Bath Interviews

10

Bath Interviews

    “Thees ees dashed odd,” said Dom, frowning over it. “Nan, thees ees a note from a Mr Henry Kernohan: do you know heem?”

    “No, I don’t theenk so. What does he say, Dom?”

    “That’s what ees odd! For een the first instance he invites me to a party on Christmas Eve, and een the second he requests an interview weeth me!”

    “Eet’s to tell you not to wear that coat weeth the peaks on the shoulders!” squeaked Daphne, going off into a paroxysm.

    “Hah, hah,” he replied, unmoved. “Who was eet what wanted to trick herself out een black satin to dine with the Laidlaws?” New post

    “Silk,” said Daphne, beginning to pout.

    “Perhaps that’s eet, Dom: he may be a friend of the Laidlaws. In fact, I theenk Mrs Laidlaw mentioned a party she intends attending on Christmas Eve, no?” said Nan.

    “Aye, but why should he request an interview weeth me? Eet’s dashed odd!”

    His family could not but agree.

    “Shall you go, dearest?” quavered Mrs Merry.

     Merry crumpled his mother’s note in his hand, scowling. “Aye. Since she has made the first move. But mark, I shall be adamant!” he warned.

    “Yes, Merry.”

   Mr Hawke coughed. “Should you require me to accompany you, sir, I should be only too happy—”

    “What, to hold me hand?” returned Sir Noël with a grin. “Thank you, Hawke! I do not think it would strike the right note, thanks all the same,” he added kindly.

    Mr Hawke hesitated. “Sir, I can understand your wishing to put it on a—a friendly basis, but—er—”

    “She is not a friendly woman? No, very true. All the same, it is clearly up to me to make a move in the direction of—er—softening of relations,” he said with a grimace.

    “Yes, sir,” said Mr Hawke politely. “I think I should warn you, however, that it is likely she may have her lawyer present.”

    Noël was about to laugh when he recollected his previous interview with Mrs Chalfont. “Er—mm. However, I do not intend to start off on that basis.”

    “No, sir,” agreed Mr Hawke resignedly.

    Georgey fixed Mr Ninian Dalrymple with a cold grey-green eye. “Cherry has run away.”

    “Ye— Uh, n— Uh— ‘Miss Chalfont,’ Georgey,” he said limply, not really knowing which aspect of her remark to correct first. And not liking to tell an outright lie to a child—for he did not, of course, have any of his own.

    “Miss Diddy says she will have to marry the man with the team of chestnuts,” said Horrible.

    “Uh— Oh, dear,” said Mr Ninian limply.

    “But Miss Gump says she will go to live with her brother,” added Horrible.

    “Y— Uh— Who is Miss Gump?” he said feebly.

    “Don’t you know?” replied Horrible in amazement. “She is Lady Benedict’s governess, of course!”

    “Oh, I see.”

    “Rani Ayah says she is living with that Colonel man,” said Georgey.

    “Y— Uh— Georgey, my dear, how can she possibly have said that? Lady Benedict’s Indian servants have almost no English!”

    Georgey looked vague.

    “She sort of talks. And Amrita and Mina translate,” explained Horrible.

    “Oh,” he said weakly. “Well, it is incorrect to say so, and—and you must not put it like that, Georgey!”

    Georgey looked vaguer than ever.

    “Che— Miss Chalfont is staying with Colonel and Mrs Amory for a little holiday,” said Mr Ninian desperately.

    There was a short pause.

    “Won’t she never come back to Lymmond Square, Mr Ninian?” asked Georgey.

    Mr Ninian licked his lips. Georgey’s grey-green gaze was unwinking. “Well, um—really, I—I cannot say… Oh, dear!”

    “Cook says that she is ruined,” Horrible explained.

    Mr Ninian blenched.

    “What is ‘ruined’?” asked Georgey, fixing him with her hard grey-green stare.

    “Oh, dear!” cried Mr Ninian, throwing up his hands. “My dears, I really cannot discuss such a topic with you!”

    “Cook says she won’t never come back, because ladies that is ruined don’t,” Georgey added helpfully.

    “N—Y— But she is not!” he cried. “It is all nasty gossip!”

    “Nobby said that,” admitted Horrible. “Only then she cried.”

    “Oh, dear. My dear girls, you should ask your mother about such a topic, not me!”

    “We did. She only said to never mind and run along,” explained Horrible.

    “Mothers are like that,” explained Georgey.

    Mr Ninian swallowed. His had certainly always been, in his youth. “Yes.”

    “What I thought was,” said Georgey, fixing him with the hard grey-green eye—Mr Ninian braced himself: “maybe she could have a puppy? –Not mine,” she added hurriedly.

    After a discernible pause Mr Ninian said in a very feeble voice indeed: “You think Cherry should have a puppy?” –Forgetting to call her “Miss Chalfont” in front of the children.

    “Yes,” said Georgey, nodding.

    “Her mother never let her have pets, only if she doesn’t come back, perhaps she could have one,” Horrible added helpfully.

    “Her brother’s all right,” Georgey explained.

    “I see! Well, that is a very kind notion, Georgey, and of course it shall not be yours, for Angela of Borrowdale has a large litter and they are not—um—”

    “Only half pug,” agreed Georgey, nodding.

    “Mm. I think it was a King Charles spaniel,” he said mournfully.

    Georgey nodded again. “Yes. That little male’s got King Charles-y ears, hasn’t he? And his fur’s all curly.”

    Mr Ninian sighed.

    “The others look like pugs, though!” said Georgey hopefully.

    He sighed deeply. “Yes, but they are not pure-bed, one could not possibly breed from them— Oh! I see, Georgey! Yes, of course: the whole litter is available.”

    “So could she have it for Christmas?” asked Horrible hoarsely.

    “Well—well, of course, my dears. For Christmas.”

    “She’ll have to be told it ain’t pure-bred,” Georgey warned.

    “Of course! Most certainly! She must not breed from it!”

     Georgey nodded earnestly.

    Mr Ninian then glanced at the clock but as it lacked ten minutes of the time at which he had asked that a tray could be sent in, did not say that now they would take some refreshment. Instead he said: “We have a few minutes, so would you care to see Mamma?”

    Horrible’s and Georgey’s eyes went very round. They nodded convulsively, unable to utter.

    “Come along, then.” He rose and took Georgey’s small, sticky hand.

    “Is it one of her bad days?” breathed Horrible as they went upstairs.

    “There is no need to whisper, my dear. It is not, I am glad to say. But she finds the stairs difficult, and as the wind is very nasty today, she decided she would keep to her bed.”

    In Mrs Dalrymple’s room, filled with the extraordinary and unique scent peculiar to Mrs Dalrymple’s room, with its heavy dark red draperies at the windows and on the four-poster, its huge, dark red Turkey carpet on the floor, its giant pieces of dark, oaken furniture, and its multiplicity of candelabra, all lighted even though it was daytime, they looked up in silent awe at the immense bulk of Mrs Dalrymple in her great bed. The bed was swathed in layers of pink silk and lace coverlets over a crimson damask bedspread and Mrs Dalrymple herself was swathed in layers of wrappers with a multi-coloured Cashmere shawl over all. She wore the largest cap either of them had ever seen. Huge.

    “Mamma,” said Mr Ninian clearly—his mother was just a little deaf but she did not like it if you shouted—“here are Hortensia and Georgiana Laidlaw come to see us!”

    Mrs Dalrymple’s very large pink face creased into a smile. “Hullo, my dears! So you are come out in this nasty wind to visit? Well, that is very pleasant.”

    Horrible and Georgey were too awestruck to utter. They just made wobbly curtseys. Then Horrible suddenly produced a flat box from behind her back.

    “For me?”—Horrible nodded convulsively.—“Why, thank you, my dear! –Ninian, do but look: how kind!”

    “Lady Benedict gave a whole lot to Mamma and Mamma said she was sure you would like to try some,” said Georgey abruptly.

    Mrs Dalrymple was eagerly unwrapping the box. “Indeed?” she murmured. “So kind!”

    “Georgey, are they Indian things?” hissed Mr Ninian in horror. Georgey nodded hard.

    “Ninian, my dear, pray do not whisper!” said his mother on an irritated note. “Why, how charming and unusual!” She held out the box of sweetmeats to him.

    Mr Ninian looked at it in glazed horror.

    “They are absolutely delicious, Mrs Dalrymple!” said Horrible loudly, going very red.

    “I am sure...” Mrs Dalrymple took one. Mr Ninian shut his eyes. Georgey and Horrible watched hopefully. “Mm!” she said. “Why, I have never tasted anything like this in my life before! –Ninian, dear boy, try one!”

    Mr Ninian’s knees went all funny and he had to sink down on the edge of the bed before trying one.

    Mrs Urqhart woke up with a start as Johanna’s butler, who was not so well-trained as her own Ranjit, came into the sitting-room and announced Miss Chalfont and Sir Noël Amory.

    “Drat the man! You’d think he mighta guessed I’d be takin’ forty winks, for I’ve done so every afternoon since I’ve been here!” she said crossly, sitting up and attempting to untangle the shawls from her feet.

    “Don’t get up, dearest Aunt Betsy!” said Noël with a laugh. “Miss Chalfont will have to get used to you sooner or later, and it had best be sooner!”

    Cherry went very red. She had never heretofore been ushered into a sitting-room to find a lady snoring in it, she did not think that that was the tone Sir Noël should take with his elderly aunt, and in any case she was overcome with embarrassment at the whole idea of masquerading as his fiancée to Sir Noël’s relatives. The interview with Lady Amory had been dreadful—dreadful! The more so as the old lady had said that Noël had done just as he ought, and that she hoped that Cherry would work very hard to make him a suitable wife.

    “Aye, well, in that case,” said Mrs Urqhart, panting slightly and desisting with the shawls, “it had best be ‘Cherry’ right off, too!”

    Sir Noël had warned Miss Chalfont that Aunt Betsy was very vulgar, but at this Cherry goggled at her in a mesmerized fashion.

    “Come on, me love, come and give us a kiss, and don’t mind me, for I am sure that Noël has told you that I ain’t no fine lady and don’t pretend to be, never mind if his pa’s cousin married me and thought himself right lucky to have got me, too!” she said, chuckling richly.

    Cherry came timidly over to the sofa, and saluted her cheek. Mrs Urqhart returned the embrace heartily and told her to pull up that little chair right close, so as she could get a good look at her. Numbly she pulled up the chair.

    “Sit down, for the Lord’s sake!” Mrs Urqhart then said testily to her nephew. “Them legs of yours is very fine, but we don’t need you to be a-lounging in front of the fireplace a-showing of them off and a-giving us cricks in the neck if we tries to talk to you—does we, Cherry, my love?”

    Cherry shook her head numbly, shooting a horrified glance at the elegant baronet.

    Sir Noël merely smiled and came to sit down near his aunt’s feet, calmly tucking her shawls in for her.

    “You know what?” she said slowly, staring at Cherry.

    “No, what?” he replied placidly.

    “She has a great look of Fanny Jubb—Jo’s late Ma.”

    “That’s good to hear: I have always maintained that Sir Edward Jubb has exquisite taste in matters aesthetic,” returned Sir Noël calmly.

    “Aesthetic!” said Mrs Urqhart with a snort.

    Sir Noël smiled a little, but said to Cherry: “She is referring to Mrs Dorian Kernohan’s parents. I never met the mamma, so I cannot tell you if she is correct.”

    “Here, and what’s more: she’s the yaller lady!” she said, goggling.

    “Er—what, Sir Edward’s Gainsborough? I have never seen it.”

    “She was a lady,” Mrs Urqhart explained to Cherry: “as belonged to a fine lord what went bankrupt. So Ned Jubb bought up his pictures.”

    “Er—oh: I see,” said Cherry limply. “It is a portrait.”

    “Aye: full length. Pale yaller,” said Mrs Urqhart, staring at her. “She has a great look of Mrs Stewart and her sister, too, come to think of it.”

    Sir Noël sighed heavily.

    “Their name is Gray,” said Mrs Urqhart, unmoved

    Cherry swallowed. “I do not think...”

    “If the yellow lady be the Gainsborough I rather think it is, that name is Coulton-Whassett,” drawled Sir Noël.

    “That were him: aye. Ended up in the Fleet,” said Mrs Urqhart, unmoved.

    “Oh,” said Cherry very weakly indeed. “As a matter of fact, my paternal grandmother was a Coulton-Whassett.”

    “See?” said Mrs Urqhart.

     Sir Noël went into a helpless spluttering fit.

    “I was right,” said Mrs Urqhart pleasedly to Cherry.

    “Yes, indeed,” she said, smiling at her.

    “And mind you mentions to Lady Amory—I means his grandmamma, only come to think of it, it won’t come amiss if you mentions it to his ma, neither—that your pa’s mother were a Coulton-Whassett. Fleet or not, that is a very good connexion!”

    “Aye! Mention also that Lord Coulton-Whassett was not in the Fleet for long, for the amount Jubb paid for his pictures bailed him out of it!” choked Sir Noël.

    “Rubbish. That were the amount he paid for that house of his in Green Street,” said Mrs Urqhart mildly.

    Sir Noël went into a further fit.

    “Did he really?” ventured Cherry.

    Mrs Urqhart nodded.

    Cherry swallowed. “Then it is not funny.”

    “No,” she said with a weak grin. “’Tisn’t, eh?”

    “No,” said Cherry in a wavering voice.

     Suddenly Mrs Urqhart let out a shriek of laughter. Immediately Cherry collapsed in helpless giggles.

    After that, of course, it was all plain sailing. Noël was vastly relieved to see it, for he had been a little afraid that Miss Chalfont’s shyness and propriety would outweigh her good sense and that she would not perceive the true worth of Betsy Urqhart, under the vulgarities. Not to say, the attire: today she was clad in a striking garment of apricot velvet, trimmed with heavy écru crocheted lace and a profusion of velvet rosettes, loops and bows. With her enormous ruby drops in her ears, and a large topaz ring brooch at her throat. Positively restrained, for Aunt Betsy.

    “What did you think of her?” he said, as they set off back to Doubleday House.

    “I liked her very much,” said Cherry shyly.

    “Good. She will make us very comfortable at her house, you know.”

    “Yes. –Is it—is it proper?” she asked timidly.

    “Is what proper?” he returned limply, wondering if she meant being alone in his carriage with him now they were engaged.

    Cherry swallowed. “Us both staying with your Aunt Betsy.”

    “Oh! Good God, yes!”

    “Oh,” she said feebly. “Good.”

    “Surely you don’t think she would have suggested it, if it were not proper?”

    “No!” she gasped. “Of course not! Only, um, I did not realize she meant you as well, Sir Noël.”

    There was a short silence. Noël couldn’t for the life of him recall Aunt Betsy’s precise turn of phrase. Had she perhaps meant to exclude him, in order to give that inept rustic, Charleson, his chance? “I shall certainly be there,” he said grimly.

    “Oh, good,” said Cherry in relief.

    He raised his eyebrows. “Never tell me you wish for my presence, Miss Chalfont?”

    Cherry went very red, but in the dimness of the coach in the late afternoon he did not perceive this. “Yes! Of course! I mean—well, you must know all those people she mentioned.”

    “I’m afraid she did go on, rather. They are her neighbours and their relatives.”

    “Yes. And you—you always know what to do,” she said timidly.

    “I beg your pardon?”

    “Well, I have never stayed in anyone’s house, except your Uncle Richard’s,” said Cherry in a tiny voice.

    There was another short silence.

    “I think I actually believe that,” he said dazedly. “Are you intending to imply that I may tell you how to go on in the course of a country visit, Miss Chalfont?”

    “Yes,” said Cherry simply.

    “Er—well, I shall be glad to do my poor best.”

    “Thank you. –Colonel Amory does not usually dress for dinner when it is just us, but I was wondering,” said Cherry shyly, “if it is perhaps because I haven’t many dresses? Well, I have the lovely red one that Delphie gave me, but that is for best.”

    “Oh, good God,” he said limply. “I’m sorry: it never dawned—! So your mother has not sent on your clothes, is that it?”

    “Um—well, she hasn’t, but it wouldn’t have made any difference if she had, because my brown silk dress is the only evening-dress I have. I was wearing it that evening, but it was accidentally ruined in the wash.”

    Accidentally, in his Aunt Delphie’s house? Noël did not think so. He smiled a little, but said: “I understand. And I think perhaps in that case my relatives have been wearing afternoon dress in the evenings for your sake, Miss Chalfont.”

    “Mm,” said Cherry, biting her lip. “I was afraid of it.”

    Noël was thinking of a rather different aspect of the matter. He frowned. “You must let me buy you some clothes.”

    “No!” she gasped in horror.

    “I do not mean literally. Though you may trust my taste,” he added on a sardonic note.

    “Oh, yes: you have beautiful taste: even I can see that!” she said earnestly.

    “Er—thank you. You and Delphie must do the shopping, and I will—er—stand the nonsense. –And before you say anything, this is not as a favour to you, but merely so as you will do me credit in front of my relatives and friends when you go to Aunt Betsy at The Towers,” he added swiftly.

    After a moment Cherry said: “You know, that very nearly convinced me.”

    He gave a startled laugh.

    “But you must see, though it is very kind and generous of you, that I could not possibly accept.”

    “Nonsense!” he said with a smile in his voice.

    She swallowed. “Sir Noël, pray recollect that we are—are not really engaged.”

    He had forgotten it, for the moment. “Er—true. But it would hardly lend credibility to the fiction, for my affianced wife to pay country visits in borrowed clothes.”

    There was a short silence.

    “Well?” he said.

    Cherry bit her lip.

    “Possibly it is improper in me to offer,” he drawled.

    Cherry had lately begun to realize that the drawl became most pronounced when he was hurt or upset. She bit her lip. “Um—a little, I think. But I— Um, well, the thing is, I have hardly anything, really!” she said earnestly.

    “I did not intend that it should be a couple of gowns, only. I do have some idea of what a young lady needs for a round of visits.”

    “Yes, but that will cost a great deal of money!” she cried. “And it will all be wasted!”

    “It will not be wasted. And in any case I have a great deal of money. An old uncle on my mother’s side left me a considerable fortune. I was able to have Égyptienne completely refitted, just when I had been wondering if I might have to sell her in order to pay for Harriet’s come-out.”

    “Oh,” said Cherry uncertainly.

    “I’m sorry. I’m becoming as obscure as Aunt Betsy: throwin’ out names you have never heard of! Harriet is my third sister, and Égyptienne is my yacht, Miss Chalfont.”

    “I see. Miss Diddy Carey says—” Cherry broke off.

    “Miss Diddy Carey says what?”

    “I suppose,” said Cherry in a high voice, “that it is just one of those stories that get about in small towns and impress provincial nobodies such as myself!”

    “What is, for God’s sake?”

    “The story that the Prince Regent, I mean the King, um—went on your boat.”

    “When he was Prince Regent, His Majesty did honour me by attending a small reception on my yacht: yes,” said Noël evenly.

    “Help,” said Cherry numbly.

    “Does that prove I am wealthy enough to afford to buy you a wardrobe without ever noticing it, Miss Chalfont?” he said with a sigh.

    “It must do.”

    “Good,” he said drily.

    “Unless of course you expended your last groat in making an effort to impress His Royal Highness.”

    “Yes!” he gasped, laughing.

    “I’m sorry,” said Cherry, smiling. “My mind just works like that.”

    “So I perceive! –Well, so you accept?”

    “Um... I suppose I ought not to.”

    “Ask Delphie’s advice, then,” he said slyly.

    “Very well, I shall do that,” said Cherry in relief. “—May I ask you something?”

     “Certainly.”

    “It is not anything personal,” she said on an anxious note.

    “Miss Chalfont, you may ask me anything at all,” he said with a sigh.

    “Oh. Thank you,” she replied unhappily.

    Noël bit his lip. “I did not mean that to sound the way it did. But I think there need be no pretence and no hypocrisies between us, do not you?”

    “Yes. But you have a strong sense of the proprieties,” said Cherry dubiously. “I should not like to offend it.”

    “I have?” he gasped.

    “Yes.”

    There was a short silence.

    “Then I must beg you to ignore it,” said Noël feebly.

    “That is just the thing: I would have very little trouble in ignoring it, for as I have not been into society very much the proprieties do not mean all that much to me. But I think it might upset you, if I did.”

    “Miss Chalfont, are you trying to tell me I am some sort of a—a hidebound prude?”

    “No.”

    “Then kindly disregard what you perceive to be my sensibilities,” he said in a faint voice.

    She laughed suddenly. “I would not go so far as to call them that, exactly! No, well, perhaps if I were truly your fiancée I would not hesitate to ask you, but really, I have no right to.”

    He had to swallow. “Ask me what?” he said cautiously.

    “Um—it is about my money. I would ask Merry, but he has enough to worry over.”

    “Your money?” he said, even more cautiously. Hell: was she thinking about the settlements?

    “Yes. Papa left us each a hundred guineas. Merry has got his: it came to him when he was twenty-one. But Mother is looking after mine.”

    Noël was so relieved to know that it was not about settlements, let alone anything more directly personal, that he replied instantly: “I see! Then permit me to say, Miss Chalfont, that in that case you have as little hope of getting it as you do of making a sandwich of green cheese sliced from the moon!”

    “How very graphic,” said Cherry shakily. “That’s what I thought, too. Only I am legally entitled to it, am I not?”

    He took a deep breath. “Most certainly. And I beg your pardon for taking a frivolous tone. I shall see that you get your hundred guineas.”

    “Oh, thank you!” she cried. “Then I may spend it on the clothes, and you will not have to pay for them after all!”

    “You will do no such thing. The purpose of the clothes is to impress my relatives and friends with your utter suitability to become Lady Amory. I will not hear another word on the subject,” he said firmly.

    After a moment Cherry said dubiously: “That does not seem fair.”

    “It is entirely fair. Please consider it settled.”

    “Well... I shall still ask Delphie what she thinks. But thank you. I must own, I would not care to meet all those ladies of whom Mrs Urqhart spoke in—in unsuitable clothes.”

    There was little chance of that, for Aunt Betsy would take one look at her meagre wardrobe and by hook or by crook force waggonloads of garments upon the girl! However, Noël did not say so, only murmured: “No, of course.”

    “And—and—should I invest the money, do you think? It will help to support me when I go to live with Merry and June.”

    “Mm? Oh: certainly. “

    “Only I don’t know anything about that. And I don’t trust Mother’s lawyer, for surely he shouldn’t have let her keep my money?”

    “I think he might have thought it proper to allow her to look after it for you while you were an unmarried daughter at home. I shall get Hawke to find you a suitable lawyer to manage your money.”

    “Thank you very much: I should be most grateful. Um—I was wondering...”

    “Mm?” he said, not daring to think what might be coming next.

    “Well,” said Cherry swallowing, “it is nearly Christmas: does Mr Hawke not have a family that he—he should be getting back to?”

    “The hen-pecking is generally reckoned not to start until there is a solid gold band on the finger,” he noted drily.

    She gulped. “I’m sorry!”

    “Do not apologize; you do very right to remind me. But Hawke is a childless widower. I think he was not sorry to be called away from Exeter at this season.”

    “Oh. Um... So where will he eat his Christmas dinner?” she said in a squeak.

    Noël replied with immense resignation: “It appears that he will eat it at Doubleday House with us.”

    “I didn’t suggest it!” said Cherry quickly.

    “Don’t prevaricate. I never heard a heavier hint.”

    “Mm,” she said, biting her lip and peeping at him.

    He laughed suddenly and picked up her gloved hand in his. “I’m very glad you reminded me! Of course Hawke must eat his Christmas goose with us! I shall mention it directly we arrive. –Though you may take due warning that I disclaim all responsibility in the matter of monkeys and the food on his plate!”

    “It was one nut!” said Cherry indignantly.

    “It was one nut from Grandmamma, certainly,” he returned smoothly. “But I have observed him steal a whole pear from Bobby. I have never in my life seen anything move so fast: Bobby tryin’ to get the pear back!” She laughed, and he squeezed her hand.

    “Yes,” said Cherry in a confused voice, trying to pull her hand away. “I am sure. Um—well, thank you,” she ended weakly, finding he was holding it fast.

    Noël leant his head back against the upholstery, smiling, and began to tell her about the zoologist, one Dr Fairbrother, who had provided Lizzie’s marmoset, and his collection of animals and birds.

    Cherry listened in a state of great confusion. The narrative would have been utterly absorbing, but for the fact that the narrator was still holding her hand! Oh, dear: could he have forgotten he was doing so?

    Sir Noël had not forgotten he was doing so. He did not, however, examine his own motives: he was content merely to enjoy the moment, enjoy her delicious confusion, and enjoy the sensation of riding comfortably through the darkening afternoon shut up in the cosy carriage with her.

    “Good morning, my dear boy. Thank you so much for coming,” said Mr Henry Kernohan, ushering Dom into his study. “You know Cecil Jerningham, I think?”

    “Why, yes!” said Dom in astonishment. “Vairy good to see you again, Major.”

    The pink-nosed Major Jerningham—still almost as pink-nosed as he had been aboard the Leander—shook hands, professing himself delighted, and asked kindly after Lady Benedict. Not, however, expressing sorrow at Sir Hugo’s death, for he and several members of his family had been at the funeral.

    The hospitable Mr Henry urged his guests to be seated and urged Madeira upon them. It was too early in the morning for Dom: he refused, and so did Major Jerningham. Mr Henry himself, however, took a small glass.

    Then there was a short pause. Major Jerningham looked fixedly at the opposite wall, Dom looked politely at his host, and Mr Henry looked into his Madeira.

    “Er—I asked you here today, my dear Mr Baldaya—” began Mr Henry. He broke off. “Oh, dear, this is all very awkward!” he confessed, rubbing his nose.

    Major Jerningham coughed. “Bad business.”

    “Indeed it is, my dear Cecil, and I am most grateful to have you lend your support to me!” said Mr Henry with vigour.

    “What ees a bad business?” said Dom on a grim note, suddenly remembering Ferdy Sotheby’s oddly fervent and furtive reassurances to him.

    “Well, my dear boy, you must not take it amiss, but I feel you should be aware for the sake of your sisters that certain rumours are afoot in Bath.”

    Dom bit his lip. “Oh.”

    “Thought me Uncle Jerningham had told you what a place it is?” said the Major abruptly.

    “Er, your uncle deed say that we would not find Bath exciting.”

    The Major shook his head slowly.

    “It is true that in these provincial towns,” said Mr Henry sadly, “silly stories spread very fast and—and become multiplied, so to speak.”

    “Sir,” said Dom, very white: “be so good as to explain to me exactly what rumours that weell disturb my sisters are circulating een Bath, eef you please.”

    “Yes. Well, the first is merely silly, and must be ignored by anyone with sense. It is that—er—that Mr Bobby Amory was your eldest sister’s father, I fear.”

    Dom stared at him.

    “Absolute rubbish, of course!” he said hurriedly.

    “Mr Amory knew our mother: yes,” said Dom slowly. “However, I can assure you that he was not Nan’s father.”

    “No, of course not, my dear boy,” said Mr Henry very kindly. “And as I said, persons of sense do not give it credence for a moment.”

    “No. But how deed eet arise?” said Dom, frowning over it.

    “Bath gossip,” explained Major Jerningham illuminatingly.

    “Er—quite,” agreed Mr Henry “I cannot tell precisely how it arose, Mr Baldaya, but Mr Amory’s leaving Bath so suddenly had something to do with it, I think.”

    “Oh, good Heavens! But she sent heem away because—” Dom broke off, reddening. “She deed not precisely send heem away. Only she thought eet was not proper to—to see a gentleman while she was steell een mourning, and—and he would call, so she told the servants to say she was not at home.”

    “Very proper,” said Mr Henry.

    “Oh, absolutely!” agreed Major Jerningham, nodding. “Oh, I get your drift!” he said sapiently. “So he flung off in a huff, that it?”

    “Well, yes, I theenk,” said Dom uncomfortably.

    “That is certainly the impression I had,” agreed Mr Henry. “He certainly did not seem in the best of moods the night before he left.”

    “There y’are, then,” Major Jerningham concluded.

    “Er—yes,” said Dom feebly. “Eendeed.”

    “Naturally Cecil and I are doing our best to scotch that rumour whenever it come to our ears,” said Mr Henry.

    “Vairy good of you both,” said Dom stiffly.

    “And I have spoken to Colonel Amory—I do not think you know him, but he is Bobby’s older brother, and resides just a little out of the town—and he also will do his best to silence silly tongues.”

    “Thank you, sir. You are vairy kind,” said Dom dazedly.

    Mr Henry smiled awkwardly and drained his Madeira. “I think I will have another. Do, pray, join me.”

    “Think I will: thank you, sir,” said the Major gloomily.

    “Good. –Mr Baldaya?”

    “There ees more, ees there?” said Dom, his nostrils flaring so that to the two startled Englishmen he looked for a moment very foreign, dark and dashing indeed: like a pirate off the Spanish Main! thought Mr Henry; while the pink-nosed Major, of a more humdrum turn of mind, thought that the fellow looked like a real dago and you would not be surprised to see him produce a knife from his sleeve at any moment, and it was a damned pity he had those foreign looks, for of course that wouldn’t help, in a place like Bath.

    “Er—yes,” Mr Henry admitted weakly.

    “Then I had best have a glass of something: thank you,” he said grimly.

    Limply Mr Henry handed Madeira, and they all sipped.

    “Go on, sir,” prompted Dom grimly.

    Mr Henry’s kindly, plump face flushed up. “I am afraid this may be very painful for you, my dear boy.”

    “Then I must beg you to get eet over weeth queeck,” returned Dom tightly.

    “Er—yes. There is also a story current that—that your parents eloped.”

    “They deed,” replied Dom grimly. “They were married een Portugal.”

    Major Jerningham coughed. “Nothin’ in it! Years ago! Water under the bridge!”

    “So we theenk,” said Dom. “But thank you, Major Jerningham, eet ees kind een you to say so.”

    “Added to which—” The Major broke off and buried his pink nose in his glass.

    “Yes?” said Dom, the nostrils flaring again.

    “Well—uh—well, Sir Hugo wouldn’t have married her if—uh—if there had been anythin’ havey-cavey, y’know!” he said bravely, turning puce.

    “Quite,” said Mr Henry hurriedly, seeing that Dom was momentarily bereft of speech.

    Dom took a deep breath. “Anything havey-cavey? Thees excepts the fact of the elopement, or ees my English misleading me?”

    “Y—uh— Well, what I mean to say— Oh, dammit,” ended the Major lamely.

    “Cecil means that the story which has begun to be whispered, that your parents were not married, is of course not true,” said Mr Henry, his good-natured face hardening and his voice sounding momentarily even grimmer than Dom’s own.

    “WHAT?” shouted Dom furiously. “I should damn’ well theenk eet ees not true!”

    “Of course,” agreed Mr Henry. “I have no notion how the rumour started, and I am thankful to say it does not seem as yet to have spread very far; but I thought you had best be forewarned.”

    Major Jerningham coughed. “Aye. ‘Forewarned is forearmed.’ That is a saying we have in England, y’know, Baldaya.”

    “What?” said Dom limply. “Oh, I see. Well, thank you for warning me, Mr Kernohan.” He stood up.

    Mr Henry also stood up, looking very distressed. “Pray do not take it amiss! I felt that someone had to warn you, and as you and your sister have no older man in the family...”

    “I tell you what,” said the Major, putting down his empty glass and also rising: “there ain’t many in this dump what would have had the guts. Not to say, given a damn.”

    “Had the g— Oh,” said Dom limply. “Eet’s an expression, no? Yes, I recall that Hugo used eet. Yes, I see that eet was eendeed both brave and generous of you to take the trouble, Mr Kernohan. Please forgive me eef I seemed rude.”

    “No, no, no! Of course you did not seem rude! And I am very glad to do anything I can to help!”

    Major Jerningham coughed.

    “And so, of course, is Cecil.”

    “Oh, aye! Absolutely! Well, Sir Hugo’s memory, y’know. Besides, Lady Benedict’s sake.”

    “Yes. Thank you, Major Jerningham,” said Dom shakily. “Nan weell be vuh-vairy guh-gratef—”

    Mr Henry perceived that his guest’s lips were trembling. He put a kindly hand on his shoulder. “Sit down again, my dear boy. We shall figure out some way to scotch these rumours entirely.”

    Dom sank down again. He was aware, after living with Hugo Benedict, that these Englishmen would not approve of his bursting into tears over such a matter—though both of Major Jerningham’s elderly uncles and his papa had been very kind and sympathetic indeed when he had wept at Hugo’s graveside. So he chewed on his lip, blinking fiercely, and got himself under control.

    Mr Henry refilled their glasses and said: “I think the Amorys are in some sort a connexion, Mr Baldaya? Through Colonel Amory’s first wife?”

    “What?” said Dom dazedly.

    “Colonel Amory’s first wife was a Miss Elizabeth Jeffreys. Your mother’s younger sister, I believe.”

    “Oh, yes: I theenk that Mr Amory deed mention eet,” said Dom without interest.

    “Quite. And—uh—” Mr Henry gave a little cough. “Lady Amory—that is, Bobby’s and Colonel Amory’s mother—lives quite near to your house. You may have wondered why she has not called. Er—the Amorys think it better not to, until they are sure that this unfortunate rumour has no foundation in fact. Pray do not be bitter, Mr Baldaya. They have the child to think of.”

    Dom was white to the lips, thinking that somehow some damned Bath gossip had got hold of the tale of Amrita’s parentage. “What?”

    “Colonel Amory has a little girl by his first wife: Lizzie. I think she is about thirteen.”

    For a moment Dom just stared at him blankly. “Oh.”

    “Er—for her sake,” said Mr Henry, coughing, “they wished to be quite sure that—er—”

    “That our parents were married: ees that eet?”

    “Well, yes.”

    “So that is why they’re sendin’ to Portugal,” explained the Major, an expression of great relief on his round, vacuous, but good-natured countenance.

    “They are what?” gasped Dom.

    “Pray do not upset yourself!” said Mr Henry hurriedly. “As Cecil says, it is after all the natural reaction.”

    “These Amorys are investigating our parents’ marital state?”

    “Yes,” said Mr Henry uncomfortably. “And of course the minute they have confirmation, they will deny the rumour, and—well, I am afraid it sounds patronizing, but of course the family will call, and—and by the time that your sister is out of her mourning,” he said on a desperate note, “you need have no fear that she will not be received in Bath!” Dom did not say anything; Mr Henry added quickly: “Though as I say, you may rest assured of Cecil’s and my support.”

    The Major nodded, looking anguished.

    Dom took a deep breath and held out his hand. “I have to thank you for your support, sir, and for telling me all of thees. And you also, Jerningham.”

    Mr Henry and the pink-nosed Major allowed their hands to be shaken and allowed Mr Baldaya to bow himself out without attempting to detain him further.

    “Don’t be afraid,” said Sir Noël on a grim note, helping Cherry out of the carriage.

    Cherry’s hand shook in his but she replied quite calmly: “I am afraid, but I suppose we must do it. And we don’t have to stay long.”

    “No.” He took her hand and tucked it in his arm, and they went up the steps of Mrs Chalfont’s house.

    “Miss Cherry!” gasped Smith, opening the door.

    Cherry smiled. “Hullo, Smith; it’s lovely to see you again.”

    Abruptly Smith burst into tears.

    “Come in, Sir Noël: don’t stand on the step in the cold,” said Cherry calmly, going into the hall. She put her arm around the sobbing parlourmaid and led her to a stiff little occasional chair. “Sit down, Smith, and don’t cry. Everything is going to be all right.”

    “Miss—Cherry—it’s my—blame!” she sobbed.

    “No, it was just a chapter of accidents,” said Cherry kindly.

    “No! Acos I knew you was out! And I had to tell her, Miss, acos what if she had come down and inspected? And then she made me lock everything up tuh-tih-hight!” wailed Smith.

    “By God! I knew it!” said Sir Noël wrathfully.

    “Yes,” Cherry agreed. “Ssh, it was not your fault, Smith: you were but obeying orders.”

    Smith sniffed dolorously and Cherry gave her her own handkerchief. “Ma says as ’ow I’m a coward, only it would have meant losing the place and she wouldn’t never have given me a line, Miss Cherry!”

    “No, exactly.”

    “A line?” asked Sir Noël blankly.

    “She means a written reference,” said Cherry.

    “Oh,” he said weakly. “Yes.”

    “Miss,” said Smith, sniffing once again and grabbing Cherry’s arm: “I know I ain’t got no right to ask, but when you’re married, couldn’t I come to you?”

    Cherry bit her lip and looked at her false fiancé in distress.

    “Yes,” he said smoothly, coming forward. “I can see no problem there.”

    “Sir Noël—” said Cherry faintly.

    “What? Oh,” he said, his lips twitching. “Mm.” She looked up at him anxiously and he found himself saying: “Never mind, it is a promise.” He gave the maid his card. “You may come as soon as you wish, Smith.”

    “Oh, thank you, sir! Only I don’t deserve it!”

    “Don’t cry again,” said Noël hurriedly. “And I think we had best go in, Miss Chalfont.”

    “Yes,” said Cherry faintly, suddenly looking sick.

    He took her hand and tucked it back into his arm. “Come along.”

    “Thank you,” she murmured as Smith led the way to the sitting-room.

    He gave her a sardonic look. “Oh, it was nothing. Foist as many unneeded parlourmaids, upstairs maids, maids of all kinds upon me as you wish. –Stay, does your mother have no footmen? And what about the cook and the boot boy? Oh, and I believe you once mentioned a scullery maid.”

    “Mary. She is Smith’s younger sister,” said Cherry, looking up at him hopefully.

    Sir Noël rolled his eyes to High Heaven but as at that moment Smith announced them, did not say anything. Not even, how on earth did Smith know they were engaged—for they had not announced it yet except to Lady Amory and Mrs Urqhart.

    As might have been expected, Mrs Chalfont had lined up her forces in battle array. Mrs Daveney was in a small easy chair, looking excited; Uncle Ketteridge was in a large wing chair, looking red-faced and heated, but as this was usual with him it was not possible to say whether he was excited or embarrassed; beside him, Mr Brown, the lawyer, was on a hard upright chair looking rather nervous; and Merry was standing behind the sofa, looking very nervous.

    Mrs Chalfont was seated on the sofa itself in solitary splendour, rather like a particularly unpleasant ruler on her throne. Elizabeth about to order an execution? thought Sir Noël nastily. Catherine the Great of Russia? No, stay: Marie de’ Medici! Just before ordering the Huguenots to be slaughtered. That combination of unremitting grimness and determined relish. Ugh.

    Cherry shrank, and clutched his arm tightly: he covered her hand with his free one. No-one else spoke, so he said: “Good morning, Mrs Chalfont. How are you, Merry? And how is Mrs Merry?”

    “Very well thanks, Sir Noël,” said Merry on an uneasy note. He came out from behind the sofa with a defiant look on his round, easy-going face and kissed Cherry’s cheek, subsequently ranging himself at her side.

    Noël was possessed abruptly of an hysterical desire to laugh. He swallowed hard and said: “I think you had best sit down, Miss Chalfont.”

    “This will not take long,” said Mrs Chalfont before Cherry could speak or move. “I apprehend you have something to say to me, Sir Noël?”

    Uncle Ketteridge gave a loud cough, as Sir Noël’s lips were seen to tighten angrily. The baronet looked at him enquiringly but he merely gave him an anguished look and sank his series of chins into his voluminous neckcloth.

    “Er—yes,” said Noël on a weak note. His anger had been replaced by a renewed desire to laugh. He took a deep breath. “Miss Chalfont has done me the honour to accept my hand in marriage.”

    “Good. Then I suppose you had better come home,” said Mrs Chalfont grimly to her only daughter.

    Noël opened his mouth but before he could speak Cherry said in a shaky little voice: “No, thank you, Mother.”

    “I beg your pardon?” she replied coldly.

    “Cherry, you must come back!” gasped Mrs Daveney.

    “Cherry,” said Noël calmly, again covering her hand with his and giving it a little squeeze: it was so cold he could feel it right through her glove: “is going to spend a little time with my Uncle Richard at Doubleday House, and then she will go to my Aunt Betsy in Lower Dittersford for a little. After which we shall both go on down to Devon to see my mother.”

    “Very well,” said Mrs Chalfont. “I think that is all. You may discuss other matters with my solicitor.” She rose, her face still coldly unmoved.

    “Now, look here, Evadne—” stuttered Uncle Ketteridge, starting up.

    “That is all, I think,” repeated Mrs Chalfont. “Meredith, do you intend staying for a meal?”

    “What? No!” gasped Merry.

    “Then you had best go.”

    Mrs Daveney had got up uncertainly. “Evadne, we—we have not even congratulated Cherry and Sir Noël!”

    “I do not feel there is anything in this business that warrants congratulation. Accompany me, if you please, Mr Brown, I wish to make sure you have my instructions right. –Good-day,” said Mrs Chalfont generally, going out. Mr Brown, with an anguished, apologetic look on his face, scurried in her wake.

    Sir Noël looked down at Cherry, about to raise his eyebrows and grimace, and saw her lips were trembling. “Come along, we’ll go,” he said gently.

    “Aye, let’s get out of it,” said Merry gratefully.

    “Damn’ good idea,” agreed Uncle Ketteridge. “But you have my congratulations, Sir Noël, and best wishes to both of you!”

    Noël bowed, eying the fat old man not unkindly. “Thank you, sir. –Come along, Cherry. You have your gloves, I think?”

    “Um—yes. Did you leave yours in the hall?”

    “Yes. And my hat.” He urged her towards the door.

    “But—” quavered Mrs Daveney.

    Sir Noël stopped. “What is it?” he said in a hard voice.

    Mrs Daveney was no longer looking excited but rather sick and frightened. “I—I thought you would come home to us, Cherry,” she faltered.

    “I can’t, Aunt Lydia,” replied Cherry, very pale.

    “I should think not!” cried Merry indignantly. “After she has been locked out of the house? And don’t say you was asleep in your bed, for I am very sure you were not!” he added wrathfully to his aunt.

    “But I was!” she wailed. “I had taken my draught, and I never knew a thing about it until the next morning!”

    “Pooh,” replied Merry grimly. “You knew me and Cherry were sitting on the area steps that other time, and you never let us in.”

    “That’s right,” said Cherry faintly.

    “I fear your previous actions have condemned you, ma’am,” said Sir Noël icily. “Good-day. –Come along, Meredith, for the Lord’s sake!”

    Merry grinned suddenly. “Aye. Come on, Uncle Ketteridge.”

    Looking relieved, Uncle Ketteridge came over to the door. “Now don’t bawl, Lydia, brought it all on y’self, y’know,” he said as his niece dissolved into tears. “After you, Sir Noël.”

    The baronet went out, and Uncle Ketteridge followed, heartlessly closing the door on the sobbing Mrs Daveney. “Woman’s never stood up for these two, all the years she’s been livin’ in the house,” he grunted.

    “No,” Cherry agreed faintly. “Here is your hat, Sir Noël. But she is frightened of Mother: you can’t blame her.”

    “Aye, that’s true,” agreed Uncle Ketteridge, struggling into his greatcoat. “Where the Devil’s me hat? SMITH! –No, well, scares the livin’ daylights out o’ me, too, I don’t mind tellin’ you, Sir Noël. I’ve said times without number that Cherry could come to me. Only Evadne wouldn’t hear of it.”

    “You have all your own family to look to, Uncle Ketteridge,” said Cherry, smiling at him.

    “Aye, aye: would you believe I have seventeen what lived?” said the old man to Sir Noël. “All grown, now, but there’s still six of ’em at home. And one more little un won’t make a difference, that’s what I say!” he ended with a chuckle. “Where’s that maid, dammit? SMITH!”

    “Here it is, sir,” said Merry, handing him his hat.

    “Mr Ketteridge, I intend eating at an hotel: should you care to join us?” asked Sir Noël, opening the front door.

    “Oh! Well, that’s most generous of you, me boy! I should indeed!”

    “You, too, Merry,” said Noël with a smile. “Unless Mrs Merry is expecting you?”

    “Um—well, no, she ain’t, sir, and I should care to, very much. She has taken Baby Cherry and gone to her mother’s for the day. Only the thing is, she has told me if she don’t hear good news she will not come home,” he ended, shuffling his feet and avoiding the baronet’s eye.

    Sir Noël had hitherto assumed, perhaps not unnaturally, that, weak though he obviously was, Merry was the stronger character in that ménage. Shoulders shaking slightly, he returned: “Then you must send her a message from the hotel, dear lad, the instant we arrive. Now, come along, we mustn’t keep Cherry standing around in this cold wind.”

    Forthwith the company climbed into the carriage and set off.

    In the cold Chalfont house in Lymmond Square Mrs Daveney continued to weep in the sitting-room. In the bleak little room that had been Mr Chalfont’s study and that Mrs Chalfont normally used only for doing her household accounts, Mr Brown endeavoured to assure his client that Sir Noël’s suggested settlement was more than generous, in the circum—er, more than generous.

    After some time Mrs Daveney mopped her eyes and rang for Smith to see if a nuncheon had been ordered up, but nothing happened.

    Cherry, Merry, Sir Noël and Uncle Ketteridge, on the other hand, duly adjourned to a cosy private parlour in Bath’s best hotel and had a splendid time over game pie, a leg of hot roast mutton, a large ham, parcels of savoury chestnut purée in cabbage leaves, and a dish of parsnips in a cream sauce which the baronet declared to be better than that served at the Brighton Pavilion. Immediately Uncle Ketteridge asked him eagerly if it were true that His Royal Highness—or rather, His Majesty!—had visited him on his boat; and Sir Noël, what with the excellent food, a tolerable claret, the warmth, and the relief of having got the interview with Mrs Chalfont over, was in such a good mood that he was not even tempted to laugh, let alone sigh. Though he did avoid Cherry’s eye as he assured the fat old gentleman that it was no rumour, and described the Royal occasion in some detail. None of them gave Mrs Daveney or Mrs Chalfont another thought; and it must be admitted that these ladies were not deserving of their thoughts.

    “A toast!” said Uncle Ketteridge as, being now replete, what with the excellent suet pudding, the sweetmeat tart of chopped peel and roast hazelnuts in soft custard and the little quince-filled kickshaws (of which Miss Chalfont appeared extra-fond, for she certainly ate a large number of them, to her false fiancé’s amusement), the gentlemen passed the brandy bottle.

    Cherry had been allowed half a glass of claret, which she had never tasted before, and was rather flown on that and the delicious food and the relief of having got the interview with her mother over. “Yes!” she said with a giggle, raising her empty glass. “To meals in private parlours!”

    “I am glad you enjoyed it,” said Sir Noël with a smile, “but I apprehend Mr Ketteridge intends a true toast.”

    “Out of course!” beamed the old man. “To the young couple: best wishes to the both of you, me dears.”

    Cherry bit her lip, as Uncle Ketteridge and Merry raised their glasses and drank, smiling.

    Noël shot her a glance out of the corner of his eye. “Thank you,” he said smoothly, rising to his feet. “Now: with the indulgence of the company, I should like to make a short speech in reply. I promise not to go on for above half an hour by that clock on the mantel, and duly to bore the company into tears, or at the least into a warm doze, as is traditional on these occasions—”

    “Sit down!” called Merry loudly, choking.

    “Order!” spluttered Uncle Ketteridge, rapping the table, and laughing himself alarmingly violet in the face.

    To Sir Noël’s relief his false fiancée went into a great fit of the giggles, and the awkward moment passed.

    “Those ki’shaws were good,” murmured Cherry, as they sat back in the carriage. She yawned, and removed her bonnet. “This is so cosy.”

    “Mm,” he said, pulling the fur-lined rug up around her. “Go to sleep.”

    Cherry closed her eyes

    She slept all the way back. The bonnet was soon in danger of sliding off the rug onto the floor of the carriage: Sir Noël rescued it and sat holding it, an odd, arrested expression on his handsome face, for the rest of the journey.