Quoits and Quotability

by William Stafford

  Quentin’s mouth fell open. After a considerable interval, Francis asked, “Will that be all right, sir?”

  Quentin roused himself. “Yes, yes. I have no wish to lose another hat to that river. And Doctor Goodhead is coming here, you say?”

  “I would stake my life upon it.”

  Quentin’s eyes narrowed; he was never sure whether the stable boy was mocking him. “Be off!” he snapped. Francis bowed and nipped into the stables. Momentarily at a loss, Quentin stepped in one direction and then another. He was loath to return to the house: the aunt, the brother, and the sister-in-law were in there and Quentin could manage without the awkwardness. Nor did he wish to stray too far from the main building lest he miss the doctor’s visit. He considered sneaking back to his room but anyone who might be looking for him was bound to seek him there. He elected instead to steal into the library. In there were plenty of nooks and corners that would serve as hiding places and, in a flash of acute self-awareness, he realised that no one would ever suspect that was where he might be found.

  Things shall be very different, he vowed, when my three-volume novel is published to great acclaim and I am viewed the whole world over as the erudite man of letters I undoubtedly am, and people shall quote my words for their wit and insight into human nature.

  Ah, yes! The three-volume novel. Prior to publication there was the onerous task of penning the confounded thing. If only he could receive inspiration from somewhere! If only his muse were not the laziest being in the whole of creation who, in absentia, left his poor imagination to fend for itself.

  In the library, the walls were lined with the outpourings of the minds of others. The embossed spines of so many leather-bound volumes mocked him in a silence pregnant with words. Ah, books! Where is your power if no one reads you?

  He crept around the building and entered the kitchen via the tradesmen’s entrance. Birkworth was enjoying a well-earned cup of tea. Quentin pressed a finger to his lips as a signal to the butler to say nothing. Birkworth remained implacable; he sipped from his cup as if he had not seen a thing.

  Good man!

  Quentin tiptoed past the drawing room. Raised voices could be heard from behind the closed doors: Reginald’s and Aunt Fanny’s. Quentin hurried along, not allowing himself to exhale until he was safely ensconced in a far corner of the library where stacks of books shielded him from the doorway. He raided a book-laden escritoire for paper and a grease pencil, deciding to use the time waiting for the doctor to get a head start on his magnum opus - well, the first volume at any rate, and the opening sentence at least.

  He had only scrunched up and discarded half a dozen sheets of paper when the sound of someone entering the library made him freeze mid-attitude, like one of those unfortunate citizens of Pompeii.

  “Psst, Master Quentin!” came a hiss. It was the impertinent stable boy. Quentin thought about dropping to the floor and curling up under the desk but the impulse to remonstrate with the impudent youth proved the stronger of his urges.

  “Be quiet!” he sprang from behind a row of bookshelves. “Or better yet: be off!”

  “Sir,” Francis was wringing his cloth cap in his hands.

  “Oughtn’t you to be at the printers?”

  “I was on my way, sir.”

  “And how did you know where to find me?”

  “Well, sir-”

  “Come on; out with it!”

  “If sir would let me get a word out.”

  Quentin seethed but held his tongue.

  “Well, sir, I got Mabel and the phaeton ready and I thought I had better nip into the kitchen, sir, and see if there was anything wanting fetching from town, sir. The place was all agog with gossip, sir. You’ve never heard such a tale.”

  “Gossip is for the weak of intellect and the bereft of imagination,” said Quentin haughtily. “What did they say?”

  “Well, sir, it’s all come from Master Reginald being at home. Speculation is rife, sir. Why is all the family shouting at each other? And Millie - you know Millie, sir: scullery maid, plain little thing and not quite the full shilling - she just happened to be lingering on the back stairs behind the breakfast room and she hears the lady of the house-”

  It was at this juncture that Quentin was compelled to interrupt. “Pardon me; who?”

  “Millie the maid, sir. You must have seen her. Eyes like a spaniel’s but not the wit to match.”

  “No, not her. You said, ‘lady of the house’.”

  “Your Aunt Fanny, sir. You must remember her.”

  “Yes, dash it; I am not liable ever to forget. But she is not the lady of the house. Kindly inform the staff of that point. I shall personally dismiss any who propagate this distortion.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Now, proceed with your tale.”

  “Yes, sir. Millie came down to the kitchen - in all of a tizzy, sir - according to Mrs Brooks - that’s the cook, sir. Poor girl was beside herself and took an age to calm down. Well, when they finally got it out of her, what had upset her apple cart, you might say, it turns out that Master Reginald has no children.”

  Quentin blinked. “That is a truth that is patently self-evident. What did this girl with eyes like a spaniel’s and lacking the brains to match, hear my family say?”

  “One thing I will say for Millie, sir, is she has excellent recall and she was able to recollect word-for-word what she just happened to overhear. And she does all the voices and all, sir. She’s not only a quidnunc, sir, but also quite a card.”

  Quentin groaned. “Get to the point, man!”

  “What she heard, sir - quite by accident, you understand - is as follows:”

  AUNT FANNY. If he is not up to the task, an alternative must be found who is.

  THE SQUIRE. You have one in mind, sister.

  AUNT FANNY. I believe my youngest nephew has the answer.

  REGINALD. The little prince?

  AUNT FANNY. Yours isn’t fit for purpose. His is. If one might get one’s hands upon it.

  REGINALD. Oh, really, Aunt! What you suggest is unthinkable!

  AUNT FANNY. Have you another solution? We must bring about the next generation.

  MRS QUIGLEY. I think it’s monstrous. Does not the female get a say?

  “Enough!” Quentin cried, steadying himself against a bookcase.

  “Sir, you haven’t half gone pale!” Francis helped the young master to a chair.

  “And you are certain that is what was said?”

  “Millie hasn’t the sense to fib, sir.”

  Quentin gasped for air and clutched at the ruffles of his shirt. “They are all in it together!” he cried. “My own family! In a conspiracy! To put me out to stud!”

  He threw himself melodramatically across the desk.

  “I’d best be getting off to the printer then, sir,” Francis pointed at the exit with his thumb but Quentin was paying him no heed. After a moment, the stable boy left. Quentin could not formulate a single thought. He felt as though he had been kicked in the head.

  One thing was certain: he would rather give Mrs Reginald Quigley a wide berth than bring about a birth of another kind.

  ***

  Quentin’s plans to keep a low profile were quickly thrown into disarray as soon as he heard the doctor arrive; the library window had been opened for the express purpose of listening out for the doctor’s horse. In an instant, Quentin’s literary pretensions were cast aside, as was every pretence of being in concealment. He tore from the library and up the back stairs - the quicker to attain the second floor landing. He was too late; the doctor had already been admitted to Reginald’s chamber.

  Quentin dithered. Ought he to return to the cosy confinement of the library? Or perhaps he should linger on the landing - purely to ascertain if his brother was all right, of course.
He opted for the latter course and was on the point of pressing his ear against the wood when the door was yanked open, wrong-footing Quentin and propelling him over the threshold and into his brother’s bedroom. Or, to be more accurate, into the bosom of his sister-in-law, Mrs Reginald Quigley.

  “Quentin!” she gasped with what little air remained in her chest.

  Quentin sprang back in shock. Reginald laughed from his bed. “Ho-ho! Making yourself acquainted with my wife, eh? I can see I shall have to guard her more closely, what!”

  Quentin, a brighter shade of red than his brother’s tunic, blustered. “Nothing of the sort!” He looked to the doctor, willing him to believe his protestation to be true.

  “Hallo, Kon-tan,” Doctor Goodhead smiled, like the sun emerging from behind a cloud. “If you don’t mind, I am about to conduct a private examination.”

  “Even I have been asked to leave! His wife!” Mrs Quigley laughed. She linked her arm through Quentin’s before he realised what was happening, and she led him from the room, pulling the door closed behind her. “Now,” she patted his hand, “you must take me all around the grounds.”

  “What mean you? I mean, precisely.”

  “Take me - for a walk is what I mean. A woman may take the air with her brother-in-law, may she not?”

  “Frederic is here?”

  “Is he?”

  “That’s what I’m asking. He is your brother-in-law.”

  “And so are you! Honestly, Quentin; you are an amusing young fellow. Come.”

  “Come?”

  “Let us take the air! A brisk tour of the garden will get the blood pumping, after which I should like to get my head down.”

  Quentin stiffened. Mrs Quigley’s grip on his arm was like a snare around a rabbit’s neck; the more he tried to extricate himself, the tighter it became. He feared he would have to gnaw off his own limb before he could effect an escape.

  He found himself being propelled down the stairs and out through the front door. “I should change!” he tried to cling to a door post.

  “You are perfect as you are.”

  “My outfit, I mean. I have another suit more, ah, suitable for walking in the garden.”

  “You are quite ridiculous.”

  “A moment ago I was perfect!”

  “Perfectly ridiculous. Let us begin with the path across the lawn. It leads to the lake, if I am not mistaken.”

  “It does and you are not. But it will be muddy. These boots...”

  “Your boots will survive. And I am wearing pattens, as you can see.” She lifted her skirts and petticoats to reveal the ugly overshoes over her slippers. “I am a full two inches taller and therefore you shall obey me.”

  She cackled in an utterly alarming manner and pulled Quentin farther and farther from the house. He cast around, first for someone who might be able to offer rescue - O, where was that confounded stable boy? Had he not yet returned from the printers? - and then he looked around for fear that someone might witness him being dragged to one of the remoter parts of the estate by his sister-in-law.

  She pulled him along the path over the gentle slopes of the manicured lawn and the ha-ha at the bottom. A semicircle of conifers stood sentry around the far side of the lake, the water of which was as smooth as Quentin’s looking glass.

  “I wish to have some private intercourse with you, brother-in-law,” Mrs Quigley said in hushed tones and with a backwards glance at the house. “You have known my husband, your brother, Reginald all your life.”

  “That is true but I cannot claim any intimacy with Reginald, my brother, your husband, for he joined the army when I was a babe in arms and since your wedding day fifteen years ago, neither of you has scarcely been back to the house to visit.”

  Mrs Quigley looked downcast. “We have been remiss, it is true. The army life has kept us on the move. And now, look at you, you are quite, quite grown.”

  “Is that what you wish to speak of, my physical development?”

  “What? Oh, no! She turned around and gestured broadly, taking in the house and its grounds in a sweep of her arm. “Look at all this, the house, your home.”

  “I have seen it once or twice. What of it?”

  “It is so beautiful and there is so much of it. To be Squire of Quigley Manor must be quite a burden.”

  “O, I don’t know; Father seems to thrive on it.”

  “But the Squire, your father, will not endure in perpetuity, Quentin. You have to face that.”

  “Nonsense! Father will outlive us all.” He laughed but it was a hollow sound. From across the lake came a duck’s response.

  Mrs Quigley looked at him with patience and sorrow. “He will not.”

  Quentin looked away. A change of tone was required. He clapped his hands together. “Where would you like to see next? I believe the topiary has been refurbished of late, if you have interest in a well-trimmed bush?”

  He made to move off in the direction of the sculpted hedges but Mrs Quigley called him back. “Wait! There is something I would like you to see. The reason why I have brought you all the way out here.”

  Quentin’s throat was suddenly parched. Mrs Quigley dove her hand into her reticule and pulled out a sheaf of papers bound by a ribbon. She thrust it in his direction but Quentin merely stared at it as though it were some distasteful yet fascinating sideshow curio in a jar.

  “Letters?” he said eventually.

  “My correspondence with a lawyer - the best in London.”

  “You have a pen friend. What is that to me?”

  “Mr Markby - for that is his name - has been most assiduous in his research.”

  “Bully for Markby.”

  “O, Quentin, you must listen! My lawyer, Mr Markby, advises that unless the sons of Squire Quigley produce an heir before their father’s demise, the house, your home, and all its contents, estates, and properties, shall go to his nearest relation, his sibling.”

  “Aunt Fanny!” Quentin gasped. He clenched his fists involuntarily.

  “The very same!”

  “Curiouser and curiouser...” Quentin paced a few steps.

  “What mean you, Quentin, my brother-in-law?”

  “There is something very queer about my Aunt Fanny. Something that does not add up.”

  “Forgive me, but she is an odious woman. Do you know, only this morning she was proposing the most distasteful idea - and over the breakfast table!”

  “Oh?” Quentin affected ignorance of the distasteful idea.

  “She is of the opinion that because my husband’s is not up to the job, that yours would be an acceptable substitute. I daresay it may well be for I have never seen yours but I do not think it was an appropriate suggestion.”

  Quentin was shot through with horror. He felt like throwing himself in the lake was his only viable option and cast his gaze around for sizable stones with which to weigh down his pockets. It would be a shame to ruin his silk suit, though.

  “I mean,” Mrs Quigley continued, oblivious of the distress she was causing her brother-in-law, “it smacks of dishonesty for one thing. To pass off the issue of the congress under my husband, your brother’s name! Never mind that the whole sordid topic is unsuitable material when one is trying to break one’s fast.”

  “Indeed...” Quentin muttered and turned pale.

  “She tried to convince us that yours would do and no one would know the difference, even though she had not clapped eyes on it for days and suspect you might have done something to harm it.”

  Quentin felt sick. He almost swooned but Mrs Quigley took his elbow in order to steady him. Galvanised by her touch, he sprang from her.

  “I mean, just because my husband, your brother’s is older than yours and he has ridden it hard of late, does not mean there is not life within it
yet.”

  Quentin gagged. Then a thought struck him. He clung to the possibility that they may have been talking at cross-purposes all this while.

  “Madam - Joanna - of what do you speak? My brother, your husband’s what, exactly?”

  Mrs Quigley laughed in surprise. “Why, his horse! Whatever else? His Bucephalus is a thoroughbred, as I am sure you are aware, and we had hoped to breed from him this year but having carried my husband, your brother all the way from the garrison, the poor creature is quite worn out.”

  Quentin’s mind seized on the explanation and raced with it. “And Aunt Fanny’s scheme was to substitute Satan for Bucephalus and deceive those who would pay for such a service...”

  “There, you have it!” Her eyes narrowed, “What did you believe I meant?”

  “What? O, nothing? I can be a little distracted; I am a writer, you know. O, Joanna,” he clasped her hands in his, “It is so good to see you. I am sure we shall be firm friends.”

  They walked back to the house, arm-in-arm.

  “But you are not sorry,” Quentin asked, “that my brother’s injury means he shall never inherit the estate?”

  “O, Quentin! Were you not listening when I remarked what a burden a place like this must be? We do not want it. But we would not be opposed to visiting from time to time should, say, you inherit it?”

  “Me?”

  “Yes! Why not you? You are to be married, are you not?”

  “Oh...” Quentin muttered darkly. “I had almost forgot.”

  Query

  On his return to the house, Quentin was dismayed to learn that Doctor Goodhead had already left, and so it was with clouded mood that he met Miss Shaver in the salon.

  “You look like you have lost your favourite handkerchief,” she observed. Quentin pouted.

  “I was out for a turn with my sister-in-law, who, it turns out, is a thoroughly charming woman.”

  “You were expecting a gorgon, else?”

  “Let us speak not of her.”

  “I understand,” Miss Shaver smirked. “It is utterly unreasonable of someone to confound our expectations and prejudices through worthiness, integrity and amiability.”