formal, or an informal one, was deferred to.
‘Oh, informal, please,’ Georgie begged. ‘Formal ones are so stiff, I think, and the younger girls would like something a little freer. Do try to persuade Mr Bowlby to incline in that direction, please.’
‘I rather think not,’ Mrs Bowlby enunciated firmly. ‘There is too much freedom among the young these days. It is never too early to learn to conform!’
‘But only think how we longed for a little freedom when we were young,’ Georgie pleaded—but in vain.
After she had left them Mrs Bowlby remarked, ‘Mrs Herron is a deal too sure of herself for so young a woman. I note that she is not affecting the tomboy today.’
Mrs Firth leaned forward to say confidentially, ‘Jepson, my maid, told me yesterday that she runs round the grounds at Pomfret Hall wearing—of all things—breeches!’
Hands were raised in shock. Miss Walton pronounced the last word on the subject. ‘One has to hope that Mr Fitzroy has not seen her in such a get-up. What kind of impression would that give him of the way we conduct ourselves in Netherton!’
A judgement which was received with universal acclamation.
Jess Fitzroy was introducing himself to Netherton on the morning of the day on which he was invited to supper at Pomfret Hall—a visit which intrigued him since it would mean meeting the young termagant on her own ground.
He drove into Netherton in his gig. He had decided not to bring his flash curricle into the country immediately, since it might give away the extent of his wealth. To be regarded as comfortable, he had decided, was his aim: an impression he certainly gave when he reached the inn yard of the White Lion and handed the reins over to a willing ostler.
‘Which is the way to the bank?’ he asked, adjusting his hat to the right angle, neither too jaunty nor too serious. He was not dressed in his London fine, but something discreet, more suited to a small country town. His boots were not dull, but neither had they been glossed with champagne.
‘To your left, sir, when you leave the yard. On the main street. You can’t miss it.’
His reward was an unostentatious tip.
Jess found the main street to be busy. He was the subject of a few curious stares, as he had been when he drove in.
The ostler had been right. The bank was unmissable. He pushed open a big oak door with a brass plate in the centre proclaiming itself to be Bowlby’s. Inside it was like every country bank he had ever visited—quite different from Coutts, where he had his account in town.
A small man dressed in decent black advanced towards the stranger. ‘Pray, what may I do for you, sir?’
Jess said briefly. ‘I am Jesmond Fitzroy of Jesmond House, Miss Jesmond’s heir. I wrote to Mr Bowlby from London, explaining that I wished to do business with him and possibly open an account here. I would like to speak to him, if you please.’ He looked towards the door which plainly opened into the bank’s parlour.
‘One moment, Mr Fitzroy. I will discover whether he is free to see you.’
Jess sat down in the chair indicated and gazed at the bad oil paintings of bygone Bowlbys on the walls. He reflected amusedly that it had been easier for him to see Mr Coutts in his London office than Mr Bowlby in his country one—but then Mr Coutts knew exactly who he was and all that Mr Bowlby knew was that he was Miss Jesmond’s nephew.
The door opened and Mr Bowlby emerged, followed by his clerk. He extended a welcoming hand.
‘Always honoured to meet the late Miss Jesmond’s nephew,’ he boomed, his fat face one smile. ‘Pray step this way, sir,’ and he flourished a hand towards the parlour where he offered Jess a seat in an armchair facing his large and imposing desk.
‘Now, sir, what may I do for you?’
Jess looked round the comfortable room before saying, ‘First of all, I should like to take charge of the deeds of Jesmond House, which I believed are lodged with you. Was there any particular reason why they were not given to the keeping of her solicitor, Mr Crane?’
‘None, sir, none. But I had been a friend of Miss Jesmond’s for many years and when she indicated that she wished me to retain them for safekeeping after she had paid off her mortgage, I did not argue with her. I shall have them delivered to you at Jesmond House tomorrow. What else may I do for you, sir?’
‘I would like to open a small working account with you, so that I have a source of income here in Netherton. Nothing large, you understand. My main account will remain at Coutts.’
Mr Bowlby rubbed his fat hands together and said in the manner of a wise man instructing a foolish one, ‘Will not that present some difficulties for you, sir, if you intend to remain in Netherton? Would it not be wiser to have your main account here, rather than at a distance? Our reputation is an excellent one.’
For some reason Jess found that he did not like Mr Bowlby. He could not have said exactly why, but years of working with Ben Wolfe had first honed his intuition and then had led him to trust it. Nothing of this showed. He poured his charm—noted among the circles in which he moved in London—over the man before him.
‘Since I have not yet made up my mind whether I intend to make Netherton my permanent home, I think it wise to retain my present financial arrangements. You are happy to have a small account on your books, I trust.’
He did not add that transferring his full account to Bowlby’s Bank would have enlightened the man before him of the true extent of his wealth—something which he preferred to remain a secret. His trust Mr Bowlby would have to earn, since Jess Fitzroy had long since learned that nothing was ever to be taken for granted in the world of business and finance. Only time would tell how far he could trust Mr Bowlby.
‘Certainly, certainly, no account too small, sir. I was but trying to assist you. Finance is a tricky business and gentlemen frequently find themselves adrift in it.’
Not surprising if their metaphors are as mixed as yours, was Jess’s inward comment while Mr Bowlby roared on, ‘And is there nothing further we can do for you?’
‘Yes, indeed,’ said Jess sweetly. ‘You may inform me of the way to Mr Crane’s office where I also have business.’
‘With pleasure, sir,’ and he walked Jess to the bank’s front door before pointing out Mr Crane’s front door as cheerfully as the ostler had done.
But Jess did not leave him a tip.
Instead, he bowed his thanks and walked the few yards down the street to Mr Crane’s office, where something of a surprise waited for him.
The surprise was not Mr Crane, who was an elderly gentleman whose manner was as quiet and pleasant as Mr Bowlby’s had been noisy and officious. His office was quiet, too. No oil paintings, Jess noticed, just a small water-colour showing a country view with sheep in the foreground and a river in the distance.
Instead, the surprise consisted of Mr Crane’s information as to the extent of his inheritance.
‘I fear that I misled you, sir. When I came to investigate Miss Jesmond’s financial position more fully I found that, in fact, her estate was less than half of what I had originally
