Character Rôles

21

Character Rôles

    “We got ’er,” reported Mrs Hetty, allowing Sid to assist her down from the coach. And Josephine, bursting into a storm of sobs, hurled herself into her Cousin Cressida’s arms.

    “It’s all very well,” noted Mrs Mayhew, when Miss Josephine, tear stains on her cheeks, was sleeping in the bed that had been her cousin’s with Belle sitting silently on a hard little chair beside it. “And Lord knows, none of us don’t mind, one way or t’other. But is she or ain’t she, Hetty?”

    Mrs Hetty set down her teacup, and sighed. “Well, for a girl of her class, it don't make no difference, do it? She’s ruined in any case, unless that scoundrel can be forced to marry her. But actually, she ain’t. One less thing to worry about, I s’pose. Well, never mind that. Did Dinwoody get any joy out of ’is Lordship?”

    Mrs Mayhew looked at Miss Martingale, and they both sighed. And the latter admitted: “It appears Lord Sare was called away, shortly before Mr Dinwoody went up to Sare Park. –No, truly!” she said, as Mrs Hetty began to declare he had let himself be brushed off by the servants. “But Mr Dinwoody said he had an idea where Ricky might be, and went off after him.”

    “He borrowed a horse off Mr Jakes, at the Sare Arms,” added Mrs Mayhew helpfully.

    Unexpectedly, Mr Bones here gave a loud cackle.

    “It was Excise Officer Harkness’s horse, as it turned out, and he had no right to let him have it,” admitted Miss Martingale, biting her lip.

    “’E’d took his little boat out, with his spy-glass, ma’am. He does that: gets round The Crunchers, and hides up in the lee of the point. You can see ’im clear as day from up at The Heights: Miss Lotty, she watches ’im from the schoolroom window,” reported Mr Bones.

    Miss Lucy Peebles here gave a high-pitched cackle of laughter, nodding, and Gertie Drew, who had somehow got herself upon Mrs Mayhew’s knee, interjected: “E don’t ’ardly never catch no fish. Only once ’e give Tom ’Arkness a sprat. ’E ate it all up!”

    “’Ead an’ all; aye,” agreed Mr Bones. “What ’e imagines is that by evening, anyone what saw ’im get out in the morning, will of forgotten ’e went. Then ’e thinks ’e’ll catch the smugglers coming and going from Frenchman’s Cove, you see.”

    “More fool ’im,” noted Mrs Jessop calmly. “Well, that’s it, then, Mrs Pontifex: that Dinwoody went off after that no-good, and ’e ain’t come back.” She sniffed. “Been a week, by my count.”

    “We been to the play!” interjected Miss Gertie excitedly.

    “Hush,” said Mrs Mayhew, absently hugging her to her ample bosom. “Tell ’em about it later, eh?”

    “So—so what’s next?” said Mrs Hetty limply.

    “More tea,” replied Mrs Jessop stolidly, refilling the pot.

    “The poor girl may come to us,” said Miss Lucy Peebles. “She may start off as an apprentice, for room and board, and as her skills develop, she’ll get a little wage.”

    “That’s fair: aye,” allowed Mr Bones, nodding his bony head. “And they got the room; or will ’ave, when you theatricals move on.”

    There was a little silence; the theatricals, to say truth, had become so absorbed in the saga that they had forgotten entirely they would be moving on.

    “Yes,” said Mrs Mayhew with something of an effort. Even though she had spent something like thirty years of her life moving on.

    “Aye,” agreed Mrs Hetty heavily, even though she had spent over forty, ditto.

    Mr Lefayne had considerately let Miss Martin receive her cousin and take her into her apartment without burdening her with the presence of an extra male; though, he had reflected, as he instructed the coach to drive on the hundred yards or so to the Sare Arms, there had, really, been no point at all in this restraint. He changed his clothes, refreshed himself with a pint of Mr Jakes’s ale, and strolled back slowly to the Sare Apartments; not particularly willing, if the truth be told, to learn what Lord Sare’s reaction to Miss Martin’s note had been.

    “What?” he said numbly, after several tongues had reported to him.

    “Aye: gorn orf. Urgent business, they said,” noted Mrs Jessop darkly. “What we ’eard was, ’e’s got a houseful of guests. What normal folks would not get orf and leave flat in the middle of a visit. Well, great lords is a law unto themselves. Sit you down, sir. Cup o’ tea?”

    By this time, in spite of the pint of ale, Mr Lefayne felt he needed it. And let Mr Bones give up his chair to him, and sank onto it. “No reply from Lord Sare at all, Miss Martingale?”

    “No, well, he could hardly reply if he were not there, sir.”

    “Did Dinwoody say whether he had left the note?” he asked grimly.

    “’Im!” snorted Mrs Jessop over her teapot.

    “Um—no. Um—we were just explaining, sir, that Mr Dinwoody had a notion where Ricky might have gone and—and went straight off after him,” said Ricky’s sister on a nervous note.

    “You mean he did not report?” he shouted.

    “Um, not exactly.”

    “’E rid up on is ’orse—yes, we know,” said Mrs Jessop, as Gertie told Mr Lefayne it was that Harkness’s horse—“said ’e was orf, and went.” She poured a cup of tea and set it before him. “Men all over,” she noted grimly.

    Limply Mr Lefayne thanked her for the tea.

    “She seems,” reported Mrs Hetty on the following day, “quite bewildered, Sid. Keeps saying the parents can’t have abandoned her. Well, by this time, you’d think it would of sunk in even to that dim yaller head, but the thing is, a shock can take you that way. Or any way, come to think of it: seen some blamed funny things, in me time.”

    “Yes,” he agreed. “Have you broached the idea of her doing sewing for Miss Lucy?”

    “I ain’t, no, acos I could see for meself she ain’t in no fit state to accept the idea. ’Specially when she’s been brung up to think herself a lady and never done a hand’s turn! No, well, the sister went and said it. Think she thought it was going to make ’er feel better. Well, she’s even dimmer, but I’ll say this for her, she seems to have a kinder nature.”

    “What was the reaction?” he asked cautiously.

    Mrs Hetty shrugged. “I weren’t there. But judging by what Mrs Jessop said, first blank incomprehension, then flat-out rejection, then a crying fit what lasted a full hour by them ruddy chiming clocks of old Freed’s! He’d set ’em going, that blamed Georgy asked ’im to.”

    “Mm. Well, she will have to accept her fate at some point, Hetty,” he said heavily.

    “Yes, well, in the meantime, I’ve told Mrs Jessop she’ll need someone to keep an eye on her, twenty-four hours a day, just in case she don’t accept it. But she’d thought of that for ’erself; got a head on ’er shoulders,” she noted approvingly.

    “Mm.” Mr Lefayne drummed his fingers on his elegant knee, scowling.

    “Don’t see there’s nothing else we can do, Sid. We’ll just have to wait until that Dinwoody turns up again, or till Lord S. comes back. –If ’e comes back.”

    “Mm.”

    “Heard something?”

    “Yes: Mrs Jakes from the Sare Arms reports the house party has broken up. And the noddy, Treadwell, who sweeps the steps of the theatre, reported that a great train of carriages was seen leaving Sare Park t’other day.”

    “That bodes well!” she noted sourly.

    “Quite.”

    “Sid, what about the performance for the Bamwells?” she added in horror.

    “Harold tells me that Lady Bamwell has ordered the Molière and Sir Bernie was heard t’other night in the tap telling anyone who cared to listen that it would be a damned bore. –Oh, I see what you mean, Hetty. Well, I don’t think it will affect the audience, much, for the guests at Sare Park seemed to be keeping pretty much to themselves, did they not?”

    “You’re right. Well, no skin off our noses: Harold will’ve got a lump sum out of ’em. So—um—after that, do we move on?” she said cautiously.

    “We have to, Hetty: Harold has theatres booked.”

    Mrs Pontifex bit her lip, but nodded.

    “Has Miss Martin said anything about her plans?” asked Sid tightly.

    “No. You game to ask her?”

    “No,” he said grimly.

    Mrs Hetty hadn’t thought so. She gave him a not unsympathetic look, and for once refrained from speech.

    “I see,” said Mr French slowly, at the end of his daughter’s impassioned speech. “Who did you have this from, Annette?”

    Annette assured him that the whole village knew of Miss Martingale’s unfortunate cousin’s story. And gave him chapter and verse.

    “Well, that seems clear enough. Why are you telling me? Mere prurient interest?”

    She went very red and protested incoherently. Finishing: “I thought we could do something for the poor girl, Papa!”

    Mr French returned, unmoved: “Do what, precisely, Annette?”

    “Well, I do not know, precisely. Cannot you theenk of something, Papa?” she said with a melting look.

    “Not our business,” said Mr French stolidly. “These things happen, Annette. It’s up to the girl’s family to sort it out.”

    “Beut they have abandoned her!” she cried.

    “Up to the sister and the cousin, then.”

    “Papa, that is too cruel!”

    “Look, what do you envisage doing? Inviting a dim little English girl, no better than she should be, into our household? I didn’t bring my children to England for them to put themselves beyond what the local gentry consider the pale within a six-month of our arrival,” he said stolidly.

    Annette’s lips trembled. “I do not laike England, and the English are horrid!”

    “Yes. –Go on: you ain’t proposed any acceptable solution, yet, Annette.”

    “Could you not give her and the sister a leetle cottage, Papa?”

    “In the first place, I don’t have any little cottage to spare. And in the second place, what would they live on in this purely hypothetical little cottage?”

    “You are so rich, can it signifay eef you give them a leetle, leetle allowance?” she cried.

    “I think you mean annuity. Probably it can’t, no. Well, at least you ain’t proposing I give ’em your brother,” he noted drily.

    Annette’ s jaw dropped. “No!” she gasped.

    Mr French eyed her drily. “Quite. There comes a point at which charity stops, don’t there?”

    “Papa, such a suggestion ees utterly unfair to Gégé!” she gasped.

    He eyed her drily. “Added to which, you ain’t making it. If you want to see the disgraced sister re-established, marriage is the only solution.”

    “Vairy well, marry her yourself!” she flashed.

    Mr French shrugged his heavy shoulders. “I don’t give a damn about her, me dear. If I’ve learnt nothing else in the course of a sufficiently hard life, I’ve learnt that oneself and one’s family have to come first. It ain’t merely a matter of money, it’s a matter of… not spreading one’s emotional energies too thin?” he said dubiously. “Well, something of the sort. You need not bother to argue, you’re too young to understand.”

    “I am not!”

    “Yes, you are, Annette: wait until you’re turned fifty.”

    “Oh,” said Annette uncertainly. “But now you have so meuch, you can surely spare just monnay, for these poor girls?”

    “Just money and a cottage and a set of dependants for life, is what you’re talking about.”

    “That ees not so bad!” she flashed. “One must live in the societay of one’s fellow human creatures, after all!”

    Mr French scratched his jaw slowly. “Must one? Well, you put it to that English vicar of yours, and see what he suggests.”

    Annette went very red. “I have spoken to Mr Bigelow, and as you so clearly perceive, he ees a broken reed, and useless! All he weell say ees, the man must be made to marry her! And when I say, how ees that to be done, he says the father must make him!”

    “Mm. Well, if you find a solution that don’t entail inviting either sister into my house or spending my money on ’em, I may be inclined to support you. Otherwise, I’m not interested.”

    She burst into tears, and ran out of the room.

    Mr French scratched his jaw slowly.

    Gerard swallowed. “No, um— Look, I am sympathetic, Annette! Poor damned girl! But the thing is, I’ve only got what Papa allows me.”

    “How meuch ’ave you got?”

    Sighing, Gerard went over to his dresser. She had cornered him in his room, just as he was about to change for dinner: not an ideal moment, really. “Given that I haven’t felt inclined to chuck it away on frivolous bonnets which I then decide to hate, or ribbons that I don’t intend to wear but that are purchased in order to brighten old Mr Twin’s day, not to mention those damned bunches of flowers you let those village idiots foist on you—I swear those red roses were pinched from the vicarage garden, no-one else has that very dark shade— Here,” he said with a sigh. “There’s fifteen guineas there.”

    “Oh, thank you, Gégé!”

    “Annette, that may rent them a cottage for a month or so. What then?”

    Scowling, she said: “Then I weell have had my next quarter’s pin monnay!”

    “Look, if you give it all away, you won’t be able to buy any new stockings or gloves or—”

    But his sister, glaring, rubbished this attitude as unfeeling and inhuman, so Gerard desisted. Possibly if they used their combined allowances for these dashed girls, and he didn’t purchase any gloves or… Did Papa expect him to pay his tailor’s bill out of his allowance, or not? Oh, Hell.

    Mr Solly eyed Miss French dubiously. “A cottage. Well, I don’t say as there may not be one or two available, Miss. But to sign a lease, you’d have to have reached your majority. Which, begging your pardon, Miss French, I’d say you haven’t, yet. And if I may make so bold, why don’t you ask your pa to let you have one of them empty cottages on the Little Sare land? There’s half a dozen, down Foxes’ Lane. In quite good repair: the roofs are sound.”

    “Mr Solly, this ees a case of emergency and—and charitay!” said Annette earnestly.

    “In that case, Miss French, you should definitely speak to your father,” replied the agent firmly, rising.

    Annette retreated, her head held very high, but her lower lip showing a distinct tendency to wobble.

    Her brother having been declared bitterly to be a broken reed in the matter of signing leases for country cottages behind their father’s back, Annette turned elsewhere.

    Sir Bernie Bamwell blenched.

    Annette took a deep breath, and drew him further down the vicarage garden path. They were rehearsing Beauty and The Beast, and she had led him outside ostensibly for a breath of air. “Beut dear Sir Bernie, could it mean anything to you? You are a grown man, after all,” she cooed, fluttering the lashes.

    Sir Bernie smiled feebly. “Aye, but you see, anything on our land, m’mother would get to hear of before the cat could lick her ear. And she’d never stand for girls of that sort putting up in one of our cottages.”

    “Beut they are merely unfortunate, not weecked! Why, it might happen to any girl who was silly and deceived by a bad young man!”

    “Er, yes,” said Sir Bernie, tugging at his neckcloth. “True enough, I suppose. Mamma don’t precisely see these things that way, Miss French.”

    “No, I see. Then, eef it could not be on your land, could you not see your way clear to saign a lease of a leetle cottage elsewhere? Mr Solly has many available cottages, but I cannot saign, for I have not reached my majoritay. And of course the charge weell not come on you, for I weell pay all!” She smiled her most melting smile.

    “Suh-sign a lease of a cottage? One of Sare’s cottages?” he stuttered.

    “Eugh—I suppose. He is Lord Sare’s agent, non? What ees wrong with that?”

    Visions of the gossip that would arise should he install two pretty girls in one of Sare’s cottages danced dizzily before poor Sir Bernie’s eyes. Not only would it be all over the village before the cat could lick her ear, it would speedily be all over the county, and inevitably the inhabitants of Sare Park would get to know of it and then it would spread to London and— God.

    “’Fraid it’s absolutely out of the question, Miss French!” he gulped. “Er—possibly you don’t understand how these things are done, in England!” he added with a desperate smile.

    “Oh, I ondairstand vairy well, and you English gentlemen are all a lot of spineless broken reeds and pinkomnoops, and I despaise you all!” she cried, rushing away like a small, angry whirlwind.

    Sir Bernie shook his head dazedly. “Eh? Pinkom—? Oh,” he muttered, going very red.

    Belle, Josephine, their cousin and Mrs Jessop stared dazedly as Miss French emptied her reticule on Mrs Jessop’s table.

    “It ees all I could manage!” she gasped, very flushed. “Beut I beg you well take it, and not say a theeng, for it is from one human being to another! And I could not manage to get you a cottage, for I am not old enough to saign a lease, but at least the monnay weell ’elp!”

    “Miss French, this is a great deal of money!” gasped Miss Martingale. “And—and you are very kind, but we do not know you!”

    “I said, it ees from one human being to another.”

    “Miss, you’d better sit down and tell us where it all come from,” said Mrs Jessop at her grimmest.

    “Indeed,” agreed Belle dazedly. “Why, there must be dozens of guineas, here.”

    “I weell tell you, but first you meust promise to take it,” said Annette firmly.

    Josephine licked her lips and looked pleadingly at her cousin. “Could we not, Cressida?”

    “It would certainly help,” she admitted somewhat faintly.

    “Vairy well, I sit,” said Annette in a firm voice, sitting.

    Dazedly the others followed suit, Belle hoisting Troilus Martin onto her knee and beginning to stroke him as if unaware she was doing so.

    “The most,” admitted Annette, “is from Gégé. Because he did not faind so meuch to spend it on in Dorset, you know? And he weell not meess it and all he has to do is ask Papa for more, eef he should need it.”

    “Is—is this your brother?” said Josephine dazedly. “But we have never met him.”

    “Your cousin has met him, but in any case, it cannot signify. He gives because he theenks you may be in more need of it than we are. As for the rest, Aunt Anstey, she gives some—”

    “Miss French,” said Miss Martingale, reddening, “was your Aunt Anstey aware of the purpose for which the money was intended?”

    “Not precisely. I said there was a girl in dire need. So at first she theenks it is me, and has—eugh—a conniption, no?” said Annette sunnily. “Then she is vairy relieved. And so she gives me all she has about her. Not the housekeeping monnay,” she admitted on a regretful note. “She says that Papa has entrusted that to her. And a leetle I add, because I do not need it. But unfortunately I have spent most of my pin monnay, this quarter.”

    “You—you are all very kind,” faltered Belle, her eyes filling with tears.

    “Yes,” said Josephine very, very faintly. “Duh-do they all know, then?”

    “Now then, that’ll do,” said Mrs Jessop stolidly. “We been over that, Missy, ain’t we? Dare say the whole village do know, but yer can’t keep that sort o’ thing a secret in a small place like this. And none of them don’t think none the worse of yer for it,” she ended on a militant note.

    Josephine tried to smile, but failed. “What about the ladies and gentlemen?” she whispered.

    “Well, I deed not say who, to Aunt Anstey,” replied Annette on a dubious note. “Beut as you do not know Sir Bernie Bamwell, it cannot signifay— O, là, là!” she cried, as Josephine burst into snorting sobs.

    “Come on,” said Mrs Jessop heavily, putting a hand under her elbow. “You come and lie down, and I’ll bring you a cup o’ tea. No-one takes no account of the nobs round ’ere, Missy, and so you’ll find. We’ll look after you.” And the sobbing Josephine was led out.

    “I am so sorry,” said Annette lamely.

    “No—please,” said Belle, very red. “My sister has still not adjusted to—to the change in our circumstances. I must thank you for your great kindness, Miss French.”

    “Please, theenk nothing of it!” said Annette eagerly. “And you weell accept it?”

    Belle looked uncertainly at Cousin Cressida.

    “I think,” said that maiden, taking a deep breath, “we must do so, Belle. We cannot afford not to. And we thank you from the bottoms of our hearts, Miss French.”

    Beaming, Annette informed her that she was so very, very glad that she could help, and, asking them to call her Annette, eagerly drank tea and plunged into chat about the theatrical life.

   … “’Ow much?” demanded Mrs Jessop, coming back after the caller had departed.

    Belle was counting it, her fingers shaking. “Mrs Jessop, there is over sixty guineas here!” she whispered in awe.

    “Good,” said the grim landlady simply. “We’ll put it away safe, eh? And don’t tell yer sister how much: it’ll be something to fall back on. We don’t want her to start getting ideas about not needing the place with Miss Lucy, after all.”

    “No, indeed! You are so sensible, dear Mrs Jessop!” said Belle eagerly.

    Mrs Jessop noted grimly that someone needed to be, but looked gratified, nonetheless. And after the pot had been freshened and a last cup squeezed out of it, suggested that Troilus needed a walk and Miss Belle could take him on it. And Belle, blushing and looking very nervous, nevertheless put on her bonnet and sallied forth with him.

    “Whew,” said Mrs Jessop, sitting down limply.

    “Mrs Jessop, you are a genius! That is the first step she has taken outside by herself!” beamed Belle’s cousin.

    “Aye, well, she had to start some time. Don’t mind admitting it’s a relief, though.”

    “Indeed!” She looked thoughtfully at the crockery jar which Mrs Jessop had selected for the money. “I suppose we could spend some of it on funding Mr Dinwoody to hunt further afield for Ricky.”

    “Huh! ’E ain’t come back from the first go, yet!”

    “No. –No, it would not be sensible, for even if he did find him, what possible persuasion could we use to make him marry her?”

    “Apart from that Dinwoody’s fist?” Mrs Jessop shrugged. “None. And it’s got to be done in front of a vicar, mind: you’d haul him along, maybe, only then ’e’d jib.”

    “Mm. If only Lord Sare had not gone away!” she burst out.

    “No, well, in the first place, them as pins their hopes on men doing something to save their bacon, be they lords or common fellows, is doomed to disappointment in my experience, Missy. And in the second place, let’s say ’e’s willing to help, which I don’t for a h’instant imaginate ’e will be, but let’s say; what’s ’e going to use to persuade your brother? A fancy sword instead of a hard fist? It’d come down to the same, in the end: you’d get ’im to the altar, but no further. Or was you thinking as his Lordship, ’e might offer ’im a small fortune to take the girl?”

    Ricky’s sister chewed on her lip. “I cannot see that any argument would weigh with Ricky: certainly no appeal to his—his honour or anything of that sort.”

    Mrs Jessop sniffed. “Right.”

    “But as he is to come into the bulk of our grandfather’s property in a couple of years, I really do not see that any bribe could be successful, either. Unless… Well, unless perhaps Lord Sare were to offer him enough to live on very, very well for the next year or so.”

    The landlady sniffed again.

    “No, I cannot see why he should, either. We have certainly no claim on him, and poor Josephine has even less,” she said wanly.

    “No. You got to rely on yourself and your wits, Miss,” said Mrs Jessop firmly.

    “Yes. And on certain very kind friends, I think,” she replied, smiling at her. “Um, Mrs Jessop, do you think there might be any way I might earn a living here? Do Mrs and Miss Feathers need any help with their sewing?”

    “They might, Missy. Need a few more orders to come in, though. Um… Drop a hint to Miss French? Dare say every curtain and hanging at Little Sare could do with replacement.”

    “She has done so much for us already.”

    “If the work’s got to go somewhere, Miss, it might as well come to you and Mrs and Miss Feathers.”

    “Well, yes. The thing is, I might make my way on the boards, and Mr Hartington has begun to pay me a very little, but I do not think I should leave Belle and Josephine, so soon.”

    “No-o… We can keep an eye on ’em, but I agree, it ain’t like having your own folks. But then, what can’t be cured must be endured. If you got to go orf with the actors to earn your living, then you got to. Only what about that famous letter of yours for ’is Lordship?”

    Miss Martingale licked her lips. “Mm. He isn’t here.”

    “Don’t think that’s the point. Will Mr Lefayne let you go orf with them afore his Lordship’s had a chance to read it?”

    “Probably not,” she admitted, scowling.

    “I wouldn’t waste me time wondering about it, then. Wait and see. Meantime, you want to get on over to the butcher’s and see if ’e’s got any suet? Nice and white, mind.”

    Smiling, Major Martin’s daughter got up and put her battered chip hat on. “Suet, nice and white: certainly. –I shall pay,” she said firmly.

    “Go on, then,” replied Mrs Jessop tolerantly.

    She hurried out, still smiling.

    Mrs Jessop looked hard at the pottery jar. Her lips moved silently. Then she did complex arithmetic on her fingers, her lips still moving silently. “Well,” she said heavily to herself at last, “it’s more cash nor what I ever seen in the one place before. But with three of ’em, ladies to boot, and then a little dawg, and almost nothing coming in?” She did more complex arithmetic. “Three years?” she concluded grimly. “Maybe. If Miss Lucy lasts that long. Well,” she said, heaving herself to her feet, “no use in troubling trouble afore it troubles you. But if we can find even one useless lump to take one of them girls, it’ll be a blessing, that’s what!” Forthwith she hauled out her mixing bowl, and grimly measured flour into it. Very possibly Mr Rogers, the butcher, who had taken a great fancy to Miss Martingale, might give her some scrag ends. In the which case, something along the lines of a meat pudding could be managed. If not, it would be plain suet pudding, and them as fancied themselves too fine for it, would just have to lump it. Mrs Jessop sighed. Feeding the Dearborn sisters, even though they did their best to be grateful, was proving quite a burden.

    Having visited Mrs Burgess’s shop and received all the very latest gossip along with the items on her aunt’s list, India Hutton wandered slowly along the square in the sunshine, prolonging the delicious sensation of being about to look in Mr Twin’s window… Ooh! It was more fascinating than ever! A dining chair which must have once been very handsome indeed was now the chief feature. Possibly it could still be handsome, if one replaced the tattered and positively sprouting upholstered seat, and revarnished the wooden parts. Er, and did something drastic about the initials “E.J.H.” which had been deeply carved into one of the legs. India racked her brains but could not think of any genteel family in the neighbourhood whom the initials might match. The wood-box had disappeared, and so had the glass of dying weeds. The contents of the saucer had been augmented by one gentleman’s razor featuring an ivory handle with a chip out of it, and a frowsty knot of bluish ribbon. On the seat of the dining chair was a small tray. Possibly once painted with a pastoral scene? Well, that certainly looked like the remains of a tree in that corner, and that was definitely blue sky, and in the near corner, that pinkish shape might, with some stretch of the imagination, form a shepherdess’ skirt… India gave a happy sigh.

    The tray contained a tangle of cheap jewellery: a string of tiny amethyst beads, several grimy strings of glass beads of various colours, a large brass clip in want of polishing which contained a dull black stone that was possibly jet but possibly not, several tawdry bangles, all brass, a handful of oval turquoise beads strung on a hairy piece of twine, several brass rings, a pair of small coral earrings, one of which had a broken hook, one very pretty earring which looked like gold but lacked a pair—India peered: yes, lacked a pair, what a pity—plus the utterly delicious ivory bangle which she had long coveted, and another handsome bracelet in what was possibly not gold, featuring what were possibly not small pearls and rubies, set in a pattern of little—

    India gave a gasp, and flattened her nose to the grimy bottle-glass pane. It was distorting her view, but— Little flowers, the gold setting charmingly moulded into the shape of leaves? She peered. She was not absolutely sure, but if it was, then there could scarcely be two like it in the environs of Sowcot, and so this must be the very bracelet which she had seen a dozen times on Miss French’s wrist!

    For once the shop was open and Mr Twin could be discerned behind his counter. India hesitated a moment, then pushed the door open and went in.

    “’Morning, Miss Hutton,” said Mr Twin politely. “Lovely day, ain’t it?”

    “Good morning, Mr Twin. Yes, it is a glorious morning.”

    “And ’ow may I help you, this glorious morning?” asked Mr Twin with a polite smile, just as if he was not perfectly well aware that Miss Hutton did not have a penny to bless herself with and could not afford even that string of minute chips of amethyst.

    “I wonder if I might look at the bangles in your window?”

    Obligingly Mr Twin fetched the tray. Obligingly he picked out the ivory bangle, held it at a suitable angle and noted: “Charming, ain’t it, Miss?”

    India forbore to groan. After all, she knew she could not afford it. “Yes. Lovely. Er, may I see that gold one?”

    Silently Mr Twin held it up.

    It was Miss French’s: there was no doubt of it at all. The links fitting together into a circlet, but somehow cunningly jointed so that— Yes. And the delicate tracery of the veins in the leaves: there could not be two in the whole country, let alone Sowcot! And as Mrs Burgess’s gossip had this morning included the information that the “poor young ladies” who were staying with Mrs Jessop had received a large sum of money from an unknown benefactor, alongside the information, imparted with the blandest of expressions, that little Miss French had been begging Mr Solly to let her a cottage, there could be very little doubt that she had sold it in order to help the little actress’s unfortunate cousins.

    “May I ask where you bought it, Mr Twin?” said India valiantly.

    Mr Twin gave a very slight sniff. “’Ad it orf a lady.”

    India swallowed. “Yes. I shall not press you for the name: I do not think that would be fair to either party. I shall just ask, Was she a very young lady?”

    “Well, I don’t mind telling you, Miss, as she were,” said Mr Twin mildly.

    “Mm. Um, could I possibly ask you not to—um, not to sell it to anyone, until I return?”

    Mr Twin was seen to pass his tongue around his teeth in a ruminative grimace. “Dare say that could be managed. When was you planning to return, Miss Hutton?”

    “Well, I—I hope later today.”

    “I can ’old it for yer for a week,” said Mr Twin on a firm note, reaching beneath his counter to produce a small black-painted metal box. Solemnly he produced a key from his waistcoat pocket, unlocked the box, placed the bracelet in it, and relocked it.

    “Er—yes,” said India, blinking. “Thank you very much. I shall hope not to be a week.”

    “It’s no trouble at all, Miss Hutton,” replied Mr Twin, politely showing her to the door. “Pray convey my respectful greetings to your aunt, Miss. Good-day to you, Miss.”

    India bade him good-day and hurried out.

    Mr Twin leaned in his doorway, watching the faded fawn print dress hasten away. “Well, there’s one,” he said under his breath. The onlooker might not have gathered one what; but anyone might have gathered that Mr Twin was pretty pleased with the reflection, for he went back into his shop humming.

    Mr French’s butler in person came into his study looking portentous, and informed him there was a lady who wished to see him on urgent business.

    “I think you mean, wishes to see Mrs Anstey,” said Mr French mildly.

    “No, sir. The lady most particularly asked for yourself.” The butler coughed slightly. “She is a lady who has visited, sir.”

    “Else you would have shown her the door, hey?” said his employer, eyeing him drily. “Yes, well, in future, kindly make a practice of seeing me before you show anyone the door, King.”

    “Certainly, sir,” replied Mr King, smooth as silk.

    “Who is it?” demanded Mr French baldly, repressing a strong desire to seize the fellow by the seat of his immaculate butlerly breeches and the collar of his immaculate butlerly coat and toss him head-first into— Yes, well, that was what came of hiring impeccable English servants. And he had known it would be so, so he had only himself to blame, didn’t he?

    “A Miss Hutton, sir,” said Mr King expressionlessly.

    “Then I hope you’ve shown her into the library. Take her a tray of refreshment, give her my compliments, and tell her I’ll be with her in ten minutes. Oh, and apologise for the delay, King.”

    “Certainly, sir.” Mr King exited, smooth as silk.

    Mr French, instead of getting on with the work on his desk, of which there was certainly more than enough to occupy him for far more than ten minutes, stared blankly at the closed study door for quite some time.

    “Good morning, Miss Hutton,” he said cheerfully, some ten minutes later. “Sorry to keep you waiting: had some urgent letters which I was finishing.”

    “Of course. Thank you for seeing me, Mr French,” said India, rising politely.

    Mr French did not tell her not to get up: instead he came and bowed over her hand, giving her a searching look as he did so. And said, once they were both seated: “How can I help you?”

    “I think the boot is on the other foot, sir,” replied India with her friendly smile.

    Few people offered George French help of any kind. And when they did, there were normally strings attached. He did not think Miss Hutton was of that sort, but you never knew. His eyebrows rose very slightly. “Oh?”

    “Oh, dear. This is rather embarrassing, and I suppose it is not the best way of doing it, but I thought I had best come and see you immediately— I’m so sorry, sir, I’m rambling on.” India took a deep breath. “I think Miss French owns a very pretty gold bracelet, links composed of gold leaves with little flowers of rubies and pearls?”

    “Mm. Sixteenth-century work. French.”

    India gulped. “Help. Then it must be very valuable?”

    “Sufficiently.”

    She took another deep breath. “I would break this gently, sir, if I possibly could: I think I have just seen it in Mr Twin’s shop window.” There was no reaction; India said on a desperate note: “The little curiosity shop in the village, sir!”

    “I see. May I ask why you have come to me, rather than my daughter or her chaperone?”

    India’s jaw sagged. “Wuh-well, I—I suppose I thought, if Miss French had needed to sell it, then she would presumably not have the money to purchase it back. And—and it did seem a valuable piece, sir, and— Well, I suppose I just thought that I had best tell you directly, rather than depute the task to her aunt.”

    “Mm.” Mr French rubbed his chin slowly. “What makes you suppose that Annette sold it, and not that it was stolen?”

    India went very red. “I suppose I have been listening to gossip, Mr French. And I asked Mr Twin from whom he had bought it, and although he would not tell me, he admitted that it was from a very young lady.”

    “I see. And what was this gossip to which you have been listening?”

    Poor India was now at a loss to know whether the man suspected her of wishing to blackguard his daughter, or—or what! “Mrs Burgess at the village shop had two stories, which she seemed to feel were—were connected, sir. One being that the unfortunate connections of the young actress, Miss Martingale, who have come to stay with her, have lately received quite a large sum of money, and the other being that Miss French had hoped to rent a cottage.” She swallowed. “That—that might seem like nonsense, but, um—”

    “Not as Ma Burgess put it, hey?” said Mr French, rising and ringing the bell. “Annette’s already asked me for money for a cottage for those damned girls. I told her I’d support her if she could find some way of helping them that didn’t entail either using my money or introducing ’em into my household, and she seems to have done so.” A footman entered silently and he said: “Send Miss French in here immediate.” He came over to India and held out his hand to her.

    India rose uncertainly. “I hope you see I had to come. Good-bye, sir,” she said, putting her hand in his.

    “I was about to thank you, Miss Hutton,” said Mr French expressionlessly. “Not many unmarried English ladies would have had either the sense or the guts to come and beard the lion in his den.”

    India gaped at him.

    “Thank you,” he said, squeezing her hand gently.

    “Y—Um— Not at all!” she gasped. “Shuh-shall I go, then?”

    Mr French’s hand tightened on hers. “No, don’t you go, Miss Hutton. And you needn’t worry that you’re about to witness a scene,” he added, suddenly twinkling at her.

    “No!” gasped India, very flushed.

    “Please—sit down. Did you walk all the way?” he asked, as India sank back onto her chair.

    “What? Oh—of course. It is not so far.”

    “Far enough. I hope the tea was drinkable?”

    “Yes, thank you. And the sandwiches were delicious,” she said faintly.

    Mr French leaned an elbow on the mantelpiece and looked down at her with a smile. “Good. Acos the thing is, you see, when a self-made fellow like me hires a houseful of impeccable English servants, he can never be sure what they’re up to behind his back. That damned butler was polite, I trust?”

    “Yes, very polite,” said India dazedly.

    “Hm,” he said neutrally. “Ah, there you are,” he said as his daughter came in.

    Very surprised to see her, Annette greeted India delightedly.

    “Miss Hutton is here because she spotted your French Renaissance bracelet in the local curiosity shop window, and you’re here to give us an explanation, Miss,” said Mr French without preamble.

    Annette glared. “I sold it. It was maine!”

    “Possibly it was. How much did you get for it, it if ain’t asking too much?”

    “Faive guineas,” she said, glaring defiantly.

    “You were robbed, in that case,” said her father flatly.

    “Well, vairy likely, but Mr Twin was vairy obliging, and I could not see how to get to Dorchester and faind a jeweller, so I accepted his offer!”

    “Mm. That bracelet was your mother’s,” he noted.

    Annette pouted.

    “Your grandfather would have ten thousand fits to hear you only got five guineas for it.”

    “Oh, pooh; how meuch deed he give for it?” she cried angrily.

    “Given that the going rate for French heirlooms round about the time that Robespierre and his lot were chopping off the heads of aristos like nobody’s business wasn’t all that much, a reasonably fair price,” replied Mr French blandly. “I think you ought to thank Miss Hutton for having taken the trouble to tell me, and apologise to her for putting her to all the bother of walking up here; don’t you?”

    Annette beamed upon her. “Well, yes: I do thank you, dear Miss Hutton, and of course we shall send you back een the barouche, and I apologise that you had seuch a long walk.”

    “Not at all; it’s a beautiful morning,” said India numbly.

    “How meuch deed Mr Twin ask for it?” she asked curiously.

    “Nothing,” replied India very, very faintly. “I knew I could not afford it, so I did not enquire the price.”

    Annette’s jaw dropped.

    “What she thought, you see, Miss Hutton, was that you had brought it back, and that this soft-hearted noddy in front of you was going to repay you the sum and get it back for her,” her father explained genially.

    Miss French was now very red. “No!” she gulped.

    Mr French sniffed slightly. “As it is, it’s sitting there in this Twin’s shop a-waiting for some dame like Ma Sardleigh or Lady B. to spot it for what it is and pounce on it.”

    “No, no!” cried India agitatedly. “I asked him if he would promise not to sell it until I could get back, and he very kindly put it away!”

    “Did he? Then perhaps we’d best not disappoint him. –But don’t imagine you’ll get it back, Miss,” he said calmly to his daughter. “It can go into the safe until you’re twenty-one, or have attained sense. Whichever comes second,” he ended drily.

    “Beut you have not even asked why I sold it,” said Annette lamely.

    “I ain’t a noddy, Annette. And the whole village knows why you sold it.”

    “What? No!” said India, very agitated. “I thought you understood, sir! I guessed, when I saw it in the window. But no-one else knows.”

    “They seem to know she’s been chucking money at these Miss Whatsanames, though. Same difference,” he said calmly, ringing the bell.

    There was a little silence after he had ordered the barouche.

    “I deed not have anything else valuable to sell,” said Annette with a pout.

    “No, well, granted there probably ain’t much market for silly bonnets or netted purses in Sowcot,” agreed Mr French.

    “Well, I am sorry, Papa,” she said with a sigh. “I would not have sold something of Maman’s if there had been an alternative. Beut it was a question of the greater good.”

    “Aye, well. At least you didn’t give up,” he said calmly.

    Annette put her chin in the air. “I do not geeve up!”

    “No. –Got a lot of her maternal grandfather in her. As well as a lot of me. Only without the commercial acumen of either, apparently,” Mr French explained to the numbed India.

    “I know it was not a fair price!” shouted his daughter furiously.

    “Hush. I promised Miss Hutton there wouldn’t be a scene. You did not bad, Annette. Given that a girl of your age and circumstances don’t have many choices.”

    “Eef you know that, Papa, then why would you not help me?” she cried.

    “Yes,” agreed India in some fascination. “It seems illogical.”

    Mr French winked at her. “Oh, I ain’t illogical, Miss Hutton. Wanted to see if she could stand on her own two feet. Added to which, I don’t wish to have two unknown English girls, no better than they should be, foisted upon my household; what man would?”

    “Er—I think that is reasonable,” said India cautiously to the red-faced Annette.

    “Beut would you refuse to house them, Miss Hutton?” she cried.

    “Um, the question does not arise. I am dependent on my kind aunt, and it is rather hard to put myself in the place of an independent person of the opposite sex, Miss French… No, well, in your father’s position,” said India cautiously, “with yourself and Mr Gerard to establish creditably, you know, I do not think I would have cared to risk the wrath of Lady Bamwell and Mrs Sardleigh by inviting the poor girls into my house, either.”

    Annette frowned, but admitted: “I do not agree with that reasoning, beut I understand it. But jeust to geeve them monnay? Would you have offered?”

    India cleared her throat. “I’ve never been in the position of having any. Um, well, I think I would have, yes.”

    “See?” she said crossly to her father.

    “I’m an old Jew, yes,” replied Mr French blandly. “You can stay here. I’ll take you home, Miss Hutton, and get the bracelet back.”

    Somewhat limply India allowed him to lead her out to the barouche.

    As they drove Mr French chatted blandly about the theatrical performances they had enjoyed in Sowcot. India’s replies, to say truth, were somewhat disjointed.

    “Good morning, again, Miss Hutton,” said Mr Twin smoothly as they entered the dark little shop.

    India glanced doubtfully up at Mr French, but as he did not utter, replied: “Good morning, Mr Twin. I should like to see that bracelet you put aside, please.”

    “Of course, Miss.” Smoothly Mr Twin produced it. “Pretty, ain’t it?” he said smoothly. “One could not let it go for what they call a song, but a fair h’offer would be considered in a favourable light.”

    “Five guineas,” said Mr French instantly.

    “Oh, I venture to say, sir, that the piece is worth far more.”

    “I venture to say it is, yes. Haven’t we met before?” replied Mr French, eyeing him hard.

    “I believe it’s Mr French, ain’t it, sir? –Yes. Can’t say as ’ow I remember meeting no Mr French afore this day, sir. Not, as you might say, h’in person,” said Mr Twin, with a smooth bow.

    “No, well, leaving aside considerations of persons, a ruby necklace with an unusual catch of worked gold set with pearls came into the transaction that I remember. 1810, as I recall. Amsterdam,” said Mr French, looking dreamy.

    “Couldn’t of been, sir!” replied Mr Twin in shocked tones. “1810? Why, we was at war with the Frogs then, sir, and there was blockades in the Channel, and I dunno what!”

    “Seven and a half guineas,” returned Mr French at his blandest.

    “Now, be fair to a working man, sir!” protested Mr Twin.

    “That’ll give you a profit of fifty percent on the deal: that’s more than generous.”

    “But, um, two and a half is not fifty percent of seven and a half, sir,” objected India dubiously.

    “It’s fifty percent of what he paid for it, though: see?”

    “Oh. Of course. That does seem more than fair, Mr Twin,” she ventured.

    Mr Twin gave a heavy sigh. “Miss Hutton, it’s robbing a poor working man. I could get a ’undred guineas, easy, for this ’ere artefack, if so be I was to take it up to London town.”

    “I doubt it. But try it, by all means,” said Mr French blandly.

    “A hundred guineas?” said India dazedly, goggling at the bracelet.

    “For a bauble, mm. Seems wicked, don’t it?” said Mr French blandly, producing a purse and counting out seven and a half guineas from it. “You’ll find that no reputable jeweller will take it off your hands, Mr Twin, if you venture forth to London town. And I really do not advise you to try the Jews,” he added kindly.

    Mr Twin did not precisely blench, at this, but he was certainly perceived to twitch. “I might get fifty for it, in Dorchester,” he offered feebly.

    “You might get twenty, Mr Twin. Try Ford & Beaufort. Or should they threaten to call the authorities, there is a Mr Aaronson, in Smith’s Lane, who might be silly enough to offer as much as fifteen. Well, say twelve.”

    “Shouldn’t dream of it, sir!” replied Mr Twin, suddenly very bright and perky. “Seven and a ’alf in the ’and’s better than no Aaronsons in the bush, h’if I may say so. And gratified to ’ave your custom, Mr French, sir! Perhaps you’d care to see some of my other pieces?” he added, scooping up the money as if in passing and going to his window. “Miss Hutton and meself are agreed that this is a pretty thing,” he noted, indicating the ivory bangle.

    To Miss Hutton’s surprise, Mr French did not take his daughter’s bracelet and go; though he certainly did take the bracelet and stow it carefully in an inside pocket of his coat. He inspected the trayful of tawdry tinsel with interest. “A shilling,” he offered solemnly, holding up the turquoise beads on the piece of hairy twine.

    “Very amusink, sir,” replied Mr Twin.

    “They are a very pretty shade,” noted India.

    Mr Twin held his neat, unremarkable little head on one side. “’Ad ’em orf a sailor what claimed ’e got ’em in the Americkies. A wild Indian, black as yer ’at, dressed in a blanket, swapped ’em for a handful of pistol balls. What I dare say was the goink price in the Americkies. H’at the time.”

    “Are they native work, then?” asked India in fascination.

    “I dare say, Miss. Not Spanish, any’ow.”

    “Where’s the silver what went with ’em?” enquired Mr French in the friendliest of tones.

    “Silver? Never ’eard of no silver, sir.”

    “Two bob, then.”

    Shrugging, Mr Twin accepted two shillings and handed Mr French the beads. He then silently held up the ivory bangle.

    “I am sure Miss French would like it,” said India.

    “Her! Being put over me knee is what she deserves, Miss Hutton!” retorted her father on a robust note. “Give her a present for selling off her mother’s jewellery?” Nevertheless he took the ivory bangle and went over to the window, to hold it up to the light.

    “It’s lovely,” said India with a smothered sigh. “See how prettily the leaves are carved? Would they be acanthus leaves, sir?’

    “No: meant for peonies. Look, here: there’s a chip out of the edge,” he said severely.

    “Well, yes, a tiny one. But then, I suppose it is quite old,” she murmured.

    “Not as old as all that. Got it off a sailor off an East Indiaman, did you, Mr Twin?”

    “Aye. Carrying tea, they were. Genuine Chinese work, that is. Care to make a h’offer, sir?”

    “Rubbish. Indian. Fake. See a dozen of ’em every day on the docks at Calcutta,” said Mr French briskly, handing it back.

    “Sir, h’as I live and breathe, this ’ere is genuine Chinese carved ivory!” he cried in anguish.

    “Rubbish. Bone. Indian.”

    “No! Look at the quality of the work, sir!” As Mr French still looked unconvinced, he admitted sourly: “Maybe I never ’ad it orf no sailor orf an East Indiaman as such.” Mr French, his face expressionless, here winked at India, and Mr Twin was heard to gulp slightly. But continued valiantly: “It come from a greasy Portugee what picked it up in Macao. –Look, Miss,” he said earnestly to India: “see ’ow fine the latticework is behind them flowers and leaves? And the ’ole thing’s ’ollow: worked out of a solid piece, it is, not a join to be seen! Makes it incredible light on the wrist, Miss. Work of that quality never come orf no Calcutta dock nor nothink like it, as Gawd’s my witness.”

    There was a short pause.

    “Personally I am waiting for the sky to fall, or the Last Trump, or similar,” noted Mr French to the ambient air.

    India gulped, and avoided Mr Twin’s eye. “It does seem convincing: the work is very fine.”

    “Miss Hutton, would you know genuine Chinese ivory if it stood up and barked at you?” returned Mr French genially.

    “No,” she admitted, reddening. “Very well, I shall keep out of it.”

    “The trick is, spot the noddy what comes in with a lady on his arm,” said Mr French dreamily, “spot what the lady fancies, and praise it up to the skies.”

    “Y— Um— Oh, dear. Mr Twin,” said India valiantly, “I fear you are labouring under a misapprehension. I am only with Mr French on account of his daughter’s bracelet.”

    “H’of course, Miss Hutton,” said Mr Twin smoothly, bowing. “And would never venture to suggest otherwise, with a lady like yourself. What if I may make so bold, the gent was joking, Miss.”

    “What’s your price?” said Mr French in bored voice.

    Mr Twin sniffed slightly. “Make me a h’offer.”

    “Given that it come a long way in the pocket of this Portugee, ten shillings.”

    Silently Mr Twin returned the bangle to the tray.

    “Come along then, Miss Hutton,” said Mr French, taking her elbow gently. “Good-day to you, Mr Twin,” he added genially.

    India was over the threshold and Mr French was just about to follow her when Mr Twin said: “Fifty guineas.”

    “Should you care to step in again, Miss Hutton?” said Mr French courteously. “Given that there is a very large market for these Eastern artefacts in rural Dorset, Mr Twin, one guinea.”

    “Lady Bamwell come in ’ere and admired it only t’other day,” said Mr Twin dreamily.

    India gave an indignant gasp. “Sir, she offered him five shillings!”

    “She admired it, though, Miss,” said Mr Twin in a respectful tone. “And I ain’t in no ’urry.”

    Mr French scratched his chin. “No, well, how long’s it been in your window? As long as you've been here, Miss Hutton? Not quite? Let’s say six months, makes a nice round figure. From nought to five bob in six months… At that rate, if you and Lady Bamwell can both hang on for another hundred and four years, six months, Mr Twin, you’ll get your price out of her.”

    “It’s clean as a whistle,” returned Mr Twin, somewhat obscurely. “Thirty guineas, and I’m doink you a favour.”

    “Two.”

    “Fifteen. Gents as collecks these ’ere artefacks would offer sixty, and no questions arst.”

    “For sixty guineas, on the contrary, they would require written provenance, seals and all, and an affidavit from the Governor of Macao himself,” replied Mr French blandly. “Not to say, the thing to be carved from a solid emerald. Two’s my last offer.”

    “Sorry, sir. It’d be a h’insult to a fine artefack, to let it go for that, even to yourself,” replied Mr Twin sadly.

    “Come along, then, Miss Hutton,” said Mr French, propelling her out.

    India allowed herself to be assisted into the barouche. “Are you really not going to buy it?” she said dazedly.

    “Not at that price, no. Not with a chip out of it. Drive on!” cried Mr French. “Dove Cottage!” The coachman whipped up his pair, and the barouche moved off slowly. “I may be soft, but I’m not a noddy,” explained Mr French courteously.

    “Soft? On the contrary, sir, you are as hard as nails!” replied India with some feeling.

    He smiled a little. “Fifteen guineas is not a fair price for a pretty Chinese artefact with a chip out of it.”

    India’s jaw sagged. “So it is Chinese?”

    “Certainly. Not very old, however. They have latched onto the fact that the European market is only too happy to snap up anything they care to manufacture, so they make pieces to suit. Silly little hollow balls, one inside t’other, carved out of a sold block: that sort of thing. That sort of bangle would require very much the same technique. I admit the latticework is very fine,” he said with a twinkle. “And it is ivory, though much of the stuff they pass off as such is bone.”

    “Yes. Oh; I see! You mean the Chinese pass bone off as ivory? Yes.”

    “Two guineas is a more than fair price: he would be lucky to get one guinea, in London. And he knows it; and knows I know it, as well.”

    India nodded numbly. “I see. Um, had you met Mr Twin before, sir?” she said dazedly.

    “Mm? Oh! Yes; in 1810, as I said. I happened to step into the outer office of one of our establishments as he was trying to sell the necklace I mentioned. Though I did not precisely meet him: merely, I advised our manager that if the fellow could not prove he had a legitimate claim to the thing there was no need to offer him anything like the preposterous price he was asking for it.”

    “Was it stolen?” demanded India bluntly.

    Mr French’s eyes twinkled. “It was not on any list of stolen items the authorities in Amsterdam had, Miss Hutton.”

    India nodded feebly.

    “That’s how these things are done,” he said blandly.

    “So I perceive!”

    George French’s shrewd eyes were watchful. “Do you think any the worse of me for it, ma’am?”

    She blinked. “Any the worse of you? …Why, no,” she said slowly: “I think I admire you for admitting to it, sir. Though whist still recognising,” she owned with a smile, “that it may have been your intention to solicit such a reaction.”

    “Aye, well, that ain’t the worst of me,” said Mr French cheerfully. “Don’t think I'll tell you that. But I wanted you to have some idea, Miss Hutton!”

    India smiled feebly. “Did you, sir? I see.”

    George French did not think she did, quite. But he certainly did not see any cause for discouragement, on the whole. And happily allowed the flustered Miss Pinkerton, as the barouche drew up at Dove Cottage, to force a cup of tea upon him before he made his way to the Sare Apartments.

    Major Martin’s daughter held her chin up and looked Mr Lefayne firmly in the eye. “Mr French has offered to let us a cottage in Foxes Lane, on the outskirts of the village. Mrs Jessop very much likes the idea: she will be able to have a little garden rather than just a barrel of herbs. The rent is very reasonable indeed: we shall be able to manage it, with the money that Miss French so very kindly gave us. And Mrs Feathers has offered me plenty of sewing, as the housekeeper from Little Sare has put in an order for a great many curtains and bedspreads. So I shall go along with Josephine every day to the Sare Apartments, and walk home again with her at night.”

    “I see,” he said tightly.

    “I have not heard from Lord Sare, and I do not have any expectations from that quarter. And in any case I cannot leave my cousins.”

    “Have you not heard from their parents, then?”

    She shook her head. “No. I have written twice and Belle has, also. Cousin Dearborn wrote her that note, which you have seen, ordering her to return immediately, but as she did not obey it seems that he has carried out his threat to cut her off from the family.”

    “Mm.” After a moment he said with an effort: “Don’t they have a brother? Has nothing been heard from him?”

    “Cousin Peter Dearborn. No, he has not written. Belle says that he is completely under their parents’ thumb,” she said with a sigh. “And in any case, he is financially dependent on them, so there is nothing, in practical terms, that he can do.”

    “‘Practical terms,’” echoed Sid Bottomley with a moue. “Yes. You are a very practical person, are you not, Miss Martin?”

    “Um, I suppose I am. I suppose I have had to be,” she said numbly.

    “Quite. So you are determined not to come on with us?”

    “Yes. I thought it was what you wanted?” she said, sticking that pointed chin out.

    “What I wanted? No!” he said with an angry laugh. “What I hoped for, Miss Martin, was to see you respectably established as a lady, in the care of damned Lord Sare!”

    She bit her lip. “Mm. It could still happen,” she said without conviction.

    “Yes, well, from being an unattached young maiden with a little dog as her sole responsibility, you have come a fair way very rapidly the past ten days, have you not?”

    “Yes. But these things happen,” she said on a firm note. “I must thank you again, Mr Lefayne, for so very kindly fetching Josephine—”

    “I did nothing, and stop thanking me!” he shouted.

    She gulped. “Very well, I’ve stopped.”

    He got up and began to pace angrily around the little inn parlour where their conversation was taking place. Eventually he said grimly: ”No sign of Dinwoody?”

    “Not yet.”

    “Harold is furious with the fellow,” he noted grimly.

    “Yes, well, I suppose we had all come to rely on him,” she said on a wan note.

    “Mm. After the Molière this evening at Bamwell Place we are heading off,” he reminded her.

    “I know,” she said in a small voice.

    Sid Bottomley stared grimly out of the inn window at the view of Mr Jakes, in the foreground, ordering ’Alf-There Tom to do something or another with a large barrel, and dozing Sowcot Square, in the background. “If you were not a lady, I could offer you an alternative,” he said tightly. “But I have no intention of doing so. And class apart, there are too many years, and on my part, ill-spent years, between us.”

    The big amber eyes sparkled with tears but she said valiantly: “You have made a successful career for yourself. I do not see that that is ill-spent.”

    He turned from the window with a shrug. “All those nights with the pretty ladies that don’t behave like ladies were damned ill-spent, for any fellow that might imagine himself worthy to kiss the them of your garment, Miss Martin. And not only that…” He shrugged a little. “Lies, petty chicanery, cheating at cards— Well, yes: sounds more and more like your damned brother, don’t it?” he said as she blinked. “Possibly it all might not count so much if I were a gentleman. But I’m not. So don’t let’s discuss it. I shall send a little later to make sure that in the case Lord Sare has come home, you have been in contact with him.”

    “You are so obstinate!” she said with a shaking jaw.

    “I’m that, all right,” agreed Sid Bottomley grimly. “I’ll say good-bye now. Not coming to the Molière, are you?”

    “No. I have thanked dear Mr Hartington and—and explained everything to him.”

    “Mm. Then it is good-bye,” he said grimly.

    “If you would just allow me to put forward my point of view!” she cried loudly.

    “No. I may be low, but I ain’t that bad. You shan’t persuade me. Expect a note from me in ten days or so. Good-bye,” he said grimly, going.

    Major Martin’s daughter sank numbly onto a hard oaken settle as the door closed behind him. Her eyes were full of tears and her jaw was trembling. Nevertheless she said under her breath: “Do not think that this is the last of it. For I shall never be a lady, and I am fully as obstinate as you, Roland Ruddy Lefayne!”

    Merely pointing out mildly that it was the crack of dawn, Mrs Garbutt allowed Jessie and Dotty to drag her down their little garden path to gawp at the actors departing. “I see them,” she agreed.

    “Look: Mr Lefayne has a coach!” urged Jessie, hanging over the gate.

    “Mm.” Fleetingly Mrs Garbutt considered the idea of telling her not to wave at the man. Oh, well, who cared? Lady Bamwell was not there, and in any case could not despise them more than she did already, whatever little Jessie or Dotty got up to. Well—hardly more, she reflected as Mrs Jessop, the two yellow-haired cousins, Miss Martingale and the little dog were seen to emerge from the Sare Apartments.

    “Ooh! Good morning!” cried Dotty loudly as Miss Trueblood, her little brother, and the two middle-aged actresses who painted came out of Mrs Solly’s house next-door, the older women yawning widely, and the little boy apparently in a fit of terrible sulks. “So you are off?”

    The kind-hearted Tilda came over to them and bade them a polite good-bye.

    Mrs Garbutt’s party then watched avidly as Miss Trueblood and the two older actresses headed across the square towards Miss Martingale, she meanwhile heading towards them, to meet them in the middle of the green, where an affecting scene took place. Somewhat marred by the fact that Master Trueblood, having stamped his foot and shouted furiously: “I ’ate ’er! And she got no right to leave us flat, and now I ain’t never going to ’ave no dog!” had rushed off, sobbing, towards the laden waggons that were waiting outside the theatre.

    “Yes, they’re gone,” agreed Mrs Garbutt kindly as, at long last, the farewells had all been made and the waggons, the carts and the carriage had jolted out of the square. And Miss Martingale and her little dog were walking slowly back towards the Sare Apartments.

    “Oh, it has been so wonderful!” sighed Dotty.

    “Glorious,” sighed Jessie. “I cannot imagine anything better! Can you, Mamma?”

    Mrs Garbutt eyed the two yellow heads across the square, now being shepherded firmly inside again by Mrs Jessop. “Something like that: aye,” she agreed drily.

Next chapter:

https://theoldchiphat.blogspot.com/2023/02/lord-bibberys-bobbery.html