donât think itâs Mr Crabbe. The only other gentleman who comes to see us regularly is poor Mr Pardew.â
âExactly,â said Julia. âSo you
have
noticed something!â
âAs for his liking her,â said Catherine airily, âI daresay he likes all of us. I shall never marry, shall you? But it would be fun to collect a few proposals. I havenât had one yetâisnât it a shame? I shall write them all down in my diary and cry over them when Iâm 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? Thereâs 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. Wouldnât that be a triumph?â Before Julia could think of a suitable answer, Sarah came into the room. âHullo, Sally, youâre just in time. Iâm planning to make Jack Claybrook propose to me. Julia thinks itâs a capital idea. I do hope you agree?â
âCertainly,â said Sarah. âWill you accept him?â
âOh no. Will must have a turn too. I shanât accept him either.â
Divided between laughter and impatience, âI must say,â said Julia, âIâve never listened to a more ridiculous conversation.â
âLet the dear child prattle while she can,â said Sarah. âWhen she comes to my age, sheâll sober down. Wonât you, Kitty?â
Catherine grinned. âYes, granny.â She put out her tongue.
âDonât ever let Mama see you do that,â Julia begged. âSheâd think it most unladylike. Oughtnât you to be busy with your needles, you two? Itâs only four weeks to the Midsummer Ball.â
âAnd why not you, Julia?â Sarah asked.
âIâm not sure I shall go. It depends on whether Mama can spare me.â
âWeâll make her go too,â said Catherine. âAnd Papa, why not? I think I shall wear green satin,â 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. âPapa will buy it for me; Miss Jenkinson will cut it out, sheâs so clever; and I shall help her with the sewing. What will you go in, Sarah?â
âPink, 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 oneâs own face a holiday.â
âDonât you like your face?â asked Catherine. âI do.â
âI donât mind it,â said Sarah. âI donât mind it at all. Itâs quite a useful face for eating and talking with.â
âI wonder if Mr Pardew will go to the ball?â said Julia, in what she imagined was a casual tone. âAnd if he does, who heâll dance with?â
âWhy not ask him?â Sarah suggested. âIâm sure heâd be flattered by your interest.â
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