Читать книгу Torn - Karen Turner - Страница 12

As had ever been our habit, Simon and I, with Jemima in tow, passed our study-free afternoons roaming the park, but winter’s rapid descent forced us to remain indoors playing cards, music, or, in Simon’s case, reading the papers from London.

He was fascinated with the progress of the Peninsular War, often reading aloud and questioning the decisions of the leaders. I didn’t pretend to understand military strategy, but was intrigued by Simon’s interest that resulted in much tutting and sighing over his adjudged ineptitude of the two commanders, Sir Hew Dalrymple and Sir Harry Burrard.

In August that year, the French, led by Junot, had been trapped by the English in Portugal and cut off from their supplies. Soundly beaten, they called for an armistice that the English accepted, resulting in the Convention of Cintra being signed.

Though victorious, the events that followed did nothing for English military pride, for Dalrymple forced the English to transport the French, with all their arms and supplies, back to France in English ships.

Simon veritably exploded as he read this latest. “So much for a military coup! What was the Government thinking of putting those two old farts in charge? That young fellow – what’s his name, Moore – he’d have made a better fist of it for certain, or that Wellesley chap.”

I nodded judiciously with absolutely no idea who these fine gentlemen were, though I did note some weeks later, that Dalrymple and Burrard had been recalled to Britain where their resignations were accepted and they were replaced by Sir John Moore. Simon smiled, satisfied, as though the appointment had been made on his express advice.

But my brother was changing; the increasingly rare moments when I had him to myself were no longer spent cheerfully exchanging village gossip, or dissecting British military strategy, for his interests expanded to encompass our new brother and his ostensibly impressive history. Patrick has been to court, you know; Patrick has been to Ireland. Patrick, Patrick, Patrick!

I made my displeasure known by sulking and offering only monosyllabic responses to which Simon seemed oblivious. He invited Patrick to join us in our afternoon pursuits and, more often than not, the invitation was accepted. I was feeling cheated of my special time with Simon, and observed their growing camaraderie resentfully. With the cumulative wisdom of my 14 years, I endeavoured to make the newcomer so uncomfortable he would remove himself. Yet, having witnessed Eleanor’s humiliation at Patrick’s hand, I operated warily.

I decided to ignore Patrick as if he didn’t exist, and it did seem, for a time, that I was succeeding – until I chanced to see Pat and Simon exchange a contemptuous roll of their eyes. Disappointed, I realised they were in accord and that I risked alienating Simon altogether.

To further confound me, as I grew to know Patrick better, I discovered that I rather enjoyed his presence during our lessons. Stubbornly I renewed my efforts, making full use of my talent for sarcasm, but even then my campaign wilted when he turned to Simon and said, “Am I expected to believe this puerile little nonentity is related to you and Anne?”

Good for the soul, was how Janet described him. Perhaps he had charmed her as he charmed everyone – my sister, our servants, and even Mrs Grainger called him, the young lord. He definitely had his attractions with his dishevelled, careless manner and witty repartee, but he was an interloper, and it riled me no end that no-one else could see it. Simon’s behaviour was a betrayal of our partnership, but he merely shrugged off my displeasure and accompanied Patrick into the park to shoot arrows at targets on trees.

Meanwhile, Maeve was bewitching and likeable, a fact that only served to increase my moodiness. She and Anne had become immediate companions and passed their time before a cheerful fire; reading, talking or sewing together, with Missy curled on the settee between them.

Alone to contemplate my position, I became even more disagreeable. So much so, that Patrick cornered me late one afternoon in the parlour. I was watching from the window as Collings made an inspection of the rose garden.

“I know what you mean by all these infantile displays,” he said, startling me.

“I –”

“Don’t bother. Any denial insults us both.” His normally pleasant looks were transformed by his scorn and I prayed he would go away but he made no move to leave.

Very well, I thought, rising slowly. I faced him and blurted out, “We didn’t ask you here to disrupt our lives.”

He moved explosively, his hand shooting out to grip my chin and force me to stare into his hard, emerald eyes.

“Now, you listen to me,” he snarled, and I whimpered stupidly in surprise. “I couldn’t give a tinker’s cuss what you think, but I’m here and so’s my sister and you’d better get used to it. I’m not interested in your petulance, nor is Simon, thank God! Even your scheming sister’s less unpleasant, so stop behaving like a spoiled little bitch!”

He flung away from me, slamming the door on his way out, leaving me in the gathering dusk, trembling and stunned and with a renewed wariness of his cruel capabilities.

It was early December and Patrick celebrated his seventeenth birthday. Lord Thorncliffe surprised his son by arranging for Pat’s horse to be brought up from their estates. Equus was as beautiful a creature as I’d ever seen; a black mare, strong and tall with a fine, intelligent head. Now my stepbrother enjoyed a new freedom; galloping through the woods, hurdling fences and charging through the park – fearlessly and dangerously. Simon attempted to join him on the laughably inadequate Oliver, who grudgingly responded to Simon’s urging, and took every opportunity to loiter in the lush grass at the edge of the forest.

Other times, with their saddle-bags bulging, the two boys disappeared for entire days. In my more grown up moments I knew my resentment was churlish and unreasonable, but watching their easy camaraderie as they laughed at some shared joke only built on my towering sense of betrayal.

Simon’s tolerance ran out one clear, frosty morning. We were enjoying unseasonably pleasant days for December and I stood on the neatly-raked gravel drive while he waited before me, hand extended, “Come on, Zan,” he said, smiling beguilingly, “we’re going to follow the stream and eat lunch. The snow will be here soon and then we’ll not be able to go out.”

I could have saved myself, but like a lemming, I ran obstinately to my own destruction. “No!”

“C’mon, we’ll have fun – just like we used to.”

“It can’t be like it used to,” I snapped, angling a significant glare over his shoulder to where Patrick lingered. My stepbrother’s face was inscrutable, but he was studying me closely, his eyes like cold jewels.

“Leave her, Sime.” He turned and stalked away.

“You go to hell!” I shouted at his back and saw Simon’s brow pucker.

“Zan …” he began sadly, then shook his head and turned to follow Patrick.

Dropping to the ground, I scraped a handful of gravel and threw it with all my passion at Simon’s retreating back. I’ve always been a good shot and this was no exception. The stones hit their target but my brother’s steps did not falter.

And so, as Christmas approached, I drifted about, reading or wandering through the woods with Jemima. Simon was despondent and sought occasions to talk with me that usually ended unhappily because he couldn’t understand how I felt.

“If you would only get to know him, you’d like him – he’s fun, Zan.” We were sitting over the chessboard in the library as rain beat steadily against the windows.

“I don’t like him,” I said, replacing his bishop with one of my knights.

“Hmm, you’re getting good at this,” he muttered thoughtfully. “Why don’t you give him a chance?”

I glanced up. “He called me a spoiled little bitch – I’m not like that, Sime.”

“Aren’t you?” He studied the chessboard. “What do you call your behaviour, then?” I lowered my eyes as tears pricked their backs. His voice was gentler when he spoke again. “We had fun when we were two. What fun if we were three?”

“I don’t like him,” I repeated for it was all I could say.

He sighed and pushed back his chair, indicating our game was over. “Have it your way, but you’re the one losing out.”

The weather turned and suddenly overnight it brought snow and bitter winds. Prevented from riding, Pat began spending his time in the stables grooming Equus, or simply lying in the hay with a book. Daily I collected Jemima and hurried away so I could avoid him, but one morning I stood at the stable door staring bleakly outside. The snow lay thick on the ground and heavy in the trees, rendering impenetrable our usual paths through the woods. “You’ll not want to walk out today,” Patrick said. I started slightly for I’d not expected him to speak to me. He reclined in the hay in Equus’ stall. She was standing comfortably, head hanging low in a light doze. Jemima traitorously ambled to him and I silently berated her. Obligingly he fondled her ears and peered over at me.

There was no malice or antagonism in his face and I felt a twinge of shame as he studied my sullen expression. I looked outside again to hide my confusion. The snow swirled on an icy breeze and turned the forecourt to muddy slush where the lads had walked back and forth during their morning chores. The trees in the park were grey and skeletal, and leaden clouds hung in the sky.

Patrick’s eyes continued to linger on me. I gave an involuntary shiver and obstinately called Jemima to the entrance where the wide stable door was hooked to the outside wall to keep it from banging. Immediately a sharp gust of glacial wind blasted me in the face.

“Don’t go out there just to be stubborn,” he said, coming up behind me. He unhooked the door and pulled it to, latching it shut against the blustery weather.

Through the window I could see the storm moving in and the clouds boiling above the naked trees.

“Have you forgiven me my verbal attack the other day?” The bluntness of his question caused me to pause. Uncertain how to respond, I made an ostensible contemplation of the weather.

“If I’ve taken Simon away from you, I assure you it wasn’t deliberate,” he continued gently while I remained staring wordlessly outside. “Simon and I will be leaving for Oxford soon. Shouldn’t you be enjoying your time with him? You’re upsetting him, you know.”

“I never wanted to hurt him,” I murmured. “But no-one cares how I feel. No-one understands.”

He took my shoulders and turned me to face him, his head cocked to one side. “That’s not true. I do know. I understand that everything you’ve ever known is upside down.”

His calm empathy caused my hackles to rise. “Oh you’re so experienced, such a man of the world,” I shrugged off his hands but he merely stared blandly at me and, in the face of his composure, I suddenly saw how childish I was.

“Do you realise,” I continued, doggedly, “that in less than one year, I shall have added three new siblings? Your father installed as my papa? How can you know how I feel? I don’t even know myself,” I finished in a whisper.

“You’re young yet,” he said, not unkindly, “your inexperience is telling on you. In time you’ll come to realise –”

“You pompous swine!” I snapped.

He shrugged and rested his arms on the window-ledge to watch the storm gathering over Jackson’s field. Jackson’s celebrated bull was nowhere to be seen, probably tucked up in a warm barn somewhere.

“Yes, I suppose that would have sounded pompous,” he conceded. “But you can’t –”

“Don’t tell me what I can and can’t do,” I snarled, confident that my 14 years made me quite fearsome.

His brows rose beneath his hair. “This has been difficult for Maeve and me too –”

“Oh, I’m sure it has been – you just march into our home and take over our lives and –”

“Haven’t you ridden that hobby-horse to death?” Now his face darkened and he shoved away and returned to Equus’ stall. When he spoke, his voice was barely audible, “Yes, very fine for me, all nicely mapped out.” His mouth twisted bitterly. “Since Father was often away, I was learning the running of our estates under the guidance of our steward. Then, he summoned me to London; in his misguided way he thought I would enjoy it there. Oh, I learnt a lot at court, but not the way my father intended for it was expected that I would spend my youth in meaningless, privileged pursuits, marry a suitable maid, then apply myself to the business of producing a string of heirs – hearty Washburn stock. My thoughts on the matter were … are … irrelevant.” He shook his head angrily. “I shall never conform to expectations. I left court, returned to Waterville, and wrote to Father explaining that I’d remain there until the Oxford year resumed.”

Up to this point he’d been contemplating his hands, but now he seemed to arrive at a decision. “Coming here was not part of my plan, nor was it my intention to disrupt your life. Maeve and I were not consulted, we were instructed. Further, I know full well your mother’s reasons for marrying my father. She cares only for wealth and position, and expects that if she bears a son, it will further cement her social standing.”

I stared at him with growing contrition. He mimicked my petulance, “You don’t know what it’s like for me. The privileged world we live in makes no concessions for our individual desires.”

I turned away, as with dawning self-realisation I saw myself as he must – childish, ignorant and selfish. I trawled my brain for something to say but nothing came, and finally, I capitulated and my arms dropped to my sides. He could be hateful and his words cruel, but he was right. I had conducted myself appallingly. I had been self-absorbed and foolish – everything he said.

My nose was running with the dampness in the air and I swiped at it with my sleeve as I gathered my thoughts. In the tail of my eye, I saw he had returned to his book and after several long minutes, I drew in my breath and said quietly, “I have behaved dreadfully.”

Without lifting his eyes he replied, “Yes. You’re also unworldly, quick to unreasoning anger, and childish in the extreme – a feisty kitten who thinks she’s a lion.”

Realising immediately that he was trying me, I carefully modulated my voice. “Are you terribly miserable here?”

He didn’t respond initially. He finished his page before closing the book and laying it beside him. “I wouldn’t say miserable. Perhaps … unsettled is more apt. Maeve adjusts better than I. She accepts things more readily. Acceptance, like patience, is a virtue and I am not virtuous.”

This last was delivered with a smile that softened his features and caused me to look away in embarrassment for I was beginning to feel repentant of my recent behaviour. “Virtue is never left to stand alone. He who has it will have neighbours,” I recited softly.

“Ah,” he said with surprised approval, “the feisty kitten quotes Confucius.”

A small spark of solidarity with this complex boy flickered within me and, with some circumspection, I moved to sit beside him in the sweet-smelling hay, vaguely aware that we’d laid the first shaky foundations of a bridge across a chasm; a flimsy bridge nonetheless, and easily rocked by words of anger.

And since he seemed to be in a rather expansive mood, I said, “You were born to inherit a great title and vast wealth. Does this not make you happy?”

He smiled wryly. “It would be silly to say I wasn’t happy with that. Maeve and I will never know poverty. Our rank will gain us entry and privilege. But there are more worthy things I’d like to spend my life doing.”

“You sound like Simon, though he’s by no means in your position. Simon is very grateful of the opportunity to go to Oxford. Is this what you want too?”

“No.” He locked his hands behind his head. “There’s a whole world out there; sights to see … places to go. And while England’s at war, here am I, safely ensconced in this plot in the middle of nowhere.”

I bristled at his description of my home but decided not to test our tentative ceasefire. “You’d like to travel then?”

“Yes, but not for travel’s sake. I’d like to go to the Iberian Peninsula and actually do something worthwhile.”

“You mean the war! How would killing and being killed be doing something worthwhile?”

He shrugged. “Napoleon’s a little upstart – everyone knows it, and we all complain, but what do we do about it?” I watched him as he pondered his own words. “Yes, that’s what I would most like to do.”

“Maeve would be devastated, and your father wouldn’t be happy.”

“I’m old enough to buy an officer’s commission – Father wouldn’t stand in my way.”

“Funny,” I snorted, “my mother might. She’s ever been focused on Simon making a good match – by that she means wealthy – his family responsibility and all. She will probably be the same with you.”

“She already has plans for me. Another reason to go abroad.”

I grimaced in commiseration. “Mother carries your father’s child, doesn’t she?”

“Without doubt.” He shot a wary glance at me before continuing. “Our parents have been engaged in a liaison for some time. So, the problem – which worked well for your mother – was that the King, mad though he may be, is a very prudish man. He ordered their marriage as punishment, and for the benefit of the child. Their banishment from court demonstrates the King’s disapproval; convenient for your mother since she is now a countess and wealthy beyond her wildest fantasies.”

I was quiet while I took this in. Finally, I said, “Are you worried for your inheritance?”

“No – the bulk of that comes from my maternal grandfather – it’s secure, along with Maeve’s portion. I disliked your mother since I first met her at court. She’s a schemer, a fortune hunter.”

“I can’t deny that!”

“Have you read King Lear? No? Well, you should. You’d recognise her among the characters.”

We fell silent and the only sound was the wind howling outside and as I watched him, his eyes softened and he seemed to be looking into the distance. “Some day you must visit Waterville Place,” he said pensively. “I think you’d be fascinated with its history – although it’s quite unusual, it is very beautiful. My grandfather, aided considerably by his fertile imagination, re-designed it after he bought it.”

“There is every chance we – the family, I mean – shall visit.”

“In any case,” he said, with an abrupt change of subject, “what do you think of your family now? I mean, after our talk. Shall we be friends?”

I drew up my knees and wrapped my arms about them. “I think we may be friends.”

“You’re not sure?” he said, teasingly.

“My hobby-horse has been put out to pasture. We can call a truce,” I announced magnanimously.

The crooked half-smile he gave transformed his face, and I liked it. His lips were full and expressive and curved down at one corner. “Truce,” he agreed, and we shook on it like farmers. “Equus likes you,” he commented matter-of-factly, as the horse leaned towards me and snorted into my hair.

I laughed spontaneously; her steamy herbaceous breath tickled my neck, and I was rewarded with another lopsided smile.

Rain had begun clattering on the shingle roof creating a warm and cosy atmosphere within the stall. I stretched with unladylike ease in the straw and Jemima snored lightly at my feet. Patrick lounged casually beside me, his book forgotten.

“So, what happened to your mother?” I asked.

He blew out his breath. “She died.”

“I supposed that much. Was it –?”

“A long time ago. In childbirth … the baby was lost too.”

“Did you know her?”

“I was about seven at the time, so I knew her only as much as a seven-year-old can.”

“I don’t mean to be nosy …”

He smiled again and his eyes held a glint of irony. “Yes you do, but I don’t mind.”

“So your father raised you?”

He nodded. “In a fashion. Like I said, he was away a lot – at court. Maeve and I spent time in Ireland with my mother’s family – we have cousins there.”

“So what’s court like?”

“See, you are nosy.”

“Perhaps I’m getting to know my new brother,” I rejoined quickly.

“Ask Maeve what sort of brother I am.”

“I’ve already seen a few sides to you,” I said arching my brow significantly and thinking of the Eleanor incident. “Did you like it at court? How old were you when you went there?”

“I was fourteen. I only stayed for two years. Father secured me a posting in the Queen’s stables.” He considered his horse for a few moments. “Equus’s mother was one of the Queen’s horses – Father purchased her for me when she was only a few months old. When I returned to Waterville I took Equus with me.”

“And now you’re here.”

“And now I’m here.”

“But what about court – is the King mad as they say? And the ladies – are they as beautiful?”

He laughed lightly. “Yes to the first and no to the second. The King does not involve himself in court society. All the interesting events are held by the Prince of Wales – now that fellow knows how to enjoy himself.”

“So he’ll make a good king some day?”

“Doubt it. Parliament is pushing to have him made regent but I think he’s too irresponsible … too interested in throwing parties to be reliable. Let’s not forget we’re still at war – Napoleon is determined to control Europe and hold Britain to ransom. Parliament and the Queen are trying to keep the Prince under control and they can’t manage that now – imagine if he were Regent! It will be worse when he’s King.”

“But –” I was interrupted as Equus shifted her stance and a low rumble crept from beneath her tail. “Oh Equus!” I exclaimed, laughing freely for the first time in months.

Pat held up his hand. “Wait for it.”

“What?”

“Horse fart,” and just as he said it, the stench of fermenting vegetation filled the stall, leaving us gasping and giggling. We covered our faces as best we could, scrambled to our feet and ran to the stable door, pushing it open to breathe the newly-cleansed air. I turned to Patrick, and his face was made attractive with laughter. “Hungry, brother?” I asked impulsively. “I believe Cook has baked orange biscuits and if you distract her, I shall steal a handful for us to share.”

He grinned, with no hint of mockery for once. “Very well, L’il Sis, let us see what we can purloin from the kitchens.” He shoved the door closed behind us, and we ran, leaping puddles and mud on our way.

Christmas descended quickly and Mother’s condition progressed so that she made only brief appearances outside her rooms.

The festive season had previously been celebrated quietly by Simon, Anne and me, with only a brief exchange of gifts. We had always purchased gifts for the staff, and Simon had instructed Collings to distribute coins and food to the tenants.

This year, Simon decided to extend the tradition to include a Boxing Day party on the snow-blanketed lawn. He arranged for braziers to be set up at strategic points for warmth and had instructed Cook to plan a sumptuous feast. Maeve and Patrick launched themselves into the festive spirit with a contagious fervour that helplessly infected their Broughton siblings.

Pat, Lord Thorncliffe and Simon went into the forest and cut a fir which they dragged through the snow amid much stumbling and shouts of laughter. Maeve and Anne visited Wolstone Market and returned with a treasure-trove of coloured beads and baubles. The parlour sparkled brightly and the clean, sharp tang of pine permeated the rugs and furnishings and crept in to the hall to greet those entering the house. Some weeks earlier, Anne had charmed the stableman’s son, who had a talent for wood-carving, to produce a collection of miniature figures. These, she and Maeve had painted in red, green and blue, and now they hung in the tree from gold threads.

Even Mother seemed relaxed. She observed our gaiety from her couch, smiling like a benevolent queen.

Christmas Eve arrived and the household staff were invited to join us around the tree. Maeve and Anne danced to Simon’s piano and Patrick’s violin. There was much laughter and carolling and Cook was dispatched to the cellar for a third bottle of her special plum wine. My only sadness was that Jemima remained alone in the stables. Though I visited her daily, she’d been raised indoors, was part of the family, and I hated the thought of her being outside.

Emily brought in a plate laden with marchpane holly leaves, and another with mincemeat tarts that were swollen with fruit and spices, and we ate, sang and swapped stories before a roaring fire. Some time later, I relaxed in my chair watching the glittering, cheerful scene, a forgotten smile on my face, and aware that I had enjoyed this evening more than any in recent memory.

Suddenly Mother clapped her hands and we turned as one. “I don’t believe I can continue to look upon these mysterious parcels a moment longer,” she declared, indicating with a flourish the brightly wrapped gifts beneath the tree. “Maeve, Anne, will you ladies do the honours?”

Maeve squealed with delight and threw herself with inelegant eagerness to the floor beside the tree.

Anne, more dignified, joined her in handling each boxed package carefully, reading the tags and announcing the recipient’s name.

“Simon!”

“Mother!”

“Ooh! Another for Simon and it smells so sweet it must be from a girl,” said Maeve, giggling.

“Probably Katie, the farrier’s daughter,” suggested Anne.

“Or her mother,” I added with a wink in my brother’s direction.

Simon scowled with mock annoyance and read the label, “It’s from you, Naughty Puss.” Maeve glowed beneath the affectionate nickname, bestowed after the Missy incident on her arrival.

“Father, this is from Mother.”

“To Cook from the Countess.”

“To Alex from Simon.”

And so it went on.

Much later, we each had a pile of gifts before us. I had received a lovely bottle of scent from Simon, a red leather-bound journal from Patrick, various trinkets from Anne and Maeve, and an assortment of books from Mother and Gerrard.

Cook made a pot of thick, aromatic chocolate. I sipped my drink and reflected that Mother had been in uncommon good humour, regaling us with funny tales of the King’s misdemeanours and public displays of madness, though her descriptions of the parties held by the Prince had Anne’s eyes bulging.

“There are rumours,” Mother said conspiratorially, “that Prinnie’s favourite is with child again.”

“No!” Gerrard was genuinely surprised. “Again you say? To his mistress? High time that wife – what’s her name – gave him another.”

“Caroline,” Mother supplied. “They have lived apart for … let me think, well, since Princess Charlotte was born. She has that boy, of course – claims she adopted him, but everyone knows the child is her own bastard. The Prince must get a son with his wife, but cannot stand the sight of her.

“If it is true that the mistress is in … er … a delicate condition, then her star will most definitely be on the rise.”

“Indeed, though if she’s with child, she’ll need to be on her guard.” Mother then described the outrageous lengths some of the court ladies would go to in order to attract Prinnie’s attention and their conspiracies behind closed doors to bring one another into disrepute. One had to be constantly on one’s guard against scandal. From the pleasure Mother derived in the re-telling, I judged she was among the agitators.

Suddenly the door opened. Until that moment I hadn’t realised that Patrick had slipped away. When he came into the room my hand flew to my mouth and I stifled a gasp of shock. The gathering fell silent while I, unable to breathe, stared fearfully at Mother. Patrick was leading Jemima into the room.

Mother nodded toward me with a small smile. “Alexandra, this is my Christmas gift to you,” she said, magnanimously. “Those disrespectful boys there,” she waved imperiously at Patrick and Simon, “confessed their crime and I have decided to forgive you all this conspiracy, and return that wretched hound to your care.”

Jemima sat, uncharacteristically obedient, at Patrick’s side, though I sensed her excitement and desire to run to me.

“Mother, thank you,” I said softly.

“Hmm,” she said, grudgingly. “It is on condition.”

“Anything …”

“Your brothers have endeavoured to drill some manners into it – see that you keep up the training.”

“Yes, Mother – thank you.”

“Don’t thank me, thank them. I was furious when Simon told me my orders had been undermined. As head of this house, he must learn the consequences of his actions.”

“Well … thank you in any case,” I said, reverently. “And the two of you also,” I added to Simon and Patrick and it dawned on me that Patrick’s daily visits to the stables were not for Equus’ benefit alone.

“Needn’t thank Patrick,” Mother grumbled, “If he were alone in pleading your case, I’d have had them both, human and dog alike, knocked on the head.”

Pat grinned – almost as handsome as Simon when he wasn’t guarding his expression – and passed the leash to me. “The mutt has received a reprieve, and is hereby returned to you.”

So Yuletide came and went and it was the most joyous I’d known. Mother’s unusual affability no doubt contributed to the congenial atmosphere about the house. And a week later, when the parlour clock struck midnight on New Year’s Eve, hugs and good wishes were exchanged between Broughtons, Washburns and their combined staff.