Abigail served at a breakfast that did have Jack and didn’t have Eleonora, in bed with a headache, and so was there to see the first meeting of Jack and Hilary. More bloody competition, she thought, though she couldn’t hold it against Miss Hilary, whom she’d met before and thought good fun. Not one for airs and graces like Miss Deirdre and not stuck up at all. No, she couldn’t fault Hilary for liking Jack and she couldn’t really fault Jack if he liked Hilary. She was definitely fed up that only one of them had a chance of meeting Jack outside to talk to. Gunna ‘ave to do something about that.
‘I ran into your uncle this morning, Abigail,’ he told her. Earns points that does, an’ ‘im pulling me into conversation with all these toffs around gets ‘im a few more.
‘He’s a lad, isn’t he?’
‘Famous in these parts he is, sir. Tells everyone that he’s a poacher and that he’s never been up before the beak for it. Never has neither.’
‘A bit of a Casanova in his day, from what I’ve heard.’
‘Deirdre.’ Lady Charlotte’s voice was level and quiet, but the command in it was clear.
‘Oh, Mummy. This is 1915 you know. Victoria’s long dead. I know what Casanova was famous for and I know a lot of the local girls have claimed him as a father of their little…’ she hesitated, ‘Little fatherless ones.’
‘That’s what they do say, but he always ses they don’t never bring any gingers when they come calling him the dad, so he don’t see how any of ‘em can be his.’
‘That’s as may be, but this is not suitable conversation for the breakfast table.’
That silenced everyone for a moment and Lady Charlotte turned back to her newspaper.
‘Oh my good God,’ she said a moment later.
‘What is it?’
‘Kipling’s son has died in the war and he’s published a poem about it.’
‘That would be suitable for the breakfast table, though, wouldn’t it?’ muttered Deirdre, earning herself a glare from her mother.
‘May I see?’ said Jack and took the paper.
He read the first line, ‘Have you news of my boy Jack?’ and felt a chill run down his spine. What’s that all about? He finished the poem and looked at Lady Charlotte.
‘He drowned, this boy?’
‘It’s not clear from the article, but one would presume so from the poem.’
She looks very upset about it, now where is that coming from?
‘It looks rather…’ he searched for the right word, ‘Jingoistic isn’t quite it, but that’s what comes to mind.’
Jack could see from her face that Lady Charlotte felt the same.
‘Perhaps just a bereaved father looking desperately for something to help him deal with the pain?’
She thought about it and nodded, ‘Perhaps just so.’
‘Oh, Mummy. That awful man, Helena’s brother, is having an exhibition in London.’
Deirdre had been looking over Jack’s shoulder and picking for things of more genuine interest.
‘Not Walter Sickert? Disgusting little man.’
‘Sickert?’ asked Jack, ‘The artist?’ Something was wrong there. ‘I thought he was dead.’
‘Well, hardly if he’s exhibiting work in London.’ Deirdre was still reading, looking for more gossip.
YOU ARE READING
Private Universe
Science FictionToo young for the Great War, convalescing after what he's told was scarlet fever and recuperating in a West Country castle, Jack's the object of intense female interest. He's a good-looking lad who has a way with women anyway, but he is also the onl...
