Miss Jesmond's Heir. Paula Marshall

and you will be present, taking notes—and listening. You were good at listening.’

      ‘My forte, sir.’

      Jess rang for the footman, Henry Craig, who he hoped was now standing in for Twells. ‘I shall have a room assigned to you—it won’t be comfortable. The whole damned place is derelict. You can help me to restore it.’

      ‘With pleasure, sir.’

      Jess watched him follow young Henry, who was to be Twells’s new deputy. Craig was carrying the bags which Kite had brought with him. He did not know whether to laugh or to curse—or to congratulate himself.

      On the whole, he decided on the latter—but God help Netherton with Kite loose in it.

      And Sir Garth Manning and Mr Bowlby in particular, both of whom Kite could track for him.

      Chapter Three

      Jess had underestimated the size of the social life in Netherton and the ingenuity of its inhabitants in organising it.

      The following morning Kite, who had already taken up his secretarial duties, handed him a letter from the Bowlbys which had arrived by special messenger.

      It invited him to a fête to be held in the grounds of the Bowlbys’ mansion, Nethercotes, on the afternoon of the immediate Saturday. It also welcomed him to Netherton and hoped that Mr Fitzroy would enjoy his stay in the town.

      ‘Shall I answer it for you? I take it that you wish to accept.’

      ‘You take it correctly. I shall be seeing Parsons, the former land agent here, at two of the clock this afternoon in the library. You will, of course, be present. This morning I intend to ride around the countryside, familiarising myself with the lie of the land.’

      ‘You have a map of the district, sir?’

      ‘Yes,’ said Jess, holding up a tattered scrap of paper. ‘It purports to show the boundaries of the local estates, including those of the land my aunt used to own. I’ll see you at lunch. In the meantime, you might go up to the attics and see if you can find anything useful there. And by useful I mean not only bibelots, pictures and furniture, but also papers and documents, however old.’

      ‘Understood, sir.’

      Kite ghosted out of the room. Jess had forgotten how unobtrusive he was—and how immediately obliging. The letter would go straightway to the Bowlbys and the attics would be searched.

      It was a glorious morning for a ride and his horse—named Tearaway because he was nothing of the kind—like Jess, was, for once, eager to enjoy a little exercise. He turned down the main street, openly watched by the villagers—he could not yet think of Netherton as a town.

      Occasionally stopping to read the map, he quartered the countryside after the same fashion he had employed long ago in India, only the scenery being different. He had just begun to ride down a green lane at the back of his little property when he saw young Gus running along the bank of a shallow river, one of the tributaries of the Trent, waving his arms and shouting.

      Jess grinned. He’d bet a mountain of tin that the young hoyden was at her tricks again! What could it be this time? He ought to find out in case she were in real trouble. He dismounted, tied Tearaway to a fence post, and pushed through the low hedge which bordered the field where he had caught sight of Gus.

      By now Gus had seen Jess and was running towards him.

      ‘What luck to find you here, sir,’ he gasped breathlessly. ‘I thought I’d have to run to your home farm to find help.’

      He began to tug at Jess’s coat. ‘It’s Georgie,’ he said. ‘She went into the river after one of the village children who had strayed from home, fallen in and was like to drown. She saved the child, but she’s wet through and has hurt her ankle. She said not to fuss, she could manage, but I disobeyed her because I thought she needed help. This way, sir, this way.’

      He had been pulling Jess along while he told his story.

      So, he had been right. Georgie Herron was in trouble again. No, that was quite wrong. She had not been in trouble when he had found her playing cricket on his land. The trouble had come after that when he had tried to advise her.

      He wondered how badly she had been hurt. He doubted whether Gus was the most reliable of witnesses, although he seemed to have plenty of common-sense.

      How like mad Mrs Georgie to hurl herself into a river—even a shallow one—after a drowning child! He couldn’t imagine the ladylike Caro doing any such thing. But then Caro would never have been roaming the countryside with two small children, either.

      He found Georgie sitting on the river bank not far from where he had first seen Gus. She had stripped off her boy’s jacket in order to go into the river and was soaked through, her wet shirt clinging revealingly to her. She was cradling on her knee the soaked and crying child whom she had rescued and was trying to comfort her.

      She had walked a few yards from the spot where she had rescued the little girl from the river, but the weight of the child, combined with the pain in her damaged ankle, had compelled her to sit down for a moment. She felt her heart sink when Gus and Jess rounded the turn of the river and came into view.

      Of all the dreadful luck! What a fright she must look, like a drowned rat with her hair in strings about her face, for the child had sunk on to the river bed and she had had to bend down in order to lift her out. Of course, the poor little thing had had no more sense than to clutch at her so that she had lost her balance, landing in the water and wrenching her ankle at the same time.

      Fitz was bound to ring a peal over her again and be full of sound advice on the proper behaviour of a young lady. She tried to stand up to greet him, but holding the squirming child made such an act difficult as well as painful.

      Nevertheless, she managed to lever herself upright just before Jess reached her. He confirmed her worst fears by immediately barking an order at her in a sergeant-major’s voice. ‘Whatever do you think that you’re doing? Sit down at once!’

      ‘Oh, Fitz,’ said Georgie sorrowfully, ‘I might have guessed that you would begin to bully me the moment you saw me.’

      ‘Of course I shall bully you,’ said Jess, scarcely hearing the ‘Fitz’, but relieved to see that she still had enough spirit left to spark at him. ‘You need to be bullied if you insist on running around the countryside doing dangerous things!’

      ‘Goodness me,’ she exclaimed, seething. ‘I suppose I ought to have left the poor little thing to drown and fainted with shock at the sad sight instead.’

      ‘I would never have expected that of you,’ announced Jess firmly. ‘And before you try to walk, allow me to have a look at both the ankle and the child. You could let Gus hold it while I do so.’

      He looked around him. ‘And where’s Annie? Have you lost her as well as half-drowning yourself?’

      ‘It! It! She’s a girl, Fitz—or were you so busy reprimanding me that you failed to notice that she wasn’t wearing breeches? And Annie isn’t with us—she didn’t feel up to a long walk.’

      ‘Fortunately for her, she appears to be unlike you in every way,’ said Jess severely, ‘seeing that she was obeying the normal conventions which govern the behaviour of females and didn’t want to go gallivanting around the countryside. Take off your wet sock at once so that I may inspect your damaged ankle. And, by the way, who gave you leave to call me Fitz?’

      ‘The same person who gave you leave to shout orders at me every time we meet. The deity, if you like. He’s supposed to arrange our life, I believe, although where females are concerned he’s made a poor fist of it!’

      Jess, bending over her ankle, gave a crack of laughter at this spirited sally. Gus, now cradling the wet and crying girl child, saw nothing to laugh at, particularly since Georgie had begun to shiver with cold.

      He