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another moment Mariah herself stalked in, followed by Fallow and a young man in coarse homespuns.
    Mariah marched directly up to Laurence. “Are you my cousin Charles?” she demanded. Without waiting for an answer, she added, “I wish to tell you that this young man”—she pointed to the youth behind Fallow, and he cringed—“has no more idea of trenching than a sparrow. I found him filling in a border which had not been dug more than six inches!”
    Laurence goggled at her.
    â€œAnd if you intend to keep your park in any sort of condition, you must do something,” continued Mariah. “Shallow trenching is ruinous .”
    â€œI, ah…” Reverend Debenham swiveled an anguished eye to Fallow.
    The butler rose to the challenge. “This is not Lord Wrenley,” he said. “As I informed you, Lord Wrenley is out for the day. This is Mr. Laurence Debenham, rector of Wrenley church. Miss Postlewaite-Debenham, sir.”
    Mariah heaved a sigh. “And I suppose none of you cares a farthing about trenching. Well, I shall simply have to show the boy myself, then.”
    She turned as if to go away again. “Won’t you have some tea first, Mariah?” asked Anne. “That can wait, surely.”
    â€œWait?” The other’s outrage was patent.
    Once again, Fallow stepped into the breach. “If I might mention, ma’am. Jack has just started in the gardens this week. He is inexperienced. I am sure Ames, the head gardener, means to educate him in the proper method of, er, trenching.”
    Mariah snorted. “Head gardener! Stuff and nonsense.”
    Fallow drew himself up and stared coldly over the company’s heads.
    â€œCome, Mariah, do have some tea,” coaxed Anne. “It will be dark soon in any case, and we have visitors.”
    After a visible struggle with herself, the other gave in and came toward them. As she sank into an armchair, Fallow drew the unfortunate gardener’s boy out of the room. Anne furnished her chaperone with tea and bread and butter and introduced their callers. “Branwell?” responded Mariah. “Family of Bishop Branwell?”
    â€œYes,” said Lydia eagerly. “He is my father.”
    Mariah sniffed. “I am sorry for you, then. The man’s views are unsound, completely unsound.”
    Lydia sank back with a gasp, and Laurence stared.
    â€œThinks roses should be pruned twice a year,” continued Mariah. “I saw his article in The Horticultural Gazette . Never read such poppycock. A good thorough pruning in the autumn is what roses want, not some lunatic half-measure in October and another dose in November. Idiocy!”
    Lydia was obviously speechless with outrage, though she was showing signs of recovering her tongue. Laurence seemed stunned, and Mrs. Branwell was shrinking back in her chair as if terrified. “Well, Mariah,” ventured Anne, “I suppose there are differences of opinion in matters of gardening, as in everything else. I know my teachers said—”
    â€œNonsense!” interrupted the other. “There is a right way and a wrong way, and that is that. The bishop should stick to what he knows. I don’t tell him how to preach a sermon; he shouldn’t try to tell me how to prune my roses.” She laughed abruptly. “Particularly since he knows nothing whatsoever about the matter.”
    â€œMy father has won prizes for his roses!” snapped Lydia. “They are considered the finest in the county.”
    Mariah shook her head. “That is one of the wonders of nature. Abuse plants as you will, often as not they blossom anyway.”
    Miss Branwell sprang to her feet. “I think it’s time we went, Mother,” she said loftily.
    Laurence hurried to her side as her mother joined her. “Lydia, you mustn’t take this too seriously. After all…”
    With a look that would have withered the roses in question,