to me to tell her about them later. Not now.’
Lady Elizabeth greeted Deborah’s old servant and asked how she was. Then, turning to her sister-in-law, she suggested that Mrs Humble should wait in the servants’ quarters while they finished their talk with Deborah. Lady Perceval readily agreed.
‘I think a drink of something cool would be welcome on such a hot day, would it not, Mrs Humble? My housekeeper will take care of you until Miss Deborah is ready to go to the Vicarage. Shall we say an hour? Come, Deborah! I cannot wait to hear your adventures.’
More chairs and cushions were brought out and the two families settled once again in the shade of the cedar. Frederica and Edwina each took one of Deborah’s hands and towed her gently to one of the benches. Here they sat her down between them, expressing in their soft voices their delight at seeing her, and showing their loving concern for her. She felt herself relax. Here at Abbot Quincey she felt…cherished. She looked at them all. The Percevals were a tall, blond race with a remarkable family resemblance. Sir James and his wife, the owners of Perceval Hall, were on a garden seat opposite her, enjoying the cool shade of the cedar. Hugo, their elder son, stood behind them, leaning against the trunk of the tree. Hester, their only daughter, so like Hugo in appearance, was perched on the arm of her parents’ seat. It was quite normal for Hester to seem quiet and withdrawn in company, but today she looked pale and preoccupied, and kept casting anxious glances in the direction of the drive. Deborah wondered what was wrong. She made a note to ask Hugo later. On another bench to the right sat Sir James’s brother, the Reverend William Perceval and his wife, the Lady Elizabeth, Deborah’s aunt. Aunt Elizabeth, the elder daughter of the Duke of Inglesham, was always the same—narrow, aristocratic face, upright posture, dressed plainly but with exquisite neatness. Today her normally somewhat severe expression was softened. Though she was a strict parent, with impossibly high standards of behaviour, Lady Elizabeth had a loving, caring heart. She had invited Deborah to make her home at the Vicarage some time ago, and was now obviously happy to see her niece in Abbot Quincey at last. Deborah smiled. For the first time in many months she felt secure.
She was trying to decide how best to present the story of her arrival in Abbot Quincey when she was forestalled. Lowell Perceval came bounding across the lawn, closely followed by the youngest of the Vicarage girls, Deborah’s cousin Henrietta.
‘I say, Deborah! Whose is the parrot? And where’s the dog?’
Deborah wondered, not for the first time, why Hugo’s younger brother was so unlike him. Lowell was rather like Autolycus. Enthusiastic, reckless, he never seemed to consider the consequences of his actions, but plunged in, scattering all before him. She was still wrestling with what to say when Hugo once again came to her rescue.
‘The parrot is mine. And the dog is asleep in the stables, not to be disturbed.’ When Hugo spoke in that tone of voice even Lowell subsided. He sat down on the lawn and looked at his brother with eager curiosity, reminding Deborah even more of her dog.
‘You have a parrot, Hugo?’ Lady Perceval asked, turning in amazement towards her son. ‘Did you buy it in Northampton? It must have been on impulse, surely. You didn’t mention it before you went.’
Deborah directed a pleading glance at Hugo and said, ‘I… I brought the parrot with me, Lady Perceval. I… I gave it to Hugo.’
‘How nice,’ said Lady Perceval, a touch faintly.
‘It’s a beautiful bird,’ said Lowell. ‘And it talks. But—’
‘Yes, quite!’ said Hugo, directing another quelling glance at Lowell. ‘I have no intention of leaving it where it is, Mama. It is merely on its way to someone who will appreciate it, I think. Deborah, perhaps we should explain to Aunt Elizabeth that an unfortunate accident prevented your carrier from bringing you all the way to Abbot Quincey.’ He turned to his aunt. ‘Deborah would have been in some difficulty if I had not chanced upon her at the beginning of the Abbot Quincey road.’
‘An accident? Was anyone hurt?’
‘No,’ said Deborah, picking the story up. ‘But I was forced to leave Nanny Humble and the bulk of our things at the inn at the crossroads.’ She paused and Hugo spoke once again.
‘I despatched a carriage for them as soon as we got here.’
‘But how did the animals get here? The…the parrot and the dog?’ said Lady Perceval. ‘They weren’t with Mrs Humble.’
‘I thought I ought not to leave them with Nanny Humble, so Hugo kindly brought them with us,’ Deborah replied, not looking at Hugo.
‘That dog and the parrot? In the curricle?’ asked Lowell in disbelieving accents.
‘Of course.’
‘I wish I’d been there to see it,’ said Lowell with a grin.
‘Half of Abbot Quincey did.’ Hugo’s tone was grim.
‘So you have a dog with you, Deborah. I had a pug once—he was a dear little thing and very affectionate,’ said Lady Elizabeth. ‘I think I still have his basket. I must look it out.’
‘Er… I don’t think Autolycus would fit into a pug’s basket,’ said Hugo.
‘Autolycus? What a strange name for a dog! Deborah, why have you called your dog Autolycus?’ Henrietta’s question was a welcome diversion, and Deborah turned to her with relief.
‘He was a character in Shakespeare.’
‘A rogue and a thief,’ added Hugo. ‘I’m sorry to say that the name reflects on the dog’s moral character. The original Autolycus was a “picker up of unconsidered trifles”. At a guess I’d say it’s a good name for the animal.’
Henrietta laughed. ‘He sounds a real character. Who chose the name? You, Deborah?’
‘My father named him,’ said Deborah with reserve. ‘Just before he died.’
There was an awkward silence, and several members of the family threw an anxious glance at Lady Elizabeth. It did not please Deborah’s aunt to hear any mention of Edmund Staunton. Her father, the late Duke of Inglesham, had cast her sister Frances off for marrying Mr Staunton against his commands. He had ignored Lady Frances’s further existence till the day he died, and had ordered the rest of the family to do the same. Lady Elizabeth had not found this possible. She had remained in touch with the Stauntons in defiance of her father’s wishes, and had now offered their daughter a home. But she had never approved of the man for whom her sister had sacrificed so much. Lady Frances and her husband were now both dead, but Elizabeth Perceval’s Christian conscience was still wrestling with the problem of forgiveness for the man who had run off with her sister and reduced her to penury. With an obvious effort at brightness she said, ‘Well, are we to see this dog of yours, Deborah?’
Hugo gave his brother a speaking look. It was Lowell’s fault that Autolycus was to be sprung on the family without careful preparation for the blow.
‘I think he’s asleep, as Hugo said,’ protested Deborah weakly.
‘Then we shall all go to the stables to visit him,’ announced Lady Perceval with a smile. ‘I’m beginning to think you’re ashamed of him, Deborah.’
‘Oh no! I love him dearly. It’s just…’
‘Come along then!’ The party got up and made for the stables.
Autolycus was lying where Hugo had left him, snoring gently. He had the supremely contented air of a dog well exercised, well fed and now comfortably settled. When he heard Deborah’s voice he raised his head, wagged a sleepy tail and flopped down once again.
‘He’s very big,’ said Lady Elizabeth slowly.
‘He doesn’t expect to live indoors, Aunt Elizabeth! He’s well used to being kept in a stable or one of the outhouses.’ Deborah was perhaps unaware of the desperation in her voice. But Hugo heard it.
‘It’s time you had another guard dog,