The Consolidation Of A Position

11

The Consolidation Of A Position

    The great news that spring in the parishes of Upper and Lower Nettlefold, as April blew in on gusts of further rain, was that Dinsley House was taken at last.

    It and the next-door property, Dinsley Airs, were twin houses, built at the same period by two gentlemen friends, one of whom had been Mrs Cartwright’s late papa-in-law. Sadly, Mr Runcorn of Dinsley House had left no male issue, and his daughters had all married out of the district. Dinsley House had had several tenants since then, but none had been felt to be at all satisfactory. And one had been very unsatisfactory indeed: Mr Bottomley, now of Nettleford House, before he built his own house and added the hyphen and the “Pugh” to his name. The neighbourhood had not felt his unsatisfactoriness to be one whit abated by the extensive repairs he had had carried out at Dinsley House at his own expense. Though very possibly his landlords had. Certainly Dinsley House was now in a most excellent state of repair, and it was only the isolation of their little district that had prevented its being re-let very speedily.

    It quickly became known that the new occupant of Dinsley House was a Mrs Marsh, a widowed lady who had relatives in Nettleford. Very soon, the connection was made with Lady Ventnor’s elegant visitor of the previous summer. After that it was not long at all before everybody knew that the household, as to its genteeler parts, consisted of Mrs Marsh herself, her spinster sister, a Miss Harrod, her bachelor brother, a Major Harrod, Rtd., her one son, a handsome gentleman of, it was variously rumoured, some eighteen, twenty, or twenty-five summers, tho’ absolutely no more, and her two daughters. The elder, Miss Marsh, being out, and the younger, Miss Jennifer, in the schoolroom.

    The news was not welcomed at Maunsleigh. An uneasy Mr Crayshaw approached his employer with: “I do not know if you are already aware of this, sir. The quarterly allowance which is paid out of the J.P. Marsh Trust to a, er, Mrs K. Marsh—”

    “It is a fair amount, and she is not getting a penny more. Added to which I am in no doubt she spends it on her back and the child does not see a groat of it,” said the Earl grimly.

    “Yes, sir!” gulped Mr Crayshaw. He had been pretty sure what this trust must be: and after all, Lord Sleyven was not a boy. Nevertheless it was embarrassing to hear his employer speak of the facts so plainly. “She is not asking for more— At least, she is, but I am following your standing instructions as to that. No, it is not that: she has asked that the allowance be forwarded to a new address.”

    “Send it to wherever the woman is, then,” he said, turning back to his papers with a little frown.

    “Lord Sleyven, I think you do not quite understand,” said the young man, nervous but determined.

    The Earl looked up quickly. “Go on, Jonathon, what has the bitch done? –Nothing would surprise me, by the way.”

    Young Mr Crayshaw was rather red, but he gave him a grateful smile. “She has taken Dinsley House.”

    There was a long silence.

    “Thank you, Jonathon. You did right to warn me,” he said grimly.

    Mr Crayshaw gave him another grateful smile, and bowed himself out.

    Jarvis swore softly to himself. Not that he had not been expecting something of the sort. It had been too much to hope that her earlier foray had given her the idea that her presence in the neighbourhood would not be welcome.

    He stared out of his study window at the green lawns of Maunsleigh under the April rains without seeing them. Eventually he took up a sheet of writing paper. Then he hesitated. After all, he himself would be leaving for London to take his seat in the House very shortly... No. Best nip it in the bud. He dipped his pen in the standish and wrote quickly and firmly.

    … “A note from Maunsleigh, madam,” said Mrs Marsh’s butler respectfully, bowing.

    He was a smooth and oily character; she had no doubt he was cheating her monstrously on the wine bills. Kitty Marsh was the sort of woman who inevitably was cheated by her servants, when she managed to keep them at all. She took the note silently, not allowing her inner glee to show.

    “It will be from him!” gasped Miss Harrod, clasping her bony hands together.

    Kitty had her older sister Addie to live with her solely in order to afford a young and pretty widow a veneer of respectability. Or rather, in order to sustain the fiction of her being a young, defenceless widow in need of chaperoning. She gave her a look of dislike. “As there is no Countess of Sleyven, and as Mr Marsh and I knew Colonel Wynton, as he was then, in India, it most certainly will. –Was there something else?” she added coldly to the butler.

    “No, Mrs Marsh. I beg your pardon, madam,” he said, bowing profoundly and oiling himself out.

    Mrs Marsh opened the note.

    Addie Harrod watched in horror as her sister’s round pink cheeks took on a purple hue. “Kitty—”

    “Get out. GET OUT!” she screamed.

    Miss Harrod scurried quickly away.

    Kitty Marsh crumpled the note up and threw it furiously across the room, shrieking: “You may roast in HELL, Jarvis Wynton!” Forthwith she threw herself down upon her sofa and burst into sobs of rage.

    Kitty was at this period in time, not forty-five years of age as Mrs Cartwright had shrewdly estimated last summer, but all of forty-eight. There were very few persons upon the face of the earth who had come as close to guessing her true age as had the astute Mrs Cartwright. Kitty’s son was twenty; she had married, to hear her tell it, as a very young girl; actually at twenty-seven. These days, if pressed, she would admit coyly to being thirty-seven. Her looks, indeed, sustained this fiction. The hair was a glowing red, and only her maid could have truthfully taken an oath it was henna. It curled as frivolously and luxuriantly as it had done in the days when she had been little Kitty Harrod, the youngest of twelve daughters of an impoverished country squire, with not a prospect in the world. Though in those days it had been a glowing chestnut, rather than red. The eyes were certainly as big, blue and soulful as they had ever been; nay, more soulful: Kitty knew to perfection how to use them, nowadays. She had taken very good care of her skin in the Indian sun and it was still thickly cream and very little lined. But Kitty was crossly aware of a certain sag under her plump chin that had not been there a few years back. She held the chin defiantly high on account of it. She was a little woman, and quite plump, the which had, as Charles Langford had not failed to note, been a considerable measure of her attraction for Jarvis Wynton, fifteen years back. The corset was laced more tightly today than it had been fifteen years back, but this served merely to set the bust off to even greater advantage. Kitty, however, was furiously aware that without it she drooped very much more than she had done fifteen years back.

    And also aware, for she was very far from unintelligent, though not an educated woman, that she was to all intents and purposes reduced to her last chance. It was not that the men did not still admire her. There were not a few that she could have had by the mere raising of a little finger. But Kitty Marsh, though it was not true to say she no longer wished for that, no longer saw it as her prime goal. She wanted a man of her own. Not for companionship and not necessarily to afford her that satisfaction she had always sought, and found, in bed. And not for an income: Mr Marsh had left a large fortune and though half of it was tied up so that Kitty could not spend it before his son came of age, a very great deal had come to her outright. The late Mr Marsh had been an entirely reasonable man, and as he had been all of twenty-nine years Kitty’s senior, he had not begrudged her, after their son was born, the odd indiscretion or two. He had been quite sure that she would be his when he wanted her; and so, indeed, it had proven. Kitty was certainly avaricious and scheming. But in her way, she would honour a bargain when it was struck: Mr Marsh had never had to complain of not receiving his conjugal dues. And he had been generous enough to recognize the fact in his will.

    So it was not in order to support her in the style to which she had grown accustomed that Kitty needed a man. No, she needed a husband to give her the place in Society that she considered her due. And as a secondary consideration, credibility with all the sakht burra memsahibs like Lady Judith Golightly that England was so horridly full of. Kitty did not care what they truly thought of her. But she wanted very much to have the pleasure of forcing even the grandest of them to acknowledge her—the which she would certainly have as the Countess of Sleyven.

    Perhaps it will by now be evident that Kitty Marsh was not the sort of woman to put all her eggs in the one basket. She was not, therefore, pinning all her hopes on catching Jarvis Wynton. The hiring of Dinsley House was a gamble: Jarvis was merely the logical place to start. He knew what she had to offer, he had for many years been unable to resist what she had to offer, he had the right sort of social position, and he was free.

    She had not reckoned on re-conquering him without a struggle. Nevertheless she was very, very upset and annoyed by his note. It was in some sort a pre-emptive strike. Kitty did not so phrase it to herself; but she recognized it as such, nonetheless; and recognised, too, that it was all too typical of the man who had once been at her feet.

    … “Won’t have been good news, then,” noted Major Harrod drily as his elder sister panted into his study with her report. Major Harrod was a man of complete amiability: some claimed, of complete spinelessness, the which was not entirely untrue. He knew he was living off Kitty like a parasite, but then she had made the offer in the first instance. And she used him when she wished for an escort, and brutally ignored him when she had no need of one. The which George Harrod considered fair enough.

    “No, indeed!” gasped Addie. “I wonder what it could have said?”

    Major Harrod sniffed slightly but did not say that if the note were from the former Colonel Wynton, he could pretty well imagine. “If she ain’t thrown it on the fire, I’ll nip in and grab it soon as she flings off upstairs.”

    Miss Harrod clasped her hands, and nodded eagerly, but said: “But will she?”

    He shrugged. “Usually does, don’t she? Why break the habit of a lifetime?”

    Miss Harrod gave a smothered giggle, and nodded. They waited. Soon there came the sound of a door slamming downstairs, the sound of screeching in the hall, and then the sound of furious feet on the stairs. Then more door slamming, fainter, from upstairs. Major Harrod, looking bland, got up and strolled off to the pink salon. Miss Harrod followed, keeping well behind him, rather as if the very salon itself might turn on her with a snarl.

    The note was found in the fireplace, but fortunately it had missed the flames and, with some grunting and muttering by the Major, was retrieved whole. He smoothed it out, grinning, and read it aloud:

    “‘Lord Sleyven wishes to advise Mrs Marsh of Dinsley House that she may spare herself the pains of renewing old acquaintance. Further, Lord Sleyven wishes to advise Mrs Marsh that should she wish the present arrangement between the parties to stand, she should not, in fact, seek to revive old acquaintance. Lord Sleyven also advises Mrs Marsh that he wishes her well in any other enterprise she may care to undertake.’”

    There was no signature. Major Harrod whistled.

    “How cruel!” cried Miss Harrod.

    “Mm. Well, he ain’t precisely a kind personality, as one or two of us might have tried to warn Kitty when she took up with him.”

    Miss Harrod nodded convulsively: her position in Kitty’s household at that time had been even more lowly than it was now: she had been unpaid governess to Teddy and Susi-Anna. Nevertheless she had tried to warn Kitty: Colonel Wynton had had “an unforgiving face”. She had not been thanked for her pains.

    “Whuh-what can he mean about the present arrangement?” she faltered. “Surely he is not threatening to take little Jenny’s trust away from her?”

    Major Harrod looked down at her tolerantly and did not bother to point out there were certain legal difficulties in breaking a trust. “Pooh, of course he ain’t. He may be a cold devil, but he’s a man of honour. No: he knows Kitty can well afford to house and feed any number of brats what ain’t old Marsh’s. This’ll be a threat to stop the allowance that he sends her every quarter for Jenny’s keep.”

    Miss Harrod gulped, and nodded. Even although she was now a very rich woman, Kitty would not have liked that.

    The burly Major looked down tolerantly at his skinny spinster sister. “It’s stopped rainin’. Come for a drive. Addie?”

    “Oh, thank you, George, dear!” she said with heartfelt gratitude.

    There was nothing to stop Addie from telling ’em herself to bring the trap round, or even pole up the barouche. Now that she had a fortune at her disposal Kitty was not so mean as to begrudge her sister the use of the household’s vehicles when she was not using them herself. Nevertheless George Harrod was aware Addie wouldn’t: she had been too squashed all of her life to start looking after her own comfort now. As he had nothing better to do today he didn’t mind tooling her round the countryside. At least she wouldn’t chatter if you told her not to.

    Miss Harrod hastened into her bonnet and pelisse, the Major’s curricle was brought round, ekdum, and the Major and Miss Harrod got into it. He let her chatter away for ten minutes or so and then told her not to.

    Miss Harrod was obediently silent for the rest of the drive.

    Very possibly Lady Ventnor’s information that the Earl had gone up to London had been intended to convey to Mrs Marsh that he had gone away in order to avoid her—though her Ladyship’s voice had been as languid as ever when she imparted the news. Kitty had preserved her calm. She determined to use the time profitably, finding out as much as she could about the genteel inhabitants of the neighbourhood, and ingratiating herself accordingly. Reflecting, by the by, that if Jarvis Wynton thought he was being clever in removing himself at this juncture, he had, for once in his damned coldly calculating life, made a tactical error. Because when he returned, he would find that it would not be easy to evict her from the position she would have consolidated. And most certainly not without damage to his own reputation.

    Major Harrod, in the wake of this news, misguidedly offered: “Y’know he’s got Hutton here?”

    “Fascinating.”

    “Y— Um, well, Ventnor has a story that last summer, um, think it was while Sleyven was off in Ireland buyin’ horses, Hutton was workin’ for—”

    “YES!” she screamed. “I had it from the Humphreys hag’s very mouth! And GET OUT!”

    The Major had no notion who the Humphreys hag might be. But he got out, ekdum.

    Kitty thought long and hard. Since Jarvis had left the neighbourhood, probably there was nothing between him and the woman for whom Hutton had been working. But one could never be too careful: there was the story of the hens, as well. And Hutton was as sly as he could hold together: she was aware that if he could put a spoke in her wheel, he would. Eventually she called Addie into the pink salon. Miss Harrod entered in what might fairly have been described as fear and trembling, but to her astonishment her sister apparently wished merely to gossip about the persons they had so far met in the neighbourhood, the meanwhile feeding her on tea and cakes. Well, possibly she was lonely, poor Kitty: after all, she was a widow now, one must not forget!

    In consequence of this cosy chat, Kitty did not begin by making a frontal assault on, for instance, Verne Lea or Plumbways. Influence in these rural neighbourhoods did not lie entirely with such as the Pattersons, the Somertons, or the squire and his lady.

    “Susie, my love,” she said in a caressing tone, wandering into the schoolroom where Miss Marsh was gallantly attempting to help Jenny with her sums—Miss Harrod having abandoned the effort as beyond her, and Jenny’s last governess having had to be let go as unsatisfactory (sheep’s eyes at Major Harrod).

    Miss Marsh jumped. “Yes, Mamma?”

    Kitty rustled over to the schoolroom table and attempted to tidy her older daughter’s limp brown ringlets. “My love, I declare! Anyone would think you had been letting your Aunt Addie assist you with your hair!”

    This remark failed signally in its intended effect. Miss Marsh was now, and ever had been, determinedly on the side of Miss Harrod, and indeed, of all the underdogs of her mother’s household. She said nothing. Jenny frankly glared.

    “Tell me, my love,” said Kitty, undeterred, “who were those pleasant young ladies whom you and Aunt Addie met in the village?”

    “Um, a Miss Somerton and her friends, Mamma.”

    “Oh, yes: Miss Somerton is quite unexceptionable: she and her mamma were at the Verne Lea strawberry picknick last summer. Who else, dear?”

    “Um, well, Miss Amanda and Miss Portia Waldgrave. Their papa is the vicar of Lower Nettlefold.”

    “Indeed? Perhaps we should try church there, instead of Upper Nettlefold.”

    “Um, it is a little farther, I think, but as it is not uphill, it may be easier for the horses.”

    “Not if it’s downhill, they’d have to come uphill to get home again,” noted Jenny.

    “Silly child,” said her mother with a light laugh.

    Jenny scowled, and fell silent.

    “Um—no, it’s quite flat, all the way. Only longer,” said Miss Marsh.

    “Yes, so you said, dear,” agreed Kitty. “Splendid, we’ll go there in future. I am sure Mr Waldgrave will give us a better sermon than poor Mr Butterworth.”

    “Um—yes,” she agreed, wondering what Mr Butterworth had done to blot his copybook.

    “And what other young ladies did you meet, Susie?” she cooed.

    “Um—there was a Miss Burden. Miss Polly Burden.”

    “And did you meet the older Miss Burden, dear?”

    “No-o. Oh: do you mean her aunt, Mamma? No.”

    “And tell me, my puss, what do these charming rural young ladies all do to occupy themselves?”

    “They go to strawberry picknicks,” noted Jenny.

    “Jennifer, if we have any more of these silly remarks from you this afternoon, you may go to your room and stay there.”

    Jenny was sullenly silent.

    “Um, Miss Amanda Waldgrave told me she enjoys tatting!” gasped Susannah.

    “Tatting? Very commendable.”

    There was a slight pause.

    “They do not ride,” she offered faintly.

    “No? What a pity, my dear. Well, for the nonce, Jennifer may accompany you on your rides.’

    Jenny already did. Nevertheless Miss Marsh replied politely: “Thank you, Mamma.”

    “Surely they must have mentioned something else of how they spend their time, my little puss?”

    Miss Marsh licked her lips nervously. There had been an irritated note, behind the sweetness. “Um... Oh, yes, Miss Amanda Waldgrave said that she and—I think it was Miss Somerton—um, yes, it was—that they go to Miss Burden, Miss Polly’s aunt, I mean, for French and Italian conversation. But Miss Portia has given it up.”

    “Indeed? That sounds a delightful and improving occupation.”

    “Yes—um—very ladylike,” she ventured.

    Kitty gave a little silvery trill of laughter. Her daughters quailed, though on the stout-hearted Jenny, it did not show. “Most certainly it is, my puss, but a true lady will not say so!”

    “No, Mamma,” she muttered, very red.

    “Should you care to join them, my dear? You must not neglect your accomplishments, you know; and then, it would be pleasant for you to spend some time with your new friends, would it not?”

    Susannah Marsh did not need the look in Jennifer’s eye, the which was saying as clearly as if she had spoken aloud: “That’s your fate sealed,” to prompt her to the correct reply. “Yes, Mamma. Thank you very much,” she said faintly.

    Kitty laughed lightly, tapped her head, and rustled out.

    “That’s your fate sealed,” noted Miss Jenny the moment the door was seen to be safely closed.

    “Ssh! Um—yes. Um—I wonder why?”

    Jenny shrugged. “One of them has a rich brother?”

    “Really, Jenny,” she said weakly, going very red.

    “Or a rich widowed papa? In that case, you and Mamma could toss for him.”

    “Ssh! Um... No, I don’t think... No, I am sure not.”

    Jenny shrugged elaborately. “Well, it’s a mystery. But there’s something behind it, mark my words!”

    “Yes,” she agreed faintly. “They are scarcely my ‘new friends’: I have only met them the once.”

    “They are now,” she noted drily.

    Miss Marsh swallowed. “Mm.”

    Jenny’s eyes narrowed. “Wait. ’Member what Aunt Addie said, about our Colonel Wynton being the Earl of Sleyven?”

    Miss Marsh went very red and replied faintly: “Yes.” At nineteen years of age, she was not officially privy to the secret of her little sister’s true parentage. But with Miss Harrod in the house there was little hope of its remaining a secret, and indeed, at the time of Mrs Marsh’s acrimonious breaking-off with Colonel Wynton, a distressed Miss Harrod had let it all out to the interested Susannah, at that time only fourteen years old, Susannah’s ayah, the ayah’s sister who happened to be there on one of her frequent visits, and the ayah’s sister’s two eldest daughters. All of them except Susannah had already known all of the facts but they had not been at all averse to hearing them again.

    The innocent Jenny nodded, blithely unaware of anything in the air. “I must have been... about seven or eight, I think, when I last saw him, but I remember him quite well: he was nice, wasn’t he?”—Her sister nodded mutely.—“Well, Cook told me something very interesting about him and that Miss Burden, only this morning. I was meaning to tell you. The aunt, I mean.” Forthwith she related the story of the hens.

    Miss Marsh smiled. “How sweet! Jenny, he must affect her!”

    “Yes, but wait: Cook says that she sent them back!”

    “Oh,” she said lamely.

    “So perhaps she doesn’t like him. Well, he must be awfully old, by this time.”

    “Um—I think Miss Burden must be a lady of... Well, Miss Polly is my age, so—”

    “Then her aunt would do for him.”

    Susannah nodded kindly.

    “Don’t you see?” hissed Jenny urgently. “Mamma is sending you to her for French and Italian lessons as a spy!”

    Susannah’s jaw sagged.

    “It must be!” she urged.

    “Y— Buh-but Jenny, if Miss Burden sent the hens back— And—and what could I tell Mamma, in any case?”

    “I don’t know. Everything you see and hear there, very likely,” said Jenny grimly. “But mark my words, Susi-Anna, it cannot be a coincidence!”

    Susannah’s meek, pale blue eyes filled slowly with tears.

    “What’s the matter?” gasped Jenny in horror. “It won’t be that bad: Miss Williams said your Italian was quite good, and your French was better than hers, thanks to old Mlle Godineau!”

    “Not that,” she said, sniffing. “No-one calls me Susi-Anna, since we left dearest Ayah behind in India.”

    “Oh, help; I won’t, if it upsets you,” gulped Jenny remorsefully.

    “No,” said Miss Marsh, sniffing, and groping for a handkerchief. “I like it.”

    “Well, shall I call you it always, then?” said Jenny, beaming.

    “Mm; I should like it of all things.” Miss Marsh blew her nose.

    “All right, I will! Only not in front of Mamma.”

    “Er—no,” she agreed, wincing.

    “Susi-Anna, do you think Mamma means to grab Colonel Wynton?”

    Miss Marsh went very red. “We-ell... She was very angry with him when she last saw him.”

    “Yes, but that won’t count for anything with her now that he’s an earl! Why, if she married him, she’d be a countess!”

    “Yes.”

    “If I were you,” said Jenny, her long, slightly slanted eyes that were the colour of pale sherry narrowing in thought, “I would take very careful note of everything that goes on in Miss Burden’s house, and then tell Mamma exactly the opposite!’

    Her older sister gulped. “I could not possibly.”

    “No,” recognized Jenny with a sigh. “There is not enough calculation in your nature.”

    “And also, too much rank cowardice,” she admitted with a grimace.

    Jenny returned sturdily: “I don’t believe anyone can help that. Ayah always used to say that we were born fat or thin, brave or cowardly, and it was nothing that we could change in this turn of the wheel, remember?”

    “Ye-es... Jenny, that was not a Christian sentiment, you know.”

    Jenny returned smartly: “Whereas refraining from snaring a fox that comes into your poor cottage garden and kills your hens is?”

    Susi-Anna smiled weakly: that had been the tenor of Mr Butterworth’s sermon, this last Sunday. One was supposed to refrain not because, as Ayah might have said, one was not put on earth in order to kill one’s fellow creatures, or even because, as Ayah would even more likely have said, that fox might be a holy man in another life, but because killing foxes was exclusively the prerogative of one’s betters, and it was done from a horse with a pack of hounds.

    Jenny sat back, looking thoughtful. “Whatever you tell Mamma of what goes on at Miss Burden’s house, tell me, too.”

    Susi-Anna swallowed. “Why?”

    “Because if I know what she knows, at least I might have a chance of putting a spoke in her wheel!”

    Her sister licked her lips. “But dearest, have you not thought? If Mamma does gra—I mean marry; if she does marry Colonel—the Earl, then you would go to live in his house. Wouldn’t you like that?”

    “Yes, but I wouldn’t like to live in it with her! And in any case,” she said darkly: “if she wants it, I am opposed to it, whatever it be: I have taken a vow, remember?”

    Susi-Anna sighed. She did remember, yes. Though she had hoped that Jenny might have forgotten about it by now. The more so since... She hesitated, but finally said it. “Jenny, you will not win against Mamma.”

    “Very likely not. But I shall try,” said Lord Sleyven’s daughter, the nostrils flickering. “For not to do so would be quite without honour!”

    “Yes, dear,” said Miss Marsh limply. Hoping very much that this would all remain in Jenny’s head, and never translate itself into action. For no-one had ever been known to get the better of Mamma, when she had made up her mind to something.

    “Do, pray, try these little cakes,” said Mrs Marsh graciously. “My late husband always insisted on a male chef, but I think our Cook is not doing too badly by us.”

    Miss Humphreys took a little cake and duly declared it to be delicious. The elderly Mrs Hunter declared likewise. As did her cousins, Mrs Kinwell and Miss Platt.

    Used though she was to Kitty, Miss Harrod avoided everyone’s eyes, thinking of some of those dreadful Indian cooks they had endured. Certainly they had been men: the point was not in question. But— Well, it was typical of Kitty!

    Kitty did not, during the course of this visit, so much as mention Miss Burden’s name, let alone the subject of French or Italian lessons. Or the topic of Hutton.

    “So kind!” sighed Miss Humphreys as the Dinsley House barouche, which had collected them, set off homewards with them.

    “Oh, indeed,” agreed Mrs Hunter.

    “I have not been out this way for an age,” admitted Miss Platt.

    “No, indeed,” agreed her sister. “Why, I think the last time we came through Dinsley Dell must have been... Good gracious, Georgiana: last summer, surely? When Lady Ventnor brought us out to call on poor dear Mrs Cartwright.”

    Miss Platt agreed that it was so. Then there was a short pause.

    Mrs Kinwell took a deep breath. “For myself, I am inclined to discount this rumour of Mrs Waldgrave’s. And mind, we have no proof that it came from Rennwood.”

    “And in any case,” declared Miss Humphreys firmly: “it is plain to see that dear Mrs Marsh is an entirely respectable widow.”

    Mrs Kinwell, Mrs Hunter and Miss Platt agreed pleasedly with this conclusion.

    … “Had I but known that tea and cakes—oh, and barouches—could have such a direct influence on female opinion, I should have tried the receet long since,” noted Powell Humphreys drily. “It is certainly a pleasanter option than argument.”

    “Powell! That is very cynical of you! I declare, I am ashamed of you!” cried his sister.

    “Look, this time yesterday you were convinced that Mrs Waldgrave’s gossip must be Gospel, for she had it from the woman’s own connexion!”

    “No such thing! She has never met the Marshes of Rennwood! I merely said that one of her Gratton-Gordon cousins had written—”

    Mr Humphreys stopped listening.

    “A delightful sermon,” smiled Mrs Marsh. “Quite uplifting, indeed, Vicar. May I say how much I admire your striking a balance between a tone and reference which the simpler of your parishioners may understand, and a theme which can appeal to, shall we say, those who are more fortunate in their position in life?”

    Mr Waldgrave bowed, very pleased, and thanked her, admitting that striking such a balance was always his endeavour. Somehow or another the Waldgraves then found that they had accepted an invitation to “a simple little dinner” with Mrs Marsh and her “little family” the very next Tuesday.

    Mrs Waldgrave, it must be admitted, was then a prey to second thoughts. “Septimus, my dear, you know that I do not approve of gossip, but my Cousin Catherine has a—an unfortunate story about this Mrs Marsh. I think for the dear girls’ sakes we should be wary of forming an acquaintanceship there.”

    “I see. And where did Catherine Gratton-Gordon Lush get her gossip from, may I ask, my dear?” returned the Vicar levelly.

    Mrs Waldgrave went very red. “She had it from Lady Hubert Gratton-Gordon, who had it from the Marshes of Rennwood, and since you do not ask, Septimus, I shall say it: no, Lady Ventnor has said nothing of it to me!”

    Mr Waldgrave made no reply but it must be admitted that Mrs Waldgrave did not feel altogether soothed by this restraint in him.

    “These look delicious,” smiled Mrs Marsh. “My girls do so like a speckledy egg! And such big ones!”

    Mrs Fred Watts appeared unimpressed. “Ar. A dozen, was it, ma’am?”

    Kitty had only intended buying half a dozen: they were well provided with eggs at Dinsley House. She opened her mouth to say so, but was stopped by something in Mrs Fred’s bloodshot blue eye. “Of course. Thank you. And I am in quest of dried beans: I do not think the shop at Dinsley Dell has ever heard of them!” she added with a tiny laugh.

    Mrs Fred nodded at the large sacks which stood in a corner of the dim little shop. “We got droied broad beans or whoite beans, and yer choice of yeller split peas, green split peas, ’ole blue peas, or red peas, ma’am.”

    “Red peas?” said Kitty with another tiny laugh. She rustled over and inspected the sack. “Why, Susie, my love, do but look! Dal, as I live and breathe!”

    Miss Marsh came up to her side. “Yes, but Mamma, an English cook would not be able to prepare it the way the Indians do.”

    Kitty’s face fell. “Oh. No. Very true.” She returned to the counter. “I will take five pounds of the broad beans, thank you.”

    These and various other purchases having been duly bundled up, and Jimmy Watts having been summoned from the back regions to help the ladies out with them, the Marshes duly departed.

    “Ar,” said Mrs Fred thoughtfully to Mrs Lumley’s Bella. “Niffy-naffy, ain’t she?”

    Bella Lumley had stepped back politely on the ladies’ coming into the shop. Though it was to be feared that Kitty Marsh had not even noticed her doing so. She immediately replied: “That’s the lady from Dinsley ’Ouse! Gotta be!”

    Mrs Fred sniffed slightly. “Ar. Dessay.” She looked hard at the darkest, most obscure corner of the shop. The back that had been bending over a sack of in that corner straightened, and Mr Hutton, looking entirely bland, strolled up to the counter.

    “Seen ’er before, ’ave yer, Mr ’Utton?” said Mrs Fred, straight-faced.

    Miss Lumley immediately collapsed in helpless giggles.

    Mr Hutton looked upon the giggles with a tolerant eye: Bella was about seventeen, and a comely lass to boot. “Well, now, Mrs Fred,” he said slowly, “seems to me that the last time I saw that lady,”—heavy emphasis on the “lady”: Mrs Fred swallowed, in spite of herself—“was about five year back. We was heading out of Mussoorie in the hills, getting, if you’ll pardon my French, the ’Ell out of it, with my Colonel—his Lordship, that is—with a face like granite, a-lookin’ the other way, and Mrs Marsh was in her tonga under a deodar tree on the other side of the road, shaking her parasol at the Colonel and a-screeching: ‘I’ll see you in ’Ell, Jarvis Wynton!’”

    Miss Lumley uttered a mad shriek and collapsed in renewed giggles.

   “Thought it moight ’a’ been something loike that,” conceded Mrs Fred with a twinkle.

    Mr Hutton grinned and nodded.

    “That daughter of ’ers is a poor, squashed-lookin’ little thing,” added the motherly shop-keeper thoughtfully.

    “Maybe she starves ’er,” offered the robust Bella.

    “Not ’er: might get caught at that,” said Mr Hutton sourly. “But starves ’er of affection: aye. And takes her out to parties and that when it suits her and not otherwise: aye, I’ll believe that!”

    Mrs Fred nodded. “Ar. Uh—be she the one, now, Mr ’Utton?”

    “No, she’s Miss Marsh, what they used to call Susi-Anna baba when I knew ’er. Not that old Mr Marsh was her pa, neither.”

    “Lard save us! You don’t say, Mr ’Utton! Well, ’oo was?” asked Mrs Fred avidly.

    Mr Hutton rubbed his unlovely nose. “Can’t say, for certain-sure, Mrs Fred. There was more than one contender in the runnin’, you see.”—Miss Lumley here was heard to gulp.—“Half of Calcutta said it was a Mr Burton, what done business with ’er husband. Only by my calc’lations, it weren’t: it were a Major Matthews. Them same pale blue eyes, like what little Susi-Anna’s got. Miss Marsh, I should say.”

    “Ar.”

    There was a short pause.

    “No better than she should be,” summed up Mrs Fred grimly. “Added to which it were a loie from start to finish: Ruth Newton from Dinsley Farm told me ’erself that there’s a firm order for three dozen eggs a week from Dinsley ’Ouse!”

    Mr Hutton nodded, looking unsurprised. “’Er all over.”

    “And what about the beans, Mrs Fred?” asked Bella avidly.

    “Beans!” Mrs Fred snorted richly. “If I was to say to you, Bella Lumley, that Dinsley Dell’s a-full of beans like a h’egg is of meat, what would you say to that?”

    Bella would apparently collapse in helpless giggles, rather than say anything.

    “Which,” said Mrs Fred on a grim note to Mr Hutton, “I’ll be bound ’er niffy-naffy ladyship don’t know, but it’s my cousin Betty what runs the shop at Dinsley Dell!”

    “I’ll be bound she don’t,” agreed Mr Hutton, eyeing the formidable Mrs Fred with considerable respect.

    “Ar,” said Mrs Fred. “Thinks she’ll marry the Lard, does she? Huh!”

    Mr Hutton, his amiable face on a sudden very grim, nodded complete agreement with this sentiment.

    As did Miss Lumley, indeed: even going so far as to add pugnaciously: “Acos she shan’t ’ave ’im, not if it was ever so, acos Ma says that Miss Burden shall ’ave ’im, or ’er name ain’t Daisy Lumley!”

    “That sounds a very pleasant dinner party indeed, my dear,” said Mrs Somerton graciously.

    Miss Amanda nodded pleasedly. “Yes, it was, Mrs Somerton: delightful, indeed. Quite cosy, in fact: yes, I incline to the opinion that one could call it cosy. And Dinsley House, you know, is so very pretty.”

    “Does it have a horrid green marble mantelpiece like Dinsley Airs, Amanda?” asked Lacey avidly.

    “Why, no, not at all!” she said with a little laugh. “On the contrary: white marble: entirely refined. And Mrs Marsh has had the salon re-hung, but still pink: most tasteful indeed.”

    Mrs Somerton eyed Miss Amanda’s profusion of bows—today mixed lemon and apricot with a simple gown that would have been the better for their absence—but did not comment. “It sounds most pleasant. And was it just yourselves and Mrs Marsh’s family, my dear?”

    “Oh, no: but entirely simple and cosy, quite without pretension, indeed, Mrs Somerton.”

    Repressing the desire to scream which not infrequently came over her in her daughter’s friend’s company, Mrs Somerton said a trifle grimly: “Of course. So who were the other guests, my dear?”

    “Sir William and Lady Ventnor, with his younger nephew,” revealed Miss Amanda on a complacent note: Harry Pryce-Cavell had sat next herself at dinner and entirely ignored Portia all evening.

    “I see,” said Mrs Somerton weakly. She smoothed her lilac silk gown and looked sideways at Miss Amanda’s pink, plump, smiling face: but it appeared unconscious of any undercurrents. And undoubtedly was: the girl might be a gossip, but it was in the highest degree unlikely that anything as improper as the story which Mrs Somerton had heard would have reached her ears. And besides, if the Ventnors, with their Rennwood connexions, were still recognizing the woman... There must be nothing in it. Either that, or the Marshes of Rennwood must be determined to demonstrate to the world that there was nothing in it.

    “She is apparently received everywhere,” said Mrs Patterson with a slight shrug.

    Her sister replied avidly: “At Maunsleigh?”

    “Do not be ridiculous, Nettie: in the first place the Earl has no hostess, and in the second place he is not in residence, as I think I mentioned.”

    Nettie Cornwallis replied insouciantly: “Then that cannot be said to be a test.”

    Mrs Patterson swallowed a sigh. “No-one was claiming that it was, I believe. Or only you, yourself.”

    “Was I?” she said in confusion. “Oh, dear! Silly me!” She gave a light laugh.

    Mrs Patterson swallowed another sigh. If ever there was anything calculated to grate on the ears of the gentlemen, it was that “Silly me!” and silly laugh of Nettie’s. Little wonder she had never married.

    Miss Cornwallis passed her cup for refreshing. Mrs Patterson filled it in silence.

    “Thank you, Winifred, dear. Have you seen the younger daughter?” she said in a breath.

    “No. And where did you have this story, Nettie?”

    “Did I not say? Silly me! From Kate Willoughby herself—Kate Churchill that was.”

    “Er—I confess I do not grasp the significance of that, Nettie. Is not Mr Willoughby’s home in the north?”

    “Yorkshire: yes,” she said in a puzzled voice. “Oh! I see what you mean, dear! No, it is nowhere near Rennwood.”

    “Nettie,” she said clearly: “what, pray, is the connection?”

    “Oh! I thought you had understood! Silly me! Lady Marsh is Kate’s cousin, my love! Not the Churchill side—”

    “I see,” said Mrs Patterson heavily.

    Miss Cornwallis nodded her faded blonde head very much. –Another exceeding irritating trick, and although the girls were very fond of her, Mrs Patterson, not for the first time this visit, found herself wishing very much that they had never invited her.

    “And Kate Churchill—I beg your pardon, Kate Willoughby—has known this for how long, did you say, my dear?”

    “Oh, any time these past—well, over ten years, I am sure! What I mean is, she and Lady Marsh were quite close as girls, and they correspond very regularly—” Miss Cornwallis met her sister’s eye. “Oh, dear: silly me! I am running on, I’m afraid! The thing is, you see, Winifred, dear, that Lady Marsh would write Kate as soon as she knew. So I suppose one could say that Kate has always known.”

    “Mm.”

    “It is said that the little girl much resembles Lord Sleyven!” she hissed.

    “Please do not hiss, Nettie. It is the sort of thing that becomes a habit, and it sets such a bad example to the girls.”

    Miss Cornwallis looked at her remorsefully. “I’m sorry, dear. I shall try not to.”

    Mrs Patterson drummed her fingers on her knee. “I can scarcely cut the woman. She is a connection of the Cunninghams.”

    “Oh, yes, I know! Their eldest son married a... Now, was it a Hammond—no—”

    “He married one of the Claveringham girls. She is the one between Lady Jane and Lady Sarah, I think.”

    “No, dear! That is Lady Pamela, and she is married to a Mr— I forget the name, but I can see their charming house at Richmond as clearly as I can see— Or was it Marlow? Silly me, I have forgot! Or, stay, I have it wrong: Lady Pamela is the next sister to Lady Sarah, of course! You are right! He married Lady Paula!”

    “Nettie, if you would but let me speak, Lady Paula Cunningham was sitting in my dining-room three nights since!” said Mrs Patterson somewhat more loudly than was perhaps customary in a lady’s blue salon over the teacups.

    Unabashed, Miss Cornwallis gave her irritating laugh and said: “Oops! Silly me!”

    Mrs Patterson took a deep breath. “As I was saying, I can hardly cut the woman. And if, as you claim, she is received at Rennwood—”

    “Oh, yes, Winifred dear!” she said, nodding very much.

    “Then,” continued Mrs Patterson on an annoyed note, “there would seem to be no grounds for cutting her.”

    “Well, you are very right, of course, Winifred, dear! But the acquaintance cannot be thought a desirable one for our dear girls,” ended Miss Cornwallis mournfully.

    “Exactly. Well, any future invitations to the woman will merely be to large parties. I have no doubt every syllable you had from Kate Willoughby was the truth, Nettie, but please, oblige me by not repeating any of it hereabouts.” She eyed her steadily. “Whatever may be the provocation.”

    “Very well, dear! Of course!” she gulped.

    Mrs Patterson sighed, but did not see what else she could say to silence her. Privately she made up her mind that, tedious though it might be, Nettie should not leave her own side for the rest of her stay. Mrs Marsh might be—indeed was—a highly undesirable acquaintance: but she had no intention of risking offending the Cunninghams or the Claveringhams. The former would be quite bad enough, and Percival would be very displeased, it could do them no good in the district: but to risk offending the Earl of Hubbel’s family, all on account of a Mrs Nobody from Nowhere who was no better than she should be? That, frankly, would be tantamount to social suicide!

    Mrs Newbiggin had looked at silks for some time, but a lady in an elaborate bonnet, a fur wrap, and a fine black wool pelisse had come in, and the young salesman who had been assisting her had visibly lost interest in her and hastened away to attend to this lady. It was true that the lady had tapped the counter and looked very cross on perceiving there was no-one to serve her on a dull, damp afternoon. But the sapient Mrs Newbiggin reflected drily as she withdrew from Mr Gilby’s silk warehouse that if young Mr Dent imagined that alienating the wife of one of Nettleford’s most prominent businessmen in order to serve an unknown lady in a fur and a fancy bonnet was the way to get on in the world of commerce, he had another think coming: the Newbiggins could buy and sell Mr Gilby! And as that sort of silly behaviour could not do Mr Gilby’s trade any good, she might just drop a hint in Mrs Gilby’s ear as to the unwisdom of her husband’s leaving his place of business in the sole charge of that particular young man. Slow afternoon or not.

    Her footman looked very surprised to see her coming out so soon, and jumped down quickly to assist her into the barouche: Mrs Newbiggin, after a searching look at his right eye and a firm command to come and see her about it when they got home, mounted into the carriage again and directed the driver to go on to the Miss Whites’.

    The Miss Whites’ was, like Mr Gilby’s, almost empty this dank grey afternoon, but unlike Mr Gilby, the elder Miss White had not seen fit to desert her responsibilities and was, in fact, at the counter herself, serving a young lady in a shabby brown pelisse and a black-ribboned straw bonnet. Mrs Newbiggin was aware that, as Miss White glanced up and smiled, she also unobtrusively rang the bell: and sure enough, Miss Janet White immediately emerged from the back regions of the little shop, smiling and ready to serve. Not to say, ready to set a chair for Mrs Newbiggin.

    Very naturally the young lady in the shabby pelisse and black-ribboned straw bonnet turned her head as Mrs Newbiggin came up to the counter, and the plump merchant’s wife perceived with pleasure that it was a lady whom she knew.

    “Well, Miss Burden, as I live and breathe! It ain’t often as we sees you in Nettleford! And how are you, me deary?”

    “Very well, thank you, Mrs Newbiggin,” smiled Miss Burden. “And I trust you are keeping well?”

    Mrs Newbiggin agreed she was, and having thanked Miss Janet, seated herself with a sigh, and asked after Miss Burden’s relatives. She appeared particularly keen to hear any news of Lettice, and Midge, reflecting with an inner smile that very possibly the news was all around the cathedral town, assured her that Mrs Langford was keeping very well, and that Baby was due in August.

    “Well, now, that’s good to hear!” she beamed, nodding her round, many-chinned face happily. “And I s’pose the next thing’ll be Miss Polly’s wedding, eh? My, don’t toime floy! Here after something to wear at it, are you, Miss Burden?”

    “No, indeed,” said Midge with her frank smile. “I am not here, in fact, to buy at all, but to sell.”

    “To sell, Miss Burden, deary?” gasped Mrs Newbiggin.

    “Ready-made sets,” said Midge serenely.

    There were certainly some spread out before her on the counter. Mrs Newbiggin looked at them numbly.

    “I cut them out and did most of the plain sewing, you see, and Polly did some work last summer, but they were never finished. But my little boarder, Janey Lattersby, insisted on finishing them: she is a much finer needlewoman than I. And Miss White has agreed to buy them,” she revealed happily.

    “No, no, my dear Miss Burden: to sell them on commission,” murmured the shopkeeper.

    “A much better option for yourself, Miss Burden,” agreed Miss Janet White.

    “Miss Janet, if I cannot trust you and Miss White, then there is no-one in the whole of Nettleford whom I can trust,” replied Miss Burden simply.

    “Nevertheless, they’re right, me dear: don’t you ever go for to sell nothing on no outroight basis: for then, you see, the retailer can mark ’em up as much as may be,” said Mrs Newbiggin firmly, getting over her stupefaction and picking up a collar. “My, ain’t this foine work!”

    “Thank you: Janey was taught by nuns, I think: her mamma was an Italian lady. I can see there are benefits and drawbacks to both the commission basis and the outright basis,” said Miss Burden thoughtfully. “For if he buy a thing outright, the retailer must always take the risk of not being able to sell it again.”

    “There, now! Ain’t she got a head on ’er?” cried Mrs Newbiggin proudly.

    The Miss Whites smiled and nodded politely.

    “I’ll take these,” decided Mrs Newbiggin, sorting out a set. “Now, don’t you say nothing, deary,” she said as Miss Burden turned pink and protested. “I come in here for a set for my sister Gertie’s youngest, and these’ll do splendid!”

    Limply Miss Burden watched as Miss White, assuring Mrs Newbiggin she could not do better and they were very pleased indeed to get Miss Lattersby’s work, parcelled it up.

    “Now, you could take it in cash, deary,” said Mrs Newbiggin on a confidential note, “or you might ask for it in kind. In the which case it wouldn’t be wrong to ask for a trade discount,” she ended, fixing Miss White with a firm eye.

    “Mrs Newbiggin, I could not do any such thing!” protested Miss Burden, going very pink.

    “It is perfectly normal practice. Ten percent discount, Miss Burden,” said Miss White smoothly.

    “Even on them embroidered satin ribbons,” stated Mrs Newbiggin firmly.

    “Oh, quite,” conceded the refined shopkeeper.

    “But—”

    “Lard, Miss Burden, I gets it meself, acos the Miss Whites, they deals with Newbiggin’s!” said Mrs Newbiggin loudly.

    “Of course,” agreed Miss White smoothly.

    “And at Mr Gilby’s. –If I ever go there again,” she noted darkly.

    The other three looked at her in astonishment.

    “Well,” said Mrs Newbiggin, not elaborating: “you think it over, Miss Burden, me love, and if you don’t moind, Miss Janet, I’ll take a look at some mauve ribbons, and if you’ve got any of them lavender kid gloves in a eight-inch, I’ll take a look at them, too. Well, lilac or whatever,” she said with a sigh. “They’re to be a little present for my sister Pheelie,”—no-one blinked: they were all aware that Mrs Newbiggin’s youngest sister had been christened Ophelia—“acos to hear her tell it, when you is a-goin’ up in the world like what she is, nothin’ but mauve-ish gloves will do! –That pair I had off you for meself were too toight,” she noted by the by. “So I’ve gone back to black. More serviceable, anyroad.”

    “But Mrs Newbiggin, you should have brought them back, we would have been only too glad to change them for you!” protested Miss Janet, rapidly setting out trays of gloves and drawersful of mauve, lilac, lavender, violet and frankly purple ribbons before her.

    “They was soiled by then, Miss Janet.”

    Protesting that that did not matter at all, and such a valued customer must know that they were only too ready to change anything for her, Miss Janet fanned out a selection of gloves. And offered tea to both her and Miss Burden.

    Miss Burden was aware that she herself was not such a valued customer as was Mrs Newbiggin: she in fact had never been offered tea before, though Letty had, once. She blushed a little, but thanked the shopkeeper politely. Miss Janet did not bustle away to make the tea: she rang the bell and a neat little maid appeared, bobbing, was given the message, bobbed again, and disappeared.

    Miss White, meanwhile, had been assuring her, in a lowered voice, that the ten percent was quite usual.

    “Thank you, I’m very grateful,” said Miss Burden, swallowing. “But the thing is, you see, Miss White, that I have decided that we should put any money we make towards a new sprig muslin for Janey for this coming summer. For most of the work was hers.”

    Oh, but that was no problem! Before Miss Burden’s amazed eyes Miss White spread out ells and ells of delightful sprig muslins.

    “Extending into it, they are,” explained Mrs Newbiggin, looking up from the gloves. “Only muslins and cottons, as yet. They’ll give you a better proice than Gilby’s, I has to admit it, though I’ve known ’im all me loife.” She paused, peering at a glove. “Ar, and what’s more, they’ll offer your weary bones something to sit on—well, not yours, deary, they ain’t weary, and I can see that for meself!” she amended with a rich chuckle. “But as I was saying, a chair and a pot o’ tea don’t come amiss on a chilly day like this!”

    “Surely you don’t mean that Mr Gilby did not offer you a chair, Mrs Newbiggin?” gasped Miss Burden in horror. Unaware as she spoke that Miss White was directing a mental ray of thanks at her for sparing herself the necessity of doing so.

    “Don’t I, just! –Well, it weren’t him, it were that Dent lad. –Wet be’oind the ears,” she said in the accents of the country, shaking her smart bonnet.

    “Never set a chair for you? I never heard of such a thing!” gasped Miss Janet.

    “Ar. What’s more—” With great relish Mrs Newbiggin proceeded to relate the story of young Mr Dent’s desertion of herself in favour of the lady in the fancy bonnet and the brown fur. Concluding: “She weren’t young, but pretty enough, if you like that sort. Well, I won’t say what I thought to meself in front of a lady, Miss Burden, but let’s just say if she didn’t have ‘dasher’ writ on ’er forehead and then some, my name’s not Nancy Newbiggin!”

    “Help,” said Miss Burden feebly.

    “And you had never seen her before, Mrs Newbiggin?” asked Miss Janet avidly.

    Mrs Newbiggin shook her head. “Never laid eyes on ’er in me puff. –Let’s see that pair, Miss Janet, thanks.”

    Miss Burden turned back to the sprig muslins, fingering one with longing. Miss White murmured that it was very fine, but conceded, on being asked if it were the dearest, that it was a lee-tle dearer than the others, yes.

    “I think better not,” she decided sadly.

    Gamely Miss White participated in the choice of a length of pretty but cheap sprig muslin for Miss Janey Lattersby’s gown. Refraining, with the exercise of superb tact which it must be admitted was lost on Miss Burden, from mentioning the word “ribbons.” Though Mrs Newbiggin, deep in contemplation of mauve-ish gloves though she appeared to be, fully appreciated it.

    Two pairs of kid gloves had been set aside, Miss Burden had chosen her muslin, and the pot of tea had nearly been dealt with, when the shop bell tinkled again.

    Mrs Newbiggin looked up, choked, dug Miss Burden, now seated beside her, hard in the ribs, and nodded frantically. Miss Burden, immediately understanding that this must mean that the lady from Mr Gilby’s had come in, turned her head cautiously. Mrs Newbiggin’s description had most certainly been accurate! Though she had neglected to mention how fine the furs were. Really lovely: could they be sables, perhaps?

    Miss White was asking the newcomer to pray be seated, assuring her she would be with her in a moment.

    “Please, serve that lady, Miss White,” said Midge in a low voice. “I have finished, really.”

    “Thank you, but I believe you were before her, Miss Burden,” said the shopkeeper firmly. The newcomer here dropped her reticule. Miss White stepped quickly out from behind the counter and picked it up for her. She did not thank the shopkeeper, merely inclined her head slightly.

    Miss White returned to her own side of the counter, her plain, meek, pale face expressing nothing. She produced a large ledger in which she neatly offset the amount of Mrs Newbiggin’s purchase of the ready-made sets against the amount due on the muslin. Miss Burden turned puce.

    “We shall be very happy to carry this over. I do not anticipate any problems with the sets. The embroidery is so very fine,” said Miss White firmly, closing the book and smiling at her.

    “But Miss White—!” gasped Midge.

    “And please, Miss Burden, may I beg you to offer your sister-in-law the assurance of my respects?”

    Limply she replied: “Yes, certainly; thank you.” Hoping very much that Miss White would not mention the business of the embroidered sets to Mrs Langford, the next time she saw her. For Lettice would be upset to know that Midge was selling work in Nettleford. But it was not that they were in reduced circumstances, or anything like it! Only, Janey had found the work and insisted on finishing it; and when her Papa’s bank draft had not arrived, it had seemed only sensible to... But then, Miss White was known as the soul of discretion.

    Mrs Newbiggin was quickly concluding her business. Wilfred having been summoned to carry the packages, she declared: “I dunno what your plans moight be for the rest of the afternoon, Miss Burden, but now I have you, don’t go for to imagine as you’ll escape me without a struggle! For I mean to have you home to tea, and the only thing what’d stop me,” she said with a twinkle in her shrewd blue eye, “would be the news as you’re in town to have your tooth drawn, me deary!”

    “No!” said Midge with a startled laugh. “Thank you, I should love to come, Mrs Newbiggin.”

    “That’s settled, then!” Ordering Wilf to stop gawping and not to touch that eye, how many times had she told him, Mrs Newbiggin bade Miss White a hearty farewell and led Miss Burden out, Miss Janet accompanying them politely.

    Miss White moved smoothly over to the lady with the fur: undoubtedly sables, very fine. “Pray forgive the delay, madam. How can I be of service?”

    Kitty Marsh’s hand in her smart little black kid glove clenched for an instant. “That lady who was just in here—the younger lady—”

    The unknown lady’s reaction to hearing one of the other customers addressed as Miss Burden had not escaped Miss White. She replied politely, not a muscle of her face betraying her intense interest: “Yes, madam?”

    “Who— Was that Miss Burden of Lower Nettlefold village?”

    “Yes, certainly. The family are old and valued clients,” said Miss White smoothly.

    “I see. I thought it was she,” she said lamely to the shopkeeper. “I think she was at a large function I attended last summer. but we were not introduced.”

    “Indeed, madam? Miss Burden is very well liked in the district,” Miss White replied in a completely colourless voice.

    “She certainly seems to have the knack of making herself liked by her social inferiors!” said Kitty with a hard laugh. “Who on earth was that woman with her?”

    “A Mrs Newbiggin, madam. The wife of one of Nettleford’s most respected merchants.”

    She shrugged. “I should like to see your finest quality black satin ribbon.”

    “Certainly, madam.” Miss White duly produced it. She was not surprised to see the unknown lady examine it with a shrewdness more than worthy of the wife of the meanest tradesman in the town. Nor to be asked whether there was a discount to regular customers. Nor yet to be told airily that it could go on the lady’s account. Though as yet the lady had no account. “And the name and address, madam?” she asked smoothly.

    “Mrs Marsh. Dinsley House, near Dinsley Dell.”

    Miss White wrote it down, her face completely unmoved, and herself accompanied Mrs Marsh to her waiting barouche. Even larger and flashier than Mrs Newbiggin’s, she noted without surprise.

    “Well?” said Miss Janet the instant she returned.

    Miss White sniffed. “See for yourself: it’s in the book. Though whether we’ll ever see a penny of that lot, I wouldn’t loike to say!”

    Miss Janet looked in the book. “So it was ’er. –She were dressed foine as foivepence, Lotty.”

    “Aye, but ’ow much of it was paid for?”

    “Don’t carry ’er,” said Miss Janet, closing the book.

    Miss White eyed her drily. “You’re on Miss Burden’s soide, are yer?”

    “Of course I am, and so should you be, Lotty Whoite!” she cried angrily.

    Virtually all trace of the refined accents used to their customers had now vanished from both sisters’ voices.

    Miss White sniffed again. “Well, I am. Only, depends which of ’em ends up as the Countess of Sleyven, dunnit?”

    “If ’e’s a noddy, ’e’ll take ’er,” noted Miss Janet.

    “Aye, and if ’e ain’t, ’e’ll take Miss Burden. But in moy experience,” said Miss White drily: “men are noddies, be they earls or innkeepers.”

    Miss Janet nodded sourly. “’Ere, maybe Daisy Lumley were wrong,” she offered.

    “Rats! She ’ad it orf the feller what were the Earl’s own man all the time ’e was mixed up with the woman, what more do yer want?”

    Miss Janet looked glum. “Dunno. Actually, I think I wants less,” she admitted sadly.

    “Less? Oh!” said Miss White with a startled laugh. “I gets yer. Less. Roight.”

    Lady Judith Golightly accepted a cup of tea from Mrs Cunningham. “Thank you.”

    Her hostess waited but Lady Judith did not seem inclined to offer any conversational gambit. Somewhat desperately she remarked on the weather. Lady Judith responded politely, but not in a manner that could have been called encouraging.

    … “She knows,” said Mrs Cunningham grimly to her husband’s connexion, as the Deanery barouche rumbled away.

    Kitty Marsh shrugged. “I imagine she does, yes. In fact, very probably she has known for years. After all, he is her cousin.”

    “You take it very coolly!” said Mrs Cunningham, her colour much heightened.

    “There is nothing else one can do.” Kitty took one of the two remaining cakes.

    “Lady Judith has considerable influence in the county, Kitty, and I am warning you, if she cuts me after this—”

    “Do not panic, Aurelia. She will not cut you,” said Kitty sweetly, “because she has made the tactical error of publicly recognising me, not only at the Pattersons’ last summer, but also at the house of his Worship the Mayor.” She paused. “Last night,” she said clearly. “With the Bishop present.” She took the last cake and bit into it.

    Mrs Cunningham swallowed loudly. There was really nothing she could say to that. Not, at least, to Kitty Marsh’s face.

    ... “The woman is insufferable!” she said hotly.

     Mr Cunningham rubbed his nose dubiously. “Aye... Had a fair run of bad luck.”

    “Bad luck! What a monstrous exaggeration, George! She latched onto old Mr Marsh like a leech, has inherited half his fortune, and lives in the lap of luxury!”

    “Ye-es... Well, I ain’t denying it.”

    “And I trust you are not denying that she behaved entirely badly the entire time she was married to him?” she said coldly.

    “No. Only... Had you considered that she might really have been in love with Sleyven?”

    Mrs Cunningham looked at him coldly. “Not for an instant.”

    “But it ain’t impossible—”

    “George, before I met this highly undesirable connexion of yours, I would not have said it was impossible, either. In fact I was quite prepared to extend her the benefit of the doubt. But now that I have met her, I am convinced she has never felt a thing for a fellow-creature in her life! –Apart from the purely animal urges,” she noted evilly.

    George Cunningham blinked. “Er—mm. Well, I dare say you are right, me dear, yes. Well—uh—well—cut the connection?”

    “I have just explained that that is impossible!”

    “Wouldn’t say that. Look, if we give a start, then dare say the Deanery might follow suit, hey?”

    “The Deanery, the Palace, Verne Lea, Plumbways, and Nettlefold Hall?” she said bitterly. “And yes, she has wormed her way into all of them! And what is more, that dim-witted Kinwell woman and her sister had the impertinence to walk up to me in the High Street yester morning and assure me that they would treat any tale they might hear of her as malicious gossip!”

    “What, them old ducks from over Lower Nettlefold way? Can’t count—”

    “It is indicative!” she screamed.

    On reflection, Mr Cunningham had to admit she was right. Indicative. By Jove, yes. Wormed her way in—hey? Oh, by Jove: yes.

    Hawkins appeared abruptly in Miss Burden’s bedroom doorway. “It’s that old Biddle. ’E’s brung a rabbit for you.”

    “Good!” gasped Midge, sneezing violently. “You’d best turn it into a pie, Hawkins.”

    “Well, I will, Miss. Only you ’as to eat some.”

    Midge smiled weakly, though her eyes were streaming, and croaked that she would try. And to thank Biddle.

    ... Hawkins appeared abruptly in the bedroom doorway again. “Miss Burden—”

    Midge had been dozing. She roused, blinking. “Yes?”

    “Mrs Harry Biddle’s been and gorn and sent a quince pie.”

    “Oh? Lovely,” croaked Midge, blowing her nose.

    “Bottled,” warned Hawkins darkly.

    Midge sneezed violently. “Er—the quinces? Oh, I see. You can trust her bottling, Hawkins.”

    Hawkins sniffed slightly, but departed, looking mollified.

    ... “Cubb idd!” called Miss Burden groggily, rousing to a tap on her door.

    Janey appeared, holding the hand of a skinny, grimy boy. “Hawkins said Sam Biddle was not to come up, but I knew you would want to see him, just for a minute!”

    “Yes, of course,” croaked Miss Burden. “Hullo, Sabb.”

    “I brung you these!” he gasped, suddenly producing a bunch of flowers from behind his back.

    “He picked them himself,” explained Janey. Unnecessarily: they consisted of weeds and grasses, interspersed with white lilacs. As these last were only known to grow locally in the vicarage garden, undoubtedly stolen from there. Miss Burden accepted them with thanks.

    ... “Idd’s only a cold,” she protested feebly, as Miss Humphreys presented her with an immense bunch of lilacs (purple: from her own garden) and asked anxiously after her health.

    Looking at her narrowly, Miss Humphreys assured her that a cold must not be neglected, and she had taken the liberty of leaving a few little comforts in the kitchen with Hawkins. Miss Burden smiled weakly, and thanked her.

    ... Hawkins appeared abruptly in the bedroom doorway. “Miss Burden, it’s that filthy old Potts critter!” she hissed.

     “Whadd?” said Miss Burden groggily.

    “That dirty old poacher, Miss!” she hissed.

    “Yes?” said Midge blearily, putting a hand to her forehead.

    Looking grim, Hawkins strode over to the bed and placed her own hand on the forehead. “’Ot. You can take another dose of Mrs Cartwright’s tonic, Miss. ’E’s brung a sack, and ’e says it’s for you.”

    “Oh!” said Miss Burden with a laugh and a sneeze.

    “And ’e ain’t a-comin’ upstairs in no ’ouse what I work in!” said Hawkins fiercely.

    “Oh,” said Miss Burden, trying not to smile: “I see. Tell him many thanks frobb be, Hawkins, and um—tell him I said you’re to be trusted.”

    Hawkins sniffed slightly, but conceded: “Very well, Miss Burden.”

    “A hare?” said Midge with a smile, as the door opened again, ten minutes later.

    Hawkins shook her head, looking agonized, and hissed: “Miss, it’s a pheasant! And ’e must ’ave ’ad it orf Maunsleigh land, sure as eggs!”

    “Good,” said Midge grimly. “I’bb feeligg buch better. I shall look forward to eatigg idd.”

    ... Janey perched on the bedside chair and counted on her fingers, looking mischievous. “This is besides the illicit G,A,M,E, mind! Fresh cheese and eggs from Mrs Lumley and Bella; a huge cheddar from Mrs Fred Watts; jars of jellies from Peggy Potts, Mrs Jeffson from Home Farm, Mrs Fred Watts’s Lily, Mrs Shelby, and Lady Ventnor’s Mrs Little. Mind, Hawkins says she won’t touch Peggy Potts’s, not if it was ever so!”

    Miss Burden smiled limply. “Everyone is very kind, budd this is geddigg ridiculous.”

    “And Mrs Little says that Lady Ventnor in person will call in a day or two, only her two little girls have come down with it, too.”

    Midge gaped at her. “Lady Vedd-dor? Jadey, whadd odd earth did you tell Brs Liddle?”

    “Nothing,” said Janey in surprise. “Just that it was a bad cold.”

    Lady Ventnor had merely sent a kind message by Mrs Little the winter that George had had pneumonia! Midge blew her nose and looked at her limply.

    “Dearest Miss Burden, everyone loves you!” she said with a laugh.

    ... “I come up, Miss Burden. Miss ’Awkins said as you was restin’, only you wouldn’t moind,” said Mrs McVeigh on an anxious note.

    Midge sat up hurriedly. “Dearest Mrs McVeigh, of course I abb always glad to see you! But you bust nodd cubb too near, I thigg I am still infectious. But never bind be, how do you go odd?”

    The former Harbottle, blushing vividly, assured her she was very well, and no, not doing too much, Miss Burden, for McVeigh, he wouldn’t let her. Midge smiled and nodded in some relief: it must always be an anxious time, when a woman nearing forty years of age was expecting a first child. Quickly she thanked her for the wonderful chicken broth she had sent, which she had been able to drink when she had not felt like anything else at all. Mrs McVeigh left looking very pleased with herself. And noting that she’d left a drop more in the kitchen.

    Midge sagged onto her pillows. Jane Harbottle had never been one to fuss over the odd minor ailment. Chicken broth for a mere cold? Rubbish! She was sure that she was not imagining that the former parlourmaid had looked at her narrowly for the duration of the visit.

    ... “Just a few flowers to brighten you up!” chirped old Miss Platt, looking at her narrowly as she proffered a giant bunch of spring blooms.

    “And I took the liberty of bringing just a sip of my elderberry cordial,” smiled her sister, old Mrs Kinwell, producing a giant bottle of it. And managing to look at her narrowly while she nodded brightly at her.

    “Janey,” said Miss Burden when the kind visitors had departed, “for Heavedd’s sake avoid this so-called cordial!”

    Janey examined the great black bottle curiously. “Is it so horrid?”

    “No, idd’s wonderful, but Mr Humphreys assures me it’s albost pure alcohol!”

    “Ooh, in that case I shall be sure to try it!” returned Miss Janey merrily. “Oh, that reminds me: Mr Humphreys called when you were dozing. He left a book for you.”

    ... “You should not have bothered!” Midge protested, as Polly and Dr Golightly came into the front parlour on a breath of cold spring air and the scent of spring flowers.

    “Oh, pooh! The flowers at Kendlewood Place are so lovely, of course I had to bring you some, dearest Aunty Midge! How are you?” asked Polly, looking at her narrowly.

    “I’bb fine, really,” said Midge limply, blowing her nose. “It’s only a spring cold. And don’t cubb too near, Polly, we don’t want you catching it, let alode givigg it to Letty.”

    “She would have come herself, Miss Burden,” Dr Golightly assured her with a smile, “but Colonel Langford utterly forbade it!”

    “He is clucking over her like a hen with one chick!” said Polly with a laugh.

    Miss Burden smiled and nodded, but could not help noticing that in spite of their cheerful faces, both Polly and Dr Golightly still seemed to be looking at her narrowly.

   ... “Just a tiny bunch of flowers. And a little jar of calves-foot jelly!” said old Mrs Hunter brightly, nodding at her while looking at her narrowly.

    “Thank you so buch, Mrs Hunter,” said Midge limply. “But truly, idd is only a cold.”

    ... “I heard you were poorly, so I come,” said Mr Hutton simply, sitting on a hard chair in the front parlour with his knees very far apart, his hands braced on them. “And I’ll do a bit of digging, after.”

    Mr Hutton usually managed a bit of digging, or some other task in the garden, every week, whether or no Miss Burden were poorly. In fact, it was an unusual Sunday on which he did not come over to Bluebell Dell and fall to.

    “Thadd’s very kind of you, Mr Hutton,” said Midge feebly, reflecting that at least he had not come laden with calves-foot jellies. Though he was looking at her narrowly. “But it’s only a cold, and I’bb geddigg over it. I have been downstairs these last two days.”

    “Aye, but it don’t do to neglect a cold.”

    “No, well, I am positively coddligg myself: in fact, Janey and Hawkins will not let me do anythigg else!” admitted Midge with a smile.

    “Good,” he said simply.

    Midge waited, but he did not say anything else. He was still looking at her narrowly, though. She blew her nose. “Mr Hutton, if there is somethigg odd your mind—” she said cautiously.

    “It weren’t nothing to do with the Colonel—’is Lordship, I mean!” he burst out. “And ’e was mad as fire when ’e ’eard it, and said to Mr Crayshaw as ’e might of known, and called ’er a rude word! Which usual he don’t never, in front of junior officers and lower ranks, Miss Burden!”

    Miss Burden had gone very red. “I see,” she said in a stifled voice. “I—I collect you mean the lady who has takedd Dinsley House?”

    “Yes. Only she ain’t no lady.”

    “I—I think you should not say so, Mr Hutton,” croaked Midge.

    Mr Hutton sniffed.

    “And—and if, as I collect,” said Midge with tears in her eyes, “she has the little girl with her, please, I beg of you, do not mention a word of her—her history.”

    Mr Hutton sniffed again—more mildly, though. “Well, it does you credit, Miss Burden. –I brung Tonkins,” he added as an afterthought.

    “You— Well, gracious, ask hibb idd,” said Midge feebly. “Or is he afraid of infection?”

    “No. Only he don’t want to intrude.”

    “Do’dd be silly, it will dot be add intrusion,” said Midge, blowing her nose hard and smiling somewhat mistily at him.

    “No, well, I told ’im that.” Mr Hutton trod heavily over to the door, opened it and said loudly: “The chota mem says you’re to come in, and it ain’t no intrusion. Bring that one!” he added on an irritable note.

    Tonkins came into the parlour, looking pleased. He was carrying a large basket completely full of spring flowers. Miss Burden found she did not have the intestinal fortitude to ask whether the head gardener at Maunsleigh knew about it.

    “Good morning, Miss Burden. Here are flowers from Mr Hutton and this humble syce.”

    “If I’ve told ’im once, I’ve told ’im a thousand times, it ain’t English,” muttered Mr Hutton.

    “And also some humble jellies, which Mrs Fendlesham begs please to accept,” he said, bowing very low.

    Weakly Miss Burden accepted them.

    ... “Mrs Newbiggin,” announced Hawkins.

    It was a very cold day: Midge was on the parlour sofa, swathed in rugs, with a roaring fire going. She struggled upright.

    Mrs Newbiggin came in on a gust of cold wind, panting slightly. Possibly because of the weight of the laden basket she was carrying. “Now don’t you stir, Miss Burden, lovey! Dear, oh dear: I should never ’ave let you go home from Nettleford on that dratted cart!”

    Midge hurriedly assured her that it was only a cold, and she was very sure that it had not been the trip on the cart that had given it her. Wondering very much who the idiot had been who seemed to have spread the story that she was at death’s door all over the district.

    ... Mr Bottomley-Pugh sat on a hard chair with his knees very far apart, his hands braced on them. “This is no good, Miss Burden!” He looked at her narrowly. “Peaked, you look, me dear. –Kate, me love, we should have brought Aunt Cumbridge: she’d know what would be the thing.”

    Weakly Midge endeavoured to assure them that it was only a cold, and she was getting over it, and that of course Mrs Cumbridge must not venture out in this horrid weather. –Mr Bottomley-Pugh and Katerina had in any case brought a basketful of jellies and tonics, it was subsequently discovered.

    ... “Mamma would not let me come before, for fear of catching it,” explained Lacey Somerton. “But she trusts you got the soup, dear Miss Burden?”

    ... “My dear Miss Burden, this will not do!” scolded Mrs Waldgrave, looking at her narrowly. “My dear, you look peaked.”

    “It is only a cold, Mrs Waldgrave.”

    “Amanda tells me you have been laid up with it for a week, now,” she returned disapprovingly.

    In that case very possibly—in fact, all too probably—Miss Amanda was the idiot who had spread the story that she was at death’s door all over the district. Midge took a deep breath. “Truly I am not ill, Mrs Waldgrave. But I have been keeping indoors, because of the inclement weather.”

    Mrs Waldgrave nodded, and produced a tonic from her capacious basket. Limply Midge accepted it. And did not say that she had already had lilacs from the vicarage.

    “Dear Miss Burden,” said Janey, her pretty little face flaming, “I think it would be better if you did not come to church this morning.”

    “But I’ve missed two Sundays, because of my cold. And I’m quite better.”

    Janey bit her lip. “Yes, but— That horrid woman has apparently decided to come to our church rather than Mr Butterworth’s!” she burst out.

    Midge took a deep breath. “Janey, do you mean Mrs Marsh?”

    “Mm,” she said unhappily, nodding. “So shall you stay away?”

    “No,” replied Midge grimly, tying her bonnet strings tightly. “One cannot avoid seeing her, since she is living in the district.”

    As they entered the church and Janey pointed out Mrs Marsh Miss Burden started slightly, but otherwise did not appear to react. At the conclusion of the service they waited quietly until the party from Dinsley House had disappeared.

    “Perhaps we could go regularly to Evensong instead,” said Janey awkwardly as they approached their front gate.

    Miss Burden bit her lip.

    “Dear Miss Burden, would it not be easier?” she murmured.

    “Easier—yes. Also more cowardly.”

    Janey’s big hazel eyes sparkled with tears. “Please!”

    “Janey,” she said tiredly, “if I suddenly start avoiding morning service, there will be no end to the talk.”

    “But I do not think anyone knows about her and Lord Sleyven!” Janey hissed.

    “Judging by the expressions of sympathy and support—overt or covert, according to the social standing and tact of the individual—which I have received from, counting only those who brought jellies—”

    “Don’t!” she gulped.

    Midge sighed. “I am very sure that Mrs Lumley and Bella, to name only two, know far more about—about the affaire than you and I do.”

    “But—but how could it have got about?” she gasped.

    “As to the genteeler classes, I have no notion. Though I will just note that when Lady Ventnor so kindly called last week, she kept giving me sympathetic looks. But as to the rest: one guess should suffice,” said Midge heavily, eying the substantial back that was bent over a spade in their garden.

    “Oh,” said Janey lamely.

    “Well, my dear, if he told you—” she said with a sigh.

    “Yes. But he knows I love you, dear Miss Burden!” she protested.

    Midge sighed again. Presumably Mr Hutton also knew that Hawkins and Mrs McVeigh “loved” her. And, if narrow looks of strong sympathy were any indication, most of the district, high and low, from Nettlefold Hall to Nettleford House. Oh, dear.

    “Midge, was that Miss Marsh?” hissed Lettice in horror, as the young ladies were observed to depart Bluebell Dell in a giggling bunch.

    Miss Burden had come out to the gate in the faint hope of preventing Letty from getting out of the barouche. “Yes,” she admitted. “Lacey has taken her up; she suggested she come to my classes.”

    “Oh, Midgey! This is terrible!”

    Firmly Miss Burden replied: “No such thing. She is the most innocent creature. And, I would say,” she added thoughtfully, “scared stiff of the mother.”

    Mrs Langford gave her a concerned look. “Truly?”

    Midge grimaced, and nodded.

    “Then—then I suppose it can do no harm... But dearest, it is too much!” she cried.

    “Ssh. It is not too much, at all. In fact the extra income will be very welcome. And after all, what’s he to Hecuba?”

    “What? Oh,” said Lettice lamely. “Um, Midge, could we talk about it? For after all, it was years ago, and dear, good Hutton swears—”

    “No, I think not, Letty.”

    “But dearest, he swears that Lord Sleyven has not seen Mrs M. for six years!” she hissed.

    “Mm. And that she has given him a disgust of her.” Miss Burden eyed her drily. “That must render the fault so much the less, of course. But in any case, it is nothing to do with me. Now, if you insist on coming in, as Italian always makes me thirsty I shall need to warn Hawkins that there will be an extra mouth for tea!”

    Mrs Langford sighed, but admitted she had every intention of coming in. And by the way, this basket contained a goose.

    “Dead or alive?” asked Midge wildly.

    “Um—well, alive, dearest, for Cook and I thought—”

    “Letty, they loikes to flock together: ar! It will poine!” said Midge with a laugh.

    “Kill it tomorrow, then,” said Mrs Langford heartlessly.

    “What is this?” asked Dean Golightly politely as his wife came into his study and handed him a paper.

    “The revised guest list for my dinner party,” she said grimly.

    The Dean sighed, and picked up the list. “The Bishop. Delightful. Brush up your light chat on the subject of coarse fishing. Er—hm, hm, hm... Yes, all very suitable, my dear. Oh, you’ve struck off the Marsh harpy! Well, jolly good, my dear: if that’s what you want my approval— What is it?”

    “David,” said Lady Judith in a voice that shook, “for how long have you been thinking of the woman as a harpy?”

    “Mm? Oh, from the first moment of speaking to her, I suppose, my love. Why?”

    “Why?” she cried. She took a deep and terrible breath. “I suppose you are aware that they are saying Sleyven is the father of her youngest child!”

    “Mm? Oh. That. Er—yes.”

    “Dean, how long have you known it?” she demanded in a steely voice.

    “He wrote me when the child was born,” he explained apologetically.

    “What?”

    “Well, for God’s sake, Judith, the alternative was to write to your damned brother!”

    “But— Oh.”

    “Yes. There were no other near male relatives. He has set up a trust for the child, of course.”

    Lady Judith breathed heavily through her aristocratic nose for some time.

    “What is all this?” he murmured. “It’s not like you to fuss over a dinner party.”

    “That woman,” said her Ladyship bitterly, “has tricked me, there is no other word for it, tricked me, into recognising her publicly. She has put me in an impossible position vis-à-vis, to name only three, the Palace, Mrs Cunningham, and the Pattersons of Verne Lea!”

    “Tricked you,” he said thoughtfully. “I would say she has the cunning for it, yes.”

    “If she thinks to see me lend my aid, tacit or otherwise, to any attempt to entrap Sleyven into wedlock, she may think again!” She took a deep breath. “You recall that story that was all over the district last summer, about Sleyven’s sending Miss Burden some hens?”

    “Mm. She sent ’em back, though.” The Dean looked at the guest list again. “Oh.”

    “David, do you not see? If only he can be persuaded to fix his interest there, rather than with the Marsh female!”

    The Dean cleared his throat. “You know that I have nothing against little Polly, my dear, but the Burdens are country nobodies.”

    “Oh, great Heavens: can that signify, compared to a strumpet who has borne him an illegitimate child?” she cried.

    “Hush. There were two persons involved, my love. The blame is not hers alone.”

    “Oh, rubbish, David!” Lady Judith’s eyes shone. “I shall deliver Miss Burden’s invitation myself!”

    “Judith, you’re forgetting that Miss Burden is in mourning for her elderly friend. She will scarcely care to dine in so large a group, just yet.”

    Her face fell. “Oh.”

    “Of course I scarcely know her, but she strikes me as a very intelligent woman. I think if you were to take her up out of the blue, my dear, she would—er—smell a rat.”

    “Nonsense! After all, she is Polly’s aunt! Well, I shall not invite her to this, then—though mind you, Sleyven is not in residence, so how could she suspect— No, very well. But I shall most certainly take her up!” She bustled out, beaming,

    The Dean gave a wry shrug.

    Mr Bottomley-Pugh, Katerina Bottomley-Pugh, Mr Vaughan Bottomley-Pugh (Mr Bottomley-Pugh’s heir: aged twenty, and with a neckcloth of the obligatory choking variety) and Great-Aunt Cumbridge sat round in a circle in the cosy red salon of Nettleford House and listened with bated breath as Mrs Newbiggin imparted all she knew. It was a fair amount, by this time: in the wake of a chat with the Miss Whites she had driven all the way over to Nettlebend Farm to take tea with Mrs Lumley and Bella, and, just incidentally, Mr Hutton.

    “Oh, how could she be so cruel as to bring the little girl into the district!” cried the tender-hearted Katerina with tears in her eyes.

    Aunt Cumbridge grunted. “Easily, by the sounds of ’er.”

    “Aye,” agreed Mr Bottomley-Pugh. “My Marguerite would have cut the female dead as mutton in the ’Oigh Street!”

    “Yes, but would that’ve done any good?” retorted Mrs Newbiggin. “The Lady Mayoress told me that Mrs Marsh has doined with them, and taken tea twoice with the Bishop’s lady woife, and is recognized by even Lady Judith Golightly ’erself!”

    Mrs Cumbridge snorted. “Lady Mayoress? I knew ’er when she was plain Lizzie Sigley with a patch the soize of a table napkin on ’er good brown wool!”

    “Aye, well, her and Ted Sigley have come a good long way since them days, Aunt Cumbridge, and ain’t we all?” said Mr Bottomley-Pugh tolerantly. “And may I say that you have the heartfelt thanks of the Bottomley-Pugh family for having passed these facts on to us.”

    “And the Cumbridges,” said the old lady.

    Mr Bottomley-Pugh waved an expansive hand. “Quoite. And the Cumbridges.”

    ... “I don’t see what we can do about that horrid woman, though, Pa,” objected Katerina after their guest had left.

    Mr Bottomley-Pugh put his large arm round her slender waist. “Ar. Maybe not, Kate me dear, maybe not. But it’s better to know, ain’t it?”

    Katerina agreed politely that it was.

    Mr Bottomley-Pugh, still with his arm round her, stared vacantly out of the window. “Ar.”

    “What is this?” said Mr Shelby numbly as his wife came into his study and handed him a paper.

    “My list for my little dinner, Kenneth: you said you wished to see it.”

    “Thank God I did!” replied Lord Sleyven’s agent fervently, running his hand through his neat hair.

    “I hope you are not implying that my choice of guests is unfortunate?”

    “Unf—!” he choked. “No, it’s my fault: I should have told you,” he groaned. “Look. Selina, my dear, please sit down.”

    Mrs Shelby sat down, with a frown on her sharp little face.

    Mr Shelby cleared his throat. “So you have met the new tenant of Dinsley House?”

    “Yes: she left cards, so I left cards, and I knew she visits at Verne Lea, so I asked her to tea, and she has come twice, now, and what is wrong with that, pray?”

    “Nothing, on principle,” he groaned. “Listen—” He told her the full story. He had expected her to be shocked, but he was surprised by the strength of her reaction.

    “OH!” she shouted, springing to her feet. “How DARE she worm her way into my good graces. –Give me that list!” she choked.

    Mr Shelby handed his wife the list and watched numbly as she thrust one of his pens into his inkstand and viciously crossed out the name “Marsh.”

    “And it is no wonder she sent back his horrible HENS!” she shouted.

    “Wha— Oh,” said Mr Shelby limply. “Miss Burden? But—”

    But Mrs Shelby had burst into tears and run out of the study.

    By the end of April Kitty Marsh was comfortably aware that she had safely consolidated her position in the county. Lady Ventnor and Mrs Cunningham would not dare to cut the connection for fear of making themselves look ridiculous. Mrs Somerton was all complaisance, as was the Bishop’s lady. Lady Judith and Mrs Patterson were not, but they were recognising her, that was what mattered. Lesser folk such as Miss Humphreys, Mrs Hunter, Mrs Kinwell and the Platts were eating out of her hand: she knew that many of the invitations that had been showered upon her this last month were indirectly due to their influence. Good: it had been more than worthwhile, buttering up the old bags, then.

    She knew that there were rumours circulating, and had no doubt that she had damned Hutton to thank for them; but both Miss Humphreys and Mrs Kinwell had earnestly assured her, à propos de rien, that they personally never listened to malicious gossip.

    As for Miss Burden— There was little to fear there! Certainly the creature had the type of figure he admired: but no style, at all! Hardly appealing to a man who had always liked his women to dress well. She knew from Susie that Bluebell Dell was little more than a cottage with no indoor menservants: she did not think that Jarvis Wynton would look there for a countess.

    Indeed, the worst scenario that might now be envisaged was that he would ignore her. Well, let him: he would speedily find that she had other fish to fry.

    The reservations of such persons as Mrs Waldgrave and even Mrs Somerton of course were apparent to Kitty: she was very far from stupid. But she did not wish for their regard, only for the appearance of it. She was received everywhere, so damned Jarvis Wynton might put that in his pipe and smoke it! His absence from the county could not have been better timed.

    Kitty Marsh was not, of course, aware of the number and diversity of persons who had sent tokens upon the occasion of Miss Burden’s cold. Nor of the enmity she had aroused in the breasts of persons as diverse as Mrs Lumley of Nettlebend Farm and Mr Bottomley-Pugh of Nettleford House. And would not have cared about it, had she been so aware.

Next chapter:

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