The Horns of the Buffalo (4 page)

His mother arched an eyebrow. ‘Don't be ridiculous. Men don't lie unconscious for several days because they have had too much port. I want to know—'

She was interrupted by a firm knock on the door. Jenkins entered and coughed apologetically.

‘Sorry to interrupt, sir, but there's a message from Surgeon Major Reynolds.'

‘Yes, Jenkins.'

‘Just to say, sir, that he is anxious that your visitors don't stay too long and, er, make you excited, see.'

Major and Mrs Fonthill swung round in surprise. The Major examined the orderly, who returned his gaze with an air of huge innocence. ‘But we've only just arrived, man.'

‘Ah yes, sir. But Mr Fonthill's still under strict observance, er, observation, see. His temperature is very, sort of, delicate, isn't it.'

The Major shrugged his shoulders. ‘Oh, very well. We shall be back on Friday, Simon. Perhaps you will feel better then.'

Simon struggled up. ‘But I feel all right . . . Oh well, yes, of course. Thank you both for coming.'

His mother brushed his forehead with her lips and both parents took their leave, Mrs Fonthill completely ignoring Jenkins, who stood aside deferentially, coming to attention as the Major nodded to him.

As their footsteps sounded down that echoing corridor, Jenkins made to follow them.

‘Oh no you don't, Jenkins.' Simon swung his feet to the floor. ‘You were listening at the door, weren't you?'

The little Welshman drew himself up and seemed, in the process, to grow wider by the foot. ‘Me, sir? No, never. I got something better to do than snoop at keyholes, Mr Fonthill sir.'

‘Right, then. Fetch me Surgeon Major Reynolds.'

Jenkins looked stoically at the wall behind Simon's right ear. ‘Can't do that, sir. 'E's gone 'untin'.'

Wearily, Simon climbed back on to the bed. ‘No he hasn't. The hunting season is over. Get out of here, Jenkins, you confounded scoundrel.'

‘Ah, very good, sir.'

Within seven days, Surgeon Major Reynolds's patience failed him and he gave up the quest for the cause of Simon's collapse. The subaltern was allowed to return home to complete his convalescence in the warm redbrick house on the Brecon hills. The spring weather was sunny and unseasonally dry. Simon began walking and then riding again in the Beacons, and Sarah continued to fuss over him, but no further mention was made of his illness. He was informed that he had been granted a month's leave and that the matter of his future was being considered by the Duke of Cambridge's staff at Horse Guards in London. Major Fonthill saw little of his son, his days taken up with the running of the small estate which surrounded the house. His mother, however, often took tea with him in the garden to rehearse on him her Whiggish attacks on the Disraeli government. The days passed slowly for Simon.

The invitation to dine at neighbours', then, was almost a relief. It was a return match for the occasion when the Griffith family had dined at the Fonthills', just before Simon's collapse. Brigadier Griffith had retired from the 24th Regiment at roughly the same time as Major Fonthill, although, unlike Fonthill, he had spent no time on half-pay. The two soldiers had served together in India and had established a comradeship there that had endured, despite Griffith's bluff lack of any intellectual interests and his inability to understand why his friend refused now to hunt. The chase and fly fishing in the nearby stony, gin-clear river dominated the lives of Brigadier and Mrs Griffith - that and the welfare of their only child, Alice.

The fact that both parents had single children, unusual for a time when families often numbered ten or more, also gave the Griffiths and the Fonthills a commonality. The matter was never discussed, of course, but it was apparent that both mothers had had particularly difficult confinements and that their husbands - again out of step with the times - had decided to make no further demands on them. Simon and Alice, however, had had no childhood friendship nor incipient romance. The Griffiths had only moved to the Borders three years ago and Alice had been away at school and Simon at Sandhurst or serving in the regiment for most of that time. Their first opportunity to talk, in fact, had occurred only six weeks before, at the Fonthills' dinner table. It had been a stilted affair and it was with mixed feelings, then, that Simon now contemplated the dinner engagement. It would be a chance to get out of the house, although he had no intention of dancing attendance on Alice Griffith all evening.

They rode the five miles to the Griffiths' home in an open carriage, so clement was the weather. Charlotte Fonthill sat bolt upright, tightly waisted in her favourite blue, with indigo pendant earrings framing her jaw line and gently swinging in rhythm to the rocking of the landau. Her husband and son, elegant in cutaway tails, faced her, leaning on their sticks, each lost in his thoughts. Far away a cuckoo celebrated the new summer, and to the left, flickering through the green brush-wood, the River Wye gleamed below as it looped and twisted to accommodate the hill. The air was softened by new foliage that thrust forward everywhere. It was an evening of quiet gentleness and promise.

‘Damn the Russians,' Mrs Fonthill suddenly exploded. ‘They'll have India if we're not careful.'

Major Fonthill gave a sigh. ‘I suggest, my dear, that we let the Government take care of India, just for tonight.'

Mrs Fonthill snorted but relapsed into silence and Simon and his father secretly exchanged half-smiles. Eventually they breasted a rise and Chilwood Manor appeared below them, nestling greyly against the green hill behind it. Brigadier Griffith welcomed them at the door and soon all was a bustle of greetings and divestment of coats and capes. Alice did not join her parents in the entrance hall but waited in the drawing room. As he entered, Simon saw a sturdy, fair-haired young woman, dressed in grey taffeta cut away at the shoulders to reveal a startlingly white décolletage. As far as he could tell, no cosmetics had been applied either to bosom or to the even-featured face, which was dominated by high cheekbones and steady eyes, as grey as the dress. Alice Griffith was not formally pretty - she was, perhaps, too strongly featured in that her jaw line was as firm as Simon's - but she was, Simon had to admit, looking attractive in the evening sunlight that filtered through the stone-framed windows.

‘Good evening, Mr Fonthill,' said Alice, advancing, her hand extended, towards Simon. She saw before her a young man of medium height and slim build, with hair almost as fair as her own and with brown eyes set in an open, pleasant face. The eyes, however, did not hold hers and they quickly looked away as he took her white-gloved hand. ‘I was so sorry,' she continued, ‘to hear that you had been ill and I do hope that you are feeling better.'

Simon bowed low over her hand and then addressed the curtains behind her right shoulder. ‘Thank you. I have recovered remarkably quickly and feel rather a charlatan now. I ought to be back with my regiment.'

The Brigadier bustled over. He had his daughter's directness of approach but towered over them both. ‘Sorry to hear about all that, my boy,' he said, beckoning the footman to bring champagne. ‘It must have been wretched to have missed the Cape boat.'

Simon fixed his gaze on the Brigadier's loosely knotted white tie. ‘Oh, it was, sir. It was.'

‘Any news of the Kaffir business?'

‘Too early, sir. They may not even have landed yet.'

‘Dashed bad luck for you. What exactly was the trouble?'

Simon looked desperately round the room. His father and mother were conversing with Mrs Griffith and the two other guests, the Reverend and Mrs Nathanial Harwood, before the elegant white fireplace. Glasses had just been filled so there was no rescue from the footman. He caught Alice's eye.

‘Papa,' she said quickly, ‘if I may say so, I do think it is rather unhelpful to ask a person about his illness when he is still trying to leave it behind him. I believe that we should talk to Mr Fonthill about other things. Even, if you must, the army.' And she gave them both a wide smile, revealing even white teeth.

Simon gave the girl a half-bow in acknowledgement and allowed himself a quick glance at her eyes. Was there just a hint of mischief behind that charming smile?

Dinner was grand by Brecon county standards. The Brigadier had inherited money and his farm tenants were adding to it quite acceptably. The rays of the late evening sun through the long window reflected in both the table silver and the rich mahogany. The leek soup was followed by poached halibut and then woodcock, served on great slabs of toasted bread soaked in brown gravy, which gave way, in turn, to a rack of Welsh lamb. The fare was rich and substantial, if not exactly elegantly served. Inevitably, Simon was placed next to Alice, but he contrived to spend most of his time talking to Mrs Harwood, on his left. Nevertheless, the table was small enough for them all to engage in general discussion which eventually, to Mrs Fonthill's delight, centred on the Russian threat to India.

Alice disconcerted the guests by cogently arguing - in the face of general opinion to the contrary around the table - against invading Afghanistan and so establishing a forward position in defence of India. Her articulate command of the military and political detail of the case clearly did not meet with the full approval of her parents who, Simon surmised, felt a little embarrassed at their daughter's domination of a debate more suitably conducted by men. It also surprised and rather daunted Simon, who remained silent, even when the argument - now rather one-sided - continued among the men after the ladies had retired to the drawing room.

Eventually the men rejoined the ladies and found Mrs Fonthill resisting bridge and arguing that good conversation was the best possible form of after-dinner entertainment. Avoiding direct disagreement, Mrs Griffith suggested that the company might first care to hear Alice play and sing. It was a clear attempt to reassure the guests that, despite her precocity, her daughter did possess more feminine accomplishments, and the gathering accepted the offer with polite acclamation. Simon noted that Alice showed no disinclination to perform and that she walked to the piano without hesitation.

She played with confidence but no obvious charm, accompanying herself in ‘Where'er You Walk' and demonstrating a clear, strong voice without discernible vibrato. Her encore was a light piece from a current musical operetta. She sang it with style and a jauntiness which, once again, sat rather inappropriately on her young, provincial shoulders.

Leading the applause, which, Simon noted, was perhaps less than fulsome, Mrs Griffith rose to her feet. ‘Charming, my dear,' she said. And then, with an almost desperate glance at the window, ‘Now, why don't you show Simon the topiary before the light goes?'

Simon's heart sank and he looked with consternation at Alice. Again she surprised him. ‘Of course, Mama,' she said and smiled at Simon. They left the room in an awkward silence.

The topiary was a monument to Mrs Griffith's determination and the skill and application of three gardeners. Silhouetted against the waning sun, green peacocks preened, lions crouched and pyramids pointed to the early stars.

Alice led him to the heart of it all and stopped. ‘Well, what do you think of it?' she asked.

‘Think of what?'

‘The topiary.'

Simon looked about him in misery. ‘It's . . . it's . . . very well done, isn't it?'

Alice scowled. ‘No it isn't. I hate the bloody things.'

Simon's jaw dropped - as much at her intensity as her barrack-room language.

‘Anyway,' she continued, ‘I didn't want to show you this. I wanted to talk to you. I felt it was time we spoke.'

‘Er, yes, of course.'

Alice stood quite close and gazed at him earnestly. She was flushing slightly and Simon felt that, in the fast-deepening twilight, she looked almost pretty.

‘You know what's happening, don't you?' she demanded.

‘Yes. Well, no. I . . . ah . . . am not quite sure that I do exactly.'

‘Of course you do. They are trying to get us together.' Now she was frowning and she put her hand on his arm in emphasis. ‘For some reason - and I suppose it is because our fathers are such good friends - our parents want us to get to know each other better so that . . .' she paused and blushed again, ‘we will eventually fall in love and want to get married.'

Simon took a slightly alarmed half-step backwards. ‘Ah. Yes. I see.'

Alice stamped her foot. ‘Well, I hope you do. It is a terrible thing to do to two people. Why should I want to marry you one day just because my father served in the army with yours? It is intolerable. In any case, I don't wish to get married - probably ever. Do you?'

‘Well, I don't know. Probably not. Not for a long time, anyway.'

‘And you don't love me?'

‘Er, well, as a matter of fact, I don't think I do. I'm terribly sorry.'

‘Are you sure?'

‘Yes . . . ah, that is, I think so. No. I am quite sure, thank you.'

‘Good. How splendid.'

Despite her frown, the relief in Alice's face was luminous and they stood looking at each other, standing as close as lovers and gazing seriously into each other's eyes. It was Simon who first began to laugh, suddenly sensing not only the incongruity of the situation, but a great feeling of freedom, too. His laugh was infectious and Alice threw back her head and joined in.

Together they stood wheezing hilariously as the sun finally slipped beneath a Brecon peak and the topiary's shadows enclosed them.

‘That's settled, then,' said Alice, taking a small lace-frilled handkerchief from her bag and wiping her eyes. ‘I am so glad. This means that we can be friends - good friends, like our fathers. Doesn't it?'