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“And will become rather more difficult still if you don’t even try to keep these little hooligans in order! Because unless you do, I’m going to turn the whole lot of you out, lock, stock and barrel! And if you question my authority for saying that, the answer is that this is my house and you are here without my permission!”

It was brutal, but it was effective. The mouth of the older woman opened and shut like that of a stranded fish, and if there was the hint of a grin on the younger one’s lips, she quickly suppressed it.

But now, Rosamund saw, John was at a loss to know what the next step was—and small wonder. This was essentially a woman’s problem.

“Is there a housekeeper?” she murmured, and saw the relief in John’s face as he nodded. “If you’ll send for her, I think she and I might put our heads together—”

He accepted the suggestion without comment and was about to go off in search of the housekeeper when a dignified presence made itself felt at the top of the staircase. In her trim black dress and immaculate white collar and cuffs, to say nothing of her air of authority, this could only be a housekeeper of the most competent type.

“Really, Miss Fletcher, I should have thought—” she began coldly, saw John—and they had another near-hysterical female on their hands. “Mr. John!” she exclaimed in dismay. “I had no idea—of course, if I had, I’d never have agreed—though the children had to go somewhere and both the Rector and the doctor thought—”

“All right, Mrs. Brickwell,” John interrupted briskly. “I fully appreciate that this is the only house for miles around big enough to cope with the situation. My dear—” he turned formally to Rosamund, “this is our housekeeper, Mrs. Brickwell. Mrs. Brickwell, my wife.”

If the housekeeper had been startled by John’s unexpected arrival, she was completely flabbergasted by his announcement. Her mouth was slightly open and she breathed heavily as she came slowly down the stairs.

Rosamund had a strange sensation of change in herself. She was not the cool, businesslike self that she had been in London. Nor the self she had become when she had gained her freedom and happiness. Nor even the brokenhearted self of the last few hours. She had become a blend of all three.

Here was a practical problem to be tackled, but she would do it for love, not money. And her own grief should help her to understand other people’s distress. Mrs. Brickwell, she reasoned rapidly, had been forced by circumstances into an extremely invidious position, and now, because of John’s sudden appearance, had been caught in the very act of having assumed an authority which was not hers. Nor, it was clear, had John’s acceptance of the situation entirely reassured her.

It was more than a possibility, too, that there was at least a degree of antagonism between the housekeeper and Miss Fletcher. Each, used to giving orders, would resent the presence of the other and would be convinced of her own superior claim to having the last word.

It was the sort of situation which had more than once occurred in the Salon, and there was only one way out of such an impasse. A third person whose authority neither contestant would dispute must take command. And she knew quite well who that person was at this moment. Not John because, as a man, he would be at a disadvantage dealing with two women. Herself.

And so, by the time Mrs. Brickwell reached the hall, Rosamund was there to greet her.

“How do you do, Mrs. Brickwell?” she asked, holding out her hand. “I’m so glad we’ve arrived in time to be of help!”

Rosamund had been careful to speak pleasantly, but she had also taken care to speak with confidence. One had to at times like this, even if one was shaking in one’s shoes. People didn’t, in her experience, accept authority unless it was made clear to them that one took it for granted that they would. And to her relief, Mrs. Brickwell proved to be no exception to the rule.

“Indeed, madam, you could not have arrived at a more opportune moment,” she declared with a baleful glance in Miss Fletcher’s direction. “Really, we’re all at sixes and sevens. I hardly know which way to turn—”

“A very difficult situation,” Rosamund agreed briskly. “And naturally, the children are alarmed and excited. Fire is a terrifying thing.”

“Yes, indeed, madam,” Mrs. Brickwell answered meekly, evidently realising that she had been firmly told that allowances must be made, but in such a way that she had not lost face. “I expect you’d like to know what arrangements have already been made—”

“Yes, we would, wouldn’t we, John?”

She turned to him and saw a look on his face that she had never seen there before. The grimness had gone, though there was no suggestion of amiability. Simply, it was an intent, preoccupied look as if his own thoughts were of more absorbing interest than the chaos around him.

“John—!” she gave his elbow a gentle nudge.

“Oh yes! Of course! Arrangements.” He came back to earth with a start. “The children will have to spend the night here, I suppose—”

“Will you discuss just what’s to be done with Mrs. Brickwell?” Rosamund suggested. “I want to have a word with Miss Fletcher—something must be done to amuse those children! How many are there, Mrs. Brickwell?”

“About fifty, so I’ve been given to understand.”

“Good lord, only fifty!” John ejaculated feelingly. “I’d have said nearer five hundred! Yes, by all means try to organise them a bit, Rosamund. Absurd to have sent even fifty with only two adults in charge!”

Rosamund made her way over to where Miss Fletcher, with singular incompetence, was trying to quieten the children nearest to her, some of whom were still in tears, though others had got over their fears sufficiently to have become obstreperous. But while Miss Fletcher was really quite hopeless, Rosamund noticed that the younger woman was making a better job of it, though clearly she realised how inadequate an effort it was, for she smiled ruefully at Rosamund.

"If only we could get them all into the garden where there’s more room,” she said under her breath. “But—” and she glanced significantly at Miss Fletcher.

Rosamund nodded encouragingly, but she didn’t stop. It was Miss Fletcher whom she had to persuade and cajole and, as a last resort, coerce. But it wasn’t going to be easy. Miss Fletcher was probably only too well aware of her own incompetence and would all the more resent— and possibly fear—having her authority undermined.

“I am Mrs. Lindsay,” Rosamund explained, and added sympathetically:
“What
a responsibility for you, Miss Fletcher!”

“I don’t mind responsibility,” Miss Fletcher insisted in an aggrieved voice. “If only I could get some co-operation!” And she in her turn shot a malevolent look across the hall! Yes, decidedly, there had already been trouble between her and Mrs. Brickwell!

“Yes, indeed, we must all pull together in an emergency like this,” Rosamund said briskly. “I think, if you’d give me some idea of just what has happened so far, and what damage has been done at the Orphanage—” she suggested, hoping that Miss Fletcher would feel that here, at last, was someone who was willing to be genuinely cooperative—by which, of course, she meant helpful without being self-assertive.

It appeared that the fire had started in the kitchen of the Orphanage—an old brick building with timber floors and staircase—and had got a good hold before, by chance, it was discovered since the last evening meal had been served and the clearing up done.

“And it spread with such terrifying speed,” Miss Fletcher explained agitatedly. “We had only just time to get the little ones—who, of course, were in bed—out before the staircase was involved.” She shuddered. “It’s terrible to think what might have happened—”

“How thankful you must be that it didn’t,” Rosamund interjected fervently. “Now, I gather that the kitchen will be completely out of action. Is there any hope of beds and bedding being salvaged?”

There appeared to be some doubt about that, at least as regarded the dormitories above the kitchen. For the others, on the far side of the house, there appeared to be some hope. Indeed, Miss Fletcher explained, the men had gone back in the coaches to see what they could get.

“Which men?” Rosamund asked.

“Two of our resident masters and another who lives in the village. And two of the outside staff here,” Miss Fletcher explained. “And really,” with a glance at her wrist watch, “they are taking their time about it!”

“It’s probably not an easy job if the staircase has gone,” Rosamund suggested. “But I don’t suppose they’ll be long now. In the meantime—” she glanced round the cluttered hall and decided that she’d allowed Miss Fletcher sufficient rope—“you’ll be anxious to have the children safely out of the way before they start carrying things through. Otherwise, some of them might get hurt. I expect you’d prefer them to be out in the garden, wouldn’t you, Miss Fletcher?”

And with only a token bleat that the grounds were so large that the little ones might get lost, Miss Fletcher agreed that that was what she’d like—but of course, she hadn’t liked to suggest it.

“The last thing I want is for us to be a nuisance to you,” she explained virtuously.

It was nearly midnight when John and Rosamund finally got rid of the last of their guests. Tim Ferris and Owen Weeks, the two masters in charge of the boys, had gratefully accepted the offer of a late-night drink and had shown a disinclination to leave the sitting room for their rather spartan quarters in the gymnasium. And even when they had gone, there were still things to discuss.

“I’ll go and see Matron or the Headmistress or whatever she calls herself tomorrow,” John announced pouring himself out another modest drink. “Also I want to see for myself what the damage is before I meet the Governors.”

“Yes, I suppose so,” Rosamund agreed, twisting her own half full glass so that the light glinted on the facets of the cutting. “If it’s really bad, will you let them stay on here?”

“It might be the simplest solution,” John said thoughtfully. “For them, at any rate. It
is
the only place for miles around that can accommodate fifty children and the staff and still leave rooms available for classes.”

“Classrooms,” Rosamund repeated. “That would mean emptying the rooms of their furniture—is there room to store it?”

“Enough, I should think,” John said consideringly. “Although if they’re going to stay long, the boys won’t be able to sleep in the gym. They’ll want to put that to its proper use."

“Yes, of course," Rosamund agreed absently.

John glanced enquiringly at her.

“Tired?” he asked quite kindly.

“I am, rather,” she admitted, and that was very true, but not so much physically, she could have added, as mentally. She felt as if she had lived a lifetime in a single day. So much had happened and it was all so—she groped for the right word—so
disjointed.
She felt as an actress might if she had to play one act from ‘Romeo and Juliet’ followed immediately by a second one from ‘Othello' and the third—no, no play ever written could possibly contain an act even remotely resembling events since they had reached Lindacres!

It was all so completely unreal! And not the least fantastic aspect of it all was the way in which she and John had worked together to bring order out of chaos. How was it possible that two people, head over heels in love and on their wedding day, no less, could first meet with such bitter disillusion and then, all personal emotion put aside, could work together like—well, like two partners in a business enterprise? That it was an impersonal relationship, born of the emergency, she knew quite well, but they had trusted and relied on one another—

And that was the most incredible fact of all. John, who had made it so clear earlier in the day that he had lost all his faith in her, had asked her advice and accepted her decisions without question as they dealt with the problems of this extraordinary situation. Was it just force of necessity that had compelled him to turn to her or— was it something that went deeper than that though he didn’t realise it?

She couldn’t tell and she certainly couldn’t ask. She had told John that she had married him because she loved him and that she would go on loving him. There was no more for her to say. The rest lay in John’s hands.

The clock struck midnight and he stood up.

“I don’t think there’s anything more we can do tonight,” he remarked. “You and Mrs. Brickwell have fixed up about food supplies for tomorrow. Some of their domestic staff will come over first thing to lend a hand— that seems to be the lot. No, there’s one thing I forgot to tell you. The Press put in an appearance while you were coping with the food situation.”

“Oh!” Rosamund exclaimed in dismay.

“Yes,” John agreed grimly. “They thought they’d come to report on a simple human interest story—and stumbled on a scoop! We’re news, Rosamund! Front page at that!”

“Yes, I suppose so,” Rosamund agreed faintly. “What— what did you tell them?”

John shrugged his shoulders.

“Simply that, not wanting the fuss of a big wedding, we'd got married very quietly. I managed to choke them off seeing you, but of course, I had to co-operate to some degree, otherwise they’d have decided that there was a mystery about it and been on the trail like bloodhounds on a scent! Not that I think it was much use. I had to give them your name, of course, and one of them knew you. So, more than likely, they’ll look up your aunt—and heaven knows what she’ll tell them! ”

“
I
know,” Rosamund told him wearily. “She’ll tell them that she knew all about it and thoroughly approved. She’ll make it sound like the romance of the year—” she caught her breath in a little sob.

“Rosamund—!”

“Oh, but of course she will!” Rosamund declared recklessly. “Don’t you see? You’re rich. I’m your wife. She sells expensive clothes. She. won’t risk a word of criticism! As a matter of fact, she said in her letter that she’d expect me to come to her for my clothes. It was to be the price of not letting you know that, as she believed, I’d known all along—”

Silence fell between them. A silence that seemed to intensify as the moments ticked past. A silence that neither of them could break.