a small but amusing dinner party at which they could sample a variety of different wines, which of course would include champagne, the Prince’s favourite beverage.
It was only when he had chosen the guests and even the menu that he wondered if his future wife Beryl would expect to be present on such an occasion.
He thought it a bore to have women at a dinner where the wine and food were the first objects of interest.
And he told himself that the sooner Beryl understood that if he wished to have a bachelor party she must make other arrangements for herself, the better.
As he thought of his intended, he realised how disappointed his mother had been in his choice of a wife.
He had known that was inevitable as he drove North to break the news of his impending marriage, but he found himself remembering the sadness in the Dowager Marchioness’s eyes and the wistful note in her voice.
‘She will be happy enough once I am married,’ he told himself optimistically, ‘and when we have children she will both love and spoil them.’
It occurred to him for the first time that the life Beryl had lived up to now was hardly conducive to contented motherhood.
She was, as he had described her, the life and soul of every party. She was also always surrounded by a crowd of admiring swains who laughed at everything she said and extolled her as being wittier than she in fact was.
As if he wished to reassure himself, the Marquis thought,
‘We like the same sort of things, we lead the same sort of life.’
That, he was sure, was the right foundation on which to build a commendable marriage.
It was growing late in the afternoon but there was still a little way to go before he reached The George and Dragon where he intended to stay.
As he drove his horses round the corner of a narrow hedge-bordered road, he saw a commotion ahead.
The Marquis, who was travelling fast, pulled in his team.
“An accident!” he remarked briefly.
“It’s the stagecoach, my Lord,” Jim replied.
They drew nearer.
The stagecoach, which was lying at a drunken angle on the left-hand side of the road, had obviously just come into collision with a chaise drawn by two horses, which were plunging about out of control.
The stagecoach had been prevented by the hedgerow from turning over completely and the luggage piled on top had fallen into the road. A number of white chickens, which had been contained in a coop, were fluttering about squawking loudly.
Their cries were augmented by the bleat of a sheep sewn into a sack, which was lying upside down on the grass verge. There were feminine screams and masculine oaths, while the owner of the chaise, a middle-aged and furious gentleman was hurling abuse at the driver of the stagecoach.
The latter, ably supported by the guard, was shouting back at him.
The Marquis looked at the turmoil with amusement.
Then, as it was impossible to pass and it seemed unlikely that anyone intended to clear up the mess, he handed his reins to his groom.
Without haste he stepped down onto the road and walked up to the combatants, his voice clear and authoritative cutting across their furious interchange.
“Go to the heads of your horses, you fools!”
Both the gentleman who owned the chaise and the coachman turned to stare at him in astonishment.
“Your horses!” the Marquis called out again and surprisingly they obeyed him.
He then turned to the men who had been scrambling down from the roof of the coach and pointed to those who had their heads out of the windows being unable to alight owing to the angle at which it lay.
“Get everyone out!” the Marquis ordered. “Then you can right this vehicle, unless you intend to stay here for the rest of the night.”
There was a sharpness in his tone that galvanised the men into activity.
A fat farmer’s wife was helped out first, crying as she did so,
“Me chickens – me poor little chickens – they be all crushed!”
She insisted on her rescuers taking from her
Learning to Kill: Stories