Queasy

It was with no small amount of trepidation that Quentin approached the door to his father’s bedchamber. He hesitated before knocking. His raised fist almost struck the butler in the chest, for Birkworth emerged from the room at that moment. The retainer cast a swift glance up and down the young master’s attire but his opinion remained unknown behind the mask of his blank expression.

Quentin stepped into the room to find his father propped up by pillows, the curtains of his four-poster bed thrown wide open. The window too was open, airing the chamber but not quite ridding it of a certain noisome odour.

“What the deuce are you wearing?” the Squire’s eyes widened.

“Don’t you like it?” Quentin rotated on the spot, showing off his black silk suit to which he had added the prophylactic measures of a thick pair of gloves borrowed from the gardener, thigh-high wading boots and a beekeeper’s helmet.

“French, I suppose,” scowled the Squire.

Quentin closed the door and approached the bed. “I am here under doctor’s orders,” he announced. “You must roll over so that I may apply the lineament.”

“I’ll be damned before I do!” said the Squire. “What do you think I keep servants for? Did you not see Birkworth take his leave just now?”

“Yes.”

“So you may stand down. And remove that ridiculous garment, I beg you. You look like the man in the moon.”

Quentin was momentarily puzzled. To which garment was his father referring? He lifted off the beekeeper’s helmet and removed the gardening gloves for good measure.

“That’s better. Now, pull up a chair; I have something to tell you.”

Quentin did as he was bid, despite feeling more than a little disgruntled - he had so wanted to do as the doctor had told him. More than that: to tell the doctor he had done what he had been told. How Doctor Goodhead would have smiled!

“You are my youngest son,” the Squire began. “I know not when I might see the other three again.”

“Well, actually-”

“Pray, do not interrupt me, boy. Ill manners may be all the rage in Paris but I shall not abide them in my own house. Now, where was I?”

Quentin did not answer.

“I’m asking!” barked the Squire. “Were you not listening? Ah, yes: my sons. In their absence, the duty falls to you.”

The mere mention of the ‘d’ word was enough to send a frisson of fear along Quentin’s spine.

“The family honour is at stake. We - and by ‘we’ I mean myself and all my forefathers before me - are dependent on you to uphold tradition and bring glory to the family name.”

So far, so vague. Quentin itched to demand his father get to the point, for a duty unnamed and unspecified is surely the most onerous of all.

The Squire struggled to reach something from his bedside cabinet. Quentin jumped to his feet to assist but his father, grunting with effort, waved him away. At last, the thing was retrieved from a drawer and the Squire sat back. On his lap was a wooden box, inlaid with gold leaf, the sort of receptacle in which one might house valuable trinkets or store important documents. Quentin’s interest was piqued. Perhaps he was about to learn something of his brother Roderick’s hasty departure.

Squire Quigley petted and stroked the box fondly, as one might a favoured animal. His eyes were wet as he handed the box over to his son. “Here, my boy. Use them well and you shall not shame us.”

Puzzled, Quentin moved to undo the clasp. His father’s gnarled hand stayed him. “These things are more precious to me than anything else in my possession - save for my sons, of course. I would surrender house, grounds and my entire fortune to safeguard this box. It is a great honour I bestow on you.”

One I sought not, Quentin thought to himself. He opened the lid and peered inside.

Nestling in green velvet recesses were five rings, carved from pale wood. The Squire watched the boy’s face, eager to see his reaction.

“I don’t understand...”

“They are quoits, my boy!” the Squire clapped his hands.

“Yes, I see that they are quoits but what am I to do with them?”

“Why, why, the tournament, of course! Next week it shall be upon us. A Quigley has been champion tosser every year for generations and I, being indisposed may not participate - you may thank your precious doctor for that!”

Quentin blushed to hear the doctor referred to but his father did not notice.

“Take one out and hold it. Observe the workmanship. It takes skill to fashion such a bevelled edge. Each ring is finely balanced and just the right weight for optimum accuracy.”

Quentin saw the fire of enthusiasm in his father’s eyes and was mortified. “You want me to take part in a game of quoits?”

“Not just a game! The County Championship!”

Quentin slammed the lid down and dropped the box on the bedspread. “I won’t do it!” He got to his feet.

“Pardon me, I am your father and you shall do what I say.” The Squire shifted in his bed as though preparing to lash out. “You will take up the box, sirrah, and you shall practice all the livelong day until the competition next week. And you shall triumph or so help me...”

Or else what? Quentin was alarmed to see his father so agitated - perhaps the doctor should be summoned?

“Or else I shall disown you, disinherit and disenfranchise you. There shall be no more fancy French fashions for you.”

He snatched up the gloves and the beekeeper’s helmet and hurled them at the boy one by one. Quentin flinched as each garment struck. “Miserable, ungrateful cur!” the Squire looked for something else to throw.

“Father! Father! Calm yourself, please!” Quentin dared to pick up the box. He backed away. “I shall do as you ask and gladly. Rest assured, the family honour is safe with me.”

Although far from convinced of this himself, the words seemed to appease the old man, who sat back and smiled. His colour returned to normal. “Hadn’t you better get practising? One week is not forever.”

“Yes. Quite. Or even ‘quoit’.” Quentin raised the box a little as a salute and headed for the door.

“I knew I could depend on you,” the Squire yelled after him. “It’s in your blood. You come from a long line of tossers.”

Quentin scurried back to his room and flung himself on the bed, feeling altogether mortified and far too queasy to join Aunt Fanny for dinner.