Disappointments

4

Disappointments

    Cherry twisted her hands nervously in her lap. “They—they are so sweet,” she said awkwardly to Delphie Amory. “Not—not pretty at all, I don’t mean. They are both skinny little things, and—um... It sounds silly,” she ended lamely.

    Mrs Amory smiled. “No, it doesn’t sound silly at all, my dear Cherry!” –She had asked Cherry to call her “Delphie” and asked if she might call Cherry by her name. Adding that of course, Richard was Richard! Cherry was sure she would never dare to address the Colonel by his name. It was not that he was at all a terrifying personality. But he was a very much older man, and— Well, she just could not! She was unaware that Mrs Amory had guessed her feelings on the matter.

    “I will not say they are all sweet at that age,” added Delphie: “for some of the girls at the school where I used to teach were empty-heads who could talk of nothing but gowns and beaux morning, noon and night, even at Lizzie’s age.”

    Cherry nodded: Lizzie Amory was just thirteen, not very much older than Mina Benedict.

    “But when they are pleasant girls like Lady Benedict’s two, then I agree: they can be very sweet indeed!” ended Delphie with a little laugh.

    “Yes,” said Cherry in some relief. “Do you know the Laidlaws? They are pleasant girls, too. But your mamma-in-law thinks they are rowdy, I think,” she added lamely.

    “Well, she is a very old lady, and of the old school where children’s discipline is concerned! And then, I think her own girls were just naturally rather quiet and well-behaved: certainly Lizzie is. Most unlike my sister and me!”

    Cherry smiled politely: she could not imagine the delightful Mrs Amory not having been a quiet and well-behaved child.

    Delphie looked at the gilt clock on the mantel. “Richard will be back soon.”

    Cherry nodded: the Colonel had gone in person to collect his little daughter from the day-school she attended in Bath. He frequently did. It was about an hour’s drive, and Cherry had been unable to stop herself imagining wistfully how it would be to drive home in the sole company of one’s dear papa for a whole hour. Certainly Lizzie had spent the first ten years of her life hardly knowing her papa, for he had been away with the Army in India and she had lived with Cousin Noël’s family in Devon, and that could not have been entirely pleasant. But Cherry could not help enviously comparing Lizzie’s present situation with her own at the same age. Which would be better: not to have your papa until you were about ten, or to have him, as she and Merry had, only until you were about ten? Cherry could not decide, but she inclined to the belief that Lizzie Amory had the best of it.

    As they changed for dinner, Delphie Amory said to her husband in the privacy of their large, airy bedroom: “So Bobby would not come to dinner, Richard?”

    “No: curse the fellow,” he said, scowling.

    “We did think he might not,” she murmured.

    “Look, how often is he down here, for God’s sake?” he said impatiently. “And what is one dinner?”

    “It was not that, my dear, was it? –Pray could you help me with my necklace?”

    The Colonel ceased struggling with his neckcloth and came across to his wife’s dressing-table, where he fastened the pearl necklace. After a moment he bent down and kissed the nape of her neck. Mrs Amory went bright pink. The Colonel’s hands slipped under her armpits and round...

    “Don’t,” she said faintly. “We must go down to dinner.”

    “He’s a fool, y’know,” he said, leaving his hands where they were. “He might have all this, and a family of his own!”

    “Darling, I don’t think he wants them with poor little Cherry.”

    The Colonel’s grasp tightened. “She’s a bit flat in this department,” he admitted on a gloomy note.

    Mrs Amory gave a most improper gurgle. “What: in general, or for Bobby’s taste?”

    “Mm? Oh!” he said, meeting her eyes in the mirror and grinning sheepishly. “Both!”

    “Mm.” She frowned. “I think she is half-starved,” she said abruptly.

    Richard walked over to the cheval glass, frowning. “That wouldn’t surprise me. Jack Beresford was telling me that Mrs Chalfont is reputed in the town to be mean as sin. –His expression!” he said hastily.

    “Mm,” she murmured.

    “Well, I suppose we can feed the girl up over these few days,” he said sadly, adjusting the neckcloth.

    “Yes. Dearest, did you mention to Bobby that she would be here?”

    “Aye: tactical error,” he said ruefully.

    “Well, yes! Only, whichever way you had played it, the outcome would have been the same, I fear. If you had got him here without mentioning her, he would have felt it was false pretences and—um—”

    “Ignored her to spite us: aye,” said Bobby’s brother drily. “Well, not literally, for he would not be unkind to a young lady. But in essence, that is correct. –The idiot is still seeing Lady Benedict, y’know. I grant you he is not doing it under Mamma’s windows: meets her in the Pump Room. Under the eyes of the whole of Bath,” he concluded sourly.

    Delphie sighed. “I wish I might call. I would so much like to know what she is like.”

    “I could tell you what the fellow said of her, only it ain’t fit for your ears,” he said unguardedly.

    “Then tell me!” said Mrs Amory gaily.

    The Colonel found he had backed himself into a corner. He cleared his throat. “Never mind. It was more what he said of the mother, ’smatter of fact. He had no criticism of Lady Benedict as such. In fact he made it clear she don’t attempt deliberately to drive ’em crazy for her, as Nancy did. –Don’t look at me like that,” he said with a sigh: “yes, she tried her tricks on me, too. She tried her tricks on every fellow she met between the ages of sixteen and ninety, unless he was halt, blind or incapable!”

    Delphie gulped.

    “And from what Bobby did say of the daughter, it is clear he feels the same about her as he did about Nancy,” he ended grimly.

    “Darling, that sounds serious.”

    “As if we need to be seriously worried about it: mm. Well, I have contacted the Portuguese Embassy… I think I’ll go up to town and have a word with General Sir Francis Kernohan at the Horse Guards,” he decided. “He has considerable influence. He may be able to get some action out of the Portuguese.”

    His wife was sure that he would. And also that it would turn out that Lady Benedict was perfectly respectable!

    Richard swallowed a sigh and tried not let his mind so much as contemplate the picture of a Portuguese widow with little children who was not perfectly respectable residing in dashed Lymmond Square.

    Bobby had not let his brother guess it, but he was not in fact managing to see all that much of Lady Benedict. It was damned difficult, for a start, when her door was right in sight of Mamma’s front windows! It had taken a little time, but he was now at the point of admitting sulkily to himself that one of the reasons why he was not seeing as much of her as he wished was that she was not permitting it. And why the Hell? What was wrong with him? And it was not that there was another fellow: he was sure of it. And she was not doing it to teaze, as Nancy would have. ...Was she? No, he was sure not! It must be that she was still mourning Hugo Benedict. Well, he supposed he could wait.

    Had she been a complete innocent, he thought bitterly, it would have been a damned sight easier to deal with. But twice widowed, knowing what it was all about... Could she be leading him on? Forcing him into a proposal? Bobby thought this thought rather often when he was not with her—which was unfortunately most of the time. But when he was with her, and she smiled her frank smile right into his eyes and laughed that delicious, soft gurgle of a laugh of hers, he found it impossible to believe she was that sort. –The Devil! Why did she have to be so hot-eyed and a damned lady at the same time!

    Nan was not aware, precisely, that Mr Amory felt she was hot-eyed. But she was aware of his admiration for her. She was genuinely missing Hugo but, although she did not really realize this herself, she was also missing being in Hugo’s bed quite dreadfully. And Bobby Amory was a very attractive man: Nan found herself wondering at times what it would be like to hold that tight in her arms. Oh, dear.

    … Marry Mr Amory? Nan did not think she wished to. Quite apart from all other considerations, she felt that she had had enough of marriage for the nonce. She did not specifically envisage Bobby dropping dead within a year or two of putting his ring on her finger. But she did think to herself that it would be insupportable if it happened again, and knew she was not nearly ready to take that risk again. And that led on to the thought of: what if he did not drop dead? What if she committed herself to spending the next twenty to thirty years in his company? Thirty years! Nan, who had walked into John Edwards’s arms without a qualm, and gone down the aisle with Hugo Benedict full of happy hope for the future, could not contemplate the thought of a lifetime with pleasant, handsome, and very attractive Bobby Amory without recoiling. So that was that. And she must not encourage him.

    So when Dom came into her little upstairs sitting-room one damp and drizzling December morning and said: “I say: deed you tell Richpal and William not to admit Mr Amory?” she replied simply: “Yes.”

    “Oh.” Dom looked at her doubtfully. She was standing by the window, peering down into the square, doubtless watching Mr Amory’s retreat. He swallowed. “What’s he done?” he said hoarsely.

    “Nothing.” Nan looked round. “Oh! You weell not have to call him out, you seelly!”

    “Glad of that!” said Dom with a grin. “Come on over to the fire. Brr-rr! Ain’t eet freezing?”

    “Yes,” said Nan, coming to the fire. “Last winter was vairy cold, too; I theenk eet got colder than thees, do you recall? And there was snow all around.”

    “Aye,” he said glumly, sitting down on the hearthrug and hugging his knees as if he had been a boy of ten again and not a grown-up young man of nearly twenty-one.

    Nan sat down in her small fire-side chair, smiling at him.

    “So eef he hasn’t done anything,” said Dom, not looking at her, “what’s wrong? Don’t you like heem, after all?”

    Nan bit her lip. “Not exactly.”

    “Eh?”

    “Dom, I don’t think you can understand: you’re too young.”

    “Thank you vairy much!” he said indignantly.

    “Added to which... Possibly a man cannot see eet een the same way. Eet eesn’t that I don’t like heem, I like heem een the wrong way—you see?”

    Dom looked blank.  “Huh?”

    “I—um—find too attractive, Dom.”

    A flush rose to his oval olive cheeks. “I see,” he said huskily.

    “Eet ees—eet ees like poor Anna Sortelha and Senhor Fereira.”

    “WHAT?” he shouted.

    “No! Not literally, good Heavens!” said Nan hurriedly.

    Dom switched to Portuguese on the spot and said: “I should damned well hope not! And I would call the fellow out, if he had seduced you!”

    “Speak English,” said Nan wanly. “Um—no, that’s just eet, Dom. He ees too proper to suggest it, but whenever I see heem I keep feeling that—that I might suggest eet.”

    Dom’s jaw sagged.

    “You may say that eet ees just that I am misseeng Hugo,” said Nan, tears starting to her eyes and her English deteriorating audibly, “but—but I—but—”

    “Come on, don’t cry,” he said awkwardly, scrambling up to put an arm round her.

    Nan burst into loud sobs. She was trying to say something at the same time, but it was quite a while before she calmed down enough to get it out coherently enough for him to grasp it.

    “Like Mamma?” he echoed in Portuguese on an indignant note. “Rubbish!”

    Nan sniffed dolorously. “We must speak English: oh, dear. –Thank you, Dom dearest. Only I theenk I must be like Mamma. When I am weeth Mr Amory, I feel so... You know,” she said in a low voice.

    Dom went red again. “Well, yes.”

    “Do not dare to say ladies are not supposed to feel that way!” she warned.

    “I’m not that dashed brainless!” he said with feeling. “Eef no ladies ever felt that way, I dare say the world would have ended long since!”

    “Mm. And—and I theenk, now,” said Nan in a trembling voice, “though I deed not believe eet at the time, that when people said that Anna Sortelha threw herself at Senhor Fereira, they were right—no?”

    “Well, don’t bawl over eet,” he said, patting her back. “No-one can do anything about Anna, now. And you deed the right thing, sending Amory off.”

    Nan sniffed and felt for her handkerchief. “Yes.”

    “Um... he might mean marriage, y’know,” he ventured without much enthusiasm.

    “I theenk he does.” She blew her nose. “But I don’t seriously want heem. So that’s that.”

    “That’s the ticket!” he said, sounding, in spite of the accent, remarkably like Hugo.

    Nan smiled wanly. “Mm.”

    “Um—look...” Dom went over to the hearth and fiddled with the ornaments on the mantel. “Ugh! Where deed this horreed china theeng come from?”

    Nan sighed. “Hush. Miss Gump gave eet me. She says they bring luck.”

    “Is it a frog or a toad?” he said in Portuguese.

    Nan replied in English: “The English word ees ‘toad’. And you see the theeng eet’s sitting on, yes?”

    “A mushroom.”

    “They only say that of the edible ones. That ees a toadstool.”

    Dom gave a startled laugh.

    “No: truly,” said Nan weakly.

    “Go on! Deed the old girl tell you that?”

    “Yes.—Dom, you sound just like Hugo!—Yes: I looked eet up een the dictionary and eet ees perfectly correct.”

    “Help. Not that they bring luck, though?”

    “I don’t theenk so!” said Nan, laughing.

    “I could drop eet by accident?” He cocked an eyebrow at her and Nan gave a muffled snort.  “Here, what’s thees leetle cleep for?”

    “What? Oh, I theenk one would say a loop rather than a cleep. Eet ees a useful object, you see? One puts spills in the cl—loop.”

    “Then they stick up above eets head, no?”

    Nan went into a giggling fit, nodding madly.

    Dom grinned. “I could get Rosebud,” he offered.

    “Yes! That ees a cure for wanting handsome men!” she gasped.

    “Aye.” He went over to the door. “Um—Nan?”

    “What?” said Nan, wiping her eyes.

    “Um—would you want to have Mr Amory’s baby?”

    “Oh, goodness, no!” she cried.

    Dom nodded wisely. “Good. That proves eet, then. Stay away from heem, he ain’t right for you.” He went out.

    “I shall try,” said Nan, limp but smiling.

    When he came back with Rosebud he said: “Um—look, what I was going to say before all these toadstools— Hang on! Here we are, rosy-posy Rosebud! Lovely toad on a stool!”

    “Dom, she weell break eet,” said Nan, as the little girl gurgled happily over it.

    “That’s the point!” he said with a laugh. “No: listen: we could get out of Bath, y’know. Go somewhere else where these damned Amorys ain’t never been heard of. –Nor the Jeffreyses, neither,” he added with a scowl.

    “Um… Much as I am tempted to agree, I feel eet would be the wrong move for the children.” She kissed Rosebud’s soft golden-brown curls. “Just look, she ees going to be so pretty! Such a pretty girl! And she has Hugo’s grey eyes, I am so glad! Um, no: what I was saying, Dom, eet would be so bad for Susan and Mina een particular, just when they are settled.”

    “Aye. Poor leetle scraps,” he said, again sounding just like Hugo.

    “Yes. Though Susan ees not so leetle,” said Nan with a sly look in her eye that her innocent brother missed.

    “Skinny thing, though, ain’t she? Half Daphne’s girth! Well, she has got even thinner since Hugo’s death, poor girl,” he said with easy sympathy.

    “Yes. But she has begun to eat again, thank goodness. And that ees my point. They need a leetle peace and a settled way of life.”

    “Aye. Well, now you have given heem hees marching orders, dare say Amory weell take heemself off!” said Dom cheerily. “Come on, Rosy-Posy: lovely toad: can you say toad?” he said in a squeaky voice, kneeling on the hearth-rug in front of them. “Toady-woady! Toady-woady!”

    He now sounded just like Rosebud’s English nurse. Nan smiled, but did not point it out to him. Nor that Rosebud could barely say: “Ma-ma”, let alone manage “toad.” In any language: Dom had now switched to Portuguese.

    There was no-one, really, in whom Bobby could confide. Mamma disapproved of the whole connection. And Richard was a wash-out: he had told Bobby to his face that the woman had him by an indelicate part of his anatomy and if he had the sense of a flea he’d run like Hell, because remember what he had been like over her mother? Bobby had damned nearly hit him. And although he had a sufficiently wide acquaintance in Bath, they were none of them his particular friends. The men in especial were all either too old, like old Lowell, or too damned young. Though Jack Beresford was a decent enough young fellow. So much so that Bobby, having unwillingly escorted his mamma to the Pump Room the day after Lady Benedict’s damned footmen had refused to admit him to her house, found himself saying in his ear: “I don’t advise it.”

    Mr Beresford, a slim, dark young man of saturnine appearance, was lounging against a pillar, looking at Lady Benedict. Not quite precisely with his tongue hanging out, but close enough. He raised a languid eyebrow. “Warnin’ me off, Bobby? Want the field clear?”

    “No such thing,” said Bobby grimly.

    “In that case you can introduce me. No-one seems to know her!” he complained.

    “The Miss Careys have called,” replied Bobby neutrally.

    “Yes, well, m’cousin Charlotte Laidlaw has called, only she ain’t here, is she! Never comes to the Pump Room.”

    “Sensible woman,” said Bobby coldly.

    “Come on, Bobby, be a sport!”

    “I shall introduce you if you wish. But I advise against it,” said Bobby tightly.

    Mr Beresford’s eyebrows rose very high. “Somethin’ wrong with the little widow?”

    “No.”

    “So?”

    “Look, Jack,” he said in a low and furious voice: “you ain’t up to her weight, you silly young shaver! But if you want your fingers burnt at that particular blaze, who am I to stop you!”

    Mr Beresford had been upon the town for some years now and fancied himself entirely sophisticated. However, he did not object to Bobby Amory’s calling him a silly young shaver, just raised his eyebrows again, and gave a low whistle.

    “And if you do that,” said Bobby, still in a low and furious voice: “I will certainly not introduce you! Lady Benedict does not wish to be made particular.”

    “I have it! She has warned you off!” he choked.

    “Very amusing,” said Bobby, turning on his heel.

    Mr Beresford caught at his immaculate sleeve. “No, wait! Look, I’m damned sorry, old fellow. Dare say a Miss Carey will turn up some time before Christmas to introduce me!”

    “No, I’ll do it,” said Bobby with a sigh. “Come on. Only don’t say you haven’t been warned.”

    Jack Beresford hesitated. “Er—you ain’t entirely wrong, and I don’t claim to be up to the weight of a two-time widow,” he murmured. “Only, one would just like to warm one’s hands at the blaze!”

    Bobby shrugged, and led the way.

    “Good morning, Lady Benedict; Miss Gump,” he said grimly, bowing.

    Nan went very pink. “Good morning, Mr Amory.”

    “Oh! Good morning, Mr Amory!” gasped Miss Gump, going a mottled scarlet.

    So she knew the little Portuguese widow had given him his congé, the hag. Probably be all over the square before the cat could lick its ear, in that case, thought Bobby sourly. Sort of woman that gossiped with the domestics.

    “May I present Mr Beresford?” he said grimly. “Jack, allow me to present Lady Benedict. And her companion, Miss Gump. –Pray excuse me: I think Mamma is looking for me.” He bowed again and strode off.

    Jack Beresford caught up with him later that same day at a very boring card party at Mr and Mrs Henry Kernohan’s. “Hand of piquet, Bobby?”

    “Why not? I might as well trounce you, as another.”

    The two gentlemen retired to a quiet table in a corner.

    “Well?” said Bobby grimly, having won the cut for deal.

    “Mm? Oh: the little widow?” Jack laughed. “Hot stuff, all right!”

    Bobby dealt with great precision. “If you refer to a lady like that again in my hearing, Beresford, I shall be obliged to knock your teeth down your throat for you.”

    “Wha— But it is no more than you— Oh, very well, I’m mum!” he said hurriedly, meeting an iced-sherry eye.

    Bobby grimaced, but turned his attention to his cards.

    After quite some time, during which Jack began to perceive that the old adage “Lucky at cards, unlucky in love”—or words to that effect—appeared to have considerable truth in it, he asked cautiously: “Have you met the sister?”

    “Yes,” said Bobby shortly.

    Jack stared at him. “Well?”

    “Just watch your step. There’s bad blood in that family.” –Bobby had not meant to say any such thing and was horrified to hear it come out of his own mouth.

    “Eh?” croaked Mr Beresford. “Miss Baldaya seems a perfectly respectable girl! Not even out, yet! And she told me they’re descended from some famous explorer or some such! Wealthy land-owning family in Portugal, ain’t they?”

    Bobby took a deep breath. “The main branch of the family is, certainly. But those girls have grown up in a different climate, with a different set of notions.”

    Jack’s eyebrows rose a trifle. “Oh?” he drawled.

    “Look, Jack, if you want to find yourself bein’ led by the nose for the rest of your natural, while your half-Portuguese spouse kicks up any sort of rig and row she pleases, go for it!” hissed Bobby in a furious undervoice.

    “Oh? You claimin’ her Ladyship is like that?”

    “What? No!” he said angrily. “Nothing of the sort! Merely— One cannot know,” he ended very lamely indeed.

    “Oh—right,” said Jack Beresford feebly, as it dawned that the pretty Portuguese widow must have given poor old Bobby the Order of the Boot.

    They played in silence for a little.

    “I believe Lady B. sees something of Cousin Charlotte Laidlaw,” Mr Beresford ventured. “Well, young children, y’know.”

    “Then I would hang round the Laidlaws’ house playin’ with the children: yes. A cunning move, Jack.” Bobby swept the cards together and rose.

    “What are you doing?” said Jack numbly.

    “Getting out of it,” replied Bobby with precision.

    Jack watched numbly as he walked over to his hostess, bowed over her hand, walked over to his host, shook hands, and vanished. “Lord, he has got it bad,” he muttered.

    Mr Henry Kernohan, a good-natured, stoutish older man, came over to him looking worried. “Jack, dear boy, what on earth is up with dear old Bobby?”

    Jack liked Mr Henry very much but in common with most of Bath society he disliked Mrs Henry very much. And if he told him anything, she was almost bound to get it out of him. After which it would be all over Bath. So he said: “No idea, sir. Seems in a mood. –Oh: there’s Dorian: dare say he will give me a game! Unless you care to make up a third for écarté, sir?”

    “Why, yes! Thank you, me boy!”

    Jack sat down with Mr Henry, his second son, and the cards. He did not seriously worry his head over Bobby’s warning. Talk of your scorched fingers! Poor old Bobby!

    But when Mr Henry had regretfully bustled off on his hostly duties he said abruptly: “Know what’s up with old Bobby?”

    The sapient Dorian Kernohan replied: “The Portuguese Widow, ain’t it? Order of the Boot?”

    “Er—mm. What I mean is, he was goin’ on about—um—blazes, and stuff. You know: different climates, and so forth! More or less warned me off both her Ladyship and the little sister. Said there was bad blood in the family, for God’s sake!”

    “I have not seen the sister.”

    “Oh. Well, she’s very like Lady B. as to looks. The merest child, however. Not yet out.”

    “Mm.”

    “What does that mean?” said Jack crossly.

    Dorian was aware—and his father was also, for the Kernohan brothers, Francis and Henry, were very close—that Richard Amory had very recently contacted General Sir Francis Kernohan on the subject of the Baldaya children. He made a mental note to speak to Papa after the party. To Jack he said only: “Oh, nothing very much, dear lad. Only that nothing is known of the family. Unless you count a second-hand report from Cecil Jerningham.”

    “Jerningham? Do you mean the family that is related to the Hammonds, Dorian?”

    Dorian nodded. “Cecil’s at the Horse Guards. Was out in India for a while.”

    “Oh, I see! He knew Lady Benedict’s family there?”

    “No: met ’em on the boat. The romance between Sir Whatsit Benedict and the present Lady B. was the talk of the ship, apparently. Cecil does vouch for the Benedicts, by the way. Known ’em forever. Decent place in Kent. –Don’t ask me any more, dear boy, for that’s all I know! You will have to ask Hortensia an you wish for further information: Cecil is a connexion of Yelden’s.”

    “Yel—Oh! You mean your sister, Mrs Yelden! I had forgot her name was Hortensia, too. One of my little Laidlaw cousins has the same name,” said Jack, very feebly indeed.

    “That right? Horrible, ain’t it?”

    “Well, yes, in the family they do call her—” Jack broke off.

    “Mm?”

    “I would not say that Hortensia was all that bad a name,” he said limply.

    “You don’t need to spare me feelings, Jack, every one of us loathes our own name!” said Dorian, laughing. “Mamma cherishes Romantick notions, y’see!”

    “Yes,” said Jack weakly. They seemed to have lost track entirely of the subject of Lady Benedict’s family, and somehow he did not quite like to reintroduce it. It might look... obvious, or something. He concentrated on the cards, unaware of the mocking glint in the sapient Dorian’s eye.

    “You did very right not to mention the Amorys’ enquiries, Dorian!” said his Papa later, clapping him on the back.

    Dorian pulled a face. “Mm. Thought it best not to. But poor Bobby Amory seems to be in a bad way. Could the gossip be right and she has turned him down, already?”

    “Well, dear boy, it might be best if she has done so. That branch of the family is certainly not known at the Portuguese Embassy, from Francis’s report.”

    “Mm. Though didn’t he write he knew a General Baldaya in the Portuguese army?”

    “Yes. He’s endeavouring to contact him on Richard Amory’s behalf.”

    “Mm.”

    “What is it?” spotted Mr Henry.

    Dorian wrinkled his nose. “Oh—probably nothing, Papa. Only, Jack let slip that Bobby said something derogatory about the family: bad blood.” He shrugged.

    “Oh, dear!” he said distressfully. “It can do the poor little thing no good to have the Beresfords get hold of that rumour, Dorian.”

    “No. Well, too late now, eh? But I don’t know that Jack will spread it,” he said thoughtfully. “Seemed mighty taken with the little sister.”

    “Indeed?” said Mr Henry, beaming. “That will be the dark girl who very much resembles Lady Benedict, I think. Horty tells me she saw them at the Abbey, and they are amazingly alike.”

    “Mm... Papa, should I warn Horty not to call, do you think? She’s—well, a bit lacking in judgement, y’know,” he said awkwardly.

    “I cannot see that calling will hurt our dearest Horty! Let her if she wishes, dear boy!”

    “Very well, if you think so, Papa. The family may be perfectly all right, of course.”

     Mr Henry, as was well known by all his close connexions, had an extremely optimistic temperament. He nodded happily and said: “Why, yes! After all, if their relative is a general, there can be very little wrong!”

    But Dorian silently decided he would advise Mrs Dorian not to leave cards at the former Onslow house in Lymmond Square, just yet.

    “Oh,” said Miss Carey, her face falling. “I see, Lady Amory. What a pity: you will miss him, for the festive season.”

    Miss Diddy was less guarded about the matter. “Oh! But Mr Bobby was promised to us for a little dinner!” she cried.

    “Er—it was not entirely definite, Diddy,” lied Miss Carey gallantly.

    “But—Oh,” said Miss Diddy with a guilty glance at Lady Amory. “No. Of course.”

    “At all events, dear General Lowell and Cousin Matilda will be there,” said Miss Carey.

    The Careys and Lowells were distant connexions: had Lady Amory bothered to think about it she would no doubt have recollected whether it was by marriage or by blood, but she did not bother. “Indeed? That will be very pleasant,” she said courteously.

    “Yes. And dearest Cousin Leith will play host: he and his wife are promised to us for the whole of the Christmas period!” said Miss Diddy with shining eyes.

    “That is the cousin who is a retired naval commander, I think?”  said the old lady kindly.

    Miss Diddy agreed and immediately told Lady Amory a lot that she did not wish to hear about this gentleman, his wife, who was the daughter of an earl (a fact of which Lady Amory was already aware, for even had Lady Jane not been a friend of Delphie Amory’s, the Carey sisters had mentioned it before), and their dear little baby. Since Lady Amory knew this Commander Carey to be somewhat over Bobby’s age, she was unable to refrain from contrasting bitterly his recently-wedded bliss with Bobby’s bachelor state. Crabbed bachelor state, to be precise.

    “I was sorry to hear that your younger son has gone back to London, Lady Amory,” said Mrs Laidlaw politely, silently praying it was the right thing to say, and that the dry old lady would not think she was prying. And also silently praying that she would not disgrace herself by spilling tea on herself or Lady Amory’s extraordinarily intricate floral Persian rug, or something of the sort. She never had, yet, but Lady Amory made her nervous.

    Lady Amory set down her cup with a sigh. “I shall miss him, of course. But he has had several invitations for the Christmas season.”

    Charlotte Laidlaw replied in tones of unguarded dismay: “Goodness! So he will not be back for Christmas?”

    “No.”

    Charlotte swallowed—not tea—and said: “Still, I expect you will be very merry and busy, what with the Colonel and his family! Shall you go to them, dear ma’am?”

    “Certainly; just for the day. And what are your own plans, my dear?”

    “Oh, we shall be very merry indeed! On Christmas Eve Jack and I are invited to the Henry Kernohans’ dance, which is always such fun, you know: and then on Christmas Day itself Aunt Sissy and Aunt Beresford, with Cousin Jack and May, of course, will come to us for Christmas dinner!”

    Lady Amory reflected silently it was just as well that Mrs Beresford had the constitution to support it. Aloud she merely said: “How old is May Beresford now, my dear?”

    “She is turned seventeen, and this is her last term at school. She is looking forward greatly to her come-out next year.”

    “I see. Well, it sounds as if you will all be very jolly indeed,” she said kindly. “I collect young Beresford does not think of opening up the country house, then?”

    “No. Well, it is not that he dislikes the country life, but to tell you the truth, I think he finds it desperately lonely, with his mamma in Bath and his sister away at school. Cumberland is extraordinarily beautiful, of course, but very isolated. And there are no neighbours at all for twenty miles. Cousin Jack spends the summers there quite frequently, and often the autumn as well, for the shooting and fishing, but one cannot blame him for not wishing to live there permanently.”

    The Amory estate was also quite isolated—though, true, Devon was not so far away as Cumberland. Lady Amory thought perhaps she could blame Mr Beresford, a little, but merely agreed politely: “No, of course.” And turned the conversation to the doings of Charlotte’s children. In whom she herself was not, of course, in the least interested. But it was hardly to be expected that Mrs Laidlaw should not be!

    Charlotte Laidlaw was not quite the conventional young matron that Lady Amory imagined her to be, for her awe of the old lady made her appear considerably more colourless and formal in her company than she was in her more natural state. Lady Amory believed that she had successfully hidden from young Mrs Laidlaw her chagrin at Bobby’s having decided against Bath for Christmas this year. But this was not so, and Charlotte said to her husband that evening: “Jack, dearest, I forgot to tell you: poor old Lady Amory is so disappointed that Mr Bobby is not staying on for Christmas.”

    “Oh? So he ain’t comin’ back? Cousin Jack was right,” said Jack Laidlaw.

    “About what?” returned his wife, eyeing him suspiciously.

    “Oh, about the Portuguese Widow! Said she had given him his marching orders.”

    Charlotte was aware that the gentlemen had begun using this frivolous appellation for Lady Benedict and was not best pleased with her husband for echoing it, but in this instance did not pick him up for it. “Oh. How did he know?”

    Mr Laidlaw shrugged. “Dare say Bobby let it out to him. Jack said he was as sour as a lemon.”

    She frowned. “Well, goodness gracious, Jack, poor Lady Benedict is barely five months into her mourning!”

    “Mm. Dare say she may have told him it was too soon, then.—Words to that effect!” he amended hurriedly as his wife opened her mouth.

    “Yes. –I was wondering, should I ask Major-General Cadwallader to our little dinner?”

    Mr Laidlaw gave her a dry look. “For Aunt Sissy, perchance?”

    Charlotte gulped. An earlier conjunction of their military neighbour and Jack’s Aunt Sissy Laidlaw had signally not worked. True, that evening had also featured Horrible in a red flannel spencer over a trailing nightshirt that should rightly have been at Harrow with Lukey. With a belly-ache. Aunt Sissy had been very sympathetic but the Major-General had been unable to hide his horror. The which had caused the maiden lady later to say crossly: “Silly man! Does he imagine we emerge from the schoolroom fully formed at eighteen?” Greatly to Jack Laidlaw’s enjoyment.

    “At all events,” he now said, à propos, “I think I can guarantee you that the party will not feature Hortensia in red flannel. Or at all.”

    “Er—no. Well, it was those gooseberries. What do you think?”

    A slow grin spread over Mr Laidlaw’s face. “Expose old Cadwallader to the Portuguese Widow right in our own drawing-room? I cannot wait!”

    “Jack!”

     Mr Laidlaw grinned unrepentantly

    Silently Mrs Chalfont held out her hand for the note that lay beside Cherry’s breakfast plate. Silently Cherry passed it to her.

    Mrs Chalfont read it over to herself. “Quite ineligible,” she pronounced.

    “Mamma, may I read it?” faltered Cherry.

    Cherry was now considered old enough to read the invitations her Mamma refused for her. Mrs Chalfont passed it to her without comment.

    “Oh! From Mrs Laidlaw!” she cried injudiciously. “Mamma, could I not—?”

    “Certainly not.” Mrs Chalfont rang the bell, apparently unaware that her daughter’s eyes had filled and her lips were quivering. She glanced with distaste at Lydia Daveney’s untouched place-setting. “Smith, pray clear,” she said when the parlourmaid entered.

    Cherry looked at her in dismay but did not dare to object that Mrs Daveney, who was not permitted by her sister, who owned the house, to breakfast in bed, would be most upset to find she had missed out on the meal. Nor did she dare to ask again if she might go to Mrs Laidlaw’s little family dinner. She went quietly into the morning room and bent her head over her work. Several tears fell silently onto the work, and several stitches went badly awry.

    “Well, damn the fellow!” said Richard Amory heatedly. “It is too bad!”

    “Perhaps he really did have several invitations, Richard.”

    “I have no doubt he did: he usually has several invitations for this time of year, but that does not excuse him, Delphie! Mamma quite expected him to stay on until Christmas! And was he not promised to the Miss Careys?”

    “Um... I’m really not sure,” lied Delphie. “Um, Richard, do you think Lady Benedict has—has ceased to encourage him?”

    “Given him his marching orders? One can only suppose so. –And another thing,” recollected Richard, frowning: “he will miss dear Cousin Betsy Urqhart!”

    “Oh, yes!” cried Delphie in dismay.

    Richard paced over to the window. “It is just like Bobby! ‘Heedless’ has ever been his middle name! He will do whatever suits himself without a thought of how others’ feelings may be affected!”

    Delphie sighed. After a moment she murmured: “I confess I do not like to think of him going off like that back to London, all alone and unhappy.”

    Richard of course did not like to think of it, either, and this was partly, as his wife was aware, what was upsetting him. “Quite,” he said tightly.

    She sighed again. “I was planning to give Cherry that dark red dress of mine. It is a wonderful fabric, but the colour is too deep for me.”

    “Er—darling, I don’t think her mother would ever let her accept.”

    “No, well, she could wear it here!” she said crossly.

    Richard smiled a little. “I see. Opposite Bobby at our dining-table?”

    “Yes,” said Delphie simply. “I am so disappointed that he has gone.”

    “Never mind, darling. Come along, open your letters!” he encouraged her.

    “These are just local notes,” said Delphie, nevertheless starting to open them, as  Richard came and sat beside her on the sofa.

    “Oh! I knew it!” she cried angrily.

    “What, my darling?”

    Delphie was very flushed and upset. “It is from Mrs Chalfont—if you ask me, Richard, she does not even consult the poor girl over her invitations—refusing to allow Cherry to spend some time with us at the New Year!”

    Richard sighed. “We knew there was little hope she would permit it, my love.”

    Scowling, Delphie crumpled the note up fiercely, as if it were Mrs Chalfont herself she was crumpling. She reached for another. “Oh, bother!”

    “Not another disappointment?”

    “Mr Ninian Dalrymple’s apologies, but he cannot make it this evening.”

    “Which of ’em is it this time?” he said resignedly.

    “Not the pug-dogs: poor Mr Ninian has a bad cold.”

    “Oh. Well, never mind, my love: we shall have to put up with uneven numbers.”

    “If that hothouse of yours was working—do not tell me that is the wrong expression, I know what I mean!—if it was, I might send him some choice blooms!”

    “Aye. Well, there are some chrysanthemums in the garden, send him some of those.”

    “Scraggy,” said Delphie, opening another note. “Mrs Grainger. I suppose we shall have to go.”

    “Not at all: we shall succumb jointly to Mr Ninian’s cold! –Go on.”

    Choking slightly, his wife continued opening her correspondence. Richard continued to make little jokes as she did so. He was not unaware, however, that she was really very disappointed, both over her failure to get any further with Mrs Chalfont on the subject of Cherry’s spending time with them, and over Bobby’s defection.

    He himself, on reflection, was no longer so displeased about the latter: if Bobby had decided he-was getting nowhere with Nancy Jeffreys’s daughter, then thank God for it!

    “So your mamma has a bad cold?” said Miss Carey in a voice that sounded as if it was doing its best to be sympathetic.

    Cherry nodded. “Yes. And Aunt Lydia also.”

    The Miss Careys avoided each other’s eyes: it certainly explained why Cherry had been able to accept the invitation to take tea.

    “They claim it is Mr Ninian Dalrymple’s cold,” Cherry then said, as Miss Diddy passed her a cup.

    “Oh? But I think they did not visit, when he had it?” murmured Miss Carey. –Miss Diddy looked at her with a certain awe: she herself had been thinking just that, but she knew she would never have been able to produce such a remark in that—that politely unaware tone! Sometimes you had to admire Selina!

    “No,” agreed Cherry innocently. “But I did, you see, and they claim that I gave it them.”

    “But my dear, you have not had it!” cried Miss Diddy.

    “No,” said Cherry simply.

    “Then—surely...?” she faltered, looking weakly at her sister.

    Miss Carey was unmoved. “I suppose all things are possible,” she said calmly. “Now, tell me, my dear: how is your new little niece? And how soon may we visit dear Mrs Meredith?”

    “Little Cherry is very well, and so is dear June, and you must visit as soon as you please!” replied Cherry, beaming. “And the christening is this coming Saturday, in the Abbey, and I shall be godmother!”

    “And is Dean Witherspoon to do it?” asked Miss Carey.

    Cherry nodded. “Yes. Mamma is not best pleased, for she wished for the Bishop of Bath and Wells instead. She said that she was sure a retired clergyman was not entitled to do it, and went to consult the Rector—it was a very cold day, and I think that that is how she caught her cold, actually. Only I am afraid he said that that makes no difference, he is still an ordained clergyman. And of course Dr Witherspoon is June’s uncle, so, um…”

    Miss Diddy avoided Selina’s eye.

    “Naturally he would wish to do it,” agreed Miss Carey calmly. “We shall call on dear Mrs Meredith tomorrow, then, shall we, Diddy?”

    Miss Diddy jumped. “Yes, of course, dear,” she said lamely.

    Miss Carey then turned the conversation to the coming festive season, and Miss Diddy immediately joined in, telling Cherry a great deal about Commander Carey and his lovely wife and their baby, most of which she had told her before. However, Cherry went so little into company that she listened eagerly to all of it.

    “And will Mr and Mrs Meredith come to you for Christmas?” Miss Diddy then asked kindly.

    “Um—well, no,” said Cherry faintly. “Not this year.”

    “They will no doubt wish for a quiet Christmas at home,” said Miss Carey quickly.

    “Um—well, no. I mean, of course Merry said that June must take care not to have too much excitement, but—um—they are to go to the Witherspoons this year,” gulped Cherry. “It—is their turn, you see, for Merry and June came to us last year.”

    “Of course they did!” agreed Miss Diddy, nodding the grey and fawn curls and the wisp of lace cap with its profusion of violet bows very hard.

    “Yes. And Mrs Witherspoon came in person to bring Mamma a very kind invitation,” faltered Cherry, “but—”

    “Well, how pleasant for you, my dear!” cried Miss Diddy bracingly.

    To the sisters’ horror, at this Cherry burst into torrents of sobs, choking: “No! She will not luh-let us! And I so wuh-wanted to!”

    It took them some time to get her calmed down with her eyes bathed, and resettled with a fresh cup of tea.

    “I could kill that woman!” said Selina Carey fiercely as the front door closed behind their guest.

    Miss Diddy was at the window, waving her lace-edged handkerchief. “And I!” she said vigorously. Waving the handkerchief vigorously.

    “And of course it was not only her refusal to let Cherry accept the Witherspoons’ Christmas invitation which was upsetting her!”

    Miss Diddy thought that that was quite enough. “Was it not, my love?”

    Miss Carey scowled. “No. I saw Mrs Colonel Amory yesterday in the town and she tells me that they wished to have Cherry come to them for the New Year, and her mother turned them down flat. And Charlotte Laidlaw mentioned she will not allow her to dine with them.”

    “Ye-es... Oh! You mean a specific occasion, Selina?”

    “Yes. She said that she had asked Cherry for early next week, just to a very small family dinner, but that Mrs Chalfont had refused for her.”

    “Oh!” cried Miss Diddy crossly. “It is monstrous! If only there was something we could do about it, Selina!”

    “Mm. Suggest something,” said Miss Carey drily. “—And do, I beg you, come away from the curtains.”

    “Well,” said Miss Diddy, sitting down with a sigh, “at least we managed to get some tea into the poor little thing.”

    “Some fluid, yes. But in case it escaped your notice,” said Miss Carey on a grim note, ringing the bell, “she merely crumbled a slice of cake.”

    “She will waste away!” cried the plump Miss Diddy distressfully.

    “Very like,” said Miss Carey. “—Good, there you are, Saunders. Pray alert Cook to the fact that Miss Diddy and I are to visit with Mrs Meredith Chalfont tomorrow, and ask her to prepare a little something that would be suitable for a new mother.”

    “And portable,” put in Miss Diddy.

    The parlourmaid bobbed politely. “Suitable for a new mother, and portable. Very good, ma’am. Er—Cook was wondering, Miss Carey, ma’am, how is Miss Cherry?”

    This meant that both Cook and Saunders, and no doubt the upstairs maid and the tween maid as well, and even the scullery maid, were wondering.

    Calmly Miss Carey replied: “Quite recovered. The fresh pot of tea did her good.”

    “Yes, ma’am; thank you, ma’am. Cook was saying as how she do have an excellent tonic, Miss Carey.”

    “That is very thoughtful of Cook,” said Miss Carey evenly, “but I do not expect that Mrs Chalfont would care for us to be offering her daughter tonics.”

    “No, Miss Carey,” she said glumly, bobbing again and going out.

    “There, you see?” cried Miss Diddy. “Even Saunders and Cook have noticed! The poor girl is as pale as a shadow!”

    Miss Carey forbore to say as pale as a shadow plus into the bargain crying loudly all over their sitting-room. “Yes. I have made up my mind. There is something we can do. After Christmas I shall speak to Meredith Chalfont.”

    Miss Diddy goggled at her.

    “Or do you imagine that the thing may be resolved by comfortable speculation in our own sitting-room?”

    “Selina!”

    “Well?”

    “No, of course, but... But will he help?” she quavered.

    Miss Carey shrugged. “I have no notion. However, at least he had the—er—intestinal fortitude to get himself married and get away from the woman.”

    “Yes,” she said hopefully. “That is very true.”

    “And I dare say that it is possible that living with her brother and his wife may not appear to Cherry in the light of an imposition. We shall see.”

    “Yes... Selina, it will create such bad blood between the families,” she quavered.

    Miss Carey snorted.

    “Well, I do not care, either!” said Miss Diddy bravely.

    “No. And in any case, can it be worse than the bad blood already created by Mrs Witherspoon’s having dared to invite the Chalfonts to Christmas dinner at her house?” Miss Carey rose. “I am going for a good stiff walk.”

    For once Miss Diddy did not say: “In this wind?” Or: “But it is getting dark already!” Or: “But Selina, the day is too cold!” Though today any one of these points would have been valid. She merely said sadly: “Yes, my love. You do that.”