Lessons in Discovery (22 page)

“Oh hell!” Ralph would have kicked the dog if there’d been

one present. “We had a nice little picture there and now it’s all up in the air again.”

Richard’s eyes shone brightly. “Ah, steady now, there’s

more. Here, Orlando, you read it, you’ll appreciate it.”

“
Our plans are made and I’ll not see them chang’d. ’Tis too

good an opportunity to miss. If not Isaac, then who will be Shaa in
the well? Another man might serve the purpose as fitly…
Does anyone want to guess the name we’re coming to here?” Orlando

looked horribly smug.

“It’s Stephen, isn’t it?” Jonty slammed his papers down on

the table. “And I’m going to owe you a whole bloody year’s pay!”

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“What’s that noise?” Orlando could hear a strange tapping

outside, for which his poor, befuddled early morning brain

couldn’t establish a cause.

Jonty, already awake but enjoying the sensations of lying in

bed at ease and contented, turned his head to listen. “It’s the snow, it’s melting.” He drew the eiderdown from the bed, to his lover’s angry protestations, wrapped himself in it and went to the window to investigate. “It was much milder last night and now there’s a bit of drizzle too. Such a shame it’ll all be slush soon.”

A shame it might have been to see the smooth white blanket

disappear, but it was very welcome to Jonty’s family. The phone

line was soon reconnected and a gleeful Clarence informed his

mother that they’d be down the next day, broken foot and all,

assuming the weather didn’t produce another turnabout. And the

inhabitants of the Manor, who had virtually been prisoners these last few days, were able to start getting out and about again.

The weather stayed clement, the winter sun a pale light in a

sky the colour of Jonty’s eyes, and they took every opportunity to enjoy the local delights. He and Orlando took the carriage down

to Chichester where, much to Jonty’s satisfaction, he was allowed to visit the cathedral to admire the fine spire and glass. Orlando was much more pleased in being able to replenish his store of

bull’s-eyes, which had become dangerously low.

It proved a pleasant city, clearly demonstrating its Roman

origins both in its shape and in the ruins that were rumoured to
Charlie Cochrane

litter the locality, although the sudden thaw had led to flooding near the streams—sandbags abounded to trip up the unwary.

If Stewart’s treat was to admire pew and choir stall, then

Orlando received his in being allowed to play with the levers in the signal box. Word had been sent down to the stationmaster that if his invitation was still open, then the lads would be delighted to take him up on it. They arrived in time for the early morning rush of trains, the pair of them bearing sausage rolls straight from the Manor’s ovens and grins more suited to seven-year-olds than

respectable fellows of a Cambridge college. Jonty, knowing that

his lover’s childhood hadn’t included much play, encouraged him

to take every opportunity to indulge in it now.

Orlando was like a little boy with the biggest train set in the

world. He listened patiently to what seemed like hours of talk

about timetables, fast services, slow trains, until the glorious moment when he was allowed to operate the signals and change

the setting on the points. He seemed happier than Jonty

remembered him being at any time—any time outside bed—since

the previous summer. Orlando delayed their departure time and

again, reluctant to leave the box of delights. Only when the

stationmaster reassured him he’d an open invitation to come and

play trains could he be prized from the levers.

These were idyllic days, as the whole of the time had been

since first they arrived at the Manor. Jonty’s strength recovered in leaps and bounds; Orlando’s memories began to trickle back in

dribs and drabs. He recalled all sorts of odd things, like his

successful afternoon at the Derby and watching
Hamlet
at the theatre, but he still had no recollection of any intimate moments that he and Jonty had shared before his fall.

Jonty began to suspect that the head injury was just

incidental to the amnesia and that the business had a distinctly psychological origin, although he was loathe to reveal his fear to either Orlando or any member of the medical profession. That

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would run the risk of having to delve into the seemingly selective nature of the events that were recalled. Or, more to the point,

those that refused to spring to mind.

Mr. Stewart at last found the little book he wanted about

Swavesey and gave it triumphantly to Jonty, who promptly forgot

all about it. The Woodville Ward’s final letter eluded all efforts to make itself understood and the interest in that one remaining

missive seemed to be fading somewhat, especially as the

excitement about the Hogmanay ball began to mount.

New Year’s Eve dawned clear and bright, the deer out in the

fields finding plenty of greenery to browse upon and the

household of the Manor discovering plenty of jobs to be done,

upstairs and down. Hogmanay rig that hadn’t seen the light of day for two years—the renovations having meant there was no such

celebration for the welcoming in of 1906—had been already taken

out of mothballs and aired. Still,
sgian dubhs
needed polishing, sporrans a good brushing and knees had to be made immaculately

clean before they could be allowed to don the plaid.

The level of excitement crept up gradually, especially so in

Orlando, who’d never seen his friend in the tartan and was rather unsettled by the whole idea. “What are you wearing under there?”

He contemplated the vision in front of him with awe and

trepidation.

Jonty swept his kilt up to reveal a splendid pair of silk

drawers. “I’m quite decent, as you can see. Mama forbids any of

us to wear the tartan as our forefathers did since Clarence rather blotted his copybook a few years back.” He twirled, revelling in the freedom the plaid brought and the pleasing effects it was

obviously having on his lover.

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Charlie Cochrane

“Are you going to make me privy to this tale of disgrace or

whatever it was to cause my friend to make such a strong

decree?”

“Of course. It was the Hogmanay ball, and it had been a

particularly rainy night, the floor was rather slippery and poor Clarence went arse over tip. The ladies didn’t know where to

look—well, Miss Peters would have known just where to peek but

the effect upon the good maidens of Sussex was devastating.

Since then it’s been strictly underwear
de rigueur
. Mama has been known to check.” He grinned. “You can reassure her that I’ve

been a good boy.”

“I shall tell her no such thing. I’ll say that you’ve discarded

all undergarments and then she might make you stay in your room

and not horse around.” Orlando was beside himself with worry.

“You promise me you won’t do anything to make that cough start

again? No dancing or larking about.”

Jonty frowned. “You’re as bad as Mama. There’s a piper to

entertain us, she said—well, I don’t mind that but it’s at the

expense of some of the dances, and most of the rest have been

sacrificed to make way for the singing of traditional Scottish airs.

I know that we’re of noble Gaelic descent but there’s a limit, you know.”

“Neither you nor your father has been well. You were both

at death’s door, to tell the truth, and your poor mother doesn’t want to see either of you expiring in the middle of the Gay

Gordons.”

Stewart snorted.

“Well you can grunt all you want. I suspect that you’re just

peeved because your mama cottoned on to your little scheme.”

“And you’re getting yourself all worked up about those

bloody letters. Don’t deny it, you’ve even been mumbling about

them in your sleep.”

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“I won’t have the documents going to Owens. I shan’t admit

defeat.” Orlando was going to will the case to a successful

conclusion just like—as he was convinced had happened—he’d

willed the flu out of Jonty’s body.

“Now you listen to me. Tonight you’re not even going to

think about it. I’ll know if you are and I’ll whip my kilt up in protest. Leave the codes and filters and who knows what behind

for once.” Jonty put his hand to his lover’s cheek, drew his fingers down it. “Please.”

“Only—” Orlando turned his face into the caress, “—if you

take care of yourself. And no more daft capers.”

“It wasn’t a daft caper. Those singers were quite happy to

accept the merest trifle of a bribe to pretend they had laryngitis, and then we’d have had fewer Gaelic dirges and loads more reels

and jigs.” He stopped, eyed his friend with the keenest scrutiny.

Orlando felt as if he were some Napoleonic spy and Jonty were

Nelson’s flag lieutenant. “It wasn’t you who let on, was it?”

“Not guilty, m’lud. I rather think it was your nephew—not

the best idea to have been so forthcoming to him about your plans.

He would have told his grandfather, upon whom he dotes entirely, and then the cat would be out of the bag.”

“Hardly sporting all round. Papa could have kept his trap

shut and those singers could have done with the money, you

know. There’s an element of social responsibility here after all.”

Jonty adopted a pious look that wouldn’t have fooled anyone

except the rector’s sister.

“You can rest easy. As I understand it they got a bigger bribe

from your mother to sing than you’d offered them not to. Poetic

justice, I’d say.”

“Well, it was worth a try—acted as a nice diversion,

anyway.” Jonty fiddled with his sporran, obviously trying to keep a guilt-ridden smirk from his face.

“Diversion?”

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Charlie Cochrane

“Yes, from the main attack. Mama will have dropped her

guard now.” Jonty broke into a huge grin.

“And what—I’m not sure I want to know this, but I have to

ask—are you planning?”

“Big secret, Orlando. You’ll find out—” Jonty consulted the

clock, “—just after the piper finishes, I think. I solemnly swear it won’t make me cough. And are you going to dance?” He shook

the folds out of his kilt.

This little movement made Orlando shiver—he wondered if

it were being done to distract him from Jonty’s schemes. “I am

indeed. With every lady in the household at least once.” He

paused thoughtfully. “But no one else.”

“Have you ever read any Jane Austen? You do so make me

think of her.”

“Not that I’m aware of. Is she a well-known author?”

Stewart slapped him hard on the shoulder. “Dr.

Coppersmith, go and wash your mouth out with carbolic soap!

She is a paragon of the writers’ trade, witty, erudite, well-spoken.

Shame that more authors don’t take a leaf from her book.”

“And why should I remind you of the no-doubt fascinating

characters that fill her pages?”

“There’s one in particular that struck a chord the first night

we met. You seemed very proud and disdainful, as if you thought

yourself above all the rest of us. Now don’t look so put out, I just said you
seemed
like that, not that you actually were. The man I have in mind took forever to admit to his paramour that he loved her, and then used such terms he was very lucky she didn’t black his eye. If he’d spoken like that to Mama she’d have knocked
him
out, too, filthy rich or not. Anyway he was rather particular who he danced with at a ball.”

“Sounds a nasty piece of work and I don’t think I want to

read about him, thank you. I’ll stick to Dr. Watson—he doesn’t

insult anyone and is never proud or haughty.”

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Jonty smiled. “Stupid head. Dear Lord, I love you.” He

risked a quick kiss and they went down to the hall, to take their oaths their underwear was as per instructions.

The ball was magnificent, the music of a standard that

Orlando could only remember being equalled by some of the

college choirs when it had been a notable year for singers. And

while the purity of a boy’s soprano might seem a foretaste of

heaven, soaring to angelic heights to touch the soul, the skirl of the pipes produced earthier sensations. He was having a

wonderful evening, fulfilling his promise to dance with Lavinia, Helena and Clarence’s wife, Martha. Maybe he hadn’t been able

to take the floor with the one person whom he would have wished

to be hand in hand or arm in arm with, although he’d made up a

four with him on more than one occasion. Such a bright smile and fleetness of foot to admire.

When the piper finished his repertoire with “The

Londonderry Air”,
the hairs on the back of Orlando’s neck were almost standing up and waving, it was so eerie, magnificent,

stirring. Not, however, quite as strange as the spectacle that

followed. Mrs. Stewart was completely horrified when a Jonty-

paid-for snake charmer arrived in a Jonty-paid-for carriage and

began to set up his Jonty-paid-for performance.

All her efforts to stop this entertainment were nipped in the

bud when her husband positively capered with delight. He vowed