Page 9 of Miss Dramatic
“What scheme have you put in train, Tavistock? You are clearly up to something.”
“Nonsense.”
Dabney himself came out to greet them as the lad led the horse away. “Milords, a fine day to look in on our fine village. I have a half-dozen sidesaddles shined up and waiting for you.”
Dabney spoke with the musical lilt of the Caribbean islands and stood perhaps five feet in his boots. He’d been a jockey in a former life and, at the slightest provocation, would regale all and sundry with a fence-by-fence account of his career.
“No hurry loading the saddles,” Tavistock said. “We’re off to the Arms to wet our whistles. Come along, Phillip.”
Dabney’s eyes danced, and were Phillip not nowLordPhillip, he might have cuffed Dabney on the back of the head and received a retaliatory back slap in return. Dabney had put him on his first pony, though, and deserved what entertainments his day offered.
Phillip caught up to Tavistock. “Dabney expects a report,” he said as the marquess set a course across the green. “If you’d lived in Crosspatch Corners longer, you’d know that. He will want to hear that your guests are all safely arrived, that the grooms he sent over are giving a good account of themselves, that nobody’s harness needs a quick—”
“Spies he sent over, you mean. I might not have lived in Crosspatch very long, but I understand how villages work. Amaryllis has waxed eloquent on Dabney’s intelligence network. He can’t quite rival Vicar or the Arms, but he keeps them on their toes.”
The truth was more subtle, though Tavistock, if he lived in Crosspatch for decades—which he probably would, to the endless delight of all and sundry—might not grasp the complexities. Dabney, because he ran the livery, collected both local gossip and the news from any travelers looking to hire a temporary mount. He rented out spare teams. He maintained harness for all the farmers and country houses in the area.
His clientele was a cross section of local gentry, yeomanry, shop owners, and “foreigners,” meaning anybody whose accent identified them as from another shire. Vicar’s sources were mostly to be found in the churchyard Sunday mornings, and the Arms, as the coaching inn, prided itself on having all the news from Town.
Between the three institutions, each responsible for a different sort of news, Crosspatch had much to discuss. A favorite topic with the local denizens was the marquess and his determination to build a business around the brewing and purveying of fine beer and ale.
“The eminent citizenry are at their posts,” Tavistock muttered. “Don’t they have anything else to do besides sit outside the Arms and surveil the green?”
“Nobody else in all of Crosspatch would use the verb ‘surveil.’ Can’t you say ‘they watch the green,’ ‘they enjoy the view of the green’?”
“‘Surveil’ is from the French, and for several years, I spoke almost exclusively in that language, and the term applies. Granny Jones, Old Deever, Old Mrs. Pevinger, and their cronies don’t simply enjoy the view, they are sentries on duty. Watchkeepers. Before we turn our vehicle for home, that lot will know why we came to the village, how many saddles we’re borrowing, and what Dabney is charging us for the loan. I don’t care for it. One has no privacy.”
“Rather like life in Mayfair?”
Tavistock had the grace to smile. “Touché, but in Mayfair, I am a marquess, and nobody dares interrogate me to my face. Here…”
“Here, you dunderhead, you areourmarquess.” Phillip paused at the foot of the steps leading up to the broad front terrace of the Crosspatch Arms. “What you fail to grasp is that the eminent citizens, along with their grandchildren, nieces, nephews, in-laws, and friends, will move all in their power to see your brewing venture become a success. Your good fortune is their good fortune. Your sorrows are their sorrows. They have decreed it to be so, and even if you are 167thin line for the throne, you cannot gainsay their decisions.”
Tavistock braced a foot two steps up and used a plain handkerchief to wipe the dust from the toe of his boot. That bit of vanity, which he probably considered simple good manners before entering another man’s establishment, was the very sort of behavior that had won the Old Guard’s approval.
The lad knows how to marquess, see if he don’t.
Not at all like his father.
Phillip waited for Tavistock to shine up the second boot, while Granny Jones looked on approvingly. Phillip, to the village born, was not expected to put on airs, even if he was a lord, which Granny had known all along, but kept to herself for reasons having to do with sagacious nods, the old lord’s temper, and a shrewd woman’s inherent discretion regarding a titled family’s business.
Or some such twaddle.
“While I appreciate the good wishes of my neighbors,” Tavistock said, touching a finger to his hat brim and sketching a bow to Granny and her familiars, “theyaremy neighbors. If my brewing is to succeed, I must find customers far beyond the lovely surrounds of Crosspatch.”
Dunderheaded, clodpated, backward, hopeless… “Granny has thirty-four grandchildren and great-grandchildren. At least six of the full-grown ones are in London, clerking, in service, and otherwise earning a living in the metropolis. One of them is now in Kettering’s employ.”
“I grant you, thirty-four tongues wagging is a lot, but six is not so many.”
“You have a basic grasp of math. Always a boon for a man embarking on commerce. Say the fellow in Kettering’s office goes to his local pub and asks for a pint of Crosspatch summer ale.”
“The pub won’t have it, because I lack the inventory to make inroads on the London market. When the weather cools off, and—”
Phillip started up the steps. “By the time you get the next batches made, six London taverns will be willing to at least sample your offerings. Old Man Deever has only twenty-three grandchildren, but seventeen of them are male, and four are off in Bristol working in custom- and countinghouses.”
“One takes your point. Your dear wife would tell you that investing among the aristocracy works in much the same fashion. An evening of cards at the club might be the most profitable investment a man can make.”
Phillip preceded his brother into the inn, tossed his hat onto its usual hook, and bedamned to protocol. “So why aren’t you making it?”
