That Would Be a Fairy Tale - By Amanda Grange Page 0,11

and set her insides to dancing in the most exhilarating way.

She quickly squashed the thought. He may be young, handsome and charming, as Mrs Sealyham had said, but he was still an avaricious cit without heart or soul, and therefore a man to be avoided.

She was just about to return to the kitchen when the door opened and Alice showed herself into the room.

Alice was looking particularly well this morning. Her grey panelled skirt swirled about her ankles, and she was wearing a becoming lace-frilled blouse.

‘Have you got one?’ she asked without preamble.

‘Got one what?’ asked Cicely inelegantly.

‘An invitation. To Mr Evington’s ball,’ said Alice.

‘No. I haven’t,’ said Cicely.

‘I’m sure you will. It’s probably on its way here even now.’

‘I shouldn’t think so,’ said Cicely. ‘You see, I don’t need one. Mr Evington has just been here, and he asked me to the ball himself.’

‘You’ve seen him?’ demanded Alice, eyes wide. ‘Well? What’s he like?’

She threw herself onto one of the sofas and looked at Cicely expectantly.

‘He is the most infuriating man I have ever met,’ said Cicely. ‘He seems to spend his time either insulting me or laughing at me. It was bad enough yesterday -’

‘Yesterday?’ demanded Alice.

Cicely gave a wry smile. ‘Mr Evington is the man who knocked me into the duck pond.’

‘Oh, no!’ exclaimed Alice.

‘Oh, yes.’

‘Poor Cicely!’ laughed Alice. ‘You’ll have to be extra careful at the ball, and make sure you don’t fall into the punch bowl!’

‘I shall not be going to the ball,’ said Cicely decidedly.

Alice looked astonished. ‘No? Oh, but Cicely . . . ’

‘No, Alice. It’s more than I can bear. To see him walking round the Manor as though he owns the place - to have to remind myself that he does own the place - will be too terrible for me. I have told him I cannot go.’

Alice’s face fell. ‘Of course,’ she said loyally. ‘I hadn’t thought of it like that. Well, who wants to go to a ball anyway?’

Cicely smiled, touched by Alice’s loyalty. ‘I said that I’m not going to the ball. I didn’t say that you couldn’t go.’

‘I’m not going if you’re not. They are always dull, these occasions. Always the same old people. We will stay at home instea—’

She broke off as the doorbell sounded, and a minute later another visitor was shown into the room. It was Mrs Murgatroyd.

Mrs Murgatroyd was an alarming-looking matron of five-and-forty years. Her Amazon-like figure was made even more impressive by rigid corsets, sweeping skirts and an enormous hat. But beneath her statuesque figure and her organising nature lay a woman who never refused help to those in need, and who readily took up cudgels for those too weak to help themselves.

‘Miss Haringay. I am so glad to have found you at home. Oh, Miss Babbage, I didn’t realize you were here as well.’

‘We were just talking about our invitations to the Manor and deciding we would not go,’ said Alice.

‘Quite right, too,’ said Mrs Murgatroyd, drawing herself up to her full, impressive height. ‘There is more to living in the country than buying a Manor house, and so I told him. You must do something about it, Miss Haringay. We are all relying on you. You must use your influence.’

‘My influence?’ asked Cicely. As usual, Mrs Murgatroyd had launched into the subject without preamble, expecting Cicely and Alice to know what she was talking about.

‘As a Haringay,’ said Mrs Murgatroyd, nodding forcefully.

‘I can’t stop him holding a ball if he wants to,’ said Cicely, trying to follow Mrs Murgatroyd’s conversation: a difficult thing, as she could not read Mrs Murgatroyd’s mind.

‘Not the ball,’ said Mrs Murgatroyd roundly. ‘The picnic.’ She set herself down on the sofa and folded her arms over her capacious chest.

‘The picnic?’ asked Cicely.

‘Yes, Cicely. The picnic.’

‘Are we talking about the Sunday school picnic?’ asked Cicely.

‘What else? I went to tell Mr Evington about it yesterday and he told me he had no intention of letting the Sunday school children hold their picnic on his lawns.’

‘But it’s always been held at the Manor!’ cried Cicely.

‘Exactly what I said.’

‘And?’ asked Cicely.

‘And,’ said Mrs Murgatroyd with heavy emphasis, ‘he looked at me as though I were the world’s worst busybody and told me it would not be convenient.’

‘This is too bad,’ said Cicely with a frown. ‘I must confess, when I sold the Manor, it never occurred to me that the new owner might not want it to be used for village events.’

‘Well, Miss Haringay, what are you