“Susan saw me,” Rose said, and the elderly parlourmaid entered at that moment with the teapot.
“Rose insists on having a latchkey,” Sophia explained. “What would the General have said?”
“What, indeed!” Caroline echoed. “Young rakes are always old prudes. Yes, the General was a rake, Sophia; you needn’t look so modest. I think I understand men.”
“Yes, yes, Caroline, no one better, but we are told to honour our father and mother.”
“And I do honour him,” Caroline guffawed, “honour him all the more.” She had a deep voice and a deep laugh; she ought, she always said, to have been a man, but there was nothing masculine about her appearance. Her dark hair, carefully tinted where greyness threatened, was piled in many puffs above a curly fringe: on the bodice of her flounced silk frock there hung a heavy golden chain and locket; ear-rings dangled from her large ears; there were rings on her fingers, and powder and a hint of rouge on her face.
She laughed again. “Mrs. Batty knows I’m right.”
Mrs. Batty’s tightly gloved hand made a movement. She was a little in awe of the Miss Malletts. With them she was always conscious of her inferior descent. No General had ever ornamented her family, and her marriage with James Batty had been a giddy elevation for her, but she was by no means humble. She had her place in local society: she had a fine house in that exclusive part of Radstowe called The Slope, and her husband was a member of the oldest firm of lawyers in the city.
“You are very naughty, Miss Caroline,” she said, knowing that was the remark looked for. She gave a little nod of her flower-covered head. “And we’ve just got to put up with them, whatever they are.”
“Yes, yes, poor dears,” Sophia murmured. “They’re different, they can’t help it.”
“Nonsense,” Caroline retorted, “they’re just the same, there’s nothing to choose between me and Reginald—nothing except discretion!”