Good And Bad News

16

Good And Bad News

    “This is a—a surprise, dear,” said Julia somewhat shakily as John-John broke the good news.

    “Well, yes, didn’t really intend to fix it up so soon—but you like Mary, don’t you, Ma?”

    “Yes, of course, she’s a sweet girl,” said Julia feebly.

    “Think the surprise is more along the lines of knowing Lady Cox’ll be an in-law, John-John,” said his father drily.

    “Uh—yes.”

    “Can we ask how you swung it with her?” he added, even more drily.

    John-John cleared his throat. “Well, old Cox is on our side—not a bad old sort.”

    Joe didn’t looked convinced. “Go on.”

    “Um, well, thing is, she’s flung Mary out of the house,” he admitted, tugging at his neckcloth.

    “Oh, no!” gasped Julia.

    “Just hold on,” said Joe with a mocking look in his eye. “Way I heard it was—’course, I wasn’t taking that much notice, didn’t realise the gal was going to be me daughter-in-law—way I heard it was, Lady Cox ain’t in her house.”

    John-John swallowed. “No,” he said on a weak note. “She’s over with the Gilfillan cousins in Brighton. So—um—well, Mary just came on home to her father.”

    Julia had to swallow. “She—she flung her out of Mrs Gilfillan’s house, dear?”

    “Aye.”

    Joe broke down in a sniggering fit.

    “Stop that, Joe,” said Julia unconvincingly. “John-John, what about when Lady Cox comes home?”

    Joe’s sniggers developed into hysterics.

    “Joe! –Go on, dear.”

    John-John cleared his throat, glancing uneasily at his father. “Old Cox claims he’ll stand firm, but he won’t, of course. Though he is on our side, and he’s settling five hundred pounds on Mary.”

    “You mean he is until she gets to hear of it,” said Joe, blowing his nose.

    “No, um, he’s done it, Pa: shot round to old Crabtree’s and drew up the papers yesterday. Well, conditional upon the marriage, naturally.”

    “She’ll kill him!” gasped Julia, forgetting herself, rather.

    “Yuh— Uh, well, she won’t be best pleased, no. But there is Lucinda coming along, so once she’s over it she’ll probably concentrate on her.”

    Lucinda Cox, to Julia’s certain knowledge, was only fifteen. But certainly what could have been called forthcoming, not to say, as ambitious as her mother was. “Ye-es.”

    “They’ll be taking Brighton by storm,” noted Joe sardonically.

    “True,” agreed Julia. “But in the meantime, it won’t be very pleasant for Mary, will it?”

    “No, um—well, thing is,” said John-John, clearing his throat, “Mr Cox is threatening to get on over to Captain Cox’s place.”

    This personage, pace the title—which Lady Cox was wont to trot out not infrequently in front of the uninitiate—was a brother of his Worship’s who had done quite well for himself in the fishing trade and settled to his retirement in a comfortable house over at Guillyford Bay on the far side of Brighton—having no worldly ambitions at all. The house was bigger than a cottage, certainly, but that was about all you could say for it. And he had captained his own fishing smack, and owned two others besides, so you could say he had fairly earned the title. But never mind her habit of bandying his name about, his Worship’s spouse cordially loathed him.

    “She’ll definitely kill him,” said Julia in a hollow voice.

    “What about his mayoral responsibilities?” asked Joe weakly.

    “There’s an election in a few months, Pa,” his son reminded him. “He won’t stand again.”

    In that case she would most certainly kill him; Julia gulped.

    “Right, well, let me get this straight,” said Joe, eyeing his son sardonically. “Ma Cox comes home, discovers Cox has pushed off to Captain Cox for a few months’ gossip, pipe-smoking, and just general sloppiness, not to say getting out in the little boat to get the odd fish supper, and goes into screaming hysterics, meanwhile planning to launch young Lucinda with full panoply next year. Unless I’ve miscounted that leaves Mary either stuck in her room on bread and water for the foreseeable future or flung out of another house.”

    “Joe—”

    “Don’t interrupt, love, I’d like to hear him speak his piece.”

    John-John stuck his square chin out. “I was wondering if Mary could come to us, Pa.”

    “The alternative would seem to be for her to go to Captain Cox,” he agreed.

    “Joe, he’s a misogynist,” said Julia faintly.

    “Quite. Let’s get this clear, John-John. In the first place, how long does Mary come to us? In the second place, where are you while Mary’s with us? And in the third place, is it just Mary that comes to us, or is it Mary and the brat? Because no-one’s got any objections to babies in our house, and if you have made a fool of yourself you won’t be the first, but your mother and I would quite like to know.”

    John-John had gone very red, but to his father’s considerable surprise, he didn’t shout at him. “It isn’t like that, Pa. Mary isn’t that sort of girl and in any case, I wouldn’t.”

    “Joe,” said Julia quickly, “that Bessy Carter was a frightful girl, and in any case, she admitted poor George Potts was the father!”

    Joe eyed his second son drily, but conceded: “So she did. Didn’t mean you wouldn’t, with her, though; did it?”

    “No,” he said, still very red, but looking him steadily in the eye. “But I respect Mary, Pa. She’s a decent girl.”

    “Good. Go on, then.”

    “I was just hoping she might stay until we can be wed and the house Lucas has promised me is ready—it only needs a few sticks of furniture, it’s in good condition. And before you say anything, Pa, I’m not going to sea again.”

    “Oh, thank God!” cried Julia.

    Joe passed his hand over his hair. “You do surprise me. This is definite, is it?”

    “Yes,” he said steadily. “I’m not a boy any more, Pa. If I went back to sea, Ma Cox’d get her claws into Mary and force her to marry that awful Haliburton chap—well, him or another. I’m not going off to the other side of the world and leaving her to the woman.”

    “Glad to hear it. In that case, John-John, I’ll say congratulations,” said Joe stolidly, holding out his hand.

    “Yes,” he said hoarsely, wringing it. “Thanks, Pa.”

    “Of course!” cried Julia, quickly blowing her nose. “Let me give you a kiss, John-John! I’m glad: she’s a dear girl, we’ve always liked her!”

    That was true enough—well, both statements were true enough, reflected Joe Formby, as John-John embraced his mother and was embraced heartily in return. But he wouldn’t encourage a long engagement, while Mary settled in as their guest. No, let them get married and go off to their own house, where the lad would have to assume the responsibilities he’d taken on.

    Julia was crying: “But we haven’t even seen the house!” so he pointed out that it wouldn’t take as much as an hour in the Blasted Oak House barouche, they might as well jog on over. And refrained from asking just how soon old Cox was planning to disappear to his brother’s place and they could expect to be landed with Mary. Because in case Julia had overlooked it, they weren’t actually in their own house, any more than Ma Cox was in hers.

    “Are you laughing again?” said his wife dangerously.

    “No—only— Sorry!” he choked. “Ma Cox,” he explained feebly.

    Julia’s eyes lit up. “Yes! She hates Captain Cox!” she agreed gleefully.

    Joe just grinned and nodded and didn’t say it wasn’t that: he’d been struck all over again by the picture of Lady Cox chucking poor little Mary out of a house that wasn’t even hers.

    Captain Cutlass and Niners having returned from Brighton in time to spend the last month of the summer at Blasted Oak House, Mouse fell on the former’s neck. Rather as one hailing the advent of a fellow-sufferer—quite. Niners, however, appeared actually to enjoy the genteel drives in the barouche to Lasset Place, Broadmeadows, or Longwood House…

    Then came the huge excitement of the news that Lady Lasset’s nephew was come to stay! Mrs Venables of Longwood House in person drove over to ensure they knew of it.

    “She could not have been more thrilled,” groaned Lash when it was over and she and Aunty Bouncer had stumbled outside for a breath of fresh air, “if it had been Mr Darcy himself!”

    “Eh?”

    “Bingley’s friend and mentor,” said Lash heavily.

    “Don’t start that, for Gawd’s sake!”

    “What? Oh! No! The real one! I mean the one in the book!” gasped Lash, going off into a peal of laughter.

    Real, or, the one in the book. Mrs Peters looked at her with a sort of wild resignation in her eye. “Right.”

    “Sorry, Aunty!” she gasped, blowing her nose. “But really! Isn’t he the boy whom poor Victoria stigmatised as a piece of wet string?”

    “’Tisn’t him, it’s another one. Not ’er Ladyship’s nevvy, the late husband’s.”

    “A Lasset?” she said in hollow tones.

    “Weren’t you listening? –Don’t answer that! Lasset weren’t the name. Must be the mother that was a Lasset. Bad enough, I grant yer. Still, at least it ain’t the piece o’ wet string and we won’t have to watch it making eyes at Victoria for the sake of John’s money.”

    “That don’t follow!” said Lash with a laugh.

    “True,” she conceded sourly. “That’ll be something to look forward to, then.”

    “Mayhap we won’t be afforded the privilege,” said Lash with forced optimism.

    Aunty Bouncer merely snorted.

    The old lady was, of course, quite right, and Lady Lasset did not neglect to favour the Formbys in toto with an invitation to a very simple dinner party: not above twenty covers…

    Lash and Aunty Jicksy counted dazedly on their fingers, what time Aunty Bouncer watched them sardonically.

    “Well,” said Lash, “Johnny’s gracing his parents’ home at last, but without the boys…”

    “’Ang on, Ma Venables was that excited, it’ll be them! Um… Nineteen. Blow.”

    “Little Sir Roland: she’ll be letting him down for grown-up dinner at last,” decided Lash.

    “Oh! Right!” agreed Aunty Jicksy in tones of huge relief. “That’ll be it, then!”

    Alas, her peer collapsed in a splutters on the spot.

    Lash and Aunty Jicksy were right, however, and the blushing young Sir Roland was down for dinner; and with the Venables of Longwood House and their own party, including an unwilling Nunky Ben, only marginally comforted by Cousin John’s assurance that what the hag called a “raggy” would be solid mutton stew, that did, indeed, make twenty persons. Without the Reverend Mr Courtenay’s having to be included, what was more.

    “What did you think of Lieutenant-Colonel Bredon, Cousin Lash?” said Victoria eagerly next day.

    Lash had experienced such a stunned relief at the discovery that their arithmetic had been correct and that her fate was not to eat one of Lady L.’s long-drawn-out dinners next to her Ladyship’s toady that she had barely registered that the nephew was a quiet, thin, rather yellow-complexioned man. “Was it Bredon? I had thought, Brandon,” she replied very weakly indeed.

    “No, no! Bredon! What did you think?” she repeated eagerly.

    Apart from thinking wild thoughts of their Marianne’s falling back on Lady Lasset’s Colonel Brandon, since Bingley had turned out to be a Willoughby, Lash had thought what she had had off Major Miller: to wit, lieutenant-colonel was where the ones whose careers weren’t going to go anywhere usually stuck. “He seems an amiable man,” she offered feebly.

    Victoria’s face fell. “Is that all?”

    “Y— Victoria, you aren’t match-making again, are you?”

    “No!” she snapped, reddening.

    “You are,” discovered Lash with a groan. “Please don’t. I cannot tell you why, but he does not appeal any more than Dr Kent, or—or—” She could not for the moment remember whom Victoria had destined for her, though at the time their names had seemed Legion. “Skellett,” she ended on a weak note.

    “The horrid vicar who stole the old woman’s cake?” she gasped. “I never thought of him for a moment!”

    “No, very well, Victoria. Sorry,” she said limply over the great-aunties’ sniggering.

    “Colonel Bredon is not particularly good-looking, I suppose, but very pleasant.”

    “Didn’t I just ask you to stop?”

    “But he is of a suitable age for you, dearest Cousin Lash!” she cried on an anguished note.

    Lash was about to say that made no difference, but fortunately Victoria’s mamma came into the sitting-room at this moment and the encomium on Colonel Bredon ceased abruptly. Though the great-aunties’ sniggering did not.

    “Belinda’s going to return the hospitality,” announced Aunty Bouncer later that day. “You’ll get to meet Colonel Bredon again!”

    “Just don’t,” said Lash heavily. “I cannot tell you why, but I don’t want him! And what is more, Lady L. don’t want me for him! And don’t dare to say do I mean little Sir Roland!”

    “Wasn’t going to,” lied Bouncer valiantly. “Well, Belinda’s been exchanging notes with Mrs Rossiter: think she means to invite ’er to stay, though I don’t claim it’s necessarily to throw Victoria at young Rossiter. So maybe she can ’ave Bredon!”

    “Quite a decent feller, I’d say,” offered Aunty Jicksy. “Ain’t got them dark looks what sends a shiver down yer spine like Commander Henderson, mind.”

    To the immense surprise, not to say gratification of both old ladies, Lash at this turned the deepest of scarlets and stalked out.

    After quite some time Mrs Huggins managed to clear her throat. “Bow at a venture,” she explained airily.

    “It struck ’ome,” replied Bouncer numbly.

    Jicksy had recovered. “Did, didn’t it?” she chirped smugly.

    Belinda’s invitations—all of her invitations—bore fruit, and a delighted Mrs Rossiter, with young Mr Rossiter in tow, came to stay at Blasted Oak House, and the party from Lasset Place came to dine.

    Lash offered sourly on the day of the dinner party to resign Colonel Brandon to Victoria, but as all concerned recognised, once the confusion over the name had been resolved, this was because she had discovered a mark on her good black silk. Victoria magnanimously rushed off to ask Mamma to lend her one of her black gowns, so Lash was enabled to burst upon the assembled multitude in borrowed plumage. So terrified she would drop something on it that she hardly dared to move—yes.

    “Know what Joe calls this sherry muck?” chirped Aunty Jicksy, standing dangerously near with a glass of it.

    “Yes, and do not rep—”

    Too late, she was gleefully repeating: “Gnat’s piss!”

    “Yes, and just keep it away from this gown!” hissed Lash.

    Aunty Jicksy eyed Colonel Bredon thoughtfully. He looked as if he was about to make a move in this direction. She drifted away… “Hee, hee!” she ascertained, looking over her shoulder. Lady L.’s nephew had buttonholed Lash and, in addition to standing there like a statue in Cousin Belinda’s gown, Lash was now standing there looking agonised.

    After exchanging one or two innocuous remarks Colonel Bredon said courteously: “Would you not prefer to sit, Mrs Yates?”

    “No,” replied Lash baldly. “This is Cousin Belinda’s gown, and I do not dare to sit down in it—or, frankly, even to move in it. And do, pray, feel free to convey that intelligence to your aunt.”

    After a moment Colonel Bredon said on a dry note: “She is not my aunt, Mrs Yates, but my late uncle’s wife, but she has certainly been as kind to me as if she were my own aunt.”

    “Yes,” said Lash, reddening. “I’m glad to hear it. She has been very gracious and welcoming to us.”

    “Of course,” he murmured. “Er—I do not know the district very well. Are there just the two families beside your cousins?”

    “That live close, yes. Um, there is Little Lasset, over to the east of Sir Roland’s property.”

    “Mm: the tenant is not renewing the lease and I will be living there myself, next year. Are there other properties over there?”

    “Wardle Heights and High Mallows. One of my nephews is working for the man who is refurbishing Wardle Heights. It’s quite a large property. High Mallows is small, though the house is much prettier. But, um, Lady Lasset does not socialise with its owners.”

    “I see. And the owner of Wardle Heights?”

    “The actual owner is a Miss Henderson, a lady who lives in the town. It’s her nephew who is doing up the house. He is a commander in the Royal Navy: I suppose that’s respectable enough,” said Lash with a frown.

    Colonel Bredon looked at the frown dubiously. “But?”

    “Nothing!” she said quickly, reddening. “Though he has no family.”

    “Well, I’m a bachelor myself,” he said mildly. “Dare I ask if Aunt Naomi would approve of the aunt?”

    “I do not think any lady could not, but if you want further intelligence you had best ask my niece, Elizabeth, she has been her companion any time these last five years.”

    At this Colonel Bredon looked in a startled way at Niners. “Miss Elizabeth?”

    “Yes.” Lash endeavoured to catch Niners’s eye but she was chatting politely to Mrs Venables and did not notice her. “I’m sorry, but I’m not volunteering to winkle her out of that crew, Colonel. I’ve seen Mrs Venables with my own eyes dropping a stream of cake crumbs on Cousin Belinda’s Persian rug, and though she is not eating cake as of this moment—”

    “Er—Oh! The borrowed plumage?” he said with a grin. “I quite understand: the risk posed by a wavering glass of sherry must be the same in essence, if not in specifics!” His eyes rested thoughtfully on Niners and he murmured: “I shall posses my soul in patience, then.”

    “Over Miss Henderson? Yes, well, Nin—Elizabeth will be able to tell you anything you wish to know, but I’m quite sure Lady Lasset could not object to her, sir.”

    “Good,” he murmured.

    Lash did not remark anything in his tone, or the way his eyes lingered on her niece, because Cousin Belinda was about to give the signal to go in to dinner. Oh, help.

    The next day in the nicest possible way Belinda of course revealed that “dear Lash” had been supposed to keep the gown. Lash felt so weak that she just tottered outside and collapsed onto the rustic bench under the big tree on the lawn next Nunky Ben and the pipe.

    After quite some time the old man removed the latter and said: “What now?”

    “After the agonies I went through last night trying not to spill anything on that dress, the woman’s been and gone and told me to keep the blamed thing!”

    “Might of guessed,” he replied smugly, returning the thing to his mouth.

    “That thing’s gone out,” warned Lash.

    “Mm.” The old man sucked it peacefully. “Fancy a drive?” he said at long last, removing it again.

    “In what?” replied Lash wildly.

    “Well, not the danged barouche! No, you can drive a trap, can’t yer?”

    “I haven’t driven for years, and then it was only my little Neddy: he was so small that I could have pulled him, bless him,” said Lash with a smothered sigh.

    “That cob of John’s don’t look feisty to me. And the lad’ll harness ’im up for us.”

    “I really don’t think I could, Nunky,” she said apologetically. “Could someone else drive you?”

    “Mouse and Captain Cutlass have gone for a walk. And Trottie True’s out with the Captain again.”

    “Mm. Niners? She can drive Old Horse competently enough. Or could before Miss Aitch got hold of her.”

    “She’ll do,” he agreed. “It’ll get her away from Mr Johnny Fancy-Pantaloons, too. Notice ’im leering at ’er last night?’

    “Yes: he was almost as bad as Jimmy Rossiter leering at Victoria.”

    “Ah.” Nunky Ben closed one eye laboriously. “’Er ma wants that.”

    “That has dawned. And so does his!” said Lash with a grin. “Well, his beauty and her— No, scrub that. They will have beautiful children, Nunky Ben,” she said primly. The old man went into a wheezing fit and she got up, smiling. “You stay there; I’ll find Niners.”

    She and the old aunties were privileged to observe the sight of Niners in a grey and white striped cotton gown and a bergère straw hat donated by Cousin Belinda driving the old man sedately down the drive behind the placid cob, but they had to rely on Nunky Ben for the further report. The which, fortunately, he was not loath to give.

    “We’d gorn down the lanes a way and we spots a feller a-sitting in a field and I says: ‘Ain’t that that nevvy of Lady Lasset’s? What in tarnation is ’e a-doing? Can’t be fishing. And it’s too early for a picknick.” And Niners says as she thinks ’e be a-sketching. So I tells ’er to stop and nips down to take a look.” He looked airy, so his audience gathered that a certain amount was going unsaid at this point.

    “So I goes over, and dang me, she’s right! A-sketching is what ’e’s doing. Well, don’t look like nothing to me, ’uge great scribbles. And personal, I always thought it was ladies as sketched, not gents. But I knows she likes that sort o’ stuff so I hollers: ‘Oy, Niners! Yer right, come and ’ave a look! Leave the ruddy ’orse, if it’ll walk two steps of its own accord, I’m a Dutchman!’ What I thought she wasn’t gonna, only ’e gets up and bows, see—never seen a gent bow acrosst ’alf a field before,” he noted thoughtfully. The audience duly sniggered and Nunky Ben continued, much cheered: “So she comes over and ’e bows again and they says ‘Good morning’ and at first I think she’s only gorn red acos she’s wild at me and didn’t want to come over, only pretty soon I can see it ain’t that. And admires them scribbles like nobody’s business, so ’e lets on as e’s always liked drawing and words like perspecky-tive and shadings and carry-something are flying thick and fast on both sides, and around about that point, I don’t mind admitting as I was ready to tell the lass to give it up, acos them sort, they ain’t the marrying kind! What it was a pity, acos that weren’t the impression ’e give last night, never mind the manners and stuff.”

    “No!” put in Lash at this point, shaking slightly.

    The old man awarded her a glare. “Right. Anyroad, it goes on for ages, and I sits down and lights me pipe. So after ’e’s shown ’er the trick of drawing a rock and a tree and them massy clouds”—it was not altogether clear why Bouncer gave a snicker at this point but he looked pleased anyway—“’e says as the sun’s moved on and ’e ain’t getting the effect orf the tree no more and in any case ’is aunty’s expecting ’im back. So Niners says off ’er own bat—mind you, by this time I wasn’t that surprised, though I still ’ad it in mind to warn ’er orf—she says as we can give ’im a ride. So la-de-da and ’ow’s yer father and more bowing, and all right, I was wrong, as it turned out, only yer can’t blame me for thinking ’e were another like that Pierce the apothecary from the ’Igh Street, can yer?” He glared at Lash.

    “No; by the sound of the bowing, not to mention the perspective stuff, anyone would have concluded the same, Nunky,” she said peaceably.

    “Aye,” he agreed, apparently mollified. “So the Colonel hops up behind, and we sets orf, once I’ve got it across to Niners that Lasset Place ain’t on this road what we’re on, we gotta go back and turn. What she’s all set to argify, only ’e says as I’m right. We make the turn—just as well that cob’s got a mouth like iron, though I don’t say she didn’t do well enough—and get part down the road, where we come across this ’uge great waggon ’alf in the ditch and the waggoner beating the poor old cart-horse like ’e was a-gonna take the ’ide orf him for a pair o’ boots then and there!”

    “Brute!” cried Lash angrily.

    “Right. So Niners pulls up and shouts—wouldn’t of thought she ’ad it in ’er, neither: ‘Stop beating that ’orse at once!’”

    “Good for her!” cried Lash fiercely.

    “Yes, only it didn’t work, the man called ’er a real rude word. Dunno that she knew what ’e meant, mind. Only the Colonel’s ’eard it before, and ’e’s orf the trap afore you can blink, and grabs the man’s arm—he’s a-gonna belt the poor nag again, see—and yells: ‘What did you dare to call this lady?’ –Mind you, wouldn’t of put it like that meself, asking to ’ave ’im say it again. ’E’s a ’uge great feller, mind, twice the Colonel’s size. So he takes a swing at ’im: with the whip, I might add!”

    The company shrank and shuddered.

    “Ah!” said Nunky Ben with huge satisfaction. “Yer never seen nothing like it! The Colonel rushes in quick as lightning: feints with ’is right, see,”—at this point the old man rose and demonstrated, to the entertainment of the spectators—“and in with a left to the jaw: pow! Felled ’im like an ox!” He shook his head. “Never seen nothing to beat it, no, not the time as they ’ad the prize-fight out past the Old Town in Mr Pennybaker’s field and Lefty Len beat the Man Mountain in three rounds.” He sniffed slightly. “Well, Man Mountain: it were that Pete Bodger, Bob’s dad, but ’e were built like an ox, right enough.”

    “Never mind that!” cried Bouncer. “The Colonel ’it the feller?”

    “’It ’im?” he cried scornfully. “I said! Floored ’im! ’E was out cold!”

    “’Urray!” cried Jicksy shrilly.

    “And so say all of us,” conceded her brother-in-law. “What I dessay most gents would of left it at that, only guess what? The Colonel backs the ’orse up a bit and finds a couple of logs and ’e’s got that wheel out of the ditch in no time!”

    “Meanwhile you just sat there,” noted Bouncer.

    “No I didn’t, see!” he snapped. “I got down and ’elped ’im!”

    “Did the carter come round?” asked Lash.

    “Yes: sat up groaning, so the Colonel says, cool as a cucumber: ‘Do you want some more home-brewed? ’Cos I’m quite ready to give it yer for beating of that poor animal.’ Only ’e don’t, see: ’e just sits there, glaring. And the Colonel picks up the whip and gets back in the trap and says: ‘Let that be a lesson to you not to mistreat your horses. Please drive on, Miss Elizabeth,’ and orf we goes.”

    “With the feller’s whip?” asked Bouncer.

    “Are you deaf? Yes!”

    “Makes it better,” she admitted.

    Graciously Mr Huggins conceded: “What I thought.”

    “Nunky Ben, did Niners say anything?” asked Lash.

    “Not the ’ole of the way to the Place. Then ’e says best not to go back down that road, and we can carry on this-a-way and shall ’e come with us? So she says no, thank you very much, Colonel, and it were very well done of yer.”

    The company exchanged uncertain glances.

    “Red as a beet,” he added calmly.

    “Sounds all right,” admitted Jicksy.

    “Did ’e bow?” asked Bouncer.

    “Out of course ’e bowed, Bouncer, ’e’s a gent!” he replied on an annoyed note.

    “Just getting a clear picture. Well, sounds all right, dunnit?”

    “Right!” agreed Jicksy, her eyes shining. “Pow! –Them wiry men is often the strongest. Slim, y’know, but wiry… Micky Peters—you wouldn’t remember him, Lash, deary, drowned rounding the Cape of Good Hope afore you was born—he was one of them wiry men…”

    “So ’e was, aye,” conceded Mrs Peters kindly. “Micky Peters…” she said with a deep sigh. “Forgotten all about ’im,” she admitted. “Cousin of the late Mr Peters, Lash, dear,” she explained. “The girls was all wild for ’im…”

    “Right. Looked nothing much in ’is clothes, but without ’is shirt… All right; I’ve ’ad me day!” said Jicksy crossly to the audience.

    “Apparently, Aunty,” agreed Lash with a twinkle. “Well, let’s hope Niners can recognise it when she meets it.”

    “I’d say so. Red as a beet,” Ben reminded them.

    “Fingers crossed, then!” concluded Bouncer, grinning.

    Sir Harry was aware that Captain Cutlass was now staying in the district but today he and Don Quijote had reached Lasset Halt without meeting, her, her reticule and her carrot; and the baronet, muttering: “Dammit. Expected to have come across her by now,” pulled in at the tavern. Hearing the now-familiar shout the tavernkeeper came running—not because it had dawned that the man with the donkey-cart was a gentleman, but because he had once tipped him a half-guinea! –Sir Harry, who was getting short-sighed, had thought it was a shilling. Interrogation of this worthy produced the intelligence that Missy with the yellow curls had come through earlier, headed thataway. Muttering: “Ten to one that’s a lie, these English country fellers are kept in ignorance and superstition by the damned gentry and the damned Established Church, don’t know what truth-telling is,” Sir Harry tipped him what he thought was a shilling and some loose change, and drove on thataway. In his wake the tavernkeeper’s face fell at the discovery that the tip consisted of fivepence halfpenny.

    Captain Cutlass was discovered about a mile down the Waddington-on-Sea road.

    “Where the Devil are you off to?” he demanded, pulling up beside her.

    “Waddington-on-Sea.”

    It dawned that her eyes were suspiciously red. “What’s up? Not like you to dash off at a tangent, is it? The cousins been mean to you?”

    “No, of course not.”

    “Well, get up, girl! If you want to go to the damned place, I’ll take you!” he said irritably.

    “Thank you,” said Captain Cutlass wanly. “Sorry, Donkey Oatee,” she said as the little animal snuffled at her hopefully: “I haven’t got a carrot today, I didn’t think of it.”

    “Something is up, then,” concluded Sir Harry, giving her a hand up.

    “Yes. It’s Dr Adams,” she said, trying to hold her chin up and not cry.

    Sir Harry had now heard all about Dr Adams. “Oh, Hell; old fellow handed in his final account, hey?”

    “Not quite. But I had a note from Mrs Lumley, to say he is—is failing.”

    “Can the woman write?” he replied simply, thus betraying—had Captain Cutlass been in any state to realise it—the fact that his mind had neatly catalogued every detail of her story.

    “Sort of,” she admitted with a watery smile, passing him a crumpled piece of paper.

    “Walk on,” said Sir Harry mildly to Don Quijote, taking the paper in his whip hand, which was not accustomed to hold a whip when he was out with Don Quijote.

Dear Capt. Cuttlas,

    I write you a line to let you no as Dr. Adams be failing. Do not be a frite, he is not gon yet. Only if you can come wood be good.

    Respectfly. Yrs.,

    M. Lumley (Mrs.)

    “The valediction is surprisingly literate,” he said, handing it back.

    “I think she must have learnt it at school. Um, when she says ‘a frite’—”

    “Got that,” he grunted. “Finished his book, didn’t he?”

    “Yes,” she said wanly.

    “Mm. Gee up, Don Quijote!”

    They had gone about another mile when he said: “Why didn’t the cousins send you in a carriage?”

    “Everyone was out except for the great-aunties and Nunky Ben.””

    “You could have ordered up a carriage, couldn’t you?”

    “In Cousin Belinda’s house?” replied Captain Cutlass heavily. “I could have been halfway to the town on foot by the time the fuss had died down!”

    “Uh-huh. Where were the old folks?”

    “Nunky Ben was asleep under the big tree on the lawn and the aunties were asleep in the downstairs sitting-room. But it would certainly have been the latter who would have been responsible for half the fuss, if that’s what you’re wondering.”

    “No: self-evident.”

    She smiled a little. “Mm.”

    They jogged on in silence. After quite some time Sir Harry patted her knee and said: “Think you had best prepare yourself for the worst, me dear.”

    “I know that,” replied Captain Cutlass tightly. “And also that that is what people always advise one under such circumstances. And frankly, I have been telling myself that, also. But I cannot see how on earth it may be done.”

    “No,” he said, frowning. “You’re right. Sorry. Trotting out the usual clichés. Well—one does. Forgot how sharp you are.”

    “No, I’m sorry, sir. Of course one does. It is all that we can do, is it not?”

    “Aye. When m’wife died… Well, knew she was going, of course, poor angel,” he said glumly. “And I had seen deaths before. No, well, I was just going to say, that nothing helps.”

    After quite some time Captain Cutlass admitted on a surprised note: “Actually, knowing that does sort of help, sir.”

    “Right. Not many people capable of thinking like that,” he approved. “Trot on, Don Quijote! –Tried to tell meself at one stage that we’re all flotsam on the surface of the earth. Tried to just float on the tide—not think. Can’t say if it helped.” He shrugged.

    “I see.”

    He grimaced. “Then I tried gambling—whole family’s always cared for cards—me grandfather couldn’t lose, cunning old devil. All that resulted in was ruinin’ me son.”

    Captain Cutlass gulped. “Glory,” she muttered.

    “Aye. Don’t know what I was at—whether I thought it would be a distraction or just didn’t think… Oh, well. Given it up.”

    She swallowed. “You were playing crown and anchor in the tavern only last week.”

    “Uh—yes. Well, given up betting sums I haven’t got, put it like that.”

    “Good.” She thought about it for some time, finally producing: “I see. There must be a great excitement in betting sums one doesn’t have.”

    “That’s it, aye,” he said with a sigh. “Damn’ stupid. –Never put your money on a horse, either,” he advised suddenly.

    “Er—no,” said Captain Cutlass dubiously, looking at Donkey Oatee’s big grey ears.

    “Eh? No! Don’t bet on the races,” he said, patting her knee.

    “Oh, of course, how silly of me! Pa says only a flat bets.”

    “He’s right, too. Well, can come a cropper buying and selling horses, too. Made my living at that, at one stage, y’know. Was doing quite well, too, until one of the nags turned out to have been stolen and the authorities came down on me like a ton of bricks. Fortunately I had witnesses to prove I’d bought it off a fellow, and they proved it was him what stole it. But its rightful owner reclaimed it, y’see, and so I had to give the money back.”

    “Then—then everybody lost out, except the thief!”

    “Aye. Way the world wags. Well, he ended up in gaol—now, some places, they’d hang a man for horse-stealing, but this was—” He broke off. “Wasn’t one of those.”

    “Luckily for him!”

    “Mm. –Sold horses to the army, at one stage, too. Now, that was quite a good game,” he said, not specifying which army it was. “Y’buy ’em cheap, drive ’em to the place where the agent’s set up, and provided you’ve found a decent amount of fodder on the way, y’can do quite well. They prefer ’em to be broken, but at need will take wild horses.”

    “Wild horses?” she breathed.

    Sir Harry had the grace to cough. ”Well, depends where y’are. Plenty of uplands the breadth of Europe where you can still find wild horses. Does help if you’ve got good herders and a reliable man to help break ’em, mind.”

    “I’m sure it does! I cannot see the Duke of Wellington welcoming a bunch of wild horses for his cavalry regiments!”

    “No, him or no-one else. But horse-breaking’s no sort of game for a man with a growing family,” he said, shaking his head.

    “I see. So you gave it up?”

    The time he was thinking of he had given it up, yes, though the family had had nothing to do with it. But the horse-trading had given him sufficient introductions and he had gathered sufficient information to satisfy his current employer. “That’s it, aye!”

    “You must have had a very exciting life, sir,” she said wistfully.

    “It’s had its moments. Bad moments, too, mind you.”

    “Mm, of course.”

    They trotted on gently under the mild English sun. After some time Sir Harry, recollecting she was not used to the warmer climes to which he was accustomed, asked courteously if it was not too hot for her, to which Captain Cutlass replied that it was not, though a very warm day, and it was as well he had thought to wear his broad-brimmed straw hat. And had he ever seen a donkey in a hat?

    “Aye,” he said, smiling: “I have that. Very popular in Italy, hats for donkeys are, though I’ve seen ’em in Spain, too, and the south of France. But Italy springs to mind: was there once with the family—well, living like a gentleman, no chance of having a donkey-cart, had to keep up appearances. Well, won a large sum at piquet, took a nice house: why not?” he said airily

    “Why not, indeed?” replied Captain Cutlass grimly. “By all means beat the gentry at their own game, if you can!”

    “Er—aye. There was a woman with a donkey used to come down our street in the early mornings selling flowers: he always wore a hat, y’see.”

    Captain Cutlass’s eyes shone. “Ooh, did his ears stick through the brim?”

    “That’s it, they cut holes for ’em.”

    “Commander Carey’s wife has a hat like that for her donkey!” she cried.

    “Oh, aye. That’d be—” He coughed: he had nearly said “Lady Jane Carey—one of the Claveringhams, we know the family.” “Aye, aye: there y’are, then. My wife was terribly keen on that damned donkey with its hat. Thought it was the flowers, at first: used to buy ’em for her every morning, but it wasn’t that: finally worked out she wanted a donkey with a hat.” He shook his head. “Wouldn’t have done, we was keepin’ up appearances, y’see.”

    “That’s very sad,” said Captain Cutlass.

    “Well, not very sad,” said the elderly gentleman, rather amused. “But one of the things I’ve always regretted—aye.”

    They trotted on steadily, Sir Harry silently recalling a score of little things, some regretted, some not, and Captain Cutlass trying not to think whether Dr Adams might have died by the time they reached New Short Street.

    Her kind escort declared the town a damned rabbit warren but got her to her destination safely, and, since Micky Trickett appeared from nowhere to hold Don Quijote, got down at Mrs Lumley’s invitation to step in and did he mind the kitchen, acos they were all at sixes and sevens. Assuring her that he didn’t mind a kitchen at all, in fact he’d far rather sit in a kitchen than any other room in the house, Sir Harry stepped in.

    “’E’s a-failing,” Mrs Lumley repeated glumly, as Captain Cutlass rushed upstairs.

    “Aye, so you said, ma’am,” he agreed, following her to the kitchen. It was a lot smaller than those he was used to, but as his statement had not been a lie—capable though he was of telling any sort of lie—he sat down happily.

    “Dessay ’e’ll be gorn afore the night’s out,” contributed Rosie with a mixture of relish and gloom with which Sir Harry was well acquaint in the lower orders.

    “’Old yer peace, Rosie Kettle,” sighed Mrs Lumley heavily.

    “Four score, ’e be, now,” Rosie informed Sir Harry with a wary look in her eye.

    “That’s a fine age. What say you bustle about like a good girl and make a pot of tea, hey?”

    Mrs Lumley came to herself. “’Er! Ten gallon o’ lukewarm water to a pinch o’ tea is ’er idea of a pot, sir! Boil that kettle up, Rosie, and get me the pot, sharpish, now!”

    Rosie bustled about to the accompaniment of a continuous stream of orders, but finally the stove was properly stoked and the kettle properly adjusted, and Mrs Lumley had leisure to note: “So, you druv Captain Cutlass in from the country, did you, sir? And what might your name be, then, if yer don’t mind me asking?”

    He had been expecting this enquiry, soon or late, and replied with the utmost placidity: “Smith, ma’am.”

    “Not from ’ereabouts, then, Mr Smith?”

    “No, that’s right. I’m from an inland district, but it’s pretty hereabouts, ain’t it?”

    Highly gratified by the perceptive appreciation of her native shores which this remark demonstrated, Mrs Lumley proceeded to give him an account of the facilities offering in the salubrious neighbourhood of Waddington-on-Sea. Which the sapient Sir Harry silently summed up as: A Friday market, bit of a town square, something that thinks it’s a Front, and a lifeboat. No coaching inn, even, by the sounds of it.

    After quite some time, the which period included the fetching of a bucket of water to Don Quijote, the donation of a carrot and the consumption of same under the unwinking gazes of both Rosie and Micky Trickett, not to say Sir Harry’s and his hostess’s consumption of the pot of tea, Captain Cutlass came downstairs and asked if Dr Adams had had a doctor.

    “Aye, ’e’s ’ad Dr Kent, deary,” replied Mrs Lumley.

    “What did he say?” she demanded grimly.

    “Just that ’e was slipping away. Um, and at ’is age, we couldn’t expeck nothing else. And—and wasn’t there a nevvy or no-one?” she faltered, as Captain Cutlass’s stony expression did not change.

    Suddenly Sir Harry got up and put his arm round the landlady’s plump shoulders. “You’re not the only one that’s upset, Captain Cutlass, my dear. –Oy, Rosie, fetch the doctor again!”

    “What if ’e ain’t ’ome, though, sir?” she gasped.

    “Then ask his housekeeper where he is, and go after him,” replied the baronet calmly. “Go on, look sharp!” Rosie vanished and he added: “You can get a cup of tea down you, Captain Cutlass.”

    “I don’t like to leave him,” she faltered.

    “Then I’ll bring it up to you,” he replied calmly.

    “Thank you. I—I’m sorry, Mrs Lumley; I didn’t mean to—to snap,” she said, swallowing.

    “Bless you, Captain Cutlass, deary, that’s all right! Never mentioned no nevvy or no-one to you, did ’e?”

    “No, he has no living relatives,” she said heavily. “I will go up again, but there’s no need for you to trouble yourself, sir,” she added politely.

    “Rubbish. Off you pop!”

    “But don’t you have anything you should be doing today?” she said weakly.

    “Manifestly not.”

    “See, Mr Smith, ’e’s a widower,” contributed Mrs Lumley suddenly.

    “Um—yes, I know,” she said, blinking slightly as his name was revealed thus casually.

    “Taking ’is retirement now, like,” she explained. “Go on, deary.”

    Gratefully Captain Cutlass went.

    “Taking it ’ard,” said the motherly landlady, shaking her head.

    “Aye. Don’t seem to have no close friends of her own age.”

    “No, Captain Cutlass ain’t never been yer giggly sort what goes round in bunches eyeing the lads.”

    Smiling at little at this graphic description, he nodded and, forbidding her sternly to get up again, placidly began to make a fresh pot of tea.

    Dr Kent eventually arrived and, ignoring completely Rosie’s explanation that he’d been borning Mrs Grogan’s baby, what the midwife could of done it just as well only Mrs Grogan, she ’ad fancy ways and Mrs ’Arper, what was their ’ousekeeper, she said as it were wax candles in every room, went upstairs to Dr Adams. The verdict was unchanged, but as little Mrs Grogan was doing splendidly and the baby was a fine little chap, and as Master Thomas Fletcher’s measles had turned out to be a mild rash mixed with the remains of the raspberries which had brought it on, he would stay if they wished. And—with a concealed twinkle in his eye—as Mrs Fletcher’s over-anxiety about her ewe-lamb had caused her to overlook the social niceties, a cup of tea would be extremely welcome.

    He came down to the kitchen for the tea and was unmoved when the burly, white-haired Mr Smith asked baldly: “How much do you charge for an afternoon waiting for an old man to die?”

    “It depends on the circumstances of the family. But as he has no family, the answer is nothing.”

    Sniffing slightly, Sir Harry felt in his pockets. “Ten guineas, and don’t argue. Look after him properly, all right? And don’t bother to mention it to Captain Cutlass.”

    “Mr Smith, sir, it’s too much!” gasped Mrs Lumley.

    “Rubbish. Put some of it towards the funeral, if you like,” he said to the doctor. “Uh—hang on: is that one a guinea?”

    “No, it’s a halfpenny,” replied the doctor calmly.

    “Give to Rosie,” he said, feeling in his pockets again. “Um—here.”

    “Thank you, sir,” said Dr Kent, unmoved, handing the halfpenny to the gratified Rosie and pocketing the guinea.

    “And don’t go spending it on toffee down the market,” said Mrs Lumley heavily.

    “No, Mrs Lumley, mum!” she gasped. “I’m a-gonna buy a ribbon!”

    Mrs Lumley sniffed but nodded and, deciding they might as well have a bite, though it was a guinea to a groat Captain Cutlass wouldn’t eat nothing, refilled the kettle yet again.

    Dr Adams died in the late afternoon, by which time the spurious Mr Smith had got the fact that Little Joe Formby was home out of Mrs Lumley, got the address of the shop and, not bothering to consult Captain Cutlass on the subject, fetched her brother to her.

    “I’ll be off. Got to get Don Quijote home,” he said to the sniffing Mrs Lumley.

    “Aye, sir,” she said, blowing her nose hard. “Well, four score or not, seems real ’ard ’e ’ad to be took, dunnit? Only ’e ’ad finished ’is book.”

    “Aye, aye: he had a good run. Er, s’pose Captain Cutlass’s relatives do know where she is?”

    Mopping her eyes, Mrs Lumley revealed that little Joe would be sure to see a message was sent, for he wasn’t that bad, and saw him off the premises. Gasping, as he kissed her plump red cheek heartily, what time he pressed a guinea into her hand: “No, sir! I never done nothing!”

    “I rather think you’ve done quite a lot, over the years, Mrs Lumley,” he said with a smile, mounting into the cart. “Let go his head, lad.”

    Reluctantly Micky Trickett released Don Quijote and came up for his tip, receiving a whole shilling—intended, this time—with rapture.

    “Walk on, Don Quijote! –Good-day, Mrs Lumley! Spend it on something frivolous!” called Sir Harry with a smile, turning the cart and proceeding gently on his way.

    “Something what?” murmured the plump landlady, smiling and waving. “Good-bye, sir!”

    “Good-bye, sir! Good-bye, Donkey Oatee!” cried Micky Trickett shrilly. “Something frilly-ous, Mrs Lumley,” he explained. “Like an ’at with feathers.”

    “’At with feathers! Get along with you! And tell yer Pa ’e’s gorn and we’ll be needing a coffin made.”

    “It’s ready: Pa said ’e couldn’t be much longer and ’e had the wood, so why not?” replied Micky Trickett simply, scampering off.

    Mrs Lumley did not stigmatise this forethought on the part of Old Short Street’s carpenter and sometime coffin-maker as ghoulish or, indeed, praise it as practical: she just nodded and went slowly indoors. Though murmuring to herself as she sat down heavily at the kitchen table: “Real gent, ain’t he? And I’ll bet ’e was a terror in ’is day!” By which she did not intend a reference to her lately deceased lodger.

    Julia received the news that Dr Adams was gone with a sigh but without surprise, and refused Belinda’s anxious offer of the carriage, explaining that Captain Cutlass would do much better by herself. Er—well, she supposed there would be a funeral service—Belinda blinked—and of course they would all go to that.

    “Funeral service?” croaked Joe that evening in the privacy of their palatial Blasted Oak House bedchamber. “Don’t think Waddington-on-Sea can give the ancient Greek or Roman rites, can it? And if he believed in anything outside the Classical Pantheon, you can call me a Dutchman in his clogs!”

    “Um, no. Oh, dear! I think Captain Cutlass will be really upset if Skellett does it, Joe.”

    Joe thought it over. “I’ll get Little Joe to get onto the Quakers.”

    Julia sagged. “Oh, good.”

    So Dr Adams was laid to rest with a simple Quaker service, the attendees being a scattering of the kindly Friends, Mrs Lumley and Rosie, Timothy Trickett, Dr Kent, and the Joe Formby household—including Mrs Dove and Polly Patch, and even Ned. He had begun to kick up a fuss over it, so Lash had said calmly: “He can come: he knew him as well as any of us.” To no-one’s surprise he was reduced to big-eyed silence. There was no wake: Dr Adams’s will had specifically said he did not desire it. Captain Cutlass returned to Number 10 New Short Street with her brothers, and the rest of the family headed back to Blasted Oak House. Ned barely uttered a word all the way back, but then, as his Great-Aunty Jicksy pointed out, them as couldn’t stand the heat didn’t ought to volunteer to go into kitchens. And everyone had to start growing up some time.

    Downstairs Captain Quarmby-Vine, who had tactfully not volunteered his services as escort to the funeral service, much though he would have liked to stand at Miss Formby’s side throughout the painful ordeal, was very gratified indeed to find she was the first down and even dared to hope she had hurried down a-purpose. Unaware that it was but a coincidence.

    “Oh,” said Trottie True faintly, on discovering the sitting-room occupied only by a well set-up uncle who was not so old as all that.

    “My dear Miss Formby,” he said quickly, getting up: “please allow me to assist you to a seat.”

    Trottie True was not in need of assistance; nevertheless she accepted his arm and let herself be led to a sofa—the which the not inexperienced Captain had chosen, it must be admitted, deliberately. He seated himself beside her and took her hand. Trottie True blushed painfully.

    “I just want to say, that I am entirely at your service. Please call on me should you need anything at all,” he said in a very kindly voice.

    Promptly Trottie True burst into the tears she had been valiantly restraining all day.

    Extremely pleased by this evidence of sensibility in her, the Captain outed with a flag-like handkerchief and pushed into it her hand. After some time Trottie True was able to wipe her eyes and thank him disjointedly.

    “Not all! Poor little girl!”

    “No, I’m just being silly,” she said faintly. “Dr Adams was very elderly, and—and had done what he wished to do in life. And he was Captain Cutlass’s particular friend, not mine… Oh, dear! She looked so white!” she burst out.

    “Of course she did,” he said, putting his hand over the one that lay in her lap and gripping hard. “Should never have let her attend the service,” he muttered, frowning.

    “No, she wanted to go,” said Trottie True shakily. “I did ask her if she would rather not, but she said she wanted to say goodbye.” She looked at him doubtfully.

    Reluctantly the Captain released her hand—it would not have been the thing to go on holding it, and then, any member of the household could walk in on them. “Aye, I can understand that.”

    She nodded, looking up at him with a trusting expression. Suddenly Charles Quarmby-Vine found himself telling her about the time that dear Edwin Goodbody had died in his arms: shot by a sniper on his own poop deck, just like the Admiral himself.

    “It just have been a terrible experience, sir,” she said softly.

    “Aye, it was… It was years before I was capable of saying to myself, what was the alternative? To have had him go without me there? I know exactly how your little sister feels about saying goodbye.”

    “Yes,” said Trottie True, smiling mistily at him, as she perceived he really did.

    The younger girls coming in at that point, he could say no more. But the feeling that she was very sweet and there was no pleasanter way to spend a summer in the country than driving out with a sweet young thing, that had inspired him to invite her for all those drives in the curricle, was now replaced by a very much stronger feeling. He did not take much part in the conversation that afternoon, but remained by her side, seeing that her teacup was filled and that she managed to eat something.

    Two days later the news that her brother might stay on for a while in these parts, if that was all right with them, did not come as a great surprise to Belinda Formby. And naturally she assured him that he was most welcome indeed.

    The Captain thanked her and cleared his throat. “Er… Belinda?”

    “Yes, Charles, my dear?”

    “Er, well… How does the eldest Miss Formby, Miss Theresa, strike you?”

    “As a very sweet young woman indeed,” said his sister, smiling. And avoiding the word “girl.”

    “Yes, she is sweet, isn’t she? Well, um… Her father seems a very solid chap.”

    “He is, yes,” agreed Belinda mildly.

    “Aye… I’m too old for her, of course,” he said glumly.

    “Where there is a similarity of temperaments, my dear, age does not signify very much.”

    He brightened. “That’s a point! Um, well, think the family might wear it?”

    Had it been any other family in question than Cousin Joe Formby’s, Belinda would have said of course they would—though she would not have mentioned aloud the points of her brother’s birth and fortune. As it was, she hesitated.

    “Oh, Lor’, I am too old for her,” he said in dismay.

    Belinda took a deep breath. “It is not that. I think you will have to show Joe and Julia that you can be constant and steadfast, my dear. Let us face it: you would be taking Theresa away to a life that would be very different from anything she has ever known.”

    “Aye. Well, best settle down, hey? Want to take a decent house, in any case. Um, should I give up the yacht?” he said sadly.

    Belinda did not laugh. “No, my dear, of course not. But I do think her parents would wish to be assured that you were settling down to a quiet country-house life.”

    “Of course! So, um, you’re pleased?”

    Belinda was extremely pleased that he had apparently given up the ripe-looking dashers to whom he had paid court any time these past ten years—yes.

    “My dear, I’m very pleased to see you desirous of fixing your interest with such a sweet, sensible young woman,” she said steadily. “It is very good news indeed!”

Next chapter:

https://thefortunateformbys.blogspot.com/2023/10/the-spaniards-at-little-lasset.html