Chapter Nineteen
Corbyn found the haphazard dinner with only gentlemen, consisting of some dishes on sideboards and plentiful claret, had been tedious in the extreme. Monroe was determined to rewrite the history of the archery contest.
He was to know that Monroe’s quiver had been defective, refusing to release an arrow in a timely fashion. Corbyn refrained from commenting that the quiver in question was just a bucket, not some unseen hand clutching the arrows.
Then he was to be informed that Monroe’s bow had been faulty. The bowstring had not been tightened properly. Also, soot had got in his eyes so he could not see clearly to aim and he had an ongoing wrist injury from a violent fall from a horse.
Whatever Lord Monroe was, he was not a gracious loser.
If it had been Corbyn, though it would never have been Corbyn, he would have dropped the matter and hoped everybody forgot about it.
After all, Lady Dudmore’s house party was meant to be silly and embarrassing.
She was not Zeus and these were not the ancient games in Olympia.
If there was anything positive to come from all these excuses, it was Lady Beatrix’s father had listened to them and did not look impressed.
Finally, after extended time over port, Lady Dudmore poked her head inside the library’s doors and said, “Gentlemen, you may go through to the billiards room.”
Corbyn rose. It was time to get the next ridiculous show over with. Monroe strode ahead exclaiming, “Now billiards, that’s my game.”
As they were to attempt to play with only one hand, Corbyn did not think it would be anybody’s game. Nor was it meant to be.
The billiards room was oddly large and had rows of benches, each row higher than the next, like an ancient amphitheater.
The ladies had already been led in and were seated.
They seemed to be seated by precedence, with the queen in the center of the bottom row.
Lady Beatrix was seated higher. He smiled at her and shrugged his shoulders as if to say he could not be blamed for the absurdities to come.
She smiled back encouragingly.
That was all he needed, really. Let Lady Dunmore and the queen do their worst, a smile from Lady Beatrix was quite enough to carry him through it. The morrow would bring the forest ball and that would decide everything.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Lord Chester found his clothes soaked through with perspiration. He had not realized how difficult it would be to drill holes in the hull of a boat.
He’d done it, though. And then he’d carefully filled the holes with a paste of flour and water.
The weather was on his side, at least. The air was dry and there was a brisk wind.
His patches would be well dried by tomorrow evening.
He thought he did a neat enough job of it that it could not be noticed, especially since the sailors would set off after sunset.
Lord Chester could not imagine how the gentlemen would see anything at all.
Now that operation was completed, he crept up the rise to the house. The billiards tournament was this night and he dearly hoped Monroe could recover some of his dignity by winning. And hopefully making Harrelston look a fool while he was at it.
The old man who acted as the nightwatchman was smoking his pipe on the green.
Lord Chester waited for the fellow to make his move to under the fruit trees where he would lay his coat on the ground and go to sleep.
Really, he had begun to wonder about his own watchman.
Did they all do that? What were they being paid for?
The old man finally trudged off to his slumbers.
Lord Chester crept closer to the house. He made his way around the dining room, which had emptied, past a music room, and there was the billiards room, lit up like noon.
On the far side of the room, there were tiered benches.
There was the queen. Higher up, Lady Beatrix.
The gentlemen filed in and Lord Chester noticed Harrelston smile at someone in the stands. Lady Beatrix, no doubt. Why did not Monroe take such an opportunity?
Lady Dunmore began blathering about something. He could not hear what she said, but as footmen brought out a stack of neckcloths, he presumed she was outlining the rules for one-armed billiards.
As the footmen approached Harrelston and Monroe, he also presumed they would be the first match.
It would be purposefully done. Lady Dudmore and the queen would have been amused at what they’d witnessed at archery and further amused to match them against each other now as the first display of absurdity.
Watching in the shadows, Lord Chester slowly but surely began to wish he had not watched at all.
At first, the game was rather tedious. The men had neckcloths tying one arm against their chests, as if to heal a broken bone. Neither gentleman was managing to score points with just one hand.
Then, in what Lord Chester presumed was a bid to get one over on Harrelston, Monroe hit his cue ball in the air toward the other gentleman.
It did not seem to have much of an effect, as Harrelston just stepped aside and it plonked to the floor.
A footman picked it up and placed it back on the table at Lady Dudmore’s direction and then Harrelston promptly potted the object ball.
This seemed to drive Monroe mad, at least his expression was that of a madman.
He attempted once more to hit his ball airborne toward Harrelston.
And that was the moment Lord Chester banged his head on the bricks of the house and felt as if there was no winning in this world. Monroe launched the ball with force. It bounced off the far bank of the table, flew back, and hit him in the face.
Monroe went down like a sack of the bricks Lord Chester was currently banging his head against. A rush of footmen hurried forward and helped him to his feet. He looked dazed, the queen looked amused, and Lord Chester had seen enough.
He stomped his way back to the inn. If disabling Harrelston’s boat for the regatta did not produce any results, all was lost. He would be poor. Annie would go elsewhere. He would have to go to his ramshackle estate to try to make something of it just to eat.
It was intolerable. It could not happen.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Beatrix had retired for the night after a rather interminable evening of watching gentlemen attempting to play billiards with one hand.
The only part of it that had been interesting had been the start. Lord Harrelston had been paired with Lord Monroe, which Beatrix imagined had been done for the queen’s amusement.
The queen had been amused, too. Lord Monroe had made some strange attempts to launch his cue ball at Lord Harrelston, the second attempt managing to ricochet and hit him in the face.
Lord Monroe had been led out by a pair of footmen, his right eyelid already beginning to swell.
It had been highly ridiculous, but Lord Harrelston had come through it with aplomb.
After that, it was a lot of careful and slow play by the other gentlemen. The queen mercifully got as bored as everybody else and the evening was wrapped up.
As they all filed out, she overheard Queen Charlotte say to Lady Dudmore, “I think what we have discovered is that if the gentlemen are not to launch balls and cue sticks at one another, there is not much point to it.”
Above stairs, Lydia completed her duties with the countess and came to her through the connecting door.
As she helped Beatrix into her nightclothes, keeping her voice very low so she did not disturb the queen across the corridor, she said, “Will we read more of the gothic book before we snuff the candles?’
Beatrix had thought she’d be thrilled to do so, but she was not.
“No, not tonight, Lydia. Tonight is meant for sweet dreams, not nightmares.” Really, she thought she would be so interested in a gothic story but so many terrible things had occurred in only the first few pages she did not know if she wished to discover what other terrible things would occur.
They had their breakfast in Beatrix’s room and Lydia informed her that the other maids, especially the queen’s maids, were very much against the idea that she slept and ate with her mistress. She was exceedingly pleased over it.
Beatrix thought they might not be as jealous if they knew the cause was Beatrix’s discomfort at sleeping alone in a strange house. Lydia had told the other maids that it was simply because her company was preferred.
They had been told by Lady Dudmore that all the ladies were to report to the last room on the east side of the upper floor and there they would arrive to where Lady Dudmore kept her costumes.
Beatrix had some idea that they would go there and find complete costumes. That was not the case. Rather, there were rows of various types of furs and crates holding all manner of bits and bobs.
She looked toward her mother. The countess said, “I hardly know where to start.”
“Neither do I,” Beatrix said. “But we must start somewhere. I feel as if the end result will not be as important as the effort made.”
“I suspect you are right.”
They went forward, piecing something together as best they could, with hopes that they might find something in the village to augment the mishmash.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Corbyn supposed the one-armed billiards had gone as well as might be expected. He presumed Monroe’s outburst was due to his dissatisfaction with the archery contest. And probably his dissatisfaction over not managing to get anywhere with Lady Beatrix.
Monroe really had no self-control. He ought to work on it, as it did not reflect well on him. Corbyn had seen him briefly at breakfast and it seemed his right eye was nearly swollen shut.
Corbyn supposed there was every chance the fellow might try to ram his boat at the nighttime regatta. He would watch out for that.