Miss Jesmond's Heir. Paula Marshall
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Otherwise we should all still be in the dark about our new neighbour!’
‘Has Mrs Pomfret invited anyone other than Mr Fitzroy to supper?’ asked Miss Walton, looking around her. ‘I have heard nothing—has anyone else?’
No one confessed to having been invited. Mrs Bowlby, giving a ladylike sniff, said, ‘You may be sure that she will monopolise him if she can. I will not be at all surprised if he is her only guest.’
Mrs Bowlby plainly felt that her desire to be the first lady of Netherton—spurred on by Caro Pomfret’s retirement from public life—was under threat if Caro decided to leave her sofa and return to it.
She was just about to say something even more cutting than usual about the Pomfrets when the butler opened the door and announced ‘Mrs Charles Herron,’ and Georgie walked in, looking charming in a leaf-green walking dress which showed off her russet hair and green eyes to advantage.
So much so that, looking at her ladylike self in her mirror, she had felt so composed and comme il faut that she had a sudden wish to call on Mr Jesmond Fitzroy and dazzle him in her character of Professor Charles Herron’s wife, to demonstrate how mistaken he had been to dismiss her as a hoyden in breeches.
She had, on the other hand, not the slightest desire to visit Mrs Bowlby, whom she disliked intensely, but, having defied Caro’s wishes over meeting Mr Fitzroy again and inviting him to supper, felt that she was compelled to oblige her over Mrs Bowlby.
‘Try to find out,’ Caro had said eagerly, before she set out, ‘whether there is any useful gossip about our new neighbour to be gleaned. Mrs Bowlby’s cook is Miss Jesmond’s cook’s sister, you know.’
Georgie didn’t know, and was sadly amused by the vacuous tittle-tattle which formed the staple of provincial life. Her marriage to a gentleman-scholar who had been a pillar of academia at Oxford University had introduced her to a far different society. It had necessitated making herself over into a demure and outwardly conventional wife, but she had considered that a fair exchange for her entry into the world of ideas in which he had reigned supreme.
Her return to Netherton had shown her its emptiness—but she could not say that to Caro, nor that her reversion to her previous lively ways was a silent rebellion against Netherton’s dullness. Nevertheless, to please Caro, she smiled at Mrs Bowlby, pretending that the greatest desire of her life was to sit in her drawing room, to drink weak tea and to engage in prattle about all those neighbours who were not present.
Mrs Bowlby was not slow to attack. ‘I understand that Mrs Pomfret has already asked our new neighbour to supper. May I ask if you have met him, Mrs Herron?’
After a night’s rest and a private determination that she was making a cake of herself over Mr Jesmond Fitzroy, for whose opinion she did not give a damn—to use a phrase which her brother John had been fond of—Georgie found it easy to answer the Gorgon, the name with which she had privately dubbed Mrs Bowlby.
‘Oh, indeed. By pure chance, I assure you. I was walking with the children in the paddock between the Hall and Jesmond House when we came upon him.’
She paused, surveying the expectant faces around her who were finding her narrative much more exciting than the tale of what one cook had said to another.
‘And what did you make of him?’ burst from Miss Walton, who had the reputation of being both downright and forthright and tried to live up to it.
‘I thought that he appeared most gentlemanly and agreeable. He was dressed in the London fashion,’ said Georgie with a smile, as though she and Jess had been exchanging civilised pleasantries on the previous afternoon instead of engaging in a slanging match.
‘We hear that he is young—in his thirties,’ stated Mrs Bowlby. ‘Did he mention anything about having a wife or a family?’
‘Oh, our conversation was brief and we never touched upon personal matters. Neither of us thought it the time or the place. We shall shortly know everything about him, shall we not? Until then we must possess ourselves in patience.’
The smile she offered the assembled company this time was that of Mrs Charles Herron of Church Norwood at her most cool and commanding and brooked of no contradiction. It killed further conversation about Jess Fitzroy dead, and the ladies were reduced to gossiping about the next Assembly Ball, due to take place in a fortnight. Since Mrs Bowlby’s husband was the chairman of the committee which ran the Rooms, her opinion on whether the Ball was to be a 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