Proper English

by KJ Charles

  “I’m sorry, what?” Bill demanded from the front seat, loud enough for her to hear over the wind and engine noise. “What do you mean, she’s here?”

  “She’s my fiancée, dammit. She said she wanted to come. I could hardly refuse.”

  “So you’ll be dancing attendance on her for the duration,” Bill said, with clear resentment. “Fine.”

  Pat turned to look out over the moorland again, angling her head so the wind prevented her from overhearing anything more. She wasn’t happy to hear Bill being like this. His disappointment was understandable if he had been looking forward to a dedicated shooting holiday, but one had to respect the sanctity of marriage, it was Jimmy’s affair, and mostly, she would prefer Bill met Miss Carruth before coming to conclusions about her. This wasn’t worthy of the brother she respected. Maybe she ought to take his airy remarks about a nerve-storm seriously; he sounded as though he were fraying around the edges.

  A forty-minute drive brought them to Rodington Court. This was a large, aggressively defensive sixteenth-century building in solid yellow-tinted stone, squat and square. It was clearly built to protect against marauding Scots, the weather, or both. Jimmy brought the car up the drive with panache, and leapt out to open the door for Pat. “It’s almost six. Come on in. I’ll show you around the grounds tomorrow once you’re settled.”

  Pat stood for a moment, absorbing her surroundings. Rodington Court stood on high ground, and the land stretched grey-green-gold around them, empty for miles barring shepherds’ huts and the odd stone fence, rising to faint mountains in the distance. “It’s lovely here.”

  “It is, isn’t it.” Jimmy was at her shoulder. “Come on, old thing, no roaming off into the blue yonder quite yet. It’s not long till dinner.”

  THE HOUSE WAS DARK inside, its thick walls pierced by narrow and insufficient windows. They’d conserve heat in winter, no doubt, but the effect in high summer was rather gloomy. Pat was allotted a bedroom along a first-floor corridor in the West Wing.

  “We’re all in the West Wing,” Jimmy explained as he escorted her there, carrying her case. Evidently the footmen were busy. “Easier for the staff if they don’t have to run all over the house. If I had my way we’d shut the East Wing altogether, but there. Ladies and family are on the first floor, gentlemen on the second.”

  “Ladies?” Pat asked. “Your fiancée?”

  “And the rest.” Jimmy rolled his eyes. “We’ve an absolute houseful. My sister and her husband have come for the summer, bringing a guest, Mother’s goddaughter has extended her stay, and yes, my fiancée is here. It’s like Piccadilly Circus.”

  That was deeply unwelcome news. Pat would have thought twice about accepting the invitation if she’d known it would involve intimacy with so many strangers, and the presence of other ladies might make it awkward for her to be a gun. Not that she cared particularly, but open disapproval would make everyone else uncomfortable. “The more the merrier?” she offered, trying to hide her disappointment.

  “I dare say.” Jimmy didn’t sound enthusiastic himself. “Here’s your room. There will be a maid up in a moment. We’re a little short-handed what with five unexpected people, so my apologies for that.”

  “I could send for someone from home, if you need?”

  “Not at all. We’ll manage.”

  Her allotted bedroom was panelled in old wood, dark and heavy, with a carved bedframe. Light was flooding in through the small window now, but it would be gloomy in the mornings. There wasn’t even a gas-mantel, merely candlesticks and an oil lamp. No doubt bringing gas up here would be prohibitively expensive. Perhaps they could go straight to electricity, if Miss Carruth’s father was generous enough.

  As promised, a maid knocked at the door after a few moments, bringing hot water and offering help with dressing. Pat didn’t need much assistance: she had no intention of lacing herself into an S-shaped silhouette with a pigeon-chest, her waist squeezed to nothing, and her bottom jutting out in the name of health. Her evening gowns were not fashionably low-cut, since she had no glittering jewels to display, and not a great deal of bosom to display them on. She put on her mother’s turquoise necklace with a simple blue-grey gown that the maid clearly found disappointing, allowed the enthusiastic girl to pin her hair into loops, and went downstairs as a huge clock boomed seven.

  The drawing-room was an improvement on the hall in terms of light, offering a good-sized window with a view across the landscape. Bill was already there, talking to an attractive Indian woman. She had black hair and dark brown eyes, and wore a striking dark red gown with a necklace that looked like amber across a modest décolletage.

  “Ah, Pat,” Bill said. “Miss Singh, please let me introduce my sister, Patricia Merton. Pat, Miss Singh, Lady Witton’s god-daughter.”

  They exchanged the usual politenesses. Miss Singh had an oval face, strong features, and marks on her nose that suggested a spectacle-wearer.

  “Are you come up from London?” Pat asked.

  “Yes, I live in Knightsbridge. And you?”

  “Outside Ludlow, quite in the countryside.”

  They made conversation about that. Miss Singh was somewhat abrupt in her answers, in the way shy people often were, but seemed pleasant enough in their brief chat until the next pair entered: a tall man in his late thirties with sleek chestnut hair and a well-clipped moustache, and a very thin woman with fair hair and prominent facial bones, tightly corseted in the most fashionable style. They were introduced as Lady Anna Haworth, Jimmy’s sister, and her husband, Mr. Maurice Haworth. The latter greeted the other guests with great bonhomie, including Pat.

  “Ah, Miss Merton, the lady shooter! Do I understand you’ll be making one of the guns on Monday?”

  “I will, yes.”

  “You shoot?” Miss Singh asked, sounding startled.

  “Pat is the All-England Ladies’ Champion,” Bill said. “That’s target shooting, of course.”

  “As the competition demands,” Pat put in for avoidance of doubt. “I’m here for partridge.”

  “You’ll be shooting to kill?” Mr. Haworth asked.

  “That...is the idea, yes.”

  “I ask because some ladies have a horror of the sight of blood,” the gentleman observed. “Poor little bunny rabbits, you know, poor persecuted foxes.”

  “I’m not squeamish.”

  “I must say, that shows rare nerve for a lady,” Mr. Haworth replied with a smile. “Anna never picks up a gun; she prefers to hunt other game. And you, Miss Singh? Are you an aspiring shot? Tigers back home, perhaps?”

  “I don’t kill animals, for sport or any other reason,” Miss Singh said, voice tight. “I am a member of the Society for Prevention of Cruelty to Animals.”

  Oh Lord, a fanatic. Pat cast about for something to say, but Mr. Haworth got in first. “So you oppose hunting. How very interesting. Is that on religious grounds?”

  “It is a moral stance based on my views of how animals should be treated.”

  “But your convictions nevertheless allow you to attend a shooting party?” Mr. Haworth raised a brow. “How very flexible.”

  “I should hope we can visit one another without sharing every one of our beliefs with our hosts,” Bill said. “Look, here’s Preston.”

  Maurice Haworth’s mouth tightened slightly, but he turned with the rest of them to greet the two men who entered. The elder, who looked to be in his early thirties, was impeccably dressed and strikingly good-looking; the younger was a rugged sort with a face that suggested he’d done a lot of boxing and mostly lost. They were introduced as Jack Bouvier-Lynes, the handsome one, who kissed each lady’s hand with great style, and Preston Keynes, the pleasantly ugly one, who offered inarticulate but enthusiastic congratulations on Pat’s sporting triumph.

  “Marvellous stuff, awfully good. Heard all about you. Looking forward to seeing you handle a gun, if I may say so.”

  “Thanks,” Pat said. “What do you shoot for partridge?”

  That top
ic, about which any shooter could talk for days, instantly removed all constraint. She and Mr. Keynes talked animatedly for several minutes about Holland and Holland shotguns, Farquharson sporting rifles, and the best ammunition to use in each. Around them Mr. Bouvier-Lynes and Mr. Haworth stood with Lady Anna, while Bill chatted to Miss Singh, and the odd feeling of tension in the room ebbed away. Pat was just in the middle of describing a particularly tricky shot with which she’d taken a rocketing pheasant last season when the sound of approaching feet echoed on stone, and the final members of the party entered.

  The Earl and Countess of Witton were a pleasant if not greatly distinguished pair, he an elderly man with a slightly harried look and an expansive moustache, she a comfortably-built woman in her late fifties. Jimmy was with them, looking as if he’d been squeezed into his evening dress, and on his arm was the loveliest girl Pat had ever seen.

  Miss Fenella Carruth was irresistible. She had brown hair that the candlelight picked out in glints of copper, bronze, and gold, and big sparkling pansy-brown eyes in a heart-shaped face made for laughter. She wore a gown that even Pat could tell was desperately fashionable and which had obviously been tailored to display a delightfully plump figure to its best advantage without squeezing her into a wasp waist, a task to which no whalebone could have been equal. The gown, of a soft pink, was adorned with a profusion of bows and lace that would have looked absurd on Pat and suited Miss Carruth to perfection. She had plenty of bosom on display, and plenty of jewellery on it, a three-stringed necklace of rose-coloured stones that glittered over her fair skin. Her hair was beautifully dressed in artful ringlets, her rounded arms were adorned by bracelets; she looked like the kind of woman that angular, plain Pat could never have been, and had never particularly wanted to be. She’d never aspired to turn heads; she truly didn’t think she was jealous of those who did.

  But oh, she ached at the sight of Fenella Carruth, lovely in the candlelight.

  Pat evidently wasn’t the only one struck. Mr. Keynes’ ears had gone red and his gaze was fixed on Miss Carruth’s bosom. Bill’s face was set. Mr. Haworth was smiling, not entirely pleasantly, and so was Mr. Bouvier-Lynes with open admiration, and Pat saw Lady Anna’s nostrils flare slightly as she looked from one to the other.

  Miss Carruth didn’t seem to notice being the cynosure of all eyes, or perhaps she was used to it. She dimpled as the various introductions were made, and hung on Jimmy’s arm looking delightfully happy to be there. That was marvellous because Jimmy deserved a laughing young lady with sparkling brown eyes and glorious curves. Pat was thrilled for them both.

  She said as much when she was introduced to Miss Carruth, who gave a little trill of excitement. “Mr. Merton’s sister? How wonderful! Jimmy’s talked so much about you both, I feel as though I know you already. Jimmy went to university with your brother, didn’t he? And he tells me that you’re a champion shot!” She looked around to Jimmy for confirmation, and seemed slightly startled to realised he’d slipped away to speak to Bill.

  “That’s right. I won a competition.”

  “And you’ll really be shooting with the men on Monday?” Miss Carruth’s eyes rounded dramatically.

  “Yes. That’s why I’m here. For shooting. I like it.” Pat felt ludicrously wooden next to this bundle of excitability.

  “But isn’t it terribly loud? All the bangs, and walking for miles, and the mud—not that you need to worry about mud in this weather of course—but the poor birds. To think of those treetops full of empty nests, the babies cheeping for their mothers—”

  “Partridges nest on the ground,” Pat felt compelled to observe. “And it’s illegal to shoot in breeding season. And the chicks leave the nest within hours of hatching anyway.”

  “Oh. Oh, well, that’s better, isn’t it?”

  “Uh, probably.” Miss Carruth seemed to have a great deal of enthusiasm, but less behind the sparkling eyes than one might have hoped. Pat, who liked silence, couldn’t help a sinking feeling at the idea of three weeks of social fluttering. “If you’re asking about the morality of shooting animals, Miss Singh might be the right woman for the conversation. I’m very happy to hunt, and to eat what I kill.”

  “Oh, I adore partridge,” Miss Carruth assured her. “Daddy’s cook does the breasts with a delicious cream and mushroom sauce.”

  “Well, someone has to shoot those partridges before the sauce goes on, and I see no reason it shouldn’t be me.” Pat sounded a little aggressive in her own ears, but Miss Carruth let out a chirp of laughter.

  “But imagine if they didn’t. Partridges strutting all over the plate while the cook chases them with a ladle of cream sauce!”

  “‘I said I wanted it served rare, but this is ridiculous,’” Pat offered in a tone of dowager’s complaint. Miss Carruth shrieked.

  Jimmy came over, smiling, though he looked tense. “I’m glad you two are getting on. Since we’re an informal gathering, I thought we’d mix up precedence at dinner. Pat, I wonder if I can entrust you to Preston.”

  Pat duly took Mr. Keynes’ arm and they went in to dinner. The dining room was a very large, echoing space amid imposing wood-panelled walls hung with faded and motheaten tapestries. It caught some of the golden evening light now; it would be dark and cold at dinner for perhaps eight months of the year. It did not look like the future home of frothy, giggling Fenella Carruth at all.

  They took their seats. The table was inevitably unbalanced, due to the odd number and informal make-up of the party, with two sets of brothers and sisters to be separated plus the married couple. The Earl had his place at one end of the table and the Countess at the other. Pat sat between Preston Keynes and Jimmy; Miss Singh was opposite her, seated between Maurice Haworth and the handsome Jack Bouvier-Lynes. Pat felt, on the whole, that she preferred her own seatmates.

  The dinner started pleasantly enough. Jimmy was talking to Miss Carruth, on his right, so Pat could happily carry on her conversation about shooting with Mr. Keynes. The Earl, at the head of the table, took advantage of the party’s informality to join in their argument over the comparative difficulty of partridge, pheasant, and grouse, and did so with gusto. Pat was thoroughly enjoying herself by the time the meat course was brought in, a hearty dish of beef. Her attention was entirely on the Earl’s hunting anecdote, until Maurice Haworth’s voice cut through the general buzz of conversation.

  “Hey there. You’ve forgotten Miss Singh’s beef.”

  The servant looked round. Miss Singh said, calmly, “No, he has not. Thank you.” That was to the footman, not Mr. Haworth. “I am a vegetarian. I don’t eat meat.”

  “Of course you don’t. I must have forgotten.” Mr. Haworth wore a tiny smile. “We are blessed by our considerate hosts, aren’t we? Nothing is too much trouble when it comes to their guests’ little idiosyncrasies.”

  Pat heard an intake of breath from somewhere from down the table, and Miss Singh’s cheeks darkened at that suggestion she was causing unnecessary trouble. The Earl’s face was tense, but he didn’t say anything, and nor did the Countess.

  Well. It was an informal gathering; one could surely speak across the table. Pat said, “My father would have called that the highest possible praise for any host. His sole rule for hospitality was that every guest should feel comfortable in behaving as though they were at home. Of course, if we did that, Bill and I would be rendering the table hideous with constant bickering.”

  That got a general laugh. Bill said, “Sadly true. You’re very brave to invite a brother and sister, Lord Witton.”

  “You’re all most welcome,” the Earl said. “Every one.”

  Maurice Haworth was still smiling. Pat found she didn’t much like his smiles. “No matter how unconventional. It is delightful to see so many young ladies unconcerned with following the old-fashioned rules of behaviour. Alarming for we men, but I suppose it’s terribly outdated to be concerned with a husband now. At least Miss Carruth prefers to follow my wife’s example, not that of Misses Merton and
Singh.” He leaned forward to look across the table at Miss Carruth. “You’re a maid meant to marry, eh? Or so Jimmy must hope.”

  “I suppose that’s Shakespeare? You’re terribly clever, Mr. Haworth.” Pat was on the same side of the table as Miss Carruth, so couldn’t see her without craning, but her voice rang with ingenuous admiration. Apparently the little simpleton didn’t realise she was being insulted. “But I don’t think I am old-fashioned.”

  “I’ve heard that about you,” Haworth said with a smile. “They say you’re very dashing. Always looking for the newest thing.”

  Miss Carruth giggled, a musical peal, as though he’d uttered a joke rather than a flagrant piece of spite. Pat flashed a look up and down the table. The Earl was scarlet, the Countess frozen, both silent. Lady Anna looked like a marble statue, as though she couldn’t hear a word; Jack Bouvier-Lynes’s expression was fixed in a slight smile; Jimmy to her right was rigid and silent. None of them spoke.

  What on earth?

  She took a breath, but Miss Singh spoke first, quite calm. “I should call Miss Merton the most modern of us all, as a sporting champion. Tell me, Miss Merton, are you allowed to compete on equal terms with the men?”

  “We’re not,” Pat said. “An absurdity, since there can be no question of physical inequality in target shooting. I should very much like to see mixed competitions.”

  “Allow us our delusions,” Bill said. “You’d trounce us all.”

  “What a loyal brother,” Mr. Haworth said. “But I suspect Miss Merton is not among the usual run of womankind.”