False Colours

9

On the following day, towards the end of the afternoon, the Dowager Lady Stavely arrived at Ravenhurst, in an even more antiquated and ponderous travelling chariot than Mr Cliffe’s, and accompanied by her granddaughter, her abigail, and her personal footman. Mr Fancot, notwithstanding his expressed wish to put as many miles as possible between himself and any member of the Stavely family, greeted their appearance on the scene with as much pleasure as was compatible with his fear that he might, in an unguarded moment, betray himself. For this, twenty-four hours spent in the company of his maternal relations were largely responsible. What Lady Denville mendaciously described as a cosily conversable evening had been followed by a singularly boring, and, at times, difficult day. Cosmo, himself the owner of a modest estate, had chosen, when civilly asked to say what he would like to do, to ride round his nephew’s acres. During this expedition, on which Kit had felt himself bound to escort him, he had asked a great many pertinent questions to which Kit, who, as a younger son, had never concerned himself with the management or the revenue of his father’s property, was hard put to it to answer. He was obliged to endure a homily from his uncle, who perceived, with regret, that report had not lied when it described the Sixth Lord Denville as a frippery young man, wholly abandoned to frivolity. Fortunately for the absent Evelyn’s reputation, Mr Cliffe retired to the library after a substantial nuncheon, spread a handkerchief over his face, and sank into profound and audible slumber. Kit was left with the task of trying to entertain his cousin: no easy one, since young Mr Cliffe’s sole desire was, as he expressed it, to take a bolt to Brighton. Asked what he wanted to do in Brighton, he replied vaguely that they might go for a toddle on the promenade, or perhaps take a look-in at a billiards-saloon. But as Kit, in the existing circumstances, was determined to give this haunt of fashion a wide berth; and would have shrunk, under any circumstances, from being seen in the company of a would-be dandy who presented to his jaundiced eye all the appearance of a counter-coxcomb, this scheme was blocked at the outset. Kit said that it behoved him to be on hand when the Stavelys arrived; and that if Ambrose wanted to play billiards on a summer’s afternoon there was a very good table at Ravenhurst. In the end, as Ambrose said that he didn’t know that he really wished to play billiards, he drove him upstairs to change his tightly fitting coat, his dove-coloured pantaloons, and his cut Venetian waistcoat for attire more suited to the country, and bore him off to shoot rabbits. Ambrose went unwillingly, saying, with a nervous laugh, that he was not a crack shot, like his cousin; but after he had been forcibly dissuaded from carrying his fowling-piece at an extremely dangerous angle, and had been given a lesson in how to load and fire it he forgot his affectations, and began to enjoy himself. He was much relieved to find his cousin so good-natured, for he stood in secret awe of Evelyn, remembering a previous visit to Ravenhurst, as a schoolboy, when Evelyn, finding that he had neither the taste nor the aptitude for any form of sport, regarded him with contempt, and soon shrugged him off. It seemed to him that the passage of time had greatly improved Evelyn; and presently, emboldened by the patient encouragement he received, he confided that he rather thought he would like to be able to shoot well. “Only the thing is, you see, that I never had the opportunity to learn, because m’father ain’t a sporting cove.”

Realizing for the first time that Ambrose had grown up under disadvantages he had never himself experienced, Kit was inspired to suggest that while he was at Ravenhurst he should place himself in the hands of the head gamekeeper, who would be delighted to have a pupil to school. The idea took well; and as the proposal was shortly followed by a shot which accounted for one of a gathering of unwary rabbits Ambrose trod back to the house immensely set up in his own conceit, as convinced that he had aimed at that particular rabbit as he was that in less than no time he would be acknowledged by all to be a famous shot.

Half-an-hour after they had reached the house again, and just as Kit came downstairs, having changed his rough coat, his breeches, and his long gaiters for more formal attire, the Dowager Lady Stavely’s impressive chariot was at the door and Norton, aided by my lady’s footman, and with two of his own satellites in support, was tenderly handing her down from it. Kit arrived on the scene in time to hear the blistering reproof she addressed to her helpers: he gathered that her mood was unamiable, and was not surprised to be greeted with a pungent criticism of the state of the lane which led from the pike-road to the main gates. “However,” she conceded magnanimously, “you have a very tolerable place here—very tolerable indeed! I was never here before, so I’m glad to have seen it.” Her sharp eyes scanned the variegated facade. “H’m, yes! I do not call it splendid, but a very respectable seat. You should root up all those rhododendrons beside the avenue: nasty, gloomy things! I can’t abide ’em!”

“But think how beautiful they are when they are in bloom, ma’am!” said Cressy, who had just alighted from the carriage.

“All but the shabby-genteels are in London then, so much good do they do one!” said Lady Stavely sweepingly. She saw that her hostess was coming down the wide, shallow stone steps, and nodded to her. “How-de-do? I’ve been telling Denville he should root up those rhododendrons on the avenue: they make it too dark.”

“Yes, don’t they?” agreed Lady Denville. “Like descending into Hell; only then, of course, one comes out into open ground, which is such an agreeable surprise. Let me take you into the house, ma’am: the sun is quite scorching!”

The Dowager uttered a cackle of amusement. “Thinking of your complexion, are you? When you get to be my age you won’t care a rush for it. We used to lay crushed strawberries on our faces, to clear the sunburn. Slices of raw veal, too, against wrinkles. Not that I ever did so: messy, I call it! I dare say you use all manner of newfangled lotions, but they don’t do you any more good than the old-fashioned remedies did us.”

Lady Denville, who nightly applied distilled water of green pineapples to her exquisite countenance, and protected it during the day with Olympian Dew, replied without a blink that that was very true; and guided her guest towards the steps, offering the support of her arm. This was refused, the Dowager stating that she preferred the services of her footman. She also, stated, when it was suggested to her that she might like to be conducted immediately to her bedchamber, that she was an old woman, and in no state to drag herself up any more stairs until she had recovered her breath and what little energy remained to her.

“Then you shall come into the Blue saloon, which is delightfully cool, ma’am,” responded Lady Denville, with unabated good-humour. “I’ll tell them to make tea, and that will revive you.”

“Well, it won’t, for I shan’t drink it!” said the Dowager. “I’ll take a cup of tea after dinner, but I won’t maudle my inside with it at this time of day! What I could fancy—but it’s of no consequence if you have none!—is a glass of negus.”

“To be sure! how stupid of me!” exclaimed Lady Denville, directing a look of agonized inquiry at her butler.

“Immediately, my lady!” he said, rising magnificently to the occasion.

Cressy, still standing at the foot of the steps, raised ruefully smiling eyes to Kit’s face, and said softly: “She is tired, you know, and that always makes her knaggy! I am so sorry! But she will be better presently.”

An answering smile was in his eyes as he said: “I’ve a strong notion that somewhere—in one of the lumber-rooms, I fancy—there is a carrying-chair that was used by my grandfather, when he became crippled with the gout. Do you think—?”

“I do not!” she replied, on a choke of laughter. “The chances are that she would take it as an insult. It will be best to leave her to your mother’s management: depend upon it, she will charm her out of the mops! I think she would charm the most ill-natured person imaginable, don’t you? And Grandmama is not that—truly!”

“Certainly not! A most redoubtable old lady, who instantly won my respect! Now, what would you like to do? Shall I hand you over to Mrs Norton, to be escorted to your bedchamber, or will you take a turn on the terrace with me?”

“Thank you! I should like to do that. I caught glimpses on the avenue of what I think must be a lake, and longed to get a better view of it.”

“That may be had from the terrace,” he said, offering his arm. “I wish you might have seen it when the rhododendrons were in full bloom, however! Even your grandmama would own that their reflection in the water, on a sunny day, makes up for their gloominess now!”

“You wrong her, Denville! Nothing would prevail upon her to do so!” She turned her head, looking at him a little shyly, yet openly. “I wish you will tell me if this visit of ours is—is quite what you wanted?”

He replied immediately: “How could it have been otherwise?”

“Oh, easily! It was a stupid question to ask you, for you were obliged to give me a civil answer! The thing is that I have a lowering suspicion that Grandmama forced Lady Denville to invite us.”

“I believe it was she who hit upon the notion, but I can assure you that Mama was delighted with it. Can you doubt that I too am delighted?”

“Well, yes!” she replied unexpectedly. “The thought has teased me that although I told you that I had not perfectly made up my mind, I didn’t ask you to tell me whether you, perhaps, had misgivings too. When you left London, it occurred to me—I could not help wondering if—Oh, dear, my tongue is tying itself into knots! You see, I do understand how very awkward it must be for you, if you are wishing you had never offered for me! So don’t stand on points, but tell me if you feel we should not suit, and leave it to me to settle the matter—which, I promise you, I can do, without the least fuss or noise!”

He put his hand over hers, as it lay on his arm. “That is very kind and thoughtful of you!” he said gravely.

“Well, I know how difficult it is for gentlemen to cry off,” she explained. “It has always seemed to me to be monstrously unjust, too, for you may quite as easily make a mistake as we females are held to do so frequently!”

“Very true! That is to say, I haven’t yet had occasion to consider the matter, but I feel sure you are right.”

She smiled. “Are you ever at a non-plus? That was charmingly said. But let us have no flummery, if you please! And don’t be afraid that you will offend me! Tell me the truth!”

“The truth, Miss Stavely, without any flummery, is that the more I see of you the greater becomes my conviction that you are worthy of a better man than I am.”

She wrinkled her brow. “Is that a civil way of telling me that you would like to cry off?”

“No. It is a way of telling you that you are a darling,” he said, lifting her hand, and lightly kissing it.

The words were spoken before he could check them, and with a sincerity which brought a wave of colour into Cressy’s cheeks. He released her hand, thinking: I must take care; and: I have never known a girl like this one. Aloud, he said: “Are you afraid to walk on the grass in those thin sandals, or will you let me show you the rose-garden? It is quite at its best—and I have just caught sight of my young cousin! He will almost certainly join us if we remain here, and I wouldn’t for the world expose you to that trial until you have recovered from the fatigue of your journey!”

Her quick flush had faded; she laughed, falling into step beside him. “Yes, indeed! I dare say we must have come quite thirty miles! Is your cousin so very dreadful?”

“Yes: half flash and half foolish!” he said, handing her down the unevenly flagged steps on to the shaven turf. “We were used—my brother and I—to think him an irreclaimable jackstraw, and accorded him the roughest treatment on the rare occasions when we met him.”

“It seems to me that you still do so!”

“Not at all! I took him out to shoot rabbits this afternoon—my life in my hands! That’s quite enough for one day. Seriously, he’s a tiresome youth—what I should describe, if I were talking to one of my own sex, but not, of course, to you, as a shagbag.”

She said appreciatively: “No, of course not! And how would you describe him to me?”

“As a quiz—and bumptious at that! But I’m beginning to think that the fault doesn’t lie altogether at his own door. Are you acquainted with his father? my uncle Cosmo?” She shook her head. “Ah, then that is another treat in store for you! He is one of mother’s brothers, but she seems to suspect that he may be a changeling. Don’t be surprised if he asks you what you paid for your gown, and then tells you where you could have had it made up more cheaply!”

She was in a little ripple of amusement. “I won’t! You can’t think what a relief it is to me to know that you too have relations who put you to the blush! I’m covered with confusion every time I recall that shocking party in Mount Street, with poor dear Cousin Maria putting you out of countenance by saying in a voice to be heard all over London that you were very handsome; and that odious creature, Austin Lucton, trying to buttonhole you! My father was vexed to death when he heard that you did buy his horse! Is it a horrid commoner? Papa says that Austin can never judge a horse.”

“Oh, not a commoner!” he answered. “Just a trifle short of bone! You may see him for yourself: I had him brought down here, and have been hacking him.”

“Not thinking him fit to go in Leicestershire!” she said. “What can have possessed you to buy him? I fear your reputation will be sadly damaged!”

He chuckled softly. “No, will it? That’s famous!” He read a surprised question in her eyes, and added: “No, I don’t mean that! The truth is that I was obliged to purchase the animal—having kept your cousin waiting such an unconscionable time for my decision. Do you hunt, Cressy?”

She shook her head. “No, I’m afraid I don’t. I have been out once or twice with Papa, but not in the shires. You, I know, are what Papa calls one of the Tally-ho sort! I hope you won’t require me to try to emulate you, for I am very sure I couldn’t do so. I like to ride, but I am not an accomplished fencer! To own the truth, I find it very hard to throw my heart over a bullfinch, and I hate drop-fences!”

“Capital!” he said cheerfully. “For my part, I hate hard-riding females! Of late years, I have had little opportunity—” He caught himself up, and continued smoothly—“of observing the prowess of ladies on the hunting-field!” He stood aside, to allow her to pass through a rustic arch overhung with trailing crimson ramblers. “Here, ma’am, we enter into our celebrated rose-garden! Do you like it?”

“Oh, it is beautiful—exquisite!” she exclaimed, standing at gaze for a minute, before moving forward swiftly to inspect more closely a new specimen, just bursting into full flower.

“Tell Newbiggin so—he’s our head gardener—and youwill have made a slave for life! I should warn you, however, that my dear Mama is firmly convinced that she, and she alone, made this garden! And it is perfectly true that it was she who conceived the notion. She was immersed in plans when I left for Constantinople, but—”

“When you left for Constantinople?” she repeated, looking quickly up at him.

“To visit my brother,” he said glibly.

“Did you do that? How much I envy you!”

“Are you fond of foreign travel?”

“I have never done any—only in books!” she said. “It was used to be my greatest ambition—to see the world a little—but Papa dislikes foreigners, and I never could persuade him to go even as far as to Paris. You visited your brother in Vienna too, didn’t you? I wish you will tell me about it!”

There was no difficulty about this; and as they strolled companionably down the paths that separated the rose-beds Kit soon found that her reading had taught Cressy a great deal. She listened eagerly, interpolating an occasional question; and from time to time Kit paused to break off a particularly fine bloom to give to her. When they made their way back to the house she held quite a bouquet, and said, conscience-stricken: “If we should meet your gardener now he will become my enemy, not my slave! Tell me, Denville, did your father make the Grand Tour when he was young? Don’t you wish you had grown up then, before the war, when it was thought to be part of a young man’s education to travel abroad, learning to speak foreign languages, seeing how people live in other countries?”

“Except that if my father’s Grand Tour is anything to judge by they went at too early an age, and were hedged about by tutors. As far as I could ever discover from the things my father told me, he went from one large city to another, armed with introductions to the ton, and spent his time between studying with his tutor and attending balls and routs—which he might as well have done in London!”

She said thoughtfully: “Yes, but I have a melancholy suspicion that our fathers—and even more our grandfathers—had very little interest in the beauties of nature, and still less in the customs of the people. My own grandfather kept a diary of his Grand Tour, and it is composed almost entirely of great names, and social functions which he attended: I was never more disappointed, when Papa gave it to me to read! For he must have passed throughout the grandest scenery, you know!”

“Did he record that he took care to wear lambswool next the skin when travelling over an Alpine pass?”

She burst into laughter. “Yes, he did! Oh, dear! How sad that our forebears should have had such opportunities, and should have wasted them so shockingly!”

They had reached the terrace-steps by this time. As they mounted them, Kitsaid: “Have you taken Miss Clara Stavely’s place in attendance on your grandmama, Cressy? My mother wasn’t perfectly sure if she would be accompanying you, or not.”

“Oh, I’m sorry! I should have told her. Yes, I always go with Grandmama to Worthing at the end of the Season, so that Clara may enjoy what is known in the family as her holiday! In fact, she has gone to fetch and carry for my Aunt Caroline—and will very likely be required to take charge of the children as well, if I know my Aunt Caroline!” She smiled. “Don’t look so shocked! Let me tell you that my Aunt Elizabeth, who is the kindest creature imaginable, was used to think it as abominable as I can see you do that Clara should become a mere drudge. She invited her once to spend the summer in Hertfordshire, determined that she should enjoy a holiday of ease and comfort. Clara had nothing to do but be cosseted and amused—and had almost moped herself into a decline (as she later confided to me) when Aunt Eliza summoned her to come instantly to her aid, one of her children having thrown out a rash; her eldest son, my cousin Henry, having taken a toss, and broken his arm; and her housekeeper having been obliged to leave at a moment’s notice to succour her ailing mother, who had been laid low with a palsy-stroke. Aunt Eliza told me that Clara packed her trunks in the twinkling of a bedpost, and was on her way to Lincoln while she, and her very attentive children, were still trying to prevail upon her to remain at Stoborough Hall! I collect that there was all to do in Lincoln, and I know how exacting is my Aunt Caroline, but I promise you that when Clara resumed her post beside Grandmama she was wonderfully refreshed!”

He was obliged to laugh at this lively history, but he said, cocking an eyebrow at her: “Yes, I too have an aunt who—according to what my mother tells me—derives immense satisfaction from immolating herself on the altar of family duty. But I hope you don’t mean to try to bamboozle me into believing that you are of this cut!”

“Not in the least!” she replied. “Nor do I immolate myself. The worst I have to suffer when I go to Worthing with Grandmama is—is a certain tedium! And even that is alleviated by Grandmama’s tongue.” He had opened a door that gave access to the terrace from the house, and she said, pausing before she stepped across the threshold: “Thank you for my roses! Do you keep country hours at Ravenhurst? Will you desire one of the servants to take me to my room, if you please? It must be time I made myself ready for dinner.”

“We’ll find my mother,” he replied. “She will certainly wish to take you up herself.”

Lady Denville was not far to seek, for she was coming down the stairs as Kit conducted Cressy into the main hall. She was looking a trifle harassed, but when she saw Cressy her face brightened, and she came quickly down the remaining stairs to fold the girl in a scented embrace. “Dearest child! I was wondering where you were, for I haven’t exchanged above two words with you!”

“I beg your pardon, ma’am! Denville took me to see your rose-garden—and was so kind as to pluck these for me! Aren’t they beautiful? The garden too, so charmingly laid out! We have nothing like it at Stavely.”

“It is pretty, isn’t it?” agreed her ladyship. “Such a labour as it was to make it! But I’ve never regretted it. Cressy, I must warn you that this is the dreariest party! It positively overpowers me to think that I should have invited you to it, poor child! What with my brother, prosing and moralizing in the most boring manner, and Emma growing drabber under one’s very eyes, and speaking like a mouse in a cheese, not to mention Ambrose, whom anyone would take for a mere April-squire—”

“You didn’t invite me, Godmother!” Cressy interrupted, laughing. “I know very well I’ve been foisted on to you! And I defy any party of which you are a member to be dreary!”

“Yes, but I am already feeling excessively low and oppressed,” said her ladyship. “And I was obliged to tell Norton to set dinner forward, because your grandmama particularly desired me not to expect her to keep late hours. So we shall dine at six, my dear—though why one should dine in daylight merely because one is in the country I have never understood! However, it won’t be so very bad, because I have ordered supper at eleven, when I do hope Lady Stavely will have retired!”

“You can’t say I didn’t warn you that I too have relations who put me to the blush, Cressy!” interpolated Kit.

“Oh, dear!” exclaimed Lady Denville, stricken. “Well, doesn’t it show you how disordered my senses are? Besides, Cressy knows that her grandmama always puts me in a quake!”

“Of course I do!” averred Cressy, her eyes alight with amusement. “Was she very twitty. ma’am? Are you at outs with me for having left her to your management? I do beg your pardon, but I thought you would contrive to smooth down her bristles much more easily if I were not present. I expect you did, too!”

“Well, I don’t know that I did that, precisely,” said Lady Denville, considering the matter, “but I must own that when I took her to her room a few minutes ago she was not so out of reason cross! I don’t mean to say that she was in high good-humour, but she very fortunately detected that the colour had faded a little from the brocade I chose for the curtains in the Blue saloon—which I never thought to be thankful for, K—Evelyn! because I had it sent from Lyons, and the cost put your father all on end. Indeed, I was quite provoked myself when I saw how sadly it had faded! But one never knows when what seems to have been a mistake will turn to good account: it put Lady Stavely in a much better humour when she was able to tell me what a peagoose I had been. Dearest Cressy, I think I should take you to your room immediately, for it won’t do to keep your grandmama waiting for her dinner! They tell me you haven’t brought your maid, so I will send Rimpton to you—and don’t, my love, allow her to put on airs to be interesting! I wonder sometimes why I bear with her—but she is a wonderful dresser!”

Miss Stavely, though in no doubt of Miss Rimpton’s skill, declined her condescending offices, saying that Grandmama’s Jane would do all for her that was necessary. This was not of a nature to tax the skill of an abigail who was more a nurse than a dresser, for it consisted merely of hooking up a very becoming gown of light orange crape. This was done in the Dowager’s room, and under her eye. She accorded the gown a certain measure of approval, but said that the skirt was too narrow, adding the time-honoured observation that she didn’t know what the world was coming to, when females tried to make themselves look like hop-poles. Disdaining the modern fashion of high waists and clinging skirts, she was herself attired in a stiff black silk, worn over an underdress embroidered with silver thread. A cap of starched black lace was on her hair: mittens covered her arms; and in one hand she held a fan. Unlike her granddaughter, who wore the lightest of silk sandals, she had chosen from a large collection of outmoded shoes a pair with high heels, and paste buckles. Cressy told her mischievously that the only thing wanting was a patch on her cheek.

“Patches went out of fashion before you were born!” replied the Dowager crushingly. “You may go now, Jane. No, give me my cane—the ebony one! Yes, that will do. And tell William to come up directly to support me down those slippery stairs!” She turned to survey Cressy, as the door closed behind the placid attendant. “And where have you been, miss?” she demanded.

“Walking in the rose-garden with Lord Denville, ma’am,” said Cressy, undismayed by the sharpness of the question.

“H’m!” My lady scrutinized her own rouged countenance in the looking-glass, picked up a down puff with her twisted fingers, and gave her cheeks a further dusting of powder. “Never thought to ask if I wanted your company!”

“I knew that you didn’t, Grandmama,” responded Cressy, quizzing her intrepidly. “You told me not to hang about you, unless I wished to fret you to flinders, which, I promise you, I don’t! Furthermore, dear ma’am, I couldn’t suppose that when you had Lady Denville to take care of you there was the smallest need for me to remain at your side.”

“Amabel Denville is nothing but a pretty widgeon!” declared the Dowager roundly. “She always was, and she always will be!” She glared at her own reflection, her jaws working. “One of these days she’ll be like me: an old bag of bones! But I’ll tell you this, girl! If any of my daughters had possessed a tenth part of her charm I’d have thanked God for it! Help me out of this chair! I ought to be in my bed, with a basin of gruel, but I’ll come down to dinner, and if I feel able for it I’ll have a game of backgammon with Cosmo Cliffe afterwards. But I dare say I shan’t: I’m too old for all this junketing about the country! I only trust that if I’m carried off you’ll remember it was for your sake I came here!”

This malevolent speech did not augur well, nor did the Dowager’s mood grow more propitious until the party went in to dinner, when she became very much more mellow. For this her hosts had Mr Dawlish to thank. Not for nothing did this genius command an extortionate wage: he knew quite as well what to offer a very old lady as how to serve up a grand dinner of two full courses, consisting of half-a-dozen removes and upwards of thirty side dishes. The Dowager, revived by a soup made with fresh peas, allowed herself to be persuaded to try a morsel of turbot; followed this up with several morsels of a delicate fawn, roasted whole, and served with a chevreuil sauce; and ended her repast with a dish of asparagus, cut and delivered by the kitchen-gardener a bare ten minutes before Mr Dawlish was ready to cook it. This was so succulent that she was moved to compliment Kit on his cook. She informed him, in her forthright fashion, that she had eaten too much, and would probably be unable to close her eyes all night; but it was noticeable that when she left the dining-room she did so without assistance, and with a remarkable diminution of her previous decrepitude.

Although Kit had been willing enough to concede that Cosmo might entertain the Dowager by plying card-games with her, he had been quite unable to picture her enduring with even the appearance of complaisance his aunt’s flat platitudes. Great was his astonishment, therefore, when, following his uncle and cousin into the drawing-room some time later, he found these two ladies seated side by side on the sofa, and engaged in interested converse. Since Lady Denville had had a card-table set up at the far end of the long room, and lost no time in sweeping the three younger members of the party to it, to play, under her aegis, such frivolous games as suggested themselves to her, it was not until he paid his mama a goodnight visit that Kit learned the reason for this sudden and extraordinary friendship. Nothing, declared her ladyship, had ever been more fortunate! Poor Emma, during the course of a very boring anecdote, had let fall a Name, which had instantly made Lady Stavely prick up her ears. After exhaustive discussion, which had appeared to Lady Denville to range over most of the noble houses in the country, and a fair proportion of the landed gentry, it had been established, to both ladies’ satisfaction, that they were in some way related.

“But pray don’t ask me how, dearest!” begged Lady Denville. “I can’t tell you how many cousins, and marriages, and mere connexions were dragged in: you cannot conceive how tedious! But it has led to that terrible old woman’s taking a fancy to Emma, and I have every hope that we shall be able to fob her off on to your aunt!”