Arrivals And Departures

8

Arrivals And Departures

    “Er—well, he’s gone to Ireland,” said Colonel Langford uncomfortably. “Be away for about a month, I think. Horse-buying trip. Well,” he said, reluctantly meeting Mrs Burden’s eye, “he has been planning it for some weeks. I originally said I would go, but—well, I decided I would remain in the district.”

    “Yes,” said Lettice faintly.

    “I am thinking of taking Kendlewood Place,” said the Colonel airily.

    She had to swallow, but managed: “I believe it is a very pleasant house.”

    “Yes. Would you care to drive over and take a look at it with me, Mrs Burden?”

    “Today?” faltered Lettice.

    “Certainly.”

    “Well, I— Well, yes; thank you very much, Colonel Langford.” Lettice got up. “I shall go and change, if you will excuse me, and let Polly know where I am going.”

    Colonel Langford rose and bowed her out politely, closing the door after her. He strolled slowly over to the empty grate and propped his good arm on the mantel. After quite some time he muttered: “The man’s a damned fool. Whatever may have happened at the damned strawberry thing— Well, Hell: running off to Ireland’s not going to help, is it?”

    Mrs Burden was entirely of the same opinion and had in fact been very shaken to hear that the Earl had left the country. It was quite some time before she reappeared in the front parlour with her bonnet on.

    “May I ask where is Miss Burden today?” said the Colonel, as the Maunsleigh curricle headed north out of Lower Nettlefold towards the turn-off that would lead, eventually, to the wood known as Turpen’s Way and thence to Kendlewood Place.

    Lettice sighed. “She has gone to a funeral service.”

    “Oh, dear, I am sorry to hear that,” he said politely.

    Mrs Burden could see that he was wondering why they had not all gone. “It was not a close friend; in fact— Well, it is Midge all over, of course,” she said with a sigh.

    “Oh?”

    “It is a Mrs Bottomley-Pugh. She was ill for some years, I believe, and it was not unexpected. Mr Bottomley-Pugh owns a large new house about five miles out of Nettleford on the Lower Nettlefold Road. Um—Nettleford House,” she said, swallowing. “The—the neighbourhood does not visit, I am afraid. I have never met him.”

    “Er—but your sister-in-law has?”

    “Well, yes. Midge knows everyone from the outskirts of Nettleford itself, over to well beyond Dinsley Dell in that direction,” said Mrs Burden, nodding at it, “and out as far as The Winnows in this direction!” she ended with a mad little laugh. “And do not ask me exactly how she does it, dear sir, for I confess I know not! She is a great walker, of course, and—well, I think she speaks to every human soul she meets.’

    The Colonel smiled. “High, low, and in between?”

    “Yes.” Lettice bit her lip. “No, well, largely low and in between. The—the other sort do not as a rule interest her.”

    “I had rather gathered that,” he said levelly.

    “Mm.” She took a deep breath. “Colonel Langford, I have no right to ask you this, but please, if you know of anything that may have passed between Midge and Lord Sleyven at that dreadful strawberry picknick—?”

    “It was not so dreadful, was it?” he murmured.

    Lettice turned scarlet. “No! Only as to its—its aftermath!” she gasped.

    Charles Langford smiled a little. “Mm. Well, I don’t know, Mrs Burden. All I can tell you is that the fellow came home hours after I got in, soaked to the skin. Tonkins—his groom, you know—got it out of him that he walked all the way. He’s as tough as old leather, of course: he suffered no ill-effects,” he added hastily.

    “Er—no.”

    “And she?” he asked baldly.

    Lettice sighed. “Well, you saw the mood she was in when she returned to the house.”

    “She certainly seemed very upset.”

    “Upset? She was mad as fire!”

    Colonel Langford looked thoughtfully past the nags’ ears. “I could see she was very angry: yes. But I thought, also, very disturbed.”

    Lettice sighed. “Perhaps you are right. All she said to me when we got home was that she never wished to set eyes on Lord Sleyven again, and that she wished he had sent her an hundred hens, for she would return the lot. Um, and she said to Polly that he was—um—a horrid man,” she said, swallowing.

    “Er—in those words?”

    “Do not laugh!” she cried.

    “My very dear Mrs Burden, I would not dream of laughing. I was wondering... Well, she may be a woman in years, but your sister-in-law is in truth just an inexperienced girl, is she not?” he said very kindly indeed.

    “Ye-es...”

    “‘A horrid man’,” repeated the Colonel slowly.

    “If you mean to imply that Lord Sleyven—um—made improper advances—” gulped Lettice.

    “Not quite. But I certainly think that he may have tried to kiss her, and that Miss Burden would have found that quite shocking enough.”

    “Yes, I think she would.” Lettice licked her lips. “Would he?”

    “We-ell... He has been brooding over her ever since their encounter on the wall, you know. –When her parasol blew away,” he explained, as Mrs Burden looked blank.

    “What?” she gasped.

    “Yes: surely she mentioned it? Jarvis assumed she was a country lass—”

    “That dreadful old gown and bonnet,” said Lettice in a hollow voice.

    “Mm. And—er—having rescued her from the wall, he did snatch a kiss. But nothing more: he would not have dreamed of it: in fact he told me that the little thing was scared stiff. –That was before he found out who she was.”

    “Oh, dear, Midgey! You silly!” cried Lettice, throwing up her hands.

    “Mm?” he murmured.

    “She mentioned the episode very briefly but said only that—um—that the gentleman was no gentleman. She certainly did not mention a kiss.”

    “I see. May I ask if she appeared very fluttered by it, Mrs Burden?”

    “Um—yes. Looking back—yes,” she said limply.

    The Colonel nodded slowly. “I think Jarvis brooded over it for a long time. And then, when he saw her at the Plumbways dance and realised who she was...” He looked at her sideways. “She is certainly the epitome of the type he has always admired.”

    “Really?”

    “Yes. Well, little and plump and—” The Colonel bit his lip, and stopped.

    “And?” said Lettice blankly.

    Colonel Langford went very red. “She has the type of figure he admires.”

    “Yes, you said. –Oh!” said Lettice, smiling. “I think I see!”

    “Yes.” The Colonel cleared his throat. “Mrs Burden, please do not take this amiss. I think Jarvis was rather overset by the discovery that Miss Burden could have such a strong effect on him, just at the very point where he had more or less made up his mind to marry a woman of unexceptionable breeding, quietly ladylike comportment and—er—shall we say, quiet competence in running a gentleman’s household.”

    “I see. Who?” said Lettice with difficulty.

    “What? Oh, good Heavens, I did not mean to imply— It is not a specific woman, Mrs Burden: he has made up his stubborn mind that he should look for some frightful cold and composed creature who comports herself like a countess should!”

    “Oh, gracious,” she said slowly. “That is certainly the opposite of Midgey, in every way.”

    “Y— Well, no: there is nothing wrong with her birth: you must not think I meant to imply that!” he said quickly.

    “Nonsense, my dear Colonel Langford, let us not blink at facts: the Burdens are country nobodies. In fact, when the news of Lord Sleyven’s imminent arrival broke we were confidently expecting never to catch more than a glimpse of him as his carriage wheels dashed dust in our faces. I think, in Midge’s picture, touching forelocks may have come into it somewhere, too,” she added thoughtfully.

    “Please forgive me. I did not mean to offend you.”

    “You have not offended me in the least,” she said with a little sigh. “Possibly if Midge were that well-bred lady of—of quietly composed demeanour, was it? Mistress of all the housewifely virtues, and so forth— Well, she can bake a splendid fruit-cake, and the horrid stove will light for her when the wind is in the east and even Cook cannot get a flicker of a flame, but I quite see that those skills would be of little use to her as the mistress of Maunsleigh. It is understandable that he should want a lady who was born to rule a great household.”

    “Rubbish,” said the Colonel grimly. “He only thinks he does, the great fool. That is why he’s so upset over Miss Burden.”

    “Oh,” said Lettice lamely. “Is he?”

    “Yes. Thoroughly off-balance, the damned— I beg your pardon. Thoroughly off-balance, to the extent that, as I was saying, I think he probably did try to kiss her at the strawberry picknick. Um—well, you have been married, I will not scruple to say it would not have been a mere peck. Jarvis is not a boy, and his relationships in the past have all been—well, passionate,” he said apologetically.

    Mrs Burden replied thoughtfully: “I see. No wonder you said that about Midge being only an inexperienced girl!”

    “Yes—well, if she called him horrid? It is what one would expect—well, from a girl of your Polly’s age, perhaps.”

    “Yes,” said Mrs Burden. looking at him with great approval. “You are very right, dear sir! Of course!”

    “Given that he started off on the wrong foot with her— Well, in my opinion he’s so shaken up by his feelings for her that he don’t rightly know what he’s doing,” he said with a grimace. “He does not usually behave like a hot-headed boy, but— Well, two months of quiet tea-parties and apologetic humility is not Jarvis, I am afraid. But in this case, it is certainly what was indicated.”

    “Yes,” said Mrs Burden numbly.

    The curricle jogged on, the Maunsleigh horses putting up their usual less than splendid performance.

    “Tea-parties?” croaked Mrs Burden.

    The Colonel’s lips twitched. “I regretted it the moment the words were out of my mouth, ma’am.”

    “So I should hope!” she said vigorously, trying not to laugh “Tea-parties, indeed! Why, you—you monster, we are scraping the bottom of the caddy to give you a decent cup!”

    “Oh, Lor’. I am not even terribly fond of tea,” he said ruefully.

    “Then in future you may have Harbottle’s horrible currant wine, and like it!”

    The Colonel broke down and laughed helplessly.

    Mrs Burden looked at him with immense liking, and smiled.

    The curricle jogged on in the sun. “No, no: it is left at the fork, dear sir!” she cried.

    “Oh—sorry: the nags and I were heading stupidly back to our stable.” He backed up the nags, and took the left turn.

    “Colonel Langford,” said Mrs Burden, taking a deep breath: “you—you said your friend had made up his mind. About this—this proper, well-born lady,” she said as he looked enquiringly.

    “Oh. Yes, curse him, he has. Made it up before he met Miss Burden, but... I think I mentioned once before that once he has made it up, there’s no moving him.”

    Lettice was now rather pale. “Yes, I think you did.’

    “Well, in this instance,” he said with a sigh, “I don’t think he’ll go on with the plan. But as to admitting that he wants the chota memsahib instead—” He shook his head. “I’ll work on him.”

    She was now bright red. “Thank you!” she gasped.

    The Colonel glanced at her wryly. “But you had best work on her, too, ma’am. For I get the impression that she’s as stubborn as he is.”

    “Yes,” she said limply. “Indeed she is.”

    “Now I, on the contrary, like to think of myself as a reasonable man,” he said affably.

    “Yes—I mean, of course, Colonel! Um—I am sure you are,” said Mrs Burden feebly.

    The Colonel’s rather crooked mouth twitched. “So after two more months of quiet tea-parties and humility I shall have something important to say to you.”

    Mrs Burden’s bosom swelled indignantly. She said nothing.

    “Or if I agree to stop drinking up your tea—”

    “Colonel Langford,” said Lettice with desperate dignity, “pray stop talking nonsense!”

    “Very well!” he said with a laugh. “But I’m giving you due warning!”

    Mrs Burden said nothing. The curricle jogged on, the Colonel now and then glancing at her with a little smile. Lettice’s cheeks  were very red. She stared straight ahead.

    Eventually he relented, and said: “But you have not told me the full story of these Bottomley-Pughs. How did Miss Burden meet them, if the neighbourhood does not visit? And—er—why does the neighbourhood not visit, if I may ask? And, indeed, why did you let her go to the funeral, if the neighbourhood does not visit?”

    “I could not stop her: no-one can stop her if she has made up her mind to something. But actually, I feel rather sorry for poor Mr Bottomley-Pugh. The only reason the neighbourhood does not visit is that he is a retired tradesman who has built himself a splendid house out of the fortune he made at his trade. I am not sure what; I think he was an ironmonger. And—um—some of the ladies resent the fact that his wife seems to have added on the Pugh and the hyphen,” she admitted, swallowing.

    The Colonel gave a shout of laughter.

    “Yes, well, actually I would have visited, but the house is too far away, without a carriage. And as I never met either of them, I did not care to attend the funeral service.”

    “Mm. But Miss Burden managed to meet them?`

    “Yes. She got talking to Mr Bottomley-Pugh at the market,” admitted Lettice. “Of course he knows nothing of country matters, so she—um—explained it all to him, I think. And he asked her to call on his wife, so she did. And has called quite regularly ever since.”

    The Colonel nodded. “And how did she get to the service? –Wait: is it only in your little local church?”

    “No, indeed, the service is in the cathedral at Nettleford with, one gathers, the Dean himself presiding. I am afraid she got up at crack of dawn and went in on Mr Lumley’s cart. He will wait for her and bring her back. In fact very possibly Midge and Mr Lumley will share a glass of porter in a lower-class hostelry in Nettleford, and then he will bring her back,” she said with a sigh. “Colonel Langford, much though I love her, do you think that that is the sort of behaviour that could ever be thought suitable in the Countess of Sleyven?”

    The Colonel did not answer for some time. Eventually he said: “It depends on who is doing the thinking, does it not? And on what one desires of the Countess of Sleyven. If care for one’s fellow human creatures be a criterion, one could not look for a better countess. On the other hand, if one’s standards are those of the Mrs Cartwrights and the other sakht burra memsahibs of the county, then one could scarcely find a less suitable candidate.”

    “What are his?” asked Lettice hoarsely.

    The Colonel hesitated. “It depends on what his real conception of noblesse oblige is, Mrs Burden. He never wished for the title, you know. But since it has been wished upon him, he is doing his utmost to carry out the duties and responsibilities attached. So far I have seen no signs of his realising that what is owed to the name, and indeed to his people, is rather more than performance of one’s duty. We must encourage him to see that Miss Burden’s attitude to her fellow creatures will do a lot more good in the district and, indeed, reflect far more credit on the family name than any sort of impersonal charity from the gloved hand of the competently bloodless creature he believes it is his duty to tie himself up to.”

    Lettice nodded silently.

    The Colonel perceived she was blinking back tears. “I shall do my best, I promise you, Mrs Burden,” he said with determination.

    “Yes: thank you so much, Colonel,” she said, sniffing. “I shall try to talk to Midgey. –Oh, dear! It is so difficult to know what to say when she—she does not know!”

    The Colonel had a pretty fair idea of what she meant, but he said slowly: “Does not know what, Mrs Burden?”

    Sniffing, Lettice said simply: “What it is like to love a man, and be loved by him.”

    “Yes.” The Colonel pulled the Maunsleigh nags viciously to a halt. “I know it’s too damned soon,” he said grimly. “But I love you. Can you love me?”

    Lettice sniffed again. “Yes.”

    Charles Langford went very pale, and then very red.

    “Buh-but it is too soon: we should give ourselves those two months of tea-parties,” said Lettice shakily, feeling in her reticule.

    “Yes.” The Colonel waited while she blew her nose. “Will you kiss me?”

    Lettice simply held up her face.

    He kissed her gently, and then not so gently, and finally held her to him fiercely.

    They were brought to themselves by the sound of wheels and hooves trotting briskly down the road. A sturdy, ruddy-faced man in a trap passed them with a cheery smile and a flourish of his whip.

    “Hell. Who was that?” said the Colonel.

    Lettice smiled mistily and straightened her bonnet. “Mr Jeffson from your friend’s Home Farm.”

    “I suppose it will be all over the county before the cat can lick her ear, then. I’m sorry,” he said lamely.

    Lettuce smiled. “No, all over two, for his cousin is a well-to-do farmer in the next county!”

    “Oh, Lor’,” he said ruefully. “Should we announce our engagement, then?”

    “Not if you prefer two months of Harbottle’s currant wine, sir,” said Lettice demurely.

    “No!” he said with a laugh. “—No, truly, would you rather wait?”

    “It would be more sensible to wait. I—I think we should, for both our sakes,” she murmured.

    “Mm.” Charles whipped up the nags again, but said: “Just tell me one thing, Lettice, my dear: do you want to wait?”

    “No! Of course not!” said Mrs Burden with a little laugh and a blush.

    The Colonel smiled very much. “Good.”

    The curricle jogged on through some of the prettiest country in the county but neither of its occupants was in a fit state to take in the view, at all. And though Lettice dutifully looked round Kendlewood Place and made admiring noises, she took in scarcely a detail of that, either.

    “Ar,” noted Mr Lumley, shaking his head. “Said it would be shut, didn’t I? Clergy don’t get up when us country folk do.”

    The cathedral was, indeed, shut. “No, they don’t, do they?” agreed Midge cheerfully. “I dare say I might knock up a verger or something, but the funeral service is not until ten: I’ll come with you.”

    Mr Lumley looked sideways at her respectable black dress. “Ain’t that your best dress, though, me dear?”

    Midge ignored the “me dear”: Mr Lumley was a respectable man with a family of grown sons and daughters. And if he sometimes forgot what the Mrs Cartwrights of the world would have said was his place, she did not mind. “Not exactly. It was Letty’s good black wool for some years, but she finally broke down last winter and purchased a new length. So I took it up and let it out for me, for a black dress may always come in handy, may it not?”

    “That’s what my Daisy says,” he agreed.

    “Yes. And this bonnet is only my usual summer straw, but Polly found a length of black ribbon for it in a chest in the attic. Actually I think it may have been some ribbon that Letty had when Will died, but we did not mention that to her, of course.’

    “No, you wouldn’t want to. But Daisy was a-sayin’ she’s got this new fellow, now?”

    “Yes, isn’t it wonderful?” said Midge, beaming at him. “Colonel Langford. He is a very nice man. With no pretension about him,” she ended. frowning.

    Mr Lumley looked dubiously at the frown. “Is that roight?”

    “Well, he is a gentleman, of course, but—but not above his company.”

    “Ar. And young Polly, she loikes him well enough, do she?”

    “Yes, she likes him very much, and so do the boys.”

    “That’s good. So what is this fellow, me dear? Widower, or what?”

    Cheerfully Miss Burden revealed what she knew of Colonel Langford’s history to the burly farmer.

    “Ar,” he said thoughtfully as they approached the market. “I did hear tell the gent that’s stayin’ up at Maunsleigh is interested in takin’ Kendlewood Place.”

    You and Miss Humphreys both, apparently, thought Midge, a trifle limply, even though she was aware of how fast rumour and news travelled in their little community. “I think so.”

    “Brickwork ain’t too sound,” he said, shaking his head.

    ‘No, so I’d heard. If I were he I would not sign the lease until the horrible landlord had had the place re-pointed,” said Midge, scowling horrifically.

    “Ar.” He looked sideways at her. “Won’t be a sub-let, no more: Sir Michael Garrity’s given up the lease.”

    “I know.”

    “The way I heard it, it was because the Lard ’eld out for the tenant doin’ the re-pointing.”

    “I can believe that,” said Midge through her teeth.

    “Not this new lard, the old lard.”

    “Oh.” Midge took a deep breath. “Well, since Colonel Langford is the new lord’s friend, possibly he will have some hope of getting the owner to do some capital repairs!’

    “Ar. Mebbe.” Mr Lumley was here to look at pigs. He manoeuvred his cart skilfully into an excellent position, with a good view of where the auctioneer would stand to sell the pigs. “Come on, then, me dear.”

    Midge allowed Mr Lumley to lift her from the cart. They went eagerly over to look at the pens full of pigs.

    “McVeigh, he favours them black things,” he said dubiously. “With the whoite forequarters.”

    “Wessex Saddlebacks: yes, I know. Why didn’t you bring him, Mr Lumley?”

    “Acos I don’t want to be talked into buying a load of runts what I’d regret, that’s whoy!” he said with feeling.

    Midge smiled a little: McVeigh was the least loquacious man she had ever met.

    “I said to ’im, if you don’t pop the question to Jane ’Arbottle roight soon, man, she’ll be gettin’ a name,” he rumbled.

    Midge jumped. “Oh—did you?” she said faintly.

    “Ar.” There was a slight pause. “Went over loike a ton of bricks, as anyone but a roight-down fool might have guessed,” he admitted glumly.

    Midge squeezed his arm consolingly. “Never mind, you said it with the best of intentions, Mr Lumley.”

    “Ar,” he said with a sigh. “You know what they does, don’t yer?”

    “Um—no,” said Midge blankly.

    “Paves the way to the ’ot place!” said Mr Lumley proudly, but with a twinkle in his eye.

    “Yes!” gasped Midge. They looked at each other, and laughed.

    The pigs were inspected slowly and thoroughly and then, as there was plenty of time, and Mr Lumley knew that she was interested in poultry, they looked at that. One pen held a fine clutch of fat black hens. Mr Lumley considerately did not say a word: he could see that Miss Burden’s cheeks were very red. Then, as Midge knew that Mr Lumley’s true passion was dairy cattle, they went and looked at the cows. After that it was time for the pigs to be auctioned, and not nearly time for the funeral: so they returned to the cart.

    Mr Lumley did not bid, after all, but Midge was not surprised: he was a cautious man. And in spite of what he had said, she knew that if he really intended to buy today, he would have had McVeigh with him.

    “What do you think?” she asked, as the sale finished.

    Mr Lumley scratched his chin. “Ar. Dunno. Them proices was a bit steep.”

    “Ye-es... The shoats were well grown, by and large.”

    “It’s been a good summer, Miss Burden. Lot of condition on ’em.”

    “Well, good! Keep them well fed over autumn, and there are your Christmas hams!”

    “Ar. But how much of it be fat, me dear?”

    “Oh. That is a point, yes,”

    Mr Lumley nodded pleasedly, and told Miss Burden a lot about what constituted a good ham, on the hoof.

    Since there was still plenty of time before the funeral they then repaired to a convenient hostelry. Mr Lumley had a pint of ale, for his throat was dry, and Miss Burden had a glass of porter.

    “I’d quite like to try geese, talking of Christmas,” she said wistfully.

    “Ar. But geese do loike to flock together, me dear: you get in one or two and they’ll poine.”

    Midge sighed. “I see. I don’t think we could afford a whole flock.”

    “No,” agreed the farmer simply. “Now, come spring you moight try to get a clutch of goslings off Sir William.”

    Midge replied with feeling: “At a price, you mean!”

    “Aye, well, ’e runs decent geese, do Sir William: you don’t get nothin’ for nothin’,” he said, shaking his head.

    “No, very true.”

    Mr Lumley eyed her sideways. “Miss Polly was sayin’ as ’ow she’d loike a milking cow.”

    “I have told her,” said Midge, turning scarlet, “that we could not afford to feed and house it.”

    “You got your shed.”

    “Let alone,” continued Midge grimly, “the capital expense of the cow herself!”

    The farmer scratched his chin. “’Oire ’er?

    “What?” she said limply.

    “’Oire the cow. So much per week. Or by the quarter, if yer loike.”

    “And—and you retain the equity in her?”

    “Ar,” he agreed, looking at her with approval.

    “Good gracious. I never heard of anyone hiring a cow,” said Midge.

    “Whoy not?”

    “We-ell... I own, I am tempted. But I don’t think I can commit the family to a regular weekly expense.”

    “No, well, if Mrs Burden marries Colonel Langford, she won’t need to ’oire no cow,” he said comfortably.

    Midge sighed a little. “True.”

    “Send the boys to school, will ’e?”

    “I sincerely hope so! Well, yes, I think he will,” she said, smiling at him.

    “Good. Boys need a firm ’and, whether they be farm lads or young gents.”

    “Exactly,” agreed Midge.

    Mr Lumley slowly produced a large gun-metal-cased pocket watch. “Take you round to the cathedral,” he proposed.

    “I can walk!” said Midge with a laugh.

    “It’s no bother, Miss Burden. I’ll go on down Church Lane to the ’Oigh Street, and that’ll get me to the seed merchant’s.”

    “Thank you very much, in that case!”

    Mr Lumley’s cart duly dropped Miss Burden off at the cathedral. Fortunately for the sensibilities of the Bottomley-Pugh family it was still early, and no-one had as yet arrived for the funeral service. The door was open, however, so Midge went in and took up a handy position where she would be well placed to see and hear but not intrude on the family.

    She had been sitting there for some time when there was a soft step in the aisle. Midge turned her head, in expectation of its being a verger or some such, quite prepared to have a friendly chat. But it was not an official of the cathedral, but a burly man in what looked like the remains of a soldier’s jacket, though it featured plain bone buttons, with grimy, tattered breeches above down-at-heel boots. His face was even more battered than his jacket, with the sort of nose that indicated a history of pugilism, whether of the public or the private variety. His hat, an ancient tricorne, was in his hand, and his hair, Midge saw with interest, was shaven very short all over his head. Its colour seemed to be a greying brown, though this was hard to tell. The face was very red-cheeked and his eyes were a very bright forget-me-not blue. And his chin was very unshaven.

    “’Scuse me speaking to you, Miss,” he said with an odd burr that Midge did not recognize.

    “That’s quite all right,” she said with her friendly smile. “Can I help you?’

    “Well, dunno, Miss,” he said, grounding the huge bundle he had over his shoulder. “I’m looking for a place called Maunsleigh. They told me as it were near to Nettleford town, but I ain’t found no-one as knows it. Big ’ouse, it be.”

    “Yes, I know Maunsleigh,” said Midge, taking a deep breath. “You will need to take the Lower Nettlefold road. Continue on to the village of Lower Nettlefold and through it—there is only one road through it, you cannot go astray—and then at the first fork you come to, keep right. That will take you straight to Maunsleigh. You will see a very high stone wall before you: turn left and follow along the wall until you encounter the gates.”

    “Thank you kindly, Miss, that’s very clear,” he said with a sigh.

    “Sit down: You look tired,” said Midge kindly. “Have you come far?”

    The man sat down beside her. “Not that far, I s’pose, Miss, in miles. Only these country folk hereabouts, they’re witless! Can’t direct a man for more’n ten mile down the road!”

    “No, well, ten miles’ distance from their homes is all they know, in most cases. So where are you from?”

    “Well,” he said, scratching his head: “I’m a Jerseyman, born and bred, and I’ve come from there, right enough. Only for a man like me, what’s been all over the world, Jersey seems a real itty-bitty little place: didn’t seem like there was room there for me no more.”

    “Jersey? How very interesting: so that is a Jersey accent. And do you also speak French, sir?”

    The man replied with a grin, in a very strange accent indeed: “Je parle quelques mots, mademoiselle. But it’s a long time since I had to use it. Now, if you was to ask me to talk to you in Hindustanee—!” He laughed.

    “Hindustanee?” said Midge, very faintly.

    “It’s what the troops talk with the natives out in India, Miss.”

    Midge’s hands shook slightly. “I see. So—so you are going to Maunsleigh to see your former commander, is that it?”

    “Aye, it is indeed, Miss!” he beamed. “I see you do know Maunsleigh, right enough!”

    “Yes, I live at Lower Nettlefold,”

    “Well, what a good thing I came in ’ere to rest me weary bones!” he beamed.

    “Yes. Um—never tell me you walked all the way from Jersey?” said Midge, staring.

    “Came in a boat for the first bit, Miss!” he said, suddenly going into a wheezing paroxysm.

    “Yes!” she agreed, smiling. “I asked for that, did I not? But you walked the rest of the way?”

    The man nodded, grinning. “I did walk the rest of it, aye. It ain’t so far. Thousands of miles, I must’ve walked, in India,” he said thoughtfully. “The Colonel showed me on the map, once. India’s a huge place, Miss: he did a picture of the whole of England and put it into the map, and it was swallowed up like nothing. Made you think,” he said, shaking his head.

    “Yes, it must have been a very curious sensation. Well, if you are accustomed to the long marches of the Indian Army, then of course the walk from Jersey would seem nothing to you. But I should tell you that it will take you several hours to get to Maunsleigh. –No, wait!” said Midge with shining eyes. “I am returning to Lower Nettlefold on Mr Lumley’s cart, after the funeral that I am attending here: we can give you a ride!”

    “That’s very kind, Miss. Thank you,” he said, holding out grimy hand. “Jim Hutton,” he said, as she unaffectedly put hers into it.

    “I am very pleased to meet you, Mr Hutton. I am Miss Burden.”

    “Lumme,” said the man, staring at her. “The chota memsahib!”

    “What?” gasped Midge, turning puce.

    “Sorry, Miss, I’m sure. Um—dunno if you know Tonkins? The Colonel’s syce—groom, you’d say. What I mean is, ’is Lordship’s groom.”

    Miss Burden had been almost sure that his colonel must be Timmy’s other colonel, and not Colonel Langford. Nevertheless this gave her a considerable jolt. “Oh,” she said, biting her lip. “No, I have never met him.”

    “Oh. Well, um, begging your pardon, Miss, but he seems to know you. Mind you, they’re all sly, these chee-chees, only I ain’t saying Tonkins is a budmush, acos as they go, he’s all right. He wrote me a chit—a line, you see—to say our Colonel was in a bad way. And—uh, your name came up,” he said, coughing, and turning a strange violet shade. “If you’ll excuse me for mentioning it, Miss.”

    After quite some time, during which Mr Hutton looked at her with a sort of desperate apology in his bright blue eyes, Midge said: “Were black hens mentioned in this line, Mr Hutton?”

    Mr Hutton coughed again. “They was just mentioned, yes, Miss.”

    Midge thought it over. “I think I see. –When you say that Tonkins is a chee-chee, what exactly does that mean?”

    “Twelve annas to the rupee, Miss,” he said promptly.

    Midge looked at him weakly.

    “Adha seer—half-caste,” he explained sheepishly. “His pa was White, not a bad fellow, neither, from all reports, not that ’e was with the regiment, I’m not saying that. Clerk to a burra box-wallah, was what he was. Done right by the woman, though. Well, married her according to their own way, and so forth,” he explained, a trifle uncomfortably. “Dare say ’e might’ve already had a family back in Blighty, but least said, soonest mended, eh? And Tonkins is all right, if he is yellerer than a pi dog.”

    Well, that made it sufficiently clear, if had not been already: Harbottle’s heathen Chinee, who had brought the black hens.

    “I have not met him, but I know of him,” said Miss Burden, taking a deep breath.

    “You would do. Miss. Gets around, ’e does.”

    There was a short silence. Miss Burden was conscious of a strong desire to read this line the half-caste Tonkins had written Hutton.

    Mr Hutton cleared his throat loudly. “The Colonel—his Lordship, I should say—he broke it off with Mrs Marsh five year back, maybe more.”

    “Mr Hutton,” said Midge, drawing a deep breath, “I don’t think you should be telling me this. And—and in any case,” she added in a wavering voice. “I have no interest in it.”

    “Uh—well, maybe if you knew just how it was, you’d see the Colonel wasn’t to blame, Miss?”

    “Very likely,” said Miss Burden, drawing another deep breath, “but—”

    But Mr Hutton was continuing eagerly: “We was in cantonments—quartered, that is—near a place called Cawnpore, and the ’ot weather come. And Colonel Wynton, he got a letter from Mussooree in the hills from a Mr Sykes. With John Company, he were, only nothing very much. There was some as said ’e were a gentleman-born back in Bli—England, but I didn’t never pay no heed to that, meself. Maybe he were and maybe he weren’t. But the Colonel had saved his life, onct—well, I won’t go into that, Miss, but he owed him more than something, you could say. Anyhow, the chitty come to the burra bungalow, beg pardon, Miss, the Colonel’s house, and he comes out onto the verandah and tells the punkah-wallah to jow, jooldee. Beg pardon. Miss, to get on out of it, quick. So he got, and the Colonel says to me, did I know as Captain McMullen was gone to Dehradoon, and I said as I did ’ear that, aye. Then he says there’s a kafilah leavin’ this very night and he means to leave with it. So I says, ‘Colonel, sir, if you does that it will mean Blighty for you, and no tory-peechy about it, don’t you think as you’d better tunda down?’ Well, ’e don’t show it, Miss, only I can see ’e’s mad as fire. So ’e marches up and down the verandah for a bit and then ’e says, very cold-like, ‘Mr Sykes has been so good as to inform me that Captain McMullen has misplaced me in a certain lady’s affections.’ Meaning Mrs Marsh, only ’e don’t say it, acos ’e’s a gentleman. ‘Well, blimey, Colonel,’ I says, ‘if that is only the khubber what was in that chit from Mr Sykes it’s no khubber at all: half the regiment knows it, and if Dr Little and Lieutenant-Colonel Freeman didn’t warn you in that very dining-room behind us as we speaks that Major Dumbleton was after that lady’s affections while we was on the Grim, and then Mr Venables from Delhi during the rains, I’m a Dutchman.’ So he tells me as I’m a something else as I won’t mention, Miss, and it is all gup, and stamps off inside. Only I knows as it ain’t gup—gossip, y’see—so I waits. Then ’e comes back and says he’ll take leave. ‘Very sensible, Colonel,’ says I, ‘and I’ll pack your kit meself, and an English gent don’t wish to be joining up with no dirty kafilah.’”

    “Y—Um; what is a kafilah?” asked Miss Burden faintly.

    “Bless you, it’s a camel-train, Miss!”

    “Oh. Oh, I see.”

    “Long way from Cawnpore to Dehradoon, and an Englishman on his own, even with his bundook in ’is hand, ten to one ’e won’t get halfway before some goonda shoots him in the back or stabs him while he sleeps.”

    “Yes,” she said faintly. “Oh—but if he does not join up with a kafilah, how does he travel safely?”

    “Takes his own bearers, Miss, men as ’e can trust.”

    “Oh. Um—did he?”

    “Aye. Took leave, and young Lieutenant Fiennes, he said as he’d take his furlough, too, and come with us: so I took him aside and said: ‘Mr Fiennes, sir, begging the sahib’s pardon, but if you was intentionin’ to be my Colonel’s second, I beg as you won’t, for that Captain McMullen is reckoned to be a dead shot.’ And ’e claps me on the shoulder and says: ‘Hutton, you budmush’—that were a joke, Miss, always fond of ’is joke, Mr Fiennes—‘I am going along to see it doesn’t come to that, for Mrs M. is a lady as is no lady and don’t deserve our Colonel, and that’s the kutcha hal!’—The real truth, Miss.—And it were. So we all goes off to Mussooree in the hills, with Tonkins and the Lieutenant’s batman and syce, and six of our own bearers, Miss, and the Colonel’s cook, what doesn’t trust them hill-station cooks to serve up a meal as the colonel-sahib can eat. And it’s the kutcha hal: Captain McMullen is a-livin’ in that lady’s bungalow! Well, it’s out of the town, but still—! Her husband was still alive, then, Miss, only he’d gone to Calcutta, down the Grand Trunk Road. –Dessay it be over a thousand miles,” he added vaguely.

    “Um—yes.”

    “Mussoorie’s well above Dehradoon: up in the foothills of the Himalayas, Miss.”

    “Oh, good heavens,” said Midge faintly. “I see. So—so what happened?”

    Mr Hutton rubbed his nose. “I can’t say for certain-sure, acos I wasn’t there. He didn’t call Captain McMullen out, though. To hear Tonkins tell it, he called on Mrs—the lady, and then there was a screaming like you never heard, and the Colonel comes out, face like granite, jumps into the tikka-gharry, and says: ‘Home, please, Tonkins,’ cool as you please. And never sees ’er nor mentions ’er name from that day to this!”

    Miss Burden, without at all having meant to, replied bitterly to this: “She is visiting in the district.”

    “Aye, so Tonkins wrote. She’ll be chasing him, now she’s a true widow and not just a grass-widow. But don’t you worry none, Miss Burden: Tonkins and me overheard him say later to Dr Little as she ’ad give him a disgust of her.”

    Midge gulped.

    Mr Hutton got to his feet. “Looks as if folks are comin’ in for the service,” he said in a hoarse whisper. “I'll wait outside, Miss.”

    “Y— But Mr Hutton, I may have to go back to the house!” hissed Midge. “It is several miles!"

    “I’ll follow along behind,” he said with a reassuring nod, picking up his bundle.

    Miss Burden watched limply as he vanished into the shadows of the cathedral.

    There was a very full attendance at Mrs Bottomley-Pugh’s funeral service of not only the many Bottomley-Pugh relatives but also the worthies of the town. Miss Burden had not thought she would be noticed, but at the conclusion of the service, while the gentlemen were preparing to follow the coffin to the graveside, Mr Bottomley-Pugh himself came up to her. He was a large man, of florid complexion. Normally his round, rubicund face wore a cheerful expression and the frill of chestnut curls which surrounded his bald, pink pate was wont positively to frolic with good cheer. Today, very naturally, he was much subdued in manner, and into the bargain carrying a large, black-edged handkerchief. Which noticeably disseminated the musky perfume he favoured. In happier times he would wear colourful waistcoats, heavily adorned with gold chains and fobs: today the expanse of waistcoat was of course sober black, but the gold chains and the fobs were very much in evidence. He shook Miss Burden’s hand hard, and thanked her for coming.

    “I could not do less, Mr Bottomley-Pugh,” replied Miss Burden politely. “And my sister-in-law asked me to say that she sends her condolences.”

    “Well, now, that’s very kind and gracious, Miss Burden, very kind and gracious, and just like the lady Mrs Burden is,” he said, shaking his large head slowly and sadly. “My poor, dear Marguerite: it would ’ave gladdened her heart to see such a gratifying attendance, so it would. ’Is Worship the Mayor is here, as you see, and we was gratified by Dean Golightly himself graciously consenting to take it.”

    “Yes,” said Miss Burden, very faintly. Mrs Bottomley-Pugh had been more usually known in the family as “Maggie”. Though it was true that certainly since Midge had known them she had always insisted on the “Marguerite”—which Mr Bottomley-Pugh had usually forgotten to use.

    “Now, you’re coming back for the wake, me dear, aren’t you?” he said, sounding much more cheerful.

    “I—well, that’s very kind, Mr Bottomley-Pugh. I shall only be able to stay for a little, but I should like to come. Thank you.”

    “Good. Katerina will take care of you . –’Ere, Katerina!” he said loudly, snapping his fingers.

    Miss Bottomley-Pugh was quite accustomed to respond to this gesture, and did so now. “Good morning, Miss Burden,” she said shyly, coming up to her father’s substantial side.

    “Good morning. Katerina. I’m so very, very sorry for your loss,” said Midge kindly. Katerina Bottomley-Pugh, on less formal occasions known in the family as “Kate”, was only seventeen.

    “Thank you,” said Miss Bottomley-Pugh with a watery smile. “It was not unexpected, of course, but—but still a shock,” she ended faintly.

    “Kate, it can’t have been a shock, me love, if it were not unexpected,” objected her father.

    Midge knew that both Mr Bottomley-Pugh and his daughter had very logical minds, so she did not evince any surprise at the sudden abstract turn the conversation had taken, but said calmly: “I know what she means. However much one prepares for such an event, when it actually occurs, one is jolted.”

    “Yes,” whispered Katerina, blinking.

    “Aye, well, true enough,” said Mr Bottomley-Pugh with a sigh. “You would know, Miss Burden, for it was the same with your dear ma, weren’t it?”

    “Yes. In Mamma’s case her heart was weakened when she had a fever as a girl.”

    “Aye. Well, we never could figure out what caused poor Maggie’s—Marguerite’s, I should say,” he said with a sigh, “but we can’t say as Dr Jarman didn’t warn us.”

    “I am sure no-one could have been more careful than yourself that she did not over-exert herself,” said Midge quickly.

    “Nay, I should never have given in to ’er over that dinner party,” he said, scowling. “And the Earl never come, after all, so what was the point? Lard, she might be aloive today if we hadn’t a-had it!”

    “Pa, that was two months back, it cannot have been the direct cause,” said Miss Bottomley-Pugh in a firm voice, blowing her nose and stowing her handkerchief back in her black reticule with a determined gesture. “Dr Jarman has told you that no specific event caused it.”

    “Aye. –Died during her afternoon nap on her chaise longue,” he reported glumly.

    Miss Burden nodded gamely: the chaise longue had been another of the names which during Mrs Bottomley-Pugh’s lifetime her husband had generally failed to remember to use. Sometimes he called it a sofy, and occasionally he called it a day bed, but only very rarely had he managed to call it a chaise longue.

    “Yes: very peacefully,” said Miss Bottomley-Pugh firmly. “Come along. –Miss Burden, would you care to ride with me and Aunt Hyacinth?”

    Midge agreed she would, and sustained remarkably well the drive to Nettleford House with Katerina, Aunt Hyacinth (even more determined a social climber than her late sister) and Great-Aunt Cumbridge (very possibly the most determined champion of the middle class and most scornfully vocal derider of the mores and values of its so-called betters ever born).

    … “Muck,” ascertained Great-Aunt Cumbridge grimly as Midge politely passed her a plate of small savouries.

    “Quite tasty muck,” returned Midge with a twinkle.

    “Hmf!” Great-Aunt Cumbridge took one and chewed stolidly.

    “Well, Mrs Cumbridge?” murmured Midge,

    “Muck,” said the old lady drily. “Lard, if it ain’t sauced and truffled and minced and I dunno what, Joe Bottomley won’t so much as look at it these days! Dessay he wouldn’t recognize a rabbit or a chicken or a plain joint of mutton if you was to thrust ’em under ’is nose.”

    “There certainly do not appear to be any such in evidence today. But there is a fine ham; would you care for some?”

    “Oh, land: only if it be shaven tray-fine and accompanied with your driest of dry sherries, Miss Burden!” replied the old lady, her cracked voice something like an octave higher than its normal pitch.

    Midge gulped.

    “Though where these trays come into it, I’m hanged if I know. Poor Maggie was dead set on her trays. though,” she said with a sigh.

    “Yes,” agreed Miss Burden, looking at her very sympathetically. “And I dare say it did no harm, if she fancied the odd tray-fine sliver of ham or chaise longue.”

    “No, well, not so long as her husband was willing and able to give ’em ’er,” agreed the redoubtable Mrs Cumbridge, looking hard at Aunt Hyacinth. “—Well, fetch us a slice of the ham, then, me dear: might as well try it!” she said with a chuckle, tapping Midge’s knee smartly with a gnarled, hard finger.

    “Oh! Yes, certainly, Mrs Cumbridge!” Hurriedly Midge rose and went to replenish their plates.

    ... “Well,” said Mr Bottomley-Pugh, bowing over her hand as she made her farewells, “I think poor Maggie—Marguerite, I should say—would have been proud of the spread we laid on for her, don’t you, me dear?”

    “Yes, it was very fine indeed,” agreed Miss Burden, smiling at him.

    “Aye. Dare swear you would not find anything better at Maunsleigh itself! Even though she never did get to go there, poor Maggie,” he noted in a glum aside.

    “I am very sure you would not, though I have never been there, myself. But I have been told that the Maunsleigh chef has a very heavy hand with pastry, and those delicious savouries were light as air, Mr Bottomley-Pugh.”

    Mr Bottomley-Pugh agreed they had been and, beaming, conducted Miss Burden out. “Hold, ’Iggins,” he commanded as the butler went to open the front door of Nettleford House.

    Higgins obediently waited.

    Mr Bottomley-Pugh cleared his throat. “Now, just you say, me dear, if your sister-in-law wouldn’t care for it, but supposing as me and Katerina was to come a-driving over your way one day—eh?”

    “Mrs Burden and I would be very pleased to see you. And it was only the fact that she never met Mrs Bottomley-Pugh which prevented her accompanying me, today,” replied Miss Burden firmly.

    “Splendid!” he beamed. “Now, there was one other thing, Miss Burden, and you don’t have to answer now: but just you think it over. I knows you has young ladies come to you for French and Italian lessons. And Marguerite was always dead set on Katerina learning to speak foreign languages like a true lady. But she ain’t got nobody to talk ’em with, now that Miss Elder’s gone. Acos her Cousin Lavender Bottomley can’t say more than two words in foreign, that’s for sure, and her Aunt and Uncle Dorrindge’s girls are worse!”

    “I see. I should very much like to have Miss Bottomley-Pugh as a pupil, sir, but I fear that after Miss Elder’s expert tuition, she will find me but a poor substitute.”

    “Rubbish, me dear, we all know you’re clever as all get-out!”

    “Thank you,” said Miss Burden, blushing. “So Miss Elder did go off with her brother, the missionary?”

    Mr Bottomley-Pugh snorted. “Not ’er! Went to the brother’s, aye, and within a se’en-night she’d got herself engaged to his friend from the university! –He ain’t but a curate, but said to have prospects,” he elaborated.

    “I see,” said Miss Burden somewhat limply. Miss Elder had been several years senior to herself, and severe and plain in appearance, dress and manner.

    “’Alf ’er age,” he said with a sniff. “Took one look at ’im and snapped ’im up loike a poike moight a minnow.”

    “Mm!” gulped Miss Burden.

    “Well, never mind her! Now, don’t you say yes until you’ve talked it over with your sister-in-law, but will you promise to think about it?”

    “I will certainly do that,” agreed Midge, smiling very much.

    Mr Bottomley Pugh bowed once more and ordered Higgins loftily to open the door.

    On the sweep Mr Lumley, in his cart, with several sacks of grain in it and Mr Hutton up beside him, was waiting placidly.

    “’Ere! Does Mrs Burden know as you’re intending to ride back with that fellow?” asked Mr Bottomley-Pugh in a scandalized tone.

    “Most certainly. And he is not a fellow, he is a respectable farmer!” replied Midge with a laugh. “Good-bye, dear Mr Bottomley-Pugh.” She ran lightly down the imposing flight of white marble steps of Nettleford House. “Thank you so much for waiting, Mr Lumley!”

    “Ar. Said I would,” replied the farmer placidly. “Up you come, then, me dear!”

    Midge held out her hand: he hoisted her up beside him forthwith.

    Mr Bottomley Pugh, hooking his thumbs into his expanse of waistcoat, watched with an inscrutable expression on his wide, good-natured, florid face as the cart bore Miss Burden away.

    “I’ll drop you ’ere, if that suits,” said Mr Lumley, pulling the cart up beyond Nettlefold village where the lane to his farm led off the road to Maunsleigh.

    Thanking him kindly, Mr Hutton prepared to descend.

    “’Ang on,” said Mr Lumley.

    Mr Hutton held on.

    “Now, I wouldn’t mention it in front of Miss Burden, moind, but seems to me I heard that the Lard’s gone to Oireland.”

    “Hey?”

    Mr Lumley scratched his chin. “Ar. Oireland. After ’orses, so they say. Took that yeller feller with ’im, too.”

    Mr Hutton tipped back his battered tricorne and scratched his shaven pate. “Lumme. Still, dessay they might let me bivouac there until the C—Lord Sleyven comes back.”

    Mr Lumley sniffed slightly. “Moight show you the door, too.”

    “Lumme. –’Ang on, didn’t Miss Burden say as Colonel Langford was staying there?”

    “Know ’im, do yer?”

    “Lordy, any time this past twenty year and more, Mr Lumley!” said Mr Hutton with his cheerful laugh. “He only left the regiment because Colonel Wynton—Lord Sleyven, you know—says to ’im: ‘Charles,’—that’s ’is name, Colonel Langford—‘Charles, I shall put you up for a promotion’—acos he were a lieutenant-colonel, you see, and not like to get his preferment while Colonel Wynton was our colonel—‘I shall put you up for a promotion, and I hereby order you to apply for a transfer, ekdum! Acos I can’t stand you waitin’ around to step into me dead man’s boots!’ That was a joke, you see, Mr Lumley. Only he was serious about Colonel Langford transferring, of course. So ’e done it. They had a ’uge great party for his farewell in the officers’ mess, and Mr Fiennes, well, he rode his bay pony up the steps and jumped the dinner table, and Colonel Langford, he says: ‘’Ere, Fiennes, what is this, double khana or a gymkhana?’ and they all laughs fit to bust themselves, Colonel Wynton, too. But later he says to Mr Fiennes in private as it were no harm done, but whatever might go in the chummery ain’t necessarily fit for the mess. And to remember he ain’t a chuckeroo, ’e’s an officer. What that means is, he ain’t a boy,  you see.”

    Mr Lumley sniffed slightly but allowed: “Ar, sounds loike his Lardship.”

    “Hard but fair,” said Mr Hutton, glaring. “And respected by men and officers alike!”

    “I get you,” he said placidly.

    Mr Hutton got down. “I’ll be right, if Colonel Langford’s there! And thank you kindly for the ride, Mr Lumley!”

    Mr Lumley nodded in acknowledgement and farewell, and drove away. As he did so, however, muttering under his breath: “If so be they ever bother to tell ’im as you’ve arrived: yes!”

    “Who on earth can that be?” said Mrs Burden, as there came a thunderous knocking on their door that evening, just as the ladies had sat down after a light supper.

    Miss Burden rose. “I’ll go: I told Harbottle she could walk out with McVeigh tonight, as it’s such a fine evening.”

    “Good gracious: Mr Hutton!” she cried, opening the door to find the burly ex-soldier on the doorstep with his bundle.

    “Sorry, Miss. Wasn’t sure if I had the right house.”

    “Is anything wrong at Maunsleigh?” said Midge, turning very white.

    “Lor’, no, Miss, don’t you fret! No—um—thing is, they ain’t there,” he said awkwardly.

    “Who?”

    Hutton coughed. “His Lordship and Tonkins. They’ve gone off to Ireland to buy horses. And Colonel Langford ain’t there no more, neither, acos I says I’ll see Colonel Langford, then, and the footman-fellow, ’e says: ‘Ho, well, you won’t, acos he’s gone to ’is sister’s, and push off, we don’t feed no beggars at Maunsleigh.’”

    “That last is certainly true,” said Miss Burden, tight-lipped. “And always has been.”

    “Yes,” said Mr Hutton dubiously. “Well, I did try to ask a stable-boy if it were true as the Colonel—my Colonel, I mean—had gone, only they chased me off.”

    “This is outrageous!” cried Midge, turning puce. “You must come in directly, and— I suppose you have not even eaten?”

    “No, Miss Burden. Um—well,” he said, coughing slightly, “I did pick a couple of apples, only they were a bit green.”

    “Of course, the apples are not ripe yet. Please, Mr Hutton, come in.”

    Mr Hutton followed her docilely into the kitchen.

    “This is Mr Hutton, Cook: he is a very respectable man, who was used to be a soldier in—in Lord Sleyven’s regiment, when he was in India,” said Miss Burden, swallowing, “and indeed, his Lordship’s personal servant: that is correct, isn’t it, Mr Hutton?”

    “Yes, Miss. His batman, I were. Looked after Colonel Wynton—Lord Sleyven, that is—man and boy for nigh on thirty years.”

    “Exactly. And those horrible people at Maunsleigh turned him away from their door without a bite,” said Miss Burden, somewhat disingenuously, “and would not believe him when he told them who he was!”

    “I never begged nor nothing, neither, acos I ain’t a vagrant,” said Mr Hutton virtuously.

    “No, indeed! –He has come to see if Lord Sleyven has any work for him,” she explained.—Mr Hutton nodded meekly, looking at Cook respectfully.—“This is Mrs Jackley, Mr Hutton, and you will find she is a much better hand at a roast or a soup, not to mention pastry, than that man in the kitchen at Maunsleigh!” said Miss Burden, with complete disingenuousness.

    “Ar. ’Eavy, is the only word for what comes out of that kitchen,” agreed Cook. “Well, sit you down, Mr ’Utton. I dessay we can foind a boite for a ’ungry man at Bluebell Dell, eh, Miss Burden?”

    “We most certainly can!” agreed Midge energetically.

    Thanking them both kindly, Mr Hutton sat himself down, looking expectant.

    “Who was it, Midge?” asked Mrs Burden as her sister-in-law returned to the front parlour.

    Midge swallowed. “A man whom I met in Nettleford this morning. A very respectable man, formerly Lord Sleyven’s personal servant in the Indian Army. He has been up to Maunsleigh, and the servants turned him away. –Because the gentlemen are not there,” she muttered.

    “Er—yes. Colonel Langford did mention this afternoon that the Earl has gone to Ireland to buy horses,” murmured Lettice.

    “So poor Mr Hutton has discovered: taking with him the only man who might be expected to know him,” she noted grimly.

    “Er—his groom? But Midgey, of course he would take his groom, if he is buying horses!”

    “I dare say. Where is Colonel Langford?” she asked grimly.

    Mrs Burden smiled and blushed, looking conscious. “He thought he would just take the opportunity to go down to Bristol to see his sister. Though I did not realise that he meant to leave immediately.”

    “Apparently he has done so.”

    “Yes. Midge, how did you meet this—Hutton, is it?”

    “He came in to rest his weary bones in the cathedral, and is there anything wrong with that?” she said fiercely.

    “No, of course not. But are you sure he is who he says he is?”

    “You may go and speak to him yourself, if you cannot take my word. I am very sure he is. He—he is clearly devoted to his Lordship: it—it shines out of his face when he speaks of him,” said Miss Burden, swallowing loudly. “If you will excuse me, I shall go and see about a bed for him. –And I am doing it for his sake: he is a worthy, honest man, who has walked all the way from Jersey in quest of a former master who does not deserve him!” she said loudly. Tears sparkled in her eyes: she went out quickly.

    “Good Heavens,” said Mrs Burden, sitting back limply.

    Polly had been completely silent throughout this interchange. Now she said: “Mamma, I don’t think Aunty Midge could be taken in.”

    “No, the man must be who he claims to be.”

    “So why is she so upset?”

    Mrs Burden shook her head slowly.

    “Mamma, it must be that she cares for the Earl!” she hissed.

    “Ssh. Well, yes, I rather think she does. I am sure she had no notion he had gone away.”

    “I wager it is because of what happened between them at the strawberry picknick! And whatever it was, we must bring about a reconciliation between them, Mamma!” she hissed.

    “Mm. Well,” said Mrs Burden, a conscious little smile playing about her lips. “Colonel Langford has also promised to do his best in that regard.”

    “Mamma! Really?” Polly clapped her hands, beaming. Then she said: “Goodness, did you speak of it with him?”

    “Well—yes,” said Mrs Burden, still with that smile.

    “Mamma! There is something else, is there not?”

    Mrs Burden rose, and kissed her lightly. “Not as yet, my angel. But there may be, in—in the not-so-distant future.”

    “I’m so glad!” she cried.

    “Ssh, you are being premature. But I am quite glad, myself.” Mrs Burden re-seated herself, smiling.

    “It must be a good sign,” said Polly, narrowing her eyes, “that Aunty Midge is defending the Earl’s old servant so vigorously.”

    “Yes; in this case, I do not think it is just her usual care for the less fortunate of humankind!” said Mrs Burden with a smothered laugh.

    “Good: there is hope!”

    “Ssh. Let us say there is no need positively to give up hope, as yet!” summed up Mrs Burden, smiling very much.

    “But my dear Mrs Burden, who is he?” hissed Miss Humphreys as, having touched his forelock respectfully to the two ladies, Hutton fell to in the front garden of Bluebell Dell again.

    Miss Humphreys had popped in with a pot or two of jam. When she had commented upon the presence of a strange man in the front garden, Midge had merely informed her briefly that he was a man in need of work, and she had given him some. Timmy had then added the interesting detail that the man was sleeping in their shed, and his aunt had immediately sent him from the room.

    Lettice now returned bravely: “He is a former soldier who—er—was previously in Lord Sleyven’s regiment. And in return for temporary board and lodging he is very kindly digging a drain which he swears will solve the problem of—”

    “Oh!” cried the maiden lady, clasping her hands together. “She is looking after one of his men who has fallen on hard times!”

    “Er—well, not precisely: he is just digging this trench, which he swears will solve our problem with—”

    “It is so sweet!” sighed Miss Humphreys.

    “—the bog that our lawn turns into every winter. Er—not really, Miss Humphreys, the man was in need of a roof over his head—”

    “Of course!”

    “And we were in drastic need of a solution to our drainage problem,” finished Lettice limply.

    “Of course, my dear!” she said, nodding and smiling significantly. “You may rely utterly on my discretion!” She laid a finger to her lips, and bustled away up Cherry Tree Lane.

    Limply Lettice closed the gate after her. Limply she leaned upon it. “I suppose I should warn Midge,” she murmured to herself. “Oh, dear!”

    … “Yes, yes, I am sure you are right, Amelia,” said Mr Humphreys with a sigh. “In the case that he is an old soldier from the Earl’s regiment, Lord Sleyven will fall on his neck with cries of joy when he returns home from Ireland. Or should I say, on Miss Burden’s neck?”

    Miss Humphreys went very red. “No such— I merely—”

    “Yes. Let us just hope the fellow knows something of gardening. Which, mark, if he has spent the last twenty to thirty years in India with the Army, is in the highest degree unlikely. Or if he does, it will be Indian gardening, the which I should doubt is best suited to our climate.’

    “Dearest brother, is the back troubling you, today?”

    Mr Humphreys breathed deeply through his nose. “No, I am very comfortable. This mild weather agrees with me.”

    “Yes, dear,” she agreed sadly.

    “What good does she imagine that will do her?” inquired Mrs Cartwright coldly.

    Miss Humphreys quailed. “I—I cannot say.”

    “Nor anybody else, either,” said the majestic lady acidly.

    “No,” she muttered glumly.

    … “My dear Miss Humphreys, I dare say the man may be all he claims, but I hardly think that Miss Burden’s employing him to dig a drain will cause the Earl to—er—look upon her as a suitable helpmate.” Mrs Somerton paused delicately. “If that is what you are implying?” she said, raising her thin, arched brows.

    “No, of course not, Mrs Somerton,” said Miss Humphreys, very red.

    … Mrs Waldgrave looked judicious. “One hesitates to condemn a fellow creature without a fair hearing. But is there any proof he is who he says he is?”

    “Miss Burden believes him,” quavered Miss Humphreys, her heart sinking.

    “Hm. I trust that is all she believes. Amanda has some ridiculous tale, which doubtless she got from Polly Burden, to the effect that Miss Burden claims the man was Lord Sleyven’s personal servant in India. And that he was unjustly treated at Maunsleigh in his absence.”

    “N— Y— Well, he was! And—and I am very sure that anyone who has sheltered him in his hour of need will receive his Lordship’s heartfelt gratitude!” she said defiantly.

    Mrs Waldgrave eyed her thoughtfully. “Although Miss Burden is not a young woman, she is totally inexperienced in the ways of the world. It would not do,” said Mrs Waldgrave, fixing her afternoon caller with a cold eye, “to encourage false hopes in her bosom, would it?”

    “No, indeed, Mrs Waldgrave,” she agreed lamely.

    Kitty Marsh had gone rather pale. “Hutton?” she croaked.

    “Oh, certainly, Mrs Marsh,” replied Miss Humphreys brightly, very gratified to have Lady Ventnor’s guest take an interest in her narrative. “That is the name!”

    Kitty became aware that her hostess was giving her an annoyed look. “Yes,” she said on a weak note. “I do recall him, vaguely, from India days. A devoted servant.”

    Miss Humphreys nodded eagerly, and smiled encouragingly. But she obtained no further reactions—good, bad, or indifferent—from Lady Ventnor’s guest that day to the news from Bluebell Dell. Or, indeed, to any subject she introduced.

    Once the caller had left, Lady Ventnor looked sideways at her lady visitor. “Doubtless you have heard the story of the black hens?” she sighed.

    Kitty’s fists clenched. She had, indeed. It had been impossible to avoid it. After a moment she said stiffly: “I collect it is the same woman?”

    “Oh, indeed,” said Lady Ventnor languidly. She paused, watching her guest’s face maliciously. “But she sent them back, you know.”

    “Very sensible,” said Mrs Marsh drily.

    Lady Ventnor concluded the woman was herself again: a pity. “I have no notion,” she murmured, “when Lord Sleyven plans to return to the district.” She paused. “Do you?”

    “I? No, indeed!” said Kitty briskly, rising. “You will excuse me, dear Lady Ventnor: I really must go and see to my packing.”

    Lady Ventnor did not press her to delay: she would be only too glad to see the back of the woman.

    … “All I can say is,” concluded the squire sourly as Mrs Marsh’s carriage clattered away, “we’re damned lucky that Sleyven took a notion to push off to Ireland when he did.”

    Lady Ventnor sighed. “William, you do not imagine that was a coincidence, do you?”

    “Eh? Oh! Well, at least it’s got rid of the woman!” he said bracingly. “I was afraid she’d stay on forever!”

    “Quite.”

    “Um—how long’s she planning to stay with the Cunninghams?”

    “A few days only, I believe. There is nothing to keep her in the district,” she reminded him.

    “No, thank God,” he recognised, sagging.

    To herself, Lady Ventnor wondered silently whether Mrs Marsh might change her plans, and stay on with her Cunningham connections until the Earl returned from Ireland.

    But within the week there came the report that Mr and Mrs Cunningham’s visitor had gone on her way as planned.

Next chapter:

https://thepatchworkparasol.blogspot.com/2022/12/harvest-moon.html