And the Oracle’s stream of grunts slowed as she laid the side of her face against Chris’ knee.
“She does that when she’s happy,” Tarquin told him. Chris smiled up at him and as the song went on even Bryan and Petunia seemed to realize that this was a time for peace, tiptoeing as they made their way back to the table.
“All right, I’ll admit it, that’s really cute,” Shobna said.
“She’s a sweet thing,” Chris sighed. “And she lost her best friend, but she found another in the squire.”
Tarquin wished that he and Chris were alone because at that moment, as Chris looked at him with those spectacular blue eyes, Tarquin could’ve kissed him.
“She has a new friend now, though,” Tarquin said.
“It’s a pig,” Petunia announced. She shook her head. “Obviously Christopher makes it all look very cute but…it’s not a dog, it’s a pig. Bryan, Shobna, come on, would you want it in your house?”
Bryan brayed with laughter. “Of course not! I wouldn’t want its snout all over my papers. Must make a mess, and the smell, by God! And can you imagine me trying to a get a pig into the ol’ Porsche? Not a chance.”
Shobna shook her head. “If I had a pig that Chris was willing to come round and sing to, then I wouldn’t mind if she made a mess!”
“I’ll sing for you, Shobna, but I only do songs from the shows,” Chris said. “Go on, I’ll take a request.”
“A request?” Shobna clapped. “I do like Grease, but do you know any Bollywood?”
He frowned and rolled his eyes heavenward, deep in thought. The Oracle blinked dreamily up at Chris too, apparently waiting for the verdict.
“How does Badtameez Dil suit you?” he asked after a few moments. “I drove to Edinburgh with a Bollywood fanatic last year and picked a few tunes up!”
“Oh, go on, Chris, do it!” Shobna raised her glass. “You’re a man of many surprises, aren’t you?”
“But I’m not going to do the dancing.” He laughed. “I’ve seen the film, I don’t have his moves!”
“You’ve seen it?” Shobna looked amazed. “No one in Bough Bottoms watches Bollywood! You should try doing the dancing—go on!”
“With a beef Wellington in his stomach and a pig on his lap?” Bryan scoffed as he carved into his generous serving of dinner. “I’d like to see you try, Chris!”
“Oh my God, let’s have a dance-off!” Petunia announced excitedly. “We can play the vid on YouTube and the boys can give it their best shot! Winner gets the biggest bowl of Eton Mess?”
A look of wariness crossed Bryan’s face, then he set down his cutlery. “I’m game!”
Tarquin shook his head. “I’m a terrible dancer.”
“Me versus Bryan then.” Chris bent his head to kiss the Oracle’s head. “Wish me luck, Orry.”
The pig snorted and lifted her head, eyeing Chris.
Is she smiling? Tarquin wondered.
“Dance-off it is, then!” Shobna shifted in her chair, evidently in her element. Still kneeling on the grass, Chris took out his phone and soon he and Bryan were studying the video, a riot of bling and celebration and some very spirited dancing. They might not have a pyramid of champagne glasses or a glitter cannon here in Bough Bottoms, but what they did have were the two captains of the opposing rowing teams, about to continue centuries of competition in a Bollywood dance-off.
Bryan flung aside his pinstriped jacket, letting it fall louchely over a chair. He slicked back his hair and popped his collar forward.
“Ready to lose, Chris?”
Tarquin tried not to roll his eyes.
“Oh, confident! Petunia, you’re in charge of the phone.” Chris rose to his feet. “Let’s get this dance-off started!”
Petunia clapped and swept her finger across the screen, cueing the video back to the beginning. Then she said, “Shobna, count the brave boys in!”
“One…two…three—dance!”
The music filled the summer night and Bryan and Chris went into battle, one laughing but one, Tarquin noted, taking it very seriously indeed. From the look on Bryan’s face anyone would’ve thought his very life depended on winning the impromptu contest. He seemed to be doing his best, but placed a large emphasis on wiggling his bottom and grabbing his crotch, like an end-of-the-pier Michael Jackson impersonator.
“Watch out, Chris, I’m going to do a spin!” Bryan declared.
“Spin! Spin!” Petunia whooped, clapping her hands. “Woooh!”
Bryan held out his arms and spun round on one foot. It wasn’t too unimpressive, as spins went, but he lunged into another dance move at the end and caught Chris across the cheek with his fingers.
With a grin, Bryan said, “Ooops, sorry, Chris!”
But Chris, unfazed, caught Bryan’s fingertips and pulled him into his arms as though they were on Come Dancing, making a partner of his competitor. Or a supporting artist.
“He’s making you his backing dancer,” Petunia howled, clapping her hands as the two men spun on the lawn. “God, Shobs, look at them go!”
Shobna danced in her seat, clicking her fingers. “They’ve got the moves!”
Tarquin clapped along, awkward and devoid of rhythm. So he stopped, and wished that he could dance with Chris like that.
Bryan tried to lead, but he wasn’t as nimble on his feet as Chris and had to rely on some rather unusual arm movements as if he was swimming on dry land. And Chris was clearly no stranger to Bollywood dancing, which Tarquin wasn’t entirely surprised by. He moved with a nimble elegance that Bryan entirely lacked and unlike his opponent, he looked as if he was having the time of his life.
Tarquin called, “Come along, Bryan, shake it, old bean!”
Bryan glared at Tarquin, as if he’d rather shake him, then something glorious happened. Just as Bryan appeared to be on the cusp of another spin, the Oracle entered the fray. She shot off from under Tarquin’s caresses at speed and ran at Bryan’s legs, sending him flying.
“Bryan!” Petunia exclaimed. “Are you all right?”
“I would be if it wasn’t for that bloody pig!” Bryan was trying to pull himself up while the Oracle snuffled and snorted at him. Tarquin knew he should’ve gone to help the man up but he couldn’t move because he was doubled over with mirth. And Shobna returned to her wine.
As the song ended Chris collapsed on the grass on his back, his arms flung out to either side. He was laughing too, and even Petunia cracked a smile. Bryan, however, was corralled by the Oracle, who had penned him like a sheepdog.
“Let me just—” Tarquin intervened. With a whistle and a snap of his fingers, he led the Oracle away, and Bryan pulled himself to his feet, glaring at Chris.
“He’s got that bloody thing trained,” Bryan said.
From his bed of grass Chris called, “Who won? Let the Oracle decide!”
The pig headed back to the impromptu dance area and looked from Bryan, who glared at her as he brushed himself down, to Chris. Who she trotted up to, then circled with an excited squeal.
“Fetch the Eton Mess, Tarks,” Chris instructed. “To the victor and his niece, the spoils!”
Tarquin hurried into the kitchen and returned bearing the pudding, straight from the fridge. He plucked one of the strawberries from it, and the Oracle tried to sniff his hand.
“Sit,” Tarquin said, and she did so, her gaze never leaving the strawberry. “Chris, would you like to do the honors?”
“I’d love to!” He sat up on the grass and held out his palm, meeting Tarquin’s gaze. “It’s a juicy one!”
“A big juicy one.” Tarquin grinned as he placed the strawberry on Chris’ hand. The Oracle’s allegiance had shifted now and she stared at Chris. He leaned forward, holding out the strawberry to her.
“Come on, Miss Hardacre,” he cooed. “Get your pud.”
She sniffed at the strawberry, then the juicy fruit vanished. The Oracle got to her trotters again and nudged Chris’ hand, as if she expected to find an endless supply of fruit.
<
br /> “Another, squire?” Chris smiled up at Tarquin. “She’s got a taste for them”
“Oh, go on.” Tarquin passed Chris another. “See…you’ll win her round, don’t you worry.”
“Christopher, that’s revolting.” Petunia grimaced as the pig happily snuffled her second strawberry from his palm. “Fresh strawberries for a pig! I’ll serve the humans.”
Tarquin decided not to engage with Petunia’s grumbling. “Look at how happy the Oracle is!” He took a third strawberry and put the pudding down on the table. Petunia dug in, serving up delicate helpings for all.
“This is awfully rich,” she said, as though apologizing. “I shouldn’t really, not until I’m married! And Tarquin eats like an elephant if I let him, I have to keep such a strict eye on him.”
Tarquin caught Chris’ glance. “I’ve got a big trunk!”
“Tarquin,” Petunia warned. “Don’t be vulgar.”
“I met the rest of the rowing team yesterday,” Chris told Bryan. “We had our first training session and you lot’ve got yourselves a race!”
Bryan was still polishing off his beef Wellington and had to swallow his large mouthful before replying. “Fighting talk, eh, Hardacre? May as well give it your best shot, but you can rest assured, you might win the dance contest, but you won’t win the rowing!”
“How many years is it that you’ve taken the trophy?” Chris returned to his seat and took a drink of wine.
After a pause, Bryan said, “Haven’t done too badly.”
Shobna spluttered with laughter. “My dad wouldn’t agree! He says he could beat your team with his eyes shut!”
“You’ll have to stream to him in Florida,” Petunia told her friend. “Oh my God, I literally said stream. A boat race. Stream!”
Shobna and Bryan hooted with amusement, Bryan’s laugh easily the louder of the two.
What must daily life be like in their office?
Tarquin hoped he’d never find out. He’d seen them both behind the lectern in their saleroom and while Bryan went with smooth, oily ingratiation, Petunia was the sergeant major, berating her cornered buyers into bidding on whatever she decided they should buy. He’d almost bid himself a few times, feeling rather like a man facing the hanging judge. Why he’d made a snap decision to take up fishing when Petunia had begun the bidding on antique fishing rods which had seen better days, Tarquin couldn’t say.
Well, perhaps he could. Anything for a quiet life. The rods now moldered in the cellar with the claret.
“So has it been a shock coming to the rural Bottoms after the city?” Petunia asked Chris. “Why on earth did Beardsley leave everything to you?”
“No idea,” Chris admitted. “But I love it here already. I’ve got a river at the bottom of my garden instead of the Thames fifteen stories below. The air’s clean, the people say hello and the beer’s cheap. It’s heaven! And it’ll be perfect once we bring that Bough race trophy home!”
Bryan shook his head. “Keep on dreaming, Chris! That trophy is mine!”
“Ours, surely?” Tarquin came back to the table, leaving the Oracle to enjoy her strawberry. “No I in team and all that!”
“Come on, you’re saying that in the company of a city boy like Chris!” Bryan playfully nudged Chris in the ribs. “Bet you’ve walked over a lot of people to make your moolah, eh?”
“Let’s not talk business over dinner.” Chris seemed happy, but there was a warning edge in his tone. “It’s bad form.”
And even Bryan seemed to heed it. “Fair enough. Although…” He shone Chris an ingratiating smile that curdled Tarquin’s stomach. “Those Hardacre documents you mentioned… I’ll gladly give them a look-over with my expert eye, if you like?”
“That’s very kind, but they’re at the London office as we speak, in the capable hands of the Hardacre archivist.” Amusement danced over Chris’ face, and Bryan’s expression darkened. “I thought the publishing house was the safest place for them. They’re part of Hardacre history and my father’s the boss over there so…keep it in the family and all that. Besides, I’ve heard the squire’s collection is far more interesting than mine!”
“The squire?” Bryan raised an eyebrow. “Who’s that?”
“Our host. Mr. Bough himself!”
Bryan slapped his thigh, guffawing. “Bloody hell, that’s hilarious! The squire!”
Tarquin ignored him and told Chris, “I’m happy to show you the collection, if you’re curious?”
“I’d love to. Pierce wrote his book here and my great-uncle made his name publishing it. It’s part of my family history too.” He put down his spoon. “I’d like to see what might’ve inspired PA Pierce’s dirty book! You know, I found a couple of mentions of a sequel by Pierce in Bea’s notes, but I guess that came to nothing. A shame, think of what it might be worth if I’d found that!”
“Well, why not pop upstairs with me and I can show you all sorts of saucy things!” Tarquin pushed back his chair. “Follow me!”
And there might have been just a hint of the squire in that lighthearted command.
“Yes, sir,” Chris told him smartly. “Show me the way!”
Chapter Eleven
Tarquin felt rather proud of the old place as he led Chris into the hallway, where the large wooden staircase curved its way up to the first floor. “Your house is a bit older than Bough Towers, but this has always been a farmhouse, so they say. It’s all stone and wood, and when the craze for covering everything in columns came along, my family resisted and the house remained more or less as you see it now. You’ll notice they weren’t big on family portraits and that sort of thing, but we’ve got lots of paintings of animals!”
As Tarquin led Chris up the stairs, he showed him the paintings—the cows and sheep, the dogs and chickens, rendered in oils. When Petunia had first visited, she had treated these heirlooms like a house clearance, pricing up the pieces as they went, but Chris had no such comments. Instead he seemed genuinely interested in the rich history of the Boughs and their age-old feud with their neighbors, the Hardacres, which went all the way back to that first Groom of the Stool. It had been the first time a Bough had bettered a Hardacre, and from that moment, the families had been thorns in each other’s sides.
Until now.
“My family love a portrait.” Chris chuckled as he followed Tarquin through the house. “Wearing as much bling as they could pile on. I’ve got a fantastic Hogarth of my great granddad a few times back, Mr Hardacre of the City. Brilliant!”
“I’d love to see that!” Tarquin grinned as he swept aside a heavy damask curtain. “Up this way to the attics.”
The ancient stairs creaked under their feet, and Tarquin hummed to himself, excited that he was going to show Chris his treasures. And he was so aware of Chris behind him, more aware than he had been of anyone for a long time. This was how a summer evening was supposed to be spent.
At the top of the stairs, Tarquin reached for Chris’ hand and kissed it. “I really hope you’ll love this.”
Chris touched his fingertips to Tarquin’s face and told him, “I know I will.”
Tarquin reached down inside his jumper and pulled out the key that he wore around his neck on a cord. He unlocked the ordinary-looking door and it swung open with a creak. The room inside was dark until he felt for the light switch and the space before them was illuminated.
Tarquin stood aside to let Chris see. It looked like a room in an old museum, with wood-framed display cases and artifacts under domes. Still other objects waited for them inside polished wooden boxes.
“Where would you like to start?”
“Why don’t you give me the guided tour?” Chris slipped his arm around Tarquin’s waist. “I can’t wait to see what you’re hiding in your respectable attic!”
“A lot of saucy stuff, I promise!” Tarquin kissed Chris’ cheek, then took him to the first case, where a slender riding crop lay on a velvet cushion. “Now, see the wood…what do you think those figures are that are carved
into it?”
“Tell me,” he requested, his arm still around Tarquin’s waist as he leaned forward to look more closely. Was it Tarquin’s imagination, or did he hear Chris’ breath become just a little faster at the sight of the ornate crop?
Tarquin brushed his lips against Chris’ ear. “They’re Cossacks. This once belonged to Catherine the Great, and it is said it wasn’t only used on her horses. I’m sure you know what that means, don’t you?”
“My God, if that crop could talk and I could understand Russian!” He put his hand on the case, shielding the slight glare of the lights. “How did you get this? Tell me about this Groom of the Stool of yours!”
“Well, take your mind back to the reign of James I, or James VI if you’re Scottish—and you will meet Hugh de Bough. A landowning sort in a small way in Sussex, King James takes a shine to him, and Hugh becomes the Groom of the Stool. Which, as jobs go, isn’t all that delightful, but earns you the ear of the king as well as his rear! And earns you…ahhh…where is it?”
Tarquin took Chris to another case. “So here we have a handwritten copy of a Shakespeare sonnet. Or some people think it’s a Shakespeare. Bryan would give his eyeteeth and his firstborn for it, I would expect. But if you look at the first letter of each line, look what it spells out… GEORGEVILLIERS. The first Duke of Buckingham—George Villiers—and allegedly the lover of the Scottish chap. Whoever wrote it had a thing for George’s finely sculpted arms! And I don’t mean his family crest.”
“My God…” Chris’ voice was a whisper. Then he shot Tarquin a smile. “I’m led to believe my arms aren’t too shabby. I wonder if I could get a sonnet out of them? And it was a Hardacre who got knocked out of the stool job, am I right? And my family took it personally for about four hundred years!”
“Yes, sorry about that!” Tarquin kissed Chris’ cheek again. “And after Hugh de Bough got that job, other de Boughs—and eventually just good ol’ Boughs—got roles at court. And that’s how many of the items which form the basis of the collection came into our hands. Sorry, I sound like a curator…that’s how they got here. My grandad put them in their cases, and my father organized them and started to add to the collection.”
The Captain and the Squire Page 12
