Bath Encounters

3

Bath Encounters

    Bobby Amory picked up a Morning Post with a sigh. Bobby had been at the Circulating Library for some time. He was not himself a great reader, but it was a popular social venue of the polite persons of Bath, and as usual there were a fair few faces there that he knew—though few amongst them were particularly fair. Bobby had chatted amiably to such notables as the bony Miss Grainger, her sister-in-law, Mrs Grainger, Mrs Grainger’s scrawny daughter, fat old General Lowell—who, as far as Bobby could see, could barely scrawl his name, let alone read actual printed prose, but was often to be seen in the place—young Mrs Yelden, a round-faced matron, her sister Proserpine, Miss Kernohan (oh, dear), and so forth. Collecting as he did so three definite invitations to take tea and the promise of two card parties, one informal hop, and four dinner parties.

    Bobby, in his wonderful town coat from the hands of Mr Weston, his even more wonderful pale primrose unmentionables, his splendid Hessian boots from Hoby and his truly outstanding caped greatcoat, had begun to ask himself what the Hell he was doing here. In fact what the Hell he was doing in Bath at all. Did he seriously want any of these dim damsels that Mamma’s friends and the friends’ daughters were throwin’ at his head? Well, no: not actually. Too old to fancy the infantry seriously any more, Bobby, me boy, he had thought on a dry note worthy of his mamma herself, bowing with a flourish to handsome Mrs Anthony Hallam and her little dark-eyed peach of a daughter. Good Lord, he could remember Mr and Mrs Anthony’s wedding! Must have been in... ’01? No, earlier than that: their boy, Romney, must be all of twenty-five. So... ’97? ’96? Hell.

    By the time the smoke of battle had cleared Bobby felt as if he had been isolated from town and its news for a twelvemonth! And though normally he professed no interest in politics, it was quite another thing not to hear a single word about what was going on at the seat of government! Well, great God, for all one knew, H.M. and the Prime Minister between ’em might have decided to... Well, cast Ireland adrift? Declare war on the Prussians? Anything!

    A lady was standing a little way from him and Bobby, buried in his London news, did not take much notice of her at first. She was a shortish lady, dressed in black: probably one of the endemic Bath widows. Her face was hidden by her black silk bonnet and the book she had raised, but he registered that her furs were very fine indeed. After some little time it percolated to his consciousness that she smelled wonderful: most unlike your typical Bath widow’s odour of mixed liniment and camphor! Sweet but exotic... Sandalwood, possibly? The only other person he knew who favoured that kind of perfume was old Cousin Betsy Urqhart, and he had an idea she had picked the habit up in India. He looked cautiously at the lady again.

    Perhaps feeling him looking, she glanced up. Her face was a creamy oval with a red mouth that looked as if it would laugh given the very slightest encouragement, her cheeks were just flushed with the most delicate pink, and within the black silk of her bonnet brown curls clustered thickly above the wide brow. Bobby went as white as the beautiful Waterfall at his neck and dropped the out-of-date Morning Post.

    “Nancy! By God! It is you!” he gasped.

    Nan had not expected anyone in Bath, indeed anyone in England, after twenty-two years, to recognize her mother in her. And certainly so far no-one had: they had been in Lymmond Square for nearly ten days now, and although she had inscribed her name in the book at the Pump Room, as Miss Gump had said it was the thing to do, no-one had spoken to her there. Miss Gump had also said that of course one should visit the Circulating Library, so Nan and she and even Daphne, who was most definitely not a reader, had done that, too. Normally Miss Gump would not have dreamed of letting Nan walk out alone, even though Bath was entirely respectable, but she was laid up a head-cold today, and Dom had offered to escort his sister. But as he had then begun to fidget, Nan had kindly said might take himself off.

    Hesitantly she said: “I—I theenk perhaps you have meestaken me for my mother, sir: her name was Nancy.”

    Bobby had gone very red. He bit his lip. What an imbecile! This girl must be, he now realized, half Nancy Jeffreys’s age; and she did not sound like her at all: quite apart from the enchanting foreign accent, her voice was much deeper and softer.

    “Pray forgive me,” he said hoarsely.

    Nan had now recovered herself sufficiently to see that he was overcome with embarrassment. She looked at him kindly and said: “Not at all. I have heard eet said that I resemble Mamma greatly.”

    He swallowed. “So you are Nancy Jeffreys’s daughter?”

    “Yes. I’m Nan Benedict. How do you do?” said Nan. She was, of course, accustomed to the company, not to say the admiration, of older men. And though this particular gentleman was not in the least like burly Hugo Benedict or bluff John Edwards, being of medium height with a slim, nicely balanced figure, his tastefully arranged light brown curls were silvering at the temples. She smiled kindly at him.

    The smile gave Bobby back a good deal of his normal self-confidence. He did not recognize it as the sort of smile that was intended to bolster up the courage of an awkward but well-meaning older man who was feeling he had made a fool of himself: in the first place the socially adroit Bobby Amory was not accustomed to make a fool of himself, in the second place he was not normally timid or awkward, especially with ladies, and in the third place he was not accustomed to see himself as an older man.

    So in his turn he gave her a very charming smile. And bowed gracefully over her hand and said: “I’m delighted to make your acquaintance, Miss Benedict. Allow me to introduce myself: Bobby Amory, very much at your service.” –Wondering, with such an English name, where the Devil she had come by that quaint accent. Mayhap Nancy had eventually married some fellow who called himself Benedict?

    He was not left wondering long: the enchanting Nan Benedict blushed, and said: “No—I mean, I am Lady Benedict, sir.”

    Bobby had arrived in Bath quite unaware of the odd resemblance between the new resident of Lymmond Square and his old love. Further information having come to hand, Colonel Amory and Sir Noël between them had decided, with considerable relief, that this young Lady Benedict who had moved into the Onslow house could not possibly be Bobby’s Nancy Jeffreys, and had privily agreed not to mention the resemblance either to Lady Amory or to Bobby himself. And as Noël had since gone his way to his house in Devon, even though it had his mamma infesting it, he had not been tempted to mention the matter in order to see how Bobby might react.

    Bobby did not mind Bath too much. He was a popular man in London, much in demand for dinner parties, for added to his undoubted charm he had beautiful manners and would chat almost as nicely to frightening dowagers and unescorted obscure second cousins with buck teeth as he did to the belles of the Season. Nevertheless, though he never lacked for invitations and had a very wide circle of acquaintance in London, he was not in any sense a lion, being only the youngest son of a baronet, with no great fortune and no sort of military or political distinction.

    But in Bath he was quite someone, and hostesses competed eagerly to get him for their dinner party or their little hop, and asked eagerly if he might be at the assembly upon such-and-such a date, and did he care for whist, by any chance? And of course paraded their daughters and their sisters and their sisters-in-law and their cousins for him to pick from. He would scarcely have been human had he not been rather flattered by all this attention. So in Bath Bobby went amiably to little dinner parties, sometimes with Mamma but more often alone, for old Lady Amory did not dine out very often, now; and during the day escorted her to the Pump Room or the library if she wished to go, or went himself if she did not. In London he drove a dashing high-perch phaeton, randem, but in Bath he was quite content just to take a chair or walk, like the rest of the genteel section of the populace. The inevitable gossip of the quizzy provincial town of course did not interest him at all. But he had certainly registered that Mamma had new neighbours in Lymmond Square. It would have been hard not to: every one of her acquaintance had mentioned it.

    Oh, my God, he thought now, trying not to laugh, as Nancy Jeffreys’s daughter pronounced the words “Lady Benedict”: not Mamma’s Kentish widow! For by now Lady Amory had left cards, and had reported, in her usual dry manner, that she feared Mrs Chalfont’s information had been perfectly correct: the newcomer to Lymmond Square was a Lady Benedict, relict of a landed gentleman from Kent.

    “I do beg your pardon, Lady Benedict: a natural mistake, if I may say so!” he said with one of his most charming looks. “I think, then, that perhaps you are my Mamma’s new neighbour? She is Lady Amory, and she lives in Lymmond Square.”

    “Yes,” said Nan, nodding. “I suppose I should say that ees a coincidence, but then, Lymmond Square ees a vairy respectable address, no? And I am assured that thees circulating library ees a vairy respectable place, also.”

    After a stunned instant Bobby realized that she was neither slightly simple nor socially maladroit: she was mocking him, and Bath, and— Great God, no doubt she thought he was one of the permanent residents!

    “Well, yes,” he agreed with a twinkle. “Mamma would certainly not live at an address that is not respectable and, indeed, were it not for the chill in the air today, you might have seen her in person at this very respectable circulating library!”

    Nan had not expected this sort of response: she was not accustomed to persons outside her immediate family circle so readily taking her point when she was teasing. She gave her enchanting gurgle of laughter.

    Bobby was instantly captivated; and, to say truth, he had been pretty well captivated all along. He laughed back, looking into her eyes in a way that the inexperienced Nan did not realize was not quite the thing, and began to ask her, quite tactfully but nonetheless with what she recognized was a certain amount of determination, about her family and her circumstances. Himself revealing, in the most charming way possible, that of course they were almost related! For Nancy’s younger sister, Elizabeth Jeffreys, had been married to his brother Richard. He did not disguise to himself the fact that he was damn’ glad to hear that, after all, poor Nancy was dead. The daughter was rather prettier, dressed with far more taste, and had far, far better manners than the scapegrace of a Nancy had ever had. If he was just a trifle disappointed at first to find that Lady Benedict did not immediately flirt outrageously with him, as Nancy would have, he speedily decided that that was preferable, too. Nancy Jeffreys had been many things, but she had never been a lady; and this girl, it was clear, was very much a lady.

    In believing that he successfully disguised from Nan the fact that he was also damn’ relieved to hear that her mother had actually married her father, Bobby was flattering himself indeed. Nan was inexperienced socially but she was neither naïve nor stupid. She was aware that he would not be chatting nicely if she had been Nancy Jeffreys’s illegitimate daughter, and would not have revealed that their families were connected. Nan did not condemn Bobby for this attitude: it was precisely that of the respectable Portuguese bourgeoisie amongst whom she had grown up, and she could not but recognise it as a norm. But she was conscious of some disappointment that the matter had been so evidently at the forefront of his mind.

    Bobby was on the point of introducing the topic of his own connection, Mrs Urqhart, both to show Lady Benedict that he had some little knowledge of India, and in order to discover tactfully if that tantalising perfume was actually sandalwood, when a tall, slim, black-eyed, black-haired young man in one of the most frightful coats he had ever been privileged to see came in, looking rather windblown.

    Dom at first looked at the town beau who was chatting so freely to his sister with deep suspicion, but by the time they had both accompanied Nan’s chair back to Lymmond Square was ready enough to accept Mr Amory as a desirable new acquaintance. The more so as Bobby did not make the mistake of talking exclusively to his sister.

    “Did you see his neckcloth?” he said to his sister in Portuguese over the sustaining luncheon that M. Lavoisier had prepared for them.

    “Speak English,” said Nan with a twinkle.

    Dom sighed, but switched languages, repeating his remark.

    “Yes. Also the coat. Vairy fine.”

    Dom replied with a grin: “Hees waistcoat was also vairy fine, Nan!”

    “He was vairy fine all over,” agreed Nan, eating pigeon pie hungrily.

    Dom had consumed at least half of the dish of chicken livers in a brandied sauce. He helped himself to a touch more and said: “Thees ees one of the old buffer’s better sauces.”

    Nan eyed it cautiously. “Mm.”

    “I suppose he ees what they call a dandy, or a Peenk of the ton.”

    “A peenk? I thought that was a leetle flower.”

    “I would not call heem that!” said Dom with a sudden loud laugh.

     Nan smiled. “No. So a Peenk of the ton ees a Bond Street beau, then?”

    “Aye, I think that’s eet. I wonder if he weell give me the name of his tailor?”

    “I dare say he weell, but even eef we combine our fortunes, weell we ever be able to afford hees tailor?”

    Dom grinned. “I dare swear that coat deed not need more than two men to ease heem eento eet!”

    “Yes! The boots were vairy fine, also, no? Hugo deed say you must go to hees bootmaker. I forget the name, though.”

    “Hoby. Aye, well, he was about to take me, when—” He broke off, reddening. “Sorry.”

    “No, that’s all right,” said Nan, smiling bravely. It was four months now, what with the time it had taken them to find a suitable house for their permanent residence and acquire enough furniture to put in it, since Hugo’s death, but she still wept very often in the night. Though she fancied only dear Sita Ayah was aware of this. “We must talk about heem, Dom. We must take care not to forget heem.”

    Dom nodded. But he was a little dismayed at this last remark and wondered silently, eyeing her cautiously as she helped herself to a dish of eggs in a greenish sauce that personally he would not have touched with a bargepole, if she perhaps felt, after meeting the so-charming Mr Amory, that she might be in danger of forgetting Hugo.

    For in spite of Bobby’s pleasant manner and undeniably wonderful clothes, and in spite, too, of Dom’s own good nature and readiness to be pleased, Mr Amory had not made all that much of a favourable impression on young Mr Baldaya. Not so much that he would desire him for a brother-in-law, at all events.

    On his return to his mother’s house Bobby did not, for one reason or another, burst out with the story of his encounter with the widowed Lady Benedict. But he did mention it, in a very casual manner, as they dined with Richard and Delphie the following evening at the Colonel’s pleasant house a little way out of the town. Possibly feeling, as Colonel and Mrs Amory had just imparted a piece of exciting news of their own, that it would more or less slip past unnoticed.

    Of course it did not, even though Lady Amory had been thrilled to hear that a new grandchild was on the way at last.

    “Nancy Jeffreys’s daughter?” she echoed in tones of unalloyed horror.

    “But goodness! She must be little Lizzie’s cousin, then!” said Mrs Amory, smiling innocently.

    “Mamma,” said the Colonel uneasily, suppressing an urge to tug at his neckcloth, “one must not condemn the daughter for the sins of the mother, after all.”

    Lady Amory took a deep breath.

    “They were married, all right and tight,” said Bobby in a careless voice, affecting to take a great interest in his lemon curd tartlet.

    “Of course!” cried Mrs Amory. “Otherwise she would not have cared to come to Bath, poor thing!”

    “You never knew Nancy Jeffreys, my dear,” said Lady Amory grimly.

    “No. I have to admit that she would have dared anything,” agreed Richard limply.

   Bobby finished his tartlet. “I don’t deny it. Épatons le bourgeois was more or less her motto. This girl is not at all like that.”

    “My dear, by your own account you chatted to her for a mere ten minutes or so,” said his mother. “I do not think you could tell, in that space of time, an she wished not to reveal her true character.”

    Bobby gave a surprised laugh. “Mamma, of course I could tell!”

    “Of course he could, Mamma,” murmured Richard. “Nancy would have—er—” He broke off.

    “Given me the eye,” said Bobby, taking another tartlet. “Mm. Would, too.” He nodded over the tartlet.

    “Bobby, stop gobbling those tarts and pay attention!” said Lady Amory sharply. “This is not a matter for funning!”

    Richard rescued the dish of tarts. “It certainly is not: we are both rather fond of Cook’s lemon curd, too. –Delphie?”

    Mrs Amory took a tartlet, trying not to laugh.

    “How can you know that Nancy Jeffreys married that man?” demanded Lady Amory of her youngest son in a steely voice.

    “Well, of course I cannot know of my own knowledge, Mamma. Even if I had seen the marriage lines, they would be in Portuguese, y’know.”

    “Robert—”

    “No, truly, Mamma! You would but have to meet her!”

    “So you didn’t ask her?” said his brother.

    “Uh—Well, yes. Tactfully, y’know!” he said airily.

    “Bobby, you did not?” cried Mrs Amory. “The poor young woman! What must she have felt?”

    “Pooh, I was the soul of tact. And she’s a natural, unaffected little thing, y’know. Told me it all in the most natural manner in the world. There are five of ’em: she and the elder boy were born in Portugal, and the lad and the younger girls in India.”

    “Bobby, dear old man, that may all be true,” murmured Richard, “but it does not indicate, one way or another, whether the parents were married. Was there not some story that the Senhor had a wife?”

    “Baldaya. Greasy piece of work,” said Bobby, wrinkling the straight Amory nose. “So they said, mm. But Lady Benedict told me that her papa’s first wife died and that her parents were married shortly before she was born.”

    Richard frowned over it. “Mm. Well, with the late conflict in the Peninsula settled, it should be possible to verify that.”

    “Richard!” cried Mrs Amory indignantly.

    As Delphie had been brought up by her unorthodox papa to share his unorthodox views, Richard had been well aware of what was going through his pretty little wife’s head. He said quietly: “Dearest, I am of your opinion. But we must think of our little Lizzie’s future. It is cruel to say so, but the connection can do her no good if it is not a legitimate one.”

    Mrs Amory bit her lip. “Oh.”

    Bobby had reddened. He said in a grim voice that was most unlike his usual easy tones: “You will find that it is true. But investigate, by all means. I would not wish Lizzie’s chances to be spoiled by an unfortunate connection.”

    “Quite!” said Lady Amory with feeling.

    “I wonder if the Jeffreys family know they are in England?” ventured Richard.

    “No,” said Bobby. “I did ask, and she said they had never had any contact with the family. The late husband said she need not contact them, if she did not wish to. Well—gather he was an older man,” he said awkwardly, as his family stared. “Dare say he spoiled her, rather.”

    Lady Amory took a very deep breath. “This whole tale is sounding odder by the minute. You had best investigate this Benedict as well, Richard.”

    Bobby’s chiselled nostrils flared. “Mamma, I should warn you that I do not intend to cut the connection. They appeared to me to be perfectly agreeable, respectable people. –Or are you implyin’ that she’s goin’ round callin’ herself Lady Benedict, with a houseful of children, merely in order to ingratiate herself with the quizzes of Bath?”

    “That will do, thank you, Bobby,” returned his mother coldly.

    “Bobby, does she have children?” cried Delphie.

    “Aye: two little ones of her own. The boy is from a former marriage, I think.”

    “Delphie, my darling, that does not place her above suspicion,” said her husband heavily.

    “Do not be silly! I was not thinking that, precisely! But Bobby is right: why would she come to Bath, of all places, with a household of children, if she is not perfectly above-board?”

    “Oh, any number of reasons!” said Bobby sardonically. “Possibly she is on the catch for another husband. What do y’think of old General Lowell for a candidate?”

    “That is not amusing, Bobby,” pronounced his mother. “And what is all this about a former marriage? How old did you say the girl is?”

    Bobby looked taken aback. “Uh—perhaps I did not have it right. Um... Well, work it out for yourself, Mamma. Nancy ran off in 1800, did she not? So this girl cannot be... Well, no more than twenty-one.”

    There was a short pause.

    “Widowed with two little children at twenty-one!” said Delphie Amory softly, her big, gentle grey eyes sparkling with tears.

    Bobby shot his brother a mocking look. “Mm.”

    Lady Amory took a final deep breath. “Delphie, you will please me by not calling until Richard has sorted it all out. I dare say the girl may be blameless, but as it is certainly not a desirable connection even if the best scenario be true, we must ascertain the facts of the case.”

    “Yes, Mamma,” said Delphie sadly.

    “And Bobby, what you do is your own affair, but you will kindly not publish the connection between the families all over Bath.”

    “That seems reasonable, Bobby,” said his brother.

    “Very well,” said Bobby grimly.

    The family looked at him anxiously, but said no more.

    The frosty nights and damp days of November were upon them, most of the leaves had now fallen from the trees in Lymmond Square, and still the new family at the Onslow house was a matter for speculation and comment.

    Miss Carey had called. Miss Diddy had been very keen to accompany her: in fact when the expedition was mooted, much keener than her sister: but as they approached the doorstep had got cold feet and would have retreated precipitately had not Selina Carey, who had known this would happen, had her sister’s plump elbow in an iron grip at that very moment.

    “I thought they seemed very agreeable,” she said firmly to Mr Ninian Dalrymple over the teacups.

    Mr Ninian was a trifle preoccupied at the moment, for Edwina II of Borrowdale had a sore foot: but he did his best to put this out of his mind and nodded interestedly.

    “There are two younger sisters,” said Miss Diddy. Miss Carey nodded but her sister then added: “Very near to each other in age: around sixteen or seventeen. Daphne and Susan.”

    “No, Diddy: you have it wrong. Miss Susan Benedict is Lady Benedict’s stepdaughter. It is Miss Daphne Baldaya who is the sister. –We did not see the little girls,” she explained to Mr Ninian.

    “I see! So she has her stepdaughter with her?”

    “Two of them, I believe. The other is quite a deal younger.”

    “I see. And there is a brother, I think?”

    “Mr Dominick Baldaya,” said Miss Diddy eagerly before her sister could speak. “He is the loveliest boy! Great dark eyes! And the most charming accent!”

    “Indeed? And how old is he, Miss Diddy?”

    Miss Diddy explained that he was quite grown up.

    “He and Lady Benedict are very near in age, I think,” added Miss Carey. “She is very young; but naturally she has an older woman companion.” –Miss Gump had been sitting with Nan and the girls when the sisters called. Perhaps fortunately no-one had explained that her official position was that of governess to the children.

    Mr Ninian nodded interestedly, and imparted the information that he had seen the widow and a young man who must be the brother at the Pump Room yester morning in the company of Mr Bobby Amory.

    Miss Diddy and Miss Carey exchanged glances.

    “So it is true!” said Mr Ninian, leaning forward eagerly, all thoughts of his invalid momentarily banished from his consciousness.

    Miss Diddy opened her mouth but Miss Carey said hurriedly: “It is certainly true that Mr Amory has met Lady Benedict and her brother: yes. He tells me they are acquaint with Major Cecil Jerningham.”

    Mr Ninian looked puzzled. “Er... A connexion of old Peregrine Jerningham’s, is he?”

    “Yes: his nephew, I think.”

    “He went out to India with the Army,” said Miss Diddy helpfully. “He is Mr Percival Jerningham’s youngest son.”

    “Oh, my goodness: not little Cecil!” gasped Mr Ninian in tones of pure dismay. “Why, last time I saw him he was sitting on his mamma’s knee, with a blue bow in his curls!”

    “Time flies, does it not?” agreed Miss Carey.

    Mr Ninian shuddered. “Indeed and indeed! Why, I had but barely founded the Borrowdale dynasty, back then...” His friends eyed him dubiously, fearing he was about to lapse into a melancholy, but he added brightly: “They had him done by Lawrence, you know. Sweet, but over-sweet. And one is told he charged the earth. But Mrs Percival insisted.”

    Miss Carey nodded understandingly and Miss Diddy said brightly: “Lawrence! How lovely! Well, of course the Jerninghams are connexions”—lowering her voice in awe—“of the Marquis of Rockingham, are they not?”

    “Oh, absolutely,” agreed Mr Ninian. “But dear ladies, we are wandering from the point! General Lowell was telling me that Bobby Amory has been seen frequently over the last two weeks with Lady Benedict—though of course one cannot absolutely take his word as gospel, the old creature exaggerates frightfully when it comes to  relations between the sexes! –I have been keeping to the house, rather, with Edwina II being so poorly,” he excused his own failure to be completely au fait with the facts of the case.

    Miss Carey allowed a trifle reluctantly: “I suppose one should not refine too much upon it. For after all, Mr Bobby must be—well, at a loose end, rather, in our humdrum little Bath.”

    Miss Diddy nodded hard, so that the many bows upon her cap quivered. “I do not expect he will stay until Christmas! Though Mrs Chalfont maintains that he will.”

    “Has she called?” asked Mr Ninian eagerly.

    Understanding immediately that he did not mean on either themselves or Lady Amory, the Carey sisters shook their heads.

    “Well!” he said.

    “Perhaps she does not know Major Cecil Jerningham,” murmured Miss Carey slyly.

    Mr Ninian laughed very much and said, wagging a finger: “Naughty!”

    Miss Carey smiled but said: “Well, of course she scarcely socialises at all.”

    “No,” he said, with a moue. “Too afraid that poor, sweet little Cherry will find a pleasant man to marry her.”

    Miss Diddy bit her lip and looked at him distressfully, and Miss Carey said grimly: “I fear that you are in the right of it, Mr Ninian.”

    “But Cherry has met them!” hissed Miss Diddy, leaning forward.

    “No!” responded Mr Ninian.

    Miss Diddy nodded very hard, the bows again quivering. “Yes! I saw her when I was looking for some ribbon. Now, was that two days since, or... Well, it cannot signify! But yes: it was like this—”

    Mr Ninian listened with unfeigned eagerness.

    Cherry had set out very early to do some commissions, that morning. Mrs Chalfont did not approve of her daughter’s being seen with a shopping basket, but there had been such a scene the previous evening over the quality of the vegetables sent to the table that Cherry had privily assured poor Cook, who was in tears, that she herself would look for some nice vegetables the next day. Cook had sniffed and wiped her eyes with her apron, and said that if it were not for Miss Cherry she would give in her notice this very day! Cherry was not so naïve as not to realise that it was, rather, the fact of Mrs Chalfont’s being highly unlikely to give a reference to a servant who deserted her that was the deterrent in the matter, but she had smiled nicely and thanked her very much, and told her she appreciated all her hard work. Cook had beamed and forthwith given her a string of further commissions for the morrow. So much so that she had had to promise her Mary to help carry them.

    Cherry and Mary, the latter in her best straw bonnet, crushed but gaily adorned with a red bow that Mrs Chalfont would have had her remove on the instant had she caught a glimpse of it, and a very old, rather short pelisse that Cherry recognized as one she herself had had when she was around sixteen, plus a warm grey shawl crossed over the front of it and knotted tightly behind, had duly purchased some lovely fresh vegetables at the market, and a fat duck, which was in Mary’s basket at the minute, and were dubiously considering some tired-looking pippins, when they became aware of an altercation taking place at a neighbouring stall. They could not tell what it was about, for although it was becoming very loud indeed, it was in a language that neither understood. As everyone else’s attention was now turned that way, including that of the stallholder who had been trying to sell them the pippins, they turned to look.

    Mary’s jaw dropped. “Lord save us!” she gasped.

    “I think it must be the servants from the Onslow house,” said Cherry feebly.

    “Aye: the blackamoors!” she gasped.

    “Mm,” said Cherry, swallowing. There were two tall, dark, bearded men, both with smart dark red turbans on their heads, one end of the cloth forming a sort of winged effect—it must be starched, registered Cherry Chalfont automatically—and as to the rest of their dress, huddled in greatcoats, mufflers and shawls. Both of these men were shouting and gesticulating: one appeared to be remonstrating with the stallholder, and the other was shouting at a dark-skinned lady. This lady was also huddled in a greatcoat and a shawl, but her head was covered by a gauzy cloth in extraordinary shades of mixed jade green and yellow. She was shouting, too, holding tightly to the hand of a little dark-haired girl as she did so, and gesticulating fiercely with her free arm, on which a positive retinue of narrow bangles clashed and glittered.

    “Look at all ’er bangles!” hissed Mary.

    “And her nose!” gulped Cherry.

    Mary looked, gasped, and became transfixed. The dark lady had a pearl affixed to her nose!

    After a few moments Cherry became aware that the little fair girl who was standing by looking helpless was also with the group. As she watched the dark woman spoke fiercely to the little dark girl, brandishing the bangles at her, the fair girl shouted: “Go ON: what is she SAYING?”—and Cherry saw the dark child was about to burst into tears.

    Cherry was normally a very shy person, but no-one else seemed prepared to do anything to help. She went forward timidly.

    “What is she saying?” repeated the fair child loudly as she came up to the group.

    The little black-haired girl wailed: “I not know those words!”

    Cherry could see that they were around the same age: about ten or eleven. The fair girl began to insist: “But you must know the words, Amrita!”

    “I not know the English words!” she cried, bursting into tears.

    Abruptly the Indian woman stopped shouting fiercely and swept her up in her arms, chattering to her in a sort of excited, babbling coo, the which struck Cherry’s unattuned ear as very strange indeed.

    “Can I help?” she said shyly to the fair girl. The child was not much prettier than Nobby or Horrible Laidlaw, being very thin, with a washed-out little triangular face, a pink nose, and a lot of very straight, almost colourless hair. Cherry herself had been a skinny, not particularly attractive child: she looked at her with considerable sympathy.

    The little girl eyed her warily. After a moment she said: “Thank you. You live next-door to us, don’t you?”

    “Yes,” said Cherry feebly. She knew that the Laidlaw children knew absolutely everything about all the inhabitants of the square, not excluding all of the servants and pets, but she had not expected the new children in the Onslow house to—to start so quickly!

    The child nodded. “I thought so. How do you do? I’m Mina Benedict.” She gave a polite bob.

   Cherry replied, perforce rather loudly—the two Indian men were still shouting and the stall-keeper had begun to shout back that she did not understand that heathen talk: “I am Cherry Chalfont. Can I help, Mina?”

    “It’s short for Wilhelmina, really, isn’t that awful? Cherry’s a pretty name. –I don’t think you can help, actually, Miss Chalfont, ’cos it’s all in Indian. And Amrita’s the only one that can do interpreting.”

    Cherry nodded. “I see. None of the Indians speaks English, then?”

    “No. They speak Portuguese: can you speak that?”“

    “No. I—I know a little Italian and French,” she said dubiously.

    “I think that’s different. My sister tried talking French to Rani Ayah once, but although she said it sounded a little like Portuguese, she did not understand. –We only knew what she said because Dom translated. That’s our uncle.”

    “Yes,” said Cherry feebly. “So—so her name is Runny-ire?”

    Mina Benedict corrected firmly: “Her name is Rani. Ayah is what she is: she’s Amrita’s ayah. That’s like a nurse. Only they usually stay with you and become your maid.”

    Cherry by this time felt quite dazed, what with the positive torrent of information the child was providing—even though the Laidlaw children were just the same—and the noise of shouting still going on. But she said firmly: “I see. Perhaps your sister will talk to me?”

    “Do you mean Amrita? She isn’t my sister, she’s my aunt. Her sister is my step-mamma.”

    “Um—yes. Her name is Ummry-tar?”

    “Not Ummry-tar: Amrita!” cried Mina loudly.

    That was precisely what she had said: Cherry looked at her weakly.

    Mina then cried loudly: “Amrita! Tell this lady what is wrong!”

    “Ssh,” murmured Cherry, coming up close to the nurse’s side. “Hullo, Ummry-tar,” she said gently. “Hullo, Runny.”

    “‘Amrita’; ‘Rani’,” corrected Mina.

   Cherry ignored this: she had had enough to do with the Laidlaw children to have found out that sometimes you had to, or be driven mad. “Can you tell me what is wrong, Ummry-tar?” she said gently.

    Amrita sniffled, and peered at her doubtfully from the shelter of Ayah’s arms.

    “It’s the lady from the house next-door,” said Mina helpfully.

    “I know,” she said in a tiny voice.

    Cherry smiled. “Of course you do. What is it, Ummry-tar? Is it something about the apples?” –The stall sold fruits. Withered pippins, mainly. About the same as the ones on the next stall, really. It also sold nuts but Cherry had had the impression, though she could have been wrong, that the men were gesticulating at the pippins.

    “Pears would do,” said Mina.

    Unhelpfully: Amrita’s lips quivered and she said: “I not know pears.”

    “You DO!” shouted Mina.”

    “Be silent, Mina,” said Cherry sternly. Horrors! She sounded just like Mother! However, it had the desired effect, for the voluble Mina reddened and muttered: “I beg your pardon, Miss Chalfont.”

    “Now,” said Cherry gently to the frail-looking little dark girl: “can you tell me? Just take it slowly.”

    “They are wanting... Nan was crying,” she said.

    “Yes?”

    “Een the night. Sita Ayah told us. So we come—um—we came to the market.”—Here she said something to the nurse, who burst into a torrent of babble.—“Ayah ees theenking we can cheery her up.”

    “‘Cheer’,” corrected Mina.

    Charitably Cherry ignored this: clearly the child had been unable to stop herself.

    Amrita sniffled faintly but said: “To eating the fruits weell cheery—cheer her up. Ees eet fruits or vegetables?” she said to Mina.

    “You said it was fruit, before. Big yellow ones. –She said Rani Ayah didn’t know the word but she would know the fruit once we got to market,” explained Mina. “And eating the fruit will cheer Nan up, because they are her favourite.”

    Cherry nodded. “I see. Is Nan your sister, then, Mina?”

    “No! She is my mamma!”

    Cherry looked at her dazedly.

    “She ees my sister,” said Amrita in her tiny, weeny voice.

    “Uh—Oh! Of course! Lady Benedict is your big sister, Ummry-tar, is that right?”

    “Yes. She was crying,” she repeated.

    Cherry bit her lip. “Mm.”

    “Rani Ayah says the woman weell not sell her the fruits,” Amrita explained.

    “Ye-es...” Cherry looked dubiously at the stall. Immediately both Indian men, who had broken off their shouting match in order to watch her hopefully, burst into torrents of speech again. Rani Ayah did likewise. Cherry was wondering how on earth to stop them when suddenly the tiny Amrita of the tiny voice shouted something at the top of her lungs, and they all stopped abruptly.

    “I wish I could do that,” said Mina wistfully.

    “I teach you,” offered Amrita, once again in her tiny voice.

    “It won’t work: I think you have to have been ordering them about since your cradle,” said Mina ruefully. “—I think she means that’s what’s wrong, Miss Chalfont.”

    “Um—oh! But there are no big yellow fruits here, girls.”

    Amrita glared at the stallholder. “Yes. She hides them.”

    Help! thought Cherry. “Um—no. That isn’t very likely, Ummry-tar. In England, stallholders do not do that.”

    Amrita looked dubious, but she had obviously understood.

    “We don’t have many yellow fruits in England, Ummry-tar.”

    “I tried to tell her that,” said Mina helpfully. “But Rani Ayah was sure they must have them.”

    “I see. Um, Ummry-tar, was it oranges?”“

    “No!” said Mina scornfully.

    “Ssh. I am not asking you, Mina,” said Cherry, surprised to hear her own voice come out quiet but very firm. “Was it oranges, Ummry-tar?”“

    “No,” she squeaked. “I know oranges. They are not oranges.”

    “I really don’t think they are, Miss Chalfont,” Mina agreed.

    “These fruits are not een all leetle pieces eenside,” said Amrita.

    “That’s better!” Mina encouraged her. “She never said that before, Miss Chalfont.”

    “Well, splendid, that is progress! Um, do they have pips, like apples? Or a big stone inside, like plums?”

    “I not know plums.”

    Mina gave an indignant gasp. “Amrita! You do, too! Papa’s orchard was full of plum trees! We ate them forever, last summer!”

    Amrita’s lip quivered again.

    Suddenly Cherry took Mina’s icy-cold, ungloved little hand in hers and said gently: “Mina, my dear, don’t shout at her. I know you mean well, only can you not see that it upsets her? And then she cannot think, and forgets her English.”

    “I forget my English,” agreed Amrita, blinking. “Hugo ees dead, Miss Chalfont.”

    This must be her—no, Mina’s—well, never mind! Lady Benedict’s husband, at all events! “Yes: I see,” said Cherry gently, as Mina’s cold little hand squeezed hers convulsively.

    “He said he would be my papa, too,” said Amrita.

    “We were all going to be sisters and live together for ever an’ ever, and now horrid Everard has the house, and he and Felicia do not want us!” said Mina loudly.

    “I see,” lied Cherry, not asking. “But you are living together now, are you not?”

    “Yes,” admitted Mina, sniffling.

    “And—um—your ponies have come with you, have they not?”

    “Yes,” she admitted, looking more cheerful. “Nan said of course they must come.”

    “And Alfonso Baldaya,” agreed Amrita, also looking more cheerful.

    “That is not a person, Miss Chalfont: that is her talking bird!” hissed Mina loudly.

    “He was a famous explorator,” said Amrita.

    “‘Explorer.’ Yes, he was, of the fifteenth century. And he was an ancestor of yours, was he not, Amrita?” agreed Mina. –Cherry could feel she was still gripping her hand very tight, so she did not try to interrupt this dialogue.

    “Yes. And he can eemitate Mina’s canary!” said Amrita brightly.

    “Yes, he sounds just like him, doesn’t he? He taught himself: only fancy that, Miss Chalfont!”

    “Goodness. What sort of a bird is he, Mina?”

    “Well, he is an Indian bird; Nan is not sure of the English name.”

    “Dicky says he ees a miner.”

    “Pooh, that word does not mean a bird! –That is her brother, Miss Chalfont.”

    “Yes, well, um, what about these fruits?” said Cherry feebly. “We have ruled out oranges, and you know it is the wrong season for most English fruits. –Do they understand our seasons, Mina?”

    “Well, actually, I don’t think they do, Miss Chalfont.”

    “I do!” cried Amrita. “Spring, summer, autumn, weenter!”

    “Yes, well, now it is autumn—late autumn,” stressed Mina, “and we don’t have many fruits in England.”

    “No. And in any case we do not have many yellow fruits at all,” said Cherry. “Um, some apples are sort of yellow, I suppose. Um... peaches?”

    “Peaches, Amrita?” said Mina.

    “I not know peaches.”

    “See?” said Mina exasperatedly to Cherry.

    “Mm. But in any case, peaches are not in season. It is too cold for such fruits, now, Ummry-tar. In England we do not have many fruits at all, in the cold weather.”

    “Eet ees cold.” Amrita then said something to Rani Ayah, who promptly broke into another torrent of speech directed at the two men. They responded in kind.

    “This is no good!” said Cherry with a sigh.

    “They’re always like this,” Mina explained. “Only today they’re worse, of course, because they wanted to cheer Nan up.”

    “Yes. Um… I know!” The stallholder was looking very fed-up: Cherry went over to her, smiled timidly and said: “I’m so sorry about all this. I’m afraid my neighbours speak very little English. And the little girl can’t translate what they want.”

    “I did get that, Miss!”

    “Yes. I think they are looking for some exotic fruits which we do not have in England.”

    The woman sniffed. “I dessay.”

    “Yes. And, um, I am afraid they have the notion,” said Cherry, going very red, “for of course that is how things are done, out in India, that because they have not offered you enough money, you are hiding the fruits behind the stall.”

    “Now, look ’ere, Miss!”

    “I know,” said Cherry shyly, “and I’m very sorry. But as I said, that is how things are done, in India. They don’t understand our English ways at all, poor things.” –She was aware that this entire speech was horridly pejorative, not to say horridly patronising to both parties. But what else could she say?

    The woman sniffed. “Aye, I dessay.”

    She sounded mollified, however, and Cherry said on a hopeful note: “I think if you would be so good as to allow the little girls to look behind the stall they would all go away.”

    The woman had started to look very red-faced and indignant again, but at the conclusion of this speech she looked thoughtful. “Oh. Well, I dessay it wouldn’t do no ’arm, Miss. Being as how they is iggerant foreigners.”

    “Exactly,” said Cherry, with a mental cringe or two. “Now, come along, Mina and Ummry-tar: you may look to see that this nice woman is not hiding any yellow fruits.”

    “Yellow, Miss?” said the woman dazedly.

    “Er—well, yes. You see how wrong-headed they are.”

    “Indeed I do, Miss! –Well, come along then, young lasses: look your fill.”

    The little girls looked behind the stall. There were only some empty baskets, and one with a few rotten apples in it.

    “Now explain to Runny-ire,” said Cherry firmly to Amrita.

    The little girl nodded. She had to shout, but it finally penetrated.

    “And for Heaven’s sake, explain to her and the menservants that there are no yellow fruits at all to be had in England in November!” added Cherry.

    Amrita smiled. “I deed, Miss Chalfont. Ayah has said sometheeng vairy rude.”

   Cherry wasn’t surprised. “Well, I think you may both thank this nice woman very much.”

    “Thank you very much!” they piped.

    Beaming, the woman declared: “Well, no ’arm done!” and gave them each a large apple.

    Hurriedly Cherry made them thank her again and led them off, warning them the moment they were out of earshot not to eat the fruit, for they were cooking apples.

    “Aye: they’ll be sour, little Missies,” agreed Mary, coming up bravely to her mistress’s side now that it was all over.

    “Give them to Ayah,” decided Amrita.

    Solemnly both girls handed the apples to the ayah, Amrita making a long speech as she did so. “I am telling her we go home,” she said to Cherry. “No yellow fruits een English markets.”

    “Perhaps we could buy Nan something else instead,” suggested Mina.

    “No!” said Cherry hurriedly.

    Amrita was looking at Mary’s basket. “Ah!” she said. Excitedly she pointed it out to Rani. Rani nodded, jabbering in her own language. The men joined in.

    “Duck,” said Mina loudly and clearly.

    “I know! Duck. Nan likes duck,” she announced.

    “Well, we can show you where that stall is,” said Cherry, “only, um, dressed ducks are rather dear. Do you have much money?”

    Amrita spoke to Rani. The ayah shrank, looking fearfully at Cherry, one hand pressed to her bosom. Amrita screeched at her, stamping her little foot. Sheepishly Rani produced a purse from inside the bosom of her greatcoat.

    “Um—yes. That’s more than enough,” said Cherry feebly. Amrita’s nurse appeared to have more money on her than the Chalfonts spent on housekeeping in a whole quarter: Lady Benedict must be a wealthy woman. “We’ll take you, shall we? Mary will not let the stall-keeper cheat you: don’t worry.”

    So they retraced their steps and after consultation, Rani bought not one but five fat ducks. She then made Cherry an incomprehensible but mercifully brief speech.

    “She says Dom baba ees beeg eater,” said Amrita.

    Mina agreed: “Yes. –Yes, Dom baba is big eater, Rani!” she said encouragingly, nodding, and momentarily sounding just like her small aunt. “She is not supposed to call him that, because he is a grown-up man, and that is what they call the children,” she explained to Cherry. “But she forgets.”

    “Yes, well, that is understandable. All old family servants are the same.”

    Mina nodded. “Troope calls Everard ‘Mr Everard’, not ‘Sir Everard.’ Only Dom says that’s because he hates him.”

    “Yes. So do I!” piped Amrita. She was now holding tightly to one of Cherry’s hands, Mina having possessed herself of the other. She gave a little skip.

    “So do I,” agreed Mina grimly.

    Cherry did not dare to ask. For on reflection she rather thought that this “Everard” must be Mina’s oldest brother.

    “Good gracious!” said Mr Ninian Dalrymple, laughing very much, at the conclusion of Miss Diddy’s narrative. “And has anyone ever discovered what this mysterious yellow fruit was, my dears?”

    “Not to our knowledge!” said Miss Carey.

    “Well, at the least it would have been an adventure for poor little Cherry,” he said, sighing.

    Miss Diddy sighed also. “Yes, indeed! But young Mrs Amory intends to take her up,” she added hopefully.

    “The mother will never allow that, Miss Diddy,” said Mr Ninian, shaking his head. “Why, do you not remember when Mrs Anthony Hallam offered to launch her along with her oldest girl?”

    “Yes, indeed!” cried Miss Diddy. “Such a kindly gesture!”

    “Yes. Well, it did not come to anything,” said Miss Carey on a grim note.

    “No,” agreed Mr Ninian. “One can but wish Mrs Amory success in her endeavours. Has she spoken to Mrs Chalfont?”

    Miss Diddy looked at her sister.

    “We are not precisely sure if she has said anything definite about a longer-term scheme, Mr Ninian—are we, Diddy?”—Miss Diddy shook her profusion of grey-brown ringlets under their bow-trimmed lacy cap.—“No. But Mrs Chalfont has agreed that Cherry may spend next Friday to Monday with the Richard Amorys.”

    “But my dears, this is entirely hopeful!” he cried.

    Miss Diddy nodded eagerly but Miss Carey responded drily: “It would be more hopeful if Sir Noël Amory had not gone back to his home in Devon.”

    Mr Ninian’s amiable face fell. “How very true.”

    “Mayhap dear Mrs Colonel Amory will—will find another suitable young man,” quavered Miss Diddy.—It was clear to the experienced Mr Ninian that the two friends of his childhood must already have had words on this subject, for Miss Carey threw her an impatient look, but did not speak.—“Only the question is, dear Mr Ninian,” admitted Miss Diddy sadly: “who?”

    “Quite,” said Miss Carey on an acid note.

    After some thought Miss Diddy ventured that there were all the Colonel’s mamma’s friends.

    “Name one who has an eligible unattached son. Or grandson,” replied Miss Carey grimly.

    “You know I cannot, Selina!” she cried crossly.

    Oops, thought Ninian Dalrymple. “Lieutenant Romney Hallam?” he suggested quickly.

    “The boy is an imbecile,” said Miss Carey witheringly. “And more to the point, he is away on his ship.”

    Oops, again. “Oh, yes; I had quite forgot! Er... Well, could the Amorys not fall back upon Mr Bobby?”

    “We had just awarded him to Lady Benedict, had we not?” returned Miss Carey.

    Mr Ninian laughed.

    “I had thought of him! But he is very much older than little Cherry,” admitted Miss Diddy, looking sideways at her sister.

    Ninian Dalrymple avoided Selina Carey’s eye. “Well, yes, Miss Diddy. But then, dear Mrs Amory is very much the Colonel’s junior, and I dare say there is about the same age gap there, as between his brother and our sweet little Cherry.”

    “Oh, that is so true! And they are such a wonderfully happy couple!” cried Miss Diddy, clasping her plump hands together. “Selina, do you not think that after all—?”

    “No,” said Miss Carey unencouragingly.

    “But it would not be ineligible! And if she has no fortune, I am sure the Amorys— And besides, he is a most amiable gentleman!”

    Miss Carey sighed. “Diddy, you know that Sissy Laidlaw let it out that Mr Bobby told her nephew that the night the Chalfonts dined with his Mamma, Cherry appeared to regard him as a frightened rabbit regards the fox!”

    Ouch! thought Ninian Dalrymple. Hastily he said: “Then it would not do, of course. But talking of the Kernohans,”—which they had not been, for some time, but Mr Ninian was feeling somewhat desperate—“dear Mrs Dorian K. was telling me that her amiable connexion, Mrs Urqhart, is soon to visit with them!”

    “What, the nabob’s widow?” asked Miss Diddy eagerly. Miss Carey looked dry, but did not attempt to contradict her sister. The subject was successfully turned, and Mr Ninian breathed a stealthy sigh of relief. There was very evidently nothing in it. For if Cherry’s looking at Bobby like a mesmerized rabbit did not, as the maiden lady seemed to believe, necessarily imply she was not attracted by him, that Bobby could say a thing like that of her was a fair indicator of his total indifference! And from what Mr Ninian had seen of his demeanour with Lady Benedict at the Pump Room, that was very definitely where Bobby Amory’s interest lay.

    It was perhaps as well, then, that Cherry had not told the interested Miss Diddy everything that had happened the day of her meeting with the children from the Onslow house. For it could only have added fuel to that incurably sentimental lady’s hopes.

    Their procession had nearly reached Lymmond Square, and the two little girls had imparted many fascinating facts about their lives and their families, which Cherry felt in a muddled way she was failing to get quite straight, when a gentleman clattered by on a fine black horse. The children waved and smiled: he reined in, looking startled.

    “Why, it’s Miss Chalfont!”

    “Good morning, Mr Amory,” said Cherry shyly, blushing very much. For although at Lady Amory’s dinner party she had, as Bobby had variously reported, looked at him like a mesmerized rabbit and not said boo all evening, that did not mean, as the percipient Ninian Dalrymple had guessed, that she was unaffected by handsome, worldly, dashing Bobby Amory.

    Bobby dismounted, smiling. “Good morning! So you have met the Benedict children, I see! Hullo, my dears! Namaste, Ayah; namaste!” –Cherry could not help but stare, as he looped the reins over his arm, put his hands together as if he were praying, and gave the most curious little bow.

    The little girls greeted him eagerly; Rani Ayah giggled and pulled her headdress, which was only partly shielding her face, further across.

    “So you speak Indian, Mr Amory?” said Cherry weakly.

    “No, indeed! And it is not ‘Indian’, my dear Miss Chalfont: there are, I dare say, an hundred Indian languages! I know one or two words, that is all, of one of the languages which Rani Ayah speaks.”

    “Oh,” said Cherry numbly.

    Bobby smiled his lovely smile and said kindly: “I had a dear cousin who went out to India many years ago, and Richard, Noël and I have kept up with his widow, since. She has had us to stay at her home I know not how many times, and fed us on the most delicious curries, and so forth! She knows a great deal of India, and we have all absorbed just a tiny bit of that knowledge.”

    “I see.”

    “And vindaloo, Miss Chalfont,” said Amrita helpfully.

    “She does not know what that is,” said Mina tolerantly. “It is a special sort of meat dish, Miss Chalfont, often very hot.”

    “Always very spicy!” said Bobby with a laugh. “Cousin Betsy’s Bapsee puts vinegar in hers, does Ayah also?”

    “I don’t know. Do you know what vinegar is, Amrita?”

    “In French it is vinaigre,” said Cherry.

    “Soured wine in any language,” murmured Bobby.

    “Why, yes!” she said, jumping a little, and laughing.

    Bobby smiled at her, thinking that out from under the mother’s orbit she was quite a taking little thing, after all. He had not realized what a very lovely blue her eyes were: they reminded him a little of Alfreda Parker’s lapis eyes.

    “Ayah weell make vindaloo of these ducks,” Amrita explained.

    “Duck vindaloo!” smiled Bobby kindly. “Wonderful! My Cousin Betsy Urqhart’s ayah sometimes makes that for a very special treat! –And by the by, my dears, Cousin Betsy is coming to Bath soon, so we will be able to ask her where she obtains her wonderful spices. –So very many more than just our everyday cloves or cinnamon, Miss Chalfont,” he explained. “And Betsy’s family is in the import business: I am sure she will be able to suggest a ready source of supply for Lady Benedict.”

    “Mamma will be very glad, sir,” said Mina earnestly. “She misses the Indian food. M. Lavoisier makes everything with horrid sauces.”

    “Yes,” agreed Amrita.

    “That is their cook, Miss Chalfont,” said Bobby, the Amory eyes that were the light-filled colour of an Amontillado sherry sparkling naughtily. “He is a Frenchman, and his sauces are—er—trop raffinées pour des goûts—eugh—soit enfantins, soit formés par un climat plus ardent!” he ended, laughing a little.

    “That is French!” hissed Mina to her small aunt.

    Cherry had had to bite her lip hard. “En effet?” she said to Mr Amory in a very high voice.

    “O, je vous assure que oui. Aucun membre de la famille ne les aime.”

    After a minute Cherry gave a little gasp.

    “Seulement, Madame sa maîtresse essaie de ne pas le laisser voir,” finished Bobby primly.

    “Je vous prie, ne continuez pas, monsieur: je ne veux pas rire,” said Cherry feebly.

    At this Bobby did laugh, a little, and said: “It is a trifle unfortunate, for his talents are not given full rein! But when Lady Benedict comes out of her mourning and begins to entertain a little, I think he will find himself greatly appreciated.”

    “I hope so,” said Cherry feebly.

    All this had passed the little girls by: they were now talking with Ayah, Amrita largely interpreting, but after a moment Cherry realized that her ears were not deceiving her and that from time to time Rani was putting in an English word.”

    “So their nurse does speak a little English?” she said to Mr Amory in a low voice.

    Bobby smiled. “The English she knows is all mixed up with her Indian languages in the most curious fashion. And she forgets it entirely in the stress of the moment!” The sherry-coloured eyes twinkled: he added: “And I gather there has been a stressful moment or two?”

    “Oh!” said Cherry on a gasp. “Oh, yes: you are so right, Mr Amory! They had got into the most dreadful argument with a woman at a stall—” She began to tell him all about it, looking up naïvely and earnestly into his face.

    Bobby listened and watched in some amusement. She was very pretty, really, when her face was animated: her features were very delicate and the skin was naturally very pale, but when she was interested or pleased a pretty flush rose to her cheeks. But she was too thin, poor little thing: the cheeks were positively hollow.

    He strolled on with them all towards Lymmond Square, as Cherry finished her little story. His good manners would not have permitted him to do otherwise, but he had in fact been on his way home.

    He went inside, changed, and sat down to a hearty breakfast before setting out for the Pump Room in the hope, which he did not quite acknowledge to himself, that Lady Benedict would be there. He did not give Cherry another thought, let alone reflect that the “poor little thing” was in fact several years older than the much more mature-seeming Lady Benedict.