Market Day

6

Market Day

    Miss Jack had been allowed as a special treat to go on Morning Cloud with Mr Baldaya, Mr Bungo, and Mr Ainsley, and sail all the way from Sunny Bay to Waddington-on-Sea! Ten minutes at the outside, and five with a following wind. But the distance was hardly the point.

    Mr Poulter was also aboard, and stolidly performed the duties of grabbing the skirts as she hung over the side to see the wake, grabbing the ankles as she was disappearing up the rigging, and removing her bodily from under Old George’s feet. Not to say, gripping her fiercely by the shoulders in the wheelhouse. Though fortunately for all concerned, she was completely overawed by Captain Richards.

    “She’s gotta do ’er Christmas shopping, Mr Richard,” he reminded Mr Baldaya for the third time, as they moored at the jetty.

    “Mm. Uh—got the wherewithal, has she, Poulter?” he said in a lowered voice.

    “Well, she’s got what she’s saved up, and she ain’t to spend more than a shilling on any person, and she’ll manage most of it. She’s already got presents for some of ’em: the young ladies and Miss Gump showed ’er ’ow to make little straw baskets to put nuts in or some such. Well, don’t look at me! Only, today she’s gotta get things for the ones what rate more than a little basket o’ nuts.”

    Luís had been leaning on the rail beside Richard, listening with a little smile on his face. “How little are the baskets, Poulter?”

    Mr Poulter held up a large, gnarled fist, palm up, and considered it. “I could fit ’alf a dozen in the palm of me ’and, sir.”

    “Sí, sí, I thought as much!” he said with a laugh. “My sisters did very much the same sort of thing when they were little!”

    Richard smiled limply. “I hope you’re right and the damned market is on today, Poulter.”

    It had already dawned on the shrewd Mr Poulter that Lady Stamforth’s younger brother was in two minds about this expedition. He didn’t think it had much to do with the boredom a young gent might naturally expect to experience at a little local market in the company of an over-excited little girl, either. When the expedition had first been mooted her Ladyship had made the tactical error of wondering if the gentlemen might happen across the Miss Formbys again, and had received a very cool reception.

    “Aye, always a Friday market in Waddington-on-Sea,” he said stolidly. “And don’t let me forget, gents: ’alf a dozen fine lobsters for Mossoo Lavoisier, or my name’ll be mud!”

    “Oh, wonderful!” said Luís with a laugh. “What is it to be, Poulter?”

    “Well, ’is Lordship likes ’em just plain grilled, only sometimes ’e does ’em cut up in bits with one of ’is real fancy sauces with brandy and cream in it.”

    “Homard crème,” said Luís with great interest. “Delicious! Or perhaps the receet called Pompadour? That is very similar, but tossed with a mirepoix—finely chopped vegetables.”

    Mr Poulter was somewhat at a loss. “Couldn’t rightly say, Mr Ainsley. Um, ’e slices up little smelly mushroom things for it.”

    “Oh, yes! Des truffes! That could be either: Homard Pompadour demands them, but one can also add them to Homard crème.”

    “Troofs, that’s it,” agreed Mr Poulter. “’Er Ladyship don’t like ’em. Too fancy.”

    And, as Jack was now jumping and crying: “Come on!” the gentlemen abandoned gourmet topics for the nonce and set off in search of the Waddington-on-Sea Friday market.

    It was a real little country-town market, complete with livestock in pens. Luís looked around him with a smile: it was not unlike the market in the town nearest Madre’s property.

    “It ain’t a patch on the Ditterminster market Paul took us to,” noted Bungo.

    “What? Oh. No, of course not, old man, but that is a cathedral town: one would expect pens and pens of sheep and cattle come to auction, there.”

    “And more than two sorts of hens,” replied his brother, eyeing the cackling offerings nearest them.

    “Ah,” said a lugubrious voice from near his right elbow, and Bungo jumped ten feet where he stood. “Now, if it was ’ens you was a-looking for, gents, these ’ere black uns be from Mr Matthews, and the plumpest, best layers in the country! Ah! What I dessay we could let ’em go, to a gent like yourselves, for—”

    “We are not buying hens today, thank you,” said Luís quickly, as Bungo was merely grinning. “But they certainly look fine birds.”

    “Ah,” said—presumably—Mr Matthews’s poultryman, touching his forelock sadly. “Good eating, sirs. Or if you was wanting a fat pigeon or two—” Suddenly he swooped upon a wicker coop and held it under Luís’s nose.

    “Your English pigeons are certainly very fine,” said Luís, peering into it. “Bungo, why don’t Paul keep pigeons?”

    Bungo had to swallow: it was a family characteristic to get side-tracked in this way, but nevertheless he had not expected to see the fashionable Luís get carried away by small-town poultry! “Old man, his woods are full of wild pigeons.”

    “They are gamier, but it’s convenient to be able to have a plump pigeon from one’s— I don’t know the English word: where ith it, that one keeps one’s pigeons?”

    “Dovecot? Cousin Amabel kept her doves in a dovecot,” recalled Bungo resignedly.

    “Bless you, sir, a lady’s doves ain’t no pigeons!” scoffed the local worthy. “Yer keep yer pigeons in a loft, is what we say in these parts. Foreign, would you be, sir?” he said to Luís.

    “Part foreign: I have lived very much in Spain, and I mainly know the Spanish words for one’s poultry and livestock. A loft? That’s very interesting. –Bungo, did you know there’s also the expression a sail loft, in English?”

    “Uh—dare say,” said Bungo uncomfortably. “Er—you cannot buy a fat pigeon or two, old man, you have nowhere to put ’em.”

    “No loft,” said the poultryman severely.

    Bungo cleared his throat. “No loft—right.”

    “No. But once I lease a property, I shall consider starting a pigeon loft!” he decided. “Thank you so much, and I am sorry we are not buying today. But please—take this!” And he pressed a shilling into the startled poultryman’s hand.

    “Luís, old man,” said Bungo in a low voice as they moved on slowly towards Richard, Mr Poulter and Jack in the throng, “it ain’t like Spain, y’know.”

    “No, but one raises pigeons in Spain, also!” he replied with a beaming smile.

    “Didn’t mean that. Actually, don’t think the English gentry do raise pigeons. Er—no: that fellow weren’t a Spanish peasant, d’y’see?”

    “I don’t think I do see,” said Luís mildly, stopping by a pen full of sheep. “Look, these are quite different from Paul’s sheep, the ones that Giles and Pa call the hump-backed runts, but also from the ones Giles runs. Yet they are not like the Spanish merinos, at all.”

    “We don’t want sheep!” said Bungo, starting to perspire, though it was a cool day. “I am trying to say, that was a respectable man, doubtless in full employment, and there was no need to tip him.”

    “Oh, dear, was that a terrible faux pas?” said Luís mildly, leaning on the sheep pen. “Smaller, I think—at least, shorter in the leg; and much shorter faces.”

    Bungo opened his mouth.

    “Southdowns,” said a sepulchral voice from behind them.

    “God!” he gasped.

    “Is that the name of the sheep?” asked Luís with interest of the burly man in the low-crowned hat. “From the South Downs—I see!”

    “Aye, that’s right, sir. Looking for sheep, were you?”

    “No,” said Bungo firmly before his brother could speak. “Thank you, but we are not looking for sheep. Come on, Luís!”

    “No, I’m interested,” said Luís mildly. “I am not looking for sheep today, but later I may want my own flock,” he explained. “Please, tell me about Southdowns.”

    Obligingly the man gave him a glowing description of the virtues of the Southdown for both meat and wool, only slightly thrown when Luís asked him if they made their own sheep’s cheese in these parts. Into the bargain introducing himself as a Mr Wright with a W, who farmed over to Underdene way: anybody would direct him, Castleview Farm, it were. No—jolly laugh—no farms vacant thereabouts, sir, not since New Lord had come to the Castle and kicked out that ruddy blood-sucking agent what Old Lord had put in, and re-roofed every last farmhouse, cottage and barn on Vane land!

    “He is an excellent landlord, then,” said Luís thoughtfully as the sweating Bungo at last managed to drag him away from Mr Wright with a W and the short-faced sheep.

    “What—Stamforth? I suppose he is. Very much liked in these parts, Richard tells me.”

    “Sí… If he did that much re-roofing, he must have spent a pretty penny on the place.”

    “Well, y’know how these fellows exaggerate… Well, don’t look at me, old man, I’m as much of a foreigner in these parts as you are!”

    “Impossible!” said Luís with a sudden loud laugh.

    “Right,” conceded Bungo, grinning at him. “But they say her Ladyship has an immense fortune: dare say they could afford to re-roof the whole of Sussex and not notice it.”

    “Sí, sí: her first husband was a nabob. But it is the fact that he bothered. Tio Pedro did not take near such good care of his tenants.”

    “Oh,” said Bungo limply.

    “It’s a pity the English don’t make cheese of sheep’s milk, don’t you think?”

    “No, I don’t!” said the young man who had lived in England since he was a lad of ten. “And don’t imagine you will ever get a sturdy English yeoman to milk a damned sheep!”

    “No,” he said, a trifle ruefully. “Oh, look: pigs!”

    “We are not here to look at LIVESTOCK!” shouted the driven Bungo.

    “But don’t you think it’s a lovely market?” he said, smiling. “It’s so like the market near Madre’s place! Smaller, however, and of course none of the wonderful fruits.”

    “Luís,” said his brother in despair, “a damned market cannot possibly be lovely! Now, will you come on?”

    “Isn’t it comme il faut to use the word that way? But I didn’t think I had misapplied it. I think it is lovely! And look, Richard and Jack are looking at the pigs, too!”

    Bungo sighed. Richard was not looking at the pigs at all, and judging by the look on his face he was not interested in damned pigs, and good for him! “Pigs,” he said heavily, coming up to his side.

    “Right,” agreed Richard wryly. “I can see the virtue of ’em on me plate, well salted, with a couple of lightly fried eggs, or possibly roast, with apple sauce—but not, I fear, on the hoof.”

    “Me, neither!” said Bungo with feeling.

    “Your brother seems to be going on about wild black Spanish boars,” murmured Richard.

    “Oh, God,” said Bungo dully. “It’s one of his Spanish epics, and now we shall never get him away from the damned things! And why in God’s name is little Jack interested?”

    “Don’t ask me, old man. Well, her mother is mad on livestock of all kinds, probably gets it from her. Last time she came over here—she had Poulter in tow, but the fellow is putty in her hands—she bought a little black runt of a piglet, the reason, if that’s the word, seeming to be that it was black, sweet, and lonely, and a feisty little rooster because she liked its colours—gold on its neck, or some such—that has now become the terror of the castle’s poultry-yard, attacking anything, even a well grown gander six times its size!”

    “Ask me, it were a fighting cock wot some sharp was selling orf acos it’d lost a spur,” growled Mr Poulter, coming up behind them. “So then she went to see Mr Matthews, dunno why, ’cos ’is ’ens are black, though ’e’s got more of a selection of birds than most of ’em, round ’ere, and ’e said it were a Golden Spangled Somethink and maybe it’d settle if she got it some ’ens to match. Though it don’t seem to mind doing the white ’ens and the black ’ens and even the fat brown ’ens twice its size! Only we ain’t found any, yet.”

    “None today?” asked Richard on a dry note.

    “Nossir. Mostly black. And a few mangy white uns.”

    “Right,” he said heavily.

    “Lavoisier done the piglet on the spit, yet, Poulter?” asked Bungo, grinning.

    “Don’t say that, sir!” hissed Mr Poulter with an agonised glance over at the absorbed Jack.

    “Lewis told them it was most likely a Wessex breed, a Saddleback, though he didn’t think they were usually bandy-legged—which it is—so they have named it Saddley Bandy,”— Richard waited until Bungo was over his spluttering fit—“and made a pet of the creature.”

    “Aye, so Jack was telling me,” agreed Luís, rejoining them with Jack’s hand in his.

    “Mr Ainsley says that pigs are very friendly, intelligent creatures!” offered Jack eagerly.

    “Aye, the peasant children round our way in Spain often make pets of them—have them on a string, sort of thing. There was one little pig—it were black, too—used to follow its young mistress about like a dog.”

    “Then they ate it. Not like a dog,” said Bungo drily.

    “Yes: for a peasant family cannot afford to waste a pig,” rejoined Jack seriously.

    Luís gave his brother a mocking look, but agreed mildly: “That’s right. Now, I think we should look for lobsters before they are all sold, don’t you?”

    And, Jack agreeing eagerly, Mr Poulter agreeing gratefully, and the two young gentlemen agreeing resignedly, they made their way towards the stalls selling seafood.

    “M’sister bought a giant turbot here once,” reported Mr Baldaya glumly, while Luís and Poulter discussed the merits of the available lobsters and Jack listened absorbedly.

    “Her Ladyship? Did she really?” replied Bungo politely, his dark eyes a-twinkle.

    “Old man, I mean a giant turbot.” Richard held his hands about four feet apart. “Too big to go into the oven.”

    Bungo collapsed in splutters.

    “Old Lavoisier cut it up and did something with it, but— Well. –Excuse me.” He strode into the fray. “Poulter, thought you said the kitchen required but a half-dozen lobsters?”

    “Yessir, but Mr Ainsley thinks these ones are a bit small.”

    “So he thinks we should get eight!” explained Jack.

    “Ah, that’s right, Missy, the catch were mostly small uns, today,” agreed the woman in charge of the stall. “Lovely fat oysters we got today, though.”

    “M. Lavoisier has a receet where he puts oysters round the lobster,” offered Jack. “And Mr Vane is coming to stay, and he likes oysters!”

    Mr Poulter gave Richard a desperate look.

    “No, we do not require oysters,” he said firmly. “These lobsters don’t look small to me.”

    “Uh—well, I dunno as I’m an expert in lobsters, Mr Richard, sir. It were Mr Ainsley as seemed to think they were small.”

    Bungo sighed as his brother embarked on another damned Spanish epic. None of them wanted to hear that the place in Spain was inland, nor that the Fernández de Velasco side had interests in the sherry trade, nor that they got down to Jerez fairly often—Poulter and the brat of course had no idea what he was on about—and certainly not that one of their aunts lived on the coast only a couple of hours away and there was another over in Cadiz—

    “Luís!”

    “I was just going to say,” said Luís mildly, “that the lobsters they sell in the markets thereabouts are bigger, I think. The very small ones, of course, are not lobsters at all, but… I don’t think there is an English word. I know the French: des langoustines.”

    “Six only,” said Richard firmly. “There will be sure to be plenty of other dishes, old Lavoisier always puts his best foot forward when Tobias Vane come to stay.”

    “But how many are we to sit down?” asked Luís dubiously.

    As Bungo had done earlier, Mr Baldaya now began to feel quite heated. “One more than we did last night, Ainsley!”

    “Mr Vane,” clarified Jack. “He is not married. He has a large appetite, though!”

    “Six lobsters,” said Richard grimly, ignoring her. “Did you bring a bag, Poulter?”

    Jack began eagerly: “No, but we could buy—”

    “No. –The six biggest lobsters, please, and put them in a bag or something.”

    “I got a sack, sir,” said the woman dubiously. “Most folks don’t only buy one or two.”

    “If you put them in a sack, won’t they fight?” asked Jack.

    Richard took a deep breath. “Six in a sack, please. –Got the money, Poulter?”

    “Yessir!” Mr Poulter paid and accepted a sackful of lobsters.

    “I bet they are fighting,” said Jack, bending to peer at it. “Look, you can see them moving!”

    “Just come on!” said Richard heatedly. “Thought you wanted to do your shopping?”

    “Yes, but all the housewives are out, you see, so we have to do Mr Poulter’s commissions first or they’ll grab the lot!”

    “More?” he cried.

    Mr Poulter cleared his throat. “Yessir. Sorry, sir. The lobsters was like, the main thing.”

    “Perhaps Poulter and I could get the commissions for the kitchen—” began Luís, smiling.

    “No, I want to help!” cried Jack loudly.

    “’E wants fish,” said Mr Poulter heavily. “Soles, is wot ’e said. Flat.”

    “Of course: I know sole!” said Luís eagerly. “But then, does he not want oysters and—and what are moules, Bungo?”

    “Uh—no idea,” he said, endeavouring to frown him down.

    “Wait—there!” he cried, pointing.

    “Mussels,” said Jack. The next stall seemed to specialise in shellfish, displaying a great variety. “They’ve got oysters, too.”

    “No, Mr Ainsley, sir, Mossoo Lavoisier definite didn’t ask me to get no oysters nor mussels today,” said Mr Poulter firmly.

    “So he will not do the sole in the matelote normande fashion: that’s a pity,” said Luís. “Wait: did he mention onions, Poulter? My brother’s Berthe does a wonderful dish of sole with cider and onions, much more delicate than you would think—well reduced, and finished with very good butter. I’m sorry: that is our brother’s Belgian cook,” he smiled.

    Bungo sighed heavily. “Poulter, ignore every word Mr Luís says. If the castle’s chef did not ask for oysters, mussels, cider nor onions, then we shall not buy any, shall we?”

    “Bless you, sir, I don’t mind!” replied Mr Poulter cheerfully. “A Belgy cook, eh? But we got onions comink out our ears, up to the castle, the kitchen garden produces ’em like nobody’s business. Likewise leeks, which some do say ain’t fit for the gentry, only what I says is, if Mossoo Lavoisier’s cooked it, it’ll be fit for ’Is Majesty ’imself!”

    “Indeed, and I have eaten a wonderful leek soup in France,” began Luís eagerly, “with cream and—”

    “Luís!” said Bungo loudly. “We are here for sole!”

    “But querido, why not talk about food, when we are surrounded by all these delicious thingth?” Eagerly he went up to the shellfish stall and began asking the woman serving up scoopfuls of small shellfish what their names were in English, Jack accompanying him as a matter of course.

    “Flat,” repeated Mr Poulter limply to Richard and Bungo. “–OY!” Thrusting aside two large matrons with enormous shopping baskets, he made a grab at Jack’s arm. “Leave it!”

    “I’ve eaten oysters since I could walk,” said Luís mildly.

    Oddly, for the morning was still very cool, Mr Poulter was now both red-faced and sweating. “Mr Ainsley, she don’t really like ’em, and we don’t want ’er casting up ’er accounts!”

    “Very well, then.” He took the oyster from the man who had opened it and tipped it down his own gullet. “Mm! Delicious: so fresh!” he said, smiling at him. “–Never mind, Jack, querida, perhaps you could try a little—what are these little cooked ones, again?” he said to the woman.

    “Whelks, sir. Tasty, they be, only usual, the gentry don’t fancy ’em,” she said, looking dubiously from his heavy cloak to the muffled-up Jack.

    “I fancy them!” cried Jack.

    “Oh, go on: yer can try one,” said Mr Poulter heavily.

    Ecstatically both Jack and Luís tried cooked whelks. These were pronounced delicious, and Luís then tried a raw mussel, even though the woman informed him dubiously that folks usually ate them cooked. “Yes—lovely!” he said. “We get them also on the coast of Spain where my cousins live,” he explained to the stallkeepers, “and it’s such fun to sit down with just a cut-up lemon and a piece of crusty bread and eat them fresh, you know?”

    “Dunno about lemons,” warned the man, opening another oyster for him without being asked. “Dessay the gentry might ’ave ’em—didn’t Captain Cutlass tell us that that Mr Piper-Fiennes, ’e ’ad a lemon tree?” he said to the woman. “Put sacking round it all the winter, and then the thing up and died ’cos we ’ad a late frost.”

    Luís was a little flushed. “Yes, the English weather is not very good for lemon trees. My brother can only grow them in his glasshouse.”

    “Well, there you are, sir!” he said, handing him the oyster.

    “Thank you,” said Luís a trifle shakily, eating it. “So—so you know Captain Cutlass?”

    “Everybody knows Captain Cutlass round these parts, sir.”

    “Give over, Fred White,” warned the woman.

    “Eh? Oh. Uh—know Captain Cutlass yourself, do yer?” he asked on a cautious note.

    Before Luís could speak Jack said eagerly: “I do! And Mouse!”

    “That right?” said the man kindly. “Well, yer might see Miss Mouse today, since it’s Friday.”

    “And Captain Cutlass?” she asked eagerly.

    “Maybe. Depends if they got a lot to carry. Or if their ma, she’s gonna do their forring fish soup, Captain Cutlass usually comes with ’er, acos Miss Mouse, she likes the soup all right, only she don’t much fancy the look of what goes into it!” He chuckled.

    “Ooh, what?”

    “Any funny-looking fish at all, little Missy! I bet you never seen a monkfish, eh? Their ma ’ad one o’ them off Bob Bodger, a while back. And a big eel, chopped that up and threw it in.”

    “Comes out yellow as nothing, too,” agreed the woman, shaking her head.

    Luís was now peering round the market, but at this his attention was caught. “Yellow? I wager that is saffron—that’s a spice, Jack: I have eaten soup like that in Spain, but I would never have thought to hear of it in England!”

    “No, well, it’s forring, you see, sir,” explained the woman.

    “M. Lavoisier never does yellow soup, but Sita Ayah and Rani Ayah make lots of yellow dishes,” Jack informed him.

    “Mm? Oh—yes, her Ladyship’s Indian servants,” he said in a vague voice, peering.

    “Yes. Can you see her?”

    Luís went very red. “No. Well, as we don’t need shellfish today, perhaps we should help Poulter look for sole?”

    “That’s right, sir,” agreed Mr Poulter. “She can ’old my ’and, if you’ve ’ad enough.”

    “No, of course I haven’t had enough!” replied Luís quickly.

    “Mr Ainsley is sensible,” Jack informed Mr Poulter, glaring.

    “Right, but you can give over with the personal remarks. –Flat, soles are,” he reminded them.

    At about this point it dawned on Luís that Poulter did not know what a sole looked like. “Of course. Don’t worry, I know them. Come along, we are sure to find them on one of these stalls!” And they made their way along the row of stalls, Jack eager, if ignorant, Luís trying to concentrate on sole and not on whether Captain Cutlass might be at the market today, and Mr Poulter merely looking stolid.

    Richard and Bungo had given up entirely on the piscatorial theme, and Bungo had given up on his damned brother—though taking a mental vow never to go near a damned market with him again. They followed at a distance, discussing horseflesh.

    M. Lavoisier had ordered half a dozen small sole. Jack did laborious arithmetic and decided that if the guests had a half each there would be a whole one left over, but even Luís ignored this. He assured Mr Poulter that these were they, and selected a half-dozen nice ones, explaining that those ones were too small, but these would be excellent. Mr Poulter then recalling that Mossoo Lavoisier had mentioned red wine in that connection, he said: “Ah! Sole Chambertin! But of course! Delicious! Yes, I had that dish at a delightful dinner Lady Stamforth offered at the town house.”

    “M. Lavoisier and Troope always go up to town with them,” explained Jack. “I think we should have brought a basket.”

    “I’ll buy one,” decided Luís. “It’s quite all right, Poulter, I’ll carry the sole. Is that all you need for the kitchen?”

    Mr Poulter conceding it was, for the larder was stuffed with meat and game, they moved on, Jack not neglecting to impart the information that the chef had said they could do with some more eggs, in especial if he was do the floating pudding, but he wouldn’t trust Mr Poulter with them.

    “But I can get eggs!” said Luís with a smile. “Look out for a stall selling baskets, mi querida, and then we’ll buy some nice eggs. Spotted ones, yes?”

    “I think you mean speckledy,” replied Jack seriously.

    “Of course! I knew there was a special word! Speckledy!” And they forged on happily.

    There was a stall which sold baskets, and it was not doing a roaring trade, so although the baskets were different from the Spanish baskets—to the rear, Bungo sighed—they were easily able to choose an appropriate one. Big enough to hold the package of sole and several dozen eggs, though not, of course, the sack of lobsters. This reminded Jack, and she had a good look at the exterior of the sack, reporting that they were moving, and she thought—optimistically—two of them might have their claws locked!

    “We could slope off to an inn,” said Richard in his friend’s ear at this point.

    “Uh—better not,” said Bungo reluctantly. “Though as soon as she’s bought her presents, I’m for a mug of hot spiced ale, I can tell you!”

    “Aye. Better make it the Elephant and Castle, in that case, the fellow there has a secret receet for spiced ale—best in England!” he said with a laugh.

    “Good.” Bungo directed a sour look at Luís. “Dare say it won’t be half so good as Spanish something-or-another, mind you. I can only apologise for him, Richard.”

    “Not at all! …You know,” he said slowly, “I would never have guessed. Meeting him in town, he seems—well, the complete man-about-town!”

    “Not like a damned Spanish peasant—quite.”

    “No, no! I think I mean… capable of innocent enjoyment of the simplest things of life.”

    “Oh,” said Bungo feebly. “Uh—well, Luís never lived in England with the rest of us, y’know. And by the time Pa decided we had best come to England, he was too old to go to a decent school,” he added awkwardly.

    “Mm. But I think it is also partly a matter of temperament.”

    Bungo had been sent to Pa’s old school, which was where he had met Richard. He thought it was largely a matter of Winchester, or rather of the lack thereof—though it was true Paul did not embarrass one in public. “Aye. Well, dare say he gets it from Madre.” He eyed his brother’s approach resignedly. “What is that empty basket for?”

    “This? It’s in case all Jack’s purchases won’t fit into my basket.”

    “I’m carrying it!” warned Jack, hanging onto it like grim death.

    “Very well, querida. –She was telling me that they sometimes have hazelth!” he beamed.

    The typical Ainsley response to this hit-and-miss treatment of the English “Z” sound—most certainly Sir Harry’s—would have been “One out of two.” The phrase certainly occurred to Bungo, but he said nothing, just gave his brother a sour look. Nuts could only be considered a very slight improvement upon the subjects of damned livestock and seafood.

    “Yes, we bought some before!” said Jack eagerly. “And I used them for my presents! And Sita Ayah helped me make pink barfees, and so everyone can have two nuts and a barfee, what do you think of that?”

    Luís thought that sounded good, though he did not know barfees, so Jack explained in great detail, and then he remembered: of course, of course! Paul and Christa had a dear elderly neighbour with an Indian cook who made them, too! Jack immediately claimed they could not possibly be as good as the ones the castle’s ayahs made, but as Luís did not seem to wish to dispute this claim, calmed down and described the barfees that Rani Ayah made: she put green nuts on some of hers, she thought the name was moustachios.

    Behind them, Richard put a hand over his mouth and Bungo coughed.

    “Pistachios, I think is the English word,” said Luís calmly. “My brother’s neighbour has them, too: I remember she gave some to the twins when we first met her.”

    “Twins?” said Jack dubiously.

    “!Si, si, querida! Didn’t you know that Bungo is a twin?”

    Jack had not known and was very aggrieved about it indeed. And where was he? Tranquilly Luís replied that Bungo’s twin was not another man, but a lady. Her name was Elinor but they called her Bunch. And she was in India, with her husband, who was an officer in the Army—his name was Jack, too, wasn’t that a coincidence?—and their two little children. Not twins, he added placidly to her excited enquiry. Jack then had to hear a great deal about Bunch.

    “One would think,” murmured Richard, “that he had children himself, he is so good with her.”

    “Uh—aye,” said Bungo without interest. “Well, think the place in Spain is overrun with the servants’ brats. Er—look, Richard, he’ll never hurry her up, y’know.”

    “Mm. –Jack!” he said loudly. “What are you looking for, today?”

    Jack was not very sure—little things—so they went off in the direction of where Poulter thought the eggs would be, both Richard and Bungo swallowing sighs, and Luís promising happily to keep an eye out for suitable little things on the way. She had purchased a small bone comb, a spotted kerchief, and several lavender bags—the latter appearing to delight her, even though Mr Poulter was pretty sure the castle had loads of lavender in its garden—by the time a suitable stall selling speckledy eggs was found.

    It also sold dressed poultry, and Luís was debating whether to buy a couple of fat capons for the fellows on the boat when a contralto voice with a laugh in it said: “Now, stand by to stop me buying the wrong sort of duck entirely, Mouse!” and Jack swung round with a gasp.

    “Hullo, Mouse! We’re doing our shopping!”

    Mouse had not yet perceived Mr Baldaya, as he and Bungo had once more lagged behind. “Hullo, Jack; hullo, Mr Poulter: how nice to see you again!” she returned, smiling. “We’re doing our shopping, too. This is my mother, Mrs Formby. Ma, this is Mr Poulter, and Jack: you remember we told you about her and her ma and aunt.”

    “How do you do, Mrs Formby?” said Jack politely, with a little bob.

    Julia smiled at her, wondering whether the males who appeared to be in charge of her had not thought to find the poor child a pair of mittens, or if they had let her mislay them. “How do you do, Jack? I’m very glad to meet you. Good morning, Mr Poulter.”

    “Morning, ma’am,” said Mr Poulter neutrally, touching his forelock.

    Julia held out her hand, smiling, and he shook it, looking gratified. “Is your ma with you today, Jack?” she asked kindly.

    “No, ’cos we came on the boat, and she doesn’t really like boats.”

    “I see,” she said with a smile. The extremely handsome man in the heavy cloak and battered flat-brimmed hat must be the father, then—but hadn’t Mouse said that he was English? No-one could have taken that olive skin, the black ringlets peeping from under the awful hat, and those very dark, flashing eyes for English. Not to mention that nose—he looked like what one imagined a Spanish Don to be! “I think you must be Jack’s pa, then?”

    “Not my privilege, ma’am,” replied Luís with his charming smile.

    Julia blinked. Good gracious, he was handsome! Er—and surely, a gentleman? “I do beg your pardon. Mousekin, perhaps you had better introduce us,” she said, assuming that he must be one of the young gentlemen from the castle—no wonder Victoria had been all blushes!

    “But we have not met,” said Mouse weakly.

    “This is Mr Ainsley,” explained Jack. “Mouse is Captain Cutlass’ sister!” she hissed helpfully.

    Luis was very flushed but he said gamely: “Er—yes, I see, querida.”

    “I am Mrs Formby,” said Julia quickly, “and this is my youngest daughter, Marianne.”

    “Luís Ainsley at your service, Mrs Formby—Miss Marianne,” he said, removing the hat and bowing.

    To their rear Bungo said on a neutral note: “That looks very like Miss Marianne Formby.”

    “Yes,” replied Richard levelly.

    Bungo cleared his throat. ”Uh, well, Stamforth knows Miss Victoria’s papa, don’t he?”

    Richard’s mouth tightened for an instant. “Yes. That, however, is the other branch of the family. But come along, it would not do to ignore them.”

    Those were more or less Bungo’s sentiments, pretty and bright though Miss Marianne was. He nodded, and they went forward.

    Julia received the introductions with a calm that belied the sinking feeling in her stomach. There was no doubt that the good-looking Mr Baldaya had taken Mouse’s fancy: she flushed up very much and awarded him a shy bob, while greeting his red-haired friend with considerably more composure.

    “Mr Ainsley thought he might buy some capons for the sailors on the boat,” Jack was explaining. “They’ve sailed all the way from Cowes, and they’ve been eating an awful lot of fish.”

    “Aye: fish, bacon and boiled potatoes!” said Luís gaily. “I admit Old George, the yacht’s cook, is capable of frying fish, but anything else, he seems to boil: so you see, I’m wondering would chicken be the thing, after all?”

    “Perhaps he might make a soup, or a stew,” suggested Julia kindly.

    “He definitely don’t know how to do them, ma’am!”

    “But we can send down something nice from the castle!” cried Jack. “I’ll ask Ma!”

    Mr Poulter cleared his throat, and looked hard at her.

    “Oh,” said Jack limply, going very red.

    “I shall ask my sister to send the fellows something, Ainsley,” said Richard quickly.

    “That’s very kind indeed, Richard, and I’m sure it will be a welcome change!”

    “Ma,” said Mouse in a small voice: “what about the ducks?”

    Julia jumped. “Oh! Well, yes, dear—of course.”

    “Ducks?” said Luís immediately, smiling at them. “These ones here are domestic, out of course, but I think we saw some wild ones on another stall.”

    Bungo cleared his throat. “Dare say Mrs Formby knows what she wants, old man.” He gave him a hard look.

    “Of course,” said Luís, favouring Julia with his charming smile. “Madre—that was our mamma, she was a Spanish lady—was used to raise ducks, back on the place in Spain. Our cook often did them with an orange sauce—one can use either sweet or Seville oranges, and of course in our area, it is Seville oranges! The zest is wonderful, there is nothing to beat your Seville orange. But of course—”

    “Luís, we are not in Spain!” said Bungo heatedly.

    “No, of course, querido. I was just saying that one will often need to add a little sugar to the sauce, depending on how sharp one preferth it.”

    “That sounds delicious, Mr Ainsley,” said Julia kindly. “Cookie and I have decided to do our ducks in a fashion which we call smothered. The duck is boiled in a stock, and then you cover it in an onion sauce.”

    “Sí, sí—of course! That is a excellent way of serving duck—or wild rabbit, but the domestic ones are too mild, I find. And as a matter of fact, my brother’s Belgian cook has a way of doing sole, which coincidentally we were talking of earlier, which is not dissimilar. That sauce is finished with butter: how is yours done?”

    Julia smiled at him. “With a little cream and nutmeg, sir.”

    “Ah, nutmeg! Yes, it can be a most subtle spice,” Luís agreed with his charming smile. –He was very sweet, really, decided Julia, and in spite of those astounding good looks, much more pleasant than Mr Baldaya, who as a matter of fact was looking down his nose in the very fashion in which one imagined Mr Darcy looking down his at the Bennets!

    “I think it would go very well with the cream and the onions—what do you think, Bungo?” added Luís.

    Bungo swallowed. “Sounds very tasty, ma’am,” he croaked.

    “I think we should tell M. Lavoisier of it; what do you say, Richard?” continued his frightful brother cheerfully.

    “Indeed,” agreed Richard courteously. “I beg your pardon, Mrs Formby: M. Lavoisier is my sister’s cook, at the castle.”

    “A French chef? Then perhaps we should not inflict our English receet on him, should we, Mousekin?” said Julia without much hope. After Mr Baldaya had greeted Mouse politely but without enthusiasm the poor girl had barely uttered. Oh, dear. Well, he was brother to Viscountess Stamforth: why on earth should he look twice at their darling Mousekin?

    “Um, no,” said Mouse in a tiny voice.

    “He knows an Indian receet, though!” said Jack eagerly.

    Richard Baldaya was not interested in cuisine, but it was at least a neutral topic, so he agreed: “Yes, he has adopted an Indian receet he had off one of my sister’s Indian servants into quite an amazingly delicate dish.”

    “How does he do it? I would be fascinated to try it,” said Luís.

    Richard rubbed his long English jaw. “Not too sure. Fries it up with lots of spices, I think.”

    “No!” cried Jack scornfully. “Those green nuts! I’ve forgotten their English name again.”

    “Pistachios? With duck?” said Luís eagerly.

    Jack nodded hard. “He grinds everything up and makes a stuffing. Pa says it’s astoundingly delicate!”

    Mr Poulter at this cleared his throat loudly.

    Jack glared. “Well, he does!”

    “I’m sure it is,” said Julia quickly, “but I don’t think we know these green nuts. Do we, dear?” she added on a desperate note.

    She need not have not bothered, because Mouse said only: “Nuts are not green.”

    “English nuts are not,” agreed Jack. “But pista—um, pistachios are not English.”

    “No,” said Luís, “but we get them very much in Spain. I suppose the English climate is not suited to them. Very little nuts, about so long,” he said, holding up his hand with the finger and thumb about half an inch apart, “but not round like hazelth.”

    “But how does her Ladyship’s chef manage to— Oh, I suppose the castle can get anything!” said Julia with a feeble laugh.

    “I think the castle largely gets such provisions through an old friend whose son is in the import-export business. My older brother sometimes uses the same firm, and of course we send pistachios and other nuts over from Spain.”

    “I see: so your brother lives here in England, Mr Ainsley?” said Julia nicely.

    “Yes: the nearest big town is Ditterminster,” agreed Luís.

    “Oh, yes: I know: Wiltshire, isn’t it?”

    “Yes, a cathedral town. But we are preventing you from buying your ducks, Mrs Formby! Please, let me assist you. Ah… Now, this looks a nice, plump one, no?”

    “Yes. Um, what was it Cookie said, again, Mouse?”

    Mouse licked her lips. “What?”

    Mr Baldaya and the red-haired Ainsley brother were not only looking distinctly bored, they had now stood aside and were chatting together, but the delightful Mr Luís Ainsley at this put in quickly: “Perhaps, not too fatty, yes?”

    “I think so,” she said in a tiny voice.

    And, with the eager co-operation of Mr Luís Ainsley, two suitable ducks were purchased for Cookie’s “smothered duck.” They then moved on in search of cream, Luís politely favouring Mrs Formby with the details of his Madre’s cook’s receet for duck with Seville oranges as they went.

    Julia was not so engrossed with culinary matters that she failed to notice what else was going on in the vicinity. Dratted Mr Baldaya made no attempt to prevent Jack’s monopolising Mouse with a long description of just what she had bought so far as her Christmas presents. Mouse did not glance his way at all, and who could blame her? The man had not said a syllable other than “Good morning” to her!

    The Formbys’ shopping was completed, but Jack still had not found presents for everyone, and she had two whole shillings and threepence three farthings left! And she had not seen anything suitable for Ma!

    “I think she’s getting tired,” said Julia with a smile to Mr Luís Ainsley.

    “Mrs Formby, I am not!” she cried.

    “Well, I certainly am,” she admitted. “Shall we find somewhere to sit down and have something to eat?”

    “Of course,” said Mr Baldaya very properly. “We were thinking of the Elephant and Castle. Should you care to join us, Mrs Formby? In a private parlour, naturally.”

    Julia hesitated. She wasn’t too sure that Mouse wished for it. One might say that it could only do her good to meet some pleasant young men, but Mr Baldaya had pretty clearly demonstrated his indifference—and then, if dratted Victoria was right and the Ainsleys were brothers-in-law to a marquis, the kindest thing would be to remove her from their vicinity. But the inn was on their way home…

    “But I haven’t found anything for Ma!” cried Jack loudly.

    “There’s them curiosity shops,” offered Mr Poulter, looking at Mouse.

    “Ooh, yes! Um, couldn’t you help me, Mouse?”

    “‘Please,’” growled Mr Poulter admonishingly.

    “Please?” agreed Jack, looking up at her pleadingly.

    Mouse took a deep breath. “Well, if Ma can manage—”

    “Of course, dear,” said Julia. “We shall all walk up that way, and then I’d be very glad of a sit-down in the inn, thank you, Mr Baldaya.”

    Richard bowed, murmuring politely and colourlessly: “Of course. Delighted, Mrs Formby.”

    Julia was a trifle surprised that the charming Mr Luís Ainsley decided to return to the yacht with his baskets of produce rather than join them at the inn—though not surprised at the careless grace with which he bowed over her hand and expressed his delight at having met her, before he headed off.

    She was also a trifle surprised when, on their taking their seats in a private parlour of the old inn, Mr Bungo Ainsley informed her: “My brother is in these parts looking for a suitable property to lease, Mrs Formby. He and my father have decided to settle in England now that our mother is dead and Luís is married.”

    “I see,” she replied weakly. The information seemed—gratuitous, somehow. In especial as Luís Ainsley had shown no signs of favouring Mouse. “I am very sorry to hear about your mother, Mr Ainsley.”

    “Thank you, Mrs Formby.”

    “I—er—I believe there is a property available, near my husband’s cousin’s house.”

    “I am sure Luís will be interested to hear of it,” he said politely. “He has looked at a couple of properties—one belonging to Lord Blefford, I think, further along the coast—but nothing so far has appealed. He wants it to be a decent-sized place, of course, but not too isolated.”

    And that—apart from a very welcome pot of tea—appeared to be that.

    Julia spared Mouse a public report of the encounter when they got home. Very likely the poor girl realised her feelings were being spared, but the other would have been worse, would it not? Later that evening, however, when the household was abed save herself, Joe, and Lash, she described it very fully.

    There was a gloomy silence, neither Formby expressing the thought that they would rather not have known that Mouse had seemed so struck by Lady Stamforth’s brother.

    Then Lash ventured: “Julia, it seems odd the younger Mr Ainsley would warn you off his brother if he and Mouse did not seemed at all interested in each other. Though,” she said slowly, “possibly it was a warning, if the phrase ‘a decent country place’ was used. Um, stressing the difference in our stations.”

    “Aye: the fellow sounds like the sort of snob you’d expect a pair of fancy pantaloons staying at the castle to be,” put in Joe sourly.

    “You mean he thinks our Mousekin isn’t good enough for his toffee-nosed friend, Lash? No, well, in my opinion dratted Baldaya had made that clear himself, by looking down that handsome nose of his at her!” said Julia angrily. “He was deliberately holding back!”

    Joe’s eye fell on the pile of books on a little side table. “Sounds like a ruddy Bingley to me,” he noted sourly.

    “What?” said Julia dully.

    Lash swallowed. “Pride and Prejudice, Joe?”

    “Aye. And if he is the sort of fancy pantaloons that starts to think Mouse ain’t good enough for him and lets a fellow put him off her, then good riddance to bad rubbish!” He heaved himself up. “She’ll get over it. All young lasses take fancies at that age.”

    “Yes,” said Julia with a sigh. “You go on up, dear.”

    Joe gave her a doubtful look, but went.

    Lash took a deep breath. “It could never have come to anything in any case, could it? The gap between New Short Street and Stamforth Castle is too wide. And if Mr Baldaya’s realized it sooner rather than late, so much the better. We’d best avoid the subject completely in future. –That and strangle the aunties.”

    Julia managed a weak smile. “Mm. …Oh, dear. Who’d have daughters?”

Next chapter:

https://thefortunateformbys.blogspot.com/2023/10/family-matters.html