Gossip And News

40

Gossip And News

    Miss Tarry Kernohan’s engagement party had come and gone, the entire suitability and desirability of the match being quite eclipsed as a topic of conversation by the recently announced engagement of Viscount Stamforth and Lady Benedict, and the strange and unnecessary elopement of Sir Noël Amory and Miss Chalfont. On the last topic Bath was largely of the opinion that they had been engaged all along and there was no need for such precipitate and unseemly action. On the second topic Bath was of the opinion that it was thrilling. Though one or two persons might have been heard sourly to remark that they had heard that she had been on the catch for him all last Season. On the subject of Her Grace of Purle Bath was in complete agreement. Insufferably high in the instep.

    The Duchess then whisked Nan away to London. The excuse might have been that the House was sitting this autumn, and Lord Stamforth had to take his seat. Her Grace of Purle did not, however, bother to offer it.

    All was not harmony in Lymmond Square after the disappearance of Lady Benedict and Lord Stamforth from Bath. Charlotte Laidlaw even went so far as to threaten to get rid of Georgey’s Pug if she heard one more whining complaint about no-one to play with. Mr Laidlaw, after a short period of getting nothing out of her on the topic at all, did manage to get: “I thought we were friends. If there is something odd about this engagement—and I am persuaded there is, do not contradict me, if you please!—then why could she not trust me?”

    Mr Ninian Dalrymple evinced some very odd behaviour over the weeks following Lady Benedict’s departure. The general opinion was that he was just making himself mysterious and important. Those few persons who pointed out cautiously that he might know more than most, for Lady Benedict had had a couple of pugs off him, were not heeded.

    Those who took note of Major-General Cadwallader’s comportment—who were few—might have noticed that he was quietly miserable. Then he disappeared entirely from Bath, too.

    Mr Laidlaw was very nearly at the point of telling Charlotte that if she did not make an effort to buck up she could have the choice between a divorce bill’s being brought down or a dose of Aunt Beresford’s special tonic, when a letter arrived. He was urged to read it for himself. If he did not, he knew she’d read it out to him, in bits, with commentary. After a short struggle with himself he decided to let her. There was always the hope that she might not notice that he wasn’t actually listening.

    Charlotte beamed. “Well, now! Where shall I start?”

    Mr Laidlaw did not say “At the beginning”: there was always the hope that she might skip a bit.

    “Oh, well, I dare say you will wish to hear it all!”—What in God’s name made her think that?—“I shall start at the beginning!”

My very dear Charlotte,

    At long last I have the time to sit down take up my pen, and write. We have just received invitations to Vaudequays for Cousin Keywes’s and May’s wedding, I am sure yours must also be in the post. I look forward to seeing you and Mr Laidlaw there. Her Grace has waxed very eloquent on the topic of Mrs Beresford’s permitting it to be at Vaudequays, I am sure you can imagine it!

    “Oh, dear,” said Charlotte on a glum note, abruptly breaking into the narrative. “Can you not just hear her saying it? ‘I am sure you can eemagine eet.’”

    “Mm? Oh: aye. Absolutely, mm. Go on, my love.”

    Instead of immediately going on, she said darkly: “Mark, when she says ‘we’ she does not mean whom you might assume!”

    “Er—oh,” he said limply. “Like that, is it? Uh—well, go on.”

    We are fixed at Hethersett for a little: a very fine house, belonging to a Sir Nigel Hawkridge, who is not in evidence, altho’ there is a large house party. This is customary, one is told. It is his wife, Sybil Hawkridge, who is the Duchess’s friend: a lady of about her own age, very horsy in appearance and predilections, one would never have picked her for a friend of the Duchess! Seven ladies have taken me aside since our arrival—sequentially, you understand—and privily assured me that “dear Sybil” was one of “Barbara’s Nymphs” in their youth. One has not yet precisely ascertained what Barbara’s Nymphs were, dearest Charlotte, but the minute I know, you shall, too!

    The same seven kind ladies, or perhaps it was other kind ladies, I was not paying particular attention to the point, have assured me that a fellow-guest, a fat man with very red hair (said to be not a wig but henna!), was “forever in dearest Babs’s train” until a Breach two years since, and lived on Lanthewlich, that is her son’s principal estate, in a little house she built him! Everyone calls him Neddy, and I had been here a full four days before I realised that he is Lord Mount Abbott! He has a large estate in Lincolnshire but apparently Lady Mount Abbott lives there. Help. His name is not Edward but so far the derivation of the nom de plume—ou de guerre?—remains a mystery!

    Hethersett a very charming house, old brick, largely Jacobean. Lady Hawkridge all that is kind and welcoming. Altho’ the people here are themselves horridly grand, they have been very kind to me: the which possibly proves that there is something in being taken up by a duchess. The style here is, thank goodness, very free and easy, and no-one stands on ceremony: indeed, Lord “Neddy” tells me that one comes to Hethersett in the knowledge that no-one will plague one and that one may “have a d— good rest, eat d— good food and get out with Sybil on a d— good mount.” The food is, indeed, excellent, rather the sort that Hugo used to order up at Blythe Hollow and that one had to force M. Lavoisier to produce unadorned! Game figures largely, and the men have been doing much shooting.

    I have to admit that after London with her Grace of Purle I am in need of the rest. Charlotte, it was shattering: there is no other word. She knows everyone and, as you cannot have failed to remark in Bath, she is so entirely high in the instep that it is embarrassing. I do not know if I mentioned a Mrs Chilton and her little daughter, Jane, whom we met last Season: Jane and Susan became very friendly. They came to call at the house in Green Street which Her Grace forced me to hire for the “Little Season” and without anything that one could put one’s finger on, she managed to crush them utterly! I was so very cross, and said to her, “Duchess, I must beg you to be kinder to my friends. Otherwise I fear that, altho’ I do not wish to offend your family, I must discontinue the arrangement.” She laughed, and flicked my cheek with her finger, which is one of her things, and said: “Dearest child, the sentiment does you credit—but you know, if one encourages these little people, one will never be free of them!”

    I became even crosser and said: “I do not wish to be free of them.” She looked at me with such an expression! And said: “No? Even tho’ they bore you to death?” Oh, dear. I had to admit that altho’ they did, that was scarcely the point. She shrugged and said: “Call on them if you wish, but pray do not urge me to accompany you. Life, my dear Nan, is too short for that sort of hypocrisy, as you will discover when you reach my age. Or, dare one hope, r-r-rather before then.” (Rolling her R’s being one of her things, too.) I do not think the expression “well-meaning” is in her vocabulary, and I am very sure the word “charity” is not! Yet I do so enjoy her company. Horrors!

    “I knew it,” said Charlotte on a sour note.

    “Mm? Oh, absolutely, my dear! Dreadful shame! Er, s’pose the old dame will be at Vaudequays?”

    Charlotte shuddered.

    “Aye. Oh, well. –I say, those meals at Hethersett sound dashed good, eh?”

    She did not, of course, take the point, and continued:

    Many of Lord Stamforth’s relatives were in town. I had met some of them before, but had to meet them all again, in my new capacity. Those who ignored me the last time were overpoweringly gracious this time. Those who appeared to take me in instant aversion the last time appeared not to have got over it, but were overpoweringly gracious, too. I think only dear Mr Tobias Vane is truly pleased about the engagement. Lady Mary Vane and her husband, Mr George Vane, with whom Lord Stamforth has always been on the best of terms, are—it is hard to describe—cautious, I think. They are glad he intends settling down, but not glad it is with me. Their good manners fortunately prevent them from being anything but kind, however. –Oh, dear, that sounds so horrid on reading it over! It is not only their good manners, but also their kind hearts.

    However, I doubt that the frightening Aunt Julia Dinsdale (I do not call her that) is possessed of either attribute. She was merely overpoweringly gracious. His Lordship had given me the impression that he was scared of her, so I was in a quake the day we were to meet her, but as the evening wore on, I perceived it was not so. His motives for misleading me are obscure to me, but frankly I do not intend wasting my time in attempting to puzzle them out.

    Jack Laidlaw came to a with a jump. “Ouch!”

    “Exactly,” said Charlotte grimly.

    They looked at each other dubiously.

    Jack scratched his head. “What else does she say?”

    “What, about him? Very little,” said his wife grimly.

    “Uh—no.—God, does she not?—Uh—no: about that evening.”

    “Nothing. Perhaps it was truly dreadful, Jack.”

 

    The evening had not been dreadful in the way that Charlotte meant, precisely. The company had, certainly, been very select: Lady Mary Vane was a notable hostess. Lady Benedict’s black pearls were, however, by far the finest items of jewellery on view.

    Lewis was aware that as far as his Vane relatives were concerned this was very much a trial period for the lady who was to become the Viscountess Stamforth. He was aware of several pairs of eyes lingering on the pearls. After dinner, doubtless not by coincidence, when Nan had been absorbed into a game of spillikins with some of the younger persons, his Aunt Julia Dinsdale commanded him to join herself, her son John, and their cousin’s wife, Lady Mary Vane, for a hand of whist.

    Aunt Julia sorted her hand briskly. “Did you get the parrot?”

    “Er—yes. Did you send him?” said Lewis limply.

    “I did,” said John Dinsdale meekly.

    “Yes,” Mrs Dinsdale agreed. “Annabel insisted on taking it when your Great-Aunt Sophia passed on, but George Kennett is allergic to the creature. Or such is his claim.”

    “Er—really?” Lewis looked weakly at Cousin John.

    “Annabel’s husband,” he said in a strangled voice.

    “Oh, I see,” said Lewis limply.

    Aunt Julia discarded. “Yes. –John, wake up, it is your move! Aunt Sophia had always maintained it should go to the head of the family.”

    “Has it sworn much?” asked John Dinsdale with interest.

    His mother looked with annoyance at the card he had discarded. “That is not amusing, John.”

    “Old Lady Georgina Claveringham came to call the day it decided to favour us with its choicest repertoire,” John Dinsdale explained.

    “That will do, thank you, John.”

    “So I sent it off,” he added simply.

    Lewis replied mildly: “Yes, well, I am glad you did. Lady Benedict’s children adore it. And fortunately they don’t understand the language.”

    There was a short pause. Aunt Julia looked with annoyance at the card Lewis had played. “How many children has she?”

    “Of her own, do you mean, Aunt Julia?” returned Lewis placidly.

    “If that is a joke, I confess I am at a loss to understand it, Stamforth. Of course, of her own!”

    “Only two.”

    “You are forcing him to be literal, dear Aunt Julia!” said Lady Mary with a light laugh. “The little ones are Lady Benedict’s, yes, but as well she has the charge of a brother and two sisters, and two stepdaughters from her second marriage.”

    “Yes. Dicky is at Winchester, and the little girls still in the schoolroom,” added Lewis.

    “I see,” said Mrs Dinsdale. “I had understood the stepdaughters were grown up.”

    “No, only one of them: Miss Benedict,” said Lady Mary. She looked from under her lashes at the card Aunt Julia had played but did not comment on it. “She and Miss Baldaya are much of an age.”

    “Hm. Then where are these Misses, Lewis?”

    Lewis explained placidly the visit to Paris.

    “I have never heard of a Lady Jubb,” said Mrs Dinsdale flatly.

    “Aunt Julia, he is Sir Edward Jubb, the nabob,” murmured Lady Mary. “George and I know him quite well. He owns the former Coulton-Whassett house, in Green Street.”

    Aunt Julia sniffed slightly.

    “He is a friend of Rockingham’s, I believe,” said Lewis politely. “—We lose, I am afraid, Aunt.”

    “What? Well, why on earth did you play the three of hearts, Lewis?”

    “Because I’m a rotten whist player,” replied Lewis politely.

    Aunt Julia went over the hand at length before she would permit them to continue, but the result was still the same. “This time, concentrate,” she ordered, as the next hand was dealt.

    “I shall try to, certainly,” agreed Lewis.

    The hand was half played before she said: “Talking of nabobs, I think those magnificent pearls your wife-to-be is wearing are not part of the Vane patrimony?”

    “No,” agreed Lewis calmly. “But you are incorrect if you assume Lady Benedict had them from her first husband.”

    “What? Never tell me jewels like that came out of an obscure Kentish manor!”

    “I should not dream of trying to. No, they are Indian, of course. They came to her from her mother.”

    “That Portuguese adventurer, Baldaya, amassed the sort of fortune that would allow him to shower his wife with jewels worth an emperor’s ransom?”

    “No. Though he did very well in business: I gather he had a flair for it.” Lewis played the ten of clubs. Aunt Julia glared at it. “Many of her Ladyship’s jewels came to her when her mother died, from the Indian prince Nancy had run off to.”

    Aunt Julia dropped her hand. Mr Dinsdale choked.

    “In some sort, a dowry,” added Lewis calmly. “Shall we start this hand again?”

    “No!” she snapped, gathering up her cards. “Do not sit there sniggering, if you please, John!”

    Grinning, John assisted his mother to retrieve her cards. “Was you pullin’ our legs, Cousin?”

    “No. The Baldayas do not know whether the Rajah—the prince, you know—sent the jewels as a thank-you for Nancy,”—Lady Mary had preserved her calm remarkably until now, but at this point she swallowed hard—“or as an apology for taking her from her family, or simply as an offering of thanks that he himself was spared in the plague that took her—though they incline to the last opinion. But certainly he sent more than enough for dowries for all of the girls.’

    “Extraordinary,” said Aunt Julia grimly.

    “Mm. Well, the pearls are, yes,” said Lewis lightly.

    Aunt Julia frowned, and did not reply.

    “Was that entirely apocryphal, Lewis?” asked Lady Mary drily when the game was at last over and Aunt Julia had dragged the hapless John away.

    “No, it was true from beginning to end. Which in my opinion could only make it better,” he said on an apologetic note.

    Lady Mary smiled. “Yes! –You know, you two would have won the second hand easily if you hadn’t played that ten of clubs when you did.”

    “True. We’d have won the first hand, too, if I hadn’t played the three of hearts.”

    Lady Mary smiled again. She shuffled the cards gently.

    Lewis took the pack off her. The cards rippled through his fingers. His cousin’s wife watched silently. After a moment he said: “Personally I have never found the element of chance in card games high enough to make them—er—worth the playing.”

    “No, quite. On the other hand, next time you decide to gamble with Aunt Julia’s temper, pray bear in mind that not all of the onlookers may have nerves of steel to match your own.”

    Lewis got up, grinning. He bent to drop a kiss on the startled Lady Mary’s cheek. “George is a lucky fellow,” he said lightly. “Excuse me: I think I’ll go and rescue my fiancée, it sounds as if the spillikins are getting out of hand.”

    Lady Mary watched with a smile in her eyes as he went and removed his fiancée from the spillikins table, to a roar of male protest.

    “Well?” said George Vane in her ear.

    She looked cautiously across the room, but fortunately Mrs Dinsdale had become absorbed in gossip with a crony. “Your Aunt Julia asked him to his face where those pearls had come from.”

    George winced.

    Smiling, Lady Mary reported Lewis’s story. And what Lewis had subsequently said of it.

    “He’s like that,” he said feebly. “His father was even worse.”

    “Mm...”

    “What?”

    “I wonder if Lady B. has entirely realised it, yet?”

    George Vane winced again. “I should doubt it. I’m not saying she’s not bright, but I should sincerely doubt it.”

    Lady Mary looked at Lewis’s dark, expressionless face and at Lady Benedict’s very pink flush and cross pout as he led her over to where the Duchess of Purle, a bored expression on her face, was trouncing Mr Tobias Vane soundly at piquet. “I fear that is so.” She sighed. “If only it could work out, George!”

    “Well—she’s pretty enough,” he ventured.

    “She is too pretty,” she said grimly.

    Mr Vane winced yet again, but did not deny it.

    The evening ended with Lewis’s seeing his Aunt Babs and Lady Benedict safely indoors, with the remark: “I trust it was not all too terrible, Lady Benedict?”

    “Eet was not tairrible at all. Although some ladies might consider eet so, when the man to whom they are affianced publicly drags them away from the friends weeth whom they are enjoying a harmless children’s game.”

    “My dear Nan, you should not have allowed him,” said the Duchess lightly.

    “Eet ees difficult, Duchess, when a man has one’s elbow in a grip of steel, and ees forcibly dragging one een the opposite direction to that een which one weeshes to go.”

    Babs Purle gave a light laugh. “But my dear, though he is my own nephew, I confess I find the picture r-r-rather thrilling! Did you truly mind?”

    “Yes!” she snapped.

    Her Grace went into an irritating trill of silvery laughter.

    “I do beg your pardon, Lady Benedict,” said Lewis politely. “I was not aware that my grip was of steel, and I confess myself a little flattered to learn that you should have found it so. And it was certainly not my intention to drag you.”

    “That whole speech ees a LIE, and you are EEMPOSSIBLE!” she shouted, bursting into violent tears and rushing from the room,

    Lewis looked expressionlessly at his aunt.

    “Goodness,” said Babs Purle, shrugging.

    “You’re making this so much easier for her, Aunt,” he noted smoothly.

    “Oh, I tr-r-rust so, dear boy.”

    “You might at least leave us alone together for two minutes!” said Lewis irritably.

    Her Grace merely gave that annoying trill of laughter again, and held out her hand in farewell.

    “The next bit is about dresses: it appears Her Grace of Purle has decreed that Nan must wear only black, white or grey until the first six months of Lord Stamforth’s mourning are up: though she seems to think that that is because the Duchess has discovered they become her, and not out of any proper feeling.”

    “You can skip that, then, thanks, Charlotte.”

    “Oh, but listen to what she says of Lady Blefford—the younger, they are to visit next at Blefford Park. ‘Innumerable persons in Society have assured me that she is all that is charming and good. Possibly it is easy to be good, not to say charming, when one is married to a rich earl with whom one has the good fortune to be very much in love, and vice versa.’ There!”

    Jack Laidlaw raised his eyebrows and whistled.

    “Exactly!” said Charlotte. “She goes on to say they will be at Stamforth for Christmas, there are a few rooms habitable, and Her Grace will of course play hostess, so it will be proper. The children are keen to go down earlier, so when Lord Stamforth leaves town she will send them. –See! I told you, he is not even with her!”

    She hadn’t, to the best of his recollection, but he nodded anyway.

    “That is all, really. But you must hear this bit, Jack: it is about the Dowager Countess of Hubbel—Lady Georgina Claveringham, as she prefers to be known.”

    Lady Georgina Claveringham had threatened, you know, but one was not absolutely sure that she would, rather like an uncertain storm, but lo! today the drought broke. We were assembled, the gentlemen having returned from their shooting, in the Grand Hall, which to say truth is not so very grand, when there was the most tremendous hustle and bustle, and in she came! My dear, travelling dress à la Lady Georgina, on a clear but cold October’s day, is as follows: a bronzy-green wool pelisse, gold-buttoned and braided, with a positive train, over little tan half-hoots, a matching great, sweeping cloak with epauletted shoulders, fully lined with sables, and edged with the same, a sable muff as big as your Georgey’s whole body, nay bigger, Georgey could have crept inside it sans difficulté, and, my dear, a dashing sable-fur shako!! Adorned with gold cords and tassels, with a chin strap, the cheekiest thing!

    She has a tiny triangular face with snapping little dark eyes, and always poudrée: very white, you know? The cheveux not poudrés, the blackest of ringlets showing jauntily under the shako. Of course it is a wig, Lady Georgina’s wig is one of the sights of London. That and the monkey: he was on her shoulder, in a matching tiny green jacket and shako!

    A lesser woman would have stopped at that, but she was dragging behind her, in the most negligent manner imaginable, a giant stole of more sables. This is all part of the grand entrance, you understand, and in a moment one of the black footmen comes forward and relieves her of it. She has five: today they were in a phalanx behind her. I would not say in livery, precisely; they all wore riding breeches, with boots, and smart green coats, the same shade as her Ladyship’s outfit! No-one else even smiled: of course they are all used to her; but it was dreadfully hard not to laugh. I had seen her, in London, and even been introduced, but I had never been privileged to see the complete entourage in, as it were, its full panoply!

    Jack Laidlaw looked dubiously at his wife as she folded this missive up slowly. “That it, eh?”

    “Mm. Jack, I am more than ever sure there is something wrong! She—she cannot love this man!”

    ‘We can’t know that, my dear. And she has no reason to remarry, if she don’t care for him: it ain’t as if she needs an establishment.”

    Charlotte sighed. “No. Well, we shall see them at Vaudequays in January, for May’s wedding… I suppose it is dinnertime.”

    Jack supposed it was. He had been hungry once, he seemed to remember. Hell. . It all seemed to be a bit of a mess, didn’t it? But why the Devil she should be marrying the man if she didn’t care for him, was beyond him.

    As the November wind chilled Lymmond Square, there came a dreadful setback. Men in black coats began to come and go at the Benedict house and it dawned on the Laidlaws that the house which had once been Lord Onslow’s was again for sale.

    The wind was howling round the square, a few last brown leaves bowled along the streets, and Mr Laidlaw came into his own house on a gust of cold air, rubbing his hands. “Brrr! I think we may have a white Christmas, Adam!”

    “Yes, sir. Mr Laidlaw, sir, the post’s come!” said Adam Ames excitedly. “And there’s one for Miss Georgey!”

    “What?” said Jack with a laugh.

    “Franked, an’ all,” said Adam Ames impressively.

    “Lor’!” said Jack, going into the sitting-room. “What’s all this about a letter for Georgey?”

    Mr Laidlaw had been held for some days to be hard and horrible and unfeeling over the matter of the Benedict house. More precisely, over saying in front of his offspring: “Eh? Out of course they’ll sell it, why should they want to hang on to a house in Bath? Ma Throgmorton’s tale is that this Viscount fellow owns a damned great palace in London: when they ain’t at his country place they’ll live— Oh, Lor’. Now don’t bawl, Georgey—I SAID, Don’t bawl! Things can’t stay the same forever. What did I say? Now they’re all bawling!”

    So Charlotte now replied coldly to her hard and horrible and unfeeling husband: “Pray do not be absurd, Jack. And shut the door, if you please, there is a draught.”

    Jack shut the door but insisted: “Adam Ames says there’s a letter come for Georgey.”

    “Rubbish,” said Charlotte, frowning. She rang the bell.

    Forthwith Adam Ames shot in, bearing the post. There was, too. Jack held it up, sniggering. “Franked!”

    “Nonsense,” said Charlotte without conviction. “It is probably some little joke by one of their friends.”

    Jack looked closely at the frank. He gulped. “I don’t think so, my love.”

    Grimly Charlotte held out her hand for it. Jack handed it her. The frank, in a very black hand, could not possibly have been held to be anything other than “Stamforth.”

    “It’ll be from one of the Benedict children,” he noted.

    Charlotte looked dubiously at the superscription. “This is not a child’s hand.”

    “No, well, dare say he wrote it on.”

    “You are blind! The handwriting is quite different from that of the franking!”

    Silently Jack held out his hand for it. Silently Charlotte passed it back.

    “Hm,” he said.

    “Now say it is a woman’s hand!” said Charlotte crossly.

    “No, wouldn’t say that.” Jack gave it back to her. He sorted through the rest of the letters. “Here’s one for you, old girl: Mendoza.”

    “Don’t call me old girl! And it is about time we stopped calling him Mendoza.”

    “Don’t think I can,” he said frankly.

    Charlotte opened Mendoza’s letter.

    “Well?”

    “He asks me to pass on his appreciation to Cook for the molasses cake.”

    “That’s a hint that he wants another one!” he said with a laugh.

    “Mm.”

    “Does he say if Dicky Baldaya has heard whether Dom’s back from Portugal?”

    “No. Lewisham Minor has broken his leg.”

    “Again?”

    “No, dear, that was his arm.”

    Grinning, Jack said: “And?”

    “That’s all, really.” Charlotte gave him the letter.

    Jack read it, smiling. Charlotte took up her sewing but looked sideways at Georgey’s letter.

    Mr Laidlaw fidgeted. “Could go and fetch the brats from school?”

    “Jack, they will think it is some terrible tragedy! Remember that dreadful wet day that you fetched them, and Horrible cried all the way home in the carriage?”

    “Oh—Hell, yes. Some damned cat of a girl had told her that fathers only come to fetch you in a carriage when your Mamma has died. Um… could walk to fetch ’em? Well, dammit, it was the carriage what made Horrible bawl!” he said loudly.

    “Y— Well, if you want to risk it. Take Pug.”

    “I’ll do that: no-one could possibly take a pug on an errand to break bad news!” He hurried out.

    An interregnum ensued. Charlotte looked longingly at Georgey’s letter, but with the exercise of terrible restraint managed not even to touch it.

    The children burst in, panting. “Papa says there’s a letter for Georgey!”

    “Hush, children! Georgey, dear, take off your pelisse.”

    Ignoring this injunction, Georgey grabbed the letter and, tongue sticking out of the corner of her mouth, opened it. Gradually she turned very red.

    Paul peered over her shoulder. “Ugh: beetle-tracks.”

    “I can READ IT!” she shouted.

    Oops. Charlotte looked fearfully at Jack.

    He winked and picked Georgey up.

    “Put me DOWN!” she shouted.

    “Rats. Come and sit on my knee and we’ll see what it says.” He sat down with her, exercising a certain amount of brute force, and looked over her shoulder.

    “My God, what frightful writing!” he said in horror.—Charlotte smiled limply.—”Good Lord, if this word is ‘Bear’ or ‘Beer’ or ‘Beef’, I’m blessed if I know!”

    “Silly, Papa,” said Georgey comfortably. “It’s ‘Dear’. See? ‘Dear Miss Georgiana’—that’s me,” she explained complacently.

    Over her head Jack winked at Charlotte. Together he and Georgey proceeded to decipher the letter.

Dear Miss Georgiana,

    You mentioned you would care for a letter, so I write as requested. Lord Stamforth has kindly made me O/C. Building Ops., as you know. I am glad to report all is going splendidly. The main structure of the house is complete, and this v. day the men finished the roof. There remains an amount to do inside, plastering, &c., so I shall have my work “cut out” as they say, for some time.

    P. Pug and Ivanhoe continue robust, though neither is half the dog yr. Pug Laidlaw is. I trust he remains in good health and that you, yrself, are well.

With all good wishes,

I remain,

Resp.fly. Yrs.,

G. Cadwallader (Maj.-Gen., Rtd.)

Stamforth Castle.

1st. Decbr.

    Clearly there were several points to be raised here. But Charlotte did not immediately feel capable of raising any of them.

    However, Paul rushed in. “Ooh, I wonder what the G stands for?”

    “Grumpy!” choked Horrible, going off in a paroxysm.

    “No: Grouchy!” he cried.

    “George,” decided Nobby.

    “General?” suggested Georgey.

    “No! Imbecile!” shouted Paul. “He says that, here!”

    “Don’t call your sister an imbecile,” said Jack, frowning at him. “'His name is not George, though that was a sensible suggestion, Nobby. If it were, he would have written 'Geo.,’ I think.”

    “Yes: he uses a lot of abbreviations, doesn't he, Papa?”

    “Mm,” said Jack, avoiding Charlotte's eye.

    “But what could the G be, then?” wondered Nobby.

    “Gustavus, like the goose,” said Charlotte faintly.

    Jack gave her a warning look. “Certainly not.”

    “Giaour.”

    Jack coughed suddenly. “No.”

    “James?” suggested Georgey.

    Horrible gave a rude snort.

    “No, um, that’s a J, Georgey,” said Jack somewhat limply.

    “Oh. I think it’s a nice name,” she said sadly.

     “So is Giaour,” said Charlotte in a strangled voice.

    “Charlotte, just stop it!” said her husband crossly.

    Charlotte smiled but said: “I can’t think of any other sensible names in G, Jack: I would have said George, too."

    “See?” said Nobby pleasedly.

    “Yes, but Nobby, my darling, I know his name, if anyone would let me get a word in edgeways!” said Jack desperately.

    Strangely enough, it was only at this point that his wife collapsed in helpless giggles.

    After several persons had shouted aggrievedly: “Stop LAUGHING, Mamma!” he managed to say limply: “Geoffrey.”

    “I thought that was J, too, Papa,” said Horrible dubiously.

    “No—um, well, there is more than one spelling, Horrible. Major-General Cadwallader spells his G,E,O,F,F,R,E,Y, not J,E,F,F,R,E,Y. Um, the latter is more usual in a surname."

    “‘G,E,O,F,F, period’?” suggested Charlotte.

    “Manifestly not,” said Jack in a shaken voice.

    Charlotte went off in a further paroxysm.

    Once Georgey had been persuaded that her silly mother was fit to read her letter—which took some time—Charlotte was allowed to read it for herself. Eventually she said cautiously: “Georgey, my dear, how long have you known that Major-General Cadwallader went away to look after Lord Stamforth's new house?"

    Georgey looked vague.

    “Well, did you know his home was a castle?” she said on a sharper note.

    Georgey looked vague but Nobby said helpfully: “Yes. Clara Vane said.”

    “She says it’s broken,” objected Paul.

    “Yes, but it’s still a castle!”

    “Yes,” Horrible allowed fairly.

    “It hasn’t got a drawbridge,” Paul informed his mother.

    “Or a moat,” Horrible allowed fairly.

    “How do YOU know?" shouted Georgey, suddenly turning puce.

    “Oops,” muttered Jack.

    “Mina told me, and anyway I asked Lady Benedict and she SAID!” shouted Paul.

    “That’s right,” Horrible allowed fairly.

    “Well, my Major-General will BUILD a stupid moat and drawbridge!” shouted Georgey.

    Jack got up hurriedly. “Here, that’ll do. Don’t let’s spoil the day of Georgey’s letter by shouting.” He gave Charlotte a warning look as she opened her mouth. “Or by any other form of recrimination. Come on, Georgey-Porgy; let’s go upstairs and get you out of your pelisse. And I think you may all have downstairs dinner with us tonight, eh? In celebration. It ain’t every day as we receive a letter from a major-general addressed from a castle, in this house!”

    “Well!” said Charlotte on his return.

    Jack raised his eyebrows at her, and sat down. “Sally Ames is getting ’em changed. Hope you haven’t invited General Lowell or Ma Throgmorton for tonight?”

    “Don’t be absurd,” said Charlotte weakly.

    Grinning, Jack rang the bell and asked Adam Ames for a hot toddy.

    “I need this,” he explained as it was brought in.

    Charlotte gave him a warning look. He winked, but waited until Adam had left the room before saying: “Well, honestly! I/C. building operations at Stamforth Castle, as our Georgey knows? ‘My’ Major-General?”

    “O/C.,” corrected Charlotte, swallowing. “‘Officer in Charge,’ one collects.”

    Jack broke down in a terrible sniggering fit.

    “No, but Jack, really! Georgey must have known for weeks—nay, months! And she has said nothing!”

    “No, and you’ve been interrogating the wrong ones all over Bath for months!” he choked, not pointing out that Horrible, who had been suspiciously quiet, had looked to him as if she’d known, too.

    Charlotte took a very deep breath. “Clearly Georgey did not see it as significant.”

    Jack broke down in another terrible sniggering fit.

    Later, considerable interrogation of Georgey, not to say of Nobby, Horrible and Paul, did take place. The answers produced were enlightening in some ways but not in others. The children had apparently no idea when the Major-General might be returning to Bath. And they had thought that Charlotte already knew that “that man” owned a castle and that Clara Vane had been living in it. And that “that man” and Clara Vane had both been staying with Lady Benedict.

    “There seems to be some confusion as to the precise name borne by ‘that man’,” said Jack with a cough, when the children had been got off to bed at last. “Though the mystery of this sudden engagement would appear to be in a fair way to being solved.”

    “That will do, thank you, Jack.”

    Jack swallowed a grin, but held his peace.

    A certain period passed in silence. Then Charlotte said in exasperation: “Well, for goodness’ sake! If it was Lord Stamforth, and one collects it must have been, how long was he living in her house? And—and why?”

    Even though knowing it would mean the doghouse for some considerable period, at this Jack Laidlaw broke down in the last terrible sniggering fit of the day.

    The spectacle of Her Grace of Purle sitting in his mother’s little front parlour expressionlessly watching Mrs Vane netting and Harriet sulking had become too much for Lewis, and he had suggested that Lady Benedict take a walk with him.

    Nan agreed thankfully: it was the lesser of the two evils. Very clearly Mrs Vane did not like her. That was fair enough: she herself did not feel any impulse towards liking for that lady. And it seemed to her, though he was being carefully polite, that Lord Stamforth did not care for his mother much, either.

    Lewis helped her into a warm, nut-brown pelisse with a fluffy fur collar and matching bonnet and handed her a fluffy brown muff without remarking how fetching she looked in them—though she did. Nor that he was damned glad to see her out of those blacks that Aunt Babs had had her draped in for months.

    He offered her his arm; Nan hesitated, and then took it: the lanes around Mrs Vane’s little house were appalling: the widowed lady lived just out of a small village, in a small house called Rose Cottage, though it was not a cottage.

    The day was windy and cold but not wet, though the lane was muddy. They strolled along slowly.

    “My mother named the house,” he said mildly.

    “I see.”

    “Its former name was Ablett House. Papa inherited it from a maternal aunt, who was the last of the Abletts.”

    “I see.”

    Lewis looked down at her, smiling a little. “I’m sorry. But we had to come.”

    “Yes, of course. I collect,” said Nan, swallowing, “that there was some scheme of your marrying your cousin’s widow?”

    “Yes, but it was not a scheme that was ever in my head.”

    “No.” She hesitated, and then said: “I have asked Mrs Vane eef she and your Cousin Harriet would like to remove to Stamforth weeth us.”

    “I know,” said Lewis, covering her little gloved hand with his where it was tucked into his arm. “Harriet mentioned it. It was very generous of you. But Mamma hates the castle, and hated Uncle Peter and, I think, hates all of the Vanes. Me included, though the thought that she does so would not occur to her: hers is an entirely conventional mind.”

    “I see,” said Nan in a tiny voice. One could hardly say to a grown man of twice one’s own age: “You poor boy!” And in any case it was an absurd idea.

    “Am I shocking you?” he murmured.

    “I— Not entirely, no. Een some ways, though I deed not see eet until now, you are vairy like your Aunt Babe.”

    “Yes: we both tend to see people as they are, rather than as we might prefer them to be, or as they would prefer to be seen. Papa was even worse, as I think my mother has already mentioned to you. –He was a very charming man, Lady Benedict, and extremely handsome: most unlike myself. I think that is why she married him: she much prefers handsome people to ugly ones. I did hope that it might help to persuade her in your favour, but then, she doesn’t like Aunt Babe, either, and she was a beauty in her day.” He shrugged.

    “Mm.”

    They walked on in silence for some way.

    “You were right to persuade me to send the children down to the castle,” she said with a sigh.

    “Yes: Mamma does not like children, either.”

    Nan took a deep breath. “Lewis, eef you feel you should rather stay here weeth her for Christmas, I shall understand. I shall join the children.”

    Lewis stopped, and turned to face her, taking both her hands in his. “Thank you. Nan. But if I stayed here for Christmas I should strangle the pair of ’em. Harriet’s just as bad as Mamma, in her own quiet way; you haven’t seen it yet, but she’s a lachrymose sniffler in corners.”

    “I might have known you would make a joke of eet!” she cried in a high voice, wrenching her hands out of his.

    “No— It wasn’t— I wasn’t making a joke! Just listen!”

    But Nan had run very fast back up the lane.

    Lewis followed slowly, mentally kicking himself. Though there was a glimmer of hope; she’d called him by his name. Possibly the unconscious result of having heard Mamma, Harriet and Aunt Babs do so, but— Well, it was not quite all bad.

    Miss Sissy had called. Barely was the first taste of Charlotte’s friend Evelina Humboldt’s mother-in-law’s receet for a special cake in her mouth than the door was flung wide. Horrible burst in, panting. “Mamma!”

    “Hortensia, how many times have I told you—”

    “Richpal!” gasped Horrible.

    “No! Ranjit!” gasped Georgey from behind her.

    “Hortensia, I have asked you a thousand times not to burst into the sitting-room like that. Aunt Sissy always loves to see you, but what if I had had a strange lady with me?”

    “I knew it was Aunt Sissy!” she said scornfully. “Aunt Sissy, it’s Ranjit!”

    “Richpal!” cried Georgey loudly.

    “GIRLS! Now, explain quietly, if you please. Are you talking about Lady Benedict’s servants?”

    “Yes!” cried Horrible. “They must be coming home!”

    At this point there was a thunderous knocking upon the front door—the which was quite easy to hear, as the sitting-room door was now open. Georgey and Horrible raced out. Charlotte and Aunt Sissy looked uncertainly at one another.

    A babble broke out in the hall. It was not altogether clear how many voices were involved. But at least one was very deep. After a few moments Mr Laidlaw’s voice was heard, dominating the babble. There was a pause. Then Mr Laidlaw himself appeared, grinning.

    “Hullo, Aunt Sissy: I’ve been in my study. It’s been renamed: ‘doghouse’.”

    Charlotte turned puce and glared impotently.

    Unmoved, Jack continued airily: “Only guess; we have a deputation here from Stamforth Castle.”

    “How exciting!” cried Aunt Sissy.

    “I’ll have ’em in, shall I?”

    Charlotte nodded limply.

    Grinning, Jack ushered them in. It was both the tall Indian footmen: Horrible and Georgey had both been correct.

    Charlotte never had been able to tell them apart. She said limply: “Good afternoon. How lovely to see you both in Bath.”

    That was about all she was able to say for some considerable time. Georgey’s voice, shrieking “PRESENTS!” more or less dominated the subsequent babble.

    Eventually it was all sorted out, the packages were all carefully laid aside, and Charlotte had the packet of letters safely in her charge. Miss Sissy had deputed herself in charge of the many jars the footmen’s hamper had contained. The contents, as she faithfully reported, ranged from pears in porto—”Delightful! You will appreciate those, Jack, dear!”—to seed pickles.—“Seed pickles? How very odd.” Several bottles were declared by Horrible to contain such items as “sharbut sandull.” No-one argued. And one large glass jar with bright yellow contents bore a label: “Mr Laidlaw: The Mixture. One spoonful to be taken with a gallon of cold water.”

    Very much later that night, in the privacy of their bedchamber, Jack said: “What do you think?”

    Charlotte returned wryly: “I think that Georgey and Paul will probably explode before Christmas Day.”

    “It’ll be a race between them and those damned Indian jars, then.” Jack got into bed, grinning, but repeated loudly: “What—do—you—think?”

    “Um... Well, it is clear that no blame can attach to them.”

    “Mm.”

    Charlotte frowned. “But I still do not understand why she could not have told me at the time! Surely, had I called while she was sheltering Lord Stamforth, it must only have made it better for them!”

    “That or, as she points out in her letter, have got you ostracised by the whole of Bath. Added to which, I’m quite glad not to have had my name associated with anything that this Curwellion fellow might take it into his head to object to.”

    “Dearest, from what the footmen said, it seems very clear that the man is dying. There can be no fear that he will return to England to—er—seek revenge.”

    “Just as well. Actually, now I come to think of it, that’s probably why she felt it was safe to let it out to us.”

    Charlotte sighed. “Yes.”

    There was a short silence.

    “Jack, I can understand why he offered—”

    “Well, yes, the whole of damned Society would have shunned her and young Daphne for the rest of their lives, else! You mean, why the Devil did she accept?”

    Wincing, Charlotte said: “Mm.”

    Jack scratched his chin. “I suppose she could see as well as we can that she had to, for the girls’ sakes.”

    Nan’s letter was on Charlotte’s bedside table. She gave it a bitter look. “I am persuaded she does not wish to marry the man at all! Why, she refers to him as ‘Stamforth’, while Major-General Cadwallader has become ‘Geoffrey’!”

    Jack winced. “Aye.”

    There was a short pause. “Shall we not accept the invitation?” he said cautiously.

    Charlotte swallowed. “I admit I am longing to see the castle.”

    “Mm. Me, too. And to see what he’s really like.”

    “Yes,” she said, licking her lips.

    “Er—well, hand us those letters the brats received, my love. Let us see if we can gather a few more crumbs of information.”

    Charlotte had the children’s letters on her table. She handed them to him but said: “I would not call them revealing.”

Dear Nobby,

    And Horrible and Georgey and Everyone. Mamma says we may write letters today so I am writing to you. We are keeping very well. I trust you are all likewise. This is a peice of Mamma’s very own writing paper. Smell it. It smells like Mamma. It is sandull wood. Clara has got a peice too. So has Amrita. We are staying in Stamforth Castle. Lord Stamforth is to be our new Papa. Miss Gump says he is a Viscount and that is how you spell it. Tell Freddy.

    Soon it will be Christmas and I expeck we shall get lots of presents. We are sending you some presents. I helped to choose Horrible’s present and Georgey’s present. Do not beleive Amrita if she says it was her idea. There is a chapel here. Perhaps you do not know what a chapel is so I will explain. It is like a small church but very fine inside. You have them inside castles for private worship. Tell Georgey worship is the same as prayers. Lord Stamforth says that once upon a time there was a Vicar just for the chapel but these days we may all go to Mr Brownloe’s church in the village.

    The castle is very big and some of it is broken down but Miss Gump says it is a very fine structure. The Major-General has got the best room. It is very high up. It has a little staircase that goes up just to it. It is inside the actual castle wall. Not a lie. If you come to visit, you will see. The moat was filled in hundreds of years ago. But one still enters where the very drawbridge itself would have been. When one is upon the castle wall, one may look down and see where the invaders would have been reppeled by pouring mollten lead upon them. Har, har. I wish I had been alive then.

    Lord Stamforth is having a new house built. It is very jolly. There is plaster and bricks and mortar and nails all over. The men made a scaffolding. Miss Gump says it is not the same word as when a murderer is executted but Mamma says it must be. I beleive Mamma. Even if she is not all English. She has a finer vocabulary than Miss Gump.

    Lord Stamforth has given Johnny a pony. He is a chestnut with a white nose. His name is Raju. That means little king. He is only a little pony but quite fat. Laddie is a much finer steed. Mamma has finished reading Ivanhoe to us and has started a new book. It is by the same writer. It is called Rob Roy. It is about a famous hero in Scotland. Lord Stamforth wanted to listen but she would not let him. Even tho’ he prommised he would not laugh.

    I shall tell you a secret. When Dicky comes home from school for Christmas he is to have a real horse. Sixteen hands high. His name is Fire Brand but Lord Stamforth says that as he will be Dicky’s horse it will be up to him to rettain the name or not as he wishes. Personally I would. Would not you?

    Lord Stamforth put Rosebud up on his big black. Mamma cried and said he was a budmush. Perhaps you do not know that word, it is an Indian word for a very bad fellow. So he set her down again but Rosebud was cross and she cried because she wished to be on the horse.

    Mrs Peter Pug has grown a lot and I wager will be nigh the size of Pug Laidlaw by now. Dicky has prommised to write a grand poem in cellebration of the deeds of great pugs. But N.B. it may be all a Humm. Also Ivanhoe has grown but Mrs Peter is finer and bigger. Lord Stamforth has made us prommise that they will not fight. If you bring Pug Laidlaw you will have to prommise also.

    Dom is still in Portugal. He wrote me a letter all to myself. He says that Portugal is very boring but they have some not half fine rough shooting. The country remminds him a little of India but it is very much colder. The property is quite extensive but the house is not near so comfortable as Blythe Hollow. You may not know of that. It was my real Papa’s property.

    If you come we shall not have any lessons at all so please come.

Hoping this finds you as it leaves me,

I remain, dear Friends,

Your devoted,

Wilhelmina Benedict.

P.S. Sita says to tell Mendoza that she will make kebubbs.

    “You are right. Not particularly revealing,” admitted Mr Laidlaw. “Though I think it does reveal—apart from the fact that Mina’s English composition is improving—”

    “You mean, Miss Gump is gradually educating her out of her charmingly natural mode of expression and forcing her into stiff formality!” retorted Charlotte bitterly.

    “Er—well, improving her spelling, anyway,” said Jack limply. “And I presume that you yourself received some sort of education in English composition, but your letters are not stiff and formal!”

    “Oh,” said Mrs Laidlaw limply. “Well, thank you.”

    “But never mind that. I’d say this does reveal a little.”

    Charlotte looked sceptical. “It reveals he is showering gifts upon them: yes.”

    “I’d say it was high time Dicky had a horse.”

    “And that Johnny had a pony?” she retorted swiftly.

    “Yes. He’ll be six next year. That’s not too young, if they’re living in the country. No, what I find interesting is the bit about Stamforth’s not being allowed to listen when she reads to the brats.”

    Charlotte snatched the letter back, looking cross. She read it over.

    “Yes, well, that must confirm they are not on the best of terms, Jack!”

    “Mm. But at least he seems to be communicating with the brats.”

    “What can you mean?” she said limply.

    “So many fathers—stepfathers-to-be or not—don’t bother. But look: the letter’s full of him.”

    “Oh. I suppose that is so... But I think you have no notion, Jack,” she said, frowning over it: “of just how one’s Papa appears to a child.”

    “Of course I do, dammit; I was a brat once, meself! Huge, and all-powerful, ain’t it?”

    “Yes, exactly! Very important, for of course his word is law within the household.”

    “But that’s quite different from bothering to put the baby up on his horse, and expressing a wish to listen when the brats are read to. –I’d like to hear Rob Roy in that killin’ Portuguese accent, meself,” he added in a shaken voice.

    Charlotte had to swallow.

    “I think he sounds interesting. And a decent fellow.”

    “But Jack, dearest, then it is all the more tragic that they are not on warmer terms!”

    “Let’s hope they’ll get round to it,” he said vaguely, picking up Amrita’s letter.

Dear Horrible,

    And Nobby and Georgey and Everyone. I am writting this letter all by myself. NOT A LY. Do not beleive Mina. We are livving in a Castle. It is Stamforth Castle. We shall have a new Papa. He is Lord Stamforth. Clara Vane is not reelly his dorter. Nan says she can be just like our new sister. Mrs Peter Pug is growen imenserly. Ivanhoe is growen a litle. Tell Georgey that is truely how you spell Ivanhoe. Lord Stamforth says that they must not fite. The castle is very big. We have got a grate big room. You can sleep in it if you come. Sita will make good things to eet if you come. Tell Freddy.

    We are sending you some pressents. I helped to chuz them. Do not beleive Mina. Pleese come. Georgey can were Rani’s tow bells if you come. It is a sollum prommise.

Hoping this finds you as it leaves me,

I remain, dear Freinds,

Your devoted,

Amrita Baldaya.

P.S. Also Horrible can were the bells if she wants.

    Jack Laidlaw waggled his eyebrows at his wife. “Bells on her toes?”

    “You think that is funny, but I can tell you, it is the literal truth!”

    “Uh—well, we’d better go, in that case!”

     Charlotte smiled weakly. “Mm.”

    Jack looked at her sideways. “‘Clara Vane is not really his daughter’? If her Ladyship has told them to treat her as a sister, who exactly is she, dare one enquire?”

    “Do not ask me, Jack. All I know is that one of the pugs they had off Mr Ninian Dalrymple apparently was for her.”

    Mr Laidlaw waggled his eyebrows again. “It gets more mysterious, don’t it? Well—more suggestive?”

    “No!”

    “Give me that other letter!” he said, laughing.

    “It will not enlighten you,” she warned, nonetheless passing it to him.

Dear Georgey,

    And Nobby and Horrible and Everyone. I hope you are well. We are all well. Ivanhoe is growen very big. He is much bigger than Mrs Peter Pug. Lord Stamforth has forbid them to fite. I am learning Pol Parrot a new frase. Mina and Amrita and I share a room. Rosebud does not sleep in it because she is too litle. I never wrote a letter before. Lady Benedict is helping me. Next I shall write to Mr Breckinridge. He lives in Lumb Street, London Town. If you come to visit tell Georgey that Pug Laidlaw must not fite. Lord Stamforth says so. He is not a colonel any more. She says that is how you spell it. If you come we shall have good times.

Hoping this finds you as it leaves me,

I remain, dear Freinds,

Your devoted,

Clara Vane Arkwright.

    “You’re right,” said Mr Laidlaw numbly. “Extremely unenlightening. Well, I have learned that Pol Parrot is learning a new phrase. –One concludes that she imagined she knew how to spell that.”

    “Mm.”

    “And that his Lordship is not a colonel any more. Did we ever think he was?”

    Charlotte merely frowned.

    “Er—look, she’s said not to be his daughter, but she lives in his home…”

    “Mm.”

    Jack re-read Clara’s letter, frowning. “Wait a minute! What was Ma Throgmorton’s maiden name?”

    Charlotte swallowed.

    “Vane!” he cried. “It was, wasn’t it?”

    “Um—yes, I think so. But pray do not ask me to speak to her!”

    “Shouldn’t dream of it! –So, we going to the castle? –In the full recognition, of course, that we are impelled thither by vulgar curiosity.”

    Charlotte laughed weakly. “I really could not bear not to go!”

    “No. Good.” Jack blew his candle out briskly. “That’s settled, then!”

    “Mm…” Charlotte blew her candle out and lay down slowly.

    “What is it?” he said with a sigh as he heard a stealthy sniffle and then the sound of his wife blowing her nose in what she fondly imagined was an unobtrusive manner. That or she had fondly imagined for the last eighteen years or so that he was deaf.

    “Nothing. I was just imagining the two of them when they’re married.”

    “Er—mm. Um—look, he must be a decent man, or he would not have felt it incumbent upon him to offer, would he? And if the brats’ letters prove nothing else, they prove he is a decent fellow. Um—no, well, any fellow with red blood in his veins what was married to her,” said Mr Laidlaw, beginning to wish he had never started this speech, “would—um—would find some way of—er—winning her over.”

    To his relief his wife did not order him bitterly to his dressing-room, the which was about the size of a cupboard and just as comfortable. Instead, she threw herself into his arms, sobbing: “Oh, my dearest Jack! I am so glad that you are you and—and that we are we!’

    On the whole Mr Laidlaw wasn’t too sorry, either.

    The wedding of Lord Keywes and May Beresford at Vaudequays in the Vale of Keywes went off precisely as one might have expected—certainly as Jack Laidlaw had. The house was crammed to the rafters, everyone was in their best, the guest list, apart from themselves and a scattering of other nonentities on the bride’s side, was straight out of the Court Circular, and one had no chance of speech with anyone with whom one might have desired it. At least the bride and groom looked genuinely happy. Aunt Beresford was just about busting her stays, taking the entire credit for the match, but that was to be expected. Charlotte wavered between thrilled excitement over the ladies’ gowns—very heavy on the velvet and fur trim side, the weather was freezing—and gloom because her best evening gown and new pelisse did not measure up. Of course she had no chance to exchange anything but a couple of words with Lady Benedict, but this, according to herself, was because Nan was avoiding her, not because of the huge crush of persons present.

    You might have thought that things would vastly improve once they got to Stamforth Castle, but no. The holiday yielded no happy insights into the relationship between Lady Benedict and Stamforth. Well, Jack Laidlaw recognised drily, the brats enjoyed themselves. It had begun to snow heavily by the time they reached the castle, and there was a pond that was iced up, so skating was the order of day. Well, slithering and falling over, but that appeared to satisfy ’em.

    “What’s the verdict?” murmured Jack, as the coach headed for home.

    Charlotte sighed. “I think you already know, Jack.”

My very dear Charlotte,

    Just a quick note to assure you we are arrived safely at Chypsley. The Duchess has taken to her bed, tho’ it is nothing serious: merely the sight of Lady Georgina Claveringham in a leopard-skin tunic (!!) over a bronze wool gown, the curls bound à la Grècque with gold cord. The monkey in a ditto jacket! Figurez-vous! Naughty Neddy Mount Abbott declares it must be that she intends to favour us with a charade, in the which she will figure as Diana the Huntress.

    Lady Hubbel cold but gracious, if it be not too much of a contradiction in terms! Lord Hubbel cold and null as ever: whether it be true that he has been grievously ill of late one is unable to tell from his demeanour. Or hers.

    It is the 14th: Saint Valentine’s day. I have had to tell Neddy Mount Abbott that if it be so, yet it does not justify his kissing me under a piece of elderly mistletoe behind a suit of armour in the Great Hall! Very fortunately Capt. Quarmby-Vine was there in time to perform a gallant rescue, and so we sailed away to safer waters!

    Dearest Charlotte, forgive the haste, but I absolutely must rush, for if I do not allow Lieut.-Cmmdr Haydock to show me the famous Chypsley pinery this afternoon, I shall have to pay the sort of forfeit that you may imagine!

    Pray give all the family my best love, with hugs and kisses. And assure Georgey that Pug Laidlaw is much the biggest!

In haste,

Yr. Devoted,

Nan Baldaya Benedict.

    “There ain’t much in this,” said Mr Laidlaw numbly.

    His wife replied grimly: “No? In the first place, when precisely did she leave Stamforth Castle? It must have been less than two days after we did! And in the second place who, besides the Duchess, is with her, dare one ask? And thirdly, has she left the children at Stamforth? And last but not least, is this frightful Neddy Mount Abbott following Her Grace of Purle, or Nan?”

    “Uh, well... Well, not two days, but— Hang on: Quarmby-Vine? Wasn’t he staying with the Paul Ketteridges this last—”

    “SUMMER!” shouted Charlotte. “YES!”

    “It could be a coincidence.”

    “And Pug Laidlaw could sprout wings and fly!”

    “Uh—well, we know it ain’t a love-match, Charlotte.”

    “Oh, be silent, Jack!” cried his wife, rushing out like a whirlwind.

    Jack groaned and re-read the letter. She was, of course, right on all counts. Added to which the damned thing sounded like her Grace of Purle in person. Ugh.

    “This is from Miss Gump,” stated Charlotte grimly.

    Jack took it silently. The children were all well and happy, one good thing. “At least we know now where Lord Stamforth is.”

    Charlotte did not deign to reply.

    “Um—darling, he does have to oversee the estates and, uh, the new house: old Cadwallader can’t be expected to do it all.”

    “You mean ‘Geoffrey’, I collect?” said his wife acidly.

    Jack subsided glumly.

    Another letter had arrived in Lymmond Square. Jack looked numbly at the frank.

    “YES!” shouted his wife before he could utter.

    Jack swallowed.

    “They appear to have bumped into His Grace by happy coincidence at wherever they are staying, and I CARE NOT!” she shouted, rushing out.

    Jack Laidlaw, it must be admitted, fell upon the letter franked “Wellington” and devoured it eagerly. Well, dash it, a fellow was only human, after all!

    He gained from it the great insights that His Grace was (a) “amiable as ever”, (b) “too naughty”, and (c) “as divine a waltzer as one had remembered.” So much for the hero of Waterloo.

My very dear Charlotte,

    Just a quick note, for I shall see you very soon for Tarry’s wedding. We are staying with Mr Hugh Throgmorton: it is quite a privilege to be invited to Wenderholme! A truly charming little manor house from the hands of the great Adam himself. Dear Mr Throgmorton so kind and welcoming.

    We found General Sir Francis Kernohan here when we arrived, so shall travel to Bath in his company, it will be so comfortable. He is well, I am happy to say, and of course handsomer than ever! So unfair, is it not, that good-looking men merely grow handsomer as they age? I cannot wait to see the children again, and have writ Stamforth that he is to send them up to meet me in Bath, and then we may all go on to London together.

    Susan’s engagement will have been announced by the time you receive this. They are to be married quietly in April, she does not wish for another Season. Dearest Mrs Urqhart has offered The Towers for the occasion, and I have accepted, even tho’ it would be more appropriate for Susan to be married from Blythe Hollow. But Everard Benedict has not offered!

    My letters have caught up with me at last, and there is one from Dom, moaning about the Portuguese weather and his neighbour’s wife, a very fat Senhora who, whilst doing her level best to promote a match between him and either one of her little daughters, does not hesitate to put her fat hand on his thigh should they be alone together! He is in negotiations to sell the property, utterly shocking Uncle Érico and all the relations. But he writes he feels himself to be more than half English, and besides, he does not like the look of the political situation in Portugal, which continues unstable. He says nothing of Ruth, but I hope he is thinking of her when he says he will look about him for a property in England.

    Cherry has writ me from Devon, rapturously in love. They have had much snow, and Sir Noël insisted on giving her a sealskin cloak for Christmas, quite overwhelming her. Lady A. apparently thrilled to have a daughter-in-law at last, has removed to the dower house, and is teaching Cherry fine embroidery and a family receet for a syllabub! I am so glad she is happy. She writes that Sir N. intentions coming up to town for the Season but for herself, she would just as soon not bother. I think I shall write and say that it would be most unwise in her to attempt to encourage a fashionable man like Sir N. to give up the life he is used to: if he is immured on his estates year in, year out, he will become bored and restless, with Fatal results! Do you not think?

    Horrors, I seem to be boring on and on, and this was to be but a note! Here is dear Sir Francis come to collect me for a stroll in the shrubbery, and it is such a fine, crisp, windy day, so I will close now, and see you very, very soon.

    Sir Francis sends his kindest regards.

Ever Yr. Devoted,

Nan Baldaya Benedict.

    “But where is Lord Stamforth?” said Charlotte limply to her young caller.

    Daphne licked her lips nervously. “He would not come to Bath for Tarry’s wedding, he said he had too much to do at the Castle before the new session of Parliament. And—and I must warn you, dear Mrs Laidlaw, Nan ees vairy, vairy cross weeth heem for refusing to send the children to Bath.”

    “Y— Well, they are her children, after all, not his.”

    “Yes,” she said, nodding. “But now that she has sold the house, they would have had to stay weeth us at the hôtel, and he deed not think that would be suitable for the leetle ones. He weell bring them up to town later heemself.”

    Charlotte swallowed. “I see. I must say I agree with him,” she admitted. “The hôtel life is not suitable—certainly not as led by Her Grace of Purle and your sister,” she added grimly.

    Daphne nodded, the big eyes slowly filling with tears. “Mrs Laidlaw, she has become so fashionable!” she whispered.

    “Yes,” said Charlotte dully.

    “And when Lord Stamforth learns they travelled here from Wenderholme weeth two gentlemen, I theenk he weell be even crosser.”

    Given that the two gentlemen were General Sir Francis Kernohan and Lord Mount Abbott, he might well be: yes.

    “So—so you and Susan have been at the castle with Lord Stamforth since January, have you, my dear?” she said, trying to pull herself together.

    Daphne smiled wanly. “Not quite. We had a month at Willow Court: that ees Mr Charleson’s home, he ees Mrs Urqhart’s neighbour, you know. Susan’s engagement was announced while we were there, and we had a party for eet. Nan was there, of course: deed she not write you of eet?”

    “Uh, I think… Oh! Yes. That was the one where she described a hunt ball—” Charlotte broke off. The hunt ball had featured several naval gentlemen to whom Nan had had to pay forfeits.

    “Well, yes, there was a hunt ball. Eet was mostly older people, being vairy seelly.”

    “So I gathered. Er… was Lord Stamforth at Willow Court for the engagement?”

    “Of course!” she said in astonishment. “Surely Nan mentioned that?”

    “I think I have confused the letters. Of course she did,” lied Charlotte hurriedly.

    “Sir Everard Benedict,” revealed Daphne, suddenly turning a deep crimson, “wrote poor Susan the most extraordinary letter. He went through hoops een an attempt to justify geeving them only a paltry tea-set as a wedding present!”

    “Her only brother and the head of her family?” said Charlotte limply. “And I collect he is not even paying for her wedding?”

    “No; Nan ees,” said Daphne simply.

    Charlotte nodded. There were still some vestiges of the old Nan left under the fashionable exterior, then.

    “But she has quarrelled weeth Lord Stamforth over eet,” Daphne added gloomily. “He weeshed to pay for the wedding heemself, but she said that he ees not Susan’s step-papa yet and he has no rights een the matter.” She sniffed dolefully.

    “Daphne, my dear, why on earth is she marrying the man?” cried Charlotte unguardedly.

    Daphne gulped. A tear ran down her round, peachy cheek. “I am sure eet ees because she fears that after you-know-what, me and Susan, I mean Susan and I, weell be ruined. Nothing we could say would persuade her once she had made up her mind. You may not theenk eet, but—but Nan can be vairy hard.”

    This time last year Charlotte would not have credited this. But now she nodded slowly. “Yes. I think you’re right, my dear. Very hard.”