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She thought she would go away from Radstowe and forget Christabel Sales, forget Francis Sales, whom she would no longer pretend to love; forget those insinuations that Aunt Rose was guilty of a crime.
It had a view of the garden, the avenue of elms in which the rooks cawed continuously, the hedge separating the fields from the high-road where two-wheeled carts, laden with farm produce, jogged into Radstowe, driven by an old man or a stout woman, and returned some hours later with the day's shopping kitchen utensils inadequately wrapped up and glistening in the sunshine, a flimsy parcel of drapery, a box of groceries.
Her thoughts were at home, at Prospect House, that commodious family mansion situate in its own grounds, and in one of the most favourable positions in Upper Radstowe. So the advertisement had read before Mr. Batty bought the property, and it was all true. 'John, Mrs. Batty went on, 'is more for sport, though he's in the sugar business, with an uncle. Not my brother Mr.
Since Sunday Henrietta had been exploring Radstowe and its suburbs with an enthusiasm surprising to the elder aunts, who did not care for exercise; but Henrietta was as much inspired by the hope of seeing that man again as by interest in the old streets, the unexpected alleys, the flights of worn steps leading from Upper to Lower Radstowe, the slums, cheek by jowl with the garden of some old house, the big houses deteriorated into tenements.
Why, there is hardly an episode to make one shrink, though, of course, the French are different, and the Radstowe ladies would nod over their tea and say, 'Of course, quite different! But Caroline, suspecting that murmured explanation, had been known to call out in her harsh voice, 'It's no good asking Sophia about them. She simply doesn't understand the best bits!
At luncheon Henrietta appeared in a new hat and an amiable mood. She was going, she said casually, to a concert with Charles Batty. 'I didn't know there was one, Rose said. 'Where is it? 'Oh, not in Radstowe. We're going, Henrietta said reluctantly, 'to Wellsborough. But that name seemed to have no association for Aunt Rose.
She and Henrietta took to each other, as Mrs. Batty said, at once. Here was a motherly person, and Henrietta knew that if she could have Mrs. Batty to herself she would be able to talk more freely than she had done since her arrival in Radstowe.
I wished we lived nearer Radstowe. 'And I envy you here. It's peaceful. 'Yes, it's that, Mrs. Sales agreed. 'I'm a good deal older than you, you see, Rose elaborated. 'That's just it, said Mrs. Sales. Rose laughed, and Francis, standing at the door, turned at the sound in time to catch the end of Rose's smile. 'What are you laughing at? 'Mrs. Sales's candour. 'Oh, was I rude? 'No.
And all Henrietta could do was to obey her mother's injunction to accept help from her aunts, but she had refused the offer of an escort to Radstowe and Nelson Lodge; she would have no highly respectable servant sniffing at the boarding-house and she would have been bound to sniff in that permanently scented atmosphere which was, after all, her home. She left with genuine regret, with tears.
They had imbibed something of the Mallett reserve and they did not wish the family affairs to be blabbed at every house in Radstowe. But when the man had gone, Susan reminded Cook of her early disapproval of that ball. It would kill Miss Caroline, it would kill Mrs. Sales. 'She wasn't there, poor thing, Cook said. 'But he was, gallivanting. I dare say it upset her. Susan was right.
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