Quire

The ensuing weeks were occupied with preparations for the party. Miss Shaver spent long days at Quigley Manor, adding sheets of paper to an already bulging portfolio. Invoices, chits, and dockets, all checked, annotated, and cross-referenced, as a variety of goods and special orders came in every day. She auditioned several musicians. Soloists, duos, trios, and quartets from all around and even beyond the county. If they were unable to play the latest airs at a tempo to which one might dance in a lively manner, they were shown the door.

For Quentin, there was very little to do. Miss Shaver barely consulted him, save to ask if he would ‘be a poppet’ and have his father the Squire sign off receipts or write out cheques to pay for all the things she was ordering. Squire Quigley was more than happy to oblige. His spirits were lifted by the prospect of a big party and having three of his four sons at home meant he always had someone to drink with in the evenings and sometimes the afternoons.

Aunt Fanny’s displeasure was evident in every line on her face but she held her tongue. One day, as Quentin breezed past her on his way to his father’s den for more signatures, she scowled in his direction and Quentin knew it was fiscal concern that was souring her already bitter temperament.

“All is well, Aunt,” he laughed, waving the receipts, “For my Lady Shaver is stumping up half the cash.”

This statement seemed to assuage her soul’s torment a little. Aunt Fanny withdrew into the shadows, where she remained, ever watchful, like a predator, until the big night was upon them.

Quigley Manor was a hive of activity, both inside and out, with decorators, gardeners and cleaners all gainfully employed everywhere you looked, and Quentin found he could not focus on his much-delayed three-volume novel for more than five seconds at a time. He had written:

“Last night I dreamt I went to Manchester again”

and discarded it for the utter piffle it undoubtedly was. He was thinking of going into Quigley Magna to order more writing paper - provided Polly was up to making the trip. O, where was Roderick? And, more importantly, where was Satan? Quentin felt himself hemmed in and constricted by the lack of a horse of his own.

“You might try making your peace with Mabel,” suggested Francis, coming upon the young master in the yard. “A couple of apples ought to do it.”

“I still do not know what I did to be in her bad books,” said Quentin. “It is most puzzling. Everyone else likes me. To my face, at any rate, which is where it counts.”

The stable boy shook his head. The little prince’s delusions were as amusing as they were exasperating.

“O, good!” Miss Shaver was coming toward them with the purposeful stride of someone about urgent business. “I have found the pair of you together. That spares me the time of sending the one to find the other. You must both come inside for we have secret work afoot.”

She tapped the side of her nose and marched back to the house. Quentin and Francis exchanged glances.

“You shouldn’t let her take charge like that, sir, if you don’t mind me saying so. It’s indicative of what your marriage will be like if you don’t nip it in the bud right now.”

Quentin awarded him a condescending smile. “You are mistaken; our marriage shall be quite, quite different.”

“I am sure all men start off with that opinion, sir.”

He followed the young master into the house.

***

“Ridiculous!” Quentin scoffed. “It will never work!”

“Oh, I don’t know, sir,” said Francis. “It’s already worked once.”

Quentin frowned. “What mean you?”

They were in the library, the only room in the house where they could meet without fear of discovery or interruption.

“He means the quoits, silly,” said Miss Shaver. “You cannot have forgotten how he passed for you in front of the entire village.”

“Ah,” said Quentin.

“And I shall be masked this time and all, sir!”

Miss Shaver beamed at the stable boy. He was already sold on the idea of impersonating the young master. There remained only the young master himself to persuade.

“That’s right,” she said, “And in fancy dress costume to boot.”

Quentin shook his head.

“It is the only way,” Miss Shaver urged, “for our plan to succeed.”

“What plan?” blinked Francis.

“Never you mind!” snapped Quentin.

Miss Shaver led the stable boy aside and spoke softly to him. “We are planning something of a surprise for our guests. Talented though he may be, not even Master Quigley can be in two places simultaneously, ergo a substitute is necessary.”

“I see that, Miss,” Francis nodded, “But what’s the surprise?”

“O, if I told you it would ruin it for you. We don’t want you to be left out of the fun. After all, you are exceedingly kind to do this for us - and you shall be handsomely rewarded also, of course.”

Francis was resolved. “Count me in, Miss. What costume shall I be wearing? Who am I to be - apart from the little - apart from Master Quigley, I mean?”

A grin broke out on Quentin’s face. “That is another surprise,” he laughed. “I have ordered it especially. Just you wait and see.”

***

After luncheon, Quentin rode out to Quigley Magna. He was glad to get away from the hustle and bustle of the house and, perhaps he was imagining it, but Polly seemed to have a little more pep in her step after a good night’s rest. He looped her reins over a hitching post and strode along the high street, touching his hat to passersby and bidding all and sundry a good afternoon.

At the stationer’s he met with disappointment, for there was only a single quire of his favourite hot-pressed white paper in stock. The stationer was happy to order more - reams of the stuff - if the young master wished it. Quentin said of course he wished it. How he was expected to write a three-volume novel when there were only two dozen sheets of paper available, he could not imagine! See how the artist is beset!

“Send the invoice to Quigley Manor,” he snapped. “And have your stocks replenished with all haste. Art and literature cannot wait!”

And so it was not in the best mood that he left the shop. The first person he ran into was not his favourite.

“Why, Master Quigley!” cried Miss Sinclair. “What an unexpected pleasure!”

Quentin scowled. “Miss Sinclair,” the name almost choked him. “You are far from home.”

“Papa had some business to attend to in the shop,” she smiled. “So I am taking in the sights until he is ready to return home.”

It was all Quentin could do not to yawn in her face. What a dull, provincial girl she is!

“You are busy shopping,” she nodded at the packet under Quentin’s arm. He clutched it all the tighter.

“I am - on an errand. There is much to do before the ball. Good day.” He touched his hat.

“O, Master Quigley!” Miss Sinclair cried, wringing her hands. “It is good to see you. I am so looking forward to your party and becoming better acquainted with your family and your friends.”

Over my rotting corpse, thought Quentin.

He smiled thinly. “I am sure you will charm them thoroughly,” he said. “Good day.”

“And dancing too, of course! I hope you shall grant me the honour, Master Quigley. And the doctor too! I wonder if he is a good dancer; I daresay I shall soon find out. He is a man of many qualities, don’t you find? I am sure that dancing may be numbered among them.”

Quentin’s blood ran cold. He repeated a rather curt ‘good day’, spun on his heels and marched away. By the time he was back in Polly’s saddle he had determined that Miss Sinclair must not attend the party at all costs.

But how to deter her? How to get her to prefer to stay at home?

He chewed his lower lip all the way home. Fortunately, Polly’s slowness afforded him plenty of time to think. By the time he was in his room and depositing his newly acquired quire of paper in the drawer of his writing desk, he had hit upon the perfect idea.

***

“You have ink on your fingers, nephew,” Aunt Fanny observed at dinner. “I pray you do not transfer it to the napkins and tablecloths. The servants have enough to occupy them without you taxing them with further laundry.”

“I shall try my best, Aunt,” Quentin smiled. He was rather pleased with himself and did not care that it showed on his face.

“Our brother must be making headway with that three-volume novel of his,” said Frederic. “When may we read it?”

“O, that day is a long way off,” said Quentin. He did not want to tell them what he had been working on instead of his magnum opus.

“You won’t have time for such frippery when you’re married,” said Reginald. “You mark my words; you shall have other duties to perform.”

The elder brothers laughed. Aunt Fanny shuddered. Quentin would not allow any of them to mar his good mood. He excused himself before pudding and went to the stable to seek out Francis.

“You must deliver this under the cover of darkness,” he urged in hushed tones. He produced a letter, folded into a square and tied with string. “No one must see you coming or going; is that understood?”

The stable boy frowned at the piece of paper. “What is it?”

“That is not for you to know,” said Quentin. “The address is clearly marked, is it not? Let that be sufficient to quell your curiosity.”

Francis tucked the letter into his shirt pocket. “I’ll saddle up Polly.”

“No!” Quentin cried. “You must take Mabel; she will be faster.”

“Urgent message, is it?”

“I am thinking merely of your comfort. You should be home in time for supper.”

Francis found the statement difficult to believe. The little prince, thinking of somebody else’s welfare! It was unlikely.

“Very good, sir,” Francis bowed his head. “I am not to await a reply?”

“O, dear me, no!” said Quentin. “There will be no reply. Now, be off; it is dusk already and I should hate for Mabel to meet with an accident.”

“I am sure, sir,” Francis bowed again. He prepared to perform the assignment.