Mr. American

by George MacDonald Fraser

  They were a cheerful group round the fire, while the storm thickened outside. At Peggy's request, Arthur now pulled back one of the curtains she had drawn, and they watched the flakes drifting against the windows, climbing up the panes from the corners of the frames.

  'It's going to be a white Christmas,' said Arthur. 'We don't get that many of them - four that I can remember. I know it's four, because Peg and I always used to build a snowman, and I know we've only ever had four snowmen on Christmas Day. Jolly good snowmen, with coal eyes and carrot noses and that old top hat - wonder what ever became of that topper?'

  'Did you have white Christmases, Mark?' Peggy wondered, and he laughed.

  'Never had anything else - not on the North Plains, anyway. White October clear through to March, usually, and several feet deep, at that. I remember trying to make a snowman, once, but the snow wouldn't stick. Too cold, I guess. Your English snow is probably more civilised.'

  `Well, this year you'll make your first snowman,' said Peggy. `You'll spend Christmas with us, won't you?' And in the face of that invitation, with Arthur seconding and Sir Charles murmuring agreeably, Mr Franklin could hardly decline.

  He stayed for dinner, and they played solo whist afterwards, until it was time for him to leave. But by then the snow was so thick, and the drifts even on the drive so deep, that it was obviously out of the question for him to attempt the few miles back to Castle Lancing in his gig. So a spare room was prepared - not in what Arthur called the savage west wing, but in the main part of the house. Sir Charles turned in early, and Arthur tactfully went to play snooker against himself; Mr Franklin and Peggy sat and talked quietly before the fire, sitting on the rug with their backs to the sofa, kissing and petting gently at first, and then kissing more lingeringly, her body pressed against his, his hands caressing her breasts through the smooth velvet. They heard Arthur's whistling in the hall, and drew apart; he came in loudly, challenging Mr Franklin to fifty up before bed, and Peggy bade them good-night and went upstairs, Mr Franklin inwardly cursing the importunate Arthur as his eyes followed the graceful, blue-sheathed figure on the staircase. But when the game was over, and he had gone upstairs, undressed, made his way to the bathroom in his borrowed dressing-gown, and returned, he found the door of his room open and Peggy adjusting the curtains.

  'Just seeing it was all snug and cosy,' she said, and turned to face him. She was wearing a Japanese gown of gold silk; her hair was still up, framing the perfect face, and he felt he had never seen anything so beautiful or desirable in his life. She was smiling at him, gently, and there was no trace of that little curl on the full lips; with a sudden electric thrill he realised that there was no white lace or frill showing at the collar or cuff or ankle of the clinging gown; no sign of a nightdress, in fact He closed the door and turned to look at her for a long moment.

  'Hello, Mark,' she said softly.

  'Hello, Peggy.'

  He came to her, and she to him, and they kissed very long and deep; he slipped his hands within the robe and felt the soft smoothness of her body for the first time, and she gave a little laugh of sheer pleasure as he drew her on to the bed. They made love with a slow, intense enjoyment that surprised them both, and afterwards lay in each other's arms, blissfully content, murmuring the usual nonsense which is more clearly intelligible to the initiated than any proposition of logic. He talked of her beauty, and she of his strength, which is as it ought to be; they also announced their infatuation with each other, at not more than fifteen-second intervals, and finally Mr Franklin looked down at her, at the incredible loveliness of the angel face and even more angelic body, and fondled it gently until her eyes narrowed and her lips parted, and in the headiness of the moment it seemed inevitable that he should say:

  'You know, we could go on doing this for the rest of our lives.'

  He knew what he was saying, although he said it recklessly; he knew it was reckless, and all the better for that; he was as happy then as he had ever been in thirty-five years, and he wanted nothing more than that the happiness should continue. And apparently Peggy was of the same mind, for all she said was:

  `Let's.'

  `You know what I'm saying? What we're saying?'

  'Mm-mh.'

  There was a long, but by no means tranquil interval, and when it had passed Mr Franklin lay with her head pillowed on his chest and his hand stroking the silky nakedness of her back and inquired of the ceiling: 'D'you think your father will approve?' He received no answer; she was fast asleep. Which told him, when he came to think of it, that his question was irrelevant.

  However, Sir Charles did approve, when Mr Franklin raised the matter with him the following morning; indeed, he appeared delighted, and that even before a radiant Peggy was summoned to reassure her father that it was exactly what she had always wanted, and to prove the point by embracing Mr Franklin with an ardour that caused the baronet to turn tactfully away in search of the bell-pull. For there had to be a bottle from the best bin, and Arthur, grinning from ear to ear, had to thump Mr Franklin on the back and state his opinion that this was the best news since Cambridge last won the Boat Race. 'I knew it was going to happen the moment I saw him standing in the lane with the fox in his basket, gaping (he was gaping, not the fox) at Peg as though she was Helen of Troy, and she was all a-quiver, like jelly in a high wind. Oh, well, that's another cut-glass decanter up the spout - unless you'd prefer a fish-slice.'

  There was considerable gaiety, and drinking and spilling of champagne, and presently Arthur went to fetch the servants and more bottles, and a positively Pickwickian scene was enacted in the drawing-room, with the maids bobbing in their aprons, and the butler and footman grinning, and Sir Charles proposing the health of what, with rare felicity, he described as the happy couple, Mark Franklin and my daughter Peggy. At which the housekeeper burst into tears, and had to be helped to a chair, and the butler said a few words, couched in terms of unctuous servility, and wishing all happiness and success to our dear young mistress and her intended; it would possibly have been enough to turn Mr Franklin immediately from the prospect of marriage if Peggy had not been beside him looking good enough to eat with a spoon. He managed a few words of reply, which the servants applauded enthusiastically, in the hope of refills, and after these had been poured and disposed of, the loyal retainers trooped off, full of this great sensation, and Sir Charles smiled and nodded and expressed his delight yet again, and Arthur clapped Mr Franklin on the shoulder once more, and Peggy squeezed his hand tight, and Mr Franklin wondered precisely what he had done, and sought reassurance in another glance at the chocolate-box beauty beside him and the feel of her soft young body as he slipped his hand about her waist.

  'And when,' said Sir Charles, 'do you propose to get married?' Peggy said, soon, don't we, Mark, to which Mr Franklin could think of no more appropriate rejoinder than an enthusiastic affirmative. Sir Charles said he wasn't certain what the preliminary formalities were, but quite apart from the business of banns, which the vicar would know all about - unless Peggy wanted a Town wedding? Peggy said of course there would have to be a Town wedding, she didn't want to get married in the depths of the country; all her school friends would expect it to be in London, and Mark would like that anyway, wouldn't you, Mark? But that, said Sir Charles, was looking some way ahead; in the meantime there would have to be an announcement in The Times and the other newspapers, that sort of thing; Arthur said that was all right, but the important thing was to see that Peggy's picture got onto the main inside page of the Sphere - that would spread the news like nothing else, and give the event the prominence it deserved, and the Sphere would jump at the chance, because they loved to get good-lookers into the paper, and although he hated to admit it, his sister was a bit of a peach. He would fix it, and see that the Sphere and Illustrated London News and the society rags got in a mention of the King's recent visit to Oxton, and Mr Franklin's sojourn at Sandringham, and all that rot ...

  It was slightly breathtaking, and Mr Franklin was
glad to slip away presently with Peggy, for more embraces and quiet conversation; like most men in his position, he had no desire to think beyond the next few minutes, or to contemplate anything except a pair of eyes, and a nose, and a mouth whose arrangement exercised a fascination which sent odd little shivers up his spine.

  That there was another side to the affair did not cross his mind until later that afternoon, when he had torn himself away - with a promise to return for dinner - and driven back through the sunlit snow to Castle Lancing. Once he was alone, he could give serious thought to what he had done; he even pulled up once on the road and asked himself if he was absolutely certain he loved Peggy? After all, he had known her only a matter of weeks; he was in a new country, and many strange things had happened to him in a short time - was he still sane and balanced and sure of his own mind, he who at thirty-five had never been seriously involved with any woman before? Did he really want to spend the rest of his life with Peggy? - what, for that matter, was the rest of his life going to be?

  He had no idea - all he knew was that at the moment, he did not want to spend the rest of his life without her. And he could hardly say fairer than that. Besides, he had offered; he couldn't draw back now, even if he'd wanted to, and he could search his soul and tell himself that he didn't. For one thing, he had seen the look in her eyes, and if she didn't love him then he knew nothing - and to have someone love you, that was a remarkable achievement, and you could count yourself lucky.

  And there was something fateful about it, perhaps; those vague thoughts about England, land of his fathers, all his life, and the decision, taken he didn't quite know how, to come and see it, and the feeling of inevitability, with his first view of Castle Lancing, and the house, and the old churchyard, and Thornhill crouching beside him peering at the tombs - that this was home, his place, his people, his land. And now an English girl, from the same pasture and the same stock - their sons would be Englishmen, and their daughters Englishwomen, and that was a strange thought, too. He tried to imagine those people leaving Castle Lancing more than two and a half centuries ago - a dusty road, and perhaps a horse and wagon with their things piled on top; a man in his rough smock and steeple hat, a woman in her long drab skirt and mutch cap, perhaps a child or two, taking the Thetford road, and looking back through the summer haze to the little wooded village that they would never see again. Or perhaps it had been winter, and they had seen it as he saw it now, deep in brilliant white, with the snow heavy on the bare branches and hedges, and the sun like a disc of blood in the pale sky. And beyond those figures, others, in coarse linsey or buckskin, powerful bearded men and worn, strong women, wrinkling up their eyes and looking west, cutting their timber, ploughing their land, rolling their wagons into the endless distance, surviving revolution and civil war and Indian raid and blizzard and storm and drought, just so that one of them could turn homeward again and close the circle - until others would open it again, some day, and the story would continue into other unforeseen chapters. English sons and English daughters - what did he know? What an irony if they should do what he had done, and go back to their father's country? He'd be glad - just as those two dusty figures of his imagination, Matthew and Jezebel Franklin, turning for a last look back in the year 1642, would surely rejoice if they could see him now, home again in Castle Lancing, and know that their journey had not been in vain.

  Mr Franklin shook the reins and drove on. If he was thinking this way, imagining a future out of a dream of the past, he must be in love with Peggy, since she was an essential, vital part of that future. And he only had to think of her, smiling at him, with those lips slightly parted and that light in her eye, to feel a pleasurable tingling, and a desire to turn back as quickly as might to Oxton and see her again.

  In the meantime, there was Lancing Manor, and Samson being told the news, standing impassive for a moment, and then his face breaking into a glad smile.

  'May I congratulate you, sir, and wish you very happy - you and Miss Clayton both? A charming young lady, sir, if I may say so.'

  'You may indeed, Thomas - in fact, you can go round the house saying it as often as you like, and I won't contradict you. I think she's kind of charming myself. Phew!' Mr Franklin stood in the hall and grinned hugely at his servant. 'It's been quite a day - quite a day! And I'm going back to Oxton this evening - but you can pack our bags for a few days in London, because never mind getting married - it seems that just getting engaged entails all sorts of coming and going - I've a ring to buy, for one thing - 'Mr Franklin was calling over his shoulder as he strode upstairs ' - I guess I ought to have had one in advance, but the truth is I didn't realise. . . .' He stopped short of admitting that twenty-four hours ago he had had no idea of getting married - well, it had crossed his mind vaguely, he supposed, a few times over the past couple of months, but nothing definite. `Anyway, Miss Clayton's going up to Town to stay with her aunt for a few days - things to arrange, photograph to be taken for some paper or other, apparently, people to see - you know. We'll stay at a hotel - we'll see which one when we get there.'

  'I shall send a boy from the village into Thetford with a telegram, sir. Probably you would prefer to stay at Claridge's.'

  'Would I? What's wrong with the Waldorf?'

  'Claridge's, I think, sir, unless you have a preference for the Ritz. May I ask where Miss Clayton's aunt resides?'

  `Hold on - Dover Street, was it? I think so - '

  `Then Claridge's would be more convenient, sir.'

  'Whatever you say - you're the authority. ..' Mr Franklin checked on a sudden thought and came out on to the landing. Samson had just arrived at the head of the stairs.

  'That's a point,' said Mr Franklin, frowning. 'Look, Thomas - this won't make any difference to you, will it? It's just occurred to me - you don't have any objection to staying on with me, after I'm married, do you?'

  `None in the least, sir. I shall be most happy to continue in your service, if you and Miss Clayton wish it.'

  It was the gentlest of reminders that Mr Franklin's decisions would no longer be entirely his own; he digested it quickly.

  'You needn't have any doubts about that. I'm going to need you more than ever, I should think.' He paused as another thought struck him. `Come to that - well, I suppose we'll have to take on other staff, won't we? I don't know what kind of an establishment - well, what do married couples usually have?'

  Samson paused before replying. 'That depends, sir, entirely on their own wishes and convenience.' He might have added that it also depended on their means, but left Mr Franklin to draw that conclusion for himself. 'I imagine Miss Clayton, apart from her own maid, will wish to engage the usual servants - a cook, of course, housemaid and parlour maid. But it depends on the size of the establishment - of the house, and whether it is in town or country.'

  `Holy smoke!' said Mr Franklin. `That's three maids, a cook, and you. That's five.' Automatically he glanced round the landing. 'There isn't room. Is there? We've got four bedrooms - and the servants' quarters, but they're only big enough for two. ..'

  His voice trailed off as it dawned on him that in the euphoria of the morning, to say nothing of the previous night, he had given no thought to the immediate practical considerations of marriage. It had all happened so quickly - in fact, it had happened at one hell of a lick. He'd had no time . . . he had a sudden, irrelevant recollection of looking down at Peggy, smiling drowsily and provocatively up at him, her smooth nakedness joined to his own - it hadn't crossed his mind at that particular moment that an inevitable consequence was going to be a domestic reorganisation on a large scale. Where they'd live hadn't even occurred to him - and in that moment he knew that he wasn't going to give up Lancing Manor. Whether they lived there or not, he was going to keep it. Money wasn't a problem, thank God. But it wasn't big enough, that was certain, for the kind of household that Samson was talking about - and a girl in Peggy's station couldn't be expected to do with less. Would she want them to live at Oxton Hall? - no, that was out o
f the question. It would have to be his house, -wherever it was ... He realised that he was looking at Samson with what must resemble consternation in his eyes, and Samson, as usual, was about five jumps ahead.

  'I don't know exactly what the arrangements will be, yet,' said Mr Franklin. 'It's quite possible that we'll take another house in the neighbourhood. But I'll certainly be keeping this place.'

  'I'm very pleased to hear that, sir. I feel that this house suits you very well, if I may say so.'

  'Yes,' said Mr Franklin. 'I like it, too.' Another thought was occurring, and he wasn't sure that he liked it. He aired it in a roundabout way which did not deceive Samson for a moment. 'You wouldn't object to living in London, if we decided to set up house there?' That's damned silly, he thought immediately; it sounds as though where we live depends on what he wants. 'We haven't settled anything in that way, Miss Clayton and I ... oh, what the hell, Thomas, I haven't the foggiest idea!' Mr Franklin burst out laughing. 'All I know is I've proposed to Miss Clayton, and she's said yes, and I don't know whether we're going to live in Norfolk or Nevada!'

  Samson was smiling back. 'Nevada would suit me very well, sir, I dare say,' he said, 'but I think I should prefer Norfolk, on the whole.'