“Exactly, sister,” continued the Honourable Philippa—“died like several of your unfortunate baby brothers and sisters, my dears; and shortly after—four years exactly, was it not, Isabella?”
“Three years and eleven months, sister.”
“Thank you, Isabella. Mr Julian Riversley either fell down that lead-mine or threw himself there in remorse for having deluded a female scion of the ancient house of Dymcoques to follow his fortunes into a far-off land. He was much like you in physique, my dears, but I am glad to say not in disposition—thanks to our training and that of your mamma’s spiritual instructor, Mr Paul Montaigne, to whom dearest Delia entrusted you, and to whom your repentant—I hope—papa gave the sacred charge of bringing you to England to share the calmness of our peaceful home.”
“Peaceful home,” assented Miss Isabella.
“I need hardly tell you, children, that the Riversleys were, or are, nobodies of whom we know nothing—never can know anything.”
“Whatever,” assented Miss Isabella.
“To us they do not exist—neither will they for you, my dears. We believe that Mr Julian had a sister who married a Mr Huish; that is all we know.”
“All we know,” assented Miss Isabella.
“I will say nothing of the tax it has been upon us in connection with our limited income. A grateful country, recognising the services of papa, placed these apartments at our disposal. In consideration of the thoughtfulness of the offer, we accepted these apartments—thirty-five years ago, I think, Isabella?”
“Thirty-five years and a half, sister.”