the marquis's memory 5 Bonus just because

 

Chapter 5

 

“Poor old Pigeon is going to have trouble finding you somewhere to roost,” said Geoffrey. “Hey, Gaffer, how big’s your cottage?”

“Two bedrooms and a room in the roof,” said Gaffer.

“Well, maybe you’ll take my friend as a paying guest?” said Geoffrey. “You can both come over to the Running Buck to eat. What do you want for him to stay?”

“Dew yew be feeding me here, yew cin hev a dozen friends to stay,” said Gaffer. “Especially if we’m drivin’ over. I’ve grain and hay.”

Simon withdrew, with the Gaffer, leaving Geoffrey with his clothes, and a valise for Pip.

“Well, scrub, at least you should be able to change into a nightgown tonight, and then we can burn those old rags when you dress properly tomorrow,” said Geoffrey. “There seem to be three pairs of shoes for you in the hopes one pair will fit.”

“My ma said I should never undress in front of a man,” said Pip.

“Oh! She knew something about someone, I wager,” said Geoffrey. “I’m safe enough. But I tell you what,  if I close off the curtains on the side of the bed, you can get undressed and into the bed Pigeon made up on the floor, will that do you?”

“Yes, sir, thank you,” said Pip. “Grown men are… different. At least, you are, when I helped you with the piss-pot.”

“Of course, things do grow as you get older,” said Geoffrey. “When you reach the age to start to have to shave, and your voice deepens, everything else grows as well.”

“I… I see,” said Pip. “It’s all very confusing.”

“That’s one way to put it,” said Geoffrey. “Don’t worry about it; let things happen as they happen.”

Pip blushed, and nodded.

“I sometimes worry that there’s something wrong with me,” he said.

“That’s common enough,” said Geoffrey. “We can talk about it when we aren’t tired.”

“Thank you, sir, I think,” said Pip.

 

oOoOo

 

Suggs made a guess, that the Black Boy was named for Charles II, and so was likely to be a venue for the nobility, especially as it did not have any associations with housing the military, and enquired about Lord Calver here. Being a man who enjoyed sport, when it was not his duty to try to stop it, he was much entertained by the blow-by-blow accounting of the marquis’s fight with the local champion; and being more a man of the people, received the account which had not been told to milord’s well-known man of business, that this had enraged the pet of the fancy who had come to fight the local champion, and that Lord Calver had taken on the said pet of the fancy, his trainer, bottle-holder, and the titled gentleman who had put up the wager, and had flattened them all. Suggs decided that putting his lordship in a bad mood was a very, very bad idea, and that if the gentleman did not want to be found, well, perhaps he would compensate Ned Suggs for not finding him. Ned Suggs spent Tuesday night in Chelmsford, not having got that far on Monday, and learned much about Lord Calver, including that he owned a house on the Shotley Peninsula, which was occupied by a cousin of his. This, from a solicitor in Chelmsford, who acted for the Calver family, and, nominally, for one Philip-Paul Seward, mostly in settling money on those claiming paternity against the said Philip-Paul Seward, as set up in a trust by the late marquis, together with a generous stipend, on the understanding that he never came to London. Philip-Paul’s activities had been curtailed when he had contracted an impediment somewhat more hampering to his proclivities than the more normal syphilis, when his young bedmate of the time proved to be epileptic and bit clear off the organ which caused most of the problems. She had died of suffocation and head wounds, where Seward had belaboured her, but though her death had been hushed up, the locals looked on her covertly as someone akin to a saint. Suggs winced in automatic sympathy, and agreed that it couldn’t have happened to a better man.

 

 

oOoOo

 

Whilst Suggs was still travelling eastwards, on Wednesday, Geoffrey experienced the same wince when Simon shared what he had garnered of Seward with him.

“Well, I don’t see any reason to call on him, if the pater set up all that,” said Geoffrey.  “The scrub is too young to wince at that.”

“I shink he deserved it,” said Pip, who was beginning to lose the local vernacular for being in the company of educated men, but who still came out with the odd local idiom like the portmanteau word ‘shink’ for ‘should think.’  “Do you suppose he bleeds on the full moon? Is it something that is visited on his children even unto the third and fourth generation?”

“That’s syphilis,” said Geoffrey. “Don’t worry; even if he caught syphilis, I doubt he had it when you were conceived. And you’d not be very healthy if he had, if it had passed on. I don’t know what anyone has told you, but, well, essentially he’s just lost the means to rape and menace women. He’ll have to pee at the squat, but he hasn’t in any way become a woman, to bleed monthly, any more than castrati do. I don’t think you’ve had much of an education.”

“Only what the vicar says in church,” said Pip.

“Well, anything the current canting fool says is likely to be a load of nonsense anyway,” said Geoffrey, who had taken against the Reverend Coot.  “Men and women are built differently to be able to come together to make babies. We make seed in the scrotum and plant it via our, um, best friend, who goes into a special cavity women have behind where they pee from.  They bleed from there once a month because every month, their body gets ready to have a baby, and if no seed is planted, then what’s ready for it just dissolves into blood and comes away. The process is supposed to be pleasurable for both parties, but men who force themselves on women, which is cowardly and unmanly, can make it painful and degrading. If your mother said anything, and judging by what you have said of the man you call ‘Da,’ I doubt she had a good time, and her experiences are not to be relied on. It’s the responsibility of a real man to see that a woman has a good time, and that means touching her and making her feel good before shoving it in and taking your pleasure. It should be shared.”  He smiled at a blushing Pip. “I know, it sounds pretty gross, but at least now you’ve had what is known as ‘the talk’ you have some idea of how it works, in broad. You can always ask me questions.”

“I think I want to go and be alone for a while and think about things,” gasped Pip.

“Of course you do,” said Geoffrey. Pip fled.

“I bet you never thought you’d be giving ‘the talk’ before you even got married, never mind produced sons,” sniggered Simon.

“I’m glad you didn’t die of mortification when Papa had to do it for you because yours died before he could, and your mother’s vague flutterings with fear of disease plus those bullies at school left you thinking that women had teeth inside,” said Geoffrey.

“Mortification, nothing; I was extremely grateful to your father,” said Simon. “Do you suppose the poor brat does have any syphilitic symptoms?”

“He’s rudely healthy, I’d say it was highly unlikely,” said Geoffrey. “Inadequate parenting, a fool of a vicar, and probably picked on by other boys if he isn’t developing much yet.”

 

oOoOo

 

Pip fled to the haven of the pigstye, and, in its dark, private confines, went exploring inside the borrowed breeches and drawers. Certain things became much clearer  and Pip started wondering what questions to ask his lordship, if any. And whether such a kind man would care about a ward’s rather intimate concerns.

 

oOoOo

 

Suggs’s progress east was slowed by stopping to ask about the gentleman with the bang-up team of bright bays, and he came into Much Haddington, where the inn stood, with roads to Less Haddington, where Seward lived, Haddington St. Martin, which sprawled into Much Haddington after the manner of an inebriated consort, and Cross Haddington, which consisted of the church on the hill, and a selection of cottages at its base, and on the shore road claimed by Sarey, the sow.  In Sugg’s estimation, a young man who was already angry would not go to see his essential pensioner, unless he hoped for an excuse to lay him out as well; but he would probably put in at the inn.

A long heavy wet had his name on it inside, in any case, he thought.

Suggs walked into the inn.

Here, he saw not one gentleman, but two; one, sandy-haired and with good nature written all over his features, fine, but not fashionable clothes, and an air of cheerful acceptance of life as it came. The other was taller, even seated, wiry without being skinny, muscles filling the skin-tight jacket, a neckcloth tied in the Mathematical, but without points to his shirt as high as some men of fashion wore them, biscuit-coloured inexpressibles, hessian boots – Geoffrey had been pleased that Simon had packed his boots – and one or two fobs and a quizzing glass on his watch chain. He had dark, curly hair, a high, straight nose, and grey eyes which shot a piercing look at Suggs. He matched the description.

Whether the gentleman with him was a local gentleman or otherwise, Suggs did not know. But he doffed his hat, and approached both.

“I’m supposed to be looking for a man named Geoffrey Calver, Marquis Calver,” said Suggs, hesitantly.

“Simon Endicott, at your service,” said Simon.

“Well, I’m still recovering from a concussion which robbed me of my memory,” said Geoffrey. “Am I supposed to be someone worthy of being taken up by Bow Street? Your Occurrence Book is showing. And I’d like to look at it, if you please to check your bona fides.”

“Certainly, sir,” said Suggs, handing over the book. Geoffrey read it out.

“Edward Suggs, age two-and-thirty, five feet seven inches, brown hair, pale complexion, blue eyes, no distinguishing features.  Well, that could be about half the male population of London, but it fits you well enough. Did I see you riding in on Hercules?”

“Yes, my lord; I intimated that being loaned a horse would aid in my search for your lordship,” said Suggs. “And you’ve given yourself away by knowing the horse.”

“Damn, that was foolish of me,” said Geoffrey. “You want to sit a little back in the saddle; you’ll find it more comfortable, and so will Hercules, but you don’t ride too badly, and you’ve light enough hands. My mother had no right to loan him out to just anyone, but I won’t get too sore since you don’t appear to have upset him.”

“He’s been educating me,” said Suggs. “Shifting to put me where he wants me.”

Geoffrey laughed.

“Well, you seem to be learning.  So, is the dowager charging me with dereliction of duty, theft of my own jewellery, murder of her aspirations, or just disobedience to her will?”

“I’m not sure, my lord, but I will say, her concern seemed to be more for your failure to comply than fear for your safety,” said Suggs. “She seemed to think you might have gone off to live fifteen days somewhere in order to marry someone unsuitable.”

“That’s a bloody good idea,” said Geoffrey. “I wonder who is the most unsuitable, an impoverished parson’s sister, or her sow?  I can’t see Sarey going willingly to the altar without eating the veil and bouquet.”

“You’re an idiot, Hedgehog,” said Simon.

“Yes, but at the moment, I’m a happy idiot, whereas if I return home, I shall have to make the choice of whether I merely banish my mother from any property in which I am staying, make her live in the dower house in the fens, or put her in the charge of a sturdy nurse as plainly insane,” said Geoffrey. “Do you know why I left in a temper, Suggs?”

“The lady was not clear on the subject, my lord,” said Suggs.

“Mr. Jefferson. I am living as Mr. Jefferson,” said Geoffrey.

“The problem is, that I have been paid to find you,” said Suggs, apologetically. “And my reputation is at stake, and hence my likelihood of being hired again. It’s nice to get the extra pay,” he added.

“Well, let me see,” said Geoffrey. “If you lost my trail after Chelmsford, it would not be unreasonable to go on to my seat at Akenheth-in-the-Marsh, to check I had not gone there. Hercules is a comfortable ride, you get six or eight days holiday, as many guineas, and I get some time to heal from my accident, and regain my equilibrium over my mother presenting me with the bride she had chosen for me, whom I would not marry if my only alternative was celibacy. Um… would you be open at all to any kind of incentive?”

“I wouldn’t take a bribe over a criminal matter, Mr. Jefferson, but I’ve fewer scruples in a civil matter where nobody is being hurt,” said Suggs.

“Well, would fifteen guineas buy your co-operation?” asked Geoffrey.

“That would buy a lot of co-operation,” said Suggs, gratefully. “I should probably talk to your connection, Mr. Seward. I can use that to give a reason for looking further, for I assume you have not spoken to him?”

“Not without coercion,” said Geoffrey.

“Good; then he will deny that you are here,” said Suggs.

“Oh, very good,” said Geoffrey.   “Eh, good luck; if he offers you violence, I’ll compensate you.”

“That’s ominous. I can take care of myself, however,” said Suggs. “He won’t dare assault an officer of Bow Street.”

“I hope not,” said Geoffrey. “Join us for a drink? Have you eaten?”

“I don’t mind if I do,” said Suggs. “I’ve been on the road since six.”

“Oh, then you’ll be glad of luncheon,” said Geoffrey. “You’ll enjoy Jinny Pigeon’s raised pies.”

 

the marquis's memory 4

 

Chapter 4

 

Whilst Suggs was starting out, Geoffrey managed to get dressed to eat in the barroom in the ‘Running Buck.’ Here, he was an object of interest to the locals, and nodded, genially to them.  Pip disappeared, preferring to eat with the inn servants; something which must be rectified, but not yet.

Gaffer Keeble was the one who dared speak up.

“They du say as how yew’ve forgotten who yew be, squire,” he said. It was a question more than a statement.

“Well, yes, I took a nasty knock to the bone-box, in avoiding the sow, who I believe rejoices in the name ‘Sarey,’” said Geoffrey. “I haven’t forgotten my table manners, though, so you need not worry that I shall make an exhibit of myself.”

Gaffer Keeble gave a wheezing laugh.

“Well, most of us appreciates that yew let yerself be knocked all hickety hock to avoid a prize sow,” he said. “Though they did say yew bruk both legs, so I be right glad yew be less on the huh than wuz said.  Moi hog services Sarey, so it’s moi income too.”

“Ah, you’ll be Miss Congreve’s neighbour, then,” said Geoffrey.

“Arr, thass roight,” said the Gaffer. “That dratted sow loike to go walkabout; when that’s hot, she trots down the lane to the river for a swim.”

“Is it far down the lane?” asked Geoffrey.  “I never got further than her wallow. Will you join me in dinner?”

“Don’t mind if I do,” said the Gaffer, with alacrity. “Miss Effie, she cooks for me three times a week, but since I lost moi Mattie, I do-ant hev the heart to cook.”

“I am sorry for your loss,” said Geoffrey.

“Ar, well, I’d sell up my little bit cottage – it bein’ freehold, not rented, you see – and go live with moi married daughter but for two things,” said the Gaffer.

“Oh, what’s that?” asked Geoffrey.

“I wouldn’t want to leave Napoleon, thass my boar, unless someone wass appreciates him bought un out; an’ I loike bein’ foive minutes as the sow trots, or ten minutes as the Gaffer totters, from the sea. It ain’t real sea, bein’ tidal estuary, but thass enough loike ut.”

“Old sailor?” asked Geoffrey.

“Ar, and bought my cottage with moi prize money,” said the Gaffer. “Took up by the press when I were leadin’ the ruddy preventatives astray, though I will say, they learned me plenty. I wuz glad to git my discharge in the peace o’ Amiens, bein’ at sea, thass a young man’s craft, and I wuz glad to celebrate moi sixtieth birthday on land.”

“Why, surely that would make you over seventy, now?” asked Geoffrey. “You don’t look it.”

“Ar, well, two pints o’ cider an’ two pipes o’ baccy a day does a man wonders,” said the Gaffer. “I never catch anythin’. My poor Matty went off with the same influenza wass turned to pleurisy in owd vicar, afore we hed that maudlin’ cantin’ bishy-barneybee o’ a fellow, wi’ his ‘You shuud drink less mai man’ and his ‘Will we see yu in church this Sunday, mai brother?’ and I says to him, if you wuz my brother, like as not our da would of put yew on the parish fer not bein’ able tu work a man’s day by the time yew was eight years’ owd, there bein’ nobbut wrong wi’ yew but learziness. I’ve earned moi drink an moi pipe wi’ a loiftoime’s o’ work, not that yew’d know what work was,’ I towd him. “‘An’ moi day o’ rest, bar feedin’ the animals, I earned that tu, an’ spile it listening’ to a totty-hidded shanny ow’ fule loike yew, I will not do.’ And he was not best pleased an’ he cum near tu stroikin’ me.  ‘Go on!’ I says. ‘Dew yew hit a pore ow’ man loike me, the other cheek Our’ll be turnin’  is yourn wi’ a cross-buttock throw. An’ Our’ll be seein’ the Good Lord afore yew, loike as not, so Our’ll be getting’ moi tearle in first about yew, yew cantin’ hypocrite.’ And he minces out.”

“Leaving a well-developed slime-trail like a hodemedod,” added Geoffrey, who had grown up in Suffolk, and knew the idiom well enough to liken the vicar to a snail.

The Gaffer laughed.

“Ar, that’d suit un foine well,” he said.

“So, you’re a sporting man with the noble science of pugilism?” asked Geoffrey.

“Ar, I learned ut in the navy, an’ I was champion o’ the Pegasus, ship o’ the line,” said Gaffer. “Reckon I could show yew a thing or two.”

“I don’t doubt it,” said Geoffrey. “Perhaps you’ll help me get my strength back up when I’ve healed.”

“Well now! Don’t mind if I do,” said Gaffer. “Ah! Here come the vittles’!”

“Don’t you let him go chisellin’ off of you too often, Mr. Jefferson,” said Jinny Pigeon, as she set down a thick stew with dumplings, mashed potato, green peas, and a loaf of bread and a pat of butter to go with it.

“Oh, I am paying for hearing his life’s tale,” said Geoffrey.

“He’ll tell that for free,” said Jinny. “What are you drinking, sir?”

“Cider,” said Gaffer.

“I’ll join him,” said Geoffrey. “I’ve heard tell your cider is something special.”

“Well, now, I hope you like it,” said Jinny, flattered. “We don’t run to much fancy, but I’m told my beetroot wine is equal to a good port.”

“Well, then, the Gaffer and I will finish the meal with a glass,” said Geoffrey, recklessly.

 

The meal was delicious, the beef in the stew succulent and tender, and nothing overcooked. The dumplings were lightly seasoned, and Geoffrey decided to emulate Gaffer Keeble in using a slice of bread and butter to mop up the last of his gravy. 

The stew was followed by cheesecakes with bottled cherries and cream, and then the beetroot wine, which was a rich tawny colour and slid down so smoothly that it was not until he endeavoured to stand up that Geoffrey realised how potent it was.

Pigeon came to help him up to his room.

“That beetroot wine is good stuff,” declared Geoffrey. “I hope you have plenty of it.”

“Enough for your needs, I hope, milord,” said Pigeon.

“And you forget that, I’m plain Mr. Jefferson,” said Geoffrey.

“O’ course, sir,” said Pigeon.

 

oOoOo

 

Simon Endicott had utilised the time whilst Lady Calver was at Bow Street to pack a bag for his employer, and go to the bank in his name. Preferring not to stay to answer any questions from either a Bow Street Officer, or Lady Calver, he packed a bag for himself, as well, and took off with his own curricle. His curricle was not as shiny as Geoffrey’s, and his team were reliable and steady rather than likely to race, and unlike Geoffrey, Simon drove two abreast rather than tandem, not being either inclined to care about showing his skill in driving tandem, nor having the urge to overtake other vehicles where the narrower profile of the equipage more than made up for a longer team to have to overtake on narrow roads. Having been informed where his employer would be, Simon felt able to push on at whatever pace his horses found comfortable, without having to stop to ask the way.  If Suggs had been a little more astute, or lucky, he might have overheard the gossip of the stablehands, that Mr. Endicott was going out with his lordship’s bags, and plainly knew where he was; at which point, Suggs might have followed. However, Suggs missed that bit of byplay, proving that law enforcement must always rely on luck; and that partisan servants were not about to share information to the man hired by the unpopular dowager to find the popular peer just because she wanted it.  For all his hot temper, Geoffrey was popular, as he went to the effort of knowing everything about his employees, and seeing to their needs and wants. He also made up for any lapses of temper with material apologies as bonuses to anyone he had called down unjustly; and it made his people ready to go the extra mile for him.

And if Mr. Endicott knew where milord was, and was going to join him, it was nobody else’s business, and milady like as not would not even miss Mr. Endicott, a school chum of milord’s, since she thought anyone who had to work for a living to be beneath her notice.

Simon Endicott was wondering how Geoffrey had made his way to the Shotley Peninsula in one day; and came to the inevitable conclusion that he had not.  He pushed on into the evening to achieve the objective of Chelmsford, where he stayed at The Black Boy, with its unashamedly Royalist inn name, to check that Milord Jeffy had been through, had joined a mill and knocked out the local champion, had drunk a bottle of brandy, but had still been up for breakfast at six-thirty and pushed on, still, in the words of mine host, in the devil’s own temper. Simon knew his friend’s tempers, and doubted that Geoffrey had consciously stopped for the night, even with the amelioration to his anger of being able to knock a man down.  Geoffrey had learned to control his tempers since his father’s death, but when the dowager went out of her way to cause him grief, he could completely lose himself in rage.  Simon cordially detested Lady Calver, who saw her son as a possession to be flaunted, and whose marriage was to provide a setting for herself, the mother of the bridegroom, the generous dowager welcoming a new bride into her place under her tutelage – or, more to the point, under her thumb. Simon cursed himself for having missed that breakfast fiasco, and therefore his failure to bring Geoffrey out of the red rage in which he had set off.  He had not had any qualms that Geoffrey would have an accident, and had been surprised to learn that such had, indeed, befallen his friend. Geoffrey, however angry, seemed to have a veritable instinct for driving, and behaved, on the whole, with courtesy on the road.  When Simon read that the mishap had occurred avoiding a hog, he was much happier; it was just like Geoffrey to do so.

Simon had collected the rest of the ruby parure from the bank, in case Geoffrey wanted to sell more, and had answered the manager’s coy queries about an announcement in the offing with a fishy stare. The tale of a betrothal had been quashed in the newspaper, and as the ruby parure was a Calver family set of jewellery, there was nothing to stop Geoffrey from doing what he liked with it, up to and including throwing it in the River Orwell.  Which he was quite as likely to do as anything else if Lady Calver mentioned that she found it handsome and imposing.

Miss Ann Sherley had attracted the former marquis with her beauty, and being well below her husband socially had attempted to make up for her lack of birth in throwing her weight around. Her husband had been able to keep her in order; but her demands that her son marry someone ‘suitable’ had left Geoffrey’s temper fraying more and more as any girls he showed a partiality for were frightened off, their parents bought off, or downright threatened, whilst the dowager pushed girls of impeccable lineage but retiring disposition on him.

 

 

 Simon duly entered the Running Buck in time for dinner on Tuesday, to find his friend seated with a red haired youth – presumably the boy he meant to take as a ward – and an elderly bucolic.

“Hello, Sluggy! You took your time,” said Geoffrey.

“It’s impossible to do the trip in less than two days, Hedgehog,” said Simon, relieved that Geoffrey was using boyish nicknames. His own, less than flattering, had come about via his refusal to answer to ‘Sim’ at school, and an older boy calling him ‘Slimyone’ which, Geoffrey had said, was far more dignified to take a stage further and accept rather than get upset by it. As Simon had retorted that Geoffrey was a fine one to talk, being more full of prickles than an urchin, the names had stuck.

“I did it… no, wait, I stopped over somewhere,” said Geoffrey. “Had a lovely mill, there, too.”

“Traumatised the local champion in Chelmsford for life into believing that he was milled down by a combination of Mendoza, Jackson, and a runaway coach,” said Simon, cheerfully. “So, you’ve lost your memory?”

“Tactically speaking, yes,” said Geoffrey. “Oh, my manners; this is Pip, who is some get of Cabbage Seward’s, and this is Gaffer Keeble, who’s an old sailor, pugilist, and proud owner of Napoleon, a boar.”

“The one that upset you?”

“No, that one belongs to Miss Congreve, sister of the late reverend. Sarey the sow is Napoleon’s inamorata of choice, and has a fondness for sunbathing in the road and bathing bathing in the Orwell.”

“Clear as mud,” said Simon. “What’s for dinner?”

“Mutton curried with rice, removed with duck stuffed with apricots served with green peas, shallots, new potatoes and celery,” said Geoffrey. “Jinny Pigeon is a fine cook.”

“And, I confess, a nice change from the excess of removes your French cook insists on,” said Simon.

“My mother’s French cook,” said Geoffrey. “So, is she throwing things and threatening retribution?”

“She was; but yesterday, she headed to Bow Street to report you missing, and hire a runner to find you.”

“How remarkably gauche of her,” said Geoffrey, his eyes glittering. “What crime has she laid at my door to be arrested for?”

“Oh, none; just that you are a missing person.”

“I am tempted to get a yacht, and sail to Gibraltar,” said Geoffrey.

“You’d be seasick in the Bay of Biscay,” said Simon.

“Damn you, yes,” said Geoffrey. “Mind, I like the concept of slipping my moorings and heading for Ipswich, Harwich, Felixtowe or somewhere on the double estuary.”

“What a good job I brought you plenty of blunt,” said Simon. “Are you serious?”

“Well, I wouldn’t mind settling here for a while,” said Geoffrey. “I want to rescue the lady who picked me up and patched me up from the attentions of the vicar, only though I like her well enough, nothing has screamed to me that I want to be with her for the rest of my life. And I don’t know how she’d feel about me adopting Pip.”

“If you adopted all of Cabbage’s get, you’d be knee deep in brats,” said Simon. “As I recall, he made a habit of debauching village girls from about the age of fourteen.”

“That would make the oldest about eighteen, now,” said Geoffrey. “I don’t know how old Pip is.”

“I hadn’t been counting,” said Pip. “Why ‘Cabbage?’ and why ‘Sluggy’ and ‘Hedgehog?’”

“It started out as ‘Cribbage’ because he used to cheat at cribbage at school,” said Geoffrey. “I think it morphed because nobody likes cabbage. Not the way it’s cooked at school, anyway.”

“And you don’t get to use our nicknames, young shaver,” said Simon. “I brought you some more suitable clothes for your estate; you look like the wraggle-taggle gypsy-o.”

“Poor brat, he more or less has been,” said Geoffrey.