‘I was having a splendid game of Snakes and Ladders the other day,’ said Amelia. ‘I was on the top straight and rolled a four. But what I really needed was a six.’
‘Send for Wilberforce!’ trilled Rupert Venables. ‘He knows how to turn a four into a six.’
I retreated to the kitchen for fear of hearing more. When I returned with the fillet of beef, the conversation, mercifully, seemed to have taken a more serious turn.
Lady Hackwood was explaining her new planting scheme to Dame Judith Puxley and Mrs Venables.
‘Of course I don’t know whether we shall be in a position to implement it. The future rather hangs in the balance.’
I guessed from the way she looked round about her that she was not privy to the fact that Sir Henry had staked his shirt on the outcome of the afternoon’s sport and that the next bit of planting she was likely to oversee would be a handful of geraniums in the window box of a bungalow in Bexhill-on-Sea. I didn’t like to think how much frostier she might have been had she known.
I had completed the last of my clearing duties and was on my way back to my room, having paused only for a tumblerful of Bicknell’s claret in the kitchen, when I heard a discreet cough. I stopped in my tracks and saw that Lord Etringham was holding open the door into the hall. I cantered up.
‘This is a bit of a pickle, Jeeves. An absolute Hickory Hot Boy. And why are they only blaming me? I don’t think old Hackwood emerges with much credit, do you? I thought he was supposed to know the game backwards.’
‘Indeed, sir. A case of capax imperii nisi imperasset, one rather feels.’
‘Come again?’
‘The historian Tacitus, sir. It was his verdict on the Emperor Galba.’
‘What on earth did it mean?’
‘It is difficult to translate exactly. I suppose that “A man one would have thought capable of leadership had not his tenure of office proved the contrary” might cover it.’
‘Be that as it may, Jeeves. The fact is that if Hackwood hadn’t kept old Venables serving up his lobs they wouldn’t have got close to our total.’
Further post-mortems, as Tacitus might have called them, were curtailed by the arrival of Bicknell.
‘Mr Wilberforce, I am asked by Miss Meadowes if you would kindly present yourself in the library.’
‘What? Me? Now?’
‘At your earliest convenience.’
‘Is Sir Henry … Is he?’
‘Sir Henry has retired early. He is suffering from neuralgia.’
‘I’m not surprised after all that … Anyway. Right ho. So she’s …’
‘Miss Meadowes is unaccompanied.’
‘Right ho,’ I said again. And, knowing not a jot what lay in store, I tootled off across that mighty hall.
‘THANK YOU FOR coming, Bertie’ said Georgiana. ‘I hope it wasn’t embarrassing.’
‘Don’t worry. I’m just the local whipping boy.’
‘Would you like some of Uncle Henry’s brandy? The top comes off that ottoman and you’ll find a decanter and glasses inside.’
While I was fishing around for the needful, I heard Georgiana lock the door.
She was wearing a green number with a floral pattern. She smiled as she sat back in the velvet Knole sofa with a bit of careless limb-crossing. I proffered a snootful, which she accepted with a friendly chink against my own glass as I perched on a chair by the fireplace.
‘What are you looking at?’
‘To tell the truth, I was looking at your dress.’
‘Why?’
‘I don’t know. It’s just that you don’t wear the same dresses as most girls.’
The fashion was for a sort of loose sack with no waist, whereas hers looked more like something a flamenco dancer might have worn. I couldn’t think of a polite way of putting this. Likewise the hair. Amelia, like most girls of her age, had it cut as though the hairdresser had upended a coal scuttle on the bonce and trimmed round it. Georgiana’s was longer and wavier.
‘The dropped waist just wouldn’t suit me,’ she said with a sigh.
‘And the haircut they all have?’
‘It’s called a bob, Bertie. It’s fashionable. Ubiquitous, you might say.’
‘Might I?’
‘Of course you might. I didn’t know you were interested in clothes.’
‘Oh yes, rather. I once wrote an article for my Aunt Dahlia’s magazine, Milady’s Boudoir, on “What the Well-Dressed Man is Wearing”.’
‘And are you going to do the same for the well-dressed woman?’
‘I’d need to do a bit more research.’
‘Don’t start with me, then, start with Ambo. She’s much more the thing.’
‘Right ho,’ I said, feeling I’d pretty much shot my bolt on ladies’ fashions. ‘How’s the editing going?’
‘Not bad, thanks. I’ll probably finish this manuscript tomorrow. If not, I can do the last bit on the train back to London. We’re moving into our new offices on Tuesday.’
I could sense that this conversation might follow the pattern of the one in the sunken garden, with the rat-a-tat-tat alternating with sticky periods. I was about as wrong as you can be, though, because Georgiana came straight to the point.
‘Bertie, I wanted to talk to you about your plan for setting up this tableau for Amelia to witness. Woody rejecting the wanton cousin and all that.’
‘Yes. Are you on for it?’
‘No, I think it’s an absurd idea. Amelia just needs time. She loves Woody, there’s no doubt about that. She wants to marry him.’
‘But surely a dramatic demonstration of Woody being Sir Galahad and turning away from—’
‘I’d get the giggles. And Woody just wouldn’t fall for it. He’d smell a rat.’
‘Well, perhaps you could talk to Amelia instead. Try and explain that just because her fiancé smiled at a couple of local wenches doesn’t mean he can’t be trusted.’
Georgiana sighed. ‘It’s complicated, Bertie. If I don’t marry Rupert, then Uncle Henry isn’t going to allow Amelia to marry Woody anyway.’
‘What do you mean, “if” you don’t marry Rupert? You’re engaged. I saw it in The Times.’
‘Yes, I know. But his attitude seems rather odd at the moment. I’m not sure if he’s still keen.’
‘I noticed. All the south of France stuff.’
‘Exactly. I don’t know what he’s driving at.’
‘Look at it from his point of view,’ I said. ‘He’s a splendid chap, no doubt, but he’s not … Well, he’s a bit older than you, isn’t he? He’s no sporting hero like Woody. And he’s hardly a Greek god like Esmond, either. I imagine he can’t quite believe his luck, to have landed such a … such a …’
‘Don’t be a flatterer, Bertie. Sonya Rostova with no money is not much of a catch … Oops. Sorry to use that word again. I promise you, it honestly—’
I silenced her with a pitying look.
‘I mean it,’ I said. ‘I don’t blame the fellow for acting like an angler who’s just netted a five-foot pike. He’s giving you a test. To make assurance doubly sure, as Jeeves puts it.’
‘I can’t quite believe that, Bertie. Though thanks for the giant pike. I’m not sure Rupert really—’
‘Have you any idea of the effect you have on people, Georgie? The waiters on the Côte d’Azur … The poor man on the desk at the hotel … He didn’t know where to look when you—’
‘Stop it, stop it, stop it!’
‘And on top of that you’re so dashed brainy with all your literary stuff and—’
‘Rupert’s the successful writer. Publishers are just the middlemen.’
‘Believe me, I know what he’s thinking, because it’s just what I thought in France.’
‘And what’s that?’
‘He’s thinking, Why am I galloping with this filly in the Grand National when by rights I should be ploughing through the fences at the Easter Monday point-to-point at Kingston Parva?’
Georgiana burst o
ut laughing. ‘You really are absurd. Did you know that?’
‘Well, if ever I had any doubts on that score, the events of the last couple of days have—’
‘No, no, I didn’t mean it like that. I meant you really are absurdly funny. And thoughtful.’
‘Thoughtful? Try telling my …’
‘Absurdly so. Yes.’
‘… Aunt Agatha that.’
‘No, thanks.’
‘To get back to Rupert,’ I said sternly. ‘He’s a good bet. He’s just pinching himself at the moment. To make sure he’s not dreaming. And you’ll have a splendid time together. Your job, his travels … The little Venableses in due course. And Mrs V will be a doting grandmother.’
‘Have another brandy.’ Georgiana swung off the sofa, dipped into the ottoman and filled both glasses to the brim.
‘It’s funny your mentioning the Côte d’Azur,’ she said, resettling herself. ‘I was in a quandary before I went down there. And then I had such a wonderful time. I felt so happy when I got back to London. Everything seemed straightforward. I knew what I had to do. And now …’
‘Now what?’
Georgiana stared up at the painting over the mantelpiece – an eighteenth-century squire in a three-cornered hat, a moody-looking bird, sitting with his wife beneath a tree.
‘Now,’ she said, ‘I feel I should do what I can to thank my uncle. Although he’s a peppery old fellow, I know, they did look after me, you know, he and Aunt Guinevere. I was pretty young when my parents died. It was quite a shock.’
‘I can imagine.’
‘I know you can. Perhaps that’s why we got on so well in France. We’d been through the same thing.’
There wasn’t much anyone could say for a moment or two at this point. But it wasn’t a sticky silence; it was just one of those things.
‘Anyway,’ I said, ‘Venables knows how lucky he is – and that means he’s bound to look after you well. I’ve noticed the way he sneaks the odd glance at you when he thinks no one’s watching. He appreciates you. That’s the important thing. And Melbury Hall can be wrapped in cotton wool—’
‘Or sausage casings. But before I walk up the aisle with Rupert I need to know that Amelia and Woody are going to do the same. Otherwise the job’s only half done.’
‘Are you saying that if you weren’t certain about Woody and Amelia, you wouldn’t marry Rupert?’
‘I don’t think I can answer that.’
I offered a cigarette.
‘No, thanks. By the way, Bertie, there’s going to be a big Midsummer Festival in Melbury Tetchett next weekend.’
‘Oh, really? What’s the theme? Ancient fertility rites? Or just a few charades and a sing-song?’
‘I’m not sure. Uncle Henry’s dead keen. I think the idea is that it should be a masque based on A Midsummer Night’s Dream. Some village bod’s in charge.’
‘A masque?’
‘Yes, though I’ve never quite known what that means.’
‘Join the club. I do know the play, though. I was in it once.’
‘Were you Oberon?’
‘No. I was Bottom. I say, there’s no need to laugh quite so hard, Georgiana.’
‘I’m sorry, Bertie. It was just the way you said it. It was so forlorn. And Bottom’s one of the best parts.’
‘I know. We played the rude mechanicals in the voices of some of the best-known beaks. I’m told my voice was a spit for Monty Beresford.’
‘Who was Monty Beresford?’
‘Lower fifth classics.’
‘Do you still remember the lines?’
‘They’re engraved on my heart. I couldn’t forget them if I tried.’
‘I always said you were clever.’
‘It’s just as well, because I can’t remember much else from school.’
‘Give me a few lines.’
‘Right ho. Another drop?’
‘Just a dribble. I had some wine at dinner. But help yourself.’
I did. I saw no reason to mention the hastily dispatched claret – Bicknell’s portion, as I thought of it – nor the malty local beer with which I had attempted to drown my sorrows from a jug at the pavilion. The old boy’s brandy was a rather mellow one, with plenty of oomph and toffee in the follow-through and it was beginning to blur the memory of the dropped catch.
‘“O grim-look’d night!”’ I growled. ‘“O night with hue so black! O night, which ever art when day is not!”’
‘Is that Monty Beresford’s voice?’
‘To a tee.’
‘He sounds like Mrs Padgett.’
‘You speak true, young Meadowes. He did indeed. “O night! O night! Alack, alack, alack! I fear my Thisby’s promise is forgot.”’
‘Carry on.’
‘One of the nobs says something now. It’s not my line.’
‘Hold on a minute. Uncle Henry must have a Shakespeare somewhere.’
‘After the end of the Hundred Years War but before the start of Wisden. By the window, therefore, I should say.’
‘Have another brandy.’
‘Perhaps just a dribble.’
‘Here it is. One minute,’ said Georgiana, riffling through the pages. ‘All right, so Theseus says, “The wall, methinks, being sensible, should curse again.” Should I do that with a more aristocratic voice?’
‘Not at all. A Midlands garage mechanic is the effect you’re after. You’re supposed to sound like Bony Fishwick.’
‘Who on earth is Bony Fishwick?’
‘He was the school chaplain. “We ’ave left oondoon thowse things which we ought to ’ave doon.”’
‘I’ll have another go. More brandy?’
‘Just a suggestion.’
What with one thing another, we rather entered into the spirit of it, and Georgiana made a much livelier Thisby than had been on offer from Corbett-Burcher.
‘Tell you what,’ I said. ‘If you stand on the sofa there, I’ll stand on the ottoman, and then this standard lamp can represent the Wall.’
‘Good idea. By the way, Bertie, I’ve just had a thought.’
‘Doesn’t surprise me, old thing. Not one bit. Think on.’
‘What I thought was this. You know “The Repudiation of the Scarlet Woman by the Virtuous Lawyer as witnessed by his Innocent Bride”?’
‘I thought we’d ditched that.’
‘We had. But suppose Woody was in on it. That way he could keep a straight face when I gave him the come-on. There’d be no misunderstanding afterwards between the two of us. And it would help me in my part, too.’
I swilled the brandy round the glass – in much the same way that I revolved the matter in the cranium. From where I stood, on the ottoman, it all looked rather promising. Foolproof, you might say.
‘By Jove,’ I said, ‘I think you’ve hit the jackpot.’
‘Thank you. Shall I ask Woody, or will you?’
‘I think it would come better from you. He hasn’t quite forgiven me for making up to Amelia.’
The thought gave me another brief Gonville and Caius wobble, my foothold precarious for a moment on the tapestry-covered lid.
‘I shall fix it for five to three on Monday,’ said Georgiana. ‘It’s when the pro from Blandford Forum comes in to give Ambo a tennis lesson.’
‘Will Woody still be here?’
‘Yes, he’s catching the late train for a case on Tuesday.’
‘Where were we?’
‘“As Shafalus to Procrus, I to you.”’
‘“O! Kiss me through the hole of this vile wall.”’
I leant forward to mime the action, as I had done all those years ago, when the Wall – some new bug whose name I can’t remember now – held up his parted fingers to represent a crack in the masonry.
It’s possible that on that occasion I had dined on little more than the house supper and a glass of lemonade; I had certainly not got outside a half-pint of Sir Henry’s five-star. Or perhaps the lips I could not reach in Melbury Hall induced a greater se
nse of urgency.
For some reason, anyway, I lost my footing and pitched forward from the ottoman. An instinct made me grab at the standard lamp as I fell. This deflected me for a moment and may have slightly lessened my impact on Georgiana, who ended up, not for the first time in our short acquaintance, sitting on the floor.
Once the racket had subsided, there was the sound of angry footsteps in the hall.
We looked at each other for a second, then, as one, made for the window. I say ‘as one’, though of course it took Georgiana a moment to heave herself up from the Aubusson. Meanwhile, ahead at the casement: up went the sash, over went the foreleg, smack went the skull into the woodwork … I looked back from the outside world and, as on the previous occasion, felt tempted to bestow a parting peck, when there came a mighty rattling at the locked library door, followed by some hefty thumps on the panelling.
Georgiana called out, ‘Stop, thief!’
I did as instructed, stopped and turned, but saw her waving me away even as she cried again, ‘Stop, thief!’
Being pretty quick on the uptake, I understood her plan and legged it at top speed.
To steady the nerves and clear the brain, I pulled out the cigarette case and, making sure I was well concealed from the house, set fire to one. I pictured Georgiana explaining to an irate Sir Henry that she had surprised a burglar. She would then be attempting to persuade the old boy that since nothing was missing there was no need to call in the police. It was obviously better if I was not to be seen anywhere in the vicinity until things had calmed down a bit and Sir Henry was reassured that no light-fingered bibliophile had made off with his History of the Crusades in five vols, calf-bound, with slight foxing to the endpapers.
I found myself wandering on a path through some trees – not really a wood, but what I suppose you’d call a grove. There were cedars, elms and other specimens it was too dark to be sure of: a silver birch or two, perhaps. Spindly chaps, anyway.
In their shade, I paused to take stock. Having missed the servants’ high tea, I’d dined later off a slice of unwanted beef fillet with horseradish and a wedge of cheddar; the cognac had settled the whole thing nicely. Up in the branches above me I could hear what I fancied was a nightjar: a churring noise followed by what sounded like someone licking his lips. A garden is a lovesome thing, God wot; and a Dorset grove on a warm midsummer night is about as close to Eden as one can come without going to Mesopotamia, or wherever Dame Judith Puxley insisted the original had been.