Quoits and Quotability

by William Stafford

  “That was always your trouble, Fanny. You could never take a joke.”

  “True,” Aunt Fanny muttered. “That is why I never married.”

  Quentin found his head turning from side to side, like a spectator at a tennis match as his father and aunt discussed his life as though he were not present.

  “Proud of the boy!” barked the Squire.

  “All men should marry,” Aunt Fanny was dismissive.

  “For winning the tournament! He has Quigley blood in his veins all right.”

  “Were you in any doubt, father?”

  But Quentin’s question went unheard and unanswered.

  “So very proud. Never thought I would ever say that.”

  Charming, thought Quentin, sensing his appetite wither and die.

  “The games are over and done with,” sneered Aunt Fanny. “Marriage is serious business.”

  “But a ball ought to be fun, Aunt?” Quentin ventured. Aunt Fanny suppressed a shudder.

  “The ball is a necessary evil. It is what is expected and it is the most effective means of broadcasting your engagement to Miss Shaver. I myself shall not attend.”

  “That is a pity, Aunt.” Quentin did not even attempt to suppress a smirk.

  “Blast it, Fanny!” the Squire slapped the table. “You shall be there, confound you, for the toast at the very least.”

  Aunt Fanny looked startled - but only for a second. She pursed her lips. “As you wish, brother.” She rose and left both the table and the room.

  “I daresay she’s been ruling the roost with a rod of iron while I’ve been laid up. She’s a starchy old bird but she means well enough, I suppose.”

  “Does she?”

  The Squire laughed. “You may not see it now with your young peepers but there is more to my sister than meets the eye. Now, ring for Birkworth to fetch the brandy for we must toast your victory.”

  Quentin tugged the sash. Almost instantly, the butler appeared, decanter at the ready.

  “To you, my boy!” the Squire held his brandy balloon aloft. “To quoits! And the game of life!”

  But Quentin was not thinking of any of these things as he sipped the warming liquid. His thoughts were of Roderick and his midnight ride. Father might well be right: there may be more to the starchy old bird than he himself realised.

  ***

  Subsequent days followed a pattern. Miss Shaver, after elevenses would join Quentin in the games room where the billiards table had been commandeered for the purpose of planning for the ball. Charts and lists vied for space with schedules and itineraries, detailing foodstuffs and wines to be ordered, musicians to be engaged, extra staff to be brought in - it was going to be the social event of the year.

  Miss Shaver was running through the guest list, which was already longer than her arm. “Are you sure this is everyone? There appear to be far more Shavers than Quigleys on the list.”

  “We are not what you might call a fertile bunch,” said Quentin. “My brothers have yet to spawn.”

  “Oh, dear!” Miss Shaver laughed. “Then it falls to you to produce an heir.”

  Quentin was mortified, which only made Miss Shaver laugh all the more.

  “Although I suppose your eldest brother...”

  “Reginald.”

  “Reginald stands to inherit.”

  “In the normal run of things, yes, but it is tradition in this family for whomever is the first to produce offspring to get the lot. Father says it inspires competition between siblings and ensures that the next generation is not long in appearing.”

  “Really? Working out well, isn’t it?” scoffed Miss Shaver. “So, your own father inherited because he beat your Aunt Fanny in the breeding stakes.”

  “There was no contest,” Quentin laughed. “You have met my Aunt Fanny.”

  “Yes, but even she must at one time have been young and possibly not unhandsome.”

  “My Aunt Fanny? Barge poles shrivel at her approach.”

  They shared a laugh at Aunt Fanny’s expense and then Miss Shaver brought Quentin’s attention back to the guest list. “Are you sure there is no one you wish to add?”

  “I can think of no one.”

  “No one from the village, perhaps?”

  “No.”

  “Not even the postmaster? Where would you be without his parcel service bringing you the latest fashions Parisiennes?”

  “He’s a tradesman!” Quentin gasped.

  “There is no shame in that. They are on the up, you know. Merchants and shopkeepers; that is where the money is.”

  Quentin was appalled. “No, no! I cannot allow it! I am sure Master Scroggins is a worthy fellow but to have him at the house, at my party! It is beyond the pale.”

  Miss Shaver looked far from amused. “You really are the most frightful snob, Quentin - Quentin.”

  “Then perhaps we should cancel.”

  “What?”

  “The party! The engagement! Everything!”

  “Let us not be hasty,” Miss Shaver kept her temper. “The arrangement suits us both, remember. We must continue with the whole charade.”

  Quentin’s shoulders slumped. “I feel so trapped,” he said quietly. “Trapped by everything.”

  “As do I,” said Miss Shaver. “But this union offers us a modicum of freedom.” She exhaled in capitulation. “Very well: no postmaster at the feast. So I suppose that means no doctor either?”

  Quentin snatched the paper and scoured the rows of names. Doctor Goodhead was indeed listed and must remain so.

  “Is he not a tradesman?” Miss Shaver said archly.

  “He is a professional!” Quentin cried. “And furthermore, a friend - to the family.”

  Miss Shaver watched her fiancé intently as he catalogued the superior qualities and qualifications of Doctor Goodhead.

  “Of course he must come! And I shall be honoured to dance with him.”

  Quentin was stunned. “What?”

  “I shall dance with the men and you the ladies. That is what happens at a ball.”

  Quentin slumped across the billiard table with his hands over his head. Miss Shaver took a tentative step toward him but stopped short of placing a hand on his shoulder.

  “What if...” she ventured, “What if we make it a masquerade? A masked ball?”

  Quentin stiffened. He looked up. “What mean you?”

  “I mean, my muddle-headed fiancé, if everyone is costumed and masked, no one shall know who is dancing with whom.”

  Quentin sprang upright, his face split by a grin. “I could kiss you!” he declared.

  “Please don’t.”

  Quaff

  “My heart is set upon it, Aunt,” Quentin informed her at breakfast. “It shall be a masked ball or no ball at all.”

  “But the expense!” Aunt Fanny looked stricken. “I have already ordered the invitations.”

  “Then the order must be revised. I shall ride out - I mean, I shall go to the printers myself with the necessary amendments.”

  Aunt Fanny eyed her nephew warily. “That horse of yours. I have not heard you invoke his name much of late.”

  “For I know how it offends you,” Quentin had his answer prepared. “In fact, Lottie - that is to say, Miss Shaver - has already suggested a modification of his moniker to ‘Satin’. How do you like that?”

  “Miss Shaver is undeniably a smart young lady but it is not my opinion of her that matters. It is what you think of her that is important.”

  “I think she is top-hole!”

  Aunt Fanny grimaced. “I hope you are not being vulgar, nephew.”

  At that point, the Squire came in; he had taken to walking with a stick and rather enjoyed the dignified air it lent him, along with the add
itional benefits of always having a weapon to hand.

  “Good morning, both!” His good humour evaporated when he saw the denuded silver salvers on the sideboard. “Is there no more pound cake? Ring the bell, my boy; have Birkworth bring more pound cake. And another quart of ale while he is about it.”

  “Apologies, Father,” Quentin got to his feet and dropped his napkin on his plate. “I have a printing press to prevent.”

  With that he made his exit, leaving his father to bemoan what a pretty thing it is for there to be a dearth of cakes and ale for a man’s breakfast in his own house.

  ***

  Quentin went to the stables to seek Francis. With Satan still absent, an alternative means of transport was necessary.

  “It’s no problem, sir. I have rigged up the phaeton in readiness, sir.”

  Quentin was amazed. The stable boy always seemed to predict his every need, his every move. He narrowed his eyes in suspicion but declared the phaeton to be satisfactory.

  “I shall drive it myself,” he announced. “Bring it to the yard.”

  “Oh, sir, I don’t think that is a good idea - you driving it, I mean. Mabel tends to be skittish, especially with folk she doesn’t know.”

  “Then hitch another horse.”

  Francis looked at the floor; his toe shifted stray strands of straw. “I’m afraid I can’t do that, sir.”

  “Why not, pray?”

  “Because there are no others suited to the task.”

  “What are you talking about? This place is chockfull of horses.”

  “Not any more, sir.”

  “I ask again, what are you talking about?”

  Francis gestured at the rows of stalls. Quentin noticed at last that most of them were empty. He darted from stall to stall.

  “But - where? Are there horse thieves abroad?”

  “Not exactly, sir. Your Aunt...”

  Quentin was aghast. “That woman! What has she done?”

  “She has been selling them off, sir. On the sly. One by one.”

  “Has she indeed! To whom?”

  “I don’t know, sir. Gypsies, perhaps.”

  Quentin paled. He steadied himself against a post. “I must have this out with that woman at once.”

  “Yes, sir - but weren’t you heading somewhere urgently?”

  “Hang it all! The printers! Ah, I suppose Aunt Fanny can wait. My one consolation is that Satan is not here to be sold out from under my nose. Gypsies!”

  “I’ll bring Mabel out at once, sir, and I shall drive the phaeton to the printers, sir.”

  “Very well; I don’t suppose there is much else to occupy you around here. You are an attentive and dutiful servant, Francis.”

  “Thank you, sir. Bless you, sir.”

  ***

  Throughout the drive, Quentin fretted. He gnawed at his cuticles and swore under his breath. Francis held his tongue, ensuring that Mabel, a dun mare on her last legs, behaved herself and kept the carriage from turning over in a ditch.

  They passed through Little Quigley. Postmaster Scroggins tipped his hat, intrigued to see two young men so similar in build riding together, but Quentin studiously ignored him. Doctor Goodhead gave a hearty wave; Quentin turned in his seat to bid him good morning. He spent the rest of the journey to Quigley Magna in better humour; Francis did not fail to notice but held his tongue.

  “I can go in, if you like, sir,” the stable boy offered. They had pulled up outside the printing shop of Jobson and Sons Ltd. “I can handle tradesmen.”

  “As can I!” Quentin was offended. “You forget I am born to it.”

  “No danger of that, sir,” Francis smirked. “Need help getting down?”

  “Of course not!” Quentin snapped. He made an inelegant job of descending from the carriage to the street. Francis tried not to laugh. Quentin scowled at him and then, turning, stuck his nose in the air. He pushed open the door, causing a bell to ring overhead.

  A moment later, the bell rang again and Quentin emerged from the shop, looking flustered and enraged. “The impertinence!” he snarled.

  “Is there a problem, sir?”

  “Whatever makes you think that?” Quentin snapped. Francis flinched. He hopped down from the phaeton. “Keep your eye on, Mabel, sir. I’ll sort it out.”

  “But-”

  But Francis had gone. The bell rang as though to commence a sparring contest. Quentin felt his anger subside into embarrassment. He felt exposed, standing in the street, minding a mare as though he were the lowly stable boy. No, better to wait in the carriage, for the sake of appearances. He climbed rather clumsily into the seat. Mabel took this as her cue to trot on. Quentin tumbled backwards and had to hold onto his hat as the horse picked up speed.

  “Mabel! Stop!” he cried. He reached for the reins but they were trailing on the ground. Mabel took his raised voice as a spur and accelerated accordingly. “No! You stupid beast!” Quentin cried. The stupid beast picked up more speed. Pedestrians and other carts had to take evasive action. Fists were shaken and voices raised in Quentin’s wake as the phaeton tore through the town, creating havoc and alarm everywhere it went. Quentin hung onto the sides of the vehicle, his back pressed against the upholstery. “Mabel! Mabel!” he cried and the horse galloped faster still.

  This is it! Quentin’s thoughts raced as fast as the horse’s hooves. This is how I meet my end. O, I am too young and pretty to die and as yet unpublished! Cruel fate! O, cruel, cruel!

  The carriage was careering toward the river. Mabel seemed hell-bent on taking herself and her passenger for a dip. To drown! How horrid! To leave a bloated corpse! And my outfit will be ruined! Quentin closed his eyes, crossed his forearms in front of his face and waited for the water’s cold embrace to envelop him.

  Instead there was a high-pitched whistle and Mabel came to an abrupt halt; Quentin was thrown forwards but managed to remain in the phaeton, albeit in an overturned heap of limbs. He cursed and righted himself. Francis was feeding carrots to the runaway horse and stroking her neck.

  “That monster tried to kill me!” Quentin roared.

  “I’d keep my voice down if I were you, sir,” Francis whispered. “Unless you want a repeat performance.”

  Quentin clamped his mouth shut and sat down again. His hat was in the river. He mourned its loss but cheered himself with the thought of being able to order a new one direct from Paris. Francis climbed up and, reins in hand, clicked his tongue. Mabel began the slow trot back to Quigley Manor, the incident already, as far as she was concerned, forgotten.

  “I suppose you require thanks,” Quentin grumbled ungraciously.

  “For what, sir?”

  “For saving my neck from that maniacal animal’s rampage. You have a way with the horses, I must own. You must have been born to it.”

  “Fact is, sir,” Francis shrugged, “I don’t know what or who I was born to. The stables is all I’ve ever known.”

  “Oh, yes, that’s right,” Quentin recalled the family history. “You’re a foundling. How exotic!”

  “Not in my book, sir. I could have perished, being left in the stables like that. But your family was kind enough to take me in and let me stay on. I’ve had to earn my keep, of course, and I wouldn’t have it any other way, sir.”

  “But don’t you wonder about your provenance? Your parents? Whence you came?”

  “Not really, sir,” Francis gave a sniff. “My mother didn’t want me, sir, so I’m not going to waste any heartache wanting her.”

  “I suppose not, no.”

  They trundled along in an amicable if reflective silence along with sunlight twinkling between the leaves on the boughs as they passed beneath the canopy of the trees that lined the route. A couple of miles passed beneath hooves and wheels before Francis spoke up, seeming to
remember something.

  “I sorted out yon printer, sir,” Francis announced when they had left town and Quentin was able to relax a little, away from the gaze of observers. “The order shall be ready tomorrow.”

  “You are a miracle worker!”

  “Not exactly; I just talk to them as if they were people, sir. Which is what they are. I told them to add the word ‘masquerade’ to your invitation, sir. And they were happy to oblige, sir - and for only a five per cent increase in the overall cost.”

  “Five per cent! That band of robbers!”

  “You do want the invitations printed, sir? And they had already made a start on the original design.”

  Quentin sat back and crossed his arms. “Five per cent,” he muttered. “Well, you needn’t think I shall be wasting an expensive invitation on you. You’re not coming.”

  “Oh, but I am, sir. I’ve been engaged as a waiter for the evening, sir.”

  Quentin closed his eyes and shook his head. “Well, have a wash at least. And keep an eye on my glass. Never let it get empty.”

  “I’ll keep my eye out, sir,” Francis grinned. “Don’t you worry about that. Hup, Mabel!”

  ***

  Quentin had Birkworth fill him a bath. He needed to relax and unwind after the fright brought about by Mabel. Then, he promised, he would confront Aunt Fanny at dinner and demand to know why she had been selling off the horses and Lord knows what else. Were the family finances in such dire straits? Ought he to hold off ordering a new hat to replace the one that went down the river?

  No!

  Aunt Fanny was up to no good; he was sure of it.

  He rose from the tub and towelled off in front of the fire, admiring his form in a full-length mirror. Skin of alabaster, cheekbones that could cut glass... Lottie was a lucky woman indeed! He laughed bitterly and felt a pang of guilt for continuing with the deception. Oughtn’t he to call it off before it became legal and binding? Was it not tantamount to fraud, conning Lady Shaver out of a not insubstantial dowry?

  Ah, finances again! It always came down to money. Aunt Fanny was pressing for the union to take place to bolster the Quigley purse.

  Aunt Fanny again! Since when had she been so embroiled in the accounts?