“I am sorry I have deceived you but you need search no longer. You have been dancing with your beloved all along!”
“What?” Hercules sprang up in horror. He snatched up his club and used it to keep Quentin at bay. “Is this some kind of joke?” He pointed at the windows. “If you are you, then who is Napoleon?”
“The stable boy!” cried Quentin. “O, let us go back in and drink some wine. No one knows it is me. We can dance together with impunity until the dawn.”
“What? O, no! No, no!”
“But I don’t understand - you said you were looking for someone and I was the only one not in evidence and-”
“You were in evidence - as Napoleon,” the doctor cut him short. “There is someone else. I saw you hand her the invitation.”
Quentin went as pale as his face powder. “Miss Sinclair,” he said flatly.
“My fiancée,” said Doctor Goodhead.
Something inside Quentin snapped, something other than a piece of whalebone.
“We were going to take advantage of tonight’s gathering to make a general announcement, as I believe you are to, too.”
Quentin’s mouth worked like a landed fish.
“Kon-tan...” the doctor said warily. “What are you thinking?”
Tears coursed down Quentin’s cheeks, ploughing furrows in his make-up. “But I thought - I thought you liked me. All that has passed between us! The looks, the smiles, the laughter! I believe we had a connection. I thought - I thought we were the same.”
“Oh, Quentin. I have known you since you were a child. And I do care for you very deeply. As an uncle might care for a favoured nephew.”
The doctor’s tone was kindly but the words struck Quentin like blows to the face.
“A nephew!” he quailed.
“Listen to me. You are a strikingly handsome, highly accomplished young man. Miss Shaver is fortunate to have you.”
“No! I don’t want Miss Shaver!”
“But that is the way of the world. A man must marry and his wife must give him heirs.”
Quentin shook his head. A kind of sad horror was creeping through his entire body. He saw Doctor Goodhead and the whole world shrink away to a minuscule dot of light, which winked out as Quentin swooned. Then the world and the doctor flared back into existence as he regained consciousness.
“You fainted,” Hercules explained. “You were quite overcome.”
“Confound this corset!” Quentin grumbled. He scooped up his wig and planted it unceremoniously on his head. “I have wronged you, Doctor.”
“No, you haven’t,” Doctor Goodhead offered a smile. “It’s a silly crush; that is all. I mean, look at me.” He gestured at his costume, “I am pretty heroic.”
“No, I mean I have truly wronged you and for that I am most dreadfully, humbly and abjectly sorry.”
“What mean you?”
“I must go. There is still time.”
Doctor Goodhead was alarmed by the look of wild determination in Quentin’s eyes. “Kon-tan, where are you going? Do not do anything rash, I implore you!”
“Au contraire, Doctor,” Marie Antoinette smiled. “I have not lost my head. In fact, I do believe I have found it.”
“But what of your party? Your guests?”
Quentin called out without turning around. “Let them eat cake!”
Quotability
Quentin strode across the dance floor with a determined expression. He sought the stable boy; he had need of a horse. He found Napoleon in a corner and caught him by the elbow.
“There you are!”
“Yes, Miss; I mean, sir.” Francis was confused. “Have you seen Boadicea?”
“I have seen enough Boadiceas to last me a lifetime,” said Quentin. “Tell me, did you deliver that letter I asked you to?”
“Yes, sir! Of course I did, sir!” Francis looked affronted by the implication that he might not have done.
“Confound you!” Quentin roared. “Why must you do as you are told? Why cannot you disobey me for once? Is that too much to ask?”
“Sir?”
“And now, thanks to you, I have an unholy mess to untangle.”
“Me, sir?” Napoleon looked so downcast, Quentin felt a pang of guilt.
“I am sorry; it is not entirely your fault, for I penned the blasted thing.”
“I could ride out, sir, and try to retrieve it.”
“No, no; there is no point. By her absence it is apparent the young lady has read the letter.”
“I could still ride out, sir, and try to persuade the young lady to come.”
“No, no; this is a knot that I must untie. You must remain here and be my proxy. Smile at the guests and dance with the ladies. Which reminds me,” he glanced around the room, “Where is Miss Shaver?”
“That’s what I was trying to ask you, sir. I’ve sort of lost her.”
Quentin frowned. “I am sure that among all these breastplates and helmets, she is here to be found. If you locate her and she asks about me, say I shall not be away for long. And if any of my relations - well, it were best if you avoid my father and my brothers, for they will see through you at once. Now, about that horse...”
“That’s why I should go on your behalf, sir.”
“What mean you?”
“There is only Mabel, sir. The old grey mare is dead.”
“What, Polly?”
“Keeled over this afternoon, sir. I haven’t the heart to tell your brother.”
“Poor Polly. Oh, well. Mabel it is.”
“Are you going to be all right, sir? I don’t think your disguise will fool her for a second.”
“I suppose not.” He cast around. “Ah, I have it!” He hurried to the refreshment table and scooped up handfuls of fancily-decorated gateaux. “I shall coerce her with cake!” he announced.
“One moment, sirrah!” It was Squire Quigley, imperious in his Roman cloak. His words were addressed to Francis. “An explanation, if you please - dash it, whether it pleases you or not. I have just been accosted by a rather rotund version of Robert the Bruce who informs me that you did not take part in the quoits tournament at all.”
“I did, sir!” Francis protested.
“And this fellow has demanded the return of the trophy so that the Quigley name may be scratched from it. Fraudulent activity, he said! Cheating! O, the disgrace to the family honour!”
Quentin stepped between Caesar and Napoleon. “Do not castigate, Francis, Father, for he was doing my bidding.”
“And who the devil are you, Madam?”
“It is I,” Quentin lifted his wig.
“Then who the devil is this?”
“It is the stable boy. Father, I owe you an explanation and perhaps an apology too, but not now. I have another transgression to make amends for.” He held up his handfuls of cake as though they explained everything. “And so if you will excuse me...”
He did not wait for leave and left.
“Best of luck, sir,” said Napoleon, watching him go. Squire Quigley shook his head in despair and went to seek another drink.
***
“Hallo, Mabel,” Quentin approached the stall slowly. He held out a handful of cake; the horse caught wind of it right away and allowed herself to be fed. Quentin dared to stroke her head. “There; you’re not so bad after all,” he said. “And neither am I. Now, get me where I need to be and back again before the ball is over and you shall have cake for the rest of your days.”
Mabel grunted in acknowledgment of the pact. Quentin led her from the stall and out onto the yard. He had to use a stool to help him get onto the saddle where he found he was obliged to ride as ladies do, sideways on. How ridiculous, he thought! I should have found the time to divest myself of this cumbersome att
ire.
Mabel set off at a steady trot and Quentin hung on doggedly. Half an hour later, they reached the Sinclair estate. Quentin dropped from the horse and, hitching up his petticoats, hurried up the front steps to pound on the door.
The servant Quentin had seen before - perhaps they had only the one! - opened and peered at the streaked and besmirched face of what he presumed was a young French female aristocrat before him.
“Miss Sinclair,” Quentin panted. “Is she at home?”
“I shall see,” intoned the servant. “What name shall I say?”
“Marie Antoinette!” Quentin snapped. “Is that not apparent?”
“Very good, Miss.” The servant withdrew. Quentin was left to wait on the doorstep; how vulgar! This is what comes with new money, he reflected. There is no reception room.
Presently, the door opened again and Miss Sinclair appeared. She looked the visitor up and down. “Mademoiselle?”
Quentin pulled off his wig and wig cap to reveal his trademark black locks. “It is me. Miss Sinclair, please, you must listen to me. You must come to my party, I beseech you, but first of all you must forgive me.”
“You are liberal, Master Quigley, in dictating what I must do,” said Miss Sinclair. “But why should I forgive you? I mean for what reason? Surely, it is you who must forgive me for failing to attend.”
Quentin ran a hand down his face, smearing his make-up further. “I have wronged someone who is dearer to me than anyone. Further to which, I have wronged you, a blameless stranger.”
Miss Sinclair was puzzled. Then her mouth opened in wonder. “You are ‘A Well-wisher’?”
Quentin hung his head. “I am. It was I who penned that dreadful and regrettable letter.”
Miss Sinclair stepped out of the house and led Quentin down the stairs and along the path. “Oh, no! Master Quigley, you have done me a great service. When I read the truth about - that man, I was shaken to my very core. To think I had almost shackled myself to such a monster! A bigamist! I was sickened and shocked, to be sure, but upon reflection I see that I have had a most fortunate escape.”
Quentin shook his head. “It is all falsehood. I have deceived you, Miss Sinclair. I fabricated the entire account. Doctor Goodhead has no wife - or wives, as I intimated in the letter. He is blameless and upright and all good things that become a gentleman.”
Miss Sinclair was agape. “But why? Why would you do such a ghastly thing? If you had not wanted me to attend your party, why not tear the invitation? Why write one at all?”
“I was jealous; I see that now. I could not stomach the notion of the doctor with anyone else.”
“I don’t understand.”
“That matters not. All I ask is that you forgive me and come with me now to the ball where the mighty Hercules awaits his betrothed.”
“Hercules?” she giggled. “Really?”
“And very handsome he looks too. You forgive me, then?”
“I am sure I shall,” Miss Sinclair linked her arm through his. “But I cannot go. Not like this. I must first don my costume.”
“Of course. I hope it is not Boadicea.”
“No; why should it be?”
“That matters not, either. But hurry, I beseech you. I am impatient to bring about a happy resolution.”
“I shall be worth waiting for,” Miss Sinclair smiled, and Quentin saw her at her prettiest. While he waited, he petted Mabel. You’re not a bad old mare, either, he told her. Mabel snorted and tried to sniff out more cake about his person.
The door opened and Joan of Arc strode from the house. She paused to revolve before Quentin’s admiring gaze.
“Bravo! And you have stuck to your first idea!”
“Is that to be commended?”
“In this case, yes. You shall be the belle of the ball.”
Miss Sinclair laughed. “And you do not mind if I take the title from you?”
“In this case, no. But try to wrest my quoits trophy from my grasp and you shall have a fight on your hands.”
“I have asked Norman to bring out the trap,” she patted Mabel’s neck. “Your valiant steed may rest here for the night.”
“Norman?”
“Our servant.”
“Ah. Trap?”
“Our conveyance. It is nothing as grand as those to which you must be accustomed but I hope you will condescend to drive it for us.”
“You mock me, Miss Sinclair!”
“It is no less than you deserve after the upset you have caused.”
“That is true,” said Quentin, downcast. She squeezed his hand.
“All shall be well,” she said softly. “You must allow me a little teasing.”
They waited while Norman brought out the carriage, drawn by a fine dappled gelding. He led Mabel away.
“She likes cake!” Quentin called after him.
“How the wealthy live!” Miss Sinclair laughed. “One can see why the French revolted.”
***
“If I might speak dispassionately,” Miss Sinclair began as they rode along the road to Quigley Manor.
“O, I never do that,” said Quentin, “I am an artist.”
“Your letter,” she continued. “It was exceedingly well written.”
Quentin was astounded. “Do you think so? Or is this more teasing?”
“I mean it.” Joan of Arc produced the document in question from within her armour. “‘The man is a dastard and a devil, a demon of diabolical dimensions.’ That alliteration is admirable.”
“It is rather good, I must own,” said Quentin. “But how those words must have hurt you? I am forever ashamed.”
“Let us speak only of the form rather than the content. Your use of rhetoric is incomparable. Cicero would be proud.”
Quentin looked sideways at the charming young woman. He could see why the doctor was so enamoured - if you like that kind of thing.
“I am amazed you kept the thing,” he shuddered to see it. “I would have torn it to a thousand pieces. Please, let me.”
“I was intending to confront Gregory with it in a dramatic scene,” she said. “I shan’t bother now.”
“Who is Gregory?”
“Why, my betrothed!”
“And does the doctor know about him?”
“He is he! Do not tell me you are ignorant of Doctor Goodhead’s first name!”
Quentin blushed to realise the truth. After all these years, he was only now learning the doctor’s name was Gregory. That, he reflected, is a measure of our relationship. I had never thought to ask. I was happy to have him on a pedestal as my idol and not a real man with a name and everything.
“Please, I beg you, tear the letter. I am aggrieved to see it.”
“I will if you promise me one thing.”
“Anything! Only please destroy it.”
“You must promise that you shall write something else. Why not turn your hand to a three-volume novel, for example? I am sure a man of your talents could pen a bestseller. You certainly have the imagination and the skill.”
“Really?”
“Truly! Listen to this, ‘I fear the cad shall be your undoing and so I send these words to alert you to his perfidy.’ It is sensational! Even if I were not one of the characters involved, I should be compelled to read on. It is exactly the kind of fare that does well these days. Romantic intrigue! It flies from the shelves.”
“And how do you know this?”
“My father is a businessman. He is often saying he wishes he had gone into publishing. Mark my words: the three-volume novel is the entertainment fad of the age.”
Quentin’s eyes lit up with the fire of excitement and imagination. He could picture himself in a bookshop in London, meeting his ardent fans and appending his signa
ture to their copies of his latest masterwork.
“But you really think I am good enough?”
“Truly, I do.”
“Then I am persuaded. Miss Sinclair, I shall write you your three-volume novel, but I beg you, please destroy that letter, and do not refer to it again.”
“But your writing has such - what’s the word? - quotability.”
“I am not sure that that is a word.”
“And that is why you are the writer! O, Master Quigley - or may I call you Quentin? - This is so exciting. I look forward to reading your book with almost as much anticipation as I await my wedding day.”
“I say!” Quentin was suddenly inspired. “What think you of this as an opening line? ‘France is a foreign country: they do things differently there.’”
Miss Sinclair frowned. “Perhaps not.”
“Perhaps you are right.”
They arrived at the front of the manor, where a man in livery received the reins, and another helped what he thought were two ladies from the carriage.
Marie Antoinette led Joan of Arc through to the ballroom. Hercules was standing aloof, looking wistfully into his wine glass. Quentin grabbed Birkworth by the elbow and whispered in his ear. The butler recoiled but a little then nodded. Seconds later, he was striking a glass with the side of a butter knife.
“Ladies and gentleman!” Birkworth addressed the assembly. “Raise your glasses, please, to toast our friend Doctor Gregory Goodhead on the occasion of his engagement to the charming Miss Priscilla Sinclair.”
A general cry of surprise arose but everyone toasted the couple and called out to congratulate them and wish them every happiness.
“And you, Master Quentin,” Gregory Goodhead beamed at Marie Antoinette, his arm around Joan of Arc, “I believe you have an announcement of your own to make.”
Quentin was dumbfounded. Napoleon approached. “It’s Miss Shaver, sir,” he said. “She’s disappeared.”
“Are you certain? Have you checked each and every Boadicea?”
“And earned myself a couple of slapped faces in the process.”
“And she is not among them? Birkworth?”
“I regret I have not seen Miss Shaver for a couple of hours, sir. I have had the entire house and grounds thoroughly searched.”
Quoits and Quotability Page 14