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sable tresses too are bleached to a less opulent brown in me, but at least I inherited her natural wave. Mrs. Farell tells me I am “lively,” by which I have come to learn she means pretty. She is kind enough to tell me if I would bother to tone down my pink cheeks with powder and call in a coiffeur to tend my hair, I might nab myself a beau. You may he sure that when I meet a gentleman worth so much bother, I shall do it.
     

Chapter Six
     
    It was during our dinner that Major Morrison arrived, causing us to jump up from the table for a dart to the window. He traveled in a high style for a retired major. He was perched in a yellow sporting curricle behind a team of matched grays, with his domo—groom or valet or batman—beside him. This means of travel all the way from Devonshire indicated a heavier traveling carriage somewhere between here and there, carrying his luggage. No more than the top of his hat was visible from our window as he drove up to the house. Lucien proclaimed him a bang-up fiddler. He also expressed an intention of going to the stable to examine the prads as soon as he was finished eating.
    I went downstairs with him, and learned in the kitchen that the major, arriving at such a gauche hour, had been invited to remain for dinner. Stella would not be behindhand in offering the hospitality of the house to a lone gentleman. I did not get to see him myself for a few hours, when Lucien was called down for his nightly meeting with the family before retiring.
    My first thought upon seeing the major was, Yes, he is a military type, certainly. An officer and a gentleman. It was an impression I was obliged to alter on both counts before many hours’ acquaintance.
    He was tall, his shoulders held back and his chest expanded, nearly filling the doorway with his body, when he and Beaudel joined us, after taking port in the dining room. He would not have traveled in evening clothes, but wore them then, which indicated that he might be remaining overnight. Glanbury Park was not so formal as to preclude taking dinner in a blue jacket.
    These thoughts were fleeting. The feature that held the attention, and affirmed in my mind that he was indeed an Army man, was the black moustache and beard, and the closely cropped hair. Such hirsute adornments were not fashionable amongst any but Army gentlemen. Even amongst them, it was a style more favored by the older set, to which Major Morrison could not be said to belong. He was in his thirties, I thought—somewhere in the low thirties.
    His walk was measured, precise, very military, as he drew up before us. In fact, he very nearly clicked his heels, like a Prussian officer. I examined his face, that part of it not covered with hair, as Beaudel introduced him to Lucien. His eyes were a very cool, deep gray, and the skin was as brown as tanned leather. “The Peninsula” clicked automatically into place in my mind. My late brothers’ friends, who called on us when they returned to England, had such complexions. The major’s was perhaps even a shade darker, indicating a long stay in that hot climate. His anatomy was sleek, well muscled and lithe beneath a modestly patterned waistcoat. All this was observed in less time than it takes to tell.
    Within minutes, I had in my possession a more interesting fact than any of this. The major, so self-assured in appearance, was ill at ease, nervous. His eyes shifted, darting about the room, to Lucien and myself, and Mrs. Beaudel, and the door, and back to Lucien very frequently. What possible interest could a retired major have in a young boy he had never seen before? The hands too betrayed his agitation. They held a quizzing glass, which he fingered unconsciously. Beaudel, on the other hand, was quite at ease.
    “How did you leave Lord Sacheverel? I hope he is well,” Lucien said, the perfect little gentleman. “You mentioned in your letter you are acquainted with him.”
    “He is very well, for his age,” the major replied,