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over a man who cared so little about the people around him. She abandoned caution and politeness to say roundly, “Well, I’m not a young lady and if you really want to know, Johanna, I prefer people whose conversation is less frivolous and who don’t spend their time mocking other people.”
    Her tone was severe and dismissive. She had definitely decided now that Justin Serle would make the worst possible husband for Eleanor. Dear Eleanor needed someone more serious-minded, someone who would counter her impulsiveness. But not someone stuffy. That would be just as bad! Oh dear, this was all going to be so difficult!
    Beatrice wished, and not for the first time, that her Aunt Marguerite had entrusted this task to someone else.
     

Chapter 4
     
    Within a few days, Beatrice had grown more used to her cousin’s indolent habits and to the patterned behaviour of the upper classes in town. On their brief visits to London, before her aunt grew too frail to travel, she had suspected that such a life would not suit her; now, as the slow days passed and she struggled to stay awake until late at night, she grew more and more certain of it.
    Back at Satherby she had been able to keep more rational hours and had a myriad occupations to keep her busy, what with visiting the tenants, helping the sick, managing a large household for her aunt, practising her singing, talking to Eleanor or simply walking in the home park. Here in London Johanna’s house ran smoothly without the need for much attention from its languid mistress. And no one Beatrice met here ever seemed to say what they meant or to discuss anything interesting.
    In order to avoid upsetting anyone, she developed the habit of walking out with her maid early in the morning, when Johanna and her daughter were still in bed. She loved to watch the street life that teemed in London once you got away from the calm oases inhabited by the rich.
    Johanna expostulated with her in vain. “But such creatures are dirty!”
    “So would you be if you had to share a water pump with a dozen other streets!”
    Johanna couldn’t even begin to imagine that situation, so ignored it. “Well, don’t let anyone see you on these expeditions - and for heavens sake, take a footman with you for protection!”
    Beatrice didn’t actually refuse to do this, but simply ignored this instruction. A starchy footman would drive away the very people she wanted to talk to. Tilly was quite enough company, thank you.
    Unfortunately, this innocent desire to help her fellow creatures led her into trouble the week after Jennice’s arrival in town. Early one morning she was watching with amusement an old woman buying a pie from Tom and making a big fuss about which one to choose from his tray. The two of them had already had sharp words because he had refused to let the customer feel all his stock to see which pie was the warmest, and they were now vigorously debating which was the plumpest pie on offer.
    Smiling, Beatrice wished she had her sketch book, for she would have loved to try to capture the old woman’s expression and the way her whole body was absorbed in the choosing of that one pie. 
    Then Tilly screamed and shouted, “Stop thief!” and Beatrice realized with a shock that a small boy had cut the strings of her reticule and was even now darting along the street with his booty. If it hadn’t been for Tilly’s quick eye, he’d have got away unnoticed, for Beatrice had felt nothing.
    Angry at being caught like that, she started to run after him, following him round a corner and off the main street. She saw him turn another corner and increased her pace.
    Tilly, puffing and gasping, was soon left behind.
    Beatrice had spent most of her youth roaming the countryside, as she grew older, fending for herself and her mother. She reverted instinctively to the same mode of behaviour in this crisis, forgetting that it was shocking behaviour for a lady to run like that.
    Suddenly, as she turned yet another