As the Crow Flies

“I did,” said the major. “Otherwise Miss Salmon would have had to walk round the farm in a pair of high heels. Which might have proved unwise in the circumstances.”

“It might have proved wiser for Miss Salmon to have come properly equipped with the right footwear in the first place.”

“I’m so sorry…” began Becky.

“Where have you been all day, Mother?” asked Guy, jumping in. “We had rather hoped to see you earlier.”

“Trying to sort out some of the problems that our new vicar seems quite unable to cope with,” replied Mrs. Trentham. “He has absolutely no idea of how to go about organizing a harvest festival. I can’t imagine what they are teaching them at Oxford nowadays.”

“Theology, perhaps,” suggested Major Trentham.

The butler cleared his throat. “Dinner is served, madam.”

Mrs. Trentham turned without another word and led them through into the dining room at a brisk pace. She placed Becky on the right of the major and opposite herself. Three knives, four forks and two spoons shone up at Becky from the large square table. She had no trouble in selecting which one she should start with, as the first course was soup, but, from then on she knew she would simply have to follow Mrs. Trentham’s lead.

Her hostess didn’t address a word to Becky until the main course had been served. Instead she spoke to her husband of Nigel’s efforts at Harrow—not very impressive; the new vicar—almost as bad; and Lady Lavinia Malim—a judge’s widow who had recently taken residence in the village and had been causing even more trouble than usual.

Becky’s mouth was full of pheasant when Mrs. Trentham suddenly asked, “And which of the professions is your father associated with, Miss Salmon?”

“He’s dead,” Becky spluttered.

“Oh, I am sorry to hear that,” she said indifferently. “Am I to presume he died serving with his regiment at the front?”

“No, he didn’t.”

“Oh, so what did he do during the war?”

“He ran a baker’s shop. In Whitechapel,” added Becky, mindful of her father’s warning: “If you ever try to disguise your background, it will only end in tears.”

“Whitechapel?” Mrs. Trentham queried. “If I’m not mistaken, isn’t that a sweet little village, just outside Worcester?”

“No, Mrs. Trentham, it’s in the heart of the East End of London,” said Becky, hoping that Guy would come to her rescue, but he seemed more preoccupied with sipping his glass of claret.

“Oh,” said Mrs. Trentham, her lips remaining in a straight line. “I remember once visiting the Bishop of Worcester’s wife in a place called Whitechapel, but I confess I have never found it necessary to travel as far as the East End. I don’t suppose they have a bishop there.” She put down her knife and fork. “However,” she continued, “my father, Sir Raymond Hardcastle—you may have heard of him, Miss Salmon—”

“No, I haven’t actually,” said Becky honestly.

Another disdainful look appeared on the face of Mrs. Trentham, although it failed to stop her flow “—Who was created a baronet for his services to King George V—”

“And what were those services?” asked Becky innocently, which caused Mrs. Trentham to pause for a moment before explaining, “He played a small part in His Majesty’s efforts to see that we were not overrun by the Germans.”

“He’s an arms dealer,” said Major Trentham under his breath.

If Mrs. Trentham heard the comment she chose to ignore it.

“Did you come out this year, Miss Salmon?” she asked icily.

“No, I didn’t,” said Becky. “I went up to university instead.”

“I don’t approve of such goings-on myself. Ladies shouldn’t be educated beyond the three ‘Rs’ plus an adequate understanding of how to manage servants and survive having to watch a cricket match.”

“But if you don’t have servants—” began Becky, and would have continued if Mrs. Trentham hadn’t rung a silver bell that was by her right hand.

When the butler reappeared she said curtly, “We’ll take coffee in the drawing room, Gibson.” The butler’s face registered a hint of surprise as Mrs. Trentham rose and led everyone out of the dining room, down a long corridor and back into the drawing room where the fire no longer burned so vigorously.

“Care for some port or brandy, Miss Salmon?” asked Major Trentham, as Gibson poured out the coffee.

“No, thank you,” said Becky quietly.