Mr American. George Fraser MacDonald

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СКАЧАТЬ 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 leering, anyway. Now, then.”

      Clayton himself met them at the drawing-room door, with evident relief; Soveral was smiling at his elbow, and to Mr Franklin’s surprise the packet he had brought for Mrs Keppel was twitched surreptitiously from his hand. There seemed to be about a dozen people in the room, in evening clothes – there was the King, portly but immaculate, seated by the fire, puffing on a cigarette, with Mrs Keppel at his elbow, a Junoesque figure in crimson, with diamonds in her hair and sparkling on her celebrated bosom; Soveral was attracting her attention. Mr Franklin recognised some of the faces from the hunt – the stringy man, the stout man of whom he thought as “Colonel Dammit”, the scowling Lacy, various ladies, but none of them comparable with Peggy or Mrs Keppel. Beside him he was aware that Peggy was bobbing a slight curtsey; he forced himself to make a forward inclination which might pass for a bow if a bow was in order and wouldn’t be noticed if it was not. Then the small eyes were on him, and the other guests were willing him magnetically towards the fireplace.

      “Ah, Franklin. Good evening to you.” Majesty was nodding. “Brought any more foxes?” There was polite laughter, and the King went on: “Now, you’re American – you can tell us – what do they say over there about votes for women?”

      He isn’t smiling, thought Mr Franklin, but he’s looking affable. Everyone else was watching him, the men attentive, the women with frozen smiles, and he sensed the nervous under-current of the pre-prandial drawing-room. What to say? – he suddenly remembered the militant young lady outside the Waldorf.

      “Well, sir, that depends.” His voice was unnaturally loud, and he made a conscious effort to speak normally. “If they’re single men, I guess they know better than to say anything – and if they’re married men, they don’t get much chance.”

      In that moment he knew how a comedian feels when his first joke draws a roar from the pit; in fact, he was astonished that his fairly feeble response made the King chuckle, the ladies titter, and the gentlemen laugh aloud. God, he thought, do they expect me to be the droll Yankee? Well, I can’t do it – and at that moment he was rescued by an exclamation of delight from Mrs Keppel; she was turning from Soveral to stoop so that the King could examine the open box in her hands: Mr Franklin felt a tremor of anxiety at having his present submitted for the royal inspection.

      “Look what Mr Franklin has brought me! Oh, they’re simply beautiful! How very, very kind of you, Mr Franklin!” The green eyes were glowing with genuine delight as she glanced up at him. “They’re silver – how absolutely gorgeous!”

      “What on earth are they?” demanded the King.

      “They’re spurs, sir,” Mr Franklin explained. “Mexican spurs – the kind the vaqueros use – Mexican cattlemen, that is.”

      He reflected that he hadn’t hesitated a moment that evening when, remembering Soveral’s suggestion of a gift, he had hit on the notion of presenting СКАЧАТЬ