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“Good God, Jarvie, what are the hounds doing?” he demanded, and the sweating little man, having beaten a way through the yelping mass, was springing nimbly into the trap and surveying the jerking picnic basket with astonishment.
“I … I dunno, milord. Why, bloody ’ell – I think it’s gone to ground in this ’ere basket!”
Cries of astonishment and laughter; Mr Franklin noted that a couple of ladies were among the hunters who were pressing forward to see. One horse stamped perilously close to him, and he had to step back, catching at the hedge to prevent his falling.
“What’s that? In the basket? Good God!” exclaimed the burly young man. “Well, I’m damned! Heave it out then, Jarvie – sling it on to the road, man!”
“I think it’s locked, milord,” said Jarvie, eyeing the basket.
“Then break the dam’ thing open, can’t you? Throw it down!”
Mr Franklin was conscious of a slight irritation. It was not only the brutality of the burly young man’s tone, proclaiming as it did an obvious disregard for anyone and anything that got in his way; nor was it the threatened destruction of his property. What ruffled Mr Franklin’s spirit was the fact that no one, especially the burly young man, had even noticed him or apparently given a thought to who the owner of the trap and basket might be. On the contrary, he had been forced into the hedge, and was still in some danger of being trampled as the riders pressed their horses forward round the trap, chattering excitedly.
“In the basket?” “Good lord, it can’t be!” “Open it up, then Jarvie.” “Come on, man!” Jarvie stood perplexed, and was just stooping to the basket when Mr Franklin succeeded in forcing himself between the hedge and the nearest rider, and approached the trap.
“Just a moment,” he said, and the chatting subsided slightly. The riders regarded him with some surprise, and the young man demanded:
“Who are you?”
It was said impatiently, and Mr Franklin found himself disliking the young man. His face was beefy, his moustache was aggressive, and his eyes were staring with that unpleasant arrogant hostility which Mr Franklin had already noted in a certain type of Englishman. He hadn’t put a name to it, but it was the look of a nature that would rather be rude than not, and took satisfaction in displaying contempt for outsiders, and putting them in their place.
“I’m the owner of the basket. And the trap. And the horse – wherever it is,” said Mr Franklin quietly, and a lady laughed among the hunters. The young man stared at Mr Franklin blankly, and then directed his attention to Jarvie again.
“Come on, Jarvie!” he snapped, slapping his crop, and as Jarvie stooped obediently Mr Franklin lost his temper completely. There was no outward sign of this; he simply laid a hand on the side of the trap and said:
“Don’t touch that basket, Jarvie. And get out of the rig, will you – now.”
Jarvie looked, and stopped abruptly, his hands coming away from the basket. He was conscious of a lean brown face and two cold steady eyes staring into his, and what he thought he saw in them took him aback. Still, he hesitated, and then the quiet voice said:
“Step down, Jarvie.”
And to his own astonishment, Jarvie found himself stepping down into the road, while exclamations of surprise and bewilderment came from the onlookers.
“Thank you,” said Mr Franklin, and came round to Jarvie’s side of the trap, where the hounds, subdued and fretful by now, were whining round the huntsman’s boots. It was echoed by a murmur of discontent from the hunt. “What the deuce?” grumbled one stringy old gentleman with a puce complexion, and a stout woman said: “Really!” At this the burly young man, momentarily rendered speechless by his huntsman’s apparent defection, swung down from his saddle and strode towards the trap. Mr Franklin moved to confront him, and the young man stopped, his face flushed with fury.
“What the devil d’you mean by … by impeding the hunt?” he demanded.
“What do you mean,” responded Mr Franklin, “by interrupting my dinner and invading my property?”
“His dinner,” exclaimed a female voice. “Did you hear?” And: “Property?” demanded the stringy man. “What property? Stuff and nonsense!”
“As I said, it is my trap, and my basket,” said Mr Franklin, and the murmur rose to a growl, although one or two of the hunt, struck by the comic side of the situation, laughed. Among them was an angel-faced young lady in a bowler hat with her hair tied back in a large black bow; it seemed to him that her laughter particularly stung the burly young man, who was standing glowering uncertainly.
“Dammit, sir, this is dam’ ridiculous,” exclaimed a fat man whose complexion matched his coat. “You’ve got the dam’ fox in the dam’ basket! What? You – you can’t steal a dam’ fox, dammit!”
“I’m not stealing anything,” said Mr Franklin abruptly; his temper was still high. “The fox arrived uninvited –”
“Well, then, let the dam’ thing go!” exclaimed the stringy man. “Good God, never heard the like in all my life!” He glared suspiciously at Mr Franklin. “Are you some kind of blasted Yankee crank, or what?”
“Shove him out of the way, Frank,” shouted a voice, and the burly young man came a step closer to Mr Franklin; plainly he was measuring the American’s breadth of shoulder and general potential in a roadside brawl, for he demanded: “Are you going to stand out of the way?”
“No,” said Mr Franklin with a coolness he was far from feeling, “and if you lay a hand on anything that belongs to me, I’ll not only sue you under whatever laws you have in England, I’ll also beat the living daylights out of you.”
At this, slight pandemonium broke out; someone suggested getting the police, the young man clenched his fists, Mr Franklin braced himself, but before the young man could do anything rash he was set aside by a blond young giant who grinned amiably at Mr Franklin, tossed his hat away, and cried: “That’s the ticket! Want a turn-up, do you, Yankee! Come on, then, here we are!”
“Arthur, stop it!” cried the girl with the black bow, but Arthur shook his head, his eyes laughing as he watched Franklin. “No, no, Peg, you mind your own business. If this chap’s ready to fight for his fox, good luck to him! Eh, Yankee?”
“If you like,” said Mr Franklin slowly, and at this point another of the huntsmen urged his horse forward; an elderly, intelligent-looking man with a distinct air of authority.
“Stop this dam’ nonsense,” he said. “Arthur, don’t be a fool! And you, sir, what are you driving at? Are you bent on making mischief – you’ve no right to … to make away with that fox, and you know it!”
“I haven’t even touched the fox,” said Mr Franklin. “And I dare say I’d have felt obliged to let him loose five minutes ago – if someone had just troubled to ask me politely.”
“Politely!” echoed the stringy man in disbelief, and the fat man said the fellow was mad. But the intelligent-looking man stared hard at Mr Franklin and then said: “Come sir, this is foolish. It’s not our fault if the creature went to ground in your basket –”
“Not mine, either,” said Mr Franklin. “I didn’t chase him there.”
There were cries of derision at this, and then the angel-faced girl with the bow called out mischievously: “If I say, ‘Please, sir, may we have our fox back?’” will you let him go?”
“Too late, Peg, too late!” cried Arthur, grinning. “Isn’t it, Yank?”
“This is a dam’ farce!” cried the fat man. “Dammit, this is meant to be a dam’ hunt, isn’t it?”
Mr Franklin surveyed the faces in front of him; Arthur, gleefully ready for a fight, the burly man Frank scowling, most of the mounted men plainly annoyed, the angelic girl watching speculatively; one or two of the others grinning. He was dimly aware of the sound of a motor engine approaching.
“All right, then,” he said, nodding to the girl. “I’ll let the fox out – and your dogs can pull him apart. Is that what you want?”
She stiffened, and twitched a hand at her modishly-fitting black riding skirt; a spot of colour showed on her cheek.
“I said ‘if I asked’,” she said. “Well, I’m not.”
“Good for you, Peg!” said Arthur. “Come on, Yankee – either cough up or put them up.” And he assumed a boxing pose, while exclamations of disgust and anger rose again, only to die away very suddenly, and Mr Franklin was aware that the huntsmen were reining back, removing their hats, and making respectful gestures towards the road behind him. He turned, and saw that the large Mercedes motor had pulled up a few yards off; the stout old bearded gentleman and the green-eyed lady were staring at him with astonishment.
“You,” said the bearded gentleman loudly. “I thought you were going to West … West – where was it, Alice?”
“Walsham,” said the green-eyed lady. Her lively glance was taking in the scene, sensing that something extremely odd was taking place. “I rather fancy that Mr Franklin has met with some unexpected delay.”
One of the hunt, an extremely bald and ugly man, had hurried to the motor, hat in hand, and was speaking rapidly to the bearded gentleman, whose comments as he listened were distinctly audible. “What? What? I don’t believe it, Soveral! In where, d’you say? His picnic basket?” And then he began to laugh again, his little eyes shut as he wheezed in helpless mirth – and Mr Franklin noted that the hunt were echoing his laughter, but in a most forced and wary way. It was extremely odd – but then the whole ridiculous incident was odd; Mr Franklin wondered if he were dreaming, but now the bearded gentleman’s laughter had subsided, and he was beckoning, and possibly because he sensed that the bearded man was someone of consequence, or out of politeness, Mr Franklin moved up to the motor.
“Tell me,” said the bearded gentleman, and his small eyes were twinkling with delight. “Were you thinking of adding the fox to your lunch?”
There was a roar of laughter at this, and Mr Franklin smiled. “No, Mr Lancaster,” he said. “But I wasn’t chasing him. I don’t know what these ladies and gentlemen intended by him.”
“Ha!” cried Mr Lancaster, and chuckled. “But they want him back, you know. Can’t interfere with a hunt, eh?”
“Well, sir, all they have to do is ask. But for some reason they don’t seem to want to – they seem to prefer to smash up a man’s things, without so much as a by your leave. We don’t reckon much to that, where I come from. Anyway – I don’t know your English law, but I’d imagine the fox belongs to whoever’s property it’s on, and it’s on mine this minute, no question.” Mr Franklin paused for breath; he was not used to long speeches, but although his temper had cooled by now, the memory of the man Frank’s boorish behaviour rankled. Besides, Mr Lancaster looked like a good man to explain things to, after the heated and inconsiderate attitude of the hunters. “And anyway, this is the King’s highway, I reckon –”
To his astonishment the green-eyed lady clapped her gloved hands with delight, someone tittered, and the bald, ugly man shot a nervous glance at Mr Lancaster, who was regarding Mr Franklin with unmixed amusement.
“You think that, do you?” said Mr Lancaster, and in that moment a frightful suspicion dawned on Mr Franklin, and was immediately transformed into a certainty; he stared at the neat grey beard, the heavy face with the cap set rakishly above it, the burly figure, and above all the bright little eyes in the sleepy, pouched cheeks. There were copper coins in his pocket bearing that face, and child of the Great Republic though he was Mr Franklin experienced a chill shock in his stomach and a momentary weakness at the knees.
“Well, then?” said Mr Lancaster calmly.
“Well, then,” echoed Mr Franklin, somewhat confused. “I guess it is your majesty’s fox.”
“No doubt of that,” said the King, and laughed again. His glance, twinkling maliciously, strayed from Mr Franklin to the assembled hunt. “Going to have a report of this in The Field, Clayton, are you? Splendid headline: ‘Gone to earth in a picnic basket!’” He guffawed at his own wit, the huntsmen laughed with hollow enthusiasm, and the green-eyed Alice smiled at Mr Franklin.
“‘American gentleman’s unexpected luncheon guest’,” she suggested.
“Tell you what, Clayton,” said the King, and Mr Franklin became aware that the intelligent-looking man was at his elbow, smiling respectfully at majesty. “If you don’t want this in the penny papers, I suggest you invite Mr … ah, Franklin, isn’t it? – to dinner. Swear him to silence, eh? Have Miss Peggy persuade him,” and the little eyes warmed as they regarded the angel-faced girl, who bowed in the saddle.
“A pleasure, sir,” said Clayton, looking as though it would be anything but.
“Capital,” said the King. “See you this evening, Franklin. Play bridge do you? – of course, all Americans do. All right, Stamper,” he gestured to the chauffeur, but even as the car was moving off, the royal memory was stirred. “Wait, though – what about the fox, Franklin?”
“At the moment, he is detained at your majesty’s pleasure,” said Mr Franklin, startling himself by his own readiness.
“Give him time off for good behaviour, then,” said the King, and as the car moved off he called over his shoulder: “Provided he has behaved himself, in among your smoked salmon and foie gras!” His deep laugh sounded as the royal car passed on, the hunt bowing in their saddles respectfully. Mr Franklin found himself being considered by an interested group, in which Clayton, Miss Peggy, the large grinning Arthur, and the bald ugly man were prominent.
“Well, well, old Ted’s in a better temper than I’ve ever seen him,” said Arthur, retrieving the hat he had thrown aside. “How’d you like to be court jester, Yankee?”
“That will do, Arthur!” said Clayton sharply, and turned to Mr Franklin. “My name is Clayton, sir, how do you do? I seem to recall your name – are you by any chance the gentleman who has recently bought Lancing Manor?”
“Yes, Mr Clayton.”
“Ah – Sir Charles Clayton, in fact. My dear, may I present Mr Franklin – my daughter. The Marquis de Soveral –” at this the ugly man inclined his head “ – and my son, Arthur.” Clayton glanced round; the burly young man Frank was standing some distance off, in no good humour. “Lord Lacy, who is a neighbour of yours – Mr Franklin.” The American nodded, Lacy continued to glare. These civilities concluded, Mr Franklin felt that a word of explanation was in order.
“May I say, Sir Charles,” he began “that I had no intention of kidnapping your fox. It just came flying –”
“Not at all,” said Clayton, and Mr Franklin had the impression that he had said something indecent. “I think we may forget the fox. Jarvie! Will you be good enough to take the basket and release the animal – at a safe distance from hounds. The hunt,” he went on with dissatisfaction, “is at an end.”
“Better say ‘please’ Jarvie, or Mr Franklin will certainly flatten you,” called Arthur cheerfully.
“Stop it, Arthur,” said Peggy. “You can think yourself lucky Mr Franklin didn’t flatten you. Are you always so kind to animals?” she went on, innocently, and Mr Franklin had the impression that he was being flirted with, on very brief acquaintance. He was human enough to be pleased; she looked distinctly fetching, in her cute little mannish bowler, and the dark habit setting off her graceful figure. He noted approvingly that she sat side-saddle with unconscious ease. And apart from her obvious attractions, he was prepared to like her for her pert cheerfulness – her brother, too, for that matter, even if Father seemed a bit of a cool stick.
“We shall be delighted if you will give us the pleasure of your company at dinner, Mr Franklin,” Clayton was saying, and it flashed across the American’s mind that he was in a position to cause acute alarm in the Clayton family if he chose to decline the invitation – had anyone, he wondered, refused to dine with the King of England? Probably not – and he was certainly not going to be the first. He murmured his acceptance, was informed that Oxton Hall was a mere six miles from Castle Lancing, and that dinner would be at 8.30.
“And please, try to make the King laugh as much as you did this afternoon,” said Peggy. “Tell him American jokes, or something.”
“Otherwise the curse of the Claytons will descend on you,” said Arthur.
“Until this evening, then,” said their father, effectively cutting off his children’s indiscretions, and as the men remounted, Peggy waved gaily, and the party trotted off down the road after the rest of the hunt, Mr Franklin found his arm taken by the saturnine Marquis de Soveral, who proceeded to examine him carefully, but with extreme courtesy, as to his background, antecedents, politics, and ability to play bridge – the last of which concerned Mr Franklin somewhat, since his card repertoire was confined to pinochle, poker, black jack, and a little whist; of bridge he knew no more than he had picked up idly watching other passengers on the voyage from America.
“Dear me,” said de Soveral, “that is a pity, since his majesty obviously intends that you should play. However, no doubt dear Mrs Keppel will see you through. Remember, only, that his majesty likes to win. And he is very easily bored, which is why – I say it without the least desire to offend, my dear fellow – you will be something of a godsend. You are new, you see – which is why I am finding out all I can about you.” The dark eyes twinkled shrewdly, and it occurred to Mr Franklin that the Marquis de Soveral, with his forbidding looks and bristling dark moustache, was nobody’s fool. “Officially, you understand, I am the Minister of Portugal at the Court of St James’s, but I occupy the much more exalted position of confidant to his majesty, and he will certainly want to know all about you when I return to Oxton Hall. That, of course, is what a diplomat is for. Evening dress, of course – ah, what more? You will be expected to stay the night, so I urge you to bring the necessary changes. You have a man – no? I shall arrange that. Might I presume to suggest that you bring a small gift for Mrs Keppel – the lady in the car with his majesty. It is not necessary, of course, but it would delight her, and what delights her pleases his majesty. She is a truly charming person, in every way, and keeps his majesty amused. You will not, of course, flirt with her – it would greatly embarrass her, and his majesty would be most offended. I merely mention it because she is so extremely attractive. For the rest, if you are in doubt at any time, catch my eye. And when his majesty says ‘No bid,’ and lays his cards flat on the table, do not, I implore you, if you are his partner, bid yourself – not unless you have a certain slam in your hand. Ah, I see Jarvie has recovered your horse. Well, Mr Franklin, it has been a great pleasure meeting you – to tell you the truth –” and the Marquis bared his teeth in a bandit smile “– I was delighted at your disruption of this afternoon’s hunt. So, I gathered, was his majesty. It is good for these squires to be reminded that the pursuit of the unfortunate fox is not quite a sacred ritual. I look forward to this evening.”
He swung gracefully into the saddle and cantered off with a flourish of his hat, leaving an astonished, slightly bewildered, but also rather elated American staring after him. Then, and not until then, did Mr Franklin realize that he was still holding in his left hand a half-eaten chicken leg; he stared at it in consternation, and then, being a practical man, finished it.
7 (#ulink_a590f067-5648-548f-ba11-49f732ae8a94)
At eight o’clock precisely by Mr Franklin’s fine gold half-hunter his trap drew up at the gates of Oxton Hall. For the hundredth time he touched his silk hat, stopped himself from fidgetting with the tie which he had adjusted before his mirror with meticulous care, glanced up the drive to the lights of the long, low rambling house among the trees, listened to the coughing roar of motor-cars moving on its carriage sweep, and murmured, “Uh-huh”. He was aware that his neck was prickling under his collar, and his hands were sweating inside his evening gloves. He felt slightly sick.
“Now remember,” said Thornhill. “Spades, hearts, diamonds, clubs – in that order. ‘Solomon has delightful crockery.’ Four of a major suit makes a game, or five of a minor. Three no-trump makes game also. Otherwise it’s just like whist, more or less, God help you.”
“Thank you,” said Mr Franklin. “Start with the outside cutlery and work inwards. Right. Got that. My God, I don’t think I washed my face-did I? Of all the –”
“Yes, you did,” said Thornhill gently, “after you put on your right sock. I distinctly remember. My dear chap, there is absolutely nothing to worry about – there are probably fifty people in there all fretting about their dresses and their hair and their finger-nails and the awful possibility that they may break wind accidentally in the royal presence, and not one of ’em looks as well as you do, take my word for it. Poor old Clayton – not two beans to rub together, and no hostess except that idiot flapper of a daughter, and the whole damned royal circus eating him out of house and home – how he’ll pay for it, heaven alone knows. And having to put up with the county riff-raff as well – atrocious people – and going mad at the thought that his cook’s liable to poison the King-Emperor! So you see – you have nothing to be alarmed about. Just watch the rest of ’em having silent hysterics; gloat, and enjoy yourself.”
“Yes,” said Mr Franklin. “All the same –”
“Nonsense,” said Thornhill firmly. “All right, Jack,” and as Mr Prior, coachman for the evening, snapped the reins, the trap moved smartly up the drive.
“I don’t know how to thank you,” said Mr Franklin. He had arrived at Thornhill’s door at about five o’clock, wearing an anxious frown, with the news that he was bidden to dine with royalty, and thereafter events had passed in a frantic mist. For perhaps the first time in his life, Mr Franklin admitted, he had been off balance and at a loss; the sudden social horror of his situation had come to him while he was driving back from the hunt – he had realized that his brief acquaintance with England had left him helpless in the face of the ordeal that awaited him; he had no notion of how royalty dined, or what might be expected of him as a guest; for all he knew it might be a banquet with gold plate and footmen in old-fashioned wigs – visions, which he knew were pure fantasy, of an enthroned monarch with people kneeling before him, had flashed across his disordered mind, and he had heard the voice of the town-crier thundering: “Mr Mark Franklin of the United States of America!” while a glittering throng of lords and ladies turned to regard him with amused disdain. At this point he had remembered Thornhill, and decided to appeal to him – and the dishevelled don, after his first bewilderment, had moved calmly and precisely, guiding Mr Franklin back to the manor, explaining that a country-house dinner for the King would be no more formal than a meal in a fashionable restaurant, that the American’s manners and bearing were perfectly equal to it (“damned sight better than most of ’em, moneyed bumpkins and decayed gentry’), and that provided he took care with his dress and behaved naturally, he had nothing to fear.
This had been vastly reassuring – still, it had seemed ridiculously unreal as he dressed himself in full evening rig of white tie and tails (thank God for the expert taste and guidance of Thomas Samson, valet extraordinary – that had been money well spent) while Thornhill had ferretted about finding studs and shoes and discoursing at large of the monarch’s personality, of bridge and billiards, of evening charades and party games, and anything else that Mr Franklin might conceivably find it useful to know.
“Never met our sovereign lord myself,” Thornhill had said. “Remember he came to college to open a new building once; looked bored to tears, poor old thing; can’t blame him. They say he’s genial, but a stickler for dress –” at this point Mr Franklin, adjusting his stiff-front shirt with ponderous care, had thrust his pearl and diamond pin into his thumb “-but you’re all right there, at any rate. Beautiful duds, my dear fellow.” He surveyed Mr Franklin with approval. “Just call him ‘sir’, be respectfully polite, and you’re home and dry.”
Then there had been the problem of a driver – Mr Franklin felt that the less exertion he had on the six-mile journey to Oxton, the better his collar and cuffs would like it, and he guessed that to entrust Thornhill with the reins would mean a short sharp trip to the nearest ditch. They had driven to the Apple Tree at night-fall, Thornhill had gone in and negotiated while Mr Franklin sat in the trap in the darkened village street wondering whatever had induced him to leave Nevada, and presently a crowd of astonished villagers had emerged to gape, with Jack Prior masterfully shouldering his way through them and mounting the trap with no more than a nod to its occupant. And now they were rolling up the drive to Oxton Hall, and Prior was stopping at a discreet distance from the motor-cars, three or four of them parked on the carriage-sweep with their engineers making their way round to the servants’ entrance.
“Got the thingummy for Mrs Keppel? Good for you – in you go then, old man.” Thornhill beamed through the dusk. “Don’t eat too much, and spades, hearts, diamonds, clubs, remember? Right-ho, Jack.”
Mr Franklin watched them drive away, took a firm grip of his small parcel, squared his shoulders, and marched up the steps to be received by an elderly butler, who took his hat, case, cloak, and name, in that order. And he was just glancing apprehensively at an open door across the hall, from which loud voices and laughter were drifting when the daughter of the house, resplendent in what looked like lilac satin, emerged rapidly from a door beneath the stairs, paused for breath, and cried out in relief at the sight of Mr Franklin.
“Thank heavens you’ve come! We thought you’d missed your way, and Kingie’s been asking for you – full of foxy jokes …” Peggy rolled her eyes. “Father has been bearing up manfully, poor old soul. It’s been an absolute frost, you know – the old Teddy Bear got his feet wet, and there were no ginger biscuits at tea – well, how was I to know that they’re practically a drug with him? – but fortunately Jinks Smith slipped on the stairs and fell all the way down, and that put our gracious King in a good temper again – Arthur says Jinks did it on purpose – you’re looking at my hair, what’s the matter with it?”
“I beg your pardon – why, nothing at all.” Mr Franklin had been noticing two things; one was that her hair, which he had thought fair, was a very pale auburn, so that piled up and around her face it looked like a monstrous halo; the other, that the angel face had just a hint of petulance around the small cupid’s mouth, as though a beautiful seraph had grown impatient of posing in Botticelli’s studio. “Your hair’s beautiful, Miss Clayton.”
“Oh, my, how formal!” She pulled a face. “I’m Peggy, you’re Mark, and no nonsense. ‘Miss Clayton’ – you’d think I was a governess, or somebody’s aunt. But come on – the King’s in there, so do your stuff.”
She took him by the arm, guiding him towards the door, stopping en route to make minute adjustments to her hair and the shoulders of her dress before the hall mirror. Mr Franklin remarked that there seemed to be a great many guests, and was disillusioned.
“Oh, the house is bursting with Arthur’s disky friends – we’ve got about twenty for the week-end, but don’t you worry, they’re well out of the way in the west wing. Can’t have them ragging and racketting in court circles, so there’s just about a dozen for dinner. Everyone else takes pot-luck in the old nursery.” Peggy twitched doubtfully at her neck-line. “Too much, too little – d’you think? Oh, it’ll do – Kingie’s stopped leering, anyway. Now, then.”
Clayton himself met them at the drawing-room door, with evident relief; Soveral was smiling at his elbow, and to Mr Franklin’s surprise the packet he had brought for Mrs Keppel was twitched surreptitiously from his hand. There seemed to be about a dozen people in the room, in evening clothes – there was the King, portly but immaculate, seated by the fire, puffing on a cigarette, with Mrs Keppel at his elbow, a Junoesque figure in crimson, with diamonds in her hair and sparkling on her celebrated bosom; Soveral was attracting her attention. Mr Franklin recognised some of the faces from the hunt – the stringy man, the stout man of whom he thought as “Colonel Dammit”, the scowling Lacy, various ladies, but none of them comparable with Peggy or Mrs Keppel. Beside him he was aware that Peggy was bobbing a slight curtsey; he forced himself to make a forward inclination which might pass for a bow if a bow was in order and wouldn’t be noticed if it was not. Then the small eyes were on him, and the other guests were willing him magnetically towards the fireplace.
“Ah, Franklin. Good evening to you.” Majesty was nodding. “Brought any more foxes?” There was polite laughter, and the King went on: “Now, you’re American – you can tell us – what do they say over there about votes for women?”
He isn’t smiling, thought Mr Franklin, but he’s looking affable. Everyone else was watching him, the men attentive, the women with frozen smiles, and he sensed the nervous under-current of the pre-prandial drawing-room. What to say? – he suddenly remembered the militant young lady outside the Waldorf.
“Well, sir, that depends.” His voice was unnaturally loud, and he made a conscious effort to speak normally. “If they’re single men, I guess they know better than to say anything – and if they’re married men, they don’t get much chance.”
In that moment he knew how a comedian feels when his first joke draws a roar from the pit; in fact, he was astonished that his fairly feeble response made the King chuckle, the ladies titter, and the gentlemen laugh aloud. God, he thought, do they expect me to be the droll Yankee? Well, I can’t do it – and at that moment he was rescued by an exclamation of delight from Mrs Keppel; she was turning from Soveral to stoop so that the King could examine the open box in her hands: Mr Franklin felt a tremor of anxiety at having his present submitted for the royal inspection.
“Look what Mr Franklin has brought me! Oh, they’re simply beautiful! How very, very kind of you, Mr Franklin!” The green eyes were glowing with genuine delight as she glanced up at him. “They’re silver – how absolutely gorgeous!”
“What on earth are they?” demanded the King.
“They’re spurs, sir,” Mr Franklin explained. “Mexican spurs – the kind the vaqueros use – Mexican cattlemen, that is.”
