The Peninsula

Part V. The First Peninsula Campaign

17

The Peninsula

    Lady Lavinia laid the letter down, and sighed. Her spouse eyed her uneasily and muttered: “Well?”

    “Well, Lionel,” she replied heavily, “the weather in Portugal at this time of year could not be worse than it is here, that is one thing certain.”

    “Ye-es. Well, the crops need the rain, old girl.”

    Dully Lady Lavinia returned: “The Senhora Baldaya is enceinte.”

    “Ye-es. S’pose that’s to be expected, even at old Baldaya’s age. Or ain’t it his?”

    “She would scarcely write as much to me. I dare say it is his. She seems very happy, and I am sure it is very generous of her to… Read it for yourself,” she finished dully.

    Eagerly he seized on it and read it through. Only to conclude dazedly: “Could be anyone’s letter! Might be Pamela P.-G., invitin’ us to Bluff Yewby.”

    “Lionel, you are maundering,” said her Ladyship heavily.

    “Maundering! That’s a bit strong, old girl!” He waited hopefully, but alas, she did not pounce on him for calling her “old girl” twice in the space of five minutes. “Er, well, y’don't like the country in March, me dear, and Katie’s done nothing but sulk since we came home, and taking her to Daynesford won’t answer, in the case you was thinkin’ of it, because Luís Ainsley’s stayin’, and he’ll try to flirt with her and he’s as good-looking as Arthur, if half his age, so it’s fifty-fifty whether she’ll encourage him to spite the lot of us or send him to the rightabout, which won’t make for harmony in the house, will it? And talking of harmony in the house, Giles will try to jolly her out of it, and ten to one Gaetana will take her side, y’know what young women are; always said Giles should have looked twice before he leapt—”

    “You said no such thing!” she gasped indignantly.

    At least she appeared to be awake again, if not perhaps yet herself. Sir Lionel breathed a stealthy sigh of relief. “Well, me dear, Gaetana is the dearest little thing, but for meself, can’t imagine what a man finds in common with a gal half his age.”

    “If that is a veiled hit at Katie and Arthur, let me tell you they have everything in common!” she cried strongly.

    Except, apparently, the desire to get together again. “Wouldn’t say that.”

    Vigorously Lady Lavinia proved how Katie and Arthur had everything in common: background, temperament, inclinations…

    “Well, yes, in this instance, think you are right, me dear,” he agreed judiciously.

    “Of course I am right!” she said scornfully.

    He nodded hopefully, but, alas, could think of nothing more to say, and so a silence fell…

    “Lavinia,” he said at last, as she just sat there looking dully at the rains of early March—which, there was no doubt at all, the crops certainly needed—streaming down the windows of Dewesbury Manor’s cosy small salon: “Katie ain’t doing nobody any good, least of all herself, moping away here. Why the Devil don’t we accept this very kind invitation from the Baldayas, and give the girls and ourselves a real change?”

    “But there is the Season coming up. I dare say the journey may not take so very long, but we can scarcely go, stay but a week, and return.”

    “No, no, me dear! Stay for the whole of the spring and early summer; come home when it starts to get too hot, hey?” he said on a bracing note.

    “But Nellie will miss the Season,” she objected wanly.

    Sir Lionel cleared his throat. “Yes. Dare say. Um, thing is, Lavinia, don’t think you realised, but she got up to all sorts of rigs and rows last Season: not the sort of thing you might imagine, neither. Know for a fact she went off with the boot-boy to see some mangy dancing dogs somewhere over Southwark way; and then, don’t ask me why, she took a fancy to see the Smithfield Market, y’see, and some imbecile had told her that was not so far from St. Paul’s, and she knew where that was, because I took her meself, that time damned Quentin refused to, ’member? So she drags little Priscilla Claveringham off in a damned hackney coach, with that fool Henry conniving at it.”

    Lady Lavinia’s jaw had sagged. “Henry C.?” she croaked.

    “Eh? No! –Dare say he would, too, got no sense, but the man’s my age, Lavinia, she’d never think of asking him. No: your footman, me dear: Henry!”

    Her ladyship’s large cheeks turned purple.

    “Gave him a damned good dressing-down. Not that they came to no harm, the fool had at least the sense to see to that.”

    “Y— But why did you not tell me?” she gasped.

    “Thought you had enough on your plate, what with Katie. Well, and thought it would blow over, once a few eligibles showed some interest. Didn't, though. Not if you count young Benny G.-G. as an eligible.”

    “Lionel, he has been Violetta Spottiswode’s lap-dog for these two years past,” she reminded him in a hollow voice.

    “Three, by now, ain’t it? Well, yes, that’s what I mean. Thing is, Nellie talked him into taking them to some dashed fair over in Cheapside what was reputed to have a fire-eater. Harley Q.-S. got it out of young Priscilla, told me all about it at White’s,” he explained kindly. “So he told Sarah that she wasn’t makin’ much of a fist of the chaperoning, and the two girls was not to be allowed out alone together again. Which to my mind, was not logical, for of course they was with Lord Benny, not—”

    “Yes! Lionel, what is your point?” she cried loudly.

    He scratched his chin slowly. “Think my point is that little Nellie didn’t take too kindly to London life or the Season, Lavinia. Those skinny little boyish types often take longer to grow up, y’know,” he said kindly.

    “And your point is also, I collect,” she said with trembling lips, “that I did not make much of a fist of chaperoning her?”

    Sir Lionel gulped. He had never intended to imply that. “Think you didn’t realise, me dear, that she’s a bit different from the other three gals. Not that you can count Susan, she was always too good, wasn’t she? And Gwennie was a wild little thing as a brat, but then she could not wait for her come-out, eh? And Katie ain’t the same sort at all. But I admit, in her quiet way, she’s been a damned worry to you, this past year.”

    “In short, I was paying too much attention to Katie and not enough to Nellie,” she said tightly.

    “No, well, natural enough,” he said easily. “But I’d say Nellie just needs a bit of breathing space—bit more time to grow up, eh?”

    “She is turned eighteen, now.”

    “Lavinia, she spent the entire summer puddlin’ about in the mud down at Arthur’s dashed pond!”

    Lady Lavinia gave a strangled cough. “Lake.”

    Sir Lionel met her eye. He collapsed in a terrific sniggering fit. “Aye, well, poor old Arthur,” he conceded, wiping his eyes at last. “Bit of a wet fish, ain’t he? Still, if he's what Katie wants, better give them the chance to get together, hey?”

    Lady Lavinia was also mopping her eyes. “Oh, dear! I have always felt precisely that about him, however meritorious his Naval career.”

    Sir Lionel nodded, grinning.

    “Yes. But I cannot see how taking Katie off to Portugal for the Season—and I concede it will do Nellie no harm, my dear, you are perfectly right—but I cannot see how removing Katie entirely from his vicinity will help.”

    “Ah! Thought of that!” Beaming, Sir Lionel revealed his master plan. It entailed their all joining up with Commander Sir Arthur and his friend Charles Quarmby-Vine, and taking the Captain’s big ocean-going yacht across to Portugal.

    For once words failed Lavinia Dewesbury, née Hammond. She just looked at him limply.

    “See?” he said pleasedly.

    “Y— Lionel, if it could work!” she gasped, clasping her hands.

    “Of course it’ll work,” he said, rising. “Leave it to me, old girl.”

    “But wait! Surely Charles Q.-V. will not wish to— I mean, she turned him down, Lionel!” she cried.

    He paused. “True. But she's on track to become a wealthy widow, ain’t she? Won’t be the first time his eye has lingered on a Portuguese widow!” he said brilliantly, going out.

    Lady Lavinia, alas, dissolved in gales of unseemly laughter.

    The sun shone out of a pure blue sky. Eudora sat under the somewhat inadequate shade of a pergola adorned by a vine which as yet was not in very heavy leaf, and allowed the fat landlord of the little place which owned the vine and the pergola to force upon her a drink of something or another which, though her Portuguese was almost non-existent, he seemed to be declaring was suitable for ladies. Very possibly walking around the city by oneself and sitting down in obscure little taverns, even though she was not strictly speaking in it but on the pavement just outside it, was not suitable for ladies, but perhaps the man was kindly overlooking that, in the light of the extortionate amount he was about to obtain from her for the said refreshment.

    When it came it seemed to be a mixture of lemon syrup and orgeat, but Eudora drank it off anyway, and looked at the dozing cobbled street in the sun, and the old white church opposite with its very foreign and exotic-looking (if not very high) towers, and at the deserted cart, also opposite, of a flower seller, and at a scrawny brown dog dozing on a doorstep, and sighed deeply. To think, at this very moment the fashionables were beginning to gather in London, and she might be shivering in Mrs Lance Hornby’s huge icy salon, or suffering agonies of the feet at an Embassy rout party, or sweltering in Mrs Gratton-Gordon’s overheated conservatory of a soi-disant ballroom, the meantime exchanging mindless civilities with a pack of mindless fribbles! How could she bear to miss it all? She thought of her mother’s expression when she had dropped in upon her in Bath express to impart the news that she was off to Portugal with the Dewesburys, and smiled. And, since the landlord of the little tavern apparently took the smile as a signal to himself, allowed him to force another glass of his concoction upon her. The mixture of tastes was not altogether horrid: just… unexpected.

    She had finished the second drink and was wondering if she could manage enough Portuguese to ask the man for something to eat, and whether, an she did so, what was produced would be palatable at all, when a tall figure which she had been vaguely aware was approaching from the right suddenly swerved in its progress, came up to her table, snatched off its hat, and gasped: “Miss Bon-Dutton!”

    Eudora had known that Sir John Stevens was in Lisbon: the government had consented to send him over, since the Portuguese had continued to ask for him. They had not gone so far as to send him as ambassador, given the break between himself and the Cabinet, but had awarded him some vague sort of roving commission. The which, or her name was not Eudora B.-D., was in all likelihood not accompanied by any remuneration. She had not admitted to anyone, not even the gentle Miss Hewitt, that the knowledge had formed one more reason for her acceptance of the Senhora Baldaya’s pressing invitation. Since her arrival she had told herself firmly that it was in the highest degree unlikely that she would set eyes on him: he was doubtless busy all day in meetings, and the Baldayas were not socialising very much in the evenings because of Raffaella’s condition—though she was keeping very well and if the General had not put his foot down would have happily danced until dawn every night. Rather to Eudora’s surprise Lady Lavinia Dewesbury seemed very content not to socialise much, either. Well—perhaps Katie's being kept at home in the evenings with the Commander was a factor.

    “How are you, Sir John?” she said, levelly enough, though aware that her colour had risen.

    Ignoring this polite greeting, he returned: “Surely you are not alone in this district?”

    Eudora felt her choler rise. “Alas, yes,” she said on an airy note. “As you see, it has resulted in my being pestered by half a score of undesirables.”

    On cue, the fat landlord of the little place had emerged from the dim fastness of his tiny establishment and was glaring at Sir John, arms akimbo. Basely Eudora gave him a plaintive look: he immediately hurried to her side, shouting.

    Alas, she had forgotten that Sir John spoke excellent Portuguese: he addressed a few calm words to the fellow and the traitorous man produced a series of bows and, beaming all over his fat traitor’s face, dashed back inside.

    “I have asked him for something decent to drink and some snacks,” said Sir John calmly, pulling up a chair and seating himself uninvited at Eudora’s table.

    After a stunned moment Miss Bon-Dutton managed: “You are very high-handed, sir.”

    “No, merely very thirsty and rather hungry,” he said mildly. “Why do you not put your parasol up? There is no wind, today.”

    After a startled moment Eudora realised that the reference to their encounter on the outskirts of Brighton was intentional. “There is sufficient shade without it,” she croaked.

    “Mm.” He picked up her empty glass and sniffed at it with interest. “The fellow is gypping you, as I suspected: he has not added the rosewater. –That is very much the local custom,” he said as she looked blank.

    “Lemon, orgeat, and rosewater as well?” said Eudora feebly.

    “Certainly. Has the Senhora Baldaya not yet introduced you to all the exotic drinks native to the country?”

    “She has certainly spared us that mixture,” croaked Eudora. Unable to utter the syllables which immediately sprang to her lips, to wit, how did he know where she was staying? Though on second thoughts, it was the obvious—

    He merely smiled and murmured: “I have ordered you a fresh-squeezed orange. I think you will find that much more palatable.”

    “Thank you,” said Eudora limply. And if he had already known, why had he not called, pray? No, well, clearly he had not been interested enough to bother.

    “So, you braved the sea in order to visit with your young connexion?” he murmured.

    “Er—yes.” Belatedly Eudora remembered that they had agreed that they were both rotten sailors, that day on the Sussex coast. She smiled feebly.

    “Perhaps I should not ask whether you had a good trip,” he murmured.

    Eudora took a deep breath. “You are being deliberately provoking! If you wish to know, I was sick as a dog for the first forty-eight hours.”

    “I am very sorry to hear it. I was, too. Well, had a rotten crossing, as was to be expected of late February. I stayed up on deck as much as possible to get the fresh air, I find that helps a little. But I suppose they did not let you?”

    “No: confined to my cabin with Lady Lavinia D. kindly supervising me,” she sighed.

    “Horrors!” he said with a sudden loud laugh.

    Miss Bon-Dutton gave a very, very weak smile. He was so very—really, the only word was masculine, when he laughed like that. The which she had not seen him do before—nay, had not suspected— “Er, what?” she said, jumping a little.

    “I said, if one goes over to France and finishes the journey by coach, the agony is shorter.”

    “Sir John, have you ever heard Mr Luís Ainsley on the subject of his crossings of the Pyrenees?” said Eudora urgently.

    Sir John laughed again. Eudora, even though she had intended him to do so, was only capable of a weak smile.

    “Ah! Here we are!” he said cheerfully as the landlord bustled up with a tray.

    “What—?” began Eudora feebly.

    “Do not ask: just taste, Miss Bon-Dutton!” he said, smiling all over his lean face. “This is the sort of thing the people eat, both here and in the coastal areas of Spain. Little fried fishes of this, that, and the other type, vegetables done on the spit, and— Well, as I say, just try! Oh, and ignore any prejudiced nonsense your English friends and relatives may have imparted as to the injurious or unpalatable nature or so forth of olive oil. Next to the grape, the olive must be considered the most manifest evidence of the existence of a loving Creator and Protector of mankind!” Forthwith he seized a—er—at all events not a bottle: a flask, perhaps, and filled his glass. “To your experience of the Iberian Peninsula, Miss Bon-Dutton,” he said, drinking.

    Limply Eudora picked up her glass of fresh orange juice. “Thank you.”

    Sir John watched, smiling a little, as an amazed expression came over the proper Miss Bon-Dutton’s face. “Yes. ‘Dance, and Provençal song, and sunburnt mirth’, is it not?”

    “Oh, yes!” she gasped. “It is exactly that! I would dispute your claim for the grape, sir! It cannot be more wonderful than this! Goodness, and I had thought that what my cousin’s orangery produces were oranges!”

    “Mm. Eat,” he said mildly, offering the tray of little dishes.

    Obediently Eudora began to eat…

    “The year is beginning to warm,” he murmured, as they sat back at last, replete. “One should not, really, be walking around the streets at this hour. As you can see, the locals have all retired indoors. Could we perhaps find you a carriage to take you home?”

    “I do not require a carriage; I am not a weakling, thank you. And the locals, on the contrary, are beginning to re-emerge,” she said, as the flower-seller was seen to reappear beside his cart, and two women emerged onto the front step of a nearby house. “And, indeed, had merely retired indoors to eat their midday meals, as the smell of cooking might have indicated to you!”

    “Mm. Érico Baldaya is used to live a very fashionable sort of life: have you been bored to death?” he murmured.

    Eudora gulped. “Er, well, I own I was a little surprised to find Raffaella leading very much the sort of dawdling fashionable existence one does in London. But she assures me that as soon as she gets us up to their country place in the hills, that will change.”

    His eyes twinkled. “I think you will find that large parts of it will still be dawdling, however. In this part of the world the populace tends to come alive from dusk until dawn, whereas we cold northerners are used to precisely the opposite arrangement.”

    Feebly Eudora nodded.

    “The Senhora, an she keeps to the custom of the country, will rise very early, even if she has been to bed very late, in order to get her household started on its tasks. Possibly she will snack on a few figs, peaches or apricots, if they be in season, and fresh cheese with maybe a little ham, at that hour. The house-party will be offered breakfast quite some hours later. There will be time for a walk or a ride in the morning. The midday meal will likely be large and after it you will be expected to sleep for at least two hours.”

    “Y— Um, well, Raffaella is in an interesting condition.”

    “They sleep whether or not, Miss Bon-Dutton!” he said with a grin. “Until the weather becomes too hot, the late afternoon will be the time for a little gentle activity: calls on one’s neighbours, perhaps, or strolls in the grounds. In the early evening the local people will be seen to emerge for their promenade.”

    Eudora nodded dazedly; she had already observed this behaviour in the lower classes of Lisbon. Young woman together in little groups, young men together in separate little groups. Some older couples, but relatively few. Older men generally did not walk much, but headed straight for the little taverns like the one in which they were sitting, to play endless board games or card games and drink endless tiny glasses of—well, perhaps it was porto. The genteel classes tended to go for genteel drives in their barouches at around the same hour.

    “It is the same, all over the Mediterranean. I know we are on the Atlantic coast, but the way of life here has little to do with ours. Though strangely, you will find much salt cod in the local diet.”

    She nodded dazedly again.

    “The Baldayas will dine very late, and the evening will be very pleasant indeed,” he finished, smiling.

    “What? Oh! Yes, I am sure.”

    “Can you support it?” he murmured.

    “I am looking forward to it very much,” replied Eudora firmly.

    “Mm, well, make sure to ask Baldaya for a decent horse. I think he is not letting the Senhora ride, at present, but not long before you arrived she was getting about on a fat slug of a thing even broader in the beam and more placid than that creature you had for her in London.”

    “His stable name was Feather-Bed. He was a dreadful slug, yes,” admitted Eudora weakly.

    “So is this one. It ain’t white, though: yellow. White mane and tail, which I would judge she has the grooms braid up every night in order to brush out in flowing, wavy tresses when she wishes to ride. The effect is very much like something out of a Rubens: opulent, I think is the word I am seeking. And she has a new habit, something reminiscent of the one you wore last Season: deep crimson velvet, with matching hat heavily trimmed with red and white ostrich plumes. The same lace cravat she was wont to wear in London, an I mistake not.”

    Eudora had to swallow hard: she was not quite sure which of his points to address first. Or would it be better to ignore every one of them? Er—no. She managed feebly: “She made me buy that crimson thing last year—in fact it was made to her orders. And it was not velvet.”

    “Miss Bon-Dutton, believe me, I find every syllable of that speech entirely credible,” he said smoothly.

    At thus Miss Bon-Dutton so far forgot herself as to lean forward eagerly over the little table and urge: “Sir John, pray give me your impressions of them!”

    “From before you got here?” he murmured, not seeming in the least surprised, and not pretending to mistake her meaning. “Well, the General’s behaviour has not changed one iota: you may see for yourself: he is doating, uxorious, and complaisant.”

    “Complaisant?” she faltered.

    “In company, at the least. I think, not yet, out of it. Doubtless that will come, however. In spite of his faults, I have always found him an entirely fair-minded man. Even where your sex is concerned, ma’am.”

    Eudora bit her lip. “Pray do not turn this into a joke, dear sir.”

    For some reason or another Sir John’s lean face was wreathed in smiles as he returned: “I shall do my utmost, dear ma’am. I know you are very fond of her. Well, let me see. You need not fear she did not appear happy, before you came.”

    “Oh,” said Eudora, sagging in limp relief. “Truly? Oh, thank God.”

    “She appeared merry as a grig, and very fond of him. In fact in many ways, and please believe I am not trying to make a joke, I would say it was a marriage of true minds,” he said slowly.

    “She tried to indicate she felt it would be, when she accepted him,” she admitted. “But given the age difference, I could not see it.”

    “I do not think age has a thing to do with it, and I suspect that that is the essence of the phrase. He, of course, is highly intelligent, though the first to admit he is no tactician. And she has the same kind of intelligence.”

    “Ye-es… I thought there could be only one kind?” she said dubiously.

    He shook his head. “I would say that neither of their minds is very analytical, but that both are extremely intuitive.”

    “I— Why, yes, you are right. Raffaella always seemed to me… She does not by any means lack a reasoning faculty, but— Yes, it is not an analytical mind, you are quite right!” said Miss Bon-Dutton pleasedly.

    John Stevens could see that her own was a very analytical mind. He smiled a little. “His is similar. Also, their temperaments are not dissimilar, I think you will agree? Optimistic, naturally cheerful personalities, who have besides, considerable sense of humour. And not only that: the sort of temperament which very much enjoys the foibles and frailties of its fellow human beings, and manages to laugh both with them and at them, whilst never experiencing… Well,” he said with a little grimace, “never experiencing what the foibles and frailties of our fellows very often induce in me: which, frankly, I cannot describe as other than an impatient scorn.”

    “Yes,” said Eudora, gnawing on her lip. “I, too…”

    “Yes. It often goes with a high intelligence of the analytical kind, but never, I think, with the more intuitive sort. Let me see: what else can I tell you? You will have seen for yourself he has showered her with carriages, furs and jewels. And that she is received everywhere.”

    “Thank God,” said Eudora unguardedly.

    “The Baldaya name would ensure that, you know,” he said gently. “But also, she is quite well liked. That frank manner of hers is standing her in good stead: the local harpies, I think, were quite prepared to see something insufferably high in the instep, and have been pleasantly surprised. Even the family seems pleased with her. Well, the General has a raft of sons already: there can be no chance that a son of hers might cut someone out. And the on-dit is that he has had the good sense to settle a reasonable sum on her and to make the terms of his will, as well as very fair to all parties, known to the entire family. There has been some grumbling, naturally: but as they can see is not leaving the large portion of their patrimony to an interloper, they are reasonably content.”

    “Thank you: I was wondering. And of course I have only heard Raffaella’s version of that.”

    “Naturally. The other tale I heard to her credit as that she is managing his household very capably, has sacked some servant of whom the grandes dames of the family all unanimously disapproved, and is unreservedly adored by all of the remaining servants.”

    “Yes, um, I think that was the butler,” said Miss Bon-Dutton confusedly. “She has always had the knack of making herself adored by her social inferiors. –No,” she said, her brow wrinkling, “it is unfair to phrase it so. She does it perfectly naturally. She is genuinely interested in their lives and concerns.”

    “Yes. She will make an ideal mistress of a large country house: very much in the local style, too. –Oh, by the by, Baldaya’s decision not to grab the ancestral home back off João B. and his family has gone a very long towards sweetening the pill, too!”

    “Yes. He and his wife are in town: they have been very gracious to Raffaella.”

    “So I heard. Well, if you will not allow me to get you a carriage, may I escort you back?” he said, rising.

    Somewhat feebly Eudora got to her feet, took the proffered arm, and set out with him.

    She bore his ladylike pace for about three blocks and then said roundly: “Sir John, I am not a frail flower and I do not find the afternoon too warm. I must beg you to walk at the pace of a rational human being.”

    “I ask your pardon. My daughter Amy always complains I walk too fast for her. But then, she is short. Er, I am afraid I do have a habit of striding out: you must tell me if I go too fast for you.”

    “Very well.”

    The walked on at a considerably increased pace.

    “Do I dare ask, how in God’s name you found your way to this quarter?” he said mildly.

    “I followed my nose,” replied Eudora mildly.

    “Mm. How did you imagine you were going to get back, ma’am?”

    “My sex belies me. I have an excellent sense of direction, and besides, am not given to silly panicks nor to sallying forth in an unknown city without forethought. I have a map, with the position of the Baldaya town house marked on it. And also the address, written down clearly,” returned Eudora coolly.

    His shoulders shook. “That seems to cover it!”

    “Not quite. I have also learned how to pronounce the address correctly,” said Eudora, thereupon pronouncing it.

    “That is certainly comprehensible,” he said shakily.

    “And?” she returned dangerously.

   “And possibly the most anglicised Portuguese I have ever heard in my life!” he gasped, going into a paroxysm of laughter.

    Eudora grinned. “I have no ear for languages at all.”

    ‘So—I would—suppose!”

    They waked on together smiling, neither noticing that their pace had again slowed to something verging on the ladylike.

    “Should you care to view this church?” he asked as they approached a large and architecturally attractive edifice.

    “I saw it on the way, thank you.”

    He nodded, his eyes twinkling. “I see. Dare I ask, would you care to come for a drive tomorrow, to view the harbour and environs? Or have you driven that way already?”

    “Not at all: we have merely strolled fashionably along the promenade. I should be delighted. So long as I am not required actually to embark upon anything,” she added, looking prim.

    Sir John laughed, and pressed her hand against his side. “I shouldn’t dream of it!”

    They walked on companionably, the lady’s cheeks rather pink and the gentleman looking rather pleased with himself.

    Sir John duly arrived in a curricle and pair, and he and Miss Bon-Dutton were waved off very properly by Eudora’s hostess and her friends.

    “I told you so,” said Raffaella smugly ere the three younger ladies had scarce taken their seats in the Baldaya barouche. “Did I not say that the news that he was in Lisbon must have been the deciding factor in Cousin Eudora’s braving the terrors of the sea?”

    “Nonsense, Raffaella,” said Katie, trying not to laugh. “She came to see you, you know that very well.”

    Raffaella gave her an affectionate look. “Si, si. But let us say, it was an added inducement.”

    “But he’s so grim,” said Nellie uncertainly.

    “Nellie, cara, he may be grim but he is terribly good-looking and highly intelligent. Added to which, a distinguished Tory politician? What could be better? She will make him the most admirable hostess! And his house is said to be the most delightful Adam manor: rather in the style of old Mr Throgmorton’s Wenderholme.”

    “Wenderholme is very pretty,” allowed Nellie.

    “Si? I have never seen it. But you see? Ideal! She may have it all, without having to take old Mr Throgmorton after all!”

    “He was never offering,” said Katie hurriedly as Nellie’s jaw dropped. “She is funning. –Raffaella, I think you have forgotten that Mr Throgmorton is our Cousin Giles’s uncle.”

    “Yes; we see him quite often,” ventured Nellie.

    “Of course you do!” returned the Senhora Baldaya affably. “And one could scarcely forget a thing like that!”

    Regrettably, the two Miss Dewesburys immediately collapsed in giggles.

    “Now, today, I thought we would just drive,” said Raffaella, rolling the big eyes. “Parasols up, of course.”

    “Were we not to view a church?” said Nellie uncertainly.

    “Well, you could do that, cara, or view some horrid ruins somewhere on the outskirts, or any number of other churches, but you will end up with nothing to show for it but sore feet.”

    “And with what will we end up, after ‘just driving’?” enquired Katie affably.

    The Senhora Baldaya collapsed in helpless giggles, shaking her very fetching pink silk bonnet hard. So it was not hard to guess. And lo! Scarce had they gone five hundred yards, before three very pretty uniforms were espied, waving hard…

    “It was exactly,” said Nellie in tones of awe, accompanying Katie into her bedchamber at the end of this expedition, “like a drive with Gwennie or Babs Arthur.”

    “Of course. What did you expect? –Well, perhaps not exactly: I think the little cakes were more delicious?” she said with a twinkle in the forget-me-not eyes. “And of course the uniforms are different.”

    “In colour, perhaps!” returned Nellie with feeling.

    “I hope you did not expect Raffaella to produce some sensible men for you?” replied Katie in tones of alarm.

    Alas, Miss Nellie Dewesbury at this collapsed in ecstatic giggles. So Katie could only conclude she had not been so terribly bored, after all.

    Commander Sir Arthur had begun to feel it was a mistake to have come to Portugal. Katie seemed always to be out and about with the Senhora, the which meant surrounded by crowds of fribbles in or out of uniform and of several nationalities, and he was scarcely getting a glimpse of her. Charles Quarmby-Vine, on the other hand, seemed quite content to form one of the crowd of fribbles at the Senhora’s feet, the which proved he was a damn’ sight less of a man than the Commander would have said. He did his best to possess his soul in patience, and fit in with whatever pointless amusement the Senhora Baldaya had planned for the day in question.

    Finally, however, it seemed that virtue might be rewarded. He came down early for breakfast, for they had been quite early to bed the night before, and in any case he was not given to dawdling away a fine morning in his bed, to find only his hostess in the breakfast room.

    “Good morning, Commander!” she cried, beaming. “Come and join me: the slugabeds are not yet up, as you see!”

    He greeted her politely and came to sit at her right hand.

    “I think Katie is bored,” she said casually as he was picking up his napkin.

    The Commander dropped his napkin.

    “Well, Commander, caro,” said Raffaella, smiling very much, “she did not come to see the sights of Lisbon, you know!”

    “Uh—did she not?” he croaked.

    “No, of course! She came a little to assure herself that I was not lying when I wrote her I was happy and very much at home with Érico, and very much because her kind Papa had persuaded you into accompanying them!” she beamed.

    The Commander was rather red. “Er—mm.”

    Raffaella put a sympathetic hand on his. “Take her for a drive. Take Érico’s curricle: he scarcely ever uses it.”

    “Er—I should like to. But what about little Nellie?” he stuttered.

    “I shall take her out with me to see an unexceptionable acquaintance.”

    The Commander eyed her in trepidation.

    “No, truly!” said Raffaella with a laugh. “She is an English lady called Mrs Wedderburn.”

    “Oh, yes: of course: Colonel Wedderburn’s widow. Knew him quite well, when we were lads. They settled here, after the war: very much liked the climate, y’know, and as they had no children, had nothing to call them home.”

    Raffaella nodded. “Indeed. It is rather sad that she had no children. But she has a nephew, of whom she is very fond, so perhaps he will be suitable for Nellie.”

    “I don’t think I know him.”

    “Nor do I, but he is promised for this Season!” she said, laughing.

    “Good,” said the Commander with a smile.

    “Now, why do you not send her up a little note, and then it will be all settled!” she said cheerfully.

    “Suh-send Miss Katie up a note?” he stuttered.

    “Yes, indeed. Otherwise she may be snaffled up, you know, by Cousin Eudora, to look at a monument or a church or to play gooseberry while poor dear John S. wishes her at Jericho, or by her mamma, to view yet another church or visit with the Ambassador’s lady yet again, or even by her papa, to stroll out and try yet another version of our delicious Portuguese pastries!” said Raffaella with a gurgle.

    “Aye: I have never seen a man so taken by pastries as Lionel is by your local offerings,” he admitted, smiling. “Well, if you think I might, Senhora?”

    Refraining from rolling her eyes—for after all, he was a good man, and he was what Katie wanted, and so she should have him—Raffaella agreed that she did think he ought. And forthwith rang for pen and ink, stood over him while he inscribed a little note, and had it conveyed immediate to Miss Dewesbury.

    After which a phalanx of footmen came running, and the dazed Commander found himself surrounded with an array of fruits, meats, little fried fishes, and cheeses… Nothing like the breakfasts she had thus far served the house-party.

    “Try some of this melon, no?” she said, smiling at him. “In Italy we eat it with a special ham, and this meat here is similar: it is dried and lightly spiced pork, you see? Cut very thin.”

    Obediently the Commander consumed a very strange breakfast of melon rolled in dried pork, little fishes on skewers, and strange spicy sausages. Even the bread was damned odd. Gamely he said that it reminded him of the meals they had eaten when the fleet was at Gibraltar. This seemed to go down very well, for she then told him a great deal about Italian breakfasts versus the Portuguese…

    “The General has very kindly offered me the use of his curricle,” he explained, handing his prize up carefully.

    “I see,” said Katie in a small voice. In spite of the voyage to Portugal and the three weeks they had spent in Lisbon, she had thus far managed not to be alone with Commander Sir Arthur at all. If asked, she would have been quite unable to offer a rational explanation of why she was avoiding him.

    He drove in silence for a while. The fetching blue-ribboned straw bonnet next his shoulder remained obstinately turned away from him. “Are you enjoying Lisbon?’ he murmured at last.

    “Of course,” said Katie properly.

    “Oh? I had the impression that you found the dawdling life irksome.”

    She gulped. “Um, I suppose it is rather dawdling. Not so different from a Season in London, really, except that we are not so busy, thank goodness.”

    “No, I think Lavinia determined you would not have a dizzy round of parties, this year.”

    “Um—yes. Did she?” said Katie dazedly.

    “Yes. Think perhaps it has sunk in,” said the Commander on a dry note, “that it didn't do either you or little Nellie all that much good last year. Well, Lionel eventually told her what Nellie had got up to, gadding all over with that dim little Claveringham girl and assorted boot-boys and so forth.”

    Katie gulped.

    “I am aware she did it all behind your back,” he added.

    “It—it was harmless.”

    “Yes, and not very grown-up, and certainly not ladylike. I think Lionel has managed, though I’m damned if I know how he did it, to get Lavinia to agree to allow the girl to grow up at her own pace.”

    “Mm. Mamma is apt to think that because she considers a thing should be so, it will be, given the right amount of effort,” croaked Katie.”

    “No, well, she is not alone of humanity in that. But some of us,” said Commander Sir Arthur with a little sigh, “come to the realisation sooner rather than late that we cannot push the world in the way we wish it go.”

    “No,” said Katie, biting her lip.

    “I think if we go this way, there is a pleasant park. -Well,” he said, having turned the horses, “the Senhora has assured me that when she gets us all up to the country house it will be much more free and easy. You will like that, I think.”

    “Yes; I am looking forward to it.”

    “Mm. And perhaps the crowd of fribbles that seem to form her court here in town will not bother to follow us to the depths of the countryside.”

    “No,” said Katie, swallowing hard. “I suppose there are rather a lot of them.”

    “Safety in numbers,” said the Commander casually.

    “Yes,” she croaked, her cheeks going very pink.

    His mouth twitched a little. “I think she is happy, do not you?”

    “Mm.”

    He drove on in silence for a few moments, debating whether he should say it. But—well, could it make his situation worse? He gave a mental shrug and said: “Miss Katie, I hope you do not bear me a grudge for having been right about this marriage with old Baldaya.”

    “No,” said Katie hoarsely, licking her lips. “I do truly think she is happy. And—and we have spoken privately, and I am very sure it is not a pretence.”

    “Why, no, I do not think it is,” he said gently.

    “No. Buh-but I still think,” she gulped, “that it is very sad.”

    The Commander could hear the tears in her voice. But fortunately the park was in sight: he drove into it and turned down a shady walk, where he was able to pull the carriage to a halt out of sight of any prying eyes. There he put a hand on hers where they were clenched on her reticule. “It is sad, dearest Katie,” he said in a low voice. “Much of life is very sad. I am only sorry that you have had to find it out so young.”

    At this, Miss Dewesbury simply cast herself against the Commander’s broad shoulder and sobbed and sobbed.

    “I’m sorry,” she said huskily at last.

    “Don’t be,” said Arthur Jerningham with a little smile, giving her his handkerchief.

    Katie blew her nose hard. “No,” she said looking up at him with tear-drenched forget-me-not eyes; “for being so horrid to you, I mean. You were perfectly right, all along. It was the suh-sensible decision. And she is happy.”

    “Yes. And very much looking forward to the baby, I think? –Yes,” he said as she gave a jerky nod. “She is the maternal type.”

    “Mm. She should have a large family,” she said, sniffing.

    “Yes. Well, she is very young, as yet. Once the General is gone, there will still be time for her to find a decent fellow and have a large family.”

    “Mm,” she agreed, blowing her nose again.

    “Better?” he said, patting her free hand.

    “Not very much,” admitted Katie, trying to smile.

    At this Commander Sir Arthur put an arm right round her, regardless of what fashionable Portuguese ladies and gentlemen might be about to penetrate to their leafy walk and recognise General Baldaya’s curricle, and hugged her very strongly into his side. “Marry me,” he said hoarsely. “Let me try to make you happy.”

    Katie smiled at him through her tears. “I want to very much. But what if I—I go on being horrid to you?”

    The Commander did not smile, or try to shrug the remark aside. He replied seriously: “Resolving that sort of thing, I think, should be the concern of all married couples. We must try to understand what drives us to these impulses.”

    “Mm,” she said, sniffing dolefully. “I think I resented the fact that you would not—um—knuckle under and support my opinions blindly.”

    “Yes, that is very probable,” he replied steadily.

    “Knuckling under on either side would not be a very good way to start a marriage,” said Katie thoughtfully.

    “No, I don’t think so,” he said, squeezing her hard. “I don’t know if I should press the point: was that a Yes?”

    She looked into his very blue eyes, and smiled. “Well, yes, if you can bear it!”

    “I think I can bear it,” said the Commander, putting his lips very gently on hers…

    “Is he very passionate, do you think?” hissed Nellie.

    Raffaella patted her hand. “There is no need to hiss, cara, since we are alone in the barouche; the servants speak only Portuguese. Well, of course he is thrillingly handsome, non è vero? But I do not think he will allow himself to be very passionate, just yet. Not until they are married, you see?”

    “Ye-es… Katie told me that he kissed her and it was quite thrilling!” she hissed.

    “Good. That shows that he is truly the right man for her,” replied Raffaella cheerfully.

    Miss Nellie frowned over it. “I see… So if a man kissed you, just as a—um—moot point, I mean; and it was not thrilling, then would he be the wrong man?”

    “For myself, I would give him a second chance, cara, in especial if I had not been kissed at all before, for one has to give oneself time to become accustomed to any new sensation,” replied the Senhora Baldaya tranquilly. “But if I then found it distasteful, or simply null, I would say that he would definitely be the wrong one.”

    “Yes,” she said with a great sigh. “I see. –It was that idiot Benny G.-G,” she revealed abruptly.

    “Well, at least he is much prettier than Pooter Potter or silly little George P.”

    “Yes, but being kissed by him is like nothing, Raffaella! And I did let him do it on another day, for I thought the same as you, that perhaps it was only that I was not accustomed. But it was just as you said: simply null!”

    “I’d forget about him, then. Have Senhora Wedderburn’s nephew!” she said with a giggle.

    “I am positive he must be the greatest antidote that ever walked: she has puffed him up so much!” she hissed.

    Raffaella squeezed her hand, nodding gaily. “Sicuro!”

    The Lisbon opera house was a blaze of lights, jewels, satin gowns, orders and uniforms; Raffaella was surrounded by a crowd of fribbles in or out of dress uniform; Charles Q.-V. was one of the crowd… It was just like home, really! The main difference being that where last year they had been humble spectators of the Dewesburys on t’other side of the circle—in Rockingham’s box, wasn’t it? recalled Eudora hazily—now they were sharing a box with them. Well, not Lady Lavinia: Sir Lionel had revealed cheerfully that she hated the opera, and so Raffaella had kindly urged her to stay at home, promising gaily that she herself would chaperone Nellie in the most dragon-like way imaginable. Lady Lavinia’s shrewd eyes had twinkled a little, but she had merely thanked her politely.

    No, well, there were one or two additional differences. Raffaella was escorted by a doating husband, his large, placid form occupying quite half of the back row of the box. And Katie was escorted by a doating fiancé. According to Raffaella, Cmmdr. Sir A. was not doating and had behaved very much like a sensible man, but to Eudora’s spinsterly eye he appeared doating. Added to which, if the reference were to the actual proposal, which it had seemed to be, she did not believe for an instant that Miss Dewesbury had reported the whole of it to the Senhora Baldaya. And in any case that was not the expression of a sensible man, was it? Any unprejudiced eye must admit it!

    Eudora herself was unescorted but Sir Lionel Dewesbury seemed to have volunteered himself to make up for that, and in the first interval proceeded to compare the quality and style of the piece in the greatest detail with those of the same piece performed in London, once but three years since and once in what appeared to have been the year Dot. Assuming the correct expression of polite interest, Eudora sat back and let her eyes roam over the assorted fashionables, eligibles, ineligibles… Surely that was not—? Oh, Lor’: it was, though: tall, dark-haired, handsome, charming smile: not one of the locals, though the looks might give one to suppose so: no, it was Mr Luís Ainsley, the Marchioness of Rockingham’s brother, and what on earth he was doing in Lisbon—! But perhaps he would not notice— Too late. Beaming and waving, Mr Ainsley was seen to make his way determinedly out of the pit…

    There you were, then. The only thing different about that was that this evening Lady Rock.’s bachelor brother was in their box, flirting madly with Raffaella, instead of in Rockingham’s box, ogling her from a distance. Oh, well. Plus ça change. And at least it was no longer her responsibility. Eudora sat back again and let her eyes roam over the assorted eligibles, ineligibles, sheep, goats…

    In the pit of the Lisbon opera house that evening Dick Marchant would not have hesitated to class his humble self with the goats, and in fact had pointed out to his eager nephew-in-law, on the expedition’s being mooted quite some weeks earlier, that he did not possess any evening clothes. Undeterred, Larry Wedderburn had ferreted in his closets and attics, eventually discovering a black coat that Dick had pointed out he would not be able to get into: he had not worn it since the year ’05, which if Larry knew his recent history, which he was damned sure he did not, was the year before the Peninsula War had broke— Oh, very well. But it would be much too tight. Naturally his objections were ignored completely, and now, regardless of the fact that it was creaking across the shoulders every time he moved, he was in it; steamed, refurbished, brushed within an inch of its life an’ all as it was. The music was good, true. Though he was not going so far as to admit to his young nephew that he was glad he had come. And certainly not that he was glad he had accepted his sister Lucinda Wedderburn’s pressing invitation to spend at least part of the Season in her commodious house in town.

    “Well, go on, Larry: which one is she?” he said in a tolerant tone that just managed to avoid outright boredom.

    “Speak Portuguese!” urged his stepson, José, giggling. “Eet ees so good for Larry!”

    Dick winked and switched languages. “I asked him which one she was.”

    Nodding hard, José collapsed in frightful sniggers.

    Larry Wedderburn was very flushed. “It ain’t what you think,” he said, very dignified. In English: he did not speak any Portuguese and, as his expatriate relatives had by now had ample time to discover, had no facility for languages at all. Which possibly might have been regarded by any persons less doggedly Anglocentric than the Wedderburn family as a bar to his joining the Diplomatic Service. The which he was slated to do this coming September, the sojourn in Portugal being intended, or such at least was his father’s claim, to give him a bit of bronzing. Dick Marchant was in no doubt that it would do that in the physical sense: in fact Larry’s somewhat snub and freckled nose was red and peeling already. But in the metaphorical? Oh, well. At least it was giving the lad a bit of a holiday.

    “What ees eet, zhen, Larry?” asked José, opening his eyes very wide at him.

    Alas, Dick at this collapsed in such agonised sniggers that he missed Larry’s dignified reply.

    “Look, Pa,” José then said, digging him in the ribs; “zhat ees General Baldaya’s box. Zhat must be she: the ripe apricot in the pink satin, I theenk?”

    “Ripe peach in English, dear boy, but in essentials, you are correct,” returned Dick formally.

    Alas, José again collapsed in helpless sniggers.

    Dick’s own son, Martinho, at only fourteen years of age was less interested than his half-brother and cousin in the ladies in the boxes: he had been carefully perusing his programme, ignoring the banter, but at this he, too, collapsed in sniggers. “Which box ees eet, José?” he then asked, grinning.

    “Oh, she ees much too old for you, dear fellow,” said his half-brother airily. “But I weell allow you to look, merely—eef you permit, Pa?”

    Dick just winked again, so José, grinning, pointed out the Baldaya box.

    Young Martinho’s jaw was seen to sag.

    “Look, drop it, you fellows!” said Mr Wedderburn crossly.

    “No, no: that is perfectly genuine—er—mingled admiration and awe,” Dick assured him, his shoulders shaking as much as was humanly possible within the black thing.

    Martinho muttered something under his breath in Portuguese. His close relatives looked at him in some amusement: his ears had gone bright red.

    “One ees reliably informed, at least I theenk Aunt Lucinda ees reliable,” said José gaily, “zhat she is not a day over three and twenty years of age!”

    Dick looked again at the Senhora Baldaya, laughing and shaking her curls—adorned with a diadem of diamonds on which it was said the old general had spent a fortune in Paris. “Does her information also include the fact that she is increasing?” he murmured.

    Martinho, to his amusement, went scarlet and looked away. Larry also went very red, and glared; but José replied airily: “She did not say eet to me, Pa, but I am sure you must be correct een such a matter.”

    “I am sure it cannot signify,” said Larry crossly.

    “Well, no: you could not get near to her in any case. Is that Ovidio Ribeiro de Castro Sobrinho?” said Dick incredulously, peering at the crowd in the box.

    “You mean his son, don’t you, Pa?” said José.

    “No, I don’t!” replied Dick with feeling.

    They peered…

    “Eet ees,” decided José in a hollow voice.

    “Well, possibly his excuse is that he has known old Baldaya all his life,” said Dick languidly. “The distinguished-looking gentleman with the silver hair, in the uniform of an Admiral of the Fleet, Larry,” he said kindly. “Our fleet, not yours,” he added, less kindly.

    Martinho and José exchanged glances, and tried not to laugh.

    “Oh, Lord, Uncle Dick, I am sure you are as English as anybody,” said Mr Wedderburn valiantly.

    Alas, at this Martinho and José both succumbed. Mr Wedderburn smiled weakly. But possibly the sight of the Senhora in glorious pink satin and diamonds had cheered him up, or emboldened him, or something—it was, Dick owned silently, a sight calculated to cheer and embolden any fellow with red blood in his veins—for he then ventured: “I say, you chaps do not half teaze a fellow. But I was right, wasn't I?”

    “You were perfectly right, Larry, old man, and that is the most luscious sight I have laid eyes on this many a long year,” agreed Dick lightly.

    “Worth coming to town, Pa?” asked Martinho with a grin.

    “Er—almost,” said Dick, wincing slightly as a sturdy fellow in what from this distance appeared to be a Froggy naval uniform was seen to bow very low over the Senhora Baldaya’s hand and she was seen to hide her face behind her fan. That was “Bompey” du Fresne, or he, Dick Marchant, was a Hollander, and that made two senior admirals fawning over the poor little thing!—Why in God’s name he was categorising Raffaella Baldaya as a poor little thing Dick Marchant did not pause to consider.—“Er, I did think, Larry, dear boy, that when Lucinda introduced you to her lady acquaintances, it was some little English girl who was supposed to form the point of interest?”

    “Eh?” he said blankly.

    “He—deed not—notice—her!” squeaked José. Tears oozed out of the corners of his eyes. He fanned his face helplessly with his programme.

    “Oh,” said Mr Wedderburn sheepishly, grinning. “That one. Um—can’t see her, Uncle Dick. Um… No, there she is. Next the older dame in the blue. White muslin. See?”

    Dick looked. “The little girl with the brown curls? There can be no comparison, old fellow.”

    “Flat as—as—” His English failed José. He waved his hands helplessly. Tears oozed out of the corners of his eyes.

    “As a pancake, I theenk ees Pa’s expression. Your English ees getting worse, old man,” said his young brother kindly.

    “I know. I spend too much time weeth my Uncle Henrique, no?”

    “Dear boy, your mother’s family insisted,” murmured Dick, patting his knee.

    “I know, but eet does no good, for I do not marry either the buck-teeth one or the squint-eye one!” he said gaily.

    “Should think not, old man!” agreed Larry with feeling. “We’ve got them at home, too, y’know: rafts of ’em. Ma kept flingin’ ’em at me head, all last year: frightful, it was. Didn’t let up even at Christmas, neither, would you believe?”

    “Yes, zhat ees zhe worst, for zhen they have zhem in the house!” he agreed, shuddering.

    “I say, did she?” asked Martinho in horror.

    Larry nodded feelingly.

    “Well, you weell not find any of the sort in Pa’s house!” José assured their cousin kindly.

    “I should zheenk not! Pa’s a great gun!” contributed Martinho. “It’ll be all right when we get back home, Larry. José’s right: Pa won't let any buck-toothed or squint-eyed females infest the house.”

    “Glad to hear it,” he said grinning.

    “No, well, you will not find it any more interesting than you did last month,” warned Dick. “There will be no female company at all, in fact.”

    “Er—no, of course, sir,” said Mr Wedderburn on an uncertain note.

    “Aunt Lucinda hates eet, for we are so vairy remote, you see: she weell not come for zhe summer,” explained José.

    “I get your drift,” he said, nodding.

    “But,” added José with a twinkle in his big dark eyes, “eet weell not be so vairy bad! Pa ees so naughty, he weell not tell you, and Martinho, you see, has never noticed. But zhust over zhe hills from us, zhat charming property we saw last month, weeth zhe courtyard and zhe pools in zhe Moorish fashion, zhat you so admired: zhat ees the property of General Baldaya!”

    Mr Wedderburn’s jaw dropped.

    “Oh, yes, that’s right,” agreed Martinho. “Well, he ees a frightful swell, Larry; we never see anything of hees house parties, do we, Pa?”

    “No, quite,” agreed Dick drily.

    “Duh—uh—do he come down for the summer, though, sir?” stuttered Mr Wedderburn.

    “Oh, frequently, it is his favourite house.”

    “I say,” he breathed, his bulging blue eyes on the Baldaya box.

    Dick sighed, but did not reiterate his point that the Senhora was clearly expecting to be confined some time this summer. Nor stress the point that not only had she married a fellow old enough to be her great-grandfather, she was apparently, if Du Fresne and Castro Sobrinho were any indication, accustomed to encourage the attentions of very much older men. Let the lad enjoy his crush while he might. You were only young once.

    Oddly, he found himself again thinking, as he was preparing for bed after quashing the fourteen-year-old Martinho’s suggestion that he accompany José and Cousin Larry on a tour of the town’s night life, “Poor little thing”. Married to a gross old creature who must have been old when Adam was a lad… Oh, well. Such was life. But all the same! Poor little thing.

Next chapter:

https://raffaella-aregencynovel.blogspot.com/2022/11/over-hills-and-great-way-off.html