Page 7 of Apt to be Suspicious
“Swot.” There was respect in the term, though. No one spoke for a moment. Certainly, no one asked if Papa had talked about that part of the war. People didn’t.
After a silence, Tugs cleared his throat. “Did you learn anything new from the lecture, then?”
Tugs was smarter than he seemed, and Edmund would do well to remember that. Edmund lifted his glass and took a sip. “The many ways men can die, and more names that ought to be remembered for it.”
There was a silent lifting of glasses, a mute toast. No one used words. Words would be too revealing. All the men here were older. That meant they’d served, whether in combat or in some other form. Edmund nudged the conversation along a little. “Atkinson’s a fine lecturer. I was advised it was worth listening to him for that alone, how he went about his topic.” He added, “My school made rather a point of rhetoric.”
“Where did you go, Bells?” That was Cart again, who never remembered.
Heffalump really didn’t deserve the name. He was both sharper than he looked and more nimble. Now, he said amiably, “Some potty little school in the middle of nowhere. Didn’t even play cricket.”
“Not everyone plays cricket, Heff.” Tugs sighed. “But I wish you’d go out for something, Bells. You’ve got muscle there somewhere and a good eye. Why aren’t you putting it to use to earn a blue?”
Edmund both had a dozen other things to be doing with his time, and his preferred sports were only marginally on offer. The Academy fielded a bohort team that played in the Apprentice league. He’d angle to play on that next year, once Honour Mods were out of the way. He’d played pavo quite a lot over the long vac, in a league designed to take advantage of summer schedules and late sunsets. Both Albion’s preferred games did quite a bit for the physique, it was true, as well as for the mind and magical skills. Now, he shrugged. “I’m not much for early mornings. And I’ve got Honour Mods. They’re going to take all my time until Trinity term at least.”
It got a rumble of agreement. None of the rest of them were reading Greats, but they all respected the terror of Honour Mods. Edmund had spent the better part of two years working flat out for sixteen hours a day under Major Manse’s direction on matters of national security. A full week of lengthy exam papers did not actually terrify him. But he needed to be diligent in his prep, as diligent as when he’d trained horse or hawk. “Tell me about the rowing, though. Wasn’t there something going on last week?”
The question was a good one. Tugs and Bump explained it well enough between them. It involved a snarl of personalities, several dashes too much ego for one boat, and apparently a feud that went back to the respective men’s grandfathers. It made for an amusing story, at least now no one was in danger of falling into the water.
“What do you do with your time, Bells?” Cart hadn’t let it go. “We’ve seen you out on the river sometimes.”
“I enjoy taking my reading somewhere scenic when the weather’s decent,” Edmund said obligingly.
“But never yet— that we’ve spotted— with a young woman. Are you seeing someone secretly?” Cart leaned forward.
Edmund snorted at that. He wasn’t seeing anyone, but that was because who he married was a complicated thing. A marriage would be important, or at least he’d do his utmost to find someone. The land magic could go to one of his sisters after him, or whatever children they had, but he’d been Heir since he was twelve.
He loved the place. He looked forward to a life tucked into the New Forest, and he had neither Mama nor Papa’s wandering feet. All of that, he thought, had gone to Merry. Or perhaps a dash to Ros, if she really took up diplomatic work and followed in Uncle Alexander’s footsteps. “Got to find the right sort. And honestly, my people worry a tad about inbreeding.”
“Oh, that’s right, you have horses, don’t you?” Horses were one of the safer bits of Edmund’s true life to mention. He’d thought about bringing one here, but he’d decided against it. He’d retired his mount from his school days to pasture and the occasional gentle hack when he’d left Schola and only had time for the war. If he wanted, he could have his pick of the current younger horses, and maybe he‘d do something about that this year.
Now, he nodded. “We’ve a breeding stable. New Forest pony stock, bred to cobs, mostly. Clever, quick, and they turn out to make excellent hunters and lighter working horses. There’s still a fair bit of land where the roads aren’t good.” That, as Edmund had expected, got the conversation amiably off onto horses they had known, or at least observed. From there it went on to dogs and cats, which had even wider circles of admirers.
“You know, Rigby was saying something about his dog. Took a sudden dislike to someone. He said it was the oddest thing.” Biggs leaned forward to pour a little more wine, then offered the bottle to Tugs.
“Long vac?” Tugs asked the obvious question.
“No, his parents were up, and they drove. Some business matters, I think. Saved up the petrol for it.” Biggs leaned over to grab the bottle and pour a bit more into his cup. “Anyway, there they are taking a walk, and Rigby sees a girl he’s been— well. And the dog just snarls.”
“Well. That’s something. What’d he do? Or the girl?” Tugs took a long sip of his wine.
“She said something— he doesn’t remember what— and the dog whined and lay down and behaved. She said maybe it was something she’d been wearing that reminded him of her cats at home.” Biggs shrugged. “I’ve seen a dog do that sort of thing, obeying, but generally only well trained. And with someone they trust.”
Edmund considered, then ventured a question. “What did Rigby think about it?”
“Oh, that she was right. She was terribly charming to his people. He’s rather smitten. A Somerville girl, I think. The name began with an S, I think. But you know Rigby. He’s not steady about women. It's hard to keep track of them.” Biggs waved his glass, eyed it, then drank a long swallow..
“That’s because you’re reading history, and your head is full of names and dates.” Tugs clapped him on the shoulder. “Was that— oh, what’s the name? Styles. Cecily Styles?” Tugs was watching Biggs steadily now, and Edmund certainly noticed that.
“Might be. Doesn’t clash anyway with what I remember. Why?” Biggs lifted his glass, eyed it, and had another long sip. “Don’t think I know the girl.”
“Oh, seen her with a few others. She’s got the looks to draw the eye, and she’s obviously got wits.” Tugs shrugged. “Not the sort my people would approve of, though. A bit too fast. That’s the fourth or fifth set I know she’s been invited around with. Doesn’t seem to have people of her own.”
Heffalump pointed out softly, “Not everyone does anymore.” It made Edmund more sure Heffalump had larger losses of his own than he didn’t talk about. He went on, “Also, can’t blame a woman for wanting some connections in the world. Time-honoured approach. And it’s not as if we don’t need to settle down, in time.” It was a kind way to think about it.
Edmund thought the story was a little odd, and it fit a bit with a few others he’d heard recently. A ripple in an unexpected place. That was the way Uncle Alexander would put it. Watching for those was something Edmund was trained to do. Couldn’t stop doing now, for all he’d tried. He waited for another little break in the conversation and said, “I heard something a bit odd the other day. Who was it? Like something out of a mystery novel, jewels going missing, or something like that. Not as recognisable as jewels, no.”
“Oh, the long vac. July, I think it was,” Heffalump chimed in. “The Wintons. The Surrey ones. Do you know them?”
