In The Hills

9

In The Hills

From the unfinished MS., circa 1899: Our India Days, Chapter 10

    It was a typical Darjeeling day. Tiddy woke early as usual, to find Mademoiselle’s Jeanne already in attendance, proffering morning chocolate. The beverage was not entirely unexpected; nevertheless she groaned: “Du chocolat? Aux Indes?”

    Ignoring the tone, Jeanne returned coolly: “En effet, Mlle Angèle.” And went on to remind her that it was the done thing for young ladies. And as soon as Mlle Angèle had had her bath, she, Jeanne, would attend to her hair. By now Tiddy knew it would be pointless to argue. The only possible tactic was to avoid discussion and get the thing over with. At very long last the result was revealed. A knot of ringlets falling from a braided circlet. And side-curls: worn rather high, they succeeded in mitigating the roundness of Tiddy’s youthful features.

    “I look older,” she conceded. “I shall never be able to do it for myself, you know. And nor will Nandinee Ayah.”

    Replying with dignity that Mlle Angèle should not be expected to do her own hair, and noting by the by that one would not expect that Black woman to be able to do any such thing, Jeanne made a dignified exit. Glumly Tiddy went downstairs to show the result of the morning’s labour to Mlle Dupont.

    Mademoiselle was discovered in the front parlour of Mrs Allardyce’s charming verandahed house. She was wearing what most certainly must fall within the definition of morning dress: since it was morning, and since Mademoiselle had a very strong sense of the fitness of things. But it was, noted Tiddy with a certain grim resignation, about five thousand times smarter than anything ever seen at home in the Tamasha morning room. Even on Josie’s back. You could have described it as narrow grey and white stripes. Intimidating grey and white stripes might have put it better. The gown was not over-smart, but dowdy it was not. The stripes had been used vertically in the skirt and the long puffed sleeves, and diagonally in the bodice, almost with a sort of tucker effect, though as tuckers were now, according to Josie, “extremely outmoded for all but little girls,” one would not have dared to voice the thought. The not-tucker was decorated with some tiny buttons, and above that the neckline was filled in with the same stripes used horizontally, and above that again the neck itself was encircled with more horizontal stripes, finished off with a tiny frill of lace. Which lesser persons might have repeated on the cuffs, but which Mlle Dupont had not. There was no flounce: merely, a hand’s-span above the hem, a tiny bias strip of the stuff, the stripes used diagonally. Intimidating—yes.

    “Much better!” she said briskly in her native language to the sight of Mlle Angèle.

    “Sans doute, Mademoiselle,” agreed Tiddy glumly.

    No-one else was yet down. “Tiddy, my dear, since we are alone, I feel I must say this. One understands your reluctance to go off up the country,” said Mademoiselle as to the manner born, “on a visit to some people whom you barely remember from old India days in the company of one unhappy sister, one grim sister and one sulking sister. Nevertheless the question remains: why did you agree to come to Darjeeling instead?”

    Tiddy scowled. “To get it over with: I have to become a young lady, so it may as well be now. At least I may do it here without Josie laughing over the thing.”

    “Of course. And Colonel Ponsonby? What do you intend there?” she said baldly.

    Tiddy glared. “Mademoiselle, the others don’t want him!”

    “That is certainly true,” she agreed calmly. “But do you?”

    Tiddy stuck her pointed chin out. “Wouldn’t it be sensible? Someone has to keep Papa’s fortune in the family!” Mademoiselle merely looked bland. Smiling uneasily, Tiddy admitted: “I don’t think I would dislike being married to him.”

    Mademoiselle looked thoughtfully at the smile and wondered what, exactly, it was concealing. “Non? Dis-moi, mon ange, how did you think of him when you were little? Nothing to compare to your feelings for pretty Charlie Hatton or the so-lovely Mr Feathers?”

    Again Tiddy produced that uneasy smile. “Well, he isn’t particularly good-looking… I liked him better than anybody else I knew. Colonel Wynton was our colonel, of course, but in a way I suppose I thought of Ponsonby Sahib more as my colonel than anything.”

    Mlle Dupont nodded slowly. Certainly the late Mrs Lucas had mentioned her husband’s concern that Tiddy had seen herself as Ponsonby’s trusty aide: that would fit, yes. But all that uneasiness? There was something there that Tiddy was not telling her. Was it just resentment that the disposition of their fortunes, not to say an entire third of their father’s estate, was in his hands? But Tiddy had never been at pains to conceal that from her.

    “Not that it can signify, Mademoiselle,” she said firmly, “for I have made up my mind that it must be me. If I don’t do it, Tess will be bound to sacrifice herself. And even if she has decided against Dr Goodenough, I don’t think she would be happy. She likes Ponsonby Sahib but she doesn’t love him. She is not the sort of woman who could be happy in that sort of marriage.”

    “En effet.” Privately Mademoiselle decided that if it should turn out that Tiddy could not in the end like Ponsonby enough, there should be no question of her tying herself up to him: a man more than twice her age? No. But if she could, why not? A girl of Tiddy’s station in life must marry. And, though of course men knew nothing—mais rien du tout!—of how women might react to other men, still the fact that their father had seen fit to tie the fortune up in this odd way certainly seemed to speak very, very well of Colonel Ponsonby.

    “Papa liked him very much, you know,” said Tiddy suddenly.

    Mademoiselle jumped a little. “Yes. That must count very greatly in his favour, ma petite. Et maintenant,” she said gaily, “voici Mlle Allardyce! Good morning, my dear Miss Allardyce. What do you say we drive out as soon as we have breakfasted?”

    “What about Mrs Allardyce?” said Tiddy limply.

    But Violet Allardyce explained that her Mamma was taking her breakfast in bed and did not usually drive out so early.—Tiddy at this point avoided Mademoiselle’s eye: she already knew that energetic person’s opinion of fine ladies who did not rouse themselves to see to their households of a morning.—A drive would be delightful. And so many of their friends from Calcutta were now up here: they were sure to meet someone whom they knew!

    Sure enough: scarce had the delights of the little hill station with its great drooping deodars and their pools of icy shade, its balconied wooden shops and its multiplicity of verandahed bungalows been sampled, than it was:

    “Ah! There is dear Major-General Harkness! But naturellement I recall him, Tiddy, he was at Mrs Colonel Peckham’s delightful card party in Calcutta. You may oblige me by being vairy polite, mon ange, and acting as if you wished to see him this morning, and remembering his stiff leg, for after all he knew your Papa, non? –The left. And if he wishes to kiss your hand,” added Mlle Dupont, the shrewd little brown eyes twinkling but her face quite calm, “just bear in mind that a lady does not shrink and say ‘Ugh.’”

    “But Mademoiselle!” she hissed in agony. “He gives—”

    “Sss! Tais-toi, ma chère. Major-General Harkness!” she cried as the barouche drew up beside the stout elderly figure. “But what a delightful surprise!”

    “—sloppy kisses,” muttered Tiddy, sotto voce, subsiding definitively. Ugh!

    Major-General Harkness, however, was soon to pale into positive insignificance in comparison with Darjeeling’s other figures of note.

    … “Delighted!” beamed General Porton, bowing very low over Tiddy’s hand. –Enfeebled hand. The General was a fixture in Darjeeling—though occasionally descending to the plains in the cooler months. He was fat, and old enough, at a wild guess, to be Tiddy’s grandfather’s grandfather, and very scented, and tremendously—nay, horrifyingly—elegant. Yellow pantaloons and gleaming Hessian boots that would not have disgraced Beau Brummel in his prime—were it not for the figure inside ’em, naturally—with a blue coat of surpassing tightness, and a lilac watered-silk waistcoat that almost outshone the splendour of the immense neckcloth swathing his fifteen or so chins. At least the kiss he dropped on the aforesaid enfeebled hand was not sloppy.

    The creak from the corset as he bent would have been enough, Tiddy dared swear, to overset the gravity of any maiden who not already been exposed this week to the frolicking side-whiskers and totally bald pink pate of Colonel Brinsley-Pugh (Rtd.), the fluffy red curls of Major Narrowmine, retired from a distinguished career quite some time before Waterloo, so how the curls had remained that red must remain a discreet mystery, and the terrifyingly martial boots, breeches, tight-buttoned coat and salute—yes, military salute, though neither he nor Miss Angèle Lucas had been in uniform at the time—of Major-General Widdop: like General Porton, a fixture in the hill station. –Later discovered by Mademoiselle to have spent most of his career back in England with responsibilities in military provisions—well, someone had to do it, my dear. The retirement to India being explained by his having come out to visit with his brother, a Collector, that was, a District Officer of the East India Company, and having simply stayed on. What Mr Widdop thought of his brother’s permanent occupancy of his Darjeeling bungalow was not known for sure, though several theories were current. Nor was the current ownership of the house at all clear, and speculation was rife upon this vexed question.

    The gruffly military Major-General Widdop affected to despise Colonel Brinsley-Pugh and Major Narrowmine, and had, his expression, no truck with them. The bald-pated Colonel and the red-haired Major were both frightfully well connected, and their main interests were two: horse racing and a succession of name-dropping stakes. The former must depend on the weather and the season, but the latter were run almost continuously: just as you were thinking that Brinsley-Pugh had carried off the gold cup and Narrowmine must now be retired honourably to grass, the latter would sprint forward with a renewed burst of speed, and all bets would be on again. Of course they cordially loathed each other—though, strangely, they were almost inseparable companions.

    They both professed extreme delight at meeting a Miss Lucas “at last”, paid Tiddy elaborate compliments, and then endeavoured to get out of her just what her father’s estate was worth, and how much she, Tiddy, might expect as her portion. Colonel Brinsley-Pugh assuring her into the bargain that he remembered her delightful Mamma very well—very well indeed! Tiddy did not even bother to ask if he meant her stepmother or her real mother. For one thing, she was sure that either claim would be equally fictitious, and for another, why prolong the agony?

    —Exactly! Oh, dear! Of course it did not get better—one could not expect it to. No, Mr Thomas, Tiddy did not precisely become inured, either—oh, gracious, now you have set Ponsonby Sahib off again! …Tell them about the tea parties and the sakht burra mems thereat, Ponsonby Sahib? Very well, dear sir, we shall, but only if you promise—absolutely promise—there shall be no invidious comparisons!

    The majestic Mrs Martinmass poured tea. Under Mademoiselle’s fixed stare, Tiddy remembered to praise it. Mrs Martinmass preened herself, and offered small sandwiches and sponge cake. She then endeavoured to get out of Tiddy just what her father’s estate was worth, and how much she, Tiddy, might expect as her portion, but by now Tiddy was used to this and countered it politely. And agreed, without even the aid of Mademoiselle’s fixed stare, that she would be delighted to walk out with Miss Martinmass at any time.

    The crushed Miss Martinmass, thirty if she was a day, and with a small moustache to boot, smiled limply and expressed gratification. Not requiring her majestic mother so much as to glance her way, let alone give her a fixed stare. Help.

    … “I grant you the family name. But if he has so much as set foot at Blefford Park, I am sure it is more than I have ever heard!” said the intensely ladylike Mrs Whassett with a superior little titter, handing cake.

    Tiddy smiled palely. That must take poor Major Narrowmine off with his cloak over his face, then.

    “What delicious cake, chère madame,” said Mademoiselle politely into the silence that had fallen in Mrs Whassett’s charming salon.

    Jumping, Tiddy agreed hastily that Mrs Whassett’s very ordinary fruit-cake was delicious. Actually it could have done with a dash of brandy to liven it up. …Come to think of it, the criticism could well be applied to the polite society of Darjeeling in toto. Oh, help!

    —Yes, of course it is just like English society at home, Antoinette: that is partly our point! Curious indeed, Mr Thomas, that in those exotic climes we English should have found it necessary to transplant our customs and attitudes so exactly. Small wonder the Indians consider us doolally! But indeed, Ponsonby Sahib: as you say, of course it is only natural to hanker after the only way of life one has ever known and try to replicate it. Regardless of its suitability to the climate—yes, indeed, dear sir! Oh, dear! –He is like that, you see, Mr Thomas: incapable of not seeing both sides of every question!

    Now, Tiddy baba has not yet told you of all the significant persons who adorned the hill station. –Pray stop laughing, Ponsonby Sahib! Significant in their own little world, dear sir!

    Brigadier Polkinghorne (Rtd.), remembered Miss Angèle very well and was delighted to see she was out at last! This latter of course did not refer to the fact that Tiddy was walking in the fresh air past the most respectable little emporia of Darjeeling with Violet Allardyce and the crushed Miss Martinmass, but to the fact that she was doing so in the persona of a young lady. In Mademoiselle-approved walking dress, comprising a smart, much-beribboned, wide-brimmed straw hat, a long-handled white parasol, and a gown in a soft shade of grey with tiny white dots. The ribbons on the hat were also grey, with some sprigs of white flowers tucked cunningly into them. The whole rendering Miss Martinmass self-professedly aux anges. Even though the flowers bore no resemblance to any botanical species that had as yet come within Tiddy’s cognisance. Either in India or in England. Well, presumably Miss Martinmass was no botanist.

    Fortunately Tiddy did remember Brigadier Polkinghorne, and was able to respond appropriately. Actually it would have been hard to forget a tall, gaunt, craggy-looking gentleman who featured a charming tortoiseshell lorgnette. Not a quizzing glass, no: a lorgnette. The which he had now raised in order to admire Tiddy’s appearance. And would Miss Tiddy allow him to present his very old friend, Mr Sebastian Whyte?

    Mr Whyte in appearance was the antithesis of Brigadier Polkinghorne, for he was very, very short and very rotund, with a smooth, shiny, pinkish, finished look to him. And where the craggy Brigadier, apart from the lorgnette, was positively severe as to his dress, Mr Whyte was extremely elegant indeed. Hessians that rivalled General Porton’s. And lilac gloves. And a quizzing glass. The whole finished off with a very small flower in the buttonhole of the quite exquisitely cut blue town coat.

    Miss Martinmass was evidently extremely flustered at the encounter: she became very lively indeed, giggling at a mild jest of the Brigadier’s and positively choking over a scarcely less mild sally of Mr Sebastian Whyte’s. And confided to Tiddy, after the two, having ascertained the young ladies had it in mind to look in at Madame Lucille’s this morning, had escorted them thereto, that Brigadier Polkinghorne was an excessively attractive gentleman: did she not find? So military in his bearing!

    Very kindly Tiddy did not say that in her opinion she had no hope, there. And was able truthfully to agree that the Brigadier was very military. Only breaking out to the point of adding, but would not his short sight have been a handicap in his military career?

    As the red-headed Major Narrowmine had coincidentally called on Mrs Whassett just as the ladies were, once again, about to have the tea-tray, he was allowed to remain for it. After which he gallantly offered to escort Miss Angèle back to the Allardyce house. Remarking pleasedly that that would just give her time to call back at the shop they had visited earlier and take another look at those handkerchiefs, Mademoiselle basely deserted her charge, and left. Gallantly the Major offered his arm. Resignedly Tiddy took it, and they set off….

     Major Narrowmine sniffed slightly. “True, the name is Whassett. But, remark, my dear Miss Angèle, not Coulton-Whassett.”

    This was self-evident; but clearly it had some extra significance to the red-headed major. Tiddy smiled and nodded valiantly. She was rewarded for this effort by then receiving chapter and verse on the Coulton-Whassetts, the late Lord Coulton-Whassett’s ending in the River Tick, the sale of the C.-W. town house and picture collection to a rich nabob, the unfortunate marriage of a Mirabelle of that ilk, the subsequent marriage of the granddaughter of the same to… By the end of it she was so groggy that she did not even ask: Which rich nabob? But she was certainly able to conclude that it must take Mrs Whassett off with her cloak very much over her face. So much for feeling sorry for Major Narrowmine!

    —Thank you, James, we shall all come directly. Just assist Colonel Ponsonby, if you would. And pray tell Nurse that since he is down the children may have their midday meal with us.

    Indeed, there was more, Madeleine, dear, considerably more, and after the meal perhaps you would like to look at some of Tiddy’s baba’s old letters: Tess has kept all our letters safely in a portfolio, which is in the study here.

My Dear Josie,

    I still have no news, but as ordered, am writing. Life here is compound entirely of mixed hypocrisies and social nothings. The which, avouons-le, frequently confuse themselves, to such an extent that one cannot say if the example in question be one or the other. Or both. Mrs Allardyce is all that is kind, I must hasten to add, and does not practise hypocrisies on me. But the moment one sets one’s toe outside the door, it must commence. To take but one example of the five hundred which occur every week, we called recently on Miss MacDonnell. Do you remember her? Her brother was Maj.-Gen. MacDonnell, and she always had little terrier dogs. (MacDonnell with the accent on the last syllable, not the penultimate, tu t’en rappelles?) The great-grandfather dog, old Tinker-Terrier, died last winter, is that not sad? I remember him as such a frisky fellow! Mrs Freda Tinker-Terrier, his granddaughter, is still with us, if a little stiff in the joints, and her daughter, Mrs Dotty Tinker-Terrier, is a stout matron with entrancing white spots on the black ears. And Mrs Dotty’s son, Master Tinker-Terrier the Second, is as merry a young grig as one could possibly imagine!

    There was no-one else present in her tiny bungalow with its great deodar tree, and we had an entirely cosy visit. Conversation centred, more or less, around the military Maj.-Gen. Widdop. Of secondary concern, if by a short nose, was the continuing vexed question of whether or no his brother, Collector Widdop, who is not yet arrived for the hill season (and if he has sense, will remain away), really has consigned the ownership of the Widdop bungalow to him. (One could ask him, but that would be too easy, n’est-ce pas?) The main topic, however, was the improbability of Mrs Martinmass’ succeeding in forcing poor Miss Martinmass upon the military Maj.-Gen., it being in the highest degree unlikely that Miss M.’s charms will have the power to induce him to forego the comfortable state of widowerhood which he has enjoyed these fifteen years past. All this over Miss MacDonnell’s delightful seedy biscuits which she bakes herself, not trusting her Indian cook to do any such thing, and with which only the most welcome guests are favoured. (Not Mrs Whassett, Mrs Martinmass, and their ilk.)

    Mrs Allardyce, need I say it, had remained entirely charming, interested, and complimentary throughout. Well and good: we make our farewells and retire, as to myself, with a promise of being entrusted with Master Tinker-Terrier as company on my walks whenever I desire; and are scarce two doors down the street before it is: “Of course, she is a nobody, my dears. But then, she knows everybody.” You may gather how untried in the furnace I as yet remain, for I foolishly reply: “But Mrs Allardyce, I thought you liked her?”—A light laugh: “But I do, my dear: what has that to say to anything?”

    Well! But it is all like that. We encounter craggy Brigadier Polkinghorne as we stroll homewards, and greet him with complete charm (Mrs. A.), meek complaisance (Miss A.), grovelling complaisance (Mademoiselle) and insufficient civility (self).—“Tiddy, ma chère, those giggles were inappropriate.”—“But Mademoiselle, that lorgnette of his is so very silly.”—Another light laugh from Mrs A.: “Of course, Tiddy, my dear! There is no need, however, to let it show.” Help!

    The following Saturday was the day for which Mrs A. had accepted with unalloyed rapture a dinner invitation from Mrs Whassett. We went, and while we waited for the gentlemen to rejoin us, Mademoiselle and I were favoured with a very telling evaluation of the quality of the said dinner by a Mrs Turner. To my innocent eyes (and taste buds) the meal had seemed very fine. But the chicken ragoût was eked out. The word “goat” not even having to be breathed. Mademoiselle, of course, did not even look a criticism: merely said respectfully that she was sure Mrs Turner must be correct, but to her it had all seemed delicious. Her culinary standards are of course very high, so I could not forbear to ask when we arrived home, Had she meant it? She refrained from speech, merely gave me a Look!

    Mrs Allardyce had remained calmly smiling throughout the after-dinner exchange, her opinion impossible to guess, but she now produced a light laugh, and noted that Mrs Whassett had not managed to balance her table—had I remarked it? Oddly enough neither Violet Allardyce nor I had, no. For myself, I was placed between Mr Sebastian Whyte, point de vice in an evening coat that would not have disgraced Almack’s, with an huge but chaste pearl in his neckcloth, all smiles and chat, on the one hand; and on the other, the gruffly military and inarticulate Major-General Widdop. So how could I have been in a fit state to notice anything? Though I did recall, under Mrs Allardyce’s smile, that Miss Martinmass had been placed between Mademoiselle and Mrs Turner. “Oh, quite, my dear.” And she explained, with that smiling lightness of hers, that the whole thing was a deliberate piece of spite by Mrs Whassett against Mrs Martinmass, in view of her hopes for Miss M. in the direction of Major-General W.! Oh, Lawks a-mussy me!

    As to the rest, it is all bonnets and bows. Not beaux, no: I am sorry to disappoint you, Josie. Though Major-General Harkness, he of the sloppy hand-kisses, has favoured me with a posy. Before you read far too much into this, he is a widower, yes. But he is also very, very proud of his bungalow’s “English” garden.

    Oh, I beg your pardon: I do have another lover, his name is Master Tinker-Terrier, and I adore him even more than he adores me!

    I do hereby solemnly swear that neither Mademoiselle nor kind Mrs Allardyce have bought me any gowns, ribbons, bonnets nor shawls, but only one pair of gloves (Mrs A.). And do faithfully swear to report any such purchases veraciously and honestly to Miss Joséphine Lucas or her appointed deputy, to the best of my poor powers of description.

With inelegant but sincere big kisses and hugs to all the family,

I remain,

Your loving

Tiddy

    The letter having been received and read, Tonie snorted and Tess sadly expressed the opinion that Tiddy was becoming more sophisticated, certainly in her tone, but a trifle hard? Tonie agreed and noted grimly that it might not do her any harm in life to acquire a little hardness. Whereat our dear Josie, alas, scoffed with a scornful toss of the golden curls that Tiddy was always hard! There was a little silence. Then Tonie conceded that in some ways that was true. Tess’s mouth trembled and she refused to hear another word, saying: “Poor, iddle-bitty Tiddy.” A little later, when Tess was gone out for a walk, Josie ventured cautiously that Tess had never seen Tiddy as she was, and Tonie conceded that she did not see that hardness of hers—no.

    Josie then introduced—reintroduced, alas—the topic of Darjeeling. She could not understand why Tiddy had wished to go. Anyone else, yes. But not Tiddy! Somewhat tiredly Tonie suggested that possibly she saw it was time she learnt to be a young lady? Alas, Josie’s reply to this was a scornful: “Why? To be fit for a Ponsonby?” Not because she was still bitter about the disposition of Papa’s property—hers was not a nature to hold a long-standing grudge—but because she was very piqued that Mrs Allardyce had not also invited her. However, Tonie of course reproved her, noting that to speak so of our guardian did not become her and reminding her that he had been very kind to us. To which Josie retorted sourly that perhaps she should write Tiddy she had best hurry up and join us before Tonie or Tess decided to take him after all! Tonie condemned both the indelicacy of the thought and its expression and stalked out.

    —No, well, many of us are intransigent in our youth, Antoinette, dear, but with years and experience, some of us are lucky enough to learn tolerance. Now, what would you girls like to hear today? More? Very well, there is more, if you truly wish it. Well, yes, there were some younger officers, but be warned: these seasons in the hills were all the same: a few little hops with those gentlemen who managed to take leave from their duties—and they, you know, always in the minority—a very great deal of gossip, endless tea parties, and gallant efforts at dinners where almost everything leaves almost everything to be desired and one is lucky to get an even passable white soup!

Mrs Beeton’s White Soup, A Recipe from 1861*

1/4 lb. of sweet almonds, 1/4 lb. of cold veal or poultry, 1 thick slice of stale bread, 1 piece of fresh lemon-peel, 1 blade of mace, pounded, 3/4 pint of cream, yolks of 2 hard-boiled eggs, 2 quarts of good white stock

Mode: Reduce the almonds with 1 spoonful of water to a paste in a mortar. Pound the meat with the bread, & add. Beat all together. Add lemon-peel, very finely chopped, & mace. The stock should be boiling. Pour the stock on the whole. Then simmer for 1 hour. Rub the eggs in the cream, put in the soup, bring it to a boil, & serve immediately.

* [This is from the recipe in the MS, which was headed only “White Soup.” Research has revealed it is Mrs Beeton’s recipe. She also gives the recipe for the white stock, from which we can clearly see that the secret of a good white soup is an excellent stock. –Cassie Babbage]

***

Mrs Beeton’s “White Stock”

(To be Used in the Preparation of White Soups)

INGREDIENTS.—4 lbs. of knuckle of veal, any poultry trimmings, 4 slices of lean ham, 1 carrot, 2 onions, 1 head of celery, 12 white peppercorns, 1 oz. of salt, 1 blade of mace, 1 oz. butter, 4 quarts of water.

Mode.—Cut up the veal, and put it with the bones and trimmings of poultry, and the ham, into the stewpan, which has been rubbed with the butter. Moisten with 1/2 a pint of water, and simmer till the gravy begins to flow. Then add the 4 quarts of water and the remainder of the ingredients; simmer for 5 hours. After skimming and straining it carefully through a very fine hair sieve, it will be ready for use.

    “Who is that?” gasped Miss Martinmass, her thin fingers digging painfully into the sleeve of Tiddy’s dainty sprig muslin.

    Tiddy tried not to yelp, and looked across the street. “Oh. It is Major Mason. Should you care to meet him?”

    “Oh, yes!” she breathed, her eyes glued to the tall, broad-shouldered figure that had now doffed its hat and was bowing from the opposite pavement.

    Resignedly Tiddy smiled and beckoned, and the burly major, very apparently nothing loath, hastened over to them. Dodging with ease the press of vehicles: to wit, one dusty tonga and Mr Sebastian Whyte’s tilbury.

    Alas, Major Mason did not appear all that terribly much impressed by Miss Martinmass. Not so much as to hang on her every word, so to speak. Nor her slightest smile or frown, neither. Instead, in a heavy, hearty way, he attempted to flirt with Tiddy herself. Or rather, he attempted to continue the flirtation he had begun but the previous day, upon the occasion of their first encounter.

    Tiddy did her best to bear in mind certain strictures of Mademoiselle’s along the lines of every woman’s having to look out for herself. And also to tell herself that if Major Mason was not immediately struck by Miss Martinmass’s charms it was unlikely that he would grow to be so in the course of time. Something like that. And duly fluttered her lashes and giggled and so forth. It was not, sad to say, all that hard. Major Mason was not, very clearly, the brightest of the bright. But he was a good-looking, large, amiable man, rather like a large, friendly, shaggy dog. And Tiddy was quite fond of dogs. Added to which, she had discovered with considerable shame that she enjoyed being flattered by a gentleman. Whether or no she cherished any serious intentions towards him. Help!

    Mademoiselle was discovered alone in the front parlour, tatting, on her return to the Allardyce bungalow. “We dropped Miss Martinmass off at her house,” said Tiddy on an airy note, as Major Mason, with professions of what almost amounted to undying devotion and life-long slavery, at least for a large military man of limited imagination, took himself off at last.

    “En effet?” replied Mademoiselle politely.

    “Though I think,” said Tiddy on an airy note, “she would not have been averse to accompanying us back here.”

    “En effet?”

    Their eyes met. They collapsed in gales of unseemly laughter.

    “Oh, dear!” concluded Tiddy, blowing her nose. “Poor thing. But I am quite sure he would not have given her a second glance, even if I had not been there. So it was quite fair—n’est-ce pas?”

    “All is fair in love and war, ma belle. Shall we take tea?” she replied cheerfully.

    The ladies took tea.

    Major-General Harkness (Rtd.) had acquired a bran-new tikka-gharry. It very rapidly became apparent to the interested gaze of Darjeeling that the purpose for which he had acquired it was the tooling around the town of Miss Angèle Lucas. Well, he was certainly not observed to be using it for any other purpose.

    “Can he afford it?” said Tiddy fearfully to her chaperone after the first of these thrilling expeditions.

    “Heureusement, oui,” she replied at her driest.

    Gulping, Tiddy subsided.

    “I think you do not know Colonel Fitzmaurice? He is just come up from the plains,” said Miss Martinmass in a faint voice.

    The faintness could scarcely be induced by the Colonel’s rank, for as a resident of Darjeeling—the which Tiddy had now realised was occupied not merely by summer visitors fleeing the heat of the plains, but by an increasing number of permanent residents who could not afford, or did not wish, to retire to England—she must be used to such. Perhaps it was on account of the Colonel’s looks? He was certainly a man of striking appearance: not very tall but broad-shouldered, burly but not stout, a welcome relief, and possessed of a most manly, firm-chinned face, with a—not a warm smile, precisely: more a very warm grin. The which made one feel he was the most likeable fellow in the world. As, indeed, gossip had already informed Tiddy he was, more or less. And also that his family was very well connected indeed, his late Mamma having been a Delahunty and sister to the then earl.

    Colonel Fitzmaurice grinned at Tiddy and assured her he was delighted to meet her, kissing her hand with considerable grace (not sloppily); and Tiddy smiled very much, and agreed that she was very pleased to meet him.

    The Colonel then introduced the very young gentleman who was with him. His cousin’s boy: Viccy. Mr Victor Truesdale. Come out to see how he likes the place, y’know? –Cheery laugh. Tiddy did not make the mistake of assuming that Miss Martinmass’s faintness of voice was due to him, for he could, really, only honestly have been described as unfledged: what with the ears that had a tendency to stick out, the slender neck which the swaddling neckcloth did not quite manage to disguise, the round cheeks and—well, just that general impression of fluffy, eager, dampish, just-out-of-the-egginess!

    He bowed and smiled very nicely, appearing not to mind that his “Cousin Fitz” then patted him kindly on the shoulder and told him that was the ticket. The Colonel then mooted a scheme—apparently full-blown—for introducing some “fun and life” into the “old town” by means of a series of “little hops.”

    … “It is like being in a high wind,” said Miss Martinmass very faintly, as the Colonel, smiling warmly into their eyes in farewell, bore his young cousin off at last.

    “Yes, it is, rather!” agreed Tiddy with a laugh.

    “He is such a manly man,” she said faintly.

    “Certainly,” agreed Tiddy promptly. She could not for the life of her tell if Miss Martinmass actually liked this characteristic, or was merely overwhelmed by it. The two were not, of course, mutually exclusive: but— After a moment’s somewhat frantic thought she cleared her throat and said airily: “I wonder, would one find life in his house quite exhausting, or quite stimulating?”

    “Oh!” said Miss Martinmass, her hand pressed to her flat bosom. “One cannot say…”

    There being absolutely no hope that she had produced this remark as a deliberate counter to Tiddy’s probing, she gave up, for the nonce. Though not definitively: on first acquaintance the widowered Colonel Fitzmaurice struck her as far more promising material for a husband for poor Miss Martinmass than any of the retired military figures that infested the town. Certainly more so than the craggy, lorgnetted Brigadier Polkinghorne; but also much more so than the gruff, soldierly Major-General Widdop, who, she rather thought, was so immersed in the web of military nonsense he had constructed for himself that he would have very little time left over to pay due attention to a wife. And would probably neglect her even more shamefully than the stout, genial General Porton did the squashed, quiet Mrs Porton.

    Of course a young officer or East India Company man would quite probably suit her even better, but alas, there were as yet few of these present, and those who were seemed to be of Major Mason’s mind where poor Miss Martinmass was concerned.

    The bald Colonel Brinsley-Pugh was possessed of a smart phaeton, which for the last few years, according to the gossip, or at least to Mrs Turner and Mrs Whassett, the which amounted to the same thing, he had not bothered to drive very much. For the town was not that large. However, this summer he began to tool it about again. With a dandy pair of black geldings poled up, the which were definitely new. But which, according to the indiscreet Captain Narrowmine, the fellow could d— well afford, after that win on the Whatever-it-Was Stakes. In spite of the bald pink pate he was not a bad-looking man, being sufficiently slim and of an upright carriage. Provided always that one could overlook those frolicking side-whiskers, of course. And not as elderly as some. So Miss Angèle Lucas was not altogether averse to accepting his invitations to drive out. In especial as, as Mademoiselle had calmly pointed out, it was excellent practice.

    Though naturally of a friendly, confiding disposition, and not at all shy, Tiddy just at first had felt a little at a loss on these driving expeditions with her older military admirers; but she had very soon discovered there was no need to. One just encouraged them to talk of themselves!

    “Oh, quite!” agreed the charming Mrs Allardyce with that light laugh of hers, on this discovery’s being reported. “That is the whole secret of encouraging a gentleman, my dear Tiddy!”

    “Really, Mamma,” protested Violet Allardyce faintly, going very red.

    “But of course your Mamma is quite right, my dear,” said Mlle Dupont promptly. “Bien sûr, one does not neglect to look admiringly while they do it. With that and a pretty face, they will require no more, you may be assured.” She smiled serenely at her.

    “Mademoiselle, surely that is not true of sensible men?” demanded Tiddy.

    “Vairy possibly not. Though I cannot tell,” she said airily.

    At this the sophisticated Mrs Allardyce, alas, collapsed in giggles of the most agonising sort. Gasping, once she was able to speak: “Do not dare to enquire further, my dears!”

    The girls were now both rather flushed, though smiling. Later, when the two of them were alone, Violet said in some awe: “Mlle Dupont is so—so cynical, is she not?”

    Tiddy eyed her drily but did not say “As bad as your Mamma.” Just: “Well, she has not had an easy life. And then, Folkestone, where she lives, is full of dreadful old retired majors-general and things, just like Colonel Brinsley-Pugh.”

    “Ye-es. Well,” said the gentle, limply pretty, brown-haired Miss Allardyce with a sigh, “Mamma is every bit as cynical, I freely admit it, and she has not had a hard life at all. Though of course it was very sad for her when Papa died.”

    “Yes, of course,” said Tiddy kindly, though by now having had more than time to hear the gossip on that point.

    “I wish I remembered him better… He had to be away with his regiment most of the time.”

    Yes, and if he had not had to be, Mrs Allardyce’s friend in the Governor-General’s train would have made quite sure— Resolutely Tiddy wrenched her mind off the subject. “Of course,” she agreed sympathetically.

    Miss Allardyce sighed. “I would have said he was sensible, though.”

    Sensible enough to have married the woman he did—quite.

    “But if—if there are no sensible men, can one look forward to having to do it for the rest of one’s life, in order to attain domestic harmony?” she asked wanly, not smiling.

    Help! Tiddy swallowed. “What: flattering the creatures and encouraging them to talk of themselves?”

    “Mm.”

    “Er…” She thought about it. “We didn’t know very many people back in England, so I suppose I’m thinking of the Calcutta ones…” She swallowed. “Frankly, Violet, the alternative seems to be that one chooses a weak but charming one, like Major Hatton, and far from flattering him, proceeds to rule him and the rest of his household with a rod of iron for the rest of one’s days.”

    Miss Allardyce bit her lip. “Oh, dear. There must be some sensible ones, though, surely!”

    Tiddy gave a sniff worthy of Mademoiselle at her driest. “Perhaps. But I would say, so few that the chances of one’s tying oneself up to one are very slim indeed.”

    Miss Allardyce tried to smile, but failed. “Oh, dear,” she concluded sadly.

    —Good gracious, girls, those faces! Major Mason reminds you of whom, Madeleine? –Oh. We see, dear. And he sounds to you like the best of a bad lot, Antoinette? Dearest girl, what an expression! Well, you did say you wished to hear more about the hill station life, girls. But shall we ring for tiffin, before we go on? –A tray of tea, Madeleine, dear. Never mind if it be too early or too late: a cup of our Lucas & Pointers tea is always welcome!

    … There, that’s better! Now, do not you both feel much brighter? –Mr Collins? What put him into your head, Antoinette? Oh—settling for a fool. Neither of you girls will do that, we are quite, quite sure. Your Mamma cannot possibly intend you to take Mr Frimpton’s curate, Madeleine, for he has left the district— The next curate? Madeleine, this is silly: no-one has as yet laid eyes on him! Your Mamma is correct in saying that a curate who can look forward to a living would be a respectable match, but we are very sure that she has not gone further than that!

    But if our tales of Darjeeling are making you mournful— No, very well, but just recollect whom we did all marry! –There! That’s better! Tiddy’s admirers were funny, you know!

    Major-General Harkness called, apparently under the impression that Miss Angèle had promised to drive out with him today. Unfortunately, just as the words passed his lips Colonel Brinsley-Pugh was announced, apparently under the impression that she had promised— Oops. Neither Mrs Allardyce nor Mademoiselle was of any help whatsoever in this dilemma: they just sat there, looking impossibly prim. Tiddy laid the Colonel’s floral offering on a small table next the Major-General’s much larger floral offering.

    “I’m so sorry: I seem to have mixed my appointments up!” she gasped.

    This had not very much result; the two military figures continued to glare at each other and the two older ladies continued to sit there looking irritatingly prim.

    Tiddy took a deep breath. “What shall we do?” she said plaintively, looking from one to the other of her elderly admirers.

    Huzza! This worked. They fell over themselves to assure her that it did not signify, they would just sit here and have a pleasant cose; or perhaps stroll out, if Miss Angèle would care to take an arm of each?

    Ridiculous though the appearance she would then present might be, this last was infinitely preferable to sitting there in the front parlour with Mademoiselle and her hostess looking prim; so Tiddy accepted with alacrity, and the three set out.

    … “Mais, dis donc! Two strings to your bow!” said Mademoiselle brightly on her return.

    Mrs Allardyce gave a smothered laugh.

    Tiddy peered cautiously from behind the curtains. The military pair were retreating down the front path. “At least they’re going,” she reported limply.

    “They will drive off at the exact same instant,” predicted her maddening hostess. “In order to prevent the other from making a new sortie. It is what the military men call tactics, my dear Tiddy.”

    Tiddy peered. The reins were gathered up, and the vehicles wheeled—in tandem; and they departed at a strict trot. In tandem. Help!

    “Yes?” said Mrs Allardyce calmly.

    Tiddy smiled weakly. “Um, yes.”

    Mrs Allardyce laughed that light laugh of hers.

    On receipt of Josie’s somewhat sparse reply to her long letter, Tiddy was seen to be scowling horribly. “What is it?” said Mademoiselle.

    “Tess doesn’t want Ponsonby Sahib!” she said angrily. “And Tonie has never liked him enough, the idea is ludicrous! And only an imbecile like Josie could believe he would offer for a young woman who does not want him!”

    Mlle Dupont nodded silently.

    Tiddy’s eyes narrowed. “I shall take Johnny Jullerbees Ponsonby, for I am the only one that ever liked him. And besides—” She broke off.

    “Besides?” said Marie-Louise Dupont blandly.

    “Nothing. I must beg you, Mademoiselle, to proceed apace with the business of ladifying me. He will never take me seriously unless I appear truly grown up.”

    “Très bien, ma petite,” she said calmly. “And one starts, I think, by taking the posies of Major-General Harkness—eugh—if not more seriously, then at least with the appearance of more interest.”

    “‘For the practice,’” quoted Tiddy grimly. “But should I encourage him, if I cannot care the snap of my fingers for the poor man?”

    Mademoiselle gave that shrug of hers. “Bof!” she said.—An expression strictly forbidden to Mlle Angèle.—“That is the risk a man takes. Added to which, when one is old enough to be the grandfather of the young lady to whom one presents floral favours, one should be old enough to see when one is making a fool of oneself, n’est-ce pas?”

    Tiddy nodded limply. One should, indeed. But was one not, grandfather, male, or not, still only human? For all her good points, there was something icily hard—nay, inhumanly hard—about Marie-Louise Dupont.

     The forceful Colonel Fitzmaurice had gone ahead and organised a little hop, even though, as a widower, he had no hostess. Darjeeling had an Assembly Room, of sorts, so that was where it was held. As young Mr Viccy Truesdale explained with a chuckle: “Cousin Fitz won’t have it at his house, for he don’t dare to invite any of the pussies to play hostess: favouring one above the rest would mean his name would be Mud for the next five hundred years—and then, encouraging one to think she might snare him on a permanent basis would never do!”

    The town was filling up with summer visitors, but as many of the gentlemen had perforce stayed at their duties down on the plains, most of those present at the “hop” were pretty well on the shady shade of forty. And, alas, some of those who were on the sunnier side were not quite quite. As Mesdames Turner, Whassett, Martinmass, et al. did not neglect to inform Miss Angèle. In fact, that rather pretty dark boy was the son of a clerk in Mr Dean’s Calcutta offices—no doubt a worthy man, but it would not do to encourage the boy. And Mrs Martinmass could not imagine what had caused dear Colonel Fitzmaurice to invite him.

    Tiddy had rather liked young Mr Jackson, though without any idea of falling in love with him, and she felt very angry as these remarks were passed, but could think, alas, of no way of getting back at the cats in question. Unless cutting Miss Martinmass out with Major-General Widdop, who did not want her in any case, might count? Determinedly she smiled upon the Major-General, and was rewarded by having him eagerly solicit her hand for a country dance and step on her flounce therein, and by having Mrs Martinmass’s scorching glare follow them up and down the length of the room for every second the dance lasted.

    “Hullo,” said the broad-shouldered Major Mason with a grin, as Major-General Widdop bore her back to her chaperone.

    “Manners, sir!” barked the Major-General, stiffening up alarmingly.

    “Oh, well, we have met once this evening, sir,” he replied easily. “Good evening again, Miss Tiddy.”

    “Good evening, Major Mason!” said Tiddy, trying not to laugh.

    The Major-General, stiffer than ever, and an alarming shade of puce, the which assorted ill with his—oh, dear—dress uniform, barked: “Don’t believe I had heard you was on sufficient terms with Miss Angèle’s family to permit you to make free with her pet name, sir!”

    “No, you are quite right, sir; and I must beg your pardon,” said naughty Major Mason with a twinkle in his eye.

    “Beg my pardon, sir?” he barked. “You will beg Miss Angèle’s, this instant!”

    “Oh, absolutely, sir: aye. Beg pardon, Miss Angèle, for taking the liberty,” he said humbly.

    “Not at all, Major. –I feel I must in all fairness tell you, General, that the Major has already explained that his French is very poor,” said Tiddy on a plaintive note.

    “That,” he said, the grimness and stiffness abating a scarce-discernible fraction, “is but poor excuse, Miss Angèle. Thank you for a delightful dance.”

    Somewhat limply Tiddy curtseyed in response to his horribly military bow.

    “Well, sir?” he then barked.

    “Oh, right you are, sir! I say, Miss Angèle, will you do me the tremendous honour of dancing this one with me?” said Major Mason humbly, bowing very low.

    “Thank you, Major,” replied Tiddy very faintly indeed.

    His face perfectly straight, the burly major bowed again, and led her onto the floor.

    “You are absolutely naughty, Major Mason!” she hissed. “How I managed not to laugh in front of the poor man, I shall never know!”

    “You? What about me?” he said sadly. “The effort near to killed me. And it’s worse for me, y’know: he ain’t your superior officer.”

    “Nor is he yours, unless perhaps your duties include the peeling of potatoes?”

    Major Mason just winked.

    Giggling, Tiddy allowed him to whirl her into the dance.

    As it finished, however, and he led her to a chair near the wall and not near to her chaperone, she said on a wistful note: “I don’t suppose you might be a marrying man, might you, dear Major Mason?”

    Unshaken, the Major replied: “Not absolutely, no, Miss Tiddy. Unless it was yourself you had in mind?”

    “Not absolutely, no, as matter of fact,” said Tiddy, peeping at him naughtily.

    “Crushed!” said the Major with his cheerful laugh. “Don’t think I will dare ask who.”

    “The thing is, I feel sure you need to be looked after,” said Tiddy soulfully.

    “I do, ma’am! Come and do so, I beg!”

    “Not me; I, alas, have another destiny,” said Tiddy importantly. Ignoring Major Mason’s choking fit, she added: “But there is a lady, a very kindly, caring lady, who only needs a lovely man to look after, to—well, to blossom.”

    “No,” said the Major on a dry note, his eyes on Miss Martinmass, sitting looking depressed while her majestic mamma put Major-General Widdop under interrogation.

    “Well, bother!’ replied Tiddy with a pout.

    “Old Widdop can have her.”

    “I do not think he would be kind to her.”

    “Well, ain’t you got a colonel to spare, ma’am?” he drawled as Colonel Brinsley-Pugh, the pate gleaming, was seen to head in their direction. “Oops. Or two,” he added, as their host rapidly mounted a counter-offensive.

    Tiddy had time only for a feeble smile before the two senior officers were upon them.

    —There, now, dear girls! That’s better! You see, it was funny, not tragic at all, and Tiddy certainly found it so! –The fate of Miss Martinmass, Madeleine? Her mother died about five years later, and she came home to England to live with her brother and his wife, and to help with their little ones. “Unpaid governess” is putting it rather too strongly, Antoinette. They were very kind to her—the brother not taking after the mother at all, you understand—and though she stayed a spinster, she was a happy spinster! Much happier than she could ever have been married to Widdop—yes, Madeleine, that’s a sensible girl. The children did grow up, Antoinette, of course, but Miss Martinmass stayed on as companion to the sister-in-law: they were fast friends, and both very much interested in handwork, and in fact if you run upstairs to Ponsonby Sahib’s room—he is out taking a gentle constitutional, Madeleine—you will see a wonderful quilt that they worked together on his bed at this instant!

    … Well? Yes, we all think it quite charming, with its pattern of lozenges and the beautifully worked Indian flowers, birds and animals on alternate lozenges. Miss Martinmass originally intended all flowers but could not think of enough, so they fell back on birds and animals. Such a very kind and thoughtful gift!

    As to what then transpired... Well, a great deal! But there is another letter somewhere from Tiddy baba, Antoinette, if you would care to look it out...

Letter dated “Tuesday 26th, The Allardyce House, Trafalgar Grove, Darjeeling” (as transcribed from the original, by A.J.T.)

My Dearest Tess,

    I write this dispatch from the very battle front itself. Were it not to flatter myself unduly I would say I have an inkling of what Helen of Troy must have felt. Can she possibly have made the same mistake as I? That is, to have given a gentleman, or several gentlemen, too much encouragement without having meant to? O, dear.

    It is all the fault of that dance of Col. Fitzmaurice’s. Or, rather, of that and the influence of naughty Maj. Mason, who encouraged me to become outrageous. Why was I not warned the man is an hopeless flirt and has besides a sense of humour ill-fitted to a person of his years and position? Added to which, he does not want a wife and says the Army takes very good care of him, so I do not even have the consolation of hoping to award him to Miss Martinmass.

    I had considered, in my innocence, that the dance had gone off very happily, all parties being pleased with each other and themselves, and was thus brought to a rude awakening by the events of the very next morning. First, a posy and a note arrive from Col. Fitzmaurice himself, while we are still taking chota huzzree. I am innocently flattered to learn that I appeared as a dainty fairy last night, if the same merely confirms what he murmured into my ear during our waltz, and preen myself only a very little over the posy, ignoring the sardonic look in Mademoiselle’s clever eye. We have finished chota huzzree and are just barely seated in the front parlour, about to take up our work, Mlle D. composedly, Violet A. apparently eagerly, and self with considerable lack of enthusiasm, when another posy arrives. Maj.-Gen. Harkness. This has become, tho’ I blush to admit it, quite a usual occurrence. Tho’ I am a trifle startled to learn that last night I appeared as the morning star at dawn, and gave “an old man” (his expression, one that I would never dream of using) cause to hope that his day was not altogether past. Not the usual consequence of two pairs of country dances, or so I in my innocence had assumed.

    The work is going along splendidly, as to Mademoiselle’s and Violet’s, and half a petal has been unpicked, as to Tiddy’s, when a third posy is delivered. This one has trailing pink ribbons, so can it possibly be for me, pink not being, as all who know me must be aware, even if they have not the benefit of Josie’s advice, my colour? O, why yes, so it can: from Col. Brinsley-Pugh! Last night my eyes were like stars and might he dare to hope, just a little, that he had found favour in my eyes? (Two “eyes”: infelicitous, yes.)

    “Had he?” asks Mademoiselle at her driest. I manage to counter this with dignity: “I am sure I did not wittingly give him reason to suppose so.”

    We have settled down to our work again, when the door knocker is heard yet again! She does not say anything. A posy eventuates: Krishna, who brings it in, looking positively excited, and congratulating me on it regardless of Mademoiselle’s reproving look. Trailing green ribbons: exquisite taste. The note, however, must give one pause: “Dear Miss Tiddy, Dare one hope that this poor mite will cause green jealousy amongst all those senior officers whom you so heartlessly favoured last night in preference to, Yr. Devoted” (he is no such thing) “T. Mason.” Violet, of course, is completely taken in by it and gives a gasp of, if such a thing be possible, happy envy. Mademoiselle allows herself a refined snigger. I concentrate on my stitchery…

    Another knock at the front door. Mademoiselle notes to the ambient air: “Were there any left?” I merely wait. The most delicious little pale yellow rosebuds: young Viccy Truesdale! O, no! One had thought he had more sense! Surely he cannot seriously be setting himself up in competition with his elderly cousin and all those military— No, no, it must be a joke, along the lines of bad Major M.’s! Alas, no. The note reads: “Dear Miss Angèle” (the creature has been calling me Tiddy for a week past, usually forgetting the “Miss” into the bargain), “My eyes were opened last night at the sight of you in that esquisite gouze.” (He cannot spell.) “May I dare to hope that yr. kindness in our dance” (I swear, I merely said he waltzed divinely, what is there in that?) “indicates that you are prepared to look seriously at last upon Yr. Humble and Devotted” (the spelling again), “Victor Truesdale.” At last? What does the creature mean? I have treated him as a younger brother for every instant of our acquaintance! Mademoiselle has now collapsed in giggles of the most agonising sort, so there is nothing for it but to preserve a dignified silence.

    “Et puis?” she says eventually.

    I reply with the utmost dignity: “Mais rien, Mademoiselle, je vous assure. Ce sont des imbéciles, et pire, des imbéciles qui se déçoivent absolument.” After correcting my French she merely returns, looking dry, to her work.

    You might well be excused for thinking that that must be all, and bad enough; but no! The unpicked petal has had time to be botched again, before the knocker is heard once more. The posy is glorious, and the “old soldier” (his) was given cause to hope that that he might not be fighting a losing battle after all (all his). My sincerely devoted, Maj.-Gen. C.D. Widdop (Rtd.).

    Pray do not laugh: it is too dreadful! And I only did it to punish Mrs Martinmass for speaking so unkindly of young Mr Jackson!

    Mademoiselle begins: “If you will take my advice, Tiddy,”—“Yes?” the foolish one gasps, hope fluttering in her silly bosom—“you will unpick that petal again. Try a nice even satin stitch, when you are better able to concentrate.” Hope dies.

    Since that fateful morning, I have had to face the consequences. The first of which was the necessity of smiling complaisantly upon Maj.-Gen. Harkness as he tooled me in his tikka-gharry, the meanwhile telling me a very great deal that I never wished to know of his family’s circumstances, and— O, dear. Ditto upon Maj.-Gen. Widdop as we took a pleasant stroll on a sunny, windy day, with young Tinker-Terrier, the traitor, quite failing to bite the man in the ankle, or even bark nastily at him! The meanwhile receiving a rather full account of the Widdop family’s circumstances and the assurance that his widowed sister, a Mrs P—, would be delighted to receive me at her charming house in —shire at any time.

    Tho’ the Great Darjeeling Mystery of exactly who holds the title deeds to the Widdop bungalow was not resolved, alas!

    Next was a long drive with Col. Brinsley-Pugh, who looks so much more handsome with his hat on that I was almost swayed by his assurances that he is one of the Brinsley-Pughs, that his late mamma would have approved of me, and that his sister, a Lady Fenwig (not -wick, he kindly spelled it out for me, unasked, as it is a mistake that many people make), would be charmed to have me spend some time at Lord F.’s delightful country house in— &c.

    After that, the cheery, charming Col. Fitzmaurice turned up in a spanking new tikka-gharry, which he tried to claim was acquired so his little cousin would have something to tool about the place, and took me for the most delightful drive, smiling into my eyes whenever the horses did not positively require his attention. It gradually penetrated to my slow consciousness that Col. F., unlike the assorted retired senior officers of Darjeeling, is not unaccustomed to the company of the frailer sex. So I was enabled to form squares, and prepare to return fire. He gave me no opportunity, however, the cunning thing, for he was not nearly so obvious as to tell me of his family’s circumstances. Tho’ he did manage to impart the information that “young Viccy” is not his heir! Nor did he positively invite me to visit with any sisters in England. But he did tell me quite a lot, in a very cheery, airy way, of his brother’s house in —shire, and the jolly times the brother’s offspring and their offspring are accustomed to have there every year. And that they usually have a jolly party for the shooting, starting around August, y’know, and going on into the autumn. At that I seized the opportunity to say, very demure, that I did not care for killing creatures. The wrong move: a seasoned campaigner such as Col. F. reforms in good order, patting one’s hand comfortingly, saying: “Of course, of course, dear little girl.” O, help!

    Master Truesdale was much easier to deal with. I let him escort me as far as Miss MacDonnell’s to collect Tinker-Terrier the Second, and then let him take me a little way out towards the hills, where there was no-one around who might attempt to join us. Then I told him that his posy had been a very silly gesture, if kindly meant. And that his note had been very silly indeed, and not quite the thing. And that I looked on him as a younger brother. The which was severer than I had intended, to tell you the truth, but by that stage I was feeling a trifle desperate. Poor little Viccy went very red and accused me of letting myself be wound round his Cousin Fitz’s finger. And he supposed that he had said he, little Viccy, was not his heir. And he was a bad fellow, though he had to admit he had always been very decent to himself! In this face of this rather involved information, all at top speed, you know, what could a maiden say? What I did say was, that I thought he had better take me and Master Tinker-Terrier home again, as it was rather too windy for comfort. Which he did, sulking all the way. Still, it was preferable to giving him misplaced hope.

    Finalement, it is Major Mason’s turn. Lo! He turns up in a bran-new tikka-gharry! Mademoiselle takes one look from the parlour window, utters a mad shriek, and has to run away and hide before the caller is admitted! So much for wonderful company manners; she is disgraced eternally in my eyes.

    I permit the monster to drive me out, but inform him he is not to feel pleased with himself, for he is the naughtiest thing ever, and I am most displeased with him, and none of it is a splendid joke. Unfortunately, just as I have managed to say it all without once smiling, we catch sight of Maj.-Gen. Harkness in his new tikka-gharry! Immediately we both collapse in helpless gales of laughter. The which, alas, cruelly succeeds in dashing all the poor Maj.-Gen.’s misplaced hopes. So Mason has to promise, by way of apology, to invite Miss Martinmass to drive. (The tikka-gharry is only hired, as it turns out.) On condition I admit it was a splendid joke after all, he agrees. What would you? I admit it, and we tool on, in a state of perfect harmony.

    At the precise moment I am in daily expectation of fresh assaults from Col. Fitzmaurice, and have not wholly ruled out a volley from Maj.-Gen. Widdop, neither. Goodness gracious, and I thought that turning myself into a fine young lady would involve merely learning to wear smart gowns and smart bonnets and to praise one’s hostesses’ horrible tea! I think that possibly I shall ask Maj.-Gen. W. to tell me what he did at Waterloo. That may settle his hash. (Home: Army provisions, tu t’en rappelles?)

    Dearest Sister, I must rush, for the next move in the campaign is to try on a delightful new sprig muslin gown, in which I intend to convince the assembled Retired Forces of Darjeeling, once and for all, that nothing less than the sunny side of 40 and the shady side of 20 will do for,

Your ever loving,

Angèle Marie Françoise Lucas (çi-devant “Tiddy”)

    —Well, well, poor, pathetic Major-General Widdop is long since laid to rest under the deodars of Darjeeling, and silly old Brinsley-Pugh and Narrowmine are long gone, too. And Major-General Harkness—though not before he caught a wealthy widow, we hasten to reassure you! She made him very happy, in addition to bringing him a tidy little sum, so it can scarce signify that she was not positively out of the top drawer, nor even, if Mrs Whassett’s claim is to be given credence, out of the second— If that is Ponsonby Sahib laughing over by the French window, he may go away again, for he has heard it all a thousand times and his comments will be naught but frivolous! –Denying you your tiffin, sir? Heavens, is that the time! –Yes, we have had a tray, but we may have another, may we not? Horrors, maudling our insides with tea? Never say so, dear sir! It is Lucas & Pointer’s very own tea!

    … Who asked the kitchen to provide these delicious cream cakes with the strawberries? Ponsonby Sahib?—Most thoughtful, kind sir!—Yes, thank you, John, we realise that a tray will have been taken up to the nursery. Are they all up there? Master Matt and Master Malcolm as well? –They have made a fort? We see; thank you, John! –Malcolm is another cousin, Madeleine: one of our dear Josie’s grandchildren. He and his two little sisters, Harriet and Jane, have come to spend some time with us. Their Papa is abroad, and their Mamma prefers living in Paris with her brother, who is an artist, to dull old England. Malcolm is a year older than Matt, but as he is rather biddable, there is little doubt who will the leader in their games.

    … Well, now! The next excitement in Darjeeling was the arrival of Mr Charles Hatton upon the scene! Ponsonby Sahib, do you care to help tell it? –Alas, yes, you will be too frivolous, but we can support it, can we not, girls? That is, if there is to be absolutely no mention of windows open onto the verandah of the Allardyce House at times when conversations were being held. Either inside ’em or outside ’em, you say? There! What did we tell you, girls? Pray cease this frivolity at once, sir!

    Charlie Hatton arrived in the hills a few days after Colonel Fitzmaurice’s dance. A couple of weeks went by with Charlie in constant attendance at the Allardyce house—though it was true that the amiable Major Mason was, also—but without Tiddy’s offering him any particular encouragement. Certainly no more than she was offering the Major.

    Mrs Allardyce, the cleverest woman in Calcutta, was finally driven to say to Mlle Dupont: “Does your little charge want the pretty Hatton boy, or not?”

    “Who can say, madame? I am not, alas, in her confidence,” she responded politely.

    “No, of course. Forgive me, I should have phrased my enquiry differently. Do you think that Tiddy wants him?”

    Cornered, Mademoiselle lifted her hands in a very French gesture. “I confess, I do not know! She has admitted that when they were vairy little, she did—but she is no longer six years old, after all! And certainly she sees through him.”

    “Oh? As far as his pursuit of her sister when her back was turned?”

    “Eugh—well, I think not,” admitted Mlle Dupont cautiously.

    “Hm. And what does Colonel Ponsonby think of it all,”—an infinitesimal pause—“in your opinion?”

    Mademoiselle replied somewhat weakly. “As to what I know, madame, he has checked that the boy is not in debt and did not run through his inheritance from the old uncle before he even came of age. From that point of view I believe that he would not think the match inappropriate. But… Well, he has certainly intimated to me that he does not approve of Mr Charlie’s character. Too much easy charm, you know?”

    “Ye-es… Well, his father has that, and there is nothing wrong with him.”

    “No, but madame, would he have manipulated the two sisters so vairy carefully, in his son’s place?” she cried unguardedly.

    “I would say not. I think he has insufficient guile and also too much sense of honour to do such a thing. Added to which, Alan Hatton had never the cool temperament which would allow his head to rule his heart. He was very much in love with Minerva—that is his wife. Very many years ago now, of course.”

    “I see. But then, perhaps,” said Mademoiselle her small mouth tightening, “the son is not in love with Tiddy.”

    “But I think he is, my dear,” she said with that characteristic lightness of hers.

    Mlle Dupont eyed her uncertainly. “Truly, madame?”

    “Mm. But he has the temperament that will not allow that to weigh with him when it is a question of his own advantage. She would be his first choice, but in the case she turns him down, I would say there is no doubt at all he will immediately turn to Josie.”

    Mademoiselle swallowed. “I was afraid it was something like that…”

    “Yes. But then, if Tiddy does not affect him?” She cocked her clever head on one side, and waited.

    “But one cannot tell!” cried Mademoiselle in huge exasperation.

    “No, quite. Hmm… Reinforcements?” she said, raising a mobile eyebrow. “I just happen to know a very well-connected young woman who is visiting the country at the moment. Indeed, the party is due in a few days’ time: they are to inspect Mr Urqhart’s new tea plantation up in the hills.”

    “Eugh—but there is your English proverb of a bird in the hand,” she objected dubiously.

    “That only obtains,” said Mrs Allardyce with her famous light laugh, “when the bird is in the hand, I think! And we are agreed that Tiddy is not that! I think I can promise you that we shall very soon find out if she wishes to be.”

    “But if she does, and he has switched his attentions?”

    “Oh, Lud!” said Mrs Allardyce. “My well-connected friend will not take him, my dear; what are you thinking of?”

    There was a moment’s dead silence on the verandah of the Allardyce House in Trafalgar Grove. Then Mlle Dupont, alas, collapsed in gales of unseemly laughter.

Next chapter:

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