Page 103 of The Curious Story of the Missing Lady
“That would be all, eh? My dear sister, I’ll have you know I once stood in opposition to five Frenchmen with bayonets at the ready, and I unarmed. ‘Drop your ladies’ helpers, you filthy dregs’ says I. ‘And fight me like men!’ And wouldn’t you know it, they did. And that’s when old Roger taught them how it was done.”
Mama looked at Papa and shrugged.
“I am,” said Papa, “no match for you, Roger. This is plainly obvious.”
“Ah,” said Roger, a warm smile on his face, “it’s about time someone said it.” His smile grew ever warmer when he beheld Madeline. “This can’t be ... Madeline?”
“’Tis I, Uncle.”
“Oh,” said the man, fresh tears watering his eyes. “I bounced you on my knee, and now look ...” He hugged her tightly. “When I read of your terrifying ordeal, I nearly broke in two. Did you know that, child? Did you know I nearly broke in two?”
“Of course, Uncle. You were always a caring man.”
“I was, wasn’t I? Caring and stout as a horse, and I once fought five Frenchmen with bayonets, and not a scrap of iron on my person.”
Madeline looked to her parents. Both of them shrugged.
“Come,” said Roger. “Bailey will show you all to your rooms. And Ambrose, we must have a drink post-haste. Do you understand? It is a matter of life and death, old boy.”
“Understood,” said Papa.
#
Luncheon was taken in the park on a secluded area of the estate. A wagonette carried the party to the location. There, a footman and two maids unloaded their crates and baskets and followed the party to what was deemed the perfect spot. It was a slight dip in the ground, a near perfect circle of a well. The maids went to work quickly, first spreading several large blankets, then laying out the picnic fare at a dizzying pace, until a sumptuous meal of cold roast chicken, fruits and nuts, bread with butter and jam, and a dozen small currant cakes was laid before them. The tea flowed freely, as did an endless pour of brandy from Uncle Roger’s flask.
They sat and ate and talked and laughed. And when the meal lay about in scant portions, picked apart like carrion, Uncle Roger began to sing. His voice was a beautiful, silky baritone, devoid of the slur that had glazed his speech up to this point. Madeline knew the song and joined in.
Doing so, she felt freer than she could remember feeling in such a long time that she felt she might weep openly. Her voice trembled at first because of this, but quickly gained strength. She caught Papa’s eye, watered as it was by the music—a sombre ballad.
“My sister,” said Emily once they were finished and applauded appropriately. “Always one for the saddest melodies. I can’t for the life of me understand your fondest for such depressing songs.”
“The songs themselves might be depressing,” said Madeline. “But the melodies themselves, without words, are glorious. Certainly, you must agree.”
“Dear Madeline,” said Roger, “you get your musical sensibilities from your beloved uncle.” He hiccupped once, put his hand to his chest, and excused himself. “I once beat five Frenchmen—”
“Uncle!” cried Madeline. “We know.”
“Hmm? Ah, yes, of course you do. I see the sun will be setting soon. We should get back to the house. Dinner tonight is going to be a most splendid affair. We have some distinguished guests. We’ll all go back ... and ...” Here he broke off in a long, windy, yowling yawn. “We’ll take a nap, and have a bath ...” And here his head fell upon his chest, announcing his sleep in a prodigious snore.
“Roger,” chided Mama, nudging her brother in the ribs.
The man sprang awake. “Hmm? Five Frenchmen ... hmm? Yes. Yes, we should get back. To the wagonette!”
#
She could not remember a more relaxing ride on her way back to the house. Whether it was the singing, the glad mood of their little group, or her feeling of utter freedom in the light of her breaking her contract with Lord Oliver, she could not discern. She only knew that this was a moment that should be savoured like honey.
After a bath and a change of clothes, and after some playing on Roger’s pianoforte, which was badly in need of tuning, she walked the grounds in peaceful contemplation and complete serenity. Torches lit the garden paths. She was put in mind of Vauxhall and the forbidden walkway within the hedges that Oliver had told her about.
When she returned, Bailey, Uncle Roger’s diminutive butler, told her that dinner guests would soon be arriving.
“And you may want to partake in any and all manner of toiletry as befits a lady of your stature,” he intoned in his reedy, high-pitched voice. She noticed he had a peculiar habit of keeping his head up and his eyes half-closed when he spoke as if he was trying to sneak a peek at his shoes.
“Of course, Bailey,” she said. “Thank you.”
“Not at all, M’Lady. This house of ours has been devoid of the female sex since Her Ladyship passed four years ago this Christmas. But I have not forgotten the rituals of beauty that members of your delicate species undergo before every decision they make.”
He’d said this with such sincerity that she could not help accepting it in the spirit in which it was offered, even though she found the little man most peculiar.
