The Captain and the Squire

by Catherine Curzon

  He glanced round at Chris and said, “First time in the Pomander?”

  Chris nodded, peering around the low-ceilinged taproom as though he were a child visiting Disneyland. After a moment he said, “Pomanders seem to be following me at the moment. Bough Bottoms is making the most of its famous son, isn’t it?”

  “Can you blame us?” Petunia was at Chris’ elbow, one hand toying flirtatiously with her pearls. “Not many villagers can boast their very own literary legend, but Bough Bottoms can! Do you know how your Great-Uncle Beardsley came to publish Madam Fanny’s Floral Pomander?”

  Does anybody not know?

  Certainly everybody from Upper and Lower Bough could recite the tale.

  But Chris shook his head, perhaps out of politeness, and rested his hands on his hips, his gaze set intently on Petunia.

  “PA Pierce was incredibly reclusive, so the stories say, and only ever really socialized with the late Mr. Hardacre. But seventy-odd years ago, the late Beardsley wasn’t the publishing legend he became, he was just an apprentice who had to cycle into town to get the train to the city to make a pittance,” she said, every inch the quintessential Jackanory host. “So the story goes, he and PA had their own steeplechase just like you and my gorgeous future husband, but the rights for the outrageous, explicit, Madam Fanny’s Floral Pomander were the prize. England had never seen a book like it!”

  “A book like this would make Lady Chatterley blush and her gardener run for his rosary,” Chris said, recalling one of the more famous comments that accompanied the book’s scandalous publication all those decades ago. “So Beardsley won and got to publish the book?”

  “And made his name!” Petunia put her arm around Tarquin’s waist, and he stared at her in surprise. “Bryan’s my partner at the auction house and there’s nothing he doesn’t know about Lady Fanny. He’s bound to be here soon. You should talk to him—Beardsley’s whole career in publishing was built on Fanny!”

  “Did I hear my name?” The loud, confident voice of Bryan Reeve filled the pub as he walked up to them. He passed his hand over his collar-length slicked-back hair, his pinstripes and pink shirt worn louchely. His gaze fell on Chris and he stuck out his hand, his signet ring catching the light. “A new face! Just passing through?”

  “Christopher Hardacre.” Chris took his hand. No call me Chris, Tarquin noted smugly. “I’m hopefully staying, but that’s rather down to my great-uncle’s pig!”

  Bryan tipped back his head and guffawed as he shook Chris’ hand. “Oh, the Siren of Thingy or whatever it’s called? Yes, I’ve heard all about the pig. Currently plaguing Tarkers and Petunia, poor sods! So you’re the new chap at the Grange, then?”

  “Our lovely new neighbor.” Petunia beamed. “Petunia, Christopher, wonderful to meet you. I’m Mrs. Bough in waiting—such a privilege to carry on the Bough name. It’s like being a local celebrity.” She leaned forward to kiss Chris’ cheek, though he hadn’t given any indication that she should. “But not a real celebrity, for that, you need to talk to Bryan. He’s the resident millionaire!”

  “Bryan is the village’s answer to Trump,” Tarquin told him, who was far from being smarmy Bryan’s greatest fan. “But he’s not in charge of America—he’s an antique book dealer instead.”

  “Ah, hence your interest in Fanny’s Pomander.” Chris nodded. “Do you know something shocking? I’ve never read it. The book that kept my family in the black and I’ve never even opened a copy.”

  Bryan rubbed his hands. “I’m just the man for you, then.”

  I doubt that, Tarquin thought.

  Bryan took the purple handkerchief from his breast pocket and wafted it, as if such a display of silk would demonstrate his success as a book dealer, then he tucked it away again. He put his arm around Chris’ shoulders. “I can source a first edition, if you’re interested? You look like the sort of man who wouldn’t mind spending a lot of money to have such a thing in your possession, eh? Although I would’ve thought your uncle would have had some on his shelves.”

  “I’ve got a couple of first editions,” Chris admitted. “Uncle was rather proud of his big find! Quite the mystery man, wasn’t he? One filthy book and nothing else?”

  Bryan shook his head, chuckling. “I’m surprised you didn’t know about Pierce’s other work. His essays on sexual freedom—The Secret Study. Still quite shocking even now, to be honest. Advocating open relationships, experimentation, the pursuit of exquisite pleasures. There was talk of him having penned another novel, but none has ever come to light. I don’t suppose you’ve turned anything up in your uncle’s house? But then, I doubt he’d have sat on a Pierce manuscript!”

  “Afraid not, but I’m looking, believe me! Just a bit desperate to hang around and all that.” He chortled, but it sounded hollow to Tarquin. He just needs a hug. “You won’t believe this, but I have to read the dirty book to my new pig! If I can’t win her over, I lose the house, everything!”

  Bryan brayed with laughter and slapped Chris’ back. “Bloody hell, that’s a bit rough for you, eh? Bet you thought you’d won the lottery when you inherited that house, and just think, you could lose it all for a pig!”

  Tarquin narrowed his eyes at Bryan. Couldn’t he at least try to sound sympathetic? But then again, this was Bryan Reeve. And Bryan Reeve was a pillock.

  But Chris didn’t answer. He peered closely at Bryan for a long moment before he finally said, “I could! I’ve got one month to tempt my pig away from the charms of the squire or I’m out on my ear and a mysterious, unnamed last fancy gets the lot!”

  Bryan raised an eyebrow. “Last fancy? Wasn’t his nurse, was it? Heard she was quite a tasty piece.”

  “Oh come on, Bryan,” Tarquin admonished him. “It’s not the 1970s, and there are ladies present.” He nodded toward Petunia, who beamed and kissed Tarquin on the cheek.

  Bloody hell.

  “I’m as clueless as you are.” Chris shrugged, then asked, “Have we met before? Bryan, right?”

  “Yes, Bryan. With a Y.” He raised both eyebrows now and reeled back a little from Chris, studying him. “Erm…no, I don’t think we’ve met before. Or if we have, we must both have been bloody drunk!” Bryan guffawed and slapped Chris’ back again.

  “Bryan, you’ll never guess, Chris is your new worst enemy!” Petunia rested her hand on Bryan’s shoulder. “He’s just agreed to captain the Bottoms against the Uppers at the annual do!”

  Bryan’s eyes opened wide and his mouth twisted into a grimace which hastily vanished, and he guffawed again. “You never are? Well, good to meet you, Captain Chris! I’m Captain Bryan, and we always win, so you’d better get used to losing, eh? Get ready for a damned good spanking!”

  “You always win? We’ll see about who’s doling out my spankings, Mr. Reeve.” Chris’ eyes suddenly grew wide and he asked keenly, “You don’t have a brother, do you? Or a cousin? By the name of Aubrey Reeve?”

  Bryan frowned and slowly shook his head. “Nope. Name doesn’t ring any bells.”

  “There’s just Bryan,” Petunia chimed in. “He’s one half of Rudd-Reeve, the finest auction house in Sussex, if we say so ourselves! Your uncle sold with us many a time. Nothing from his Pierce collection, alas!”

  Something about that seemed to strike Chris as amusing, but he didn’t share the joke. Instead he looked at Tarquin and said, “That was a bloody hard ride, squire—you must’ve worked up quite a sweat! What can I get you to cool you down?”

  Tarquin saw naked bodies entwined, a shower raining down on them, a— “A gin and tonic, please. Lots of ice. It’s true, I am feeling rather warm.” Tarquin opened the buttons on his jacket. Why had he even worn a jacket? Chris looked so much cooler in his shirt, just enough buttons unfastened to be utterly tantalizing, his sleeves rolled to the elbow.

  How have I gone through all these years without ever being kissed like that?

  “You look very, very hot.” Chris nodded, his expression betraying only friendly concern. “Just looking at you i
s making me hot too. Let’s get a couple of G and Ts in, eh?”

  Remembering he still had a fiancée, Tarquin asked her, “Petunia, what will you have?”

  “Dry white wine,” she said. “And Bryan?”

  But before Bryan could answer, Chris had turned back to him, pointing a rather keen finger. “You weren’t at Leadbetter, were you? Couple of years above me? Christopher Hardacre… I don’t ring a single bell?”

  Bryan mouthed Chris’ name, eyes narrowed. “Nope, still don’t recall meeting you before. Leadbetter Academy… No, that wasn’t my school, I was at Shillinglaw.”

  “Must be a distant branch on the Reeve family tree. Same nose, that’s what threw me.” That seemed to satisfy Chris and he said, “I’m glad though, because I wouldn’t row against Aubrey Reeve again if you paid me! Cheating little bugger that he was, he nearly drowned me for his precious gold medal!”

  Petunia guffawed and patted Bryan’s sharply tailored shoulder. Did Tarquin detect a flinch? “We all play fair here, Chris. Let’s get those drinks and settle in!”

  Chapter Six

  Tarquin couldn’t sleep. He should’ve done, after drinking several pints and whiskey chasers at The Floral Pomander, but every time he closed his eyes, he saw Chris, and he felt their kiss again, and his body was stirred to such a pitch that sleep was impossible.

  What was he going to do?

  A squire couldn’t be gay. He’d accepted Petunia’s proposal of marriage to hide the fact, and although he’d tried to make her happy in the bedroom, within a year of their engagement, that side of things had fizzled out. According to her, a go-getting career woman had no time for sex. And Tarquin had never thought about getting his jollies elsewhere. He’d never been unfaithful. It was a point of honor with him.

  But what had he done? Kissed a man. And not just any man—a Hardacre. His neighbor. Not someone he could easily avoid, but hadn’t Chris promised him something more?

  Whatever would he do?

  But that kiss. He hadn’t felt so happy in years.

  And yet, and yet…squires don’t kiss city boys. It’s not the done thing.

  From outside he heard the sound of movement, no doubt the Oracle wandering out through the doggie door as she did when the call of nature disturbed her rest. How ridiculous to think that Chris’ future in the village rested on a pig. How very Beardsley Hardacre.

  Would Driscoll even know the pig hadn’t taken to Chris? What if, when Driscoll came to check, Tarquin just happened to be at Hardacre Grange, and the pig would appear content? What if—?

  Tarquin froze. In the house he heard a very human-sounding footstep.

  Please not a thief, not someone after my collection!

  He’d hidden the Prince Albert well, though. No thief would ever find it.

  But somebody was definitely downstairs, he was sure of it.

  Did he need to unlock the gun cabinet?

  Tarquin slipped out of bed and crept out of the room, treading lightly so as not to wake Petunia. He paused on the landing, trying to listen for sounds downstairs, but heard nothing more than the drumming of his heartbeat in his ears.

  Then he heard the gentle trot of the Oracle’s feet on the flags and—singing?

  Someone was downstairs singing to the Oracle of Delphi, regaling her with a soft rendition of Over the Rainbow, and it could only be one man.

  Chris. In his house. Trying to win over his late uncle’s pig.

  Tarquin took each step of the staircase as softly as he could, keeping his back to the wall. He stopped on the last bend in the stairs and sat there on the step, not wanting to head downstairs and interrupt the delightful communing of man with pig.

  Had Chris crawled through the doggie door? At the thought of it, Tarquin’s heart skipped, picturing that gorgeous bottom in those skintight jodhpurs once more. Was it too much to imagine that he might still be wearing them?

  Tarquin could have a look, at least, couldn’t he? Chris wouldn’t necessarily spot him. Tarquin continued his silent journey, and was finally on the ground floor of the house. He heard a curt yap from one of the dogs, who would have known their master was awake, but they went back to sleep.

  They weren’t much good as guard dogs, that was for sure.

  Tarquin followed the singing. It was coming from the back of the house. The kitchen door was slightly ajar and Tarquin paused, realizing the singing was coming from inside. What a beautiful voice Chris had. Tarquin could’ve listened to him for hours. He peered around the doorframe, just enough to see, but not be seen in turn.

  Moonlight spilled over the floor and there, his jodhpur-clad legs stretched before him, those gleaming leather boots crossed at the ankle, was Christopher Hardacre. The Oracle was sleeping on the tiles beside him, her eyes closed and her gentle snoring somehow the sweetest accompaniment Tarquin could imagine to Chris’ soft song. Surely nobody could resist a silken-voiced canary like him, even a Gloucester Old Spot? Chris’ future in the village depended on it, after all.

  Chris had found a way to the Oracle’s heart, it seemed. A pig who could be won over with show tunes—who would have thought it? But as Chris’ rendition went on, a tear rolled down Tarquin’s face. That song… He’d never really cared for it much before, but there was something unexpectedly fragile in Chris’ timbre that spoke to the longing within Tarquin. He wiped his pajama sleeve across his face and sniffed.

  As the song ended, only the sounds of the night surrounded them, inside and out. Then he heard Chris’ quiet voice as he told his sleeping audience, “You don’t have to like me. Just…put up with me. Please.”

  Tarquin decided to emerge from his hiding place. He gave Chris warning by deliberately stepping on a creaky floorboard, then slid around the edge of the door.

  “Evening,” he said quietly. “She enjoyed your singing, then.”

  For a moment Chris didn’t say anything at all, but watched Tarquin with wide eyes, as though caught cheating by a teacher. He looked like he was expecting trouble. When none was forthcoming he said, “That’s a big cat flap you’ve got in the door.”

  Tarquin stayed where he was, leaning back against the wall. What on earth would Chris make of his silk paisley pajamas? “It’s for the dogs! And pigs. And…next-door neighbors.”

  “Is Ms. Rudd asleep?” How innocent it sounded. Perhaps it was.

  “Yeah, sleeping the sleep of the hardworking, go-getting auctioneer.”

  He nodded. “Sorry for breaking into your house. Crawling in, really, no jemmy required.”

  “It’s all right. No harm done. The Oracle’s happy, at least.”

  Chris stroked his hand over the pig’s head and said, “She seems to be. A month isn’t very long. I’ve got to deploy all of my charms if I’m going to tempt her back!”

  “No, a month isn’t very long at all. It’s almost as if old Beardsley was set on you losing the house.” Tarquin twisted one of the buttons on his pajamas. Should he really have said that to the man’s nephew? “Did you ever meet him?”

  “Once, when he came to take me out after speech day when I won every sporting trophy going—made a hash of my exams in the process, not that school cared. Nor did he.” Chris shrugged his broad shoulders and went on. “Winning trophies mattered to a man like him more than exam results. You must know how competitive he was? You lived next door to the old bugger!”

  He only met his great -uncle once?

  Tarquin nodded. “Oh, yes, I know all about how competitive he was. Why would he fight me for Prince Albert’s Prince Albert? He didn’t want it, not really. He only wanted it because I did. He did all sorts of things to grind my gears—blocked our shared lane with a bollard, ‘accidentally’ tipped a lorry-load of muck into my front garden, grew leylandii so tall it felt like I was living in constant twilight, claimed my fence was six feet too far over into his land and sent me a bill for half a million quid…that sort of caper. The only thing we did agree on was the Oracle—she’s a very special pig. But he beat me in the auction at
the market for her when I said I wanted to buy her! He was an absolute pain in the arse to live next door to.”

  Too honest?

  “You’ve just described every member of the Hardacre family,” Chris told him with a grin. “We have a family motto, absolutum dominium, and nothing but that is acceptable. The first and only time I won a silver medal on sports day my father turned his back on me and it wasn’t even my fault, it was Aubrey cheating Reeve. I never took home anything but gold after that.”

  Tarquin left his spot by the wall and sat cross-legged on the floor next to the sleeping pig. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to sound disrespectful to your late uncle— I…” Tarquin stroked the Oracle’s side and her trotter twitched in her sleep. “But what you’ve said about your father—I can’t say it surprises me. Knowing Beardsley.”

  “We’re high achievers. Got the car, got the career, got the chance to retire before I’m forty? Absolutum dominium.” He quirked his eyebrow. “Can’t get the pig to like me though. A rare Hardacre failure.”

  “Your uncle spoiled her, but she’s not a bad pig at heart. Thinks she’s a dog, actually.” Tarquin chuckled softly. “Just spend time with her. That’s all. If you have time? Are you still working in the city, then, or is that it for you now? Retired and all that?”

  Chris sighed and ran his hands over his face, as though he was suddenly exhausted. Then he smiled and told Tarquin, “That’s about the size of it. Dad’s very proud, of course. He didn’t retire until he was thirty-seven, so I beat him. Which means he gets to say he brought me up well. Or at least sent me to a school that walloped me into suitable shape.”

  “Bravo you!” Tarquin patted Chris’ arm, but hastily withdrew his hand. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to be overfamiliar.”

  “You’re very good at kissi—” Chris began, silenced by the sound of Petunia’s voice from upstairs.

  “Turn the bloody telly down, you’ve got cows to wrangle first thing! Get to bed!”