Scene Change

24

Scene Change

    A watery spring had at last come to Sowcot and, although the inhabitants of the district were not all aware of the fact, changes were in the air. Though whether all of the changes were due to the advent of spring, as some were later to claim, was a moot point.

    Mrs Garbutt, who was not too proud to look after her own garden, was out in the front yard, weeding the herbaceous border. The which at the moment, though the bulbs were doing quite well, was in truth mainly weeds. As was her habit, she was wearing for this operation a very rusty black wool dress and a large apron made of sacking. In the which garb she was generally disowned by her daughters, Miss Sally having gone so far as to declare that no self-respecting female would be seen dead in it. To which her mother had retorted that Sally had best hurry up or she’d be late for that tea-party up to Bamwell Place. Had the weather been warmer Mrs Garbutt might have worn the battered chip hat, not unlike Miss Martingale’s battered chip hat, which was her summer gardening wear, but today she had not needed it, and was en cheveux. In her more public appearances in Sowcot the hair, which was dark brown, wavy, and very thick, like Robina’s, although very much longer than Robina’s fashionable cut, was confined in strict bands wound round her head, and hidden by her respectable black bonnet, so that the observer would have been hard put to it to say what sort of hair she had. Today it positively frolicked in mad disarray, or, as Jessie, observing it from the schoolroom window, had put it with a smothered giggle: “like a birch broom in a fit!” Mrs Garbutt, who was happiest when lost in her gardening, was unaware of this fact and unaware, also, that she had a smudge of dirt on her wide forehead.

    She had been out there for quite some time when, shifting down the border, she became aware that a man in a heavy overcoat was standing silently outside the gate of the next-door house, looking up at it. Mrs Garbutt went on weeding, but now and then glanced up at him. As he merely stood there, she eventually got up, and, absently pushing back a wisp of curl with the back of her hand, went down to her front gate, leaned over it, and said: “Can I help you, sir? Perhaps you are unaware that that house is at present unoccupied.”

    The tall, broad-shouldered man turned immediately, lifted his hat, and came over to her. “Good morning, ma’am. Thought the house must be empty, yes. Belonged to the Sollys, was that it?”

    “Not quite. They were the tenants, only,” replied Mrs Garbutt, omitting the relevant Sowcot speculation entirely. “Mrs Solly has lately died, and Mr Solly has gone to live with his son.”

    “So I’d heard. Pretty house, ain’t it?” he said, once more staring up at it.

    Mrs Garbutt also turned to look at it. “Very pretty indeed. But not a modern house: not all that convenient to live in. Old Mrs Solly never regarded it, but I think possibly your wife might find it rather inconvenient, sir.”

    At this the tall, broad-shouldered man looked down at her with a smile and said: “I’m not a married man, ma’am. Though I confess I’d like to be. Find your own house convenient, do you?”

    “Very.” She gave him a quizzical look. “It has very much higher ceilings, for a start.”

    He replied immediately, his face quite blank: “I'm six-foot-four in my stockings, ma’am.”

    Taken completely unawares, Mrs Garbutt gasped, went scarlet, and was unable to utter.

    “Think we might have met before, ma’am, as a matter of fact,” said the tall man blandly. “Your face does seem familiar, if I may say so. –Harold Hartington, of Hartington’s Players. Very much at your service,” he said, bowing.

    “Oh—yes,” she said limply. “Of course: you were here last summer.”

    “Aye.” Mr Hartington looked with great interest at the flushed face, at the luxuriant hair with nary a silver thread to be seen in it, at the broad brow and at the generous bosom. He didn’t remember the hair at all, though the wide mouth and the bosom did indeed seem familiar. Was she a widow? Too much to hope for, alas. But he ventured anyway: “Your husband finds your ceilings convenient, does he, ma’am?”

    “What? Oh! No, I’m a widow,” said Mrs Garbutt, still very flustered and pushing a strand of curl off her forehead. “Oh! I beg your pardon. Emily Garbutt,” she said feebly, holding out a hand. “Help, don’t touch it: I’m filthy!” she added in horror, snatching it back.

    Harold Hartington at this frankly laughed. “Honest dirt, Mrs Garbutt! I’m a farmer’s lad, meself. From oop Whitby way, dessay you’ll have never heard of it.” Solemnly he removed his glove and held out a large hand.

    Limply Mrs Garbutt, first scrubbing her palm surreptitiously down the skirt of her appalling garment, put hers in it.

    “Delighted,” said Mr Hartington formally, but with a twinkle in his eye, as he bowed over the hand. “So, the Sollys’ house is to let, is it?”

    “I suppose it is, yes. Old Mr Solly is unlikely to come back. Well, he never did a hand’s turn about the place,” said Mrs Garbutt with an attempt at her usual manner.

    “Neither indoors nor out, hey?”

    “That’s right,” she said drily.

    “Hm. Well, I’m a handy fellow, meself. But it’d be a mite too large for me, I think. Rattle about like a lone pea in a pod.”

    “Ye-es… Would you consider rooms?” she asked dubiously. “There are several vacant sets in the Sare Apartments.”

    “Bachelor chambers?” said Harold with a shudder. “At my time of life? Don’t think so, no. Had enough of that to last me several lifetimes.”

    “I see. So—er—you are thinking of settling here, are you?”

    “More or less, aye.” He rubbed his chin slowly. “That lintel do look dashed low, don’t it?”

    “Yes. Well, why not try it?”

    “Good idea. Care to accompany me, ma’am?” said Harold courteously, opening her gate for her.

    Mrs Garbutt hesitated. But it was only a step. And of course Lady Bamwell’s opinion of the Garbutts could scarce be lower than it was… Oh, who cared! She came out of her gate, went along to the Sollys’ erstwhile gate, and allowed him to usher her up the path.

    Mr Hartington over-topped the lintel of the pretty little house by a good four inches. And thus the door itself by about eight.

    Mrs Garbutt was not a particularly tall woman. She looked up at him and said: “Oh, dear.”

    “Aye,” he said, removing his hat and scratching his curls ruefully. “I’d be forever banging me head—hey?”

    “You would, indeed.”

    “Looks as if I might be reduced to becoming a lodger. Know anyone who wants a lodger, ma’am?”

    Mrs Garbutt took a deep breath. “I know of several who could take you in, sir, but I very much doubt if any of them would make you precisely comfortable.”

    ‘Thought as much,” he admitted glumly. “The members of the troupe what were in lodgings last summer didn’t eat as well as we did at the inn, by and large, except for Mrs Mayhew and Mrs Deane, who were with Mrs Solly.”

    “I dare say,” she said in a vague voice.

    Mr Hartington looked down at her hopefully. “You wouldn’t be in need of a lodger yourself, ma’am, by any chance?”

    Mrs Garbutt, of course, was a well-to-do woman. She hesitated. Certainly the house was big enough, but—

    “Perhaps you had best come inside, sir, and we could discuss it,” she said in a very firm voice.

    Mr Hartington looked at the chin, which was even firmer than the voice, at the full bosom, and the pinkness of the cheeks. And agreed without even thinking about it to come in and discuss it.

    He was shown into a very pretty parlour and, his hostess having excused herself to wash the mud off her hands, sat down expecting the tedious wait customarily inflicted by the distaff side upon the sterner sex at such times. But to his astonishment she was back in five minutes, minus the apron, but still in the rusty old black gown, with the hair very evidently just hurriedly smoothed. And to his equal astonishment did not apologise for her appearance. As strong-minded as she looked, then. Harold Hartington had no objection at all to this. And explained without needing much prompting: “The thing is, ma’am, I’ve been offered a situation. Well, semi-retired, you see: it’d suit me down to the ground. It entails being in charge of the local assemblies and managing the theatre at the same time. You’ll know Mr French, no doubt? Aye, well, what he envisages is that we’ll set up a small theatre company in Dorchester, for there’s a very decent theatre but no permanent company there, and that from time to time they’ll come over here and put on a show. I’ll assist in setting the company up but I won’t manage it myself: my old partner, Sam Speede, rather fancies that rôle for himself.” He shook his head, smiling. “Frankly, ma’am, it’s an offer what’s too good to pass up. For I’d been thinking of retiring, between you and me, for some time, only couldn’t see as how I might manage it. Well, been on the boards, man and boy, since I ran off from the farm at fifteen years of age,” he admitted.

    Mrs Garbutt nodded slowly, but did not comment, for at that moment a pretty brown-haired girl came in and gave a gasp of: “Mamma, you’re in your old gardening dress!”

    “Better than keeping a visitor sitting on his hands for I dunno how long,” replied Mrs Garbutt with her customary dryness. “Mr Hartington, may I present my second daughter, Sally? –Mr Harold Hartington, of Hartington’s Players, Sally.”

    “Oh! Of course!” gasped Sally excitedly. “How thrilling! How do you do, sir? We did so enjoy your shows last summer! And are you going to put on more plays, this year?”

    “Something like, that, aye,” agreed Mrs Garbutt. “Run and tell Cook to send in a pot of tea, there’s a good girl. And some of those currant buns I baked this morning.”

    “Of course! –Oh, how thrilling! May I ask if Mr Lefayne is coming this year, sir?”

    “Sally, get along with you,” said her mother clearly.

    “No, that’s all right, Mrs Garbutt; everyone that’s ever worked with Roland Lefayne is accustomed,” said Mr Hartington genially. “He’ll come down for a summer show every so often, when he can, Miss Sally. But I can’t promise, at this stage.”

    Gasping: “Oh! How thrilling!” Miss Sally, hands clasped to the bosom, drifted out—it was to be hoped, in the direction of the kitchen.

    “Besotted,” noted her mother on a grim note.

    “Well, he does generally take them that way, yes. So, you got your own cook, then, ma’am?”

    “Mm,” said Mrs Garbutt on a dry note. “She needs watching, mind you. I do most of the baking myself. But we’ve a decent oven, and she can be trusted to do a decent roast dinner. But the thing is,” she admitted, taking a deep breath, “the odd baron of beef or such ain’t so easy to come by, in these rural parts, Mr Hartington. I don’t know if you’d be suited, quite frankly.”

    “Thought they grazed cattle, hereabouts?”

    “More or less. Bamwell Place and High Oaks run their own herds. And Sare Park has a giant herd on Home Farm what us common folks never even get to see. Well, they graze them over towards Sareford, on the far side of the estate.”

    “Thought I saw a herd of well fattened beef animals, aye,” he said stolidly.

    “Yes. The farms run a lot of sheep hereabouts, too. But that don't mean you’ll see either mutton or beef in Mr Rogers’s shop every week of the year. Lucky if he’s got a shoulder of pork.”

    Harold nodded. “My Ma used to do it real tasty, with the crackling and all, and set round with roast apples, each one with a couple of cloves in ’em.”

    “Yes, well, the district grows enough apples; I can manage that for you. We sometimes have an apple sauce. I make it,” said Mrs Garbutt cautiously, “with a quince added to the apples, when they’re in season.”

    “Sounds delicious,” he said, grinning.

    “Mm, well. We get rabbits a-plenty,” she owned.

    “I’m partial to stewed rabbit or roast, if it be a youngish tender one. You won’t find me pining for beef, ma’am!” he said robustly.

    “Good. And we’re near to the coast: we do get fresh fish. Well, would you like to see the room?”

    Mr Hartington agreeing, they proceeded upstairs, where he genially approved a pretty room which looked out over the square. And which he fancied, though not voicing the thought aloud, might be next to her own.

    After which tea was taken, together with the excellent currant buns, to an accompaniment of relentless interrogation by Miss Sally Garbutt. Largely centred on the person, history and current employment of Sid Bottomley; but Harold, being, as he had said, used to it, bore up very well. And ended by bowing very low over Mrs Garbutt’s hand as he accepted the room.

    As he strolled slowly back to the Sare Arms under a pale spring sky with much high cloud, the burly actor-manager might have been heard to have been whistling.

    In the parlour, Miss Sally bounced up and saluted her mamma’s cheek.

    “Look, this don't mean that Roland Lefayne in person’s going to be sleeping under our roof,” she warned.

    “I know; but it is the next best thing! How thrilling!” Miss Sally dashed out. Her feet could be heard pounding up the stairs… Mrs Garbutt waited. There came excited shrieks from the direction of the schoolroom. Then three sets of feet pounded down the stairs… Was there any point at all in repeating that Mr Roland Lefayne in person did not intend honouring their humble abode? Er—no.

    And on the whole it was just as well. For they were all so excited that they did not pause to wonder why on earth Mamma had run mad and let the best spare room to a lodger. A male, theatrical lodger, at that.

    Miss Garbutt, however, when she returned home from her call on Miss French, stared at her mother with her mouth open, ignoring Sally’s, Jessie’s and Dotty’s rhapsodising on the subject of Mr Lefayne.

    Mrs Garbutt cleared her throat. “Lost me mind—yes.”

    “Y— Sally, please! Just take these two sillies upstairs; cannot you see you are driving Mamma to distraction?” said Robina loudly.

    “Er—driven. Yes, run along, girls, you are supposed to be at your lessons,” said Mrs Garbutt feebly.

    Robina waited until the sound of the footsteps had died away before saying: “Driven, indeed! Or is it— Mamma, if we are in financial difficulties, please tell me. I am not a child. And I can easily make some economies—”

    “No,” said Mrs Garbutt, going very red.

    “Is that true?” demanded Robina in a steely voice.

    “Yes, of course. If you don’t believe me, I had a letter from Mr Parker just the other day, telling me how well the investments are doing. In fact our income has gone up considerably. –In my desk.”

    Robina duly disinterred it from the pretty little escritoire. “Then why?” she said, staring at her.

    Mrs Garbutt swallowed a sigh. “I suppose, because I'm as much of a noddy as any of those three upstairs.” Robina merely stared blankly, so she admitted: “Not dazzled by the theatrical rubbish, I don’t mean.”

    “I should think not!” she said strongly.

    “No. Look, my dear, I know to you I’m your aged ma, as old as the hills and twice as ugly—” She waited until the expected clamour of loyal protest had died down. “I married at sixteen, Robina. Which is why I won’t hear of you girls doing any such thing,” she noted by the by. “Not that your pa wasn’t a good man. He was. But three times my age. Treated me well, and left me a wealthy widow, so I’ve nothing to complain of.”

    “Ye-es…” said Robina uncertainly.

    “Robina, the nearest thing to a true male creature available in these rural parts, if we except the Reverend Bigelow, which I can assure you, I do,” she said on a grim note, “is Exciseman Harkness or his damned Tom!”

    Gradually the blank stare on Robina’s face was overtaken by a look of dawning comprehension, not to say horror.

    “I’m only human,” said Mrs Garbutt at her driest.

    “A theatrical?” said Robina, very, very limply.

    “He’s a fine figure of man,” she said neutrally. “Dare say he might be twenty years older than me, but looks fit as a fiddle, don’t he?”

    “Mamma!” she protested, very red.

    “I’m not about to throw my cap over the windmill. But I admit the thought crossed my mind that if he lives in our house for a few months, we’ll get to know how we like him, and whether he likes us, and whether the two of us, in particular, could stand anything closer. Well, what we don’t know already,” she added under her breath.

    This last did not register with the innocent Robina, of course. “But he’s used to actresses,” she croaked.

    “I dare say. Had more sense than to get hitched to any of ’em, though, didn’t he? Well, told me he’s not married,” she said cheerfully. “We’ll see. But at least it’ll be a bit of life in the house, if nothing else!”

    With four hurly-burly girls in it, the house was nothing if not lively. Nevertheless Robina bit her lip. “Yes, I see. We have all been very selfish and—and short-sighted,” she said in a stifled voice.

    “Wouldn’t say that. Children don’t usually see their parents as people, not until they’re grown themselves. And many of them, not then,” she said drily.

    Robina got up, looking determined, and came to salute her cheek. “I shall pray for it to turn out well!” she said determinedly.

    Mrs Garbutt smiled a little. At thirty-six years of age, after a sufficiently hard life, she did not herself have all that much faith in the power of prayer. “Can’t hurt,” she said mildly.

    “And rest assured I shall not breathe a word to those sillies!”

    Frankly, Mrs Garbutt doubted they would believe it: not their decrepit Ma. “Thank you, Robina, dear,” she said kindly.

    Mr French, though his was not a hesitant nature, had hesitated for some time before broaching the matter to Lord Sare. There might, after all, be nothing in it. He had had his contacts in Holland make some discreet enquiries, but these had been inconclusive. He approached the subject cautiously.

    “Just tell it, in its entirety, if you would be so good, Mr French,” said Lord Sare grimly in response to this caution.

    George French was conscious of an impulse to offer an abject apology. Or perhaps his sympathies? Since the first would have sounded both absurd and impertinent and the second merely impertinent, he refrained. “Mrs Anstey mentioned to me some time back that little Miss Martin has an amazing grasp of the Dutch demotic. Never uses any unladylike expressions herself, mind, but had no difficulty in understanding her Dutch, what she learned along the back canals of Amsterdam, I don’t mind admitting. And though any child can pick up this, that and t’other from the servants as it grows up, it did seem a little odd. Well, in combination with the convent education what I think you’ll have heard about. Then…” He shook his grizzled head. “I can’t honestly say, my Lord. Both Mrs Anstey and I, and Annette, of course, have chatted to her off and on, and although Annette don’t seemed to have noticed anything, it did strike both Mrs Anstey and myself that she has a wider acquaintance, let’s say, with the seamier side of life in a big city than what you might expect from a gentleman’s daughter, even if he did run a gaming house.”

    “A gaming house that he put her in, dressed in breeches?” replied Lord Sare tightly.

    “Ah,” said Mr French slowly, rubbing his chin. “Did that never strike you as odd?”

    “From Martin? No,” he said with distaste.

    Mr French sniffed, very slightly. “Maybe not. But— Well, I would not like to see you took in, my Lord, and that’s a fact.”

    “Thank you,” he said reddening slightly. “I did make extensive enquiries in Holland, as you know.”

    “Yes. But then,” said George French slowly, “did your men know the right questions to ask?”

    “Go on,” he said, the blue-grey eyes narrowing a fraction.

    Refraining with great difficulty from clearing his throat, Mr French said: “Martin had two daughters and a son, not a son and daughter. T’other daughter was not his wife’s.”

    “I dare say the fellow may have an hundred illegitimate offspring, all up and down the Continent!” he said impatiently.

    “I don’t deny it, my Lord. All over England, too. Thing is, this one little daughter, Isabelle, her name is, seems to have grown up in the household. The butcher’s wife, she spoke quite free about her. But the strange thing was, their neighbour, Mrs Hos, never mentioned her at all. And when my messenger asked outright, she just shrugged and said she believed there was a girl in the kitchens what had had an English mother. But the butcher’s wife said she was treated more or less on an equal footing with the other two children.”

    Edward frowned over it. “Who was the mother?”

    “An Englishwoman, name of Duckett, my Lord. Originally went over to the Peninsula in the train of the Army, though I dunno if she were married to the Duckett fellow or not. Corporal, he was. He got his fairly early in the war, and she seems to have ended up with Martin in Vienna, don’t ask me how. The little girl, she was born around the time that Miss Martin was: the Duckett woman acted as wet-nurse. So the girls would be the same age: eighteen. Then the mother died when the child was about three or four: some time before they left for Holland, at any rate. Miss Cressida was only about five or six when they left Vienna.”

    “Er—yes. I think she once mentioned that,” he said uncertainly.

    “Mm. Little Isabelle seems to have spent half her time with Miss Cressida, and t’other half in the kitchen. Well, she was a bright child and from what the butcher’s wife said, little Miss Cressida insisted she share her lessons. Martin don’t seem to have objected, and the mother—Marguérite Martin, I mean—she seems to have more or less let the children do as they pleased. Reading between the lines, think she was content to let little Miss Cressida rule her with a rod of iron. Seems to have more or less run the household for them from the time she was about ten.” He eyed him dubiously.

    “She is certainly competent enough,” he murmured.

    “Mm. Martin didn’t go so far as to send t’other daughter off to the convent with his legitimate daughter, but she only went as a day-pupil, y’know.” He cleared his throat. “One of my men got hold of the lad from next-door: Piet Hos. Don’t think your contacts would have spoken to him?”

    “Er—no.”

    “No. Well, he’s a loose-tongued young fellow, and real trusting with it. According to him,” said Mr French, scratching his chin slowly, “half the time it was Miss Cressida as stayed home helping round the place and little Isabelle what went off to school. And later on, it was Miss Cressida half the time donning the breeches and helping out in the house of an evening, though it seems that Martin definitely intended it to be the half-sister.”

    Lord Sare stared at him, frowning.

    “Like as two peas in a pod,” he explained. “Well, not up very close: Miss Cressida has the tiny mole under the right eye, like a little beauty mark. And Master Hos reckons she’s prettier, and the eyes not quite so yellow, but then, he’s partial. Alike enough to fool a parcel of nuns in a not particularly well-lit convent schoolroom, though. And Isabelle used to study up Miss Cressida’s books at home in any case: you might say they had more or less the same education and experience. Only difference is, Miss Cressida would have had more of the rides in the barouche with that Petite Maman of theirs, and Isabelle would have spent more time in the kitchen.”

    After a moment Lord Sare said slowly: “She has the mole. Are you implying she is not Cressida Martin?”

    “Frankly, I’m not sure. And short of getting Master Hos over here and facing him with her, I don't see how we’ll ever be able to tell.”

    “If she is the sister, where is Miss Martin?” he said tightly.

    “Well, young Hos shut up close as an oyster on that one, my Lord. Think his mother could tell us a thing or two, if she was so inclined, but she ain’t.” He watched sympathetically as Edward thought it over, frowning.

    “Ricky Martin must know,” he said grimly.

    “Oh, undoubtedly. And you might get some sort of an admission out of him, but would it be the truth?”

    “No,” he said flatly. “But if she is not his legitimate sister, why on earth… Well, it would explain the refusal to let her live with them.”

    “Mm… According to Miss Dearborn, it was Miss Martin that refused point-blank to live with him. I grant you that’s understandable. But on t’other hand, maybe it is significant after all that Martin hasn’t forced her to? He must be his full sister’s legal guardian, after all.”

    “Er, yes, but not a type to take up his responsibilities… No, I do see what you mean, French. But what could they hope to gain? I suppose I see,” he said slowly, “what the illegitimate child has to gain, yes. But there is no advantage to Ricky Martin or to his full sister, surely? –Wait,” he said, the nostrils flickering. “Is the full sister still alive?”

    “It is a question, isn’t it?” replied Mr French tranquilly. “But I think the butcher’s wife would have mentioned it if she were not.”

    “If she knew. A plot between Ricky Martin and the half-sister whereby he will get the remaining one-third share of the Martin patrimony back, once she’s claimed it as the legitimate issue?”

    Mr French shrugged. “Think it would come to him in any case, but it’s always a possibility. On t’other hand, though clearly young Piet Hos didn’t like Ricky Martin, he seemed quite sure that he was genuinely fond of his sisters. Well, they all grew up together. Doubt if he'd make a mistake about that.”

    “No, on the whole it seems unlikely. But in the case the two we know as Ricky and Cressida Martin are in some sort of plot, why the Devil didn’t she jump at the opportunity to come and live as my ward?”

    “Well, you’d know better than I, my Lord.” Mr French eyed him cautiously. “Should I stop t’other thing?”

    “What? Oh: no. It does not matter,” he said with a little sigh. “God knows the district could do with some form of entertainment.” He got up and held out his hand. “Thank you. I shall take it from here.”

    Mr French rose, shook his hand, and allowed himself to be shown out without  saying any more at all.

    But on the sweep before the imposing frontage of Sare Park great house he shook his head slowly and concluded: “It won’t do. Too hard a pill for any nob to swallow. Oh, well: his loss.”

    Roland Lefayne’s handsome jaw dropped. “What?”

    “Yes,” replied Harold firmly. “Removing, bag and baggage. Mr French has made an offer no sane man’d refuse. Well, not so much baggage: most of the props will go with the name. It’s yours if you want it, Sid.”

    “What about Sam?” he croaked.

    “Coming with me. Part of the plan is, we’ll set up a company in Dorchester what’ll pop over to Sowcot every so often. Sam’s going to manage it, once it’s on its feet.”

    “Well—uh—well, does this mean you’re both selling out your interest in Hartington’s Players?” he croaked.

    “Right. The lot. It’s yours if you want it, Sid. There’s two productions for this spring: the theatres are booked, and the actors’ contracts signed. I don’t deny it’s your name that’s the big drawcard, so if you and your brother make us any sort of reasonable offer, we won’t haggle.”

    After a moment Sid said slowly: “You mean I’ll own Madam Campion’s contract?”

    “Yes, well, for the season, Sid: aye; amongst others.”

    “How can I resist?” he choked, going off into a paroxysm.

    “If you don’t want to take it seriously, Lucky Devine will probably make an offer.”

    “No! Of course I’m taking it seriously! Uh—whose contracts, exactly?’

    Mr Hartington counted on his fingers. The main contracts were those of Victor Vanburgh, Daniel Deane, Matilda Trueblood and Master Georgy Trueblood, besides Madam Campion’s and Sid’s own.

    “Why Georgy?” said Sid feebly.

    “Mainly because Percy Brentwood was threatening that Shakespeare thing with the uncle.”

    “Hey?”

    “Not Richard Three, you noddy! Um, forget. Well, was thinking of All In The Mind: he can take little Louisa Addle again.”

    “Harold, with yourself gone, who’s to take Mr Addle?”

    “Vic,” he said succinctly.

    Mr Lefayne thought it over. “It appeals,” he owned slowly.

    “Thought it might.”

    “Harold, are you sure? Life in a small village, even with Dorchester in the offing, will be very, very different from—” He stopped abruptly, as the door of Mr Hartington’s crowded apartment opened.

    “From life in the great metropolis at Beau’s, not to say on the damned road,” the actor-manager finished composedly, as the newcomer was revealed merely to be Mr Speede. “Come in, Sam; I’ve told him, and he’s warning me against settling down in Sowcot.”

    Mr Speede came in, grinning. “Are you, Sid? Then he can’t have told you the whole.”

    “Eh? Oh,” he said, eyeing Harold dubiously. “But there were no juicy widows on offer, Sam, don’t you recall? At least— My God, not the Dutch lady?”

    “No!” said Harold scornfully.

     Sid rolled his eyes madly at Mr Speede.

    “She was playing the lady, remember?” said that worthy stolidly. “Coolly friendly. Well, that large fair type often is, lady or no, in my experience. Had the sort of bosom he likes, mind you.”

    “Exactly,” agreed Sid, staring at Harold. “You did say you’d be living in Sowcot, did you?”

    “Did I? Well, I certainly will be, aye. And Mrs Fairweather was taken, you’ll recall.”

    “Well, that does only leave the Dutch widow!” said Sid loudly.

    “No, it don’t. I’ve found another. Same sort of bosom—better, in fact. She can cook, what’s more. Hair she can sit on,” he said smugly.

    “You got that far? In one flying visit?” croaked the leading man.

    “No! Though why you should imagine your charms are the only ones what’s irresistible—! No, well, she’s a respectable woman. She was in her garden, en cheveux, see? Doing a bit of gardening. Very practical woman. Very thick and curly, it is, wound round and round her head in these big fat braids. Long enough to sit on, stuck out a mile. Cooks, too. Bakes a lovely currant bun,” he said smugly.

    “Harold, who is she?” shouted Sid angrily.

    “No need to shout. Don’t think you’d recall her. Well, overlooked her meself, though I do recall now she was at the performance of Twelfth Night we did for Mr French in his glasshouse.”

    “You spent that entire show mooning over the Dutch widow!” said Sid angrily.

    “Did I? Might of, yes. More fool me. Well, I’ve met her, now. Going to take me in as her lodger: that’ll give us time to get acquainted, see? –Didn’t think she’d take the hint, at first: I was in fear and trembling, I can tell you,” he said, shaking his head.

    “WHAT IS HER NAME?” roared Roland Lefayne furiously.

    “Emily,” said Mr Hartington dreamily. “Mm? Oh, sorry, Sid. Emily Garbutt. Remember that pretty little house where the old dame that could cook lived? Margery and Lilian stayed there.”

    “Old Ma Solly,” prompted Mr Speede.

    Sid shrugged blankly.

    “Middle of the square, just down a bit from the theatre. Mrs Garbutt’s house is the next one,” explained Mr Hartington.

    “Woman with four daughters,” offered Mr Speede, scratching his grizzled head. “Usually dressed very respectable in black. Well, buxom, not denying it.”

    “Comely,” said Mr Hartington with deep relish.

    Sam Speede looked expressionlessly at Roland Lefayne, and winked.

    “Comely,” echoed Sid limply. “I see. –Um, hold on! Not the mother of the girl that took the Beauty in their damned Beauty and The Beast?”

    “Mm? The two eldest were in it, think the girl said,” said Mr Hartington dreamily. “Well, didn’t listen, much. She’d made these currant buns, y’see, with her very own hands. And talking of hands, them were the fullest two handfuls I’ve laid eyes on in a very long time, I can tell you!”

    “But I thought… How old is she?” croaked Sid.

    Harold eyed him drily. “Dare say she could give you a year or two. Well, without the bonnet, there ain’t a grey hair in them tresses. –Tresses,” he said, rolling the word round his tongue. “That’s it: tresses. Well under forty, I’d say, Sid. Think the eldest girl’s only eighteen or nineteen.”

    “Oh. Well, that sounds— But if she’s the woman I think she is, ain’t she the sort that’ll rule you with a rod of iron, Harold?” he croaked.

    Mr Hartington sighed deeply. “Let her. No, well, strong-minded she is, I’ll grant you. All woman with it, though.”

    “Reported to have gone pink as a peony at the sight of him,” explained Mr Speede drily. “What some of us did wonder if it were only embarrassment at being caught without ’er ’at, doing the gardening ’erself, in a grubby old dress what had seen better days.”

    “And a sack apron,” said Mr Hartington with a deep sigh.

    Mr Lefayne rolled his eyes in alarm at Mr Speede.

    “Oh, there’s method in his madness, Sid,” the stolid actor assured him.

    Dreamily Mr Hartington gestured at his own magnificent chest. “Tied tight as tight, up here. No corset,” he pronounced with relish.

    “Upon which he would take his dying oath,” explained Mr Speede.

    “It sounds as if he’s about to! Harold, wake up! Do you wish to be managed completely for your declining years?’”

    “I think I do by her: yes. Emily… Think I might call her Emmy,” he said with a deep sigh. “Well, I’ve always fancied a managing woman, and that’s the truth, Sid.”

    “Yes: remember how he was over the Marsh hag,” Sam reminded Sid.

    “Mm,” he admitted, wincing.

    “We went over to the Sollys’ front door, you see, because she thought the ceilings would be too low for me,” said Harold dreamily. “And measured me against the lintel.”

    “What he over-topped by four inches or so: think it’s an Elizabethan cottage, Sid.”

    “Oh! Yes, I remember! A very pretty little house.”

    “Yes. Mr French said it would be coming up to let, so I was considering it—before I clapped eyes on her. Anyway, no man with red blood in his veins couldn’t mistake the way she looked up at me, Sid,” Harold assured him gravely.

    “At your manly physique, four inches taller than an Elizabethan door?” said Sid limply.

    “That’s it,” he agreed smugly. “No, well, eight or so than the door: the lintel was a good four inches wide. Went as pink as a peony and heaved the tits like anything.”

    “Similar to what she done when he tells her out of the blue he’s six-foot-four in his stockings,” added Mr Speede.

    “I see,” owned Sid limply. “Well, good luck to it, Harold. I’m sure I hope it works out for you.”

    “I think it will,” he said dreamily. “She’s promised me roast pork like my old ma used to make.”

    Sid nodded groggily.

    “All home comforts,” summed up Mr Speede placidly. “Well, you interested, Sid?”

    “What? Oh! Yes, very much so, Sam. If you’re sure you want to be bought out?”

    “Yes, acos none of them local noddies down in Dorchester will know the name of Hartington’s Players, so what’s the point of retaining it? We’ll call ourselves the Dorchester Theatre Company.”

    “Mm. In that case, I’d better get down to Joe’s: see if he’s still keen on backing me. Um, well, I’m finishing off that thing for Lucky Devine… No, damn it, the understudy can have it, there’s only a week left to run, and the fashionables ain’t in town, yet.”

    “Aye.” Mr Speede watched drily as Mr Lefayne wandered out. “Stunned,” he reported.

    “Was he? But he knows I’ve been thinking of giving it up for the last couple of years, Sam.”

    “Different when it happens,” said the sapient Mr Speede. “Be a big change for him, if he goes into management. Responsibility, you might say.”

    “Do him good,” said Harold heartlessly. He leaned back in his big chair, and sighed. “Emmy… Yes, think I might call her that. Wonder if she’s heard of Yorkshire pudding? No, well, maybe I could make a push to describe it for her…”

    Rolling his eyes, Mr Speede left him to it.

    Mrs Hetty’s jaw dropped. “But it’s a dump!”

    “Miss Cressida’s there,” Mrs Mayhew reminded her.

    “Margery, she’s under the eye of dratted Lord Sare, it’s Lombard Street to a China orange he’ll have her up at ruddy Sare Park being ladified before she turns nineteen! No mere player, rotating between the dump and Dorchester or not, is going to get a glimpse of ’er, mark my words!”

    “When does she turn nineteen?” asked Mr Deane with interest.

    “First week of May, and shut yer mouth!” ordered Mrs Hetty crossly. “What about the bookings, Harold?”

    “Mm? Well, Sid will take over lock, stock and barrel, Hetty. He’s gone down to see his brother about it.”

    “You’re not in ’em, Hetty,” Mrs Mayhew reminded her.

    “I was going to do wardrobe!”

    “No, well, come down to Dorchester and do wardrobe for me, Hetty,” suggested Mr Speede calmly.

    “I can recommend Mrs Plummer’s establishment most warmly,” Mrs Mayhew assured her.

    “And her chaise longue: we know,” agreed Mrs Deane. “The food was not half bad, dears.”

    “Well, so was Ma Warburton’s: that ain’t the point!” said Mrs Pontifex crossly.

    “It’s part of the point, Hetty,” replied Mrs Deane calmly.

    “Come, too, Lilian?” offered Mr Speede.

     Mrs Deane gave him a shrewd look. “As what, Sam?”

    “Leading lady, to start off. We need someone with a bit of experience. Don’t say as we won’t offer you a few mothers or Lady Grandisons once we’ve got established, but you’ll have the decent parts for a couple of years.”

    “Gracious!” conceded Mrs Deane with her husky laugh. “I’ll think about it.”

    “Near to Axminster, is it?” drawled Mrs Mayhew.

    Mrs Deane took a deep and angry breath but Mr Hartington said hurriedly: “No. Whole county away,” and the sisters both subsided.

    “One would consider it in your place, dear,” Mrs Mayhew then admitted graciously. “But as you may be communicant, I am considering a counter-offer from Pretty. Not exciting, but permanent.”

    Mr Buxleigh had sat by mumchance throughout Mr Hartington’s announcement. Now he said in a sort of wail: “But what about my rooms, if you all go orf?”

    “I shan’t be going anywhere, Beau,” said Mr Deane reassuringly.

    “Only out all night in the pockets of fine ladies,” noted Mrs Pontifex sourly.

    “But Harold, and Margery and Lilian, both— ’Ere! Sid’s not going, is ’e?” he said in horror.

    Mr Hartington rubbed his chin. “Well, no. Not down to Dorchester, no. Dare say he’ll be with you for a while longer, Beau. You’ll let the rooms, easily enough. And Vic won’t be coming with us—well, we’d take you, Vic!” he owned with a laugh. “But with your talent, dare say you’d prefer to remain in the metropolis, hey?”

    Mr Vanburgh owning he would, Mr Buxleigh then counted on his fingers, and concluded, scowling: “That ain’t too bad. But the second-floor front, at a single blow? ’Ow many theatricals can afford a decent suite of rooms like that? And are you going or not, Hetty?” he demanded crossly.

    “Dunno. Um, ain’t it a fair stretch, from Dorchester to Sowcot, Harold?” she said cautiously.

    “Er—a fair stretch, Hetty, yes. Well, we come on the waggons, do you recall?”

    “How much travelling would there be?”

    “Up to you.”

    “That’s very helpful!” Mrs Pontifex lapsed into scowling contemplation.

    After a few moments Mr Vanburgh said kindly: “She hasn’t been spirited away to Sare Park yet, Hetty.”

    “No, they’d wait until I got down there to do that!” she retorted bitterly.

    Mr Vanburgh shrugged slightly, and did not persist. Though he did note: “If you'd take Reggie, the family would be glad to be spared the embarrassment, Harold.”

    “We don’t want him, do we, Sam?”

    Mr Speede agreeing with some feeling, the comic actor merely shrugged, and wandered out.

    “Who’ll be your leading man, if Sid ain’t going?” enquired Mr Buxleigh after much brow-wrinkling.

    “We’ll see,” replied Mr Speede calmly. “Might ask David, and that Paul Pouteney both. But Sid’s said he’ll come down when he can.”

    “Once in a blue moon,” noted Mrs Pontifex.

    “Hetty,” said Mr Hartington heavily, “what do you want?”

    She got up, looking angry. “Dunno. –Well, if you must ’ave it, for Miss Cressida never to ’ave turned out to be a lady, and for Sid to ’ave come to ’is senses and realised she’s his last chance to live a decent life, and for that Peebles never to ’ave set foot in the damned house, damn his eyes! –And yours: if you hadn’t a-gorn and let that blamed second-floor back to ’im, it wouldn’t never ’ave happened!” she said bitterly to the Beau, walking out.

    In her wake, there was a considerable silence.

    “It would,” said the Beau uncertainly at last.

    “Beau, let it drop,” said Harold with a sigh. “Look, if you’re that cut up, think of selling up here and buying a house in Dorchester: the whole company’d come to you.”

    Poor Mr Buxleigh’s chins sagged. And he managed to croak: “Leave London?”

    “He is a Londoner born and bred,” said Mr Speede kindly, getting up. “I’m off, if you don’t need me, Harold: lot to see to.”

    Mr Hartington nodded, and Mr Speede went out.

    “I couldn’t,” said the Beau, very faintly.

    “No, all right, old fellow.”

    Mrs Mayhew sat up very straight. “I’ve had a thought, dears! Did you say the Sollys’ house was to let, Harold?”

    “Aye. Pretty place, ain’t it? Low ceilings, though.”

    “I am communicant of that fact, Harold,” she said grandly. “There is no doubt that Sowcot is, in the common viridian, a dump.”

    “Vernacular, Margery,” said Harold faintly, used though he was to her.

    “I stand corrected,” she said, inclining her head graciously. “I shall speak to Pretty, and make it a condition. It is past time that a man of his age should be thinking of constituting his retirement. And while one would not wish to assume the rôle of female bootmaker, there is no doubt that helpmate to a retired former merchant of the respectable variation, is not a wholly unacceptable position for a woman what has her future comfort to consider.”

    “Come down to Sowcot?” cried Mrs Deane, her face lighting up. “Would you really, Margery? Huzza!”

    “She’s got to make Pretty agree, first,” noted Mr Deane dubiously.

    “Give over, you old misanthrope!” said his estranged wife with her husky laugh. “She’ll do it: trust Margery! –I say, dear, them beds of old Ma Solly’s was not half comfortable; wonder if they’ve left them? At any rate, anything what Pretty can offer you will be a damn’ sight more comfortable than that lumpy thing of ours upstairs!”

    Mr Buxleigh took an indignant breath, but Mrs Deane, very flushed, and declaring she was going to sort out her dresses immediate, had vanished before he could formulate utterance.

    “Lumps,” said Mrs Mayhew definitely.

    The Beau subsided, sinking his chins into his neckcloth, and thought it all over. At last pronouncing weightily: “This Mr French must be dotty.”

    Harold had been about to suggest they order up a jug of something warming, with perhaps a drop from the Beau’s sacred cupboard to brighten it up. He glared. “No such thing! Appreciated our performances last summer, needed someone to manage his theatre what had experience and someone to run the assemblies for him what had a presence, thought of me on the instant! Why not?”

    “How much is he paying you, though?”

    “Enough. I’ll have an interest in the Dorchester Theatre Company, too; only not managerial, thank God.”

    The Beau looked dubious. “Backing a theatre’s a risky business, Harold. Even if this Dorchester place ain’t offering no competition. I mean, they got to come. You get a week of winter storms, and you’re out of pocket, good and proper, acos there’s still the running costs. ’Ow rich is ’e?”

    Mr Hartington looked smug. “Rich as Croesus, is the word down in Sowcot. And if ’e ain’t, Sid’ll tell me soon enough, acos he’s getting his brother onto it! But he come good on the tour, didn’t he? Don’t think there’s no risk.”

    “Don’t sound too bad, no,” conceded Mr Buxleigh at his weightiest.

    Mr Deane scratched his blue chin and agreed: “No, well, it’s promising. Will Hetty go, do you think?”

    “Dunno,” admitted Mr Hartington. “Well, you know her as well as me, Daniel. I wouldn’t take any bets that if she does go, she won’t tell Lord Sare what she thinks of him to his face, though!”

    “Oops. Could be awkward,” he said, grimacing.

    “Not for me,” said Harold comfortably. “It’s Mr French what’s my patron, not Lord Sare.”

    “Just as well!” he conceded with feeling.

    A week later Mr Hartington was in the midst of sorting out his own belongings from the appurtenances of Hartington’s Players and packing the former, when he became aware of a strange noise to his rear: something between a gasp and a croak. “What is it, Bagshot?” he said mildly. “If you’re in the market for a few pairs of patched breeches, dare say I could manage one or two.” He turned without haste.

    Mr Bagshot made desperate faces at him.

    Mr Hartington looked at him in perplexity, scratching his head. “Not breeches? There’s a coat you could have. No? –Hell,” he muttered to himself. He strode over to the door and bellowed at the top of his very considerable lungs: “FRED! FRED!”

    Approximately thirty seconds later a panting Fred Hinks was with them, his skinny chest heaving.

    “What’s up with Bagshot?” said Mr Hartington, ignoring the panting entirely.

    Fred Hinks panted and gasped.

    “Don’t seem to want breeches; nor this coat, neither.”

    “He do!” gasped Fred, grabbing them and shoving them into Mr Bagshot’s hands.

    “Oh, well, if that’s all—"

    “No!” gasped Fred. He took a deep breath and articulated: “’E wants to go wiv yer! C’n I come, too?”

    “No,” said Harold immediately. “What do you mean, he wants to come with me?”

    “Dahn to where Miss Martin is! Aw, why can’t I come too?”

    “Shut it. Take Bagshot?” Mr Hartington looked dubiously at Mr Bagshot. “Is that what you want?”

    Mr Bagshot nodded convulsively.

    “It’ll all be different down there, old man,” said the actor-manager kindly.

    Mr Bagshot nodded convulsively.

    “Oh, Lor’,” muttered Harold to himself.

    “Madam’d send ’is pension on,” volunteered Fred.

    “Think she’d have to,” he admitted. “Uh—well, s’pose I could speak to Beau. –How much does he eat?” he demanded desperately of Fred.

    “Dunno, Mr ’Artington! If I come, I could ’elp wiv yer boots! And do the knives for the widder, and everyfink!”

    “Shut it. The widow may not want a knife boy,” said Harold, reddening.

    “Boot-boy, then! Why not?”

    “Shut it, Fred. I can’t foist complete unknowns on a new landlady. That goes for you, too,” he said to Bagshot.

    Mr Bagshot made desperate faces, and produced a gargling noise.

    “Wot I fink ’e means,” said Fred importantly, “is if you was to take ’im, ’e could go to Miss Martin. And live in ’er little back room, see? ’Elp ’er wiv the garden, and that.”

    Mr Bagshot nodded convulsively.

    “Oh, glory,” muttered Mr Hartington.

    “Madam don’t want ’im!” he piped.

    “You don’t need to tell me that!” responded the actor-manager with feeling. “Well—um— Lor’. Look, Bagshot, I’ll talk to Madam, and have a word with Beau, see what he thinks. And—um—maybe ask Hetty, she’s the one what’s had the most letters from Miss Martin. See what she thinks, hey? There may be no room in her little cottage, y’see.”

    Mr Bagshot nodded convulsively.

    “’E gets it,” said Fred helpfully. “’Ere, I could live in the attic!”

    “They ain’t got a ATTIC!” shouted the driven Mr Hartington. “And GET OUT!”

    “Maybe Mrs Pontifex ’ud take me. I could be ’er footman!”

    “Maybe pigs might fly! And we don’t even know if she’s COMING! Get OUT!” he roared.

    Looking completely jaunty, Fred Hinks vanished.

    Mr Hartington mopped his brow. “Sorry about that,” he muttered.

    Mr Bagshot merely looked at him, holding out his armful of garments.

    “Eh? Oh,” said Harold, inexplicably going very red. “Yes, take them, Bagshot, old fellow, by all means.”

    Mr Bagshot gave his creaky bow, and limped out.

    Harold tottered over to his bed, and collapsed upon it.

    “You took your time,” he noted grimly, quite some days later.

    “Joe was investigating Mr French’s financial status,” replied Sid with a smile.

    “And?

    “Says he’s solid as the Bank of England. Well, he had a dashed funny look on his face, so I wondered if something might be up. But it wasn’t.”

    “You’ve got a dashed funny look on your own face.”

    Sid cleared his throat. “Joe thinks he might be a rich Jew. Changed his name. Made his fortune on the Continent out of usury, reading between the lines.”

    “Is that all? Don’t care if he’s Moses in the bulrushes or Shylock himself, so long as he’s solid.”

    “Rock solid.”

    “Good.” Harold cleared his throat. “Going to make us an offer?”

    “Of course!” he said, smiling. He named his brother’s price.

    Mr Hartington made a lugubrious face but conceded: “Very fair.”

    “I thought so, yes. It’ll include all those scripts, Harold.”

    “Not all the copies!”

    “All the copies.”

    Mr Hartington sighed, but conceded: “Right you are.” And held out his hand.

    Solemnly they shook hands on it.

   … “This,” said Mr Buxleigh portentously, “is the paper what pertains to Bagshot.”

    Mr Hartington perused it dubiously, scratching his head. “According to this, Beau, Madam agreed to the arrangement.”

    “Um—yes. Signed it, and all.”

    “That’ll mean,” he said, wincing, “that she's some sort of trustee.”

    “This here,” said Mr Buxleigh, pointing to it, “is where the lawyer signed. Thought he was the trustee?”

    Mr Hartington scratched his head. “Dunno. Look, go and see him, and ask. I will pay!” he said loudly as the Beau began to object that lawyers always made you pay.

    Glumly Mr Buxleigh allowed as he could do that, then.

    … “Eats more than ’e’s worth,” explained Mrs Harmon on a grim note.

    Mr Hartington grimaced. “Thought so: aye. Sorry, Fred, me lad.”

    Fred Hinks burst into snorting sobs.

    “His ma ’ud let you ’ave ’im,” elaborated Cook dubiously. “Well, no, I mean ’is grandma, strictly. Same difference. And while we’ve got used to ’im, ’ere, I’m not saying as ’e ever earned ’is keep. –Give OVER!” she boomed.

    Fred Hinks continued to bawl.

    “But can Miss Martin afford to keep a lad what can’t earn ’is keep? –No,” she said definitely. “Stop BAWLING! You gets fed ’ere, what more do yer want?”

    Fred Hinks continued to bawl.

    “E wants a little sausage dawg,” said his aunt sadly.

    “SHUT IT, BESSY ’INKS!” she boomed.

    “Thanks, Cook,” said Mr Hartington lamely, creeping out.

    … “I need your help,” he said grimly. “I can’t do it alone.”

    “Thought you liked strong-minded women, Harold?” replied Sid with a snigger.

    “Are you going to help or NOT?”

    “Very well,” he said sweetly.

    “I cannot stand,” said Mr Hartington grimly, “damned simperers.”

    “Nor sighers, neither. We know. We shall face her together.”

    “Thanks, Sid,” he said gratefully.

    The lawyer for Mr Bagshot’s trust having duly explained what the legal provisions were, there was a stunned silence.

    “Well, don’t look at me, darlings!” protested Mrs Campion, fluttering the lashes. “Tiny me knows nothing about business!”

    “Clarissa, as I understand it,” said Sid grimly, “this trust pays you a certain sum for the duration of Bagshot’s life on the condition that you provide a home for him.”

    “But I do provide a home for him, darling! A lovely little home with darling Beau, where he is amongst friends and is quite, quite comfortable, and has no horrid stairs to climb!”

    “You send—” Harold broke off, breathing heavily. Finally he managed to articulate: “You send Beau less than half this pension, Clarissa!”

    “Of course!” she trilled. “That is the amount dear Beau and I agreed! It more than covers his keep, you know, for his wants are simple!”

    Mr Hartington rose abruptly. “I can’t stand this!” he cried, striding out.

    In his wake there was a short silence, during which Mr Lefayne offered a brief prayer of gratitude for the native caution which had prompted him to bring along his own lawyer. “Can the payment be made to someone else, if she is proven unfit?” he asked him.

    “Certainly, Mr Lefayne.”

    “What will you take, Clarissa,” said Sid grimly, “given that none of us wants a court case but at least one of us is quite prepared to bring one if need be, to consign it to me?”

    His lawyer protested, the lawyer to the trust protested, and Mrs Campion’s own lawyer protested. But at long last the fair Clarissa, all simperings and eyelash flutterings to the end, allowed that she would give up the weary, weary task of looking to poor dear Baggy on condition that Mr Lefayne released her from her contract with Hartington’s Players.

    “Sorry,” said Mr Hartington sheepishly as Sid emerged onto the doorstep of the legal chambers, blinking in the mild spring sun.

    “Quite understandable, dear fellow. Felt like strangling the cow meself.” He duly reported. Mr Hartington’s jaw dropped.

    Sid took his arm confidentially. “I did not want the fair Clarissa’s contract, to tell you the truth, old man; have been racking my brains to see how to get rid of her!”

    Mr Hartington collapsed in helpless, wheezing paroxysms. “But Sid, it’s a responsibility,” he concluded, shaking his head.

    “No, it is not. My man of business will see that every penny goes to Bagshot’s upkeep. If you’re going to be down at Sowcot with him, you can administer it. If Miss Martin can’t take him in, will you get the widow to offer him a bed?”

    “Yes. And if there’s no room, dare say he could sleep at the Sare Apartments, and come to us during the day. Pretend he’s making himself useful.”

    “Good,” said the actor mildly.

    They turned their steps towards a certain favoured hostelry, not needing to consult on the matter.

    It was not until the third tankard was touching their lips that the actor said, reddening: “Don’t tell her.”

    “Don’t tell Miss Martin, you mean? Sid!” he protested.

    “Don’t tell her, Harold,” he said, biting his lip. “Just say the pension has been successfully transferred.”

    Mr Hartington sighed deeply, but agreed.

    … Mr Bagshot limped into Mr Lefayne’s room and held out a bony hand, grimacing furiously.

    “Bagshot, it was my pleasure,” said Sid on a grim note, shaking it. “And if we’d had any idea— Never mind. But if you ever fancy returning to London, come straight to me, hear?”

    Nodding convulsively, Mr Bagshot bowed very low, and limped out.

    Forthwith Mr Lefayne did some furious grimacing of his own.

    “I’m coming,” said Mrs Hetty grimly, stuffing garments fiercely into boxes and bags. “But I ain’t expecting nothing! So!”

    “Hetty, you could help me to run the assembly rooms, if you took lodgings in Sowcot. Oversee the suppers, that sort of thing,” ventured Mr Hartington feebly.

    “What about the widow?”

    Mr Hartington cleared his throat. “Well, can’t say for certain-sure. But I rather think she might have a mind above damned Sowcot assemblies, Hetty.”

    “Good for her. I’ll consider it,” she said grimly, hurling a dress to the floor. “BESSY!” she shrieked.

    Mr Hartington crept out, mopping his brow.

Next chapter:

https://theoldchiphat.blogspot.com/2023/02/enter-some-travellers.html