Going Up In The World

18

Going Up In The World

    With the return to Number 10 New Short Street the Joe Formby household plunged into preparations for John-John’s wedding to Mary Cox at the beginning of October. Not to say, into some hurried stitchery when it became apparent that the trunk Lady Cox grudgingly sent over a week after Mary’s father had brought her to them contained only the barest minimum of clothing and nothing approaching a trousseau. Nor, as Mary revealed sadly to her sisters-in-law-to-be, did it contain her two best gowns or any of the fashionable bonnets Ma had bought her in Brighton this year. Immediately Niners, a horrible scowl on her face, sat down to make her a bran-new bonnet. Mrs Peters, apologising to Captain Cutlass, decided the shawl she had just finished knitting for her had best go to Mary: the one she was about to start could be for Captain Cutlass instead, and Mouse would have to wait her turn. And Lash looked at the square of palest pink silk that she had started embroidering for a Christmas present for Mouse and decided it had best be Mary’s, instead. Because she had very similar colouring, light brown curls, and it would look just as well on her. Julia, more practically, looked through her daughters’ pelisses and cloaks and then firmly went shopping.

    Captain Cutlass professed indifference to the loss of Great-Aunty Bouncer’s beautiful knitted shawl and in fact told her to give the next one to Mouse, so Julia made a mental note to keep an eye on her. Of course she was no longer spending most of her waking hours up the road, but she had nonetheless plunged back into her Greek and Latin. In fact the bedroom she and Niners shared was now crammed with books: Mrs Lumley, Rosie Kettle, and Mr Trickett, with the eager cooperation, help would have been a misnomer, of Master Trickett, having brought all Dr Adams’s books down to her. He had left them to her in his will, bequeathing what little else he possessed to his landlady, though Mrs Lumley admitted cheerfully that if he had of left her the books she’d of given ’em to Captain Cutlass anyway. Just at the moment, however, Julia was far too busy to spend much time worrying about her third daughter and, indeed, reflected that it might be best if she were left to get over the shock of Dr Adams’s death in her own way.

    Julia’s eldest daughter, however, far from lapsing back into her old ways and spending inordinate amounts of her time in at the shop with those hopeless males who were incapable of chasing off dratted Stottle, was spending a great deal of time at home ready to receive gentlemen callers. Well—a gentleman caller. Captain Quarmby-Vine duly called. So did Ma Mountjoy, bursting with curiosity at the sight of a curricle driven by a gentleman in a many-caped driving coat who was not Mr Piper-Fiennes drawing up outside Number 10. Julia was exceedingly happy to afford her the information she was seeking. Mrs Mountjoy was graciously pleased to approve and in fact noted imprimis, that she was gratified to see the connection with Mr Formby’s fortunate cousin was leading to something for the family and secundus, that she was planning a little dinner party for the near future—after the wedding, dear Mrs Formby—and would be so gratified if they and Miss Formby would care to attend.

    Unfortunately for relations between Numbers 8 and 10 New Short Street the dead cat episode intervened, and the Formbys were in turmoil the very next time the gallant Captain deposited his fair passenger at her home. Ned, just home from school, was shrieking: “He did NOT! It wasn’t HIM! We never seen the stupid ole cat before!” and such-like. While Mrs Cooper from Old Short Street was shrieking: “It WAS him! I saw him with me own eyes! Shaking my Ginger by ’is poor neck like a rat!” Ably seconded, alas, by Miss Gwendolyn Mountjoy, shrieking: “It WAS him! AND Ned! I saw him throw a stone at poor Ginger! He set his horrid dog on him, I saw you, Ned Yates!” To which Ned was of course responding: “You did NOT! I NEVER! She’s a LIAR! Ma, she’s a LIAR! Aunty Julia, she’s a LIAR!”

    Trottie True managed: “He is a truthful boy, normally,” as she was assisted down. And Captain Quarmby-Vine, to his credit, managed not to actually laugh until he was out of the street. However, two seconds after his dashing vehicle had disappeared, Mrs Mountjoy sailed into battle in support of Gwendolyn…

    “Never mind,” said Julia kindly to the unfortunate Lash, who had borne the brunt of it. “She probably won’t invite us to her dratted dinner, after this.”

    Her sister-in-law eyed her drily. “I don’t think I was to be included in any case, was I? But I’ll wager anything you like that you’re wrong—in fact I’ll wager the tiger-slayer himself, if you like! One dead cat from Old Short Street and recriminations between Gwendolyn and Ned will never outweigh a Quarmby-Vine with a curricle, Julia!”

    After that came the possibly even greater excitement of John-John’s wedding. Since Mary had been received into the Church of England the thing was to be brought off by Skellett, the amiable John-John having no objections, and in fact assuring the reverend gentleman that he had been baptised—though Julia, honestly, could not remember if he had or had not. He hadn't been favoured with a Roman name, like Calpurnia Catherine, so he hadn’t been born during one of the rabid anti-clerical fits in which a much younger Joe had been used to indulge, but… Oh, well, if Skellett was happy and Mary was pleased at the prospect of being married in St Jude’s—! True, Skellett had been reluctant to read the banns without the bride’s mother’s permission, but old Cox had come over in person from Guillyford Bay (with Captain Cox, in the latter’s sailing dinghy: salt in the wound, yes) and sorted him out on that one. It was his money as made up them over-generous donations to Church Organ Funds and goodness-knew-what, so if Mr Skellett knew what side his bread was buttered on— Apparently he did, because the banns were duly read.

    The ceremony went off very well, the bride looking sweet in a heavy silk, courtesy of Julia’s purse and Lash’s stitchery, with a delicious silk bonnet, courtesy of Niners, and the groom looking manly in a new blue coat, yellow pantaloons that would have done credit to any Bond Street beau—few of whom, reflected his proud mother, mopping her eyes surreptitiously, would have had the legs for them that her sons did—and a waistcoat as spiffing as anything owned by Piper-Fiennes or Stottle. And supported by his brother, looking equally manly and handsome. Lady Cox did not attend, though it was to be feared that not a single person in the entire town believed she was laid down with a sick headache. Certainly not those to whom Dr Kent casually noted: “Laid down with a temper, more like, and I told the woman as much myself—and I can’t say I’m sorry to lose her custom.” The bride was supported by her sister, Lucinda, and by her groom’s two youngest sisters—the first-named very red-eyed, though thrilled, and, to the entertainment of most of the congregation, looking over her shoulder nervously every other minute.

    The wedding was distinguished by the presence of Captain Quarmby-Vine, R.N. (Rtd.), for as Julia said, not to invite him would have discouraged the poor man too much, and—well, what difference did one more make, in such a crowd? The Captain—in a blue coat and yellow pantaloons that must, if anybody present had had the knowledge to realise it, have put the Formby brothers’ new clothes in the shade—appeared to enjoy himself whole-heartedly every instant of the time. His sister Belinda was graciously affable to all and did not appear even to notice the absence of the bride’s mother, so that was all right. And Cousin John ate almost as much as Little Joe did and gave every evidence of enjoying himself as much as anyone. Even Miss Victoria owned it was a delightful, informal occasion and the bride looked charmingly.

    “Pity yer brother had to miss it,” noted her Great-Aunty Jicksy at this point. “And yer Ma was so pleased ’e’d come home for the last part of the summer, too.”

    Victoria was explaining blithely that Johnny had a previous engagement. “Yes. Come and sit down, Great-Aunty Jicksy,” said Mouse quickly. “I really think you’ve been on your feet far too long.”

    Allowing she would be glad of a sit-down, Mrs Huggins suffered herself to be led away, though noting drily as Mouse found her a seat: “The girl’s a ninny.”

    “We’ve always known that,” replied Mouse soothingly. “And in any case, her brother is the male equivalent of a ninny, so why lament his absence?”

    Great-Aunty Jicksy swallowed a sigh. Maybe he was, but he was a pleasant lad, he’d inherit the bulk of John Formby’s fortune, he was the right age for Mouse, and they were not first cousins…

    The bride and groom were duly waved off to Wardle Heights Farmhouse in a hail of rice and good wishes, not to say in a carriage kindly provided by Commander Henderson, and the family tottered indoors to recover, not to say, to the great piles of washing up.

    The recovery took some time, but some three days later Julia was able to say to Lash with a smile: “It did seem a huge hurdle, the first one leaving the nest, but I suppose it won’t really make all that much difference to us, since John-John was away at sea most of the time.”

    “No,” she said in a vague voice, wandering over to stare out of the front windows at the street.

    In spite of her exhaustion Julia had noticed that Lash had become very silent over the past couple of days. “Lash, dearest, are you all right?”

    “Mm… It reminded me of my wedding to Michael Diver.”

    Julia bit her lip. It hadn’t been so unlike it, no. That had also been at St Jude’s, though the reception had been in Joe’s parents’ home, over the shop. “Um, yes. Well—a family wedding!” she said with an awkward laugh.

    “Mm.” Lash turned round. “Ma Cox wasn’t at that, either,” she noted drily.

    “Uh—no!” agreed Julia with a startled choke of laughter.

    “Silly female,” said Lash detachedly. “Her life could be so pleasant if she’d let it.”

    Er… old Cox apart, was this? “I suppose it could. I think she’s the sort that enjoys suffering and enjoys making others suffer.”

    “Yes. –It was good that Captain and Mrs Burns could come.”

    “Of course!” beamed Julia. “She’s very sweet, isn’t she? A bit like Mary, actually!”

    “Yes. I, um, I thought John-John might ask Commander Henderson to be his best man,” she added casually, turning away to the window again.

    “Hardly, with his brother available. But I was glad he could come: he’s a lonely man. Sad-looking, isn’t he? Perhaps he has some sorrow. I asked John-John, but he doesn’t seem to know anything about his past life.”

    “Ask Niners,” replied Lash drily.

    “Mm; the Miss Aitch version,” said Julia on a grim note. “I really did think—well, good Heavens, the woman seems to approve of her, and since she doats on the dratted nephew… I suppose it didn’t strike you that he was looking on Niners more favourably, did it?” she added without hope.

    “As a matter of fact,” said Lash in a very hard voice, “it struck me that he was looking at us all with loathing, and wishing himself elsewhere every instant of the time! –Excuse me, I think I’ll collect Ned from school, I can’t take a repetition of the Ginger incident.”

    “What?” said Julia feebly as she hurried out. “But that was weeks ago!” She went over to the parlour door. “Lash—“

    But Lash had grabbed her cloak and bonnet off the hall stand and hurried out.

    Julia’s feet took her to the kitchen in an automaton-like manner—worthy, really, of that monkey that didn’t quite clap that Ned had received at Christmas from Mr Woffington, she reflected as she realised where she was. Since the rocker was by a miracle unoccupied, she sank limply into it.

    “Too much wedding,” discerned Cookie. “Nice cup o’ tea, that’ll fix you up!”

    Possibly it would. Julia was conscious of a feeling that it would take more than tea to fix Lash up, however. And she did not think that New Short Street, alas, held the required remedy.

    Mrs Dove eyed her cautiously and waited until she had drunk half the cup before venturing: “Dessay Trottie True’ll be next. Seems a pleasant gent.”

    Julia sighed. “Pleasant, yes. Gent, also—unfortunately.”

    “Well, at least ’e can afford to keep ’er, Mrs Julia, dear!”

    Julia looked at her anxious, kindly, red-cheeked face and dredged up a smile. “That’s certainly true, Cookie!”

    “And ’ere, I tell yer what: with a son-in-law like that, you’ll be able to afford to drop Ma Mountjoy’s h’acquaintance entire!” she replied brilliantly. And was extremely gratified, not to say relieved, by Julia’s delighted sniggering fit.

    Mrs Dove was, of course, correct, and the romance between Trottie True and Captain Quarmby-Vine proceeded apace. So much so that Mrs Cox, who had relented sufficiently in the matter of her betrayal by her husband and eldest daughter to accept the former back under the marital roof but was still not in the best of moods, was able to say discontentedly as she peered from behind the curtains of her downstairs salon on a crisp October morning: “Who on earth is that man looking at the house next-door, Lucinda?”

    Miss Lucinda Cox was not such a gaby as to point out that Mamma had strictly forbidden her humble self to do anything so unladylike as peer between the curtains of the front windows. She came, looked, and said: “Oh!”

    Mrs Cox had addressed her second daughter faute de mieux and the question had been no more than rhetorical. “Well?” she said crossly.

    Not taking the tone as a warning, Lucinda very foolishly replied: “How extraordinary! It’s Captain Quarmby-Vine! His sister is Mrs John Formby of Blasted Oak House. What on earth can he be doing in our street?”

    Mrs Cox’s considerable bosom swelled indignantly. “Why should he not, pray? Regent Avenue is the choicest street in the town!” –Regent Avenue, as its name suggested, was quite a new street, situated on a slope just to the east of the town, and certainly considered the choicest residential street by those to whom such things mattered.

    “Um, yes, but he is a very fashionable gentleman,” replied the foolish one.

    “Indeed? And where, pray, did you meet him, Lucinda?”

    “At Mary’s and John-John’s wedding, of course, Mamma!” replied Lucinda blithely.

    There was a nasty silence, during which Miss Lucinda realised she had put her daintily shod foot into her pearly-toothed rosebud mouth.

    “Come away from that window, please, Lucinda,” said her mother coldly, returning to her chaise longue.

    Glumly Lucinda came away from the window. “Well, he is!” she said, pouting.

    “Go up to the day nursery, please, Lucinda. I should like to see a page of French by”—she glanced at the clock—“noon.”

    “But Ma,” she wailed: “you said I didn’t need to ’ave Miss Jackson no more and could be out!”

    “Do as I bid you, please, Lucinda. You are not out yet,” replied her mother with horrid meaning. “And did I hear you call me Ma?”

    “I forgot, Mamma. I’m sorry,” she muttered.

    “I should certainly hope so. Go, if you please.”

    Pouting, Lucinda went.

    Mrs Cox returned to the window. He was still there. A brother of Mrs John Formby. Hmm… Did he perhaps have sons? And if he had daughters, there was Jonathon, and then, Jason was already turned eighteen— Her mind whirling in pleasant speculation, Mrs Cox remained glued to her front window.

    Captain Quarmby-Vine had not yet proposed to Miss Formby, but nevertheless felt very sanguine, and, having allowed himself plenty of time to scout out Regent Avenue and decided it looked respectable enough—the which opinion, alas, would considerably have wounded Mrs Cox’s sensibilities—looked over the house in company with the agent and decided it would do very well. Very pleased, Mr Cook informed him that there was a respectable agency in the town that could provide domestic servants, but the Captain thought he might try an agency in Brighton. Mr Cook, whose brother-in-law ran the Waddington-on-Sea domestic employment agency, nodded glumly and did not think to say that the foreign lady over to Lasset Place who had hired first three maidservants and two footmen, and then a nurse through his brother-in-law, was very pleased with them indeed until it was too late, and the Captain had marched off, humming.

    Miss Formby was not adorning the shop today, and there was a bell on the counter with the notice “Please Ring,” so the Captain did that. In response to his polite request for an appointment, Joe rubbed his chin. “You could talk to me now, Captain Quarmby-Vine.”

    The Captain looked at their surroundings somewhat limply. “Er…”

    “Granted anybody could walk in,” said Joe Formby on a dry note, “but out the back there’s old Biddle in the bindery and the lads with the machines.”

    The Captain was now rather flushed, but returned courteously: “Here would be fine, if that is what you wish, Mr Formby. I think you must have guessed my errand. I should like your permission to pay my addresses to Miss Formby.”

    Joe rubbed his chin again. At least the fellow had come right out and said it. “It isn’t really up to me, it’s up to Trottie True herself. But—well, I don’t think she’d be happy living a fashionable life and never seeing the family.”

    “No. I don’t wish to take her away from her family. I’m hiring a house over in Regent Avenue and intend building permanently just out of the town, over to the east.”

    “Old Watkins’s place—yes, we had heard something of the sort. And how many months of the year would you be in London going to the opera and stuff, Captain Quarmby-Vine?”

    The Captain’s blue eyes twinkled just a little. His partiality for the opera had come up in the course of conversation at Blasted Oak House. “Don’t damn a man just because he cares for music, Mr Formby. I’d envisage a couple of months, perhaps, if that’s what she wants. And—well, it is rather too soon to make definite plans for your younger girls, perhaps, but I would be most happy to see them launched into society.”

    “London society? Turn ’em into a crowd of Victorias?”

    “As I think you must realise, little Victoria would never have had the brains of any of your daughters, London launching or no.”

    Joe eyed him rather drily, though not unkindly. “It’s not the brainlessness, exactly, more the pettishness and the pouting on the one hand and the simpering on t’other. Though she has improved over the last year. Well, I can’t see Julia ever agreeing to let you launch the girls, but it’s a kind thought. How definite is it that you’re buying out old Watkins?”

    The Captain’s square jaw firmed. “I’ve bought him out.” He felt inside his coat. “Here are the papers. Please examine them.”

    Joe unfolded the papers somewhat limply. “Well, uh—good. –I see. You’ve bought some of the adjoining land as well?”

    “Yes. And I’d like to maintain the orchards.”

    “You’ll put in a manager, I suppose.”

    “I think I’ll have to: I haven’t the expertise to run an orchard myself. But I’d hope to be very involved: learn as I go along, y’know. The land runs right down to the coast: there’s a good sheltered anchorage, so I’ll be able to bring the yacht in.”

    “Yes. Uh—look, come through, Captain. Little Joe’s out on an errand and I’ll turf Biddle out, he won’t mind.”

    Gratefully Captain Quarmby-Vine followed him through to the bindery. The old man, having shown them the work he was doing, ambled off perfectly amiably.

    “I think,” said Joe with a sigh once they were seated, “you’d better give me a statement of your assets, if you wouldn’t mind.”

    Tranquilly the Captain produced a sheaf of folded papers.

    They proved to contain considerably more than just a list of assets. Joe looked them through carefully, his face expressionless. Then he said: “I see: been living off the income from these investments. Normally keep this much capital lying idle in your bank, do you?”

    “Er—well, yes. Not much of a businessman.”

    “Mm. Well, in the first instance, Captain Quarmby-Vine, you can forget about this lump sum, we ain’t in the business of selling women, in our family,” he said flatly.

    “But that type of settlement is not unusual,” said the Captain feebly.

    “No. But by all means go ahead with this trust for Trottie True, if you think it necessary. –And after Lash’s experience, I suppose it’s just as well,” he said heavily. “Sorry: not comparing you to old Yates!” he said quickly.

    The Captain was rather glad to hear it: he nodded silently.

    “Haven’t talked these figures over with Cousin John, by any chance, have you? –No,” he acknowledged as the Captain shook his head. “I think you’d better ask him what it costs him to keep up that place of his. On top of that you’d better get some hard figures out of Watkins as to what running the orchards cost him—before he sold a single apple, got it? Because even if you do as well as he’s done out of them—and he’s known as one of the greatest skinflints in the district, I might add—it won’t maintain a house the size of Cousin John’s! Watkins lived in a small farmhouse with his family working the place for him. –No indoor menservants,” he noted drily.

    “I dare say, but I’m not a pauper, Mr Formby!” said the Captain with a rallying laugh.

    “No, but you’ve just sold out these investments to buy out Watkins,” he said, tapping the papers, “and that must reduce your income. Then, the cost of building the house is a capital outlay which you won’t recuperate.”

    Captain Quarmby-Vine scratched his head. “Think of building a smallish house?”

    “I would,” said Joe a trifle drily.

    “Uh—aye. –Damn,” he muttered. “Would I be better off to lease a place, after all? Sell the orchards?”

    “Depends what you want,” replied Joe neutrally. “You might do better if you let a fellow lease the orchards off you. Then the risk will all be his, y’see.”

    “But I was looking forward to running them myself,” he said lamely.

    “Aye, well, I’d think about pulling my horns in, then. Uh—know Commander Carey, perhaps, do you, sir? One-eyed fellow. Owns a lovely big yacht, Finisterre.”

    “Leith Carey? Yes,” said the Captain uncertainly, wondering what his point was.

    “Aye, well, he’s got a pretty little house.”

    Charles Quarmby-Vine looked at him numbly. “Buena Vista, as he calls it? It is a charming little house, but if I doubt if it has more than five bedrooms!”

    Joe Formby’s lips twitched, just a little. “Never been in it, meself: only sailed past it with old Rattle or Captain Cox. Well, I’d say you could manage something twice its size, then, without over-stretching yourself.” He produced a pencil and a sheet of paper. “Look, let’s say building a decent house costs this much; then this sum, here, is what is left to generate your income. Don’t forget it’ll have to keep you until the orchards show a profit: that’s at least a year with nothing extra coming in and a lot of outlay on wages and so forth. In your shoes I wouldn't leave much lying idle in the bank: put it into the Funds. And I think I would talk to Cousin John, Captain.”

    “Yes. I— Damn, I’ve just taken the lease of a house in Regent Avenue,” he admitted.

    “Dare say it won’t break you—or did you sign up for ninety-nine years?”

    “No! Five: thought it would take some considerable time to build, you see, and I didn’t want to risk your daughter’s ending up without a roof over her head.”

    “Mm. Cook told you a five-year lease was the usual thing, eh? –He would. Well, let’s hope you can sub-let it,” he said drily.

    “I think you are erring on the side of caution,” said the Captain with an uneasy smile.

    “In business you tend to end up in serious trouble if you don’t. But talk to Cousin John.”

    “I shall.” He took a deep breath. “And thank you so much for your advice, Mr Formby. Do I have your permission to speak to your daughter, then?”

    Joe got up. “Yes. Just a moment, sir, I’ve some papers to show you.” He fetched them from a large safe at the far side of the room.

    Joe Formby’s will left his eldest daughter, Theresa Julia Mary Lavinia, a thousand pounds safely invested in the Funds, plus the accumulated interest thereof, and another five hundred outright.

    “You may say it ain’t fair, as the other girls don’t get but an extra two hundred, but then, Trottie True’s the eldest. As a matter of fact I was afraid she might not marry, after that fool Deane died, so I changed the provisions then. And it isn’t that we’re wealthy in your family’s terms, but I put away a sum for each of them when they were born and added to it every year. Mouse’s investment only just reached the thousand when she turned eighteen, so her account hasn’t got as much interest. I had planned to let each of ’em have the thousand outright when they married, but with your financial circumstances, you won’t need it. If you don’t object, I’ll put it in trust with just the income to come to her.”

    The Captain did not object at all, and ventured to add: “The business must have done very well, then, Mr Formby.”

    “Well enough: and as you can see from this, my old Pa owned several properties in the town that came to me. And then, we’ve never lived extravagantly, you see. –Think you’d better call me Joe, if you’re joining the family.”

    “I should like to. Thank you, Joe. I’m Charles,” he said, holding out his hand.

    The two shook hands and Joe said helpfully: “Trottie True’s at home now, if you want to speak to her today.”

    “Thank you, Joe! I shall do so, then! And thank you for your helpful advice!”

    The Captain went out, beaming, and Joe sat down slowly at the work table, rubbing his strong jaw.

    After a few moments Mr Biddle peeped in. “Everything all right, Joe?”

    “Aye. Well, quite a decent fellow.”

    The old man came and sat down. “Trottie True likes him, don’t she?”

    “Yes, but he’s twice her age,” he said heavily. “Literally, we gather. Oh, well.”

    “Sometimes works out better that way. That Everard Deane, he were a noddy,” he said with a sniff.

    “A noddy and a flirt, aye—but at least he was her age and—and walk of life!”

    “Not gonna take ’er away, ’is ’e?” said the old man sharply.

    “No. That tale about him buying out old Watkins was right. Thing is—” He explained the Captain’s financial situation. Mr Biddle, who had lived off his hard-earned wages all his life, listened shrewdly and passed one or two percipient remarks, largely in agreement with Joe’s own conclusion, though advising that with what that Watkins had had out of the orchards over the years added to his own capital the Captain probably could afford a place nigh the size of Blasted Oak House! Ending: “Never did believe in December and May—that was what were wrong with Lash’s second. September and May can work out real good, though.”

    “Yes,” said Joe heavily. “Let’s hope it does.”

    Nodding, Mr Biddle, who was as aware as his own family was that Trottie True had always been her father’s little pet, got up, patted his shoulder and, noting that he could smell the sausages, led him off firmly to his dinner.

    Miss Formby was sitting alone in the front parlour when the Captain was announced. She blushed and rose to her feet. “Thank you, Polly.”

    “I could bring a tray of tea, Miss!” offered Polly Patch eagerly.

    “Not for me, thank you, Miss Formby,” said the Captain.

    “Then it won’t be necessary, Polly, thank you.”

    “Or a warmin’ drop for the gent?” she said hopefully. “Chilly day, it be.”

    “No, thank you, Polly. Off you go,” said the Captain, taking the bull by the horns.

    Defeated, Polly gave a bob, and exited.

    “She—she means well,” said Trottie True faintly.

    “Of course,” he agreed with a smile. “Shall we sit down?”

    “Oh! Yes—please do, sir.” She sank back limply onto the sofa and offered: “I—I suppose I should not be receiving you alone, sir, but Aunty Lash has persuaded Ma to go for a walk.”

    “I’m glad of it: I wish to speak to you alone.”

    “Oh,” said Trottie True, blushing very much and looking into her lap.

    Smiling a little, Captain Quarmby-Vine came and sat beside her on the sofa. “Dearest Miss Formby, I think you cannot be unaware of my sentiments. I can assure you that I have spoken to your papa and he has given me his permission to speak to you. Will you do me the very great honour of becoming my wife?”

    To his horror she looked up at him awkwardly and said in a low voice: “I do not think I should, sir.”

    “What?” he cried unguardedly. “Why not?”

    “I—I know your sister is married to our Cousin John, but—but we are from different walks of life, Captain. You—you should a marry a lady.”

    “Oh!” he said, sagging. “Is that all? Miss Formby, I could not find a truer lady an I searched the length and breadth of the British Isles! Surely you would not make me suffer for such a trifling reason as that?”

    Trottie True looked up at him doubtfully. “I—I would not wish to cause you pain, sir, but—but I think it is not trifling.”

    “Of course it is! And as I don’t intend leading a fashionable life, there will be no-one who can look down their noses at us, will there? If you should approve, I intend building a house something like Commander Carey’s—you mentioned him once to me,” he reminded her as she just looked at him blankly. “Owns Finisterre,” he prompted.

    “Over—over to Guillyford Point. Yes. His house has a wonderful sea view but I—I think it must be very exposed.”

    “Exactly. I’ll build over to the east of the town, with a view, but in not nearly such an exposed situation. Do you know Mr Hubert Watkins’s orchards? Aye,” he said as she nodded dazedly. “I plan to take them over.”

    “They’re—they're very pretty, but—but there are acres of them, sir,” faltered Trottie True.

    He wrinkled his nose. “Mm. Well, your papa’s already made the point that I’ll need to put in a capable manager to make ’em pay. And that we cannot possibly afford a house the size of John Formby’s. Shrewd man, your father.”

    “Um, yuh-yes, he has a good head for business…”

    The Captain perceived she was at a loss. He took her hand and said gently: “Trottie True, I love you. Please marry me, and I’ll do my best to make you happy for the rest of my days.”

    She said nothing, head bowed.

    “Don’t you— I thought you cared for me a little,” he said in a low voice.

    “An orchard’d be good! Say yes, Trottie True!”

    Trottie True shrieked, and the Captain sprang up with a gasp. “What the—?”

    Ned Yates was standing in the doorway to the adjoining back parlour, looking at them hopefully. “Free apples!” he urged. “And plums! Say yes!”

    Alas, truly though he cared for the lady of his choice, the Captain’s broad shoulders began to shake. “Get out of here, Ned Yates,” he warned.

    “Yes,” said Trottie True in a stifled voice. “How could you, Ned?”

    “What?” replied Ned, scowling. “I never done nuffin’!”

    “You—you were listening,” she croaked.

    “I was not! Couldn’t help hearing, ’e’s got a loud voice. But I wasn’t listening—see?”

    “Never mind that. Get— Hang on!” The Captain strode over to him and grasped him by the skinny shoulder just as he was about to disappear. “I was under the impression that this was a school day. What the Devil are you doing at home? And before you speak, I’m not prepared to believe any lie, and I can promise you a beating if you’re playing truant!”

    “I ain’t, see! Ole Miss Finch is in bed with a feverish cold and ole Mr Finch, ’e told all of us to get off home, see? –Not the brother!” he added quickly.

    Trottie True swallowed. “Er—Miss Finch’s brother is—is a little backward.”

    Ned sniffed. “Dicked in the nob.”

    “Don’t use that expression in front of a lady. I suppose I believe you. Get out of my sight,” said the Captain mildly.

    “An orchard would be good!” Ned advised his cousin loudly, vanishing.

    The Captain tottered back to the sofa. “You must marry me immediately: this embarrassment must be kept in the family!”

    “Duh-don’t joke,” replied Trottie True unsteadily.

    He took her hand and raised it to his lips. “I love you. Please marry me.”

    “Captain Quarmby-Vine,” she said, drawing a deep breath, “I have to say this. I could not marry you if the case was that you had decided that you wished for an establishment and that, as you wish to live quietly, I would be suitable.”

    “But you would!” he cried. “You are! Haven’t I made that clear?”

    “Yes. Not that,” she said, turning puce.

    The robust Captain looked at the puce cheeks. Then he looked at the bosom—full, as her mother had once remarked—that was noticeably heaving. He felt—though at the same time immensely stimulated—quite weak. All these weeks—nay, months!—that he’d been half killing himself, holding back with the maidenly Miss Formby!

    “I think you may have the impression,” he said steadily, “that I’m a boring older fellow with not much juice left in him.”

    She looked up at him quickly. “No!”

    “I think so. But I ain’t. Want a demonstration?” said the Captain with horrid frankness. If he was thinking at all by this time—and he was not, really—he was thinking: “Now or never!” Not unlike the sensation with which, as a very young commander, he’d thrown his frigate at three ships of the line. Fortunately there had been a sea mist veiling his approach, and they had been tacking against the wind while he was sailing with it—and even more fortunately the flagship herself had come up and finished ’em off after his astoundingly successful broadside.

    Miss Formby had gasped: “No!” and clapped her hands to her glowing cheeks. The pose displayed the bosom to great effect. Accepting its invitation, he leaned forward, gently removed the hands from the face, and, leaning towards her ever more and more, pressed his lips to hers, and then his chest to those so-tempting soft mounds…

    Someone, he managed to register, doubtless the useless young fellow she’d been engaged to, had taught Miss Formby to kiss and no mistake!

    “I adore you,” he said into her neck at last, panting. He got a hand up and round one and squeezed gently. Beneath his not insubstantial weight Miss Formby jerked violently and gasped: “Oh!”

    “Yes, ‘oh’,” said the Captain, sitting up and frankly grinning at her. “Convinced everything’s all right in that department, now?”

    “Mm,” she admitted, licking her lips.

    The sight was so entrancing that he leaned forward again and completely covered her mouth with his. Not asking how far the fiancé had gone—and admitting to himself that he didn’t care, he was just so damned relieved that she was so hot to handle under the maidenly blushes and the prim gowns—he said in her ear: “Get married sooner rather than late, then, mm?”

    “Yes, please,” said Miss Formby in a tiny voice.

    “I love you, my darling Trottie True,” said the Captain huskily in her ear.

    “Oh!” she gasped. “I love you, too! I didn’t think—”

    “I know,” he admitted ruefully, sitting up and smiling gently at her.

    “Oh!” said Trottie True, the hands going to the cheeks again. “Not you— I meant I didn’t know if I could feel like that again. I—I knew I liked you, of course…”

    After a moment he said dazedly: “And that was the main reason for all the hesitation?”

    She held her chin up bravely. “Yes. Not the only reason, but—mm.”

    “Aye. Well, when one’s heart beats nineteen to the dozen when a chap lifts one down from a curricle with a sprained ankle it’s a fairly reliable indication!”

    “Yes,” she said honestly. “But then—”

    “I was too proper,” he said, smiling.

    “You were very gentlemanly,” said Trottie True faintly.

    “Uh-huh.” He took her hand and very gently kissed the palm. “This fiancé of yours was pretty hot to handle, hey?”

    “I—well, he was not very gentlemanly, certainly,” she said, swallowing. “Buh-but as a matter of fact he said that of—of me.”

    “Can’t have been entirely useless, then!” said Charles Quarmby-Vine cheerfully. “And I can assure you it won’t go to waste, Trottie True, my darling!”

    “No,” said Trottie True, blushing fierily but looking him in the eye. “I’m glad, Charles.”

    “He doesn’t want to wait,” said Julia on a wan note. “It’s understandable, at his age, and then, we do know the family, more or less… Of course I’ve given my permission, the man is a full captain in the Royal Navy, I doubt if I could refuse him anything. But I still think December is far too soon.”

    Lash cleared her throat. “Well, not judging by the look of the pair of them, Julia.”

    “What?” said Julia dully.

    “Er—look, I’m not saying he ain’t a gent, but I should very much doubt she’ll encourage him to hold off, much.”

    After a moment Julia said: “Oh. Joe said something of the sort. I could never see it in her.”

    Maybe it was different when it was your own daughter? Millicent hadn't seemed to Lash to be head-over-heels about Major Miller in that sort of way, but they hadn't wanted a long engagement, either.

    “Having a short engagement will at least keep Lady Cox guessing,” she said temperately.

    “What? Oh. Instead of having her damned sure? Well, yes,” said Julia heavily.

    “I’m quite sure she’ll be happy with him, Julia,” said Lash on a firm note. “And with both Joe and Cousin John keeping an eye on the way he manages his money, there’ll be no need to worry about ’em!” she added with a choke of laughter.

    “What? Oh—no.”

    Lash got up, kissed her sister-in-law’s cheek lightly, and went off to fetch her a cup of tea. “Though,” she said to Cookie with a sigh, “it is not a cure for a middle-aged son-in-law.”

    “Rats! Fine upstanding figger of a man!”

    Aunty Bouncer collapsed in helpless splutters.

    “We’ve all noticed that, Aunty,” said Lash grimly, “and for Trottie True’s sake, I’m very glad of it!”

    Aunty Bouncer blew her nose, grinning. “So’m I, really. Same sort as the late Mr Peters, actually.”

    Firmly ordering her mind to stop boggling, Lash replied steadily: “Good,” and departed with the tea in good order.

    The first direct result of Trottie True’s engagement to Captain Quarmby-Vine—no, well, not literally the first: that was Ma Mountjoy’s eager invitation to her dinner party. The first result of any significance to the family was an offer from Belinda for the pair to be married from Blasted Oak House.

    “She is my oldest daughter,” said Julia, blowing her nose hard, when the Blasted Oak House carriage had rattled off again.

    “It’d save you an awful lot of fuss, though, Julia,” said Aunty Bouncer sturdily.

    “Yes; and her house is so huge that they’ll be able to invite more of his side, and it may at least stop them from saying outright that he’s marrying beneath him,” added Lash grimly.

    “Must you?” cried Aunty Jicksy crossly.

    “No, she’s right, Aunty,” said Julia dully, blowing her nose again. “I’d best agree, I suppose. –Ugh, will that mean that Mr Collins will have to officiate?”

    Lash cleared her throat. “She means Mr Courtenay. –Well, yes; it is his parish.”

    “She doesn’t even like him.”

    “Uh—oh! Courtenay? No, but never mind, she’s not marrying him,” said Lash soothingly.

    Julia blew her nose hard. “At least she’s spared us that.”

    Aunty Bouncer got up. “You can ’ave a drop o’ port. And don’t argue.”

    The second direct result of Trottie True’s engagement was completely unexpected. Certainly to Aunty Bouncer, who was the one who opened the front door to it.

    She gaped. It was a fashionably dressed lady with a bonnet-load of cherry-coloured ostrich plumes and the largest silver-fox cloak she had ever seen—or hoped to. The thing was wider than the blamed door!

    “Good morning,” said the lady.—She looked oddly familiar: Aunty Bouncer squinted at her.—“Ees thees Mrs Formby’s house?”

    “’Tis, yes, if yer mean Mrs Joe Formby. Mrs John, she don’t live in the town.”

    “I know: she lives out at Blasted Oak House,” she agreed, smiling. “I theenk eet ees Mrs Joe whom I want. The mother of Mouse and Captain Cutlass, ees that right?”

    “That’s right. She’s out, but I dessay she won’t be long. Yer better come in.” She showed her into the front parlour, realising too late that the fire wasn’t lit in there. “Sit down there, I’ll get that fire lit in a mo’. Think we might of met before,” she admitted in a careless voice, eyeing her sideways. “Foreign, aren’tcha?”

    “Yes, eendeed, I am half-Portuguese. Please, dear ma’am, weell you not be seated yourself?”

    “Well, yer got manners, anyway,” allowed Bouncer, taking a seat by the fireplace.

    Smiling, the visitor sat down opposite her. “I theenk we have met before, yes, but I cannot recall the occasion.”

    “Think you were in a fancy shop in Brighton with a pug and a Naval orficer,” replied the old lady on a cautious note.

    “Oh, of course!” she cried. “You are the lady who caught Plug-Ugly Pug!”

    “Aye. So that’s its name, eh?”

    “Yes; we have several pugs and they all have seelly names. He was the runt of hees litter, and not beautiful, even for a pug, and I have to admit, I deed not theenk he would live, but I made the effort to hand-rear heem, and he ees now the most pugnacious pug of them all!” she finished, laughing a little.

    “Hah, hah,” agreed Aunty Bouncer, grinning. “Mrs Peters is my name,” she added, eyeing her thoughtfully.

    “How do you do, Mrs Peters? I am Lady Stamforth,” she responded with a lovely smile.

    “Thought yer were, aye. ’Cos there ain’t that many round these ’ere parts what’s ’alf-Portuguese and got a load of pug-dogs into the bargain. Nor a ’at like that.”

    “I confess that I enjoying dressing up, when the occasion warrants eet, and why not?” she said gaily.

    “Why not, indeed, if yer can afford it? And what about when the occasion don’t warrant it, eh?” she said with a shrewd look. “Gathering chestnuts or oysters, for instance.”

    “Um, yes,” said Nan Baldaya Vane in a very small voice. “Eet was me.”

    “Right.” She looked at her expectantly.

    “I—um—well, Captain Cutlass and one of her sisters met my sister, Rita, weeth my stepdaughter Mina, een Brighton thees last summer.”

    Mrs Peters nodded. “Niners, that were. She give us the impression that it weren’t your sister’s fault.”

    “No,” she admitted, swallowing. “Eet was mine: I persuaded her against her better judgement to—to keep pretending.”

    The old lady eyed her shrewdly. “And now that they know it was you, you’ve come to apologise, ’ave yer?”

    Nan had given up her initial idea of confessing the masquerade to the Formbys after Christmas, because Richard had declared his intention of getting out of it and hiring a house for himself. There was clearly no hope of his pursuing Mouse, and it had seem the kindest thing just to let the whole matter drop—and not, as Lewis advised drily, sally forth after chestnuts or mushrooms again at a time when she might expect to encounter the girls.

    She began airily: “I—” She met Mrs Peters’ sapient eye. “Well, not really!” she admitted with a guilty laugh. “I theenk I would have let sleeping dogs lie, but that we—we know Charles Quarmby-Vine vairy well, you see. That—that was heem, the naval officer weeth me and Plug-Ugly Pug.”

    Mrs Peters sniffed. “Right.”

    “And I would so like to come to the wedding!” she finished in a rush.

    The valiant Bouncer’s jaw was seen to drop.

    “Belinda Q.-V. has asked us, but—but Lewis has said that we cannot possibly unless I—I speak to Captain Cutlass and Mouse,” she said, swallowing. “And—and apologise to Mrs Formby also, for that time she met Jack at the market.”

    “Eh? Oh, the little lass! I get yer. So, this Lewis’d be yer husband, would ’e?” Lady Stamforth nodded meekly and Mrs Peters asked sardonically: “Always do what ’e says, do yer?”

    “No,” she said simply.

    The old lady’s shoulders shook. “Thought not! Mind you, Niners was real impressed by what your girls said about him. Surprised us, some: wouldn’t of thought she ’ad the nous to appreciate it.”

    “That Lewis refuses to be my mentor? Indeed he does, and eet ees so salutary!”

    Mrs Peters sniffed. “Ran rings around yer first two, did yer, me Lady? –Don’t answer that,” she advised drily. “Well, Mouse and Julia are out, but I’ll give Captain Cutlass a yell. She can light the fire for yer, too; it ain’t Cookie’s day and Polly Patch is running an errand.”

    “There’s no need to light the fire for me!” said Nan quickly. “Were you sitting een the kitchen, Mrs Peters? I am vairy used to kitchens.”

    “Dessay you might be, aye,” returned the old lady drily, “but I wouldn’t say as that ’at was. Stay there: it’s gotta be lit when Julia gets back, anyroad.” She went over to the door and disappeared.

    Nan smiled a little, as a loud screech of: “Hoy! Captain Cutlass! Get down ’ere!” was then heard. Life in New Short Street, though the house was very much smaller, was clearly very like life in the creeper-swathed, verandahed white house in Portuguese India in which she had grown up!

    Captain Cutlass was working on her Greek with the aid of a very small fire, a large quilt round her person, a cup of broth, and quantities of ink, some of which had unfortunately got on the quilt, and more of which had got on her nose. She was more or less aware that she was burying herself in her studies so as not to have to think about Dr Adams’s death. In addition, they were helping her to forget about Luís Ainsley—or at least they did so when she was actually working, but not in between times, when she still thought of him incessantly, which was stupid and Missish and, given that he was a married man, entirely pointless.

    She laid her pen down with a sigh and went as far as the top of the stairs. “What?”

    “There’s a visitor in the parlour! Can yer get down and light the fire for us?” screeched Aunty Bouncer.

    “Visitor? What visitor?” muttered Captain Cutlass, scowling. “All RIGHT! I’m coming! Stop yelling!” she shouted.

    “Who is it?” she asked grumpily, clumping down the stairs.

    “Lady Stamforth,” admitted Aunty Bouncer, taking the bull by the horns.

    “Very funny.”

    “No. ’Tis. Come to see yer Ma. In a hat with red feathers and a ’uge great silver fox cloak.”

    “Then she can scarcely need a fire,” said Captain Cutlass coldly. “If you’ve got nothing better to do than play silly jokes on people that are busy, I can provide you with a pile of stockings to mend.” She marched up the passage and flung the parlour door wide.

    Nan got up quickly. “Hullo, Captain Cutlass.”

    Captain Cutlass’s face turned very red. She said nothing.

    Of course Nan had prepared innumerable speeches for this moment, but now that it had come she was incapable of producing any of them. “I’m vairy sorry,” she said on a lame note. “I— That first time that I met you and Mouse, I had no intent to deceive.”

    “Only the succeeding times, I presume,” said Captain Cutlass in a hard voice.

    “I—Well, I deed not say that Rita and I were servants, but I deed not contradict Mouse when she made the assumption, no. Luh-letting people believe half-truths ees one of my besetting sins.”

    Captain Cutlass eyed her thoughtfully. “You must have spent considerable time training up young Jack not to betray you. Not to mention the one-eyed man, and the gentlemen.”

    “I—Oh, help,” said Nan limply. “The day they met your mother at the market, the other two knew, but Luís deed not.”

    Captain Cutlass went very red, not least because of her Ladyship’s use of Mr Ainsley’s first name. “I see.”

    Aunty Bouncer had been standing in the doorway all this while, looking from one to the other of them, her shrewd little eyes very bright. Now she closed the door, came forward and said briskly: “Yer better sit down again, me Lady. Captain Cutlass, for Pete’s sake light the fire, it’s freezing in ’ere!”

    “Presumably not to one wearing sixteen foxes on her back,” replied Captain Cutlass sourly, nonetheless kneeling to light the fire.

    “I am vairy, vairy sorry, Captain Cutlass. I—I gave in to temptation. I just—I just wanted to have a nice, ordinary time with some people whom I thought looked pleasant, cannot you understand that?” ended Nan on a desperate note.

    Captain Cutlass turned round and sat back on her heels. “As a matter of fact, I can, since you put it like that.”

    “Yes. Lewis and I try to live as simple a life as ees possible when we are down here, but—but because of hees position, we can’t always—um, well, people recognise us,” she ended glumly. “Eet was only weakness, and not deliberate malice!”

    “I’d say that’s true enough,” conceded Aunty Bouncer. “Only yer see, Captain Cutlass don’t go much on folks that give in to temptation. ’Specially not them that’s smart enough to know they’re a-doing it, and goes ahead and does it anyway.”

    “I couldn’t have put that better myself,” agreed Captain Cutlass sourly. “I dare say Mouse may forgive you: hers is a forgiving personality.”

    “But won’t you?” said Nan, venturing upon a smile.

    Captain Cutlass took a deep breath. “Lady Stamforth, I can see that you’re the sort of pretty, charming woman who’s used to having everything her own way. I could see that even when I thought you were a serving-woman: class has nothing to do with that kind of thing. I don’t consider that a highly intelligent person who knowingly practised a deception and knowingly drew others into it is deserving of forgiveness—or, indeed, has any notion of what real repentance is.”

    Bouncer sighed. “Look, I ain’t arguing with you, Captain Cutlass, but if this kind o’ thing’s her besetting sin, can’t you see that being too ’ard on folks is yours?”

    “As a matter of fact, I can,” said Captain Cutlass. “Seeing it does not, however, make one immediately capable of changing the trait.”

    “And what’s more, you don’t want to!” cried the old lady.

    “No, you’re right, I don’t.” She hesitated. Then she said: “I can understand that your position in society irks you at times, Lady Stamforth, and even sympathise with your initial deception. But as it is precisely that position which must prevent our two families ever being more than the merest acquaintances, it seems pointless to discuss the matter further.”

    “But I want to come to the wedding!” she cried on an anguished note.

    “What?” said Captain Cutlass limply.

    Aunty Bouncer cleared her throat. “Knows Charles Q.-V., lovey. Belinda seems to ’ave sent ’er an invitation. Sounds as if the husband’s real fed up with ’er goings-on.”

    “Aunty Bouncer, this is the man whose relatives told us—”

    “I know. Doesn’t mean ’e’s not fed up, get it? Told ’er she can’t come to the wedding unless she puts it all right.”

    Captain Cutlass looked at Lady Stamforth’s face, the which was now distinctly flushed and embarrassed and, to say truth, what with the beginnings of a disappointed pout, did not look much older than little Jack’s. “I suppose you are not wholly to blame for your station in life,” she said with a sigh. “Though presumably you cannot have married the man without being aware you were doing so. Well, I cannot condone your actions, but I suppose I can forgive you. We are all human, after all.”

    Mrs Peters sagged. “Good for you, Captain Cutlass! Everyone makes mistakes, after all. Lor’, I wasn’t much older than you, I dessay, me Lady, when I really put me foot in it. Lessee, my Jimmy, God rest ’is soul, would’ve been thirteen—well, I were married at sixteen, yer see—”

    “But so was I!” she cried, beaming. “My Johnny ees thirteen, now!”

    Bouncer gulped but rallied to say: ”Well, there you are. Turning thirty don’t endow yer with instant wisdom, do it? –’Ang on, lemme put the kettle on, and then I’ll tell you all about it—and you, Captain Cutlass, dessay you’re old enough to ’ear it!” With this she bustled out, beaming.

    Lady Stamforth looked wildly at Captain Cutlass.

    “No notion,” admitted that damsel with a reluctant grin.

    “But what can eet be?” she hissed, her eyes very round.

    “Well,” replied Captain Cutlass on a dry note, “Waddington-on-Sea ain’t London, so don’t expect anything too thrilling. But, um, well, I must admit it’s surprising I haven’t heard of it before. And she hardly ever talks of Cousin Jimmy Peters. He was a gunner: died at Trafalgar. His wife never got on with Aunty Bouncer and moved the family to Portsmouth, where she had relatives. They’re scattered to the four winds, now.”

    Her Ladyship nodding sympathetically and enquiring about the rest of Mrs Peters’s family, the two were enabled to plunge into harmless chat.

    The tea was made, Mrs Huggins, who had been woken from a doze over her tatting and apprised of the whole by Bouncer, was over the wheezing and shaking and had come into the parlour, and, Mrs Peters’ story having being revealed as the sort of storm in a teacup that made those involved feel extremely foolish for a very long time—salutary but scarcely scandalous—they were all companionably chatting when Julia and Mouse came home.

    Rather naturally they were surprised to find Lady Stamforth in their front parlour but recovered quickly enough, assured her Ladyship that apologies were not necessary, and sat down to take tea with her. Though Julia did add that she would never have thought her girls would have been silly enough to believe her Ladyship was a serving-wench.

    “You see, I was een my nutting dress weeth the red Portuguese petticoat,” admitted the culprit. “I am truly sorry, Mrs Formby. And I—I made my leetle Jack swear not to tell, either.”

    Julia’s face broke into a beaming smile. “So Jack is your little girl? I thought there was a resemblance!”

    After that it was all plain sailing, and her Ladyship finally took her leave with the rapturous assurance that she would see them at the wedding and a promise to call on Mrs Formby with Jack and the girls.

    “So that dear little girl is hers!” said Julia, bustling over to the fire. “Just fancy!”

    “Er—yes, Ma,” said Mouse on a weak note. “If that is the point.”

    Aunty Bouncer gave her a warning look. “Just let it be the point, deary.”

    Julia held her hands out to the blaze, smiling. “She’s a lovely person, isn’t she? Such warmth and charm!”

    “I have never denied that,” said Captain Cutlass. “Nevertheless the ethical point at issue remains unaltered.”

    “Captain Cutlass, I thought you’d forgiven her!” cried Mouse.

    “Agreed to let bygones be bygones, at all events,” said Aunty Bouncer firmly. “And just let the whole thing drop, would yer, Captain Cutlass?”

    She shrugged. “Very well. Though I can tell you now that Ma Mountjoy won’t—did you see the parlour curtains twitch as we saw her into her carriage?”

    “The woman was toad-eating yer ma already on account of Trottie True marrying a gent, can this make it worse?” snapped Mrs Peters, glaring.

    Captain Cutlass shrugged and walked out. Never mind invitations to Trottie True’s fashionable wedding at Blasted Oak House or, indeed, Ma Mountjoy’s toad-eating: the huge social gap between such as lived in New Short Street and such as lived in great castles and had marquises for brothers-in-law must remain unbreachable! –She had, of course, awarded Lady Stamforth a brother-in-law to whom she had no right at all, but just at the moment the point did not occur to her.

    After a moment Aunty Jicksy ventured: “It will get worse. My bet’d be Ma Cox’ll decide to know us again, soon as she ’ears just ’ow far we’ve gorn up in the world.”

    “Right!” said Bouncer smartly. “In that case, we’ll make being took up by the castle an excuse to snub the woman forever and a day!”

    “Amen to that!” said Mouse with a laugh. “Don’t you agree, Ma?”

    “Mm?” replied Julia vaguely. “You know, dear little Jack puts me in mind so much of Captain Cutlass at that age! –Sorry, dear, what? No, well, of course we haven’t been took up by the castle or anything like it!” she said, giving herself a shake and resuming her normal brisk manner. “We haven’t gone that far up in the world, thank goodness!”

Next chapter:

https://thefortunateformbys.blogspot.com/2023/10/changes-for-new-short-street.html