Quentin donned a shirt of white silk, with a length of lacy stock tied around the neck. A suit of black velvet gave him a svelte but not too severe silhouette. He wanted his father and his aunt to take his allegations seriously.
But all thoughts of bringing Aunt Fanny to account were swept aside by a tidal wave of surprise when Quentin went down and saw that instead of three for dinner there were four.
Seated at the fireplace, brandy in one hand, cigar in the other, the medals across the breast of his scarlet tunic catching the reflection of the flickering flames, was Quentin’s eldest brother.
“Reginald!” Quentin gasped.
His brother did not stand. Rude, thought Quentin, but then he espied the walking stick resting against Reginald’s chair.
“By Jove! If it isn’t the little prince!” Reginald guffawed through his bushy moustache. “And what have you come as tonight? Some kind of undertaker? Only I thought the fancy dress ball was next month, what!”
He laughed uproariously. The Squire joined in; pride was twinkling in the old man’s eyes to see his first-born back home again. Aunt Fanny’s lips crimped in a smile. Quentin caught her eye. I’m on to you, he thought. I do not yet know quite what you are up to, but it shall all be brought to light.
Aunt Fanny looked away and suggested that Reginald’s snifter needed refreshing.
Over dinner, Reginald regaled them with stories of his regiment who were, according to him, the most ramshackle, incompetent mob he had ever encountered. Decent coves for all that, mind; there was not one of them for whom he would not put his sorry neck on the line. But, he adopted an ominous tone, trouble is brewing across the Channel. ‘Frenchie’ is up to something - he implored those around the table to mark his words.
“The French are always up to something,” said the Squire. “Shall there be war, do you think, my boy?”
“That is not for me to say,” said Reginald. “In a way, I hope not.” He lifted his cane as illustration, “For I should hate to miss out on the action, what!”
“What befell you?” Quentin asked, feeling he had been ignored throughout three of the five courses so far. Reginald waved his fork dismissively.
“Oh, you know. Manoeuvres. Got in the way of a bullet. Silly, really.”
The Squire nodded sagely as if he knew anything about such matters.
“And are you to be pensioned out, dear nephew?” Aunt Fanny dabbed at her mouth with a napkin.
There she goes again, thought Quentin! Once more with the money!
Reginald’s moustache twitched like a nervous ginger caterpillar. “That is not for me to say either.” He looked downcast.
“We have an excellent physician,” Quentin ejaculated. “A Doctor Goodhead. I could arrange for him to attend you.”
“No, no; I do not wish to cause a fuss.”
“Nonsense!” scoffed the Squire. “Quentin, have the man come in the morning.”
“Yes, father.”
Aunt Fanny was horrified. “The man charges an arm and a leg!”
“As long as he takes the gammy ones, what!” laughed Reginald. The Squire joined in. Aunt Fanny scowled at her untouched glass of Madeira. Quentin did not notice; he was lost in thoughts of what he might wear when he went to fetch the doctor.
***
Aunt Fanny retired after dessert but before the cheese. Squire Quigley hung on his eldest son’s every word, encouraging him to repeat anecdote after anecdote of army life and kept his glass charged lest the storyteller’s throat run dry. Reginald seemed disposed to oblige but before long the stories, like his words, began to slur into one. The Squire did not notice but as the midnight hour approached, his venerable head began to bob on his venerable neck. Birkworth was summoned and the old man was delivered up the wooden hills to Bedfordshire, a hackneyed phrase he bellowed on the grand staircase like a call to arms.
With their father stashed safely away, Quentin approached his brother at the hearth.
“Little prince!” Reginald looked surprised to see him. “I should have thought it is long past your bedtime, what!”
“I am nineteen,” said Quentin coldly.
“And in the morning I’ll be sober!” said Reginald, his eyes glassy and unfocussed. Quentin pulled up a stool and, flicking his coat tails behind him, perched on it like a concert pianist.
“Reggie,” he began, “I need to talk to you. About Fanny.”
“I’ll say!” Reginald leered. He leaned forward and gave one of Quentin’s knees a squeeze. “You are soon to be married. You’ve come to the right man. What do you want to know?”
Quentin paled. “It is not about that. Good gracious, no! Tell me, have you heard from Roderick at all?”
“Who?”
“Our brother.”
“Frederic?”
“The other one.”
“Rodders?”
“Yes!”
“No. Why? What has he done?”
“I don’t know that he has done anything. But he was here the other night. He took off with Satan.”
“I always thought he’d go to the bad.”
“He took my horse.”
“They hang men for less!”
“No, no; I allowed it. He turned up in the middle of the night, made some vague accusations about Aunt Fanny and then rode off.”
“Who did? Your horse did?”
“No, Roderick did. On my horse.”
“Oh...” Reginald sat back and tried to absorb the conversation thus far but the words and the meaning they conveyed proved too slippery, so he fell to trying merely to uncross his eyes and keep drooling levels to a minimum.
Quentin groaned in frustration. “Clearly, brother, you are too much in your cups to have the facility for lucid discourse. We shall speak again tomorrow.”
He got to his feet but Reginald pawed at him, imploring him to sit down again.
“I need to tell you something,” he whispered loudly. He put a finger to his wet lips and repeated the statement in a quiet shout. Quentin went as rigid as a frighted hare; his eyes bulged and his heart pumped wildly. The brutish Reginald was creasing the sleeve of his coat to a most unnecessary degree. Boozy breath assaulted Quentin’s nose. He recoiled but Reginald pulled him closer to him.
“Listen!” he urged, his eyes darting from side to side, “It is all down to you.”
“What is?” Quentin tried to peel his brother’s fingers from the delicate fabric but Reginald clung on.
“Keeping the family going. Providing grandchildren for the old man’s twilight whatsits.”
Quentin, aghast with horror and disgust, was morbidly fascinated. “What mean you, brother? There is Frederic. And Roderick too! They may yet...” He could not bring himself to complete the sentence. Reginald shook his head in sorrow.
“Alas, I am unable!” He sounded on the verge of weeping and Quentin wondered if he oughtn’t to ring for Birkworth to bring coffee or to bundle his big brother to bed before he became even more of an embarrassment.
“You are but young,” Quentin attempted an optimist’s approach. Reginald would not countenance a word of it.
“It is not the age,” he wailed. “It is my injury.”
“What rot you speak!” Quentin scoffed. “I am no physician but I do not believe a bullet to the leg would-”
“Gah!” Reginald cried. “That is the crux of the matter entirely. I only say it is my leg for the sake of decorum and polite society.”
Quentin frowned. “What mean you?”
Every aspect of Reginald’s ruddy face drooped in concord with his moustache. “It is not my leg at all,” he said flatly. His brown eyes bored into Quentin’s blue ones. “I mean my stomach,” he said quietly. “The lower part.”
He watched and waited for Quentin to compr
ehend the true nature of his wound.
“O!” Quentin’s mouth widened. “How unutterably awful! O, Reginald, I am sorry. And this happened on manoeuvres, you said?”
Reginald’s head dropped and shook from side to side. “Alas, I have no act of valour to compensate for the outcome. It is just something else I say to sugar-coat the ghastly truth. You may recall I said over dinner my regiment is a clumsy lot.”
“O, brother! No!”
“You have guessed it, brother,” Reginald sobbed like a bereaved bloodhound. “I was shot in the barracks.”
Quentin was struck dumb with horror. It occurred to him he could ask if his brother required ice but could not bring himself to refer to the injury.
“So you see,” Reginald was hugging himself and rocking, “You must produce an heir, Q. You must do what I cannot.”
“Brother, I am not even engaged yet.”
“I do not mean within the next five minutes, you dolt! Ah, forgive me; my injury has eroded my temperament.”
“Fie, brother; you were ever a hothead.”
Reginald laughed. “And you have grown up. The last time I was here you would not have answered me so! I approve. You are displaying Quigley blood at last.”
“Yes,” said Quentin uncertainly. “But I fear there may not be much of anything left for anyone of us to inherit.”
Reginald’s bushy eyebrows dipped. “What mean you?”
“Well, I have no proof as such, not at the moment, but I believe our sainted aunt-”
He was interrupted by the arrival of Birkworth. The butler insinuated himself into the room, his head and shoulders aglow with the light of the candle he carried.
“Forgive me, sirs,” he nodded. “But there is a lady to see you.”
“Q, you sly dog!”
“What?” gasped Quentin.
“Pardon, sir,” Birkworth approached the elder brother, “if I did not make myself clear. The lady in question is here to see you.”
Reginald blinked and blustered and, leaning on his cane, got to his feet. “Did she give you her name, by Gad? Or a calling card at least? Dash it all, who the deuce comes calling at this abominable hour?”
“I believe, sir,” Birkworth smirked, “the lady goes by the name of Mrs Reginald Quigley.”
***
The news of his wife’s arrival, coupled with the copious consignment of cognac he had consumed, caused Reginald to pass out. Birkworth turned to the younger Quigley son with an expectant look.
“Well, I can’t carry him!” Quentin protested.
“The lady, sir.”
“I doubt she will manage it either.”
Birkworth maintained a patient expression.
“O, yes,” Quentin muttered. “Perhaps I ought to speak with her.”
He followed the butler and his candle along the hall to the salon where Birkworth had installed Mrs Quigley with a glass of sherry. The lady rose when Quentin came in, silhouetting herself against the dim glow of a table lamp.
“You are shrunk, my husband!” she exclaimed.
“No, no,” Quentin panicked. “I am not he!”
The shadows were filled with her merry laughter. “I know that full well, you silly goose. Come sit here so I may look on you. Can this really be the little prince who bore my ring on a velvet cushion all those years ago?”
Quentin scowled. Would he ever be free of that patronising epithet? Little prince, indeed!
“My, but you are grown!” Mrs Quigley reached for her brother-in-law’s hand but he hastily withdrew it. “You do remember me, don’t you, Quentin?”
“Actually, it’s Quen-” he gave up. “Yes, but only vaguely. I was a mere five years of age.”
“You were quite the poppet. A little doll! Quite unlike that brute of a man I married.” She buried her face in a handkerchief of lace. Quentin froze and waited for the sobs to subside. At last she blew her nose and stashed the handkerchief in the sleeve of her spencer. “Forgive me, Quentin; I have travelled far this night. The mail coach can be very wearing on one’s nervous system.”
“I can imagine,” said Quentin, for want of anything else.
“He is here, though?” her wet eyes glinted in the lamplight and Quentin saw she was not an unhandsome woman in her mid-thirties. Her face was pale and framed by ringlets of chestnut brown hair hanging from beneath her bonnet.
“Who?”
“My husband, your brother Reginald.”
“O, him! Yes.”
“Take me to him.”
“I could but it would be to no avail. He is quite unconscious - from fatigue.”
“Your loyalty does you credit but you have no need to protect him.”
“Madam, I had thought to protect you.”
This time she seized and squeezed his hand before he could snatch it away. “Now we both know - or perhaps you are too young - that Reggie was always something of a drinker. They are all like that in the army. Your brother, my husband can quaff with the best and indeed the worst of them. And you shall call me Joanna. Let us have no more of this ‘madam’ business.”
Joanna! Quentin had known there to be a Joanna married to one of his brothers and this was she.
“I had thought he was in the mess,” Mrs Quigley explained. “You know, the officers’ mess, carousing with the other men but when he did not return I began to fear the worst; he is always getting into scraps when the drink is in him and, well, he is no longer the prize-fighter he once was - you may have noticed the walking stick?”
Quentin nodded.
“I went to seek him but none of the men would admit to having been in his company, and so I returned to our rooms, agitated and fretful, and it was then I perceived he had packed a bag and, on the floor - I am guessing it fell from his pocket - this!”
She produced a piece of paper and passed it to him.
“My letter!” gasped Quentin.
“And so I knew where he had gone. O, you will forgive me, I beseech you, for I have not enquired after the health of the Squire, your father? How does he?”
“He is still very much with us,” said Quentin. “There is no cause for alarm.”
“I am gratified to hear it. You think then there is some other reason for my husband, your brother, to come careering across the country?”
“Madam - Joanna - that is something on which you should consult my brother, your husband.”
“He has not confided anything to you? Anything at all? Since his injury he is intractable at best.”
Quentin pursed his lips. “Not a sausage.”
“Too drunk, I warrant,” Mrs Quigley looked distressed.
Birkworth returned, bearing more light. “I have arranged for Mrs Quigley to repose n the blue room, sir.”
“Very good,” said Quentin, standing up. He was relieved for the interview to be over before it became any more uncomfortable. Mrs Quigley rose also.
“We shall speak further.” She smiled but Quentin heard it as a dire warning. “At breakfast. I want to hear your news.”
What, all fifteen years of it? Quentin grimaced as his sister-in-law pecked him on the cheek.
“Goodnight, my brother-in-law,” she simpered. She followed the butler from the room. A shudder ran through Quentin and he wiped his cheek assiduously.
The sudden arrival of his brother, followed by the surprise addition of his brother’s wife to the household gave rise to misgivings. He went up to his room where he spent a fitful night.
Quidnunc
“When Gregory Samson awoke one morning from uneasy dreams, he found himself transformed into a gigantic cockerel...”
With an anguished cry, Quentin balled up the paper. He had been foolish to attempt to write a single word before breakfast but he was loath to go down
and have any because they would be there: his brother and his wife. Quentin decided to spurn their company for as long as was humanly possible but the turmoil in his tummy was urging him to seek out sustenance. Perhaps he could ring for Birkworth and have him bring up bread rolls and jam... His stomach performed a somersault in eager anticipation.
His memories of the conversations he had endured with both of those parties made his innards flip in the opposite direction. He had no desire to learn anything about his brother’s married life - nor indeed anyone at all’s married life.
The sour feeling was swiftly replaced, though, by another memory. He had promised to ride out and fetch the doctor! The perfect excuse to get out of the house. Gleefully, he changed his attire and then changed it again, before tripping lightly down the stairs and across the yard to the stable.
It was only then that he remembered Satan was no longer available. Cursing, he kicked at a stone.
“Morning, sir!”
Francis had come upon him unseen.
“Confound it all,” was Quentin’s greeting in response. “How am I to get to the village when there are no horses?”
“You’re right on that score, sir; I wouldn’t be going within ten yards of Mabel if I were you.”
Quentin stamped his foot. “I knew I should have had it out with Fanny last night. Confound my brother and drat his wife! No; I do not mean that. They are pleasant people, I am sure, but this is the most inconvenient juncture at which to importune-”
“So you won’t be wanting the doctor this morning after all?”
Quentin blinked. Not only had the impudent fellow interrupted him, he appeared to have read his mind.
“It’s all in hand, sir. I took a stroll down to the village at first light and left word for the doctor to come calling at his earliest convenience.” Francis smiled; if he was expecting gratitude, he was to be sorely disappointed.
“You left word? Forgive me but I was under the impression that you were illiterate.”
“Let’s leave questions of my parentage aside, sir, if we may. And now, if you like, I can pop along to the printers - for I don’t think you ought to be going within ten yards of them neither.”
Quoits and Quotability Page 9