To Say Nothing of the Dog

by Connie Willis

  “Wherever did you find him?” Tossie said.

  “That’s the most amazing part of the whole thing,” Mrs. Chattisbourne said. (Giggles.) “I went over to the vicar’s to take him our dresser scarves for the fete, and he was sitting in the vicar’s parlor. It seems he’d been employed by a family who’d gone out to India, and he was unable to accompany them because of a sensitivity to curry.”

  A sensitivity to curry.

  “The vicar said, ‘Do you know of anyone in need of a butler?’ Can you imagine? It was Fate.” (Giggles.)

  “It sounds highly irregular to me,” Tossie said.

  “Oh, of course Thomas insisted on interviewing him, and he had the most glowing references.”

  All of them from people who’d gone out to India, no doubt, I thought.

  “Tossie, I should be cross at your dear mother for hiring away—” she frowned in thought, “—I’ve forgotten the name again . . . .”

  “Baine,” Tossie said.

  “For hiring away Baine, but how can I be when I’ve found the perfect replacement?”

  The perfect replacement came into the room bearing a flowered tray with a cut-glass decanter and glasses on it. “Currant cordial!” Mrs. Chattisbourne cried. “The very thing! Do you see what I mean?”

  Finch began pouring the cordial and passing it around.

  “Mr. Henry,” Mrs. Chattisbourne said. “Are you at school with Mr. St. Trewes?”

  “Yes,” I said. “At Oxford. Balliol.”

  “Are you married?” Eglantine asked.

  “Eglantine!” Iris said. “It’s rude to ask people if they’re married.”

  “You asked Tossie if he was married,” Eglantine said. “I heard you whispering.”

  “Hush,” Iris said, turning, appropriately enough, carnation pink. (Giggles.)

  “What part of England do you come from, Mr. Henry?” Mrs. Chattisbourne said.

  It was time to change the subject. “I wished to thank you for your son’s loan of clothing,” I said, sipping the currant cordial. It was better than eel pie. “Is he here?”

  “Oh, no,” Mrs. Chattisbourne said. “Didn’t the Merings tell you? Elliott is in South Africa.”

  “He’s a mining engineer,” Tossie volunteered.

  “We have just had a letter from him,” Mrs. Chattisbourne said. “Where is it, Pansy?”

  The girls all got up and began looking for it with a good deal of giggling.

  “Here it is, madam,” Finch said, and handed it to Mrs. Chattisbourne.

  “Dear Mother and Father and Posies,” she read. “Here at last is the good long letter I had promised you,” and it became obvious she intended to read the entire thing.

  “You must miss your son a great deal,” I said, trying to forestall her. “Will he be home soon?”

  “Not until his two years’ tour of duty is up, eight months from now, I’m afraid. Of course, were one of his sisters to marry, he would naturally come home for the wedding.” (Giggles.)

  She launched into the letter. Two paragraphs convinced me that Elliott was as silly as his sisters and had never been in love with anyone but himself in his life.

  Three paragraphs convinced me Tossie didn’t care two pins for him either. She looked positively bored.

  By paragraph four I was wondering why Elliott had escaped being named Rhododendron or Mugwort, and gazing at the Chattisbournes’ cat.

  It was lying on a violet petit point footstool, and it was so enormous only a few violets showed round the edges. It was yellow, with yellower stripes, and even yellower eyes, and it returned my gaze with a heavy-lidded languor which I was beginning to feel myself, what with the currant cordial and Elliott Chattisbourne’s prose. I thought longingly of being back at Muchings End. Under a tree. Or in a hammock.

  “What are you wearing to the fete, Rose?” Tossie asked when Mrs. Chattisbourne paused to turn over the letter to the third page.

  Rose giggled and said, “My blue voile with the lace insets.”

  “I’m wearing my white dotted swiss,” Pansy said, and the older girls leaned forward and began to chatter.

  Eglantine went over to the footstool, picked up the cat, and dumped it on my lap. “This is our cat, Miss Marmalade.”

  “Mrs. Marmalade, Eglantine,” Mrs. Chattisbourne said, and I wondered if cats were given honorifics, like cooks.

  “And how are you, Mrs. Marmalade?” I said, chucking the cat under the chin. (Giggles.)

  “What are you wearing to the fete, Tossie?” Iris asked.

  “The new dress Papa had made for me in London,” Tossie said.

  “Oh, what’s it like?” Pansy cried.

  “I’ve written a description of it in my diary,” Tossie said.

  Which some poor forensics expert will spend weeks deciphering, I thought.

  “Finch,” Tossie said, “do hand me that basket,” and when he did, she reached under the embroidered cloth and brought out a cordovan leatherbound book with a gold lock.

  And there went Verity’s hopes of stealing a look at it while we were gone. I wondered if I could possibly sneak it out of the basket on the way home.

  Tossie carefully unclasped a delicate gold chain with a tiny key on it from her wrist and unlocked the diary, and then painstakingly refastened it.

  Perhaps I could ask Finch to steal it for me. Or perhaps he’d already thought of it, since Mrs. Chattisbourne claimed he could read minds.

  “White mignonette organdie,” Tossie read, “with an under-dress of lilac silk. The bodice is made with a lace front, edged with a ruffle embroidered in ingrained colored silks of the softest shades of heliotrope, lilac, and periwinkle, worked in a pattern of violets and forget-me-nots inset with—”

  The dress description was even longer than Elliott Chattisbourne’s letter. I gave myself over to some serious petting of Mrs. Marmalade.

  She was not only enormous, but extremely fat. Her stomach was huge and felt oddly lumpy. I hoped she wasn’t suffering from something. An early form of the distemper that had wiped all the cats out in 2004 had been around in Victorian times, hadn’t it?

  “—and a pleated lilac sash with a rosette at the side,” Tossie read. “The skirt is prettily draped and embroidered with a border of the same flowers. The sleeves are gathered, with shoulder and elbow ruffles. Lilac ribbons band—”

  I felt cautiously along her underside as I petted her. Several tumors. But if it was leptovirus, it must be the early stages. Mrs. Marmalade’s fur was soft and sleek and she seemed perfectly happy. She was purring contentedly, her paws kneading happily into my trouser leg.

  I was clearly still suffering from Slowness in Thinking. She doesn’t seem ill at all, I thought, even though she looks as though she’s about to explode—

  “Good Lord,” I said. “This cat is pre—” and was struck in the back of the neck with a sharp object.

  I stopped in mid-word.

  Finch, behind me, said, “I beg your pardon, madam, there’s a gentleman here to see Mr. Henry.”

  “To see me? But I—” and got clipped again.

  “If you will excuse me, ladies,” I said, made some sort of bow, and followed Finch to the door.

  “Mr. Henry has spent the last two years in America,” I heard Tossie say as I left the room.

  “Ah,” Mrs. Chattisbourne said.

  Finch led me down the corridor and into the library, and pulled the door shut behind us.

  “I know, no swearing in the presence of ladies,” I said, rubbing my neck. “You didn’t have to hit me.”

  “I did not strike you for swearing, sir,” he said, “though you are quite right. You should not have done it in polite company.”

  “What did you hit me with anyway?” I said, feeling gingerly along my neckbone. “A blackjack?”

  “A salver, sir,” he said, pulling a lethal-looking silver tray out of his pocket. “I had no alternative, sir. I had to stop you.”

  “Stop me from what?” I said. “And what are you d
oing here anyway?”

  “I am here on an assignment for Mr. Dunworthy.”

  “What sort of an assignment? Were you sent to help Verity and me?”

  “No, sir,” he said.

  “Well, then, why are you here?”

  He looked uncomfortable. “I am not at liberty to say, sir, except that I am here on a . . .” he cast about for a word, “. . . related project. I am on a different time-track from you, and therefore have access to information you have not discovered yet. If I were to tell you, it might interfere with your mission, sir.”

  “And hitting me on the back of the neck isn’t interfering?” I said. “I think you’ve cracked a vertebra.”

  “I had to stop you, sir, from commenting on the cat’s condition,” he said. “In Victorian society, discussion of sex in mixed company was utterly taboo. It was not your fault that you did not know. You weren’t properly prepped. I told Mr. Dunworthy I thought sending you without training and in your condition was a bad idea, but he was adamant that you should be the one to return Princess Arjumand.”

  “He was?” I said. “Why?”

  “I am not at liberty to say, sir.”

  “And I wasn’t going to say anything about sex,” I protested. “All I intended to say was that the cat was preg—”

  “Or anything resulting from sex, sir, or relating to it in any way.” He lowered his voice and leaned toward me. “Girls were kept completely ignorant of the facts of life until their wedding night, when I’m afraid it proved a considerable shock to some of them. Women’s bosoms or figures were never mentioned, and their legs were referred to as limbs.”

  “So what should I have said? That the cat was expecting? In the club? In a family way?”

  “You should not have said anything at all on the subject. The fact of pregnancy in people and animals was studiously ignored. You shouldn’t have referred to it at all.”

  “And after they’re born and there are half a dozen kittens running all over the place, am I supposed to ignore that as well? Or ask if they were found under a cabbage leaf?”

  Finch looked uncomfortable. “That’s another reason, sir,” he said obscurely. “We don’t want to draw any more attention to the situation than necessary. We don’t want to cause another incongruity.”

  “Incongruity?” I said. “What are you talking about?”

  “I’m not at liberty to say. When you return to the morning room, I would refrain from all mention of the cat.”

  He truly did sound like Jeeves. “You’ve obviously been prepped,” I said admiringly. “When did you have time to learn so much about the Victorian era?”

  “I’m not at liberty to say,” he said, looking pleased. “But I can say I feel as though this is the job I was born to.”

  “Well, since you’re so good at it, tell me what I am supposed to say when I go back in there. Who am I supposed to say was here to see me?” I said. “I don’t know anyone here.”

  “It won’t be a problem, sir,” he said, opening the library door with a gloved hand.

  “Won’t be a problem? What do you mean? I’ll have to say something.”

  “No, sir. They will not care why you were called away, so long as it has afforded them the opportunity to discuss you in your absence.”

  “Discuss me?” I said, alarmed. “You mean as to my authenticity?”

  “No, sir,” he said, looking every inch the butler. “As to your marriageability.” He led me across the corridor, bowed slightly, and opened the door with a gloved hand.

  He was right. There was a sudden caught-out silence in the room, and then a spasm of giggles.

  Mrs. Chattisbourne said, “Tocelyn has just been telling us about your brush with death, Mr. Henry.”

  When I almost said “pregnant”? I wondered.

  “When your boat capsized,” Pansy said eagerly. “But I suppose it is nothing compared to your adventures in America.”

  “Have you ever been scalped?” Eglantine said.

  “Eglantine!” Mrs. Chattisbourne said.

  Finch appeared in the door. “I beg your pardon, madam,” he said, “but will Miss Mering and Mr. Henry be staying to lunch?”

  “Oh, do stay, Mr. Henry!” the girls chimed. “We want to hear all about America!”

  I spent lunch regaling them with a story of stagecoaches and tomahawks I’d stolen from Nineteenth-Century lectures I wished now I’d paid more attention to, and watching Finch. He signalled the proper utensil to use by whispering, “The fork with the three tines,” in my ear as he set the courses in front of me and by signalling discreetly from the sideboard as! I held their attention with lines like, “That night sitting round the campfire, we could hear their tomtoms in the darkness, beating, beating, beating.” (Giggles.)

  After lunch, Iris, Rose, and Pansy begged us to stay for a game of charades, but Tossie said we must go, and carefully relocked her diary and put it, not in the basket, but in her reticule. “Oh, but can’t you stay for just a short while?” Pansy Chattisbourne begged.

  Tossie said we still had to pick up contributions from the vicar’s, for which I was grateful. I had had hock and claret at lunch and that, combined with the currant cordial and the residual effects of time-lag, made me want nothing but a long afternoon nap.

  “Shall we see you at the fete, Mr. Henry?” Iris said, giggling.

  I’m afraid so, I thought, hoping the vicar’s wasn’t far.

  It wasn’t, but first we had to stop at the Widow Wallace’s (for a sauceboat and a banjo missing two strings), the Middle-marches’ (a teapot with the spout broken off, a vinegar cruet, and a game of Authors missing several cards), and Miss Stiggins’s (a bird cage, a set of four statuettes representing the Fates, a copy of Through the Looking Glass, a fish slice, and a ceramic thimble inscribed “Souvenir of Margate”).

  Since the Chattisbournes had already given us a hat pin holder, a cushion with crewelwork violets and sweet peas, an egg boiler, and a cane with a carved dog’s head, the basket was already nearly full, and I had no idea how I was going to carry it all home. Luckily, all the vicar had to donate was a large cracked gilt-framed mirror.

  “I will send Baine for it,” Tossie said and we started back.

  The walk home was a repeat of the walk there, except that I was more laden and a good deal more tired. Tossie prattled on about Juju and “bwave, bwave Tewence,” and I thought about how glad I was my name didn’t begin with a “C,” and focused on finding a hammock.

  Baine met us at the end of the drive and relieved me of my basket, and Cyril came running out to greet me. His unfortunate tendency to tilt to port, however, brought him up to Tossie’s feet, and she began to cry, “O naughty, naughty, bad creature!” and emit little screamlets.

  “Come here, Cyril, boy!” I called, clapping my hands, and he ambled over happily, wagging his whole body. “Did you miss me, boy?”

  “What, ho, the travellers return,” Terence called, waving from the lawn. “‘Back to the white walls of their long-left home.’ You’re just in time. Baine is setting up the wickets for a croquet match.”

  “A croquet match!” Tossie cried. “What fun!” and ran up to change her clothes.

  “A croquet match?” I said to Verity, who was watching Baine pound stakes into the grass.

  “It was this or lawn tennis,” Verity said, “which I was afraid you hadn’t been prepped in.”

  “I haven’t been prepped in croquet either,” I said, looking at the banded wooden mallets.

  “It’s a very simple game,” Verity said, handing me a yellow ball. “You hit the ball through the wickets with a mallet. How did this morning go?”

  “I was once a scout with Buffalo Bill,” I said, “and I’m engaged to Pansy Chattisbourne.”

  She didn’t smile. “What did you find out about Mr. C?”

  “Elliott Chattisbourne’s not coming home for another eight months,” I said. I explained how I’d asked her about the chap whose name I’d forgotten. “She couldn’t think
of anyone it might be. But that’s not the most interesting thing I—”

  Tossie came running over in a pink-and-white peppermint-striped sailor dress and a large pink bow, holding Princess Arjumand in her arms. “Juju does so love to watch the balls,” she said, setting her on the ground.

  “And bat them,” Verity said. “Mr. Henry and I shall be partners,” she said. “And you and Mr. St. Trewes.”

  “Mr. St. Trewes, we are to be partners,” she cried, running over to where Terence was supervising Baine.

  “I thought the object was to keep Tossie and Terence apart,” I said.

  “It is,” Verity said, “but I have to talk to you.”

  “And I have to talk to you,” I said. “You’ll never guess who I saw over at the Chattisbournes’. Finch.”

  “Finch?” she said blankly. “Mr. Dunworthy’s secretary?”

  I nodded. “He’s their butler.”

  “What’s he doing here?”

  “He wouldn’t tell me. He said it was ‘a related project,’ and that he couldn’t tell me without interfering with ours.”

  “Are you ready?” Tossie called from the stake.

  “Nearly,” Verity said. “All right. The rules of the game are perfectly simple. You score points by hitting your ball through a course of six wickets twice, the four outside hoops, the center hoops, then back again in the opposite direction. Each turn is one stroke. If your ball goes through the wicket you get a continuation stroke. If your ball hits another ball, you get a croquet stroke and a continuation stroke, but if your ball goes through two hoops in one stroke, you only get one stroke. After you hit a ball, you can’t hit it again till you’ve gone through your next hoop, except for the first hoop. If you hit a ball you’ve hit, you lose your turn.”

  “Are you ready?” Tossie called.

  “Nearly,” Verity said to her. “ Those are the boundaries,” she said to me, pointing with her mallet, “North, South, East, and West. That’s the yard line, and that’s the baulk line. Is all that clear?”

  “Perfectly,” I said. “Which color am I?”

  “Red,” she said. “You start from the baulk line.”