Young People Left To Themselves

22

Young People Left To Themselves

    After the strange topic of Gentleman Jackson had been broached, Little Joe wasn’t wholly surprised to have a handsome young man come into the shop on the very day when Mouse had volunteered to help out. Though he wasn’t altogether pleased that his sister was interested in another young gent from the castle: hadn’t the experience of Lady Stamforth’s damned brother taught the girl a lesson? Well, possibly there was one gent in the whole of England besides Charles Quarmby-Vine who would reveal himself to be more of a—hah, hah—man than a mouse, but Little Joe Formby sincerely doubted it. Nevertheless he showed the fellow round amiably enough.

    “Do you think there might be something he could do here, Little Joe?” asked Mouse eagerly when the fellow had gone.

    “No,” replied Little Joe simply.

    She reddened. “I don’t mean the more intricate parts of the trade, of course!”

    “Inking the presses?” he suggested drily.

    “He could wear old clothes.”

    “If he’s got any.” Mr Bobby Cantrell-Sprague had been in country wear, true. Nevertheless that coat had not come from the hands of Mr Pretty, in the town.

    “He has!” she snapped. “You don’t think he comes down to Sunny Bay in his good clothes, do you?”

    “Sunny— Look, Mouse, it’s not that we don’t trust you. But I think you’d better tell me all about this fellow.”

    Frowning, Mouse gave him a brief report.

    “Lady Stamforth kidnapped him out of his mother’s house?” he croaked.

    “Not kidnapped!” she snapped. “He was in a very weakened state! And the horrid nurse was dozed off, full of gin: she would have let him die!”

    “Didn’t sound to me as if he was in extremis at that stage,” he said shrewdly. “But I take your point: the mother wasn’t looking after him. So, if the father’s cut him off without a shilling, what’s he intend doing with himself? Living off her Ladyship like a parasite, perchance?”

    “No,” said Mouse grimly.

    He eyed her drily but not unkindly. “Not much opportunity in life open to a gentleman, really. Often thought I was lucky to be born me.”

    “Yes, very lucky,” she said seriously, nodding. “Of course he must find something to do.”

    “Mm. Been up at the university, has he? –Right. He could take Orders, become a parson, I suppose.”

    “Yes, though I don’t know that it would appeal. Um, I don’t know if you remember, but when Mr Bungo Ainsley was staying at the castle there was a plan that he might assist Lady Stamforth to write her memoirs of her India days. I wondered if Mr Bobby could do that?”

    “Suggested it to him, have you?”

    “Not yet,” she said, going very pink.

    “Uh-huh. Well, dare say he could, seems bright enough.” She nodded eagerly, and Little Joe swallowed a sigh. “That ain’t a life, though, Mouse. What’s he going to do after that?”

    “I don’t know,” she said in a small voice.”

    No, nor no-one else, neither. “Er—look, if he’s well enough to work, and he really wants an occupation, I dare say he could help out here. Well, it’ll show him what hard work is, eh? Do him good. There’s the gluing for that book order: dare say he’d be neat-fingered enough for that. And better him serving behind the counter than you; Ma doesn’t seem to want you to, y’know, Mouse.”

    “She’s convinced I’m going to be pestered by another Stottle,” said Mouse heavily. “I have tried to say it’s silly but— Oh, well.”

    “Mm. Best let her have her notions,” he said in a low voice.

    Mouse bit her lip. “Mm.”

    Little Joe scratched his curls. “Speak to Mr Bobby if you want to. But don’t be surprised if he turns you down. And—um—try not to expect too much of him, Mouse. I don’t say I didn’t like him, and he’s bright enough for you, but he’s another dashed gent.”

    “He is not merely that,” said Mouse defiantly.

    Wasn’t he? Well, wait and see.

    But to Little Joe’s astonishment Mr Cantrell-Sprague accepted with apparent rapture the suggestion he help out in an humble capacity at the shop. Offering off his own bat to look after Old Horse and Mr Smith’s little donkey as well: a chore which both Tom Kettle and Ronny Banks loathed. He worked only short hours, explaining that Lady Stamforth had forbidden him to do more, for the nonce; but it was a start, of sorts. Everybody seemed to like him—well, it had been apparent from the first that he was quite a charming young fellow. You could discount Mrs Biddle: the looks alone would have done it with her, but even Mr Biddle himself allowed that he wasn’t a bad young fellow and ready enough to pull his weight.

    Exactly how much of the time he did not spend in the shop Bobby was spending with Little Joe’s youngest sister young Mr Formby did not enquire. Nor did he mention the thing at home: in his opinion poor Mouse had had more than enough to put up with over the abortive Bingley-Baldaya nonsense and she didn’t need another dose. And, frankly, he didn’t fancy the great-aunties’ harangues himself.

    At the end of May Little Joe was rewarded for his forbearance by having his new assistant arrive for work in the company of Miss Baldaya.

    “Miss Baldaya would like to watch what you do here, Little Joe,” explained Bobby with his charming smile.

    “Er—yes.” Little Joe cleared his throat. “I have to ask this, Miss Baldaya. Does your sister know you are here?”

    “Well, scarcely, sir, for she ees returned to town, you know. Lewis ees still tied up een horrid committees, and she ees persuaded that a houseful of servants weell not feed heem properly!” she said gaily. “But Miss Gump has given her permission, and een fact said that Waddington-on-Sea ees so peaceful a leetle place that I need not even bring Rani Ayah!”

    “Which did not go down at all well,” put in Bobby with a glint in his eye.

    Rita smothered a giggle, nodding her fetching bonnet hard. “They are at loggerheads again!”

    “Still,” corrected Bobby drily.

    “Steell!” she squeaked, collapsing in giggles.

    “Aye,” said Little Joe, smiling in spite of himself. “Well, it won’t do you any harm to look round the bindery, I dare say. But the printing room’s very dirty: you’d best watch that pretty dress of yours.”

    “Thees ees just an old gown, for Mr Bobby warned me about the ink!” she said gaily.

    Little Joe gave in, and led her through. She appeared so very interested and asked so many questions that the time flew by without his noticing it.

    … “Eh?” he said numbly.

    “Mother would like to know if the young lady would like to stay for dinner,” repeated Mr Biddle.

    “It’s not dinnertime already?” he said feebly.

    “Nigh to. Mother’s just a-putting the spuds on now.”

    “Potatoes, Miss Baldaya,” said Little Joe on a weak note.

    “Of course! I know spuds, Poulter says eet, too.”

    “There’s black sausage today, Missy!” Mr Biddle offered as an inducement.

    Little Joe had to suppress an impulse to shut his eyes.

    “Ooh! I have only that once,” revealed Miss Baldaya on a longing note. “Poulter took me to the inn weeth my nephew Johnny, and we had eet that day! Eet was deleecious! Um, that was before I was out,” she added lamely.

    “I’ll be bound,” said Little Joe on a grim note. “Ladylike it ain’t.”

    “There’s loads,” offered Mr Biddle. “Mother’s done a lovely apple pie, too, with a nice slab o’ cheese.”

    “Yum! Cheese!” put in Bobby, smiling. “And Mrs Biddle’s apple pie is better than anything M. Lavoisier can make, I promise you!”

    “Aye, she’s a dab ’and with pastry, is Mother,” allowed Mr Biddle.

    Little Joe gave in. “If you think your sister would allow it, Miss Baldaya—“

    “Oh, yes! Thank you so much, Mr Biddle! And pray thank Mrs Biddle for me!”

    It seemed to be settled, then. “Oy, Bobby,” said Little Joe on a weak note. “What are you standing around for? Get on with that gluing!”

    Grinning, Mr Bobby took himself off to his glue pot. The webbings for the spines only, at this stage. Possibly later Mr Biddle might trust him to do the lining papers: if he made a good fist of this.

    The upshot of this encounter was that two days later Miss Baldaya turned up again. “You seemed so vairy busy een the shop, that I thought I might help out, and then Mr Bobby weell be able to get on weeth hees gluing faster.”

    “Uh—look, we’re at sixes and sevens, Miss Baldaya,” said Little Joe. “Poor Mrs Biddle’s laid low with a broken leg, and will be for some time.”

    “Oh, no! Poor Mrs Biddle!” she cried. “But perhaps I can help! I can cook several dishes!”

    “The lads don’t eat fancy blancmangers, nor yet heathen pies,” said Little Joe drily.

    “Seelly! I was not proposing to offer them blancmangers, fancy or otherwise, though I assure you, I can make a plain one! And I can make sam—I beg your pardon—heathen pies, for no-one else weeshed to learn eet off poor Rani! But I shall not weesh them on you.”

    Little Joe ran his hand through his curls.

    “I shall just pop up and see her, eef I may?” said Rita quickly.

    “Well, yes, by all means, but—”

    Miss Baldaya had popped.

    And the upshot of that was, when Lash called around midday to see how Mrs Biddle was going on, the “Please Ring” notice was found on the counter and the entire complement of workers was found upstairs in the Biddles’ one fair-sized main room, stuffing themselves on potatoes and fried eggs, what time Miss Baldaya bustled back and forth between the kitchen and the table and Mrs Biddle called out instructions from her room, the intervening doors being thrown hospitably open.

    The workers were very glad of Cookie’s treacle tart, though assuring Lash they were not starving.

    “Tomorrow,” said Rita with a beaming smile, “I shall bring some heathen pies, for Mrs Biddle would love to try them!”

    “Y— Uh, Miss Baldaya, does your family know where you are?” croaked Lash.

    “I thought eet was to be ‘Rita’, dear Mrs Yates? Nan would be so cross an she returned to find we were being formal again!”

    “Er—yes, Rita, of course. Don’t tell me she’s in town again?”

    “Yes, of course, for Lewis ees steell buried een seelly committees!”

    Lash took a deep breath, as it dawned the creature had side-tracked her. “I see. Who is in charge of you girls, then?”

    “Well, officially, Miss Gump,” said Rita, opening the big black eyes very wide.

    What? The woman’s middle name was Broken Reed! Possibly her Ladyship had assumed there was nothing the girls could get up to in these peaceful parts. “I see. Well, cooking for these great stomachs is harmless enough, I suppose, and at least Mrs Biddle will see you won’t burn the house down.”—“I will that, deary!” she called with a chuckle.—“Exact. So it’s a case of while the cat’s away the mice are positively gambolling, is it not? But I warn you, when her Ladyship comes back—”

    “Yes, Mrs Yates?” said Rita in a small voice.

    “I shall know nothing whatsoever about it!” said Lash, the big luminous eyes twinkling very much. “Now, Mrs Biddle needs her rest, so when this lot have finished feeding, my dear, just be sure they get back to their work and then close the doors while you do the washing up. Oh—and if you intend to go on with this, I would suggest you bring your ayah with you.” Forthwith she bustled into the bedroom, made sure the old woman was comfortable, which she was, made sure she didn’t need anything, which she didn’t, for “little Rita” had been so good, and, ascertaining that Dr Kent had seen her yesterday and was to look in again today, left them to it.

    “Who was that lovely lady?” asked Bobby with a twinkle in his eye.

    Little Joe ceased stuffing himself on treacle tart. “Uh—sorry, Bobby. My Aunty Lash—Mrs Yates. Forgot you hadn’t met before.”

    Forthwith Bobby broke down in the fit of giggles which had been threatening, alas, for some time.

    “Thought you was just a young apprentice,” said Little Joe feebly.

    “Yes! Please don’t explain!” he gasped helplessly. “Salutary!”

    Those who had wondered if Miss Baldaya had sufficient determination to go on with the thing, especially after having tackled all the greasy dishes by herself, were confounded. She turned up next day bright and early with a beaming, salaaming Rani Ayah in tow, and a great basketful of provisions. Of which the heathen pies were voted almost unanimously the tastiest, only young Ronny Banks dissenting, in favour of the little round potato cakes.

    Not really to anybody’s surprise, Mouse also turned up, with another basket of provisions, and an entirely pleasant day was spent by all.

    “I suppose it’s harmless enough,” said Lash with a sigh to the old people and Cookie, some three days later. Upon her calling again, with more of Cookie’s baking, the whole clutch of young people had been discovered ensconced there, including Miss Benedict as well as Miss Baldaya. “The ayah might be considered a chaperone, I suppose, if one was unaware that she only comes out of the kitchen in order to offer relays of food.”

    “Heathen stuff?” asked Aunty Bouncer eagerly.

    “Unbelievably heathen, Aunty! Oh—here,” she remembered, removing something from her basket.

    “A casserole?” said Aunty Jicksy dubiously.

    “Hah, hah.” Lash raised the lid. The audience recoiled.

    “Jolly bees,” she explained. “Or some such name! So far as my poor understanding goes they are merely curls of fried flour paste, soaked in an incredibly sweet syr—” Nunky Ben was getting the pudding bowls down off the dresser already.

    “I would recommend small helpings,” she warned feebly.

    … “Aah!” announced the old man at last.

    “They got a spice in them as well,” said Aunty Jicksy on a weak note.

    “They got a whole sugar mountain in ’em, Aunty Jicksy,” said Lash drily.

    Aunty Bouncer patted her chest. “Phew! Yes. Good, though!”

    “Sound pretty easy to make,” said Cookie tolerantly. She gave a loud belch. “Drat! Pardon me!” she said crossly over Lash’s sniggers.

    “Yes, well, don’t attempt them, Cookie, dear: the household budget could not support that much sugar, to say nothing of the household digestions.”

    “Once can’t hurt,” said Aunty Bouncer on a weak note.

    “Let us hope.” Lash picked up the casserole dish. “The rest can be for Julia, Niners and Captain Cutlass. And Ned, if the little horror hasn’t done anything dreadful today.”

    “What about Mouse?” said Aunty Bouncer. “Don’t she deserve some?”

    “Oh, she was there, boots and all,” said Lash drily.

    “’Er Ma’s told her not to go to the shop!” she cried.

    “Mm. Well, I suppose she’s helping to chaperone the girls: we can offer that as a sop to Cerberus, if her Ladyship objects .But I don’t claim that’s why she’s there.”

    “Well, why?” she demanded crossly.

    “For the food?” suggested Mr Huggins.

    “All stomach!” chorused Cookie and the old ladies with satisfaction.

    “Not that,” said Lash, trying not to laugh. “And you three should talk! No, the attraction seems to be this new lad Little Joe’s taken on. A very pretty boy.”

    Aunty Bouncer sniffed but noted: “It won’t last, unless ’is brains match ’is looks, but it’s better than another dratted Bingley from the castle!”

    “And so say all of us!” agreed Lash fervently.

    After a moment Nunky Ben did note that Little Joe hadn't mentioned to him taking on no apprentice, but without very much interest, and the topic was lost in the general decision that a cup of tea would wash that that lot down nicely, Or, as Bouncer admitted with a hand on her stomach, it better do.

    They had another whole week in which to be happy in their ignorance, and then Lash called in at the shop again at the same time as Dr Kent had popped in to see Mrs Biddle. The doctor came downstairs and greeted Mrs Yates politely, though with something of a grim air about him, which did not abate when she escorted him out into the shop and they discovered Mouse and the good-looking new apprentice giggling behind the counter.

    “Good-day, Mr Cantrell-Sprague,” he said evenly. “You seem very much better, but mayhap you would care for me to look you over, since I am here? I feel Lady Stamforth would wish for it. And I dare say I could send my bill to the castle.”

    Lash’s jaw had sagged already, so it could not sag very much further when the “apprentice” replied in the unmistakable tones of a gentleman: “You are too good, Doctor. However, I am quite recovered—and, indeed, if it be an urgent matter, very ready to defray the cost of your visit to the good Mrs Biddle.”

    Dr Kent went very red indeed, clapped his hat on his chestnut curls, and strode out.

    “That serves him right!” said Mouse angrily, very flushed.

    “I suppose I may be said to have asked for it, Miss Marianne,” drawled the young man.

    “Rubbish,” she said tightly. “I would have expected it from one of the stupid London gossips, but he is said to be a sensible man!”

    Lash cleared her throat desperately. “Apparently he felt provoked beyond sense; perhaps one of you would care to enlighten me as to why? And possibly to enlighten me as to the true identity of one whom, I am sorry to say, I’ve allowed the lot of you to cozen me into believing is but a new apprentice-cum-stable lad.”

    Mouse was now both scarlet and speechless, so it was evident she wasn’t innocent in the matter. The young man was also rather flushed but he gave a very proper bow, which assorted entirely ill with the filthy apron, ancient nankeens, and rolled-up shirtsleeves, and said: “I do beg your pardon, Mrs Yates. It is entirely my fault for not correcting Little Joe’s oversight—and, I fear, allowing my sense of humour to run away with me. Bobby Cantrell-Sprague, at your service.”

    “How do you do, Mr Cantrell-Sprague,” said Lash grimly. “I collect you are the young gentleman who is staying at the castle and whom Mouse met at Sunny Bay?”

    “Yes. Little Joe’s failure to introduce me the first time you called was a genuine oversight.”

    “Two weeks back, by my reckoning,” said Lash coldly.

    “Aunty Lash, he was in want of employment and he was interested in the binding and printing processes, is that a crime?” cried Mouse angrily.

    “I should say his family would probably consider it so.”

    “They have cast him off!” she cried.

    Bobby cleared his throat. “Without the proverbial shilling—mm. Well, had a letter from my father t’other day: he’s forgiven me, though Mamma hasn’t. It was nothing criminal, Mrs Yates: merely, I could not stomach the prospect of marrying a young woman for whom the family had destined me but for whom I could not care.”

    “And Little Joe needed the help!” said Mouse defiantly.

    “I are say he did, but there are lads in the town who could do with the work. I can see the thing was harmless in itself, but it had best not go on, Mr Cantrell-Sprague. And nor, I am afraid, had the visits of Miss Baldaya and Miss Benedict. I suppose I should really have put a stop to that immediately. Oh, well—mea culpa,” said Lash with a sigh.

    Mr Cantrell-Sprague was now very flushed, but he bowed politely, did not protest, and said that he took her point, and he would escort the young ladies home immediately.

    “Rita has merely been helping Mrs Biddle!” cried Mouse as he hurried out to the back.

    “Ssh, don’t shout. You are perfectly capable of helping Mrs Biddle—and I dare say considerably more capable than Miss Baldaya in a kitchen. And if you need assistance Captain Cutlass is available.”

    “She is spending all her time with Mr Smith and the donkey,” said Mouse, glaring.

    Lash sighed. Correct. Or with Smith and Rattle. Niners was of course spending all her time with Miss Henderson, and with Mouse out all day as well— Not that Julia appeared to feel the need of her daughters’ company, alas. Or, indeed, of any company. Or of anything at all. But it was early days: not yet four months since Joe’s death.

    “Mm. Well, in the intervals of helping out here, possibly you could bend your mind to finding a more suitable occupation for Mr Cantrell-Sprague. One, I should suggest, that will not require his smothering himself in ink or glue.”

    Mouse glared. “That is not amusing! The poor man has to do something!”

    “This, however, isn’t a suitable something, as you are very well aware,” said Lash with a sigh. “I’m not unsympathetic, Mouse, dear, but it won’t do.”

    “But— Well, what if he went into partnership with Little Joe?” she said in a very low voice.

    “Uh—Mouse,” said Lash as kindly as she could: “it’s still not a proper sort of occupation for a gentleman. This is but a jobbing printer’s, you know.”

    “I thought if—if perhaps they went into publishing?”

    Lash looked at her limply. “I rather think that would require quite a lot of capital. It’s a risky business: what if nobody buys the stuff one publishes?”

    “I could contribute; there is my thousand pounds in the Funds,” she said defiantly.

    “When you are twenty-one: mm. Well, publishing is still trade, but if the family really has cut him off… Mouse,” she said with a cautious eye on the door to the back: “I have to say this. A woman pushing a man never works out. Look at Mr and Mrs Cox—or the Mountjoys, come to that. The thing might work, if he wants it as much as you do. In that case I think he would need to learn the trade thoroughly. Then by the time you were of age, if all parties were agreeable, that would be time enough to think of expanding into publishing.”

    Alas, this sane and sensible speech had not the desired effect: Mouse’s eyes were shining and she breathed fervently: “Yes!”

    “Just bear in mind,” said Lash with a sigh as Rita and Mina came into the shop looking sulky, followed by the ayah with her draperies over her face: “no pushing. –There you are, girls. I’m sorry, I know it’s been harmless fun, but it’s time it stopped. Mouse can look after Mrs Biddle and feed those great male stomachs out there.”

    “Mrs Yates, I’m sure Mamma would not mind,” said Miss Benedict, very red.

    “I don’t think she would, Mina, no, but then, she is not very old, nor, I fear, extremely wise, either, is she?”

    “No,” she admitted glumly.

    “Mm. Well, I think your occasionally calling—no more than once a week,” she warned, as they brightened, “would be acceptable.”

    “That’s what I thought,” admitted Mr Cantrell-Sprague, emerging from the back regions in what were presumably his own clothes. Lash eyed him drily but refrained from comment, other than ensuring they had transport to get them home to the castle.

    “I shall not give up,” warned Mouse, once they had gone on their way.

    “Mouse,” said Lash heavily, “did it not sink in? The point is not that you should not give up, but that he should not: of his own volition.”

    “Thought you’d ordered him to give it up?” said Little Joe on a glum note, appearing at long last in the doorway.

    “I won’t ask what you thought you were at, because I have a fair idea,” said his aunt grimly. “Mouse seems to think that you and Mr Cantrell-Sprague might go into partnership as publishers.”

    “Yes!” Eagerly Mouse burst out with it all.

    Little Joe scratched his head. “Risky business. Though I’ve nothing against it apart from that. Um, but look, Mouse, Bobby was interested in seeing what we do, but I’d say he enjoyed mucking around in the stable with Old Horse and the donkey more. Never seen the old nag’s coat look so shiny!”

    “You only had him gluing!” she cried indignantly.

    “No, I showed him how to strip down a press. No mechanical aptitude.”

    “But he is but a beginner!”

    “Maybe. Dashed pity a gent can’t be a groom; if you ask me, it’d suit him down to the ground. –Look, if he comes to me of his own accord and suggests a partnership, I wouldn’t be opposed to it. But I’m not going to suggest it to him just because you’ve taken it into that stubborn noddle of yours it’d be a good idea.”

    Mouse glared. “He will.” She marched through to the back regions, not looking at either of her relatives.

    Little Joe sagged on the counter. “Oh, glory!”

    “My sentiments exactly,” agreed his aunt, coming to sag beside him.

    “She will push him, y’know, Aunty Lash.”

    Lash sighed. “I have explained the danger of entering into a relationship like that of the Mountjoys or the Coxes.”

    “All one can do,” he acknowledged ruefully. “Can but hope Bobby’ll have the strength of character to stand up to her.” His aunt was looking at him hopefully. “Well, don’t look at me,” he said, scratching the curls. “Don’t know him well enough to say if he’s got any strength of character or not. S’pose you can’t condemn a fellow for letting Lady Stamforth kidnap him off his bed of sickness.”

    “Mm. And if his path in life was mapped out for him by his family, I suppose he does feel somewhat at a loss,” said Lash fairly. “Well, wait and see.”

    “Aye. There’s a bottle out the back. Fancy a nip?” said her nephew glumly.

    Refraining entirely from mentioning Rita Baldaya—well, good God, there was no point in doing so, poor Little Joe—Lash agreed that she would. So, noting: “Damn the shop,” Little Joe put the “Closed” sign on the door and they went out and had it.

    Lash thought the whole thing over for some time and eventually decided glumly that though she didn’t wish to bother Julia with any of it—and she would certainly spare her the details—she had best sound her out about her feelings on what her daughters should do this summer. Niners’s case seemed the least contentious, so she tackled that first.

    “I don’t know if you recall that Colonel Bredon whom we met towards the end of our stay at Blasted Oak House last year? Lady Lasset’s nephew.”

    “Yes, the thin man,” said Julia tiredly.

    Refraining from passing on the aunties’ version, Lash agreed: “Yes. He is back in the district, in fact he is now settled permanently at Little Lasset, and Belinda seems to think that if Niners goes to them—not that she intends any formal entertaining if she does—but if she goes to them, he, um, he may notice her. Well, um, don’t you remember? She and Nunky Ben met him when they were out driving, and he thought she seemed very struck.”

    “No. Oh—was he the man who hit somebody?”

    “Mm. A waggoner who was mistreating a horse.”

    “Niners doesn’t approve of fisticuffs. Well, Miss Aitch doesn’t, same difference,” said Julia dully.

    “Uh—we gather she approved in this instance. In any case he seems a sensible, intelligent man, and, um, well, interested in artistic pursuits, Julia.”

    Julia snorted.

    Lash bit her lip. “Cousin Belinda seems to think there is hope.”

    “Very well,” she said heavily, “if the girl wants to go, let her. She’s already so ladified I hardly know her for one of my own daughters.”

    “The alternative,” Lash reminded her grimly, “is to let her dwindle into a spinster with Miss Aitch.”

    “An artistic nephew of Lady Lasset’s would be better, would he?” said Julia with a dry inflexion which sounded very much like the old Julia.

    Lash brightened. “I didn’t think he was that bad! Well, that leaves Mouse and Captain Cutlass!”

    “More?” she said dully.

    Lash’s heart sank. She didn’t remind her that they were all her daughters or that the family had been under the impression that Mouse was her favourite daughter. “Well, uh, Charles proposes bringing the boat over from Cowes and wondered if Captain Cutlass would like to go with him—”

    “The man is taking us over,” she said grimly. “I knew he would. And, just by the by, why is he taking Trottie True on a dratted boat in her condition?”

    “No: he isn’t taking her to Cowes, Julia. He’s bringing the boat over here. The thing is, he doesn’t like to take Captain Cutlass without a chaperone—well, I know he’s old enough to be her father, but nevertheless. Um, I thought I might go, if—if you can spare me.”

    Julia’s full lower lip trembled.

    “It’s all right, I won’t, it’d take too long!” said Lash quickly. “In any case there is a different scheme for Captain Cutlass and Mouse. Victoria is to go to the Quarmby-Vine relatives in Derbyshire for a month and she’d like them to go with her.”

    Julia sighed. “Well—if you think you can force them to go.”

    “Captain Cutlass is quite keen: she would like to see the Derbyshire countryside.”

    Julia sighed. “It’s a long way.”

    “Cousin John will take them himself,” said Lash quickly.

    “Good,” she said dully.

    Lash swallowed. “Julia, I think you’ll have to tell Mouse you want her to go. The thing is, if she stays in the town I rather think Lady Stamforth will swoop upon her and carry her off to the castle—”

    “Lash, for Heaven’s sake,” said Julia with a groan. “Not that Bingley business again?”

    “No, the brother’s not living there any more. No, Mouse has been seeing quite a lot of Rita and Mina, and, um, they’ve got a young man staying with them: a very well-connected young fellow but, um, practically penniless.”

    “If you mean he’s living off Lord and Lady Stamforth, just say it,” said Julia with a sigh.

    “Well, for the moment, yes. It does seem to be quite the accepted thing in those circles.”

    “Those circles,” said Julia with a sour face. “Well, anything’d be better than seeing Mouse mixed up with a penniless gent who thinks it’s his God-given right to sponge off his friends and relatives. What is he, a Wickham?”

    Lash was about to say he wasn’t. Then Miss Austen’s plot came back to her. Oh, help. “I would say not, but there is that possibility,” she said carefully. “He’s a very good-looking young man with loads of charm.”

    Julia sighed. “Then she’d best go to Derbyshire. Can’t you tell her? I don’t seem to have the energy for that sort of thing.”

    “No. Um, could we tell her together, perhaps?”

    “Very well,” she agreed tiredly. “Now?”

    Lash was about to say it could wait. On second thoughts, she’d better strike while the iron was hot.

    Mouse’s little heart-shaped face fell ten feet at the prospect of Derbyshire but she agreed in a small voice that of course she’d go if Ma wanted her to.

    “Lash seems to think you’ve met a Wickham,” said Julia heavily.

    “No!” she cried angrily. “He is perfectly honest and straightforward!”

    “All right, a sponger,” said Julia with a sigh.

    “No! He—he is just temporarily without an occupation!”

    Julia put a hand to her head. “I can’t argue about it, Mouse, I’ve got a headache.”

    “You’d better lie down,” said Lash quickly.

    “Mm,” agreed Mouse. “I’m sorry, Ma; I—I didn’t mean to argue.”

    Sighing, Julia went out of the room without replying.

    Mouse looked at her aunt with tears in her eyes. “We could have had a pleasant, harmless summer working at the shop and—and getting to know each other.”

    “Mouse, dear, this will give you both a breathing space. And by the end of the summer it should be clear whether Mr Bobby is a sponger. And, um, Joe would never have wanted you to take up with a man who was.”

    A tear trickled down Mouse’s cheek but she held her chin up and said: “I know that, but he isn’t!” And went out, the lip wobbling but the rest of the face on the defiant side.

    Lash just sagged on the sofa. Her brain felt stunned. So much so that when Nunky Ben came in, said on an annoyed note: “Thought so!” and forced a glass of something into her hand she drank it right off.

    “Help!” she gasped, coughing.

    “Rum,” said the old man. “Do yer good. Get orf to yer bed.”

    “I’m all right.”

    “Yer don’t look it. Go on, the ’ouse won’t fall down round our ears without yer.”

    No, it only felt like it. There were a thousand things she ought to be getting on with, not least inspecting the girls’ summer wardrobes, if they were to be fit for Blasted Oak House or the fabled Sommerton Grange, but… Lash gave in and stumbled off to lie down.

Next chapter:

https://thefortunateformbys.blogspot.com/2023/10/sir-harry-takes-house.html