Mr American. George Fraser MacDonald

       7

      At eight o’clock precisely by Mr Franklin’s fine gold half-hunter his trap drew up at the gates of Oxton Hall. For the hundredth time he touched his silk hat, stopped himself from fidgetting with the tie which he had adjusted before his mirror with meticulous care, glanced up the drive to the lights of the long, low rambling house among the trees, listened to the coughing roar of motor-cars moving on its carriage sweep, and murmured, “Uh-huh”. He was aware that his neck was prickling under his collar, and his hands were sweating inside his evening gloves. He felt slightly sick.

      “Now remember,” said Thornhill. “Spades, hearts, diamonds, clubs – in that order. ‘Solomon has delightful crockery.’ Four of a major suit makes a game, or five of a minor. Three no-trump makes game also. Otherwise it’s just like whist, more or less, God help you.”

      “Thank you,” said Mr Franklin. “Start with the outside cutlery and work inwards. Right. Got that. My God, I don’t think I washed my face-did I? Of all the –”

      “Yes, you did,” said Thornhill gently, “after you put on your right sock. I distinctly remember. My dear chap, there is absolutely nothing to worry about – there are probably fifty people in there all fretting about their dresses and their hair and their finger-nails and the awful possibility that they may break wind accidentally in the royal presence, and not one of ’em looks as well as you do, take my word for it. Poor old Clayton – not two beans to rub together, and no hostess except that idiot flapper of a daughter, and the whole damned royal circus eating him out of house and home – how he’ll pay for it, heaven alone knows. And having to put up with the county riff-raff as well – atrocious people – and going mad at the thought that his cook’s liable to poison the King-Emperor! So you see – you have nothing to be alarmed about. Just watch the rest of ’em having silent hysterics; gloat, and enjoy yourself.”

      “Yes,” said Mr Franklin. “All the same –”

      “Nonsense,” said Thornhill firmly. “All right, Jack,” and as Mr Prior, coachman for the evening, snapped the reins, the trap moved smartly up the drive.

      “I don’t know how to thank you,” said Mr Franklin. He had arrived at Thornhill’s door at about five o’clock, wearing an anxious frown, with the news that he was bidden to dine with royalty, and thereafter events had passed in a frantic mist. For perhaps the first time in his life, Mr Franklin admitted, he had been off balance and at a loss; the sudden social horror of his situation had come to him while he was driving back from the hunt – he had realized that his brief acquaintance with England had left him helpless in the face of the ordeal that awaited him; he had no notion of how royalty dined, or what might be expected of him as a guest; for all he knew it might be a banquet with gold plate and footmen in old-fashioned wigs – visions, which he knew were pure fantasy, of an enthroned monarch with people kneeling before him, had flashed across his disordered mind, and he had heard the voice of the town-crier thundering: “Mr Mark Franklin of the United States of America!” while a glittering throng of lords and ladies turned to regard him with amused disdain. At this point he had remembered Thornhill, and decided to appeal to him – and the dishevelled don, after his first bewilderment, had moved calmly and precisely, guiding Mr Franklin back to the manor, explaining that a country-house dinner for the King would be no more formal than a meal in a fashionable restaurant, that the American’s manners and bearing were perfectly equal to it (“damned sight better than most of ’em, moneyed bumpkins and decayed gentry’), and that provided he took care with his dress and behaved naturally, he had nothing to fear.

      This had been vastly reassuring – still, it had seemed ridiculously unreal as he dressed himself in full evening rig of white tie and tails (thank God for the expert taste and guidance of Thomas Samson, valet extraordinary – that had been money well spent) while Thornhill had ferretted about finding studs and shoes and discoursing at large of the monarch’s personality, of bridge and billiards, of evening charades and party games, and anything else that Mr Franklin might conceivably find it useful to know.

      “Never met our sovereign lord myself,” Thornhill had said. “Remember he came to college to open a new building once; looked bored to tears, poor old thing; can’t blame him. They say he’s genial, but a stickler for dress –” at this point Mr Franklin, adjusting his stiff-front shirt with ponderous care, had thrust his pearl and diamond pin into his thumb “-but you’re all right there, at any rate. Beautiful duds, my dear fellow.” He surveyed Mr Franklin with approval. “Just call him ‘sir’, be respectfully polite, and you’re home and dry.”

      Then there had been the problem of a driver – Mr Franklin felt that the less exertion he had on the six-mile journey to Oxton, the better his collar and cuffs would like it, and he guessed that to entrust Thornhill with the reins would mean a short sharp trip to the nearest ditch. They had driven to the Apple Tree at night-fall, Thornhill had gone in and negotiated while Mr Franklin sat in the trap in the darkened village street wondering whatever had induced him to leave Nevada, and presently a crowd of astonished villagers had emerged to gape, with Jack Prior masterfully shouldering his way through them and mounting the trap with no more than a nod to its occupant. And now they were rolling up the drive to Oxton Hall, and Prior was stopping at a discreet distance from the motor-cars, three or four of them parked on the carriage-sweep with their engineers making their way round to the servants’ entrance.

      “Got the thingummy for Mrs Keppel? Good for you – in you go then, old man.” Thornhill beamed through the dusk. “Don’t eat too much, and spades, hearts, diamonds, clubs, remember? Right-ho, Jack.”

      Mr Franklin watched them drive away, took a firm grip of his small parcel, squared his shoulders, and marched up the steps to be received by an elderly butler, who took his hat, case, cloak, and name, in that order. And he was just glancing apprehensively at an open door across the hall, from which loud voices and laughter were drifting when the daughter of the house, resplendent in what looked like lilac satin, emerged rapidly from a door beneath the stairs, paused for breath, and cried out in relief at the sight of Mr Franklin.

      “Thank heavens you’ve come! We thought you’d missed your way, and Kingie’s been asking for you – full of foxy jokes …” Peggy rolled her eyes. “Father has been bearing up manfully, poor old soul. It’s been an absolute frost, you know – the old Teddy Bear got his feet wet, and there were no ginger biscuits at tea – well, how was I to know that they’re practically a drug with him? – but fortunately Jinks Smith slipped on the stairs and fell all the way down, and that put our gracious King in a good temper again – Arthur says Jinks did it on purpose – you’re looking at my hair, what’s the matter with it?”

      “I beg your pardon – why, nothing at all.” Mr Franklin had been noticing two things; one was that her hair, which he had thought fair, was a very pale auburn, so that piled up and around her face it looked like a monstrous halo; the other, that the angel face had just a hint of petulance around the small cupid’s mouth, as though a beautiful seraph had grown impatient of posing in Botticelli’s studio. “Your hair’s beautiful, Miss Clayton.”

      “Oh, my, how formal!” She pulled a face. “I’m Peggy, you’re Mark, and no nonsense. ‘Miss Clayton’ – you’d think I was a governess, or somebody’s aunt. But come on – the King’s in there, so do your stuff.”

      She took him by the arm, guiding him towards the door, stopping en route to make minute adjustments to her hair and the shoulders of her dress before the hall mirror. Mr Franklin remarked that there seemed to be a great many guests, and was disillusioned.

      “Oh, the house is bursting with Arthur’s disky friends – we’ve got about twenty for the week-end, but don’t you worry, they’re well out of the way in the west wing. Can’t have them ragging and racketting in court circles, so there’s just about a dozen for dinner. Everyone else takes pot-luck in the old nursery.” Peggy twitched doubtfully at her neck-line. “Too much, too little – d’you think? Oh, it’ll do – Kingie’s stopped