Midge Takes The Bit Between Her Teeth

38

Midge Takes The Bit Between Her Teeth

    May Day had come and gone, the hawthorn blossom was dropping thick upon the ground, Tommy Wynton was almost four months old, and Maunsleigh had seen nothing of the Earl for six weeks.

    “Mad as foire at ’er,” diagnosed Mrs Fred.

    Mrs Waldgrave had just consented to Amanda’s becoming engaged to Mr d’Annunzio, so that young lady was going about in a rosy cloud. At this, however, she actually managed to stop smiling, and agreed: “It is a terrible shame.”

    “Ar.” Mrs Fred did not normally favour the vicarage with unsolicited ham, bacon or eggs; today, however, she sliced some bacon rapidly, wrapped it and pressed it into Miss Amanda’s hand. “Give this to yer Pa for ’is breakfast, deary, and no need to mention it to yer Ma. And never fret: it won’t appear on the ’ouse’old accounts!” she choked, suddenly going into a wheezing paroxysm.

    Amanda was very pink, but she accepted the bacon gratefully. And admitted: “Mamma is such an excellent, careful housekeeper, it is positively awe-inspiring.”

    “Ar, I dessay. Only, what I say is, a man loikes a few changes now and then! So don’t you get to thinking it ’as to be a h’egg every Monday and a kipper every Froiday to his breakfast for your man, and bread and butter in between!”

    “No,” she agreed somewhat faintly. “Well, I don’t think I could stick to such a regimen.”

    “Nor no-one else, neither,” said Mrs Fred comfortably. “Besides, ’e’s in a good way of business, ain’t ’e?”

    Blushing, Amanda owned that Mr d’Annunzio was not a poor man—no.

    “No, roight. Will your Ma let Miss Portia visit, do you think?” she demanded baldly. Voicing, perhaps needless to state, the question that had been vexing the minds of Little Nettlefold, high and low, for some months.

    “I —I think she will, in time,” said Amanda faintly.

    “Good. Now, you got yer beans? Roight. And just remember what I said: brown the onions good first, the soup’ll taste a moile better.”

    “I shall remember that, Mrs Fred!” beamed Amanda.

    “Ar. Seen the little Lard lately?”

    The whole village would have recognised this appellation as belonging to Thomas Wynton, Viscount Froissart. Amanda nodded her bonnet vigorously. “Yes, and he is just splendid!”

    “Well, that’s good, and I’m sure I'm glad to ’ear it; but what I want to know is,” she said aggrievedly: “where’s ’is blamed Pa? Now!”

    Amanda had thought they had safely got off the topic of the Wyntons’ marital problems. “Mm!” she gulped.

    “H’obstinate, that’s what ’e be. Loike all the Wyntons,” she said grimly.

    “Ye-es.”

    “Yer don’t need to say it!” said Mrs Fred with comfortable scorn. “Lady Sleyven’s the same way, and always were!”

    Amanda bit her lip and looked at her distressfully.

    “Well, it’s easy for a man to get on out of it, be he plain feller or lard,” she noted grimly. “’Ere, is it true that she’s a-wearing eyeglasses?”

    “Lady Sleyven? Er—yes. Only to read, and do her accounts, and so forth. Dr Jarman recommended them, and she confesses she is much easier with them.”

    Mrs Fred sniffed, but admitted: “Well, Jim Hutton ’ad some such story. ’Ave they improved her temper, though, is what I’d loike to know!”

    “Um, she does not seem very happy,” she faltered.

    “Good,” said Mrs Fred baldly.

    “Mamma is of the opinion,” said Amanda very faintly—it was not an opinion that Mrs Waldgrave would have wished shared with the village, but she was at a loss to know what else to say—“that he is letting her stew for a period.”

    “In ’er own juice—ar. I dessay. If you ask me, that’ll make ’er more stubborn than ever, acos that’s Miss Burden for you, and always was!” She nodded hard.

    “Yes,” said Amanda feebly, seizing her basket and feigning to take the nod as a valedictory one. “Thank you so much for the bacon, Mrs Fred. And I shall be sure to remember that the onions must be browned! Good-bye!” Thankfully she escaped.

    “Ar. I dessay this Mr Bob could do worse,” noted the shopkeeper comfortably. “OY!” she shouted.

     Mr Hutton, looking completely insouciant, emerged from the back regions, gnawing on a slab of bread and cheese. “Get much out of ’er?”

    “Wasn’t you listening?” she retorted immediately. “No, well, she don’t know much. Well, not got all that much to know with, ’as she?” she conceded tolerantly.

    “It’s true about the eyeglasses,” he replied mildly.

    “I ain’t deaf. Old Vicar, you wouldn’t remember him, he ’ad eyeglasses. His housekeeper used to reckon they improved his temper loike you wouldn’t believe. Moind you, ’e were gorn eighty when ’e got ’em.”

    “Dare say age don’t count. Anything else?”

    “Lady Sleyven is h’overseeing of them new cottages,” she reported on a dubious note.

    “Yes. That all?”

    “Mrs Waldgrave reckons the Lard’s letting ’er stew in ’er own juice.”

    “That sticks out a mile,” replied Mr Hutton sourly.

    “Ar. ’As she managed to get round Mr Shelby?”

    “What, about making decisions about the zemindaree? No, she ain’t, and serve ’er right! If ever there was an irritating woman! Well, dunno as I’d say it to any but yourself or Mrs Lumley, Mrs Fred. –No, Mr Shelby won’t do nothing without the Colonel sahib’s say-so.”

    “That’s all well and good, but ’e’s saying so from Lunnon, from what I can see!”

    “Yes. Can’t think ’ow to get ’im down.” He coughed. “Well, I can, but it’d lose me me place.”

    Mrs Fred gave him an ironic look. “What—send to tell ’im the baby’s sick when ’e ain’t?”

    “Aye, or the chota mem herself.”

    “That’d lose you yer place, all roight,” she allowed. “Wouldn’t work, neither: ’e’d take one look, see they was all roight, and go back to Lunnon.”

    “Yes. And she’d let ’im! Both as stubborn as mules,” he concluded sourly.

    Several persons had endeavoured to represent tactfully to Lady Sleyven that she was being unreasonably stubborn, but had got nowhere with her. They had concluded, as had Jarvis himself, that it was best to let her think it over. Midge did not think it over very much, sad to relate: instead she buried herself in business. Mr Shelby, as Mr Hutton reported to Mrs Fred Watts, did not accept any of her orders as to changes to be implemented on the estates, and Midge speedily gave up trying to persuade him: all the agent would say was: “I shall refer the matter to his Lordship, Lady Sleyven.” Jonathon Crayshaw had of course gone up to London with the Earl, so he was not there to be bullied, as Colonel Langford frankly put it, which was just as well. However, the gai-wallah, Mrs Fendlesham, M. Fermour, his Lordship’s architect and the men erecting the cottages at Cherry Tree Lane all came in for a good deal of direct supervision. Or, as Colonel Langford put it, interference. Jarvis had previously ordered Mr Hazy, the architect, to refer all decisions about Bluebell Dell to Lady Sleyven, and not apparently thought to rescind the order since his departure for the metropolis. Certainly the architect, who was only a young man and thus, according to some, ripe for Midge’s bullying, was meekly taking his orders from her. The Colonel reported heatedly that she had got the fellow to finalise the plans for the cow palace and, since the estate carpenters were all completely occupied in Cherry Tree Lane, had him hire men from Nettleford to start erecting the damned thing at Maunsleigh; but Mrs Langford merely sighed and said: “That is Midge all over. Give her an inch and she takes an ell. But I still maintain it is at least half the silly man’s fault for not allowing her the ell in the first place.”

    His Lordship, on first learning that he was to be a father, had ordered the refurbishing of the nursery apartments. As he had fully consulted Lady Sleyven throughout, Midge did not have anything of which she might reasonably complain in that area. But less than a week after he was out of the house she inspected the schoolroom thoroughly, condemned it utterly, and drew up plans for its complete refurbishing, the which were then implemented immediately. Regardless of the fact that Viscount Froissart would scarcely be occupying it for another five years or so.

    Her days were now so full, for Mr Shelby showed himself politely willing to consult with her, and to discuss matters with her, if he was not implementing any changes she suggested, that she began to get up very early, and drew up a timetable for herself which was as detailed and rigid as any of Jarvis’s had ever been. A peep in on Tommy was first, then breakfast, or, if she was very early, a trip outdoors to inspect the dairy or speak to the Maunsleigh head groom or the poultryman, followed by breakfast. Then assistance in Tommy’s feeding, changing and bathing, and a little play with him until he became somnolent, which he usually did very soon. Then consultation with Mrs Fendlesham and M. Fermour, and the settling of any business to do with the house. And an initial look at the household accounts. This was followed by a detailed consultation with the resigned Mr Shelby. And not infrequently by a polite argument with Mr Shelby. After that Midge would ride over to Cherry Tree Lane, and inspect progress. This generally took some time: the cottages were nearly finished, and there was a lot to check, there, and even more to check at Bluebell Dell, where the architect’s changes had just begun to be implemented. Whether or not Bluebell Dell’s new owner was aware of the fact. Up the lane Mr Hutton and a gang of estate workers were hard at it, draining Felling Swamp and broadening the road itself. And Midge had the architect hard at work on plans for Cherry Tree Rise, and the site was already levelled. Whether or not the proprietor of the estate was aware of it.

    “I suppose,” said Colonel Langford, pulling his ear, “he does know of it. Bates tells me that Midge writes him daily reports.”

    Instead of reproving him for interrogating the Maunsleigh butler, Mrs Langford replied eagerly: “That must be a promising sign!”

    “Must it? Does he want reports from an adjutant, or billets doux from a wife?” retorted the Colonel sourly.

    Lettice gulped. “Oh.”

    Midge’s afternoons, after a simple meal which was served by Bates himself, were usually occupied firstly by a short rest and a half-hour or so with Tommy, and then by accounts. Not only the household accounts, which she always did first, but also an eagle-eyed inspection of Mr Shelby’s accounts. The which not infrequently furnished fuel for the discussions of the morrow. After that there was generally time for a consultation with Potts, the head gardener, and then she would arrive at the dairy in time for afternoon milking. Mr Watts was now used to this eccentricity—in fact, had every sympathy with the Countess’s partiality for leaning on a byre watching himself and the dairymaid milk the little herd, and had volunteered to teach her the art. However, he was not yet used to the sudden appearances very early in the morning, the which had become rather frequent as the weather warmed, the days lengthened, and Midge discovered she could fit in even more activity by getting up when the birds did. Why waste that pleasant hour before breakfast?

    Birds themselves were also becoming an interest: merely speaking to the poultryman was not enough, she had had to discover the minutiae of his duties and, as Ted Lumley (brother of Mr Lumley of Nettlebend Farm) was as interested in breeding poultry as was the squire, and indeed his great rival in the district, Midge had acquired a great deal of information about this aspect of the man’s trade. It had not been boring, to a person who had once reported that she found Mr Lumley interesting on the subject of milk; on the contrary, it was quite fascinating. And, although they would not go in for Golden Spangled Hamburgs, she was quite sure that the black Maunsleigh hens would beat anything the squire could produce in their class! If not at this summer’s Agricultural Show, then at the next!

    Somehow or another word of the Countess’s interest in matters agricultural rapidly spread, and before May was a week old Midge had the pleasure of receiving a deputation of representatives of, on the one hand, the Nettleford, Winnsby & District Agricultural Society, and on the other hand, the Organising Committee of the Nettleford Horticultural Fair. Plus a harried-looking Bishop’s Chaplain: apparently ex officio.

    These worthies wanted to put the point that there was a strong argument, a very strong argument, for combining the summer functions of the two organisations. What the Reverend Aloysius Cunningham wanted to put was not immediately apparent. Possibly his duties were that of spy. Midge agreed cheerfully that there seemed to be every reason for combining the two efforts. Although—cautiously—it might be rather too late, for this present year.

    Young Mr Cunningham coughed. Midge encouraged him to proceed, and he revealed that whereas his Lordship (meaning the Bishop, of course) was only too glad to offer the field known as Winnsby Let for the Horticultural Fair, anything of a larger nature with—another cough—stock, so to speak, was, he was afraid, out of the question.

    “What ’e means is,” said Mr Lumley of Nettlebend Farm, very red-faced, “is that us farmers and our animals ain’t niffy-naffy enough for the view from the Palace windows!”

    “That’s roight,” agreed Mr Ted Lumley loyally, if sourly.

    “Ar,” conceded Mr Jeffson of Home Farm.

    Midge smiled. “Perhaps it is the case that your animals are too niffy!”

    The farmers duly sniggered, as did the more robust of the horticulturists, her Ladyship’s own head gardener, who seemed to be there ex officio, going so far as to note: “Ar, but a load of good manure never did do moy roses no ’arm!”

    Young Mr Cunningham coughed desperately, and murmured: “It is not to be thought of.”

    “No, and their hooves and the waggons would tear up the ground,” agreed Midge kindly. “Well, has anyone an alternative?”

    Several people apparently did: but oddly, no-one seemed willing to speak. There was considerable shuffling, muttering, and expectant eyeing of one's neighbours.

    Eventually Midge said limply: “Maunsleigh? But we are so far out of the town!”

    People, it appeared, would drive. Gladly.

    “Those who have a carriages or carts, yes. But what about the poorer people of the town, who enjoy the side-shows?”

    Mr Cunningham put forward the Bishop’s point that the presence of these persons could scarcely add to the exclusiveness of the occasion.

    Midge went very red. “Rubbish! I am horrified to hear such an unchristian sentiment from the direction of the Palace, Mr Cunningham!”

    “Ar,” agreed Mr Lumley of Nettlebend Farm. “Me, too.”

    Forthwith all the farmers and horticulturists agreed with her Ladyship.

    “Wait,” said Midge, frowning over it. “Maunsleigh itself is too far. But the Wynton lands are extensive. I think there may be something available nearer the town. I shall get the estate map—pray excuse me!” She bounced up, smiling, and hurried out.

    In her absence the Lumley brothers exchanged glances and nods, and a Mr Beavis, a retired shopkeeper who owned a pleasant house on the far side of Nettleford town and was famed for his remarkable lily garden, noted in refined tones to Mr Cunningham: “Some of us feared that the Palace’s feeling on the matter of the common people’s attendance at the show could not please her Ladyship, Mr Cunningham.”

    And little old Mr Platt, whose vegetable marrows regularly took first prize in their class, and who was this year’s Secretary of the Organising Committee of the Nettleford Horticultural Fair, nodded hard and agreed: “Indeed! A truly kind heart will not change with the acquisition of a coronet!”

    Her Ladyship returning with a large map, it was discovered that there were two possible sites. The one, very much nearer to the town, was on land adjoining Mr Bottomley-Pugh’s property, and the other, not so convenient, was near to Plumbways.

    “Mr Somerton won’t want waggons and noise going past his door,” opined Mr Lumley of Nettlebend Farm. “Though it would be a moite ’andier for me!”

    “Further for us, though,” ventured a Mr Copley who farmed on the far side of Nettleford. “Now, this here Broad Acre, it’s scarce two moile from the town, is that roight, your Ladyship?”

    “Yes. But that is still too far for the townsfolk to trudge. Especially the children.”

    The assembled farmers and horticulturists looked very kindly at her Ladyship and agreed it was too far for the children.

    “However,” said Midge slowly, “I think it might be managed, with relays of carts or waggons.”

    “Relays, your Ladyship?” asked Mr Beavis respectfully.

    “Yes.” Midge’s eyes narrowed. “It will have to be very well organised. Maunsleigh will provide the carts and waggons, and we shall have a regular service, starting from—let us say, starting from several places around the town, and certainly from the square itself. There will be no charge, of course. The carts and waggons may pick up, deliver, and return. We shall arrange for the watering of the horses.”

    “And donkeys,” said Mr Lumley of Nettlebend Farm, straight-faced.

    Midge twinkled at him. “And donkeys, Mr Lumley!”

    “Sounds all roight,” opined Mr Copley slowly.

    “What about the jobbing carriages from the town?” ventured Mr Cunningham cautiously.

    “Well, those who can afford them will of course prefer to take them. I think they should do very well out of it,” said Midge briskly.

    “Aye. You’re roight, though, your Ladyship, it will need h’organising,” ventured Mr Lumley the poultryman.

    “Yes. It will have to be overseen by someone who is not himself showing, of course.”—Several faces expressed immense relief as her Ladyship made this point, most notably those employed at Maunsleigh.—“We-ell… Mr Hutton? I should give him his orders myself,” offered Midge.

    This offer was accepted, her Ladyship was thanked fervently, and a huge document of agreement was whisked out, solemnly inscribed with the legend “in the field known as Broad Acre, near to Nettleford Town, the property of the Right Honourable the Earl of Sleyven”, and with the signatures of the accredited representatives. And dated. And her Ladyship was assured, with repeated thanks, that of course there would be plenty of time to implement the new plan before August: plenty of time! And the representatives, beaming, bowed themselves out again.

    “August?” said Midge limply to Mr Ted Lumley, and Mr Potts, the head gardener, who were still present.

    Mr Potts beamed upon her. “Ar! Never you fret, your Ladyship, Maunsleigh roses will be at their best, still!”

    “Ar, that they will. And it’ll give us toime, your Ladyship, to fatten up the goslings noicely,” said Mr Lumley with relish.

    “You do not think we have a hope of beating the squire with geese, surely, Mr Lumley?”

    “Whoy not?” he said on a grim note.

    Midge counted on her fingers. “May to June, July, August. Well, three months of fattening—yes! We may certainly try! Oh, and Mrs Little let it out to me that one of his secrets is cod liver oil, which he administers in the feed, in very small doses, during the month before he shows. It give the feathers that special gloss.”

    Mr Lumley nodded interestedly, and acknowledged he might try it. And if it didn't work, they could use what was left over to polish the beaks and feet! he added with a laugh.

    “Ar. Or pass it on to Nurse for Master Tommy,” said Mr Potts comfortably.

    “Yes,” said Midge faintly. “August: help, he will be seven months old by then.”

    “Toime floies,” said Mr Potts neutrally.

    “It do that,” acknowledged Mr Lumley.

    They were both eyeing her narrowly—very narrowly indeed. Midge smiled weakly. At least they were not asking her outright when his Lardship was coming back. Not yet.

    “I shall write to Sleyven,” said Lady Judith grimly, as plans for the immense inaugural Annual Nettleford & District Joint Agricultural & Horticultural Fair reached the deanery, not to say, details of the Countess’s participation in the planning for the same. “And do not dare to forbid me, David!”

    “I should certainly not dare that,” murmured the Dean.

    Looking very defiant, lady Judith retired: to, her husband was in no doubt whatsoever, her writing desk.

    The Dean groaned. He looked dubiously at his own writing materials. Er—no.

    … “I really think you should mention it to him,” murmured Lettice.

    “Midge will be sure to have written of it in those damned dispatches of hers,” replied the Colonel on an irritable note. “Besides, it's all of a piece, ain’t it? What I mean is, what's one damned country show more or less?”

    “Er—I suppose I see what you mean. But she has offered Wynton land for it, apparently on an annual basis, and promised an entire fleet of carts and waggons, not to say Hutton’s services. Well, he is officially Lord Sleyven’s overseer, Charles!”

    “He won’t thank me for sending him the gup, Lettice.”

    “Gup?” cried his wife indignantly. “No such thing! It is the kutcha hal!”

    Colonel Langford had to swallow. “Er—mm. Dare say it will be a damned good show, and the boys are already looking forwar—”

    This attempted diversion had no effect whatsoever. “I am constrained to say, my dear,” said his wife on a horridly grim note—sounding, if that were not too fantastical an idea, almost like her former sister-in-law herself—“that if you do not write Jarvis of this matter, I shall.”

    Colonel Langford’s pleasant mouth twitched, but he did not point out that his wife had broken down and referred to the burra-sahib by his given name. “No, well, you’re right, of course. I’ll mention it. But don't for God’s sake expect me to do anything about controlling Midge!” he added in alarm,.

    Lettice sighed. “No. I am beginning to think that is beyond human capacity.”

    “One has heard,” said Mrs Golightly very cautiously indeed, “of cases, though mark, I have never personally encountered one, nor heard a—a verified report, either—”

    “Polly, my dearest, just say it,” said Arthur kindly.

    Polly reddened. “Very well, then. I think having Baby Tommy has affected Aunty Midge’s mind!”

    The Golightlys were sitting in their garden under Dr Golightly’s “arch”, and Arthur was bouncing Grace upon his knee. He nearly dropped her. “Sorry, Grace, my angel!” he gasped, hugging her tightly. “I really don’t see it, darling,” he said feebly to his wife.

    “Yes. For she has run positively mad over this county fair thing!”

    “They are not absolutely calling it a county fair,” he murmured.

    “That will be the next step, and do not try to side-track me, Arthur, if you please!”

    Dr Golightly smiled weakly. He had been trying to side-track her, of course—but sometimes, just now and again, his sweet little wife sounded for all the world like his managing mother! “I beg your pardon, Polly. Er—well, I suppose it may have become somewhat of an obsession with her, but her mind does not seem affected in the way you imply. I mean, she seems to be managing everything at Maunsleigh most capably indeed.”

    “Yes! Regardless of whether her husband knows or approves of it! She is behaving like Mrs Somerton over the affair of the gazebo!” she cried.

    Firmly refraining from enquiry, Arthur replied: “Perhaps it is merely that she is determined to show Cousin Sleyven that she is as capable as any man—indeed, as he is himself.”

    “But writing a piece of paper to say that they may have that field for nothing for ninety years?” she cried.

    He winced him spite of himself. “Was it?” he said weakly.

    “Yes. And she is pouring money into the Maunsleigh poultry flocks, she seems to have decided that she will beat the squire at all costs! And I know I said that he should have offered her some Golden Spangled Hamburgs and was too mean to do so, but I never meant it seriously!”

    Arthur just looked at her limply.

    “Um, sorry,” said Polly, licking her lips. “It was back when we were at Bluebell Dell. At about the time Lord Sleyven sent the black hens.”

    “I see. –Oh! I see!” he said, a startled look coming over his face. “Surely that would not still be rankling?”

    “Not if she were her sane and sensible self, no! But that is what I am saying!” she cried. “Her mind has been affected!”

    Dr Golightly frowned over it, the meanwhile ignoring the fact that his daughter was grabbing at his nose and eyebrows. “I would say,” he said cautiously, “that her—her normal characteristics have become somewhat exaggerated, certainly. Um, I don't know that I would place the blame on little Tommy’s shoulders, however.”

    “I am sure I cannot see what else has caused it!”

    He cleared his throat. “The Colonel says that Sleyven can be damned obstinate, Polly.”

    “So can she, but she was never as bad before! And this county fair thing is just silly! She has absolutely no right to promise them ninety years’ free occupancy of that land, and she must know it, Arthur, she is very clever about that sort of stuff! “

    “Mm. Um, well, I can't see that there is anything we can do, my dear. Don’t accuse me of being just like Father, I beg!” he added hastily as she opened her mouth. “I should be happy to speak to your Aunty Midge, but I cannot see that she would listen to me for an instant.”

    “No; I don’t think that would work, either.”

    She was looking at him hopefully. “What?” said Arthur feebly.

    “Could you not write to Lord Sleyven? Please, Arthur!”

    He swallowed. “Interfere between man and wife?”

    “Only because her mind is overset!”

    “Polly, while I agree that the birth of little Tommy may have been a contributing cause, and that she is certainly not quite her normal self, she is not seriously disturbed, nor even hysterical. And this friction between the two of them cannot have sprung up just like that. It has never been an easy relationship, has it?”

    Mrs Golightly’s lips tightened. She rose. “Give her to me, if you please.”

    Limply Arthur handed over little Grace.

    “I shall write to him myself,” she said with horrible grimness. “I am not scared of him, if you are!”

    Hugging Grace tightly to her bosom, she stalked off towards the house while Arthur’s jaw was still sagging.

    “It is, as you see, very nearly finished, Tonkins!” said Midge proudly, waving a hand at “Bluebell Cottage.”

    Tonkins had been sent back to Maunsleigh by his Lordship some weeks since. Exactly why, was not apparent. Midge had reflected uncharitably that possibly it was to serve as spy upon herself. Repressing the more rational thought that it was because his Rosie’s first baby was due this June. Respectfully he agreed: “Most nearly indeed, memsahib.”

    “Do you like it, though, Tonkins?” said Midge without hope. She was aware that the man would have told any lie in the hope of pleasing his masters.

    “Most delightful indeed, memsahib,” he said, bowing.

    Midge sighed, and Mrs Tonkins said hurriedly: “He does, really, yer Ladyship! Whoy, we been a-planning up of what to put in each room, ain’t we, ’Arold?” –The syce’s name was not, as Mr Hutton had privily explained to her Ladyship, really Harold. That was his father’s name, which he had taken out of respect. And if the mem really wanted to know, it was Jawaharlal. Not an uncommon name in India, though one that the feringhee did usually choke over. But no-one never used it anyway.

    “That is most true, memsahib,” he said, bowing again.

    “Good. Well, come inside—take Rosie’s arm, that’s right, and watch out in case the men have left things lying on the floor. You must tell me what colour you would like the walls washed.”

    Hutton had warned Midge that this process would take some time. For the budmush would never express a preference. And that she must just be patient. Midge was, therefore, prepared to spend the rest of the morning in the process. The which was just as well. But eventually, with Rosie’s eager help and prompting, they had it all settled. And most certainly the walls of the nursery could be painted with flowers as were those at Maunsleigh, if Rosie wanted it, and she would not hear another word!

    “It is too much, memsahib, for this humble syce,” he said, bowing deeply.

    “No, it isn’t, Tonkins, and even if it were, could anything be too much for your babies?” replied Midge cunningly.

    The humble syce at this flung himself at his mistress’s feet and kissed them; but as Hutton had warned Midge this would probably happen if the budmush really liked the house, she was not disturbed.

    But after Rosie and Tonkins had been seen into their cart and had set off to the village to eat their midday dinner with Mrs Fred, it must be admitted that Midge tottered along to the smallest and sunniest cottage at the head of the row, which was quite completed, and confessed as the door was opened to her: “I’m quite exhausted, Hawkins!”

    “That Tonkins would talk the hind leg off a mule itself, never moind a donkey, me Lady,” agreed Hawkins severely. “But as to getting him to express a preference!”

    “Exactly,” she groaned. “It was dreadful. But I think he truly likes it.”

    “So he ought! Did ’e bawl, me Lady?”

    “Not quite,” sighed Midge.

    “Well, you’d best come along in and have a boite and sup.”

    Thankfully Midge tottered inside and allowed Hawkins to ply her with tea, girdle cakes, and bacon sandwiches. And admired all over again the arrangement of Hawkins’s bits and bobs in the little cottage. And spent a peaceful half-hour after that with Ferdinand purring on her knee like a tea-kettle.

    “And ’ow’s Mischief?” ventured the little old parlourmaid.

    Midge smiled. “He is splendid. Of course we do not let him anywhere near the nursery, but when I have Baby downstairs he has become resigned to his existence, and ignores the pair of us! And I have made a rule: when I am working in the study Dumpkin may not come in, but Mischief may, and so he has made it his own room, and in this warmer weather, when the fire is not lit, usually sleeps on my knee when I’m doing my accounts!”

    Hawkins smiled, but after moment ventured: “The study, me Lady? Ain’t that, if I may make so bold, his Lardship’s office? What will ’appen when he comes back and Mischief won’t give up the habit? For cats won’t, you know.”

    Midge was very red. “It is a huge room. I dare say there will be room for them both,” she said on a defiant note.

    Hawkins eyed her drily, but merely said: “Mm. Dare say.”

    What with this encounter and others, it gradually began to be borne in upon her Ladyship, as May warmed, that sympathies in the county were not wholly with herself. This fact did not, alas, incline her to write anything more to her husband than the driest of military dispatches.

    “The damned woman’s run mad, that’s what,” grunted the squire. “Goes with that damned red hair.”

    “Pray do not be so vulgar, William,” replied Lady Ventnor with a sigh.

    “Look, what the Devil does Ted Lumley want with geese?” he shouted. “Maunsleigh has never run geese!”

    “Geese?” replied Lady Ventnor with infinite distaste. “Horridly greasy birds, I have always found.”

    “I’m not talking about EATING them!” shouted the driven man.

    “That is just as well, for I am certainly not proposing to ask Cook to serve one up. And pray do not shout in my drawing-room.”

    “She’s doing it to annoy,” he said through his teeth.

    Lady Ventnor yawned, but unbent so far as to ask: “Why?”

    “Because she knows my geese always take first prize in their class, and frequently best bird in show, that’s WHY!”

    “William, I cannot see that Lady Sleyven, though I grant she knows that, would deliberately wish to annoy you in the matter.”

    The squire was already alarmingly puce. He now turned a deep purple and revealed: “Jeffson had it from Hutton himself that her Ladyship bears me a grudge for not supplying her with hens when she was at Bluebell Dell.”

    Lady Ventnor’s plump jaw sagged.

    “Nobody told me their damned hens were not laying!” he explained aggrievedly.

    “William,” she said faintly, “are we talking about the year that Lord Sleyven first came into the district?”

    “Yes,” he retorted aggressively. “And?”

    Normally Lady Ventnor, languid manner or not, was of course more than a match for her ebullient spouse. In this instance, however, she merely said feebly: “Nothing, my dear. Of course you would have sent her a few hens, had you known they were in need. But—but the Burdens were always very proud.”

    “Exact!” The squire marched up and down his wife’s drawing-room. Her Ladyship  eyed him uncertainly. Eventually he drew a deep breath and announced fiercely; “Enough is enough! I dare say he may be letting her stew in her own juice, but the damned woman’s taken the bit between her teeth and run mad! I shall write Sleyven meself!”

    “William, no!” she cried, startled out of her usual placidity. “Not about his marriage, my dear!”

    “Eh? Nonsense! About the geese!” he said fiercely, striding out.

    Lady Ventnor sagged in limp relief against her sofa pillows. Not that writing the Earl about geese was not bad enough.

    Mrs Cornwallis hugged Baby Joseph, looking vague. “I suppose there is nothing in poultry.”

    “Or cows; no, not of themselves,” agreed Janey crossly. “Wake up, Katerina!”

    “I don’t seem to be able to,” she confessed, smiling vaguely and kissing Baby Joseph’s head.

    Miss Lattersby eyed the interloper upon the Cornwallis marital scene dubiously. It was nearly six weeks old, now. Surely Katerina should be—well, getting over it, or something?

    “No,” murmured Mrs Cornwallis with a smile.

    Jumping, Miss Lattersby acknowledged: “In some ways, your mind has not been affected.”

    “It’s just that I don’t seem to be able to take an interest in anything very much outside of Baby and Leonard and the girls,” she murmured.

    Janey sighed heavily.

    “Leonard thinks he may show some ducks,” she murmured

    “What? Honestly, Katerina!”

    “The Sleyvens must sort it out for themselves, Janey,” she murmured, kissing Baby Joseph again. “Isn’t he a big boy? ’Es! ’Es, he is!” she cooed—not to Miss Lattersby.

    “At least you are keeping very well,” said Janey heavily, getting up.

    “Why, yes! We are both splendid—aren’t we, Joey? Aren’t we, Joey?” she cooed. “You are not going already, are you, Janey?” she said vaguely.

    “I have been here for over an hour, and I am supposed to pick up Portia to drive into Nettleford to choose the ribbons for her bridesmaid’s dress.”

    “Oh, yes, you said,” she agreed vaguely. “But it is not to be until August, is it?”

    “Nevertheless we are going to look at ribbons today. Good-bye, Katerina,” said Janey firmly, stooping to kiss her vague friend’s cheek. “Good-bye, Joey,” she added politely.

    “You may kiss him, you know!” said Mrs Cornwallis with a laugh.

    Resignedly Janey pecked the baby’s cheek.

    Once safely in the barouche, however, she said grimly to the ambient air: “Babies! My Heavens! Sometimes I think Lady Sleyven has a point! Given the choice, I would gladly spend an afternoon auditing the Maunsleigh accounts, rather than waste it drooling over one of those!”

    “Beg pardon, Miss?” returned her driver, peering at her.

    “Er—nothing, Slate. The vicarage, now, if you please,” said Janey weakly. Mrs Fred Watts had been a Miss Slate, and there was no doubt the man had heard every word, and—oops, in short.

    Having discovered that, even though Hutton’s gang had completed the draining of Felling Swamp well before schedule and the site was now very accessible, Cherry Tree Rise was not in fact rising, her Ladyship had an interview with Mr Hazy, the architect, and Mr Leach, the builder from Nettleford who was supposedly commissioned to put the house up. Or such had been her Ladyship’s impression. She did not care how many other commitments Mr Leach might have had: he should not have given them the impression that he was free to carry out the work if he was not. And as her Ladyship knew of a very reliable firm of builders who had worked on Gratton Hall and would be only too glad of Maunsleigh custom— Her Ladyship broke off and allowed Mr Leach, almost in tears, to assure her that he would concentrate all of his efforts upon Cherry Tree Rise. And he hadn’t realised that his Lardship wanted it up by the end of summer.

    Mr Hazy had not realised this, either, and he looked uncertainly at the Countess but did not dare to question her .

    “You must hire more men, if necessary,” her Ladyship ordered Mr Leach.

    “Out of course, me Lady!”

    “Lady Sleyven, stonework cannot be carried out in a hurry,” ventured the young architect.

    “No, but as we are quite decided the main structure shall be of brick, I expect to see visible progress—visible progress,” repeated Midge evilly, “by the middle of June. Is that understood?”

    By the looks on their faces, that was certainly understood—yes. Though Mr Hazy did then venture, very feebly, as her Ladyship announced that she would go over to the slate quarry and see if they needed more men, that that would scarcely be necessary. Perhaps Hutton might see to it? But apparently Hutton was very busy with the planning for the Annual Nettleford & District Joint Agricultural & Horticultural Fair, and wouldn't be available. And her Ladyship was aware that they were not yet at the end of May—yes, thank you, Mr Hazy.

    Mr Hazy subsided, smiling palely.

    “Good morning, memsahib,” Tonkins greeted her politely.

    Midge eyed him suspiciously but returned politely: “Good morning, Tonkins. A lovely morning, is it not? So you and the spotted pony are to accompany me to the quarry, are you? That’s nice.”

    “Begging pardons, memsahib, but I am wishful to represent that visits to quarry is not highly desirable for the mem of the burra zemindar,” replied the humble syce, bowing so low that his nose practically touched his knee.

    It being quite easy to avoid the eye of a man whose nose is practically touching his knee, Midge did so, and replied airily: “I agree it is not highly desirable, Tonkins, but there is no-one else to do it. If the burra-sahib were here himself no doubt he would put the fear of God into the quarry master, but as it is, I shall take the task upon myself. Else Mr Marsh’s house will never be up!”

    The syce straightened. “No,” he said baldly, grabbing Chota Lady’s reins.

    Midge reddened. “What?”

    “Humblest pardons, memsahib, but it is not permitted.”

    “Tonkins, I intend going to the quarry today.”

    “No, memsahib.”

    Midge took a deep breath. “Tonkins, did the burra sahib send you back to Maunsleigh express to stop me from doing errands that he would do himself?”

    “No, memsahib. The great zemindar has told this humble syce that as Rosie will be having baby very soon, Tonkins must get on down to the damned country. Begging the memsahib’s pardon.”

    Midge licked her lips uncertainly. “He—he called it the damned country?” she faltered.

    The syce looked her in the eye. “Yes, memsahib.”

    She gulped, tried to speak, failed, and suddenly turned and rushed inside.

    “Ah,” said the humble syce thoughtfully to himself.

    At the end of the humble syce’s report, delivered over a sustaining bite, Mr Hutton licked his fingers slowly. “Ah. Not a bad sign.”

    Eagerly Tonkins agreed with him.

    “Go on, then,” he prompted.

    “Humblest apologies, this humble host has not prepared any more pukkorahs,” he apologised.

    “Eh? Not that! Not a bad bite, though,” he allowed graciously.

    “He cooks quite good,” conceded Mrs Fred Watts, in whose kitchen this meeting, not to say supper, was taking place. “He’s learning Rosie up good, too. Moind you, you never seen anything loike the amount of sugar that them Indian sweetmeats takes!”

    “I dare say as the Maunsleigh kitchens won’t miss the odd loaf of sugar,” said Mr Hutton comfortably. “Official!” he added irritably as the syce began to protest. “What I was trying to say,” he added pointedly, “was that you’d better write the burra zemindar a chitty. Tell him it looks promising.”

    “Sloightly more promising than what it were,” amended Mrs Fred drily. “Yes, maybe you better ’ad, ’Arold. ’Ere, talking of promising, ’ave you and Bella set the date?” she demanded of their guest.

    Mr Hutton sighed. “Her pa, he reckons as I got to prove I can settle down and make a go of things, first. I told ’im, thirty years in the Army is as settled as what you can get, ain’t it? Only he reckons it ain’t, when you’re under orders.”

    “’E went on about Mr ’Utton’s gambling, Ma,” explained Mrs Tonkins.

    “Gambling!” cried Mr Hutton indignantly. “Every man puts a shilling or two on a horse, don’t he?”

    “Ten guineas, the way I ’eard it,” noted Fred Watts shortly. He was a man of few words, was Mr Watts, in vast contrast to his loquacious spouse. Though Lower Nettlefold was divided as to whether or no this were cause and effect.

    “Ar,” agreed Rosie. “That’s roight, Pa. Then ’e lost five shilling on a moorghee, t’other day, and Mr Lumley, he says to Bella, if that there feller don’t smarten ’imself up, you can kiss yer ’and to any oidea of living in no Cherry Tree Lane cottage with ’im—ar!”

    “On a moorghee?” echoed Mrs Fred somewhat feebly. “You do mean a ’en, do yer, lovey?”

    “’Course!” retorted Mrs Tonkins on a scornful note. “’Im and that Sam Potts, they ’ad an argymint, dunno ’ow come, exact, only Mr ’Utton, ’e bet five shilling what this black moorghee, y’see, could beat t’other brown thing what Mr Ted Lumley bought in to beat the squoire’s. So they set ’em to race, see, and the black ’en, it beat t’other moorghee ’ands down, only then ’er Ladyship, she rushes out in a temper loike what you never saw, and tears a strip off ’im for a-taking the condition off ’er proize layers! Ar!”

    Mr Hutton’s face was very red. “So?” he said on a sulky note.

    “So Mr Lumley’s roight: you better pull yerself together,” replied Mrs Fred at her driest. “Racing the Maunsleigh ’ens? Potty, is what you be, my lad!”

    “This is being very true,” agreed Tonkins sadly, shaking his head at his old comrade and sparring-partner. “But also is very true that the chota mem is running madly over Maunsleigh hens.”

    “Running mad,” corrected Mrs Fred kindly. “Dessay she do want to take the squoire down a peg or two. So what? I’d do it meself, if I could afford to buoy ’ens whenever I felt loike it!”

    “No, but brown ’ens, Ma? When Maunsleigh’s always ’ad black?” objected Rosie.

    Mrs Fred had overlooked that small point. She gulped slightly. “Yes. Well, that do sound a bit dotty, Rosie. What sort would they be?”

    “Dunno. Brown,” repeated Rosie dubiously.

    “Blue legs?” ventured Mr Watts, straight-faced.

    When the company was over that one, and Mr Hutton had been recovered from his dreadful choking fit and was re-rinsing his throat with cider, Mrs Fred returned to an earlier topic. “Will you wroite to the Lard, ’Arold?”

    The company looked eagerly at the faithful syce.

    Tonkins returned with dignity: “The burra zemindar is asking this humble syce to inform him of progress at Maunsleigh, Ma, so I will be writing chota chitty to say all is well and the chota mem did not go to see rough working men at the quarry.”

    Mrs Fred eyed him dubiously. But as she had now realised that even she would not succeed in getting more out of her son-in-law than he wished to impart, did not press him further.

    “No,” said Mr Humphreys baldly.

    “But Powell, my dear, someone must do something!” cried his sister.

    “Amelia, the Earl has been very decent to me and I fully sympathise with your concern for Lady Sleyven’s happiness. Nevertheless I shall not write him about anything to do with his marriage. Now or in the future,” said Mr Humphreys, horridly definite.

    Scowling, Miss Humphreys returned: “I have a good mind to write him myself!”

    Unwisely Mr Humphreys retorted: “I think that remark falls within the definition of an idle threat.” And duly gaped in horror as his sister sat down at his own desk, took up his own pen, and dipped it in his own inkwell.

    “These,” said Mr Crayshaw respectfully, handing his employer a sheaf of correspondence, “are the personal letters, sir. Several from the county.”

    Jarvis sighed resignedly. “Ventnor again, perchance? What is it this time: ducks? Or no, stay: she will have taken up those American birds, on purpose to incense him.”

    “I think you mean turkeys, sir. Well, no, there is nothing from Sir William, this time. I—er—I wonder if I might have a word, when it is convenient?” he said, as his employer glanced through the sheaf with an expression of distaste.

    “Mm? Yes, of course, Jonathon. Let’s just get these out of the— Simon Golightly?” he muttered. “He is not even married to a niece of hers!”

    Mr Crayshaw cleared his throat. “As I understand it, her Ladyship has—um—commandeered the men who were to work on his barn this month.”

    Jarvis rolled his eyes. “Kidnapped, I think.” He set Simon’s letter aside. “Perhaps you had best summarise the rest, Jonathon.”

    “Certainly. If I may?” The young man took the sheaf back. “This is from a Mr Platt; I do not know if you recall him, sir. It’s about vegetable marrows, largely,” he said limply. “He is the Secretary of the Organising Committee of the fair.”

    Jarvis raised his eyebrows slightly. “I see. You mean, I collect, it is about the fact that her Ladyship has allowed Potts to embark upon a misguided effort to out-vegetable-marrow the man?”

    “Er—well, reading between the lines, I think so, yes. And his thanks for your permission to use the field near the town. Er—Colonel Langford may have mentioned that in his last, sir.”

    “So he did. A polite note of acknowledgement, and please make sure I sign it myself. Go on.”

    “There is also one from a fellow who grows lilies, sir,” he said apologetically.

    “Jonathon, she and Potts between ’em cannot possibly be plotting to out-lily him! Even I know that the things have whatsits—tubers, or some such—and must be planted a year in advance!”

    “Y— Um, do they, sir? No, well, he is concerned that her Ladyship’s enthusiasm for poultry has led her to allow the organisers to allocate part of the space that was originally intended—”

    “Deal with it,” said the Earl heavily.

    “Yes, of course, sir.”

    “Any more like that?”

    “Not precisely, my Lord. Er—Mrs Waldgrave seems concerned that the Harvest Festival—”

    “Not again!”

    “N— Um, it does come round every year, sir. Well, even though that is later, she seems concerned that it will be—er—outshone, I think is what she means to convey, by the fair. Er, at least, that is the ostensible subject of her letter,” he said unhappily as his employer held out his hand for it.

    “I would bet every penny the Maunsleigh lands bring in that Waldgrave has no notion she wrote this!” he croaked.

    “Oh, quite, sir.”

    “Exactly how many of them, if you would not mind telling me, Jonathon, believe my wife’s mind to have been disturbed by the advent of Master Tommy?”

    Mr Crayshaw was driven to shut his eyes for a moment. “She does not quite say that, my Lord.”

    “No, but you don’t have to read too far between the— Never mind. Is there a chit from Tonkins?”

    “Yes, sir.” It was still sealed: he handed it to him.

    Jarvis read through it silently. “Ah.” He laid it down. “I suppose there is nothing from David Golightly? –No. What is the matter?”

    Mr Crayshaw cleared his throat. “This next one is from Miss Humphreys. Um, she is a middle-aged spinster, after all, sir,” he said miserably.

    “Quite.” Jarvis read through it rapidly and said neutrally: “I had best answer it in person; after all, she is Midge’s old friend. Is there anything that requires my actual attention, as opposed to my signature?”

    “No, sir.”

    “Then,” he said, smiling at him, “I think you wanted a word?”

    “Thank you, sir. I have received a very flattering offer from Sir John Stevens, sir.”

    “My felicitations, dear boy. Er, he is out of favour with the present administration,” he reminded him.

    Mr Crayshaw plunged into an eager and very involved explanation as to exactly what and why Sir John’s political position and prospects—

    Jarvis got up before he had finished and gripped his shoulder hard. “Yes. Take it, dear boy: it is the sort of offer that does not come more than once in a lifetime.”

    Mr Crayshaw, though obviously very excited, demurred politely, for he did not want to inconvenience his Lordship—etcetera.

    “Jonathon, it must surely have dawned by now that I have no liking for politics, little aptitude for the same, and if left to my own devices would probably throw my lot in with Mr Guy Fawkes and blow the whole of the Lords sky-high! Not that the Commons are much better, but at least they ain’t there by an accident of birth! Er, forget I said that,” he added somewhat limply. “Staying on with me can do your career no good. I shall find another secretary, though I am sure he will not come up to your standards!” he said with a smile.

    Mr Crayshaw allowed his hand to be wrung very firmly, accepted his Lordship’s congratulations and warmest best wishes, and took himself off, looking very thrilled, to write a letter of acceptance to Sir John.

    Jarvis looked at the mounds of paper on his desk. “God,” he muttered, running a hand over his pate.

    It was the first of June: a glorious summer’s day. Midge was very much on edge, for she knew that Jarvis must arrive home this month. Though he had not written to say when to expect him. Well, presumably with Mr Crayshaw having left him, he was behind with his correspondence.

    “Bates, I really cannot be at home to visitors today!” she said distractedly as the butler came into the study. “I have a great pile of correspondence about the fair: every gardener and farmer for fifty miles around seems to think he needs to appeal to me in person about whatever it might be!”

    “Yes, my Lady. That is, if I may remark, my Lady, only to be expected. I shall not admit callers, but I think your Ladyship might want to see Miss Renwick.” He looked at her benignly.

    “Yoly Renwick?” she cried. “Of course! Where is she?”

    “I ventured to put her in the breakfast room, my Lady, as the small salon is undergoing refurbishment.”

    “Yes. I just hope that his Lordship will like that very pale pinkish fawn,” she said, grimacing.

    An onlooker would have sworn that the grimace had completely passed the butler by. “Of course, my Lady,” he said, bowing slightly. “A delightful shade, if I may say so. Shall you see Miss Renwick in the breakfast room?”

    Midge looked at the mess in the study, and shuddered. “Yes. Bother,” she added, looking at the snoring, furry heap on her lap. “No, it is all right, Bates, I can manage. –He is going limp. He does that, the brute!” she panted, heaving Mischief into the large wing-chair by the empty fireplace.

    Bates held the door for her but noted neutrally: “John was saying that Dumpkin was pining, my Lady.”

    This meant that Bates thought that Dumpkin was being neglected, of course. Midge swallowed a sigh. “I see. Well, you had best ask him to bring him along to the breakfast room.”

    “Thank you, my Lady.” Bates bowed her into the breakfast room and went off, looking entirely bland.

    “Yoly!” said Midge eagerly, holding out her hands. “How delightful to see you! Welcome to Maunsleigh!”

    Miss Renwick was looking somewhat intimidated: the Maunsleigh breakfast room was larger than her sister Samela Paige’s drawing-room. She rose quickly. “Good morning, Lady Sleyven. I hope it isn’t inconvenient?”

    “No, of course not!” Midge squeezed her hands warmly, and then, as Yoly was looking very unsure of herself, kissed her cheek. “Come and sit down. I apologise for seeing you in the breakfast room, but the small salon is being re-hung: it has taken me over a year to decide on the colour scheme, and I still don’t know if it is the right decision. But at least Bates did not put you into the so-called morning-room, which is as cold as ice every hour of the day but most especially in the morning, and into the bargain the approximate size of Blenheim Palace, and hung in a chilly ice-blue which clashes vilely with every single one of the frightful still-life paintings which are a feature of the room!”

    Yoly smiled limply. “I see. Flower pictures?”

    “No, flower pictures would be almost supportable, and might even suggest a suitable replacement for the horrid blue!” returned Midge with a laugh. She had now had time to perceive that Miss Renwick was looking very much thinner than when last seen, and that there were shadows under her eyes. Oh, dear. Why had she ever encouraged her to see anything of M. d’Arresnes? Jarvis was right, and it had only led to heartbreak for the poor little soul. “No, they feature small pieces of armour, or unidentifiable brass pipes, or strange jars and vases—preferably in a murky brown, you know the style of thing! There is one, which Brother Partridge swears is very fine, which shows a glove in great detail.”

    “A glove? Um, chain mail?”

    “No, no, my dear, that might be almost interesting!” replied Midge with a gurgle, ringing the bell. “Leather, with every stitch and crease faithfully portrayed. Dark brown leather.”

    Somewhat to her relief, Miss Renwick collapsed in giggles at this, nodding very hard.

    “And I apologise most sincerely for admitting this,” added Midge, as John came in with Dumpkin. “Tea, please, John,” she added over Miss Renwick’s and Dumpkin’s rapturous reunion.

    Over the teacups Yoly revealed that of course she was come to stay with Walter for the summer. John and Samela were going up to Scotland, an expedition which had been planned for some time. But although she had been warmly invited she had thought she would rather not. And it would be pleasant to see something of Walter.

    “It may be his last summer as a bachelor,” she added shyly.

    Midge was rather relieved to hear her admit it. “Well, yes. Relations do seem to have improved very much between him and Janey. I think it gave her a horrid shock to find he would not come crawling when she ignored him.”

    “Yes. Well, if she is what he wants,” said Walter’s sister with a tiny sigh.

    “I think there is no doubt of it. And though you and I can both see,” said Midge very kindly indeed, “that she is something of the Lady Frayn type, I really do think that marriage to a sensible man like Major Renwick will be the making of her. Whereas, though there is no doubt she adored him, marriage to Poppy Frayn was more or less the ruin of Corinna. Well, it certainly set the seal on a wilful, spoilt personality. True, there were times when he put his foot down; but I cannot think he did it often enough. And then, it was clearly the sort of relationship where he found her youthful tricks amusing—”

    “And she played up to him. Yes! I have always thought that!”

    “Yes. But your brother and Janey are much nearer in age; and then, he is a very sensible man.”

    “Yes. I hoped you would think that,” said Yoly with a relieved sigh.

    Midge smiled a little wryly. “Well, I have not been ladified quite out of all recognition, yet.” Yoly was looking at her hesitantly so she added: “I admit that I am not a besotted mother like Katerina, but just say if you would care to see the offspring.”

    “Of course I would!” she said with her frank laugh.

    “Good. Well, he is in his somnolent period, now; can you stay for luncheon? He will be awake by then and I usually spend some time with him.”

    Yoly demurred, protesting that she was invading the Countess’s morning, but Midge overbore her. And, since it was Yoly’s first visit to Maunsleigh, ended by taking her on a little tour. Not neglecting such prize exhibits as the dairy, the rose garden, and the vegetable-marrow plot.

    When Viscount Froissart had been duly inspected and admired, and Yoly had promised she would call him “Master Tommy” for as long as she lived, and had gone off to Oak Ring House smiling, laden with offerings from the Maunsleigh kitchens, Midge returned to the study.

    “Yes,” she said determinedly. “Why not? It can do no harm to suggest it, and if he does not take the opportunity, then he is a mouse, not a man, and she is better off without him! –Poor little soul,” she added, lapsing for a moment. She then took a deep breath and rang the bell.

    “Frederick, I am about to send an urgent note to London. Find me someone who will take it as fast as possible, and tell him to change horses as often as he needs to: I want it to get there by midday tomorrow.”

    “Yes, my Lady,” he said in a stunned tone. “For his Lordship, my Lady?”

    “No. Hurry up, please.”

    Frederick bowed himself out, still looking stunned, and Midge sat down and took up her pen.

    Two days later, therefore, Lord Sleyven was somewhat surprised to receive an early morning call from M. le Vicomte d’Arresnes. He looked dubiously at the card Slight was proffering.

    “My Lord, I could suggest the Vicomte call at a more convenient—”

    “No, no. As well now as any time, I suppose, Slight. Show him in, please.”

    Slight duly bowed M. d’Arresnes into the study.

    Greetings having been exchanged, and the Vicomte having been urged to seat himself, Jarvis looked at him expectantly.

    “Lord Sleyven,” said the young man, taking a deep breath, “I have heard you are in need of a secretary.”

    Jarvis blinked. “Er—yes. Well,” he said ruefully, looking at his piles of correspondence, “you can possibly perceive that, M. d’Arresnes! If you have a candidate for the position, monsieur, I shall probably fall on your neck!”

    “Er—yes, I do. If you should like it.” He took another deep breath and said: “Me.”

    “What?” said Jarvis dazedly.

    The younger man’s hands shook, just a little. He leaned forward and said very earnestly: “Lord Sleyven, I know that in view of my paternal relatives’ plans for me, it must sound an absurd suggestion, but I beg you, hear me out!:”

    There was a little pause. “Certainly I shall hear you out. Pray continue,” said the Earl calmly.

    “Thank you. I— My father’s family, what remains of them, wish me to marry money. Preferably money with a noble or at least genteel background, but they will accept merely money,” he said, his slender nostrils flaring a little.

    “Mm. A not uncommon scenario, in your walk of life, monsieur.”

    “Yes: given that I have nothing but a very small allowance from my mother’s cousin, and the charity of my friends,” he said grimly.

    “That is more or less what one had assumed, yes. But your family estates?” said Jarvis, raising an eyebrow just a little.

    “There is no hope of recovering them, and anything my Cousin Vallon may have mentioned in your hearing about that, is compound of imagination, vanity, and unreal expectations of what the two together may produce!” he said heatedly.

    “Ah.”

    “I beg your pardon, my Lord, I did not mean to become heated. We have investigated very fully the possibility of getting the estates back. The Château d’Arresnes was burned to the ground when my grandfather and my two oldest uncles went to the guillotine. There was a smaller estate in another part of the country. The bankers repossessed that and have since sold it. Only a—a maniac royaliste like my Cousin Vallon could possibly maintain that we have a shred of a claim on it.”

    “I quite agree. What about the main d’Arresnes lands?”

    “They were also mortgaged, sir. Different persons had various claims, and eventually a man named Meinhoff, a Dutch banker, bought up all the papers. Eugh, my relatives claim that he had an agreement with the revolutionary government, and I dare say it may have been so. Anyway, he sold some of the farms outright, and the bulk of the estate to a wealthy tradesman. After Waterloo, when Cousin Vallon insisted the lawyers make an effort to get those lands back, there was a court case, but we lost. Well, the details do not matter,” he said impatiently, “and I dare say my cousin’s claim that the judge was bribed may be true enough. However, that is the present situation. I own nothing, and I have no prospects. I have decided that I would prefer to work for an honest living in England, rather than live out my life as a—a European parasite!” His voice shook a little but he looked the Earl firmly in the eye.

    “Mm,” said Jarvis slowly. “You may own nothing, but you are not nobody, monsieur.”

    “Permit me to say that it is my firmly held belief that a man who owns nothing and does nothing to support himself or his family, is precisely nobody, my Lord. Whatever his name might be.”

    Jarvis rubbed his chin. “I incline to that opinion, myself; but it is not one shared by our world. Er… can your friend, Henri-Louis, do nothing for you?”

    M. d’Arresnes hesitated a moment. “Hé bien, to be frank, he has done all he can, and that is not very much. He has nothing but his name, either. And his claim to that is a little dubious, you know. He has very little influence, in truth.”

    “Mm. But should he marry well, that will open up prospects for you—no?”

    “Prospects of hanging on his sleeve. Yes, well, he is a kind friend and a close one. But I would rather stand on my own two feet.”

    “Admirable,” he said neutrally. “Er… How did you hear that I am in want of a secretary, Vicomte?”

    M. d’Arresnes reddened but said frankly: “Lady Sleyven wrote me a note, sir.”

    “Ah. And is your family aware of what you intend?”

    “Yes. Maman is still in town: I told her first, and then Cousin Vallon and my aunt, yesterday.” He swallowed. “I also told them that my sentiments with regard to Miss Renwick have not undergone a change, sir.”

    “I see. Did Lady Sleyven intimate that I would pay you enough to allow you to support a wife?”

    “No!” he said angrily, going very red. “Please read her very kind note, monsieur! You will see, all she says there,” he said as the Earl took the note, “is that it will be an opportunity for me to earn a wage and to think about the possibility of being able to marry in the future, should I wish to live a quiet life. And I do!”

    Jarvis sighed a little. “Yes. Such a life, whether or no you find me a hard taskmaster, will not include merry little parties of the kind you are used to, and will certainly not offer you the opportunity of carousing until the candles gutter. Whether or no we are in town. Which I try not to be, most of the time.”

    “No, of course. Lord Sleyven, I grew up in Tunbridge Wells, which is a small town, in a small house, with a tiny garden, which was leased to Maman by a kindly family with Royalist sympathies for a purely nominal sum. I am not used to a lavish lifestyle. My relatives sent me to a decent school for a few years, but I will not swear that the school’s fees were paid. Certainly since I came of age I have done nothing very much with my life. I am not proud of that. I shall not miss the stupid parties.”

    “Mm.” Jarvis eyed him thoughtfully. The young man held his chin up and looked back at him firmly enough. “Well, you are old enough to be your own master. I shall give you a chance. If you can stick it out for six months and do a decent job, the position is yours.”

    “Thank you very much, my Lord!” he gasped.

    Jarvis smiled a little wryly. “You may have nothing to thank me for. You will be paid the same as Jonathon Crayshaw,” he said, naming the sum, “and no more nor less will be expected of you than was of him. You may start as soon as you like.”

    M. d’Arresnes looked around the study. “I— Well, now, my Lord?”

    “Why not? Oh, and my first order is more or less what my first was to Jonathon,” he said, his mouth twitching a little. “Address me as sir, if you would, not as my Lord.”

    “Of course, sir. And I should be very pleased,” he said, straightening his shoulders, “if you would forget my own title.”

    “Very well, d’Arresnes, if that is what you wish,” said Jarvis, straight-faced. “Take this pile of correspondence, if you would, sit at the desk in the outer office, and sort it into letters requiring my signature on the reply, and letters not. Ah—as a guide, anything from a female correspondent possibly does. Then write the replies, please. Just acknowledgements, will do. And then please write me a little summary of what you have understood from the correspondence. That is not normally required, but I wish to make sure you are capable of functioning as, shall we say, an adjutant, rather than a mere scribe.”

    “Yes, of course, sir.”

    “And remind me when it’s time for tea,” said Jarvis in a vague voice, looking at some papers on his desk.

    “Er—yes. Er, may I enquire when you normally take it, sir?”

    At this the Earl looked up with a twinkle in his eyes. “Certainly. Always ask, when you are not sure. It is a mark of intelligence. Only the abysmally stupid consider it a mark of stupidity. Ten past eleven.”

    “Ten past eleven: I shall remember,” said the Vicomte, retreating to the outer office.

    Jarvis raised his eyebrows slightly, but bent to his paperwork again.

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