Armand’s First Letter. Amelia’s First Letter.
9 September 1018
Bois de Bas
Dear Journal,
Jack received a letter a few days ago that has pushed him into action—a thing most delightful to see, for he has been growing more haggard by the day. It is not in him to enjoy idling, and though he enjoys playing with his nieces he cannot run after them. They have grown to be exceedingly quick on their feet, and so he can only spend so much of his day with them.
Nor was Jack cut out to be a nursemaid. “I’m not a confounded sergeant,” he said to me last week.
Jack came into my shop to tell me about the letter, ambling in that decisive way of his; I do not quite understand how one can amble decisively, but I have seen more than one matron of Bois-de-Bas move out of his path, completely unaware of having done so. I do not mean he is pushy; but somehow they see him coming from some yards away, and gradually make room without being quite aware of it.
I do not think Jack is aware of it either. He would be mortified to know that ladies were getting out of his way.
But he always greets them cheerfully and tips his hat, just as though he were in Yorke; and perhaps this accounts for it.
He was tapping the folder letter against his fingertips as he entered the shop.
“Armand,” he said when I looked up, “Do you suppose I could stay at your guild house in Mont-Havre for a period of time? A week, or perhaps two or three?”
There was no reason why not; the building sits empty save when I am in in Mont-Havre, which is to say for ninety-nine hundredths of the year.
“Of course,” I said, “and you’ll need conveyance to and from, I am sure.”
He nodded assent, still looking at the letter.
“I assume there’s something in that letter that explains this?” I said.
“Yes. It’s from Lord Doncaster. It seems a certain Colonel Peters, a crony of his, is to be stationed here in Mont-Havre. He suggests that, if I am not too busy, I might assemble a kind of guide book for the colonel’s use. I could write it here, from memory, but—”
“—but you’re ready for a change,” I said drily.
He smiled—a glorious sight. “Well, that, of course. But I wish to be sure I haven’t forgotten anything; and I thought perhaps I might throw in some sketches. I was a dab hand at sketching battlefields and similar things in my army days.”
“That’s a good idea,” I said. “I don’t believe any such guide exists, and certainly not in Cumbrian. Perhaps His Lordship could help you to publish it for use by other Cumbrian gentleman.”
Jack stretched himself out on the settee by the unlit potbelly stove. “I do believe that might be in his mind; in fact, I think that’s what’s behind the whole thing. It’s that dratted book of mine—it has been awful for me, but almost equally so for him, and of course he feels responsible.”
“Does he?”
“Oh, yes. He chose the publisher whose employee stole the manuscript, adulterated it, and took it off to Ukridge House.”
“True; I suppose he would. Is there any word about his lawsuit against Ukridge?”
“Just that it’s proceeding. But it almost doesn’t matter. A lost reputation is hard to rebuild, even when it was lost unfairly.” He shrugged. “As one of the injured parties I might get a few pounds from it, which I would not take amiss. But it’s the loss of reputation that stings.” He shook his head. “I shall have to be most circumspect in Mont-Havre, even now. I shall glide about the city like a ghost, sketching a statue here, a building there, and making notes about restaurants and inns and so forth. But for the most part I shall have to rely on my memories for what is within those walls, as I fear I should not be welcome.”
“You’ll find it hard to avoid notice, I would think,” I said.
“Oh, I shan’t wear this,” he said, waving at his colorful garments. Jack wore a red coat in His Majesty’s service, of course; and since his injury, he has affected civilian clothes of a similarly bright hue. “I know how to spy out hostile territory. Subfusc is the word, Armand. Or, if not subfusc, for I am no damned solicitor, then at least nondescript.”
He considered for a moment. “I shall have to have a word with your tailor here in Bois-de-Bas. My old tailor in Mont-Havre mightn’t be glad to see me, and whether or no he certainly wouldn’t be glad to make up a suit as unstylish as I will be looking for.” He rose, nodding as decisively as he ambled.
“Well,” he said, “there’s no time like the present. I’d best be about it.”
And then he left the shop whistling.
Amazing.
____
Photo by Dawid Zawiła on Unsplash
Zymurgia House 