Adele Rawlins chapter 6 Lynched on the Links part I

 

Chapter 6 Lynched on the Links part I

 

We were on holiday in Brighton with Mama and Papa Rawlins. This is to say, Clara, Tony, and I were on holiday, as was Mama, and I had managed to call them Mama and Papa quite happily now, and Papa was on some kind of business-with-pleasure trip with three industrialists. They spent their days playing golf and dancing around what Papa could tell them whilst bidding to make parts for something, presumably made of steel as they were all steel magnates, or possibly steal magnets as each was attracted to the idea of royally shafting the government if he could. Parbleu! I must be thoroughly English if I can manage such puns. All of them had wives, and two of the wives were what is known as ‘golf widows’ whilst one of them determinedly played, and must have put quite a crimp on talking secret weapons. Me, I see no point in spoiling a good walk by knocking about a little ball whilst damaging the turf, or giving yourself a sand shower bath, and if forced to play I always aim my little ball at the water feature so I might say, ‘Tiens! What a shame, I shall go to the clubhouse now.’

If talking to any of the steel magnates, I pretend to think they are watching birdies, and ask if they saw any greater spotted niblicks, or the warbling mashie, and if they managed to see that rare birdie, the eagle. It drives them to gobbling incoherence, and they cannot seem to help themselves in attempting to explain, and I listen, so charmingly winsomely, me, with my head on one side, and my eyes wide open and interested, and ask what bird lives in the holes if they are trying to catch them and ask if a shotgun  might be more efficient if they are hunting them.

“Stop playing with your food, Adele,” said Papa, when he found I had entrapped Samuel Endicott with a desire to know how he heated his driving iron and why he did not leave his laundry to the hotel maid.

“I’m just trying to explain golf to the lass,” said Endicott.

“She doesn’t care,” said Papa.  “When I told her to use a spoon to drive down the fairway, she produced a tablespoon.”

“I had it to open my hard boiled eggs,” I said. “And the ball is about the size of an egg, only rounder.  It reminded me I wanted to mashie it with salt and pepper and niblick it slowly.”

Mrs. Corbett, the lady golfer, took me to task.

“My dear Mrs. Rawlins, pretending to be stupid is not good for the cause of womankind!” she said. “I know you have more understanding than you pretend, or you would not use golfing terms with such... such unerring inaccuracy. Surely you can manage to display some proper feeling?”

“But why should I?” I said. “It is, in my opinion, a game of the most boring. Me, I am very English now, and appreciate the brisk walk, the plunge in the cold sea, but the golf, no. It is tedious, and listening to the tales of the prowess of men playing with their little balls and poking them into as many holes as they can is to me the epitome of ennui, the paradigm of purgatory. So, I irritate them until they go away. Me, I think it is most improper in the advancement of womankind to pander always to the little foibles of men, who need to be laughed at.”

“Do you laugh at me?” she demanded.

“Not as much since you manage a phrase like ‘unerring inaccuracy,’ which I like a lot,” I said. “And truly, it is not my place to laugh at those women who slavishly follow their husband’s interests.”

She gaped.

“I play golf to show that a woman may be as good as any man!” she yapped.

“I am not so insecure that I feel a need to prove it,” I replied. “I already know.”

Dear reader, had she but known that I had spent three years as a man to gain my degree!

She stared at me then strode off.

Me, I have no time for fools.  And she is a fool, because there is only one reason that I can see that men turn a stroll together into a game requiring the technical understanding to hit their silly little ball round the whole course without losing it too often, and that is to have an excuse to be men on their own, enjoying a walk, to speak or to be silent as they wish, without women filling all the silences with chatter, as, I fear, my sex is too often inclined to do. Tony likes my capacity for silence. Notably he does not play golf, go hunting, shooting, or fishing, nor does he spend time at a club.

Mrs. Corbett was a woman I would describe as ‘tweedy.’ By this, I mean that she chose to wear tweed jackets as the upper part of her garb, tailored to her figure.  She also wore tartan a lot, less, I thought, in devotion to our dear queen and her love of Scotland than to declare an allegiance to those very masculine country sports. She had a loud, hearty voice, and probably believed in cold baths and not sparing the rod on children. I disliked her. Mr. Corbett was a quiet sort of fellow, who said, ‘yes, dear,’ and ignored his wife.

The other women were Mrs. Endicott and Lady Bagpuss, Sir Cyril having been knighted for services to industry.

Mrs. Endicott was the complete opposite of Mrs. Corbett, being almost ethereal in appearance, with languid movements and attitudes, golden ringlets, and a penchant for soft, draping fabrics like georgette. She fluttered like a bird and managed to open her eyes wider and more winsomely than me. She was the sort of woman men automatically want to help. She tried to drape herself all over Tony, since he was the only man who did not go off playing golf, and Tony pulled the bell for a servant and asked for the hotel nurse as Mrs. Endicott was feeling faint, and needed to go and lie down. It was more amusing watching Papa handle her – and he had the cheek to accuse me of playing with my food! Papa pretended to be deaf. The conversation went something like this, when she cornered him.

“Of course, I’m so terribly delicate, but I try to support Samuel,” she said.

“That’s dreadful,” said Papa. “Hernias must be a terrible trial to him.”

“He doesn’t have a hernia!” she was indignant. “And nor do I, I’m just fragile, but I don’t like to fuss.”

“What, he’s lost his support? Perhaps you should suggest he goes to the hospital,” said Papa.

“No! I support him in his work!” she shouted at him.

“Dear me, there’s no need to shout,” said Papa. “We don’t need to advertise his need for a truss. And I’m sure you are right, that he doesn’t shirk.”

She had hysterics, so Papa copied his son and called for the hotel nurse.

Sir Cyril was a man who had grown into the role of knighthood, and gloried in it, booming about a desire to enter politics.  His wife was, not to put too fine a point on it, a snob. She had discovered that her husband’s name came from the old French town Bacquepuiss, and insisted on people using it.

I spoke to her exclusively in French, of which she had a smattering from having been to a fairly good girls’ school, but not enough to keep up with my fluent discourse.

She forced a laugh and said that perhaps it was impolite to speak French in front of those who did not know it well. I spoke English in front of others and continued speaking French to her if I was so unfortunate as to find myself alone with her.

 

“Damned industrialists,” growled Papa. He was treating us to dinner in a very fine restaurant overlooking the gloriously monstrous Royal Pavilion. “I know they are out to make a profit, and that this drives world trade, but you’d think an ounce of patriotism might counteract a pound of greed.”

“If that were so, the professions of solicitors and barristers would be obsolete,” I said. “What can you tell us that does not leave you sounding so mysterious, papa?”

“Oh, it’s simple, really,” said Papa. “They are bidding to build certain parts for the most recent warships. And most of them build parts for things like mine pumps or steam engines, and I had to explain in words of one syllable that, immersed in salt water there is a galvanic reaction leading to the hulls being more readily reduced to rust because of the weak battery acidic effect; I don’t know if you know about sacrificial anodes, introduced by Sir Humphrey Davy?”

“No, but I understand the principle,” I said. “The loss of material from a more reactive metal preserves the hull. Aren’t ships copper bottomed to stop fouling?”

“Good girl; that school you went to was excellent,” said Papa. “And he iron disappears leaving a wafer thin layer of copper without an anode of zinc. It works better than sheathing the bottom with wood sheathed with copper. The problem arises when one of my idiot manufacturers wants to make some parts out of cheap iron coated in tin, which will vanish as if by magic, as well as reducing the effect of the sacrificial anode. Why can my daughter in law understand this, and by the way she’s listening, my granddaughter,” he nodded to Clara, “But three of the steel magnates of experience and supposed understanding of metallurgy fail to grasp something which is scarcely impenetrable science?”

“You’ll have to test every part they send, Grandpapa,” said Clara. “I don’t understand it all, but if some of the metal dissolves for being in salt water if it’s the wrong sort, they won’t believe you and will try to get away with doing it on the cheap.”

This was one of the longest sentences Clara had managed, and I was so proud of her.

“She’s right,” said Tony. I only nodded; I had a mouth full of the most delectable cauliflower florets deep fried in savoury batter.

“Some of these fools think that government contracts were invented purely for their own enrichment,” said Papa, bitterly.

“Make it clear that standards are to be followed, and substandard work will be treated as treason,” I said, when my mouth was clear.

“I don’t know if it would count... I don’t think the statute books cover that sort of thing.”

“Well, they don’t know that, do they?” I said. “Tell Corbett that his wife will never let him forget it if he is indicted for treason, tell Sir Cyril that it would kill any chance of entering politics, even if he evaded gaol time, and tell Endicott that his wife is likely to be prostrated with grief and needing to sob all the time about it.”

“What a devious and wicked little mind you have!” said Papa, appreciatively.

We returned to the hotel, to find Mrs. Endicott busy fascinating Mr. Corbett, under the nose of his wife, who was buttonholing Sir Cyril on the concept of reducing property qualifications for voting, and proposing the vote for women as well, in a country with a female monarch. He looked trapped, and his wife was glaring.

“I might agree with votes for women, Lady Bagpuss,” I said, refusing to change a perfectly well-Anglicised name, “But I should wish Mrs. Corbett to be examined by doctors to see if she qualified, or if she is one of these prodigy automata, which have a wax cylinder inside them with recordings to give the impression of intelligence.”

She managed a spiteful little giggle.

“Well, at least Cyril is not engaged by her charms, if she has any, unlike her husband who is being thoroughly twisted round Mrs. Endicott’s fragile fingers.”

“Some women are too dangerous for their own good,” I said.  What a crowd! I disliked them all.

 Nobody but our family came to the communal breakfast, so presumably the tensions, whether of a fiduciary or fidelity nature, led to room service for more private repasts. Thank goodness! No discussion about Mr. Endicott’s stroke, or whether Sir Cyril would break his par, or Mr. Corbett’s sad affinity for bunkers. He had not appreciated my bright and enthusiastic suggestion that he purchase a tin pail and wooden spade such as the children use to build sandcastles on the beach, because making a sandcastle in a bunker would be more fun than fiddling around getting sand in his clothes whilst he tried to get his balls out.

 

I don’t know if Papa used my suggestions, but it would not surprise me if he did; because the industrialists started to enter bids.

“Why don’t you go to a bronze foundry, Papa?” I suggested. “You are still working on propellers, aren’t you? Bronze propellers won’t corrode, the tin is locked to the copper, and they will last longer.”

“I might, yet,” said Papa. “Someone in my office has a bee in his bonnet about steel being better. It isn’t, but I had my instructions.”

“Don’t tell your colleague, then,” I said.

He stared.

“So simple, so practical,” he said.

I wished him luck on a morning’s golf and grumbling, and took Clara to look over the curiously oriental edifice which is the Royal Pavilion, it having been recently purchased by the town council, refurbished, and opened to the public, that we might wonder at the excesses and extravagances of the queen’s uncle, the former George IV.

“It’s like a fairy tale palace,” said Clara, solemnly. To a child just turned ten, it probably seemed so; and explained a lot about the mentality of the late George.

To my mind, if it came out of a fairytale, it probably belonged to someone’s wicked stepmother. It isn’t made of icing sugar, though, to fatten up children. It rains too much in England for it to have survived intact if it had been.

I suppose I should not be surprised that Papa’s caddy and equerry, a young man named Edwin Paulson, managed to catch up with us.

“Oh, Mr. Tony, Mrs. Tony, please come!” cried Paulson. “One of the golfers has been hanged on the fairway!”

 

the substarosta's casebook 5 - and the ugly

 

 

Chapter 5 And the ugly

 

“I’m not taking you into the Sign of the Three Goats!”

Floriana, currently in the guise of Florek the page, nursed a mead in some resigned resentment at her husband’s protectiveness.

True, the Sign of the Three Goats had a reputation so bad that ‘disreputable’ was left far behind, and ‘wretched hive of scum and villainy’ barely scratched the surface. However, there had been some efforts to clean up a tavern once known as ‘The Church,’ for errant husbands to claim to have been at the church to wrathful wives, and since there had been a brawl in the Three Goats, which had involved Kazimierz and Mariola, there had needed to be some structural repair as well as cosmetic upgrades... or as Dawid Starski, Floriana’s husband had put it, they had been forced to paint the new section of wall required where Kazimierz had thrown a pimp of juvenile prostitutes through the window, taking frame and part of the wall with him. The structure had never been sturdy to start off with.

That, however, was merely incidental, a minor incident in the day of a substarosta. And they were supposed to be covering the more up-market taverns in any case.

“Warszawa has kindly let us know,” Starosta Młocki had said, with biting sarcasm, “That they believe a gang of thieves has fled before the justices in the city and are headed our way. They specialise in taking by surprise those who are half-cut and robbing them, beating those who protest.”

Which was why Floriana was sitting in the Sign of the Golden Bells, one of the most prestigious inns in the city of Większy-Bydlin, which Dawid believed was above the touch of the thuggish thieves, whilst he went to shake down some of the regulars of the Three Goats, who might have information on the newcomers.

When the six thugs with heavy clubs came in, Floriana’s eyes lit up with unholy glee. So much for keeping her safe.

“Right, gi’s orl yer valuables!” said the leader.

“Throw down your weapons and put your hands behind your heads and march straight to the jailhouse,” said Floriana, standing.

“Ho! You want to make a fight of it, you snotty little szlachcic?” demanded the leader.

“You are wrong,” said Floriana. “You ask, ‘Do you want to make a fight of it, my lord, you snotty little szlachcic, sir.’ And as I am of the Raven banner, the answer is, ‘Of course,’ as there’s precious little other entertainment in this tavern, because the band can’t play anything but French ballads and the singer’s vibrato is so extreme it makes her look like a blancmange.”

She took the time in which she was speaking to edge to the end of the table so that only one thug could come at her at a time, unless they went over the table. Her back was to the wall.

“Here! What’s wrong with my vibrato?” demanded the singer, offended.

“If it stuck to your voice, nothing,” said Floriana, whose eyes were watching the brigands. “It’s just that it threatens to vibrate everything out of the top of your French gown.”

“I was enjoying that,” said another of the patrons. “I had a bet on with myself that she’d lose a teat if she went any higher. Did you need to deputise a constable, my lord?”

“If you’re volunteering, I won’t turn it down,” said Floriana. The thugs had begun to move. Her new ally picked up a chair and smashed it, taking up one of the legs, and leaping agilely to the tabletop beside her.

“Now, let’s see you villyuns try to hurt the little boy,” he said. “Name’s Dawidowicz,” he told her. “Your brother and his page saved my son’s life and got a load of stolen furs back for me; Substarosta Bystrzanowski is your brother, isn’t he?”

“Yes, that’s right,” said Floriana.

“Can’t mistake that hell-ring in the eyes, my lord, even though your hair’s lighter,” said Dawidowicz.

The leading brigand flicked a finger at two of his men to take down the furrier, whilst he himself advanced on Floriana. He paused, briefly, as the twin hiss of two sabres being drawn signalled that the boy he thought he was about to bully was not unarmed;  but how good could a slender youth be against the strength of a man?

He did not understand the whirling of the two blades, and he was still wondering briefly where to strike the youth with his club when he no longer had a club, because he no longer had a hand holding it. He had little time to ponder on this before the thoughts drained out of his head with the blood as the other sabre swept through his neck. Floriana took sabre drill seriously; and if she was not in the same class as Mariola, she was good enough to outclass any brigand with a club.

Dawidowicz had taken a few lumps but was battling away valiantly, and most important he was preventing any of the thugs from climbing on the table.

Floriana considered, and used the Cossack dancing she had learned to leap up beside him. They tacitly set their backs together and Floriana’s whirling blades quickly accounted for two more. Dawidowicz was keeping another occupied, and the final two, seeing no sense in selling their lives, started to back away.

This was when the door opened.

 The newcomer was Dawid Starski, who took in the scene in an instant.

The two thugs going the other way heard twin hissing blades behind them, and froze.

“Going somewhere, precious?” said Dawid, genially.

The thugs slumped, dropped their clubs, and put their hands behind their necks. Floriana moved in on the one fighting Dawidowicz, and he surrendered too.

“My thanks, good Dawidowicz; will you come to have your bruises tended, give deposition, and receive a day’s pay for a special constable?” said Floriana.

“Gladly,” said Dawidowicz. “Er, what about the dead ones, my lord?”

“We’ll send constables to take out the trash,” said Floriana. She turned to the barkeeper. “Sorry about the mess.”

“Think nothing of it... my lord,” he growled.

“Florek, you whelp! Can’t you stay out of trouble?” roared Dawid, beyond grateful to see his wife cheerful and unwounded.

“But, my lord! I thought you sent them from the Three Goats to entertain me,” said Floriana, opening her eyes wide.

“Whelp!” he said. And her eyes laughed at him.

 

 I've a two-part story about Adele after this

the scholar's sweetheart 22 final

 

Chapter 22

 

Cornelius and Theophilus put their heads together to write to their brother.

 

Dearest Emil,

You might, or might not, have heard from Papa on the subject of Eusebius, who has been becoming stranger and stranger. He has been looking for sins all over the place and made a right royal fool of himself. And yes, to some extent I [Corny] encouraged this... but it got to the state where he flung into the Hall, wounding poor old Larkin, and attempting to assault the marchioness, who hit him with a chair, being in a delicate condition and not unnaturally militating against ill usage of any kind. Anyway, he was unfrocked before an ecclesiastical court and confined with an alienist; but he escaped, tied up papa in his study, and set out with intent to burn the hall and all inside it. Anyway, he managed to fall down the steps of the terrace and set himself on fire – and I swear, he managed it himself, not helped by anyone, and providentially broke his own neck. I don’t suppose you will miss him any more than we do, but if Papa writes some strange, rambling message, this is what it’s about.

Your loving brothers, Corny & Theo.

 

Cornelius returned from his brother’s schoolmaster’s cottage not quite sober, but a lot happier.

“You’re too drunk for me to be your go-between tonight,” said Jasper. “Go and sleep it off.”

“It’s been a heavy day,” said Cornelius.

“Corny, should I confess to your father that I doctored the organ with paper flaps to make it vibrate, and paper plugs to make drones?” said Jasper. “That and buying all those frou-frous.”

“No,” said Cornelius, decisively. “If he thinks it was purely in Eusebius’s mind it will be easier for him. The boy Adam can’t tell Bach from barking, so he won’t tell. My father sees enough sin in the world without a few harmless pranks laid on his conscience.”

“I wondered if it had... you know, tipped your brother over the brink,” said Jasper. “Thinking him just to be a sanctimonious grundiguts.”

“Jasper, if it tipped him over, then he was already very close,” said Cornelius. “He’s a choirmaster, and in some ways the same as a schoolmaster, and something Theo pointed out to me is that it’s a pretty poor schoolmaster who can’t cope with his charges playing pranks. And my poor father also fights with seeing sin everywhere. The difference is, that my father sees what he perceives as his own sins, and assumes other people are tempted as he is; and Eusebius sees – saw – himself as virtuous, and other people beset by sin. And playing pranks is not a sin, it’s a normal expression of high spirits, especially when directed as a prank to point out unfairness.”

“What would you do if I sent you lady’s undergarments?”

“I’d summon you to my room, ascertain it was you, and make you put them on and view yourself in the mirror,” said Cornelius, calmly. “And then, I’d give them to Shuri.”

Jasper sniggered.

“I’d be mortified; that would work,” he said. “Good night, Corny. I’ll see you before lessons.”

 

oOoOo

 

Jasper had a checklist of what he required for his mother’s comfort as Cornelius’s wife. Cornelius nodded along to the list.

“It all sounds very reasonable,” he said. “I can’t afford London fashions for her, but if she’s content to have local seamstresses, that’s within my pay. And when you go to university, Theo and I are going to expand the local school to be a proper grammar school.”

Jasper nodded.

“It’s not a fortune, but it’s a respectable income. I’m sure Imogen will help he redd up any dress to be more special at need. And you will let her be free?”

“Of course,” said Cornelius. “As long as she does not take off with the children when they are very young, too young to go camping.”

“That seems fair,” said Jasper.  “She expects a public proposal on one knee.”

 

 

oOoOo

 

“Shuri Lovell, will you marry me? I have promised your go-between to fulfil all that is asked,” said Cornelius, kneeling before her, as the majority of the tribe prepared to leave the hall on the first fine day in a week.

“I will, Cornelius Reckitt; and I bequeath the chiefdom to my cousin, Woodlock, who is like a brother to me,” said Shuri.

“Then permit me to offer you this ring as a token,” said Cornelius, who had chosen an opal surrounded by diamonds. “It has the play of colours in the sky in all its moods.”

“Why... I am robbed of words. It is perfect; you have put much thought in choosing it,” said Shuri.

“Silas, lad, you will be my brother; will you live with us to be near Jasper?”

“Aye, I’d like that,” said Silas. “I run better with built up shoes, but if I can compensate for a crook leg by being a scholar, it would be good.”

 “Heh, if you’ve a wish to be a lawyer, you can learn to steal more in a day than Fowk could steal in a lifetime, and all of it legitimate,” teased  Cornelius.

 

oOoOo

 

Jasper voluntarily wore items from the female undergarb as a penance for Eusebius’s funeral because he felt he should; he discussed it with Cornelius and Evelyn, and both agreed that it would help his conscience. It was generally held that, apart from the chief mourner, Augustus Reckitt, most of those who attended did so to make sure that Eusebius was, indeed, firmly underground and out of the way. The family from the Hall attended as a matter of support for the rector and his sons; also attending were Leo and Cornelius Reckitt. Emilius was a little busy on the continent.  Woodlock Lovell came as a representative of the gypsies, again out of support for the rector. If the likes of Walter Hanes turned up hoping for a wake and free food, he was to be disappointed. There was no wake, and the remaining whiff of charred human flesh left those who carried the coffin, Cornelius, Theo, Evelyn, and Woodlock, somewhat less than interested in food. The headstone merely displayed the dates of Eusebius’s birth and death, and the legend, ‘Eusebius Reckitt, son of Rector Augustus Reckitt and his wife, Julia.’

And then everyone might try to return to some semblance of normality, and pick up the pieces of their lives, celebrating too that the monster Bonaparte was confined on the Island of Elba, and no danger to anyone else, and Cornelius rejoiced that his brother Emilius would be able to come home.

 

oOoOo

 

 

Evelyn was happy to employ the gypsy men to aid with the construction of a loggia and a room above it on the gatehouse, to give Lementina an outdoor room which kept out the weather, and which could be turned into a conservatory with relatively little effort.  Lementina had recovered, but when Cornelius asked her if she would live with him and Shuri, and teach the lore to their children, she cried in gladness.

“I was lying here, wishing I had died outright of the fire, and not have to get on the road again,” she said. “Now, I can live, and teach, and make cures for those as need them, and build up a stock for the tribe, but not have to worry that I’ll hold people up. I’m getting used to being under a roof.”

“Well, you’ll have a room with windows all round, and a space outside of that which is covered, but open,” said Cornelius. “And a fire with coal so you don’t have to get up in the night to keep feeding it.”

“You’re talking yourself into having me decide to live for a very long time,” said Lementina. “And I’m eighty now. My one regret is not drowning Fowk when he was born. He had mean eyes from the start.”

“Ah, but Mother Lementina, if you had drowned Fowk we should not have had Shuri, Silas, and Jasper,” said Cornelius. “He had his part to play.”

“Aye, and it’s the crazies who think they must play G-d and decide who lives and dies, may that unfortunate soul rest in peace,” said Lementina.

 

Larkin recovered from his broken leg, after a fashion, but had to admit that retirement was attractive.  Evelyn found him a cottage near to the ‘Dog and Duck,’ so he could argue with Walter Hanes. He also continued to pay the old soldier who had nursed him, supposedly as a temporary measure. Everyone but Larkin was aware it was permanent as he had no family.

 

The gypsies agreed to stay for the wedding, and the marquee was erected again. And it was Silas who averted a disaster in noticing a pulled peg, and discovering, and evicting, Honeysuckle the goat before she had done more than sample some egg and cress sandwiches and a rum and walnut gateau.

It was noticeable that she weaved rather as Silas took her home, and by the report of Widow Hodges, had a hangover the next day.

“At least she didn’t get into the pear-and-apple cider,” said Cornelius.

The wedding was officiated by the Reverend Augustus Reckitt, still frail, but less so, after a visit to Bath to take the waters, paid for by Imogen. Emilius, otherwise known as Major Reckitt, came home for the wedding to support his brother, but Jasper was Cornelius’s groomsman. Augustus had returned to the church, and the only independent home he had ever known, but he had a valet now, who had been the nurse who had gone to Bath with him.

 

The gypsies started striking camp to move on as the festivities wound down, and the villagers helped, many shaking hands and well-wishers. Shuri and Cornelius had already said goodbye, and were heading for their new home, hand in hand. Evelyn had already taken Lementina home when she had tired, and settled her in, with what had been saved of her own crazy patchwork quilt, which Imogen and Phebe had attached to a new foundation and added new patches. Lementina and Silas were enjoying such of the gateau that Silas had saved after having removed Honeysuckle.

“Be careful how much of that you eat; I saw Henri making it,” said Cornelius. Silas beamed at him.

Cornelius took Shuri’s hand again to go up the kitchen stairs where a small landing led to the four upstairs rooms.

“This is our room,” said Cornelius. “I listened to everything you said about decorating, and I hope there are enough windows.”

“It’s delightful, Cornelius, and you have made it very light and airy,” said Shuri. “And now we are married, you may kiss me.”

Cornelius needed no second invitation, and kissed his bride with enthusiasm. This led further, and Shuri was very happy to have a confident, loving husband who did not feel any need to show off that he was in charge, and was happy to let her lead. She still thought warmly of Evelyn, but this was what marriage was supposed to be.

 

Epilogue

 

Over the next few years, Sarah, Vashti, and Woodlock were born. Lementina lived to see all of them come into the world and officiated at their births, and finally slipped out of life gently and quietly in her sleep as a cold turned to pneumonia when she was eighty-seven. Silas showed an aptitude for numbers, and for stocks and shares, and went to university a little later than some, explainable by his damaged leg, to study law and finance as the stepson of a respectable gentleman schoolmaster.

But there are other stories there.

 

I have one short story prepped and have, once again, run out of steam. I'm sorry. in the meantime if anyone can think of a better alliterative title than this working one, please comment.