"My Mistress Is Bathing At Brighton"

Part IV. Summer Skirmishes

14

“My Mistress Is Bathing At Brighton”

    Somewhat against her better judgement Eudora had taken a small house at Brighton for a few weeks. The Fürstin was intending to be there, so were Lord and Lady Keywes and Mrs Beresford, old General Baldaya was certainly intending to be there, and Charles Quarmby-Vine usually spent a few weeks there, if he did not immediately join his fellow-sailors at Cowes, and— Well. If Mr Beresford did not put in an appearance, they could draw, she supposed, the obvious conclusion. Added to which, the sea air was said to be so invigorating, and might do Raffaella good: she was looking a little peaked.

    Their first caller was Mr Freddy Bon-Dutton, but it must be admitted that he did not count. Their second and third were Eloise Stanhope and Nessa Weaver-Grange. Eloise was outrageously naval in a brass-buttoned dark blue jacket over a yellow skirt which Eudora would have taking her dying oath was made of nankeen. Her hat was a chapeau-bras: beyond the pale, quite. Nessa’s outfit was possibly white cambric and not a fine canvas, but certainly included dark blue touches as to the trim and the sash. Her hat was a plain round straw sailor’s hat. The addition of a jaunty striped blue and white bow did not particularly improve it, though as it did render it less boyish its presence was probably more desirable than its absence. She had brought one of her little fluffy, foxy dogs: tricked out in a little blue coat with white trim and white leading strings, poor little brute.

    “Put on something impossibly seamanlike, my dear, and come for a stroll: let us outrage all the prudes!” Nessa urged Raffaella, rolling her big luminous eyes very much.

    “Oh, but I look shocking in blue, Mrs Weaver-Grange, and white is not truly my colour, either, alas.”

    “Rubbish, my dear. Your complexion has sufficient colour to support it. And that pink is so tepid,” said Nessa with a moue.

    “Horrors, is it? I shall change immediately!”

    Resignedly Eudora watched as she hurried out.

    The outfit in which she eventually reappeared was a white cambric walking dress with an abbreviated scarlet jacket. Originally it had not quite had a military look, for its large buttons were merely mother-of-pearl, not brass: but today, alas, Raffaella was wearing a black stock with it. Nessa immediately shrieked, and collapsed in delighted laughter.

    “All the ladies insist in looking so naval, at Brighton,” said Raffaella with a pout, “so I have tried for a different touch.”

    “Perfect!” she gasped, clapping her hands. “And we thought our excessively naval appearance would make a point!”

    Eloise got up, looking dry. “Do you have a shako, though?”

    “No, dear Mrs Stanhope: your cousin would not permit it,” she said sadly.

    “Well, put your hat on, and come along. If Eudora will permit it,” she said with a dry look at her.

    “Of course,” said Eudora mildly.

    Nessa shrieked again, and clapped again, as Raffaella put on the hat: a black bonnet to which one upstanding red plume was affixed: semi-military, perhaps. Something of the sort; it was rather the effect achieved by old General Baldaya’s pair.

    On her return Raffaella reported with relish that they had met Admiral Dauntry, whose jaw had visibly dropped on perceiving her in that company, Greg Ashenden, who had rushed up and told her how wise she was not to attempt a naval touch, and Major Fellowes, who had gallantly offered them his escort and in spite of being withered by Mrs Weaver-Grange gallantly accompanied them for a full ten minutes. And had seen Lady Stamforth, in a barouche with her husband’s cousin, Mr Tobias Vane: the P.W. had waved gaily, and been observed to go into a giggling fit as the barouche passed. And the stout gourmet had looked shocked.

    “An outrageous expedition, indeed,” concluded Eudora drily.

    “Quite!” she agreed gaily.

    Their fourth caller was the Prince Henri-Louis. He appeared enchanted by the sight of the Contessa in a sprig muslin with yellow ribbons and thrilled when she agreed she would love to take a stroll along the Front with him. To her companions’ relief Raffaella did not insist on changing into anything either military or naval, but merely assumed a very pretty white straw bonnet becomingly trimmed in yellow.

    As the door was heard to close after the pair there was a strange silence.

    “It is a pleasant day for a walk,” croaked Miss Hewitt.

    “Dear ma’am, I applaud the effort, but there is no need. I think we are both thinking the same thing, are we not: what, exactly, does he imagine he is doing?”

    “Possibly merely continuing the acquaintance; I mean, he did come to several of our salons,” she quavered.

    Eudora just looked at her.

    “I suppose there is absolutely no question that he—”

    “None,” said Eudora flatly. “His relatives would not stand for it for an instant: unless, perhaps, she had an immense fortune: something to rival the P.W.’s. Though they did not encourage that, either.”

    “Then perhaps the poor boy is—is merely making hay while—while the sun shines?”

    “Miss Hewitt, a few years back I would have agreed with you. Well, I came to that conclusion myself, when he was dangling after the P.W. But he has been on the town for quite some years: he is, really, no longer a boy.”

    Miss Hewitt counted on her fingers. “No,” she agreed sadly. “Oh, dear!”

    “I shall speak to her,” said Eudora, drawing a very deep breath.

    “It may be wise,” she agreed faintly. “But if you wish, I shall do it, my dear.”

    “I should not dream of asking you,” said Eudora on a firm note.

    On her return Raffaella reported gaily that they had had the most delightful walk, and that H.-L. was the most charming of companions. They had seen Nellie Dewesbury walking with Priscilla Claveringham and she—Nellie—had positively glared; and Mrs Paxton, who had gaped; and Mr Timothy Claveringham, who had bowed very low, and not dared to approach; and the Marchioness of Wade, who had nodded most graciously from her barouche. And only guess! Le petit Monsieur was bringing his yacht over from Cowes, and intentioned getting up the most delightful little sailing party—just a few close friends, you know—for a day dawdling along the coast! Did it not sound divine?

    “Dawdling along the coast in a howling northerly: yes, divine. Come along upstairs, Raffaella, if you please: I wish to speak to you.”

    “Oh, but so serious!” she carolled, nevertheless accompanying her.

    “I shall not hide from you,” said Eudora, drawing a painful breath, “that I fear H.-L. may intention putting a dishonourable proposal to you, Raffaella.”

    Raffaella was removing her bonnet before her mirror. “But of course. He has not the bottom to stand up to his horrid relatives—on the mother’s side, of course, there are very few left on t’other—and put an honourable one. He is quite sweet, but soft.” She turned, and smiled. “I am more than capable of refusing him pleasantly but firmly, dear Cousin: did you fancy I would be in a maidenly flutter?” she said mildly.

    Eudora tottered over to the bed and sank down upon it. “I would have been, frankly,” she croaked.

    “No, well, it will not be difficult. Though the offer, should he make it, will be quite a tempting one. But then, exactly how he imagines he will support me, I cannot tell. He has nothing of his own: his mother’s brother, I am very sure, paid for that yacht of which he is so proud.”

    “I should say he imagines he will support you with his wife’s money!” replied Eudora on a sharp note.

    “So that rumour about the Princess Adélaïde was true?”

    “I think it may have some foundation, but on the other hand, the Wellesley boy’s family is here in force. But it will be she or another.”

    “Si, naturalmente. Well, as I say, the idea is quite tempting. But on the other hand, to spend several years of one’s life with a creature that is sweet but soft, rather like a pleasant fudge? –No. Do not worry: I shall send him to the right-about!”

    “I was about to offer to do so for you,” she said limply.

    Raffaella laughed a little. “Dear Cousin Eudora, you must not dream of it! You would hate it, so, and it would be so easy for me!”

    “That is not a reason for shirking one’s duty.”

    “It is in this instance,” she said cheerfully. “Shall we go down again?”

    Limply Miss Bon-Dutton got to her feet and tottered downstairs with her.

    “Posies!” discovered Raffaella in astonishment.

    “Stop it. Just read the cards and get it over with,” said her cousin grimly.

    “Those pink roses are magnificent,” murmured Miss Hewitt.

    “You may have them, if they be from the King himself! –He is to have a musical soirée at the Pavilion,” she informed them gaily, sitting down at the breakfast table before the pile of posies.

    Eudora was opening invitations. “Yes, well, do not hope that we shall be invited.”

    “I thought he was almost beyond the pale, like me?” she said sweetly.

    “He has the advantage of being a member of the House of Hanover,” Eudora reminded her grimly. “—Good God.” She stared at the note.

    “Is it?” asked Raffaella with a laugh.

    “No. Almost as astounding: Lady Stamforth has asked us to visit for a few days.”

    “At Stamforth Castle?” she squeaked.

    “Yes. It is just up the coast,” said Eudora numbly, passing the note to Miss Hewitt.

    “Very kind!” she beamed.

    “Ye— Uh— I hardly know the woman.”

    Raffaella pointed out: “But you are related to Lord Keywes’s heir: his first wife was a Bon-Dutton, I think? And Lord Keywes is her cousin, no? He is head of the Jeffreys family, and her mamma was a Jeffreys, was she not?”

    “That hardly justifies an invitation to spend Friday to Monday at the Castle. In town they are very sociable, as you know, but they are reputed to ask almost nobody except the closest family friends when they are at home,” she said numbly.

    Raffaella was inspecting the pink posy. She cleared her throat. “In that case, I think I can offer an explanation. And I can certainly offer you these pink roses, Miss Hewitt, since you admire them.”

    Miss Hewitt took the proffered bunch uncertainly and Raffaella clarified: “General Baldaya. –Either that or Lord Stamforth’s cousin, Mr Tobias Vane, has been seized of a noble desire to rescue me from the clutches of Mrs Stanhope and Mrs Weaver-Grange,” she added with relish.

    “That is not amusing,” said Eudora feebly.

    “I thought it was not at all bad, for an extempore effort. –Oops!” she said gaily. “These yellow roses are from H.-L., alas!”

    Eudora sighed, though it was no more than she had expected. “And?”

    “Pinks from Mr Greg Ashenden: they are an obscure joke, not unrelated to my report of Mrs W.-G.’s comment on my pink gown: they do smell delicious!” she admitted, sniffing them rapturously.

    “And?”

    “Er, the mixed bunch is from Admiral Dauntry, and I really cannot say why.”

    For herself, Eudora thought she might, with very little effort. She drew a deep breath. “And?”

    “The yallerish effort is from little Mr Timothy Claveringham. Um, well, I am afraid this lovely little posy of white rosebuds is from Captain Quarmby-Vine,” she said apologetically.

    “He did say he would bring the boat over from Cowes,” said Eudora neutrally.

    “Then perhaps we may look forward to two yachting parties!”

    Eudora winced. “You may; I shall not.”

    “Oh, no! I had forgot: you have no stomach for the sea!”

    “Quite. But Miss Hewitt is an excellent sailor: you will chaperone her, will you not, ma’am?”

    “Of course,” she said with an anxious look.

    “I am sure the parties will both be very proper, and I promise to be on my best behaviour,” said Raffaella kindly.

    Miss Hewitt smiled weakly. “I am sure you will be, my dear.”

    “In the meantime,” said Eudora with a sigh, “I suppose I must accept this invitation from Lady Stamforth.”

    “Yes, of course: the castle!” cried Raffaella. “H.-L. knows it: he says it is the most impressive pile, from the outside, at the least, though they have built a comfortable modern house inside the walls. But there are battlements, and towers, and an ancient keep fully as old as the Keep of Munn, and the place where the drawbridge was used to be is quite visible, and besides all that there is a great hall and a chapel in the most perfect Perpendicular style!”

    Eudora blinked: was that the attraction at Stamforth Castle, then?

    “It looks out over the Channel, and he thinks it would possibly have seen William the Conqueror sailing over with his Norman fleet!” Raffaella added eagerly.

    “Er, it is nowhere near Hastings, Raffaella,” said Eudora feebly.

    “No, my dear Contessa: that is on the far side of Beachy Head,” explained Miss Hewitt kindly.

    “I see,” said Raffaella, looking puzzled. “Um, but the castle is as old as the Norman invasion, is perhaps what he meant, then.”

    Miss Hewitt agreed enthusiastically that Stamforth Castle must certainly date from the eleventh century—the central keep even earlier, she dared say! And the two looked at Miss Bon-Dutton with shining eyes.

    They seemed to be that, then. They were clearly fated to spend some days with the Stamforths. And, it must be supposed, with her Ladyship’s Portuguese uncle.

    Captain Quarmby-Vine and Commander Sir Arthur Jerningham had called: the former apparently in order to look longingly at Raffaella, the latter apparently in order to tell them of his very new scheme for damming the offshoot of the Heddle that flowed across his property in order to drown the marshy field known as Spindles’ Meadow, and there create an artificial lake! In order to get some decent sailing. The ladies listened dazedly.

    “We shall take the yacht out, just to give him a taste of sea air, y’know,” added the Captain, more or less dragging his eyes from the spectacle of the Contessa in a nautical navy jacket over a bright pink gown trimmed with nautical navy cording, “and then he will be off home, to get it under way.”

    The Commander nodded, with shining eyes. And gave the dazed ladies a lot more chapter and verse as to the engineering principles involved…

    When the gentlemen had taken their leave, the ladies looked at one another dazedly.

    “Where, dare one ask, is Katie Dewesbury?” croaked Miss Bon-Dutton. “And should he not rather be planning the redecoration of the Hortleberry Grene nursery, at this point?”

    Miss Hewitt and Raffaella nodded dazedly.

    Very soon they were to be enlightened, for Miss Helena Dewesbury, in company with a resigned-looked Priscilla Claveringham, called. They were presently in the charge, though perhaps the phrase “nominal charge” put it more accurately, of Miss Claveringham’s cousin, Lady Sarah Quayle-Sturt. Lady Lavinia, Sir Lionel and Katie had gone to stay for a few weeks with Dewesburys oldest married daughter. And the damming of the Commander’s stream was all Katie’s idea!

    “If she had not already endeared herself to our estimable naval connexion by virtue of the bosom and those new silk gowns which display it so well, not to mention permitting him to waltz with her in that fashion,” noted Nellie airily, “the suggestion of the lake, you see, must have done it. As it is, it can only be considered the coup de grâce.”

    Miss Claveringham gave a smothered giggle and clapped her hand over her mouth, and Eudora at this point so far lowered herself as to demand grimly: “Did you two girls bring your maid with you?”

    “Yes, Miss Bon-Dutton,” said Priscilla in a squashed voice.

    “Of course, dear Miss Bon-Dutton: Lady Sarah would not permit us to wander about Brighton alone!” gasped Nellie, all big, innocent eyes.

    “Not if she knew about it, no. I shall send you home in the barouche,” she said grimly.

    “But we were intending to walk straight home in any case,” said Nellie on a melting note, ignoring the fact that her friend had gone bright red.

    “Indeed? Then it will be so much the more convenient for you,” responded Eudora grimly.

    “I expect,” said Raffaella with a smile; when the two pouting maidens had departed in the barouche, “that they were only intending to wander along the Front, ogling young gentlemen.”

    “I am very sure they were.”

    “It is harmless enough, Cousin.”

    “Really? You are volunteering to put that point to Lady Lavinia D. when next we meet, are you?”

    “On the whole, no!” admitted Raffaella with a laugh.

    “Quite.”

    Possibly inspired by the sight of the Contessa at a dance the previous night in fairy-like white spider-gauze with a cluster of tiny, starry white flowers in the hair, Henri-Louis had called again. And made a firm appointment for the nautical expedition. Appearing not overset by Miss Bon-Dutton’s excusing herself with the explanation that she had only to look at a boat to become instantly queasy.

    “If it should appear,” said Eudora uneasily to her companion, as the Contessa, today a girlish froth of frilled white muslin with a pink-dotted scarf and matching bows to the bonnet, nothing nautical about her, strolled out on His Highness’s arm, “that this yachting party does not, after all, include a smattering of respectable persons, may I charge you to bring her home on the instant?”

    Miss Hewitt bit her lip. But said gallantly: “Of course.”

    Eudora sighed. “I’m sorry. If she has the bit between her teeth I am afraid it is not within mere human capacity to stop her. No, well, at least do your best not to take your eye off her for an instant.”

    “You may rely on me,” said the little spinster firmly.

    Raffaella returned from the stroll with her cheeks very pink, holding a posy which had not been in evidence when she set out, and declaring that she did so like Brighton!

    “Did he say anything?” said Eudora grimly.

    “No, dear Cousin: he merely looked volumes.”

    “You are encouraging him,” she said grimly.

    “But of course! It is not every day that one has the imminent prospect of a proposal, even an improper one, from a prince! I am enjoying it while I may!” she said gaily.

    Eudora swallowed a sigh. Oh, well: let her, poor girl.

    “This came while you were out,” croaked Miss Hewitt. “A—a man in livery…”

    Eudora’s eyes bulged. She goggled at the seal.

    “Open it,” said Miss Hewitt faintly.

    Taking a deep breath, she opened it, and handed it to Miss Hewitt. Breathlessly Miss Hewitt read it out.

    “This,” said Eudora grimly, “is the result of H.-L.’s influence, I have no doubt! And mark my words, she will have asked him to use it!”

    “Do you not think your own connections— No,” said Miss Hewitt lamely.

    “No. Where is she?” demanded Eudora grimly.

    “Captain Quarmby-Vine has taken her for a little drive. I think he intentioned going along the coast for a little.”

    “Then we shall wait,” she said grimly.

    “Ooh!” said Raffaella on her return.

    “Charles, it is very good to see you, but I must ask you to absent yourself: I wish to speak to the Contessa,” said Eudora grimly to her connection.

    Blinking rather, but amiable as ever, the Captain took himself off.

    “Did you ask H.-L. to angle for this invitation?” demanded Eudora baldly.

    “Yes,” said Raffaella simply.

    “In that case, he will be expecting to flaunt you on his arm the entire evening, you little imbecile!” she shouted.

    “What: H.-L.? Sicuro.”

    “Raffaella, this will do your reputation no good at all!” she warned.

    “On the contrary. I grant it would do me no good to let myself be lured into H.M.’s conservatory, but then, even a Claveringham might make that mistake. Or so they tell me,” she said, looking bland.

    Eudora choked. “That was poor Lady Jane, the eldest sister: it was years back, and that frightful mother of hers—” She took a deep breath. “You are deliberately attempting to distract me. Do not imagine you will enjoy the evening: the rooms will be abominably overheated, the decorations, as the outside of the place must have suggested to you, in the most appalling taste, and if you manage to get more than a sip of champagne in the crush, it will be a miracle. And it will be warm: no amount of ice could possibly survive the temperature that Prinny considers suitable for his damned soirées!”

    Raffaella collapsed in gales of giggles.

    “Do NOT laugh!” shouted Eudora.

    “You—called—him—Prinny!” she gasped, going off into further paroxysms.

    “Oh,” said Eudora lamely. “His Majesty.”

    “It is so thrilling! I shall go and contemplate my wardrobe!” she beamed, dancing out of the room.

    Eudora sank onto the sofa and, frankly, mopped her brow.

    “You could wear your gold brocade!” offered Miss Hewitt brightly.

     Eudora gave her an amazed look, and, alas, the proper little former governess dissolved in giggles.

    “You, I collect,” said Eudora acidly, “are of her opinion.”

    Miss Hewitt nodded ecstatically. “It is so thrilling!”

    The thrilling event at the execrable Pavilion duly rolled round. Henri-Louis did not quite have the gall to offer to escort them. He did, however, send an exquisite posy. Ignoring Eudora’s acid point that the things would be wilted within the half-hour, Raffaella pinned a selection of blooms to her bosom. Naturally it had taken many hours to decide what should cover the bosom. Eudora had grimly vetoed all the heavier gowns or under-gowns, pointing out once again that the Pavilion was always grossly overheated, and ignoring Raffaella’s protestations about Italy. The eventual choice was a deep pink silk, a very warm shade which flattered Raffaella’s complexion. It was cut far too low, in Eudora’s humble opinion, but then, the Contessa was after all a widow, and—etcetera. Probably not more than half their acquaintance would immediately recognise the pearl necklace as Eudora’s own. Grimly Eudora inserted a phial of eau de Cologne into the Contessa’s reticule, advising her that she would need it.

    About the first thing they saw when they got there was General Baldaya leaning on the Portuguese Ambassador’s arm; and about the next the P.W. herself in the most exiguous drift of white organdie, the bosom and sleeves being composed of the merest wisp of perfect lace. And the neck a blaze of diamonds. She smiled and waved but made no attempt, in the appalling crush, to speak. The third thing was of course H.-L. himself, terribly point de vice, his chest adorned with a wide ribbon and several flashing orders to which presumably his rank entitled him, for Miss Bon-Dutton could not think of any achievements which might. Naturally he immediately came and took possession. Naturally Raffaella immediately leaned on his arm in precisely the way in which the P.W. was leaning on Stamforth’s. God. The fourth, or thereabouts, was Wellington, covered in ribbons and orders, chatting amiably to, fancy that, Geddings. Geddings dropped his quizzing glass as he caught sight of them, which probably proved something or another, but by then Eudora was past caring. Or even thinking.

    The atmosphere was abominably hot, the flowers duly wilted, Raffaella’s included, and most of the ladies also wilted. And the champagne was warm. The noise was deafening, so it was quite a relief to sit down amidst an intense fluttering of ladies’ fans and listen to the promised music. Even though this also gave the gathering the opportunity to confirm just who was with whom.

    And at long, long last, after innumerable exchanges of bare-faced lies and other civilities, they were enabled to stagger out and have their carriage called. Eudora let H.-L. get in with them: she was past caring about anything.

    “The music was wonderful!” said Raffaella raptly.

    “I am so glad you enjoyed it, dear Contessa,” beamed His Highness.

    “Oh, si! Thank you so much for getting us the invitation, dear sir!”

    “Contessa, it was nothing.” He leaned forward, took the fan from Miss Bon-Dutton’s limp hand, and graciously fanned her all the way back to the house.

    Quite possibly five hundred of their neighbours were at their front windows as he bowed them in. But at least he did not ask to come inside.

    Eudora tottered into the sitting-room and sank onto the sofa.

    “Well?” gasped Miss Hewitt excitedly.

    “Abysmal,” she groaned.

    “Oh, pooh!” cried Raffaella. “It was wonderful, dear Miss Hewitt! The music was splendid! And the rooms a blaze of orders: why, I counted five foreign ambassadors!”

    “Six,” said Eudora with her eyes shut.

    “There you are: six! And the Fürstin von Maltzahn-Dressen in full panoply: cloth-of-gold, and a gold lorgnette!”

    “Brocade,” said Eudora faintly with her eyes shut.

    “It looked like cloth-of-gold to me,” said Raffaella smugly. “And the Duke of Wellington wearing all his medals and orders!”

    “He would be unable to walk under the weight of all of them,” said Eudora with her eyes shut.

    “Oh, pooh!” Briskly Raffaella rang the bell and ordered the amazed Nettle to bring up a very cold drink for Miss Bon-Dutton. “And you should see the decorations, Miss Hewitt! It is like a magic palace!”

    “He would certainly agree with you,” sighed Eudora, groping for her eau de Cologne. “The champagne was warm,” she noted to her companion.

    Miss Hewitt gave a giggle. “Of course!”

    “All the servants were in the Royal livery,” reported Raffaella with relish, “save one: a Black page, in a Turkish rig-out, complete with baggy satin pants and a plumed turban as wonderful as that of the Spanish Ambassador’s wife, who beat a little gong when it was time to sit down for the music!”

    Miss Hewitt looked wildly at Eudora.

    “Yes. Execrable taste,” she sighed, anointing her temples. “Wholly expectable.”

    “Did His Majesty notice you, my dear?” asked Miss Hewitt avidly of Raffaella.

    “Oh, no,” she said sunnily. “Not me, myself: but he nodded most affably to H.-L.”

    “Not official notice, no: but he looked her up and down like— I shall not say, my upbringing will not permit me to,” groaned Eudora.

    Miss Hewitt looked at her in horror.

    “Oh, she was not the only woman so favoured. All of the sons of the House of Hanover have always been like that. Age does not wither them, apparently,” she noted grimly. “—Thank you, Nettle.” She drank cold water thirstily.

    “He was entirely gross, but beautiful clothes, nonetheless,” said Raffaella happily.

    “Like—” Eudora broke off.

    “Not quite like General Baldaya, for His Majesty is even fatter!” said Raffaella with a loud giggle.

    “It is hard to imagine,” acknowledged Miss Hewitt avidly.

    “Miss Hewitt, you are encouraging her,” warned Eudora.

    “But of course!” she said with a giggle. “Tell me more of the decorations, my dear!” she urged.

    Happily Raffaella launched into an involved description of the appalling mish-mash of styles and colours with which His Britannic Majesty had seen fit to decorate his appalling Brighton Pavilion…

    Eudora groped her way to her feet and tottered off to bed, leaving them to it.

    The following morning, Mr Greg Ashenden and Mr Shirley Rowbotham having called in tandem to take the Contessa walking, possibly on the assumption that there was safety in numbers, Miss Hewitt ventured cautiously: “There was no sign of Mr Beresford last night, I suppose?”

    “No,” Eudora admitted. “We did see Lord and Lady Keywes with Mrs Beresford, however.”

    “So he has not come down?”

    She sighed. “It does not seem so. Freddy was there: he promised to call this morning, and if he does so, I fully intend to interrogate him.”

    Miss Hewitt nodded determinedly.

    The Hon. Frederick wriggled, but they got it out of him. Mr Beresford was not in Brighton, did not intend coming down to Brighton, and was most reliably reported to have gone off to his estates in Cumberland. A detailed story concerning a horse was evidenced in proof of the claim, and the two ladies had to concede that it seemed more than circumstantial.

    “I am so cross with him!” declared Miss Hewitt, a militant flush on her thin cheek, as the caller thankfully escaped.

    “What? Oh: not Freddy: Mr B.?”

    “Indeed!”

    Eudora sighed. “So am I, dear ma’am; but then, alas, I can also fully see his point of view.”

    “When they might live a quietly decent life on his estates, not bothering about what the silly town snobs think? So cannot I!”

    Eudora sighed again and did not ask her whether she could truly envisage either the Contessa or the fashionable Mr B. being content with a quietly decent country life. Because, in the end, there was no point, was there?

    Neither of them mentioned Mr Beresford to Raffaella, but it was very plain to both of them that she must realise that that popular venue would not see his Corinthian form, this summer.

    Raffaella had already seen H.-L.’s yacht, which was very pretty, the canvas and ropes all sparkling white, the sailors all beautifully neat, but it was certainly a great treat to be tenderly assisted on board by His Royal Highness in person: in an abbreviated blue jacket and nankeens. She herself was determinedly not nautical, in a white muslin cunningly embroidered with sprays of buttercups in yellow and green, the straw bonnet adorned with yellow ribbons and a sprig of yellow buttercups and white daisies. The which H.-L. seemed to appreciate to the full. The rest of the party consisted of Mr Shirley Rowbotham with his unmarried sister Claudia, Mr “Val” Valentine with his married sister Mrs Foster, M. le Baron de Hautcourt, who was a gentleman of around the same age as le petit Monsieur, and known to his set as “Foxy”, the which soubriquet was explained by the flourishing red curls, a Miss Blundell who was reputed to have, variously, ten, twenty and thirty thousand pounds, and Lord and Lady Ferdy Lacey. Possibly Lady Ferdy and Mrs Foster were there to play propriety, but their demeanour most certainly did not indicate as much. Possibly Mrs Foster, the oldest lady there apart from Miss Hewitt, was a full eight and twenty years of age, but her demeanour did not indicate that, either. She was a widow, the late Major Foster having died gallantly at Waterloo, only a month after the wedding.  A tragedy from which it was clear she had fully recovered. Exactly what Miss Blundell was doing there without a chaperone was not perfectly clear. Though it was true her family was said to have ambitions for her.

    The sun shone, there was a stiff but not uncomfortable breeze, the sailors duly cast off and hoisted sail, H.-L. himself took the wheel, Raffaella smiling at his elbow, and poor Miss Hewitt tottered to one of the very comfortable seats which the yacht offered and—well, did not precisely pray for rain. But for help and guidance, certainly.

    As far as the sailing went they did not do anything very adventurous: merely pottered along the coast, the land well in sight all the time. In spite of Miss Blundell’s giggling representations that it would be so Romantick to get a glimpse of Monsieur’s own country!

    Soon the great bulk of Stamforth Castle on its hill was espied, and it was decided that it might be more comfortable to anchor in the little bay that belonged to a house owned by Lord Stamforth, in order to allow the ladies to eat the midday meal. No-one objected, though the dread word “bathing” rose horridly to the surface of Miss Hewitt’s mind and would not be banished. So the yacht was anchored, the party piled into the little boat, and the picknick was spread out upon the shore. H.-L. being who he was, it was nothing like the humble picknicks which the Hewitt family in its time had been used to enjoy, but then, Miss Hewitt had not expected it would be. Pressed duck, strawberries and cream. Champagne flowed, but she managed to prevent its flowing too much in the Contessa’s direction; and Miss Rowbotham, very thankfully, followed this lead and also refused it. It was plain to the little ex-governess that Claudia Rowbotham was not enjoying herself at all, poor girl. Though not why Lady Rowbotham, Senior, had allowed her to come. The mystery was soon resolved, however, by Mr Shirley’s revealing artlessly: “M’brother Ceddie’s taken quite a decent house this summer. Claudia was aux anges: Mamma would never bring her to Brighton, don't approve of the goings-on at the Pavilion, y’see. Meself, I thought that affair t’other night was fairly dull.”

    “You are not a young woman, however, Mr Shirley,” she responded firmly.

    Grinning, Mr Shirley acknowledged this was true. And, as Raffaella, le petit Monsieur, Foxy de Hautcourt and Miss Rowbotham strolled off along the beach, added kindly: “I say, ma’am, ’t’ain’t none of my business, but personally, I have always found the little Contessa very kind. It won’t do, to imagine she has any hopes in that direction.”

    “Thank you. We know,” said Miss Hewitt, very faintly.

    “Oh, good. Greg A. was all for trying to convince her she might. Said to him, what is it, Sour grapes? Didn’t go down too well. –Ceddie’s convinced Foxy might do for Claudia,” he revealed glumly. “No telling him: the girl’s been on the town as long as I have, meself; and then, they don't call him Foxy merely because of the hair, ma’am: dashed wily fellow. Lookin’ for not less than thirty thousand.”

    “Perhaps he had best look in a certain direction, then,” she said, glancing at Miss Blundell, laughing and squealing as Mr “Val” pressed unneeded champagne on her.

    Mr Shirley winked. “Aye.”

    Lady Ferdy’s giggling suggestion that sea-bathing would be so delicious had to be vetoed by Miss Hewitt, but very fortunately Lord Ferdy appeared almost as shocked as she by the suggestion, so no-one else ventured to support it. And, though Lady Ferdy and Mrs Foster then defiantly retired behind a bush, removed their shoes and stockings, and paddled, no-one else did. The sea could not have been all that warm, or perhaps it was that their daring venture had not attracted the notice for which they had hoped, for they very soon retreated again. And the party returned to the yacht.

    The return journey featured nothing more exciting than one of the sailors playing a fiddle for them, and Mr Shirley and Mr Valentine dancing a hornpipe. Well, also Henri-Louis, who was letting his captain steer, sitting much too close to Raffaella on those comfortable seats; but it could have been a lot worse. As Miss Hewitt thankfully reported to Miss Bon-Dutton. Finishing: “There is no doubt, however, that he is very taken with her: he did not glance at any of the other ladies, in spite of their best efforts.”

    “Then we can only hope she will be enabled to dash his hopes without delay.”

    “Indeed,” she murmured.

    “But did you feel quite well, all day, dear Miss Hewitt?” added her former pupil anxiously.

    Miss Hewitt laughed. “Of course! Had it not been for the worry about the Contessa, I would have said it was a perfect day!”

    Eudora smiled limply. “Oh, good.”

    The sun shone, the wind blew briskly, and Miss Bon-Dutton had escaped from her responsibilities and was taking a walk, at a not very fashionable hour, along a not very fashionable stretch of road which afforded one a splendid view of the sea.

    After quite some time she paused to catch her breath, to admire the view, which featured tossed white caps of waves and many screaming seagulls, and excluded the Pavilion, if one held one’s head at the right angle—and to fight with her parasol in the wind.

    “Oh!” she gasped as a hand came over her shoulder and a deep voice said calmly: “Allow me.” And the parasol was subdued immediately—indeed, without a struggle.

    “Thank you, Sir John,” said Eudora faintly.

    Sir John Stevens looked at her calmly. “Not at all, Miss Bon-Dutton. I do not advise you try to put it up again, in this wind.”

    “No. I suppose it is ingrained in one, that one should, the minute the sun pops out, in our cloudy climate.”

    “Ah—not cloudless climes?” he said, looking up into pure blue sky.

    “No—um—wrong poem!” gasped Eudora, very off-balance.

    “Right poet, however, I think?” he said with a little smile.

    “Er—yes.”

    He did not say anything idiotic about walking in beauty, but merely offered her his arm. Somewhat limply Eudora took it. “I did not know you were down here,” she said feebly.

    “No? Well, I was certainly not at that affair at the Pavilion, t’other night.”

    “Er—no. Well, Wellington and his cronies featured largely; I would not have expected to see you there,” admitted Eudora.

    “Quite. And are you enjoying the town?”

    “Well enough, I suppose. Though I cannot help feeling, whenever I am here, that it might be so much pleasanter without the fashionables.”

    “Indeed. We sometimes spend a part of the summer at a little place in Cornwall: it is very obscure, you would not know it. Quite wild scenery.”

    “Yes?” responded Eudora, trying not to wonder who “we” were, precisely. Er—did he have children? They would be adults by now, given that the wife had died while he was out in India.

    “My daughter Amy and her husband live down that way, though their part of Cornwall is not so wild. He is a decent fellow: Michael Vane. I do not think you would know him, he never gets up to town.”

    “Er—no. I do know several of the Vanes,” said Eudora cautiously, wondering if it were in fact Stamforth’s family.

    “Yes, of course. Michael is one of Tobias Vane’s nephews.”

    They walked on, the wind whipping Eudora’s skirts fiercely.

    “Are you still angry with me?” he said abruptly.

    “Whuh-what?’ she stuttered.

    “Over my conduct towards yourself and your young guest.”

    Eudora took a deep breath and turned to face him. “When I stop to think about it, though admittedly I have been too busy to do so lately, I suppose I am still angry, yes. Perhaps not so much as I was. I do realise that you cannot be blamed for being unable to imagine what it must be like to be in the Contessa's position.”

    “I am not completely devoid of imagination,” he replied with a frown. “Though it is certainly very difficult to put oneself in the place of a person of the opposite sex. I can only repeat my apologies. And,” he said, before Eudora could respond, “if you will not take it amiss, issue a warning.”

    “Very well: go on,” she said tightly.

    “The gossips are agog over Henri-Louis’s dancing attendance on the Contessa at the Pavilion. I think you should be aware, ma’am, that any expectations in that direction will not come to fruition.”

    “I am aware of that, Sir John, thank you,” said Eudora levelly. “And so is she.”

    “Is she?” There was a little pause, and then he added: “Given that she is so aware, perhaps she should also be capable of realising that in those circumstances, continuing to be seen in his company can do her reputation no good.”

    “Yes,” said Eudora flatly.

    He looked at her uncertainly. “Pray do not take it amiss.”

    “No, well,” she admitted with a sigh, “it is difficult not to, for we do not know you at all, sir. But I must admit that you are not the only gentleman to have expressed just such a concern.”

    “Er—oh. Well, I am glad to hear it.”

    Eudora looked at him drily. “Are you? T’other two were my cousin Freddy B.-D. and that young ass, Shirley Rowbotham.”

    “Er—one of Sir Cedric’s brothers, is that it? I am glad to hear he is a man of decent feeling,” he said evenly.

    “Sir John,” said Eudora unsteadily, “this is ridiculous.”

    “Pray do not become hysterical,” he responded uneasily.

    “I am not given to hysterics,” said Eudora biting her lip.

    “A lady’s reputation,” he said, still uneasy, “is not a matter for jesting.”

    “Don’t!” gasped Eudora, giving way completely and going into a gale of laughter.

    Unemotionally he handed her his handkerchief.

    “Oh, dear,” she said limply, taking it. “Thank you,” she said, mopping her eyes and unaffectedly blowing her nose hard. “The thing is, Raffaella may technically be unprotected, but she is very far from stupid, and can see as well as any of us that H.-L.’s intentions cannot be honourable.”

    “Then why is she encouraging him?” he asked tightly.

    She sighed. “Oh, dear. You really cannot see it, can you? She is encouraging him because a young woman with a dubious background will never in her life be offered another chance to attend one of Prinny’s dashed musical soirées at the execrable Pavilion! –Oh, dear, I called him Prinny again,” she realised limply.

    “It is hard not to do so,” said Sir John solemnly.

    Eudora looked up at him doubtfully. She did have to look up: he was a tall man; and for some time she had been telling herself, with a part of her mind, that this fact was irrelevant. Though it was certainly rather a relief. Well, a change.

    “I think it is execrable, too,” he said, smiling.

    “At least you can see the humour of it,” replied Eudora weakly.

    “Certainly. And I can fully seize your point, or rather, your little cousin’s point. Unfortunately I can also see that to Society her reasons for encouraging H.-L. are immaterial. It is the fact of the encouragement that must damn her.”

    “Yes. Er—she is about to send him the right-about.”

    “Good.”

    “Well, yes. But the thing is, there are very few other options open to her,” said Eudora on a bitter note.

    “No. Life is damned unfair,” said Sir John levelly.

    “Indeed,” agreed Eudora, sighing. She took his arm again, not really realising she was doing so, and they walked slowly on.

    After quite some time the silence penetrated to Miss Bon-Dutton’s consciousness and she murmured: “You mentioned your daughter, Sir John?”

    “Amy: yes. I do not see very much of her, but I try to get down to Cornwall three or four times a year.”

    “Of course. May I ask if you have other children?”

    There was a little silence.

    “My son, David, died at Waterloo. He was seventeen: took the King’s shilling.”

    “I am so sorry!” gasped Eudora.

    “Thank you. I suppose many boys of that age have these Romantick notions. Not all of them act upon them,” he said with a sigh. “There was another boy, born just after I was sent out to India in the early years of the century. He was not strong and did not survive infancy; I never saw him.”

    Eudora swallowed. “I see.”

    “I try to see something of my young nephews, in especial while their parents are out of the country.”

    “Yes, of course. How is Master Jerry?” she ventured, not at all sure if it was the right thing to say.

    It did seem to be, thank God; he smiled and said: “Spending a few weeks with the Calhouns: they are connexions as well as friends. Thoroughly enjoying himself ruining the mouths of poor Calhoun’s best hacks, if report be true!”

    “I am glad he is happy,” said Eudora with a smile.

    “Mm; infatuations don’t last, at that age. Calhoun tells me his affections at the moment appear to be divided between a young lady from one of the neighbouring places, possessed of a head of yellow curls and a simper, and one, Lucy Moggeridge, who adorns the bar of the local inn. Whom no doubt you can imagine,” he ended on a dry note.

    She nodded and smiled.

    “Er—we seem to have come rather a long way,” he said lamely, looking about him.

    They were, indeed, at a considerable distance from the town. Eudora took a deep breath of the salty air and said fiercely, without thinking: “Yes. I wish I might just go on walking and— Never mind,” she said hastily.

    He looked down at her thoughtfully, and then looked out at the white-capped sea, and after quite some time said: “Do your responsibilities irk you so much?”

    “Not they alone. And I have no-one but myself to blame for having taken them on. No, it is just, on a day like this, one becomes impatient with all the social fol-de-rol. Or at least, I do.”

    “Mm. Do you sail?” he murmured.

    Eudora blenched. “No. Get queasy in any type of boat.”

    “So do I,” he said placidly. “I was sick as a dog throughout most of the voyage to India. Coming back was not quite so bad, as we had relatively calm weather, certainly all the way up the coast of Africa.”

    “Truly? Most men won’t admit to it,” she said limply. “No, well, I am not seized with the desire, on a wonderful windy day like this, to launch myself upon the briny. Merely to run like the wind, with the wind!” she ended with a laugh. “First divesting myself, if the whole truth be told, of this damned bonnet!”

    “I suppose if I urge you to take it off, some high-stickler’s carriage will drive down this road.”

    “Sure to!” admitted Eudora, laughing again.

    He looked at the flushed cheeks and the sparkling eyes, and smiled. “I should like to see you do it, though. You ride, I think?”

    “Hard not to, with my upbringing. Er—yes: I am fond of it. Hunt, too, when I get the chance.” Eudora looked about her, smiling. “It is a good day for a gallop. A pity I did not bring any of my hacks down.” They were on a cliff top: there was a stretch of tumbledown wall there. She leaned on it, breathed the pure air, and sighed.

    Sir John came to lean against the wall, too, not speaking.

    “Oh, dear,” said Eudora at last, straightening and smiling ruefully at him. “I had best get back. We are due to attend some footling party this evening. Do you have the time?”

    He consulted his pocket watch and told her the time.

    “In that case, I shall have to head back without delay. But please don't feel you have to escort me, if you would rather stay out.”

    “I would rather escort you.” He offered his arm again, and Eudora took it rather uncertainly. Was that last just manners? Well, given his upbringing, more than likely.

    They did not speak very much, on the way home. But perhaps that was merely because they were now walking into the wind, instead of having it at their backs.

    His Highness having turned up in a glossy phaeton, wearing an intricate neckcloth and with a delightful posy ready for her, Raffaella could not but suppose that today might be the day. And so it proved. The weather was warm and calm; H.-L. turned for the coast, but soon recollected that he had an urgent message to send, and with many apologies to the Contessa, dispatched his groom with it. And they drove on, without an inconvenient witness.

    A young gentleman of less savoir faire might have attempted to speak while driving, but His Highness pulled up in the shade of an old tree. “Contessa, I think you cannot be unaware of my feelings,” he said, smiling anxiously but hopefully into her eyes.

    “You have certainly been most attentive, sir,” replied Raffaella, looking prim.

    “I— Yes,” he said, somewhat taken aback. “Well, of course!” he added, rallying.

    Raffaella fluttered her lashes and smiled. This appeared sufficient encouragement for him to proceed: “Perhaps you know that my circumstances, alas, do not allow me very much freedom.”

    “I had the impression, sir, that you were free as air, like all the young gentlemen,” replied Raffaella dulcetly. She fluttered the lashes again, and sighed. “Gentlemen are so fortunate!”

    “Er—yes. Not that, Contessa.”

    “Do you mean that your horrid family means to take you away from all of your friends and incarcerate you in France for the rest of the summer, sir?” she asked, giving a disappointed pout. “That is too cruel!”

    “Er—no. It is not that. Though I am glad to hear you think it would be cruel!” he said, trying for a meaning look into her yes.

    “All your friends must think so, sir,” said Raffaella dulcetly.

    “Er—thank you.” He cleared his throat. “When I spoke of my circumstances, I meant in the—the wider sense, so to speak.”

    “I see,” she said, giving him a bewildered look.

    “My path in life has long since been set for me,” said the Prince with a frown.

    “Well, one so often thinks that, does one not, sir? And then, any number of factors may come along and upset the apple-cart! –That is an English expression,” said Raffaella kindly. “Why, take my own case: when I married Gianni dalla Rovere I had every expectation of leading the life of a blameless Roman matron for the next thirty years! Death, or Fate, or revolution,” she said, looking artless, “may intervene and change anyone’s path.”

    “Quite. Though one cannot act on that assumption, of course. There are choices,” he said, clearing his throat once again, “which I am not permitted to make.”

    Raffaella was very tempted to say, had his uncle insisted on picking out the yacht as well as paying for it, but refrained. He was not a bad fellow, poor little H.-L.

    “The warmth of my feelings towards yourself, for instance,” said His Highness, suddenly seizing her hand very tight, “can never be expressed in a way befitting your goodness and virtue.”

    She could not but feel that the word “virtue” was an unfortunate choice, but did not say so. “Sir, you have been very kind and generous; what more can a young woman in my situation ask?”

    He gave a little groan and said: “Much, much more, dear Contessa: infinitely more; but I alas, cannot offer it!”

    “I see,” said Raffaella coolly, withdrawing her hand from his. “Perhaps we had best drive back to town, then, sir, and I shall resign myself,”—she looked doleful—“to giving you up.” The which must surely be a cue, or she, Raffaella Andrews dalla Rovere, had never given a gentleman a cue in her life!

    Sure enough, he seized upon it and breathed: “Dearest, adored Contessa, it need not be that! If you could—if you would—be entirely generous?”

    Raffaella allowed her lashes to flutter in confusion—almost maidenly confusion—and said: “Dear Monsieur, perhaps I misunderstand you?”

    “No!” he said, this time seizing both of her hands fervently and positively raining kisses upon them. “Be mine, adored one! You shall be my princess in all but name, I swear it!”

    “Oh, dear,” said Raffaella matter-of-factly. “You are very naughty, and had best stop this at once and take me home to Miss Bon-Dutton.” –This last name being introduced not without malice aforethought. For if it assisted Monsieur to recall that she was not without connexions, it could do no harm.

    “I love you,” said H.-L. in a choked voice, again mumbling kissing onto her hands. “Don’t be cruel.”

    “The thing is, that although I like you,” said Raffaella, still horridly matter-of-fact, “I am not hopelessly in love with you. And even if I were, would probably not wish to throw my cap over the windmill. Look at poor Mrs Fitzherbert: Someone is King now, is he not, but she is certainly not Queen. And even if you were that close to a throne, which, forgive me, you are not, I do not want a morganatic arrangement. Though all other things being equal, I do like you enough to marry you.”

    “All other things are not equal,” said Henri-Louis, giving her a piteous look.

    Raffaella’s resolution did not falter: after all, she was not in love with him. But she did feel very sorry for him. “I know that, poor boy. I suppose you are as much a victim of circumstances as I am. You had better take me home.”

    “But wait! You do not understand!” he cried. “ I could offer you—”

    “I know,” she said coolly. “Everything but marriage. I don’t want jewels and silks and houses—well, I do, it would be dishonest to claim otherwise. But not at such a price. And if you do not instantly release my hands, I shall hit you with this parasol.”

    He went very red and released her. “You have not thought over the advantages I can give you, Contessa,” he said on a sulky note. “Nor, if you will forgive me, your options.”

    “Henri-Louis, appearances to the contrary, perhaps, I have thought over my options. And I am sorry, but these last weeks I have been meanly taking advantage of you because I wanted to go on a royal yacht, and be invited to the Pavilion, and be fawned upon by the idiots who form your court and who fondly imagine themselves to be the ones laughing up their sleeves. But I shall never be your mistress. Are you going to drive me home, or shall I have to walk?”

    “Of course I shall drive you,” he said, his lips quivering. “But allow me to say, madam, that you are an unprincipled woman!”

    “Yes,” agreed Raffaella calmly. “But if I have acted without principle, so also have you.”

    “But I truly love you!” he cried, tears starting to his eyes. “And I have no other choice!”

    “Given your upbringing, I can see that you truly believe that. Well, that you truly believe both statements. And I am honestly very sorry to have to tell you that you have no hope.”

    “Very well,” he said, whipping up the pair.

    They were nearly home before he said, his lips trembling: “Please remember, Contessa, that the offer will always remain open, should you—should you need it. And that my devotion and respect will always be yours.”

    Raffaella looked at the tears in the nice brown eyes and thought that perhaps he did really mean it, or believe he meant it, which was close enough. And said simply: “Thank you, Monsieur. That is very generous.”

    … “Well?” said her cousin as she came slowly into the sitting-room.

    Raffaella shook her head. “Soft, as I said. He did offer, and of course I refused. I think he had rehearsed most of what he said; but on the other hand, I think he meant it. He reminded me so much of Gianni that I began to ponder on genealogies even as the words were leaving his mouth. Oh, well. I doubt if really feels anything very deep, though he has doubtless persuaded himself he does. I am his type, that is all, and he thought he saw a chance.” She went out, shaking her head again.

    After quite some time Miss Hewitt uttered: “She is so hard-headed.”

    “She is certainly capable of a certain cold realism, yes. That is probably just as well.”

    “Indeed. Er—presumably people will say he has dropped her, not that she refused him?”

    Eudora shrugged. “More than likely. Never mind: we are due at Stamforth Castle,” she reminded her with an ironic gleam in her eye.

    Missing the ironic gleam, Miss Hewitt brightened immediately.

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