The Forest - Edward Rutherfurd [289]
Martell, who rather admired this blunt good sense, decided to engage his host in conversation at once, so asked him frankly if he considered the trade in smuggling to be large in the Forest.
‘The same as Dorset, Sir,’ the Customs Officer replied.
Since Martell knew perfectly well that from Sarum westwards, across the whole of Dorset and the West Country, there was probably not a single bottle of brandy on which duty had been paid, he contented himself with a nod of the head. ‘Can the trade ever be stopped?’ he enquired.
‘On land, I should say not,’ Grockleton answered. ‘For the simple reason that it would take too many officers. But one day it can and will be severely limited by sea patrols. As in all our nation’s affairs, Sir, the sea is the key. Our land forces are generally of small use.’
‘Ships to intercept the goods at sea? They’d have to be swift, and well armed.’
‘And well manned, Sir, too.’
‘You’d use naval captains?’
‘No, Sir. Retired smugglers.’
‘Brigands in royal service?’
‘By all means. It always worked before. Sir Francis Drake and his like in the days of good Queen Bess, Sir, were all pirates.’
‘Mr Grockleton, fie,’ cried his wife. ‘What are you saying?’
‘No more than the truth,’ he replied drily. ‘You will all forgive me, now,’ he observed, getting up, ‘if I go to change,’ and with a bow he was gone.
‘Well,’ said Mrs Grockleton, obviously disappointed by her husband. ‘What will you think of us, Mr Martell?’
Rather than answer, Martell calmly observed that he understood her academy had enjoyed a growing success.
‘Why indeed, Mr Martell, I truly think it has. Tell Mr Martell, Louisa, about our little academy.’
So turning her large eyes in his direction, Louisa gave some account of the art classes and the other scholastic attainments of the academy in a way that neither made light of them nor took them too seriously.
‘In particular,’ Mrs Grockleton added, ‘I myself instruct the girls in French. I make them read the finest authors, too, I assure you. Last year we read …’ Her mind failed to supply the name.
‘Racine?’ offered Louisa.
‘Racine, to be sure, Racine it was,’ and she beamed at her erstwhile pupil for her cleverness. ‘You speak French perfectly, no doubt, Mr Martell?’
It was at this moment that Martell decided he’d really had enough of Mrs Grockleton. He looked at her blankly for a moment.
‘Vous parlez français, Mr Martell? You speak French?’
‘I, Madam? Not a word.’
‘Well, you greatly astonish me. In polite society … Did Edward not say you spoke with the count?’
‘Indeed, Madam. But not in French. We spoke in Latin.’
‘Latin?’
‘Certainly. You teach the young ladies to speak Latin I am sure.’
‘Why no, Mr Martell, I do not.’
‘I am sorry to hear it. In the politest circles … The horrors of the Revolution, Mrs Grockleton, have given many an aversion to the language. In my opinion it will soon be Latin, and Latin alone, that is spoken in the courts of Europe. As it was formerly,’ he added with a scholarly air.
‘Well.’ Mrs Grockleton, for once, looked flummoxed. ‘I had not supposed …’ she began. And then, gradually, a light dawned in her broad face. She raised a finger. ‘Methinks, Mr Martell,’ she said with a knowing smile, ‘methinks you are teasing me.’
‘I, Madam?’
‘Methinks.’ There was just a hint of warning in her eyes now, enough to make even the aristocrat realize that her academy was not built without some ruthless cunning on her part. ‘Methinks that I am mocked.’
Unless he wanted enemies in Lymington it was time to bail out fast. ‘I confess’, he said with a smile, ‘that I speak some French, but not enough, I suspect, Madam, to impress you; so I hardly like to admit it. As for my jest about Latin.’ He looked at her seriously now. ‘After the horrors we have just seen in Paris, I do indeed wonder if French will continue as the chosen language of society.’
This seemed to pass. Mrs Grockleton made noises about the fate of the French aristocracy that almost made it sound as though she were one of them. It was agreed that the sooner