Proper English

by KJ Charles

  Jimmy exhaled. “It’s a sorry business. Anna won’t leave him, I don’t know why the devil not. Well, there’s the child.”

  “Is there a child?” Pat hadn’t seen or heard any evidence of one.

  “My nephew. He’s three years old. They’ve left him with a nanny for the entire summer because Maurice doesn’t like the noise. Mother asked them to bring him, since she hasn’t seen him since February, but Maurice prefers to grant her the sight of her grandson strictly on his own terms, and when he can take the boy away at any time.”

  “Good heavens,” Pat said. “Oh, Jimmy. This is rotten.”

  “Anna made her own bed when she insisted on marrying the blighter, and now we all have to lie in it. It wouldn’t be so bad if they weren’t both so determined to make everyone around them miserable, but you’ve seen how he is, and Anna is just making it worse with her extraordinary behaviour with Jack. I don’t know what she’s playing at.”

  “It doesn’t sound like Haworth is much of a husband,” Pat pointed out. “What’s sauce for the goose is surely sauce for the gander.”

  “I dare say, but the sauce gets ladled out on the rest of us with a lavish hand. You heard how he spoke to Victoria, and to Fen.”

  “I heard the deafening ring of your silence as he insulted your fiancée, yes. What was that about?”

  “Oh, Lord, don’t.” Jimmy took off his hat, swiping it through the air at insects Pat couldn’t see. “You don’t understand.”

  “I understand what I’d think in her shoes.”

  “Yes, well, you might, but the fact is— Look, it’s complicated. And I can’t go into it, but you can take my word for it that one day, when I have a chance, I’m going to break his bloody neck. I wouldn’t have sat there listening to him speak like that to my father’s guests at my father’s table if I didn’t have to.”

  “That doesn’t sound awfully good, Jimmy.”

  “Don’t I know it.”

  “Why on earth did you invite a houseful of people under these circumstances?”

  “I didn’t,” Jimmy said explosively. “I wanted a bit of peace and quiet with a few decent human beings—you, Preston, Bill—while I still could. Fen invited herself, Victoria was meant to have left before Maurice arrived, and Jack Bouvier bloody Lynes wasn’t invited at all except that Anna asked him to pop along without telling anyone until it was too late!” He made a strangled noise of frustration. “Sorry, Pat. You came here for partridge and I’m piling my family troubles on you.”

  “That’s all right.” Pat hesitated, but Jimmy was clearly in need. “This engagement of yours—”

  “Fen is a lovely girl. Any man would be lucky to have her.”

  “She is lovely.”

  “Beautiful, rich, awfully jolly. I’m terribly fortunate she accepted me, though I can’t imagine why she did.”

  “Er—”

  “Well, you’ve met her. She’s quite the butterfly, and I’m not interested in Society parties and so on. Her last two fiancés were both men-about-town.”

  “Maybe that’s why she’s picked a countryman,” Pat said. “If the modern man-about-town is anything like Mr. Haworth, I don’t blame her.”

  “He’s a thoroughly nasty piece of work and I’m sorry to bring you into his orbit but, frankly, we had no choice but to shut the London house over summer. Couldn’t afford to keep it running, couldn’t afford to send Maurice and Anna off to Brighton or Bath or Baden-Baden, and since Maurice has run out of hosts willing to tolerate him, here they are.”

  “Are the finances that bad?”

  Jimmy made a face. “The agricultural depression has hit rents hard across the board, of course, but on top of that Father was the biggest investor in Maurice’s firm and we lost rather a lot in the crash. We need to take drastic action to repair matters, sell some land and invest in other industries, but the old man is set in his ways. He won’t accept that things have to change, or hand the reins to me. It’s not marvellous, honestly.”

  “But when you marry...”

  “Oh, yes, my future father-in-law has proposed a very generous settlement.” Jimmy looked less excited about this than one might have expected. “Which means Father won’t have to make any decisions like selling land, or asking Maurice to get a blasted job.”

  “Some people would call you lucky,” Pat observed.

  “Yes,” Jimmy said. “I am lucky. Jolly lucky. Fen’s a very nice girl, and I dare say it’s about time I was married. Let’s not bore on about me.”

  “All right then.” Pat watched the heat haze over the grass as they walked, the great sweep of the land. “What about Miss Singh?”

  “What about her?”

  “Only that she doesn’t seem entirely the right fit for a shooting party. Very pleasant, but, well—a vegetarian?”

  “Oh, Victoria’s not one of those cranks. She’s Mother’s goddaughter, you know. She came up for a week’s stay, and then asked if it would be possible to extend her visit for another week—I believe she was going on to people who found they had scarlet fever in the house, though frankly if I were her I should have risked the contagion rather than Maurice. He’s a racialist, of course. She knew what she was letting herself in for, but I cannot imagine why she would.”

  “I expect she knows what she’s about. She seemed a very intelligent woman to me.”

  “I thought you’d like her,” Jimmy said. “She’s serious, but I don’t see why women shouldn’t be serious. It’s all very well to talk nonsense and do nothing all day, constantly dressing for breakfast and lunch and afternoon tea and dinner and going out and meeting people in order to talk about other people one met yesterday, but what is the point? Why do women want to waste their time on that? Are you really going to teach Fen to use a gun?”

  “If she wants me to.”

  “I wish you would. I dare say it might take some time, if you don’t mind that. You’ll have to be awfully patient, I warn you. She’s not the, uh, the brightest—she’s not like you, old thing. Not competent.”

  “Perhaps not, but men don’t tend to marry for competence, do they?”

  She meant it lightly, but Jimmy pulled a face. “I don’t know why not. It’s all very well being bubbly and charming in drawing rooms but unless one has the wherewithal to live without shouldering responsibilities—”

  “Now hold on,” Pat said, suddenly roused on Miss Carruth’s behalf. “If a woman is brought up to do nothing except get married and mix in society, it’s hardly fair to blame her for carrying out the job she was given. If you didn’t want that sort of woman you shouldn’t have proposed to one, and having done so, it’s hardly fair to criticise her for it.”

  Jimmy’s mouth dropped open. “How—that is, I’m not doing that. I don’t blame her. I just— Well, it would be a lot easier if about half the people at this accursed party weren’t here, that’s all.”

  “I dare say.”

  “Ugh. I’m sorry, Pat, I sound like an ungrateful cad. Look, you’d really do me a service if you’d give Fen a few lessons. She’s going to be desperately bored for the next couple of weeks and I have certain things to do. I’m not asking you to miss out on the shooting, of course, but if you found yourself at a loose end, I would appreciate it.”

  Pat knew she should encourage him to put some effort into his engagement. She didn’t. “I’ll have a crack. Shall we get back for breakfast?”

  “Yes,” Jimmy said. “Yes, I suppose we should.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Breakfast at Rodington Court was an informal affair. Bill and Miss Singh were down when Jimmy and Pat returned, the Earl and Countess had been and gone, and there was no sign of the more fashionable members of the party.

  “Pat’s going to teach Fenella to shoot this morning,” Jimmy announced. “I wish her luck. I’m at everyone else’s disposal if you’d like to take a stroll around the grounds.”

  “That would be lovely,” Miss Singh agreed. “Won’t Miss Carruth want to join us?”

 
“She’s not much of a walker,” Jimmy said. “I don’t intend the guns to spend all day in the field, by the way. Those who like can, but we have so many guests who aren’t shots that everyone should feel free to do as you please. Liberty Hall and all that.”

  “That suits me,” Bill said. Pat, who had been hoping to spend all day every day under the sky, suppressed a sigh. She very much hoped that she wouldn’t be expected to nursemaid Miss Carruth throughout the party. She didn’t think Jimmy would serve her such a trick, but he was a man, so her expectations were low.

  Miss Carruth hadn’t appeared by the time Pat had finished her breakfast, nor had she emerged an hour later, by which time Pat had finished her book and was trawling the well-stocked library for works on field sports. Jimmy, neither surprised nor daunted, produced a pair of small-bore rifles suitable for target-shooting and informed Pat that the South Lawn would be an excellent place to practice, “once Fen gets up.”

  Pat rolled her eyes, but set off in that direction. It was a beautiful day, and she thought it would be more pleasant to be out of the house now the rest of the party was stirring.

  Rodington Court’s grounds were extensive, though perhaps a little unkempt, as if they needed one more gardener than they had. The South Lawn rolled down a gentle slope to an ornamental lake surrounded by greenery. It was a lovely prospect in the sun and nobody could walk into even the most wildly misdirected shot; it would do very well if Miss Carruth wanted to practice, and if she didn’t, it made a very pleasant spot for Pat to settle down with the latest Wildfowler's Shooting Times.

  She chose a bench that stood in a hollow cut out from a large juniper bush, which gave her a view of the lake. It also obscured her from casual view, she realised as the next hour passed, because her attention was attracted from the pages every now and again by movement, but nobody seemed to see her.

  Bill passed first, striding down to the lake in a way that suggested a man chafing for exercise. He disappeared into the wood, presumably to take a wider circuit round the grounds, since he did not reemerge. Mr. Keynes and Miss Singh crossed the South Lawn some time afterwards, heads together in earnest talk. Pat wondered what on earth they found to discuss, given her entire conversation with Mr. Keynes had revolved around hunting and shooting. Still, he had good manners, and they seemed happy enough. Ten minutes after that, she saw Lady Anna walking with Jack Bouvier-Lynes, and sent up a mental malediction. She couldn’t blame Lady Anna, since her companion seemed to be very personable from the little Pat had seen of him, but if Maurice Haworth came out after his wife, she didn’t want to be in earshot.

  Fortunately, the next person she saw was Fenella Carruth.

  Miss Carruth wore a very dashing green day dress of flattering cut and a broad-brimmed hat against the sun. She was walking alone, with slow, heavy tread, and as she passed in front of the juniper, her expression was so sombre that Pat would almost not have recognised her. Her lips were pressed together, eyes distant, and Pat found herself blurting, “Miss Carruth!”

  Miss Carruth recoiled in shock, then turned, and the usual sparkling smile spread over her face as though the look of misery had never been. “Miss Merton, there you are. I was looking for you.”

  “Here I am,” Pat agreed. She wondered if she could say, Are you all right? but was drowned in determined cheerfulness before she had a chance.

  “Wonderful. I am looking forward to learning to shoot. Not to kill things because whatever you say I prefer to let other people do that for me and one would hardly slaughter one’s own cows, would one? Unless one was a farmer, and I am not, even if I shall be married to a country landowner, but in any case, no. But I ought at least to understand what you get up to on these excursions, and muzzles and bullets and the difference between a fowling-piece and a revolver and everything else Mr. Keynes talks about. Oughtn’t I?”

  Pat hadn’t followed the flood of verbiage closely enough to pick out what the question was. She was preoccupied with Miss Carruth’s velvet-brown eyes, and the shimmer of moisture over their surface.

  She had no right, or no standing, to pry and Miss Carruth couldn’t have made her desire to keep up appearances clearer.

  “Yes, of course,” she said, more or less at random. “Shall we go down to the end of the lawn?”

  She picked up the gun case and set off. Miss Carruth hurried to match her stride. “Goodness, you walk quickly.”

  Pat slowed. “Sorry. I had four older brothers who were always on at me to keep up.”

  “Four! Good heavens. Is Mr. Merton the oldest?”

  “Third. Jonty is the oldest. He’s on his honeymoon now.”

  “And what do your other brothers do?”

  Not much. The words rose to Pat’s lips; she bit them back. The twisted humour that helped one through grief could not be shared outside the family. “I’m afraid they’re no longer with us. Ladysmith.”

  Miss Carruth looked round sharply. “You lost two brothers there?”

  “The same day. We had the telegrams together.”

  “That’s dreadful. Oh, Miss Merton. I’m so sorry to be so clumsy.”

  “You weren’t to know. Really it’s nothing—the mention, I mean. I’d rather people talked about them than pretended they never existed. Please don’t think anything of it.”

  Miss Carruth’s brows drew together. “It’s very kind of you to make me feel better about a faux pas but really, in these circumstances, I wish you wouldn’t. Were you very fond of them?”

  “Moderately,” Pat said, and saw the other woman’s startled look. “I dare say that sounded odd. Do you have siblings?”

  “No. My mother died when I was very young, and my father never remarried.”

  “Mine too,” Pat said. “Only I was the youngest of five.” They’d reached the end of the lawn. She put the case down and dug out one of the old tin tea-canisters she’d hunted up, then balanced it on a fence post. “Frank and Donald were as noisy and boisterous as poorly trained dogs. They called me names and broke my toys and did all the horrible things brothers do—except Bill, he was always decent—and we were really only just starting to get along in a civilised way when they went to South Africa. I can’t honestly say I missed them when they were gone. It was a lot more peaceful and a lot less work, and I was perfectly content until I learned they wouldn’t be coming back.”

  She stopped there because she couldn’t think of anything else to say. Miss Carruth’s eyes were impossibly huge, fixed on her face. “I’m so sorry. That’s wholly inadequate but I don’t know if there’s anything else one can say.”

  “Not really. Certainly not, ‘At least you still have two left.’”

  “Please don’t tell me people say that to you.”

  “Of course they do,” Pat said. “As if mathematics apply to families. And particularly when one of the remaining brothers is Jonty.”

  Miss Carruth gave a squeak of laughter. “Oh dear.”

  “He’s not bad really, so long as one doesn’t live with him,” Pat said. “Or at least, I hope he won’t be when I don’t. Shall we begin? Rifle or revolver?”

  “Revolver?” Miss Carruth echoed. “Does one shoot with a revolver?”

  “They’re not much use for anything else,” Pat pointed out, and felt a tingle of pleasure at the smile that lit Miss Carruth’s eyes.

  “What a pity. I thought I could use one to dress a hat. But surely grouse and pheasants and so on involve rifles?”

  “They do, but you said you’d prefer not to shoot game. There’s always target shooting, for which you’d use a small bore rifle. But if you just wanted the experience of handling a gun, you might find a revolver easier to use, and I do think it’s a valuable skill to acquire. You never know when you might need it.”

  Miss Carruth looked somewhat startled. “Why would I ever need to use a revolver?”

  “Well, I have. Our house is isolated, a mile from the village, and we’ve had intruders, including a group of men who broke in during the day when only Fat
her and I were at home. He was very elderly then, and I was fifteen. I heard them in the hall and came down to confront them. It was really quite frightening.”

  “Good heavens, I expect it was. What happened?”

  “I told them to get out, and they wouldn’t go.” That single sentence covered an exchange that couldn’t have lasted much more than a minute, but in which time had seemed as slow as treacle. She still dreamed of it, very occasionally. “They laughed at me, and one of them made some rather unpleasant threats. So I shot him.”

  “You—”

  “In the shoulder,” Pat clarified. “And then Father wheeled himself out in his bath chair with the shotgun across his lap, and they left in a hurry. But you may imagine that I was glad to have the means to defend myself.”

  Fen’s mouth was an O. “Good heavens. Is that the sort of adventure one might expect in an isolated house? Daddy has taken a place in King’s Norton now, outside Birmingham, but I’ve always lived in Birmingham or London.”

  “Oh, goodness, no.” Pat felt a stab of guilt for raising the prospect. “I shouldn’t think you’d have any trouble up here. It’s as well to know how to defend oneself, all the same. Better to have the ability and not need it than need it and not have it.”

  “Yes, I suppose so. Do you know, nobody has ever before suggested that I might defend myself, rather than having someone do it for me.”

  “I dare say it depends a great deal on your upbringing,” Pat said. “My father found it easiest to behave as though he had five sons. I think he sometimes forgot he didn’t.”

  “Mine does try to remember he has a daughter.” Miss Carruth gave a bright smile. “Very well, then, a revolver it shall be. They do ones for ladies, don’t they?”

  “They do.” Pat opened the small walnut-wood case and showed Miss Carruth. “This is a Harrington top-break revolver.”

  Miss Carruth took the proffered weapon with extreme reluctance. “Will it go off?”

  “It’s not loaded. We never leave guns loaded. Nothing bad will happen.”

  “The handle is very pretty.” Miss Carruth turned the gun cautiously. “Mother of pearl. Ooh, it says PM. That’s you. How nice.”