“The Portuguese Widow” follows the misadventures of charming, half-Portuguese Nan Baldaya Benedict, twice widowed at barely 21 years of age. Regency Bath is taken aback by Nan’s cosmopolitan household: the retinue of faithful Indian ayahs and bhais, Kentish maids and footmen, and the French chef. Then, horrors! Her late mother’s scandalous history is raked up. A move to London results in the fortune hunters discovering her nabob’s fortune, the grandes dames looking down their noses at her, and an encounter with the wicked Lord Curwellion, a notorious rake.

Inevitably, the warm-hearted Nan becomes embroiled in other people’s lives: the gentlemen include the fashionable baronet Sir Noël Amory, the handsome diplomat Lord Keywes, and the grim-visaged Colonel Vane. The ladies range from the shy, sweet Cherry Chalfont to the hilariously eccentric Mrs Urqhart, who describes herself as “the widder of an India man.” Proper English ladies have nothing to do with theatrical persons, but Nan plunges herself into a theatrical venture led by the stout and fruity-voiced Mr Perseus Brentwood and the lugubrious Mr Emmanuel Everett. Few of these encounters are likely to do anything for the reputation of a lady anxious to establish herself creditably. And of course, there’s the unfortunate episode of the duel…

Gentlemen Confounded, Or, The Triumph of Venus & Thespis


34

Gentlemen Confounded,
Or,
The Triumph of Venus & Thespis


    The door of Sunny Bay House was opened by a tall, burly, untidy-looking man whom Iris had never seen before in her life. She had seen the dressing-gown, though: it was unmistakeably a creation her Cousin Dom was used to wear in the mornings. Bright yellow embroidered silk.
    “Hullo,” he said mildly, scratching the whiskers.
    “Hullo,” replied Iris, very limply indeed. The dressing-gown was an adequate covering for her Cousin Dom. This man was a deal broader in the chest. Visibly so.
    Sita had dismounted from the coach after Iris. Now she came up to her elbow and made a threatening speech. Possibly if one was being literal it was unintelligible to the gentleman, but there was no doubt he’d understood it.
    He replied with the utmost placidity: “You’re right, this is Dom’s dressing-gown.” And added to Iris: “Indian silk, is it?”
    “I— Um—who are you?” she gasped.
    “Ursa Norrington,” he said calmly.
    Most regrettably indeed, Miss Jeffreys took another look at the chest and collapsed in helpless laughter, gasping: “So you are!”
    Sita made an extremely severe speech, this time addressed to her.
    “Sorry!” gasped Iris, wiping her eyes with the back of her gloved hand.
    “—Most unsuitables, Missy Iris,” finished the ayah severely.
    “That damned dressing-gown of Dom baba’s is, yes,” Iris acknowledged, grinning. “Sorry, Major Norrington. I’m very glad to meet you.”
    Major Norrington bowed solemnly, but there was a twinkle in his clever brown eyes. “Rani’s up, but everyone else is still asleep. Well, the children are up, and she’s feeding ’em,” he explained.
    “I see. Er—when did you get here?”
    “Last night,” said Major Norrington placidly.
    Iris’s shoulders shook, but she managed to say: “I see.”
    “Look, before you come in,” said the Major, his substantial form most effectively blocking the doorway, “just tell me this: are you going to throw a conniption just because Lewis Vane’s inherited the title, too?”
    “Oops,” said Iris, grimacing. “Let me get this straight: there was an old uncle who died, right? So he held this title you’re on about, and Colonel Vane was the heir?”
    “Mm.”
    She frowned. “It must be some title, if Nan threw a conniption!”
    “Well, yes. That plus the fact that he never let on to her.”
    “He— Oh, God,” said Iris, closing her eyes for a moment. “If ever there was a more impossible pair!” She opened her eyes and said: “Go on. If it’s anything less than a marquisate, I promise you I won’t throw a conniption. Or even an hysteric.”
    Grinning, Ursa Norrington replied: “He’s Viscount Stamforth. And I will say this for the damned idiot, it didn’t dawn on him for months that she had no idea he was old Stamforth’s heir.”
    Iris groaned. “I get your drift. And when it did dawn— Oh, good grief! ‘New Lord’. No wonder he paid for the damned letters! –That would have gone down like a bucket of lead, too,” she added thoughtfully.
    “I’m sure,” he said formally.
    Twinkling, Iris said: “Well, I think it’s safe to let me in, now. –Wait: is he here?”
    “Uh-huh. Asleep.”
    “Ouch. And—uh—”
    “I gather she’s asleep, too. But according to Rani, she was up until five, packing.”
    Iris took a deep breath. “Right. Thanks. I’ll go straight to the kitchen, then.”
    “I would,” Major Norrington agreed, grinning. He stood aside and gestured her in,
    “Go on, Sita; Nanni Begum’s still asleep,” said Iris. “This gentleman is Missy Ruth’s uncle.”
    Sita made an excited speech in reply and rushed in.
    “Strictly, first cousin once removed,” corrected Major Norrington calmly.
    “I had forgotten the exact relationship, actually. But I’m not sure whether her English would have been up to that, in any case.”
    He nodded, but said as Iris made to step past him: “Who the Devil are you?”
    Iris stopped. Her sapphire eyes twinkled. “I win that hand, I rather think.”
    Major Norrington’s unshaven jaw sagged.
    “I’m Iris Jeffreys, Nan Benedict’s cousin,” said Iris. The eyes twinkled again. “What you’d call strictly second cousin.”
    Chuckling, Ursa Norrington bowed over hand. “I like you,” he said simply.
    Iris went very pink, but rallied sufficiently to say: “I rather think I like you, too, Major.”
    “She’s making flat-bread things and something that I’d describe as an egg curry,” reported the Major cheerfully, releasing her hand.
    “Good,” said Iris simply, going down the passage, her cheeks still very pink.
    Major Norrington ambled in her wake. He was grinning, but he did not neglect to inspect those portions of Miss Jeffreys’s anatomy that had not so far been revealed to him. Nice. Looked as if she had long legs, too. Nice.


    “So that was eet,” finished Dom on a guilty note.
    “My God, you’ve all run mad,” groaned Iris.
    “Well, eet weren’t me as shoved heem een the trunk een the first place!”
    “What is the penalty for kidnapping? Transportation? Or merely hanging?” she said wildly.
    “We can hope that Lewis’s influence will have some effect,” said Major Norrington. He eyed the remaining chupattee on Dom’s plate. “Do you want that?”
    “Yes.” Dom broke a piece off and dipped it in the plum chutney but considerately shouted at Rani for more.
    “I can explain that for you, Major,” said Iris with a twinkle. “When you want more, you shout at the cook. The essential words are the name of the dish and ‘ekdum!’ It doesn’t matter what you put in between.”
    “So if I shout—” The Major broke off: Rani had bustled up to his side and was chattering excitedly at him.
    “That’ll—Rani, that’ll DO!” shouted Dom. He broke into the ayah’s own language.
    After a lot of what appeared to be fierce argument, Rani apparently got the point. She beamed and bowed several times to the Major, and saying happily: “Chupattee, Norrington Sahib,” moved back to the stove.
    “See?” said Iris unemotionally.
    Major Norrington failed to control himself, and collapsed in sniggers.
    “Mind, you have to eat ’em, now,” warned Dom, grinning.
    “I shall!” he assured him.
    “You haven’t eaten much,” Dom said to Iris.
    “Dom, I’ve eaten mountains! And I had a glass of milk and a couple of fresh bread rolls at the Stamforth Arms.”
    “She ain’t got much appetite,” Dom explained to the Major, ignoring most of this.
    Iris looked at him in exasperation. “I’ve been sitting in a coach for two days, not battling the seas in the Channel.”
    “Battling hees attempts to get us all drowned, y’mean!” he said with a grin.
    Iris had already been regaled with this story, which was very evidently becoming the sort of anecdote that Mr Baldaya would repeat for the rest of his life. No doubt his grandchildren were doomed duly to be bored by it. She sighed. “Look, be serious, Dom. What in God’s name are we going to do about Curwellion?”
    “The Major, here, was saying as how Stamforth could use hees eenfluence,” Dom reminded her.
    “Oh, of course!” said Iris with tremendous sarcasm. “And once he has done so, it will immediately be apparent to the judiciary that a mere Old Bailey trial and summary justice will not be at all the thing, and so he will be tried by the full House of Lords be-decked in ermine, and hanged just the same!”
    “Not just the same: with a silken rope, ain’t it?” objected the Major.
    “Look, just drop it!” she said fiercely.
    He shrugged. “You’ve had my suggestion. Cousin Cur is no good to anyone. Drop him into the Channel.”
    “Major, it is a human life we’re talking about!” said Iris fiercely.
    “I am not as convinced as you of the value of human life; perhaps because I’ve had to take a few, in my time,” he said evenly. “I’ll do it; no-one else need be concerned.”
    “No,” said Iris, going very pale. ‘Whatever the rights and wrongs of it, it is still a hanging offence, Major.”
    He scratched his untidy pepper-and-salt curls. “Well, what other solution is there? Cur ain’t a forgiving man, you know.”
    After a moment Dom said slowly: “I do have a suggestion.”
    “Let’s hear it,” said Iris with a sigh.
    Dom thought they could smuggle his Lordship onto a ship and take him out to India. He knew a man who would take him on his plantation, no questions asked. What? No, of course no-one spoke English there! And barely no-one spoke Portuguese, neither. Mainly sugar, if they was that interested. And yes, he did mean as a field worker.
    “A man of his age, in that climate, doing hard manual labour?” said Iris weakly.
    “I’d give heem three months at the outside!” choked Dom, suddenly breaking down in sniggers. The Major immediately joined him.
    “STOP IT!” shouted Iris at the top of her voice.
    They stopped, and looked at her sheepishly.
    “We cannot get past the fact that his disappearance will give rise to suspicion!” she said angrily.
    “Vairy well: Sita can give heem a draught,” said Dom on a sour note. “Let heem die een bees bed. Like a Christian.”
    “That’ll do, Dom,” said the Major mildly, looking at Miss Jeffreys’s bright red cheeks.
    “Look, een the zenana, they don’t theenk twice—”
    “No,” said Major Norrington.
    Dom subsided.
    After some frowning moments, the Major said: “How would this be? We offer him the choice.”
    “Of what?” retorted Dom crossly.
    “Being dropped in the Channel, which I have to admit is still my preferred solution, being transported to an Indian plantation, taking one of your Sita’s draughts, or accepting a great deal of money in full settlement of his parental responsibilities towards Ruth.”
    There was a short silence.
    “We’d have to be damned convincing, sir,” said Dom uneasily.
    “I can guarantee you I’ll be convincing,” said Major Norrington.
    The cousins looked at him in some awe.
    “He weell try to turn eet eento a fight,” warned Dom.
    “He knows I don’t fight,” said the Major calmly. “And he also knows my conscience isn’t burdened with any antiquated notions of honour, like Lewis’s.”
    “Then he weell try to make eet a fight weeth the Col—weeth Lord Stamforth,” said Dom fearfully.
    “Yes, but he won’t manage it, because Lewis won’t be here.”
    “Major, I’d say eef any man under the sun could manage that, you ees that man, but frankly I don’t theenk any man under the sun could!”
    “I’m afraid I second that opinion,” Iris admitted.
    The Major was unmoved. “He’s still in bed. We’ll get one of your Indian women to mix up a little sleeping draught, and once he’s safely in the land of Nod, we’ll get him out of harm’s way.”
    “Kidnapping, in other words,” said Iris faintly. “And how long do you intend keeping him out of harm’s way?”
    “At least until we have Cur’s signature.”
    “Major,” said Dom uneasily, “I can vairy clearly envisage a man like Curwellion waiting six years and then challenging heem on another excuse entirely.”
    “Mm. Between you and me, Cousin Cur ain’t got six years.”
    They stared at him, frowning.
    “He’s a dying man. Some liver disease: noticed how pale he is? More or less lives on brandy, these days. Well, I never see him, myself, but the family’s man of business keeps in touch.”
    Iris swallowed loudly.
    “Don’t start pitying him, Miss Jeffreys,” said Major Norrington on a dry note.
    “Major, I would pity any living being in such a situation!”
    “Mm,” he said with a little smile. “Look, my plan is, keep a close eye on Lewis until Cousin Cur pops off: which I’ll be able to do if Ruth and I live here.”
    “Yes, but he weell take hees seat een the House of Lords!” objected Dom.
    “I’m coming to that. He’ll have to open up Stamforth House when he goes to London: I’m very sure the Vanes won’t hear of less. I don’t think he can sell it, I think it’s part of the entailed property. I’ll foist myself on him for the duration of the sittings!” said Major Norrington with a grin.
    “Good,” said Dom simply.
    “That’s only part of the plan, though. I think we’d best get you out of the country, young man.”
    “Yes,” said Iris with a huge sigh of relief. “Thank you, Major!”
    Major Norrington smiled a little wryly, but said; “Portugal? Won’t be for very long, y’know. Perhaps a year.”
    “Go, Dom. Please!” said Iris, leaning forward and putting her hand on his.
    Dom sighed. “I see eet would be sensible: yes. But look at the messes Nan has got herself eento, even weeth me here. What ees she goin’ to be like when there ain’t even me to keep an eye on her?”
    “Um—I could keep an eye on her,” croaked Iris.
    “Iris, eet ain’t weetheen your capacity,” he groaned. “You’ve seen her weeth—well, anything een pantaloons!” he said on a desperate note.
    Iris hesitated. She glanced at Lord Stamforth’s friend doubtfully.
    “Say eet, the Major ain’t deaf nor blind,” groaned Dom.
    Very pink, Iris said: “No, I see that. But—well,” she said awkwardly: “I cannot help but think that the best solution would be if we could bring her and Colonel—Lord Stamforth together. Then they could—um—”
    “Then they’d be so damned busy fighting like cat and dog, they’d have no time to spend gettin’ up to rigs and rows, een her case, and lettin’ damned Curwellion provoke heem eento a duel, een hees!” said Dom feelingly.
    “Er—yes. In essence, that’s it, Major,” Iris admitted.
    The Major’s broad shoulders shook; “Aye!” he gasped. “Ideal!”
    “But how? She’s mad as fire weeth heem,” said Dom glumly. “Theeng ees, she cannot bear underhandedness een a man. Don’t tell me she ain’t above any sort of deception, herself—!”
    “Ssh,” said Iris, squeezing his hand.
    “Yes, well, there you are,” he said limply.
    “I’ll give it some thought,” promised the Major with a twinkle in his eye. “But first things first. Get one of your women to mix up a sleeping draught, Dom. Er—ekdum, I think.”
    “Aye. Eet had best be Sita. Poor old John slept for three days that time Rani— Uh, never mind,” he muttered. He went over to the kitchen door, opened it and shouted: “SITA! Here! EKDUM!”
    “That’s how that’s done, is it?” said Major Norrington cheerily.
    “Yes,” returned Iris weakly, trying to smile.
    “Don’t bawl,” he said mildly.
    “I’m not!” she hissed fiercely. She glanced at Dom’s back. “I’ve been worried sick,” she murmured.
    “Yes,” said Major Norrington on a grim note.
    Iris looked at him doubtfully.
    “Don’t worry. He’s next. Cur won’t see him again.”
    Iris gulped, but nodded.


    Lewis woke groggily. The sun was pouring into Dom’s little room: it must be very late. Hell; he had meant to wake early and sort things out.
    “Good mornings, sahib!” said a pleased voice.
    Lewis blinked. It wasn’t Rani. Must be the other one. Uh—what was her name?
    “It’s Sita,” said a helpful small voice.
    “Er—yes. Good morning, Sita; good morning, Amrita.”
    “I am helping Sita to talk!” the little girl explained proudly. She held out a small bunch of yellow flowers.
    “For me?” said Lewis weakly.
    Amrita nodded very hard.
    Feebly Lewis took the flowers. Dandelions and buttercups. Well, it was a kind thought.
    Sita broke into speech.
    “Yes,” said Amrita, nodding hard. “I don’t know that word, neither. Sita ees saying that this garden does not have the good flowers, sir,” she explained.
    “Er—yes,” said Lewis dubiously. That was true enough. It didn’t have any flowers, good or bad.
    “Here is good drinks, sahib!” beamed Sita.
    Amrita said something to her in her own language. It seemed to include the words “My Lord”, however. Lewis swallowed.
    “My Lords, here is good drinks, sahib!” beamed Sita.
    “Thank you, Sita.” Lewis sat up, took the cup, and drank. Ugh—peppermint water flavoured with...
    “Ah!” said Sita pleasedly as Lord Stamforth lay down again and closed his eyes.
    “How long will he sleep for, Sita?” asked Amrita, peering into his face.
    “Oh, many hours, Amrita baba, many hours. Come along, now. Yes, leave the flowers,” she agreed.
    “I’ll make a shrine.” Amrita produced a small statue of Ganesh, the remover of obstacles, from the recesses of her person, and arranged the flowers in the cup before it.
    “Very good,” approved Sita. She removed a bangle and set it before the shrine.
    They both murmured an invocation to Elephant God, and went out.
    Lewis slept peacefully...


    “I am going straight back to Bath!” warned Nan.
    “You are supposed to be chaperoning RUTH!” shouted Dom.
    “She does not need me. Her cousin ees here,” she said grimly.
    Dom was about to shout at her again but Iris, who was sitting by Nan’s bedside, said quickly: “She’s right, Dom. And whether here or in Bath, it would not be fitting for Nan and Major Norrington to share a house, you know.”
    “Oh—damn. No, you’re right, Iris. Vairy well then, Nan: go,” he said tightly.
    “I shall. Ees Stamforth steell asleep?”
    “Er—tired,” he said uneasily.
    “Eendeed? How touching,” said Nan arctically. “He may leave the eenstant he wakes. Do not let me set eyes on heem, I am warning you, Dom!”
    Dom avoided Miss Jeffreys’s glance. “Er—no. Vairy well, eef that’s the way you want eet. But look, he meant no harm, Nan!”
    “He has made a fool of me,” she said tightly. “I was ready to offer heem— Never mind. At least I deed not do eet: no thanks to you!”
    “I deedn’t know about the damned title, either!” he cried.
    Iris cleared her throat. “I think that’s true, Nan. Um—look, go away, Dom, I want to talk to your sister.”
    Dom went over to the door. “So you are washing your hands of eet, Nan?”
    “NO!” she shouted. “Before I leave I shall give you a draft on my bank, you may offer horrible Lord Curwellion as much as he asks for!”
    “That eesn’t what I meant, and I’m not chucking your gelt, or leetle Johnny’s neither, away on—”
    “Dom, GO AWAY!” shouted Nan.
    Dom shrugged, and went out.
    “If you ask me—” began Iris incautiously.
    “I am not asking you!” she said crossly.
    “Nan, the poor fool wished to be loved for himself alone: can’t you see that?” she cried.
    “I can see that he believed that hees possession of a title might eenfluence my feelings towards heem, yes,” she said bitterly.
    Iris bit her lip. “Well, perhaps. Look, this may seem Romantick nonsense, Nan, but I truly think he—he’s the sort of man who would wish you to—to decide to link your life with his without any—any mundane considerations entering into the decision.”
    Nan stared at her.
    Iris was very red. “Truly!”
    “There must be mundane considerations,” she said feebly. “One must live, after all.”
    “Oh, dear,” said Iris under her breath.
    “Well, would you marry a man weethout the slightest idea how he was to support you?” she cried. “And—and what about your children? They cannot live on air!”
    Iris passed a hand through her heavy waves in despair. “True.”
    After a moment Nan said indignantly: “Just ‘True?’”
    “Um—look, Nan, I can understand that the circumstances of your life have—have taught you to be pragmatic about such matters. And—well, I think it’s your nature, as well. You are a practical person, in spite of the—well, the curls and the peaches and cream, and the—the frills,” she said, looking somewhat limply at the glorious sight of Lady Benedict semi-swathed in pink silk, ruffles and lace. With the curls all over the place. Pity, really, that one couldn’t just lead Stamforth in here, lock the door, and leave ’em until they’d worked it out.
    “One must be. And I theenk you are wrong: he was testing me, to see what value I place on worldly theengs.”
    “No! You’re looking at it from the wrong angle!” cried Iris in despair.
    “Then pray shed some light upon the angle from wheech you are looking at eet, Iris.”
    “Don’t be like that, for God’s sake: you sound like Grandfather on his high horse!”
    “Ugh,” said Nan limply. “I’m sorry, Iris. But I—I can’t agree weeth you,” she said in a low voice.
    “No.” said Iris with a sigh. “Um… I think I’ve said most of it. He wanted to see if you could care, with pragmatic considerations laid aside. It’s not as if he was hoping you’d throw your cap over the windmill, exactly. After all, you’ve got more than enough to support the pair of you, haven’t you?”
    “Yes,” she said, pleating the sheet, frowning.
    Iris goggled at the sheet. “I collect you brought your own linen?”
    “Of course I— Really, Iris! We are not deescussing linen!”
    “It’s just that Aunt Kate never awards me anything with so much as a monogram on it, let alone lacy edges,” said Iris, goggling.
    Nan sighed. “Crocheted, merely. Well, get married, have a house of your own: you may have as much fancy leenen as your heart desires, Iris!”
    “Or as my husband can afford,” she said with terrific dryness.
    “Um—yes,” said Nan, biting her lip.
    There was a short silence. Iris looked glumly at the sheet, hoping she hadn’t put her foot in it.
    “I theenk I see. He wanted me to fall een love weeth—weeth Lewis Vane,” said Nan, her lips trembling, “not to theenk such theengs as being married to a man weeth a great position een the world would—would eemprove Rosebud’s prospects and—and allow me to launch Daphne successfully and—and so forth.”
    “Mm, I think so.”
    A tear trickled down Nan’s cheek.
    Iris took a deep breath. “Are you in love with him?”
    “I don’t know,” she said dolefully. “I was going to suggest he marry me, so as—so as I could look after heem and help heem to put hees old house een order and—and look after leetle Clara, and—and so forth.” She looked limply at her fancy sheet. “And make sure he slept een decent leenen and not the horrible theengs he— Never mind. Eet was stupeed. But I truly believed,” she said, sniffing, and wiping away another tear with the back of her hand, “that he was vairy, vairy unhappy and would have to spend a whole year een the depths of the country struggling to—to put hees uncle’s property back on eets feet.”
    “Lor’,” said Iris limply. “He let you understand that, did he?”
    Nan nodded silently.
    “Um—well, in a way, it’s true, Nan,” she said cautiously.
    “He has a great name and a great position: he could dine at a different great house every night of the year and never have to spend a moment at the stupeed castle!” she cried.
    “Theoretically, yes. But can you see that man living on the charity of his peers?” said Iris grimly, getting up.
    “I— No.”
    “Nan, if he gave you the impression that he was very unhappy, then I’m damned sure he is,” said Iris. She went over to the door. “All right, he made a mistake: we’re none of us perfect. Have you never made a mistake?” She gave her a nasty look.
    Nan turned puce and was reduced to silence.
    Raising her eyebrows slightly, Iris slid out. Had that made it worse or better? Well—it seemed to have struck some kind of chord: she could only hope it was the right one!
    The door closed. Abruptly Nan turned her face into her lace-edged pillow and sobbed and sobbed.


    The children and Ruth were discovered in the field. Apparently Rani took this as a signal that food was required: no sooner had Dom, Iris and the Major sat down with them than trayfuls appeared.
    “Eh?” said Dom. “Lord, we’ve scarce breakfasted, eef the woman has her way we shall be stuffed like the Christmas goose before eet ees scarce—uh—what’s that other English Christian holy day?” he ended on a weak note.
    Iris and Major Norrington shook silently; Ruth put her hand over her mouth.
    “Holee!” cried Amrita.
    “Lor’, thought she had forgot all that,” he said numbly. “No, no, that’s an Indian festival, Amrita baba. Uh—theenk I mean Harvest Festival. Well—just a mouthful.” He took a spoonful of syrup and rusgoollahs. “Mm! Try shome, Major!”
    Major Norrington helped himself. “My God,” he said in awe.
    “Eet’s the rosewater,” Dom explained. “Does make you feel like that, eh?”
    Major Norrington beamed and nodded.
    “Very good hot teas, now,” said Rani, wielding a steaming kettle.
    Less than two minutes after he had drunk up his hot peppermint tea, Dom was fast asleep, on his back, snoring.
    Amrita knelt and peered into his face. “Vairy fast asleep,” she said with satisfaction. “Now he weell be going to Portugal.”
    Iris rolled her eyes frantically at the Major.
    Coughing slightly, he said: “I think that what the ayahs know, the children know, Miss Jeffreys. –Yes, we’ll pop Dom in the coach, shall we, girls? And get him away where he’ll be safe from the bad man.”
    “Yes! And then we weell shoot the bad man!” cried Amrita, her eyes flashing.
    “Uh—no. ’Fraid not. Well, he is Ruth’s Papa,” said Major Norrington regretfully. He bent. He lifted. He slung Dom over his shoulder as if he weighed about as much as Amrita, and strode off towards the stables. The two little girls, cheering shrilly, bounded along at his side.
    The two young women followed, Iris, for one, telling herself that brute strength in a man was not of itself admirable. Therefore there was no need at all for anyone to experience a sort of fawning, feeble, feminine admiration for Major Norrington. For it was certainly through no doing of his own that he was large and—well, strong; but merely an—an accident of fate!


    Greetings having been exchanged, a very pale-faced Cherry sat down with Iris  in the sitting-room. Before Iris could ask how she felt, Major Norrington came in. “Drink this,” he said without preamble.
    Cherry looked limply at the glass and at the large man holding it out.
    “This is Major Norrington: Ruth’s cousin. You did meet him last night, I believe,” murmured Iris.
    “Oh! Yes! I’m so sorry, Major Norrington. I—I thought I had dreamt it,” said Cherry in a confused voice, putting her hand to her head.
    “Drink it,” he repeated stolidly.
    “Whuh-what is it?” she faltered, taking the glass.
    “No idea. Sita tells me it’s what she gives Dom baba when he’s in the same state “
    Cherry smiled faintly. She sipped. “Ugh!”
    “Drink it right off,” said the Major, standing over her.
    Drily Iris reflected that it would have taken a much stronger female than Cherry Chalfont to stand up to that. Whatever the muck was, poor little Cherry drank it all up, shuddering.
    They watched her uneasily as she leant back against the sofa with her eyes shut..
    “Ooh!” she said, opening her eyes in surprise. “Pardon me!” she gasped, putting her hand to her midriff.
    “Better?” said the Major unemotionally.
    Blushing, Cherry replied: “A little, thank you, sir.”
    “A cup of tea?” suggested Iris.
    Cherry made to get up. “Yes; I’ll—”
    “Stay there: I’ll tell the ayahs.” The Major took the glass and went out.
    Cherry looked limply at Iris.
    “He’s taken over. He’s already bundled Dom off to town, to the Embassy—get him out of Lord Curwellion’s way.”
    Cherry’s mouth opened. No sound came out of it.
    “Oh, dear; did you think you dreamed that, too?”
    She nodded, her eyes very round.
    “No,” said Iris definitely. “They’ve locked him in the attic.”
    Cherry looked wildly round the room. “Where is Sir Noël?” she gasped.
    “Hey?” replied Iris elegantly.
    “Sir Noël! They put him in a hamper! If—if it is true Lord Curwellion was in the trunk, then it must be true that Sir Noël was in the hamper!”
    “Not necessarily,” said Iris cautiously. “How much did you drink last night?”
    “Suh-some claret, with supper,” she faltered.
    “And?”
    “They were large glasses. And—um—Mr Cowper gave me a funny drink from his flask. I was very nervous and I was waiting to go on, you see. It was terribly strong… I remember! He called it flesh-and-blood! –Is that a drink?”
    “It’s two varieties of strong liquor, mixed,” said Major Norrington, coming back into the room with a tray of tea. “No wonder you’ve got a head, young woman.”
    “According to her, though she may have dreamt it,” said Iris cautiously as the Major poured tea, “someone last night put Sir Noël Amory into a hamper. I realise you may not be acquainted with the gentleman, sir, of course. But have you seen a hamper with a gentleman in it, recently?”
    “No. She did mention that last night, that’s right.”
    “Then it was true! But where is he?” gasped Cherry in horror.
    “Not here,” replied the Major definitely, handing her a cup.
    “But— Have you not seen a large hamper, sir?”
    “No.” The Major handed tea to Iris.
    “But—” Cherry broke off, looking at Iris in dismay. “Oh, dear! I forgot to ask! How is Miss Lilias’s mother?” she gasped.
    “She lost the baby, but she is on the road to a full recovery. Still a little weak, when I left, but already starting to rule the household with her usual rod of iron.”
    “Oh,” said Cherry limply. “Wuh-well, that is not so bad.”
    “Was the pregnancy far advanced?” asked the Major, sipping tea.
    “Er—no,” replied Iris limply. Far from asking for details, most men tended to edge out of the room round about this point, in her experience. “But it gave them a terrible fright: she had a bad fall, you see, and was unconscious for a week.”
    He nodded. “Very frightening. Well, I am glad it was not a case of carrying it to term: a mother experiences such anguish when the babe is still-born.”
    “Yes,” agreed Cherry unexpectedly. “Mrs Gareth Pontefract was in a depressed state for over a year after the loss of her second child.”
    “That is not untypical,” the Major agreed.
    Cherry nodded over her teacup. “The family sent her to Leamington Spa, as the waters of Bath were doing her no good, but it did not answer.”
    “I’m not surprised: Leamington Spa?” said Iris.
    “Her Mamma thought that if not the waters, then the change of air might help her.”
    “And it didn’t?” said the Major.
    Cherry shook her head. “No.”
    “And is she recovered now?” he asked kindly.
    Iris at this point was astonished to discover in herself an urge, firstly, to fling the Major’s cup of tea into his face and, secondly, to take the inoffensive Cherry out and drown her. She stared fixedly into her cup.
    Cherry was explaining that the arrival of little Marianne Pontefract had cured Mrs Gareth, and the Major was agreeing that that was often the cure, with what appeared to be perfectly genuine sympathy and interest. Iris took a deep breath.
    “Cherry, sympathetic though I am to the life-story of Mrs Whoever—”
    “I’m sorry! She’s a friend of my sister-in-law’s!” she gasped.
    “I see. As I was saying, sympathetic though one must be, this has distracted us from the point at issue. If Sir Noël Amory was really put into a hamper, where is it?”
    “I duh-don’t know!” she stuttered.
    “That was damn’ silly, Miss Jeffreys,” said the Major coolly, as Miss Chalfont then abruptly burst into snorting sobs. “Go away. I’ll deal with her.”
    Iris went very red, turned on her heel, and walked out without a word.


    Sir Noël woke up with a splitting head and considerable stiffness in the joints. In a barn.
    “Where the—?” he spluttered, raising himself on an elbow.
    Mr Emmanuel Everett was lounging against the wall. “In a barn,” he drawled.
    The baronet sat up hurriedly. “By God!”
    “Oh, I don’t think the Deity had much of a hand in it: in my humble experience, He don’t bother Himself with the likes of the poor player,” drawled Mr Everett. “Put it down to ingenuity born of necessity, rather.”
    “I’ll see you in Newgate if it’s the last thing I do!” spluttered Sir Noël, staggering to his feet.
    “The head,” drawled Mr Everett, as his victim felt it, wincing, “was not intentional on our part. You brought it on yourself by attempting to attack a member of our company when we let you out of your hamper in the early hours of this morning. As you may not recall, sir,” he added with a slight bow.
    The reason that Sir Noël had not already sprung on him and wrung the life out of his impertinent body was that the actor was holding an efficient-looking pistol remarkably steady on him. “Release me immediately,” he said through his teeth.
    “Oh, you’re quite free to go,” said Mr Everett with an airy wave of the pistol. Immediately it was returned to its former position, steadily aimed at the enraged baronet.
    “Where are we?” he asked grimly.
    Mr Everett raised his eyebrows very slightly. “In a barn. Somewhere upon a somewhat indirect route from Lancewood Hall to the great metropolis. A fit man could walk back in a day.”
    Sir Noël took a deep breath and strode over to the door of the barn. Half expecting, if the truth be told, to feel a bullet in his back. But the actor did not fire.
    The open door presented a view of fields, some hedges, and a few trees. It could not be early: the sun was already high in the sky.
    After a moment he said grimly: “This is kidnapping.”
    “What, because I found you in a barn in the middle of nowhere and stopped, like a good Samaritan should, to see if you needed aid?”
    Sir Noël looked around with narrowed eyes. Fields, hedges, and a few trees. “I see. Very artful,” he said grimly.
    “Thank you. Before you go, let me say two things.—Well, I’m going to say ’em whether or not you let me.—In the first instance, when one is upon what may loosely be termed the boards in what may loosely be termed an undemanding part, one has considerable time to observe the audience as they observe oneself. It’s my considered opinion that any man who spends an evening in the pocket of the type of female with whom you were spending the evening, is not worthy even to kiss the hem of the garment of a sweet innocent like Miss Cherry Chalfont, beg pardon, Chypsley.”—Sir Noël had been looking considerably annoyed anyway, but at this he looked as if he might explode. Mr Everett’s lugubrious face displayed no emotion whatsoever.—“And in the second instance, give me one good reason why I shouldn’t shoot you where you stand.”
    The baronet opened his mouth angrily. He shut it again.
    Mr Everett eyed him thoughtfully.
    After quite some time Sir Noël managed to say: “You are very partisan.”
    “I don’t think any man of decent feeling who had been acquainted with Miss Chalfont for more than five minutes could fail to be,” he replied tranquilly.
    The baronet’s mouth tightened angrily, but he neither shouted nor threatened.
    Mr Everett waited, but as Sir Noël did not speak, noted: “The mother’s death must inevitably have been a shock. Simple-minded persons might say that the loss of such a parent might cause nothing but relief, but in this instance, I rather think there were some very mixed feelings indeed. Perhaps no true grief. But certainly a lot of guilt.” He put his head on one side and looked at him thoughtfully.
    Sir Noël swallowed. Eventually he managed to say: “You are correct, of course. But why should she then turn on me?”
    “Well, I can’t explain that,” said Mr Everett with an appearance of frank simplicity. He hesitated. The gentleman’s handsome face looked as if it was about to relapse into scowls. “I’m sorry, that was flippant. I really cannot explain it, Sir Noël. But I have observed that that sort of behaviour is very typical of persons going through emotional crises. Very often it is their nearest and dearest who bear the brunt.”
    “Yes,” he said in a low voice, biting his lip.
    “Um—I suppose this escapade of hers must seem very naughty to you. But she was perfectly safe with us, and it did seem to both our manager and myself that allowing her to indulge the whim to appear in our little piece might cheer her up a little. And—er—I do not claim to know more than a very little of her life, but it would seem that no-one has been in the habit of indulging her whims, much, heretofore.”
    “Much!” said Sir Noël with a loud, angry laugh. “No, indeed!”
    “So we thought,” he said tranquilly.
    Sir Noël thought it over, frowning. “I see,” he said finally. “So I owe you my humble thanks for having kidnapped me and stuffed me in a box, do I?”
    “Well, no.—It was a hamper rather than a box, by the by.—And perhaps we did overreact. On the other hand, it is always the player’s first instinct to preserve the performance.”
    “Added to which, you were not at all averse to kidnapping me and stuffing me into a b—hamper.”
    “Well, no,” admitted Mr Everett gracefully.
    Sir Noël bit his lip. “Where is she? Staying with the Benedict woman?”
    “Yes. At a little place known as Sunny Bay House. The nearest village is Underdene. But—” He broke off.
    “Well?” said Noël heavily.
    “Well, I do think she may be anxious about you. If she remembers everything, after that claret on top of the damned flesh-and-blood that that damned idiot Cowper seems to have given her,” he admitted scratching his head with his free hand. “Oh, only as a bracer, to steady her nerves for the part: he’s as innocent as that wooden lamb she was pulling. And at least half as bright.”
    Sir Noël had to swallow.
    “Er—but although I think she may be relieved to see you are unharmed, she may not be prepared to—um, come round,” the actor admitted.
    “Look, why not?” he said angrily. “I concede that the mother’s death was a shock, and that everything you said on the subject is correct. But the engagement was more or less an understood thing: why the Devil should she wish to break it off now?’
    Mr Everett eyed him drily. “Setting aside your own conduct last evening—Lud, was it so recent? It seems like half a lifetime.—Yes, well, setting aside that, the poor little soul don’t wish to marry you, sir, because she’s in love with you.”
    “But—” Noël went very red. He turned away and stared out over the fields.
    There was quite a long silence. During it Mr Everett watched him with interest.
    “I think I see,” he said at last, in a stifled voice.
    “It’s about time,” said Mr Everett calmly.
    He swallowed. “But I— Well, Hell: what would you do in my shoes?’ he demanded on a cross note.
    Emmanuel Everett heard the cross note, but also the desperation that underlay it. “I think I would write her a note assuring her of my deepest regard and my determination to win her hand. Then I’d sheer off for a bit. –While she has time to rediscover what it’s like, being without a man of her own,” he explained on a dry note. “Being under Lady Benedict’s roof will help, no doubt.”
    “Er—I see. She does usually have a train of em, yes,” he admitted under Mr Everett’s sardonic eye.
    “So one imagined. In the meantime, I’d advise staying down on your estates—forget where she said they were—and behaving yourself. Dare say you could spend the time helping your Mamma to remove to the dower house, hey?”
     “Is there anything you don’t know?” he said feebly.
    Emmanuel Everett bowed. “Yes: I have not the slightest notion why it was ordained that something like you should get something like her, whilst I am not even in the position of being eligible for her friend’s train.”
    Noël had begun to look annoyed again, but at this his jaw dropped. “What?”
    “Being an impoverished actor don’t render one immune, y’know,” he drawled.
    “No. Um—I’m damned sorry,” muttered the baronet, flushing.
    Mr Everett looked at him with considerable, though veiled, amusement. He had not thought he could embarrass Sir Noël, to say truth. Not that that had stopped him trying. But what he had said was true, as far as it went. Though that was not, perhaps, very far: Emmanuel Everett had long since learned not to pine for the might-have-been. “So, shall you do it?” he murmured, pocketing the pistol.
    “Er—yes,” said Noël weakly. “I must thank you for the advice, I suppose. –Wasn’t that thing cocked?” he added limply.
    Casually Mr Everett took it from his pocket and tossed it at him.
    Sir Noël caught it, with a gasp. He looked at it closely. His mouth opened, but no sound came out of it.
    “In my profession,” said Mr Everett with no abatement of his usual lugubrious manner: “we call that a ‘prop’, sir: a stage property, you perceive.”
    Sir Noël did, indeed. It was certainly a real pistol, but the barrel was filled with some solid substance. He tossed it back to him: the actor caught it neatly and pocketed it again.
    “That is not the cream of the jest,” he said smoothly: “but I shall not tell you what that be: unless perhaps you are not a particular friend of a certain Lord Curwellion?”
    It may be remembered that Mr Emmanuel Everett had not been formally introduced to Miss Smith’s papa. And as far as was known at Sunny Bay House, no-one had even breathed Ruth’s real name to him, either. Nevertheless Mr Everett was perfectly well aware of who the thin-faced, elegant older gentleman whom they had enclosed in the trunk had been. Mr Everett had, after all, adorned the boards of the great metropolis for some considerable number of years. And his Lordship’s was not a face unknown in the dressing-rooms and greenrooms of London town.
    “No, I am not,” said Sir Noël with a curl of his elegant lip.
    Mr Everett coughed. “Then, if you would care to adjourn to the nearest inn—it is a five-mile walk, I fear—I shall regale you with the story.”
    “Do I have an option?” he said drily.
    “Well, yes: you could go your way in the one direction and I could go mine in the other.”
    Noël Amory was still not entirely reconciled to this actor fellow’s knowing all his intimate business. Not to say, to his having given him some excellent advice. However, he said with a sigh: “Come on, then. And may I be permitted to know your name?”
    “I am known on the boards as Emmanuel Everett,” said Mr Everett, lounging up to him. “Thataway.”
    Sir Noël sighed, but set off across the field. “Known as?” he said on a weak note as they approached the nearest hedge.
    “There’s a gap just up here. Well, it strikes as euphonious, don’t it? Besides, I was very young at the time I chose it.” Delicately Mr Everett held a single twig aside for the baronet to squeeze through the gap. It was not much of a gap: something like sixty more twigs tore at Noël’s pantaloons as he got through.
    “Go on, then, Mr Everett: if you have a story about Curwellion, I should like to hear it. In especial if it be to his discredit,” he noted drily.
    “Well, it is. But I should warn you, it involves my property pistol and a box,” he said apologetically.
    The baronet gulped, failed to control himself, and let out a yelp of laughter.
    Mr Everett did not say anything so crass as: “That’s better.” Indeed, he did not even smile. But he did look as if he could.


    “What are you doing een my bedroom?” gasped Nan, clutching the pink silk wrapper to her person.
    Major Norrington replied without emotion: “Speaking to you. Do you know anything of a Sir Noël Amory and a hamper?”
    “Great Heavens!” she gasped in horror. “I had forgot all about— What’s the time?”
    “A little after noon.”
    “Eet cannot be!” Regardless of the fact that there was a gentleman whom she scarcely knew in her bedroom, Nan scrambled out of bed and rushed to the window.
    The Major came up her side. “There’s a donkey-cart.”
    “Eet’s the dairymaid from Longacre Farm, she ees late today— Never mind that! Mr Everett was supposed to bring Sir Noël here thees morning!”
    “It appears he has not done so. Er—would there be enmity between the two, ma’am?” asked Ursa Norrington, straight-faced.
    “No! They do not know each—” Nan broke off, frowning. “No, Mr Everett would not be so seelly.”
    “You had best tell me the whole. –Allow me to assist you.” Gravely he helped her back into bed, noting with some amusement that Lady Benedict appeared not to notice she was being helped into her bed by a gentleman whom she scarcely knew.
    “Um—well, there ees not vairy much to tell,” she said weakly. “Um...” She told him the whole. Ursa Norrington laughed until he cried.
    “Yes, vairy funny, but what has happened to them?”
    The Major blew his nose. “Possibly their waggon’s lost a wheel, Lady Benedict. Or possibly Sir Noël escaped and—er—went home.”
    “To Devon?” she said witheringly.
    The Major shrugged.
    “Eet ees all vairy well to shrug eet off, Major, but we have been trying to bring heem and Cherry together for months!”
    “Really? I wouldn’t have thought hampering him was the way to achieve that end.”
    “Oh, go away!” cried Nan crossly. “No, wait,” she said as he reached the doorway: “Please ask Dom to come up to me: I theenk he had best ride over to Lancewood Hall to see eef Sir Noël be there.”
    “That ain’t a bad plan, only he can’t do it. He’s not here.”
    “Where ees he?” said Nan blankly.
    “On the London road in the travelling coach. I’ve packed him off to the Portuguese Embassy: keep him out of damned Cousin Cur’s way.”
    Nan’s jaw sagged. “Horrors: I had forgot about heem, for the instant! Well, thank God you have got Dom out of eet! But how on earth deed you persuade heem to go?”
    “I didn’t. The ayahs administered a draught.”
    Nan goggled at him. “They agreed to do eet? For you? But they do not know you!”
    The Major scratched his pepper-and-salt curls. “They seemed to think it was a damn’ good idea. Oh: Sita mixed up a dose for Lewis, too. Did think of sending him back to the castle, but I’m having second thoughts on that one.”
    “You mean he—he ees unconscious?” she croaked.
    “Say asleep, rather.”
    Nan bit her lip. “Major Norrington, are you sure eet was one of Sita’s draughts?”
    “Certainly. Dom warned me against Rani’s.”
    Nan sagged against her pillows. “That’s a mercy,” she muttered.
    “That all you wished to know?” asked the Major calmly.
    “Get out,” said Nan through her teeth.
    Grinning, Major Norrington got.


    “My God,” said Noël numbly at the conclusion of the actor’s narrative—even though at certain parts of it he had laughed until he almost cried. The narrative had not omitted very much, never mind that Mr Everett was officially supposed not to know very much.
    “Mm. Well, I don’t advise that you go haring off to add yourself to the list of those his Lordship will have destined for Newgate.”
    “But— Dammit, whom have they got to protect them, Everett? And don’t say that brother of Lady Benedict’s, he is the merest boy!”
    “I have no notion,” he said tranquilly.
    After a moment Sir Noel admitted: “I think Lewis Vane must be involved. The new Viscount Stamforth, I mean. Lady Benedict is harum-scarum enough for very nearly anything, but even she would hardly undertake such a mad start against such a man as Curwellion without making sure she had a protector. And—well, he fought a duel over her in London, y’know.”
    Mr Everest did not know, and nor did he know the gentleman in question, but he was not surprised. On the other hand, he did not for a moment share Sir Noël’s opinion that Lady Benedict must have arranged for a protector in the enterprise against Lord Curwellion: Sir Noël Amory was, the actor now recognized, though not unintelligent, a somewhat conventional personality. The which was just as well: he rather thought that Miss Chalfont, masked escapades as Dresden shepherdesses or not, would not be comfortable with a less conventional man. Mildly he expressed agreement with the baronet’s supposition.
    “All the same,” said Noël, frowning over it: “I shall not content myself with writing Cherry a note. I had best call and see that they are all right.”
    Mr Everett did not point out that there might be some social awkwardness in rolling up at a lady’s house and saying: “I say, I’ve come to see your lady guest what has refused to be engaged to me, and by the by, ain’t you got a kidnapped baron about the house?” He merely agreed: “That might be sensible.” Though at the same time conscious of a wish that he could be a fly on the wall to witness the scene.


    Lord Curwellion’s cousin had earlier removed the gag and freed his ankles from the iron bedstead, though they were still hobbled. He was standing by the window of the little attic room when the Major went in. He did not turn his head but said: “I do not wish for a meal.”
    “I’m not offering you a meal, only some brandy and a glass of milk.”
    °I’ll have the brandy.”
    “You’ll have the brandy in the milk,” replied the Major without emotion. He freed his cousin’s hands.
    His Lordship took the glass, frowning, and drank it off.
    Major Norrington bound his hands behind his back again. “How is it?” he asked, still without emotion.
    Lord Curwellion did not reply.
    Major Norrington leaned in the window. Below on the soft green slope of the field Ruth was playing in the sun with the two little girls, Johnny and Rosebud. “Pretty sight, hey?”
    “Don’t attempt an appeal to my sensibilities,” replied his Lordship coldly. “It may be pretty but it is also abysmally bourgeois. Not that the girl isn’t.”
    “They could be your grandchildren, in a year or two.”
    “Really?” he said coldly. “Not an attractive thought.”
    “Look, Cur, let’s face it, you have a couple of years at the very most. What the Devil were you planning to do with the girl’s money?”
    His Lordship shrugged. “What does one do with money?”
    “Are you seriously telling me that you intended to sell your daughter to a corrupt old roué like Pom-Pom von Maltzahn-Dressen in order to spend your last days in dicing and wenching?”
    He shrugged.
    Major Norrington scratched his curls. “How much?”
    “Disabuse yourself of the notion that I am about to sell my honour, Cousin,” he said coldly.
    “Whatever honour you might have once had was dead when you proposed selling that innocent child to Pom-Pom! If it were up to me, I’d throttle you and drop you in the Channel. But Ruth’s friends have persuaded me to offer you a choice. That’s your first option. Then you have the possibility of taking a draught prepared by one of Lady Benedict’s Indian servants. The local doctor would without doubt certify it as natural causes. Or if you prefer, we’ll ship you out to India, where you can die in the fields. Don’t imagine you’d find yourself in an English-speaking area. However, if none of those fates appeal, and if you’re willing to sign over Ruth’s guardianship to me, we’ll give you as much money as you want, to go to perdition in your own way.”
    His Lordship’s mouth tightened angrily.
    “Oh, you would also have to sign a pledge to the effect that you won’t challenge either Stamforth or young Baldaya.”
    “Get out,” he said through his teeth.
    The Major looked at him drily. “This house, and in fact every square inch of land you see from this window, belongs to Lewis Vane. We can keep you here until you’ve made up your mind. There are no local servants to gossip, only Lady Benedict’s own people.”
    “Bedford is expecting me in August,” he said tightly.
    “And you are famed for keeping your social .engagements, of course. Think it over, Cur.” He checked his cousin’s bonds, and went out.
    Lord Curwellion sank down onto the narrow bed, scowling.


    “Gent, ain’t ’e?” said the landlord of the Pig and Whistle thoughtfully as Sir Noël’s well-dressed if somewhat rumpled person disappeared in the general direction of the Brighton road on the Pig and Whistle’s hire horse. With strict instructions to go no further on it than the Blue Boar at Oakley Halt, whence it might be retrieved at leisure.
    “Oh, very much a gent,” conceded Mr Everett.
    “Will you take another glass, yourself, sir?” said the landlord ingratiatingly.
    Mr Everett did not point out that another glass was about all his humble pocket would run to. He consented graciously and they returned to the tap.
    “Out of course,” said the landlord, having judiciously tasted his own good ale, “Aah! That be not ’alf a bad drop, if I do say so meself. –Out of course, if so be as the gent was a-wishin’ to head for Stamforth town, that ain’t the most direct route. Not what you might call, direct.”
    “Nor it is,” agreed Mr Everett calmly.
    “Ah,” said the landlord thoughtfully.
    Mr Everett sipped ale peacefully. “Well, it will get him there in relative ease and comfort: isn’t that what the gentry require?”
    “Ah.” The landlord winked, very slowly. “Not afore nightfall, it won’t, sir.”
    “Oh, quite. And then, he is not heading for Stamforth itself, but for Sunny Bay, which is a way out of the town.”
    “Ah, I knows it. Nearer to the castle, it be.”
    “Yes, quite. So I rather think,” said Mr Everett calmly, “that he will opt to sleep before continuing on his journey.”
    “Ah. Like as not, ’e’ll get so far as— Well, depends whether they puts ’im on the right road at the Blue Boar. But like as not ’e won’t make it to Stamforth afore dark.”
    “No. Tomorrow will be soon enough for him to turn up at Sunny Bay, I feel,” said Mr Everett tranquilly.
    The landlord drank ale, nodding reflectively. “So if ’e’s a gent, what might your own walk of life be, if I may make so bold, sir?”
    Mr Everett had been expecting this. There were generally two reactions when you said you were an actor: either they kicked you out on your ear, or they required a free performance.
    Mr Jakes of the Pig and Whistle was of the latter sort. His bloodshot blue eyes lit up. “A h’actor! Just fancy that, now! Now, if so be as you might care to favour us with a piece, sir—?”
    The tap, on a fine summer’s afternoon, was occupied by themselves, an ancient in an indescribably grimy smock whom Mr Jakes had not introduced, possibly because it was not altogether clear whether he was merely nodding over his tankard or actually deceased, and a stout person in a leather jerkin: one Bill Yates. Mr Everett had had smaller audiences, in his time. Graciously he consented and, Mrs Jakes, Alfie (surname undisclosed) and Janey ’Uggins having all been summoned in a shout, and having duly seated themselves, all agog, he duly favoured the company with a piece.
    “’Ighly classical, sir,” approved Mr Bill Yates.
    “’Deed it were, sir!” cried Mrs Jakes, clapping like anything.
    Mr Everett bowed. It had been that, all right: “To be or not to be.” Well, that sort of thing was what such persons expected. They did not require to understand the piece, of course. In fact not understanding made it better. So long as it did not go on for too long.
    Alfie then asked for a comic piece. After a certain amount of judicious putting-down of Alfie by Mr Jakes, Mrs Jakes, and the ancient, who had now woken up, it was conceded that the company could fancy a comic piece. This was very much the usual thing, too: the appetite for the highly classical having been satisfied, they usually wanted the farce. Mr Everett had a comic dialogue all ready for them. In the which he took the two parts.
    Predictably the audience laughed itself silly and, when the eyes had been mopped and the clapping was over, professed itself overcome at his cleverness. So much so that Mr Everett was tempted to offer to stay on for the evening and pass the hat. But it would not do: Percy was expecting him.
    And, indeed, Alfie revealed sadly as there was a shout of “OY!” from outside; “That’ll be Mr Parton’s ’Ughie now, sir, if yer wants Combe ’Alt.”
    “Indeed I do, for that is where I have a rendezvous with the rest of my company,” said Mr Everett. “—Thanking you kindly, Mr Jakes,” as the landlord bestowed a glass of rum on him. The generous ones usually did that. Well, they did not all run to rum. But then, the Pig and Whistle was pretty obscure: they could not get much in the way of entertainment in these parts.
    “’E’s got a what?” hissed Janey ’Uggins in her mistress’s ear.
    “A meeting,” explained Mr Everett graciously.
    Janey ’Uggins turned scarlet at being directly addressed, gasped “Lumme!”, gave a mad laugh, and threw her apron up over her face. That was quite usual, too.
    Mr Everett then took his leave, with handshakes all round except for the overcome Janey, and a very low bow over Mrs Jakes’s hand, the landlady predictably gasping: “Well, I never!” It was generally that or “Get along with you!”
    Mr Parton’s ’Ughie having refreshed himself with a quick tankard of ale, they were on their way. He was driving a manure cart, but Mr Everett had been forewarned. And in any case he was not particular.
    The entire company emerged onto the roadside to see him off, Mr Jakes reminding him that Combe ’Alt were maybe an hour away, by cart. You went straight on up-along thataway. “The direction what you come from, sir,” he added cautiously.
    Mr Everett nodded tranquilly. Combe ’Alt was an easy ten minutes’ walk on the farther side of the barn in which Sir Noël had woken up. And the direct route to the Brighton road was fifteen further minutes from Combe ’Alt.
    “Ah,” said Mr Jakes as the company retired to the tap to talk it all over. “They’re cunning fellows, you know, these actors.”
    “Yes, acos if ‘e comed from Combe ’Alt, what’s ’e want to be a-goin’ back there for?” squeaked Janey ’Uggins, very much above herself.
    “Ah,” agreed Mr Jakes thoughtfully.
    Much further time and effort was expended at the Pig and Whistle that afternoon and, indeed, well into the evening, on puzzling out this mystery. But no-one found a truly satisfactory solution.
    Mr Everett, to say truth, had had nothing more devious in mind than a feeling that it might be as well to let Cherry get over the effects of a very late night, claret, and flesh-and-blood before she had to face Sir Noël. And another, vaguer, feeling that it might be as well to let Lady Benedict have time in which to sort out her plot and possibly dispose quietly of Lord Curwellion before Cherry’s admirer appeared on the scene. For, not being the conventional sort of man that Sir Noël was, he did not find himself able to subscribe to the belief that her Ladyship would be unable to do without the aid of a gentleman. In fact, the less so, the more he thought about it. A little smile hovered on Mr Everett’s long, mobile mouth as the laden manure cart proceeded slowly on its way towards Combe ’Alt.


    Nan had spent some considerable time thinking. Then she got up and dressed. She went quietly into Dom’s room. Lewis was asleep in the small bed. She went right up to him, frowning, and bent over him. His breathing was slow and regular.
    Sita appeared in the doorway. “My Lords Sahib is quite all right, Nanni Begum.”
    “How much did you give him?” returned Nan fiercely in the ayah’s own tongue.
    “Only enough to make him sleep for a little while,” she said vaguely.
    ‘You’re a fool, woman! Just because that man told you to!” said Nan between her teeth.
    “With respect, Nanni Begum, if the sahib is asleep, then he  can’t fight the evil one upstairs.”
    “Don’t you ‘with respect’ me, you budmush!” cried Nan angrily.
    “I could give the evil one a draught, to make him sleep for many days. Long enough to take him to his home,” she suggested, eyeing her sideways.
    “And?”
    “Then it would be a matter of getting him into his own bed and calling his own doctor, Nanni Begum,” she said, bowing.
    “Sita—” began Nan dangerously.
    “The doctor comes,” said Sita, lapsing into a narrative style: “and he says, Oh, the evil one is so sick and must stay in his bed. –He is sick: very yellow even for a feringhee devil,” she noted by the by.
    “AND?” shouted Nan.
    “Oh, the evil one is so sick, he stays in his bed for many days. Then he dies of his disease.”
    “Oh, really?”
    “With all his family and friends at his bedside,” said Sita piously.
    “He has no friends, or at the least none that would care to attend his deathbed, I am very sure. How do you make sure he dies?”
    “After the doctor has seen him, Norrington Sahib gives him—”
    “NO!” shouted Nan.
    “It is absolutely quick and sure, Nanni Begum.”
    “Get out. –No, wait: are my eyes deceiving me, or is that an offering to Ganesh on Colonel— My Lord’s bedside table?”
    “Certainly. Amrita baba wished it.”
    Rolling her eyes, Nan went out.
    Sita checked Lord Stamforth’s breathing carefully, pulled the covers up a little, and followed her, her face expressionless. It remained expressionless as Nan ordered her grimly to get downstairs and stay there. She went, but they were both aware that that did not mean she was going to stay there.


    “Well?” said Mr Brentwood eagerly.
    “Very well,” replied Mr Everett, leaping lithely down from the manure cart.
    Mrs Lily Cornish and Mrs Hetty Pontifex had hurried out of the small hostelry at Combe Halt when the wheels of the cart were heard. Mrs Lily now gasped: “Land, and there ain’t a mark on you, Mr E.!”
    “Said I not that Emmanuel Everett would manage the thing?” said Mr Brentwood complacently.
    “Percy Brentwood, you said no such thing!” cried Mrs Hetty. “–He said as how that fine buck would ring your neck for you!” she revealed.
    “Well, he was wrong,” said Mr Everett calmly. “Come along inside, and I’ll tell you the whole. That is, after Hughie and I have cleared the dust from our throats!”
    Hughie grinned a gap-toothed grin and nodded fervently.
    “I don’t mind if I do,” conceded Mr Brentwood.
    “You,” replied his colleague amiably, grabbing his elbow in a grip of steel: “are going to stand the round, Percy.”
    Mr Brentwood blustered, but Mr Everett led him inexorably inside and forced him to disgorge. He then gave a very good imitation of a man revealing the whole, with a particularly good rendition of Sir Noel’s reception of his own account of the boxing-up of Miss Smith’s papa. Omitting, however, all reference to his own knowledge of the latter’s identity.


    Richpal had been relieved from his place on guard outside Lord Curwellion’s door by Ranjit, who had returned to Sunny Bay with Iris and Sita. He greeted Nan with the remark that it had occurred to him that they could just nail the wood back over the attic room’s door, and go home to Bath. The thought had also occurred to Nan: she bit her lip but said in his language: “I think questions would be asked by the authorities, Ranjit. Has he been quiet?”
    “Very quiet, Nanni Begum.”
    Nan had thought there might be some argument about her going in, but he opened the door for her obediently.
    “I am here with gun, Nanni Begum,” he said in English.
    “Yes: vairy good, Ranjit.” Nan went in, closing the door after her.
    Lord Curwellion looked at her sourly and made no attempt to rise.
    “Have they fed you?” she said abruptly.
    “I have had sufficient. If you have come to offer me money, you may save your breath. What I will take,” he said, his eyes narrowed: “is your charming person. For as long as I have left, which I am in no doubt my damned cousin has explained to you, will not be long.”
    “No, thank you,” said Nan politely.
    “I can promise you you’d enjoy it,” he drawled.
    “I theenk that ees probably quite true,” she said dispassionately. “What I should not enjoy ees the thought of all the females who had enjoyed eet before me. Nor the thought of what I might catch from you.”
    “Frank,” drawled his Lordship.
    “Why not?”
    He shrugged a little. “So will you take that prude, Vane?”
    “That ees none of your business.”
    “I could give you a better time than he could,” he drawled.
    “Rubbeesh. I am here to offer you a vairy simple choice. Go away, leave England: I do not care where you go, but I weell see that you have enough for eet to be anywhere you weesh. Or stay, and have my woman give you a draught that causes a natural-seeming death that your stupeed English doctors weell never suspect.”
    He looked at her mockingly. “Not very enterprising: my cousin has already offered me several more possibilities.”
    “I am not eenterested een what he has offered you. I hold the purse strings: eet ees I who make the decisions here.—My brother ees no longer here, by the way; do not theenk you have a boy to deal weeth.—Oh, and een the case you were theenking you might appeal to Lord Stamforth’s conscience, you may theenk again: he ees asleep, and weell not wake up until I tell my woman eet ees time.”
    It was at this point that it dawned on Lord Curwellion that he had no choice, really. If he could but get the bitch in his power— But with the Indian fellow just outside the door, there was no hope of that. Had she been a different woman he might have appealed to her sensibilities. But he did not think that Lady Benedict put much of a price upon human life. Less, very like, than did his Cousin Norrington, if she had been brought up by Indian servants. Nor did he think she would hesitate to dispose of him out of consideration for Ruth’s feelings, whereas it was just possible that the Major might. His Lordship did not subscribe to the theory that the distaff side was the gentler one.
    He looked at Lady Benedict’s calmly determined face, and shrugged. “You may tell Stamforth that I regret not having the opportunity of demonstrating old Fioravanti’s passa straordinaria to him. I will accept twenty thousand guineas and safe passage to Italy.”
    “Italy?” said Nan blankly.
    He shrugged. “I intend to die in Florence.”
    “Do you weesh to sail all the way?”
    “Er—certainly,” said his Lordship somewhat feebly. Twenty thousand was an immense sum: he had expected an argument over the price, not a discussion of his travel arrangements. “I dislike coach travel.”
    “Vairy well, I shall arrange eet. You weell be accompanied by couriers. You may send for your valet and your luggage, but you weell go direct from here to the ship.”
    “As you wish. Add to your goodness by bringing me pen and ink.
    Nan went over to the door. “I shall send Sita up weeth eet. And do not drink anytheeng she offers you, she ees not wholly under my control. –Ranjit!”
    Ranjit opened the door, his pistol at the ready.
    Nan said to him in his native tongue: “Thank you, Ranjit. This is a very bad man indeed. If he calls out to you, ignore him.”
    “Of course, Nanni Begum,” he agreed, bowing her out.
    “Ranjit, soon the bad man will take ship and go to a country called Italy,” said Nan, frowning over it. “I shall send English couriers to make sure he goes. Do you think you could go with them and keep an eye on all of them for me?”
    Beaming, Ranjit assured her he could.
    “I’ve agreed the bad man can live,” admitted Nan.
    “I don’t think he’s long for this world in any case, Nanni Begum. He has that look to him.”
    Nan gave the sideways head wobble that in India took the place of a nod. “Yes. Do you want to take one of the Weddles to help you with English?”
    Ranjit thought it over. “I’ll take William, he’s got a few more brains than Alfred.”
    Agreeing tranquilly to this, his mistress went downstairs.


    The Major was lounging in the field. It was not yet sunset, but the westering sun was casting long purple shadows.
    “I have settled eet,” she said.
    He sat up, blinking. “What?”
    Nan’s nostrils flared. “Lord Curwellion. Eet ees settled. I know you theenk you are more capable than anyone else of doing everything, Major Norrington. But Lord Curwellion knows you, he was holding out against you. ”
    “What? He won’t do so for long: he knows I mean what I say.”
    “No. You gave heem too many choices. I could tell from the expression on hees face that he had calculated that eef you were that ready to let heem choose hees fate, you were hesitating yourself over the hard choice.”
    “Uh—and you were not?”
    “No. And what ees more, hees pride would never have allowed heem to knuckle under to another man.”
    The Major looked at the short, curved little figure in a simple sprig muslin dress. “I see,” he said slowly. “So how much did you offer him?”
    “I let heem name the price and I deed not haggle over eet. Twenty thousand guineas. I weell pay eet, Dom weell not be eenvolved: he weell have a family of hees own to support, some day. Your cousin weeshes to go to Italy: I shall arrange couriers to accompany heem all the way. A place called Florence ees where he weeshes to die.”
    “He said that?” croaked the Major.
    “Yes. –I know he would not have spoken of eet to you, hees pride would not have allowed heem. But he was quite matter-of-fact about eet, weeth me.”
    “But—” The Major ran his hand through his untidy pepper-and-salt curls. “I don’t see how— Sit down and tell me what you said, at least!”
    Nan sat down and reported exactly what she had said and what Lord Curwellion had said.
    At the end of it Major Norrington looked at her very limply indeed.
    Nan shrugged. “He saw I meant eet. I deed not make the meestake of haggling over the price or of offering heem several choices, you see. And besides—” She broke off.
    “Yes?” croaked Ursa Norrington.
    “I theenk he realised—though I do not understand why he deed so at just that point—but I theenk he realised the futility of eet all.”
    “Uh—of trying to escape, or—or of bargaining?” he fumbled.
    Nan got up. “No. Of life.”
    The Major watched numbly as the short, curved little figure in its simple sprig muslin dress retreated across the field.


    The sun was almost set. The Major was still in the field. Iris hesitated, then went up to him slowly.
    “If you are about to suggest that Mr Baldaya may safely return, think better of it, Miss Jeffreys,” he said heavily. “I apprehend his absence is a part of Lady Benedict’s master plan.”
    “Not quite that. She is an excellent tactician, is she not? She built on what she found.”
    The Major smiled palely.
    Iris sat down on the grass beside him. “Don’t fret: you disposed very nicely of Dom and Lord Stamforth!”
    The Major gave her a sour look.
    “No, truly, you were doing splendidly!” said Iris with a laugh. “For a mere man!”
    He cleared his throat. “She has offered Cur an immense sum, you know.”
    Iris gave him a shrewd look. “You would have offered him less, wouldn’t you? And attempted to bargain?”
    “Er—mm.”
    “I doubt that would have worked, Major. He would have seen it as a weakness. Nan had the sense to seize the upper ground and not leave go of the advantage.”
    “Miss Jeffreys, if you use one more military metaphor, I shall be forced to throttle you,” said Major Norrington grimly.
    Iris twinkled at him. “I’m sorry! But it is just so perfect!”
    “Mm.”
    There was a pause.
    “I’m sorry,” he said stiffly, “but I do think it would be most injudicious to let young Baldaya come back until Cur’s well and truly on the way to Italy. Past Spain, in fact.”
    “Oh, absolutely,” agreed Iris without much interest.
    Major Norrington looked at her dubiously. “I thought— Forgive me, but I had the impression you were fond of him?”
    “Of course I’m fond of him, he’s a very likeable fellow,” said Iris with a yawn.
    “Yes.”
    Iris looked at him dubiously. “What? Oh, good Lord, did you think I—” She broke off, flushing.
    “What do you feel for him, then, if it isn’t an impertinent question?” said the Major.
    She took a deep breath and tried to sound matter-of-fact. “Well, it is, but I don’t mind telling you. I suppose I feel...” She hesitated, staring out blankly at the sea.
    “Well?” said the Major on a harsh note.
    “It sounds damn’ stupid; he’s about three years my junior. Well,” said Iris weakly, “I feel rather as if he were my son, to tell you the truth, Major. And—uh—well, as if I wouldn’t mind having a pleasant boy like him for my son. If you see what I mean,” she finished lamely.
    “Yes,” he said huskily, licking his lips. “I do.”
    Iris met his eyes. She blushed and looked away.
    The Major had also reddened. After a moment he said: “I’m glad.”
    Iris did not reply.
    Major Norrington cleared his throat. “Even if I sold Curwellion Hall—which I can’t, the damned place is entailed, of course, or it wouldn’t be coming to me—I should never be able to raise twenty thousand pounds! It’s a fortune!”
    “Guineas,” corrected Iris primly. “Nan doesn’t intend you to, Major. She is a very wealthy woman, you know.”
    “That isn’t the point.”
    “Practically, I think it must be,” replied Iris, not without sympathy.
    “Mm,” he said, gnawing on his lip.
    “Um, I think Dom does favour Ruth. If they were to marry—”
    “That would make it better, would it?” he said sourly.
    “No. Um… Major, this may sound a trifle brutal, and I confess I wouldn’t say it to many of my fellow creatures, but— Well, is your feeling that you should repay Nan somehow mixed up with your other feeling that she has pre-empted your admirable effort to—uh—dispose of the whole thing for us?”
    After quite some time, Major Norrington managed to say: “Of course.”
    Iris considerately didn’t look at him. “Mm.”
    “Look, it’s making it worse, but I should have felt I must repay her the money in any case!” he said loudly.
    “Yes. Well, just so long as we are quite clear about our actual motives, here.”
    The Major took a deep breath. “I think I may be said to be fairly clear about my own, Miss Jeffreys. I’ve never been much of a one for self-deception. But I confess I am at a loss to understand your cousin’s!”
    “What, Nan?” said Iris, staring at him. “If you can see anything more in her actions than a genuine desire to save that innocent girl from a fate worse than death, I’d like to hear it!”
    “No, I—” The Major glared at the sea.
    After a moment Iris said on an awkward note: “Look, I can’t do the womanly sympathy thing. But—damnation, how can I put it? I think she undoubtedly saw that her dealing with Curwellion would put your nose out of joint: she’s highly intelligent under those curls and that feminine manner, you know.”
    He nodded silently.
    “But I don’t for a moment imagine that that was a part of her intention.”
    “No,” he said with a sigh.
    “On the other hand, I’m quite sure she’s not in the least sorry that the said nose is out of joint!”
    “You’re right, there!” he said with feeling.
    “God knows my brother’s stuffed full of damned male pride: there ought to be something I can say! Only I can’t think of anything,” she admitted lamely.
    “No,” he said tightly. “You’re right, I’m suffering in my pride. –Look,” he said on a desperate note: “while we’re on the subject of male pride, she said that Cur would accept an offer of money from her, where his pride would prevent his—his knuckling under and accepting it from me!”
    “Mm. Did you think it would be the other way around?”
    “If anything, yes!”
    “I’d say very likely a man of his type would see far less shame in accepting that sort of offer from a pretty woman than from another man, Major.”
    “She would have seen that in him, you think?”
    “Possibly not consciously,” said Iris, narrowing her eyes. “But I think she very probably instinctively felt it.”
    “Yes.”
    There was a long pause.
    “God help poor Lewis,” said the Major simply.
    Iris but her lip, but said nothing.
    This time there was a very long pause indeed.
    Finally Iris said stiffly: “I’m sorry if I made it worse.”
    “No. It helps to talk. To an intelligent being, at any rate,” said Ursa Norrington with a sigh.
    “Thank you,” she said gruffly, reddening.
    “I can assure you my nose is not in the habit of getting itself out of joint.”
    “No.” Iris got up. “But then, I doubt there are very many of your fellow creatures capable of standing up to you, let alone crossing you, sir.”
    Major Norrington scrambled to his feet. He grinned sheepishly.  “It’s because I’m a big fellow. I admit I capitalise on it.”
    “Big and ruthless,” agreed Iris on a dry note.
    “Yes.” He hesitated.
    “I’ll say it for you,” said Iris kindly. “Nan’s more ruthless. And in her case, it’s her femininity she capitalises on.”
    “You do think she is aware she does so, then?”
    “Of course!” cried Iris, goggling at him. “What else have we been talking about, all this time?”
    “I’m not sure,” he admitted.
    Iris was somewhat flushed again.
    The Major smiled, and took her elbow. “What are your plans?”
    “What? Oh,” she said lamely. “I suppose I shall go with Nan, whenever she decides to leave.”
    “That will be as soon as she has seen Cur on his way to the nearest port, I think.”
    “Mm.”
    “That’ll be that, then,” said the Major on a glum note.
    Iris looked at him dubiously. After a moment she said: “Are we not forgetting the small matter of Sir Noël and a hamper, sir?”
    “Oh. Well, yes. But don’t expect me to offer to dispose of that small problem for you ladies, Miss Jeffreys,” he said with a rueful smile.
    “Be of good cheer, sir, we ladies may yet have need of your simple brawn.”
    For a moment she thought she had gone too far. Then he grinned and said: “My simple brawn’s at your utter disposal, Miss Jeffreys. My poor male brain will be grateful to take a rest, quite frankly!”


    “Norrington?” said Noël incredulously as a hairy, shambling, untidy figure opened the door of Sunny Bay House to him at a little before nine in the morning. He had reached Lancewood Hall very, very late the preceding evening. Far too late to dream of setting out for Lady Benedict’s house.
    “God, my head,” the figure replied, putting a hand to it. “Sorry, I know I know you, but just at the moment—”
    “Noël Amory,” said Noël, eyeing him sardonically.
    “Uh—good gad: Richard Amory’s nephew? Heard you sold out.”
    “Some years since. I am not here to discuss our respective military careers, Norrington. Is Miss Chalfont here?”
    “Eh? Oh, good grief: that Amory,” said the Major, clutching his head. “God! I’ll kill the— No, Amory, there ain’t no-one here but me, my cousin’s daughter, and,” he said on a grim note as a boy appeared at his elbow: “this. Do you know it?”
    “No.”
    “I know him,” said the boy.
    “I beg to differ,” said Noël coldly. “Where is Miss Chalfont, Norrington?”
    “Look, I don’t know! The monstrous regiment of ’em drugged me glass of port! But if you want my guess, she’s taken the whole lot off to Bath!”
    “What? Are we talking about Lady Benedict?”
    “Yes. She’s gone home,” said the boy.
    “Just be quiet,” groaned the Major, holding his head.
    A brown-haired, neatly dressed girl appeared behind the pair. “Good morning, sir,” she said shyly. “I’m so sorry: Miss Chalfont and Lady Benedict are not here.”
    “So I apprehend. Is there anyone here, save yourselves?”
    “Well, no, sir.”
    “Wait a moment, Amory,” said the Major as the visitor turned on his heel. “Did you see Lewis Vane on your way here?”
    “No.”
    “I told you,” he said to the girl. “She’s abducted him, as well.”
    “London Society is of the opinion,” said Noël coldly: “that she would not need to.”
    “Yes, well, London Society wasn’t here yesterday!” he said with feeling.
    “Um, perhaps we should explain, Cousin Norrington,” said Ruth uneasily.
    To this Noël retorted with extraordinary bitterness: “If you, as I apprehend, are Lord Curwellion’s daughter, there is no need to do so: I have had the basic facts from a damned actor fellow, and I can assure you Lady Benedict is going to tell me the rest!”
    “Wait!” cried the Major as Sir Noël mounted into his curricle. “If you’re off to Bath, for God’s sake take this brat with you, Amory! He’s her brother, she seems to have forgot he was coming.”
    “Sir,” began Ruth: “he has been staying with their cousins—”
    “Very well! Get up!” he snapped.
    Grinning insouciantly, the boy scrambled up beside him. “I’ll tool it for you, sir!”
    “You will not.”
    Ruth came over to them anxiously. “Dicky, are you sure you wish to go with him?”
    “Yes, of course! I say, sir, are we going all the way in the curricle?”
    “I am, yes. And if you wish to live longer than the first stage, hold your tongue!” he snapped.
    Dicky merely grinned.
    The Norringtons watched somewhat limply as the curricle wheeled on the scattered gravel before Sunny Bay House, and was off like the wind.
    “If he thinks he is goin’ to sort anything whatsoever out in Bath, he has another think comin’,” muttered the Major sourly. “His feeble efforts will be like water off a duck’s back to her: the woman’s a witch! –Ooh, Hell, my head,” he moaned.
    “Come back to bed, Cousin,” said Ruth solicitously.
    Moaning, the burly Major leant heavily on her slender form and allowed himself to be guided inside, put back in his bed, and tucked up with a damp cloth on his head.


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