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the lawyer. “‘To my nephew the Reverend Raymond Reece, confirmation in the living of the church of St Botulph in Addlescombe village, and a supplement of twenty pounds per annum to the stipend thereof.’“
    “Twenty pounds,” exclaimed the parson in disgust, “and upon conditions!” He brightened--momentarily--as Mr Harwood continued.
    “‘In addition, to be expended in furnishing the vicarage, the sum of ten pounds. As my nephew Reece has eaten well at my expense for fifteen years, he has no doubt saved sufficient funds to adequately supplement this amount.’“
    The dome of Mr Reece’s head turned crimson beneath the carefully arranged strands of hair. “‘Lay not up for yourselves treasures upon earth, where moth and rust doth corrupt,’“ he squawked. “‘Consider the lilies of the field.’“
    Mr Harwood regarded him sternly over his spectacles. “If you mean to indicate that you have not saved your stipend, sir, I fear there is nothing to be done. Pray permit me to continue. ‘To my cousin Euphemia Chidwell, two hundred pounds per annum, that she may rent a cottage and hire a servant of her own to harass, to the relief of mine.’“
    A wordless choking sound emanated from the stout lady in purple. Cousin Euphemia Chidwell, Nerissa repeated to herself, attempting to sort out her new relatives. The Reverend Mr Reece’s introductions had only served to confuse her. Cousin Euphemia, harasser of servants, was the one who had taken her for Mr Courtenay’s convenient and demanded her expulsion. She rather thought she did not care for Cousin Euphemia.
    “‘I consider this adequate since she is certain to browbeat her sister, Sophronia Datchett, to whom I hereby leave a like income, into sharing her household.’“
    Cousin Sophronia was the plump little lady in lavender, now bleating in mingled gratitude and dismay. “How very kind of dear Cousin Barnabas. Indeed, Effie, you know I shall do whatever you think right.”
    “I should hope so, Sophie,” snorted her sister. “A proper mull you always make of things if left to yourself. But really, a cottage! Impossible.”
    Nerissa only wished she could be sure of so much as two hundred pounds a year.
    “‘To my niece, Matilda, the choice of any horse in my stables, one hundred pounds per annum, and upon her marriage...”
    A neigh of protest rose from the front row.
    Nerissa’s attention wandered again. Her late grandfather clearly delighted in oversetting his heirs, and her expectations were at a low ebb. He had probably left his fortune to an orphanage.
    Would Mr Courtenay take her back to Riddlebourne? After the unplanned extra night in London, had she enough in her purse for the fare to York? Would she be invited to stay for luncheon? If not, she’d find her way to the kitchens and beg some bread and cheese and a glass of milk before she left.
    She looked up, startled, as Mr Courtenay nudged her arm. He handed her a handkerchief spread open to reveal two crumbling biscuits.
    “I just remembered I had them in my pocket,” he whispered.
    “Thank you, sir!” As she silently nibbled, resisting the urge to crunch them up, she noticed a darn in one corner of the handkerchief.
    A swift glance at Mr Courtenay disclosed what she had missed before. The elbows of his brown coat were threadbare and the toes of his boots were scuffed beneath the blacking. So he did need a substantial inheritance after all, which made it all the kinder of him to ensure her arrival at Addlescombe on time.
    She very much feared they were both to be disappointed.
    She had missed some of Mr Harwood’s reading. Aubrey Philpott was now looking as disgruntled as his somehow fossilized face permitted. At first she had been surprised by his youth, but then the eye of experience had discerned the artificially brassy tint of his hair, the lines beneath the carefully applied face-powder. There was something vaguely familiar about him.
    “‘To my sister-in-law, Jane, my