Service with a Smile (3 page)

Left
alone, the Duke prowled about the room for some moments, chewing his moustache
and examining his surroundings with popping eyes. He opened drawers, looked at
books, stared at pictures, fiddled with pens and paper-knives. He picked up a
photograph of Mr. Schoonmaker and thought how right he had been in comparing
his head to a pumpkin. He read the letter Lady Constance had been writing.
Then, having exhausted all the entertainment the room had to offer, he sat down
at the desk and gave himself up to thoughts of Lord Emsworth and the Empress.

Every
day in every way, he was convinced, association with that ghastly porker made
the feller pottier and pottier. And, in the Duke’s opinion, he had been quite
potty enough to start with.

3

As the car rolled away
from the front door, Lord Emsworth inside it clutching his umbrella, Lady
Constance stood drooping wearily with the air of one who has just launched a
battleship. Beach, the butler, who had been assisting at his employer’s
departure, eyed her with respectful sympathy. He, too, was feeling the strain
that always resulted from getting Lord Emsworth off on a journey.

Myra Schoonmaker
appeared, looking, except that she was not larded with sweet flowers, like
Ophelia in Act Four, Scene Five, of Shakespeare’s well-known play Hamlet.

‘Oh,
hello,’ she said in a hollow voice.

‘Oh,
there you are, my dear,’ said Lady Constance, ceasing to be the battered wreck
and becoming the hostess. ‘What are you planning to do this morning?’

‘I don’t
know. I might write a letter or two.’

‘I have
a letter I must finish. To your father. But wouldn’t it be nicer to be out in
the open on such a lovely day?’

‘Oh, I
don’t know.’

‘Why
not?’

‘Oh, I
don’t know.’

Lady
Constance sighed. But a hostess has to be bright, so she proceeded brightly.

‘I have
been seeing Lord Emsworth off. He’s going to London.’

‘Yes,
he told me. He seem very happy about it.’

‘He
wasn’t,’ said Lady Constance, a grim look coming into her face. ‘But he must do
his duty occasionally as a member of the House of Lords.’

‘He’ll
miss his pig.’

‘He can
do without her society for a couple of days.’

‘And he’ll
miss his flowers.’

‘There
are plenty of flowers in London. All he has to do… Oh, Heavens!’

‘What’s
the matter?’

‘I
forgot to tell Clarence to be sure not to pick the flowers in Hyde Park. He
will wander off there, and he will pick the flowers. He nearly got arrested
once for doing it. Beach!’

‘M’lady—?’

‘If
Lord Emsworth rings up tomorrow and says he is in prison and wants bail, tell
him to get in touch immediately with his solicitors. Shoesmith, Shoesmith, Shoesmith
and Shoe-smith of Lincoln’s In Fields.’

‘Very
good, m’lady.’

‘I shan’t
be here.’

‘No, m’lady.
I quite understand.’

‘He’s
sure to have forgotten their name.’

‘I will
refresh his lordship’s memory.’

‘Thank
you, Beach.’

‘Not at
all, m’lady!’

Myra Schoonmaker
was staring at her hostess., Her voice trembled a little as she said:

‘You
won’t be here, Lady Constance?’

‘I have
to go to my hairdresser’s in Shrewsbury, and I am lunching with some friends
there. I shall be back for dinner, of course. And now I really must be going
and finishing that letter to your father. I’ll give him your love.’

‘Yes,
do,’ said Myra, and sped off to Lord Emsworth’s study, where there was a
telephone. The number of the man she loved was graven on her heart. He was
staying temporarily with his old Oxford friend, Lord Ickenham’s nephew, Pongo Twistleton.
But until now there had been no opportunity to call it.

Seated
at the instrument with a wary eye on the door, for though Lord Emsworth had
left, who knew that Lavender Briggs might not pop in at any moment, she heard
the bell ringing in distant London, and presently a voice spoke.

‘Darling!’
said Myra. ‘Is that you, darling? This is me, darling.’

‘Darling!’
said the voice devoutly.

‘Darling,’
said Myra, ‘the most wonderful thing has happened, darling. Lady Constance is
having her hair done ‘tomorrow.’

‘Oh,
yes?’ said the voice, seeming a little puzzled, as if wondering whether it
would be in order to express a hope that she would have a fine day for it.

‘Don’t
you get it, dumb-bell? She has to go to Shrewsbury, and she’ll be away all day,
so I can dash up to London and we can get married.’

There
was a momentary silence at the other end of the wire. One would have gathered
that the owner of the voice had had his breath taken away. Recovering it, he
said:

‘I see.’

‘Aren’t
you pleased?’

‘Oh,
rather!’

‘Well,
you don’t sound as if you were. Listen, darling. When I was in London, I did a
good deal of looking around for registry offices, just in case. I found one in
Milton Street. Meet me there tomorrow at two sharp. I must hang up now,
darling. Somebody may come in. Good-bye, darling.’

‘Good-bye,
darling.’

‘Till
tomorrow, darling.’

‘Right
ho, darling.’

‘Good-bye,
darling.’

And if
they’re listening in at the Market Blandings exchange, thought Myra, as she
replaced the receiver, that’ll give them something to chat about over their tea
and crumpets.

Chapter
Two

1

‘And now,’ said Pongo Twistleton,
crushing out his cigarette in the ash tray and speaking with a note of quiet
satisfaction
in
his voice, ‘I shall have to be buzzing along. Got a
date.’

He had
been giving his uncle, Lord Ickenham, lunch at the Drones Club, and a very
agreeable function he had found it, for the other, who like Lord Emsworth had
graced the opening of Parliament with his presence, had been very entertaining
on the subject of his experiences. But what had given him even more pleasure
than his relative’s mordant critique of the appearance of the four pursuivants,
Rouge Croix, Bluemantle, Rouge Dragon and Portcullis, as they headed the
procession, had been the stimulating thought that, having this engagement, he
ran no risk at the conclusion of the meal of being enticed by his guest into
what the latter called one of their pleasant and instructive afternoons. The
ordeal of sharing these in the past had never failed to freeze his blood. The
occasion when they had gone to the dog races together some years previously
remained particularly green in his memory.

Of
Frederick Altamont Cornwallis Twistleton, fifth Earl of Ickenham, a thoughtful
critic had once said that in the late afternoon of his life he retained,
together with a juvenile waistline, the bright enthusiasms and fresh,
unspoiled outlook of a slightly inebriated undergraduate, and no one who knew
him would have disputed the accuracy of the statement. As a young man in
America, before a number of deaths in the family had led to his succession to
the title, he had been at various times a cowboy, a soda-jerker, a newspaper
reporter and a prospector in the Mojave Desert, and there was not a ranch, a
drug-store, a newspaper office or a sandy waste with which he had been
connected that he had not done his best to enliven. His hair today was grey,
but it was still his aim to enliven, as far as lay within his power, any
environment in which he found himself. He liked, as he often said, to spread
sweetness and light or, as he sometimes put it, give service with a smile. He
was a tall distinguished-looking man with a jaunty moustache and an alert and
enterprising eye. In this eye, as he turned it on his nephew, there was a look
of disappointment and reproach, as if he had expected better things from one of
his flesh and blood.

‘You
are leaving me? Why is that? I had been hoping for —’

‘I
know,’ said Pongo austerely. ‘One of our pleasant and instructive afternoons.
Well, pleasant and instructive afternoons are off. I’ve got to seen man.’

‘About
a dog?’

‘Not so
much about a dog as —’

‘Phone
him and put him off.’

‘I can’t.’

‘Who is
this fellow?’

‘Bill
Bailey.’

Lord
Ickenham seemed surprised.

‘He’s
back, is he?’

‘Eh?’

‘I was
given to understand that he had left home. I seem to remember his wife being
rather concerned about it.’

Pongo
saw that his uncle had got everything mixed up, as elderly gentlemen will.

‘Oh,
this chap isn’t really Bill. I believe he was christened Cuthbert. But if a
fellow’s name is Bailey, you’ve more or less got to call him Bill.’

‘Of
course, noblesse oblige. Friend of yours?’

‘Bosom.
Up at Oxford with him.’

‘Tell
him to join us here.’

‘Can’t
be done. I’ve arranged to meet him in Milton Street.’

‘Where’s
that?’

‘In
South Kensington.’

Lord
Ickenham pursed his lips.

‘South
Kensington? Where sin stalks naked through the dark alleys and only might is
right. Give this man a miss. Hell lead you astray.’

‘He won’t
jolly well lead me astray. And why? Because for one thing he’s a curate and for
another he’s getting married. The rendezvous is at the Milton Street registry
office.’

‘You
are his witness?’

‘That’s
right.’

‘And
who is the bride?’

‘American
girl.’

‘Nice?’

‘Bill
speaks well of her.’

‘What’s
her name?’

‘Schoonmaker.’

Lord
Ickenham leaped in his seat.

‘Good
heavens! Not little Myra Schoonmaker?’

‘I don’t
know if she’s little or not. I’ve never seen her. But her name’s Myra all
right. Why — do you know her?’

A
tender look had come into Lord Ickenham’s handsome face. He twirled his
moustache sentimentally.

‘Do I
know her! Many’s the time I’ve given her her bath. Not recently, of course, but
years ago when I was earning my living in New York. Jimmy Schoonmaker was my
great buddy in those days. I don’t get over to God’s country much now, your
aunt thinks it better otherwise, and I’ve often wondered how he was making out.
He promised, when I knew him, to become a big shot in the financial world. Even
then, though comparatively young, he was able to shoot a cigar across his face
without touching it with his fingers, which we all know is the first step to
establishing oneself as a tycoon. I expect by this time he’s the Wolf of Wall
Street, and is probably offended if he isn’t investigated every other week by a
Senate commission. Well, it all seems very odd to me.’

‘What’s
odd?’

‘His
daughter getting married at a registry office. I should have thought she would
have had a big choral wedding with bridesmaids and bishops and all the fixings.’

‘Ah, I
see what you mean.’ Pongo looked cautiously over his shoulder. No one appeared
to be within earshot. ‘Yes, you would think so, wouldn’t you? But Bill’s
nuptials have got to be solemnized with more than a spot of secrecy and
silence. The course of true love hasn’t been running too smooth. Hellhounds
have been bunging spanners into it.’

‘What
hell-hounds would those be?’

‘I
should have said one hell-hound. You know her. Lady Constance Keeble.’

‘What,
dear old Connie? How that name brings back fragrant memories. I wonder if you
recall the time when you and I went to Blandings Castle, I posing as Sir
Roderick Glossop, the loony doctor, you as his nephew Basil?’

‘I
recall it,’ said Pongo with a strong shudder. The visit alluded to had given
him nightmares for months.

‘Happy
days, happy days! I enjoyed my stay enormously, and wish I could repeat it. The
bracing air, the pleasant society, the occasional refreshing look at Emsworth’s
pig, it all combined to pep me up and brush away the cobwebs. But how does
Connie come into it?’

‘She
forbade the banns.’

‘I
still don’t follow the scenario. Why was she in a position to do so?’

‘What
happened was this. She and Schoonmaker are old pals — I got all this from Bill,
so I assume we can take it as accurate — and he wanted his daughter to have a
London season, so he brought her over here and left her in Lady C.’s charge.’

‘All
clear so far.’

‘And
plumb spang in the middle of their London season Lady C. discovered that the beazel
was walking out with Bill. Ascertaining that he was a curate, she became as
sore as a gumboil.’