Invitations

23

Invitations

    Mr Greg Ashenden, it might be remembered, was but an humble connection on the distaff side of that august Corinthian, Mr Beresford, and so was not all that often honoured with an engraved invitation to attend at the actual Beresford Hall. Or, more exactly, as he had been forced to admit to his close friend Mr Rollo Valentine, he had of course a standing invitation and Jack had told him not to stand on ceremony.

    “Brighton’s damned flat. Everyone’s gone,” Rollo reminded him.

    “Aye.”

    “Er—your ma expecting you, old fellow?” asked Rollo delicately.

    Greg winced. His widowed mother was a chronic complainer. “No. Added to which, Bath’s damned flat.”

    “So, shall we? Or do you still have hopes the P.W.’ll ask you to Stamforth Castle?” he added meanly.

    Greg reddened. “No!” The P.W. had collapsed in helpless laughter when the purport of his hints had dawned. Eventually managing to gasp: “Lewis and I eentend spending a peaceful summer at home weeth the children. I’m sorry—dear—Mr—Greg!”

    “So?”

    “Um, thing is, think Aunt Beresford’s with him, this year,” he said uneasily.

    Rollo gulped, but rallied to say: “Well, she won’t have her eye upon us, old man: dare say we can get out with the rods, and so forth. For that matter, dare say Jack’ll come out with us.”

    “If she lets him, y’mean? No, well, she ain’t that bad in the country.”

    Perfectly understanding this sufficiently obscure statement, Rollo nodded.

    “Well, dare say we could. Might see a bit of Val and Shirley, too, ain’t they up that way?”

    “No,” said Rollo faintly, closing his eyes. “Um, yes, they are,” he admitted, opening them. “At Sir John Stevens’s little place. No, thing is, Sir Ceddie’s with ’em, and what Shirley don’t know is, he’s got it in mind to pin him down and make him agree to pay his addresses to some dashed heiress with a squint. Young Jane R. told me.”

    Greg duly shuddered, but asked drily: “And did you reciprocate by telling her that Lady R. intends for her to take Geddings, before the summer’s out?”

    “Didn’t need to, old boy, she thinks it’s a terrific joke,” he said calmly.

    Tacitly admitting defeat, Greg conceded: “Well, ho for Cumberland, then?”

    “Aye,” he said gratefully. “Thanks, Greg. Ma’s got some damned Scotch cousin stayin’, at home. Pug-nosed and freckled.”

    “God, why didn’t you say, dear boy?” he gasped in horror.

    Grinning sheepishly, Mr Rollo aimed a blow at his midriff, and, Greg responding in kind, conversation lapsed.

    Reluctantly Lilian Quarmby-Vine opened the letter from Eudora. She gasped.

    “What is it, dear Mamma-in-law?” cried Susannah anxiously.

    “I cannot believe—” Feverishly Lilian read it through again. “Eudora and John Stevens are engaged,” she said limply.

    Susannah just sat there with her mouth open.

    After quite some time Lilian bit her lip and agreed feebly: “I know.”

    “Buh-but we thought it was all off: I mean, that it had gone nowhere…”

    Lilian nodded mutely.

    Susannah took a deep breath. “May I read it?” she said firmly.

    “Dearest, my mind has not been affected by bad news. It—it appears to be quite true,” said Lilian limply. “But read it, by all means.”

    Determinedly Susannah rose, removed the letter from her mamma-in-law’s palsied hand, and read it.

    “You see?” said Lilian limply.

    Susannah nodded dazedly, sinking back onto her chair, and trying to smile.

    Lilian also tried to smile, but without much result. The two Quarmby-Vine ladies just sat there for some time, looking weakly at each other.

    Eventually Susannah, who of course was not so nearly related as was Lilian, said firmly: “I am very glad.”

    “Me, too,” said Lilian feebly.

    “Is there a letter enclosed from Raffaella?”

    “Mm? Oh. Here.” Lilian passed her the enclosure, not even tempted to smile as Susannah unfolded it with a grimly determined expression on her round, pink face.

    “Yes!” she said at last, looking up with a beaming smile. “It is quite true, and she invites us all most warmly up to Cumberland for the engagement party! –Oh, dearest Mamma-in-law!” she cried, springing up. “Do not cry, I beg!”

    Lilian gave in entirely and wept tears of joy and relief all over her little daughter-in-law’s shoulder. Even going so far as to agree meekly when Susannah told her firmly she must have a new gown for the party, not grey silk, it was too ageing.

    “Oh!” cried Lady Jerningham. She leapt up and danced a short fandango, waving the letter from Cumberland in the air.

    Her husband looked at her in alarm. “Katie, what on earth— My God, don’t tell me Senhora Baldaya’s snared Jack Beresford after all?”

    “It is very good news, but not that good!” she said with a laugh. “I had absolutely given up hoping for it! Dear Miss Bon-Dutton is engaged to Sir John Stevens! –Do not dare to say anything, Arthur,” she warned. “Raffaella is absolutely persuaded they are passionately in love. And it will certainly be a marriage of true minds. Oh, it is delightful!”

    Feebly Commander Sir Arthur, who had learned over the period of their marriage when it was wise not to open the great mouth and cram the sea-boot into it, agreed that it was, indeed.

    “Raffaella is to throw an huge engagement party, and we are invited!” said Katie rapturously.

    Oh, God. “When?” he croaked.

    “Very soon. I calculate—”

    Feebly Commander Sir Arthur let her calculate that they could just dash down to Daynesford Place for Cousin Giles’s birthday and then quickly hurry up to Cumberland— True, Katie was very well, and Baby was not so little as all that any more, but he had envisaged, a duty visit to the old Jerningham cousins down in Kent being over, a peaceful late summer doing nothing more energetic than a bit of sailing on Spindles Lake. It would not be so bad if she’d agree to skip Daynesford Place, for Cumberland was not so very far from home; but all the way down there, and then all the way back? After a while he endeavoured to put this to her, but his little wife told him gaily not to be a fuddy-duddy.

    Miss Hewitt’s relatives, with whom she was spending the summer, watched in horror as she burst into tears over the open letter.

    “Dora, dearest, is it a death?” faltered her sister Bella, Mrs Spooner.

    “No!” she gasped, smiling through the tears. “Wonderful news! Read it!”

    Anxiously Mrs Spooner, the Reverend Henry Spooner, and the Misses Mary and Jane Spooner, aged respectively fifteen and thirteen summers, bent together over the letter.

    “Good God,” said Henry Spooner limply, regardless of his cloth.

    “I thought she was old?” gasped Miss Mary.

    Nodding frantically, Miss Jane agreed: “Isn’t she the horsey lady?”

    “Hush! My dears!” reproved Mrs Spooner, trying to look both stern and pleased at the same time. “Dearest Dora,” she said firmly to her sister, “this is excellent news, indeed.”

    Miss Hewitt nodded, mopping the tears.

    “Unexpected, too,” noted the Reverend Henry drily.

    “Hush, Henry! Of course you will go to the engagement party, Dora?”

    “Isn’t Cumberland an awful long way from Lincolnshire, though?” asked Jane hazily.

    Miss Hewitt blew her nose hard and replied determinedly: “Of course I shall go. It is not so far as all that, Jane, dear. And if you will all excuse me, I shall go and pen a little note of congratulation at once.”

    Nodding kindly, the Spooners let her go.

    Then they looked at one another limply.

    Eventually Jane, who was given to voicing thoughts her elders generally considered were best left unspoken, ventured: “But it’s terrible! It means Aunty Dora has lost her position! What on earth will she do now?”

    What, indeed? The Spooners looked at one another helplessly.

    Eventually the Reverend Henry said limply: “Go back to governessing, I suppose. Well, she has excellent references, she will not find it hard to get a new place.”

    “Papa, could we not possibly afford to have her? –No,” conceded Mary sadly.

    “The letter never even breathed a word about her position!” said Jane angrily. “That is just so like the nobility!”

    Her family looked at her wanly and did not find the strength to reprove her.

    Mrs Beresford’s face expressed nothing as she opened the invitation. Calmly she said to her son: “That rumour you had from Shirley Rowbotham about Sir John and Miss B.-D. was well founded after all.” Calmly she passed him the invitation.

    Mr Greg and Mr Rollo were still in residence at Beresford Hall, Mrs Beresford having indeed proven not so bad in the country. And Miss Sherman, being neither squint-eyed nor pug-faced in spite of predictions, being quite bearable in spite of a certain resemblance to a white rabbit. So Greg was able to own, somewhat limply: “I have an invitation, too.”

    “Mm. One cannot help thinking that it should more properly have come from Lady Harold B.-D. Or possibly Chelford,” said Mrs Beresford calmly.

    Greg looked sideways at Jack, wishing that damned Rollo had got himself out of his pit in time to breakfast with them this morning. Not that the expression “broken reed” did not spring to mind, but possibly even his moral support would be better than none? And at the least it would be another opinion about Jack’s reaction—or lack thereof. “Absolutely, Aunt Beresford. Er—dare say it wouldn’t do to refuse?”

    “No, Greg my dear,” she said calmly but with, Greg fancied, complete awareness of the question’s every possible implication.

    “No,” he agreed on a glum note, not daring to glance at Jack again.

    “It is very exciting, I think!” squeaked the innocent Miss Sherman.

    “Lucy, my dear, it will be the crush to end all crushes: I am quite sure Senhora Baldaya will have invited everyone she knows,” said Mrs Beresford tolerantly. “And how on earth that house is to accommodate them, goodness only knows.”

    “Mm. Uh—will the Chelfords come, d’you think?” asked Greg on something of a desperate note, still not daring to glance at Jack.

    “I believe they have a house-party at Dallermaine, there may not be sufficient notice for them. But I should have said the question was, rather, will Lady Harold come?” she murmured with a twinkle in her eye.

    “Quite. Unexceptionable though the match is,” said Jack on a grim note, rising. “Pray excuse me: I have some business to attend to, this morning.”

    Greg cleared his throat as the door closed after him. “Dare say the Senhora may be finding the countryside dashed flat, y’know, and—er—well, any excuse for a party, hey?”

    Mrs Beresford eyed him drily. “I dare say.”

    “Oh, but one hears she has had the most wonderful picknick parties!” squeaked Miss Sherman. “I do so wish we had been invited to them!”

    “My dear, I scarcely know her,” said Mrs Beresford lightly. “Now, you must think about what you would like to wear to the engagement party.”

    At this Greg tottered to his feet and groped his way out, unable to take another instant of it. Not that “Cool as a cucumber” had not always been Aunt Beresford’s middle name—but all the same!

    And all dashed Rollo said, when the horrors of the morning had been revealed to him, was: “Glad I weren’t down.” Typical!

    An amazing number of persons having found themselves able to get up to Cumberland in order to celebrate the fiançailles of Sir John Stevens and Eudora Bon-Dutton, Hailsham House was duly overflowing at the seams, and the little village inn was full. Some of the overflow, indeed, had invited themselves to Beresford Hall, and it was thus impossible for Mr Beresford to refuse to attend the party—if such had been in his mind.

    Naturally a terrific amount of time and energy had been expended at Hailsham House on the question of dress. Initially Raffaella had proposed wearing white satin heavily frosted with crystal beading and seed pearls, a confection which she claimed had come from the hand of the very modiste who made for the P.W. And did Eudora think her diamonds or merely her double string of pearls with it? Oddly enough her cousin was not in a fit state to give any sort of opinion on anything whatsoever, and so responded “Either,” but Aunt Eliza was able to cast a deciding vote in favour of the pearls, which gave a more youthful appearance but were still womanly—or that, at least, was the translation. So the thing seemed settled. Then it was unsettled: the Jerninghams and the Ferdy Laceys arrived, and Katie’s jaw dropped as Raffaella tried it on.

    “What’s wrong with it, cara?” asked Raffaella.

    “Katie, it’s wholly delicious!” cried Gwennie.

    “Bridal,” said Katie very faintly.

    “Br— No such thing!” cried Gwennie loudly, in a spite of the fact that she herself had been married in white satin and pearls.

    “Yes,” said her sister in a hollow voice.

    Gwennie was very flushed. “Oh, pooh! Let them say she is offering competition to the bride-to-be: what can it signify? She is half her age, and I think I can almost guarantee you that Miss B.-D. will not deck herself out in white satin and pearls for her nuptials!”

    “It will be too cold for satin. They are planning a November wedding,” said Raffaella limply. “At Dallermaine Abbey; the Duke wrote a very kind letter.”

    “Velvet, will it be?” returned Gwennie eagerly.

    “She has not decided…” Raffaella looked down at her dress with a frown. “I think you are right, Katie. Not that all brides do wear white, by any means, but… Bother.”

    Gwennie tried to argue for the gown, but was voted down. And the entire contents of Raffaella’s wardrobe were spread out upon the bed…

    “Colours would not be suitable. Half-mourning, at the most,” Katie reminded her sister as Lady Ferdy attempted to urge a crimson silk upon their friend.

    Raffaella got into her black lace.

    “No! All the dowagers will be in black!” cried Gwennie on a note of anguish. “I will lay you a monkey Mrs Beresford will!”

    There was a moment’s silence. Katie’s face was very red.

    “Yes. Let us not pretend that we are not all aware of why I am here,” said Raffaella calmly. “Perhaps not unrelieved black, then.” She got into another lace gown. “This? I last wore it at the opera in Paris,” she said airily.

    The body of the gown and the unlined puffs of sleeves were of white lace, the wide scalloped border at the hem being black, and also the bodice. What there was of it. The Dewesbury sisters gulped.

    “Paris appreciated it,” murmured Raffaella.

    “I do not think Cumberland will,” said Katie on a warning note.

    Laughing, Raffaella got out of it. “Perhaps this?”

    “But we said not black!” cried Gwennie.

    “Try it on,” urged Katie.

    Raffaella got into it.

    Black gauze, embroidered very delicately in a pattern of black silk and crystal beads. It shimmered very softly as she moved.

    “It is the most delicate effect I ever saw!” cried Katie admiringly.

    “Not dowagerish?” said Raffaella drily.

    “No. Um, but I do not think either your pearls or your diamonds would do with it,” she said on a crestfallen note.

    “No, they would be too heavy,” agreed Gwennie. “Perhaps just the diamond earrings?” She sorted eagerly though Raffaella’s jewel box. “Ah! The very thing! Where did you get it?” Not waiting for an answer, she pinned the delicate butterfly brooch of diamonds in Raffaella’s dark curls. “Ideal!”

    “What is it?” asked Katie, watching Raffaella’s face.

   “It came from a street market in Lisbon; it’s paste,” she admitted.

    Gwennie collapsed in ecstatic giggles, clapping her hands. “Wear it!”

    Raffaella looked dubiously at Lady Jerningham.

    Katie’s sweet pink mouth firmed. “Yes: wear it, dearest Raffaella, and be damned to the lot of them!”

    Mr Beresford was therefore greeted on his arrival at the engagement party by a ruby-lipped, pink-cheeked angel in a softly shimmering, dusky cloud. In his wake, Rollo Valentine gulped audibly, and even the self-possessed Greg Ashenden might have been seen to swallow. And the naïve Miss Sherman, terribly flattered to have Senhora Baldaya remember her from her afternoon call at Beresford Hall, informed her that it was the most adorable gown she had ever seen!

    “Thought she’d overdo it, y’know,” confessed Greg, once a soothing sherry was having its effect.

    “Hasn’t, though,” allowed Rollo. “Outshines even the P.W. tonight, don’t she?”

    Lady Stamforth was shining in deepest cherry silk, with a great fall of rubies and gold at the perfect neck. It was Greg’s considered opinion, given that her La’ship was a house guest at Hailsham House, that the two of ’em had got together and agreed to complement each other, rather than compete. He did not express this thought to his innocent friend, just sighed, and admitted: “So she do.”

    The Beresford Hall party had been honoured with invitations to dinner: the hoi polloi, as Greg had not failed to note, being expected at the dance that was to follow. Most fortunately Greg had not been silly enough to bet with Shirley Rowbotham on the little Senhora’s placing Jack next herself. “That’s five guineas you owe Shirley, Rollo,” he noted as they went in together, Rollo with little Miss Sherman on his arm, and Greg himself with the giggling Lady Ferdy Lacey. “Told you them odds was too good.”

    Dinner was not remarkable for anything very much except perhaps for Sir Lionel Dewesbury’s being reduced to utter silence by the sight of Lord Brantwell seated at but two removes from their gracious hostess. When the gentlemen rejoined the ladies he managed to draw his wife aside and mutter in her ear: “Don’t he realise?”

    “Mm?” Lady Lavinia followed the direction of his gaze to where Brantwell was chatting amiably with Sir John Stevens and Sir Cedric Rowbotham. “Say, rather, don’t he care, Lionel.”

    He gulped, but conceded she had a point. “Er, the little Senhora’s goin’ to have one last touch at Jack B.?” he murmured.

    “Ssh!” She looked grimly at Jack Beresford, who was listening to something Bobby Quarmby-Vine was saying with a very bored expression on his handsome face. “I hope not.”

    Sir Lionel could only concur.

    The determined bride-to-be, although failing to get out of Raffaella how much she was paying for the house, let alone how much of what old Baldaya had left her actually remained, had insisted on bearing part of the expense for the engagement party. No, well, at least Raffaella was not to expend any more on damned Hailsham House! The house’s pleasant ballroom was now charmingly refurbished, therefore, at Eudora’s expense. By the time the rest of the guests had arrived it was bursting at the seams. Not a few of those present could not but conclude that the attraction was not merely the joint names of Bon-Dutton and Stevens.

    “Who invited the Fürstin von Maltzahn-Dressen?” said Miss Hewitt faintly to the bride-to-be, as those who were dancing revolved in the figures and those who were not observed.

    Eudora looked dry. “No-one, to my knowledge. One collects she was on her way to spend some time in Scotland at Craigie Castle, and dropped off at her old home, Beresford Hall being so convenient for breaking the journey. –Well, my dear, she could hardly have carried on north, those are the Ivos over there chatting with Lilian as we speak.”

    Miss Hewitt smiled limply: Lord and Lady Ivo were the owners of Craigie Castle.

    “And before you ask me who invited Lord McDiarmid,” she added, very drily indeed, “let me assure you it was not I.”

    Miss Hewitt looked at the startlingly handsome figure in the kilt. “No,” she croaked. “She will have done it on purpose—to show Mr B. that if he does not care to offer, others may.”

    “Well, yes. Rather unfortunately, that is also the conclusion that all of those present with the possible exception of little Miss Sherman will have drawn,” said the bride-to-be drily.

    “Yes. She is besieged,” said Miss Hewitt numbly, looking at the crowd of male backs in black coats and dress uniforms, which was all that could be seen of Raffaella.

    “Quite. And before you ask, dear ma’am, whether anyone has pointed out to her that it is not seemly for her to be dancing while she is still in her blacks, allow me to say that I certainly did, John certainly did, Senhora Figueiredo certainly did, and Lilian certainly did.”

    “So did I. She kissed my cheek and told me not to fuss,” confessed Miss Hewitt with a lame smile.

    “Quite.”

    The musicians played nobly, those who were under the impression that the purpose of the evening was dancing duly whirled in the figures, the Senhora Baldaya also whirled in the figures… After some time it was observed that Mrs Beresford had forced Jack to dance with the little white rabbit, had forced Jack to dance with his friend Bobby Q.-V.’s wife, and had forced Jack to dance with one of Ivo’s girls. He was then seen voluntarily to solicit his Aunt Fanny von Maltzahn-Dressen’s hand and at this point Mr Gregory Ashenden tottered off the floor in search of liquid refreshment. After a few moments Rollo joined him.

    “Ten guineas says it’ll get worse, Greg.”

    “I shall keep my money in my pocket,” he groaned.

    “Quite,” Rollo agreed glumly.

    The music played, the dancers whirled… Mr Beresford was seen to solicit the giggling Lady Ferdy Lacey for the waltz, and Gwennie was seen to accept. Under her breath Lady Jerningham announced that she would kill her sibling. The pair sat out the next and Commander Sir Arthur began to fear that his little wife would be taken off in an apoplexy. Mr Beresford then solicited a little unknown in white muslin with mistaken puce ribbons but this did not appear to raise Katie’s spirits. After that he was seen to solicit the bride-to-be’s cousin, the terrifyingly masculine Eloise Stanhope, and Mrs Stanhope was seen to award him a playful punch in the midriff, the two then repairing, apparently amicably, to the terrace. Lady Jerningham offered odds that they were smoking cigars out there but the Commander saw no need at all to take this wager. He tried once again to urge her onto the dance floor but Katie replied once again that her legs were “incapable of enjoying themselves.” In especial as Raffaella was at this moment taking the floor with the McDiarmid, she could kill her! Commander Sir Arthur again suggested cards but was again informed that she could not possibly concentrate. She told him kindly that he could go and play, if he wished, but the Commander replied glumly: “Never was one to desert a sinkin’ ship, me dear.”

    “Quite,” said Katie through her teeth.

    The music played, the dancers whirled… “He has not asked her yet,” said Susannah Quarmby-Vine faintly.

    “Is that good or bad, Susannah?” replied her mamma-in-law on a grim note.

    “I cannot say… At least it is wonderful to see dearest Aunt Eudora looking so happy,” she added valiantly.

    Susannah had offered this hopeful observation approximately five times per day since their arrival at Hailsham House. Lilian merely nodded, even though she quite agreed with her.

    Eudora was observed to take the floor with her tall fiancé, and the Quarmby-Vine ladies both beamed. They watched the dancing in silence for a while.

    “Um—do you think that—that possibly I might suggest to Jack that he dance with Raffaella?” ventured Susannah at last. “After all, he is Bobby’s friend… ”

    Lilian could not but reflect that it was a great pity that this splendid notion had not struck Susannah very much earlier, to wit while she was dancing with the damned man. But she replied kindly: “That is a very kind idea, my love. But recollect that Jack can be very cutting.”

    Susannah bit her lip. “Mm.”

    “Perhaps if you and Bobby together were to approach him?” she murmured.

    “Bobby is a broken reed!” said Bobby’s wife bitterly.

    Unmoved, Lilian returned: “Gentlemen are like that when it comes to the tenderer emotions, my dear. Even the best of them. Perhaps if you were merely to suggest to him that it might be pleasant to chat to Jack?”

    Susannah thought over this monstrous cunning suggestion. Her pink face brightened. “Why not!” She rose, looking determined. “After all, it can only succeed or fail,” she announced, hurrying off.

    Quite, thought Lilian Quarmby-Vine glumly.

    The music played, the dancers whirled… Captain Quarmby-Vine had been very glad to accept the invitation to the engagement party and had congratulated Eudora and Stevens most heartily and sincerely. He had certainly given the appearance of being very pleased to be in the Senhora Baldaya’s company again, though his demeanour did not indicate to any of the interested observers whether his heart might be truly involved there. So far he had danced every dance, favouring amongst others the smiling bride-to-be herself, the awed little Miss Sherman, who appeared quite overcome by the naval dress uniform, his gracious hostess herself, who appeared unaffectedly thrilled to be dancing with him again, the smiling but protesting Lady Lavinia Dewesbury, whom of course he had known for many years, her giggling daughter Gwendolyn, the pink-faced Miss Helena Dewesbury, who in spite of being in her very youthful new admirer’s company this evening did not appear unwilling to dance with the dress uniform, and finally, the P.W. in person. Who appeared unaffectedly thrilled to be dancing with him again.

    As their dance ended the Captain observed with annoyance the result of whatever it was that Susannah was suggesting to Jack Beresford, and noted to his fair companion: “No prizes for guessing what that were all about, hey?”

    “No, indeed!” Lady Stamforth agreed, hugging his arm. “See, he has walked away from them, and now he ees leaning against the wall weeth a frown on hees face!”

    “So he is. Stupid young shaver,” he growled. “Good mind to speak to him meself.”

    Lady Stamforth squeezed his arm gently. “Why you not do that, dear Charles?” she agreed softly. “Een fact, let us go over to Raffaella, and then you may take her over to heem.”

    “Aye; and I tell you what!” said the burly sailor, inspired. “I’ll ask you to dance again, and then that’ll leave them together!”

    “Ideal!” she said with that gurgling laugh. “Come along!”

    Perhaps unaided the Captain would not have got through the crush to Raffaella’s side, as possibly the P.W. had guessed. However that might have been, they certainly accomplished the first part of the manoeuvre with great success and sailed off, all flags flying.

    To his fair companion’s relief the Captain did not make the mistake of commenting on the fact that Mr Beresford was no longer dancing, but merely greeted him with a cheery: “Well, Jack! Goin’ well, ain’t it? Dashed good to see Eudora so happy, hey?”

    “Er—yes. Of course. And the party is certainly going well: may I congratulate you, Senhora Baldaya?” he said formally, bowing.

    “Thank you, Mr Beresford,” replied Raffaella with a fast-beating heart, trying to smile.

    The next dance struck up and the Captain seized upon his cue, and bore his fair companion away.

    Raffaella looked limply up at Mr Beresford.

    “And how are you enjoying Cumberland?” he said with an effort.

    “Well, it is very pretty,” said Raffaella valiantly, trying to smile and again not succeeding.

    “Yes, it is known for its picturesque beauty. But?” he said.

    Raffaella was not aware that she had intimated that to her there was a ‘but’. She bit her lip, flushing. “Um, I did not find the summer very warm,” she said lamely.

    “After Portugal, I imagine you would not, no. And the nights are certainly chilly, now.”

    “Yes. I had not expected autumn to come so soon.”

    “This is quite usual in Cumberland: we are quite far north, you know.”

    “Yes.” There was a nasty pause and she added desperately: “I have observed you run sheep on your property, sir?”

    “Yes, we run mainly sheep. Hailsham House used to run beef cattle, back in my grandfather’s day: did quite well with them.”

    Desperately Raffaella seized upon the topic: they could not stand here saying nothing! “Indeed? Of course, sheep can ruin the country, without careful management. The hills near our country house in Portugal in some places were very degraded, and our neighbour, Mr Marchant, told me once that it was because of the sheep and goats which the local people favour.”

    Mr Beresford replied without seeming to see anything incongruous in the subject: “They say there is nothing like goats for degrading your pastures. And certainly sheep require careful management. Though the Hailshams had some unfortunate experiences with their cattle, too: ran ’em over on the higher ground near our north-east border, and found that they broke up the soil terribly. They were too heavy for the hill slopes, you see.”

    “Yes? You would not have that problem with sheep, I think?”

    Mr Beresford told her a considerable amount about the management practices instituted by his grandfather and followed by his father and more latterly his Uncle George, and to boot about the arable farming which they carried out on their flatter land.

    “I had not heretofore thought of you as a farmer,” said Raffaella somewhat limply.

    “Oh, I suppose we are all farmers, when we are in the country!” he said lightly.

    “Not at all. Why, Lord McDiarmid could not even tell me how what his shepherds earn. Indeed, he became quite annoyed when I insisted on the point.”

    “Er—what would you have done with the knowledge?” said Jack Beresford, staring.

    “I suppose I would not have done anything with it: merely, it would have given me an idea of whether he was a fair man or a mean one.”

    “Oh. Well, in the case you were going to, pray do not ask me what my shepherds earn, for I cannot tell you. I’m afraid Uncle George manages all that,” he said in a bored voice.

    Raffaella went very red. “And you do not care enough to ask him!”

    “No, well, I am not up here all that much. But I do care enough to know whether he manages the place competently. And—forgive me—were you aware of how much the shepherds earned on that country place of your husband’s in Portugal?”

    Frowning, Raffaella told him the exact sum. Not only the shepherds, but their boys. And also the other farm labourers. Adding angrily, though Mr Beresford had not commented: “I know it is not enough, and Mr Marchant pays far more! But the reins of the property were not in my hands. And Érico would not take any notice when I asked him to increase their wages. In fact,”—she gave him an evil look—“he said he left all that to his agent.”

    “Well, there you are,” he said with a slight shrug. “One does.”

    Raffaella’s jaw trembled. She was aware that he was very probably taking this tack in order to annoy her—and also, clearly, to give her a poor impression of himself. Whether or no he knew what his men earned was not precisely the point at issue: but that he should wish to give her a poor impression of himself certainly was! “Yes, well, you have more in common with the great landowners of Europe than I had imagined, sir.”

    “You flatter me,” he said in a bored voice. “Oh, and if I may issue a warning, Senhora: McDiarmid, of course, is very young. Others in his social position may refrain from letting you see their annoyance if interrogated on such a matter, but they will be just as displeased.”

    “Really? In that case, pray relieve your mind of all concern for me,” replied Raffaella tightly, “for this is the last time I shall be socialising with any person in his social position, I can assure you! Oh, and if you mean to prop up this wall in a way persons of your social position appear to consider quite acceptable, let me tell you, sir, that I do not find it so. You will kindly do me the immense favour of soliciting some young lady to dance: as you may see, there are quite several of them who lack partners as of this moment.”

    If this speech forcibly recalled their very first encounter at the Sommerton Grange hop to Jack Beresford’s mind he gave so no sign of it, merely bowed, and said in a colourless voice: “Your wish is my command, Senhora Baldaya. Pray introduce me to a partnerless damsel.”

   Grimly Raffaella led him up to the very young Miss Clara Brantwell, grimly she presented him to her half-sister, and grimly she watched them whirl away…

    On the day after the engagement party at Hailsham House Mrs Beresford noted lightly that the nights were becoming so chilly: she thought she might return home to Bath before very long. Perhaps, if he were heading back to his mamma’s house, Greg might care to escort her? Before the gulping Greg could utter, his cousin remarked languidly that he himself would perform that duty: he had not seen their Bath friends and relatives for this age. Shaken, Greg and Rollo retreated to the billiards room, there to admit to one another that that was that, then.

    Two days after the engagement party at Hailsham House Miss Bon-Dutton took her courage in both hands and bearded her cousin in her bedchamber. Raffaella was sitting up in bed drinking her morning chocolate and bouncing little Bella on her knee. Eudora blinked a little at this domestic scene.

    “She usually comes to me in the mornings. Always, if I do not have a house-party of fashionables!” said Raffaella with a smile. “What is it, Cousin?”

    Sighing, Eudora pulled up a chair. “What are your plans?”

    “Naturally I shall stay in England to see you safely married. Then we shall head back to Lisbon,” she said, kissing Bella’s curls and offering her the remains of the chocolate.

    “I see.”

    “Cara, what more can I say? I think we both saw, t’other night, that Mr B. neither wants me nor approves of me,” she said lightly.

    “Yes. Well, I am sorry for it,” said Eudora heavily.

    Raffaella hesitated. Then she admitted: “I am not altogether sure that I am. Well, part of me is sorry: I still find him very attractive. But I keep thinking of what you said, about the sort of life he would desire, and—well, something he said to me made me realise that you were very right, and that I am not cut out to be the mistress of Beresford Hall. Added to which, the nights here are as chilly as they are in Scotland at this time of year, are they not? I cannot wait to get back to a warmer climate.”

    “Mm. Raffaella,” she said, taking a deep breath, “what have you left to live on?”

    “Cara, my jewels!” she said, opening her eyes very wide. “No,” she said quickly as Miss Bon-Dutton went very red, “that was unworthy; I apologise. I have sufficient. I shall take a little house in a quiet part of Lisbon while I get my lawyers to look about for a small country property.” Her eyes twinkled. “I shall sell some of the jewels in order to buy it.”

    “I knew you were spending far too much,” said Eudora grimly.

    “Not at all. I thoroughly enjoyed rubbing the London cats’ noses in my consequence!”

    Eudora sighed, and said only: “The Channel, not to say the Bay of Biscay, in November?”

    “Bella, Aunt Eliza and I are all excellent sailors.”

    “I see. And Yellow Pillow?”

    “I am giving him to Susannah,” she said tranquilly.

    Susannah’s aunt-by-marriage blinked. “Er—well, her riding is at that level, yes. It will certainly be preferable to submitting him to the rigours of another sea voyage, poor brute. Er—have you mooted this scheme, yet?”

    “Yes. Cousin Lilian accepted very happily. And why not? After all, they have done so much for me. She and Bobby are agreed it will be a secret, and Susannah shall have him as a Christmas present! She does admire him, you know!” she reminded her with a laugh.

    Susannah had also admired Raffaella’s idea of riding dress. Oh, well.

    “Eudora, what about Miss Hewitt?” ventured Raffaella cautiously.

    “I intend asking her to live with us. She may continue on in very much the same rôle, and—um—well, in a few years’ time, perhaps she may like to teach the children,” she said with a blush.

    “I think she will see through that. You will scarcely need a companion, and I am sure Sir John’s house has a very competent housekeeper. Or shall her position be that of your social secretary?”

    “You may certainly put it like that,” said Eudora with a tilt of her chin, “for I do not intend to sink into domesticity.”

    “And what does he think of that?”

    “Raffaella, you will not provoke me!” she said with a laugh. “He has utterly forbidden me to sink into domesticity!”

    Raffaella stared. “He must be unique among men, then!”

    “He is,” said Sir John’s fiancée smugly.

    At this Raffaella laughed, got out of bed, and bestowed a kiss upon her cheek.

    Eudora stood up slowly. “You would not consider staying on until spring?”

    Rolling her eyes, Raffaella replied: “An English winter?”

    “No-o. I confess, even though Senhora Figueiredo will be with you, I do not like the thought of your travelling without a protector. Well, perhaps if Mr Marchant accepts the invitation to the wedding, he may escort you back to Portugal.”

    Raffaella was swathing herself in an elaborate dressing-gown. She paused, and gave her a dry look. “Did Sir John indicate he thought he would accept?”

    “Er—well, he most certainly insisted he be sent an invitation.”

    “Ask him if he thinks he will leave his beloved hills for anything so trivial as an English wedding,” she said with a sniff.

    Eudora was rather flushed. “Really, Raffaella!”

    Raffaella’s eyes twinkled. “Trivial only in Mr Marchant’s terms, cara! Momentous in those of the two most nearly concerned, sicuro!”

    “Er—mm. Hills?” she said in spite of herself.

    “Ask Sir John. And if he cannot tell you, and if he truly believes he will come, then he does not know him as well as he thinks he does!” she said airily, ringing for her maid.

    Eudora went away and left her to it. Well, there was nothing else to say, really, was there? Poor damned girl. …Hills? No, well, red herrings, would be more like it! Typical of Raffaella, of course.

    Amidst the brown hills of Portugal the invitation to the grand Society wedding at Dallermaine Abbey had been received with huge excitement by José, Caterina, Martinho and little Anna, and absolute indifference by Dick.

    “But Pa!” urged José. “Sir John is an old friend, after all!”

    “Aye, and it is at this damned ducal mansion, after all,” he replied drily.

    “There’ll be hundreds of fashionable people there, I am sure!” urged Caterina.

    “My dear, your Aunt Lucinda is more than willing to give you a Season in Lisbon,” replied Dick with a sigh; the subject had lately become very tedious indeed.

    “Yes, but what ees that compared to a wedding at an English duke’s house?” she urged.

    “I’m reliably informed that Chelford has half a dozen daughters and no sons,” replied Dick very drily indeed.

    Poor Caterina went very red and protested: “I was not even thinking that!”

    “That’s good, because we ain’t going. Have any of you considered the expense of the trip, not to mention of the fancy clothes that’d be required?”

    There was a short silence. Then José urged generously: “But you could go by yourself, Pa!”

    “It’d do you good,” agreed Martinho. “Besides, you’d see the little Senhora again: you’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

    His half-brother eyed him a trifle wildly, but as on the whole he felt it needed saying, didn’t comment.

    Sourly Dick retorted: “I’ve seen her at that damned hop, so-called, where old Baldaya had ’em roast a whole ox on the spit, what more do I need to see? –Look, you pack of apes, this invitation is a courtesy only: John knows I’d no more go all the way to England to see him leg-shackled than fly to the moon.” He got up. “A courtesy,” he said firmly, walking out and leaving them to it..

    After a moment Caterina ventured uncertainly: “A courtesy?”

    Kindly José switched to Portuguese and explained: “It means, a courtesy. In other words, it wouldn’t do not to invite Pa, but he fully realises he won’t—”

    “Yes!” she shouted angrily, running out of the room.

    “She'll have forgotten about it two seconds after she gets the next letter from Aunt Lucinda, maundering on about the dashed parties she’s got planned for her next year,” noted Martinho.

    “I’d like to see a duke’s castle,” said Anna sadly.

    Martinho blinked. “Uh—yes. Don’t think it's an actual castle, Anna,” he said kindly. “Just—um—a big house.”

    “Bit like the Baldaya place,” noted José blandly.

    Martinho gave him a quick glare. “Yes, that’s it, Anna: a big old country house.”

    “Yes. Um—push off, Anna,” said José, trying to catch Martinho’s eye.

    Anna stood her ground. “No! I’m not a baby!”

    “All right, stay.” He raised an eyebrow at Martinho. “Pa protested too much, once someone had mentioned the name of the little Senhora, don’t you think?”

    “That’s why I mentioned it,” he said blandly.

    Smiling feebly, José agreed: “Yes. Um… Bother. Well, is she coming back to Portugal, or not?”

    Martinho eyed him uneasily. “Um, she’s not Portuguese, remember: half-English, half-Italian. And since that fat oaf João Baldaya’s grabbed the house, not much left for her here, is there?”

    “No. And her dear old cat’s buried there, too,” said Anna sadly.

    “Never mind the damned cat!” said José crossly. “Look, Martinho, didn’t she say anything to you that time we were in town to have your tooth drawn and she took you to the flea market?”

    “She said Sir John had been very kind, helping her with the court case. I told you that,” he reminded him.

    “YES! Not that, you ape! About whether she intends coming BACK!” he shouted.

    “Um, well, she said very probably.”

     José gave him a baffled glare.

    “‘Vairy probably,’” said Martinho carefully in English.

    “That gets us a lot further! –You do realise it’s why Pa’s been in a mood for months?” he said savagely.

    “Mm,” said Martinho, looking uneasily at Anna.

    “If it was my old cat, I’d come back,” she announced definitely.

    “GET OUT!” they both roared.

    Anna went out slowly, pouting.

    “He only calls us apes if he’s in a very bad mood. Or a very good one,” conceded Martinho glumly.

    “Well, no prizes for guessing which it is this time!” concluded José bitterly.

Next chapter:

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