Page 11 of The Labours of Lord Perry Cavendish
“Ah,” Zander said, understanding. Then he shrugged. “Well, you’ll just have to tell her no, won’t you?”
“No?” Perry parroted.
Zander smiled and rose from his chair. “Comes to us all, old man. Cut the apron strings, that’s my advice. Tell your mother you plan to stay on here for a while and won’t be returning to town for the foreseeable future. What’s the worst that can happen after all? You’ve got a bit of income of your own, haven’t you?”
He did, but it wasn’t much. His father’s finances were a deal better following Bella’s marriage, but still, Perry’s quarterly allowance was modest indeed. Besides that, he had a few hundred a year from his maternal grandmother, who had doted on him for some reason that nobody had ever understood, least of all Perry. He was grateful for it, though, and could live on it independently, if he was frugal.
Perry met his friend’s gaze with a determined one of his own. “You’re right,” he said. “I’ll write back today. Tell her I’m staying put.”
“Good man,” Zander said, clapping him on the shoulder. “Strike while the iron’s hot.”
* * *
Dear Mama, Perry wrote, an hour later.
He was sitting in a spindly little chair, at a spindly little desk in the morning room. It was probably a lady’s desk and part of the effects of the house Adam had purchased when he’d bought the estate. Had the previous occupants been elves, Perry wondered? Most of the chairs in the house seemed to be too small for him.
Shifting uncomfortably, he stared down at the sadly scrawled words as he considered how best to answer his mother's letter.
Just launch in, he decided, at last. He dipped his pen in the inkwell and began to scrawl.
Im affraid I cant come home as you asked as Ive had a bad chill and still feel rather under the wether so Zander says I should I stay at Edgely Park a few more weeks at least until I am my usual self therefor I doute I will be home again before November which means you will all have some peace and quite from me which I'm sure will be very welcome haha!
“Good morning, Hercules,” a light voice drawled at his shoulder. “You seem very absorbed in your letter.”
Perry just about jumped out of his skin, spinning around so fast he nearly fell off the damned dainty chair. The Honourable Jonathan Mainwaring was standing just behind him, his gaze on Perry’s God-awful handwriting.
Perry flushed beetroot. He felt like an idiot. He wanted to snatch up the letter and rip it into a thousand pieces. It was probably full of spelling mistakes too, the sort that used to get him thrashed regularly during his schooldays. The heat in his cheeks intensified. He wanted to sink through the floor. Christ, itwouldbe Jonny who’d crept up on him, wouldn’t it? It couldn’t be Zander or Adam, who both already knew he was a dolt.
“Good heavens,” Jonny continued as though he hadn’t noticed Perry’s wild reaction. “My dear, you can't just launch straight into the news that you’re not willing to return home to your mother when she asks for you. You need to give her a good page of news first.”
Perry stared at Jonny, unsure what to say. Eventually, he cleared his throat and said, “This is a private letter, you know.” But his voice felt tight in his throat, as though he was short of air.
“Oh, I can seethat,” Jonny said, seeming entirely unconcerned. “Shift up. I’ll help you.”
“What? No! I don’t need any help,” Perry said, horrified, but Jonny had already fetched another of those spindly-legged chairs from where it sat against the wall and was setting it down next to Perry’s.
“Budge up,” he said, and Perry found himself obediently shuffling his own chair to the left, allowing Jonny to crowd in next to him. He watched in horror as Jonny opened the drawer and drew out a fresh sheet of paper.
“You’ll still need to write it, of course,” Jonny said. “She’ll recognise the handwriting, I presume?”
“Wh—what?” Perry stammered. “Oh, I see, that is, I mean, yes. Yes, she would, I’m afraid. My writing is awful, and my spelling is worse.”
“Spelling rules are dreary,” Jonny said dismissively with a wave of his hand, “I refuse to adhere to them on principle. As for your handwriting, I’d call it distinctive rather than awful, but then, I’m an artist, you see, and we simply refuse to be governed by petty rules.”
Perry blinked, and Jonny smiled at him kindly. “Just write what I say, and don't worry about the spelling.”
With that, he leaned back in his chair, gazing up at the ceiling as though towards the source of inspiration, and began to dictate.
“Dear Mama, I do hope this letter finds you well.” He paused, adding after a moment, “Can you believe it will soon be September? It feels like mere days since Easter, does it not? Yet the harvest is almost in. My first two weeks at Edgeley Park have been very full and interesting. Buckinghamshire is a beautiful county, quite the equal of—” Here, Jonny stopped his diatribe and turned his head to meet Perry’s astonished gaze. “Where are you from?”
“What?”
“Where are you from, my dear? Where did you grow up?”
“Derbyshire.”
“Right-o.” Once again, Jonny leaned back, balancing the dainty chair on its back legs as he stared up at the plasterwork on the ceiling and continued. “Buckinghamshire is a beautiful county, quite the equal of”—here he glanced at Perry and gave a broad wink—“Derbyshire. I’ve been doing some exploring which has been very jolly, although I do appear to have picked up a stubborn chest infection as a consequence of being caught in the rain once or twice.” Again, he paused, offering a conspiratorial grin. “We’ll come back to that later. You want to drop it in casually at first. You don’t want to sound too desperate.”