Quest

“Ah, there you are, Quentin!” Miss Shaver applauded as he walked into the library. She admired the outfit he had chosen. The long sleeves of his white shirt lent him a poetic air. All the better for inscribing invitations, he thought.

“Good day to you, Miss Shaver. I see Birkworth has provided tea and macaroons.”

“The man is a treasure. We should take him with us.”

“With us?”

“To our marital home! You did not think we would stay here?”

“Well, I...” Quentin had not considered anything beyond the engagement.

“You shan’t inherit,” Miss Shaver said flatly. “Did you really think we could stay on in your brother’s house - whichever brother it may be?”

“Well, I...”

“It would be too taxing to maintain our deception under someone else’s roof, Quentin. You must see that.”

“I do not know that I see anything anymore,” he grumbled. “Let us focus on the task at hand. You have the list?”

“I have indeed.” Miss Shaver produced the papers and they sat across from each other at a table, cleared of books for the purpose, and for a couple of hours the only sound was the scritch-scratch of their quill pens on the cards and envelopes.

Quentin paused to massage his aching hand. Miss Shaver continued diligently. He watched her at work. A peculiar creature. Perfectly charming and rather pretty, but she was not his heart’s desire, for all her qualities. Surely, some young swain would be overjoyed to have her on his arm - but Miss Shaver herself had stated that was not her aim in life. Unusual young woman! To be set up in one’s own home and bring up a family - it was every girl’s ambition. Or else they end up bitter and alone. Like Aunt Fanny.

Quentin resolved to be as good a husband as he possibly could to prevent the girl from turning into a second Aunt Fanny.

“We shall live where you please,” he announced. Miss Shaver looked up from her task and smiled.

Presently, all the invitations were written and the envelopes neatly sealed and stacked in piles.

“Some may be delivered by hand,” Miss Shaver declared, “but most shall have to go through Mr Scroggins’s office.”

Quentin pulled a face. Scroggins. That base fellow.

“I shall take them,” he stood. “I shall take the bulk to the post office and make a tour of the immediate district to distribute those to our nearest neighbours.”

“Not just yet,” said Miss Shaver, pointing at the chair he had just vacated. She rang the bell for Birkworth.

“What mean you?” said Quentin, backing onto his chair.

The butler appeared and nodded to them both.

“I require your measurements, my fiancé,” Miss Shaver simpered. “For your... costume. Decorum prohibits me from wielding the tape measure in such close proximity before all rites and ceremonies have taken place, and so Birkworth shall act as my proxy.”

“Very well, Miss,” said Birkworth.

Quentin, marvelling at Miss Shaver’s cunning, and altogether accustomed to being measured by tailors and shoemakers and the like, slipped off his slippers and stood on the chair.

“Pardon me, sir,” said Birkworth, making directly for the inside leg.

***

Bucephalus was still too tired to be of any use and there was no going near Mabel, so Quentin borrowed Frederic’s horse, Polly, an old, grey mare - an even-tempered beast but one whose pace was slower than Quentin would have liked. He was keen to make the deliveries but the horse was dragging its hooves like the hands of the schoolroom clock, stretching Friday afternoon into an eternity before home time.

“That’s a lot of mail,” Scroggins rubbed his chin. “Practically a sackful.”

“Send your invoice at your earliest convenience,” Quentin sniffed. “There’s a good fellow.”

Scroggins looked doubtful. “I don’t know, sir; that’s a lot of mail. I believe I should like payment up front.”

Quentin was horrified. He had never heard of such a thing.

“Or a down payment at the very least,” Scroggins pulled a face. “Ten per cent of the total cost?”

“This is outrageous,” said Quentin. “I’m afraid I have no money on me.”

“If you’re quick, sir, you could be home and back before the four o’clock coach.”

Quentin glanced at the door and the old, slow horse outside. It was impossible.

“I shall be happy to put your letters in safekeeping, sir, until such a time as you can return with the remittance.”

“They’re not letters,” Quentin snapped. “They are invitations. Invitations to the social event of the year.”

“Oh, really?” Scroggins picked the uppermost envelope from the pile and examined it closely. Quentin paled to see the postmaster’s grubby fingers staining the pristine card. “Social event of the year, says you.”

“Yes, indeed.”

“And be my name on any of these here envelopes, sir?” Scroggins looked directly into Quentin’s eyes.

“No! Well, that is to say, none of these bear your name. Yours is to be hand-delivered. Tomorrow.”

“Very good, sir. In that case, out of the spirit of friendliness and neighbourliness and in acknowledgment of your hospitality, I shall see to it that your invitations are sent on their way on the four o’clock coach.”

Quentin grunted. He nodded to the beastly man and left the post office. What have I done, he wailed internally? Imagine: that filthy creature at my engagement party! It was as unpalatable as it was unthinkable.

He climbed onto Polly’s saddle and, scowling, trotted away. Had it been Satan, he could have made a more dramatically satisfying withdrawal. Plodding along denied his departure the impact he would have preferred.

Miss Shaver had provided an itinerary, the most efficient route around the neighbours’ estates for the delivery of their invitations. It was a chore to which he looked not forward. But first, there was the pleasant task of handing over the envelope that bore the doctor’s name to that worthy gentleman in person.

***

But of Doctor Goodhead there was no sign. Quentin found a woman in shawls sweeping the floor with a besom. “He’s not here,” she barely glanced up from her labours. “He’s out.”

Quentin cursed the woman under his breath. “Patently! Would you care to narrow it down? I need to know his whereabouts.”

At this, the woman arrested her broom and looked the young intruder up and down. “Ah, it’s the little prince! I watched you win the quoits.” Her eyes narrowed. “Have you lost weight? Off your arms, I mean.”

Quentin bristled but his experience with the printer had taught him that losing his temper would not get him what he wanted. “I’ve been ill,” he offered as explanation. “Now: the doctor. Do you have any idea where he might be?”

“Yes.”

“Well?”

“He’s on his rounds, I expect.”

Infernal woman!

“And where would that take him?”

“All over.”

“Do you have an itinerary, by any chance?”

“No, sir; it is just the way I am standing. But I have got his schedule here in his diary.”

Hurrah!

“And what does it tell you?”

“It tells me I cannot read. Never could.”

“Might I see it?”

“You want to see the doctor’s diary?”

“Yes!” Quentin’s nerves were at breaking point.

“Help yourself,” the shawls shrugged and the besom scratched at the floorboards. Quentin seized the book but could make neither head nor tail of the entries. Curse the doctor’s handwriting! It was utterly illegible.

“Looks like you can’t read neither,” the woman chuckled. Quentin slammed the book shut and stormed from the office. Out in the street, he let out a roar of frustration. Polly turned her head slowly and blinked at him. She was still masticating the apple he had given her when they had left Quigley Manor.

“Come on,” Quentin took the reins. “We may deliver the rest at least.”

In his dejected state, he considered calling off the entire affair, for how could there be a party without the doctor in attendance?

Polly trudged along to the first port of call, the Garden estate, where Lady Garden and daughter Rose were surprised and delighted by Quentin’s impromptu visit. They insisted he come in for tea and cake, citing his horse’s evident need of a respite and brooking no refusal.

“It is like something out of a fairy tale!” declared Lady Garden, turning the envelope over and over in her hands. Quentin cast around looking for the third billy goat gruff.

“You shall go to the ball!” she laughed, waving an imaginary magic wand over her daughter’s head. Quentin shifted uncomfortably on his chair and his cup proceeded to rattle on its saucer. He did not care for the way they were looking at him, like cats coming upon a fresh mouse in a trap. The sooner his engagement to Miss Shaver was announced, the better. It would put a stop to such predatory gazes.

“I do hope you shall both attend,” he avoided eye contact. “It is to be a masquerade. Come as anyone you like.”

Miss Garden clapped her hands with glee. Her mother took on a pensive air. “I think I shall be Joan of Arc,” she nodded, envisioning the idea.

“Oh, Mama!” cried Miss Garden, uncharacteristically talkative for once. “You must not say! The fun of the masquerade is that you do not know who is beneath the disguise. Is that not so, Master Quigley?”

“Quite,” said Quentin, smiling thinly, safe in the assumption that he would be able to distinguish these two from a mile away, whatever their attire. He thanked them for their hospitality but he had other calls to make of a similar nature. Lady Garden said she understood but Miss Garden wanted to know who else was invited.

“Ah,” said Quentin from the doorway, “that is the fun of the masquerade!”

But he could not get away without a piece of cake impressed upon him as a restorative for his poor horse. Polly accepted the offering with indifference. Quentin had to endure the discomfort of a slow trot along the drive with the women’s eyes boring into his back and their farewells ringing in his ears.

“Remind me,” he leant forward and whispered to the old mare, “if I am ever a fugitive from the law never to enlist your services.”

***

The day was likely to prove interminable. Quentin suffered the same hospitality at every house and Polly plodded at the same infuriating pace. So full of tea was he that his stomach was sloshing like a canteen of water and so gorged on cake was Polly that she had developed an acute case of the hiccoughs. Every recipient was overjoyed to receive an invitation and excited by the exotic potential of the fancy dress requirement. Gradually, Quentin’s mood improved; their enthusiasm was contagious. I really am bringing joy to people’s lives, he thought. And all I have written is an invitation. Imagine the reception my three-volume novel shall get! I will be declared a living saint!

At last only two envelopes remained: the next householder’s and the doctor’s. The former would be more easily disposed of than the latter - or so Quentin assumed. O, well, he reflected, he could try again at the doctor’s office the next day. He would spend the entire day waiting there like a newly-installed doorpost if need be.

Polly plodded up the drive to the final house on the list, a grand house although a little too rusticated for Quentin’s tastes. There was far too much ivy sprawling across the frontage and the windows were poky and small. How out of date, he sneered! Give me the huge French ones any day! He consulted the name on the envelope to remind himself who lived in a house like this: the Sinclairs.

He had never heard of them.

Quentin could not recall a Lord or Lady Sinclair ever coming to dine at Quigley Manor. In fact, the only Sinclair he could think of was the name above a draper’s shop in Quigley Magna.

No!

It couldn’t be! Some upstart merchant and his family, invited to my ball! We shall see about that!

He was about to tear the envelope in twain when he heard voices. The front door opened and out stepped a young woman in a simple but pretty muslin gown. She was wittering ‘thank you’ and ‘goodbye’ and laughing. Simpering ninny, thought Quentin ungenerously.

He almost fell from the saddle when he saw Doctor Goodhead emerge from the house. The doctor put his hat on and took the young woman’s hand in his and kissed it.

“À bientôt, Miss Sinclair,” the doctor bowed his head. Quentin was incensed: he never speaks French to me!

Quentin’s countenance was contorted in an unbecoming scowl and it was then that the doctor and the young woman became aware of his presence.

“Why, Kon-tan!” Doctor Goodhead’s eyebrows went up in surprise. He tripped down the front steps to join him. What brings you here? Apart from this fine-looking steed, of course.” He patted Polly’s neck. Polly yawned.

Quentin found he could not speak, and nor did he wish to. Not in front of the girl who was skipping lightly down the steps to greet him.

“All is well at the manor, I trust?” the doctor continued to pet the horse.

“Um,” said Quentin, completely flummoxed.

“And you yourself are in fine fettle?” the doctor peered at Quentin with a penetrating eye.

“Um,” Quentin repeated, wishing Polly were Pegasus to fly him away from the scene as swiftly as possible.

“And what’s that you have there?” Doctor Goodhead nodded at the envelopes clutched in Quentin’s fist.

“Um,” said Quentin, beginning to panic. The moment was not playing out as he had envisaged. He certainly had not expected the presence of a third party. He looked at the crumpled cards as though seeing them for the first time. “Invitations!” It sounded like a guess. “O! This one is for you!” He sat upright and presented Doctor Goodhead with his envelope like a knight bestowing a favour on a serf.

“My humble thanks,” Doctor Goodhead dipped his head. “But you did not ride out all this way merely to hand this to me? How did you know I was here?”

Quentin was reduced to ‘um’ again.

“Ah, I have it!” Doctor Goodhead flashed his winning grin. “You came to deliver Miss Sinclair’s invitation and it is by good fortune alone that you are able to kill two birds with one stone.”

Quentin’s expression darkened; at that moment there was but one bird he wished to kill.

“For me?” Miss Sinclair clapped her hands together in eager anticipation.

“Well?” said Doctor Goodhead.

Two pairs of eyes bore into Quentin. O, that he had torn the damned thing in two when he had the chance! After a long, excruciating moment, he handed over the final invitation. Miss Sinclair was overjoyed and bounced around a little in excitement. She is pretty when she is happy, Quentin observed sourly, and appears to my untrained eye to be in good health. Why, then, is the doctor present? An elderly and ailing relative, perhaps. Yes, that must be it.

“O, I am looking forward to it immensely!” Miss Sinclair pressed the invitation to her chest and spun around. “A masked ball! How exciting! I shall go as Joan of Arc.”

“I think you ought not to tell us,” Doctor Goodhead admonished with a smile. Miss Sinclair looked crestfallen.

“Someone else then,” she said sadly, and Quentin thought how plain she looked and felt a glow of satisfaction in his heart.

A servant appeared, leading Doctor Goodhead’s horse.

“Miss Sinclair,” the doctor bowed. He looked at Quentin and winked. “Master Quigley.” He mounted his horse and rode off. Both Quentin and Miss Sinclair watched him go.

“Would you care for some tea, Master Quigley?” Miss Sinclair gestured toward the house. “And a piece of cake for your horse.”

“It is not my horse!” he snapped. “Thank you but no. Polly is keen to return home; I don’t know that I shall be able to rein her in.”

Miss Sinclair looked at the old, grey mare, which had taken on the appearance of having been preserved by a taxidermist. She chuckled. “If you are sure,” she laughed. “Thank you again for your kind invitation. I do hope this wild beast does not throw you into a ditch.”

Quentin glowered. He was almost certain the girl was not mocking him maliciously but he had taken such a dislike to her, even before he had clapped eyes on her, that he was unwilling to give her the benefit of the doubt. He awarded her a curt nod of farewell and pressed his knees into Polly’s flanks.

The horse did not move.

“Hah, Polly!” Quentin tried again but still the beast did not budge. Miss Sinclair sought to hide her amusement behind the treasured envelope. Bright red, Quentin succeeded at last in getting the stubborn steed to shift itself and, without turning back, commenced a slow progression away from the house. It were as good as if I travelled by tortoise, he cringed.

“Thank you!” the girl’s voice called after him repeatedly. He closed his eyes and shuddered.

How vulgar!