God Save the Queen! (4 page)

“Quite right, we wouldn’t want that.” Sir Henry accepted a linen serviette and arranged it over his knees.

“Grandfather will be upset with me.” Flora handed Miss Doffit a cup and saucer. “I forgot to watch the clock, and I’m really sorry for keeping you all waiting for your tea.”

“Cheer up! No harm done.” Vivian, having run the teaspoon to earth between Cousin Sophie’s feet, helped out further by handing round a plate of scones.

“Do sit down, there’s a dear,” Lady Gossinger instructed her nephew. “Florie mustn’t be rewarded for failing in her duties.” She looked sternly at the girl. “I do hope we are not going to see more of this irresponsible behavior.”

“No, your Ladyship.” Flora looked suitably chastened. And Lady Gossinger sat back well satisfied; she had thought for a moment that she had glimpsed young Vivian winking at the girl, but immediately realized the impossibility of such a thing. It must have been a twitch. And even had young Vivian’s good manners and staid demeanor hidden a lascivious nature, Lady Gossinger certainly didn’t believe Florie capable of bringing out the beast in any man.

She was a plain girl, pale and rather thin, with her dark hair pulled suitably back into a bun. And whilst not appearing exactly dim-witted, Lady Gossinger thought charitably, she didn’t exactly sparkle with intelligence. But to give Florie her due, she wasn’t carrying on with the butcher’s boy and had never been caught wearing her Ladyship’s clothes or taking a nip of the sherry kept for visits from the vicar. And it had to be admitted that, in addition to making herself useful helping out the series of housekeepers who came and went, she had done a good job assisting in the gift shop. Mrs. Warren—who rarely found much to be happy about—said that the take at the end of the day had tripled since Florie had started doing some of the buying, as well as selling bottles of Hutchins’s silver polish.

“Is there anything else your Ladyship will be needing?” Flora finished filling up the teapot from the hot water jug, then waited with hands gripping the handle of the trolley for any further instructions.

“No, that will be all for now, Florie. Unless,” Lady
Gossinger turned to her husband, “you would like her to run down and fetch more scones?”

“Sorry!” Vivian rose from his chair. “I seem to have eaten three. How would it be if I went down to the kitchen for more? Not right for Flora to have to pay for my sins, is it?”

Lady Gossinger looked ready to debate this point, but Sir Henry said he didn’t want any more scones. Smiling somewhat absently, he got up and paced the room. “Run along, Flora,” he said, “and don’t you come back to collect the tea things. Can’t have you getting the wind knocked out, not when your grandfather’s going to want you in his corner. Send Tipp, that’s the idea. Decent enough chap, Tipp. Likes to make himself useful.”

“Yes, Sir Henry.” Flora made a hurried exit and failed to shut the heavy door behind her.

“My goodness, old bean! What is it about Hutchins? You were going to tell us, and now you make that strange remark to Florie about her being a support to her grandfather.” Lady Gossinger set down her teacup on the nesting table beside her chair and looked with fond concern at her husband’s back as he stood peering out the leaded panes. Something about his posture told her that he would have been tempted to leap, had he been a little thinner and the windows a good deal wider. Young Vivian and Cousin Sophie were very much aware of the charged atmosphere. Both sat absolutely still.
My dear, sensitive Henry,
thought Lady Gossinger.
He’s agonizing because Hutchins has been with him for donkey’s years and he’s been noticing things ... things I have missed, that indicate that the man is slipping. This business of Flora being sent up with the tea, it’s not at all the way things are done at Gossinger Hall.

“It’s all right, Henry,” her Ladyship said aloud and moved as lightly as her brogues would carry her over to the window. “I understand what you’re trying to tell
me, dear, and believe me, it doesn’t make you a bad person. Quite the reverse. I think you are being incredibly courageous to act upon your convictions in this way.”

“You do, m’dear?” Sir Henry looked flabbergasted. “Don’t know how you found out. But couldn’t be happier you’re taking it this way. Been worried you might have trouble accepting the situation.”

“I know you think I’m too sensitive for my own good,” Lady Gossinger patted her hair and tried not to dislodge her halo, “and believe me, I do feel enormously sorry for Hutchins, but if the time has come to put him out to pasture, dear ...” Her eyes met her husband’s, and the shock she saw in them caused her to feel a small flutter of unease. “That is what you wanted to tell me, isn’t it, Henry?”

“I’m afraid not, Mabel.” The baronet took one last longing look at the window before squaring his shoulders. “To make a long story short, I’ve decided to change my will and leave Gossinger Hall to Hutchins.”

“You’ve done what, you bloody varmint?” Lady Gossinger’s bellow would have done a barrow boy proud. It sent echoes vibrating all the way to Bethnal Green, where Edna was giving one of her customers a wash and set and wondering how her grandson Boris was behaving himself on his school visit to Lincolnshire.

Mr. Leonard Ferncliffe was a man of science. He had taught the subject to eleven-year-old boys in expensive school uniforms for more than a decade, and now made a discovery which he believed to be of monumental importance to the world at large and to himself in particular: He did not like children. In particular, he did not like children of the male persuasion. To put it even more bluntly, he detested them with every fiber of his being, which consisted in part of a Burberry raincoat, beige twill trousers, and the lightweight wool socks that his mother washed for him by hand and dried in a nylon bag.

If life had gone according to plan, Mr. Ferncliffe would not have found himself in the position of leading the school outing that ended up at Gossinger Hall after a rampage through the city of Lincoln. Eric Stodder, the history master at New Church Preparatory School For Boys, had made all the preparations for what had become for him an annual pilgrimage, when with two days to go he came down with chicken pox. Whereupon the headmaster called Mr. Ferncliffe into his office and told him he was Stodder’s lucky replacement. At first it hadn’t sounded a particularly hellish assignment. Stodder rang up from his sickbed to say that he had chosen Lincoln because it was loaded with history and there was a very decent tie shop in the Bailgate.

So far, so good,
Mr. Ferncliffe had been thinking at the precise moment when Tom Collier, a usually cooperative boy, was sick all over his seat companion on the coach while they were still in the thick of London traffic. From then on, the day skidded downhill at a breakneck pace. Edward Whitbread had loftily imparted the information that his father called Lincoln the poor man’s York. The castle was a joke. Lucy Tower wasn’t worth the climb. And let’s face it, Edward said, if you’ve seen one cathedral, you’ve seen them all.

Understandably, Mr. Ferncliffe took his revenge by replying the same might be said of sweet shops. So, although he’d been informed by Mr. Stodder that there were some very good ones on Steep Hill, they wouldn’t waste time paying any of them a visit. Equally understandably, the boys, having decided they now had nothing to lose, turned into rampaging monsters. Making it most unlikely that any one of them would, at any future date, be presented with the keys to the city of Lincoln.

Now, as Mr. Ferncliffe stood in Gossinger’s Great Hall with twenty-two sullen schoolboys either tossing their headphones and cassettes in the air or leaning with ostentatious boredom against the radiators, he was torn between a longing to go home to his mother in Earl’s Court and a desire to do something really desperate—such as flee to the pub down the road and order a glass of Babycham.

Mr. Ferncliffe was not particularly struck with Gossinger Hall. He had spotted two daddy longlegs investigating cracks in the walls and was convinced there were incubators filled with them all over the place. But after making a heroic attempt not to check his trouser cuffs for spiders, he ordered the boys around him in a circle and began quizzing them on what they had learned during the tour. Regrettably, there was more than an hour to kill before the coach driver would come to the rescue.

“We wanted to see inside the garderobe,” said Scott Lowell.

“I expect you did, so you could have put up a sign that read ‘John of Gaunt Sat Here.’ “ Mr. Ferncliffe gamely reminded himself that he had only thirty years to endure until retirement.

“And we haven’t seen even one ghost!” Barry Taylor-Hobbs sounded thoroughly disgusted. “Edward Whitbread’s father grew up near here and he says there’s supposed to be a curse on this place.”

“And I’m sure Mr. Whitbread is correct, as always,” Mr. Ferncliffe said. “Let us move to the center of the room, boys, so we can look at the fireplace and try to imagine what life must have been like when it was responsible for heating all of Gossinger Hall.”

“It looks like an old barbecue pit.” Tom Collier had not returned to his usual stolidly cheerful self since being sick on the coach.

“If we threw our blazers up in the air,” Lionel Robbins suggested helpfully, “we could knock down some of those tatty old pennants; then we could burn them to see if the smoke really does go up through the hole in the roof.”

“It wouldn’t. The shutters are closed.” Mr. Ferncliffe had to raise his voice to be heard above the ensuing war cries that would have made the Scots and the Picts think twice about crossing the border. It was shocking
how quickly the boys degenerated into the sort of little hoodlums their ingenuous parents thought belonged to people who watched television soap operas for a living.

“I’m sure,” Mr. Ferncliffe continued manfully, “that you have all benefited enormously from learning that the word
curfew
derives from our ancestors’ habit of covering the fire at night, for safety reasons, when everyone went to bed.”

The only person who showed any sign of listening to Mr. Ferncliffe doing his stuff was the dark-haired waif of a girl in the old-fashioned maid’s outfit who had appeared as suddenly and silently as a ghost at his elbow. Now a school blazer went whizzing past her head, knocking her smile slightly askew, as she informed him that the tea and gift shop would be closing in thirty minutes.

“There’s some mocha walnut cake left, sir,” she added.

“Is there?” Mr. Ferncliffe’s heart lifted.

“It’s very good cake. My grandfather makes it and we’ve had visitors say it’s the best they’ve ever tasted.”

“Homemade?” Mr. Ferncliffe’s bruised spirit warmed to this simple Lincolnshire lass. He pictured himself pouring his heart out to her over a cup of milky coffee. The boys’ pounding footsteps and raucous laughter subsided into sporadic echoes, reminiscent of thunder retreating behind a distant hill. This girl, being a plain-faced little creature, would be touchingly grateful that he, in his Burberry raincoat and well-polished shoes, treated her like a person capable of insight and sensitivity. She had freckles, he now noticed, unusual in someone with dark hair. Mr. Ferncliffe was particularly susceptible to freckles.

She would fall head over heels in love with him, he decided, while passing him the sugar. And afterward— poor thing—she would reflect with a bittersweet smile that her half hour with a handsome stranger had
spoiled her for any other man who might come her way. Mr. Ferncliffe tended to indulge in these romantic fantasies. His mother was unlikely to find out about them and make difficulties, as she had done on the occasion he had turned a lunch date with a young lady into a commitment of sorts by ordering a bottle of French wine.

On this occasion, however, Mr. Ferncliffe took the fantasy a step further than usual. He pictured the Lincolnshire lass twining her fingers through his hair and gazing mistily into his eyes as she vowed to murder as many of the boys as would make him happy. This of course would put him under an obligation to her, which would require that he bid her
adieu
with particular gentleness.

“I’m sorry.” He shook his head to bring her face back into focus. “I didn’t catch what you were saying?”

“I was suggesting respectfully, sir,” she stood on tiptoe and cupped her hands around her mouth, “that if you were to stuff the young gentlemen with cake and chocolate biscuits you might get a moment’s peace and quiet and my grandfather won’t read you the riot act if he catches you.”

“Your grand— Do you mean Sir Henry Gossinger?” Mr. Ferncliffe was knocked off-balance when one of the boys collided with him at full tilt before collapsing in a heap with his classmates on the floor. Had he been taking mental liberties with a young woman from one of Britain’s better families?

“Sir Henry?” The girl looked down at her uniform, clearly wondering if Mr. Ferncliffe had mistaken it for fancy dress. “No, sir, my grandfather is Hutchins the butler. He usually keeps a close eye on the tours. And it is a wonder he hasn’t been in to have a word with you about making these lads behave themselves.” She hesitated, her fingers working busily to replace a strand of
hair into the bun at the nape of her neck. “You haven’t seen him, have you, sir?”

“I don’t think so.” If Mr. Ferncliffe sounded vague, it was because his mind was fully occupied in feeling taken down a peg. This nondescript young woman didn’t find him irresistible. In fact, he was sure she wasn’t the least bit impressed with him or his Burberry raincoat. Quite possibly she despised him as the worst sort of weakling. A man who let schoolboys trample him into the ground.

“Grandfather has gray hair,” she said.

“Does he?” Mr. Ferncliffe applied his scientific mind to this piece of information and came up blank.

“He parts it close to the middle.”

“Really?”

“He’s of medium height and  .  .  .”