The Daughters of Mrs Peacock

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Authors: Gerald Bullet
don’t think it’s Mr Crabbe. The only other gentleman who comes to see us regularly is poor Mr Pardew.’
    â€˜Exactly,’ said Julia. ‘So you
have
noticed something!’
    â€˜As for his liking her,’ said Catherine airily, ‘I daresay he likes all of us. I shall never marry, shall you? But it would be fun to collect a few proposals. I haven’t had one yet—isn’t it a shame? I shall write them all down in my diary and cry over them when I’m an old woman, like poor dear Miss Fotheringay in
Tried in the Fire, or The Gold and the Dross.
But of course that was different, because she was in love with fascinating Guy Chevenix, who jilted her and broke her heart. She had dozens of offers after that, but always said No, and promised to be a sister to them, because she never forgot Guy, he was the one love of her life. Where shall I begin, Julia? There’s not much time left. Do you think the Claybrook boys would do? Not very exciting, but one has to start somewhere, and I think I could bring them to the point if I set my mind to it. First Jack, then Will. With any luck I might get them quarrelling about me. A duel orsomething. Wouldn’t that be a triumph?’ Before Julia could think of a suitable answer, Sarah came into the room. ‘Hullo, Sally, you’re just in time. I’m planning to make Jack Claybrook propose to me. Julia thinks it’s a capital idea. I do hope you agree?’
    â€˜Certainly,’ said Sarah. ‘Will you accept him?’
    â€˜Oh no. Will must have a turn too. I shan’t accept him either.’
    Divided between laughter and impatience, ‘I must say,’ said Julia, ‘I’ve never listened to a more ridiculous conversation.’
    â€˜Let the dear child prattle while she can,’ said Sarah. ‘When she comes to my age, she’ll sober down. Won’t you, Kitty?’
    Catherine grinned. ‘Yes, granny.’ She put out her tongue.
    â€˜Don’t ever let Mama see you do that,’ Julia begged. ‘She’d think it most unladylike. Oughtn’t you to be busy with your needles, you two? It’s only four weeks to the Midsummer Ball.’
    â€˜And why not you, Julia?’ Sarah asked.
    â€˜I’m not sure I shall go. It depends on whether Mama can spare me.’
    â€˜We’ll make her go too,’ said Catherine. ‘And Papa, why not? I think I shall wear green satin,’ she went on, looking forward as much to the bustle of preparation, the measuring, the pinning-up, even the fine stitching, as to the dance itself. ‘Papa will buy it for me; Miss Jenkinson will cut it out, she’s so clever; and I shall help her with the sewing. What will you go in, Sarah?’
    â€˜Pink, I expect, to match my maiden blushes. Ormustard yellow, to match my freckles. I wish it were going to be a masked ball. It would be so nice not knowing anyone, and having to guess. Besides, it would give one’s own face a holiday.’
    â€˜Don’t you like your face?’ asked Catherine. ‘I do.’
    â€˜I don’t mind it,’ said Sarah. ‘I don’t mind it at all. It’s quite a useful face for eating and talking with.’
    â€˜I wonder if Mr Pardew will go to the ball?’ said Julia, in what she imagined was a casual tone. ‘And if he does, who he’ll dance with?’
    â€˜Why not ask him?’ Sarah suggested. ‘I’m sure he’d be flattered by your interest.’
    Colonel Beckoning of Manor Park was a legendary figure, regarded by the village with admiring awe but seldom seen in the flesh. With his young second wife, four children, an aged aunt, and numerous servants, he lived two miles away, in a wnite-stone eighteenth-century house of many windows, surrounded by a hundred acres of undulating parkland. Whether or not he was in law as well as in fact the lord of that domain, or merely the heir and deputy of his aunt, Lady

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