design of that boat, and the poet’s failure to recognise it, and make allowances in the rigging of it, that drove him and the two men with him to their deaths. But that being the case, how can his widow and son bear such a reminder, every day, every time they enter this room? But here, yet again, his host wrong-foots him.
“A peach, isn’t she?” he says, gesturing Charles to a chair. “The Eirene. Had her namesake built for me at Mallaby’s in Putney in ’47. Took her to Norway that year too. Lovely mover. Takes the wind like a swallow. Mater can’t bear the sight of it. Can’t blame her, I suppose. Always was a worrier. Specially about sailing.”
“Well,” stammers Charles, “I suppose that’s only to be expected.”
“Odd though, ain’t it. That a fellow should enjoy nothing more than pottering about in boats when his pater drowned in one. Never have been able to explain it.”
He sets the boat back on its stand and comes over to the sopha opposite to the one where Charles has taken a seat. He sits down rather heavily and stares at Charles, rubbing his beard. He seems rather ill-at-ease, and keeps glancing at the door as if expecting someone else.
“Look here,” he says eventually. “Maddox, is it? This is rather a rum do, and that’s a fact.”
Charles waits, not knowing exactly what encouragement is required.
“I am quite accustomed,” he ventures, after a moment or two, “to dealing with matters of a sensitive nature. I know that a man in your position—”
Sir Percy waves his hand, “Quite so, quite so. Not that. Not that at all. Thing is—”
And now the door does indeed open, and a woman enters the room with all the briskness of a career housekeeper. She is certainly dressed like one, in a sensible plain dress long past its first wearing and a pair of practical shoes, but Charles has wised up now and deduces—correctly—that this is the lady of the house, even if it is clear to him in an instant that she, too, was not born to the rank she now enjoys. And seeing that, he is on his feet at once, knowing from experience that a woman in such a situation will insist on her due recognition all the more ardently.
“My apologies, Percy,” she says, taking a seat beside her husband. “Dear Madre is rather unwell this morning and couldn’t bear to have me leave her.”
Sir Percy, meanwhile, looks visibly relieved at being released from a task that was clearly giving him a good deal of difficulty, and having made the introductions sinks back into the sopha to take what Charles guesses to be his accustomed secondary position.
“Sir Percy has told you of our predicament?” she begins, looking Charles up and down with no apparent embarrassment. She is sitting as far forward on the sopha as her husband is behind. Perched is the word that comes irresistibly to mind, and she does indeed look rather bird-like sitting there. Charles searches for a species and suppresses a superior smile as he settles on a squab. A rather unkind analogy, but undeniably apt for a woman so plump, grey, and pigeon-breasted and who is, to all appearances, bright-eyed without being particularly bright-minded. The look fits, certainly, but whether it will lead our young man to dangerously under-estimate her intelligence, we shall have to wait and see.
“I was just getting to all that, my love,” murmurs her husband, “when you came in.”
“Ah, well,” she says quickly, “in that case, it may save time if I give you these notes I have prepared. They are, needless to say, completely confidential, and not to be divulged or copied without our express permission.”
Charles is taken aback, for the third time already in that house: This is quite definitely the first occasion that a client has ever prepared him a briefing in advance. He takes the papers she is holding out, but she gives him no more than a minute to start reading before speaking again.
“As you see, our dear Madre has been the subject of
“A peach, isn’t she?” he says, gesturing Charles to a chair. “The Eirene. Had her namesake built for me at Mallaby’s in Putney in ’47. Took her to Norway that year too. Lovely mover. Takes the wind like a swallow. Mater can’t bear the sight of it. Can’t blame her, I suppose. Always was a worrier. Specially about sailing.”
“Well,” stammers Charles, “I suppose that’s only to be expected.”
“Odd though, ain’t it. That a fellow should enjoy nothing more than pottering about in boats when his pater drowned in one. Never have been able to explain it.”
He sets the boat back on its stand and comes over to the sopha opposite to the one where Charles has taken a seat. He sits down rather heavily and stares at Charles, rubbing his beard. He seems rather ill-at-ease, and keeps glancing at the door as if expecting someone else.
“Look here,” he says eventually. “Maddox, is it? This is rather a rum do, and that’s a fact.”
Charles waits, not knowing exactly what encouragement is required.
“I am quite accustomed,” he ventures, after a moment or two, “to dealing with matters of a sensitive nature. I know that a man in your position—”
Sir Percy waves his hand, “Quite so, quite so. Not that. Not that at all. Thing is—”
And now the door does indeed open, and a woman enters the room with all the briskness of a career housekeeper. She is certainly dressed like one, in a sensible plain dress long past its first wearing and a pair of practical shoes, but Charles has wised up now and deduces—correctly—that this is the lady of the house, even if it is clear to him in an instant that she, too, was not born to the rank she now enjoys. And seeing that, he is on his feet at once, knowing from experience that a woman in such a situation will insist on her due recognition all the more ardently.
“My apologies, Percy,” she says, taking a seat beside her husband. “Dear Madre is rather unwell this morning and couldn’t bear to have me leave her.”
Sir Percy, meanwhile, looks visibly relieved at being released from a task that was clearly giving him a good deal of difficulty, and having made the introductions sinks back into the sopha to take what Charles guesses to be his accustomed secondary position.
“Sir Percy has told you of our predicament?” she begins, looking Charles up and down with no apparent embarrassment. She is sitting as far forward on the sopha as her husband is behind. Perched is the word that comes irresistibly to mind, and she does indeed look rather bird-like sitting there. Charles searches for a species and suppresses a superior smile as he settles on a squab. A rather unkind analogy, but undeniably apt for a woman so plump, grey, and pigeon-breasted and who is, to all appearances, bright-eyed without being particularly bright-minded. The look fits, certainly, but whether it will lead our young man to dangerously under-estimate her intelligence, we shall have to wait and see.
“I was just getting to all that, my love,” murmurs her husband, “when you came in.”
“Ah, well,” she says quickly, “in that case, it may save time if I give you these notes I have prepared. They are, needless to say, completely confidential, and not to be divulged or copied without our express permission.”
Charles is taken aback, for the third time already in that house: This is quite definitely the first occasion that a client has ever prepared him a briefing in advance. He takes the papers she is holding out, but she gives him no more than a minute to start reading before speaking again.
“As you see, our dear Madre has been the subject of
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