A Sowcot Assembly

27

A Sowcot Assembly

    Lady Hartwell having declared pettishly that there was nothing on earth that would drag her to a Sowcot Assembly, most especially not in this unpleasantly warm summer weather, and that Edward had best marry his perfect Miss Martin and dispense with the need for a chaperone entirely, his Lordship was reduced to threatening to invite Annabel to stay and allow her to redecorate Sare Park. Lukey flung a china ornament at his head, but agreed to go. But there was nothing on earth that would induce her to dance with anything they might find there, mind! Edward merely shrugged, grateful for the small mercy that she had not said it all in front of Miss Martin.

    “Where is she?” added Lukey with a scowl, à propos.

    “I believe she has gone into the village, to pay calls,” he said mildly.

    “On whom?” demanded his sister, looking down her little nose.

    “On several of the persons who were so very kind to her last year. And as they are my people,” he said, very mildly, “I should be grateful if you could refrain from using that tone, at least in their vicinity.”

    Lukey raised her eyebrows very high, and said in an arctic voice worthy of Winifred herself: “I trust you are not implying that Sare Park will ever become their ‘vicinity’, Edward?”

    “No,” he replied coolly. “And in the case you were wondering, I do mean to encourage her to become less close with her village friends, yes; but all in good time.”

    “You are the most impossible hypocrite that ever walked, Edward Luton!” shouted his sister.

    “I do not think so. And may I beg you to wear something suitable to the assembly?”

    “Very well, I shall dress down for it,” she said, pouting horribly.

    “That is precisely what I do not mean. They will expect to see you in something splendid, and will feel themselves horribly insulted should you appear in a simple muslin. As I think a moment’s reflection might have suggested to you, Lukey.”

    Lukey began to shout at him, but Edward merely repeated firmly, and not particularly loudly: “Something splendid, please.” And walked out.

    At Honeysuckle Cottage Mrs Pontifex put down her cup, sighed, and admitted, not for the first time: “Well, the ins and outs of it are beyond me. Me ’ead feels muddled whenever I try to think about it. But you could’ve knocked me down with a feather when I walked in and seen two of you sitting here large as life and twice as natural, deary.”

    “Yes,” said Cressida, smiling. “I am sorry Isabelle could not have told you it all earlier. But you see, we had taken a vow not to reveal a word of it to anyone else.”

    “Aye. –Cain’t get used to thinking of ’er as Isabelle, and that’s the truth,” she added, shaking her head. “No, well, you get used to calling professionals by whatever name they’ve took, but then, with it all going round in me ’ead, I might of been and gorn and said something without thinking, I don’t mind admitting it. –When you look at her,” she said to Mrs Jessop with a smothered sigh, “she do look plumper in the face than t’other Miss Cressida, don’t she?”

    “She does that, Mrs Pontifex,” agreed Mrs Jessop, unmoved, “and did from the start. The Dutch lady what she stayed with when her leg was broke, she kept a good table, you see. And then, ’is Lordship’s been feeding ’er up.” She eyed Miss Martin drily. “Fattening ’er for ’er fate,” she noted.

    Sadly, at this Cressida dissolved in giggles worthy of Isabelle herself, nodding helplessly.

    Mrs Hetty grinned, but put a hand to her smart black bonnet and warned: “Dutch me no Dutch ladies: we got more than one too many of them in this story, too.”

    “Er—oh,” said Cressida somewhat lamely, meeting Mrs Jessop’s eye. “You mean Mrs Anstey, dear ma’am? No, well, Dutch though she is, she never had anything to do with our particular story, Mrs Pontifex.”

    “I dare say,” she said on a wan note.

    Cressida again met Mrs Jessop’s warning eye, and did not persist. Instead she produced a bundle of correspondence from her reticule, supposing that Mrs Pontifex would like to hear all of Isabelle’s news. At which Mrs Pontifex brightened very much. And subsequently laughed very heartily indeed over the letters, in especial the one describing the arrival of his Lordship’s spy at Cousin Jean-Pierre’s farm.

    When she had taken her leave, however, Mrs Jessop shook her head slightly and noted: “I can understand your sister wanting ’er her to know the lot, Miss. But ask me, it’s a been a bit too much for ’er.”

    “Mm,” agreed Cressida, biting her lip.

    “Added to which,” said the angular one with a sigh, absentmindedly assisting Troilus onto her knee, “she does feel hurt that she weren’t let in on it from the start. But it wouldn’t of done. She means well, but—” She shrugged slightly.

    “Exactly,” agreed Cressida, considerably relieved that one of the staunchest of Isabelle’s supporters seemed to agree with her tactics.

    “Added to which again,” noted Mrs Jessop at her driest, “the sight of two sausage dogs under the one roof do seem to of overset ’er, some.”

    Cressida swallowed hard, nodding.

    Fred Hinks, though earlier partaking of tea and buns, had spent a period in the garden with Mr Bagshot while the ladies had merely been chatting. But he had reappeared after waving Mrs Hetty off. Now he put in: “She always knowed we ’ad the real Trellis, though!”

    “Nevertheless,” said Cressida faintly.

     Mrs Jessop cleared her throat. “Aye.”

    Their eyes met. Sadly, Miss Martin once again broke down in helpless giggles. And Mrs Jessop actually broke down and grinned.

    After which, Master Hinks was reminded that if he wanted to help Mr Hartington with the assembly tonight he had best get himself spruced up, and Miss Martin, promising gaily that she would see him there, took herself and the false Troilus off. Remembering at the very last moment to thrust the bundle of correspondence from the Continent into Mrs Jessop’s hands for safe-keeping.

    Fred hovered, eyeing it dubiously. “Mr ’Artington, ’e says a gent don’t never look in a lady’s reticule. Not unless she says ’e can.”

    “Right. You’re betting that no fine lord won’t go looking in Miss Martin’s reticule be’ind ’er back, are yer?”

    Fred thought it over carefully. “No, I ain’t. No fine lord wouldn’t fink twice abaht looking in any young lady’s reticule. Wot Mr Peebles, see, ’e wouldn’t of, if ’e were really ’im, only he weren’t never. And ’im, ’e’s worse.”

    Mrs Jessop gave him a not unkindly look. “That’s right, Fred. Go on, get yerself cleaned up.”

    Fred exited, looking vindicated. And Mrs Jessop, who along with the majority of the population of Sowcot and environs did not have vouchers for the assembly, got on with getting supper for herself and the real Troilus, reflecting drily as she did so that it was just as well that Mrs Hetty hadn’t been present to hear that last involved speech, true though it was: it would undoubtedly have muddled her head more than ever.

    “Spifflicating!” pronounced Miss Dotty Garbutt, as Mr Hartington presented himself for inspection in his best evening suit.

    ‘That’ll do,” said her mother calmly. “Ignore her, she got it off Mrs Prettyjohn,” she advised their lodger.

    Harold grinned, but said anxiously: “Will I do, though?”

    “Mm,” she admitted, looking him up and down. “Go on, you can give it him,” she added tolerantly to her youngest daughter.

    Beaming, Dotty handed Mr Hartington a gold fob.

    “It belonged to the late Mr Garbutt, but as it won’t do none of us any good, you’re welcome to keep it,” noted the widow, as he stuttered.

    Beaming, Harold attached it to his person.

    “Spifflicating,” conceded Mrs Garbutt at her driest, as Dotty and Jessie clapped and Sally and Robina beamed. “No, you look very smart, Mr Hartington,” she said kindly as he gave her an anxious look. “Just remember to be humbly grateful towards Lady B., and you’ll come off safe.”

    Harold assured her he could do “humbly grateful” with both hands tied behind his back, and opened the sitting-room door. “Um, you are coming aren’t you?” he said on an anxious note.

    She eyed him tolerantly. “We’ll be there, yes. Lady B. and Mrs S. will find some way of expressing the fact that none of us are good enough for the thing and that Dotty and Jessie are far too young to be there at all, but I suppose we can face it out.”

    “Of course we can!” cried Sally loudly, what time Jessie and Dotty cried in chorus: “I am not!”

    “Good, well, I’ll expect to see a bevy of beauty walk in: five belles,” said Harold, smiling, and going out.

    “Mamma: the buttonhole!” cried Sally as the door closed after him.

    Jessie rushed to seize it off the mantelshelf. “I’ll—”

    “Mamma will do it,” said Robina firmly. She opened the sitting-room door and cried: “Wait, Mr Hartington! –Mamma will do it,” she repeated, this time very pointedly, giving her sibling a steely glare.

    “Oh!” recognised Sally with a giggle. “Yes: give it to Mamma, Jessie.”

    Mrs Garbutt tried to look unconcerned as Jessie, collapsing in giggles and unable to utter, thrust the buttonhole into her hands. And as Robina ushered her courteously out of the room, firmly closing the door after her.

    Harold paused by the front door, his gloves in his hand. “Did I forget something?”

    “No,” said Mrs Garbutt, her cheeks very pink. “We forgot to give you this.”

    He looked at it thoughtfully: a perfect white rose, half-opened, tied up with a wisp of the fern that lived in the sitting-room in a very special floral Chinese pot that was reported to have set the late Mr Garbutt back more than something, the whole being its owner’s pride and joy. “Ah. Which of them made this up, then?”

    “None of them,” said their mother, turning scarlet. “Though I had enough volunteers, I don’t deny— What are you doing?” she gasped as Mr Hartington then enveloped her in a hug, buttonhole and all.

    “This,” said Harold, putting his mouth on hers and kissing her very thoroughly indeed.

    Alas, the respectable Mrs Garbutt cooperated thoroughly in this clandestine embrace, in fact going so far as to press her generous self tightly to his broad chest.

    “I haven’t got much, and I know you’re a wealthy woman,” said Harold huskily, “but will you marry me?”

    “I think I’d better!” she admitted with a breathless laugh.

    He held her by the shoulders and gave her a searching look. “I do love you, Emmy.”

    “Emmy?” said Mrs Garbutt faintly.

    “Always thought of you as that.”

    “I see. In that case I’d better get used to it. Um,” she admitted, licking her lips, “I love you too, Harold.”

    “Good. Well, thought you fancied me, yes. Only can you trust me? –Don’t joke,” he ordered her on anxious note.

    “I never joke,” said Mrs Garbutt at her calmest. “Well, yes, I do trust you. Added to which, you strike me as a sensible man, Harold.”

    “The accolade!” he said with a grin, kissing her again. “Soon?” he said hopefully.

    “Um, yes,” she said: very flustered, Harold was extremely glad to see. “Well, whenever you like, really. Um, well, won’t you want to invite all your friends from London?”

    “Eh? Oh—yes, s’pose I should. Talk about it later, shall we?”

    “Yes; get along with you,” she said, trying for her usual brisk manner and failing. “Oh—here.” She fixed the rosebud in his buttonhole, what time Harold smirked.

    “Now,” he said, opening the front door, “I’ll expect to see you and all of the girls nice and early. And here: mind you wear your best black bombazine, Emmy!”

    Forthwith he exited, grinning all over his face.

    Limply Mrs Garbutt shut the front door after him, not even capable of saying “Black bombazine, indeed!”

    India Hutton looked around the Sowcot Theatre & Assembly Rooms. Her lips twitched.

    “Very fine!” twittered Miss Pinkerton, at her elbow.

    “Yes. What a dreadful pity neither of us has anything in a powerful puce, or a violent violet,” she said thoughtfully, eyeing the terrifyingly turbaned Lady Bamwell and the monstrously plumed Mrs Sardleigh, “with which to do it justice.”

    “My dear, your grey silk is entirely suitable,” said her aunt on an anxious note.

    “No, well, it was once, seven years back, when Mamma kindly had it made over for me,” said India with her frank grin. “I’d call it barely adequate, now. I seem to have grown since coming to stay with you. It must be all the fresh country cream and eggs.”

    “You look very womanly, my dear,” she said, hugging her arm.

    India blinked. “Do I? Even with this bird’s nest on my head?”

    Miss Pinkerton smiled palely. She had with her own hands attempted to reduce India’s unruly mass of pale bronze to something approximating a fashionable hairdo. There was supposed to be a braided coronet, with a bunch of docile ringlets depending from it. The braid was still visible, certainly, though innumerable curls seemed to have worked themselves loose from it, but the ringlets, even in the short walk from Dove Cottage on a warm, windless evening, had degenerated into a wild mass of curls. And those little wisps at her temples were likewise, whereas they had started off as tiny neat curls just kissing the skin. They should have used more sugar-water, clearly.

    “It was a waste of good sugar,” said India calmly, reading her mind.

    Miss Pinkerton jumped. “Yes!”

    “Shall we sit down, Aunt Beatrice? I suggest somewhere very far from both the puce and the violet.”

    “Yes, indeed. –Look at all the potted palms and the gilt chairs, and the sofas! I wonder where they all came from? And he has positively managed to make some little alcoves! It is much, much pleasanter than ever it was in Mr Bates’s day!” she approved.

    “In that case, Lady You-Know-Who will undoubtedly take the credit for it all. Come along, over here.” India led her to a sofa, sustaining with fortitude the encomium upon the state of the floor and the performance of the musicians from Dorchester, seated upon the front section of the stage, and considerately not wondering aloud how long they would have to wait until the supper. Or, indeed, where the supper would be eaten, since the little theatre bar created by Mr French in the sketch of a foyer was minute and the entirety of the amphitheatre appeared to be occupied by the dance floor and the aforesaid little alcoves, sofas and gilt chairs.

    Mrs Dunne entered nervously, clinging very tightly to Mr Dunne’s arm.

    “Over there. Purplish-red,” he murmured.

    “Puce,” she corrected faintly, quickly averting her eyes.

    “T’other one’s over there. Um, purple?”

    “Violet,” she said, trying not to look over there, either.

    “Well, we came; can we go, now?” he said brazenly.

    “Don’t be silly, my dear. She will expect us to dance.”

    “Wish to God we had your sister’s girls with us, this summer. Oh well, suppose Lotty will be disappointed an we report we didn’t dance. And next year she’ll be old enough to bring. –Not according to some, no,” he admitted, glancing at the puce. “Come on, if we sit over there, possibly we’ll be safe enough. Or are you avoiding bright green, too?”

    “No, that is Mrs Prettyjohn from the square,” she said, smiling at Mrs Prettyjohn’s very new emerald satin gown and black lace shawl. “She will know exactly what will be for supper! Come along, my dear. –Emerald, not bright green,” she added firmly, towing him off.

    Amiably Mr Dunne allowed himself to be introduced to Mr and Mrs Prettyjohn and their guests, a Miss Trueblood and a Mr Vanburgh. Agreeing untruthfully that of course he recalled them from the theatrical performances last summer. And accepting almost without a blink Mrs Prettyjohn’s assurance that they were both to be in Mr Hartington’s immemorial production, this coming month, of Something Or Another by Mr Sheridan.

    … “Entirely unsuited to her age and position,” finished Mrs Sardleigh, lowering the lorgnette.

    Possibly she was favouring Miss Pinkerton and her niece with her gracious notice merely in order to voice her thorough condemnation of Mrs Garbutt in a low-cut dove-grey silk, clearly of a far, far finer quality than India’s. Personally, India considered that the dress looked perfectly lovely. As did the bunch of little white rosebuds at the unsuitably low-cut bosom. The unsuitably girlish puffed sleeves were very full, so undoubtedly they were the latest thing. And unlike her own bird’s nest, the thick, dark hair was in obedient waves, culminating in a charmingly intricate knot at the back of the head. The which apparently must ensure the effect of mutton dressed as lamb.

    “I think she looks perfectly lovely,” said Miss Pinkerton in a defiant voice.

    Mrs Sardleigh’s jaw dropped.

    “And,” said Miss Pinkerton firmly, “the pearls flatter her delightful creamy skin and pink cheeks. I only wish that my dear Mamma, Lady Charlotte Pinkerton, had been able to leave her own pearls to dearest India; but of course they went to my eldest brother’s wife. They were a very similar set. I do not believe,” she said on a careless note, “that I have seen anything half so fine in the environs of Sowcot.” She glanced at Mrs Sardleigh’s neck and away again.

    “Aunt Beatrice,” said India in a shaken voice as the vanquished violet rustled away, “you were perfectly splendid!”

    “Thank you, my dear,” she said composedly. “I really felt, you know, that enough was enough!”

    “Well,” noted Mr French, having bowed amiably to several acquaintances and wilfully ignored the fact that Lady Bamwell had eyed him expectantly, “the lot from Sare Park ain’t here yet, and whether they intend coming or no, I think that makes it a sixpence you owe me, Gerard.”

    “Really!” reproved Miss French, as Gerard solemnly handed his papa a sixpence.

    “I was expecting Sare’s noblesse oblige to prevail over whatever it is that Lady Hartwell’s got,” he explained solemnly to his sister.

    “Or has not got!” she retorted smartly.

    “True. –Papa, you had best get it over with,” he said on a firm note. “Lady Bamwell expects congratulations on the appearance of the assembly room, the which owes nothing to either her taste or her purse, we know,” he added smoothly before his father could point it out, “abject apologies for Annette’s appearance, the which is faultlessly ladylike, we know,” he said before his indignant sister could point it out, “and a very clear explanation for Aunt Anstey’s absence, possibly incorporating an offer to herself but only after an accounting of your exact worth in English sovereigns. So run along, like a good fellow.”

    “Yes! And please gr-r-r-ovel!” added Annette gaily.

    Winking, Mr French went off to grovel to Lady Bamwell.

    “The next thing ees,” said Annette in her brother’s ear, “weell he go to dear Miss Hutton, or not?”

    “Well, quite!”

    They watched avidly. Nothing happened, except that Lady Bamwell appeared to engulf Papa and absorb him into the Bamwell Place party. Gerard eyed this party uneasily. It included two of Lady Bamwell’s sisters, their spouses, and their offspring, three of whom were young ladies of a suitable age. Ugh.

    “You could counter eet,” said Annette airily, “by joining the Sardleighs.”

    “Er—mm.” He eyed the Sardleighs uneasily. Their party consisted merely of Mrs Sardleigh and her lorgnette, Mr Sardleigh, looking martyred, Miss Sardleigh in blue gauze, Miss Primrose in pink gauze, and Miss Daphne in pale yellow gauze, all three of the last-named looking hopeful.

    “Primrose and Daphne are wearing the wrong gowns,” noted his sister airily.

    Shaking, Gerard admitted: “I noticed! –Look, you’d better dance with me. Or sit here two minutes longer and have it with Bigelow,” he noted, as on the other side of the room the Vicar was observed to brighten, and rise purposefully.

    “Thank you so vairy meuch, Gégé!” she gurgled. Forthwith the French brother and sister floated onto the floor and proceeded to show every other couple in the room how the waltz should be danced.

    “Fast,” concluded Mrs Sardleigh grimly, lowering the lorgnette.

    “Buh-but she is only dancing with her brother, Mamma,” faltered Miss Sardleigh unwisely.

    Her mother turned the lorgnette upon her, and Miss Sardleigh subsided.

    Sir Bernie Bamwell had been observed to dance with his eldest cousin, with Miss Sardleigh, with his next cousin, with Miss Primrose Sardleigh, and with his youngest cousin, and was now bowing before the youngest Sardleigh. India Hutton collapsed in splutters, barely registering her aunt’s sharp nudge as the party from Sare Park entered, very late.

    “Really, you know, I rather like him,” she admitted, mopping her eyes. “Though you need not bother to tell me that his mother will never let me have him.”

    “Look!” replied Miss Pinkerton avidly.

    India looked. “Oops,” she owned, feeling in her reticule, and solemnly handing her aunt a penny.

    “You bet her that he wouldn’t get the frills and furbelows along this evening, did you?” said a calm, deep voice from behind the row of potted palms sheltering their sofa.

    India and Miss Pinkerton had both jumped; they smiled somewhat sheepishly and India admitted: “I did, indeed. Silly me.”

    Mr French grinned. “Silly you, indeed, Miss Hutton. Now I, on t’other hand, bet Gerard that he wouldn’t get her along early. –Sixpence,” he explained, his shrewd eyes twinkling.

    “I suppose that was all you had left, sir, after buying that exquisite ivory bangle for Miss French after all!” said India with a laugh.

    “You’ve been misinformed, Miss Hutton,” he replied solemnly.

    “Oh, dear,” said India, looking in dismay towards Lady Bamwell. “It is certainly not in Mr Twin’s window any longer.”

    “No, that’s right: been absent from it these two months and more,” he agreed. “It’s got a chip out of it,” he reminded her.

    “Nevertheless it will be the greatest pity to see it on a certain wrist,” owned India with a sigh.

    “Perhaps you never will,” he murmured.

    “No, well, I shall certainly never be afforded the privilege, if dearest Aunt Beatrice continues in her present form!” she owned with a chuckle. Forthwith reporting with great relish her aunt’s routing of Mrs Sardleigh.

    Solemnly Mr French bowed deeply before Miss Pinkerton, kissing her hand. The little spinster collapsed in gratified giggles, but owned, shaking her head very much: “I should never have the temerity for the other, sir!”

    “Few human beings would, Miss Pinkerton. Which reminds me,” he said smoothly, “I have been meaning to ask you this this age, ma’am: what was the husband like?”

    Miss Pinkerton giggled again, and hissed: “In general, cowed, sir! But when left to himself, quite a bully on his own account.”

    “That ain’t uncommon. –Dance, Miss Hutton?” he suggested, as another waltz struck up.

    “You’re too kind, Mr French. But really, you know, I am only here to enjoy the spectacle and eat the supper!” said India with her frank laugh. “There is no need to feel you must invite me to dance, sir. And, in fact, every need to feel you should ask certain other ladies, preferably in order of precedence,” she added with a dry glance in the direction of the puce.

    “I’ll go away again if you don’t want to dance with me, Miss Hutton,” he replied promptly.

    India went very red. “No, um, of course I— If you really mean it?”

    “India, my dear, dance with the poor man!” said her aunt with a sudden loud giggle.

    Looking most uncertain, India rose to her feet and allowed Mr French to lead her onto the floor. Warning weakly: “I should warn you, I’m a terrible dancer; I never really had a Season, you see, and then we were in mourning, and after that, I really had no occasion—”

    “Hush,” he said mildly, taking her in his arms. “It’s a waltz: goes one, two three,” he added helpfully.

    India gave a strangled laugh, trod on his foot, gasped: “Sorry!” and fell silent, concentrating on the measure and on the very unusual sensation of being held firmly by Mr George French.

    “Lady Bamwell looks miffed,” murmured Cressida cautiously.

    “How can you tell?” retorted Lukey immediately.

    Edward sighed, but rose. “I think we should go and speak to her.”

    “Go, then,” said Lukey with a pettish shrug.

    “She will take it as a direct insult an you do not accompany us, Lukey,” he warned.

    “I cannot accompany you, dear Edward, since I am dancing,” retorted Lukey promptly. “Come along, Pip.”

    Pip sighed, but got up. “Very well. But you are being very naughty, Stern Mamma.”

    Predictably, Lukey merely replied: “Oh, pooh!” before pulling him onto the floor.

    Mrs Sardleigh’s lorgnette was raised. “That,” she said acidly, as Lord Sare was seen to bow to Lady Bamwell, “was to be expected, I suppose. The woman will be more insufferable than ever.”

    “Impossible, my dear,” returned Mr Sardleigh promptly.

    A gleam of gratification might have been seen in his formidable spouse’s eye, and she did not, for once, reprove him.

    “Well?” said Mrs Hetty, as Fred Hinks reappeared in the kitchen after a cautious reconnoitring of the assembly proper.

    “Miss Martin, she’s a-dancink wiv that noddy wot come wiv them. Not ’im!” he said on a scornful note as she opened her mouth.

    “Oh. Young Lord Hartwell, that is, Fred. Dare say he is a noddy, yes. Harold dancing yet?”

    “Yus. ’E said ’e would, once they’d all come,” he reminded her.

    “Well, who with?”

    “Wiv the widder, o’ course.”

    She brightened. “Oh, good! –Leave that!” she snapped as Master Hinks’s hand casually approached a plate of savouries.

    Uncrushed, Fred added: “The Major and Miss Belle, they’ve come.”

    “Mrs Blunsden,” she corrected. “What’s she wearing?”

    “Dunno. Um—blue.”

    Mrs Hetty sighed, but conceded: “S’pose that’s all I can expect. A dress, is it?”

    “Very funny.”

    She cleared her throat. “Miss Cressida spoken to ’em, yet?”

    Fred Hinks eyed her drily. “Miss Martin, you mean. Yus, spoke to ’em nice as yer please. Wot if yer fink either of them noticed nuffink, you must be as silly as wot she is!”

    Smiling palely, Mrs Hetty objected: “Yes, but he ain’t.”

    “Not interested,” said the sapient Master Hinks with a shrug.

    “You’re probably right. Margery here, is she?”

    “Yus. Miss Martin spoke to ’er, too.”

    “Oh, Gawd,” said Mrs Hetty under her breath.

    “Keep yer ’air on: never noticed nuffink. Miss Martin, she tells ’er ’ow grand she looks in that green dress, see? Wot it would knock Madam’s eye aht, and then some, geddit?”

    “Um—you mean Madam Campion’s eye, Fred? You mean Miss Martin said that?”

    “’Course!” he said scornfully. “After that, see, she could of painted ’er face black and danced on ’er ’ands and Mrs May’ew, she wouldn’t of noticed a fing! And Mr ’Artington, ’e said to tell yer, the next waltz’ll be the supper dance, and then they can ’ave it.”

    “Oh, good. Now, Fred, when you help serve, remember that you’re not to eat—”

    “I know!” he said scornfully.

    Smiling feebly, Mrs Hetty subsided. Not even pointing out that Know-It-All was his middle name and always had been.

    The supper had been consumed, certain of those present expressing great admiration of the way the back two thirds of the stage, behind the area where the musicians had been seated, had been used for the buffet, and others of those present not; general if not unanimous approval of the refreshments had been expressed; Lord Sare and Miss Martin had jointly congratulated Mr Hartington and Mrs Hetty on the success of the entire occasion; and the music had struck up again. And with the expenditure of very little effort Mrs Prettyjohn had persuaded Mrs Hetty to join the revellers.

    “A pretty sight,” she approved, as Sir Bernie Bamwell was seen to bow very low before Miss French, forthwith whisking her into yet another waltz.

    “What, in general, Hetty, or our Sir Bernie in particular?” asked the former Mrs Mayhew with a laugh.

    “Eh? Oh, that him, is it? No, well, in general, Margery.”

    “’Tis that.” She nudged her hard and nodded her emerald ostrich plume, as Lord Sare, at long last, was seen to ask Miss Martin for a dance. “Thought the fellow was never going to pluck up his courage,” she hissed. “Danced with every lady but her!”

    “Manners,” said Mrs Hetty on a sour note. “Doing what’s expected of ’im, see?”

    “Damned Peebles losing his bottle, more like,” she muttered.

    “Ssh! Miss Cressida don’t want it spread around,” said Mrs Pontifex out of the corner of her mouth.

    “Oh, you may rest assured my lips are sealed. Or they would be, if he’d pop the question.”

    Mrs Hetty eyed the two on the dance floor uneasily. “Yes. Dare say he will.”

    “Hetty,” said Margery in a lowered voice, “you are not still holding out for Sid, are you? She will never take him, my dear, now that they’ve turned her into a lady.”

    “Don’t think he’d want her, now,” she said dully.

    Kindly Margery patted her hand. “That’s right, dear,” she agreed.

    Mrs Pontifex bit her lip, and did not explain that that was not what she had meant, at all.

    Mr French was dancing with Miss Hutton again. The floor was now very crowded, and those who were not dancing were all chattering loudly and cheerfully: as, indeed, he had fully expected would happen after the supper. Adroitly he danced her towards the doorway. Rapidly he whirled her into the little foyer.

    “Come along, let’s get a breath of fresh air,” he said blandly, ignoring the fact that Mr Sardleigh and Mr Dunne were propping up the tiny bar a bare three feet away, Mr Sardleigh, his cheeks very flushed, in full indignant flow—the words “those agriculturists” being discernible—and Mr Dunne looking bored and desperate.

    Limply India let herself be led outside.

    Sowcot Square was dozing peacefully. Quite a collection of carriages was drawn up, but no drivers were in evidence. The Sare Arms, however, was emitting a glow of lights and a hum of conviviality.

    “Good for trade, these hops,” said Mr French, taking her arm.

    “Mm.”

    “Not cold, are you?”

    “Not at all: it’s a lovely night,” said India, looking up at the stars in a dark velvet sky, and smiling.

    George French looked at that creamy expanse of chin, and also smiled. “Yes.” He led her along to Mr and Mrs Westaway’s stone seat in its little grassy area. India blinked: a flambeau was burning by the seat.

    “I suggested they might put a few lights around the place,” he said placidly. “Sit down, Miss Hutton.”

    Uncertainly India sat.

    Mr French sat beside her and produced a small package from his inside coat pocket. “For you,” he said neutrally.

    “Me?” Looking very puzzled, she unwrapped it. Mr French just waited. “Is—is this a joke, sir?” said India in a shaking voice.

    “No. Hold it up to the light, Miss Hutton. It’s the genuine article. See the little chip?” he said blandly.

    Very red, India held out the ivory bangle. “I cannot possibly take it, Mr French.”

    “Yes, you can,” he said stolidly. “I didn’t give Twin his outrageous price, by the by, but a fair price.”

    “Y— No— That has nothing to do with it!” she said agitatedly.

    “Well, it has, to me, but then, I’m an old Jew.” He paused. “Miss Hutton,” he said on a grim note, “I’m about to propose to you. But first, I want you to take that bangle and keep the damned thing, whatever your answer to me may be. Tell the gossips anything you like, but at least give me the pleasure of knowing I could give you something you wanted, however insignificant!”

    Very slowly India slid the bangle over her wrist.

    “I am an old Jew,” said George French in a hard voice. “Made my money on the Continent by what you respectable English folks call usury.”

    “I know,” said India faintly.

    He grasped her hand hard. “No, you don’t! My children will say I’ve run mad, and I probably have: I was going to offer without letting on the truth, you see.”

    “I did gather from various things you have said that that was how you had made your fortune,” said India faintly.

    “Hell,” he said under his breath. “I don’t mean that I am merely a moneylender, Miss Hutton.”

    “No-o… Miss French said something about banking,” she said uncertainly.

    “I own a bank, yes,” he said impatiently. “More than half the banks of Europe are owned by Jews, because that’s the only way the damned Gentiles left open to us of leaving anything to our children! –Miss Hutton,” he said as her brow furrowed, “have you read Ivanhoe?”

    “What?” said India numbly. “Yes.”

    “Good. There was two girls in it, right? That English noddy chose the fair English one. Think of me as the father of t’other one, Miss Hutton. Of the Jewess, Rebekah.”

    There was a little silence.

    “I grew up in Dorchester; nevertheless,” said George French steadily, “I am of the Jewish faith. There are a fair few of us, in England. My Mignonette was a Jewess, bless her. Well, her old father, he calls himself Meinhoff, but then, we call ourselves a lot of things.”

    “So—so that is why,” said India shakily, “Miss French was taking instruction from Mr Bigelow.”

    “Exact. She let him assume she was a Roman Catholic,” he said with shrug.

    “Yes.”

    There was another silence.

    “Well, now you know,” he said sourly.

    India licked her lips. “You mentioned Ivanhoe, just now. My sympathies were fully with the dark heroine, sir.”

    “Well, yes, it’s an age of sensibility, ain’t it?” he said on an ironic note. “That don't mean the author would ever have sold more than a couple of copies if he’d let the fair English hero marry the Jewess.”

    India’s jaw trembled; she said nothing.

    “Even your great William Shakespeare, he thinks we’re little more than a joke,” he said with a shrug.

    “That is not so!” she cried angrily. “Some of his characters treat Shylock as a joke, yes: the which reflects upon them, and upon our society in general, not upon the writer!”

    “Pooh. He loved every minute of that scene where that damned woman dresses up as a lawyer and gives him his own again. It’s written with positive relish.”

    “Portia,” said Miss Hutton faintly. “If it is written with such relish as all that, then why does one end up feeling both glad for her victory, and sorry for Shylock?”

    “Do you?”

    “Yes,” said India on a defiant note.

    He shrugged. “I think you are in the minority, then.”

    “If—if you despise me so,” she said, swallowing, “then why bother to—to suggest any sort of a proposal at all?”

    “I don’t despise you, I’m a realist. –Not enough of a realist to lie to you, apparently,” he owned with a sigh. “Well?”

    India held her chin up very high. “Is this a proposal?”

    “Yes,” he said flatly. “’Tisn’t because I need a chaperone for Annette, either. Well, I was going to phrase it like that,” he said glumly. “More or less make a joke of it. Found I couldn’t do that, either, when it came to getting me tongue around the words.”

    She swallowed. “No, I see. Then—then may I ask why, sir? Since you seem so determined that your suit has no hope of succeeding.”

    “I love you, Miss Hutton,” he said grimly. “That’s why. But I don’t want you to marry me because of the material comforts I can offer you.”

    “I would not marry for material reasons,” she said steadily. “At least,” she said honestly, “if I were in extremis, I might consider it. But I do not think I could bring myself to do it. Not because of any proper feeling, but simply because the idea of—of giving myself to a man whom I could not love repels me.”

    “Could you love me?” he said hoarsely.

    “Yes,” said India, her eyes filling with tears. “I mean, I do.”

    “So?” he said, his fists clenched.

    “I—I have to ask this,” said India unsteadily. “I mean, I have grown up a Christian, and—and… Well, what about our children?” she said huskily.

    “What?” said George French dazedly.

    “Would they have to be Jews?” said India in a trembling voice.

    His jaw dropped, and he said something half under his breath.

    “What?” said India faintly.

    “Uh—sorry, that was Yiddish. The lingua franca of European Jewry, Miss Hutton. Promised Gerard I’d never use it again,” he admitted with a little smile. “No, well, our children would not be Jews; you Gentiles know nothing, do you? It’s passed on in the female line. The rabbis would tie it up in a lot of clean theological linen for you with a forest of jaw-cracking words, but the thing is, we’re a very practical people. No man can say who his father is, but there can be no question about his mother.”

    “Oh.”

    He put his hand very gently on the wrist that was wearing the ivory bangle. “Our children would be brought up as Christians. I’m not a practising Jew, though I didn’t mind Gerard and Annette being brought up in the faith. Don’t think, really, that I believe in anything much, except myself and hard work.”

    “Yourself, hard work, and the fallibility of humankind, I think,” murmured India.

    “Something like that. And one thing more, if you’ll say yes,” he said, squeezing her hand.

    “Do you promise about the children?”

    “Yes, I promise,” he agreed solemnly.

    “Then yes,” said India faintly.

    He put his hand under that creamy chin. “Sure?”

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

    “You think so! –Oh,” he said with a little smile. “Perhaps I’d better kiss you, to make sure I don’t repel you after all, eh?”

    “The thing is, there was a Captain Macdonald who kissed me, and it was repulsive,” admitted India.

    “Damn his eyes for a damned Gentile,” replied George French genially, kissing her very, very gently.

    Miss Hutton’s eyes slowly closed, and she trembled a little.

    “That,” he said at long last, drawing a deep breath, “was not repulsive, I trust?”

    “No,” said India faintly.

    “Think you are in love with me, after all?”

    “Yes,” said India, blushing fierily.

    “That makes four things, then,” he said with a grin.

    “Four what?” she asked dazedly.

    Eyes twinkling, he replied: “Four things what I believe in. Myself, hard work, the fallibility of humankind, and you, India Hutton.”

    “Mm. Good,” owned India, smiling shakily.

    He put his arm around her. “That bangle’s a trumpery thing. Shall I shower you with rubies, instead?”

    “No!” she said with a laugh. “What an idea!”

    “You’re right, they’d be all wrong with that hair of yours. Diamonds and pearls, I think,” he said with satisfaction. “What about a full set, eh? Necklace, earrings, twin bracelets, nice brooch, and maybe a pretty little diadem for the head, eh?”

    “And maybe not!” said India, laughing again. “What a shocking waste of money! After all, you are hardly as rich as Lord Sare. –Or as the late Lord Hartwell must have been: did you see those jewels she has on tonight?”

    “Sapphires, mainly. Don’t do a thing for her.”

    “That hardly matters, for they certainly had the requisite effect on Lady B. and Mrs S.!”

    “No, well, if I’m hardly as rich as Lord Sare, what should I be doing with me hard-earned cash?”

    “What you very evidently are, of course, dear sir,” said India with smile. “Looking after your family in a pleasant country house.”

    “Eh? So you don’t hanker after a Blenheim Palace or a Castle Howard, then?” he said sadly.

    “No, nor a Versailles, neither!”

    “Bother, I was thinking of building you one smack, bang in the middle of Dorset.”

    “Silly one,” returned India comfortably.

    “Mm.” Mr French gave up any idea he might once have had of admitting to her how wealthy he in fact was, though reflecting as he did so that in view of his recent conduct this could hardly be said to be native caution, or if it was, it was a bit late in raising its head, was it not? And said merely: “Call me George.”

    To his delight she licked her lips nervously and said: “Oh, um, should I?”

    “No,” he said mildly. “Think English law says we have to be married over thirty years, don’t it?”

    “Stop it, you monster!” she gasped, going into a gale of giggles.

    “‘Stop it, George, you monster,’” he corrected solemnly.

    “Yes, um, George,” agreed Miss Hutton, very faintly.

    Whereupon Mr French kissed her very thoroughly again, and completely postponed a vague notion of telling her that, active though he had been in the business of the Sowcot Theatre & Assembly Rooms, the guiding hand behind it was not his and nor was the major part of the substantial funds supporting both it and the Dorchester Theatre Company… Oh, well, it wasn’t important, in any case. And they would, thank God or Jehovah, or whatever you liked to call Him, have the rest of their lives in which to tell each other this, that, and t’other…

    Mr Vanburgh, though somewhat at a loss to know why the Devil Margery and Pretty had insisted he come down this summer, and why on earth they had then dragged him along to this hop for the genteel classes of Sowcot, had obligingly danced with Margery herself, with Harold’s buxom widow, with all four of her pretty daughters, with a faded little Frenchwoman whom the widow seemed to have taken under her wing for the evening, with a youngish Mrs Solly with whom Margery, for obscure reasons, seemed to have become bosom-bows, and a couple of times with Tilda. Though as she had been very much in demand, every male in the room, whatever his age or marital status, seeming eager to claim the privilege, it had not been altogether easy to get a turn. He would not of course have dreamed of thrusting himself into Lord Sare’s party, but directly after the supper Miss Martin had come up on his Lordship’s arm and spoken to them all kindly. The former Peebles had then taken himself off, thank God, leaving Miss Martin to chat. And so Vic had been able to have a dance with her.

    “How did she strike you, Mr Vic?” Tilda asked as Peebles-Sare reclaimed her.

    He eyed her drily. “Kindly, I think is the only word.”

    “Mm,” she agreed, biting her lip.

    “Oh, well, dare say she’ll do well enough as the mistress of ruddy Sare Park,” he said with a shrug. “Just as well Margery didn’t manage to get Sid down, though, ain't it?”

    “Yes, indeed, it would be so painful for him,” she agreed earnestly.

    “Come and dance,” he said with a smile.

    “I—I think it is Sir Bernie Bamwell’s dance,” she said uneasily, chewing on her lip. “Um, Ma would say,” she said in a strangled voice, “that I should not discourage him.”

    A frown gathered on Victor Vanburgh’s brow. “Would she, by God? Yes, well, is that what you want?”

    “No,” said Tilda in a tiny voice, very flushed. The more so as her last speech was not as innocent as it had sounded: Mrs Trueblood had made up her mind to it that, given that Mr Vanburgh was a very well respected member of the profession, continually in work, Tilda should have him, if he was what she wanted; and had therefore conspired with Mrs Prettyjohn to invite the pair down to Sowcot together.

    “Then come and dance,” he said firmly.

    Tilda allowed him to lead her onto the floor, but looked up into his face as he took her in his arms for the waltz and said: “The thing is, at my age, I need an establishment.”

    “Not like that, though!” he said, rather flushed.

    “No, well, I think gentlemen are horrid,” said Tilda timidly.

    “You’re not far wrong.” He looked down at her doubtfully. “A solid burgher like Pretty?”

    “Cressida once suggested I might marry a baker,” she replied seriously. “Not a specific baker, it was just the idea which appealed. But as I told her, I think it would be a very boring life.”

    “Lord, yes!”

    “I would like to stay on the boards, but really, one needs to be respectably established,” she said on a wistful note that was not wholly disingenuous.

    “Aye, well, an actor?” he said dubiously.

    “Most of them are more frivolous than the women, sir!” retorted Miss Trueblood with some spirit.

    “Mm. If you mean the Sid Bottomley type—mm.”

    “I suppose with the right woman, he might not be too bad. But she would have to be able both to hold him and to control him. I don’t want a man whom I have to control,” she said with a lift of her delicate little chin.

    “Understandable. Um, would your Ma countenance marriage to an actor, Tilda?” he asked kindly.

    “Only if he was a respectable person,” said Tilda in a small voice, avoiding his glance.

    Vic Vanburgh’s intelligent eyes twinkled a little. “I see,” he said mildly, squeezing her hand.

    Tilda looked up at him doubtfully.

    “A respectable man, you know, even if he was an actor, would not want a woman who had once belonged to a Sir George Drew or a Sir Bernie Bamwell,” he said lightly.

    “Ugh, no!” agreed Tilda with a little shudder.

    “No, well, perhaps you could tell your Ma that all hope is not yet lost, and there are one or two such within the acting profession,” he said mildly.

    “Yes,” she whispered, her heart beating very fast. “Are—are there, Mr Vic?”

    He looked into her eyes and smiled a little. “One or two; yes, Miss Trueblood.”

    Having obediently danced with anything suggested to him by his Stern Mamma, his uncle, or Miss Martin, not to say presented to him by Lady Bamwell or t’other hag, the one in the violet, Pip Hartwell had the strong feeling that he had done his duty, and was wondering if he could suggest they might go home. Except that Uncle Edward was on the floor with Miss Martin, and Mamma actually seemed to be enjoying herself, dancing with the fellow what belonged to the violet one, and encouraging him to flirt outrageously. “Dance, Mercy?” he said kindly to his little sister.

    “No, I shall spare your toes, poor thing!” said Mercy with a twinkle. “Who was the very fat lady?”

    “If you mean the one in the puce female’s party, I think she is a sister. Well up to the puce one’s fighting weight, though,” he assured her.

    “Mm!” agreed Mercy with a giggle, squeezing his arm sympathetically.

    “Um, who is the dark girl, over there?” he asked. “With the Vicar.”

    “That is Miss French, of course,” said Mercy in surprise. “Surely you have met her? Oh, no: of course you were not with us last summer. She was in town last autumn, and again for the Season, but you were busy being very rustic! You see, Stern Mamma was right, and that is not the way to meet pretty girls. Come along, I shall introduce you. Penny and I both like her: she has a great sense of humour, but a deal of common sense besides,” she said seriously, leading him off.

    Pip smiled a little; the accolade, from the common-sensical Mercy! Nevertheless his pulses beat distinctly faster as his sister led him up to the vivid-faced, fascinating little dark creature.

    “Who’s that with Annette?” said Mr French instantly, re-entering the assembly room with his dazed fiancée on his arm.

    “What?” said India vaguely. “Oh, a gazetted nob, dear sir.”

    “Dear George,” he corrected, squeezing her hand into his side. “Don’t know him?”

    “I do know he is one of Lord Sare’s guests, um, George,” said India feebly.

    “You’ll get used to it,” he murmured. “Lord Sare’s guest, eh? Well, I have very reliable information,” he said, eyeing the scowling Mrs Sardleigh with some amusement, not to say the flushed and flirting Mr Sardleigh and Lady Hartwell, “that there is no house party, only his sister and her children. So I think that must be young Lord Hartwell.”

    “Mm,” agreed India vaguely.

    He nudged her gently. “Highly unsuitable.”

    “N— Oh,” said India, staring at Annette with her mouth slightly open.

    “Aye. Though she is now a member of the Church of England,” he said drily.

    “Ssh! In that case,” said India very firmly indeed, “it is entirely suitable. And you had best get used to the idea,” she added severely as his shoulders shook.

    “Aye! I had that! Well, he or another, hey?”

    “Quite,” she said severely.

    Grinning, Mr French suggested they join her aunt. Miss Pinkerton was now sitting with Mrs Prettyjohn and her group, and there was no doubt that several eyes would immediately spot India’s very new ivory bangle, not to say George French’s proprietorial beam, but… Miss Hutton took a deep breath and acceded to the suggestion with dignity.

    Grinning, Mr French led her over to them.

    Lukey seemed to have vanished, Pip and Mercy seemed to have become absorbed into a group of young people— Lord Sare hesitated. Then he suggested kindly that Miss Martin might like to join her theatrical friends again.

    Cressida looked at the group of Mrs Prettyjohn and spouse, Mr Vanburgh, Miss Trueblood, and a very flushed Mrs Hetty, at this very moment raising a glass to her lips, and inwardly quailed. “Of course; but can you bear it, dear sir?” she said lightly.

    “I can support it with equanimity only if the former Mrs Mayhew does not address me as Peebles,” he said primly.

    “Yes!” she agreed with a little laugh. “Well, she will not do so intentionally.”

    “I would not wager a groat on that,” he drawled, offering her his arm. “Shall we?”

    Smiling, the inwardly quailing Cressida suffered herself to be led over to the group of Isabelle’s former comrades.

    Tilda Trueblood appeared quite animated, for once, and almost immediately said: “Cressida, only guess! Mr French and Miss Hutton were sitting with us just now, and he has given her that exquisite ivory bangle!”

    “Oh, yes? That must be a very good sign,” responded Cressida amiably, frantically wondering what on earth the little ingénue meant and taking a silent vow to wring Miss Duckett’s pretty neck. And not daring to so much as glance in Lord Sare's direction.

    Sure enough, the milord immediately said: “What ivory bangle was that, Miss Trueblood?”

    Tilda gave Cressida a puzzled look. “Um, well, it was in the window of the local curiosity shop, my Lord. We saw it on the day we arrived in Sowcot, and admired it very much. And used to look in the window at it every time we passed the little shop.”

    “Oh, yes? What was it like?” he said to Cressida with a smile.

    “Very pretty,” said that indomitable maiden firmly, “but quite beyond the reach of our purses, was it not, Tilda?”

    “Oh? How much did the fellow want for it?” he said in a amused voice.

    “I cannot remember,” replied Cressida flatly.

    “No-o… But we never asked,” said Tilda in a bewildered voice. “For we knew we could not afford it. Don’t you recall, Cressida? You said as much that first day.”

    “Well, I think I remember!” she said with a merry smile. “But so much happened after that—” She shrugged a little.

    “Yes. Of course,” said Tilda remorsefully.

    Miss Martin could feel the milord’s eyes boring into her. “I am so very glad to hear that it has gone to a good home,” she said firmly. “And it is very good news indeed about Mr French and Miss Hutton; do you not think, Lord Sare?”

    “Of course. He’s a very good fellow,” he returned pleasantly.

    “Aye, that he is. Not h’above his company, neither,” approved Mr Prettyjohn.

    “No, indeed. And most auspiciously placed in life,” said Mrs Prettyjohn graciously. “And the little aunty appeared even more thrilled by the thing than the two most nearly concerned!”

    “Got ’er orf ’er ’ands, you see. Lovely big ’ouse, grounds and all,” said Mrs Hetty muzzily. “And had the sense to propose to a good thing when he seen it,” she noted darkly.

    Cressida rose hurriedly. “Indeed, he did! Come along, dear Mrs Hetty, I think perhaps we should get you home. You have had a long and exhausting day.”

    “S’only across the square. Miss Enright wouldn’t come. Said she didn't fancy bein’ looked at down their noses by all them nobs from all them fancy ’ouses,” she said muzzily.

    “Of course. Allow me to assist you, Mrs Pontifex,” said Lord Sare gravely, coming to put a hand under her elbow.

    Cressida looked on in numb horror as he got her to her feet, handed her her wrap, urged her to farewell her friends, and began to conduct her to the door. One could scarcely imagine a scenario more fraught with danger!

    “I’d better help him,” she said faintly to Isabelle’s friends.

    “Yes: run along, my dear,” conceded Mrs Margery graciously. “Else Hetty will be telling him what she thinks of Peebles. What between you and me, dear, I rather fancy she has fixed in her mental capacity as what he is, still.”

    Smiling palely, Cressida hastened after them.

    Several groups were leaving; Lord Sare got Mrs Pontifex through the little crowd safely, and as Miss Martin caught up with them, attempted to cross the road.

    “There’s ducks an’ mud an’ ponds an’ stuff,” objected Mrs Hetty, standing stock still. “Country stuff.”

    “I do beg your pardon, ma’am. Then let us walk round,” he said courteously.

    “Aye. Though it ain’t like a decent London pavement,” she said, leaning heavily on his arm.

    “No, indeed. It must be quite a change for you, Mrs Pontifex.”

    “Decent food and fresh air. ’S quiet, though, in especial at night.”

    “Indeed,” he agreed courteously.

    Cressida bit her lip. “I think she means she misses the bustle of London.”

    “No, I don’t!” said Mrs Hetty strongly. “Duns and dirt and smoke? And never a sensible woman to talk to! No, but it do seem unnatural, at night.”

    “Yes, of course,” said Cressida soothingly, taking her other arm.

    “It were a good move,” said the elderly actress, smothering a yawn. “If so be as you do mean to stay here, deary?”

    “I hope so,” she said faintly.

    “Good,” she said with a sigh. “And Harold needs me, the widow thinks his assemblies are a joke. Well, they are,” she conceded fairly. “But there’s still things what need doing. And I’ll ’elp with the wardrobe whenever the players come over, and there’s Margery just across the square when I feel like a gossip. No, I’m suited. And the food’s good, better nor what Cook ever managed, bless ’er. Jus’ a pity,” she said with a cracking yawn, “that t’other one couldn’t come down, deary.”

    There was a tingling silence. The indomitable Cressida found she was incapable of utterance.

    “What other one, Mrs Pontifex?” asked Lord Sare politely.

    Mrs Hetty yawned again. “Eh? Oh, you wouldn’t know ’er, me Lord. Oh, yes, you would: was forgetting you was Peebles, for a minute, there. T’other sister, out of courshe. –Pardon me. Courshe.”

    This time the tingling silence was occupied on Miss Martin's part by a fervent wish that the ground would open and swallow her up. Oh, why had she ever been such a fool as to give in to Isabelle’s pleading that they must tell Mrs Hetty the truth?

    “The other sister?” he said neutrally.

    “Yesh: Lilian,” said Mrs Hetty muzzily. “They’re sisters, shee? I mean, shishters. The one,” she said delicately, “may be said to counterbalance the other. Whereas single, they do tend to grate a bit. On the shenshibil’ties,” she explained helpfully.

    “Er—yes,” said Cressida very, very faintly. “I suppose I see what you mean.”

    “Indeed!” he agreed with a laugh in his voice.

    Miss Martin stared into the dark of Sowcot Square, her cheeks on fire, her heart pounding furiously. And tried to breathe slowly and deeply, as recommended by her sister for opening-night nerves.

    Miss Enright greeted the late-night callers without any appearance of surprise, and calmly took the yawning Mrs Pontifex indoors.

    “Take my arm,” said Edward with a smile as they turned to retreat from the Sare Apartments.

    “Thank you. Er—I’m afraid she gets like that,” said Cressida faintly.

    “I know!” he said with a laugh.

    “Yes, of course you do.”

    “Was she better or worse, the day you had to get them all home from the inn near the law courts?” he asked with a grin.

    Fortunately Miss Duckett had disclosed the whole of this scene and its aftermath, so Miss Martin felt quite comfortable in replying: “About the same. She became very aggressive on the subject of her purse.”

    “I remember: you said!” he agreed, laughing a little.

    “Mm.”

    “Shall we brave the ducks and the mud and the country stuff?” he murmured.

    “What? Oh! Well, I think the ducks and the mud are the country stuff! Actually, it is usually geese. The flock belonged to old Mrs Solly but Mrs Garbutt seems to have adopted them.”

    “I see,” he said mildly, conducting her across the road and onto the green. “Do you like the country stuff?” he asked, leading her under a tree.

    Cressida looked up at him uncertainly. In ill-lit Sowcot Square, with little more for illumination than the stars, plus the distant glow from the inn and the theatre, and a few scattered flambeaux, it was very difficult to see his face. “Well, I do not mind it. Personalities matter more to me than places.”

    “Mm. I confess I find it somewhat chafing, for Solly has the affairs of the estate so very well in hand there is little for me to do.”

    “Ye-es… He is not, however, in a position to do positive good in the neighbourhood.”

    “I see. You think that should be my rôle, do you?”

    “Yes. And I think perhaps you do, yourself. I believe you have already done a considerable deal for the workhouse.”

    “Mm, well, I’ve thrown money at it.”

    “The way I heard it, you determined where the money would be most needed and saw to it that it was expended there,” said Cressida firmly.

    “Not quite,” he said with a grimace. “I saw to it that Solly saw it was expended there.”

    “That is as it should be. You are in the position of a captain of a ship,” said Miss Martin in a firm voice, “who cannot do everything himself, but must see that suitable deputies are appointed to carry through his intentions.”

    “Mm. Or that of an admiral, with even less responsibility in the vessel,” he noted drily.

    “Perhaps, yes; but every responsibility for the success of the campaign!” returned Cressida strongly.

    “Mm, well, you are probably right. I just never envisaged myself in such a rôle…”

    “I think it sits very well with very much of your former occupation. Not the more active part, out in the field, of course, but the planning and management of your enterprises.”

    “Er—well, yes!” he said with a smile. “I own, that point had not occurred to me.”

    “And then, you are becoming involved in political life, taking your seat in the House and accepting appointments to committees,” said Miss Martin firmly. “You will not be in the country all of the time, by any means, and I think you will find that your life has more than enough to keep you busy.”

    “Mm. But a man don’t require only to be busy, Miss Martin: there is the point that most of us require also to be happy.”

    “Yes, well, that is natural,” she said steadily.

    “Mm.” He drew a deep breath, took both of her hands firmly in his and said: “Cressida, I think you know how I feel about you—how I have always felt about you. I don’t deny I tried not to admit it to myself for some considerable time.”

    “Yes,” said Cressida in a low voice.

    “I know you very much admired Mr Lefayne—don’t deny it,” he said with a sigh as her hands moved agitatedly in his.

    “I shall not deny it; he is a very attractive man. But very much not the man for me.”

    “No? No regrets?” he said huskily, licking his lips.

    “Not for him nor for the theatrical life, no. His is by far too frivolous a character to suit me; and then, the life itself, though interesting and challenging in its way, is composed, as I have come to realise more and more over these last few months, at best merely of a momentary gratification together with the provision of a very fleeting entertainment. One can do no true good in it,” ended Miss Martin firmly, and with perfect truth.

    “I entirely agree with you, and I am glad to hear you say so. Well—I can certainly offer you the opportunity to do some substantial good. But,” he said, squeezing her hands painfully hard, “I don’t want you for that. I want you if you can love me. Can you?”

    “Yes,” said Cressida simply, looking up into his face.

    He drew her towards him. “Me, and not Peebles?” he said grimly.

    “Certainly not Peebles. I would be chafed to death by his meek nullity,” she said firmly.

    “Ah,” he said on a little sigh. “I see. I think that was always the problem, mm?”

    It most certainly would have been, yes, had she been in Isabelle’s shoes; and so Miss Martin was able to say absolute conviction: “It most certainly was!”

    “Good. And the deviousness of which you once accused me?”

    Help, had she? It must have been during that encounter in the Sare Park library. “I rather like it,” said Miss Martin with a smile in her voice. “I have changed my mind, you see!”

    “So you forgive me for it all?”

    Cressida hesitated. Did she know it all? She took a deep breath. “I forgive you for the Peebles masquerade, sir, and in fact I would have done the same in your place. But is there more?”

    “Only a very little,” said Edward very, very meekly. “Er—the entire inspiration for Hartington’s Players’ tour of the south coast was mine, and although French very kindly lent his name to the enterprise, and set up the theatre here for me, he, er, had no more involvement than that.”

    “Do you mean,” said Cressida dazedly, “that you did all that just—just to help rescue me from Cousin Dearborn?”

    “And to bring you over to Sowcot: yes. Er—overdone, I grant you. Max has always sworn that my indulgence in over-complex schemes will be my downfall.”

    “But— Good grief,” she said limply.

    “Are you very cross?”

    “No, of course not! How could I be, when you did it for my sake? Just… Just stunned,” said Cressida dazedly.

    “I see. Um, should I promise not to do it ever again?”

    She looked up at him, smiling. “I think you should, yes! No more tours of the south coast or anywhere else need be offered to any more aspiring actresses for as long as we live!”

    “No. You will have to live in my boring house—both of my boring houses,” he warned with a smile in his voice.

    “Frankly, if I might do so without the benefit of Lady Hartwell’s company, I think I should very much enjoy that, sir,” said Cressida dulcetly.

    He laughed, and swept her into his arms and kissed her very thoroughly. Cressida Martin threw an arm round his neck and kissed him back very thoroughly.

    “Special licence? Next week? And turf damned Lukey out of the house forthwith?” he suggested with a laugh in his voice.

    “That would afford Lady Bamwell and Mrs Sardleigh far too much entertainment. And I,” said Miss Martin, smiling very much, “have given up the entertainment business entirely!”

    “Of course. But soon, my darling?” he said on a hopeful note.

    Cressida looked up at him and smiled. “Very soon, please, Edward.”

Next chapter:

https://theoldchiphat.blogspot.com/2023/02/re-enter-isabelle.html