Decline in Prophets (34 page)

The door was flung open and Richard Waterman stalked out. He stopped, momentarily startled by the presence of Rowland Sinclair and his friends. “I say… hello… didn’t
expect to see you here… terrible hurry I’m afraid… jolly nice to see you again.” The newly widowed surgeon donned his hat and hurried out before any response was
possible.

Charles Leadbeater emerged as Waterman departed. He was dressed in a pair of loose gathered trousers, over which he wore some form of smock, secured at the waist with a purple sash. The ends of
his long grey beard were tucked into the wide band. He tinkled as he walked for his pointed slippers were sewn with small brass bells. On his head was a black fez complete with hanging tassel.

“Saints preserve us,” Clyde muttered.

Leadbeater placed his palms together and bowed low. “Namaste. Welcome back, Rowland, my darling.”

The unexpected endearment took Rowland’s voice for a moment. He recollected his composure and spoke evenly. “Mr. Leadbeater, I wonder if I may have a word about your
announcement.”

“Rowland, it would be my pleasure.” Leadbeater beamed. He clapped his hands imperiously. “Shall we take some refreshment in the garden whilst we talk?” With a flourish of
his arm he opened the French doors and skipped outside calling, “Bring sustenance for the learned one.”

Milton grinned. “After you, learned one.”

Rowland sighed. His headache was getting worse.

They found Leadbeater sitting cross-legged on a wicker chair on the lawn. Awkwardly, they took the adjacent seats. Maids rushed out with tea service, trays of cakes and a hookah.

Rowland began directly. “Mr. Leadbeater, your announcement yesterday was mistaken and ill-advised. I have come to ask that you retract it.”

“It was not advised at all, darling,” Leadbeater replied airily. “I saw your great destiny in your aura—clear, magnificent. I could not be mistaken.”

“Regardless, sir,” Rowland said tightly. “The announcement was made with neither my knowledge nor consent. I am not willing. I require you to retract it.”

“Oh, I understand the mantle of World Prophet is heavy. You will become accustomed to the burden… in time you will embrace it.”

“I have no intention of embracing it, Mr. Leadbeater. I must insist that you retract your announcement.”

Leadbeater stood. He appeared not to hear. Raising his arms above his head he began to chant and skip amongst the chairs.

Rowland tried in vain to regain the Theosophist’s attention. “Mr. Leadbeater… Leadbeater… for the love of God…”

Still the man skipped and twirled around them, chanting joyously in some unintelligible language.

Rowland was losing his temper. He stood. The chanting assailed his throbbing head.

“Dhamang, Saranang…”

Rowland’s patience gave way. He reached out and grabbed Leadbeater by the beard, ready to pound sanity into the man.

A flash stayed him. More flashes exploded from through the hedge.

“Whoa, Rowly.” Clyde grabbed him before he hit Leadbeater, who was still chanting in some kind of manic frenzy.

Rowland felt Milton’s hand on his shoulder. “Let go of the beard, mate.”

Rowland released Leadbeater, reluctantly.

More flashes.

“Rowly, we have to get out of here,” Clyde warned. He nodded towards the hedge. “Photographers.”

“Come on,” Milton dragged him towards the driveway. “You’ll be hearing from his lawyers,” the poet shouted over his shoulder.

“Don’t go, my darling,” Leadbeater begged as he continued to skip. “I must prepare you. We have already lost so much time… I should have had you as a
child…”

Rowland got into the car, a little stunned. The man was utterly mad. Milton gunned the engine and pulled out. They left Charles Leadbeater pleading on the lawn for his World Prophet to
remain.

More flashes as the photographers captured their getaway.

Rowland pushed the hair back from his face, frustrated. No doubt his altercation with Leadbeater would feature in the next day’s paper. Wilfred was not going to be happy. He was none too
pleased himself.

32

I
t had been some years since the ballroom of
Woodlands House
had been used for an occasion so grand. The current master was not inclined to
throw such formal receptions. This evening was to honour the newest Sinclair who had long since retired in the care of his nurse. Young Ernest had, however, been granted special permission to
participate in at least the first hour of his little brother’s party. He stood sombrely beside his father and uncle in the receiving line.

The Sinclair men were formal and dignified in white tie and tails. On that count Rowland had finally drawn the line.

It was not in fact the kilt that had set his resolve, but the stockings, garters and other paraphernalia. It was just too much to ask. He had the Sinclair tartans Wilfred had ordered returned,
before Milton decided to borrow them.

Once it became clear that nothing would get his brother into a kilt, Wilfred abandoned the dress himself on the grounds that it was more important that the Sinclairs present a united front.
Rowland had the uneasy feeling that they were preparing for a siege, but at least they were doing so in long pants.

The Bairds arrived in a blaze of Highland colour and pageantry. At their head was Fletcher Baird—Kate’s paternal grandfather and, as far as Rowland could tell, some sort of clan
leader. He was a generously built man whose girth burgeoned over the blue and green plaid of his kilt.

“Fletcher.” Wilfred shook Baird’s hand. “You remember my brother, Rowland.”

“Cannot say that I do,” Baird replied, taking Rowland in with shrewd cold eyes. “But I have read about him.”

At a loss for response, Rowland waited for his brother’s cue. He’d not yet had the opportunity to tell Wilfred of his latest encounter with Leadbeater.

Wilfred chose to ignore the challenge. “I trust
Roburvale
is comfortable, Fletcher.”

“Excessively so, lad. We have no need for soft beds and feather pillows. In the Highlands a man oft lays his head on naught but hard stone and he is grateful to the good Lord for it.
Still, your whisky cupboard is full and for that kindness, I thank ye.”

Rowland bit the inside of his cheek. He was in enough trouble without laughing at this point. Fletcher Baird moved into the ballroom to greet his granddaughter, whilst the Sinclair men continued
to welcome those that came behind him.

Rowland was, if truth be told, enjoying the spectacle that was the Bairds. Somehow they seemed to manage being the backbone of the Glen Innes Temperance League whilst maintaining a fondness for
whisky. No one mentioned the inconsistency and all was well. Physically their kinship was declared by a preponderance of red hair. And, of course, the men were wearing kilts.

It seemed the
Truth
had been passed around amongst the Bairds and many had an opinion on Rowland Sinclair’s new celebrity. Rowland stood by as Wilfred deftly diffused each pointed
and indignant reference to the article.

“Don’t complain, never explain,” Wilfred directed him quietly when it became obvious that the curious, clearly disapproving prodding would continue.

Kate’s Aunt Maggie beckoned Rowland aside—she smelled just faintly of lemon and whisky. Rowland smiled—he remembered Margaret. She’d always been partial to some appalling
drink called a
toddie
which she consumed often for supposedly medicinal purposes. She had an interesting face, lively green eyes and a beauty which the lines of age had faded only
slightly.

“I read about you, Rowland,” she said. “’Tis a bonny thing, a fine thing indeed.”

This caught him by surprise.

“They always said I was a bit fey myself,” she confided as she clasped his hand in both of hers. “Well done, my dear boy. How exciting… I have dreams, you see, when the
moon is full—since I was a wee girl. The World Prophet! How very special… I had a dream before the last war—tin soldiers and black ink, and then another just recently when that
poor racehorse died… it’s a gift, a wonderful terrible gift… I understand, my boy.” She rubbed his hand warmly once more. “You must let me show you the moon some
night,” she whispered before she went back to her husband’s side.

Rowland stared after her for a while.

“Why Mr. Sinclair, what a pleasure to see you again.”

Rowland turned. She stood almost posed, wearing a rather unnecessary shade of pink, her platinum hair twisted high upon her head. Her gown, though painstakingly modest, was fashionably cut, and
she met his eyes with an expectation of admiration.

Rowland shook the white-gloved hand. “Miss Bennett, I must say I didn’t expect to see you here.”

“Of course I’m here, silly,” she said giggling. “We are to be godparents together.”

Kate swooped in. “I’m sure I mentioned it, Rowly—we’ve asked Lucy to be Ewan’s godmother…”

“I was frightfully honoured,” Lucy chirped. “I adore children.”

“Isn’t it just perfect, Rowly?” Kate smiled at her friend, who laughed suddenly. Rowland remembered that Lucy Bennett had always laughed for no reason, and in a manner
carefully contrived to look gay. He found it no less irritating now. “Why don’t you show Lucy the rest of
Woodlands
before supper,” Kate continued. “I’m sure
Wil can manage by himself.”

Rowland smiled politely, wondering why Kate couldn’t inflict her unmarried school chums upon her own relatives instead of tormenting her husband’s only living brother. Surely there
were eligible men among the Bairds—but for some reason they were allowed to drink their whisky unmolested.

“I’m sure Miss Bennett doesn’t…”

“I would be delighted to tour your gracious home, Mr. Sinclair.” She smiled prettily and took his arm, glancing up at him with obvious warmth, a poised flirtation.

Rowland stopped. Good Lord. It appeared Lucy Bennett was the only person in the room who had not read the
Truth
that morning.

A gentleman to the last, he conceded and took Lucy through
Woodlands
as quickly as he could, only half listening to her empty gushing.

“This is an impressive house, Mr. Sinclair, quite exquisite. Of course it needs a woman’s touch.” She laughed inexplicably again. “My cousin, Mr. Thomas Beckett—you
might know him as Bingo—has a twenty-roomed house in Potts Point… but it was never a home whilst he remained a bachelor… he’s married now and his wife, Martha—we
call her Muffy—formerly a Miss Cameron of the Bowral Camerons, has made it entirely elegant. Soft furnishings: they make all the difference. Nothing speaks of taste and good breeding like a
well-chosen chintz.”

“Indeed,” was all Rowland could manage in response. He suspected that Lucy’s pointless monologue was more than a little related to the nervous need to fill what would otherwise
be an awkward silence. She’d probably stop babbling if he simply made conversation.

“Oh my word, this is magnificent!” Lucy moved enthusiastically towards a large painting of irises. “What smashing colours.” She turned back to him. “Oh, of
course,” she said with sudden epiphany, “it brings out the blue of your eyes.”

Rowland blinked. Lucy Bennett thought he chose paintings to match his eyes. What could he possibly say to her?

And so he stood by as she continued to extol the uncontroversial landscapes and still life paintings, which now adorned his walls, picking out the blue in each piece as if it was some kind of
artistic theme. It was unfortunate. His own work, if it had been allowed to remain on his walls, might have scandalised Lucy into retreat. As it was he was defenceless.

Rowland turned back towards the ballroom. The music had stopped. “I believe they must be sitting down for supper,” he said relieved. “Perhaps we should be getting
back.”

Lucy Bennett’s eyes fell, disappointed. “Certainly, it would not do to be missed.”

Kate Sinclair had directed the seating arrangements and so the return to the ballroom gave him little reprieve. Still, he was saved from an explanation of how the right chintz could change his
life.

The first course of salmon and roe was served, and then the toasts began. As far as Rowland knew such formalities had not been planned for the evening. The Bairds just liked to make speeches as
they drank. Initially they drank to the health of Ewan, then to his parents and his elder brother. Fletcher Baird led a toast to the Sinclairs with a speech that included an extended history of
their apparently forgotten Scottish roots. Wilfred responded, as a gentleman should, with a toast to the Bairds. By then the evening was getting quite celebratory. Having saluted all the relevant
family, various kilted men stood to quote Burns in what appeared to be a homage to food.