Country House Life

14

Country House Life

    Julia having pointed out—several times—that they couldn’t not go, and that Cousin John’s and Cousin Belinda’s feelings would be terribly hurt an they did not go, the remaining Formbys of Number 10 New Short Street duly went to that gracious country mansion, Blasted Oak House, for the summer. Such objections as: Joe could not close the shop for two months—or even one; or: since Pa was going Little Joe had better stay back and look after the shop; or: they wouldn’t want to see a pair of old crocks like Mrs Peters and Mrs Huggins; or: what’d Mr Huggins do at a blamed country ’ouse; or: Lash couldn’t face it, had of course been swept aside.

    Trottie True had voiced no objections: possibly, as the great-aunties and Cookie agreed, though not daring to say so to Julia’s face, because Victoria’s uncle would be there. John-John had considerable objections but as these mainly centred round the sweet face of Miss Mary Cox, he hadn’t voiced them. Ned was merely concerned that Dog Tuesday shouldn’t be left behind and quite glad to be going to see his little cousins. Mouse was simply informed that she would be company for Victoria.

    Cousin Belinda’s food was pronounced, at least by Great-Nunky Ben, to be not ’alf bad, though her cook’s pies weren’t a patch on Julia’s, her beds were approved as comfortable by the great-aunties, Ned and Dog Tuesday were received with rapture into the little boys’ nursery, the former not even bothering to scorn it as a nursery, so absorbed was he in plotting an expedition into the shrubbery, which looked certain to contain Huge Rats due to be shaken by the necks till stone dead by the ferocious canine, and Blasted Oak House’s hospitality was pronounced by Julia, in the privacy of the palatial bedchamber allotted to her and Joe, to be “Horribly gracious, but we knew it would be.”

    The visit proceeded smoothly enough, if you discounted Nurse Bolton’s screaming hysterics on discovering a well-sized rat laid out, very dead, on the day nursery hearth-rug. Cousin Belinda had explained smilingly that she intentioned a very lazy summer, and Julia and Lash had to admit it was pretty much that. Well, in her terms. Courtesy visits to Lasset Place apart. Even though Lash had a couple of new gowns she had, of course, nothing that could possibly do an afternoon call at Lasset Place justice, but then, it rapidly became clear that Lady Lasset had not anticipated she would.

    “Er—she expects that one will bring one’s guests to call, you see,” murmured Belinda Formby on an apologetic note as the barouche took the older ladies home again.

    “Yes, of course,” said Julia quickly. “We wouldn’t want you to get in her bad books, dear Belinda.”

    “Don’t see why you had to drag me and Jicksy along, though,” noted Aunty Bouncer with a sniff. “Unless it was to afford ’er Ladyship the pleasure of looking down that nose of hers at our best bonnets.”

    “You both look delightful, dear Aunty,” replied Belinda feebly. “And personally I do not think that her Ladyship’s much-vaunted lace trim can hold a candle to your exquisite tatted lace tucker, dear Aunty Jicksy.”

    “No, it looks good,” agreed Mrs Peters fairly.

    Mrs Huggins replied grandly: “Thank you both so much, but I fear ’twas not purchased at the emporium where Lady Stamforth shops.”

    Forthwith the two dames collapsed in the cackling fits that had been threatening for some time.

    Julia and Lash looked somewhat nervously at Cousin Belinda but she merely smiled and murmured: “Well, that is definitely the worse of them over. You will like Mrs Morris of Broadmeadows: she is a youngish woman with three little girls. And Colonel and Mrs Venables of Longwood House are most pleasant people.” The sisters-in-law smiled and nodded nicely, refraining from asking if there were any broad meadows surrounding the former or a wood, long or even longish, near the latter.

    Mrs John Formby’s predictions proving correct, some pleasant enough visits were paid and returned, and Colonel and Mrs Venables came to dine at Blasted Oak House and issued an invitation in their turn: and if Julia, who was not admitting to herself that she was very miffed to find Mr Johnny Formby absent from home this summer, reflected crossly in the wake of this dinner that they might have produced one bachelor nephew or widowered brother-in-law for Mouse and Lash, she managed to keep the reflection to herself.

    These genteel personalities completed the little social circle in which the John Formbys customarily moved when at home—and it was no wonder, Julia conceded silently, that poor Victoria should prefer the company of her Aunt Phyllis and the delights of London, or the pantaloons and neckcloths produced, or so legend had it, whenever she visited the Quarmby-Vine relatives in Derbyshire, because really! There was not a person within convenient visiting distance of her own age! Well, there was a rumoured nephew of the Vicar of the local parish, but as he never showed his nose at the humble little vicarage in Lasset Halt, he must be accounted a broken reed. Though to be quite fair to him, as the relationship between the Reverend Mr Courtenay and Lady Lasset was pretty much that between Mr Collins and Lady Catherine de Burgh, there was possibly some excuse for him.

    “How old was Lady C.?” asked Lash idly, à propos.

    Poor Mouse had been the sacrificial lamb dragged to the altar of Mr Courtenay’s pretensions for both himself and his patroness, so she was able to return on a sour note: “Old enough to have driven the husband into an early grave and have a sickly grown daughter: it does not rule Lady L. out of contention, does it?”

    “Y— But Sir Roland Lasset is but sixteen years of age, I think,” she objected.

    “Miss Anne de Burgh cannot have been ancient, Aunty Lash, or even a woman as mad as Lady C. wouldn’t have destined her for Mr Darcy,” ventured Trottie True.

    “You may be silent, you were spared the visit!” retorted Mouse immediately.

    “She had Colonel and Mrs Venerable, though,” noted Lash fairly.

    “So did we all!”

    “No, had to pay a call,” Lash reminded her.

    “Oh: so you did. But they are merely old and proper, they cannot count for even half a Collins! Um, Courtenay,” she amended feebly, and Trottie True collapsed in giggles.

    “Yes,” said Mouse with a very silly grin. “Something like that, at all events!”

    Trottie True blew her nose. “How bad was he?”

    “Bad enough,” replied her little sister heavily.

    “Well, yes,” admitted Lash with a sigh. “He has not Mr Collins’s turn for oratory—well, what mere mortal could have? But every second phrase that came out of his mouth was ‘Lady Lasset’.”

    “Not ‘my esteemed patroness’?” she ventured, the wide grey eyes twinkling.

    “No, he does not appear to have latched onto that one,” replied Mouse, looking prim.

    Smiling, Trottie True waited for her aunt’s sniggering fit to die down. “Should either of you like to come for a walk?”

    Mouse looked doubtful. “Didn’t Captain Q.-V. offer to take one of you up in the curricle this morning?”

    Trottie True blushed and looked awkwardly at her aunt. “I think Aunty Lash should have the treat.”

    “I don’t!” retorted Lash swiftly. “Because funnily enough there will be a very good reason for his patting my knee during it! And ten to one his handing me down will result in my fair form’s toppling against his manly one!”

    The girls were gaping at her.

    “When he took me and Victoria for a spin in the trap he handed me down like a—an uncle!” protested Mouse.

    “He—he was perfectly gentlemanly when he handed me out of the carriage,” said Trottie True faintly. “And—and I think he would be a delightful uncle.”

    “Well—uh—spoils Victoria rotten, aye,” said Lash feebly. “Um, well, it was the drive with Victoria, the other day, and we were rather cramped, but the pat on the knee was not accidental, nor particularly avuncular. Though I dare say he meant nothing by it—that type does not. And he did hand me down quite correctly, but I have to say it, girls, I would take no bets t’other thing would not eventuate an we were alone! –Don’t protest, you are too young to recognise the type. But funnily enough I don’t want someone’s uncle, even if he does favour my knee!”

    “Nonsense!” said Trottie True rather loudly. “You are lovely, and very—very womanly! In any case, I shall go for a walk instead. Are you coming, Mouse?”

    “No, I can’t, I said I’d give Victoria a driving lesson in the trap. She is convinced she knows it all before one starts, and when one does start will neither listen nor concentrate, but since I was silly enough to promise, I had best get on with it!”

    “Very well,” said Trottie True on a firm note, walking out.

    “Go,” said Lash, waving a dismissive hand.

    Mouse hesitated. “Shall you drive out with the Captain? I think he is expecting one of you.”

    “One of us. You were present when the trip was mooted. You have not asked me, and in fact you know nothing whatsoever of the matter,” she said airily.

    Giving a guilty giggle, Mouse ran off.

    After some thought Lash collected her book and headed for the orchard with it: it was not at all a ladylike place to be, and there was little risk of the uncle’s discovering her there, in especial if she climbed that big old apple tree with the heavy foliage and the convenient broad branches.

    The genial Captain Quarmby-Vine, therefore, emerging onto the sweep at what in his male blindness he had considered to be the appointed hour, was very disconcerted indeed to find the curricle ready, Jem Watkins at the pair’s heads, but no lady companion. Instead there was only one small, grimy boy and a black and white dog something similar to a terrier. Well, different breeds of terrier, possibly. Though one ear had an almost retriever-like look to it.

    “Hullo, me boy!” he said heartily. “Seen Miss Formby or Mrs Yates?”

    “I can’t find Ma, she’s not in her room and Aunty Julia said she couldn’t find her, either. There ain’t nobody in the sitting-room.”

    Captain Quarmby-Vine was aware of this last: he nodded. “No sign of Miss Formby?”

    “Which one?” replied Ned Yates cautiously.

    The genial Captain was not without a sense of humour: his eyes twinkled and he said with the utmost solemnity: “The one whom you call Trottie True, lad.”

    “She went for a walk.”

    “Oh,” he said, rather dashed. Miss Formby was a completely delightful girl, with the sweetest smile he had ever seen and, though she was not the type of forthcoming young woman whom he had favoured in the past, he had been rather looking forward to seeing her again this summer and in fact had arrived at Blasted Oak House somewhat earlier in the year than was his habit. “Uh—didn’t take you and Dog Tuesday along, hey?”

    Ned scowled. “Trottie True would of, but Aunty Julia said she wasn’t gonna let her get the blame for no more dead rodents in Cousin Belinda’s house.” He paused to size up the Captain’s probable vocabulary. “That means rats,” he explained.

    The Captain’s broad shoulders shook. “Aye! Y’don’t feel like playing with Roger and Joey this morning?”

    “They gotta have their music lesson,” explained Ned Yates with distaste.

    Captain Quarmby-Vine enjoyed a concert or the opera, but at this he could not repress a sympathetic wince. “Aye. Well, it looks like you and me and Dog Tuesday, don’t it? Can he behave himself in a carriage?”

    “’Course ’e can!”

    Naturally Captain Quarmby-Vine didn’t believe this for an instant but, reflecting that they need go little further than the bottom of the drive, turn and return, which would probably be quite treat enough for Master Yates, tolerantly invited them to get up, then.

    Dog Tuesday, quite possibly to the surprise of both gentlemen in the curricle, behaved himself impeccably, so they were soon bowling along the lane at quite a reasonable pace. Given the condition of the lane and the capabilities of John Formby’s solid pair, nothing at all like the glossy creatures the Captain was wont to tool in his own curricle in town.

    Various equine topics having been exhausted, Master Yates then introduced a nautical theme, and the Captain admitted he did have a yacht. “Quite a decent vessel. Keep her over at Cowes—um, that’s on the Isle of Wight, sonny. Haven’t managed much sailing this year. Well—did take her out back in May; town was dashed flat, y’know,” he excused this extraordinary aberration. Ned Yates enquiring where he had sailed to, Captain Quarmby-Vine obligingly provided chapter and verse. Ned was telling him all about John-John’s epic voyage when they rounded a bend to espy a dainty bonneted figure sitting on a fallen log in a dejected posture.

    “What the—?”

    “Trottie True,” explained Ned Yates helpfully.

    “So I see! What the Devil can be the matter?” He whipped up the nags.

    Trottie True had looked up at the sound of a vehicle and was trying to smile. The Captain wrenched his brother-in-law’s iron-mouthed pair to a halt and got down, allowing Master Yates to hold the ribbons, given that the nags were far more likely to fall asleep than to bolt.

    “Miss Formby! What has happened, my dear?”

    Trottie True went very pink. “It’s nothing, really, Captain Quarmby-Vine. I have turned my ankle.”

    “Thank God we came this way!”

    Trottie True looked dubiously up at the uncle who surreptitiously patted one’s womanly aunt’s knee and—and was the type who might hand her rudely out of carriages. “I dare swear it will be better as soon as I have rested it.”

    “What? Nonsense, my dear! Let me lift you up into the carriage.”

    “No! I can stand!” she gasped, turning very pink.

    Captain Quarmby-Vine was not displeased by this blush, not guessing the whole of the reason for it, and replied with a little smile: “Well, I shall assist you to rise, but you must not put any weight on that foot. Which is it?”

    “The right,” she said faintly, praying he would not ask to inspect it. But to her relief he merely held out his hand to her. “Thank you,” she whispered as she was helped upright.

    Politely he assisted her to hop to the curricle. Trottie True was about to say she could climb up easily with a little help, but before she could utter a syllable the uncle had swung her up in his arms and, ordering Ned Yates to: “Pick your ratter up and move over, young shaver!” had deposited her bodily on the seat.

    “Oh!” gasped Trottie True.

    Captain Quarmby-Vine grinned up at her. “There! Not so dreadful, was it?”

    “Um, no, of course!” she gulped, now fiery red.

    Smiling a little, he came round and mounted into the driver’s seat. This disposition of the parties meant that Ned was now squashed between them, so Trottie True’s knee was not in danger of being patted. Nevertheless she sat there for some while trembling slightly, her heart going nineteen to the dozen. The which was completely foolish and—and Missish! For, manly and determined though he was, he was only an uncle, after all. And quite probably older than Pa.

    For his part Captain Quarmby-Vine was wishing Ned Yates and his ratter heartily at Jericho. Adorable little thing, was she not? Sweet. Maidenly. Lovely figure, though. No, well, just a girl, of course!

    They reached the house without mishap, and the Captain jumped down as a groom came running to the nags’ heads. “Come along, Miss Formby,” he said, smiling into the flower-like face.

    “I—I can do it, sir,” said Trottie True in a trembling voice. “I shall not put any weight on the bad ankle.”

    “No, you won’t, for I shall lift you down myself.” He looked at the shade of pink the flower-like face had now assumed and said on a glum note which was not intended: “Dare say my Maria and Jane are your age, y’know.”

    It had occurred to Trottie True, as Cousin Belinda’s various callers inquired nicely after her brother’s family, that had she been able to marry Everard Deane when they had planned, she would have a hopeful little family of around the age of the Captain’s daughters’ children. She had not been moping over the fact at all, so why her eyes should suddenly fill with tears—!

    “Yes,” she said in a very restricted voice.

    “She’s twenty-six,” supplied the helpful Master Yates. “Her birthday’s in April. John-John was back for it, so we had a great spread.”

    “Yes,” said Trottie True shakily, swallowing. “Cookie made one of her delicious sponges.”

    “She likes them better than Aunty Julia’s fruit-cakes,” explained Ned.

    “Do you need help getting down, lad?” enquired Captain Quarmby-Vine coolly.

    “No! Um, can’t I go round to the stables with ’em?” he asked sadly,.

    The groom here cleared his throat loudly and gave the mistress’s brother an agonised look.

    “No, that ratter ain’t welcome there: thought you knew that? Get down,” ordered the Captain brutally.

    Glumly Ned clambered down.

    “Maria and Jane are a few years younger, then, but I trust that’s no impediment?” said Charles Quarmby-Vine gently to Miss Formby.

    “No—What? No, but I—”

    The Captain put a hand firmly at each side of her waist and swung her down. Trottie True gasped, and clutched at him.

    “I have you,” he said. “Now, don’t imagine you are going to walk on that foot, or that I’ll allow you to hop all the way inside.” A footman had appeared at the door, so he said: “What are you standing there gaping for, lad? Run and fetch someone to Miss Formby: she has sprained her ankle!”

    “He can carry you, Trottie True,” explained Ned Yates helpfully. “He’s strong. He's got a big yacht, and guess what? He took her out this May with only a couple of fellows aboard, and a squall blew up and the mains’l ripped to blazes and tangled in the sheets and he climbed out on the boom and got it in himself!”

    “The reward of stupidity: I could see the squall on the horizon,” said Charles Quarmby-Vine drily as Trottie True looked up at him in a stunned way. “Thought I could outrun it. Lucky not to be in Davy Jones’s locker. –Sorry, Miss Formby. Gossiping to the lad. Ready?”

    “You went out on the boom?” she said faintly.

    “Er—aye. She’s a big ocean-going vessel, ma’am.”

    “Yes, but was not that very foolhardy? Might you not have ordered a sailor to do it?”

    Ned jumped up and down. “It was his responsibility! And they were only lads!”

    “Aye,” said the Captain. “Well, there you have it, Miss Formby,” he said uncomfortably. “Shouldn’t have taken her out at all, let alone with a skeleton crew. Bad enough ordering ’em to sea without ordering ’em to risk their lives. Er—been a sailor all my life, y’know,” he said to her wondering face.

    “He sailed with Admiral Nelson!” gasped Ned, jumping.

    The Captain looked wryly at Trottie True. “Don’t do the arithmetic, Miss Formby. I was the age you are now when I was with the Admiral at Trafalgar, God rest his soul.”

    “Amen!” said Ned Yates fervently. His cousin was silent so he urged: “Say Amen, Trottie True! Like Mr Hartshorne! For the Admiral!”

    “Of course. Amen,” she agreed. “Then—then would you know the Commander, sir?”

    The Captain’s china-blue eyes twinkled a little but he said solemnly enough: “Which commander would that be, Miss Formby?”

    “Oh—how silly of me,” she said faintly. “He lives near Guillyford Bay. Everyone up and down the coast knows his beautiful yacht, Finisterre, but I—I can’t recall his name.”

    The Captain ceased teasing her and said: “Commander Carey, Miss Formby. Trafalgar Carey, we Naval chaps call him.”

    “Yes, ’cos he lost an eye at Trafalgar!” gasped Ned, jumping terrifically.

    “Aye. I have known him any time these past thirty years and more. One of the best officers who ever set foot on a deck. Now, let me help you.” And he swung her up into his arms.

    Again Trottie True’s heart beat nineteen to the dozen; she was incapable of speech.

    Captain Quarmby-Vine carried her inside, smiling just a little, and deposited her on a sofa in the downstairs sitting-room, where she was speedily surrounded by a clutch of clucking females. He did not offer to carry her upstairs: her brothers were around somewhere and it would have looked too particular. Nor did he express the feeling, as he might have done had she been a very different sort of young woman, that that had been one of the most delightful experiences of his adult life. He just wandered out into the grounds, smiling.

    Having received a note from Commander Henderson, John-John had very gladly borrowed a horse off Cousin John and ridden over to Wardle Heights. Or over to where he thought it was. It was easy enough to find High Mallows: you headed south and east from Blasted Oak House on the lane that led straight past Little Lasset, and this adjoined the slightly more frequented road between High Mallows and the town. John-John stared at the pleasant picture presented by High Mallows, frowning. Damnation! Must’ve missed it. He turned his horse without catching sight of either Piper-Fiennes or his terrifying ma, and headed back slowly. To his left there soon appeared a pretty little house, set a ways back from the road—this was the farmhouse that Lucas had suggested he might like to take over. The turnoff to Wardle Heights must be a bit further west, then. Uh—was this it? He turned cautiously into the overgrown lane. To his right there soon appeared a large old lime tree with a shabby-looking trap parked under it. Its bony brown horse was grazing peacefully. John-John got down and, scratching his chin a bit, shouted: “Ahoy! Lucas!”

    In reply came an answering cry of: “Ahoy! Wait there!” In a moment there was a rustling in the undergrowth and the Commander appeared, grinning, with a huge bunch of mixed flowers and grasses in his fist.

    John-John stared. “Oy, those ain’t for your aunt, are they? Doubt she’ll appreciate ’em.”

    “No, they’re for my room!” he said with a laugh. “If we plunge through this thicket, we’ll get to the house the easy way. The drive’s so overgrown we’d have to hack our way through it with cutlasses.”

    Obediently John-John followed him.

    “There!” said the Commander as they emerged to a sunny clearing above a little stream.

    “Eh?”

    Commander Henderson pointed to the huge dark clump of greenery up above the stream. “Up on the slope. Starboard.”

    “That?” he croaked.

    “There is a stone house under it.”

    “Great God, Lucas! How far under it?”

    “Depends where one attacks it. Two feet only, some spots.”

    “You’ll need an army of men to clear it! And it’s harvest time, or very near: you won’t get the men.”

    “I thought we could make a start on it,” he said mildly .

    John-John was not afraid of hard work, but the task was little short of Herculean! “You and me?”

    “And Hartshorne, for a start. AHOY!” he bellowed.

    After a moment there appeared from behind the giant dark mound a familiar, burly, one-armed figure. John-John swallowed. “The man has but one arm, Lucas,” he managed to croak.

    “Aye, but he can wield a cutlass with the best of ’em, nonetheless! And he wants to,” he explained in a lowered tone. “His little house in the town is comfortable enough, but he don’t like the locals. He’ll do better out here with us.”

    Oh, Hell! “Lucas,” he croaked. “I’m dashed grateful for the opportunity, but I was thinking of one more voyage before I settle down.”

    Commander Henderson smiled the charming smile that lit up his hard face. “As a matter of fact, John, that would work out quite well, for I could live in the farmhouse while we tidy up this place.”

    That’d give him time for a couple of circumnavigations of the globe! “Yes. Good,” he managed. “The interiors won’t be salvageable, I fear.”

    “No, think we’ll have to reduce the place to a shell. And at that, may have to knock it down, use the stone to rebuild. Well, we’ll see! But the first step is to strip it!”

    He was horribly keen. Well, better than being depressed about his career’s having come to an end. But ye gods! Look at the dump! John-John followed him silently over the little bridge.

    “’Morning, Mr  Formby, sir!” Mr Hartshorne greeted him smartly.

    “Good morning, Hartshorne. Been looking over the place, have you?”

    “Aye, that I have, and from t’other side the house looks out to sea, and there’s a sheltered cove below, just right for our boathouse!”

    “That sounds all right,” he said with a smile.

    “Now, I calc’late as our cove, it do be just about right for a pretty sea-going yacht. Dessay as Captain Cutlass and Miss Mouse wouldn’t mind if we was to borrow the dinghy and get round ’ere to take soundings at low tide, neither,” he said on a hopeful note.

    “Borrow the dinghy any time you like!” said John-John with his friendly grin. “In any case my sisters won’t be using it for some time: Captain Cutlass is over in Brighton, and Mouse is immured in Cousins John and Belinda Formby’s house, suffering all the agonies of corsets and mornings of stitchery!”

    This seemed to tickle Mr Hartshorne’s fancy: he echoed: “Corsets, hey?” and shook all over.

    Commander Henderson smiled a little. “And Mrs Yates?”

    Encouraged by Mr Hartshorne’s reception of his mild joke, John-John replied with a laugh: “Oh, Aunty Lash is in her corsets, too, never fear! Never seen her look so neat and trim!” To his complete astonishment he then perceived that Lucas Henderson had gone very red. “Er—always been a dab hand at the stitchery, mind,” he added feebly.

    “Aye: makes the little lad’s shirts and breeches ’erself,” contributed Mr Hartshorne, puzzled but loyal.

    “Yes—does she?” he said disjointedly.

    Was that the wrong topic as well? Possibly prunes and prisms ran in the Henderson family. Quickly John-John said: “So, Hartshorne! Know any fellows that might be up for attacking that overgrown mess of a house with cutlasses?”

    Mr Hartshorne scratched his whiskery chin slowly with his one hand. “Not to say know, Mr Formby, sir, no—or not with cutlasses, acos they all be landlubbers ’ereabouts. That Rattle, ’e’d give us a ’and, only ’e’s too old to put in a ’ard day’s work at a job like this.”

    “Um, well, I could ask Mr Piper-Fiennes,” he said on a weak note. “He may know of some local men. Er, don’t suppose you know him, Lucas. Fellow what lives at High Mallows.”

    Mr Hartshorne snorted. “Gets around with a crop in ’is ’and, never mind yer never see ’im with ’is leg acrosst a ’orse!”

    “He is a trifle eccentric,” said John-John to the Commander’s mildly enquiring look, “but not entirely a bad fellow.’

    “Miss Trottie don’t want ’im,” warned Mr Hartshorne.

    “Uh—no, I know.”

    Mr Hartshorne spat.

    “I think it would not hurt to ask him,” decided the Commander on a firm note. “Now, what do you think of this, Hartshorne? Mr Formby is thinking of one last voyage, so you and I may make ourselves comfortable in the farmhouse while we attack this place!”

    “Not a bad plan, sir,” he approved, his eyes lighting up. “–Empty, it be, only ’e left one great dresser,” he suddenly informed John-John.

    “Yes; we had a look at it,” agreed the Commander mildly. “We concluded the dresser was built in situ, for there was no way in the world it could have gone through the door.”

    “Not without it was took to bits,” agreed Mr Hartshorne. “Make a start, shall I, Commander, sir? No time like the present,” he urged.

    The Commander agreeing to this proposition, Mr Hartshorne stripped off his jacket, unrolled a sacking package which proved to contain a selection of implements, and attacked the ivy forthwith. Commander Henderson asking John-John if he would introduce him to Mr Piper-Fiennes, the two adjourned to High Mallows—John-John Formby, it must be admitted, not without the thought that the fellow could have walked up to the house and introduced himself, and, thoroughly decent and capable officer though he was, he was nigh as proper as his damned aunt, wasn’t he?

    An exceedingly strenuous day was then spent at Wardle Heights, with the assistance of one, Tom Bender, provided by Mr Piper-Fiennes and under the supervision of the interested Mr Paper-Fiennes himself who, indeed, became so enthusiastic over the thing that he removed his elegant riding coat and spiffing tan waistcoat, unknotted the brightly spotted silk handkerchief from about his collar, rolled up his sleeves and fell to with the rest of them. Mr Bender offering the comfortable reassurance that Mistress would never know.

    Mr Bender was quite sure that if they cut it all at the bottom, them stalks up above would wither, and though “stalks” was a misnomer, “jungle” would have been a better word, the others agreed, so, although the great temptation was to hack upwards and then haul away like blazes—Mr Hartshorne at one point breaking into a sailor’s chant as they did so—they resisted it as much as possible, in favour of concentrating on the lower levels of the jungle. Not a small task: it was over six-foot thick in places. And surprising progress was made.

    Mr Hartshorne was all for making a bonfire of the debris immediately but acceded to Mr Bender’s sage advice that it was too green, best let it dry out; so they merely piled it up in an immense heap. Which Commander Henderson, eyeing it warily, could only hope would not take root where it lay.

    When a halt was called to the work the five men were naturally very pleased with themselves and one another, and in fact Mr Piper-Fiennes shook hands heartily with the Commander, uttering: “Danged good show, sir! Don’t know when I’ve ’ad a better day! And I h’assure you as yourself and Mr Formby will be welcome guests at High Mallows the very next time m’mother gives a dinner party!”

    Ignoring as best he could Mr Bender’s mutter of: “Pigs’ll fly afore she does that,” Commander Henderson smiled, shook the hand heartily in return, thanked Mr Piper-Fiennes for his stalwart efforts and for the loan of Tom Bender, assured him they would be delighted to attend any function to which his mamma was so good as to invite them, and added that of course his would be a bachelor household but he hoped to see Mr Piper-Fiennes take pot-luck with him as soon as he had a cook.

    There was no doubt he was genuine, but John-John Formby, watching the exchange with that slightly sardonic detachment that characterised the Formbys, could not but notice that he hadn't promised his aunt would call on Mrs Piper-Fiennes. And he wasn’t the only one; as the Commander conducted the now reclad Mr Piper-Fiennes politely down towards the lane, Mr Hartshorne came up and muttered in his ear: “Bet ’e won’t ask ’is aunty to pay no call, though, Mr Formby, sir.”

    “No,” he agreed drily.

    “Ah. Not that the Commander wouldn’t, if she would, only see, thing is, she won’t. Not ’er. Gentry.” He spat.

    “Er—aye.” He hesitated: Hartshorne was of course Commander Henderson’s most loyal supporter in the entire world. “If he thought she would call, would he really ask her, though, do you think?”

    “My li’l Mr Middy?” he said in amaze, staring at him. “’Course ’e would! ’E ain’t proud!”

    Reflecting it had been pointless to ask him: the fellow was entirely partisan, John-John agreed with a kind smile: “No, of course he is not.” And did not point out that Commander Henderson, R.N., was no longer Mr Hartshorne’s little Mr Middy.

    “It can’t be a—a coincidence, or some such,” croaked Julia as, for the fifth day in succession, Victoria’s fashionable uncle drove Trottie True off in the curricle. It had been going on for nearly a month, now, and Mouse’s earlier suggestion that her sister was only driving out with him because no-one else wanted to and she was too kind-hearted to refuse him could pretty well be discounted. No young woman was that kind-hearted.

    “It certainly cannot be a coincidence, no,” returned Lash. “Though I suspect it may well be a some such!”

    “Yes, but Lash, does she even like him?” said Trottie True’s mother fearfully.

    “Help, you mean he may be just another Piper-Fiennes?” she said in horror. “He has the Corinthian outfit for it,” she noted.

    Alas: Julia, caught unawares, gave a shriek and collapsed in sniggers. “Oh, dear!” she said, wiping her eyes. “For Heaven’s sake don’t dare to mention him in front of the man, Lash! Um, but does she like him, do you think?”

    “Um… I confess at first I assumed the same as Mouse, that she was just letting him tool her round the place because she was too soft-hearted to refuse. Er, well, and slightly to escape Victoria and her everlasting chit-chat.”

    Julia nodded numbly.

    “I really think you’d best talk to her, Julia,” she said on a weak note.

    Julia nodded numbly.

    Although Blasted Oak House was commodious and its grounds spacious, it was not an easy matter to get one of the house-party alone: if one did not fall prey to the aunties wishing to gossip, it was Cousin Belinda making sure one was comfortable or forc—inviting one to drive out genteelly in the barouche to Lasset Place and etcetera. But she finally managed to take a stroll with her eldest daughter and managed to steer her to one of the rustick benches which Belinda had caused to be placed conveniently around the grounds. This one safely out of sight of the house.

    “Sit down, dear: I want to talk to you.”

    Rather pink, Trottie True sat down meekly on the bench.

    Julia sat down beside her with a sigh. “I have to admit it, Trottie True, the sight of a senior Royal Naval officer continually tooling you about in a curricle has taken us all by surprise.” She paused, but as expected, Trottie True said nothing. Julia took a deep breath. “If you know why you are accepting his invitations, could you please explain it to me very simply, dear?”

    Trottie True licked her lips uneasily. Then there was dead silence.

    “Very well, Trottie True, I’ll just say it. The man must be almost twice your age.”

    “Yes,” said Trottie True in a tiny voice. Julia was opening her mouth to say something, she wasn’t quite sure what, but something, but her daughter added, still in the tiny voice: “He was twenty-six when he took part in the Battle of Trafalgar.”

    Julia did the arithmetic, and gulped. “You do know he’s a grandfather?”

    “Yes,” she whispered.

    Julia eyed her dubiously. “Um, well, the thing isn’t impossible. Well, at least he’s not a Mr Yates.”

    Trottie True went fiery red and gave her a wounded look, but didn’t speak.

    Julia passed her hand over her thick waves. “I should have asked your pa to speak to you, after all. But you can say anything to me, you know, dear: I’ll understand. I dare say Captain Quarmby-Vine is a very pleasant man, but—but after Everard Deane? He—he was such a pretty young man!”

    “He was not only that,” said Trottie True in a very low voice.

    There hadn’t been much more to him, but did that generally count, with girls? Then Julia recollected what Joe had said to her of his talk with Trottie True back at the time of Mrs Rossiter’s dinner. The report was rather mixed up with an encomium on a fruit-cake, but—mm. “Er—well, he was a flirt, yes. Joe seems to think you realise you had a lucky escape.”

    “Yes,” she whispered.

    Julia took a very deep breath. “Dearest, just because one young man was—well, unreliable, and, er, did not look like making a very faithful husband, that’s no reason to assume that all young men are going to be like that, and—and fling yourself into the arms of—of Victoria’s uncle!”

    “I’m not,” she said in a strangled voice.

    “Um, no: sorry, dear, of course you’re not flinging yourself, but, um well, driving out with him is offering him encouragement, Trottie True.”

    Trottie True said nothing.

    “For Heaven’s sake! Do you even like the man?” she cried. “Why are you encouraging him? If it’s only because you’re sorry for him, or—or don’t know how to refuse him kindly, I’ll put a stop to it for you!”

    At this Trottie True’s big luminous eyes filled with tears. “No,” she whispered.

    “No, WHAT?” cried the driven Julia. “Give me a straight answer, for Heaven’s sale!”

    “I do like him,” she said in a small voice. “And—and he’s not really an uncle.”

    Julia stared at her. Trottie True gripped her hands together very tight in her lap and did not look up. Finally her mother offered desperately: “Dear, there is absolutely no need to feel you—you need to encourage him for the sake of—of an establishment. I mean, he could offer you—um, well, everything, I suppose,” she admitted. “Everything material, certainly. But do you want a life like Belinda Formby’s?”

    “I—I wouldn’t mind,” said Trottie True on an uncertain note.

    Julia thought she saw. “Trottie True,” she said grimly, “believe you me, being married to a man with whom one is not in love is not better than being a daughter at home—most especially not when the home is a loving one like yours!”

    Tears sparkled on the ends of Trottie True’s long lashes. “I know that, Ma. I—I wouldn’t. I just thought… I do like him,” she said in a very low voice. “Can it hurt to—to drive out with him and—and find out if it could be more? If—if that’s what he wants.”

    “I think there’s no doubt that’s what he wants. Why else would a grown man issue these continual invitations?”

    “Mm,” she murmured, blushing.

    Julia looked at the blush and experienced a feeling of exasperation that, alas, was rather wont to overcome her in her eldest daughter’s company. “But, um, well, you have known him for some months now… I mean, surely you know if you find him attractive?”

    “Well, I— At first I thought like you,” she said in such a low voice that Julia could hardly hear her.

    “Like me?” she said feebly.

    “That because he was not—not young and pretty like Everard Deane, I could not… You know: care for him.”

     Julia nodded groggily. “Go on,” she prompted, as she seemed to have stopped.

    “Um—thuh-then he lifted me down from the curricle when I sprained my ankle… Only the thing is, Ma,” she burst out, “such feelings are deceptive!”

    “Uh… Oh! You mean one can feel like that about a scoundr—um, about someone who turns out not to be, um, worthy of one’s regard, like Deane?” He had been weak and a flirt, but not really all that bad, so she sought desperately for another comparison and added weakly: “Or a Wickham or a Willoughby, I suppose.”

    “I knew you would make a joke of it!” cried Trottie True loudly, bursting into tears.

    “No! –Oh, glory,” muttered Julia. “Don’t cry, dear! I was only trying to think of—of a situation exactly like that! And, um, well, round our way girls usually marry the first fellow they take up with, or pretty much so, or at any rate lads they’ve known all their lives. –Oh, help. Take my handkerchief.”

    Trottie True accepted the handkerchief and after considerable gulping and sniffing—which Julia, alas, could not help wondering if Miss Austen’s heroines had also indulged in—managed to stop crying.

    “That’s better. Such feelings can be deceptive, dear, yes. But at the same time, they must be there, for the more intimate side of marriage to be enjoyable,” she said very firmly indeed.

    “I see,” croaked Trottie True, now a glowing puce.

    “I wouldn’t have said he was the type that you— I mean, he is an attractive man, of course!” said Julia with a little smile. “Kept his figure, too.”

    “He took his yacht out when a squall was blowing up which ripped the mains’l to blazes, and went out on the boom himself and brought it in!” she burst out, her eyes shining.

    Ned had reported some such farrago—yes. “I see,” said Julia limply. “Very—very manly,” she offered.

    “Oh, yes!” breathed Trottie True, clasping her hands to her bosom.

    “Mm.” Julia looked at the said bosom thoughtfully. Trottie True’s figure was unlike the other girls’: where Captain Cutlass and Niners tended to the frankly buxom, like Julia herself, and Mouse was a small, neat person all over, Trottie True was a slim girl, with a narrow back, tiny waist and slender limbs, but in contrast very full in front. Julia could not have said how Cousin Belinda had managed to convey the information, for she was unbelievably mealy-mouthed, but she had it made it quite clear that her brother preferred two good handfuls on a woman—Lady Stamforth being a case in point, apparently. The which assurance, with the joint one that there was nothing in the Captain’s longstanding admiration for her Ladyship, pretty well proved that Belinda had spotted that her brother’s admiration for Trottie True was more than just a passing fancy, didn’t it? Well, if that was what a man liked, he generally went on preferring it: so much the better! “Well,” she said on a brisker note, “I think you should see more of him, dear, and get to know him. And, um, don’t take this amiss, but I think I’ll ask your pa to speak to Cousin John about him. For after all, he has had—and it’s no use blinking at facts, Trottie True—he has had a whole other life, before this.”

    Far from taking this amiss, Trottie True merely smiled mistily and countered with an exact description of the Captain’s two daughters, whom she had never seen, and their little children, whom ditto. Good grief: did the girl aspire to be a grandmother, at her age? Well, reflected Julia heavily, much though she loved her, she never had been able to understand her, but if this hearty, much older Naval man was really what she wanted— But she might get Joe to speak to her, too: she always had been his little pet, and he seemed to be able to get her to talk.

    Joe duly spoke to her and reported with a laugh that she hadn’t said much, but at least she didn’t seem took in by him like she had been by Deane, and if she found him manly, so much the better! And before Julia said anything, it was better than being a half-man, like Stottle, or a silhouette of a Corinthian like Piper-Fiennes! Julia echoing blankly “Silhouette?”, Joe made motions as of one cutting out with a pair of scissors, and reminded her of the hideous black things in Cousin Belinda’s sitting-room. At which his spouse conceded weakly that they were very clever, but—yes. And Captain Quarmby-Vine had had a genuinely distinguished Naval career.

    The talk with Cousin John put Joe in a much more thoughtful mood. At last he said: “Um, look, Julia, I’d best come clean and tell you exactly what John said.”

    “Yes?” she said fearfully.

    He scratched his chin. “Well, the career is what we gathered. Dare say he wouldn’t have got his promotion if his family hadn’t been what it is, but nonetheless he was a capable commander, and well respected by his fellow officers. You know about the daughters, so I won’t go into that. Their husbands sound like decent men, if on the dull side. Um—well, it sounds as if Trottie True resembles his late wife. Slip of a thing, too: very pretty.”

    “But?”

    He made a face. “Well, you wouldn’t expect a man of his age to live like a monk after the wife died, and I gather he’s always liked the pretty ladies. John is sure there isn’t anybody now, and in fact not for a couple of years, but he knows of at least two society dames who’ve been his mistresses, Julia.”

    “I see.”

    Joe looked at her face and in spite of his decision to tell her the lot decided not to mention the little milliner that the Captain had at one point set up in a pretty little house on the outskirts of London. Because she had now married another fellow and had a family by him and—well, it wouldn’t have done in their circles, but by the social norms of the Captain’s set he had very much done the decent thing by her: putting the house in her name. “Like I say, can’t expect a man to behave like a monk. And would we want Trottie True to take a monk?”

    “Ugh! No!” she said with an expression of startled distaste.

    “No. And,” he said slowly, “she ain’t a girl any longer, Julia, she’s a young woman. Well, I don’t know how far Everard Deane went—though I do know how far he didn’t go, so don’t panic; but there’s no doubt he liked the ladies too much and could wind ’em round his little finger. And she was engaged to the fellow, after all.”

    “You mean to say you got that out of her?” she croaked.

    “Not in so many words, no. But I did gather it wasn’t just the odd kiss behind the parlour door.”

    “I’d have said she was the last girl—!”

    “Yes, but you’re a female,” said Joe tolerantly. “Deane wasn’t. And, like I say, knew how to charm ’em.”

    “Mm… John is sure the Captain has no woman now, is he?”

    “Positive. Well, he’s been seriously looking for a wife for some while, you see. Don’t worry, he isn’t the sort to mount a mistress behind his wife’s back.”

    “Did you ask John that straight out, Joe?”

    “Yes, of course.”

    Julia sagged. “That isn’t too bad, then.”

    “No. Mind, he does lead a pretty fashionable life: always in town for the Season, that sort of nonsense. But John seems to think he’s genuine about wanting to settle down on a country place.”

    “Country place!” said Julia on a mad note. “Our Trottie True?”

    “Why not? Seems quite comfortable here,” he said placidly.

    As a matter of fact she did, now Julia came to think of it. It was Lash and Mouse who were bemoaning the endless bonnet-wearing, not to say corset-wearing.

    “Ye-es… She’s so good, though, dear, it’s hard to know...”

    “Well, I think that’s a reason why Belinda’s sort of life would suit her,” he said mildly. “Always been well-behaved, with no impulse to break out—or chuck her corset away,” he added drily.

    Julia laughed. That had been a very young Lash, years back.

    “Well,” he said, smiling, “Trottie True ought to have her chance. I think she truly does want him, Julia. And far from sleeping with other women behind her back, I’d say he’ll be over-protective, if anything. John says he was terrifically uxorious when the wife was alive.”

    “Why didn’t you say so in the first place?” demanded Julia indignantly.

    “Uh—thought you might think it was frivolous,” he said feebly.

    “Frivolous! Isn’t it the point?”

    Uh—if she said so. “Good. Er… How long would it be before a fellow that ain’t young requests an interview with the girl’s father, do you think?” he said in a hollow voice.

    “I was wondering that,” she admitted.

    “Aye. Well, he has to look for a house, that might slow him down a bit.”

    Julia swallowed. “Mm. Um, Belinda did mention that it isn’t certain the Ainsleys will renew the lease of Little Lasset for another year. Looking back, it—it was a hint, I think. At least she seems to approve of the thing—one less worry!”

    “Aye. And Trottie True’d be within easy reach,” he said with a smothered sigh.

    “Yes, that’d be a big advantage. And—and Joe, she can’t go on being our little Trottie True at home forever, you know.”

    “No, ’course not!” he said quickly. “Don’t want her to dwindle into a spinster, for God’s sake!”

    No. He did want her to go being his little Trottie True at home, however, she was pretty sure of that. “In a year or so she may have a Trottie True of her own,” said Julia on a firm note.

    Smiling, Joe replied: “That’d be nice! The first grandchild, eh?”

    “Well—well, yes!” said Julia in shaken tones.

Next chapter:

https://thefortunateformbys.blogspot.com/2023/10/backsliders.html