quite inadvertently.
Theirs had always been a strange friendship. In the past she had looked up to him along with all the other children, though never with the same awe. And in spite of the ten years’ difference in age between them he had always talked to her more freely than to the others. Perhaps it was because she had been the outsider, the cuckoo in the nest. Perhaps it had started because he had been sorry for her. But for whatever reason, Hugo had always confided in her, used her as a sounding board for his views. She sighed, then said, ‘What will happen to Hester, do you suppose?’
‘I’m sure I haven’t the slightest idea. She can be extremely pig-headed. But on the other hand Dungarran can be very determined. We shall no doubt see eventually, but meanwhile I hardly like to watch them both making such fools of themselves.’
It was as well that Lady Elizabeth did not observe the walking party. Autolycus, refreshed by his nap and encouraged by the astonished admiration of Lowell and Henrietta, was in tearing spirits. But Hugo had only to snap his fingers for the dog to come to him. And on the one occasion when Hugo was forced to address him severely, Autolycus grovelled in piteous abasement.
The twins, who had till now been slightly nervous of such a large dog, laughed delightedly and bent over to comfort him.
‘He’s lovely, Deborah!’
‘He’s so sweet!’
‘He’s a confidence trickster!’ said Hugo in disgust. ‘Look at him! One minute after chasing one of my pheasants with evil intent, he’s doing his best to look as if he’d never harm a fly in his life.’ He was right. Autolycus was now standing between the twins, gazing from one to the other with gentle submission. It was impossible not to admire the picture they presented—Edwina and Frederica in their delicate muslins and shady hats, Autolycus standing waist high between them, gently waving his fearsome tail. A Beast and not one, but two Beauties.
Hugo regarded his cousins with a connoisseur’s eye. They had grown up during his years in London, and he was of the opinion that they were now the prettiest of all the Perceval girls. Robina, the eldest Vicarage daughter, and Henrietta, the youngest, were dark like their mother, but the twins were true Percevals, tall, blue-eyed blondes with rose-petal skins and regular features, gentle in manner and graceful in movement. Lady Elizabeth was a woman of strong principles, and all four of her daughters had been reared with a sound knowledge of Christian duty, and a clear sense of proper behaviour. Robina had just come through a very successful Season and was now well on the way to becoming the wife of one of society’s most distinguished aristocrats. Henrietta, still only seventeen, seemed to be developing a penchant for his brother Lowell. But Frederica and Edwina were, as far as he knew, still unattached. They were now nineteen—time to be thinking of marriage. Either one of them would make some man an excellent wife…
Deborah noticed Hugo’s admiring appraisal of his cousins, and her heart gave a little lurch, then sank. She had always known that he would one day find the sort of girl he admired and marry her. And now that his thirtieth birthday was so close, he was bound to be looking more energetically for a wife. Either of her cousins would fulfil Hugo’s requirements to perfection. Edwina was livelier than Frederica, but they were both gentle, affectionate, biddable girls. Neither of them would ever argue or create a scene—scenes distressed them. With the right husband they would lead tranquil, loving lives, dispensing their own brand of affection and encouragement to the world around them. But she could not believe that Hugo would be the right husband for either of them. He would be kind, there was no question of that, but he would take it for granted that his wife would acquiesce in all his wishes. Neither of the twins, already so much in awe of him, would ever argue with him. Hugo would become a benevolent despot, and his wife’s personality would be stifled. The twins deserved better. And such a marriage would do Hugo no good either.
She gave an impatient sigh. If Hugo did set his heart on one of them, what could she do to prevent it? What influence could Deborah Staunton have—a pale, dark-haired little dab of a thing, dependent on her aunt for a roof over her head, a scatterbrain, frequently guilty of acting before she thought—in short, the opposite of everything Hugo admired in a woman… It was sometimes all she could do to keep him on friendly terms with her! If only she didn’t have this unfortunate propensity for getting into trouble!
When they arrived at the Vicarage they found the gig with Deborah’s possessions waiting for them in the courtyard. Nanny Humble had already gone into the house.
Hugo watched as the servants carried in a couple of old valises, one or two parcels tied with string, some boxes of books and music—all that was left of Deborah Staunton’s family home. It brought home to him how bereft she was, how slender her resources. One had to admire her courage, her gaiety, in the face of what must be a difficult future.
‘Stop! Oh, please handle that more carefully! Give it to me—I’ll carry it!’
Deborah’s urgent cry roused Hugo’s curiosity. What was she so concerned about? He saw that she now had a rosewood box in her arms, about eighteen inches by twelve and six or seven inches deep. She hugged it close, though it was clearly awkward to carry.
‘Let me,’ he said, taking the box from her. He could now see that the top was beautifully worked marquetry of variously coloured woods surrounding a small silver oval with ‘Frances’ written on it. Deborah’s eyes followed the box anxiously as he carried it in for her.
‘I shan’t drop it, nor shall I run away with it,’ he said with amusement. ‘Where shall I put it down?’
‘It will go in my room. Thank you, Hugo—you could put it there until I take it upstairs.’
‘Nonsense, I shall carry it for you. What is it? It looks like a writing-box. Was it your mother’s?’
‘Yes. It’s almost the only possession of hers that I’ve managed to keep. But I refused to let it go…’
‘Why should you?’
She looked at him sombrely. ‘You don’t understand.’
They were interrupted by Lady Elizabeth. ‘What on earth are you doing on the stairs, Hugo? Surely the servants can carry Deborah’s things to her room? What have you there? Oh!’ There was unusual delight in Lady Elizabeth’s face. ‘It’s Frances’s writing-box! I have one just the same! Come and see!’ She took them into her little parlour at the back. On a table to one side of the window was a twin of the box in Hugo’s arms. It had the same marquetry top, but this one had ‘Elizabeth’ on the silver name plate. ‘My father had them made for us. He presented them to us as soon as we were able to write a full page of perfect copybook writing.’ She smiled fondly. ‘Frances had a hard time getting hers. She was always too hasty, and there was usually a blot before she had finished. But she managed in the end. What do you keep in it, Deborah? I keep recipes in mine!’
‘I… I have some letters. Letters from my mother, and correspondence between my mother and my…my father.’
The pleasure faded from Lady Elizabeth’s face. ‘I see. Of course. Well, give it to one of the servants to take upstairs.’
‘I have it now, Aunt Elizabeth. I’ll take it,’ said Hugo. ‘Is Deborah using her old room?’
‘Of course. You’ll find Mrs Humble up there. Come down straight away again, Hugo. You’re no longer children, and it isn’t fitting for you to be in Deborah’s room.’
Hugo burst out laughing. ‘Aunt Elizabeth! Set your mind at rest. Deborah would never be in the slightest danger
