The mouseling, embarrassed, if not chagrined, went outside and climbed up into a rhododendron for the comfort of it.
Shortly thereafter, Miss Middlechippers, the Pocketses' elderly neighbor, appeared in Mrs. Pockets' kitchen, wide-eyed and leaning on her cane for a moment to catch her breath until she could actually say the words: "Mr. Pickerel! He's coming! Here, I think!"
Mrs. Pockets said, "Well, that's all right, dear, we'll just let him come." And after Miss Middlechippers, in a state, fled out the back door, Mrs. Pockets smoothed her apron and glanced quickly at the large brass tray which hung like a mirror on the kitchen wall near the pantry. She went to answer a knock at the front door, thinking as she went, perhaps, that of all the times for Langston Pickerel to choose to call upon her, this might be the least convenient one possible!
She opened the door to a creature who, no matter how many times one had seen him, was always somewhat surprising. This time—gracious!—he was in a white periwig topped by a plumed cavalier hat and he wore a ruffled collar under a blue frock coat, beet-red breeches and great, flaring jackboots. And he was armed. There was a rapier on his hip!
He swept the hat off his wigged head and bowed deeply before her. He thanked her most kindly for her letter and asked if it would be at all convenient for her to take him to the room of the Mr. Neversmythe in question. And though it was not even approximately convenient, she was much too polite to say so, and took him. After a genteel knock on Mr. Neversmythe's door was answered by a gruff and blustery voice from inside the room saying, "Who's there? I might ask!" Mr. Pickerel said, "Thank you, Madame, for your trouble," and offered her a coin, which she respectfully declined. He then opened the door and disappeared into Mr. Neversmythe's room.
Mrs. Pockets had hardly reached the end of the hallway before that very door burst open with a loud noise and Mr. Neversmythe, himself, fled from his room, right past her, down the stairs and out the front door with such a hurry and bustle that hats flew off their pegs as he went by and one or two gimcracks fell off a shelf and broke into pieces so small that they were quite beyond mending. Mr. Pickerel walked calmly from Mr. Neversmythe's room, sheathing his weapon, and with a slight bow before the astonished Mrs. Pockets, said, "If you would be so kind as to send me a statement of all Mr. Neversmythe's charges, including these regrettable damages, you may be certain that all his debts shall be paid to you in full. I am most distressed for the trouble he has caused you, Madame, and I believe that you shall not see him again." He pulled on a pair of immaculate white gloves and adjusted them meticulously. "I shall send someone for his things," he said.
Farnaby had seen Mr. Pickerel go into The Brambles—though, owing to his position high in the rhododendron, he had not been seen by Mr. Pickerel. He was very interested in something on Mr. Pickerel's person. And as Farnaby perched there and pondered what he had seen, he was startled by Mr. Neversmythe fleeing out the door and away at high speed. Moments later, Mr. Pickerel, himself, came back out and Farnaby got another look at the thing most interesting to him. It wasn't the white periwig and it wasn't the jackboots. It wasn't even the rapier. It was hanging from Langston Pickerel's patent leather belt, all right, but it was much shorter than the rapier and it was curved in a peculiar way. It looked, too, Farnaby thought, as if it might be jeweled.
When the pastries and relishes were finished, Mrs. Pockets went to the door and summoned Farnaby to help her deliver them. But there was no Farnaby there to be summoned. She called out the front. She called out the back. She checked with Miss Middlechippers. There was no Farnaby.
Put out with herself and put out with a bilberry tart for breaking right in half when it was picked up and put out with Farnaby and, most of all, worried about why Farnaby was not where he was supposed to be, and somehow managing three baskets and two trays as best she could by herself, Proserpine Pockets set out for Tottensea Hall. As she walked along she calmed herself with the thought that no place in all Tottensea Burrows was as exciting at that moment as that very place to which she was going. If Farnaby had been irresistibly drawn to someplace that afternoon, she reasoned, it would surely be Tottensea Hall.
She was certainly right about the excitement! The hall was hopping with activity of all kinds. There were mice at the ceiling: festooning everything that could be festooned—with garlands being made to travel from every chandelier to every cornice board and back again. There were mice on the floor: putting bees' wax on it and polishing, polishing, polishing. There were mice in between: arranging flowers, replacing candles in the chandeliers, rehearsing music, laying out refreshments. There was all that and more, but there was no Farnaby.
Emmalina Fieldpea was there putting out her oat-seed cakes and, no dear, she hadn't seen Farnaby all day. Octavia Baggs was there rehearsing with the rest of the Cotillion Ensemble and she had not seen Farnaby, either, though she did go on to say that Opportune was getting very near to completing the Mousewriter and had told her that he might even try a curlicue or two that very afternoon. Was it possible that Farnaby had heard about that and gone to see it done? She didn't think so, Proserpine Pockets said, but she would check.
After checking at the Baggses', she went to ask Merchanty Swift if he had seen her mouse. Clementine Nickelpenny said that Mr. Swift was away on business and not expected until later that evening and, no, she hadn't seen Farnaby either, going on to point out that Proserpine looked frightfully tired and was she sure she wouldn't come in for a moment, dear, and have a nice cup of tea in the interest of strength. No, Proserpine Pockets would not come in. She would go home. Wherever he had gone, she said, Farnaby would surely be at home by now.
But he wasn't.
CHAPTER 16
The Fancy Dress Cotillion Ball
On the evening of The Tottensea Burrows Midsummer's Night Fancy Dress Cotillion Ball, Tottensea Hall was thrillingly ablaze with light! And to this luminous place all sorts of field mice came in their glory. Luminous were they themselves—all splendid in brilliant gowns, dignified tunics and colorful waistcoats. Greetings were exchanged, admiration declared and affection expressed. Fair mice were duly escorted about the room by gallant other mice. The refreshments were refreshing and the merriment flowed as the punch. Visiting and nibbling and sipping went on throughout the hall.
The Mayor was master of ceremonies at the ball and he acquitted himself well enough—as well as a bachelor could do on an occasion like that, I suppose. Everyone would have thought it really grand if he had had a beautiful companion to share the honors of the evening. But, of course, mice can't have everything.
Sir Rotherham always made a good impression at these events. He used the gold-rimmed monocle for the occasion and—with the possible exception of wearing his morning coat in the evening—he presented himself sufficiently well.
The General, on the other hand, was in some discomfiture in the matter of appearance throughout the evening. One or other of the collars of his uniform, in some unsymmetrical way, seemed determined to raise itself above its counterpart. He was seen often at the mirror, attempting to reconcile the collars by manipulation, pushing this one up and the other one down, or after closer inspection, pushing this one down and the other one up. Clementine Nickelpenny could have fixed the problem in a mouseminute with a sprinkle of water and a hot flatiron. But she was at home in her bed, wasn't she?—propped up on pillows with a nice cup of tea, re-reading Millicent's Surprised Heart and dabbing at her eyes, from time to time, with a silk handkerchief.
Umpteen Weeks was at home, as well. Much too old for that sort of nonsense, he would have said. Miss Middlechippers was at home, too, and almost as old as he was—but she certainly wouldn't have called the ball nonsense. It's just that she hadn't been asked.
Glendowner Fieldpea was at the ball with two of his daughters. Leacock Hardesty The Younger was there and busy getting his name onto Parsalina Smarts' dance card. Warburton Nines Who Once Lifted A Cat was certainly not there and never would have been. Octavia Baggs was, and was warming
up her fipple flute. Opportune Baggs stayed at home with the children and was making curlicues, actually, at that moment.
And anxious and distraught, as you can imagine, Proserpine Pockets was at home, too—watching and waiting for Farnaby to turn up.
At eight o'clock exactly, The Mayor gave a nod and the Tottensea Burrows Cotillion Ensemble played the quadrille.
Incarnadine Fieldpea danced it with Freckledy Biggles. Almandine Fieldpea mirrored the same figures with Stopperfield Pipes. When the two sisters came together at the center of the floor, in the order of the movements, Almandine whispered rather urgently, "Where's Grenadine?" Incarnadine lifted her shoulders in reply as they moved away from each other. When they advanced again Almandine hissed, "She's missing the quadrille!" Incarnadine hissed back, "Yes dear, I know!" and retreated once more in obedience to the dance.
After the quadrille, Incarnadine, from behind her folding fan, was just whispering to Almandine, "I don't care whether Freckledy Biggles reads books or not! Did you see him dance?" when Parsalina Smarts came up to them and more or less demanded to know where Grenadine was. Hazeltine Smarts came up to them, as well, visibly disappointed. Where was Langston Pickerel? She wanted to see him.
All at once, every mouse in the place seemed to be turning to look at the entrance of the hall. Someone had just come in. Whisperings rose up to become murmurings—with amazement not far behind. The Fieldpea sisters pressed through for a better view, relieved that Grenadine would at least be in time for the minuet and eager to see what on earth Langston Pickerel would wear on a night like this. But it wasn't Grenadine Fieldpea. It wasn't Langston Pickerel. It was Merchanty Swift! What else would happen!
Grenadine Fieldpea was not to be found dancing a quadrille or a minuet or a galop or any other thing at The Tottensea Burrows Midsummer's Night Fancy Dress Cotillion Ball because Grenadine Fieldpea was to be found at home, that evening, playing gin rummy with her mother while dressed in a gown which had taken her two weeks to make from a very expensive fabric which had cost most of her savings to buy.
Her mother said, "It is an elegant gown, Grenadine. Very handsomely made."
"Thank you, Mother," Grenadine said crisply and without smiling, "but I must tell you that I feel somewhat overdressed for a card game. Gin."
"Oh dear. Gin it is," Mrs. Fieldpea said and laid down her cards, counted the points, recorded the score, shuffled the pack and dealt.
"I don't want that," Grenadine said, referring to the four of clubs her mother had just turned up.
"Very well, then. I may have some use for it," Mrs. Fieldpea said, taking the card for herself. "What do you suppose has happened, dear?" she asked, discarding the nine of diamonds.
"I'm sure I haven't the slightest idea, Mother," Grenadine replied, drawing a card and discarding the knave of hearts, "but I am quite humiliated and wish never to hear the name Langston Pickerel again."
"I quite understand," Mrs. Fieldpea said, taking the knave and discarding the queen of spades.
Grenadine drew a card. "Perhaps he fell into a ditch," she said, with a bit more passion that she intended. She then discarded the seven of diamonds, which her mother took straightaway. "Mother, must you take every single card I lay down!"
"But they're such lovely cards, aren't they?" her mother said. "Gin."
"Oh!" Grenadine said, collapsing her spread of cards with something very close to a show of temper. She recovered quickly, however, and shuffled the pack while her mother wrote down the score. Then, expressing a new thought as she dealt, Grenadine said, "You don't suppose he did it deliberately?"
"I shouldn't like to think that of anyone," Mrs. Fieldpea replied.
"Nor should I," said Grenadine, with middling sincerity, and turned up the deuce of hearts, which her mother took, immediately. "We must try to think happier thoughts then," Grenadine said, "Perhaps he merely broke his leg." Her mother looked up without speaking and discarded the ten of spades. "Or has measles," Grenadine went on, "or got himself arrested for some terrible crime." She took the ten and discarded the king of clubs. "Smuggling, perhaps."
Her mother drew a card and discarded another.
"Yes, that would be it, I believe," Grenadine said. "He was caught smuggling rum, you see, and had a very brief trial and was sent off to prison where he could by NO MEANS contact me. Oh Mother, must we play this awful game?" She put down her cards, rose from her chair and left the room.
CHAPTER 17
An Unexpected Caller
A little while after Grenadine had ended the card game in such an abrupt fashion, Mrs. Fieldpea came to her daughter with a tray of blackberry tea and buttered toast. She found Grenadine dressed for bed and stretched out across the counterpane, face-down into her pillow. "Tea and toast if it pleases you, dear," Mrs. Fieldpea said, finding with some complication a place for the tray on a bedside table crowded with clock and candlestick, diary and pen, books and sundries and pencils in a cup.
Grenadine sat upright on the side of the bed and blew her nose. Twice.
"Mrs. Wickerbench has shown me a very nice stitch, Grenadine," Mrs. Fieldpea said, pouring tea. "Shall I teach it to you?"
"Is it very difficult?" Grenadine asked wearily.
"Oh, much to the contrary," her mother said brightly. "It's remarkably easy and makes a lovely effect. Shall we take our tray to the sewing room?"
And take it they did. And while Grenadine was getting the hang of the new stitch, Mrs. Fieldpea at her elbow said, very softly, "Of course, my dear, things do happen to one at times—things that are quite beyond one's control."
"I know, Mother," Grenadine said quietly. She knotted the cotton and bit it off, took a new length from a skein of different color, moistened the end of it in her mouth, and, with one eye shut and her tongue between her teeth, threaded the needle and went on. Her mother sipped blackberry tea, ate toast and watched the new stitch take lovely shape in dusty rose and midnight blue. Grenadine rested the embroidery hoop on her lap, looked away and said, sadly, "I've been quite horrid about this, haven't I?"
"You've been badly disappointed, dear," her mother said.
"But if one can't rise above a disappointment, Mother, how is one to be thought a grownup, after all?" Grenadine said. "And poor Mr. Pickerel. Who knows what really has happened to him while I've been thinking only of myself."
"I shouldn't worry about Mr. Pickerel," said her mother. "He strikes me as quite the kind of creature who takes care of himself—assiduously."
And just then there was a knock at the door. "Mr. Pickerel!" Grenadine said with horror. "And me in my night-dress. Oh, Mother!"
And her mother, whose eyes were almost as wide as Grenadine's at that moment, said, "Well, perhaps it is and perhaps it isn't. We must calm ourselves and then, while you repair to your room, I will discover who, in fact, is knocking at our door at this hour of the evening. All right? Run along, then." And, of course, she did.
Much later that evening Mr. Fieldpea returned from The Tottensea Burrows Midsummer's Night Fancy Dress Cotillion Ball with his two daughters in full flower of fancy dress and brimming over with every excitement which an event of that nature supplies and both of them, moreover, almost before they came in the door, saying, as one, "Where's Grenadine?"
"In here, dears," said Grenadine from the parlor where she and her mother were sitting on the lemon yellow damask settee, in night robes and slippers, waiting patiently for the return of the celebrants.
"Grenadine! What has happened?" said Almandine, with great agitation as the two sisters swept in, crowding the little room with the swish of gowns, the scent of corsages and the flashings of jewelry—dance programs and pencils and favors and the all the trappings of grand events in tow. "Where is Mr. Pickerel? Everyone was looking for you. We were all quite—"
"Grenadine!" Incarnadine breathlessly interrupted her sister, "Merchanty Swift was there! And you won't believe it, dear. He was asking for you! Merchanty Swift was there and he was asking for you!"
"Ye
s," Grenadine said serenely. "I know."
Almandine and Incarnadine stood up straight and stared at their sister in blank stupefaction. Mr. Fieldpea, who had followed the girls into the room, exchanged some kind of knowing glance with Mrs. Fieldpea who then said, finally, "Mr. Swift was here, my dears. Earlier this evening."
Almandine and Incarnadine looked at each other, utterly flummoxed. And after a space, they sank to the floor, looked back and forth, now at their mother, now at Grenadine, waiting impatiently for some kind of explanation.
"Mr. Pickerel never came," Grenadine said, trying to make a start explaining things. "We don't know why." She looked at her sisters and added, weakly, "Mother and I played gin rummy...and embroidered...and then...Mr. Swift came."
"Merchanty Swift came here?" Almandine asked, beyond surprise.
"Right." Grenadine said.
"But...," said Almandine.
"But...," said Incarnadine.
"Mr. Swift was concerned about your sister," Mr. Fieldpea said quietly, and the girls turned to look at him.
"How did you know that, Father?" asked Almandine.
"I spoke to him at the ball," Mr. Fieldpea said. "Having just this evening returned from his travels during which he had learned disturbing things about Mr. Pickerel, and also having learned that Mr. Pickerel would be accompanying your sister to the ball, Mr. Swift told me that he had come in the interest of Grenadine's safety. When neither Mr. Pickerel nor Grenadine appeared at the ball, Mr. Swift and I decided that he should come here to be certain that she was safe while I remained at my post, chaperoning you and Incarnadine."
"But...," said Almandine.
"But...," said Incarnadine.
The Linnet's Tale (A Mouse Story for Grownups) (The Tottensea Series) Page 9