JACK OF DIAMONDS

WHATSOEVER THY HAND FINDETH

CHAPTER 24

WHATSOEVER THY HAND FINDETH

Photo by Sigmund on Unsplash

Lunch was a sumptuous affair served in the gazebo overlooking the gardens. The only access to it was an outdoor staircase forty feet wide bordered with rhododendron, hyacinth, and azalea no longer in bloom. Artie counted thirty steps before losing count. The gazebo was built on a landing above the garden, its base a wall of solid brickwork stained green with lichen, moss, and Time. Artie looked out at the endless passage of walkways, their red and white brickwork meandering through the garden Artie imagined would be seen as a mosaic of colours during the summer. There were decorative benches and delicately made arbours that were hidden in tight recesses. Two streams of water tumbled down two troughs of broken stones—the water eagerly catching the afternoon sun in small arcing rainbows of colours. Willow trees wept in the distance, near a greenhouse, their tentacled branches dancing in a light breeze, scratching at the sky—but the sky was a clear blue, what few clouds there were earlier, blown out to sea long ago.

The Pavilion—Lord Aylesbury refused to call it a gazebo—was sealed closed against the elements. Eight etched glass panels caught the afternoon sun, reflecting and refracting the light, creating a palette of colours washing across the weave of a gold brocade tablecloth on a table made to sit fourteen. Huge bouquets of flowers in several vases decorated the server, where a soup tureen, extra plates, silverware, and crystalware danced in the afternoon light. Three Footmen stood at attention, waiting to serve lunch, as three kitchen maids brought each successive dish out from the kitchen.

Artie arrived dressed in a double-breasted suit of blue linen with white shadow stripes. There was nothing subtle about it, he’d told Berry, as the man stood brushing the jacket for him. The pants were an easy fit, right down to the cuffed ankles and the brown and tan two-tone shoes. His hair had been oiled and combed, and he was clean shaven. When he’d first looked at himself in the standing mirror, he smiled. As much as he thought Berry may have made a mistake with the custom cut suit and the colour, he was pleased with the look; all the same, he refused to wear the boater Berry suggested.

“I’m not good with hats,” was all he said.

Baron Geurnsy, 3rd Earl of Aylesbury, was a large, rather portly man, barrel-shaped, dressed in a brown, three piece suit, the waistcoat fitting snug against the wide expanse of his belly. He had a fringe of grey hair, not unlike a monk’s, his dazzling blue eyes dancing under heavy brows that were still dark—a nostalgic holdover of his fading youth, as he liked to say. He stood up the moment Artie was announced, extending a large hand and smiling generously as he invited Artie to sit.

“I’m pleased to have you, Mr. Spencer. Your father and I were close for a time, fighting the Boer, and all that rot—but you’re not here to listen to that, are you? You probably heard enough of that shit from your father—”

“Leo, honestly,” the Baroness said with a sighing shake of her head. She rolled her eyes as she looked up at Artie. She tried to look apologetic.

“I’d heard Berry went up to valet for you. I’m glad to see you found something suitable, Mr. Berry,” the Baron smiled, looking uncomfortable as he sat once again.

Berry bowed and accepted the compliment.

“Right, then! Capital, I must say! Fucking capital! Right girls?” he added, looking at his two daughters, and daughter-in-law.

“Leo!”

“Right, Dear. Right,” he said. “Apologies all around,” he added.

“I’m Gerald. I hear you brought Jenny’s horse back?” he said, standing and extending his hand to Artie. “My wife, Daphne,” he added, just before he sat down.

Daphne was dressed in a grey draped, flapper inspired dress, with a bow and matching hat. She looked stunning, Artie thought, not that he’d consider himself an expert on fashion. But he wasn’t a bad judge of women.

Photo by Kier in Sight Archives on Unsplash

“Artie,” he said softly. “And yes,” Artie smiled, looking at Margaret, still sitting as Simon stood next in line, his hand extended. “I did bring the horse back.”

“Brilliant, simply brilliant,” Simon laughed, sitting down again after introducing himself.

“Simon. My wife, Margaret.”

“Please, sit down, Mr. Spencer. Sit,” the Baron laughed, and Artie moved toward the chair beside the Baron. “No, no, not there—between the girls,” he laughed. “Roger’s not likely to be coming down, is he Jenny, and Aggie’s all alone anyway, desperately in need of an escort, aren’t you, dear?”

“Honestly, Poppa,” Agatha smiled, looking demure in a navy blue day dress with ivory trim.

“Not alone, just lonely,” Gerald laughed.

“Oh, Gerald, please,” Daphne said, trying to sound disappointed but only succeeding in making herself sound pretentious.

“She hasn’t been with a man in what—eight years? Believe me, she’s lonely,” Gerald said with another laugh. “And Artie there, wearing Andy’s clothes better than Andy ever wore them himself, well, that won’t help matters much, will it?”

“That’s quite enough of that, thank you very much,” the Baroness said.

“What? I didn’t say anything wrong. It’s been eight years, Mother.”

“I said that will be enough,” the Baroness said once again.

The Baron was seated at one end of the table, and the Baroness at the other; Simon and Gerald shared one side of the table with their wives, while Jenny and her sister-in-law sat across from them, an empty chair separating them. Artie pulled out the chair between them and sat down.

There was an awkward moment of silence before the dishes was presented to the Baroness for her personal inspection. She’d take a small spoonful and put it on her plate, tasting it and nodding for the Footmen to proceed serving the family.

The Baron was always served first.

Artie turned in his chair toward Jenny, on his right.