Gentlemen In England

13

Gentlemen In England

    An expedition in the barouche had been a signal failure. Innumerable bonnets had been inspected and rejected, innumerable lengths of silk and muslin ditto, and London declared a bore, and dull as ditchwater. On their return the Contessa decided she was tired, and retreated upstairs.

    Eudora removed her bonnet, and sat down on the sofa with a sigh. “You were so wise to stay at home, Miss Hewitt. I never thought I should see the day, but I fear even the delight of purchasing Clothes has palled.”

    Miss Hewitt smiled a little but said anxiously: “Has she received no invitations to drive out?”

    Eudora groaned. “On the contrary. All the rival fribbles of London appear anxious for her company. But apparently she has had no invitations from those from whom they would be welcome. Though I suppose she is fond enough of poor old Charles.”

    “Well, at least she has not been pestered by little Mr Jerry, lately!” she said brightly.

    Miss Bon-Dutton winced a little. “No, quite.”

    “And Lady Lavinia Dewesbury has deigned to recognise her existence, poor child: I suppose that must be considered something,” ventured Miss Hewitt.

    “Yes.”

    “London usually becomes unpleasantly warm and stuffy at this time of year,” she murmured.

    “I had not remarked it. I suppose it is warmer. No, well, you are right, and time is marching on, and the poor girl has not attracted one eligible. Since it would seem,” said Eudora with a shrug, “that Mr Beresford has, after all, no bottle. –No, no: I admit that is unfair, and if his mother has reminded him of his duty, well, no doubt so would I in her place.”

    “I think I had best ring for tea,” decided Miss Hewitt kindly.

    Over the tea the little retired governess confided with a twinkle in her eye: “There is one eligible, my dear. He called yester afternoon, when you were visiting with Mrs Mortimer. I was flattered by being drawn aside in a somewhat marked manner.”

    Eudora looked at her in astonishment, teacup suspended.

    Miss Hewitt looked prim. “General Baldaya. He actually told me in so many words that he is a lonely widower, and his intentions towards the Contessa, should her august connections, which I presume must mean yourself, show any signs of favouring his suit, are entirely honourable! –I dare say he owns any number of haciendas in Portugal,” she added smoothly.

    “I dare say he may do, except that I rather think they are Spanish.”

    “Olé,” replied Miss Hewitt in the primmest of tones, sipping tea.

    “Monster!” said her erstwhile pupil with a laugh. “This is a joke, is it not?”

    “Well, no, alas,” she admitted.

    Eudora swallowed. “I hope he does not make an offer in form, for I should not know where to look. Er—did his manner seem at all odd, Miss Hewitt?”

    Miss Hewitt merely looked at her.

    “I grant you it is fairly odd at the best of times. I gather the silly old thing considers himself irresistible.”

    “No-o… Well, he did not say anything specific, but now I come to think of it, I suppose that his manner when he referred to the Contessa was—well, one could only describe it as odd, yes,” she said apologetically.

    Eudora’s lips tightened. “I see.”

    Miss Hewitt looked at her anxiously. “I may have been reading too much into it. Er—my dear, of course I never expected that she would snare the title there has been so much talk of, but I confess I very much hoped to see her find some sensible, decent man who would be able to overlook everything.”

    “Quite. For myself, I admit that for a moment,” she said tightly, “I hoped that Mr Beresford would be that sensible, decent man.”

    Miss Hewitt bit her lip. “Mm. I thought it sounded very promising on the night of the Quayle-Sturt dance.”

    “Quite.” Eudora looked blankly at the cake plate. After quite some time she said with difficulty: “There is something else. Nothing that could possibly be said to be Raffaella’s fault. I cannot see how he could possibly have got to hear of it, but— Well!” she said with a shrug. “Possibly it was that, or possibly it was mere loss of bottle.”

    Miss Hewitt looked at the curl of the well-modelled lip, and the distasteful flare of the aristocratic nostril, and experienced a sinking feeling. And did not urge Miss Bon- Dutton to tell what it was, but changed the subject to inane chat of summer fashions.

    Raffaella had accepted an invitation from Captain Quarmby-Vine to drive in the Park. She chattered vivaciously, encouraging the Captain to flirt outrageously. After quite some time of this, the burly mariner drew up in the shade of a tree and said kindly: “My dear Contessa, I think there is something the matter. I would be honoured if you felt you could confide in me.”

    Raffaella gave an airy shrug. “Oh, there is nothing particularly the matter, Captain, except that the Season is all but over, and not one marquis has made me an offer!”

    “I don’t think there is any unattached marquis of an age to,” he said mildly.

    “No, well, nor any earl, viscount or baron, and I shall never see Mamma curtsey to me!”

    “Aye,” he said slowly. “But then, what is one Season, after all?”

    “Nothing to you, I dare say, but I can scarcely force myself upon Miss Bon-Dutton for another, so I think you might allow me a certain feeling that I have thrown my chances away,” she replied with a pout and a shrug.

    “Mm. I thought there was some scheme that young Beresford might come down to old Peter’s place this summer?” he said casually.

    “Really? It is not a scheme of which I was aware!”

    “I see,” said the sailor slowly.

    Angry tears sparkled in Raffaella’s eyes. “I am very sure you do, sir, and in fact so probably does most of London, and I was an idiot ever to think he might be more than the usual spineless London exquisite!”

    “I could not but notice at the Quayle-Sturt dance that he seemed to favour you, my dear,” he said kindly.

    “Then it seems we were both mistaken, Captain. We have not seen him since,” revealed Raffaella on a bitter note.

    “No, well, I think I would agree that the only word for him is spineless, in that case, my dear Contessa. Er—his brother-in-law, Keywes, was in Rome, you know,” he said on an uncomfortable note.

    “Si. He does know the true facts of my famous elopement,” she said on a defiant note. “Though I am sure I do not care if he believes them or not!”

    “No,” said the Captain vaguely, looking at his horses’ heads. He drew a deep breath. “Look, my dear, I may not be the most romantic of men, and I’m certainly not a pretty young fellow like Jack B., and Lord knows I ain’t got much to offer a pretty little girl like yourself, but—well, there it is!” he said with an awkward laugh. “No need to make up your mind all at once, eh? But if you feel like falling back upon an old buffer like myself, I’d be most deeply honoured, Contessa.”

    Raffaella was shaken quite out of her customary self-absorption. Her jaw dropped, she went very red, and looked up at him disbelievingly.

    “Er—well, yes!” he said with another awkward laugh. “Absurd, y’may say! Er—but entirely devoted, my dear! And—and you would never want for a thing. Be looked after for as long as I live, you know.”

    “Thuh-thank you, Captain,” she said unsteadily. “You are very, very kind.”

    Captain Quarmby-Vine put a large, warm hand over hers. “As I say, no need to make any hasty decision, mm? Just think it over, take your time. But—well, dare say we could be very comfortable together, mm? Buy a snug little house not far from old Peter’s, if that’s what you’d like; come up to town for the Season, eh?”

    “It sounds lovely,” said Raffaella, blinking back tears.

    “I know I’m too damned old for you,” he said with a sigh. “But—well. If the young fellows are all spineless nincompoops, eh? You talk it over with Eudora, my dear. See what she advises.”

    “I shall,” said Raffaella, licking her lips. “And I am very, very flattered, sir.”

    “Charles what?” said Eudora, sitting down suddenly.

    “He—he offered!” repeated Raffaella with a mad laugh. “Sort of—conditionally, as it were!”

    Miss Bon-Dutton experienced a very odd sort of sinking feeling. It was not, of course, that she wanted good old Charles for herself—no. In his hearty, bluff way, he was an attractive enough creature, but the mere thought of being leg-shackled to him for life— No. In that case, it must just be vanity; had she believed, at the back of her mind, that he would be hers whenever she cared to raise her little finger? Oh, dear! How despicable! “Raffaella,” she said faintly, “was he serious?”

    “Well, yes,” said Raffaella on a guilty note.

    “My dear, sit down.”

    Raffaella did so, but burst out: “Cousin Eudora, I would never dream of taking him if you want him!”

    “A man,” said Miss Bon-Dutton limply, “is not a slice of cake.”

    “No, I— But you know what I mean!” she said urgently.

    “I suppose I do. Charles and I should never suit; I have seen that for very many years, my dear. I should forever be nagging at him to be something he cannot be. And, indeed, why should he? He has had quite a successful career, you know. I think his only ambitions now are for a quiet country life in a pleasant house near his brother’s.”

    “Mm, he said as much,” she admitted, biting her lip.

    “What did you reply?” asked Eudora on a firm note.

    “Well, he—he said I must think it over: not make a hasty decision, you know. I—um—I said I was very grateful. I suppose I did indicate that I would think it over.”

    “I see. Just bear in mind,” said Eudora without any real hope that her words would make sense to one of Raffaella’s years, “that such a decision is for life, my dear.”

    “Si. Sicuro,” she said, looking slightly puzzled.

    “I have no doubt that Charles would treat you kindly and do his best to make you happy.”

    Raffaella nodded hard, blinking a little.

    “Just think for a moment, Raffaella, about the sort of life that Lilian leads.”

    “Cousin Lilian Quarmby-Vine?” she said, looking puzzled.

    “Yes. Think very hard.”

    Raffaella thought very hard. “Oh,” she concluded dubiously.

    “For myself, I could not support such a dawdling existence with equanimity,” said Eudora calmly. “Not that she does not keep busy; I do not mean that. But it is all small, humdrum things, without meaning in themselves.”

    “Ye-es… She keeps her family comfortable and happy thereby, though.”

    “Of course she does, my dear,” said Eudora warmly, “and of course that is what most women truly desire in life.”

    “I see. You would rather be a political hostess,” she said wisely.

    “True,” agreed Eudora on a dry note. “But we are not talking about me, Raffaella. Just spend some time thinking about Lilian’s sort of life, which is all Charles would desire his wife to lead—though he is a more sociable creature than Peter: I have no doubt he would be happy to come up to town for the Season every year.”

    “Mm. He said so,” she admitted, biting her lip.

    “Yes. But for at least ten months of the year, you would have the duties of a wife and mother, and mistress of a small country house with which to occupy yourself. I think you owe it both to Charles and to yourself to consider very seriously whether that is the sort of life you want; and whether,” she said firmly as Raffaella opened her mouth, “Charles is truly the man with whom you wish to lead it.”

    “Mm. I see. I shall think it over.”

    “Good. There is no need to be precipitate,” said Eudora, rising. “No doubt you will see a little of him this summer. Then, perhaps in the autumn will be time enough to give him an answer.”

    “Yes,” she said in a small voice.

    Miss Bon-Dutton had to swallow; but she said no more, and went out of the room looking very firm.

    The gentle Miss Hewitt’s reaction to the news was a thoughtful. “I see. My dear Miss Bon-Dutton, perhaps it is for the best. The Captain would doubtless be very kind to her.”

    “Yes. Would she be very kind to him?” returned Eudora on a grim note.

    “Oh, dear,” she murmured.

    Eudora sighed. “If only one could know what precisely caused Mr Beresford to sheer off!”

    “My dear: that expression! Well, yes,” she sighed. “It was not illness in the family, perchance?”

    “No, for he is still in town,” she said grimly.

     “But I think he was not at the Lilywhites’ ball?” she faltered.

    “No. But I saw him at a distance in the Park only yester morning. I will not say he positively avoided me; the distance was such that one might reasonably conclude he did not notice me. On the other hand, I had the team poled up, and was driving down a sufficiently wide allée, with but one other vehicle in sight. But possibly he, alone of all the Corinthians of London, does not know old Percy Luton’s bays when he see ’em,” she said grimly.

    Miss Hewitt replied crossly: “Of course he does, and that proves it!”

    “I confess, such was my conclusion.”

    Eudora had, in the end, confided Sir John Stevens’ story to Miss Hewitt. Therefore the gentle lady then ventured: “Could he somehow have hold of that story about her parentage?”

    “I suppose it is not impossible,” replied Eudora grimly. “Or perhaps his mother did not need that, to convince him that she must be an undesirable bride for a Beresford.”

    “Ye-es… I can see a very young man, or a weaker man, letting his mother persuade him…”

    “I dare say she used the argument of the family name,” said Eudora on a sour note.

    “That might weigh with many gentlemen, of course… My dear Miss Bon-Dutton, do you think he was ever serious about the poor little thing?”

    “I am no judge,” replied Eudora grimly, “but as far as my poor observation went, I would have said so. He did not bear the earmarks of a man enjoying a light flirtation. But possibly I was mistaken.”

    “Ye-es… I wish there was something we could do; one feels so helpless… Oh! It is so aggravating, not to know! If only one could—could shake it out of him!” she cried.

    Eudora had to smile just a little. “Indeed.”

    Mr Greg Ashenden was experiencing a very similar frustration. He had complained bitterly, more than once, to his friend Rollo Valentine, and to Rollo’s brother, Mr “Val”, and to Mr Shirley Rowbotham, and even to Cousin May, that the fellow was as close as an oyster. And demanded to know, had he ever been in the least serious about the little Italian peach? Mr Rollo had helpfully expressed the opinion that that mother of Jack’s had made him sheer off. Val Valentine, shaking his head wisely, had helpfully expressed the opinion that Jack Beresford was developing into just the same sort of lady’s man as Bobby Amory, and if he was an example they need not look to see him marry for another twenty years. Say, fifteen, at the outside. Mr Shirley had helpfully expressed the opinion that Ma B. had forced the fellow to sheer off and was in town express to see him cut out The McDiarmid with a certain Miss Blundell and her fifteen thousand pounds. That or to see him cut out poor damned H.-L. with his cousin, the Princess Adélaïde von Maltzahn-Dressen. This last had not been without interest, but scarcely enlightening in the way Greg had desired; and so he had been reduced to inviting himself to join Jack on a morning stroll in the Park.

    “Oy, was that not the little Italian peach?” he said, as his cousin’s fingers dug painfully into his arm and he was whisked into an unfrequented side path.

    “I collect you mean the Contessa dalla Rovere,” replied Jack unpleasantly. “Yes.”

    Greg looked at his grim face, swallowed, and said feebly: “Oh.”

    Jack strode on, looking grim. After quite some time Greg found the courage to offer: “I say, old man, it’s your life, after all. What I mean is, dare say my aunt means well; only you know what mothers are when it comes to their ewe lamb.” Ignoring the amazed and wrathful glare his cousin was now directing at him, he added: “The frightful mother’s fixed in Italy, y’know. And in any case all that Principessa stuff was over twenty years back. And if Keywes vouches for the girl’s being pure as the driven sn—”

    “Greg, you are a child and an imbecile,” he said blightingly.

    “Eh? I am not! What do you mean, ‘child’?” he demanded indignantly.

    Jack’s lips tightened, but he eventually said: “When one considers asking a young woman to become the future mother of one’s children, there is more to consider than just the possession of a pretty face and an unblemished reputation.”

    “But it is unblemished, that what’s I’m trying to—”

    “I know.”

    Greg gulped.

    “One has to consider the children’s heritage,” he said tightly.

    “Um, yes, I suppose… Look, the girl seems pretty enough behaved. Well, would Miss B.-D. have taken her under her wing, else?”

    “That is not the point. Certainly not nearly the whole point,” he said grimly.

    “Jack, I would never have taken you for such a cold fish!” cried Greg. “You have let my aunt talk you out of it, it’s written all over you!”

    “Mamma and I have had a very serious conversation on the topic, yes,” he said grimly. “I have also spoken to Robert, if you wish to know. The Contessa’s family background is entirely unsuitable, and it would be unkind of me to raise expectations in that quarter which cannot be fulfilled.”

    “They could be, if you had any bottle!” cried Greg.

    Jack shrugged. “Very well, have it your own way: I lack bottle and am besides a cold fish. Just be thankful you are not the head of your family, Greg. –I’m going to Jackson’s: are you coming?”

    “No,” he said sulkily. “And I don’t see that being the head of your family makes a ha’p’orth of difference!”

    “Quite,” said Jack coldly, walking away from him.

    … “Cousin May, what is the fellow about?” demanded Greg hotly, some half an hour later. “Anyone with half an eye could see he had fallen heavily for the little Italian peach!”

    Little Lady Keywes hesitated. “Well, yes, Greg, but there is a considerable gap between that and offering marriage.”

    “Oh, certainly; especially when one is the head of one’s family!” he retorted nastily.

    “Yes,” said May flatly.

    “Look, it was more than an idle flirtation: what in God’s name did my aunt say, to make him sheer off?”

    “It had not, I am thankful to say, gone very much further than idle flirtation. And if Jack did not tell you what Mamma said, I am certainly not going to. And I think you should leave the poor old boy alone, Greg.”

    Greg glared. “Would you have made the same decision, in his place? Well, no, put it like this,” he said, glaring at his cousin’s little pointed face: “would Robert?”

    May replied slowly: “I think Robert would have made exactly the same decision, yes. His place is that of the head of a very old family, with a considerable position in Society. And Jack’s, you know, is not so very different. But perhaps, speaking for myself, if my feelings had been seriously engaged and if I thought that the girl’s were likewise, I would not have made the same decision. But then, I am not a gentleman.”

    Greg glared in frustration. “But for the Lord’s sake! It was going so well at the Q.-S. dance, and my aunt was—well, at least not looking too disapprovingly! What in God’s name has happened since?”

    “Please, Greg, let it drop. I have no intention of telling you,” said May, giving him a firm look.

    For a horrified instant Greg saw Aunt Beresford in her. “Er—aye. Well, sorry, May; did not mean to grill you.”

    May dimpled, and smiled, and the resemblance to her formidable mamma disappeared. Nevertheless, Greg tottered off to Boodle’s and stayed his nerves with a glass or two.

    “Only guess!” said Miss Nellie breathlessly, when the young ladies had scarce gone two steps from Miss Bon-Dutton’s front door.

    “Do I need to?” replied the Contessa on a tired note.

    Not noticing the tired note, Miss Nellie continued breathlessly: “Last night at Mrs Eberhart’s little party, I danced with The McDiarmid and Lord Ludo Delahunty!”

    “An embarras de richesses,” explained Katie.

    “Yes,” said Raffaella with a forced smile. “Er, I thought it was to be just a quiet little get-together, with spillikins and lottery tickets?”

    “No, well, town is become so thin of company that everybody who received an invitation seemed to come, and so Mrs E. thought we might as well have a little hop!” she trilled happily.

    “Yes. Personally I felt it was a pity,” said Katie drily, “that not all of those who were invited and came, seemed willing to dance with all of the others of those who ditto. But possibly Nellie did not notice.” Nellie was certainly looking very blank, so she added: “Some young ladies had scarce a partner all evening.”

    “Miss Eberhart squints,” explained Nellie gaily, “and Miss Prudence Eberhart—is that not the primmest ever name? Pru-dence Eber-hart,” she said deeply. “Ugh! She is a fat dowd, and Miss Paxton, whom I think you know, is a little mouse, and—um—who else? Oh, yes: Priscilla Claveringham has no notion of attracting the gentlemen. Though she would claim to be quite intelligent, and better read than one,” she said, rolling her eyes. “but apparently Lord McD. and Captain Lord L. do not care for stockings of the azure variety.”

    “On the other hand, they were possibly not given a scold next morning by their mammas for having behaved in a manner unbefitting a gentleman’s daughter,” said Katie in a detached voice.

    This certainly explained why Nellie’s manner was worse than ever this morning. “I see,” agreed the Contessa.

    “She, on the other hand,” said Nellie crossly, glaring at her sister, “looks as if butter would not melt in her mouth; but in actual fact, she is too sly to let herself be caught out!”

    “I did just mention to the Commander that we might be walking out this morning,” murmured Katie, as Raffaella looked at her uncertainly.

    “‘Just mention’!” scoffed Nellie crossly.

    “I do not think your Mamma has any objection to him?” murmured Raffaella.

    “No, of course, except he is old as the hills,” said Nellie swiftly, “but as she has apparently overlooked the fact, I will add that Mamma’s considered opinion of the Dashing Major is that he is a noddy; and she just happened to mention it to him, too!”

    Raffaella looked numbly at Katie.

    “Well, the thing is,” she said, looking demure, “that I have received some very interesting advice, though I cannot say how good it be, on the subject of not allowing oneself to be taken for granted. I think it will not do Commander Sir A. very much harm to see that other gentlemen may still be interested in me, in spite of his having acknowledged a certain interest.”

    “This is the young woman who has been mopping and mooning after Commander Sir A. for these five Seasons past!” noted Nellie bitterly.

    “Er—yes. But in the case of a very experienced gentleman, d’un certain âge, who has been used to the flattering interest of many ladies, I have to say I think the advice was sound,” admitted the Contessa. “Was it from G.L., dare one ask?”

    “No, for once!” said Katie with a laugh. “You will never guess!”

    “No-one could guess,” admitted Nellie. “Of course, Katie is quite bright, but not a sophisticated lady, and not a wit, so why she should even speak, let alone favour her with her notice, let alone advice—”

    “Ignore her, Raffaella. It was the Fürstin von Maltzahn-Dressen: the Princess Adélaïde was complaining at the Portuguese Ambassador’s ball that she had no-one to walk out with in the mornings, so I said I would be happy to accompany her.”

    “Her and it,” interrupted Nellie, shuddering.

    “O, si: naturalmente,” agreed the Contessa airily.

    “Yes, well, I cannot control it, either,” admitted Katie cheerfully, “but the application of brute force—dragging the creature along by the lead, willy-nilly, you know—works quite well.”

    “Unless it has its head jammed in the area railings, the which has happened before now,”  said Nellie darkly.

    “So we are told, yes,” agreed Katie placidly. “Well, we had had a fairly trying walk, but got back safe enough, and Adélaïde asked me in. The Fürstin was just down, and said she would be very glad to drive me home in the barouche, if I would not mind waiting until she was ready.”

    “One does not refuse the Fürstin, and in any case, trudging home virtually all the way from the Park, for the house is just adjacent, after a morning with it—!” noted Nellie.

    “Yes. She did not invite Adélaïde to accompany us, and took the opportunity to have what she described as a comfortable cose,” said Katie with a twinkle in her forget-me-not eye.

    Nellie shuddered all over.

    “And produced the advice!” ended Katie with a giggle.

    “I will admit to you, dear Contessa, that one would have been completely overcome: but she took it in her stride!” added Nellie.

    “Si,” agreed Raffaella lamely. She was aware that Katie was giving her an anxious look but as two gentlemen were now seen to be approaching, doffing their hats as they did so, was able to pretend she had not seen it.

    Major Phelps-Patterson was delighted to see Miss Katie and “little Miss Nellie” and charmed to meet the Contessa again. And did she know his friend, Major Fellowes? The Contessa admitting that she did, the company strolled on, Katie on the Dashing Major’s arm and the Contessa on the arm of the other major. And “little Miss Nellie,” not saying very much, at her sister’s other side.

    After not very much in the way of progress, and a considerable deal in the way of mild flirtation of the sillier sort, at least on the part of four of the company, lo! Another two gentlemen were espied.

    “So you did manage to get out this morning, Commander!” Katie greeted him airily.

    Commander Sir Arthur bowed, ascertained that everybody knew Captain Quarmby-Vine and that the Captain knew them all, and the party strolled on. This time Katie had two strings to her bow, and Miss Nellie was awarded the kindly Captain. Possibly some middle-aged gentlemen’s pretensions might have been deflated utterly by a kind enquiry as to what the battle of Trafalgar had really been like; but Charles Quarmby-Vine admitted readily that he had been there, in a very undistinguished capacity, and had not witnessed Admiral Lord Nelson’s death, no, but had witnessed poor “Trafalgar” Carey’s being wounded. In the eye—just like the Admiral himself, yes. But had made a wonderful recovery and gone on to command his own frigate. Miss Nellie, clearly unsure what a frigate was, was reduced to smiling uncertainly.

    “But tell her about the tactics, Captain!” urged Raffaella with a gurgle as they turned into the Park.

    “Yes: go on, Charles, old man: explain Nelson’s entire strategy for us, if y’would be so good,” said Major Fellowes smoothly.

    “I could do so, but I will not bore the company,” replied the Captain mildly. “Why don’t you tell them about Wellington’s tactics at Waterloo, Fellowes?”

    “Tactics?” said Raffaella in bewilderment. “Did he not just face the enemy, his troops being killed off by the force majeure of the Grande Armée as the day wore on, wondering where on earth the Portuguese were, until Blücher came up and provided the force of numbers which saved the day?”

    The two naval gentlemen collapsed in sniggers at this unkind slur, and the two military gentlemen grinned somewhat sheepishly.

    And, it being agreed that it was a very warm day, that the Park was almost empty, that town was very thin of company and, in short, that none of them gave a fig what the world thought of them, they all retired to a grassy spot under a shady tree. Even Miss Nellie almost managing to look as if she was not in the least worried about what her mother might say of grass stains on her good sprig muslin.

    “We should have got up a picknick,” admitted the Dashing Major ruefully.

    “Too dashed hot for all that effort, old boy,” said Major Fellowes with a yawn.

    “Oh, but it would have been such fun!” protested Nellie.

    “Aye,” said the Captain with a smile. “Remember that time we was with the P.W., Arthur, and—uh—forget who else: well, her brother, of course; oh, and think young Edward Claveringham was along; and we all said dash it, just the weather for picknicks? And then she had the inspiration to get her people to pack up a hamper immediate, and we all drove straight over here, and had the most delightful day!”

    The Commander lay on his side and propped himself on his elbow, smiling. “Aye. Think her cousin, Miss Jeffreys, was along, too; and the pretty little sister, out of course.”

    “But where was Lord Stamforth?” asked Nellie eagerly.

    “Fioravanti’s: workin’ it off with the foils!” choked Major Phelps-Patterson.

    “That is the standard joke, y’see, Contessa,” explained Major Fellowes, “about the P.W.’s husband.”

    “Si, si,” she said with a smile. “It sounds most delightful, indeed!”

    Captain Quarmby-Vine removed his hat, and lay back at full length with his arms crossed behind his head, smiling. “Mm,” he said, his eyes half-closed. “Was.”

    The Contessa dalla Rovere experienced a very old mixture of emotions, at this point. In the first place, there was the accustomed jealousy of the P.W., who looked so like herself and was hardly older than herself, but had everything, including an immense fortunate and a husband with one of the oldest titles in England, to add to her big dark eyes and dark curls. Not to mention, to that amazing velvety skin that was not in the least yellow and could support silvery lilac. In the second place, there was considerable envy of what sounded a delightful and daring expedition with some delightful gentlemen. And a strong wish that she had thought of it first. And in the third place, there was a feeling—quite a strong feeling—that Captain Q.-V. was not such an old fuddy-duddy as all that, and really quite an attractive man—not slim and boyish, no, but not fat, and endowed with a certain hearty, earthy quality that was not unattractive, and was certainly very manly—much more so than Commander Sir Arthur’s smiling good-looks; and how dare he lounge in her company smiling reminiscently over another lady!

    It would have surprised the Contessa very much to learn that both Captain Quarmby-Vine and Commander Sir Arthur Jerningham were very well aware of the sentiments felt towards the P.W. by such young ladies as herself and Miss Dewesbury, and that both of them, whilst certainly enjoying the memory, were deliberately teasing. Not to say rubbing in the fact that they were experienced men of the world, while Miss Dewesbury and the little Contessa, pace the latter’s widowed state, were both inexperienced girls. And, in the case of the Commander, punishing Miss Dewesbury just a little for having given him the impression that he might expect a tête-à-tête this afternoon.

    “Was that Charles who brought you home?” asked Eudora, rousing with a jerk from the book over which she had been nodding, as the Contessa returned.

    “Yes. We bumped into him, and went to the Park.”

    “Why did you not ask him in?”

    “I did not feel like it,” she said crossly. “Did you know that Katie calls the Princess Adélaïde von Maltzahn-Dressen by her name?”

    “What? Oh, well, I suppose she and Gwendolyn Lacey have both known her this age.”

    “Senza dubbio,” said Raffaella crossly, going out.

    Miss Bon-Dutton and Miss Hewitt exchanged dubious glances, but said nothing.

    … “And it is my opinion,” finished Miss Nellie significantly, “that G. has dropped her like a hot potato.”

    “Graphic,” drawled Lady Ferdy, yawning.

    “Well, have you seen him lately at her famous salons?” she demanded.

    “No, but then I haven’t been particularly looking for him,” said Gwennie, swallowing another yawn. “Why don’t you ask Caro?”

    “Your sister-in-law? Caro Kellaway? Why would she know?” she said blankly.

    Lady Ferdy swallowed. “Never mind,” she said feebly.

    “Well?”

    “What? Oh: Geddings? He was merely amusing himself for an instant, Nellie. Added to which, all of his have been ladies of mature charms.”

    “Well, she looked to me very miffed over something! And only cheered up when we met—um—some gentlemen.”

    “Don’t imagine that I am going to report you to Mamma. But don’t tell me, I am not interested.”

    “It was not Lord Ludo!” shouted Nellie.

    “I am so grateful for that clarification,” noted Gwennie. She chose a sweetmeat from the box open on the occasional table next her chaise longue, and consumed it slowly. “Have one .They’re an apology from that ass Jimmy Smethurst.”

    “What did he do?’” asked Nellie eagerly, taking one. “Mm! –What?”

    “Put his hand on an indelicate portion of my anatomy. I admit I was standing on a chair at the time, trying the effect of swagging with that new curtaining I purchased, that Mamma swears will fade horridly; but in my opinion,” said Gwennie languidly, “that did not constitute an invitation.”

    Nellie shook her head, looking horrified.

    “You need not mention it in front of Ferdy.”

    “No!” she gasped.

    “Have another. –In my opinion, if the little Contessa was looking miffed, it was because Ma Beresford has ordered Jack B. to sheer off.”

    “That as well, Gwennie!” urged Nellie eagerly.

    Gwennie yawned. “Very possibly. Did it stop her from flirting madly with whatever it was you met yester afternoon?”

    “Um, no. I say, you would not care to order up the barouche and go for a little—”

    “No.”

    “But we cannot sit stuffing indoors all afternoon! It is so boring!”

    “Is it? Have another.”

    Nellie took another sweetmeat but admitted: “I had not thought London could be so dull! And all those men we met yesterday were old!”

    “Yes, well, it’s time to be thinking of getting down to the country, the Season is almost done. For my part, I think I might go home.”

    “Not up to Scotland?” she said in dismay.

    “What? No, you ape! No, home, to Dewesbury Manor. –I wish we had a decent little house of our own,” she said with a pout.

    “Papa was saying that Mr Frensham is giving up the lease of Moulder Hall.”

    “Too big,” said Gwennie with a yawn.

    “There is Five Ash House. I quite like it. Though one would feel silly living in a house called Five Ash when three of them have fallen down.”

    “Too small.”

    “Then you had best get Papa to build a place for you!” she said crossly, getting up.

    “Where are you going?” said Gwennie in mild surprise.

    “Home. This is too dull for words!” She waited, but nothing happened. “I have not my maid,” said Nellie in a small voice.

    “What?”

    “Katie dropped me off,” she reminded her.

    “Oh.” Yawning, Lady Ferdy rang for the barouche.

    “In my opinion,” Miss Nellie offered as a parting shot, “Lord G. did begin seriously to affect the little Contessa, and has sheered off because of her reputation!”

    Yawning, Gwennie replied: “Nellie, it’s far too hot to speculate. If you are going, go.”

    Crossly Nellie went.

    Neither of Katie’s two self-centred sisters had paused to wonder what the Contessa’s plans for the summer might be; but the kind-hearted Katie, without disclosing her intended destination to her siblings, in fact had driven round to Adams Crescent this afternoon express to find this out. She did not, of course, broach the topic in front of Miss Bon-Dutton, but waited until Raffaella was safely in the barouche with her.

    “Cousin Lilian has asked me down to Sommerton Grange,” replied Raffaella on a defiant note.

    “I see. I am very glad to hear it.”

    “Yes, well, I was very glad to be asked, but that does not mean that I wish to be the object of my distant relatives’ charity!”

    “No, of course. Could you perhaps appeal to your Great-Uncle Ambrose?”

    “I did. Aunt Beauchamp wrote back to say he has given his man of business a Power of Attorney over all his affairs. Which means that she bullied him into it, and is now bullying the man into not giving me a penny!”

    Katie nodded sympathetically. “Appeal to your family?”

    “Cara, Mamma would laugh; I can see her do it! Laugh and screw the letter up and throw it away!”

    Katie swallowed. “I see. Then, in that case you must write to the Conte dell’Aversano. If he had not agreed to run off with you your reputation would never have been damaged.”

    “I can assure you it would have been, cara, for I would never have gone back to Mamma’s house that evening, if old Pietro had turned me down!” she said with feeling.

    “Nevertheless,” said Katie firmly, “you must tell him exactly how you are placed, and ask him to do something for you.”

    Raffaella had gone very red. After a moment she admitted in a strangled voice: “It is entirely sensible, Katie, cara, but—but very unfair to him, and, if you will forgive my saying so, does not seem entirely honourable.”

    Katie put her hand over hers and squeezed it hard. “No,” she said softly, “it is not entirely honourable, I agree. But in such matters a woman is not as free to choose the path of honour as a man. So I do not think it would be wholly unfair, in especial since he is a wealthy man, to ask his aid.”

    “Mm.” After a moment Raffaella tossed her head a little, and said with an attempt at gaiety: “Then I had best do it at once, for he is not a young man, and none of his relatives would feel I was owed a groat, I do assure you!”

    “Good. We shall call on Aunt Nancy Dewesbury, since I told Mamma that that was where I was headed this afternoon, and then we shall drive straight back to Adams Crescent and write it.”

    “I see,” said the Contessa weakly. “You mean to stand over me and see it done, do you?”

    “Certainly,” she said calmly.

    Raffaella laughed a little. But after moment she said huskily: “Thank you, Katie.”

    Katie merely smiled and nodded at her. But inwardly, she was thinking not a few things. And meditating ways and means.

    “I see,” said Lady Lavinia as her third daughter, her chin well up, finished her speech.

    “Lor’,” said Sir Lionel, somewhat more expressively. “Here, was little Nellie in on all this?”

    “Some of it. She does not truly like her, however,” replied Katie firmly.

    Sir Lionel subsided.

    “I think you may apologise for deceiving me, Katie,” said Lady Lavinia mildly.

    “Yes,” said Katie, reddening, but continuing to keep the chin well up. “I do apologise, Mamma.”

    “Sensible woman, your ma, y’know,” rumbled Sir Lionel. “Not given to flyin’ off the handle like half the batty hags in town.”

    “I know,” agreed Katie.

    He mother eyed her drily. “I’m glad to hear it. Well, it was well done of you not to drop the young woman, Katie, but I have to say that frequenting her soi-disant salons cannot have done your reputation very much good; if, on the other hand, it cannot have done it any serious harm.”

    “Full of fribbles,” explained Sir Lionel.

    “Exactly,” said her Ladyship.

    “Arthur J. won’t mind: goes there himself, don’t he?” added the baronet incautiously. “Er, well, no use pretending there ain’t a question of interest, Lavinia!” he protested, having met her eye.

    Her Ladyship was unmoved. “I confess I am very glad to hear the Contessa dalla Rovere is such an honourable little thing, Katie:”

    “Yes, but hang on: could have said it because she knew what would be likely to impress!” objected Sir Lionel.

    Katie smiled at him, though blinking a little. “I know, Papa. But I can assure you it was not so.”

    “Katie is not a fool,” said her Ladyship calmly.

    “No. Grown up a lot, too, this last year,” he said, looking at her glumly. “Best let Arthur have her, I suppose.”

    “Yes, but we are not discussing Katie’s affairs, just now,” said her Ladyship, kindly ignoring Katie’s flushed cheeks. “Well, what is it you wish, my dear?”

    “I—I don’t know, Mamma!” she stuttered. “I just thought that she had behaved so well, that you must see there is no reason for me not to make a friend of her.”

    Sir Lionel rubbed his chin. “Did she angle for an invitation down to Dewesbury Manor: that it?”

    “No, she did not so much as breathe a hint. It was I who introduced the topic.”

    “Better have her, then,” he said, grinning.

    “Really, Lionel,” reproved Lady Lavinia mildly. “Very well, Katie: you may visit, and take Nellie, if she wishes to go, and you may ask the Contessa to call.”

    “You mayn’t give her your brother Quentin, though!” noted the jovial baronet, lapsing into a rollicking mood.

    “Papa, she doesn’t want him,” said Katie, trying not to laugh.

    “I am not surprised,” admitted Lady Lavinia heavily. “Sometimes I despair— Never mind. We shall be at Bluff Yewby for part of the summer, my dear, and if the Contessa should care to come home with us for a little when we go, you must invite her.”

    “Thank you so much, Mamma!” she beamed.

    “Yes, well, run off now, me dear. Want to talk,” said Sir Lionel.

    “Nonsense, my dear, there is nothing more to be said,” said her Ladyship calmly.

    “No, well, ’nother topic. Just thought of it.”

    “Of course, Papa. –It is all right, is it?” said Katie, pausing in the doorway.

    “Mm? Out of course, my dear! Have the little Contessa down. Marry her off to old Frensham, hey?” he said with a wink.

    Smiling, Katie reminded him that old Mr Frensham was giving up the lease of Moulder Hall, and went out.

    “Frensham?” croaked Lady Lavinia.

    “Horrible thought, eh?” he said cheerfully. “No, um, thing is, before she makes a bosom-bow of the little Contessa, not that she ain’t done that already, but before you ask her to join in any cosy family parties, you had better know what I heard at White’s, t’other night.”

    “Not again!”

    “Er—mm,” he said, coughing. “No, well, had this one off Old Hooky, and in deepest confidence.”

    “Oh, I shall bandy it about all over London. No, better: I shall drop a hint in the Quayle-Sturt woman’s ear,” she said acidly.

    “Which one?”

    Lady Lavinia eyed him drily. “I meant Harley Q.-S.’s mother, as I think you know. What did Wellington tell you?”

    “Um, well, thing was, he was all of a doo-dah. Couldn’t tell Geddings, because he was what caused it, didn’t want to tell Fuzzy Dauntry and have it all over the Admiralty, not to say the dashed clubs—”

    “You mean it is not all over the clubs?”

    “No, dash it! Arthur told me in confidence!” he said, very hurt.

    Perfectly understanding that he was still referring to His Grace, and had not reverted to the topic of Katie’s interest, her Ladyship returned calmly: “I see, my dear. I apologise. Pray go on.”

    Uneasily Sir Lionel stumbled through the tale of Raffaella’s true parentage. Ending: “Arthur told G. it wouldn’t do, out of course. Pretty little thing, and dare say she may be pure as the driven snow, and if Keywes vouches for her, that’s good enough for anyone, but it’s another count against her. Well, the dashed Principessa’s three counts all on her own. –What the Devil are y’looking like that for?”

    Her Ladyship sighed a little. “I had very much hoped that that old story would never again see the light of day, Lionel.”

    After a stunned moment he croaked: “Y’mean you knew? Well, if that don’t beat all!”

    “I have always known. And she is very like Tommy Brantwell’s sisters. She has the Sewell nose, as they do. I confess I see Arthur’s point, but did it not occur to him that with his weight behind them, G.’s career would hardly be affected by the connexion?”

    Sir Lionel pulled his ear. “Don’t think it did, no. But if he don’t like it it’s no go, me dear.”

    “Yes. A pity. I think the girl has the brains to make a political hostess, and certainly as much charm as any. But on the other hand, if she were to establish herself so creditably, there is every likelihood that that Italian woman would come and thrust herself upon them.”

    He shuddered. “I can just see it! Well—the Embassy in Paris, or Vienna, perhaps? Lor’!”

    “No, well, possibly that vision also occurred to His Grace. –Your suggestion of Mr Frensham, though frivolous, was perhaps on the right lines, my dear. I shall think about it.”

    “Er—aye,” he croaked. “Well, if anyone can establish the gal creditably, it’s you, Lavinia!” he admitted, rallying.

    Her Ladyship permitted herself to smile faintly. “Thank you, my dear.”

    Sir Lionel tottered out. God! Who the Devil could she be planning to throw the little Contessa at? The Ives boy was still at Eton, that was him out; so… Mentally reviewing all of their neighbours, he retired to his study, and poured himself a glass of Madeira. And drank to the hope that the little Contessa would nab some unfortunate long, long before the time came for her to set foot at Dewesbury Manor.

    Mr Beresford was discovered at Jackson’s Boxing Saloon. Working it off: quite. His Royal Highness Henri-Louis de Bourbon waited until the bout was over and Jack’s unfortunate opponent was being succoured by his friends, before venturing: “I thought perhaps you had already gone down to the country, mon cher.”

    “No,” said Mr Beresford, wiping his streaming brow. “How about you, H.-L.? Brighton? Cowes?”

    “Oh, well, the yacht is there… My relatives are pressing me to go over to France,” he said with a sigh.

    “Doing the pretty to a round of snaggle-toothed European princesses at the usual round of châteaux? Dull work,” said Mr Beresford kindly.

    “En effet,” he agreed sadly.

    “Er, look, my mother’s headed for Brighton with May and Robert; I am sure you’d be most welcome—”

    “Non, non! I mean, it sounds delightful,” he said wistfully. “But I have an invitation from your Aunt Fanny, which I think must take precedence, if I head for Brighton.”

    “Dear fellow,” said Mr Beresford, very shaken, “they’re not trying to shove the frightful Adélaïde off onto you, are they?”

    “My relatives and advisers think it would not be unsuitable,” he said sadly.

    “Oh, Lor’. Look, sir, if you would care to wait while I change—”

    Agreeing he would wait, Henri-Louis accepted the offer of a ride in Jack’s curricle.

    “You do know,” said Jack cautiously as he drove, “that she’s virtually illiterate?”

    “So it is true?”

    “Yes. In any language. Don’t think she has ever struggled through more than a single page of a book. She can write her name and I grant she can chatter away in several languages, but otherwise—” He shrugged. “The family is unsure whether it’s native stupidity, or merely stubbornness: she made up her mind at an early age that she hated her lessons, and after that, nothing they could say or do would drum anything into her head. She does know one or two little tunes by heart and can tinkle away at them when forced, but she can’t read a note of music, either.”

    “I think she would not be the only one, from what one hears of the European princesses,” he said sadly.

    Jack bit his lip. Poor damned fellow. “No, perhaps not. But Adélaïde’s only interested in horses and that damned fluffy lap-dog.”

    “Yes. I suppose there are worse interests. But I admit that if I were to marry her, I should be forced to look for consolation elsewhere,” he said on a cautious note.

    Adélaïde’s cousin agreed with feeling: “I should think so! Er, look, she is not in fact a von Maltzahn-Dressen, you know.”

    “Mm. But the Fürst always recognised her, no?”

    “Oh, certainly.”

    Henri-Louis sighed. “Then it will not weigh with my relatives. In any case her claim to be a von Maltzahn-Dressen is only slightly more tenuous than mine to be a Bourbon.”

    Jack Beresford went very red. He had known Henri-Louis, who was about his own age, and had grown up in England, for quite some years, but although this was certainly what was generally said of him, this was the first time he had actually said it himself, certainly in Jack’s hearing.

    “Between you and me, mon cher,” said the Prince heavily, “Wellington himself once advised me—quite tactfully, y’know—that he did not feel that any claim of mine, in the case it came down to that, would ever be accepted by the French people.”

    “No-o… Well, half of them are still republicans at heart, ain’t they?”

    “Yes, but he did not mean that. And he also said that in view of that fact, he did not feel it likely that His Majesty’s Government would be prepared to support me. I did not have the bottle,” he said with a wan smile, “to tell Old Hooky that I would never have the desire to ask.”

    “No,” said Jack lamely.

    They drove in silence for a while. Then Jack said grimly: “Look, sir, it ain’t my place, but it is your whole life involved, after all. If you are never likely to lodge any sort of claim to the throne, and if there is never likely to be any support for such a claim, need you marry any sort of princess at all? Let alone damned Adélaïde.”

    “I think you must know that nothing else would ever be permitted. Well, her or another. At least she will not mind, if I wish to spend half the year in England.”

    “Well, no: let her have her damned lap-dog, and give her a stableful of horses, and she’ll be happy as Larry.”

    “Mm. I shall think about it. I should hate to have to go off and live in Poland, or some such place.”

    “Absolutely! Poland?”

    “I cannot even pronounce that one’s name. But she is very rich, and her father has no male heir. I should have to change my name to something unpronounceable, but after that I should certainly be entitled to call myself a prince of Poland. In Polish,” he added drily.

    “Exactly. Er, well, need not prevent your travelling, I suppose.”

    “No, but the dashed place is on the eastern side of Poland, Jack!”

    “Then I suppose I would plump for Adélaïde, in your shoes. But is there nothing better offering?”

    “Well, there are lots of European princesses, but as I have nothing to offer them, no.”

    Mr Beresford bit his lip. “Mm.”

    “The Fürstin is eager to get her off her hands, and the family is prepared to be very generous,” he said dully. “I could certainly buy a decent country place.”

    “Well, you would enjoy that, old chap,” said Jack kindly.

    “Yes.”

    They drove for a while. Then, His Highness spotting a likely-looking hostelry, they pulled up, and, the faithful Mr Jenks assuring his master not to worry, for he wouldn’t take his eye off them so-called h’ostlers for a minute, the two gentlemen adjourned to a private parlour.

    “So, as I say,” said Henri-Louis, as the glasses were refilled, “I should be looking to console myself elsewhere. Well, I suppose we should have children. If she was willing. I confess I do not care, one way or the other.”

    “No,” agreed Jack, shuddering rather at the thought of the illiterate Adélaïde as the mother of one’s children.

    “So, er, may we expect to see you at the little Contessa’s last salon this Tuesday?” he said with a forced smile.

    “What? No,” said Mr Beresford shortly, going very red.

    “Ah,” said the Prince slowly. “Talking of duty to the family and one’s position, is this, dear fellow?”

    “I— More or less,” he admitted, scowling. “Well, it had gone nowhere, but Mamma and I had a serious talk and agreed that there could be no question of its going anywhere.”

    “No; I quite understand. Well, so who does that leave?” he said with another forced smile. “Captain Q.-V.?”

    “He is quite a decent chap.”

    “And has proven by the transferral of his allegiance from the P.W., that it was not the nabob’s fortune that was the attraction there, after all!”

    “H.-L.,” said Jack heavily, “if you will forgive me, it was not in your case, and it was not in mine, so why should it have been in old Q.-V.’s?”

    “Of course. Well, perhaps he will come up to scratch.”

    “It is not impossible,” said Jack, frowning.

    “No. Er, have you ever met the Contessa’s mother?”

    “No.”

    “Ah. Now, I have had that privilege. Maman thought that a certain Italian lady might do, and so we had a few months in Rome—this was a few years back—and some misguided person introduced us to the Baronessa Giulio Neroni. She did not precisely toad-eat us: she is the sort of person who thrusts her consequence at one. Maman was overjoyed, as you may imagine.”

    “Mm.”

    Henri-Louis eyed him thoughtfully. “So, you are quite determined not to see her again?”

    Jack drained his glass. “Yes.”

    “Then, alas, the field must be left for Charles Q.-V. to bustle in, I suppose,” he said lightly. “Shall we go?”

    Mr Beresford consenting, they set off again. Henri-Louis did not revert to either the topic of his own marriage or the topic of the Contessa, and Jack was only too glad not to refer to either again.

    The day being quite warm enough for the lightest of sprig muslins, the Contessa was in it. Her trailing sash was composed of intertwined ribands of deep cherry and dark green. More of the same appeared on the bonnet, which was the most entrancing bonnet imaginable that could still fall within the literal definition of “straw”. Mixed with these bonnet ribands were feathery sprays of tiny white silk flowers, and just a few small, half-opened, white silk roses, crimson-tipped.

    “A pity Nellie Dewesbury is not here to see that,” noted Eudora as her cousin primped before the sitting-room mirror.

    “Only if we positively desire her to drop dead of an access of green jealousy, I think! Have you seen my new parasol?”

    Eudora and Miss Hewitt had: it exactly matched the gown and bonnet, being composed of the sprig muslin laid over a white cambric, adorned with— Well, suffice it to say that the restrained touch of just one crimson-tipped white silk rose amidst the ribands and ruffles edging it probably did indicate that its creator was the genius that Raffaella claimed. Possibly it was a pity that he was eighty-two and being forced by his daughter-in-law to retire from the craft of umbrella and parasol making, yes; in especial as the grandson who was about to take over the business had wanted a positive wreath of— At about this point Miss Bon-Dutton had definitively stopped listening. Though admitting to Miss Hewitt when it was all over that, as Raffaella was clearly the sort of person who took a warm and quite genuine interest in the personal lives of her social inferiors, it was a great pity that she had not managed to snare a wealthy landowner such as His Grace of Lochailsh: she would clearly shine as the mistress of a large estate. Well, always supposing its master cared about endearing his family to his dependants. Miss Hewitt at this point had been reduced to suggesting tea. Eudora had smiled but said a little sadly: “Can you not see her in the rôle?” And Miss Hewitt had sadly agreed that she could, indeed.

    “So, who is to be your swain today?” asked Eudora with an attempt at brightness.

    “Possibly my greatest admirer,” replied Raffaella, primming up her mouth.

    Oddly, Miss Hewitt at this collapsed in giggles,.

    “She was there when we arranged it,” the Contessa excused her.

    “Cousin, do not tell me that you have agreed to drive out with General Baldaya!” said Eudora, closing her eyes.

    “Very well, I shall not tell you.”

    “What good can it do you?” said Eudora very faintly with her eyes shut.

    “Oh, the good of being seen out with a person who is received everywhere, counts His Grace of Wellington amongst his closest friends, unaware that His Grace offers no reciprocal arrangement, and treats me with the utmost gallantry and generosity,” she said airily.

    Eudora’s eyes snapped open. “What has he given you?”

    “Goodness, Cousin, do not concern yourself. I am a widow, you know: I suppose it may not be thought entirely unacceptable for me to receive the odd little token!”

    “What—has he—given—you?” said Miss Bon-Dutton between her teeth.

    “You do not count the posies nor the ices, I suppose?” she said airily. “No. Well, there was a little pocketbook with an embroidered cover which he found at the Spanish Bazaar and thought was an amusing—”

    “Raffaella, he presented that in full view of our salon, and cannot have spent more than a shilling on it! What has he given you?” she cried.

    “—an amusing trifle,” she ended sadly. “Dear Cousin, you would be so much more comfortable not knowing.”

    “My dear Contessa, this levity is somewhat misplaced,” said Miss Hewitt on a stern note.

    “One can see why Lady Harold hired you, Miss Hewitt: you are quite wonderful!” returned the Contessa, beaming at her. “It was a pretty fan, and a little brooch. On different occasions.”

    “How could you accept them?” said Eudora tightly.

    “Well, I weighed up the possibility of anyone’s becoming aware that they were gifts from the silly old thing, outside our own household, and decided that if I did not flaunt them abroad, it would be quite safe. Added to which, they are both in exquisite taste.”

    “Get them,” ordered Miss Bon-Dutton baldly.

    The Contessa obligingly went over to the door, though noting as she did so: “Alas, it is too late: I have already revealed myself as the sort of young woman who accepts gifts from gentlemen who possibly harbour no serious intentions towards herself, and towards whom she harbours nothing serious at all. But then, I had supposed you always knew I had feet of clay.” She went out, with a final roll of her eyes.

    “Presumably,” said Miss Hewitt into the grim silence which reigned in the sitting-room, “the mother never taught her that a well-bred young woman does not accept gifts from gentlemen.”

    “No, well, Charles was saying only the other day that he perfectly remembers the woman flaunting a hideous diamond and ruby diadem which she claimed was a gift from the Principe himself, but on the other hand she does seem to have been quite stern with her girls. So I fear we cannot lay the blame at her door, in this instance.”

    “I have been remiss,” murmured Miss Hewitt guiltily.

    “My very dear ma’am! The creature will have accepted them behind our backs, on one of those damned tête-à-tête drives! If there had been any way in the world to forbid her driving out with any of them— But then, as she does not hesitate to point out, she is after all, a widow, and may be supposed to be allowed some freedoms!”

    Miss Hewitt sighed, and nodded.

    … “These are just my colours,” said Raffaella, as she displayed the brooch. “Garnets, no?”

    “No: rubies. The central one is quite fine. Are you demented?” said her cousin angrily.

    Raffaella sat down, looking entirely composed. “No. I should not have hinted about it, and I apologise for upsetting you, Cousin. You see, I thought about it very seriously, when, after I accepted the fan—which you may see for yourself is just a trifle, though the painting on it is very pretty—when, as I say, he offered the brooch. And what I thought was, he must know even better than I that to offer such a gift to an unprotected young widow is quite beyond the pale. And that therefore he fully deserves to be made to look a fool, when eventually he offers whatever it is that is irrevocably linked to the brooch. And I assure you that I can see as well as yourself that it is just as likely to be a dishonourable proposal as an honourable one.”

    “Then you most certainly should not have accepted it,” said Miss Hewitt sternly.

    “No, but cannot you see,” she cried, “that he was taking gross advantage both of his own position and of mine, even to offer the thing? Tempting a young widow whom he knows has nothing, with the offer of such a gift! –Though I admit I truly was not sure that they were rubies.”

    “If this is an attempt to persuade us that you accepted the thing on behalf of womankind, you are wasting your breath,” noted Eudora tightly.

    “No, no! Only very partly! I accepted it mostly because it is so very lovely and I do not own anything worth a fraction as much, the which reason you may certainly sum up as cupidity and lack of principle, together. And partly to teach him the lesson that those who attempt to take advantage of persons whom they consider weaker than themselves, may expect to be now and then taught a lesson!”

    After a moment Eudora said limply: “I see.”

    “Added to which, when she is in extremis, a woman may always sell her jewels before she sells herself, no?” said the Contessa perfectly lightly. “And up to now I have had not have the option. So I thought it would be sensible to grab it, and start a collection.”

    “My dear child!” cried Miss Hewitt.

    “Miss Hewitt, do not say there will never be any question of that. A woman without fortune never knows what may be her fate.”

    Eudora had gone very white. “You must know that you will always have a home with me. I forbid you ever to think such a thing again!”

    “You are very kind, and you must not think that I do not appreciate your kindness,” replied the Contessa composedly. “But the thing is, you see, one never knows. What if you were to marry a man who disapproved of me? Well, look at Mr Quarmby-Vine,” she said as Eudora opened her mouth.

    “You will also have a home with Lilian and Peter should you need it, as I think you must know. He would never turn you from his door.”

    “Supposing that you had married a man who disliked me, and then died before he did, and that Cousin Lilian was also gone—”

    “Stop it,” said Eudora grimly.

    “I do not wish to raise bogies,” she said lightly. “But one must be sensible. A little nest-egg cannot be a bad thing.”

    “However it was come by?” said Miss Bon-Dutton, still very white.

    “Dear Cousin, I know your principles will probably prevent it, but try to put yourself in my shoes.”

    Eudora sighed. “Very well, I shall not demand you return the damned thing. I agree he deserves everything which you are presumably about to mete out to him.”

    “Oh, only if he should be silly enough actually to make an offer!”

    “Mm. Well, if the offer is an honourable one, think twice about it,” she said drily. “As Miss Hewitt has pointed out, he does have all those haciendas in Portugal.”

    “I shall,” she promised. “If you will excuse me, I shall just put these away before he comes.” She hurried out.

    Miss Bon-Dutton and Miss Hewitt looked limply at each other.

    “She has a point,” ventured Miss Hewitt uncertainly at last.

    “She has also a fine Italian mind,” returned Eudora drily.

    “No, well, a woman alone… ”

    “She is not a woman alone, or anything like it, as you very well know. I dare say she may not enjoy being dependent on her B.-D. relations for the time being, but the fact is, neither Lilian nor I would ever dream of turning her from our doors. And that is quite enough on the subject!”

    Miss Hewitt nodded. Though she did not look entirely convinced.

    Having learned that the little Contessa would enjoy the shade of the Park, in this warm weather, the fat, scented old General duly took her there. He was, as ever, very nattily turned out, the pantaloons very yellow, the coat very blue, the neckcloth very high and the immense expanse of waistcoat adorned with innumerable fobs and chains. And his phaeton was if anything even nattier, black with the wheels picked out in red, the pair poled up being matched blacks with smartly docked tails and red plumes to their heads. The latter touch being presumably the Portuguese taste, for it was not precisely à la mode in England.

    General Baldaya, never at a loss for words, favoured the Contessa with several mild on-dits of the town, and an account of a rout party recently given by the Portuguese Ambassador which his audience would have found quite hilarious if only the names of the Fürstin von Maltzahn-Dressen and the Princess Adélaïde had not figured largely therein, and if only she had been able to stop herself from wondering whether Mr Beresford had also been present…

    “Delightful, no?” he said as they entered a shady allée.

    “Si, si, dear General!” agreed the Contessa, fluttering the lashes very much from under the parasol.

    Happily he told her about a popular promenade in Lisbon. Ending: “Life there can be quite pleasant. And the climate is much milder zhan that of England, though the summers can be unpleasantly warm. Lisbon is generally reckoned to have a most salubrious situation.”

    “I am sure,” she said dulcetly.

    “For myself, I do not find Portuguese Society precisely entrancing. But zhis is a small matter, no? One can always escape to Paris or London.”

    “Naturalmente,” agreed the Contessa dulcetly.

    “And although I am the head of my family, my eldest son, João, is vairy happy to live on the property and see to the estates. He enjoys the country life.”

    “That must be most convenient for both of you, sir,” she murmured.

    “Aye, aye. But though I keep pretty busy and manage to amuse myself tolerably well, it is a lonely life, y’know.”

    Well, yes, except that here in London there was the charming Mrs Andrew Daley, not a widow, though Mr Andrew Daley was not very much in evidence. And in Paris there was reliably reputed to be a Madame Du Bellay, and in Lisbon itself, though the Contessa had not the precise reference, doubtless there was some complaisant lady… “I have never remarked you to be in the least lonely, sir,” she said dulcetly. “Whenever I see you, you seem to be surrounded by friends.”

    “Acquaintances, merely,” he said with a gusty sigh.

    “Yes? They must be some consolation, however, General.”

    “Oh, indeed, indeed: everyone is so vairy kind to a lonely old widower,” he sighed.

    In especial Mrs Andrew Daley, one must conclude, thought the Contessa, rather wishing she might say so: though that, of course, would end everything. Or else precipitate the sort of offer which she did not desire!

    “I admit to you, my dear, that I cannot support zhe English winters,” he said with a little shudder. His large person shook like a great blancmanger, and Raffaella had much ado not to laugh.

    “No, well, I am sure I cannot blame, you, General,” she returned somewhat weakly. “I spent part of last winter with my kind cousins at Sommerton Grange, and even though the house is quite snug, and I had a fire in my bedchamber every night, I felt the cold very much.”

    At this the fat old man gave her a very kindly look and said in a tone he might have used with his granddaughter: “A fire in your bedchamber every night, hey? I am glad to hear zhey are looking after you properly, my dear.”

    “Er—yes,” said the Contessa, very disconcerted. “Si, naturalmente. They are very kind.”

    “Aye, aye, but nonetheless it is not the same as a establishment of one’s own, is it?” he said, not sounding so grandfatherly.

    “No, most certainly not!” agreed the Contessa vividly. “And I confess I cannot abide Cousin Lilian’s idea of a charming drawing-room; there is so much blue in it, which makes it seems so cold!”

    “Oh, but that is vairy much zhe English taste, my dear little Contessa,” he said with a certain relish. “Their rooms and their famous landscaped gardens are as cold as zheir English hearts, no? We Latins are so much warmer, yes?”

    “O, si, signore; except that I am only half Latin, of course,” said Raffaella, opening her eyes very wide at him.

    “Si.” The General drew up under the shade of a leafy tree and gave his groom a sharp order over his shoulder in his native language; and to the Contessa’s absolute astonishment, for apart from the unsuitable gifts, the meaning looks, and one or two episodes of little squeezes of the plumper part of the arm, above the elbow, and one or two pats of the thigh, which she had almost been enabled to overlook, General Baldaya had always been very proper with her, the man jumped down and hurried off.

    “Do not panic,” said the old man, transferring the reins to his whip hand, and patting her hand. “One merely wishes for a little chat wizhout being overheard. And the demned fellow’s English is as good as mine,” he added on an irritable note.

    “I am sure it could not be,” replied Raffaella, quite sincerely. Apart from the occasional trouble with the English “th” and the occasional distortion of a vowel, the old General’s English was excellent: indeed, entirely remarkable for one who had begun to learn it only, as he had confided, when a lad of sixteen. At the which point his father had decided the Diplomatic Service might suit and modern languages would be useful.

    “Well, never mind that,” he said, squeezing her hand. “I should desire to talk, if you will permit, Signora, of your Season in London and how you feel it has gone.”

    The Contessa had not expected him to take this tack and had to swallow. “Oh, well, I suppose, to say truth, it has not gone very well!” she said with an attempt at an airy shrug.

    “So I thought,” he said squeezing the hand again. “Too many people in England, if you will forgive my saying so, remember your mother razher too vividly, no?”

    “Quite. Though I think it is not merely that,” said Raffaella, sticking her chin out.

    “No?” he said with a sharp look. He released the hand and to Raffaella’s astonishment, though she knew by now the fat old man had a sweet tooth, produced a little package, daintily wrapped in silver paper and adorned with a ribbon, which he presented to her with the remark: “Some Indian sweetmeats which I had from my niece, Lady Stamforth. She grew up in India, and her women still prepare these for the household quite regularly. Try zhem, my dear: I think you will like zhem. In my personal opinion, they are better than anything any English kitchen can produce: and that, I think, is again due to their cold hearts, no?”

    Numbly she unwrapped them, offered them to him, and took one. They were certainly delicious: something like a firm fudge, flavoured with rosewater, decorated with silver cashoos and a little spice which Raffaella did not know, and coloured palest pink.

    “They are made of milk, boiled down for hours. Often they are just white, but when Nan heard they were for you, she asked zhem to make the pink ones,” he said on a complacent note.

    “Nan” was the P.W. The Contessa gulped. “You—you asked Lady Stamforth for these on—on my behalf?” she faltered.

    “Of course,” he said complacently. “You like the rosewater, mm?”

    “Si, si, I adore it,” said Raffaella numbly. Help! His speaking of her to his niece must be a clear indication that the silly old thing’s intentions were honourable, after all!

    “Anch’Io,” he said complacently. He produced a silk handkerchief, wiped his fingers carefully, and then put his hand on her knee. “You see: we have many tastes in common, I zhink? Now, you will tell me exactly what it is, besides Society’s memory of your mother, which in your opinion has made your Season go not vairy well.”

    This was an order, not a request. Raffaella had to swallow. “Um, I think you know, sir. It is the story which the Italian Embassy has spread about my elopement with the Conte dell’Aversano.”

    “Ah, yes. And?”

    “And?” said Raffaella in bewilderment. “Is that not enough? Er, well, my horrid stepfather did not catch up with us until we had spent one night on the road. But I would have supposed that that point featured largely in the Embassy version.”

    “Yes. So zhat is all, is it, my dear?” he said, looking at her very hard.

    “Um, I ran away from the convent,” said Raffaella lamely.

    “Of course, you did, poor little girl!” he said warmly, squeezing the knee.

    “If—if you would speak to Lord Keywes, he knows all the facts, sir, for the Conte dell’Aversano himself—”

    “Yes. I have spoken to Robert,” he said mildly.

    “Oh,” said Raffaella lamely. “Um, well, I think you must see that it is because of that story, though Lord and Lady Keywes have been kind enough to contradict it, that many doors have been closed to me. And of course I am as poor as a church mouse, which has not been a point in my favour.”

    “Not with the match-making mammas and the fortune-hunters, no,” he agreed cheerfully. “And zhat is the sum total of it, is it?”

    She shrugged. “Possibly I have encouraged the wrong gentlemen, sir, but as the right ones were not offering, what would you?”

    “Have another barfee, my dear. I think there is not an English name: zhat is what Nan and her children call them,” he said, smiling.

    Limply Raffaella took another pink sweetmeat.

    “You know,” he said, helping himself, “I was in England for a while in the earlier part of the century. Naturally my duties called me home when war broke out. But I was certainly here the year your mother married Jeremy Andrews. I never visited at their country home, but Tommy Brantwell had a place very near, a house which belonged to Sir John Stevens, and I knew him quite well. I met the Principessa and Mr Andrews at several parties.”

    “Did you?” said Raffaella feebly, as he seemed to be waiting for an answer.

    “Yes. Tell me what you remember of your father.”

    “I was thirteen when he died, sir, so I remember him quite well.” Enthusiastically Raffaella reported Jeremy Andrews’s quiet good sense, his intelligence, his gentleness, and the delights of his library.

    “You were very fond of him, then?”

    “Yes,” she said, blinking a little. “Oh, dear! Poor Papa: I suppose I have not thought of him, this age… Well, my life has been rather full. But I do miss him.”

    “He was a good man,” said the old General, patting her knee. “A great pity that he had not settled the property on the boy.”

    “What? Oh. But Bobby has a very sunny nature, sir, and he is quite happy in Italy,” she said dubiously. “He is younger than I, and does not remember Papa so well.”

    “Aye, aye,” he said, sighing. “So, the name Brantwell means nothing to you, my dear?”

    Raffaella by this time had given up trying to guess why he was quizzing her, and was reduced merely to answering his questions. “No, well, some relation of little Mr Jerry Brantwell, sir?”

    “His father. Lord Brantwell.”

    “Well, that is all it means,” said Raffaella simply.

    “Yes… Oh, dear. Have another barfee, my dear little girl.”

    Raffaella did not take another pink sweetmeat. Instead she sat up very straight, looked the old man firmly in the eye, and said: “I perceive there is some mystery here. I am certainly willing to answer anything you may ask me. And since you are an older gentleman, I shall not suggest that it is inappropriate to quiz me. But if there is something you wish to suggest, I wish you would just say it straight out.”

    He sighed. “You are really vairy like my niece… Not just in looks, though I am sure half London has pointed that out to you. Vairy well, then. Jeremy Andrews was a decent man. But he was not, in fact, your real father.”

    Raffaella stared at him numbly. “What?”

    “That did not mean he did not love you as if you were his own, my dear!” he said hurriedly.

    “I know that!” she said, tears of shock and anger sparkling in her eyes. “One cannot mistake true paternal affection, I assure you! And you need not remind me of Mamma’s history, for although I was too little to realise it when we lived in England, I can see as well as anyone that she must have seized upon poor Papa in order to give herself an establishment, and never truly cared for him at all! But— O, Dio mio,” she said slowly, staring at him. “Both Latins—and tastes in common—”

    “No!” said General Baldaya hurriedly. “What an idea! You are not my daughter!”

    Raffaella smiled palely. “I do not know whether to be glad or sorry. But then, whose?”

    “Lord Brantwell’s. That is why Stevens was so urgent to get the boy away from you.”

    “Little Jerry is my brother?” After a stunned moment Raffaella went into a peal of laughter. And admitted: “No wonder I mentally classed him with Bobby and Tonio! So it was not just his youth, nor the inanities or the choking neckcloths.”

    “No,” he agreed, looking at her awkwardly.

    After a moment Raffaella said: “O, Dio mio. All London knows, is that it?”

    “No, not at all. Only a vairy few, my dear.”

    “Would this be,” she said, her nostrils flaring angrily, “the few who count, General?”

    “Not quite. Stevens knows. And—er—Wellington.”

    After a moment Raffaella admitted: “Possibly that explains why we have not set eyes on Geddings for a solid week!”

    “Yes. I could not but notice, too, my dear, so as I have known Arthur for so vairy many years, I ventured to speak to him.”

    “General, I find it very hard to believe that His Grace of Wellington, who I am very sure is unaware of my existence, bothered to warn Geddings off!”

    “Not quite that. Geddings himself broached the topic.”

    There was a little silence. The old man looked at her anxiously.

    “Well!” said the Contessa with a toss of her head. “I suppose I can count myself honoured! After the Emperor Napoleon, he stoops to defeat Raffaella dalla Rovere! Now I take the hint and save His Grace the trouble of banishing me to St Helena, is that it?”

    “Not at all, my dear.”

    “So, is there more?” said Raffaella with a sigh.

    “A little. –Sometimes they make them with the pistachios, no? Those they colour pale green, and as well as grinding the nut vairy fine and adding it to the mixture, put a piece on top.” The General ate a pink barfee, and sighed. “Fanny von Maltzahn-Dressen knows, also.”

    “Dear me! The Iron Duke, and the Fürstin! One is honoured! But dare I ask, General, are you sure she knows? Or is it merely that she knows everything?”

    “I am sure she knows, because I asked her.”

    The Contessa gulped.

    “You are so bright, that I do not need to spell out zhe rest. –I have also had the green barfees flavoured with peppermint, only that I do not care for, so much.”

    “No, the rosewater is wonderful. And I am fond of pistachio nuts: those ones must be delightful,” said the Contessa dully.

    “Mr Beresford,” said the General on a neutral note, offering her the last barfee, “is vairy young. No?” he said as she shook her head. “Vairy well, then, my dear, if it is not to deprive you?” He ate the last pink sweetmeat, and sighed gustily. “Perhaps I am old enough to have a better grasp of the things that truly matter, in life. Zhere is also zhe point that I have an heir; indeed, seven sons and so far, ten grandsons. My wife, it is not to flatter myself, was a vairy happy woman. I can offer you that position, and a secure and pleasant life, partly in a climate which I think you will find vairy much pleasanter zhan that of England, and where no-one will dare to look down their noses at you, and partly here, at least for the warmer months of the year. Naturally my attentions go along with the offer,” he said calmly, wiping his hands meticulously on the silk handkerchief. “Ah: you possibly know nothing of my own background. Lord and Lady Stamforth would be happy to speak to your kind relatives. The Baldayas are one of the oldest and most respected families in Portugal.”

    Even though she was now expecting the offer, Raffaella found she did not know what to say. For one thing, the emotions she was experiencing were so entirely contradictory! “I am sure,” she produced lamely.

    “In your place, Nan would point out that I have, imprimis, backed you into a corner and, secundus, stooped to the worst sort of blackmail, by telling you of your parentage,” said the old man calmly.

    Raffaella’s nostrils flickered. “Si,” she said flatly.

    “Oh, quite. But then, you see, a man must choose the poor weapons he has to hand. And as I am vairy old, and vairy fat, and know myself not to be attractive to a young and pretty widow, I decided I had best give myself what advantage I could.”

    “Si. They say,” said the Contessa hoarsely, “that she is very intelligent.”

    “Nan? She is extremely intelligent, yes. Not unlike yourself.”

    “I mean that you must be very like her, sir, and I confess I do not know whether to scream at you or burst into tears! You spoke so kindly of Papa, and broke the news to me as kindly as anyone possibly could, and yet your intentions were scarcely kindly disinterested, and your own word ‘blackmail’ certainly fits the case; but then, on the other hand, to offer marriage at all to a woman with my background is an entirely generous gesture!”

    “Well, the Baldayas are mostly extremely bright and extremely devious,” he said mildly. “Though you will have heard that I am known as the worse tactician since Vercingetorix was a lad, I am sure.”

    Raffaella bit her lip. The more he said, and the more he revealed of himself, the more she liked him. But on the other hand, his person was so gross!

    They sat there in silence for quite some time.

    Eventually the old man said: “Life is like that, my dear. Only the vairy fortunate get offered it all in the one neat bundle, in exactly the form they desire, at the period of life when they desire it.”

    “Si. –I like you so much!” said Raffaella with a little crazy laugh, biting her lip.

    “Zhat could be a start. Think it over, yes? Zhere is no hurry: I am fixed in England at least until the autumn. Nan and Lewis have vairy kindly invited me to Stamforth Castle for the summer. It is on the Sussex coast: if you and Miss Bon-Dutton are to head for Brighton, perhaps we shall see a little of each other, yes?”

    “I should like that,” said Raffaella, blinking tears away.

    “Good,” he said mildly, setting the pair in motion.

    The Contessa’s was not a nature which found it easy to keep much to itself, and Miss Bon-Dutton and Miss Hewitt did not have to press her very hard at all, before it was all poured out to them.

    “He could certainly offer you an extremely pleasant life,” said Eudora gamely.

    “O, sicuro! Even pleasanter than that which Captain Q.-V. could provide!”

    “I think so, yes. So you are seriously thinking about it?” she ventured.

    “Yes. And at least he is not English!” she said on a bitter note.

    The ladies were left to make what they could, of that.

Next chapter:

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