Aloha once again my merry readers of Destiny. So here's the longer chapter I promised – no Royal Banter this time, but there's all the fun of a Faux Pas, a very windswept conversation and a somewhat distracting mural. Henjoy, and please review. And I'll never misplace my "h"s again.

Meanwhile, I was sewing cheerfully in the drawing room and humming quietly to myself. As I listened to the wind howling down the chimney and making the leaves of the daffodils on the hearth quiver, I felt rather relieved that I hadn't actually been invited on the picnic after all. However, the fact that the Professor's mother lived so close to Windsor castle that she could easily have entered into a rather lively conversation with any of the inhabitants using only a pair of semaphore flags or even some relatively strong bongo drums, did make me think. Hard. Putting aside the mad idea that the royal family seemed to be considering me as a potential bride for a son of the Prince of Wales, I assumed that things were happening behind my back that may well change my future forever. Quite understandably, this made me feel rather nervous.

I was shaken from my philosophical soliloquy by the sound of the doorbell being rung rather too severely and in a manner that suggested that a lady of rather small stature was swinging merrily from it, for instance. Just for instance of course...

"Cooee!" called Miss Tripp as the clattering of feet and rustle of leaves whirling through the open door indicated their arrival.

"How was your picnic?" I asked, emerging from the drawing room to find several windswept colleagues removing their outdoor things and (in the case of Miss Tripp) removing salad leaves from their clothing.

"Rather bracing," said Lionel with feeling, hanging his hat on the hatstand and looking rather windburnt.

"We had to escape inside," explained Miss Tibbs, trying to flatten her ruined hairdo with limited effect, "Especially when the teacups began to blow across the table – one almost smashed, but dear Matthew caught it."

"And fell on an ornamental marble bat in the process," said Matthew ruefully, removing his hat so I could see his black eye in full detail.

"I don't know where Mother got that silly little habit," said the Professor jovially, still unwinding his muffler. Perhaps nine feet seven and a half inches was a little long for a scarf, "She should collect sensible things."

"Like toadstools," said Miss Tripp, grinning happily, as everyone turned to stare at her – including the Professor.

"Er...Miss Tripp?" I hesitantly said, "Toadstools?"

"Oh yes," she beamed, "My cousin Alge collects them you know – he has the largest collection of Fly Agaric in the Northern hemisphere."

"Fair enough..." I muttered, as the Professor finally removed his muffler and draped it over the hatstand like a large, woolly python.

"Now, if you ladies – and gentlemen – will excuse me, I have a few things to attend to," he said, climbing the stairs, humming 'Galloping Major' to himself.

"Did you have a nice time with Mrs Pearce?" asked Matthew as innocently as he could as we all traipsed into the drawing room.

"Oh it was wonderful," I said, "If you want to feel like a spare domestic servant that is." He laughed.

"I hear you've attracted the attention of a Prince," he said, as I scoured the bookshelf for something to read.

"How did you know that?" I asked, frowning. Eddy had sworn me to secrecy and I didn't think anyone but the Professor and possibly Mrs Pearce knew about it.

"Miss Tibbs told me – she said she could tell from the way he was looking at you."

"Really...?" I mused, almost dropping 'Virgil's Guide to Bee-Keeping and Other Rural Pursuits', "Well that's...nice," I finished, a trifle lamely, hoping my face wasn't going as red as I thought.

"You're blushing," he whispered, trying not to laugh again.

"No I'm not," I hissed, "It's just...just very hot in here, that's all – I need a glass of water. Here, read this – it's got some interesting theories in it," I said, thrusting 'If Man Descended From Puffins' into his hands and fleeing.

I quickly shut the door to the drawing room behind me and leant against the wall, still blushing furiously.' O rational thought, why hast thou deserted me?' I thought, briefly wondered why my inner voice had suddenly turned so archaic and tried to think clearly. So Miss Tibbs thought that Eddy liked me? One part of me was jumping for joy that he actually had emotion at all and even better that it was directed towards me, but the other, snider part, hinted that perhaps Miss Tibbs was probably not the best person to trust on affairs of the heart. As far as I knew, she'd never had a young man (or an old one for that matter) of her own, so how on earth could she tell? Maybe he was just staring at my height? That was probably it. I was just the tall girl with the black hair. The tall girl he was thinking of marrying...and what on earth had the Professor been doing in Windsor, because he most certainly was not at that picnic? He wasn't nearly dishevelled enough for that. With my head in rather a whirl, I was about to return to the drawing room, hopefully now a more normal hue, when I noticed Watson the Basset Hound wandering around, looking very lost.

"Come on boy," I said, patting my leg, "Come back to the study." He regarded me dolefully for a second and then followed at a lolloping pace up the stairs and back into his natural habitat. The Professor was nowhere to be seen, so I made a quick detour into my bedroom to pick up 'A Lady's Guide to Woodgrain' and set off across the landing.

"Ah, Evangeline, there you are," said the Professor, as he wandered aimlessly from Mrs Pearce's bedroom to the vague direction of his study, "Could you possibly get a glass of water for Mrs Pearce?"

"Of course – do you know what's the matter?" I added, genuinely concerned, as (for all her faults) she'd always made me feel relatively at home ever since I arrived at the library.

"Well, yes, yes I do...er..." he mumbled, "But...er..."

"Oh just tell her!" shouted Mrs Pearce from behind the door. She didn't sound amused.

"Well...er...you see our friend has er...reached a temps en vie, as they possibly don't say in France...er...." I looked blank.

"He means I'm getting old!" added the invisible contributor to this conversation. She still didn't sound happy.

"Er...you see there's a time in a lady's life when...um...she reaches a certain age and...er..."

"Oh, oh – I think I know what you mean," I said, finally seeing the light, "Oh."

"Oh indeed," said the Professor, "However, she should be back to her usual self tomorrow. God help us...," he muttered and I smiled. It wasn't often that the Professor made jokes like that, but when he did, he never meant them cruelly.

"Oh good," I said, "Now shall I get that water?"

"Water? Oh, oh yes... Oh, and Ella?"

"Yes Professor?" I said wearily.

"Have you seen the little custard cream tin I keep the Flags of All Nations in? It seems to have vanished."

"No, I'm sorry – have you tried the tin shelf?"

"The tin shelf? Oh yes, that would be a good place to start. Hm...yes – well I shall see you at dinner then."

"See you then Professor," I said, smiling and going to fetch the glass of water.

I edged gingerly into the kitchen, but Millie and Cook were both staring at some prunes in the pantry, so I just had time to make a lunge for the glasses and fill it before Millie noticed me and tried to speak. However, I was long gone by then, trying not to spill too much down my front and feeling somewhat smug about my record Water Fetching speed.

"Mrs Pearce?" I called, tapping on her door, "I've got a glass of water for you."

"Come in," she said, and it was evident from her voice that she hadn't cheered up in the past few minutes. With a great deal of trepidation, I pushed open the door and went in. She was sitting up in bed, with her arms folded and quietly melting the fireplace opposite with a furious glare.

"Shall I leave it on the table?" I asked, wanting to run away very, very quickly.

"I'm getting old Elspeth," she said, evidently not listening to a word, "Do you know what that means?" I almost said something about the benefits of walking sticks and an increase in respect from young whippersnappers, before realising that she'd only use a walking stick to hit people in the shins with and she already commanded more respect than was probably legal for just one person.

"Someone stood up for me on the train the other day – a if I were an old woman!" she cried, "He must have been at least thirty and he stood up – for me!" In all seriousness, I really thought that she was going to add: "So he had to die" to the end of that statement, but instead she just gave an angry snort and continued to melt the fireplace with her glowering.

"But you're not old," I tried, "You don't look it anyway."

"Really?" she asked with obvious disbelief, "How old do you think I am then?"

Ah. I had no idea how old she actually was. I knew she was younger than the Professor and he was nearly sixty, but other than that I drew a blank.

"Er...fifty two?" I hesitated and then cursed myself, as her eyes narrowed and the Nostril Flare of Death wasn't slow in coming.

"Fifty two?!" she bellowed, "Why you...you...Get out! Get out!" I abandoned the water on an occasional table and sprinted out of the door as fast as I possibly could, shouts still ringing in my ears.

"Elsie? What on earth's going on?" asked Miss Tibbs, meeting me halfway down or up the stairs, depending on your direction.

"Miss Tibbs," I asked, "How old is Mrs Pearce?"

"That's not a question a young lady should ask," she said, a little taken aback by my frantic expression and furtive glances behind me.

"No, no, Miss Tibbs I need to know – it's very important," I said, with a pleading look, which evidently worked, as she pursed her lips for a second and then relented.

"Well if you really must know, she was forty eight in May."

"Ohhhhh no," I breathed, "I'm in a lot of trouble."

"Why? Whatever have you said?"

"I was trying to make her feel better," I wailed, "I thought she must be in her mid-fifties at least."

"Oh no – she's only six years older than me. Is that why she was shouting?" I nodded. "Well in that case, I might leave our cosy little chat until tomorrow," she said, turning to accompany me downstairs.

"Ooh, how are you getting on with Lionel?" I whispered and it was her turn to start blushing.

"He's still charming," she said, "And he's even politer and more of a gentleman than I first thought. Matthew's a lovely young man too."

"Well someone's put you and he on the list for sorting out the store cupboard tomorrow," I said, trying to steer the conversation away from my faux pas of the century.

"Really?!" she squeaked, "Oh I...I...I suppose it was Mrs Pearce don't you?"

"Probably," I said, smiling, "Though I'd leave her to simmer for a while before you go and thank her."

"Oh I will," she said with a nervous glance upstairs, "She didn't start throwing things did she?"

"Throwing things?" I asked, a little aghast.

"When she gets very cross, you need quite good reactions to duck everything. I remember one of my first weeks here she and the Professor had an enormous row about something and she ended up giving him a cut lip with a well-aimed jade ferret."

"Oh, well maybe she wasn't quite as angry as all that..."

"No, but I think I might talk to her at dinner at the earliest."

"Oh no – I she coming to dinner then? If so I might have to hide..."

"Margaret can use one of her Japanese screens," said Miss Tibbs, smiling, "I think it's Beef Wellington this evening."

"Oh good," I said, as we both went into the drawing room, where Miss Tripp was pretending to be a salmon.

"You missed all the fun!" cried Matthew, pausing in his surprisingly competent mime of a caddis fly larva about to emerge into the stream for the first time.

"I told you we'd like it here Matthew," said Lionel, looking somewhat out of his depth with the river habitat game, but happy nonetheless.

"Oh yes," said his son, "Come on Elsie, can you show me the garden before it gets dark?" he asked, "And you come too Miss Tripp," he added, "You can teach me how to do handstands." With that, he grabbed my hand and hers and practically dragged us out of the room.

"Well we can go the front way," I said, opening the front door and going through the side gate into the little garden, which was a swirling maelstrom of leaves and other debris and also rather chilly.

"Did you really want us to show you the garden Matthew?" asked Miss Tripp, shivering and clutching the drainpipe with her free hand to prevent her from going the same way as the newspaper that was now flapping around the chimney tops.

"Not at all," he said calmly, "I just wanted to let Papa and Miss Tibbs have a conversation on their own."

"You little matchmaker you," I said, giggling like a madwoman (I blame the cold.)

"Well I happened to overhear your conversation on the stairs and I thought that I might try my hand at matrimonial pursuits," he said grandly, "Well Papa needs a woman's touch – he gets very lonely when I'm at school, and Miss Tibbs is very nice. Sorry Miss Tripp, but I thought she might be a bit more suitable for my Father..."

"Don't worry Matthew," she said, grimly hanging onto the drainpipe for dear life, "Dear Emily's smitten with him anyway. Oh, and I have Vladimir to think of as well."

"Vladimir?" asked Matthew, beginning to regret his choice of venue for this particular natter.

"A Russian pianist who was going to marry me," she explained, "But he emigrated back to Vorkuta several years ago."

"Would you have married him?" asked Matthew, ducking as a small pigeon sped past his ear, dragged by the powerful breeze.

"Certainly," she said, "If he hadn't gone away I most certainly would have done. If he came back tomorrow I wouldn't hesitate to become Mrs Kalashnikov."

"That's nice," said Matthew (well, how else could one reply?) and we all crouched low as a mass of vegetation detached itself from the beech tree and hurled itself in our general direction.

"Now, do you really expect me to teach you how to do a handstand out here or shall we go somewhere a little more civilised?" asked Miss Tripp, smiling.

"I think we should probably go in," admitted Matthew as a large twig smote him on the forehead. Pausing only to prise Miss Tripp off the drainpipe, we rushed inside and slammed the door.

"I think we should go into the library itself," said Miss Tripp, "All the blinds are down, so no one can see us from the street."

"All right then," said Matthew, "The library it is." We trooped in, Miss Tripp and I exchanging a look about how confident Matthew had become since he arrived at the library, and the lesson began in earnest.

Meanwhile, in the drawing room, Lionel and Miss Tibbs were sitting in awkward, but companionable silence, contemplating life in general.

"What terrible weather," said Lionel, trying to break the silence.

"Yes...I haven't seen gales like this for years," said Miss Tibbs, pausing in her sewing to look out of the window.

"There was one about three years ago I believe – we had a tree come down on the potting shed."

"Oh dear! I hope no one was injured?"

"Only three crocus plants. It was quite a dramatic afternoon though."

"I'm sure it was..." said Miss Tibbs, sincerely wishing that she was at least a tiny bit more forward where small talk was concerned.

"Yes – Matthew had only just come home from school and we were sitting down to dinner when there was an almighty crash and we ran to the window to find our little shed completely squashed flat by a mighty oak tree. It was raining then if I recall correctly..."

"Oh yes – I do remember – Margaret and I went shopping that day."

"What happened?" asked Lionel, smiling.

"Absolutely nothing," she admitted, "We went out, bought some new tablecloths and a hat and came back again. Nothing fell on us, or anyone around us for that matter. It was just very, very windy."

"Like today then I suppose," said Lionel, "I wonder what notion Matthew got into his head about going outside? Do you think we ought to go and look for them?"

"Oh not yet," said Miss Tibbs, a little too hastily she thought later, "I mean...they'll surely come in of their own accord if it really is as nasty as it looks outside."

"You're right I suppose," he said, leaning back in his chair and regarding the painted ceiling with a look of someone who's just noticed that the ceiling is adorned with murals and trying to pretend that they knew all along, "Er...Miss Tibbs? The ceiling... it's...very decorative..." he began, noting several of the scenes with a great deal of surprise. They weren't the sort of things he'd expected in such a respectable place...mind you, they could be ... informative, in their own way.

"Oh yes – the Old Professor – that's our Professor's father – took up painting a few years before he died. He was ... quite an old roué by all accounts I believe. However, he was a rather good artist, as you can see."

"Do you entertain a lot of people in this room?" asked Lionel, turning his head forty five degrees to the left to discover just what that nymph was doing with a packet of Jacob's Cream Crackers.

"Of course not!" cried Miss Tibbs, with a little giggle, "We use the other drawing room – this one's only for private use."

"I can't say I'm surprised..." he said, "Quite an imagination he had, the Old Professor."

"He certainly did – it was he who collected most of the more unusual books here – on his travels. He travelled a lot before he died – "

"I don't suppose he did much travelling after he died," cut in Lionel with a chuckle, still observing a small conga line of bearded gentlemen wearing fezzes.

"Oh...no...I..." mumbled Miss Tibbs, steadily turning pinker.

"Sorry, I shouldn't tease," said her companion, tearing his eyes away from the half-naked concubine juggling a spanner and five oranges while riding a unicycle. Suddenly the current Professor seemed almost normal. Almost normal...

"It's all right – I don't really get teased very often," said Miss Tibbs, yet again wishing that she was confident enough to tell him how she really felt. Or, at the very least, to convey her meaning through the medium of interpretive dance.

"Haven't you got any siblings then?"

"No – it's just my parents and I. They have a cat too, now that I've left home."

"Do you like cats then?" asked Lionel, trying not to look at the ceiling again.

"Yes, I do. When I finally retire I'm probably going to end up living in a little cottage with thousands of cats."

"That sounds...um..." mumbled Lionel, trying to choose his words with care.

"Awful? Yes, it does, doesn't it? Well I'll just never have to retire then."

"Either that or get married," said Lionel, embarking on the nigh on impossible task of putting the Daily Telegraph back together after half the pages had just slid onto the floor. Miss Tibbs' eyes widened and she gave a small squeak of desperate hope.

"Oh, I do beg your pardon," said Lionel, abandoning the paper, "I didn't mean to be so presumptuous." Miss Tibbs tried to say something vaguely witty, 'fast' and sophisticated, along the lines of: "Oh presume away dear – and was that a proposition? Hint, hint?" and laugh flirtatiously as she'd seen several young women attempt with varying degrees of success. Sadly, as she wasn't one of those free and easy young things, she just turned bright red and whispered something that sounded a little like: "Ohhdoneawoorrrrrgh..."

"Er...well, we should probably go and see where the others have gone," said Lionel, frowning a little and wondering whether the Professor wasn't the only mad one around the place.

"Hm? Oh yes, yes we should...that's a very good idea Mr Merryweather," she mumbled, assuming the colour that comes after red in the optimum blushing hue has been reached, and which is so rarely seen that it cannot be described. Especially by me.

"Oh please – I'm only Mr Merryweather to strangers, mere acquaintances and my lawyer – everyone else calls me Lionel."

"T...thank you L...Lionel," she said, grinning like a madwoman and rushing out of the room while he held the door for her.

Awwww. Lionel and Emily are terribly sweet in their own demented way. I think so anyway, and I'm the author, so there. Yes, well, hopefully this chapter floated your boat/tickled your pickle/did whatever it said on the tin, and you enjoyed it. Next time we have: handstands, the Dinner of Angst and probably more internal monologues by Elsie (who is the main character after all – MUST remember that occasionally...) Anyway, hope you enjoyed and if you'd be so kind as to leave a review with your calling card as you depart, I would be eternally grateful. Ta.