Twelve Gnomes and a Budgerigar
By
L. Savage
SMASHWORDS EDITION
*****
Published
by:
L. Savage on Smashwords
Twelve Gnomes and a Budgerigar
Copyright © 2011 by L. Savage
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Twelve Gnomes and a Budgerigar
For the mater, as usual
Chapter One
In the small village of Little Pearshire there lay and still, to this day, lay two stately homes. It would seem, for one village, one grand stately home is enough but Little Pearshire had decided not only to have Bramton Hall but, down the hill and in clear sight, Millford Lodge.
The village had outdone itself in as many ways that a village can outdo itself in a personifying way.
Of course, the reason for the construction of these two wealthy homes near each other has nothing to do with our story. In fact, it dates almost two hundred years before – straight into the early eighteenth century while we sit comfortably in 1935.
But I’ll tell you the story of it, anyway, as it is of some interest.
There were once two feuding families – a wonderful and overused cliché – who had been at war with each other since the invention of the wheel.
What had originally spawned the war, no one can quite agree on, though it is believed it involved a piece of string and a small swatch of cowhide.
By the 1700s, it was decided that their feud would turn to land – as feuds properly should – and, thus, both families did everything in their power to buy as much as they could to have more than the other and then be able proclaim themselves the ‘better situated.’ But, by the powers that be, both families had decided to start their purchasing in what is now Little Pearshire and bought and bought until each had a fair share of land that sat right beside the other – a situation that had been completely unplanned, yet rather funny to the casual observer.
The families I speak of, if you have not been bright enough to guess, are indeed the ancestors of the Bramtons and the Millfords – their present surnames remaining unchanged. They were the two leading families of biscuit production in England – furious rivals in the world of eighteenth century teatime.
Now, your dear author knows as much about marketing land in the 1700s as a snail knows about walking and therefore cannot comment exactly on how these transactions passed as smoothly as they did without either party knowing the other party’s actions.
All that can be said for sure is that it did happen. Or, at least, it is the story that is told and the one everyone believes.
What can be spoken of without realty loopholes is the reaction of the families to the revelation that they had not only purchased the same amount of land, but that the pieces of land were directly beside one another.
The revelation came when the heads of each family commissioned a fence surrounding their property to be built. Those working for the Millfords and those working for the Bramtons slowly constructed their fences on opposing sides of their respective estates until the two groups met – their fences, if they had been finished, were so exact to each other that they could have been connected.
The work, of course, was quickly called off and the head of each family marched angrily in their high boots through the Pearshire mud to the parting in the fences.
Ready for a fight, both patriarchs spoke in shouts, though there was little to argue about. All land had been bought fairly and the fence lay precisely on the dividing line of their estates – all of this, of course, was shouted over the three and a half hours the men stood working this out in the rain.
They finally parted ways when it began to thunder and died of pneumonia a month later – give or take a day each – from having stood in the cold for so long.
Thankfully, both also left sons – a vital necessity of that period.
Within several years of their deaths, construction of both Bramton Hall and Millford Lodge went underway – overseen by the eldest sons, each of whom now held a grudge against the other for they believed the reason for their fathers’ illness was the relentlessness of the one father who made the other father stand for so long in the rain shouting.
I have often found that part of the story to be rather childish, personally.
And, what was even more childish, were the designs of these two homes.
Less than a mile apart, both homes were in plain sight of the other. Bramton Hall took advantage of the hill on the property and built atop that while Millford Lodge hid itself in the vast gloves of trees that surrounded it. Thus, the Bramtons could easily look down upon the Millfords while the Millfords could stay hidden in their trees and stand on the roof with an expensive telescope that remains at the house to this day and watch the Bramtons.
To think of it, it was like a very large game of cat and mouse that neither team played very well at all. The most ever reported was the planting of the first rose bush on the Millford estate.
By the time that generation had died, the families were beginning to see the errors in their ways and became friendly with each other – which I am sure the reader does not want to hear. There is nothing better than a story about two feuding families and the nonsense (depending on who you are reading, of course) created as seen by their very origins.
What I mean by ‘friendly’ is merely cordial. You would not find Bramton marrying a Millford nor a Millford marrying a Bramton but you can bet they played skittles on the lawn and invited each other to dinners and balls when they were held.
This cordiality lasted through the nineteenth century and into the twentieth. The families no longer were biscuit proprietors – their fortunes having been made long ago and work now completely unneeded – nor did they own as much of Pearshire as they once did, though their land tally remained precisely the same for historical purposes.
The only tiff that remained dated back to the unfinished fence. The small strip of land that stood between the ends of the now dilapidated fences could not be called the Bramtons’ nor could it be called the Millfords’.
At two meters long and hardly half of a single meter wide, it was still cause for controversy.
It was and still is creatively called ‘the strip.’
Then again, I suppose it was not so much ‘controversy,’ in truth, but more of a ‘reminder’ to the states of their families. They had to have a little battle going on to preserve their heritage, even if they were friendly with each other. It was a pastime that continued into the 1930s where our story does, in fact begin as I have previously mentioned.
“I say: he that can hold his breath the longest claims the strip for a fortnight. Agreed, Lord Bramton?”
“Agreed, Sir Millford.”
“On my count?”
“On your count.”
“On three then. One … two – wait, how shall I know you’re not cheating? You could very well breath through your nose.”
“I could say the same of you. Then we would be standing here all day seemingly defying science.”
“We shall pinch our noses then.”
“Right-o.”
“On my count, Lord Bramton.”
“On your count, Sir Millford.”
“One … two … and –“
Sir Millford and Lord Bramton both took a heaving breath in, shut their bloated mouths and pinched their noses as they stood on their respective sides of space in the fence.
And it was a tradition.
Every fortnight the two men would meet on a Sunday afternoon and think of a new way to decide who would have the most land until the next challenge. When they were younger – in their forties, that is – they would do far more athletic feats having their valets judge the winner or declare a ‘redo’ when the outcome was unclear. Now that the men had been doing this for over twenty years, though, the challenges became less athletic and the valets unneeded for judging.
Sometimes they played cards. Other times they stared at each other until one of them broke eye contact and laughed. Holding their breath was actually one of the more physical challenges they had set up to date.
And for the next fortnight, the strip would be Lord Bramton’s.
Sir Millford’s stamina gave out and he began to hack up phlegm after letting out his breath through pursed lips creating a sound similar to that of a tea kettle sounding off.
Seeing the two holding their breaths, it was clear Lord Bramton would win no matter what for, unlike Sir Millford, Lord Bramton was fit and toned in his old age. He was stocky and built – even his grey mustache had a muscle in it for its ends curled up too well for mere wax to hold it in place. Sir Millford was hunched a bit and lean – almost gaunt. Facial hair dared not grow and the wisps of longish silver he had on his head stayed safely under his tweedy cap.
“All right there, Millford? Overexert yourself a bit?” Bramton asked now standing on the strip.
Millford spit out a yellowish wad and pulled himself upright. “No, you bloody twat. I believe I may have a cold.”
“Then why did you suggest we hold our breaths?”
“I refuse to accept I do, in fact, have a cold.”
“Ah.”
“If I accepted it, Millicent would send for the doctor and I won’t have that. Yellow phlegm is the healthy phlegm, correct?”
“I shouldn’t know. How long has it been yellow?”
Millford went into his vest pocket and removed a small memorandum book. Out of another pocket he took out his spectacles and perched them on his long thin nose. With a lanky finger he searched through the little book of scribbles, tapping it when he found what he was looking for.
“Yellow phlegm first made its appearance three nights ago when I was placing a book on the birds of Pearshire back on the shelf in my study. Before that, I was not congested. My notes would say.”
“Well, you’re not dead yet. I suppose it’s healthy. I would watch for it to change color, though, and then admit to your sister you have a chill.”
“Mm, perhaps.” Millford replaced all of the items and kicked a bit of dirt over the offending lump. “Green, maybe.”
“My Penelope heard from Millicent that your eldest daughter is coming home for a visit?”
“Not a visit, no. She plans to stay for some time. That’s not what I’d define as a visit.”
“No. But, I don’t quite blame her,” Bramton crossed onto Millford’s land and sat on a fallen tree that served very well as a bench for the two men. Millford, though, remained standing. “Her husband did kill six prostitutes in London and, knowing women, the gossip must have been unbearable.”
“I never liked him.”
“I don’t believe any of us did. I mean, those at Bramton Hall. Can’t say for Millford Lodge. I remember, faintly, Millicent being fond of him.”
“Oh yes, my sister was. She’s always been a startlingly good judge of character. But that was solely because he was eyeing a space at Parliament when he met my Margery. Everyone had high hopes for him. Of course, that never happened and he spent the last few years of their marriage boozing and gambling at clubs.”
“Isn’t that what most boys do now, though?”
“I don’t know. I haven’t been to London quite some time and I haven’t any sons,” said Millford with a shrug. “You’ve two. Well, three if you count your nephew’s boy.”
“Oh, don’t bring up my lot! I’ve enough trouble thinking about them as I do talking about them – the daughter included. They’re driving me to an early grave.”
“Luckily your fit as a fiddle. And you own several lovely automobiles so the ride there won’t be terrible.”
“Joking aside, Millford, you realize I haven’t a grandson by either of those boys. Much less a wedding.”
“Yes – but that’s hardly precarious to your name. And they’re not old and gouty yet. I’ve two daughters – that’s it. The Millford line dies with them.”
“That’s a depressing thought.”
“Yes, well … it isn’t really a big to do as it once was – having sons and all, is it? I mean, the land will go to Margery … Millfords will still own it. Just a different surname.”
“Don’t put yourself in the grave, yet. Besides – you’re a widower. Marry a girl young enough and the Millford name might not be lost.”
“I have no sights on marriage. Millicent wouldn’t allow me to, anyway.”
“Why not?”
“Millford Lodge is her domain. Brining a new lady into the house would be off-putting and you know how Millicent is when she’s put-off.”
“Lord, yes.”
Millford began to hack again but did not grace the ground again with his phlegm.
“When does Margery arrive?’ asked Bramton, slipping a cigarette out of a thin case and putting it between this thin lips.
“Soon. Margot knows the exact date. Margery’s organizing business at the moment – closing the house in London and such. But she’s promised to be here by the end of the month. Oh, and she has pulled her daughter out of that boarding school she stuck her in, so your nephew will have a playmate.”
“Grand-nephew, if we’re being exact, Millford. And I suppose that’s pleasant, though.”
“Yes. Olive’s seven or so – not quite sure. How old is Willy’s boy?”
“Oh, twelve I believe. There’s a bit of a gap, but there are hardly any children in Pearshire. I’m sure it won’t matter.”
“No, children are adjustable creatures. It’s in their nature – constant molding going on until they’re twenty at least. Would you look at the time?” Millford had pulled out his pocket watch and flicked it open. “Best be off. Millicent is unpleasant when I’m late for dinner.”
“Right, then. Have a pleasant evening, Millford.”
“And yourself, Bramton. Pleasant trip to London. Give my regards to Penelope.”
With this the two men parted ways – or at least, Millford began to walk towards the Lodge and Bramton remained on the tree trunk, lighting his cigarette and deciding internally to sit there for a bit.
Bramton had in his mind figured out that by the middle of that century, not only the Millford line would be lost, but the Bramton’s line would, too, if nothing was done. That is, if nothing cared to happen. But Bramton was not a man for concocting solutions. Well, concocting well thought out solutions. His side of the family never claimed planning as their forte.
He merely waited most of the time for something to happen and approved or disapproved of it when it did.
Most of the time.
Bramton had already resigned himself to the fact he would die disapproving of the world for the most part and Millford would go the opposite, smiling calmly and being just as passive to his family’s fate.
Or, at least, that is what he told himself.
Most of the time.
Chapter Two
“Sir.”
“Sir.”
“Report.”
“Nothing to report, sir.”
It was raining in London. It had been raining for the first few minutes of daylight the city was experiencing though calling it daylight merely puts to use a synonymous term for morning. No sun could be seen – only its bright glow behind a smudge of gray clouds.
Two men stood in Hyde Park under two black umbrellas. One was aging and very thin and tall with gray curly hair under a smart bowler. Two was a similar height though younger and a bit bumpy near the tummy area with light brown hair brushed back under a cap to hide the fact he was balding.
But only a little.
“Nothing to report?” asked One with an air of complete dissatisfaction that lay in the fact he was standing in the rain and cold of early morning to merely hear the word ‘nothing.’
“Nothing, sir,” replied Two. “But, ah –“
“Yes?”
“She is thinking of going to her family’s estate in the country. Well, no, she’s quite set on it to be sure.”
“What?” One wanted to be sure he heard right. It was raining hard and it was thundering in the distance. Two could have said ‘she knew about the murders’ for all he hoped.
“Mrs. Spencer has decided to go to her father’s estate. She plans to remain there, her father’s – I mean, until she can find a suitable home for herself and her daughter that isn’t in London. She is thinking Bath, but –“
“Get to the point!” One demanded
“Sir, I really don’t think she has anything to do with the murders at all. I do believe she is completely innocent and me following her to her family home is very unnecessary. Plus, I don’t like lying to her. We’ve become very good friends and –” Two went on, but his words faded out.
But One, hearing only the first two sentences Two had spoken, would not have it. Oh no – they hung the woman’s husband for murder over a year ago now and the very sight of those swinging twitching feet made the detective all giddy for another cracked open case. There had to be more than just a well-to-do gent murdering six prostitutes – where was the fun if it was as straight-forward as that?
“The wife had to know something,” said One. “My Marianne can tell when I’m lying and when I’m not – when I’ve been to the pub and when I’ve lost my shirt. It’s all in the demeanor, Chuckie Boy, all in the demeanor.”
“Of course, sir. I wouldn’t know, sir, being a bachelor all forty-so years of my life but, I was in the house when Mr. Spencer was still alive and –“
“Yes?”
“Mrs. Spencer seemed entirely indifferent to him and he to her so … so your talk of ‘demeanor’ may not be as relevant –“
“You said it yourself: you’re a bloody bachelor – don’t presume to know what it is like to be married until the ball and chain is firmly attached to your ankle – thank-you-very-much-sir!”
“My apologies, sir. I’ll – um – be sure to enjoy Sir Millford’s garden whilst I am there. It is rumored to be spectacular and –”
“You will continue to look into Mrs. Spencer is what you’ll do – especially if she is leaving the city.”
“Yes, sir. Sorry sir.”
“And when she goes back to her family – if she doesn’t go off on the run – if she is truly going to her family, we can only hope she will be comfortable enough to reveal something to them that we have yet to uncover. If not then – well, then she will run off in America and we’ll know she’s guilty and move on from there. Justice – Chuckie – this is for justice.”
“Right, sir. Justice.”
“Now,” Once checked his pocket watch, “go back to work.”
Charles Potter had worked as detective at Scotland Yard for twenty years of his bachelor life and had not grown so much as a wisp of a reputation, though his hair wasn’t in that terrible a state. He had neither heated nor cooled a case and thus went through life under the radar in his profession. He found more excitement in the ending of an Agatha Christie novel than there was in his own job, which was mostly concerned with how he sat behind a desk.
He supposed it was his rather ordinary existence that pushed him straight to the center of the Spencer Murder Case – or what was then called, for popular publicity reasons, the Son of Jack the Ripper Slayings. When Mr. Spencer had become a suspect, Charles was slipped into the house as Spencer’s new valet – completely coincidental, of course, that the man was in search of one.
The detectives called it ‘getting lucky.’ Charles didn’t know if that was an official term or not, so he only assumed that it was.
Charles liked having something exciting to do – listening in on phone conversations discretely, following Mr. Spencer here and there in his plush Rolls Royce, reporting in the wee hours of the morning to his superior, tasting some of the wine left over from the grand dinners Mr. Spencer liked to hold. Oh, it had been a good job then. He felt important and well taken care of on top of it.
But it was a job that Charles believed should really have ended once Spencer had spilled the beans after being caught wooing a prostitute in an alleyway. Charles was quite sure Mrs. Spencer had nothing to do with her husband’s indiscretions. As he had told the detective that morning quite plainly: the woman was indifferent to her husband and their marriage was held together only for reputation and monetary purposes like most marriages of their society in London.
Too, Charles very much watched to return to his little flat in London. There, on the roof, he had been able to grow a small little garden that he was sure was overgrown with weeds by now – even if he had paid his landlady to look at it from time to time. It needed a caring hand, a gardener’s hand – Charles’ hand. He always sighed a very melancholy sigh when he thought of it.
“Really, Potter, I’m so thankful you’re here,” Mrs. Spencer said to him later that morning. She had been burning up papers in her husband’s study – the paperwork the police had not confiscated and had been cleared as unhelpful and useless. “I swear I’ll write you a doozy of a recommendation when the time comes – oh dear, have you been looking yet for a new position?”
“Not yet, ma’am, no. I thought I would make sure you and your little daughter were settled before I left.”
“Oh, Potter –“
“Really, ma’am, I wouldn’t be able to sleep at night if I just upped and left. I’m here as a … a … friend now, if I may say so, ma’am.”
Mrs. Spencer smiled kindly. “You may. And thank you, Potter. Very much. You’re a very good friend at that. I’ll write that in your recommendation, too. Is it still raining out?”
“I believe so, ma’am. Same, I’m told, for tomorrow and the weekend as well.”
“Terribly dreary time to go into the country. And – knowing the mud in Pearshire – quite a messy one. We’ll have to wear dark clothing, Olive and myself … our trunks will be sent ahead, correct?”
“Yes, ma’am. Seeing them off myself.”
“I am horribly abusing you, Potter?”
“Yes, ma’am, but er … crack the whip if you must.”
Mrs. Spencer laughed a little and poked at the fire, her brow furrowing at the sight of the scribbled on paper curling and singeing. Charles did a small bow and left her to her work.
“Oh – Potter – one last thing.”
Charles turned back around in the doorway.
“I was going through the library – picking out books that belonged to Harold. I don’t want them brought with us but I came across a lovely garden book I thought you’d enjoy. You did say you liked to garden didn’t you?”
“Ah – yes, ma’am. Very much. Of course, I merely admire. Practicing is a bit difficult in my line of work.”
“I imagine if we had a garden, you would be my first choice in gardener. But, please, have a look at the book and keep it if you wish. There are plenty of those sorts of books, anyway, at father’s.”
“Thank you ma’am. That’s very kind. Thank you.”
He turned with another small bow to go down the corridor but let out a scream similar to that of a prepubescent girl at the sight of mouse – but for Charles it was a female child standing before him.
The little girl began to laugh. From inside the study, Mrs. Spencer shouted: “Olive, don’t scare Potter like that!”
“Potter – Potter, come play cards with me, will you? One last time under the table – please!” The girl tugged on Charles’ sleeve, looking up at him so much so that the back of her head touched her back.
“Olive, you have schoolwork. Mrs. Graham will not be pleased when we get to Pearshire that you’ve not worked on your multiples!” he mother called out after hearing her daughter’s request.
Olive went to fight back but Charles hushed her and nodded his head. Olive smiled brightly and rocked on her tiptoes in excitement.
“Yes, mummy!”
Olive Spencer was a strange little child and Charles, having been a strange child as well, took to her. When word had gotten out that her father was a suspect in the brutal slayings in the city, Mrs. Spencer pulled Olive out of St. Wilma’s School for Girls, which was located somewhere in the countryside, and set her daughter up with a tutor in the city, so she could be shielded better from the gossip. This, of course, also meant Olive would be completely alone – without the companionship of other children. So, naturally, Olive had filled that gap with Charles.
The problem in pulling Olive out of her school – her home – was that she hardly minded the gossip there. Her parents were strangers to her, having chosen the social world over their small family. And, if one of her parents happened to be a lunatic murderer, it was just an inconvenience to Olive – hardly the end her world as they had never really been a part of it to begin with.
“Are you excited to see your Granddaddy?” asked Charles as Olive dealt the cards out.
They played under a lace-covered table in the parlor. Charles just fit but Olive was comfortable sitting cross-legged.
“Not really, no.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t know him very well. We don’t visit. He came once before but with Auntie Millicent. Oh, I hate her – Auntie Millicent, I mean. I don’t want to go. But mummy said that it will only be for a little while and then I’ll go back to school and she’ll move into a brand new home.”
Mrs. Spencer had already dealt with a solicitor in the matter of selling the property she had shared with her husband. She wanted to purge him out of their lives completely and selling the very structures they lived in seemed a good course of action to start. Of course, she knew very little about selling her homes, so Charles had helped her out in that area in order that she wouldn’t be cheated.
Olive could have cared less that she would never see her home in London again. All Olive wanted was to go back to her boarding school but – since the pun was available in Charles’ mind – that was not in the cards, it seemed.
“I do like Aunt Margot, though – mummy’s younger sister. She comes without Grandfather and used to visit more often until everything started. And Grandfather isn’t horrible – what I know of him – he’s very funny. It’s Auntie Millicent. She looks like a toad, you know. Or … or a very ugly badger. They say that I get my dark hair from her since mummy and Aunt Margot have very pretty yellow hair. I hope I don’t get my hair from her.”
“What color is your Grandfather’s?”
“Grey. I don’t think it ever had a different color. Mummy never said, at least.”
“Maybe you get your hair from him.”
“I hope so. Mummy doesn’t like Auntie Millcent either. They once got in a very big fight when she came to visit. After Aunt Margot stopped visiting.”
“A fight?”
Olive nodded. “About daddy – do I have to say ‘God rest his soul’ now?”
“I don’t know. I suppose you could since he’s dead.”
“I don’t want to.” Olive furrowed her brow as she pushed her cards into a neat pile. “But it was because of him – the fight. I overheard them in the dining room after dinner. It had something to do with … oh … something to do with something daddy couldn’t get up.”
“What?” Charles hit his head on the table in surprise at what the little girl had said.
“Auntie Millicent said something about daddy ‘not getting it up.’ I don’t know what she meant but that’s what she said and mummy got very angry and was afraid daddy would hear. Do you know what it means, Potter?”
Charles’ face reddened and he quickly grabbed the cards from between them, sorting them and shifting them so he would not have to answer or even look at Olive.
“Oh,” said Olive slyly. “It’s an adult thing, isn’t it? Well – adults fight over very stupid things. Lots of things don’t go up that should. It has something to do with something called ‘gravity,’ I think.” She looked over the cards Charles dealt her one by one then, with a sigh, added: “Or balloons.”
Chapter Three
Lady Penelope Bramton was quite a brilliant woman – beautiful and smart, neither of those deteriorating in age. Coifed silver hair was held in place with an adorned pin, bright eyes tittered back and forth over her elegant writing. Slender and tall she stood, smiling she ruled over Bramton Hall with a gentle hold that gave just enough power to her husband to make him think he was in charge and just enough freedom to her children to banish any resentment towards her in the house.
Many thought these same traits had rolled off onto her only daughter Billie, who was born over a decade after her elder brother Douglas. Needless to say, her birth was not expected, but nevertheless welcomed for Penelope had wanted more than one child in Bramton Hall. And another female presence was a very good bonus. All Bramton himself cared about was having a son and that was sufficed with Douglas’ birth, so Billie’s own birth was hardly an event for him.
Another son, Edward, followed little over a year after (Bramton was said to have been quite excited to hear there was another male in the case Douglas kicked the bucket early) and the family was deemed complete – though Penelope would have preferred for Edward to be a little more intelligent – more like his siblings and not so damned sentimental for he was, very much, a sentimental boy.
“Are you sure you want to travel, Billie?” Penelope asked, not looking up from the letter she was writing to her sister. “You’ve been away for so long already.”
“I know … I’m just in a bit of a rut, that’s all,” answered Billie, who was sitting slouched in the corner of the sofa in her parents’ London flat with a beaker of warm tea cupped in her hands. “I want it kept quiet though – for now.”
“My lips are sealed. By the bye, I heard from your father – he won the strip last night. He’ll be coming back here to London tonight though – in time for dinner.”
“Oh, it is so silly! Who on earth cares who owns the most land these days?”
“You’re testy today.”
“I don’t feel well.”
Penelope looked up from her writing from the first time and saw that her daughter was indeed on the pale side – well, paler than usual for Billie did have very light skin set off by dark waved hair that had a sort of uncontrolled frizz about it. Her little figure was rather stuffed in the corner of that sofa, buried in a green cardigan.
“What?” Billie didn’t like to be stared at.
“Should we send for the doctor?”
“Of course not, mother. Really, it was something I ate. That and I’m very agitated, to be honest.”
“What over?”
“Dougie.”
“What about him?” Penelope put down her pen to listen but Billie said nothing. “Wilhelmina, tell me what’s wrong.”
“Nothing’s wrong. Douglas is being an ass. I can’t help that no matter what I do or what Henry does, either.”
“What are you talking about? I saw Douglas only yesterday and he seemed fine.”
“Yes, of course he seemed fine but –“
“But what?”
Billie faltered.
“Wilhelmina Bramton, speak!”
“He –“
Penelope would not learn from Wilhelmina what was in Douglas’ letter. At that very instant her daughter was about to tell her about her eldest son, the front door opened and Henry Dermot was let in. Billie stood quickly and muttered something about getting her coat.
When she had left the room, Penelope’s eyes settled on Henry, her daughter’s obvious lover and the best friend of her eldest son. He was a man in his late thirties – tall and moderately fit, he had a kind face and a cheeky grin that made you think he was up to something childish. And he usually was. He wore thin wire glasses and, peeking from under a cap, he had coarse dark hair that hadn’t been properly combed. He was a successful playwright, his wealth made on his own, and he was Irish – not that the latter was of any consequence.
“What on earth have you two done to her?” Penelope asked.
“What do you mean?”
“She was going on about Douglas a minute ago. And she doesn’t look very happy with you, either.”
“Are you ready, Henry?” Billie seemed to have an extra sense, having entered the room before Henry could answer. “I’ll ring you, mum, on what we spoke about. Traveling.”
“Yes … yes, all right.”
Billie gave her best smile and walked out of the flat so quickly Henry had to rush to catch up.
“What did you say to her, Mina?” he asked when they were finally on the street and walking in synch.
“I didn’t say a word!”
For some reason, Henry could hear Billie’s heel clicks over the loud bustle of the London street. “You must have hinted at something!”
“I said Douglas was irritating me – that is all.”
“Oh … but you said nothing about the ‘m’ word?”
Billie let out a small cry and began to walk faster. Henry quickly ran after her, grabbing her by the arm.
“You have to meet Wodehouse in ten minutes,” Billie said.
“You’re not coming?”
Billie shook her head.
“Is it because I won’t propose? That I positively hate the ‘m’ word? Are you throwing a tantrum because I won’t propose and marry you?”
“Oh, just shut up Henry! I’ll get back to the flat on my own.”
“Fine!” Henry threw up his arms and walked to the edge of the sidewalk, ready to hail a cab. He turned to see if Billie had taken off but she was coming towards him. “Now you’re going to follow me?”
“Henry –“
“No, no, no – go ‘travel’ or whatever I heard you tell her mother - it will get the bloody thought of a wedding off of your addled mind!”
“Henry!”
“I’m not going to have your father after me to add to it! He already hates me enough!”
“He’s going to hate you more!”
“I’m sure he is for he always does – “ He kissed her quickly. “Now – I’ve promised to meet Wodehouse at the club as you pointed out. I will see you back at the flat and we can argue more there.” He kissed her again and put his hand back up for a cab. “I love you – I love you – adieu –“
“I’m going to have a baby!” Billie suddenly shouted.
Henry was about to get a cab. He stopped, almost as if he had frozen. He walked back to Billie, pointing at her with a pale face.
“What – what did you just say?”
“I’m pregnant,” Billie whispered.
“Shh!” Henry covered her mouth with his hand. “Get in the cab – quick!”
It was the most silent cab ride either of them had ever experienced.
Billie entered the flat first – Henry followed, slamming the door after her. Pigsley came rushing from the kitchen, hearing the commotion.
“Sir?”
“Not now, Pigsley.”
“Right, sir,” Pigsley retreated back to the kitchen.
Billie stood watching Henry pace – pulling at his hair and muttering.
“Henry?”
Henry looked at her wildly. “Baby?” he asked.
Billie nodded.
“Whose?” he asked in all sincerity.
“Excuse me?”
Henry hurried back to her and asked again: “Whose baby are you going to have?”
“Whose do you think?” Billie snapped.
“Pigsley’s?”
If Charles Potter had an opposite in the world, it was Kingston Pig – an unfortunate surname that had garnered him the pet name ‘Pigsley’ by his employer Henry Dermot. He was a tip-top valet upon whom Henry relied on for life in general – Billie, too, had come to love the lanky man with long fingers that laid out Henry’s suit for the day only to become quite flustered when he realized she was in the room, hidden in the sheets of Henry’s bed.
Oh, yes, she enjoyed sitting up and startling him routinely but she really did appreciate that he too had a hand in keeping Henry sane. And he, in his turn, enjoyed watching the pair go insane together.
“Henry!” Billie slapped Henry across the face then pulled back her hand, shocked at what she had done. “Oh … oh, God … I’m so … I’m so sorry.”
Billie watched Henry’s wide eyes roam the ground for a moment.
“We … we’re going to have a baby?” he muttered, as if sense was slowly coming back to him.
“In several months time, yes.”
“And you were going to travel? You are mad!”
“You’re not angry?”
“Why would I be angry? We’re having a baby – that’s fantastic!” Henry picked Billie up and twirled her in a circle, kissing her repeatedly as he put her feet back to the ground.
“No … No – I mean, I hit you,” said Billie, holding his face close to hers.
“Oh … I didn’t quite feel it, to be honest. And I deserved it.” He kissed her deeply, but broke it quickly. “But traveling, Mina? What did you mean by ‘traveling’?”
“I can’t go home to Pearshire!” Billie’s voice was high but hushed. “Father can’t know about this yet! It was a plan – mum doesn’t know about this, but traveling is a good cover! Father cannot know!”
“No, that’s true,” he kissed her again. “But I’m not going to have our child born in bloody Timbuktu! What if you were to stay here instead? Say you’re going off to China and really just stay in London?”
“For how many months? I wouldn’t be able to go out, Henry! What about Bath? Or Brighton? I don’t believe we know a great number of people who are permanently there! Henry, this is why I want to get married!”
“To kill your father twice over?”
“No – it would go over better with him if he knew you married me and I wouldn’t have to be confined somewhere as if we were in the dark ages. Personally, I do agree with you and think the station of marriage horrid this day and age – we must think it is, we’re writers – but thinking about the issue more and more I believe father would be less angry if –“
“We’ll discuss this later –”
“But I’m pregnant now!”
“Bath – Bath, what were you saying about Bath?”
Billie huffed. “I’d rather be there than London is what I said!”
“That’s far!”
“So is London!”
“But it’s still closer!”
“I can’t stay in one flat for months at a time as I’ve already told you – I would go mad! Anyway, what we should think about is what to do after that time as there will be a baby and they’re rather hard to hide! That’s why we should –“
“No – no ‘m’ word right now! Let’s just think about this … I’ll have a few months there, right? I’ll … I’ll get Lord Bramton to warm up to me. I’ll go to Pearshire.”
“That’s impossible.”
“No … no not if I work at it – I’ve never actually worked at making you father like me before – ”
“Wait, wait, wait – putting everything aside for a moment – you tell me my father’s creatively suffocating practically every day. How could you possibly write back in Pearshire? You’re working on a new play, aren’t you?”
“Yes, well … I am and he is, but I’ll figure something out. The thing is, your father would probably put the baby in a sack and drown it, if I don’t at least try – sorry, that was a bad image, wasn’t it?”
“Just a bit. I’m not having a litter. But seriously, Henry, what about your writing? We’ll have another mouth to feed. We’re far from poor – I know – but to have some stability beyond inheritance, if anything should –”
“I will think of something.”
“You say that, but how will I know what you’re really doing when I’m off in Bath? I don’t want to feel guilty –”
“Oh, I can go down to the Millfords’ if I need to – I’ve done it before. Don’t you dare, for even an instant, feel guilty –”
“The Millfords’? When have you done that?”
“Only once or twice. Sir Millford thinks it’s a hoot watching me scribble away – I’m not an inconvenience. Wait a minute – you said Bath and we said London.”
“Henry!”
“Right, what will it take for you to stay in London?”
“Pigsley.” Billie didn’t need a moment to think.
“What?”
“I want to have Pigsley with me. I can’t take my own maid, as she will no doubt be gossiping with the rest of the staff at home. Give me Pigsley for the next few months and I will stay in London.”
“That’s cruel … that’s like taking away … taking away a limb…”
“Henry, I’m having your child and you won’t surrender your valet?” She played with the collar of his shirt. “So you can stop father from drowning the child?”
“I thought we agreed that was a horrible image?”
“I want Pigsley.”
Henry let out a groan but couldn’t refuse her – not now – she was grinning in that cheeky way and talking about the drowning of their baby in a sack. God, she was a horrible thing to be in love with sometimes. And he adored it.
“Fine … fine … Pigsley, then. But you do realize the damage you’re doing – he could be vital in saving the mess that’s going to happen there – and you know a complete mess is unavoidable.”
“Oh, I’m sure you’ll figure something out to handle father … and Dougie whenever he comes home. But I can have Pigsley then?”
Henry nodded grudgingly. “I’ll say he’s for protection when you’re in the wilds of the Amazon.”
Billie laughed and sunk deeper in his arms.
“A baby, though … that’s brilliant, Mina. Spiffing.”
“Spiffing?”
“Doing my best to be a little colloquial when I’m not magnificently eloquent.”
Billie laughed and Pigsley slowly came back into the room.
“Ah! Pigsley!” said Henry rushing forward. “Call Wodehouse – say I’ve become unavailable for the day!”
“Yes, sir. And, if I may, congratulations.”
Chapter Four
“You have to play it slower!” said Billie, leaning on the piano in the parlor before dinner as Henry tried his best to play the title song from Anything Goes. “Really, mother,” said Billie, turning to Penelope, who was standing near by, “it’s a great number.”
“Agreed,” Edward said, holding up his glass in a mock toast. He had arrived in London with his father only hours before but was returning home the same evening – the city had never suited him – there was something about it being too busy and a little less than romantic.
Billie began a few of the words to it once Henry had found the right pace, but she was cut off by Lord Bramton entering the room and proclaiming:
“Dermot, get away from that piano! The only person who can play right in this house is Douglas and he isn’t here, is he?”
“Oh, stop it, father,” said Billie. “Henry plays just fine.”
“He doesn’t. Come along, now – I believe dinner is ready.”
The Bramtons and Henry made their way into the dining room, taking the usual seats around the table. Billie sat with Penelope on the right and Edward and Henry were on the left. When Douglas was there, Penelope would sit at the opposite head of the table for then they spread out more but since he was gone there was no need of it.
And why one person made a difference in this order, one could not really say.
It was Lord Bramton who began the conversation that evening.
“Did your mother tell you, Billie?”
“Tell me what?”
“I’ve invited McNaulty’s son to the Hall for a bit. You remember him from some time ago? Came on his father’s behalf? He’s going to build a new hothouse and turn the old one into a bowling lane.”
“You’re joking, father.”
“No. No, why would I kid?”
“A bowling lane? What for?”
“I quite like the game. Haven’t you played?”
“Yes. But … it seems so unneeded.”
“Nonsense,” said Edward. “I think it will be fun.”
“You would!” Billie snapped.
“I have to side with Mina,” Henry said over the soup. “I don’t really think it’s needed. A little extravagant – even for you.”
“And I really don’t think your opinion matters – I didn’t ask for it.”
“Leave him alone,” said Penelope. “Really, you’re being a brute today, Bramton.”
“Am I?”
“Yes. You are. Billie, you know he’s not invited McNaulty here for just the hothouse. The man is still a bachelor and he’s wealthy – do the addition and reach the equivalent.”
“Father!” cried Billie, catching on. “Oh, that’s quite it, I have had enough!”
“Enough?”
“Yes!” Billie quickly controlled her voice and took a breath before speaking again. “I’ve decided I’m going away – I’m going to travel. No, I’m not bringing Henry with me before you even ask. I’m going to go alone and you’re not going to stop me.”
“Really? That’s very childish of you. Very rash. Lower your voice. But, while we are on this ridiculous subject, who, may I ask, is going to fund your excursion if not your father, who only wants the best for you? You’ve yet to even tap into your pocket money from that little story you wrote!”
“For your information, father, I’ve been living off of that little story I wrote for the past year – you haven’t spent a pence on me and I’m glad of it! I can pay for the travel myself, thank you! And to be quite honest, I’ve come to believe that you think the best for me is marrying a man you alone approve of and buying my affection!”
“Of course I do! When did that become a question? And all women can be bought for some price or another.”
Billie was so offended she was struck speechless for a moment.
“I will pay,” Penelope, who was equally as struck, hid her eyes with her fingers. “She has as much right to travel if she wants and I’ll be glad to help her as her mother.”
“Oh, thank God, you said it, Penelope. I was ready for Dermot to be the gallant one.”
“The traveling is news to me –“
“I’m sure it is! You probably put the idea in her mind!”
“I did not!
“You’re insufferable! My daughter would be better off with McNaulty’s son and you know it!”
“And do you know something? You’re suffocating! Creatively suffocating! No wonder Billie hasn’t written a bloody word in months! I can hardly think straight in your presence!”
“Henry!” Billie reached over and touched his arm to calm him.
“I am very sorry for that but you don’t have to be here tonight, you know, Dermot – you don’t live here! You are a guest!”
“My guest!” Billie interrupted, but her father ignored her and went on.
“I have enough mind to kick you out!”
“Go ahead! I welcome it to get away from you!”
“Stop it!” Billie shouted. “Just stop it!”
The room went silent as the butler entered with a silver tray. A telegram sat atop it. Lord Bramton took it, almost ripping the whole plate out of the man’s hand.
“Who is it from and what does it say?” asked Penelope flatly.
“Douglas. He’s sorry but he cannot make dinner tonight. He is dining with the Smiths.”
Billie shook her head and as Henry reached for the wine she had yet to touch.
“Well, if he decides to ever come home to Pearshire,” Bramton began as he folded the paper mindlessly, “he could say hello to Margery. According to Millford, she’ll be coming to stay.”
Billie coughed and whatever water she had been trying to drink now spewed out into Edward’s face.
“I say! What on earth are you upset about now?” he asked as he wiped his face frantically with his napkin.
“Henry, we need to leave,” said Billie, trying once again to be calm. “Henry … now!”
Penelope glanced at Henry and gave him a curt nod to take Billie away.
“More for us, then!” said Bramton, waving in his steak.
Penelope watched the two men have their plate brought in. She shook her head at her own and left the dining room as well, unable to retain her appetite.
“Billie, dear, is there something beyond a baby that you’re – and I’m putting little inverted commas around this in the air, see? – forgetting to mention to me?” Henry asked as they entered the flat.
Billie said nothing. She simply went into the roll-top desk that sat near the window of their flat and, in one of the small compartments, took out a letter.
She handed it to Henry and said:
“Read it.”
Henry’s eyes skimmed over Douglas’s writing. “No …” he muttered.
“Yes.”
Henry looked up. “We’ve a problem.”
“Yes. Quite a large one as I can’t figure out any way to solve it.”
“How long have you had to think? Never mind … this … this is very bad, Mina,” Henry muttered falling onto the sofa. “The minute those two see each other …”
“War.”
“Or sex.”
“Or both.”
“Nice of Douglas to tell you he’s engaged through a letter – or did you know before, because I know you two keep secrets like the little devils you are.”
“No. This was the first I heard about it. The letter came today. I thought Dougie was coming to dinner to tell the family so I kept quiet about it. I mean, we shouldn’t be very surprised as we did meet her and her family while we were in New York last month. And he did make his intentions clear enough.”
“Yes, we did and he did and we told him more than once not to propose to her. My God, Miss Daisy Smith is dumber than Eddie and I didn’t think that was possible until I met her face to face. Her intelligence could not fill the small blank niche on a corner of a page of a pocket memorandum.”
“Henry!”
“I’m sorry, love, but your youngest brother isn’t very bright.”
“Yes I know. All right – worst case scenario.”
“Worst case scenario … Douglas arrives home with his lovely American fiancé to find Margery is back – and single thanks to the courts of Chancery, my dear Lady Dedlock. He marries the fiancé anyway and ends up having an affair with Margery only ruining his marriage and making his wife’s father very very angry, which could result in his death.”
“I almost forgot about the Duke.”
The Duke was the patriarch of the Smith family. Neither Billie nor Henry had ever been fond of him – even in their limited acquaintance.
Then again, not many were in all honesty.
“Why do they call him the Duke again?”
“Because he doesn’t like the last name Smith – he thinks it’s too common. He’s got everyone calling him the Duke instead – so much so I don’t think anyone really knows his name.”
“Sends chill down your spine,” Henry said sarcastically, “the pretentiousness of it. Ah, yes, and – before I forget – Douglas will probably murder you before any of this happens.”
“What for?”
“Not telling him about Margery sooner. He won’t care if you didn’t know until she got there – you’re dead.”
“You’re probably right … best case scenario?”
“Really it’s the same as the worst, isn’t it? Unless he and Margery come to some sudden understanding of each other, stop falling in and out of love, and he calls everything off with a very understanding would-have-been-father-in-law.”
“Unlikely.”
“Improbable.”
“Am I dead either way?”
“Yes, I’d think so. Are you going to send him a warning?”
“Do you think I should?”
“I don’t know how you would word it in a telegram, but why not write your death warrant? You won’t be in Pearshire to be executed, will you?”
Billie sat beside him on the sofa and leaned her head on his shoulder. “Pearshire is going to be a mess … well, more of one that we originally thought. Dougie has never been good with engagements. And now with Margery returning …”
“I can think of a solution.”
“What?”
“Pigsley. Pigsley could easily –“
“Henry!” Billie sat up to face him. “You can’t rely on Pigsley for everything. Besides, there’s only so much he can do. You’ll need to solve it. You’re the one that is going back. You want to impress father? Keep war out of Pearshire.”
“Is that a joke? Me? Figure out what to do with Margery Millford and your brother? And, at the same time, play nice with your father? Darling, I can’t even get ourselves figured out!”
Billie leaned forward and kissed him. “Then I suggest you start as soon as possible.”
“What? Go back with Edward tonight?”
“It’s best to beat Dougie there. You can settle in and think.”
“Drink.”
“Think, drink – both the same, aren’t they?”
Lord Bramton’s face had screwed up as if he had eaten a lemon. He sat on the edge of Penelope’s bed and watched her as she worked at her vanity, taking things out of her hair, off of her wrist, out of her ears.
“Well?” he finally said, though saying it was hissed is possibly more accurate.
“Well what?”
“Are you going to stop her?”
“Stop her?”
“Wilhelmina! Are you going to stop our daughter from going away? She can’t go away – and you know it! She belongs back in Pearshire!”
“Bramton, she is twenty-five. She can go where she pleases and with whomever she pleases. You just can’t decide whether leaving Henry Dermot behind here is a good or a bad thing.”
“No, that isn’t the issue.”
“For the first time. What is it then? You’ll miss her? You do realize she was gone for the better part of the last few months and you hardly noticed.”
“Because the house was empty!”
“Need I mention what you said to her tonight?”
Bramton was silent.
“You were very hurtful. Not only to her.”
“Who else?”
“I believe you said there was a price at which all women could be bought at – you forget, dear, I am also a woman.”
“I did not mean you, Penelope.”
“Of course you did. Don’t lie – it will only make for another thing to apologize for.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Again, don’t lie.”
“Then I will apologize to Billie, if you won’t have it.”
“She’ll be gone before you can, if she’s as intent on traveling as I believe she is.” Penelope decided it was best to change the subject before her own thoughts on the matter clouded the conversation about their daughter and son. “Bramton, she’s not just leaving to get away from the family to write. I have a feeling her and Douglas are having a tiff and you know how awful it is when they fight. Add to it that you went and invited that McNaulty’s son – we all saw through that, dear. It puts her in a very uncomfortable position beyond your antagonizing.”
“No it does not! How much easier could I make it for her? All she has to do is show him some attention and then marry him – it’s not asking much!”
“Bramton, she loves Henry and when you will realize that, I do not know, but at least pretend for her sake. You can’t imagine how clichéd you come off to be on top of your uncontrolled comments towards the female sex.”
“What do you mean?”
“Oh, the father who can’t stand the love of his daughter’s life – really, Bramton, is Henry that bad?”
“Yes.”
Penelope turned around in her chair. “You know, it may be Thursday night but that means nothing.”
“Thursday night hasn’t meant a God damned thing for years now and yet …” he sighed. “All right – the man isn’t terrible. Douglas says his villa in Fiesole is nice.”
“A villa in Italy is all you can think of? Keep going.”
“No.”
“Do you need help? Let’s see … he’s wealthy, he’s driven, he has excellent connections. He’s well spoken of, generally liked – “
“You don’t count. You like everyone Billie likes.”
“Because they are intelligent people, Bramton. You wouldn’t recognize them. I believe,” Penelope turned back to her mirror and watched her husband in the reflection, “you secretly like Henry.”
“No!”
“Oh, yes you do. You like fighting with him at the table, don’t you? You do it just to get him angry like a schoolboy wooing a little girl. If you didn’t like him, you would have told Douglas to keep him away long before – Bramton, what is there truly about Henry that’s not to like?”
“He sleeps in my daughter’s bed.”
“Does he? I thought it was the other way around?”
“Oh, shut up, woman!” cried Bramton, covering his ears. “I didn’t need that.”
“Well you shouldn’t have said it in the first place. That’s her business, not yours. Now, what conclusions have we come to? I swear it is like speaking to a child –”
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