Chapter Three

Biddy now hotfooted it back to the Hall by a shortcut while Fairchild and I motored on. Though several dung beetles and at least one slug passed us in our course, the rate of speed was evidently too brisk for Fairchild who, in the context of her new role, had assumed the helm. She put us smack through the hedgerow and into an ornamental pond. It turns out the girl did not have the faintest inkling how to drive. I mean, she might have said something to that effect. "I mean," I said to her, as I climbed out onto the bonnet preparatory to an Olympian leap to the shore, "you might have said something to that effect." "You instructed me to drive, sir, and I did not wish to appear uncooperative." "Fortunately we're not in too deep. Let's see if you can push her back onto the bank." "But ..." "But, Fairchild? What became of not wishing to seem uncooperative?" "It's just that I spent the entire morning blacking these boots. It is no small matter to achieve a deep gloss without an ostentatious shine." "Well, take them off, ninny." "And the pants, sir: I fear the crease will be obliterated." "I can't believe this. Are you aware that in other working relationships of this sort, the valet is the brains of the outfit, while the master is deemed to have an intelligence of thoroughly negligible proportions? Take your pants off, too, you silly person. Must I do all the thinking around here?" "Oh. Very well, sir."

And so it was that the Duke of Bogwallop chanced, in the course of his evening stroll, upon the energetic scene of Fairchild applying her herringbone-tweeded shoulder to the prow of my Lancia while I reposed cross-legged upon the littoral, offering occasional words of encouragement.

"I say," he said, "this is entirely too much. What is this world coming to?" "Who are you, and what's it to you?" demanded Fairchild peevishly. She had worked herself into a bit of a sweat. The Duke identified himself, and Fairchild's manner modified appropriately. "I'm sorry, your Grace," she said sincerely and offered a little curtsy, primly lifting the hem of my shooting jacket and genuflecting her dimpled knees. "You took me rather by surprise. What seems to be the problem?" "That lout sitting on the bank, that's what. My dear fellow, you simply cannot let your servants get the upper hand in this manner. The next thing you know, you'll be bringing them breakfast in bed. You there!" He was speaking to me and brandishing his cane in my direction. Under the circs, I thought I'd better rise. "Sir?" I attempted to say, although the word stuck in my craw. "Bestir yourself and push this car out of my pond. If I wanted vehicles parked in my ponds I'd jolly well park them there myself. And remember your place, for heaven's sake." Did I have to take this sort of thing? Apparently I did. With a tug at the old forelock, I shuffled off to do as instructed only to be brought up short by a peremptory clearing of the Fairchild throat. I noticed that she was staring significantly at my feet. I looked down to see my black wing-tips, which I'd retained when Fairchild's shoes had proved an impossible fit. They were gleaming but not shining beneath the crisp crease in her spongebag trousers. Getting the point, I shed the lot and slogged into the bog.

While I proceeded to grunt and strain, Fairchild sashayed over and ingratiated herself with the squire. He had deduced by now, from the fact that the driveway from which we had diverged was a good two miles from the high road, that she must be his guest. So she introduced herself.

"Timothy O'Doul," she said smartly, and the sounding of my name caused me to look up and lose momentum, which in turn almost caused the car to run me over as it slipped back toward me. "You don't much look like a Timothy," opined the old gaffer. "Family name, don't you know," Fairchild explained. "Ah!" replied the Duke as if all had been made plain. "Yes, come to think of it, my daughter said she had invited a guest down for the weekend, although I could have sworn she said it was to be a woman." "I am a woman, your Grace." "Well then that explains why you don't much look like a Timothy, doesn't it?" "I suppose it does, your Grace." "Call me Duke." I could see - or, at any rate, I could surmise, since I didn't dare look up to see - that they were going to hit it off splendidly, which was all to the better, I supposed, as far as being of use to Biddulph, although it rankled a bit since I could not recall an occasion, except once when I was a cherubic five and the peer in question was well into his dotage, that I had hit it off with a duke. Just when I was starting to feel like that Greek fellow, Sissy-something-or-other, I finally pushed the dashed sports car out of the muck, and never has a man looked forward so fervently to his bath. Fairchild and I clambered back into our clothes and, bidding the landlord a temporary adieu, set off once more for the Hall, the Duke's praises ringing in our ears for Fairchild having taken the master-servant relationship in hand to the extent of insisting that the servant drive.

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