“Good afternoon, all,” he called, but only mumbles met his jovial greeting and the queue twisted back as one, shuffling tight together.
He joined the end as it would seem that the centuries-old English aristocratic class system with all its associated noble privileges was for naught within the Helston post-house.
No matter as surely the queue would be whittled away at a rattling pace. How long could collection and distribution of post take?
A gentleman at the front appeared to be having an intense discussion with the postmaster regarding the cultivation of roses. Jack yawned loudly, flicked lint from his damson jacket and slapped his hat against his thigh in a certain imposing marquess manner.
The queue cast him their blind eye.
He didn’t like to make a fuss. After all, he was a gentleman, but damn it, he did have a slight hurry. Did the other members of this string of tiresomeness not realise this?
Evidently not.
Five gentlemen and one lady now stood like graveyard statues, eyes fixed stonily ahead.
Sighing dramatically – to no effect, he might add – he wished he’d crossed paths with Tamsyn at breakfast to apologise for those rapacious kisses, for not waking her this morning. But she’d departed for Treloor church with Miss Treherne, and all he’d heard was the crackle of gravel outside as he’d completed his report for Whitehall.
She must think him the worst scoundrel ever.
Which he was.
Obviously.
Although this morning, wayward thoughts consumed him because last night, hehadresisted, unlike his sodding father who would’ve followed through at full tilt.
So if he was less of a scoundrel than his father, could he–
“Is this the end?”
Was that a pessimistic query regarding their bleak existence in this world or a rhetorical question as to his health?
Unsure of a reply, he turned, noted a broad chap with a box, tapping his foot and frowning at the long queue.
“Indeed, it is nigh, my good fellow,” Jack replied.
Really, wasn’t it obvious? And he spun back before the chap could inveigle his way nearer the front with some invented tale of a lost dog or suchlike.
Jack rocked on his heels and peeked at his fob watch one more time, until finally the prattlebasket at the front leftsansletter but with numerous tips on how to keep blackfly from his roses.
Talking of pests, Jack was jostled from behind as the queue sought to maintain its disciplined form.
Lud, what was it about being English?
Once, when waiting for a boat in Venice during the last leg of his Tour, the unruly scramble had been a sight to behold – no straight line or humble “after yous” but elbows and canes deployed with vicious intent and deadly resolve. And as for the gentlemen…
Another lackwit swiftly departed – now that was more like it. But he narrowed his eyes as the next lady grumbled at her lack of post and requested the postmaster check again.
Which he did.
Letter by letter.
Jack shed his gloves and studied his fingernails. He scrutinised his watch. Then put his gloves back on. He perused the announcements pinned to the wall: a circus was to visit in three weeks’ time; a bay horse had been stolen – reward fifteen shillings; the bowling club was to meet on Monday; and Saturday next was the Harvest Fireworks Extravaganza – if rain, to be held in The Angel ballroom.
Surely… Never mind.
The lady left disgruntled, tutting about the state of the postal service from Plymouth.
Only three stragglers left.
