and I saw my mother slip into the role she had played so often in the old days when she presided around a tea-table encircled by the wives of senior clerics: charming, attentive, even amusing. Wielding her sugar-tongs like a rapier, as Father used to say.
I was delegated to open the door and lead the old woman with all proper ceremony into the parlour. It was cold even though Betsy had been instructed to build up the fire in readiness for our guest.
I had barely got the front-door open before the old biddy’s tongue was rattling away. We learned that Miss Bittlestone is the only child of an impoverished clergyman who was Quance’s curate in Cheltenham. When the Quances moved here about three years ago, she was “so sweetly” invited to come and live near them.
Yes, to become an unpaid nanny and chaperone!
The tea—to which I suspect she is unaccustomed—loosened her tongue and she informed us that the Rector inherited rather a lot of money recently. So Enid is an heiress and therefore has a fair chance of scooping an earl.
She hinted that Davenant Burgoyne was on the point of proposing marriage and gleefully revealed that the Lloyds were furious that their own daughter had seen the prize snatched from her grasp.
When the bones of that had been sucked dry, Mother asked: Now Mrs Paytress is a friend of the Lloyds, is she not?
Ah, Mrs Paytress , said Miss Bittlestone with the relish of a hungry diner seeing a new dish approaching. Now there is a lady about whom there is much speculation. She has almost wilfully excited curiosity. She brought her own servants with her and none of them will reveal the smallest parcel of information about her. She positively defies her neighbours not to be suspicious. And there are many things to be curious about. Odd comings and goings in carriages late at night. Unearthly cries of rage or pain at all hours .
We savoured this juicy mouthful together in silence. Then Mother turned to me and said: That reminds me, Richard, that we promised to return her umbrella. Will you do it now, please?
I pointed out that I had not finished my cup of tea and was given a reprieve.
This was my chance to find out something.
Miss Bittlestone , I asked, the earl’s nephew is his heir, is he not?
The Honourable Mr Davenant Burgoyne , she confirmed with a sort of verbal curtsy. She strews titles and dignities like a maiden throwing blossoms round a maypole.
I went on: Now suppose, just for the sake of the argument, that Mr Davenant Burgoyne dies without leaving an heir . . .
The old lady gave a little scream—a stylised sketch of outraged horror which I accepted as a sacrifice to the proprieties which was the price of admission to the raree-show of speculation into which I was luring her and after a moment I carried on: In that case, to whom would the earldom and the fortune descend?
Oh, Master Shenstone , she said with her hand on her heart. What a dreadful question. And especially after that lamentable incident in which poor Mr Davenant Burgoyne was nearly killed .
You mean the accident? I asked.
She looked at me slyly. I mean his injury, Master Shenstone. And the answer to your question is that the earl has no other legitimate nephew. So the title would go to a distant cousin .
And the estate—the land and money?
Miss Bittlestone lowered her eyes. They would pass to the nearest relative of the earl .
And who is that? I asked.
Without looking up she muttered: I understand that it is a connection of the earl’s late brother .
I made one last attempt: I can imagine that Mr Davenant Burgoyne is considered quite a prize: a title and a fortune. The earl must be concerned about his choice of a wife .
Oh I could tell you a story about that , Miss Bittlestone exclaimed. About the way a ruthless family prevented a young man from marrying the girl he loved . Then she flushed and said: Oh, I shouldn’t have mentioned it .
Oh you can’t titillate us so brazenly and then disappoint us , Effie
I was delegated to open the door and lead the old woman with all proper ceremony into the parlour. It was cold even though Betsy had been instructed to build up the fire in readiness for our guest.
I had barely got the front-door open before the old biddy’s tongue was rattling away. We learned that Miss Bittlestone is the only child of an impoverished clergyman who was Quance’s curate in Cheltenham. When the Quances moved here about three years ago, she was “so sweetly” invited to come and live near them.
Yes, to become an unpaid nanny and chaperone!
The tea—to which I suspect she is unaccustomed—loosened her tongue and she informed us that the Rector inherited rather a lot of money recently. So Enid is an heiress and therefore has a fair chance of scooping an earl.
She hinted that Davenant Burgoyne was on the point of proposing marriage and gleefully revealed that the Lloyds were furious that their own daughter had seen the prize snatched from her grasp.
When the bones of that had been sucked dry, Mother asked: Now Mrs Paytress is a friend of the Lloyds, is she not?
Ah, Mrs Paytress , said Miss Bittlestone with the relish of a hungry diner seeing a new dish approaching. Now there is a lady about whom there is much speculation. She has almost wilfully excited curiosity. She brought her own servants with her and none of them will reveal the smallest parcel of information about her. She positively defies her neighbours not to be suspicious. And there are many things to be curious about. Odd comings and goings in carriages late at night. Unearthly cries of rage or pain at all hours .
We savoured this juicy mouthful together in silence. Then Mother turned to me and said: That reminds me, Richard, that we promised to return her umbrella. Will you do it now, please?
I pointed out that I had not finished my cup of tea and was given a reprieve.
This was my chance to find out something.
Miss Bittlestone , I asked, the earl’s nephew is his heir, is he not?
The Honourable Mr Davenant Burgoyne , she confirmed with a sort of verbal curtsy. She strews titles and dignities like a maiden throwing blossoms round a maypole.
I went on: Now suppose, just for the sake of the argument, that Mr Davenant Burgoyne dies without leaving an heir . . .
The old lady gave a little scream—a stylised sketch of outraged horror which I accepted as a sacrifice to the proprieties which was the price of admission to the raree-show of speculation into which I was luring her and after a moment I carried on: In that case, to whom would the earldom and the fortune descend?
Oh, Master Shenstone , she said with her hand on her heart. What a dreadful question. And especially after that lamentable incident in which poor Mr Davenant Burgoyne was nearly killed .
You mean the accident? I asked.
She looked at me slyly. I mean his injury, Master Shenstone. And the answer to your question is that the earl has no other legitimate nephew. So the title would go to a distant cousin .
And the estate—the land and money?
Miss Bittlestone lowered her eyes. They would pass to the nearest relative of the earl .
And who is that? I asked.
Without looking up she muttered: I understand that it is a connection of the earl’s late brother .
I made one last attempt: I can imagine that Mr Davenant Burgoyne is considered quite a prize: a title and a fortune. The earl must be concerned about his choice of a wife .
Oh I could tell you a story about that , Miss Bittlestone exclaimed. About the way a ruthless family prevented a young man from marrying the girl he loved . Then she flushed and said: Oh, I shouldn’t have mentioned it .
Oh you can’t titillate us so brazenly and then disappoint us , Effie
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