The Captain and the Squire

by Catherine Curzon

She lay down in the grass and closed her eyes, apparently done with such tomfoolery for one day.

  “Mr. Boff.” Chris widened his eyes and said, “I already have a pig-husbandry issue and I’ve not even been here twenty-four hours. She doesn’t like me, she loves you. She wants to stay.”

  “Loved by Hardacre livestock, eh?” Tarquin crouched down and fussed the Oracle. “Very well, then, it would appear the lady has voted with her trotters. But…I well remember how litigious your uncle was. I want you to write a letter on headed paper signing this pig over to me until such a time as she will go willingly to your house. I won’t be sued on account of a sow!”

  “Bloody hell, you are crazy.” He pushed his hand back through his infuriatingly floppy hair. “Fine. I’ll do better than that. Uncle’s lawyer is coming over tomorrow to go through a few last bits. I’ll ask him to draw up something if that keeps you off my back. I’ll also ask him where we stand on the Prince Albert’s Prince Albert question, if we’re making it official.”

  “Do your worst, canary!” Tarquin chuckled as he fussed the pig, who grunted contentedly. “I have my paperwork for the Prince Albert, and your uncle’s hot air died with him! Good. Send over the lawyer and we can have this hammered out once and for all.”

  “Oh, I will. Expect us at noon,” his new nemesis told him sternly, wagging his finger. “And I’ll be fully dressed too!”

  “Good. Glad to hear it.” Tarquin tried his best not to sound disappointed. The thought of Chris, wearing nothing but his swimming shorts, in Tarquin’s drawing room, was dangerously exciting. If he weren’t a Hardacre. “Bough Bottoms is not the place for wanton displays of semi-nudity.”

  “I was in a hot tub.” Chris said it slowly, as though Tarquin was an idiot. “I wear a suit all week, I’m not wearing one in a hot tub, am I? That lane between the houses, by the way… Mine or yours? I told my guests to park wherever they like, so I’m assuming it’s mine.”

  “Mine,” Tarquin replied. “But you have right of way over it. Which basically means that it’s not a ruddy car park because we both need it for access. I won’t leave my combine harvester parked in it, and you can’t have your matey chums leaving their Beamers there.”

  “I’m living in the bloody Archers! I’ll tell you what.” The finger wagged again. “You don’t leave your tractor in it, and I won’t leave my Aston in it. How’s that, squire?”

  “Sounds fair to me.” Tarquin got back to his feet and held out his hand to shake. “Gentlemen’s agreement?”

  “Before I shake that hand… You haven’t been using Queen Elizabeth’s wooden friend, have you?”

  “What? It’s an antique, for heaven’s sake!” Tarquin shook his head, incredulous. “No, I haven’t been using it. I’ve been admiring the craftsmanship whilst sipping a brandy in my orchard. It only arrived today—I won it in an auction just the other week.”

  “Bit of a funny hobby, collecting dildos.” Chris offered his hand. “I always thought farmers were a bit weird, now I know they are.”

  “I can’t help it if Canary Wharf is devoid of culture. A wasteland of the vulgar and the new.” Tarquin took the dildo from his pocket again and smiled as the last rays of the sun blushed the polished wood. He caught the barest hint of an amused grin from his neighbor before he resumed his stern demeanor.

  “Well, I shall leave you and your sovereign sex toy to get to know each other. Goodnight, Squire Starkers Tarkers. Your arse is still showing.”

  “Oh blow it, I’d bloody forgotten!” Tarquin nearly dropped the dildo in his haste to cover the rip in his trousers. “Night, then, Canary Christopher! Enjoy your terrible party, won’t you?”

  “Count on it.” He stooped and patted the pig’s back. “Goodnight, Mrs. Pig. See you tomorrow.”

  The Oracle raised one of her ears and gave Chris a searching look, then closed her eyes and grunted. And with one last look—was it a knowing look, even?—the canary strolled back across the garden toward his party.

  Tarquin stood for a moment in the gathering gloom of the approaching night. So he’d met his new neighbor. His new nemesis. As handsome as the day was long, and all the more dangerous for it.

  Chapter Two

  The Oracle of Delphi grunted with delight as Tarquin topped her trough up with her pellet feed. He put the scoop back in the sack and lobbed pieces of carrot and apple in too.

  “You’ve got a bally banquet, old girl!”

  From the boot room, which he had turned into the Oracle’s quarters, Tarquin heard the sound of Petunia’s high heels clattering downstairs, her voice loud as she bellowed into her mobile about a consignment of Meissen. There was money to be made, it seemed.

  As ever.

  Without pausing in his task, Tarquin called over his shoulder to her. “You off out, then?”

  “I’m going in to the sale room to keep an eye on things.” She appeared in the doorway, now tapping out a message on the screen of her phone. She dropped it into her bag and looked at him. “And Bryan’s got a buyer coming in to talk PA first editions. Vintage Sussex sex sells, it seems!”

  Ah, yes, Bough Bottoms’ greatest literary export, the late PA, practicing nudist and purveyor of eye-watering smut.

  “Say hello to him from me. I’ve got our new neighbor coming over in a bit. Paperwork to sign off. Beardsley’s ballyhoo over Prince Albert’s Prince Albert hasn’t ended at the grave, you know. His bloody nephew is insisting I stole the thing! You know, I’m not convinced it’s genuine, but I’m not letting a Hardacre take it from me.”

  “What’s he like? Shobna says he’s a hell of a looker. We need some eye candy in Bough Bottoms!” Charmer. Petunia pushed a diamond stud earring into each lobe with military precision. “Is he taking this bloody pig before I have it turned into lardons?”

  Tarquin sighed. The pig merrily crunched on the carrot pieces, snapping them like fingers. “He nearly took the Oracle yesterday evening but she didn’t want to go. Maybe, like me, she doesn’t trust the fellow, handsome though he may be. He’s still a Hardacre. If you hadn’t been out last night”—With your bloody hooray friends—“you would’ve had the pleasure of meeting him while he wore nothing but a rather small pair of swimming shorts—in our orchard.” So there.

  Petunia’s expression changed subtly and she narrowed her eyes, like Tarquin’s father did when he was presented with a fat, rare steak. Then she drew in a long, deep breath and said, “Built for action, according to Shobna. She’s going to stake out her turf later with a welcome hotpot. Is he the hotpot sort, do you think?”

  What would be funnier than encouraging lots of Petunia’s annoying friends to run after a gay Hardacre?

  Tarquin nodded. “Oh yes, spicy hotpots and big dumplings all the way!”

  “I’ll give her the nod,” his fiancée said. “She can give our Mr. Hardacre a proper village welcome! It’s about time she stopped fucking the farmhands and moved on to someone with prospects.”

  “Our new Mr. Hardacre has a lot of prospects, trust me!”

  Tarquin turned away from Petunia to hide his smirk. He crouched down to fuss the Oracle as she pressed her snout into the corner of the trough, polishing off every last crumb of her breakfast.

  “You must be the only sentimental farmer in Sussex,” Petunia said coldly. “It’s a pig, Tarquin, get it butchered or get it gone. I’m going to work.”

  “Isn’t Mummy mean? Isn’t she?” he said to the Oracle, not caring if Petunia heard.

  “Is Mummy the only one going out to work while Daddy wanders about buying dirty old johnnies like his dad and his grandad before him?” She nudged him with the pointed tip of her shoe. “The pig’s on notice. Get Mr. Hunky Hardacre on it, sharpish. And hang the washing out!” She stalked from the room, calling as she went, “And you’re not being fobbed off at the village hall. You should be the next master of the drag hunt. I’m ready to co-host my first hunt ball, so get your balls firm and don’t take no for an answer!”

  “Strange, she hasn’t been i
nterested in my balls for at least twelve months,” Tarquin remarked to the pig.

  * * * *

  Tarquin pottered. He was an arch potterer, and hung out the washing, tidied away the breakfast things and decided on a place to display the Elizabethan dildo. His collection occupied a room under the eaves of the house, and he placed the dildo carefully in an antique velvet-lined box beside Catherine the Great’s garter.

  Dirty old johnnies indeed.

  How dare she?

  The doorbell sounded around the house, heralding the arrival of the lawyer and the canary. And they were here to see the squire.

  Tarquin headed to the front door. His collection of dogs had got to the door before him, and he fought through the excited pack of retrievers and spaniels—and accidentally cross-bred Retrievers and Spaniels—to admit his guests.

  “Morning!” Tarquin held open the door to Christopher, who was managing to look both smart and casual at the same time. The infuriating bastard. Jeans and a smart shirt. Tarquin was surprised not to see pinstripes on him, but today those were reserved for the lawyer who was accompanying him. And with any luck, he’ll leave smothered in dog hair.

  “Clothes on this time,” Chris announced even as he bent to fuss the dogs, leaving the far-too-sharp lawyer to wonder what that must be about. “Mr. Bow, this is Mr. Driscoll, Great-Uncle’s lawyer. Mr. Driscoll, Mr. Bow.”

  “Mr. Bow,” the lawyer said, holding out his hand. “I was due to make a call on you soon, so it’s a pleasure to join Mr. Hardacre to discuss these rather…personal matters.”

  “I’ve seen your name on letters,” Tarquin said, his voice heavy with insinuation. Many letters, thanks to the late, litigious Beardsley Hardacre. Tarquin closed the door behind them and led them to the drawing room, the dogs scurrying in their wake. “Yes, well, first things first, my name is Bough, as in cough. And second things second—cup of tea?”

  “That would be very welcome indeed,” Driscoll said and beside him, Chris nodded too. He seemed restless though, peering over Tarquin’s shoulder as if he was looking for something.

  After a moment he asked, “Where’s the Oracle of Delphi?”

  “Asleep with her blanky, last time I looked. I’ll bring her in, if you like.” Tarquin gestured to them to sit on the sofa. “You do know, don’t you? Christopher has said? She’s a pig. Not a statue or some sort of Koh-i-Noor diamond!”

  “Oh, I know what she is! She was the apple of her father’s eye, as Mr. Bough must know. I have a special letter to be opened in your mutual presence, from the late Mr. Hardacre.” That rang alarm bells in Tarquin’s head, and from the look of shock that had descended over Chris, he could see that it was more than mutual. He was watching Driscoll closely, clearly waiting for the big reveal. “Once that’s been read, we can turn our attention to Miss Delphi’s living arrangements. With some tea.”

  “Right—give me a moment, I’ll fetch the tea.” Tarquin strode off and banged about in the kitchen. Despite the racket he was making, the Oracle of Delphi didn’t wake up from the dog basket she had commandeered in front of the Aga.

  What the hell kind of letter is this going to be? If it had anything to do with the overhanging trees or Prince Alberts, then Tarquin would put the damn thing in the nearest shredder.

  He emerged from the kitchen a few minutes later bearing a large teapot on a tray and placed it on the coffee table before sitting down in the armchair. “So what’s this letter all about?”

  “Come on, old thing.” Chris tried a smile, but he looked as tense as Tarquin felt. He must have known his great-uncle had been a reprobate as well as anybody, and he must have his own suspicions that there wasn’t just a good luck card in that envelope. “Put us out of our suspense.”

  With incredible care, Driscoll slid his thumbnail into the flap of the envelope and drew it along, unsealing the letter at a painfully slow speed. From within, he removed a single sheet of folded ivory paper, which he unfolded and peered at along the length of his narrow nose. Then he cleared his throat.

  Very theatrical.

  “My dear Messrs Hardacre and Bow.” He paused and said, “He has indicated he wishes me to pronounce your name Bow, Mr. Bough, do forgive me.”

  Chris laughed and sat back in his chair, suddenly looking considerably more relaxed. Good-looking git.

  Tarquin steepled his fingers. “I am perfectly unsurprised that Beardsley Hardacre should wish to vex me from beyond the grave. Come along, Mr. Driscoll, please.”

  “If this letter is being read to you by my clock-fixing, bill-fiddling poltroon of a lawyer, Mr. Eamon Driscoll, then I am finally dead. I hope Mr. Driscoll has finally shaved off his moustache and embraced the thin lips that God gave him.” He ran his finger over his naked top lip. And it was rather thin. “To my great nephew, Christopher, a strutting, arrogant popinjay blessed with good looks if not good brains, I have already bequeathed my ancestral home. To my neighbor, Mr Bow, who never ceased to entertain me with his decision to move from juvenility to middle age, I leave nothing. As he will expect.”

  Tarquin rolled his eyes.

  “Sorry.” Chris chuckled. “Not too sure about the me being thick bit, but it’s still very Uncle Bea.”

  “Or perhaps I do,” Driscoll went on. “Should Christopher choose to sell the house, then I bequeath my girl, my wonder, my treasure, the Oracle of Delphi, to Mr. Bow. He must keep her in the manner to which she is accustomed, as outlined in the enclosed papers. In these circumstances he will receive a sum of five thousand pounds per month for her care. Should he attempt to sell, slaughter or otherwise play her foul, this sum shall be discontinued and I will haunt his miserable family until the end of days. Should the Oracle of Delphi meet her final breath in the care of Mr. Bow, a sum of one hundred thousand pounds will be paid to Mr. Bow to allow him to bury her in an appropriate manner and mausoleum. Formal mourning should be observed by the village for a period of three months.”

  “Five grand a month?” Chris sat forward again, no longer amused. “For a pig?”

  “She eats a lot of apples,” Tarquin informed him.

  “Should Christopher choose to reside in our ancestral home, my entire estate is his and his alone on one condition. He must also keep the Oracle of Delphi in the manner enclosed herein. Should he fail to do so, he will forfeit his entire inheritance and ownership of my girl will pass to Mr. Bow as outlined above. In that case, my estate will be inherited entirely by my last fancy, whose name is enclosed in a sealed envelope, to be opened only when and if necessary.”

  As if she had known she was being talked about, Tarquin heard the sound of trotters clicking over the floorboards, and the Oracle suddenly appeared, framed in the doorway. She gave a squeal, as if saying hello.

  Tarquin chuckled. “Oh, dear, Christopher! You’ll have to try very hard to get into the Oracle’s good books, won’t you! After all those improvements to your uncle’s house, too!”

  “Let me see the enclosed papers,” Chris said urgently, holding out his hand. Driscoll took a small sheaf from the envelope and handed it to him, saying nothing. Tarquin longed to know what the instructions said, as Chris’ blue eyes grew wider by the second as he scanned the words. Then he blustered, “Sing to her… Take her to the fair?” He looked at Driscoll and said with utter disbelief, “Read her Madam Fanny’s Floral Pomander by PA bloody Pierce before bed? It’s a pig! No sane person could expect this to stand up!”

  Tarquin left his chair. With a detour to scratch the Oracle’s head, he peered over Chris’ shoulder and began to read. “Row her along the river at least twice during the summer months. Walk her on her harness once a day. Take her to visit her surviving children once a year, on their birthdays.” Tarquin laughed, then said, “I believe one of her sons resides in a farm just outside Stornoway. You can borrow my horsebox, if you like?”

  “Should either of the gentleman wish to contest this will,” Driscoll concluded, “I have left a generous fighting fund. And as Driscoll will tell you, it’s a wasted b
attle—he’s right, it’d ruin you—so I suggest you learn to enjoy being guardian to the finest pig known to man instead. Yours from the great beyond, Beardsley Rupert Hardacre.”

  “What if she won’t come home with me?” Chris asked desperately. “She doesn’t like me!”

  “Then I suggest you devote yourself to learning her favorite songs—I believe she has a soft spot for show tunes—and brush up your Madam Fanny,” Driscoll commiserated. “I shall give you one month to win her round and bring her home. Otherwise we must look to fulfill Mr. Hardacre’s wish and relieve you of your rather generous inheritance!”

  “Just a month, eh?” Tarquin returned to his armchair and the Oracle snuffled her way up to him, resting her head on his knee as if hoping for some fuss. Which Tarquin duly gave her.

  “And Mr. Bow,” Driscoll said, retrieving another of those ominous envelopes, this one already open. “Before he died, Mr. Hardacre left a final request that he wished me to communicate with you. His fancy at the time of his death was a source of great joy to him and he hoped to purchase the…erm…the item with the royal connection as a lover’s gift, I believe.” He looked around as though there might be an unseen audience then leaned forward and whispered, “The Prince Albert?”

  “You’re all so bloody weird,” Chris murmured, still reading through the list. “What a place.”

  Tarquin sighed. “So he may have told you, Driscoll, but I think his bidding on the Prince Albert was merely to rile me. You know, it was part of my family’s collection, then it disappeared—stolen, we always thought, but we never knew by whom—and my father spent years trying to track it down. Then I got a tip off from an auctioneer, and I knew I had to have it.” Tarquin smiled at Driscoll, but his gaze drifted to Chris. He looked so handsome, the morning sunshine bathing him in golden light. And there he was, on Tarquin’s sofa, and what Tarquin wouldn’t do to—control yourself, you silly man. “It was a public auction, I was at the auction itself, and I was the highest bidder. And I paid, and I brought it home, and Beardsley then decided that I had somehow stolen it from him. I resent the accusation, quite frankly, and I look forward to laying the odious matter to rest once and for all.”