which the Misses Fairfax might rent for the season. In February he wrote to them that they might move immediately into a large house in Queen Anne Street, or they might wait until March, when a smaller, better- furnished one in Mount Street would fall vacant, but—discharging that obligation as cheerfully as he had assumed it—he left the choice to the ladies. He would not be in Leicestershire in the near future, having committed himself to an inspection tour of the Sussex Iron Railway, but he had left instructions with his solicitor in London — Antonia would know his direction—to settle the question of the lease for them and to forward the bills for all their expenses to Mr Kenyon. Their loving Uncle Philip hoped to see them very soon and in good health, and oh yes—Lord Kedrington had charged him to ask Antonia if she preferred whist to piquet. Mr Kenyon supposed Antonia knew what he meant.
Antonia would dearly have liked to reply in kind to the viscount’s impertinence, but while she was grateful to him for reverting to that easy camaraderie they had enjoyed at the beginning of their acquaintance, she hesitated to initiate a correspondence with him that must at some point recall the disquieting incident on which they had parted.
She had done her best to put that out of her mind, instead conjuring up those comforting images of Charles Kenyon which had hitherto been all she required for happiness. She succeeded thus in restoring her equanimity—at least until the next mention of Kedrington’s name, which seemed to crop up far too frequently in the conversation nowadays. She slipped the last page of Mr Kenyon’s letter into her pocket and went to consult with Isabel about the rest of it.
“Oh, Antonia, we couldn’t possibly go now,” asserted that young lady. “Miss Jensen won’t finish my satin ball dress or any of the new pelisses for a fortnight, and Madame Labiche said she will have to send to London for the gros de Naples for those two bonnets, and ... oh, there must be a dozen things to do still!”
Antonia was satisfied to have the matter so easily resolved—although she remarked that it seemed a trifle odd that they must send to London to trim the bonnets they were to wear there. Isabel smiled perfunctorily at this attempt at levity and went away to attend to more serious business.
Antonia was amused by her niece’s attitude of mingled apprehension and determination, and by the feverish activity in which she attempted to overcome the former with a great deal of the latter. She suspected that Isabel was in as much of a mental quandary as she was herself, but she could not question her niece about it without also revealing her own dilemma, and that she was not yet prepared to do. Instead, she concen trated on following Isabel’s orders and marvelling at her energy.
She did not in fact know Mr Quigley’s direction but, acting on Isabel’s sensible suggestion, she speedily obtained it from Pomfret and wrote to the solicitor’s offices in the Temple to say that they would take the house in Mount Street. Belding, two footmen, and three housemaids were duly despatched thither a few weeks later, together with Mrs Driscoll, who at the last moment won out over Antonia’s notion of hiring a modish French chef for the season by producing an unexpectedly elegant dinner, which included lobster in a sauce whose ingredients Mrs Driscoll triumphantly refused to divulge, and a meringue of so delicate a texture that Isabel declared that no London chef could equal it.
But not until the first week of April was all in order, and even on the very day of their departure, it was only Isabel’s abigail, Esme—newly promoted from housemaid—who stood ready in the yard of The George in Melton Mowbray, proud of both her new post and her new bonnet and eager to be off in the handsome hired chaise which awaited them. Everyone else seemed to find any number of excuses sufficient to detain them.
They had been half an
Antonia would dearly have liked to reply in kind to the viscount’s impertinence, but while she was grateful to him for reverting to that easy camaraderie they had enjoyed at the beginning of their acquaintance, she hesitated to initiate a correspondence with him that must at some point recall the disquieting incident on which they had parted.
She had done her best to put that out of her mind, instead conjuring up those comforting images of Charles Kenyon which had hitherto been all she required for happiness. She succeeded thus in restoring her equanimity—at least until the next mention of Kedrington’s name, which seemed to crop up far too frequently in the conversation nowadays. She slipped the last page of Mr Kenyon’s letter into her pocket and went to consult with Isabel about the rest of it.
“Oh, Antonia, we couldn’t possibly go now,” asserted that young lady. “Miss Jensen won’t finish my satin ball dress or any of the new pelisses for a fortnight, and Madame Labiche said she will have to send to London for the gros de Naples for those two bonnets, and ... oh, there must be a dozen things to do still!”
Antonia was satisfied to have the matter so easily resolved—although she remarked that it seemed a trifle odd that they must send to London to trim the bonnets they were to wear there. Isabel smiled perfunctorily at this attempt at levity and went away to attend to more serious business.
Antonia was amused by her niece’s attitude of mingled apprehension and determination, and by the feverish activity in which she attempted to overcome the former with a great deal of the latter. She suspected that Isabel was in as much of a mental quandary as she was herself, but she could not question her niece about it without also revealing her own dilemma, and that she was not yet prepared to do. Instead, she concen trated on following Isabel’s orders and marvelling at her energy.
She did not in fact know Mr Quigley’s direction but, acting on Isabel’s sensible suggestion, she speedily obtained it from Pomfret and wrote to the solicitor’s offices in the Temple to say that they would take the house in Mount Street. Belding, two footmen, and three housemaids were duly despatched thither a few weeks later, together with Mrs Driscoll, who at the last moment won out over Antonia’s notion of hiring a modish French chef for the season by producing an unexpectedly elegant dinner, which included lobster in a sauce whose ingredients Mrs Driscoll triumphantly refused to divulge, and a meringue of so delicate a texture that Isabel declared that no London chef could equal it.
But not until the first week of April was all in order, and even on the very day of their departure, it was only Isabel’s abigail, Esme—newly promoted from housemaid—who stood ready in the yard of The George in Melton Mowbray, proud of both her new post and her new bonnet and eager to be off in the handsome hired chaise which awaited them. Everyone else seemed to find any number of excuses sufficient to detain them.
They had been half an
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