A Rather Curious Engagement by C. A. Belmond

Author:C. A. Belmond [Belmond, C. A.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9780451224057
Amazon: 0451224051
Publisher: NAL
Published: 2008-07-01T22:00:00+00:00

Chapter Twenty-three

"Well, cheers!” Rollo cried, ambling toward us without waiting for an invitation. "What’s this—a real English tea? Splendid! Wouldn’t mind a cup myself.” And he settled himself on the other side of the sofa, sinking in with a relieved, weary “Whuf!”

“Been looking for you all week,” he said, taking off his Panama hat and dropping it on the table. “Heard about the theft of Penelope’s Dream and the wreckage! Bad luck, old boy,” he said, turning to Jeremy. “Terribly sorry to hear it.”

“Everything’s fine now,” Jeremy said, tersely and gruffly. Rollo turned to me with a gimlet eye.

“Don’t wish to intrude,” he said, “but did I hear you say something about the Beethoven Lion? How extraordinary. I say, my man—” he addressed François, who had returned to see if we needed anything, “have you got any more lemon for the tea?”

I glanced up apologetically at François. “We have use for that third teacup, after all,” I told him. François observed that I had been as inconvenienced as he, and he nodded as if he’d do his best to lighten my load. He poured tea for Rollo before leaving again.

“Rollo,” Jeremy said warily, “what do you know about the Beethoven Lion?”

“Why, it’s a curious piece of aquamanilia,” Rollo said eagerly. “Prized more for its legendary aspect.” He turned to me. “Are you fond of aquamanilia, my dear?”

“I don’t really know much about it,” I admitted. It dawned on me that this sort of stuff was right up Rollo’s alley. He’d once tried to engage me in a discussion of the arcane items he collected. I wasn’t very receptive at the time; nobody was, not even his own mother, who had a sort of impatient contempt for his preoccupations. He now looked genuinely pleased to have a family member finally listening to him showing off his expertise.

“Aquamanilia were made with a complex metal-casting technique that medieval monks even wrote treatises on. It’s a real art form, but it takes the brawn and skill of a blacksmith to do it! Very complicated indeed,” Rollo explained. He paused to study—and appraise—a soft white linen napkin with navy monogram that said Penelope’s Dream on one side and N&L in smaller lettering on the reverse side. Then he set it in his lap, helped himself to the little petits fours cakes, and began to eat hungrily. He turned to me with a look of appreciation.

“Well, this is marvellous, sitting down to table with family,” he said. “Much, much better than eating in a restaurant or an hotel.”

Jeremy growled into his teacup, but I had seen something in Rollo’s face that I found oddly touching. Sure, he was still appraising everything in sight—like the silverware, for instance; yet, he also seemed like a kid who’d never had a cozy family meal around the table together. I could imagine that as a boy it would have been mighty hard for Rollo to snuggle up to his mum, because Great-Aunt Dorothy had all the warmth of a cobra.

“But

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