“It does feel like happenstance, doesn’t it, when it comes to the family one ends up with? The only family I know of that was truly and uncomplicatedly happy, where the love each member had for the others was apparent and easily worn, were the Morgans.”
“That’s difficult to countenance,” Simon said. “Would a happy, tightly knit family result in not one but two daughters swindled by a man like Mr. Bull?”
“I take the point.” Archie had never been overly fond of Sir Albert—he was Father’s friend, and Archie had learned, by the time he was out of leading strings, to stay out of Father’s way as much as possible. Yet he carried a vague memory of the Morgans as just that: a happy, tightly knit clan. “I think perhaps Mrs. Morgan was the glue of the family, and that her death has destabilized things, but I don’t think that means they don’t love each other.”
“Sir Albert did go to extreme measures to retrieve his daughters,” Effie pointed out. “His anguish in that letter seemed genuine.”
“Yes. Regardless, my point is that for most of us—and to take up your metaphor, Effie—we’re salt on strawberries. But that’s fine, because that gives us leave—frees us up—to make our own families.”
“Last I checked, one had to be married for that kind of activity—or at least for that kind of activity to result in arespectablefamily,” Simon joked.
“Not that kind of family. Why must family be defined by blood relations? That’s what I’m trying to say. Why can’t we make our own families by surrounding ourselves with like-minded people? With people who appreciate us?” Archie was speaking as though he had spent a long time honing this philosophy, but in truth the notion had just popped into his head.
“Why can’t we go find a plate of roasted potatoes if we’re legs of lamb, or pots of cream if we’re strawberries?” Effie asked.
“Precisely.”
“Like those years we spent the Christmas holidays at school,” Simon said. “And for that matter, that’s exactly what we’ve done here, isn’t it?” He waved his hand around in the space between them. “Unknowingly, perhaps. But we’re a sort of found family, are we not?”
“A found family. Oh, that’slovely, Simon,” Effie said. “Yes, we found each other at school, and we made a family.”
Both men looked at Archie, who was starting to feel sheepish even though he agreed with the sentiment—and even though he was the one who had introduced the idea to begin with. It was this business with Clem and Olive. It had him thinking of the past and examining his soul or some such nonsense. “Enough sentimentality,” he declared. “Time to get foxed.”
They often did this, in the evenings during an Earls Trip, talked about serious matters, and when things started to feeltooserious, moved on to drinking. Though admittedly in most years the serious matter wouldn’t have been the nature of their own bonds.
But this was not most years, was it? Somewhere under this leaking roof was Clementine Morgan. Archie wondered what she was doing as he got up to fetch the scotch decanter. Was she already asleep? Was she even inside? He sincerely hoped she was not tromping around the grounds in the rainy dark, but he wouldn’t put it past her—and he could hardly go on a mission to find out as he’d told her to stay away. She’d been doing a remarkably fine job of it, if her stubborn refusal to appear for dinner had been anything to go by.
“This is the last round for me,” Simon said as Archie sloshed a generous pour of scotch into his glass.
That was also a familiar refrain. As were Effie’s exhortations that Simon should stay, that he went to bed too early, that he was on holiday, that he was old before his time.
Archie joined in on pestering Simon, but in truth he was not sad to see him retire early. Part of the sweetness of an Earls Trip was that Effie was a night owl and Simon a lark. Archie would gladly sacrifice sleep for the pleasure of spending time with each man in his own milieu. Archie usually needed a holiday from his holiday when he returned to Mollybrook, the result of sleeping too few hours each night. The exhaustion was worth it, though. It was a fortnight of physical fatigue traded for mental replenishment that would last a year.
With Effie, Archie drank and talked about poetry. Apparently Effie’s editor atLe Monde Jolihad put forth an opinion about Lord Byron that Effie was having difficulty countenancing. “Of course one can read and enjoy and accept the work of an artist even as one disapproves of the artist himself. It isn’t as if the art itself is tainted by the distasteful behavior and opinions of the artist. Don’t you agree?”
Archie wasn’t sure if he did or he didn’t. The question brought to mind the year Clem, who had probably been around ten at the time, refused to eat Easter dinner. Her family had been dining with his at Mollybrook, and when it was announced that the ham had come from the nearby Smith farm, she had paled, set down her fork, and pronounced herself not hungry. Archie had been the only one who’d known the source of her lost appetite. The pair of them had gone on a ramble a few days previously. They’d stumbled upon Mr. Smith, loudly and cruelly berating his wife for spilling a bowl of slop she’d been taking out to the pigs. They’d been drawn by the commotion and had watched the scene play out from behind a fence. Archie had been paralyzed by shock. He’d never seen such a display, his own father’s cruelties being significantly more subtle. It wasn’t until Mr. Smith raised his hand as if to strike his wife that Archie had been galvanized into action, and to his shame, that action had merely been talking loudly to Clem and pretending they were just strolling up. It had been enough to diffuse the confrontation. But as Clem had said later, on their way home, if that was how Mr. Smith behaved outside, where anyone could come upon them, what was he like at home?
And then she had refused to eat his ham.
“It’s an interesting conundrum,” Archie said to Effie, shaking off the memory. “I suppose one can always err on the side of caution and set aside Byron’s works.”
“So what you’re saying is I have to throw outThe Siege of Corinthbecause Byron is a bounder?” Effie protested.
“No, no. I’m merely thinking that there are so many poems in the world, what’s the harm in skipping over a few of them?” Just as that Easter, the table had been laden with plenty of other things to eat. Clementine hadn’t gone hungry, and neither had he when he had stealthily joined in her abstention, feeding his ham to Olive’s lapdog under the table. But perhaps pigs and poetry were not properly compared in this manner. “I am far from an expert. I’m sure you know better than I about these things. Let’s have another drink.”
It was a lovely evening, all in all, providing a large dose of Effie and his Effie-ness.
And then there was a Simonesque version of the same the next morning in the breakfast room, albeit with tea instead of scotch.
“Perhaps I have judged the Luddites too harshly,” Simon announced from behind a book when Archie appeared.
“I hadn’t realized you’d judged them at all.” Archie knew little about the Luddites, but one didn’t need to know what one was talking about to enjoy a conversation with Simon.
“Yes.” Simon lowered the book, which upon further examination was a pamphlet. “While I have sympathized with their cause, I used to think the violence they espouse reprehensible. And pointless, too. You can’t stop progress. Mechanization is inevitable, is it not?”
“I should think so,” said Archie, who honestly had no idea. He contemplated the buffet set up in the corner of the room and happily served himself a large portion of eggs and kippers. The kitchen seemed to have righted itself.
Did Clementine eat kippers? he wondered suddenly. Surely fish did not rate as “animals” in her estimation? What about eggs? No, that would be taking it too far, even for her. What would she eat for breakfast otherwise?
