Free Maggie MacKeever by Bachelors Fare

with an interest in land management equal to Lord Davenham’s own, James would much rather have conversed about such practical matters as sheep-shearings and crops. However, Vivien was in a spot of trouble, and he must be made to see that it would not be simply wished away.
    Rudely, the squire expressed an adverse opinion of Lord Townsend’s turnips. Having thus secured Lord Davenham’s amazed attention, he continued inexorably. “You may as well listen to me and have it over with, Vivien; I shan’t be silenced on this head! People are very curious about Calveley’s sudden return to England —almost as curious as they were about his departure. You can’t stop their speculations by burying your head in the sand.”
    “Sand?” His lordship gazed vaguely downward as it he expected to find himself knee-deep in that substance. Perhaps James did not perfectly comprehend that a change of subject was prudent? His lordship dropped a gentle hint. “James, have you ever considered having your swamps drained? It should have been done long ago. I suspect your agent isn’t doing his job properly.”
    “The devil with my agent!” snapped the squire, determined to be distracted neither by Lord Davenham’s digressions nor the importunations of the countless street-sellers who thronged the ancient thoroughfare. “Consider, Vivien: Le Roué! The Princess Borghese!”
    Lord Davenham did consider, wearing a faint frown. His old friend had the tenacity of a bulldog. “You are speaking of my cousin,” he observed, “although I fail to see what Malcolm has to do with draining your swamp. Unless you are thinking he would make a better agent? My dear James, that settles it. You are not of sound mind!”
    “Not my swamp!” persevered the squire, with an exasperated glance. “No, nor my agent! It is Calveley I wish to discuss.”
    Looking slightly shamefaced, like a street urchin caught out in some rude act, Lord Davenham bought some steaming chestnuts from a street-seller and popped several into his mouth. “I know you wish to discuss my cousin, James, but I do not. In point of fact, I do not want to even think about Malcolm.” Before the squire could voice further objections, his lordship embarked upon a brilliant refutation of the theories they had just heard concerning the nature and propagation of light.
    For some time the squire listened without murmuring either acquiescence or protest, merely munching in a ruminative manner upon his lordship’s chestnuts. When they arrived at the old Middle Temple gate, built by Inigo Jones from a design by Sir Christopher Wren, he deemed it time to interrupt the pleasantries. “I don’t blame you for not wanting to think of Calveley;
    it’s deuced annoying to have to concern yourself with this sort of twaddle when there are so many more important things going on. But you must! Consider the succession.” Lord Davenham’s frown reminded his friend not only that the subject of Lady Davenham was taboo; but also that, though slow to anger, Vivien was very handy with his fists. There was in his lordship’s stillness a hint that anger was not far off. “Dash it, Vivien!” James said plaintively. “You should know that it’s folly to give a mettlesome filly her head.”
    Lord Davenham did not immediately answer, being wholly occupied with reminding himself that he could not indulge his impulses to roundly snub friends who presumed—at least not if he wanted to maintain those friendships. Vivien wished to keep the squire’s friendship every bit as much as he wished to avoid a discussion of his wife. Perhaps if he refused to answer James’s questions, James would cease to ask them?
    With a mighty conversational hop, Lord Davenham progressed from the propagation of light to animal husbandry. “I am not especially concerned,” he allowed, “with the improvement of horseflesh. Sheep, however, are an altogether different matter. I take particular pride in the wool of my merino flock.