libation, Lydia almost fell into the lap of the seated visitor from Argentina.
“Ohhh! My apologies. I did not see you sitting there. My father can be
a hand full after a night on the town, and I sometimes have to resort to stern
measures to keep him in line.”
Lydia pretended to be fully intent on her conversation with the stranger,
but as her father tried to take a fast swallow of his precious treasure, she swept
the bottle from his grasp and away from his lips.
An anguished cry of protest was all Liam Peters could muster as he
watched the liquid gold soak into the turf. When the bottle was empty, Lydia
again addressed her father.
“Now, we won’t say a word to Dr. Murphy about this little incident, will
we?” She slid the bottle quietly into a nearby refuse bin.
Lonfranco had sat watching this whole scene as if being entertained by a
theater troupe. But even with his senses dulled by the alcohol consumed the
night before, there was no mistaking the breathtaking beauty of this young
woman. He was unable to move, mesmerized by the lilt of her accent, so soft
and melodic, even when chiding her recalcitrant father.
Her sparkling blue eyes contained the same mischievous twinkle as her
father’s. Combined with her flaxen hair, she stood before Lonfranco as an image
of feminine pulchritude unlike anything he had ever seen in South America.
He shook his head to clear the cobwebs away.
“Ooooooohh laaaa.” The pain shot across his forehead.
“Are you alright? Can I be of any assistance? You look quite peeked.”
Lydia’s voice was the first soothing sound Lonfranco had heard all day.
“The lad’s a wee bit under the weather this mornin’, Lydia, as I expected.
He’s the one I told ya that might need some carin’ for. Señor Lonfranco De
Seta of Buenos Aires, Argentina, allow me to introduce my daughter, Lydia
Anne Peters, R.N. That’s registered nurse, if you don’t know, my friend. I asked
Lydia to come along today in case you fell off one of those hay burners and did
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yourself in. You weren’t movin’ too well when we said our good-byes last night.
Matter o’ fact, you weren’t movin’ at all.”
The words that Peters spoke were not registering in Lonfranco’s brain as
he struggled to rise from his seat to take the lady’s hand.
“It is my pleasure, Señorita, to make your acquaintance. I apologize for my
lack of manners. I am not at my best at this moment.”
“Father, were you out drinking with this poor man last night? A visitor to
our country and this is how you welcome him? Sir, it is I who must apologize
to you for my father’s lack of consideration and contemptible behavior.”
“On the contrary, Señorita, your father was most hospitable . . . from what
I can recall. We had the pleasure of doing business yesterday afternoon, where,
in fact, your father and I concluded a transaction involving one of his prize bulls.
As gentlemen are wont to do, we then retired to the nearest establishment of
good tidings to cement the deal. It would seem that I consumed a bit too much
‘cement.’ Believe me, no harm was done. I am the proud owner of a pedigreed
steer, an acute hangover, and an embarrassed polo team. What more could a
visitor to your country ask for, except maybe some buffer salts?”
He noticed how delicate her hand felt as he raised it to his lips for the
traditional Latin greeting. His words brought a sweet smile to her lips.
Sweet Mother of Jesus, she is a beauty, he thought to himself. His heart was
pounding in time with his aching head, and he was unsure if the lightheadedness
that he felt was due to his current situation or his former intoxications.
“Well, if it’s salts ya be needin’, Lydia’s the one to find them fer ya. As I
said, she’s a registered nurse. Served in the army field corps in France during
The Big One. You’ll be an easy job to patch up after what she’s seen! Why
don’t you take Señor De Seta past the apothecary and then on to his inn to
recuperate. I’m sure that Mrs. Peters and I would be honored to have you at our
table for dinner tomorrow night, if you have the strength for it.”
Lonfranco knew that such an invitation would be difficult to refuse, but
he surprised himself at the speed of his acceptance. His business in England
was all but concluded, his last polo match played, and he had a week to kill
before his departure for South America. He had planned to travel on his own,
perhaps to France for a few days, but nothing had been etched in stone.
How strange he felt climbing aboard Liam’s small carriage, forced by
circumstance to sit scandalously close to Lydia. A brief word with one of his
fellow teammates as to his plans for the next forty-eight hours, and he and
Lydia were off to Hillingdon Inn.
Liam preferred to remain behind and partake of the buffet that the
Hillingdon Polo and Hunt Club had organized in honor of their Argentine
guests. He would pass along Lonfranco’s humble apologies and regrets due to
a sudden illness and offer to assume the place of his old and intimate friend at
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JAMES McCREATH
their sumptuously set table. He instructed Lydia to return for him once Señor
De Seta was feeling more comfortable and to remind him of his commitment
the following night. With that, Liam Peters was off to join the revelry.
A crack of the whip sent the carriage on its way. Lonfranco’s whole being
was swept up in a rainbow of the senses. The sights, the sounds, the smells, and
the feel of his thigh against the soft material of Lydia’s dress all assaulted his
clouded mind. He wanted to capture this moment and stop it in time so that
he could analyze what on earth was happening to him when he had his full
faculties back intact.
Since Maria’s death, there had been no feeling in his heart except emptiness
and resignation to a life alone. He had rationalized against another marriage
as a means of protecting himself from further emotional disappointment. His
work became his first and only love, and after his persistent refusal to socialize
in a romantic context with members of the fairer sex, the Porteño society
matchmakers grudgingly gave up and left him alone.
He had thought himself incapable of the feelings that he was experiencing
at this moment, the giddy infatuation that this wisp of a girl was causing him.
And he had known her less than an hour!
Her voice was like a lullaby as she made small talk. The early afternoon
sun fell flush on his face as they traveled, and he closed his eyes and basked in
its warmth.
Lydia asked if he preferred to ride in silence and apologized for “cackling
on like a magpie.” Now it was his turn to apologize for being such bad company
and encouraged her to continue to soothe him with “the voice of an angel.”
Lydia laughed and sang a lilting Irish tune that had often been useful to
hearten the wounded soldiers in her care, or so she sadly imparted. Lonfranco
could not fathom such a delicate creature in the midst of the slaughter that had
become known as ‘The Great War.’ He had been an ocean a
nd a world away
from it in Argentina.
Images and impressions of Liam Peters kept popping into his mind. The
old man had told him during their liquid shenanigans together that he had “a
bit o’ the Irish in him, a bit o’ the English in him, and a lot o’ the Scotch in
him, preferably Glenlivet!” He certainly did have the latter in him that night,
perhaps two full bottles worth by Lonfranco’s best guess.
The South American had warmed to the British hybrid from the outset.
Their initial meeting took place in the Peter’s barn at ‘Lowliam,’ his sprawling
farm northwest of London. The nearest town of any notability went by the name
of High Wycombe. It was said that Liam’s Irish grandfather and namesake
renamed the dairy establishment and the surrounding lands that he purchased
after himself as a way of mocking his snobbish English neighbors.
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Liam Peters the Third was now the owner and overseer of one of Britain’s
most modern and successful livestock operations. He had been introduced
to his newest friend and business associate from Argentina by Percy Pellet,
a professional livestock broker from London. Pellet’s services were retained
specifically to search for premium breeding stock, in both beef cattle and
thoroughbred horses.
The prospective purchaser found, within seconds of their meeting,
that there was absolutely no pretension about Liam the Third. When Pellet
introduced the two, the Brit was in a stall, mucking out one of his ‘beauties.’
The hand that he extended for Lonfranco to shake was covered by the most
unsightly effluent. The visitor didn’t flinch. He grasped the hand with a strong,
full grip, and continued to hold on and shake it vigorously as Pellet made the
usual salutations with a shocked, disgusted look on his face.
Liam smiled broadly as he invited his guests to join him for a close-up
look at his champion stud. It was only Lonfranco who accepted the offer. The
two men inspected the bull from every possible angle, standing knee high in
excrement and shavings.
When all was said and done, both men knew that the other had a profound
knowledge of the ‘whys’ and ‘wherefores’ of the bovine world. No one would be
taken advantage of here. A price was stated, Pellet was consulted briefly, and a
deal made in a matter of minutes.
Lonfranco had noted that the stout, blond-haired breeder seemed to have a
number of personalities and dialects that he used as suited his purpose. He was
perfectly capable of intoning the King’s English in a thoroughly convincing
nasal whine when addressing the haughty Mr. Pellet of London. Yet he seemed
to prefer the blarney of an Irish leprechaun or the biting sarcasm of a Scottish
warlord when scrutinizing the private parts of his four-legged loved ones. He
had the South American doubled over in laughter on more than one occasion.
There was no way of refusing to join him for a cleansing ale once the deal was
struck and Pellet sent on his way to draw up the formal papers.
After a short stop at the chemist, it was on to Hillingdon Inn for Lydia
and Lonfranco. Despite his condition, he was disappointed when the carriage
ride was over. He would have gladly stayed by her side the rest of that fine
afternoon, just to listen to her hypnotic voice.
Lydia made certain that her charge took the prescribed medicine she
had purchased for him. She ordered some strong coffee and fruit juice to his
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room, soaked a cloth in cool water for his forehead, then made ready for her
departure.
“Would you like me to send a carriage for you tomorrow evening, Señor
De Seta?”
“Only if you will be in it, Miss Peters,” he responded.
“Well, Señor, as much as I might like to be, my place at that time tomorrow
will be with my mother and sisters, preparing the evening meal. Father doesn’t
believe in servants! Besides, with ten siblings and my parents around, there is
hardly room for another soul. I would imagine that one of my brothers could
fetch you around five o’clock. Does that sound suitable?”
He didn’t want to have to wait that long to see her again, but tried his best
to hide his impatience.
“That would be fine, Señorita, and thank you for your kindness today.
You have made me a new man, or, at least, I hope to be a new man when this
medicine takes effect.”
“It is the least I could do, Señor De Seta. Someone must make penance
for the evil that my father hath wrought upon you. Demon rum, the scourge of
the weak and godless!”
Her soft smile told him that she meant her last comment as a jest. After
the barbarism that she must have witnessed in France, it was a wonder that she
still believed that there was a God at all.
Lydia closed the door gently behind her as she left, and her new admirer
listened to the footsteps receding down the hall. Lonfranco reclined on the
bed, closed his eyes, and tried to conjure up her enchanting image in his
mind. Nothing did her justice. He awaited the following evening with great
anticipation as he fell into a deep sleep.
Liam Peters loved to preside over a boisterous and bountiful table. The fare
this evening was traditional English roast of beef, Yorkshire puddings, fresh
vegetables galore, and a well lubricated trifle for dessert. A new wine preceded
every course, and there was ample ale, stout, and bitters, not to mention the
host’s favorite, Glenlivet, to quench everyone’s thirst. It was evident, just by
looking around the table, that Liam Peters was as productive a sire as any of
his prized stock. He had fathered eight sons and four daughters, much to the
delight of the Catholic priest in the village. The old stallion had put all of his
children to work at Lowliam when it did not conflict with their schooling, and
each child now took a keen interest in the operation and preservation of their
thriving enterprise.
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The Great War did not leave Liam’s brood unscathed, however. Liam the
Fourth, once a muscular, towheaded youth, had returned from the front in
1916 severely gassed. The former Coldstream Guardsman was now just a mere
shadow of his former self, confined to a wheelchair and unable to function
without round-the-clock assistance. The family rallied to his side, and Mrs.
Peters would often say that “It was their duty to care for him, just as it had
been his duty to go to France to protect them.”
Then there was young Will, sweet Will. He had been under the minimum
military age, unable to cross the Channel in uniform. But he had inherited his
father’s ingenuity and began saving his money to purchase false documents
that could be obtained on the black market. The lad had left a note, asking
forgiveness from his parents and assuring them that he would be ‘just fine.’
From the day he left until the day the telegram was delivered, his mother knew
that she would never lay eyes on him again.
‘Missing in action,’ was the way the Home Office described it. Did those
words mean tha
t there was a chance that he could be ‘found’ again? It all
seemed so uncertain at the time.
Lydia and two of her sisters joined the British Expeditionary Force nursing
corps, eventually heading to the continent with high hopes of finding their
brother. It never happened. Sweet Will was lost to them forever.
There was also Betsy, Lydia’s youngest sister. Bright, inquisitive, a virtuoso
on the piano, little Betsy had succumbed to dysentery while serving near the
front lines in Belgium at the end of the conflict.
Two dead, one gassed and disabled. It was a tragic toll for any family to
suffer, but Lonfranco was impressed with how well everyone had picked up the
pieces. Each member seemed ready to face the future, with Liam’s contagious
optimism. He had toasted his departed children in a heartfelt and emotional
blessing as the family gathered around the table. That said and done, his ruddy
face lit up like a lantern, and the stories and refreshments continued into the
wee hours of the morning.
The guest of honor took every opportunity to engage Lydia in conversation.
When that was impossible, he would steal a glance in her direction. Occasionally,
Liam would catch him and let loose the canons.
“Be there something wrong with your neck, Señor De Seta? I see that
you seem to be facing in the opposite direction whilst I be recounting this
extremely informative discussion on cattle suppositories. Perhaps an injury
from yesterday’s match? I should send for the doctor if the condition persists.
On second thought, I know the precise cure. Lydia, come sit beside your loving
father. That way our guest will not do himself further damage as he tries to
sneak a peek in your direction.”
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Lonfranco had been found out and could feel the flush of his face. He tried
in vain to change the topic of conversation back to cattle suppositories.
Lydia, for her part, played the evening very coyly. She was always polite,
but never gave any indication of a spark in her heart, while an inferno raged
in Lonfranco’s. At thirty-seven years of age, he felt ridiculously child-like. This
behavior was certainly not becoming to a man of his age and stature. Try as he
may, however, he was unable to get control of his feelings. The slightly tipsy
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