Enter Some Travellers

25

Enter Some Travellers

    Most of the actors electing to take the stage coach, it was not until their waggons caught up with them in Dorchester itself that the full cunning of Fred Hinks was revealed.

    Mr Speede had appointed himself in charge of the waggons and had made the journey on the first one, with Bagshot in charge of the second. “Bagshot found this,” he reported, holding it by an ear.

    “Where was he?” gasped Mrs Pontifex, dropping her reticule.

    “Inside the big property hamper. And if Bagshot was deaf as well as crippled, the stupid little bleeder would of starved to death.”

    “I don’t care! I’m goink to live wiv Miss Martin an’ Trellis!” piped Fred Hinks defiantly.

    “Cook will be at her wits’ end!” gasped Mrs Deane.

    “Well, no: she’s got more wits than most: she’ll have guessed where he’s disappeared to. Beau’s probably in a tizz, though,” owned Mr Hartington grimly. “Cummere, you!”

    Mr Speede waited until the sound of Mr Hartington’s strong right hand connecting with ragged breeches, not to say the sound of the shrieks, had died away before remarking: “I already done that. Come to that, Bagshot already done it, too,”

    “One more,” said Mr Hartington, not even breathing heavily, “cannot hurt. –SHUT IT!”

    Fred subsided, snivelling.

    “What the Devil are we going do with him, though?” said Mrs Hetty limply.

    Gracefully Mr Hartington bent to retrieve her reticule. “I’m not volunteering to pay his passage back on the stage, for one. He’d better come with us to Sowcot. See if anyone wants him,” he said with an evil look at him.

    Ceasing to snivel on the instant, Fred beamed. “Miss Martin, she wants me! I’m a-goink to live in ’er attic!’

    “She has not got— Oh, what’s the use?” groaned Mr Hartington. “I give up. It’s the country: you’ll hate it,” he said without hope. “All fields and grass and stuff. Cows. Ducks. No buildings, no alleys, no traffic, nothing. Nothing like the only life you know!” he said loudly.

    Fred Hinks merely grinned.

    And Mr Hartington, giving up definitively, retreated to the tap, and called loudly to be stayed with flagons.

    Major Blunsden was in the little front garden of Rose Cottage, wondering if those things with the green spikes of leaves were tulips, as claimed by Miss Belle, or merely onions, which they looked damn’ like to him, and wishing he knew rather more about gardening, when he became aware that a pair of scoundrelly-looking ruffians had come to a halt by the next-door gate. He knew that Miss Martingale was at home alone today: she was working on some shirts, which Mrs Feathers had graciously allowed, since she was a dab hand at shirts, she might as well do at home, instead of traipsing in and out to the Apartments. Belle, of course, was with Miss Lucy and Mr Bones. And Mrs Jessop had got up very early and gone over to Frenchman’s Cove in the hope of getting some fish to vary their diet, for at this time of year, and especially with their garden in the state it was, any change was welcome. True, they had planted rows and rows of seeds and seedlings, and waged an intensive war on the armies of snails that had immediately invaded, but so far these efforts had yielded nothing very much. A lot of cress had been found in a creek situate handily near to Foxes’ Lane, but for himself Major Blunsden did not particularly care for salads of cress, lightly dressed with what according to Mrs Jessop were chives that shouldn’t have been picked just yet. The old herb barrel had been loaded onto a cart with the help of two stout fellows, and now occupied pride of place by the back door of Honeysuckle Cottage, but although it was certainly filled with sprigs of green, according to its owner these were not yet ready. Rose Cottage’s garden contained a lot of prickly bushes which Mrs Jessop had declared to be gooseberries, and both gardens had several currant bushes, which augured well. But one could not eat auguries, alas. And that stuff that the old duck declared to be sorrel was putrid—putrid! He was almost sure his mother’s cook had been used to prepare a delicious dish of it, where it formed a sort of base to lightly poached eggs. But on second thoughts it had probably been done in butter. Amazing how putrid a vegetable could be, done without butter.

    Trying without success to banish the vision of a big blue dish of yellow farm butter from his mind, the Major strode over to his gate and glared at the two ruffians. “Wotcher want?’ he growled in the accents of Mr Dinwoody.

    “None o’ your business!” retorted the smaller ruffian smartly. The tall one made an inarticulate noise and the small one then added on a reluctant note: “This ’ere’s ’Oneysuckle Cottage, right?”

    “Might be. Wotcher want with it?”

    “None o’ your business! Go an’ dig yer marigolds!” he added brilliantly.

    The Major looked him and up down. “Not from round these parts, are you, young shaver?”

    “’Oo, me?” he replied with a hoarse laugh, opening the wicket gate. His companion made an alarmed noise as the blue-chinned neighbour then came out of his own gate and stepped up very close behind them.

    “Army man, were you? Or was it Navy?” he said affably. “I was in the Army meself, at one stage.”

    “Geddorf!” snapped the boy, in the accents of London town, or Max Blunsden, Maj. (Rtd.) was a Dutchman. “Come on,” he added stolidly, marching up the tiny flagged path of Honeysuckle Cottage. He beat a loud tattoo on the door.

    The Major, arms folded, just stood back and waited.

    The door opened.

    “Morning, Miss Martin!” piped the boy.

    “Fred! Mr Bagshot!” she gasped.

   —Down the front path, the Major scratched his blue chin.

    “Oh, how wonderful to see you!” she cried. “But what are you doing here?”

    “Come to stay,” said the boy firmly. “Bagshot, ’e’s got ’is pension, ’cos Mr Sid, ’e sorted it aht for ’im, an’ now Madam, she can’t get ’er claws on it no more, see? ’E can live in yer little back room, or h’under the stairs. ’E won’t be no trouble. I’ll do yer knives and boots, Miss. And chop stuff, an’ that,” he added in a vaguer tone. “I can sleep in yer attic!”

    “Fred, I—I haven’t got an attic, nor—nor yet a back room.”

    “Everybody’s got a back room, Miss!” he protested with a laugh.

    “No, this is a tiny cottage.”

    The false Mr Dinwoody stepped forward. “They got two rooms up under the thatch. What’s taken. No attics, young shaver. Don’t need no knives ruined, neither, nor no boots done.”

    “They DO!” he shouted, very red.

    Miss Martingale put a hand on his skinny shoulder. “I am sure there are many things you can do, Fred. Go along indoors: Troilus is somewhere about: just call him. –Mr Bagshot,” she said, stepping out onto the path and holding out her hand to the gaunt crippled figure in the ragged shawl: “how lovely to see you!”

    He gave a sort of bob, transferred the bundle he was carrying to his left hand, and awkwardly bowed over her hand. After which Miss Martingale warmly urged him inside, also urging Mr Dinwoody to step in and meet her two dear friends from London.

    Mr Dinwoody, out for an early morning stroll, had encountered a gentleman on a handsome bay gelding. Greetings were exchanged, and then the gentleman, having looked round him very cautiously, got down, looping his reins over his arm, and the two strolled on together.

    “The actors have arrived,” said the Major. The other did not reply and he said on a note of exasperation: “Look, was it your idea to get them down here?”

    Edward was silent for a moment. Then he said: “It’s better than her running away to London, after all.”

    “Edward, if anything, this’ll encourage her to take up acting again! Hartington won’t stop her, without Lefayne to rein him in.”

    “You are probably correct. But it will certainly improve the amenities of Sowcot.”

    The Major sighed.

    “How is Miss Belle?” asked Edward politely.

    “Blooming. Old Bones, the umbrella-maker, seems to have more or less adopted her. Told her his entire life history and is imparting all the secrets of his craft to her. She’s got quite a talent for painting and drawing. Can’t cook, though,” he said, shaking his head.

    “Possibly her future position in life will not require her to,” he noted coolly.

    “Dare say!” said the Major with a loud laugh. “Heard from Pudsey House?”

    “No, but I have heard that Martin and his wife have gone up to London and hired a house for the Season. Well, it was to be expected.”

    “Are you going up for the Season, yourself?”

    “I have to take my seat,” he said grimly.

    “What? Oh, in the Lords: I suppose you do,” said Max limply. “Er—half of ’em don’t bother, dear old fellow.”

    “Half of them have no sense of their responsibilities in life; but then, I think we have always known that,” he returned tightly.

    “Mm. When do you leave. Edward?”

    “Tomorrow,” he said on a grim note. “Just keep an eye on things for me, would you, Max?”

    “I’ll do that,” he said, obligingly holding the horse’s head as his Lordship remounted. “This one of old Neddy’s?” he said with a smile, stroking the gelding’s nose.

    “Mm? Oh; yes. Sweetest-natured nag I ever set my leg across. Uncle Neddy must have bought him by accident!” he owned with a smile. “Keep in touch. Twin will forward any letters.”

    Looking ironic, the Major touched his forelock, and Lord Sare rode off.

    The Major shook his head very , very slowly.

    There had, of course, been a joyful and tearful scene of reunion between Miss Martingale and Mrs Hetty. And that lady, firmly refusing a warm invitation to come to Honeysuckle Cottage, had settled in comfortably with Miss Enright in the Sare Apartments. For Miss Enright could cook, and her spare room was extremely comfortable, and she was in want of the company. And could converse, according to Mrs Hetty, like a sensible woman. Apparently Miss Enright was not averse to hearing long tales of the theatrical life, so that was all right.

    Miss Martingale and Mrs Pontifex soon managed a little trip to Dorchester, where there were more reunions; notably with Mrs Deane, but also with the stolid Mr Speede, the blushing Mr Ardent, the elegant if inarticulate Mr Darlinghurst, and the grinning Nancy Andrews. Mrs Pontifex very naturally assumed that this was the entire object of the expedition, and, being well settled in Mrs Fairweather’s front parlour with a brimming glass at her elbow and a plate of cake before her, did not think it particularly odd when her travelling companion slipped out for some fresh air—even though they had had fresh air a-plenty, getting there.

    Major Blunsden, however, was to find Mr Fairweather’s subsequent report very odd, as that worthy, obedient to orders, turned up at Rose Cottage. “She took a letter to the post?” he echoed, scratching his head.

    “That's right, sir. Had it in her pocket, all ready.”

    “Did you find out who it was to? Or where?”

    Mr Fairweather winked very slowly. “Not the name, no. But it was to Holland, sir.”

    “Er—well, she has friends there… But why be so secretive about it?”

    “It be right odd, sir,” conceded Mr Fairweather comfortably. “Ah—no news, I suppose?”

    “Fairweather, my friend, we have all given up our previous occupations and turned respectable,” he said, laying a heavy hand on the man’s shoulder.

    “What, that Twin as well?”

    “As respectable as possible. I don’t deny he may still be in the information business, upon request, as it were. But he has given up t’other trade.”

    “But I thought the information side of it was only, like, an extra,” said Mr Fairweather lamely.

    “No,” said the Major heavily. “It were the other way round. Mr Smith was doing it because the trade afforded some useful contacts, not to say a damned convincing cover for any comings and goings off the coast.”

    “Well, dammit!” he said loudly.

    “We’ve all had a good run for our money, y’know. And the Excise have got damned lively, lately.”

    “Aye, well, we’re none of us getting no younger, and the wife won’t be sorry to see me give it up. But it were fun while it lasted,” he said wistfully.

    The Major bashed him on the back, at this, and hailed him off to the Sare Arms. Reminding him as they went not to call him sir: the name was Bert Dinwoody.

    “So,” said Mr Fairweather, as they ambled back rather late in the evening to Rose Cottage: “what’s Mr Smith a-doing of, then, if he’s give up the trade?”

    “Fairweather, he has given it all up, entirely, and turned respectable. Er—and if you should chance to catch sight of him getting around Dorchester in a damned curricle—”

    Winking, Mr Fairweather assured him he wouldn’t know him.

    “No,” agreed the Major heavily. “No.”

    Mysteriously, Mrs Hetty had been observed to shake slightly as Miss Cressida expressed the opinion that it was disappointing that Mrs Mayhew had not been able to come down to Dorset, also. “Just wait!” she gasped, upon being pressed.

    Sowcot did not have very long to wait. Mr Solly was soon observed to be going in and out of the charming little house formerly occupied by his parents. According to Mrs Sardleigh it would be a shame and a disgrace if “those people” were to take it over from his father, and she was sure that “Sare” did not know what the fellow was up to. According to Mrs Jakes from the Sare Arms, Madam was in for a nasty surprise. And Lady B.’s notion that the house was to be completely gutted in order to be made suitable for a relative of his Lordship’s was wishful thinking. And any notion that Mr Solly, Junior, was grabbing the furniture before his sister from Dorchester could stir her stumps and get over here to get her share, was just plain dotty. Mrs Garbutt, on being appealed to, merely said calmly that she was not in Mr Solly’s confidence, but she had heard that Mrs and Miss Feathers and Miss Martingale had been commissioned to make new curtains for the parlour.

    This last report was soon verified. But alas, it was not altogether clear by whom these curtains had been commissioned. Mrs Sardleigh in person descended upon Mrs Feathers. Not to pay her outstanding bill, however, so Mrs Feathers, a gleam in her eye, merely blocked her every probe with “I couldn’t say, Madam.” As she was about to exit, looking coldly annoyed, Miss Feathers popped out from the sewing room and handed her her bill. So she exited looking more coldly annoyed than ever.

    Before very long at all, old Mr Solly’s carpets might have been observed—nay, were observed—going out, and someone else’s carpets were observed going in. And Mrs Henrietta Caper, née Solly, was observed in a bonnet which was entirely unbefitting to her position in life, exiting with old Mrs Solly’s prized mantel clock. Mrs Burgess, leaning heavily on her counter, allowed as they had left in a deal of the furniture—aye. Good solid stuff, it were. Up at The Heights Mrs Dunne, giggling, revealed to Mr Dunne that “they” were in a fever of speculation about it, according to the reports Lotty had had from Mamzelle, and it served “them” out! Mr Dunne did not have to ask who “they” might be.

    And lo! One fine morning in early April, a waggon and two coaches-and-four arrived together, and a very fine lady and gentleman were seen to descend from the one coach, while several persons who must be the indoor servants were seen to descend from the other. And other persons in rougher garments clambered down from the roof of the latter or off the waggon. One must be a groom, that was clear. And perhaps another groom? The which was entirely unnecessary for a house of that size, and a wanton display of pretentiousness. Which they did not need in Sowcot.

    “Can’t be ’is Lordship’s relations, then,” concluded Mrs Burgess drily.

    “I don’t think they are, no,” agreed Mrs Garbutt calmly.

    “What’s the name?” asked the shopkeeper, measuring out dried beans.

    “Prettyjohn.”

    “Ah. Asked about stabling at the Sare Arms, ’e did,” she revealed.

    “Yes; the travelling coach is his own, and he has a trap and a barouche coming,” she said mildly.

    “You don’t say, Mrs Garbutt! That’ll liven up Sowcot, for sure! –More treacle, is it?”

    “Yes, please.”

    “Ah.” Mrs Burgess poured treacle for her. “Partial to treacle tart, most gents is. Dessay your treacle cake goes down a treat, too, hey?”

    “It certainly does,” agreed Mrs Garbutt calmly.

    “Fine figure of a man,” noted the shopkeeper airily.

    “Yes. He will fetch the jar of treacle, Mrs Burgess. And also a sack of flour, if you would be so good,” responded Mrs Garbutt, apparently unmoved.

    “Right you are, Mrs Garbutt. It do ’elp to have a man about the house to carry the ’eavy stuff, don’t it?” she said with great sympathy.

    “It certainly does. Good-day to you, Mrs Burgess,” replied Mrs Garbutt, exiting calmly.

    Mrs Burgess leaned on her counter, smiling.

  
    The young gentleman with the travelling carriage had caused very much excitement by putting up for the night in Sareford at the tiny inn known unconvincingly as the Running Hare. He had ordered a horse for the early morning, but Mr Sam Peebles, the landlord, had reported dubiously that he didn’t know as they could manage a horse, sir. Not if he meant a horse. And the gentleman, rolling his eyes, had declared that in that case his coach must be ready for him. And he would want breakfast first. No, he added, looking down his straight nose, he would not in fact be leaving the Running Hare at that point, and perhaps Mr Peebles would care for him to send to Sare Park for proof of his bona fides? Mr Sam Peebles was not absolutely sure what bony Fridays were, but he got the drift, and touched his forelock, begging his Honour’s pardon.

    The gentleman, therefore, set off round about crack of dawn in his coach. Arriving on the outskirts of Sowcot shortly after crack of dawn. And forthwith got down in the middle of nowhere, ordering the bewildered coachman, who had begun to wonder if perhaps his master was involved in some sort of an abduction, the which he would not have put past him, although he had not known him very long, to wait.

    It was not so very long before a slender chestnut-haired maiden in a serviceable brown woollen gown was espied, being led briskly along by a short-legged nut-brown dog.

    “Hullo,” drawled the gentleman, stepping out from behind a tree.

    “Ricky!” gasped his sister. “What are you doing here? You are supposed to be in London!”

    “I might say, so are you,” he returned unpleasantly. “Sare’s gone up to take his seat, did you know?”

    She shrugged.

    “Look, Isabelle,” he said, very unpleasantly, “if you will not do it, Cressida will.”

    “Ssh!” hissed Miss Duckett, looking round her frantically.

    “I do not think these sturdy English oaks will betray our secret,” noted Ricky drily. “I am here to put you on notice, since your letters to Holland appear to have borne fruit.”

    “You mean she’s come?” she gasped.

    “Well, yes.”

    “Where is she?”

    “Never mind. Quite safe—well out of the reach of any Dearborns. Not that I think they ever did intend anything worse than marrying her off to the imbecile son.”

    “By all accounts he is not precisely an imbecile, but I’m glad you agree with me that they are relatively harmless. Well, good,” she said, beginning to smile. “She can be me! Um, I mean, her,” she amended feebly.

    “Look, you idiot, that will leave you precisely where you were before! That is not what she wants for you.”

    “No, but it was a mad scheme, Ricky,” she said pleadingly.

    His lips twitched. “Well, at the time, Cressida could not have done it herself.”

    Isabelle bit her lip. “Not with her broken leg—no.”

    “And had the Dearborns turned out to be completely venal—”

    “We could have sacrificed me,” she agreed brightly, nodding.

    “No, you little idiot! I would never have let that happen. I was going to say, merely, we could have broken the glad tidings to Dearborn that you have no expectations from our grandfather. I should have enjoyed that,” he said dreamily.

    “Me, too!” she squeaked with one of her bursts of giggles.

    Ricky smiled. “Mm. Well, that is the news, and you may expect her at precisely this time next week. After that, it is up to the two of you to sort it out.”

    “What?” she cried.

    He shrugged. “I’m washing my hands of the whole thing.”

    “Now that you have got what you wanted, you mean!” she cried.

    “Hush. Oh, by the by,” he said, his lips twitching, “in the case that the pair of you decide your ways should part, you will have to sort out which of you takes the toto.”

    “He’s mine!” cried Isabelle, gripping his lead tightly.

    “Half of southern England apparently believes him to be Cressida’s,” he drawled. “I’m off; it’s damned chilly standing about.”

    “Very well: go,” she said, scowling.

    He laughed, saluted her cheek with careless grace, and lounged away down the rutted country lane.

    The messenger looked dubiously up at the imposing bulk of Sare House. Then he consulted his note. It was the right address, all right. Shrugging, the messenger mounted the imposing flight of steps and beat a resounding rat-tat with the imposing knocker.

    The door was opened by an extremely unimpressed-looking footmen, but the messenger spoke the magic words and lo! An immense butler appeared and led him into a comfortable room with a fire burning and all. There leaving him to kick his heels for some considerable time. This time was not passed altogether unprofitably: the messenger lounged around the room, examining the pictures on the walls. Stopping before one be-wigged portrait to raise his eyebrows very high and mutter something under his breath. And before a severely restrained little offering featuring a be-capped cottager, a table, a pitcher and some very clean stone flags, to nod approvingly.

    At long last the door opened and a slim gentlemen entered, and greeted him in his own language. The messenger in fact spoke excellent English but he answered the Mynheer very thankfully in his native tongue. And owned that he would not half mind a tankard of something and a bite to eat, for he had been travelling all night.

    “I investigated as you suggested, sir,” he said, as the bite vanished and the level in the tankard sank.

    “Good. And?”

    The messenger had nothing written down, save the address to which he was to come. He recited promptly: “Major Martin died at the time you gave me, sir. I made friends with the doctor’s man, and there ain’t no doubt about it. Added to which, it was a nine days’ wonder in the street, for the old so-and-so, begging the Mynheer’s pardon, had been trying to seduce a woman from the neighbourhood and was caught in the act by the husband. At the time he died, the household consisted of a Dutch cook who’d been with them nigh on ten years, a Belgian maid, name of Lise Brunel, who’d been the wife’s maid for as long as the Martins had lived there, and the three children: Richard and Cressida Martin, and Isabelle Duckett. Aged at the time of the Major’s death, just off twenty-three, seventeen, and seventeen,” he said painstakingly. “Richard and Cressida being the legitimate offspring of the deceased and one, Marguérite Martin, deceased, of Belgian extraction, and Isabelle Duckett being the child of a Jane Duckett, deceased, originally from a place called Pudsey, in Kent, England.”

    “That explains it,” said Lord Sare under his breath.

    “Yes, Mynheer,” agreed the messenger respectfully.

    “Where did you— No, I think I won’t ask where you had that morsel, Kees!” said Edward with a smothered laugh.

    “Well, as the Mynheer knows, a man don’t always care to reveal his sources, but in this case, there could be no harm. I had it from a fellow called Barnes what worked in the gaming house, and had been with Major Martin, deceased, since their boyhood.”

    “I should have set you onto this in the first place, Kees,” he admitted ruefully. “Please, go on.”

    “Everyone who knew them said the two girls were as like as two peas in a pod and you would have taken them for twins, not half-sisters, Mynheer, except for a Mevrouw Hos, a neighbour, who maintained they weren’t as alike as all that and that Isabelle Duckett was scarce more than a kitchen-maid.” He then reported what Edward had already had from Mr French about the two girls’ frequent exchange of places both at school and in the gaming house.

    “Yes. One was said, I think, to have a little mole?”

    “That’s right, sir. Miss Cressida Martin; just here,” he said, placing a grimy forefinger under his own right eye, at the side of his face. “Reports about what happened to them after the father’s death were very muddled, some saying they had all gone off to England, some saying it was Brussels. Several witnesses did report seeing Richard Martin around the time of the funeral. Then he and one of the sisters went down to Belgium. I didn’t verify what happened there personally, sir, but my sources are very reliable: they reported that the two stopped off in the town where the late Mrs Martin’s relatives live and the girl called on them. Then she took ship for England. The brother's trail ended there, sir. The other sister had broke her leg: stayed behind in Holland.”

    He nodded slowly. “And which one was that?”

    “Had to be Isabelle Duckett, sir: all the witnesses said it were the one with the little mole that went off with the brother.”

    “I see,” he said with a little sigh.

    “Turns out,” said the messenger, sniffing slightly, “that Mevrouw Hos was dead set against Miss Martin marrying her eldest son: Piet. Apple of his mother’s eye. That seems to be why she was so unforthcoming. Don’t think there was any more in it than that, sir. I did check carefully, as you ordered. And the reason that no-one's laid eyes on the Duckett girl since must be the broken leg.”

    “Thank you, Kees. You have done excellently.” Under the messenger’s amazed eyes, he then produced a bag which clinked and carefully counted out a considerable number of golden guineas from it.

    “Ain’t it the usual arrangement, then, sir?” he said dazedly, accepting them.

    “No, Kees: this was a private matter.”

    Involuntarily the messenger glanced at that be-wigged portrait.

    “Yes,” said Edward with a grimace. “You may take it that I have given up my former occupation.”

    The messenger rose to his feet and touched his forelock.

    “Don’t,” said Edward on a sigh, holding out his hand.

    Rather uncertainly the messenger shook it, bade him good-day, and was shown out.

    On the imposing front steps of Sare House he shook his head and grimaced. “Waste of a good man,” he concluded in his own tongue.

    Mr Dinwoody had been absent for some days, and Miss Belle had become rather silent. No, she revealed sadly under questioning by the relentless Fred Hinks, she did not know where Mr Dinwoody had gone. Nor when he was coming back. At this point Mr Bagshot made a gargling noise, grabbed Master Hinks by one skinny arm, and removed his protesting form bodily from Miss Belle’s vicinity.

    It did not positively help that Master Hinks then proceeded to spend most of his waking hours either in the garden watching Rose Cottage’s front gate, or glued to the front window, watching ditto.

    “Lumme! It's a bailiff!” he reported on a windy Sunday afternoon.

    “Rubbish,” said Belle on a pettish note.

    “’Tis! ’E’s druv up in a carriage and pair!”

    “I don’t think bailiffs do, do they?” she said with an attempt at a smile.

    “Well, wot else ’ud be stoppink at Rose Cottage?” he replied fiercely. “Look, Miss Martin!”

    She got up. “Fred, are you making this— No,” she discovered weakly. “It is a carriage, Belle.”

    Uncertainly Belle came to peer. They all three watched as a broad-shouldered man in a brown coat, breeches and boots got down.

    “It’s ’im,” croaked Master Hinks.

    “It cannot be,” said Belle dazedly.

    Isabelle’s wide brow had furrowed and about five different scenarios were racing through her very fertile brain. “Yes, it can,” she said grimly. “I think we had best be prepared for a shock, Belle.”

    “Buh-but what is he doing, dressed as a gentleman, riding in a carriage?” she faltered.

    Master Hinks here ventured the speculation that Mr Dinwoody had won a fortune on a ’orse but was duly squashed.

    “Is that— Who is that?” faltered Belle as a man carrying a portmanteau was then seen to descend from the carriage.

    “I cannot say, but he looks very like a gentleman’s man, to me,” said her cousin grimly.

    “Stay ’ere,” ordered Master Hinks importantly. “I’ll find aht!” Squaring his skinny shoulders, he marched out.

   … “’Tis ’im!” he announced loudly, ten minutes lately.

    “Good afternoon, ladies,” said a suspiciously meek deep voice from the doorway.

    “’E’s a gent, see?” reported Master Hinks.

    “Shut it. Get off and get Harvey to show you my razors,” he drawled.

    “Right you are!” Master Hinks disappeared. The girls looked dubiously at the spectacle of Mr Dinwoody in gentleman’s dress. Mrs Jessop came to stand in the kitchen doorway, arms akimbo, surveying the scene silently.

    “Sorry,” he said meekly.

    “You may cease that,” said Isabelle grimly. “Do we collect that are you not now and never have been Mr Dinwoody?”

    “Yes.”

    “I don’t understand,” said Belle faintly.

    “He is a spy for Lord Sare!” said her cousin angrily.

    “Yes,” agreed Major Blunsden mildly. “We were in the Regiment together, in the Peninsula. When Edward took up that line of work, so did I. Allow me to introduce myself: Major Max Blunsden. Retired. Sorry if it’s a shock.”

    “It is a shock, but not precisely a surprise,” noted Isabelle grimly.

    “No wonder you was going on about butter,” said Mrs Jessop, beginning to recover herself. “Sir,” she added in a hard voice.

    “Well, yes; that is one of the reasons,” he admitted, eyeing Belle sideways, “why I decided to end the masquerade.”

    “Come on, Miss Martingale: best leave ’em to it,” said Mrs Jessop grimly.

    “Quite. I congratulate you on your performance: I never truly doubted you for an instant,” said Isabelle in tones of loathing to the false Mr Dinwoody.

    “Thanks,” he returned insouciantly. “The trick is, never let the mask slip, not even when you’re alone.”

    “I don’t wish to know.” She joined Mrs Jessop, and the two retired to the kitchen, shutting the adjoining door firmly behind them.

    “I’m sorry. Did you prefer Dinwoody?” said the Major to the stunned Belle Dearborn. He smiled a little, led her to a chair and pulling up another chair, seated himself beside her and took her hand. “Edward—Lord Sare, that is—is a very old friend as well as comrade, and when he asked me to keep an eye on Miss Martin, what else could I do?”

    “I see,” she said faintly.

    The Major had not released her hand. “I did think of offering in the person of Dinwoody, but on second thoughts decided that would be too cruel, my angel. You are not on trial.”

    “No,” she said faintly. “Who are you?”

    Calmly the Major described his family and antecedents.

    “Norfolk,” said Miss Dearborn dazedly. “I see.”

    “That is Peter’s place; my eldest brother.”

    “Yes, I quite grasp that, sir.”

    “I thought, if you should like it, we might take Belview Manor. It’s a pretty little house, and Edward would like us to be nearby.”

    “Y— Um, what about Cressida?” she faltered.

    “Ask her: see if she will come and live with us,” he said with a smile.

    Belle nodded dazedly.

    Smiling, the Major kissed her hand. “Can you bear to marry a gentleman, after all?” he murmured.

    “I—I had made up my mind,” owned Miss Dearborn dazedly, “that I would not.”

    “I know that,” he said tranquilly. “Will you?”

    Blushing very much, Miss Dearborn nodded, whispering: “Yes, please.”

    “For myself,” Isabelle admitted, as she, Troilus and Mrs Jessop took an evening walk, largely in order to relieve their feelings and only partly in order to leave the affianced pair together under the dubious chaperonage of Master Hinks and the dozing Mr Bagshot, “I would have thrown the offer back in his face!”

    “Think I would of, too,” admitted Mrs Jessop. “Though he’s a fine figure of a man. Dessay I might of changed me mind, in time. Provided ’e behaved himself.”

    “I think he is incapable of it: he was laughing up his sleeve over it every second of the time,” she said grimly.

    “Well, he’s that sort. Don’t take much account of women, you see. Most of ’em are like that: some treats ’em rough and some treats ’em like china, but it amounts to the same thing. Only that’s the type what girls like her, they like. Dessay they’ll do well enough. And she’ll like living in a pretty house.”

    “A pretty— Mrs Jessop, it’s enormous!” she cried.

    “He’ll fill it with servants for her, Miss.”

    “I am sure. Well, I suppose it will mean her parents will relent towards her.”

    “Bound to,” she agreed with a shrug.

    “I really thought we were settled. Well, I thought she would take him, in the end, but that they would live in Rose Cottage,” she admitted dolefully.

    Mrs Jessop sniffed slightly, but nodded.

    “And… Oh, dear,” she said lamely.

    “Nothing to keep you here now, Missy,” she said on a firm note.

    “Um—perhaps not. But now that my friends have come down to Sowcot…”

    “Never mind them. You got yer own life to think about,” said the erstwhile landlady firmly.

    Isabelle smiled somewhat wanly. “Mm. Um, he intends to take Belle away to his brother’s place immediately, Mrs Jessop.”

    She sniffed, but acknowledged: “That was bound to happen. A cottage ain’t fit for a lady.”

    “But what about Miss Lucy and Mr Bones?” she cried.

    Mrs Jessop just shrugged.

    It was a chilly spring evening. Belle had duly been whisked away to Norfolk to stay with Sir Peter and Lady Blunsden. According to Fred Hinks, she would not be missed. There came a loud knock at the door, and Mrs Jessop and Fred, who were both nodding by the fire, jumped. After which Mrs Jessop, noting drily that she’d get it, in case it was a bailiff, went to answer it. Fred accompanied her as a matter of course.

    Mrs Jessop opened the door. She gave a gasp, and recoiled.

    “Lumme!” gasped Fred, grabbing at her respectable black skirts.

    “Good evening,” said the young woman on the doorstep with a smile. “Pray do not be alarmed: you must be Mrs Jessop, I think? I am Miss Martingale’s sister; I know she has not told you about me.”

    Fred Hinks, though his eyes were bolting from his head, at this uttered: “She ain’t got no sister!”

    “Yes, she has,” she said serenely.

    Scowling, Fred rushed away and could be heard screaming: “Miss Martin! Miss Martin! Come dahn, quick!”

    “You’d best come in, Miss,” said Mrs Jessop limply.

    Smiling calmly, Cressida Martin went into Honeysuckle Cottage.

Next chapter:

https://theoldchiphat.blogspot.com/2023/02/scene-london-town.html