Mr American. George Fraser MacDonald

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       8

      Finally, it was over; the King, yawning but affable, withdrew, a collective inward sigh was heaved, Sir Charles Clayton was smiling a tired smile of pure relief, and the party drifted out into the hall, the dinner guests to go to their cars, and one or two, like Mr Franklin, to be shown their rooms for the night. He, having arrived late, had not yet had one assigned to him, and Peggy summoned her brother from the other end of the house, whence came a sound of distant revelry; the younger set, it seemed, kept hours just as late as their elders, but probably a good deal more happily.

      “You ought to have the chamber of honour,” said Arthur, as he led Mr Franklin upstairs. “Peg says you saved the day. Good scout.” And he patted the American affectionately on the shoulder. “But this is the best we can do, I’m afraid –” He led the way along a narrow corridor which seemed to lead to the very end of the gloomy upper floor. Mr Franklin noticed that the doors they passed had visiting cards pinned to them; his own, when they reached it, had a sheet of paper marked “Mr Franklin’.

      “If you need anything, pull the bell, but don’t be surprised if it comes out of the wall,” said Arthur cheerfully. “We’re rather in need of repair, I’m afraid. Someone’ll bring your shaving water in the morning. Good night, old chap.”

      Repair was about right, thought Mr Franklin, as he prepared to undress; the room was decidedly shabby – much shabbier than he’d have expected from the comfort of the rooms downstairs. Probably the Claytons hadn’t had so many guests in living memory, and of course all the attention would be lavished on royalty’s apartments. But he remembered the hired cutlery and crockery and wondered again, idly, if old Clayton was perhaps pretty well stretched. None of his business, of course, but they seemed nice folk – Peggy was an uncommonly attractive girl, not just for her seraphic beauty, but for the spirit that lay underneath; she looked like an English rose, but there were some pretty sharp thorns on that shapely stem, or he was much mistaken.

      What a strange day it had been – how long since he set off to West Walsham? Eighteen hours? And then the ridiculous fox business, and his frantic preparations with Thornhill, and the dinner, and that astonishing game which he still didn’t know how to play properly – and he’d met and talked to the King of England, and shared that intimacy of bridge partnership – that was the odd, unbelievable part, that for a time he had occupied the King’s thoughts, and been the object of his attention: he, Mark Franklin, nobody from nowhere. And yet he was just as much somebody as the King was, after all – just not so many people knew him. And he’d sniffed the air of a court, and in its way it was just like the history his father had taught him – about the Caesars, and the Italian tyrants, and Henry VIII, who slapped people in jail because their faces didn’t fit, or clipped their heads and ears off. Would he have bid six hearts with Henry VIII sitting over the way? There was a thought, now. He turned down the lamp, rolled into the creaking bed, and felt his head throb and spin as soon as it hit the pillow. He knew he wouldn’t sleep easily.

      From far off, below him, he could hear the distant murmur of voices, and music, amd muffled laughter; Arthur’s friends were still whooping it up down there. No doubt they were at a safe distance from royalty; it was quite a soothing murmur, anyway, and Mr Franklin must have dozed off, for suddenly he was conscious that the voices were sharp and clear and much closer – in the corridor outside his room, feet clattering, and laughter, and the squeal of feminine laughter. “Where’s Rhoda? Oh, Jeremy, you utter idiot – well, you’ll just have to go back for it!” “Which is my room, then?” “I dunno, can’t you read, Daphne?” “I say, Connie, old thing, give us a ciggy.” “Oh, lor’, look at my dress?” “What is it – custard?” Squeals of laughter, young men’s babbling, idiot catch-phrases: “Oh, a divvy party!” “Oh, Jeremy, how too horridino! Take it away!” Squeak, giggle, clatter, at the tops of their shrill voices, doors slamming – Mr Franklin groaned softly and wondered how long it would be before they shut up. After a few moments it subsided, with only occasional cries and laughter muffled by the walls; then whispers and stifled giggling, furtive rustlings as later arrivals hurried along the passage; Mr Franklin dozed again, uneasily СКАЧАТЬ