Callers At Bluebell Dell

5

Callers At Bluebell Dell

    “Pray come in,” said Miss Burden with a smile, opening the front door of Bluebell Dell to the Miss Waldgraves. “Excuse my opening the door, won’t you? Harbottle has a shocking cold, and we have sent her to bed.”

    Agreeing that the uncertain weather meant that colds were still very prevalent. the three Miss Waldgraves came in, and seated themselves in the parlour. Naturally they had come to discuss the Plumbways waltzing ball in its every minutest detail. Miss Burden was aware, somewhat sardonically, that her own and Lettice’s presence in the front parlour were hampering the exchange of views that might have take place had the young ladies been alone. But then, they could scarcely discuss Polly’s extraordinary favouring of Dr Golightly with the supper dance plus two dances after the supper in her presence, either!

    “I should like to be a fly on the wall at that session,” she said drily, as the callers at last went on their way to Mrs Cartwright’s.

    “I do not think I should,” admitted Lettice, shuddering.

    “They have eaten up all the seedy cake!” reported Polly in distress. “I had absolutely promised to save a slice for Timmy!”

    “He will have to learn that that is life,” replied Timmy’s aunt hard-heartedly. “As will any other callers we may receive this afternoon.”

    “Or for the next few days,” admitted Mrs Burden with a sigh. “I think Cook has caught Harbottle’s cold: she was very flushed this morning, but not admitting to feeling unwell, you know her way.”

    “I’ll go and speak to her,” said Miss Burden, thoughtfully gathering up the tea-tray as she went.

    “Perhaps Aunty Midge could make a fruit-cake,” said Polly on a hopeful note.

    “My dear, I am sure she could, her fruit-cakes are delicious, but in order to make a fruit-cake, one must first have fruit,” said Lettice wearily.

    Polly gulped. “Oh.”

    “Eggs would also help,” admitted Lettice.

    “Well—um—Mrs Fred—”

    “No.”

    “Mamma, we must eat!”

    “Yes, of course we must eat, and there will be sufficient for us all until the end of the quarter. But there is not sufficient for such delicacies as cake.”

    Polly looked at her in horror. “But— Well, when is the end of the quarter, Mamma?”

    “The end of June, my dear,” said Mrs Burden on a tired note. The quarters had not altered since dearest Will had died and the household had discovered just how small that small annuity was. Though as Polly was not yet eighteen, there was some excuse for her.

    Polly gulped again.

    “William had to have boots,” added her mother. “We must just hope that he will be able to pass them on to George in a fit state to be worn.” She sighed. “As for my poor dear Timmy! I would so like to buy him a nice little jacket: did you remark that dear little blue jacket that little Peter Ventnor was wearing in church last Sunday?”

    “Um—no, but he is the squire’s son, and—and the apple of Lady Ventnor’s eye, Mamma!”

    “And why should my poor little Timmy not be the apple of mine?” said Lettice with a little smile. “Gap-toothed, freckled and hideous though I freely admit he is!”

    Polly smiled, rose, and embraced her.

    Mrs Burden patted her back, and smiled, but sighed a little.

    “Mamma,” she said cautiously, “I could earn some money.”

    “What?” said her mother, staring at her blankly.

    Polly pinkened, but said sturdily: “I know I am not so clever as you and Aunty Midge, but Lady Ventnor is in need of someone to give the little ones their lessons—”

    “No! Certainly not!”

    “But Mamma—”

    “My dearest Will’s daughter is not going to go out as governess to that woman!” cried Mrs Burden, forgetting herself.

    “Oh,” said Polly numbly. She knew that her mother did not precisely admire the squire’s wife, but she had not hitherto guessed that it went quite that far.

    “Or at all,” finished Mrs Burden, a trifle limply. “It is not that bad, my love: as I say, we have plenty for our everyday expenses. Just not enough for indulgences.”

    “But— Well, if not Lady Ventnor... You let Aunty Midge give French and Italian lessons!”

    Mrs Burden sighed. “I cannot stop her, Polly: what makes you imagine that I could?”

    “Oh,” she said lamely. She had known, of course, that her aunt was a very strong-minded person, much more so than her gentle mamma, but she had not hitherto perceived it in quite those terms...

    Mrs Burden looked at her face and sighed a little, and thought things along the lines of kittens growing into cats, and did not express them.

    ... “There must be something I could do!” said Polly exasperatedly to her aunt later the same day. “‘You are sensible, Aunty Midge, you must see that!”

    “Mm. Well, at the moment you could sift that flour for me: thank you. –No, well, I agree that you would be capable of teaching little children, but I can sympathize with Letty’s feelings over Lady Ventnor; and if your mother does not wish it, Polly, there no more to be said on the point.”

    “No. But something else?”

    “What?” replied Miss Burden simply.

    “Well—um—even Mamma admits that my embroidery is better than hers.”

    Miss Burden rubbed her short, straight nose with the back of her hand. “Sell embroidered collars and cuffs in the market? Don’t eat me, I am seriously considering it. Harbottle could take them in—or there is the Miss Whites’ shop in Nettleford, I think they would take them. That is a very good idea, Polly, but where would we get the fabric?”

    “Oh.”

    “Think about it,” said her aunt. “We may come up with a source. One that does not entail taking advantage of Miss Humphreys’s good nature,” she added pointedly.

    “No,” agreed Polly, reddening. “I suppose if the worst comes to the worse we could apply to Great-Uncle Franklin.”

    “What, for money to frank us in a collar-making venture?”

    “No! I would not dare,” she admitted. “No, if—if— Well, if we ever find ourselves truly in need.”

    “You, Lettice and the boys could: yes. He is not my uncle,” said Midge on a dry note.

    “No, but it is all the same!” said Polly, smiling sunnily at her.

    Miss Burden managed a weak smile in reply. She had begun to reflect, in the wake of Mrs Burden’s very evident pleasure in the company of Colonel Langford at the ball, on her position should Letty remarry. She was in no doubt that she would be urged to live in her sister-in-law’s new house, but...

    “What are you making?” asked Polly.

    “Crumpets for supper,” said Midge, pulling herself together.

    “Oh, good!”

    “It will be, if the butter does not go off.”

    “It’s such a cool day: I don’t think it possibly can. –If only we had a cow of our own!”

    “They cost so much to feed and house, Polly. It is the same as with the collars,” she said with a tiny smile. “All forms of commercial enterprise require considerable capital outlay.”

    “Oh.” Polly handed her ingredients and watched as she mixed the crumpet dough, but said thoughtfully as she did so: “Aunty Midge, how much do you make for the French and Italian lessons you give Amanda Waldgrave—well, and Portia, before she gave them up—and Lacey Somerton?”

    Midge swallowed a sigh. “Very little, in real terms. –No, it is not that I mind telling you. Well, I suppose it’s the time-honoured country system of barter,” she said with a smile. “I do not receive any payment for the Waldgraves’ lessons, my love: Mr Waldgrave gives the boys their lessons in mathematics and so on in exchange for them.”

    “Oh,” she said limply.

    Midge sighed. She told her what she got for Miss Somerton’s lessons. “But do not get excited: it goes straight to Mr Humphreys for William’s and George’s more advanced Greek and Latin lessons. And before you say anything, William probably would be content with the level at which Mr Waldgrave can teach, but George is quite bright; I do not think we should deny him an education in favour of fruit-cakes.”

    “No,” said Polly with a smile. “I see! Then how much would it cost to send a boy to school?”

    “To send him to Winchester, as Will was sent?” Wincing, Midge named the sum.

    “Help!” she gasped.

    “Yes. It’s out of the question.”

    “Mm. –If William were not so greedy, we might manage better!’

    “Dearest Polly, all growing boys eat something like three times as much as you or I. It is not greed,” said Midge with a rueful smile: “it is the need to grow those great long legs your father had.”

    “Mm,” said Polly, gulping and nodding. “I see.”

    “And shoulders,” said Miss Burden thoughtfully to herself.

    “What was that, Aunty Midge?”

    “Nothing,” she said hastily, pinkening. “I think these may be safely left. Where is Mischief?”

    Polly smiled: the question was not a non sequitur: that cat’s nose would go into anything that even resembled food. “He is curled up in front of the parlour fire, purring like a tea-kettle! He hates this damp uncertain weather as much as we do!”

    “Good. Then let us tidy these implements away, and join him!”

    Smiling, Polly agreed, and the two Miss Burdens occupied themselves with the humble domestic task of washing up.

    The next day dawned fine, not very warm, but with a clear, pale sky and a brisk breeze. William and George departed early for Mr Humphreys’s house, this unusual eagerness being explained by the fact that today was the day Mr Humphreys had promised to let them refight the battle of Thermopylae. Mr Waldgrave having sent a message to say he was laid up with the sore throat and could not take Timmy for his sums today, Timmy was speedily installed in the back parlour at the dining table, with his books in front of him and a scowl on his freckled face.

    “Well,” said his Aunt Midge with a sigh when applied to in the kitchen, “I cannot do algebra, either, Timmy. But let me see. ‘If a...’ Bother. Wait, would this help? This muffin can be a, and this—um—this dish of butter b: that is appropriate! Now... Bother, there is a c!” she discovered aggrievedly. “Oh, well, the salt-cellar can be c. Now...”

    They looked at each other in despair.

    “It is not like sums, Aunty Midge,” he ventured.

    “You are very right! Why, I have never failed before, with adding a muffin and a butter dish and taking away a salt-cellar! Oh, well,” said Midge with a twinkle: “let us add the butter to the muffin: ‘a’ plus ‘b’ may then go into ‘t’ the once!”

    Giggling, Timmy agreed to this magnificent algebraic proposition, and ate the muffin. “Mamma cannot do algebra, either.’

    “No. Well, girls are not taught it,” said Midge with a sigh. “And at this precise moment, I cannot see what use it may be in the world.”

    Timmy looked at her hopefully.

    “Er—we had best show Mr Waldgrave something for the morning’s endeavours. Perhaps you could write a piece, Timmy.”

    “What on?” he said glumly.

    “Anything you wish,” replied his aunt cheerfully.

    “Um...  I can’t think of anything.”

    “Something you are interested in. Possibly besides food,” she noted drily.

    Timmy looked blank.

    “Write a ‘History of Mischief, a Grandfather Cat’,” said Midge desperately.

    “Ye-es... I may have to ask you things, I can’t remember all of him.”

    “Ask whenever you need to.”

    Looking pleased, Timmy retired to the back parlour.

    He reappeared in the kitchen very shortly. “How did he begin?”

    Miss Burden blenched. Even though there had been two other nephews and a niece before him. “What, Mischief?” she said weakly. “Um... He was one of a litter of five, that belonged to Mrs Cartwright’s Rosa, a fine mouser.”

    “Ooh, good! I’ll put that!” He rushed off.

    Midge blinked slightly.

    Another batch of muffins had been produced, and Timmy’s opus had got to the point where Mischief, a fine tom, became the father of Miss Humphreys’s Tabitha Cat’s litter of six—his aunt not revealing that neither she nor Miss Humphreys would have taken their dying oaths on this point: there had been at least two other contenders—and Miss Burden was looking dubiously at the butter dish and wondering if a trip up to Nettlebend Farm to see Mrs Lumley would be necessary this afternoon or whether they could wait until Mrs Lumley’s Bella brought them fresh butter on the morrow, when Timmy rushed in again.

    “Hadn’t you decided to jump to where he is now a grandfather several times over—”

    “Not that!” he gasped. “A curricle! Can I open the door?”

    “‘May I’. –A curricle? Are you sure, Timmy? Not just Sir William in his trap?”

    “NO!” he shouted, turning purple. “I’m NOT STUPID!”

    “All right,” said Midge hurriedly. “I beg your pardon. A curricle. Has it got a gentleman in it?”

    “Yes, of course! Can— May I?”

    “If the gentleman is coming here— Wait,” said Miss Burden in a hollow voice.

    Too late, Timmy had rushed out.

    The curricle belonged to Maunsleigh, the pair poled up were a couple of spavined blowers, and the gentleman was Colonel Langford. Complete with a large bunch of flowers from the Maunsleigh gardens. Jarvis had appeared indifferent to his guest’s taking the curricle and had not asked where he was going. The Colonel had not volunteered: Jarvis had been very odd indeed since the night of the waltzing ball. Well, he himself had been rather occupied with his own thoughts that night, so he had not said anything then, but when he had ventured the next day: “So you found a little lady with dark red hair after all? Not flat, I notice. And is she as pretty as your country lass?” his old friend had replied sourly: “Yes, True, and Yes. In that order. If it be any of your business.” The Colonel had rolled his eyes, rather, but desisted.

    The door of the small house named Bluebell Dell was opened by a short, skinny, freckled brat with very ginger hair. The Colonel was conscious of the most unworthy, not to say premature, hope that the hair was not on Mrs Burden’s side.

    “Hullo, sonny. I am here to see Mrs Burden,” he said with a smile.

    “She’s doing the mending.”

    Colonel Langford swallowed. He supposed he was rather early. Well, it was such a lovely day. and he had held off until now, partly because of the weather and partly—well, because of a wish not to seem too eager. Or as eager as he in fact was.

    “You can come in,” invited the boy.

    “Er—no. I think it would be best if you tell her I am here, eh?” he said in a kindly tone. “Colonel Langford.”

    The boy replied: “Is that your curricle?”

    “Well, no. I don’t have any carriages in England. That belongs to—er—my friend. He has lent it me for the day, you see?” The boy nodded solemnly and disappeared.

    Colonel Langford waited on the doorstep, feeling somewhat of an idiot.

    After a few moments. however, Miss Polly Burden appeared. The Colonel was relieved to see she was dressed neatly in a print gown, and looked ready enough to receive callers.

    “Please come in, Colonel Langford,” she said, smiling. “Mamma and I are just in here.”

    Wondering if they had a servant to their name, Colonel Langford was shown into a small front parlour. Mrs Burden, neat in a grey gown with a little white collar, greeted him with quiet composure. The Colonel could not be absolutely sure that she was pleased to see him. Well, she was not displeased, but she did not appear as pleased as he had hoped.

    Polly chatted pleasantly for a little, but soon escaped to the kitchen. “Aunty Midge, it is Colonel Langford! I suppose we should offer him refreshment: is there anything suitable?”

    “No,” replied her aunt grimly. “And do not expect me to come in and make conversation, in this old rag.”

    Polly bit her lip. It was an ancient woollen gown that had definitely seen better days. It had once been black but had now a rusty greenish look to it. Possibly it had once fitted Miss Burden, but whether it had shrunk, or she had grown, or both— At any rate, the bodice was stretched indecently tight and four good inches of petticoat showed beneath the hem. Miss Burden had a habit of recycling other garments into petticoats, and this was made of the skirt of an old print dress that had once been Lettice’s: yellow with small blue flowers. The total effect was bright enough, but scarcely conventional.

    “Um—could you creep up the stairs and change, dear Aunty Midge?”

    Miss Burden shuddered. “No, for that will be the moment he chooses to emerge into the hall. Don’t you remember that time that George and I had been burying that dead crow that Mischief dragged in?”

    Polly did, she was nodding and shuddering. It had been Mrs Cartwright and Mrs Cartwright’s sister, Lady Lattersby, a very fine lady indeed, who scarcely ever honoured the neighbourhood with a flying visit.

    “Yes, well, I shall stay in the kitchen. I am sure he won’t notice my absence. What—um—what does he seem like?”

    Polly tried to smile. “Very eager.”

    “Mm,” said Miss Burden, pressing her lips rather tightly together. “Well, Polly, if he wants Letty, it will be a very good thing, provided he is able to support her and is as pleasant as he seems on first acquaintance.”

    “Yes,” she said on a doleful note. “Can we give him anything?”

    “What? Oh! No. He is not going to get the muffins, they are for our midday meal. I shall make a pot of tea, but that will be all. And at that we are getting perilously near the bottom of the tea caddy,” she noted.

    “Yes: it is all these lady callers we have had since the new earl was rumoured to be coming!” agreed Polly, laughing.

    Miss Burden turned away and busied herself with the tea.

    In the end, Colonel Langford, who had intended inviting Mrs Burden out for a little drive in the mild weather, found himself with two passengers. The smaller one, in a state of rabid excitement, jammed between the Colonel and the lady of his choice, and threatening at any moment to hurl himself beneath the horses’ hooves.

    “I would recommend catching hold of the tail of his jacket,” said the Colonel, twinkling.

    Mrs Burden laughed, but did so. “Timmy, sit back.”

    “I need to see,” he said importantly.

    The Colonel glanced down at him with a little smile. “Of course. A fellow needs to absorb as much as possible on these occasions, don’t he? –For when he has his own rig-out,” he explained to Mrs Burden over Timmy’s head.

    “Of course,” she agreed, nodding.

    “I can drive Mr Lumley’s trap,” offered Timmy.

    “Timmy!” gasped his mother. “What a bouncer!”

    “I CAN!”

    “Hush, you will scare the horses,” said the Colonel calmly. “I am very sure he can, Mrs Burden, with or without—er—being gazetted in the service!”

    “Being— Oh!” said Mrs Burden with a laugh. “But he is but ten, you know.”

    “I could drive my father’s trap at ten, and was already pestering to take a pair,” said the Colonel tranquilly.

    “Ooh!” began Timmy. “Can I—?”

    “You cannot, and you may not,” replied the Colonel firmly. “They are not my horses.”

    “The curricle belongs to his friend,” reported Timmy faithfully. “He hasn’t got any carriages in England. –Where have you got carriages, sir?”

    “Well, I was used to live in India,” replied the Colonel tranquilly, “and I had a curricle, of sorts, which I never got much use out of. Ended up selling it to a box-wallah—er, a merchant in Calcutta. But I also had a tonga, what I bought up at Darjeeling in the hills, for a song. Used to tool it about all over the place: useful. But a tonga ain’t much. Bit like a trap.”

    “What did you have when you were with your soldiers?” asked Timmy, frowning over it.

    “With the regiment? I had several dashed fine horses, sonny,” said the Colonel, swallowing a sigh. “There were waggons for all the kit, you know; um—for all the baggage and so forth.”

    “I suppose,” said Mrs Burden thoughtfully, “an army does not move fast. My husband used to say it was generally a snail’s pace even with Wellington in the Peninsula.”

    “Oh, indeed, Mrs Burden: to get all the cook-waggons and the camp followers and so forth up with the rest of ’em!” he said with a smile. “Especially in India, where the word ‘hurry’ was never invented. One of the very first phrases one learns when one goes out there is ‘Jooldee, jooldee!’—generally accompanied by a brisk clapping of the hands. It means ‘Quick, quick!’ As we might say: ‘Bustle about!’”

    “Jooldee, jooldee,” said Timmy carefully.

    “That’s it,” said the Colonel cheerfully. “One yells it all the time at the Indian servants, y’know. ‘Ekdum’ is another good one: that means ‘immediately’, stronger: generally used when one is pretty dashed annoyed with the fellows!” he ended, smiling.

    “Ekdum,” said Timmy with relish. “Say something else.”

    “Timmy!” his mother reproached him. “That is not polite. And—and possibly the Colonel does not wish to talk in Indian.”

    “It’s Hindustanee, ma’am, more or less,” he said with a smile. “The lingua franca of Northern India. You should hear the version of it our chaps use!”

    “The common soldiers?” said Mrs Burden on an nervous note.

    Affecting not to notice the nervous note, the Colonel replied: “Exactly. Why, I was calling in on a local station in the mofussil—that is, up the country,” he said with a twitch of the lips, “and one of the sergeants came in—he was a White fellow, mind you, it was not a native regiment—and said to the officer of the day: ‘Sir, there’s some mulaquati come, they’re taking a howa-khana at the chota bungalow, but I can’t make out what they want, exactly, their bhai don’t bolo the baht.’” He looked at Mrs Burden wryly.

    “You will have to translate!” she said with a laugh.

    “‘Sir, there’s some visitors come, they’re taking a breather at the adjutant’s house, but I can’t make out what they want, exactly, their servant don’t speak the language.’”

    Mrs Burden laughed very much.

    “What language did he speak?” asked Timmy, frowning over it.

    “The bhai? He and the visitors all spoke Punjabee, Timmy: that is another Indian language.”

    “Oh.”

    Colonel Langford glanced at Mrs Burden over his head and smiled. “Any old India hand could tell you also, Mrs Burden, that the phrase as used had an interesting flavour: for ‘mulaquati’ can be used simply for ‘visitors’, but also for ‘petitioners’.”

    Mrs Burden smiled slowly. “I see!”

    “One’s visitors very often are, in India,” he said tranquilly.

    “Yes!” she said. laughing.

    ... “So,” said Miss Burden, when, to the accompaniment of Timmy’s excited farewells, the curricle had departed and Mrs Burden had sat down in the parlour again: “did you enjoy yourself?”

    “Yes; he is a very pleasant man. I think he is rather homesick for India, he was there for many years. He was very good with Timmy.”

    “Oh?” said Midge warily.

    “No, no, he was not sugary or over-eager to please, just pleasant, sensible and firm. And treated his questions seriously.”

    “Good Heavens, the man is a paragon!”

    “Not quite,” said Lettice with a smile.

    There was a little pause.

    “You do like him, then, Mamma?” said Polly awkwardly.

    Mrs Burden nodded placidly. “Very much. –I had forgot!” she added with a tiny laugh.

    Polly and Miss Burden exchanged uneasy glances. “What, Mamma?” ventured her daughter.

    “Oh... How different it is, being with a man. He was just so... masculine. No, that sounds silly!” she said with a laugh. “Of course he is, but... I don’t mean unpleasantly hearty like the squ— I should not have said that,” she said hastily. “But—well, I cannot describe it, my dears. It is just the—the sensation one has.”

    “We must collect he did not talk of tea-parties, silk gowns, and drawn-thread work, then?” said Midge drily.

    Mrs Burden laughed and shook her head at her.

    As they collected up muffins and butter from the kitchen a few minutes later, the two Miss Burdens looked at each other somewhat grimly.

    “Wuh-what do you think, Aunty Midge?”

    “I am no expert, Polly. But I would say that is it,” said Miss Burden with feeling. “Well, would not you? ‘How different it is, being with a man’? ‘He was just so masculine’?”

    “Mm,” said Polly, chewing her lip. “But I have heard her say that sometimes Papa was just like a little boy!” she burst out.

    Miss Burden shrugged. “As I say, I am no expert in the devious ways of Nature when it comes to matching up men and women. You will recall I could never properly define for you what a Mr Cartwright could be like.”

    “No,” said Polly weakly.

    “But I have never heard her say anything even approaching that of any man she has met these past ten years.”

    “No.”

    “Polly, just recollect, you will be off Letty’s hands within a year or two, in the normal course of things: you would not wish her not to have a life of her own, I trust?”

    “No, of course not. I suppose I just did not expect things to—to change...”

    “No, ” said Midge with a sigh. “No more did I, really.”

    “It’s a man!” gasped Timmy, skidding to a halt in the kitchen.

    Midge gasped, and dropped a plate. “Really, Timmy!” she said crossly, picking up the pieces. “What is so exciting about a man, pray?”

    “On a horse! Coming here!” he gasped.

    Miss Burden blinked. “What, Colonel Langford again, so soon?”

    “No!” he said scornfully. “Not him! It’s a bang-up prad,” he added.

    “Where did you get that expression from?” gasped his aunt.

    After the manner of his kind at such moments, Timmy merely looked vague.

    “Well—uh—is he stopping?”

    “Yes! I said! Can I—”

    Midge groaned. Mr Waldgrave’s sore throat was hanging on. Timmy had now finished the piece on “The History of Mischief, a Grandfather Cat,” and a piece, this morning, on “What I Should Like to Do when I am a Grown Man,” and had in very short order polished off a sheet of sums set by Lettice. He had passed with flying colours, and only a very short fight which Mrs Burden had had to adjudicate, a spelling test set by his sister. He was now supposed, at mid-afternoon, to be translating a sheet of Latin set by his aunt. It was about on the level of “The farmers see the (or possibly a) table.” Timmy had already declared aggrievedly that imprimis, it was babyish stuff and, secundus, it was not a story. Miss Burden had hitherto had no idea that the Reverend Mr Waldgrave had enough originality in him to set actual stories for his small pupils: she had looked at him limply.

    “Can I hold it for him?” urged Timmy, jumping.

    “Y— Uh, if he be truly stopping here, Timmy, you will have to, it is not Biddle’s day.”

    Timmy beamed, added superfluously that Sam Biddle was not here, either—old Mr Biddle never let his grandson near the garden unless he was there to supervise—and shot out.

    Miss Burden looked down at herself in despair: she was again in the old black wool dress: Cook and Harbottle were still laid up. Well, Polly could answer the door.

    Polly did not have to: Timmy hurled it open before the visitor could knock. “I’ll look after your horse, sir!” he gasped.

    It was another fine day. The visitor replied calmly: “I think Black Magic will be perfectly all right tethered to your gatepost. Unless you would prefer to stable him?”

    ‘We haven’t got a stable,” revealed Timmy regretfully. “We have a shed, though!” he added, beaming.

    The visitor smiled a little and said: “Thank you. And perhaps a mouthful of hay? Or he would like it if you could bring him some fresh grass, perhaps from the verge?”

    “Yes, sir!” he beamed.

    “Dr Golightly,” said a very small voice from the passage: “there—there is no need to—to pander to Timmy’s whims. I think your horse would be safer left by the gate.”

    “He would NOT!” shouted Timmy, turning puce. “I can look after him!”

    Dr Golightly removed his hat and bowed politely to Miss Polly Burden. His voice was quite even, but his dark cheeks had flushed a little. “Black Magic enjoys being fussed over, Miss Burden. And he is very amenable to being handled.”

    “I see,” said Polly weakly. “Very well, then, Timmy, you may put him in the shed.”

    “There’s a blanket,” said Timmy helpfully to Dr Golightly.

    “Good, you could put it on him.”

    Beaming, Timmy rushed down to the gate.

    “Sir, I’m afraid he may attempt to unsaddle him,” said Polly awkwardly.

    “Do not be nervous for him, Black Magic is the gentlest creature, I have had him from a foal.”

    “No—um—”

    “Oh! I shall check the girth,” he said with a smile, “before remounting.”

    “Good,” she said, blushing. “How are you, Dr Golightly?”

    Dr Golightly replied politely that he was very well and Polly, blushing again, invited him to step into the front parlour.

    “Please,” he said, handing her the posy he was holding.

    Polly blushed harder than ever. “Oh! For me? They are lovely! Thank you, sir. It is so delightful to have some flowers,” she confided shyly, smiling up at him. “Our garden is so empty, this year.”

    Dr Golightly had noticed: he nodded. To his not inexperienced eye the front garden bore all the earmarks of a place where three sturdy lads had been playing with a football. Those bare, muddy patches, and the strange, flattened areas in what might have been a herbaceous border, if left to itself.

    ... “He will think it odd,” said Polly, very pink, “if you do not come in, Aunty Midge!”

    “I should like to,” said Midge, looking at the pink flush with interest, “but do you absolutely guarantee to pin him to his chair in the parlour while I run upstairs to change?”

    “Yes!” she said with a laugh. “And may we offer him some cake?”

    Miss Burden looked resignedly at the sponge cake which, Mrs Lumley having sent a whole dozen eggs with Bella and the butter this morning, on the excuse they had so many they did not know what to do with them, she had made as a treat for the boys’ supper. Not to say their own. “I see: Dr Golightly rates higher than Colonel Langford in the cake stakes, does he?”

    Polly turned scarlet.

    “Oh, dear: I’m sorry, Polly, it just came out,” said her aunt, swallowing. “Well, yes, by all means, offer him the cake. But don’t expect it to be as good as Cook’s sponges: it has riz,” she said in Cook’s own vernacular, “but it be a touch lopsy-turvy, loike!”

    “Thank you so much, Aunty Midge!” said Polly gratefully, still very red, but smiling.

    “I’ll just put some soft sugar on it: that may make it look more respectable,” Midge decided.

    Polly nodded hard, smiled tremulously, and rushed out.

    “Oh, Lard,” said Miss Burden, still in Cook’s vernacular, to the cake.

    The cake just sat there smugly on the kitchen table, looking as if it had known it all along.

    Since Dr Golightly had come so far, Mrs Burden graciously permitted him and Polly to stroll out after the tea tray.

    “What do you think, Midgey?” she ventured, in the strange silence that had descended upon the little front parlour.

    “Well,” croaked Polly’s aunt, “as I said to Miss Humphreys at the waltzing-ball, his is understandable.”

    “Mm. But Midge, he is so very different from the type she has always admired! Well, she has not had much to judge by, but do you recall that time the Vicar’s cousin was visiting? A terribly handsome young man: Polly was madly in love with him for months!”

    “At sixteen,” said Miss Burden, a touch drily. “Well, yes.”

    “And before that, it was Lady Ventnor’s younger brother!” remembered Mrs Burden.

    “That’s right: Lady Ventnor was furious, even though Polly was but fifteen.”

    “Yes. But do you see what I mean, dearest? They were both so very good-looking!”

    “Mm. Whereas Dr Golightly is quite harsh-featured.”

    “Yes. Well, I am sure I shall be very glad, if she can form a sincere affection for a sensible man. –Though of course one must not be premature,” she added hastily.

    “No, of course,” said Midge drily.

    Mrs Burden looked at her sister-in-law’s frown and said: “What is so very dreadful?”

    “What?”

    “Midgey, you were scowling horribly.”

    “Oh. Um—well, I was wondering how well they should suit, au fond. He is a highly educated and extremely intelligent man, and Polly, though of course she is a very merry, spirited little thing,” she said hastily to Polly’s mother, “is not a—a bookish girl!”

    Mrs Burden looked at her with great affection, but also a certain dryness. “Most gentlemen do not require a helpmate who will, shall we say, be able to converse with them on a level of intellectual equality.”

    Midge took a deep breath. “No. Very true.”

    “Of course, that does not mean,” said Mrs Burden somewhat sadly: “that I would advise any woman to—to disguise the quality of her mind in the hopes of attracting a gentleman.”

    Miss Burden got up and began gathering up tea things. “I should hope not!” she said vigorously.

    “Midgey, what passed between you and Lord Sleyven at the dance?” she burst out.

    “I have said! Nothing!” said Miss Burden angrily, marching out.

    Mrs Burden sighed.

    “Oh!” said Miss Humphreys faintly, as Miss Burden, for once merely in a respectable snuff-coloured gown, ushered her into the front parlour of Bluebell Dell. “I did not mean to— I had no notion you had callers, dear Mrs Burden!”

    Colonel Langford rose, smiling. “One caller, ma’am.”

    “You remember Colonel Langford, I think, Miss Humphreys?” said Mrs Burden with a calm smile. “This is our dear friend Miss Humphreys, Colonel, whom I think you met at the Somertons’ dance.”

    Colonel Langford agreed to this and greeted the little spinster lady politely. Lettice and Midge watched in some amusement as he then proceeded to wind Miss Humphreys round his little finger.

    “Such an agreeable gentleman!” the little lady sighed when he had taken his leave.

    “We think so,” said Mrs Burden composedly.

    “Mm; so far his sole fault is an inability to do algebra,” said Miss Burden on a dry note.

    “Oh! My dear, that reminds me!” she gasped guiltily.

    Midge looked at her wryly. “Dear Miss Humphreys, whatever you and Mr Humphreys have let Timmy get up to today, we shall not mind: it is just so wonderful not to have him here, groaning over his lessons and driving us half crazy!”

    “Unless he has been naughty?” said Lettice on a hollow note.

    The little angel, it appeared, had not been naughty. But dear Powell had got so engrossed with the older boys, and the Greek was much, much too hard for the dear little man—

    His relatives quailed. But it was all right, Miss Humphreys had merely let him come into the kitchen while she and Gertie Potts made pickles from the first of their nasturtium seeds.

    “We have not so much as a nasturtium bloom in the garden,” said Miss Burden with a sigh.

    “I think there are some buds,” offered Polly.

    Miss Humphreys revealed, smiling, that the buds were also excellent in a pickle. Powell’s claim was that they were very like capers! None of the Burdens believed this for an instant—though they could believe he might have said it to please his sister, but that was as far as it went. However, they smiled politely. Miss Humphreys then revealed on a guilty note that she had just thrown together a batch of her jam puffs, since they had young guests in the house...

    That was not very dreadful, either: he had not either eaten the dough, raw, or the lion’s portion of the batch, hot, or even all the jam before it could go into the puffs: he had merely spilled the said jam down his nankeens. Raspberry. But Miss Humphreys was almost sure that milk would take the blue residue out, and they were soaking at this moment! Oh, well.

    Miss Burden deciding to stretch her legs and accompany her back to her house with a fresh pair of breeches for the miscreant, the two set off. It was plain to Midge that Miss Humphreys was bursting to talk of Colonel Langford and Lettice. Oh, well, it was now or later.

    Miss Humphreys had been very favourably impressed.—A not unexpected result of being wound round the little finger.—He was a most gentlemanly man indeed.—Ditto.—And so it was true he was thinking of settling in the district!—She should know: she had asked him in so many words.—It would be so delightful, and there was Kendlewood Place standing empty!—Undeniable though this last was, Miss Burden could only look at her limply.

    “I suppose,” the little spinster then said artlessly, not meeting Miss Burden’s eye, “he has not brought his friend with him, to call?”

    “No,” she said grimly.

    “Oh, dear...”

    Miss Burden took a deep breath. There was evidently little point in telling Miss Humphreys that whether or not Lord Sleyven had danced a waltz with her there was nothing to be expected from that quarter. The passage of time must be left to convince her. “However, you may be pleased to know that Dr Golightly has called. We think, though of course we do not wish to be precipitate, that he may be developing an interest in Polly.”

    Miss Humphreys was thrilled: thrilled. Overlooking Miss Burden’s hedgings completely and utterly. Oh, well. Doubtless Amanda Waldgrave would have heard soon enough, and then it would have been all round the village in any case.

    “I saw Miss Burden, this last time I called at Bluebell Dell,” said the Colonel artlessly.

    “Indeed?” replied Lord Sleyven unencouragingly.

    Reflecting that his old friend was enough to try the patience of a saint, Colonel Langford pursued: “Yes. Looking very well, I thought.”

    There was no reply. Colonel Langford gave an irritated sigh.

    “And how is Mrs Burden?” said the Earl stiffly.

    “Keeping very well. Though the servants all appear to have succumbed to a bad cold.”

    “That must be very inconvenient,” he said levelly.

    “Oh, they seem to be managing! It ain’t but a small house, y’know!” said the Colonel with forced cheer.

    “Yes.” After a minute he said: “It is not actually in Lower Nettlefold, I think you mentioned?”

    The Colonel did not think he had, at all. He shot him a curious glance but merely said mildly: “No, on the outskirts. One heads down Cherry Tree Lane—there ain’t a cherry tree in sight, Miss Burden tells me the name dates from the Middle Ages—and then there is a turn to the right by an old oak, and there you are: Bluebell Dell. Give or take a mud pool or ten.”

    “Mm.” He hesitated. “I suppose there is not a bluebell in sight?”

    “No; Miss Burden tells me—” The Colonel broke off. “Jarvis,” he said evenly, “if you are so interested, I suggest you call and engage Miss Burden in conversation for yourself.”

    “Possibly,” he said, the nostrils flickering, “she would not be so ready to impart these many and varied historical facts to me as she apparently was to yourself.”

    Hell! thought Charles Langford, with a mental cringe or two. “A man cannot know until he try,” he said with an attempt at lightness.

    “Very true. I am heading over towards Jefford Slough with Shelby: do you wish to come?”

    “Not today, thanks, old fellow. That place is damn’ depressing.”

    The Earl nodded, and went over to the door. “I am going to Ireland.”

    The Colonel had just picked up a paper. He dropped it. “Hey?” he gasped.

    “Shelby has a cousin over there who has been looking about for some horses for me. Do you want to come?”

    The Colonel laughed. “Try and stop me, dear boy!”

    “Good. Er—we may be away for as much as a month, Charles,” he warned.

    The Colonel’s lean face flushed a little. but he nodded and said: “Of course. Never do, to let these Irish fellows get the better of you, over a horse!”

    “No, quite,” he said, going out.

    The Colonel pulled his ear with his good hand. “Oh, Lor’,” he muttered.

    It was another drizzly day, the lanes very muddy, the hedges dripping. Mr Waldgrave’s throat had improved, but as he had a dying parishioner over towards Dinsley Dell—scarcely a village, more a muddy indentation in the ground near a bend of the Nettle—he had sent to say he could not take the boys. William and George had gone off to Mr Humphreys instead: William quite cheerful, for he had done a page of Cicero which he thought was not half bad and on the strength of which Mr Humphreys might well let him re-enact the defeat of Vercingetorix the Gaul on the dining table, with the aid of an amount of green baize, a kitchen colander which Miss Humphreys and Gertie Potts no longer had any hope of seeing put to its proper use, a small collection of lead soldiers, and the many cunning carved models which Mr Humphreys himself whittled on his good days. George was less cheerful: Mr Humphreys had set him some Greek which was awful hard and with which the household of females at Bluebell Dell had of course been no help. The ladies had decided not to inflict Timmy on the Humphreys household, so he was once more in the back parlour, scowling over his books and blots.

    Mrs Burden and Polly had been invited to drive into Nettleford with Mrs Cartwright this morning, and as the opportunity for a comfortable ride there and back came but rarely, Midge had urged them to go: she and Harbottle would be fine; and someone had to stay home in any case, to make sure Cook stayed in her bed! Mrs Burden had had Dr Jarman to Cook: he had declared she must stay abed, it was a very feverish cold, which could easily turn into something worse if not coddled.

    It was nine o’clock, and there was still no sign of Mrs Lumley’s Bella; clearly something was wrong at Nettlebend Farm. Eagerly Harbottle offered to go and find out. Miss Burden smiled a little: Harbottle and Mr Lumley’s pigman were courting. It was a very slow and cautious courtship, to which neither party was wholly admitting: Harbottle, a respectable spinster of nigh on forty, had been an indoor servant all her days; and McVeigh, the pigman, was a slow, craggy, canny Scot of fifty who had been managing competently as a widower for over fifteen years. Permission being given, Harbottle got into her outdoor things, with an extra muffler tied anxiously round her thin neck by Midge’s own hands, and departed, basket in hand. Whether she would actually remember butter, milk and eggs, let alone to ask Mrs Lumley if she had any cheese, was another matter, of course!

    Midge smiled and shook her head and, as she was standing outside the back door conveniently near the sorrel which was about all that was flourishing in the garden at the moment, picked a great armful of it. They could have sorrel soup to their supper tonight, and if Harbottle came back with eggs, perhaps poached eggs. And in the meantime, Cook could have the lone egg from their own hens and some buttered sorrel on her luncheon tray.

    And as for the hens... Midge sighed. It was no wonder they were no longer laying much, poor old dears, they were the oldest hens in Lower Nettlefold. Adelaide, Agatha, Amanda Hen (to distinguish her from Amanda Waldgrave), Amy, Annabel, Anne, Araminta, Ariadne, Astarte (named by Mr Humphreys), Atalanta (William, under Mr Humphreys’s influence), and Azimuth (George, aged eight: no-one had been able to convince him it was not a name, let alone a female name). True, the boys were not as attached to them as they had been to Ronald. But Polly was dreadfully attached; oh, dear: how would she react to a broth of Anne, or boiled Araminta? But it was senseless keeping them out there, eating their heads off.

    Miss Burden had just decided it was no use mooning over it, she had better do it—for Dr Jarman had recommended nourishing broths for Cook, and while buttered sorrel and egg was all very well, there was nothing at all in the larder for the morrow—and had picked up the axe more normally used by Harbottle for the kindling, when there was a loud knock at the front door.

    “Stay where you ARE and finish that ALGEBRA!” she ordered loudly, emerging abruptly into the passage just as Timmy shot out of the back parlour.

    “It’s too hard!” he wailed.

    “Never MIND, get ON with it!” shouted Midge. As it was not yet nine-thirty, the caller would almost undoubtedly be Sam Biddle, come to explain why his grandfather had not turned up this morning, for in spite of being told a thousand times to come round to the back door, Sam never took the trouble to take the few extra steps—in the which case Midge would wring his scrawny neck for him; or dratted George or William, come back to fetch whatever book they had forgotten this time, and in spite of being told a thousand times that the household’s legs were not at their service, knocking at the front instead of taking the few extra steps to the back, in which case she would wring their scrawny necks for them, too! Or else Mr Harry Biddle come to see if they wanted any odd jobs doing, like having the roof fixed, which she had told him a thousand times she knew needed doing but they could NOT AFFORD—

    “What are you doing here?” she gasped.

    Lord Sleyven bowed politely. “I have come to return this, Miss Burden.” He held it out.

    Miss Burden gaped: it was her old patchwork parasol.

    After a moment she managed to say: “What unfortunate did you send scouring the countryside for this, pray?”

    “My groom, Tonkins. He is my own man, not a Maunsleigh servant.”

    “That must have made the task so much the easier for him, then,” said Miss Burden on a weak note.

    The Earl said nothing.

    “Um—thank you very much,” she gulped, suddenly turning very red. “And please thank Tonkins for me.”

    “Certainly. I would have had it re-covered for you, but I thought perhaps you would not appreciate that.”

    Midge swallowed, and was unable to reply.

    “What is the axe for?” he asked politely.

    “What? Oh! To slaughter Anne.”

    The Earl opened has mouth but at that moment Timmy burst out into the passage shouting: “Not Anne! She’s mine!”

    “She is NOT!” shouted Miss Burden, turning a fiery red. “And get back to that ALGEBRA!’

    “I can’t do it!” he wailed.

    “You can, Timmy: William said that Mr Waldgrave told him express to say you had had the principles!” replied his aunt angrily. “And it has to be Anne or Adelaide, and I do not care which, and if you wish to tell Polly she is eating Adelaide soup, it can be her!”

    “You’re MEAN, Aunty Midge!” he shouted, turning even pucer than she was.

    Suddenly a hard, cool hand covered Miss Burden’s hot little one on the axe handle. “If there is any slaughtering to be done, Miss Burden, I shall do it for you. I apprehend your servants are still ill?”

    Miss Burden looked up at him limply. The Earl returned her gaze calmly. “Harbottle is well again, but she has gone up to Nettlebend Farm.”

    “I see,” he said, removing the axe from her grasp. “But first I think I had better settle the matter of the algebra.”

    Very possibly a dignified refusal was in order at this juncture. Miss Burden replied feebly: “Colonel Langford couldn’t.”

    “Charles was always a duffer at his sums, at school,” returned Charles’s old friend calmly.

    “Algebra’s harder than sums,” warned Timmy, looking at the man warily. “I could hold your horse.”

    “It is not a horse, but a bag of bones. And it is doing very well out there by the gate, not being held. I am very good at algebra; also geometry and trigonometry. You may ask Colonel Langford: he will tell you that I once navigated a regiment over a large portion of the Northwest Frontier, thanks to my mathematical abilities.”

    “Can algebra do that?” he gasped.

    “No,” replied Lord Sleyven: Miss Burden stared at him. “It will, however, help you with the sort of calculation and the sort of logic that are needed.”

    “Oh,” said Miss Burden limply. “I see.’

    “May I?” he asked politely, unsmiling.

    She took a deep breath. “Thank you. I admit it will save the household’s sanity. But if you give me the axe, I can—”

    “No,” he said tranquilly.

    Miss Burden stood aside and feebly motioned him in. Timmy and the Earl disappeared into the dining parlour. The door closed. Gulping, Miss Burden tottered down the passage and into the kitchen, where instead of getting on with the many tasks of the day, she collapsed onto a hard chair. Her cheeks were very pink.

    The Earl came quietly into the kitchen about half an hour later. He smiled. Miss Burden was at the stove. Her small person in its black wool gown with the enchanting coloured print frill of petticoat under it was now swathed in an enormous white apron. A large black and white cat with a magnificent display of white whiskers was rubbing against her skirts, purring hard.

    “It’s vegetable, you imbecile,” she said, apparently to the cat. “You would hate it.”

    “Let me kill something for you, and give it some of that,” he offered.

    Midge swung round with a gasp.

    “I’m sorry: I did not mean to startle you. That’s a fine animal.”

    “Mischief. He’s a grandfather cat,” said Miss Burden limply.

    The hard face crinkled into a smile. The dimples showed. “Is he, indeed?”

    Miss Burden swallowed. “What a stupid thing to say. It is just that I set Timmy a piece on him— You don’t wish to know that,” she said, biting her lap.

    “But of course I do! Was his being a grandfather the essential point of the piece?”

    “Um—more or less, yes.”

    “I shall ask Timmy to read it me,” he said with a twinkle. “He has now grasped the principles his teacher wished him to, by the by, and is finishing the sums. It was largely a matter of explaining that ‘a’ is not necessarily always ‘a’, but may be called anything.”

    “That is the most ridiculous thing I ever heard!” said Miss Burden roundly.

    “No, no: ‘a’ represents an abstract, which may as well be represented by ‘x’ or ‘y’.”

    “If you managed to convey that to a very average little boy of ten, you have done well, indeed!” she said with feeling.

    “Miss Burden, I have had many years of dealing with inept young subalterns whose logical abilities were considerably less, on the whole, than little Timmy’s,” he said calmly.

    “Oh,” said Timmy’s aunt limply.

    The Earl said in a meek voice: “Er—the principles of trajectories, and vectors, and—”

    “Don’t,” said Miss Burden with a sigh. “I am sure you know them all and can teach them all. But I have only to hear such a word and my brain turns fuzzy on the instant.”

    “I have often wondered if that is endemic to the female state, or merely learned behaviour, from the time you were an infant,” he returned calmly.

    “From the time our besotted relatives start cooing: ‘What a pretty little girl!’ rather than ‘What a fine, stout boy,’ you mean? So have I,” said Miss Burden frankly.

    He smiled. “What do you need killed, Miss Burden?”

    “A hen,” she admitted.

    “Er—an axe is not truly necessary, then,” he murmured.

    “It is to me. I have not the knack of wringing the wretched creatures’ necks.”

    “I have,” said Jarvis Wynton calmly. “Show me which one.”

     Miss Burden licked her lips. “No, really, sir—!”

    “Miss Burden, I have led an active, practical life,” he said with a sigh. “I have wrung the necks of any number of dak-bungalow chickens, in my time. –I’m sorry, that was obscure: scrawny birds endemic to the soldiering life in India!” he said with a smothered laugh. “Likewise the odd duck, even though it be generally considered unsporting not to wound half a dozen in an effort to bring one down for the pot.”

    “Um—yes,” said Miss Burden, giving him a startled look.

    “I am a very decent shot, but in learning to be so I am in no doubt I inflicted a considerable amount of unnecessary pain on the animal part of creation,” he said calmly. “One does not think of such things, when one is young and male. And, er, used to hearing what a fine, stout boy one is, since infancy.”

    “No!” said Miss Burden with a startled laugh. “That is precisely it, I suppose! Though I have never before met a man who—who has been down the conventional route appointed for males in our society and emerged at the end of it actually thinking what he is about.”

    “Thank you,” he said drily. “But don’t erect me into a paragon, ma’am: I still slaughter ’em. But I try to do so only for the pot, and to make it a clean kill.”

    “Yes. Well, one must eat.” Miss Burden opened the back door, which in their little house led directly into the kitchen. “What about foxes?” she said with a frown.

    “I am trying not to think about foxes, ma’am,” replied Lord Sleyven evenly. “Do not say it is cowardly of me: I know it. Show me this hen.”

    Silently Miss Burden led the way. She avoided looking into her volunteer’s face. In the short while it took them to arrive at the hen-run she had more than enough time to wish several things, of which one was certainly that she was not dressed in these frightful old rags. Also in there somewhere was the thought that he could not be all bad if Timmy had let him help him with his algebra without a murmur, and the other thought that he was very definitely not unintelligent. There was also, very loud, the speculation, Why on earth had he come? Miss Burden’s mind instantly suggested several answers to this last, none of which seemed at all likely except the one which, oddly, appealed the least: that he was bored at Maunsleigh and on this particular morning had had nothing better to do.

    “Which one is for the pot?” he asked mildly.

    “That one. Anne.”

    “Not Adelaide?”

    “No: that’s Adelaide, the one with the dotty air about her. Um—well, no. Polly is devoted to the creature, it had really better not be her.”

    “This thick-witted male could kill the wrong one by mistake,” he said, straight-faced.

    “Actually, that had occurred to me: you are very sharp, sir,” said Miss Burden, swallowing. “No, there would be floods of tears, and she would refuse to eat it. It must be Anne.”

    The Earl nodded. The Burdens’ hen-run had only a low fence: he reached over it, plucked Anne up, and wrung her neck.

    “Help,” said Miss Burden limply.

    “I’m sorry: perhaps I should not have done it in front of you?”

    “No: that’s quite all right. –It was horridly quick,” she admitted.

    “The unexpected death is the merciful one. Want me to draw and pluck it?”

    “Certainly not, thank you, Lord Sleyven,” said Miss Burden, turning very red all of a sudden. For, she was quite aware, no logical reason at all! “You have done far too much already.”

    “Very well, then. They are not laying, I conclude?”

    “What? Oh—no,” she said limply, leading the way back to the house. Again, during the short trip, her mind was not inactive. It did not, however, come up with anything sensible.

    “I must not keep you,” she said when they were back in the kitchen, drawing a deep breath. “Thank you very much for the parasol, and for killing Anne. Oh, and for the algebra.” Firmly she held out her hand.

    “I shall send you some good layers,” he said, bowing over it.

    “No!” gasped Miss Burden.

    “Why not?” He allowed her to show him out into the passage but said as he picked up his hat: “Oh, by the way, do you know anything of the adventures of a pig named Ronald?”

    Miss Burden’s jaw dropped. After an appreciable pause she managed to croak: “If you mean our Ronald, sir, we sent him to market.”

    “Mm. I think you have three nephews, is that right?”

    She nodded limply and croaked: “Lord Sleyven, how in the world do you know about Ronald?”

    “I encountered him on his way to market.”—Miss Burden just stared at him.—“Charles tells me that your sister-in-law is a widow and that the boys have no-one in the position of uncle or so forth to discipline them.”

    “What did they do?” she asked in a hollow voice.

    “It would be unsporting of me to tell you. It was not very dreadful, but it was certainly silly. And that is all I shall say. Except that the older ones should be at school.”

    Miss Burden took a deep breath. “I see. You mean that a houseful of women cannot control them. We know that, sir. But they are not bad boys. And Mr Waldgrave is a—a disciplinary influence in their lives.”

    “And it is none of my business: quite,” he murmured. “I enjoyed the algebra. May I ask what you intend to do with Anne?”

    “Soup: she’s so old and scrawny that—“ She broke off, and gave him an annoyed look.

    “I shall think of your chicken soup this evening when my chef serves up some over-sauced monstrosity. I thought I was coming home to good solid English roasts,” he said with a sigh.

    “Well, for Heaven’s sake! It is your house: order up some nice plain roasts!”

    “Mm, I shall try. But I fear it will hurt his feelings.”

    “If you seriously mean that,” said Miss Burden, taking a deep breath, “then perhaps you could try telling him that your liver has been affected by the harsh Indian climate—”

    “—And needs a plain diet!” he said with a laugh. “Yes! What a genius you are, Miss Burden! Thank you!” He bowed, opened the door, and was gone.

    Miss Burden sagged limply in the hallway.

    There was, of course, absolutely no hope of Timmy’s holding his tongue about the day’s doings. Miss Burden, though admitting her own cowardice to herself, lurked in the kitchen upon her niece’s and sister-in-law’s return.

    “Midge,” said Mrs Burden, coming into the kitchen with a laugh: “who on earth called this morning? Timmy is full of some nonsense about ‘another colonel’ who showed him how to do his algebra and claimed to have been in India with Colonel Langford!”

    “Mm,” said Miss Burden, clearing her throat. “Er—yes, that is quite true.”

    “But surely— Unless another old friend from India has come to stay at Maunsleigh? But it seems a little odd that Colonel Langford did not accompany him, if he came to call.”

    “Ye— Um—no. Not another old friend,” said Midge hoarsely. “It was him.”

    Mrs Burden stared at her. “Who, ‘him’, Midgey?”

    “It was the Earl, and don’t ask me why, and I think he must be either mad or bored to death or both, but he not only helped Timmy with his algebra, he killed Anne for the soup! And don’t ask me why I let him do it, because I shall never know!”

    Mrs Burden gulped, and had to hold onto the edge of table. “Lord Sleyven called here?”

    “Yes! Well, I would not call it calling, as such, since it was scarce gone nine.” Miss Burden took a deep breath. “As I say, I think he is mad.”

    After a moment a twinkle appeared in Lettice’s eye. “Midgey, was that your old parasol I saw in the hall as we came in?”

    “He brought it back, and don’t look at me like that, Lettice: he made some poor unfortunate groom go climbing trees after it! And don’t dare to try to pretend it was a morning call, no-one makes stupid morning calls at nine in the morning!” Miss Burden turned away to the stove and stirred the soup fiercely.

    Smiling, Mrs Burden went quietly away to change out of her outdoor things. It might not have been a morning call, no. But returning Midge’s parasol in person? And then, helping Timmy with his schoolwork and volunteering to kill a hen for Midge? Well! One must not read too much into it, but it certainly did seem as if he was— Well, for one thing, he must be as unconventional as Midgey herself! And—well, possibly as struck by her as she seemed to be by him? It was perhaps the passing interest of an idle moment, but...

    Lettice went upstairs, her brain weaving delightful castles in the air. Both of them, and the two friends? Why not, stranger things had happened—and after all, an earl was but a man!

    “Mrs Burden, ma’am, if you please, it’s a ’eathen Chinee at the door!” gulped Harbottle, two days later.

    Mrs Burden laid down her work. “In Lower Nettlefold? I hardly think so, Harbottle.”

    “’E’s yeller as Miss Polly’s curls, ma’am!”

    “Oh. Er—what does he want?”

    “’E’s got a load of ’ens, and I says to ’im, we don’t want no ’eathen ’ens, but ’e says as ’ow they’re for Miss Burden, Mrs Burden, ma’am! Under orders!”

    “Under— Oh,” said Mrs Burden slowly, rising. “I will see him, Harbottle. Is he come to the front or the back?”

    “Well, ’e is at the back, Mrs Burden, ma’am, only that don’t mean ’e ain’t no ’eathen!”

    The man at the back door was—well, brownish-yellowish? Mrs Burden had never seen a Chinaman but she did not think they looked like this man. He was neatly dressed and bowed politely when he saw her.

    “Good morning; I am Mrs Burden. Harbottle tells me you have some hens for sale, is that correct?”

    “Good morning, madam. Is not correct.” he said, bowing again. “I am delivering hens to Miss Burden, madam.”

    “I see. Miss Burden is not in, just at the moment. May I ask who sent you?”

    “I am to say hens are excellent layers, Mrs Burden.”

    Colonel Langford had once let slip that Lord Sleyven had a particular sense of humour—Lettice had suspected at the time that he was not in the best of moods with his friend. She had to bite her lip a little. “I am sure they are, and we shall be very glad of them. Please will you convey thanks from both Miss Burden and myself to—er—your master?”

    “Certainly, madam. Thank you very much, madam.”

    “Be silent, Harbottle,” said Lettice firmly as Harbottle tried to tell her the hens were no doubt devil-cursed. “Will you show this man the hen-run, please, and help him put the hens in it? And then I think you may offer him a little refreshment. –Thank you again, and good morning to you,” she said, smiling at him.

    He bowed and replied, in accents of heartfelt relief: “Thank you, madam!”

    Lettice retreated hurriedly before she could openly laugh.

    “Where did those fat black hens come from?” gasped Midge.

    “I have no notion. A mysterious stranger, who bore the appearance of a groom or some such, delivered them to our doorstep. He said he was charged with a message to you that they are excellent layers,” replied her sister-in-law blandly.

    Midge’s cheeks had already been noticeably pink. Now they turned fiery red.

    “Before you say anything, he refused to tell me who the donor was.”

    “They are Maunsleigh hens!” she choked.

    “We have no proof of that, Midge.”

    “Maunsleigh has always had black hens!” she choked.

    “So they say in the village, yes. But as I say, we have no proof at all of their provenance. And as Annabel and Azimuth are stewing in a casserole at this moment—”

    But Miss Burden, choking indignantly, had rushed out.

    Lettice leaned back in her chair and laughed.

Next chapter:

https://thepatchworkparasol.blogspot.com/2022/12/not-good-news.html