Interval

23

Interval

    Mr French having renewed his offer of a cottage, and Miss French having declared with absolute finality that the money had been a gift to all of the cousins and she would not hear of taking it back, and remaining deaf to all persuasions, Miss Martingale, Miss Belle and Mrs Jessop gratefully removed to Foxes’ Lane. Josephine accompanied them, though not, alas, so gratefully. In fact, she expressed the opinion that they ought all to be staying at Sare Park. To her sister’s and cousin’s horror Miss Josephine Dearborn had become completely buoyed up and, indeed, superior, by reason of her new status as an affianced woman. This after being so depressed that she had not even been persuaded to set foot in the courtyard of the Sare Apartments by herself.

    The engaged pair did not consider that “pigging it in a dirty little cottage”, Miss Josephine’s expression, was entirely eligible for their relatives. In response to this remark Belle shouted at the top of her lungs: “How DARE you! When you owe everything to dearest Cressida! You are the most ungrateful creature that ever walked, Josephine Dearborn, and I am ashamed to have you as a relation!” So Josephine pouted, shrugged, and desisted. –Mr Dinwoody, incidentally, an interested but silent witness to this scene, looked at Miss Dearborn with tremendous approval. And that very afternoon presented her with a small posy of pink clover, very yellow buttercups, an assortment of meadow grasses, and, alas, those very deep red roses which grew nowhere in Sowcot but in the vicarage garden… But, as the smiling Belle admitted afterwards to her cousin, it was the thought that must count, after all!

    Ricky Martin was staying at Sare Park, but only, it was tacitly acknowledged by all, in order that he might be under his Lordship’s eye until the wedding could take place. He likewise looked down his nose and drawled, apparently unabashed by what most people would have considered an intensely embarrassing situation, that a cottage was not suitable accommodation for his sister.

    “Lord Sare would agree with you, and would certainly agree that the alternative is that you take up your fraternal responsibilities and offer me shelter under your roof!” she shouted.

    The deep blue eyes twinkled. “That ain’t part of the plot, little sister, or had you forgot it, in your disturbance over Peebles’s perfidy?”

    “I am NOT disturbed!” she shouted. “And you are a scoundrel, Ricky, and it has all gone WRONG!”

    “Don’t deafen me,” he said, making a moue and putting his hands over his ears.

    “Do not be so affected!” she shouted.

     He sighed. “Stop shouting, then. And it has not all gone wrong.”

    “Oh, I see,” she said with immense sarcasm. “You had it in mind all along to ruin poor Josephine and then screw a large and unnecessary sum out of the milord in order to consent to make her miserable for the rest of her days as your wife!”

    “Not precisely. And I don’t doubt that I could do better for meself than a Dearborn,” he said with a shrug.

    “You conceited—” Words failed her.

    Ricky eyed her mockingly. “However, this way I get an obedient wife, a plump Dearborn daughter and a plumper Dearborn dowry. Not to mention the patronage of a fellow who owns half of southern England. And as you are only miffed because Peebles was never who you thought he was, I suggest you get over it. And stop shouting about milords before this one smells a rat.”

    His sister shouted something very rude in Dutch.

    “And if that Anstey woman be still around, I would suggest that you refrain utterly from using that expression, in that accent,” he drawled. “Otherwise, instead of your suspecting her origins, the boot, as they say in England, may be on t’other foot.” He raised his eyebrows and looked at her mockingly. “No?”

    She strode around the cottage, breathing heavily. Finally coming to a standstill in the middle of the room and announcing: “I am going to write to Holland.”

    “That will do you a lot of good,” he drawled. “But do it, if you must. Well, you can say that I have got Pudsey House back off damned Dearborn: that will be cheering news. But don’t think that the news that you have failed either to ingratiate yourself with Dearborn or to get taken in by Lord Sare will gladden anyone’s heart, Cressida, dear.”

    His sister lapsed into Dutch again and shouted in that language at the top of her lungs: “Don’t imagine that I want to be taken in by him and made into a lady, because I don’t!”

    “Then I can only say,” said Ricky in English, “that you will be the cause of considerable disappointment to all who know and—misguidedly, true—love you.”

    “Get out,” she said between her teeth.

    “It was not I who did not stick to the agreed scenario,” he drawled.

    “We never agreed that you would seduce one of the Dearborn daughters, and GET OUT!” she screamed.

    “I’m going: I have no desire to remain an instant longer in this pigsty.” He went over to the door, but paused, and said mockingly: “Oh, by the way, in the case you were wondering if I’m in the least upset at being cast in the rôle of black-hearted villain in this charming melodrama, do let me assure you, I ain’t.”

    He went out while his sister was still gasping indignantly for breath.

    It was quite some time before she had calmed down sufficiently to say to herself: “I shall write to Holland. For he is a broken reed, and I was an idiot ever to have believed that he could be trusted in anything, large or small. And all I can say is, I was warned! And—and— Well, for the time being,” she said wanly to Troilus, “we are well enough here. And maybe she can suggest what it would be best to do next.”

    Neither Ricky nor Josephine evincing even an instant of shame nor remorse during the week that he stayed at Sare Park, their relatives tacitly more or less gave them up as a bad job. Though not going quite so far as to conclude that she deserved him. And, the Reverend Mr Bigelow having duly performed the ceremony, very quietly, with none but the cousins, Mrs Jessop, Lord Sare and Mr Dinwoody present, Miss Josephine’s representations that it could not be thought ineligible to invite a few genteel persons not having been heeded, the bridal pair duly departed for Pudsey House. Josephine leaning from the window of the coach to cry: “You must visit us very soon! And I wager I shall entertain you in as fine a style as horrid old Lady Hartshorne herself, for I mean to make a splash in the neighbourhood, I can tell you!”

    “She is my own sister,” said Belle tightly as the carriage disappeared, “but frankly, I am ashamed to own her.”

    Her cousin sighed, and did not disagree with her. And they retreated to what Belle had declared must be called “Honeysuckle Cottage”, for there was a profusion of it twining over its picket fence and small wobbly arched gateway, and thankfully closed its front door upon the world.

    Before very long at all, Mr Dinwoody having moved into what Miss Belle had declared must be called “Rose Cottage”, for it had a bush its in little front garden that she was persuaded only needed encouragement to bear beautiful blooms, the wobbly arch over the Honeysuckle Cottage gate had been repaired, the front gardens of both cottages had been ruthlessly cleared, though the rose bush and the honeysuckle had been allowed to remain, and the back gardens had been well dug over and various treasures discovered amongst the profusion of tall weeds therein.

    Mr Dinwoody, who seemed to have nothing very much else to do, had fixed the roof of Rose Cottage, the which had not been in such good repair as Mr Solly had at one time claimed, and undertaken, with Mrs Jessop’s grim cooperation, a certain amount of fixing and refurbishing of the interiors of both cottages. For, as Mrs Jessop noted, she was capable of washing a flagged floor and scrubbing out them apologies for wooden dressers, but she was beggared if she knew where to start with a chimney what looked as if it had been blocked since Kingdom Come, not to mention them windows what wouldn’t open and the back door what had the rot in it.

    Miss Belle having been introduced to the notions of a fine hem and a straight seam, the cousins embarked upon their useful occupations. Walking in to the Sare Apartments every morning and duly returning thence in the evening.

    And by the time a gloriously warm August rolled to its end, Miss Belle was able to show her well-wishers, very proudly, a parasol for which she had not only hemmed the ruffle all by herself, but which she had painted with flowers into the bargain! For Mr Bones had found out that she had quite a knack, and was tutoring her! Her cousin and Mrs Jessop looked at the painting of rosebuds, leaves, and bluebirds in complete and unfeigned awe, and congratulated her warmly on it, greeting with sincere pleasure the news that Miss French had seen it and admired it jealously, and immediately commissioned one for herself. With a soberer one for Mrs Anstey.

    Up at Sare Park Max Blunsden’s continued masquerade had not penetrated to Lady Hartwell’s consciousness: she was not, of course, accustomed to spend any time in the village, and was by far too self-centred to have registered the Major’s very brief appearances at Sare Park as being rather odd. But the rest she considered a great joke, informing her daughter that Edward had met his match at last! Mercy, smiling dubiously, did not point out that this might be so, if Stern Mamma meant a lady who could stand up to him, but could hardly be so if she meant one whom he might marry, for Miss Martin seemed set to ignore him for the rest of her life. Lukey assured her gaily that of course things could not continue as they were, and that eventually they must have Miss Martin up to London, and give her a proper come-out; but for the meantime, “the little thing” was at least standing up to Edward! The common-sensical Mercy did not in the least see how Miss Martin was ever to be persuaded to change her mind; at least, not without bringing in horrid lawyers and courts and such-like, the which would make the most horrid scandal, not to say upset everybody dreadfully; but held her peace. And, since Uncle Edward showed no signs of wishing to retain them, allowed herself to be borne off back to Quysterse with Mamma for a few weeks. Only wincing slightly as Mamma reminded her gaily that Roland Lefayne was due to do two pieces in London this autumn and that they absolutely must not miss them. And silently determining to write Penny Greatorex a note immediately, to make quite sure that her Uncle Wilf would also be in London this coming autumn.

    “So?” said Lord Sare mildly to the blue-chinned, burly man encountered under an obscure tree by an obscure stream on the edge of the park proper.

    Max scratched his jaw. “Going along all right. Both stitching their fingers to the bone, happy as Larry. Oh: Mrs Dunne from The Heights has ordered up new curtains and matching cushion covers from Ma Feathers, so Miss Martin’s going to learn how to make silken tassels.”

    Edward gave him a bitter look.

    “And walking dresses for all her girls, so—”

    “Yes!”

    “You would ask. And if you object to it all that much, there is always the alternative. –By the way, can we pick them blackberries over in Home Wood, near where it meets that back lane to Little Sare? I mean,” he said, touching his forelock, his face expressionless, “without let or hindrance, yer Lordship?”

    “Pick anything you damned well please,” he said tightly.

    “Well, good, because my next request was, and gather up firewood from it, what your Lordship’s foresters don't seem to be that hurried about clearing away.”

    “Max, you will try my patience too far.”

    Major Blunsden made a fist and looked at it dreamily. “That’d be a pleasant change.”

    “How is she?” he demanded grimly.

    The Major shrugged. “Happy as Larry, like I said. No, well, she’s keeping busy, she’s got her little dog, and Miss Belle’s turning out to be a pleasant companion for her. And Ma Jessop’s got all the common sense, not to say grim intelligence,” he said with a smothered laugh, “that Belle lacks, bless her! Don’t think Miss Martin’s missing out on much, in short. Though she regrets not being able to go on with the acting, I’m not saying she doesn’t. Your name don’t crop up,” he noted pointedly. “Either of your names.”

    “That’s it, is it?” he said tightly.

    “Yes, sir, Colonel, sir!” replied the Major brightly, coming smartly to attention and saluting him. “Well, Mr Simpkins’s blamed play is going ahead, and they’ve brought Miss Martin in as official advisor, on account of her professional experience. Not that even her brains and hard work could turn any of them into actors. Never mind, the costumes’ll cover a lot.”

    “When is it?”

    “Thought your Lordship would never ask!” he gasped. Ignoring his Lordship’s glare he explained: “This coming Saturday. Fairly early, so as the children can come.”

    “What children?” he said blankly.

    “The children of any of the locals as has children to bring. Villagers or gentry, Mr Simpkins don’t seem to mind. They’re not charging much, as French has offered them the use of the theatre for nothing, but what they do charge will go to fixing the church tower.

    “What’s wrong with the damned tower?” he said, staring.

    “According to Bigelow, it needs repointing.”

    “For God’s sake! I’ll have it fixed; he has only to ask!”

    “Well, no-one from Sare Park in the past didn’t never offer nothink to the church nor nothink else, in Sowcot,” he said pointedly, lapsing into the Dinwoody persona, “so—”

    “Mm. I’ll speak to Bigelow. Let the money go to a worthier cause, for God’s sake. What about the workhouse?”

    “Dare say the parish—or joint parishes, think it is—would be grateful, Edward, yes.”

    “It is joint parishes. It’s over on the outskirts of Sareford, on the Dorchester road. Any donation would help: the place is a disgrace. Well, I am having it re-roofed,” he said with a frown, “but that is the least of it! The unfortunate occupants seem to live on gruel.”

    “Better than starving.”

    “And the bedding has to be seen to be believed.”

    “I’m sure. Well, up to you to mend that, Edward.

    “Mm. That’s it, then, is it? She’s happy as Larry, keeping busy, has become involved with these damned amateur theatrics?”

    “Yes,” he said blandly. “That prompt you to see your way clear to what might be your next step?”

    “No.”

    “Didn’t think it would,” acknowledged the Major, strolling off in a leisurely manner.

    “Wait! Has there been no message from Dearborn?” he cried.

    The Major paused. “A note did come. He seems to have persuaded himself that his daughter’s new address means that your Lordship has provided her and her cousin with a pretty little country house. Don’t think she deliberately misled him; just didn’t spell it out. He assumed it. Well, wishful thinking. Nothing’s been heard from Martin, since you don’t ask. But Miss Belle had a letter from her sister, boasting about how fine the house is, how fine her new gowns are—where the money came from, unspecified,” he said on very dry note, “and how she’s rubbing all the neighbourhood noses in their consequence. Belle bunged it on the fire,” he said with a grin.

    He smiled. “Good for her.”

    “That really is all the news. I’m off: promised Simpkins I’d help him with his damned scenery.” He leered, touched his forelock, and slouched off.

    Smiling reluctantly, Lord Sare returned slowly to the house.

    The performance of Beauty and The Beast came and went. The audience, it was fair to say, enjoyed it unreservedly. Well, almost unreservedly. Most of the genteel persons present had relatives in it, and beamed uncritically upon their performances. Mr French, who had refused a pressing invitation to sit in the front row, and was half a dozen rows back, might have been observed to wince as his daughter’s bell-like tones with their strong accent were heard amidst the clamour of selfish daughters refusing happily to sacrifice themselves for their father and go to the Beast; likewise, as his son came on as a very unconvincing frog-like servant to the Beast. Mrs Garbutt, who had also refused to adorn the very front and had a seat in the same row, might have been observed to wince as Robina forgot her lines and had to be audibly prompted. But everyone else appeared to greet the whole thing with rapture. Even the grim Mrs Jessop acknowledging: “It were a laugh, I’ll say that for it. Can’t say as we didn’t need one, neither.”

    After which, as August waned into September, the nights cooled, and Sir Bernie Bamwell, receiving no encouragement whatsoever from Miss French to remain in the neighbourhood, vanished to Scotland to help the Duke of Something-or-Another shoot something or another, life in Sowcot resumed the even tenor of its way.

    Autumn had come and gone. Mrs Pontifex had written Miss Cressida a rapturous account of the success of Mr Hartington’s London production, with Sid in the title rôle, of Lord Stradley’s Stratagem. In especial with Mr Deane taking the Duke of Ironside. Though a less rapturous account of the subsequent fêting of Mr Deane by successive series of Society ladies who did ought to have known better. Mr Deane had later written her a rapturous account of the succès d’estime of Mr “Lucky” Devine’s production of The Misanthrope, himself taking the title rôle, with just a glancing and humorous reference to the succès fou of Lord Stradley’s Stratagem. Mr Vanburgh had written her an hilarious account of the both of them. Tilda had written very fully of her own family’s doings, in especial Georgy’s triumph as the boy in red in Lord Stradley’s Stratagem, not to say the belly-ache that several nights of fêting by besotted Society ladies had induced, and quite fully of her own rôles, but had said very little about Mr Vanburgh, alas. Mrs Mayhew had written a very muddled letter in which the description of her own autumn rôles, the lacunae in Cook’s autumnal offerings, the insupportable comprehension (sic) of Madam Campion, very puffed-up in consequence of Mr Perseus Brentwood’s having cast her as the heroine in his latest offering and of Sir George Drew’s having coughed up a barouche, the inconvenience of sharing accommodation with one’s sibilant (sic), and the utter impossibility of accepting an offer to become a female bootmaker and the mistress of portentous (sic) Turkey carpets while one was still in one’s prime, all jostled together. Mrs Deane had written to say that Margery was weakening with regard to Mr Prettyjohn, even though she had been very well received in the rôle Miss Cressida herself had taken, as “Madam”, in Lord Bibbery’s Bobbery, and (wistfully), she did not suppose that Miss Cressida had news of Briggsy, had she? Even Mr Buxleigh had written: a formal, dignified little note, which ended with the admission that they missed her and the house was not the same without her. With on the reverse, a wavering “B”, very large, under which the landlord had kindly added the annotation: “Bagshot. His Mark.” The addressee had forthwith wept very much over it.

    And so Christmas came, with not very much further news, and certainly no parcels at all from either Dearborn House or Pudsey House. Not that they had been expecting any such. A very large parcel arrived from Sare Park, but Miss Martingale, reddening angrily, sent it back unopened. Mrs Garbutt, giving the appearance of one who was there by accident and had no association with the thing at all, called with Jessie and Dotty, and allowed the latter to present a large fruit-cake. Remarking, as the cousins gasped and thanked her, that it was an extra one. Miss Hutton and Miss Pinkerton called, and warmly invited the girls to eat Christmas dinner at Dove Cottage. To which Miss Martingale replied firmly, since there had been no indication that the two well-meaning ladies meant to include Mrs Jessop in the invitation, that they were grateful, but had already arranged their own little celebration.

    Miss French, returning from several months in London, reported gaily that the town was dirty, stuffy and boring and all the young men impossibly empty-headed and dim, but that (looking innocent), the theatres were excellent. And presented them with a positive hamper. The which the red-faced Mrs Jessop, discovering that it contained a dressed goose, a whole ham, several jars of what was almost undoubtedly some sort of meat paste, several bottles of wine, a large box of sweetmeats, and what was presumably Little Sare’s French cook’s idea of a fruit-cake, protested that they couldn’t possibly, Miss! Which objection Annette, predictably, overrode.

    Miss Enright from the Sare Apartments, perhaps more practically, presented them with a large cold raised pie: ham and pigeon. Baked for her in the baker’s own oven, and had turned out quite well. No-one asked where the pigeon had come from, and Mrs Jessop immediately invited her to share their Christmas dinner, the which invitation she was very happy to accept.

    On the morning of Christmas Day itself, Honeysuckle Cottage received a positive deputation from the Sare Apartments, just as they had been on very point of going there themselves. Miss Feathers, beaming, presented Miss Martingale with a warm pelisse. The stuff, or such was her claim, had been “left over” from a commission. And Ma would have come in person, but the cold weather didn’t do her hip no good. In Belle’s case there was no need for a pelisse, for Mrs Dearborn had now sent on most of her clothes. Excepting, apparently, those which it was deemed Fanny and Deirdre could get some wear out of. But Miss Feathers and her mother had stitched “just a little something” for her: a pretty embroidered handkerchief case. Miss Lucy Peebles had brought, together with Gertie Drew, an embroidered handkerchief case for Miss Martingale (so it was pretty plain the neighbours had plotted it together), and a pretty little reticule for Miss Belle. Made, according to herself, from “bits and bobs.” Her apprentice then enveloping her in a hug and kissing her withered cheek, Mr Dinwoody, sitting quietly on a stool in a corner, might have been observed to blow his nose solemnly on his red-spotted handkerchief. Mr Bones had brought serviceable umbrellas for both young ladies and Mrs Jessop. And refused to be thanked, merely noting stolidly that they got a lot of rain in Sowcot, in the winter months, and it weren’t as if Foxes’ Lane were only a step from Mrs Burgess’s shop. This last being presumably aimed at silencing Mrs Jessop.

    Honeysuckle Cottage then had to present its gifts: mufflers for everybody from Miss Belle, and mittens for most from Miss Martingale, the two of them having just lately acquired the skill of knitting from Mrs Jessop. Not to say, the skill of unravelling other garments, and dampening, stretching and steaming the wool back into useable form. Gertie Drew was awarded a blue muffler made from an unravelled shawl hitherto only observed adorning the pretty shoulders of Miss Dearborn at such events as dances at Hartshorne Hall. And became very puffed-up over it indeed. And fortunately either did not hear or did not understand the grim Mrs Jessop’s mutter of: “It’ll be dark grey afore the Vicar’s read the lesson for Twelfth Night, but let it pass.”

    Mr Dinwoody’s present from Miss Belle was an extra-long, extra-thick muffler in a serviceable brown, but with the addition of some rather uncertain red stripes and a gay red fringe. He put it on immediately.

    The gifts all having been distributed, and cups of a warming substance concocted by Mr Dinwoody having been drunk with due appreciation, the party from the Sare Apartments assumed its outer clothing and was about to depart, when it was observed that Miss Belle was putting on her pelisse, bonnet and shawl.

    “You don’t have to come back with us in the cold, Miss Belle,” said Mr Bones kindly. “We’ll see that Mrs Feathers and Miss Peebles get your gifts.’

    “‘And Ma! And Miss Barrow!” piped Gertie Drew.

    “That’s right,” agreed the umbrella-maker.

    “That is very kind of you, Mr Bones,”  replied Belle gaily, “but of course we shall be going to church, any case!”

    “What?” said her cousin blankly.

    “Hey?” said Mrs Jessop, equally blank.

    “Church?” said the umbrella-maker blankly.

    “But of course! It is Christmas Day!”

    Mr Bones rubbed his nose. “S’pose yer could,” he acknowledged dubiously.

    “Poor folks don’t bother, usually,” explained Mrs Jessop.

    “The church will be full of the gentry,” added Miss Feathers kindly. “Madam,” she noted, less kindly.

    “With ’er spy-glass!” piped Gertie Drew.

    “That's it,” agreed Mr Bones.

    The visitors looked at Miss Belle expectantly.

    “Buh-but we cannot not go!” she protested, very red.

    “Not a Christian young lady: no,” noted Mr Dinwoody stolidly, heaving himself up and assuming a huge, heavy outer garment. Carefully he arranged the ends of his new muffler over it. “Come on, Ma, dessay it won’t kill us, for once,” he added to Mrs Jessop. “You can leave Troilus, though, Vicar don’t welcome little dawgs in church; acos he,” he said to Miss Martingale with a wink, “ain’t no St Francis!”

    “No!” she choked, suddenly going into a paroxysm. “Of course we shall come to church, Belle, if that is what you think we should do. –Mr Dinwoody, where did you pick that one up?”

    “Can’t say, Miss. Somewhere or other,” he returned stolidly. “True, though, ain't it?”

    “It is perfectly true! Why, he would have ten fits were we to suggest introducing the oxen and the lambs of the very first Christmas, never mind a small dog!” she squeaked, collapsing in giggles.

    The church, on a very cold December day, was fairly full—of the gentry, of course. Even the Sare Park pew was occupied.

    “They must have a house party at Sare Park,” whispered Belle in her cousin’s ear.

    “I do not care,” she said grimly.

    Belle craned her neck. “I cannot quite see the Bamwells’ pew.”

    Mr Dinwoody, at her other hand, obligingly peered. “I can, Miss Belle. Sir Bernie ain’t there,” he added helpfully. “Stayed up in Scotland, they tell me.”

    Belle nodded wisely. “I expected as much. His poor mother!”

    Their pew blinked slightly: this thought would not have occurred, unaided. But on consideration, nodded solemnly in agreement with her.

    And so Christmas passed at Sowcot more or less happily, without benefit of the presence of Sir Bernie Bamwell. And the new year duly came, and Epiphany, by the which time Miss Gertie’s muffler was certainly a little the worse for wear, though not the dark grey that Mrs Jessop had envisaged for it. And a freezing January was followed by the icy winds and sleet of February.

    March then blew in like a lion, with fierce rain squalls off the Channel. And Mr Dinwoody, having found some battered snowdrops sheltering in the lee of a hedge, presented them to Miss Belle with the remark: “They tell me that there oughta be violets, hereabouts. All I can say is, it’d be a brave violet as ’ud show its nose in this weather. And if you want firewood chopping, mind you sing out, hey? Don’t you go for to let Ma Jessop chop it, and don’t dare to tell me you can chop it yourself.”

    “I am not a weakling, sir!” said Belle with a rather flustered laugh. For it being a Sunday afternoon, and her cousin having taken Troilus for a walk, and Mrs Jessop having gone to call on her old friends at the Sare Apartments with the promise, or perhaps threat, of a pot of tea made by Gertie Drew in person, she was quite alone in the house. And, even though of course she was very used to him, was disconcerted to find how very large Mr Dinwoody’s presence seemed, all of a sudden, in their little front room.

    “I can see that,” said Mr Dinwoody stolidly. “Sit down, shall we?”

    “Oh! Yes! I am so sorry: please do!” said Belle with another flustered laugh.

    He drew up a chair to the fire but courteously waited until she had reseated herself before sitting. And noted mildly: “It ain’t a matter of strength. Wood chopping takes skill. And them as don’t have no skill with an axe have been known to take their foot off, afore now.”

    She winced. “Oh.”

    “Yes, oh. And what’s more, if I catch you even so much as lifting the damned thing, after I’ve told you not to, I’ll put you over my knee.”

    “Really!” said Belle with a toss of the golden curls, quite in the old Miss Dearborn manner.

    “Really. I don’t deny,” he said slowly, “that I’d enjoy every moment of it, too.”

    Belle was now very red. She held her chin very high. “I think that is quite uncalled for, Mr Dinwoody,” she said sternly.

    “No, well, given you, and given that I’m only human, not to say only a man, I’d say it was quite natural. But I’ll apologise, if you like.”

    She gulped. “Yes.”

    “Very well, I humbly apologise,” he said smoothly.

    “You do no such thing,” said Belle faintly.

    “No, well, I said it, that’s more than most would. Them boys what you had after you when you lived at home: how old were they, in any case?” he asked with a laugh in his voice.

    “What?” she said dazedly. “I—I suppose, not very old.”

    “I suppose not!” he said with a laugh.

    Miss Dearborn, horridly confused, stared into the fire, her face about at as red as its glowing logs.

    “What are your plans for the future?” asked Mr Dinwoody blandly.

    “Whuh-what? I—I shall stay with dear Cressida as long as she needs me,” she said uncertainly.

    He scratched his chin. “From what I can make out, your Pa seems to have got the impression that Lord Sare’s given her a pretty little house what you’re both living in. I’m not saying you meant to give him that impression; I am saying that there’s no impediment, in his eyes, to you going back home whenever you like.”

    Miss Dearborn did not notice the supposed Mr Dinwoody’s use of the word “impediment”, and retorted: “I suppose not, though if you imagine he would welcome the extra mouth to feed, you do not know my Papa, sir!”

    “No, well, I know enough of him to know he wouldn’t: no. But ’e wouldn’t chuck you out, either, would ’e?”

    “No, that is probably so.”

    “So you could go back, let’s say if Lord Sare was to put his foot down and order Miss Martin to get on over to Sare Park and let them ladify ’er?”

    “Um—yes,” said Belle, blinking a little. “I suppose,” she added dolefully.

    “Then you could marry one of them fancy young fellers what was always a-dangling after you, hey?” he said on an ingenuous note.

    “I shall certainly not do that!” replied Miss Dearborn angrily, her plump chin well to the fore but the great blue eyes sparkling with tears.

    “Why not?” he asked mildly.

    “Because they are all useless young fribbles and I could never care the snap of my fingers for them! I can see as well as anyone that they were attracted by my looks alone, vain though it may be to say so. And I have discovered that—that there is more to life than mere looks,” she said on a defiant note.

    “That’s true enough,” he said slowly, rubbing the blue chin.

    Belle swallowed loudly, looking at the chin. “Pretty looks do not make a man, any more than they make a woman.” He did not react to this and she added faintly, with nothing of the flirtatious in her manner: “If you were to shave rather more often, sir, I am sure that—that any young woman could not fail to be pleased by you.”

    He rubbed the chin again. “Nothing to shave for.”

    “That is what I am saying,” said Belle faintly.

    “Knew a gentlemen once,” he said slowly, rubbing the chin yet again, “that were as dark nor me, and ’e reckoned that a feller’d ’ave to shave twice a day to look a proper gent. Well, ’e did ’imself. ’Cepting Sundays, if ’e weren’t on duty. Said any man deserved a day orf. So ’e just ’ad a shave afore eating ’is dinner in the Mess.”

    “I see!” she said eagerly. Mr Dinwoody blinked, but did his best to look at her mildly. “So you were a soldier?”

    “Aye,” he admitted. “At one stage. Quite a while, when you think about it. Would of started afore you were born, I dessay.”

    “I do not see what that has to say to anything!” she returned vividly.

    “No, well, maybe not,” he said heavily.

    “You are not old.”

    “Oldish,” he muttered, looking sour.

    “Oh, pooh!” He still looked sour, so she added cautiously: “If you were any other man, I might suggest you were fishing.”

    Mr Dinwoody at this looked at her blandly, and very slowly closed one eye.

    “Oh!” said Miss Dearborn with a little shriek of laughter, lifting her hands to her face. “You are perfectly dreadful!”

    Grinning, he leant forward, very gently removed one of the hands from the face, and approached it to his blue chin. And very softly kissed the palm.

    “Oh!” cried Miss Dearborn, snatching the hand back. “You should not!”

    “Why not?” he said, the dark eyes watchful. “Acos you’re a lady, and I’m not a fine gent?”

    “Certainly not!” she said, the bosom heaving. “Because we are alone in the house! And I think I had better ask you to go away at once, sir!”

    “I’d much rather sit here and watch that bosom of yours doing the indignant bit.”

    She blinked. “Oh!” she cried, truly outraged, and instinctively clutching at it.

    Grinning, Mr Dinwoody got up. “Never saw such a fetching sight in all me life. –I’m going, no need to beat me over the ’ead, I can take a hint. Only I got to tell you, Miss Belle,” he said, going slowly over to the door, “as you got me all of a doo-dah, I don't mind admitting it.”

    “Get out, you impossible creature,” said Miss Dearborn, very, very faintly.

    Mr Dinwoody lifted the latch. “Mind you, I knew it, the moment I first set eyes on you. Dare say I’m not the first man to tell you you make the blood race in me veins, but I’m telling you anyway, for what it’s worth. And when your bosom does that up-and-down thing, like it was just then, me knees kind of turn to jelly.”

    “Get out,” she said faintly, pressing her hands to her glowing cheeks.

    “Just thought we’d better get that much straight between us,” said Mr Dinwoody mildly, going out.

    Belle sat on numbly before the fire, her cheeks bright red, her hands shaking slightly, and the blood racing in her veins to such an extent that she might fairly have been described as “all of a doo-dah”, herself.

    … “Well,” summed up the shrewd Mrs Jessop, “dunno what it was, but ’e must of said something, that’s for sure!’

    “Or—or done something?” suggested Belle’s cousin uneasily.

    “No,” she said, shaking her bony head. “Or nothing to speak of.”

    “I see. But will it do, in truth, Mrs Jessop? For you and I can see that Mr Dinwoody has many, many good points. But after all, Belle is a lady.”

    Mrs Jessop looked dry. “I dessay ’e can overlook that, Missy.”

    She reddened, and bit her lip. “Er—yes!”

    “Well,” she said grimly, “is that Pa of hers ever gonna corf up a dowry, yer reckon?”

    “Um—no. I would say not, I’m afraid.”

    “There you are, then. No fine gent’ll look twice at a young lady without a dowry, and not even living under her Pa’s roof, neither. She could do worse than Mr D.”

    “A lot worse,” she agreed. “I keep thinking of Josephine, condemned to live with Ricky… Oh, dear. Yes, well, I shall not breathe a word against dear Mr Dinwoody!”

    “No, well, if you could breathe a word as to knitting mufflers being all very well, but a decent man needs a lass as can cook him a solid dinner, as well?” Mrs Jessop suggested, unsmiling.

    She gulped. Belle had put forth her best endeavours but so far her efforts at any sort of cooking had been completely disastrous. “Indeed.”

    Mrs Jessop nodded. “She can start tonight. We’ll do a boiled pudding. Saw Mr Rogers this afternoon: ’e was asking after you,” she said on an artless note. “Give me a couple of nice kidneys and a few scrag ends: mutton. Be a nice change, hey?”

    Gallantly agreeing that a pudding of mutton and kidneys would indeed, be a nice change, Miss Martingale went off to find her cousin.

    Mrs Jessop sighed. “Oh, well,” she said to Troilus Martin, “s’pose you’ll eat it, if the rest of us can’t stomach it!”

    “So?” drawled Mr Lefayne, yawning.

    Mrs Pontifex reddened. “If you’re going to take that tone, I shan’t read it to you!”

    “I’d much rather read it for myself, Hetty,” he said with his most charming smile.

    “And you can drop that, for a start: it don’t affect me! There ain’t nothing about you in it, anyroad.”

    He shrugged. “I did not expect there would be, Hetty. I think she is probably still miffed because I forbade her to continue on the road with us.” He paused. “Anything about Lord S.?”

    “No,” she admitted, glaring.

    “Dinwoody?”

    “He’s still living in the next cottage. Seems to have fallen for Miss Belle with a thump. Well, she’s the prettiest thing, if you like them rather overdone looks. If only she’d had talent, and we coulda got her to London, she could of given Madam a run for her money.”

    “That's a fair allowance of ‘if only’s’, Hetty. –May I?”

    “No; sit down and be quiet! Bagshot and Bessy want to hear, too!”

    “Yus,” agreed Bessy.

    Mr Bagshot nodded hard.

    “Well, could I not read it out?” said Mr Lefayne plaintively.

    Sighing, Mrs Pontifex handed him Miss Cressida’s letter.

    “Where is Cook? May she not hear? And Fred?” he murmured.

    “Get ’em in, by all means, but there ain’t that much to it.”

    Mrs Harmon and Fred having been summoned in the usual manner, the company got down to it.

    … “Not much in it. At least she’s earning a respeckable living,” concluded Cook. “Thanks, Mr Sid,” she acknowledged as Mr Lefayne hastened to open the door for her. And went out, unmoved by the sort of graceful bow that was guaranteed to cause grand ladies to quiver, blush, and flutter the fan and the lashes tremendously.

    “She didn’t say much abaht Trellis,” noted Fred mournfully.

    “He is well, and deliriously happy providing the household with rabbits,” said Mr Lefayne solemnly. “What more can a dog ask?”

    “Dunno. Wotcher mean, delly-leerishly ’appy?” he said suspiciously.

    “Er—very, very happy, Fred,” replied Mr Lefayne limply.

    “Oh.” Fred went out, dragging his feet.

    There came a booming call of “BESSY!” from the hinterland, and Bessy got up reluctantly from her snug position on Mr Buxleigh’s hearth-rug. “Bovver. I’m COMINK!” she screeched. “Wot abaht Mr Peebles?” she said on an aggrieved note to the actors.

    Mrs Hetty sniffed. “You mean dratted Lord Bibbery, don’t you? Never mentions ’is name. Wild with ’im still, dear. Get orf, Cook’ll do yer.”

    “I allus knowed ’e were a gent!” said Bessy. Hurriedly vanishing on this defiant note before the lodgers could throw the lie in her face.

    “She didn’t,” said Mrs Hetty dully.

    “No,” Sid agreed mildly.

    “S’pose we’re lucky he didn’t take you and Harold to court over Lord Bibbery’s Bobbery,” she admitted dully.

    “Mm? Oh: Yes. Not that the London audiences would ever get that precise reference.”

    “In that case you’re lucky the Duke of Wellington didn’t damn’ well court yer!”

    Sid’s lips twitched. “True.”

    Mrs Hetty sighed. “So now what?”

    “Mm? Oh, well, life must go on, Hetty,” he said, negligently folding the letter up.

    “It’s mine! Give it HERE!” she said loudly as he then made to put it negligently in his pocket.

    “Mm? I do beg your pardon, Hetty,” he said courteously. He handed it to her with a bow, and strolled out.

    “That,” said Mrs Hetty grimly to the silent Mr Bagshot, “was possibly one of the better performances we shall ever be privileged to see from Roland Ruddy Lefayne. But ’e needn’t imagine we didn’t see right through it!”

    Mr Bagshot nodded hard, but looked wistfully at the letter.

    “Beau and the others ain’t heard it, yet. Oh, go on,” said Mrs Hetty with a sigh. “You can have it, Gawd knows you ain’t got hardly nothing. But I’ll have to have it back for a bit when the rest of them get home.”

    Nodding hard, Mr Bagshot accepted the letter, tucked it carefully inside his tattered jacket, and exited.

    Mrs Hetty stared into the fire, and sighed.

Next chapter:

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