Bath Talks Again

36

Bath Talks Again

    It was not yet quite August but the Laidlaws had returned to Lymmond Square after a short sojourn with Charlotte’s sister Nellie. More than long enough, in Jack’s opinion.

    “There’ll be the Devil to pay, now: the brats have discovered that Lady Benedict’s given her brats two pugs,” he reported glumly to his spouse.

    “Indeed?” responded Charlotte arctically.

    Jack sighed. It wasn’t his fault that Charlotte’s sister Nellie was a whining ninny who had married a fool. But at this precise juncture he did not point it out.

    “Odd,” pronounced the thin Miss Carey definitively.

    The plump Miss Diddy looked dubious. “But Selina, no doubt he is in Bath because of his uncle’s happy event.”

    “A man-about-town like Noël Amory? Rubbish.”

    “Buh—but would it not be his heir?” she faltered. “He is not a married man, and...”

    Miss Carey watched in annoyance as her sister proceeded to do involved calculations on her fingers, moving her lips silently.

    “I am sure it would be Sir Noël’s heir!” she announced defiantly.

    “Nevertheless, I repeat: rubbish.”

    “Many men are fond of babies!” cried Miss Diddy, going very red.

    “True. However, I would wager my best necklet that Sir Noël Amory is not one of them. Though I would also wager,” she added icily, “that you will not discover what he is up to by lurking behind those curtains in a manner hardly becoming a gentlewoman.”

    Miss Diddy ignored this injunction with an angry toss of her head. “It will serve you out, Selina, if the Richard Amorys do not ask you to the christening!”

    Miss Carey did not reply. Though it was true that her sister’s words had touched a nerve.

    “And Lady Benedict is so back!”

    “Nonsense.”

    Miss Diddy pouted. “Very well, if Sir Noël is not in Bath on his uncle’s account, perhaps he is here on dear little Cherry’s!”

    “That would be odd, indeed. She is not back in Bath.”

    “But she is!” she gasped.

    Miss Carey opened her mouth to scoff again but before she could do so her sister gasped: “There she is! Just going into her mother’s house!”

    Sad to relate, Miss Carey forgot the conduct becoming a gentlewoman and rushed to join her sister at the window.

    “The family is back, certainly: they had the last two of Angela of Borrowdale’s pups from the unfortunate litter off me,” said Mr Ninian Dalrymple composedly, laying down his teacup. “Not that they are puppies any more, bless them!”

    “Oh,” said Mrs Henry Kernohan, rather disconcerted, and ignoring the entire canine reference. “Well, perhaps it is just that Lady Benedict was not at home to visitors yesterday...”

    “But Mamma, the butler said in so many words that she was not back,” objected Miss Kernohan.

    Well, quite. Mrs Henry had not yet been ready to reveal that point to Mr Ninian—not until she had got to the bottom of it, and made quite sure that an insult to herself did not lie at the bottom of it. She reddened, and said repressively: “There must have been some mistake, Proserpine. Please pass Mr Ninian the seedy sale.”

    Miss Kernohan passed Mr Ninian the seedy cake.

    Mrs Henry took a deep breath. “But you have not yet heard our good news, Mr Ninian!”

    Of course he had: it was all over Bath; but he looked expectant and allowed Mrs Henry to tell him of Miss Tarry’s engagement to the Reverend Mr Llewellyn-Jones.

    Sir Noël lurked behind his grandmother’s sitting-room curtains, fidgeting.

    “Noël, pray stop that lurking and fidgeting,” sighed Lady Amory.

    Scowling, he replied: “If I could just— I am certain those brats fighting in the square garden are Lady Benedict’s.”

    “The red-headed ones are the Laidlaws,” she sighed.

    “Yes, but—” Noël peered, scowled, and fidgeted. “Stay: what if I ride out to Doubleday House and collect Lizzie?”

    His grandmother returned coolly: “Using brute force, I presume?”

    “Eh? Oh, the monkey, too.”

    “It is not the monkey from which you will have to drag her away, Noël.”

    “Eh? Oh,” he said with a silly smile. “No, of course: Master Dickon Amory! Well, dare say she ain’t nothin’ but a nuisance round the house at a time like this.”

    “I dare say, but if you are proposing to send her forth into the square garden as your spy, allow me to veto the notion now,” said old Lady Amory coldly.

    He went very red. “No such thing! Curse it, Grandmamma, the damned butler told me the household is not back, but I have seen the brats running in and out with my own eyes!”

    “Very possibly Lady Benedict and Cherry are not yet returned, however.”

    Sir Noël said nothing. He resumed his vigil, scowling and fidgeting.

    Behind his back old Lady Amory raised her brows very high, but said nothing more.

    It was not the august Mrs Throgmorton’s custom in the warmer months to leave her large and commodious house in Bath for less comfortable accommodations somewhere where it would be even hotter. This year, she had once again remained in residence.

    “I think you will like this, Mrs Witherspoon,” she said graciously. “A receet my dear Mamma had off the Countess of Hubbel herself.”

    June Chalfont’s mamma hated anything with gooseberry in it. Hated it. But she did not dare to refuse a slice of Mrs Throgmorton’s mamma’s, or possibly, if one believed Mrs Throgmorton, the Countess of Hubbel’s gooseberry cake.

    “The fruit, you see, is sieved and mixed into the dough,” added Mrs Throgmorton on a smug note.

    It was ghastly: ghastly! Poor Mrs Witherspoon swallowed and smiled bravely. “Very unusual indeed, Mrs Throgmorton.”

    Mrs Throgmorton looked smug. “Thank you. Remind me to give you the receet.”

    That meant that she would have to ask Cook to make the horrid thing, because quite undoubtedly Mrs Throgmorton would find out if she did not! June’s mamma smiled palely.

    Mrs Throgmorton then put her through a relentless interrogation on the subjects of Cherry’s broken engagement, Cherry’s abrupt disappearance from Bath, and Merry’s and June’s plans for his inheritance.

    “Not live in the house? My dear Mrs Witherspoon! You cannot be serious!”

    “N—Uh— Dear Meredith says it holds no happy memories for him,” she faltered.

    Mrs Throgmorton raised her lorgnette. “I think you must have misunderstood what your son-in-law said. That is scarcely a reason for getting rid of a fine house in such an excellent position. Why, some of our best families reside in Lymmond Square.”

    Yes, especially the ones with the snarling pugs fighting all over the Square garden, thought Mrs Witherspoon, a vivid recollection of her most recent visit, but yester morning, horridly bright in her mind. She smiled palely.

    ... “Oh, John, it was dreadful!” she reported. “And then she tried to get me to confess that Sir Noël Amory is still at his grandmamma’s!”

    John Witherspoon was not a man of many words—possibly because his older brother, Dean Witherspoon, was very much so. Now he quietly removed something from her clenched fist. “We are not responsible for Sir Noël’s actions, Miranda.”

    Mrs Witherspoon shuddered. “No, but Mrs Throgmorton makes one feel as if one is! And she refused utterly to believe that Merry does not wish to keep his mother’s house!”

    “Then she will be in for a surprise when a new family moves in. What is this, my dear?” he added, unfolding it.

    “What? Oh, John: it’s a receet for the most dreadful thing you ever tasted: a ghastly gooseberry cake! She forced it upon me, and you know what she is: she will be sure to find out if I do not order Cook to make it!”

    “A ghastly gooseberry cake, eh?” he murmured.

    Mrs Witherspoon gulped. “Mm.”

    Grinning, Mr Witherspoon said: “You’d better tell her to make it, then, my love. For Mrs Throgmorton’s consequence is such,” he explained with a twinkle in his eye, “that it will not occur to her, once she has ascertained that Cook actually made the thing, that we may be lying in our teeth when we assure her we ate it.”

    Mrs Witherspoon gulped again, and collapsed in giggles.

    “That’s better,” he said mildly, patting her shoulder.

    Blowing her nose and smiling, Mrs Witherspoon admitted: “I think she does not suspect that Cherry is back in Bath.”

    “Good. Long may it last!” he said with feeling.

    “The thing is,” said Tarry with a sigh: “if I have Horty to be my matron of honour, Angie’s and Vi’s noses will be out of joint.”

    Kitty Hallam swallowed a mouthful of tea hurriedly, nodding. “Yes.”

    Jenny Proudfoot’s mouth was full of cake, so she merely nodded hard.

    “Though it is usual, my dear, to have only the one matron of honour,” murmured Mrs Anthony Hallam. –Mrs Anthony had lately decided not to allow Kitty quite so much laxity in the matter of entertaining her own friends in private.

    “Yes, I know, Mrs Anthony,” agreed Tarry. “And Horty was the only one of the family that did not treat dear Nan quite shamefully, last year!”

    “Why not have Lady Benedict herself?” suggested Kitty.

    Jenny swallowed cake hurriedly. “Not above her own sisters, Kitty!”

    “No, I think I agree with Jenny,” said Mrs Anthony

    Tarry nodded. “Then it shall be Horty. And if Angie and Vi object I shall tell them—nicely but firmly,” she said, frowning over it, “just why I chose her over them. I shall call on Horty directly, and then we may both go round to Lymmond Square and give Nan the good news!”

    At this an odd expression appeared on Mrs Anthony’s lovely face.

    “What is it, Mrs Anthony?” asked Tarry politely.

    “Oh—nothing, my dear,” she murmured.

    “Got bored with Vaudequays, did you. Jack?” drawled Jack Laidlaw.

    Jack Beresford gave him a glare. “I got bored with all the damned billing and cooing, yes!”

    “Oh?”

    “Mamma predicts Keywes will offer for May before the summer is out,” Mr Beresford elaborated sourly. “Deal!”

    Mr Laidlaw dealt cards slowly. “What’s the matter? Don’t you care for Keywes?

    “Eh? Oh, he’s a decent fellow. Bit of a prude, perhaps. None the worse for that.”

    Mr Laidlaw watched as his cousin picked up his hand and sorted it. “So if Keywes ain’t the problem, what is, Jack?”

    “Nothing,” he said sourly. “Just bored, I suppose. Are we playin’, or not?”

    They played vingt-et-un. Mr Beresford won the hand. He merely shrugged, and suggested: “Shall we stroll across the square and see if Baldaya’s in?”

    Mr Laidlaw agreeing to this proposal, they strolled out into a sunny, drowsy afternoon.

    “Damned odd,” he muttered as they were turned politely away from Lady Benedict’s door.

    “What, Baldaya goin’ off to Portugal? I suppose he went with his old uncle; what is odd about that?” returned Mr Beresford.

    Jack Laidlaw swallowed. He took his cousin’s arm confidentially. “Look, don’t breathe a word to Charlotte, Jack, but I’m damn’ sure, whatever the butler may say, that the family is in residence. –Not young Dom: dare say it’s true he’s off to Portugal. But my Georgey was saying only t’other day that Lady B. has just got her brats two pugs off Ninian Dalrymple.”

    “Er...” Mr Beresford rubbed his chin. “In person?” he ventured.

    “I did not interrogate Georgey on the point, but what else? And if the brats are back, she will be.”

    “Dare say she may have sent ’em back with the governess.”

    Jack Laidlaw thought it over. “Not Lady Benedict.”

    “No, look, this is ridiculous, Jack! She cannot be back! For if she is not at home to visitors, why not just tell the fellow to say so, rather than claim she ain’t in Bath at all?”

    Mr Laidlaw shrugged.

    Mr Beresford looked at him sideways. “Um... Couldn’t be doing it for spite, could she? I mean to say, less than six months back the whole damned town was cutting her, y’know.”

    “We weren’t,” noted his cousin.

    “Uh—no,” he said, very disconcerted.

    The cousins walked on slowly.

    “It is odd,” concluded Mr Beresford. “Damned odd.”

    “How very odd,” said Horty Yelden in a shaken voice. Lady Benedict’s butler had just informed her that her Ladyship was not yet in residence.

    Tarry replied sensibly: “Well, perhaps she is not back after all.”

    “No-o...”

    The Kernohan sisters returned to the barouche. Tarry waited, but nothing happened. “Horty, tell your driver where to go,” she prompted.

    The plump Mrs Yelden came to with a start. “Um—where shall we go?” she said feebly.

    Tarry bent forward and ordered the driver to go to the Dorian Kernohans’ house. “What is it?” she murmured, squeezing her sister’s hand, as they set off.

    “Tarry, I am absolutely positive that Lady Benedict is back in Bath!” she whispered. “Last Sunday we saw Miss Gump at Evensong, and she said they were all home again. Why did the butler say Lady Benedict is not yet back?”

    “Um, well, perhaps he meant...” Tarry thought it over. “No: Nan must be up to something! I wonder what it can be?” she said with shining eyes.

    Mrs Yelden looked at her in horror. Tarry did not at all present the picture of a demure Miss affianced to a coming young clergyman of the Church of England; but she could not think how to convince her that if Lady Benedict were up to something her fiancé would not care for her to become involved. Oh dear, oh dear: possibly Mamma was right, and it had been a mistake to get to know Lady Benedict at all!

    “Please excuse the earliness of the hour, Mrs Laidlaw,” said Major-General Cadwallader stiffly, “but I thought I had best bring this back.” He held out a little dog.

    Charlotte looked at it limply.

    “Found him in my breakfast parlour this morning. Not a notion how he got in, ma’am. Thought the little girl might be fretting over him.”

    “But—” Charlotte had seen with her own eyes, not five minutes since, Georgey putting a yellow ribbon round the martyred Pug Laidlaw’s fat neck. This pug had a red leather collar. And it did not look quite so fat. She took a deep breath. “I do not think this is Georgey’s dog, General, but I will check. Just one moment, please.”

    The question was speedily resolved: a ring on the bell produced Adam Ames, and a minute later Adam Ames produced Georgey and Pug Laidlaw.

    “Grab him!” yelled the Major-General as the gallant Pug Laidlaw, snarling terribly, leapt for the intruder’s throat.

    Adam and Georgey flung themselves on Pug.

    “I’m sorry!” cried Charlotte loudly as Pug, Georgey and Adam Ames wrestled at the Major-General’s feet. “I think it may belong to the Benedict children.”

    “Right you are, ma’am! Deepest apologies!” he cried. He exited forthwith, gripping the unknown pug tightly.

    Once the front door had closed after the invader, Pug Laidlaw allowed himself to be conquered.

    “He was defending his house,” said Georgey with a horrible pout.

    “Aye, they’ll do that, madam. Good watchdogs, pugs,” said the partisan Adam Ames.

    “Yes,” said Charlotte with a sigh. “Very well, Georgey, I am not cross. Just get him out of my sight. –No, wait: whose is that other dog?”

    Georgey replied aggressively: “It’s Clara Vane’s, and it’s a stupid dog, and it’s only half pug in any case!”

    Charlotte took a deep breath. “Go away, Georgiana Laidlaw, before I lose my temper.”

    Pouting, but keeping a tight grip on Pug Laidlaw, Georgey flounced out.

    “Madam—”

    “Adam, if you know anything about that other pug, speak. Otherwise, please hold your peace,” said Charlotte dangerously.

    “It’s one of Lady Benedict’s little dogs, madam.”

    Charlotte took another deep breath. “Thank you, Adam,” she said with terrible restraint.

    Adam Ames bowed and exited hurriedly.

    Furiously Charlotte seized a cushion and hurled it across the room.

    “Noël, pray stop pacing,” said his grandmother with a sigh.

    “Grandmamma, the woman is deliberately hiding Cherry from me, I am convinced of it!”

    “But perhaps Lady Benedict is truly not home.”

    “Really, Grandmamma! At this moment the square is filled with the woman’s brats and dogs!”

    “Let us work it out quietly. You did not see either Lady Benedict or Cherry when you delivered the boy, did you? –I forget his name.”

    “Dicky,” he groaned. “No. As I said, I saw the butler and the Gump female.”

    “There is no evidence, then.”

    Noël sighed. “I shall have to see Meredith Chalfont again, and bully him, I suppose.”

    “He has about as much backbone as a blancmanger,” she acknowledged. “I cannot see him standing up to you, certainly. So what are you afraid of, Noël?”

    “Afraid? I am not—” He broke off.

    “Yes?”

    “I suppose I am afraid that he will tell me the truth,” he said in a low voice.

    Lady Amory gave him a dry look. “Mm.”

    “Naturally you are always welcome, Charles,” said Captain Quarmby-Vine’s sister. “But why?”

    “Yes: why?” agreed Paul Ketteridge, grinning at his brother-in-law. “Nothin’ you can sail your boat on hereabouts, y’know!”

    The Captain smiled feebly.

    “And Bath is stuffy at this time of year,” continued Mr Ketteridge, grinning all over his handsome, high-coloured face.

    “I thought it were stuffy all the time!” retorted the Captain brilliantly.

    “Touché!” he choked. “No, truly, old boy: thought you was down at Brighton?”

    “I was. Just thought a change would be pleasant.”

    “Uh-huh. Go to old Whatsisname’s summer theatrics this year, did you?”

    “What if I did?” returned the Captain, frowning.

    Paul Ketteridge collapsed in sniggers.

    “What have you heard?” demanded the Captain loudly, turning puce.

    Mr Ketteridge continued to snigger.

    “Look, she is vouched for by Wellington himself, and the Embassy!” he cried.

    Mr Ketteridge was in a delirium. Tears oozed out of his eyes.

    “Paul, stop it!” said his wife sharply.

    Mr Ketteridge gasped and wheezed but eventually recovered himself sufficiently to say: “She ain’t here, old boy. Several people have called. The household ain’t back.”

    “Who are you TALKING about?” shouted Mrs Ketteridge, at the end of her tether.

    “The Portuguese Widow, old girl: Lady Benedict!” grinned her spouse.

    “But she is back!” she cried. “I saw her myself, only two days since!”

    “Where?” said the Captain eagerly.

    “It was when I was coming back from Doubleday House—”

    “Don’t bother to tell him how sweet the Amory infant is,” groaned her husband.

    Glaring, Mrs Ketteridge continued: “Well, he is! But as I was saying, Charles, we stopped off at a little out-of-the-way inn—well, I had the girls with me, so I thought we might have a little picknick—”

    “Priscilla, get on with it: the girls will be grandmothers by the time you have finished,” groaned her husband.

    Glaring, Mrs Ketteridge proceeded: “And she was there. Well, I have never been introduced, but it was certainly she. Hers is a very recognizable figure.”

    “Unmistakeable,” agreed Mr Ketteridge, eying his brother-in-law drily.

    “Well, good: I shall call!” said Captain Quarmby-Vine on a defiant note.

    Under his wife’s glare, Paul Ketteridge merely replied limply: “Very well, old boy: you do that.”

    As soon as they were alone, however, he said: “Look here, Priscilla, this is dashed odd. When you saw her, was Lady Benedict just breaking her journey?”

    “What?”

    “You know: did she have a post-chaise or some such?”

    “No. They were picknicking also. They had a barouche.”

    He stared at her, frowning.

    After a moment Mrs Ketteridge also began to frown. “Oh,” she said slowly.

    “Mm. Well, if she don’t wish to have anything to do with the good citizens of Bath,” said Paul Ketteridge drily, “they have most certainly brought it on themselves.”

    “Delightful!” twittered Miss Sissy Laidlaw over the teacups.

    “Thank you,” said Charlotte dully. “It is a receet of Nellie’s mamma-in-law’s.”

    “My dear, is anything wrong?”

    “N— Well, have you called on Lady Benedict, Aunt Sissy?”

    “Oh, no, my love! Well, I did knock, you know, but the good Troope assures me she is not yet returned from Sussex.”

    “Mm,” said Charlotte, biting her lip.

    Miss Sissy continued to twitter, but Charlotte did not hear a word.

    “Well, I am sure if she is home she is not admitting to it!” said Mrs Peregrine Yattersby on a pettish note.

    “But—” began Mr Ninian Dalrymple.

    “Yes?”

    Mr Ninian thought better of it.

    Lady Amory removed her gloves slowly. “Oh—there you are, dear boy,” she said in a vague voice as Sir Noël emerged from the library.

     Noël came to kiss her cheek. “How are Delphie and Master Dickon?”

    “Blooming, I am glad to say. –Come in here, my dear,” she said, drawing him into the sitting-room.

    “What is it?” said Noël, when she was seated.

    “I think—now, I am not sure, Noël, so pray do not go flying off at a tangent—but I think I caught a glimpse of Cherry just then, as we came round the square.”

    “Where, exactly?” he said tensely.

    “Er—the shrubs are in such heavy leaf that I could not truly say whether she was going into her mother’s house or Lady Benedict’s.” She watched limply as her well-mannered grandson rushed out without excusing himself.

    He was back in less than ten minutes.

    “Well?” she said without hope.

    “The Chalfont house is locked and shuttered still.”

    “And?”

    “And Lady Benedict’s butler is still maintaining that we are not to believe the evidence of our own eyes!” he said loudly and angrily.

    The old lady took a deep breath. “Should you care for me to call, my dear?”

    “I—” Noël bit his lip. “Yes. Thank you very much, Grandmamma,” he said in a stifled voice. “Pray excuse me.” He hurried out.

    Lady Amory shook her head very slowly. “Well, I cannot like it,” she murmured, “but it is certainly teaching you a little about humility, my dear boy; not to say about the disappointments that those less fortunate in life commonly have to bear.”

    “How very odd!” said Miss Diddy excitedly.

    Miss Carey sighed. Diddy was yet again at the front curtains. There seemed little point in pointing out the unseemliness of this behaviour. “What is it now?”

    “Major-General Cadwallader has just gone into Lady Benedict’s house!”

    In view of an earlier report by Diddy, which she was very nearly certain was spurious, Miss Carey retorted on an acid note: “With or without a pug dog?”

    “If Horty did not get in, you will not, Jo!” said Tarry with a giggle.

    Mrs Dorian Kernohan replied firmly: “Nevertheless I shall try it.” She got out of the barouche and mounted the short flight of steps outside the Benedict residence, looking determined.

    “Well?” said Tarry as she returned to the barouche.

    Mrs Dorian took a deep breath. “The butler said she is not in residence. Which in my opinion,” she said very firmly, “means nothing more than that she is not in residence. Whatever Miss Gump told Horty at church was obviously so muddled that she misunderstood it. And I do think it was very unkind in you to encourage poor Horty to believe that Lady Benedict is deliberately trying to fool the whole of Bath, and her along with it.”

    Tarry opened her mouth.

    “And I was hoping not to have to say this, Tarry,” said her sister-in-law on a firm note, “but what would Mr Llewellyn-Jones think of such conduct?”

    Terry turned scarlet. “But—”

    “Just think about it. Who is more likely to be correct, Lady Benedict’s butler or that silly governess?” She leant forward and directed the coachman to drive on.

    After quite some time Miss Tarragona said: “It is suspicious in itself that the butler is answering the door in person!”

    Mrs Dorian took a very deep breath and did not reply.

    “Very well, then, I shall not say a word more on the subject!” she cried crossly.

    “Very wise,” her sister-in-law agreed grimly.

    Lady Amory looked Lady Benedict’s butler firmly in the eye. “I am Lady Amory. Is Lady Benedict at home?”

    Troope replied respectfully: “I regret to inform your Ladyship that Lady Benedict is not in residence.”

    Lady Amory left her card and retreated, looking grim.

    “Well?” said Noël without hope.

    “Let me put it this way. There must be some good in the woman if she can attract such capable servants who will lie in their teeth for her.”

    “You see?” he cried. “She is deliberately keeping Cherry from me!”

    “Er—yes,” she said on an odd note. “Possibly.”

    “Possibly? What can you mean, Grandmamma?”

    “Oh... Well, I think it not unlikely, my dear. But possibly it is not her only motive for closing her door to all comers. If she is as headstrong and determined as you have led me to believe—and even a fraction as headstrong as her mother—she may very well have decided that since Bath turned up its collective nose at her, she will have nothing to do with Bath when it does wish to receive her.”

    “That would be her all over!” cried the baronet.

    Lady Amory merely nodded calmly.

    “I suppose you will advise me to give it up!” he said bitterly.

    “No,” she said mildly. “I shall not advise you at all.”

    Noël bit his lip. “No. I beg your pardon. I—I shall not give Cherry up. And most certainly I shall not abandon her to the clutches of a spoilt, wayward, and largely unprincipled woman such as Lady Benedict!”

    “Good,” said his grandmother calmly.

    Mrs Proudfoot dragged her eyes away from the compelling sight of Leonora of Borrowdale, Joseph IV of Borrowdale and Leonard of Borrowdale unwinkingly watching their master slowly fork sponge cake into his mouth. “I believe Lady Benedict had two of your dear little dogs off you, Mr Ninian,” she said brightly.

    “That is quite correct, Mrs Proudfoot.”

    “They are so sweet,” sighed Jenny Proudfoot. “I do like that one with the pink collar, Mr Ninian. It has such a wise expression!”

    “That is Leonora of Borrowdale, Miss Proudfoot. One of my queens,” he said complacently. “—Are you not, my pet?”

    Leonora of Borrowdale panted and looked up at him, or possibly at his sponge cake, adoringly.

    Jenny sighed. “I see. You mean she is a mother dog, Mr Ninian?”

    “The mother of champions, Miss Proudfoot!”

    Jenny looked sadly at the mother of champions and gave up the faint hope that a miracle might occur and Mamma might let her have the little cream dog with the pink collar for her very own.

    “Quite recently, was this, Mr Ninian?” asked Mrs Proudfoot artlessly.

    “Relatively recently, yes, Mrs Proudfoot,” said Mr Ninian sweetly. He eyed her blandly. “Why do you ask?”

    “Oh—no particular reason!” said Mrs Proudfoot with an airy laugh.

    Mr Ninian smiled blandly.

    Miss Diddy went up Lady Benedict’s steps with a determined expression on her face and a basket in her hand.

    Troope greeted her politely and informed her that although Lady Benedict was not yet in residence, Miss Gump and the children would be delighted with the little cakes.

    Miss Diddy retreated down the steps of the Benedict residence, looking very cross.

    Mrs Throgmorton drew off her gloves slowly, considerately giving old Mrs Hart time to recover from her flutter at having such a distinguished caller grace her little gabled room.

    Polite enquiries after the bedridden Mrs Hart’s health, her numerous relatives, and their health ensued. Graciously Mrs Throgmorton then supplied Mrs Hart with a few choice morsels of news relating to the health of her own august family. Not neglecting the information that the head of her family—not the Throgmorton side, she explained with a gesture that in a less majestic, not to say less massive, woman might have been a toss of the head—had recently passed away, and the title had gone to a mere nephew. Mrs Hart appeared most gratified to hear this news, so Mrs Throgmorton then imparted the shocking fact that the heir had had the audacity to pull down the family home!

    Mrs Hart duly expressed sympathetic shock and horror.

    This was well received, and Mrs Throgmorton noted graciously how pleased her late husband’s distinguished connexion, Mr Hugh Throgmorton of Wenderholme, had been with Miss Chalfont when he met her in London. Old Mrs Hart gave a pale smile, and nodded.

    “Dear Miss Chalfont is back in Bath, I believe,” Mrs Throgmorton then remarked, not quite making a question of it.

    Mrs Hart, very red, looked her firmly in the eye and said: “Oh, no. You are quite mistaken.”

    Very satisfied, Mrs Throgmorton turned the conversation.

    Mr Ninian Dalrymple went up Lady Benedict’s steps. From behind her front parlour curtains Miss Diddy watched him, her mouth slightly open.

    “There!” she gasped. “He has gone in!”

    Miss Carey took a deep breath. “You know how careful Mr Ninian is of the homes to which he sends his little dogs. Diddy: without any doubt at all he has merely called to assure himself— Why am I bothering?” she sighed.

    The warm weather did not entirely agree with General Lowell, and he had himself conveyed to Lymmond Square in a chair. He mounted Lady Benedict’s steps breathing stertorously, with a great bunch of flowers in his hand.

    Twenty seconds later he was observed retreating down the steps, scowling.

    “Wait,” said Charlotte, grasping her husband’s arm strongly.

    It was a mild evening: they were taking a pleasant constitutional round the square. Obligingly Mr Laidlaw waited, not perceiving what she was waiting for. After a few moments, however. he became aware of the direction of his wife’s glance—nay, glare.

    “Now, look, Charlotte—”

    “Just wait,” she said grimly.

    Glumly Mr Laidlaw waited while an elegant figure that might have been Sir Noël Amory’s mounted Lady Benedict’s steps—and retreated again.

    “So what does that prove?” he said heavily.

    “I am going over th—”

    “You are not!” he said, grasping her arm hard. “You have called three times this past week, and enough is enough!”

    “Jack, there must be something wrong! If anyone is ill, I can understand her not admitting callers, but why does she not admit me? And do not dare to say it must be infectious, for if it were she would not permit her children to play with ours!”

    “No,” he agreed glumly.

    “Well?” she said fiercely.

    “Lord, I don’t know, Charlotte!” Incautiously he admitted: “I saw Cherry with my own eyes t’other morning—”

    “What?” she cried.

    “Hush. Um, yes. Coming out of Lady B.’s and going into her mother’s house. Well, two minutes later June Chalfont and her mother drove up, so I suppose they were intending to sort out—”

    “But I called on old Mrs Hart only this morning. and she told me Cherry is not yet back!”

    “Look, Charlotte, if Cherry is keeping out of Sir Noël’s way, it ain’t no business of ours. Just leave it—leave the whole thing!”

    “But I would never betray her!” she cried, very red. “Why do they not trust me?”

    Why, indeed? Mr Laidlaw sighed.

    “And Major-General Cadwallader got in with that pug dog!” she cried.

    At the end of his tether, her spouse was driven to reply: “Then I suggest you make a formal call with Pug, Charlotte!”

    “Hullo, my dears; how are you today?” cooed Miss Diddy.

    Georgey, Amrita, Mina and Clara eyed her suspiciously: in general children did not very much like Miss Diddy, perhaps because she was too fulsome with them.

    “And today you all have your little dogs with you!” cooed Miss Diddy, undeterred by the lack of response. “Are they not adorable? Now, I know this must be Pug Laidlaw, Georgey, dear; and what is your one’s name?” she said to Amrita.

    Warily Amrita replied: “She ees only half mine.”

    “Charming!” said Miss Diddy a little trill of laughter. “I think I do not know your little friend, do I?” She smiled ingratiatingly at Clara Vane.

    The children eyed her suspiciously. No-one spoke.

    “So what is your sweet doggie’s name, dear?”

    Glaring, Clara Vane replied: “Ivanhoe, and ’e ain’t sweet, and you watch it, or ’e’ll bite!”

    “Yes! Pugs are fierce!” agreed Georgey with horrid satisfaction, sticking out her lower lip aggressively.

    “When he was in London Pug Chalfont fought a horrible dog almost to the death!” agreed Mina, glaring at Miss Diddy.

    Miss Diddy gave a little squeak. “How dreadful! But your dear little dog would not do that; would you, doggie?” she said to the panting little dog in the blue harness.

    “Yes, he would, too, because this is Pug Chalfont!” cried Mina.

    “Yes: Dicky says he ees famed een deed and story,” agreed Amrita, glaring.

    “Er—yes.” Miss Diddy eyed Pug Chalfont nervously. “Well, hold tight to his lead, dear.”

    “I do not need to,” said Mina defiantly, immediately releasing him, “for he is the best-trained dog in England! –SIT!” she said terribly.

    Pug Chalfont sat.

    Nevertheless Miss Diddy fancied he had a nasty look in his bulgy eye. She smiled palely, bade them all good-bye, and hurried out of the square’s garden.

    She was almost at her own front door when it dawned on her. She swung round with a gasp, but too late: the door of Lady Benedict’s house was just closing on the children and the dogs. Including Miss Chalfont’s pug.

    “Very well, Diddy!” shouted the driven Miss Carey. “If you are so sure the presence of a pug dog proves Cherry Chalfont is hidden in Lady Benedict’s house, pray call at Lady Amory’s and inform Sir Noël of it! I am sure he will be delighted to hear it! But I regret I must decline the treat of watching Lady Amory’s face as you say it!”

    Miss Diddy was so cross with her that she very nearly almost went.

    Angie Kernohan Ketteridge’s report to Mrs Anthony Hallam that Aunt Paul Ketteridge had seen Lady Benedict with her own eyes picknicking at an obscure spot off the road to Doubleday House—days ago—had met with a polite smile only. Undeterred, Angie went round to Mamma’s house and reported it to Mrs Henry and Miss Kernohan.

    Mrs Henry’s reaction was an annoyed: “Really, Angelica! What nonsense! –No, I refuse to listen to another word. And permit me to tell you, my dear, that a woman’s marriage lines do not constitute, as your Ketteridge connexions would seem to believe, a licence for unbridled gossip.”

    Angie looked frantically towards Prosy for enlightenment, but Miss Kernohan avoided her eye.

    Charlotte drank tea dispiritedly. “I suppose one could sink so low as to interrogate Adam Ames. –His brother Pip has just gained a post as junior footman at the Benedict house.”

    Her friend Mrs Humboldt nodded eagerly. “Then he will know!”

    “Evelina, if I did sink so low—and I admit I am very tempted—Jack would never let me hear the last of it,” said Charlotte heavily.

    “Oh. No,” admitted Mrs Humboldt. “Um, how is the cake, Charlotte?”

    “What? Oh!” Charlotte endeavoured to pull herself together. “Delicious. A great success.”

    “Thank you,” said Evelina, smiling very much. “I think it is not so delicious as your famous orange cake, but I am very pleased with the receet. And can you guess what is in it?”

    Charlotte tried to concentrate on cake, without much success. It was so maddening, knowing that Pip Ames was just over the square from them! ...No, she could not. Not really.

    The Carey sisters were sitting in the Lymmond Square garden. Miss Carey had consented to take a joint breath of fresh air on the condition that Diddy did not mention the words “Lady Benedict”, “Cherry Chalfont” or “Sir Noël Amory.” Or, as an afterthought, “pug.”

    The garden at the moment was blessedly free of quarrelling children and snarling pugs. Miss Carey sighed, and relaxed.

    “Look!”

    “Diddy—”

    “No. but look! That lady is getting in!” she gasped.

    Miss Carey looked, in spite of herself.  Sure enough, the lady who had just alighted from a chair was being admitted to Lady Benedict’s house.

    “Well!” said Miss Diddy. “Now, who...”

    Miss Carey thought she had recognised Mrs Dorian Kernohan’s delightful relative Mrs Stewart, but she had no intention of saying so to her sister. She rose. “I shall take a walk.”

    “Yes, dear,” said Miss Diddy, not attending. Her protuberant blue eyes remained firmly on Lady Benedict’s house. How exciting! For only this morning she had herself observed Mr Beresford, Mrs and Miss Grainger, a burly gentleman with the appearance of a military or naval man, Sir Noël Amory, and Mrs Humboldt and her sister, Miss Jenny Proudfoot—in that order—all being refused admittance!

    “That,” said Mrs Throgmorton slowly over the teacups, “is very odd, Miss Sissy.”

    Miss Sissy Laidlaw had merely reported that Charlotte’s Adam Ames had been so pleased to be able to place his younger brother with Lady Benedict. She goggled at Mrs Throgmorton in a terrified manner.

    “Unless,” said Mrs Throgmorton slowly, “she has deputed the butler to deal with the hiring of the menservants.’

    “Er—well, yes, I think that is not unusual?” squeaked Miss Sissy.

    “Hm.”

    “Oh! Delightful!” cried Horty Yelden, holding up the cobweb-fine infant’s shawl. “I never saw such fine work in my life!”

    Delphie Amory smiled very much. “It is lovely, is it not? Such a kind gift; and I do not know her, though she is Lizzie’s cousin. Though Richard met her in London, of course.”

    “Who, Mrs Amory?” asked Angie Ketteridge hoarsely.

    Delphie looked in some surprise at her younger visitor’s mottled puce face but replied politely: “Lady Benedict; her Mamma and Richard’s first wife were sisters.”

    “She—she— When did she send it, dear Mrs Amory?” faltered Horty.

    “Why, after our darling Dickon was born, of course!” said Mrs Amory with a laugh. “He was but two or three days old.”

    “Horty,” gasped Angie, “I swear that is within a day or two of the date you called!”

    Mrs Yelden was very flushed. “Angie, it does not mean anything,” she murmured.

    Delphie looked from one to the other of them in astonishment. “Why, is there some mystery here?” she said gaily.

    “No,” said Angie hurriedly, belatedly recalling that dear Mrs Amory was a new mother. “It was something and nothing. –The shawl is delightful.”

    “Yes,” agreed Horty faintly.

    Mrs Amory could see it was scarcely something and nothing, but did not pursue the topic.

    “That proves it!” cried Tarry. “Nan must be home!”

    Angie nodded triumphantly.

    Tarry grabbed her sister’s sleeve. “Did you ask whether Cherry had sent a gift or a note?” she demanded fiercely.

    “Um—no,” said Angie, her face falling ludicrously.

    “You idiot, Angie!”

    Since this dialogue was taking place in young Mrs Ketteridge’s own sitting-room, there was no-one to reprove Tarragona for this unladylike utterance, unworthy of the fiancée of Mr Llewellyn-Jones. Angie merely smiled palely and muttered: “Sorry. I never thought of it.”

    Mrs Waterhouse set down her teacup, looking dubious. “I would not. If she is not at home, there can be no point; and if she is in and does not admit one, then, er...”

    Mrs Throgmorton merely gave her a dry look.

    “Er—well, I suppose one cannot entirely blame her if she does not wish to socialize in Bath,” Mrs Waterhouse conceded, not quite meeting her friend’s eye.

    Mrs Throgmorton sniffed very slightly but owned: “My late husband’s connexion, Mr Hugh Throgmorton of Wenderholme, thinks very well of her.”

    To say truth Mrs Waterhouse was a little tired of the subject of the late Mr Throgmorton’s connexions, not to say of that of Mrs Throgmorton’s own august connexions. “So does Mr Paul Ketteridge’s connexion, Captain Quarmby-Vine,” she said with a faint litter. “And Priscilla Ketteridge maintains that all the gentlemen do!”

    “She also maintains that she saw Lady Benedict not three days since,” noted Mrs Throgmorton neutrally.

    “Well, yes. And that fool, Diddy Carey, will have it that she is home, but that she is hiding Cherry Chalfont—her word—from Sir Noël Amory.”

    “I shall call,” stated Mrs Throgmorton majestically.

    Mrs Waterhouse concealed a wince but did not repeat her point that in her place, she would not.

    “I have to admit, dear Lady Benedict,” Mr Ninian Dalrymple admitted over the teacups, “that rumours are rife in Bath.”

    “There! I knew eet!” cried Daphne angrily. “Miss Diddy Carey spies on us all day long, not to mention trying to get eento the house on the flimsiest of excuses!”

    “Hush,” said Nan, trying not to laugh. “Eet was only to be expected.’

    “Well, yes,” Mr Ninian admitted with a slight cough. “Er...” Miss Chalfont was not present in the sitting-room. “Is dear Miss Chalfont still adamant?”

    “In a word, yes,” said Iris, wincing.

    “She has accused Sir Noël of trying to run her life een a high-handed manner, Mr Ninian,” explained Daphne.

    Mr Ninian looked sympathetically at Miss Baldaya, who at this precise moment was cuddling Mrs Peter Pug upon her knee, and nodded.

    “I would not call it precisely high-handed, myself,” murmured Susan.

    “Perhaps not that,” Nan conceded. “But he ees certainly a man who ees accustomed to have hees own way een all theengs.”

    “Then we must hope that it will do him good not to have his own way, for a little,” said Mr Ninian sadly.

    “And pray that she weell come round!” added Daphne, nodding. “Though een England l theenk one does not light candles vairy much, does one, Mr Ninian? So eet ees hard to know what to do, really.”

    Poor Mr Ninian looked confusedly towards Lady Benedict.

    Trying not to laugh, Nan agreed hurriedly: “Vairy hard. Een especial as we are all convinced that Sir Noël ees au fond the right gentleman for Cherry!”

    “Perhaps dear Mrs Meredith Chalfont—” suggested Mr Ninian delicately.

    Nan, Iris and Susan winced, what time Daphne cried vividly: “Oh, but Cherry has accused poor June of being unable to see anything beyond the end of her nose, unless eet be babies and more babies!”

    Mr Ninian gulped.

    “We must give her time,” said Susan.

    “Oh, quite, Miss Benedict,” he agreed nicely. Privately wondering whether Bath would collectively explode of curiosity an Miss Chalfont were given more time to hide in Lady Benedict’s house while her hostess gave out she was not at home.

    The two younger ladies having betaken themselves upstairs to the little room Nan had designated as their private sitting-room, Iris groaned: “Pleasant though Mr Ninian is, and of course deserving of eternal gratitude as the source of pugs,”—Nan gulped in spite of herself—“I was in agony throughout his call. For God’s sake get rid of Lord S., Nan!”

    Nan replied mildly: “I am waiting unteell the ship ees sure to be well past Gibraltar.”

    “Look, forgive my frail witterings, but every day he stays in this house multiplies the risk to your reputation.”

    “Go away, eef your nerves cannot stand eet.”

    Iris sighed. “I cannot go away: from Dicky’s report the atmosphere at Vaudequays must rival Sita’s sharbut sandull for sickening syrupiness.”

    “Mm.”

    “And besides,” said Iris with a sigh. “if I am known to be here there is some faint hope that the shreds of your reputation may be salvaged.”

    “Pooh, my reputation ees not at reesk: you heard Mr Ninian, the whole town ees seething with speculation over my hiding Cherry!” she said, suddenly bursting out in loud giggles. “The lesser crime must hide the greater! How can they possibly suspect anytheeng worse?”

    Grinding her teeth, Iris left her.

    “Lumme,” said Mrs Urqhart placidly, setting down her teacup. “You don’t say so.”

    “Aunt Betsy, you must agree it is highly suspicious!” cried Tarry.

    “Oh, highly,” she said placidly.

    “Cherry has been seen!” urged Tarry.

    “By that Miss Diddy Carey?”

    “Quite,” agreed Mr Dorian Kernohan, very drily indeed.

    His little sister reddened. “Y— N— I am very nearly sure that Miss Carey also saw her!”

    Mrs Urqhart raised her eyebrows slightly. Mr Dorian’s smoothly good-looking face remained impassive.

    “And it is absolutely undeniable that Sir Noël Amory has been in Bath for over a fortnight!” added Tarry crossly.

    “And?” returned Mrs Urqhart calmly.

    “And—and has not been admitted to Nan’s house!”

    The old lady eyed her blandly. “He told you that, did he?”

    “NO!” she shouted, bouncing up. “Aunt Betsy, you are as bad as Dorian! I thought that you, at least, would grasp the logic of it!” The door closed sharply after her.

    Betsy Urqhart sniffed slightly. “I grasp the logic that the engagement period ain’t the easiest of times for a girl—aye.”

    “She will be better once Mr Llewellyn-Jones is back in Bath,” said Mrs Dorian.

    “That or worse: aye.”

    “Really, Aunt Betsy!” she said, trying not to laugh.

    Mrs Urqhart was not unaware that throughout the conversation Mrs Stewart had been determinedly avoiding her eye. She heaved herself to her feet. “Well, that were a refreshing cup o’ tea, Jo, me love, but if I’m to be fit to face your ma-in-law over the dinner table I’d best take my forty winks. –Mrs Stewart, lovey, you could give me your arm up the stairs.”

    The door closed behind the Dorian Kernohans’ two guests.

    After a moment the sapient Mr Dorian noted simply: “Hell. Something in it, after all.”

    Daphne peered cautiously out at the square. “She ees watching again.”

    Lewis was on the sofa with his feet up, reading a book. He was not quite sure whose book it was: a well-thumbed copy, in French, of the plays of Marivaux. The scrawled signature on the fly-leaf read, he thought, “Something Baldaya,” but he was not sure what. He had not asked Lady Benedict if the book were her own, not because he thought it must be, but because he was afraid it might not be and he did not wish to be disappointed.

    He lowered the book and murmured: “At this precise moment, then, Daphne, she is probably watching you watching.”

    Oddly, Miss Baldaya did not immediately go into sulks or pouts, but gave a loud giggle and said: “Yes! –Oh, dear, I would so much like to go for a walk,” she added wistfully.

    “Borrow a cap off Mrs Arkwright and sally forth as a maid,” he murmured.

    “That ees an excellent idea, sir!” she said, bouncing up.

    “What ees?” asked Nan suspiciously, coming in with a tray.

    “Not more food?” groaned Lewis.

    “Sita weeshes you to try these.”

    “My muscles are not merely wasting away for lack of exercise, they are turning to fat,” he groaned, laying the book down.

    “Yes, and so are mine, and I am going to borrow a cap and apron, and go out as a maid!” said Daphne defiantly.

    Her sister merely replied placidly: “What a good idea. But you had best change your dress as well: spreeg muslin would give the game away even to Miss Diddy Carey.”

    “Yes!” she said with a giggle. “Oh, may I really?”

    “Why not? But take someone weeth you.”

    “Miss Jeffreys would make a likely maid,” drawled Lewis.

    “Her brother would have ten fits at the mere thought,” owned Nan, swallowing.

    “Then she will undoubtedly go,” he murmured, as the beaming Daphne rushed out.

    “True.” Nan held out the tray.

    “Might I not put on a livery and go for a walk as a footman?” he sighed.

    “No.”

    Resignedly Lewis took a small savoury. “Delicious,” he admitted.

    “Yes.” Nan looked at the tray and sighed.

    “Do not: we are all getting fat as butter for want of exercise,” he warned.

    “Eet ees not that.”

    “Er... a dispute between Sita and your chef?”

    “Deed you hear them?” she said suspiciously.

    “No, Lady Benedict, I guessed, merely,” said Lewis with a twinkle in his eye.

    Nan sat down with a groan. “I had to tell M. Lavoisier the whole, he would not have found your presence here proper, otherwise.’

    Lewis’s eyes danced but he merely said: “Of course.”

    “And—and now he and Sita seem to be rivalling each other to produce dainties for you!” she said on a note of despair. “They were bad enough before, but they are become eempossible!”

    “I cannot imagine why,” he said gravely.

    “I theenk on M. Lavoisier’s part eet must be because you are a viscount,” admitted Nan.

    “Mm. And on Sita’s?”

    She went very red and replied in a hard voice: “She seems to have adopted you. I know not why, for een general she deeslikes men eentensely.”

    “Does she? But I thought she adored Dom?”

    “Of course, but he weell always be her Dom baba, Colonel, do you not understand about nurses and the boys they look after?”

    “Mm,” he said, smiling a little.

    After a moment Nan went very pink and said: “I’m sorry. I keep forgetting about the seelly title.”

    “Well, yes: the circumstances do not encourage one to recall it,” he murmured.

    Nan took a deep breath and did not reply.

    Smiling, Lewis returned to his book.

    Nan took up some sewing. Several peaceful moments passed. Then she said: “What are you reading?”

    “Le Jeu de l’amour et du hasard,” he said placidly.

    She blinked. “And are you eenjoying eet?”

    “I always enjoy it, Lady Benedict: it is one of my favourite pieces.”

    She looked at him limply.

    “A man wrote it,” said Lewis on a wry note.

    “Well, yes; and eet was my father’s book; but I would not have eemagined eet would be to your taste!”

    “Then you do not know me at all,” he said calmly.

    “No,” said Nan, swallowing . “I theenk I do not.”

    “Is it to yours?”

    “Yes,” she said shortly, frowning.

    “I see, you are the sort of person who does not care to discuss the books you like,” said Lewis placidly. “Very well, we shall not.”

    “No, I—” Nan licked her lips. “Well, not unless I know the person vairy well.”

    “No. May I ask if you are enjoying reading Ivanhoe to the children?”

    Nan hesitated. Then she admitted: “Yes. More so than I deed when I read eat for myself.”

    “Mm.” Lewis returned, smiling, to Marivaux.

    A peaceful silence fell in the warm downstairs sitting-room of the Benedict house in Lymmond Square. On the sofa, Lewis read placidly, occasionally smiling over the piece. On a chair next the sofa, Nan worked on a little dress for Rosebud, hemstitching it with tiny stitches. On a little round occasional table at the head of the sofa Pol Parrot dozed on his perch.

    Eventually Nan looked up and said: “I must tell you what—” She broke off.

    “Yes?”

    “I was going to tell you what Daphne said of Marivaux. But I theenk I should not.”

    “You cannot tempt me and then not tell, it would be too cruel!”

    Nan swallowed. “Vairy well, but promeese not to tell her I told you?”

    Lewis’s eyes twinkled. “I promise.”

    “She said,” said Nan, clearing her throat, “‘One cannot tell who ees who; and why do the men always have ladies’ names?’”

    “Perfect!” he gasped.

    Their eyes met: they both burst out laughing.

    And at that precise moment the innocent Pip Ames opened the door and announced: “Mrs Throgmorton, my Lady.”

    Mrs Throgmorton entered, lorgnette raised majestically. At the sight of a gentleman clad in a lurid dressing-gown, his feet up on Lady Benedict’s sofa, laughing companionably with her, the lorgnette slipped from her fingers.

    Nan rose hurriedly. “Er—good morning. I am Lady Benedict, and thees—er—”

    “Don’t,” warned Lewis, getting up.

    “Stamforth,” stated Mrs Throgmorton awfully.

    “Good morning, Aunt Agatha,” replied Lewis politely.

    Pol Parrot woke suddenly. “Here’s Aggie! Here’s Aggie!” he shrieked, dancing on his perch.

    Nan’s knees gave way and she sank back nervelessly onto her chair.