No Smoke Without--

5

No Smoke Without—

    Jack Laidlaw had ridden out that day to some property he owned a little way out of the town and, the day being overcast in any case, it was already quite dark when he returned to Lymmond Square. He came into the sitting-room smiling, and dropped a kiss on his wife’s forehead. Charlotte waited for him to remark on smell of burning that pervaded the square, but he did not.

    “Er—Jack, dearest—”

    “What have they done now?” he groaned.

    “Um, well, they did not mean to be naughty. Um... Horrible and Georgey discovered that the Benedict children—well, of course they are not all Benedicts, and to tell you the truth I have not quite worked out who has which surname—”

    “Charlotte, for God’s sake, don’t prolong the agony! If I have to go and grovel humbly to Lady Benedict, tell me and let me get it over with! God knows I should be able to do it in me sleep, by now: I have grovelled humbly to every other resident of the square! –Most of ’em several times, yes,” he said as she opened her mouth.

    “Er—yes. I’m sorry, my love. Um, Horrible and Georgey discovered that the Benedict children had missed out on Guy Fawkes Day, so they—um—”

    “My God! Which Benedict brat has been horribly injured?” said Mr Laidlaw in horror.

    “No such thing!”

    “Thank God!” he said, sagging. “Er—what such thing, then?”

    Charlotte swallowed. “Well, dearest, the Benedicts had a great collection of packing cases and so forth in their cellars, that they had brought their furniture in. It—it made a—a great conflagration...”

    Mr Laidlaw rushed to the window and peered. Lymmond Square did not provide much illumination, but— “The Benedict house is still standing. And before you say anything, yes, I can see the remains of a great conflagration in the gard— By God, they’ve burnt the ash tree down!” he shouted.

    “Ye—well, not burnt it down, entirely, Jack. Or it must have struck your eye when you came past, even though it is such a nasty damp, dark evening,” said Charlotte, ringing for Adam Ames, “and I am sure you could do with a glass of mulled wine to warm you up.”

    “Charlotte, a bath of mulled wine would not make me feel any better about this matter! Are the children all right?”

    “Yes, of course. And it was only Horrible and Georgey, the boys were at the Yattersbys’, and Nobby had gone shopping with Cherry Chalfont. –Good, there you are, Adam,” she said, smiling at him. “Please could you bring some mulled wine for Mr Laidlaw?”

    “Yes, madam. Er—Miss Fairburn sends to convey her apologies, but she’s a-packin’, madam,” he said weakly.

    “That DOES IT!” shouted Mr Laidlaw furiously. “Another governess lost! –And where in God’s name was the woman, when Horrible and Georgey lit the conflagration?” he demanded furiously of his wife.

    “Er—that is all thank you, Adam. She was laid down with the migraine, my love. One cannot blame her, it is not a thing that one can... help,” she faltered.

    “I shall ride out to the Richard Amorys’ first thing tomorrow and get the name of that dame school!” he said furiously.

    Mr Laidlaw’s own sisters had been educated at home, which was apparently why he thought it was the thing. Charlotte had been endeavouring to represent to him for some time that with their monsters, the thing did not work. She sagged where she sat. “Yes, my love. Or perhaps Cherry could tell you.”

    “Charlotte,” he said wildly: “do you seriously imagine that after my damned brats have set fire to the square’s garden, I am going to go over to the Chalfont hag’s house voluntarily?”

    “Oh. No,” she said weakly.

    “No!” said Jack Laidlaw with satisfaction. He turned back to the window. There was a short silence.

    “I wish I had seen it,” he said wistfully.

    Mrs Laidlaw gulped. “Ye— Um—well, the firemen came with their great barrel: it was— But I am afraid we are liable for the damage. And I missed most of it, I was laid down with Baby Prue, taking a little nap,” she said on a regretful note.

    Mr Laidlaw turned from the window and frankly grinned. “Hard luck, old girl! –No, but it is the last straw. Those brats must be sent to a good strict school.”

    “Yes, Jack,” said Charlotte obediently. “Of course.”

    Adam Ames coming in at that moment with a jug and a glass, there was a slight pause in the conversation.

    After Mr Laidlaw had tried and failed to force more than “just a sip” on his wife, he sat back and said with a deep sigh: “So it was just Horrible and Georgey, eh?”

    “Yes. And the two little Benedict girls. Little Mina and Amrita.”

    “Oh, aye. Skinny little scraps. Almost as ugly as our lot, ain’t they?”

    “Jack!”

    Mr Laidlaw grinned unrepentantly.

    Charlotte sighed. “Aunt Beresford thinks mashed strawberries... Oh, well. But I was going to say, darling, Lady Benedict brought them home in person. And you should have seen her furs, Jack!”

    “Mm,” he said weakly, rather staggered that it was not “You should have seen how angry she was, Jack.”

    “Sables,” said Charlotte deeply, savouring the word round her tongue.

    “Uh—aye. Dare say she feels the cold. Was she furious?”

    “What? Oh, good gracious, no! I think she has the sunniest nature, Jack! She said that her sisters and brothers were used to the Indian festivals, of which there are very many, all entailing great celebrations in the street, and no doubt little Amrita had been missing them. And that none of the children could have known they had built the bonfire too big. She offered to pay for the damage and for the firemen’s having to be called out, but of course I said no such thing!”

    “Of course, my love. Well, I shall definitely go and grovel to her, in that case.”  Mr Laidlaw finished his wine and said with a grin: “Well, now! Have ’em down here, or see ’em up there?”

    “Have them down, Jack, it is so much more terrifying!” said Mrs Laidlaw, laughing.

    Mr Laidlaw concurring, the miscreants were Sent For.

    Lady Benedict’s front door was opened by a tall, black-bearded man in a dark red turban. He was wearing some sort of white cotton suit, but most of that was covered by a heavy sleeveless tunic in coarse greyish-brown woollen homespun. Jack Laidlaw was not unprepared for something of the sort; nevertheless it was in a weak voice that he said: “Good morning. My name is Laidlaw. I wonder if—”

    “Ah! Good morning, sahib!” said the fellow, putting his hands together and bowing very low, the meanwhile smiling as if Jack had been his long-lost brother.

    “Er—I wonder if I may see Lady Benedict? Er—it is to do with yesterday’s fire.”

    “Ah! Good morning, sahib!” –More bowing and smiling.

    Mr Laidlaw eyed him uneasily.

    “‘Please to step in, sahib!’” prompted a voice from the hinterland in a violent hiss. Mr Laidlaw jumped.

    “Ah! Please to step in, sahib!” –Yet more bowing and smiling.

    Mr Laidlaw waited for the fellow to step aside to let him in, but nothing happened. Dubiously he took off his hat. “Er—may I?”

    The voice from the hinterland hissed something more, this time in a language Jack did not recognize, and to his relief the man stood aside, again bowing and smiling, and let him in.

    “‘Please to wait, sahib!’” prompted the voice from the hinterland. Mr Laidlaw could not see where the Devil it was coming from. And to his disappointment, the front hall looked just like anybody’s. Well, it was rather dark, but then as far as he could recall, it always had been, in old Lord Onslow’s day.

    “Please to wait, sahib,” agreed the Indian footman.

    Possibly he actually understood this last prompt, for he then bowed and took himself off. Mr Laidlaw looked round carefully, but no other person appeared. And there was nowhere to hide. Unless... He edged towards the long-case clock. There could certainly be no-one inside it, for as he neared it, it struck the quarter. And The Great Mendoza had more than demonstrated that with a body in its case, a long-case clock did not strike. Mr Laidlaw took another cautious step.

    “Hullo!” he said, smiling. A small girl was flattened against the wall in the lee of the big clock.

    “Hullo,” she squeaked, in a tiny little voice.

    Her hair was very black and in two skinny braids over her skinny shoulders, and Jack Laidlaw, who had considerable experience in the field, perceived immediately that the braids were of different lengths and slowed distinct signs of scorching at the tip. As well, there was a nasty red welt on her forehead, but that might have been caused by almost anything.

    “I think you must be Amrita?” he said kindly.

    “Yes!” she squeaked.

    “I am Horrible’s and Georgey’s Papa,” he said cautiously.

    Amrita nodded violently. “Mr Laidlaw.”

    “Yes.”

    “Georgey said you would be beatin’ the livin’ daylights out of us!” she squeaked.

    It was not altogether apparent whether she regarded this fate more with dread or anticipation. “Er—no, I shall certainly not do that, Amrita. I am here merely to tell your—” Damn, what relation was this one? “Um—to tell Lady Benedict that I am sorry that Horrible and Georgey lit the fire.”

    “Hugo deed not beat us livin’ daylights!” she squeaked.

    “Er—I am sure—”

    “Uncle John deed not beat us livin’ daylights neither!”

    “Pooh, you cannot even remember your Uncle John!” said a scornful voice from behind Jack. He duly jumped, and turned round.

    “I can!” squeaked Amrita crossly.

    A skinny little fair girl came forward. “She can’t, Mr Laidlaw. Did Ranjit let you in?”

    “It was an Indian servant,” he said limply.

    “Yes. –Amrita, did you tell him to tell Nan that Mr Laidlaw is here?”

    “No. He went.”

    The fair child—Jack had forgotten her name and he felt that this did not improve matters—sighed loudly. “You know what he is, he will leave Mr Laidlaw here forever!”

    “Men does not see ladies een house.”

    “That is only in INDIA!” shouted the fair girl. “—She keeps forgetting,” she added.

    “Er—mm. Might I see Lady Benedict? Perhaps you would take her a message.”

    “Yes, I will. –Come ON!” she said loudly, seizing Amrita’s hand. Mr Laidlaw watched limply as they both disappeared.

    He waited with waning hopes of anything’s happening. Eventually, however, a little wrinkled, grey-haired Indian woman in white draperies under a heavy woollen shawl came silently into the hall with a curious sidling motion. She bowed with the prayer-like action the manservant had used and beckoned Jack forward. He followed her uncertainly. It was all beginning to seem like some fantasy from the nastier sort of fairy tale: at any moment he might find himself facing a hungry ogre with a blood-red eye and a knife in his hand!

    The little old woman led him upstairs.

    “In here?” he said uncertainly as she opened a door a crack and gestured him forward. She pulled her draperies further over her face, bowing very low, and motioned him again to go in. In his own house the corresponding door was that of an upstairs sitting-room where Charlotte often sat in the afternoons, but— Jack took a deep breath and went in.

    It was, indeed, a small sitting-room. A fire was crackling merrily in the grate, and the room was furnished in the main quite conventionally, but there all resemblance to Charlotte Laidlaw’s sitting-room ended. Before the fire several large rugs were spread, Jack thought in overlapping layers, though this was a little hard to see for the cushions, persons and trays which covered them. Two pretty, dark young women and one fair girl, all in draperies in a style similar to the servant woman’s, but of heavy, rich silks, were seated on cushions at floor level, plus also several small children. After a dazed moment Jack’s eyes ceased to blur and he perceived that two of the children were the little girls he had met in the hall. There was also a little boy of perhaps three or four years of age, dressed in the most miraculous of beaded silk jackets, and a baby who was crawling. In fact, crawling towards the fire as he goggled at the scene, but one of the draped young women put out a hand and restrained it.

    “Good morning, Mr Laidlaw!” she said with a little gurgling laugh. “Do come een, won’t you? I’m Nan Benedict. I’m afraid we’re having an Indian day, but I thought you would like to come straight up, no? Eef eet ees about the bonfire yesterday?”

    “Guy Fawkes Day,” said the little dark girl.

    “Yes: hush,” she said, putting an arm around her.

    The little fair girl took a sweetmeat from one of the gleaming brass trays before them and said: “It wasn’t, really.”

    “No, of course. Hush, Mina, darling,” said Lady Benedict. “Sit een a chair eef you would like, Mr Laidlaw.”

    “Or on a cushion,” said the older fair girl. Jack could now see she was about sixteen or seventeen. She immediately went very red and looked away.

    “I should love to sit on a cushion, if I may?” he said with a smile.

    “Yes: please do. Only, Europeans sometimes do not know what to do weeth their legs,” said Lady Benedict, with a twinkle.

    “I’ll manage!” He sat down on a silken cushion. –It was, literally. Pale blues and pinks, of a most intricate design.

    “Let me introduce you,” said Lady Benedict, smiling. “Thees ees my sister, Daphne Baldaya, and my step-daughter, Susan Benedict. And I theenk you have already met Mina and Amrita, no?

    “Yes, in the hall.” He smiled at the two little girls, and added: “And who are these?”

    “Oh!” said Lady Benedict with a soft laugh. “Thees ees my darling Johnny: say hullo to the gentleman, Johnny! Can you say hullo?”

    The little boy looked at Jack with solemn grey-blue eyes, but did not speak.

    “He can talk quite well, really,” said Mina helpfully. “He’s four.”

    “Four?” said Jack Laidlaw, smiling very much. “Well! You are quite a big boy, then, Johnny!”

    “I’m a big boy!” he said pleasedly, smiling. Jack was quite jolted: the smile was so exactly like his mother’s.

    “Eendeed!” said Lady Benedict with her little gurgle of laughter. “And thees ees our Rosebud, Mr Laidlaw. She ees vairy nearly one year old.”

    Miss Daphne obligingly picked her up and held her out, cooing: “See the gentleman, Rosebud—yes? Say hullo to the gentleman!”

    “She does not know ‘hullo’!” hissed the helpful Mina.

    “No,” he murmured, smiling. “Hullo, Rosebud!” he said softly, very gently tickling her chin. “Aren’t you a pretty girl!”

    “She is our sister,” said Mina firmly.

    “Yes. Half-sister,” murmured Susan Benedict, blushing again.

    “I see!” said Jack, in a rather more enlightened tone than he had meant.

    “Yes. She ees Rosebud Benedict,” agreed her mamma.

    “Rose Nancy Daphne Domenica Benedict,” recited little Amrita.

    “Those are her full names? How very pretty,” said Jack kindly.

    “She may go to you, Mr Laidlaw, eef you like?” proposed Daphne.

    “My love, gentlemen do not always—” began Lady Benedict.

    Jack Laidlaw, the father of nine, laughed and held out his arms. “This gentleman does! She is not very much older than our little Prue,” he said to her mamma. Miss Daphne deposited her in his arms and he hugged her gently, saying: “Hullo, Rosebud! There now! Aren’t you a good girl?” To his relief she cooed happily. At the same age both Georgey and Horrible had been apt to turn purple and scream like banshees if handed to a stranger. Or to Aunt Beresford.

    He became aware of the approving smiles of the whole company. In fact little Amrita then said: “Men does not eat with ladies. But you may!” She beamed and offered him a tray of sweetmeats.

    “She’s mixed up again,” explained Mina with a loud groan. “Men do in England!” she hissed at Amrita.

    Jack held the baby against his shoulder with one hand and took a sweetmeat with the other. Rosebud’s rosebud mouth immediately opened. “Oops!” he said with a laugh, glancing at her mother.

    “She may not have a coconut one,” she said placidly. “But she ees allowed the plain ones.”

    None of them looked plain to Jack: there were different ones on each tray, but this one held a selection of diamond and triangle shapes, white, pink or pale green. Very pretty, in especial as around the rim of the tray and scattered in amongst the pastel sweetmeats there was a selection of coloured petals. –Petals? At this season? Good God: they must have sacrificed some hot-house blooms to decorate their tray!

    “He does not know barfees, Nan!” said Daphne with a giggle. “The white ones are all coconut, Mr Laidlaw,” she said, dimpling, “but the coloured ones are plain barfees.”

    “She likes pinks,” said Amrita helpfully, so Jack chose a small pink one and popped it into the rosebud mouth.

    “She ees now your slave forever!” said her mother, laughing.

    Jack had the coconut sweetmeat in his mouth, so he could only nod.

    “Do you like eet?” she asked.

    “Everyone likes barfees!” said Mina scornfully.

    Jack swallowed and smiled. “Indeed. Everyone likes barfees.”

    “Good. Try a pink one. Mr Laidlaw. Today Sita Ayah has flavoured those ones weeth water of roses.”

    “Rosewater,” corrected Mina.

    “Rosebud!” piped a little voice from Jack’s shoulder.

    “Oh!” gasped her mamma.

    “She said it!” cried Daphne.

    “Huzza!” cried Mina and Amrita.

    “Yes: Rosebud! Clever girl, darling, clever girl! Your name ees Rosebud!” her mamma then cooed, smiling very much. To Jack she explained: “She hardly ever says eet, and never een company.”

    “I’m flattered, then. –Clever girl: your name is Rosebud, isn’t it?” he said to her.

    Rosebud opened her mouth suggestively.

    “Oh, dear!” he said, with a comical grimace.

    “She ees too young, I theenk, to have learned eet: do we conclude that that sort of blackmail ees an innate trait of the female of the human species?” asked her mother with a twinkle.

    Jack had thought she was going to say Rosebud was too young to have learned her name. His jaw sagged. Lady Benedict was evidently as bright as she was pretty. And she was very pretty indeed.

    She looked at him with her head cocked a little to one side and he managed to say: “Yes; obviously innate. –I have always wondered!” he owned, recovering himself.

    “Of course!” She laughed and took a pale green barfee.

    “Good gracious!” said Charlotte quite some time later, when he had returned to his own house. Sated. “I shall not offer you a meal, in that case.”

    “No! –Every time a tray was emptied a servant would bring another.”

    “Of what?” demanded Charlotte eagerly.

    “Um... Well, I cannot remember the names. And I confess I could not but stare, to see them all eating them with their fingers!”

    “Not with spoons?”

    “Not the most of it, no. There were some little... saucers, I suppose, of—um—paste-like substances, for which they had spoons. According to little Mina one of them was composed of mashed sultanas, and one of—now, you may believe this or not, my love!” he said with a laugh: “but it was certainly bright orange: carrot!”

    “A sweetmeat, Jack?”

    “Yes! It was delicious!”

    “Ugh!” cried Charlotte.

    Jack smiled. “After a little a tray of tea was brought in, and I was jolly glad to take it without sugar, after all that sweetness! And then I thought that was it, you know; only a little later more trays were brought, and these contained little hot savouries. They were wonderful, too. Not like anything I have ever tasted before. In the main little... well, folded pastries, I suppose you would say.”

    “Folded pastries of what, my love? Meat?”

    “Er... it was so spicy and tasty that I am not altogether sure! But no, I think there was no meat. Vegetables and... I cannot say,” he said, shaking his head. “Some little round ones were fried, I think, with potato inside them, but the flavour a sort of aromatic mixture of sweet and savoury... Possibly with aniseed? No, I cannot describe them,” he said with a sigh. “But they were wonderful. –Oh, but I must warn you, if ever she offers you a pickle, my love, refuse!” He laughed ruefully.

    “Oh?”

    “It purported to be a pickle of lemons. And I dare say it might have been. But the Lord knows what was in it: gunpowder, is my guess!”

    “Darling, did it burn you?”

    “Did it! I drank a gallon of water after it, and my mouth burned for a good twenty minutes! –Oh, talking of burning,” he said with a sheepish look, “she insists on paying half.”

    “Jack!”

    “Well, according to her, her girls would not have been very far behind Horrible and Georgey in any proposal to get up to mischief.”

    “Darling, they appear the meekest little things,” she said dubiously.

    “What: when they are out walking with their nurses, holding their hands? I dare say!” he said with a laugh. “Even Horrible appears meek when she’s sittin’ up like Jacky to take tea with Aunt Beresford!”

    “Well, yes,” said Charlotte with a conscious smile. “But you should not have let her, my love, for Horrible made it clear who was the ringleader in this instance.”

    “I could not keep on insisting. Anyway, never mind that, I have not told you about their apparel!”

    “Go on, then,” she said, smiling tolerantly.

    Jack proceeded to wipe it off her face.

    “It all sounds so exotic,” Charlotte concluded weakly.

    “Most certainly! I gather they quite often live like that at home.”

    “I have never chanced upon it,” she said wistfully. “And I have called several times.”

    “No, well, possibly Lady Benedict would rush into her European dress to receive a lady.”

    Charlotte looked indignant.

    Jack smiled. “She said she thought it best to ask me right up, in the case it was about the fire.”

    Charlotte did not look much mollified.

    He smiled again. “I gather I was entirely privileged. Men are not usually admitted to these cosy, intimate scenes in an Indian household.”

    “She is not Indian, but Portuguese!”

    “Darling, don’t be jealous!” he said with a laugh. “She has promised to invite you for an Indian morning, for of course I said how much you would enjoy such a thing! And men will be absolutely excluded, so you will be able to get the exact feel of the hareem!”

    Charlotte went rather pink and said unconvincingly: “Oh, pooh.” So Jack perceived immediately he had guessed aright, and that was what she had been thinking.

    General Lowell accepted a large brandy with some relief, wishing, though he knew the brandy at least would be decent, that he had never accepted Major-General Cadwallader’s invitation to dine. It was not that the fare was Spartan, exactly—though the old general knew that when Cadwallader was alone, it certainly would be: the man appeared actually to enjoy suffering—but it was always badly cooked. Either over- or underdone. And in the case of large roasts, frequently both. There had been fish, this time, which had been singed round the edges, and a leg of mutton, which had been bright pink inside, and—well, it had all been largely inedible. Added to which the fellow was mad on roast onions, he served roast onions at every meal, at least he had at every meal of which he had ever invited General Lowell to partake, and while a man could fancy a roast onion occasionally, he did not wish to be faced with ’em each time he dined with a fellow! And this time the roast onions had been black on the outside and raw on the inside, to boot. As had the apple pie. General Lowell had not hitherto thought it possible to ruin a dish as simple as apple pie.

    “So Bobby Amory has pushed off back to town, eh?” he said.

    “Er—so I believe,” replied Major-General Cadwallader stiffly. Wishing that he had not had to ask him. Cook never performed very well, but she went almost entirely to pieces when he had a guest. But he had had to return the General’s dinner, of course. Fortunately, as he had no hostess, Miss Lowell had not had to be asked.

    The General drank brandy ruminatively. “Mm. Saw young Jack Beresford at the Pump Room t’other day.”

    “Oh?” said Major-General Cadwallader politely.

    The old man sniffed. “Makin’ sheep’s eyes at the Portuguese Widow again. Said to him, does your Ma know what you’re about, young feller-me-lad?”

    Major-General Cadwallader winced. Jack Beresford was not that young.

    “Aye...” said General Lowell slowly. “Know Francis Kernohan, do you?”

    The Major-General jumped slightly, though he was not unused to the old man’s abrupt changes of topic. “Only a very little.”

    “Mm.” He appeared to lapse into thought. Major-General Cadwallader eyed him uneasily, hoping he would not drop off, as had happened on a previous occasion. But he had not, surely, drunk nearly enough for that tonight? Only two glasses of Madeira before dinner, half a bottle of claret and the better part of a bottle of burgundy with dinner, and now the brandy. The old man habitually drank far more. The which explained the gout he was prone to, no doubt. Major-General Cadwallader was a naturally abstemious man: he had had but a small glass of Madeira, and one glass each of the claret and burgundy, in order to be hospitable. And was now making a small brandy last.

    After quite some time the old man said: “Noticed any comings and goings at the old Onslow house, have you?”

    “Not particularly.” He hesitated. “I did see Jack Beresford calling once, if that is what you are endeavouring to ascertain.”

    General Lowell pursed up his mouth and sniffed, shaking his head slowly.

    Major-General Cadwallader thought that that was it, then, but the old man then added: “No other gentleman callers, anythin’ of that sort—hey?” He cocked an eyebrow at him.

    “Certainly not, and I am surprised you should ask it, Lowell,” he replied stiffly.

    “Oh, pooh! Two bachelor-men together, y’know!”

    This sort of remark was not unusually the preface to one of his filthy stories and his host eyed him uneasily.

    “Come on, Cadwallader!”

    “I have not noticed anything at all. Mr Jack Laidlaw called after the fire.”

    “Hah! Wish I had seen it!”

    “It was quite a blaze,” the Major-General admitted with a feeble smile.

    “Aye!” he said, chuckling, and shaking all over his substantial person. “Aye! I’ll be bound!”

    “As I do not spend my days lurking behind my parlour curtains I am afraid I have nothing else to report. –Oh: the boy has bought a new horse,” he said on an acid note.

    “Know that. Showy black. Had it off Ferdy Sotheby. Colonel Sotheby was sayin’ Ferdy has asked the fellow out to Ainsways for a bit of huntin’. Well—humbug country, y’know. Dare say they might try coursin’ a hare or somethin’ of the sort, Sotheby says it is not bad country for hares.”

    “So I have heard.”

    The General sniffed. “Aye. –How’s the ankle?”

    This was not the non sequitur it appeared to be: Major-General Cadwallader was aware that the old man knew the ankle gave him a lot of trouble when he rode, and effectively prevented his hunting at all. “The same, I thank you. It rarely troubles me,” he said stiffly.

    “You’re a damned liar, Cadwallader,” he replied genially. “But none the worse for all that!”

    “Was that a compliment?” returned the Major-General acidly.

    General Lowell just put a finger to his bulbous nose—Major General Cadwallader repressed a wince: it was one of the old man’s least likeable gestures—and drank brandy.

    “Er—well, I am glad the boy is making friends, Lowell,” he said feebly.

    “Are you, indeed?” returned General Lowell with a hard look.

    “Well—well, yes. They appear to have no acquaintance in Bath,” he said feebly. “Ferdy Sotheby is a decent young man, and Sir Leonard Sotheby will no doubt make any friend of his nephew’s most welcome at Ainsways.”

    “No doubt.”

    “For God’s sake, Lowell! If you are trying to say something, spit it out! And if you are just being mysterious for the sake of it, you may stop: this ain’t the damned Pump Room!”

    “Don’t know that I am tryin’ to say something. Only— Was you abroad in 1800?”

    “I was stationed in England for a while that year. Why?”

    “Did not get up to town, I suppose? Few dances, all that? Opera, maybe?”

    “Yes—well, I got up to town. And I did go to the opera—I and all the dandies, yes. Look, Lowell, what is all this?”

    The General nodded slowly, looking at the brandy bottle. His host passed it to him. He poured generously for himself, looked into the glass thoughtfully, sighed, drank, said: “Ah,” and looked into it thoughtfully again. Finally he said: “Bump into Bobby Amory in town, did you?”

    “What? I have not been up to town for this age— Stay, you mean in the year Dot, I collect?” he said acidly.

    General Lowell replied simply: “Yes.”

    Major-General Cadwallader goggled at him.

    “Did you see Bobby Amory in town in the year 1800?” he said impatiently.

    “I don’t think I even knew him, back then!”

    “You was at Richard’s wedding, I do remember that.”

    Major-General Cadwallader stared at him.

    “Not to the pretty little creature he’s got now! –Cuddly armful, ain’t she?” he noted by the way. “No: his first wedding.”

    “What, to Elizabeth Jeffreys? Yes, I was there, I was home on furlough. –And that was not yesterday, only it weren’t the year Dot, neither,” he muttered.

    “Thought you was, aye.”

    “I have known Richard Amory for years. What is this all about—if anything?”

    General Lowell rubbed his expanse of chins. “Oh—nothing.”

    “NOTHING?” shouted Major-General Cadwallader.

    “Well, if you cannot remember scarcely a thing about the year 1800, then yes: nothing. Where did you spend that summer?” he suddenly demanded.

    “Largely, on a troop ship. Spewing my heart out.”

    “Oh.”

    Major-General Cadwallader stared hard at him. “I think I begin to get your drift,” he said slowly. “The year 1800... Wait: the Baldaya boy... Is it something about his father?”

    “No,” said the General blandly.

    A frown gathered on Major-General Cadwallader’s stern brow. “Great God almighty! Not the boy’s father, his sister’s!”

    “Hey?”

    “Lowell,” said the Major-General in a shaking voice, leaning over the table towards him: “for God’s sake, if you have hold of some rumour that Bobby Amory is Lady Benedict’s true father, I beg you, do not repeat it to anyone but me!”

    All of General Lowell’s several chins had sagged. Sadly crushing his neckcloth. “No!” he choked.

    “It would explain why she has sent him off so precipitately—and why he allowed himself to be sent. If it be that, you can trust me not to repeat it.”

    “No—I mean, of course, of course, dear man, you is the soul of honour! But no, it ain’t nothin’ like that! Good gad, the father was a greasy Portugee distantly related to old Érico Baldaya!”

    “What, General Baldaya?” said Major-General Cadwallader limply. “I have never met him.”

    “They tell me he drove Wellington mad! Nothin’ in his head, y’know, but the ladies and dancin’!” The old man went into a prolonged wheezing fit.

    “I dare say. But if that is the same family,” said the Major-General dubiously, “then there can be no objection to Ferdy Sotheby’s taking up the boy, surely?”

    “Never said there could,” he noted blandly. He heaved himself up. “Must be goin’, I’m afraid, old fellow. Promised me sister I would avoid too many late nights, she has some bee in her bonnet. All rubbish, out of course, as stout as I ever was!”

    Major-General Cadwallader agreed politely, allowed the old man to thank him profusely, saw him into his carriage, and retreated thankfully to his quiet study, shaking his head. Really, the old fellow was getting past it! To let him even suspect such a thing about Bobby Amory and Lady Benedict!

    What with the relief of getting rid of the loose-tongued old man, it was quite some time before he put down his book and said to himself, staring into his fire: “But good gad, I did not imagine his hint that it would not do for young Sotheby to take Lady Benedict’s brother up! –Surely? No, I am sure. So what on earth—?”

    Most of Bath was aware that General Lowell bullied the spinster sister who lived with him. Though Bath was divided as to whether or no her doormat-like demeanour invited him to step on her. However, there was no-one else in whom he could confide, so she was aware of his ruminations on the subject of Lady Benedict’s antecedents and the year 1800. When he arrived home she said eagerly: “Well?”

    The old man shrugged. “He did notice the fact that the Laidlaw brats set fire to Lymmond Square, but as to anythin’ less obvious!”

    Miss Lowell looked vindicated.

    “And of course he remembers scarcely a thing about 1800, and does not even recall if he had met Bobby Amory, back then!”

    “I am convinced that that lady was the first Mrs Amory’s sister.”

    “So’m I. And convinced she weren’t no lady, neither, never mind if the family be perfectly respectable!” he said with his wheezy laugh.

    After a moment Miss Lowell asked: “Does Lady Amory call on Lady Benedict?”

    “Are you askin’ me if Cadwallader has noticed that?” he replied incredulously.

    “Er—oh. No, dear, of course!”

    “Quite. –I shall have a glass of port, it may help to take away the taste of burnt fish and raw mutton!” he noted savagely.

    Wincing, Miss Lowell bade him a pale goodnight and, not daring to remind him that his doctor had advised against port, took herself off to bed.

    General Lowell drank port reflectively. “Nancy,” he said after quite some time. “That were her name. Aye, I am sure of it. Nancy Jeffreys.”

    Nan had been very nervous all morning and nothing that Susan and Daphne had said had been able to reassure her that Mrs Laidlaw would not mind anything that might be odd about their household and was, in fact, coming express to enjoy their oddities!

    “Delightful!” beamed Charlotte as she was ushered into the sitting-room.

    Nan smiled weakly. “Thank you. I hope the room ees not too warm for you, Mrs Laidlaw?”

    It was, of course. Charlotte did not say so, merely said that she would take off her pelisse, and proceeded to do so. “Are you quite sure you wished me to bring Hortensia and Georgey?” she added dubiously.

    Horrible and Georgey scowled angrily at her. It would be just nuts if Mamma were to send them home after all!

    “Good gracious, ees that her name?” cried Daphne before Nan could reply. “Hortensia! How pretty that ees!” she said to the scowling Horrible.

    “No, it isn’t.”

    “No, it’s horrible, that’s why we call her Horrible,” explained Georgey.

    “That ees logical,” said Nan. “Of course we want them, Mrs Laidlaw. Would you like to sit down, Horrible? And you, too, Georgey? We just sit on the rugs or on cushions when we are having an Indian day.”

    “Yes, Papa said,” said Horrible, sitting down on the rug before her mother could tell her to take her pelisse off, and looking round hopefully for trays of delicious viands, the which were not in evidence. Horrors! Could it have been one of Papa’s beastly leg-pulls? Georgey sat down beside her and also looked round hopefully for sustenance.

    “Let me assist you, Mrs Laidlaw,” said Susan hurriedly. “Or perhaps you would prefer a chair?”

    Charlotte was feeling very awkward, for she could see that Lady Benedict was not quite at ease. She did not think that her taking a chair would improve matters, however, so she said firmly that she preferred to sit on a cushion, and allowed Susan to assist her down to the floor.

    “You did not bring Baby Prue, Mrs Laidlaw,” said Mina sadly.

    “Well, no, for she had a bad night and Nurse had but just got her off to sleep.”

    “She ees teething, no?” said Nan.

    “We think it may be a first tooth, yes. She has certainly been very bad-tempered lately.”

    Nan nodded. “Yes. Johnny was tairrible with hees first tooth, were you not, my angel?”

    Charlotte looked at him glumly. He was just sitting there, playing nicely with a toy. Why was it only her own offspring who could never be trusted to behave in company? And why, oh, why had she ever let herself be talked into bringing Horrible and Georgey?

    “Toofy-pegs,” said the little boy. “See? I got lotsa toofy-pegs.” He bared his gums at her.

    Charlotte jumped and laughed. “Oh! Yes, you have lots of splendid toofy-pegs, Johnny, my dear!”

    “He ees learning that off Rosebud’s nurse. Rani Ayah does not know English words for teeth,” said Amrita.

    “Indeed? That is his nurse, is it, my dear?”

    “No, she ees my ayah!” she said, scowling horribly.

    “Amrita,” said Nan on a weak note: “she ees also Johnny’s ayah. But when you are both grown up she weell stay weeth you, of course, for a man does not need an ayah.”

    “No. –Dom has got Murchison,” she said solemnly to Charlotte.

    “Er—really, dear?”

    “That ees my late husband’s valet,” said Nan faintly. Wishing she had never invited Mrs Laidlaw and never allowed the children to join the party. Mrs Laidlaw’s two little girls were sitting there so nicely and quietly, and here were her lot—even Amrita, who was usually quite silent in company—coming out with all this information about the servants, and she was quite, quite sure that English ladies who lived in salubrious Bath squares did not normally discuss one another’s servants when they paid morning calls! And very like, not their children’s teeth, either!

    “When Papa died he said he would not stay to serve Everard, not if it was ever so,” said Mina grimly.—Charlotte’s mouth opened slightly.—“And so he came with us, to be Dom’s valet, for Everard is a horrid beast.”

    “Mina!” gasped her sister in horror.

    “He IS, and I HATE HIM!” she shouted.

    Nan took a deep breath. “I theenk we are agreed that one of us likes Everard and that he has treated hees sisters shabbily, Mina. But English ladies do not talk about hating. I do not know vairy much of England, but I do know that. But eef Everard and Felicia had had you and Susan to live weeth them, we should have been very lonely weethout you.”

    “Yes,” said Daphne in a low voice, squeezing Susan’s hand.

    “Yes. Anyway, I don’t care about them!” declared Mina loudly.

    “No, of course not. –Come and sit on my knee, Mina, my love: that’s right,” said Nan, cuddling her stiff little figure. The fact that she was sitting cross-legged and that Mina had inserted herself in between her thighs could not be helped, she decided firmly. And if Mrs Laidlaw was shocked by it all, too bad! However, she did say: “I’m vairy sorry, Mrs Laidlaw. Eet’s a sore point weeth us, you see. Sir Everard Benedict ees my step-son.”

    “He does not want us and we do not want HEEM!” little Amrita suddenly shouted, turning a dark maroon.

    “No, we are very happy without him,” said Susan Benedict quickly. “Come and give me a hug, Amrita, darling.”

    The little dark child went and hugged the thin, fair English girl and sat in her lap just as the skinny little fair girl was sitting in the darkly lovely Lady Benedict’s; and suddenly Charlotte found her eyes had filled with tears.

    “Oh, dear!” she said shakily, blowing her nose.

    “Mamma!” hissed Horrible, turning puce with embarrassment. –Georgey just looked grimly at the carpet.

    “Don’t be disturbed, Mrs Laidlaw. We are all happy together,” said Daphne.

    “Yes,” said Charlotte shakily, again blowing her nose. “It is just—well, poor little loves!” she said to Lady Benedict. “And pray do not think of apologizing for them: I quite understand! It is so exactly like the story of poor dear Cousin Philippa Wadsworth!”

    “Mamma, it is not!” hissed Horrible in agony.

    “Hush, Hortensia,” said Charlotte mistily. “And dearest, take your pelisse off, you will roast in front of this delightful fire. –You, too, Georgey.”

    Horrible and Georgey hunched further into their pelisses, glaring.

    “Pray don’t make them, Mrs Laidlaw. When they feel the heat I am sure they weell take them off of their own accord,” said Nan, smiling at the hunched little figures.

    “Yes. When we first went to live een Hugo’s house, Amrita would not take her pelisse off for three days,” said Daphne helpfully.

    “Three days?” gasped Horrible.

    “Yes. And nights, of course,” said Daphne tranquilly.

    “Help: did your nurse let you?” gasped Horrible. –Georgey just stared.

    “Yes,” said Amrita from the shelter of Susan’s arms.

    “Then she took eet off all by herself,” said Daphne sunnily.

    “I see!” cried Charlotte.

    Nan smiled at her. “Yes, of course you do. Eet was a comforter, no?”

    “Oh, absolutely! It is just like Freddy and Woolly B’anky!” she cried.

    “Mamma!” groaned Horrible and Georgey.

    “You see,” said Charlotte, ignoring her squirming offspring entirely: “when Freddy was a very little boy he became most attached to a certain little blanket. Of course we thought nothing of it, for very little children often do such things, do they not?”—Horrible and Georgey exchanged agonized glances.—“Then when he was walking, he would still take it everywhere. It was not until he was, I suppose, about five, a little older than your Johnny, I think, that his father started to worry about it. He tried several times to take it off him, but Freddy went into the most dreadful screaming fits! So we thought, wait and see, perhaps he only needs time—”

    Horrible and Georgey closed their eyes in resignation and prepared to sit the saga out.

    To their huge relief Lady Benedict did not appear to think, when Mamma at long last reached the end of it, that she was peculiar. Well, perhaps she did, only she was disguising it. And to their equal relief, for they had begun to think it had all been one of beastly Papa’s beastly so-called jokes, the door then opened and Sita Ayah came in with a tray, accompanied by Miss Gump, also with a tray. Even though Sita’s tray bore a steaming, oderiferous pot of mint tea, they agreed to try it. Even though it was greenish.

    Meanwhile, Nan explained that she found mint tea very refreshing and that the children always took it well sugared, but if Mrs Laidlaw would prefer it, Miss Gump had a tray of ordinary China tea, for Susan and Daphne always had that.

    Bravely Charlotte said she would try the mint tea. She then embarked on the saga of Cousin Philippa Wadsworth, which Horrible and Georgey had believed they were going to be spared, after all. But it did not matter, for Rani Ayah and Richpal came in with trays of sweetmeats. Huzza! It had not all been a hum, after all!

    “The BUBBLES!” shouted Georgey, very flushed.

    “No—” began Horrible loudly, also very flushed.

    “Hush, girls, hush!” said Charlotte, laughing. “I agree the bubbles were extraordinary, Georgey, though I did not like them the best.”

    “Bubbles?” said Jack Laidlaw. “I did not have any— Not the fried potato balls? Or those other fried things?”

    “The pukkorahs,” explained Horrible helpfully.

    “NO!” shouted Georgey scornfully. “The bubbles! They were the best!”

    “Well, just calm down, and tell me about it. If you can bear to sit on your old father’s knee, you may come here, Georgey.”

    To his surprise, she beamed, and came and perched on his knee. “Give us a kiss,” said Jack limply.

    Georgey awarded him a smacking kiss. “The bubbles were magical, Papa!” she beamed.

    “Er—mm,” said Jack, repressing the urge to wipe his cheek. Over her untidy ginger curls he goggled at his wife. Charlotte smiled knowingly. “Uh—yes: go on, Georgey, my love: tell us about the bubbles.”

    Horrible began loudly: “They were not the be—”

    “Just be quiet a minute, Horrible, and then you may tell me about what you liked the best.”

    Georgey stuck her tongue out at Horrible. Horrible scowled.

    “Uh—come here,” said Jack weakly. Horrible came with dragging steps, looking sulky. Jack had one arm round Georgey: he put the other round Horrible and drew her closely against his chair. “Now: Georgey first, she’s the younger,” he said firmly.

    “They were bubbles, Papa! Little crisp bubbles! And the way to eat them, you see, you take a bubble—”

    “From the tray,” said Horrible.

    “Yes, the bubbles are on the tray, Papa. You take a bubble, and you make a little hole in it with your thumb,”—Jack goggled at Charlotte: she looked smug;—“and you put some potato in it!”

    “Just a little bit,” agreed Horrible.

    “Yes. And then you dip the bubble into the bowl, and it fills up, and then you pop it into your mouth whole, and eat it! And it is absolutely delicious, Papa!”

    “Savoury,” said Charlotte on a weak note.

    “Er—yes. Hang on, Georgey: you mean you dip it into a sauce, is that it?”

    “No!” she said scornfully.

    “More like a soup,” said Horrible dubiously. “But cold.”

    “Good grief. You did say these bubbles were crisp? Didn’t they go soggy, Georgey?”

    “No! For that is the secret, Papa!” she cried. “One dips them very quickly and eats them straight away, and they do not have the time to go soggy!”

    “Well, they sound very weird and wonderful indeed,” said Jack feebly.

    “They were more than that, Papa! They were superb!” declared Georgey deeply.

    “Superb, eh?” said Jack, kissing her round cheek. “I own I should like to try ’em! Come on. then, Horrible, what did you like the best?” he said, squeezing her.

    Horrible leant into his side. “Definitely the goolab jamoons, Papa.”

    “They were superb, indeed,” said Charlotte with a sigh. “Though I have a shocking suspicion that one has but to look sideways at them in order instantly to put on five inches round the waist!”

    “Oh, some of those very sweet sweetmeats, eh? Which ones were they, Horrible?”

    Horrible sighed deeply. “Round balls in a syrup of rosewater, Papa. They were perfectly magical!”

    “Aye: she had those the day I was there. Delicious!” said Jack.

    “Yes,” said Horrible, again sighing deeply. “The best sweetmeats I have ever, ever tasted in my entire life!”

    “I think I would tend to agree with you there!” said Jack with a laugh.

    “Nobby and the boys are green as grass!” Horrible then reported with satisfaction.

    “Yes, but they may visit another time,” said Charlotte quickly. “Now, come along, you had better get off to bed, and Papa must have his dinner.”

    Georgey and Horrible kissed Papa goodnight like two little angels, and took themselves off without a word of protest.

    “What in God’s name’s happened?” he croaked. “Sittin’ on me knee? Lettin’ me kiss them without squirming, for God’s sake—and taking themselves off to bed without squawking their heads off! Did Lady Benedict put a spell on ‘em?”

    “No. And I beg of you, Jack, do not breathe a word of it to them, for although I thought at the time they did not even notice what was said, you know what children are, and I think it has affected them deeply. –Though we cannot expect this angelic behaviour to continue!” she said with a laugh.

    “I don’t. What has affected ’em?”

    Charlotte reported her impression of Sir Everard Benedict’s shocking treatment of his little sisters. Adding by the way her own conclusion that he must have treated his step-mamma equally shabbily.

    Jack whistled.

    “Disgraceful!” she agreed. “Well, I mean, darling: can you imagine Micky and Lukey, or even Mendoza or Freddy, treating their little sisters so shamefully?”

    “Well, no. Monsters though the lot of ’em be, out of course. –And since you ain’t interested, yes, I did see Fotherby this afternoon, and the pony is promised to us, and do not be surprised if Paul explodes from the excitement of it.”

    “Oh, that’s good, dear,” she said.

    Jack eyed her drily. Charlotte had been just about bursting with excitement herself over the secret of the pony that was to be Paul’s this Christmas. Finding out the Benedicts’ sad story seemed to have banished it from her mind. Or was it only the amount of food she had eaten across the square?

    “Are you dining with me?” he asked airily.

    “Um—well, I will take a glass of wine with you, my love, but do not ask me to eat anything, I beg of you!”

    Grinning, Jack promised he would not.

    “You liked her, then?” he said, as he engulfed roast beef hungrily and Charlotte sipped claret very slowly.

    “Oh, very much! As I said the night of the fire, she is so sunny-tempered! But beside that, she is remarkably intelligent, Jack!”

    “Aye, I thought that.” Jack refilled his glass. “What were they all got up in this time?”

    Charlotte proceeded to tell him. “Glorious silks” probably summed it up, though she did not, of course, sum it up. The prolonged narrative finished with the information that they had given her a length of silk. Her husband’s objection that silks of the quality of Lady B.’s would cost a small fortune here, whatever they might in India, did not seem to register and, imparting the additional information that it was a very pale green, which Lady Benedict had said made all of them look horridly sallow, rushed off to fetch it.

    Jack sighed heavily. And decided not to report that he had not ridden out to the farm property alone this afternoon, but in the company of Mr Dorian Kernohan. Who had mentioned, on hearing of Charlotte’s plans for the day, that he had advised Mrs Dorian not to call, just until a little more should be known of Lady Benedict’s family.

    And now there was this dinner coming up, into the bargain! Well, thank God he had persuaded Charlotte to keep it to a small family affair, rather than advertising to the whole of Bath that they were socialising with a woman of unknown antecedents.

    The cousins ate singed roast onions manfully, silently wondering why the Devil the old boy had invited them to “a cosy bachelor evening.” There was nothing particularly cosy about it, in especial as Major-General Cadwallader’s manners were stiff at the best of times. And this did not appear to be the best of times. Oh, well, no doubt the old boy was lonely. Must try to see a bit more of him, reflected Jack Beresford glumly. Glad I asked him to dinner next Tuesday, reflected Jack Laidlaw glumly.

    “What the Devil was that all about?” said Jack Beresford weakly as, having shaken Major-General Cadwallader’s hand fervently and thanked him for the evening, they at long last made their escape.

    “God knows. You’d better come back with me and have some mulled wine.”

    “Aye, I will that!” said Mr Beresford gratefully. “Why don’t he have a decent fire, at the least?”

    “I don’t think he notices the cold. Or any of his surroundings, much. All those frightful, old-fashioned furnishings are just as they were in old Miss Cadwallader’s day.”

    “She was either inordinately fond of mustard-yellow, or blind,” concluded his cousin.

    “Mm.” They walked slowly round the square, arm-in-arm.

    “Still stinks of ash,” noted Mr Beresford.

    “You may drop that. –Listen, old man,” he said awkwardly: “I have an idea the old boy was tryin’ to warn you off.”

     Mr Beresford replied coldly, withdrawing his arm from his: “Off what?”

    To which Mr Laidlaw returned calmly: “I am not absolutely sure, but I would say it was off both Lady Benedict and her sister. And quite possibly off young Baldaya as well.”

    “Um... he did maunder on a bit about Ferdy Sotheby, didn’t he?” admitted Mr Beresford, biting his lip.

    “Yes,” agreed his cousin. “You might not have gathered it from his discourse, but Charlotte tells me that Baldaya is currently spending a few days out at Ainsways with Ferdy.”

    “I see! That does make it a bit clearer!” He paused. “No, it doesn’t, Jack. What does he have against them, for God’s sake?”

    “I didn’t gather. But then,” said Jack Laidlaw pointedly, “I have not seen so much of them as you.”

    Mr Beresford began heatedly: “I have not—” He broke off. “I called, merely. And once or twice I have been so lucky as to bump into Lady Benedict and Miss Baldaya at the Pump Room. And since old Cadwallader never shows his nose there, I’m damned if I know how he—”

    “He had General Lowell to dinner only t’other day,” said Jack Laidlaw drily.

    “Oh.”

    Mr Laidlaw looked sideways at him. “Which of ’em is it, old boy?” he said in a not unkindly tone.

    “Neither!” replied Mr Beresford heatedly. “Well, for God’s sake, one cannot hardly get near them, and Lady Benedict is very kind, but she told me they ain’t receiving callers yet.”

    “Mm. It is scarce six months since her husband’s death, Jack.”

    “I know,” he said grumpily.

    They strolled on in silence. Eventually Mr Beresford admitted in a sulky tone which made him sound about Horrible’s age: “Miss Daphne is a little peach, only she ain’t got two penn’orth of brain to rub together, and I don’t think hardly picks up a book from one year’s end to the next, be it in Portuguese or English. I don’t say you can’t talk to her, for she’s a friendly little thing, and taking, too, but you can most certainly not hold anything approaching a conversation with her!”

    As both Jack Laidlaw and his wife had had that impression, Mr Laidlaw replied calmly: “Yes. So it is Lady B., then, Jack?”

    “No! Look, I don’t even know her!”

    “She gives the impression of maturity, but of course she is actually a good deal younger than you,” his older cousin said thoughtfully.

    In the dark of Lymmond Square, Mr Beresford sagged. “Is she?” he said weakly.

    Mr Laidlaw was not precisely surprised to learn that that was news to Cousin Jack. Though he was not particularly pleased to learn that it was apparently overwhelmingly welcome news. “Aye. Why did you imagine old Cadwallader was goin’ on about the year Dot?”

    “Beats me,” he said frankly.

    Mr Laidlaw had begun to make some sort of hazy connection between Dorian Kernohan’s having more or less hinted he should warn Charlotte off Lady Benedict and the Major-General’s terrifically casual enquiry as to whether either of the younger men knew Colonel Amory’s first wife’s family.

    “Ye-es...” he said slowly. “Jack, old fellow, you told old Cadwallader you were acquainted with—er—Robert Jeffreys, is it?”

    “Eh? Yes: slightly. Papa and his late father were close as young men. Well, dare say he is a man in his mid-thirties,” he said vaguely. “Does not get up to town much: head of the family, y’know, keeps busy with the estates and so forth.”

    Mr Laidlaw did not point out, though he had to bite his tongue in order not to do so, that Jack Beresford was also nominally head of his family. “Mm. Uh—what relation would Jeffreys be to Colonel Amory’s first wife, then, Jack?”

    “For the Lord’s sake, Jack! I don’t know! –And he ain’t Jeffreys, actually. His grandfather died some years back. Robert’s Lord Keywes.”

    “Uh—oh. Yes, of course. –I thought it was pronounced ‘keys,’ Jack?”

    “No: ‘kays,’ you ignoramus. –May we go in?”

    Mr Laidlaw tugged him past his house. “No. I don’t want it to come to Charlotte’s ears.”

    “Don’t want what to come to Charlotte’s ears, old boy?” he asked nastily.

    “I’m not sure, yet… Did it strike you as peculiar, the way Cadwallader went on about the year Dot?”

    His cousin shrugged. “Aye, I suppose. But the whole thing struck me as peculiar. Go on: make a connection, if you can. between old Cadwallader’s drivellings about the year Dot, Keywes’s family, and Lady B.”

    Jack Laidlaw gnawed on his lip. “Lady Benedict told Charlotte she is but twenty-one years of age. So she must have been born in ’01. Her mother was English, of course, but she did not tell Charlotte her name.”

    “Oh, good gad!” he said with a laugh. “You’re not tryin’ to tell me that Lady Benedict’s mother is the skeleton in Robert’s family’s closet, are you?”

    “Am I?”

    “You must ask Mamma if you want the full story!” said Mr Beresford, laughing again. “I suppose it would have been around the turn of the century. Well, that is where old Cadwallader’s year Dot comes into it, old boy!”

    “Jack,” said his cousin evenly, taking his arm again, “this may not be a laughing matter. Just tell me what you know.”

    “Um—not much,” he said uncertainly. “Some connection of Robert’s created a scandal by eloping with some unsuitable fellow, is all I know. The old man cut up stiff about it—Robert’s grandfather. Don’t ask me to tell you what relation the girl was, for I cannot. Do you really think she might have been Lady Benedict’s mother?”

    “I don’t know. I think that is the direction in which Cadwallader’s thoughts were tending, at all events.”

    “But look, the Benedicts are respectable! Cecil Jerningham knows the family. There cannot be anything smoky, y’know, or the late Sir Hugo Benedict would not have married her!” he said happily.

    “No-o...” Jack Laidlaw was wondering about the new baronet’s refusal to house his stepmother. Though of course the fellow had also refused to house his own little sisters.

    “Look, you know what it is, don’t you?” said his cousin fiercely.

    “No.”

    “All right, what do you SUSPECT?” he said loudly and angrily.

    “Ssh! I don’t know that I suspect anything specific, Jack, at this juncture. Just be cautious, is all I am saying.”

    “I cannot do otherwise, I thought I had made that clear?” he said sourly. “She told me I should not call again until the New Year.”

    “No, well, that is possibly just as well.”

    “Is it?” he said wrathfully.

    Jack Laidlaw turned to retrace his steps. “It is if there be something smoky about the family, dear old boy.”

    “Look, I don’t care if the father were a greasy Portugee, for he is dead and buried these ten years past!” he said furiously.

    “Mm. Look, old man, I probably am jumping to conclusions, here, but I have an idea that the Amorys may be—uh—investigating the family. From various hints I have picked up from both Cadwallader and Dorian Kernohan, I think Richard Amory may have asked General Sir Francis Kernohan to do what he can in the matter.”

    Mr Beresford snorted. “All this is founded on rumour and suspicion, if I read you aright?”

    “Jack, just calm down—”

    Mr Beresford shook him off angrily. “I’m going home. And listen, Laidlaw,” he said awfully: “if I hear rumours getting around Bath, I shall know who to blame, after this night’s conversation, shan’t I?”

    “No!” cried Mr Laidlaw indignantly. “Don’t be a damned idiot! I won’t breathe a word, not even to Charlotte!”

    “No, ’cos if you did, she would tell you to your face what a louse you are!”

    “I said it for your own good, you fool!” shouted his cousin.

    “Hush; you’ll wake the Chalfont hag,” said Mr Beresford nastily, walking off.

    The Benedicts were running a little late that evening. Firstly Daphne had to be talked out of black silk (a dress that was actually Nan’s), and into white muslin with black ribbons. Then Susan had to be convinced that she could wear the small string of pearls that Papa had given her for her sixteenth birthday. Then both Daphne and Susan tried to persuade Nan that she could wear her superb double rope of Indian pearls, but did not succeed. After that Nan had to be talked out of placing a truly horrid lappet-cap of black lace—though the lace itself was very fine—on top of her shiny brown ringlets. She had thought it would be appropriate, for Senhora Alves da Silva had been used to wear one. Daphne shrieked that Senhora Alves da Silva had been in her sixties, but Nan was not convinced, for she had certainly also been a widow. Fortunately Susan recalled Mrs Horton, a neighbour of the Benedicts, also a widow. Nan agreed thankfully that Mrs Horton did not wear a lace cap to dine with friends, and took it off.

    “Dear Mrs Laidlaw, I hope we are not late?” she said, as the footman ushered them into Charlotte’s sitting-room and they saw that a considerable number of persons was already assembled.

    “No, of course not!” cried Charlotte, bustling to greet her, her hands outstretched. “How lovely to see you all! Welcome to our home!”

    That’s torn it! thought Jack Laidlaw as the two ladies embraced. He would never be able to persuade Charlotte to drop the connection, if the need arose. He glanced cautiously at his cousin and saw that at the sight of Lady Benedict in low-cut black velvet Mr Beresford had turned approximately the colour of a boiled lobster. And with very much that expression, too. Damnation.

    Jack had asked Charlotte if he might bring May, as their mother had been invited out to a card party that evening. She was a trifle stunned to see her sophisticated brother bow very low over Lady Benedict’s hand and say in a voice that positively shook: “Good evening, Lady Benedict. May I say you are in great looks, tonight?”

    Nan smiled kindly at him and said lightly: “You are too kind, Mr Beresford!”

    “Not at all,” said Mr Beresford weakly as she tilted her head to one side in that totally devastating little way she had and smiled her almost equally devastating smile. “Er—oh! Allow me to present my sister, ma’am.”

    May dimpled and curtseyed, inwardly wondering just how old this Lady Benedict was, and why on earth Mamma had not breathed a word of her. And, for if she was inexperienced she was not stupid, whether Jack had breathed a word of her to Mamma!

    May Beresford was a petite lady, who barely came to her tall brother’s shoulder. She had a mop of light brown curls, much lighter than his dark locks, and a pair of great sparkling grey eyes, set in a heart-shaped little face. Young Mr Baldaya, as Miss Beresford’s connexions duly noted, did not appear displeased to meet her.

    Charlotte was just telling Lady Benedict that Major-General Cadwallader would not be long, for he lived in the square, and yes, he was the military-looking older gentleman with the limp, when Adam Ames came in and announced him.

    Both Charlotte and Jack watched with breathless interest as the military-looking older gentleman with the limp was introduced to the glowingly lovely Lady Benedict. He turned approximately the colour of a boiled lobster. And with very much that expression, too.

    “My God!” breathed Jack in his wife’s ear as Major-General Cadwallader and Mr Beresford jockeyed for position round the sofa where Lady Benedict was chatting about her children to Aunt Sissy. “And we thought the old boy’d be terrified of her!”

    Charlotte swallowed. “Mm.”

    “Thank the Lord we didn’t invite Aunt B.,” he muttered.

    Charlotte nodded. She was about to gather them all together to go into the dining room when Adam Ames came in again, to announce: “Miss Chalfont.”

    “Good evening, Mrs Laidlaw. I do hope it’s all right!” said Cherry breathlessly, shaking hands. “Good evening, Mr Laidlaw,” she added, as Jack came up, smiling. “Oh—thank you!” she added on a gasp as he relieved her of the hot-house blooms she was carrying. “They are for you, Mrs Laidlaw.”

    “Why, how lovely!” cried Charlotte. “Adam, please find me a vase directly, and tell Cook it will be one more.”

    Cherry was very flushed. She did not tell Charlotte that the blooms had been sent by Mr Ninian Dalrymple for her mother, on hearing that she had contracted his cold, and that Mrs Chalfont had angrily ordered them thrown away. Her cold had worsened, as she had insisted on going to the Abbey for her grandchild’s christening, and it had been a very chilly day.

    “There was no-one but me up, for Mother and Aunt Lydia are both in bed with their colds, and—and I thought you would not mind if I came after all,” she faltered, not revealing, either, that her mother had sent down to order Cook not to cook for Miss Cherry alone, she might have bread and butter. “But I—I hope it isn’t throwing your numbers out?” She went redder than ever as she perceived it was really quite a large gathering. When Mrs Laidlaw had originally mentioned the dinner to her she had said “just the family” and Cherry had thought it would only be the Laidlaws, with perhaps their Aunt Sissy. Oh, dear!

    Assuring her warmly that it was no such thing, they were just a cosy little party, it was only a family affair, really, Charlotte drew her over to the fire, making her known to everyone…

    Even though it had been only a family affair Charlotte had put so much thought and care into the preparations for her party, and so much energy into carrying it out, that she was asleep that evening the moment her head touched the pillow.

    Mr Laidlaw, having done his duty nobly throughout, lay beside her for a while chewing things over, but finally decided with a mental shrug that there was nothing he could do. And at least it was not at his house that Jack had first met Lady B., so Aunt Beresford could not blame him for that! And turned on his side and went peacefully to sleep.