The Ides Of March

10

The Ides Of March

    Luís Ainsley had not quite admitted to himself that the reason he had been so keen to concur in Inez’s opinion that Little Lasset was a delightful house and the situation very convenient, well sheltered and for England very warm—and within such easy reach of both Stamforth Castle and Brighton—was that it was also near to Miss Calpurnia Formby’s home.

    He had not mentioned her to Bungo, after the first time, but he had spoken of her to Richard Baldaya, in what he now felt had been a vain endeavour to suggest that the family was both interesting and unusual as well as respectable. Doubtless he had given himself away—well, he had wanted to show the damned fellow that he was not the only one capable of falling for a bright, charming little shopkeeper’s daughter.

    Unfortunately, however, Bungo had not forgotten about the matter, so at Christmas time he was able to give Paul and his father a bitter report of Miss Calpurnia, following it up with a bitter description of the scene at the Waddington-on-Sea market. It was hard to tell, really, whether he disapproved more of Luís’s interest in the foodstuffs and livestock or of his interest in Miss Calpurnia, described as: “Dare say she may be pretty as a picture—well, when did Luís ever notice a female that weren’t—but sounds damned eccentric, and if that ain’t bad enough, the father is a respectable shopkeeper!” Paul had attempted to pass it off lightly with the remark that Luís had sense enough to steer clear of the daughters of the bourgeoisie, to which his empurpled young brother had shouted: “He ain’t got no sense! No man of sense would have got mixed up with that dashed Mme de Villemorin, or Señora Ana Molina y Alcalà Galiano, let me tell you! Added to which, he bought that damned gold watch he carries with the gelt he won playing piquet with one of Tio Pedro’s sworn enemies! In, I might add, Madrid! Madrid! The fellow is mad!” Paul had replied soothingly that Luís was not in Spain any longer, and that Tio Pedro was dead. To which Bungo had returned bitterly that they had long memories in Spain and if Paul did not know that, he was a greater gaby than he took him for. Sir Harry and Paul had both concluded that he had successfully side-tracked himself, in the family manner, from the subject of Luís’s fancy for one of the Formby girls, when he added bitterly: “And shopkeepers or no, the family knows Richard Baldaya, and Stamforth is acquaint with the cousin’s papa!”

    At which Sir Harry had weighed in with: “That settles it, then: Luís ain’t stupid enough to involve himself with an unmarried bourgeoise from a family that’s known at Stamforth Castle, and if you think he is, then you’re the one what’s the gaby, Bungo.” Which had not gone down well.

    Sir Harry did not hold back when it dawned just where Little Lasset was. “Nothin’ wrong with the house.”

    “No. Well, I have only taken it for a year,” replied Luís mildly.

    His parent sniffed slightly. “Didn’t go much on that dame what called, but dare say every neighbourhood has one o’ those.”

    “Lady Lasset?” he replied with a wince. “I dare say.”

    “And some might say that the situation were convenient. If you want to socialise at Stamforth Castle.”

    “There is nothing wrong with the Vanes,” said Luís in a bored tone.

    “Nothing wrong with him, no. Well, I was out of England when her mother ran off with that Portugee, but me Cousin Patty’s since given me the full—”

    “Why are we discussing Lady Stamforth’s antecedents?” said Luis in a bored tone.

    “For meself, I’m just checking that it ain’t her that’s the interest in these parts. It’s that little bourgeoise y’met in the town, ain’t it?”

    “No!” he shouted, turning very red.

    “Give it up. Catch cold at that game,” advised Sir Harry, shaking his head. “Thought you had more sense. Different if she was married, of course.”

    Scowling, Luís walked out on him. He was very shaken: not that Harry had commented on the thing, but at the realisation that the old devil was right. Telling himself bitterly he was a fool, he grimly made up his mind not to think of Miss Calpurnia ever again and to avoid Waddington-on-Sea completely. He had made his bed and must lie on it. Inez was, admittedly, a scrawny, thin-faced, sallow creature—rather like the worst sort of painting by that fellow who had done all those saints and bishops and so forth—El Greco, the Spanish called him, that was it: he had seen some frightful examples of his stuff in Madrid. But she was by no means all bad, in fact she was quite a decent sort. And as it was not her fault that he had decided to marry her, he was determined not to take out his disappointment on her. And at least she and Pa got on all right—though really, you would have said she was the last sort of female to appeal to Harry! But there you were: decent sort, see? And as a matter of fact could smoke her cigar with the best of ’em! –It had not quite dawned on Luís that by the time the marriage was a year old both he and his father had fallen rather into the habit of treating the Señora Inez like an old comrade.

    For her part, Inez, who had feared that the handsome, dashing Luís would shove her in a cold house in an obscure corner of England and forget about her, was extremely content that it should be so and, though strictly forbidding boots on the furniture and cigars in the drawing-room, was more or less letting the pair of them do as they liked. Life, in fact, in her house was almost as easy and informal as it had been in Marinela’s.

    —Sir Harry, on being apprised that his daughter-in-law was increasing, had said to his son: “So you did do the woman, hey?”

    To which Luís replied ruefully: “Had to, Pa, she insisted. And the Spanish side would’ve torn their hair if I hadn’t, y’know. Well, dare say half the household inspected the sheets after the wedding night: y’know what Spanish servants are.”

    “Right,” he grunted. “Well, not saying you shouldn’t if she wants it. She is your wife.”

    “Ye-es. Well, don’t think she does want it, much. Not if this one turns out to be a boy.”

    His father raised his eyebrows a little. “What’d she marry you for, then? Merely for an establishment?”

    “I think so, yes. And also to get away from the nagging of her ghastly family.”

    He grunted: “Understandable.” And let the subject drop.

    Since Tonio’s birth Inez had not shown any wish to renew conjugal relations and in fact, on Luís’s making up his mind that it had best be plain speaking between the pair of them and asking her if she wanted to, said frankly: “Not unless you wish it, Luís.”

    “Lord, no! I mean,” he said, flushing, “only if you want it, my dear.”

   “I would rather not,” said the Señora Ainsley in patent relief.

    Other ladies who had been favoured by Mr Ainsley in the past had very much not reacted in this way, but since he knew he had not done anything calculated to give her a distaste of him—on the contrary, he had done everything he knew of to help her enjoy the experience—Luís was not particularly insulted and concluded in some relief that she was, as his instincts had suggested, not the sort of woman who really liked men in that way. And thankfully ordered Jésus Juarez to see to it that the room on the far side of that dressing-room was set up as a permanent bedroom for him—oh, and if the Señora should lock the door to the dressing-room on her side, he need not bother to mention it.

    “No, señor,” agreed his valet respectfully. “You have the little Señor Tonio now.”

    The only result of this change in the Ainsley domestic arrangements was, apart from harmony in the household, Inez’s decision to send her middle-aged maid back to Spain.

    “The decision is yours, of course, my dear,” said Luís somewhat weakly, “but might you not be lonely without her?”

    “No,” replied the Señora firmly. “Maria was never my choice. Madre forced her upon me.”

    This grim matron, a good five times the girth of skinny little Inez, was pretty much the terror of Seville, so Luís, restraining a shudder, raised no further objection: the maid had been set on to spy on Inez and had been enforcing the mother’s ghastly dicta ever since, there was no doubt whatsoever. So Maria went, and Inez promoted little Consuelo, the daughter of their Spanish head groom, who had elected to accompany Señor Luís and Sir ’Arry to England with his wife and family, a choice possibly not unconnected with the political situation in Spain, but never mind. Consuelo was only thirteen, but as this meant she could not possibly boss Inez, and as Inez was clearly very pleased to be able to boss her, everyone was happy.

    Mr Bungo Ainsley, who had come down to visit with his brother and father, and of course his latest nephew, was pleased to approve of Little Lasset, but its location caused him to say: “Lord, Pa, if he don’t chase the shopkeeper’s gal from the town—and I grant you he may hold back, there—he’ll be taking up with the frightful Jeffcott woman again! Always at Brighton in the summer—if she ain’t at Cowes, infesting poor old Giles’s Morning Cloud.”

    “You’ve never spent a summer at Brighton in your life.”

    “No, but I’ve heard more than enough of Luís’s goings-on there!” he replied with feeling. “The Jeffcott woman’s the dame that Paul’s warned him sounds like an hysterical clinger!”

    Sir Harry sniffed. “Fell prey to one of ’em himself, in his salad days. You wouldn’t remember—back in Brussels. Had to give the woman her congé meself. Once bitten, twice shy, eh?”

    “Y—uh— Paul did?” he croaked.

    Sir Harry eyed him sardonically. “Mm. Been extra-wary of the type ever since. Dare say she’s no worse than the next.”

    “Pa, Giles says she’s a walking man-trap!”

    “Giles is a damned bourgeois,” replied the Marquis of Rockingham’s papa-in-law tranquilly.

    Bungo’s jaw dropped.

    “Luís is up to snuff,” said Sir Harry in a bored voice.

    “The whole of Brighton was talking of it the last summer he was over here,” he warned.

    “Think you mean those of the Upper Ten Thousand who’d favoured the place with their presences. Damn’ sure most of the population didn’t care. Don’t care meself. Let him take up with the woman if he fancies her.” He shrugged. “Her or another of that ilk.”

    “His marriage is less than two years old,” he said tightly.

    “Inez don’t want him in that way, are you blind?”

    Bungo went very red and glared.

    “Dashed good sort, though,” acknowledged Sir Harry. “Said of course I could have a donkey-cart if I wished for it.”

    “Pa,” he cried, “you will make an idiot of yourself tooling round the lanes in a donkey-cart!”

    “Think you mean I’ll make an idiot of the family. Don’t care if I do. Like donkeys.”

    “You are an excellent driver: Luís would buy you a pair, you could have a curricle or a phaeton!”

    “Don’t want a curricle or a phaeton. Want a donkey-cart. Like donkeys.”

    Gritting his teeth, Bungo left him.

    Sir Harry shook his head slowly, and sighed. “Used to be quite a decent little chap. If only his twin hadn’t married and gone off to India… Still, even she might not have prevailed against Winchester. And his damned grandfather’s stuffy nature,” he admitted sourly. “So much for thinking me and Marinela atween us had bred it out!” He took out a cigar and, wandering into the small sitting-room that got the afternoon sun, sat down heavily in his big chair, and lit up.

    After some time, however, he withdrew the cigar and said on a glum note: “And what’s more, he don’t like Inez, neither. Can’t see past the yaller and the skinny to the damn’ good sort—or,” he said awfully to the fireplace, “can’t see anything but the fact she’s a dozen years Luís’s elder and not pretty, and I blush to admit such a thing of a child of mine!” He replaced the cigar but after one long pull took it out again, blew a perfect smoke ring and noted: “And I will have a donkey-cart. Dare say Inez might quite fancy being tooled round in it, too, what’s more! And little Tonio, when he’s bigger! Hah!”

    Inez was about to go upstairs to the big, airy nursery, when she smelled the cigar smoke. “¡Julio!” she screeched.

    Promptly a small, scrawny figure shot out from the back regions, panting: “¿Si, Señora?” –Julio Juarez had accompanied the family to England. As he was one of fourteen children it was not perhaps surprising that that branch of the Juarez family had let him go.

    “Sir ’Arry’s smoking in the sitting-room,” said Inez in their native tongue. “Go and look to him!”

    “¡Si, Señora!” Julio scampered off to his duty.

    Smiling, Inez went on her way upstairs to consult with nice Nurse Bigelow from Waddington-on-Sea—the much smarter, much more expensive, and highly recommended Nurse Mead whom her sister-in-law Christabel had found for her having proven unsatisfactory, not to say disapproving of all foreign ways and disinclined to let not only his grandfather and male parent but also Inez herself pick up Master Tony at any and all times. Not to say insisting on calling him “Master Tony” in Christabel’s own fashion, the which had driven not only his mother but also his grandfather and male parent rabid.

    “Shall I take ’im, Nurse?”

    “Right you are, See-nora, ma’am,” agreed the obliging Nurse Bigelow. “There, ’e’s smiling! Said ’e knowed yer, din’ I?”

    “Indeed you did, dear Nurse!” beamed Inez. “’Ullo, Tonio! ¡Buenas dias, Tonio!” Once upon a time Inez had had an English governess, and, given the English presence in the Iberian Peninsula some twenty-odd years back, had been encouraged to work very hard at her English by her determined mamma—not that this had resulted in the well-off colonel or well-connected major that the Señora Vedia de Bastianini had envisaged. But it had resulted in Inez’s English becoming fairly fluent, if she was completely unable to pronounce an English H. But then, as her papa-in-law noted, the locals had no difficulty in understanding her, for half the time they dropped the H themselves!

    Sir Harry had heard the screeching in the hall. He grinned to himself as Julio shot in and took up a respectful position on the rug, within grabbing-distance of the cigar but not so close as to intrude. “Just like home. Right decision after all, weren’t it?” he noted to the fireplace.

    Captain Cutlass as usual had got up early; this morning, however, she did not go to Dr Adams, but walked out briskly into the countryside. It was a fine, crisp day, the hedgerows sprouting new growth and the spring flowers beginning to show: the sort of day calculated to raise the spirits. Although she had started out in a very disgruntled mood indeed—Dr Adams had made very good progress with his book and Mrs Lumley’s gloomy prediction had been weighing more and more heavily on her mind—her spirits gradually brightened and she swung along at a good pace, looking about her and sniffing the fresh, cool air with pleasure. It was grazing land for quite a while, with a herd of fat Hereford beef cattle in evidence. If she continued on northwards along this road she would come to the little hamlet of Lasset Halt and then, only a short way further on, Blasted Oak House. Making a face at the thought, Captain Cutlass took the first lane that offered an alternative. It led east, but was a good safe distance from Little Lasset. After a period of vigorous walking which, as no stuffy persons could see her, devolved into frank running, she slowed to a calmer pace and strolled on peacefully.

    The lane wound about a bit but continued eastwards. Then it turned to the south. The charming prospect of Lasset Place was long since left behind, with a shudder which had nothing to do with the house itself, and eventually realising she must end up at Little Lasset on this road, Captain Cutlass turned back. She had been walking steadily for some ten minutes when there came a clip-clop of hooves and a rattle of wheels behind her. She turned, and smiled. Round the bend came a donkey-cart, the stout little grey personality pulling it fetchingly bedecked with gay tassels.

    “Good-day!” she called cheerfully.

    The burly man driving pulled up, smiling. “Good-day, lass! Lovely fresh weather, ain’t it?”

    He was an elderly man, with a square, good-humoured face and white curls showing under the battered broad-brimmed hat. She had no hesitation in continuing the conversation and replied: “It is, indeed, sir! What a delightful little donkey you have! What’s his name?”

    Grinning, the driver replied, giving the name the Spanish pronunciation: “Don Quijote.”

    The syllables struck Captain Cutlass’s ear as rather odd. “Donkey Oatee?” she echoed uncertainly.

    “Aye, that’s it.” He eyed her drily. “He is very fond of oats.”

    “Out of course you are, Donkey Oatee!” agreed Captain Cutlass, stroking his nose gently. “I do like the decorated harness!” she added enthusiastically.

    The driver’s eyes twinkled. “Thankee. Like a ride? Hop up.”

    He was well spoken but obviously could not be a gentleman. Perhaps he was a retired tradesman or some such. In any case, he was clearly completely harmless and well-meaning. Beaming and thanking him fervently, Captain Cutlass got into the cart. It did not occur to her, even though over at Guillyford Bay she had seen the well-born lady who was married to that retired Royal Naval commander who owned Finisterre driving her little donkey-cart, that there might be more than one member of the genteel classes in the environs of the south coast not too proud to rattle about in a donkey-cart.

    Sir Harry chatted with interest and enjoyment, eliciting, as Don Quijote trotted on, a great many facts about his new acquaintance and her family. It was not long at all before it dawned who she must be: he asked her name and her cheery reply that it was Calpurnia Formby but he might call her Captain Cutlass as her family did, if he wished, confirmed his suspicions. The bourgeoise what was Luís’s latest fancy. Not being immune to the big gold-green eyes and the rioting guinea-gold curls, not to mention that skin like milk and wild roses, Sir Harry could not but reflect that poor old Luís was dashed unfortunate in that on the one hand, she was an unmarried bourgeoise and that on the other, he was tied up to someone else. But then, these things happened. At sixty-seven years of age he did not pause to consider that he had fancied himself so madly in love with the daughter of a local farmer at the age of twenty that he’d rushed off to the Continent in a fury when his father refused to countenance a match, nor that, a few years later, when he met Marinela Fernández de Velasco out riding on her father’s estate, both he and she had fallen instantly and passionately in love and that nothing, including her father’s disinclination to see her tie herself up to a wandering Englishman with no current means of support, if he was the heir to the baronetcy, had managed to keep them apart. One of Bungo’s more irritatingly smug remarks had lately elicited the cross response that his father wasn’t past it, yet! But though he was not that, he was certainly at the age that had forgotten both the agonies and the urgency of the tender passion.

    As they reached the wider road that led to Lasset Halt Sir Harry decided he and Don Quijote had best rest up at the local tavern, so, as she was headed in the opposite direction, Captain Cutlass got down with smiling thanks.

    “Aye, aye. Well, might meet up again, hey? Y’never know! Me and Don Quijote often trot around and about the place.”

    “That would be delightful! In that case, I’ll put a carrot in my reticule next time I walk out!” said Captain Cutlass with a laugh. “Goodbye, sir! Goodbye, dear little Donkey Oatee!”

    He watched her head off towards the town with a smile in his eyes of which he was not conscious. “Aye, aye… Damn’ pity, really. Devastatingly pretty, ain’t she, Don Quijote? And well-mannered: never asked an old gent his name, did she? Likes donkeys, too… Walk on!”

    They trotted gently into the little village. “Well, poor old Inez, can’t help bein’ plain as a pikestaff, and a damn’ good sort. …Shan’t mention it to Luís, no point. Well, dare say you and me and her might see a bit of each other, Don Quixote; why not? She’s a dashed bright girl, if she don’t recognise a bilingual joke when she hears it! OY! HOUSE!”

    Recognising the unmistakable tones of the gentry, the tavernkeeper in person shot out of his little establishment—and was very disconcerted indeed to find it was but a man in a donkey-cart.

    Bungo had received a letter from Richard Baldaya to say that he had taken the lease of a country house. It had belonged to his sister Daphne’s mamma-in-law, and had come to her husband on the old lady’s death, but Daphne and Tim preferred a town life and did not wish to live in it. The house was near Ainsley Manor, but Bungo did not appear very pleased about it.

    “It’s a pleasant property,” said Luís encouragingly, “and of course with Paul and Christa so near, he will have excellent neighbours!”

    “Yes.” Bungo folded the letter up tightly.

    His father looked up from his own letters. “Paul’d give you a farm—that place up to the north—”

    “I know. I’m thinking about it.” He looked uneasily at Sir Harry’s bundle of letters. “Pa, what is that letter from India?”

    “From Jack Hall,” he said mildly.

    Bungo paled: this was his twin’s husband. “Is Bunch all right?” he said sharply.

    “Aye, fit as a fiddle, take more than India to get her down—” He coughed. “Sorry, old chap. Not your fault y’couldn’t stand the damned climate. Uh—no, Jack writes that his old cousin has promised to leave him the lot and he’s thinking of selling out—coming home.”

    Both sons were now looking at him eagerly and Bungo burst out: “Then why on earth hasn’t Bunch written to me?”

    “Probably because she knew you’d fly up into the boughs. Unless I’ve got it wrong, this is the old cousin what’s been promising Jack the lot these last twenty years past.”

    “I think you do not know ’im for twenty years, dear Sir ’Arry!” contributed Inez, smiling.

    “No, but I think that’s the story, Inez. When did Bunch marry the chap? Five year since?”

    “Six!” snapped Bungo, glaring.

    “Oh, aye. Well, I was in Spain,” he said peaceably. “Six, then. Well, Jack Hall wrote me at the time—no need to, could’ve just told Paul—that he had some expectations but felt it was unwise to count his chickens before they hatched.”

    “Six is not twenty,” said Inez, smiling, “but that was very proper of ’im.”

    “If the woman’d let me get a word in edgewise—!” Inez merely smiled at him and Luís frankly grinned. Bungo, however, glared and opened his mouth. Quickly Sir Harry went on: “Said the old cousin had promised to make him his heir any time these past twenty years, see?”

    “¡Sí!” agreed Inez, collapsing in giggles.

    “In that case,” said Luís primly, though his dark eyes twinkled very much, “Jack has been promised the lot these last twenty-six years past.”

    Sir Harry broke down in sniggers, nodding agreement.

    “That is NOT FUNNY!” shouted Bungo. “Are they coming home, or not?”

    Producing a flag-like handkerchief, Sir Harry blew his nose. “This is why no-one wrote to you. He just wanted me to know that it seems definite, and the proposal is that the old fellow will settle a decent sum on him immediately and leave him the rest.”

    “Then they will come home!” he cried, his square face lighting up.

    “He gets that from his mother, at all events,” noted Sir Harry to the ambient air. “NO! Will you stop flying up in the boughs? He wrote to the old cousin to accept his proposal same time as he wrote this.”

    “Then—”

    “NO! Anything could happen! By this time the old so-and-so could have popped the question and started a family of his own!”

    “Pa, he’s well over seventy,” said Luís, trying not to laugh.

    “Very well, then, popped off intestate. In which event Jack won’t get much: there’s a parcel of other relations. But in the case it goes to plan, Jack will write me again, and arrange to sell out, and then they’ll come home.”

    “Querido, I think that’ll take about another year, if letters have to go to and from India,” said Luís quickly.

    “Well over six months, at all events,” conceded Sir Harry.

    Bungo glared at them, but didn’t argue.

    “Anything interesting in your letters, me dear?” Sir Harry enquired courteously of his daughter-in-law.

    “No, I don’t think!” said Inez with a laugh and a shudder. “My sister Maria writes that my niece Juanita is increasing again, and that Primo Pablo ’as become mixed up in a law-suit—”

    “Embroiled,” said Sir Harry on a complacent note. “Embroiled in a law-suit, my dear.”

    “¡Ah—sí! An excellent word! Embroiled in a law-suit with a neighbour over a silly small piece of land on which there is a spring which—er—supplieth a stream—”

    “Feeds a stream, we say in English.” Sir Harry switched to Spanish. “Don’t think I know your Primo Pablo, my dear. The Vedia de Bastianini side, is he?”

    Luís joined in, also in Spanish, and Inez began to explain…

    Bungo returned to Richard’s letter, scowling.

    Luís discovered him some time later alone in the sitting-room. “Bungo, querido, I don’t want to interfere, but with Richard settled in the district, why not think seriously about Paul’s offer of a farm? Would you fancy to be an English gentleman-farmer?”

    “Fancy being,” corrected Bungo heavily, sighing. “I—well, I don’t know…”

    “You mustn’t do it if it doesn’t appeal, of course. You must stay with us for as long as you please—indeed, if you fancied staying for good, we’d love to have you, querido, and you could certainly help me, I know so little about English country life!” he said with his pleasant laugh. He looked at his brother’s face. “Bungo, I know you don’t care much for Inez, but—”

    “No!” he said in a strangled voice. “Completely your own business, Luís! And she’s been very decent to me, of course.” He swallowed. “Uh—no, well, for God’s sake don’t let on, old man, but ’tisn’t her—and it’s very decent of you, and of course I shan’t dash off just yet—but, uh, it’s Pa,” he admitted.

    “Oh,” said Luís, biting his lip.

    “I don’t know how you stand him, old man!” he burst out. “He’s driving me mad!”

    “He—uh—he can be very irritating, yes,” admitted Luís slowly.

    “Irritating!”

    “Bungo, don’t make the mistake of thinking he’s not very sharp.”

    “I know that, thank you, and half the time he’s doing it on purpose, you don’t need to tell me that, either, but even when he ain’t—! My God, I can understand why you didn’t want to settle on the place in Spain with him!” he said with feeling.

    “It was not that, at all. I did not wish to settle in a Catholic country, nor to see my children brought up in that stultifying faith.”

    Bungo goggled at him.

    “Querido, I am no longer nineteen years of age, with my breviary in my hand, saying my prayers morning, noon, and night, old Frère Joseph’s brand from the burning!” he said on an impatient note. “At one stage I did read a lot of Catholic theology, but both my reading and my observations since we got to Spain convinced me that it is not a faith to which I would ever wish to subscribe.”

    “Um, no,” he said uneasily. “Thought you agreed that the precise religion don’t matter all that much in everyday life?”

    Luís repressed a sigh. It was not merely that Bungo was not the brightest of the Ainsleys: none of them, as he’d indicated before, took him, Luís, for much more than nineteen and naïve with it—if not precisely with his breviary in his hand, as they’d last seen him in Brussels. Well, had any of them thought to ask him why he’d married Inez? No.

    “Not in everyday life, no. But if you do not feel as I do on the theological issues, it cannot signify. I tell you what, mi querido: it is not just a choice of Spain or Paul’s farm, and of course you must give yourself plenty of time, and not rush into any precipitate decision in any case—but if Bunch and Major Hall come home, then you might like to settle near them!”

    “Yes, that’s a thought. Jack is a terribly good sort of man. And we get on well, y’know? No pretensions about him.”

    Luís smiled. Bunch Ainsley would never have married a man with any of those! “No, of course. Well, that is something to think about, no?”

    “Mm.”

    “And meanwhile— Well, we’ll take a house in town for the Season,” he said lightly. “You must stay with us, unless you’re promised to Giles and Gaetana.”

    “Oh—no. They do so much formal entertaining… Look, Luís, I should like to, but it’s bad enough here in the country; I don’t think I could take it, shut up in a house in town with damned Pa!”

    “Most understandable. But there is nothing to fear: he will not, of course, come with us,” he said calmly.

    “Oh?”

    “Most certainly not: have you forgotten that Wellington in person advised him not to expect to take up his position in English Society?” he said tranquilly.

    “Oh, God,” said Bungo dully. “Of course. Well, I suppose that’s a silver lining.”

    “Indeed. You must come to town with us if that’s what you fancy. In the meantime, you must just take it very easy, and not hurry over anything, and make very sure you are absolutely well again, after that horrid fever,” he said with his charming smile.

    “I’m well enough. –Takes it out of a chap, though,” he suddenly admitted.

    There was no doubt it did; but more than that, there was no doubt that losing one’s career and suddenly finding oneself adrift in life also took it out of a chap. Bungo had wanted to join the East India Company since he was a boy. Luís did not think that he had ever thought very deeply about the career and what it might entail; nevertheless the loss of it had shaken him very much.

    “Mm,” he murmured. “Er—I shan’t suggest you accept Pa’s invitation to trot out behind Don Quijote—”

    “I should dashed well think not! He is making an absolute cake of himself, Luís!”

    “Sí, sí, but there’s no-one to see him in these parts,” he murmured. “But the horses are always at your disposal, and the curricle, naturally. And Inez would be very glad if you were to accompany her on any calls. Well, she won’t inflict Lady Lasset on you, but Mr and Mrs John Formby are pleasant people, and you know their daughter, Victoria, don’t you?”

    “Er—yes. Well, nothing against them. Er—well, Miss Victoria’s mother’s a Quarmby-Vine, of course, but, um, her father was in trade, y’know.”

    Luís just eyed him drily.

    After a moment Bungo, though he had gone rather red, gave a sheepish grin and said: “Very well, and our father was a spy.”

    “Mm. Though our mother was certainly a Fernández de Velasco.”

    “Aye. Well, dare say if Inez calls again, I might accompany her, yes.”

    “Good. And I am afraid I must warn you that there is an invitation to dinner at Lasset Place just come.”

    “What?” he groaned. “I thought the hag didn’t have no-one to play host?”

    “There is a relation come—nephew, uncle—something!”

    “I’ll go but I won’t enjoy it,” said Bungo with a reluctant grin. “Here, tell you what! Thank God she don’t have daughters, hey?”

    “Absolutely! Oh—if you ride out tomorrow, by the by, Harry intends taking his donkey-cart over towards Lasset Halt—”

    “I’ll go the other way,” he said instantly.

    “Do that,” agreed Luís tranquilly.

    March turned suddenly cold and blustery again, and even Captain Cutlass, much though she would have liked to see more of her new friend and his donkey, was forced to keep indoors. With the bad weather came bad news for the family at Number 10 New Short Street. Captain Burns’s wife in person, very pale but putting a brave face on it, drove over from Brighton to give them the news that John-John’s ship was reported sunk in the East Indies. There was hope! she added quickly: it was thought that most of the crew had been picked up by a Royal Naval vessel.

    Julia went very white and was unable to speak.

    “Where did you have the news?” demanded Captain Cutlass, very grim.

    “From the Line,” she said faintly. “They did not know what vessel it was that picked them up.”

    “Was it seen to do so?” she demanded.

    “Captain Cutlass, don’t,” whispered Mouse.

    “No, it’s all right, my dear,” said Mrs Burns faintly. “It—it is best to know, is it not? The report was very much at second hand. The message came through the Consul in Batavia. A Dutch ship had taken on water at a port some time after the Naval vessel, and it was they who had the message.”

    “It was an English ship, was it?” asked Julia.

    “Yes; they were definite about that, dear Mrs Formby.”

    “I see. Thank you for coming, Mrs Burns.”

    Mrs Burns assured them she would pass on any further news, and rose to go.

    Captain Cutlass got up quickly. “Do you have more families to see?”

    “Yes, there are two more officers’ families who live in Waddington-on-Sea. The Davidsons, and young Mrs Proudy, the First Officer’s wife.”

    “I know them. I should like to come with you, if I may.”

    “Captain Cutlass, Lieutenant Davidson’s mother is sure to be very upset, and—and Mrs Proudy and First Officer Proudy had only been married three months when he left,” said Mouse faintly.

    “Exactly.” She looked expectantly at Mrs Burns.

    The Captain’s wife’s mouth trembled, very slightly. “I own, I should be glad of the company, Captain Cutlass,” she said quietly.

    “Then I’ll come.” She took a deep breath. “And don’t worry, Ma, I’ll tell Pa.”

    “You don’t have to, dear,” said Julia weakly, swallowing.

    “I could get on round to the shop—” began Aunty Bouncer.

    “Aye, and I’ll come with yer!” piped Aunty Jicksy quickly.

    “No,” said Captain Cutlass very firmly. “I’ll do it.”

    “What about Niners?” asked Mouse in a shaking voice.

    “When she gets home will be quite time enough,” said Captain Cutlass. “Come along, then, Mrs Burns: my cape and bonnet are hanging in the hall.” Forthwith she led her out.

    In the carriage Mrs Burns tried to smile and said: “My dear, I’m afraid I don’t know your real name.”

    “Well, it’s Calpurnia, Mrs Burns, but don’t worry, the whole town calls me Captain Cutlass. And I don’t think the Davidsons or Mrs Proudy will care what you call me.”

    “No.”

    Captain Cutlass took a deep breath. “Have you no-one who might have come with you?”

    “Sally and Annie are only twelve and ten, I did not feel it suitable. My mother lives in the town, but she never liked Rabbie,” she said dully.

    In the past the Formbys had of course made a joke of the fact that Captain Burns’s name was the same as that of the famed Scottish poet. Captain Cutlass did not smile, or refer to the fact, but said calmly: “I see.”

    “I—I wrote Rabbie’s sister, in Edinburgh, but now I’m not sure it was the right thing to do,” she faltered.

    “Even if it upsets her, I think she might feel she had a right to know.”

    Mrs Burns smiled shakily. “Yes. Thank you, my dear.”

    “No—thank you, Mrs Burns. There was no need for you to do this.”

    “Rabbie and I agreed that if—if ever anything happened, of course I must see the officers’ families. I just wish that I knew all the men’s families.”

    “I know of two in the town, I could tell them.”

    “Would you, Calpurnia? Thank you. I—I’m not terribly good with that sort of person, I’m afraid.”

    Captain Cutlass looked at the pale oval face, the slender figure and the little lace trim on her pretty bonnet and reflected silently that she probably wasn’t, no, and that “that sort of person” would probably be not much good with her, either. If ever there was a lady with “dainty” written all over her, it was Mrs Burns. “That’s all right, I’m not a lady.”

    Mrs Burns blinked. “Do not say that, my dear!”

    “It’s all right, I’ve no ambitions to be one,” replied Captain Cutlass simply.

    After a moment Mrs Burns murmured: “Mother Burns used to say that the mark of a true lady is her behaviour, not her birth. And you most certainly qualify, my dear.”

    “Thank you,” she said in some surprise. “Is your mother-in-law still living, Mrs Burns?”

    “No. She was rather a grim old lady, I suppose, but I miss her.” Forthwith she told Captain Cutlass a very great deal about old Mrs Burns, who had come down to Brighton and taken a small house nearby, sensibly refusing to live with them, when Rabbie had settled there, and had, reading between the lines, been an excellent influence on the two spoilt little Burns girls, Sally and Annie. And—incidentally—not an inconsiderable amount about the difficulties of being a sailor’s wife. Which Calpurnia Catherine already pretty well knew, from persons such as that Mrs Jem Saddler and Mrs Hughie Bodger with whom Mrs Burns was not acquainted.

    The Davidsons’ house was nearest. Captain Cutlass knew that Mrs Davidson, the young lieutenant’s mother, was an excitable woman with very little self-discipline. As expected, she burst into a storm of uncontrollable weeping. However, her sister-in-law, Miss Davidson, was on hand, and more than capable of coping with ten weeping, hysterical females. Mr Davidson was at his business, and she sensibly decided, ignoring her sister-in-law’s wails that Percy must be apprised immediately, that the very indefinite news could wait until he came home that evening.

    Little Mrs Proudy was a very different kettle of fish. The Formbys did not know her very well: it was the husband, First Officer Proudy, who was a native of Waddington-on-Sea. She was, at a guess, only a couple of years older than Captain Cutlass herself. But she held her chin up very high, although going very pale, and said steadily: “I see. Thank you so much for calling, Mrs Burns. I think there is certainly hope, as you say.” And insisted they stay for a cup of tea, though allowing that Jenny Biggs might be sent running for Mrs Proudy, Senior.

    “Mamma-in-law was married to a sailor, herself,” she said on a firm note, “so she knows what it is like.”

    “Yes, of course; Rabbie knew Captain Proudy,” agreed Mrs Burns faintly.

    “He lived to be seventy-four and died in his bed,” said Captain Cutlass, not referring to the fact that the oldest Proudy son had died at Trafalgar with Lord Nelson and the third boy, who had been in the Merchant Navy like his father and the lieutenant, had drowned somewhere off Africa at the age of nineteen. There were several girls but First Officer Proudy was the only son now left.

    Mrs Proudy, Senior, soon arrived, determinedly bright and sensible about it all, and insisted that Mrs Burns eat something. With some relief Captain Cutlass saw a little colour come back into the dainty lady’s cheeks.

    When the Captain’s wife had gone upstairs to freshen up the elder Mrs Proudy said to Captain Cutlass: “For myself, I wouldn’t say she made the best decision, coming to tell us all, but when folks are under a strain they often choose to do the most difficult thing.”

    “Why, yes,” she said slowly. “I think you are right.”

    “Aye. –Captain Burns’s ma died, is that right?”

    “Yes; she said she misses her.”

    “Mm. So has she got anyone back home, Captain Cutlass?”

    “It didn’t sound like it. You know they have two little girls?”—Mrs Proudy nodded.—“Yes. Her mother lives in the town but she told me she doesn’t like Captain Burns.”

    “No, she wouldn’t, for he’s a sensible man that wouldn’t put up with her vapours and megrims for an instant. –I’ve never met her, my dear: thinks herself too good for the likes of us—but I’ve heard a fair bit about her from my Jonathon. Well, even a captain has to talk to someone,” she said with a smile.

    Captain Cutlass nodded uncertainly.

    “I think you’d best go back with her, my dear. She looks at the end of her tether.”

    “I— Yes, you’re right. I will. I’ll tell Pa when we look in at the shop.”

    Placidly Mrs Proudy nodded approval.

    Joe paled at the news that his second son was missing at sea, and his hands clenched, but he said sensibly that they would just have to wait and see, and it didn’t sound too bad, at all. And who was home with Julia? On Captain Cutlass’s revealing that Mouse and the great-aunties were, but Aunty Lash was out, he decided that Little Joe should take Trottie True home. And of course Captain Cutlass might go with Mrs Burns, and she was not to worry about getting her home. And—looking somewhat askance at the fragile, dainty Mrs Burns—he thought they’d better get off now, and not worry about the sailors’ families. Soon enough to tell them once they had definite news, hey?

    “Yes, but I thought that rumours might get around,” said Captain Cutlass awkwardly.

    “Ma Davidson might squawk it from the housetops, you mean,” he translated without difficulty. “You’re right. I’ll— No, don’t want to alarm them. Little Joe can pop over and see them, all right?”

    “Mm. Thanks, Pa.”

    “That’s all right,” he said, opening a cupboard and taking out a very black bottle. “Take this, and if Mrs Burns seems faint on the journey, give her a sip.”

    “No, really, Mr Formby—” protested Mrs Burns, trying to smile.

    “And when you get to the house, give her two tablespoons in a cup of something hot, all right?”

    “Yes,” agreed Captain Cutlass gratefully.

    Joe looked at the two of them dubiously. Well, Captain Cutlass was sensible enough, and Mrs Burns seemed to be bearing up reasonably well… No, if he sent Little Joe with them, the effect might be the opposite of helpful: the fellow was six foot two inches in his stockinged feet and even to those who knew and loved him it was a bit like having a hulking great friendly bear in the house. Finally he said: “Look, I’ll pop over tomorrow, see how you’re getting on, all right?”

    Mrs Burns tried to protest but was overborne, and Joe put her, Captain Cutlass and the black bottle into the carriage and waved them off.

    “What is it?” murmured Mrs Burns after quite some time, looking at the bottle.

    “Rum,” admitted Captain Cutlass.

    “Rabbie likes that,” she said shakily.

    “Of course: all the seamen do,” replied Captain Cutlass, determinedly cheerful. She told her a great deal about Mr Rattle and Mr Hartshorne and their partiality for a drop of rum, wilfully overlooking the fact that poor little lady looked too tired to take any of it in.

    Very much to the Joe Formbys’ surprise, for once they were all over the first shock of the news about John-John they had decided that, much though Mrs Burns might initially have needed Captain Cutlass’s support, she was by far too robust a personality to make a suitable companion for that gentle lady, Mrs Burns seemed to have taken an instant liking to her, and so had her two little girls. And an invitation was issued for Miss Calpurnia to spend some time with Mrs Burns in Brighton this spring, if her Mamma could spare her? No-one pointed out that it was rather a matter of such persons as Dr Adams and Mr Rattle being able to spare her, and so Captain Cutlass’s sparse wardrobe was sent over (Julia and Lash seizing the chance to edit out the green baize horrors), with a pile of her books, and she settled down apparently cheerfully with the fragile, gentle-mannered Mrs Burns.

    No further news of Captain Burns’ ship, good or bad, was received that month. Mrs Burns seemed very happy to have Captain Cutlass with her, and she to be there.

    “She is helping with the children,” reported Julia after a foray in a hire-carriage with the great-aunties and Mouse to see if Mrs Burns needed rescuing.

    Lash looked at her in alarm. “Not being made to be an unpaid governess, I trust, Julia?”

    “No, no. Not that I would mind, if she were. No, they go to a day school, but it doesn’t seem to be teaching them much, and they lost their old nurse some time back: she was a Scotswoman, and went home. They have a nurserymaid, but if you can imagine a Polly Patch or Rosie Kettle in a pristine starched apron and a good grey wool dress, she is on about that level: not much more than a child herself and, between ourselves, apparently incapable of anything approaching discipline. But oddly enough the children seem both to mind Captain Cutlass and to like her.”

    “She is so straightforward,” murmured Mouse. “It would not occur to her to treat them as any but rational beings on the one hand, or to trot out the usual adult clichés on the other.”

    “Thank you on behalf of both of us!” said her mother with a laugh. “No, but she’s right, though, Lash: I think that is it.”

    “Of course,” agreed Lash.

    “Go on, tell ’er the good bit!” urged Aunty Bouncer, shaking slightly.

    “No, no, dearest Aunty Bouncer, you may tell her!” replied Julia.

    “Right, I will. Mrs Burns has given Captain Cutlass several of ’er own dresses, and took ’er shopping into the bargain, and guess what she was in when we called!”

    Lash rolled her eyes wildly. “The imagination boggles, Aunty Bouncer!”

    “Pale yellow wool,” said the old lady with relish.

    Lash gulped. “Pale yellow? Captain Cutlass?”

    “Aye, and that ain’t all! Go on, you can tell ’er the rest,” she said generously to the grinning Aunty Jicksy.

    “With a lace collar,” that dame informed Lash gleefully. “Real lace, not crochet nor tatting.”

    Lash shook helplessly for some time, having to mop her eyes at the end of it.

    “Yer might say,” added Aunty Jicksy, positively licking her lips, “pearls before swine—”

    “No! Dear Aunty Jicksy!” she protested weakly.

    “Ah, well, if you did you wouldn’t be far wrong, acos Captain Cutlass said there was a lilac one what was even prettier that she liked better!”

    “Lilac? With that yellow hair?” she croaked.

    “Exact. Mrs Burns wouldn’t give it her. Woman of taste, see?”

    Lash nodded numbly.

    “And she has persuaded her to wear her hair in—well, I wouldn’t call them ringlets, yet. But she had it pinned up so that the curls almost looked like ringlets!” said Julia with a laugh.

    “Help! Next you’ll be saying she was sitting in the front parlour doing her tatting!”

    “Not quite,” said Aunty Jicksy drily. “Though she can tat, makes quite a nice little mat or straight edging when she sets her mind to it. And it ain’t a front parlour. –Go on, Bouncer.”

    “Downstairs salong,” reported Aunty Bouncer with a wink.

    “Yes,” said Julia drily, “though Captain Cutlass didn’t go so far as to call it that. It has a delightful view of the street, not to mention of quite a collection of fashionable gents that often pass along it, but you need not believe that Captain Cutlass was watching them, either!”

    “Nevertheless,” said Lash, all smiles, “it sounds as if Mrs Burns has worked the impossible, and turned her into a girl at last!”

    “Very nearly!” agreed Julia merrily. “She fully intends to pop home with old Rattle in the dinghy next week, but for Captain Cutlass, that is amazing progress, I must admit!”

    Sir Harry had returned from one of his outings with Don Quijote in a very bad mood.

    “Pa, what on earth is the matter?” said Luís with a sigh after he’d shouted at the footman in two languages, neither of them English, refused to touch the mutton roast, even though it had the caper sauce that he loved, and complained a perfectly good burgundy had soured.

    “Saw that damned old Rattle what you mentioned to me. –You remember! Down in the town! Old sailor what has a brazier on the beach!” he reminded him crossly.

    “Uh—oh! The old man who got the oysters for the yacht’s crew: of course. Er—what about him?”

    “He told me— Never mind. Nothing to signify,” he said sourly.

    “But did you not ’ave a nice chat with ’im?” asked Inez kindly.

    “The man’s limited,” he grunted.

    “Per’aps we should take Pa up to London for the Season after all, Luís,” ventured Inez.

    Calmly Luís, ignoring Bungo’s face of horror, replied: “Not if you wish to be received at the Embassy, mi querida.”

    “Pooh! I never—” Sir Harry broke off.

    “Yes?” said his second son politely.

    “At all events, wouldn’t socialise with damned Rodolfo Segovia Montoya at the Embassy if me life depended on it: man’s a puling imbecile!” he grunted.

    “Of course. Do try some of this excellent mutton, Pa.”

    “What mutton?” he replied angrily. “Why did no-one offer it me before?”

    Giving Bungo a warning look, Luís rose, shook his head smilingly at the butler and the footman, and trod round the table with the mutton to Sir Harry’s elbow, where he carved him a great plateful of it. “Caper sauce?”

    “Don’t humour me, Luís!” he warned.

    Unmoved, Luís passed him the sauce, and returned to his seat. He was aware that Bungo was seething, but there was nothing to be done about it—and they’d be off to town very soon. And fortunately there was nothing much Harry could get up to down here behind their backs.

Next chapter:

https://thefortunateformbys.blogspot.com/2023/10/april-showers.html