The Fatal Engine

by Harriet Smart

  “It is only one evening,” she said, “and the time will pass soon enough. It will probably be most agreeable. We should lock away our cynicism. Now, I had better go and dress. By the way, there is jugged hare for dinner, if that is any consolation.”

  ~

  The guests had not been asked until after dinner, so it was just the three of them at table. The jugged hare was excellent, although it did not put Felix in a much better humour. Eleanor was not in fancy dress, but she might as well have been, for she had put on green velvet with vast sleeves, and there was a net of pearls in her hair. The effect was devastating, as if she meant pointedly to show him what he seemed determined to throw away.

  He decided he must talk to her before the guests arrived, and attempt to put right in some fashion what had passed between them the other night. The coming evening would otherwise be utterly unendurable; and so instead of lingering alone in the dining room to smoke a cheroot when the ladies had left him, as he often did, he went up directly after them. But there was no sign of Eleanor. She had gone to see after her games, Lady Blanchfort informed him.

  “I must talk to her,” he said. “There is something –” He wished for a moment he might spill out all the difficulty to her, longing as he did for her understanding and sympathy. It was a great temptation. “The other night, we –”

  Lady Blanchfort nodded and then said, “I’m not sure she will listen just now.”

  “Perhaps, but surely I must try?”

  “There are moments for these things. And with Eleanor, patience always pays dividends.”

  “But she has got an idea in her head about me that I cannot bear, that –” He broke off.

  After all, how could he disabuse Eleanor of a notion that was, in essence, the truth? His heightened sense of the woman to whom he was speaking only proved it. He could not be faithful. He had deserted her in thought if not in deed. God forbid, in deed, he told himself desperately, as Lady Blanchfort smiled with such radiant and loving sympathy that he wanted to fall at her feet and confess his admiration.

  However, Littleboy now came in and solemnly announced, “Mr Samuel Tolley!” followed a moment later by Tolley himself, who looked storm-tossed and awkward on being shown into an almost empty drawing room.

  “Oh, good evening!” said Lady Blanchfort. “My goodness, have you walked here, Mr Tolley?”

  “I have, and I’m early, I’m afraid. I’m sorry. It was not nearly so far as I thought.”

  “No, no, don’t be sorry!” said Felix, helping him from his coat and handing it to Littleboy.

  “No, for there must always be a first guest,” said Lady Blanchfort. “Come and get warm by the fire. Will you have a cup of tea?”

  “Yes, yes, please, thank you very much, ma’am,” he said.

  Lady Blanchfort went and saw to it, and Tolley glanced around him at the sparse room.

  “We are expecting a mob,” said Felix. “I hope you are ready for it.”

  “I like nothing more than a mob.”

  “And old English games?” Felix said.

  “What?”

  “A notion of my wife’s. We will be blind man’s-buffing all night. Can you bear it?”

  “Of course!” said Tolley, with enthusiasm.

  At this moment Eleanor came skipping in, carrying a large basket decorated with ribbons.

  “Prizes!” she said, setting it down on a table. “Oh, Sir Samuel, you are here already! You can help me and Mr Carswell with the chairs.”

  “You must not call me that, Mrs Carswell,” said Tolley, going pink.

  “I shall always call you that,” she said. “It suits you much better to be a knight. Especially tonight. Perhaps I should knight you myself? As the mistress of festivities I am sure it is within my power. But unfortunately I do not have a sword to hand.”

  “That is just as well,” Tolley said, “as I really am not equal to such an honour, Mrs Carswell. Oh, thank you, ma’am,” he added, taking his cup of tea from Lady Blanchfort.

  “Tea? Oh, surely you do not want tea, Sir Samuel, after coming through a blizzard? I have a wonderful hot-spiced punch on the way. It is an ancient recipe and absolutely delicious.” She took the cup from him. “It will be here any moment. Now, let us arrange these chairs. I thought we would begin with musical chairs.”

  ~

  The Ffordes, Lady Maria and Sir Mark were the last to arrive when the party was well under way. Eleanor had gathered an odd assortment of people, and the games were proving more popular than Felix would have guessed. In fact they were so popular that he had not yet been forced to participate in anything. Truro, Hepworth and Miss Fleming were, unsurprisingly, all quite eager, as were the Arundells, a large pleasant family who lived on the edge of the village in a house that almost equalled Hawksby in size. To these were added the Tranters, a retired East India man and his wife and their two girls. One of the Arundell boys had recently become engaged to one of the Tranter girls and they had all brought a useful celebratory atmosphere with them, that not even the arrival of the ladies from the Rectory could dispel. The Rector himself had sent his apologies, which was something of a relief.

  “I hope there will be no explosions, though, Mr Carswell,” Mr Tranter had said, on greeting Felix. “I have been hearing the most extraordinary things.”

  “You will have to wait until you read about it in The Bugle,” Felix had said.

  “As if I would admit to reading such a rag,” said Tranter with a laugh.

  “Everyone in Northminster reads The Bugle,” said Mrs Tranter. “Even the Bishop.”

  “This new bishop, certainly,” said Tranter, “for he seems to be a man of good sense, unlike the last one!”

  “You must excuse me, Mrs Carswell, if I say no,” Canon Fforde said, when Eleanor urged him to try her punch. “I make it a rule never to drink concoctions of any kind, no matter how delicious they look. A glass of hock will suit me nicely, if it is not too much trouble?”

  “Oh, but this is an excellent concoction,” Eleanor said. “It’s an old Blanchfort recipe. Blanchfort Christmas punch!”

  “I shall have some, of course, Mrs Carswell,” said Mrs Fforde. “I like nothing more than old family recipes, although I have to say you can have some trouble with handwriting. It is difficult sometimes to understand the quantities. I have had some wonderful disasters as a result.”

  “Oh no, the directions were quite clear,” said Eleanor. “Master Thomas, will you have some? Oh, but I cannot call you that any more, now you are an Edinburgh man and a head taller than I. Mr Fforde?”

  “Yes please, ma’am, and you may call me what you like. Plain Tom did well enough when we last met,” Tom said.

  “Plain Tom it shall be,” said Eleanor, and handed him a glass of punch.

  “Mercy, this is strong,” Felix heard Mrs Fforde murmur to her husband and son. “Be careful, Tom.”

  “My rule is a good one. I advise you both to adopt it,” said Canon Fforde.

  “It would have been churlish not to try it –” and then seeing Felix standing nearby, Mrs Fforde smiled. “It is delicious.”

  “But the Lord only knows what is in it!” Felix said. He had drunk three generous glasses and he already felt a little unsteady, but he scarcely cared. His only hope was that the evening would pass swiftly and soon he would find himself in bed.

  “So Mrs Carswell, what will the next game be?” Tom Fforde was asking.

  “Blind man’s buff,” said Eleanor.

  “And who will be ‘it’?” he said.

  “We will draw lots. There is a bag of cards for the purpose there on the table. Mr Truro, if you would do the honours? The Joker is ‘it’.”

  “Of course!” said Truro, and set off on his task with his usual flamboyance.

  Miss Fleming drew the joker and seemed quite pleased about it. It was perhaps that she liked to be the centre of attention. Truro tied the handkerchief about her eyes and spun her about three times while the rest of them fled to the sides of the
room, to avoid being caught by her. She went quite steadily about, and Felix wondered if the handkerchief had not been tied so tight and she could see quite well where she was going. For soon enough, after a little swerving and dancing about, Truro was caught.

  “He always flies too close to the flame,” Hepworth said. He turned back to the punch bowl and refilled his glass, drank it down swiftly and then crossed to the room to where Miss Fleming was tying the handkerchief about Truro’s head.

  “Make sure it’s good and tight!” said Hepworth. “We can’t having you taking undue advantage.”

  “As if I would do so!” said Truro, with theatrical indignation. “I can see nothing. I am utterly lost.”

  He stretched out towards Eleanor who was nearby, and who moved swiftly away from him, laughing. “I know that laugh well enough. It is our mistress of revels!” At which Eleanor clapped her hand over her mouth and jumped out of the way. But it was clear that she was his intended prey and he went after her all the same, despite Tolley and Tom being just as close. But that was the point of the game: it gave licence, and so Felix stood and watched Truro go shamelessly after his own wife. Finally Truro got her, but only by the tip of one of her shoes, for she had huddled up into the corner of a large armchair. She pulled her foot away so that her shoe came off in his hands. Still on his knees, Truro made the most of the moment, holding the shoe up like a trophy of battle.

  “I wonder, I wonder whose shoe this might be!”

  At which Eleanor snatched back the shoe, scrabbled out of the chair, dodged past Truro and ran across the room. She finished by concealing herself behind Felix. This, of course, caused great amusement to everyone, but Felix found he was not smiling much at it, especially as Truro lumbered forward towards him. Eleanor pulled him back, but Felix stood his ground, with the result that Truro slapped his hands on his shoulders and said, “Aha! I have caught – something, no, someone!” Then he began to touch Felix’s face, which was excessively unpleasant. “And if I am not wrong it is –”

  “I am not playing, Mr Truro,” he said, pushing his hands away.

  “Oh, Felix!” said Eleanor behind him, “Of course you are!”

  “Aha!” said Truro pulling off his blindfold. “You may say that, but I say you are caught, fair and square, and must take your turn,” and he offered the blindfold to him.

  “Yes, indeed you must, Felix,” said Eleanor, taking the blindfold.

  “Disobey the mistress of the feast at your peril,” said Truro and sauntered off.

  It was clear that neither of them would allow him to refuse, and he realised that he could not escape making an almighty fool of himself in his own house. Eleanor stood standing with the blindfold as if she were the executioner about to lead him to the scaffold.

  “You were caught,” she muttered. “Now take your turn and do not spoil it for everyone else.”

  He was close to ripping it from her and throwing it across the room, had he not caught Lady Blanchfort’s eye at that moment. There was a look of cool sympathy on her face and that was enough to make it bearable. He submitted to the blindfold and wondered how quickly he could manage to secure another wretched victim to sacrifice on Eleanor’s altar of relentless merriment.

  Chapter Thirty-three

  His ordeal did not last long. He soon crashed into Tolley, whom he suspected of putting himself in his way quite deliberately, though whether this was because he understood Felix’s unwillingness or he was desperate for a turn in his own right was not clear. Whatever the case, he was glad to yield up the blindfold to him.

  Eleanor threw herself into the rough and tumble of the game again, but it was the youngest Miss Tranter who was next to be caught. She was a slight, good-natured and undeniably pretty girl who did not look at all displeased when Tolley caught her by her skirts and correctly identified her.

  “What a boisterous game,” he heard Miss Martha say.

  Lady Blanchfort had carefully placed the two ladies from the rectory by the fire, with Mrs Tranter and Mrs Arundell.

  “Oh, it is all in good sport,” said Mrs Tranter.

  Mercifully, however, after a lengthy chase in which Miss Tranter finally caught her sister, and the latter declared herself too exhausted to go on, Lady Blanchfort suggested to Eleanor they might all catch their breath and have some music before supper. This suggestion was energetically seconded by Canon Fforde. He proposed Lady Maria and Sir Mark to play a piano duet. It was to be Mendelssohn, a new piece dedicated to Frau Schumann.

  Having got himself a fresh glass of punch, Felix stood at the edge of the room, with a good view of Lady Blanchfort who was watching and listening with rapt attention, as well she might, for the performance was an impressive one. Lady Maria naturally had a brilliant, easy touch, and if Mark Hurrell was not so sure or light-fingered, he had evidently learnt a great deal from his teacher and future wife. Indeed the piece, where one beautiful phrase echoed another, seemed to speak of a sensual, loving harmony between a man and a woman, and Felix felt stirred into longing by it.

  It faded to a pretty close, with a silence filling the room for a moment, and then Sir Mark jumped and said, “There is an allegro to follow, but that is entirely beyond me, I’m afraid!” and everyone laughed and clapped. At the same time, Felix saw Lady Blanchfort quickly wipe a tear from her eye, then get up from her place and make her way from the room. He could not stop himself from following.

  He found her in the dining room, not alone, but supervising the preparations for the supper, which was about to be served.

  “It’s a shame that there will be no ices,” she said. “I hope it will not be too long before Mr Hale has his business in order again.”

  “I don’t think anyone will miss them,” said Felix, gazing at the table, which was laden with tarts, jellies and custards, as well as a whole suckling pig for a centrepiece.

  “You can tell Littleboy to announce supper, I think,” she said, “when Lady Maria has finished her piece. She plays so well, and as for that duet with Sir Mark –” She sighed and Felix nodded. “I think they will be happy. It’s a comfort to see that among one’s acquaintance.”

  “I suppose that is why people enjoy novels with happy love stories in them,” Felix said. “Because so often life is –” She put her finger to her lips to silence him, and he understood the necessity of the reproach. “I will go and tell Littleboy.”

  He left her there, gazing over the lavish table.

  ~

  Supper was consumed with enormous relish, everyone standing up in the latest fashion. The punch flowed liberally, as did the champagne. No one remarked on the lack of ices.

  “So, have you heard any hints about what will be in this new novel?” Mark Hurrell asked Felix.

  “No, nothing,” said Felix. “Except that it is set in the Middle Ages.”

  “Mrs Carswell mentioned that she had been allowed to see the manuscript,” said Mrs Fforde.

  “She said that to you, ma’am?” said Miss Fleming who was nearby.

  “Yes.”

  “How curious. My brother-in-law never shows his work to anyone.”

  “Oh,” said Mrs Fforde. “A great honour for her, then.”

  “I think it’s rather strange, all in all,” said Miss Fleming. “Don’t you, Mr Carswell?”

  “My wife can talk birds down from the trees,” Felix managed to say. “I imagine he was defenceless to prevent it.”

  “But it is his work,” Miss Fleming said. “It is the first and most important thing with him. I have never heard him doing such a thing before. Nor this reading, to be frank. It is curious to me that he has... been prevailed upon.”

  “There are no rules to stop a man breaking old habits,” said Mark Hurrell. “It is a good thing, I should think.”

  “Perhaps,” said Miss Fleming. “I only hope that it does not distress Mr Carswell that he finds his wife cast as a muse.”

  “Why should it?” Mark Hurrell said. “Think of Dante and Beatrice. He saw her once and th
at was enough. Now, Miss Fleming, can I help you to anything else? There is some crystallised ginger that is not to be overlooked, if you care for ginger, that is. Some people I know loathe the stuff.”

  “It is always controversial,” said Mrs Fforde. “Like marzipan.”

  “No, that is plainly an abomination,” said Canon Fforde.

  Felix felt grateful to Hurrell for this deft change of subject. Miss Fleming’s aim had been all too clear to him. She was unsettled by the attention her lover was paying to Eleanor, and she meant Felix to know it. She was trying to cause trouble. He decided he had best ignore it, and fixed his attention on the centre of the table where all the young, unmarried people were in a state of high hilarity. Tom had got the head of the suckling pig and was using it like a puppet, making its jaws work, and the Tranter and Arundell girls were as a result squealing with horror and delight.

  “He is too young to go out,” said Mrs Fforde with a sigh. “Please excuse him, Mr Carswell.”

  “It’s the punch,” said Canon Fforde.

  “Very seasonal behaviour,” said Mark Hurrell.

  Another large bowl of punch was carried in and set down on the sideboard.

  “Littleboy, put some of that in a claret jug and put it by the lectern for Mr Truro,” Felix heard Eleanor say.

  Felix refilled his own glass – with champagne, not punch, for he had belatedly begun to take Canon Fforde’s advice – and moved down the room. Eleanor inevitably had Truro near to hand, but rather curiously the ladies from the Rectory were also there. Miss Martha, he was pleased to see, looked as if the warm room and the appetising food were acting as a tonic for her.

  “You must tell us how you came to write your first book, Mr Truro,” he heard her say. “It has always been a favourite with us.”

  “Oh yes, do tell us, Mr Truro,” said Eleanor, as if Truro needed to be encouraged.