Chaos, Or, An Unfortunate Encounter

14

Chaos, Or, An Unfortunate Encounter

    In Mrs Urqhart’s declared opinion the thing was all settled. Unfortunately some of the players in her drama had different ideas. Mrs Urqhart was too intelligent not to be aware that she not infrequently treated other people like cut-out characters on a toy stage, to be manipulated as she chose; and in her franker moments would admit that playing with people’s lives was a dangerous game. In this particular instance she had overlooked several persons who would not have been too pleased to have learnt they were considered bit-parts in the scenario that was being arranged in her cunning brain.

    Dom was the first to jib at having his Easter disposed of. He was promised to Ferdy Sotheby’s uncle, Sir Leonard Sotheby, at Ainsways. After a certain amount of shouting on both parts his sister conceded that very well, he would not come to The Towers with them.

    M. Lavoisier was next to have his finger in the pie. Since miladi was to be away, and since it was the anniversaire of his eldest sister and the same day, by a coincidence remarkable, his eldest brother’s golden wedding, and since it was now relatively easy to get to the Continent— Nan agreed that of course he must go. And where did the relatives live, again? Lyons. How nice, she said blankly.—Miss Gump at this point gave a strangled cough, but was not regarded.—Beaming, bowing, expressing profuse thanks and daring to kiss miladi's hand, the chef finally got himself out of the room.

    Miss Gump retreated silently to the schoolroom and fetched the big atlas.

    “WHAT?” screamed Nan. “He weell have to leave immediately!”

    The dignified Troope was the next to insert a digit into this particular piece of patisserie. If my Lady intended closing the house up, then he had to admit it would be a most convenient time for him to pay a visit to Mr Bryce, late of Coltringcham Manor, a very old friend in the same profession as himself, and indeed, if he might say so, a mentor. Weakly Nan agreed that her butler might go. Mr Bryce had retired to Leamington Spa, had he? At least it was not so far as Lyons.

    This was not, however, the end of it. Miss Gump of course understood that dear Lady Benedict might have need of her services, in the which case nothing could persuade her—nothing! But it so happened, by a very strange coincidence indeed, that this very Easter-time, her Cousin Elias Pratt’s oldest daughter— Nan agreed that Miss Gump must attend her niece’s wedding. Er—Newcastle on the what? Oh, really? Up there. Yes.

    The two English footmen, William and Alfred, were next. They were brothers, and of course Kentish men, from Hugo's land. The thing was, my Lady, that a silver wedding wasn’t a thing what happened all that often, and they did hear as how my Lady might be closing up the house— Of course they must go to their parents’ silver wedding, there could be no question, and why on earth had they not mentioned it earlier? The two burly young men beamed, but exchanged glances and shuffled their feet a little. Eventually Nan got them to reveal that, if my Lady should not dislike it, and only if it wouldn't upset her arrangements—

    She finally dragged it out of them that the three Indian bearers had drawn straws for the privilege of accepting Mrs Weddle’s invitation and that Rani also wanted to go. “You must all go. I shall hire you a coach,” she said tiredly.

    She then recollected that Rosebud’s nurse and the nurserymaid were both Weddle relatives. Sure enough, young Polly Weddle burst into floods of tears the minute the anniversary was mentioned. So it was pretty evident she wanted to go but had been too scared to ask, or Nurse had forbidden her to ask, or—

    “You must both go. Sita weell look after Rosebud. She has years of experience, Nurse,” said Nan firmly.

    “My Lady, I couldn’t!” gasped Nurse.

    “But I weesh you to. I shall see to eet personally that Sita only feeds her on what you theenk ees proper.”

    Nurse dithered but finally let herself be persuaded.

    After that was over, Nan just sagged in her chair. The thought that Sita would be in her element was not, sadly, much consolation.

    “Look! A carriage!” shouted Mina, kneeling on the window seat. She, Amrita and Georgey all pressed their noses to the window of the Benedicts’ larger downstairs salon, breathing heavily.

    “How can eet be a carriage, we are not nearly ready and Nan has not ordered the carriage!” said Daphne breathlessly, not looking. “And get off that window seat: we weesh to put a Holland cover upon eet.”

    The three little girls ignored her.

    “Get off eet eenstantly!” she screeched.

    They got off.

    Glaring, Daphne spread a Holland cover on the window seat with the aid of Bessy the scullery maid, not normally seen above-stairs, and the imperturbable Hughes. “Come along, we have work to do,” she said to them grimly. Bessy and Hughes both eyed the little girls and the now swathed window seat dubiously, but followed her obediently.

    The little girls got back on the window seat.

    Horrible was helping in the small salon. “This can go under Holland covers, I think.” She pointed to a side table.

    “Er—yes,” said Susan, looking in dismay at the Holland cover over a sofa, which was billowing strangely around about the foot. “Horrible, my dear, what is that?”

    Horrible looked. “Oh!” she shouted. “GET OUT OF THAT!”

    The cover billowed strangely, but nothing emerged.

    Susan was terrified of rats. True, she had never seen a rat in the house in Lymmond Square, but... She backed off.

    Horrible pounced. The Holland cover writhed agonisedly and fell to the ground. There was a short but violent struggle, and Horrible emerged, panting and triumphant, clutching Pug Laidlaw. He was panting and triumphant, too. Well, his tongue was lolling from his mouth, his eyes were very bright and his short, curled tail was vibrating madly. The Holland cover, however, was good and defeated. It just lay there limply. “Got him!” she gasped.

    “Yes,” said Susan faintly. It had taken her quite some time to get that cover on.

    Horrible was looking at her hopefully.

    “Er—thank you, Horrible. Take him home, if you please.”

    “I told her not to bring him!” Looking very pleased, Horrible marched out with Pug.

    Susan looked weakly at the immense Holland cover. It just lay there limply.

    Miss Sissy was in the hall, looking dubiously at a tall vase on an even taller stand. Sita was there, too, explaining something to her very loudly.

    “Horrible! What is Pug doing here?”

    Horrible looked virtuous. “I told Georgey not to bring him, Aunt Sissy! I'm taking him home.”

    “Thank you, dear,” said Aunt Sissy weakly.

    Horrible marched out. No-one noticed that, as was her custom, she left the front door slightly ajar. Miss Sissy recommenced looking feebly at the tall vase on its tall stand, and Sita recommenced telling her just what treatment it needed. Or possibly something else entirely, it was mostly in Sita’s own language, larded with a few bits of pidgin Portuguese.

    “SEE?” shouted Mina in the salon. The noses flattened on the pane. Ooh, it was stopping, too! Laden with luggage, covered in dust! How exciting!

    Nan erupted into the hall. “Sita! There you are! What on earth are you doing here? I told you to look after Johnny and Rosebud!”

    Sita burst into mixed explanation and self-exculpation.

    “That's ENOUGH!” shouted Nan in the ayah’s language. “Go upstairs NOW! –I’m so sorry, Miss Sissy!” she added breathlessly in English. “—SITA!”

    Sita attempted to explain that Miss Sissy was doing it all wrong, which was only what you could expect from an English Rude-word that had never been married because she was a Rude-word. Nan attempted to shout her down. Paul appeared on the half-landing, shouting loudly: “Lady Benedict! Where’s Ayah? Rosebud’s crying!”

    At the same time Nobby appeared from the direction of the nether regions, shouting breathlessly: “Lady Benedict! Me and Sally Ames saw a rat in the larder! Where’s Pug, he can catch it, quick!”

    At the same time someone attempted to knock on the front door that Horrible had not bothered to quite close, but no-one heard him.

    The coach that had drawn up outside the Benedict house in Lymmond Square was so dusty because it had come all the way from the coast with only short stops to change horses. It was laden with luggage because three years spent in foreign climes does normally necessitate the transporting of a considerable number of items of personal apparel. But the man who jumped down from it looking angry and ran up the short flight of steps to the Benedicts’ not-quite-closed door was swathed in furs not merely because March, having at one stage become mild enough to encourage careful husbands to encourage their wives to drive out in the barouche, had now suddenly turned nasty and was roaring out in icy gales and freezing rain, but also because he had got onto a boat the minute the ice in the Swedish harbours had melted enough to permit of anything like the resumption of  normal traffic.

    The man swathed in furs on the Benedicts’ threshold was, of course, Robert Jeffreys, twelfth Baron Keywes, Ambassador from the Court of St James to the Kingdom of Sweden.

    Robert Jeffreys had made the trip from Scandinavia in a state of seething annoyance. Though whether he was more furious with Mrs Beresford for having had the impertinence to write a letter reporting what the gossip-mongers of Bath were saying of Cousin Nancy’s daughter, with Aunt Kate for not having resolved the matter immediately, with the gossip-mongers of Bath, or with Cousin Nancy's daughter for never having apprised the family of her arrival England, even he himself would not have been able to say. Of all the stupid, unnecessary pickles! And as for this Hugo Benedict, whoever he had been, he must have been as bad as the rest of them! For if Cousin Nancy’s daughter did not have the sense she was born with, the which was more than likely, considering what her mother had been like, surely an English baronet— Well, for God’s sake!

    As for Aunt Kate! He had not sunk so low as to inspect the envelope of Mrs Beresford’s letter with a magnifying glass, though he had been very tempted. But it had not been necessary: the carefully worded covering note had been more than enough to alert him to the fact that his aunt had read the contents of the letter, however much she might wish him to understand the opposite, and that in all probability she had done something damn’ stupid about it into the bargain. Had a row with the Beresford woman, or— Well, God knew. But something damn’ silly that she wasn’t admitting to.

    He stood at the top of the short flight of steps in Lymmond Square, scowling, and lifted his hand to the knocker again. This time he would give it a damned good— Hammering!

    The door gave way under his hand, and Lord Keywes stumbled into the hall.

    Nan swung round. “Who are you?” she gasped,

    At the same time Sita Ayah let out a screech in which the words “Foreign devil!” might have been discerned by anyone acquainted with the language in which she was screeching them.

    “A VIKING!” shouted Paul from the half-landing.

     The three little girls emerged in a bunch from the salon. Immediately Amrita let out a screech in which the words “Foreign devil!” might have been discerned by anyone acquainted with the language in which she was screeching them, and hurtled across the hall, to throw herself at Nan.

    “Ow!” gasped Nan, staggering.

    “FOREIGN DEVIL! AI-EEE!” wailed Sita.

    Owing to the intricacies of large families, early marriages, late marriages, second marriages and so forth, Robert, Lord Keywes, who was of course the same generation as Nan or, indeed, Amrita, was only four years younger than Nancy Jeffreys would have been, had she lived. He had thus been a schoolboy when Nancy had run off, and he remembered her very well: he had liked Nancy, she could (and would) climb a tree as well as any boy, and shoot as well as a man. And never talked down to gangling schoolboys. Obviously his opinion of her had been tempered with age and experience. But for a moment the last twenty years seemed to roll back as if they had never been, and he stared incredulously at the rumpled figure in the dusty black woollen gown and baize apron.

    Nan also stared: he must be a Russian, or something, in that great fluffy fur coat and Russian fur hat!

    “FOREIGN DEVIL! AI-EEE!” wailed Sita.

    Suddenly Mina rushed across the hall to join Amrita in hugging Nan violently round the waist.

    “Don’t, darlings,” she said, staggering. “Eet’s just a man.”

    “FOREIGN DEVIL! AI-EEE!” wailed Sita.

    “FOREIGN DEVIL! AI-EEE!” wailed Amrita into Nan's middle.

    “I’ll get a GUN!” shouted Georgey fiercely from the salon doorway.

    “YES! Shoot the Viking!” screeched Paul from the stairs.

    “No! Stop eet! Be QUIET, you seellies!” shouted Nan at the top of her lungs.

    There was a momentary silence.

    Sheepishly Lord Keywes removed the horned helmet from under his arm and placed it on the hall table. “It’s a toy,” he said lamely to the young woman who must be his second cousin. “I bought it upon the quay and—er—”

    “Have been regretting eet ever since,” she said limply.

    “Yes,” he admitted, with a weak smile.

    “Foreign devil! Ai-eee!” moaned Sita softly.

    “That will do,” said Nan in the ayah’s language with great determination. “Get upstairs at once and look to Rosebud!”

    Possibly Paul had understood some of this: he said loudly: “She’s crying!”

    At this Sita gave a great cry and rushed up the stairs like a whirlwind.

    “Oh, dear!” said Miss Sissy.

    Then there was a short pause.

    “Er—I did knock,” said Lord Keywes feebly.

    “No-one heard you,” explained Georgey, eyeing him warily. A gun might still be needed.

    “No—um—Georgey, was that Pug I saw just now?” said Nan.

    Georgey went very red and stood on one leg, hooking the opposite foot round her ankle.

    “Dogs are of no help when one ees putting the furniture een Holland covers,” said Nan grimly.

    “No, indeed!” quavered Miss Sissy. “But dear little Horrible has taken him home.”

    “He’s pulled the Holland cover off a sofa,” put in Susan suddenly from Nan's rear.

    Nan jumped, and gasped.

    “An expectable consequence of admitting dogs to the house when one is putting the furniture in Holland covers,” noted Robert.

    His second cousin gave him an amazed glare and his Lordship, alas, collapsed in helpless sniggers.

   “Stop eet!” she cried sharply. “Who are you? What are you doing here?”

    Paul had come down the stairs—whether because his mission à propos Rosebud was accomplished it was not clear. “He might still be a Viking,” he said on a hopeful note.

    “He ees not a Viking, you seelly, the Vikings all died hundreds of years ago!” cried Nan distractedly.

    Paul looked unconvinced. “He looks like one.”

    “Be QUIET! He ees not a Viking!” she shouted crossly as Daphne and Hughes emerged from the nether regions.

    “Nan, what on earth’s going on?” Not waiting for a reply, her sister continued: “That stupid Sally Ames ees having hysterics the pantry: she swears she saw a rat.”

    “She did!” cried Nobby. She did not quite believe the Viking theory, though very tempted to. Which was why she had not contributed anything to the preceding exchange.

    “I'll set a trap for it, your Ladyship,” offered Hughes.

    “Pug could catch it!” cried Georgey.

    “Yes, that’s what I said!” cried Nobby.

    Paul joined in eagerly: “Mr Ninian says that pugs can be great ratters, they are much fiercer than most people give them credit—”

    “Children! Please!” cried Miss Sissy.

    Mina’s face emerged from the region of Nan's waist. “I wager he could, too,” she admitted. She looked cautiously at the Viking.

    Amrita’s face also emerged from the region of Nan’s waist. “He could bite eets throat, like a mongoose, Nan!” She looked cautiously at the foreign devil.

    Horrible burst in through the front door, panting. “I say, there is a huge great coach just outside— Ooh!” She broke off, goggling.

    “No!” cried Georgey scornfully. “Not its throat, its neck, right through the bone, and shake it until—”

    “BE QUIET!” shrieked Nan. “—All of you,” she said weakly into the ringing silence as Horrible, panting, opened her mouth. “That ees ENOUGH! –Go and set the trap, eef you please, Hughes, and eef Sally Ames ees steell having hysterics, slap her face for her. And then please assist Miss Susan to put the Holland cover back on the sofa een the small salon. –And all those who do not live here,” she said, getting rather loud, “weell please GO HOME!”

    “Yes, my dear,” quavered poor Miss Sissy, turning a mottled violet shade: “of course. Come along, children—”

    “I deed not mean you, Miss Sissy!” gasped Nan in horror.

    Alas, his Lordship at this collapsed in helpless sniggers again.

    “GET OUT!” shouted Nan at the top of her lungs. “I don’t care who you are: get OUT, get OUT! And take that hat weeth you!”

    The man made to pick up the Viking hat—too late.

    “Look out!” shrieked Nobby.

    “Stop him!” shrieked Susan and Daphne.

    “PUG!” bellowed Georgey.

    In vain: the gallant Pug Laidlaw hurtled through the wide-open front door and threw himself upon the Viking hat.

    Fortunately be did not impale himself on the horns, though such might have been the fate of a young pug less favoured by the mighty of Valhalla. Soon the hat gave in, and Pug lay upon the hall floor with it, growling softly.

    “Well done, Pug!” cried Georgey, glaring horribly at the offensive visitor, who was laughing helplessly.

    “Yes; well done, Pug! Good boy!” cried Horrible, coming up to her sister’s side, also glaring.

    “I’m so sorry, my dear!” gasped Miss Sissy.

    Nan swallowed. “At least he has not hurt heemself.”

    “I’ll take the children home, my dear Lady Benedict, and come back directly to assist you,” said the spinster lady helpfully. “Come along, children!” she said brightly.

   “Thank you, Miss Sissy,” said Nan feebly, as the Laidlaws trailed reluctantly over to the door.

    “Come on, Pug,” said Georgey glumly.

    Pug lay upon the hall floor with the hat, growling softly.

    “PUG!” shouted Georgey, turning puce.

    Pug lay upon the hall floor with the hat, growling softly.

    “PUG LAIDLAW! HEEL, SIR!” bellowed the puce Georgey.

    Pug lay upon the hall floor with the hat, growling softly...

    “I fear this could go on for some time,” noted his Lordship politely.

    “Be silent,” said Nan between her teeth. “Georgey, someone weell bring Pug over to you later.”

    “Who?”

    “Uh...”

    “Hughes,” decided Paul.

    “Yes: Hughes,” said Nan, sagging visibly.

    “Do you promise, Lady Benedict? 'Cos if he got locked in he would starve—”

    “He weell not get locked een, Georgey, you seelly!” said Nan hotly.

    “Come on, Georgey,” said Nobby uncomfortably, grabbing her hand.

    The Laidlaws exited and the heavy front door closed after them.

    “Phew!” said Robert, grinning. “These ones here are yours, then, are they?”

    “Who are you?” returned Nan angrily.

    “And I thought the Viking business could not fail to alert you,” he said sadly. “Now,  your mother would have guessed at once, I am quite sure.”

    Nan’s jaw dropped. “My mother? WHO ARE YOU?”

    “Keywes,” he said simply.

    She stared at him.

    “Er—Robert Jeffreys,” he murmured, flushing a little. “Your mother and my father were first cousins.”

    Nan’s mouth tightened. “You had better come eento the salon. –Girls, go upstairs. Someone weell bring you a nuncheon.”

   “Who?” demanded Amrita, standing her ground.

    Nan took a deep breath.

    “Come on,” said Mina hurriedly, grabbing her small aunt's hand. They scrambled for the stairs.

    “Nan, I could get them something light,” said Susan.

    “Vairy well: thank you. –Een here, please, Lord Keywes,” said Nan, leading the way to the small salon.

    “Holland covers!” he noted pleasedly.

    Nan shut the door and leaned against it. “We are about to remove for a holiday.”

    “To the South Seas, I presume,” he noted politely. “Well, Holland covers?” he said as she glared. “My mother only did that if the house was to be closed for six months or more.”

    “Een India, we—” Nan broke off. “That ees nothing to do weeth you.”

    “India?” he murmured. “Er, may I ask, was this before Sir Hugo Benedict? That is, if you are my second cousin?” he added politely.

    “YES!” she shouted angrily.

    He smiled a little. “You sound so like your mother.”

    “Rubbeesh: everyone who knew her has said I sound nothing like her, for my voice ees far deeper!”

    “No: it's the shouting,” he murmured.

    Nan's bosom swelled ominously.

    “Don’t be like that, Cousin. After all, I have come all the way from Sweden to—er—rescue you.”

    “What?”

    He shrugged slightly. “A rescue. Like that of the gallant Pug galloping to save his young mistress from the hat.—It’s for your young brother, by the way.—Are not the Bath gossips making you the subject of their impertinent speculation? Or is it all a figment of Mrs Beresford's imagination?”

    “Mrs— Oh,” said Nan. “That letter.”

    “Er—yes. I gather you’ve seen my Aunt Kate, then?”

    “Yes,” she said tightly. “And allow me to tell you, that whether or no you have come all the way from Sweden, I do not require rescuing by a member of your family, sir!”

    Robert winced. “What did she say to you?”

    “Never mind what she said: she ees the most rude and impertinent woman I have ever had the meesfortune to meet!”

    “I thought it must have been something like that,” he acknowledged wryly.

    Nan opened the salon door. “Get out.”

    He blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

    “Get out. I can see eet ees all a joke to you,” said Nan, her lower lip beginning to wobble, “for you are a fine English lord who ees above such petty affairs as the gossip of Bath cats. And whether or not you have come from Sweden express, which I do not believe for a moment, I weell not stand to be laughed at or patronised by you or any of your family. Go.”

    His lean cheeks flushed a little. “No, please: I really did not mean to laugh—”

    “Get out now!” choked Nan. “Or I get Hughes to throw you out!”

    Lord Keywes could see she meant it. He was beginning to feel some offence with her. True, he had laughed; but then, the whole situation had been entirely ridiculous. And he had indeed come direct from Sweden on her account, and really, such a reaction to his presence, not to say such an attitude to his family, was scarcely called for, no matter what damned Aunt Kate might have— He bit his lip for a moment. Damn Aunt Kate.

    “I shall write to you,” he said stiffly. “Believe me, Lady Benedict, I wish only to do what might aid you.”

    Nan took a deep breath. “Kindly go.”

    His nostrils flared angrily: he bowed stiffly and walked out.

    Nan rushed upstairs, threw herself on her bed, and sobbed her heart out.

    In vain did Susan, Daphne and Sita try to ascertain what Lord Keywes could have said to upset her so. It was, as Susan said, quite incomprehensible!

    Robert Jeffreys, twelfth Baron Keywes, would have denied angrily any imputation that he was rather spoilt. But he was, of course. His father had never been a well man and, understandably anxious not to see his only son succumb to the malady which had plagued him all his life, had tended to coddle him, rather. Young Robert's had been a sunny temperament and he had not turned into the odious brat that such pampering might have made of a weaker character. But he had certainly been used from earliest childhood to have everything very much his own way. The influence of his stiff-necked grandfather, very much the family martinet, had not helped. Where Robert’s Papa had tended to swaddle him in flannel, old Lord Keywes had robustly declared all that sort of thing to be nonsense and bad for the boy: where Papa would say anxiously that Robert must not ride his pony out with the hunt on a cold, muddy, windy day, Grandpapa would order the pony saddled up, and himself ride out with the little boy.

    Rather fortunately Robert had not been a timid or uncertain child, or he might have grown up very unsure of himself. He had been healthy and strong and although he loved Papa dearly had chafed at his metaphorical and frequently all too literal flannel wrappings: Grandpapa’s healthy robustness suited him far better. But if old Lord Keywes had been hearty enough in spirit, he had also been quite incredibly high in the instep: he had, if anything, given young Robert an inflated idea of the position he was to occupy in life. At the same time inculcating the concepts of honour, duty and noblesse oblige. It was only more latterly, and well after his father’s untimely death, that the man who was now Lord Keywes had begun to appreciate his father's sweetness of nature and to regret not having had more time with him.

    Old Lord Keywes's teaching had meant that Robert took his responsibilities as a substantial landowner and member of the House of Lords seriously, and that he had seen it as his duty not to refuse a diplomatic post when it was offered to him; but it was his father's gentler influence that had resulted in his thinking deeply about such matters as England's treatment of her labouring and criminal classes, rather than taking them for granted as did the vast majority of his contemporaries. He did not himself spend much time either in close examination of the conditions of his farm labourers or in touring His Majesty's prisons and prison ships; he did, however, make it his business to sit on several influential committees and to endow suitable charities. He was aware that it was rather good of him to take the trouble to do so; on the other hand, he would have scorned to lower himself so far as to ignore his duty to those less fortunate in life than himself. He was not, though he was by no means a stupid man, aware that in spite of his humanitarian activities he had become rather proud. Not puffed up in his own conceit, no: his sense of humour would have prevented that. But rather insulated from the rest of humanity and rather too sure of the rightness of his own position and disinclined to examine it further.

    His later life as well as his upbringing had no doubt been an influence, here. The disastrous marriage which young George had described so calmly to Nan Baldaya Benedict had thoroughly shaken him, and turned him inwards upon himself. He had not looked to remarry after the scandal of Persephone's death. She had given him a son, George was strong and healthy, and if, Heaven forbid, anything should happen to him, there were innumerable cousins on the Sussex side of the family to secure the succession; and in any case he could always think about remarrying at some later stage. Certainly there had been very many ladies, young and not so young, who would have been only too glad to become Lady Keywes: Lord Keywes was a wealthy man and head of one of the oldest families in England, Vaudequays was a showplace, one of the loveliest old houses in the southern counties, and Robert Jeffreys himself was a handsome man. Perhaps the ladies made it too obvious that they would not decline an offer: he certainly did not feel himself the more inclined to make one.

    His marriage had been arranged between the two families, old Lord Keywes having been keen to consolidate relations with the Bon-Duttons, the Duke of Chelford’s family. Nevertheless Robert had been nothing loath: Lady Persephone  had been stunningly pretty, with a mop of gold-streaked brown curls, huge sparkling deep blue eyes, and a petulant, pouting, beckoning Cupid’s bow of a mouth. Robert Jeffreys, who at the time had been far more impressionable and far less sophisticated than he had considered himself, had found her irresistible. His enthralment—it was scarcely too strong a word—had survived the discovery of the equal fascination she exerted upon other men and her successive infidelities: his fastidious soul had been horrified and revolted at his own failure to resist Persephone. He had revealed to no-one that her death had come as a shuddering release.

    Later there had been other ladies in his life, though until very lately none so fascinating as the wicked Persephone. He had not gained from these experiences, any more than from his marriage, a very high opinion of the fair sex.

    His latest liaison had done a little to ameliorate this jaundiced view. The Princess Vera Andronikova Toumanova was a dark-eyed Russian widow several years his elder. Robert had been vaguely aware that she was very much courted in Stockholm, and had assumed, after one or two brief meetings at large Embassy receptions, that it must be for her wealth: if striking, she was not beautiful, and if witty, she was very far from young. Then they had been seated together at a very long-drawn-out formal dinner and he had been conscious of her charm. They met again at a ball. Robert had done his duty very properly by a succession of boring dames. As the Princess was the only lady left in-their group whom he had not invited to dance, he had duly invited her. It was a waltz. Vera Andronikova, not beautiful, not young, and to all appearances not interested in Robert Jeffreys, melted into his arms with one dark-eyed look straight into his eyes, and he realized that the story that half Stockholm was in thrall to the fascinating Princess had some truth in it after all. At the conclusion of the dance she invited him to one of her afternoons: he was just sufficiently master of himself to bow as deeply as if this was the signal honour he was later to realize that it was.

    She was not alone that afternoon. Robert was quite shatteringly disappointed. He outstayed the other guests, but only by a few moments: Vera Andronikova gave him what he was almost sure was a warning look and murmured, as he bowed over her hand: “Come tomorrow.” He cancelled several other engagements in order to do so, though he had no expectation of finding her alone this time, either. She was alone. And he was shown into the salon by an old crone, not the butler. Vera Andronikova said baldly, patting the sofa beside her: “We have an hour before my butler returns. Sit down here, Robert. If it should please you, I have a little dasha, I think you would call it a small country house, a little out of the town. It is most discreet and only a few old country servants staff the house. I am about to remove there for the hotter months. Would you care to join me?” Robert collapsed beside her on the sofa and replied hoarsely: “On what terms, Princess?” Vera Andronikova returned: “I hope you will call me Vera Andronikova. I think at our ages we do not need to pretend, no? On whatever terms you wish. –I am not looking for another husband, bien entendu!” she added with a little husky gurgle, deep in her throat. Robert went very red, picked up her hand and kissed it fervently.

    After that it was all plain sailing. Very probably the whole of fashionable Stockholm had known, though the two had been careful to be discreet, but Vera Andronikova was a free agent, and so was he: if there had been gossip, it had done neither of them observable harm.

    As the first snowflakes fell at the beginning of the winter, Robert decided that in spite of the age difference he would ask her to be his wife: she would play the part of Ambassador’s lady to perfection, he was not looking to start another family, and—well. It would be very suitable. Vera Andronikova hesitated and then said carefully: “Robert, mon chéri, I do not think it would answer. I am not the right woman for you. And as I said to you at the very first, I am not looking to remarry. My freedom suits me. I would suggest that we go on as before, but clearly that is not what you need, hein? –No, ssh,” she added, holding up a hand as he began to protest: “very clearly it is not, mon ami, or you would not have suggested that we change things! I think I shall return to Russia before the snows set in, rather than wait until spring.”

    Robert protested but the Princess remained serenely adamant. He was left with a bruised heart but also with the question: had she truly cared for him at all? Not realising that she had cared enough to give him up.

    The winter had been long and lonely and to say truth Lord Keywes had not been sorry to seize upon the excuse of sorting out Cousin Nancy's little daughter to get out of the country. In any case his term of office would have been over in another couple of months and— Well.

    During the uncomfortable journey home he had involuntarily erected a ridiculous, or so at least he now decided, a ridiculous mental scenario of himself as a sort of combined Sir Galahad and King Cophetua, stooping from the heights of his great position in order to rescue a scrubby little ill-mannered slip of a girl with the laughing eyes and mop of curls he remembered in Nancy. He had imagined himself earning her undying gratitude and becoming the mainstay and patron of her little family, perhaps even installing them in a little house on the estates. Where his obscure little second cousin could quietly worship him from afar? Alas, yes, something very like that.

    After the encounter with Lady Benedict he went off to his Bath hotel in a growing rage with his own demonstrated fatuity, with Cousin Nancy’s daughter’s gracelessness and base ingratitude, with the English weather and with Aunt Kate. There was little he could do about most of these factors but he dashed off a very stiff letter indeed to damned Kate. And did his best to wear out the excellent carpet before the blazing fire of the private sitting-room the hotel had immediately provided for Lord Keywes as a matter of course. This pacing resulted neither in soothing him nor in his coming to any decision about what to do about Nancy’s daughter. Curse the woman, and her impertinence, and her damned ingratitude! He forgot his amusement over Pug, and the Holland covers, and the fluttered, curvaceous little figure in the huge baize apron, and remembered only that he’d made a fool of himself.

     A man with less conception of what was due to himself and his name might simply have flung off home in a rage. Robert Jeffreys did not do this.

    The next day he had cooled down sufficiently to call on Mrs Beresford, though not to call on Lady Benedict. But he was informed that Mrs Beresford and Miss Beresford had left Bath to visit with relatives and that Mr Beresford was at present in Lymmond Square with his cousins.

    He hesitated, but finally went off to see Jack. Jack appeared only too relieved to accept his invitation to dine him back at his hotel. It was not hard to guess why: at the moment of his accepting the invitation, two red-nosed brats were sitting in the downstairs salon, where doubtless they had no business to be, playing a game with Mrs Laidlaw’s cushions, which doubtless they had no business to be touching, another brat could be heard through at least one closed door wailing its head off, and Miss Sissy Laidlaw could be dimly heard expostulating with it.

    Over and through and around it all curled the long, anguished wails of a young pug-dog that had been smacked and shut up in the boot cupboard for iniquitous crimes committed against Jack Beresford's best Hessians. In his present mood, Lord Keywes was not able to raise so much as a smile at the report of the iniquity, or even at the sight of the remains of the two gold tassels reposing upon the Laidlaw mantelpiece. Let alone point out that the choice of the boot cupboard was surely, in view of the particular crime, misguided to say the least.

    Over a very acceptable dinner and the more than acceptable port which followed it, Jack confessed that imprimis, he was damned sick of brats, secundus, he wished he'd never told Cousin Jack Laidlaw he’d back Aunt Sissy up and tertius, he was ready to throttle damned Aunt Sissy. However, the news that Robert had come to Bath fully prepared to re-establish his second cousin's reputation appeared to cheer him up remarkably. Remarkably.

    “I see,” said Lord Keywes. Little white dints showed beside his handsome nose for a moment and his long mouth tightened. “Congratulations are in order, are they?”

    “No!” said Jack quickly, reddening. “I say, no! Steady on, old fellow! I barely know her, really. Uh—delightful creature, of course... Um, well,” he said, biting his lip a little and looking shyly at the older man: “I’ve heard it said her mother was irresistible, but she can't have been more so than Lady Benedict. And then, she has style, you know. Short woman, of course, but—”

    “Style?” said Robert feebly, thinking of the tousled curls and the baize apron.

    “Mm! To see her in her black velvet dinner gown!”

     “Black velvet? She cannot be scarce more than twenty years of age! –Oh,” he said lamely. “Mourning, I suppose.”

    “Yes, of course,” said Jack, staring at him.

    “Er—so if she is in mourning, how did you have the opportunity of dining with her?” he asked, unable to stop himself.

    “Oh—my cousins, y’know: just a family affair, really. Invited her to cheer her up.”

    “I see,” he said heavily.

    Jack eyed him uneasily. “Utterly respectable, of course. Well, do not have to tell you that, dear fellow!” he said with an awkward smile.

    “No,” he said lamely, “of course.”

    “Er—very glad to know you’re prepared to settle the Bath cats once and for all.”

    “Mm? Oh—yes. I shall do my best.”

    “Good.”

    “And—well, may I just wish you good luck?” he said with an effort.

    Jack Beresford did not perceive the effort: he beamed, said he was not sure himself, as yet, but Robert knew how it was, old man.

    Lord Keywes gave a twisted smile that the besotted Jack did not register and said yes, he did.

    He called at his second cousin’s house the following day, fully prepared to make amends for any false impression he might have given her on his previous call, and to offer her the assurance of his help and protection.

    But he was too late: she had left Bath.