Quentin stared at her. “You satirise me.”
“Truly I do not. I am merely trying to lift your sullen spirits from the mire, for we have much to discuss and more to do.”
But Quentin was looking fixedly at the door, like a dog whose constitutional was long overdue.
“You shall see him again ere long.”
“Who?”
“That devilishly handsome doctor.”
Quentin turned red. “I - wasn’t - I - don’t-”
Miss Shaver patted his hand. “You are not thinking straight. We have invitations to write and one of those invitations shall be addressed to you-know-who...”
“Who?”
“That devilishly handsome doctor! O, Quentin, we are talking in circles. The invitation shall have to be delivered; I shall give no stronger hint than that. Now, who has the better penmanship, you or I?”
“I am the writer,” Quentin asserted, “although when the ideas pour from my brain in the feverish frenzy of creation, I own my handwriting may deteriorate a little.”
Miss Shaver nodded. “Have you written the first line yet?”
“Sadly, no. Besides, it is a moot point. The invitations are not here. That dullard of a stable boy went to collect them this morning so there is no telling when they might appear.”
“Good.”
“Good?”
“We shall employ ourselves in the interim with the perusal of designs for ball gowns. I have a catalogue from Covent Garden.”
Quentin appeared far from thrilled. “I care not one whit what you wear to the ball,” he groaned. “Turn up clad in one of Satan’s old oat sacks, if you wish.”
Miss Shaver laughed. “Imagine the scandal that would provoke! Now,” she sat on a chaise and patted the seat beside her, “Come sit and overlook these designs. I do not recall stating that the new gown would be for me.”
***
Quentin spent an amusing couple of hours in Miss Shaver’s company; she really is a tonic, he considered. How refreshing it is to spend time with someone who sees right through me and does not judge, throw up, or run away screaming!
Of Francis the stable boy and - more importantly - the invitations there was no sign. I was a fool to entrust so vital a task to that imbecile, Quentin scolded himself. He was impatient to have the invitations written and delivered - that is to say, there was one particular delivery he was keen to make. Confound it all! Why did everything have to be so complicated?
He kicked at a footstool. The pain of his stubbed toe gave rise to an idea. Some form of injury would necessitate a visit either to or from the doctor...
“Beastly furniture!” laughed a voice from the door. Quentin jumped around. Reginald was leaning on his cane. He hobbled into the room and lowered himself into an armchair.
“You need not dissemble with me, brother,” Quentin told him. “I mean, your limp.”
“My limp what?”
“Never mind. What did he say to you?”
“Who?”
“That devilishly hand - Doctor Goodhead.”
“Not much.”
“Then you should have no trouble recalling every word.”
Reginald frowned. “What business is it of yours, little prince? What transpires between a man and his physician is strictly between them.”
Quentin glowered. He changed tack. “Your wife is a charming woman.”
“Is she? After fifteen years, the shine goes off.”
“We had a most elucidating chat out at the lake.”
“But you don’t fish and neither does she.”
“You misunderstand. Our discourse was not of matters piscatorial but of something that stinks even worse: Fanny.”
“Our sainted aunt?” Reginald scoffed. “I would not put anything past that old trout. What has she been up to this time?”
“She is selling off the horses right from under our noses. The stables have the deserted air of a church on a weekday.”
“Horses, eh?” Reginald scratched his moustache. “Anything else?”
“I know not but I suspect there may be much more. I would order a complete audit of the estate’s accounts but I don’t know where to begin.”
Reginald grunted. “Our brother Frederic would be the one to consult. He is the one with all the book-learning.”
Quentin was affronted. “I am a writer!”
“You making things up and daydreaming does not qualify you as an accountant.”
“I concede that,” Quentin sighed. “O, I have written to Frederic but have received no reply. I can only hope Providence sets him on a homeward course.”
“Odd’s teeth, but I hope you write better than you speak!” Reginald laughed. “Providence indeed! You are still the little prince!”
Quentin seethed but managed to master his temper. “We must discover a way to expose Fanny.”
“Frederic will sniff her out.”
“I remind you Frederic is not here.”
“Who says I am not?” A man in a greatcoat strode in, pulling off gloves and dropping them into his hat. He was a younger, slimmer version of Reginald and sported spectacles and a good deal of tweed.
“Frederic!” exclaimed the other brothers.
“I’ll be blowed!” gasped Reginald.
Quentin offered up silent thanks to Providence. For once she had not let him down.
***
It was not until after dinner, when the Squire had retired pleased as Punch and full of cognac, that the Quigley brothers could put their heads together and talk freely about the estate. Aunt Fanny had been absent; a tray had been delivered to her chamber where she had dined alone. Did this mean she was aware that something was up, that she was about to be exposed?
“If, indeed, she is up to anything at all,” said Frederic, “All I have heard is conjecture.”
Quentin was incensed. “You only need to visit the stables, brother. The stalls are all but empty.”
“Horses come and go,” said Frederic. “They do not live forever and their working lives are short. But it is something we can ask Aunt Fanny about. Perhaps she has kept records of the transactions.”
“Father is too trusting,” Quentin pouted. “He lets her have access to everything.”
“Father is an old man,” said Frederic. “Perhaps we should be grateful to our aunt for holding the fort. There is no one else here able to manage so large an estate.”
Quentin bristled. “Is that a barb pointing in my direction?”
“Not exactly,” said Frederic. “No one expects you to-”
“To what? I am too young, I suppose, and too muddle-headed.”
“Calm down!” Reginald groaned. “No need to be such a little prince.”
Quentin stood, knocking his chair over. “Perhaps if you two showed your faces around here on a more regular basis, things would not be in such a mess.”
“I’m just doing my duty,” said Reginald. “Someone has to protect the country from the French.”
They both turned stern gazes toward Frederic, who held up his hands as though to surrender. “Mea culpa, I suppose.”
“And what’s Italian food got to do with it?” blinked Reginald.
“What I mean is I suppose you are right; I could have been a more constant visitor, but you will learn, brother, when you are married and have a wife and a life of your own, that there is enough to occupy you without thoughts of home.”
Reginald grunted to second the remark.
“But you might inherit, Fred. Then you must return.”
Frederic looked at the table top. “I doubt that shall happen.”
“You might,” said Reginald. “There’s still time.”
Frederic shook his head. “Our union has not been b
lessed with issue.”
“But it still could happen!” Quentin persisted. “If you put your mind to it.”
“No!” Frederic stood. “Look, tempers are becoming frayed. I am for my bed. Goodnight, brothers.”
He nodded curtly but Reginald caught his sleeve. “I say, where is Mrs Fred anyway? Haven’t deserted her, have you, what!”
“No!” Frederic sighed. “Joanna has been ill. Too ill to make the journey. But, rest assured, Quentin; she shall be here in time for your engagement party, of that I am certain.”
“Joanna!” Quentin gasped. “But Reggie is married to Joanna.”
The two elder brothers exchanged a glance. “There is more than one woman of that name in the country,” Frederic laughed.
“You have a lot to learn about the ladies,” chuckled Reginald.
Quentin looked daggers at them both. The party broke up and he retired to his room, feeling dissatisfied. They had resolved to do little to bring Fanny’s activities to light. The stable boy had informed him that the horses were being sold off and Quentin believed him wholeheartedly.
Funny, that.
***
After breakfast, Frederic announced to the general assembly that he should like to take a look at the estate’s accounts. The brothers’ eyes were all fixed on Aunt Fanny but her expression did not change one iota. The Squire grimaced as though Frederic’s words were bitter lemons and said if that was how he wished to spend his time, his father would prove no obstacle.
“Where are the books, pray?” Frederic arched an eyebrow.
Aunt Fanny rose. “I shall fetch them,” she muttered but was surprised to find her three nephews following her to the study. She unlocked a drawer in the desk with a key she wore around her neck and made to withdraw.
“Oh, no, Aunt,” Frederic smiled. “I would rather you stayed. There may be some annotations I am unable to decipher. After all, I am not a qualified accountant.”
“Indeed you are not,” said Aunt Fanny. “I shall be pleased to answer any query you may have.” She pulled out the chair and occupied it. Frederic and Quentin peered over her shoulders while Reginald stood, leaning on his cane, as though on guard duty.
The pages of the ledger were meticulously kept. The figures inscribed within were neatly printed in Aunt Fanny’s no-nonsense hand. Lines were sharply ruled - it was a work of art. Frederic perused the columns, humming appreciatively and bidding Aunt Fanny to turn the pages when he was ready.
“Horses, aunt. Show me the sales of horses.”
It might have been Quentin’s imagination but he was sure he saw Aunt Fanny’s shoulder twitch.
“Of course, nephew,” she said coldly, and located the appropriate section in the book.
“I see you have been selling them off,” said Frederic.
“Yes,” said Aunt Fanny.
“Explain yourself!” cried Quentin. His brothers sent him a dirty look.
“There is nothing to explain,” said Aunt Fanny. “The animals have all served their purpose. You will see how many were despatched to the knacker’s yard, how many were retired and sold as pets, and so forth. It is all there.”
Frederic pored over the figures. “And so it is,” he concluded.
“But, Aunt,” Quentin leaned closer, “you have sold off the horses but where are the proceeds?”
Aunt Fanny tapped a column, beating an impatient tattoo with her fingertip. “The proceeds are all in this fund until replacements can be found. Horses are to be acquired on a rolling programme, so we are never again faced with having to replace the entire stock at one fell swoop again.”
Reginald nodded; he looked impressed.
“Sensible measures,” Frederic conceded.
“But - but-” Quentin did not like the way this was going. “What of this talk of substituting my Satan for Reggie’s Bucephalus? That smacks of underhandedness, Aunt, to put it mildly.”
Aunt Fanny steeled herself. “Nephew, you have much to learn about the ways of business. I had no intention to defraud potential buyers. We would have said Quigley stock, rather than cite a particular stallion. If people chose to believe it was your brother’s horse rather than your own, well, that would be up to them.”
“Not exactly kosher though, is it, aunt?” Frederic put in.
“Tricks of the trade,” Aunt Fanny shrugged. “It is a moot point, besides, for young Quentin appears to have misplaced his horse.”
Quentin opened his mouth to defend himself against that allegation but found he could not without revealing that Roderick had taken Satan. Instead, he stormed out of the study and stomped up to his room. He threw himself on the bed and roared into his pillow in frustration. Aunt Fanny had an answer for everything and everything appeared to be in order. Frederic and Reginald were convinced, and Fanny’s reign would continue unchecked and untrammelled.
After a while, there was a knock at the door, soft and insistent. It could only be Birkworth.
“Sir? Miss Shaver attends you in the library.”
“Tell her I am indisposed.”
“Very well, sir. Although it does seem like a large pile of invitations for a young lady to tackle alone.”
Invitations!
Quentin sat bolt upright. The invitations are here! The sooner they are written, the sooner he could make a certain delivery...
“I shall be down presently,” he called out, “as soon as I have changed.”
Quest
“Ah, there you are, Quentin!” Miss Shaver applauded as he walked into the library. She admired the outfit he had chosen. The long sleeves of his white shirt lent him a poetic air. All the better for inscribing invitations, he thought.
“Good day to you, Miss Shaver. I see Birkworth has provided tea and macaroons.”
“The man is a treasure. We should take him with us.”
“With us?”
“To our marital home! You did not think we would stay here?”
“Well, I...” Quentin had not considered anything beyond the engagement.
“You shan’t inherit,” Miss Shaver said flatly. “Did you really think we could stay on in your brother’s house - whichever brother it may be?”
“Well, I...”
“It would be too taxing to maintain our deception under someone else’s roof, Quentin. You must see that.”
“I do not know that I see anything anymore,” he grumbled. “Let us focus on the task at hand. You have the list?”
“I have indeed.” Miss Shaver produced the papers and they sat across from each other at a table, cleared of books for the purpose, and for a couple of hours the only sound was the scritch-scratch of their quill pens on the cards and envelopes.
Quentin paused to massage his aching hand. Miss Shaver continued diligently. He watched her at work. A peculiar creature. Perfectly charming and rather pretty, but she was not his heart’s desire, for all her qualities. Surely, some young swain would be overjoyed to have her on his arm - but Miss Shaver herself had stated that was not her aim in life. Unusual young woman! To be set up in one’s own home and bring up a family - it was every girl’s ambition. Or else they end up bitter and alone. Like Aunt Fanny.
Quentin resolved to be as good a husband as he possibly could to prevent the girl from turning into a second Aunt Fanny.
“We shall live where you please,” he announced. Miss Shaver looked up from her task and smiled.
Presently, all the invitations were written and the envelopes neatly sealed and stacked in piles.
“Some may be delivered by hand,” Miss Shaver declared, “but most shall have to go through Mr Scroggins’s office.”
Quentin pulled a face. Scroggins. That base fellow.
“I shall take them,” he stood. “I shall take the bulk to the post office and make a tour of the
immediate district to distribute those to our nearest neighbours.”
“Not just yet,” said Miss Shaver, pointing at the chair he had just vacated. She rang the bell for Birkworth.
“What mean you?” said Quentin, backing onto his chair.
The butler appeared and nodded to them both.
“I require your measurements, my fiancé,” Miss Shaver simpered. “For your... costume. Decorum prohibits me from wielding the tape measure in such close proximity before all rites and ceremonies have taken place, and so Birkworth shall act as my proxy.”
“Very well, Miss,” said Birkworth.
Quentin, marvelling at Miss Shaver’s cunning, and altogether accustomed to being measured by tailors and shoemakers and the like, slipped off his slippers and stood on the chair.
“Pardon me, sir,” said Birkworth, making directly for the inside leg.
***
Bucephalus was still too tired to be of any use and there was no going near Mabel, so Quentin borrowed Frederic’s horse, Polly, an old, grey mare - an even-tempered beast but one whose pace was slower than Quentin would have liked. He was keen to make the deliveries but the horse was dragging its hooves like the hands of the schoolroom clock, stretching Friday afternoon into an eternity before home time.
“That’s a lot of mail,” Scroggins rubbed his chin. “Practically a sackful.”
“Send your invoice at your earliest convenience,” Quentin sniffed. “There’s a good fellow.”
Scroggins looked doubtful. “I don’t know, sir; that’s a lot of mail. I believe I should like payment up front.”
Quentin was horrified. He had never heard of such a thing.
“Or a down payment at the very least,” Scroggins pulled a face. “Ten per cent of the total cost?”
“This is outrageous,” said Quentin. “I’m afraid I have no money on me.”
“If you’re quick, sir, you could be home and back before the four o’clock coach.”
Quentin glanced at the door and the old, slow horse outside. It was impossible.
“I shall be happy to put your letters in safekeeping, sir, until such a time as you can return with the remittance.”
Quoits and Quotability Page 11