Handsome Is As Handsome Does

9

Handsome Is As Handsome Does

    A month had passed at Dearborn House. Its guest’s happiest moments—indeed, her only happy moments—were those stolen ones she spent with Troilus, and incidentally Alf Hollis, who had become a staunch supporter, in the stables. It was not that Cousin Evangeline, Cousin Dearborn, or their daughters were positively cruel—no. Sometimes she thought it might have been easier had they been, for then she would have had something definable to fight against, not to say something to justify flight from Dearborn House. Merely, Cousin Evangeline was cold, uninterested, and, as the refusal to give them dinner that very first night had indicated, very mean over small things. Though very generous in the amounts she expended on her own and her daughters’ clothes, and on the meals for the immediate family. Cousin Dearborn was similar, though in appearance quite a merry-looking man. But the round, red cheeks indicated nothing very much except a partiality for port wine after his dinner, and were not at all reliable indicators of the disposition of the man within. Though it was true he did not seem to begrudge his wife and daughters anything, the rest of his household was not treated by any means with such generosity. And even Mrs Dearborn had been told cheerfully—Cousin Dearborn’s manner was always cheerful, especially when he was at his meanest—that he did not find there was a need for a barouche, in addition to the carriage, my dear. So, much though they would have liked to, Mrs Dearborn, Miss Dearborn, and Miss Josephine did not display themselves about the neighbourhood in a barouche to rival that of their neighbour Lady Hartshorne of Hartshorne Hall. The which necessitated the maintaining that such display was entirely ostentatious and unsuited to their quiet little district.

    The Dearborns were entirely ungenerous to their servants, and the stable-hands in particular had very poor and cramped accommodation indeed. The servants were all fed heartily enough, but they did not often get meat, even though Dearborn House had attached a flourishing home farm which ran splendid beef animals. Cabbage soup, dried pea soup, boiled potatoes, and a concoction called “barley bread” seemed to form the staple part of the diet for both indoor and outdoor servants. The bread being eventually revealed to Miss Martin by the resigned woman in charge of Mrs Dearborn’s kitchen as ’orrible and fit only for pigs or them what could not afford better, and you added a quarter of ground barley meal to the flour, Miss. With the anxious addendum that she had ordered it to be half, only it wouldn’t riz nohow, Miss, if you did that! Miss Martin was not herself served very liberally at table, but at first she attempted to leave a little on her plate in the hopes that Mary, the upstairs maid, or Polly, the scullery-maid, or even Follett herself, who was one of the thinnest women she had ever laid eyes upon, would get it. This resulted only in Mrs Dearborn’s ordering Follett and James, an elderly footman who was paid almost nothing as the result of having been forgiven for some peccadillo in the long-distant past, to see that Miss Martin was given smaller servings in the future, as she had a picky appetite.

    Belle, Miss Dearborn, and her next sister, Miss Josephine, were both out, and spent a large part of their time going to small entertainments in the neighbourhood. And most of what was left in between these, on examining their faces and hair in their glasses. They both had rather overblown, blowsily pretty blonde looks, of which they were immensely vain. Perhaps fortunately for the harmony of the household they were not rivals, but the best of friends, always taking each other’s side in any matter, large or small, and in particular if this entailed the depressing of the pretensions of Misses Fanny and Deirdre, very much not out.

    Their cousin might have felt sorry for the two younger ones, but they were just as pretty, just as vain, and just as empty-headed as their elders, so it was hard to work up very much sympathy for them at all. Added to which they were in the custom of combining against them, and stood up to them very well, and, when sure they would not be caught out by their mother, played all sorts of tricks on them. Deirdre, the youngest, in addition was spiteful and a tale-teller. And, it quickly emerged from the tales of her new governess that she reported to her mamma, a liar as well.

    At least the elder two did not have that disadvantage: vain though they were, they were quite good-natured. Cousin Belle, in particular, with her placid, lazy laugh, being quite a pleasant person. Though as her cousin soon discovered, completely indifferent to the welfare of those less fortunate than herself. And rather surprised that Cousin Cressida should take an interest in what went on the stables and what Follett and the other maids had to eat and where they slept; a lady, she informed her kindly, did not bother her head over such things. Miss Josephine’s confirmatory toss of the head, and warning that Mamma would not care for her taking notice of the servants, were not needed for Major Martin’s daughter to realise that it must be one of Mrs Dearborn’s own dicta.

    Their newfound cousin was not banished to the schoolroom with the two younger girls; though, decreed Mrs Dearborn, it was not to be thought of that she should consider herself properly out. Not at her age, and barely used to England. She was almost exactly the same age as Josephine, but she did not point this out, and nor did her cousins. Her not being out of course meant that she did not need gowns. Mrs Dearborn had inspected her meagre collection of garments and sniffed over them; but this did not prompt her to purchase any new ones for her. Belle, with her lazy laugh, kindly donated three muslin dresses that she herself had “worn out”. They were, indeed, rather worn; but Major Martin’s daughter cut them down and mended them carefully, and was grateful to have them, as the weather began to warm

    Discovering the quality of her sewing, Mrs Dearborn very rapidly set her to on the household’s mending. And she might as well make up some little dresses for Deirdre and Fanny: Miss Meggs from the village had no idea, really; and if Belle and Josephine showed her the style that was wanted, she dared say she would do well enough. To their mother’s face, Miss Fanny and Miss Deirdre did not say anything; but behind her back they very soon attempted to persuade their cousin that anything that Belle suggested for them would be hopelessly childish, and that they should both have the lowest of necklines and the most modish of sleeves. With three flounces, at the least! Mrs Dearborn had provided very pretty stuffs, but not enough of them for three flounces each. A patient explanation of this sad fact proved unavailing: Fanny burst into tears, and ran to throw herself face-down on her bed, and Deirdre, far more cunning, ran to report to Mamma that Cousin Cressida had pinched her. For nothing! Mrs Dearborn reproved her guest in the iciest of tones for this unprovoked attack upon her defenceless little cousin and sent her to bed “without supper.” As it was only mid-morning this in effect meant she was to starve all day.

    There was little she could do to mend matters; she was now aware, for both Belle and Josephine had told her as much, that her Cousin Evangeline was in the habit of believing every word that Deirdre said. But if she obeyed Deirdre’s wishes and put three flounces on her gown and gave her a low-cut neckline she was very, very sure that in front of her mamma Deirdre would disclaim any responsibility in the matter. That night, and not for the first time since coming to Dearborn House, she cried herself to sleep. Wishing very much, amongst other things, that she had Troilus’s  warm, sturdy little body on the bed to comfort her.

    Why the Dearborns had ever invited Major Martin’s daughter to live with them was, to all appearances, a mystery. The amount she ate, as Mrs Dearborn had at one point coolly informed her, was not by any means compensated for by her contribution to the household’s sewing. And then, there was the bedlinen, and the candles, and so forth—as, indeed, Mrs Dearborn did not hesitate to point out to her husband’s connexion. If Miss Martin was expecting Cousin Dearborn to reveal the true reason for his offer to house her, she might expect, it began to appear during the far from merry month of May, in vain.

    As June came in with its high blue days and abundant sunshine—though also abundant winds off the Channel, for they were very near to the coast—the Major’s daughter was to receive illumination on the point—though not from a Dearborn.

    “Goodness, my dear, have you finished that mending already?” said Cousin Belle with a careless laugh, coming into the sitting-room to find her cousin seated by the window, merely reading a book, with the pieces of sewing folded neatly at her side. Unaffectedly she took up the top piece and inspected the darning. “My, I wish I could stitch as fine as you! But then, I suppose there will be no need for me to acquire the skill, really!” she said with another laugh. “I cannot say whether it might be Mr Antony Blades, or Mr Gregson, or Mr Charles Aldridge, or another entirely—but it will be someone, of course! Why, Charlie Aldridge told me at the Hendersons’ dance that my eyes are like stars and he dreams all night of me!”

    “Very flattering,” murmured her cousin, who had not met any of these gentlemen.

    “Oh, well, he is pretty enough, but not the eldest son, you know!” she said with a little shrug.

    “No-o… Do you not like him better than the others, then, Cousin?”

    “Oh, my, what a child you are, Cousin Cressida!” responded Belle gaily, pulling up a chair beside her. “I dare say I like him well enough! But I would like him even better were he Sir John’s heir. And Panthaways is a charming house, you know. Mrs Aldridge—that is John Aldridge’s wife—is the most odious cat imaginable, and it is absolutely not fair that she should have grabbed the eldest son when I was still in the schoolroom!” She pouted very much.

    “Oh. Um—I think you said that Mr Gregson is the eldest of his family?”

    Belle patted her knee and laughed a little. “My dear, out of course: one would not call him Mr Gregson, else! One can see that you were brought up in a horrid foreign country. –No, well, he has blue eyes,” she said, pouting.

    Her cousin looked at her doubtfully. So also did Belle Dearborn: large, lovely eyes, if a little inclined to bulge. “Well, blue eyes are very pretty.”

    Belle pouted terrifically. “One cannot marry a man with blue eyes, my dear, when one’s own are blue.”

    The Major’s daughter swallowed, and did not ask why.

    “Josephine might take him,” added Belle thoughtfully.

    “I thought it was you whom he admired?”

    Belle laughed, patted her knee again, tossed her lovely golden curls, and said: “Oh, well!”

    Her cousin could think of nothing more to say, and so said nothing.

    Belle fingered the mending for a while, not really looking at it, asked Cousin Cressida what she was reading, displayed no interest in the answer, and then said: “Is that true, what General Sir Arthur Murray wrote Papa, about our Cousin Martin having known Lord Sare?”

    Major Martin’s daughter thought of the meetings at the Horse Guards, and hesitated, reflecting that she herself was not supposed to know anything about the later history of Captain Edward Luton. But there could be no harm at all in letting lazy, good-natured Belle Dearborn know that she knew; so she said: “Um—ye-es. I mean, if he mentioned that Papa knew a Captain Edward Luton. That was a very long time ago. I think he did inherit the title, very much later.”

    “And he died, is that right?” she said, narrowing her eyes so as the long, curled, golden-brown lashes made a positive tangled thicket. –Her cousin knew it was a tangled thicket, because both Belle and Josephine, who had the same lovely lashes, had informed her that Mr Antony Blades had told them it was.

    “Yes, so the General said,” she murmured.

    “So does that mean that, if you were not come to us, you would be the present Lord Sare’s ward?” she asked eagerly.

    “I do not think so, Cousin Belle,” she said primly.

    “Papa said he was sure of it, and you have a legal claim on him! They say Sare Park is the most beautiful place! And Sare House is in the best part of town! Mamma is absolutely sure that she will persuade Papa to let us have a Season in London next year,” she confided.

    “That would be delightful,” responded her cousin politely. For herself, she thought that Mr Dearborn was by far too mean to permit any such thing. There were sufficient young men in the neighbourhood, and his daughters had plenty of amusements.

    For once Belle did not continue talking of her own concerns: she patted her cousin’s knee again, and said: “Lady Hartshorne wishes to see you, you know.”

    “Me?” she replied blankly.

    “Yes, for she knows of the connection with Lord Sare!” said Belle in congratulatory tones.

    “Cousin Belle, I have made no attempt to get in touch with Lord Sare or his family and I—I really think I should not bring myself to Lady Hartshorne’s notice!”

    “No, but the thing is, she will think it the most frightful snub if we do not bring you to visit, and has already intimated that Mamma is keeping you to herself,” she confided, pulling an awful face. “Ugly old cat. And be warned, she will patronise you unmercifully! So, you had best run and put on something pretty,” she concluded, rising.

    “But— When are we to visit?”

    “My dear, you never listen to a thing one says. This afternoon, of course!”

    Limply her Cousin Cressida went to change out of the pink and fawn chintz that her kind friends at Mr Buxleigh’s had made her, and into something that would be deemed by Belle and Josephine Dearborn more fit to accompany them on a call at Hartshorne Hall.

    Lady Hartshorne was not a young woman, and Belle and Josephine had already confided to Cousin Cressida that she would never have caught Sir William at the age she had, had she not been possessed of considerable fortune and some very grand connections. She was, certainly, in appearance and manner a very grand lady indeed. With a lorgnette. She did not handle this instrument as well as did Mrs Lilian Deane or Mrs Hetty Pontifex, let alone the elegant Mrs Trueblood; but Major Martin’s daughter did not think any of her new acquaintance would wish to know that. Though on second thoughts, Belle and Josephine might have been quite pleased to hear it! Her Ladyship not only patronised Miss Martin unmercifully, telling her she was very washed-out and advising her that a girl of her complexion needed to eat more red meat, she also patronised Belle, Josephine and even Mrs Dearborn unmercifully. The girls accepted this treatment with what was evidently silent resentment mixed with a fear of giving offence and a certain respect for her Ladyship’s position, the which was doubtless due to their mother’s training; and Mrs Dearborn accepted it with a fawning complaisance which was doubtless entirely spurious.

    Miss Hartshorne, a thin, tall, brown-haired creature with a superior smile, was even more unmerciful, larding her conversation with little bits of Italian which she then translated kindly for Belle and Josephine. She ascertained that Miss Martin could not sing nor play an instrument, and looked very pleased. And then ascertained that Josephine had not as yet mastered the new piece for the pianoforte which she had sent over to her, and laughed a superior laugh. Belle at this misguidedly tried to support her red-faced sister by saying carelessly that they were so busy, what with the constant pestering from their beaux, that Josephine had scarce had time to look at it. This misfired: Miss Hartshorne looked down her aristocratic nose and noted: “We had certainly heard that the young men are encouraged to pester in the environs of Dearborn House. But flattering as it may be, does one wish to risk being labelled a heartless flirt?”

    The Miss Dearborns at this were observed to be biting back the remark that at all events, Miss Hartshorne would not run that risk. And their cousin felt positively sorry for them both.

    “You are not at all,” Lady Hartshorne then stated, raising the lorgnette, “like your late father, Miss Martin.”

    All three of the Major’s children had the neat, straight Martin nose, though it was true none of them had inherited his colouring. “No—um—did your Ladyship know him? No, I suppose I am not.”

    “Ah,” she said, lowering the lorgnette.

    There was a slight pause, and then her Ladyship announced that she would like a little chat with Miss Martin, and that she was sure that Mrs Dearborn and her girls would wish to see the improvements to the west lawn, and that Christina would take them out. Miss Hartshorne rose politely and took them out, but exchanged a meaning glance with her Mamma as she did so.

    “So!” said her Ladyship with terrific meaning.

    The Major’s daughter looked at her politely.

    “That woman,” she said pointedly, “is not aware of it, but my late father and your late grandfather were very close, Miss Martin—very close.”

    “Indeed, your Ladyship?”

    Lady Hartshorne closed the lorgnette with a snap. “Yes. Have they mentioned the disposition of your grandfather’s property to you?”

    “Er—no, Lady Hartshorne,” she croaked, her jaw sagging in spite of herself.

    “I see. I gather you wrote from London to apprise them of your arrival in England? –Yes. Have you been in touch with Sare?”

    She went very red. “No. I—I believe General Sir Arthur Murray did write Cousin Dearborn that—that I had a letter from Papa to—to a Captain Edward Luton—”

    “His uncle. Neddy Sare,” her Ladyship stated definitely.

    “Ye-es. If your Ladyship thinks that—that it is the same man, then I am sure it must be. But Papa never mentioned the title to me and—and it was a very long time ago that he knew him!” she said on a desperate note.

    “Hm. So I would suppose.” Lady Hartshorne surveyed her dispassionately, this time not bothering with the lorgnette. Major Martin’s daughter looked back with her pointed chin a little raised.

    “You have a considerable look of your grandfather. I do not think he would care to know you were with that woman, Miss Martin. I advise you to write to Sare immediately.”

    “I do not think that I have any moral claim on the present Lord Sare,” she replied firmly, “and I very much doubt that I have much of a legal one. And I do not wish to press it.”

    She sniffed. “Hoity-toity! Those airs will do you very little good, Miss! And your brother?”

    She gulped. Certainly Belle and Josephine had dragged every possible detail about Ricky from her, but she had not thought that he could be of interest to anyone else in the neighbourhood. “It is three years since I last heard from him, your Ladyship.”

    “I dare say. I collect he does not know of your grandfather’s will? –Well, from what I remember of Matthew Martin, he would have been almost as likely to overlook it completely as to take gross advantage of it.”

    Matthew Martin’s daughter looked at her dubiously, and ventured politely: “Your Ladyship must be mistaken. The property was left to Cousin Dearborn.”

    “It was left to him in trust, my dear Miss Martin, on the condition that he offered your father’s legitimate offspring a home for as long as they should need one during the period of their legal minority. Matthew flung off in a huff, of course, once he ascertained the terms. That does not affect the case. When your brother turns twenty-five years of age the larger portion of the estate will revert to him. –You may take that look off your face, girl, for I am not in my dotage, yet!” she said sharply. “Many persons of property phrase their wills in such a way, allowing for the birth of legitimate issue after they are gone. Naturally one does not desire to let the property pass from the direct line. Though your grandfather made very sure that Matthew could not benefit.”

    Major Martin’s daughter just looked at her in a stunned way.

    “Dearborn has never mentioned it, has he?” said her Ladyship with considerable satisfaction.

    That was perhaps the first of her Ladyship’s questions that was very easy to answer. “No, ma’am: he has certainly not.”

    She sniffed. “Quite. Have they introduced that son of theirs to your notice, yet?”

    “No. I believe young Mr Dearborn is up at Oxford.”

    “Yes, well, no doubt the creature is making up her mind to it. She has always had ambitions for him, of course. But the only way the Martin property will remain with the Dearborn family is in the case she brings about a match between your brother, if he can be found, and one of those dreadful girls, and between yourself and the frightful son. –I believe I remarked that I am not in my dotage? Nor am I a raree show, Miss Martin, so if you would refrain from staring in that manner, I should be entirely gratified.”

    “I beg your Ladyship’s pardon.” Her wide brow wrinkled. “I cannot see why they should wish me to marry Mr Dearborn.”

    “No? The property is not entailed in the true sense, Miss Martin. In the case of your brother’s death, the whole of the estate reverts to yourself; but in any case you will receive a one-third share. Less, if you have other siblings; but I believe that is not the case?”

    “No,” she agreed faintly, licking her lips, which suddenly seemed to have gone dry.

    “That is it, then. A one-third share of the estate to the younger issue of Matthew Martin, and the residue to his oldest son. As to how I know all this: your late grandfather discussed it all in considerable detail with my father, who was in fact one of the witnesses to the will. And I have no doubt at all,” she said with an air of finality, “that the Dearborns would not have mentioned a word of it to you until the knot was safely tied. Now, I am sure you will like to see the improvements to the west lawn.” She rang the bell and said to the footman who hurried in: “John, show Miss Martin to the west lawn, if you please.”

    The Major’s daughter tottered to her feet. “Thank you for—for telling me, your Ladyship.”

    Her Ladyship raised her lorgnette. “I, at least, have a sense of my obligations to society. May I advise you again to write to Sare? He will certainly be able to advise you of your rights. –John, if you please.”

    Numbly she followed the footman out.

    Since Cousin Evangeline did not seem to care if she went up to bed very early, she usually did so. But she did not, of course, go to bed; instead, she would creep out to the stables to commune with her little dog. “Troilus,” she said to him that evening, sitting in the stable loft: “this is quite a dilemma. I have to admit that, even though Lady Hartshorne is not a particularly kind sort of lady, I don’t think it was all spite against my cousins: she was truly concerned to see I knew of my rights. But will she mention it to Cousin Evangeline’s face? We-ell… I suppose if she does, it cannot signify. After all, they have taken me in, have they not? And as they have no knowledge of Ricky’s whereabouts, they can scarcely offer him a home. No, they have complied with our grandfather’s will.”

    She paused, and Troilus licked her chin sympathetically. “With the letter of it, certainly,” said Major Martin’s daughter very grimly indeed. “Though I do not think that no dresses, and no parties, and not enough to eat can be said to be complying with its spirit, do you?”

    For answer Troilus did not precisely agree: but he certainly licked her chin again, and she felt comforted.

    The Dearborns as a family did not rise early, and their cousin had fallen into the habit of taking Troilus out for a wander about the lanes before breakfast. On the first of these walks she had encountered the burly, blue-chinned Mr Bert Dinwoody, who had revealed that he had found employment in the district. Since then, she very frequently bumped into him, and although he did not speak very much, they had struck up a friendship. Mr Dinwoody mainly listening and nodding, and at times uttering sage advice. Usually along the lines of “Wait and see.” Though his advice as to what to do about Cousin Evangeline’s meanness in the matter of Miss Martin’s helpings at dinner was not so sage: “I’d string ’er from the yardarm.”

    From which she had concluded that he had, perhaps, been a sailor? He certainly seemed to know a lot about boats, and when their walks took them to the cliff top that overlooked the little settlement of Sandy Bay, would give her a disparaging commentary on the fishing boats that were often moored there. He had not revealed what his occupation was, and she politely had not asked. Though once she had met him with a mattock in his hand, so possibly it was something agricultural. His employment seemed to enable him to eat well, whatever it was: very often he had a large slice of crusty loaf with him, well stuffed with a heavy, crumbly cheese. The which he would politely urge her to share. She did not truly care for English cheeses, the which were very different in kind from the smooth, firm Dutch cheeses or the creamy, runny French ones to which she was used; and would eat a very little of the cheese with a piece of the bread, smiling gratefully at him. Occasionally he would have a slab of cold meat pie, the which he described briefly as “left over”, or some slices of cold beef; on which occasions Troilus was generously invited to share, also. These snacks enabled her to face with fortitude Cousin Evangeline’s idea of breakfast for a young lady who was not yet out: a thin slice of bread with a scraping of butter—no jam—and a glass of skim milk.

    Encountering Mr Dinwoody two days after the visit to Lady Hartshorne, she forthwith poured the whole tale into his ear. The which organ displayed, to say truth, the attributes commonly known as “cauliflower”; so possibly at some time in his career Mr Dinwoody had been wont to indulge in pugilist endeavours—whether in an amateur or professional capacity.

    “Ah,” he said, pulling the same.

    She looked up at him hopefully. “What would you do, in my place, Mr Dinwoody?”

    Mr Dinwoody scowled terrifically; but cleared his throat and said: “Never you mind.”

    “Should I speak to Cousin Dearborn, do you think?”

    “Ah. Like, face ’im with it, Miss?”

    “Mm,” she said, nodding hard.

    “Will it do any good if you do? Like, on the one hand, ’e’ll say he ’e thought you knew it all, all along, which is why you come to ’im,” said Mr Dinwoody brilliantly. Her jaw was seen to drop. “Ah,” said Mr Dinwoody with satisfaction. “Or on the other hand, ’e’ll tell you you ain’t got no right to interrogate ’im—get on ’is high horse, like. Probably send you to bed without no supper.”

    “Yes, that’s all too likely,” she admitted with a sigh.

    “Ah.” Mr Dinwoody thought on it a little more. He cleared his throat again. “How far would you say ’e’d go?” he asked cautiously.

    “Go? I don’t understand,” she returned blankly.

    “Well, how mean is ’e? And how well off is ’e, come to that?”

    “He certainly fits the English expression ‘penny-pinching.’ He is not very well liked in the neighbourhood.”

    “No, they hate ’im, down in the village. ‘Mean-fisted’: that’s another one, Miss Martin.”

    “‘Mean-fisted’,” she echoed with a smile. “That’s an excellent one! –Yes, well, he is that. But I would not say he was extraordinarily so. Not—not a miser. Is that the word?”

    “Aye, that’s the word, Missy,” he said with emphasis. “Would sell ’is grandmother for a groat?” he suggested.

    “No! –Oh, I see: that is another expression? Yes, well, I do not think he would go that far. But if his grandmother were bedridden and penniless, I do not think he would expend very much on comforts for her.”

    “Ah. And if she had nothing to give, but maybe something to leave, like? Would he give her a bit of a helping ’and to pop off?”

    For a moment she just looked at him, her face perfectly blank. Then she gasped: “No! Mr Dinwoody, what a suggestion!”

    “No, well, don't dismiss it out of ’and. Think on it,” he advised calmly.

    She wrinkled her brow, and eventually produced: “I think he has probably very few moral scruples, and Cousin Evangeline also. They would largely be held back by fear of being caught, and by fear of their neighbours’ condemnation of them. And also… This sounds silly,” she said slowly. “But I think, held back also because such an act would be beyond the pale of what is considered proper in polite society. –Not because it is immoral, in itself: do you see the difference?” she asked on an anxious note.

    Mr Dinwoody obviously did, for he was nodding hard. “Clear as day,” he confirmed.

    “Yes,” she said with a little sigh. “That is it, I think.”

    “Aye.”

    There was a little pause.

    “Do—do you mean me?” she gulped, swaying a little and clutching at his arm.

    “No, I don’t,” he said hurriedly. “Dang it,” he muttered under his breath. “Here: sit down on this ’ere stile, Miss Martin. –Oy, FETCH!” he shouted, throwing a stick. Troilus galloped after it happily. “No,” he said heavily, leaning on the stile by her side. “Don’t mean you. But I was thinking, supposing as they could get their ’ands on this Ricky of yours, like without you knowing—eh?”

    “No, I do not think they would dare,” she said, very faintly.

    Mr Dinwoody put a hard, gnarled hand gently on her shoulder. “No, well, there’s them as would; only you don’t usual find ’em in nice ’ouses in genteel country neighbourhoods. –Even if it is the back of beyond,” he muttered.

    “No.”

    He scratched his blue chin. “Dearborn’s known around these parts as quite a warm man. Always ’as been. A fair amount of property attached to Dearborn House, and then, ’e owns half the village—grinds the rent out of them as can pay and chucks out them as can’t without no second chances—but as well, ’e’s got properties in Exeter. Slums, they’ll be, take my word for it. Thing is, how much does ’e need this estate of your grandfather’s?”

    “Um, well, I suppose he—he has the management of the income from it?” she said uncertainly.

    “Aye, that’ll be it,” he nodded.

    “Yes. I think, once you have been accustomed to the extra income over twenty-five years or more, it would be a wrench to give it up, whatever your circumstances.”

    “What I thought,” agreed Mr Dinwoody glumly.

    She gnawed on her lip, looking at him uncertainly.

    “Look, I think the old dame’s right: their first move’ll be to force their lad to offer for you. –He’s quite well liked ’ereabouts: sounds a bit dim, but easy-going: very like the eldest girl. Too good-natured to bother to stick up for ’imself, if you get my drift. Don’t think ’e’d plot against you—though ’e might, we got to remember ’e’s their son—but from what they say of ’im in the village, it don’t sound likely; think ’e’ll just do as ’e’s told. Added to which, ’is pa holds the purse-strings, ’e won’t want to cross ’im.”

    She nodded thoughtfully.

    “Aye. Meantime, they’ll probably do their best to find your brother: offer ’im a home before he turns twenty-five, and throw them girls at him.”

    “Yes. That is not—not too frightening.”

    Several possible scenarios were running through Mr Dinwoody’s head, all of them pretty danged frightening; but he just nodded and said: “Ah.”

    “What if—if we refuse to marry them?” she said after a while.

    That was one of the scenarios; Mr Dinwoody’s broad mouth tightened. “It’ll be bread and water for you, and no parties. That’ll be a change, eh?” he noted sardonically. “No, well, thing is, it’s a position what a young lady did not ought to be in, Miss Martin.”

    “No. But if a young lady does not have any other resource… Perhaps I should write to Lord Sare,” she said, swallowing.

    “Depends what sort of a man ’e is,” he said neutrally.

    “Yes, quite. Um… I—I suppose I could ask the advice of my kind friends at Mr Buxleigh’s,” she ventured in a voice that trembled a little.

    Mr Dinwoody sucked his teeth thoughtfully. “Ah. Well, can it do any ’arm, Miss?”

    “I—I am afraid it might do. You see, they all have their livings to earn; and really, I am much better off than they, for after all Cousin Dearborn is providing a roof over my head.”

    Mr Dinwoody produced a napkin-wrapped package from his capacious pocket and solemnly unwrapped it. “Not three square meals a day, though,” he noted stolidly. “Cold rabbit pie. Quite tasty. Left over. ’Ave a bite.”

    “I am very hungry,” she admitted. “Are you sure you can spare it?”

    Grunting affirmatively, Mr Dinwoody operated on it with his pen-knife, and emitted a shrill whistle though his front teeth.

    “I wish I could do that,” admitted Troilus’s mistress as the dachshund dashed up, panting madly.

    “Not ladylike. Useful, though,” he grunted, sharing the pie out fairly between the three of them.

    “So,” he said, after half Miss Martin’s share of pie had disappeared, and she was looking more cheerful: “what yer think? Write to them acting lot?”

    “I would not like them to sacrifice any summer engagements in order to come down to Devon to rescue me,” she explained.

    “No. Got that,” he agreed, munching. “Long way from nowhere, ain’t it?”

    “It is certainly a very long way from Mr Buxleigh’s,” she agreed with a little sigh. “I was so happy there, and they were all so truly kind to me.”

    “Ah. Got enough money to get yourself back there?”

    “No,” she admitted grimly. “And I am sure you do not need to enquire whether Cousin Dearborn gives me any pin money!”

    Mr Dinwoody chewed thoughtfully. “There you are, then.”

    She sighed again, but ate up her pie.

    “There’s that Mr Peebles,” said Mr Dinwoody on a cautious note.

    Miss Martin was seen to blush. “I could certainly ask his advice, and I am sure it would be very sound, but I must not risk his—his deserting his employment to come down here in—in the belief that I need rescuing.”

    “No, right. Um—write ’im yer don’t need rescuing, only you would like his advice?”

    She smiled wanly. “I do not think he is the sort of man to accept that sort of assurance.”

    “Uh—no. That good or bad?” he said , looking at her sideways.

    She laughed shakily. “Both! –Oh, dear, I’m so sorry,” she said, feeling for her handkerchief. She blew her nose hard. “I certainly did not mean to bawl all over you.”

    “You ain’t,” he said stolidly.

    “Um… You know, I think the best person to contact might be Mrs Pontifex. She is level-headed, and—and I think would not be liable to do anything foolish.”

    “Like rushing off over half of England: right.”

    “Yes,” she said, blushing but smiling.

    “Ah. Well, could be right. Think I’d do it, in your place. –There’s that General feller,” he reminded her dubiously.

    “No! For it was he who found the Dearborns in the first place, and his sister is some sort of friend or connection or some such!”

    “Aye… But would ’e have to be on their side?” he said cautiously.

    Apparently he would. So Mr Dinwoody said no more on the topic; just pulled his ear slowly.

    “If—if I were to give the letter to you… ” she ventured.

    “Hey?” he said, jumping. “Oh! Right you are, Missy! I’ll see it gets to the post, never you fret. –I got to rush off now,” he added, heaving himself upright and holding out his hand. “Upsy-daisy. You get it wrote, and I’ll see you tomorrow, about the same time.”

    She allowed Mr Dinwoody to pull her to her feet, thanked him fervently for his advice and the pie, and, clipping Troilus’s leash on him firmly in case he showed a disposition to follow the donor of rabbit pie to the source of the same, the which had happened once or twice before, saw him off with a smile.

    Mr Dinwoody went off very fast, but paused at the first bend and turned his head. The print gown and the old chip hat were still by the stile: she was waving hard. He raised a hand in farewell, and rounded the corner.

    “Ah,” he said to himself. “And what’s more, that there ’at’s a downright disgrace, and if I ’ad Madam at the h’end of a stout rope for two minutes—” He did not finish the thought, but strode off, fists clenched, scowling horribly.

Next chapter:

https://theoldchiphat.blogspot.com/2023/02/plot-devices.html