Daughter of the House. Rosie Thomas

Arthur could only jiggle in his seat. The Shaw men stopped ribbing him.

      A succession of wickets fell before the Harrow captain came out to bat. He staunched the flow with a score of thirteen, but then he was caught off a savage yorker.

      Arthur could not help himself. He jumped up and yelled, ‘No! Earle’s not out. It was a bump ball, I saw it. Not out, I say.’ Faces turned to him.

      ‘Arthur,’ Devil said sharply. He knew enough about cricket to recognise unsporting behaviour.

      Harrow’s tenth man could be seen sprinting out of one of the tea tents with a cream bun still grasped in his hand, urgently summoned to prepare for his innings. The last stand put on a desperate thirteen runs.

      ‘Come on,’ Arthur gasped.

      But then, at one minute to six, the end came. The batsman played inside a ball that did not turn as expected, and was caught in the slips. The roar from the crowd was loud enough to lift the roofs. It swelled over Regent’s Park and the villas of St John’s Wood. Eton had won the match by nine runs.

      Arthur blinked at the tumult of Eton boys and families surging on to the pitch. He pulled his straw hat down towards his ears until the crown threatened to split from the brim.

      ‘I don’t know how that happened,’ he whispered. ‘It’s beyond comprehension.’

      Cornelius placed his bookmark.

      ‘Are we going home now?’

      The pandemonium in the ground was growing and the exuberant crowds seemed denser than they had done all day.

      ‘It will take for ever to make our way to the underground in this crush,’ Matthew complained.

      ‘And I am afraid I must leave you and take the De Dion to the theatre,’ Devil apologised. He adjusted the brim of his hat with the Harrow colours to a more rakish angle and smoothed the flanks of his striped blazer. In less than an hour he would be in his white tie and tailcoat, ready to step out on the Palmyra stage as the evening’s master of ceremonies.

      ‘I’m glad you have your motor car, and the rest of us are in no hurry,’ Eliza observed.

      Devil kissed her on the cheek and offered Faith the same salute. To Arthur he said, ‘Next year, there will be another match. And in five years’ time you will be lifting your bat in the Harrow eleven.’

      Arthur set his smooth jaw as he stared into this dizzy future. A second later Devil had vanished into the crowd.

      The rest of the party agreed that they might as well allow the hubbub to die down. The four women took a stroll round the outfield. Lizzie was saying that her boss Mr Hastings was a tremendous oarsman and she greatly preferred rowing to cricket as a spectator sport. Perhaps next year Nancy might like to come with her and some lively girls to Henley? This year they had had so much fun – a broad wink – and she was sure Nancy would adore it.

      A man was standing beside the perimeter wall, shading his eyes from the weak sun as he looked towards them. His dark coat made him incongruous amongst the other spectators in their light summer clothes. As they drew abreast he stepped into their path.

      ‘Mrs Wix? Nancy?’

      It was Mr Feather.

      He tried to lock his gaze with Nancy’s but after the smallest nod in his direction she fixed her attention on the pavilion roof. Her heart banged uncomfortably against her ribs. Faith and Lizzie politely withdrew a little distance.

      ‘How are you?’ Eliza murmured to him. The man’s gaunt appearance startled her. ‘I am so sorry about Mrs Clare.’

      ‘Thank you. It was a terrible … it is not … I had hoped …’

      He struggled for the words and then bowed his head. In a man who had been so fluent the inarticulacy was even more shocking than his altered looks.

      Eliza placed her hand on his sleeve.

      ‘Perhaps Nancy might bring you a glass of lemonade?’

      Nancy stared at the buttons of his coat so as not to see his face, and still his proximity made her shiver.

       I don’t want to be a seer.

      Mr Feather collected himself and sadly nodded.

      ‘Lemonade? That is kind, but no, thank you. I should offer my condolences in return, for the loss you also suffered on that day.’

      ‘Phyllis was our children’s companion. Very sad, of course, but she was not a relative.’

      Eliza’s tone indicated that the topic was closed. Nancy shot her a glance, wondering how her mother could sometimes seem so devoid of feelings.

      A young man hurried towards them. He called out, ‘Lawrence? So sorry, I had to speak to a chap I was … ah? Hullo!’

      With an effort Lawrence Feather produced a smile. ‘Not at all, Lycett. I too have bumped into some friends. Mrs Wix, Miss Wix, may I introduce Mr Lycett Stone?’

      He was a tall, plump and dishevelled Etonian in top hat and elaborate waistcoat. He grinned and removed the hat with a flourish, clearly elated by the match. Unconfined by the topper his curly hair gave him the look of an overgrown Cupid. Nancy didn’t want to stare, but she was struck by the young man’s exuberance. She thought it would have been fun to hear his account of the game. More fun than listening to Arthur, at any rate.

      The young man beamed. ‘Well, I have to say, it’s been a great day.’

      ‘You must be delighted,’ Eliza agreed.

      ‘Eh? Oh dear. Your boy’s a Harrovian, I assume?’

      ‘Yes, he will be.’

      Lycett Stone pursed his full lips and did his best to look sympathetic, but unruly satisfaction spilled out of him.

      ‘Next year,’ he consoled. ‘There’s always next year.’

      Lawrence Feather looked even more sombre beside this vision of merriment. He murmured, ‘I shouldn’t detain you any longer, Mrs Wix. But may I call on you at some convenient time?’

      Eliza agreed, mainly out of pity for the state he was in. The strange pair said goodbye and moved off into the crowd as Faith and Lizzie rejoined them.

      ‘Who was that?’ Lizzie Shaw demanded.

      Eliza explained the circumstances in which they had last seen Lawrence Feather.

      ‘Oh, I see. Actually I meant the other one, the Eton boy.’

      ‘I don’t know, Lizzie,’ Eliza said. ‘His name is Lycett Stone. Why do you ask?’

      ‘He looked rather jolly.’

      It was almost seven o’clock and the crowds were thinning out at last. The two families had planned to eat supper together but Rowland and Edwin Shaw excused themselves, saying they were going on to meet some fellows for a drink. The brothers shared a set of bachelor rooms in Holloway. Only Lizzie still lived with her mother and father, and she had privately confided to Nancy that she didn’t intend to remain there much longer. As they threaded their way to St John’s Wood underground station Lizzie was still volubly talking.

      ‘We are liberated women in this family. We don’t need overseeing and chaperoning every time we step out of the front door, do we? Look at your mama. Even in her day she was able to live in a ladies’ rooming house and work as an artists’ model.’

      This wasn’t news to Nancy or anyone else. Eliza loved to reminisce about her artistic and theatrical days.

      The Wixes lived beside the Regent’s Canal at Islington. It was a pretty house, rising three storeys above a basement area enclosed by railings. There were curled wrought-iron balconies at the tall windows, and the play of light over the water was caught in the rippled old glass. Only ten years before the canal had been busy with laden barges drawn by huge slow horses, but lately the