Author's Note: Thanks, everyone, for the nice reviews! Sorry for the long wait -- most of this was actually finished some time ago, but my room was far too cold this winter to sit freezing in front of a desk puzzling out html codes. Hope it's been worth the wait. The third and final installment has yet to progress beyond the note/outline stage, but it will be along eventually, I promise! -- L.H., April, 2004
Occasionally they shared snippets of news.
"I see Lord Cranmer's finally died," Audrey said. "I shudder to think what his son's going to let happen to the estate."
"Mm," murmured Richard abstractedly. "Listen to this," he said suddenly, and proceeded to read aloud snippets of an editorial praising the benefits country had already heaped from the EU.
Audrey was appalled. "How awful," she said dramatically.
"Awful?" her husband responded impatiently. "Look, Audrey, globalization is inevitable whether you like it or not. It just makes good business sense."
"Well I don't like it," Audrey sniffed. "The Common Market was quite bad enough, and now we're supposed to just submit to being swallowed up by the great anonymous mass that is Europe. It completely undermines Britain's economy and cultural heritage. Honestly, Richard, the whole country's going..."
"...to rack and ruin. Yes, I know," he finished for her.
"Precisely." The couple relapsed into silence.
Richard glanced up as he turned a page. He lowered the paper with a sigh that just missed irritation. "Hullo, someone's coming," he said, with a note of warning.
"Mm?" Audrey looked up from Lord Cranmer's obituary and gazed across the well-manicured lawn. "Oh, Lord, it's the Bucket woman. What on earth -- is she wearing hunting pink?" she gasped, as the stocky little form drew closer.
"In the first week of summer?"
The DeVeres scarcely had time to exchange bemused looks before she was upon them.
"Good morning!" chirped Hyacinth. "I hope you're both well after that lovely dinner party last night. I just thought I'd pop over and thank you once again for inviting us."
DeVere gave her his most charming superficial smile. "Good morning, Mrs. Bouquet. Lovely morning, isn't it?"
He toyed with the idea of doing the polite thing and offering her a cup of coffee, but he just couldn't bring himself to do it. Neither, apparently, could Audrey.
"Oh, yes, indeed," she beamed. "I was just thinking while I was having breakfast that it would be a lovely morning for a ride."
"Oh, you ride, do you?" Audrey asked disbelievingly.
"Well, naturally!" lied Hyacinth. After all, didn't all the best quality people ride? "And hunting, too, of course. Oh, yes, Richard and I are absolutely mad about hunting, but of course living in a city it's not always easy to get as much of the sport as one prefers. My sister Violet manages more often than I, but then her husband is a terribly successful turf accountant. Very in with the horsey set."
The outfit, in fact, was one she'd borrowed from Violet just before she left, although it had taken some doing. They'd had to smuggle the habit out of the house while Violet's husband Bruce was at work. Bruce might be successful, but he had certain odd personality quirks ... namely an extremely possessive nature where his wife's clothing was concerned. He preferred to wear it himself. It goes without saying that Hyacinth chose not to enlighten the DeVeres about this particular family secret.
"As much as I hate to intrude on your generous hospitality," she continued, "I simply had to find out how soon I could expect to go fox hunting. One of the reasons I wanted to come to the country." She smiled ingratiatingly.
"Really," Audrey responded shortly. "Perhaps you should have come to the country during hunting season."
Hyacinth blinked. She coughed to cover up her embarrassment, and said, somewhat nervously, "Oh. Yes. Of course. Well, I told you I was a bit rusty."
DeVere smiled, and almost took pity on her. The woman did ask for it, but he knew first hand what it was like to be on the receiving end of Audrey's icy sarcasm. "Actually, even here in the country we don't get to hunt as much as we'd like."
"No," agreed his wife. "The hunt saboteurs have virtually shut down the hunt around Grantleigh the last few years."
"Rather a pity," added her husband. "Just as I was starting to get the hang of it."
Audrey gave the other woman a sudden, gracious smile which made Richard immediately suspicious. "Of course, if you simply want to ride I'd be more than happy to show you around the estate on horseback, Mrs. Bouquet. Shall we say Saturday morning, after breakfast?"
Hyacinth agreed enthusiastically, but not without a certain amount of private trepidation.
"That was vicious of you," Richard said when she left.
Audrey adopted an air of slightly wounded innocence, but there was a gleam of mischief in her eyes. "Whatever do you mean by that, Richard?"
"She doesn't look like a horsewoman to me."
"No, she doesn't, does she?" smiled Audrey.
Hyacinth changed clothes once again -- this time to a very respectable tweed suit which actually did blend with her environment -- and set out on foot for the village shop, nearly a mile away. Apparently, according to Audrey and Marjory, it wasn't considered worth the effort locally to get the car out for the short jaunt to the village. And after last night's gaffe of driving to the manor, she was particularly anxious to get everything right.
In spite of her claims to the contrary, Hyacinth was decidedly not used to the country life, and by the time she finished the "short jaunt" she was huffing as much as if she'd just run a marathon. Her feet, mercifully clad in sensible shoes, felt that way as well.
The bell tinkled out its ancient and toneless rhythm as she stumbled into the shop. The caretaker, a gaunt woman in her fifties, looked sharply at the purple-faced newcomer, a mixture of alarm and annoyance in her expression. A total stranger collapsing in her shop might be bad for business. Her mother hadn't put up with that sort of thing ruining her profits, and Mrs. Patterson's only daughter had no intention of standing for it, either.
"Hi! You there, are you quite well?" she demanded of Hyacinth.
"Certainly," Hyacinth puffed, straightening her posture and reaching up automatically to smooth her hair. With the best approximation of a dignified, affable smile she could manage, she announced, "There's nothing like a good, vigorous walk to keep you fit. That's what I always say."
The woman behind the counter merely grunted disinterestedly now that the newcomer seemed to be recovering. Hyacinth closed on her. "I am Mrs. Bouquet," she announced. "Mrs. Hyacinth Bouquet. I shall be spending the summer at Grantleigh Manor Lodge -- that's on the DeVeres' estate, you know -- and I would like to arrange for daily delivery of newspapers and two pints of milk."
A notepad was produced from under the counter. "How d'you spell the name?"
"B-u-c-k-e-t," replied Hyacinth.
"Right," said the shopkeeper, making notes on the pad. "Two pints milk and newspapers to the old lodge for Mrs. Bucket."
Hyacinth blinked in irritation. "No, it's pronounced Bouquet," she corrected. "Oh, yes, and there are one or two other little matters. Since this is a farming community, I would like to know where the milk comes from."
"Cows," the woman answered promptly, biting back a laugh.
Hyacinth looked pained. "But are these local cows?" she persisted.
"Well, they just come from Milton's Dairy, up the road."
Hyacinth chewed her lip thoughtfully. "Ah. I see. Perhaps I should just give the manager a ring and ascertain whether or not his cows are of the best sort. I brought with me my set of Royal Doulton with the handpainted periwinkles -- although of course my home is equipped with a very expensive alarm system -- and I'm sure you'll agree that fine china such as that deserves only the very best quality milk."
The storekeeper could only blink at her.
"And, of course, that would give me a chance to ask him to make certain I receive my own bottles back again. I don't want bottles that have been used by all and sundry. Who knows what sort of people have been drinking out of them?"
"Have you ever thought of using these, dearie?" asked Miss Patterson frostily, as she held up a two-pint plastic container. "Just toss them away when you're done."
Hyacinth was delighted with the idea. "How clever!" she exclaimed. "What will they think of next?"
The other woman frowned. Taking the milk question as settled finally, she inquired, in a tone heavily laced with sarcasm, "And will there be any special instructions about the newspapers, ma'am? Would you like them ironed before they're delivered to prevent the ink rubbing off on your hands, for instance?"
Hyacinth was fumbling in her pocketbook. "Oh, there's no need for that sort of thing," she replied, missing the hostility completely. "I'm not a fussy person. Now, there are one or two other little things my husband forgot to pick up when he was in yesterday. You know how forgetful husbands can be."
Miss Patterson slapped the pad down on the counter in irritation and jerked the proffered list out of Hyacinth's outstretched hand. "Not ... off ... hand," she spat, enunciating every syllable with a venomously cold precision.
She was the embittered variety of spinster. Any suitors she might have had when she was young had been frightened away by her old dragon of a mother, whose personality was being replicated in the daughter more and more with every passing year. Some of the locals were even beginning to refer to her as Mrs. Patterson, so thorough was the transition.
Hyacinth wondered vaguely why the woman seemed a touch out of sorts, but simply put it down to the shopkeeper being a rather "low" sort of person and therefore prone to that sort of thing. She immediately put it out of her mind in the sheer joy of watching Miss Patterson assemble the shopping into her carrier bag. This sort of personalized service made her feel very important.
The bag was slammed down onto the counter. "Will that be all?" Miss Patterson demanded shortly.
"Oh, yes, I think so," mused Hyacinth. "For today, anyway. Although my son is joining us next week -- he's a very famous interior designer, but he still makes time to join his mummy in the country for a few weeks -- so I'll be popping in then to pick up a few of his favourite treats. Only the finest for my Sheridan. I expect we'll be your very best customers while he's here."
That held the promise of money, and Miss Patterson changed her tune immediately. She summoned an affable smile, and her voice when she replied was positively servile. "Oh, well, you could hardly do less, could you, Mrs. -- what was the name again? Bookay, that's right. You just let me know if your boy wants anything special, and I'll be sure he gets it. That's the sort of personal touch you get here; wouldn't get that sort of service in one of them supermarkets, that's what I always say."
Her customer beamed at her. "Absolutely! I suppose the anonymous chain stores are well enough for ordinary folks, but for people of distinction I always feel there's nothing more appropriate than a personal touch. Although," she said confidingly, "I'm certain if Mr. DeVere at the manor was still running his supermarket it would be quite an exception to the rule."
Miss Patterson huffed. "That's as might be," she said doubtfully. "But I'll tell you one thing, though. He might have owned his own grocery chain, but he did his shopping here." She gave a decisive little nod. "Many is the time me old mother special ordered cigars for him, or any other little thing he might want."
"Oh, then you'll know just what the DeVeres like," exclaimed Hyacinth delightedly. "I expect to be entertaining them quite frequently, you know. My husband and I dined with them at the manor last night; doubtless the first of many such social occasions. Mr. DeVere was kind enough to stop by to personally invite us. Just the sort of behaviour you'd expect from such a perfect example of the well-bred British gentleman."
"You'd think so, wouldn't you?" the storekeeper snorted. "Amazing how he can pull it off, with his background."
"Heh?!" Hyacinth twitched. She blinked rapidly several times. "What d'you mean, his background?"
Miss Patterson narrowed her eyes. "Came here from Poland or Czechoslovakia or someplace like that, didn't he? Well, I just figured you'd know all about it, you being such a close personal friend of the family and all. His mother barely even spoke a word of English ... not so's you could understand, anyway. Nice old lady, though. Just a bit ... strange. Nobody ever could figure out what her last name was supposed to be, but it wasn't DeVere, that's for sure.
"And the stories they used to tell about him! Used to be rumoured that he was into all kinds of nasty things, gambling and fraud and who knows what. All hushed up, though. Some even said he was some sort o' Bluebeard, hiding out here from the police after he killed his first wife. I don't reckon there can be any truth to that one, though," she allowed regretfully. "He's been married to Mrs. fforbes for twenty years, and if there's any wife a man might want to finish off, it'd be her."
The effect on Hyacinth was remarkable. The blinking intensified and she began to twitch. Her mouth fixed itself into a smile of frozen horror. "Ah ... yes ... well ... hrm," she stammered. Without another word to her new acquaintance, she picked up her bag and stumbled toward the door, still shaking her head in horrified disbelief.
She almost collided with Marjory Frobisher, who was coming through the door as she reached to open it.
"Oh, good morning, Mrs. Buck — " Marjory started to say the dreaded name, then stopped herself and overcorrected, " — Mrs. Bucky."
"Good morning, dear," Hyacinth said absently.
Marjory stared open-mouthed after the retreating figure. How very odd! A mistake like that and she hadn't even flinched. Oh, well. Marjory dismissed it with a shrug and turned her attention to her own shopping.
The shopkeeper had a slightly malicious smile on her face, but then she often did.
"I do wish you'd reconsider, Hyacinth," Richard pleaded with his wife.
It was Saturday morning, and Hyacinth, a black sweater topping off the breeches and riding boots of her borrowed outfit, was clearing the remains of their breakfast off the table. Richard hadn't quite finished with his, but at the moment he was more interested in trying to talk her out of her plans for the day.
"You remember what happened the last time you tried to ride a horse," he reminded her.
She refused to listen. "Oh, don't be so fussy, Richard. Obviously the sort of animals the DeVeres would own would be capable of recognising when a person of quality and breeding is riding it, and reacting accordingly." She stopped suddenly, remembering the gossip she'd heard recently. Did they even have horses in Czechoslovakia? Or Poland?
"They all have instincts," he persisted. "They can tell when the person riding them has no idea what they're doing. Horses can sense fear."
The telephone rang. Hyacinth picked up the receiver and answered in her usual fashion. "The Bouquet residence," she trilled. "The lady of the house speaking."
"Really?" There was a distinct touch of frost in Audrey's telephone voice. "And I always thought it was Grantleigh Manor Lodge." Hyacinth, rendered momentarily speechless, listened as her landlady gave curt instructions to meet her at the stables in half an hour. Apparently, the well-bred horses didn't care to be kept waiting.
Audrey's horse was precisely the sort of animal you'd expect to find occupying the stables of a stately home; an aristocratic dappled grey gelding, sixteen hands or more. In a way Jason resembled his mistress: tall, trim, and solid, with a hint of well-controlled aggression.
The same could be said, in a decidedly less flattering way, about the bay mare allotted to Hyacinth, but only in that she was short and round. Queen Mab's placid temper bore about as much resemblance to her rider as her physical appearance resembled her namesake fairy queen. She was the smallest gentlest, and oldest occupant of Grantleigh's stable, and thus the only one Audrey trusted with an obviously inexperienced rider.
For all that, Hyacinth eyed the little cob with suspicion. Queen Mab didn't look like her idea of a horse. Surely, a horse's temperament had everything to do with breeding, didn't it? This animal might appear outwardly gentle, but it certainly didn't look like the sort of thing a person of distinction would ever be seen riding. The magnificent grey, on the other hand...
The magnificent grey turned his big head, and snapped his big teeth in the direction of Hyacinth's shoulder. She backed away quickly, falling against the bay mare's side, as Audrey moved her horse out of range with a stern rebuke.
Hyacinth tried to make light of it. She straightened up and said with a nervous laugh, "I see your dog isn't the only animal around here that bites."
"Jason doesn't like to be kept waiting, that's all. You do know how to mount, don't you?"
"Oh, of course, of course," Hyacinth responded breezily.
Face screwed up in concentration, she managed to hook her left foot into the stirrup on the third attempt. With one hand gripping the reins tightly, and the other gripping the edge of the saddle, she tried to heave herself upwards. The enterprise was harder than it looked.
After Hyacinth tried once again -- without success -- Audrey cleared her throat. "You risk kicking the horse in the head if you mount that way," she pointed out. "Not to mention you'll end up riding backwards. Not precisely the most picturesque view of the estate." She laughed.
Eventually Hyacinth managed to mount, with the help of a large bucket, and the two women set off on their tour of the estate. She wobbled from side to side alarmingly.
Audrey led the way across the fields. Hyacinth watched her easy grace, the way she and Jason blended almost seamlessly into one, and tried to copy everything Mrs. DeVere did.
After a moment, it occurred to Hyacinth that she was forgetting to post. She gave it a try, bouncing wildly up and down in the saddle with her usual degree of overcompensation.
Audrey looked around in genuine alarm as the other woman almost bounced herself out of the saddle. "Mrs. Bouquet..." she started, then gave up with a sigh.
"Just a bit rusty," Hyacinth excused herself.
Audrey looked dubious. "If you insist." With unaccustomed tact she suggested, "Since you are out of practice, you might want to take everything slowly at first."
By the time they reached the lake, Hyacinth had stopped her manic bouncing in the saddle, but she was still listing back and forth like a ship caught in a gale. Audrey stopped watching her, at the risk of feeling seasick.
"Oh, what a pretty lake," Hyacinth said, her voice shaking with the vibrations of the ride. "It puts me in mind of sailing. My husband's absolutely mad about sailing, you know," she lied.
"Really?" responded Audrey, feigning interest.
Hyacinth nodded. "Yes. He developed an interest in all things nautical after he retired, and of course it really became a grand passion after our little trip on the QE II. Have you ever been on the QE II, Mrs. DeVere?" she asked.
"More than once."
"Oh, how fortunate for you. We had a lovely time on our cruise. Unfortunately, Richard lost his bearings on the way, and we ended up having to go all the way to Denmark to meet the ship." She paused thoughtfully. "Or was it Norway? I honestly can't remember. One of those poky little Scandinavian places, at any rate. Wherever it was, it was a dreadful inconvenience, of course, but the way I look at it, at least it was a chance to see a part of Europe we've never seen before. Makes a change from the usual Paris, Rome, Madrid and so on."
Audrey did the woman a disservice in assuming she was lying. She mightn't be able to resist the opportunity to present herself as a consummate world-traveller but she actually had been to all those capitals -- once. Audrey herself had spent a great deal of time in the usual watering holes, enough to have actually acquired the ennui to which Hyacinth pretended.
"Oh, quite," she admitted. "It's an excellent idea to get off the beaten path once in awhile, if only to avoid the tourists. One should familiarize oneself with the rest of Europe -- it builds a greater appreciation of England."
"You're so right, Mrs. DeVere," fawned Hyacinth. "Even eastern Europe has a certain exotic appeal. For instance, I've never been to Czechoslovakia, but I've always found it absolutely fascinating, haven't you?"
"Not especially."
"Really? How odd." She relapsed into silence for a few moments, while Audrey eyed her with sudden suspicion.
Hyacinth tried again. "Oh, yes ... I wouldn't mind holidaying there once. I hear the people are very nice. Almost English, you might say."
Audrey gave her a slightly sour look, her suspicions having blossomed into full-blown certainties. "I wouldn't," she said tersely. While Hyacinth was busy trying to regroup, she added, seemingly apropos of nothing except a non sequitur, "How did you like our little village shop, Mrs. Bouquet?"
Hyacinth didn't immediately realise she'd been caught out. She blinked in surprise at the abrupt change in conversation. "The village shop? Quite charming, I thought. Genuinely picturesque. I understand the woman who runs the place is quite an old friend of the family."
Audrey snorted. "Not my family," she said drily. "One can hardly help knowing everyone in the area, of course, but there are inevitably different levels of association, if you understand me. And I'd take everything Eva Patterson says with a very large grain of salt."
Hyacinth was delighted. To her mind, this completely acquitted Richard DeVere of all charges of being a foreigner, and anything else of which the shopkeeper had accused him. Czechoslovakian -- how ridiculous! Anyone could see the man was as English as his own wife.
"I rather got that impression," she said. In her anxiety to let her new acquaintance know whose side she was on, she leaned toward Audrey and lowered her voice in confidence. "And if you don't mind my saying so, Mrs. DeVere, I found she was a bit too inclined to gossip, in my opinion. A very common habit."
Audrey was about to voice her agreement when Hyacinth leaned just a little too far over and almost came off the horse. She only managed to save herself by catching hold of Jason's hind quarters, which didn't precisely sit well with the big grey. Audrey was obliged to move him several feet away before he calmed down.
They rode on for a while longer, with Audrey pointing out various points of interest on the estate. Eventually they came to the road which would lead them back to the homestead.
"Let me show you our church while we're here. Of course, I assume you'll be at services tomorrow, but one never has time to appreciate all the fine points on a Sunday."
They circled round toward the front. Graves were nestled thickly throughout the little churchyard. A surprising number of tombstones, of various degrees of antiquity, seemed to belong to members of the esteemed fforbes-Hamilton family.
Audrey stopped her lecture on the history and architecture of the building to point out in passing her father,
1908-1971
Tally ho!
her grandfather, whose epitaph was largely obscured by a sizeable urn, totally sans flowers, and so appeared to read merely,
and her late husband,
1931-1978
GONE TO GROUND
R.I.P.
Hyacinth, somewhat surprisingly, didn't mention the coincidence of the common surname (engendered by Audrey having married her first cousin). She was too impressed by the statue of the somber knight which stood guard over Marton's grave. What a wonderfully upper class touch!
"And this is Richard's mother over here," Audrey was saying.
Hyacinth's ears pricked. This should settle the matter once and for all. Eagerly she followed the pointing finger to the face of the marble headstone. It was on the large size, to accommodate the full name.
Martinka Polouvicka
1904-1989
"Mrs. Poo"
In shock, Hyacinth dropped the reins and almost slid off the back of the horse. She grabbed the front of the saddle in a desperate attempt to save herself.
Sadly for her, there's not exactly a lot to grab onto with an English saddle.
After the riding debacle, Audrey had felt an obligation to see Hyacinth home safely, and then of course it was only polite to accept her invitation to stay for morning coffee. So here she was, in the drawing room of the lodge, stuck. Somehow, she always felt vaguely uncomfortable in her old home.
In all the years since she'd been back at the manor where she belonged, she'd only been here a handful of times. Given that, it might seem odd that she'd procrastinated all these years about selling the place, but in truth, she'd never had any offers. Richard had a theory of his own, claiming that Audrey had spent so much time spying on him while he owned the manor she'd become paranoid, and couldn't stand the thought of having neighbours close enough to do the same thing to her.
Hyacinth, still limping a bit, interrupted her train of thought as she wheeled the drinks trolley through the door.
"Here we are," she sang. She lowered herself, rather gingerly, onto the sofa next to Audrey, the tray positioned just in front of their knees. As she poured, she told her guest with a chortle, "At least I know I can trust you with my Royal Doulton, Mrs. DeVere. Ha ha."
For one startled moment, Audrey wasn't sure whether she should feel complimented or insulted. Then she laughed good-naturedly. "Yes, I should think so."
"I knew I wouldn't regret bringing it with me. And it's doubly fortunate, as my Sheridan's arriving tomorrow. Obviously he can't be expected to eat off the second best china."
"How nice for you," Audrey said politely, sipping her coffee. "I was just thinking this room could really stand a bit of redecorating."
Hyacinth beamed at her. "Oh, yes, and my Sheridan's the very best. He's such a talented interior designer; I'm happy he didn't waste his talent as a quantity surveyor, the way his father wanted him to. He has such a vivid imagination it would be an absolute crime to hide his talents. I always wanted him to be an architect at the very least, or perhaps a poet."
She went on and on talking about Sheridan -- Sheridan this, Sheridan that, Sheridan would be arriving with his "staff" -- until Audrey thought she would go mad. And then, for an encore, she pulled out seemingly dozens of little photograph albums, all featuring the great and glorious himself.
By the time Audrey had seen Sheridan's life -- or at least the first dozen or so years of it -- unfold before her eyes, she could feel the said eyes beginning to glaze over. Her motto had always been noblesse oblige, drummed into her from infancy, the nobility, her kind of people, had a duty to put up with all kinds of unpleasant things with unfailing politeness, simply because it was the proper thing to do. And throughout her life, she'd done it. But this, she thought, was asking a bit too much, even for a fforbes-Hamilton.
At length she realised Hyacinth had said something which clearly required some sort of answer. "Pardon?" she said, rousing herself.
"I said, you don't have any children yourself, do you, Mrs. DeVere?" Hyacinth repeated.
"No," answered Audrey, managing with some difficulty not to add, "Thank heavens."
Hyacinth shook her head sympathetically. "Oh, that is too bad. I always feel so sorry for childless women. They'll never know the joy of having produced a son like Sheridan," she sighed. Then with a self-satisfied smile she added, "Of course, those are very rare, so I consider myself doubly blessed."
"Perhaps not everyone is quite deserving of the honour," Audrey replied smoothly.
Hyacinth inclined her head graciously, as if she'd received a delicate compliment. "How lovely of you to say so, Mrs. DeVere. But still, I think there's nothing in the world sadder than those middle-aged childless women who waste all their affection on lapdogs, don't you?"
Needless to say, she had forgotten all about the existence of Brabinger.
But Audrey hadn't, and the tactless barb hit altogether too close to home. She bristled, and said angrily, "The only thing worse, I feel, would be the sort of overzealous mother who dotes continually upon her grown child."
This comment sailed straight over Hyacinth's head. She agreed wholeheartedly, then pulled out another album full of Sheridan's pictures.
"Did you have a nice time in London?"
Marjory looked at her friend in confusion. "Well ... looking after my aunt didn't really give me much time for recreation," she answered.
Audrey nodded as she remembered why Marjory had been gone for the last couple of weeks. "Oh, that's right. How is the broken leg -- or whatever it is that elderly aunts are forever breaking?"
The two women were sitting together on the terrace, enjoying a leisurely cup of tea in the warmth of the July afternoon. Small puddles of water were dotted here and there on the flagstones (it's to be hoped they were the product of the recent rain, rather than of the dog snoozing under Audrey's chair), and the whole estate had a fresh, clean scent from the recent rain. The weather had been dark and threatening for most of the past week, but today the sun was shining, as if to welcome Marjory home.
"Mending as well as can be expected. But I will admit, it came as quite a relief when she was able to be on her own. It's good to be home. How are things at Grantleigh?"
"Marvellously restful," smiled Audrey.
Marjory scoffed. "Restful? With all the stormy weather about?" She'd arrived at her cottage last night, and already she'd had a full report of the storms from six different people -- seven counting Audrey.
"Oh, who cares about a little thunder? The Bucket woman's son has arrived and he's taking up all her time. We've had a positively glorious fortnight free of her company."
"Lucky you," came the reply. "She caught me on my way up the drive and dragged me inside for a look-see. I say, have you met Sheridan yet?"
"Mercifully, no. Tell me the worst."
Marjory leaned closer to her old friend and lowered her voice. In a slightly awed tone she confided, "I don't think he's quite heterosexual."
Audrey seemed less than thunderstruck. "I think it would be a miracle if he was," she responded. "Growing up with a mother like that."
Marjory allowed herself to become sidetracked, which was a far from uncommon occurrence. Frowning, she argued, "I believe psychologists are beginning to discredit that theory these days."
"Bah," huffed Audrey. "Psychologists! It's all a bunch of pish-posh psycho-babble if you ask me. I don't know why you all insist on hanging on their every word."
"Hanging on whose every word?" asked Richard, coming outside to join them. He smiled at their guest. "Hullo, Marjory. Welcome home."
She beamed at him. "Richard! What a sight for sore eyes."
He took the cup his wife handed him without looking at her, and sipped from it before inquiring politely, "How was your trip? I hope your auntie's feeling better."
Marjory sighed. "Oh, she is, she is."
"That's good. It's nice to have you with us again."
Audrey had had just about enough of this social chit-chat. Ostensibly, Marjory had got over her little crush on Richard many years ago, but in Audrey's estimation, any woman who encouraged too much friendliness between her husband and her best friend was a fool. "Marjory was just about to tell me what the Buckets have been doing to the lodge," she interrupted.
"Was I?" Marjory asked, puzzled. "Oh, yes -- well, Sheridan is definitely making some changes."
"Is that good or bad?" her friend asked dubiously.
"You know, I'm not certain. First off, the woodwork is all painted sort of an off-white --"
"Well, that sounds harmless enough," interrupted Audrey.
"And the walls are what he calls eggplant."
Audrey shook her head in disapproval. "There's no such colour as eggplant, Marjory," she scolded. "At least not in this country. If you mean aubergine, say so. The Americans may have taken over everything else, but British vegetables are sacrosanct."
"Quite so," snickered the ex-grocer. She ignored him.
It was then that the meaning behind the words finally penetrated and she belatedly realised what Marjory had just been telling her. "Do you mean to say they're painting my drawing room purple?" she howled. "That lovely old room where I spent nearly three years of my life?"
"And hated every second of it, as you never ceased to remind us," remarked Richard smoothly.
She turned on him. "That's not the point, Richard. I still own the damn place. And for those upstarts to go and paint it some gauche colour without my permission is absolutely criminal."
He shook his head. "Ill-advised, perhaps, but hardly criminal. You did give them permission to redecorate," he reminded her.
"But not to paint the place purple," she protested. "Especially not some American paint colour called 'eggplant' for some unknowable reason." She sat back against her chair angrily and blew a strand of hair out of her face in irritation.
"I think they call it that because it tastes rather a bit like eggs when it's cooked," mused Marjory irrelevantly. Audrey shot her a hateful look, which served to get her back on track post haste. "Sorry, Aud. Oh, and I didn't tell you about the flowers. Enormous baskets full of artificial flowers of every description. I've know idea what they plan on doing with those."
Audrey stood up, her face set in her most determined expression. "Neither do I, but I intend to find out," she announced decisively.
Her husband took hold of her wrist. "Audrey..." he warned. "Now, I don't want you going barging in over there in this state, causing trouble. At least calm down a bit first, you'll be in a much better position for tactical diplomacy."
"Diplomacy!" she hooted. She pulled her hand roughly out of his and looked down at him with a glare he felt clear through his skin. "How dare you, Richard! I would have thought after all these years you would have discovered that you can't order me about."
Richard rolled his eyes heavenward. "Oh, good Lord. Believe me, I know the folly of that." His wife seemed at least somewhat appeased, so he stood and gathered her hands into both of his. Ordering her might be useless, but he fancied his skills at manipulation were still as good as ever. Quietly he said, "No, Audrey, all I'm saying is that it might be to our tactical advantage to assess the lie of the land, as it were, before going over there and declaring open warfare."
Oh, yes, that was the right tactic, he could see it immediately. Her anger was starting to come off the boiling point. His use of the word "our", thus effectively declaring himself an ally, had been an excellent choice. They'd always tended to fight less with one another when they were confronted with a common enemy.
"Tactical advantage, eh?" Audrey looked thoughtful. "That's not a bad idea, Richard. Now what's become of those old field glasses, I wonder?"
As she went stomping into the house, Richard raised his eyebrows at Marjory, who looked as if she wasn't quite sure what had just happened. "Well, we won't hear the last of this for quite some while," he predicted with a heavy sigh.
The longer the interminable decorating project went on, the more Richard Bucket was finding it increasingly necessary to take long, frequent walks. For once, an idea of his had met with great approval from his wife, who insisted it was the very best thing for his health. She'd pointed out, quite unnecessarily, he wasn't getting any younger and besides, everybody walked in the country. He suspected the real reason for her enthusiasm was simply a desire to get him out from under foot, an urge most likely fostered by their son and his ... er, partner.
It was during one of these walks when he encountered Richard DeVere, leaning against the rail of the little footbridge across the stream which separated the lodge from the manor's rose garden. He was dressed for outdoors, wearing one of the jaunty little caps he favoured, and alternately breathing in deep draughts of fresh air and smoke from his expensive cigar. He didn't seem to have a care in the world. Hearing himself hailed, he turned to greet his neighbour with an affable smile.
"Pleasant day for it," Richard Bucket observed as he stepped onto the bridge.
DeVere lifted the cigar and took another puff. "Hm? Oh, yes. Yes, it is. There's no better combination than a good cigar and a place to enjoy it without someone to tell me I shouldn't. I'd offer you one if I had it at hand."
"Oh, that's all right. I'm not really supposed to smoke."
"Neither am I, actually," answered DeVere. "Doctor's been after me for years to give it up entirely, but so far I've only agreed to limit myself to two per day. But now and again I like to sneak an extra one or two."
The other man smiled knowingly. "And I gather you prefer to keep that fact from your wife." That was something he could relate to.
DeVere shook his head. "Not quite. Audrey doesn't fuss me about my health or anything like that, but I do think it's good for a man to have a few secrets from his wife, provided they're harmless. Preserves the mystery."
"I don't think Hyacinth would approve of mystery in our marriage."
"No, I don't suppose she would," observed DeVere ruefully. He gave his companion a look of quiet sympathy and asked, "How are the renovations at the lodge coming along?"
Bucket's face showed the strain he'd been under. With a heavy sigh he confessed, "Quite honestly, I don't know. I mean, I've seen those home decorating programmes my wife keeps talking about, and they only have 48 hours. Sheridan's been at it for a fortnight and the room's still a shambles. And you won't believe what Sheridan and Tarquin are doing to the place."
"We've heard a few details," the other man admitted. "Aubergine and cream, is it?"
"I believe Sheridan calls it 'eggplant'."
DeVere laughed. "Hardly a culinary delight either way."
"No. And I'm afraid Mrs. DeVere's not going to like it very much. After all she said about the history of the place. It seems a bit ... modern."
"Yes," said DeVere slowly. "I admit, Audrey's not a great believer in 'modern'. She'll come round, though, in the end. After all, she did give you her permission to redecorate, if it comes to that. Not much she can do about it."
"Still, I don't like the idea of making waves."
His landlord could well believe that. He wondered if the man had ever made so much as a slight splash in his entire life. "I shouldn't worry about it if I were you," he soothed. "Audrey's bark is worse than her bite ... although her bite is rather like the dog's." The other man didn't seem terribly reassured by that statement. "Tell you what, I'll walk you home and take a look at the place, then give you my honest opinion. Although personally I don't see how it could look much worse than it did the first time I saw the place."
"I'd appreciate that. Thank you."
They stepped across the bridge and strolled leisurely down the drive, gravel crunching beneath their feet. Mr. Bucket's voice carried back through the air. "Mind you, I still don't understand the reasoning behind spending two weeks redecorating a place we're only going to be in for six..."
The two men heard the sound of voices raised in anger issuing from the open french windows before they reached the lodge. They glanced at one another in alarm and increased their pace, heading straight for the source of the problem.
Sure enough, Audrey and Hyacinth stood toe to toe in the drawing room, engaged in a heated confrontation. Hyacinth's shrillness contrasted oddly with Audrey's louder, deeper voice. Just for good measure, Brabinger the dog stood on the sofa, head raised in a wrenching howl. Neither man could make out what they were saying above the din. Audrey seemed to have something clutched in her hand.
Both ladies noticed the arrival of the newcomers at the same instant. They both exclaimed, "Richard!" in the same outraged tones.
"Yes?" both husbands answered simultaneously, but no one was in the right frame of mind to find it the least bit funny.
Each woman began to complain loudly to her own husband, although it was still nearly impossible for anybody to be understood properly. Realising that intercession was imperative, both men tried to make peace in their own way: Bucket quietly and ineffectually, and DeVere diplomatically and decisively.
"Hyacinth," pleaded the former, "won't you please calm down and tell us whatever's going on here."
"I'll tell you what's going on, Mr. Bucket," said Audrey furiously, not bothering to make the slightest attempt to pronounce the name in the approved fashion. Before she had a chance to tell him anything she was interrupted by Hyacinth's screaming correction, "Bouquet!"
The shouting broke out afresh. DeVere, fed up, put finger and thumb at the corners of his mouth and emitted a piercing whistle that cut through the bedlam and stopped it dead. The others turned to stare at him with expressions of shock.
"All right, that's enough," he declared forcefully. "You're both grown women, there's no call for this sort of thing. If this keeps up we'll never find out what's happened. Now will someone, quietly and calmly, please tell us what the bloody hell is going on!"
His wife frowned. "Richard, I hardly think there's any need to take that tone," she said with perfect serenity. "And may I just point out the fact that I was trying to tell you when this woman interrupted me. Just look at this place."
He looked. To his slightly less prejudiced eyes, it seemed to have at least a degree of potential underneath the chaos. The old inglenook fireplace and all the woodwork, including the wainscoting, were painting a milky white colour which approximated that of the existing furniture ... or at least it would have done, had the furniture not been covered in burnt orange slipcovers. The dark purple paint on the upper part of the walls and the ceiling had a certain inherent elegance, although the freeform chain of artificial flowers running all over the wall certainly did a great deal to diminish its positive aspects. The drapes were the same dusky orange as the slipcovers, and someone had put down a new rug covered in abstract, semi-squares of royal blues, reds, and oranges. He rather liked the rug, actually.
He said non-committally, "Yes. Well. You were going to tell us what happened," he prompted.
Audrey sniffed. "That's right. I simply walked down to the lodge to pay a friendly, neighbourly visit, that's all." she said innocently. "I found the place deserted when I walked in —"
"Without an invitation," Hyacinth put in.
"I don't need an invitation, I own the place!" snapped Audrey.
The other woman observed, under her breath, "Well, housebreaking doesn't seem particularly well-bred to me."
"Pardon me for pointing it out, Mrs. Bouquet," Audrey said icily, "but breeding is hardly something you're likely to be able to recognise, in spite of your pretensions."
Hyacinth gasped and raised a hand to her chest, staggering back against the side of an orange chair. For a moment at least, she was stricken silent.
DeVere closed his eyes on the unpleasantness. "Go on," he said wearily.
Audrey continued her narrative. Apparently, she had come in to have a look round while everyone was out and had been so utterly horrified by the sight of those dreadful flowers looped about the room that she had taken matters into her own hands and begun ripping them off the walls. When she got to that part she opened her clenched fist to show a handful of flower bits, which she let fall dramatically to the floor.
The others had come in and caught her at it, of course. One of the designers had dared howl at her, which is not something one generally tended to get away with where Audrey DeVere was concerned. She first assumed the upstart to be Sheridan, but he turned out to be the partner, Tarquin. "It's almost impossible to tell those types apart, anyway," she added. Fortunately Hyacinth, assuming she meant "creative types", took the remark as a compliment rather than the insult which might reasonably be construed.
Upon learning the identity of the real Sheridan, she had treated him to one of her lectures about what was and was not proper decor in a house of this history and vintage. Audrey had been quite amazed when the young man reacted by bursting into hysterical tears.
That alone would have sufficed to put Sheridan's "Mummy" on the warpath, even with someone she so desperately longed to impress, but Brabinger had felt the need to get in on the act at that point as well. The old Corgi, never the most stable personality at the best of times, had been upset by the tension in the room, and the sound of Sheridan's sobbing had sent him over the edge. He had reacted by taking a bite out of Sheridan's hand, whereupon Sheridan ran out of the house, pursued by Tarquin.
Hyacinth came suddenly back to life when she heard that. "Has that animal had its shots?" she demanded hysterically.
"The dog has, I've no idea about Sheridan," replied Audrey.
That riposte left Hyacinth spluttering, and DeVere heaved a sigh. "Look," he said reasonably, "it's obvious we're not going to settle anything while everyone's in this state. Darling, I realise you have every right to be upset, but please, why don't you go home and we'll sort it out later when everyone's feeling a bit better."
Audrey remained unconvinced, but she was placated a little. He promptly ruined it, however, by adding diplomatically to Hyacinth, "It was unquestionably rude of my wife to do what she did, Mrs. Bouquet, but I do think you might have consulted us. However, I feel certain we shall be able to find a compromise to suit everyone when we're all in shall we say a slightly better frame of mind." He topped that off with one of his most charming smiles, which instantly won over Hyacinth, if not Audrey.
The latter harrumphed, picked up Brabinger off the sofa, and made for the exit. She stopped abruptly when she got a whiff of her husband's clothing. "You've had your two for the day already," she chided irrelevantly, and swept through the door.
Richard shook his head slowly. He was in for a great deal of unpleasantness when he got home whether or not she chose to hold him in contempt, and he wasn't looking forward to it.
His namesake looked at him in amazement. He'd never seen anything like it. As he opened his mouth to speak, furious barking erupted outside.
Hyacinth was through the door like a shot. "Sheridan? Is that you, darling?" she called. "Mummy's been so frightfully worried. Did that beast hurt you?"
"How do you do it?" said her husband admiringly. "I thought we were in for a devil of a time. No one's ever squared Hyacinth like that before. And how do you stand up to a powerhouse like Audrey without her running you over?"
"I'm not the sort of man to be run over," DeVere said simply. Then, realising he might be giving offense to someone who clearly was that sort of man, he added, "That's just the sort of people we are, I suppose. Audrey and I both enjoy a challenge; it's part of what attracted us to one another in the first place. We're balanced adversaries."
"Doesn't sound like a very peaceful way to live," his neighbour said dubiously.
"No. There's not always a great deal of peace and quiet." But his smile seemed to indicate he had few regrets.