Page 15 of The Songbird of Wychwood

CHAPTER 12

PERCY

I awoke from a glorious dream of twirling, twirling, twirling, with an orchestral accompaniment and a glorious boy in my arms. I liked this feeling very much and I wanted to stay here with my beau and follow the feelings of arousal in my groin. But, with the sharp repetitive knocking on my room door, the day had other ideas. I was glad the head butler respected my wishes that he should not enter my room without permission.

“Good morning, Bentley. What do you want?” I called resignedly, my throat a little hoarse.

“Your mother wishes to know if you’ll be joining her for church this morning.”

Gods, I’d forgotten that I was expected to escort mother to the Sunday morning service. Since my grandfather died, she had worn black and become ever more devout in her beliefs. She’d expected me to follow suit. I did not agree with going to church every morning, nor did I believe that grandfather Theo would have wanted me to mourn him so obsessively. I knew for a fact he wanted me to live my life as I saw fit and love whoever I wanted to love. Father now had the responsibility of Harcourt Press, and he worked all hours, and so mother was left with her ladies’ maid, Miss Grieves for daily companionship. I wish she’d have had a daughter to carry out these kinds of mind-numbing family duties, because all I wanted to do was write and find other enjoyable pursuits to fill my days away from the office.

At Wychwood, the muse had come to me like a lightning strike and even though I’d left under a cloud, when I got home in the early hours all I could think to do was write, write, write. I didn’t know if anything I’d written was any good, for I was inebriated and full of the fever of unfulfilled desire. But Miss Georgette made lyrical words pour from me like ambrosia of the Gods.

I didn’t move a muscle, but hollered my response towards the closed door. “I have stomach flu and will stay in bed today. Send mother my apologies and tell her to go with Miss Grieves.”

“Very good sir. Please let me know if you require any assistance,” the butler called back.

“Actually, Bentley, after mother’s left for church could you send up a tray of breakfast? I’m rather famished and in the mood for a good hearty meal.”

“Of course, sir,” he said sardonically.

****

As the only son of the owner of Harcourt Press, after finishing university, I’d had my pick of which publication I worked on. I chose The Archaeological Journal because the subject of archaeology had always fascinated me. I edited articles sent in by academics and archeologists, and I advised on the contents of each issue of the periodical. The work was enjoyable and it kept me on my toes. I liked to be among the first to be informed about new archaeological discoveries. The job was generally solitary, so it also allowed me moments to pen lines of poetry that came to me during the day. I must confess, in the two weeks since I’d spent the evening at Wychwood with Miss Georgette inspiration had taken flight. I’d poured out my heart onto the pages of a newly purchased notebook which I’d devoted to my thoughts and feelings from that evening. I would love to see Miss Georgette again, and yet, part of me thought that maybe our meeting was one of those perfect moments in time when souls collide in recognition and then go their separate ways. Could I have been drawn to the idea of her, rather than the reality? I wondered if, instead of feeling lovelorn and wistful I should take the brief meeting as a gift from the muses to lift my poetry to a higher plane.

A knock on my office door made me look up from the page I was correcting. “Yes,” I said as a timid man by the name of Oliver Simmons stepped in. The legal department was made up of an odd bunch of fellows and I recognized him as one of the lawyers. The legal department rarely interacted with other employees unless an error had been discovered in print, and there were legal ramifications. And so, I was surprised to see Simmons in my office at all.

“Begging your pardon, Mr. Harcourt, sir,” he said in a simpering tone.

“Ah, Mr. Simmons, what can I do for you?”

“I don’t know if you’ve heard, but Jonty Edwards is getting married this Sunday, and so we’re going to take him out tonight for a bachelors celebration.”

I vaguely recalled that Jonty Edwards was the head clerk in the legal department. I don’t think we’d shared more than two words in my three years here.

“Oh, no, I hadn’t heard. Please send him my congratulations.”

“Um…Well, we were wondering if you’d like to join us…for the celebrations, sir. We’re planning a drink at the Dog and Duck next door, and then we’ll go onto a music hall in town for supper and a show.”

I was rather surprised by the invitation. During my three years as editor of the Archaeological Journal, the fellows in the legal department had never invited me to socialize with them. I did socialize with the staff journalists and illustrators, a couple of whom I considered good friends.

“How many staff are going?” I enquired.

“Not quite sure, I’ve had a lot of maybes, but I guess we’ll see the numbers at the Dog and Duck after work and go from there.”

Ah, now I understood the reason for the invitation. This poor man was worried that no one would show up for his friend’s bachelor party because the lawyers were not the sociable type. He was desperate to have someone as influential as me to join the party so that it would encourage others to come along. What could I say? I couldn’t allow this Jonty Edwards to have a disappointing last outing before marriage. Oh no, I would do what I could to ensure there was a suitable number of colleagues to wish him well.

“I’d be delighted to attend,” I said heartily. “And I’ll send a note down to Alf at the Dog and Duck to say that drinks for Edward’s party will be paid for by Harcourt’s.”

“Oh, oh that’s so very kind of you, sir. We’ll be heading down after five. It’s going to be a smashing night I’m sure,” he beamed.

Oliver Simmons left my office with a spring in his step, and before I forgot and lost myself in the article I was editing, I wrote three notes. One to Alf explaining that I would cover the cost of drinks for Edward’s bachelor’s party, another to the Henry Latimer in the art department, and the third to the Oscar Rhodes a journalist who worked one floor down. These two men were dear friends and never said no to a night of frivolity, and so what better excuse. They were well connected and would also ensure that word of free drinks at the Dog and Duck would get around! I pressed the bell and my secretary came in to take the notes and send them on their way with a runner. Now with only five hours of the work day remaining, I decided I’d leave early and change before stepping out for the evening.

****

The Dog and Duck in Wapping was a rowdy affair, with patrons coming from the print works, and offices as well as sailors and laborer’s working at the docks. With it being a Friday and payday for many, the pub was packed with sweaty bodies of working men, but for Harcourt’s men, the drinks were on me! My influence had garnered a group of around fifteen for this impromptu bachelor’s party, and it pleased me to see Jonty Edwards beaming with pride that so many had turned up.

As expected, my friends Henry and Oscar took advantage of the free bar. Both of them worked on the Archaeological Journal. Henry illustrated new finds, ruins, and landscapes while Oscar interviewed academics and archeologists at digs to get up-to-date information on investigative research that would then be published in the journal.