“Oh, I’m not such a wreck as all that; and, considering everything, I got off uncommonly well. I’m sure poor Masham was insane. He certainly looked it at times. It’s my experience that there are quite a good-sized crowd of lunatics about at large; I’ve knocked up against one or two lately. Masham always prophesied he would be killed in a motor accident—and seemed rather to glory in the prospect.”
“You do tumble into the queerest situations—old maids, dancers, madman! I must confess I cannot understand why you remained with him, carrying your life in your hands?”
“In Masham’s hands, you mean!” corrected her brother; “he seldom allowed me to drive.”
“And if you had been killed, where, pray, did I come in—or Aurea Morven?”
Owen Wynyard’s next situation as chauffeur was with a certain Mrs. Buckingham Brune, a wealthy matron who had a fine place in the north of England. Miss Weedon, her daughter by a first marriage, was a notable heiress, and her mother was determined that she should make an alliance befitting her great fortune and fame. Her father, Sir Jacob Weedon, the son of a peasant, had risen to wealth and honour solely through his own active brain and dogged industry. He had not the smallest desire to conceal his origin, and often alluded to the days when he was “a poor, half-fed body”; and his coal-pick actually hung as a glorious trophy over the chimneypiece in his smoking-room. But his wife was of a different type; she smothered (when possible) his reminiscences, and desired, since his death, to soar to other worlds—on the wings of Ermentrude’s fortune; but Betsy Ermentrude, a simple maiden in her prime, inherited her father’s character and ideas, and had no craving for super-society or to wear the coronet of a peeress. Her mother had married a second time, a good-looking young man, many years her junior; he was a lazy member of an impoverished family, who had no objection to a luxurious home, hunters, motors, pocket-money, and the best of shooting. It was considered (among his intimates) that Toby Brune had dropped into a “nice soft thing.” They were not, however, thinking of Mrs. Brune, who was notoriously as hard as nails, but of Toby’s enviable surroundings.
Miss Weedon made no rash assertions, never took exception to her mother’s gay guests, but quietly made up her mind that, as her parent had pleased herself, she would do likewise, and shape her own life. Betsy was a slight, sandy-haired girl with appealing blue eyes, a determined mouth, and a radiant smile. Her figure was willowy and graceful; in short, she was unnecessarily pretty for an heiress.
This was the entourage in which the chauffeur now found himself, his sole stipulation being to “live out.” He had no desire to mix with the great staff of servants, and found comfortable quarters at one of the gate lodges. The family owned no less than three fine cars; the one Wynyard drove was a Panhard—the exclusive possession of Miss Weedon and her friends. Mrs. Brune toured the country in a magnificent Mercédès. She was a stout, black-haired lady, with a short neck and a full meridian. To make her look young and slender was the hopeless task of milliner and maid. Their employer had, however, contrived to squeeze herself into the best society, was a clever, pushing woman, who had early acquired the art of “Who to know, and who not to know.” Her cook was a notable French chef, and smart guests, who stayed at the Court, invariably carried away with them the happy tidings that “they had been done remarkably well, and indirect everything was topping!”
Mrs. Buckingham Brune, for her husband’s benefit, rented a fine moor in Scotland, and here the family were luxuriously established for August and September. Owen, by special permission, lived with one of the keepers, and was chiefly employed to fetch guests to and from the station, or to motor the ladies to the neighbouring sights.
Occasionally Miss Weedon adventured forth alone, and, at a discreet distance from the lodge, picked up a certain young man—who, as it happened, was an acquaintance of the chauffeur’s. Miss Weedon’s love-affairs were not precisely his business, but they had his sympathy and, if desired, his sanction. Supposing Teddy Wantage were anxious to marry the heiress and they liked one another, supposing he were man enough to carry her off—who was to stand in their way? Not he! He detested Mrs. Buckingham Brune, her preposterous pretensions, and shameless tuft-hunting, and was fully prepared to help old lame-dog Teddy over an awkward matrimonial stile.