The Shocking Miss Anstey by Robert Neill

Barford nodded slowly, as if appraising this. ‘From what we’ve heard--Charles was like that?’
    ‘That’s St. Hollith.’ Wickham spoke quickly to Grant, and then turned back again. ‘Yes. Though I’m not quite sure he qualified as a good fellow, as you’ve called it.’
    ‘We can’t be sure. And de mortuis is still a decent tag.’
    ‘I’m aware of it, sir. I’m merely saying we should keep this quiet in front of Mary.’
    ‘By all means.’ Again Barford nodded, and then he looked at Grant. ‘In general--and Mary apart--it’s well to be careful with the ladies.’
    ‘They’re unpredictable?’ said Wickham.
    ‘Not entirely. I was about to observe that a lady who is tolerant is sometimes looking for what will excuse herself. I don’t mean Mary.’
    ‘No, sir.’
    ‘She said, by the way, that she’s expecting you for supper. She declared roundly that you’re to be with her by eight o’clock.’
    ‘The devil she did! Can’t we have any port?’ It was half past seven when they took leave at last of their host, who let them out himself through the tall French windows of his library. Then, in the last of the September dusk, they walked together across the park, where the cedars were black above the grass and the lake was without a ripple. They went quietly, their footsteps lost in the turf. An owl hooted, and there was not another sound till they came to the high brick wall and a wicket gate. They passed through, and before them was a church, grey and ghostly now, and beyond it a pool and a village green, wide and level. Lights showed in houses, and Wickham found his voice again.
    ‘I did say we were the poor relations. We don’t live at the Manor. This is it.’
    It was a house of comfortable size, set back behind a garden, and Grant paused for a moment by the gate, while he tried to estimate it. But it was sunk in darkness now, and all he could see was the simple shape of it, the cornice and dormers, the tall pillared door and the symmetry of the windows. Wisps of smoke rose from the chimneys, lifting lazily against the sky, and something seemed to welcome him.
    ‘Old?’ he asked quietly.
    ‘Oh no. A century, perhaps. Queen Anne stuff, I believe.’
    Wickham pushed back the gate, and as he strode up the path the door swung suddenly open, and a woman was under its fine old lintel, standing in a pool of light to receive him. She seemed young, perhaps younger than he, dressed for simplicity in a green spotted silk. She was not even in the latest mode. She had none of the extravagance of gores and flounces that were to be seen in Town, though she was certainly not rustic. The look of quality was obvious, and for a moment Grant hung back, standing by the gate in the shielding dark, and seeing the quick warm smile that came to her as she held out her arms to her brother. She kissed him quickly, and then for an instant they were eye to eye, standing together in obvious pleasure. They were different, yet alike; two of a kind; and the perception of it gave Grant the clue. She was of the same breed, a soldier’s daughter, a soldier’s sister, born to a tradition and a way of life that did not go with the Town, or the Earl of Hildersham, or the St. Hollith she had married. She was more like--Captain Grant. It was a tradition the Navy knew.
    He moved slowly up the path, drawn to her in a glow of pleasure. She was not Anice. She was in another world from Anice, but for the moment he could not think of that. They were separate and would never meet. But instinct had been right. There were other people in England, and here was one of them.
    She heard his slow footsteps and turned to face him. Her brother turned with her, remembering his duties.
    ‘I’ve a friend,’ he said quickly. ‘You’ll have my message. Captain Grant.’ He paused for the proper moment. ‘And my sister, Lady St. Hollith.’
    ‘You’re most welcome, Captain.’
    Her voice was firm and pleasant, but he noted her use of his rank.