Gentlemen Formerly Dressed

by Sulari Gentill

  Rowland asked Murcott if he knew Lady Pierrepont. “She was a Miss Euphemia Thistlewaite before her marriage, I believe.”

  “Good Lord… Euphemia married? Did you hear that Ivy? I can’t believe we weren’t invited!”

  “You know Lady Pierrepont?”

  “Well, I thought we did! But clearly we’re not good enough for Lady Pierrepont anymore!” Murcott said indignantly. He shook his head sadly. “You know, Sinclair, I have come to realise—since my demotion—that people can be very stuck up!”

  “Apparently, the wedding was small and a little rushed,” Milton said soothingly. “I wouldn’t feel overly offended.”

  “Oh…? Oh!” Murcott gaped in realisation. “I say, that’s too bad! Euphemia was such a mouse of a thing. Who would have thought?”

  Rowland explained then about Pierrepont’s head and the charge he’d been given by the waxworker to return it to the lord’s widow. If the Murcotts thought Lady Pierrepont’s desire to have a wax replica of her husband odd, they did not mention it. “We believe she’s staying in Bletchley somewhere,” Rowland finished.

  “That would be with Lady Leon,” Ivy said confidently. “At Bletchley Park. She’s Euphemia’s godmother.”

  Rowland made a mental note of the address and the name of Lady Leon. “We’ll take the long way back to London and drop it off on the way.”

  “I will not hear of it!” Murcott declared. “You must take one of my cars. Lord knows you’ll probably win a couple from me before the night is out… I say, shall we play cards?”

  “Yes, if you’d like,” Rowland replied, still a little unaccustomed to the manner in which Murcott became routinely distracted by tangents of conversation.

  “Splendid! Viggers…” Murcott summoned his butler and asked him to prepare the library for cards. He ate quickly, despite the dangers presented by the buckshot, and waited impatiently for his guests to finish, ushering them into the library the moment decorum would allow.

  “Your old chum seems rather fond of cards,” Clyde observed quietly.

  Rowland nodded. Murcott was clearly eager to play.

  The library had been set up for a long game, the card table readied with several decks of cards and poker chips, a traymobile of drinks within reach. Clearly, Murcott took his poker seriously.

  The game began affably enough, but soon, despite Rowland’s best efforts, the stakes began to rise alarmingly. Clyde and Edna folded out very quickly. Milton played for a while longer until he too became unwilling to wager money that was not his. Ivy told her brother he was being ridiculous and refused to continue.

  “Shall we call it a day and take a stroll?” Rowland suggested, realising that Murcott was gambling compulsively now. He had no desire to take so much money from his host.

  “Just one more hand,” Murcott pleaded. “I’ve nearly got you figured out, Sinclair! After all these years I’m sure I finally know how to read you.”

  Rowland shrugged. “One more hand then.”

  Edna shuffled and dealt for him. Almost immediately Murcott raised the stakes exorbitantly. Rowland did not flinch. He could afford to lose and he doubted he would. Murcott’s left eyelid twitched involuntarily whenever his hand was good and it was currently still. The paucity of the Englishman’s cards was only confirmed by the faint increase in the pitch of his voice when he bluffed. Rowland dragged his hand through his hair, knowing that Murcott thought the action a tell.

  Murcott smiled slightly.

  Clyde shook his head and groaned. They were watching a financial bloodbath. He and Milton had played enough with Rowland to know it.

  Murcott slammed down his cards triumphantly. Rowland opened his hand almost apologetically.

  “Oh, I s-say,” Murcott stuttered. “B-but I thought…”

  “It was a lucky hand,” Rowland lied. “What say we go into Oxford? I haven’t been back in years.”

  “Yes, let’s do that,” Ivy said, glaring sternly at her brother, “before Archie loses the house!”

  Subdued now, Murcott agreed.

  They drove back into Oxford and spent the late afternoon wandering through the narrow cobbled streets of the university town, browsing through bookshops and museums and exclaiming at the magnificence of every building. Edna was fascinated by the gargoyles, mesmerised by the dark individuality of every demonic face and delighted at each discovery of yet another stone guardian.

  Rowland took them to Oxford Castle with its rough bleached walls stark against the elaborate architecture which surrounded it. Still, it undeniably belonged, like an echo of Oxford’s beginnings.

  Curious about Rowland Sinclair’s life before he’d met any of them, Edna asked after the college he’d attended. And so they found themselves strolling about the Mob quad—an extensive, grassed quadrangle around which loomed the gothic structures of Merton College. As it happened both Murcott and Rowland were Mertonians.

  “I don’t suppose you’d consider that footrace, Sinclair?” Murcott asked, assessing the length and breadth of the quad. “Give me a chance to regain my dignity.”

  “No, I wouldn’t,” Rowland said flatly. “Believe me, Murcott, tearing around the quadrangle will do nothing for your dignity whether or not you win.”

  The Englishman sighed. “Yes, I suppose you’re right. What about croquet? I was a dab hand… Oh dear… I suppose you’re not really in any condition to play croquet.”

  “How about we play chess later this evening,” Rowland offered. He was pretty sure he could convincingly throw a game of chess, and clearly Murcott would not leave him alone until he’d beaten him at something.

  “I say, really? That’s a perfectly splendid idea! Be warned though, Sinclair, we Englishmen have been defending our monarchs and castles for hundreds of years!”

  “I’m willing to chance it.”

  Thus mollified, Murcott took more interest in the sightseeing. “I say, Sinclair… we’re alumni now. What say we borrow the key to the belltower?”

  “Why?” Rowland asked suspiciously. Did Murcott want to race him to the belfry?

  “To take in the view, of course! We’ll be able to see right across Oxford.”

  Rowland nodded, relieved. “Jolly good idea. I’ve always wondered what you could see from up there.”

  “You haven’t been up before?” Edna asked, surprised. Rowland had spent four years at Merton College and it seemed to the sculptress that the multi-spired and crenulated belltower beckoned seductively to all who looked up from the quad.

  “Undergraduates are not permitted to have the key under any circumstances,” Rowland explained.

  “Why ever not?”

  Rowland smiled. “They’re considered too emotionally unstable… always falling in love and such. I believe the fear is that they’ll leap from the battlements and create a terrible mess in the quadrangle.”

  “But once you’ve graduated…”

  “Well, then you have an Oxford degree. It wards off the extremes of passion. So you can safely borrow the key.”

  Milton laughed. “Yes, of course. I can see that.”

  It took them about an hour to locate the keeper of the key and prove their status as alumni. By then the sun was sinking towards the western horizon. Murcott unlocked the door and they took the stone steps quickly, coming out onto an open viewing gallery.

  Edna gasped. The towers and spires of Oxford were cast in violet. From here the university city seemed not quite real, a myth, a Camelot.

  Rowland watched Edna as she leaned out as far as she could, drawing in the vista with more than her eyes. Against the golden bloom of dusk she was undiminished, a creature as beautiful as the sunset. His fingers twitched for a pencil, every part of him ached to catch that moment, to commit the glory of it to line and shade.

  Clyde stood next to him, observing the frustration in his friend’s eyes. He followed Rowland’s gaze to Edna stretching out over the crenulated wall. “Now that would make a nice picture.”

  “Yes, it would.” Rowlan
d’s voice was strained, tired.

  Clyde said nothing more, but he was thoughtful.

  And so they watched until darkness descended upon the dreaming spires of the learned town.

  16

  ON INTRODUCTIONS

  A point of etiquette that often troubles people who have not had a great deal of experience in social intercourse is how and in what form introductions should be made. The great question as a rule is “whom to introduce to whom?”

  Now, the laws of etiquette rest on the old foundation that the lady is the superior of the gentleman, and that her wishes are paramount. Therefore, before making an introduction, or when making an introduction, you ask permission in the words, “May I introduce Mr. So-and-so., Miss Brown?” thus introducing the gentleman to the lady. In introducing two ladies you introduce the younger to the elder, the single to the married—a married lady takes precedence whatever her age. The same in the introduction of two men—the younger to the elder of the two.

  The form of introduction which says: “Meet Mrs. Brown,” is incorrect, and is never used by people who wish to be considered “good style.” It was introduced to Australia from America.

  The Brisbane Courier, 1933

  Edna inspected the head of Pierrepont under the light. There was a minor dent in the peer’s nose, an injury sustained during his roll on the platform.

  “What’s your assessment, Ed?” Rowland asked, keeping his eyes clear of the glass gaze, which seemed to reproach him for his carelessness.

  “It’s not too bad, Rowly. Barely noticeable, really. I could try to smooth it out a bit, but I’m afraid anything more would risk disaster.”

  “Whatever you think best, Ed.” Rowland was happy to defer to the sculptress’ expertise on the matter. “I say, where is everybody?” He and Edna were alone at breakfast.

  “I’m not sure.” Edna placed the head on the sideboard beside various covered dishes of eggs, bacon, wild mushrooms and river trout. “Perhaps they’re all still asleep.”

  The previous evening’s game of chess had turned into something of a tournament, during which Rowland quite skilfully and subtly allowed his host to win back most of the money he’d lost through poker.

  Rowland pulled out Edna’s chair as the sculptress returned to the table with her plate. “I thought we might head out to Bletchley Park today,” he said. “Murcott’s happy to allow us to borrow one of his motor cars and we should probably return Lord Pierrepont’s head before we damage it further.”

  “Perhaps Mr. Murcott and Ivy should come with us,” Edna suggested, watching as Rowland managed breakfast quite adeptly with a single hand. “They seem to be well-acquainted with Lady Pierrepont and her godmother. It might make the delivery a little less awkward.”

  Rowland smiled. “I don’t know what you mean. What could possibly be awkward about delivering the wax head of a dead man to his widow?”

  Edna sighed. “You know, Rowly, Mr. Murcott has been so kind and generous.” She lowered her voice. “It’s difficult to imagine that you weren’t friends when you knew each other first.”

  “He was different and so was I, I suppose,” Rowland replied. “And we moved in rather different circles. Being de-titled has, to my thinking, improved him no end.”

  “You don’t remember Ivy Murcott whatsoever, do you, Rowly?” Edna asked, still whispering.

  Rowland grimaced. “Was it obvious?”

  “Not at all. I’m sure even Milt and Clyde are fooled… but I do wonder why you don’t remember her?”

  “I don’t remember Marriott Spencer, either,” Rowland confessed before Edna read something more sinister into what appeared to be his failing memory.

  “You might not have ever met Marriott,” Edna said. “You were a painter after all… Marriott came to Ashton’s to teach sculpture and only for a little while.” The sculptress frowned, puzzled, contemplative. “You don’t usually forget faces, Rowly—I’ve never known anyone to capture likenesses from memory after a single meeting the way you do.”

  Rowland knew that Edna had a point. Ivy Murcott’s countenance was artistically interesting. Even back then, he was sure he would have noticed her, thought about drawing her. And yet he had not even the vaguest recognition of the girl.

  “Well perhaps nobody introduced us,” he said finally. “Lord Lesley was adamant back then that Colonials were merely criminal stock. I was probably not the kind of acquaintance he would have allowed his sister to make.”

  “And yet she seems to know you.”

  “She knows of me.”

  “No, Rowly—when we were in town yesterday she showed me where the boxers would train, told me about some of the fights… said you stopped just when you started winning nearly every bout.”

  “How could she possibly know that?” Rowland said, a little alarmed. He’d never known women to attend boxing matches… not then, at least.

  “She knew that you hate whisky!” Edna offered as final proof.

  “Miss Murcott told you all this?”

  “Well me, Clyde and Milt collectively, but in separate conversations,” Edna replied. “Milt first mentioned that Miss Murcott seemed rather curious about you, and we compared notes while you were playing chess.” She sipped her tea. “Milt’s convinced she’s romantically obsessed with you.”

  “But you think that’s unlikely?” Rowland asked wryly.

  Edna smiled. She looked at him almost tenderly. “It’s nothing to do with whether you are worthy of obsession, Rowly darling. It’s just that Ivy seems far too sensible for such things.”

  “Oh.” He frowned, shaking his head. “I really can’t remember her at all.”

  “It is odd, don’t you think?”

  “Yes… but what, since we arrived in England, hasn’t been odd?”

  Edna laughed. “Perhaps Ivy did simply admire you from afar. I’m sure she wasn’t alone.”

  They had only just risen from breakfast when the others returned. Noticeably excited, Murcott rushed in to intercept Rowland. “We have the most wonderful surprise, old boy,” he said. “It’ll help you get over the drubbing I gave you last evening—quick sticks!”

  Clyde and Milton came in carrying between them several brown-paper parcels, which they dropped thankfully in front of Rowland.

  “What’s this?” Rowland asked.

  Murcott’s footman then dragged in the largest package.

  Edna didn’t wait, opening the box before Rowland could ask anything more. “It’s an easel!” she said.

  “Your chums are convinced that you’re pining for your studio, old boy, so I thought, why not set one up here? I knew of a little shop in Oxford which deals in paints and brushes and whatnot—and Ivy’s always wanted to learn to draw. Perhaps you could show her how it’s done?”

  Rowland looked at Clyde and Milton, expecting to see in their faces evidence that this was just some mad whim of Murcott’s. But they were by all appearances at least complicit.

  Clyde rolled up his sleeves. “Archie’s happy for us to set up in the conservatory,” he said. “It’s got good light,” he added, as if that would be Rowland’s only concern.

  “Ivy and I will go find some servants to move the furniture out of the way.” Murcott said decisively. “If you gentlemen wouldn’t mind bringing the boxes…”

  Clyde waited till Murcott and his sister had left before he tried to explain. “I realised when we were on the belltower what’s wrong with you, Rowly—why you can’t sleep. You haven’t drawn anything since they broke your arm. It’s driving you insane.”

  “I’ve tried… I can’t…”

  “You can draw as well with your left hand as your right—you just can’t hold that notebook of yours at the same time… which is why we found you an easel.”

  “But…”

  “It’s not the same as your notebook, I know, but it’s got to be better than nothing.”

  Rowland shook his head.

  Milton and Clyde exchanged a glance. The poet picked up a box. “Co
me on, Ed. We’ll go give the Murcotts a hand.”

  Edna nodded. Clyde was a painter. For years now, he and Rowland had shared pigments and ideas and inspiration. They would leave Rowland’s reluctance to him.

  “You know, Rowly,” Clyde said, when they were alone, “I wouldn’t push if I couldn’t see that not working was hurting you.”

  “Hurting me?”

  “I know you too well, mate—you work things out with a brush. You’ve just got to get over whatever’s stopping you…”

  “I would have thought that what’s stopping me is pretty obvious,” Rowland muttered, lifting the cast at Clyde.

  “You’ve been using your left hand on and off to paint for years, Rowly. The bloody cast isn’t stopping you. You’ve just got to get over this fear—”

  “Fear?” Rowland flared, affronted. “You think I’m afraid to paint? That’s preposterous!”

  Clyde moved to stand beside Rowland, shoulder to shoulder rather than face to face. He spoke calmly. “I think the last time you painted, someone broke your arm for it. They burned a swastika into your chest for good measure. I don’t know what it’s like to believe you’re going to die, mate… to really think that the next breath will be your last. You came that close twice that night. And still you pulled yourself together and got Eva out of there. But, Rowly, you wouldn’t be human if you didn’t think twice about ever painting again.”

  Rowland said nothing.

  “For some blokes,” Clyde continued, “that would be all right… for you, it’s not going to work. Not painting is driving you crazy.”

  “I’m not crazy, Clyde,” Rowland said wearily.

  “Not yet,” Clyde conceded. “But how long can you go without sleeping or working? Wilfred, as much as he disapproves of what you do, bless him, can see it. It’s why he’s so worried you’ll start drinking to numb it all.”

  Rowland stared at the H-frame easel, the packages of pencils and brushes and paint. Some part of him knew that Clyde was right. Not drawing, not putting the images in his head onto paper or canvas, had been building into an almost unbearable frustration. But he could have procured an easel days ago if he’d wanted to… he’d thought about it and then avoided thinking about it.