Not Good News

6

Not Good News

    Lower Nettlefold, that week, had three topics of great interest to discuss; firstly, there was the promised strawberry picknick at Verne Lea: most of the neighbourhood had not as yet been privileged to inspect Mr Patterson’s famed strawberry gardens; secondly, there was the fact that Miss Burden had been sent a load of hens from Maunsleigh by the hand of the new Lord’s own groom; and, thirdly, there was the news that Sir William and Lady Ventnor had a lady visitor who was reputed to be well known at Rennwood!

    Those who had never heard of Rennwood and frankly admitted as much could not work up much enthusiasm, it must be admitted, for this third item; and of course the Burdens’ neighbours and supporters, ranging in status and notoriety from such as Mrs Fred Watts or old Biddle through to Miss Humphreys, Lacey Somerton, or the elderly sisters, Mrs Kinwell and Miss Platt, tended to maintain that the second topic was the most exciting, for of course Lord Sleyven must have given the order in person! Those who did not know the Burdens so well, or did not like them so well, or had daughters to marry off who were not so pretty as Polly Burden tended to maintain that, in the first instance, if Miss Burden expected anything more than a load of fat black hens from that direction she was in for a disappointment; and that in the second instance, a true lady would have known better than to accept them. It was largely this latter group who greeted the news of the visitor at Nettlefold Hall with every evidence of gratification: a lady known at Rennwood! My!

    It very soon became known that the visitor was a Mrs Marsh, a widowed lady who had connexions in Nettleford. Not all the persons who found this additional piece of information of interest rushed off immediately to Nettlefold Hall to verify it, however: after all, the squire’s lady was—well, the squire’s lady.

    Mrs Cartwright, however, had called; according to Miss Burden she would have done so had she been the merest pauper. She was not, however, but the possessor of a handsome house known as Dinsley Airs, situated near to, though not in, Dinsley Dell, halfway between Lower and Upper Nettlefold. Certain persons felt that since Mrs Cartwright had called to inspect Lady Ventnor’s guest, there was little need of anyone else’s doing so, and perhaps there was some justification for this feeling.

    “I would say she is forty-five years of age,” pronounced Mrs Cartwright judiciously. “Very definitely not in the first blush, but one would have to concede, a remarkably handsome woman, with an excellent taste in dress.”

    “And who was Mr Marsh, Mrs Cartwright?” asked Mrs Somerton. “—Pray try this sponge cake, Mrs Burden, I think you will find it to your taste.”

    Lettice took a slice politely, silently hoping that the topic “Sponge” would not lead inevitably to the topic “Eggs” and thence to the topic “Hens.”

    Graciously Mrs Cartwright explained: “A gentleman of means, one gathers, Mrs Somerton: Mrs Marsh was left very well provided for. One believes they lived much in India before her widowhood.”

    “You do not mean he was a nabob, do you, Mrs Cartwright?” said Lettice with her pleasant smile.

    Mrs Cartwright was actually seen to hesitate; a pity there was no way of preserving the moment for posterity, reflected Mrs Burden. “Well—perhaps something along those lines, yes. But of a highly respected family: the Marshes of Derbyshire.”

    Thanking her lucky stars that Midge had not accompanied her on this visit, for she would have been incapable of refraining from something along the lines of not having known that Derbyshire was a marshy county, Mrs Burden replied politely: “I do not think I have heard of the family.”

    “My dear Mrs Burden,” returned Mrs Cartwright, as from an immense height: “Rennwood.”

    Fortunately Lettice’s further ignorance did not have to be displayed, for Mrs Somerton immediately said: “So this Mrs Marsh is a connexion of Sir Paul Marsh of Rennwood?”

    “Certainly. Lady Ventnor of course knows Sir Paul and Lady Marsh quite well, through her sister, Mrs Hershey,” acknowledged Mrs Cartwright.

    “Of course,” agreed Mrs Somerton.

    Mrs Cartwright inclined her head majestically. “One apprehends that the late Mr Marsh was Sir Paul’s uncle.”

    “Indeed?”

    “Uncle?” echoed Lettice limply. If Mrs Marsh was but forty-five—though of course it was not impossible.

    “Indeed.” Mrs Cartwright paused to pronounce majestic approval of Mrs Somerton’s sponge cake. “His father’s younger brother, but he would have been eighty when he died.”

    Mrs Somerton glanced at Mrs Burden and raised her eyebrows.

    “Then—twice Mrs Marsh’s age?” said Lettice weakly.

    “Quite. One gathers the Marshes were not best pleased at the match. But then, he must have been supposed to have been old enough to know his own mind, when they married.”

    The ladies agreed to this and Mrs Cartwright imparted the further piece of information that Mrs Marsh had a grown son and daughter, but they were not with her, on this visit.

    “Highly edifying!” concluded Midge with a laugh when Lettice returned home and reported.

    “Yes. Er—Midgey, have you ever heard of Rennwood?”

    “No!” said Miss Burden, laughing. “I? Of course not!”

    Mrs Burden smiled weakly.

    The squire cleared his throat. “Nice day for a ride.”

    “Certainly, Sir William,” agreed the Colonel politely.

    The squire cleared his throat again. “Was just—uh—ridin’ out, y’know. Round and about. Um—headin’ for Lower Nettlefold, are you, Langford?”

    The gentlemen had encountered each other on the road to Lower Nettlefold. Colonel Langford was intending to call on Mrs Burden. Certainly the squire had been coming cross-country, but he had not, at least to the Colonel’s eye, presented the appearance of a man riding aimlessly over the countryside. He agreed politely that he himself was headed for the village.

    The squire cleared his throat yet again. “Fortunate coincidence, really.”

    “Indeed?” said the Colonel politely, now very much on his guard .

    “Yes—um—wanted a word.”

    “Yes?”

    Licking his lips, Sir William said uneasily: “Gather you’ve known Sleyven for some time?”

    The Colonel rejoined evenly: “Since we were boys at school.”

    “Mm. Uh— Look, Langford, supposing I was to say ‘Rennwood’ to you, would that mean anythin’?” he said on a desperate note.

    “I believe it is a large place in—er—Derbyshire, is it?”

    “Yes. Belongs to a fellow called Marsh. Sir Paul Marsh.”

    “I’m afraid I do not know— Marsh?”

    Swallowing, the squire said jerkily: “That’s it, aye. Sir Paul. Think you might have met his late uncle. Went out to India. Bit of a nabob. Michael Marsh.”

    Colonel Langford took a deep breath. “I think I understand, Sir William. Are you trying to indicate that Jarvis’s sins have come home to haunt him?”

    “That’s it, aye,” he agreed, wincing. “Respectable enough now, though. Well, Sir Paul and Lady M. are recognisin’ her, y’know.”

    “Are they, indeed?”

    “Yes. Well, lettin’ bygones be bygones. Wealthy widow now, ain’t she?”

    “So I believe.”

    “Yes—um, thing is, her La’ship’s sister is a neighbour.”

     “I’m sorry, Sir William, I don’t understand.”

    “Her La’ship’s sister: Mrs Hershey. Lives near to Rennwood. Don’t like to offend Sir Paul and Lady M.”

    “No-o...”

    “Got the damned woman staying with us. Damned sorry, Langford,” he said glumly.

    Charles Langford gulped. “Kitty Marsh is staying with you, Sir William?”

    “Aye. I told her La’ship it could offend,” he said, very red and desperate, “but you know what the women are! Said we should never be received at Rennwood again if she slighted—”

    “I quite understand, Sir William,” said the Colonel grimly. “How long is Mrs Marsh to be with you, may I ask?”

    “Oh, only a week, dear fellow. Goin’ on over to Nettleford after that to call on her cousin, George Cunningham, then back to Rennwood.”

    “I see. Thank you for telling me.”

    “Thought you’d best be warned,” he said glumly. “Dare say you might drop a word in Sleyven’s ear, hey?”

    The Colonel gave him a somewhat ironic look, though he could not blame the fellow for not wishing to break the news to Jarvis in person. “Aye, I’ll do that. Thanks again, Ventnor.”

    Looking most relieved, Sir William told him he was a dashed good fellow, assured him the “damned female” would not be spending above a week at the Hall, and rode off in the direction of his home. Evidently his mission was accomplished.

    The Colonel hesitated, but finally turned his horse’s head for Maunsleigh. Somehow, the sunlight seemed to have gone out of the day.

    ... “I see,” said the Earl grimly.

    “It’ll be a fishing expedition, Jarvis.”

    “Will it, indeed? Then she will return from it with an empty creel,” he said grimly.

    Lettice could not imagine why Lady Ventnor, having called at Bluebell Dell—unusual in itself—had then urged her humble self to drive out with her. She had, however, accepted the invitation. After quite some time it became apparent that her Ladyship wished to talk of her visitor. Lettice had to repress a sigh: she had no interest in Rennwood. However, she listened politely. Gradually she was overtaken by a sort of sinking feeling. Surely her Ladyship could not be hinting—? But she had mentioned India at least three times, now, with the most extraordinary expression on her face: definitely embarrassment, but also a sort of... prurient glee?

    “Three children? Indeed?” she said with an effort.

    Lady Ventnor nodded. “The younger girl is but thirteen years of age. They were all born in India, of course.”

    That made four times. “Oh?” said Lettice feebly.

    “Yes. Er—Sir Paul and Lady Marsh would not care for it, if were to indicate I should prefer not to receive Mrs Marsh,” she said apologetically.

    “Er—no,” said Lettice lamely. “Of course.”

    “One cannot but be glad that she has settled down to quiet domesticity and impressed dear Mrs Cartwright so with her respectable appearance. But between ourselves, there was a period when Lady Marsh refused to receive her at Rennwood.”

    “Really?” croaked Lettice.

    Lady Ventnor put her over-smart blue silk bonnet very close to Lettice’s simple straw and said in a much lowered voice: “My dear Mrs Burden, of course I would not dream of mentioning it to, shall we say, Mrs Cartwright: women of her generation who have lived nowhere but in these tiny country districts all their lives are so apt to react to such matters with over-prudishness, are they not? But I feel— Well, normally one would not mention it: after all, such things happen in the best of families.”

    Lettice now felt she might scream if the woman did not just out with what she meant. “Yes?” she said faintly.

    Her Ladyship licked her lips nervously. “It is understandable in a way: the husband being so much older. Let us say, he was tolerant, and she was... not entirely discreet.” She paused. “The son, of course, is his.”

    Lettice went very white. “I see. And the daughters?”

    Lady Ventnor brushed nervously at her skirt. “Er—well!” she said with an uneasy laugh, “India is vast, you know, and Mr Marsh’s business interests meant that he travelled very much... One concludes that there was more than one gentleman.”

    “Yes?” she said, gripping her hands very tightly in her lap.

    Lady Ventnor cleared her throat. “Lady Marsh herself told me this, dear Mrs Burden, so I fear there is very little likelihood of its being wrong; and as I said, normally one would not mention it, for after all, one does not expect a man of his years to have lived like a monk.”

    Lettice felt very sick. “No,” she agreed faintly.

    “But there is certainly no doubt that the relationship lasted eight years, and was broken off five years since. My sister writes she is a tall girl: that would follow, he is a tall man.”

    Lettice was incapable of speech, though she did reflect confusedly that Colonel Langford was only of average height.

    “I—I am telling you this,” said Lady Ventnor, suddenly sounding very unsure of herself, and putting a hand on Lettice’s knee, “so as you may warn Miss Burden. Not that one has heard he is a libertine, and I am sure it is no such thing!” she added hastily.

    Lettice stared at her. “What can you mean?” she said faintly.

    Her Ladyship swallowed. “There can be no doubt that Lord Sleyven is the younger Marsh girl’s father.”

    Lettice’s jaw dropped.

    “Well, yes!” she said with a would-be airy laugh. “As I say, one cannot expect him to have lived like a monk, and I think, between ourselves, we can admit that he is not an unattractive man!”

    After a moment Lettice said very faintly: “Yes.”

    “As I say, one could not slight Sir Paul and Lady Marsh... I think there can be very little doubt as to why she is here: she means to catch him, now that she is free, Mrs Burden.”

    Mrs Burden took a deep breath. “Very like.”

    “Er—one waltz and a few hens from Maunsleigh of course mean nothing, to a man of his wealth and consequence.”

    “No,” agreed Lettice grimly.

    “But—well, as I say, he is very far from being a libertine. I would not say there is any danger, precisely. And he, at least, had no ties when he was in India.”

    “What? Oh, I see: no legal ties. No, very true.”

    Lady Ventnor cleared her throat. “She is said to have given him every encouragement.”

    “Which he duly accepted.”

    “Er—yes,” she said, somewhat disconcerted. “Well, you know what men are, dear Mrs Burden. But your little sister-in-law... Well, I do not wish to presume to advise you. But in your shoes, I think I should warn her, tactfully, you know, to be on her guard a little.”

    Lettice could not for the life of her tell if the woman was warning her out of pure malice, or if she was genuinely concerned for Midge’s virtue and happiness. Well, the motives of most human beings at any point in time were undoubtedly somewhat mixed and would not bear too close a scrutiny. Lady Ventnor was no better or worse than her peers, after all.

    “Thank you. I shall,” she said faintly.

    After a moment Lady Ventnor patted her knee. “It is nothing, after all!”

    “Mm.”

    ... “Cat,” said Lettice sourly to herself as she took her bonnet off. Perhaps understandably, her earlier charitable sentiments towards the squire’s lady had worn off somewhat.

    “Who, Mamma?” asked Polly, popping her head into her mother’s room.

    “Oh—nothing, darling. Just something Lady Ventnor said. Um, where is your Aunty Midge?”

    “She has gone for a walk—with you will never guess whom!” said Polly with a loud giggle.

    Mrs Burden turned very white and gripped the edge of her dressing-table tightly. “Who?”

    Polly had not noticed her mother’s disturbance. “Mr Pryce-Cavell! Is it not hilarious? I am persuaded he affects her! If Lady Ventnor was cattish to you, Mamma, I am sure that is why! She and Sir William would not care for the connection.”

    “Very likely not. But it is not hilarious, and I forbid you to tease your aunt about it,” she said grimly.

    Polly’s jaw dropped.

    “I can only pray that he does affect her, and that Midge can feel something for him.”

    Polly gaped at her. After a moment she said uncertainly: “But Mamma, he has not even sent her a dozen hens, as yet.”

    “That is NOT AMUSING, Polly Burden!” she shouted, forthwith bursting into overwrought tears.

    “Mamma, what on earth is the matter?” gasped Polly, rushing up and grasping her hands firmly.

    Mrs Burden sobbed on her little daughter’s shoulder, but refused to tell her what the matter was.

    “Is it—is it something about Colonel Langford?” said Polly in a low voice.

    “No,” said Mrs Burden, blowing her nose. “Though I dare swear he is as bad as all the rest.”

    “Then—then what, Mamma?”

    “Nothing. Um—Lady Ventnor has—has heard a story to the discredit of a certain lady and a certain gentlem—”

    “If she were not mean as sin she would have told Sir William to send us some of those Golden Spangled Hamburgs of his long since, and it would never have happened!” she cried angrily.

    Lettice had to swallow: true, Sir William was known in the district as a poultry-fancier, but— “Polly, dearest, do pray stop talking of poultry. It—it was nothing to do with that. A—another lady.”

    Polly was apparently satisfied by this reply and did not, to her mother’s relief, enquire if, then, it had been the same gentleman.

    Mrs Burden went downstairs, deaf to her daughter’s cheerful chatter, and automatically took up her work. Should she tell Midge? Or would that be merely to fulfil Lady Ventnor’s spiteful intentions? But if she did not tell her... Not that it was really likely that Lord Sleyven seriously admired their funny little old Midgey. But then, if Midge were suddenly to hear it from someone else... Dear, oh, dear: what a dilemma! Lettice tried unavailingly to put herself in Midge’s shoes. Would she want to know?

    No, well, there was no doubt that one ought to want to know, but that was a very different kettle of fish! Um... Ugh.

    Young Mr Crayshaw came into the Earl’s study. looking respectful. “My Lord, if I might have a word—?”

    “Certainly,” said the Earl in a vague voice. He put down the papers he was going through. “What is it?”

    “It is the question of a trust,” said Colonel Langford’s nephew cautiously to his new employer.

    “Mm?”

    “The J.P. Marsh Trust, my Lord.”

    “Jonathon, I have told you there is no need to address me as ‘my Lord.’ What of the J.P. Marsh Trust?”

    “Er—do I have it correctly that this transfer of funds into the trust is to be made solely from your personal income and not from any—any Wynton funds, so to speak?”

    “Not out of the estate: that is correct, yes.”

    “Er—yes, sir,” he said, looking uncertain. “Though the trusts for your cousin Josiah Wynton’s children are all to come out of estate funds.”

    “They are in a different case,” he said coolly.

    “Yes. I suppose— Well, so long as you continue to do your personal business through Harris & Swayne... But Lockett’s has handled Wynton money for a very long time: would it not be convenient to—”

    “The present arrangement is more convenient to me. You will find that the allowance to my sister Maggie also is paid through Harris & Swayne.”

    “Er—yes. Yes, of course. Well, that settles that, then, sir.” Mr Crayshaw smiled diffidently and bowed himself out.

    The Earl scarcely noticed him go. He got up, walked slowly over to the window, and gazed out blankly at a view of smooth green lawn. The J.P. Marsh Trust settled a sum of money on his daughter, Jennifer, the which he had just increased, and in addition paid a quarterly allowance to her mother for her keep. Not that Kitty Marsh had ever needed the money—but that was not the point.

    Jarvis had meant what he had said some time back to Charles Langford. He had no intention whatsoever of marrying Kitty. He owed her nothing, and he had long since ceased to—well, it had never truly fallen within the definition of love. Certainly it had been an overwhelming physical attraction. But gradually over the eight years disgust had outweighed the desire.

    Perhaps, Jarvis Wynton recognised now, grimacing, one never really outgrew the desire. But with women as self-centred as Kitty Marsh it was almost inevitable that there should come a time when the most infatuated male came to his senses sufficiently to recognise that the desire and its satisfaction were no longer enough. It had certainly been so with him. Kitty’s greed extended not only to such matters as marrying a man thirty years her elder for his fortune—though perhaps that would have been enough to give him a distaste for her, in the end. But Jarvis had discovered that in the long periods when he was unable to be with her Kitty’s favours had been extended to other men. They fell into two categories only: those who were pretty and young, and those who were rich. Whether she had already been hunting for a prospective second husband at that period he neither knew nor cared, though he had his suspicions.

    Another man would have broken the thing off without bothering to inform the lady he was no longer interested. Or yet another type of man might have written her a curt note. Jarvis Wynton had been to see her in person. Once it had dawned he was serious, Kitty had not scrupled to fly into a screaming rage, accusing him of, amongst other things, parsimony, jealousy, failure to perform in bed— Every sort of accusation the Kitty Marshes of the world tend to fling around when their tempers are lost to the point where they no longer care what a man may think of them. Jarvis had been in no doubt at all that, though much of it was simply rage at losing a conquest, some of it represented opinions that she had been careful to conceal from him those last eight years. He had not lost his temper in return—though he had been so very angry that he had been incapable of realising that his not doing so was enraging her even more. He had merely said coldly: “I shall see that little Jenny never lacks for anything. Good-day.” And gone.

    Since then Kitty had made three attempts to get him back, but as they had all come after kind friends had informed her of his imminent expectations, Jarvis had not been impressed. Now he reflected grimly that he might have known the bitch would not let it rest. Well, he meant what he had said to Charles: Kitty’s expedition into the neighbourhood was doomed to failure, and one could only hope, he thought, staring bleakly out at the smooth lawns of Maunsleigh, that Ventnor and his wife would have the decency to keep what they knew of the tale to themselves.

    “Midgey,” said Lettice bravely, going into her sister-in-law’s room: “I need to tell you something, dearest, and—and please be very good and just hear me out quietly.”

    Midge was already in bed. She sat up and looked at her in astonishment. “Of course. No—wait!” she said, her face lighting up. “Is it—”

    “It is not good news of any kind,” said Lettice, taking a deep breath. “Just listen.”

    Midge listened. Mrs Burden put it as tactfully as she could, stressing the fact that Lord Sleyven—Colonel Wynton, as he must have been then, of course—had been a free agent, and that the life in India must have been a very lonely one for him. Midge’s colour gradually faded and she looked very sick by the time Mrs Burden concluded: “These things happen, my dearest: it is human nature. But I would not have liked you to hear it from anyone else.”

    “No,” she said tightly. “Are you sure?”

    “Yes, Midgey, dearest,” said Lettice very gently. “Don’t try to persuade yourself that the part which relates to Lord Sleyven is made up. I can credit Lady Ventnor with that much spite, just: though she is so very indolent that I think she would have to be most strongly stirred to exert herself so far as to exercise it. But recollect that such a story must, if anything, turn you rather towards her husband’s nephew.”

    Midge looked at her blankly. Quite, quite blankly. Lettice’s heart sank.

    “My dear,” she said, getting up: “try not to refine too much on it. That sort of thing is, after all, a part of the male nature.”

    “How would you feel, Letty, if it were Colonel Langford in question?” she said in a hard voice.

    Mrs Burden went very pink but said honestly: “Bitter, I think: I would not care to discover that he had feet of clay. But one cannot expect men of—of their age to be pure young boys.”

    “No. Thank you. Good-night,” said Midge grimly.

    Lettice bit her lip, but picked up her candle and went silently away.

    Miss Burden did not indulge in the expected burst of tears. She lay back against her pillows and gazed grimly into the dark for a long time.

    “What is it, Tonkins?” said the Earl as his groom came into his study and stood respectfully before the desk.

    Tonkins, of course, spoke excellent English. Nevertheless he replied in Hindustanee: “It is not good news, huzzoor.”

    “Go on,” replied the Earl levelly in the same language, not bothering to tell him not to use that ridiculous term of address: Tonkins had adopted it since he inherited the title, and trying to move Tonkins in anything relating to his employer’s consequence was like trying to move the Himalayas themselves.

    “The chota memsahib has returned the black hens, huzzoor.”

    A flush rose to Jarvis Wynton’s high cheekbones. “What?”

    Although he had not, of course, been privileged to hand over the hens to Miss Burden in person, Tonkins had since made it his business to find out exactly who she was and what she was like, and to observe her unobtrusively, as often as he could, as she went about her daily affairs. The Earl had concluded, after his loyal servant had twice referred to her in his hearing as “the little memsahib” that Tonkins must approve of her.

     Now the man said hurriedly: “I beg the huzzoor’s pardon. Burden Missy.”

    “Never mind that. When did this happen?” he said grimly, the nostrils flaring.

    “Just now, huzzoor,” said Tonkins glumly.

    The Earl had half risen. “You mean she’s brought them herself?”

   “No, huzzoor. She sent a man: I think he’s the mali at Bluebell Dell.”

    His lips tightened. He sank back into his seat. “I see. Was there any note?”

    Miserably Tonkins held it out.

    It was unsealed: merely a folded sheet. Lord Sleyven was in no doubt that Tonkins would have read it: in the way of the good Indian servant, everything that was his master’s business was his business. It was not prying, it was that he felt he had both a right and a need to know.

    He spread it out and read it through silently.

    Miss Burden wishes to inform Lord Sleyven that the household at Bluebell Dell has no need of his hens, his charity or his notice.

    Miss Burden recognises that the gesture was no doubt kindly meant.

    There was no signature. The writer’s pen had dug right into the paper on the M of “meant”—rather as if writing that last sentence had nigh to choked her: yes.

    The Earl stared at this unkind missive for some time, his long mouth very bitter. Tonkins watched him silently.

    Finally he said  “What do you make of it, Tonkins?”

    “The chota memsahib was very angry when she wrote it, I think, sahib.” He paused. “At first she accepted the huzzoor’s hens,” he noted.

    “Quite. I do not imagine she accepted them precisely graciously, but at least she accepted them.”

    “Yes, sahib. –I am very sure that Burden Begum knew who sent them, though of course I followed the huzzoor’s instructions and did not say.”

    “I know,” he murmured.

    Tonkins watched him anxiously.

    The Earl took a deep breath. “Tonkins, have you said anything at all about Marsh Memsahib to anyone?”

    “No, huzzoor!” he cried indignantly.

    “No, I am sure you have not. I beg your pardon.”

    “There is no need to beg this humble syce’s pardon, huzzoor, great zemindar—”

    “Be quiet.”

    Tonkins stopped.

    The Earl drummed his fingers on the desk. “Someone must have told her! There is no other explanation! Why else should she change her mind about the damned birds?”

    “I think so, too, huzzoor,” he said respectfully.

    “Mm.” The Earl gave him a sharp look. “Come on, let’s have your theory.”

    “There was a day—” He stopped.

    Even though the phrase indicated that his faithful servant was about to fail into a narrative style, the which could well result in their spending the rest of the afternoon in the study, the Earl said grimly: “Go on.”

    There was a day when the birds had sung and the sun had shone, though not like it shone in the land of the pomegranate and the rose, where the girls were as ripe as the fruit of the pomegranate tree itself, when the great zemindar had had no need for the services of the humble syce, and so the humble syce had ridden out on the spotted pony to explore the zemindaree of the gharib-parwav.

    “In what direction did the humble syce go?” asked the defender of the poor grimly.

    Tonkins said hurriedly: “Over towards Lower Nettlefold, because I had heard there was a Marsh Memsahib come to Nettlefold Hall and I wanted to see if it was the same bid—memsahib,” he amended hurriedly, encountering his employer’s eye.

    “And?”

    When on the spotted pony, riding past the chota bungalow of the chota memsahib, the humble syce had espied the carriage of Sir William Ventnor’s chief wife and in it the chief wife herself and Burden Begum.

    “Mrs Burden?” said the Earl sharply.

    It was so, huzzoor. The carriage had journeyed slowly towards the burra bungalow of the great zemindar, but had seemed to have no destination, for it had then returned to the chota bungalow. The two memsahibs had been observed by the humble syce, following on the spotted pony, to have their heads very close together. On alighting Burden Begum’s flowerlike face had looked as if the sky had rained great showers of—most upset, huzzoor.

    “Tonkins,” said the Earl grimly: “is there a point to this story?”

    “Yes, huzzoor, because I spoke to Sir William’s driver later, and he said he had not heard it all, but he had heard the great zemindar’s name mentioned, all respect to the gharib-parwav, huzzoor, and also the name of Marsh Memsahib.”

    The Earl winced. “Heard them mentioned together?”

    “Not that, sahib! And I was most careful not to give him an idea that there was a connection.”

    “Good,” he said with a sigh. “But what Ventnor Memsahib knows the whole of the county no doubt will in short order.

    “Yes, huzzoor.” He paused. “I did warn the huzzoor that it was not good news.”

    ‘You did, indeed,” said the Earl, chewing on his lip.

    Tonkins bowed. “I could speak to the chota memsahib.”

    “Thank you, Tonkins,” said the Earl weakly, trying to envisage it, in especial if Tonkins lapsed into his narrative flow, which he was as capable of sustaining in English as in Hindustanee, in front of Miss Burden. “But I am afraid she would not believe, or be prepared to listen to, anything that my own faithful servant might say in my defence.” –He would not perhaps have called Tonkins so in English, though of course it was true: the man would have died for him. But in Hindustanee it was more than acceptable—and the sort of embarrassment an Englishman might have felt was unknown to Tonkins.

    Sure enough, the man beamed all over his thin, unattractive face and thanked the burra zemindar fervently for his kind words, adding glumly that he was sure the huzzoor was right: the chota memsahib would not believe him.

    “No. –There is the additional point,” said the Earl grimly, getting up and walking away to the window. “that the damned story is wholly true.”

    “It is also wholly true that Marsh Memsahib is a—”

    “That’ll do.”

    Tonkins subsided.

    After a minute the Earl said painfully, staring blindly out at the lawn: “I know this may be difficult for you to grasp, Tonkins, because customs are so different at home. But the case is that though she is not a young girl, the little memsahib is—is a virgin,”—his voice shook—“and she does not understand at all about—about men and women.”

    “I can see that, sahib: it is written in her face.”

    “Yes.”

    “Which is like a rose in the morning after dawn, when the dew—”

    “That’ll do.”

    Tonkins subsided again.

    “Thank you for coming to me, Tonkins. Now, please go away, I have to think,” he said in a muffled voice.

    Even though the great zemindar had his back to his humble syce Tonkins bowed very, very low before going silently away.

    Jarvis sighed and leaned his forehead against the glass of the window. Although he had told the faithful Tonkins he had to think, it would not have been true to say he was doing so.

Next chapter:

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