Sylvia Andrew - An Inescapable Match

‘Is that so very wrong? Admiration is not a bad basis for a loving relationship. And in the absence of any previous attachment, what is wrong with pleasing one’s family?’

‘But what if their affections are already engaged elsewhere, however tentatively? I suspect that they would still defer to their parents’ wishes.’

‘You might give me some credit for better feelings,’ said Hugo a touch impatiently. ‘If I knew that to be the case, I should not approach them, of course. I should look for someone else.’

Deborah commented somewhat acidly that she was pleased to see that Hugo could be so philosophical. That, whatever else, his heart did not seem to be very passionately involved in this choosing of a partner for life.

‘Deborah, I think you are in danger of falling into the same trap as poor Robert Dungarran. Passionate love is a hindrance to good understanding. It leads one into all sorts of foolishness, and I will have no part of it.’

Hugo was becoming exasperated. He decided to end the discussion. Deborah Staunton’s views were just as he would have expected—all feeling and no sense, and he would not heed them. Ignoring the slight doubt she had raised in his mind, he said, ‘Now, where is that wretched dog? He seems to have disappeared!’

They had been so absorbed in their discussion that they had forgotten the dog. When they looked round they saw that they had reached the edge of the wood, and were passing one of the estate cottages. There was no sign of Autolycus in any of the fields round about, and Deborah was just about to see if he had slipped into Mrs Bember’s cottage in his perennial search for food, when pandemonium broke out inside the large chicken-house at the end of the garden. There was a crash as the side of the building collapsed and Autolycus scrambled out, closely pursued by a furious cockerel and a stream of hens. He leapt over the hedge on which Mrs Bember had spread some clothes to dry, and raced away over the field, clearly in fear of his life, with his ears flapping and a large petticoat trailing behind him like the tail of a comet.

It was such an absurdly comic sight that they both burst out laughing, but they soon stopped in dismay when old Mrs Bember came hurrying out shouting, ‘Come back! Come back here! Oh dearie me, what shall I do? Come back here, you dratted creatures!’ She stopped short when she saw Hugo. ‘Oh, whatever can I do, Mr Hugo? Some dog has broken down my hen-house and let out all the chickens. They’re such silly creatures, I’ll never get ’m back! What’ll happen to all my egg money? And my petticoat’s gone! My best one, too.’ She peered short-sightedly at Hugo’s companion. ‘Why, it’s Miss Deborah! Oh, excuse me, ma’am, I was just that upset I didn’t see you. I didn’t know you was back, y’see. But Miss Deborah, you’re here at a bad moment, I can tell you. I’m in such a pickle! That animal has chased away all the chickens. What am I to do, Miss Deborah? They’ll never come back—and I can’t go chasing about after ’m the way I used to. I’ve lost ’m! And my best flannel petticoat, too.’

Deborah went up to the old lady and led her gently back towards the cottage. ‘Mrs Bember, I’m so sorry! But you really needn’t be so worried. We’ll sort it out. Look, why don’t I make you something to drink, while Mr Hugo sees what he can do.’ As she said this, she threw an appealing glance at Hugo.

Hugo smiled at Mrs Bember. ‘Leave things to me. I’ll get some of the men to put things right for you, Mrs B. Your chickens will be in a new home by nightfall, I promise. I can’t answer for your…er…petticoat, though.’

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