Three days later in the evening Piers de Mandeville arrived on horseback before the Maunder-fields’ cottage. He dismounted and began to tie his horse to the ring set in the wall. Bessie, by now heavily pregnant, saw him from the window and came out.
‘Oh sir, you do look terrible awful,’ she said. He did indeed look very bad. He was pale and wild-eyed, and seemed to have become wasted and thin almost overnight. He did, however, have a mature air of purpose about him.
‘Bessie,’ he said, ‘I have come to tell you that we shall do what we should have done a very long time ago. I have been a most shameful coward. We shall be married in St Mary’s as soon as the banns are read. My father is resigned to it, and my mother is saying nothing further against it. They ask only that I marry in your parish rather than theirs, and that they should not be expected at the wedding. We are fortunate indeed that I am not the first son. If I had been my brother, God knows what would have happened.’
‘Come in and meet my father, sir,’ said Bessie mischievously. ‘I believe you first have to ask him if he is willing to give me up. I fear you might have to overcome his reluctance.’
‘Ah, Bessie, there is plenty of time for that. All I want for now is to take a walk with you on my arm, and confer about what we shall do. I imagine you are sufficiently well to walk?’
‘Well, sir, it’s only fine ladies who take to their beds when a tiddler’s on the way. The rest of us just carry on as needs must.’
They walked slowly through the Hurst, with her arm through his for support. Piers raised his hat to those they passed, ignoring their astonished expressions. As they drew near the pond, Bessie said, ‘Shall we go into the woods? We can find our special place.’
Piers de Mandeville laid his cape on the ground and they sat side by side by the stream, just as they had so many months before. For a little while they were silent, and then Bessie asked slyly, ‘What was it that made up your mind, sir?’
‘Well, Bessie, have you heard the story of Saul on the road to Damascus?’
‘Yes, sir, I have heard it.’
‘It was something very like to that.’
‘Indeed, sir? And is Emily Sutton very downcast?’
‘I presume to hope that she might be, but not for too long, I trust.’
‘And what about your other promise, sir? The other promise you made in this same place?’
Piers de Mandeville laughed quietly, and looked at her askance. ‘I believe, madam, that you wanted me to call you madam, did you not, madam?’
‘I did indeed, sir, but don’t go overdoing it, sir.’
THE AUSPICIOUS MEETING OF THE THIRD MEMBER OF THE FAMOUS NOTWITHSTANDING WIND QUARTET WITH THE FIRST TWO
THERE WERE TWO Morris Minor saloons, both grey, parked in the small driveway of Jenny Farhoumand’s house as well as a large Hillman Hunter. The latter belonged to Jenny’s husband, who was an auctioneer with Messenger May Baverstock in Godalming, and the Morris Minors belonged to Jenny herself and to the music teacher at the public school. He had come round on a Saturday afternoon in spring, to rehearse a few duets by Devienne for a little concert in the church, in order to raise money for a new set of steps up from the church to the road. Neither of them were believers, but the churchgoers were always prepared to consider outsiders to be honorary members of the congregation when it came to fund-raising. There was not much of a repertoire for clarinet and oboe, and so they were playing flute duets. Brian, the clarinettist, was manfully transposing on sight, and Jenny was playing her flute parts on the oboe. Sometimes it sounded quite good and sometimes very strange.
‘It’s lucky that Devienne is dead,’ said Brian. ‘I can’t imagine what he’d think of us doing this.’
‘I think it’s wonderful, how you transpose like that,’ said Jenny. ‘I don’t know how you do it. You must have to split your brain in half.’
‘It does your head in after a while,’ he admitted, ‘but you get used to it, and the exercise is probably very good for you. I’m hoping it’ll make me more intelligent.’
‘Why don’t you use a C clarinet? Wouldn’t that be the really intelligent option?’
‘I haven’t got one. They don’t sound quite as nice as a B flat.’
‘Why don’t you get one, though?’
‘Maybe I should start saving up my pocket money. That’s not a bad idea, actually.’
‘Then you can save up for a basset horn. I’m sure they pay you masses at that posh school.’
‘Yes, and pigs fly. I’d love a basset horn, though.’
‘By the way,’ said Jenny, ‘can you see the kids anywhere?’
‘They’re all in a heap, fighting on the lawn,’ said Brian, looking through the window. ‘Suzie has just bitten Annie, and Andrew is crying, and the dog is digging in the flower bed, and your husband is doing something to the lawnmower. By the way that his lips are moving, I would guess that he’s swearing. I can’t see the cat, but I think the rabbit’s got out. There’s a black one in the vegetable patch.’
‘All’s right with the world, then,’ said Jenny. ‘Shall we try something else?’
They were halfway through a fairly vigorous allegro when Suzie, aged six, blonde, tousled and filthy, came running in. ‘Mummy, Mummy, there’s a strange man outside, and he was listening under the window. I saw him, I saw him!’
‘Have you told Daddy?’
‘Yes, I did tell Daddy, and Daddy’s got him and he’s going to kill him.’
‘Oh dear, really?’
‘He’s got a big spanner, Mummy.’
‘I suppose we’d better go out,’ said Brian, putting his clarinet carefully on to its stand, and replacing the cap.
Outside they found a small, bespectacled middle-aged man in a brown jacket and waistcoat cowering between a wall and a rhododendron, while Jenny’s husband, already enraged by the intransigence of the mower, loomed over him with a large wrench and demanded explanations.
‘Peter, darling, please, be careful with that thing,’ said Jenny. ‘You might do some damage, and then they’ll take you away in a Black Maria, and tomorrow you’ll miss Sunday lunch, and we’ll have to give your share to the dog.’
Peter lowered the spanner, and said, ‘All right, but who the hell are you, and what are you doing underneath my window? And don’t you know any better than to walk on other people’s flower beds? It compacts the soil. Don’t you know that?’
‘No. I’m not a gardener, I’m afraid. I really am most terribly sorry. It was the music.’
‘The music?’ repeated Jenny.
‘Yes, the music. I just love that kind of music. I love Devienne. It’s a bit light, I suppose, but I don’t mind. I’ve never heard it done like that before, on oboe and clarinet. I couldn’t resist listening. I really am so sorry … for the damage to the flower bed … and for intruding.’
‘You knew it was Devienne?’ said Brian, much impressed. ‘Are you a musician yourself?’
The little man nodded, and said, ‘Bassoon.’
‘Bassoon!’ exclaimed Jenny and Brian together, both struck by the same thought.
‘Prove it,’ said Peter, who was still enraged by his mower, and desired a little more confrontation and aggression.
‘Prove it? Why, do you have one?’
‘Tell us the K number of Mozart’s bassoon concerto in B-flat major,’ said Jenny, mischievously.
‘And the opus number of Weber’s bassoon concerto,’ added Brian.
‘Oh, for God’s sake,’ exclaimed Peter, ‘bloody musicians!’