An Unromantic Decision

16

An Unromantic Decision

    Commander Jerningham having had the inspiration to invite old Cousin Mabel Partington-Gore to come up from Poddle Cottage in Hortleberry Village and play hostess for him, he was enabled to invite the Dewesburys. And Lady Lavinia, Sir Lionel, Miss Dewesbury and Miss Helena were enabled to accept. Quentin had other engagements; the Commander was quite fond of his young relative but he was not sorry he was unable to stay this summer: with Bobby Q.-V. so conveniently near at Sommerton Grange Quentin would have needed no excuse to go over there and, frankly, the Commander found his constitution not sufficiently strong to support the idea of Lavinia’s ewe-lamb spending the summer months in the pocket of the Contessa dalla Rovere. It was quite bad enough as it was: poor old Charles was with the Q.-V.s once again, so it was plain he still had hopes in that direction. Not that there was much wrong with the little Contessa apart from the background, but she was a pretty little flirt less than half his age who did not love him. Arthur Jerningham had no trouble at all envisaging the probable course of such a marriage. Though he did have the sense not to utter a syllable about it to Miss Dewesbury.

    For several weeks things went along very happily. Lady Lavinia was at her most amiable, her considerable wit allowed to show and the magisterial side of her character in abeyance, for the nonce; Sir Lionel, who in any case preferred the country life, was his normal cheerful self, very much enjoying the opportunity to relax at a country house which had nothing of the grandeur and formality of, to name only two, Blenheim or Castle Howard; Miss Dewesbury appeared relaxed and happy, and very ready to participate in the planning for, and be taken off to observe the progress of, the drowning of Spindles’ Meadow; and Miss Helena, having apparently forgotten every instant of her Season’s training, had reverted almost at once to the hatless, tomboyish, muddied-skirted Nellie of just over a year back, and was revelling in Lady Lavinia’s indulging of the reversion. Not to say, in helping the men damn Heddle Stream and drown the meadow. And old Cousin Mabel Partington-Gore was in a state of perfect and almost unalloyed bliss, wearing her second-best cap every day. The only anxiety being, would her little maid remember to feed the hens and the ducks, and watch that the former did not escape from their run? Though the frequent little trips down to Hortleberry in the refurbished Hortleberry Grene barouche did considerable to allay this last.

    Then the blow fell. Lady Lavinia having elected to drive over to Bluff Yewby to call on Sir Freddy and Pamela P.-G., taking Sir Lionel, Katie, and the gratified Cousin Mabel with her, the Commander had kindly allowed Nellie to come over with him to Spindles’ Meadow, or Spindles’ Lake as it was now called. In the late afternoon, dampish, muddy, but happy, they crossed the lawn and came through the open French doors of the pretty little downstairs sitting-room to discover a sobbing Miss Dewesbury and a nonplussed Cousin Mabel.

    “What is it?” said Commander Sir Arthur tightly, visions of some accident to Lavinia or Lionel, or some disaster’s having befallen Quentin or one of the other children immediately rising to his mind. Though in that case, Cousin Mabel would surely also be—

    “My dear Cousin,” said the old lady, quite plainly endeavouring to give him and the opened-mouthed Nellie a warning look, “it is nothing so very terrible. Just that dear Katie has sustained a—a shock.”

    “A shock?” cried Nellie loudly. –Very obviously, thought Arthur Jerningham, she, too, had been envisaging all sorts of horrors. “What can you mean, Cousin Mabel, a shock? She is bawling her head off!”

    “Yes,” agreed the Commander levelly, grasping her skinny little arm as she was about to rush forward.

    Mrs Partington-Gore cleared her throat. “There is an unexpected visitor at Bluff Yewby, and—er—”

    “Not the Dashing Major?” said Nellie uncertainly. “Katie!” she said loudly, as her sister continued to sob.

    “That will do, my dear. Run along upstairs and get out of that damp dress,” said the Commander.

    “No!” replied Nellie angrily, twisting from his grasp. “She is my sister, not yours, and I want to know— Ow!” she cried, as the Commander seized her arm again. “Let go!”

    “Go upstairs and get changed, Nellie,” said the amiable Arthur Jerningham on a steely note worthy of Nellie’s formidable mamma herself. “I will sort this out.”

    Pouting horribly, Miss Nellie rushed out.

    “It is nothing so very terrible,” said old Cousin Mabel valiantly.

    “It—is!” gasped Katie through her sobs.

    The Commander came across to them, and, regardless of his damp and muddy garments, pulled up a chair and sat down. “What?” he demanded baldly.

    Swallowing, Mrs Partington-Gore reported: “It is nothing to do with the Major. He—the visitor, I mean—was not present, but dear Mrs Quarmby-Vine and Susannah had called, you see, and told us the news.” She swallowed again. “About the little Contessa, Cousin Jerningham.”

    Arthur Jerningham was conscious of a very strong desire to close his eyes. Not to say, of a very strong desire to be many, many miles away: at sea, with a good oaken deck under him; say, off the Azores might be far enough. “Yes?” he said, his nostrils flaring.

    “Dread-ful!” sobbed Katie, breaking out in a fresh burst.

    “What has she done?” said the Commander baldly to his connexion.

    “She—she has consented to become engaged—”

    “Not Charles?” he cried unguardedly.

    “No, no, no, my dear Cousin! No, it is—it is much worse than that,” said Cousin Mabel valiantly.

    “Worse?” he said dazedly.

    The old lady took Katie’s hand tightly. “Given their disparate ages… To old General Baldaya,” she said faintly.

    Commander Sir Arthur was reduced to a mere gulp.

    After that there was silence in the pretty little sitting-room, except for Miss Dewesbury’s attempts to control her sobs.

    “I did try to tell her,” said Cousin Mabel Partington-Gore very faintly indeed, “that to a young woman of dubious background with very few prospects, it—it must be seen as an offer not to be refused.”

    “I think so,” he said levelly.

    “No!” gasped Katie, scrubbing at her eyes with a very soggy handkerchief.

    “My dear Miss Dewesbury, he can offer her a very comfortable life—”

    “No!” she cried angrily. “He is old, and gross!” Forthwith bursting into renewed tears.

    “She does that, every time someone tries to tell her the—the advantages of it,” said Mrs Partington-Gore limply.

    “Yes. Where is Lavinia?” asked Arthur Jerningham calmly.

    “She and Lionel decided to drive on to Sommerton Grange with Mrs Quarmby-Vine, Cousin, to congratulate the General and the Contessa. He is staying at Bluff Yewby, as I say, but had intentioned spending the afternoon at Sommerton Grange, you see. Miss Bon-Dutton is there, of course, so it could not be thought inappropriate.”

    “I see. If you would not mind, Cousin Mabel, perhaps I could see to Miss Katie?”

    Nodding very thankfully, Mrs Partington-Gore got up and left him to it.

    The Commander looked thoughtfully at the tear-sodden Miss Dewesbury. After a little he produced his own handkerchief, but since it was rather muddy, did not offer it to her. Eventually he said calmly: “You are putting herself in her place.”

    Katie mopped her eyes and said soggily, as another tear slipped down her cheek: “Any young woman would, sir.”

    He took a deep breath, leaned forward, and put a hand firmly on her knee. “It is not the same case. She is not an inexperienced young girl: she has been married before. And she must realise as clearly as anyone that it is an opportunity to better herself. He is certainly very much older than she, but I am very sure he will treat her kindly—indeed, spoil her outrageously, I should think. And to be brutally realistic, my dear, can it last more than a few years, in the nature of things?”

    “A few horrible years!” cried Katie, with more tears.

    “I don’t think so. And before you tell me I am a man and cannot understand, how have the more experienced women of her circle reacted to the news?”

    Katie at this mopped her eyes fiercely and said on an angry note: “Mrs Q.-V. and Susannah appear only too glad. It means they will get her out of their house at last.”

    “I dare say that is a factor,” he said coolly. “Though I do not think Lilian Q.-V. would encourage any young woman to a distasteful marriage. And Pamela P.-G. and your own mother?”

    Glaring, she retorted: “Lady P.-G. announced that she thought it a very good match, and noted that he had always been a ladies’ man; and if you imagine that makes it better, sir, let me tell you it does not!”

    “And Lavinia?”

    “Mamma said she might have done very much worse for herself, and he would undoubtedly make her very comfortable!” said Katie with the utmost scorn.

    The Commander was rather glad to see that the scorn appeared to have caused the tears to have dried up. Given that there had seemed enough of them to have filled Spindles’ Lake without benefit of the waters of the Heddle. “Mm. She did not need to add that rider about making her comfortable, did she?”

    “She means that poor Raffaella will be showered with material comforts; but what can they count for, against a broken heart?” said Miss Dewesbury on a bitter note.

    The Commander chewed his lip. “Yes, well, poor little thing. I dare say she may well have been in love with Jack B. But he was very obviously not offering. And from what Lavinia mentioned, I think you must be aware of the story buzzing around Brighton about the Contessa and H.-L.?”

    “Whatever the stories may have been,” said Katie angrily, flags flying in her cheeks, “the truth of the matter is that he made her a dishonourable proposal and she turned him down flat! She wrote me the whole of it.”

    Commander Sir Arthur was conscious of a certain regret that Lavinia did not positively censor her daughter’s correspondence. “I see.”

    “I shall go over to Sommerton Grange tomorrow,” she said on a determined note, sticking out her lower lip.

    “Mm… My dear, far be it from me to censure your conduct. But would not that be rather unkind? If, as I collect you do, you mean to try to dissuade her from this engagement? Such a visit could not but—er—rub in, as it were, the very great difference between your two stations in life,” he said, as gently as he could.

    After a moment Miss Dewesbury’s cheeks again became very red. “I see,” she said tightly.

    “Yes,” said the Commander on a wan note.

    She looked at him dubiously, and swallowed. “There must be something one can do!”

    “I do not imagine she has taken the decision lightly. Perhaps the best her friends can do is support her now that she has taken it.”

    “What about offering her an alternative?” replied Katie on a grim note.

    Oh, dear. Perhaps the tears would have been preferable, after all. “I rather imagine Miss Bon-Dutton will have done so.”

    “You cannot think she will wish to hang on her sleeve for the rest of her days!” she retorted hotly.

    “No.”

    There was a short silence in the charming small sitting-room of Hortleberry Grene.

    “Commander Sir Arthur,” said Katie, swallowing loudly, “could not you speak to your friend, Captain Quarmby-Vine?”

    The Commander took a deep breath. “No, I could not, Miss Dewesbury, and allow me to tell you why. I have no wish to see Charles tie himself up to a pretty young woman who does not love him. However good her intentions might be when she embarked on the marriage—and I grant you that they would be good, so pray do not fly up at me—however good her intentions, I am very nearly sure that after a few years of what on her side would be a loveless marriage, she would allow her partiality for the company of men to—well, if not positively lead her astray, certainly to affect her public conduct in a way which could not but cause Charles considerable pain. If you would just take a moment to consider the matter, Miss Dewesbury, you will see the justice of it!” he said urgently.

    There was a considerable silence in the Hortleberry Grene sitting-room, during which Miss Dewesbury was perceived to gnaw on her lip. And during which the Commander was conscious of a certain faint hope that he might not have opened his mouth and crammed his great boot into it, after all.

    “Yes,” she said at last, a bitter look round her rosebud mouth. “I can see it quite clearly.”

    “Good,” he said with a great sigh. “I thought you must, an you gave yourself the time to think about it: you are a very reasonably-minded young woman.”

    Alas, at this the forget-me-not eyes filled with tears again, and Katie stood up abruptly. “Am I?” she said in a choked voice. “Perhaps so. But permit me to say, Cousin Arthur, that you must be the least romantically-minded man that ever walked! How could you consider just standing by and— Poor Raffaella!” And with that, the tears spilling over, she rushed out.

    “Oh, God,” said the Commander dully.

    Miss Helena Dewesbury, encountered some time later in the hall, was all big eyes above a fresh print gown. “Is it true, Cousin Arthur?” she breathed.

    “Yes,” said the Commander grimly.

    Nellie gulped.

    “Nellie, my dear, if you could possibly manage not to encourage your sister to persist in the idea that the engagement is, to make no bones about it, set to break the Contessa’s heart, I should be very grateful indeed,” he said without hope.

    “Buh-but he’s so old,” she faltered.

    “Yes. It will not be romantic, but he will spoil her rotten—shower her with pretties, give her any number of carriages, furs, anything she desires, very probably without her even having to ask; and will leave her, doubtless before so very long has passed, as a well-off widow. Can that be all bad?” said the Commander without hope.

    “N-n… Well, not all bad,” she said in a little girl’s voice.

    Oh, dear. Far too young to understand, of course. “Mm,” he said on a sigh. “Never mind, my dear.”

    “No, well, the thing is,” said Miss Helena, taking a deep breath, “I cannot see that it would be too dreadful, but then, the other girls always accuse me of not having a Romantick imagination. And I am sure he would spoil her, for when we were in Brighton, Priscilla Claveringham and I met him one day when we were—um—just strolling.” She eyed her relative cautiously, but his face was unmoved. “Um, and he was driving in a barouche with some children and Senhor Carvalho dos Santos from the Portuguese Embassy: the one they call Panardouche. And they stopped, and offered us a ride. Um, well, I would not have by myself, but Priscilla’s family knows the Senhor’s family very well, and, um, anyway, we got in. And it turned out they were the P.—um, Lady Stamforth’s children, and the General was driving them out for a treat, and had positively filled the barouche with presents; and he took us all to a pastry-cook’s shop and bought a positive flotilla of delicious cakes for us all!” She beamed at him.

    “I see,” said the Commander, smiling.

    “Um, afterwards Priscilla said it was puerile,” said Nellie on an uncertain note. “I suppose it was. But he struck me as a very kind old gentleman.”

    “I am very sure he is, yes.”

    She nodded hard. “But the thing is, Katie is sure that that could not compensate for being married to a man the Contessa does not love.”

    “I know,” he admitted glumly.

    “Um, well, I won’t encourage her. For after all, the Contessa does not love Captain Quarmby-Vine either, does she? But the thing is, they never take any notice of me,” admitted Miss Nellie.

    “What? Oh, your older sisters? Er—no. I suppose they don’t.” She was looking up at him hopefully, so the Commander said with an effort: “Thank you, my dear.”

    “She did say something about me being too young to understand anything about marriage,” she admitted.

    “Er—oh.” He cleared his throat. “Yes, well, the Contessa has been married before.”

    “That’s what I said!” said Miss Nellie pleasedly. “And Cousin Mabel agreed with me! But Katie did not,” she admitted, her mouth drooping.

    “No. If she were younger, I suppose she would not have conceived any Romantick notions either, and if she were older and more experienced she would see that the Contessa will not find the experience of being married to old Baldaya so distasteful as all—” The Commander registered the big eyes, and broke off abruptly. “No, well, off you pop, my dear.”

    Nellie had not been going anywhere in particular. Uncertainly she went over to the front door. Cousin Arthur did not say, would she care for a little drive, or anything of that sort, so she let James open the door for her, and went out slowly.

    Not noticing his footman holding the front door for him suggestively, the Commander went into his study, firmly closing the door behind him.

    … “Well,” concluded Mrs Jenks, at the end of James’s report to the kitchen, “let’s hope it’s a storm in a teacup.”

    “The Master ’ad that stubborn look round ’is mouth;” he replied dubiously.

    “Rats! And get out of me kitchen, I got work to do! Ain’t you on duty in the hall? What’s the Master going to say if he finds you ain’t—” But James had vanished.

    Shaking her head, and just by the by adjuring Bessy Gubb to hold her noise, Cook returned to her mixing bowl. Attacking its contents rather as if they were the fat foreign general, the foreign lady at Sommerton Grange, and all the other annoying persons together who had contrived to upset things between Commander Sir Arthur and the little lady of his choice.

    Raffaella and the General had jointly announced their engagement to the household at Sommerton Grange. Or, rather, he had announced it while she leaned on his arm, smiling. They did not admit as much to each other, but neither was unaware that it was a pre-emptive strike, intended to stifle any possible opposition unborn. Raffaella, indeed, appreciated to the full the fact that he was allowing her to get away with appearing to force him into doing the dread deed, all the while being aware that she knew he knew…

    Not unexpectedly, there was opposition. Or at the least, doubt. In fact, all but one of the house-party expressed as much to Raffaella herself.

    Miss Bon-Dutton, of course, endeavoured to represent privily that Raffaella did have another choice. Ending her little speech with tears in her eyes.

    Raffaella put a warm arm round her shoulders. “You are too kind, dearest Cousin. But it would not, truly, resolve anything, would it? My situation would not be improved to the point where an eligible gentleman might feel inclined to offer for me, would it?”

    “You are giving up too soon,” replied Eudora faintly.

    “Well, I truly do not think so. I have seen the great variety which London has to offer, have I not?”

    Eudora was reduced to urging her to think seriously about Charles Quarmby-Vine’s offer.

    “I could not. I think I might make him disastrously unhappy,” said Raffaella in a firm tone. “You see, he is young enough for me to attempt to force him to be something he cannot be, and to resent it when he cannot become it. Do you understand?”

    “Why—yes,” said Eudora, rather shaken. “I own I had had the same thought about myself and Charles.”

    Raffaella, still looking firm, merely nodded. And did not say to her spinster cousin that she had not in the least meant to imply that she might have ambitions to force Charles Q.-V. into a political career.

    “My dear,” said kind Susannah Quarmby-Vine, after the first shock had worn off and she had gathered her courage in both hands, and reminded herself that, after all, she was a married woman—etcetera: “you absolutely must not, you know, if the idea is at all distasteful to you. You will have a home with us for as long as we live, I can promise you that. And Bobby has asked me to promise it, also,” she assured her, blushing.

    Raffaella could not help but feel some amusement at the sight of the blush: it must, surely, mean that Susannah had talked Bobby into agreeing with her point of view! And did not say “What must I absolutely not, Susannah?” But instead replied with a reassuring smile: “You are very, very kind. And if it all goes disastrously wrong, I promise I will come home immediate to dear Sommerton Grange. But it will not, you know: he is quite prepared to doat on me. And, to be quite frank, dear Susannah, to leave me a wealthy widow, though I know it sounds horrid to say so.”

    “Yes,” she said, blushing again. “I mean, no! Of course not! Um, how old is he?” she faltered.

    Raffaella’s eyes twinkled, but she replied with a straight face: “He is seventy-nine years of age, my dear; so you see, I shall have a few years in which he will be very kind to me, and I shall do my best to be very kind and grateful to him.” –Nobly ignoring the expression of huge relief which had o’erspread young Mrs Quarmby-Vine’s round, naïve features.

    Lilian Quarmby-Vine, as was to be expected, was more forthright than her daughter-in-law. And, the which did surprise Raffaella just a little, just as generous. She had obviously determined to give Raffaella a little breathing-space, for she waited a whole day before coming into her room in the evening. “My dear, your mamma is not here to advise you. I think we should have a little talk.”

    “Yes, Cousin Lilian. Thank you,” replied Raffaella very properly.

    Mrs Quarmby-Vine frowned a little. “Raffaella, my dear, this is not a game, you know.”

    “Um—no,” admitted Raffaella, biting her lip a little. “The thing is, Cousin Lilian, I think I know what you are about to say, and I have already argued it all out to myself, and decided that, as General Baldaya has been so generous as to make an honourable offer, it would be entirely to my advantage to accept it. And,” she said taking a deep breath and making up her mind to tell the truth, for after all Cousin Lilian had been so very kind to her, “entirely self-seeking and unkind of me to accept dear Captain Quarmby-Vine’s offer.”

    Charles’ sister-in-law swallowed. “He would do his best to make you happy, my dear.”

    “I know. And I would try conscientiously to be a good wife. But the thing is, I think I might, um, backslide, if that is the verb, after a few years.”

    Mrs Quarmby-Vine endeavoured tactfully to represent that with the passage of time, and added maturity, and the children that would no doubt come, and a pleasant life with dear Charles…

    “Yes,” said Raffaella, biting her lip, as the kind-hearted lady looked at her expectantly. “Any normal pleasant girl like dear Susannah, or you yourself in your youth, would experience marriage to the Captain in just that way, I am quite sure, even had she not had the good taste to fall into love with him in the first instance. And would be quite content with their pleasant life in a pleasant house rather like this.”

    “My dear, if you can see that—!” she said earnestly, bending forward.

    “I could not support it,” said Raffaella flatly. “Not without passion.”

    Mrs Quarmby-Vine reddened, and cried: “But will life with the General be any better?”

    “Materially, yes, for he is extremely rich. But the point is, it will not, in the nature of things, last very long; and he will leave me quite well off. And without any regrets,” she said, frowning over it, “that I have basely taken advantage of a good man who deserves better. For we are rather alike, the General and I, you know, and have discussed it all quite frankly!” she revealed with a smile.

    “I see,” said Lilian Quarmby-Vine limply.

    Later she admitted to her husband: “I think she is going into it with her eyes open. And before you say a word, Peter, she spoke very feelingly to me on the subject of Charles, so please, say nothing at all about that!”

    “Er—no, very well. Well, don’t want to see him tied up to a pretty little minx less than half his age, y’know… Um, look, I’ll speak to the girl!” he decided firmly.

    “Thank you, my dear,” said Mrs Quarmby-Vine gratefully.

    Mr Quarmby-Vine duly cornered Raffaella in the garden. She was sitting on a stone seat, looking, unless it was his imagination, rather mournful. So he went up to her and said straitly: “I’ll happily tell the General it’s all off, if you will but give me the word, Raffaella.”

    Raffaella went very red and gasped: “No!”

    “No?” he said, eyeing her narrowly. He sat down beside her and said baldly: “If you wish for it, me dear, why were you looking so damned mournful, just then?”

    She smiled a rather twisted little smile. “I was thinking about Italy, and wishing, though it is such a beautiful blue day, that it was rather warmer, actually.”

    “Oh,” he said uncertainly. “Well, you will have enough hot blue days in Portugal, I'm sure.”

    “Sicuro! It is one of the reasons why I accepted him!” she replied with her sunny smile.

    Peter Quarmby-Vine did not smile, or tacitly admit defeat, or any of the things which Raffaella, if asked, would have owned she would have expected of a proper English landed gentleman of his age. Instead he put a strong hand tightly over hers and said grimly: “Now, listen to me, silly little girl. It will not be all beer and skittles, married to a grossly fat fellow old enough to be your great-grandfather. If you are imagining he’s too old to want you in his bed, let me tell you it’s no such thing, or else the London gossips have far more vivid imaginations than I’d give ’em credit for. –Well?” he said grimly.

    “Um—yes, I know,” said Raffaella faintly. “But the thing is, I like him very much, and I do not truly think that the physical side of things will be more distasteful than with any other man whom I do not love.”

    “Er—no,” he said, trying to put himself in the woman’s place and failing utterly.

    “The thing is, I am not an inexperienced girl, and so I have some idea, both of what to expect, and of whether I can support it.”

    “I see,” he said feebly.

    There was a short silence. Mr Quarmby-Vine was still holding Raffaella’s hand very tightly and she did not know if it would be tactful to draw attention to the fact by trying to withdraw hers, so did nothing.

    “Charles would marry you tomorrow. –Though Lilian’s ordered me not to say it,” he said grimly.

    ‘I know. And I might even behave for as much as five years,” said Raffaella with a sigh.

    Peter Quarmby-Vine thought of the damned Principessa, and did not try to assure her that a comfortable life with Charles could give her all that a woman could desire. “Mm.” He hesitated, then ventured: “If you merely stay on with us, don't you think that Lilian and Susannah between them might find you a suitable young fellow?”

    Raffaella looked him firmly in the eye. “No. But are you asking me to stay on with you, sir?”

    “Of course I am, you silly child!” he said angrily.

   At this her big dark eyes filled with tears, and her lower lip trembled. “You’re very kind, and if I was a girl of eighteen I would accept. But I truly think that at this time in my life, this is the best decision I can make, sir. Please—don’t reject the notion out of hand. Think about it, if you would.”

    He did think about it. Owning with a frown: “Well, I cannot approve. But the old fellow will certainly be able to leave you in comfortable circumstances.”

    “Si,” said Raffaella in considerable relief. “I must thank you for your kindness, sir,” she added firmly, withdrawing her hand from under his and getting up. “I shall be grateful to you and to dear Cousin Lilian for the rest of my life. And now, if you will excuse me, I have promised to drive over with Susannah to view the Recluse’s house.”

    “Eh? Oh, Rayght Abbey! Look, for the Lord’s sake don’t let Susannah attempt to go up the tower, or anything of that sort!”

    “No, no. She assures me that we shall not even go in: merely seek for a glimpse of the house!” she said merrily.

    “Mm, well, don't get within shooting range: the old Recluse of Rayght Abbey is reputed to take pot-shots at anything in a barouche.”

    “I’ll look forward to it!” she assured him with a laugh, hurrying away.

    Peter Quarmby-Vine shook his head, and sat there for some time, frowning. But did not come to any decision other than the girl seemed to have thought it all over, and was behaving very sensibly over it, really—and thank God she didn’t want dear old Charles.

    Captain Quarmby-Vine had at first been very hurt that Raffaella should have preferred the gross old general’s offer over his, and had told himself bitterly that he had been entirely mistaken in her character, and she was taking old Baldaya out of sheer cupidity—and the like. But after a few days a horrid suspicion grew on him: had she conceived of some silly notion that she was not good enough for him, and so was taking the only alternative offering? Eventually he nerved himself to speak to her. It was a windy day, and he found her in Sommerton Grange’s sheltered sunken rose garden.

    Raffaella observed his approach with a sinking feeling, but did not attempt to escape. It would be as well to get it over with.

    After several inane remarks about the weather on the gentleman’s side, and properly colourless replies on the lady’s, he eventually produced: “Look here, my dear Contessa, in the case that you had mistook me, my offer is still very much open, you know.”

    “Yes, I do know, and thank you sincerely for it, Captain. But I cannot,” said Raffaella on a firm note.

    He swallowed. “If it is that you think I could not offer you the life you would like to lead—”

    Raffaella was about to say that it was not that, at all, and thought better of it. Poor Captain Quarmby-Vine had behaved gallantly throughout, and why should he be left to suffer? Much better that he should think of her as a heartless fortune-hunter, and thank his stars for a lucky escape! So she tossed her head a little, and said with a careless little laugh, not meeting his eye: “Oh! Well, I hesitate to admit it, Captain, but the country life that you and your relatives so much enjoy does pall, rather, I find! And then, a few weeks in London every year are all very well, but they can scarce compare to a couple of months in Paris, a couple in Lisbon, and a couple doing the rounds of the great English houses, can they?”

    “Is that what he has promised you?” he said tightly.

    “Well, yes! Goodness: is there any doubt he can provide as much?” said Raffaella in an alarmed voice.

    “No doubt at all, I should say: that is precisely the sort of life he has always led,” he said grimly.

    “Oh, good! I have never been to Paris,” she sighed, rolling her eyes a little.

    The Captain picked a rose and began distractedly to pluck its petals. “Look, the fellow is old as the hills, if he is reputed to be rich as a nabob. I might not manage several months every year, but would not a honeymoon in Paris appeal, at the least?” he said on an irritated note.

    “Oh, well, sicuro, Captain, caro!” replied Raffaella with her gurgling laugh. “Most especially with your not unattractive self! But the thing is, as you and I can both admit, you could not afford to lap me in luxury, could you?”

    “Are you telling me that is what you want?”

    “No, well, luxury with a handsome and very young prince who is prepared to offer me his kingdom would be preferable, but I have, though I should not boast of it, been offered almost that, and you see, almost is not enough!” she said with another laugh. “At least the General is prepared to make an honest woman of me.”

    The Captain’s jaw had sagged. “So it’s true?” he croaked. “H.-L. did offer?”

    “As delicately as anyone could offer a dishonourable proposal!” she said gaily.

    “The little rat!” he choked.

    “No, no, no, dear Captain!” said Raffaella, grasping at his sleeve. “You must not blame him: his circumstances would not permit any other sort of offer, and he told me so with great feeling and delicacy: truly!”

    “Then he should not have made you any sort of damned offer!” he choked.

    “Well, no, But I,” she said rolling her eyes, ”did just encourage him a little. As perhaps Brighton informed you?”

    “I did not credit it,” he said tightly.

    Raffaella produced a giggle. “I think you did! Well, I wanted to see how far he would dare to go; added to which I very much wanted to attend a king’s musical soirée at the famed Pavilion. In short, I am afraid I indicated that a dishonourable proposal would not be entirely unwelcome. He was quite surprised to find that it would be, after all,” she said dulcetly.

    “So I should damn’ well think! But you must not imagine that that leaves you with only the option to take old Baldaya.”

    “He is offering me immense comfort, several houses in the best parts of several cities, wonderful jewels and furs, carriages to my heart’s content, and the promise of as many young lovers as I care to take, so long as I am discreet about it. Can you offer me as much?” replied Raffaella, fluttering her eyelashes very much..

    “You know I cannot— Lovers?” he spluttered.

    “Yes; he has been so generous,” she sighed.

    “Contessa, I cannot credit that you are genuine in accepting the old fellow’s offer,” he said stiffly.

    “Oh, pooh! It will be a delightful life!” said Raffaella with a toss of the curls.

    He seized her arm. “Marry me, and I will show you what a man may offer a woman!”

    Raffaella’s resolve actually wavered for an instant: he was so very manly; and she was almost sure that he could show her something very delightful indeed. But it would be offered in between the boring country-house life, and the proper little dinners for his proper little neighbours, and listening to him bore on about his naval campaigns—the which he could do, she had by now had more than time enough to discover, by the hour, rendering the most exciting topic extraordinarily dull and lifeless. According to his friend Commander Sir Arthur, the Captain was an expert on the Battle of the Nile, but to hear him recite it, you would think it an account of the dullest game of chess ever played between two doddering old scholars shut in a fusty study! –No. Absolutely not. It would be intolerable for her, and unkind to him.

    “Well, I already know that, Captain, caro!” she said with a loud giggle, pulling away from him. “Gianni dalla Rovere had his good points, you see. He was very pretty, if he was an idiot, and Érico assures me I can have as many like him as I may want, and Portugal is full of them!”

    “Full of yellow, snaggle-toothed faces like Panardouche Carvalho dos Santos’s, more like!” shouted the driven Captain. “You cannot wish for such a life!”

    Carelessly Raffaella plucked a rose. Fortunately it came away from the bush really easily, else her effect would quite have been spoiled. “No, no: there are dozens, nay hundreds, of pretty ones! Forbidden fruit now, but as Senhora Baldaya I may taste whenever I like!” she said with a laugh, putting the rose to her lips. “Mmm… Satiny as a pretty boy’s lips,” she murmured, looking at him from under lashes.

    The poor Captain just stood there and spluttered.

    And Raffaella, laughing a little, danced away from him.

    Peter and Lilian Quarmby-Vine were not altogether surprised to find their relative packing his bags that afternoon.

    “I was afraid,” admitted Peter, biting his lip, after his grim-faced brother had disappeared, “that she might let it out to him out why she won’t take him.”

    “Did I not tell you?”

    “Yes, well,” he said with a rueful smile, “you were right all along about her character, Lilian, and the damned old cat of course proved it from the outset!”

    “Indeed,” she said smiling mistily. “I shall miss him, dear old Puss.”

    Mr Quarmby-Vine would not: whenever it was in the house the creature occupied his favourite chair during the day, leaving it covered with hairs for his dress clothes to pick up at night. “She’s going to take it to Portugal?” he croaked.

    “Can you doubt it, my dear?” she said mistily.

    Nobly Mr Quarmby-Vine refrained utterly from speech. And the poor damned girl was not all bad: she was right about that.

    The only adult member of the Sommerton Grange household not to express concern at the Contessa’s engagement to a very much older man with whom she could not possibly be in love was Mr Bobby Quarmby-Vine. The which, Raffaella told herself scornfully, was as might have been expected. Because young Englishmen were all alike: however bold in the hunting field, etcetera, they might appear to be, underneath they were spineless cowards, content to be ruled by their womenfolk!

    “She cannot have gone already,” said Katie, going very white.

    Eudora sighed. “Yes. They are to be married from Stamforth Castle next month: he has taken her down there. Properly chaperoned,” she added dully. “Miss Hewitt is with them.”

    Miss Dewesbury ignored this. “How soon next month, Miss Bon-Dutton?” she asked tightly.

    “On the 5th, my dear. General Baldaya intentions honeymooning in Paris during most of September, and journeying down to Portugal for the rest of the autumn, which he declares to be very pleasant in that country. She did leave you a note, but I am afraid forbade me utterly to send it over to you at Hortleberry Grene before she left.”

    “Yes, because she knew I would try to talk her out of it!” said Katie angrily.

    Eudora thought perhaps it was partly because Raffaella had not wished to see Katie upset. “I cannot approve the thing any more than you, but I do take her point that at this juncture, it is probably the most advantageous move she could make.”

    Ignoring this, Katie demanded tightly: “Has anyone apprised Mr Beresford of the engagement?”

    Eudora reddened. “I certainly have not. You know he had every opportunity to pay his court, had he felt so inclined. But he very clearly decided against it.”

    “Miss Bon-Dutton, he did not know then that she was about to throw herself away on that gross old man! Is Mr Bobby in the house?”

    Limply Eudora replied: “My dear, I do sympathise, but I do not think you will persuade Bobby to write his friend to come dashing to Raffaella’s rescue.”

    “No,” replied Katie tightly, her neat nostrils flaring. “I am very sure of it. Doubtless he and his cronies look upon it as a lucky escape. I intend asking him Mr Beresford’s direction, that is all.”

    Miss Bon-Dutton’s jaw sagged and she croaked: “You cannot mean to write to him yourself!”

    “Yes,” said Lady Lavinia’s well brought-up daughter grimly. “I can and I do. Is Mr Bobby in the house?”

    “In the stables, I think. My dear Katie, pray stop and think! The news can only cause Mr Beresford pain, and there is nothing he can do.”

    “You mean there is nothing he is willing to do. Perhaps not. But,” she said grimly, the soft pink mouth firming so that she looked astoundingly like Lady Lavinia, “I shall give him the chance to show whether he be a man or a mouse. Pray excuse me.”

    Eudora got up hurriedly. “I'll come with you.”

    “As you wish.”

    They duly cornered Mr Bobby. Eudora’s aid, if she had been about to give it, which she herself was not altogether sure she had, was not needed: Bobby was as putty in Miss Dewesbury’s hands. And even agreed that it could do nobody any harm if Jack and the Contessa were to live quietly on his estate in Cumberland.

    “My dear,” said Eudora limply as the guest prepared to depart, still looking horridly firm and determined: “do not pin your hopes on this letter of yours. And—and I beg you, do not write Raffaella that you have writ it.”

    “Certainly not,” replied Miss Dewesbury grimly, mounting into the Hortleberry Grene barouche.

    Feebly Eudora bade her farewell and tottered back inside. Poor damned Mr B. Though on the other hand, possibly a man who behaved like a mouse deserved— No. Romantick nonsense. He had behaved very properly, indeed honourably, as his responsibility to his family indicated he should.

    “Shall you not go down to Sussex?” ventured Lilian as the first of September drew nigh.

    “Do I wish to be seen to support the thing?” returned Eudora in a hard voice.

    “Er—well, I think the family should indicate some support, Eudora. And you yourself have agreed that she was very sensible to take the decision. –My dear,” she said as her sister frowned, ”let us admit that little Raffaella does not have your advantages in life. I think it would be doing her a kindness if you were to stand at her side at this time.”

    “Next the P.W. in jewels worth a King’s ransom?” Eudora sighed. “Oh, very well. The thing is,” she said as Lilian nodded approvingly and did her best to smile encouragingly, “I’m afraid that if I see her before she has actually married the old creature, I’ll try to talk her out of it.”

    Lilian gave her a very sympathetic look. “I do know how you feel. Well, Susannah is keeping very well, and the baby is not due for some months, yet: since Lady Stamforth has very kindly invited us, Peter and I will accompany you, Eudora.”

    Eudora smiled weakly. “Thank you. It may assist me to bite my tongue.”

    Lilian patted her hand. “Of course, dearest.”

    Eudora rose abruptly. “Excuse me.”

    Lilian shook her head and sighed, as her sister hurried out, her eyes very visibly filled with tears. “I suppose, if the thing has done nothing else, it has reminded you that you have a heart, Eudora,” she murmured sadly.

    Over at Hortleberry Grene Lady Lavinia did not need reminding that her third daughter had a heart and in fact had been wishing the heart and its sensibilities at Jericho for quite some weeks. Exactly how Katie had managed to persuade herself that the blame for the whole thing lay at Arthur’s door was not clear, but there was no doubt she had done so.

    “Aye, I’ve noticed,” agreed Sir Lionel. “Might as well be married already, hey?”

    “Lionel, please!”

    “Er, no,” he muttered, clearing his throat. “Sorry, me dear. Thing is, think he told her the little Contessa had chosen the sensible course. Words to that effect.”

    “Lionel, she has admitted as much herself!” she cried in exasperation.

    “Mm.” He wandered over to the window and peered out glumly. “Could have got on up to Scotland and helped Munn shoot a few birds after all,” he muttered.

    “Go, then!” she said angrily.

    “I’m not deserting you,” he replied with dignity.

    “No,” agreed Lady Lavinia, biting her lip. “I do beg your pardon, my dear.”

    Looking highly gratified, the jovial baronet came to seat himself beside her on the sofa. Lady Lavinia managed to overlook the fact that he then not only patted her knee, he indulged himself, since they were alone in the boudoir of their suite of rooms, in a little squeezing of the thigh above the said knee. “Arthur’s down at the new lake, sulking,” he noted by the by.

    Lady Lavinia sighed.

    “Took little Nellie, though: he seems to have taken quite a fancy to her. I say, you don’t think—?”

    “No,” she sighed.

    “Er—no. Well, look, dare say it will blow over, but we ain’t doin’ no good here with Katie in the mood she’s in. Get off home to Dewesbury Manor, eh?”

    “Yes,” said her Ladyship heavily. “I own, I should be glad of the comfort of my own bed.”

    “’Course you would, old girl!” he said, patting the thigh.

    “I curse the day,” said her Ladyship grimly, rather as if the thigh in question belonged to someone else entirely, “that the girl set foot upon the shores of England.”

    “Y— Uh—wouldn’t go quite that far, meself,” he said uneasily.

    “Lionel, the thing is like to ruin everything between Katie and Arthur!”

    Sir Lionel was about to suggest that Katie have the Dashing Major instead, but thought better of it. “Wouldn’t go that far, meself. It’ll blow over. I’d say he’s still keen.”

    “He!” she retorted with terrific scorn.

    “Katie’ll come round. It’ll be like that time that Quentin and Gwennie painted that dashed moustache on that damned wooden-headed doll of hers. What did she call it, again? Somethin’ dashed silly. Oh, aye: Gertie Annie. ’Member? They shaved off all its hair, too, that’s right, and renamed it Colonel Curtis. –Can’t think why Curtis,” he admitted, scratching his head.

    “Come round? Lionel, she did not speak to either of them for three whole months!”

    “Uh—oh, nor she did,” he said, momentarily dashed. “No, but she came round in the end, don’t you recall, old girl? Sewed it a little red jacket and a pair of black pantaloons and started takin’ it to bed again next Raggy Jenny and Miss Alfreda.”

    Lady Lavinia looked at him a trifle dazedly. She knew, of course, that Lionel was a fond parent, but she had not hitherto realised that he bothered to retain the names of his daughters’ dolls.

    He cleared his throat. “S’pose one shouldn’t have favourites, really.”

    “But every child has a favourite toy: we cannot blame her for having been so upset— Oh,” said her Ladyship, swallowing. “Katie, you mean?”

    “Mm. Like a little rosebud, wasn’t she?”

    “Indeed she was,” she said, patting his hand.

    “Well, home, then?” said Sir Lionel hopefully.

    “Yes, indeed, my dear.”

    Perceiving she was sufficiently softened up, Sir Lionel added in a very mild tone indeed: “And if I was you, me dear, if y’won't take it amiss, I’d drop the subject of Arthur entirely for a bit. Subject of men as such, in fact, if y’take me drift.” He waited with a certain amount of trepidation, but to his great she relief she merely sighed, nodded, and agreed: “Indeed.”

    … “What is this for?” said Nellie in astonishment as her father cornered her in the passage as she was about to descend for dinner that evening, and pressed a guinea into her hand.

    “Ssh!” he hissed, laying a finger to his nose.

    “Thank you, Papa; but why?” she hissed.

    Sir Lionel winked. “For reminding me of the names of those damned dolls of Katie’s.”

    “You remembered Colonel Curtis yourself.”

    “Ssh! –Yes. Not him; always liked him. No, them others. Did the trick. And not a word, mind!”

    “No, I said I would not breathe a word… But why?” murmured Nellie dazedly.

    He shook his head, winked, patted her bottom in an absent-minded way, and wandered off towards the stairs.

Dear Gwennie, wrote Nellie glumly from Dewesbury Manor, biting the end of her pen,

    I wish you were here. Katie is in a terrible Mood and Mamma is under a black Cloud but trying to be cheerful, the which makes it worse. Even Papa is snappish. Quentin is in a glum but possibly only because Everyone is Short with him. I wrote Susan but of course all she wrote back was to have Christian Patience, it is Dreadfull since she married Hilary, she has got worse even though he is so Stunningly good-looking and nothing would persuade me to take a parson if he were Neptune himself.

    Priscilla Claveringham writ me that the Wedding went off and Raffaella wore Lace, whether Lady Stamforth bought it for her or old General B. is anyone’s Guess. Clearly she looked stunning altho’ P.C. was not Admitting to it. They have gone to Paris for the Honeymoon as promised. Personally I can admit it would be some inducement but not Enough but of course Katie will hear nothing of it.

    Not that I care, between ourselves. But Katie remains cross with Cousin Arthur and will not see that there was nothing in his attitude that could incur blame. No, I think I mean that could merit blame. Even Papa has been driven to speak to her, and said that he, A.J., acted honourably and if he spoke his mind he is to be commended for it, at least he has backbone and not a Jellyfish like some. I think he is annoyed with Quentin but I am not absolutely sure why, but the Jellyfish remark was a definite cut at him. Katie lost her temper with him, poor Papa I mean, and shouted very loud that Cousin Arthur was a prude and a bore and ran out of the room. Subsequently Mamma making her apologise which did not Help matters.

    She will not admit she still does care for him even to me tho’ I swore I would not laugh or sneer or say anything frivolous at all. Priscilla writ that there was no Sign of Mr B. at the wedding. As one might have guessed, which I did not say to Katie, tho’ much Provoked. So her letter to him did no good. And pray remember it is to remain the most Absolute Secret. Should I say to her, it will be only a few years and then Raffaella will be a rich widow? Or will that make it Worse? Papa is definite that we shall not go to Scotland this year so unless you come home Very soon I shall not see you for an age. Old Mrs Hornby has given up Belway House, should you consider it? It is rather gloomy with all that Ivy but you could strip it Off. Papa says the house is sound and quite handsome underneath. Also the shrubbery could be slash’d back. Also Quentin says the stable block is very well designed.

    If you can think of anything to Reconcile Katie and Cmmdr. Sir A. pray write it on the instant to

Yr. Loving Sister,

Nellie.

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