“Oh, dear!” she said distressfully. “That is unfortunate! What is to be done?”
He responded frankly: “I haven’t the least notion! Do you bend your mind to the problem, love! My present concern is to recover that confounded brooch!”
She nodded. “Yes, indeed! I do feel that that is of the first importance. I am not myself acquainted with Lord Silverdale, but from anything I have ever heard said of him I am much afraid that your brother is very right: he is—he is shockingly malicious! Papa told me once that he is as hungry as a church mouse, but can always command a dinner at the price of the latest and most scandalous on-dit. And if he is one of the Prince Regent’s guests—Kit, do you know how to obtain a private interview with him?”
“No,” replied Kit cheerfully, “but I fancy I know who can supply me with the answer to that problem!”
“Sir Bonamy!” she exclaimed, after an instant’s frowning bewilderment.
“Exactly so!” said Kit. He added proudly: “Not for nothing am I Mama’s son! I too have nacky notions!”
17
A luncheon, consisting of sundry cold meats, cakes, jellies, and fruit, was always served at noon in the apartment known as the Little Dining-room; and it had been Kit’s intention to have lain in wait for Sir Bonamy to issue forth from his bedroom, in the hope of being able to exchange a few words with him before he joined the other guests downstairs. But owing to the extraordinarily swift passage of time it was not until the stable-clock had struck twelve that either Mr Fancot or Miss Stavely could believe that they had been in the shrubbery for over an hour. A glance at Kit’s watch, however, sent them hurrying back to the house, where they found the rest of the party, with the single exception of the Dowager, already discussing luncheon. Although Mr and Mrs Cliffe later agreed that modern damsels were permitted a regrettable freedom which would never have been countenanced when they were young, no one made any comment on the tardy and simultaneous arrival of the truants, Lady Denville even going so far as to smile at them.
Ambrose had allowed himself to be persuaded by his mother to partake of a few morsels of food, to keep up his strength; but the Dowager had sent down a message by her maid, excusing herself from putting in an appearance until later in the day. “Nothing to cause alarm!” Lady Denville told Cressy. “Her maid says that she passed a wakeful night, and so finds herself just a trifle down pin today.”
“I thought she would,” said Sir Bonamy, putting up his quizzing-glass the better to inspect a raised chicken-pie. “Too much cross-and-jostle work last night!” He looked up to shake his head in fond reproof at his hostess. “You shouldn’t have invited Maria Dersingham, my lady!”
“I am so very sorry, Cressy!”
But Cressy, with a cheerfulness which Mrs Cliffe considered to be very unbecoming in a granddaughter, assured Lady Denville that, although the excitement of encountering her ancient ally and present enemy might have been a little too much for her, Grandmama had much enjoyed the evening.
“So she did!” nodded Sir Bonamy. “Mind you, it was touch-and-go until we came to the calves’ ears! That’s when she took the lead in milling. Wonderful memory your grandmama has, my dear Miss Stavely!” His vast bulk shook with his rumbling laugh. “Popped in as pretty a hit as I hope to see over Maria Dersingham’s guard! By the bye, my lady, that was a capital Italian sauce your cook served with the calves’ ears!”
It was left to Lady Denville to express the sentiments of the rest of the company, which she promptly did, saying: “Yes, but what happened about calves’ ears, Bonamy?”
“No, no!” he replied, still gently shaking. “I’m not one to go on the high gab, my lady, and I’ll tell no tales! I’ll take a mouthful of the pie, Denville, and just a sliver of ham!”
Interpreting this in a liberal spirit, Kit supplied him with a large wedge of pie, and flanked it with half-a-dozen slices of ham. Mrs Cliffe, who had never ceased to marvel at his appetite, turned eyes of mute astonishment towards her sister-in-law, who told Sir Bonamy severely that a little fruit, and a biscuit (if he was ravenous), was all he ought to permit himself to eat in the middle of the day. She added that she herself rarely ate any nuncheon at all.
“Yes, yes, but you have not so much to keep up!” said Sir Bonamy, blenching at the thought of such privation.
“Well, if you didn’t eat so much you wouldn’t have so much to keep up either!” she pointed out.
Her brother, strongly disapproving of this candid speech, directed a quelling look at her, and pointedly changed the subject, saying that he trusted she had found Nurse Pinner suffering from no serious disorder. “Nothing infectious, I hope?”
“Oh, no! Just a trifle out of sorts!” she replied.
“Infectious!” exclaimed Mrs Cliffe. “My dear sister, how can you tell that it is not? How imprudent of you to have visited her! I wish you had not done so!”
“Nonsense, Emma! A mere colic!”
Mrs Cliffe’s fears seemed to have been allayed. Kit saw, with some foreboding, that his mama had become suddenly a little pensive, and quaked inwardly. Never, he reflected, did she look more soulful than when she was hatching some outrageous scheme. He tried to catch her eye, but she was looking at Cressy, who had finished her nuncheon, and was sitting with her hands folded patiently in her lap.
“Dear child, you wish to go upstairs to see your grandmama!” she said. “You know we don’t stand on ceremony, so run away immediately! Give her my love, and tell her how much I hope to see her presently; and then come to my drawing-room—that is, if Lady Stavely can spare you, of course!” She waited until Cressy had left the room, and then addressed herself to Kit. “Dearest, your uncle’s asking me if Pinny’s disorder is infectious puts me in mind of something I think I should tell you—oh, and Ambrose too, perhaps! I wouldn’t mention it in Cressy’s presence—not that I think she would have taken fright, for she has a great deal too much commonsense, but she might speak of it to Lady Stavely, and I would not for the world cast her into high fidgets! It is all nonsense, but I wish you will neither of you go into the village just at present! Though you may depend upon it if there is an epidemic disease there one of servants will contract it, and spread it all over the house. However—”
But at this point she was interrupted, Mrs Cliffe demanding in palpitating accents: “What disease? For heaven’s sake, Amabel, tell me this instant!”
“Why, none at all, Emma!” replied her ladyship, laughing. “It is only one of Pinny’s tales! Merely because one or two of the villagers complain of sore throats she will have it that they have contracted scarlet fever! Such stuff!”
“Scarlet fever—!”
“Oh, my dear Emma, there is not the least occasion for any of us to fly into a fuss!” Lady Denville said earnestly. “Pinny always thinks that if one has nothing more than a cold in the head one is sickening for a fatal complaint! Why she once said there was typhus in the village!” She broke off, wrinkling her brow. “Well, now I come to think of it, she was quite right! But this is a very different matter, and I do beg of you not to take fright!”
She had said enough. Mrs Cliffe, pallid with dismay, declared distractedly that nothing could prevail upon her to remain another hour in such a plague-stricken neighbourhood. Amabel might think her timorous and uncivil, but she must understand that every consideration must yield to the paramount need to remove her only son out of danger.