here because I was in here before… The house is so huge,” she ended lamely.

    Slight agreed in a fatherly manner that Wynton House, indeed, was not small. And perhaps she might care to sit in the small salon?

    “Yes. Well, um, yes. And perhaps I could check tonight’s menu,” said Midge on a hopeful note.

    Very respectfully Slight reminded her Ladyship that she and his Lordship were dining out tonight with Lady Frayn.

    Midge nodded numbly and tottered off to the small salon. At least Jarvis had not given her a dressing-down. Though she was conscious of a certain feeling that she had deserved it. It was, however, a great relief not to have had a fight with him, for of course she would not have taken it meekly, like one of his stupid subalterns. But how could a person believe—actually believe, and there was no doubt he did—that he had sorted everything out when the other person nearly involved could see very clearly that he had not? Help.

    Corinna’s dinner party that evening was very much the usual thing: a scattering of orders, a scattering of the diplomatic corps, not a few dress uniforms… They were all pretty much of Corinna’s own generation, and thus of Jarvis’s, with the notable exceptions of Son Altesse le Prince Henri-Louis and M. le Vicomte d’Arresnes. And also with the exception of two fubsy-faced little sisters whom surely not even their mother could seriously have supposed either young man would look at twice. Jarvis watched with resignation as, the gentlemen rejoining the ladies, the two Frenchmen hastened to Lady Sleyven’s side and remained there. Cards were mooted, of course, and inevitably Jarvis ended up playing whist. True, old Hugh Throgmorton was an excellent card player and so was Viccy Grey. That was scarcely the point. Well, it was preferable to faro and gossip at Corinna’s table, certainly. Some kind-natured ladies might, on observing the two fubsy-faced young damsels sitting glumly with the old cousin whom Corinna sometimes trotted out in the rôle of duenna at such gatherings, have roped them into—well, given that no game of cards for five players sprang readily to mind, spillikins? Jarvis in fact would have expected the old Midge to perform such an act with scarcely a second’s hesitation, but Lady Sleyven appeared absorbed in the inevitable hand of écarté.

    Corinna’s whist parties in India had frequently involved the hostess’s forcing one, once one had found some compatible companions who could give one a really decent game, to rotate around the tables in order to expose oneself to all the least compatible players the gathering could afford: she appeared, alas, not to have changed her old habits. Jarvis and his table were left in peace for about three hands before her Ladyship rustled up ruthlessly and broke the table up. Jarvis walked off while she was in the act of forcing poor Viccy to partner Lady Ariadne Pugh.

    “Midge,” he said, interrupting her game without ceremony: “could you not take pity on those two little girls?”

    “What?” she said blankly. “Oh. Well, I am sure Mrs Richard Frayn does not allow them to play cards. Um, well, lottery tickets or spillikins?” she said dubiously.

    Gallantly M. le Vicomte rose and volunteered to ask their hostess if there were any spillikins in the house. Such being produced, Jarvis was soon gratified by the spectacle of his wife’s head very, very, very close to that of Henri-Louis as the augmented group bent over the table…

    “It didn’t work,” said Midge as he handed her into the carriage and seated himself beside her with a sigh.

    “No. Er—what?” said Jarvis, twitching slightly.

    “Throwing the two poor little Frayn cousins at H.-L. and the Vicomte. I know you meant it kindly, but the two little things were in an agony of shyness the entire time.”

    “Oh,” he said lamely.

    “H.-L. resented it a little, in spite of his lovely manners, you know.”

    “Oh?”

    “Mm, he started a conversation with d’Arresnes in French. Miss Frayn and Miss Victoria have only English schoolroom French of the most elementary kind, and could not follow a word. Of course he stopped fairly soon; he only did it to indicate his annoyance. They did not realise, of course,” she added kindly.

    “No.”

    There was silence in the comfortably appointed Wynton town carriage.

    “Jarvis,” said his wife, clearing her throat, “I—I did not mean to, but I was desperate for conversation, and poor little Miss Frayn was admiring their French, so—um—I am afraid I mentioned your idea of foreign conversation afternoons in front of H.-L., and—and he has taken it up,” she said, swallowing.

    After a moment Jarvis managed to say: “That would certainly explain why he bowed very low and bade me an elaborate farewell in his native tongue using a style which would not have disgraced the court of le Roi Soleil in its heyday.”

    “Yes,” said Midge miserably.

    Heroically Jarvis tried to restrain himself. He did not succeed, and broke down in helpless laughter.

    “Are you laughing?” cried his wife indignantly.

    “I’m—sorry—Midge! You’re—hopeless!” he gasped helplessly.

    “That is not fair!” she cried loudly. “After I had nerved myself to confess, too!”

    Jarvis blew his nose. “You are seeing me as a curmudgeon, again, I fear.”

    Midge glared. “So? I warn you, there is more.”

    “Goodness, is there? I shall be forced to beat you.”

    “That is not amusing. He has promised us a rondeau. Or possibly a sonnet. D’Arresnes bet him that he cannot manage the sonnet form so it will probably be that.” Jarvis’s shoulders shook. Midge pouted. “And—and I am sorry, but in spite of all Lady Caroline’s and Cousin Myrtle’s tutoring, I do not know how to stop a French princeling who has promised to come to my non-existent salon with a poem!” she said loudly.

    Jarvis broke down in renewed hysterics.

    “Very well, I shall have a beastly salon!” shouted Midge, very red.

    “Yes, do—that!” he gasped.

    “That would not count as encouraging him, I presume?” she cried bitterly.

    “No. I mean, it probably would. I shall cuh-come, I could not stay away to save my life,” he said unsteadily, blowing his nose.

    “Oh. Um, well, that will certainly be a—a deterrent,” said his wife feebly.

    “Poor Midgey,” he said, patting her hand. Affecting not to notice that she immediately snatched the hand away, he said kindly: “All you had to say was: ‘Prince, that is too flattering, but I will spare you the pains, for the plan is not yet definite. But should I hold a salon, and should it be in need of a French rondeau or sonnet, you shall be the first on my list.’” He waited, his eyes twinkling.

    Lady Sleyven did not laugh. Nor did she say that she wished she had thought to say that, and it was the very thing. What she did say was, on a note of despair: “You sound unutterably ladylike. I shall never manage to be as ladylike as you if I live to an hundred.”

    Jarvis swallowed. “Ladylike? You cannot be serious,” he said faintly.

    “Yes. I suppose it’s growing up as a Wynton. I know you were not brought up in the expectation of inheriting; nevertheless.”

    “Midge, you imbecile, I was joking,” he said limply.

    “No, you weren’t, Jarvis, it sounded perfectly splendid. Lightly amused, but yet a definite refusal. And not prim,” said Midge in awe.

    “I confess I am glad to hear that you do not find me prim.”

    “No. Um, I could write him a note saying it was all a mistake!” she offered eagerly.

    “Midge, please, please do me the immense favour of not writing H.-L., or indeed, any gentleman to whom you are not nearly related, any notes whatsoever.”

    “I suppose it would not do… But if it were a very cool note? You could edit it!” she offered eagerly.

    “No. Though I thank you for the offer. No notes.”

    Midge thought it over. “Jarvis, I have the most splendid idea! Write him a note yourself, in French, telling him it was a mistake! Be very, very stately!”

    “After the fashion of the court of le Roi Soleil? Er… The idea appeals, but I fear we should become the joke of the town approximately five minutes after he had received it.”

    Midge frowned over it. “Bother. In any case, the Vicomte said he would come, and so did the Miss Frayns. You would also have to write to— Well, I would write to the girls, of course.”

    “Midge, have the damned French afternoon!” he said loudly.

    “It looks as if I shall have to,” said his wife glumly.

    The glum note did not strike her husband’s ear as inappropriate: indeed, he took her hand very tightly in his and said: “I shall come, do not fear.”

    “Thank you. But I am afraid it will be a dreadful waste of an afternoon.”

    “On the contrary, I am looking forward to it tremendously.”

    Midge sighed. “I wish you wouldn't say that sort of thing.”

    “Er, it was true,” he ventured cautiously.

    “Was it? I can never tell when you are joking,” she said with a sigh. “Harry says one can always tell, but I cannot. I think it’s because I get too nervous to think, when I’m with you.”

    Jarvis felt as if his ears were humming. “What?” he croaked.

    Midge bit her lip. “Yes. I’m terribly in awe of you. It doesn't seem to have worn off.”

    “Not all the time, surely?” he managed to croak.

    “N— Um, well, yes, I suppose. Well, not when you’re truly relaxed, I suppose,” she said dubiously.

    “If you mean to imply that I am seldom if ever truly relaxed, Midge, I must point out to you there are times when any man is truly—”

    “Not—not then!” she gulped.

    “I’m very glad to hear it!”

    “Life would be very simple if it was just us and our big bed,” said the Countess of Sleyven after some thought.

    Jarvis peered at her in the gloom of the carriage. He was not imagining that scowl on her face, no. “Yes, it would, my dear. And very lovely,” he said gently.

    “It’s so ridiculous!” burst out Midge. ‘That was the—the aspect of married life I was most anxious about, and yet it is the—the easiest! And the most enjoyable, so do not fish!” she ordered before he could open his mouth.

    “Well, I’m gla—”

    “It’s everything else that’s so hard!”

    “Um, yes, I know, Midgey. I am trying,” he said meekly.

    “Yes. It isn’t you, it’s me,” said the Countess of Sleyven glumly.

    Jarvis said nothing, for to say truth he did not know whether it would be better to agree or disagree. Fortunately the carriage drew up at Wynton House at that moment, so he did not need to say anything.

    “You could—er—relax me,” he murmured in her ear as they went slowly up the stairs together. “If you are not too tired.”

    “I am scarcely ever too tired. Well, not too tired to—um—let you.”

    “Mm,” he said, smiling. He followed her into her room. May was there, but to his relief Midge dismissed her without having to be prompted.

    “Shouldn’t you let Fonteroi put those clothes away?”

    “Mm? Oh, damn my clothes. Come here!” He pulled her to him and kissed her thoroughly.

    “You know what you said?” said Midge cautiously as he paused for breath.

    “Mm? When, Midgey?”

    “Oh—well, it was one morning, I think. Or was it an evening? We were in here, at all events. You said we could be bourgeois and leave the titles outside the bedroom door.”

    “Mm? Oh yes, certainly, Mrs Wynton!” he said with a laugh. “How does this damned gown unfasten?”

    “Be careful, it cost far too much. It has a thousand tiny buttons down the back.”

    “Turn round.”

    Midge turned round and he began undoing the tiny buttons, discovering that he had to kiss the various portions of her anatomy that were gradually revealed as he did so.

    “Um, well, the thing is, you still have your bedroom,” said Midge.

    “Mm. Well, Fonteroi would be unutterably shocked an I did not. I do not have to sleep in it, however, if you do not wish it. But—er—some nights I get back terribly late from the House.”

    “That is just the point!” said Midge loudly, twisting out of his grasp and turning to face him. “If we were Mr and Mrs Wynton, even if you were a Member of Parliament, there would be no question of your going off to an impossibly grand bedroom with a gigantic bed that is big enough for a regiment of belted earls!”

    “Gothick. Matches the damned gargoyles downstairs.”

    “Exactly!”

    “Do you wish me to swear that I will never sleep in the damned room, is that it?”

    “Yes. Well, once the babies come,” said Midge, going very red, “there will be times when you will find it convenient to have a room of your own. But—well, couldn’t we?”

    “Absolutely. Tell them to strip the damned bed.”

    “Ye-es… Even if you’re very cross with me?” she said in a small voice.

    “Yes! Come here!” he said, laughing. “Mm, darling Midgey,” he said into her neck. “These little buttons are so tempting… ”

    “Yes!” said Midge on a breathless laugh as he nibbled her flesh above one of the lower little buttons.

    She was not, of course, experienced enough in the ways of the male sex to know that anything a gentleman said at this juncture could be utterly ignored; and that he himself would in all probability have no recollection at all of anything he had said at this point. Nevertheless, when they had snuggled down together like Darby and Joan, quite some time later, she was conscious of certain doubts. He was so very well trained, and very evidently considered it not at all the thing to creep into one's marital bed at four-thirty in the morning, or whatever ridiculous hour it was at which the stupid House finished its stupid sittings. Could he, in spite of promises, alter his habits to that extent? And would it—lowering reflection—actually help to improve matters between them, outside of the bedroom, if he did?

    When Midge awoke next morning, admittedly not at a particularly early hour, there was no sign of him. She rang for May and her chocolate, and then bathed and dressed, wondering silently if he truly did mean to walk out with her this morning.

    She had expected, though without verbalising the notion, that he would join her for breakfast, and so was very disconcerted to find the breakfast room occupied only by Slight and George. The more so as Slight did not usually attend her in person at breakfast.

    “Has—has his Lordship breakfasted, Slight?” she ventured.

    “Oh, yes, my Lady. Some time since. He is in his study with Mr Crayshaw. He asked me to say, my Lady, should you enquire, that he has not forgotten about the walk,” returned Slight at his most benign.

    ‘Thank you,” said Midge feebly. She drank coffee and ate a roll in a dazed state, not noticing that she had neglected to put butter or jam on it.

    “Beg pardon, my Lady,” said George hoarsely. “There is strawberry jam, this morning.”

    Midge jumped. “Oh,” she said lamely, perceiving that Slight was looking severely at the poor young man. “Thank you so much, George. Of course there is. Lovely.” Eagerly George handed her the plate of rolls, the butter and the jam. Limply Midge spread butter and jam on her second roll. The thing was, she recognised dazedly, Jarvis must have had to rearrange his entire day’s timetable—no, it would of course be his entire week’s timetable: every morning except Sunday, in fact—in order to fit in their walk! So he had got up early in order to do the tasks which otherwise he would have done… Oh, help.

    At ten minutes to the appointed hour, having done every other task she could possibly think of to fill the intervening period, incidentally causing the chef much gratification by taking an intense interest in his menu for the evening, not to mention asking his advice in the pre-planning of a dinner party they were to hold in some ten days’ time, and having changed her mind about which bonnet to wear several times, Midge tottered along to the study.

    Mr Crayshaw opened the door, all smiles, bade her good-morning, and informed her that his Lordship would be with her on the instant. And she remembered his Lordship’s solicitor, of course? Mr Lockett.

    “Yes, of course. How do you do, Mr Lockett? How very nice to see you again,” lied Midge valiantly. It was not that Mr Lockett was at all an unpleasant person, but the sight of him could not but call to mind that huge, embarrassing and unnecessary document of settlement which Jarvis had insisted she understand before it was signed. Mr Lockett had been unable to hide his shock at Miss Burden’s declaring that she did not want any widow’s portion at all. And had fallen over himself to assure her that it was quite the usual thing. Midge had not thought that that sort of sum was in any wise a usual thing, but had been too intimidated by the whole business to insist.

    “I am afraid I am a trifle early,” she added feebly, looking at her husband engrossed in an immense ledger and a great pile of papers.

    “No, no: Mr Lockett and I have almost finished, Midge,” said Jarvis with a preoccupied smile.

    “Yes.” Midge had been prepared to make some merry remark to Mr Crayshaw along the lines of, if there should be a bench or some such on which other ranks might wait for the Colonel, she would sit on it. She did not dare to say anything of the sort in front of Mr Lockett, for what if Jarvis should be embarrassed by it? “Um, don't hurry, Jarvis, I shall see you in the front hall,” she said feebly.

    “Five minutes, Midgey, if you would not mind,” he said in that preoccupied voice.

    “Yes, of course,” muttered Midge, vanishing.

    In the front hall George was industriously polishing the newel post, not his job, Maunsleigh Frederick was assiduously adjusting some flowers in a vase, definitely not his job, young John was vigorously shaking out a greatcoat of his Lordship’s, possibly not his job, and the hall porter and Wynton-House Frederick were looking very important indeed. They could scarce have indicated more clearly had they had it writ upon their foreheads that they were legitimately on duty in the hall.

    Midges smiled feebly as George and Wynton-House Frederick jostled to set a chair for her. There were several stationary chairs which she could well have taken. She sank limply onto George’s, since he had reached her first. “His Lordship is just coming,” she murmured.

    “Yes, my Lady,” agreed George pleasedly. Briskly he removed the greatcoat from John’s grasp. “I ’ardly think his Lordship will need this today. Take it up to Mr Fonteroi, h’if you please, Frederick,” he said firmly to Wynton-House Frederick.

    “But I’m on duty— Um, yes, right away, George,” he muttered as the senior footman gave him a hard look. He scurried upstairs with the coat.

    “Was there not some scheme, my lad,” said George to young John with horrid geniality, “h’of you a-learning up about cruets this morning?”

    “Yes, George,” he muttered, disappearing in the direction of the back regions.

    George linked his hands behind his back and rocked on his heels slightly, looking pleased. “One ’as to keep a h’eye on such lads, my Lady. They is well meaning, but that is all what can be said,” he explained.

    “Er—yes,” said Midge limply. Belatedly it dawned, as George looked hard at Maunsleigh Frederick, but did not speak, that the head footman of Wynton House was not taking it upon himself to intimate aloud that the front hall was not a desirable place for the visiting head footman of Maunsleigh to be. Help!

    Silence fell. George rocked slightly. Maunsleigh Frederick finished the flowers and picked up a hat of his Lordship’s which he began brushing industriously, almost certainly not his job. Midge tried desperately to think of something to say that would not favour one above the other, not indicate to George that she positively approved of his having banished the other two boys… Oh, dear!

    As the large long-case clock in the hall at last struck the hour, Midge tottered to her feet. It felt like an aeon had passed but very evidently it had been but ten minutes. Exactly.

    Jarvis thought she should wear a shawl, so they waited while a message was sent for May to fetch one. Just as Jarvis was pre-empting May in an attempt to arrange it becomingly round Lady Sleyven’s shoulders, John reappeared from the back regions, complete with Dumpkin.

    “That creature may— Yes! Good boy! Down!” said his Lordship loudly as Dumpkin, great tongue lolling, tail waving, fawned on him eagerly. “It may come on its lead and not otherwise! Down! Sit!” Dumpkin, panting eagerly, ceased positively to paw his Lordship’s waistcoat but not the most charitable of imaginations could have said he sat. “Get his lead, please, John!” added Jarvis, somewhat loudly.

    John jumped, and scurried to obey.

    Midge found, for one reason or another, that she did not have the intestinal fortitude to tell her husband that she had really had no intention of bringing the half-trained, no, quarter-trained Dumpkin on their walk. Since John, having clipped the lead onto the heavy collar with which Jarvis had long since endowed Dumpkin, then presented it to his Lordship with a hopeful smile, Midge did not say, either, that she had not intended that Jarvis should have to walk the dog.

    “Come along,” he said mildly.

    Midge glanced at his face but it was inscrutable as ever. “Yes,” she agreed faintly, taking his free arm.

    They had walked halfway round Blefford Square and turned their footsteps in the direction of the Park before she ventured in a small voice: “Don’t walk too fast for him, Jarvis, will you?”

    Jarvis stopped dead out of sheer amazement. “Midge, my angel,” he croaked, “the creature was bred as a damned sled dog, he is fitted for pulling enormous sleighs full of people through ten feet of snow!”

    “Ye-es… Well, I think they do it in teams. He doesn’t seem to be keeping up.”

    “He is not keeping up, as you call it,” said Jarvis mildly, “because in spite of all my efforts he is a half-trained pup who has not yet grasped the concept of ‘Walk.’ Let us just be thankful that he seems to have grasped the concept of not piddling on Lord Blefford.”

    “Ssh!” she hissed frantically, even though there was no sign of any of the Narrowmines. “He would not… Well, he only did it to Mr Somerton that dreadful morning because he could sense he does not like him.”

    Jarvis had been ostensibly in charge of the brute on what she so rightly referred to as “that dreadful morning.” “Mm. Well, if he did not dislike him then, he most certainly does now. And we have no proof, may I remind you, that Blefford likes either dogs in general or this one in particular.”

    “Stop it. He is the nicest man,” said Midge faintly.

    “Oh, I entirely agree. Is he,” said Jarvis, a sparkle in his eye which his wife did not perceive, “a fellow what adds to his niceness the attribute of liking huge, white, fluffy overgrown lapdogs?”

    “I don’t know. –Lady Frayn was trying to foist the other two on me the other night, she has grown tired of the joke at Mrs Weaver-Grange’s expense,” revealed Midge mournfully.

    At this, sad to state, Lord Sleyven went into a helpless, sniggering paroxysm on the pavement of one of the most desirable streets in fashionable London.

    Midge just sagged limply, incapable even of smiling. So he wasn’t cross in general about having his morning upset, and not annoyed in particular with having Dumpkin foisted on him, and… well, not cross with her. Early and unannounced departure from her bed or not.

    Eventually Jarvis, having released his wife’s arm in order to blow his nose, and having taken her arm again, was capable of producing feebly: “Where are we going, Midgey?”

    “Well, just walking.”

    “Er—yes, but where to?” She looked blank so he prompted: “You must have some goal in mind. Do not mind me, I am happy to go wherever you wish. Where would you go, if you were merely walking Dumpkin?”

    “Um, I would just walk,” said Midge lamely.

    “But you must have some goal in mind!” he repeated with a protesting little laugh.

    At this point certain remarks of Letty’s in re gentlemen and “aimless” walks or drives came back very, very forcibly to Millicent Wynton. Oh, dear. It had not just been one of those things that married ladies, even the best of them, said in order to demonstrate their superiority to one’s spinster self. And Jarvis was, very evidently, just like all the other husbands. “No,” she said faintly. “If I walk him, we usually just… wander. Whether at home or in town, really. Well, I suppose I usually just let him choose,” she added, since Jarvis was still looking incredulous.

    “That I can believe!” he agreed with a laugh. “Well, shall we head for the Park?”

    Midge’s mind did frantic calculations as to whether Nessa Weaver-Grange might reasonably be supposed to be walking her little, fluffy, foxy-coloured dogs in the Park at an hour which Jarvis deemed suitable for the Sleyvens’ morning walk but all it could come up with was “Possibly.” She conceded feebly that she would like to head for the Park.

    “Good,” he said, looking happy. “Come along, sir!” he added sternly to Dumpkin.

    Dumpkin ceased investigating some unfortunate’s area railings, and they set off again.

    In the Park Dumpkin challenged a group of nursemaids fiercely, challenged an unknown gentleman on a smart bay gelding fiercely, and, even though Jarvis was now grimly prepared for this, challenged one, Wilfred Rowbotham, in his elegant phaeton. Mr Rowbotham had been politely attempting to raise his hat but he desisted and was seen to use both hands to control his pair. Hurriedly the Sleyvens turned down a less frequented path.

    “That,” said Jarvis on a grim note as an elegant figure was espied sauntering in their direction, “is Viccy Grey, and if the creature challenges him, I swear to God I’ll wring its damned fat, fluffy neck!”

    “Yes,” said Midge, limply looking round for escape. No convenient alleyways presenting themselves, she merely waited.

    “Keep well clear,” Jarvis greeted his connection loudly as Mr Grey’s hand went to his hat.

    Mr Grey stopped. “Do it bite, Sleyven? –’Morning, Lady Sleyven.”

    “Not— QUIET!” he bellowed. “SIT!—Not as far as is known, Viccy. Though I am offering no guarantees. But if it does bite, I promise you it shall not live to indulge the tendency.”

    “Good. One of Lady Frayn’s, is it?”

    “Oh, no, though that would be quite bad enough,” replied Jarvis coolly. “My wife actually owns this one.”

    “I see: foisted it upon you, did she, Lady Sleyven?” said Mr Grey with immense sympathy.

    “Certainly not. I wished for him,” replied Midge with spirit, her cheeks very flushed. “And the only reason that he is not perfectly trained is that Jarvis volunteered to undertake the training and has not yet managed to devote sufficient time to it!”

    Mr Grey watched with a smile in his eyes as Lord Sleyven, far from taking offence at this militant speech, went into a wheezing paroxysm. “I congratulate you, Sleyven, you're a lucky man,” he murmured. “’Morning, Lady S.!” He strolled on, still smiling.

    Jarvis had recourse to his handkerchief once more. “Thank God it was Viccy and not some brainless fribble of a tailor’s dummy.”

    “Yes,” said Midge limply. “He— I suppose he is quite bright.”

    “He is extremely intelligent,” said Jarvis, tucking her hand back in his arm and strolling on.

    “Yes. Well, at least he only barked at him.”

    “Stop it, Midge, you’ll overset me again,” said Jarvis unsteadily.

    “Oh. Sorry. Um, I don't see precisely why Mr Grey congratulated you at that point,” she said dubiously.

    Jarvis squeezed her hand tightly into his side. “No.”

    Midge eyed him uncertainly but said nothing. They strolled on, very fortunately encountering no other unexpected sights such as persons, vehicles, or horses. She agreed meekly when Jarvis suggested that in future perhaps they might use some of this time to continue with Dumpkin’s training. And when, upon finding a very obscure little alleyway indeed, his Lordship decided that they might continue with it immediately.

    “He is doing his best,” she said feebly some time later, as Jarvis mopped his brow and then consulted his pocket watch.

    “I am afraid he is, yes. We had best get back, I have several appointments today.”

    Midge took his arm cautiously. “I think you have made some progress with him, Jarvis.”

    Jarvis was of the opinion that the progress was all in the eye of the prejudiced beholder: however, he nodded, and since he could not of course pat her hand while he was holding the creature’s lead, squeezed her hand between his arm and his side as best he could. And murmured: “You could lean on me, Midgey.”

    “But I m not in the least tired,” said Midge in surprise.

    “Er—no.”

    Midge thought about it. Dubiously she tried it.

    “That is almost very pleasant,” he murmured, a smile in his voice. “Definitely better than acceptable.”

    “I think what you are trying to request is that I walk in a way which Cousin Myrtle has assured me a true lady never does,” decided Midge.

    Jarvis chuckled. “Undoubtedly! As I am not a female I do not know that I can describe the technique exactly, but I can tell you that from the merely male, or receiving end, it entails the pressure of the bosom quite—er—noticeably against the supporting arm.”

    “Ye-es. Then one is reduced to dawdling,” she said in a dubious voice.

    “One does not wish to do otherwise,” he murmured.

    The Sleyvens strolled on, very slowly. Dumpkin’s training had not tired the brute, on the contrary, it had invigorated him, and he was pulling strongly. Jarvis exerted himself to conceal from his wife the effort it was taking to hold him back.

    “Yes?” he murmured after quite some time,

    Midge looked up at him shyly, her face very pink. “I see,” she admitted.

    “Good. Er, may I add, that I am very glad to find you do not seem to have been introduced to the technique by such as Hallett, Geddings or H.-L.?”

    “I don’t think I would want to, with them,” said Midge in a dreamy voice.

    Jarvis smiled. The Sleyvens dawdled on in the general direction of Blefford Square, his Lordship holding Dumpkin back with a grip of iron.

    “So!” said Janey gaily that afternoon. “How did the conjugal walk go?”

    “Um… Very mixed,” owned Midge.

    Janey looked at the blush, and smiled a little.

    “The thing is,” she burst out: “he seems to think a walk must have a definite goal!”

    “But dear Lady Sleyven, gentlemen always do, according to Mamma,” said Amanda kindly. “And indeed, one has observed the trait, both in Papa and,”—she blushed—“other gentlemen.”

    “Yes,” agreed Lacey thoughtfully. “Come to think of it, I once made the mistake, when Papa had very kindly offered to drive me in his curricle, just after he had bought it, of saying could we not just amble about the lanes? He agreed to set off, you know, but as the ambling progressed, began to get cross, and only cheered up when he had decided that we had best call on the squire and Lady Ventnor.”

    “Of course. Papa is just the same,” agreed Janey sunnily.

    “Oh,” said Midge lamely. “I see. Um… well, what about those gentlemen whom one sees strolling in the Park?”

    “Think about it, dear Lady Sleyven!” recommended Janey with a gurgle.

    Midge thought. “I see,” she said in a hollow voice. “That elegant gentleman in the phaeton this morning will have had it in his head, not that he would just drive at a strict trot elegantly somewhere in the Park, but that he would enter the Park at point A, progress through it down path B, and go as far as point C. Whereupon he would return home via gate D. And the even more elegant Mr Grey, who appeared to my female eye to bear all the earmarks of one enjoying an aimless stroll, was in fact a fellow heading precisely for point X after having accomplished Y number of yards—the which he would accomplish regardless of whether or not the sky was a-falling—thereupon taking route Z to the destination which he had previously determined for this morning.” She waited until the girls had finished mopping their eyes and then said: “Well, I suppose one can bear it, once one is aware of it… Buh-but what if one merely wishes to—to amble aimlessly?”

    “I am told,” said Janey, stowing her handkerchief away, “that gentlemen are said to permit that only at the courting stage. And not always then. If it is aimless ambling a woman craves, then she is best advised to remain a spinster all her days!”

    Midge smiled limply. That or take walks without him, clearly. Oh, dear!

    “Is it tomorrow you are slated for your first official drive with him?” asked Janey naughtily.

    “Yes,” said Midge, trying to be airy.

    Janey collapsed in splutters, gasping: “Mark my words! It will be just the same!”

    Midge was, therefore, forearmed. The which was possibly as well. Over breakfast her husband consulted with her gravely on whether it would be best to take the barouche or his curricle. It was a pleasant day, and Midge could not see that it mattered a fig which they took. Limply she let him decide that it would be so pleasant to be by themselves in the curricle. She was aware that it was Lombard Street to a China orange that he would have a groom—Tonkins in person, probably—up behind, but said nothing. If that was by themselves in his Lordship’s eyes, so be it.

    “So! Where shall we go?” he said happily, gathering up the reins.

    “Wherever you like,” said Midge limply.

    “No, no! You must choose, Midgey!”

    “I—” Midge had almost said she would be happy just to drive. She gulped. “I had not thought of a destination, particularly.” He was still looking expectant and had not yet told Tonkins, at the horses’ heads, to let ’em go.  “Um… Kew?”

    “Kew,” said Jarvis in a stunned voice.

    “Is it too far? Someone told me it was a pleasant drive… Um, actually I think they said it was a pleasant place for a picknick.”

    “Well, yes, it is rather too far. We could plan to go another day, Midge,” he said kindly.

    Trying not to wince at the word “plan”, Midge agreed faintly: “Yes. Lovely. Um, well, could we—um—head for the Tower of London?”

    “My darling, I do not think you have the geography of London quite straight in your head, as yet,” he said kindly.

    “I thought it was just by the river?” said Midge limply.

    Jarvis smiled kindly. “Mm. Not the nearest part of the river. Should you like to drive along the river, perhaps? Shall we head for Westminster Bridge?”

    Midge agreed feebly: “Yes. That would be something different.”

    Appearing immensely pleased by this remark, her husband called cheerfully to Tonkins to let ’em go. Tonkins let ’em go and sprang nimbly up behind.

    Getting to the river at this hour of the day entailed several snarls of traffic, though admittedly the drive was through entirely salubrious areas, at least Midge’s husband’s route certainly was. “I’m sorry,” said Midge glumly when they reached the river at last. “I didn’t realise there would be all that traffic.”

    “What, darling? Well, I suppose it is a time of day when most of the town is out and about,” he said vaguely. “Look, that is Westminster Bridge.”

    “Oh, yes! Look, there are spires of the Abbey! Shall we go there?”

    “Er—” Jarvis consulted his pocket watch.

    “Not if we do not have the time,” said Midge hurriedly. “I had not realised we would—would come out so near it.”

    “We may plan to visit it another day,” he said happily, stowing the watch away.

    “Yes.” Limply Midge allowed Jarvis to drive her along the river for a little way. This was clearly the object of the exercise, for after he had allowed her to admire various features of this stretch of river, he turned for what he explained was a more direct route home.

    The more direct route home was almost equally salubrious as the route there and involved even more snarls of traffic. It was, Midge was just about capable of recognising dazedly, very salubrious traffic, though. Hardly a dray or waggon to be seen.

    “Perhaps on our next afternoon we might go to the Park, mm? Allow the pair to stretch their legs a little, eh? Then, I think I may be able to manage Kew… well, the time after that, perhaps. Should you perhaps care to attend divine service at the Abbey this Sunday, Midge?”

    “Wuh-well, as it is so near… Um—yes. Thank you,” said Midge feebly.

    Happily he conducted her into the house.

    Midge tottered upstairs and sank limply onto her bed. “Help,” she muttered.

    There was no-one, really, in whom Midge could confide the awful results of Jarvis’s decision to go walking and driving with her. Indeed, on thinking it over she had a sinking feeling that she had said far too much to the girls already. For after all, he was doing his best and— Well, possibly they had not, strictly speaking, laughed at him… Though very nearly. And then, so many husbands did not even make the effort! She experienced a dreadful craving to write the whole to Letty, but nobly refrained: it would have been too horridly disloyal.

    At dinner that evening he was terribly cheerful, obviously very pleased with himself. Midge agreed that she had thoroughly enjoyed the drive. Yes, it had been pleasant being just by themselves—delightful, really. Yes, the river was interesting in the area of Westminster. And she would look forward to divine service at the Abbey. Jarvis made happy plans for next week’s drives. He thought he could manage Kew on the Wednesday, and Midge had best not plan any other engagements for that afternoon, for it was, really, quite a drive. Midge waited for him to suggest that as it was so far they had best plan to leave earlier and take a picknick for their midday meal, but he did not. Clearing her throat, she suggested it herself.

    “Oh. Well, I had not planned”—Midge here with difficulty refrained from screwing her eyes tight shut—“to leave quite that early. Let me see… I think that could be arranged; yes, delightful.”

    “Jarvis, not if it means you will be up before dawn in order to fit in the business you had planned for that day!” said Midge urgently.

    “No, no, silly one!” he replied with a pleased smile. “Nothing like crack of dawn.”

    Midge smiled weakly. It would be ten minutes after crack of dawn, or her name was not Millicent B— Wynton.

    Jarvis then decided that their walk on that morning had best be a short one: perhaps as far as the Park gates and back, it would have the advantage of giving Dumpkin some stiff practice in walking to heel while on the leash, eh? Midge nodded, feeling a sensation of—wild disbelief? Well, something like that—as she contemplated the large male figure at the head of the table to whom her life was now irrevocably tied.

    “What is it, darling? Do you not care for that sauced thing?”

    “No, it’s delicious,” said Midge feebly.

    “I think you are just being kind,” he murmured with a twinkle. “Sparing the chef’s feelings. There is no need, truly: just say what you would like and he will be happy to provide it.”

    Midge’s mouth and opened and shut.

    “Mm?” he murmured.

    “Um—nothing,” she said limply. “Nothing, Jarvis.”

    Mrs Langford had been greatly looking forward to seeing the Sleyvens and, as they had promised to return to Maunsleigh via Kendlewood Place and take their midday meal with them before proceeding home, was out on the sweep betimes, watching for the Wynton travelling coach. Long before it could reasonably be expected, according to her husband. She was very startled indeed when, as it drew up at last, the Countess of Sleyven tumbled out of it in a tangle of silks and feathers, hurled herself into her arms, and burst into snorting sobs.

    “Midgey, dear! What is it?” She stared frantically at the Earl over Midge’s fashionably plumed silk bonnet.

    “She—she was perfectly all right on the journey— Midgey! What is it?” he said loudly.

    The Colonel’s jaw had sagged but now he pulled himself together and murmured: “Would it be her condition, Jarvis?”

    “What? No, she is not increasing. –Midge, please!” he said as Midge’s sobs did not abate.

    “Er, maybe that’s it, then, old man. Edgy,” said the Colonel in his old friend’s ear.

    “What? Oh, I see. But she has given no sign of undue worry, Charles,” he said in consternation.

    “No, well, y’never know when it will come all over them,” said the Colonel, clearing his throat. “Best get her in, eh?”

    Limply Jarvis assisted the Langfords to get his sobbing wife indoors.

    “I am not a heifer!” said Midge, blowing her nose, after Letty had got her settled in the best guest bedroom and ordered the two men out.

    “No, of course not, dearest. If he has been—um—nagging you a little on the subject, it is only natural, after all: most men wish for a son—”

    “No. I mean you. Well, you and Charles. Assuming that that is the problem. But it isn't,” said Midge, blowing her nose again. “Ursula wrote me only the other day to say that she and Mamma were just the same, and in fact it was a year before Mamma started her first.”

    “Your sister? Did she?” said Letty dazedly.

    “Mm. Well, I had not asked for reassurance on the point, she volunteered it,” said Midge, blowing her nose again. “I admit the main point of the letter was a strong hint that they should be invited to Maunsleigh for the summer—”

    “That I can believe!” said Ursula Burden Langtry’s former sister-in-law strongly.

    “Mm. ’Course,” agreed Midge, sniffing. “But it would ruin our summer. And she would attempt to boss Jarvis, and he would never stand for that. But I thought perhaps they might come for a month in the autumn. Henry could attempt to shoot those wild pheasants that the squire swears attack his grain crops over to Long Rise every year.”

    “Er—yes. My dear,” said Mrs Langford, clearing her throat, “if—if you have been finding it a little difficult… Well, Lord Sleyven is a man accustomed to have the command of a very large number of people, and—um—I suppose it is natural that he should wish to be in charge of his household,” she ended limply.

    “Not that. I don't know exactly why I burst out bawling; I’m sorry, Letty,” said Midge miserably.

    Lettice put a warm arm round her ridiculous striped silk garment and said: “Tell me.”

    “Mm,” said Midge, gulping. “I’ll try. Um, it isn’t anything—um—matrimonial.”

    “Er—no. Oh, I see! No, well, I am glad that things are still all right in that sphere, dearest.”

    “Yes. In fact they have improved, because I have persuaded him to give up that stuffily grand room with the carved troglodytes on the bedstead, and in fact the bed has been stripped.”

    “Well done!” said Mrs Langford with a smile.

    “Yes, but… Well, sometimes, although he is very—very eager, you know, and, I suppose, passionate,” said Midge, going very red, “sometimes I wonder if it—if is really me he sees.”

    Mrs Langford waited in fear and trembling for her to say that he saw Kitty Marsh in his bed instead of his wife, but she did not. “Um, exactly what do you mean, Midge?” she croaked.

    “He truly loves me in that way, but—but is it me?”

    “Midge, if you find it a trifle difficult at times to—to respond—”

    “No,” said Midge, blowing her nose yet again on the very damp handkerchief. “I mean, he knows a lot about women. Actually he knows more than I do.”

    Lettice nodded numbly. Charles had certainly implied as much.

    “I just think that it could be any woman in his bed!” said Midge desperately. “I mean, that it could be the abstract, Woman, and he would not notice! And that the personality which belongs to the body is—is immaterial!”

    “Oh, dear,” said Lettice, biting her lip. “Midge, I am afraid that to some extent they are all like that, even the nicest of them. I think it is something inherent in the male nature. There is nothing one can do to change it.”

    Midge looked at her doubtfully.

    “Yes, Charles, too,” said Lettice, pinkening. “And even Will,” she added bravely. “In fact, especially Will, for he was a very much younger man, and—and I think the characteristic is stronger, the younger they are.”

    Midge licked her lips. “Oh.”

    “It is something that one must accustom oneself to,” said Lettice, squeezing her shoulders gently. “It can be difficult, I know.”

    “I've thought of myself as a person for thirty years!” said Midge on an indignant note.

    Lettice bit her lip again. Oh, dear. “Yes. It will take some getting used to.”

    “Mm. I—I once thought, “ said Midge wanly, “that he was unique. I mean, not like most men, at all.”

    Oh, dear, thought Lettice again. “Mm. Well, of course he is a very unusual type, Midgey. And quite a—a unique personality. But—um…”

    “I see. It is not all, or not only, personalities, in marriage,” said Midge grimly.

    “Well, no,” she murmured.

    Midge took a deep breath and burst out with the story of Jarvis and the drives and walks which had never been allowed to be aimless. Lettice tried very hard not to laugh but was overcome. “I’m so truly sorry, Midgey, I didn’t mean to laugh!’ she gasped, fumbling for her handkerchief.

    “Have mine, I’ve cried into yours,” said Midge somewhat feebly, handing her the fashionable striped silk reticule. “Well, of course it is funny, in fact even I can see the funny side. It is just that when one discovers it all at once, it—it is a little much.”

    “Mm.” Since Midge seemed to expect it, Lettice, a trifle limply, opened the Countess’s fashionable reticule and fumbled in it for a handkerchief. “Midge, what have you got in here?” she said in amaze, rather forgetting who her little sister-in-law had become.

    Midge did not seem to notice the lapse. “What? Oh—those cards? They, um, came to wish me goodbye and a pleasant summer, and he was just coming out of the study as I found the salverful, so I—um—emptied them into my reticule. Um, they are from gentlemen, and Jarvis thinks I should not encourage them, but the thing is, I cannot stop them sending me cards.”

    Limply Mrs Langford drew forth a bunch of very crushed something or another.

    Midge gulped. “Oh. Well, Wellington and Jarvis have had another disagreement in the Lords—mayhap you read of it in the Morning Post?”—Letty shook her head numbly.—“But that does not mean that he has not been very pleasant to me. The Duke, I mean. And—um, they are not from him, though one of the cards is, but from Lord Geddings, who is very close to him, and—um—Jarvis disapproves of him.”

    “And he was just coming through the hall as you picked up the posy?” said Lettice feebly.

    “Well, no. I bumped into him—Geddings, I mean—as he was heading for our house and he gave them to me then, and, um, it wasn’t one of our walking mornings so I did not expect to see Jarvis,” she said, unaware that Mrs Langford had blinked, “but he suddenly appeared in his curricle, so I um—stuffed them into my reticule.”

    “Dearest, I know it is not my business, nor yet my place to say so,” said Lettice with a troubled look, “but if you thought Lord Sleyven would disapprove that much, why did you not refuse the flowers?”

    “I couldn’t, there was no reason to,” said Midge lamely. “And then, if I had managed to, Geddings would have made a funny story of it all over London. Because—um—they think it is funny, in any case.”

    “Who think what is funny?” asked Mrs Langford in a hollow voice.

    “The Society ladies and gentlemen. Well, as far as I can see, mostly the gentlemen, many of the ladies are jealous. –Me and Jarvis,” she explained. “It’s not what I feared, that they think I’m unsuitable—actually, that would be easier, in a way. No, they think that it’s funny that he’s in love with his own wife at his age.”

    “Then they are a pack of heartless monsters!” cried Mrs Langford angrily.

    “Mm. So I try not to do things that will make them laugh at him.”

    “Of course! …Oh, dear, I see what you mean. This Lord Whatsit person would have made a funny story out of your obeying your husband’s wishes in the matter of posies from admirers.”

    “Yes. Admirers who are in no wise serious and whom no-one could suspect of being serious, either. That would make it funnier. In fact, that is why Geddings pays me attentions at all, I think. He cannot need me: the town is full of his mistresses, and they are much prettier and much wittier than I.”

    “I see. Midgey, he sounds a frightful man!”

    “No, actually he is very pleasant to talk to: witty but without acidity, and very charming. But never mind him; that is why the flowers are in my reticule, you see.”

    Lettice nodded numbly, and numbly held out something much smaller and harder than a crushed posy, that had pricked her finger.

    Midge winced. “It is going back.”

    “To whom?” demanded Lettice baldly, forgetting all about whether she should, not to say about Midge’s position.

    “H.-L. Jarvis was quite right, and I should never have encouraged him in the first place.”

    “Midge, these are diamonds! And whoever he is, he must have commissioned it specially, one cannot just walk into a jeweller’s and pick up a brooch in the shape of an M!”

    “No,” she agreed glumly.

    “Who is he?” said Mrs Langford grimly.

    “Henri-Louis. –Letty, I have written you of him!” Midge explained. Lettice’s eyes bulged in horror.

    “He is only a boy. I put it in there to remind me to send it back.”

    “Yes, I see,” said Mrs Langford with a sigh. “Oh, Midgey!”

    “I suppose I have made some mistakes, but at least they were not venal mistakes,” she said, sticking out her chin. “I do not care for any of those silly fellows, and I have told Jarvis as much. And over the last few weeks I have really tried not to encourage them. And Jarvis came to the French afternoon, and I really thought that would have shown H.-L. that he was being silly.”

    “Apparently it did not,” said Mrs Langford drily, eyeing the brooch.

    “No,” agreed Midge glumly. “I could have sworn he was one of the ones that thought it was funny. Well, he was definitely amused that night we had the awful dinner… Oh, dear.”

    “If he is a young man— Well, my dear, they are not very wise,” she murmured.

    “I realise that, now, and Jarvis was right all along to fear that his feelings could become engaged. Bother,” said Midge, scowling horribly.

    Lettice patted her knee. “It is not so very bad, Midgey: send the brooch back and it must finish it.”

    “Yes. Any other crimes in there that I had overlooked?” she asked glumly.

    “Er—no. I do beg your pardon,” said Lettice, reddening, and hurriedly returning the reticule.

    “That's all right. Just as well it was you and not Jarvis,” she said dully.

    Lettice looked at her anxiously. “Midge, there is no more, is there?”

    “N— Well, what you said earlier about his being accustomed to command… It is not that he is bossing me, I assure you!” she added hurriedly.

    “What, then?”

    “Organising me, I suppose,” said Midge heavily.

    “Org— Oh.”

    “Letty, it’s frightful!” she burst out. “It is not just the planned walks and drives, for I suppose I have adjusted to that, and I do enjoy spending time with him. Though he has become so absorbed in training Dumpkin that sometimes I could scr— Never mind.”

    “They do,” she said with a sigh, patting Midge’s knee again.

    “So I am coming to realise, yes. But as I say, it isn’t really that. The thing is,” she said, wrinkling her brow, “he seems to have—have slotted me in to—to several appointed slots in his horrible weekly timetable. Do not dare to smile: he literally has one, every minute of his day is planned in a horrid big book on his desk! And it is all very well, but—but it isn't me!”

    Lettice nodded numbly.

    “I mean,” said Midge, her lips twitching a little: “‘A.m., Mon. to Sat., 1 hour and ten min., walk with M., train D.; p.m., Mon., Wed. and Sat., drive with M., destinations to be determined—’”

    “Don’t, Midgey,” she said faintly.

     Midge smiled, but added in a grimmer tone: “Although ‘Later p.m., bed with M.’ is all very well in its way,”—poor Lettice gulped—“what if M. does not perceive herself as a series of slots in someone else’s day?”

    “My dear, dare I say it? They are all like that, bless them. One must learn to adjust. And I think, Midgey dear, that you must learn to construct your day around his.”

    “Revolving in his orbit? Yes, I quite realise that!” said Midge on a sharp note. “Or should it be, rather, ‘He for God only, she for God in him’?”

    “Er, Midge, I know not what that may be, but it sounds almost blasphemous; I do not think you should,” she said faintly.

    “Letty!” Mrs Langford looked at her blankly so Midge explained feebly: “Milton. Adam and Eve.”

    “Oh. Well, at least it wasn’t the Bible. No, well, Adam and Eve is as fair an analogy as any, I suppose. Certainly—um—well, the grandfather and grandmother of us all?”

    “I think that ‘archetypal’ may be the word you are seeking, there,” she said grimly. “I do see what you mean about organising my day around his, and I am beginning to manage that, for after all, it is not so very different from organising it around yours and the children’s, at Bluebell Dell.” Unaware that Lettice had had to swallow, she continued, still grim: “But it is not that. It is the feeling that I am never me. And very often, not me in his eyes. When I am not walking with him or etcetera, I am merely being the Countess of Sleyven! Looking at stupid menus or going to stupid salons or rout parties or driving with more or less approved persons in the Park, and so forth, depending on the time of day! You see?”

    “Er—yes. Midgey, dearest, do not take it amiss, and I truly do not see you as a heifer, but I think it may be better, after the babies come,” she said gently.

    “No. After all, I have lived with little ones in the house for nearly all of my adult life and I know that that will not help. Added to which, you may be very sure that I will not be allowed to give them their lessons!”

    “I see. I think perhaps you and Jarvis should work that one out, Midge. Regardless of what silly Society ladies and gentleman may think, if you wish to give your children your lessons, I feel you should. I think he will see it your way: it is not at all the same as having other people’s daughters come to you for French or Italian,” she said kindly.

    “Oh. I hadn’t thought. No, well, perhaps that is so. That will help; at least teaching children is something where I know I am capable, and which I enjoy.” Midge looked hard at her stomach. “Hurry up,” she ordered it.

    Lettice laughed weakly. “Well, so you concede things may improve, dearest?”

    “Slightly. If he will accept my point of view. Um, it is not only… I don’t know that I can explain. I suppose it is still, fundamentally, the same problem as I tried to explain to you that afternoon at Maunsleigh. The day that Dumpkin was sick in Bates’s pantry,” she reminded her. “I am never myself.”

    Lettice looked at her limply.

    Midge sighed. “I suppose he is trying, within his lights. He did let me share some of the tasks at Maunsleigh. To do with the estates and farms, you know. But in town he spends all his time closeted in the study with Mr Crayshaw.” Her lips tightened. “Too bad if he drops down dead three months after I have produced the heir: I shall certainly not know how to manage the creature’s patrimony until it be of age! Though, do not say it: there will be no need for me to do so,” she finished bitterly.

    Mrs Langford took a deep breath. “Midge, if you feel you would be more yourself if you bore some of the responsibilities of managing the—the properties and so forth, you must tell him so.”

    “He will not listen, for he believes he has fixed everything!” she cried.

    “Er—mm. You must try harder, Midgey.”

    “Letty, he has tidied me away into the slots in his timetable: I am not a person any longer to him, he will not even hear me!”

    “Dearest, I can only repeat that you must try harder. Try to—er—understand him, and work out what will make him hear you.”

    Midge went very red. “You mean, manipulate him!’ she choked. “Like every other wife in the kingdom! Put him on cold mutton for a week, as Mrs Somerton does Mr Somerton, until he sees things my way!”

    “No, I do not. Every couple must work out their own solution, it is an individual thing,” said Mrs Langford with dignity.

    “It is a manipulative thing,” corrected Midge grimly.

    “Midge, you are being obstinate. And forgive me for saying so,” said Lettice very firmly, getting up, “but that is your besetting sin, just as much as it is Jarvis’s. And if it is the male nature to tidy us away into a slot or whatever ridiculous thing you said, well, I do not think they can be blamed for it. No-one thought that this marriage would be easy, and it is still very early days, you are both learning to adjust to the other. But obstinately clinging to your own opinion through thick and thing will not mend anything, I do assure you.”

    Firmly she went out, regardless of the fact that the Countess of Sleyven had thrown herself face down on the best spare bed in a storm of sobs.

Next chapter:

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