“They’re not letters,” Quentin snapped. “They are invitations. Invitations to the social event of the year.”
“Oh, really?” Scroggins picked the uppermost envelope from the pile and examined it closely. Quentin paled to see the postmaster’s grubby fingers staining the pristine card. “Social event of the year, says you.”
“Yes, indeed.”
“And be my name on any of these here envelopes, sir?” Scroggins looked directly into Quentin’s eyes.
“No! Well, that is to say, none of these bear your name. Yours is to be hand-delivered. Tomorrow.”
“Very good, sir. In that case, out of the spirit of friendliness and neighbourliness and in acknowledgment of your hospitality, I shall see to it that your invitations are sent on their way on the four o’clock coach.”
Quentin grunted. He nodded to the beastly man and left the post office. What have I done, he wailed internally? Imagine: that filthy creature at my engagement party! It was as unpalatable as it was unthinkable.
He climbed onto Polly’s saddle and, scowling, trotted away. Had it been Satan, he could have made a more dramatically satisfying withdrawal. Plodding along denied his departure the impact he would have preferred.
Miss Shaver had provided an itinerary, the most efficient route around the neighbours’ estates for the delivery of their invitations. It was a chore to which he looked not forward. But first, there was the pleasant task of handing over the envelope that bore the doctor’s name to that worthy gentleman in person.
***
But of Doctor Goodhead there was no sign. Quentin found a woman in shawls sweeping the floor with a besom. “He’s not here,” she barely glanced up from her labours. “He’s out.”
Quentin cursed the woman under his breath. “Patently! Would you care to narrow it down? I need to know his whereabouts.”
At this, the woman arrested her broom and looked the young intruder up and down. “Ah, it’s the little prince! I watched you win the quoits.” Her eyes narrowed. “Have you lost weight? Off your arms, I mean.”
Quentin bristled but his experience with the printer had taught him that losing his temper would not get him what he wanted. “I’ve been ill,” he offered as explanation. “Now: the doctor. Do you have any idea where he might be?”
“Yes.”
“Well?”
“He’s on his rounds, I expect.”
Infernal woman!
“And where would that take him?”
“All over.”
“Do you have an itinerary, by any chance?”
“No, sir; it is just the way I am standing. But I have got his schedule here in his diary.”
Hurrah!
“And what does it tell you?”
“It tells me I cannot read. Never could.”
“Might I see it?”
“You want to see the doctor’s diary?”
“Yes!” Quentin’s nerves were at breaking point.
“Help yourself,” the shawls shrugged and the besom scratched at the floorboards. Quentin seized the book but could make neither head nor tail of the entries. Curse the doctor’s handwriting! It was utterly illegible.
“Looks like you can’t read neither,” the woman chuckled. Quentin slammed the book shut and stormed from the office. Out in the street, he let out a roar of frustration. Polly turned her head slowly and blinked at him. She was still masticating the apple he had given her when they had left Quigley Manor.
“Come on,” Quentin took the reins. “We may deliver the rest at least.”
In his dejected state, he considered calling off the entire affair, for how could there be a party without the doctor in attendance?
Polly trudged along to the first port of call, the Garden estate, where Lady Garden and daughter Rose were surprised and delighted by Quentin’s impromptu visit. They insisted he come in for tea and cake, citing his horse’s evident need of a respite and brooking no refusal.
“It is like something out of a fairy tale!” declared Lady Garden, turning the envelope over and over in her hands. Quentin cast around looking for the third billy goat gruff.
“You shall go to the ball!” she laughed, waving an imaginary magic wand over her daughter’s head. Quentin shifted uncomfortably on his chair and his cup proceeded to rattle on its saucer. He did not care for the way they were looking at him, like cats coming upon a fresh mouse in a trap. The sooner his engagement to Miss Shaver was announced, the better. It would put a stop to such predatory gazes.
“I do hope you shall both attend,” he avoided eye contact. “It is to be a masquerade. Come as anyone you like.”
Miss Garden clapped her hands with glee. Her mother took on a pensive air. “I think I shall be Joan of Arc,” she nodded, envisioning the idea.
“Oh, Mama!” cried Miss Garden, uncharacteristically talkative for once. “You must not say! The fun of the masquerade is that you do not know who is beneath the disguise. Is that not so, Master Quigley?”
“Quite,” said Quentin, smiling thinly, safe in the assumption that he would be able to distinguish these two from a mile away, whatever their attire. He thanked them for their hospitality but he had other calls to make of a similar nature. Lady Garden said she understood but Miss Garden wanted to know who else was invited.
“Ah,” said Quentin from the doorway, “that is the fun of the masquerade!”
But he could not get away without a piece of cake impressed upon him as a restorative for his poor horse. Polly accepted the offering with indifference. Quentin had to endure the discomfort of a slow trot along the drive with the women’s eyes boring into his back and their farewells ringing in his ears.
“Remind me,” he leant forward and whispered to the old mare, “if I am ever a fugitive from the law never to enlist your services.”
***
The day was likely to prove interminable. Quentin suffered the same hospitality at every house and Polly plodded at the same infuriating pace. So full of tea was he that his stomach was sloshing like a canteen of water and so gorged on cake was Polly that she had developed an acute case of the hiccoughs. Every recipient was overjoyed to receive an invitation and excited by the exotic potential of the fancy dress requirement. Gradually, Quentin’s mood improved; their enthusiasm was contagious. I really am bringing joy to people’s lives, he thought. And all I have written is an invitation. Imagine the reception my three-volume novel shall get! I will be declared a living saint!
At last only two envelopes remained: the next householder’s and the doctor’s. The former would be more easily disposed of than the latter - or so Quentin assumed. O, well, he reflected, he could try again at the doctor’s office the next day. He would spend the entire day waiting there like a newly-installed doorpost if need be.
Polly plodded up the drive to the final house on the list, a grand house although a little too rusticated for Quentin’s tastes. There was far too much ivy sprawling across the frontage and the windows were poky and small. How out of date, he sneered! Give me the huge French ones any day! He consulted the name on the envelope to remind himself who lived in a house like this: the Sinclairs.
He had never heard of them.
Quentin could not recall a Lord or Lady Sinclair ever coming to dine at Quigley Manor. In fact, the only Sinclair he could think of was the name above a draper’s shop in Quigley Magna.
No!
It couldn’t be! Some upstart merchant and his family, invited to my ball! We shall see about that!
He was about to tear the envelope in twain when he heard voices. The front door opened and out stepped a young woman in a simple but pretty muslin gown. She was wittering ‘thank you’ and ‘goodbye’ and laughing. Simpering ninny, thought Quentin ungenerously.
He almost fell from the saddle when he saw Doctor Goodhead e
merge from the house. The doctor put his hat on and took the young woman’s hand in his and kissed it.
“À bientôt, Miss Sinclair,” the doctor bowed his head. Quentin was incensed: he never speaks French to me!
Quentin’s countenance was contorted in an unbecoming scowl and it was then that the doctor and the young woman became aware of his presence.
“Why, Kon-tan!” Doctor Goodhead’s eyebrows went up in surprise. He tripped down the front steps to join him. What brings you here? Apart from this fine-looking steed, of course.” He patted Polly’s neck. Polly yawned.
Quentin found he could not speak, and nor did he wish to. Not in front of the girl who was skipping lightly down the steps to greet him.
“All is well at the manor, I trust?” the doctor continued to pet the horse.
“Um,” said Quentin, completely flummoxed.
“And you yourself are in fine fettle?” the doctor peered at Quentin with a penetrating eye.
“Um,” Quentin repeated, wishing Polly were Pegasus to fly him away from the scene as swiftly as possible.
“And what’s that you have there?” Doctor Goodhead nodded at the envelopes clutched in Quentin’s fist.
“Um,” said Quentin, beginning to panic. The moment was not playing out as he had envisaged. He certainly had not expected the presence of a third party. He looked at the crumpled cards as though seeing them for the first time. “Invitations!” It sounded like a guess. “O! This one is for you!” He sat upright and presented Doctor Goodhead with his envelope like a knight bestowing a favour on a serf.
“My humble thanks,” Doctor Goodhead dipped his head. “But you did not ride out all this way merely to hand this to me? How did you know I was here?”
Quentin was reduced to ‘um’ again.
“Ah, I have it!” Doctor Goodhead flashed his winning grin. “You came to deliver Miss Sinclair’s invitation and it is by good fortune alone that you are able to kill two birds with one stone.”
Quentin’s expression darkened; at that moment there was but one bird he wished to kill.
“For me?” Miss Sinclair clapped her hands together in eager anticipation.
“Well?” said Doctor Goodhead.
Two pairs of eyes bore into Quentin. O, that he had torn the damned thing in two when he had the chance! After a long, excruciating moment, he handed over the final invitation. Miss Sinclair was overjoyed and bounced around a little in excitement. She is pretty when she is happy, Quentin observed sourly, and appears to my untrained eye to be in good health. Why, then, is the doctor present? An elderly and ailing relative, perhaps. Yes, that must be it.
“O, I am looking forward to it immensely!” Miss Sinclair pressed the invitation to her chest and spun around. “A masked ball! How exciting! I shall go as Joan of Arc.”
“I think you ought not to tell us,” Doctor Goodhead admonished with a smile. Miss Sinclair looked crestfallen.
“Someone else then,” she said sadly, and Quentin thought how plain she looked and felt a glow of satisfaction in his heart.
A servant appeared, leading Doctor Goodhead’s horse.
“Miss Sinclair,” the doctor bowed. He looked at Quentin and winked. “Master Quigley.” He mounted his horse and rode off. Both Quentin and Miss Sinclair watched him go.
“Would you care for some tea, Master Quigley?” Miss Sinclair gestured toward the house. “And a piece of cake for your horse.”
“It is not my horse!” he snapped. “Thank you but no. Polly is keen to return home; I don’t know that I shall be able to rein her in.”
Miss Sinclair looked at the old, grey mare, which had taken on the appearance of having been preserved by a taxidermist. She chuckled. “If you are sure,” she laughed. “Thank you again for your kind invitation. I do hope this wild beast does not throw you into a ditch.”
Quentin glowered. He was almost certain the girl was not mocking him maliciously but he had taken such a dislike to her, even before he had clapped eyes on her, that he was unwilling to give her the benefit of the doubt. He awarded her a curt nod of farewell and pressed his knees into Polly’s flanks.
The horse did not move.
“Hah, Polly!” Quentin tried again but still the beast did not budge. Miss Sinclair sought to hide her amusement behind the treasured envelope. Bright red, Quentin succeeded at last in getting the stubborn steed to shift itself and, without turning back, commenced a slow progression away from the house. It were as good as if I travelled by tortoise, he cringed.
“Thank you!” the girl’s voice called after him repeatedly. He closed his eyes and shuddered.
How vulgar!
Quire
The ensuing weeks were occupied with preparations for the party. Miss Shaver spent long days at Quigley Manor, adding sheets of paper to an already bulging portfolio. Invoices, chits, and dockets, all checked, annotated, and cross-referenced, as a variety of goods and special orders came in every day. She auditioned several musicians. Soloists, duos, trios, and quartets from all around and even beyond the county. If they were unable to play the latest airs at a tempo to which one might dance in a lively manner, they were shown the door.
For Quentin, there was very little to do. Miss Shaver barely consulted him, save to ask if he would ‘be a poppet’ and have his father the Squire sign off receipts or write out cheques to pay for all the things she was ordering. Squire Quigley was more than happy to oblige. His spirits were lifted by the prospect of a big party and having three of his four sons at home meant he always had someone to drink with in the evenings and sometimes the afternoons.
Aunt Fanny’s displeasure was evident in every line on her face but she held her tongue. One day, as Quentin breezed past her on his way to his father’s den for more signatures, she scowled in his direction and Quentin knew it was fiscal concern that was souring her already bitter temperament.
“All is well, Aunt,” he laughed, waving the receipts, “For my Lady Shaver is stumping up half the cash.”
This statement seemed to assuage her soul’s torment a little. Aunt Fanny withdrew into the shadows, where she remained, ever watchful, like a predator, until the big night was upon them.
Quigley Manor was a hive of activity, both inside and out, with decorators, gardeners and cleaners all gainfully employed everywhere you looked, and Quentin found he could not focus on his much-delayed three-volume novel for more than five seconds at a time. He had written:
“Last night I dreamt I went to Manchester again”
and discarded it for the utter piffle it undoubtedly was. He was thinking of going into Quigley Magna to order more writing paper - provided Polly was up to making the trip. O, where was Roderick? And, more importantly, where was Satan? Quentin felt himself hemmed in and constricted by the lack of a horse of his own.
“You might try making your peace with Mabel,” suggested Francis, coming upon the young master in the yard. “A couple of apples ought to do it.”
“I still do not know what I did to be in her bad books,” said Quentin. “It is most puzzling. Everyone else likes me. To my face, at any rate, which is where it counts.”
The stable boy shook his head. The little prince’s delusions were as amusing as they were exasperating.
“O, good!” Miss Shaver was coming toward them with the purposeful stride of someone about urgent business. “I have found the pair of you together. That spares me the time of sending the one to find the other. You must both come inside for we have secret work afoot.”
She tapped the side of her nose and marched back to the house. Quentin and Francis exchanged glances.
“You shouldn’t let her take charge like that, sir, if you don’t mind me saying so. It’s indicative of what your marriage will be like if you don’t nip it in the bud right now.”
Quentin awarded him a condescending smi
le. “You are mistaken; our marriage shall be quite, quite different.”
“I am sure all men start off with that opinion, sir.”
He followed the young master into the house.
***
“Ridiculous!” Quentin scoffed. “It will never work!”
“Oh, I don’t know, sir,” said Francis. “It’s already worked once.”
Quentin frowned. “What mean you?”
They were in the library, the only room in the house where they could meet without fear of discovery or interruption.
“He means the quoits, silly,” said Miss Shaver. “You cannot have forgotten how he passed for you in front of the entire village.”
“Ah,” said Quentin.
“And I shall be masked this time and all, sir!”
Miss Shaver beamed at the stable boy. He was already sold on the idea of impersonating the young master. There remained only the young master himself to persuade.
“That’s right,” she said, “And in fancy dress costume to boot.”
Quentin shook his head.
“It is the only way,” Miss Shaver urged, “for our plan to succeed.”
“What plan?” blinked Francis.
“Never you mind!” snapped Quentin.
Miss Shaver led the stable boy aside and spoke softly to him. “We are planning something of a surprise for our guests. Talented though he may be, not even Master Quigley can be in two places simultaneously, ergo a substitute is necessary.”
“I see that, Miss,” Francis nodded, “But what’s the surprise?”
“O, if I told you it would ruin it for you. We don’t want you to be left out of the fun. After all, you are exceedingly kind to do this for us - and you shall be handsomely rewarded also, of course.”
Francis was resolved. “Count me in, Miss. What costume shall I be wearing? Who am I to be - apart from the little - apart from Master Quigley, I mean?”
A grin broke out on Quentin’s face. “That is another surprise,” he laughed. “I have ordered it especially. Just you wait and see.”
***
Quoits and Quotability Page 12