The Captain and the Squire
Page 23
“We did it.” Chris laughed, gazing at Tarquin. “Me and you and the most wonderful pig in England! We’re home at last!”
Chapter Twenty-Four
A year later, that same pig stood in the large garden that had been opened up behind Bough Towers and Hardacre Grange, munching the floral crown she had worn to Tarquin and Chris’ wedding. Her two fathers, however, were more than willing to be indulgent on this of all days. Besides, wrestling the Oracle’s crown from her gently chewing jaws would mean they’d have to let go of each other’s hands.
And that would never do.
The garden was filled with locals from both Upper and Lower Bough, with a celebratory row planned along the river as it wound along the banks behind the two houses. The city kids who were staying at the Grange on a farm holiday had been invited too, and Tarquin’s pack of dogs ran to and fro between them all, evidently hopeful of scraps falling from the tables.
And at the center of the party were the two men, husband and husband, Bough and Hardacre, who had started out as neighbors and ended up as lovers. And as they danced beneath the sun of the late summer dusk, there could be no happier couple. Nor none so handy with a vintage riding crop.
And what else mattered but that?
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A Little Bit Cupid:
The Dishevelled Duke
Catherine Curzon & Eleanor Harkstead
Excerpt
All the champagne cupcakes had gone. Only a few slices of red velvet cake remained, sharing a plate with the last three heart-shaped cookies. Imogen had said that Billy could take them home with him. What a way to arrive. Ten years in London and Billy would appear on his parents’ doorstep with leftover Valentine’s Day cake and hundreds of unsold photographs.
At least I tried.
For the last time, Billy loaded the café’s dishwasher. In a couple of minutes he would turn the sign to closed for the last time, shut the blinds for the last time and leave The Chelsea Bunn forever. He would lug his case through the crowds, clamber onto a packed train and say goodbye to London.
But he wouldn’t say goodbye to Charlie-who-has-no-surname, who came in five times a week for a cup of tea and a bun for the two wolfhounds that dragged him around like slightly undersized donkeys. Charlie with the peppery hair and laughing eyes and the lines that crinkled around them when he smiled. And he smiled a lot.
Billy wouldn’t say goodbye to Charlie because for the last two weeks, his shifts had changed to fit around the shop’s new hours and he hadn’t seen him since. For the Bunn to be busy enough for extended hours was great, but it meant no more Charlie. Charlie didn’t come in late, it seemed, only for that mid-morning tea and cake.
Not having seen Charlie for a fortnight had made Billy realise how much he would miss the friends he had made in London. People from art school, and Imogen, who had given Billy enough shifts to eke out his life in London for just a few more months, even a place to sleep when his love life had turned sour. And most of all Charlie, who always had a smile for him, who always found the time to speak to him.
Billy’s favourite customer.
Not that Charlie would have missed him. Billy was only a server in a café, a barista if he wanted to make his job sound fancy. But he already missed Charlie, and as he wiped down the counter one last time, his gaze fell on the table where Charlie usually sat with his dogs beside him. He’d read the newspaper or fill in a crossword with his silver-barrelled pen, but more than anything he’d just chat to Billy or fuss the dogs that so clearly adored him. The table was empty now and the next time Charlie and the dogs came in, Billy would be long gone. And we never got a chance to say a proper goodbye. Billy drew in a deep breath then crossed to the door and turned the sign to closed.
He buttoned up his coat and, looping his scarf around his neck, he glanced outside.
A light snow had begun to fall, bringing a romantic sparkle to Valentine’s Day that Billy’s life was completely devoid of. He’d enjoyed nothing but romantic failures in his time in London, and spending his last day in the city in a café filled with every kind of Valentine’s-themed cake imaginable had merely reminded him of how little success he’d had in the big city.
It was time to go home.
He pressed the light switches and the shop fell into darkness, only the bulbs in the kitchen illuminated now. With a last look back at the street he flipped the lock down and shut out the world, then turned away and walked back towards the counter. It seemed right that his last night in the city was spent clearing up the mess of other peoples’ Valentine’s Day whilst the rest of the world had fun. Hadn’t that pretty much been the story of his failed adventure in the metropolis?
He jumped at the sound of a sharp knock on the glass door. Someone rattled it, someone who was too late for coffee. Don’t I deserve an evening off too?
“We’re closed!” Billy called.
He saw a figure still there at the door and felt immediately guilty. A slightly shambolic figure. If it was a rough sleeper, Billy would give them the leftover cake. He took the bag from the counter but as he headed to the door, he realised that it was Charlie.
He didn’t have the dogs with him tonight, but carried something large and flat under one arm. With one more knock at the door Charlie turned away, about to be swallowed into that ceaseless tide of Londoners that coursed along the pavement.
Billy nearly snapped the lock off in his haste to open the door. He hoped Charlie would hear him over the noise of the street.
“Charlie!”
For a moment Billy thought he hadn’t heard, then Charlie turned and beamed that smile that had always brightened Billy’s miserable mornings.
And this is the last time I’ll see it.
“Billy!” Charlie raised his gloved hand and began to make his way back towards the shop, gripping the brightly wrapped parcel precariously beneath his arm. It was a vivid red against his dark blue greatcoat, the same shade of red as the scarf he always wore, and the silver ribbon that ended in a flamboyant bow around the paper seemed brighter and more cheery still next to that sensible greatcoat. A light dusting of snowflakes rested on Charlie’s shoulders and in his hair but he didn’t seem to notice, nor was he troubled by the slushy mess that was already building on the pavement.
“I thought I’d missed you, today has been rather a nightmare. I’ve been running here, there and everywhere.” Posh Charlie, his accent as cut-glass as his clothes were creased. “And now I’m keeping you from going home!”
“Are you dashing off somewhere?” Billy asked. “I’ve got to get my train in a couple of hours from Waterloo, but…” Billy gazed at Charlie, trying to imprint every last facet of him into his mind. He’d thought he’d never see Charlie again, but luck had given him one last chance.
“Well, there’s an invite to see the brother and his brood at the weekend, but this particular chap’s rather hoping that the snow might save one from that fate,” he admitted mischievously. “What about you, off home to the promised land? Will you be back before the twenty-eighth? I’m having a bit of a do for Nigel and Delia’s birthday—there’ll be cake, of course—and I thought maybe… They’re not littermates but so much easier to have the one doggy party!”
Nigel and Delia. A birthday party for the wolfhounds is so you.
Snow was settling on Charlie’s hair as he spoke. It made him look even more festive, a Mr Tumnus in Chelsea. Billy wished he could say yes to his party. He wished he were coming back. A shiver went through him, and it wasn’t from the cold.
“Will you come in, Charlie, please?” Billy asked. “There’s something I didn’t tell you—I didn’t get the chance. And now you’re here… There’s cake if you’d like some?”
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About the Authors
Catherine Curzon
Catherine Curzon is a royal historian who writes on all matters of 18th century. Her work has been featured on many platforms and Catherine has also spoken at various venues including the Royal Pavilion, Brighton, and Dr Johnson’s House.
Catherine holds a Master’s degree in Film and when not dodging the furies of the guillotine, writes fiction set deep in the underbelly of Georgian London.
She lives in Yorkshire atop a ludicrously steep hill.
Eleanor Harkstead
Eleanor Harkstead often dashes about in nineteenth-century costume, in bonnet or cravat as the mood takes her. She can occasionally be found wandering old graveyards, and is especially fond of the ones in Edinburgh. Eleanor is very fond of chocolate, wine, tweed waistcoats and nice pens. She has a large collection of vintage hats, and once played guitar in a band. Originally from the south-east, Eleanor now lives somewhere in the Midlands with a large ginger cat who resembles a Viking.
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Catherine and Eleanor love to hear from readers. You can find their contact information, website and author biographies at https://www.pride-publishing.com.