‘What?’ This remark made no sense at all.
‘Our son has…’ Hugh coughed, glanced at the door, and went on in a low voice, ‘… ruined the girl.’
I let out a hefty sigh and dropped down into a chair.
‘Good God, Hugh, you had me thoroughly rattled. No, he hasn’t. But what do you mean, anyway?’
‘Wanderings in the night,’ said Hugh, so darkly that I had to try very hard not to smile. ‘I caught him in the passageway and he didn’t even deny it. So. Now you’re home you must speak to him. And to her. And he must do the honourable thing.’
‘Hugh, for heaven’s sake-’
‘This is no opera girl, Dandy. I can’t imagine why you passed her off as a seamstress-’
‘If you would open your ears and listen once in a-’
‘Or a nun.’
‘Donald didn’t “ruin” her,’ I said. ‘He’s years too late, for a start. Good Lord, anything less like a nun is hard to imagine.’
Hugh opened his eyes very wide so that his crow’s feet showed white in his weather-beaten face.
‘But she’s an unmarried girl of good family,’ he said, adorably. Hugh’s world is a simple one.
‘So if there’s been ruination,’ I said, ‘it’s she who has ruined him.’
‘Well,’ said Hugh, with some relief, ‘he doesn’t seem to have minded.’
Then he sat up very straight, shocked that his relief had led him so far as to say such a thing to me, instead of keeping it for George at the club where it belonged. I took pity on his frozen discomfiture and left him alone with his tracing paper and pencils again.
‘Is that for Miss Beauclerc, Becky?’ I called across the hallway, seeing one of the parlour maids just starting up the stairs with a tea tray.
‘Oh! Welcome home, madam,’ she said, attempting a curtsey, but with a careful eye on the milk jug. ‘Yes.’
‘Where is she?’ I asked striding over and taking it out of her hands.
‘Oh! Rose room, madam.’
‘Right,’ I said, grimly, taking the stairs two at a time.
‘Will I fetch her bags out of the boxroom?’ Becky called after me, in a hopeful voice.
‘As soon as you can,’ I called back.
‘Oh, good, madam,’ Becky said. ‘Mr Pallister will be pleased.’
Jeanne Beauclerc was lolling against the satinwood headboard, taking the rags out of her hair and fluffing it into curls as I entered.
‘Mrs Gilver!’ she said. She sounded startled, but she did not sit up or stop fluffing.
‘Indeed,’ I replied. ‘I’ve found Fleur for you. She’s downstairs. She might be staying here or she might be staying with Mr Osborne, a friend of mine. You, as I’m sure I don’t need to explain, shall not be staying here any longer.’
Mademoiselle Beauclerc blinked at that, but she did not stop smiling.
‘What a pity,’ she said. ‘I have had a very pleasant few days.’ I was speechless. ‘Your son is such a sweet boy, Mrs Gilver.’
‘My son is going back to school tomorrow,’ I replied.
‘And your husband is such a sweet man.’ My speechlessness this time was of a depth and quality I had never experienced before. I simply banged down the tray and turned to go.
‘But the hospitable Mr Osborne sounds very promising too,’ she said in a musing voice. I hesitated, then kept on walking. Alec could take care of himself; this viper was not spending another night in my nest.
Postscript
‘Frankly,’ said Alec, ‘I’m insulted.’ We had had the carriage to ourselves since East Combe and I had finally asked him straight out if he had managed to resist the charms of Jeanne Beauclerc in the few days she had spent under his roof. ‘Really, Dandy, I’m twice Donald’s age with three times his experience of the world.’
‘Poor Donald,’ I said, not meaning it at all. ‘If I’d known a broken heart would set him straight the way it has, I’d have arranged for it to be broken long before now. But it wasn’t just Donald, you know. Hugh was beginning to sway in time, like a charmed snake, and I’ve begun to wonder why Mrs Paterson at Low Merrick Farm was so keen to get rid of such a nice quiet guest. It never struck me as likely that parents from St Columba’s would really have booked up all the rooms at the farm. I reckon Jeanne was batting her eyes at Mr Paterson over the sheep pens and his wife got wind of it.’
‘And what’s the news from the ruins of St Columba’s?’ Alec said. ‘Anything fresh to report?’
Constable Reid had been telephoning to me with daily updates until Miss Brown at the Portpatrick post office got sick of him monopolising ‘her good kiosk’ and shooed him out once and for all. Luckily, by then little bits of it had begun to leak into the press and we could follow the story as it unfolded.
‘Well, of course, even before it comes to court, they’ve all been defrocked or lost their licences or whatever happens to schoolmistresses,’ I said. ‘Not that Miss Ivy Shanks ever really was one. Miss Christopher and Miss Barclay, this is. I feel sorry for Miss Lovage, since she had money in the place.’
‘And what’s to become of the school itself?’
‘Hah!’ I said. ‘This is priceless. You know it’s called St Columba’s because it was at Portpatrick that Columba landed from Ireland and tamed the heathen hordes?’
‘Vaguely,’ said Alec, which is his way of saying ‘not at all’.
‘Well, it struck a crowd of his fans as the perfect spot. And they’re trying to buy it up to make a convent.’
‘Oh.’ Alec frowned. ‘What a waste of a golf course.’
‘Episcopalian nuns,’ I said. ‘I’m sure they play golf. Anyway, it’s not decided yet. It’ll probably end up as an hotel.’
We were silent for a moment.
‘The ones I really feel sorry for are all those poor girls who thought they were marvellous scholars,’ I said, after a while. ‘They’ve had a dreadful comedown.’
‘But then there are the Stellas to balance them,’ said Alec.
‘Oh, yes!’ I said, clapping my hands. ‘I had the most entertaining telephone call from Candide Rowe-Issing – furious with Ivy Shanks, of course, and quite ready to sell another Canaletto to pay a solicitor to sue her – but so delighted to find out that Stella’s not a cheat after all that she almost – almost, mind – betrayed a flicker of affection for the girl.’
Alec laughed.
‘Mawkishness is always unspeakable,’ I went on, ‘but I do think Candide has gone a little too far the other way.’
‘And speaking of mawkishness,’ said Alec, ‘you really think the whole battalion are going to be there today?’
‘Undoubtedly,’ I said. ‘Try not to be sick, won’t you?’
Right enough, there they all were; in the garden, under the walnut tree, waving us over from the drive. Mamma-dearest rocking in her hammock, Aurora sprawled on a rug on the grass, Pearl with her feet tucked up on her wicker chair, hugging her knees, Batty Aunt Lilah pattering about with her secateurs. And coming towards us over the lawns, Fleur, in a pale green frock with her hair cut short and her arm around Sabbatina, who was as brown as a gypsy and wearing a tennis dress.
‘Darling Dandy,’ said Fleur, as we walked towards them, and I knew from just those two words that she was herself again.
‘You’re late!’ shouted Pearl. ‘We’ve had to make fresh tea twice already and the icing’s melted on the big cake.’
‘It’s so wonderful to see you, Dan,’ said Fleur. ‘And you, Mr Osborne. How is that delicious little doggy of yours?’
‘Where’s Jeanne?’ I said, and Fleur caught Sabbatina’s eye and giggled.
‘In the village,’ she said. ‘At the widowed doctor’s for tea. She’s made an absolute conquest of him, but it’s very naughty of her to miss your visit.’
She and Sabbatina turned and started walking ahead of us back to the others.
‘I’ll live,’ I said in a low voice to Alec.
‘Doggy, indeed,’ he muttered.