The absurd pretence of the home for foundling children, Mr Allamont’s supposed charitable establishment, had not deceived anyone, apart from his own children. But there was not much to be done about it. The prospect of meeting the Barnetts in public was a distressing one, but if they were determined to enter society now that they could afford it, they could not be deterred.
About the other scandalous development, the return of Cousin Vivienne, there was also very little to be done. Cousin Henry had never taken the final step of official separation or divorce, and so she was as much his wife as she ever was.
“He is very upset about it, as you may imagine,” Belle told her sisters after a visit to Willowbye. “She is determined to stay and make a nuisance of herself. She will not move into the Dower House, either, and neither Cousin Henry nor Mr Burford seems able to force her to do so. But I can, so Mr Burford and I will be married just as soon as the banns can be read.”
“How is it that you can persuade her to move out, if her husband cannot?” Hope said, eyes wide.
“Because I shall be mistress of the house, the servants will answer to me and Cousin Vivienne must give way.” She paused, her mouth set into a determined line. “And if she still will not go, I shall have all her things packed up and forcibly removed. Willowbye is mine, and she will just have to get used to that.”
But Connie thought it sounded like a difficult start to married life, all the same.
6: Lord Reginald
Connie had to wait some time for the perfect opportunity to introduce the Marquess to the pleasures of Scotch poetry. She had looked through the book herself, and not understood much of it. Scotch seemed to be a queer language, like a mangled form of English with some foreign words added in to confuse her. However, it had worked its charm on Mr Burford, so she was optimistic it would have the same effect on Lord Carrbridge.
Her moment came one day when Amy and Ambleside were to visit, and by happy chance had brought Lady Harriet and the Marquess with them. It was not a day when other callers might be expected, so Connie had reasonable hopes of the Marquess’s undivided attention. At first, it seemed that all was going well, and she found herself sitting beside him, a little apart from the others, who were gathered around the worktable. Not wanting to waste the opportunity, she began, “You told me once that you like poetry, my lord?”
“Indeed I do,” he said. “I find it very soporific. Like sermons.”
“Oh.” Connie had no idea what that meant, but it sounded hopeful. “I have a book of poems that I have been trying to read, but I find the words difficult. I wonder if you would be so good as to help me understand them?”
“No use asking me, dear lady,” he said cheerfully. “If you can make nothing of it, then I am sure I shall not do any better. Not in Greek, are they, these poems?”
“No, no. Only in Scotch, which is much like English, only some words are difficult. Will you not have a look?”
“Well, if you would like it. No wish to be disobliging.”
Eagerly, she jumped up and fetched the book of poems. “There! It is very kind in you.”
“Which poem is the troublesome one? Oh, I see what you mean, Miss Connie. These are very odd indeed. “Fair fa' your honest, sonsie face, Great chieftain o' the pudding-race!” Pudding? Is the man writing a poem about a pudding?”
He burst out laughing, which was not at all the effect she had hoped for.
And then, the very worst thing that could have happened — the door opened and Young announced Mr and Miss Drummond.
“The very persons we need,” the Marquess declared. “I say, Drummond, you are Scotch, are you not? And Miss Drummond, too. Will you not come over here and help us out, for these poems are too difficult for Miss Constance to understand, and I cannot help, you know.”
“What are you reading?” Mr Drummond
About the other scandalous development, the return of Cousin Vivienne, there was also very little to be done. Cousin Henry had never taken the final step of official separation or divorce, and so she was as much his wife as she ever was.
“He is very upset about it, as you may imagine,” Belle told her sisters after a visit to Willowbye. “She is determined to stay and make a nuisance of herself. She will not move into the Dower House, either, and neither Cousin Henry nor Mr Burford seems able to force her to do so. But I can, so Mr Burford and I will be married just as soon as the banns can be read.”
“How is it that you can persuade her to move out, if her husband cannot?” Hope said, eyes wide.
“Because I shall be mistress of the house, the servants will answer to me and Cousin Vivienne must give way.” She paused, her mouth set into a determined line. “And if she still will not go, I shall have all her things packed up and forcibly removed. Willowbye is mine, and she will just have to get used to that.”
But Connie thought it sounded like a difficult start to married life, all the same.
6: Lord Reginald
Connie had to wait some time for the perfect opportunity to introduce the Marquess to the pleasures of Scotch poetry. She had looked through the book herself, and not understood much of it. Scotch seemed to be a queer language, like a mangled form of English with some foreign words added in to confuse her. However, it had worked its charm on Mr Burford, so she was optimistic it would have the same effect on Lord Carrbridge.
Her moment came one day when Amy and Ambleside were to visit, and by happy chance had brought Lady Harriet and the Marquess with them. It was not a day when other callers might be expected, so Connie had reasonable hopes of the Marquess’s undivided attention. At first, it seemed that all was going well, and she found herself sitting beside him, a little apart from the others, who were gathered around the worktable. Not wanting to waste the opportunity, she began, “You told me once that you like poetry, my lord?”
“Indeed I do,” he said. “I find it very soporific. Like sermons.”
“Oh.” Connie had no idea what that meant, but it sounded hopeful. “I have a book of poems that I have been trying to read, but I find the words difficult. I wonder if you would be so good as to help me understand them?”
“No use asking me, dear lady,” he said cheerfully. “If you can make nothing of it, then I am sure I shall not do any better. Not in Greek, are they, these poems?”
“No, no. Only in Scotch, which is much like English, only some words are difficult. Will you not have a look?”
“Well, if you would like it. No wish to be disobliging.”
Eagerly, she jumped up and fetched the book of poems. “There! It is very kind in you.”
“Which poem is the troublesome one? Oh, I see what you mean, Miss Connie. These are very odd indeed. “Fair fa' your honest, sonsie face, Great chieftain o' the pudding-race!” Pudding? Is the man writing a poem about a pudding?”
He burst out laughing, which was not at all the effect she had hoped for.
And then, the very worst thing that could have happened — the door opened and Young announced Mr and Miss Drummond.
“The very persons we need,” the Marquess declared. “I say, Drummond, you are Scotch, are you not? And Miss Drummond, too. Will you not come over here and help us out, for these poems are too difficult for Miss Constance to understand, and I cannot help, you know.”
“What are you reading?” Mr Drummond
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