Free Maggie MacKeever by Bachelors Fare Page A

Persuade that lazy agent of yours to have the swamps drained and you may raise your own flock.”
    Though not an especially patient man, the squire was astute, and he knew that the ice on which he stood was very thin. He had expressed his concern. If Vivien chose to divulge confidences, which seemed highly unlikely, it would be in his own good time. “I don’t care to raise sheep!” James responded irritably, as they walked down the Middle Temple Lane.
    Relieved that his friend had at last ceased to badger him, Lord Davenham brandished the umbrella—green, lined with yellow—that he carried not as any concession to fashion, but because the grayness of the day hinted strongly at impending rain. “If you do not wish to raise sheep, then why did you introduce the subject?” he very reasonably inquired. “Cattle will do just as well—but you must make up your own mind.”
    “Thank you!” the squire responded ironically. By this time the gentlemen had passed the Brick Court where Oliver Goldsmith once lodged. Ahead of them lay the Middle Temple Hall, where Shakespeare had long ago presented his first performance of Twelfth Night in the presence of Queen Elizabeth. Beyond the Hall, the Temple garden stretched. “You are roasting me again. You know I don’t want to raise cattle, either. In point of fact, I don’t even want to drain my swamp!”
    “No?” His lordship gravitated toward the gardens, narrowly avoiding collision with a barrister hurrying along the peaceful pathway, clutching at his flapping gown and gray wig. Then he turned quizzically to his friend. “I daresay you know your own business best. As you think I do not. You are determined to issue me dire warnings, even though I assure you there is no need to trouble yourself.”
    “I am that.” Eager to take advantage of this sudden receptive mood, James still sought a tactful phrasing for his next remark. “I am very much afraid that Lady Davenham—that is, a certain amount of notoriety surrounds Calveley—dash it, Vivien! She’s been coquetting with him!”
    “Coquetting?” Lord Davenham could hardly take offense at a remark he had practically invited. Wondering what had inspired his passing madness, Lord Davenham gazed upon his green and yellow-lined umbrella. “I very much fear you are suffering from maggots, James.”
    “Maggots?” The squire reminded himself that no gentleman, even a gentleman so unworldly as Lord Davenham, must relish learning that his wife was openly intriguing with another man. Naturally, Vivien would attempt to change the subject. What had they been talking about? “In my swamp?”
    “No,” responded his lordship gently, “in your brain. Reassure yourself, James; Thea has coquetted with no one in all her life. Indeed, it is Thea you should talk to about these on-dits which so concern you. She has the disposition to meddle, not I.”
    Obviously, the problem must be approached from another angle, decided the squire. He moved a prudent distance from his lordship’s umbrella before repeating:
    “It’s a fool who allows a mettlesome filly too much rein.”
    Whimsically, Lord Davenham regarded his friend. “What is this obsession you have today with fillies, James? I did not know you were in the petticoat line.”
    Exasperated, the squire scowled. “I’m not!” he snapped.
    “You relieve me.” Lord Davenham bent and plucked a rose, inhaled of its fragrance, tucked the flower into the top buttonhole of his vest. “Relieve me on another matter, James. For if I thought you were referring to my wife in so singular a manner, I should be obliged to accuse you of impertinence, which neither of us would care for.” He ruminated. “And in any event, I doubt Thea would like to be kept on a short rein.”
    It was Lord Davenham who was singular, decided the squire. What signified Lady Davenham’s dislike? A man was master of his own home, surely, and all who resided therein. At least most men were, James amended. In the