His father chuckled. “That sounds like brandy to me. I shall need one, anyway. Do the honours, will you, and then you can tell me of this development.”
Bertram poured two brandies, and then related the whole story, hiding nothing. His father listened without interruption, and only the occasional raising of his eyebrows indicated his thoughts.
When the tale wound to its conclusion, he sipped his brandy, then set the glass down on the table beside his chair. “In my day,” he said thoughtfully, “courtship was a straightforward business. One met a young lady, one fell in love, one proposed. One then found oneself betrothed… or possibly not betrothed, but one was left in no doubt as to which it was. This newfangled idea of covert betrothals that might not actually be betrothals is too modern for me. I should not like it very much. Why do you not simply go to the girl and tell her how you feel about her?”
Bertram laughed. “I shall do so, in time, but her situation is very unsettled at present. She has been raised by Lady Esther toview a title as the summit of her ambition, and she is only now realising the emptiness of that principle. Only a short while ago, she was engaged to Walter, with her future settled. I do not want to rush her into a hasty decision, either to marry or not to marry. It seems to me that she needs time to adjust to her new situation and decide what she truly wants. I hope it will be me, in the end, but if not… well, I can still give her Latin lessons.”
“I suppose that is what passes for courtship in your head,” his father said sadly. “Forget the Latin lessons, Bertram, just kiss her. If you want to win her heart, kiss her. A suitably passionate kiss will reduce the most resistant girl to jelly.”
“That did not work at Landerby,” he said crossly. “I kissed her and reducedmyselfto jelly, while she went off and kissed all my friends. And Embleton, seemingly, and reducedhimto jelly, too. Kisses are not the answer, Father, not with Bea.”
His father sighed. “Perhaps you are right. But one thing is increasingly clear to me — we all need to get to know this girl a great deal better. I shall ask your mother to invite the Franklyns to dinner.”
28: An Evening At Westwick Heights
Bertram was deep in preparation for his next lesson with Bea one morning, when his father came into the library.
“Did you hear a horse on the drive just now?”
Bertram blinked, bringing himself back into the modern world. “Erm… horse? No.”
His father chuckled. “You would not hear the last trumpet unless it bellowed right in your ear. A horse came up the drive and round to the stables.”
“Oh? An interesting visitor?”
“No, an interesting horse. One we have been much wondering about.”
“Catullus?”
“The very same, with John Whyte leading him. Shall we go and hear his story?”
“It had better be good,” Bertram said grimly.
By the time they reached the stables, all the grooms had gathered around Whyte in an angry altercation. They fell silent when the Athertons appeared.
“Well now, Whyte, we have been much concerned for you and Catullus,” Bertram’s father said in pleasant tones. “We were sure some accident must have befallen one or other of you, but here you both are, safe and sound.”
“Therewasan accident, sir, and I’m very sorry for it, for it were my own fault. It were no more than five miles from Landerby, and I’d taken it easy and stopped to rest Catullus, but he seemed frisky after that and so… so I…”
“Yes?”
“So I let him have his head for a spell, sir, and there was a toll-gate and… well, he were all set to jump it and I were trying to rein him in, and he just went, sir. Nothing I could do.”
“Youjumpedhim?” Bertram said, startled.
“Aye, sir. Never meant to, cos you’ve always said you never jumped him, but he just took it into his head to do it, and then, what with me trying to hold him back, he caught one foot on the top bar. He were all right, seemingly, not lame nor nothing, but I were that worried, sir, in case I’d done some real damage, so I never rode him after that, just walked him.”
“Walked him? All the way here?”
“Aye, sir. At least… not here. I took him to me sister, out at Brigg’s Farm, cos the pastern were inflamed and I dursn’t bring him back here till he were right again.”
“And you could not have sent us word, I suppose?” Bertram cried. “Morton has been all over the place trying to find you. We were worried about you!”
His father chuckled. “We even wondered if you had run away because you were afraid to face Captain Edgerton’s questions on the murder of Mr Nicholson. You received a letter that the captain wanted to question you, and the next thing we know, you have disappeared.”
Whyte’s face was a picture of bewilderment. “Mr Nicholson? You thoughtI’dkilled the poor gentleman? Oh, Lord! It weren’tme, Mr Atherton, sir. I’d nevermurderanyone! I never had nothing to do with it, I swear.”
“We know. It was Tom Shapman.”
