Gentility

9

Gentility

    The dinner party threatened by Dr Kent’s sister, Mrs Rossiter, had developed into a reality—which meant, of course, that Julia would have to offer hospitality in return. First, however, was the problem of who was to be made to accept the invitation. Trottie True sighed and murmured that she felt it was the other girls’ turn, in view of her age, Niners remarked that the company would be uninspiring, Captain Cutlass flatly refused to go, noting that it would be a pointless exercise and into the bargain adding that Dr Kent had a limited mind, and Mouse sighed and said she would go if her mother insisted. Victoria, by contrast, though noting that Dr Kent was a small-town doctor, was clearly thrilled at the prospect.

    “I’ll speak to ’em,” offered Joe grimly.

    “Captain Cutlass is being impossible,” warned Julia.

    “Yes: I’ll speak to her first.”

    As expected, Captain Cutlass began: “Pa, it’s stupid and pointl—”

    “Calpurnia Catherine,” said Joe heavily, “isn’t it time you grew up and realised that you’re making your mother very unhappy?”

    Captain Cutlass went very red. “I— But Pa, it’s stupid!”

    “Of course it’s stupid, but it’s one evening out of your life: can it signify in the larger scheme of things? You’re very like my old gran, and she lived to be ninety-three.”

    Captain Cutlass felt her yellow curls. “I know I’ve got her hair… Ninety-three? Help.”

    “Quite. She was a woman of independent mind, too—well, rescued that Froggy sailor that gave her the receet for the fish soup from off the rocks round where the oysters are, and nursed him back to health in spite of everything.”

    “In spite of what?” she asked uncertainly.

    Joe eyed her drily. “Largely, the remarks passed by her family about the impropriety of having a strange young man in your house when your husband was off at sea. Not to mention what the neighbours thought. But as well, in spite of the fact that they had no common language. Though by the time Grandpa Joe came back from sea—if he ever was my grandpa,” he noted by the by—“her French was quite good.”

    After some time Captain Cutlass said limply: “How long was the Froggy with her, then?”

    “Long enough to have fathered my Pa and Uncle Jim—Cousin John’s Pa,” said Joe Formby drily. “Well over a year. But Grandpa Formby chose to go to sea, you know, he weren’t press-ganged.” He shrugged. “More fool him.”

    “Yes. –I suppose it shows you never know what might happen.”

    “Mm? Oh—aye. Though I agree it’s unlikely that anything at all will happen at a dashed Waddington-on-Sea dinner party. And I know you’re too young to understand what she feels, but just take it from me that letting her drag you to these damned affairs will make your mother happy.”

    “Very well,” she said heavily. “I’ll go, in future, however stupid they are. Though you needn’t expect me to enjoy them!”

    Joe agreed with a twinkle in his eye that he wouldn’t expect that, and went off to tackle Niners.

    “Miss Henderson says—”

    “Elizabeth,” he said loudly, “I would have expected better sense from you than to quote that dried-up old spinster at every other second! She may know all about running a genteel household, but she don’t know a thing about life or love!”

    Unexpectedly Niners went very red and looked at him helplessly.

    Joe took a deep breath. “Dr Kent’s a bit of a dull stick, dare say Captain Cutlass’s right in claiming he don’t have an original mind, but a very decent fellow, who looks after the poorest folk for nothing. Never mind if the Kents ain’t the right company for you, your mother imagines that she’s giving you an opportunity to meet suitable gents by taking you to these damned affairs. At least go with the appearance of complaisance, and make her happy.”

    “I had not thought,” said Niners, with the suspicion of a wobble about the full lower lip that was so like Julia’s, “that I would upset Ma by refusing. And I—I cannot imagine whom you can mean by suitable gents, Pa. We know everyone in Waddington-on-Sea.”

    Joe sighed, and did not approach that last point. “Lovey,” he said, covering her long, thin hand with his big wide one, “you look so like your Ma at that age. Why can’t you try to be a bit more like her? Well, at your age she’d already had Trottie True and Little Joe!” he admitted with a smile. “But she was as merry as a grig when she was a lass: full of fun and high spirits—and can be still, if you lot will only give her half a chance! Never turned down an invitation to a party in her life, and it was a real fight to get a dance with her, I can tell you!”

    “I suppose I don’t have that nature,” said Niners, blushing very much.

    “But don’t you enjoy dancing with—uh—well, even young Bob from next-door, he’s a good-looking lad!” he said on a desperate note. “Y’don’t have to feel anything serious for him to enjoy a dance, y’know!”

    “I’ll try, Pa,” she said obediently. “And I do take your point about appearing to enjoy the parties, and I’m very sorry if my remarks have upset Ma. I shall watch my tongue in future. Is that all? Miss Hen— I mean, I am expected.”

    “Yes, run along, dear,” said Joe heavily.

    Niners hurried out and Joe mopped his forehead, sighing, wondering madly how he and Julia between them had ever managed to produce such a cuckoo as Elizabeth “Niners” Formby. And if, in fact, there could be something cursed about being born at the ninth hour of the ninth day of the ninth month—and perhaps they shouldn’t have turned it into a joke? Uh—no. Rubbish.

    Trottie True of course was so very dutiful that she didn’t rate the same sort of talking to as the other two. After some thought, however, Joe did tackle her. He waited until the lads were all stuffing their faces on leftover Christmas cake out in the back, and took a plate through to her in the shop. As usual at this period business was very slack.

    He waited while she ate a slice and then said: “You know I never thought very much of young Everard Deane, though I agreed to your engagement to him. Worst flirt what ever wore pantaloons, and if he was brave enough, pretty silly with it. But I know he was what you wanted at the time. But since he was drowned—”

    “Pa, please don’t tell me I had a lucky escape,” said Trottie True in a strangled voice.

    “I wouldn’t go that far. Many such marriages work out perfectly well: if the woman is sensible it doesn’t matter all that much if the man is weak or even if he strays a bit.”

    “How can you say such things?” she gasped in horror.

    “Look, don’t let’s pretend, between us, that he wasn’t like that, Trottie True.”

    “I realise that now, and I—I do think I had a lucky escape,” she said, going very red.

    Joe’s jaw dropped. “Oh,” he croaked.

    “Yes,” she said, swallowing. “I don’t need telling. I realised it quite some time ago. I do not think that I could ever have supported marriage to a man like that with—with equanimity. But I… One can tell oneself such a thing, and—and still the affections may remain unaltered,” she ended in a very low voice.

    Oh, Hell! thought Joe Formby in pure dismay. “You duh-don’t still—”

    “Not any more,” said Trottie True with a little sigh. “In fact, I look back on that girl of five years agone and wonder who she was.”

    Joe sagged in relief. He ate cake blindly. After a while he managed to say: “Now, would it do any harm to please your Ma by going to a few little parties? I mean, uh, well, all men aren’t that type.”

    “I know. But as I cannot imagine that anyone we know locally will invite anyone whom I have not already met, I don’t feel that there is very much point in my attending parties.”

    “None at all, except that it’ll make your mother happy. Just pretend to enjoy yourself, and I’ll try to make her let you off the worst of ’em,” said Joe with a sigh.

    Dr Kent struck one as such a sensible, down-to-earth man that it had not occurred to any of the Formbys that the trait might not run in the family. His sister, however, turned out to be a woman of seething, yes, seething gentility. The dinner itself was indicative. Given the weather, which had turned very cold and bitter, a solid English roast with a couple of boats of gravy was called for. Mrs Rossiter, however, offered all made dishes. No, well, three soups, each more delicate than the last—and Julia freely admitted the white soup was a triumph—and besides those, all made dishes, save for a platter of snipe, the poor little bodies stuffed with a mixture chopped so fine it was impossible to tell what it contained and the poor little legs ornamented with positively Lilliputian cuffs. There were collops of this and that, fricasseed this and t’other, ragoûts de whatever-you-cared-to-name, tiny tartlets filled with minute portions of minced goodness-knew-what in elaborate sauces, and everything that could be garnished with fancy fleurons of pastry was—some of these actually being stuffed with minutely chopped goodness-knew-what cohered with yet another delicate sauce!

    The hostess’s conversation was as ladylike as her fare and the unfortunate Joe Formby, placed at her right hand, was soon at a loss: he confined himself to eating, interspersed with grinning, nodding and the occasional: “That right?” or “I’m sure.” Mr Pierce, the apothecary from the High Street, was at her other hand, and since he was even more ladylike than she the two found themselves in perfect accord on such unexceptionable topics as the unpleasantness of the weather, the unsuitability of the mayoral arms’ recent appearance on the door of the Cox family carriage, the edifying message of Mr Skellett’s sermon last Sunday, and the eligibility of an unmarried gentleman’s driving a tilbury.

    Mrs Rossiter had managed to balance her table—two minutes in her company would have been enough to convince even the most doubting Thomas that she would—and so the single gentlemen supporting Mr Pierce comprised, in addition to her brother and son, Mr Abercrombie, one of Trottie True’s most fervent admirers but unfortunately old enough to be her grandfather, young James Aylward, whose father was the local draper, and an unknown Mr Waters, a dark, burly man who was, Mrs Rossiter carefully explained, the brother-in-law of her sister Laetitia.

    Mr Waters was lately retired from his business and was to settle in the district, having just taken the lease of a house. Camperdown was its name: perhaps they knew of it? asked Mrs Rossiter, as the gentlemen rejoined the ladies. It was out beyond Stamforth Castle. This did not appear to ring any bells with the rest of the company, perhaps because most of Sussex lay beyond Stamforth Castle, so Captain Cutlass said heavily: “It’s just to the north of Castleview Farm. The land runs Southdowns. It’s the house with a fine avenue of old oaks.”

    “That’s right, Miss Calpurnia,” agreed Mr Waters.

    “Dear,” said Julia weakly, “when were you out that way?”

    “I’ve been out in that direction with Mr Moon a couple of times. Actually, didn’t you say Miss Henderson knows the house, Niners?”

    “Yes,” said Niners in a low voice, reddening, and conscious of a wish that the family would call her Elizabeth in company. “She was used to visit in her girlhood, when it was occupied by a family called Grosvenor.”

    “Aye, that’d be right, Miss Elizabeth,” said Mr Waters, looking at the blush, the creamy skin, the thick, dark waves and the fine carriage with interest. “Had the lease for years, they did, but the old man popped off, and the sons married ladies who brought them decent properties, so the widow went to live with one of them. Well, it’s a big house to rattle around in all by yourself, I don’t mind admitting it!”

    “Have you no family of your own, then, Mr Waters?” asked Julia politely.

    “I’ve been a widower for over ten years, Mrs Formby, but I do have a son, Frank.”

    “I see,” said Julia, not daring to catch anybody’s eye. A retired merchant with a country house and a son called Frank? Help!

    “Frank, did you say?” asked Lash, her eyes twinkling. “What a coincidence.”

    “Lash, it isn’t!” said Julia quickly.

    “I can see it’s a joke, Mrs Formby, but I must admit, I can’t see what the joke is,” said Mr Waters placidly.

    “A joke, Evan?” echoed Mrs Rossiter uncertainly.

    Julia gave Lash a reproving look but her sister-in-law just sat there with her eyes twinkling. “It’s just that a book we’re all very fond of describes a very similar situation: a man who has lately retired from his business”—Why had she started this explanation? Dratted Lash!—“takes a house and, um, he has a son called Frank.”

    “That right? Well, that is a coincidence.”

    “Nothing else matches,” said Niners hoarsely, going bright red as the attention of the company became focused upon her.

    “Is that so, Miss Elizabeth?” said Mr Waters politely but with the suspicion of a twinkle about him which Niners did not catch.

    “No, um, for he had just married the heroine’s former governess,” she said lamely.

    “Well, that ain’t like me!” he said cheerfully. “Don’t think I’d fancy a governess. Well, I’ve only met a couple, but they were both sad-looking women with damp hands.”

    “Ugh!” said young James Aylward with a startled laugh.

    “Ugh it was,” agreed Mr Waters sedately. “One of ’em had a moustache, into the bargain.”

    “I don’t think those are characteristics which one can help,” stated Captain Cutlass grimly.

    “No, but they ain’t characteristics which another can enjoy, Miss Calpurnia,” returned the retired merchant placidly. “You’ve read this book with the son called Frank, too, have you?”

    “Yes. He turned out to be the villain of the piece, but then, life doesn’t have to imitate art, does it?”

    “No, it don’t, and my Frank’s a bit young to be a villain, I’d say.”

    Suddenly Captain Cutlass smiled at him. “How old is he?”

    “Twelve,” said Mr Waters calmly.

    She laughed. “There! So much for your literary parallels, Aunty Lash!”

    In the wake of this dinner party Julia, to her sister-in-law’s astonishment, appeared to think that Mr Waters had much admired Captain Cutlass. Lash herself had perceived very clearly that although he had been quite taken with her, he had been more struck by Niners.

    “Didn’t you think?” said Julia with a laugh. “Of course it was nothing serious. He must be Joe’s age!”

    “Younger, I think, Julia.”

    “Well, not too young,” said Julia with a smile. “Did you like him?”

    “Yes; I thought he seemed quite amiable, and not without a sense of humour.”

    Julia’s face fell. “Is that all?”

    “Yes. Oh! Stop trying to match-make for me, Julia. I don’t think I’m his type.”

    “A pleasant man of a suitable age, with a lovely house? Try to be his type, Lash!”

    “One cannot force a preference,” replied Lash, bending over her work. –Mending, again. They were not in want and there was absolutely no need for her to contribute anything to the household, let alone mend what looked suspiciously like a sheet that Little Joe had stuck his great foot through. Julia sighed, and did not say it.

    Julia’s own dinner party was the next entertainment. In view of the marked attentions paid by young Mr Rossiter to Mouse and by James Aylward to Captain Cutlass at Mrs Rossiter’s dinner, the girls’ mother might have had reason to feel sanguine about her guest list—except that neither of the two young ladies had offered these completely suitable young men any encouragement whatsoever. The size of the table with all the extensions in it also allowed Julia to ask Miss Henderson, Niners having intimated that an invitation would meet with a gracious reception in that quarter, and the elderly Mr Abercrombie. Unfortunately Mr Waters was no longer staying with Dr Kent, or they might have had him instead of Abercrombie.

    “Now,” Julia instructed her male belongings sternly before the guests arrived: “remember what I said. Don’t fleece anyone at cards,”—she looked hard at Joe—“and don’t beat any guests hollow at spillikins.”—She looked hard at Little Joe. “Topics to be avoided. Religion of any kind.” She shifted the hard eye back to Joe.

    “I never— No, all right, Julia.”

    “Politics,” she continued grimly. “Including local politics.” She looked grimly at her son.

    “Old Cox won’t be here tonight.”

    “Nevertheless. And keep young Len Barnes off the subject, too.”

    “Uh—yes. Well, he thinks he holds radical beliefs without really having a notion of what radicalism is, but— All right, I’ll do my best.”

    “That includes any reference to poverty amongst the local fishing folk, Little Joe.”

    “It wasn’t me brought the subject up, Ma, it was Dr Kent!”

    “Unexceptionable topics only, eh?” said Joe quickly. He gave Little Joe a warning look just as that misguided fruit of his loins was opening his huge fat mouth about to shove his great boot into it, and Little Joe subsided, smiling sheepishly.

    In the kitchen Julia inspected everything anxiously. It was, of course, all perfect, though Aunty Jicksy did make the mistake of saying that if she was being that fancy, why hadn't she done her white soup? She then inspected Mrs Lumley’s Rosie Kettle narrowly, but as she had been sitting on a hard chair under Aunty Bouncer’s eye, there was not a mark on her spanking clean new cap and apron, and she was even allowed to run upstairs and ask the young ladies to please hurry down.

    “Captain Cutlass reckons she’s never seen her drop anything,” Aunty Bouncer reminded the fidgeting Julia tolerantly.

    “No, possibly not, but there’s always a first time. And I’m sure she’s not going to remember to announce the guests properly.”

    “She’s been practising,” said Aunty Bouncer tolerantly. “Ben pretended to be Dr Kent and Jicksy was ’is sister and Ned was the lad, and she done them all fine; well, it come out ‘Rossyter’ but we thought that wasn’t bad.”

    “She’ll be all right!” said Aunty Jicksy briskly. “You get on back to the parlour, Julia.”

    “Mm. Well, the giblet soup looks wonderful, Cookie.”

    “Right, and if they don’t like the cream of parsnip, they can choke on it!” agreed Aunty Bouncer. “Go on. And don’t worry about us: we wouldn’t join that lot if yer paid us!”

    Smiling weakly, Julia went.

    The pre-prandial period went reasonably well, given that Joe warned Dr Kent with a wink that the sherry was like gnat’s piss and he’d be better off taking a glass of Madeira, that Captain Cutlass offered Mrs Rossiter a short discourse on the curious effect matrimony was known to have on the female palate, deemed fit only for orgeat or lemonade in its maidenly state, but instantaneously fitted for sherry, champagne and table wines once the ring was on the finger, and that Little Joe’s friend, Len Barnes, appeared to fall instantly in love with Victoria, a passion which was only too evidently not reciprocated by its object.

    The dinner itself went off very well, Julia managing to accept Mr Abercrombie’s hearty congratulations on her superb roast goose and saddle of mutton without even glancing past him at Mrs Rossiter. Well, for Heaven’s sake, it was the time of year for roasts! And she sincerely doubted that Mrs Rossiter had the brains to take the point. An overabundance of made dishes she would instantly have perceived as a challenge to herself—but the other, Julia felt with a certain smugness as Dr Kent allowed Joe to carve him a large second helping of goose, was far too subtle for her and would be accepted as merely confirming her comfortable conviction that the Formbys were not as genteel as the Rossiters.

    It was a pity they couldn’t embark on cards and lottery tickets the instant the gentlemen rejoined the ladies after the meal, especially as Joe seemed to be holding forth about possible applications of steam in the printing business, a topic which Julia had difficulty in believing Dr Kent could find all that interesting. And as, on the distaff side, Miss Henderson was graciously favouring Lash, Captain Cutlass and Niners with her opinion on cheese. But of course the dining parlour had to be cleared, before the table could be used for lottery tickets. –Cheese? But it had not been served! Oh—its not being a genteel food. No, well, Julia was aware of that prejudice, and so the giant Christmas cheddar into which Joe and Nunky Ben had some time since ceremoniously poured quantities of port had been left to the mercies of the latter in the kitchen tonight.

    Graciously Mrs Rossiter observed that they had no instrument.

    “What?” said Julia, jumping. “I do beg your pardon, Mrs Rossiter. Er, no, we’re not musical. Uh—our Cousin Victoria plays, however.”

    Miss Henderson leaned forward a little, smiling graciously. “But of course Elizabeth sings.”

    Mrs Rossiter looked expectantly at Niners, smiling graciously.

    “That would be delightful, Miss Elizabeth, if you would care to,” agreed young Mr Rossiter politely.

    “She doesn’t really sing,” said Julia feebly, “although Miss Henderson has been kindly, um,”—help, not teaching, the woman was too genteel to find the word anything but an insult—“um, giving her some coaching!”

    “But my dear Mrs Formby, of course she sings,” said Miss Henderson. “Where is your music, Elizabeth?”

    Julia just goggled as Niners admitted it was in her room and was dispatched to get it, and Miss Henderson gave them a short dissertation on the qualities of the unaccompanied voice. Niners then came back and, Miss Henderson having composedly produced a tuning fork from her reticule and struck it for her, sang. Her family listened with their jaws dropping. Niners could actually sing! Her voice was very deep, and the little Scotch songs which Miss Aitch apparently deemed suitable to it very pretty indeed. If very Scotch.

    Apart from the surprise of Niners’ singing, nothing remarkable happened at the dinner party, and nothing untoward, either, even Little Joe obligingly losing at spillikins, and Julia was able to admit to her spouse with a sigh that it had all gone off very well.

    “’Course it did!” agreed Joe, blowing out the candle. “Go to sleep, love, you must be exhausted.”

    “Ye-es…” she said vaguely. “I just wish I could have dredged up someone suitable for Lash: that black silk does so become her, and it was wasted! I suppose I should have made a push to invite Mr Waters, but I don’t think he would have paid her any attentions if I had done. He didn’t seem struck by her at Mrs Rossiter’s dinner.”

    “No. Well, she has had two husbands, love,” ventured Lash’s brother cautiously.

    “You’re counting old Mr Yates, are you?” replied Julia grimly.

    “Uh—not really, no. Never mind, Julia, you’ve repaid Mrs R.’s hospitality and shown you can give a fancy dinner party with the best of ’em! I thought it went off very well, considering!”

    Julia didn’t say Considering what? He was doing his best. And at least it hadn't been an unmitigated disaster—and when you considered what might have happened!

    “What’s up?” asked Joe in alarm as the bed shook. “Not bawling, surely?”

    “No!” said Julia with a gurgle. “I was just thinking, we came off jolly well, considering what might have happened: what if Victoria had fallen for young Len Barnes?”

    Joe agreeing with a chuckle, and suggesting ever more unlikely combinations—Miss Aitch and the blushful young Mr Aylward, or Mrs Rossiter and Little Joe—the day of Julia’s dinner party ended with the host and hostess falling asleep with smiles on their faces.

    Life at Number 10 New Short Street resumed the normal even tenor of its way with the return of Victoria to her own home at the end of January. Cousin John had admitted, with a grin, that she wasn’t all that much improved but they were missing her, and at least the megrims over damned Darrow seemed to have stopped. Much to the Joe Formbys’ surprise Victoria not only presented every member of the household including Cookie and Dog Tuesday with a little present upon her departure, but asked if she might call regularly? And so far was sticking to it. Not on Wednesday, of course, since dear Cousin Julia had her drawing lesson with Miss Pickles on that day, and not on Tuesday, since that was Mrs Dove’s day off, and she knew that Monday was wash-day—so perhaps Thursday? Julia agreed that Thursday would be lovely. She would normally arrive in time for the midday meal, spend the earlier part of the afternoon in gossip and the latter in reading to Ned and her two little brothers, who had, as promised, been sent to the local school, and go home with the little boys.

    As March approached her conversation began to concentrate more and more on her coming London Season, but on the whole, the usual topics of her dress and Blasted Oak House’s genteel neighbours were just as boring, so—

    More or less in self-defence Lash decided a fresh pot of tea would be welcome and tottered off to the kitchen with the tray. Though as Polly Patch was now back with them, there was no positive need to do so.

    “Good, is it?” said Cookie drily as she set the tray down with a groan.

    “My dear Mrs Dove, ‘good’ cannot approximate to the delightful elegance of the narrative, the gracious condescension of all society in the neighbourhood of Blasted Oak House, or the variety and delicacy of the viands offered at their boards!”

    “Thought yer was gonna run down, for a bit, there,” she conceded, grinning. “Make another pot, shall I?”

    Lash sat down heavily at the table. “Yes, please, Cookie,” she sighed.

    “Yer don’t ’ave to go back, Mrs Lash,” ventured Polly Patch as the pot was rinsed and the kettle boiled.

    “Well, nothing is forcing me to, Polly, no,” replied Lash kindly, “but I had best support Mrs Formby: it is not fair to let her bear the brunt. Would you like to take the tray through?”

    Polly got up, looking uneasy. “She won’t talk at me, will she?” she hissed.

    “I doubt if she will even nod graciously at you, Polly, dear!” said Lash with her lovely smile.

    “I’ll do it, then!” she said bravely.

    In the front parlour it was still going on, and the tea did not stem the flow. “Oh, delightful!” cooed Victoria, seizing upon her fresh cup. “Oh, I must tell you that Lady Stamforth has favoured Mamma with some of the new Indian tea! Uncle Charles has been staying at the castle, and she sent it over with him, was that not so thoughtful? Of course, her Ladyship’s brother-in-law—”

    They just sat back and let it flood past. Though Julia did manage at one point: “Darjeeling, dear? Yes, I think Millicent’s Major Miller once mentioned that.”

    Finally Victoria sat back, looking complacent, and sipped her cooled tea.

    “Um, but you will miss your mamma, if it is your Aunt Phyllis who is to look after you in London,” offered Julia into the total silence that had fallen.

    “Out of course, though Aunt Phyllis is all that is kind,” replied Victoria on a gracious note. “But Mamma will not be dull at home, you know: only guess! Little Lasset is let at last!"

    “Oh, yes?” said Julia blankly.

    “To the south of Lasset Place, isn’t it, Victoria?” said Captain Cutlass valiantly.

    “Indeed, dear Cousin.” Imparting the riveting information that it was quite a commodious house, in the taste of the previous century, and in spite of not having had a tenant for years, in quite good repair, Victoria added coyly: “I shall give you a clue! It is someone who visited in these parts not so very long since!”

    Everyone was blank, and so she revealed: “It is Mr Luís Ainsley and the Señora Ainsley. And his Papa, Sir Harry Ainsley. It is so delightful to know that such unexceptionable acquaintances have moved into the neighbourhood!”

    Captain Cutlass’s mouth tightened and she was silent. The old aunties were, to Julia’s relief, genuinely blank, though Aunty Jicksy did offer: “Some of them lot what stayed at the castle, eh? Belinda’ll enjoy that, aye.” She herself did her best to nod and smile politely. Mercifully, John Formby then arrived to remove his offspring, and Victoria, with many gay promises to see them very soon and, as dear Uncle Charles was now staying, to bring him over to see them, for he had begged for the treat, was borne away.

    Captain Cutlass, saying nothing, went upstairs, and Julia staggered off to the kitchen, where she subsided into the rocker and did not object when Cookie reached the bottle down for her.

    In the parlour Jicksy said brightly: “This uncle of Victoria’s: would he be the Quarmby-Vine you saw with the lady and the pug, that time, Bouncer?”

    Bouncer gave a smothered snigger. “Sounds la-de-da enough, eh?”

    Fortunately they did not seemed to have spotted, as Lash had, that there was something up with Captain Cutlass and that Julia seemed to have a good idea what it was: they indulged their wit at the expense of the unknown Quarmby-Vine uncle for some time.

    Captain Quarmby-Vine, R.N. (Rtd.) was a bluff, hearty man in his mid-years. His brother-in-law John Formby would have been the first to admit that he was frank, honest, entirely well-meaning and of an optimistic temperament. And his sister Belinda Formby would have been the first to admit that there was nothing at all in his longstanding admiration for Lady Stamforth, but it was a great pity he could not have fixed his interest with a woman of conformable temperament. At this point in time the Captain had been a widower for many years, his two daughters were grown and married with young families, and he had not had a ship since the Peace, though for some time he had, as he put it, sailed a desk at the Admiralty. Being desk-bound had not appealed and he had resigned his commission a few years earlier. He was known by the Upper Ten Thousand to be looking around for a pleasant country place, and certainly looking around for a lady to put in it. He was not hanging out for a rich wife: the Quarmby-Vines were a wealthy family and in addition there had been several prize ships in the course of a successful naval career. There were not a few Society mammas who would have looked kindly on any attentions the Captain might care to offer their daughters; but the usual run of simpering débutantes did not appeal.

    He was very happy to be spending a few weeks at Blasted Oak House and arrived with a carriageload of presents for the family. As was his tendency, the genial Captain had gone slightly overboard, and his sister expressed mingled gratitude and laughing protest as the packages were presented. Charles Quarmby-Vine, who had expected no less, preened himself a little and assured her it was nothing—mere trifles!

    Rather naturally Victoria was thrilled to receive a pretty painted fan with ivory sticks and lost no time in acquainting Uncle Charles with all her doings, including a very full description of the cousins in Waddington-on-Sea. The good-natured Captain expressing kindly interest, Victoria expanded on her theme. The cousins would have been astounded to hear her: the visits to the “odd-bodies” on the day of the holly gathering had made a terrific impression, evidently—though the episode had certainly not struck any at Number 10 New Short Street that way—and so the Captain received a rapturous account of Trottie True’s sweet nature and charitable heart.

    “Though I have to admit, dear Uncle Charles, that it is scarce conceivable that a family could let a young woman reach the age of five-and-twenty without having found a suitable partner for her! Though she was engaged, once, at the age of twenty: such a tragic story! He was a sub-lieutenant in the Merchant Navy, on the same ship as her brother John-John. He was drowned.”

    “Very sad. How did it happen, m’dear?”

    “We-ell… Captain Cutlass did tell me the details, dear Uncle Charles,” said Victoria, opening her eyes very wide at him. “But I have to confess it was all so very nautical, that I may not have perfectly grasped it. Is the expression scramble net familiar?”

    “Fairly familiar, aye,” agreed the Captain somewhat drily, though not unkindly. “You mean scrambling net, m’dear. What happened? Seas get up before he could get back aboard?”

    “I am not perfectly sure about the seas… No, but the thing was, a poor sailor swam out too far and was going down, and Everard Deane—is that not a Romantick name?—Everard Deane leapt off the ship to save him, and was, alas, pulled down with him! Was not that the most gallant, tragic thing ever?”

    “Aye: very sad,” he managed.

    Victoria eyed him sideways. “I think so! But Captain Cutlass said the captain was furious and said that a man should know his own limitations, and that it should be a lesson to all the younger officers.”

    “Aye,” said the burly sea captain on a very dry note indeed. “Poor swimmer, were he?”

    “Well, yes, so I believe. But I think it was all the more gallant of him! And so now poor dear Trottie True, you see, has flung herself into her charitable work!”

    Right, concluded the Captain. Haggish spinster, given to good works, thought as much. He listened with half an ear as Victoria launched into an encomium of the intrepidity of Mouse and Captain Cutlass, reflecting a trifle wistfully that they sounded a jolly family and it was a pity that his Jane and Maria had only ever been interested in stitchery and such stuff. And not reflecting that this could perhaps have had something to do with his having been at sea during all of their growing up.

    Amiably he agreed when Victoria suggested that he might like to come over to the town.

    “Well, make sure she takes you to see Joe at the shop, not just to the damn’ tea shop and that place that sells the eternal ribbons. And she’s got drawersful of ’em, Charles, so don’t shell out your gelt!” warned his brother-in-law as the gentlemen blew a cloud together in the study that evening.

    Predictably, the genial Captain just laughed.

    “This is it!” said Victoria excitedly, peering from the carriage. “Elephant Close! See, there is the old inn on the corner. The close itself is handy, as you see, but quite secluded. If Trottie True is in the shop, dear Uncle Charles, may we offer her a cup of tea at Mrs Glory’s?”

    “Of course, Victoria,” he said kindly, helping her down and awarding the coachman a half-crown with the advice that he might as well pop into the inn, he didn’t think Miss Victoria would require the carriage for a while.

    Sublimely unaware of the glance of complete understanding being exchanged between her Uncle Charles and her papa’s coachman, Miss Victoria made eagerly for the shop door.

    Quickly the Captain sprang forward to open it for her.

    “Here she is!” she cried. “Uncle Charles, this is dearest Trottie True!”

    The Captain’s jaw dropped, as the haggish spinster, given to good works, was revealed as a slim young woman of medium height, with a head of neatly controlled soft brown curls, wide, thickly lashed grey eyes, and a pink-cheeked, heart-shaped face that wore a very sweet expression. With the dearest short, straight little nose!

    Trottie True acknowledged the introduction very properly and kissed Victoria’s cheek, but admitted in some dismay that she could not possibly leave the shop: they were rather busy and there was no-one to serve, for Pa and Little Joe had gone to Brighton on business, and Ronny Banks had taken Old Horse out to deliver the accounts, leaving only Mr Biddle and Tom Kettle out in the back. And Mr Biddle was working on an urgent printing job.

    “Tom Kettle is well meaning,” said Victoria in a lowered voice, “but not very bright.”

    “No: he cannot do sums at all,” said Trottie True, smiling at the Captain.

    “Show him the book!” urged Victoria.

    Trottie True looked at her numbly: Ma had made Victoria spend a day in the shop and she had not seemed interested in her account books at all. True, her ability to do sums was on about the same level as Tom’s.

    “Yes, do show me the book!” said the Captain with his pleasant laugh. “If it would not be an imposition, Miss Formby.”

    “You will see, she writes it down as she goes, and then the sum at the bottom at the end of the day exactly matches the money in her drawer: she is so clever!” beamed Victoria.

    Numbly Trottie True showed Victoria’s fashionable uncle her daily accounts book.

    “Watch!” Victoria then hissed as the shop door tinkled loudly, and a tall man in a heavy greatcoat came in. He took off his hat, revealing a balding head surrounded by bubbly white curls, and bowed very low, affording an excellent view of the bald spot. “Good day, my dear Miss Formby! And little Miss Victoria! How are you, my dear?”

    The girls responded politely and Victoria then introduced Mr Abercrombie to her uncle.

    “Now, those books of mine!” Mr Abercrombie rubbed his hands together briskly, looking expectant.

    “Pa has finished the set of Pope, sir, but—”

    “Excellent, excellent! Fine poet, y’know,” he said, nodding at her. “Cannot be doin’ with the moderns—namby-pamby stuff, hey? Daffodils!”

    Victoria was staring at him bewilderment and Captain Quarmby-Vine was swallowing a smile. “Exactly, sir,” said Trottie True faintly, hoping she was not going to laugh: for he was entirely well-meaning. “The Dryden set is not yet ready, however,” she added quickly.

    “Never mind, never mind! Take the Pope, mm?”

    “Of course, Mr Abercrombie. And your writing paper is ready, too.”

    “Eh? Oh,” he said, his wide pink face falling ludicrously. “Well, take that too, mm?”

    “Yes, sir. –Victoria, my dear, could you please pass me the parcel to your left that is marked ‘Abercrombie’?”

    Victoria picked up a parcel from the selection set out on the counter before her. They were all neatly done up in brown paper, with on the top of each affixed a sample of the contents, as she did not fail to explain to her uncle.

    “Aye, aye! Very nice, very nice!” approved Mr Abercrombie. “Ah!” he said as Trottie True then picked up a small pile of volumes. “With your permission, my dear Miss Formby?” He took one of the books and examined it admiringly. “Splendid! Splendid!”

    “Thank you, sir,” said Trottie True on a weak note. Rapidly she parcelled up the books with the package of paper and handed him the result.

    “Pay now, hey?” he suggested brightly, producing a purse.

    “Just as you wish, sir, though of course Pa would be happy to send his acc—”

    “Pay as you go, me dear, pay as you go! Maxim of me old grandfather’s. Always stood me in good stead!” Forthwith he paid the sum she named, bowed very low, informed Miss Formby that she was, if he might say so, in excellent looks today, bade them all a polite farewell, and exited from the shop.

    “You see, she has written it in the book, Uncle Charles!” beamed Victoria.

    “Er—yes,” he said, eyeing Miss Formby uncertainly.

    Trottie True sank down onto the chair behind the counter. “Laugh if you wish, Captain; Pa and Little Joe always do,” she said weakly.

    The Captain did grin, but said: “He seems a pleasant enough fellow, Miss Formby.”

    “Mr Abercrombie is a retired solicitor, Uncle Charles,” explained Victoria. “A most gentlemanly sort of person. I have not seen his house, The Cedars, but Captain Cutlass has been out that way, and says that is an attractive house, set in spacious grounds.”

    “Yes,” said Trottie True feebly. “It is just that his speech is somewhat, um, exclamatory.”

    “Cousin Joe and Little Joe are always funning, Uncle Charles,” explained Victoria, “but I assure you, Cousin Julia had Mr Abercrombie to dine in company with Mrs Rossiter, her worthy brother, Dr Kent, and Miss Henderson herself!”

    “Er—I see,” said Captain Quarmby-Vine, glancing in some shock at the daintily pretty Miss Formby as the horrid suspicion crossed his mind— Well, Victoria’s opinion could be discounted, but if the mother had made a point of inviting him— But the fellow must be old enough to be Miss Formby’s grandfather! The thing would be beyond the pale!

    “I beg your pardon, my dear?” he said, jumping slightly, as it dawned that Victoria had again addressed him.

    “I said, dear Uncle Charles, that you must see the printing press working: it is so exciting!”

    Exciting? Trottie True gaped at her. Victoria had shrunk away, held her skirts tightly to her, and not appeared to look at a thing when poor Little Joe had tried to show her the presses!

    The Captain lodged a polite disclaimer but she pulled herself together and explained that, far from not wishing to be disturbed, Mr Biddle would be so disappointed if he did not go through and look. Obediently Charles Quarmby-Vine followed Victoria out—though his own inclination was to remain with the delightful “Trottie True”.

    In their wake Trottie True just sagged limply. This was terrible! Why on earth had Victoria brought him?

    She had just finished serving Mrs Peterson’s maid, who had come for her mistress’s invitation cards, when they returned.

    “There, see?” cried Victoria as Trottie True entered up her monthly accounts book. “That was an account customer, and she uses a different book for those!”

    “Yes. Mrs Peterson’s Mary,” said Trottie True limply. Captain Quarmby-Vine came up to her shoulder and looked at the book, smiling. Dazedly she registered that he smelled lovely—nothing at all like the overpowering Mr Stottle, who was one of what Pa called “the unspeakables”, and she could only hope and pray that neither of them came into the shop today! Lavender water, perhaps?

    “What? Oh, did you?” she said weakly as it registered that the Captain had said how interesting he had found the printing process. “Good. –I hope you kept your lovely pelisse well clear of the ink, Victoria, dear.”

    “Of course, dear Cousin; I am quite experienced now, you know!” replied Victoria loftily.

    One visit, shrinking. Victoria was now explaining that Tom Kettle had been bundling the big print run from yesterday—when had she registered that expression?—and that Uncle Charles had been so intrigued to find such a variety of tasks involved. Trottie True looked at her with a sort of wild wonder in her eye.

    “And Mr Biddle said to say that Mrs Biddle is making a pot of tea,” she finished, looking smug.

    Seizing on her cue, Trottie True was just about to say thankfully that in that case they would probably care to move on to Mrs Glory’s, when the shop bell tinkled and one of the “unspeakables” came in. Not Stottle, thank goodness, but nearly as bad: Piper-Fiennes.

    Mr Piper-Fiennes was a tall, pale, almost cadaverous figure. He was a man of around forty, with certain pretensions to dandyism, which had led him down the Corinthian path. The many-caped driving coat of fawn drab with the whip-lashes thrust through the buttonhole could not but impress—the more so as there was no dashing curricle and four drawn up outside the shop in Elephant Close, but a small trap with a fat, short-legged brown horse once described by Little Joe Formby, and with some justice, as “one hair’s-breadth taller than a pony.” The buckskins were very pale, the boots very black and shiny, the brown coat and tan waistcoat entirely sporting, and the giant green and yellow spotted silk handkerchief that took the place of a neckcloth very like to, again according to Trottie True’s brother, those seen upon race-course touts. Well—sporting, yes. The curly-brimmed beaver being likewise.

    He took it off and bowed very low, revealing a bald pate fringed by very black, very pomaded curls. “Good day, Miss Formby! In great looks, as h’ever, I see!” He whacked the crop he was carrying against his leg. Victoria goggled at it.

    “Good morning, Mr Piper-Fiennes,” said Trottie True faintly.

    “Danged jolly sort of day, ain’t it?” he said cheerfully. “Fresh, y’know: fresh!” –Whack!

    “Indeed, sir. Your cards are ready for you.”

    “Oh, danged good show!” –Whack! Whack! He watched while she found them amongst the now somewhat reduced parcels of completed work. “Prettiest little filly I h’ever set h’eyes upon,” he remarked to the ambient air. –Whack! Whack! “Some friends with you today, I see?” he said loftily, eyeing the Captain and Victoria, who were still behind the counter.

    “Yes,” said Trottie True very faintly, not daring to look at them. Possibly, as Mr Piper-Fiennes’s elderly mother owned the delightful High Mallows to the east of the town, she should introduce him—but she could not, however, nerve herself to do so.

    “I say, Miss Formby, dare say you might bring the h’account yourself, hey? What do y’say to that?” –Whack!

    Trottie True took a deep breath. “The boy will do that, sir,” she said firmly.

    “Oh, danged bad show!” he cried. “But I tell you what, Ma is h’almost persuaded to hold a select evening party up at High Mallows, and I wager you don’t need two guesses as to who’ll be the first to be h’invited, eh? Now, what do y’say to that?” –Whack! Whack!

    Trottie True was just wondering frantically if it were at all possible that her desperate thought, “It will never happen!” could possibly reach her visitors when a cool voice said: “I rather think she does not say anything, sir, though her connections must thank you for the thought, which no doubt was kindly meant.”

    “Uh—h’out of course, sir. Assure you!” Mr Piper-Fiennes resumed his hat—apparently for the purpose of sweeping it off and bowing once more, for that was what he did—tucked his parcel under his arm, having to lay down his crop in order to do so, again resumed the hat, picked up the crop and with a last Whack! upon the leg, bade Miss Formby a regretful good-bye until next time, and exited the shop in good order. In the trap he could be observed to flourish the hat again, before jogging gently away.

    Silence reigned.

    “What an extraordinary man,” said Victoria at last.

    “An eccentric, one concludes, Victoria,” said her uncle on a grim note.

    “I should think so! As for having the impertinence to suggest his mother invite you—”

    “Victoria, it won’t happen,” said Trottie True quickly. “It is his mother who has the money, and she is persuaded that all the unwed girls of the town are chasing him on account of his expectations, and never gives any entertainment at all!”

    “Allow me to say, Miss Formby,” said Captain Quarmby-Vine stiffly, “that that is just as well.”

    “Yes,” agreed Victoria. “And surely a mallow is not a tree, is it?”

    Trottie True blinked, then realised she was referring to High Mallows, Mrs Piper-Fiennes’s house. “No.” She looked at Victoria’s face and her big grey eyes sparkled. “In the late Mr Piper’s day High Mallows was called Wardle House, for it is set near a pretty little stream called Wardle Stream, out to the east of the town, not far from the coast. It is a very pretty Elizabethan house. Mr Piper bought it when he retired from his business as a grain merchant, and his wife changed its name after he died. Not to mention changed hers.”

    The Captain was now frankly grinning, but Victoria’s brow was puckered.. “Was she a Miss Fiennes, perhaps?”

    “No. A Miss Black,” said Trottie True demurely.

    At this the Captain gave a shout of laughter. Victoria did smile, but after a moment said: “Mamma says one should not laugh at the quizzy folk.”

    “Not to their faces, of course. But my pa and ma maintain,” said Trottie True, her heart-shaped face all smiles, “that the quizzy ones are put on earth for the purpose of making the rest of us laugh!”

    “Aye, well, I’m glad you can laugh,” admitted the Captain.

    “Poor Mr Piper-Fiennes is entirely harmless,” she said, smiling up at him. “Now, Victoria, as our tea will be made, why do you not take the Captain along to Mrs Glory’s?”

    “No, no, dear Cousin! We are having ours with you!” she cried.

    “Indeed,” agreed the Captain gravely. “Mrs Biddle in person came downstairs to invite us.”

    “Yes,” said Victoria firmly, “so come along. You may put your little notice on the counter.”

    “Well—well, the most of the orders have been collected…” Smiling palely, Trottie True put the “Please Ring” notice on the counter and allowed herself to be led out to take tea in the bindery with Victoria’s fashionable uncle.

    Heaven was merciful and after the tea—the Captain showing himself most affable indeed and congratulating Mrs Biddle, who had come down to pour, the which was not her usual practice, upon the quality of her brew—Victoria at last consented to leave. Though not without the coy promise, or rather threat, that they would look in again later and if she could be spared, give Trottie True a ride home. She waved them off thankfully and tottered back to her counter.

    Old Mr Biddle popped out into the shop, grinning. “Gorn?”

    “Mm.”

    “Fine as fivepence, weren’t ’e? Pleasant gent, though, I thought.”

    “Mm.”

    The bent old printer’s shrewd eyes twinkled. “Dessay ’e didn’t like the look of old Abercrombie, nor yet that Piper-Fiennes—no; and good for ’im, is what I say!”

    The Captain had made no secret of his disapproval of these two personalities and of their attitude towards Miss Formby. “He does not understand what it is like, to run a business,” she said tiredly. “We cannot insult the customers.”

    “Pooh, bit of ’eaded notepaper won’t break us—and if there’s a book at ’Igh Mallows what Piper-Fiennes ’as ever opened, yer can call me a Dutchman! Still, could of been worse, you were spared Stottle, today.”

    “Well, yes,” said Trottie True, smiling at the old man. “One mercy!”

    But alas, Mr Biddle was wrong.

    Barely had Victoria and the Captain reappeared in the shop than the bell tinkled again and in he came! Mr Stottle was very short, with a plump little stomach and very, very thin legs, but in spite of these drawbacks took extreme pains with his dress. Today he was in a reddish-brown overcoat that featured large mother-of-pearl buttons, open over a fashionable cutaway green coat, very yellow pantaloons and the shiniest of Hessian boots, adorned with giant gold tassels. His neckcloth was huge and swaddling, into the bargain sporting a large amethyst pin, his waistcoat was a startling affair of bright emerald and bright violet narrow stripes, a selection of gold fobs dangled from him, and round his neck on a long black ribbon was an ornate gold-rimmed quizzing glass worthy, according to Trottie True’s male relatives, of Beau Brummel in his heyday. His hat was high-crowned and very curly brimmed: as he entered he beamed, removed this hat with noticeable caution to reveal a full head of red curls, and made a stately bow, not neglecting to flourish the hat.

    Trottie True restrained a wince as he came up to the counter, for Victoria was already goggling: she could only hope that she was not now remarking the overpoweringly sweet scent wafting from Mr Stottle.

    “My dear Miss Formby! In glowing looks as ever!” he smiled by way of greeting. “You are to be congratulated! But I think these good people are before me?”

    “We are visiting with Miss Formby, merely,” said the Captain in a remarkably grim voice.

    Laying down his hat on the counter and drawing off his very, very tan gloves to reveal a selection of rings on his little plump hands, Mr Stottle pursued: “In that case, I shall venture to enquire, how are your dear mamma and sisters, Miss Formby?”

    “Very well, thank you, sir,” she croaked.

    “Splendid! Now, I have come,” he said on a coy note, “to see if my poor little volume be done, but of course there is not the least hurry in the world.”

    “It is ready, sir,” said Trottie True, checking amongst the piles of parcels, “and so are your visiting cards.”

    “Oh,” said Mr Stottle in tones of unalloyed disappointment. “Oh, well, that is excellent, and I dare say I shall soon ’ave some more commissions for your estimable papa.”

    Just at the moment Trottie True could not help feeling that her estimable papa’s going out of business entirely would be preferable to his ever having another commission from Mr Stottle, but she nodded politely, and told him the amount owing.

    Immediately Mr Stottle produced a purse and held up a coin suggestively. Weakly Trottie True, who been expecting this but hoping it would not happen, held out her hand.

    Holding the coin temptingly out of reach, Mr Stottle leered: “I declare, rosy-tipped little fingers kissed by the dawn ’erself! And what a fellow would not give for the privilege!”

    Captain Quarmby-Vine took a step forward. “You may forgo the privilege. Give that money to me, and get out! Or, alternatively, be thrown out.”

    Reddening angrily, Mr Stottle cried: “Nothing at all was meant, sir, I do assure you!”

    “Be that as it may, no lady welcomes that kind of attention, sir. Step outside with me, if you require more convincing.”

    The burly Captain Quarmby-Vine might have been around Mr Stottle’s own age but he was very much taller and wider in the shoulders: Trottie True bit her lip.

    “Nuh-no, indeed, sir! Beg pardon, Miss Formby! No ’arm was meant—none at all—I do assure you!” Hurriedly giving the Captain the money, the red-faced, perspiring Mr Stottle took himself out of the shop as fast as his spindly little legs could carry him.

    The door tinkled closed, and dead silence fell.

    Not unexpectedly, it was Victoria who broke it. “Dear Uncle Charles, you were splendid! What a horrid little man! I have never heard such amazing impertinence: why, he was worse than the odd creature with the crop! And I am persuaded that that horrible red hair must be dyed!”

    “No,” said Trottie True very, very faintly. “It’s a wig. I— Oh, dear. Thank you, Captain Quarmby-Vine. He—he is not usually quite that bad. And—and I have known him all my life.”

    The Captain cleared his throat. “Yes. Er—sorry, Miss Formby. Went overboard, rather. Me besetting sin, y’know.”

    “Yes; I—I don’t think,” she said unsteadily, “that there was any need to suggest the little man step outside with you, sir.”

    “No,” he said with a sheepish smile. “Pathetic little creature’s half me weight, hey?”

    “Rubbish!” cried Victoria. “He deserved to be taught a lesson! How dared he speak so to you, dear Cousin! And—and expecting you to lean over the counter and— Ugh!”

    “Mm. That’ll do, I think, m’dear,” said the Captain, glancing at Miss Formby’s suffused face. “Best not dwell on it, eh?”

    “Very well, but I cannot understand why Cousin Joe or Little Joe have not done something about the creature!” she said crossly.

    Charles Quarmby-Vine could not, either, and he looked rather grimly at the dainty Miss Formby.

    “They—they think he is silly, merely,” she said, “and—well, to say truth, he does not dare to say those things when they are present.”

    “Personally,” said Victoria, “I do not think that you should be serving in the shop, Cousin, exposed to such impertinence—and nor, I assure you, dearest Uncle Charles, does her mamma! I have heard her with my own ears say there is no need for any such thing!”

    “I do not care to be a useless burden on the family, Victoria, dear,” said Miss Formby, quiet but firm.

    “Useless burden!” cried Victoria with genuine tears in her eyes. “Dearest Trottie True, you could never be that!”

    “I entirely agree,” said the Captain, putting an arm round his niece. “But hush, my dear, do not refine on it. Should you care for a ride home, Miss Formby?”

    “Your packages have all been collected,” noted Victoria. “If you come now, you will be able to see Roger and Joey!” she urged.

    Trottie True smiled. “I should like that. But I—I have two little commissions to do.”

    “Good,” said Victoria firmly. “We shall take you.”

    “No, I— They are not to genteel persons!” she gasped.

    “Victoria has told me of your charitable activities, my dear Miss Formby,” said the Captain with a smile, “and we should be only too happy to take you anywhere at all.”

    Trottie True gaped at Victoria. That young person nodded, smiling smugly. Well, at least the carriage would be warm, if she refused to come in, reflected her cousin dazedly. “I—well, yuh-yes, then. Thank you so much, sir.”

    The first errand was to old Mr Shortbridge: soup for his supper. He neglected to feed himself properly if someone did not look to him, she explained to the smiling Captain Quarmby-Vine. Er—and he was rather deaf.

    “Forewarned is forearmed, Miss Formby!” he replied with a twinkle, helping her down politely from the carriage. “Come along, Victoria.”

    Limply Trottie True led Victoria and her fashionable uncle into Mr Shortbridge’s little crooked house.

    In the tiny, dark front parlour a bent old man was discovered in a rocking-chair pulled close to the fire. “Oh, it’s you,” he croaked.

    “Yes. Good afternoon, Mr Shortbridge!” said Trottie True loudly. “This is my cousin, Victoria, and her uncle, Captain Quarmby-Vine!”

    “Eh? Speak up! –Don’t stand there dithering, gal, come over ’ere, let’s get a look at yer!”

    The shrinking Victoria approached.

    “Ah! Pretty as a picksha, ain’t she? I allus like to see a pretty face!” he cackled.

    Victoria attempted to smile.

    “So, wotcher got today?” he then demanded.

    In addition to the lidded can of soup there was a large fruit-cake. The old man brightened. “I’ll ’ave a slice o’ that!”

    Obediently Trottie True fetched a knife and cut him a large slice. Smiling, the Captain pre-empted her attempt to make up the old man’s fire for him and did it himself, and the company then sat down while Mr Shortbridge ate. Not a pretty sight: he did not appear to have any teeth and indeed, asked suspiciously: “No danged nuts in this, I ’ope?” To which Trottie True replied clearly: “No,” shaking her head firmly.

    “Ah! That’s better! S’pose yer might as well gimme a drop o’ that there soup. –Danged women! Think a feller can’t eat nothing but soup,” he suddenly grumbled to Victoria.

    “Yuh-yes! I mean no!” she gasped.

    Trottie True heated the soup over his little fire, competently swathed the can in a cloth, and fetched him a spoon. Needless to say the resultant scene was even worse than the cake masticating. After that she was permitted to fetch him “a drop from the bottle”—he grumbled very much when she went to wash the glass, but did not actually prevent her—and then he disposed himself for a nap. Victoria looked wildly at her cousin as his eyes closed.

    “Come along,” she said serenely, rising. “Goodbye, Mr Shortbridge,” she said clearly, going over to the door. There was no reply. The Captain, his eyes twinkling, opened the door, and they went out.

    “He did not seem grateful at all,” said Victoria limply to her cousin as they set off again. “Just like Miss Watchett!”

    Trottie True smiled a little. “No, but he is, or he would forbid us the house. It is only Mr Hartshorne next: you have met him, of course, my dear.”

    “He came for Christmas dinner, and only guess! He lost an arm in a great sea battle!” Miss Victoria informed the Captain breathlessly.

    He brightened. “So he’s an old sailor, is he, m’dear?”

    In spite of the final appellation this question was addressed not to Victoria, but to Trottie True. She went rather pink but replied steadily enough: “Yes: he was in the Navy for many years, and is very proud of the fact that he sailed with Lord Nelson himself.”

    “Did he, by Jove? The Admiral himself, God bless him!” responded the Captain with terrific fervour.

    Trottie True nodded, smiling a little as she perceived that in spite of the gentility of his manners, the many-caped greatcoat and astoundingly glossy boots—such as to reduce Piper-Fiennes’s to the status of mere footwear, alas—he was not so unlike all the Naval men, such as Mr Hartshorne or Mr Rattle!

    The package for Mr Hartshorne was only a couple of shirts that Trottie True and Aunty Lash had mended for him, which were accepted with as many thanks as if they had been bran-new ones. He was, of course, terrifically pleased to meet Captain Quarmby-Vine and, the bottle being produced and the toast solemnly drunk—Trottie True and Victoria drinking it in water, as there was no porter today—the two Royal Naval men sat down to what Miss Formby could not help thinking with a sinking feeling might be an extended session of naval reminiscence, of the sort the one-armed sailor enjoyed when her brother John-John was home from sea.

    She had, however, reckoned without the Captain’s good manners. Mr Hartshorne’s naval story was not countered with one of his own. He rose, said firmly that he would call again for a really good chat, shook Mr Hartshorne’s one hand—offering his own left, since it was the burly sailor’s right that he had lost—and bowed his charges out.

    “He will love to see you again, sir, if you can manage it,” said Trottie True cautiously as they set off for home.

    “Of course I can manage it, Miss Formby! Shouldn’t dream of telling him I would call if I did not mean it!”

    “No, he would not,” agreed Victoria loyally.

    “I am so glad. It was so kind in Commander Henderson to give him that little house, but I fear it has not worked out terribly well: he is a foreigner to the people hereabouts, you see, and in addition to being of the persuasion that all landlubbers be fools, will not suffer fools gladly, and so he has not managed to make any close friends.”

    “I see. That is rather sad. So, did he render Commander Henderson a signal service—save his life, perhaps, Miss Formby?”

    “No, indeed, the boot was quite on the other foot: Commander Henderson saved his life, by tying up his arm very tight and stanching the blood, when he was wounded.”

    “Oh,” said Victoria dubiously. “Then one would not think there was an obligation on his side.”

    “No, no, m’dear; one of his men in need!” responded her uncle.

    “Exactly,” agreed Trottie True, smiling at him. “Of course he visits when he is home, but he is at sea most of the time. And perhaps Miss Henderson should visit, but I am afraid she does not,” she added on a dry note.

    “Oh!” cried Victoria. “So it is the same family as Niners’s Miss Henderson, then?”

    “Yes, Commander Henderson is her nephew.”

    “And have any of you ever met him, Trottie True?”

    “No; as I say, he is at sea most of the time. Niners has seen his portrait: his aunt has a silhouette of him taken when he was about to go into the Navy, and a watercolour portrait done when he got his step-up to first lieutenant. They belonged to his mother and came to his aunt on her death. Though Little Joe’s theory is she walked into the house the day after the funeral and removed them bodily!” she said with a little laugh.

    “A lady would not do that!” replied Victoria, very shocked.

    The Captain laughed a little. “I’ve known some as would! No, well, I’ll be very glad to visit with Hartshorne.”

    “Is Commander Henderson a married man?” asked Victoria thoughtfully.

    Trottie True took a deep breath. “I believe he is a bachelor, though who knows? He may have married a dusky South Seas maiden by this time.”

    “Cousin, that is not amusing! He would be ideal for either you or Niners! A lieutenant-commander in the Royal Navy must be considered an excellent match. Why, I dare say he will be getting his own command, very soon!”

    “In especial if Captain Morrissey be eaten by South Seas cannibals,” noted Trottie True drily.

    Captain Quarmby-Vine, though to say truth he was not very pleased at hearing that a lieutenant-commander in the Royal Navy might be available for Miss Formby, at this choked. “Gone on a voyage to the South Seas, are they?” he managed.

    The carriage turned into New Short Street. “Yes,” replied Trottie True with some vigour, “and I assure you that only those silly men at the Admiralty could possibly imagine that there is a shorter way to New South Wales round the Horn or that Captain Morrissey be the man to find it!”

    The Captain choked again, the more so as Miss Formby, apparently having just realised what she had said, had now clapped her hand to her mouth and was goggling at him over it in pure dismay.

    “Entirely agree, ma’am,” he said formally. “Could not stomach life at the Admiralty, meself.”

    “No, it was all paper-pushing and politicking, and so he has given it up!” said Victoria eagerly.

    Captain Quarmby-Vine’s broad shoulders shook slightly. “Verbatim,” he explained, leaping down as they stopped before Number 10 New Short Street, and letting the steps down. “Allow me.”

    Numbly Trottie True allowed Victoria’s fashionable uncle to help her down and bow her into the house.

    “That,” noted Bouncer numbly, as the carriage departed at last, complete with the excited Roger and Joey, thrilled to be collected by Uncle Charles, “was ’im, as a matter of fact.”

    “Eh?” said Jicksy on a weak note.

    Bouncer cleared her throat. “’Im. What yer mentioned just t’other day, Jicksy: the Quarmby-Vine as I saw with the lady and the pug over in Brighton, that time.”

    Her peer swallowed.

    “Gentlemanly, ain’t ’e?” Bouncer offered.

    “Dashed feeble with it, if he let a pug get the better of him!” said Captain Cutlass scornfully.

    Trottie True rose, very flushed. “I don’t think anyone could manage if a horrid yappy pug wound its lead round and round his ankles! And he is not feeble, and if you want to know, he sent horrid old Stottle off with a flea in his ear!” Forthwith she rushed out of the room.

    “I did get the impression Stottle’s compliments were getting beyond the pale,” admitted Mouse into the stunned silence.

    “Then why didn’t you tell me?” snapped Julia.

    “Ma, I did, and you only laughed!”

    Julia frowned. “In any case,” she said crossly to the unspoken commentary, “the man is Victoria’s uncle and as completely unsuitable for the girl as Stottle or Piper-Fiennes!”

    “’E’s their age, right enough,” allowed Aunty Bouncer.

    “And a gentleman. I dare say Joe’s income for the quarter would not pay for what he had upon his back today!”

    “Gross exaggeration,” said Aunty Jicksy unexpectedly with a sniff. “Though the gents’ jewellery weren’t brass, I’ll grant yer. No, well, wait and see, shall we?”

    “Then you’ll wait a long time!” snapped Julia. “Victoria’s uncle? Rubbish!” She stalked out.

    “Nobody dare to say it,” said Lash in a wobbly voice.

    “Uncle me no uncles!” retorted Aunty Bouncer promptly, grinning.

    Forthwith the whole company, even Mouse, still not recovered from Mr Baldaya, and Captain Cutlass, very glum since learning that Mr Ainsley had taken Little Lasset, gave ecstatic yelps and collapsed in gales of ungenteel—nay, positively unseemly—laughter.

Next chapter:

https://thefortunateformbys.blogspot.com/2023/10/the-ides-of-march.html