chapter nine (part one)

Chap 9 Pt 1 (IS LOST TO ALL CONVENTION...)

“May I ask who it is that is calling?” Berry asked, standing at the door and looking at Artie’s mud-splattered boots. “You have a card, I’m assuming?”

“Artemis Spencer. From Kent,” he added, pulling a small card out of his back pocket. It had a fold, and Artie tried to straighten it before handing it over.

Berry looked at the card, and then looked at Artie.

“From Kent? Is that how you would like me to present you to his Lordship? With this card?” He looked down at it briefly. “Artemis Spencer, from Kent?”

“Tell him I’m the youngest son of Barlow Spencer,” Artie smiled. “That should be good enough.”

“Good enough?” Berry said, hesitant to allow him through the door, but at the same time, reluctant to refuse him. He decidedly stepped to the side. “If you’d be kind enough to wait in the East Library.”

“The East Library? You have geographic allocations for your rooms?” Artie laughed as he stepped through the door.

“It makes life easier,” Berry replied.

“I’m sure it does.”

The entrance way was more than impressive. The ceiling was domed, carved, and ornately painted in Classical, frescoed relief, the colours vibrant and alive with cherubs and clouds where stained glass inserts splashed against the walls with prisms of light. There were large paintings everywhere, and fine Renaissance statues set up on spindled plinths, as well as large, free-standing vases placed in open corners. Two wide, winding staircases bisected the room and there was a large balcony above where the two sets of stairs met. The wooden rails of the bannisters were both at least a foot wide, the balusters ornately carved and stained almost black. A large chandelier hung from the ceiling, the chain holding it as thick as a man’s arm Artie noticed, and he was glad to see it had already been changed from candle power to electricity. The floor, that which was visible under the massive red and black carpeting, was parquet, with the wood reflecting the light coming in through the stained glass windows above.

“Ah, the butler returns,” Artie said with a smile.

“His Lordship has kindly invited you to join the family for lunch.”

“And I would gladly accept, except that I am not properly dressed for the occasion,” Artie said with a shrug.

“His Lordship anticipated that you might readily decline the offer, and has asked me to valet for you.”

“Is that really necessary?” Artie asked. “I merely stopped by as a courtesy.”

“Apparently your father and his Lordship attended Oxford together?”

“It may have been. Either that, or Cambridge—who really pays attention to these things when their parents talk?” he added.

“Well, it was Oxford. Did you not attend as well? I had rather thought you would have?”

“I did, but decided to volunteer once I found out what they had planned for me.”

“They made plans?”

“What else do you do with the youngest son? I doubt if I’m what you would consider Church of England worthy. Can you see me as a Vicar? Neither can I,” he smiled.

“This way, if you don’t mind,” Berry said, leading the way up the long winding staircase.

Artie ran his hand along the bannister.

“So tell me, have you been here long?”

“I’ve been with the family for thirty-five years.”

“Anybody ever fall over the side?” he asked, leaning over the rail and looking at the floor below. Not a long drop, but it might hurt, he told himself.

“I don’t see how they could,” Berry replied.

“No?” Artie laughed. “We had five boys and a girl. I can’t even count how many broken bones Nurse had to set, or stitches—God I hate stitches.”

“You have stitches then?”

“And the scars to prove it.”

“This way, please,” Berry said, turning left.

Artie followed.

“I hear his Lordship have daughters?” Artie smiled. Berry turned to look at him.

“And where did you hear that?”

“My mother, of course.”

Berry allowed himself a brief smile. “Three. All married, I’m happy to announce.”

“Happy, are you? Not as happy as myself when I tell my mother,” Artie laughed. “I assume they’ll all be present for lunch?”

“I expect they will, except perhaps Mr. Ashcroft.”

“And which one’s he married to?”

“The youngest daughter, Jennifer. He was attacked last night.”

“Attacked? By whom?”

“No one knows. There was a thief last night.”

“Last night?”

“Mr. Ashcroft stumbled upon him. Apparently the man was ruthless and beat him severely with a weapon.”

“A weapon? What sort of a weapon? And where was Mrs. Ashcroft?”

“Witnessed the whole thing, I’m afraid.”

“And the man never touched her? She must have a description, then? A gentleman thief?”

“She said the man was masked. This way,” Berry said, and opened the door to a large room that once served as a gentleman’s chambers.

*

Lunch was a sumptuous affair served in a gazebo overlooking the gardens; the only access to it was an outdoor staircase forty feet wide. Artie counted thirty steps before losing count. The gazebo was built on a landing above the garden, its base a wall of solid brickwork stained green with lichen, moss and time. Artie looked at the endless passage of walkways—their red and white brickwork meandering through the garden—where decorative benches and delicately made arbours were hidden in tight recesses. Two streams of water tumbled down two troughs of broken stones—with the water catching the afternoon sun in a cascade of colours. Willow trees wept in the distant hills, their tentacled branches dancing in a light breeze and scratching at the sky—but the sky was a clear blue, what few clouds there were earlier, blown out to sea long ago.

The Pavilion—Lord Aylesbury refused to call it a gazebo—was sealed closed against the weather. Eight etched glass panels catching the afternoon sun reflected and refracted the light, creating a palette of colours washing across the weave of a gold brocade tablecloth. It was on a table made to sit fourteen. Huge bouquets of flowers in several vases decorated the server, where tureens, extra plates, silverware, and crystalware were dancing in the light. Three footmen served the lunch, with three kitchen maids bringing each successive dish out from the kitchen.

Artie arrived dressed in a double-breasted suit of blue linen with white shadow stripes—there was nothing subtle about it, he told Berry who was busy brushing the jacket for him. The pants were an easy fit, right down to the cuffed ankles and the brown and tan two-tone shoes. His hair was oiled and combed, and he was clean shaven. When he first looked at himself in the standing mirror, he smiled. As much as he thought Berry may have made a mistake with the custom cut and colour, he was pleased with the look; all the same, refusing to wear the boater Berry suggested.

“I’m not good with hats,” was all he said.

Baron Geurnsy, 2nd Earl of Aylesbury, was a large, rather portly man, barrel-shaped, dressed in a brown, three piece suit, the waistcoat fitting snug against the wide expanse of his belly. He had a fringe of grey hair, not unlike a monk’s, and dazzling blue eyes dancing under heavy brows that were still dark—a nostalgic holdover of his fading youth he liked to say. He stood up the moment Artie was announced, extending a large hand and smiling generously as he invited Artie to sit.

“I’d heard Mr. Berry was sent up to valet for you—glad to see you found something for him, Berry,” he smiled, looking uncomfortable, and Berry bowed as he accepted the compliment. “Right! Capital, I must say! Right girls?” he added, looking at his two daughters, and daughter-in-law before sitting.

“I heard you brought Jenny’s horse back?” Gerald said, standing and extending his hand. “My wife, Daphne,” he added, just before he sat down.

“Artie,” he said softly. “And yes,” Artie smiled, looking at Margaret still sitting as Simon rose to extend his hand. “I did.”

“Brilliant, simply brilliant,” Simon laughed as he took his seat.

“Oh? Why is that?” Artie asked.

“Please, sit down, Mr. Spencer. Sit,” the Baron laughed, pointing at a chair to his left. “No, no, not there—here—between the girls,” he laughed. “Roger’s not likely to be down, and Aggie’s all alone anyway, desperately in need of an escort, aren’t you, dear?”

“I would not say ‘desperate’, Poppa,” she smiled.

“Just lonely,” Gerald laughed.

“Oh, Gerald, please,” Daphne said, trying to sound disappointed but only succeeding in making herself sound pretentious.

“She hasn’t been with a man in what—eight years? Believe me, she’s lonely,” Gerald said with another laugh. “Him wearing Andy’s clothes better than Andy ever did, won’t help either.”

The Baron was seated at one end of the table, the Baroness at the other; there was an awkward moment of silence before each dish was presented to Baroness as if for her personal inspection before being served.

“I heard your husband was attacked last night?” Artie added, looking at Jenny.

“A right bounder, the man was,” Baron Geurnsy said, talking around a forkful of salad.

“Any idea as to who he was?” Artie asked, leaning and letting the footman serve him salad.

“The local Constabulary are on the case, but to be quite honest, I have little regard for their ability to even solve a child’s crossword puzzle,” the Baron laughed. “Have you seen the latest in Pearson’s? Capitol!” he laughed. “Genius!”

“Oh, Poppa, no one wants to hear you going on about those silly word games you play,” Margaret said from across the table.

“On the contrary,” Artie smiled. “My mother wrote to me lately saying how it was the latest rage in the countryside.”

“There! You see? I shall have to purchase a collection straight away,” the Baron laughed, sitting back and letting the footman take his half-eaten salad away.

“And the Constable?” Artie asked. “Why is it you have no confidence in him?”

Gerald laughed. “They sent him help from Okehampton. He was here last night on his own, but I suppose they felt they had to send him help. So they sent a woman!”

“A distraction, you mean,” Simon was quick to say.

“Yes. They were here when I brought the horse—I’m sorry, what’s the horse’s name?” Artie asked, turning to look at Jenny again, a smile playing across his soft lips.

“Isobelle,” she said, looking down at her plate. She had yet to make eye contact.

“Isobelle,” Artie said, turning to look at Simon and Gerald.

“I met her—well, both of them, actually—although I’d fancy being interviewed by her, rather than him. Is that a personal recommendation—or maybe a fantasy? I don’t know. But I take it, by what the both of you say, that you feel women are not suited for that sort of work? Or that they should not be allowed to take part in that sort of work?”

“Do you think they should?” Gerald countered.

“My mother would certainly qualify,” Artie laughed. “With five of us boys, she was always able to sort out who took what from whom. She has a sharp mind—”

“No doubt made sharper with those crossword puzzles you say she enjoys,” the Baron laughed.

“No doubt,” Artie smiled as a footman brought a tray of salmon mousse canapés around, followed by shrimp salad served in romaine hearts. “What I mean is this, just because a woman’s attractive, does not mean she cannot be intelligent. I’m willing to admit she’s quite stunning—”

“Is she?” Margaret asked, trying to sound impartial.

“Not as stunning as the present company, I admit,” Artie laughed, “but stunning none-the-less,” he added with a smile, slowly reaching his hand down and touching Jenny’s thigh. He could feel her stiffen in shock as she took a deep breath—startled by his brazen touch—and tried to continue with her lunch as though there was nothing wrong.

He slowly pulled at the dress she was wearing, bunching it up over her thigh.

She looked at him briefly and closed her legs tight.

Artie looked at her and smiled, squeezing her thigh and forcing her legs apart.

“And do you really feel this woman will be any help to the Constable, at all?” Simon said with a note of exasperation it was impossible to miss.

“I do not see what her being a woman has to do with it,” Agatha said gently.

“Oh, please, Aggie,” Simon laughed. “Really? A woman is not meant to do the same things a man can do.”

“I disagree,” Artie smiled, turning to look at Simon. He was pulling at Jenny’s leg, running his hand up the inside of her thigh.

“You disagree?” Gerald smiled.

“What of Madame Curie? A woman of science. Virginia Wolfe? A woman of letters. What of music, and art? Woman account for a great deal in the world, and to dismiss them out of hand, I feel, is a mistake. Underestimating their abilities, or refusing to acknowledge their contributions, are also mistakes men will undoubtedly regret.”

“One would almost think you were an avid supporter of the Suffragettes,” Daphne added with a pleasant smile.

“And were you not?” Artie asked.

“What does a woman need the vote for?” she countered.

“You do not feel you should have a say in anything?”

“That’s what I like about her,” Gerald laughed.

“No doubt,” Artie smiled.

“I must say, I dislike the tone of your voice,” Gerald said, suddenly serious.

“Did you serve?” Artie asked, looking at him directly. He waited five seconds before he went on. “No. I didn’t think so. You can tell a man who was on the Front. There’s something in his eyes.”

“And you can see that looking at a man?” Aggie asked.

“I don’t know if other men can, but I can.”

“Neither one of them served,” she said. “Andrew did. He volunteered as soon as he could. He never came beck though, did he? Now, we lend his wardrobe out to those unexpected guests who get invited to lunch, or asked to stay for tea. And you’re right, Gerald, every time I see someone coming down those steps I give a little gasp of surprise. And why should I not? It’s like seeing a ghost, isn’t it?”

“I’m sorry,” Artie said, inclining his head.

He reached his hand up toward Jenny’s crotch, feeling the softness of the silk undergarment she had on, and began running a finger along the edges, feeling the involuntary shudders as a finger paused and gently prodded. She attempted to move her hand under the table but a footman moved beside her, bringing the next course. She was forced to move to her right and Artie politely moved as well, then they both moved to the left as the footman stepped between Artie and Agatha.

“Cozy?” he asked her, and then grinned.

He looked up at the Baron.

“I understand you have a Ball planned for the night?”

“We do,” the Baroness smiled. “I do hope you’ll make the effort to attend?”

“I hear this is the first of the season?”

“Yes, the Solstice Season we like to call it.”

“We don’t call it that, Mother,” Gerald said rather stiffly. “It’s been called that since they first started with it, whenever the hell that was.”

“There’s no need for that kind of crude language,” the Baroness quipped.

“Is that somebody—? Is that those two Constables?” Simon asked, squinting his eyes.

Berry turned his head and immediately left.

“I think it is,” Gerald laughed. “I’d imagine old Berry is having a fit with them.”