Zan, Zar, Zamin

37

Zan, Zar, Zamin

    Mrs Fred Watts’s prediction did not quite come true, for Midge’s baby was not born until almost the end of January: on a blustery cold afternoon with more than a hint of snow in the air, and the Maunsleigh lands dank and dark in the aftermath of a black frost. Not that anyone in the great house would have noticed or cared if a howling blizzard had been raging outside. Dr Jarman was in attendance, as were Mrs Langford and Mrs McVeigh, and a smiling, competent Nurse Fendlesham, niece-in-law to the Maunsleigh housekeeper; although with Mr Hutton in the house their services were scarcely needed, as that worthy informed the entire household at some length. Midge had kept very well and very active, and Thomas Jarvis Charles Cresswell Froissart Wynton was born strong and healthy, with comparatively little trouble. The doctor going so far as to inform the Countess, as the babe was wrapped warmly and laid in her arms, that she was a natural mother.

    “And should have ten of them? No, I thank you,” said Midge faintly, peering at her infant. “Ugly, isn’t he?”

    “Midge!” gasped Mrs Langford in horror.

    “Give him a kiss and cuddle, and then you may both get some rest,” said the burly doctor with a grin.

    In a very gingerly fashion the Countess kissed Viscount Froissart’s head. The doctor and Mrs Langford were then extremely gratified to see her turn very red and hear her admit in a growly voice: “He is rather nice, I suppose.”

    His Lordship was then admitted for two minutes. And, though the doctor rolled his eyes, and Nurse Fendlesham took a very deep breath indeed, Mr Hutton. For half a minute.

    Fortune smiled on the House of Wynton, and Viscount Froissart and his mother continued to do splendidly, and by the time April with its showers sweet and profusion of spring flowers had rolled round and Mr Hutton had solemnly presented Viscount Froissart with a carved wooden horse to mark his third month of existence, everything at Maunsleigh was back to normal and running smoothly. And Lord Sleyven was cheerfully promising his wife that the next would definitely be little Lady Beth: he would see to it in person!

    Midge smiled and nodded and owned that she would not altogether mind, though the thought of one a year was not enticing. Whereupon his Lordship kindly explained how a gentleman might exert himself to prevent that. Though it was not always humanly possible, true, especially if the lady in question were extremely—er- encouraging. And would Midgey please not speculate as to whether their friends and neighbours knew of the technique, for he would never be able to look them in the eye again.

    “I expect Mrs Somerton just tells him not to do it at all.”

    “Do not start,” said Jarvis faintly.

    “Though it possibly explains why the Pattersons have only the two. Though one would think they might have wished to try for a boy.”

    “Midge, please!”

    “Lady Judith would have wished for a girl, so possibly she and the Dean—” As Jarvis had put his hands over his ears, Midge considerately stopped. Though noting: “Once one knows, it is impossible not to speculate. Have you told Hutton?”

    “Er—no, the subject never came up,” he said faintly. “And, dare I say it? He belongs to the class which assumes it is a man’s natural right just to go ahead, regardless of the possible consequences. Not to say, regardless of who the woman is,” he noted thoughtfully.

    Midge had gone very red. She looked away from him.

    “I see,” he said slowly.

    “You do not! It—it was only just at first, before I had got used to it,” she stumbled.

    “Mm,” he said mildly, kissing her nose. “You must allow a just-married man a certain natural over-eagerness.”

    “I see,” she said nodding wisely. “Now that are you more used to doing it with me, you can sometimes stop in the middle.”

    “Er—yes. That puts it very succinctly,” he croaked.

    “It’s all right, I would not dream of mentioning it to anyone but you.”

    “On the contrary; you should discuss the topic with Lady Beth, in the case that her fiancé’s papa should not have explained it to him.”

    Midge looked at him in horror.

    “Well, do you wish to see your daughters have a child a year, ma’am?”

    “Um—no. Help, you’re right. Um—but they cannot force their husbands to stop in the middle, can they?”

    “Not unless they be women of the temperament of a Mrs Patterson, no,” he said mildly.

    “There, you are doing it yourself, see? But I do see what you mean.”

    “You had best make sure they marry decent young men,” he said on a dry note.

    “Indeed!  Or you should.”

    “I hope I shall be able to. But in the case that I am not around,” he said lightly, “I must lay the responsibility on your shoulders, Mrs Wynton.”

    Midge sat up and looked at him anxiously. “Jarvis, you are quite well, are you?”

    “Yes. Extremely fit. Can you not tell?” he said slyly.

    The Countess laughed feebly, and smacked his arm. “Yes. But I know you: you will only tell other ranks and the chummery how much you calculate is good for us.”

    Jarvis returned mildly: “I promise I am very well. But one should be prepared for any eventuality.”

    “Mm.” Midge counted on her fingers, frowning. Finally she announced: “I suppose we had best hurry up and have some more.”

    “What, now?” he said faintly.

    The Countess of Sleyven at this was driven to smack her husband’s arm again. “No. But soon,” she said severely.

    “Yes, ma’am! –If I can,” he said primly.

    Midge ignored that. There were times in married life, she had discovered, when one had to.

    As this scene indicated, the Sleyvens’ married life, so far as its more intimate aspects were concerned, was going along splendidly. Not that there had ever been any problems in that area.

    But as for the rest… Midge conceded he was trying. But he was not, in her humble opinion, trying hard enough.

    To take but one instance of the many, there was the case of the land around Cherry Tree Lane. He had bought back the lease from the squire, but had neglected to mention the fact, so the first Midge was aware of it was when Sir William assured her, in the middle of Lady Ventnor’s select dinner party, that he was not worried, for the hunt was still assured of some splendid runs in that direction. Since this had been in late November and Midge had been more than somewhat weighted down by the Viscount at the time, she had not been able to do what she had felt like doing, to wit, rush over to her husband’s side and shake him until the teeth rattled in his head and he promised never to do another thing on the estates without consulting her. When she did broach the topic with him he apologised for not remembering to tell her before she saw the Ventnors. Which was not at all the point!

    Then, still on the Cherry Tree Lane theme, he had commenced building a row of cottages there: detached, each with a small garden; without thinking to mention a word to her. Construction had started in March, and although it was true that Midge had been very much occupied with Viscount Froissart, it was not true that every minute of her day was occupied with him—far from it. And it was also surely true that being Jarvis, he would have planned it all out many months before construction actually began. Was it not?

    The misguided man replied feebly: “But Midgey, one of the smaller ones is for Hutton and Bella, and one of the larger ones is for Tonkins and Rosie; I thought that was what you wanted?”

    “I wanted to know!” retorted Midge fiercely.

    “Oh. Well, I’m sorry, but what with Tommy being on the way and then the birth—”

    “It is a perfectly natural process, Dr Jarman says he has never seen an expectant mother keep so well, and my MIND is not AFFECTED!” shouted Midge.

    “And you are not a milch cow: no, we know. I truly thought it would please you.”

    Midge took a deep breath, managed not shout again, and said stiffly: “I am very pleased. Though I had thought Tonkins could take Bluebell Dell: I expected we would discuss it further before you did anything. And mind you stop Hutton’s rent out of his wages.”

    “Yes; we did agree to that, I think?” he said meekly.

    “Yes, but will you do it?” retorted his wife terribly. “Do not dare to say I am fractious, or to breathe the word ‘milk’!” she warned.

    “No,” agreed Jarvis glumly.

    “And that reminds me: did you tell David Watts he might purchase a dozen Guernseys?”

    “Uh—the gai-wallah? No, well, actually I think I told Shelby to let him go ahead and buy whatever he thought fit.”

    “I was under the impression that we had agreed last summer that the dairy was to be my responsibility.”

    “Well, yes, but— What’s wrong with them?” said Jarvis resignedly.

    “They are quite agreeable cows, but Jerseys are much better milkers. I have—perhaps I should say I had—a whole plan sketched out for the development of the dairy and the improvement of the herd by the introduction of couple of nice Jersey heifers and a Jersey bull.”

    She had a great sheaf of papers to prove it, apparently. Resignedly Jarvis held out his hand. Several generations of Jerseys—yes. And a detailed plan for an improved milking shed—quite. Not even remarking on the fact that the planned cow palace would apparently be the size of the Maunsleigh stables and twice as grand, he said neutrally: “Hutton?”

    This was the wrong tack to take entirely. His wife replied awfully: “Do not take that tone with me, Jarvis Wynton! Jerseys are known all over England as the best milkers, and very naturally I asked his advice! But since you and David Watts wish to corrupt the herd with those bony brutes, so be it!”

    “I don’t! Look, I know you indicated you wished to oversee the dairy, but we were so busy all autumn with your relatives visiting—and mine, yes, I don’t deny it; and then with Christmas and Baby—”

    “Can you not see that David Watts went behind my back when I was producing the blessed infant and got Mr Shelby on his side deliberately? I thought you were supposed to be used to managing men!” she cried.

    Oops, thought Jarvis, grimacing. She was undoubtedly correct. “Mm. I should have thought to consult you. Well, shall I order him to get rid of the damned brutes?”

    “He will think that the mem got round the Colonel sahib and despise the both of us for it, you fool!”

    “Mm.”

    Midge cleared her throat. “I apologise for calling you a fool. But really, that was the silliest— No, well,” she said, her eyes narrowing, “of course it was not silly at all, but on the contrary, precisely the right tack to take, in the case that you wish to separate me from anything practical to do with the estates and to undermine me with all of the male estate workers.”

    “That was entirely uncalled for,” replied Jarvis tightly, going very red.

    “Possibly it was, but you see, that is the impression I am gaining from your behaviour, Jarvis. Actions are said to speak louder than words, are they not?”

    “You cannot forgive me for any mistake, however minor, can you?”

    “Jarvis, that is because you continually protest that you do not wish to go behind my back, and that you do wish to share responsibilities with me, but when it comes to daily practice, you do not do any such thing! –Please, do not say,” said Midge, very flushed, “that I am being unfair to you. For truly I do not think I am. It has been over a year, now.”

    “Since what?” he said limply.

    “Since we were married,” she said flatly.

    Jarvis passed his hand over his pate. “I suppose it has. Sometimes it feels like ten lifetimes, whilst sometimes it seems to have gone in  a flash. I—I had meant to give you something really pretty for our anniversary; I completely overlooked it.”

    “It cannot signify! Surely you don’t think I am cross about that?” she said, staring.

    He thought she might be, a little, but had the sense not to say so. “No. But I do truly apologise. Um—well, what shall we do about the gai-wallah?”

    “If you are serious, see him together. First having agreed on our plan of action,” she said firmly.

    “Yes, quite right. I shall make it clear that he must always go to you on any matter to do with the herd. Or do you wish to speak to him yourself?”

    “If it were the regiment, and I were Lieutenant Fiennes, what would you do?”

    He blinked. But apparently she was deadly serious. “Er… the ultimate authority would be the Colonel sahib’s,” he said uneasily. Midge merely nodded, so he continued: “I suppose I would speak, as I said, and then—uh—ask Fiennes if he had any orders to give the fellow… Look, Hutton was not even there during the uproar over the cook waggons!” he said heatedly. “He had gone back to Delhi with a kafilah, to take a chitty to General Hayworth!”

    “He has not told me any story about Lieutenant Fiennes and cook waggons,” said Midge calmly.

    Jarvis essayed a smile, which failed. “Oh. In that case, pray do not make the point that your argument must hold good: I see it. When do you want to speak to him?”

    “I would have wished to before the Guernseys calved, but it is too late. Tomorrow, if you have the time. But first we must determine what we shall say.”

    “Yes. I suppose now is as good a time as any?”

    The Countess nodded grimly, so they duly worked out what to say to the gai-wallah. And duly said it. Jarvis was careful to follow orders and endeavour not to give the man the impression (a) that the mem had got round the burra-sahib, (b) that he was weakly giving in to the mem’s unreasonable demands, or (c) that he, Watts, was in the wrong. Which of these was that hardest he could not have said. And he did not feel he made a very good fist of any of them.

    The misguided David Watts attempted, the day after that, to represent privily to Jarvis that her Ladyship’s plan for a new dairy was much too elaborate, but got for reply merely that he must put his view to her Ladyship. Whether he perceived that Jarvis entirely agreed with him was a moot point. But there was certainly a knowing look in his eye as he touched his forelock and said: “Very good, me Lard.”

    On the whole, Jarvis decided ruefully, he would not put the point that possibly Lieutenant Midge was undermining the Colonel sahib’s authority with the other ranks. He did not feel that she would either be amused or take the hint without also taking offence.

    Such interested outsiders as Mr Hutton, Tonkins and Mr Humphreys were of course correct in assuming that his Lordship had not yet realised that his wife’s day needed to be filled with as many absorbing duties as did his own—and certainly now that Tommy was developing into a fine, stout boy who did not need his mother’s presence hovering over his crib every moment of the day. Perhaps Jarvis, though he knew that Midge had a mind as good as his own and had always led a busy, active life, had never paused to compare that knowledge with his own assumption that a lady who was the mistress of a great house such as Maunsleigh must find the fact itself enough to satisfy her needs. And quite possibly he had never really realised that he had conceived of such an assumption. For, after all, it was one shared by the whole of the class to which he belonged.

    Nor had he realised, even though his wife had very recently reminded him of it, whether half-seriously or entirely so, just how rooted his habit of not imparting his plans to the members of the chummery had become. He had not, in short, really stopped to think about the consequences of tying himself up for the rest of his life to another thinking, breathing human being. Nor that, if the former Miss Burden had needed to change her habits and “ladify” herself in order to be suitable for the position of mistress of Maunsleigh, there were perhaps some changes he himself should have been careful to implement in order to be suitable for the position of husband. And, in especial, to be suitable for the position of husband to that “unusual” woman, Millicent Burden.

    “Look, the fellow is riding for a fall,” warned Colonel Langford as the showers sweet of early April duly descended and Lettice, discovering a soaking husband in the front hall of Kendlewood Place, immediately made him take his boots off while calling for hot broth. “Mulled wine would be preferable,” he noted.

    “Not at this hour. Come in by the fire, Charles.” Lettice waited until he was sipping his broth with his posterior to the fire before she asked: “What has he done, now? I collect you do mean Lord Sleyven?”

    “Of course. After we had seen Lumley, Simon Golightly and I rode down to Cherry Tree Lane, to inspect progress—well, the sky looked relatively clear, then,” he said with a grimace, “and who should we find there but damned Jarvis himself, arm-in-arm with Vyv Gratton-Gordon, loudly making plans to enlarge Bluebell Dell and install the damned fellow in it!”

    “I don’t think I know him, my dear,” said Lettice limply.

    “Eh? Oh! The fellow who has been dangling after little Susi-Anna Marsh. Well, knew him slightly—Lord, it must be over a dozen years back, now—when he was a green subaltern. Dare say the regiment might have been the making of him, but the family wouldn’t stand for it—called him back home, made him exchange.” His wife was looking completely blank, so Colonel Langford elaborated: “He is one of the younger sons of the Marquess of Wade, my dear. –The G.-G.’s, Lettice! Gratton Hall!”

    “Oh: the family of the last earl’s wife—yes,” said Lettice feebly. “Lady Judith’s late sister-in-law. Well, I suppose it would be a good match for little Miss Marsh.”

    “Wade will kick up: K.M., y’know,” said the Colonel, grimacing and pulling his ear. “Thing is, Jarvis wishes for it, and so does Midge. Actually she seems quite fond of the fellow—cannot imagine why, there’s nothing between his ears but fluff. Er, and a head of glossy black curls,” he said, coughing.

    “Oh, good grief! That one!” cried Mrs Langford.

    “Mm.”

    “Janey has mentioned him,” she explained limply.

    “I’ll wager. Well, whether or not Wade is aware of it, Jarvis seems quite prepared to let the fellow have the lease of the farmland round Cherry Tree Lane. Not to mention Bluebell Dell.”

    “Ye-es… Darling, you did say that he would give us a very good price for it, and if we invest the money, the boys will do far better out of the thing than if—”

    “Yes, of course. Not that.” The Colonel eyed the clock on the mantel.

    “No mulled wine, Charles: it is only mid-afternoon. You are turning into an old soak, and if you do not take care, will soon be as gouty as General Sir Michael Garrity himself.”

    “Mm.—I must get out of these wet breeches.—No, but the point is, my dear, he has apparently not mentioned his intentions for Bluebell Dell to Midge.”

    “Are you sure?” croaked Lettice.

    “Yes. Well, I said to him in so many words: ‘Jarvis, how much of this have you told Midge?’ To which he said she had known of his idea to let Vyv have Bluebell Dell for a year. So I pointed out that she had said to us only t’other day that as it was standing empty, might we not let Tonkins and Rosie have it after all?”

    Wincing, Mrs Langford croaked: “What did he say to that, Charles?”

    “He said that she must have forgotten, for he had certainly mentioned the scheme to her, almost exactly this time last year. So I said to him,” said the Colonel, clearing his throat, “—me exact words, Lettice, m’dear—‘Jarvis, old man, stop and think. The idea might have been in that stubborn head of yours this time last year—yes. But what were you and the chota mem doing, this time last year? Did you actually say to her in so many words: “Midgey, if Vyv should like it I plan to let him have Bluebell Dell, which I intend purchasing off Lettice for a very fair price”?’ After that I mentioned the rumour that the dashed fellow has further plans for the site of the old farmhouse, further up the lane. He started to protest, then went red as fire and stopped dead. So I said: ‘To the best of my recollection, though this is at third hand or so, you were rowing over the Little Jefford scheme, back then.’”

    “Charles!”

    “He ain’t the burra sahib to me, Lettice,” said her husband grimly. “Thought someone had better say it, so I said it.”

    “What on earth did he reply?”

    “He said, not that I can reproduce his tone, damn his eyes: ‘You are perfectly right, Charles, however many—er—hands might have been involved in the report. Little Jefford and one or two other matters. And though it is inextricably mixed in my mind with a flitch of—er—boiling bacon and an odoriferous cheese from Mrs Fred Watts, I do seem to recall that possibly I did not get around to mentioning those precise plans—no. And then later in London, other matters—er—intervened.’ I may have added an extra ‘er’ or two,” he admitted, “but those were his words.” He grimaced, and went over to the door.

    “But wait!” cried Lettice. “Did you not tell him he must tell Midge straight away?”

    “I advised him to, certainly. Though personally I don’t think telling her now will stop her being mad as fire with him. Though I grant you it may depend on what other crimes he has committed of even date.” He made a lugubrious face and went out.

    “The Guernseys,” said Mrs Langford to herself in a hollow voice. “Oh, help. …But wait!” she said with a start. “Further plans for the land up Cherry Tree Lane? What can he be up to?”

    As it would turn out, Jarvis had made a tactical error, after seeing Charles at Bluebell Dell, in not himself riding straight back to Maunsleigh with Vyv, rather than dispatching that gentlemen on his own. But he thought that Midge might like to spend a little time alone with him, and Vyv to tell her his good news in private; and then he himself had previously planned to spend the latter half of the afternoon with Jeffson, at Home Farm. Making a fixed plan and then sticking to it was, as possibly his former comrades-in-arms could have pointed out, another one of his Lordship’s besetting sins. Though in battle he was far from inflexible in his tactics. Perhaps some well-wisher should have informed him that the state of matrimony was also sometimes considered a battleground. And equally unsuited to fixed plans, rigidity and inflexibility.

    Midge expressed herself delighted to see Captain Lord Vyvyan, though not managing to conceal her surprise at doing so. And that gentleman, grinning, thereupon revealed that he had sold out, and did not care what Pa thought, though as a matter of fact he had said he would be glad to see him make something of himself. And if Sleyven wished to give him a farmhouse, he, Wade, would not object.

    “Though mind you, he said on his head be it,” Captain Lord Vyvyan elaborated, still grinning.

    Midge put a hand to her head. “Y— N— Wait. Jarvis is to give you a farmhouse?”

    “Yes, well, me brother Allingwood’s latest is another boy, y’know. Dare say Pa don’t care so much, with the succession well assured.”

    “N— Well, I am very glad for them, and hope Lady Allingwood is doing well?”

    “Oh, both in the pink!” he assured her happily.

    “Good,” said Midge feebly.

    “He don’t know yet about the K.M. connection,” admitted the Captain, clearing his throat.

    “What?” said Midge blankly.

    “Miss Marsh,” he said, grinning.

    Midge gasped, and clapped her hands. “Vyv! Have you popped the question?”

    “Yes. Says she will, too!” he beamed. “Well, Teddy Marsh says he don’t mind, and Kitty’s off in Italy, dare say she don’t give a damn. So then I said to Teddy, Well, if you is fixed in London, dare say we might take little Jenny, town life ain’t no good for a brat. And she don’t get her riding, do she? And then, if we is to be down in Sleyven’s county, dare say they will both like that, eh? Well, get on splendidly together, don’t they? Though the poor little brat has no notion she is his, of course,” he said cheerfully.

    “Well, that is splendid ne—”

    “No, well, only then he ups and says there ain’t no need, for he is to lease a decent place down in these parts himself!”

    Midge looked at him in bewilderment. “But Peter Lattersby is installed at Dinsley Airs, and Leonard and Katerina have Dinsley House, and with Major Renwick at Oak Ring House, that is the sum of all the halfway decent properties in the neighbourhood that have been available since Charles and Letty took Kendlewood Place.”

    “Aye, well, said to him meself, Sleyven had said that Bluebell Dell ain’t much, only he dared say Susi-Anna and me would be cosy enough in—”

    “Bluebell Dell?” gasped Midge.

    “Yes, well, you was fond of it yourself, was you not? Aye, thought so,” he said as she nodded numbly.

    “But I am not the son of a marquess,” said Midge numbly.

    “Eh? Oh, well, Sleyven says he will build on. But I was telling you about young Teddy,” he said, not noticing the thunderstruck expression that had come over the Countess’s face. “Said meself, thought there was nothing much available; and Teddy said, Not as yet, only Sleyven is to build just up from Bluebell Dell, thinks he will call it Cherry Tree Rise, if that ain't too fancy. And has offered him first choice of the lease!”

    “When?” said Midge, very faintly indeed.

    “Well, soon as the house is up, Lady S.!” he smiled.

    “N— I mean, when did Jarvis tell Teddy Marsh all of this?”

    “Oh, Lor’, no notion! Well, dare say it was before Christmas, for I don’t think you have seen them since?”

    “No, um, we saw them in early December and then they went on to Rennwood for Christmas,” she said feebly.

    “Aye. Teddy said it was stiff as bedamned. Sounds like Pa’s place. Well, there you are! December!” he said happily.

    Midge swallowed. “I was keeping quite well…”

    “Aye, I know. Oh: forgot. Susi-Anna charged me express to tell you that she cannot wait to see the infant!”

    “Thank you. She wrote me a lovely letter. And Jenny also… December?”

    It began to penetrate through the glossy black G.-G. curls that something was wrong. “Y— Um, dare say, if Sleyven did not give you quite all the details,” he said, coughing, “it was just that he did not wish to bother you at such a time.”

    “Bother me? He made me spend most of Christmas on a stupid sofa with my feet up!” retorted Midge crossly. “What did he imagine my mind was doing at the time, pray?”

    The Captain tugged at his neckcloth. “Er—m’sister Jane always says she ain't capable of nothing but ‘milky thoughts’ round about then, ma’am.”

    Midge swallowed. “How very graphic. No, well, I was certainly like that for a month after he was born. I mean, I kept falling asleep at odd times. But not in December: I was bored stiff! Well, we had a lot of callers, but most of them wished to talk about, funnily enough, babies,” she said on a grim note.

    The unfortunate Captain merely smiled feebly.

    “It is all of a piece.” Grimly Midge related the full story of the Maunsleigh dairy herd.

    “Oh, Lor’. Sounds like that time he had told Major Willoughby he might organise a trip into the hills, to find out what the local rajah fellow was up to, for we had signed a treaty with him, but there was some dashed funny goings-on. So the Major chooses a group of fellows, from his own brigade, of course, and then he finds that the Colonel sahib has sent that fellow Johnny Ponsonby out without mentionin’ it!—Well, half the time went round lookin’ black as your hat, but a damned shrewd fellow, and the regiment never had a better spy.—Major Willoughby was very put out. Said he had a right to know, for there he is, all set to go, and the Colonel sahib says not to bother, Ponsonby has just brought back reliable word that it is all to do with a quarrel over a dowry, and nothing for the regiment to worry its head about.” He shook his head. “Would have been not half good fun.”

    “I see, you were to go with them,” said Midge weakly.

    “Aye, for I was in Willoughby’s brigade. And Dr Little himself said, that was the burra-sahib all over: never could bear to let his right hand know what his left was doing.”

    “Yes,” said Midge in a hard voice. “Speaking as the right hand, that is very, very true.”

    “Er—yes. Oh, Lor’,” muttered the gallant Captain, sensing that his anecdote had not struck quite the right note. “Um, the case must be quite different with yourself, Lady S.! Dare say he thought it would be a pleasant surprise for y—”

    “Never mind all that,” interrupted the Countess ruthlessly. “What precisely are his plans for Bluebell Dell? The which, or so it was the last I was privileged to hear, he does not actually own,” she noted pointedly.

    Captain Lord Vyvyan was driven to tug at his neckcloth again. “Oh, Lor’. Um, well, buy it off Mrs Langford, build on. Um, quite extensively,” he said, closing his eyes and grimacing.

    Midge looked at his wide, simple face and the closed eyes, and sighed. “It’s all right, Vyv, I am not cross with you. Though I am cross with Jarvis,” she owned as he peered at her cautiously. “But worse than that… I feel that I am making no headway at all with him. He cannot see me as a human being. It is,” she said heavily, “extremely depressing.”

    “Um, look,” said the Captain with an alarmed look, “Jane maintains that feelings of depression are not uncommon after a baby, and in fact she told Paulina after the last one that she must just give it a few weeks, and try not to brood, and she would be right as rain. And so she was.” The Countess was looking at him blankly. After a moment he elaborated feebly: “Allingwood’s wife.”

    “Oh! Yes, of course. No, it is not that sort of depression at all,” said Midge heavily.

    Vyv thought it was, rather. He looked at her very sympathetically but didn't dare to press the point.

    “Jarvis is so… inflexible,” she said with a deep sigh.

    “Er—would not say that, ma’am. Excellent tactician, y’know.”

    Dully Midge reminded him of the planned mornings in town and the scheduled afternoon drives.

    “Er, yes. Dare say most fellows would not bother. Well, my Aunt Agatha Pugh says Pa never drove Ma out in their lives once the knot was tied, and you are a dashed lucky woman.”

    “I know,” said Midge, trying to smile. “He is not all bad. I keep telling myself that.”

    “I like him,” offered the Captain gloomily.

    Midge attempted to pull herself together. “Yes, of course you do. Oh, dear, I haven't offered you any tea! M. Fermour has probably baked some delicious little buns for the household, and if we ask very nicely, he may let us have some with it. And we are still eating up the immense quantities of fruit-cake he made for Christmas: should you like that?”

    Captain Lord Vyvyan agreeing gratefully that he would, a tea-tray was duly ordered up, and the topic of the inflexibility of the burra-sahib’s behaviour was dropped, to the great relief of the gallant Captain.

    Jarvis was held up at Home Farm and so got back later than he had planned: Midge, Jonathon and the Captain had already gone up to change for dinner. Since they were expecting guests: to wit, Mr Cuthbertson and Walter Renwick from over towards Upper Nettlefold, Mr and Mrs Waldgrave, Miss Portia, Mr Humphreys and Miss Humphreys from Lower Nettlefold, and the party from Dinsley Airs, consisting of Peter Lattersby, Major Lattersby, and Janey, there was no opportunity at all for the Earl and Countess to indulge in private conversation. The party broke up very late, Walter Renwick having stayed to chat about old times with his Colonel and Vyv; and although Midge tried very hard to stay awake until Jarvis came to bed, her eyes closed in spite of themselves.

    She woke to find him fully clothed, sitting on a chair by her bedside.

    “Is Tommy all right?” she gasped.

    “Yes. It isn’t bad news. –I hope,” said Jarvis under his breath. “I just thought, since Vyv seems to have opened his great mouth and shoved several feet into it, that you would probably want a word.”

    “Ye— You had to get fully dressed for this word, did you?” she said, staring at him.

    “Not precisely. It is ten in the morning, Midgey,” said Jarvis apologetically.

    “What?” Midge sat bolt upright, and gaped at the clock.

    “Mm.”

    “Oh. Well, I am sure that M. Fermour will have seized the chance to plot an hugely elaborate menu, but never mind. I am not going to say, why did you not tell me of your plans for Bluebell Dell, for I am beginning to perceive that you are incapable of any such thing.”

    “No! Midgey, I originally thought of it a year ago, but then, what with going up to town and all the fuss over Little Jefford, it went quite out of my mind that I had not spoken of it to you.”

    “Apparently so. If you had managed to get into the habit of discussing things with me in the intervening year, the topic, one feels, must have come up. What is all this about building a mansion for Teddy Marsh?”

    “Just a decent white house,” he said feebly.

    “This will entail upgrading Cherry Tree Lane to the status of a road—nay, of a positive Strand or Pall Mall, will it?”

    “Mm.”

    Midge ticked off points on her fingers. “Build cottages in Cherry Tree Lane, award Hutton a smaller, Tonkins a larger. Vastly extend Bluebell Dell—oh, first buying it off Lettice, pardon me. First, buy Bluebell Dell off Lettice, then vastly extend same; install Vyv therein in charge of a good deal of farming land. In the meantime, vastly improve said land, which hitherto has enjoyed the status of thicket. Nota bene: impart various selections of these plans to the squire and to Vyv, but on no account to Midge.”

    “Midge, this is hardly—”

    Midge swept on, disregarding this interruption. “Upgrade Cherry Tree Lane, with our without the cooperation of the parish council, or would it be the county authorities? No matter: with or without their cooperation. Drain Felling Swamp,” she added in a hard voice.

    “What?”

    “Oh, had not the burra sahib’s plan taken into account the fact that the reason that there is a large watersplash, some would say pond, covering the farther end of Cherry Tree Lane ten months of the year, is that Felling Swamp drains into it? How remiss. It will be difficult to get the waggons up to the head of the lane unless it be done, however. So, let us say, drain Felling Swamp; build a vast mansion called Cherry Blossom Palace up at the top end of Cherry Tree Lane; and install Teddy Marsh therein, regardless of whether he wishes to live buried in the depths of the country.”

    “Of course he does! Midge, you are making too much of—”

    “I am NOT!”

    “—this. Damn,” he muttered.

    “That covers it, as far as my feeble brain may perceive. Though if there should be anything further you wish to impart, I should be glad to listen.”

    “No. I’m sorry,” he said with a sigh.

    Midge took a deep breath. “Very possibly you may be, but will that prevent your doing the same sort of thing again? –Just go away, please, Jarvis,” she said grimly as he opened his mouth.

    “Midge,” he said loudly, “I am sorry, and I will try harder! But what do you want, for God’s sake? To sit in the office all day like a damned adjutant?”

    Midge’s jaw hardened. “On the whole: yes. But of course that would not do, for the whole county would snigger at the zemindar behind his back, and say that the mem was ruling him with a rod of iron. And the huzzoor’s consequence would suffer greatly and the name of the zemindaree would be brought into disrepute—and people might even laugh at the horrible Wyntons. Perish the thought,” she finished grimly.

    “You are a Wynton now. And I had not hitherto thought,” he said, his colour rising, “that you classed me with the less pleasant of my damned predecessors.”

    “You had better go away,” replied Midge tightly. “I think I may scream. And as I do see that it is your nature and your deeply ingrained habits which are the problem here, I admit that it would be unfair to you to do so. Nevertheless.”

    “Very well. But just ask yourself,” said Jarvis without hope as he opened the door, “whether you may yourself, talking of natures and deeply ingrained behaviours, be being unreasonably stubborn over this, Midge.”

    Midge said nothing, and he went out.

    Mr Hutton drained his tankard. “Zan, zar, zamin,” he summarised glumly in the phrase used on the Northwest Frontier. “Sent to try a man, that’s what they be, Colonel Langford, sir.”

    “Er, well, in this instance, if not gold, land and women are certainly involved, aye!” agreed the Colonel with a guilty laugh. He had not set out to interrogate Hutton: nothing like it. Merely, he had ridden over to market in Nettleford very early, in the hopes of acquiring a fine ram before Mr Cuthbertson, who was expanding his flock, got wind that it had come onto the market. Hutton had been discovered brooding over a pen full of Guernsey calves, and somehow or another this had led inevitably to the tap at the Wynton Arms and a somewhat full and frank discussion of the situation at Maunsleigh.

    “Gold, too,” said Mr Hutton heavily.

    “I would not say the burra zemindar has any worries in that direction, Hutton, old man!” said the Colonel, trying to be bracing.

    “Not as such, sir, but it’s the responsibility of it, you see. One more worry on his shoulders.”

    “Er—yes, I see what you mean.”

    “Added to which, it complicates things, you see. What I mean is, if the Colonel—beg pardon, Colonel Langford: his Lordship—if he was, let’s say, a gent what was in a comfortable sort of way, like we might say, yourself, or Mr Cuthbertson, or Major Renwick, even, then they would be living a sort of life what would suit the chota mem down to the ground, and suit him better, too!”

    “You mean, he might spend his mornings leaning on pens sizing up fine rams he cannot afford? Mm,” said the Colonel drily. “I take your point. But I do not know that I agree, Hutton. Oh, certainly the chota mem would be happier, yes. But the burra-sahib? He is used to, let us say, a greater challenge.”

    Hutton frowned over it. “Oh,” he said finally. “I take your point, Colonel, sir. You mean, your sort of life would bore him, eh? I can see it. Like when we’re in cantonments just out of Delhi with not hardly a dust cloud on the horizon. And he thinks up them pretend manoeuvres; and all the khitmagars thought ’e was doolally and the men went round saying as the sun ’ad— Never mind.”

    “War games, I think the military strategists call ’em,” said Colonel Langford drily.

    “Do they, now, sir?” replied Hutton in hugely ironic tones. “Whitehall-wallahs, these would be, would they? Doollally games, more like.”

    “Mm. Well, it is not quite boredom that is Jarvis’s trouble when life is too simple, Hutton. More, he must always have a challenge.”

    “Yes, well, he’s got that! Only, the land and the gold, he can handle. But the women? They ain’t all frills and sweet faces. He can handle that side of them. And the Marsh bidi screaming ’er ’ead orf, ’e’ll get cold as nothing and walk orf and leave ’er flat without no trouble, too. But there’s more to marriage, you see, and he ain’t used to that. And he ain't used, if you’ll pardon me, sir, to a woman like the chota mem in his own sadar, what if the Colonel sahib wasn't there, could run the regiment as well he can himself!”

    “And that’s the kutcha hal,” agreed the Colonel with a sigh.

    Hutton looked at him hopefully.

    “No, Hutton, he will not take a hint from me, for when did he ever?” he admitted heavily.

    Hutton scratched his head. “I could try dropping the chota mem a hint. But the thing is, it might stop ’er bawling ’im out, but will it make ’er happier over the whole thing? No, it won’t,” he answered himself.

    “No. Er—we thought, after a day or two had passed…?” said the Colonel delicately.

    “Eh? Oh! Lord, no, sir! Acos from what that May said, the burra-sahib went and said, maybe he had best sleep in his dressing room, and the chota mem didn’t not say a word! So he did. And been there ever since.”

    “Oh, God,” said the Colonel dully. “Have I not always said it? The fellow is his own worst enemy.”

    “Aye.” Hutton stared gloomily into his empty tankard. After some time the Colonel cane to with a start and ordered up refills for them both. They had several of these, but alas, their spirits were not raised.

    Very possibly the situation might have resolved itself with the passage of time, added by Jarvis’s determination to do better, had it not been April, with or without its showers sweet.

    “We had better leave tomorrow, or, I suppose, the day after, at the latest,” said Jarvis heavily to his wife, after silence had reigned at the breakfast table for some time.

    “Leave?”

    “For town,” he said gloomily.

    “What do you mean?”

    “Parliament is sitting. I suppose the damned Season is in full swing, too.”

    Midge stared at him.

    “Um, everything is well in hand at Cherry Tree Lane,” said Jarvis uneasily, “and I have taken your advice, and Shelby is to send some men over to drain Felling Swamp this very week. And the architect has looked at Bluebell Dell; I promise you I will not approve anything he may sketch out without consulting you first.”

    “Yes. Good.” Midge licked her lips. “You are not claiming to have told me that you intend moving to town this Season, are you?’

    “Yes! Or, at least, I was under the impression that you must realise— Midge, you are being deliberately provoking,” he said, his nostrils flaring. He threw down his napkin, and got up. “If you wish us to have a quarrel along the lines of the one we had this time last year, pray count me out. You know perfectly well that our schedule necessitates our spending at least a couple of months in town every spring.”

    “Y— But not this year,” said Midge limply. “I really thought that you didn’t wish me to do too much and so I might stay here.”

    “Oh? You are very well, Tommy is very well; is there some other factor of which you have not informed me that will prevent your accompanying me? Apart from your own obstinacy,” he said grimly.

    “I— No. I mean, I thought you would wish to stay here.”

    “What I wish is scarcely the point. As you know very well, my position demands I should take my seat in the Lords,” he said coldly. “Just do not provoke me too far, if you please.”

    Midge’s eyes filled with tears. “I am not,” she said in a choked voice. “Very well, go. But I shan’t come.”

    “As you wish,” he returned coldly, going out.

    Midge’s mouth trembled. But she stared at the closed door, her jaw hardening, and did not cry.

    … “The mare?” echoed Maunsleigh Frederick, very faintly, some half an hour later.

    “Yes,” replied his mistress grimly. “Is there a problem?”

    “Y— N— But my Lady, his Lordship’s setting off for Lunnon!” he gasped.

    “Is he, indeed? As well now as any time,” replied Midge coolly. “But I am going riding. Have Chota Lady brought round at once, if you please, Frederick.”

    “Yes, my Lady,” he said numbly.

    Ten minutes later, Maunsleigh was gratified by the spectacle of its mistress on her little dappled mare trotting gently across the gravelled sweep and onto the lawn. As they progressed at their usual pace, and as the Maunsleigh lower lawn was extensive, they were still well within sight five minutes after that, as his Lordship, his face, as was to be variously reported, hard as granite, cold as ice, and grim as the Grim itself under ten feet of snow, got into his travelling coach, and drove away.

Next chapter:

https://thepatchworkparasol.blogspot.com/2022/11/midge-takes-bit-between-her-teeth.html