Quandary

At breakfast, Aunt Fanny sat at the head of the table, the Squire being confined to his bed for the foreseeable future. Quentin sat as far from his intimidating relative as possible but that only resulted in the raising of her voice. Birkworth, ever tactful, made a discreet withdrawal.

“There are several matters I wish to discuss with you, Quentin,” she began.

“Actually, it’s Quentin...”

“No! It most certainly is not. I cannot abide this fad for all things French. It’s absurd. We are at war with the blighters more often than not. Talk not to me in French or of the French. What I wish to discuss is the continuing absence of your brothers.”

A little stunned, Quentin put down his fork. “What is there to say, Aunt? I am not accountable for my brothers’ lives elsewhere.”

“Quite so,” Aunt Fanny agreed. “But you may play a vital role in their return to the family seat. You shall write to them each and explain your father’s indisposition. You will hint that the situation is more precarious than it is and advise them to hasten their return while there is still time.”

“I am not going to lie to my brothers, Aunt, or use my father’s health to coerce their behaviour.”

Aunt Fanny pursed her lips, in that it was like the pulling of the drawstring of a moneybag. “When you have quite finished with your high moral stance,” she said. “You will do as I say or I shall change the subject to the planning of your nuptials.”

Quentin shuddered visibly. Even from a distance, Aunt Fanny saw the effect of her pronouncement and was pleased. They ate in silence for a few moments, the one smirking to herself and the other preoccupied with an urgent pondering.

“Aunt?” said Quentin at length. “Might one have such a thing as frangipane at one’s wedding breakfast?”

“What a queer question! Frangipane, you say? Well, I don’t see why not, if it’s in that direction your tastes lie.”

“I was thinking perhaps a bunch at each table.”

“A bunch? What mean you, sirrah?”

“I would have said bouquet, Aunt, but I fear that is a word from the wrong side of the Channel.”

“You speak nothing but nonsense, boy. Now, be off with you and pen those letters. If you are expedient, you shall catch the afternoon post.”

“Yes, Aunt.”

“An opportunity to put your expensive ink and paper to good use.”

“Yes, Aunt.”

“Do this office well and I might be disposed to allow you to keep one of your three new hats.”

“You are exceeding generous, Aunt.”

Quentin removed himself from the breakfast room before the full impact of his sarcasm reached Aunt Fanny’s ear. He trudged back to his room and sat at his writing desk.

My brothers... He had not had word from any of them for quite some time. There were the annual newsletters around Christmastide, compiled by the wives, for the Quigley boys were by no means men of letters.

Quentin cut a new nib on a quill feather and dipped it in the inkwell. He would compose the letters in order of age. The eldest was first, Reginald, whose battalion was stationed somewhere unspeakable in the North Country.

“My dear Brother,” Quentin began to write. It was as far as he got; the window was open and the sound of horses’ hooves was audible, approaching along the drive. Or rather, a single horse. Quentin bounded from his chair and knelt on the desk in order to look out.

Yes!

It was Doctor Goodhead coming to the house. Quentin gasped in delight. He jumped down from the desk and tore from the room, pausing only to check his appearance in the hallway mirror, before hurling himself pell-mell down the stairs and out of the house.

The doctor was dismounting his chestnut steed when Quentin emerged, and was handing the reins to the stable boy.

“Good morning, Francis,” Doctor Goodhead smiled at the lad; Quentin was incensed. He stomped down the broad steps to join them.

“Good morning to you, Doctor,” he said in a bid to draw the visitor’s attention from the hired help. Doctor Goodhead unhitched his black bag from the saddle.

“Good morning, Quen - ah, forgive me: Kon-tan.”

The stable boy stifled a snigger. Quentin shot him a look that could have fried an egg in an instant.

“How is he?” the doctor nodded at the house.

“Downright impertinent and reeks of ordure,” snapped Quentin.

The doctor frowned. “I mean your father, the patient.”

“Confined to his bed,” Quentin blushed. “Aunt Fanny’s orders.”

“Stuff and nonsense!” the doctor hurried up the steps. “He needs to keep moving; that were best.”

Quentin followed. He cast a quick glance over his shoulder in order to poke his tongue out at the stable boy but Francis was already leading the animal away; all Quentin saw was the horse’s derriere. He scurried to catch up with the doctor.

“You have at least applied the lineament I provided, I trust.”

“Er - I’m sure Birkworth...”

“Really, Kon-tan, there are some things one ought not to leave to the servants.”

“But you said-” Quentin’s face coloured again so he kept it averted. He followed the doctor up the stairs and across the landing. Doctor Goodhead, a frequent visitor since Quentin’s childhood (for Quentin had been a sickly child) knew the lay of the house as if it were his own.

Ah, Quentin mused, fancy that! Doctor Goodhead as the Squire. With me at his elbow, of course, in order to advise him.

The doctor arrived at the door he sought, rapped sharply on it with his knuckles and pushed it open. “You needn’t come in if you’re squeamish about seeing your father’s bare torso.”

He winked at the boy and closed the door behind him, leaving Quentin, flummoxed and blushing, on the landing.

Quentin sat on a chair but proved too agitated to remain still for half a minute. He paced outside the room while Doctor Goodhead conducted his examination of the Squire’s bad back. O! Some people have all the luck! Perhaps if I toss myself downstairs and end up bedridden he will come pay attention to me!

Ten minutes later, he heard the doctor bidding his farewells. There was just enough time to strike a nonchalant attitude, admiring a vase of flowers, before Doctor Goodhead came out.

“Still here? Well, all shall be well. A liberal application of the lineament and some light exercise - say, a walk in the garden - will soon see him straight.”

“Yes... Aren’t they just lovely?” Quentin inhaled deeply of the flowers’ scent. “Frangipane so brightens up the house, don’t you find?”

The doctor was puzzled. “What are you talking about? It is not time for elevenses.”

Quentin gaped. He was sure he was now completely red from crown to toe. The doctor shook his head and set off down the stairs. “You will see to the poultice yourself,” he continued to speak, sensing the boy would follow. “First thing in the morning and last thing at night? Tell me you understand these instructions for you are a giddy thing and not to be trusted.”

“I hear you,” said Quentin, his face a hot coal of embarrassment. “Morning and night.”

The doctor was already nearing the exit. Quentin supposed he could still stumble on the last couple of steps and turn his ankle - anything to delay the doctor’s departure.

“Wait!” he cried.

Doctor Goodhead turned at the door. He waited patiently while a baffling range of expressions played across the young man’s features. “Yes?”

“It’s - it’s just that - Well, may I speak frankly with you, Doctor?”

“Certainly. I am your family physician and have been so since you were in diapers.”

Quentin’s blushes surged anew at this.

“Are you suffering, my boy? Are you in some anguish? Have you a rash somewhere about your person?”

“Yes - I mean, no! Nothing of the sort. I just need some advice; that is all. I find myself in something of a quandary. You see, my Aunt Fanny has given me the task of writing to my brothers. She seems to think Father is on his last legs and-”

Doctor Goodhead silenced him with a raised hand which he then placed on the boy’s shoulder. “I do not think there is any need for concern. Your father is in no danger; he is merely temporarily inconvenienced. Let me reassure you about that. But it might do well to write to your brothers all the same. It is good for family members, however scattered, to remain in touch.”

He smiled and left. Quentin stood staring at the door long after it had closed.

Very well. He would write to his brothers. If Doctor Goodhead believed it to be the right thing to do.

But Quentin’s blushes were not yet finished with him as he recalled in mortification the visit from start to finish. O, why did I mention the frangipane? He must now think me a fool.

No - a ‘giddy thing’ he called me. Well, we shall see about that!

He strode back to his room, resolved to be the direct antithesis of a ‘giddy thing’.

Whatever that may be.

***

The letter-writing did not come any easier. For one thing, Quentin’s mind was still mortified and dispirited by his encounter with Doctor Goodhead. For another, he had no clue to what to write. He began with general enquiries about his brother’s health, before being struck by the stark realisation that he could not recall the name of his eldest brother’s wife. “And how is Mrs Quigley?” seemed altogether too formal but it would be most inappropriate to neglect to mention the dear lady at all.

Aha! “I trust your dear lady wife is in good health.” There! I am a born writer after all!

He went on to state that he himself was well and all the household too. Of the Squire’s bad back, he made light, bolstered by the doctor’s words, but the letter took on a darker tone when he mentioned that dreaded gorgon, their Aunt Fanny, had come to stay for an indefinite period.

And the thing was done!

He made two identical copies for his other brothers, whose wives he would not be able to name at gunpoint. There was a Joanna among them, he was almost sure of that, but to which of the three she be might be espoused, he could not say.

He folded the letters and applied dollops of red sealing wax before addressing them to his brothers, Reginald, Frederic, and Roderick, in care of the post offices nearest to where they were thought to be residing. It was peculiar to think of his brothers having separate lives elsewhere but Quentin supposed they must. They had not ceased to exist once they left the boundaries of the estate. They had gone to other places, they were abroad in the world and doing all manner of things Quentin could barely imagine. Reginald was in the army - that much Quentin knew. Frederic was a teacher of music - or was it French? - or was it French music? - in London or thereabouts, and as for Roderick, well - Quentin had not the slightest clue, having been quite young at the time of his departure. There was a something of a black cloud over Roderick that made him the most intriguing of the three. Come to think of it, he was uncertain whether his third brother was married at all. I hope not, he thought; it will take the pressure off me. Quentin felt remiss in not knowing more and for not keeping in touch but, he reminded himself, letter-writing was a two-way process. None of his brothers had bothered to write to him either.

He dressed for riding; there was time enough to catch the afternoon post, provided Satan was ready.

Which, of course, he was. Francis was waiting to hand over the reins. Quentin nodded curtly and left without saying a word. He was certain he could feel the stable boy’s eyes boring into his back - disquieting youth! But when he risked a glance over his shoulder, Francis was nowhere to be seen.

Quentin was just in time. The postmaster, a short, squat fellow by the name of Scroggins, was in the act of handing over the mail sack to the coach driver. Quentin entrusted the three letters to the driver’s care and, as he trotted away, heard the postmaster call out that he would send the bill up to the ‘big house’ in due course. Quentin raised a gloved hand to acknowledge the words but did not look back.

“Jumped-up little prince,” the postmaster may have muttered; Quentin could not be certain.

He returned Satan to the stable but was too preoccupied with his thoughts to return Francis’s gaze. He had hoped to catch sight of Doctor Goodhead - a chance encounter on the cobblestones - but of the medical man there had been no sign. He was probably abroad in the county, visiting patients in their homes. The notion enraged him. O! To engage Doctor Goodhead as one’s private physician! To have the man at one’s beck and call!

He went up to his room to change. He determined that before dinner he would visit his father and perform that office the doctor prescribed, and spent the remainder of the afternoon wondering what would be the best outfit for such an occasion.