“With my help, sir, yes. You’ve come on in leaps and bounds today, sir. You should be very proud.”
“Is leaping and bounding required?”
“Not at all, sir. But you should be pleased with your progress today. You’ll soon be more than qualified. You’ll make your father proud.”
Quentin grinned. “Do you really think so?”
Francis grinned back. “I really think so.”
“Oho!” A third voice broke the moment. “What have we here?”
It was Doctor Goodhead. Quentin started and stepped back from the stable boy.
“Good evening, Kon-tan. Out for a tramp in the woods?” The doctor looked Francis up and down, a smirk contorting his lips.
“Quoits practice,” said Quentin. “What are you doing here?”
“It is my practice,” said the doctor, “to take this path through the woods; it is a shortcut that saves me hours every day. I saw Satan wandering around without a rider and I wondered if everything was all right.”
Quentin was amazed. “Thank you, Doctor; as you can see I am in good hands.”
“Quoits, eh?” Doctor Goodhead stroked his chin.
Inspiration struck! “You could teach me, Doctor. There is a yard behind your office. I could come there tomorrow afternoon! And every afternoon until the competition!”
Doctor Goodhead shook his head. “Oh, no, that will not do at all,” he laughed. “It is not in my best interests.”
Quentin looked stricken. “What mean you?”
“I mean that it is not in my interests to train up an opponent, for I am competing myself. Prepare to be trounced, young man, and soundly. Good evening.”
Doctor Goodhead tipped his hat and disappeared into the shadowy foliage. Quentin was dumbfounded for a moment. Then he noticed how dark the sky had grown and turned to Francis.
But of the stable boy there was no sign. The quoits, peg and carrying case lay abandoned on the ground.
Quickening
The following days fell into a pattern but one to which Quentin was not entirely averse. He rose early and spent a fretful hour at his desk, trying to get his three-volume novel off to a start before dressing for elevenses with the latest seemingly eligible young lady and her mother - for Aunt Fanny was keen to pursue her project of marrying her youngest nephew off - and, the visitors duly despatched and crossed off the list, he hurried out to the clearing for his daily practice with the stable boy. At first, relations between the two had been frosty for reasons Quentin was unable to fathom, but Francis soon thawed, taking full advantage of the opportunity to castigate and cajole the young master under the guise of tutelage.
“You seem distracted, nephew,” Aunt Fanny observed one morning as they waited for their guests. “You rub your wrist in quite a distracted manner. Have you incurred an injury in some way? Too much poetry, I expect.”
“I beg your pardon, Aunt. If you must know, it is quoits practice.”
Aunt Fanny was aghast. “That frightful, vulgar game! You shall end up with a forearm like a navvy’s! Really, Quentin, this will not do. And you appear to have caught the sun - your face is becoming as brown as a berry. No, I shall not have this. You are the son of a squire not some farmhand toiling in the noonday sun. You shall keep indoors until your natural pallor returns.”
“Forgive me, Aunt, but I shall not. The tournament is merely days away.”
“I see you are quite determined and I know your father wills it. But you must take precautions, at least. You may borrow my parasol. Birkworth may stand behind you to hold it.”
“Birkworth!”
“You take exception at Birkworth?”
“He is an altogether inestimable person, I am sure, but he would only get in the way of my tossing arm.”
Aunt Fanny gasped in dismay. “So vulgar! You are not to mention any of this when My Lady Shaver arrives. In fact, it were better you say nothing at all. It does not do for young men to prattle on so. A man who holds his tongue exudes an air of wisdom; a man who lets his flap freely is an insufferable boor.”
“Yes, Aunt.”
The inestimable person himself announced the arrival of Lady Shaver and her daughter, Miss Charlotte. Remarkable, thought Quentin: neither of them appears to be peculiar. Through that door had passed tall girls, short girls, emaciated girls, overfed girls, accompanied by their mothers, crone-like, matronly, loutish, and reserved as the case may be. But here was a couple of specimens that, at first glance, could pass for human.
“Charmed, I’m sure,” Quentin bowed to peck the back of a laced-glove.
“I’m sure you are,” whispered Miss Shaver. She surprised and alarmed him with a wink of an eye as he straightened. “You have an impressive home,” she said aloud. “I would dearly love to see the grounds.”
The older women paused in their pleasantries to look at the girl. Aunt Fanny and Lady Shaver exchanged a look of self-satisfaction. Lady Shaver nodded graciously. Aunt Fanny smirked.
“Quentin, please afford Miss Shaver a turn of the garden. But do not go too far, mind you; Birkworth shall have tea ready presently.”
Before Quentin could respond, he found Miss Shaver’s arm linked in his and the young lady was steering him toward the French windows.
“Play along,” she urged in his ear. “I can’t wait to get out of here.”
Amazed, Quentin stumbled from the room. Miss Shaver pulled him across the patio and toward the topiaried hedges in their quadrangle. At a safe distance from the house, she released him and laughed.
“I detest these occasions, don’t you?”
Quentin opened his mouth but no words came out.
“You may relax, Master Quigley. I have no designs on you, however matters may appear.”
Quentin frowned.
“Mama’s been trying to marry me off for years,” Miss Shaver expanded. “She simply will not hold with me being a spinster - which is a fate worse than death, according to her.”
“You do not wish to be married?”
“Why, no! Not even a little bit. Do you?”
“Do you know, I don’t!”
Miss Shaver clapped. “I knew it. As soon as I laid eyes on you, I took you for a kindred spirit. We are not the marrying sort, you and I. We are made for each other!”
She twirled around on the spot with her head thrown back and her arms spread wide. Quentin was altogether baffled. She importuned him to do the same, taking his hands and running in circles. Within two minutes of her society, Quentin found he was laughing breathlessly and his heart was light.
Presently, they withdrew to a bench. “I think we shall be firm friends,” said Miss Shaver. “An alliance between us shall be unstoppable! Unbeatable!”
Quentin’s face clouded. “An alliance? Between us? What mean you?”
She leant toward him with a conspiratorial air. “Working together, we shall keep our respective old birds off our backs. As long as they think we are in concert, they will not seek to fit us up with whomever else they can find. I don’t know about your Aunt Fanny but my mother has scoured several counties around and has dredged up all sorts of creatures - O, you have no idea!”
“I believe I do,” said Quentin. “My aunt has been similarly diligent in her quest. Every day some new horror.”
Miss Shaver sat back. “You do not find me attractive, Master Quigley?”
“Not in the slightest. That is to say you are not unhandsome, Miss Shaver.”
“And you are by far the prettiest boy on whom I have ever laid eyes. But that is as far as my appreciation goes.”
“You have doubts then, of my character?”
“I know but little of your character but have I not already proclaimed that we were made for each other - in terms of friendship, merely. I believe my failings are your failin
gs also, my shortcomings your shortcomings. Or am I mistaken?”
Quentin protested. “O, no, Miss Shaver! You are altogether correct. We are two of a kind and therefore unsuitable for marriage.”
“You may call me Lottie,” she grinned.
“And I am Quentin.”
Her eyebrows flew up. “You are pretentious and shallow! Quentin, indeed! I like you enormously.”
“And I like you a lot, Miss - Lottie. For how long shall we string out this charade?”
“For the rest of our lives - or for the rest of our guardians’ lives. Now, come; lead me down to the stream and back.”
“But,” Quentin looked wistfully at the house, “our tea shall be cold.”
“All the better to bolster our deception...” laughed Lottie, skipping away. “So mutual is our attraction, what care we if our tea becomes undrinkable?”
Quentin considered the notion and his grin broke out anew. He sprang from the bench and chased after this surprising and delightful young lady.
***
Aunt Fanny could not be happier. At dinner that evening she beamed at her nephew along the length of the table. She took his reluctance to eat anything as a sign of love, when in truth his wrist was aching so badly from practising with the metal quoits, he was unable to lift cutlery.
“Miss Shaver is a thoroughly charming young lady,” Aunt Fanny declared. “Not that I saw much of her, for you monopolised her company. And you need not worry about a thing, my dear nephew. All the arrangements shall be made. Why, we shall even find you a pair of shoes with augmented heels so that, at the altar, you-”
She broke off. “I mean no offence, of course. But you must own, the girl is a full head taller than you.”
“You mean to rush us into marriage, Aunt?”
“I see no reason for delay. Long engagements are tedious and allow too much time for doubt to sow its seeds. Lady Shaver and I are in complete agreement. We shall hold a ball next month - O, that we could arrange one sooner! - when your betrothal shall be formerly announced.”
Beneath his suntanned cheeks, Quentin paled. Things were moving too fast. A formal engagement was one thing, but this precipitous haste toward wedlock was most alarming. He would sound out Miss Shaver - Lottie - at their next meeting.
“But, Aunt, you move too quickly. I have only this day met the girl.”
“And I have never beheld two people more ideally suited!”
“But to be married, Aunt! It is too soon.”
“Stuff and nonsense, my boy! There is a month until the engagement party; more than ample time for you to propose. And then the wedding shall not be until the spring, or perhaps June. Yes, a June wedding were best. Everywhere looks so lovely in June.”
Quentin got to his feet and asked to be excused. “I am quite unwell, Aunt; I bid you give me leave to depart.”
Amused, Aunt Fanny dismissed him with a wave. As her nephew hurried from the dining room, she chuckled to herself. The boy was lovesick, no doubt. She thanked her lucky stars for the coming of Miss Charlotte Shaver.
***
Quentin paced in his room, his heart racing and his quickening breath swelling his ribcage. Panic was growing inside him as well as a creeping sense of dread. Matters were slipping out of his control.
He longed to speak to the doctor about it but he had not so much as glimpsed the physician since their encounter in the clearing. To consult him in the office was unthinkable, even to ask for some kind of ease for his aching wrist. That would be a sign of weakness and Quentin was concerned that the doctor’s opinion of him was already lower than he would have liked. They were rivals for the same prize, the doctor and he. No, there could be no discourse until after the championship, which was only two short days away.
He would seek out Francis and demand longer practice sessions. Throwing himself into quoits would distract his mind from his impending doom, and distraction was as good as talking things through, for speaking to the stable boy on private matters was as likely as consulting his horse.
He sat at the desk and picked up a quill. It hurt his hand to hold it so he threw it across the room. Even the consolation of literature was denied him, it seemed! O, my neglected three-volume novel! Shall I ever see you finished? Or even begun?
***
“It was the best of things, it was the worst of things-”
Quentin screwed up the paper and cast it to the floor. Not only was his handwriting made nigh on eligible by the pain in his wrist but the muse was stubbornly refusing to visit his barren imagination. His stomach rumbled; hunger drove him from the desk to seek out Birkworth for bread and cheese. He wanted something he could eat without knife and fork, in the privacy of his own room. The butler brought the provisions and withdrew, mute as ever. Quentin tore off a chunk of bread with his teeth and wolfed it down. The sooner the infernal competition was over and done with, the better. Confounded quoits! They are the bane of my life.
Next to Aunt Fanny, of course. She had arranged elevenses again: Lady Shaver and she had much to discuss, apparently, and therefore Quentin must entertain Miss Shaver in the garden.
“You two run along,” Aunt Fanny beamed, like a cat that had found the key to the creamery. “You must explore every inch, my dear.”
“Of the grounds, Aunt?”
“Go. I shall have Birkworth serve your tea on the patio, for I am certain you two don’t want us old biddies getting in your way.”
Lady Shaver simpered. She looked at her daughter with an imploring look that Quentin could not quite decipher. Out in the garden, Miss Shaver explained.
“My mother is anxious that I do not allow another beau to slip from my grasp. She is fearful that I shall end up alone and unwed.”
“My aunt shares that terror. Although why it should concern her so nearly, I cannot imagine. It is not as though I am heir to the estate - you were not labouring under that assumption?”
“Oh, no! Not at all. Besides, my own inheritance is more than enough to power a small nation.”
“We are to be engaged; have you heard?”
“Splendid! O, do you not see, Quentin? An engagement would take us both off the market.”
“And a wedding?”
“It may not come to that. Mama is older than she looks and I am sure the good lady, your aunt, is less than immortal.”
Quentin grimaced. Aunt Fanny seemed to him the kind of natural phenomenon that endured, whatever cataclysm the world might throw at it.
“But being married to me would not be so unspeakably awful, I promise you,” she linked his arm and they strolled beneath a leafy bower. “I would leave you quite to your own devices, so long as you leave me to mine.”
“And children? Children are to be expected from any union between man and woman.”
“Some women are barren,” she shrugged. “I expect I shall be, also. Really, there is nothing to fear. To the outside world, we should be a happy pair, the envy of our neighbours, but behind closed door nothing more intimate shall pass between us than the occasional game of cards - or quoits, if you prefer!” She laughed to see him grimace.
“Come the day after tomorrow and I shall never play that accursed game again,” he said bitterly.
“So why play at all?”
“I told my father I would.”
“O, the things we do for our parents! They call it duty but it is little more than suffocation. We submit to their wishes until our wishes are quite strangled from us, and we become like them, wish-stranglers and suffocators of the next generation.”
“But there shall be no next generation...”
“Not of our creation, no! The circle shall be broken and we shall have happy lives.”
“Is it possible?”
“It is our destiny. We are doomed to happiness; I hope your con
stitution may withstand it.”
“I shall be valiant in my attempt to do so.”
Laughing, arm in arm, the young couple skipped along the path.
***
“You must inform your father of these events,” Aunt Fanny grinned, after the Shavers had left. “He will be thrilled.”
Quentin’s reluctance made itself visible in his pout. “I do not wish to overexcite him, Aunt; Doctor Goodhead would not like it.”
“O, doctors!” sneered Aunt Fanny. “That fool wished to have your father walked around the patio twice a day. I caught Birkworth lifting him from his bed. I almost dismissed the man from our service on the spot. Bed rest is what is necessary. Your father must remain where he is for the foreseeable future.”
“He shall want to attend the quoits tournament,” cried Quentin. “He shall want to see me win.”
Aunt Fanny looked thoroughly bemused. “O, it is quite out of the question. And as for you winning!” she cackled openly. “Don’t be absurd!”
Quentin turned red. A confession bubbled behind his lips but he kept them clamped shut. He wanted to say his aunt was mistaken: there was nothing between him and the Shaver girl and nor would there ever be - but self-preservation stayed his tongue. He did not want to be subjected to another parade of hopeful young horrors.
“The outcome is not a foregone conclusion, I grant you,” he nodded curtly. “But I shall seek not to let down the family honour.”
Aunt Fanny was beside herself with amusement. She held her corseted sides and gasped for breath between howls of laughter. Quentin left her to her mirth, in the hope that it would choke her.
His bad mood persisted into quoits practice with Francis.
“That peg is my aunt’s neck,” he said grimly, “and this quoit the noose.” He tossed and was successful.
“The woman is as good as dead,” said Francis. “Keep her in mind and you shall sail through to the final round.”
“Do you think so?”
“I do think so, yes.”
“Then it shall all be down to you.”
“A man may train a greyhound but it is down to the dog to run the race.”
Quoits and Quotability Page 5