JACK OF DIAMONDS

Chap 9 pt2 (IS LOST TO ALL CONVENTION...)

Lunch was a sumptuous affair served in a gazebo overlooking the gardens; the only access to it was an outdoor staircase forty feet wide bordered with rhododendron, hyacinth, and azalea no longer in bloom. Artie counted thirty steps before losing count. The gazebo was built on a landing above the garden, its base a wall of solid brickwork stained green by lichen, moss, and time. Artie looked out at the endless passage of walkways, their red and white brickwork meandering through the garden Artie imagined would be a mosaic of colours during the summer. There were decorative benches and delicately made arbours that were almost hidden in tight recesses. Two streams of water tumbled down two troughs of broken stones—the water eagerly catching the afternoon sun in a cascade of colours. Willow trees wept in the distance, near a greenhouse, their tentacled branches dancing in a light breeze, scratching at the sky—but the sky was a clear blue, what few clouds there were earlier, blown out to sea long ago.

The Pavilion—Lord Aylesbury refused to call it a gazebo—was sealed closed against the elements. Eight etched glass panels caught the afternoon sun, reflecting and refracting the light, creating a palette of colours washing across the weave of a gold brocade tablecloth on a table made to sit fourteen. Huge bouquets of flowers in several vases decorated a server, where tureens, extra plates, silverware, and crystalware danced in the afternoon light. Three Footmen stood at attention, waiting to serve lunch, as three kitchen maids brought each successive dish out from the kitchen.

Artie arrived dressed in a double-breasted suit of blue linen with white shadow stripes. There was nothing subtle about it, he’d told Berry, as the man stood brushing the jacket for him. The pants were an easy fit, right down to the cuffed ankles and the brown and tan two-tone shoes. His hair had been oiled and combed, and he was clean shaven. When he’d first looked at himself in the standing mirror, he smiled. As much as he thought Berry may have made a mistake with the custom cut suit and the colour, he was pleased with the look; all the same, he refused to wear the boater Berry suggested.

“I’m not good with hats,” was all he said.

Baron Geurnsy, 2nd Earl of Aylesbury, was a large, rather portly man, barrel-shaped, dressed in a brown, three piece suit, the waistcoat fitting snug against the wide expanse of his belly. He had a fringe of grey hair, not unlike a monk’s, his dazzling blue eyes dancing under heavy brows that were still dark—a nostalgic holdover of his fading youth, as he liked to say. He stood up the moment Artie was announced, extending a large hand and smiling generously as he invited Artie to sit.

“I’m pleased to have you, Mr. Spencer. Your father and I were close for a time, fighting the Boer, and all that rot—but you’re not here to listen to that, are you? You probably heard enough of that shit from your father—”

“Leo, honestly,” the Baroness said with a slight shake of her head. She rolled her eyes as she looked up at Artie. She appeared apologetic.

“I’d heard Berry went up to valet for you. I’m glad to see you found something suitable, Mr. Berry,” the Baron smiled, looking uncomfortable as he sat once again.

Berry bowed and accepted the compliment.

“Right, then! Capital, I must say! Fucking capital! Right girls?” he added, looking at his two daughters, and daughter-in-law.

“Leo!”

“Right, Dear. Right.”

“I’m Gerald. I hear you brought Jenny’s horse back?” he said, standing and extending his hand to Artie. “My wife, Daphne,” he added, just before he sat down. Daphne was dressed in a grey draped, flapper inspired dress, with a bow and matching hat. She looked stunning, Artie thought, not that he’d consider himself an expert on fashion; but he wasn’t a bad judge of women.

“Artie,” he said softly. “And yes,” Artie smiled, looking at Margaret, still sitting as Simon rose to extend his hand. “I did bring the horse back.”

“Brilliant, simply brilliant,” Simon laughed, sitting down again after introducing himself.

“Simon. My wife, Margaret.”

“Please, sit down, Mr. Spencer. Sit,” the Baron laughed, pointing at a chair to his left. “No, no, not there—between the girls,” he laughed. “Roger’s not likely to be coming down is he Jenny, and Aggie’s all alone anyway, desperately in need of an escort, aren’t you, dear?”

“I would not say ‘desperately’, Poppa,” Agatha smiled, looking demure in a navy blue day dress with ivory trim.

“Not alone, just lonely,” Gerald laughed.

“Oh, Gerald, please,” Daphne said, trying to sound disappointed but only succeeding in making herself sound pretentious.

“She hasn’t been with a man in what—eight years? Believe me, she’s lonely,” Gerald said with another laugh. “And Artie there, wearing Andy’s clothes better than Andy ever wore them himself won’t help matters much.”

“That’s quite enough of that, thank you very much,” the Baroness said.

“I didn’t say anything wrong.”

“I said that will be enough,” the Baroness said once again.

The Baron was seated at one end of the table, and the Baroness at the other; there was an awkward moment of silence before each dish was presented to the Baroness for her personal inspection. She’d take a small spoonful and put it on her plate, tasting it and nodding for the Footmen to proceed serving the family.

The Baron was always served first.

Artie turned his chair toward Jenny.

She looked both graceful and elegant in a light blue deco print dress, with an ostrich feather headband and dark blue beaded velvet capelet. A small gold chain hung around her neck, and Artie could see the pulse in her neck quickening as he pulled his chair closer. When the Baron looked at him with a furrowed brow, Artie smiled broadly.

“I’m sorry,” Artie said, making to move away. “I find that I’ve lost much of my hearing in my left ear. The big guns in the War. It’s not something I like to use as an excuse, or complain about, but I find myself repeatedly saying, ‘Excuse me?’ Or else, ‘I beg you pardon?’ I find it easier just sitting closer to a person so that I might hear what they have to say.”

“By all means,” the Baron laughed. “I’m certain Jenny won’t mind sitting close to a genuine hero.”

“I wouldn’t go as far as to say that,” Artie smiled.

“Nonsense,” the Baron barked as a laugh. “I believe we all read of your exploits.”

Artie bowed his head, feeling embarrassed, but accepting the compliment with a smile. He could see the make-up Jenny wore was lightly applied, her lips a dark red, but not the painted, shaped look Daphne favoured. Instead, she wore a light dusting of rouge, which gave her cheeks a flushed look, while both Daphne and Agatha favoured a heavy application of both foundation and rouge, reminding Artie of pictures he’d seen of actresses.

He’d heard the Baron’s ladies were quite attractive, but had been unprepared for what he’d come across. Not only were his daughters beautiful, but his daughters-in-law as well. The Baroness herself, he was certain, would’ve turned heads in her youth, and in fact probably still did. She was a tall, stately woman whose regal appearance was made all the more impressive with her choice of a red sleeveless dress, red mesh mid-length gloves and wide brimmed hat with an ostrich feather. There was an impressive three strand string of pearls wrapped around her neck that tied the whole thing together.

“I heard your husband was attacked last night?” Artie said, looking at Jenny.

“A right fucking bounder, the man was,” the Baron said, talking around a forkful of salad.

“Leo, please,” the Baroness complained.

“I’m sorry, Darling.”

“Any idea as to who he was?” Artie asked, leaning back and letting the Footman serve the salad.

“The local Constabulary are on the case, but to be quite honest, I have little regard for the man’s ability to even solve a child’s crossword puzzle,” the Baron laughed. “Have you seen the latest entry in Pearson’s? Capital!” he laughed. “Genius!”

“Oh, Poppa, no one wants to hear about those silly word games you play,” Margaret said from across the table, and Simon laughed—but it was obviously forced, Artie thought.

“On the contrary,” Artie smiled, addressing Margaret. “When last my mother wrote to me, she said how it was the latest rage in the countryside.”

“There! You see? I’ll have to purchase a collection straight away,” the Baron laughed, sitting back and letting the Footman take his half-eaten salad away.

“And the Constable?” Artie asked, starting in on his salad. “Why is it you have no confidence in him?”

Gerald laughed. “They’ve already sent him help from Okehampton. What’s that say about their confidence in him? He was here last night—on his own—and my first thought was, ‘Good on you lad, for taking it on.’ But he’s rather young I feel. And I suppose they felt they had to send him someone, because of his youth and inexperience, I’d imagine. But they sent a woman to help him! I suppose that shows you how they feel about us out here in the countryside.”

“A distraction, is what she is,” Simon was quick to say.

“Exactly!” Gerald agreed.

“They were here when I brought the horse in—I’m sorry, what is the horse’s name?” Artie asked, turning to look at Jenny again. There was a small smile playing across his soft lips as he turned his attention to her.

“Isobelle,” she said, looking down at her plate; she’d yet to make eye contact with him.

“Isobelle,” Artie said, turning to look at Simon and Gerald. “I met her—well, both of them, actually—and I thought, ‘I could quite fancy being interviewed by her,’ rather than him, I would think. I cannot say if that’s a personal recommendation—or maybe a fantasy I had? I shall not say. But I take it, by what both of you are saying, that you feel women are not suited for that sort of work? Or is it, they should not be allowed to take part in any sort of work?”

“Do you think they should?” Gerald countered.

“My mother would certainly qualify,” Artie laughed. “With five of us boys, and a girl, she was always able to sort out who took what from whom. She has a sharp mind—”

“No doubt made sharper with those crossword puzzles you say she enjoys,” the Baron laughed.

“No doubt,” Artie smiled as a Footman brought in a tray of salmon mousse canapés, followed by a shrimp salad served in romaine hearts. “What I mean to say is, just because a woman’s attractive, does not mean she cannot be intelligent. I’m willing to admit she’s quite stunning—”

“Is she?” Margaret asked, trying to sound impartial, but failing.

“Not as stunning as the present company, I admit,” Artie laughed, “but stunning none-the-less,” he added with a smile, slowly reaching his hand down and touching Jenny’s thigh. He could feel her stiffen in shock at the touch of his hand, and took a deep breath. Startled by his brazen touch, she shifted her chair and turned her attention to her canapé as though there was nothing wrong.

Artie adjusted his chair again, facing Simon and Margaret, and smiling at Jenny as he moved closer to her. He reached out and began pulling at the dress she was wearing, bunching it up over her thighs as he looked at Margaret.

Jenny looked at him briefly and closed her legs tight, trapping his hand between her thighs. Artie pinched her thigh—almost certain he left a bruise—and began forcing her legs apart.

“And do you really feel this woman will be any help to the Constable?” Simon asked; there was a note of exasperation in his voice it was impossible to miss.

“I fail to see what being a woman has to do with anything,” Agatha said gently, and Artie turned to look at her, nodding his agreement.

“Oh, please, Aggie,” Simon laughed. “Really? A woman’s not meant to do the things a man can do.”

“I disagree,” Artie smiled, turning his chair again to look at Simon. He was happy to notice it gave him more freedom under the table. He leaned forward, and pulling Jenny’s leg, was quick to swing his own leg across her knee and run his hand up the inside of her right thigh. He could feel her lace pocket garter she had on as well as the sheer silk hose she was wearing. He smiled, catching his calloused hand on the silk. Sliding his hand along the inside of her hosiery, and then around her thigh, he pulled her leg toward him.

He never looked at her once.

“You disagree?” Gerald smiled, leaning forward. Artie was thinking how Gerald was being considerate by leaning in and making it easier for Artie to hear him. Looking at Jenny briefly, Artie leaned forward.

“Of course I disagree. What of Madame Curie? A woman of science. Virginia Wolfe? A woman of letters. What of music, and art? Woman account for a great deal in this world, and for us to dismiss them out of hand—or refer to them as the weaker sex—I feel is a mistake. Underestimating their abilities, or refusing to acknowledge their contributions, is also mistakes men will undoubtedly learn to regret.”

“Not in my lifetime, I trust,” Gerald said, trying to sound stern.

“One would almost think you were an avid supporter of the Suffragettes,” Daphne added with a pleasant smile. She touched a napkin to the corners of her mouth, looked at the lipstick stain, and quickly searched her small clutch for a compact.

“You were not?” Artie asked, turning to look at Jenny and the other women seated around the table.

“What does a woman need the vote for?” Daphne countered, the compact in her hand, but unopened as she leaned forward to make her point.

“Then you feel women should have no say in anything?” Artie asked with a slow shake of his head.

“And that’s what I like about her,” Gerald laughed.

“No doubt,” Artie smiled.

“I must say, I dislike the tone of your voice,” Gerald said, suddenly serious.

“Do you? Did you serve?” Artie asked, looking at him directly.

He waited five seconds before he went on.

“I didn’t think so. You can tell a man who served on the Front by that little something in his eyes, am I right, Baron?”

“What? Oh yes, yes,” he said, looking at the slice of quiche the Footman placed in front of him.

“When you stare down death enough times, you get so that you become complacent toward it; you welcome it sometimes, especially when you see the final toll of those who’ve fallen that day. You understand it after a while—life is cheap you realize—and you see that same look in other mens’ eyes without realizing that you have the same look as well.”

“And you can see that look in a man?” Agatha asked.

“I don’t know if other men can, but I can,” Artie nodded, smiling at her.

“Neither one of them served,” she said, and he thought he detected a trace of scorn in her voice. “Andrew did,” she continued. “He volunteered as soon as he could. He never came back though, did he? Now, we lend his wardrobe out to those unexpected guests who get invited to lunch, or asked to stay for tea. And you’re right, Gerald, every time I see someone coming down those steps wearing his clothes, I give a little gasp of surprise. And why not? It’s like seeing a ghost, do you not agree?”

“I’m sorry,” Artie said, inclining his head.

Slipping his hand up toward Jenny’s crotch and feeling the softness of the silk undergarment she was wearing, he began running his fingers along the edges of the material, sensing an involuntary shudder running through her body. He watched her lifting her napkin towards her mouth. His fingers paused, and pulling the material aside he gently stroked her. She looked at him, tried slipping her free hand under the table, but a Footman moved in beside her with the next course—a meat and potato turnover—and she was forced to move to the right. Artie politely moved as well, but not before pushing his finger into her, piercing and penetrating her with a suddenness that caught her by surprise as she hid behind the napkin.

“Cozy?” he asked, and then grinned, pushing his finger deeper into her flesh, feeling her wetness as she opened her legs and shifted forward.

She doesn’t want it, she needs it.

He looked up at the Baroness.

“I understand you have a Ball planned for the night?”

“We do,” the Baroness smiled. “I do hope you’ll make the effort to attend?”

“I hear this is also the first one of the season?”

“Yes, the Solstice Season we like to call it,” Margaret laughed.

“We don’t call it that, Maggie,” Gerald said rather stiffly. “It’s been called that since they first started with it, whenever the hell that was.”

“There’s no need for that kind of crude language,” the Baroness quipped.

“Is that somebody—? Is that those two Constables?” Simon asked Margaret, squinting his eyes against the sun and looking toward the top of the stairs. “I must say, my eyes have gotten progressively worse.”

Berry turned his head and immediately left.

“I believe it is,” Gerald laughed. “I imagine old Berry will be having a fit with them about now.”