Hill Manse ... Chapter 12

Chapter 12

Margaret and Judith stood transfixed at the large sitting room window that faced onto the rugged coastline of the North Sea. The spew from giant waves smashing atop raggedy rocks, shot sea foam in every direction as the reflective sun on scattered spumes of froth made dazzling rainbows across the prospect. It was ... tumultuous grandeur.

“Whatever we choose to do in any of the rooms facing this direction must not distract, in any way, from this magnificent view.” Judith resolved.

“I readily agree. I can’t decide on which rooms to start with ... the woodland side or the seaside rooms.”

“As we’re just beginning, we would be less diverted by the woodland side”, said Judith.

“Right you are. Let’s have our living and sleeping areas moved to this side of the house and ask Mr. Munro to begin emptying out the rooms on the woodland side.” Margaret sat on a sadly neglected sofa. “Let’s set down our ideas ... starting with the library, dining room, and large drawing room ... see what we come up with.”

....

“They’re handsome enough, I reckon, for being the English as well as ‘career’ women and not so young ... neither of ‘em. Don’t suppose they be having much a do with the likes of us in Sto’ven.” Dow Kerr signaled the barman for the ‘other half’ to be brought to the table. “Mrs. McNally, as was ... hired them to give a lift to the place ... awful run down t’is. They be using men from Sto’ven to cull, scrape and paint. That’s a good thing.” He was hoping for a spot on Hunter Munro’s work crew. “Munro only hires on steadies and I be a steady man. It be fittin how he put together his house building company.”

The two men at the table readily agreed with Dow Kerr ... after all, he pitched up for the second half pints ... that didn’t happen often. He was a tight-fisted old bugger.

Residents of Sto’ven knew all that went on at the Estate House. Mrs. Gladwyne, the housekeeper, cum cook, cum laundress ... kept the village folk up on all the doings in the house. She and her husband, Drummond the groundsman, lived in the Gardner’s cottage situated not far from the main house.

“Drum ... you go stoke up the fires in the two back bedrooms and this sitting room. The sun’s goin down ... it’ll soon be fierce cold in here.” Tildes Gladwyne fetched a clean cloth for the round table in the sitting room. Her strong hands snapped the cloth into a satisfyingly high billow causing it to float for a few seconds before landing smoothly onto the tabletop. She began to set down lovely china plates, crystal glasses and the now, Mrs. Gregor’s, best silver. The London ladies preferred eating their meals in front of the large window that faced the sea. She thought it odd that the women wouldn’t sit in the dining room. Albeit, she admitted, the dining room was near black with gloom and the dim glow of the chandelier helped little to brighten it up, but people ought to eat in the room meant for eating. It was a bit of a trek from the kitchen to the sitting room, but she had a large serving cart that Drum grudgingly wheeled for her and she had only to make one trip to serve and one trip to clean up, but she complained about it to the grocer, the fish monger and the Vicar’s wife, whenever she went into Sto’ven. And, now, since all the rooms facing the woods had been cleared of rugs, drapes and furniture, she had more to complain about ... dust flying everywhere, ladders and paint cans scattered about, hammers pounding and high-pitched drills braying all day ... how would her nerves ever bear it.

“I’ve written Cara of our progress to date and sent her some samples of wallpaper and yard goods. I am pleased with what we’ve accomplished so far.” Laying upholstery and drapery fabric choices on a trestle table alongside wood stirrers she’d painted in complementary colors, Margaret stood back to run her discerning eye over the array.

“Is that what was in the large envelope Mr. Gladwyne took to the post this morning?”

“Uh huh ... a legitimate excuse for him to eat a plowman’s lunch with his mates at the pub. Incidentally, Judith, has Mr. Munro been annoying you? I noticed you two conversing quite a few times during the day the last couple of weeks. He has his instructions ... what more is there to discuss?”

“Ummm ... I think this combination would work nicely in the dining room.” Judith pulled three options off the table and grouped them together. “What do you think?”

“Yes ... I like it. And, the tête-à-têtes with Mr. Munro?”

“Oh ... we talk of lots of things. He’s been telling me the names of the woodland birds that swoop in and out of the trees and roost in the niches of the house. There are any number of wild creatures that inhabit the woods ... been telling me about them, too. Mr. Munro lives the other side of Sto’ven not too far off the track to Aberdeen in a two-storied house with an authentic thatched roof. He built it himself.” Pulling out another grouping of fabric and painted sticks, she said, “He is not annoying me, Margaret, I enjoy his company. In point of fact, I often seek him out.”

Reverting to a stiff ‘Rosemary-like’ posture with chin elevated and nose aloft, Margaret fairly bristled. “Do you think that is wise, Judith? After all, he is an employee ... a common workman.”

Unperturbed, Judith replied. “Just as you and I are ... employees. We work for your sister-in-law. When we accept other clients, we will be their employees. You may think our way of speaking, our manners, sets us apart from others of the working class, but you are wrong. We toil for a living, therefore ... we are common workman.”

“I don’t see it that way at all.” Affronted, Margaret began to pace. “We are not ‘common’, Judith. We are talented owners of an upper-class design studio.”

“I’m sure you believe that to be true. After all, you are from a wealthy family ... therefore, an upper-class family. No shame has ever sullied your quality of mind or feeling. That is not so, in my case. I came from a middle-class working family. My father managed and, after scrimping and saving for years, eventually bought a motorcar dealership. Because he was successful, I was well educated, but instead of the ‘finishing school’ where my mother wanted me to go, I attended an art and design school. I didn’t want to marry wealth. Like my father before me, I wanted to earn it.” Opening the lid of a pretty porcelain box, Judith reached in and picked out a cigarette, tapped in on the edge of the tabletop and lit it with the matching porcelain lighter that sat beside the box that had been pushed to the far end of the trestle table.

Margaret plumped into a threadbare Queen Anne chair. Her cheeks were flushed and she didn’t look at her friend, but she listened.

Taking a long drag of tobacco smoke into her lungs, Judith exhaled a plumy gray-blue cloud and continued. “I married an accountant ... an ambitious young man that I thought was ‘going places’. Well, he did ... he went to prison after embezzling funds from my father’s business, as well as mine and from several other firms he’d worked for. The money was never found. I suppose he’s hidden it somewhere safe and will dig it up when he gets out of prison in twenty-five years, then he’ll head for South America and live in splendor the rest of his life. My father never recouped, lost his business, his house, his wife, then his life. He ran his car off a bridge a year ago. Mother remarried ... lives in Chelsea. Now we come back to me. I am not high-class, Margaret. I squat in an attic above a design studio that so far has survived my ex-husband’s thievery and the shame he’d dumped on me, but the business is not swanky. It is struggling to live and breathe ... as I am.”

“Forgive me, Judith, please. I turned into my sister, Rosemary, again. It’s a habit I’ve not completely quitted I’m afraid. I fooled myself into thinking I’m not still the pompous daughter and sister that had alternately annoyed and amused my father and brother for years. But, obviously, I will continue to make a fool of myself and have to apologize.”

“You are not a fool, Margaret. We have only recently become business associates and are still becoming acquainted. And, yes ... another thing, my new friend ... I will go on seeking the company of Hunter Munro. He’s attractive, a good business man, knows how to talk to people, is quick to smile and answer questions, has been legally separated from his wife for over two years, and he likes me ... and I like him.”

....

She was tired and probably depressed, too. Met the ’girls’ for lunch at a faux French café three blocks from King’s Bench. Fiona had known Madge, Shirley and Enid since they’d trained together to be court stenos four years ago.

Madge was living with a fellow name of Sandy ... been together three years. Her parents, who lived on the Isle of Man and never came to Town, thought Sandy was a girl (the deceit made for harmonious, if not scrupulous family dealings) and would send gifts on the appropriate occasions. Therefore, Sandy received lovely Christmas and birthday packages, which usually contained lingerie that he immediately turned over to a delighted Madge. Christmases and birthdays were windfalls for her underwear drawer.

Shirley, on the other hand, had a new fellow every two or three weeks. She went through them faster than peanuts at a football match. She was either too hard to please or just not paying attention. The last one had body odor. Now, one would think she’d have whiffed that impediment right off. Before him it was Stewart who chewed with his mouth open. Apparently spinach a gratin was the entrée on their last date. She broke off with Petroff two months ago because ... well ... his name annoyed her. Was it Leonard or Leland that snorted like a hog when he laughed? Fi couldn’t remember. This weekend Shirley was going to the pictures with a chap named Abraham whose last name had at least eight syllables. Who knew where that would lead?

Enid was the coup de grace of the afternoon. Waggling her ring finger under Fi’s nose not twice, not three times, but four times had been too much. The diamond was the size of a celery seed. How many times was a girl expected to gush over a celery seed? She did her best, but went back to court with a headache.

The door buzzer rang at 6 pm. She’d been home less than thirty minutes and hadn’t yet wound down from the thoroughly peckish afternoon. And, she wasn’t expecting anyone, either. Turning the flame off under the omelet she’d been about to cook to perfection, which wasn’t going to happen now, she opened the door. A cocky delivery boy stood on the doormat grinning, holding a huge bouquet of Chrysanthemums and Asters with fall foliage thrust in amongst the blossoms.

“This bouquet of loveliness is to be handed over to a Miss Fiona Dunne and to none other. You be Miss Fiona Dunne?” He waggled his shaggy eyebrows and winked.

“Yes, of course I am, you cheeky sod.”

“Rightee-oh, Miss Dunne ... sign here, Miss Dunne ... thank you, Miss Dunne.”

Closing the door and firmly latching it, she began reading the letter she’d pulled from the yellow cellophane-covered flower arrangement.

Dearest, Fi,

After we met two years ago, I took advantage of your youth and innocence and then continued to benefit from your loving and loyal nature while I was less than loyal to you. I am completely to blame for what went wrong between us. Please, forgive me.

Since we’ve been apart, I’ve come to realize how much you mean to me. I think I might even be in love with you. But, being a seasoned fellow who had been used to plenty of personal freedom, I got skittish ... kept seeing visions of a ball and chain hanging around my neck, don’t you know. But, you are a loving, sympathetic and forgiving woman, so I knew you would understand about that.

Last summer, a chap from the Times was telling me how he felt about the girl he was going to marry. He said they were perfect for one another and would bring value to each other’s lives.

That’s how I feel about you, Fi. We fit well together and, I promise, I will respect you.

Please have dinner with me Friday evening. I’ll call you tonight before eight.

Love,

Richard.

Fi was confused. She got the part about the apology, but what about the next part? Was he in love with her or not? He said he ‘might’ be in love with her and that they fit together and he promised he would respect her. When would he respect her ... when he decided he really loved her? Was he proposing marriage or asking her to be a sympathetic lover who would give him plenty of personal freedom? Or, was he just asking her to dinner in an oddly roundabout way? If he was proposing, he was way off the mark. How could she trust him? Is she supposed to trust him now because he might love her but is ‘skittish’? What had changed? And, what the hell does ‘skittish’ mean? Marriage was a lifetime commitment ... which not only meant a future with her, but a possible future with children.

Fiona’s mother hadn’t like Richard. It was his fault her ‘good’ girl wasn’t ‘good’ anymore. The only positive thing she had to say about him was that he at least had the common decency to use ‘alleged’ protection.

When she’d dated Jack Forester, Fi discovered what a great guy he was ... attentive, sweet, smart ... a solid man. He was very serious about building his career. He worked long hours. When he relaxed, he turned the radio to the BBC classical station; he took her to the opera; he read only the financial pages of the paper, liked to talk about his work with corporate accounts and the importance of mergers and acquisitions to all and sundry. Also, he hadn’t expected her to sleep with him.

After Richard’s hurtful handling of her, Fi decided she would never again turn herself inside out for a man. So, instead of totally submitting to Jack’s interests, she introduced Jack to some of hers ... sports, pop music and dancing. He capitulated at first, but it wasn’t long before it was evident that he was annoyed with her choices and unwilling to spend his time on ‘frivolous’ entertainments ... thought it best that he not call her anymore.

It had hurt her that Jack hadn’t cared enough about her to be as flexible as she was willing to be for him. Maybe it was in the nature of a man to prefer robotic dolls to women with likes and dislikes of their own. Well, marriage wasn’t the only option for a woman anymore. Fi could always support herself but ... what about a family ... children?

At 7:30 pm, Fiona’s phone rang.

Stepping out of the bathroom wrapped in her Oriental robe, Fi picked up the receiver. “Hello?”

“Hello, Fi, Richard, here. Did the flowers arrive?”

“Yes ... they are marvelous ... take up nearly the whole table. Thank you ... what a lovely thing to do.”

“You read my letter?”

“Yes I did and I would be happy to go to dinner with you Friday night. How gussied up should I get?”

“What? Uh ... thought we’d go to the Palace Hotel ... where it’s quiet. You read the whole letter? ... not just the last sentence?”

“Of course I did.”

“Can you forgive me, luv?” he crooned.

She replied cheerily, “Of course, I can. What was done to Dunne is over and done with ... all water under the bridge.”

“Alright, Fi, what’s going on? I recognize that ‘chirpy’ tone of voice. You’re still peeved, aren’t you? Just so you know, it’s not everyday I write a woman a love letter.”

“A love letter? I must have misunderstood. I thought it was an apology and an invitation to dinner?”

“It was an apology and an invitation to dinner, but I also told you I loved you. That makes it a love letter.” Tamping down his irritation, he reminded himself that he cared for this woman. “I told you I loved you and we fitted together.”

“Let me see, now ... yes, here it is ... well ... not quite. You said you thought you might love me, which implied you weren’t actually sure you did, and then you were also ‘skittish’, which could mean ‘scared’, and had visions of me being a ball and chain around your neck. Then you mentioned something about your needing plenty of personal freedom. I’m not sure many women would consider that a ‘love letter’.”

“I’m a bloody writer, for God sake, and I can’t write a bloody letter to my girl telling her I bloody love her without making her think I’m scared of her?”

There were a few more minutes of this form of ranting before Fiona was able to interject a teensy question.

“What time?”

“Time for what?” he barked.

“What time will you pick me up Friday night for dinner?” She asked, mildly.

“Seven ... that should do. Uhh ... good night.”

“Good night, Richard.” Fiona put down the phone, poured herself a glass of chilled Pinot Grigio, sat down in her favorite overstuffed chair, propped her feet on the matching hassock, rested her eyes on the flamboyant bouquet and ... smiled.

Sticking her head through the library doorway, Mrs. Hamblin commented on the loud noises she’d heard. “My word, Richard, at whom were you bellowing? You sounded quite ferocious.”

Angry and embarrassed, he muttered. “It was Fiona. I asked her to dinner Friday night.”

His mother’s back stiffened and her voice quavered dangerously. “I imagine the dear girl was ecstatic ... thrilled out of her mind at having received such a gracious invitation.” Glowering at her son, she slowly turned back to the drawing room.

Following her, Richard began to explain. “I sent her flowers and enclosed a love letter. In it I asked her to forgive me for my disloyalty ... told her what went wrong between us was my fault and that I loved her. Well, actually, I said that I might love her. I shouldn’t have said ‘might’. I was being cautious, that’s all.”

“Uh huh ... what else did you say in this ‘love letter’?” Charlotte Hamblin seated herself near her workbasket and took up a skirt to be mended, put on her glasses and set to the task.

“I’m a writer, Mum. I’m supposed to be able to set my thoughts onto the page with a certain degree of poise and confidence. But, when it comes to Fi, I make a bloody mess ... uh, sorry ... of what I said. She read me a portion of the letter I wrote ... it was what I’d written, but when she read it back to me... it sounded terrible. Not what I’d intended at all.” Richard sunk into the chair opposite his mother. “The woman drives me crazy! I raved about how I wasn’t able to tell her how I felt about her without botching it up. Know what she said?”

Mrs. Hamblin didn’t look up at him, just kept her eyes on the ripped hem and shook her head, “I couldn’t begin to guess.”

“As calm as you please, she asked me what time was I picking her up for dinner. That bloody well knocked the wind out of my sails ... uh ... sorry, Mum. So, I told her, seven, then said goodnight. I thought she’d written me off for sure ... but no ... I’m taking her to dinner on Friday night. What do I say to her that won’t dig the hole I’m in any deeper? The woman drives me crazy!”

Mrs. Hamblin set aside her handwork and peered at her son. “My dear ... you talk too much. That’s the problem. Fi doesn’t trust you any farther than she could toss an oak tree. And, why should she? You hurt her badly. She won’t set herself up for any more heartache from you. Just because you’ve decided you ‘might’ love her ... she’s supposed to believe all is well with the world? Don’t be daft, Son. You have to show her you ‘do’ love her. You have to show her you can be trusted. You have to show her you will commit your whole life to her and any children she might bear you. I happen to know that Fiona cares for you ... but ... she doesn’t need you, not anymore. She’s afraid to need you.”

....

“It’s a bit like dispensing the kind of counsel one is likely to read in an ‘advice to the lovelorn’ column. On the whole, Richard is a very capable, talented, socially adept, kind and generous man. But when he was with Fiona a year or so ago, he’d been a bounder and now ... he’s being an unmitigated dunderhead.” Charlotte slowed her pace as she and Alistair neared the edge of the pond. “I’m afraid your seeing a very ungracious side of me today, but the boy can’t seem to keep his mouth shut? I suppose Duff has always been an engaging young man ... never wounding a woman?”

“You, Charlotte, my dear, and the word ungracious should never be said in the same sentence.” He lifted her fingers to his lips. “Duff’s stint as an attractive man of charm and wit has been a very short duration. His wariness toward and disregard of the female population started after the war when mothers of young debs began looking for suitable husbands to keep their daughters in the opulent style to which they were accustomed. If Cara hadn’t had the presence of mind to discretely take the lead in conversations, ask questions about the problems of returning veterans, trust Duff to assist her and Donal regarding her Scottish estate, and treat him as her friend and champion, he’d still be a bachelor today. Cara’s is a lovely woman to be sure, but it was her absolute trust in Duff that swept him off his feet, so to speak.”

Charlotte mused. “Trust ... a diaphanous concept. One thinks it’s there because it’s an obvious expectation in a relationship. When it is but a dim ... blurry concept for one half of the couple, the other half’s naiveté is blamed. I know this is true as it happened to me and Fiona knows it is true for the same reason. I believe Richard loves dear Fi, but his actions must prove it to her, now, not his eloquence ... of which he has, unquestionably, none ... at present ... thank the Lord.”

Drawing her close to his side, Alistair led Charlotte to the bench where they usually sat and tossed bits of dry bread to the ducks while they talked of this and that ... usually matters of no consequence. Today was different.

“Your counsel has been sound, Charlotte. I don’t think you need worry about what he’ll do next. If he truly loves her, he’ll figure it out and if she truly loves him, she’ll respond favorably.” Alistair moved slightly away from Charlotte so he could shift his position and face her. “May we move on to other matters, my dear?”

“Of course, we may. I’m sorry to have taken up so much of our afternoon talking of Richard and Fiona.” Her good spirits revived, Charlotte turned toward him. “What matters would you like to discuss?”

“Well, I would like to hear your thoughts on love... and matrimony ... and the exchanging of connubial vows with me in the spring.” His eyes didn’t waver from her face as he picked up her hand and pressed it between both of his.

“Dear Alistair ... you overwhelm me. Please don’t be flowery ... I don’t think I can cope.” She gazed at him in wonder.

“I’ll speak plainly, then, so you cannot possibly misunderstand my intentions.” He reached over for her other hand and pressed them both to his chest. “I think about you all the time, dear. I love you. I want you to be my wife, Charlotte. I want to spend the rest of my life with you as Mrs. Alistair Gregor.” He took a deep breath then exhaled. “I expect you’ll need some time ... to think about it ... maybe talk to Richard?”

Charlotte could feel his heart hammering beneath his new summer jacket. Hers throbbed in tempo with his. “I don’t need time to think, dear man, and I needn’t talk to Richard. Even though I feel fairly light-headed at the moment, I accept your proposal ... with all my heart.”

Alistair let go of her hands and wrapped his arms around her. He drew her against him, kissed her forehead, her cheek and then her lips.

....

Richard grasped the edge of the mantle to brace himself and gaped at his mother. “Engaged! When had infatuation between you and Alistair Gregor blazed to this stage?”

“Blazed? Really, Richard ... must you be crude? The banked passions of the mature adult may spark a thrilling glow once again, but hardly blazed.”

Blushing furiously, he muttered, “I wasn’t referring to passions, Mum. I meant affairs between you two progressing so hastily.”

“We have not been having a hasty affair.”

Richard groaned. “It’s obvious your head is either full of cotton wool or you are purposely misunderstanding me. I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt. This proposal of marriage has muddled your brain, Mum.”

Charlotte Hamblin pressed her fingers against her temples. “I’m overcome, Richard. Could you believe such a wonderful thing would ever happen to your mother? This afternoon Alistair Gregor told me he loved me ... wanted to marry me. You don’t disapprove, surly?”

“No, of course not. I’m just surprised ... to say the least. Have you decided on a wedding day?” Moving to the chair in front of his mother, he gratefully sank into it.

“In the spring ... sometime in the spring. We haven’t looked at a calendar, but tomorrow we’ll make our plans. As I am, right now, telling you, dear ... Alistair is telling Duff and Cara. I’m sure they’ll be just as astonished.”

Richard leaned forward and reached for his mother’s hands. “I’m happy for you, Mum ... surprised ... but really happy, too. There’s got to be a bottle of the bubbly in the larder. I’ll find it and we’ll celebrate. Stay right where you are ... I’ll be back in a tick.”

....

“Well ... It’s about time. No sense fooling around when a chap’s found the right woman.” Duff ‘s left arm squeezed his wife around her waist as he thrust out his right hand to pump his father’s in hearty congratulations. “She is a lovely woman, Da, and Cara and I are not surprised, you know. Although, new clothes and a haircut may not always be a raison d'être, I think it made you feel young again ... stirred up some latent fires.

“Think what you like, Son ... it doesn’t matter. Charlotte said ‘yes’ ... that’s all that matters to me. She won’t be taking your place as the mistress of Hill Manse, Cara. We two older Gregor’s will retire to our apartments in the west wing whenever we wish, putter in the garden, feed the ducks, eat in town, travel abroad, go to the pictures or the theatre and generally just enjoy ourselves. I can hardly wait.”

“Your plans sound marvelous, Alistair.” Cara hugged her father-in-law. “I’ll wager she’ll be a wonderful grandmother to Donal and mother-in-law to me, too. When will the wedding take place?”

“She’s coming here to luncheon tomorrow. We’ll figure it all out then. After our plans are made, I’ll call Scotland and tell Margaret. Duff, maybe you’d better call Rosemary. I don’t want to listen to any censure of Charlotte or our plans. I’d likely say some harsh things to her that I would regret later on.”

....

Pushing the buzzer, Richard stepped back behind the mat waiting for Fi to open her door. After fidgeting for what seemed like five minutes, he pushed the buzzer again. Where is she? He was a little early ... only about fifteen minutes. She ought to be ready by now. As he reached over to push it again, the door opened. Whoa ... she looks fantastic! Richard’s innards contracted and his heart pulsed faster. Bloody hell ... what’s the matter with me ... I’m as nervous as a cat treed by a bulldog.

“Hi ... come in. I’ll be ready in a few minutes.”

Before he’d had time to shift his brain out of first gear back into neutral, he’d moved in close to her, laced his fingers through her hair, urged her head forward and pressed his mouth over hers. His other hand stroked familiar peaks and valleys, which caused Fi’s toes to curl. Releasing the grip on his lapels that she’d grabbed when her knees began to wobble, she firmly pushed him back a ways, and struggling for breath, she asked; “This is just dinner isn’t it, Richard?”

“Yes ... yes, it is. I ... I couldn’t help it, luv ... you’re so beautiful.”

“Uhh ... okay. Thank you.” Handing him a tissue, she said, “Wipe the lip rouge off your mouth.” Fi turned and went back into her bedroom to repair her makeup. She sat in front of the triple mirrors propped on her dressing table and stared at her image. Her hand trembled as she lifted the gold tube to her lips. I can’t let him see how much he stirs me up ... how much I want him to care. She stood up, put on her hat and gloves and took up her coat. She was ready.

I’ll show her ... simply show her ... not tell her ... show her I love her, that I respect her. That was not a good start, old boy. You showed her all right ... nearly swallowed her whole. Steady on, old boy ... steady on.

Conversation between them in the car was strained for a while but they eventually overcame their unease and, in the Palace Restaurant they spoke comfortably of the goings on of Fiona’s friends, the ones who he knew, and later on Richard told her an amusing version of the exchange he and his mother’s had regarding her engagement to Alistair Gregor. There was a lot of talk about the Lions and their players and how they each interpreted the last game played. Richard took her to her door, kissed her chastely on the cheek, promised to call her the next day, said goodnight, and left.

Gawd, I’m seventeen again ... horny as hell and on my way home. Talk about ‘just desserts’ ... I’ll be eating umble pie for a good while yet.