by Anna Reader
“Good morning, my darling,” her father said, his eyes appearing above a copy of yesterday’s paper. “Did you sleep well?”
“Like a log, thanks, Pa,” Purdie replied. “Peter’s ale always gives one the most vivid dreams.”
“Don’t I know it,” came the response.
“What’s afoot?” Purdie asked, noticing that her father was looking particularly amused by something. Woods’ breakfasts often inspired delight in the Purdews, but rarely mirth.
“I’ve got a juicy piece of news for you, as it happens,” Lord Alverstock replied, his eyes a-twinkle.
“Really?” Purdie asked, settling herself across from him and plucking a warm piece of toast from the rack. “What is it?”
Lord Alverstock paused for dramatic effect, placing the paper on the table, and crossing his arms across his chest. “Gussie Featherington-Blyth,” he announced at last, “is to be married to one Laetitia Beresford, daughter of Brigadier Arthur Beresford and Mrs Petunia Beresford. There’s rather a fulsome piece here about Brigadier Beresford’s time in Udaipur, and a splendidly unflattering picture of Gussie. Fancy a squizz?”
“Truly?” Purdie cried, seizing upon the paper with a peculiar mixture of relief, delight, pride, and chagrin. There it was in black and white – Lettuce and Gussie were due to be shackled and she was, once again, a free agent.
“Well, dash it all, Pa,” she said, after scanning the announcement. “I’m thrilled of course, but, really. The bounder could at least have had the courtesy to break it off with me before proposing to Lettuce Beresford. Crikey, it’s almost enough to put one off one’s Earl Grey.”
“Now, Emmie,” Lord Alverstock remonstrated, “don’t be unkind to the poor boy. You know very well you only agreed to marry him because of an invasive cactus, and that you had absolutely no intention of being bound by your promise. If I hadn’t caused such a ruckus with the bard’s head, then none of this would have happened - so really, it’s my fault. I’m sure he didn’t mean to jilt you.”
Purdie reached for the marmalade and broke into a grin. “Well, of course – you’re quite right. Pongo will be absolutely delighted – this is quite a coup for our matchmaking abilities.”
“Don’t get a taste for it, m’dear. Look what happened to that nit Emma Woodhouse.”
“She bagged Mr Knightley,” Purdie fired back, rather surprised by this sudden literary diversion.
“Yes - but not before ruining a perfectly enjoyable picnic. Seemed a frightful little toe-rag, from the little I read.”
Algie drifted into the room at that point, and sat himself down next to his sister. “Morning all,” he said. “What are you two gassing about?”
“Gussie Featherington-Blyth has become engaged to Lettuce Beresford,” Purdie announced, this time with something approaching relish.
“Isn’t she the blighter who head-butts people at garden parties?” Algie asked, a touch bemused and frankly a little out of touch. Purdie hadn’t got so far as to disclose her impending nuptials to her brother and now, thankfully, that ship had sailed into very different waters. “If so, I can only wish Gussie the best of British, and pray that we are not invited to the wedding.”
Lord Alverstock permitted his children to enjoy their breakfast in peace, before taking the decision to move things up a gear from kippers to capers. “Attention, sprogs,” he said, leaping up from his chair and moving to push the door to, lest his wife return from her post-prandial constitutional to find the three of them plotting their next crime. Not, he suspected, what Lady Alverstock was expecting from her morning. “Our target is not the manuscript.”
“Thought so,” Algie replied casually, rocking back on two chair legs with a cup of Darjeeling juddering precariously in its saucer. “Didn’t think it would be in your line.”
“Very shrewd, Algernon,” Lord Alverstock replied. “No disrespect meant, I’m sure it is an excellent bit of scribbling, but that Hardy fellow’s not really my cup of chai. Now if it were the manuscript for “Waverley”, on the other hand…..but I digress. Our aim, children, is to steal the Golden Bail.”
“Will the Argonauts be joining us?” Purdie inquired, quick as a flash.
“Don’t be facetious, darling.”
“And what, Pater, is the Golden Bail when it’s at home?” Algie said, always to be relied on to ask the pertinent question.
Lord Alverstock peeked out of the window to check that his beloved was still wandering amongst the forget-me-knots. Satisfied that she was otherwise engaged, he closed his eyes for a moment so that the story really had a chance to flow through him.
“Here we go,” Algie muttered out the side of his mouth to his sister. “Pa’s winding himself into gear.”
“Two hundred years ago, almost to the day,” Lord Alverstock began, slipping his fingers into his waistcoat pocket and pacing dreamily up and down the sunny breakfast room, “the Duke of Beaufort challenged Sir Williams-Wynn to a cricket match, to take place in the grounds of Hampton Court Palace…”
“The Duke and Sir Williams-Wynn were both eager fans of the fledgling sport, and both known to have a fairly serious problem with gambling. We’re really not in the realm of the peccadillo, sprogs - there’s even a story that Sir Williams-Wynn once bet his wife’s wig on a game of whist, forcing the poor girl to leave the party without her bally barnet…terribly poor show. However, that’s a tale for another day.
“In any case, as a wager, the Duke staked an ancient bejewelled tiara on the game. It had been in the family for generations and was worth a sickening amount of money. Legend had it that one of the Duke’s forebears had actually stolen it from the Lady in the Lake, and his wife was so superstitious about its provenance that she had refused to wear it on her wedding day, for fear of angering Albion’s spiritual realm.”
“And he thinks I’m eccentric for believing in smugglers,” Purdie whispered to Algie under her breath, who chuckled.
“For his part, Sir Williams-Wynn agreed to hand one of his smaller estates in Sussex over to the Duke in the event that his team lost the match. It was an extraordinary decision – that land had been in the family for more than three centuries, and whilst it might not have been the family’s ancestral seat, it was nevertheless immensely valuable.”
“Rather puts the father-son match on Leaver’s Day into perspective,” Algie interjected, whistling through his teeth.
“Indeed, my boy,” Lord Alverstock replied with feeling.
“Hang on a jiffy,” Purdie interjected, “Why did the stakes get so out of hand? I like cricket as much as the next gal, but this seems a bit steep.”
“An extremely salutary lesson in why one shouldn’t drink cheap wine, my love,” Lord Alverstock replied. “Classic example of two compulsive gamblers leaping into their cups together - without having a proper supper, I might add - and getting utterly blotto in the process. And, of course, once the bet was made, both men were too pig-headed to back down.”
“They sound jolly silly,” Purdie observed critically, “Pongo would never let me do anything so rash.”
“What rot,” Algie snorted. “Don’t you remember when the pair of you got so tiddly on bathtub gin that you decided to try to swim to France? Only you were in the water fountain in the quad at St. Penrith’s, rather than the English Channel? If you don’t, I’ve got several witnesses who do.”
“Oh, yes,” Purdie replied, smiling fondly at the memory. “What innocent, salad days they were.”
“Anyway,” Lord Alverstock continued, trying valiantly to wrestle his children back on topic.
“After many weeks of bantering rivalry, the day of the match eventually arrived. Sir Williams-Wynn was the bookie’s favourite – he himself had a blistering cover-drive in his armoury, as well as being the proud father of no fewer than five boys who shared his prowess with the willow.
“The Duke of Beaufort, however, unbeknownst to the arbiters of the bet at White’s, had boldly recruited Sir Williams-Wynn’s oldest daughter to his si
de. The Beaufort boys, you see, had taught her to play when she was still very young indeed, and though her father would never have acknowledged she had become a very effective bowler of spin, and was in fact one of her brothers’ few Achilles’ heels, having spent so many hours studying their technique. As you can imagine, her emergence in the field created quite the stir.”
“Good show,” Purdie cried, drumming her teacup on the table-cloth in appreciation. “A female cricketer in the seventeen hundreds? This is a cracking story, Pa.”
“Quite so, Emmeline. When the furore over the participation of a member of the fairer sex eventually subsided – it being decided that she could play, so long as she did so in skirts – it was a captivating first innings.
“The Duke’s side batted first, scoring a highly respectable three hundred runs, with the man himself carrying his bat. Violet Williams-Wynn even notched up a very useful thirty, before she too was eventually bowled by one of her brothers and the teams headed off the field for refreshment.
“I should mention,” he continued, peeking out of the window once again to check on Lady Alverstock’s coordinates, “that the tea provided was truly magnificent. The Palace kitchens laid on roasted boar, swan, sweetmeats, baked puddings, and jellies set in the most fantastical shapes – including a multi-coloured Palace of Versailles, and a jellied cricket pavilion in honour of the occasion. The teams – naturally - indulged heartily. Consequently, by the time they came back on the field for their second bite of the cherry, the players were, let’s say, disinclined to move with speed.
“All, that is, except for Violet – who was, in accordance with the tyrannical custom of the time, wearing a corset, and therefore unable to eat more than a few morsels at any one sitting. The story goes that she plucked the apple from the boar’s mouth and dined on that alone, eschewing meat and wine completely. Thus, light on her feet and faced by a queue of bilious opponents, was she able to rip through her father’s bloated batsman, annihilating half the side when they were barely in triple figures.”
(“Walter Scott has a lot to answer for,” Algie whispered to his sister, with reference to his father’s floral narrative flourishes.)
“Even when Violet was being rested from the bowling attack, the fifth and sixth batsmen were clearly struggling in the face of the Duke’s medium-pacers and another wicket was expected imminently. And then – skulduggery. The lightest of drizzles dusted both teams - so insignificant as to be barely noticeable - yet Sir Williams-Wynn, the blighter, saw his chance. Lunging forwards to face down a particularly loopy delivery with bat in hand and a large quantity of boar in his belly, he threw himself into a dramatic dive, skidding across the grass and landing in a heap with cravat askew. Heaving himself up, he declared that the rain had rendered the ground unsafe, and urged the umpire to abandon play.
“Well, Lord knows what he must have offered the fellow by way of a bribe, but in one of the worst decisions in cricketing history, the toad accepted Sir Williams-Wynn’s arguments and called off the match.”
“What a pill!” Algie cried in disgust.
“Quite, dear boy, quite. The Duke of Beaufort was absolutely fuming, of course,” Lord Alverstock went on, “lunged for Sir Williams-Wynn across the crease and, once blows had been exchanged, challenged him to a duel.”
“She’s kneeling behind the fuchsias,” Purdie interjected, as her father paused yet again to scan the garden for his wife. “Weeding.”
“Thank you, darling,” he said. “Now, where was I? Ah, yes….the duel.”
“Things seem to have escalated remarkably quickly,” Algie observed with eyebrows aloft. “We’ve certainly moved from jelly to duels at a jolly brisk pace.”
“Cricket didn’t always have such a sedate reputation, for very good reason,” Lord Alverstock agreed. “It inspired duels left right and centre for a dashed long time. In any case, as I was saying, Sir Williams-Wynn chose pistols - he was known to keep a pair in his carriage in case of emergencies - and the two hot-headed peers of the realm agreed to use the stumps as their markers.”
“They strode away from one another, the drizzle misting their pistols with a shimmering gauze…”
“Walter Scott again,” Algie muttered to his sister in a low voice. “Crikey.”
“Until, after a dramatic exchange in which both men managed to wing one another, it was agreed that honour had been restored. The wager was declared void in light of the allegations of foul play, and in the end the teams simply called it a day.
“The Duke of Beaufort never forgot the incident, however – and, when one of Sir Williams-Wynn’s lusty sons married his favourite daughter several years later, he offered nothing by way of a dowry. Nothing, that is, apart from a gold-plated bail, etched facetiously with the date of that fateful game. Which, my loves, we are now going to steal.”
“What a delicious story,” Purdie said as soon as her father had finished. “I can’t believe I’ve never heard it before, Pa. But what’s the bail doing in Chettleforth?”
“Aha,” Lord Alverstock replied, taking another surreptitious glance out of the window. “That brings me to the epilogue.”
“The off-spring of the union between Sir Williams-Wynn’s son and the Duke of Beaufort’s daughter was your great, great, great grandmother, Christabel, and that bail has subsequently been in our family for many years. My own exceptional grandfather used to let us use it during our cricket matches when we were children – which we did happily for many years. Until the bail went missing.”
Lord Alverstock paused for dramatic effect and a slurp of Lapsang Souchong.
“Grandfather was devastated, of course, and couldn’t even face a visit to Lord’s for several years after its disappearance. I, however, have always known that my vile cousin Eustace was the culprit – he was a bug-hunting stinker of the first order, and sticky-fingered to boot – however as I was never a snitch, I decided not to air my suspicions to the clan at large.”
“There seem to be an unsettlingly large number of stinkers in our family tree, Pa,” Algie observed, wearing an expression of acute distaste. “With a distressing disregard for Fair Play. I knew Cousin Eustace was a bit of a queer fish, but really.”
“Every family has ‘em, my boy,” was Lord Alverstock’s sanguine reply. “It can’t be helped. However, this is one wrong I intend to set right. The Contemptible Eustace always spends a month in Tuscany at this time of year, leaving his house in Chettleforth unmanned and undefended. I am convinced that he’s stashed the bail somewhere in that property – and I intend to use the fair as cover to do some investigating.”
“Look sharp,” Purdie said quickly, seeing movement outside the window, “The mothership is on the move.”
Lord Alverstock returned to his seat, and retrieved his copy of the Times. Algie and Purdie, meanwhile, initiated some light chatter about the quality of Peter’s ale, and their hopes for the inclusion of Tom’s pheasant in one of Woods’ game pies.
“Good morning, my darlings,” Lady Alverstock said, drifting into the room with her arms full of daffodils. “Will you be ready to set off soon? I’ve asked Woods to put a picnic together so we can find a sunny spot in the off-field.”
“Just finishing our eggs, Ma,” Algie replied, with one of his dazzling smiles.
“Lovely. I have a couple of errands to run in town, too, so I’d like to get there in good time, my sweets.”
“Actually,” Purdie replied, seizing upon this opportunity to create an alibi, “Algie and I were just saying that we’d love to pop into the Hardy exhibition before the match, so why don’t we all head up shortly?”
“Absolutely,” Lord Alverstock added, “I’m running rather low on tobacco myself, so let’s all peel off and do what we need to.”
“Meet in the hall in fifteen minutes?” Purdie suggested, rising from the table and moving to the door with the rolling saunter she reserved particularly for holidays in Cornwall.
Lady Alverstock was very pleasantly surprised. Trying to
get her family moving in the mornings was usually a decidedly uphill battle – Emmeline had invariably misplaced a book or her gloves; Algernon could never find the equipment he wanted; and her husband had been a law unto himself since the day they’d first met. This sudden display of unified energy made a lovely, albeit faintly suspicious, change.
Lord Alverstock shifted the Blériot-Whippet up a gear, and bore his family inexorably towards cricket and crime. He was, truth be told, feeing rather peaky, but he was damned if he’d let his ailing body stand in the way of his Cornish caper. He’d been determined to recover that bail since his repellent cousin had first had the gall to slip it into the pocket of his short trousers. Really, Lord Alverstock asked himself, what kind of grubby little pustule steals cricketing memorabilia of the first waters from his own bally family?
“They were not terrorists, mother, they were freedom fighters,” Purdie explained as calmly as possible, her words interrupting Lord Alverstock’s furious reverie. “There is quite literally no logical justification for denying women equal rights.”
Suffragettes caused the locking of horns between mother and daughter from time to time, and this, it seemed, was going to be one of those moments. Lady Alverstock was generally the epitome of practical good sense, however she had always found the idea of female liberation deeply unnerving. Images of women chaining themselves to railings and refusing food had permeated the news for the past fifteen years, and to a woman raised with Victorian principles, it was all highly unsatisfactory. It was one thing to hold the fort when the menfolk were off fighting for Queen and country, she argued, but wearing trousers, smoking cigarettes, and bolting off to seek employment in the City were to her nothing more than evidence of the End of Days. It had therefore come as something of a shock to discover that she had raised not one but two strident feminists – for Algernon was just as explosive as his sister on the subject – and it had taken a great deal of persuasion to bring her around when both twins had both been accepted by Cambridge. Purdie’s recent disgrace had subsequently been met with amusement by her father, and a marked lack of surprise from her mother - who had taken the incident as proof of the fact that women simply shouldn’t try to venture into the male domain of academia.