A Question of Duty

by Martin McDowell

  “My family live just up from the church. It’s but a short walk and I’d like you to meet them.”

  The response was a sudden turn of Fentiman’s head, which surprised Argent a little.

  “If you’ve no objection! I mean, if you feel no need to hurry back to the ship.”

  “N-no. No. I’d be honoured. It’ll be a pleasure.”

  He paused.

  “I’ve already met Enid and Emily, you remember. Most charming, Emily especially.”

  Argent laughed slightly.

  “Well, I’m reassured that you did not name the married one!”

  “No, no! Your sister Emily, well, I found her most companionable.”

  “Well. I wouldn’t argue.”

  However, Argent looked carefully at his first Lieutenant. He was subdued, but somehow also fixed and stern, as though they were about to enter a battle, but he felt able to close the subject.

  “Good.”

  He paused.

  “I’m sure there’ll be some sort of occasion across the road, at Lady Grant’s, then we’ll stroll up. It’s not far.”

  Fentiman nodded and gazed out of the window. Argent took the conversation as ended and gazed out of the window of his own side. The watery sun was breaking through.

  The cab rattled on, out of the town, but the closer it came to the church, the slower its progress became. The lane to the Willoughby Estate and to his home beyond, became progressively chocked with carriages, well-wishers, and onlookers eager to view a society wedding. After a stop of some minutes, Argent had had enough.

  “Come. We’ll walk.”

  They alighted, paid the cabman and began to walk. The lane was thronged, but Argent was grateful that they did not have far to go, the church tower could clearly be seen merely half a cable ahead. However, many from the Willoughby lands and estate were in the lane, many from Ruanporth, several that Argent recognised as rescuees and several that recognised him. These proved to be more of a delay to their correct time of arrival than the traffic, all wanting to greet him, shake his hand, ask after him and show him their children, now growing up well. The Officers progressed on through as best they could, remaining only as long as politeness dictated, then passing on from one family group to the next, none of which could be avoided in the narrow lane, until they finally left behind the last of those who would greet and thank, at the church gate. They had arrived.

  In a visual catalogue to fully convey an image of England, a country Parish Church would stand as well worth, even demanding of, its inclusion. Just so, All Saints at Lanbe Barton. The beech and chestnut trees had long shed their leaves, but their shape and stature gave both pomp and dignity to a setting that was not without natural colour, generously bathed in the gentle sun. The overarch of these two classic English trees gave a bower of shelter and seclusion, through which yew trees marched, green and self important, along the path from the lych-gate and on to the church itself. This sat squat, solid and timeless, but its solidity pronounced its status as a cornerstone of close-knit country society, all clasped within by their canon of shared code and belief. Here all met, including generations of Argent’s own family, each Sunday, to stand, whatever their rank and status, merely as fragments of a common congregation, gathered together for communal worship. The pale pink granite and the deep purple of the tiling above, gave the church prominence within its winter surroundings, both colours being picked out by the cheering sun, this now glinting in the glass as welcoming eyes within the ancient windows.

  Colour also came from the multitude of army uniforms; almost all infantry, red and resplendent, standing out as highpoints amid the summer dresses, despite the chill, resurrected for an occasion such as this; an important wedding. Argent and Fentiman had arrived just in time, all were filing in, and so they presented themselves at the edge of the throng and allowed themselves to be gently carried forward. Inside the door stood four Lieutenants in the uniform that Argent recognised from their white facings and cuffs, as Algernon Blake’s Regiment, the 32nd Cornwall Foot. The nearest approached and both held out their invitations.

  “Morning Sirs. Bride or groom?”

  Fentiman answered, being nearest.

  “Bride.”

  “Anywhere on the left, then Sirs. Thank you.”

  Both nodded their replies and walked forward. They quickly found two seats, beside the aisle but necessarily close to the back, themselves being amongst the last inside. Thus established, they looked around. The church was a riot of colour, all floral; front, back and sides, whites, reds, pinks, yellows and purple, all offset by the deep green of holly, ivy and laurel. Argent felt the need to remark upon it.

  “Lady Grant’s gardeners must have worked miracles to keep all this fresh and ready for the occasion.”

  Fentiman turned surprised.

  “What? Sorry, I was miles away.”

  Argent smiled.

  “I was just remarking on the effort needed to produce all this floral decoration in December.”

  “Oh, yes. Of course. Most laudable.”

  The final words tailed off and Fentiman said no more. Argent studied the service sheet and then looked forward and was able to see the Groom, Algernon Blake, recognisable even from the back, his broad shoulders and powerful neck below neat, fair hair. A soldier of equal rank and stature, sat on his right. Behind them, sat what Argent took to be his family, his Mother and an older version of Blake, also in red with the shoulder insignia of a Brigadier. The Grants could just be seen on the opposite side of the aisle, Lady Constance in her full finery, beside the Admiral, both with garments clean and spotless and all decorations brightly polished. The Reverend Guilder added himself to the flowers at the beginning of the Sanctuary, beatified by his coming role in this occasion, himself the archetypal image of a country vicar; medium stature, hands clasped across his small paunch, eyes bright, mouth smiling, all topped by a bald head, defined by a narrow monklike fringe of dark hair, extending back and around from temple to temple.

  Argent looked around further, at the familiar massive timbers of the roof, with the barrel ceiling, like an inverted ship, he couldn’t help but conclude. Then he looked to the side, at the stained-glass windows and plaques, remembered from his childhood, almost all mentioning Willoughbys from times long past. That done, he sat and daydreamed easily, almost too easily, because the image of Sinead Malley came first into his mind, vividly remembering the last time he had seen her, and held her. Suddenly the organ gave a short wheeze and then the organist began. All stood immediately. Argent did not recognise the music, but someone behind murmured what he took to be its name.

  “Ah, Bach! Prelude One in C”

  This didn’t mean much to him, but it was very pleasant. However, all thoughts of music were swept aside as Charlotte passed forward on the arm of her Father, wearing a dress of cream satin, plain, no ostentation, but displaying the highest quality. Four bridesmaids followed, each in pale yellow. Charlotte reached the Sanctuary where the beaming Reverend Guilder stood waiting, then she was joined by Algernon Blake. The look they exchanged was one of deepest affection and Argent felt Fentiman move at his side. The ceremony progressed, all conducted by the good Reverend, who was plainly in the highest transport of spiritual delight. The hymns were sung politely, if not with gusto, but the tune from the organ, certainly maintained by the Willoughby estate, carried them along. Both Mothers sobbed as the vows were spoken and the rings exchanged, then the Reverend made his ecstatic pronouncement. The Bride and Groom kissed each other with wholehearted enthusiasm and both signed the Register. Then came the time to walk down the aisle as husband and wife.

  At the sight of both, Argent was genuinely moved. Both looked more at each other than at any of the nearby guests, who were left to marvel at the image of the deeply happy couple, both radiantly handsome and thoroughly and rightly joined together. Argent and Fentiman were amongst the few noticed by either, and both were treated to a dissolving smile from Charlotte and a nod and a grin from Bl
ake. Then they passed on. Argent looked at Fentiman, remembering that he had once been asked by him, seemingly ages ago, about his own chances with Charlotte if he proposed. He knew nothing of the outcome, other than, plainly, it had been a rejection. His First Lieutenant took a long deep breath, which he exhaled slowly, then he turned and looked at Argent, a look neither resigned nor sad, more a look of “that’s that, chapter closed, finished and over.” Argent felt better, felt reassured, and smiled back. By this time the emptying of the pews to join the procession up the aisle had reached them and they left their places to follow out into the churchyard.

  The air outside felt cold after the body warmth in the church, even though the wan sun still shone clear. Few were standing to talk, almost all had exited through the gate and were crossing the road to pass through the opened gates to the Willoughby Estate, walking slowly and contentedly up the drive. Argent and Fentiman joined them, strolling in similar mood, walking on through a loose audience of Willoughby tenants, many of whom called out, once more, as they recognised them and he greeted them equally. Suddenly, Argent recognised a voice he knew only too well, this confirmed by the words chosen to address them from behind.

  “Still pandering to the common herd, then, Argent?”

  Argent and Fentiman turned to see Cheveley, with his wife on his arm, she pretty enough, but, by demeanour, a subdued and passive figure. Argent turned away, then felt the need to make some kind of reply, so he turned around to walk a few steps backward.

  “Morning Cheveley, I trust I find you well. Quite recovered? A fine wedding, you’d agree?”

  Argant hoped that the middle two words, alluding to the Court Martial, would have some impact, but nothing more was said and they reached the entrance to the house. Cloaks were being taken by the servants, but, not having theirs, both Officers carried on down the entrance hall, having surrendered only their hats. At the doors to the great hall, stood the parents of both, then finally Blake and Charlotte. Argent allowed Fentiman to go first and he perfectly offered his thanks and congratulations to both sets of parents, followed by Argent. Fentiman shook hands with the Groom, then came Argent’s turn and he was immediately recognised. They looked at each other with knowing smiles, as though old friends being ridiculously required to do something unnecessarily formal. The exchange, at first, was brusque, almost pantomime, spoken in flat, matter o’ fact, tones.

  “Captain!”

  “Major!”

  “Thank you for coming.”

  “Not at all. It’s a pleasure.

  “Hope you are well?”

  “Never better. And congratulations!”

  “Thank you. Pleased to see you.

  “Same from me.”

  After the staccato exchange, both relaxed somewhat.

  “Its all been a bit of a rush, you’ll appreciate.”

  “How so?”

  “Just got back from the Peninsula. A month’s leave. So we decided to do a quick job, whilst I was home.”

  Argent nodded understandingly.

  “Well, congratulations once again. I’m sure you’ll be very happy.”

  Blake looked at Argent as he passed on.

  “No doubt of it. I am the most fortunate of men.”

  Argent had no knowledge of what had passed between Charlotte and Fentiman, but now it was his turn to kiss the elated and stunning Bride. She took both his hands in hers and her warmth towards him was genuine, this conveyed by the sincerest of smiles that immediately turned into a little laugh. Argent could only laugh himself at her evident happiness.

  “Congratulations, Charlotte. You look wonderful. Algernon’s a very lucky man.”

  “What’s that about luck?”

  Blake was unoccupied for a second and had overheard, but it was Charlotte who answered.

  “Yes you are! Now, keep looking cheerful, as though you’ve got something right for once, and make sure you say what’s proper. And expected.”

  “As you order, ma’am!”

  Argent laughed at the exchange and took one of Charlotte’s hands in both his before walking on. He was genuinely moved by the happiness between them. He moved on to enter the door and remembered the last time he had been there, this being the festivity for those of his crew. Along the opposite side from the door was a long run of tables, all crowded with food, wine, plates, glasses and cutlery, the last shining bright in the candlelight from the holders and candelabras above. Waiters circulated with poised silver trays bearing more wine. Argent and Fentiman looked at each other, then at the food; they said nothing, there was no need, agreement came by both moving immediately in that direction. The buffet was sumptuous and the choice, with merely a standard sized plate, almost impossible to make. However, both covered its surface, although regretting what had been left behind. Fentiman was evidently expert at holding both a wineglass and a plate in one hand, whilst eating with the other and so Argent copied his example and suffered no mishaps. Fentiman seemed relaxed and at ease and both talked of what could be expected in the coming weeks.

  “Do you expect much time in harbour, Sir?”

  “I doubt it. Grant delayed our departure to enable us to attend this. We’ll soon be out on “the triangle”, if not sent back down to Figuiera, or somesuch.”

  Argent paused.

  “Any problem with the ship?”

  “No. But I expect another draft to make up our complement; the great majority convicts and pressmen, no doubt.”

  Argent frowned, but felt some cause for optimism.

  “Well, yes, perhaps, but don’t forget, we’ve just received prizemoney and that news will get around. Perhaps more volunteers than last time.”

  Fentiman nodded whilst chewing a tasty mouthful. Argent looked around, the Bride and Groom and parents were circulating, but still some way away from themselves, where they were standing. However, both remained concerned with food, both their plates were now empty and much of the buffet table was unoccupied.

  “I’m for more.”

  “The same from me! Should we take some back for the Wardroom? They’ll never believe us when we tell them of this.”

  Argent laughed as they walked forward.

  “I very much doubt that we could get it back in the state as presented here. They’ll just have to take our word for it, and live in envy!”

  At the table they began to fill their plates again, however, as they did so, Argent heard, once more, the harsh voice he recognised very well.

  “You know, I do think that society occasions, should be for society people. It’s getting as bad as The Service. Sons of tenant farmers being made up to command, which only goes to show that not all change is for the better!”

  Argent left the table and began to walk back to where himself and Fentiman had been standing, but he took the time to look sideways at Cheveley who was taking no food but holding an empty wineglass. A waiter passed and he placed his empty glass on the tray and took another. Cheveley was staring pointedly at Argent, whilst those of his party stood with confused, and partly embarrassed, rictus grins. His wife studied her feet. Argent continued to walk slowly on and bestow upon Cheveley an insolent smile that was added to by his own wineglass being raised in a mock toast. Argent then looked away, but from Cheveley there came more.

  “The tedious thing about peasant farmers is that they are always suffering some kind of avoidable mishap. Fire and pestilence. Especially fire.”

  Argent continued walking, but the words had had their effect. Was that just Cheveley being foul; drunken talk and lies, wishing to discomfit by any means, spurred on by his intense dislike and desire for revenge, or something more sinister, and planned? In vino veritas! They regained their place by the wall and Argent thought, rationally, he hoped, as he ate and managed to dismiss the threat as in keeping with the evil, drink fuelled nature of Cheveley. However, he had another concern.

  “I think we should leave. Cheveley’s going to get more drunk and spark something off, with me, no doubt. This is a wedding and I wa
nt no part in spoiling it. We’ll finish this, then go.”

  They ate hurriedly, left the hall and went for their hats arranged on the hall table, but they were spotted by Lady Grant, she hurrying around organising the next stages of the celebration.

  “Reuben! Lieutenant Fentiman. Going so soon? But we haven’t toasted the Bride and Groom, nor heard any speeches. And there’s entertainment.”

  Argent walked towards her, followed by Fentiman, and bowed.

  “Lady Grant. We feel we must go. I fear something unpleasant may happen that would spoil the occasion.”

  Lady Grant looked astonished.

  “Unpleasant?”

  “Yes, between myself and Captain Cheveley. It is well known to you the low level of relations between him and myself. He is drinking heavily and has already tried his best to stir up something today, twice in fact, by saying something provocative. It is best that we go and remove any threat to Charlotte and Algernon’s special day.”

  He paused, then spoke emphatically to reinforce his decision.

  “We should go. I do think it’s for the best. So thank you, for your wonderful hospitality. The food was memorable.”

  He tried to be lighthearted, but Lady Grant was having none of it.

  “Cheveley, being unpleasant and offensive, yes? The Admiral will take a dim view of that, very dim. But, I do see your point, and I thank you for your good sense.”

  She leaned forward and placed a hand on the sleeve of both.

  “You know that you are very welcome here, any time, both of you.”

  Both bowed again, put on their hats, saluted the Lady and left. Dusk was falling and the driveway was picked out by the lanterns of the waiting carriages, the reflections from the highly polished coachwork and wheels adding to the original light. They walked on and down to the gate, acknowledging the fingers to foreheads of the waiting coachmen, but soon they were on the road up to Argent’s family farm, which cheered Argent significantly.

  “I hope you’ll like them.”