Mr. American

by George MacDonald Fraser

  It was not suggested for a moment that Mr Franklin should do anything about this regrettable state of affairs - financing Oxton estate was one thing, on a gentlemanly business basis, but he knew Sir Charles would have gone to the fire before soliciting assistance where his son's upkeep was concerned. Still, what was not asked could be volunteered, and what else could a decent son-in-law do, especially when he was known to be flush of cash, and already playing Pactolus for the family acres? Mr Franklin had said that something must be done, Peggy asked what, and he had replied: 'We'll have to see that Arthur gets what he needs.' She had protested, and a pretty debate had ensued; she had pointed out the impossibility of Arthur's accepting charity from his rich American brother-in-law, and Mr Franklin had said charity be damned, he could accept it from his own sister, couldn't he, and what was Mr Franklin's was Mrs Franklin's so where was the difficulty . . . ? The upshot was that a sum of money was placed in Peggy's name, for her personal disposal, and christened by her, with sisterly vulgarity, the A. B. W. G. P. F. (for 'Arthur's Boozing, Wenching, and Garden Party Fund'), from which it was understood that an allowance would be paid to the aspiring subaltern; any question of eventual repayment was strictly a matter between Peggy and her brother, Mr Franklin and Sir Charles never so much as spoke to each other on the subject, and Arthur confined himself to saying, with much head-scratching and a crushing hand-clasp: 'Mark, I just want to say ... well, hang it, I know you know how much it meant to the guv'nor, and you're a bloody white man.' Peggy did not weep, but she regarded Mr Franklin with slightly misty adoration at the time, which was 1911. Now, three years later, with Arthur comfortably situated as a lieutenant in the 16th Lancers in Ireland, and apparently intent on resigning the commission which Mr Franklin's tactfully-placed funds had enabled him to maintain in proper style, she was looking slightly misty again.

  'You've been terribly decent about Arthur,' she repeated. 'And I'm terribly grateful; so is he, and so, although he couldn't bear to say it, is Daddy '

  'Oh, nonsense,' said Mr Franklin uncomfortably, but secretly well pleased; there is no sight so delightful to a man as a lovely woman's gratitude, and he was wondering how he could take advantage of it.

  'The trouble is,' continued Peggy, sitting forward with her hands clasped on the table-cloth, and looking serious, 'that I know Arthur is really going to chuck it in -sisters always find these things out before anyone else, and Bonzo has always told me his troubles first. So I'm sorry, because it means it's all been wasted, really.'

  'No, it hasn't,' said Mr Franklin. 'Three years in the Army can't be a waste.'

  'It's been jolly expensive,' said Peggy. `And now he has to find something else to do.'

  She paused, frowning, and Mr Franklin waited a moment before asking: 'Has he said anything about that?'

  'Not exactly.' Peggy considered the alignment of a butter-knife thoughtfully. 'Well, he's told me that he has ideas about starting up in business, but he hasn't told me the details. It's some scheme that he and one or two of his close friends have discussed, and they want to keep it to themselves at first, I suppose.'

  'I wouldn't have thought of Arthur as a business man,' said Mr Franklin. 'But after all - why not? He's got as many brains as most of the business men I've ever met. I guess he'd do all right.'

  'Yes,' said Peggy. 'I think he would, once he got started.'

  He knew perfectly well what they were leading up to, but it was as difficult for him to broach the matter as for Peggy, so he said nothing. Peggy realigned the butter-knife and then exclaimed:

  'Oh, bother! Of course, the thing is, he needs money. And until he knows he can get it, he can't resign, and . . .' She shrugged and fluttered a hand impatiently and met her husband's eye. 'So that's how it is, you see.'

  Mr Franklin folded his paper and dropped it on the floor, smiling at her.

  'How's the Boozing, Wenching, and Garden Party Fund?'

  'Pretty low, I'm afraid. Well, we knew it was only going to last a few years, didn't we? And it hasn't stretched quite as far. ..' Peggy shifted in her chair impatiently. 'I suppose prices go up for Army officers just as they do for everyone else, and when the old thing asked me - '

  'How much is left?'

  'Eight hundred. Oh, gosh, Mark, I'm sorry!'

  Mr Franklin made a quick calculation; at that rate Arthur had been spending something over twelve hundred pounds a year from his sister's fund, which was about double what had been calculated. However, it would be unthinkable to inquire into it, and he was not much interested anyway.

  'That's what it was for,' he said. 'How much does he need for his business venture?'

  Peggy took a breath and looked him in the eye. 'Do you mind if I put it another way? If I ask you a question?'

  'Of course not. Go right ahead.'

  'You remember when this thing of Arthur's regiment first came up, years ago? We had all the argument about how he couldn't take your money, and that sort of thing ... and we worked it out, about the Fund? You said then. ..'she hesitated. 'Well, you said, if ever I wanted anything - that I just had to ask?' She suddenly shaded her eyes with her hand, staring at the table. 'Oh, God, this sounds horrible - as though I'm putting a pistol to your head ...'

  'Oh, stop it!' Mr Franklin was laughing as he got up and moved quickly round the table to her. He put an arm round her shoulders, drawing her to him, kissing her cheek, and she nestled her head on his shoulder. 'Come on - how much does this spendthrift ruffian want?'

  'No!' said Peggy, lifting her head. 'That's what I mean! It isn't what the big blister wants - I don't want you to think about that!' She was almost defiant, if moist-eyed. 'It's I who am asking - not him. At least, that's the way I want it to be.'

  'All right, then,' said Mr Franklin, and kissed her gently. 'How much do you want? Not that it matters - so long as we've got it.' 'It's rather a lot.'

  'Dammit, girl, I'm not a banker!' He was kneeling beside her chair now, and taking advantage of the situation by slipping his hand inside her gown and on to her bare breast, squeezing gently and stroking the nipple: Peggy gasped and opened her mouth quickly.

  'Oh, don't, you rotter! That's not fair! Oh, no!' She squirmed in his grasp. 'No, look, Mark, it's serious! It really is a lot. It's. .. well, it's ten thousand.'

  If it was far more than he had expected, he did not betray the fact by the slightest relaxation of his hand on her breast. He simply said: 'Uh-huh' casually, as he slipped his free arm under her knees and lifted her bodily out of the chair. She was looking up at him apprehensively, so he kissed her long and lingeringly, and during the kiss and what inevitably followed on the morning room sofa he was thinking confused thoughts about persuading her not to go to Switzerland, and revolting at the idea of making any such condition, and at the same time wondering if perhaps it might not occur to her without prompting. It wasn't fair to try to use the occasion to bring her back towards him; indeed, anything like that could be fatal - it was something best not even thought about, which was quite convenient, because Peggy with her arms round his neck, and her wonderful body naked in his embrace, was hardly an aid to rational consideration.

  And afterwards he was careful not to exert the least pressure on her, although it trembled on the tip of his tongue once or twice - he realised how badly he wanted to have her to himself, living quietly, spending their time gently at Castle Lancing and Oxton, being together ... but that was something that would have to come from her, of her own free will. And he realised, sadly, as they talked afterwards on the sofa, that the time was not yet. They murmured their endearments, and imperceptibly the endearments blended back into the discussion that had begun it all, and Peggy asked him very seriously if he was sure he didn't mind, and he protested that of course he didn't, and she sighed contentedly and stroked his face and kissed him, and when she murmured lazily that she could hardly be bothered to get dressed for her journey, his heart leaped for a moment, only to resume its normal pace when she added that she supposed she had better, because her
maid still had oceans of packing to do, and they mustn't miss the afternoon train.

  When she had gone upstairs, he went to his study and the desk in the window looking out on Wilton Crescent, and wrote a cheque for ten thousand pounds to Peggy. It was as he was appending his signature that an ugly, unworthy thought crossed his mind - how long was it since she had come down to breakfast in her negligee? He couldn't remember; she had often done so in the first year of their marriage, but over the last couple of years at least she had normally come down fully dressed and ready to go out as soon as breakfast was over. Of course, they had been up late last night, and there was nothing to take her out today before her train left - no reason why she shouldn't laze down informally ... but it was unusual. Or perhaps he just imagined that it was - what was he thinking, anyway? That she'd come down to seduce ten thousand pounds out of him? Ridiculous - and rotten even to let it cross his mind. He'd been the one who'd started the nonsense . . . but that had followed on her confused, embarrassed attitude - if she had remained coolly practical it would never have occurred to him to lay a finger on her. In which case, would he have responded so readily to her request for what was one hell of a parcel of jack? Yes, he would. But, she wasn't stupid; she knew as well as any woman that a man making love is the softest touch in the world, and there was no harm in sweetening the process for him. Anyway, what was wrong with that, if she had - what would have been wrong with his using the occasion to try to win her back a little? But he had hesitated to do that - it would have been pretty mercenary in him, he felt. And he wouldn't have been comfortable if, for example, he had asked her to come down to Castle Lancing with him instead of Switzerland, and she had agreed; he would have felt that he had bought her agreement. The hell with it, anyway; he was wasting his time thinking a lot of inconsequential nonsense.

  There was another aspect of the matter, which had occurred to him at the start. Ten thousand pounds was a great deal of money to entrust to Arthur, who had already gone through almost half that sum in social expenses. But as it was, it was officially being entrusted to Peggy - he knew what she was going to do with it, but that was her affair. What else could he have done, anyway? He couldn't have refused her. He knew how much Arthur meant to her - come to that, Mr Franklin liked the big idiot himself, and he wasn't such an idiot, either. He had brains, and charm, and boundless enthusiasm; the odds were that he'd make a go of whatever business he set his hand to - whatever it was. Yes ... Mr Franklin knew that by every law of common sense he ought to satisfy himself in detail about the soundness of Arthur's plans before he parted with a penny - but no, that was Peggy's business. He had promised her the ten thousand, and he must trust to her judgment; she had a good head on her shoulders.

  However, while he might not hesitate to pass the cheque over to Peggy, it was still not something to be done without consulting the little bank-book in his desk, and seeing how he stood. The deposit account had been heavily drained by the Oxton outgoings, and there had been his investment - almost the bulk of his fortune - in brewery shares a couple of years ago. He didn't want to touch that, and with the new stables and paddock that they were to start that summer, it would be inadvisable to reduce the deposit account any further at present. He consulted his book: yes, it would be best to tap that cash reserve which had lain untouched for more than four years in Mr Evans's safe deposit . . . not by much, but just enough to cover his immediate outgoing; the interest on his shares would take care of their normal running expenses, which were not small. However, when he juggled all the pieces in his mind, the ship was cruising along, with no surplus, admittedly, but with no reefs ahead either.

  He stared out of the window, his eyes seeing but not registering the governess walking on the opposite pavement, holding a little girl by the hand while ahead of them a small boy in a sailor suit was bowling his hoop. A nursemaid was pushing a perambulator in the opposite direction. It was dull, but dry, and a trifle foggy - not unlike the day he had first set foot in England. And since then he had become a landed gentleman, had married a beautiful lady and become curiously lonely, had sunk his money into a business venture which occupied his interest if not his enthusiasm, and - although it was a crude way of putting it, but there it was at the back of his mind - enabled a fine old English family to live in the style to which they presumably ought to be accustomed. In return, he had position, comfort, marriage, and a way of life which most men would have thought enviable - and which, if only he could draw Peggy closer to him, he would have thought close to perfection himself As it was, it wasn't at all bad; it beat the hell out of grubbing in the mud at Tonopah, or riding herd on cold, dry nights on refractory cattle, or hiding out at Hole-in-the-Wall. He couldn't think of any better way he could have invested his pile, in the States, or in Europe, or anywhere else. No, he had done the thing that he had really wanted to do, although he had not been able to define it exactly - but it had something to do with going back to Castle Lancing, to his people's place, and putting his stake in the ground, and calling it his, and knowing it was there. It was a strange, atavistic thing which went far beyond the mere possession of Lancing Manor; it was belonging, and being one with something that surrounded him when he walked in the Lancing woods, or the meadows towards Thetford, or the old churchyard with its long-bow yews, or the cool musty dimness of the Apple Tree, or the chestnuts outside his window.

  The door opened suddenly, and Peggy came in, dressed for the road in a smart velvet brocade trimmed at the sleeves and collar with white fur; there was fur piping round the close-fitting hat, and she carried a muff in one hand.

  'All ready for the snow,' smiled Mr Franklin, rising. 'But aren't you staying for lunch? I thought the train wasn't leaving until two.'

  'Didn't I tell you? I'm lunching with Maud Llewellyn, and we're catching the train together. Oh, what a rush! I'm late as it is - all your fault of course.' She smiled at him and winked mischievously. 'Now, I'll have to fly!' She put up her face to be kissed, and patted his cheek gently. 'Now - you'll be good, and take care, and let me know how everything is at Oxton - oh, and give my love to Daddy!' She was sweeping towards the door, when he said:

  'Here, hold on! You'd better drop this into the bank on your way.' He held out the pink slip worth ten thousand pounds, and Peggy's eyes widened as she took it.

  'Gosh!' She examined it reverently. `I say, it's an awful lot of money, isn't it?'

  'A sizeable amount,' said Mr Franklin, 'so don't lose it. And for any sake, don't take it to Switzerland with you, or it's sure to go astray. Here - maybe you'd better let me keep it, until you've seen Arthur and found out exactly - '

  'Don't worry - it goes into the bank this very minute!' Peggy tucked the slip into her bag, and came back towards him. Her eyes softened, and she put her hands on his shoulders. 'You're really a darling, Mark - didn't I ever tell you?' Her lips opened on his for a moment, and then she was away, leaving him with a breath of perfume in his nostrils, and the feel of her soft waist in his hands.

  He followed her into the hall, where the last of her cases was going out to the car. 'As for me taking care - how about you?' he called after her. 'Stay away from avalanches and precipices and French confidence artists!' Then she was gone, with a wave and a blown kiss, and the door closed, and he was wondering what he would do that afternoon, and evening, and in the days that would follow.

  17

  He had not intended going down to Castle Lancing until later in the week, but with Peggy gone the house seemed unusually empty, and he knew that another couple of days would bore him exceedingly. He had an early dinner and thought of going to the theatre, but there was nothing that attracted his fancy - there were the usual revues, but they were sure to be filled with topical gaiety and smartness, and after a couple of weeks in London, exposed occasionally to the noise of Peggy's friends, he felt he had had all the metropolitan sophistication he could take. Parsifal, now being performed outside Germany for the first time, in defiance of its late composer's wishes, was drawing the
highbrow audiences and exciting the critics by the spectacular melancholy of its sets, but the mere thought of three hours' Teutonic bawling without benefit of plot filled him with horror. He had already seen Great Catherine at the Vaudeville, and while not certain that he entirely understood what Mr Shaw was talking about, had been amused by the dialogue and intrigued by the sight of an eighteenth-century English officer carrying pistols in his boots - that single touch had raised Shaw considerably in Mr Franklin's estimation.