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Siegfried slunk into the kitchen, still in his tuxedo, although his bow tie and cummerbund were missing. He looked like he’d had his head dunked in water at some point, or perhaps had it poured over him, because his hair had lost the usual sleek style he wore it in and assumed its natural, more unruly state, increasing his apparent dishevelment.
“You’re up early.” Audrey greeted him, hearing him enter the kitchen from where she stood at the sink, wondering briefly how he had made it home from Skipton. She dried her hands, turning towards the sound, and it was then that she took in exactly how much worse for wear he appeared to be. “Or are you just now coming in?”
“Have mercy.” He murmured pathetically. “Please.”
He was very green about the gills and Audrey realised her clean kitchen floor might actually be in danger. Sitting down with the exaggerated care of the very drunk, he leaned over, bracing his elbows on his knees, and hung his head. She fetched a metal pail from the cupboard under the stairs and set it down between his feet, then dropped two alka-seltzer tablets into a glass of water, closing his hand around it.
“Thank you.” He sounded so miserable that she couldn’t find it in herself to be amused at his expense. This hadn’t been quite what she had in mind when she had encouraged him to go to a dinner some of his old army comrades had invited him to. He’d barely been out for anything other than veterinary work or his brother, as far as she could tell, the entire time she had been there, and she’d been at Skeldale House for a year or more.
”You won’t be wanting breakfast, I take it?” She’d already eaten and, as he hadn’t been back by the time she went to sleep, had not been anticipating feeding him that morning anyway, but thought she ought to check.
“Dear God, please, no.”
He continued leaning over the bucket, taking careful sips of the water and alka-seltzer periodically.
“Mrs Hall. I’ve been very stupid.” He confessed in a small voice after several minutes of quiet self-pity.
“It’ll pass.” She said sagely. “Keep drinking that water, a little at a time.”
“Not that — although, yes, that too. But, in addition, I was led astray while less compos mentis and find myself party to a wager.”
“Oh, aye?” She began putting away the breakfast things.
“I’m obliged to present myself at one of my former colleague’s homes within the hour to take part in a target shooting contest.” He slid a tattered piece of paper onto the table, which appeared to be a badly scrawled set of directions in unfamiliar handwriting. “The only reason I’m not there now is because we’ve been sent to collect our old service revolvers.”
He gave her a hangdog look so sorry for himself that she would have laughed if he hadn’t been feeling so ill.
“Mr Farnon...” She picked up the paper and attempted to make out where he was supposed to get himself.
“I know, I know!” His remorseful grimace made him look, for a moment, like a naughty schoolboy facing the headmaster.
“How much do you have riding on it?” She asked.
“Ten pounds.” He confessed in the same small voice.
“Mr Farnon!”
“Not so loud, please.” He pleaded, wincing.
“Where’s your gun?” She sighed. Ten pounds was enough that most men she knew wouldn’t want to lose it. Not that she knew a huge number of former commissioned army officers.
“Locked in a drawer in my study.”
She held out her hand for his keys and he handed them over, offering them by one of the smaller keys. It belonged to the bottom drawer of his desk, where there was a small case containing a Webley revolver, like she’d used, briefly, in the WRNS. She was pleased to see he’d kept it well maintained and locked away, even if he had been an idiot making such a bet while drunk.
Returning to the kitchen, she gave back his keys and put the case down on the table. He looked up at her guiltily, and she understood that his sorry tale wasn’t over.
“Could you possibly find it in your heart to drive me? I’d forgotten how hard they drink at these things.” He paused and swallowed hard. “I think I’m still too inebriated to be trusted behind the wheel.”
“Alright.” She had planned to go to church, it being a Sunday, but she wasn’t going to let him crash the Vauxhall trying to get somewhere, no matter how silly the entire thing was. Especially as he did look contrite. “Will you be able to shoot straight?”
”I’ll have to. There’s no hope of winning, as the terms allow use of a champion in one’s place and I suspect our host will use his gamekeeper, but I can’t forfeit.”
Audrey restrained the urge to openly roll her eyes.
“Can you bring anyone, then?” She took the Vauxhall’s key from the hook.
“Yes, but there’s no one hereabouts I can call on at this short notice.” He told her mournfully.
“If I get you someone who can probably shoot straighter than you this morning, will you promise only to make small bets in future? And never tell Tristan about this foolishness?
“On my honour.” She couldn’t stop herself eying him a little dubiously, given his disreputable appearance. “Whatever’s left of it.” He amended.
“Very well. Let’s go.”
“Who’s the prospective champion?” He asked, gingerly standing up and swallowing what remained of the alka-seltzer as she put on her coat and hat.
“You’ll find out when we get there.” She told him tartly. “And, Mr Farnon?” He blinked at her. “Don’t forget to bring the bucket.”
The journey was uneventful and, not only did he avoid being sick, despite her rusty driving skills, he even fell asleep for a while, waking when she stopped the car and turned off the ignition. He stifled a yawn, and, if he noticed they hadn’t picked up anyone else, he didn’t say anything.
A man who might have been a groom waved them over to a trail at the side of the estate’s long wooded driveway towards a clearing. There they found the other men, three of whom she presumed were her employer’s contemporaries, based on their similarly debauched appearance, and a younger man in rougher clothing, who seemed to be the gamekeeper, pinning paper targets to five trees.
Audrey tried judging the distances and frowned to herself, thinking the furthest one might be at the edge of the effective range she’d trained for a Webley in the WRNS. However, it would make no real difference, if they were using the same firearms — if it was difficult for one person, then it’d be difficult for them all. The weapons were handed over to the gamekeeper and placed on a table that seemed to have been brought out for the purpose.
The men’s voices rose in volume as they began quibbling about the terms, each of the other three others coming up with reasons they could not be the first to shoot. The bickering went on so long that Audrey had ample time to assess the competition and determine that her employer, alcohol soaked though he was, was probably the soberest of the lot. Or, at any rate, the least obnoxious while drunk.
He apparently had the sense not to call attention to himself in the squabbling, although he cast occasional glances in her direction, perhaps beginning to realise what she intended. Having seen enough, and not wanting to lose half the morning to the ridiculous errand, she decided to take matters into her own hands.
She made her way to the table and opened the case containing her employer’s revolver, removing it and loading the cartridges into the cylinder. Closing it up, she checked it over before glancing at the gamekeeper standing next to the table, who just shrugged. Taking a deep breath, she extended her arms with a two-handed grip then aimed and fired five times in a pleasingly regular rhythm.
Satisfied she had hit as close to the centre of each target as she could, she removed the final, unspent cartridge from the revolver and put it down carefully. The smell reminded her sharply of her training days so long ago, and, for a moment, she felt an echo of how young and carefree she’d been back then.
The only sounds were the cries of jackdaws, scared from the trees by the first report, as they flew further away and the rustling of leaves in the breeze.
“I say, Farnon, I’m not sure it’s quite the thing, having a woman—” One of the men began as she turned around, only to find himself shoved forward by the man next to him.
“You can go next.” The one who had done the shoving was terse. Maybe chivalry isn’t dead, she thought drily.
The man she worked for hadn’t taken his eyes off her, ignoring the others. She stopped briefly as she drew level with him.
“I’ll wait in the car.” She murmured. He nodded silently.
She was lost in memories of her time in the Great War when the passenger door opened and her employer got in. He dropped the gun case on the back seat and then met her eyes. She didn’t say anything, hoping her expression would convey her opinion of his losing ten pounds on a bet, let alone before eight o’clock on a Sunday morning, but it didn’t have the effect she was aiming for, because he grinned and pulled a handful of bank notes out of his tuxedo jacket.
“Your winnings, Mrs Hall.” He looked so boyishly gleeful, she couldn’t hold her stern expression and looked away, pursing her lips to prevent a smile of her own. It was the first time she’d seen such a pleased expression on his face, and she didn’t have the heart to see it fade sooner than it had to, not after how very low he’d been while she’d known him.
“It wasn’t my bet and I probably oughtn’t profit from it on the sabbath, of all days, Mr Farnon.” She told him evenly. “However did that happen, anyway?”
“They’re drunker than lords and out of practice, as am I. The gamekeeper’s sober but only ever used a shotgun or a rifle. Too young to have been in the army. He wasn’t bad, he just wasn’t as good as you.”
Very occasionally, she had noticed, her employer could be so earnest, so sincere, that she struggled to bear it, unused to any man being so open, even in private. Especially when it came with a compliment or praise.
He separated the money into two piles carelessly, perhaps sensing she would refuse if he insisted on her taking the whole sum, and stuffed the smaller one into his pocket before holding the other out to her.
“For services rendered. This wasn’t part of your housekeeping duties, so it warrants payment separate from your wages.” She sighed at his persistence.
“It’s not profit, Mrs Hall, it’s pay. You also drove us here. Not as brilliantly as you shoot, admittedly,” she raised her eyebrows at the criticism of her driving, without which they wouldn’t have been there at all, “but you did. And you’re driving us back as well.”
She rolled her eyes and reluctantly took the notes, putting them in her own pocket before starting the ignition. He could be stubborn, she knew, and she didn’t think being the worse for drink would change that sort of trait.
“Remember that you promised only small bets in future and you won’t tell Tristan about this. Not even as a cautionary tale.” She told him. He held a hand up as though swearing a solemn oath, clearly still somewhat in his cups.
After his excitement wore off, he fell asleep again quickly and the journey back was quiet. He was groggy when he woke, as she pulled into the yard behind the house, and although he was sobering up, she could tell he was starting to feel the effects of a night without proper sleep. No wonder, when he was still working too hard.
She made him lock away the revolver before taking his tuxedo jacket from him and letting him head for his bed with the assurance she’d have something to eat ready for whenever he emerged later. She would put the money, which he had doubtless already forgotten was in his jacket pocket, in his study.
“Just one thing, Mr Farnon.” She said, as he put his hand on the bannister at the foot of the stairs. “If you must make bets on target shooting in future, remember that I was better with an Enfield.”
He blinked at her.
“Rifle preferred. Duly noted, Mrs Hall, duly noted.” He replied, his face breaking into another boyish smile before he disappeared from sight up the stairs, whistling a little tune under his breath.
Audrey shook her head to herself. How he couldn’t see the similarities between himself and the sorts of scrapes his younger brother got into, she did not know. It seemed to be a Farnon family trait. Certainly, the pair kept her busy and made her feel needed, filling some of the aching void inside her carved out by what had happened with Edward and helping her learn to live with it. Not that Tristan could ever know about this escapade — heaven knew that boy needed no encouragement to get up to mischief.
The Farnon brothers were both as bad as each other, she thought, and she couldn’t help but like them for it.