Charlotte House Affair 01 - My Particular Friend

Michael saying that Mr Worcester was a good shot.’
    ‘Your form is very good, Mr Worcester,’ Miss Blankenship said, ‘but you might do better to drop your left elbow more.’
    ‘It would be hard to do better than hit two birds with one shot,’ Miss Stilton said. There seemed to be a mutual antagonism between the two ladies.
    ‘It was pure luck,’ Mr Potterthwaite said.
    ‘Often happens to beginners,’ Sir Walter said.
    ‘Still there is always room for improvement,’ Miss Blankenship said, addressing Miss Stilton.
    ‘Perhaps you should try again, Bertie,’ Miss Stilton said, looking up at Miss Blankenship, undaunted by her imperious glare.
    Mr Worcester agreed and was given another weapon and again we waited for a bird. The wait, however, was nearer a minute and came from the opposite direction. He had to quickly change his focus and track the bird and was about to fire when Charlotte said sharply, ‘Elbow down, Mr Worcester!’
    He fired wide of his mark and the bird streaked safely away and then we heard from the direction of the game flushers, ‘You’ve shot me, you idiot.’
    ‘I told you he was a menace!’ Sir Walter said.
    Hearing the voice, Miss Blankenship gave a muffled cry and raised her hand to her mouth. We then saw one of the flushers stand up and declare loudly, ‘Worcester, you great big fool, you’ve gone and shot me.’
    The other flushers, the gamekeeper and the rest of the shooting party rushed to the man. He was dark haired and handsome in a man about town sort of way that was at odds with his current rough dress. A small trickle of blood ran down the side of his face from his temple. The gamekeeper took out a handkerchief and wiped the wound clean.
    ‘It’s just the one pellet,’ he said, and quickly produced a jack knife and dug it out, accompanied by a wail from the injured man. ‘Now apologize to the gentleman.’
    ‘I certainly will not.’
    ‘Is that you, Blotto?’ Mr Worcester asked, his face betraying his amazement.
    ‘Course it is. What do you think you’re doing shooting the help?’
    ‘Sorry, old man. Didn’t know it was you. What are you doing here anyway?’
    ‘Albert, you know this man?’ Mrs Walthorpe asked.
    ‘Yes, it’s Blotto. Mr Cuthbertson. You know him too.’
    She looked more closely at him and said, ‘He does resemble Mr Cuthbertson. Whatever are you doing here?’
    ‘Oh, you know, this and that. Bertie invited me.’
    ‘Albert, is this true?’
    ‘Well … ’ he looked at Charlotte who nodded, and said ‘yes.’
    ‘I would kindly ask that if you invite your friends to my house you might inform me. What I don’t understand is why you are flushing birds?’
    Mr Cuthbertson looked at Miss Blankenship for help.
    ‘I … I asked him to,’ Miss Blankenship said uncertainly.
    ‘Not your idiotic campaign again, Evelyn,’ her father said.
    She bridled at this and replied with no trace of uncertainty, ‘It is not idiotic, sir. I merely asked Mr Cuthbertson to research for me some of the occupations of the lower … I mean those who actually work …’
    ‘God help me, you might as well be French!’ He turned to our hostess, ‘Please forgive my daughter her foolishness, Mrs Walthorpe.’
    ‘I cannot pretend to understand what has happened, but it is of little consequence.’ She called a footman and told him, ‘Charles, please take Mr Cuthbertson to the house and have someone see to his wound, and then settle him in whatever room Mrs Cook thinks would be best. Thank you. Now Sir Walter, why don’t we break for some refreshment? And Albert, please give that gun to Mr Bates; you’ve bagged your limit for the day.’
    —&—
    ‘So that is Mr Cuthbertson,’ I said. ‘He does not look at all like a sad lobster.’ The shooting had stopped after the incident and we were all taking tea under the marquee.
    Mrs Fitzhugh said, ‘I think Mr Worcester was referring to his moustaches. They are somewhat … delicate. And were he to frown …’
    We laughed at the thought of his thin moustache downward cast like the whiskers of a sad lobster. I hoped I could remove the image from my mind before I met the gentleman again.
    ‘You’ve done quite well with Mr Potterthwaite, Margaret,’ Charlotte told our friend over tea.
    ‘Yes,’ I agreed, ‘he seems to be getting on quite well with Mrs Walthorpe. What do you think of his chances for success, were he to ask her for the living?’ We could see the gentleman talking quite animatedly with