Rural Enjoyment

14

Rural Enjoyment

    It was one thing, Jarvis found, to make up his mind that he would ask Miss Burden to be his wife, and quite another to get close enough to her to begin anything like a courtship. For a start, whenever Charles invited him to Kendlewood Place, Mrs Langford seemed not to have invited her. Either that or she had done so and Miss Burden had refused the invitation. Then, since he had come home she had been in mourning for Mrs Cartwright and was not attending large parties. Nevertheless, he determined to go to every damned thing for which he received an invitation, in the hopes that she might be there. For it would he infinitely better to meet her quietly in company, rather than—er—just march up to the house with a damned bunch of flowers in his fist. Jarvis winced at the picture this idea immediately created in his head of Miss Burden in her funny old black dress with that enchanting frill of coloured petticoat under it closing the front door of Bluebell Dell in his face.

    Dinner with the Pattersons seemed to be the first event on his social calendar. He doubted she would be there, but he went.

    She was not. Kitty Marsh, however, was, in low-cut black silk with pale apricot ribands: the dress was just so incredibly like that glorious outfit of Miss Burden’s that the Earl found himself wondering madly if the bitch had deliberately copied it. But how could she have seen Miss Burden in it? No, it must be a coincidence—of which, no doubt, all their fellow-diners were aware. True, the spray of apricot feathers on the head bore no resemblance to anything Miss Burden had ever worn. Nor the pin of diamonds that was holding it, either. Doubtless there was no-one in the room save himself and Kitty, except possibly Major Harrod, who was aware that Jarvis had bought it for her in his most besotted phase; nevertheless he writhed.

    Kitty knew he was writhing. She was not seated next him, but very nearly opposite, and although she appeared blandly unaware of him, seethed with a mixture of spite and desire throughout the meal.

    The evening was largely spent at cards. Kitty was aware he was avoiding her. At least he was not cutting her, however: they had spoken politely and with an affectation of disinterest on both sides. Kitty, teeth gritted, had turned away before he did.

    To make matters worse, His Highness Prince Alexei Alexandrovich Petrovsky, though he bowed very low over her hand as they were introduced and gave her a look which unmistakeably betokened an awakening of interest, was either unable or unwilling to spend any time in her company. And Kitty, to her chagrin, could not determine which it was. She was at one whist table, he at another, and when his broke up he sat down to piquet with Mr Patterson.

    “That was thrillin’,” drawled Captain Cornwallis with a glint in his eye, as the last of his sister’s guests departed. “La Marsh did not know which of ’em to flaunt it at, did she? But strikes me, they was both ignorin’ her!”

    “That is not amusing, Leonard. And I do think you could have made a push to bring Commander Sir Arthur down!” said his sister crossly.

    Captain Cornwallis replied with a yawn: “Told you, he’s sulkin’, now that the Portuguese Widow’s taken Stamforth. Besides, Charlotte and Rosalind are too skinny for him.”

    “Do not be coarse.”

    “I’m not being coarse, Winifred, I’m stating a fact. You cannot force a preference.”

    “He’s right,” said Mr Patterson drily.

    Captain Cornwallis yawned again. “So what else have you got lined up, for this summer? ’Nother strawberry thingummyjig?”

    “Their season is nearly over,” said Mrs Patterson impatiently. “We are to have a dance, later. And several more dinners.”

    “Jolly good..”

    “La Marsh is throwin’ a dinner and dance,” offered Mr Patterson.

    “Oh, good show!” he choked.

    Mr Patterson grinned. “Doubt if Sleyven will be there.”

    “No!” he choked.

    “Nor will the Russky, if he has any sense. –Don’t play cards with him, by the by.”

    “And why not?” said Mrs Patterson crossly.

    “Because he’s the nearest thing to a sharp I’ve seen this side of the hells!” he replied with feeling.

    Captain Cornwallis raised his eyebrows, and looked thoughtful.

    “You are talking rubbish, Percival,” said his wife. “His Highness, as you must have seen for yourself, Leonard, is a perfectly gentlemanly person.”

    Mr Patterson noted neutrally to his brother-in-law: “Not interested, as far as one can ascertain, in skinny girls, though,” and Captain Cornwallis choked again.

    Her colour very much heightened, Mrs Patterson walked out and left the pair of them to it.

    Mrs Somerton’s “informal” picknick was the next item on the agenda. Even though it would no doubt turn out to be as unbearably formal as the damned Verne Lea strawberry thing last year, the Earl got into riding dress and got upon his horse. Young Mr Crayshaw had also received an invitation, so he told him off to get himself into his breeches, too. Mr Crayshaw, quite evidently in a terrific state of nerves, was unable to speak, or at least not sensibly, during the ride over to Plumbways, but Jarvis was not, in any case, in a mood for conversation.

    When they got there a collection of persons were gathered on the gravel sweep outside the house, on horseback or in open vehicles, and they realised, with considerable relief at least on the young man’s part, that it was, indeed, to be an informal rural party: riding dress was quite correct. After a somewhat confused period in which greetings were exchanged, heads counted and, on the part of the ladies, seats or even vehicles exchanged, they set off. It was not a very large party, consisting of, as to the older gentlemen, Mr Somerton, the Vicar, and the Earl himself, all on horseback, and as to the younger gentlemen, also mounted, besides Mr Crayshaw, Mr Simon Golightly, Mr Harry Pryce-Cavell, a very young, dark-haired man whom the Earl did not know, and Teddy Marsh. Who flushed up at perceiving his Lordship, but bowed very properly—poor damned boy. Jarvis smiled and nodded pleasantly: he had nothing against Kitty’s son. The ladies of the party were not on horseback, apart from Susi-Anna Marsh and an extremely lovely dark-haired, blue-eyed girl with a sweet expression. Miss Somerton was competently in charge of a trap, with Miss Amanda Waldgrave next her. The Plumbways barouche held Mrs Somerton and Mrs Waldgrave, clearly en chaperone, with Miss Portia, Miss Lattersby, and Miss Burden.

    It was, very evidently, a little outing for the young people. As to exactly what he himself and Miss Burden were doing in it, then, the Earl, on the whole, felt it best not to speculate.

    They jogged on slowly in the general direction of Dinsley Dell along the rutted back road, the Vicar ranging alongside Jarvis and explaining helpfully that it was very pretty countryside hereabouts, but very muddy in the winter. The Earl already knew this latter, and if he had not, the ruts in the road would certainly have told him. Pretty countryside or not, the direction taken turned out to be a tactical error: after about half an hour, the party espied a girl on a brown pony, ill enough kept, its hairs in want of singeing... Oh, no!

    Jenny rode up to them with a beaming smile. “Hullo, Susi-Anna! Hullo, Teddy! So this is where your picknick is going to be!”

    Her siblings had both turned scarlet. Jarvis did not think it was merely the embarrassment normal to young people whose junior has intruded upon a grown-up party.

    “Jenny, get off home!” growled the boy in a strangled undertone.

    “Jenny, please!” said Susi-Anna in a choked whisper.

    Several other persons of the party had also gone very red, so it was damned obvious that the better part of the neighbourhood knew precisely who Jenny’s father was. Hell: poor damned children. Jarvis would have said something himself, but Mrs Somerton leaned forward with bright-eyed interest and cried: “My dears, do not send her away! So this is your little sister, is it, Miss Marsh? But she must join us, of course!”

    “Mrs Somerton,” said Teddy, going even redder, “you are very kind, but she don’t need to, it is not a children’s party.” He directed a glare at Jenny.

    “She will be expected home for her midday meal, Mrs Somerton,” said Susi-Anna faintly.

    Jenny came closer. “No, I am not, actually, for Mamma and Aunt Addie have driven over to Nettleford.”

    “Well, then, of course you must join us, dear!” cried Mrs Somerton, still looking very bright-eyed and interested. “Now, tell me, what is your name?”

    “Jenny,” replied Jenny, looking at the ladies in the barouche with equal interest. “Hullo, Miss Burden.”

    “Hullo, Jenny,” replied Miss Burden evenly. “I hope that you did not ride out this way on purpose to intrude upon Mrs Somerton’s party?”

    Jenny went red but said indignantly: “No! For Susi-Anna said the place of the picknick was to be a surprise!”

    “That is perfectly true, Miss Burden,” said Mrs Somerton. “The young people had no notion of where we were intending to go. Jenny, dear, you are very welcome to join us.”

    “Thank you very much!” she beamed.

    Miss Burden was seen to take a deep breath. “Jenny, this kind lady is Mrs Somerton. And I think you know Mrs Waldgrave, do you not?”

    Appropriate greetings having been exchanged with the ladies, the party then set off again. His Lordship was conscious of an unworthy feeling of relief that Jenny had not singled him out for any particular notice.

    They were approaching what Mr Somerton had just assured the older gentlemen was the place for the picknick when Jenny brought the brown pony alongside the Earl’s black. “Hullo, Lord Sleyven!” she said happily. “I didn’t think you would be a picknick-y person!”

    “Oh,” said the Vicar with very audibly forced gaiety, “we are all picknick-y persons in the summertime, my dear!’

    “Yes, but when he was a colonel in India, Lord Sleyven would have eaten out of doors as much as he did indoors, I dare say. It can be no treat to him,” she replied seriously.

    “Well, the lack of flies and burning heat is most definitely a treat,” he said temperately.

    “That’s true. And monkeys!” Jenny plunged into a story about an outdoor meal in India which had been so plagued by monkeys that the participants had had to retreat. Jarvis had not made one of this party, but from the expression on the Vicar’s face this did not make it much better: she kept referring the Indian references to him for confirmation or explanation.

    At the conclusion of the story, Mr Marsh came up to his little sister’s side, his round, innocent face looking desperate. “That’ll do, Jenny. The gentlemen don’t wish to be bothered by a brat.”

    “That’s quite all right, Mr Marsh: I enjoy talking of India days,” said Jarvis steadily.

    The quiet, oval-faced dark girl had followed Teddy. “I must say, it is quite fascinating,” she said composedly. “I really cannot imagine it: flocks of monkeys ranging in the wild, as a flock of starlings might do, here?”

    Jenny brightened. “They really do, Miss Bottomley-Pugh! And you have never heard anything like the noise they make!”

    The Earl watched somewhat wryly as this Miss Bottomley-Pugh quietly encouraged the little girl, at the same time unobtrusively drawing her away from the gentlemen’s group. Well—there was one young woman of the party, then, who allied quiet competence with a sense of decency and simple common sense.

    The site chosen for the picknick was a large sloping field, fortunately empty, topped by a small spinney. The Earl knew that owls nested in the spinney. To his relief, Mrs Somerton did not propose actually penetrating into it: the rugs were spread where a hawthorn tree at its edge might afford the ladies some shade.

    Jarvis had quietly determined that he would sit next Miss Burden, whether or no she appeared to welcome him. Immediately she had chosen a place on a rug he came over to her and sat down, saying: “I hope you do not mind if I join you?”

    Miss Burden looked as if she did mind, for she had flushed up and frowned; but before she could speak Jenny came up, beaming, and plonked herself down with them. “May I sit with you, Miss Burden? –I don’t know all those other people!” she added in a hiss.

    Miss Burden took a deep breath, but said calmly: “Of course you may, Jenny, but you do know them: it is largely the young ladies who come to me for French and Italian.”

    “Ye-es... I don’t know all those gentlemen!” she hissed.

    The Earl, watching Miss Burden with a little smile, was reflecting that that made two young women possessed of both common sense and competence, then, when Miss Bottomley-Pugh herself joined them, saying: “You know the gentleman who is with your brother, I think, Jenny: that is my brother, Vaughan.”

    The Earl rose and hurriedly relieved her of the basket she was carrying. “Allow me.”

    “Thank you, sir,” she said with a smile.

    “This is Miss Bottomley-Pugh,” said Jenny solemnly to the Earl. “Her name is Katerina, isn’t that pretty?”

    “Very pretty indeed,” he agreed, smiling.

    “I’m sorry, Katerina, I thought— May I present Lord Sleyven?” said Miss Burden, flushing.

    “How do you do, my Lord?” said Miss Bottomley-Pugh composedly.

    She then sat down with them. The Earl watched with some amusement as within a very short space of time Teddy Marsh and Jonathon Crayshaw both joined them.

    There was, of course, no opportunity for private talk with Miss Burden during the picknick: everyone was sitting very close and the conversation of the whole group was entirely audible to all. After they had eaten, however, the young ladies were permitted to stroll with the younger gentlemen, and Jarvis, taking his courage in both hands, picked up Miss Burden’s patchwork parasol, rose and said: “Please, Miss Burden, come for a little stroll?”

    Before Midge could speak, Jenny jumped up, beaming—her brother had just gone off with Janey, Teddy and the Bottomley-Pughs, ordering her tersely not to accompany them—and cried: “May I come, too?”

    “Yes, of course, Jenny,” said Midge, experiencing a very odd mixture of relief and disappointment.

    “You may, but put that hat on,” said Jarvis on a grim note.

    “But it’s not hot!”

    “It is for England. And do as you’re told, or you may stay behind.”

    Jenny put her hat on, looking glum.

    “And just be thankful you are not a lady, or you’d have to have a parasol as well,” he said drily, putting Miss Burden’s up and holding it over her.

    “That’s true. It must be a nuisance,” Jenny agreed seriously.

    “It does, however, save the complexion,” her father replied, equally seriously.

    They sounded so alike, even though he of course had a deep voice and Jenny’s was a high little pipe, that Miss Burden had to swallow.

    “Take my arm, Miss Burden,” he added.

    “What?” she said, jumping.

    “Take my arm,” he repeated with a smile.

    Limply Midge put her hand in the arm that held the parasol, and the three of them strolled off, quite en famille. Two of the three ruefully aware of the watchers who were in all probability formulating the very phrase.

    With Jenny along there was little need for the adults to contribute much to the conversation. As far as Miss Burden was concerned, this was probably just as well: she could not think of a word to say to him. As to why he had singled her out like this—! If it was true that all the other unattached ladies present were far too young for him, still he could have stayed with Mr Somerton and Mr Waldgrave. Despite herself, her heart pounded, and though she was determined to loathe him forever for his insufferable conceit and his abominable behaviour towards herself, she could not help a sort of sneaking gladness that she was with him and not condemned to spend the whole picknick with the chaperones. Oh—how very low and despicable!

    For his part, Jarvis found his pulses were racing. It was just as well that Jenny was with them, for if he had been alone with Miss Burden he might have compounded his earlier idiocies. Even though her tan and yellow cotton gown was pretty much at a disaster and the straw bonnet with the black ribbon on it had very evidently seen better days, she was just so... sweet.

    “So you’ve seen ’em together at last!“ beamed Mr Bottomley-Pugh.

    Katerina laughed and nodded. “Yes, indeed! I was beginning to think none of us would ever get the opportunity!”

    “Well?” he said.

    She smiled. “There is no doubt of his feelings. Not that he said anything particular, but he came and sat beside her for the picknick and did not so much as glance at another lady, throughout.”

    “Good. Was Mrs Marsh there?“

    “No. As a matter of fact,” said Katerina thoughtfully, “I have an idea that Mrs Somerton deliberately excluded her. And furthermore, that she has decided to encourage the Earl to pursue Miss Burden; for otherwise, why should she have invited him at all? He is far too old for Lacey.”

    “Ar.” Mr Bottomley-Pugh thought it over. “Seems loike it, aye. Well, that’s one on our soide!” he said with a grin. “Now, what about Miss Burden?”

    “We-ell... Oh, there is no doubt she was very much affected by him, Pa. But although she was polite, she did not encourage him.”

    “Hm.”

    “I do not think she has forgiven him over Mrs Marsh. Although,” she said with an odd little smile, “to see her with him and his daughter, you would not think she bore him any malice over her!”

    “Eh?” he said, the chins sagging

    Smiling, Katerina told him of Jenny’s incorporation into the party.

    “Well, now! –’Ere, pity as we can’t get ’er away from the woman, hey? Well, it don’t sound too bad, me lovey, do it?”

    “No. Mrs Marsh was present at the party at Verne Lea the other night, Pa—dressed to kill, was Lacey Somerton’s description. I gather she made eyes at both the Earl and the Prince.” She looked at him blandly.

    Mr Bottomley-Pugh choked slightly. “Good! Well, a prince outranks an earl!”

    “That’s true. And I think,” she said slowly, “though Lacey did not see much—the younger people were playing lottery tickets in another room while their elders were at cards—I think that his Lordship was giving her the cold shoulder.”

    “Ar. Well, that would fit with what that Hutton feller reckons, that she’s given his Lardship a disgust of her. Which don’t mean ’e may not backslide, if she’s clever enough, Kate. Now, don’t look at me like that,” he said with a sigh. “Gents is loike that: same as any other male critter, never moind their foine coats.”

    “Mm,” she said, biting her lip. “Well, let’s hope that Uncle Sid’s performance is good enough to draw her off.”

    Shaking slightly. Mr Bottomley-Pugh assured her that he thought it would be!

    The picknick had encouraged the Earl of Sleyven sufficiently to decide him to call on Miss Burden. It was the first of five attempts he would make to call during the month of June.

    He did not bring flowers on that first visit, thinking it might look too marked. He was a little uneasy that it might be one of the afternoons on which Miss Burden gave her conversation classes, but all seemed quiet and peaceful at Bluebell Dell.

    “Your Lardship!” gasped the elderly parlourmaid in tones of unalloyed horror.

    “Good afternoon. I think we have met before, have we not? Hawkins, is it?”

    “Yes, me Lard!” she gasped, dropping a curtsey.

    “I was so very sorry to hear of your former mistress’s death.”

    “Thank you, me Lard,” said the maid faintly.

    “And are you happy in your new place?”

    “Oh, yes, indeed, me Lard! No-one couldn’t have a better mistress than Miss Burden! –If your Lardship would care to step in, I’ll tell Miss Burden you’re ’ere.”

    “Thank you, Hawkins.” The Earl allowed himself to be shown into the small front parlour. It seemed to him there was rather less furniture in it than previously. Had not there been a low sofa under that window? Miss Burden did not come; he wandered over to the window and stared vaguely into the garden.

    Eventually the door opened. Jarvis took a deep breath and turned round. “Good afternoon, Miss Burden.”

    Miss Burden was wearing a brown and yellow print gown that he fancied he had seen before, and carrying a large striped cat. “Good afternoon,” she said, giving him a suspicious look. “Hawkins said you wished to see me.’

    “Hawkins was quite correct.”

    She did not say anything more: he added a trifle desperately: “May we sit down?”

    “Oh—yes. Please do.”

    The Earl sat down in an easy chair near to the fireplace: Miss Burden came and perched on a smaller chair, opposite him, cradling the cat.

    “I think that is not the very grand grandfather cat whom I met before?” he said, trying to smile.

    “What? Oh. No, this isn’t Mischief. This is Mrs Cartwright’s Ferdinand. He has a sore paw.”

    “Indeed? May I see?”

    Miss Burden held onto the cat. “Are you any good with animals?”

    “Yes.”

    “He is not used to men.”

    “Miss Burden, I can see by the scratch on the back of your hand that he is not particularly amenable to being handled by yourself. Can I do worse?”

    Reddening, Miss Burden replied: “He is usually very placid. But I hurt him when I tried to look at the paw.”

    “Yes.” Jarvis rose. “Give him to me.”

    Her handing him the cat entailed considerable contact between her warm, bare arms and his ungloved hands. Jarvis admitted to himself that he thoroughly enjoyed the experience, even with the risk of being scratched by Ferdinand. To judge by Miss Burden’s flushed cheeks and heaving bosom, she was not unaffected, either.

    He went to the window and looked carefully at the paw. “I think he has a thorn in it.”

    “Yes. He has made a nest for himself in the hedge, but it is rather brambly: I think it’s a bramble thorn.”

    “Mm. Do you have any fine tweezers?”

    “Um—yes.” Miss Burden hurried out.

    His Lordship stroked Ferdinand and assured him he was not going to hurt him. Ferdinand had gone horridly limp and heavy, in the way of his kind: possibly an inducement to let him drop. The Earl did not, however, but held him firmly.

    When Miss Burden returned with the tweezers he said: “Thank you. –Please do not stand in the light.”

    She moved aside, but said: “Let me—”

    “I think he senses your unease,” he said, as the cat squirmed under her hand. “I can manage.”

    “I am not uneasy,” said Miss Burden grimly.

    “Miss Burden, I am not a cat, and yet I can sense that you are, on the contrary, very uneasy and over-anxious about this injury. Your hands are sweating, are they not?”

    Miss Burden scowled, and rubbed them down the sides of her gown.

    Tucking Ferdinand firmly under his armpit, the Earl held the injured paw in that hand, and with the other, extracted the thorn with the tweezers.

    “He did not even yowl,” said Miss Burden limply.

    “No. And he did not struggle: he sensed that I had him under control.”

    “Very well, you have a knack with animals!” she said crossly.

    He returned calmly: “You might put some salve on that, but cats generally lick it off.”

    ”Yes. Um—thank you very much,” she said lamely.

    “Do you wish to take him?”

    “Yes. I think I should put some salve on it.”

    “Very well.” He passed the cat back to her, this time coming into soft contact with both her bare arms and full bosom: Miss Burden went very red, and exited silently with the animal.

    The Earl strolled over to the window, smiling. Has smile faded: little Miss Humphreys coming to call. Well—that was that.

    Miss Humphreys outstayed his Lordship. “Well!” she said brightly, nodding.

    Midge went very red and said feebly: “He got the prickle out of Ferdinand’s paw.”

    “He has the look of a man who has a way with animals,” said the little spinster lady complacently. “Powell has heard that he knows as much about doctoring horses as any of the grooms at Maunsleigh.”

    Miss Burden found she did not believe one word of this speech. Not one word. Unfortunately it did not seem possible to say so.

    Miss Humphreys then submitted her to an interrogation about the Somertons’ picknick. Possibly she would have done so in any case, but Midge felt so limp when it was over and the caller, all meaning nods and smiles, had departed, that she tottered over to the sideboard and helped herself to a small glassful of Mrs Kinwell’s elderberry cordial. Why in God’s name had he come? ...There seemed only one answer to this question and Miss Burden’s brain, frankly, shied away from examining it.

    The Prince Alexei Alexandrovich’s courtship of Mrs Marsh—or, as some felt, Mrs Marsh’s courtship of the Prince—was also making some progress, that June. It was true that not everybody in the districts of Upper and Lower Nettlefold and environs was privileged to witness what Captain Cornwallis later described wryly as the first major assault: but somehow or another most of the neighbourhood pretty soon had most of the facts.

    Mrs Langford had feared that the subject of Mrs Marsh’s dinner and dance might be painful for Midge—but apparently not.

    “This is, at the very least, second-hand,” Miss Burden warned.

    “Oh, that is quite understood,” replied Mrs Langford primly. Miss Polly Burden gave a smothered giggle, but nodded excitedly.

    “I shall try to give you the tone of the reporters,” decided Miss Burden, “for a grasp of whose the sentiments were, may assist you to interpret them correctly.”

    “Don’t reduce me to hysterics before you have even started, Midgey,” said Lettice faintly.

    “Ar, I wouldn’t do that, Mrs Langford, ma’am,” she leered, touching her forelock.

    “Who is that?” asked Lettice feebly.

    “Mr Lumley. He supplied Dinsley House with three sucking-pigs for the feast.”

    “I am warning you, Millicent Burden, that any apocryphal note will immediately reduce the size of your audience by fifty percent!”

    “Don’t be like that, you’ll turn Baby into a sour-puss,” said Miss Burden, smiling at the bulge.

    Mrs Langford also smiled, patted it and whispered: “Sorry, Baby. That was a joke.”

    “Go on, Aunty Midge!” cried Polly desperately.

    “Sorry. Um—ar. ‘Three piglets, they asked for, and I said to ’er cook, Well, you can ’ave ’em, if McVeigh’ll let yer, but you’ll ’ave ’em at the proice of a foine shoat, for they is baconers, one an’ all. Ar!’ –So he grossly overcharged them,” she said with a twinkle. “Likewise for the eggs, for they had exhausted the local supplies and were desperate for more. ‘And there was droves and droves of lobsters a-carted in, Miss Burden,’” she continued in a much squeakier voice. “‘big as Christmas geese, every last one!’”

    “That is Hawkins, she always says ‘droves and droves’,” Polly explained to her mamma.

    “Yes. There was goose, too, with a sauce nigh as fine, Miss Humphreys dared say, as any that might be served at Maunsleigh,” continued Miss Burden with a dry expression on her face, “and racks and racks of lamb, and ultimate pairs of ducks.”

    “Ultimate?” said Mrs Langford in spite of herself.

    “Hawkins again. She has discovered that the cook at Dinsley House is distantly related, through the Hawkinses of Nettleford.”

    “I see!”

    “Loikewoise golden pastries h’everywhere you looked, with made dishes loike a broidal feast, and droves and droves of blancmangers and masherdons,” said Miss Burden with a gleam in her eye, “and towers of fruit all a-frosted to Kingdom Come!”

    “Masherdons must be macédoines, Mamma,” said Polly helpfully.

    “Yes, I think I did gather that, darling. In short, it was a spread, was it, Midge?”

    “Oh, my dear Mrs Langford! One cannot describe the elegance and variety of the courses, or the profusion of the dishes!” she sighed.

    Mrs Langford and Polly bit their lips: Miss Amanda Waldgrave to the life.

    “And I venture to opine that even His Most Serene Highness himself can scarce have found ought at which to cavil, in such an elegant profusion of viands! –She said ‘elegant,’ or a morphological variation thereof, fifty-two times in the course of one afternoon visit.”

    “Then I trust she said it à propos of the ladies’ gowns,” retorted Lettice promptly. “Tell us immediately what the hostess wore, and put me out of my misery, Midge!”

    “Done up loike a dog’s dinner, she were, Mrs Langford, ma’am,” she leered. “And I said to my Daisy: Roight, lass, you owes me a sixpence. Acos it weren’t no satin gown, nothing loike! Ar!”

    “That, I collect, must be at the very least, third-hand,” said Mrs Langford grimly. “Midge, if you know what the woman wore, tell me instantly, or leave this house!”

    “Miss Humphreys said that it was gold gauze, heavily re-embroidered with silk and seed pearls. Though Mr Humphreys noted that he would rather have said it was encrusted!” said Midge with a choke of laughter. “And I gather it was extremely low-cut, for Miss Humphreys was very tactful about it, only mentioning Mrs Marsh’s fine shoulders. There was a long gauze scarf to match—she did not risk furs, the which, after the report of the sables which the Grand Duchess is accustomed to wear about the house, was very wise of her. And her jewels consisted of a long rope of pearls and a charming high collar of pearls and rubies, with heavy matching earrings and a clip in the hair. Oh, and a set of bracelets which one of my informants told me was composed of diamonds which were not of the first water, pearls which tended to a yellowish shade, and garnets.” She eyed them drily.

    “I think that must have been Mrs Somerton,” said Mrs Langford, swallowing.

    “Mm. One gathers that the effect certainly put every other lady’s eye out. Though Mrs Waldgrave was of the opinion that feathers rather than the clip would have given her the height which she so sadly lacks.”

    “The Prince did not look twice at Miss Waldgrave,” deduced Polly immediately.

    “My love, he did not look once at her,” returned Miss Burden drily.

    Mrs Langford and Polly immediately collapsed in giggles.

    From just outside the French doors opening onto the pretty south terrace of Kendlewood Place, the Colonel noted quietly in his friend’s ear: “It will go on like this for hours, y’know. Lettice will give me a digest of it, later.”

    “Mm.” The Earl looked at Charles’s face, and murmured: “If you wish to get it verbatim, don’t let me stop you.”

    “I think our presence might spoil the flow,” he whispered.

    Jarvis smiled, and pulled him gently over to where a conveniently placed seat stood just near to the open French doors.

    Grinning sheepishly, the Colonel sat down, and the gentlemen prepared to eavesdrop. Or rather, to continue to do so.

    “The Prince, of course, was at his hostess’s right hand,” said Miss Burden primly.

    “Wearing orders?” asked Polly.

    “Alas, no. He presented.” said Miss Burden dreamily, “a most gentleman-like appearance. So much so that Mr Humphreys pronounced himself deeply disappointed. Noting by the by that he dared say he was not the only one. A man in his mid-years: Miss Amanda swears he is not a day over forty. She was almost definite about it. Miss Humphreys inclines rather to the opinion that he be turned forty-five. Susi-Anna Marsh thinks he is terribly handsome, but quite old. Mrs Kinwell was reminded distinctly of dear Dean Golightly’s late father.”

    “Really? He was exceeding handsome: there is a portrait of him at the Deanery!” cried Polly.

    “So I gather. Miss Platt, however, was put in mind irresistibly of the Corsair. And I have to admit that Miss Amanda confirms this resemblance, with a peony-like blush.”

    “Midgey, are you trying to tell us that Amanda Waldgrave has fallen for the Prince?” demanded Mrs Langford.

    “I incline to the opinion that such would not be an utter impossibility, dear Mrs Langford!” replied Midge with a gurgle. The ladies squeaked ecstatically, and collapsed in giggles. “However, she is not the only one. By at least five reports, Lacey Somerton could not take her eyes off him all evening.”

    “Lacey?” gasped Polly.

    “Yes. Miss Portia informed me that both Lacey and Amanda made great cakes of themselves over His Highness. So it’s to be hoped he has a fondness for patisserie.”

    Mrs Langford here so far lowered herself as to ask avidly: “What about the Patterson girls?”

    “They appeared overcome, but he did not notice. But according, again, to Portia, Miss Waldgrave certainly noticed the fact that Mr Butterworth attempted to distract Miss Patterson from His Highness ‘all evening.’ –That is verbatim, but I cannot give you the precise tone,” she said apologetically. “Something between the avid and the regretful: quite unique.”

    “Mrs Patterson will never allow that!” gasped Polly.

    “True. And nor, I venture to suggest, will Mrs Waldgrave,” said Midge smoothly.

    The ladies squeaked and collapsed again.

    Polly then said eagerly: “Tell us more of the Prince.”

    “But there is very little more!” she said, throwing up her hands. “He is dark, with what Miss Humphreys and Miss Somerton are agreed are flashing eyes. Though the former said they were dark and the latter maintains they are grey. Miss Amanda inclines to the opinion that they are most speaking eyes, indeed. And his voice most mellifluous, the which is very hard to pronounce when you are eating seedy-cake,”—Lettice gave a smothered laugh—“with only the slightest trace of a most entrancing accent, the which she ventured to suggest must outweigh the attractions of a mere French or German accent.”

    “Has she ever heard either?” said Mrs Langford weakly.

    “Yes: Mr Simon Golightly informs me that his mother swears that one of the Grand Duchess’s parrots speaks German: and Amanda has most certainly heard that, for the Waldgrave ladies called not three days since. Only the old lady was at home, and received them most graciously, but as it turns out, she cannot speak a word of English!” choked Miss Burden, suddenly going into a paroxysm.

    “Oops!” said Lettice gaily.

    Abruptly Polly joined her aunt in her paroxysm.

    On the terrace, the eyes of the Colonel and the Earl met. Their shoulders shook silently.

    “And what did the old lady—I suppose one should refer to her as the Grand Duchess,” said Mrs Langford, blowing her nose, “what did she wear to the dinner, Midgey?”

    “Most of my informants stressed the fact of the jewels. Let me see: she was in black: a heavy black brocaded silk, with a skirt opined by Miss Amanda to be quite wide, but one would not have called it full. And a large train of the same stuff, disappointingly not lined with ermine, but merely fringed with it. Hawkins and I were fascinated by Susi-Anna Marsh’s description, but our conclusion was that we would not fancy ’undreds of little tails, ourselves, for there is something nasty about the idea!”

    “And the jewels?” prompted Polly.

    “Not the collar of diamonds which it appears she is used to wear in the afternoons, but a superb rope of pearls. As large as peas, according to three separate reports, so I think they must have been. Though I did not ask,” said Miss Burden with a twinkle, “whether these were fresh peas or dried.”

    “Midgey, you will overset us again,” warned Mrs Langford.

    “Was that all?” said Polly sadly.

    “Oh, far from it! Wide bracelets, one to each wrist, of solid diamonds. Mrs Somerton admitted they were stones of the first water, so they must have been. They sounded rather like the twin bracelets which Mr Bottomley-Pugh bought for his wife not very long before she died: the most glorious blaze of blue-white fire. However, striking though the effect was, most of the beholders seem to have been more bedazzled by the tiara. Even though it was half hidden by a black lace veil.”

    “Tiara?” gasped Polly.

    Midge looked judicious. “I opine, Polly, dear, that one could not call it a diadem, yet to say that it was a crown would be an exaggeration.” Having successfully reduced her niece to giggles, she admitted: “Portia said it was more like a great fan of pearls on her head.”

    “I would not have draped it in black lace,” decided Polly, recovering.

    “No, though everyone was agreed that it was definitely Chantilly! And Mrs Waldgrave pronounces it to be quite a different pattern from the shawl of the same commonly worn by Her Serene Highness around the house.”

    “Help,” concluded Polly feebly.

    “It does sound impressive, does it not?” said Midge airily.

    “There is more.” Mrs Langford warned her daughter.

    “Yes, well, apparently it is Her Serene Highness’s custom to wear powder, with one patch in the middle of the left cheek. –Mm,” she said as Polly put a finger dubiously to her own rosy cheek. “There. For day wear, a simple spot, dot or circlet. –Amanda does not perfectly understand what a circlet is, but then, the Vicar never included his girls in his geometry classes.”

    “Midge!” said Lettice loudly. “What was the patch?”

    “A star.”

    Mrs Langford and her daughter were reduced to awed gulps. On the terrace, the Colonel had to put his hand over his mouth: his shoulders shook helplessly. Jarvis smiled, but looked a little wry. This whole thing was—well, not precisely throwing a new light on Miss Burden’s character, for he knew that she had considerable wit and very little opinion of social forms. Turning out to be rather more painful than he had anticipated? Something very like that, yes.

    Miss Burden, upon request, then disclosed that the Prince had danced with “everybody”—though not Miss Waldgrave, of course—and had shown himself very amiable. Not above his company.

    There was a short silence.

    “I dare say Miss Amanda will drive over in a day or two, if you want more,” said Miss Burden kindly to her relatives.

    “Yes. Um,” said Polly limply, “was that all?”

    Miss Burden scratched her head. “The pigs was all ate up, Miss Polly, and them droves and droves of lobsters, they vanished loike mayfloies in winter.”—“How poetic,” noted Mrs Langford faintly.—“And the goose was reduced to a nekkid skellington!”

    Polly gave a shriek, and collapsed in helpless hysterics.

    “Midgey,” said Mrs Langford feebly, “even Hawkins cannot have said that!”

    “I assure you she did. She was very excited by the whole thing, poor old dear.”

    Mrs Langford smiled and nodded, but said: “Seriously, Midgey, how is she?”

    Midge sighed a little. “She is bearing up by keeping very busy. I try to stop her doing too much, but it is hard to know what is kindness, in such a case. She was with Mrs Cartwright for forty years, you know.”

    Mrs Langford nodded silently.

    “That is a very long time: virtually her whole life,” said Polly, frowning over it.

    “Mm.”

    “Yes,” said Mrs Langford, giving her daughter a warning look. “But these things happen, we must not brood over them.” She turned the talk briskly to Polly’s coming wedding.

    On the terrace the Colonel raised his eyebrows at his friend and jerked his head in the direction of the French doors. The Earl nodded, and the two went inside.

    Miss Burden was in the middle of a spirited defence of Miss Amanda’s desire to have “just a few bows” on the flounce of the bridesmaids’ gowns, and broke off with a gasp. She had not known that the Earl was at Kendlewood Place today.

    “Oh, there you are, dearest,” said Mrs Langford, blowing her nose. “I think you have come in just in time: Midgey was reducing us to hysterics over the bridesmaids’ gowns.”

    “Besides, it is settled,” said Polly, twinkling merrily. “Amanda is to restrain her taste for bows, and they will both look very pretty in the lemon-dotted muslins over pale yellow.”

    “I think we had best be off out of it, dear boy,” said the Colonel. rolling a terrified eye.

    The Earl smiled a little but said: “Yes. I shall say good afternoon and good-bye, Miss Burden.”

    “But will you not stay for dinner, Lord Sleyven?” said Lettice.

    “Thank you, but I cannot: I have Shelby and his parents coming.”

    “Really?” said Miss Burden hoarsely.

    “Yes; why?" he asked.

    Miss Burden licked her lips nervously. “Um—what will you give them to eat?”

    “Lord, do not worry about them, Midge, my dear!” said Colonel Langford with a smile. “Jarvis quite understands that they are very simple people, and has ordered that terror of a chef of his to serve up one of the good plain roasts that his India stomach— No?” he said, as Miss Burden sprang agitatedly to her feet.

    “No, indeed! –Have you really?” she said to the Earl, very flushed.

    “Yes. Was that wrong?”

    “Yes, very wrong. Oh, dear! I can see you did it with the best of intentions, but—”

    “Midge, I have not met the elder Shelbys, but I am sure you told me that they were very simple people,” said Mrs Langford.

    “Yes. But the thing is, Mrs Shelby, Senior, will not understand if you offer them a good plain dinner, sir,” she said to the Earl, very red. “She will take it as—as an insult. She will expect something very fancy indeed, so that—”

    “So that she may boast of the dinner that she had at Maunsleigh for the rest of her days? Yes. What a fool I am,” he said, passing his hand over his forehead. “Thank you for warning me, Miss Burden. I shall leave at once, and hope to be in time to tell M. Fermour to whip up a few sauces and so forth. –What else would you recommend?” he said suddenly.

    “Anything in the nature of a savoury puff. Tell M. Fermour choux pastry.”

    “I shall. Thank you.” He bid the company a hasty goodbye, and hurried out.

    The Colonel followed him, saying loudly: “Look here, Jarvis, if you mean to go cross-country, be damned careful what you jump on that brute of a black—”

    The ladies looked at one another limply.

    “Is he riding the black?” asked Midge hoarsely.

    “I don’t know, Midgey,” replied Mrs Langford.

    “I think he probably is: Colonel Langford says it has become his favourite horse,” said Polly.

    Miss Burden bit her lip.

    “The weather is fine, Midge: I am sure he will be quite safe,” murmured Lettice.

    “I am not worrying about him!” she said crossly.

    Her relatives looked at her kindly, but not as if they believed her for an instant.

    His Lordship was sufficiently encouraged by this episode to venture to call on Miss Burden again. Even though the first visit had not been a signal success. This time, he decided that bringing flowers could scarcely make it worse, and might make it better for him. So he brought her a large, mixed bunch, but she was not home.

    Meanwhile, Mrs Marsh’s pursuit of His Highness was proceeding apace.

    Natasha Andreyevska appeared in the downstairs salon, sniggering. “You’ll never guess what she’s sent!”

    “Whomsoever she may have sent it by, I trust that you spoke only Russian to him, Natasha Andreyevska,” said Peter Ivanovich deeply, looking up from a hand of écarté.

    Natasha Andreyevska, born Nancy Andrews, and known to her wider public any time these past fifteen years as Mrs Annabella Sheridan (no relation, not even by marriage: she had merely fancied the name) retorted spiritedly: “’Course I did, I ain’t a ninny! I said to the feller’: ‘Mushy dushyer.’”

    “Meaning?” enquired His Highness smoothly.

    “Meaning ‘thank you very much.’ I made it up: good, ain’t it?”

    “‘Mushy dushyer.’ We shall adopt that,” he decided graciously.

    “What’s she sent?” asked Her Serene Highness impatiently.

    “A fine brace of ducks. Domestic, out of course. The message was, they was a-goin’ begging, and she hoped we would accept ’em. Only I made out I didn’t understand a blind word.”

    “And ’oo’s goin’ to cook them?” retorted Mrs Cumbridge arctically.

    “You are, Ekaterina Nicolaevna,” replied Natasha Andreyevska insouciantly.

    “And mushy dushyer to you, too!” snapped the old lady.

    Nancy winked, and exited, sniggering.

    “It don’t sound bad,” admitted Aunt Cumbridge reluctantly.

    “No,” agreed Peter Ivanovich. “We chose her for her quick wits and her ability to ad. lib, as we say in the profession.”

    “Pity you didn’t choose ’er for ’er cooking,” she grunted. “S’pose you fellers realise we can’t give no dinners, if we ain’t got no cook?”

    “We shall give a dance, with a cold supper,” said Alexei Alexandrovich soothingly.

    “I ain’t volunteerin’ to cook no cold Russian nothing,” she warned.

    “We’ll call it Russian, the locals won’t know any better,” said Peter Ivanovich briskly. “Your deal, Ekaterina Nicolaevna.”

    Mrs Cumbridge dealt, but noted: “If we use the ballroom, and I don’t say as we can’t, well, that’ll be more rooms as we have do up Russian!”

    “The coffers of our company’s extensive wardrobe are not yet exhausted,” said Peter Ivanovich deeply.

    “Folks’ll be lookin’ at the stuff close up,” she warned.

    “In that case we’ll tell ’em we only brought enough of our own furniture for the rooms we commonly sit in. But I dare say the ballroom can have some Russian decorations,” said Alexei Alexandrovich.

    “Like what, Sid?” she asked dourly.

    He waved an elegant hand. “Strange candelabra. Pierced brass knickknacks. We can use that stuff we had for The Prisoner of The Grand Turk. And Fred Greenstreet will hire us out more Turkish stuff: the fashion for that’s long gone, and his father’s attic’s stuffed with it. –You recall, he painted that fat fellow en grand Turc,” he said to Peter Ivanovich.

    “Who, Fred?”

    “No, his father. But he never got the money out of him, so he sent round two stout lads with a cart and took it back. You recall, dear fellow, he loaned it out to the opera for The Seraglio, and then l think Emmanuel Everett had it off him for that revival of Le Bourgeois gentilhomme.”

    “His own translation, ma’am,” Peter Ivanovich explained graciously to Mrs Cumbridge. “Too much Everett and not enough Molière, it was generally felt.”

    “Yes, but he’s a clever fellow, all the same. –Boswell!” recalled Alexei Alexandrovich triumphantly.

    “Look, are we playing cards, or not?” demanded the Grand Duchess aggrievedly.

    “Er—not,” he said, looking at the clock and laying down his cards. “I have to go off and pay court to the Marsh hag.”

    “Well, watch yerself!” she retorted.

    “One feels,” said Peter Ivanovich lugubriously, slowly gathering up cards as Sid hurried out, “that he would prefer to be paying court to the pretty little daughter.”

    “Well, ’e needn’t, ’e’s old enough to be ’er father. –And for all anybody knows, ’e moight be!” she noted with a sniff.

    Caught unawares, Mr Harold Hartington collapsed in horrible sniggers.

    Kitty was in pink that day. A very pale pink muslin, to flatter her skin: it was unusual with the red hair but nevertheless set it off charmingly. There was a long, floating scarf of the stuff, embroidered here and there with rosebuds, and a cluster of real rosebuds decorated the bosom, just at the divide. Major Harrod, who was not in the best of moods, had muttered sourly on setting eyes on this charming picture: “Mutton dressed as lamb”—but only under his breath.

    It was a warm day: the windows of the larger withdrawing-room were all open onto the terrace but the long muslin curtains which Kitty affected were drawn over them, moving slowly in the gentle breeze. Bowls of roses filled the room with their scent. It was a pity that Addie had to be there to play propriety, but Mrs Marsh was not prepared to give the Prince even a hint of possible looseness in her conduct. Not when she was, as she had decided to do, playing for keeps. He was thrillingly handsome, with the sort of voice that turned one’s bones to water. Added to which, if she were a princess every woman in the county would have to curtsey to her. Not to mention the sort of London life they might lead... Kitty lost herself in pleasant daydreams, her feet up on a chaise longue, waiting for the Prince to call.

    Rather unfortunately Mr Bottomley-Pugh called first. Kitty was not best pleased, but reflected that it could be turned to good account: Prince Alexei Alexandrovich should see that he had a rival for her hand!

    And so, indeed, he did. The two gentlemen competed eagerly to flatter her and to dangle the more tangible assets which they could offer her before her: Mr Bottomley-Pugh mentioned some of the features of his house, his intention of having his daughter launched in London next year, and his thoughts of standing for Parliament; and the Prince countered with a description of his country seat in Russia, his yacht, and the shooting party to which he had been invited this coming August at the home of Sir Noël Amory, Bart.

    … “Lard, Sid, I near to died when you come out with that about this Sir!” said Mr Bottomley-Pugh as the brothers proceeded slowly along the road towards Dinsley Airs in his curricle. “What if someone asks you where he lives?”

    “He lives in Devon, his home is called Thevenard Manor, and he is a real person. Respectably and happily married, now, but he was enjoying the friendship, to say no more, of a certain Lady Ivo, at around the time her close friend, the Honourable Mrs Peter Throgmorton, was—er—favouring yours truly.” He winked. “So I saw a bit of him.”

    “You do get around, Sid,” he said in simple admiration.

    “Yes, well, not to Thevenard Manor!” replied the actor with a laugh. “But I picked up some useful facts and useful names.”

    “What was she loike?” asked his brother eagerly.

    “Mrs Peter? Keen enough, I suppose. Whilst still conscious she was too good for me.” He shrugged. “Society bitch—you know.”

    “Ar.”

    The curricle jogged on gently.

    “I should like,” said Sid slowly, “to see Mrs M.’s bosom without the corset.”

    “I wouldn’t ’alf moind it meself!” gasped Mr Bottomley-Pugh, shaking all over.

    “How much it sags, I mean. Did you notice the chin?”

    “Ar. Dunno as I moind a bit of sag, meself, provided there’s a goodly ’andful or two there!”

    “Preferably two: mm. How old is she, do you think?”

    “Gives out she’s thirty-seven, thirty-eight, Sid.”

    “Then in that case I would wager this exquisite ruby ring,” he said, holding out his hand admiringly, “that she’s pushing fifty.”

    “That ring’s glass,” noted Mr Bottomley-Pugh drily.

    “All right, then, old lad: I’d wager this!” he said with a rude gesture.

    Mr Bottomley-Pugh at this laughed so much that he nearly fell out of the curricle, and acknowledged that in that case Mrs Marsh must, indeed, be pushing fifty.

    “Yes. Well, the older the better: she’ll be so much the more desperate, and so much the less likely to check up on my bona fides.”

    “Ar. But we got a fallback position on this ’ere battleground,” said Mr Bottomley-Pugh with relish. “If you ain’t a prince, you’re a very rich Russian merchant what wouldn’t ’alf moind bein’ taken for a prince, which is whoy you’ve set yerself up ’ere in England!”

    At this it was the Prince Alexei Alexandrovich’s turn to laugh himself nearly out of the curricle.

    “Come in, Joe?” he said as they turned in at the gate of Dinsley Airs. “Take a glass of something?”

    “I’d loike to, and that’s a fact. –No, better not, don’t want to arouse suspicion. You and me’s supposed to ’ardly know each other.”

   The Prince nodded, jumped down, and ran lightly up the steps of Dinsley Airs, and Mr Bottomley-Pugh drove off with a flourish of his  whip.

     … “Well, Sid?” said Peter Ivanovich.

    Since Aunt Cumbridge was not in the room, His Highness was able to reply: “Hot as Hell for it, but playing for keeps.”

    “Mm. What we thought. Hope you’re able to reciprocate.”

    He shrugged. “She ain’t a lady, and she ain’t my type.”

    Peter Ivanovich looked alarmed. “Seriously, wouldn’t you like to get your leg over?”

    “Seriously, no!” He shrugged again. “But on a warm afternoon: yes, why not? If it’s on offer.”

    “Was it on offer?”

    “Pretty much. But Joe was there—gave her the opportunity to play us off one against the other: turned out quite well, really—and so she couldn’t do much. I’ll try her out, the first time I get her alone.”

    “Try her out? You watch it. Sid, it sounds as if she’s the sort that’ll try you out! She’ll look for it, and be damn’ suspicious if it ain’t there. It ain’t the same as acting a part on the stage.”

    “It’ll be there!” he said with a laugh. “It was there, in fact.” He adjusted himself slightly, and winked. “I got the impression that Joe wouldn’t mind getting his leg over, either.”

    “That’s good: he’s supposed to be your rival. Aim at verisimilitude,” he said severely.

    His Royal Highness the Prince Alexei Alexandrovich collapsed in sniggers, gasping: “I usually aim at somethin’ else entirely, dear boy!”

    Peter Ivanovich grinned. “Do that, too,” he said calmly.

    On the occasion of his third visit the Earl brought roses.

    “Miss Burden’s just in the back garden, me Lard,” said Hawkins, curtseying.

    Again he was shown into the little front parlour. He walked round the room, fidgeting. Doubtless Hawkins had given her mistress the message that he was here, so why did she not come?

    At long last the door opened. Miss Burden was, yet again, in the yellow and brown print. She looked very flurried: her hair was very wispy around the neck and ears. “I’m sorry to have kept you waiting!” she gasped. “The pig was knocking down its sty!”

    The Earl took a deep breath. “Do you require me to mend it?”

    “No, thank you: I’ve tied up the loose timber and sent Hawkins up to Nettlebend Farm to see if McVeigh can come. And you need not look at me like that, for I have had a wash and changed my gown, that is why I was so long!”

    “I am sure you have, Miss Burden, and I assure you I did not mean to give you the impression that I was criticising you. May I beg you to accept these roses?”

    Midge gulped. It was a mixed bunch, including— “Never tell me Mr Potts let you have those?”

    “Er—if you mean my head gardener, Miss Burden, I did not ask him. They are, after all, my roses, not his. –What have I done?” he asked resignedly as she gave a horrified gasp.

    “Lord Sleyven, I am very sure that they are some of the roses he has been preparing for the Nettleford Horticultural Fair! There are always roses from Maunsleigh.”

    The Earl tooled dubiously at the great bunch in his hand. “There were plenty.”

    “But these look like the special ones that he raises for the show! Maunsleigh always shows pink and red ones, and some are very large, like those, and—and miraculously scented.”

    “Pray try them,” he said on a dry note.

    He was still holding them out: Miss Burden reddened, and took them. “Yes,” she said, sniffing. “How many did you leave?”

    “Er—I didn’t notice. Very well, Miss Burden, I apologize abjectly for bringing you Maunsleigh roses. –Did you say you have sent Hawkins up to Nettlebend Farm?”

    “Yes. Why?”

    “Because,” he said, taking a deep breath. “unless Miss Lattersby is at home today, I collect that leaves the two of us alone in the house?”

    “What? Oh. Janey is spending the day at Plumbways.”

    “Then I shall take my leave. And allow me to apologize once again for foisting illicit roses on you.”

    “You couldn’t know,” said Midge lamely.

    “No, but I do now, don’t I?” he said angrily, striding out.

    Miss Burden bit her lip and sat down limply, clutching the roses.

    Alexei Alexandrovich lay back lazily in an armchair, his interest very evident, and watched Mrs Marsh from under his lashes.

    Kitty was in pale green, today: the muslin embroidered with little medallions of silver: quite charming. An Indian stuff, she had explained to his courteous questioning. She sat up very straight on her sofa, her cheeks glowing, and made rather desperate polite conversation with the white-haired Mr Cuthbertson, Mrs Somerton and Mrs Kinwell, wishing crossly that Addie would pull her weight in the conversation instead of sitting there mumchance, goggling at His Highness!

    … “Come away from that window!” she snapped, as, the victors departing in a bunch, Miss Harrod hurried to the point of best vantage.

    Miss Harrod placed her hand to her withered bosom. “Oh, is he not handsome! And such a leg!”

    —Three, thought Kitty grimly, not saying it.

    “And does not his voice send shivers down your spine?”

    “Yes. Get—a-way—from—the window!”

    Miss Harrod removed herself reluctantly from the window.

    “And next time he comes, for Heaven’s sake say something!” she snapped.

    “What?” she replied vaguely.

    “Bear your part in the conversation! Why do you think I support you?” snarled her sister.

    “Oh, dear: I’m so sorry, Kitty, dear: wasn’t I?”

    Kitty collapsed back onto her sofa with a moan, laying a rounded arm over her eyes. “Get out,” she groaned.

    Miss Harrod gave a deep sigh and drifted out.

    … “Gone moony over him. It’s her age,” diagnosed the percipient Major Harrod, later that day.

    “Her age! She is old enough to know better! She just sat there, staring at him with her mouth half open!”

    “Dare say he’s used to it; handsome fellow, ain’t he? You know Cornwallis?”

    “What of him?” replied Kitty impatiently.

    “He was sayin’ that the Prince reminds him of some fellow.”

    “Really?” she said coldly. “Who?”

    “Well, that’s just it. Can’t put his finger on it. Dare say it will come to him.”

    “Fascinating.” To her brother’s relief she swept out of the library and left him to it.

    Mrs Somerton was somewhat overcome to find that her afternoon callers were the Grand Duchess Ekaterina Nicolaevna Petrovna and Prince Alexei Alexandrovich Petrovsky. Not that the Prince was not, of course, the most gentlemanly and affable of men—but it was not easy, receiving a lady who did not speak a word of your language. Her Serene Highness was, however, very gracious indeed, and accepted a slice of Mrs Somerton’s cook’s famous cherry cake, inclining her head and saying something that sounded like “Mushy dusty.”

    “I expect it means ‘Thank you’ or ‘What excellent cake!’” said Lacey excitedly, when the visitors had gone and they were talking it over.

    “It cannot mean ‘What excellent cake,’ she had not tasted it.”

    “Then it must mean ‘Thank you.’ Was it not exciting? Is he not handsome, Mamma?”

    Mrs Somerton blinked, and pulled herself together rapidly. “Very handsome, my dear, yes; but of course not a young man.”

    “What? Oh—no,” said Lacey dreamily. “Those eyes...” She sighed deeply.

    “Lacey, dearest,” said her Mamma cautiously, “he must be your papa’s age.”

    “Mm...” replied Lacey vaguely.

    “Er—I thought you were very much enjoying the company of Mr Harry Pryce-Cavell, when we called at Nettlefold Hall the other day.”

    “Yes...” said Lacey vaguely.

    Mrs Somerton frowned. She and Mr Somerton had privately decided that Harry Pryce-Cavell would do, for Lacey. He was a gentlemanly young man and, though not the eldest son, had definite expectations. His connections were unexceptionable, and everything was known about him. In short, the only thing lacking was the agreement of the two parties most nearly concerned. Mrs Somerton was ambitious, but not blind nor credulous, and it was clear to her that the Prince’s manner towards Lacey was merely that of an older man to a young girl. Added to which, she had not been unaware of the attraction between him and her hostess, on the occasion of her call at Dinsley House in the company of Mrs Kinwell.—Mrs Kinwell had been offered a ride in the Plumbways barouche not so much as a charitable gesture, but rather more because Mrs Somerton had not wished to find herself alone with Mrs Kitty Marsh.—She looked at Lacey’s dreamy face again, and made up her mind to speak to Mr Somerton. Lacey must be discouraged from this silly fancy.

    “Where to now?” said Ekaterina Nicolaevna as the spanking new barouche (courtesy of Joe Bottomley-Pugh) jogged on towards the village.

    It was perfectly safe to speak: the driver was the their own Ivan Petrovich, red beard firmly in place, and the two frogged, epauletted and baggy-breeched footmen up behind were the brothers Ilya and Nicolas Romanovich. In reality, those noted young second leads, David Darlinghurst and Geoffrey Mainwaring. They had had to be brothers, the conspirators had been running out of Russian names. And they weren’t absolutely certain that “Ilya” was a man’s name—but never mind: it sounded very foreign and exotic and no-one in Lower Nettlefold would know, either.

    —There was an “Olga” going spare, but Miss Gloriana Grosvenor had refused the rôle of a non-speaking Russian maid with a toss of her head. An understudy with Mr Perseus Brentwood’s company was better than a non-speaking maid! The actor-manager Mr Perseus Brentwood was the great rival of Mr Harold Hartington, so she had been told in no uncertain terms that an understudy with Percy Brentwood meant three walk-ons as assorted nymphs and crones in his summer masque, and if she imagined a definite at Stamforth Castle and a possible with a Sir Jeremy Foote were better than a whole summer season with Mr Harold Hartington at the expense of An Unknown Gentleman, she was very much mistaken! Miss Grosvenor, however, had tossed her head again and flounced off.

    Sid replied to Aunt Cumbridge: “The cultivation of rural enjoyment in the way of tea-parties and polite calls is beginning to pall, I must admit. Let’s do something just to amuse ourselves, for a change. I have a fancy to see this Miss Burden of whom Joe thinks so highly.”

    “Well, I ’aven’t: she knows me!” she replied in alarm.

    “Lor’, do any of the rest of ’em, hereabouts?” he drawled, his eyes dancing.

    “No, thank the Lard: they all think themselves too good for the loikes of us.”

    “Well, pull your veil over your face, Ekaterina Nicolaevna!” he said gaily. “We are going to go astray down Cherry Tree Lane!”

    Scowling, Mrs Cumbridge told him to take that look off his face, and they were not in this thing for fun, and, pulling her veil right down, hunched herself up crossly.

    “Are you not too warm in those magnificent silver fox furs?” he said with a laugh in his voice.

    “Yes,” she replied sourly.

    “Arid can you see, at all, with that exquisite Chantilly over your face?”

    “Yes! Get on, if you’re doin’ it!” she snarled.

    Laughing, Alexei Alexandrovich leaned forward and told Ivan Petrovich to head for Cherry Tree Lane, Sam! And to remember, if there was a likelihood of being overheard, to address the horses in Russian.

    Samuel Speede replied sourly: “Speak to ’em in Russian yourself! And I warn you, Sid, if we get stuck in a demned lane, you may back ’em yourself!”

    “Thought ’e could do a Russian accent?” said Aunt Cumbridge from the depths of the veil.

    “He can, and if he wants Jacques next year, he will.”

    At this Ivan Petrovich was seen to hunch himself up crossly, but Sid Bottomley just leaned back at his ease in the barouche, and laughed softly.

    ... “Miss Burden, ma’am, it’s a furriner at the door, and I think he’s one o’ them Roosians!” gasped Hawkins.

    “Really?” said Miss Burden, looking up from Jenny’s French grammar. “—I think you will find that it is ‘la cage’ but ‘le visage,’ Jenny. –What does the Russian want, Hawkins?”

    “I dunno, Miss Burden, acos he was speakin’ furrin!” she gasped.

    “Very well: I will come.”

     Miss Burden approached the door with considerable curiosity. “May I help you?”

    The handsome young man in the odd uniform swept off his large furry black hat and bowed very low. “Dishy barouchsky, mushy dushyer, mademoiselle.”

    Miss Burden seized upon the last word with some relief. “Vous parlez français? Puis-je vous aider?”

    Mr David Darlinghurst parlayed enough français to be able to get by in a small part in Mr Emmanuel Everett’s revival of Le Bourgeois gentilhomme, the which had been spattered with such phrases as “S’il vous plaît” and “Merci mille fois” and “A votre service, monsieur”, thus conveying the ambiance of the original. He fell back, perforce, on: “A votre service, mademoiselle. Mushy dushyer, dishy barouchsky. Mushy dushyer. –Noi!” This last syllable a positive inspiration: he flourished the hat on it, and gestured at the barouche.

    “Barouchsky? Very Russian,” muttered the hunched-up Samuel Speede.

    The Prince’s shoulders shook, but he took his hat off to the plump little auburn-headed lady at the door of Bluebell Dell, and smiled.

    “Er—is the barouche broken down?” Equipage and horses looked perfectly all right to Miss Burden. She took a deep breath and said firmly to the young man: “Permettez-moi de parler à votre maître. May I—speak—to your—master? S’il vous plait?”

    “Oui, mademoiselle,” said Mr Darlinghurst with some relief. “Merci mille fois, mademoiselle. Mushy dushyer.” He stood aside and bowed Miss Burden down the garden path.

    “Good afternoon. I am so sorry to put you to this trouble,” said the Prince, smiling, as Miss Burden approached the carriage. “I am afraid my servants do not speak English. We have gone h’astray, I think.”

    “This is Cherry Tree Lane, sir, and our house is the only one in it.”

    “Oh, dear!” he said with a laugh. “Then we are, indeed, off our route! We should wish to go to Dinsley Airs—but by the good road.”

    “I see. Have you come from the village, sir:”

    “Indeed. We came through the village, and then I think we went h’astray like leetle lambs!” he said gaily, twinkling at her.

    “You will need to go back to the head of Cherry Tree Lane, and there turn left, and just continue along that road. Um—if you see what appears to be a fork,” said Miss Burden, to His Highness’s great entertainment obviously unsure of what a Russian might consider a fork to be, “do not go left, but bear right. The road will take you to a very high stone wall, where you will have a choice of right or left. Go right, and take the first road to the right again, and that will take you straight to Dinsley Airs.”

    “Yes, off course! I know that road!” he said gaily. “Thank you so vairy much, madame!”

    Midge smiled and, for it was clear this strikingly handsome man with the laughing eyes must be the Prince himself, curtseyed politely.

    At this the motionless heap of silver fox and black lace next His Highness stirred slightly, a black-gloved hand on which blazed a diamond bracelet sketched a gracious wave, and a voice from within the back lace said sepulchrally: “Mushy dushyer.”

    “My mother joins me in adding her thanks to mine,” said the Prince smoothly. “Ivan Petrovich! Barouchsky strelyevsky! Noi!”

    Mr David Darlinghurst leapt up behind, and with some difficulty the barouchsky strelyevskey-ed in the narrow lane. Miss Burden watched anxiously until it had managed it, and was jolting off cowards the road.

    “Impressive, David,” said His Highness, shoulders shaking.

    “Well, you try speaking Russian extempore to a strange lady!” he said aggrievedly. “And she speaks French: my heart nigh stopped!”

    “No, no, I mean it. I particularly liked the ‘Noi!’ We shall adopt it as our own.”

    Mr Darlinghurst blinked, but appeared mollified.

    “Well?” said the voice beyond the black veil sepulchrally.

    “Tasty little morsel, ain’t she? Cuddly. I can see why Joe fancies her. Same sort of decent two handfuls there as on the Marsh hag, but a damn’ sight firmer.”

    Crossly Aunt Cumbridge bashed him with Her Serene Highness’s large black fan. “If you can’t speak decent, Sid Bottomley, ’old yer noise! Miss Burden’s a lady!”

    Sid grinned, but held his noise.

    Lord Sleyven tried again, three days later. Some of the roses had been, certainly, of the varieties that Potts was preparing for the show, but the gardener had explained tolerantly that full-blown heads were not show blooms. And, with a certain gleam in his eye that his master did not think he was imagining, offered eagerly to supply his Lordship with a ’uge great bunch, any toime he might be going a-calling.

    It was a warm afternoon, ideal for an afternoon visit—and the Earl very nearly turned back on perceiving that other persons evidently thought so, too: the narrow lane was encumbered by a trap and a curricle. He fancied, however, that he might have been seen from the window, so he dismounted, tied the black to the gatepost, and came up the path.

    Miss Burden’s front parlour today was occupied by that lady herself, Janey, Sir William Ventnor’s younger nephew, fine as fivepence in yellow pantaloons, a smart blue coat and Hessian boots, and a fat, florid-faced middle-aged fellow, ditto. The Earl, in a plain brown coat and riding breeches, felt positively under-dressed. Miss Burden was yet again in the brown and yellow print: ye gods! Did she not possess any other garment? He swallowed a sigh. He doubted that the combined attentions of Lady Judith, her sisters, and her formidable Wynton aunts could teach Miss Burden any dress-sense. –Or even to dress with propriety: that damned cotton thing was Hellishly tight across the bust.

    His Lordship greeted the company composedly, expressed himself delighted by the introduction to Mr Bottomley-Pugh, and proceeded to sit down and join that gentleman in staring avidly at Miss Burden’s bust in too-tight faded brown and yellow cotton.

    Tea was duly brought in, with a plate of seedy biscuits. Miss Burden explained redundantly that they were yesterday’s baking.

    “Yes: we were planning muffins today, but—” Janey broke off.

    “You ate ’em all up, hey?” said Mr Bottomley-Pugh with a rumble of laughter, turning a paternal beam upon Miss Janey.

    “Not this time!” she said with a giggle. “No, the dough was set to rise, and Ferdinand got into it.”

    “Literally,” said Miss Burden with a sigh. “That cat has no nous.”

    His Lordship, once the gentlemen had recovered from this, was rather glad to be able to say: “And how is his paw, Miss Burden?” And not so pleased when Mr Bottomley-Pugh answered for her: “Healed all up, me Lard: ’e’s as fit as a flea.”

    The other two gentlemen took their leave shortly thereafter. The Earl rose, too: he could not but feel that it would look particular, if he stayed: he did not wish to embarrass Miss Burden. Mr Bottomley-Pugh having announced his intention of trotting along in his direction, Lord Sleyven perforce accepted his invitation to mount up into the curricle.

    He was not aware that he then lapsed into frowning silence, nor that the florid merchant had given him a shrewd glance before fixing his eyes on the road.

    Eventually Mr Bottomley-Pugh said: “Now, that young feller, he was there for little Janey. It were the brother as was supposed to of fixed ’is fancy upon Miss Burden last summer.”

    “Really?” he said coldly.

    “Aye, but ’e ain’t been back since. Which some maintains proves as what any h’expectations she may of conceived was misplaced. But I ain’t one o’ them, acos I ain’t a noddy.”

    The Earl gave a startled laugh. “I see! Er—I think perhaps you are the owner of that very fine house about five miles this side of Nettleford, is that right, Mr Bottomley-Pugh? Nettleford House?”

    “That’s roight, me Lard. It were my late wife’s notion to call it that. Ideas above her station, it’s generally said she ’ad.”

    “Is it, indeed? I would say that you and she had as much right as anybody to call your house whatever you wished,” he said levelly.

    “Ar. You can say that, yer Lardship, but you’re an earl!” returned Mr Bottomley Pugh with a rich chuckle.

    Jarvis smiled a little. “Yes, it does make a difference, does it not? However much one may think that it ought not.”

    “Ar, well, human nature.”

    “Indeed.”

    “I noticed you a-lookin’ at Miss Burden’s little print dress,” said the stout merchant placidly.

    “Did you?” said his Lordship lamely. “I—I think that she often wears it.”

    “Ar, well, that’s the thing, see: she don’t, exactly: there’s three on ’em.”

    “I beg your pardon?”

    “Three little dresses: there’s one what’s real faded, and she don’t wear that but when she goes out after blackberries or mushrooms or such.”

    Jarvis fancied he knew the very one he meant. He swallowed. “Oh.”

    “And two others. She bought a length of the stuff cheap, you see.”

    “Mm.”

    “Ar. When there was any money in that ’ouse, which weren’t often, by my reckoning, it all used to go on little Miss Polly’s foinery.”

    “Yes,” he said, biting his lip. “Very natural.”

    The curricle jogged gently on in the sun, Mr Bottomley-Pugh favouring the Earl with a detailed account of Miss Burden’s kindness to his daughter Katerina, of the French and Italian lessons that Miss Burden was giving Katerina and, rather more generally, with many incidentals of Miss Burden’s daily life and occupations.

    Jarvis remounted his horse at the Maunsleigh turn-off with a strange feeling that he had been on trial the entire time. But he could not see, how, precisely: for the fellow had not asked him questions, but on the contrary, scarcely let him get a word in edgewise!

    Miss Bottomley-Pugh’s supposition that Mrs Somerton had placed herself on the side of Miss Burden in the pursuit of Lord Sleyven’s affections was perfectly correct. Mrs Somerton had been incensed by Mrs Marsh’s looking down her nose at her at a certain tea-party given by the Bishop’s lady, in addition to being more generally annoyed by Mrs Marsh’s throwing herself at both the Earl and the Prince and more specifically annoyed by the ostentation of Mrs Marsh’s elaborate dinner for the Prince. She discovered that Lady Ventnor fully shared her sentiments: indeed, her Ladyship, in the wake of Mrs Marsh’s dinner, expressed regret at ever having sponsored the woman in the county. And just between herself and Mrs Somerton, told the chatelaine of Plumbways the details of what was known of Mrs Marsh’s history at Rennwood. It considerably relieved Lady Ventnor’s feelings to do so, and she did not pause to consider what the effect of making the story known to Mrs Somerton might be. The two dames agreed that it would be insupportable to have Mrs Marsh lording it at Maunsleigh. And it must be admitted that both ladies had been having second thoughts about Miss Burden after meeting her twice in succession at select tea-parties at the Deanery.

    The picknick with the young people had been Mrs Somerton’s first effort at throwing a spoke in the wheel of Mrs Marsh’s supposed intentions towards the Earl. Her second was a pressing invitation to Miss Burden to “a small dinner party”.

    Midge looked at her in some dismay. “You are very kind, Mrs Somerton, but—but Janey and I had not thought of going to parties quite so soon.”

    Mrs Somerton assured her, imprimis, that it was three months since dear Mrs Cartwright’s sad passing, secundus, that dear Miss Burden might wear her delightful black silk, and tertius, that it was not to be a dancing party.

    It would not, in fact, be quite three months since Mrs Cartwright’s death on the date of the party, but Midge gave in. If it was to be only a small party of neighbours, it really could not be thought ineligible.

    Mrs Somerton heaved a stealthy sigh of relief: she had not been able to see how to get out of inviting the Marsh woman without giving the impression, which she did not yet wish to do, of slighting the creature. But at least with Miss Burden there, there would be some hope of her not being able to monopolize the Earl!

    Miss Burden and Janey, therefore, duly attended this dinner. So did Mrs Marsh. Unfortunately for any hopes that either lady, not to mention their hostess, might have been supposed to have conceived, the Earl was not present. A previous engagement in Nettleford.

    Lady Ventnor, encouraged by seeing Miss Burden start to go out to parties again, then descended upon Bluebell Dell in force and apple-green silk. It was not to be a large affair, and naturally dear Miss Burden would not be expected to dance. But she would be most gratified— And then, dear Miss Burden of course understood the difficulties of balancing one’s table! Midge looked very startled: she had not assumed the Squire’s lady was intending the invitation to include participation in the very select dinner to be held before the ball. And, added Lady Ventnor artfully, it would be dearest Polly’s last party before her marriage, would it not?

    It would, indeed. Midge hesitated.

    Lady Ventnor, perceiving the day to be nearly hers, pressed the point. Midge gave in, but with the mental reservation that Janey must not dance, either.

    Her Ladyship then imparted by the by the information that Lady Judith would be there, and departed, nodding the apple-green plumes on the bonnet and smiling very graciously indeed.

    “Help,” said Midge numbly, sitting down suddenly. This was terrible! She should never have accepted those invitations from Lady Judith: people must think that—that his cousin had taken her up!

    The front door of Bluebell Dell, on the occasion of the Earl’s fifth call, was opened by a nymph in a drift of pale green gauze. He blinked.

    “Oh: good afternoon, Lord Sleyven,” smiled Janey, very flushed.

    “Good afternoon, Miss Lattersby. I trust I am not disturbing you. Is Miss Burden at home?”

    “No, not disturbing, exactly, my Lord!” said Janey with a laugh, feeling the circlet of flowers and leaves in her hair. “We are playing Classical charades. You see, a great parcel of muslins arrived from my papa, and— Oh, dear, you must think us very silly!”

    “Not at all.”

    “Miss Burden and Mr Humphreys have discovered our ignorance in the matter of the Greek and Roman myths, and so they are encouraging us—Oh, I’m so sorry, please step in, my Lord!—They are encouraging us to learn, you see, by holding out charades as an irresistible bribe!” She held the door of the front parlour open for him, smiling, and although he had been about to say that he had called at a bad moment and would not stay, he found himself going in.

    The furniture was pushed right back and Mr and Miss Humphreys were sitting on the sofa, looking expectant.

    “Please don’t get up,” he said quickly. “How very pleasant to see you both.”

    Powell Humphreys greeted him composedly, and with what the Earl fancied was a wry look in his eye; Miss Humphreys, however, was in a terrible flutter.

    “I collect you are the audience?” he said calmly, pulling up a chair next to Mr Humphreys’s end of the sofa.

    “The sacrifice,” corrected Mr Humphreys placidly. “Which reminds me: do you know this writer?” He produced a slim volume from his pocket.

    “Why, no.” The Earl looked through it with interest.

    “Try this one,” said Mr Humphreys, finding the place for him.

    The title was Ode on a Grecian Urn. His Lordship swallowed.

    “No, well, it’s apposite,” owned the scholar, his eyes twinkling. “But I think you may enjoy it. –In the meantime, Amelia, my dear, why do you not tell Miss Burden that his Lordship is here? And incidentally, see what is holding up the next scene,” he murmured.

    Very flushed, Miss Humphreys rushed out.

    Mr Humphreys sat back placidly and watched the Earl discovering Mr John Keats.

    “This is an extraordinary talent,” he said numbly.

    “Yes, I thought you would like him. I was so impressed that I wrote the publishers, asking if there were any more volumes, but they informed me that the poet had lately died. Just a young man: very sad.”

    “A great loss to English literature, I would say.”

    “Mm.” Mr Humphreys leaned over and turned the pages. “Read that.” He watched silently as the Earl discovered the Ode on Melancholy.

    “This is quite extraordinary.”

    “Mm. It is a young man’s vision, but nevertheless—”

    “Quite,” he said in a shaken voice.

    “I particularly like the initial line of the epode: well, I shall not bore you with the technicalities of the rhetorical devices he has handled so well, but note the break in the middle of the line, and the falling rhythm on ‘die’ at the line’s end.”

    “Indeed,” he murmured.

    Mr Humphreys smiled a little. “I offered the volume to Waldgrave, but he objected that there was not an original thought in it.”

    “Oh, rubbish! Er, well, it is not the content, so much, but the way it is expressed... One cannot analyse it, or I, at least, cannot, but it is years since I read anything so fine!” he said with shining eyes.

    “Yes. And although I confess I am more than capable of analysing it, what one is left with at the end of the analysis is a handful of dust.”

    The Earl nodded, twinkling.

    “Do you know Sidney?” he asked calmly.

    Lord Sleyven blinked. “Er—yes.”

    “Which do you think I should offer Miss Burden?”

    “I would not offer her Sidney!” he said in horror.

    “No?” he murmured. “Because the Elizabethan turn of phrase is too difficult. or because some of the sentiments are not fit for a lady’s eyes?”

    Jarvis was very flushed—not the least because he could see that Mr Humphreys was needling him. “I would say that some of the sentiments are certainly not fit,” he said firmly. “But also... some of those poems are so damned painful,” he finished in a very low voice.

    Powell Humphreys’s rather unhappy mouth twisted into a wry little smile. “Oh, indeed. Bitter as gall.”

    “Offer her this, Humphreys.”

    “Well, I think you are right,” he said placidly. “I doubt that, in any case, an innocent young woman, however intelligent, would be capable of appreciating all that Sidney has to offer. It would be a pity to waste him.”

    Miss Humphreys returning at this point with the message that they would not be long now, Jarvis was spared the necessity of replying. Not that he could think of any reply. He sat there with very much the same feeling he had had during the drive with Mr Bottomley-Pugh. Clearly he had been on trial. He had passed the Keats test. But as to that last— He was not at all sure.

    He was a trifle stunned, upon the charade’s being performed, to discover that the players numbered not only Miss Lattersby, Miss Bottomley-Pugh, and Susi-Anna Marsh, but also his own daughter. Miss Burden had evidently been performing the rôle of dresser: she hurried in with an apology.

    Jenny was in a pair of huge boots, an abbreviated skirt or kilt, and a tea-tray, as to the body, and a copper saucepan and feather duster, as to the head, so it did not take a great leap of the imagination to conclude that she was taking the role of a Greek gentleman. The older girls were in draperies like Janey’s. The performance included much running, and several apples, so it did not require a great leap of the imagination, either, to guess what the scene was.

    “You missed the siege of Troy,” noted Mr Humphreys drily when the scene had concluded, and congratulations had duly been pronounced.

    “I am sorry to hear that,” he said sedately. “Did it include the horse?”

    “Most certainly,” said Mr Humphreys primly.

    “It was a clothes-horse, with sheets over it,” said Miss Burden briskly.

    “I was the head!” explained Jenny, beaming at her father.

    “Yes: she crawled along inside it: it was very clever!” smiled Miss Humphreys.

    “Now, you may join the audience, Jenny,” said Miss Burden, “and the older girls have one more scene to do. If you will all excuse me, I shall see if Hawkins needs any help.”

    Jenny subsided onto the carpet next her father’s chair, confiding: “Hawkins will need help. She is having a bad day. She burnt the custard tarts and she was so upset about that, that she left the pantry door open, and—”

    “Jenny, dear, I do not think his Lordship wishes to know all this,” murmured Miss Humphreys.

    “But indeed I do, Miss Humphreys!” he said with a smile. “Nothing this exciting ever happens in my house—or if it does, my servants take care to see that I miss out on the excitement. What happened, Jenny?”

    “Both cats got in and ravaged the ham that Hawkins was saving for our sandwiches!” she revealed with relish.

    “Oh, dear!” he said with a laugh.

    “So Miss Burden said perhaps we might have muffins, instead.”

    “Er—is that not a risky decision? I have heard that Ferdinand has a partiality for muffin dough.”

    Miss Humphreys and Jenny at this both collapsed in giggles.

    “Yes,” Jenny admitted eventually, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand, “but the monsters have been banished to the garden. Did you see him the day he fell into the muffin dough?”

    “No,” he said weakly.

    His daughter promptly favoured him with a rapturous account of the state of Ferdinand, post-muffin bowl.

    The last charade was very puzzling indeed. It featured Miss Lattersby in a coal scuttle and furry hearthrug, with a ferocious scowl upon her pretty little face and a burnt-cork moustache, Miss Bottomley-Pugh in the boots, hastily recuperated from Jenny by Miss Burden, a draped tablecloth, and a leathern apron, with a copper warming-pan slung on her back, and Susi-Anna in the muslin draperies she had worn in the previous scene, but with rather more flowers on the head and a veil over the face. Miss Lattersby held a toasting fork, which she brandished fiercely. Miss Bottomley-Pugh did a lot of walking up and down. Miss Marsh at first walked but then stood stock— Oh.

    “I know!” gasped Jenny.

    “Yes, but then, they will have told you,” said Mr Humphreys meanly.

    “No!” she cried indignantly.

    “Do not tease, Powell,” ordered his sister. “I own, I am quite at a loss!”

    “The warming-pan is the clue, Miss Humphreys,” said Jarvis sedately.

    Miss Burden swallowed, said on a desperate note: “I will just see if Hawkins—” And shot out.

    “The trident was not precisely accurate,” murmured Mr Humphreys. “Submaritime, rather than subterranean.”

    The Earl had held up wonderfully until this moment. He collapsed in horrible sniggers.

    “Don’t LAUGH!” cried Jenny aggrievedly. “It was very good!”

    “Yes, indeed, it was excellent,” said Miss Humphreys gamely to the hurt faces and large, innocent eyes of the participants.

    The Earl snorted helplessly. Mr Humphreys’ shoulders shook.

    “Powell, stop laughing!” she cried crossly. “Jenny, my dear, we shall just ignore them,” she said, very flushed. “Now, let me see... A warming-pan...”

    Mr Humphreys choked, and rose to his feet. “I think a breath of fresh air is indicated.”

    Thankfully the Earl got up, handed Mr Humphreys his stick, and accompanied him outside.

    “They’re laughing again!” reported Jenny crossly from the window.

    “Yes. Gentlemen,” said Miss Humphreys weakly, “can be very silly when they—they get together. Come away from the window, dear, and let me see if I can guess! Um...”

    In order to return from Bluebell Dell to Dinsley House the Marshes could take the muddy back road or the longer route, via the great stone wall bordering the Maunsleigh grounds. Jenny having announced cheerfully that they would ride with the Earl as far as the wall, they all set off together, Miss Marsh in the pony-cart and Jenny and the Earl riding. Miss Bottomley-Pugh’s deep cornflower eyes followed them speculatively, but she said nothing.

    … “He’s paying ’is court to her, all roight,” concluded Mr Bottomley-Pugh.

    “I think so, Pa. But I did wonder if perhaps he came to see Jenny.”

    “Oh. Uh—did ’e know it was one of her afternoons, though?”

    “I don’t know. But she is a chatterer, she may well have told him.”

    “Ar.” He scratched his chin.

    “He—he was very—I was going to say affable, but that was not it, quite: I think the term implies that the subject feels himself to be above his company, does it not? There was nothing of that in his manner.”

    “Felt ’imself to be quoite at home?”

    “No... He was fairly relaxed, but I would not go that far.”

    Mr Bottomley-Pugh looked at her dubiously.

    “Actually,” said Katerina, blushing, “I know this sounds silly, but I think he was happy.”

    Beaming, Mr Bottomley-Pugh swooped on her and gave her a smacking kiss.

    Jarvis had been happy. But he felt ruefully, as the formality of Maunsleigh re-engulfed him, that it would, indeed, be an up-hill struggle to turn Miss Burden into the semblance of a prim countess. Well, charades were perfectly acceptable, of course. But popping in and out to the kitchen... Not that there would be any need for her to do so, at Maunsleigh. But could she be happy, in a life so very different from the one to which she was accustomed?

    He fell into a gloom over his dinner, pondering this point, and did not register that possibly the gloom was being insensibly helped along by the reappearance of elaborate sauces and side-dishes on his board—M. Fermour having backslid, since the dinner for the Shelbys—nor that the table was graced by a great bowl of overblown, miraculously scented roses.

Next chapter:

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