Dido and Pa (13 page)

"Did any of 'em fit?" croaked the Slut.

"The heap was so huge that it filled the whole square, higher than the palace. And when the sun shone, didn't those keys half glitter! Then ... the king said..."

"Said what?" demanded Is, but her voice trailed away in a yawn.

Dido was already asleep.

Just before she drifted off she had a quick thought about the Dutchman, van Doon, training himself to look and sound exactly like the king. That's a right rum business: can it be all hunky-dory? Or is the margrave up to summat?

Anything that my pa's in
must
be crooked, thought Dido.

Then she floated into dreams.

Simon and Sophie were taking breakfast in the morning room of Bakerloo House. Gray light from the east window fell across the table with its white cloth, bowls of fruit, rolls, and pot of honey, but the morning was not a bright one; purple-black snow clouds were piling across the sky, and the children out in the yard played their games under a thin flurry of flakes.

Simon was still worried about Dido.

"If she were with anybody but her father! He is such an out-and-out rascal. He might get her mixed up in all manner of wrongdoing, and then leave her without scruple—"

"Don't you think she can look after herself?" suggested Sophie. "After all, she managed to find her own way home from—Nantucket, did you say? The Galapagos Islands?"

"She is such a little scrap of a thing."

Mrs. Buckle came curtsying in with a letter.

"From his majesty, your grace."

"Oh, dear, so early in the day?" said Sophie as Simon
broke the large red-and-gold seal. "The poor man depends on you so. What does he want now?"

"He is asking if I will take on Lord Raven's job."

"The Office of Home Affairs?
That
won't leave you much time for painting," sighed Sophie, "Of
course
you'll say yes?"

She knew her brother far too well to suppose that he would disoblige the unfortunate new king in his difficulties.

"I'll do it just for the time," said Simon. "Until he can find a better person. And he also wishes to consult me about wolves in Kent. Mogg!" he shouted. "Can you fetch my boots and coat, please? And tell Sam and Sim to get out the curricle; I have to go to St. James's."

"Wolves in Kent? Are there so many?"

"A number of reports have been coming in. The wolves in Europe are migrating westward, because of the early cold winter. Belgium and France are already overrun; now they have begun finding their way to Dover, by night, along the undersea road from Calais. Southeast Kent—Ashford, Dymchurch, and Romney Marsh," said Simon, studying the notes that accompanied the king's letter, "are infested by packs of wolves which are moving daily closer to London. The king asks me to make a plan. Armed wolf patrols, perhaps."

"What fun! We can all go out on horseback, with muskets." Sophie's eyes sparkled at the idea.

Mrs. Buckle reappeared with another letter.

"From that mirksy Hanoverian fellow."

She managed to convey disapproval in her curtsy.

"See what he wants, Sophie, there's a kind sister," said Simon, who was pulling on his boots.

"He says he is indisposed; asks you to go round to Cinnamon Court this morning to discuss the Rotherhithe tunnel-opening celebrations."

"Oh, curse the man! What a nuisance he is. Anyway, I can't go this morning. I suppose I'll have to write a note and tell him so."

"He'll be offended."

"Can't be helped. Unless—I say, Sophie—I don't suppose you'd like to be a good sort and go for me, would you? It's only to hear his plans. You may borrow my plum velvet suit—you said yourself you look well in that."

Sophie dimpled.

"Wretch! You did say that you wouldn't ask me to play that trick anymore—"

"Just this last time. You know that you really enjoy it. And since I have to see the king—and it's important not to offend the margrave—"

"But suppose he sees that it's me, not you? After all, he was here at the house, he saw both of us, so lately—"

"I do not think he will. You were out with the children, he never met you face to face. And he hardly looked at me; he kept his eyes fixed, all the time, on the king."

"Oh, well," sighed Sophie, "I suppose I must oblige you."

"You
are
a prime gun," said Simon, giving her a hug. "And I tell you what, you shall drive the curricle—even
Mogg says you drive it better than I do—and I'll take the big carriage. You can have my caped coat too."

Seen side by side, the brother and sister were, indeed, so remarkably alike—black-eyed, with dark curly hair, wide mouths, and resolute noses—that dressed for riding, they were often mistaken for each other. Sophie went off now to put on Simon's plum velvet suit, while Mrs. Buckle muttered something severe about "harum-scarum ways."

Simon had already left for St. James's Palace when Sophie drove off in the curricle, looking extremely smart in her brother's caped greatcoat and beaver hat, with her curls tied severely back in a grosgrain ribbon.

The margrave received her graciously.

"Many,
many
apologies, my dear duke, for my discourtesy in not waiting on you myself—but a touch of my old malady. It is
most
kind of you to oblige me in this way. A drop of sherry wine? Or Bohea? Or Canary?"

The margrave was decidedly pale. He did look unwell, Sophie thought. His eyes were deep-sunken, his cheeks waxen.

She politely declined the offered refreshments, glancing with frank interest around the salon they were sitting in, which was very gorgeous, with Chinese carpets, and bronze furniture, and pictures of bygone Hanoverian nobilities on the walls.

"To our task, then. It is the most trifling affair, after all! I need not detain you, I am sure, above ten minutes. Morel, fetch the chapel-master, will you."

Mr. Twite arrived in his kilt and red wig. At the sight of Sophie he started and turned a little green; he took pains to remain at a considerable distance from her, eyeing her meanwhile with great attention. Sophie, who had never seen him before, could not imagine what ailed him, but thought perhaps he was afraid of his master.

"Now!" said the margrave. "This is my chapel-master's plan. It is really most ingenious! But first let me ask you, my dear duke, what are your principal feelings about watching a procession—your main emotion on such an occasion?"

"Why," said Sophie, after thinking about it for a moment, "I suppose the dreadful boredom. You have to go there hours before, to secure a good place; you wait and wait; the procession passes; and then you are in the middle of such a crowd that you can't get away, so you wait and wait again."

"Precisely!" said the margrave in triumph. "Exactly so! You wait and wait. The procession passes, and all your waiting has been for just a few minutes of spectacle. But how would it be if there were
two
processions, traveling in opposite directions?"

"Well," said Sophie, "I suppose that might be—"

"Of course!" said the margrave, without waiting for her to finish. "You are right! It is far, far better. It is fairer. And in this way Herr Bredalbane, my clever chapel-master, has planned it all. To be accompanied by his superb music!
Two
processions: one commencing in London, marching under the Thames, out into Rotherhithe, ending in the fields of
Kent—at Greenwich perhaps; the other commencing in Kent, proceeding under the Thames, and so into the city of London to end at St. James's. It is sublime! In from the country: yeomen, local militia, farm wagons garlanded with flowers—"

"Flowers in January, your excellency?"

"Tush!" said the margrave. "Well ... holly, mistletoe, greenstuff, I know not—milkmaids tripping, shepherds dancing, morris men. Music of pipes and tabors—joyful rustic music, suitable for such an assembly.... And then
out,
from the city: the king's own household regiments, guards in full regalia, aldermen, city dignitaries, peers, lords, barons, and so forth. And their music will be of a more dignified nature, yet joyous too—music suitable for city regiments, for the royal retinue...."

"Yes, I see," said Sophie, nodding. "And when the two processions meet—"

"Ah, then!" cried the margrave, in heights of ecstasy. "You have hit on the nub of the matter, my dear duke. Where the two processions meet—that is the crown, the crest, the culminating point of the affair! Then the music blends; the city themes with the country themes—they are combined, are harmonized, are extended into a surmounting climax of beauty!"

"Gracious me. How clever," said Sophie, who did think it sounded a most ingenious plan, really quite out of the common. "And where will this happen? One procession, you say, comes in from Greenwich; one goes out from London—where will they meet?"

She glanced at a large map of London and its environs which the margrave had spread out on a gold-and-onyx table.

"Why, where should they meet but in the middle of the tunnel—the reason, the object, of the whole affair? Where could they possibly meet but under the river Thames?"

Sophie at once perceived several objections to this plan, but she judged it best to be tactful, and only said, with caution:

"Will the tunnel be illuminated?"

"Who should know that better than yourself, my dear duke?" the margrave replied in slight surprise. "But, yes, it will be lit by gas flares. The scene will be brilliant—magnificent!"

"And the tunnel is wide enough to contain two processions, passing in opposite directions?"

"So I am informed. There will be sufficient width."

"For spectators also?"

"Spectators? Now there, my dear duke, you ask the impossible! The spectators must content themselves with assembling outside, at each end of the tunnel."

To Sophie it seemed more than a little odd that the most significant moment of the whole occasion should take place underground, in a tunnel, where no one could see what was happening, except the people who were marching, or riding. Yet ... the tunnel
was
the object of the festivities, and the crowds on each side of the river would have the excitement of seeing one procession march into the cavity and then, two minutes later, a different one march out. With appropriate music, as the margrave said.

"It really is clever," she said. "How long will it take?"

"For the two processions to reach the Thames from their starting points, say half an hour. To pass through the tunnel, ten minutes. And then another half hour to reach their final destination."

"And in which procession will the king be?"

"Aha! My dear duke, as before, you dive straight to the heart of the matter!"

The margrave seemed more and more delighted with Sophie; he beamed at her enthusiastically, though she noticed that he had become even paler and now carried a bright red spot on either cheekbone. His hands shook. His brow was bedewed with beads of perspiration. In spite of his vivacity, Sophie thought, he looked like a seriously ill man.

"Which procession?" he repeated. "Which indeed? Shall I leave you to guess, like the public?"

"Well, sir," said Sophie cheerfully, "you have me entirely puzzled and all agog. And I assume that is your intention?"

The margrave turned, and directed his wide smile (
could
those teeth be real? wondered Sophie) like a lighthouse beam at Mr. Bredalbane, who, all this time, had been seated nervously at the spinnet, sometimes lifting his hands as if about to play a few notes, but never daring to do so.

"Can you believe it, my dear chapel-master? What luck for me that the duke here is a young man of parts, of rare discernment. He is a jewel. He can appreciate our scheme. And I am not surprised that he should be so sympathetic—have you taken note of his voice, chapel-master? It is so musical, so fine-toned—I cannot recall when I was last charmed by such a voice!"

This remark caused Sophie more than a little alarm. She had been forgetting, in her interest, to pitch her voice as deep as Simon's. She said, quickly and gruffly:

"I conclude that the king's whereabouts in the procession will be kept a secret until the last moment? Is that it? Pray, your excellency, may I hear a little of the music that you offer to accompany this scheme?"

"With the greatest of pleasure," the margrave purred. "Bredalbane—play the duke your themes; let him have some idea of the grandeur of our concept."

"Y-yes, your excel-ellency. C-certainly, your excellency. You s-see, your griddle-grace, it will be—it will be after this fashion," stammered the musician. He gave Sophie a quick, slanting look, then began rapidly fingering the keys. "
This
will be the theme for the household regiments ... and
this
for the city dignitaries;
this
for the yeomen..." All the while he was rattling out different tunes, some stately, some rousing, some lighthearted, some grand. "Then for his majesty, this..." He played a noble, simple, haunting air. "Then there will be country dances for the farmers, milkmaids, and shepherds coming into town..." And he changed to a series of such lively airs that it was all Sophie could do to stop her feet from tapping on the floor.

"Why, they are beautiful!" she exclaimed, much impressed. "They are truly beautiful."

Bredalbane glanced at her again, a rapid, needlelike look.

"And th-then, you s-see, the themes all mix and combine as the two processions begin to pass each other." He gave a demonstration of this, combining several themes together.

"Really," said Sophie, "it is the greatest pity that Mr. Bredalbane's music could not have been used at his majesty's coronation; it is by far superior to what was played on that occasion."

"My dear duke—I could embrace you!" said the margrave. "Such judgment! Such perception!"

Sophie had to control an impulse to back away in case he meant his words literally; but luckily he did not. She noticed with interest that Bredalbane's music seemed to have had a beneficial effect on the margrave, as if he had swallowed brandy or sniffed a bottle of smelling salts; his pallor had been replaced by a warm flush, his eyes were brighter, the beads of sweat had dried off his brow.