Winter Of Discontent

27

Winter Of Discontent

    The leaves of autumn were falling, Waddington-on-Sea was its usual peaceful self, and the household at Number 10 New Short Street was more or less settled into its new routine. Niners continued with Miss Henderson, Julia resumed her Wednesday drawing lessons with Miss Pickles but was otherwise lacklustre, only rarely consenting to accompany Trottie True, no longer on the cart but in Charles’s carriage, on her rounds to her odd-bodies, and Ned continued his feud with Gwendolyn Mountjoy. Mr Poulter resumed his courtship of Cookie—it must be: according to his own account the food at the castle was splendid, so it couldn’t be cupboard love as Bouncer at one point had suggested. Up the road at Number 3 poor Mrs Lumley was still in need of a lodger and at Number 8 Mrs Mountjoy was now overpoweringly gracious to them all and appeared definitely to have decided that Marianne or Calpurnia would do for Bob: the invitation cards were thick as the falling leaves.

    Captain Cutlass was still at High Mallows, but Julia, alas, did not appear even interested in the fact. Belinda descended on them several times but even the sight of the two incredibly well-behaved pugs sitting up in the carriage like Jacky did not rouse Julia out of her lethargy.

    They had not seen anything of Lady Stamforth since the performance of Puss in Boots but she finally did call: without the girls, though with a shrouded Sita Ayah and several baskets full of strange treats.

    “Lewis has horrid committees, of course, and the Parliament ees sitting, so we shall be off to London vairy soon,” she said on a glum note.

    “I dare say you will enjoy the opera and so forth,” offered Julia.

    “Well, yes: I adore the opera,” she admitted with her lovely smile. “And usually eet ees so enthralling that one ees enabled not to brood on one’s eenadequacies as a chaperone and matchmaker!”

    “What have you done now?” asked Aunty Bouncer baldly.

    “Nothing, dear Mrs Peters: they are sins of omission, not commission, thees time!” she admitted with a laugh and a moue. “I have failed signally to find anything even possible for Rita, and those I thought might be possible for Mina have proven not to her taste!”

    “Right. At home sulking, are they?”

    “No,” said her Ladyship with a sigh. “They have gone to spend some months with my brother, Dom, at hees home een Norfolk. They weeshed for eet and he and hees wife were vairy keen to have them. And we do have a dear friend who lives quite near and of course weell invite them, but I know perfectly well the pair of them weell spend the entire time playing with the children and riding the horses and—and eegnoring anything een pantaloons!” she finished with a laugh. “They are both so unlike me at that age that I confess, I am completely at a loss!”

    “Probably just as well,” noted Bouncer drily. “Dare say a Christmas away from all the nonsense won’t do them no harm.”

    “No,” agreed Jicksy. “What about Cousin John’s Johnny? Thought ’e were dangling after your Rita?”

    Nan sighed. “That ees one more reason for sending her away, dear Mrs Huggins: hees attentions were becoming too marked, and she does not care for heem. And, pleasant though hees manners are, I do not theenk that he ees the sort of young man to whom Lewis weeshes to see her tie herself up.”

    The Formby ladies had not hitherto gained the impression that Lord Stamforth’s wishes counted for all that much in that household; they looked at her uncertainly.

    Finally Jicksy ventured: “I get it. Puts ’is foot down when ’e has to, does ’e?”

    “Yes, eendeed, Mrs Huggins!” she said with feeling. “And he ees so vairy principled and—and eenflexible een hees principles, that he weell never compromise them, no matter what the cost may be!” She looked at their faces. “But fortunately Rita does not care the snap of her fingers for Johnny Formby, so there can be no cost to her! I suppose I was theenking of the time een the Peninsula when Wellington had to send heem home,” she admitted.

    This was a new one on the Formbys. “Eh?” said Bouncer on an eager note.

    “The Duke had to send him home, your Ladyship?” echoed Lash uncertainly.

    Brightening, her Ladyship plunged into it. What it amounted to was that Colonel Vane, as he then was, on being apprised that a young Portuguese prince had ravished the affianced bride of one of the men in his regiment, had challenged the prince to a duel, in which he killed him. There had been a terrific fuss, the Portuguese more or less demanding Lewis Vane’s head on a platter, but Wellington, who did not, her Ladyship revealed with a smothered laugh, particularly care for the Portuguese, had refused to cashier him, merely sent him home on half-pay.

    “You see,” she finished, looking at the Formbys’ stunned faces, “eet was all the more shocking een that one does not fight a duel over the besmirched honour of a mere serving wench, my dears!”

    “Not unless one is an entirely principled man, one collects,” said Lash on a grim note.

    “Exact. That ees Lewis, you see? A principle ees a principle and the personalities are immaterial.”

    “Personally I think it was very fine of him!” said Julia with shining eyes.

    “Right,” agreed Bouncer. “You can’t help but admire ’im for it. Though I dunno as I’d say it’d make for harmony in the home.”

    Her ladyship smiled a little. “Een the normal course of daily existence one does not run slap up against hees principles, of course.”

    “Just as well,” concluded Jicksy. “I confess I’d of liked to see ’im fighting with ’is sword in ’is hand.”

    “Well, I theenk eet may have been pistols een the duel, but eef you care to come up to the castle any morning between the hours of seven and eight you may see heem, dear Mrs Huggins, for he fences quite regularly!” she admitted with a little laugh. “Though now that Mr Bobby has left us there ees only our dear friend and overseer, Major-General Cadwallader, to give heem a bout, I fear.”

    There was a short silence.

    “All right, go on,” said Bouncer grimly. “Mouse is at the shop, no fear of being overheard.”

    Lady Stamforth gnawed on her lip. “Mr Bobby has gone to a distant cousin of hees father’s, who requires assistance een managing hees stud. Bobby has always been vairy fond of horses and—well, the family weell treat heem as an equal, of course, and eet well be a gainful occupation for heem. I—I thought perhaps he might have sent Mouse a note.”

    “Not to our knowledge,” said Lash grimly.

    “Mouse?” said Julia in bewilderment.

    “We thought he admired her, back last spring, Julia,” she said quickly. “I did mention it. Anyway, it has clearly come to naught.”

    “Those what said the summer would give ’im a breathing space, time to think it over, were right,” concluded Jicksy sourly. “’E’s thought it over and decided she ain’t good enough for ’im and ’e don’t want a life smothered in ink to the eyebrows!”

    “Right, ta for spelling that out, Jicksy,” said her peer.

    “I am vairy sorry to be the bearer of bad tidings,” said Nan sadly.

    “That’s all right, yer Ladyship,” returned Bouncer quickly, directing a glare at Jicksy. “Not your fault, at all. None of us thought ’e was right for Mouse, ink or not.”

    “No,” agreed Lash limply. “Er, what about your India memoirs, though, Lady Stamforth?”

    “I am afraid they are een abeyance again, dear Mrs Yates, and at thees rate, I shall be driven to write them myself!” she said with a rueful laugh.

    “Why not? A woman may wield a pen as well as a man,” returned Lash with a twinkle. “There was that book we read, do you recall it, Julia? By a lady who went out to India by way of Egypt.”

    “Um—oh, yes, potentates,” said Julia without interest. “But you have not mentioned little Jack, Lady Stamforth. Is she well?”

    “Een blooming health, thank you, Mrs Formby! Er—you may not care for thees suggestion, dear Mrs Formby, but the theeng ees—”

    The thing was that after a succession of governesses, most of whom, reading between the lines, had been unable to support Miss Gump’s interference in the educational process, Jack was once again without an official preceptress. Miss Gump was capable of taking her for English composition, French, history, and some elementary geography, but apparently her mathematics left almost everything to be desired. The Vanes’ older girl, Clara, not a sister or half-sister of anyone, but his Lordship’s adopted daughter, in fact had insisted on attending Merrifield Academy for Young Ladies, which lay inland from Sandy Bay, not so very far on the other side of Brighton, rather than suffer Miss Gump’s inadequacies. She had now completed her schooling and according to her Ladyship really ought to be launched next Season, but as she did not wish for it and as Mina and Rita were still on her hands… In short, Lady Stamforth would be terribly grateful if Captain Cutlass would agree to help Clara with her Latin and Jack with her mathematics.

    “It’ll keep her busy, Julia,” ventured Bouncer.

    Julia sighed. “At the moment she’s at High Mallows, but she’s found Mr Piper-Fiennes a cook, I can’t see that he needs her. But by all means ask her, Lady Stamforth. –I suppose they couldn’t come here, could they?” she added on a wistful note. “It’d be nice to have some young faces in the house again.”

    Whether her Ladyship had been about to propose that Captain Cutlass come up to the castle or that her girls be dispatched to High Mallows was not at all clear to Lash and the aunties. She clapped her hands, and declared that of course they could: it would be the vairy thing!

    Lash had been just about to pop out to the shops when her Ladyship’s carriage bowled up, so on her departure Lady Stamforth very kindly took her up with her. “How ees Leetle Joe?” she asked.

    Lash sighed. “As a matter of fact he is in a glum, and it’s pretty clear to me, and I think possibly to the aunties, that a life smothered in ink doesn’t really appeal now that Joe is not here to take the lead and encourage him.”

    “I see. I had gained the impression that eet was hees preferred occupation, Mrs Yates.”

    “Had his father not died I don’t think it would ever have occurred to him that it might not be,” replied Lash heavily. “They were very close. It’s true that Little Joe, as the older boy, in a sense had his life mapped out for him, but it was always John-John who was the more adventurous one, eager to see the world.”

    “Mm… Eet ees probably too soon to mention thees, but our Major-General Cadwallader, who oversees everything to do weeth the castle eetself, ees not a young man. Eet’s not the position of agent, Mrs Yates, but I suppose comparable to eet. Lewis ees keen to take on an assistant for heem. Someone who might learn hees ways and gradually take over from heem as the years go by, you understand.”

    Lash took a deep breath. She would have wagered every meagre possession she had that the creature knew about poor Little Joe’s partiality for Rita Baldaya. Any attempt to encourage it could not but be completely misguided, however: she could not imagine Viscount Stamforth’s ever permitting his sister-in-law to ally herself with the son of a jobbing printer. And, just by the by, if that story about the Peninsula had been intended to suggest that his principles might lead him to do so, it had failed utterly in its intent! A man with that sort of sense of honour permitting his wife’s sister—? No. Never—however soft his wife’s heart or persuasive her arguments. She opened her mouth but before she could speak Lady Stamforth was continuing:

     “As I say, eet’s too early to mention such a scheme, but I should just like someone een hees family to be aware that there ees an alternative for heem.”

    “Very well. Thank you, Lady Stamforth,” said Lash grimly.

    “Could eet not be ‘Nan’?” she replied sadly.

    “Not until pigs fly and I’m married to a viscount, too: no, it couldn’t,” returned Lash with brutal frankness.

    “But your niece ees married to our friend Charles!”

    “And Ma Mountjoy still ain’t over the shock,” she noted drily. “No, well, it would not do, I’m afraid.” She hesitated. “Not even in private,” she said on a kinder note.

    “Lewis warned me you would not,” Nan admitted sadly. “But I— There ees no-one to whom I can talk, really, when we are down here, except for Lewis heemself.”

    “You are very, very lucky to have a husband to whom you can talk,” replied Lash seriously. “But pray do not attempt to persuade me you are lonely, with a castleful of family and friends. Added to which I must confess you strike me as one of the most gregarious persons who ever walked: I do not think you could be lonely!”

    “No, but nevertheless some rational conversation would not go amiss,” she said ruefully. “Would you not consider sometimes coming over to take tea?”

    “Uh—I’d have to sail over,” admitted Lash. “Well, I dare say Rattle would take me, but—”

    “We could talk of the new books!” she said eagerly, her eyes very bright.

    “Or even of the old books, I suppose. Well, if you can guarantee it won’t get to Ma Mountjoy’s or Lady Cox’s ears… And you are not, really, down here all that much of the year, are you? Um, well, I should like to very much, thank you,” finished Lash on a somewhat lame note.

    “Splendeed!” she cried, clapping her gloved hands together. “I could send the carriage—”

    “Your Ladyship, that was my point in mentioning the Mountjoy and Cox hags. Please don’t send your carriage or distinguish me by—by any notice at all. We’ve been plagued by the females ever since Charles started courting Trottie True!”

    “Oh, Lud!” she said with a merry laugh. “Een that case I shall send the most discreet of notes weeth Poulter and we shall arrange eet like that, no? And Mr Rattle may sail you over and Poulter weell drive you up from Sunny Bay!”

    Under the eyes of Sir Harry Ainsley in his pink house, presumably? Oh, well. Feebly Lash thanked her Ladyship and agreed she would look forward to it very much. At which her Ladyship withdrew a book from the recesses of her huge fur muff and pressed it upon her with the laughing information that it was a roman à clef and she was sure she would recognize some of them but in the case she did not she had writ them out on the flyleaf for her.

    Limply Lash took it, even though she did realize that almost every syllable that had fallen from the creature’s lips had been entirely deliberate, that she had had this in mind from the word “go”— Never mind. It would be something different to do, on the odd occasions when her Ladyship was in residence and in need of company, and it would most certainly get her out of the house.

    It was not long before a carriage dropped an excited Jack and a shy Clara off at Number 10 New Short Street, followed in ten minutes or so by Captain Cutlass in the High Mallows trap. They would come on Wednesdays, when they would not be under Julia’s feet, as it was her day for Miss Pickles, and Fridays. Why the latter not clear, and nor was it clear if her Ladyship had realized the routine would include Miss Jack’s trotting off to the market with Julia on the Friday, but no objections were raised, and the household was enabled to settle down to a new routine.

    The autumn dwindled into winter, and with the frosty November came the excitement of Trottie True’s baby. A boy, so those who had laid plans for a match between Master Joseph Formby and his cousin had to revise their ideas. He was a sturdy little fellow, with a brazen pair of lungs, and his father was unbelievably proud of him.

    “’E didn’t know ’e could?” ventured the infant’s Great-Great Aunty Jicksy, the bright little eyes sparkling.

    “Ssh!” hissed Lash: the venue was the quietly ladylike downstairs salon of the house in Regent Avenue. And that was Cousin Belinda’s black silk that had just swished upstairs to see Baby Peter Charles Joseph John Quarmby-Vine. “No, I am pretty sure he knew that, Aunty.”

    Promptly Mrs Huggins collapsed in the most agonized of muffled spluttering fits, nodding her good black bonnet madly.

    “What’s got into ’er?” enquired her peer, coming back downstairs.

    “Just the usual indelicate thoughts that the arrival of a bouncing new infant does seem to provoke!” admitted Lash with a twinkle.

    “It was ’er what said it!” wheezed Aunty Jicksy, banging herself on the chest.

    Generously Bouncer went over to the sideboard and poured her a restorative glass of Charles’s port. Enquiring, once she had poured herself one and Lash had shaken her head at the raised eyebrows suggesting she also partake: “Where is ’e?”

    Jicksy swallowed. “Ah! Not bad at all! Generous feller: you realize it’s there for us? He’s gorn outside, Bouncer: blowing a cloud with Little Joe.”

    Bouncer sat down beside her on the elegant sofa. “He oughta be in the shop.”

    “Biddle’s looking to it, it won’t fall down without ’im,” replied Jicksy.

    “Apparently not. Dunno if anybody but me’s noticed, but the boy’s losing interest in it, now that Joe’s gorn.”

    “Mm, we have noticed,” admitted Lash. “Er, well, Charles would take him on as assistant manager, but he doesn’t really need him, and Little Joe knows nothing about orchards.”

    “No, but young Watkins, he’s only in it until he can scrape together enough to set up on ’is own. Well, did say as much to Charles, ’e’s honest enough; can’t take after old Herbert!”

    “Wouldn’t say Herbert was dishonest, Bouncer,” objected Mrs Huggins.

    “Not as such. Cunning, though. Eye on the main chance. Anyroad, Little Joe could learn it up off ’im, yer see.”

    “Yes. Well, it’s a healthy life; why not?” said Lash a trifle dully.

    “Er—well, got all of us on ’is ’ands, deary.”

     Lash was in no doubt that Charles was only too ready to take those responsibilities off Little Joe’s hands. He had already offered to give all three of the girls a Season in London next year. Not to say, to send Ned to a decent school in a year or two’s time. He meant well, but it had been extremely embarrassing.

    “Mm. I dare say Charles would offer you a home, Aunty, and then you’d be able to sit in a parlour—beg its pardon, salon—like this with its silk-covered sofas and elegant escritoires and skreens for the rest of your natural. Though possibly his generosity with the port might compensate for that.”

    “Compensate for what, Lash?” said a cheery male voice with a laugh in it, and Lash jumped sharply and turned a dull beetroot shade. “Er—sorry, Charles. Nothing, really,” she said lamely.

    The Captain gave her a shrewd look but came in, smiling amiably, and proceeded to pour the aunties second glasses of port and to force a glass of Madeira on her, Lash.

    The Formbys spent a quiet Christmas, resisting Lady Stamforth’s well-intentioned attempts to get them up to the castle for it and Belinda’s ditto to get them out to Blasted Oak House—Charles, to everyone’s surprise, weighing in on their side in both instances. Early in the New Year Miss Jack and her adopted sister duly appeared again at their appointed hour and the Wednesday and Friday routine recommenced. There was still no comment from the castle on its including Jack’s accompanying Julia, Cookie or Lash, or any permutation or combination thereof, to the market on Friday mornings, or to her accompanying Julia on Wednesday mornings to drawing lessons with Miss Pickles. Oh, well: if it were a case of sleeping dogs they could continue to lie: the poor child was lonely at home, as her little brothers, Lord Stamforth’s own children, were very much younger. And it most certainly seemed to be doing Julia good: she was observedly brighter.

    Lash herself saw a little more of Lady Stamforth than she had anticipated: apparently the Vanes were usually at home during the winter. However, the weather was not propitious for voyages over to Sunny Bay, and so the visits were less than weekly. It was not long before Lash realized that her Ladyship’s claim that there was no-one to whom she could talk save her husband was more than justified, and she felt a little guilty for having so readily rubbished the notion that the woman could be lonely. Being surrounded by family and friends was, indeed, no substitute for rational conversation with a kindred spirit: it took but one frightful afternoon with Miss Gump in attendance on her Ladyship for that to dawn most forcibly!

    “She means well,” said Nan on a weak note when the gaunt spinster lady, with an immense series of apologies for having to desert Mrs Yates so early, expressions of delight at having been able to have such a comfortable cose with Mrs Yates, and etcetera, at last got herself out of the room in pursuit of her self-appointed task of checking the preparations for the tiny ones’ supper.

    “Of course,” replied Lash properly. “Er—may I ask whether the preparations for the children’s supper in fact are in need of checking?”

    “No,” she said baldly.

    There was a short silence.

    “You see,” said Nan feebly, “there was one tairrible occasion when we were living een Bath, before I had met Lewis, when Sita Ayah prepared an Indian dish for Rosebud. –I mean Jack.”

    Lash made a strangled noise.

    Her Ladyship’s big dark eyes began to twinkle. “Eet was nothing vairy bad, and een India they give eet to the leetle ones all the time, but—”

    “Say no more!” she gasped, collapsing in hysterics.

    “Ever seence then— No, I have stopped!” she said with a laugh.

    Lash wiped her eyes. “Dare I ask, who is the Mrs Cuthbertson whose children’s unfortunate experience was mentioned?”

    “I have no notion,” she said serenely. “Someone whom Miss Gump met een India when she was out there as a governess, one must conclude, but we deed not know her or her employers out there. –Such persons, or so I have observed, do customarily refer to persons whom one has never met and of whom one has never heard as eef they were one’s closest—”

    “Stop!” she gasped, off in another paroxysm.

    Laughing, Nan said: “You must admit eet’s so!”

    “How do you support it?” asked Lash frankly.

    “Well, you see, I am fortunate to have a vairy equable temperament—never mind the English notion that eef one has forebears who spoke one of the Romance languages one must have a tempestuous nature! And then, the castle ees vairy large,” she ended dulcetly.

    This was true, though the Vanes themselves lived in a neat new modern stone house within its great grey walls. Lash eyed her cautiously.

    “She ees a great admirer of the Perpendicular and also vairy religious, so she was threelled to be given responsibilities to do weeth the hall and the chapel,” she explained dulcetly.

    Certainly these two edifices, much later than the oldest parts of Stamforth Castle, were very fine, but it was hard to think of exactly what an elderly English spinster of the refined variety could—

    “What responsibilities?” asked Lash badly.

    “Eet took me hours to theenk them up, the more so as they could not jar weeth Geoffrey Cadwallader’s real responsibilities!” she choked, collapsing in giggles at last.

    Lash laughed, but also asked eagerly “What?” and Nan was saying: “Well—” when the door opened and both ladies gasped.

    “It’s only me,” said a meek, deep voice. “No, please don’t get up, Mrs Yates,” he said nicely as Lash staggered to her feet.

    “How do you do, Lord Stamforth?” she said weakly. She had spoken to him very briefly at Trottie True’s and Charles’s wedding reception, but not seen him since. He didn’t look like her notion of a viscount, no, but the thin, dark face and the long, rather lumpy nose were those looking down at one out of a cloud of black Restoration ringlets in the aforesaid Perpendicular hall. Help, and that huge ruby ring on his left hand was the very one the noble lord of the painting was wearing! Though this Lord Stamforth had spared one the matching giant ruby drop in the ear.

    He was very well, and delighted to see her again; and sitting down, asked unceremoniously: “Exactly what was all that guilt about, Nan?”

    “We thought eet might be Miss Gump coming back.”

    “Unlikely: I caught a glimpse of Rani Ayah rushing upstairs like a whirlwind just now,” he replied primly. “The babies’ supper, one presumes. Have you had the full story, Mrs Yates?”

    “Almost!” said Lash, smiling.

    “They do both know that Rani ees allowed to prepare the dish of sujee once a week,” said Nan calmly.

    “This don’t stop either of ’em, though!” added her husband with a laugh. “Semolina, Mrs Yates. I don’t deny the Indian servants are capable of turning it into something terrible, but in fact the dish they do for the children is completely mild. Er—dishes,” he amended somewhat weakly. “Sita’s is of course slightly different from Rani’s. –Also once a week.”

    Alas, Lash collapsed in splutters.

    “I was just about to tell her of Miss Gump’s responsibilities for the hall and the chapel,” Nan explained.

    Solemnly his Lordship rose, went to the door, opened it, peered round it, closed it and returned to his seat. “Quite safe. Go on.”

    “Thank you!” returned his wife. “You see what I have to put up weeth!” she said merrily to the visitor.

    Lash was beginning to, indeed; she nodded, smiling very much.

    “Well,” continued her Ladyship, “the chapel ees no longer een use except for the odd special occasion. So the idea that she could adorn eet weeth flowers deed not at first seem appropriate.”

    “Or sensible,” added Stamforth solemnly.

    “Sense, I assure you, deed not enter eento eet! But of course eet’s open to view—though vairy few people come to do so. So I told her that we should like eet to look eets best all the time and I deed not trust the housekeeper to see to eet—a gross calumny,” she noted calmly. “Thees went down extremely well, so I then embroidered on eet by adding that although the ornaments looked quite well kept to my eye… I deed not even have to mention the words ‘dusting’ or polishing’, she leapt upon the notion. By thees time I was een the most completely hypocritical mode, as you can eemagine, and so said that eef she could possibly supervise what the servants do een New Hall—the Perpendicular hall, that ees what the local people call eet—I should be eternally grateful.”

    “Actually she don’t care if it falls down around our ears. Not particularly fond of the Perpendicular,” explained her husband.

    “I find eet too ornate,” said Nan calmly. “Though I can perceive eets beauty. I prefer the strong, solid lines of the older parts of the castle. Well, the upshot of my unblushing manoeuvre was that she nigh to wore herself out polishing the panelling and dusting the picture frames and so forth, until Lewis put hees foot down. –He had to, she was eegnoring me,” she explained tranquilly. “So now she looks to the most of the chapel herself, but merely supervises the servants een New Hall, apart from dusting or polishing one or two of the more precious objects.” She made a moue.

    “What Miss Gump considers more precious,” put in his Lordship dispassionately.

    “That tairrible theeng that looks like Lewis een reenglets!” said Nan with considerable feeling. “I near to threw a conniption the first time I laid eyes on eet! And the foot, out of course.”

    Lash cleared her throat. It was a piece off a suit of armour; exactly why it was honouring the long mantelshelf above the huge fireplace the hall featured, not clear. In especial as the hall also held several complete suits. “Mm.”

    “Agincourt,” said his Lordship heavily. “Reputedly. We have found no historical evidence that any ancestor of mine was ever there, and in fact the Vanes have always had a reputation for keepin’ their heads well down.”

    “Well, yes, there was a Vane who was eenvited to go weeth Marlborough but deed not fancy eet,” said Nan, sounding as dispassionate as he had himself. “Though Lewis’s Cousin Philip died most gallantly at Waterloo, and he heemself fought een the Peninsula.”

    Lash swallowed. “Yes, of course,” she said faintly.

    “I do beg you will ignore whatever exaggerated tale she may have told you, Mrs Yates,” he murmured.

    “No!” gasped Lash, turning a fiery red.

    “I merely told her the facts,” said Nan, scowling.

    “Mm: an exaggerated tale,” he said drily. “Ah—Nan has omitted what personally I consider the best part of the chapel story: the very best lilies, eminently suited to our chapel, do not grow in our own garden or anywhere near it.”—Lash gaped at Lady Stamforth: where did she have the unfortunate woman traipsing off to?—“The very, very best lilies,” continued his Lordship smoothly, “in fact do not grow this side of Brighton at all—”

    “Oh, really!” she protested. “She must have seen through that!”

    “No,” said Nan eagerly, “because Lady Foote had come to call and was giving us a great encomium of them. There ees a man who grows them over een Merrifield, the village where Clara’s old school ees situate, not far from Sandy Bay, so—”

    “She would have escorted Clara over to the school in any case, my dear,” he interrupted smoothly.

    “She was a weekly boarder, seence we live so near,” explained her Ladyship. “Of course she would, but schooldays do not last forever, do they?” She smiled serenely.

    “And so, you see, it came to pass,” concluded his Lordship solemnly.

    Alas, Lash took one look at that dark, unsmiling Vane face and collapsed in a fit of the most agonising giggles known to womankind.

    “Monster,” said his wife, smiling serenely at him.

    “Every syllable I uttered was perfectly tr—”

    “Stop!” gasped Lash.

    His Lordship grinned, and stopped.

    “He sounds very pleasant, Lash,” said Julia at the end of the report, actually looking up from the soup and smiling.

    Niners was not always home at this hour, but today she had wrenched herself away from Miss Henderson only shortly after dark, so she was able to agree: “Yes, indeed.”

    “Doesn’t sound like a viscount—but, yes!” agreed Aunty Jicksy, nodding the cap. “Skinny feller, is ’e?”

    “Mm—well, a spare figure, Aunty,” replied Lash. “You might have seen him at Trottie True’s wedding, but he would not have stood out.”

    “Amongst that crowd? He’d of had to been wearing ’is coronet and ermine-trimmed cape! So go on: tall, is ’e?” asked Aunty Bouncer.

    “Not especially: a little over medium height, I suppose.”

    The two old ladies exchanged glances and Bouncer enquired: “Puts you in mind of any feller, does ’e?”

    “In looks? Well, um, Captain Cox, just a little. He has that saturnine look.”

    This reply did not go down at all well: Aunty Jicksy gave her a bitter look and Aunty Bouncer directed a positive glare at her.

    “Misogynists aside, perhaps they mean,” said Mouse on a very dry note.

    “Eh?” groped Cookie.

    “Women-haters, Cookie.”

    “Oh, right. Captain Cox is one o’ them, all right. Well, now, lessee: a skinny, dark feller, not very tall… I’d put a mite o’ pepper in that, Mrs Julia, dear, giblet soup likes pepper.”

    “Mr Colby,” suggested Mouse. “But possibly you mean misogynists and sail-makers aside?”

    This time it was she who received the bitter look from Aunty Jicksy and the glare from Aunty Bouncer. Neither lady’s expression improved when Cookie said calmly: “Think they mean gents, deary.”

    Bouncer whacked a cabbage in half with one blow of the chopper. “Right: gents.”

    “Not Commander Henderson?” ventured Niners nicely. “He is tall, however. And I would not call him saturnine, though he is dark.”

    “Lord Stamforth does not resemble him in the least. For one thing,” said Lash on a grim note, “his Lordship has one of the most delightful senses of fun I have ever encountered.”

    Quickly Cookie put in: “What about that colonel feller as Mrs John knows?”

    “Oh,” said Lash limply. “Colonel Bredon? I suppose he does look a little like him. But the colonel is much better looking.” –The dratted aunties’ eyes were fixed unwinkingly on Niners but she appeared completely unmoved. Which one could interpret any of several ways, so—

    “Was he saturnine?” asked Julia vaguely.

    “Not particularly,” said Lash, eyeing the aunties drily. “But the same type of figure, certainly.”

    “Happy?” said Mouse sardonically to the two old ladies.

    Jicksy peeled a carrot viciously. “What are you on about? A person can ask!”

    “Mm. Talking of asking, may I ask where Nunky Ben’s got to?’

    “Oh, lumme, ain’t ’e back?” said Cookie in dismay.

    “Not visibly, Cookie, no.”

    Mrs Dove smiled weakly. “Sent ’im out a while back, deary, the stink of the pipe was getting too much for me. Well, said as ’e could walk Polly ’ome, if it was a bit early, but it gets dark so early these days, dunnit?”

    Niners sighed. “The Elephant and Castle. I’ll fetch him.”

    “She’s a good girl, you know,” murmured Julia as the door closed after her.

    No-one had claimed otherwise. They all agreed hastily, however. If anyone was hoping that she might mention Colonel Bredon in that connection, they were disappointed.

    Julia gave the giblet soup one last stir and came to sit down at the table, smiling. “Little Jack is so amazingly like Captain Cutlass as a little girl!” She told them all a long, rambling tale about one of Captain Cutlass’s exploits as a brat—the which of course they all already knew—following it up with an almost equally long and rambling tale about one of Jack’s exploits. No-one was particularly interested but they all smiled and nodded in the appropriate places. And in the cases of Lash and Mrs Dove restrained themselves forcibly from pointing out to the old ladies that no-one had wanted either that cabbage or those carrots prepared for tonight.

    Little Joe had of course been at the shop all day so the aunties were enabled to rehash Lash’s report of Lord Stamforth, not to say the story of Miss Gump and the lilies, for his benefit.

    “Went down like a bucket of lead,” concluded Aunty Bouncer sourly much later that evening, when only she and Lash were still in the front parlour. “Dunno what’s his trouble. Still missing his Pa, I s’pose—well, that’s natural, Gawd knows we all miss ’im.”

    “Mm.”

    “That and ’e’s fed up with the shop. Maybe we better encourage ’im to accept Charles’s offer: what do you think, Lash?’

    “I think it is, really, too soon for him to take such a radical decision, Aunty.”

    She nodded. “Aye: it don’t do to rush round like a cut cat changing things when yer upset, yer right there, deary. Well, um, just keep an eye on him, then?”

    “Yes,” said Lash, smiling at her. “Can you possibly show me that trick of yours with a French knot again, Aunty Bouncer? This doesn’t look right.”

    Highly gratified, Aunty Bouncer folded up her knitting—bootees for Baby Peter Q.-V., he was growing so fast he was out of his first two sizes already—and came to inspect her work. “No, you done it the wrong way round, lovey. See, you ain’t grasped that if yer finishing the corner of the petal with the French knot, it’s gonna be part of the centre—”

    The end of February of course saw the anniversary of Joe’s death. Julia did not bring the subject up so the aunties, Lash and Cookie agreed privily that they would get over to the graveyard but they wouldn’t mention it to her—least said soonest mended. The day fell on a Wednesday and Jack and Clara arrived for their lessons as normal, Clara, who was a quiet, good-looking, brown-haired young woman with a calm manner, unusually excited about a Latin piece she’d done for Captain Cutlass and Jack, as usual, thrilled to be going for a drawing lesson. –As far as the Formbys could determine she had no artistic talent and even Miss Pickles’s expert tuition was not accomplishing very much, but perhaps it was the fact of being allowed to join in Julia’s special hobby more than the actual art which was the true treat.

    “Mouse,” said Lash on a cautious note when, Julia and Jack having departed for the drawing lesson and Captain Cutlass and Clara having retired to the back parlour to wrestle with the Latin, she and the aunties were assuming their bonnets and shawls, and Nunky Ben a great sea cape that had once been John-John’s: “would you rather come with us to visit Joe’s grave instead of going to the shop?”

    “No; I shall go by myself later,” she said tightly, tying a muffler over her old winter bonnet and under her chin.

    “Very well, dear.” Lash adjusted Aunty Jicksy’s mangy fur tippet for her, ignoring that lady’s annoyed remark that she wasn’t a brat, forced Aunty Bouncer’s battered umbrella into her hand, ignoring her point that it didn’t look like rain, and they exited from the house in a bunch.

    The old people walked on ahead and Mouse, though frowning, walked beside Lash. After a while she said sourly: “I suppose Niners does realize what day it is, does she?”

    Lash swallowed a sigh. “Of course she does, but as Miss Henderson has very kindly offered to drive her up to the graveyard this afternoon, she said she would not come with us.”

    “I dare say the woman wishes to visit her own family’s graves.”

    Lash managed not to reply to this.

    “As for Captain Cutlass—!” Mouse gave a hard laugh. “She is ignoring the anniversary entirely! I would not have believed it, even of her!”

    “Mouse, dear, I think it’s just her way of handling it,” said Lash with a sigh.

    Mouse snorted.

    “And—and Julia likewise,” said Lash in a voice that shook a little. “Their temperaments are not dissimilar.”

    “Possibly you are right, though in my opinion Ma is so occupied with that silly little Jack that she has forgotten all other considerations, even down to the fact that she has a family of her own,” returned Mouse grimly.

    “Personally I thank God for it,” replied Lash simply.

    “Huh!”

    They walked on in silence towards the High Street.

    “I thought you liked Jack,” said Lash feebly at last.

    “She is the child of wealth and privilege: can it signify whether I like her or no? And as for that spoilt Clara! What is she about, going on about her stupid Latin on a day like this?”

    Lash was aware that Mouse was jealous of the amount of her sister’s attention that Clara was occupying. Not to say, of the amount of Julia’s that Jack was. She did not think that the girl was in a mood to take her point, but she said: “I am very sure she does not know what day it is. As for being the spoilt children of wealth and privilege—Clara is the Vanes’ adopted child, Mouse, and her mother was a servant of his Lordship’s back before he inherited the title from his uncle. She told us only a few days ago that she loves coming to our house because the street reminds her a little of the street in which she grew up. The house was just a humble London lodging-house.”

    Mouse just scowled and walked on faster. Lash saw her head off towards the shop without much regret. After a moment Aunty Bouncer fell back beside her and remarked, not unsympathetically, that talking paid no toll. Quite.

    The remainder of the day was not improved, as far as Lash was concerned, by Commander Henderson’s escorting Niners home from the graveyard in the afternoon.

    “Good afternoon, Mrs Yates,” he said on her opening the door. “My aunt and I thought that Miss Formby should be at home.”

    “Er—yes. Are you all right, Niners, dear?”

    Niners was pale, and her eyes were red, but she nodded and said firmly: “I am perfectly all right, thank you, Aunty Lash.”  She turned and waved at the carriage. To Lash’s complete astonishment a black-gloved hand then appeared at the window, and Miss Aitch waved back.

    “Miss Henderson saw you home?” she croaked.

    “Indeed. She has been very kind. And so has Commander Henderson,” she said, smiling at him, “and I beg you will allow me to express my gratitude, sir.”

    “Not at all, Miss Formby. Hurry inside, you should not stand around in the cold.”

    “No,” agreed Lash limply. “Pop into the parlour, dear; we’re just sitting quietly by the fire.”

    Not neglecting to say: “Good-day, Commander,” Niners went inside.

    “I should thank your aunt,” said Lash feebly.

    “Rubbish, it’s far too cold. Go back to the fire,” he said, frowning. “Good-day.” With this he clapped his hat back on his head and strode off to the carriage.

    Limply Lash tottered inside. She was aware that in the kitchen Cookie and Polly Patch were sniffling over the black bottle which had just been discovered to be empty—Little Joe having once again forgotten that it was now his responsibility to see that the household was supplied with spirituous liquors—and she really ought to go along and try to comfort them; but somehow she could not face it. In the front parlour Aunty Jicksy had picked up some crochetwork but was just letting it lie in her lap and staring glumly into the fire, while Aunty Bouncer, having knitted five fingers and a thumb into a glove for Little Joe, discovered the error and angrily unravelled it, was now just staring glumly into the fire. Nunky Ben, the black bottle having been discovered to be empty and the intended rum toddies all round being thus impossible, had defiantly had two large glasses of port and was perhaps mercifully asleep rather than staring glumly into the fire, which was what he had been doing earlier. Captain Cutlass and Clara Vane were, presumably, in the back parlour, and Julia and Jack were, presumably, still with Miss Pickles. And Mouse and Little Joe were of course still in the shop. Lash sighed, did not escape upstairs, her preferred option, and went into the parlour.

    Niners had taken her outdoor things off and was now just sitting staring glumly into the fire. Quite. Lash sat down and joined in.

    “I was down the market, earlier,” reported Mrs Lumley in an odd voice, the Friday of the following week.

    “Oh, yes? We persuaded Julia to go today, did we not, Cookie?” replied Lash kindly, not remarking the odd voice.

    Mrs Dove poured the tea. “That we did. She weren’t keen at first, only the little girl wanted to go and that brightened ’er spirits, didn’t it, Mrs Lash?”

    Lash nodded, smiling.

    “Um, yes. Saw ’er with ’er,” conceded Mrs Lumley in an odd voice, accepting a cup.

    “Did Mr Poulter join them? He said he might,” said Lash, the odd voice still not having registered.

    “Not ’im, no,” owned Mrs Lumley.

    “Think something’s up,” warned Aunty Bouncer.

    “Wouldn’t say that, Mrs Peters,” replied Mrs Lumley weakly. “Not to say, up.”

    “Spit it out, woman!” cried Aunty Jicksy crossly.

    Mrs Lumley tried to smile. “Not Mr Poulter, no. ’Nother feller. Looked like a gent.”

    The company stared at her. Finally Lash offered feebly: “Not Charles Q.-V.?”

    “And ’is Creation boots,” agreed Aunty Bouncer on a dry note.

    “No, ’course not: I know ’im,” replied Mrs Lumley—not, however, with the scorn that might have been expected. “A—a dark feller.”

    “Ugh, weren’t Skellett, were it?” said Bouncer with a shudder.

    “’Oo? Oh, the Reverend feller what ’ad Mrs Julia’s fruit-cake off poor old Miss Watchett! No, nothing like ’im. Tall and dark. ’Eavy greatcoat.”

    “Commander Henderson?” ventured Mrs Huggins. “You ’ave met ’im: ’e’s the feller what took them blackamoors away for yer.”

    “’E’s got Creation boots as well,” explained Mrs Peters.

    “No, not ’im. Never seen ’im before in me life.”

    The company stared at her.

    “What about— No,” decided Cookie.

    “Um, Niners’s colonel feller?” ventured Jicksy unwisely. The glares registered. “All right, not Niners’s!” she said crossly.

    “She’s never met ’im,” Bouncer reminded her heavily.

    “No, but could of been ’im.”

    “Jicksy, I’ll believe that if you can tell me what a rich nevvy of Lady Lasset’s ’ud be doing down Waddington-on-Sea market on as miserable a day as you’d find in a month of Sundays!”

    “Mm. Or at all, really, Aunty,” agreed Lash on an apologetic note.

    Mrs Huggins glared, and could find no possible reason.

    “Tall, dark. Be in ’is forties,” said Mrs Lumley weakly.

    “I know!” cried Cookie. “It’ll be someone as the little girl knows!”

    “That’s it,” agreed Bouncer. “Storm in a teacup. And why didn’t you go over and say hullo?” she demanded, glaring at the caller.

    Poor Mrs Lumley didn’t like to say she hadn’t done that because she’d thought the gent and Mrs Julia looked very much as if they wouldn’t welcome the interruption. She went very red.

    “I dare say there was a press at the market,” said Lash quickly. “Cookie, weren’t you going to try one of those heathen cakes on Mrs Lumley?”

    Jumping slightly, Mrs Dove agreed she had been, and in the excitement over the heathen cakes, brought down from the castle by Mr Poulter this morning, the subject of Julia and the unknown dark feller was, mercifully, dropped.

    The mystery was, however, soon to be resolved. The gent escorted Julia and Jack home. Jack was very flushed and bright-eyed: she had been bought a windmill on a stick! Julia was almost as flushed and bright-eyed but said in a very casual voice that she was sure that Lash remembered Mr Waters? Mrs Rossiter’s connection.

    Lash looked blankly at a burly, broad-shouldered dark man.

    “It was the winter that we had Victoria staying: Mrs Rossiter was hostess for Dr Kent at a delightful dinner-party,” Julia reminded her.

    “Of course; Mr Waters. How nice to see you again,” said Lash numbly as Mr Waters bowed. “Oh—and I must thank you for the wreath you sent for Joe.”

    “The least I could do, Mrs Yates,” said Mr Waters, bowing again. “And I trust the cheese didn’t come amiss?”

    “Good God!” cried Lash unguardedly. “Was that you?”

    “It was a lovely thought,” said Julia quickly. “And we all love cheese.”

    “Aye, well,” said Mr Waters, smiling foolishly, “it was my cook’s idea. Her sister, what’s married to Mr Matthews from Longacre Farm, is famous for her cheese in our parts, y’see.”

    Lash thrust her hand through her curls. “Thank you. But why didn’t you put a note on it?”

    “Lash, dear, stop interrogating the poor man!” said Julia with a laugh. “He did not wish to be thanked, surely that is quite understandable? It was just a—a thoughtful little gesture!”

    “You didn’t send over a couple of brace of pigeons, did you, by any chance?” demanded Lash on a grim note.

    “Not guilty, Mrs Yates!” he said with a robust laugh. “Don’t say I might not’ve if it had occurred, mind!”

    “You didn’t tell me of any pigeons, Lash,” said Julia, smiling. “Sit down, Mr Waters; we’ll have some tea. And if the hordes have left any of those rumoured heathen cakes, I think we might try them!”

    “They are just sujee balls, really,” said Jack confidentially to Lash, as she helped her  numbly off with her outer garments.

    “Uh—oh, yes, that was her Ladyship’s word for semolina. –I think I didn’t tell you of any pigeons, Julia, because I didn’t wish you to be driven out of your skull wondering if someone had poached them on our behalf! –Oh, and if you were the unknown person with a shot-gun who swapped two fine hares for a sackful of Mr Rattle’s oysters, having cozened the poor old fellow into believing they were rabbits, please say so now, Mr Waters!”

    “Not I, Mrs Yates!” he said with that hearty laugh. “All the land round our way’s owned by Lord Stamforth, y’know: I’ve more sense than to get out with a gun after his game!”

    “I expect Mr Rattle poached them, Lash, you’re being silly,” said Julia comfortably.

    “He didn’t, I’m quite sure. He also has more sense than to poach Lord Stamforth’s game. Er—I’m sorry, Mr Waters, it—it must have been rankling with me, all these months,” said Lash with a foolish smile.

    “Very understandable, I’m sure,” he replied kindly. “No—let me, Mrs Formby,” he said as Julia rose to put another log on the fire.

    Lash looked numbly at the burly Mr Waters kneeling to build up the parlour fire while Julia looked on smilingly. “Um—yes. I’ll see if Cookie’s getting the tea,” she said faintly, tottering out.

    Jack rushed after her and took her hand tightly. “Papa said that the men in the boat were all very brave.”

    “The—the men in the lifeboat? Yes, indeed,” replied Lash, her voice shaking a little. She found she was squeezing the little girl’s hand hard, and hurriedly stopped.

    “Wait!” hissed Jack she made to open the kitchen door. “Don’t tell, will you, but it was Papa!”

    “What?” said Lash feebly.

    “The person who gave Mr Rattle the hares for you!” she hissed. “He said the chance was there, and so he took it. And it was only a little thing, but one shouldn’t neglect to do the little things.”

    Lash opened her mouth to say the child was making up stories—or at least embroidering, saying what she hoped would please. Then the vision of his Lordship solemnly going over to the door and pretending to check for the ghastly Miss Gump swam back into her mind—and again, as he related the story of the lilies. Not to say, the grin as he successfully reduced her, Lash, to giggles. And the smile in his wife’s eyes as she watched him doing so. Yes: she couldn’t see an unknown viscount bothering, but she could very clearly see that man doing it. She swallowed hard. “Yes,” she said hoarsely. “I see. It was very kind indeed.”

    “Good,” said Jack, squeezing her hand hard. “You won’t tell, will you?”

    Whom would she tell? The aunties would in all probability report it to Ma Mountjoy to spite the cow, Julia would in all likelihood dismiss it as she had the cheese thing, Trottie True was too absorbed in her baby and her husband to take much notice, Niners would probably say it was thoughtful and then tell dratted Miss Aitch, Captain Cutlass would say why should not a viscount give away his own game off his own land or some such, and Mouse was in too bad a mood to listen to a syllable. And she had no intention of saying anything to Little Joe that would bring back the period of his father’s death to him. “No,” agreed Lash feebly, opening the kitchen door.

    “Well?” said Aunty Bouncer ere her foot was scarce across the threshold.

    “What?” replied Lash vaguely.

    “Lash! Who’s she got in the parlour?”

    “Mr Waters, of course,” said Jack. “Did Mrs Lumley come? Did she try the sujee balls?’

    “Y— Just be silent, child! Who in Gawd’s name’s Mr Waters, Lash?”

    “’Ang on! Fine-as-Fivepence Rossiter’s connection?” croaked Aunty Jicksy.

    “Mm. They bumped into him, one collects.”

    “No, we didn’t: he said he had come over express to see how Mrs Formby was getting on and it was a happy chance that he’d come across us rather than calling at the house and missing us!” reported Jack blithely. “–Mrs Dove, did Mrs Lumley come?”

    “Eh?” said Cookie numbly.

    Jack jumped with impatience. “The sujee balls! Mrs Lumley!”

    “Oh—aye: she come and we all ’ad some, deary,” she said numbly, staring at Lash.

    “Funny tasting, ain’t they?” added Aunty Jicksy in a vague voice, also staring at Lash.

    “How is she?” said Aunty Bouncer weakly, also staring at Lash.

    “Go into the parlour and find out for yourself. My word would be blooming, but I dare say—” The aunties were already rushing, as much as their advanced ages and the shawl round Jicksy’s legs would permit it, towards the parlour.—“I dare say you will find a much better word. Nay, an hundred of them,” said Lash with a sigh, sitting heavily at the table.

    “I think she needs a cup of tea,” said Jack wisely to Mrs Dove.

    “I’d say she needs a cup of tea with a mite o’ something stronger in it,” returned Cookie, getting the bottle down.

    “Ooh! What is that?”

    “Never you mind.”

    Jack sniffed hard as the bottle was opened and a generous measure poured into a cup. “Rum. Mr Poulter has that.”

    “I dessay, but you needn’t mention to no-one as Mrs Lash is ’aving it: geddit?” She added tea, waited while Lash sipped and sighed, and then said: “Can’t say as I recall ’im, deary, but I dessay we’ll ’ear all about it in good time.”

    “Um, I don’t think you ever saw him, Cookie. Julia thought he seemed struck by Captain Cutlass, but I thought if anyone it was Niners whom he admired.”

    Mrs Dove gave a sniff of the thoughtful variety, and attacked the loaf with a knife. “Hm. Well, Julia’s got them same dark looks and heavyish build what Niners ’as, but, the Latin and Greek stuff apart, ’er nature’s more like Captain Cutlass’s, don’t you think? Niners ain’t got no sense of ’umour, bless ’er. –Pass us that dish o’ butter, Jack, deary, you and me can ’ave a bite in ’ere. It’ll be plum jam, mind, not fancy strawberry like what yer get up to the castle.”

    “I love plum jam, Cookie!’

    Cookie sniffed again but seemed to accept this.

    Lash looked at her limply. “Cookie, do you really think—”

    “Time’ll tell, won’t it? Some might say it’s too soon, but—well. There’s some women as can get through life without a feller at their side and there’s some as can’t. –Oy! ’Alf that, Miss, the rest can go on this other slice! –You want to take the tray in, Mrs Lash, deary? Acos I can do it, but it’ll look funny if yer don’t go back.”

    “Mm; I’ll do it, Cookie.” Lash got up and took the tray but said: “Shouldn’t Polly be back by now?”

    Cookie sighed. “No more use than what she is h’ornament. I told ’er liver, so she’ll of made it an excuse to go down The Walk to make eyes at Mr Jenks’s lad. And I’ve ’ad a word, Mrs Lash, but if they’re a-gonna go that way, no power on earth’ll stop ’em—well, look at ’er Ma! Three brats afore she were sixteen!”

    “Little pitchers, Cookie!” said Lash with a smothered laugh, going out with the tray.

    Cookie looked at the big eyes of Miss Jack. “Oh—drat.”

    Polly was off on an errand, so it was Lash who opened the door on a windy day with the smell of the sea in the air to a tall, dark, handsome visitor. She looked weakly from the Creation boots to the tumble of little glossy black ringlets over his forehead. The man was a positive Adonis: Captain Cutlass must be mad not to offer him any encouragement!

    “Good morning, Mr Ainsley. How nice to see you again,” she said feebly. “Please come in.” In the parlour she croaked:  “Please sit down, Mr Ainsley, I’ll just fetch my sister-in-law.” And escaped.

    Julia was discovered in the back yard, indulging in the ladylike occupation of hanging out the wash. “Who?” she said blankly, shoving her hair back behind her ear with a damp hand.

    “Mr Luís Ainsley. The false Mr Smith’s son—he did call before with the silly old codger, to apologise for his ridiculous masquerade.”

    “Oh, yes, of course. Calling on us?” she said blankly.

    “Mm. I think we’d better go and see what he wants.”

    In the parlour Mr Ainsley had been joined by Mrs Peters and Mrs Huggins. Both looking insufferably smug. The parlour fire was now burning merrily and as it had not been lit when she left him there—

    “Mr Ainsley lit the fire for us,” chirped Aunty Jicksy before anyone else could utter.

    “How do you do, Mrs Formby?” he said with his charming smile. “I do trust this call is not untimely?”

    It was, of course. “No, not at all,” said Julia feebly. “How do you do, Mr Ainsley? Please, sit down again.”

    “Allow me.” Julia and Lash were ushered tenderly to seats. This was what it must feel like being a lady of the Spanish Court, registered Lash dazedly. From the look on Julia’s face she was thinking very much the same thing.

    Luís drew a deep breath. “Mrs Formby, as perhaps you have heard, my father and I are settling over at Sunny Bay. I have taken over the lease of Sunny Bay House and will be assisting Mr Matthews with Longacre Farm and learning its ways with a view to taking over that lease also when he takes his retirement in a few years’ time.”

    At this, Lash was not altogether sorry to see, the old ladies gaped at him.

    Bouncer was, not entirely to her relatives’ surprise, the first to recover herself. “Longacre’s a working farm, not fit for a gent,” she stated flatly.

    “I don’t wish to live the life of a gent, Mrs Peters, and in fact without my family connections no-one in England would recognithe me for one. I—if you will permit me, I should like to explain further.”

    Bouncer rolled an eye blankly at Julia.

    “Er—yes,” she said feebly.

    Lash cleared her throat. “I think perhaps a pot of tea—”

    “It’s coming!” chirped Jicksy.

    Lash subsided, though not without a deep breath.

    “I—well, of course I told you of Harry’s history,” he said, swallowing, “and you were all so very kind as to say it made no difference to you.”

    “No. We’re simple folks, Mr Ainsley,” said Julia.

    Bouncer nodded. “No skin orf our noses!”

    “No, that’s right,” agreed Jicksy. “Sir Harry never done us no ’arm. And the little donkey was real popular.”

    “I’m very glad if you feel you can forgive him,” replied Luís nicely. “But—but I’m afraid Miss Calpurnia—”

    “Still wild with ’im,” agreed Bouncer.

    Luís made a face. “Yes. With both of us, I think.”

    So that was what this was about! Well, hadn’t she suspected, way back, that the two had somehow met and Captain Cutlass had fallen for him? “I expect she feels he didn’t trust her,” said Julia calmly. “She’s a very straightforward person herself.”

    “Mm,” said Bouncer thoughtfully. “Really wild with Lady Stamforth that time, you know. Some pretty cutting remarks was passed. –Good, here’s the tea!”

    Lash was getting up to help Cookie with the tray but Mr Ainsley pre-empted her. Into the bargain positively bowing Mrs Dove out as he closed the door after her, help!

    “I dare say she’ll come round,” said Julia, smiling at Mr Ainsley. “Really, you know, it's quite exciting that your father was a spy as a young man!”

    They were all, in fact, now looking at him excitedly: oh, dear! Luís ran a hand through his black curls. “I’m afraid you don’t quite understand. It’s my fault, I should have made it quite clear to you before, and I apologise for not having done so. Harry was a spy from before the turn of the century up until Waterloo: for twenty years, in fact. It was his preferred occupation. And although he has never admitted as much, he was not alwayth in the service of England.”

    There was a moment’s stunned silence and then Mrs Huggins squawked: “’Ere! You’re not telling us ’e spied for Boney, are yer?”

    Luís made an awful face. “We think so, Mrs Huggins. Back before l’Empereur’s ambitions became so overweening as to give him a disgust of him.”

    “Then ’e switched sides, eh?” concluded Bouncer with one of her sniffs. “We get yer.”

    Lash took a very deep breath. “May we ask why he hasn’t been clapped up?”

    “Certainly, Mrs Yates. He hath not been clapped up because he did render signal service to the Allies during, I think, the last ten years or more of his inglorious career, which Wellington acknowledged after Waterloo by shaking his hand and warning him not to expect to take up his position in English society. And also because my eldest sister had the great good fortune to marry a marquis, who blatantly pulled strings and got Prinny and Wellington to give the old scoundrel a medal. –I beg your pardon: the late King George IV,” he amended lamely.

    “Prinny’ll do,” said Bouncer drily, as no-one else seemed capable of utterance. “Right. Got it. I think you could pour that tea, Julia, love.”

    Julia came to. “Oh—yes.”

    “Pa and Madre lived quietly on her little property in Spain after Waterloo. But when she died Pa, uh— Well,” said Luís, making up his mind to it. “I shall make a clean breast of it. I do not wish to hold anything back from you and your family, Mrs Formby. My relatives are not aware of this. Pa started gambling, and lost an huge amount of money which I could not have paid without selling Madre’s estate. Inez’s family had expressed an interest in making a match between us, so I accepted their offer and was able to settle the debts and bring him back to England.” He looked wry. “Where I blindly assumed that as Little Lasset was not unlike the country house where he grew up, he would settle down.”

    “Aye, your mistake,” agreed Bouncer happily. “Well, that seems clear enough, don’t it, Julia? –So what about this country house where your Pa grew up?”

    “Mm? Oh—Ainsley Manor has been made over entirely, together with all its revenues, to my older brother, Paul.”

    Julia took a deep breath. “Mr Ainsley, since you’ve been so good as to tell us all this, I think we had best get it quite straight. Do the authorities in fact know that your father is in the country?”

    “Oh, good gracious, yes, Mrs Formby! I’m so sorry if I gave you the wrong impression! Polite society deems spying beyond the pale, even if it be for our side, so he would not have been received in fashionable circles, but in any case Wellington, who is the most fiercely upright of characters, would not have countenanced it. He consented to the medal, but that wath—er—political. But at this late stage there can be no objection to Harry’s living quietly down in the country.”

    “That’s good,” admitted Julia, not asking the poor man why he’d told the obscure Formbys of New Short Street all this—because it was fairly evident, wasn’t it?

    Luís smiled weakly at her. “Yes. Well, I shall not go away again, so I have some hope that he will behave himself. And I shall not lead a town life, for I have no wish to cut a dash amongst the fashionables who have already made it very clear that they tolerate me only because I am Lady Rockingham’s brother. And in any case I can’t leave Pa by himself for months at an end.”

    “Right!” said Jicksy on a brisk note. “Hand Mr Ainsley his cup, Lash, deary! And maybe a slice of that fruit-cake, dessay as Mr Waters don’t need fruit-cake every time ’e comes!”

    Quite some time later, Julia having agreed that of course he might call and admitted that it was Wednesdays and Fridays on which Captain Cutlass was at home, and the blamed aunties having then accompanied Mr Ainsley to the front door and waved him off, the which courtesy, please note, they had not accorded to Charles himself, let alone Mr Waters, Aunty Jicksy was able, sitting up like Jacky by the fire which she’d got the man to build up for her before he took his leave, to chirp: “Pretty feller, ain’t ’e? Decent down to the tips of ’is fingers, too! Only married the Spanish woman to pay orf ’is blamed Pa’s debts!”

    “Yes, it sounds as if he is a wholly admirable character—as well as the handsomest man I’ve ever laid eyes on!” said Julia with a smothered laugh, giving her sister-in-law a sideways look.

    “Just don’t,” she warned.

    “Lash, don’t be silly! Of course he told us it all on Captain Cutlass’s account!” said Calpurnia Catherine’s mother gaily. “He seems to recall every instant of their meeting on the quay!”

    “Julia, the girl abhors prevarication and deception of any kind! You know how put out she was over Lady Stamforth’s nutting nonsense!”

    “This ain’t the son’s blame, though,” said Bouncer calmly.

    Lash took a very deep breath. “You have already tried to persuade her of that and failed signally. I sincerely doubt there is any rational explanation he can offer her as to why he let his fool of a father get away with the Mr Smith stuff. And in the case you imagine you’ve thought of one, I don’t want to hear it!”

    With this she marched out of the front parlour before any of them could utter.

    After a moment Julia said slowly: “Oh, dear. She’s right: there is no rational explanation. And Captain Cutlass has always been too rational for her own good.”

    “But it ain’t a rational thing, Julia, love, it’s a matter of the heart,” said Bouncer firmly.

    “Aye, ’tis that! Get over to High Mallows and tell her the man loves his silly old father, that’s why he let him get away with it, shall we?” said Jicksy brightly.

    Julia swallowed. “I don’t think it will help. She may grasp it with her intellect, Aunty, but—but she has to feel it.”

    “Oh, Gawd,” said Bouncer unguardedly, as it sank in.

    “Mm. I think we’d better just let it—let it simmer,” said Julia weakly.

    Unfortunately Mr Ainsley did not let it simmer, and in fact called two days later—Wednesday. Julia of course was with Miss Pickles, and little Jack had gone with her. Lash was doing some errands for Cookie, accompanied by Polly, and Captain Cutlass was in the back parlour with Clara. Mrs Peters deputed herself to answer the door—though as she herself was later to concede sourly the result would have been the same if a full-blown butler in his buttons had opened it.

    She showed Mr Ainsley into the front parlour, opened the adjoining door to the back parlour and said cheerfully: “Captain Cutlass, here’s Mr Ainsley called to see you.”

    To which Captain Cutlass replied grimly: “Aunty Bouncer, I have already told Mr Ainsley that I cannot approve of either his conduct or his father’s, and there is nothing more to be said. Please ask him to leave.”

    “For Pete’s sake, Captain Cutlass, the pa’s just a silly old feller what was lonely!” cried Great-Aunty Bouncer.

    “On the contrary, he is a highly intelligent, educated product of the upper classes who is not in the habit of considering either the comfort or the happiness of the lower orders.”

    Luís had been looking very pale and hang-dog, but at this he turned scarlet and said: “That ith not true. Harry may be thoughtless, but he is entirely warm-hearted. However, I shall not argue with you, Miss Calpurnia. Good-day.” With that he turned on his heel and walked out.

    “You’re an idiot, Captain Cutlass!” said the old lady crossly. “Lovely young gent, he’s apologised like what you wanted, what more can you ask for? You’re your own worst enemy, and always was! And in front of young Clara, too!”

    Poor Clara was already very red but at this she turned even redder and gulped: “Perhaps I should go.”

    “Rubbish. Read me that paragraph of Cicero.”

    Clara began to read, very faintly, and Captain Cutlass came to look over her shoulder, ignoring her great-aunt completely, so Mrs Peters retreated with the parting shot: “Pride goes before a fall, and you’re riding for one, lass!”

    By the time Lash and Polly got home it had started to rain and by the time Mrs Peters had reached the end of her report it was teeming down. The which most certainly accorded with the general mood at Number 10.

    March was blowing in like a lion, Mr Rattle, in view of the seas, had refused to take Lash over to Sunny Bay, and Cookie, having pig-headedly gone off on her brother’s cart in a rainstorm after yet another ill-founded rumour of cheap sugar, came down with such a raging fever that Lash panicked and called Dr Kent.

    “As I say, it’s only a feverish cold, but be sure and keep her in her bed for the rest of the week, Mrs Yates,” said the doctor, pulling on his gloves in the front hall.

    “Hog-tie her, you mean,” returned Lash heavily.

    “Mm: martyrdom seems endemic to the sex, ma’am,” he replied drily. “I’ll mix her up a draught. You may send Polly for it: if the exercise ain’t beneficial on the one side, at least the relief from the pessimistic prognostications may be on t’other.”

    “Yes!” said Lash with a startled laugh. “Thank you! I think that’s possibly endemic, too!”

    “Mm.” He hesitated, and then said: “And how are the rest of the family, Mrs Yates?”

    “Well, I think you know better than I that Trottie True has only the slightest of colds and that Baby Peter and his papa are both in blooming health!”

    “Mm, well, never mind: the over-anxious fears of the wealthier classes serve to subsidize the visits to such as old Mrs Bodger,” replied the doctor.

    “Indeed!” agreed Lash, smiling at him and reflecting that Julia was right in saying that she should be able to take an interest: a suitable man, of a suitable age, what would seem a suitable temper and certainly sufficient intelligence—so why she could not, must remain one of the unsolved mysteries endemic to perverse humanity. “The rest are all very well, and if your visits take you out in the direction of Wardle Heights Farmhouse, John-John, Mary and Baby Joey would be very glad to see you.”

    “Thank you. I saw them and Captain Cutlass quite recently, when I looked in on Mrs Piper-Fiennes, but how are the other girls?” asked the doctor, swallowing.

    Oh, dear! Lash had very much hoped that he’d got over that partiality for Mouse. Because, pleasant-looking fellow though he was, one had to admit he was not half as pretty and quite twice the age of the two gentlemen who had so far struck her fancy.

    “Niners is become rather quiet, but she is physically well, and keeping on with Miss Henderson. And Mouse is physically well but rather down, I’m afraid. Um, it isn’t only her father’s death, but, um, also a personal disappointment,” she ended awkwardly.

    Dr Kent’s pleasant mouth tightened. “The pretty young gent from the castle—aye, I heard he’d taken off for pastures new.”

    “Yes. It’s just as well: I don’t think his family would ever have permitted a match,” said Lash as firmly as she could. “Oh—we saw your connection, Mr Waters, quite lately, Doctor. In fact my sister-in-law thought we might ask him to dinner soon, and of course we’d be delighted if you’d care to come, also.”

    “That’s very kind,” he said, frowning, “but I’m rather busy—the season of sniffles and sneezes, you know. Pray convey my thanks to Mrs Formby and tell her I’m very glad to hear she’s up to entertaining again. Send Polly to the surgery for that draught this afternoon. Good-day.” And with that he was gone.

    Lash sagged against the passage wall. “Oh, glory,” she muttered. “Poor damned fellow.”

Next chapter:

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