I had wondered why old Sidney, who looked every inch a potato wallah, was giving me the cold shoulder. I had come in hard to starboard and he was braced for a portside docking. I began to withdraw the heavy dish for a fresh approach, without thinking that what was right to Venables was left to Georgiana, who at that moment reached for the spoon and fork. The combination of her digging and my pulling back caused a sort of leverage to take place. Three slices of King Edward’s with accompanying sauce flipped on to the table.
‘Sorry, Bertie,’ said Georgiana. ‘My fault. No harm done.’
She quickly scooped up the stray bits and put them on her side plate.
I was too busy with my ‘Sorry, Miss’-ing to be absolutely certain that I’d heard correctly. I docked successfully at the second attempt with Venables senior, who helped himself with a will.
Keeping my head down, I moved on to Amelia and in my mind went back over the last thirty seconds or so. There was no doubt that Georgiana had said, ‘Sorry, Bertie.’
As I finished dauphinoise duty and returned to my sentry-go position by the sideboard, I felt four eyes boring into me. Reading from left to right, those eyes belonged to Lady Hackwood and Dame Judith Puxley, and what fell within their field of vision signally failed to please.
‘Georgiana,’ said Lady Hackwood, ‘did I hear you—’
But Georgiana was up and running. ‘Dame Judith, what perhaps you need to understand about dear Uncle Henry’s attitude to women’s suffrage is that it was formed by the outcome of the Derby in 1913.’
It seemed to do the trick. There was a pause.
‘I beg your pardon?’ said Dame Judith, as though she had stepped in something. ‘A horse race?’
‘Yes! You remember,’ Georgiana went on briskly, ‘when that suffragette threw herself beneath the hooves of the king’s horse—’
‘Anmer,’ barked Sir Henry. ‘Thoroughly second-rate colt. Disgrace to the king’s colours.’
‘… And caused a commotion,’ said Georgiana, forging on. ‘Well, what some people seem to have forgotten about the race is that it ended in a stewards’ inquiry. The winner when they crossed the line was the favourite, Craganour. He had just overtaken a horse called Aboyeur, a hundred-to-one outsider.’
I remembered Georgiana telling me she had spent most of her childhood in the saddle, but I’d no idea she was quite such an historian of the Turf.
‘It was a disaster,’ said Sir Henry.
‘Like most people,’ said Georgiana, ‘Uncle Henry had put all his money on the favourite. But the stewards disqualified him and gave the race to Aboyeur.’
‘Absolute scandal,’ said Sir Henry.
‘Uncle Henry maintained that Craganour had had to change course after the suffragette incident, whereas Aboyeur was unaffected.’
‘Without that wretched woman,’ said Sir Henry, ‘Craganour would have won by a good two lengths.’
‘And that, Dame Judith,’ Georgiana concluded, ‘is why Uncle Henry is against all forms of female emancipation.’
‘I was set to win thirty-five guineas,’ said Sir Henry sadly.
Woody was trying not to laugh, while Rupert Venables let out a shrill one. Goneril and Regan seemed to have been distracted, though I was not convinced the danger had fully passed.
Jeeves may well have felt something similar. As Georgiana fell back, flushed with her effort, he stepped up smoothly.
‘A most distressing day,’ he said. ‘I remember it well.’
‘I suppose you were on the favourite, too, Etringham,’ said Sir Henry, sympathetically. ‘We all were.’
‘Indeed,’ said Jeeves. ‘Though I was placing my bet with Honest Sid Levy, I could not help noticing the extremely generous odds on Aboyeur. It seemed to me that a small saving wager at such a price was well worth the gamble.’
‘You really are quite a fellow, aren’t you, Etringham? When the ladies leave us, you’d better talk me through the card tomorrow.’
‘It would be a pleasure. Though no one of course can guarantee—’
‘Don’t be so dashed modest! Never known a tipster like it.’
I left them to their mutual admiration, but I have to say it was a pretty shaken Bertram who rejoined the galley slaves.
‘By ’eck, you look all in, Mr Wilberforce,’ said Mrs Padgett. ‘Them folk giving you the runaround are they?’
‘Not at all. I’m in prime early-season form, thank you, Mrs P.’ This equine chat was catching. ‘Well, there’s a nice bit of veal left if you fancy it later, love.’
We sons of toil had taken our dinner early – some sort of cheese pie at about six-thirty – and it was still exacting a pretty heavy toll on the Wooster digestive system. The only thing I could, with any pleasure, envisage joining it was a glass or two of the distinguished red I’d seen Bicknell hauling out of the cellars that morning.