They both raised a hand in their pirates’ salute.
‘We sail under the black pirate’s flag …’
‘And when you come to think of it, Al, when you really come to put the grey matter to work, deciding to run off with Livia is really quite a piratical act, is it not?’
Almeric agreed before raising yet another thorny subject.
‘Are you all right for the necessary? I feel sure certain chaps up in Gretna Green, in Scottish land, might need their palms a little greased. One’s heard some of these padres can take ruthless advantage.’
‘You sound just like your old man,’ Valentine laughed. ‘The very double. But there’s no need to worry on my account. I have a small inheritance from an old actress who shall we say was a friend of my father’s.’ They both smiled. ‘For some reason or other she left me a tidy little sum a few months ago, and so I shall be well able to afford to keep Livia in some sort of style – whatever happens. Or doesn’t happen.’
‘Jolly good,’ Almeric said. ‘But whatever does happen, Val …’
‘Yes?’ Valentine prompted his friend, who had come to a temporary halt. ‘Yes? Whatever happens, what?’
‘We’ll still be pirates, won’t we? Nothing will change that.’
‘You bet,’ Valentine agreed, with a smile. ‘Till dee does us part, old friend. Promise,’ he said in a passable Scottish accent.
Over the next days the burden of Valentine and Livia’s secret weighed heavily on Almeric, because he knew what Valentine just didn’t seem able to understand – that by running away with Livia Catesby, he would put himself and Livia on the outs with just about everyone that could possibly matter. It wouldn’t seem very important to either of them at this particular moment, now their love had come into flower, but all too soon the honeymoon would be over, as his father was always fond of saying, and they would find out the exact truth about society.
It was not just that people would be lining up to cut him, but Almeric felt sure it would greatly affect all his business relationships, the dealings with his bank and his club – and as for the attention they would get from the popular press, it was too dreadful to contemplate. Everything would conspire to make poor Valentine and Livia objects of scandal and derision, unless, of course, there was some sort of war, in which case everyone would immediately forget about the whole thing because they would have other things on their minds, things more important than cutting some poor chap who had just wanted to marry the girl he loved. So it might not be such a bad thing at all if there was some sort of a war, because some sort of a war might allow a bit of a clean sweep. That was the sort of thing that appealed to Almeric, the chance for new brooms to sweep away some of the old cobwebs, particularly those heavy old cobwebs that still hung in certain corners of society, ready to trap and ruin so many innocent people. No, Almeric concluded at the end of his reckoning, a short sharp war might not be such a bad thing after all.
Meanwhile Pug had other things on his mind besides the growing crisis in Europe. He was aware that everyone, including Elizabeth, knew how he felt about her, but how to state it without coming out sounding a complete chump? This was what was preoccupying him, and to such an extent he was convinced he was getting a headache just from the thought of it all.
He had worshipped Elizabeth from the moment he had really become aware of her, sitting as pretty as a picture at the piano during rehearsals for The Pirates of Penzance, so much so that every time he was near her he started to feel quite faint, which was simply not him. To him, Elizabeth was an angel sent from heaven, a vision with the sweetest eyes, the most perfect slender figure, and the most endearing way of speaking and looking at a chap. She was like a heroine from a book, a fragile being with all the delicacy of a rose but without any thorns, the epitome of the perfect English gentle-woman.
In order to find out the best way to proceed, he sought out Bertie, whom he found sitting in the shade of the drawing room.
‘Bertie, old fruit?’ he began, clearing his throat nervously. ‘Mind a word or two, old thing?’
‘Not at all, Pug,’ Bertie replied and, putting down his book, he smiled up at Pug.
‘The thing is, Bertie,’ Pug began again, clearing his throat once more.
‘This is about my sister, is it not?’
‘The thing is, as you no doubt have observed, I am somewhat smitten,’ Pug continued obliviously, before juddering to a halt. ‘What?’
‘This is about my sister, is it not?’
‘Absolutely, Bertie. I am totally mashed with your sister, as you might or might not know.’
Pug heaved a sigh of relief, having got through what he thought was the worst bit.
‘Absolutely, Pug.’
‘Now I know I will have to speak to your pater …’
‘’Fraid so, Pug.’
‘But before I do so …’
‘Yes, Pug?’
‘Thought a chap might speak to you.’
‘Absolutely, Pug.’
Pug swallowed, and then, taking out a handkerchief, he wiped first his moustache and then his forehead.
‘I say, old bean – all right if I sit down?’
‘Go right ahead, old boy.’
‘I am rather beginning to feel a bit green about the gills.’
‘You are beginning rather to look a bit green about the gills.’
Pug sat down. ‘I shall never see this thing through, don’t you know. If a chap’s like this with his girl’s brother, then what’s he going to be like with the girl’s pater? Doesn’t even bear the smallest of thoughts.’
‘No,’ Bertie said, doing his best to keep his face straight, ‘I suppose not.’
Bertie thought of his own father and closed his eyes. His father would make mincemeat of poor Pug, put him off Elizabeth for life, which would be a shame, not only as far as his sister went but for Bertie too, because he liked Pug and would welcome him as a brother-in-law. But his father had always had it in for Elizabeth from the day she was born. He wanted nothing more and nothing less for her than a life of misery.
‘Pug – I’m Elizabeth’s brother.’
‘You most certainly are, old bean. Absolutely,’ Pug replied with some relief.
‘And I know her better than anyone, since, after all, I am her twin.’
Pug looked astonished. ‘I never knew that, old boy. Good gracious.’
‘Not many people know we’re twins, Pug. Elizabeth was born half an hour after me and rather unexpectedly, I believe, which maybe could account for my father’s intolerant attitude to her. Her arrival so unexpected, and so on?’
‘I see, poor girl, not her fault,’ Pug concluded, getting up from his chair and beginning to pace the floor. ‘All this only makes me all the more jolly well determined to win the hand of Elizabeth so that she can live safely away from such intolerance, as you call it.’
‘You have won the hand of her already, Pug,’ Bertie replied, ‘At least, you have won her heart, and that is what matters. Perhaps you don’t realise it because you’re too much a gentleman to discuss such matters, but, Elizabeth and I being twins, she’s the same age as I am and I am now twenty-one. So there is nothing whatsoever to stop you marrying my sister if you wish to – legally, at least. It’s only etiquette to ask for her hand formally, you know. And so rather than face a drubbing from our old man, if I were you and if Elizabeth does want to marry you, I should fire straight ahead.’
‘I say,’ Pug said, staring at Bertie. ‘I say.’
‘Only one thing, Pug,’ Bertie said with a smile. ‘You have asked her, haven’t you?’
‘Er – no,’ Pug replied slowly. ‘No, I haven’t actually. Least, not quite yet. Thought it best to get all the formal stuff out of the way first—’
‘Pug?’ Bertie interrupted kindly. ‘Pug, be a good chap and do go and ask her first. Just in case?’
‘Oh. Right,’ Pug agreed. ‘Righto. Yes. Jolly good wheeze, Bertie. Thanks awfully.’
Bertie watched with affection
as his friend hurried away to find the object of his devotion. He was a chap in a million, even if he was a knut.
Elizabeth stared at Pug, wide-eyed.
‘You want to marry me, Pug? But why? Why me?’
Pug stared back at her in equally blank astonishment.
‘Because – because I want to,’ he replied, putting his hands up helplessly in the air.
‘You don’t have to, you know. Just because we held hands – and because you – because you – because you kissed me.’ Elizabeth stopped.
‘I don’t want to marry you because I have to, Elizabeth,’ he stuttered. ‘I want to marry you because – because …’
‘Yes?’ She looked up at him carefully.
‘Because – because I do.’
Elizabeth looked down again but this time it was not from shyness, but in order not to smile because Pug looked so fraught.
‘Don’t you want to marry me?’ he asked rather forlornly. ‘I mean, I quite understand if you don’t actually want to, but I do so hope you do actually.’
‘Oh, Pug,’ Elizabeth sighed. ‘Of course I want to marry you.’
‘You do?’
‘Of course I do! I never thought anyone would ever want to marry me – particularly somebody as sweet and as lovely as you, Pug – so of course I want to marry you.’
‘You do? You really do?’
‘Of course I do. It’s just that …’ She sighed, looking suddenly so disconsolate that it was all Pug could do to stop himself from taking her in his arms and embracing her. ‘My father will never allow it.’
‘But that doesn’t matter, dearest!’ Pug gasped, sinking suddenly to his knees. ‘All that matters is that you want to marry me – and so married we shall be! You are twenty-one, I know you are.’
‘Yes, I am twenty-one, Pug. A little too old for marriage, perhaps?’
‘No, just the right age because there is nothing or no one can stop us now. We can just – just go and get married!’
‘My father will do his best. You don’t know my father. He will spoil anything, just for the sake of it.’
‘I don’t see what he can jolly well do,’ Pug returned, after giving the matter thought. ‘Not if we organise things properly. Not if we get the licence, and everything is proper and above board. I really don’t see what he can do.’
‘He will come after me—’
Pug took her in his arms and for once he forgot to be a knut.
‘He can come after me, but I promise you he will find me a really hard nut to crack.’
Elizabeth stared up at him, and realising what he had just said they both started to laugh, and all before they started kissing, which Elizabeth found she enjoyed even more than on the night of the midnight bathing party.
And so finally the holiday at Waterside House started to draw to its conclusion, and as it did, everyone did their best to pretend they really didn’t mind.
By common agreement it had been the very best of all the holidays at Waterside, and to celebrate the fact as well as to try to rid themselves of the unspoken sadness that might otherwise overwhelm them, arrangements were made for a last night dinner and dance, the music to be supplied by Elizabeth at the piano and by records played on the Duchess’s phonograph. Before that, however, the bachelors organised a sandcastle-building competition, to be judged by the Duchess, and open to everyone.
There had been many sandcastles built that month, ranging from the modest to the splendid, Harry proving himself to be the uncrowned champion to date with his enormous and elaborate sand fortresses, buildings that increased in complexity and grandeur with every one he built. His castles attracted admiration from everyone, from the family and friends as well as from other holidaymakers, especially two young boys who were also spending many hours of each sun-filled day building their own fortifications a hundred yards or so from Harry’s.
They would come and watch him in silence as he constructed elaborate ramparts, towers and moats, lost in admiration and envy before running off to try to put into practice the lessons they had learned. Building sandcastles obviously obsessed them both, so much so that they had set themselves up in competition with each other.
‘Why not enter the sandcastle competition?’ Harry asked the little French boy, repeating the same suggestion to the German boy.
‘Very well, monsieur.’
‘Good.’
They both ran off, albeit in different directions.
The day of the competition dawned fine and dry, and work began the moment the tide began to run out, pitches being chosen by all the contestants and the start of the building works signalled by the Duchess dipping the large Union Jack Almeric had brought down from the house.
Four hours later, as the tide turned and began to wash back towards them, everyone’s castle was nearing completion, and fine though they were, none could match the magnificence of Harry’s latest creation, a fantastic fortress he had been planning in his head for days. But before he could put the finishing touches to the bridge across the second moat, he was distracted by the sound of sudden shouting and screaming to the west of him, from the pitches taken by the two boys who had been building fast and furiously without a break from the moment the flag had dropped.
Harry could see a scrap in progress, the two boys locked in combat, rolling around the beach accompanied by much yelling and shouting. No one from their families seemed to be taking any notice as Harry ran towards them.
‘All right, all right!’ Harry shouted, arriving on the scene ahead of anyone else. ‘That’s enough, do you hear? Arrêtez enfin!’
He pulled the larger of the two boys off the smaller, who was lying on the sand howling.
‘What on earth do you think you two are doing?’ Harry wondered, more for his own benefit than theirs as he surveyed the wreckage of the smaller boy’s castle.
‘Yes, what on earth?’ Pug wondered, his monocle dropping out of his eye as he and Almeric joined Harry. ‘This is meant to be jolly good fun, chaps.’
‘What’s happening, Harry? Do you want a hand?’
Harry handed the larger boy over to Almeric.
‘Il est allemand!’ the smaller boy cried. ‘C’est ça qui est le problème, monsieur! Il est allemand!’
‘No zat is not it, you stupid boy!’ the larger boy now said in broken English. ‘What is wrong is that you want all the beaches!’
‘Zat is really not so, monsieur,’ a woman whom Harry took to be the smaller boy’s mother called to him. ‘Thierry has his bit of the beach, yes, but this brat is always trying to take it.’
‘Nein! Zat is not zo!’ the German boy yelled. ‘Zis was mine first!’
‘Oh, come now,’ Harry sighed. ‘Surely one bit of the beach is much like another bit of the beach?’
‘Nein, nein!’
‘It is mine!’
‘Hang on,’ Pug protested. ‘It is everyone’s, for everyone!’
‘But see – see he has so much beaches and I am pushed against the rocks!’
‘Well, it really doesn’t matter much,’ Gus said. ‘Because Hans here has ruined Thierry here’s castle, so I say we count your castle out of the competition?’
‘I think that’s fair,’ Almeric put in. ‘I’m afraid you’re disqualified, Hans.’
‘My name is not Hans! My name is Pieter!’
‘Fine,’ Harry said, shaking his head at him. ‘Then Pieter is disqualified.’
The boy looked at him furiously, while the man Harry took to be his father shouted something at him in German, as the boy’s mother led him away.
‘Anyone know what Papa said?’ Valentine wondered. ‘’Fraid I don’t speak the Boche.’
‘He said that we are stupid too,’ Harry said with a shrug. ‘All the English are stupid, according to him, most of all for siding with the French – something apparently we shall regret.’
The young men looked at each other and then at the wreckage of the French boy’s castle, as the tide began to rush ever more quickly up the
beach, only a matter of yards now from where the sandcastles were being judged by the Duchess, who was working her way methodically along the line before the sea flooded everyone’s moats.
Chapter Eight
Cupid’s Victory
The silence in the library at Bauders had lasted for much longer than Wavell would have desired, but since he could think of no way of breaking it, he took his quiet leave, signalling to the footman to follow him and to close the double doors before heading off to the kitchens with the footman in tow.
‘One must always be aware of the times when a family wishes to be left alone,’ he remarked to Tommy Taylor. ‘This will be one of them.’
‘Why? Whatever’s up, Mr Wavell?’ Tommy enquired. ‘Not something one of us has done, I hope.’
‘Why should it be anything to do with the likes of you, Taylor?’ Wavell returned. ‘This is a matter of far greater import. It is a moral dilemma, to do with the young people – the sort of thing that eats at the heart of any family.’
As they went through the pass door on their way to the busy rooms below stairs, Tommy Taylor frowned to himself and wondered what he might have missed. His mind had been far too full of thoughts of his girl, Tinker, to have taken any real notice of the Duchess opening the telegram that had been presented to her, nor of her subsequent remarks to the Duke. Tommy’s head had been in the clouds, remembering fondly the sweetness of his girl’s kisses from the evening and wondering when they could steal another half an hour together, to have gathered anything about the behaviour of anyone else, although as he followed Mr Wavell on to the kitchens he wasn’t too dreamy not to notice two pairs of feet below the curtain hanging in front of one of the many bolt-holes below stairs, one a pair of riding boots he knew to be Tully Tuttle’s and the other a pair of sturdy, sensible shoes that could only belong to Tully’s pash, Bridie.
If had to be something in the air, Tommy decided, grinning to himself. Everyone seemed inordinately determined to find their other half, everyone that is with the exception of the ever upright Mr Wavell. But then as Tommy remembered, according to Cook, Mr Wavell was long past it anyway.
In Distant Fields Page 17