7
The Strawberry Picknick
The day of Mrs Patterson’s strawberry picknick dawned clear and warm. Several persons wondered, though not necessarily aloud, why the Almighty was favouring Mrs Patterson’s entertainments with His good weather.
Mrs Burden had asked Midge anxiously if she truly wished to go. Miss Burden had replied with a light laugh: “Of course!”
Colonel Langford had asked Jarvis if he truly wished to go. The Earl had replied coolly: “Of course I do not wish to go, Charles. But I am not prepared to slight the Pattersons.”
Miss Humphreys had asked Powell anxiously if he truly wished to go. Mr Humphreys had replied with a light laugh: “Of course! Don’t fuss, I am really feeling very fit today.” Miss Humphreys had not dared to say anything along the lines of seeing Miss Burden with the Earl or with Mr Pryce-Cavell could only give dear Powell unnecessary pain.
Mr Golightly had asked his Mamma if she truly wished to go. Lady Judith had replied drily: “Why, Simon?” Mr Golightly had swallowed and not dared to say anything along the lines of he trusted she was not comin’ solely in order to pass her eye over Miss Polly Burden.
Mr Somerton had pointed out sourly that he did not wish to go. Strawberries were too acid for him. And he hated al fresco things. Mrs Somerton had not listened.
Mr Waldgrave quite liked strawberries and did not dislike Mr Patterson. So he was present, too. And certainly Mrs Waldgrave would not have listened for an instant if he had said he did not truly wish to go.
Mrs Cartwright’s sister’s son, Mr Peter Lattersby, quite liked strawberries, although he did not know a soul in the county. And certainly his aunt would not have listened for an instant if he had said he did not truly wish to go.
Miss Waldgrave had tried to tell her Mamma she did not truly wish for it. She would prefer to spend a quiet time at home with a volume of sermons. Mrs Waldgrave was not prepared to listen to this nonsense for an instant: she had recently determined that this summer should see Mr Butterworth offer for Eugenia—though she was not yet so desperate as to reveal this plot to Miss Waldgrave herself.
Mr Patterson, as may be remembered, loathed al fresco anythings. He also loathed having strangers trampling down his strawberry beds. As Mrs Patterson had not listened for an instant when he said he did not truly wish for it, he was present, trying to look welcoming.
Miss Humphreys and her brother were a little early, dear Sir William having sent his carriage for them. Mrs Patterson, all gracious complaisance in blue poplin and a bergère hat trimmed with blue ribands, saw that they were settled very comfortably in the shade of a vine, overlooking the strawberry gardens. Mr Humphreys in a basket chair which she assured him anxiously he would find most comfortable. Mr Humphreys hated being fussed over but he smiled politely and accepted the basket chair. Pretty soon Mr Patterson came up and sat down beside him in another basket chair, beckoning to a footman to supply them each with glasses of champagne and remarking with a loud sigh: “Dare say you hate these damned al fresco thingamajigs as much as I do, eh, Humphreys? Take a look at this. It’ll interest you: found it in a grubby little bookshop in Leicester, of all places.” He handed him a curious little volume of an obscure Cavalier poet. Mr Humphreys took it, perforce. Though he had not come in order to spend the time reading a book.
Dr Golightly had set out well in advance of the Deanery carriage. By the time Lady Judith and her younger son and nephew arrived her Ladyship’s staid elder son was to be seen deep in the strawberry beds, hatless, carrying a very fetching basket tied with blue ribbons. Miss Polly Burden, laughing very much, in a straw bonnet tied with blue ribbons, was seen to be accepting a ripe strawberry from Dr Golightly’s very fingers. In a manner which might be imagined. Simon winced, but reflected that it was no more than Mamma should have expected. Well—the middle of a warm day, a sheltered garden with the scent of the sweet fruit upon the air, and not a chaperone in sight? Even poor old Arthur was human!
“I say, Miss Burden, that looks like fun,” said Alan Pryce-Cavell, his good looking, hatless head very close to Midge’s straw bonnet. He gestured towards Polly and Dr Golightly.
“It would not be appropriate in a very young person such as yourself, Mr Pryce-Cavell,” replied Miss Burden in a horridly prim voice, primming up her mouth into the bargain, “to behave so, with an older person like me.”
Mr Pryce-Cavell looked hungrily at that sweet, rosy, pursed-up mouth and experienced an overwhelming urge to kiss it upon the instant. “Er—no,” he said dizzily. “Er—what? Oh!” he said. grinning foolishly, as she gave a crow of laughter. “No, I say, don’t be absurd!” He removed the basket which she had slung over her left arm and tucked the arm through his. “Besides, I have found you out,” he said in a very low voice.
“Oh?” said Miss Burden weakly. Rather wishing he was not quite so near: for although she did not of course affect Alan Pryce-Cavell, there was something about a not unattractive young man’s standing so very, very close on such a very warm day—without his hat, too. One became aware of his... physical presence.
Mr Pryce-Cavell, virtually putting his face within the bonnet, murmured: “There is less than a year between us.”
Very aware of his physical presence. “What?”
“I am turned twenty-nine, Miss Burden,” he said in a prim voice, his eyes dancing. “Harry is six years my junior, did you not know?”
“Um—no,” she said feebly.
He pressed her arm into his warm side. “Mm. There are two sisters between us.”
“Oh,” said Miss Burden feebly.
“So you see, you can stop feeling you must pretend to be an old curmudgeon!”
“An old— Oh! I do not!” cried Midge, going into a trill of laughter. “You horrid boy!”
Grinning, Mr Pryce-Cavell corrected: “‘You horrid man.’”
“You horrid man,” said Miss Burden, very feebly indeed.
Silently promising himself he would get a kiss from her this very day or his name was not Alan Pryce-Cavell—or else she was not nearly the hot little creature, underneath the proper print dress, that with that hair and mouth, not to mention that soft, beckoning body, he was damn’ sure she must be—Mr Pryce-Cavell, still pressing her bare, rounded arm very firmly into his side, led her even deeper into the strawberry gardens.
Miss Burden did not protest, nor did she attempt to draw her arm out of his. She was conscious, indeed, of a most delicious sort of swoony, helpless feeling. Which she knew she ought to be resisting with all her might—but somehow the inclination to do so was lacking.
Mrs Patterson had not relied on the neighbourhood for the strawberry picknick. Verne Lea had a large house party of their own friends as well. The entire grounds were thrown open, and, as she explained to Lord Sleyven and his friend, the intention was that everyone must feel quite at home: there was a buffet on the south terrace, another in the blue salon which opened onto the west lawn and thence the strawberry beds, and in short everything was to be easy and delightful, and the guests must not wait to be urged but just help themselves! Beckoning to a footman as she spoke, and urging champagne upon them.
It was not very early; nevertheless the Earl did not feel like champagne at this hour. He refused politely. Charles, however took a glass.
More new arrivals then coming in, Mrs Patterson begged them to make themselves quite at home, and turned to greet the newcomers.
“Come on,” said the Earl resignedly, taking his old friend’s arm. “One collects that this is the blue salon?”
“Er—no: think that is through there,” said the Colonel feebly, nodding at the open double doors to the adjoining room. “This looks green rather than blue to me, old boy.”
“Never mind, I am almost sure she meant the strawberry beds are in that direction. –And I would strongly advise you to water ’em with that fizz, Charles, if you do not want a blinding headache by two in the afternoon!”
“Mm? Oh!” he said with a laugh. “This ain’t India, dear old man. –Thought you did not care if you never set eyes on a single strawberry?” he added in a low voice.
“I don’t.” The Earl moved towards the open French doors. “What a pleasant, comfortable-looking house it is. I like a white house. And I love all these verandahs.”
“No—er, terraces, Jarvis. Terraces and French windows. We ain’t in India now,” he said with a sigh.
“Oh—yes. Terraces. But do you not agree, it is a pleasant, easy style?”
“Yes,” allowed the Colonel, wandering out onto the terrace. “—I think you are right, the strawberry beds must be down there,” he said, nodding towards a long stretch of lawn. Beyond it, and beyond some hedges, many bright parasols could be seen, bobbing about amongst further hedges.
“Good God, it’s a damned strawberry farm!” said the Earl with a startled laugh. “Surely that cannot all be beds?”
“Don’t ask me. But Waldgrave was telling me they are reckoned very fine, certainly the best in these parts. Well sheltered with walls, hedges and plantings.”
“Mm. –Strawberries with music,” he noted drily, as somewhere not far distant a string quartet struck up.
“Why not?” said the Colonel with a laugh. “Come along, people seem to be down below on that terrace, with the vines and the pergolas and so forth.”
Lord Sleyven suffered himself to be led down to the terrace.
The terrace featured not only many people sitting chatting under the vines and pergolas, but also an array of long tables covered in small bowls, jugs of cream and bowls of sugar, and a row of smiling, aproned maidservants at the ready to assist the guests. “God, are we expected actually to eat ’em?” muttered his Lordship in his friend’s ear.
“Stop it, Jarvis!” he hissed, shaking slightly.
As the terrace also featured Mrs Burden, looking very pretty in a pale grey cambric walking dress with lilac ribbons, Lord Sleyven was not surprised to be then abruptly deserted.
He swallowed a sigh, and would have wandered off to the strawberry gardens but that the vicar caught his eye and, smiling gaily, beckoned him over to meet Mr Humphreys. With a certain resignation the Earl allowed Mr Humphreys to engage him in a most intellectual conversation—they knew it must be: Mr Waldgrave informed them archly it was, before excusing himself and disappearing in the direction of the strawberry gardens—about references to the strawberry, its flowers, fruit and leaves in Renaissance literature and thence by obvious logic in Classical literature. Jarvis Wynton had by now heard of Mr Humphreys’ sad affliction and he would not have dreamed of walking off and leaving the man by himself. After a while, however, he became uncomfortably aware that someone of Mr Humphreys’s intelligence must undoubtedly realise that that was what he was feeling. Hell. But there did not seem to be anything to be done about it: they appeared stuck with each other, for the nonce.
Mrs Kinwell, Miss Platt and Mr Platt had not come to the picknick with Mrs Cartwright, and it was a mystery to them how they had ended up sitting with her! For the intention had not been in any of their minds when they set out. Certainly they would have wished to see dear Mrs Burden, who was also with Mrs Cartwright, but… Though of course, as she knew everybody, they at least would not return home entirely uninformed.
Mrs Kinwell, in fact, once they had welcomed Colonel Langford into their group, remarked: “I wonder, Mrs Cartwright, who that lady in the black with the black and white striped ribands can be? Over there, with Mrs Somerton.”
Miss Platt screwed up her eyes. “Oh, yes! Is not that outfit entirely smart? Though I think she must be in mourning: perhaps she is a widow. Rather sad: such a young and pretty woman.”
Mrs Cartwright had raised her lorgnette and was able to say majestically: “I would say it was over-smart, Miss Platt. Not wholly desirable in a widow.”
“So she is?” asked meek little Mr Platt.
Mrs Cartwright’s lorgnette was still raised. The lady was speaking to Mrs Somerton with an air of pretty deference. Possibly the fact that Lady Judith Golightly was also sitting with Mrs Somerton had something to do with this. The gown was, as Mrs Kinwell had said, black. Poplin. The aforementioned striped ribbons featured as the sash at the high waist, tied in a large double bow at the back and dangling almost to the hem, and as knots in the puff sleeves. A charming touch was that the neckline was filled in with white net adorned with narrow vertical straps of lace, picking up the stripe motif, with the black and white ribbon used again to form the high collar. Possibly the lady was indeed in mourning, but the impression was not a sad one. The hat was not black, but a fine natural straw: bergère, very like Mrs Patterson’s in style, with more bows and ribbons of the black and white stripes. It looked very well indeed above the red curls.
Mrs Cartwright sniffed faintly. “A widow? So I am informed. An agreeable enough woman. A Mrs Marsh, staying at present with Sir William and Lady Ventnor. One is told she has connections at Rennwood.”
Mrs Burden rose abruptly. “Colonel Langford, shall we take a stroll in the gardens?”
The Colonel stood up with some relief. He might have known the damned woman would be here! Ten to one she would endeavour to foist herself on Jarvis in front of all these people: God knew, Kitty Marsh had always had the cheek of the Devil. “Certainly, Mrs Burden.” He offered her his arm and, excusing himself politely to her elderly friends, led her off.
He did not flatter himself it was merely a desire for his company which had prompted her to suggest the stroll: there had been something distinctly odd in her manner. Hell. No doubt Lady Ventnor had been talking, and the whole thing would be all round the neighbourhood before the cat could lick its ear.
The champagne flowed, the string quartet played valiantly, strawberries were picked and eaten, with more or less eagerness, selon, lemonade flowed for the young ladies, the buffets became popular, bright circles of parasols flowered gaily all over the gardens, and the large and assorted party in the grounds of Verne Lea separated itself out, as usual in such circumstances, into many small groups.
A distinguishing feature of these particular groups, perhaps less usual even in such circumstances, was that very few persons were now with those in whose company they had arrived at the strawberry picknick. Many of the younger ladles had found nooky little picknick spots in the gardens themselves, or rather, on their edges, Mr Patterson being too serious about his strawberries to provide nooky spots in their midst. But there were plenty of pretty hedges interspersed with not a few taller trees. some of them tall enough to provide shade. The which the young ladles had gratefully sought. The more so as this move kept them at a comfortable distance from their mammas. Oddly, the younger gentlemen had not been slow to join them.
Lady Judith Golightly was more or less resigned to an afternoon of boredom. Arthur was evidently as horridly besotted as she had thought he must be: well, all that riding over to Lower Nettlefold? Not to mention the sudden denuding of the Deanery garden of all its best blooms. Simon, to her relief, was more or less behaving himself—and if he did not seem to be favouring any one of these country Misses above the rest, that was just as well. At least he was not attempting to monopolize the pretty widow who was, her Ladyship had by now worked out, Arthur’s one’s mother. Colin Hargreaves was more or less the same: behaving himself, not favouring any particular Miss: so at least she would not have to lie awake o’ nights wondering how to face his mother.
She would not, truth to tell, have chosen to sit with Mrs Somerton had the matter been merely one of her own preference, but of course it was not: Plumbways was—well, certainly as to the structure itself, not to mention the position its owners had traditionally held in the county—a cut above Verne Lea. The fact that Mrs Somerton was a little provincial bore with a tongue that matched her sharp-featured face was beside the point. And there was the additional fact of the kind invitation to the waltzing ball that had been issued to the Deanery—and the associated point that Lady Judith had not attended, herself. A certain recognition was due to Mrs Somerton. Lady Judith was duly giving it.
She attempted to catch her cousin’s eye as he passed them headed for the strawberry gardens, but failed.
“I think you have not yet met my Cousin Sleyven?” she said politely to the lady who was sitting with them. “That was he: the gentleman who has just gone down to the gardens.”
Kitty Marsh smiled serenely. She had fully expected he would be here. And she was not at all surprised to see him doing his best to avoid herself. “Well, to say truth, Lady Judith, I would have said before this day that I did not know Lord Sleyven. But I am very nearly sure that he is a gentleman whom my late husband and I knew some years ago in India: the family name is Wynton, is it not?”
“Certainly,” agreed Lady Judith. “And Sleyven was in India with the Army for many years.”
Mrs Marsh nodded. “He was Colonel Wynton at the time we knew him. He has not changed very much, though it must be something like six years since we last saw him.”
“Indeed? And how long were you in India, Mrs Marsh?” Lady Judith drew her out politely, not allowing her face to show that she was silently summing the woman up and finding her... curiously spurious. The modest, unassuming air did not quite match that over-smart dress. And there was, behind the pleasant manner, a suggestion of… a hard self-possession? Something very like that, yes.
Kitty Marsh had not been used, quite, to rub shoulders with the daughters of earls, but she knew Lady Judith’s type well enough: the stiffest and most unforgiving of those sakht burra memsahibs who were beginning to turn the easy, flirtatious life of the hill stations into a dead bore. Well, she had dared their frowns and flouted their stern rule with marked success, but she would not make the mistake of assuming she could do so in England with impunity. Her manner towards Lady Judith became even softer and more deferential. But behind the smiles, her heart filled with hatred for both her and her damned cousin. Jarvis had seen her, she was in no doubt whatsoever of that. Well, either she would bring him to his knees, grovelling for her favours, or—or she would show him! Kitty sat up very straight, and agreed with Mrs Somerton that even one daughter was so much more of a responsibility than any number of sons: Lady Judith was so fortunate to have sons!
Jarvis Wynton went quickly down to the strawberry gardens, frowning. Damn the bitch. Well—the Cunninghams were here: they had a large house on the far side of Nettleford, one of their sons being chaplain to the Bishop of Winnsby and Nettle: and although he had not immediately made the connection he now recalled that they were some sort of distant cousins of Kitty’s: she would not have been the woman she was if she had not made use of the relationship. But he was damned if she was going to get more than a cool nod from him.
Colonel Langford had lured Mrs Burden into one of those nooky little picknick spots on the grass verge of the garden, under a pretty tree. Though to say truth, he had not had to do much luring. He was aware that her little daughter had wandered off with Dr Golightly: fortunately Mrs Burden did not appear inclined to fuss over the matter. Well, you couldn’t get more respectable than a clergyman, and the Dean’s son, to boot! The Colonel had procured them platefuls of delicious chicken savouries, sliced ham and such-like, and managed to grab a whole bottle of champagne, which he was now attempting to persuade Mrs Burden could not possibly be alcoholic liquor, as it was full of bubbles. Mrs Burden, laughing, had just permitted him to fill her glass.
“There is your friend,” she murmured.
Charles glanced over at Jarvis, wandering through the strawberries with a scowl on his face, and winced. “Yes. Let us leave him severely alone, shall we?”
Mrs Burden swallowed. “May I ask what is wrong, Colonel?”
“You may, certainly, but I am not precisely sure,” he said with a sigh. “His groom burst out with some story about hens the other day, but I could not make head nor tail of it. Did not think Jarvis was interested in ’em, beyond wringing the odd neck or two for the pot.”
“Er—yes,” said Mrs Burden, inexplicably turning very red. “Oh! In India, you mean, sir: yes, of course,” she said limply.
The Colonel stared. “Mrs Burden, if you know the mystery of the hens, do pray tell me: I have had the feeling lately that either I am going slowly mad without having realised it, or that the rest of the world is turning slowly mad around me.”
Mrs Burden swallowed hard. “It is not you. Um—well, it is so silly! Your friend called one day, when only Midge was home—well, with Timmy—and—and somehow he ended up killing a hen for her. She has not given me the details, but I gather that she did not ask him—though she would be capable of asking anyone anything, I freely admit that, sir.”
“Jarvis wouldn’t mind,” said the Colonel mildly.
“Er—no. Well, the next thing we knew a man arrived at the back door—Midge was out that day—with a waggonload of fine black hens. Um, all he would say was that they were excellent layers and for Miss Burden.”
The Colonel grimaced.
“I think it was some sort of a joke,” said Lettice timidly.
“Aye, but— Never mind,” he groaned. “What did she do, send ’em straight back?”
Poor Mrs Burden at this point suddenly recalled with horrid clarity exactly when—and therefore why—Midge had sent the hens back. It would be quite impossible to explain that to the Earl’s friend. Oh, if only she had never embarked on the story!
“Well, no, for at that stage— Though of course there was no question: Maunsleigh is famed for its black— What I mean is, Miss Humphreys would have, if she had had the wherewithal, or several other friends might—”
“Yes,” said the Colonel, smiling very much, and putting his hand gently over her agitated one. “I know you and Miss Burden have many friends in the neighbourhood.”
“Yes,” she said with a sigh. “We are fortunate, indeed.”
The Colonel smiled into her eyes.
After a moment Lettice blushed, looked away, realised her hand was still under his, and withdrew it quickly.
“The Maunsleigh hens had not yet been sent back,” prompted the Colonel.
“What? Oh—no. Er, well, it was partly my fault: I immediately told Harbottle to kill two of ours for the pot.”
“Of course,” he said solemnly.
“It—it was funny at the time,” admitted Lettice feebly.
Colonel Langford frowned a little. “But?”
She chewed her lip. “It is all my fault, and I realise that now, but at the time I felt 1 was doing the right thing!”—The Colonel was looking at her in astonishment.—“Oh, dear, I do not know how to put this... To cut a long story short, sir, I heard something to the Earl’s discredit and I told Midge. Only because I was afraid she might not take it well, coming from anyone else,” she added quickly. She looked at him nervously.
The Colonel took a deep breath. “I think I see, Mrs Burden. Is this connected with the fact that there is a Mrs Marsh visiting at Nettlefold Hall?”
Lettice went very red and said in a small voice: “Yes.”
Charles Langford sighed. “Who was it told you the story? Lady Ventnor?”
“Well, yes,” owned Lettice, biting her lip.
“I will not tell you there is nothing in it: that would be both absurd and untrue,” he said grimly. “Jarvis is not a boy. And Mrs Marsh—” He broke off.
Lettice was very flushed. “Lady Ventnor did stress that her late husband was a much older man.”
“Twice her age: yes,” he said neutrally.
“Mm. Um, the day after I told Midge she sent the hens back.”
“I see. –Oh, good God: no wonder Tonkins was raving on about ‘the chota memsahib’!”
Mrs Burden looked at him in bewilderment.
“It only means ‘the little lady’,” he said lamely. “Miss Burden, I collect.”
“Um—yes. She sent a note with them, but I did not see it.”
“Mm,” murmured the Colonel, wincing.
After a moment Lettice, swallowing hard, said: “So—so you think it is the hens that—that have caused your friend to be so upset?”
“Er—well, largely but not only the hens,” said the Colonel honestly. “I think he is mad as fire that Mrs Marsh has turned up here.”
“Is he?” she said doubtfully. “I suppose that shows— No,” she said hastily, reddening.
“Shows some finer feeling, at least?” said the Colonel, raising his eyebrows. “I do not know that I agree with you. Jarvis is not like that.’
“Oh,” said Lettice limply.
“I don’t mean that he would flaunt the relationship before the eyes of the county: he ain’t like that, either!” he said quickly.
“I see.”
“Er—no, I don’t think you do, ma’am. If Jarvis is annoyed that Mrs Marsh has turned up, it is partly, I am sorry to say, because she is the sort of woman who will make trouble if she can. But very largely it is because the affaire ended a good five years ago, and he is the sort of man who—who does not care for unnecessary complications in his life.” He looked at her face. “Does that sound gratuitously hard? He is my closest friend, but in some ways, I have to admit it, Jarvis can be very hard. Hard and... unforgiving.”
Lettice nodded. “I think I can understand, Colonel. Midge is a little like that, too. And—and the thing is,” she said, clearing her throat, “that while she—while the rational part of her mind admits that these things happen, um—”
“Yes: different when you run slap up against ’em, eh?”
“Yes,” she said in a low voice, looking down at her hands.
“Mrs Burden, I did not mean to sound flippant: I beg your pardon,” he said stiffly. “I suppose that I do not approve, au fond, of such things any more than your sister-in-law.”
“No,” agreed Lettice faintly.
Charles looked at her sweet, disturbed face. He took a deep breath. Somehow he found he was telling her about Madeleine.
The picknick lay forgotten on the grass. Mrs Burden listened in sympathetic horror, her soft blue eyes gradually filling with tears.
“Well,” he concluded with a sigh: “it was a long time ago. And at least the little girls did not live to see it.”
Lettice quietly got out her handkerchief and wiped her eyes. “No,” she said in a stifled voice.
The Colonel looked vaguely across the strawberry beds to the laughing group of Lacey Somerton and her friends. “Sometimes I wonder how they would have turned out...”
“Mm.”
He sighed again, and pulled himself together. “I’m sorry: I’m afraid that did not strike quite the right note, at a strawberry picknick. We old soldiers should not be encouraged: we get maudlin, you know.”
“Do not be silly. I—I am honoured that you confided in me, Colonel.”
The Colonel smiled a little sadly, refreshed her glass and handed her her plate. “Eat. –It’s what Jarvis calls fancy, over-sauced muck, I’m afraid.” He began to eat. After a little he looked up and said with a twinkle: “Before the hens came back there was a point at which he said to me—though I did not have a clue whom he meant, mind you: ‘I have taken the chota mem’s advice and told the chef that my India stomach requires plain roasts, in the hope of getting him to stop serving up fancy, over-sauced muck.’”
Lettice had to smile. “And did he?”
“Absolutely! We have had the most wonderful plain roasts, with nothing more fancy than a caper sauce to our mutton, ever since!” he said with a chuckle.
Lettice smiled again but said a little wanly: “I wish I could say that telling Midge so will make her behave more kindly towards him. But I am afraid...”
“Mm.”
Mrs Burden would not have mentioned the point if he had not spoken so freely of his own experience, and of the loss of his little daughters. But now she said in a low voice: “It’s the little girl, very largely.”
The Colonel choked on a chicken patty. “What? I thought that was not known outside a small circle back in India!”
“Oh, dear, I thought you realised!” she gasped in dismay. The Colonel shook his head grimly. “Um—it is known at Rennwood. I collect,” said Lettice, swallowing hard.
After a moment Charles Langford said: “Hell. No wonder the chota memsahib was shocked.”
Lettice nodded limply, rather horrified to find that her predominant emotion at that precise instant was not embarrassment or disapproval, nor yet sympathy for Midge, but a sudden green jealousy that Colonel Langford had apparently adopted the pet name for Midge as his own. Oh—how silly!
The champagne flowed, the string quartet continued to play gallantly, and the guests had mostly had their fill of the strawberries. Many of the little groups remained where they were, chatting somnolently, or just digesting somnolently in the case of some of the older persons. Some of the younger persons embarked on explorations of the grounds. High in the west clouds began to gather, but these as yet went unremarked by the merry throng in the gardens of Verne Lea.
Miss Burden and Mr Pryce-Cavell had eaten their picknick in a delightfully nooky little picknick spot beyond a neatly clipped cypress hedge: Mr Pryce-Cavell had there discovered a further terrace, with a long, narrow pool adorned with waterlilies: a little fountain played in its middle. Miss Burden had vetoed the marble benches set around this pool in favour of the grass in the lee of the hedge. Mr Pryce-Cavell had not objected. The spot seemed ideal for his plan of campaign to be put into execution.
He was, however, a little disappointed when after the meal Miss Burden removed her straw bonnet, said frankly: “I have eaten for too much: why did one of us not stop me?” and lay down with her face in the shade of her patchwork parasol, firmly closing her eyes. “You do not have to stay with me,” she said sleepily with her eyes closed. “Go for a walk, why do you not?”
“I think I have eaten too much, too!” he said with a laugh. He also lay down on the grass, though he did not close his eyes. After five minutes or so he raised himself on his elbow and attempted to make conversation.
Miss Burden replied with her eyes shut: “I cannot talk, I am digesting.”
“You are too cruel!” he said with a startled laugh—though he had pretty well got her measure by now.
She ignored him. Mr Pryce-Cavell looked dubiously at her rosy cheeks and the long, curled lashes casting little shadows on the cheeks, and the sweet mouth, and wished he dared. But he did not, quite. He lay back with a sigh.
Midge woke with a start, and sat up, blinking. Over by the pool Mr Pryce-Cavell was idly throwing pieces of gravel into the water. She had noticed this “gravel” earlier: it was spread around rather liberally at the foot of pedestalled vases and such-like. Chips of Italian marble, or her name was not Millicent Burden. She swallowed. “How long have I been asleep?” she said weakly.
He turned eagerly. “Oh, not a full hour!”
“Oh,” she said lamely. “I do apologize. –I did tell you not to stay with me.”
“So you did!” he said with a laugh, coming over to her. Before Midge could say that perhaps they could take a stroll together, he had sat down beside her on the grass. “You looked adorable when you were asleep,” he said in a low voice.
“Rubbish,” replied Miss Burden, going bright pink. She attempted to retrieve her bonnet. Mr Pryce-Cavell grabbed it quickly and held it out of reach, laughing a little.
“Ladies who doze off after their strawberry picknick absolutely have to pay a forfeit: it is a tradition in the Pryce-Cavell family!” he said gaily.
Miss Burden swallowed. “Even ladies who have given their escorts permission to take a walk?”
“Most definitely those cruel ladies!” said Alan, laughing. Swiftly he bent and put his lips on hers.
It was not a mere peck. Miss Burden was too startled to move. No gentleman had ever kissed her like that, save that one impertinent man of whom she was never going to think again. Her predominant emotion was astonishment that the rather proper Mr Pryce-Cavell had dared.
Alan sat back, panting a little, rather flushed, and looking very pleased with himself.
“I suppose I may be said to have asked for that,” she admitted feebly.
He gave a shaken laugh, and bent his head to hers again. This time he was much bolder: Miss Burden gasped. Mr Pryce-Cavell took advantage of the moment and pulled her firmly to him, kissing her very thoroughly indeed.
“Oh!” panted Miss Burden, her bosom heaving, as he released her.
Alan was now very flushed indeed. The “Oh” was not one of reproach: he had had sufficient experience to be very sure of that. He took her hand quickly. “You must realise that I—I am very much drawn to you, dear Miss Burden,” he said huskily.
“Do not say anything more,” said Miss Burden faintly.
“No, I must. I—I am not a boy, but please do not take it amiss if I say I must first speak to my papa.”
“Mr Pryce-Cavell, this has gone far enough. Please stop.” She tried to pull her hand away. Alan held on. “We hardly know each other; and—and I do not think I could care for you, in—in that way,” she said, turning scarlet, for perhaps she was being precipitate. But she could scarcely let him labour under a misapprehension—if that was what he was doing.
“I adore you,” said Alan huskily. He raised her hand to his lips, turned it over, and mumbled kisses into the rosy palm.
Miss Burden, to say truth, had not thought what she was about, with regard to Mr Pryce-Cavell. She had been shocked and furious to find that the Earl of Sleyven was at least as bad as she had thought him when she was thinking the very worst of him: no wonder he had not scrupled to snatch a kiss from a country lass! She supposed she might count herself lucky to have escaped with her virtue intact. Well, if he thought he was going to get round her with a dozen stupid black hens—or in any other fashion—he was very much mistaken! Added to which, a man of his experience could clearly have no real interest—wicked or otherwise—in a country mouse like herself: doubtless he was merely amusing himself: seeing what it would take to break down her defences.
She had not admitted to herself that there was an element of spiting Lord Sleyven in her encouragement of Alan Pryce-Cavell. Nor had she admitted, until this very minute, that not only was she flattered by Mr Pryce-Cavell’s attentions, she was also quite distinctly excited by them. But, alas, this did not mean that she at all wished to be his wife! Horrors, was she turning into a heartless flirt, seeking the admiration of gentlemen without knowing or caring if she might cause them serious pain by encouraging them to hope where there was no hope? This was quite bad enough. But to experience all this—well, flutter, in his presence, when she knew she could not truly love the man—! She had thought she knew herself so well: but she had never, never suspected that this sort of thing lurked in the depths of her character. Miss Burden was very far from comparing her maidenly self with the shocking Mrs Marsh. But at this moment, though she did not think of that particular lady, she did feel herself almost akin to the type. A type she had hitherto unthinkingly condemned as hoydenish fools whose reason was incapable of controlling their emotions. Oh, help.
“I will not disguise from you,” she said hoarsely, pulling her hand away, “that—that I find you a very attractive young man. But—but pray believe that is all,” she said desperately as he looked at her quickly with a smile on his lips.
“But why should it be all?” he said. He did not take her hand again, but covered it with his where it lay on the grass. “Please say you will let me hope,” he murmured.
Miss Burden cleared her throat and withdrew her hand from under his, trying to ignore the trembling that had possessed her. “No. If—if you are trying to say that—that you will ask your papa if it would be suitable to pay your addresses to me—”
“Of course!” he said eagerly.
“Then don’t,” she said flatly.
Alan looked at her in a stunned way. “Why not?” he said at last.
“I have said: although I find you attractive, I cannot care for you enough!” said Miss Burden rather loudly.
“But may not this be a first step to a deeper feeling?”
“No,” she said, turning an unlovely mottled puce. She glared at the pool.
Alan clenched his fists. “I see. You mean there is someone else?”
“NO!” replied Miss Burden angrily.
“Then pray let me hope,” he said, seizing her hand again.
She wrenched it away and scrambled to her feet, her bosom heaving. “No! I cannot! I should not have encouraged you, and I beg your pardon for it! But I do not wish for anything more!”
Alan also scrambled up, now very pale. “I thought you liked me,” he said lamely. “Perhaps it is too soon: could we not at least get to know each other better before we—we make any decisions at all?”
She took a deep breath. “No. Since you force me to say it, I know I could never spend the rest of my life with you.”
“Why not?” he said tightly. “If there is no-one else— And you do not dislike me: you said so yourself.”
She swallowed hard. “The sort of thing I feel for you would not be... enough.’
Alan Pryce-Cavell looked at her blankly.
“Oh!” cried Midge, at the end of her tether. “Do not be so dense! Men feel it all the time, why should not a woman?”
“What?” he fumbled stupidly.
“Very well, then, if you must have it: you are a very pretty fellow, but I should die of boredom if I had to be married to you!”
She snatched up her parasol and ran off with it, abandoning her best straw bonnet to its fate.
Mr Pryce-Cavell’s jaw trembled. He sat down very slowly on the grass, his eyes filling with tears.
The champagne had ceased to flow at last—though some of the older gentlemen were now sipping something a little stronger; the remains of the picknick were being rapidly cleared away; the string quartet continued to play, though their leader had an anxious eye on the sky; and heavy black clouds had now massed in the west. The gardens of Verne Lea still basked in the sun but a brisk westerly breeze had sprung up, and Mr and Mrs Patterson had shepherded most of the guests inside. Those who had foraged farther afield were making their way back to the house. Several persons who had come a considerable distance for the strawberry picknick were already taking their leave, in order to get home before the weather broke.
Polly and her escort joined her mother and Colonel Langford in the blue salon. “Has it not been the most glorious day, Mamma? But I fear we have had the best of the weather!”
“Indeed: it is very black in the west,” agreed Dr Golightly.
Mrs Burden did not fail to note that the pair of them were positively glowing. It was a curious feeling, to see her little daughter suddenly blossoming into a woman. “Yes,” she said faintly.
Colonel Langford guessed a little of what she was feeling: he said cheerily: “So, how far afield did you venture, Miss Polly?”
They had gone as far as the outskirts of the home wood, and only guess, they had seen a squirrel!
On the other side of the blue salon Kitty Marsh was clinging like a limpet to Lady Judith Golightly. Well, much good might it do her, thought the Colonel: she might turn Jarvis’s cousin into a bosom-bow, but once he had made up his mind to anything, there was not a hope of his changing it. But even though he was sure his old friend was safe from her, the Colonel did not much fancy the idea of having to greet the woman with complaisance if, for instance, Dr Golightly were to suggest that they join his mother. He said quickly: “I suppose we ought all to be thinking about being on our way. Did you see Jarvis on your wanderings, at all, Golightly?”
“Not in the grounds, no. We saw him earlier: when we were picknicking. He had stopped to chat with a white-haired gentleman.”
“Mr Cuthbertson,” explained Polly. “But then he walked on: he went out of the strawberry gardens, I think, but I did not observe where.”
Charles rubbed his jaw with his good hand. “Oh. Well, dare say he is old enough to come in out of the rain.”
Polly laughed. “It is not quite raining, yet!”
“No,” said the Colonel in a hollow voice, as Lady Judith and Mrs Marsh rose and headed their way. Not quite, but damn’ nearly.
Miss Burden had at first run somewhat blindly in the direction of what must be the home wood of Verne Lea. But there were people over there: she did not feel like making polite conversation. She turned her footsteps quickly in another direction, not caring what it was, so long as it did not involve meeting people. Several groups were espied, but all at a distance. Miss Burden had ceased to run, but she walked very quickly. What an utter idiot she was. And she had hurt poor Mr Pryce-Cavell’s feelings, there was no doubt of that! But why had he insisted, when she had said she did not want it? Miss Burden, it may perhaps now be evident, knew virtually nothing about men. It would have been highly unnatural of Mr Pryce-Cavell not to have insisted. But the notion that the male nature was that of the hunter, not only of foxes, but also where the quest for a mate was concerned, had never really occurred to Millicent Burden, spinster, of the Parish of Lower Nettlefold.
She was, of course, accustomed to long country walks, and she strode on quickly over the beautifully landscaped acres of Verne Lea, not perceiving at all how far she had come, or how late the hour and how dark the sky, until there was an ominous rumble off in the west.
“Help,” said Midge, looking in horror at the entirely black sky in that direction. She looked around her. The house was quite out of sight. And the verdant, tastefully planted acres of Verne Lea afforded not so much as a glimpse of another human being. “Where am I?” she said numbly.
The only answer was another rumble of thunder. Miss Burden, gulping, decided that as she had come—she thought—from “that” direction, she had better retreat in it. And tucked her parasol firmly under her arm, picked up her skirts, and fled.
The Earl had wandered about moodily, not realising that he was being distinctly ungracious towards his host and hostess and their invited guests. He had not really thought that the strawberry picknick would offer an opportunity to speak to Miss Burden in private and—well, beg her to take back the damned hens. Not really. That was, not thought it in so many words or admitted to himself he wanted it. The idea had been present at the back of his mind, however. True, he had been furious when she sent back the hens, but he was in no doubt as to why she had done so. If he could but get her to listen to him—
He had wandered round the gardens, mulling it over, neglecting to eat until the amiable Sir William found him amongst the roses and dragged him off to the nearest buffet. He had stayed chatting politely to Sir William and his group for some time, but eventually, as he squire bustled off to speak to other acquaintances, had excused himself quietly and wandered off again.
The hedges around the terrace with the pool were high: the Earl had approached through a charming arch cut into the highest of them, at the far end of the pool. And there were Miss Burden and Mr Pryce-Cavell, kissing under her patchwork parasol. They did not observe him. Had it not been evident that Miss Burden was enjoying the experience he would have run down the terrace and knocked the fellow senseless. But—
He turned away, fists clenched, little white dints showing beside the strong nostrils, and walked off blindly.
Whether she was encouraging the fellow because she truly wished to, or in order to spite him, Jarvis Wynton, he was not at all sure: it had not seemed to him at the damned waltzing ball that she favoured that young man: had she not informed him that he had no bottom, or some such? But whatever her reasons, she was undoubtedly encouraging him.
Jarvis Wynton had not, at this point in time, got to the stage of admitting he was in love with Midge Burden. He had known, from the first instant, that he wanted her. That was nothing—little or nothing: he had wanted many other women. And had had not a few of them. He knew she infuriated him. And he thought he deserved a little more from her than that curt note. At least a hearing. But she was not, of course, anything like that well-bred, quietly ladylike woman with whom he had envisaged spending his declining years. In fact, she was almost entirely unsuitable. She was harum-scarum to the point of tomboyishness, she did not, in spite of the wonderful black ballgown that had shown off the pink-pearl sheen of her shoulders at the waltzing ball, have a notion of how to dress, she had no presence, she was abrupt to the point of rudeness, and frankly, “quietly ladylike” was the last phrase one would have used to describe her. Added to which she was a country nobody. The family was no doubt respectable enough, but... This would not have weighed with a mere Colonel Wynton. But the point was not an inconsiderable one when the position of Countess of Sleyven and mother to the future earl was in question. Life with her would be very, very far from the quietly rational intercourse which he had envisaged for himself and that unknown lady. One would never have a moment’s peace: she was not merely argumentative, she was... pugnacious!
This was about as far as his conscious thought processes had got: a wince at the idea of the turbulence that would be the result of installing her in one’s house. He had avoided consciously contemplating the rush of heat that filled his veins at the mere idea of having her—pink-pearl skin, pugnacious unsuitability and all—in his house.
By the time the thunder rumbled he was at a considerable distance from the house. Should he run back? It was probably just one of the violent but short-lived summer storms that were endemic, he had now realised, to the area. There might be a torrential downpour but in half an hour or so it would have slackened off to a light drizzle. He had no impulse to rejoin the Pattersons’ guests. He shrugged slightly and strolled towards a charming little white gazebo, set on a little rise. Artificial, no doubt: every shaven green square inch of Verne Lea shrieked “after Capability Brown.”
The thunder rolled, lightning flashed, and the rain came down in torrents. The Earl leaned against one of the posts of the gazebo and stared blankly at wet, green England. He had a nasty feeling that the hip he had once broken in a fall from a horse was going to start to nag him, in this climate. It had generally played up a little in the winters in India, but the cold weather there was so short-lived, unless one was up on the Frontier...
He swung round with a start, as there was a panting noise behind him, and footsteps on the steps of the gazebo.
“Oh, help!” gasped Midge in dismay. “It’s you!” Water streamed from her parasol: the brown and yellow print dress was soaking. She made to retreat: Jarvis stepped forward quickly and grabbed her arm.
“Don’t be a fool: come into the shelter.”
“No, I’m so wet already—”
“Nonsense!” he said angrily, pulling her in bodily.
Midge staggered, dropped the parasol, lost her footing, and fell heavily against him.
Jarvis lost sight of the facts that she apparently preferred another fellow, that she was entirely unsuitable, that in any case she was, to put it mildly, disillusioned with him—not to say of the impropriety of the whole proceeding—and clasped her against him, closing his eyes.
Miss Burden expected, not unnaturally, that his next monstrous improper move would be to kiss her, but he did not: just held her very tightly against him. She was out of breath from running: she was more or less unable to do anything but pant for a while. Eventually she said in a tiny voice: “Don’t.”
“You let him,” he said bitterly.
Midge looked up at him in astonishment. “Did you—?”
“I came through the arch at the far end of the terrace when he was kissing you under your parasol. You didn’t see me: I went away immediately.”
“No, well, if you had stayed longer,” said Miss Burden angrily, “you would have seen me telling him that I could not care for him!”
The Earl had gone very red. “You seemed to care for being kissed by him!”
“You of all people should know that that is not the same thing!” she cried loudly.
“Er—yes,” he said, biting his lip.
“I don’t care if ladies are supposed not to feel like that: men do, so why should not we?” cried Miss Burden.
“How true. Do you often—”
“NO!” she shouted, struggling to free herself. “Let me go, you are no gentleman!”
“No, but then you have always known that,” he said affably. “And as it seems you are not entirely a lady, perhaps we are well matched.”
Miss Burden was about to deny angrily that she was not a lady. She gulped.
“Well?” he said.
“Well,” said Miss Burden honestly, taking a deep breath and endeavouring, to no avail, to pull away from the creature’s grasp by stealth: “I had thought until this very afternoon that I was a lady. Only then I found that—that though it would bore me to death to marry him, I wished him to kiss me.” She stopped. swallowing.
There was a short silence.
“I see,” said the Earl.
Midge looked up at him nervously.
“I am trying to imagine it. For males are taught to think of themselves quite otherwise, since the moment their besotted parents start cooing: ‘What a fine strong boy’, are they not?”
Miss Burden, glaring, took an indignant breath.
“Don’t be cross!” he said with the ghost of a laugh. “I see... You had not hitherto thought yourself a very feminine sort of woman, had you?”
“Very f— What do you mean?” she choked.
“I mean that it is natural to a certain sort of woman to enjoy the company of, shall we say, pretty young men, in a—well, in the way which you appear to have discovered, without cherishing any serious intentions towards them.”
Miss Burden’s lower lip stuck out pugnaciously. She did not reply, merely attempted to pull away from him.
“What did you imagine all this was for?” he murmured, ignoring the pulling.
“All what?” panted Miss Burden crossly. “Will you let me go, you—you creature!’
“All this,” he murmured, looking down at her bosom.
“Oh!” cried Miss Burden furiously, stamping her foot.
“And this,” he said with a little smile. He pulled her hard against him, and laid his cheek on her hair. “Never cut it: it’s the most glorious thing I have ever seen,” he murmured.
Choking, Miss Burden cried, perforce into his chest: “Just because I let that stupid young man kiss me does not mean I want you to do that, sir! And I wish you had sent me an hundred hens, so as I could have given myself the pleasure of sending them all back!”
“Ssh. Can’t you see that the rain has afforded us a stolen moment, where we can pretend we are not proper Miss Burden of Bluebell Dell who has to send a man’s hens back for sins he committed before he even knew her, and—”
“Stop it!” she cried breathlessly, pushing against him with all her might.
“—and the damned Earl of Sleyven,” he said sourly. “Miss Burden, I perceive no-one has ever told you that to thrust yourself against a man’s body, so, is calculated to excite him utterly, so I am telling you now.”
“What?” gasped Miss Burden, unable to believe her ears.
“You heard,” he said drily.
“I—I don’t believe you,” she said in a small voice.
“Believe it!” he said with a laugh.
“Then kindly release me.”
He sighed. “I might have known you would never admit you were enjoying it.”
“I am NOT!”
He released her slowly, and looked down at her sardonically. “No, I suppose you’re too innocent to know how.”
Miss Burden glared speechlessly.
“Are you at least going to give me a hearing?”
“I—” The thunder rolled, and Miss Burden winced. “There is nothing to discuss.”
“Then why did you send my hens back?”
“I did not wish to be beholden.”
“You mean you did not wish to be beholden to Kitty Marsh’s former lover,” he said coolly.
Miss Burden went very red. To her fury, she found her eyes had filled with tears. “It is most ungentlemanly of you to mention it,” she said coldly.
“Yes, but then, haven’t we agreed I’m not a gentleman? It happened fourteen years ago. I admit it then lasted for quite some years—more or less infrequently, depending on whether we happened to be in the same town at the same time.”
Miss Burden said nothing.
“I am not a boy like that stupid young fellow you were kissing,” he said on a sour note.
Miss Burden still said nothing.
“What more do you wish me to say? Apologize for being human, and fallible? Have you not demonstrated this day that you are also that?”
“Yes,” said the incurably honest Miss Burden—avoiding his eye, however. “Not in the same degree. But if you are going to say that it is the intent that counts, not the degree, you may save your breath: I entirely concur.”
“Then why are you condemning me?”
“I am not condemning you, Lord Sleyven,” she said coldly.
“Listen, you little idiot,” he said with a smile in his voice, catching at her hand: “I have not laid eyes on Kitty Marsh for over five years. We broke off acrimoniously, and as far as I was concerned, it was nothing but a relief to end it.”
Madge pulled her hand away. “Do not think you will get round me! And if you dare to call me a little idiot again, I will slap your self-satisfied face for you!”
“Is it?” he said feebly.
Miss Burden, teeth gritted, did not reply.
“Well, I did not mean it to be. Can’t you see that I had nothing to do with Mrs Marsh’s coming into the district and that I wish her at Jericho?”
“It must certainly be inconvenient.”
He sighed, and sat down heavily on the hard bench that ran round the interior of the little circular structure. “Very well, believe what you like.”
Midge looked at him uncertainly. The Earl was not looking at her. He propped his elbow on the railing of the gazebo, leaned his chin on his hand, and sighed.
“I—I barely know you. How can I know whether to believe you?” she said shakily. “You—you have certainly behaved like a libertine towards me.”
“A libertine,” he said dully, “would have pulled you off that damned wall and taken you. I would say, ask Charles Langford, if you want the truth, but I suppose that you will not trust him not to lie for my sake.”
Miss Burden merely licked her lips.
The Earl stared bleakly at the rain.
After quite some time she said: “If you—if you want me to believe you are—are no better nor worse than the rest of mankind, and—and worthy of—of common respect, why behave so badly towards myself?”
He returned drily: “I could say the temptation was irresistible.”
She reddened. “And if I say you should be able to resist, you will no doubt throw Mr Pryce-Cavell in my face!”
“What? Oh, the young imbecile under the parasol. Yes.”
“Yes, but you are older than me and have had a lot more practice!” she cried.
Jarvis perceived her lower lip was trembling. He stood up slowly. “I’m sorry. You did more or less hurl yourself into my arms, just now. I—if I thought at all—and a man does not, really, at such times—I suppose I thought it might be now or never, so I had best make the most of it.”
“And so you just did!” cried Miss Burden angrily, very flushed.
“Yes. Men are like that,” he said with a grimace.
“Rubbish, you thought that I would give in to you like all the other women in your life!”
“No, I didn’t,” he said evenly. “If you would just be quiet and listen instead of shouting, you might actually further your education.”
Acidly she replied: “Believe me, I do not wish to further it in the direction of you!”
“Don’t be old-cattish, you are too little and cuddly for it,” he said with a smile.
She choked, burst into tears, and suddenly ran down the gazebo steps and into the rain.
“Little idiot,” said Jarvis, half under his breath. He watched her for a moment, gnawing on his lip. Suddenly he dashed after her. He caught her up before she was even halfway to the clump of trees for which she appeared to be heading, and wrenched her sobbing, soaking form into his arms.
“Let—me—go!” sobbed Miss Burden.
“No!” he gasped, panting. “I love you: for the Lord’s sake stop fighting me!”
“How DARE you!” shouted Miss Burden. “It is no such thing!”
“Just LISTEN!” shouted his Lordship, turning very red. “I’m not claiming we make the most romantic pair since Romeo and Juliet, but at least I’ve known I wanted you since the moment I set eyes on you on that damned wall, without your corset! You may not care to hear it, but for God’s sake, will you get a better offer?”
“You are impertinent, and I am not a Mrs Marsh!” gasped Midge, pushing at his chest with both hands.
“What? No! You imbecile, I’m asking you to marry me!”
“WHAT? I think you are MAD, sir, and LET ME GO!”
Instead of letting her go, he crushed her against him and kissed her very hard.
Midge gave a shattering sob, wrenched herself out of his grasp, and slapped his face with all her might.
“You are a complete beast!” she gasped. “I would not marry you if you were the last man on earth! And do not dare to follow me, or I shall scream!” She turned, grabbed up her patched parasol, and ran away as fast as her legs would carry her.
Jarvis chewed on his lip. He made no attempt, this time, to follow her. Indeed, he was already regretting his rash offer. “Damnation,” he muttered.
Next chapter:
https://thepatchworkparasol.blogspot.com/2022/12/arrivals-and-departures.html
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