Chapter Five
Seven Amethysts
"Mr. Pettifer," said Verity gently. "The left one too."
Every eye in the meadow followed Cyril's hand as it went, slowly, into the left coat pocket — and came out holding seven amethysts, winking purple in the afternoon sun: a great oval stone at the center, ringed by six smaller round ones, set in silver like a spray of violets.
The meadow gasped. Miss Vane's bonnet trembled. Plimpton dropped the dead wasp.
Mrs. Harlow rose from her camp stool. "Cyril," she said.
"Aunt Letitia —" Cyril's voice cracked. "I meant only to borrow it! Only till Saturday! The tailor was to hold it as security, and I was to redeem it and pin it back before Tuesday, and nobody was ever to know!"
"A paste copy?" said Verity. "Do not tell me there was a paste copy."
"There was nearly a paste copy," Cyril admitted. "The jeweler in the village was to — that is, I had inquired —"
"Cyril Pettifer," said Mrs. Harlow, "you goose. Had you asked, I would have paid the man myself."
"I could not ask! A Pettifer does not ask!"
"A Pettifer," said his aunt, "does not steal his aunt's brooch at a picnic, either, and yet here we are." She took the brooch and pinned it firmly to her shawl, over her heart. Then, to everyone's astonishment, she laughed — a great dovecote laugh that startled the swans.
"But Aunt — the tailor — the bill —"
"Will be paid," said Mrs. Harlow. "By me. On one condition." She fixed her nephew with a gimlet eye. "You will write me a poem of apology. And it must rhyme properly this time, Cyril."
Cyril went scarlet. His last poem had rhymed sorrow with tomorrow and yarrow, and the meadow had not let him forget it.
"I shall write," he said hoarsely, "the finest apology in the history of verse."
"You shall write," said his aunt, "anything that does not rhyme yarrow with tomorrow."
Laughter rolled down the meadow to the river and back. Alexander, much moved, produced the last peppermint and presented it to Cyril with ceremony. "For courage," he said. "Yours will need it. Poetry is the harder punishment."
And then Jem, who had been tuning his fiddle all afternoon in the patient manner of musicians everywhere, struck up a waltz.
It was the golden hour, and the river ran gold, and the meadow — pies, wasps, dragonflies, frog and all — turned out upon the grass to dance.
Plimpton danced with Lady Fallow, forgiven by all wasps.
Sir Peregrine danced with Miss Vane's bonnet ribbons.
Mrs. Harlow, her brooch winking purple over her heart, danced with her nephew, who trod on her toes twice and was forgiven twice.
Verity took Alexander's hand, and they waltzed by the water's edge the way they had waltzed a hundred times before: one, two, three; one, two, three — the river keeping time like a third partner.
"You counted his pocket-pats," said Verity, as they turned.
"Eleven," said Alexander. "A guilty man pats in multiples of —"
"Do not spoil it," said Verity. "One, two, three."
"One, two, three," said Alexander. And the sun went down on the Medway, and the amethysts winked purple on Mrs. Harlow's shawl, and all was right with the riverside.
But the river was not finished with them.
A fortnight later, in London, an invitation arrived on thick cream paper: the Summer Exhibition would unveil a newly painted portrait of Lady Amelia Dovedale — wearing, for the first time in public, the famous Dovedale topaz parure.
"Topazes," said Verity, reaching for the peppermints. "Pack the peppermints, Alexander."