15
Sowcot Speculates
Mrs Sardleigh sniffed slightly. “Mr French seems quite a gentlemanly person.”
Lady Bamwell offered cake. “I think you will find this receet quite interesting, my dear Mrs Sardleigh: one I had off Mrs Agatha Throgmorton. Aunt to the present Viscount Stamforth,” she noted carelessly. “And naturally, a connexion on her late husband’s side of Mr Hugh Throgmorton of Wenderholme. –You were saying?”
“I was saying that this Mr French who has taken Little Sare seems quite a gentlemanly person. Though I think Mrs Solly mentioned he was in trade?”
“So one has heard. But quite respectable in appearance, as you say,” said Lady Bamwell neutrally, eating cake.
“Indeed.” Mrs Sardleigh crumbled cake, eating a minute portion of it. “An interesting receet indeed,” she said graciously.
Lady Bamwell had, of course, not suggested that her new receet was delicious: that would have laid the way open for an expression of sympathy for the cake’s not quite being a success. She had hoped, but not expected, that “interesting” would not leave Mrs Sardleigh with any room to manoeuvre. Affecting to take this last remark as a compliment, she inclined her head and murmured: “Thank you.”
Mrs Sardleigh waited but her hostess did not venture any further observation. There were, therefore, three options left open to her—given that she could not tacitly admit defeat by not uttering at all. She could pursue the subject of Mr French. The which would inevitably give Lady Bamwell to suppose that she was interested in young Mr French for one of her girls. Or she could introduce another subject entirely. The which would give Lady Bamwell to suppose that she wished to draw the conversation away from Mr French because she was interested in young Mr French for one of her girls. Or she could praise the wretched cake.
Grimly she said, therefore: “I heard that Mr French knows Lord Sare.”
“Indeed? I am sure your information must be correct, my dear Mrs Sardleigh. For myself, I confess that all I heard was that Mr French had called at Sare Park.” She eyed her blandly.
“A cat may look at a king, one supposes!” retorted the driven Mrs Sardleigh.
Lady Bamwell was sufficiently pleased with this response. “Quite. May I freshen your cup?”
She freshened the visitor’s cup and allowed her to sip it before delivering the coup de grâce. “Dear Bernie knows young Mr French very slightly. He was up at Oxford. Balliol.”
Having incautiously taken another crumb of the wretched cake, Mrs Sardleigh duly choked on it.
“Who owns it?” asked Mr French, gazing up at the sufficiently imposing façade of the Sowcot Assembly Rooms.
Its guardian scratched his head. “The land, that belongs to Lord Sare. Dunno ’oo owns the building, sir. There was a Mr Bates, ’e was in charge of them assemblies, like, but ’e went orf. I did ’ear as Mr Sardleigh, ’e wrote down the names.”
“I see. You got a key?”
“Well, Mrs Burgess in the shop, she got the key, sir, if you mean key. I just look after the front, like, and inspeck it reg’lar to make sure no lads ain't been a-mucking round breaking windows or that.”
Its front consisted of a small pillared portico, the which, if rather dusty, certainly featured no dead leaves or rubbish, plus two stone pots which held very dead miniature cypresses. Presumably the guardian of the Sowcot Assembly Rooms did not consider his duties to include those of gardener. “So who pays your wages, Treadwell?”
Mr Treadwell conceded that it were Mr Solly’s clerk what put the money into his hand. If he meant in the hand, sir.
“I see. I’ll speak to Mr Solly, then.”
“Aye, you could do that, sir. But what you want it for? It ain’t good for nothing but them potty assemblies. And Mr Solly’s clerk, he said as there weren’t enough gentry no more for them. And we gotta wait until Mr Dunne’s lads and lasses, they grows up a bit.”
Mr French eyed him with concealed amusement, awarded him a shilling, and strolled away.
“Potty,” decided Mr Treadwell, shaking his head, as he bit the shilling experimentally. “It’s a good un, though,” he reported to himself, cheering up.
It not having occurred to the worthy Treadwell that perhaps Mr Solly might be interested to hear of this encounter, the agent was somewhat startled by Mr French’s subsequent enquiry. He was dubious, but agreed to do his best.
… “I have been in contact with Lord Sare, Mr French, and he has acceded to your request,” he reported later, though still sounding dubious.
“Good,” replied Mr French blandly.
“Any changes to the structure of the building will be made at your own expense,” warned the agent.
“Yes,” said Mr French blandly.
“Er—the building was formerly used for the assemblies, as perhaps you may know, sir.”
“I did hear that, yes.”
“Yes.” Mr Solly cleared his throat. “They are generally considered to be merely in abeyance, sir. There may be some ill-feeling if you—er—change the function of the building.” He looked at him without hope. “Radically, so to speak.”
“Might there? Yes, s’pose you’re right. Got the papers?” he said cheerfully.
Mr Solly did have the papers and watched resignedly as Mr French read through them slowly and carefully, and then signed them.
… “Close as an oyster!” he reported crossly to Mrs Solly that evening.
“He didn’t give no hint at all?”
“Hint? Not him!”
Mrs Solly looked dry. “Lord! In that case, I shall have to ask Lady Bamwell!” she squeaked in ultra-refined tones.
At this Mr Solly, sad to relate, went into a wheezing fit of the most painful kind.
Since Miss Hutton did not think herself too good to do the shopping for the household, she had kindly volunteered to take over this duty on a regular basis. Miss Pinkerton was only too glad to let her: Mrs Burgess, the Sowcot village shopkeeper, a strong personality, was apt to bully her meek self into buying what she, Mrs Burgess, considered she ought, instead of what, she, Miss Pinkerton, desired and could afford.
It was a fine morning in early summer, and Miss Hutton was in no hurry: she did not take the direct route home, which entailed going round the square thisaway, but instead turned her steps thataway, the which would take her to the head of the lane that led to Dove Cottage by a longer route. Quite aware that in her wake Mrs Burgess would be wondering where she was off to.
Sowcot was not a bustling hive of activity, this fine, clear morning. Certainly a Miss Enright and a Mrs Garbutt, semi-genteel persons beneath the notice of such as Lady Bamwell or Mrs Sardleigh, had been encountered in Mrs Burgess’s small, dark, and odoriferous general store; and certainly one, Tommy Jakes, grandson of the innkeeper, could be observed throwing stones outside his grandfather’s inn. And a burly person known to the village as “’Alf-There Tom Melloway” to distinguish him from his cousin, Tom Melloway who was all there, was rolling a large barrel, for what purpose was not immediately clear to India Hutton, outside this same establishment. There were, however, no vehicles to be seen. Well, not moving ones. There was a waggon outside the Sare Arms but it had no horse in it.
India was not, however, seeking excitement: she strolled on slowly, looking with interest in the window of Mr Freed, the ironmonger, then in the window of Mr Jerry Freed, the apothecary.
Next to the apothecary’s was a very odd little shop indeed, which was not always open. It was owned by a foreigner: a Mr Twin, said in the village not to be a name, whoever heard of a person called Twin as opposed to a person what was a twin? Mr Twin claimed to be from London town, which was as may be. It was hard to define the function of this little shop, though India Hutton did so to herself as “a curiosity shop”. Not merely because its owner had more than roused that of the locals. It was, indeed, full of strange little curiosities: cunningly carved fragments of bone, tiny boxes variously of brass, bone, or pewter, and minute chests of drawers possibly large enough to serve Miss Belinda Wooden-Head and Miss Raggedy Peggy, very old friends who still graced India’s dressing-table, but not large enough for a human person usefully to do anything with—and so forth. According to Mrs Burgess, Mr Twin also stuffed things. Which he got from Gawd knew where, so you watch out, Miss! The only stuffed thing India had ever seen in the shop was a mangy crow. Though Aunt Beatrice claimed once to have seen a fox’s brush, with a silver handle. Mr Twin’s shop was closed: India peered eagerly at a strange display of a wood-box that had seen better days, a tired rug that you might possibly have called Persian if its pattern had been distinguishable, a tattered black fan, an extremely pretty carved ivory bangle that she would very much liked to have owned, a chipped saucer containing three walnuts and a brass key, and a sad-looking bunch of flowers in a small glass. Were they real flowers? Er—yes, one of them was clearly a dandelion. Well! Very much cheered by this exhibit, India strolled on, smiling.
There were no more shops in this direction: Mr Drew, the baker, was back the other way, as was Mr Rogers, the butcher. Well, what passed for a butcher in Sowcot. Usually he only had rabbits and perhaps a bit of pork available. India and her Aunt Beatrice didn’t mind: rabbit made a tasty stew, and they couldn’t have afforded beef or lamb, in any case. However, Mrs Garbutt, who was quite comfortably off, had been heard to complain bitterly about it: noting sourly, just by the by, that of course it was immaterial to the gentry, that had their own home farms. –A reference to Bamwell Place and High Oaks, no-one had been in any doubt.
A somewhat grandiose building known as The Sare Apartments was the next feature of interest. Its outward appearance belied it: the apartments were without exception small, dark and poky. India knew the building quite well, for it housed, amongst others, that Miss Enright just encountered in Mrs Burgess’s shop, a Mrs and Miss Feathers who were dressmakers to the rather more genteel classes, a Mr Bones who made and mended umbrellas and parasols, and a Mlle Barraud, a sad-looking little person who offered lessons in, variously, the French language and the pianoforte. It was certainly fortunate that, with the Misses Sardleigh, the young Misses Dunne, the martyred Master Timmy Groot, and the genteel pretensions of such persons as Mrs Garbutt, who had four daughters, the little district had sufficient persons desirous of learning either, to support her. Lady Bamwell had hold of an unpleasant story which linked sad little Mlle Barraud to the late Lord Sare in an undesirable way, but India Hutton and Beatrice Pinkerton refused to give the story a moment’s credence. The latter, indeed, being of the opinion that Lady Bamwell had made it up because Mlle Barraud did not attend the village church.
A Mrs Drew, who was married to some sort of cousin of the baker’s, was on the front step with a broom as India came past, and greeted her cheerfully. India stopped to pass the time of day and to gain the interesting news that old Mr Stitch wasn’t gone after all, and in fact was sitting up like Jacky calling for his pipe and a sup of ale; that Mrs Sardleigh had ordered up frilled nightgowns with pink ribbons for her three girls, the which, ladies or not, was downright throwing her money away, and what sort of husbands could they hope to get, ladies or not, if they couldn’t sew a simple nightgown for theirselves, though she didn’t say that Mrs Feathers couldn’t do with the work; that Mamzelle had a new learner, a fellow what was staying with the vicar; that that blamed Tom Harkness had been a-scratching up of Mrs Jessop’s herb barrel again—India nodded, she now understood that the notorious Tom Harkness was a cat, not a person; and that Miss Lucy Peebles’s pet bird had died in the night, and Miss Peebles was going about singing ’er ’ead off on account of it! India winced: the older Peebles sister’s voice could certainly be heard raised in somewhat cracked song at this moment.
“Which if it ’adn’t bit her finger like that I dessay she might not of took against it like she done,” finished Mrs Drew.
“No,” agreed India in a lowered voice. “It did always strike me as an uncertain-tempered bird, Mrs Drew.”
“It were that, all right! ’Ere, do you think that that Twin, ’e’d stuff it for ’er?”
India had to swallow. “Well, I don’t know if the rumour that he is a qualified taxidermist—um, stuffer—be correct, Mrs Drew. But if he can do it, I dare say he will. But I should think he might require payment.”
Mrs Drew snorted. “No doubt o’ that! Well, mustn’t keep you, me dear. You give me best to your aunty, now!”
India nodded and smiled and went on her way round the square, to the strains of old Miss Peebles’s happy carolling.
Several cottages were next, and then, at the far end of the square opposite the inn, a plain, characterless modern building which was known as “the Building” and which housed the establishment known as “the Club”—with or without a sniff, according to who the speaker was—alongside the facility known as “the Room”, which was where the Parish Council met. A Dr Grigg had once had his chambers in this building and his brass plate was still there, but Dr Grigg having discovered that an urban practice would be more lucrative, he had removed to Weymouth some time since. “The Club”, which had a much longer and fancier name that no-one ever used, was in actual fact a group of local gentlemen wishful to get away from their wives. Somewhat understandably Mr Sardleigh was its Secretary and chief organiser. “The Club” was currently very much at odds with another group, which met in “the Room”: the Sowcot & District Agriculturists’ Association. The farmers who belonged to it were very much not gentlemen-farmers, and the Club’s members considered they had very little right to occupy the Parish Council’s Room. As Mr Solly on behalf of Lord Sare was known to hold “a note” over the Building, and as the land was the property not of the Parish Council but of Lord Sare, there was realistically very little hope of the Club’s being able to oust the farmers, all of whom were Lord Sare’s tenants. But Mr Sardleigh lived in hope.
At this hour of the morning the Building was quiet and closed. India Hutton, who considered it a waste of space and building materials, gave it a sardonic glance as she passed it, and rounded the corner of the square.
After a clutch of cottages came two pleasant houses; detached, each in its own garden. The larger was Mrs Garbutt’s house, and Mrs Garbutt’s marmalade cat was visible on the front step, dozing in the sun. India looked at him with a smile. The next house, smaller and older, and very, very pretty, being hung with flowering vines and climbing roses, was occupied by the retired Mr Solly, Senior. And of course by old Mrs Solly. And was, alas, a bone of contention in the district, certain persons maintaining that since Mr Solly was no longer in the employ of the Sare Park estate he had no right to occupy one of the Luton properties rent-free! Miss Pinkerton had revealed crossly to her niece, à propos, that no-one actually knew that old Mr Solly paid no rent, and she was sure Lady Bamwell had made it up. And if he didn't, she was sure he deserved it, after a lifetime spent in the service of the estate!
Mrs Solly’s Mary Jane Melloway was scouring the step as India passed, and called out a cheerful greeting to her, to which India responded as cheerfully.
A small green area came next. It featured, besides the neatly-mown stretch of grass, a stone seat with a brass plate affixed to it, announcing that it had been donated to the parish in the year 1787 by Mr Claud Westaway, M.P., in memory of Mrs Mary Westaway, and two neat and geometric beds of marigolds. India had never seen anyone pause to rest on this seat, so she sometimes sat on it herself, so that the spirits of Mr and Mrs Westaway should not feel the parish was composed of a lot of ingrates. Since she was not in a hurry, she sat on it today, and looked round the square, smiling.
Outside the church, an imposing stone structure which even the Reverend Mr Bigelow did not maintain was wholly Norman, the verger, an elderly man, was now to be seen bent over addressing a small black and white dog of the terrier sort. Outside the inn Master Jakes was still idly throwing stones. Half-There Tom and his barrel had disappeared. In the middle of the square, the grassy area which Lady Bamwell declared not to be common ground nor anything like it, but which her Ladyship had not yet succeeded in fencing off and turning into a garden facility for the enjoyment of the genteeler part of the populace, as usual featured nothing more exciting than a small flock of geese. The which her Ladyship declared had no right to be there. The more so since they were known to be the property of Mrs Solly, Senior. India sighed contentedly.
Sowcot’s square, large, spacious and, really, quite gracious in its design, did not give a true picture of the size of the village. Originally the central area had been rather less pretentious, featuring merely the church, the inn, the green, and a few cottages: not laid out as a square at all. But in the middle of the last century an enterprising group of gentlemen, led by the Bamwell of the day, had decided to “improve” the village. Most of the land belonged to the Luton family, but presumably, then as now, they had taken no interest in the village. Certainly a row of cottages had been razed, the square laid out, several new shops built, and the Sare Apartments, the Sowcot Assembly Rooms and the Building erected without let or hindrance from Sare Park. Had these enterprising gentlemen envisaged that Sowcot would then develop into a thriving metropolis? Goodness only knew. It had certainly not happened: behind the square, if you went down any of the lanes that led off it, there was nothing very much at all. Several clusters of cottages and a smithy, was about it.
After quite some time contemplating the peaceful inactivity of Sowcot, India picked up her basket and walked slowly on, crossing a lane and reaching the Assembly Rooms. Outside this sufficiently imposing structure stood a broad-shouldered man in a blue coat, looking up at the building with a dubious expression on his face.
As he just stood there, staring up, as India approached, she said politely: “Can I help you, sir? Do you need directions, perhaps? That is the Sowcot Assembly Rooms. If you are seeking the Sare Apartments, they are on the opposite side of the square.”
“Aye, I know, thank you, ma’am,” he said, turning to smile at her. “What would you do with the thing if it were yours?” he added on a glum note.
India’s eyes twinkled. “I? Pull it down, sir! No, well,” she said as the unknown gentleman choked, “they used to have assemblies there, but the genteel population is not large enough to support them. Added to which, I think such an enterprise needs organising, and the man who used to be in charge, a Mr Bates, moved elsewhere. And so the impetus, you see, was lost.”
“Ah. I did hear that a Mr Sardleigh was used to take the names,” he said neutrally.
“Well,” replied India with her friendly smile, “I was not here in those days, sir. And I own I am not absolutely sure what taking the names might imply. But if he perhaps kept a register of those genteel persons entitled to vouchers for the dances, I own I can envisage that.”
“Ah. Supposing that a person was to turn it into a theatre, ma’am?”
“A theatre?” echoed India in astonishment. “Goodness! Well, that sounds very exciting, sir. Only, the district is very small: would there be a large enough population to support a theatre?”
“No, well, I dare say it could be used for other things as well. Concerts, maybe; even the odd assembly again, if they were wishful to get them up.”
“Yes, well, come to that, the famous Room in the building at the far end of the square could be used for those, if its proprietors would allow it,” said India drily.
The man smiled at her. “I’ve looked at that. It’s much too small for a theatre, though I dare say a small concert could be got up in it.”
“I think a concert would attract only a small local audience!” admitted India. “May I ask, have you also inspected the Assembly Rooms?”
“Not yet. Just about to,” he said, holding up a large key. “Like to take a look?”
There seemed no sensible reason to refuse this friendly man in his mid-years. Not in broad daylight in the middle of Sowcot Square. Though given the broad daylight and given that it was the middle of Sowcot Square, quite undoubtedly her actions would be observed and immediately reported. India accepted his invitation readily, and accompanied him inside.
“Nothing much to it,” he pronounced.
This was literally true. There was a tiny entrance lobby and then just dim, echoing space. The hall did not feature many windows, and dingy curtains were drawn over those it did have. The man pulled some of these back, revealing that the windows, which were not shuttered, had been halfway boarded up. And that what was visible of the glass was very grimy. A pale daylight filtered in.
“I suppose, if you put a stage at the far end, it would make a small theatre,” said India doubtfully. “Would the structure be strong enough to support a circle, or boxes?”
“That could be checked. But you’d have to allow for a staircase, as well.”
“Yes, of course. And—well, I have never been to the theatre,” admitted India cheerfully. “But should there not be a place for refreshment?”
“At least a bar—aye. No, well, say we raised the floor at the back, here, a little: might put a few fauteuils in, for the nobs, eh? Um, sorry, don’t know the English word.”
“I understand,” said India, looking very interested. “But would they be able to see so well, from the back?”
“That don’t count, ma’am,” he said with a grin. “Make the seats larger and more comfortable and charge three times as much for ’em: they’ll think they’re Christmas!”
“That’s very true!” she agreed with a laugh. “No, well… If you did put a circle in, it would have to have pillars, would it not?” she said, tipping her head back and gazing upwards.
The man looked with interest at the expanse of creamy skin under Miss Hutton’s chin. “Yes. That’d block the view from the back, some. And as I say, there’d have to be stairs… No, on the whole I’d say it ain’t big enough for a circle. Wonder if there’s a kitchen? S’pose they did have refreshments, at their assemblies.” He wandered up to the far end of the hall and discovered a door behind some draggled curtains. “Through here.”
“It’s very poky,” said India, as a small room containing nothing but a rickety table and some cupboards was revealed.
“You’re right.” He peered through the smeared window of the little room. “Aye: there is a pump in the yard. The back door must be thisaway.”
“Oh!” said India feebly as he opened what she had thought was merely another cupboard. “Yes, I see: there is a small back porch. Do you have the key to the back door, sir?”
“No; they said it was— Ah!” he grunted, having found it on the lintel. With some difficulty, he opened the back door, and he and India gazed at the sad-looking back yard of the Sowcot Assembly Rooms. One pump and what might have passed as a shelter for a horse with some stretch of the imagination.
The yard was surrounded by a high wall: he looked up at it dubiously. “Seems to me, they built that for the sake of keeping themselves to themselves and no other reason.”
“That sounds all too likely,” said India coolly.
“Aye. I was thinking of deliveries,” he explained slowly.
“For the bar? I see.” India looked at the narrow gate in the high wall and thought of Half-There Tom and his barrel. “I think you would have to widen that gate considerably, sir.”
“Aye. Well, something would have to be done about the gate in any case: they tell me its key’s lost, ma’am. Is there a locksmith in the village, by the way?”
“Why, yes. In the Sare Apartments, on the first floor: one of the apartments at the back. A Mr Freed, an elderly man. Uncle of Mr Freed, the ironmonger,” said India with a twinkle in her eye.
“That’s keeping it in the family,” he acknowledged sedately.
“Yes! Well, I don’t think he has very much custom, for in general the people round here don’t bother to lock their doors. But he also mends clocks and watches: that is his passion, and he has a fine collection of clocks.”
“On view to the public, are they?”
“Not precisely, but he will be very happy to let you see them if you are interested.”
“Ah,” he said, rubbing his chin slowly. “That’s the way things work hereabouts, isn’t it?”
“I don’t quite understand, sir,” said India politely.
“If you’re in the know, you know what's on offer and how things work. And if you ain’t, you don’t,” he ended flatly.
“Er—well, I think all these rural neighbourhoods are the same, are they not?” she ventured cautiously.
“I dare say. I’ve always lived in large cities, meself. Where if you didn’t hang out your sign saying ‘Watchmaker’, you didn’t get any custom,” he said drily.
“That seems entirely sensible to me!” said India, smiling at him. “But here, I think if you did that, you would be classed as ‘pushy’ and everyone would continue to patronise the man they’d known all their lives.”
The man in the blue coat linked his hands behind his back under the tails of the coat and rocked back and forth on his heels a little, staring blankly at the dank cobbled yard of the Sowcot Assembly Rooms. “Ah,” he said at last. “I suppose that’s due warning.”
“I did not mean it as such!” said India in alarm, reddening.
“No,” he said, turning to smile at her. “I realise that. But thank you all the same. I think you indicated, ma’am, you have not always lived here?”
“No, indeed; I grew up in Dorchester and have only been here a few months.”
“In that case,” he said primly, “perhaps I may be allowed to introduce myself without risking being classed as pushy?”
India’s shoulders shook. She nodded, twinkling very much.
“George French,” he said, holding out a large hand.
“I did think you might be,” said India simply, putting hers into it with no trace of the genteel horror that was usual in the southern counties at a lady’s being expected to shake hands with a person of the opposite sex. “I am India Hutton, sir, and delighted to make your acquaintance.”
Mr French had long since registered, amongst other points, that her long, slim left hand bore no ring. “Likewise, Miss Hutton,” he said with a little bow. “So, supposing I was to turn the place into a theatre, do you think they’d stay away in droves?”
“Well, no!” said India with a laugh. “I think they would all come, sir, they would not be able to stop themselves. But all of them, nobs and common folk, would probably resent you for it nonetheless. –I’m sorry, does that sound horridly contrary?”
“Human nature often is, in my experience,” he said drily. “No, well, I’ll be prepared, then. And supposing, on a more personal level, I was to give a slap-up dinner and invite all the nobs out to Little Sare, would they come to that, do you think, Miss Hutton?”
India went rather pink. “That is in a different case, Mr French. It pertains… well, if I can put it this way, to the more public side of the private mores of the genteel classes. Where being accepted as one of them is more important than almost anything. –No, actually,” she said with a little frown. “Than anything at all.”
“Thought so,” he said cheerfully. “Well, it’s too late for me to be born and bred here, Miss Hutton! So, what should I do?”
India blinked a little. “Well, I am not positively persona grata with such as Lady Bamwell and Mrs Sardleigh, either, Mr French! –Tolerated, only. Larger dinners, for which my best gown is almost good enough and where I’m placed in a very lowly position between obscure cousins, often of the same sex as myself!”
Mr French’s broad shoulders shook. He looked at India Hutton with considerable respect and liking in his shrewd, hard grey eyes. “Very graphic, ma’am!”
“Um… The best thing for you to do would of course be to magick up a close relative with a title. Preferably known at Sare Park, though that is not a positive prerequisite. Failing that… Could you turn out to be a very close friend of Lord Sare’s, sir?”
“No!” he said cheerfully.
“Bother, that would unfailingly have got you into Lady Bamwell’s good books. Though at the same time she would have resented you for it, perhaps needless to state.”
“Yes,” said Mr French, smiling at her. “My son, Gerard,” he said, eschewing the French version of the name, “did know Sir Bernie Bamwell slightly at Oxford.”
“Well, that is a very good start, sir!” she encouraged him “And I think it is probably true to say,” she said slowly, her eyes narrowing, “that given the passage of time, provided that you behaved yourself respectfully and modestly, you would gradually find yourself accepted. Not for the most exclusive entertainments at Bamwell Place, I must warn you.”
“Hm. I won’t say that I’m not a patient man, Miss Hutton, but I’d like to see my children accepted by the gentry rather than my great-grandchildren.”
India looked at him with considerable sympathy. “I see. I think that perhaps you might make a start, then, by re-introducing the assemblies. Possibly herald your intention by a very humble note to Bamwell Place and High Oaks—the latter is the residence of Mr and Mrs Sardleigh, sir.”
“Yes? You think they’d all come?”
“We-ell… It is not like accepting an invitation to a private party,” she said seriously. “Er—it might be a good move to ask Lady Bamwell if she would care to be the official patroness.”
“I see. Rather than ask Lord Sare to be the official patron?”
India swallowed. “Well, I haven’t heard much about the new man; at least, nothing factual; but the last Lord Sare completely ignored everything that went on in the district, sir!”
“Ah.”
“And the thing is,” she said in conspiratorial tones, “if you ask Lady Bamwell first, she will immediately suspect that should she refuse, the offer will be extended to Mrs Sardleigh!”
Mr French’s shoulders shook. “Got it.”
“If she does accept, she will probably send you a series of orders, in all likelihood without condescending actually to meet you in person. Are you sure you can stand it, sir?” said India, her eyes twinkling.
At that Mr French laughed aloud and said: “Oh, I think my shoulders are broad enough, Miss Hutton!”
Miss Hutton involuntarily looked at his broad shoulders and pinkened a little, murmuring: “Yes.”
For his part, Mr French looked with considerable interest at this tall, attractive, intelligent woman. And concluded that he liked her frank manner, and he liked her sense of humour, and he very much liked the wide clear eyes, the wide mouth and the broad forehead. And that she needed feeding up a bit. Not to say, to be taken in hand by an experienced lady’s-maid!
Mrs Burgess leaned on her counter. “They do say that Sare Park’s being opened up this summer.”
Mrs Garbutt sniffed. “It is summer, by my reckoning.”
The stout shopkeeper shook slightly. “Aye, well, don't blame me, Mrs Garbutt! That’s what I ’eard, that’s all!”
“Put in their order for five hundred gill of cream and ten gallon of treacle, have they?” she said drily.
Shaking, Mrs Burgess replied appreciatively: “You’re a one, Mrs Garbutt, and no mistake! No, well, they’ll get their cream and eggs from Home Farm, of course.”
Mrs Garbutt eyed her drily. “And their treacle direct from London. Or possibly direct from Jamaica.”
“Lord bless us, is that where it comes from? Jamaicy, eh? Our Jesse, ’e’s been to them parts. Says they’re full of blackamoors like you wouldn’t believe! –So is it treacle tart you’re planning, then, Mrs Garbutt?”
“No, a new receet for a treacle cake,” admitted Mrs Garbutt. “No idea how it might turn out. My sister Sally writ it me from Bournemouth.”
After Mrs Burgess had obtained chapter and verse as to the health and well-being of Mrs Garbutt’s sister’s family, she returned to the previous subject. “The Sare Park stables have been cleaned and polished like you wouldn’t believe, and my Ned, ’e reckons as Lord Sare wants stabling room for his curricle and three different teams, as well as I dunnamany visitors’ carriages! And sent down a dozen new ’orses for ’er Ladyship and the lass to ride! Now!”
“Beats me how even a lord needs three different teams for the one curricle, Mrs Burgess,” replied Mrs Garbutt at her driest. “Giving them turns, he’ll be, will he?”
The spectacle thus implied apparently appealed greatly to Mrs Burgess’s sense of humour: she broke down in helpless splutters, her mountainous person heaving and shaking.
Mrs Garbutt smiled grimly. “Yes, well, I'm sure Lady B.’ll be highly gratified to know it. If the treacle cake turns out decent, I’ll pass on the receet, if you like. Good-day to you, Mrs Burgess!” And, with another grim smile, she gathered up her purchases and went out.
Mrs Burgess wiped her eyes on her capacious apron and leaned on her counter, her stout form still shaken by the occasional chuckle, rather like an amiable volcano winding down after its last eruption.
Fortunately for the French family’s future in the neighbourhood, Miss Hutton was too sensible to have disclosed the whole of her conversation with Mr French to her aunt. Not that Miss Pinkerton would ever have wished or intended to disclose any of it to Lady Bamwell. But there was very little doubt that, one way or another, her Ladyship would have got it all out of her. As it was, she very soon obtained what little information the faded spinster lady had.
“So,” said her Ladyship, lowering her teacup. “He is interested in the assembly rooms, is he?”
Limply Miss Pinkerton replied: “Well, dearest India thought that he had time on his hands, rather than being specifically interested, Lady Bamwell.” This somehow did not seem sufficient, so she added: “But he certainly seemed disappointed that the assemblies were no longer held.”
“Hm.”
“I suppose… Well, he has grown-up children himself. And then, the dear vicar’s nephew is come to stay…”
“I dare say. But in the absence of Mr Bates, who is there to take charge of the assemblies? One does need such a person.”
Miss Pinkerton did not dare to contradict her, though to herself she thought that since Mr Sardleigh had previously appointed himself in charge of the names, he could very well do so again. “I think you said, Lady Bamwell, that Lord Sare does not have any children?” she ventured meekly.
Lady Bamwell looked down her large nose at her with tempered approval. “That is correct, Miss Pinkerton. As I may have mentioned, Lord Sare is a bachelor. But his sister is to come for the summer. Naturally she will bring her unmarried daughter.”
How could she possibly know that? However, Miss Pinkerton nodded meekly.
“We-ell… Naturally dear Bernie is not particularly interested, between ourselves, in socialising in this tiny neighbourhood!” she said with what in a less imposing woman might have been considered a titter. “Nevertheless, the young people need some amusements, for the summer… Well, we shall see.”
Personally Miss Pinkerton considered that unless her Ladyship thought up some appropriate amusements for Sir Bernie very fast, what they would not see was the young baronet himself. He had friends all over the country and had been heard on more than one occasion to declare that his home was “damned flat.” And certainly, last summer he had spent considerable time first with a crowd of fashionables at Brighton, doing what exactly the humble Miss Pinkerton was not sure, and then sailing with a friend at Cowes; and then had disappeared northwards, taking in some trout-fishing in the course of a round of country visits, and ending up in late August at Craigie Castle in Scotland, where he helped Lord Ivo to shoot his grouse. Subsequently moving on, during the autumn, to the Keep of Somewhere-Or-Another, where he helped the Duke of Something-Or-Another to shoot his red deer, and eventually reappearing at his home just before Christmas. She did not voice this thought, merely murmured agreement. And gratefully accepted her Ladyship’s receet for a delicious new cake. From Mrs Agatha Throgmorton, aunt to the present Viscount Stamforth. The which would undoubtedly require not merely a plethora of hugely expensive ingredients, the which Dove Cottage did not have, but also a hugely reliable oven. The which Dove Cottage did not have, either.
Mr Bones, the umbrella-maker, was a tall, thin, angular man whose appearance did not belie his name. And which, indeed, justified the appellation “Ole Boney”, freely bandied about in the younger echelons of village society. He had a very small apartment on the first floor of the Sare Apartments. It did have the advantage of a view over the square, although it was more or less crammed in between the stairs and the end wall, a somewhat noisy situation. He was thus fairly well used to receiving calls from persons who might not otherwise have bothered to deliver and pick up their umbrellas and parasols themselves. He watched expressionlessly as Mrs Sardleigh rustled over to his narrow window.
“There is something going on at the Assembly Rooms!” she gasped, dropping her lorgnette.
As the thing which Mr Bones thought of sardonically as a “spy-glass” was on a ribbon attached to Madam’s thin person, the umbrella-maker did not need to pick it up for her. “Aye. Seen a big waggon outside, t’other day, madam.”
“Yes? Delivering what, Mr Bones?” enquired Mrs Sardleigh in a gracious voice.
“Dunno as I could say, exact. It did ’ave a couple of fellows on it, madam.”
“Workmen? Painters or plasterers, perchance?”
Mr Bones affected to think. “Ah… One of ’em had a leather apron, madam.”
“A carpenter!” she gasped.
“Ah. Well, could of been.”
Mrs Sardleigh raised the lorgnette again. “Several of the windows are open!”
“Is that so, madam? Would they be a-going to get up the assemblies again?”
“I have not heard anything of the sort… Have you heard something, Mr Bones?” she said sharply.
Mr Bones allowed himself to look dubious. “We-ell… Mrs Jakes from the Sare Arms, she had ’old of a story that some feller, he was a-going to turn it into a low dance-’all, like what they got in Lunnon town.” He watched sardonically as Mrs Sardleigh’s thin bosom swelled in indignation. “But then, I ’eard as Mr Solly, ’e said it weren’t no such thing.”
“I should certainly hope not! …Er, I suppose you have not observed Mr French coming or going, have you, Mr Bones?”
“What, from the Assembly Rooms?” Mr Bones paused, as if for thought. “Don’t think I know the gent, madam.”
“Oh. Well, never mind!” she said brightly. “Now, let me see what you have managed to do with Miss Daphne’s parasol. –Very satisfactory,” she decided, opening and closing it carefully.
Mr Bones had mended a broken spoke and entirely replaced the fabric of Miss Daphne’s parasol. It was now covered in white cambric, on which he himself had painted a pattern of blue and yellow pansies. The which Miss Daphne had requested. He waited, though without hope. Sure enough, Mrs Sardleigh did not admire the pansies, did not pay her bill, the which was now considerable, and rustled out bidding him a dry: “Good-day to you, Mr Bones.”
“Good-day, madam,” said Mr Bones politely. He waited.
“That were Madam, were it?” said a cautious voice from the doorway.
“Aye. Come in, Miss Lucy.”
Miss Lucy, the younger and more compos mentis of the two elderly Peebles sisters, came in. She was accompanied by a small Gertie Drew, but this was quite normal and Mr Bones did not remark on it.
Miss Lucy helped with the more seamstressly part of Mr Bones’s work; she said without hope: “Did she like the pansies, Mr Bones?”
“Never said a word. And you could of put half as many stitches in the ’em, Miss Lucy, acos she never so much as looked.”
“Oh. Well, never mind, it turned out beautiful!” she said strongly.
“I like pansies,” volunteered Gertie Drew solemnly.
“Good for you, Gertie Drew, and so do I!” said Mr Bones with a grin. “—Never paid me, neither. Well, granted she only come to spy, otherwise she might of let Miss Daphne collect it.”
Miss Lucy nodded hard.
“She wanted to know,” said Mr Bones slowly, “whether I seen Mr French a-coming and a-going from the Assembly Rooms.”
Miss Lucy cocked a small, bird-like head at him. “Oh, aye?”
“I seen ’im!” squeaked Gertie Drew, jumping.
His face quite solemn, Mr Bones winked at her. “Aye, all on us seen ’im, Gertie. No, well, I said to Madam as I didn’t think I knew the gent.”
Miss Lucy’s small bright eyes sparkled. “That is perfectly true, Mr Bones! For you ’ave never, to my knowledge, been actual introduced!”
At this Mr Bones broke down and shook all over his thin frame, gasping: “That’s right!”
Miss Lucy also broke down in ecstatic giggles. As indeed, did Gertie Drew, though it was not perfectly clear whether the latter knew why she was laughing. Though certainly, when they were all recovered, she did remark: “I seen Madam. Me an’ Tom ’Arkness, we seen ’er. We ain’t scared of no spy-glass!” The which certainly indicated she had grasped the general drift of the conversation, and fully shared her elders’ sentiments upon the subject of Madam.
Mr Sardleigh had called at Little Sare. He had been very gracious. Mr French had appreciated this to the full, though it was true to say that Gerard had not.
“That makes two,” noted Annette.
“Two what?” replied her brother on a cross note. “I only counted one standing here in our sitting-room patronising Papa for all he was worth!”
“For all he was worth, pair’aps!” gasped Annette, collapsing in giggles. “Not all that cher Papa ees worth!”
Gerard grinned reluctantly. “No. But who’s the other?”
“Sir Bernie Bamwell, of course!”
He eyed her drily. “He was so good as to receive me, yes. –Not so good as to cough up that forty guineas he’s owed me these past three years.”
“Gégé, you turn eento an old Jew!” squeaked Miss French ecstatically, collapsing.
“Très amusant. Well, there are worse things.”
“Why, yes: notre cher grandpère always pays hees debts, unlaike these English gentlemen! But Sir Bernie meust make two, no? Two gentlemen who recognaise us?”
“True. Oh, he seems to think his mother might call if Papa had a hostess.”
“Beut I am the hostess!” she cried indignantly.
“No, you’re too young. You need a chaperone.”
“You deed not tell Papa this?”
“Yes, of course.”
Annette sighed. After a moment she ventured: “Gégé, are you vairy cross?”
“N— I am with the way Sardleigh looked down his nose at Papa, yes,” he admitted grimly.
“But Papa does not maind! He laughs up hees sleeve at them!” she cried.
“True. Mind you, there is no guarantee that Lady Bamwell will call, hostess or not,” he noted drily.
“Yes. Well, I have had an idea. We shall go to the church!” She beamed at him.
“Annette, you’re not a communicating member of the Church of England,” he croaked.
“Toi non plus!” she squeaked, going off into a paroxysm.
Gerard grinned. “They just assumed I was, at Harrow,” he said mildly.
Annette nodded helplessly.
“Old Pettigrew congratulated me on me knowledge of the Old Testament,” he said modestly.—Annette shook helplessly.—“I didn’t tell him that I could recite large portions of it in Hebrew: wouldn’t have struck the right note,” he added sardonically.
“No!” she gasped, blowing her nose. “No, well, I shall not pretend: I have a meuch, meuch better idea. I shall ask to be instructed!” She beamed at him.
“Take instruction?” he gulped. “You won’t tell the vicar—”
“Mais non, mais non, imbécile! I shall say that I am catholique! He weell find that vairy laikely, for I ’ave discovered there is a Mlle Barraud in the village who is, and who does not attend the church. Mrs Burgess in the shop, she tells me all about ’er. She teaches music and French. So I shall take up the piano!”
“Piano,” said Gerard carefully in English. “It can’t do any harm. But you’d better check with Papa, before you see the vicar.”
“Of course! But do you not theenk it is a good idea? You see, it weell mean I am not jeust another person in the congregation!”
“Yes, I think it’s a very good idea. But mind you concoct a damn’ good story to explain why Papa and I are not Roman Catholic, too.”
“Naturally,” she said with dignity. “My stories are always damn’ good.”
Gerard smiled weakly. She wasn’t far wrong. Although, with her heart-shaped little face, dark eyes and black curls, she looked very like their late maman, Annette was in many ways extremely like their father. With not a little of their maternal grandfather in her, to boot.
Lady Bamwell had driven out to the coast to The Heights, to call on Mrs Dunne. That lady had been happily trying their new prints on Miss Dunne, aged fourteen, and Miss Peggy, aged eleven, when the caller was announced, so there was some flurried scurrying about, the Miss Dunnes vanished precipitately, and their mother took a mental vow never, on whatever provocation, to do anything but the most genteel sort of stitchery in the sitting-room again, even though it was the sunniest and most pleasant room in the house.
It was a warm day; nevertheless Lady Bamwell’s outfit featured a flowing black pelisse, a giant black silk bonnet with enormous purple and black ostrich plumes upon it, and a purple shawl of surpassing splendour. The phrase “full panoply” sprang unbidden into Mrs Dunne’s anguished mind.
After tea had been served and Mrs Dunne’s own mother’s best fruit-cake receet damned with faint praise, Lady Bamwell graciously allowed it to be known that she had consented to be the patroness of the new Sowcot Assemblies—yes. And it was thought that the first might be held in early July, so if Mrs Dunne’s sister Susan’s charming daughters should happen to be visiting at The Heights at that period—?
How could she know? For Susan’s letter confirming the girls would love to come had only just arrived last week! Limply Mrs Dunne confessed that the girls would be thrilled.
At long, long last, reminding Mrs Dunne that she would expect to see them all at the first assembly, her Ladyship took her leave.
After some time Miss Dunne’s head appeared round the sitting-room door.
“Come in, Lotty, darling, the woman’s gone,” groaned Mrs Dunne, forgetting all about setting a good example to the girls.
Lotty came in cautiously, looking round to make sure she really was gone.
“Whom did you tell about Miranda’s and Letty’s visit?” sighed Mrs Dunne. “For I swear I only mentioned it to you girls, Miss Hutchings, and your Papa!”
Miss Dunne thought it over carefully. “Cook, of course. Um… Mamzelle, when I went for my music lesson, and Mr Bones,” she pronounced. “Um, Gertie Drew was there, too.”
Mrs Dunne shut her eyes for a moment. “Well, that will be it, then. Possibly Lady B. is right and it would be much more desirable for Mamzelle to come to you.”
“But I love going over there, Mamma!” she cried.
“Yes,” said Mrs Dunne with a sigh. “I know, darling. I was not seriously proposing it. –How could it have got from Mamzelle or Mr Bones to Lady B.?” she cried.
Miss Dunne looked wise. “Everything does.”
At this, sad to relate, Mrs Dunne collapsed in giggles. She then permitted Lotty, and also Peggy, Miss Hutchings, who was their governess, the Misses Fanny and Susie Dunne, and even Master Teddy Dunne, aged four, to come down from the schoolroom and help eat up the fruit-cake. The which most certainly would have rubbed Lady Bamwell’s nose in it!—as Mr Dunne owned later that evening, chuckling over it.
“What I ’eard,” said Mrs Jakes, briskly serving ale, “was that that foreign feller, ’e’s building a stage in it! Now!”
“Then maybe the rumour that he’s turning it into a theatre ’as some merit, Mrs Jakes,” suggested little Mr Twin meekly.
Sir Bernie Bamwell not infrequently favoured the tap with his presence, when he was home. “A theatre? I say, what fun!” he said with a laugh. “—No, no, let me get it, Mr Twin!” –Perhaps it was a pity that Mr Gerard French was not present to witness this last. It might have suggested to him that Sir Bernie’s was not quite a hopeless case of English gentleman.
“Lordy, a theatre in Sowcot?” returned Mrs Jakes, rolling her eyes.
“What, with real actors?” inquired a gloomy, rumpled personage. “Where’ll they come from?”
“Give Pertwee what he fancies, Mrs Jakes, before he bursts into tears!” said Sir Bernie gaily, awarding the gloomy one a hearty buffet on the shoulder. “Cheer up, Pertwee! I dare say they’ll come from Dorchester, or some such!”
“Do they got actors in Dorchester, Sir Bernie?” asked Mrs Jakes, acceding to Mr Pertwee’s request for a rum. “Make it last,” she advised, placing it before him.
“Well, they certainly have a theatre, so I assume they do,” he said with his pleasant smile.
“You mean, they might come on over now and then?” ventured Mr Twin.
“Why not?” replied the baronet.
Mr Twin looked dubious, but admitted: “Well, maybe I will let ’im put a poster in my window, then, if so be it is going to be a theatre.”
“A theatre would certainly brighten Sowcot up!” he said with a laugh, draining his tankard. “You coming, Mr Twin?”
“Er—yes, sir.” Hurriedly Mr Twin finished his ale, and accompanied Sir Bernie out into a mild summer evening. Sowcot, as was its habit, was asleep, apart from the persons still in the tap, so there was no-one present to observe the somewhat odd spectacle of Sir Bernard Bamwell accompanying the meek little Mr Twin back to his humble rooms above his shop.
“Well, sir?” said Mr Twin politely, having closed his door very firmly.
“Well,” said Sir Bernie, with a wink, “I did get on over to the Channel Isles—yes. Some damned tricky sailing round there,” he noted, shaking his head. “And I called at the address in Jersey you gave me, and asked for William Dupont. But he was gone, all right.”
Mr Twin sighed. “I thought as much, sir.”
The young baronet’s bright blue eyes twinkled. “Well, the government’s changed in France since you first knew him, I think?”
Mr Twin sniffed slightly. “More than once—aye.”
At this Sir Bernie went into a prolonged spluttering fit. Emerging from it to wipe his eyes and admit: “Damned pity, though. –Mind you, the dashed Excisemen did board us when we returned to Cowes, as you’d thought. Damned cheek!”
“Aye, they’re getting pretty sharp,” allowed Mr Twin heavily.
Sir Bernie winked at him again. “Take Pretty Lady out for a jaunt, then?”
“Well, it’s kind of you to offer, sir, but the thing is, Dupont was my contact,” he said sadly.
“Yes, but couldn’t you find another, Mr Twin?” he said eagerly. “Or track down that fellow from the French side?”
“Never knew his name. Georges Something.”
“Well, dammit, don’t they want our custom?” he cried.
“Ssh!” said Mr Twin in alarm. “Seems like they don’t, no more. Well, times is changing. That Harkness was out on the cliffs near The Heights with his spy-glass every day last week.”
“Damn it!” concluded Sir Bernie, grimacing and laughing.
“Yes. Er, well,” said Mr Twin, clearing his throat. “I do have a few bottles left, sir. It ain’t the same as a nice little barrel, but—”
“They’ll do! Where?” he said eagerly.
Winking, and laying a finger to the side of his sharp little nose, Mr Twin led the way downstairs again. There he went into the shop and, checking carefully to see that the square was empty, lifted the lid of the battered wood-box in the window. “Under Harkness’s nose all the time,” he said placidly, extracting several bottles from it. He waited while the baronet went into an agonised paroxysm. “The best Cognac, Sir Bernie,” he noted primly.
“Good! Wrap ’em so they won’t clink, Twin; I’ll take ’em with me. Got a bag?”
Mr Twin conceded he could provide that, and, wrapping the bottles carefully, did so. A certain sum in gold guineas then changed hands, and Sir Bernie, patting Mr Twin on the shoulder, took his leave.
Mr Twin closed the door quietly after him, in the happy consciousness that even if Excise Officer Harkness was watching the square, he wouldn’t dare to accost Sir Bernie Bamwell and ask him what he had in his bag. Times hadn’t changed that much—thank God.
Miss Hutton had called on Mrs Solly the younger. Her excuse was that she had heard that Mrs Solly had an infallible receet for bottling green beans, and as Miss Pinkerton’s garden this year was bursting with beans, in fact having managed to produce very little but beans, they were very much in want of one. Mrs Solly knew that, although Miss Pinkerton might have been glad of the receet, Miss Hutton really had come to see her out of the kindness of her heart—having now had more than enough time in Sowcot to learn that the Sollys were considered beneath the notice of Bamwell Place, High Oaks, etcetera.
Miss Hutton did not quiz the agent’s wife about the goings-on at Sare Park, nor ask her what Mr Solly knew of Mr French’s intentions for the Assembly Rooms. Therefore Mrs Solly volunteered a considerable amount of information over the teacups, including the facts that Lord Sare was back at Sare Park, that he had quite a party with him, that he had ordered the roof of the lodge to be repaired immediately, and that he had inspected all the books, asking all important decisions to be referred to him: most unlike the last man. And—apparently as a clincher—that he presented a most gentlemanly appearance at all times! India merely nodded politely, and did not express her thought. Which was: how much was Lord Sare worth? Forty thousand a year or more? Anyone with that sort of immense fortune would have no reason not to present a gentlemanly appearance.
At the conclusion of her report, Miss Pinkerton eyed her dubiously.
“Well,” said India honestly, “my sentiments must, I think coincide with yours, dear Aunt Beatrice: wait and see, about sums it up.”
“Ye-es… Well, having one’s widowed sister and her daughter to stay is respectable. That must be an improvement upon the previous man!”
“Mm. But does ordering the patched lodge roof to be replaced indicate a true care for the comfort and convenience of Mr Sam Jakes and his family, who must live beneath it, or merely a care for his own consequence?”
Miss Pinkerton had been wondering that. She swallowed, and smiled weakly.
“But the rumour that Belview Manor is being redecorated is true,” said India kindly.
Miss Pinkerton brightened amazingly. And was hardly dashed by the further intelligence that as yet Mrs Solly—that was, Mr Solly, of course—did not know whom Lord Sare had in mind as a tenant for it.
Mr Arthur Simpkins, nephew to the Reverend Cyril Bigelow, had got round that gentleman’s gruffly martial housekeeper, one Mrs Bracegirdle, by the application of outright flattery. And now more or less had her eating out of his hand. Therefore, this lovely summer’s morning, she had consented to provide a tray of tea and cake for the foreign young lady what came to see the Vicar about being turned into a Christian. –Mr Simpkins had not attempted to explain that there were other forms of Christianity than that practised by the Church of England: Mrs Bracegirdle would not have credited a word of it, and would probably have condemned him as a heathen on account of it. He was, of course, blissfully unaware that the Bracegirdle version, so far as Miss French was concerned, was in fact correct.
He duly kept watch upon the hall, and bounced out as soon as Miss French emerged from the study, warmly inviting her to take tea. Miss French, sad to relate, was not so far under Mr Simpkins’s spell as was the martial Mrs Bracegirdle, and her acceptance of this invitation owed almost everything to the furtherance of her intention of ingratiating the French family with Sowcot society. And a little to the fact that she was thirsty.
When everyone was sipping tea, Mr Simpkins eagerly introduced the topic of the Sowcot Assembly Rooms, venturing that Miss French must know!
“Mais non, mais non!” she cried vividly.—Both Mr Bigelow and his nephew thought that this little exclamation of Miss French’s was utterly charming. And were blissfully unconscious that Miss French was perfectly well aware of their sentiments.—“Papa does not tell us a theeng! He is close as a weenkle,” she said, pouting.
There was a short silence.
“Er, I think you mean an oyster, my dear Miss French,” said the Reverend Cyril limply.
Annette murmured to herself in French. Sunnily she decided: “That does not make sense, either. But thank you, dear Mr Bigelow, I shall remember!”
“Is he building a stage in it?” Mr Simpkins then demanded baldly.
“Well, I theenk that is so, yes. But I cannot tell eef it be for a theatre, Mr Simpkins,” she said, shrugging, “for he weell not say!”
Both Mr Bigelow and Mr Simpkins thought this Gallic shrug of Miss French’s was utterly adorable. They beamed upon her fatuously.
So much so, in fact, that Annette was impelled to repair to Mlle Barraud’s apartment after this visit. And to declare in that lady’s native language, since fortunately she was in and alone, that the vicar and his nephew were a pair of imbeciles. Mlle Barraud agreed, giggling, though pressing a handkerchief to her mouth as she did so. She then ventured to ask if Mlle French really did not know what the bon papa intended for the Assembly Rooms.
“No, he said that all will be revealed in good time. And that he is very nearly ready to spring it upon us.”
Mlle Barraud gave a shrug. It was the same sort of Gallic shrug as Annette’s but as the little teacher was forty-five if a day, and thin and faded-looking, it had never struck either Mr Bigelow or Mr Simpkins as adorable.
“I suppose we must wait and see,” concluded Annette.
“En effet.”
Mr French sipped tea, and eyed his offspring blandly. “I’ve been thinking on the question of a chaperone. It won’t do, for Lady Bamwell to be unable to call.”—Gerard here muttered something under his breath, but his parent ignored him.—“Mrs Anstey will do it,” he said calmly.
“What?” gasped Gerard.
“Papa, she ees not a lady!” gasped Annette. “She ees a delightful woman, beut you cannot foist her on the gentry of the deestreect as a proper chaperone!”
“Ssh. She’s proper enough.”
“But the late Mr Anstey,” protested Gerard feebly, “was the son of a carpenter.”
Mr French eyed him blandly. Gerard gulped, as he realised what he had just said.
“That meust prove eet!” cried Annette loudly. “For if their Jesus Christ were to come back to lead them today, these English persons would all sheun heem!”
“No, well, Anstey himself was quite a warm man,” said Mr French, unmoved.
“He was quite successful, yes,” said Gerard limply. “But you’ll never bring it off, Papa. Annette’s right, Mrs Anstey is not a lady.”
“She’s not English, either. These local nobs won’t know, Gerard: all they’ll hear is the accent. She can be your mother’s sister,” he said blandly.
“Why, yes! An inspiration!” cried Annette, clapping her hands.
Gerard nodded feebly. Mrs Anstey’s Dutch accent would not, then, pose a problem. There was the point that Mrs Anstey, besides being Dutch, also looked it: a plump, smiling, very blonde woman. He decided not to mention it. Papa would have thought of an explanation, no doubt.
“She does not look laike us,” said Annette slowly.
“Takes after t’other side of the family,” replied Mr French coolly.
Gerard smiled weakly. There you were, he had.
“Soon as she’s settled in, we’ll have a nice little dinner party,” promised Mr French genially.
“Well, Bernie Bamwell would probably come,” admitted Gerard. “And the Garbutts, and the vicar, and the egregious Simpkins. I don’t think we’re well enough in with the rest, Papa.”
“Then we shan’t ask the rest,” he said mildly. “Got to start somewhere.”
“I theenk it’s splendeed!” said Annette, bouncing up to kiss his cheek. “Well done, Papa! Mrs Anstey! How lovely eet weell be, to see her again!”
“Y— Um, what’s her name?” asked Gerard feebly.
They looked expectantly at their father.
He set down his teacup. “No idea. Call her Aunt Anstey,” he said blandly.
“I say! If he is turning it into a theatre, Uncle Cyril, possibly we could hold amateur theatrics in it!” said the eager Mr Simpkins.
“Er—well, yes… But Arthur, my dear boy, there is no amateur dramatic group.”
“That don’t matter, sir! Let’s start one!”
Mr Bigelow swallowed a sigh. The charge of Mr Simpkins was proving a heavier one than he had anticipated. Arthur was come to him this summer in order to do some intensive study of European politics and economics, the which so far he had mostly avoided with a fair measure of success. True, he was going to Mlle Barraud for his French lessons quite regularly. Though an ability to converse fluently on the subjects of a cat called Tom Harkness, the business of umbrella-making and mending, and similar topics, was hardly fitting preparation for the Diplomatic Service, for which Arthur Simpkins was ultimately destined by his optimistic parents. Well, he was to start this coming autumn as secretary to a Sir William Quayle-Sturt, M.P., who was reckoned to be quite well thought of.
“My dear boy, you should not be wanting to fritter your summer away on such frivolities.”
“Oh, pooh! You may bet your boots Sir William is not spending his summer poring over his books! And then, a fellow must have some amusements, sir: all work and no play, y’know.”
“Arthur, so far it has been very little work and considerable play. Well, fritterings, if not play,” he said as Arthur began to protest.
“Just because I did not perfectly seize the essence of old Thingummy-bob’s policy—”
“Arthur,” he said heavily, “you did not even seize who he was.”
“No, but sir, the dashed Peninsula War’s long past!”
“That has nothing to d—” Mr Bigelow found he had raised his voice. He stopped, swallowing. “That has nothing to do with the case, Arthur,” he said more quietly. “If you do not grasp recent history, then you will not be able to grasp why current policies are as they are, let alone predict how certain powers may move given certain events.”
Mr Simpkins looked sulky. “It is all speculative. And Sir William ain't interested in that sort of stuff!”
“Rubbish. What if he requires you to write him a summary report?”
“He won’t. I shall only be a glorified letter-opener, y’know. Um, well, suppose we got up a little group and only practised in the evenings and perhaps Saturdays?” he said with a melting look.
Mr Bigelow groaned, and passed his hand over his forehead. “Arthur, if you would put in some solid work during the day, you would have all your evenings free.”
“Um, well, if I keep me nose to the grindstone all day, then may I start up a dramatic group?”
Mr Bigelow gave in, sighing. “Very well: if you can find enough persons to—”
But Arthur, though it was but mid-morning and not a Saturday, had rushed out.
“—participate,” ended his uncle sadly. “Oh, dear.”
Miss Garbutt rushed into the family sitting-room, panting. “It’s true!” she cried.
“What, that that dim Simpkins boy has got Lady B. to join his dratted group?” responded her mother at her driest.
“No! Ugh, what an idea! No, it’s true that the Assembly Rooms have been turned into a theatre!” she cried. “And a professional company is coming, and there’s a play bill in Mr Twin’s shop-window!”
“Ooh!” gasped Miss Sally Garbutt, jumping up.
“Put your bonnet on,” said her mother with a sigh.
“Of course!” Miss Sally rushed out to get it.
“Well, isn’t it exciting?” cried Miss Garbutt.
“Yes,” agreed Mrs Garbutt kindly, as the sounds of Miss Sally’s feet pounding up the stairs and the sounds of Miss Sally shrieking to her younger sisters to come quick died away. “I dare say it is. If Lady B. lets it go ahead. –No, well, Kill-Joy’s the woman’s middle name, Robina,” she said as her eldest daughter protested. “And wasn’t she supposed to be getting the place back for her famous assemblies?”
“Yes, well, they may share the facility! After all, the assemblies cannot be on every evening!”
“You mean a professional theatre company can’t find an audience in Sowcot every night, more like. Well, all right, it’s exciting,” she said as Robina, laughing, hugged her and asked who was being a Kill-Joy now. “Only what’ll it do to that dim Simpkins lad’s amateur group?”
“Nothing, why should it? And he is not as dim as all that, Mamma!” she protested.
He was pretty dim. And Mrs Garbutt did not wish for a connection there for any of her girls, even if he was a gentleman. She had not indicated as much to the girls themselves, or raised any objection at all to their joining the amateur dramatic group. Merely, she consistently referred to Arthur Simpkins as dim. “Mm, well, be that as it may, has he chosen a piece, yet?”
“No,” said Robina regretfully. “The Shakespeare was too hard, really. And the piece by Mr Sheridan really requires professional actors. Miss Pinkerton suggested tableaux, but that is too dreadfully dull. Mlle Barraud has a little French piece that she thinks may translate well.”
“Hm. And what’s this professional group going to do, or don’t the play bill say?”
“But of course! It’s so thrilling, they are to do two pieces!”
“Lord,” said Mrs Garbutt placidly.
“I have never heard of them, but one is described as a comedy of manners, and the other a rural farce!” she revealed, beaming. “Come and see, Mamma!”
Mrs Garbutt gave in. “Why not? Can’t give Lady B. and Mrs S. a worse idea of me than what they already have, so I might as well get out and gawp in Mr Twin’s window with the rest of the village.”
At this Robina gave her a smacking kiss and declared she was the best mother in the world, and that a golden heart was hidden by that stern exterior.
Mrs Garbutt eyed her tolerantly. “Golden, hey?”
“You know it very well. Mlle Barraud sends you mille remerciements for the delicious treacle cake, and has already insisted on sharing it all round the Sare Apartments!”
“Oh—that,” said Mrs Garbutt in an off-hand manner.
Robina, assisting her gaily into her shawl, replied cheerfully. “Yes, that, you dreadful fraud! And Miss Lucy said to say that the whole of the Apartments never had so much as a crumb from Bamwell Place, Sare Park, and High Oaks thrown into one!”
Mrs Garbutt smiled her grim smile and owned she could believe that.
And having assumed her bonnet, set off with Robina hugging one arm and Sally the other, and Jessie and Dotty skipping along in front, to see for herself the play bill in Mr Twin’s window.
“I concede,” said Annette in French, “that once Papa had hold of the idea, he would not let it drop. But why start a theatre in the first place?”
Gerard shrugged. “Aucune idée. Bored?”
“Ye-es… But he has been up to the London office every other week since we got here. Well, I suppose that is as good an explanation as any,” she said dubiously.
“Ouais, ouais,” he agreed tolerantly. “Oh, and speak English,” he reminded her.
Annette sighed. “Vairy well, eef I meust. It tires my head, you know? You should have come to the last meeting. Mr Simpkins has decided: it shall definitely be La Belle et la bête. Well, there is quite a large—eugh—chorus, so that means that everyone may have a part!”
“I’ll be in the chorus, then,” he said instantly.
“No, you meust not! Why do all the men say that?”
He groaned, but let her talk him round. After a while, however, the original subject of the conversation came back to him and he frowned, and went slowly along to Mr French’s study.
“Papa, did Lord Sare ask you to open a theatre?” he demanded baldly.
“Now, why would he do that?” replied his father blandly.
“I don’t know, sir. I was rather hoping you would trust me enough to tell me,” he said stiffly.
“No, well, it if were your business, I would tell you, Gérard,” said Mr French mildly. “What’s all this nonsense of Annette’s about an amateur show?”
“It’s that idiot, Simpkins. Getting up a production. In your persona as theatrical impresario you will probably be asked to loan out the theatre for it.”
“For nothing?” said Mr French in horror.
“Very funny, Papa.”
“Well, I don’t mind, if so be it don’t clash with Lady Bamwell’s blamed assemblies. Who else is in it?”
Gerard grinned. “Half the village. And Bernie Bamwell has offered. Simpkins had him read, but he can’t act for toffee! Didn’t stop the Miss Sardleighs and the Miss Garbutts all gaping at him like a row of cods on a slab,” he noted drily.
“I trust your sister didn’t gape?”
“No. Well, it’s clear he admires her—though mind you, so does Simpkins, not to say his uncle! But I honestly don’t think Annette goes much on the English gentleman type. She said he was pretty enough, but negligible. And I heard her asking him some searching questions about his estate, none of which the gallant Sir Bernie,” he said, eyeing his father drily, “could answer.”
Mr French sniffed slightly. “Cross him off, then.”
“Who does that leave, sir? The inane Arthur Simpkins? Or are you going to go all out and hurl her at Lord Sare’s unsuspecting head?” he asked politely.
“Get out of here, Gérard,” replied Mr French calmly.
“Well, I can see you are swamped in papers, Papa, so I shall leave you to it. But mind, I am not satisfied over the question of the theatre!” He went out, smiling. But in the passage he shook his head. “Papa, I hope you know what you are doing,” he said under his breath.
“A very well-known company,” said Lady Bamwell with awful finality. “Some of the finest actors in London. We have a great deal for which to thank Mr French.”
Mrs Yelby had merely said, was it not exciting: a real theatrical performance in Sowcot. She subsided, smiling palely.
Mr Jakes raised a glass. “What I say is, good luck to ’im. Here’s to the future of the Sowcot Theatre!” he said firmly.
Obediently the locals raised their glasses and tankards and drank with the landlord of the Sare Arms. After all, the round was on the house.
“Theatricals?” said the gloomy Mr Pertwee to Mr Twin as they walked round the square some time later, headed for their respective abodes. “Where are they a-going to stay, that’s what I’d like to know.”
Mr Twin eyed him drily and did not say that in view of Mr Jakes’s enthusiasm for the thing, most of them would probably be putting up at the Sare Arms. Nor that the liquid refreshment for the theatre, given Mr Jakes’s enthusiasm for the thing, was undoubtedly being provided through the Sare Arms.
“’Ere, did you ever manage to stuff that there bird for Miss Lucy?” added Mr Pertwee.
“Yes. It’s almost ready,” replied Mr Twin insouciantly. They had reached his shop. “Good-night to you, Mr Pertwee!”
“Ah. Good-night, then, Mr Twin,” said the gloomy one, going on his way.
There was a tiny slip of paper, not large enough to contain a note, slipped under Mr Twin’s front door. He picked it up, locked the door quietly, and went quietly upstairs. The door of his apartment was also locked but a dim light showed under it. Mr Twin unlocked the door and went in.
A man in a neat dark cloak was sitting at Mr Twin’s dining table, reading a book. The lodgers from Mr Buxleigh’s boarding house would immediately have recognised the meek features of Mr Peebles. Though the hair looked nothing like Peebles’s dark, slicked-down Brutus.
“Good evening, Twin,” he said calmly, putting down the book.
“Good evening, sir.—Don’t get up, please.—Didn’t expect to see you in person,” said Mr Twin.
“Oh, I had business down this way, so I thought I would bring it myself. Here it is,” he said, nodding at the fair-sized package on the table.
Mr Twin unwrapped it carefully. In a gilded cage sat a pretty little stuffed bird of the parrot family. “Prettier nor it was when it was alive,” he said neutrally.
“The least a grateful country could do, Twin,” said the man who looked like Mr Peebles.
Mr Twin’s small, neat, wrinkled features creased into a reluctant smile.
“How are Miss Lucy and Miss Peebles?”
“Well, Miss Lucy’s got over the shock: she’s fine, sir. And Miss Peebles is dottier than ever, but she seems a bit quieter now the bird ain’t there, screeching at ’er.”
“That’s good news,” he said placidly. “Er—there is something I need to tell you, Twin. It—er—may take some time. Please sit down.”
“Care for a drink, then, Mr Smith?” said Mr Twin, going over to his sideboard.
His visitor nodded, and the curiosity-shop keeper produced a bottle and two glasses.
“Armagnac?” said the man who looked like Mr Peebles, having tasted. “Excellent.”
“Not bad. Sir B. had the last of me Cognac. He checked up for me: Dupont has vanished.”
“Mm. I heard a rumour that he had decided to retire to France.”
“Pity. Now, sir! Is it a job?”
The visitor sighed a little. “No, Twin, we are no longer at war. And to tell you the truth, I have retired from my previous occupation. Like Dupont.”
“But there’s always a need for a reliable man or two, sir, war or not!”
“I know. But—well, these are the circumstances…” He proceeded to explain. During the narrative Mr Twin’s eyes got very round indeed, and he had recourse to the brandy bottle more than once.
“I won’t breathe a word, sir!” he said as his visitor eventually got up to go.
“I know,” he said, holding out his hand.
Looking very flustered indeed, Mr Twin shook it. And accompanied him downstairs in silence. Where he ventured: “If you’re going straight back, sir, it’s a fair walk.”
“Not straight, possibly,” said the visitor with a twist of the lips.
A laugh was startled out of Mr Twin. “I takes your point, sir! Er—may I venture to wish you all the very best?”
“Thank you. Good night,” he murmured, vanishing into the night.
Mr Twin blinked. One minute he had been there, the next—nothing. Well, him all over. Mr Twin locked and bolted his outer door very slowly and went very slowly upstairs, where he locked and bolted the inner door. Then he just sat down at his table and stared blankly before him for some time.
“Lumme,” he concluded.
“Sir,” said Exciseman Harkness on an angry note to his superior officer, “they are all in cahoots, that’s what!”
“If you’re going to tell me that Bamwell Place has always had its brandy off the gentlemen,” said his superior officer with huge irony, “we have always known that. So has the Sare Arms. Well, half these damned places on the coast are at it. We don’t expect you to clean the place out, Harkness; just put the fear of God into ’em by showing a presence.”
“It’s not that, sir. Well, I’d take my oath the Frenchies ain’t come across for months, and no boat’s gone out of Frenchman’s Cove that hasn’t been well and truly accounted for. –Frenchman’s Cove!” he added in disgust. “That shows you! No, well, as I say, it’s not that, though I seen Sir Bernie Bamwell with my own eyes with a great bag in ’is hand, crossing the square at dead of night. No, Lord Sare’s in on it as well, that’s what!”
His superior officer eyed him dubiously.
“Sir,” he said urgently, “I seen him a-coming out of that Twin’s place at dead of night! And he’s in it up to his eyeballs, we do know that!”
“Maybe he wanted a parrot stuffed, Harkness.”
Mr Harkness went very red.
“Sorry,” said his superior with manifest untruth. “Look, we’ve heard nothing against the new Lord Sare. And if he was in it, he’s such a nob that we couldn’t touch him, Harkness. But in any case…” He rubbed his chin. “Look, he’s too much of a nob to be involved. I can see Sir Bernie taking an active part—just. He’d do it for the fun of it. But not Lord Sare. The man owns half the county! And he’s not a young lad like Bernie Bamwell. What’d he want to be collecting contraband off damned Twin for?”
“Why not?” he said stubbornly. “They drink French brandy up at Sare Park, don’t they?”
“Harkness, drop it. In the first instance it was probably not his Lordship himself—”
“It was, sir,” he said stubbornly.
“And in the second instance,” he said loudly, “whatever might appear on the back doorstep at Sare Park, he would not lower himself! God knows what business he had with Twin, but it is none of our business! Drop it, Harkness!”
Mr Harkness scowled, but said stiffly: “Very good, sir.”
India set down her teacup firmly. “Dearest aunt, I am positive it is all a hum!” she said with some vigour. “Why should the Lutons suddenly recognise the neighbourhood? And if they do, mark my words, it will not be a dinner, nor anything like it! An open day, at the most.”
“That would be pleasant. But Lady Bamwell’s gossip is seldom wrong,” she murmured.
“In this instance I am persuaded it is wishful thinking! And if by any chance it be true, we shall go to the play that very night!”
Miss Pinkerton smiled. “I am so looking forward to it! A real theatre company!”
“Yes, indeed,” said India cordially. “And then, we are promised the further excitements of Lady B.’s assemblies, and Mr Simpkins’s Beauty and the Beast!”
Their eyes met. Miss Pinkerton collapsed in giggles.
“That must be entertainment enough. One hardly needs a grand dinner at Sare Park,” concluded India on a dry note.
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