nodded. “You know how it is. The Ashley title is five hundred years old but we haven’t a bean. The whole north tower actually collapsed last month.”
I winced. “Oh, dear. And I suppose your father found a nice girl with pots of nice money, did he? What was she—American? Railroad heiress?”
“South American with a squint and mouse-brown hair. And it’s not railroad money at all. Nitrate mining,” he told me between spoonfuls of soup.
“What is a nitrate and why does one want to mine it?”
He shrugged. “Something to do with arms. Her father made a bloody fortune in the war, which I think is quite low really.”
I smiled into my soup bowl. “Cubby, you’re one of the nicest people I’ve ever met. For you to say something is low, it must have been awfully vile.”
“Yes, well, you know how it was. I was over there in the trenches. I lost friends, more than I care to count. And to marry a girl whose father made his money that way—” He broke off, wincing. “I hadn’t the stomach for it. At least, not until you.”
I put down my spoon. “Until me?”
“When you had the courage to leave Gerald at the altar. Serves him right, the pompous prig.”
“Cubby, Gerald is your best friend and your cousin,” I reminded him. “And what I did wasn’t courageous. It was the rankest cowardice.”
“It was not,” he said stubbornly. “If you knew you had doubts, the right thing, the only thing, was to get out before it all became official. I call it good sense.”
“Good sense, bad form,” I murmured.
“Yes, well, society doesn’t know everything,” he said firmly.
I tipped my head thoughtfully. “Cubby, tell me about your new fiancée. Does society not approve?”
“It does not,” he told her. He put down his spoon and leaned forward, his eyes bright. “She’s the prettiest girl in the world. She’s kind and thoughtful, and well, I simply wouldn’t want to live if I couldn’t have her.”
“You’re quite the romantic, Cubby,” I said, smiling. “But if she’s so wonderful, why the objections to the match? Hasn’t she any money?”
“Not tuppence to rub together, I’m afraid. She’s the vicar’s daughter,” he said with a rueful face. “Mother is about to have an apoplexy, and Father’s threatened to cut me off without a shilling, but I don’t care. I love Gwen, and I’ll marry her or no one. It’s been the most terrible secret, utterly awful not to be able to talk about it, and you’ve always been so friendly. I feel somehow you understand that I mean to do this. I must do this.” Cubby’s chin had taken on a decidedly mulish cast, and I tried not to imagine the outrage of the Marchioness of Drumlanrig at having a daughter-in-law called Gwen.
“I’m sure they’ll come around,” I said, certain of no such thing. But it seemed the only polite remark to make under the circumstances, and Cubby brightened noticeably.
“But you see, Gwen is a bit uncertain of me just yet,” he went on. “She’s feeling out of sorts at how awful my family are being, and it’s made her doubt herself. If she were to find out I’d been lunching with someone as notorious as—”
He broke off, blushing again as I gave an indignant screech. “I’m not notorious! A moment ago, you said I was courageous.”
“And I meant it. But people do say things about you. I mean, what sort of girl leaves a viscount’s heir at the altar?”
“And what sort of man throws over a nitrate heiress for a village maiden?” I retorted.
But I could never stay mad at Cubby, and having at least one friend to talk to made me feel marginally less like a pariah. By the time we had tucked into large plates of apple tart with cream, we were perfectly friendly again—friendly enough that I ventured to give him an almost truthful response when he asked about my plans.
“I mean to travel,” I told him. “I’m thinking of someplace nice and sunny. Perhaps the Holy Land.”
He sat back, patting his rounded belly in satisfaction. “Rather a long way just for some sun.”
“Yes, well, I’ve always been mad about Biblical antiquities,” I said blithely. “Nineveh and Bethlehem and Sodom.” At least I hoped those were real places. Cubby blinked and I hurried on. “Anyway, now that the war’s over, I can see the region properly.”
“Ah, taking a Cook’s tour or something?”
I thought quickly. A Cook’s tour would cost the earth, and I doubted my funds would stretch to passage for me and Masterman, as well. I could have asked Reginald and he would have given the money happily, but something in me rebelled for the first time. If I asked Reginald, it meant involving Mother, who would ask endless questions and even, possibly, insist upon coming along. But if I found the means myself, I was answerable to no one. I could go as I please. I could be truly independent for once. The thought was as intoxicating as the finest champagne, and I blurted out before I could stop myself, “Actually, I mean to get a job.”
Cubby blinked. “A job? Really? Well, that’s splendid,” he said, a shade too heartily. “What sort of job?”
I shrugged. “Companion, I suppose. It’s what I’m fit for. I can answer letters and walk dogs and arrange flowers. I don’t think I should make a very good governess or nurse,” I finished with a shudder.
“No, I don’t think so,” he agreed with a kindly smile. His expression turned thoughtful. “I say, it’s the strangest coincidence, but I might know of something.”
“Really?”
“My great-uncle on Mother’s side, curious old chap. Always haring off to parts unknown. He was a great explorer in years past, but now he’s content to potter about his old haunts. He was quite ill this past winter, as a matter of fact, we were certain he was a goner. But he’s pulled through and wants to go back to the Levant. Apparently he had a roaring time of it when he was younger and wants to see it all again before he dies.”
“And he needs a companion?” My heart began to beat quickly, tightly, like a new drum.
“Not exactly. He means to write his memoirs and his handwriting is truly awful. Even worse than mine and no one has read a word I’ve written since 1912. I don’t suppose you can type?” he finished hopefully.
I smiled thinking of the secretarial course I had very nearly completed. “As a matter of fact, I can. After a fashion,” I added in a burst of honesty.
“Well, that’s just ripping,” he said with a hearty chuckle. “I do love when things work out so neatly, almost as if it were meant to be. Now, if I know Uncle Cyrus, he’s using this memoir as an excuse to have someone younger to come along on the trip. He’s very fond of young people,” he advised. “You see, Uncle Cyrus likes to tell stories, bang on about the old days. My theory is he’s told them all too many times and his valet won’t listen anymore. He wants a fresh pair of ears,” Cubby finished with a nod.
“I have fresh ears,” I told him. I was suddenly quite desperate
