The Virtuous Cyprian. Nicola Cornick

of wood that had been worn smooth by the force of the waves.

      She had reached a point where there was a set of ancient, worn steps cut into the shingle and she turned away from the sea to follow them up the small cliff. On the headland the turf was smooth and springy, the path skirting an ancient fence which marked the boundary of the house Lucille had seen earlier. She paused, wondering who could have chosen to live in so desolate a spot. The house itself was hidden from her view by a well-established shrubbery and cluster of gnarled trees, but it looked a substantial dwelling. And as she considered it, leaning on the fence, a voice from near at hand said:

      ‘Goddess! Excellently bright!’

      Lucille jumped and spun around. The voice was of a rich, deep-velvet quality and would have carried from pit to gallery at a Drury Lane theatre. Emerging from the shrubbery was an extraordinary figure, a large woman of indeterminate age, wrapped in what seemed like endless scarves of blue chiffon and purple gauze in complete defiance of the climate. Over her arm was a basket full of roses and at her heels stalked a large fluffy white cat. The most worldly-wise, disillusioned pair of dark eyes that Lucille had ever seen were appraising her thoughtfully.

      ‘That, Miss Kellaway,’ the lady said impressively, ‘was in tribute to your beauty and was—’

      ‘Ben Jonson,’ Lucille said, spontaneously. ‘Yes, I know!’

      The pessimistic dark eyes focussed on her more intently. ‘Would you care to take tea with me, Miss Kellaway? I have so few visitors here for I am not recognised in the county!’

      For a moment, Lucille wondered what on earth she meant. It seemed impossible that such a character would remain unrecognised wherever she went.

      ‘I am Bessie Bellingham,’ the lady continued, grandly. ‘The Dowager Lady Bellingham! Bessie Bowles, as was!’

      She paused, clearly expecting the recognition she deserved, and Lucille did not disappoint her.

      ‘Of course! I have read of you, ma’am—your performance as Viola in Twelfth Night was accounted one of the best ever seen at Drury Lane, and the papers were forever arguing over whether comedy or melodrama was your forté!’

      ‘Well, well, before your time, my child!’ But Lady Bellingham was smiling, well pleased, and the cat was rubbing around Lucille’s ankles and purring. ‘My own favourite was Priscilla Tomboy in The Romp, but it was a long time ago, before I met dear Bellingham and ended up in this mausoleum!’

      She took Lucille’s arm and steered her through the shrubbery towards the house. ‘You have no idea how delighted I was when I saw you on the beach,’ she continued. ‘Of course, I had heard that you were staying in Dillingham—my maid, Conchita, knows everything! And I thought that, as we two are the black sheep of the neighbourhood, we could take tea and talk of the London this provincial crowd will never know!’