Читать книгу Mr American - George Fraser MacDonald - Страница 11

Mr Franklin’s arrival at the Manor was something of a nine-day wonder in the neighbourhood. Not only was he foreign, and slightly exotic with his sunbrowned complexion and lanky striding gait, he was also a mystery, and Castle Lancing enjoyed a mystery as much as the next village. Speculation had a field day: as a result of his playful answer to Tommy Marsh it was quickly understood that he had killed a man in the bush, and was in hiding with a price on his head; there followed the rumour that he was the bastard offspring of a Duke, come home to claim his inheritance (this, doubtless, sprang from a chance remark of Thornhill’s anent the American genealogy); finally, the obvious deduction was made that he was extremely rich, and that he intended to buy half Norfolk and reverse the country’s agricultural decline with go-ahead Yankee schemes; this was a popular theory because it was at least comforting in an area which was watching with anxiety the absorption of small holdings into larger farms, and where landlord-hatred was an article of faith.

So interest ran high at the activity observed round the Manor; gangs of workmen arrived from as far away as Norwich to re-gravel the drive, point and sand the stonework, paint the timber, repair the plumbing, and carry out internal improvements to the decoration; local labourers, mysteriously recruited by Jake, who lost no opportunity of establishing his unofficial stewardship and special relationship with the owner, cleared acres of weed and rubbish from the grounds, relaid the flower-bed and repaired the borders; there was a coming and going of pantechnicons and drays with furniture from Norwich – and on two sensational occasions, from London itself – with men in aprons heaving in beds, chairs, sofas, curtains, and mysterious packing-cases whose contents could only be guessed at; for one full day a magnificent new bath, with gleaming taps and a shower attachment of strange pipes and faucets, lay on the gravel before the house, and in Mr Franklin’s absence the entire population of the district came to marvel, and to be kept at a respectful distance by the ubiquitous Jake. All was bustle and concern, great quantities of ale were drunk by the toilers – for Mr Franklin had been prodigal in his provision for the refreshment of his helpers, and the Apple Tree was threatened by drought as the result of its traffic down the Manor road – and it was agreed that the Yankee must have a power of money. The young men spat and exclaimed in respectful envy; the young women and wives were unstinting in their admiration; the gaffers agreed that no good would come of it; and Jake, ensconced on his stool at the inn, cackled knowingly and implied that they had seen nothing yet; let them wait until the Yankee squire – the title dropped into place inevitably with ownership of the Manor House – really went to work (with Jake’s guidance, be it understood). Then they’d see.

Yet Mr Franklin was a disappointment, after the first excitement of his arrival had died down. He kept very much to the Manor, supervising installations in the house itself, occasionally inspecting the work out of doors, stating his requirements civilly but briefly; he knew what he wanted, and that was that. He employed no personal servants, which gave rise to much wonder – who cooked and washed the dishes and kept the house, for one thing? His laundry went to Thetford, his bodily provisions were ordered regularly from Mrs Laker and the dairy, and that seemed to satisfy him. Once or twice he appeared in the Apple Tree, but while he was courteous and affable, he was not communicative, and a natural shyness among the villagers prevented inquiry. Word of his arrival had naturally spread to the more important houses in the district, such as they were, and while there was mild curiosity there was a natural tendency to let the newcomer settle in; the largest estate-owner was an absentee landlord who lived in London most of the year, leaving the management of his estate to a steward whose duties excluded social niceties; the vicar, an amiable elderly soul who studied birds, met Mr Franklin once, and promptly forgot who he was, to the chagrin of the vicar’s wife, who had wished to invite the American to tea but hesitated to do so on such erratic acquaintance.

It followed that initially Mr Franklin’s sole contact with Castle Lancing society – excepting his commerce with the working class – was the eccentric Thornhill, who was himself something of a recluse. They had a brief period of intimacy while Thornhill was busily scavenging the parish records on the American’s behalf: Matthew was duly identified, as was his wife, who proved to have the baptismal name Jezebel – an unprecedented and impossible thing, in Thornhill’s view, but there it was, and how to explain it he could not imagine. Johannes Franklinus of the gravestone proved to be Matthew’s uncle, and Thornhill had no difficulty in tracing the family, and its association with Castle Lancing, back to the Black Death, where the parish records began.

But their relations, though cordial, did not blossom into friendship. Thornhill visited the Manor once or twice, and received al fresco refreshment; he gave Mr Franklin a bachelor supper at his own cosy, deplorably untidy cottage, amidst a litter of books and papers, but although the Burgundy was excellent, and the American was enthusiastic over Thornhill’s researches, they discovered, once the topic of the ancient Franklins had been exhausted, that they had no especial common interest. Mr Franklin was prepared to talk, within limits, about the United States; Thornhill was prepared to talk, without limits, about everything, but he did it with only half his mind, the other half being firmly rooted in that exciting misty area between the accession of Edward III and the Reformation. The truth was that, unless his interest was aroused on his own subject, as it had briefly been in Mr Franklin’s case, Thornhill’s garrulity was a nervous habit; he really preferred talking to himself, which he frequently did, thus provoking cries of “Loony!” from the coarser young spirits of the village.

So they remained amiable acquaintances, meeting occasionally in Mrs Laker’s or the street, Thornhill pouring out a torrent of small-talk, and Mr Franklin nodding gravely and occasionally observing “Just so”. And gradually Castle Lancing’s interest dwindled, as such interests do; Mr Franklin remained an object of remark, slightly mysterious – but a mystery has to manifest itself mysteriously if it is to claim much attention, and Mr Franklin remained undeniably normal; a minor sensation in September, he was old news by October – and that suited him very well, apparently. He was content, it seemed, to merge into the background of Castle Lancing, far from the great world, and to forget about it, at least for a season. But, although he did not suspect it as he went about placidly improving and perfecting his house, watching the apples wrinkle and wither in his orchard, and the leaves fall to carpet his garden in brown and gold – although he was far from suspecting it in his sought-out rustic solitude, the great world was not prepared to forget him.

It was a raw October day that Mr Franklin unstabled the hack hired from a farrier in Thetford, hitched it expertly to his small trap, and set out on the fifteen-mile journey to the village of West Walsham. He had seen an advertisement in the local paper offering for sale seventy-five feet of Japanese oak panelling, and since his own hall had struck him as being in need of lightening, he had decided to drive over to the country house where the panelling was on view. It was, he admitted to himself, a fairly thin excuse for the journey; he had no real notion of what Japanese oak looked like, but he had not been abroad for a fortnight, and the prospect of a ramble along the back-roads of Norfolk was attractive. Thornhill had recommended a drive by Wayland Woods – the very wood, he assured an amused Mr Franklin, where the Babes of the famous legend had been abandoned by their wicked uncle, whose house at Griston was still to be seen. So the trap carried a large and well-filled picnic hamper, and Mr Franklin bowled off not caring a great deal whether he reached his destination or not.

He ambled very much at random, roughly in what he believed was the West Walsham direction, guiding himself by the orange ball of the sun which shone dimly through the autumn mist, content to admire the golden woods and the pale green meadows on his way. There was an invigorating nip in the air, a damp cosiness about the countryside with its heavy brown earth and dripping hedges, which he found strangely pleasant; in the far distance he caught once or twice the sound of many dogs barking, and wondered what so large a pack could be doing. It was all very peaceful and English, he told himself, and he was enjoying it – was he turning into a Limey, he wondered, smiling at the thought. Even after a few weeks he was aware that his appearance had probably changed a little; the trim tweeds he was wearing, the shooting-hat and gaiters, were all right in the Norfolk character; he laughed aloud and said “Squire!”, shaking his head – how the roughnecks at Tonopah or the barkeeps at the Bella Union would have laughed at that. He didn’t care; it suited him.

He came out of his pleasant daydream to the realization that he had no idea where he was, and that it must be getting close to noon. He chucked the reins, the hack roused itself to a gentle trot, and they came over a rise and down a gentle slop to a bridge among the thickets where, on a clear space by the roadside, a large Mercedes motor-car was parked. It was an imposing machine, with five passengers that he could see: a lady and gentleman seated on camp-chairs by the roadside, having lunch, with another woman in the car, what looked like a servant attending to the tiny camp-table before the diners, and an undoubted chauffeur busying himself at the back of the car. It occurred to Mr Franklin that where there was a chauffeur there would certainly be a map; he slowed to a halt beside the car and raised his hat.

“Good day,” he said. “I wonder if you could tell me if I’m on the right road for West Walsham?”

The gentleman appeared not to have heard him; at least, he did not take his attention from the heaped plate on his lap. He was a stout, elderly man, clad in a heavy caped coat and plaid trousers, with a cap pulled down over his brows, and he appeared to be enjoying his lunch immensely. Mr Franklin glanced at the lady, and immediately forgot all about the male half of the dining party; she had looked up in surprise at his question, and he found himself looking into a face that was quite breath-takingly beautiful. Bright green eyes and auburn hair were a startling enough combination, with that perfect complexion, but there was a liveliness about her expression, and in the sudden brilliant smile which she bestowed on him, that prompted Mr Franklin to bow in his seat as he repeated his question.

“West Walsham?”

The lady glanced at her companion, who carefully wiped his grizzled beard on a napkin before shaking his head.

“Couldn’t say, I’m afraid. Don’t know where we are, for that matter.” And he gave a deep, hearty chuckle.

“Perhaps Stamper knows,” said the lady, and turned to repeat the question to the chauffeur, who consulted a map. He seemed to be having some difficulty, and the lady presently rose to help him; the long heavy motoring-coat could not conceal the grace of her movements, and Mr Franklin was charmed as he watched the lovely face intent on the map which the chauffeur spread on the motor’s bonnet, and the tiny gloved hand tracing on it. The stout old gentleman, having reluctantly surrendered his empty plate to the servant, was now contemplating an unlit cigar; no one else was saying a word, and Mr Franklin politely removed his attention from the beautiful map-reader and remarked that it was a fine day for a picnic.

The old gentleman seemed surprised at this. The grizzled beard and heavy moustache were turned on Mr Franklin; small bright eyes regarded him for several seconds, taking in his clothing, his horse and trap, his person, and (Mr Franklin felt) his standing and moral character. The old gentleman spoke.

“Yes,” he said, and placed the cigar in his mouth. The servant lighted it, and the old gentleman puffed irritably for a few seconds, and then turned to address the lady and chauffeur. “Can’t you find it?”

The lady laughed, intent on the map. “That can’t be it, Stamper – that’s miles away.” She raised her head. “Stamper’s found a North Walsham, but it’s at the other end of the county.”

The old gentleman considered, puffing thoughtfully. “Then look at this end,” he said. “Towards the west. That’s where it’ll be – wouldn’t you say?” he added to Mr Franklin.

“Please,” said Mr Franklin, “I’m putting you to a great deal of trouble, and –”

“It’s no trouble,” said the lady, “we shall find it in a moment. Come along, Stamper – you take that side and I’ll take this …”

The old gentleman sighed, and Mr Franklin sat through an uncomfortable minute, wishing he had passed by without inquiry, while the lady and chauffeur were joined by the second lady from the car; they continued the search, murmuring over the map, but West Walsham proved as elusive as ever, and Mr Franklin was on the point of asking them to desist when the old gentleman said suddenly:

“Had lunch?”

“I beg your pardon – no, no thank you,” said Mr Franklin hurriedly. “Thank you very much, but I’m … ah, lunching farther on.”

The old gentleman grunted, smoked busily, and then said:

“Have a glass of wine, anyway, while you’re waiting.” And before he could protest, Mr Franklin found himself being presented with a glass by the ever-ready servant. He raised it to the old gentleman, searching for the right words.

“Why thank you, sir. Your very good health, and –” he bowed towards the group round the map “ – and your daughter’s, too.”

Why he assumed that the beautiful lady was the old gentleman’s daughter he could not have said; they could hardly be man and wife, and the relationship seemed a reasonable supposition. That he was wrong, offensively wrong, was evident immediately; at his words the murmur of voices over the map stopped dead, and the old gentleman stared at him with his face going crimson. Surprise and anger showed in the little bright eyes staring at Mr Franklin; then the eyes closed as their owner began to wheeze loudly – to his relief Mr Franklin realized that the old gentleman was laughing, and laughing with abandon, heaving precariously on his camp-chair, and finally going into a coughing-fit which brought the beautiful lady to his side. She bent over him, an arm about his heavy shoulders, as the coughing fit subsided and the old gentleman found his voice again.

“Don’t fuss at me!” he said. “There, that’s better – that’s better.” He would have resumed his cigar, but the lady gave him a reproachful look, and with a sigh he tossed it away. “Well – have you found the place yet?”

“I’m afraid not.” The lady gave Mr Franklin an apologetic look. “Really, we are hopeless navigators.”

“Well, I hope Stamper can at least find the way to Oxton,” said the old gentleman. He cleared his throat heavily and addressed Mr Franklin. “And that you find your West wherever-it-is, Mr …?”

“Franklin,” said the American, and the old gentleman reached for his own wine-glass and drained it, his gesture inviting Franklin to accompany him.

“You’re an American, aren’t you?” said the old gentleman; now that he had got over his coughing, he had a surprisingly deep, gruff voice, pronouncing his “r’s” with heavy deliberation. “Yes – I told you he was, when we saw him driving down, didn’t I? Always tell an American with horses. Well, good day to you, sir,” and the old gentleman nodded to Mr Franklin as the servant helped him to rise, the lady taking his arm. She smiled pleasantly as Mr Franklin got down to put his empty glass on the table.

“I do wish we could have helped you,” she said.

“I’m just sorry for putting you to so much trouble,” said Mr Franklin. “You’ve been very kind. And I thank you for a glass of excellent wine, Mr …?”

“Eh?” The old gentleman squared his broad shoulders and the little eyes met Mr Franklin’s again. “Oh … Lancaster. Glad to have seen you, Mr Franklin.”

He stumped off towards the car, the lady moving gracefully beside him. Mr Franklin mounted his trap again, shook the reins, and set off; he glanced back once, and saw that the old gentleman was being settled into his seat by the chauffeur, who was wrapping a rug round his legs. The lady waved gaily to Mr Franklin, and then he was over the bridge and out of sight, puzzling over the unpredictable behaviour of the English gentry: there had been a moment there when the old fellow had looked ready to burst, but he seemed a decent enough sort. And what a green-eyed beauty she had been; Mr Franklin wondered if Englishwomen were really more handsome than any others, or if there was something in the English air that was making him more susceptible.

A mile or two farther on he stopped for his own picnic on a slight rise from which he had a good view of the misty country round, except to his right, where a high hedge obscured a stretch of ploughed land. He unpacked from the hamper some cold cuts and salad and cheese, as well as a bottle of Bernkastler, a wine for which he had conceived a loyalty, if not perhaps a liking exactly, on the voyage from New York; it was, in fact, the first wine he had ever tasted. He spread his old slicker on the damp grass at the roadside, and fell to, munching contentedly and taking in the scenery.

From somewhere across the ploughed land the sound of the barking dogs came again, closer than before, and this time the distant sound of human voices, sharply interrupted by the unmistakeable note of a horn. Mr Franklin stopped eating to listen; the distant voices were shouting, and there was that dull drumming sound which he knew so well, of galloping horses; the baying of the dogs rose clamorously – they must be in the ploughed field beyond the hedge by now, and Mr Franklin was just rising to have a look when something small and frantic burst suddenly through the hedge, there was a reddish blur streaking across the road, swerving to avoid the startled Mr Franklin, then leaping an astonishing height and actually striking the side of the trap with a slight thud. It happened in the twinkling of an eye; the small creature tumbled over the side of the trap in a flurry of bushy tail, fell into a picnic basket – and the lid which Mr Franklin had carelessly left open, fell abruptly, the patent catch clicked shut, and the invader was trapped. The basket jerked and shook, to an accompaniment of squeaks within; Mr Franklin stood astonished, a drumstick in one hand and a glass in the other – and then over and through the hedge came what seemed to be a torrent of dogs, brown and white brutes with long tails and floppy ears, baying and squealing and surging round the trap, threatening to overturn it in their eagerness to get at the basket. The din was deafening, the trap shuddered under the impact of canine bodies struggling against its sides, and the hack, which Mr Franklin had fortunately turned loose to graze, neighed wildly and clattered off down the road.

Mr Franklin considered the situation; it was new to him, but he was not a man given to acting without thinking, except in truly mortal situations; dealing with a swarming pack of excited dogs was outside his scope, and he was relieved at the abrupt appearance of a wiry little man who looked like a jockey in a large red coat, and who fell on the dogs with a long-lashed whip and a tongue to match. There was shouting and cheering from the hedge; riders were trying to find a way through, and now from gates some distance down the road on either side they came clattering on to the road – men in red or black, with top hats, caps, and crops, converging on the trap, where the wiry little man was thrashing at the squealing dogs, swearing shrilly in a jargon which Mr Franklin did not recognize. But the appearance of the new arrivals was at least familiar from prints in books and on saloon walls; this, he concluded, was a fox-hunt.

“What the blazes is happening, Jarvie?” “What is it?” “Where away, then?” “I say, Jarvie, what’s happened?” The riders were reining in round the trap, the frustrated pack, the belabouring huntsman, and the innocent Mr Franklin, with a clamour of inquiry; a burly young man with a heavy moustache was to the fore, flourishing a heavy riding crop.

“Good God, Jarvie, what are the hounds doing?” he demanded, and the sweating little man, having beaten a way through the yelping mass, was springing nimbly into the trap and surveying the jerking picnic basket with astonishment.

“I … I dunno, milord. Why, bloody ’ell – I think it’s gone to ground in this ’ere basket!”

Cries of astonishment and laughter; Mr Franklin noted that a couple of ladies were among the hunters who were pressing forward to see. One horse stamped perilously close to him, and he had to step back, catching at the hedge to prevent his falling.

“What’s that? In the basket? Good God!” exclaimed the burly young man. “Well, I’m damned! Heave it out then, Jarvie – sling it on to the road, man!”

“I think it’s locked, milord,” said Jarvie, eyeing the basket.

“Then break the dam’ thing open, can’t you? Throw it down!”

Mr Franklin was conscious of a slight irritation. It was not only the brutality of the burly young man’s tone, proclaiming as it did an obvious disregard for anyone and anything that got in his way; nor was it the threatened destruction of his property. What ruffled Mr Franklin’s spirit was the fact that no one, especially the burly young man, had even noticed him or apparently given a thought to who the owner of the trap and basket might be. On the contrary, he had been forced into the hedge, and was still in some danger of being trampled as the riders pressed their horses forward round the trap, chattering excitedly.

“In the basket?” “Good lord, it can’t be!” “Open it up, then Jarvie.” “Come on, man!” Jarvie stood perplexed, and was just stooping to the basket when Mr Franklin succeeded in forcing himself between the hedge and the nearest rider, and approached the trap.

“Just a moment,” he said, and the chatting subsided slightly. The riders regarded him with some surprise, and the young man demanded:

“Who are you?”

It was said impatiently, and Mr Franklin found himself disliking the young man. His face was beefy, his moustache was aggressive, and his eyes were staring with that unpleasant arrogant hostility which Mr Franklin had already noted in a certain type of Englishman. He hadn’t put a name to it, but it was the look of a nature that would rather be rude than not, and took satisfaction in displaying contempt for outsiders, and putting them in their place.

“I’m the owner of the basket. And the trap. And the horse – wherever it is,” said Mr Franklin quietly, and a lady laughed among the hunters. The young man stared at Mr Franklin blankly, and then directed his attention to Jarvie again.

“Come on, Jarvie!” he snapped, slapping his crop, and as Jarvie stooped obediently Mr Franklin lost his temper completely. There was no outward sign of this; he simply laid a hand on the side of the trap and said:

“Don’t touch that basket, Jarvie. And get out of the rig, will you – now.”

Jarvie looked, and stopped abruptly, his hands coming away from the basket. He was conscious of a lean brown face and two cold steady eyes staring into his, and what he thought he saw in them took him aback. Still, he hesitated, and then the quiet voice said:

“Step down, Jarvie.”

And to his own astonishment, Jarvie found himself stepping down into the road, while exclamations of surprise and bewilderment came from the onlookers.

“Thank you,” said Mr Franklin, and came round to Jarvie’s side of the trap, where the hounds, subdued and fretful by now, were whining round the huntsman’s boots. It was echoed by a murmur of discontent from the hunt. “What the deuce?” grumbled one stringy old gentleman with a puce complexion, and a stout woman said: “Really!” At this the burly young man, momentarily rendered speechless by his huntsman’s apparent defection, swung down from his saddle and strode towards the trap. Mr Franklin moved to confront him, and the young man stopped, his face flushed with fury.

“What the devil d’you mean by … by impeding the hunt?” he demanded.

“What do you mean,” responded Mr Franklin, “by interrupting my dinner and invading my property?”

“His dinner,” exclaimed a female voice. “Did you hear?” And: “Property?” demanded the stringy man. “What property? Stuff and nonsense!”

“As I said, it is my trap, and my basket,” said Mr Franklin, and the murmur rose to a growl, although one or two of the hunt, struck by the comic side of the situation, laughed. Among them was an angel-faced young lady in a bowler hat with her hair tied back in a large black bow; it seemed to him that her laughter particularly stung the burly young man, who was standing glowering uncertainly.

“Dammit, sir, this is dam’ ridiculous,” exclaimed a fat man whose complexion matched his coat. “You’ve got the dam’ fox in the dam’ basket! What? You – you can’t steal a dam’ fox, dammit!”

“I’m not stealing anything,” said Mr Franklin abruptly; his temper was still high. “The fox arrived uninvited –”

“Well, then, let the dam’ thing go!” exclaimed the stringy man. “Good God, never heard the like in all my life!” He glared suspiciously at Mr Franklin. “Are you some kind of blasted Yankee crank, or what?”

“Shove him out of the way, Frank,” shouted a voice, and the burly young man came a step closer to Mr Franklin; plainly he was measuring the American’s breadth of shoulder and general potential in a roadside brawl, for he demanded: “Are you going to stand out of the way?”

“No,” said Mr Franklin with a coolness he was far from feeling, “and if you lay a hand on anything that belongs to me, I’ll not only sue you under whatever laws you have in England, I’ll also beat the living daylights out of you.”

At this, slight pandemonium broke out; someone suggested getting the police, the young man clenched his fists, Mr Franklin braced himself, but before the young man could do anything rash he was set aside by a blond young giant who grinned amiably at Mr Franklin, tossed his hat away, and cried: “That’s the ticket! Want a turn-up, do you, Yankee! Come on, then, here we are!”

“Arthur, stop it!” cried the girl with the black bow, but Arthur shook his head, his eyes laughing as he watched Franklin. “No, no, Peg, you mind your own business. If this chap’s ready to fight for his fox, good luck to him! Eh, Yankee?”

“If you like,” said Mr Franklin slowly, and at this point another of the huntsmen urged his horse forward; an elderly, intelligent-looking man with a distinct air of authority.

“Stop this dam’ nonsense,” he said. “Arthur, don’t be a fool! And you, sir, what are you driving at? Are you bent on making mischief – you’ve no right to … to make away with that fox, and you know it!”

“I haven’t even touched the fox,” said Mr Franklin. “And I dare say I’d have felt obliged to let him loose five minutes ago – if someone had just troubled to ask me politely.”

“Politely!” echoed the stringy man in disbelief, and the fat man said the fellow was mad. But the intelligent-looking man stared hard at Mr Franklin and then said: “Come sir, this is foolish. It’s not our fault if the creature went to ground in your basket –”

“Not mine, either,” said Mr Franklin. “I didn’t chase him there.”

There were cries of derision at this, and then the angel-faced girl with the bow called out mischievously: “If I say, ‘Please, sir, may we have our fox back?’” will you let him go?”

“Too late, Peg, too late!” cried Arthur, grinning. “Isn’t it, Yank?”

“This is a dam’ farce!” cried the fat man. “Dammit, this is meant to be a dam’ hunt, isn’t it?”

Mr Franklin surveyed the faces in front of him; Arthur, gleefully ready for a fight, the burly man Frank scowling, most of the mounted men plainly annoyed, the angelic girl watching speculatively; one or two of the others grinning. He was dimly aware of the sound of a motor engine approaching.

“All right, then,” he said, nodding to the girl. “I’ll let the fox out – and your dogs can pull him apart. Is that what you want?”

She stiffened, and twitched a hand at her modishly-fitting black riding skirt; a spot of colour showed on her cheek.

“I said ‘if I asked’,” she said. “Well, I’m not.”

“Good for you, Peg!” said Arthur. “Come on, Yankee – either cough up or put them up.” And he assumed a boxing pose, while exclamations of disgust and anger rose again, only to die away very suddenly, and Mr Franklin was aware that the huntsmen were reining back, removing their hats, and making respectful gestures towards the road behind him. He turned, and saw that the large Mercedes motor had pulled up a few yards off; the stout old bearded gentleman and the green-eyed lady were staring at him with astonishment.

“You,” said the bearded gentleman loudly. “I thought you were going to West … West – where was it, Alice?”

“Walsham,” said the green-eyed lady. Her lively glance was taking in the scene, sensing that something extremely odd was taking place. “I rather fancy that Mr Franklin has met with some unexpected delay.”

One of the hunt, an extremely bald and ugly man, had hurried to the motor, hat in hand, and was speaking rapidly to the bearded gentleman, whose comments as he listened were distinctly audible. “What? What? I don’t believe it, Soveral! In where, d’you say? His picnic basket?” And then he began to laugh again, his little eyes shut as he wheezed in helpless mirth – and Mr Franklin noted that the hunt were echoing his laughter, but in a most forced and wary way. It was extremely odd – but then the whole ridiculous incident was odd; Mr Franklin wondered if he were dreaming, but now the bearded gentleman’s laughter had subsided, and he was beckoning, and possibly because he sensed that the bearded man was someone of consequence, or out of politeness, Mr Franklin moved up to the motor.

“Tell me,” said the bearded gentleman, and his small eyes were twinkling with delight. “Were you thinking of adding the fox to your lunch?”

There was a roar of laughter at this, and Mr Franklin smiled. “No, Mr Lancaster,” he said. “But I wasn’t chasing him. I don’t know what these ladies and gentlemen intended by him.”

“Ha!” cried Mr Lancaster, and chuckled. “But they want him back, you know. Can’t interfere with a hunt, eh?”

“Well, sir, all they have to do is ask. But for some reason they don’t seem to want to – they seem to prefer to smash up a man’s things, without so much as a by your leave. We don’t reckon much to that, where I come from. Anyway – I don’t know your English law, but I’d imagine the fox belongs to whoever’s property it’s on, and it’s on mine this minute, no question.” Mr Franklin paused for breath; he was not used to long speeches, but although his temper had cooled by now, the memory of the man Frank’s boorish behaviour rankled. Besides, Mr Lancaster looked like a good man to explain things to, after the heated and inconsiderate attitude of the hunters. “And anyway, this is the King’s highway, I reckon –”

To his astonishment the green-eyed lady clapped her gloved hands with delight, someone tittered, and the bald, ugly man shot a nervous glance at Mr Lancaster, who was regarding Mr Franklin with unmixed amusement.

“You think that, do you?” said Mr Lancaster, and in that moment a frightful suspicion dawned on Mr Franklin, and was immediately transformed into a certainty; he stared at the neat grey beard, the heavy face with the cap set rakishly above it, the burly figure, and above all the bright little eyes in the sleepy, pouched cheeks. There were copper coins in his pocket bearing that face, and child of the Great Republic though he was Mr Franklin experienced a chill shock in his stomach and a momentary weakness at the knees.

“Well, then?” said Mr Lancaster calmly.

“Well, then,” echoed Mr Franklin, somewhat confused. “I guess it is your majesty’s fox.”

“No doubt of that,” said the King, and laughed again. His glance, twinkling maliciously, strayed from Mr Franklin to the assembled hunt. “Going to have a report of this in The Field, Clayton, are you? Splendid headline: ‘Gone to earth in a picnic basket!’” He guffawed at his own wit, the huntsmen laughed with hollow enthusiasm, and the green-eyed Alice smiled at Mr Franklin.

“‘American gentleman’s unexpected luncheon guest’,” she suggested.

“Tell you what, Clayton,” said the King, and Mr Franklin became aware that the intelligent-looking man was at his elbow, smiling respectfully at majesty. “If you don’t want this in the penny papers, I suggest you invite Mr … ah, Franklin, isn’t it? – to dinner. Swear him to silence, eh? Have Miss Peggy persuade him,” and the little eyes warmed as they regarded the angel-faced girl, who bowed in the saddle.

“A pleasure, sir,” said Clayton, looking as though it would be anything but.

“Capital,” said the King. “See you this evening, Franklin. Play bridge do you? – of course, all Americans do. All right, Stamper,” he gestured to the chauffeur, but even as the car was moving off, the royal memory was stirred. “Wait, though – what about the fox, Franklin?”

“At the moment, he is detained at your majesty’s pleasure,” said Mr Franklin, startling himself by his own readiness.

“Give him time off for good behaviour, then,” said the King, and as the car moved off he called over his shoulder: “Provided he has behaved himself, in among your smoked salmon and foie gras!” His deep laugh sounded as the royal car passed on, the hunt bowing in their saddles respectfully. Mr Franklin found himself being considered by an interested group, in which Clayton, Miss Peggy, the large grinning Arthur, and the bald ugly man were prominent.

“Well, well, old Ted’s in a better temper than I’ve ever seen him,” said Arthur, retrieving the hat he had thrown aside. “How’d you like to be court jester, Yankee?”

“That will do, Arthur!” said Clayton sharply, and turned to Mr Franklin. “My name is Clayton, sir, how do you do? I seem to recall your name – are you by any chance the gentleman who has recently bought Lancing Manor?”

“Yes, Mr Clayton.”

“Ah – Sir Charles Clayton, in fact. My dear, may I present Mr Franklin – my daughter. The Marquis de Soveral –” at this the ugly man inclined his head “ – and my son, Arthur.” Clayton glanced round; the burly young man Frank was standing some distance off, in no good humour. “Lord Lacy, who is a neighbour of yours – Mr Franklin.” The American nodded, Lacy continued to glare. These civilities concluded, Mr Franklin felt that a word of explanation was in order.

“May I say, Sir Charles,” he began “that I had no intention of kidnapping your fox. It just came flying –”

“Not at all,” said Clayton, and Mr Franklin had the impression that he had said something indecent. “I think we may forget the fox. Jarvie! Will you be good enough to take the basket and release the animal – at a safe distance from hounds. The hunt,” he went on with dissatisfaction, “is at an end.”

“Better say ‘please’ Jarvie, or Mr Franklin will certainly flatten you,” called Arthur cheerfully.

“Stop it, Arthur,” said Peggy. “You can think yourself lucky Mr Franklin didn’t flatten you. Are you always so kind to animals?” she went on, innocently, and Mr Franklin had the impression that he was being flirted with, on very brief acquaintance. He was human enough to be pleased; she looked distinctly fetching, in her cute little mannish bowler, and the dark habit setting off her graceful figure. He noted approvingly that she sat side-saddle with unconscious ease. And apart from her obvious attractions, he was prepared to like her for her pert cheerfulness – her brother, too, for that matter, even if Father seemed a bit of a cool stick.

“We shall be delighted if you will give us the pleasure of your company at dinner, Mr Franklin,” Clayton was saying, and it flashed across the American’s mind that he was in a position to cause acute alarm in the Clayton family if he chose to decline the invitation – had anyone, he wondered, refused to dine with the King of England? Probably not – and he was certainly not going to be the first. He murmured his acceptance, was informed that Oxton Hall was a mere six miles from Castle Lancing, and that dinner would be at 8.30.

“And please, try to make the King laugh as much as you did this afternoon,” said Peggy. “Tell him American jokes, or something.”

“Otherwise the curse of the Claytons will descend on you,” said Arthur.

“Until this evening, then,” said their father, effectively cutting off his children’s indiscretions, and as the men remounted, Peggy waved gaily, and the party trotted off down the road after the rest of the hunt, Mr Franklin found his arm taken by the saturnine Marquis de Soveral, who proceeded to examine him carefully, but with extreme courtesy, as to his background, antecedents, politics, and ability to play bridge – the last of which concerned Mr Franklin somewhat, since his card repertoire was confined to pinochle, poker, black jack, and a little whist; of bridge he knew no more than he had picked up idly watching other passengers on the voyage from America.

“Dear me,” said de Soveral, “that is a pity, since his majesty obviously intends that you should play. However, no doubt dear Mrs Keppel will see you through. Remember, only, that his majesty likes to win. And he is very easily bored, which is why – I say it without the least desire to offend, my dear fellow – you will be something of a godsend. You are new, you see – which is why I am finding out all I can about you.” The dark eyes twinkled shrewdly, and it occurred to Mr Franklin that the Marquis de Soveral, with his forbidding looks and bristling dark moustache, was nobody’s fool. “Officially, you understand, I am the Minister of Portugal at the Court of St James’s, but I occupy the much more exalted position of confidant to his majesty, and he will certainly want to know all about you when I return to Oxton Hall. That, of course, is what a diplomat is for. Evening dress, of course – ah, what more? You will be expected to stay the night, so I urge you to bring the necessary changes. You have a man – no? I shall arrange that. Might I presume to suggest that you bring a small gift for Mrs Keppel – the lady in the car with his majesty. It is not necessary, of course, but it would delight her, and what delights her pleases his majesty. She is a truly charming person, in every way, and keeps his majesty amused. You will not, of course, flirt with her – it would greatly embarrass her, and his majesty would be most offended. I merely mention it because she is so extremely attractive. For the rest, if you are in doubt at any time, catch my eye. And when his majesty says ‘No bid,’ and lays his cards flat on the table, do not, I implore you, if you are his partner, bid yourself – not unless you have a certain slam in your hand. Ah, I see Jarvie has recovered your horse. Well, Mr Franklin, it has been a great pleasure meeting you – to tell you the truth –” and the Marquis bared his teeth in a bandit smile “– I was delighted at your disruption of this afternoon’s hunt. So, I gathered, was his majesty. It is good for these squires to be reminded that the pursuit of the unfortunate fox is not quite a sacred ritual. I look forward to this evening.”

He swung gracefully into the saddle and cantered off with a flourish of his hat, leaving an astonished, slightly bewildered, but also rather elated American staring after him. Then, and not until then, did Mr Franklin realize that he was still holding in his left hand a half-eaten chicken leg; he stared at it in consternation, and then, being a practical man, finished it.