Other Ranks...

33

Other Ranks…

    “Another dinner-party?” gasped Midge in horror.

    “Yes. Before we leave for London.” Jarvis poured coffee for her.

    “Leave for London?” gasped Midge in horror.

    “Mm.” He added hot milk to her cup.

    “Thank you,” she said numbly. “I thought we were going to stay at Maunsleigh.”

    “My dear, the House is sitting: I have already missed too much of the present session. Possibly I shall not need to stay for all of the debates: but there are several matters in which I feel I should be involved.”

    “But what about Polly’s baby?” gasped Midge in horror.

    “Er—well, you might stay until she has it, if it has not come by the time I have to leave. I understand your wish to be with her, of course.”

    “Do you?” she said, staring at him.

    “Yes. –Hand her Ladyship the brioches, Frederick, if you please.”

    Numbly Midge took a brioche.

    “Once she has safely had it and your anxieties are allayed, you may join me at Wynton House.”

    “Amongst the troglodytes,” said Midge grimly.

    “Mm.”

    “Jarvis, I thought we were going to lead a country-house life!” she burst out.

    That had, belatedly, dawned on him. “Yes, of course. We shall be here for very much of the year.”

    “But I—I have not even made any decisions about redecorating the yellow sitting-room,” she said numbly.

    “No, well, there is no hurry.”

    “And—and what about my riding lessons?”

    “Mm? We may resume those when we return: we shall be back in June or even some time in late May, if there is nothing I need be present for at the Lords. Or, if you prefer, of course we could take your little mare up to London: you may ride her in the Park.”

    “Under the noses of such noted equestriennes as Mrs Everard Stanhope and Nessa Weaver-Grange, I presume!” said Midge hotly.

    “Many ladies do no more than walk sedately up and down the rides.”

    “I won’t,” said Midge, sticking out her lower lip so that she bore a remarkable resemblance to her nephew Timmy. “They will laugh at me.”

    “Thank you, Frederick, I think that will be all,” said Jarvis evenly. “My dearest Midge, I perfectly understand your reluctance to have these damned women who were put on their first ponies before they could walk observe your efforts to learn,” he said as the door closed behind the footman.

    “When did you learn to ride?” demanded Midge fiercely.

    “Um—I had my first pony when I was three. That is not germane.”

    “Of course it is!” she cried hotly.

    “If I might finish what I was saying, there is no need for you to ride in London at all. I thought you were fond of your little mare and might not wish to leave her behind. The matter is entirely up to you. However,” he said, taking a deep breath, “though I do understand your emotions, I really must beg you not to say ‘I won’t’ to me in front of the servants.”

    Midge got up, her cheeks very flushed. “I beg your pardon. I shall confine myself to saying it when we are alone.”

    “Oh, I hope you won’t do that!” he said with a loud laugh.

    “You are insufferable!” cried Lady Sleyven, hurrying out of the room.

    Jarvis looked glumly at the coffee-pot. Why in God’s name had he thought that marriage might render her less contumacious and so much the easier to deal with?

    The yellow sitting-room was empty: Midge must have gone upstairs to change. Jarvis was a trifle late; he hurried up. One of the footmen and an upstairs maid were preparing his bath; he looked in on Midge.

    “Where is her Ladyship?” he said numbly to her little maid.

    “Your Lordship, there wuh-was a message come to say as Mrs Golightly was starting her baby, and ’er Ladyship went off to ’er,” faltered May.

    “I see; thank you, May. –Oh: when did this message come?” asked Jarvis, not enquiring why the entire indoor staff of Maunsleigh had apparently seen fit to leave the reporting of his wife’s fugue on a night when they had eighteen couples coming to dinner, to little May Horrocks.

    “Just after you rid out this morning, it would have been, my Lord,” she faltered.

    “Really? Then let us hope we shall soon hear good news,” said Jarvis, smiling at her. “Thank you, May.”

    May dropped a trembling and very, very deep curtsey.

    Jarvis retreated to his dressing-room and did some deep breathing. Not that he would require Midgey to play hostess at a damned dinner for the county when her beloved niece was having her baby: no. But why had she not sent him a message to inform him of the fact she had deserted him? He had taken the greatest care, these last two weeks, to make sure that she knew his timetable for the day, for there was no telling, after all, when the baby might come.

    He was about to go downstairs when there was a cautious cough from behind him. A cough that Jarvis knew well: Hutton must have come up the back stairs.  “What?” he said heavily.

    “The chota mem’s over to little Mrs Golightly’s: the baby’s coming.”

    “So I gather. But may I ask why I had to hear it from Lady Sleyven’s poor little maid?”

    “They never!” he replied, shocked.  “Well, it’s all of a piece. Well, the burra-sahib don’t need to look at me, your Lordship,” he said, assuming a horribly virtuous expression. “I only just got back, meself. Waited as long as I could, and when Dr Jarman said it’d be a while yet, I said to the chota mem maybe I’d better get on back. So I—”

    “Wait,” he said, holding up a hand. “Do I collect that you took the chota mem over to Nettleford yourself?”

    “Well, that Tonkins, he would come, too. No more use than what ’e is h’ornament. –Yessir!” he said, coming smartly to attention as he met Jarvis’s eye. “Thought she’d better have someone responsible.”

    “No doubt. But may I ask why your sense of responsibility did not apparently extend as far as sending to inform me of my wife’s whereabouts?”

    “Thought she would ’a’ done that, herself,” he said, looking impossibly virtuous.

    “If you imagine for one moment that leaves me with nothing to say, you are very much out!”

    Hutton said nothing.

    “How is little Mrs Golightly?” he said with an effort.

    “Oh, doing very well. Dr Jarman, he don’t expect no problems, but a first baby’s often slow.”

    “Mm. Well, thank you for coming to tell me, Hutton,” he said with a sigh. “You had best get on back. And if it does arrive tonight, please prevent the chota mem from journeying back to Maunsleigh in the pitch dark.”

    “There’ll be a bit of a moon. But you’re right, of course, me Lord. We thought she might stay at the deanery.”

    “Good. Send to tell me the moment there is any news, would you?”

    For once Hutton’s face expressed his true emotions. “Uh—yessir,” he said weakly. “Uh—sir, I mean, your Lordship, the chota mem’’ll do that.”

    “Just get going, please, Hutton.”

    “Your Lordship, I know it ain’t my place—”

    “No, indeed it is not,” he said levelly.

    Gulping, Hutton came to attention, wheeled himself around, and marched himself off.

    Jarvis took a very deep breath and went downstairs to entertain the Bishop, a party from Verne Lea which included the stuffiest of Mrs Patterson’s relations, and the Cunninghams and some of their connections, not excluding—God—Lady Paula’s formidable mamma, the Dowager Lady Hubbel.

    “Grace Golightly,” said Midge experimentally.

    “Grace is a pretty name,” replied Jarvis temperately.

    “Yes, it is. Personally I think it does not sit well with the ‘Golightly’. but never mind, at least they did not choose ‘Millicent’,” said Midge with a sigh.

    “I think Millicent is pretty, too,” he returned, smiling.

    “That is because you have not had the cross of it to bear all your days,” replied Midge firmly, tying her bonnet strings before the extraordinarily ornate but not particularly clear mirror in the smaller yellow salon.

    “Where are you going?” asked Jarvis numbly.

    “Over to collect Mrs Shelby, of course. She has not seen Grace yet, so we thought we would go together—didn’t I say?”

    “Not to me, no,” he said with a smothered sigh.

    “Well, I told someone,” said Midge definitely.

    “May? Mrs Fendlesham? Bates? Jonathon? Fermour? Hutton, of course, it goes without saying.”

    “Of course I told May: she is coming with us, she wants to see Grace, too!”

    “Of course.”

    “And Mrs Fendlesham will come tomorrow.”

    “Midge, tomorrow is the day we had planned to leave for London!” said Jarvis loudly.

    “You had planned, you mean,” said his wife, not meeting his eye and going quickly over to the door.

    Jarvis reached it in half a dozen easy strides and barred her path. “Grace is five days old, now, Midge and Polly is doing splendidly. I think you might at least consider coming up to London with me, as we pl— As I thought we had agreed,” he amended lamely.

    “I did not agree to anything,” said Midge firmly, not meeting his eye, “and as Mrs Fendlesham is feeling awkward about going to call on Polly by herself—”

    “You told me yourself that she has known Polly all her life!” he said loudly.

    “Did I?” said Midge blankly. “Well, it’s true, of course. But I wasn’t married to you, then.”

    “Quite.”

    She reddened. “I didn’t mean— You know perfectly well what I meant, why do you always put me in the wrong?”

    “Midge, I don’t. But considering we have been married a bare six weeks, I do think you might make a push to come up to town in my company.”

    “You have said yourself that we have the rest of our lives together; and—and a person only has their first baby once—”

    “Yes. Very well, my dear,” he said, opening the door for her.

    Midge went out quickly, avoiding his eye, “I may be rather late: we thought we would drop in on some old acquaintances in the town, after seeing Polly.”

    “Cuthbertson and Walter Renwick are coming to dinner,” he reminded her heavily.

    “Yes, but they’ll only want to talk about farming and horseflesh, you won’t need me!” said Midge cheerfully.

    He caught at her arm. “Midge, I do need y—” He broke off: John had appeared, holding Midge’s cloak.

    “Wrap up warmly, my dear,” he said resignedly.

    “Yes, of course. Thank you, John. If you’re coming, you had best get a coat or cloak for yourself, that livery will not be warm enough in this chilly wind.”

    John attempted to lodge a disclaimer, was firmly overborne, and hurried off to get his outer clothing.

    Jarvis sighed and retreated into the yellow salon, as May then appeared, very flushed and excited, and accompanied by Mrs Fendlesham, also apparently in a state of high excitement. His wife appeared to have thought of inviting half the household to visit Polly and the baby, excepting only himself. And if by any unlikely chance the invitation were to be extended to himself, would she ensure he had a warm coat or cloak? On the whole he doubted it.

    He waited dinner a full half-hour for her, old Mr Cuthbertson and Walter Renwick appearing quite happy to dawdle in the salon sipping sherry or Madeira and discussing sheep; but eventually decided she had never had any intention of returning in time for it, and ordered them to serve.

    When he got upstairs, rather late, for the talk had rambled on, there was a light under her door. He tapped, and went in.

    Midge was sitting up in bed eating what appeared to be beef sandwiches off a tray on her knees. Jarvis stared. “Have you only just got in?”

    “Don't be cross: the coach lost a wheel.”

    “What?” he gasped. “Where? Was anyone hurt?”

    “No-one was badly hurt. Tonkins is rather bruised and sore: he was thrown off the box. I’ve put some salve on him, I think he’ll be all right. Fortunately we weren’t going fast: it happened just where the road from Nettlebend Farm joins the Maunsleigh road.”

    Jarvis stared: this was directly out of her way: Shelby’s house was over towards the east, nearer to Upper Nettlefold.

    “Um—I dropped Mrs Shelby off in very good time, you see, and so I thought I would just run on over to see Mrs Lumley and Bella—”

    “Yes,” he said, passing his hand over his forehead. “Why did you not send a messenger to me?”

    “There was no need, as no-one was hurt. Hutton went up to the farm, and Mr Lumley brought his cart down.”

    “I suppose I don’t dare ask where the coach is, or why Mrs Lumley did not give you dinner, or— Never mind,” he groaned, sinking onto the chair before her dressing-table.

    Midge looked at him doubtfully. “You would have worried unnecessarily, if I had sent a message. And I am used to looking after myself, you know.”

    “That has just recently begun to dawn on me, yes. Well,” he said, attempting to smile, “I am very glad you are not hurt.”

    “Not at all. I fell on top of poor John, actually.”

    “He was in the coach with you?”

    “Yes: the wind is so nasty. And isn’t it fortunate: because if he had been up behind he might have been injured!” she said brightly.

    “Was anyone up behind?” asked Jarvis without hope.

    “No, of course not,” said the Countess calmly.

    “Where— God, I don’t know that I have the courage to ask,” he muttered. “Where was Hutton?”

    “Largely, under Mrs Shelby!” said Midge with a loud giggle.

    “Midge, I know you're fond of the budmush, but did not having him in the carriage—er—insult Mrs Shelby’s sensibilities?”

    “No, she likes him,” said Midge placidly. “And he is not a budmush, he is perfectly devoted to you. And only guess, Jarvis!”

    “Mm?”

    “I think he has developed a tendre for Bella Lumley!” she beamed.

    “Hutton?” he croaked. “Midge, the man’s my age!”

    “No, he’s younger than you. Well, I know he’s old enough to be her father, but never mind: he gets on very well with the Lumleys, and he is from a farming family, and Bella’s a farmer’s daughter. I think it could work out. And Tonkins is engaged to Mrs Fred’s Rosie, after all.”

    “That is not logical, as you must be perfectly well aware.”

    “It wasn’t meant to be,” said Midge, plunging her teeth into her sandwich. “Mm, goob!” she beamed through it. “No, well,” she said, having swallowed, “it shows that relationships between persons of very disparate ages are not impossible.”

    “Mm. Well, I should like to see Hutton settled.”

    “Of course! What would you think if they took Bluebell Dell?”

    “I should think that they could not afford its rent.”

    “But you pay him enough!” she objected.

    “Has it not dawned? He is the most improvident creature that ever walked, and I have to say this, Midge: although I think he would probably be faithful enough within his lights, and good enough to her, I very much doubt that he would make a very reliable husband. I think she would be forever wondering where their next meal might be coming from.”

    “Um—he did bet some money on a horse,” agreed Midge dubiously.

    “Some!”

    “Well, she would not have to worry where her next meal was coming from, because I should see to it that she and her children did not want for anything!” she said fiercely.

    “Admirable, but giving them a rather less expensive dwelling place might be a better solution—or at least give the girl one less worry,” he murmured.

    “They are mostly tied cottages.”

    “I would certainly not evict anyone on Hutton’s account. If they do wish to marry, I shall see about building him a suitable cottage. But it will be a cottage, Midge. And the rent will be stopped out of his wages.”

    “Good,” said Midge simply.

    Jarvis smiled limply: he had not for a moment thought she would agree to this last.

    “What about Tonkins?” she then said.

    “There is a very pleasant little cottage vacant in Dinsley Dell: on the higher ground, not at all damp— What is wrong with that?” he asked resignedly.

    “It’s too far out of the village,” said his wife definitely.

    “It is not out of the village at all; just a step from the green, in fact. –I am having that drained, it may be common ground but if the parish will not shoulder the responsibility then I shall.”

    “That is very well done of you,” said his wife approvingly.

    “Thank you. What is wrong with the cottage?” he said, rather loudly.

    “Rosie would not wish to be so far from her mother, of course.”

    “Er—oh.”

    “Added to which the Fred Wattses are Lower Nettlefold folk, she would be unhappy at Dinsley Dell.”

    “Midge, it’s ten minutes away!”

    “It is on that brute of a black of yours, going cross-country,” she retorted crossly.

    “Then think of a better solution,” he said heavily.

    “Bluebell Dell?”

    “You will no doubt tell me that I pay Tonkins enough. I do, but I think he would not care to live in such a large house: he is a very modest fellow. Er—Ventnor has the lease of most of the area around Cherry Tree Lane, I believe,” he said cautiously.

    “Yes: he likes to bring the hunt that way.”

    “That certainly explains why he has let it regress to the present abysmal state. Do you ever remember anything’s been grown up the lane?”

    “No, but Mr Lumley says that that thickety area was once all pasture.”

    Jarvis swallowed a sigh. Shelby had already informed him that it would take a good three years to get the land back into anything like decent grazing condition. “Mm.”

    “A very long time ago,” added Midge, “I think it was in Mr Lumley’s grandfather’s day, there was another farm up that way. You can still see the remains of the farmhouse—well, its chimneys. Mr Lumley’s Broken Acre field used to be part of it. The very lush meadow, Jarvis, near the little stream, where he grazes his cows in summer.”

    “Yes, the farm is on some of the old maps. Cherry Tree Farm. Though I did not observe any cherries gone wild when I was over that way.”

    “Well, there’s one,” said Midge temperately. “It doesn’t bear much.”

    “Mm…” he said vaguely, as she embarked on the last sandwich. “Er, Midge, what became of the carriage?”

    “Hutton has it all under control,” she said soothingly.

    “And where is he?’

    “In bed, I sincerely hope.” There was a glass of milk on her tray; Midge drank it off thirstily. “Tonkins is in bed, I saw him into it myself,” she said reassuringly.

    “Good. How are Polly and Grace?”

    “Blooming. Um—actually she was up and about: not doing very much, but she said she felt so well, and was bored in bed.”

    Jarvis wandered over to his dressing-room door. “That’s splendid.”

    “Um—actually, I could come to London tomorrow, I suppose,” said Midge in a very small voice. “Letty is with her, and Mrs Cumbridge and Mrs Newbiggin look in every day, and Lady Judith, of course. They don’t need me as well.”

    “I should like that very much,” he said evenly. “But not if you would worry about her, my dear.”

    “No: Dr Jarman has told her she must not overdo it, but he said to Letty he has never seen a healthier specimen of motherhood. And Grace is absolutely splendid.”

    “Good. Well, shall we drop in and say good-bye on our way? We could easily go through the town, rather than skirting it.”

    “Yes; lovely!”

    Jarvis came over to the bed, smiling slightly “You have a moustache.” He produced his handkerchief and wiped her upper lip gently. Midge went very red, he was not displeased to see. “Do you want me in your bed tonight?”

    “Yes, of course!” replied Midge in astonishment. “Oh—um—Letty once said something about gentlemen loathing the habit of eating in bed,” she said in dismay, looking at her tray. “I cannot imagine why: to me it is the greatest treat imaginable. She said they complain of crumbs in the sheets, when one does.”

    “If I promise not to complain of crumbs in the sheets, may I get in?” he said meekly.

    “Mm!” said his wife, nodding hard.

    Forthwith, sad to relate, the Earl hurled his clothes onto his wife’s bedroom floor, dumped her tray on the said floor and got into her bed, rolling on top of her and kissing her fiercely. “I love you, chota mem, maddening though you are!” he said in her ear.

    “Mm, me, too!” said Midge in a squashed and breathless voice.

    Jarvis laughed. He went on rolling on top of her and squashing her for quite some time.

    It was not until he was drifting off to sleep next to her already torpid and lightly snoring form—doubtless the combination of the strenuous exercise she had just enjoyed with her long day and the plate of sandwiches—that he remembered he hadn’t actually mentioned his plan for Bluebell Dell to her. If it went ahead he could always put up a row of cottages in the lane, as well. Yes, that might work: one for Tonkins and one for Hutton, and perhaps one for Hawkins? Yes, excellent. Oh, well, he could tell her another time. And it might come to nothing, of course…

    “What—?” he said as the travelling coach turned for Lower Nettlefold.

    “I told them to go this way: I want to look in at Bluebell Dell, and then say good-bye to Miss Humphreys and Mrs Fred.”

    “I see,” said Jarvis, reflecting it was just as well that he had sent the servants who were coming up to London on ahead: otherwise there would doubtless have been a train of carriages trailing through the village. Those who were accompanying them to London, incidentally, included not only her Ladyship’s maid—not in the coach with them, as the Countess had cheerfully suggested—but young John, the most junior of the footmen. She seemed to have adopted the boy. Oh, well, there were worse things a countess could get up to. But the very idea of being cooped up in the coach with his rather new wife plus her maid, throughout the journey to the metropolis—! The which, incidentally, was going to take a day longer than planned: they were late leaving and stopping off in the village would delay them further.

    “Is Miss Humphreys still with the girls?” he asked as the corner of Cherry Tree Lane hove into view.

    “No, of course not, I am sure I told you that, Jarvis!”

    Jarvis was quite sure she had not. “So, what is the situation, my dear?”

    “Janey has gone up to town with her father, taking Lacey and Amanda with her. They left yesterday, I’m sure I told you, Jarvis!”

    “No,” he said mildly. “Did Mrs Waldgrave not object to that, Midgey?”

    “She was very torn,” said Midge with a twinkle in her eye, “between the idea of letting Amanda stay with a gentleman like Major Lattersby, and the horrors of her being exposed to Janey’s maternal relatives. But Green Street plus a promise that the girls would be well chaperoned won the day. Mrs Somerton, of course, was aux anges. Though noting at the same time that it was rather early days for myself to wish for some young companionship, though these naughty men did tend to neglect one, when they got their politics into their heads.”

    “In so many words: mm. Er—forgive my pressing the point, Midge; does Lattersby intention that hen of a sister of his to do the chaperoning?”

    “I didn’t ask, for on thinking it over, I have decided that marriage to a solid burgher like Robert d’Annunzio is exactly what Amanda needs! And pray don’t mention Simon Golightly in that connection, Jarvis, it has become a very tedious topic.”

    Jarvis had not been going to mention him. In fact to his knowledge he never had mentioned him in that connection.

    His wife continued firmly: “She has known him for two years now, and as she clearly cannot care for him, it would be very cruel to attempt to force her into an engagement. Possibly Portia will have him, in the end.”

    “She is not to go up to Green Street, then?’

    “No; she has made the grave mistake—the triple grave mistake—of informing Janey and Amanda that in the first place Mr Carewe is an old stick whom only a dried-up prune like Eugenia could imagine she loved—they saw the justice of the remark, it was the expression of it that displeased them!—and in the second place that Amanda is only mooning after Janey’s Cousin Bob because he is tall and handsome and possessed of a good leg, and if she did not have such an idiotishly Romantick imagination she would never have dreamed of looking twice at him!” Midge paused for breath.

    Personally Jarvis thought that perhaps there was something in that: though he had more sense than to say so. “That is only two,” he said mildly.

    “Mm! The third was, that Major Renwick is by far too old and too poor for Janey, and with her liveliness and fortune she could catch a title and should not waste her time on him. Which struck quite the wrong note, for of course Janey has believed herself these past few months to have been giving the impression that she was not wasting her time on him!” she said with a laugh.

    Jarvis patted her hand. “Mm.”

    “What?” said Midge uncertainly.

    “Nothing. –Damn, we’re here already,” he said as the coach jolted into Cherry Tree Lane.

    “Yes,” said the Countess, peering eagerly out of her window. “Oh: Eugenia Waldgrave is staying with Mr Carewe’s relatives, did I say?”

    “Almost definitely not,” said Jarvis drily.

    Whether his wife heard this remark was doubtful, for she was crying: “There’s Hawkins! Oh, she is carrying Ferdinand, I do hope there’s nothing wrong!”

    Resignedly Jarvis prepared to alight and be pleasant to little old Hawkins. He was quite sure that the poor little thing would rather have seen Midge alone. Oh, well.

    … “Midgey, have you thought about Hawkins?”’ he said cautiously as, after a prolonged accounting of every tiny incident at Bluebell Dell in the past several months, or so it had felt to him, and the consumption of a cup of unnecessary tea, they set off on the short leg to the village.

    “Letty is very happy to have her stay on as caretaker at Bluebell Dell. I did ask her if she would prefer to come to Maunsleigh, but she said it was too big a house for her, and she’s been used too long to having things her own way; which I must say I thought was very sensible of her!” she approved sunnily.

    Jarvis had to swallow. “Er—mm,” he managed.

    “When things change at Bluebell Dell, I suppose we must think again.”

    “Ye-es… Look, if I build a cottage for Hutton, I may put up a row. Hawkins might have one of them.”

    “Would it be nearby, though?”

    “Uh—near to us, Midgey?”

    “No, near to the village. When she was with Mrs Cartwright she was within an easy walk of Dinsley Dell, and now she is so close to Lower Nettlefold—”

    “Oh: yes. I suppose that is a point, whoever is to occupy them.”

    “They will have their own gardens, of course, but no-one wishes to walk for two hours merely to buy flour, you know!”

    “No, very true. I’ll get Shelby onto it. Actually, I was thinking—”

    But his wife was peering eagerly out of her window, crying: “Here we are! There’s Miss Humphreys, and Gertie Potts!” She had already let the window down, so she was enabled to wave vigorously and cry: “Good morning, Miss Humphreys! Good morning, Gertie!”

    After a prolonged accounting of every tiny incident in the village in the past several  months, and the consumption of another unnecessary cup of tea plus a plate of small cakes, Miss Humphreys reluctantly let them go. Jarvis did not think he was imagining the sympathetic gleam in Powell Humphreys’s eye as he shook his hand.

    “We shall just look in on Mrs Fred,” said his wife kindly.

    “Mm.”

    Mrs Fred had her entire family assembled, including Fred Watts, who, by Jarvis’s calculations, should have been over in Maunsleigh Wood with his head forester and Hutton at this very moment. Oh, well. Farewells were made, tearful on the part of many, and at last, after the consumption of another unnecessary cup of tea in Mrs Fred’s minute parlour behind the shop, they were allowed to go.

    “What is it?” said Jarvis as Midge inspected the giant basket which Mrs Fred, very red, had at the last moment thrust into the Countess’s hands.

    “Bacon, largely. A giant piece. Oh, and this is a cheese: one of our local cheeses! Good! –What are you doing?” she cried as her husband jerked the carriage-string savagely.

    “Cheese most certainly explains the odour. It is not—they are not: that bacon has a smell all its own,” he discovered—“they are not going to ride all the way to London with us. Get this up onto the roof, or tie it on the back, or— Just get it out, please,” he said to the footman.

    The offending basket was duly removed.

    “That was Frederick,” noted Jarvis neutrally.

    “Yes: he has never been to London, though your late cousin went every year. So I said, of course he must come!” she said sunnily.

    “Midge, did you ask Bates first?” said Jarvis in a hollow voice. “Frederick is head footman, you know.”

    “Not really. I didn’t think. Um—well, after I’d done it, I realised it was the wrong thing, so I spoke to Bates, and apologized. And said that perhaps he could take the opportunity to give one of the other boys some intensive training—Albert, perhaps. That went down quite well, for of course Albert is his nephew!” she said with a stifled giggle.

     Jarvis stared at her. “Bates’s nephew?”

    “Yes: did you not know? His sister is called Maggie, too!” she said, squeezing his arm a little.

    Jarvis at this put the arm right round her, pulled her to him, pushed back the fashionable bonnet, and kissed her very hard.

    “What did I say?” said Midge faintly, trying to right the bonnet.

    “I can’t define it; I was just overwhelmed by the need to kiss you. Um, well, discovering after a mere few months in the house that Bates actually has a family, let alone finding out that his sister’s name is the same as my sister’s— I cannot explain, Midgey! Um—and you looked at me, so, when you said her name was Maggie… Call me besotted,” he said with a shrug.

    “Mm.” Midge looked at him shyly. “Is that why you didn’t want May in the carriage?”

    “You mean, do I intend to kiss you at intervals—whenever the fancy takes me, y’know—all the way to London? Yes.”

    Midge swallowed, and flushed, and smiled at him shyly.

    Whereupon—though he was certainly unable to define why—Jarvis kissed her very thoroughly again.

    By the time they got away from Polly’s house it was so late that they might just as well have given in to her mother’s urging to stay and eat their midday meal with them. Not that Jarvis considered they needed it, after all those cups of tea and plates of cakes. Not to mention Mrs Fred’s extraordinarily substantial sandwiches, which at the time he had assumed to be ham…

    “Those sandwiches of Mrs Fred’s were bacon, weren’t they?” he said abruptly.

    “Boiling bacon: yes; they make it from the odd bits of the pig. Did you dislike it?”

    “No. I was just wondering if Tonkins is aware that the pig forms such an important part of the staple diet of the English peasantry.”

    “He is not a Hindoo or a Musselman, though,” she replied calmly.

    “No, but he has lived all his life in a country where the pig is generally regarded as unclean.”

    “I expect he will adjust to the idea. But we must see that they start off their married life with some good hens.”

    Jarvis nodded numbly.

    “And a nice cow: now, that is an idea! We may give them a cow for a wedding-gift!”

    “Do Tonkins aspire to keep his gai, though?” he replied drily.

    “Don’t be silly, Jarvis,” said his wife composedly. “Good, that is settled!”

    “Mm. Have you thought any more about wedding gifts for the other—and possibly less important—persons who are shortly to celebrate their nuptials?”

    “Who?” she said blankly.

    “Leonard and your friend Katerina, for a start.”

    “Was not your purchase of Dinsley House a wedding gift?”

    “No: wake up, Midge. The freehold remains Wynton property.”—Here the Countess rolled her eyes madly.—“I am letting Leonard have the lease, merely.”

    “You could perhaps let him have it at a peppercorn rental?”

    “I could, but he would be vastly insulted; and so, I would imagine, would old Bottomley-Pugh.”

    “Um… Katerina has never had pets.”

    “Good, we’ll give her Dumpkin: that’s settled.”

    “You are too horrid! Just because your silly secretary did not let him out soon enough, when he whined at the door!”

    “Yes, it is our joint faults, really: Jonathon’s for not leapin’ to it, and mine for not telling him in so many words precisely why he had to leap to it.”

    “We shall not give her Dumpkin at all, and that reminds me: when we stop for a bite, I must check to see that they are looking after him properly.”

    Jarvis swallowed a sigh. “Mm.”

    “But something of the sort.”

    “Eh? Uh—God.”

    “He is a very doggy dog underneath! You said yourself he would go for miles, if let off his lead!”

    Or even tow one for miles if not let off. He was proving very difficult to train; possibly one should use Russian as the language of instruction? No, on the whole, Jarvis was of the opinion that it was not a problem with the breed: it was this particular dog. Thick as two short planks. “I dare say it would not be impossible to get one, if you insist. Was it Chessinsky from the Embassy who foisted them on Corinna? No matter, Jonathon will find out for us. But does Katerina favour the breed?”

    “I am not absolutely sure. But no-one could help loving Dumpkin!”

    “Leonard was saying something about a pair of decent spaniels,” he said uneasily.

    “That is men all over!” she cried. “Why should not Katerina have her dog if he is to have his?”

    “Mm. Um—look, Midge I really think that something along the lines of a dinner-set would be more appropriate.”

    “I wanted to give her something personal,” she said, scowling.

    “Yes, of course you did, my dear.” He squeezed her hand. “Well, the wedding is not until June, we have a little time to think. But anything along the lines of silver or so forth would have to be ordered up well in advance.”

    “Mr Bottomley-Pugh is giving them a complete set of silver. He did suggest a naval emblem: he got carried away, you see, but Captain Cornwallis choked. So he is having it engraved with their initials, entwined, and each handle is to be quite classical, but the tip, just above the initials, is to have a tiny moulded speedwell flower! Because Captain Cornwallis said her eyes were speedwell blue: is not that charming?”

    “Very sweet. Er—will this motif be repeated in large upon the coffee-pot and such, Midge?”

    “Do not dare to laugh! The coffee-pots are to be of the most classical style possible, and there will be one tiny sprig of ornament upon the lid, with the initials appearing only once, on the side of the pot. The set will become an heirloom, you see,” said the former Miss Burden on a complacent note.

    Jarvis wanted very much to laugh. He merely nodded, however.

    “Mrs Cumbridge was so much struck with the speedwell idea that she is having them embroidered upon the set of bed-linen she is giving them. She wanted to do it herself, but her hands are rather crippled these days, so—”

    Jarvis sat back, leaned his head against the squabs of the carriage, and let her prattle on about Mrs Cumbridge and her embroidered sheets and pillow cases.

    “What about Miss Waldgrave?” he murmured at last, when she seemed to have run down.

     “Oh. Um—I thought, if you did not mind, we could give her a dinner-set, Jarvis. Because the Carewes have nothing, and the Waldgraves not very much, and setting up house is so very—”

    Jarvis picked up her hand and kissed it. “Yes.”

    “Oh, good,” said Midge limply.

    “In that case, you would scarcely wish to give Katerina a dinner-set, too," he murmured.

    “No,” agreed Midge gratefully.

    “Furniture?” he murmured.

    “Isn’t everything part of the entail?”

    “Part of the patrimony, at all events: yes. I did not mean Maunsleigh furniture, Midge; I know you are burning to get rid of the monstrosities in the yellow salon—both yellow salons—but I am afraid the best that we can do with them is re-cover them or consign them to the attics.”

    “But that is ridiculous! Keep them forever, on the unlikely chance that our great-grandchildren may actually admire them?” she cried.

    “Mm, something like that.”

    “But surely—well, if we were to sell the horrible things and spend the money on new furniture for those rooms, that could not be said to be wasting the patrimony, or some such!”

    “Betraying our great-grandchildren’s trust: well, no. But who would want to buy them?” said Jarvis, straight-faced.

    Midge at this went into a terrific giggling fit, so he was emboldened to put his arm around her and suggest that they need not stop for the midday meal, quite yet.

    “But if you kiss me in the carriage, I—I get all hot and bothered,” she confessed, bright puce.

    “Good,” said Jarvis, starting immediately.

    … “We might have a picknick here,” she noted, quite some time later.

    Jarvis groaned. “On Mrs Fred’s bacon and cheese, I presume?”

    “Silly. No, do but look: there is the most delightful old orchard behind this quaint old inn. See, the horses may be watered and rested, and we will not need a change; that will be a saving!” she beamed. “And we may all eat under those lovely old trees.”

    “You, me, Dumpkin, the Maunsleigh coachman—”

    “Bill Biggins,” interrupted his wife.

    “Quite; plus Tonkins, May Horrocks, Jona— No I had forgot, he went up yesterday; oddly glad to go, possibly he was relieved to get out of that incontinent white creature’s orbit for a few days. John and Frederick, then.”

    “And Timothy.”

    “He is to come to London, too, is he?”

    Only for the journey.”

    Jarvis sighed and did not enquire further.

    “I see: you are the sort of man who hates picknicks, and once the courting period is over,” said the Countess, rolling her eyes horribly, “will put his foot down utterly if there is even the merest suggestion of taking a meal out of doors. Like Mr Somerton,” she noted.

    “Thank you very much! I do like picknicks, as a matter of fact, but not necessarily in the company of half the household. My idea of a picknick would be you and me alone under a tree, yourself in the most exiguous of sprig muslins, minus your corset,”—Lady Sleyven’s jaw dropped—“and myself in perhaps nankeens and a very old shirt. With a handy brook nearby should we feel like a dip. Very, very far from civilization and all those whom we know and love.”

    After quite some time Midge said in a tiny voice: “Was that the sort of picknick you had in India?”

    “Once or twice, yes. Mostly the sort of picknicks we had were those where two dozen ill-assorted persons, sweating in their corsets and coats, pile into an assortment of gharries, accompanied by a positive retinue of syces and bearers and God-knows-what—cooks, very often. Not to mention the damned table-linen and the tea-sets. Have I ever mentioned Lytton-Howe to you?”

    “The man who had an elephant!” she agreed, her eyes shining.

    “And a famille verte tea-set, yes. The which he did cart along to our so-called picknicks, yes.”

    “Well, um,” said Midge, now very flustered and not knowing what she was expected to say, “perhaps you and I might picknick and the servants eat indoors.”

    “As a matter of fact they would probably prefer that,” he murmured.

    So the Earl and Countess picnicked alone together in the old orchard. The little inn provided cold pork pies, but Jarvis refrained from remarking upon the point. There was nothing very much for her Ladyship to drink, so Midge asked for porter, remarking cheerfully when it came: “This reminds me of those mornings at the market with Mr Lumley.”

    Afterwards Jarvis removed his coat—though the day, of course, was not hot in Indian terms—and lay back under a gnarled old plum tree. “I rather wish we might stay here forever,” he murmured.

    Midge sighed. “Mm.”

    “Take that damned bonnet off and lie down, Midgey,” he murmured.

    Midge did so, but looked very uneasy over it. “What if someone comes?”

    “They will be afforded the spectacle of two elderly married persons snoring their heads off post-prandially in an orchard: what is wrong with that?”

    “Nothing, so long as your Lardship’s consequence won’t suffer!” she replied with a laugh.

    Jarvis leaned over and kissed her gently. “Damn my consequence.’

    Midge was very flushed, but she replied gallantly: “Huh! You say that now!”

    “I always think it, however,” he murmured, lying back and closing his eyes.

    After a moment he heard his wife say in a small voice: “Yes. I see.” But he did not open his eyes.

    … “Where are we?” said Midge, rousing with jerk. “Help, it’s dark!”

    “Yes. We have reached a town, though I am not very sure which. We had better rack up here for the night.” He duly gave Bill Biggins instructions and the coach headed for the best inn, Bill Biggins having assured his Lardship that it was the one where his late Lardship use to rack up for the night.

    The consequent bowing and scraping had to be seen to be believed.

    “One collects your cousin was even worse than we raff and scaff of the county had concluded,” said Midge grimly, removing her bonnet in her bedchamber.

    Jarvis wandered through from his dressing-room; the late Earl had “always” had a suite of rooms. As far as Jarvis was aware the Earl and Countess had done very little in each other’s company, so possibly the suite was merely due to his late cousin’s consequence? “Yes. Should you wish to go downstairs for your dinner, my angel, or have it brought up to the little sitting-room here?”

    Midge looked longingly at the bed. “I suppose we’d better have it brought up. More countessly.”

    “My darling, if the journey has tired you, by all means have your dinner on a tray in bed,” he said gently.

    “But what about you?”

    “Uh—I’ll have mine on a tray, too. I’ll sit here,” he said, drawing up a chair.

    “Not if people would talk, though.”

    “I feel that at this point my late cousin would have said, Damn people, let ’em talk. –No, it would be quite acceptable: mildly eccentric only: for whoever heard of persons of our rank wishing to live in each other’s pockets?”

    “That’s true, anyway,” said the Countess grimly.

    She had finished her dessert and had been persuaded to join him in a sip of brandy when Jarvis made the awful mistake of broaching the subject which had been on his mind for some little time.

    “Midgey, on the day that Polly had her baby—I mean the day they sent for you—why did you not leave a message for me?”

    “What?” said Midge, looking at him blankly.

    “Well, I came home to find no sign of you, and there was no message; I had to ask little May where you were.”

    “But— Oh. I suppose I forgot. I mean, the man came, and I just jumped up and rang for May and rushed out.”

    “Rang for May and Hutton,” he said neutrally.

    “Yes. I’m sorry, all I could think about was Polly. It just slipped my mind.”

    “Yes. Very understandable,” he said with an effort.

    Midge set her glass down. She took a deep breath. “Very well, then. I was not going to mention this, but since we are indulging in recriminations tonight—”

    “I was not—”

    But she swept on ruthlessly: “I heard the most extraordinary story, but as it was Sir William’s kennel-man who told me, I did not have much grounds for doubting it. He is a very truthful man and not given to gossip. We were talking about the hunt, and where the hounds are likely to find, and he said that of course they would not go through the Maunsleigh preserves now that you have come,”—Jarvis’s mouth opened slightly in shock but his wife did not remark it—“but that the park gave one a good run and sometimes the woods, provided that they found near the open rides. And he was glad to hear that you were clearing some of the old rides and opening up the vistas. And then he said that the new road to the north-east had made good progress, and I would find it so convenient, being able to take a carriage direct to Little Jefford, when Polly and Arthur are there.”

    “Midge—”

    But Midge swept on: “So of course, in my innocence, I agreed. And then he said that I must be very glad that your plan had worked so good: and I stared and said yes, I had just said so. At which he said not the road, but the bribing of Mr Hendricks’s widowed sisters to take him off to Bath. And, fool that I was,” she said, the round cheeks flushing brightly, “I said that of course you would not do any such thing. But he said his brother—he is the verger at Little Jefford—had it from the old ladies’ maid herself. You had offered to reduce their rent if they would take the old brother away and leave Little Jefford free for Arthur to bustle in!”

    “Yes. Though I did not do it in person: Jonathon arranged it quite discreetly.

    “You did not think to tell me, of course,” said his wife tightly.

    “Er—well, I suppose I just thought that you would not need to know… I'm sorry.”

     “It was you who said we must share things!” she cried loudly.

    Jarvis bit his lip. “Mm. I’m sorry. I just— I suppose I thought that there was no need for its ever to come to your ears… No, I was wrong and I apologize,” he said, taking her hand between both of his. “Could we not perhaps admit that we have both made mistakes and will try harder in the future?” He smiled hopefully at her.

    “You are not going to get round me with that smile of yours,” warned the Countess, tears starting to her eyes.

    “Midgey, for God’s sake! I've apologized; what more can I do?’

    Midge did not know what more he could do; in fact she did not know why she was so upset about it—the more so as she believed herself to have succeeded in burying it at the back of her mind. “It was underhand,” she said shakily. “And—and manipulative.”

    “True; but it did no-one any harm; in fact it did a lot of people good, so—”

    “You manipulated them ALL!” shouted the Countess, pulling her hand fiercely out of his grasp. “And you are NOT going to manipulate me!”

    His eyes narrowed. “Midge, did that bitch, Kitty Marsh, speak to you of me, at any time?”

    “NO!” shouted Midge untruthfully, bright red. “And pray do not use that language in front of me!”

    “I’m sorry,” he said, gnawing on his lip. “You know how I feel towards her, so— But there was no need to use that term. I shall not do so in future.”

    “You need not speak of her at all,” noted Midge grimly.

    “No,” he said uncomfortably. “Look, has Hutton said— Look, Midgey,” he said rapidly, “he has been other ranks all his life, he has no notion of the problems of command or of why one is sometimes led to impose the solutions one does—”

    “He is utterly loyal and adores you, you horrid man,” said Midge, a tear spilling over and trickling down her cheek, “and it is ungrateful and unfeeling of you to speak of him, so!”

    “Rubbish! He may not be a budmush but he’s as near to a damned rascal as you are likely to meet in your lifetime! What nonsense has he been filling your head with?”

    “Nothing that I had not already gathered for myself! He merely said that Lieutenant Fiennes had complained that the chummery was never told more than the Colonel sahib deemed good for them, whereas if you had put their humble selves fully in the picture, they might have contributed some ideas!”

    “Fiennes and that damned scouting expedition in the mofussil: I might have known,” he said with a groan.

    “I neither know nor care what the precise reference was,” said Midge, putting her small nose in the air, “but it appears that the Lieutenant was not wrong.”

    “Midge, you are not from Hutton’s class: you at least must be capable of grasping that one does not keep a tight grip on one’s command by imparting one’s full thought processes to the—er—raff and scaff of the chummery. Nor to one’s batman, however faithful.”

    “I am not part of your COMMAND!” shouted Midge.

    “Er—no. I beg your pardon: it’s habit, I suppose; perhaps I was treating you—”

    “Just go away!” she cried loudly.

    Jarvis got up and went meekly away.

    As the door closed quietly behind him, Midge burst into loud tears and threw herself face down on her pillows. He was the most high-handed man ever born, and utterly unreasonable! Why must he always be in the right and put her in the position of a stupid little girl who knew nothing and was always wrong?

    It was a mistake, Jarvis decided later, to have spared her his manipulative company and made the rest of the journey on horseback. She descended from the carriage at Wynton House in just as much of a contumacious mood as she had been that night. Slight and the other servants were all greeted with her usual friendly charm, but she was very silent over dinner, and shortly after it announced she had the headache, and would go up. He did not attempt to go to her room that night: he was very sure he would not have been welcome there.

Next chapter:

https://thepatchworkparasol.blogspot.com/2022/11/and-chummery.html