of his money, and all his aunt’s, to restore the house to its former glory, and fill it with the servants who would keep up its splendour. It was perhaps appropriate that at this point in his musings, Twells, his aunt’s aged butler-cum-footman, should walk deferentially in and murmur, ‘The mistress always used to ask for the tea board at this hour of the afternoon, sir. Would you care to follow her custom?’
He was about to say ‘No’ when he had a sudden brief memory of a much-younger great-aunt sitting at the small table beside the hearth serving tea to him on many of the long, golden, summer afternoons of his childhood, a younger Twells hovering beside her. That, together with the understanding that the old man found his presence bewildering and disturbing—although one of his first acts on arriving had been to tell his aunt’s remaining few servants that he had no intention of dismissing any of them—had him changing his mind.
‘Very thoughtful of you, Twells. Yes, indeed, and afterwards I’ll take a walk into the paddock beyond the Park. The servants used to play cricket there in their time off, I believe.’
The old man’s face filled with pleasure. ‘Fancy you remembering that, sir! You were naught but a young shaver when you last visited—and I was a deal spryer then than I am now. I’ll see that the tea board comes along instanter.’
He was as good as his word and departed, muttering, ‘Mrs Hammond will be that pleased.’
Once he had gone Jess half regretted his hasty decision to take a walk. He was still dressed for the town with fashionable trousers strapped inside light shoes, and a tight, elaborate cravat which he had tied himself. He sometimes wondered—frivolously—whether his valet Mason’s desertion of him, in order to take over his father’s inn in Devon, had been the real reason for his own sudden abandonment of London and his old life. In the country he would be able to dress more carelessly than in town where a man was judged by his clothing and deportment.
He drank his tea and ate the Sally Lunns which arrived with it. Astonishingly, Twells—or, more likely, Mrs. Hammond—had remembered his childhood love of them. Altogether it was an odd thing for Jess Fitzroy to be doing in the middle of a mild May afternoon.
Back in London he would either have been at his desk or engaged on some delicate—or indelicate—errand for Ben Wolfe. Now the day was his, but he scarcely knew what to do with it. He walked slowly through the glass doors, crossed the terrace, and strolled down a slight incline, passing by the neglected flower-beds which once had been so trim. Finally he came to a wooden gate, badly in need of rehanging, which he remembered led towards the paddock. On opening it he heard voices: high voices, children’s voices, and a cry of ‘Well caught’ came ringing through the mild summer air.
Jess grinned to himself. He had trespassers; village children, probably, who were using the paddock because no one else did. There used to be an elderly donkey grazing there, he remembered, who had most likely brayed and galloped off into the Shades long ago to eat grass in heaven instead of in Jesmond Park. There was a small stand of trees to pass through before he finally reached the spot where the trespassers were enjoying themselves.
For all the happy noise they were making, there were only three of them. A boy and a girl who looked to be about ten years old and, by their casual dress, were a tenant farmer’s children, and a russet-haired youth, similarly attired, who was bowling at the girl. They were playing single-wicket with a crude cricket bat. They were so intent on their game that they did not see him, until the girl, skying a ball, was caught by the boy.
Jess clapped his hands together and exclaimed, ‘Well bowled! May I have a go now?’
All three of them turned to look at him. The youth said in a clear, pleasant voice, ‘You must be the new owner of Jesmond House. We really ought to apologise for playing here—but it’s the only convenient piece of turf near to home. I suppose you’ll want us to leave.’
He was a handsome enough lad with a cheeky face, who held himself well for all his rough dress. The boy said reproachfully, ‘Oh, come on, Georgie, he said that he wanted a go. Give him your bat, Annie—unless you wish to bowl, sir.’
Another educated rustic. Jess said, stretching out a hand, ‘I was never much use as a bowler, but with the bat—that was different.’
Annie handed him the bat, saying confidentially, ‘Don’t judge Georgie’s bowling by what I was receiving—that’s all,’ she added, for Gus was putting his hand over his mouth to indicate that she was not to say too much.
So Georgie was a bit of a demon bowler, was he? And here he stood, scarcely dressed for a real game in his tight trousers and his fashionable cravat, which held his head stiff and high as it was intended to. On the other hand, Georgie was slight—although sometimes slight men were the most cunning and successful bowlers of all.
On yet another impulse—he was having a lot of them these days—Jess ripped off his cravat, tossed it aside and undid the top button of his shirt before taking guard.
The lad’s run up was short and the trundling ball was artfully pitched, spinning away from him; nevertheless, he hit it hard and high, but not too much so, because of the youth of the players. Gus gave a squeal of excitement, Annie put an awed finger in her mouth to watch the ball’s flight while Georgie ran towards where it was falling—only to miss it by inches when it hit the ground and ran into the scrub which bordered the paddock. The lad ran after it, his coat flying open to reveal his loose shirt which had fallen out of his breeches.
It also revealed something else which brought up Jess a little short, although he had half-suspected it. Georgie was plainly no lad, but a girl dressed in her brother’s clothes, and when she scrambled enthusiastically into the bushes to kneel down to rescue the ball from where it was hiding, it was quite plain that Miss Georgie was a veritable tomboy—a romp, no less.
A judgement which was borne out when she threw the ball, overarm, straight and accurately at Gus, shouting, ‘Catch, Gus—and now it’s your turn to bowl.’
Gus caught it, moaning reproachfully, ‘Oh, I say, Georgie, he’s a regular Corinthian, I shan’t stand a chance against him.’
Jess raised his bat in salute—amused that Gus should describe him with a word used of fashionable idlers who never did a hand’s turn. His camouflage—something which he had sometimes adopted in London when on one of Ben Wolfe’s missions—was obviously working well.
He was rewarded with a belligerent glare and a slow trundler from Gus which he treated with more respect than it deserved as he did the second and third he received. But he let fly at Gus’s fourth, only to be caught by the rampant lass, Georgie—or more accurately, perhaps, Georgina.
She smiled triumphantly at him before Gus exclaimed, ‘Oh, that was a gift, that was. He meant you to catch it, Georgie. He really knows how to play.’
Georgie’s triumph disappeared immediately. She said reproachfully to Jess as she held the ball high, ‘Was it, sir? Did you intend to be caught out?’
Before he could answer, she continued, her tone quite changed. ‘Oh, it’s very wrong of me to question you so rudely. You are most plainly the owner of this land, Miss Jesmond’s heir, for who else would be strolling in her grounds dressed like a refugee from Piccadilly? And we are equally plainly trespassers. You have every right to offer me a dolly drop and, now I think of it, you were almost certainly being kind to Gus to let him take your wicket. Allow me to apologise to you at once.’
Jess, who had handed his bat to Annie, smiled at Miss Georgie’s impulsive speech.
‘Not
