Mrs Urqhart Takes A Hand

13

Mrs Urqhart Takes A Hand

    “Well, it ain’t good enough!” said Mrs Urqhart with feeling.

    Christmas had come and gone, with all its attendant jollities, Mr Henry Kernohan’s dancing party being adjudged the great success of the festive season; the New Year had followed fast upon the heels of the old; January had closed in with rain and mud and icy winds; February had followed with more rain, frosts and snow; and now March had roared in like a lion, and Mrs Urqhart was once again in Bath, staying with the Dorian Kernohans.

    The plan to throw Bobby Amory together with Mrs Catriona Stewart for Hogmanay had not worked, alas, as he had been promised to other friends for the New Year. It was not, however, to this rub in the way of her plans that the vigorous Mrs Urqhart was now referring.

    Johanna Kernohan looked at her anxiously. “I agree, Aunt Betsy, but what can we do? I would so like to call, but Papa Henry has heard nothing from Uncle Francis, and Dorian would be so upset if I deliberately flouted his wishes. And yet... “ She bit her lip. “It seems to me that very nearly the whole of Bath is avoiding poor Lady Benedict. I saw her just two days since, and perhaps it was only my fancy, but I thought she was looking pale and worn.”

    “It is so very unjust!” said Mrs Stewart.—She was still with the Dorian Kernohans, so Mrs Urqhart did not yet have to despair of getting her and Bobby together and in fact was very far from doing so.—“It seems to me that all is naught but rumour and speculation!”

    Her heart-shaped face had flushed up very much: Mrs Urqhart eyed it kindly and said: “Aye, well, out of course it is, acos that be Bath for you, me deary! –Well, Jo, shall I speak to your Pa-in-law? Get him to ginger up General Sir Francis?”

    “No, pray do not, dearest Aunt Betsy,” said Jo, gulping rather. “I expect Uncle Francis is just finding it rather difficult to get news out of Portugal.”

    Mrs Urqhart sniffed and shrugged, and conceded it was likely.

    Tarry Kernohan had not spoken so far: several weeks spent in Mrs Urqhart’s house had, if they had not taught her completely to hold her tongue in her elders’ company, at least shown her in no uncertain terms that Betsy Urqhart would feel no hesitation in informing her when she had spoken out of turn, or unbecoming to a young lady, or like a heedless Miss, or real spiteful, or in any other fashion which her vigorous hostess had judged inappropriate to the situation, Tarry’s age, the company, or, indeed, anything at all. For reasons which were mysterious but into which possibly Mrs Urqhart’s boundless and unmistakeable good nature entered not a little, Tarry appeared to bear her no grudge for these reproofs. Now she said uncertainly: “I heard that Mrs Beresford intends taking May away. I mean, they will be in London for the Season, but before that. Kitty Hallam thinks it is to—um—get her out of Mr Baldaya’s way,” she ended, eyeing Mrs Urqhart uneasily.

    However, that forthright lady merely responded: “Sounds likely.” They all looked at her hopefully, even Mrs Stewart, so after a moment she said: “Now, who does we know that does speak, eh?”

    “Well, Mrs Laidlaw,” said Jo dubiously, “only they are away, I believe.”

    “Yes,” said Tarry eagerly: “Jenny Proudfoot says—” She broke off.

    “Go on, now you’ve started,” said Mrs Urqhart drily.

    “Well,” said Tarry, very flushed, “Jenny says that they have gone away for a little because Mr Laidlaw wishes Mrs Laidlaw not to see so much of Lady Benedict.”

    “Jenny’s eldest sister is a very close friend of Mrs Laidlaw’s,” put in Jo quickly.

    Drily Mrs Urqhart conceded: “Circumstantial. Well, now, we’ll have to think of someone else what speaks to Lady B.”

    “Horty, I suppose,” said Tarry.

    “Mm. And if there was only you and me and your Horty and the poor lady herself in this here Bath, I’d be round there fast as nothing, encouragin’ of her to invite the poor creature over. Only there ain’t.”

    Tarry was looking bewildered; Cousin Catriona said in her gentle way: “We would not wish to set your Mamma and dearest Mrs Yelden at loggerheads, Tarry, dear.”

    “Oh,” said Tarry, very crestfallen. “No.”

    Mrs Stewart took a deep breath. “I think I might leave cards on the strength of my uncle’s having been a neighbour of her Mamma’s family.”

    “Well!” said Mrs Urqhart, terrifically pleased. “Ain’t that just like her, now!”

    “Dearest Cousin Catriona, it is very brave of you, but—but Bath would stare, you know,” warned Jo.

    “As I am not a permanent inhabitant, I feel it cannot signify,” said Mrs Stewart, gentle but firm. “The only thing is, my dear, if it should get to your mamma-in-law’s ears, I fear she would not be best pleased to know that a guest in your house was calling there.”

    There was a short silence.

    “But we must make a start somewhere!” cried Tarry.

    Mrs Urqhart rubbed her nose. “Aye, I think I agree with you, me lovey. Only with Jo in her condition, ructions at this particular moment is what we don’t want! I tell you what, Mrs Stewart, deary: we shall both on us remove to a decent inn. And then Mrs Henry can’t say as we done it from Jo’s house! And I shall call on the excuse that Lady B. and me is both widder-women what has lived for a long time in India.”

    Two jaws sagged, but Miss Tarry clapped her hands and cried: “Brilliant! Aunt Betsy, you are a complete genius!”

    Mrs Urqhart merely grinned.

    Though there was no doubt at all that she should have done so, Kate Jeffreys had not apprised Mrs Beresford of the true facts of Nan Benedict’s parentage. She had been by far too angry with the impertinent little baggage to wish to do so. And in fact had bundled George into the carriage and set off for the Vale of Keywes  immediately he returned to the staging-inn. By the time they reached Vaudequays she had cooled down to the extent of reflecting that Robert would undoubtedly be very annoyed to hear that she had journeyed all the way to Bath and then made no attempt to scotch the rumours with which it was apparently rife. Though she was in even less doubt that Robert would not care to see Jack Beresford or little May ally themselves with the harum-scarum offspring of the black sheep of the Jeffreys family. She dithered for some time, though it was not in her nature to do so, but finally decided crossly—the cold she had caught on the return journey possibly influencing her mood—that as Rowena Beresford had written to Robert and not to herself, the decision could be Robert’s. And sealed up the letter again and forwarded it forthwith to Sweden with a covering note which was less than truthful, if it was not positively a lie, stating as it did that the enclosed had come for him, and she supposed it was something and nothing but as it was to be presumed it was on a private matter she was forwarding it. As a consequence of this action she remained in a very unpleasant mood for some considerable time, but her relatives put it down to her cold and the frightful weather.

    In Bath, as the shrewd Mrs Urqhart had immediately realized, things had gone from bad to worse. Dr Witherspoon had felt it incumbent upon him to drop a word in Horty Yelden’s ear on the subject of balancing our notions of true charity with what we owed to society and our loved ones. The Yeldens had promptly switched their allegiance from the Abbey, where the retired Dean was not infrequently asked to preach, to a small and unfashionable church that was actually rather more convenient to their own small and not terribly fashionable house, but Dr Witherspoon felt he had done all he could.

    Mr Ninian Dalrymple had got to the point of confessing to Miss Carey that he felt tempted to call, for it was too bad of everyone, and not English, to hang a woman without a fair trial, but was held back by the thought of his mother’s feelings. Miss Carey had looked dry, but nodded sympathetically. Miss Sissy Laidlaw, however, by this time had positively been admitted into the bosom of the Benedict family. But Miss Diddy had told her that it was most unwise and though it was true kind hearts were more than coronets, one could not be too careful in matters of Reputation.

    The gallant Major-General Cadwallader called regularly, if he did look very grim as he did so. Miss Lowell was refusing to invite him to dine with herself and the General on the strength of it.

    Such persons as the elderly and very grand Mrs Throgmorton were, of course, continuing to look through Nan whenever they encountered her. Though they were certainly doing so in an even more pointed manner than ever.

    By the beginning of March Mrs Beresford’s nerves had reached near breaking point, inconceivable though such a thing might have seemed in that majestic lady’s connection. There was no news from the Jeffreys family. Jack, though she had not interrogated him on the matter, was apparently a frequent caller at the house in Lymmond Square. And his mother had seen him with her own eyes riding with Mr Baldaya and Ferdy Sotheby. Charlotte had not again asked May and Jack to her house when the Benedicts were invited, but there was always the thought that they might run into them there. And on one dreadful day when she and May had run smack up against Mr Baldaya in the street May had blushed and held out her hand!

    Mrs Beresford had thereupon determined that May should be removed from Bath for a period. She had also endeavoured firstly, to persuade Jack that his estates in Cumberland needed him; secondly, when that did not work, to persuade him that she and May needed his escort to their relatives’ home in Norfolk; and, thirdly, when he had given in on this point, to persuade him that he would greatly enjoy a sojourn with old Cousin Bertram Laidlaw, old Cousin Percy Laidlaw, old Cousin Fergus Laidlaw, and old Cousin Julia Henneshaw, who ruled the three old brothers and their house with a rod of iron. Jack replied very firmly that he wouldn’t and that while he might stay a night, it was all he would do.

    Mrs Beresford, to do her justice, had done her very best not to cut Lady Benedict but instead merely pretend not to see her. For one could not condemn a person unheard! But it was a very great pity that she had not known in time that Lord Keywes was in Sweden: her letter must have been forwarded to him there. She mulled the matter over worriedly but could not make up her mind to write a second letter, this time to Miss Jeffreys. For if she did so, that astute lady would immediately perceive exactly and precisely why she was so worried about the matter! Mrs Beresford firmly removed May to the old cousins’ place in Norfolk.

    Bath continued to speculate. The kindly Mr Henry Kernohan became more and more concerned and wrote to his brother at the Horse Guards, but General Sir Francis merely wrote back to say he had done what he could, and his contacts at the Embassies, both ours over there, and theirs over here, were now awaiting news. The General was by no means a stimulating correspondent, let alone a gifted one: in fact dry and stilted was the most his letters normally attained in the way of feeling; but the amiable Mr Henry fancied he detected more than some acerbity in this message, and decided to let it rest for a while. Richard Amory had broached the matter a couple of times with him, but it was very plain to the astute Mr Henry that the Colonel, in the wake of his brother’s prolonged absence from Bath, now felt the matter to be considerably less urgent.

    Of course Nan and Dom, and even Daphne and Susan, were not unaware that Bath society was looking ever more askance at them. Nan had got over her first fury with Miss Jeffreys but had grimly resisted all Dom’s urgings to at least write to the family. There seemed little point in removing from one cold, wet, dreary part of England to another merely because malicious persons with whom they did not socialize in any case were gossiping about them; but as soon as it got a little warmer, she would definitely go! Meantime, she did her best to make the house, as well as cosy, with great fires in every room, a happy place for all of them. She decided against school, for the time being: Miss Gump could have the sole responsibility of Mina’s and Amrita’s education for a little while longer. The little girls were perfectly content, of course, and had no notion of what was being said about the family in Bath. Susan was worried, more because she could see that Nan was very upset than for her own sake, but put a brave face on it. Daphne veered between angry defiance of Bath and all its ways and, when engaged in such absorbing pastimes as lottery tickets, spillikins, or charades, complete oblivion. Miss Gump had morose patches but also put a brave face on it. Sita Ayah and Rani Ayah went round hissing in corners but after a certain amount of shouting had taken place they ceased at least to do so within Nan’s field of vision. Dom was on edge, but in the company of Ferdy Sotheby and with a decent horse under him, managed to forget the whole thing.

    Nan continued very angry underneath. She threw herself with such determination into planning little treats for them all, not to say planning magnificent dinners for themselves, the faithful Miss Sissy and the gallant if inarticulate Major-General, that she did not, in fact, realize how angry she still was.

    Sir Noël propped an elbow on the mantelpiece of the private parlour which Mrs Urqhart was now hiring in Bath’s best inn, and raised his quizzing glass. “Visiting the Portuguese Widow? By gad, I shall come with you, Aunt Betsy.”

    Mrs Urqhart retorted fiercely: “What have you done with Cherry?”

    “Er—I have not ‘done’ anything with her, ma’am.”

    “WHERE IS SHE?” she shouted.

    He shrugged slightly. “Devon. With Viola.”

    “WHAT?” she shouted.

    He shrugged again. “Viola expressed a wish to have her stay for a period, Miss Chalfont expressed a wish to stay, what would you have me do?”

    Mrs Urqhart’s ample bosom heaved. Sir Noël eyed it in some amusement.

    “You is your own worst enemy, Noël!” she declared through her teeth, when she could manage to speak.

    “I’ll refrain from speculating on what your hopes were during the period we spent at your house for—er—Hogmanay, Aunt Betsy. But in the case it escaped your notice, perhaps I should point out that the girl spent the entire time avoiding me.”

    “YOU IS A BLAMED FOOL, NOËL!” she shouted. “Out of course she was avoiding you: the poor little thing thinks—” She broke off.

     “What?” he said in a bored voice.

    “In the first place,” said Mrs Urqhart grimly, “she thinks you don’t care the snap of your fingers for her, and in the second place she thinks you don’t truly mean to marry her, and in the third place she thinks she didn’t ought to marry you, acos she is a girl with some honour about her, and what is the MATTER with you, boy?”

    Noël had to bite his lip. “Don’t ‘boy’ me, dearest Aunt Betsy. The thing is, Miss Chalfont and I had a—er—discussion, during the drive down to Devon, and she remained obdurate on the point of breaking off the engagement by the first of May at the latest.”

    “And you wasn’t capable of persuadin’ her otherwise!” she said with terrific scorn.

    He shrugged. “No.”

    After a moment Mrs Urqhart said uncertainly: “Well, what the Devil is she doin’ with Viola, then?”

    He sighed. “To tell you the truth, Aunt Betsy, I was so furious with the silly little thing that when Viola welcomed her with open arms, I—uh—dumped her on her.”

    Mrs Urqhart looked hard at him. “When did this ‘dumping’ take place, if it ain’t an impertinent enquiry?” she said with awful politeness.

    Sir Noël coughed. “Early February.”

    “WHAT?” she shouted.

    “Well, for God’s sake, Aunt Betsy, Viola was proposing to show her every damned item of linen in the house, and not allowing me a glimpse of her from morn till night, and when I did get a private word with her she told me that she meant to tell Viola the truth the minute the Miss Hookams and damned Cousin Lysle Whittaker and his damned brood were out of the house!”

    “Ugh, was he there?” said Mrs Urqhart, momentarily distracted.

    “Yes. And what Papa would have said— Well, never mind,” he said with a sigh.

    “Yes, well, that don’t justify you dumping her there and skedaddlin’,” she said, pulling herself together.

    “Look, for God’s sake, I got her away from her damned mother, I’ve given Bath time to forget she’s caused a scandal, what the Hell else do you want of me? I can’t thrust myself upon the girl if she doesn’t want me, and believe me, she doesn’t.”

    “I get it. She wouldn’t flirt with you, hey? You is an idiot, Noël Amory,” she said as he reddened and glared. “She ain’t that sort. Wrong tack entirely.”

    “Really? What tack should I have taken?” he returned coldly.

    “Told her straight out you loved her, what else! On them stiff knees of your’n, what’s more. She’s a romantic-minded little girl what has led a sheltered life: what else would convince her, you great gaby?”

    “I am not prepared to LIE!” he cried.

    Betsy Urqhart changed tack “No, very well, then, Noël. I dare say the brother’ll take her in. Oh, well, spilt milk, hey?”

    Noël eyed her warily. “Quite. The episode is closed.”

    In the end he did not accompany them to call on Lady Benedict, Mrs Urqhart somewhat regretfully vetoing it in order to spare his grandmother’s feelings.

    “—Though I should not half like to see his face when he catches sight of her, if what they say of her looks be true,” she remarked to Mrs Stewart, settling herself comfortably in her carriage. “Not that that type ain’t all wrong for him. Only bless you, there ain’t one man in ten thousand as would see that for himself!”

    “Er—no.”

    Mrs Urqhart did not permit herself quite the freedom of speech with Mrs Stewart that she did with other of her acquaintance: she merely nodded, and did not pursue the subject.

    … “No!” she said scornfully.

    Her footman replied on an uneasy note: “This is the address, madam.”

    “Rubbish. Put them steps up. –Look, you fool: that be Lady Amory’s, there, right?”

    “Yes, Mrs Urqhart.”

    “Well, this Lady B. ain’t next but one, or Noël would have said. You has it wrong. Tell ’em to drive on round!”

    “Yes, Mrs Urqhart. Sorry, madam, which house would it be, then?”

    “The address I GIVE you!” she shouted.

    “But this is it. –Shall I enquire, Mrs Urqhart?” he said hurriedly.

    “No, don’t bother, you loon. –I brung Albert,” she said heavily to Mrs Stewart, “acos I thought he was not quite such a loon as some on ’em. Only as it turns out, I was wrong. –Put them steps down again, Albert; it’s a fine day, I’ll find it for meself.”

    Albert looked dubious, but let the steps down again and assisted his mistress, closely followed by her faithful Bapsee Ayah, to alight.

    “Tell him to follow us. –No, don’t you get down, Mrs Stewart, deary,” she said as Cousin Catriona prepared to descend: “two on us wearing out our shoe-leather is enough.”

    Mrs Stewart hid a smile: Mrs Urqhart’s maid did not precisely wear shoes, but the curious Indian sandal, with a loop round the great toe, an odd enough sight in these chilly northern climes: but in deference to these northern climes she wore also thick grey woollen stockings, with a separate knitted compartment for the great toe! It had taken Cousin Catriona quite some time to get used to the sight. She now replied mildly that she would care for the exercise, and got down.

    “How shall we find it, dear ma’am?” she murmured.

    Mrs Urqhart took her arm and leant her considerable bulk on it. “I intend to follow me nose,” she said on a dry note.

    After some time, during which they made slow progress—Mrs Urqhart was not an accustomed walker—Cousin Catriona murmured: “There are some children playing in the square garden, shall I ask them?”

    “Dare say you could do that, aye.”

    Mrs Stewart went over and spoke to the red-headed children. She came back smiling. “They say it is that house over there.”

    When they got there it dawned that Mrs Urqhart had literally been following her nose. She approached the area steps, sniffed heartily, beamed, and said: “Aye! This is it!”

    Bapsee broke into an excited speech in her native tongue. Instead of shouting at her, Mrs Urqhart nodded and smiled and addressed her in the same language. Cousin Catriona became aware that the sort of delicious, spicy and exotic smell which featured at Mrs Urqhart’s table was floating up from the area. She smiled very much and agreed this must be it.

    “You can let me do the talking, if you like,” said Mrs Urqhart simply, climbing the steps.

    “I am not such a poor mouse as that!” she replied with a little laugh.

    Mrs Urqhart beamed, panted and nodded.

    Nan had given up for the nonce on being an English lady and was in the kitchen with Sita Ayah when Ranjit came in and burst into an excited speech in his native language. He had a chequered history, did Ranjit, and in his time had been a sepoy, the which had not worked out, an English gentleman’s bearer, exactly where was not clear, and another English gentleman’s butler, definitely in Bombay, and thence by various degrees had worked his way south and into John Edwards’ service. Several of John’s other servants had also spoken this language, as had John himself, having lived for some time in areas where it was much used. Ranjit was fluent in several languages of the great subcontinent and normally only broke into his mother tongue when under great stress. As now, apparently.

    The Baldaya children had a gift for languages, the which was just as well. Nan replied: “Slow down, Ranjit, and tell me slowly. Who is at the door?”

    It was an elderly begum, another elderly begum and an English memsahib. Sita suggested excitedly that it was the cousin of Nanni baba’s respected late mother! Nan withered this: what would Miss Jeffreys be doing with an Indian attendant? Sita pointed out that it was not impossible: Nanni baba herself had Indian attendants, and—

    “BE QUIET!” shouted Nan.

    Everyone was quiet, looking at her hopefully.

    “Ranjit, did these begums send in cards?”

    Ranjit went into a terrible flutter. They must have sent in cards, he was sure they had sent in cards, could he have put the cards down in the hall? Or on his way to the kitchen? Or—

    “Ask them to step into the small salon, see that the fire is really warm for them, and tell them I shall be with them directly,” said Nan loudly and clearly.

    Ranjit agreed excitedly. And should he bring a tray of refreshments?

    Nan was aware that, if it was not quite the thing in English houses to press food and drink on your guests the minute they set foot inside, it most certainly was in Indian ones. She hesitated a moment and then said: “Yes. Thank you, Ranjit.”

    Sita immediately broke into an excited speech listing all the available nourishment in the house, but Nan said only: “A hot drink, and a choice of something savoury and something sweet to eat. EKDUM!”

    By the time she had changed her dress and come downstairs again, looking entirely respectable in black silk with a heavy shawl in black and purple shades round her shoulders, she had decided that it must be Mrs Cameron, and that it was just like that idiot Ranjit not to have recognized her.

    But it was not Mrs Cameron.

    The florid, painted elderly lady who was sitting in the small salon sipping what from its odour must be Sita’s russum heaved herself to her feet and held out a hand, beaming. “Now, don’t tell me: you is Lady Benedict! We haven’t met, my Lady, and I hope you won’t take it as a liberty, but my name is Mrs Urqhart, and I’m the widder of an India man, too, though I don’t make no bones of the fact that I ain’t a lady-born like yourself, nor never pretended to be, neither, but my Pumps, God bless him, never thought none the worse of me for that!” She panted slightly.

    The widder of an India man was dressed, on this chilly March day, in a mauve velvet pelisse of surpassing brightness, over which draped negligently the most magnificent set of sables that Nan had ever laid eyes on. The bright mauve silk bonnet was huge, with upon it a profusion of purple ribbons jostling for possession with a selection of turquoise and white striped bows, bright blue silk roses, and mauve ostrich feathers. The effect was quite stunning: so much so that you scarcely remarked that one of the tall plumes of ostrich was held in place by a fine diamond brooch in the shape of a many-pointed star, something like three inches in diameter. This motif was repeated high on the right shoulder, under a bunch of mixed artificial cherries and more blue silk roses, whilst at the neck a ring brooch of large topazes did its best to show against the mauve velvet. As she stepped forward the pelisse gapped to reveal a bright tan dress with bunches of coquelicot ribbon nestling coyly in the triple flounces at its hem.

    Limply Nan shook the proffered hand: a smart, tight, lilac glove, and a mixture of rubies and pearls in the wonderful bracelet at the wrist.—Twin bracelet, there was an identical one on the other wrist.—The earrings were ruby drops but Nan was past even blinking at them.

    “How kind of you to call, Mrs Urqhart,” she said weakly.

    Mrs Urqhart nodded pleasedly. “Us India widders should stick together, is what I say! Land, you shouldn’t wear them dark purple shades, me dear, if you don’t mind me mentionin’ it,” she added, looking at Nan’s shawl. “Dreary, that what they is, and don’t do nothin’ for your lovely complexion.”

    “N— Er, I’m going eento half-mourning, you see!” she gasped.

    “Aye, only you don’t want them shades, they is too old for you. Stick to white and greys and a little black, with a pale lilac, is my advice,” she said, nodding the bonnet seriously. “Now, you take Mrs Stewart, here: she is a widder-woman, too, and has been this many a year: you won’t never see her out of them half-mourning tones, and they does suit her, don’t they? Though we keeps tellin’ her as she is still a young woman, what should be wearin’ colours again!”

    Mrs Stewart perceived that Lady Benedict, who was much younger than she had expected, really, though of course it was scarce more than twenty years since that summer that Mr Bobby Amory had spent on the Jeffreys property, was looking quite lost and bewildered. She came forward at once, smiling her gentle smile and saying: “We hoped you would not mind if we called, Lady Benedict. My name is Mrs Stewart, as Mrs Urqhart says, and my cousin’s property runs with your late grandpapa’s. We knew the Jeffreys family quite well.”

    “Aye, that’s it!” said Mrs Urqhart, beaming.

    Rather numbly Nan acknowledged the introduction and urged them both to be re-seated. She herself sat down and looked at them shyly. “And—and thees ees your maid, Mrs Urqhart?” she murmured.

    “Bapsee. Yes, she were my maid when I first went out to India, and a pretty slip of a thing she were then, though you wouldn’t think it to look at her now, hey?” She chuckled richly. “Wrinkled old prune, ain’t she? Well, we is both of us past our best!” Another rich chuckle. “And she were ayah to all my children; aye, and helped us bury seven of ’em out there under the cruel Indian sun, too.”

    “I am vairy sorry to hear you lost them, ma’am.”

    “Aye. But I has three that lived, two good girls and my boy, Tim!” she beamed.

    “I’m glad,” said Nan, suddenly giving her a genuine smile. “I was vairy lucky: my leetle Johnny was born a strong and healthy boy and we left India before the climate affected heem. –Namaste, Bapsee Ayah,” she ventured.

    Bapsee at this came forward, salaaming, very pleased.

    “She will sit in a corner, quite quiet,” explained Mrs Urqhart cheerfully. “You don’t need to pay her no special mind, my Lady.”

    —Mrs Stewart of course was aware by now of the fine quality of Mrs Urqhart’s mind, the which her manner very much belied. And also aware that Mrs Urqhart was as devoted to Bapsee as the faithful maid was to her. She shot her a wary glance.

    Nan smiled and said: “Of course she must sit een a corner eef she weeshes. But would she not rather join us een a leetle refreshment? Or perhaps she would care to meet my Sita Ayah and my leetle sister’s Rani Ayah?”

    Very pleased, Bapsee elected to join Benedict Begum’s ayahs, and Nan duly rang for Ranjit to show her the way.

    If two of those present then feared that an awkward silence was about to fall, they had reckoned without Mrs Urqhart.

    “Out of course,” she said, setting down her cup of russum with a sigh, “they is all the same. Never did meet one with a mind much above her waist: it is babies and food, or babies and food and men, with the lot of ’em. But there, their culture teaches ’em that that’s what a woman’s fit for, don’t it?”—Nan nodded, looking very startled.—”And when you thinks of it, is our own culture that much different?”

    “Oh!” cried Nan. “I have so often thought that, myself!”

    Mrs Urqhart grinned and nodded. “Aye. Makes it that much harder for women what does have a few brains, don’t it?”

    Nan nodded hard. “I theenk so, yes. One cannot but be aware of—of what opportunities there would be een the world, eef one were but a man!”

    “Aye. My Pa always did say—he were in trade, Lady Benedict, and started off in an ironmonger’s shop in a back street and built himself up to become a very warm man indeed—well, he always did say that I had a better head for business on me than any man in his counting-house. Only since I were a girl, what could he do with me? They had a go at making a fine lady of me, but it didn’t answer, for I never did have neither the looks nor the inclination, though I don’t deny as I was a fine figure of a young woman, in them days. So Pa, he says, ‘Betsy, you had best get on out to Uncle Shillabeer in Calcutta, and see if you can catch yourself one of them young officers.” So I done it, and never regretted it from that day to this, onct I had met Mr Urqhart!”

    “I am sure!” said Nan warmly, smiling at her.

    Mrs Urqhart gave her a dry look. “That were my fate, y’see, or so Bapsee would have it, the heathen. Only to my way of thinkin’ I was one of the lucky ones: I wanted my Pumps the minute I laid eyes on him, though he were a skinny little nothing of an Ensign, scared of his own shadder, in them days; and he wanted me, likewise. And never mind his grand relations, he come into the business with Uncle Shillabeer and took to it like a duck to water; and he left us the lot, in the end, betwixt us.”

    “I see,” said Nan, biting her lip. “Yes,” she said in a very low voice: “you were indeed lucky, ma’am.”

    “Aye,” she said with a heavy sigh. “For the majority of women, and I thinks you will not take it amiss, my Lady, if I says it, has to make the best of what is on offer. And it do come hard to the ones with a head on ’em, to find themselves like as not tied up to a useless fellow what thinks Heaven has destined him to be their lord and master, and waste their fortune and their youth as it pleases him!”

    “Yes.”

    Mrs Urqhart nodded. “But fortunately most on ’em don’t have the wits to realize they should want anything else.”

    Nan rallied at this, and retorted: “Tied up to a useless man who wastes their fortune and their youth? I theenk any woman would want something more than that, ma’am, whether she were endowed weeth wits or not!”

    “Ah!” said Mrs Urqhart to Mrs Stewart, very pleased. “See? There is a brain behind that face: I knowed it as soon as I set eyes on her.”

    Mrs Stewart replied quietly: “Perhaps it is only the very few, men or women, who are lucky enough to find what they most desire in life.”

    “Yes,” said Nan gratefully. “Eendeed.”

    “Aye, too many of ’em finds what they thinks they most desires, and then finds they doesn’t: too late,” said Mrs Urqhart, taking a vegetable pukkorah and dipping it into some freshly-made beetroot chutney. “Good,” she said approvingly, swallowing, and nodding at Nan over it. “Bapsee makes it with beets very similar, only hers has a mite of mustard in it, and she boils up the dates with the lemon juice, first off: makes ’em mushier, and mixes the flavours better. So you is able to get coconut, hey?”

    “No,” said Nan with a sigh: “I fear that ees the last of eet, ma’am.”

    “Ah! Now, you don’t need to worry about that, my Lady, or anything in the line of Indian or Oriental produce as you might be wishful for: I can put you in the way of it! My Tim, he is still in the business, you see, and even if he were not, the name of Shillabeer ain’t been forgot in the India import-export trade, I can tell you!”

    “I should be exceeding grateful, Mrs Urqhart: we have quite depleted our stock of coconut, as I say, and although we brought vairy much immalee weeth us, we are near to running out of that, too; eet ees unobtainable an England, no?”

    “Tamarind? No! Bless you, it be a question of knowin’ where to go for it!” she cried, as Sita came in with a tray of steaming mint tea, closely followed by Krishna with a tray of sweetmeats and Richpal with more savouries.

    Mrs Urqhart sampled them all, though remarking with a twinkle in her eye: “Well, here we is, a-talking of food and eatin’! Only needs one of us to introduce the topic of babies, dunnit?”

    “Yes!” agreed Nan, laughing. “How horridly typical of our sex we are, after all!”

    “Who in God’s name was that?” croaked Dom, tottering into the small salon after encountering the departing guests on the doorstep.

    Nan had sunk so far as to put her feet up on the sofa in a state of collapse, not to say, repletion. “Eet took me some time to realize eet, Dom, but she ees Mr Amory’s connexion: the nabob’s widow whom he mentioned. A Mrs Urqhart.”

    Dom eyed her empty trays in some amusement, and rang the bell for the servants to clear. “Vulgar old person, ain’t she?” he said, pulling up a chair. “Dare say there was nothing much else you could do together but eat and drink.”

    “Oh! No!” gasped Nan.

    “Eh?”

    She pulled herself upright with something of an effort. “You have eet quite wrong, dearest Dom! She ees the most eentelligent woman I have ever met! Eet was so wonderful: one felt one could say anytheeng at all to her and she would understand!”

    Dom smiled uneasily. “Glad you’ve found someone you can talk to. But—well, dare say she ees a connexion of Amory’s, all right and tight, but, um—well, they have ’em in the best families, and aren’t we already een eet up to our necks, een Bath, without making eet worse?”

    Nan drew a deep breath. “Een the first place, I would not drop Mrs Urqhart’s acquaintance, now I have met her, for the whole of Bath and England together!”

    “Uh—mm.”

    “And een the second place, I have no intention of putting any stupeed sort of snobbery before a person who ees so truly kind-hearted! She does not live here, but she has friends here, and I am vairy sure that she ees aware that Bath ees cutting us, and came to visit out of the kindness of her heart!”

    “Um—yes, of course, but—”

    “And een the third place, I do not care a feeg for stupeed Bath, eet may go hang!”

    Dom winced. “Mm. Understandable.”

    “She has suggested we may like to visit weeth her; I theenk the county ees Wiltshire. And I have every intention of going!”

    “Vairy decent of her. Who was the other lady?”

    Nan smiled. “She ees truly a lady. A Mrs Stewart. Her home ees een Scotland, but she ees a widow, and has been staying een Bath weeth friends. Apparently her cousin’s property marches with—um—our late grandfather’s.”

    “Hell.”

    “No, no! She ees quite a lot younger than Mamma would have been. She told me how, when she and her cousin were scarce older than Mina ees now, they used to watch Mamma and her friends holding parties on the lawns.”

     Dom looked uneasy. “Deed she?”

    “Yes. She said nothing else, and she deed not—how can I say eet? She deed not look anything else, either, Dom!”

    “I get you,” he said in relief.

    “Only listen, Dom: you weell never guess what Mrs Urqhart said on the subject of the place assigned to women een both the Indian culture and our own, scarce the minute we had shaken hands!”

    Dom sighed, but listened obediently. He was glad that Nan had found a friend. But Hell, why couldn’t it have been someone less likely to put the Bath gossips’ noses even more out of joint than they already were?

    The two older ladies gave Johanna Kernohan a glowing report of Lady Benedict; nevertheless, Jo took the opportunity when she was alone with Aunt Betsy the next day to ask what she had really thought of her.

    Mrs Urqhart grinned. “Actual, just what we said yesterday!”

    Johanna choked.

    “Aye,” she said. “I liked her, and I liked her quality, and I liked her brains. But…”

    “Yes, Aunt Betsy?”

    Mrs Urqhart was frowning. “Me love, would you understand if I was to say that that is a girl what has been forced to grow up too soon?”

    “Um... Not altogether, I’m afraid, Aunt Betsy.”

    Mrs Urqhart sighed. “No. You’re too young to have seen it, ever. –She’s got two of her own, y’know: the boy’s about four. And reading between the lines the brother ain’t much chop. Saw him on the doorstep as we was goin’: a pretty black-eyed feller.”

    Jo nodded. “So you said.”

    “Aye. I think what I’m trying to say, lovey, is that circumstances, or Bapsee’s blessed Fate, if you likes, has forced her into becoming the head of her family afore she is ready for it. She is coping with it all for now, but that don’t mean she’s happy with it. And don’t you go and tell Mrs S. I said it, only it’s plain as the nose on your face that Lady B. ain’t a woman’s woman: she’s a man’s woman, though I doubt if she knows it herself, as yet. And now that that fool Bobby’s gone off in a huff, there ain’t anything that could be called a man on her horizon!”

    “No, but Aunt Betsy, she is in mourning.”

    “And has been for nigh on a year: right. And with not makin’ no new friends in Bath, hardly, and not getting out of the house—well, she don’t like the weather, and I can share them sentiments! Well, she is at the point of being bored to where she wants to get out on the roof and scream her lungs out.”

    Jo gulped. “Help.”

    “Aye. And in Bath, there ain’t the opportunity for much harmless breakin’ out. If you gets my drift. I’ll try and get her off with me to The Towers, and then maybe take her up to London to see the sights, eh?”

    “That is an excellent plan, Aunt Betsy,” approved Jo valiantly.

    “It ain’t, but it may answer,” she said grimly.

    The strain of the life of deception she had been living had told on Cherry, and she arrived at the Meredith Chalfonts’ house that March very pale, clutching Pug Chalfont tightly to her. Though the journey itself had been made as easy as possible for her, and she had travelled up from Devon in the greatest comfort, with hot bricks and two footmen and a groom, and Viola’s own companion, a Miss Hurtle, to look after her. –Sir Noël had not mentioned Miss Hurtle to Cherry prior to their reaching his house. Possibly because he could not bear to. She was a thin, martyred woman with perpetually cold, damp hands and a mind like, or such was the baronet’s considered opinion, day-old gruel. Be that as it might, Miss Hurtle had been very kindly towards Cherry. Though Cherry had not felt any better about the whole thing because of it. On the contrary: she felt she did not deserve kindness from any of Sir Noël’s household. And in especial as she had still not worked up the courage to tell Viola Amory that she did not, after all, intend to marry her son. But on sight of June's sympathetic face she burst out with the truth.

    June declared warmly that if Cherry felt she could not marry him, that was all there was to be said about it, and they would not discuss it any more. Cherry looked at her gratefully, and crept off to bed. June let her take Pug Chalfont on the bed with her: certainly Mamma would not approve, but then, Mrs Witherspoon was not at that moment present. And after all, what was a little dog?

    “Who is it from?” she asked as Cherry broke the wafer on the note that arrived about a week after her return to Bath.

    “Lady Benedict,” she said in a tiny voice.

    “Really?” cried her sister-in-law. “I did not know you knew her!”

    “Only—only very slightly.” Cherry automatically passed her the note. June as automatically read it.

    “This is very kind!” she beamed. “A little drive with her! Shall you accept?”

    “May I?” replied Cherry timidly.

    June’s jaw dropped. After an appreciable pause she managed to say: “Cherry, dearest, you must feel free to do anything you wish. You are our guest; I—I am not going to—to monitor your social calendar!”

    “Thank you,” she whispered After a moment she said: “I know people were saying horrid things about her, because Miss Diddy told me. Are—are they still being nasty, June?”

    June bit her lip. “Mm.”

    “Then—then perhaps they will say nasty things about you if I go,” she whispered. “They—they must already be wondering why—why I am staying with you, and not at home.”

    June got up and bent to put a warm, plump arm round her. “They will not be wondering at all. What they have no doubt concluded—and I wouldn’t say it to Merry, men are so weak in such matters, and he would be shocked—but what they are no doubt thinking, and quite rightly, dearest, is that Mamma-in-law is a monster!”

    Cherry looked up at her doubtfully.

    June’s round, pink, still child-like face was very flushed. “A monster,” she repeated grimly, the soft pink mouth firming and the jaw hardening so that Cherry suddenly saw Mrs Witherspoon in her.

    “Yes,” she said gratefully. “Sometimes I think I'm exaggerating the case. But she is. isn’t she? Thank you, June.”

    June kissed her cheek and went to resume her seat. “Go for a drive with Lady Benedict, dearest: it will do you good to get a little fresh air. And the weather is improving: we have had three whole days without rain.”

    “Thank you, June. I should like to.”

    June was left with the uneasy feeling that perhaps Cherry had after all gained the impression that she had her permission for the expedition: the which was not, of course, at all the case! Cherry must do as she liked, she was a free agent.

     Both parties were considerably nervous about the expedition, but in the event, it went splendidly and both parties—nay, all three, for Pug Chalfont accompanied Cherry at Nan’s insistence—had a lovely time, picknicking on rabbit pie, a local cheese, and glasses of milk in the mild sun on a bench outside an obscure little country inn. And the two young women returned home very pleased with each other and their day.

    Mrs Urqhart, terrifically pleased that her two favourites had got together and liked each other, forthwith decided that it must be Easter at The Towers for them all!

    Cherry and Nan both looked at her with their faces alight; almost instantly both faces fell and Nan murmured: “You are vairy kind, but I have responsibilities here,” and Cherry murmured: “I don’t think I... I mean, what if Sir Noël comes back...”

    “In the first instance, who cares if he comes back or not, the good-for-naught, you ain’t leg-shackled to him yet! And in the second,” said Mrs Urqhart loudly and angrily: “it won’t do him no harm to see as you ain’t waiting around to be at his beck and call, and where has he been this last month, is what I’d like to know!” She panted.

    “Dear Mrs Urqhart, you don’t understand,” Cherry whispered.

    “I understands only too well!” retorted Mrs Urqhart fiercely, very flushed.

    They were in Mrs Urqhart’s hotel suite: Bapsee immediately rushed up and attempted to chafe her mistress’s wrists. Mrs Urqhart pushed her away crossly, so she sat down on the rug and began to chafe her ankles instead. After her previous sojourn at The Towers Cherry was now used to this sort of scene, and Nan, of course, had a Sita Ayah and a Rani Ayah at home, so they both ignored it.

    Nan now knew the whole: “Eet can do no harm, Cherry, dear.”

    “And might do some good,” muttered Mrs Urqhart with a ferocious scowl. “And as for you, Nan, me love,”—it had very speedily become “Nan”, in fact Nan could not even have said how or when—“out o’ course I mean your whole family!” She beamed at her and, picking up the fan of emerald ostrich feathers that lay near to hand on a small occasional table, fanned herself briskly.

    Nan protested weakly but was overborne. The children, she learnt, would like to see Easter in a real country church with the flowers and all. Added to which it weren't that long a drive over to the cathedral at Ditterminster, it they wanted ceremonies. That was settled, then, and it would put the roses back into both their cheeks; and as soon as Mrs Stewart returned from her shopping Mrs Urqhart was sure she would agree to the scheme! And she dared say if that Tarry wanted to come and Mrs Henry’d let her, they could put up with her!

    Bath's reaction to the new friendships that were being formed that March was not, on the whole, favourable.

    With the warming of the weather the Pump Room had once again become a popular social venue. Mrs Throgmorton stiffened alarmingly, lorgnette raised.

     Mrs Waterhouse was immediately on the alert. “Where?”

    “Over there. Silver-grey. With swansdown. if my eyes do not deceive me.”

    “Good gracious! That is not—”

    Grimly Mrs Throgmorton confirmed. “The Benedict woman. With the Chalfont chit.”

    Mrs Waterhouse did not even need to say “Birds of a feather”: the two elderly dames were in perfect agreement on the matter; but she said it anyway.

    Mrs Henry having suggested firmly that Proserpine might accompany Tarry to the Pump Room, Miss Kernohan laid down her book. “Certainly. Mamma, if you wish it. However...”

    Tarry gave her an angry look.

    “What is it?” said Mrs Henry graciously.

    “Tarry, I wish to speak to Mamma alone,” said Miss Kernohan in measured tones.

    Pouting, Tarry flounced out.

    “Of course I shall accompany Tarry anywhere you wish, Mamma. But I feel I must warn you that yesterday at the Pump Room we encountered Johanna’s connexion Mrs Urqhart—”

    “Proserpine, my dear, I am aware that she is a very vulgar woman, but Dorian and your Papa would not wish for us to cut the connexion.”

    “Of course, Mamma. I fully share your sentiments. However, yesterday she was in the company of—indeed. it appears she has taken up”—Miss Kernohan swallowed and lowered her voice—“the Benedict woman.”

    “What?” she cried.

    “Yes, Mamma. Mrs Urqhart was, not to put too fine a point on it, positively flaunting the acquaintanceship.”

    Mrs Henry shuddered. “I can just see it!”

    “Indeed. And the woman herself was doing her best to make herself remarked: over-ornate grey velvet, with the bonnet a positive tower of ostrich feathers. Possibly she might have claimed it was half-mourning; I know not.”

    “Good gracious, Prosy!”

    “I have never in my life laid eyes on an outfit so calculated to focus undesirable attention.”

    Mrs Henry eyed her unmarried daughter rather drily: very possibly Miss Kernohan had not, no, for she did not care to go into society. But she said only: “Highly unsuitable, my dear. What a good thing that Mrs Urqhart is no longer with Dorian and Johanna.”

    “So I thought, Mamma. –Well, what do you think? Should we risk it? Er—perhaps I do not need to add that Tarragona’s reaction was ‘What an exquisite lady’, and loud complaints that we were not instantly joining Mrs Urqhart's party.”

    Wincing, Mrs Henry conceded that that was to have been expected. “—Party?” she added sharply.

    Proserpine’s lips tightened. “The Benedict woman's brother was with them. Oh—and Mr Timothy Urqhart.”

    Mrs Henry, not so long since, had determined Mr Timothy Urqhart, and Mr Timothy Urqhart's immense fortune left him by the late nabob, for Angie Kernohan. It had signally not worked out. Even though Angie was now a happy member of the Ketteridge clan she returned in an alarmingly grim voice: “I see.”

    There was a short silence. “You had best avoid the Pump Room,” she decided.

    Proserpine rose. “Indeed. Tarry may accompany me to the Abbey: I wish to spend a quiet time there, and then I wish to consult with Mrs Dean Witherspoon about Poor Relief. It will do her no harm to come with me.”

    Mrs Henry was not an entirely unnatural woman: she had to conceal a wince. But she agreed: “Very well, then, my dear.”

    It was not until some time after they had departed, Miss Kernohan looking grim and Tarry looking sulky and mutinous, that it dawned. Good gracious, if Mr Timothy Urqhart were in town—! Well, on his father's side he came of a most respectable family, there could be no objection— But if Mrs Urqhart had taken up Lady Benedict, how could she possibly allow Tarry to frequent her company? It would absolutely not do, Bath would be agog over it!

    It was a mild day: Colonel Amory had permitted Delphie to have the barouche out for a promised visit to Mrs Dalrymple. Delphie was keeping very well indeed, but early in their marriage she had lost a baby scarce three months into her pregnancy, so he was taking very good care of her.

    “Why, there is Cousin Betsy!” she cried, waving. “That is not her barouche, is it? No, she did not bring it; it must belong to the lady she is with. And surely that is Cherry with them? Richard, tell the driver to catch up, quick, we are missing them!”

    The Colonel took a deep breath. “Delphie, we are already late for our appointment with Mrs Dalrymple. You know how much she dislikes to have her arrangements upset. And you said yourself that she has been poorly lately.”

    “Oh. Very well,” she said sadly.

    Richard sagged limply as the other barouche disappeared. The barouche bearing Cousin Betsy, Noël's false fiancée, and Nancy Jeffreys's daughter. It could not go on: he must hear from General Sir Francis Kernohan soon! That or go wholly mad: quite.

     Mr Henry Kernohan eyed his spouse sardonically. She had just casually indicated that Mr Timothy Urqhart would be spending Easter at home with his mother.

    “The Towers—indeed, the district of Lower Dittersford—is quite obscure, Mamma,” offered Miss Kernohan helpfully.

    Mr Henry swallowed hard.

    “That is true,” Mrs Henry allowed judiciously.

    “I suppose I may always send a message to Gaetana by Aunt Betsy, if Tarry does not go,” murmured Johanna Kernohan.

    This lady was the Marchioness of Rockingham. Daynesford Place, the Marquis’s principal seat, was but an easy couple of hours’ drive to the east of Mrs Urqhart’s home. It was Mr Henry’s silent but very strong opinion that if cutting off his youngest daughter's right hand had been the requirement for getting her into the Place his spouse would have wielded the knife herself. Nevertheless he gave his daughter-in-law a warning look.

    “Oh,” said Mrs Henry thoughtfully. “Will her Ladyship be in residence for Easter, then, Johanna, my dear?”

    Not daring to look at her papa-in-law, Jo replied without a quiver: “I believe so.”

    After that it was not very long at all before Tarry's fate for that Easter was officially sealed. Mrs Henry did not say: “After all, no-one in the district has ever heard of Lady Benedict’s family”; but she did not have to: the thought was writ plain upon her face.

    It might have been said that this outcome represented a signal triumph for Mrs Urqhart; but that astute lady, on being apprised of the whole by a giggling Johanna, merely sniffed drily.