I’ll Bring You Buttercups. Elizabeth Elgin

and she was guiltily glad that neither Clementina nor Elliot were coming, though she felt sad that Edward would not be able to enjoy his favourite pudding which Cook had so laboriously prepared for him.

      She sat unspeaking, wanting John beside her, yet counting the blessings of this night. The sun, losing its brilliance now, lit the glass room softly, showing off the display of vines that climbed to the roof; exotic shrubs that could never have survived outdoors, and pots of flowers, grown specially for such an occasion in heated glasshouses, and carried inside to give pleasure. Orchids of every colour, save creamy-white; brilliant geraniums, sweet-scented jasmine and campanulas, blazing blue as a summer sky, all weeks before their time.

      ‘I see,’ remarked Mrs Mounteagle tartly, ‘that Pendenys is late, as usual.’

      ‘Ah – no. My sister-in-law,’ said Helen softly, ‘is a little unwell and cannot be here.’

      ‘Ha!’ the lady shrugged, the look of satisfaction ill-disguised on her face. ‘It comes to us all, I suppose – that certain age, I mean.’

      She slanted her gaze at Mrs James who, caught off balance by such directness, could only glance appealingly at her husband.

      ‘Mrs Sutton is – er – a little under the weather; a little, that is all. Tomorrow, when I call, I fully expect her to be her old self again …’ the doctor offered reluctantly.

      ‘I see.’ Mrs Mounteagle was in no way convinced, and made a mental note to discover exactly what ‘a little under the weather’ embraced. ‘I shall leave my card when passing,’ she said without so much as a blush. ‘When will that son of hers be finished with Cambridge? Nathan, isn’t he called?’

      ‘Soon, now. We hope to have him back in just a few weeks. He’s a fine young man,’ Helen smiled, eager to be rid of the subject of Pendenys’s absence. ‘Giles particularly will be pleased.’