‘O my dear Antoinette Delia Darcy Darcy Thormond, vouchsafe I implore thee to let me join thee out beyond the slabs far from the unkindnesses, and humbly lie by thy side to serve thee all our days in the eternal next world.’
‘Crooks, Crooks please, you mustn’t be so upset. Christabel was simply momentarily disconcerted.’
‘Spoke of me as she would a dog.’
‘Now now Crooks come with me. In here. Let’s get you sitting down for a start. There, there.’
‘She could have at least sir, directed her remark directly at me. Such behaviour never has and never would come from you sir. You are a compassionate man. A kind man. A feeling man. Like your mother was before you. Leave the door open. So I may see her. There she is. The most precious, beautiful and noble woman.’
Of course in the ballroom, one ended up opening a shutter and taking the dust cloth off a settee. Beseating Crooks with his feet up and bringing him a large brandy. Poor old stick, clearly would like to be a raving transvestite. And meanwhile he certainly does know how to acquit himself to be waited upon hand and foot, a pillow under his ankles, his collar open. I nearly was tempted to get him a cigar. But in spite of my alleged compassion one did think it would be going a little bit too far. Back in the library Christabel was now giving Rashers sidelong glances as he sat puffing his own cigar and twirling his own very large brandy. My, how he can, at the drop of someone else’s peacock feathered hat, so thoroughly enjoy life. Totally transforming the gloom. The pleased grin of his rabbit teeth flashing out under his moustache. One has never downright thought this before but he is quite a dashing figure. Sits there stretched out without rancour, regaling the ladies sipping their Drambuie, with risqué tales of last year’s Galway Races, Puck Fair, and Dublin’s night life. Hinting at the inhuman outrage committed down the depths of what appears to be a, by invitation only, midnight to midnight gathering in caves, cellars and tunnels located somewhere beneath one of the city’s most exclusive and elegant thoroughfares. And it would appear, so aptly called the catacombs. Christabel pretending not to want to hear of such bestial shenanigans but clearly in her faint protest, perking her ears eager for more.
‘You do don’t you, Ronald, seem to know so many wild and unruly characters, quite putting off to normal people. Doing such appalling things. What do you suppose, apropos of common decency, makes them behave like that.’
‘Ah my dear ladies because they are, in a word, simply dreadfully disgusting. Illbred by moonlight or any light. Castigators of the good. Worshippers of evil. But you see that’s the trouble with racing circles these days, embracing as they do rather too broad a class of jockeys, punters and owners.’
One sensed the moment to be gone. And one’s heart instantly beginning to pound walking down the parkland. Soft mist of rain from clouds tumbling out of the west. One’s silent voice already growing tight in one’s throat. Hidden by the deep grass, the little stream growing deeper and wider from other streams as it flows down through this valley of tall trees. Breath blows white in the air. Along this long unused path. Boots breaking through the thick crust of frost. No sign of her feet. That one so hopes have preceded me. In bed with another, and dreaming it were her flesh I held. Her swelling smaller quarters I pressed against. Her slenderer throat I kissed. Her spine I felt. That she alone was the true lady of my dreams. Servant though she is. And if only she were an aristocrat like Miss von B, she could, with the merest of schooling, then so naturally fit into one’s life. She does at least already have acceptable Christian names. Not that caste or status really matters. Even though it really desperately does. Due prominent ranking in the parish calls for disporting oneself with the dignity befitting the wife of a large landowner. As well as when up in Dublin, to keep up proper appearances as one enters say, up the steps and past the carved little monkeys on the sills of the Kildare Street Club. Of course such as my grandfather a life long member, never even entered the Club, not wanting to appear gauche and unknowledgeable, having to ask of the location of the latrine. And if one were passing through the lobbies of the Shelbourne or Hibernian, one would want to very much appear to be at home. Or having returned from a day’s racing, to suitably arrive descending the stair into the piquancies of sauces wafting about the main dining room of Jammet’s its hearth blazing. People knowing at the merest flick of a glance at the back or front of you, exactly who you are. Where you have come from and where you continue to go. Which are only to the most acceptable places. Even though one is not titled I am at least a minor major among the landed Irish gentry. Of course one might occasionally go to unacceptable places after dark. Although certainly for the sake of having a title, I should damn well not like to end up like the Marquis’ father, the Duke. And having in Dublin to summon large fish from McCabe’s the fishmonger in Chatham Street. Which anyway is closed in the dead of night. And then disagreeably and awfully smelly, have to belt the insolence out of a difficult lady. Swish, splat, smack. But then when one thinks of it a bit, why not. If such fishy corrective measures are deserved. It also could be such jolly peculiar excitement. The Marquis did say that the benefit of occasional chastisement served upon oneself was equally well served upon ladies. He had personally found that one should, while suffering what one thinks are the temporary blows of some women, attempt to rest comfortably, husbanding one’s reserves of fortitude, for that same woman is usually planning, later on, something even far far worse. Dear me, he does paint an unpretty picture of scheming ladies who hold sway out in the stylish world. Ah but I shall upon my arrival in London avoid such femmes fatales. Or further afield. As my dear Mr Arland advised me go. To hear the great organs in the great churches. Of Chartres and St Sulpice. When you are of age Kildare you must go to Vienna for opera. Moscow for ballet. And Sexton is quite right. One should sample the very latest philosophies being propounded in the cafés of the continental capital cities. Of course Mr Arland knew of whence he spoke but Sexton has never been to one of these places. Yet with both feet firmly in his potting shed he still unhesitatingly raves on about them as if he were there just yesterday. Master Darcy, ah by god you’ll have about your ears such incredible intellectual delights. Sure the Prado will knock you sideways. And if I do ever reach such foreign parts I know the first damn thing such as Miss von B will say to me, is that I am trying to shake from one’s heels the mud of the bog. Dear me, just murmuring Moscow, London, Vienna, Paris, Budapest. One feels a clutching thrill. Of course Miss von B made much of being a young lady in Vienna. Wearing her tiara and gown on the grand staircase of the Opera House, and betrothed to the grandest Count in the land. Waltzing her nights away under the chandeliers of only the very best palaces and castles from Linz to Klagenfurt. Of course I will ably demonstrate soon my own ball in my own ballroom to make her previous grand evenings look like the awfully trumped up occasions they probably really were. Heavens. A nasty pigeon has just deposited on me. A most stupendous long white load straight down my lapel and even, bloody hell on to my knee. Shows you, in the moments when one is tempted to be at one’s most eminent one is then most likely to be promptly besmirched. Of course, such shit does remind one that these foreign capitals are possessed of their debaucheries too. As are often required to sate one’s pent up desires. Leaving one able to return with an equanimity of spirit, to Andromeda Park and not be feverishly desperate to put it up one’s present or former domestic personnel. Ouch. What’s this. A damn snare. Hidden in the middle of the footpath. God, one would so like for some prolonged moments not to suffer yet another bloody damn nuisance. While one has already enough with the seedlings of staff plots, hangings, seditions, and the scheming craftiness of neighbouring farmers encroaching fences, plus the ruddy wiles of guests, and mad stallions. Not to mention now grand theft.