Lessons in Discovery (20 page)

shrieking. You’d like that.” Jonty grinned encouragingly. He was tipsy and it all made perfect sense.

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“Why can’t I be the pirate?” Orlando’s voice held just an

edge of belligerence.

“Because you haven’t got the legs for it. And anyway I made

up the game so I get the best part.” Jonty had passed the peak of inebriation, the last of the alcohol flowing through his system

combining with the cold air to make him bold.

“Is running about all of a lather and squealing all that I get to do?” Orlando looked less than impressed.

“Well you could extemporise a bit. Say things like ‘Do not

rob me of my maidenhead, I prithee, kind sir’.” Jonty giggled at the thought of his solemn friend uttering those sorts of phrases.

Orlando was horrified at Jonty using such words in public, in

his cups or not. “And then what would you do?”

“I’d come and rob you of your maidenhead of course,

Orlando. You are terribly obtuse at times.” Jonty stood, swaying somewhat, shaking his head at his friend’s inability to

comprehend the way of things.

Orlando suddenly sniggered. “I guess you conned me into

playing pirates last year, did you? Rob me of my maidenhead

then?”

Jonty hooted. “Seem to remember you absolutely insisting

that I take it. Just about dragging me to the bedroom. Positively carrying me through the door and—”

“I think I understand,” Orlando’s cheeks had turned bright

red but not just because of the cold.

Jonty swept off his hat and produced an extravagant bow. “It

would be an honour to repeat the performance, should that prove

to be acceptable.”

Orlando bowed in return, then almost fell over as a

something cold and wet hit the back of his neck. “You swine!”

Jonty had surreptitiously grabbed a handful of snow and

lobbed it as Orlando bent over, and he was already preparing a

further supply of missiles. Not to be outdone, his friend began to 140

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do the same and the battle proper commenced, snowballs being

fired off and hitting targets, new ones being prepared and

launched with as much efficiency as might be seen on an old ship of the line laying into the French with broadside after broadside.

A voice like a hunting horn rang over the gardens. “Orlando!

Jonathan! Whatever do you think you’re playing at? Come back

here at once.”

“Where are the lads?” Mr. Stewart looked up from his

book—a new Conan Doyle,
Sir Nigel
—which his wife had given him. “I fancied a game of canasta.”

“Your son and his friend are not available at present.” Mrs.

Stewart picked up a piece of embroidery, attacking it in a

meaningful manner.

“Disgraced themselves, did they?” Lavinia piped up. “I

could hear you upbraiding them.”

“Gone off with their tails between their legs, then?” Mr.

Stewart could imagine them sneaking off to the billiard room until their disgrace was forgotten.

“Indeed not.” Mrs. Stewart’s eyes blazed. “Playing at

snowballs in the cold, and Jonty with no hat on. Well, if they wish to act like five-year-olds, they should be treated as such.”

“You didn’t spank them, did you?” Lavinia’s face lit up at

thought.

“No. I’ve sent them to their beds with no arguments and no

supper.”

“Lummy,” Ralph suddenly chipped in. “It must be deadly

serious…”

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Two hours later, Helena herself came to tell the lads they

were eligible for parole, only to find her youngest son already

ensconced in his pyjamas and dressing gown. As it was Christmas

Day she offered him the privilege of coming down just as they

were for an informal supper. They ventured over to Orlando’s

room to unearth him, also in his nightwear, fast asleep on his four-poster bed.

“Do you want me to wake him, Mama?” Jonty whispered as

if they were two conspirators.

“No, let him be for a while, I’d welcome the opportunity of a

chat.” They pulled some old, yet serviceable, armchairs as close to the fire as was comfortable. “Do you feel you are quite recovered, Jonathan?”

“I think so, Mama. Still a bit of a cough, but only in the very

coldest air. I just wish I could say the same for Sleeping Beauty’s memory.” He tipped his head towards Orlando, who looked as

peaceful as an infant.

“It’s been hard for you, hasn’t it? I so wanted to be able to

help you when it happened, but Richard said he’s got to see it

through himself. Very wise, your father. I’d have been in the way if I’d stormed up to Bride’s and fussed over you both. Although

you were very much in my thoughts and prayers.”

Jonty reached over and patted his mother’s hand. “I knew

that and it meant so very much. And it’s as well you didn’t

Lessons in Discovery

come—two fierce women is enough for any college to put up

with.”

“Still at each other’s throats?” Mrs. Stewart knew Cecily

Hatfield and Ariadne Peters of old.

Jonty laughed contentedly. “A truce was later declared over

the flu, but otherwise I think they’d happily throttle each other given an excuse.”

“Does he
know
?” Helena didn’t need to elaborate on her

question, the meaning was clear.

Jonty sighed. “He does. It was a great shock and I really

think I told him rather too early for him to understand. Got a bit carried away, you see. But he’s getting his mind around it now.”

His thoughts flitted off to the night the snow came and he had the grace to blush.

“He loves you very much, you know. Never stopped

phoning me when you were ill, dashing from the sick bay to the

porters’ lodge and back, I’ll warrant, and almost every day from when you came round until you managed to venture out of

college.”

“I didn’t know that.” Jonty was genuinely surprised. He was

aware Orlando had rung his mother when her son had first been

taken ill and then again to celebrate his recovery. For his friend to have kept in daily touch was not at all what he would have

expected.

“Well, don’t tell him that I told you. He wanted to keep it

secret, simply ask my advice on things.”

“What sort of things? If you’ve been conspiring behind my

back I won’t be best pleased.” Jonty caressed his mother’s hand, the great affection he felt for her evident in every touch.

“Silly ha’pporth. He wanted to know what book was your

favourite so he could read to you while you were stuck in that sick bay, and which were your preferred toiletries out of that

bewildering selection you keep in the bathroom. Ordinary things

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Charlie Cochrane

he’d have taken for granted before.” She sighed. “Do they think

he’ll ever get all his memory back?”

“Oh the doctor is terribly noncommittal. ‘Various factors

involved. Full physical recovery likely. Memory state less

predictable.’ In other words he doesn’t know and won’t admit it.”

Jonty could feel the tears welling; he sniffed and scrabbled for his handkerchief.

“One thing’s not changed. He still loves you very much, you

know. You’re the whole world to him and if he hadn’t met you

he’d have been stuck in that chair in St. Bride’s until kingdom

come. Rotting away and never growing up.”

“And just how do you know all this? You seem even more

sure of yourself than normal, Mama.”

“Because he told me, back in August when you flitted

through after your holiday. He so desperately wanted someone to

know how he felt about you, someone who wouldn’t judge him or

be horrified at the fact that this isn’t exactly orthodox.”

Jonty sat silent for a full minute, something that rarely

happened when he was in full flow. “Well, I’m jiggered. I would

never have guessed in a million years.”

“Don’t you dare tell him. He’ll have my guts for garters if he

knows I’ve told all.” They smiled conspiratorially and some

roguish spark in his mother’s eye made his grin transform into

laughter. Quiet giggles at first, which couldn’t be contained until the pair of them had dissolved into hysterics.

A grumpy voice from the bed brought an abrupt end to the

mirth. “If I thought you were laughing about me I’d come over

there and—” Orlando stopped, realising there wasn’t just a

familiar masculine chuckle, but a throaty feminine chortle in

harmony with it. He sat bolt upright, drawing his dressing gown

around himself. “I’m sorry I didn’t realise—”

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“That’s quite all right.” Mrs. Stewart beamed at her favourite

guest. “We only came to get you for supper—there was no

intention to disturb you.”

“Indeed, Orlando, although I suppose we’d have had to

rouse you out at some point or father will have scoffed all the

pickles by the time we get down there.” Jonty was just a little

disappointed that his lover had been interrupted. He would have

loved to have known exactly what Orlando would have “come

over there and done”.

After allowing Orlando a minute or three to wake himself

properly, they set off down the spiral stairways to the cellar

passages that would bring them across to the main part of the

house. Laughter and gaiety from the servants’ hall made them

tread quietly, determined not to spoil one of the evenings when

the staff were at liberty to let their hair down. They reached the dining room up another medieval stairway, much more cramped

than the one the servants used, and found that Mr. Stewart had

been considerate enough to leave an ample sufficiency of pickles, plenty even for his son to be happy with.

Cold meat, homemade vegetable pickle—the vegetables

grown not two hundred yards away—fresh bread and mince pies.

As far as Jonty was concerned there wasn’t a meal like it to be

had in the whole of England. They ate and drank (only coffee for the younger gentlemen, Helena was most insistent) and chatted

into the night, before a series of stifled yawns around the

company seemed to indicate that bed was required.

“Boxing Day doesn’t feel right without the hunt.” Richard

Stewart looked wistfully out the window onto the expanse of

ground that by now should have been covered with horses, hounds

and riders.

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Charlie Cochrane

“Can’t very well manage in this snow, dear. It’d be halfway

up the horses’ hocks, you know.” His wife patted his shoulder in a comforting manner.

“We nearly lost a horse in a drift by Lavant.” Ralph shook

his head. “I can’t remember when this part of the country last saw such weather. Have to make our own entertainment today, I

guess.”

Mr. Stewart dearly wished he could be getting out his paper

and pencil to attack a letter or two but he’d given his wife his word regarding the Woodville Ward. Another day of the

moratorium remained. The company played bridge and bezique,

drank and ate, snoozed in chairs in front of the fire, got vaguely bored, until Ralph had the bright idea of suggesting an

entertainment. “Perhaps you could favour us with some of your

piano playing, Mrs. Stewart?”

“Only if you’ll sing, dear.”

Ralph had a fine tenor voice and handled the patter songs

from Gilbert and Sullivan with dash and élan. It was a true

pleasure when he deigned to perform.

“I remember,” Mr. Stewart suddenly said with a hint of real

enthusiasm, “when I was a boy we’d all get together—upstairs

and down—to put on an entertainment in the middle of winter.

Usually in February when everything was a bit bleak and quiet,

but there’s no reason we couldn’t do it tonight.”

His wife’s eyes sparkled at the sheer daring of it. “Go and

enquire of Hopkins this very minute. I’m sure he’d round up

enough of the staff to take part. And make sure he understands

that there’s to be no formality or stuffiness, all of us pulling together in a crisis.”

Orlando wasn’t sure how this constituted a crisis, but Jonty

carefully explained to him that the St. Stephen’s Day hunt was an enormous part of local life. It wasn’t just the gathering and the search for the fox, but the grand dance for the servants over at 146

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Lord Mottisfont’s that always followed it. Not just the Stewarts and their guests were making do this evening.

Richard didn’t even get to take his idea below stairs. When

he encountered Hopkins on the staircase it transpired the butler was on his way up to ask permission for the servants to put on

their own little entertainment in their hall. The notion of

combining with the household was a much appreciated one.

Ralph started it off, of course, his ability and confidence

creating a marvellous atmosphere, one that made the contributions of lesser performers listened to with fond indulgence. Among the highlights were Hopkins reciting Kipling with passion and true

patriotic pride followed by the cook producing a spirited rendition of “Come into the Garden, Maud”. Lavinia and her father played a piano duet, while Jonty and one of the footmen sang “Hearts of

Oak” as if their very lives depended on it.

Even Orlando joined in, telling a ghost story with such