Nettleford News

36

Nettleford News

    The wedding of Miss Katerina Bottomley-Pugh to Captain Leonard Cornwallis, R.N., held in early June in Nettleford Cathedral, was generally voted to have been the most splendid occasion the great edifice had witnessed for many a long year. Given that the last large wedding intended to be celebrated therein had not come off. It was a morning wedding, the ceremony being graced by the presences of the Earl and Countess of Sleyven, his Lordship appearing most affable indeed, and her Ladyship very ladylike in pale green and white striped silk, with a matching wrap tasselled in white, and a pale green silk bonnet of the most frivolous kind. As it had been purchased in London from the milliner patronised by the Marchioness of Rockingham, it did not feature any ribbons from the Misses White’s shop, but the bran-new little kid gloves had been chosen by the Countess herself with Miss White’s assistance.

    The bride was delicately lovely in a plain white silk gown, more than somewhat enlivened by an amazing veil of the finest lace. The which, as certain eyes were not slow to note, could have served as a tablecloth at Maunsleigh itself, it was so large. Or, to quote Aunt Cumbridge’s very words, that was one in the eye for the cats! Her only jewellery was a strand of perfect pearls, the veil being held in place by a simple circlet of white flowers. The groom of course was very handsome and very proud of his lovely bride; and if his relatives were not so evidently thrilled by it all as he himself was, then that was their loss, Katerina’s friends and well-wishers concluded.

    The bridesmaids were generally voted to have looked delightfully: that was, by those who were not busy remarking, imprimis, that there was a positive raft of them, secundus, that Miss Lattersby looked peaked and that Miss Amanda Waldgrave’s eyelids were red, so those rumours were probably true, and tertius, that they wondered that the Miss Pattersons should care to be seen amongst such a crew. At the which point Lady Paula’s use of nautical metaphors penetrated to the consciousness of her audience, and her fashionable London friends, all of whom had leapt at the invitation to the Cornwallis wedding, collapsed in muffled hysterics.

    Mr Bottomley-Pugh was generally deemed by Nettleford to have gone overboard about the thing—though opinion differed as to whether this was wholly justified and they would have done the same in his place and let the Bishop’s lady put it in her pipe and smoke it, or whether it was the expectable gross piece of ostentation. Local opinion also differed as to whether the presence of Mr Sidney Bottomley, smiling and elegant in the bride’s family’s pew, made the whole thing better. Some maintaining that it did, and that in that regard it was a pity as the Bishop’s lady were not present in order to choke in on her dratted Chantilly scarf over it (Mrs Newbiggin, to name only one). And some maintaining that it most certainly did not, and that Mr Bottomley-Pugh was mocking the whole of Nettleford and had it not been for the presence of the Earl and Countess they themselves would not have dreamed of attending (Mrs Cunningham, to name only one). It was perhaps as well that Mr Harold Hartington had not been able to grace the ceremony with his presence also, as he was on tour with the majority of his troupe; although, as the bride’s father himself put it, they would probably not have recognised him in any case, for if any of them had twigged that the Prince Alexei’s best friend Baron Whatsit was the same fellow as his major-domo, you could call him, Joe Bottomley-Pugh, a Dutchman, and into the bargain he would eat that damned new black lace thing the Bishop’s wife was flashing in their faces this summer.

    The absence of the Bishop and his lady, alas, was not truly regretted even by those who would have wished to witness the latter smoking her pipe and/or choking on her lace scarf; and, strangely, even the Dean, who of course officiated, had not suggested that perhaps they should be present. There would in any case scarce have been room for them, for the cathedral was positively crammed, guests having come from as far afield as Kendlewood Place and The Winnows, in the one direction, and Oak Ring House and Little Jefford, in the other. And all of the remaining spaces having been filled by those citizens of Nettleford who had not received an actual engraved invitation.

    Well up towards the front on the bride’s side one might have perceived a beaming Mrs Newbiggin, complete with Mr Newbiggin, all the sons, and her very best bonnet: an amazingly ladylike creation of bronze silk shot with gold, featuring many bows and rosettes of the same shade and three tall tan ostrich plumes. The black-trimmed bronze silk dress was as fine as—nay finer than—the gown of the Countess of Sleyven herself; and she carried two wraps, one of black silk lined with bronze and black stripes and tasselled in gold, very much after the style, indeed, of the Countess’s wrap, the which certainly indicated to Nettleford that she was entirely in the mode, and the other a very new stole of sables. For, she had noted with a certain grimness in her tone, if you had ’em, there was no point in not showing them off, else people would never believe as you did have ’em, and if so be as word got back to the Palace and Her Highness choked on her dratted Lapsang, so much the better—and never mind if it was June, the Cathedral was always draughty. Lizzie Sigley, who as a very old friend had known from the beginning what Mrs Newbiggin planned to wear, did not have her nose put out of joint by it, as some foolish souls had predicted, but on the contrary, was able to sit by His Worship’s side positively glowing in deep blue satin with a very new sapphire brooch and a bran-new cashmere shawl, in the happy consciousness that there were more than enough persons here present who would be only too pleased to report every detail to the Palace. His Worship himself, even though this was not an official occasion, had kindly consented to wear his chain of office, at Mr Bottomley-Pugh’s special request.

    Also towards the front one might have glimpsed a grinning Mr Hutton in the company of Mr and Mrs Lumley and an excited Bella, and a flushed and smiling Miss White and Miss Janet, the latter only shedding tears at the very moment the groom lifted the bride’s veil and gently kissed her lovely lips.

    Miss Humphreys also shed tears at this point—though, to say truth, she had been decidedly lachrymose throughout. Miss Humphreys was not sitting in the humble company of such as Mrs Newbiggin, well towards the front though that lady was: no, she was with the Sleyvens themselves! Occasioning Lady Paula to remark: “Who on earth is that frumpish little creature with the Sleyvens? Not that frightful little cousin of his, is it?” To which one of her London friends was happy to be able to reply: “Not if you mean the thin little creature in the black silk and the bonnet which resembles a crushed coal-scuttle, no, my dear: for Myrtle Partridge is that impossibly grand little creature in the grey silk with the mistaken mauve bows upon the bonnet. On Sleyven’s other side.” The which naturally caused the ladies all to collapse in muffled hysterics yet again. And incidentally, Mrs Arthur Golightly, who was sitting with her mother and step-papa, and not with Lady Paula’s set, to remark grimly: “Lady Paula C. is the greatest cat in nature, and you were so very right, Arthur, to tell me that I should not care for her set, were I in it. I do not know if she be laughing at this precise minute at Aunty Midge, or Lord Sleyven, or dear Miss Humphreys, or Mr and Miss Partridge, or what; but I am very sure she is giggling at someone in their pew. And next time I offer a dinner at Little Jefford Vicarage, I shall not invite her!” To which Dr Golightly replied mildly: “Good.”

    A lavish reception was held after the ceremony at Nettleford House. This was, it would have been fair to say, unreservedly enjoyed by all of the Bottomley-Pughs’ own friends and relatives, and all of the rest of Katerina’s well-wishers. Those who had not visited before and who had expected the house to be garish and in the worst of taste and the reception itself to be impossibly over-grand, out-rivalling indeed the famed engagement dinner given by Mrs Marsh, were confounded. The house was elegant beyond reproach (its owner having been persuaded by his son and daughter to reduce the amount of red in his red salon to the wall hangings alone). And the food was likewise irreproachable: in the very best French style. Or, as Mrs Cumbridge noted to the Countess with a wink: “Tray-fine. And poor Maggie would have loved it all, bless her for the silly woman she were.”

    The gentle Katerina, if left to her own devices, would have voted merely to go home with her Leonard and his two shy daughters to the refurbished Dinsley House after the reception; but Captain Cornwallis, though he would not have been averse to installing his new bride in his new house and simply staying there, either, was determined that none of his relatives should be able to breathe a word of criticism; so after the reception, with Katerina at her lovely best in blue silk, and a bran-new cashmere shawl which rivalled that of the Mayoress, they set off for the Channel coast, the which would lead on to a genuine French château belonging to friends of Lady Caroline’s. One more in the eye for such as the Bishop’s wife and Lady Paula Cunningham—quite.

    “Went off quite well, hey?” said Mr Bottomley-Pugh complacently, standing on the sweep in a proprietorial manner, as the last of the guests departed his house.

    “Pa!” said his son with a protesting laugh. “It went off splendidly!”

    “That it did,” agreed Aunt Cumbridge firmly. “Maggie would have been right-down thrilled, Joe. It made them Pattersons look sick as dogs, for a start.”

    Vaughan grinned. “I’ll say! And that Lady Paula Niffy-Naffy! Did you notice her at the reception? Looking round for anything she could possibly criticise!”

    The old lady eyed him drily. “I noticed you offering her a plate of savouries with the remark that the receet come straight from Maunsleigh—aye.”

    Vaughan sniggered slightly. “It might have.”

    “Well, if she knew anything about the Maunsleigh kitchens, she would’ve spotted straight off it couldn’t ’ave, acos the pastry was at light as air, I’ll say that for that feller in yer Pa’s kitchen.”

    Vaughan looked bland. “Is that so?”

    Delightedly the old lady smacked his arm with her new black lace fan, breaking down in horrible cackles.

    “You’ll do, lad,” conceded Mr Bottomley-Pugh with a wink. “Come on back in the house, let’s put our feet up, for the Lard’s sake. And practice getting on without ’er, eh?” he concluded with a smothered sigh.

    Vaughan said nothing, but he took his father’s arm as they turned for the house. And Mrs Cumbridge, though still emitting smothered cackles, leaned on his other arm.

    “What did you think, my dear?” said the Earl mildly as he, the Countess, Brother and Cousin Myrtle plus the highly gratified Miss Humphreys headed for Lower Nettlefold and thence Maunsleigh.

    “Vindication,” responded Midge grimly.

    Jarvis blinked a little. “Vin— Oh,” he said slowly. “I think see.”

    Midge nodded hard. “I really feel as if I have been waiting all my life for this day!”

    “My dear!” protested Miss Humphreys in horror.

    “Well, do you not see, Miss Humphreys?” she cried. “It is Mr Bottomley-Pugh’s triumph! He has married off his daughter into one of the stuffiest-nosed families in England! Relations of the grandest and most exclusive country house in the district, what is more, who never so much as invited poor Mrs Bottomley-Pugh to cross their horrible threshold! What else would you call it but vindication?”

    “Y— Er— But my dear Lady Sleyven,” she faltered, “not waiting all your life, surely?”

    “Yes,” said Midge grimly. “Most definitely.”

    “A triumph, indeed,” twittered Cousin Myrtle with an anxious look.

    Jarvis cleared his throat. “I collect that Miss Humphreys’s point is, my dear Midge, that most ladies would rather consider the day for which they had been waiting all their lives to have been their own wedding day, instead of that of a friend, however dear.”

    “Don’t be silly,” replied his wife mildly. “I never for a moment expected to get married, so how could I have been waiting all my life for the day?”

    Jarvis shot one look at the horrified faces of Miss Humphreys, Cousin Myrtle, and Mr Partridge, and collapsed in hysterics of the most painful kind. “Midgey, my angel,” he said, mopping his eyes at last, “you are a source of constant delight to me. Never change, I do most sincerely beg you.”

    Midge glared suspiciously. “I am not a joke.”

    “No, no, my darling, I did not for a moment meant to impute that!”

    “Nor do I mean to develop into a complete hypocrite, just because I am become your countess,” she added firmly.

    “I don’t think you could,” he said frankly. “But please, don't try. Remain yourself, I beg. I do utterly agree,” he said, picking up her gloved hand and holding it very tight, “that today is Mr Bottomley-Pugh’s vindication. I am sincerely sorry that Katerina’s mother could not have been here to see it.”

    “Mm,” said Midge, blinking, rather, and nodding hard. And giving him a shaky smile.

    Brother, Miss Partridge and Miss Humphreys at this all exchanged smiling—not to say relieved—glances and nods.

    … “It really does seem,” concluded Miss Humphreys happily, eventually recollecting that she had her bonnet on and removing it—she had been speaking for twenty-five minutes by the clock on the parlour mantel; “that they are getting on splendidly! Learning to adapt to each other’s ways, you know. And he so clearly very much understands and appreciates her true character,” she added earnestly.

    Somehow or another in the last few months Mr Humphreys had seen quite a lot of Mr Bottomley-Pugh and, unlikely though it might have seemed, the two were becoming fast friends. But he had not attended the wedding, though of course he had been invited: the long period sitting in the cathedral would have been too much for him. Mr Bottomley-Pugh had urged him at least to come to the reception, but had recognised ruefully that it would be a lot of standing round making polite conversation to half the nobs of England, that or to a gaggle of their relations that wouldn’t know what to say to Mr Humphreys any more (with a twinkle in his eye) than he would know what to say to them; followed by another long period of sitting at table. So, in order that Mr Humphreys should not miss out he had promised to send across a selection of good things to eat; and in spite of all the other things on his mind that day had been as good as his word, for a box of delicious provisions had arrived well before Miss Humphreys did, and Powell had been able to sample them for his midday meal. Washing them down with some excellent champagne. And the bottle must not go to waste, so he now insisted that his sister must help him finish it. It was that or Gertie Potts, he warned. Miss Humphreys predictably collapsed in giggles, but noted, blowing her nose in a refined manner: “Well, dear Lady Sleyven declares that today is a positive vindication for Mr Bottomley-Pugh, so I am sure our poor Gertie Potts may have a glass of French champagne!’”

    Powell Humphreys winced slightly but allowed her to ring for Gertie Potts. Predictably that young person choked, and gasped: “’Elp! Bubbles!” Then noting percipiently: “Lard, it ain’t ’alf sour, sir! Is that what French woine is, then? Well, thanking you kindly, I’m sure, but I don't see what all the fuss is about.”

    “Never mind, it isn't every day that we have a vindication,” said Mr Humphreys mildly.

    “I’m sure, sir! In Nettleford Cathedral, an’ all!

    Smiling weakly, Mr Humphreys awarded her a plate of mixed savouries, and waved her away.

    Miss Humphreys was sampling the champagne on her own account. “I think it is delicious,” she said firmly.

    “Mm. Delicious but sour.”

    “Rubbish, Powell!” Defiantly she finished her glassful and refilled both glasses. “I am sure it is as delicious as any wine I have been offered at Maunsleigh.”

    “Mm-mm…No, no: I agree about the wine,” he said quickly. “Mr Bottomley-Pugh has a natural palate. Um, did you say that Sleyven has a grasp of his wife’s true character?”

    “Yes.”

    “Er—yes. Tell me, does this grasp extend to giving her any useful tasks with which to occupy her day, not to say her mind?”

    Very flushed, Miss Humphreys cried loudly: “Powell, you are talking rubbish, and it certainly proves what Lady Sleyven said to me only last week, that any gentleman at all will become silly after he has been drinking wine! The mistress of Maunsleigh does not require useful tasks! Good Heavens, you make it sound as if she is a—a Gertie Potts!”

    “Heaven forbid,” he said mildly. “Incidentally, expect an adverse report on those savouries: one of them contained caviar, and I think there was another with smoked salmon. –On the contrary, Millicent Wynton is a highly intelligent woman who has, besides, been used to leading a busy and useful life. I don’t say she is the type to get up to mischief if she has nothing to do; but I do say that unless his good sense extends to seeing that she is more than his mental equal and requires occupation as much as he does himself, then they are not out of the woods yet.”

    Very flushed, Miss Humphreys rubbished this entire speech, reiterated her remarks on the subject of gentlemen and wine, and bustled out to the kitchen to assure Gertie Potts that the odd taste of smoked salmon and caviar did not indicate the food was “off”.

    Powell Humphreys sipped champagne slowly. He was damned sure he was right, wine or not. Though he owned, somewhat wryly, to a wish that he could be wrong.

    Mr Sidney Bottomley, or, as he was known to his wider public, Mr Roland Lefayne, had spent a pleasant few days with his relatives, staying either at Nettleford House with his brother or in the town with some of the Cumbridges: for he was, in spite of his elegant appearance, not too proud to admit to his origins. Nor above taking his excited small cousins Flo and Annie Cumbridge for a stroll along the main street of the town. Nor yet above buying them quantities of pastries and sharing them with them, sitting by the river on a convenient stone bench, swinging their feet and giggling. Similarly, he had amiably made himself available to the harried Aunt Cumbridge, who had been in charge of the arrangements at Nettleford House, in order to “get them danged lasses out from under me feet”. Variously, Miss Lattersby, Miss Somerton, Miss Amanda Waldgrave, and any of a number of assorted cousins. And even, on one particularly harried afternoon, the blushing Misses Cornwallis. They had no conversation, but they were sweet-faced, modest, well behaved girls and Sid had no particular objection to taking them into Nettleford in the barouche and buying them quantities of pastries, etcetera. The company of his older nieces and nephews, however, did tend to pall: they had very few interests outside the expectable ones of ribbons, gowns and beaux (in the case that they were female) and neckcloths, horses and young ladies (in the case that they were male). And their parents, though quite glad to hear tales of the exciting theatrical life of the great metropolis, were more interested, on the whole, in their own thriving businesses and the gossip of the provincial town, the Bishop’s wife’s acquisition of the famed Chantilly scarf being typical of the topics of pressing interest.

    So although he had amiably accepted his Cousin Dora’s invitation to come back to their house with them after the reception and “spend the night”, he was very glad to get back to Nettleford House on the morrow. Though there was not, now that all the excitement was over, very much to do there. Vaughan suggested they might ride out together: his uncle yawned and said he didn’t think so. Vaughan suggested a game of billiards: his uncle yawned again and said he would trounce him in less than five minutes if they did play, but on the whole, he didn’t think so. Somewhat desperately Vaughan suggested piquet but his father vetoed that before Sid could so much as open his mouth.

    “I've only got the one day, really. Suppose I had best get going tomorrow. This place we’re due to play in is down in Devon somewhere,” he said, yawning.

    “I’ve said, you can have the carriage,” his brother reminded him. “Why don't you learn up your lines?”

    Sid yawned. “Orsino. Nothing to it. And I’ve done that other damned thing Harold has in mind at least half a dozen times, I know it backwards. Nothing to it in any case.”

    “Then take the barouche, for the Lard’s sake, Sid, and get out and about! Don’t sit round here, mooning!”

    “We-ell… What are you doing, Joe?”

    Mr Bottomley-Pugh eyed him drily. “Accounts.”

    Gulping, Sid owned that perhaps he would drive out. Er… over to the vicarage?

    “Miss Amanda’s staying with the Somertons,” said Mr Vaughan immediately.

    Sid’s shoulders shook slightly, but he conceded: “That helps. Plumbways, then? Want to come?”

    “Um, are you just going to pay calls?” returned his nephew warily.

    “No, you noddy! I’m going to collect Miss Amanda and Miss Somerton, drive them into town, feed ’em on pastries, and leer at ’em!”

    Grinning, Mr Vaughan acknowledged that he thought he could do that, and fetched his hat.

    “I should warn you,” said his uncle airily as the barouche approached the elegant façade of Plumbways, “that the last time I called here in a barouche it was as the Prince Alexei Alexandrovitch, with Aunt Cumbridge at my side draped in black lace and glittering with diamonds. At least some of them genuine.”

    “Ma’s bracelets,” agreed Vaughan, unmoved. “I don’t care. Mind you, Mrs Somerton may not let them come out with us. Worth a try, though.”

    Twinkling, Sid agreed.

    Strangely, Mrs Somerton did not appear at all loath to let Lacey and Amanda, and incidentally Janey Lattersby, who was apparently also staying at Plumbways, drive out with His Former Highness. Indeed, she revealed with a sigh as the girls hurried out to get their bonnets: “They have all three been impossible the entire day, and whether it is the let-down after all the excitement of the wedding I should not care to say; but frankly, my dear Mr Lefayne, I wish you joy of them! I have never seen such long faces in my life!”

    “I dare say they won’t mope with Uncle Sid,” said Vaughan calmly.

    Mrs Somerton’s shrewd little eyes twinkled a little, but she did not permit herself to smile, and agreed that it was certainly to be hoped they would not. And, she added sharply as the young ladies reappeared, Mr Lefayne must bring them home immediately if they were not all on their best behaviour! The which speech, reflected Sid drily, pretty well put him in his place as a kindly uncle figure, if it did also serve to put the young ladies in theirs as three schoolroom Misses.

    “She’s good, isn’t she?” said Mr Vaughan reflectively as they assisted the young ladies into the barouche.

    Sid’s long mouth twitched. “At what she does? Yes, indeed.”

    Not precisely to Vaughan’s surprise, the young ladies, all of whom had started out rather pettish, appeared to have cheered up by the time they got to Nettleford. He could not see, precisely, what his uncle did to attain this effect, but he was in no doubt that whatever it was, it had worked. It being a gloriously fine day, the barouche was left in a handy spot, and the party proceeded on foot. Pastries having been purchased and consumed, uncle and nephew escorted the young ladies to look at bonnets and ribbons. Lady Paula Cunningham was sighted during this part of the expedition but very fortunately, she and her lilac silk gown with the matching ruffled parasol were on the other side of the busy High Street, so bows and smiles were deemed sufficient.

    “She looks miffed,” noted Mr Vaughan happily, glancing back over his shoulder. “Don’t look, Uncle Sid, or she’ll think you want her company.”

    At this all three young ladies collapsed in gales of giggles, and Vaughan allowed himself to smirk.

    A pleasant interval then ensued at the Miss Whites’. Janey of course was a wealthy young woman with into the bargain a generous papa: she happily purchased quantities of ribbons and a new pair of gloves. Lacey’s papa was not quite so generous, or perhaps over-indulgent, as Major Lattersby: nevertheless Miss Somerton seldom ran short of pin money, and so she purchased quantities of ribbons and a set of collars and cuffs. Amanda fingered ribbons longingly, refused with a blush Miss Janet’s offer to fetch a selection of gloves to try, and did not buy a thing.

    “Allow me,” said Sid, smiling. Miss Amanda’s incoherent protests were overborne and ribbons chosen for her; and the young ladies then assisted Mr Lefayne with a variety of purchases intended for the ladies in Mr Hartington’s troupe. Some of whom were older, he explained gravely as Miss Amanda looked dubiously at a lace-edged cap he had chosen. Mr Vaughan became somewhat bored during these proceedings and wandered over to lounge in the doorway, happily reporting such notable sights as the Bishop’s lady’s barouche with Her Highness not looking at the shops, Mr Jeffson and one of his sons driving a great waggon with bales of hay in it, young Mrs Savile’s barouche with its occupant’s nose so high in the air that she was in danger of missing her friend Lady Paula, and Major Renwick, “just walking.”

    “Is he coming our way?” asked Sid mildly, as Miss Lattersby flushed up very much.

    Vaughan waved to him. “He is now. –Good-day, Major Renwick!”

    Major Renwick was heard to greet Mr Vaughan politely and to congratulate him on his sister’s wedding having gone off so well.

    “Unlike some,” agreed Vaughan, winking.

    Major Renwick was heard to break down in splutters.

    “Uncle Sid and I are assisting some young ladies with their shopping. Well, and they’re assisting him with his,” Vaughan then said. “Care to join us?”

    “I don’t know anything about ladies’ shopping, Bottomley-Pugh,” replied Major Renwick solemnly.

    “Nor do we. So it’s as well they’re with us, really, isn’t it?”

    It was a bright day outside but the Major’s eyes had now adjusted to the relative dimness of the Miss Whites’ shop. “Quite. Good afternoon, ladies; Lefayne,” he said coolly. “I should care to join you. Pleasant day, is it not?”

    The ladies and Mr Lefayne greeted Major Renwick happily and agreed that it was a pleasant day; with the exception of Miss Lattersby, who merely smiled uncertainly.

    And, all the purchases having been completed, the augmented party gathered up its parcels, bade Miss White and Miss Janet good-day, and strolled on, in the general direction of a shop which Miss White had assured Mr Lefayne sold the most delightful fans in all of the county. Mr Vaughan had possessed himself of Miss Somerton’s arm, that young lady co-operating in the operation with a distinct twinkle in her eye, and his uncle had taken Amanda’s; so that left Janey for the Major. He offered his arm solemnly. Miss Lattersby took it, very flushed, saying nothing.

    On the way Miss Amanda enquired delicately whether, if she might make so bold, the fan were intended for a rather special lady? For if Mr Armour’s fans were the most excessively delightful in the county, their prices could be said to rival them in excessiveness, as also those of the other charming artefacts which Mr Armour sold, and for herself, she had never dared to do more than peep in the window. Mr Lefayne replied calmly that the lady was very young, possessed of a most caring heart, and stood in the position of a niece to himself.

    As they neared the shop Miss Amanda went very red indeed, gasped, and grabbed her escort’s arm fiercely. This emotion could scarcely have been caused by the sight of a hatless, grey-haired man who was standing in the sun on the doorstep, so it was probably caused by the sight of a tall, wide-shouldered, dark-haired, handsome fellow who was standing there with him, chatting.

    “Cousin Bob!” gasped Janey.

    “So it is,” agreed Major Renwick neutrally. “Did you not know he was down here?”

    “No!” said Janey angrily, glancing from his face to Amanda’s pink one, and attempting to pull her arm from his grasp.

    Major Renwick held on tightly. “I meant nothing by it, Miss Lattersby. Merely, I should have expected him to contact his relatives.”

    “Um—well, Papa is with Cousin Peter at Dinsley Airs: perhaps Cousin Bob did call there, but I am staying at Plumbways for a little.”

    “There you are, then.”

    “Mm.” Janey glanced again at Amanda, swallowed hard, and hissed desperately: “What shall we do?”

    Walter Renwick smiled just a little. “Greet him, I think.”

    Miss Lattersby nodded her straw bonnet very hard, so, still smiling a little, the Major led her forward and greeted Mr d’Annunzio politely.

    “But what are you doing here, Bob?” said Janey very limply indeed, when greetings had been exchanged, Miss Amanda’s being almost entirely inaudible, and Mr d’Annunzio had introduced the grey-haired man to those who did not know him as Mr Armour, the proprietor of the establishment.

    Mr d’Annunzio and Mr Armour exchanged glances. “Well, you see, Mr Armour is thinking of retiring, and Papa is thinking of opening a branch in Nettleford. We are investigating the possibility of combining the two sorts of business. For the shop has an excellent position and is well used to serving the carriage trade.”

    Janey nodded interestedly. “I see. They would be accustomed to come here for their fans and trinkets, so why not expand into jewellery and silverware? Very cunning!”

    “Ar, we thought so, Miss,” agreed the elderly shopkeeper with twinkle in his eye, “And,” he added, his eye on a carriage trying to draw in, in the press, “as some of them be a-coming this moment, best I get on in, if you’ll excuse me?”

    “Oh, but we are come here express to help Mr Lefayne choose a fan!” cried Lacey.

    “Miss White recommended you as the best in the county,” said Sid primly.

    Mr Armour grinned, “You let her, did you? No, well, I’ve known Sid Bottomley since he were a lad in nankeens, pinching apples out of my garden!” he said to the company generally. “Come along in, then. Dare say I moight foind yer something what’ll be half as foine as what you get in Lunnon town.”

    And on this typical example of Nettleford irony, they all went inside in a bunch.

    The carriage which had been drawing in proving to contain two very smart ladies indeed, who had come down to stay at Verne Lea for the Cornwallis wedding, and who were apparently enraptured to discover Mr Lefayne in Mr Armour’s shop, Miss Amanda’s aid in selecting a fan was not needed after all. The which was certainly just as well, for she was so flustered that she was incapable of uttering anything beyond a gasp and a gulp.

    “Where are you staying, Bob?” asked Janey, as the ladies became absorbed in trying to convince Mr Lefayne that their own choices were preferable to his and in trying to get the name of the intended recipient out of him.

    “At the Wynton Arms. I called on your father this morning and your cousin very kindly asked me if I’d like to stay with him, but I think it might be an imposition. In any case, the inn is much handier.”

    “Mm.” Mr Lefayne’s elegant acquaintances were making a great deal of noise: Janey glanced over her shoulder at them, and murmured: “Shall we step outside for a moment?”

    “Yes, let’s,” agreed Walter Renwick calmly, although the remark had not been addressed to him.

    Bob d’Annunzio nodded silently and the three adjourned to the pavement.

    Janey took a deep breath. “Bob, if you and Mr Armour do reach an agreement, shall you run the Nettleford branch yourself?”

    “Yes. Well, it’s Papa rather than I who must reach the agreement, of course. But in any case he wants to open up down here.”

    “You mean he's agreed that you may settle here?” said Janey anxiously.

    “Yes. It makes good economic sense,” said Robert d’Annunzio seriously. “With a working jeweller on the premises, the work need not be sent to London.”

    “Never mind that! This means Uncle Umberto’s coming round, doesn’t it?” she cried, her eyes sparkling.

    “Well, to the extent of allowing me to settle here and see if I can make a go of it, yes.”

    “Make a go of what, may I ask, d’Annunzio?” put in Major Renwick.

    Bob smiled at him. “Well, of everything, Major. Turn over a decent profit with the shop and persuade Miss Amanda’s parents to let me have her.”

    “Bob, she’s of age: you could just marry her out of hand!” hissed Janey.

    “It’s all right, sir, we’re used to her, in the family,” said her cousin with his easy grin as Major Renwick, perhaps misguidedly, opened his mouth. “I shall do no such thing, Miss. In the first place it would be quite immoral, and in the second place, I think she would be very unhappy if there were to be a breach with her family.”

    “Mm,” said Janey, biting her lip. “They are very close, I suppose. Though personally I would say it is merely the result of propinquity and custom, and not because the sisters are especially fond of one another or of— I never spoke!” she ended crossly. “But if you met the Waldgraves you would surely agree that Amanda has nothing in common with either parent!”

    “I have met them, and I disagree,” replied her cousin composedly. “She's not a scholar or a reverend, obviously. But I have every expectation that she will one day run a house as competently as her mamma does. And if you were one of my sisters, Miss, you’d have learned long since that that sort of smart remark gets a lass’s mouth washed out with soap, in any right-thinking family. Lady or not,” he ended severely.

    Major Renwick grinned. “Well said, d’Annunzio!”

    “My Aunt Gianna was a spinster, you see: spoilt her rotten!” replied Bob cheerfully.

    “So I am beginning to see: yes. I suppose one must learn to make allowances.”

    Janey’s cousin looked at him with considerable sympathy. “Well, either that or to keep a good supply of soap to hand! –No, but the family all understand that she means well, in general, sir!” he said with a chuckle.

    “I’ll remember that,” said the Major, smiling very much.

    Miss Lattersby found she was left with nothing at all to say

    “Well, shall we go back in?” said Bob mildly.

    “Yes—um—we are headed back to Plumbways, later. You—you could come with us, if you like, Bob,” faltered Miss Lattersby. “If you’ve finished your business, I mean.”

    “We shan’t finish our business today, by any means: Mr Armour will need to think it all over. Well, yes, I’d like to: thanks, Janey,” he said cheerfully, opening the door for her. “After you, Cousin.”

    Janey went silently back into the little shop, looking more than a trifle stunned.

    Mr Lefayne bought a fan, the two fashionable ladies bought quantities of small trifles which very probably they would never look at again, and Mr Lefayne, Mr Vaughan, Major Renwick, Mr d’Annunzio and the three young ladies strolled back to the Nettleford House barouche in the sun. This time Roland Lefayne did not have a young lady on his arm, but he did not look in the least put out to find himself playing gooseberry for once in his life.

    A warm June had developed into a gloriously fine July, the which had brought with it more news for Nettleford and district.

    Polly poured tea composedly. “Mrs Waldgrave agreed without a murmur to let Amanda go to Eugenia and Dr Carewe for the rest of July. It must be the thin end of the wedge.”

    The former Miss Waldgrave’s wedding to Dr Carewe had taken place, very quietly, towards the end of June, and the two had immediately settled into their vicarage, with Miss Carewe, Miss Carewe’s singing bird, and a year-old cat reputed to be the offspring of a good mouser, presented to the startled bride by a beaming and congratulatory Bella Lumley.

    “Oh, pooh!” replied Polly’s aunt strongly. “It is a ploy to get the poor girl out of Bob d’Annunzio’s road.”

    “We do not think so,” murmured Miss Humphreys.

    Polly twinkled at her aunt. “No, indeed, my dear Lady Sleyven! In fact, we incline to the opinion that it presages a favourable outlook upon the occasion, in the not positively distant future.”

    “An outlook scarcely need be presaged,” began Midge with a cross look, “for it is itself— Oh, help. Is that what she actually said?” she ended feebly.

    Polly and Miss Humphreys collapsed in giggles, nodding hard. And Mrs Golightly then blew her nose and summarised: “She is all of a doo-dah. And the Dean himself is to receive him into the Church!”

    “Into the cathedral, I presume,” said Midge, very limply indeed.

    “Unworthy, Aunty Midge!” retorted Polly with a laugh. “It all seems to be turning out splendidly, does it not, Miss Humphreys?”

    The little spinster lady nodded, smiling. “Mrs Waldgrave actually said to me the other day that while daughters could be a sad trial, it must be a comfortable position, to have them settled with decent men in a respectable walk of life. Well, the precise reference was to yourself, Polly, dear, but it was very clear what she meant!”

    “I should hope so,” said Midge limply. “For Polly was never a sad trial in her life.”

    Polly twinkled at her. “Thank you, Aunty Midge! But you see, if she is on the verge of admitting that Dr Carewe and Mr d’Annunzio are decent men in a respectable walk of life—!”

    “Yes. Well, I am very glad for Amanda,” said Lady Sleyven, attempting to pull herself together. “I—I must admit that I had never envisaged Mrs Waldgrave’s beginning to come round so soon…”

    “No, well, the visit with dear Mrs Carewe will give both of them a little breathing-space, as it were, and then they may be comfortable again,” said Miss Humphreys composedly.

    “Both— Oh, Amanda and her mother: yes, of course,” said Midge feebly.

    Her niece and her devoted supporter both gave her sharp looks, but said nothing more for the nonce.

    Later, however, when that Great Big Girl, Grace Golightly, had been admired, and the ladies were once more seated in Polly’s pretty little sitting-room and Polly had explained, all over again, how very much dearest Arthur’s stripping the ivy off the house and pulling down the trellis had lightened and brightened this room, and incidentally just how much living in the country and getting out and doing things in the garden was improving dearest Arthur’s health and disposition, she did venture: “Aunty Midge, are you feeling quite the thing? You seem a little vague.”

    Midge sighed. They were both looking at her anxiously—nay, both anxiously and narrowly: it was like that time she had had her bad cold. “I suppose I might as well tell you. It is the stupidest thing, because— Um, well, Dr Jarman tells me I have started a baby.” She broke off, to allow the cheering and congratulations to die down. “Yes. Thank you,” she said feebly. “I was going to say, it is the stupidest thing, because according to him, I must have started it back in April. Well, he calculates it is due in January.”

    Polly stared at her. “Aunty Midge, how you could mistake?”

    “I— Well, I saw a silly doctor in town whom Jarvis chose, and he said I was not. Though come to think of it, that was in April. Or was early May? During the stupid Season, at all events. And then—um—well, things were so—um—turbulent, um, I don’t mean that, precisely, but hectic; and Jarvis was never home— No, um, I mean, during the day; and we had all these stupid evening engagements and… I lost track. And then when I counted, you know, I thought that it was just because, with all the, um, the nerves and excitement, my system was a little upset.”

    “You were living in a huge household full of people who were supposed to be looking after you!” cried Polly indignantly. “And what, pray, is the matter with Lord Sleyven? Did you not tell Mamma that he knows more about women than you do yourself? Or is it that he cannot count?”

    There was a short silence. Midge’s cheeks were very red. She looked anxiously at Miss Humphreys; but although the little lady’s cheeks were also rather flushed she smiled at her and said gamely: “The thought must spring to mind, dear Lady Sleyven.”

    “Well, he had things on his mind. But he did ask me, several times, only of course I was sure I was not. –I haven’t been sick at all!” she said indignantly.

    “Not everybody is,” murmured Mrs Golightly.

    “You were!”

    “Yes, I know, but not for so very long. I had some giddy spells, too: have you had any of those?”

    “Polly, recriminations are pointless! –Oh, very well: yes, but I thought it was just because of the stupid evening parties, and then we had that row—um, not row, he behaved most magnanimously—over the stupid masquerade ball, and so I decided not to have such late nights any more. And felt very much better.”

    “There is still the matter of the counting,” replied Polly grimly.

    “I thought I was becoming like Ursula. She was always very—um—irregular. And Mamma always used to say that one should not worry over such things and every woman was different.”

    “Not when you have been regular as clockwork for thirty years! Um, well, not thirty,” said Polly, doing some counting on her own account, “but—”

    “Yes,” said Midge flatly. “It was stupid. But once we got home there was Katerina’s wedding, and… When I had time to think about it, I realised that I had missed three times, not two. But I didn't want to raise Jarvis’s hopes.”

    “Or to be fussed over?” replied her niece shrewdly.

    “Mm. So I just popped in to see Dr Jarman. Well, it was so pleasant to see Mrs Jarman and the children again… And I thought, if he came to Maunsleigh, it might arouse false hopes,” she said, swallowing.

    “Yes, of course, my dear!” agreed Miss Humphreys hurriedly, directing a minatory look upon Mrs Golightly.

    “Yes. Well, I am very, very glad for you, Aunty Midge,” said that young matron firmly, leaning over and taking her aunt’s hands tightly in hers.

    Midge’s lower lip wobbled. “Mm. With my luck, it will be a girl.”

    “I am sure he will adore it; and then, the next one may be a boy!” replied Mrs Golightly brightly.

    Forthwith the Countess of Sleyven burst into snorting sobs on her niece’s shoulder.

    … “Well,” said Polly with a sigh, as the Countess’s barouche was dispatched at last, Midge sitting up very straight and looking very grim, “I suppose that she will be better once she has nerved herself to tell him.”

    “My dear, can he be anything but pleased?” returned Miss Humphreys with a smile.

    “Yes—no—I mean, of course he will be pleased! Come and sit down under this arch thing: Arthur swears that next year this pathetic little twig he has tied to it will swarm all over it and burst into glorious bloom and leaf!” said Polly with a chuckle. “Well, he built it himself out of the remains of the trellis, and is prouder of it than he is of Grace Golightly herself, drat the man!”

    Miss Humphreys merely smiled and shook her head at her.

    And Polly admitted with a happy laugh: “Not quite! –As I was saying, Aunty Midge will be somewhat better once she has told Lord Sleyven. But I must say, I was a little worried to hear her come out with all that about having nothing to do.”

    “Ye-es… Was that not just nerves, my dear?”

    Polly frowned over it. “Not entirely, I don't think, Miss Humphreys. She has been complaining of it for quite some time. Not to me, so much, but she has certainly mentioned it to Mamma. Um, to tell you the truth, I think she envisaged spending the rest of the summer trying to persuade Mrs Waldgrave to favour Mr d’Annunzio’s suit on the one hand, and to bring Janey and Major Renwick together, on the other.”

    Miss Humphreys swallowed. She had taken tea at Maunsleigh but two days since, in the company of a somewhat silent but smiling Miss Lattersby, a smiling Major Renwick, and, she now realised, a stunned-looking Lady Sleyven. She now reported these observations to Polly.

    “Well, quite!”

    “Er, it is my observation, that if it is meant to be, young persons will generally work it out for themselves,” ventured Miss Humphreys.

    Polly nodded. “Yes. And I have to say it, I think that once Mrs Waldgrave realised what the d’Annunzio family is worth, it could only be a matter of time. Well, I am very glad for dearest Amanda, of course. And if Janey has realised what a thoroughly good sort of man Major Renwick is, I am sure it is about time! But the thing is, that leaves Aunty Midge with no occupation for the rest of the summer! Not to mention the autumn: she has let Lord Sleyven invite Aunt Ursula and her husband for September, you know.”

    “That must keep her busy, at the least,” said Miss Humphreys limply.

    “Aunt Ursula will attempt to patronise her, for she always did. And to tell her how she should manage her house, and so forth. It will be positively frightful,” said Mrs Golightly frankly.

    Wincing, Miss Humphreys had to concede that she could see it.

    “But that is not the same as being usefully occupied!”

    “No-o… Could it not be enough, once she has told his Lordship and realises how happy the news must make him?”

    Polly sighed. “You mean, dear Miss Humphreys, enough just to be quietly happy together? I wish,” she said as the little lady nodded hopefully, “that I could see it! But for Aunty Midge? It will not be enough for her. I know it would for me, or—or Katerina, or Amanda, or any of the girls I know—and Mamma, too! But Aunty Midge,” she ended firmly, “is different.”

    Miss Humphreys nodded sadly. “She is a very unusual woman indeed.”

    Perhaps fortunately, Maunsleigh was not due to entertain guests that evening. Midge decided she had better tell him after dinner and get it over with. However, his Lordship elected to play billiards with Mr Crayshaw. After some time Midge went and looked in upon them.

    “Come along in, Midgey,” said her husband with a smile. “You may watch, or learn the art, as you please!”

    Midge looked at them a trifle limply. Her very proper husband and his even more proper secretary were both in their shirt-sleeves. Suddenly she had a vision of Jarvis in—well, say fifteen years time; with a couple of sturdy boys, aged, say, fourteen and twelve, in their shirt-sleeves, learning how to knock silly little balls about on a silly green table… She swallowed hard.

    “What is it?”

    “Nothing. Um—this is the sort of manly art you will teach your sons, it is?” said Midge with a silly laugh.

    “Our sons,” he replied calmly. “Yes, of course.”

    “That and riding, fishing, and shooting,” said Mr Crayshaw with his pleasant smile.

    “Yes. Um, aren’t those sticks rather long for them, though?” asked Midge inanely.

    Jarvis gave his secretary a warning look, and said mildly: “For our boys, y’mean, me dear?”

    “Yes. What? Oh!” said Midge with a confused laugh, “I suppose I was thinking of them as about William’s and George’s ages…”

    “I dare say,” he said, leaning on his cue, “that we may find some handy fellow about the estate to make some shorter sticks for ’em, until they grow tall enough to handle these. Your shot, dear boy.”

    Jonathon played his shot, missing horribly.

    “Was it meant to do that?” asked Midge dubiously.

    “No,” said the young man with a grin. “Would you like to try, Lady Sleyven?”

    Midge took the “stick” and approached the table cautiously. “Stop that!” she ordered as her husband closed his eyes. “Do not dare to say it: this is another of those things that females cannot do.”

    “On the contrary, my sister Maggie is a dab hand at it. But short persons often find themselves at a disadvantage.”

    “Mm,” agreed Mr Crayshaw in a strangled voice. “Er, not like that, ma’am! Let me show you how to hold it.”

    “Go on, Midgey: hit it,” prompted Jarvis mildly. “Not too hard, my dear, this is not a game of cricket.”

    Ignoring this somewhat unfortunate reference—her husband had recently discovered she could not hit a cricket ball to, his phrase, save her life—Midge hit the ball. Jonathon collapsed in wheezing hysterics immediately. The ball had dribbled approximately two inches and then stopped.

    “On the other hand, there is no need positively to stroke it,” noted his Lordship.

    Grimly Midge tried again. The ball shot across the table, hit the edge, flew up in the air, narrowly missed braining his Lordship, struck a portrait of some Wynton ancestor with a thud, and fell to the floor.

    “Help,” she gulped.

    “I think that was the second Earl in his youth,” said his Lordship detachedly, retrieving the ball. “You have not got the feel of it, Midgey.”

    “I don’t think I want to, though I would have no objection to making a hole in the second Earl, or his horse, or his improbable hounds, or his unbelievable falcon. But I don’t wish to brain you or Jonathon. I’ll just watch.”

    The gentlemen played on. Midge watched. After some time she ventured: “It seems pointless, to me.”

    “She said that of cricket, when we were playing with Charles and the boys on the lawn,” Jarvis reminded his secretary.

    “Shockin’, sir,” he agreed.

    “Polo sounds like more fun. Theoretically!” said Midge hurriedly as their jaws both sagged.

    “Well, yes. Certainly to play,” agreed his Lordship. “And, I would suppose, to watch. You owe me fifteen thousand guineas, Jonathon.”

    “So I do.” Solemnly the young man produced a paper of comfits from his pocket and counted out three. “Each is worth five thousand, Lady Sleyven,” he explained courteously.

    “I suppose it is preferable to using real money,” said Midge limply. “Is all the excitement over?”

    “Yes: Jonathon has a long journey tomorrow, so he had best get off to bed,” said Jarvis brutally, picking up his coat.

    “Oh—of course. Ditterminster, isn’t it, Jonathan?”

    “Yes, that’s right, Lady Sleyven. There is to be a meeting of Lord Rockingham’s boys’ homes committee, and then, I have an invitation to inspect the model village and the brickworks.”

    “Oh? You are not starting something of the sort here, are you?” asked Midge of her husband.

    “No. But you know I am interested in the boys’ homes; and I asked if Jonathon might observe the way the enterprises are managed—how the committees work and so forth.”

    “To what end?” asked Midge, frowning over it.

    “Well, no immediate end, except that the workhouse appears to lack guidance, and Waldgrave suggested we might improve the composition of the governing committee. I admit that I am very interested in the way Rockingham has got the brickworks going and created the model village to house the workers, but we have no such natural resource in these parts.”

    “I see. Lady Rockingham has started a school for girls,” ventured Midge.

    “Yes, but our neighbourhood’s village schools are better than theirs were. But certainly a school for older girls might be something we could consider for the future. –I’d send you with Jonathon, but the cats would never cease talking of it!” he said with a laugh.

    “No, of course,” agreed Midge, yawning suddenly. “I beg your pardon.”

    “Come along, you may get off to bed, too!” said Jarvis with a smile, taking her arm. “Good-night, Jonathan.”

    The young man bade his employers good-night, and Jarvis led Midge out.

    “I need to speak to you,” she said abruptly.

    “I thought there was something on your mind. Upstairs, then?”

    Midge allowed her husband to light their candles and lead her upstairs. May was in her bedroom, but she bobbed and disappeared on perceiving his Lordship.

    “Did it dawn on yourself or on May that she should absent herself when I come into your room?” asked Jarvis with a smile.

    Midge made a face. “Neither. I could see that there was something wrong, but I couldn’t work out what, because you like May and always smile at her. So I asked Lady Caroline, when she was down for Katerina’s wedding. She was quite cross that Corinna had not told me. Jarvis, I have started a baby.”

    Jarvis gulped, and sat down hurriedly on the edge of the bed. “What?”

    “I was wrong, before. You were right: it was significant that I had—had missed. I saw Dr Jarman this morning, and he says I have, and I must have started it back in April, and I think Polly thinks I am the greatest idiot in Nature!”

    “Don’t bawl, Midgey,” he said, pulling himself together and hurriedly getting up and putting his arm round her. “This is splendid news!”

    Midge sniffled. “Yes. But do not dare to tell me that I must take it easy; I am perfectly well.”

    “Yes, you are. Though it certainly explains your moodiness, these past few months!” he said with a little laugh, kissing her cheek. “Don’t cry, my darling; you cannot have thought I would be anything but pleased, surely?”

    “No. But I thought perhaps you might think I had been wilfully deceiving you.”

    “No, no! –I should have insisted you go back to Troughton.”

    “No, the man is an imbecile! Dr Jarman said he thought I must have already started, when I saw him—though I admit I could not remember the exact date—but he says it is due in January.”

    Jarvis did arithmetic. His lips twitched.

    “Very well, I am an idiot,” said Midge with a sigh.

    “Well, in that case, I am, too. But you laid such stress on the fact that your sisters—”

    “Yes!”

    He kissed her hair. “Sorry, Midgey. So—January, eh? Splendid! And who else has heard the good news?”

    “Only Polly. Well, I went straight there from Dr Jarman’s. Oh, and Miss Humphreys, she was with her. I suppose that was not the correct etiquette, and I should have told you first,” she noted glumly.

    “Rubbish. It was a entirely natural to tell them. January! That is not so very long to wait!” he said, rubbing his hands.

    “It may be a girl,” warned Midge dubiously.

    “Then suppose I shall have to promise not to hold out for ‘Millicent’! What a pity that Polly and Arthur have already laid claim to ‘Grace’.”

    “Yes. What was your mother’s name?’

    “Ursula,” admitted Jarvis, shaking slightly.

    “I really could not. What about Jane? Though I suppose they would call her ‘Plain Jane.’”

    “Mm. Elizabeth?”

    “Ye-es… I don't like Eliza,” objected Midge.

    “Nor I. Beth for short?”

    “Yes! I really like that!”

    “Good, Beth it is. ‘Beth Wynton’. Yes, very pretty. Of course, if it is a boy, we shall not have to worry about names at all.”

    Midge looked at him suspiciously. “Why not?”

    “We shall call him Froissart, of course.”

    “Freshet?” echoed Midge blankly.

    “The title of the heir apparent. –Midgey! Wake up! F,R,O,I,S,S,A,R,T.”

    “Good grief, is that how it is pronounced?”

    “Mm; don’t tell me Cousin Myrtle neglected to tell you that!”

    “Um, well, if she did mention it, it went in one ear and out the other. And we shall do no such thing! The poor little sprat!”

    Jarvis chuckled. “No, of course! But Bates will insist upon it. you know; I have seen it in his eye, not to say hovering on the tip of his tongue, ever since the engagement was announced.”

    “No! ‘Master Tommy’,” said Midge crossly.

    “Eh?”

    “That just came out,” she admitted feebly.

    Jarvis put both arms round her and hugged her gently. “We can call him Tommy if you wish, my angel. There has probably never been a Thomas in the history of the damned Wyntons: so much the better, it is time we started a few new traditions. But ‘Lady Beth’ and ‘Master Tommy’ together sound odd, do you not think?”

    “Then until they are grown, we shall drop the titles entirely!” she said pugnaciously.

    “Mm,” he agreed peaceably. “Come to bed.”

    Midge looked up, very flushed. “I asked Dr Jarman about that. He says there is no harm, so long as I do not feel uncomfortable. Certainly not for the next few months.”

    “I’m glad to hear it.” Jarvis picked her up and dumped her on the bed, grinning. “Come on, then, Mrs Wynton,” he said in the accents of the country. “Up with that skirt—ar! And let’s be ’aving yer!”

    Somewhat to his surprise, for he could see that she was quite shaken up by the discovery that she was to be a mother in a little over six months’ time, Midge co-operated very enthusiastically indeed in this operation.

    Next morning she declared herself to be very well, ordering him to stop fussing, and proved it by eating an enormous breakfast before waving Jonathan off on his journey to Ditterminster.

    “I have to go into Nettleford this morning,” murmured Jarvis.

    “You mean, you intend to torture poor Dr Jarman on the rack until he tells all,” noted his wife coldly.

    “Something like that, yes.”

    “Why on earth can you not just tell me the truth?”

    “I might as well, for apparently I cannot hide a thing from you, Mrs Wynton.”

    “That is not wholly true, unfortunately. But at least you realise that I can see through you some of the time.”

    “Yes. Um, I suppose I thought you might be cross if I just up and said I was going to check up on you, Midgey,” he said meekly.

    “Yes, well, think about it,” advised Midge grimly.

    “Mm. I apologise, both for the intention and for the prevarication. Should you like to come with me? Pay some calls?”

    “Um… I did mean to call on Mrs Newbiggin yesterday, but forgot… I suppose we ought to tell Letty and Charles before her,” said Midge guiltily.

    “Oh, pooh! We owe her more than we do them. Yes, listen, Midge! Nettleford, see Jarman, call in on Mrs Newbiggin and Cousin Judith, then over to Nettleford House and tell Mr Bottomley-Pugh: what do you say?”

    “Yes, huzzah, let’s do that!” she cried. “Um—”

    “Mm?”

    “I suppose it is too far for me to ride?”

    Jarvis opened his mouth. Then he took a deep breath. “Midge, you are testing me. Do not deny it. It is too far for you to ride, not because you are in your present state, but because you are a very inexperienced horsewoman and you would be sore as be-damned after a ride of half the distance. But in principle there can be no objection at all to your riding your little mare. Given that you don’t jump.”

    Midge smiled reluctantly. “I asked for that last. Well, good. I shall go for a ride tomorrow. But for today it had best be the barouche.”

    His Lordship agreeing placidly to this, the barouche was duly ordered up and they duly set forth, like a model couple, to spread the good news.

    The news was, of course, very well received in the district. Certainly by all of the former Miss Burden’s many well-wishers. The majority of the latter, indeed, expressed complete optimism, ranging from Mrs Fred Watts’s: “Ar! We’ll ’ear the bells rung for a son and heir before the New Year’s more than a week old!” through Mrs Langford’s ecstatic laugh and indiscriminate hugging of Midge, Lord Sleyven and her own husband on the strength of it, to Mrs Somerton’s perhaps not wholly disinterested: “An heir to Maunsleigh, at last! Delightful! Mr Somerton, we must make a push to bring dear Lacey and Mr Lattersby together, for the two properties would march delightfully; and then, you know, their eldest daughter would be of a very age for Viscount Froissart!” Mr Somerton having the sense not to point out, for the nonce, that Lady Sleyven’s might not be a boy, peace reigned at Plumbways, and boiled mutton was not needed for some weeks.

    Only one or two odd spirits refused to see the forthcoming event as presaging unalloyed happiness for the Sleyvens.

    … “A very unusual woman? You mean, I collect, Amelia,” said Powell Humphreys very drily indeed, “that Lady Sleyven is not a milch cow.”

    To his astonishment, his meek spinster sister turned a violent puce, gathered up her skirts, and shouted: “That is ENOUGH! You are indelicate and unsympathetic, Powell, and I have had ENOUGH!” And rushed out.

    Mr Humphreys shrugged a little. He probably was all of those things. But apparently he was right, also. And apparently, surprising though it might seem, Amelia shared his opinion on the subject.

    … “Hm,” said Mr Bottomley -Pugh to his own heir.

    “Katerina seems to think it will be the making of her, Pa.”

    “She’s bloinded by being in that condition herself, bless ’er. Well, it takes some women that way—younger women, in general. Can’t see past the babies, for a bit. Never thought our Kate would be one, though. Oh, well. Thing, is if Lady Sleyven was a cottager, she'd be so blamed busy she wouldn’t have toime to think, with a babe coming. No, well, to be strictly accurate, she wouldn’t hardly have toime to miss the fact that she didn’t have toime to think. Ar,” he noted as Vaughan frowned over it and then nodded. “If the man don’t see that she ain’t the sort what will settle for mere domesticity, there’ll be ructions, you mark moy words.

    “Ye-es… That or they’ll just drift apart like most of the fine lords and ladies. Um, sorry, Pa!” he gulped.

    Mr Bottomley-Pugh put a heavy hand on his shoulder. “No, you’re right, Vaughan lad. Oh, well. Oi’ve done all Oi could.”

    Vaughan just looked at him very sympathetically, and nodded hard.

    … “It’s what I’ve always said,” said Mr Hutton, scratching his grizzled head. “The Colonel won’t never let on to other ranks, nor the chummery neither, before you start, what’s in is ’ead. Got to plan it out by himself, and you fellows can rush in with your bundooks when I say and not before!”

    “This is being most right,” agreed Tonkins sadly.

    Mr Hutton gulped but rallied to say: “Well, at least you see it! And the chota mem won’t stand for that, you mark my words! Baby or not!”

    “It is the very story of the silversmith’s wife,” he agreed sadly.

    Mr Hutton let him tell it. He wasn’t far wrong. Babies alone could not wholly occupy a bright woman’s mind, be she tradesman’s wife or burra mem.

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