Of course, it takes two to make a romance, and James Schoonmaker had yet to be heard from, but Lord Ickenham regarded his old friend’s instant response to Lady Constance’s cable as distinctly promising. A man in Jimmy’s position, a monarch of finance up to his eyes all the time in big deals, with barely a moment to spare from cornering peanuts or whatever it might be, does not drop everything and come bounding across the Atlantic with a whoop and a holler unless there is some great attraction awaiting him at the other end. It would be a good move, he decided, when Jimmy arrived, to meet him at Market Blandings station, hurry him off to the Emsworth Arms and fill him to the brim with G. Ovens’ home-brewed beer. Mellowed by that wonder fluid, he felt, it was more than likely that he would cast off reserve, become expansive and give a sympathetic buddy what George Cyril Wellbeloved would have called the griff.
Lady Constance was seated at her writing table, tapping the woodwork with her fingers, and Lord Ickenham had the momentary illusion, as always when summoned to her presence, that time had rolled back in its flight and that he was once more vis-à-vis with his old kindergarten mistress. The great question in those days had always been whether or not she would rap him on the knuckles with a ruler, and it was with some relief that he noted that the only weapon within his hostess’s reach was a small ivory paper-knife.
She was not looking cordial. Her air was that of somebody who, where Ickenhams were concerned, could take them or leave them alone. A handsome woman, though, and one well calculated to touch off the spark in the Schoonmaker bosom.
‘Please sit down, Lord Ickenham.’
He took a chair, and Lady Constance remained silent for a moment. She seemed to be searching for words. Then, for she was never a woman who hesitated long when she had something to say, even when that something verged on the embarrassing, she began.
‘Myra’s father is arriving tomorrow, Lord Ickenham.’
‘So I had heard. I was saying to Dunstable just now how much I shall enjoy seeing him again after all these years.
A slight frown on Lady Constance’s forehead seemed to suggest that his emotions did not interest her.
‘I wonder if Jimmy’s put on weight. He was inclined to bulge when I last saw him. Wouldn’t watch his calories.’
Nor, said the frown, was she in a mood to discuss Mr Schoonmaker’s poundage.
‘He has come because I asked him to. I sent him an urgent cable.’
‘After we had had our little talk?’
‘Yes,’ said Lady Constance, shuddering as she recalled that little talk. ‘I intended to put the whole matter in his hands and advise him to take Myra back to America immediately.’
‘I see. Did you say so?’
‘No, I did not, and I am particularly anxious that he shall know nothing of her infatuation. It would be difficult to explain why I had allowed Mr Bailey to stay on at the castle.’
‘Very difficult. One can see him raising his eyebrows.’
‘On the other hand, I must give him some reason why I sent that cable, and I wanted to see you, Lord Ickenham, to ask if you had anything to suggest.’
She sank back in her chair, stiffened in every limb. Her companion was beaming at her, and his kindly smile affected her like a blow in the midriff. She was in a highly nervous condition, and the last thing she desired was to be beamed at by a man whose very presence revolted her finer feelings.
‘My dear Lady Constance,’ said Lord Ickenham buoyantly, ‘the matter is simple. I have the solution hot off the griddle. You tell him that his daughter has become engaged to Archie Gilpin and you wanted him to look in and give the boy the once-over. Perfectly natural thing to suggest to an affectionate father. He would probably have been very hurt, if you hadn’t cabled him. That solves your little difficulty, I think?’
Lady Constance relaxed. Her opinion of this man had in no way altered, she still considered him a menace to one and all and his presence an offence to the pure air of Blandings Castle, but she was fair enough to admit that, however black his character might be, and however much she disliked having him beam at her, he knew all the answers.
2
The 11.45 train from Paddington. first stop Swindon, rolled into Market Blandings station, and Lord Emsworth stepped out, followed by James R. Schoonmaker of Park Avenue, New York, and The Dunes, Westhampton, Long Island.
American financiers come in all sizes, ranging from the small and shrimp-like to the large and impressive. Mr Schoonmaker belonged to the latter class. He was a man in the late fifties with a massive head and a handsome face interrupted about half way up by tortoiseshell-rimmed spectacles. He had been an All-American footballer in his youth, and he still looked capable of bucking a line, though today he would have done it not with a bull-like rush but with an authoritative glance which would have taken all the heart out of the opposition.
His face, as he emerged, was wearing the unmistakable look of a man who has had a long railway journey in Lord Emsworth’s company, but it brightened suddenly when he saw the slender figure standing on the platform. He stared incredulously.
‘Freddie! Well, I’ll be darned!’
‘Hullo there, Jimmy.’
‘You here?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Well, well!’ said Mr Schoonmaker.
‘Well, well, well!’ said Lord Ickenham.
‘Well, well, well, well!’ said Mr Schoonmaker.
Lord Emsworth interrupted the reunion before it could reach the height of its fever. He was anxious to lose no time in getting to the haven of his bedroom and shedding the raiment which had been irking him all day. His shoes, in particular, were troubling him.
‘Oh, hullo, Ickenham. Is the car outside?’
‘Straining at the leash.’
‘Then let us be off, shall we?’
‘Well, I’ll tell you,’ said Lord Ickenham. ‘I can readily understand your desire to hasten homeward and get into some-thing loose —’
‘It’s my shoes, principally.’
‘They look beautiful.’
‘They’re pinching me.’
‘The very words my nephew Pongo said that day at the dog races, and his statement was tested and proved correct. Courage, Emsworth! Think of the women in China. You don’t find them beefing because their shoes are tight. But what I was about to say was that Jimmy and I haven’t seen each other for upwards of fifteen years, and we’ve a lot of heavy thread-picking-up to do. I thought I’d take him to the Emsworth Arms for a quick one. You’d enjoy a mouthful of beer, Jimmy?’
‘Ah!’ said Mr Schoonmaker, his tongue flickering over his lips.
‘So we’ll just bung you into the car and walk over later.’
The process of bunging Lord Emsworth into a car was never a simple one, for on these occasions his long legs always took on something of the fluid quality of an octopus’s tentacles, but the task was accomplished at last, and Lord Ickenham led his old friend to a table in the shady garden where all those business conferences between Lord Tilbury, the Duke of Dun-stable and Lavender Briggs had taken place.
‘Ah!’ said Mr Schoonmaker again some little time later, laying down his empty tankard.
‘Have another?’
‘I think I will,’ said Mr Schoonmaker, speaking in the rather awed voice customary with those tasting G. Ovens’ home-brewed for the first time. He added that the beverage had a kick, and Lord Ickenham agreed that its kick was considerable. He said he thought G. Ovens put some form of high explosive in it, and Mr Schoonmaker agreed that this might well be so.
A considerable number of threads had been picked up by this time, and it seemed to Lord Ickenham that it would not be long now before he would be able to divert the conversation from the past to the present. From certain signs he saw that the home-brewed was beginning to have its beneficent effect. Another pint, he felt, should be sufficient to bring his companion to the confidential stage. In one of the cosy talks he had had with George Cyril Wellbeloved before Lord Emsworth had driven
him with a flaming sword from his garden of Eden, the pigman had commented on the mysterious properties of a quart of the Ovens output, speaking with a good deal of bitterness of the time when that amount of it had caused him to reveal to Claude Murphy, the local constable, certain top secrets which later he would have given much to have kept to himself.
The second pint arrived, and Mr Schoonmaker quaffed deeply. His journey had been a stuffy one, parching to the throat. He looked about him approvingly, taking in the smooth turf, the shady trees and the silver river that gleamed through them.
‘Nice place, this,’ he said.
‘Rendered all the nicer by your presence, Jimmy,’ replied Lord Ickenham courteously. ‘What brought you over here, by the way?’
‘I had an urgent cable from Lady Constance.’ A thought struck Mr Schoonmaker. ‘Nothing wrong with Mike, is there?’
‘Not to my knowledge. Nor with Pat. Mike who?’
‘Myra.’
‘I didn’t know she was known to the police as Mike. You must have started calling her that after my time. No, Myra’. all right. She’s just got engaged.’
Mr Schoonmaker started violently, always a dangerous thing to do when drinking beer. Having stopped coughing and dried himself off, he said:
‘She has? What made her do that?’
‘Love, Jimmy,’ said Lord Ickenham with a touch of reproach. ‘You can’t expect a girl not to fall in love in these romantic surroundings. There’s something in the air of Blandings Castle that brings out all the sentiment in people. Strong men have come here without a thought of matrimony in their minds and within a week have started writing poetry and carving hearts on trees. Probably the ozone.’
Mr Schoonmaker was frowning. He was not at all sure he liked the look of this. His daughter’s impulsiveness was no secret from him.
‘Who is the fellow?’ he demanded, not exactly expecting to hear that it was the boy who cleaned the knives and boots, but prepared for the worst. ‘Who’s this guy she’s got engaged to?’
‘Gilpin is the name, first name Archibald. He’s the nephew of the Duke of Dunstable,’ said Lord Ickenham, and Mr Schoonmaker’s brow cleared magically. He would have preferred not to have a son-in-law called Archibald, but he knew that in these matters one has to take the rough with the smooth, and he had a great respect for Dukes.
‘Is he, by golly! Well, that’s fine.’
‘I thought you’d be pleased.’
‘When did this happen?’
‘Oh, recently.’
‘Odd that Lady Constance didn’t mention it in her cable.’
‘Probably wanted to keep the expense down. You know what they charge you per word for cables, and a penny saved is a penny earned. Do you call her Lady Constance?’
‘Of course. Why not?’
‘Rather formal. You’ve known her a long time.’
‘Yes, we’ve been friends for quite a while, very close friends as a matter of fact. She’s a wonderful woman. But there’s a sort of cool aristocratic dignity about her … a kind of aloofness … I don’t know how to put it,’ but she gives you the feeling that you’ll never get to first base with her.’
‘And you want to get to first base with her?’ said Lord Ickenham, eyeing him narrowly. Mr Schoonmaker had just finished his second pint, and something told him that this was the moment for which he had been waiting. It was after his second pint that George Cyril Wellbeloved had poured out his confidences to Constable Claude Murphy, among them his personal technique for poaching pheasants.
For an instant it seemed that Mr Schoonmaker would be reticent, but the Ovens home-brewed was too strong for him. A pinkness spread itself over his face. The ears, in particular, were glowing brightly.
‘Yes, I do,’ he said, glaring a little as if about to ask Lord Ickenham if he wanted to make something of it. ‘Why shouldn’t I?’
‘My dear fellow, I’m not criticizing. I’m all sympathy and understanding. Any red-blooded man would be glad to get to first base with Connie.’
Mr Schoonmaker started.
‘Do you call her Connie?’
‘Of course.’
‘How do you manage it?’
‘Just comes naturally.’
‘I wish it did to me.’ Mr Schoonmaker looked into his tankard, saw that it was empty and heaved a long sigh. ‘Yes, sir, I wish I had your nerve. Freddie, if I could get that woman to marry me, I’d be the happiest man on earth.’
With the exception, Lord Ickenham thought, as he laid a gentle hand on his friend’s arm, of her brother Clarence.
‘Now you’re talking, Jimmy. Relay that information to her. Women like to hear these things.’
‘But I told you. I haven’t the nerve.’
‘Nonsense. A child of six could do it, provided he hadn’t got the dumb staggers.’
Mr Schoonmaker sighed again. G. Ovens’ home-brewed tends as a rule to induce joviality — sometimes, as in the case of George Cyril Wellbeloved, injudicious joviality — but it was plain that today it had failed of its mission.
‘That’s just what I have got. When I try to propose to her, the words won’t come. It’s happened a dozen times. The sight of that calm aristocratic profile wipes them from my lips.’
‘Try not looking at her sideways.’
‘I’m not in her class. That’s the trouble. I’m aiming too high.’
‘A Schoonmaker is a fitting mate for the highest in the land.’
‘Who says so?’
‘I say so.’
‘Well, I don’t. I know what would happen. She’d be very nice about it, but she would freeze me.’
Lord Ickenham, who had removed his hand from the arm, replaced it.
“Now there I’m sure you’re wrong, Jimmy. I happen to be certain that she loves you. Connie has few secrets from me.’
Mr Schoonmaker stared.
‘You aren’t telling me she told you she did?’
‘Not in so many words, of course. You could hardly expect that, even to an old friend like myself. But that way she has of drawing her breath in sharply and looking starry-eyed whenever your name is mentioned is enough to show me how things stand. The impression I received was of a woman wailing for her demon lover. Well, perhaps not actually wailing, but making quite a production number of it. I tell you I’ve seen her clench her hands till the knuckles stood out white under the strain, just because your name happened to come up in the course of conversation. I’m convinced that if you were to try the Ickenham system, you couldn’t fail.’
‘The Ickenham system?’
‘I call it that. It’s a little thing I knocked together in my bachelor days. It consists of grabbing the girl, waggling her about a bit, showering kisses on her upturned face and making some such remark as “My mate! “. Clench the teeth of course, while saying that. It adds conviction.’
Mr Schoonmaker’s stare widened.
‘You expect me to do that to Lady Constance?’
‘I see no objection.’
‘I do.’
‘Such as—?’
‘I couldn’t even get started.’
‘Where’s your manly courage?’
‘I don’t have any, not where she’s concerned.’
‘Come, come. She’s only a woman.’
‘No, she isn’t. She’s Lady Constance Keeble, sister of the Earl of Emsworth, with a pedigree stretching back to the Rood, and I can’t forget it.’
Lord Ickenham mused. He recognized the fact that an obstacle had arisen, but a few moments thought told him that it was not an impasse.
‘What you need, Jimmy, is a pint or two of May Queen.’
‘Eh?’
‘It is a beverage which I always recommend to timorous wooers when they find a difficulty in bringing themselves to try the Ickenham system. Its full name is “Tomorrow’ll be of all the year the maddest, merriest day, for I’m to be Queen of the May, mother, I’m to be Queen of the May”, but the title is generally shortened for purposes of convenience in ordi
nary conversation. Its foundation is any good dry champagne, to which is added liqueur brandy, kummel and green chartreuse, and I can assure you it acts like magic. Under its influence little men with receding chins and pince-nez have dominated the proudest beauties and compelled them to sign on the dotted line. I’ll tell Beach to see that you get plenty of it before and during dinner tonight. Then you take Connie out on the terrace under the moon and go into the Ickenham routine, and I shall be vastly surprised if we don’t shortly see an interesting announcement in The Times.’
‘H’m.’ Mr Schoonmaker weighed the suggestion, but it was plain that he was none too enthusiastic about it. ‘Grab her?’
‘That’s it.’
‘Waggle her about?’
‘That’s the idea.’
‘And say “My mate! “?’
‘Unless there is some other turn of phrase which you prefer,’ said Lord Ickenham, always ready to stretch a point. ‘You needn’t stick too closely to the script if you feel like gagging, but on no account tamper with the business. That is of the essence.’
3
On the morning following his old friend’s arrival, Lord Ickenham had settled himself in his hammock when a husky voice spoke his name and he found Mr Schoonmaker at his side. Sitting up and directing a keen glance at him, he did not like what he saw. James Schoonmaker was looking pale and careworn, and there was in his bearing no suggestion whatsoever that he was the happiest man on earth. He looked, indeed, far more like that schooner Hesperus of which Lord Ickenham in his boyhood had recited so successfully, on the occasion when it swept like a sheeted ghost to the reef of Norman’s Woe. Give, him a skipper and a little daughter whom he had taken to bear him company, thought Lord Ickenham, and he could have made straight for the reef of Norman’s Woe, and no questions asked.