Quoits and Quotability

by William Stafford

  Squire Quigley made everyone jump by slapping the table. “Damn it; where are your manners? I brought you up better than that.”

  Quentin glowered. “Good morning, everyone,” he said deliberately.

  Squire Quigley grunted; that would have to do, he supposed.

  “Who is he?” said Quentin, staring directly ahead.

  “Who is whom?” said the woman formerly known as Aunt Fanny.

  “My father!” Quentin cried. The dam burst and his emotions flooded the room. “Who was he? Why did you not marry him? Why did you give me away?”

  Fanny looked abashed. “You must understand for a single woman to have a child is a most shameful thing. Do you not think I wanted to be wed? Do you not think I hunted high and low to find the man? But I never heard from or set eyes on him again. O, I have no doubt that, had he known that you were on your way, that he would have fled and renounced all duty to me and to you.”

  Quentin shook his head. “You cannot know that; you never told him.”

  “I can know that, absolutely and positively,” Fanny’s jaw was set, “For he was a Frenchman.”

  The disclosure was met with silence. Knives, forks, and tea cups were halted in mid-air. All eyes swivelled to the Squire.

  “Balderdash!” he pronounced. “When did you ever come into contact with a Frenchman?”

  “It was before that regrettable business, by which I mean the Revolution; he was a nobleman touring our green and pleasant land. I met him at a masked ball. I was Queen Elizabeth and he was Louis Some-number-or-other. I was a mere chit of a girl and utterly impressionable. We danced the night away and I was enchanted by the honeyed phrases he whispered in my ear. I can hear them now, his parting words: Ne m’oubliez pas, ma chérie.”

  “Don’t forget my cherries?” Quentin mistranslated.

  “And then he was gone, like a cambrioleur in the night, to return to Paris and, I suspect, to meet his fate with Madame Guillotine.”

  “I say!” said Reginald.

  “Bit much,” said Frederic.

  Quentin was stunned. I am half-French, he marvelled. No wonder I have always felt such an affinity for the language, the culture, the clothing!

  Commotion in the hallway caught everyone’s attention. The door was kicked open and in strode Roderick, dragging a certain, short, squat fellow along with him.

  “Confound it all!” roared the Squire. “What is the postmaster doing here? May a man not digest his breakfast in peace without the intrusion of tradesmen?”

  “Good morning!” Roderick was excessively cheery. He shoved Postmaster Scroggins onto a chair. “Here is the culprit. This is where all the missing money has been going all these years.”

  Scroggins wilted under everyone’s scrutiny. He hung his head in shame and remorse.

  “Scroggins!” Fanny cried. “Explain yourself!”

  And out it all came: how the first envelope of banknotes had proved too tempting to pass on to its rightful recipient, Miss Eglantine Lemmon. After that, each monthly packet had proved likewise irresistible, and Scroggins knew that it was unlikely matters would be questioned, due to the delicate, that is to say scandalous, nature of the circumstances.

  “But twenty years!” Fanny gasped. “Why, only last night you were telling me of an increase in delivery charges! Such despicable, grasping greed I have never known! It is easy to see you have grown fat on the proceeds.”

  “Oh, he’ll lose weight where he is going,” laughed Roderick, “For I have aroused the village constable. He will be here shortly to deliver this villain to the county gaol to await trial.”

  “Bravo!” cheered the Squire.

  “Bravo!” echoed Roderick’s brothers.

  Roderick piled a plate high with cold cuts and bread rolls and, straddling a stool, began to tuck in most heartily. “Where are those good ladies, your wives?” he asked through a mouthful. “Do not tell me they have seen sense and left you?”

  “No such luck, what!” laughed Reginald.

  “They are in the garden,” said Frederic. “Joanna deemed it prudent to remain aloof during this difficult time.”

  “Quite so,” enthused the Squire. “That wife of yours has a wise old head - on her wise old shoulders, what!” He thumped the table and roared with laughter. Reginald and Roderick joined in. Frederic shrank. “Anyone might be forgiven for thinking you shackled yourself to such an old boot with the express purpose of denying me an heir.”

  “Nonsense, Father!” Frederic sweated and squirmed. “One might just as easily suspect Reggie of shooting himself in the barracks - ouch!” A well-aimed kick from Reginald shut Frederic up.

  “Well, someone’s got to inherit the blasted place,” said the Squire, “and it can’t be the little prince now that it is known he is the spawn of some illicit liaison between my sister and a Frenchman.”

  “Brother! For shame!” cried Fanny. She sent Quentin an agonised look but he would not meet her gaze.

  Birkworth came in and announced the arrival of the village constable. A burly fellow strode in with manacles hanging from the belt around his long coat. He was accompanied by two even burlier fellows.

  “One moment!” the Squire commanded. He looked the postmaster in the eye. “You shall see that the trophy is restored to this house, for it was indeed won by a true-blooded Quigley, my son Francis. There was no fraudulent activity involved.”

  Scroggins let out a whimper and hung his head. The burly men manhandled the quivering postmaster from the room.

  “That’s that sorted,” said Roderick. “I think I shall stick around, if you don’t mind. I have had enough of seeing the world.”

  “You must get married,” said the Squire. “Get me a grandson.”

  Roderick quailed. “Of course...”

  “Get yourself a Joanna of your own,” said Frederic.

  “Only not one old enough to be your grandmother, what!” laughed Reginald.

  “We’ll see,” said Roderick; all of his good humour was draining away. He turned to Francis. “And what of our newest brother? Are we to see him married off and put to stud? Are we to have more balls at Quigley Manor?”

  “Steady on,” said Reginald; Frederic smirked.

  “I mean the engagement kind,” said Roderick.

  “In time,” said the Squire. “I daresay we can afford it now that Fanny’s got her fingers out of the coffers.”

  Fanny pursed her lips. “I can only apologise; I believed the money was going toward the upkeep of my son and not to fatten that crook of a postmaster.”

  “All is forgiven! All is well!” beamed the Squire. He reached across and patted his sister’s hand.

  Is it, thought Quentin? Because nothing feels well to me.

  The door burst open for a second time and Lady Shaver stormed in with an apologetic Birkworth in her wake. The menfolk got to their feet and bade her good morning but the impromptu visitor only had eyes for Quentin.

  “Where is she, you rogue?” she shrieked, causing Quentin to flinch.

  “Who?” he managed to get out, recoiling from the irate harridan.

  “You know full well who!” Lady Shaver threw up her hands. “My daughter, Miss Shaver, Charlotte. That is who!”

  “I have not seen her-” Quentin proclaimed.

  “You men are all the same!” Lady Shaver jabbed Quentin’s breastbone with her index finger. “You seduce a young girl with offers of wedlock, entice her to an extravagant ball where she may be dazzled and enchanted and then - O, then! You have your wicked way and the poor girl is ruined forever!”

  Aunt Fanny looked stricken but she spoke up in Quentin’s defence. “My Lady, if my neph - if this young man says he has not seen your daughter, you may rest assured that he has not. Nor will he have done anything else to her.”

 
; Lady Shaver went off the boil, like a kettle removed from the heat. If the venerable Fanny said it, it must be the truth.

  “And, while we are dealing with delicate matters,” Aunt Fanny continued, “I trust you have brought with you your contribution toward the cost of last night’s festivities.”

  It was Lady Shaver’s turn to appear stricken. She lowered herself onto a chair. “That’s another thing,” her lower lip trembled. “I had the money put by especially. But, like my daughter, that too is melted into thin air.”

  “Money be damned!” said Squire Quigley.

  Quentin had an idea. “My Lady, apart from your daughter and the money, is anything else missing from your house?”

  Lady Shaver’s eyebrows knitted in concentration as she made silent inventory of the house and its contents. “Not that I can think of,” she said at last, “Although when I rang for Alice this morning, she failed to appear.”

  “Alice?” barked the Squire. “Alice? Who the hell is Alice?”

  “A maid of ours. Pretty little thing in her own way. Can be somewhat boyish.”

  Quentin saw how it was. Clever girl! Well, good for you, Lottie, and well done! To distract the entire county with an elaborate engagement party so that you might make good your elopement and have the cash with which to fund it! Marvellous!

  “What are you smiling about?” the Squire brought Quentin out of his thoughts.

  “That I shall not be married to Miss Shaver,” Quentin replied. “No slight intended, My Lady.”

  Lady Shaver sobbed into a handkerchief.

  “Quite,” said the Squire. “We have yet to determine what your future shall be. And,” he turned to Francis and smiled, “yours too, of course, my boy.”

  Quentin could bear it no longer. He rose and excused himself. With his head held high, he strode from the room. The ever-ready Birkworth opened the door for him and followed him out.

  “Master Quentin?” the butler called after the young master. “You will not be leaving us, will you? Quitting Quigley Manor, I mean.”

  The trusty retainer’s eyes were moist and his face was anxious and pale.

  “I know not what I shall do,” said Quentin. “Thank you, Birkworth.”

  “One word more, sir,” Birkworth urged. He lowered his voice to a whisper lest he be overheard. “Ne m’oubliez pas!”

  Quentin gasped in shock and surprise. Birkworth stared at him with imploring eyes. Quentin backed away, shaking his head. He tore up the stairs and shut himself in his room, his mind a maelstrom of conflict and perturbation.

  ***

  Even his own room felt alien to Quentin now. He stood at his writing desk and toyed absently with a quill pen. My three-volume novel shall have to be written elsewhere. The sooner I go, the quicker I may settle and the sooner I shall begin. I cannot remain here. What with all the familial revelations and Doctor Goodhead - O, I wish Gregory every happiness with the delightful Miss Sinclair, truly I do - but I see no reason why I should have to be around to witness it. I could not bear that.

  There was a soft tapping at the door. It grew louder until Quentin could no longer ignore it.

  “Birkworth, be off!” he called out. “I am not interested.”

  “It is I, sir,” said a voice that was not the butler’s. “Please let me in.”

  “Well!” cried Quentin. “If it isn’t the new little prince! Come to usurp me!”

  “No, sir! Please! Let me in. This will not take long.”

  O, for pity’s sake! Quentin unlocked the door and yanked it open. Francis came in, tugging at the lace collar of his tunic.

  “Well?” said Quentin, closing the door again.

  “Not entirely, no, sir.” Francis seemed nervous and yet determined. “Many’s the time I’ve stood beneath this window, sir, longing to come inside.”

  “You coveted this room? Well, now you shall have it, I suppose and there is nothing I can do to prevent it.”

  “Oh, no, sir,” Francis cried in alarm, “You misunderstand. It is not the room I want but the occupant.”

  “The occupant?” Quentin was baffled - but only for a moment. “You mean me?”

  Francis looked at his feet, bashful. “Yes, sir.”

  Quentin looked at the former stable boy standing nervously before him. It was true: Francis had displayed nothing but devotion to the young master for as long as Quentin could remember. Honest, hard-working and, yes, handsome Francis. One could not ask for a better companion.

  But no, it was ridiculous. It could never work.

  “I’m leaving,” said Quentin. “I’m leaving the family to stew in its own juices for a while, before they come up with some hare-brained scheme to have me join the clergy. They’re not a bad bunch; you will like them.”

  “The clergy, sir?”

  “The family! And you must no longer call me ‘sir’. After all, you are the little prince now.”

  Francis seized Quentin’s hand and pressed it against his own cheek. Quentin was alarmed but did not pull away.

  “O, take me with you!” Francis implored him. “I don’t care where we go as long as we are together.”

  Quentin shook his head. “I could never ask you to leave all this wealth and luxury behind now that you have just come into it. It would not be fair.”

  “You’re not asking; I’m offering. I can’t miss what I’ve never had but I should miss you most terribly every day, sir. Let me come; you shall need looking after.”

  Quentin patted the handsome face and smiled. “Is Satan ready?”

  “No, but I can have him saddled in two shakes.”

  “As long as you don’t mind riding with me?”

  “There is nothing I should like more.”

  “Then let us go,” Quentin laughed. “Far from here! To France perhaps - or wherever you like. I place my fate at your feet.” Then his face fell. “But, how shall we live? What shall we do?”

  Francis already had an answer. “Quoits, sir. There are international tournaments all over the continent and the prize money is considerable. And you shall write your books, sir, and we shall be the happiest people in the world.”

  “I see you have already given the matter some thought. Very well go to Satan and get him ready. Everyone else can go to the devil.”

  Francis laughed, wide of eye and with a grin to match. “Really, sir? We’re really going?”

  “Yes, indeed!” said Quentin, taking Francis’s hand in his. “And you may quote me on that.”

  THE END

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