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The voices of the mechanic and coachman filled the narrow passage of the mews as they rose to be heard over each other. Mr. Hobart looked small as he stood between them, his hands up in an attempt to calm tempers.
“What am I supposed to do?” the mechanic shouted.
“I don’t care,” the coachman shouted back. “Take it away, anywhere but here!”
Mr. Hobart’s response was drowned out by the mechanic’s. “I already told you. I’ve got permission—”
“And I toldyou, I don’t care! Take it away!”
“What do you think I’m trying to do? I’ve got passengers to collect from the hotel.”
“I meant, take it away and don’t come back!”
The mechanic crossed his arms over his chest. “No.”
The coachman followed suit. He stood in front of the wide coach house entrance. The automobile was parked inside. The mechanic must have driven it in while the coachman was absent.
One of the horses in the adjoining stables whinnied. The coachman stabbed a finger in its direction. “See! The horses hate it.”
“The engine’s not even running.”
“They can smell the oil. It disturbs them. Tell him, Mr. Hobart.”
The mechanic looked at Mr. Hobart for the first time. “Who are you?”
“The manager of the Mayfair Hotel,” Mr. Hobart said evenly. “I assume you are Lord Dunmere’s mechanic.”
The mechanic touched the brim of his cap in greeting. “That I am, sir. Can you tell this horse-brained idiot that I have permission to stable his lordship’s vehicle here?”
Before Mr. Hobart could answer, Floyd spoke. “It’s true, he does. Cobbit, step aside. Let the mechanic take out the automobile.”
“But sir!”
“Hobart will relay your complaint to my father and a resolution will be found. But right now, we have a polo match to get to. Step aside.”
The coachman’s ruddy cheeks turned even redder and, for a moment, I thought he’d disobey Floyd. But he spun on his heel and headed into the stables, his fists clenched tightly at his sides. He brushed past the two young grooms flanking the door who exchanged glances before following.
The mechanic reached for long linen coats hanging from hooks inside the stables and handed one to each of us along with goggles. A few minutes later, I could see why the coat, goggles and thick veils we’d been advised to wear were necessary. We would have been covered in oil smuts by the time we reached the Elms Polo Club if we’d not worn suitable outerwear.
The drive out of London was slow as horse-drawn vehicles held us up, but once we left the city behind, I could see why travel by automobile was all the rage with those who could afford one. It was positively the best way to drive on country roads. We passed horse-drawn carriages with ease, and even the wind whipping at our faces ceased to bother me after a while. As we picked up speed, Floyd let out awhoopfrom the front seat.
In the back seat of the Peugeot, with a picnic basket stocked by the hotel’s kitchen staff between us, Flossy and I exchanged grins.
“She can reach speeds of up to twenty miles an hour!” the mechanic shouted at us over the noise of the engine.
“Marvelous,” Floyd shouted back. “May I have a go at driving?”
“Sorry, sir, not without his lordship’s permission.” The mechanic turned the handlebar rising out of the floor. The vehicle responded by turning the corner, albeit a little too quickly. Floyd ended up almost in the mechanic’s lap, but with the basket wedged tightly between us, Flossy and I had nowhere to go and managed to stay seated on our respective sides.
Flossy clamped a hand to her hat, although it was held firmly in place thanks to the veil secured beneath her chin. “Isn’t this thrilling, Cleo? What a shame it can’t go faster.”
Until they built an automobile with doors and a roof to stop me being thrown onto the road if it overturned, the pace was fast enough for me.
We arrived at the Elms in a little over twenty minutes. Floyd was the envy of several of his friends who witnessed our arrival. The mechanic obliged their curiosity by answering their questions about the vehicle, while Flossy and I dispensed with our protective outerwear.
When the men had finished ogling the glossy black paintwork and shiny brass lamps, Flossy directed her brother to collect the picnic basket. We headed through the gate and found a position on the lush lawn under one of the eponymous elms in front of the palatial Georgian-style clubhouse. The lawn rolled gently to the edge of a lake where small sailboats drifted lazily past. Some of the younger gentlemen participated in boat races to show off their skill, and several ladies indulged them by watching on from the shore, broad hats shielding their eyes but not their smiles. Everyone was in a sunny mood to match the fine weather.
The Elms Polo Club was as much a social club as a polo playing one, so naturally Flossy and several other girls of marriageable age were on the hunt for eligible bachelors. One of those girls was my friend and a guest at the Mayfair Hotel, Miss Clare Hessing. She spotted us and waved, but did not leave her mother’s side beneath the large umbrella they shared with two other ladies. Miss Hessing seemed happy. Considering she was in the company of her mother, that was unusual indeed. I suspected it had more to do with the fact that she would be able to rendezvous with her paramour, Mr. Liddicoat, at some point today. He would be here somewhere. His cousin was the captain of one of the teams playing for the Champion Cup.
