The Marquis's memory 1

 

Chapter 1

 

Geoffrey Calver was in what his nanny once used to call ‘one of Mr. Jeffy’s little paddies’ and his valet called ‘one of his lordship’s incidents’ and anyone who admitted to the truth, including Geoffrey, was a flaming temper.

Geoffrey knew he had black rages, and should work harder to control them, but he would not, and could not, put up with his mother’s blithe declaration that she had arranged a marriage for him, and to someone as insipid as Amabel Brinkley at that.

He had wondered why the girl and her parents had come to breakfast, and was greeted by his mother dispensing the news as she poured tea.

“It ain’t legally binding; I haven’t asked the silly wench, and I don’t intend to,” said Geoffrey.

“Now, then, Jeffy, I’ve given Amabel a ring for you, and the news will be in the paper tomorrow,” said the dowager marchioness, buttering toast. “If you won’t make a push to become engaged to a suitable young lady and secure the succession, Mama must do it for you.”

“I repudiate your choice, and I will not go through with it,” declared Geoffrey. “You, Amelia, Asmodea, whatever your name is, give me that ring.”

Amabel tremblingly pulled off the ring and gave it to him.

“Oh, thank you!” she declared in dying tones.

“You can withdraw the notice. I did not make it, it was not in my hand, and if the wench’s parents attempt to sue for breach of promise, I will bring a counter-suit of fraud. Do I make myself clear, Brinkley?” said Geoffrey.

“Of… of course, my lord,” said Brinkley, who had been manipulated by his wife rather against his own, and his daughter’s wishes.

And Geoffrey slammed out of the room to go for a drive to calm himself down.

He could not have said, consciously, which way he took, but he was just coming out of the red fog of rage, when he perceived that he was on a narrow road, in which a hog was sunbathing.

How he missed the hog he could never say, but the curricle’s wheel caught the ditch and Geoffrey went flying.

 

 

Geoffrey came to his senses to the sound of female conversation.

“He is a very decorative young man, someone must surely know who he is,” said one. “I suppose he was driving so recklessly because he was rejected in love; there was a most outrageous ring in his pocket, a garnet and what I suppose might be diamonds.”

“I thought it was a ruby, my dear,” said the other voice.

“Oh, Aunt Effy! Who has rubies that size?” laughed the first voice. “It will be a garnet, depend on it, for it is already quite vulgar, and with a ruby, would be even more so.”

Vulgar! Yes, that was it, and unfortunately, that also described his mother. Geoffrey groaned.

“He is coming to! With luck he will be able to tell us who he is so we may write a letter to whoever he belongs to, to tell them that he is alive, and well enough bar a broken arm and a bump on the head.”

“Unless he has a severe concussion, and has lost his memory,” said the one called Effie. Euphemia, presumably.

It would be very nice to disappear for a few days, and losing his memory would be a good excuse. He groaned again.

“Where am I?” he asked. “For that matter, who am I?”

“Oh, dear,” said the younger voice. “I was afraid of that.”

“How much do you remember?” asked Effie.

“There was a hog in the road,” said Geoffrey.

“That dratted sow!” said Effie. “She can get her nose under the bar and unlock her sty and she will sunbathe in the road! Pesky animal, but she produces no fewer than a dozen piglings a year, which is very helpful.”

“It is?” said Geoffrey, bewildered.

“It is,” said Effie. “Upwards of twelve bob each, once weaned, or three guineas at slaughter weight of hogs, and  eight or ten guineas for a farrowing sow, split with our neighbour with a hog.”

“You… you’re farmers?” Geoffrey was nonplussed.

“Not really; but a parson’s sister and daughter don’t get far without a little farming on the side,” said Effie.

“You are ladies, then.”

“Well, yes, but not of the sort that you’re used to, with soft hands like yours,” said Effie. “Alethea is educated, of course, her papa saw to that, and I was the youngest sister so I had to keep house for him when her Mama died, but it’s not a life of idle luxury.”

“I can pay for my keep, whilst I am convalescing….”

“Certainly not; your fall was occasioned by our sow.  But don’t expect many courses and fine brandy,” said Effie.

“I don’t know if I was used to such or not,” lied Geoffrey.  He covertly observed the two women.  Effie was no older than he was, perhaps eight-and-twenty, with curly brown hair under a lace cap; her niece, Alethea, was some ten years, maybe twelve years, younger, and was something of a beauty, with wide grey eyes, and a golden tone to the curling brown hair.

Not that Effie was not attractive, but she looked… careworn. Her own grey eyes looked as if they ought to laugh, but were too busy.

“Well, a day or two resting might well bring your memory back,” said Effie. “Your horses are in our barn, and your curricle waiting to have its wheel mended; and I should offer to pay to do so, but I cannot find the cash at the moment. I am sorry.”

Geoffrey waved a hand.

“I don’t ask it of you; have the wheelwright in, I’ve a roll of soft with me.”

“Yes, it is beside you on the commode, with your watch, and a singular ring. We had deduced that you had been disappointed in love.”

Geoffrey sat up, not without a wince, and blushed to find himself in a rather old-fashioned night-rail.

“Yes, I undressed you,” said Effie. “It had to be done, to check for other injuries. You have bruised ribs but not broken, and a broken arm, which I have set and tied well. You have a sling if you need to rest it, or you can lay it across your lap.”

“Thank you,” said Geoffrey. “The ring; it does not speak to me of sentimental value. I have no more feeling for it than if I were taking it to be cleaned… or something similar.”

“The watch was a gift to Geoffrey. Do you think that is you?” asked Effie.

“Yes, from my father, for good results at school,” said Geoffrey. “Well! Plainly I can recall something.”

“Perhaps you are close to your father,” said Effie.

“Was. He is dead,” said Geoffrey. “I… my head hurts. I think I would like to sleep.”

“By all means,” said Effie. “Come, Alethea.”

“Goodness!” he heard the girl’s voice on the stair. “Do you suppose we can keep him if he doesn’t know who he is? Having a man about the place would be very useful.”

“It would, my love, but it would occasion talk, for he is also altogether far too decorative not to make chins wag about one or other of us setting our caps at him.”

There was a giggle.

“He could do a lot worse than marry you, Effie; he’s pretty old.”

“None of that, wench!” said Effie. “Old, indeed! He’s the right side of thirty, I wager, though such sneering lines as he has when he thinks of himself! A deeply unhappy man, in my opinion.”

Geoffrey pulled a rueful face in the quiet solitude of his bedroom. Deeply unhappy, indeed. Hardly surprising. His mother interfered in all aspects of his life; and carped about him marrying for the succession, but made every effort to choke off, scare away, or downright insult every girl he had so far considered in any wise interesting, insulting him in his own ability to chose a bride, by deciding that none of them were good enough. What she meant by that, was, tractable and easily bullied by her, of families she considered suitable, and all of them conventional and dead bores. Geoffrey wanted a woman with conversation, and he really did not care if she could produce a recognisable version of ‘Annie Laurie’ on pianoforte, harp, harp-lute, or tinwhistle. Actually, he might find a girl who played a tinwhistle more interesting, but only because it was unconventional.

His arm hurt damnably, though, and he was tired to the bone.

He let himself drift off to sleep.

 

 

When Geoffrey awoke again, the light had changed, and it appeared to be getting dark. He had slept for hours! But he could not stay here.  It was most improper.

He managed to get himself up, and had to use the utensil under the bed.  Getting dressed was painful, slow, and difficult, and he was glad that he had been wearing shoes for driving, not boots for riding. He compromised by putting on his drawers and pantaloons, and one arm into his coat, wrapping the other side around him as best he might.

Effie turned up whilst he was cursing.

“I hope you won’t use such words in front of Alethea,” she said.

“I beg your pardon; I did not hear you come in,” said Geoffrey. “My dear Miss… I did not catch your name…, I fear I must beg you to harness my nags and drive me to the nearest inn. I would be most ungrateful if I stayed here, compromising your good name.”

“Oh, I’m old enough to be on the shelf,” said Effie. “It’s Euphemia Congreve, and I stand in place of a mother to Alethea, my niece.”

“It won’t wash,” said Geoffrey. “You’re far too young and pretty, and if you won’t listen for your own sake, listen for Miss Alethea’s.  I’m going to the inn; I’ve enough blunt to stay there indefinitely, so I can come calling to thank you properly, later.  I, er, apprehend I am borrowing your brother’s nightgown?”

“Yes, Stephen was fortunately a similar size to you.  Well, if you are determined upon this course, at least dine with us; I put dinner back, and killed a hen, and then you’ll be fortified. I’ll pack you another night-gown, and a banyan, and some shirts and underlinen for if you make a protracted stay whilst your memory returns, and your arm heals. How fortunate that I did not give away Stephen’s clothes yet! And you will want his razor and strop, and brush and comb; and I have a new toothbrush that is as yet unused.”

“I am greatly in your debt for your practical turn of mind, Miss Congreve,” said Geoffrey. “I fear I had to use your utensil,” he blushed faintly.

“We all have the same needs,” said Effie.  “That girl will probably empty it out of the window, against all my orders to put such things in the slop bucket to carry down. Patty Ball is, I fear, a feckless piece, but the only servant we can afford these days, I’m afraid.  Like having a small, two-bedroomed cottage, which was as far as Stephen’s savings stretched.”

“Then I am definitely de trop,” said Geoffrey.

“You’ll have to put up with going in our donkey carriage,” said Effie. “Your curricle is broken, if you recall.”

“I’d forgotten,” said Geoffrey. “Oh, dear, you will have to make it right with the innkeeper as I have no name I recall.”

“Well, we know your first name is Geoffrey, so we shall call you Geoffrey Jefferson,” said Effie.

 

 

Two hours later, after a simple, but filling meal of a chicken fricassee with green peas and sundry other vegetables, Geoffrey was ensconced tenderly in the best room of the Running Buck, which was the sort of room in which his servants slept,  under the eaves, a room some ten foot by eight foot, largely taken up by the old-fashioned four-poster bed.  He had no need for a fire in this season, but the small fireplace did not look as though it would provide adequate heat when one was needed.

Well, the innkeeper, Simeon Pigeon, was all that was helpful, and promised his own aid to help Geoffrey dress and undress.

“I could do with a servant while I’m here, and to run messages,” said Geoffrey.

“Well, you could do worse than Pip Moyse,” said Pigeon.

“And who is Pip Moyse?” asked Geoffrey.

“Well, he’s nobbut a lad, sir, and the son of the village ne’er do well, but he’s willing, and tries to keep himself clean,” said Pigeon. “He’d jump at sleeping on your floor, with a blanket, and food if you’ll pay his keep, out o’ the way of his father’s fists.  He runs off to live in an old pigsty often enough, to avoid his da. Good with hosses, too.”

“Well, then, pray engage the services of Pip Moyse for me,” said Geoffrey. “I don’t care how old or young he is, as long as he can be an extra pair of hands, and run about for me while I still feel so deucedly nauseated every time I stand up.”

“Yessir. Did you want the doctor, sir?

“Tell me, if you’d knocked your head, would you call in the doctor?”

“Not half, I wouldn’t; I like my blood in my veins, and not be half poisoned when my Jinny can fix me up with a bandage of vinegar and brown paper.”

“Then, I pray ask your good lady to physic to my head,” said Geoffrey. “Miss Congreve did her best, but I feel in need of someone better acquainted with head wounds.”

“Well, my Jinny knows head wounds, we have some pugilists come here to fight at times,” said Pigeon. “No disrespect to Miss Congreve, but young Miss Congreve hasn’t needed rescuing from the sort of predicaments a boy might do, and my Jinny’s raised four boys as well as physicking pugilists, ar, and she’s seen to some of young Pip’s wounds too from his da.”

“Well, perhaps I can find him a job as my tiger,” said Geoffrey.

“Oh! Incognito, are you… my lord?” asked Pigeon.

“Pigeon, I don’t know if Miss Congreve told you, but I have no idea,” said Geoffrey. “I recall my first name, and that’s it.  But apparently I am the sort of person who might have a tiger.”

“Well, now!  If you ask me, if you’ve forgotten who you are, you probably don’t want to remember yet awhile; so you get well at your own pace.”

 

Tucked up again in bed, with a soothing dressing on the bump on his head, and with a cup of hot chocolate and several macaroons hot out of the oven inside him, Geoffrey’s last thought before sleeping was that the Running Buck’s best accommodation might be physically mean, but was better than some of the best rooms in many a prestigious coaching inn.