by Agnes Forest
“It is I,” a voice said.
Sawyer pulled open the heavy wood door to find the messenger. He knew not the chap’s name, but neither did anyone else that the messenger delivered messages for.
“Do come in,” Sawyer said. Nerves began to play upon him. He had considered working on his painting during the hours where he was awaiting word, but he could not concentrate.
“I thank you,” the messenger replied.
“Have out with it,” Sawyer said, cutting to the chase.
“Right, then,” the messenger said sheepishly, doffing his cap and holding it in his hands.
“Wait,” Sawyer said, stopping the man before he spoke. “Would you care for a mug of ale?” he asked.
“Most kind,” the messenger replied.
The ale was poured and the men went to the lawn and sat upon a bench. It overlooked the pond.
“There, then,” Sawyer said, finally at ease.
“Hoppy,” the messenger said in regards to the ale.
“Indeed. Speak.”
“Well, there is good news and there is bad news,” the messenger began.
“Start with the bad news,” Sawyer said without missing a beat.
“Truly?” the messenger asked. He had never heard of such a thing.
“Yes.”
“Well, the father seemed unpleased.”
“Is that so?”
“Sir, I almost took a bullet on your behalf.”
“My, but this is serious,” Sawyer said, scratching his chin.
“That’s not the worst of it,” the messenger went on.
“Damn.”
“There was a fair gut-founded gentlewoman in attendance. Red in the face.”
“Fanny,” Sawyer said.
“Is that really her name?” the messenger asked.
“Yes, continue.”
“This Lady Fanny, upon hearing the pronunciation of your name, choked on a sausage.”
Sawyer cringed.
“I tried to explain what a noble personage you are.” Sawyer had paid him three quid for that. “And I even mentioned your commission.”
“I told you to only mention it if you were desperate.”
“M’lord,” the messenger said. “I had become so.”
“Who received the flowers?” Sawyer asked.
“The young lady.”
Sawyer perked up. The messenger was getting to the good part.
“So she was there?” he asked.
“In the flesh. A bonny lass,” the messenger said with enthusiasm.
“Hold your tongue,” Sawyer replied. The messenger stiffened.
“As I was saying, she accepted the blooms with a remarkable smile on her face, and argued for your character.”
“She argued for my character?” Sawyer repeated with unbounded joy, standing to full height and spilling ale on himself. The messenger shared in Sawyer’s gaiety. He stood as well, holding onto his ale.
“She did, M’lord. Clutched the flowers like a religious relic.”
“Ha ha!” Sawyer cried, slapping the messenger on the back.
The messenger spat out his beer and Sawyer instantly apologized.
“I should not have done that. I know a fellow that does that,” Sawyer explained.
Maybe that was why Sherbet was always slapping men’s backs. Perhaps joy surged through him constantly.
“The lady asked to carry the flowers to the drawing room to procure a vase,” the messenger went on.
“She’s so considerate,” Sawyer said in wonder, seating himself again.
“And she instructed me to say . . .” the messenger paused for effect. “Thank you.”
The words were like poetry to his ear. Vivian said thank you. She was grateful for the paltry gift.
“I must visit her at once,” Sawyer said, springing to his feet and marching towards the home.
“I would reconsider,” the messenger said, in hot pursuit.
“Why?” Sawyer asked, turning to the messenger in desperation.
“Perhaps it is too hasty. Men are instructed to wait at least a fortnight after sending flowers.”
“A fortnight?” Sawyer asked, spitting out the word.
“Indeed. It’s best not to look too eager.”
Sawyer stopped to consider this. He couldn’t wait a fortnight. His gift was met with appreciation and that meant he could pay a call that afternoon. He might be shot by her father but he would die a happy man.
Sawyer was deep in thought. Lost like a man making the decision of which horse to bet on at the races. The messenger waited in silence.
“I’m going,” Sawyer said. He would send a message and summon a coach.
“I wash my hands of this,” the messenger replied.
“Come now,” Sawyer said, leading the messenger through the home again and back out the front door. “I thank you for your message but I no longer need your counsel.”
“Very well,” the messenger replied, having already received his fee. (And free beer!)
“What is your name, by the way?” Sawyer asked. It was about time that he knew.
“Basil.”
“Of course it is.” With that, Sawyer shut the door and prepared himself. The hounds were beside themselves, knowing that something was amiss. Sawyer tried to select the proper coat but found that he couldn’t think straight. Nothing was going to plan, and yet he felt content.
During the coach ride things took a turn. The elation and excitement morphed into contemplation. Never good. Tactically, Sawyer had to plan how to win the battle. Penetration of the center, attack from a defensive position, single envelopment, oblique order, feigned retreat, crossing the T, or the indirect approach.
In light of these war tactics, Sawyer considered the direct approach. Simply go in, make his plans known, and share his heart. Such nonsense, Sherbet would say. The friend was ready to accompany Sawyer and use physical force if need be. Of course, this has been effective throughout history, but not in South Downs, and not for Sawyer Cook. He’d be honest. Show himself for what he really was, and if this didn’t work, only then would he consider his pistol.
Pulling up to the estate, Sawyer felt a frog in his throat. The mansion was far more impressive than he thought it would be. The garden and grounds were gleaming in the afternoon sun. The home itself had dozens of rooms, ivy climbed up the stone walls and, for the love of God, was that a maze? Things were turning serious.
Alighting from the coach, Sawyer contended with the fact that he was arriving unannounced. He wished there was an explanation for this, but he couldn’t disguise it as anything other than youthful passion.
“Wish me luck,” Sawyer said to the coach driver.
“You are bound to succeed,” the old fellow said, sensing what Sawyer was about to do.
He proceeded, hearing the finely honed gravel under his boots. Walking forward with confidence, Sawyer looked up, wondering if Vivian was looking down upon him from her room. Would she think him out of his mind? She would not be far off.
Sawyer knocked on the door and was greeted by the butler.
“Is the lady of the house at home?” Sawyer asked. He knew Lady Vivian to be the only lady, the sisters having moved out. There was no need to specify.
“I’m afraid that she’s gone for a ride,” the man said. The butler looked as ancient as the house. No doubt he had worked there since the reign of George II.
“The master is at home, if you wish me to announce you.”
“That would be most kind. My name is Lieutenant Sawyer Cook of the Royal Navy.”
“Please, relax in the parlor whilst I tell him,” the butler said, leading Sawyer within and taking his leave.
Sawyer sat upon a chair and felt the richness of it with his hands. Fine brocade. He looked around the room and saw the paintings. It was the first thing he noticed about the interior of the estate; the fine taste in art. He was pleased by it. To occupy himself, he walked about to inspect each one.
The image
that Lord Benedict saw when he entered into the parlor was a robust young man examining his art collection. He didn’t know what to make of it. As soon as the butler announced the visitor, Lord Benedict was on the defensive. The dreaded event that he described whilst eating sausage had become a reality. The ardent lover was in his parlor, and Lord Phillip was nowhere in sight.
“Good day,” Lord Benedict said, clasping his hands behind his back and puffing out his chest.
“Good day,” Sawyer turned and said.
“What is this in regards to?” Lord Benedict asked, knowing what it was in regards to.
“I have come to pay a call to Lady Vivian, and your Lordship,” Sawyer said with dignity.
“I suppose that this has something to do with the flowers that you sent,” Lord Benedict said, lighting a cigar.
“Indeed.”
Upon inspection, there was something agreeable about the young soldier. He was reminded of when he paid a call to his late wife’s father, and the nerves that shook him.
“Would you care for a cigar?” he asked.
“That would be most kind.”
Sawyer had never smoked a cigar in his life. He never cared for the smoke, but on that occasion he thought it rude to say no. Sawyer did know how to light it, though. When it was handed to him he bit the end of it and lighted up.
Horrible coughing ensued.
“Suck and blow, man. Suck and blow. Do not inhale,” Lord Benedict explained.
“Of course,” Sawyer replied.
Once he got the hang of it, Sawyer found the cigar rather enjoyable. It had a rich, earthy flavor.
“This painting is capital.” Sawyer turned his gaze to the large ship depicted in a tumultuous sea. He knew the feeling.
“Ah, yes,” Lord Benedict replied, inspecting it.
“Danish. They do know a thing or two about the sea, those Danes.”
“And that’s why they once ruled the world,” Sawyer added.
“For a time, until Britain came to her senses.” Lord Benedict seated himself in a chair. Sawyer did the same. There were no hounds running about and it made Sawyer uneasy; the lack of chaos.
“I hear that you’re a commissioned officer.”
“Newly attained it.”
“You must be proud,” Lord Benedict said, remembering his own commission. It had been purchased for a paltry sum, which Sawyer would have thought a fortune.
“I must say, it’s my greatest achievement.”
“I’ve seen a bit of combat myself,” Lord Benedict went on. Despite his wealth, Lord Benedict really did go hand-to-hand in his day. He had a taste for it when he was young.
“One can tell.”
“How so?”
“You have the bearing of a man of action,” Sawyer said, not trying to flatter him. Well, maybe just a little.
Lord Benedict puffed up with pride.
“I must say, I still love a vigorous hunt.”
“There is nothing more satisfying,” Sawyer said. “Have you no hounds?”
“They leave hair on the carpet, you see,” Lord Benedict explained. He always wanted hounds but his late wife was against it.
“Yes, it’s trying,” Sawyer agreed.
A moment of silence.
“Brandy then?” Lord Benedict asked.
“I’m afraid that it would not aid my mission at this time,” Sawyer said.
“Right,” Lord Benedict replied, realizing that it was he that needed a good swift drink. “Did you see combat in New York?”
“I was a part of the siege, yes.”
“Baltimore and New Orleans?”
“I was there for both,” Sawyer replied.
“And Canada?” Lord Benedict asked.
“I did not make it that far north.”
“Interesting,” Lord Benedict replied. “I fear that we did not prove ourselves.”
“We put in a good fight, but I must admit that it is a good thing our navy is returning home. It was not our war to be won.” A startling admission on Sawyer’s part. Every war was Britain’s war to be won, but on that occasion, one had to admit that the Americans deserved their victory.
“I do not like defeat,” Lord Benedict said, rising from his chair and walking towards the mantle. Unlike Sawyer’s home, there was no fire lit, but Lord Benedict instinctively lingered there, looking into the fireplace as though there were flames.
“No one does, but it is inevitable.”
Tea was served in the parlor. Lord Benedict had not asked for it, but the servants assumed that whenever anyone paid a call unannounced that tea was required. Sawyer was glad for it, as it helped him recover from the earlier indulgence in ale.
“So, you’re here to court my daughter,” Lord Benedict said, small talk having concluded.
“I’m very fond of her,” Sawyer explained.
“I think it impossible,” Lord Benedict said, tearing off the bandage with haste.
Sawyer felt a pain in his chest.
“That does not mean I’ll cease to try.”
“Yes, I perceive that,” Lord Benedict said.
Again, Lord Benedict was reminded of his own plight. When he sought his wife’s hand, although he was monied, he was being outbid by a member of the Swiss aristocracy. A prince, no less! He remembered what it felt like to be pitted against impossible odds.
“Do you take sugar?” Lord Benedict asked as a servant was pouring Sawyer’s tea.
“I take it plain,” he replied.
Lord Benedict pursed his lips. How dreadful.
Sawyer was handed his tea with a biscuit placed on the saucer.
“Do you like venison?” Lord Benedict asked.
Sawyer thought it a rather odd question, but for whatever reason the question sprung into Lord Benedict’s mind. He enjoyed venison thoroughly but Lady Vivian didn’t care for it, nor did Lord Phillip.
“I do enjoy it,” Sawyer replied.
“As do I,” Lord Benedict replied.
The angel of silence flew overhead but both men did not mind. Lord Benedict was rather grateful to have a bit of silence in the house. It was the test of good character when a man enjoyed silence, particularly in the company of another man.
Blasted hell, I really like this fellow, Lord Benedict thought to himself.
The plot thickened when riding boots were heard down the creaky hall. As always, Vivian tried to walk as softly as possible in case Lord Phillip was lingering somewhere, but she could always be heard.
“Did you enjoy your ride?” Lord Benedict called out, sure that his daughter was about to have the shock of her life.
“It was most agreeable,” she replied, coming into the parlor unawares.
She stopped dead in her tracks when she saw Sawyer, innocently taking tea with her father.
“My word,” she said.
Sawyer put down his tea and stood. He hoped that his presence wasn’t too much of a shock.
“Yes, yes,” Lord Benedict said, looking from his daughter to Sawyer, then back to his daughter, and back to Sawyer.
“What a surprise,” Vivian said.
“I trust not too much so,” Sawyer said back.
Sawyer was in awe. It was the same wild beauty that he admired when he had encountered her in the field. Her hair was wind-swept, cheeks ruddy pink, and eyes bright. She had enjoyed a vigorous ride in the countryside and it did wonders for her appearance. Not that there was any room for improvement in the first place.
“I was most sure that you would not pay a call today,” Vivian said by way of explaining her absence. Oh, how she wanted to be discovered on the bench in the garden, reading poetry. Her hair must be terribly askew, she thought. Her lips might be pale.
“Today was the day,” Sawyer said.
“Have a cup of tea, daughter,” Lord Benedict said, seeing the alarm in her eyes. He feared that his daughter would become faint and emotional.
“Very well, then,” Vivian said, walking as gracefully as she could to the tea tray. Act natur
al, she thought to herself. Oh, what rubbish. What was natural?
“We had vigorous exercise in the field,” Fanny said, unaware of present company.
“I’m glad to hear it,” Lord Benedict replied.
Fanny looked up and spotted the intruder. She stopped and gazed in wonder.
“Dear me,” she said under her breath.
“I believe that we have had the pleasure of meeting before,” Sawyer said.
“Whatever do you mean?” Fanny replied, playing dumb.
“At Almack’s,” Sawyer explained. Even he was not bold enough to mention the encounter in the field.
“Yes, how fine,” Fanny said limply. She knew not why she used the word fine. It seemed so trite.
“Have you two been chatting?” Vivian asked, desperately wanting to know what had been said.
“We have been discussing art,” Sawyer said.
That was a shock. Vivian was not privy to Sawyer’s interest in it.
“And war,” Lord Benedict added.
It was all going to plan, then. This is what Vivian had hoped for. Judging by the feel of room, the men seemed to be relaxed in each other’s company. At the very least, no guns had been drawn.
“Yet we have not delved into the art of war,” Sawyer said humorously. To attempt humor in such a situation was risky, but it worked.
“Oh, there’s a discussion, then,” Lord Benedict went on. “I have read several books on the subject.”
“As have I,” Sawyer replied.
“Well,” Vivian said. “I must thank you for the flowers.” She turned towards the white blooms that sat in a blue vase on the side table.
“I’m glad that you like them,” Sawyer replied, giving her a tender smile.
“Father, you know how Bedringham Court is famous for its flowers,” Vivian said to Lord Benedict, hoping that he might be impressed with where Sawyer lived.
“We go to the flower show in summer,” Lord Benedict replied.
“Precisely!” Vivian replied. It’s all going to plan. “Bedringham Court is where the lieutenant lives. I daresay, he must have purchased these from an exceptional florist.”
“They’re from my garden,” Sawyer interjected.
“Truly?” Vivian asked.
“Most impressive,” Lord Benedict added, always fond of a chap that kept his own garden.
“Yes, white roses are for good luck,” Sawyer explained.
