I’m not sickening for anything—at least, I don’t think I am. It’s just that this afternoon we met Miss Jesmond’s heir when we were playing cricket in her paddock, and I must confess that I think that you were right to advise us not to take advantage of him by trespassing on his grounds.’
Caro sat up sharply, her face a picture. ‘And you said nothing of this until now! Really, Georgina, it’s most inconsiderate of you. So little happens in Netherton, and when it does you invariably keep it to yourself.’
‘Don’t do it too brown, Caro,’ retorted Georgie, a little stung. ‘It’s not three hours since I met him, and until now we’ve not had an opportunity for a private conversation.’
Since she had no answer to make to that Caro said, somewhat stiffly, ‘I take it that he was the gentleman who came to the paddock this afternoon about whom Gus and Annie were prattling.’
‘Indeed. His name is Jesmond Fitzroy. He is Miss Jesmond’s great-nephew.’ It was all Georgie could bring herself to say of him. It was not enough for Caro.
‘But what is he like? How old is he? He is a gentleman, I take it?’
Georgie thought of the perfectly turned-out Mr Jesmond Fitzroy in his exquisite town clothes.
‘Very much a gentleman.’
Georgie’s reply was short, but it gave her away a little. Perhaps it was its very brevity that was betraying.
Caro said sharply, ‘And that is all? Surely you could tell his age. Was he old or young?’
‘In his thirties.’ Georgie was still brief. ‘He is extremely handsome. Very fair. Tall.’
‘Did he say anything about a wife?’ There was an unwonted eagerness in Caro’s voice which surprised Georgie a little.
‘Our conversation was not a long one, and I did not quiz him about his personal particulars. He was on his own. He did say that we might continue to play cricket in the paddock but, bearing in mind your reservations about that, I am not sure that we ought to accept his invitation.’
‘Nonsense. Of course we must accept such a kindness. A handsome young man—possibly without a wife—will be a great addition to Netherton. I wonder what he is worth. We must be sure to invite him to supper when he is settled in. You must call on him formally.’
And then, a trifle anxiously, ‘Did he notice your breeches? I told you not to wear them.’
Georgie said dryly, ‘He could scarcely not notice them. And, if I do pay him a formal call, I shall be sure to wear skirts.’
‘If? Why if? Of course you will oblige me by calling on him. You have nothing better to do! I grow intolerably bored these days and you would please me greatly by arranging matters so that I may enjoy a little entertainment. I would prefer that we extended the hand of friendship to him before Mrs Bowlby does. She is always to the fore these days. One would not think that I was Mrs John Pomfret of Pomfret Hall!’
Georgie nobly refrained from pointing out that if Caro were to exert herself a little and not perpetually live on her sofa it would be more difficult for Mrs Bowlby to claim to be the grande dame of Netherton, and that it was she, Georgie, who did most of the work which provided Caro with some sort of social life. That she did so willingly was for the sake of Gus and Annie, who would otherwise have been neglected, and in memory of a brother who had been unfailingly kind to her.
‘Very well,’ she said, squirming inwardly at the thought of calling on Mr Jesmond Fitzroy, with or without skirts. ‘On the other hand, if you wish to rival Mrs Bowlby, why do you not make the effort and call on him yourself? After all, he does live virtually next door.’
Caro gave a long-suffering sigh. ‘You know quite well why I go out so little, Georgie. The effort is too much for me. Dr Meadows says it is essential that I take things easily and that does not include running round Netherton extending supper invitations to all and sundry. And you know that you like being busy.’
But not with Mr Jesmond Fitzroy, was Georgie’s dismal response. Oh, dear, who would have thought that Caro would take such an interest in a new neighbour? And then something else struck her: what a slowcoach I must be! John has been dead these three years, she is scarce thirty, and there are few men in this part of Nottinghamshire whom Caro would think fit to marry Mrs John Pomfret.
Hence retiring to the sofa.
But the arrival of a handsome man, who is only a little older than she is, and who must be presumed to have some sort of fortune, is obviously considered by her to be quite a different proposition from the local squires and the odd unmarried poor parson who frequent these parts!
For some odd reason, this new thought distressed Georgie a little. Odd, because her memories of Mr Jesmond Fitzroy were bitter ones. After all, she told herself firmly, he and Caro would make a good pair, united in disapproving soundly of me if in nothing else!
Caro was still talking—it was time Georgie paid some attention to her. ‘So that’s settled,’ she was saying. ‘You will pay him a courtesy visit tomorrow morning before the rest of Netherton stands in line at his doorstep to try to monopolise him. Poor John was the Squire here before he died, even if Banker Bowlby does seem to think he has inherited a position which Gus will fill when he comes of age.’
She sank back against the cushions. ‘You may also invite Mr Fitzroy—and his wife, if he has one—to supper tomorrow evening. It is possible that he has had a long and hard journey and might not wish to visit anyone tonight.’
The last thing Georgie wished to do was to have another lengthy tête-à-tête with her recent tormentor. While not directly contradicting Caro—which would only have resulted in starting a lengthy and complaining argument—she privately decided to send one of the footmen around in the morning with a note asking him to supper on Friday evening, two days hence, which would give him time to find his bearings.
On second thoughts, she decided that, by the look of him, Mr Jesmond Fitzroy would never need time to find his bearings. By his looks and manner he appeared eminently capable of landing on his feet at whatever spot he chose to arrive—whether it be Netherton or elsewhere.
Netherton, being somewhat more than a village, had decided to call itself a town, albeit a small one. It had numerous good shops, two posting inns, a bank, and, although it could not claim to be a genuine spa, possessed a set of impressive Assembly Rooms where one might drink pure, and supposedly health-giving, water brought from a nearby spring which had been dedicated to Saint Anne. Balls were held there and, on two afternoons a week, tea and cakes were served in the Grand Hall to the sound of a string quartet.
The sum of which caused its inhabitants to remark with great satisfaction, ‘We may not call ourselves a spa, but we have all the advantages of one without the disadvantages of large numbers of idle—and sometimes disreputable—visitors.’
Besides Pomfret Hall and Jesmond House, there were also a large number of respectable country houses around the town whose gentry owners were responsible for a lively social life. One of Netherton’s wits had recently remarked that ‘in imitation of the north of Nottinghamshire, nicknamed the Dukeries by virtue of the large number of Dukes’ mansions there, this southern part of the county ought to be nicknamed the Gentries!’
Because of the lack of visitors from the outside world, the news that Miss Jesmond’s heir had finally arrived at Jesmond House was the cause of a good deal
