Circles of Time (22 page)

He was drawn to the Pryory, passing the iron gates daily on his way to and from the factory. The house itself, except for some of the chimneys, could not be seen from the road. He had been surprised to learn from Sir Angus that it was still inhabited.

“More money than sense, if you ask me,” Sir Angus had scoffed. “One ruddy family in a house as big as a railroad station. Twenty servants if they have one. Still, if a man has money to burn, he might just as well go ahead and burn it, I always say.”

Ross had no reason to go there except curiosity and a certain sentimental urge. He had been happy working for the earl. Lazy, almost indolent days at the Pryory or at Stanmore House in Park Lane. Nothing much to do except swagger about in his well-cut uniform dazzling the young maids. The memory of his former self made him smile—and made him grateful. Because he had had so much time on his hands, especially at night—the earl and countess rarely went anywhere in the evenings when they were staying at Abingdon—he had begun to dig deeper into the mechanical structure of the Rolls-Royce automobile. The earl's 1910 model Silver Ghost had its drawbacks and he had thought of ways to improve its performance. A fellow chauffeur, Lord Curzon's man, had talked him into taking out patents on his various carburetion devices and then into submitting his ideas and mechanical drawings to the Rolls-Royce company. They had found them of little use in motor cars, but of great practicality for their aero engines. When the war began, they had secured his patents and hired him, turning him into a starred man, a man exempt from military service. The substantial royalties they had paid after the war had made it possible for him to go into business with Harry Patterson. His entire life altered by what he had done in the garage at the Pryory. His tinkering with the Earl of Stanmore's car—if he cared to muse on the fatalistic implications of it—perhaps keeping his name from being chiseled on that memorial stone in Abingdon High Street.

It was impulse that made him stop his car in front of the gates one Saturday afternoon. He was on his way to Guildford to see a football match, but the gates beckoned and he pulled up and got out of the car. There was no lock on the gates, but he hesitated for some time before swinging them open and then driving through. What would he do when he got to the house? Knock on the front door and introduce himself? He wasn't anyone's servant now, but he just couldn't see himself doing that. When he reached sight of the Pryory, he slowed the car and thought of turning around and going back, but the sheer beauty of the house and gardens kept him moving forward in a state of wonder. Funny, he had worked in the place for nearly two years and had never given its magnificence a second thought. The gravel road branched off, one road curving away to the right to join a circular drive in front of the house, the other going left toward the garages and the back. He turned the car to the left.

The footman who answered his ringing looked at him curiously. He knew quality clothing when he saw it and he sized up the well-tailored tweed trousers and Norfolk jacket at a glance.

“I beg your pardon, sir, but are you sure you want this entrance?”

“If this is the servants' entrance, it's what I'm looking for.”

The footman looked blank. “It is, sir—but …”

“I used to work here at one time. Nineteen thirteen, fourteen.”

The footman looked at Ross with frank curiosity. “You did? Here?”

“Look, do you mind if I step out of the cold?” He didn't wait for an answer and walked past the man into the pantry hallway.

“I'm not sure if there's anyone on the staff who would remember me. Is Mrs. Broome still here?”

“Broome?”

“She was the housekeeper.”

The man shook his head. “No—sir. Come to think of it, I believe she died a few years back. Of the Spanish influenza. I heard them talkin' of it once.”

“Heard who?”

“Why, them that knew the old dear. She was before my time, see. I've only been here six months.”

“Who are
them?
” Ross asked patiently.

“Why, cook and Mr. Coatsworth. They've been here for ages.”

He had never known the cook except by sight; her world and his had never meshed. But he'd known Coatsworth well enough. The old man had never been particularly friendly—but then, butlers were a standoffish breed by nature.

“Would you tell Mr. Coatsworth that James—
Jamie
Ross is here? The chauffeur,” he added as an afterthought.

“I will if he's about. He usually takes a bit of a nap this time of day. You can wait in servants' hall if you'd like. Follow me.”

He remembered the way. The house had obviously been redone—he could smell paint, and the kitchen when they walked past it was larger and more modern than he remembered it—but the basic structure was the same. Servants' hall was in the same place it had been, and the same large size, but the furnishings were more comfortable. It was quite cozy, in fact, with chintz curtains and separate little tables where once there had been one long one.

“Care for a cuppa?” the footman asked.

“I'd prefer coffee.”

“Right you are.”

“No sugar—bit of cream.”

He was finishing his coffee when Coatsworth came into the room, walking slowly. The old butler paused and looked long and hard before nodding his head slightly.

“Ross. Yes. It is Ross.”

“You haven't changed a bit, sir,” Ross said, standing up. “I'd have recognized you anywhere.”

The butler's smile was thin. “You always were good at spouting the blarney. I'm not two steps from the grave, man.”

“Oh, more than that, Mr. Coatsworth. I'd say three at least.”

The butler eyed him dourly and sat stiffly on the edge of a chair. “You're Ross, all right. No doubt of that—the same twinkle in the eye. But you don't sound like the Ross I knew. Where have you been these past years?”

“America.”

“America? Well, now, how about that? You're not one of those
gangsters
, I suppose, that we read about in the newspapers?”

“Not exactly. I'm an aeronautical engineer.”

“An engineer, is it? Well, that doesn't surprise me. You were always a clever lad when it came to machinery.”

“I was sorry to hear about Mrs. Broome passing away. She was a nice woman.”

“Yes, a very equitable woman, Mrs. Broome.” He rubbed his hands across his knees, wincing slightly. “It was the influenza. It carried away a good many people. As many as died in the war, they say.”

“It was very bad in America, too.”

“Oh, I'm sure it was. Disease, I was reading in
The Times
, knows no boundaries. Missed
me
, though. I suppose God felt I had enough trouble with my arthritis.” He stood up painfully. “I'll tell His Lordship that you're here.”

“Oh, no,” Ross said quickly. “I wouldn't want to intrude.”

“It's not intruding. His Lordship still speaks of you as the best chauffeur he ever had. He's in his study having a postprandial cup of coffee. He would be most disappointed if I failed to tell him you were here.”

It was apparent to Ross that the earl was genuinely glad to see him—which was heartening. He came striding across the study with one hand extended in greeting.

“By Jove! It
is
Ross. I said to Coatsworth, ‘Not
our
Ross, surely,' but here you are. By Jove, here you are indeed.” He shook hands with a good deal of force, then patted Ross on the back. “Come, lad—come sit down and tell me all about it. America, Coatsworth said—aeronautical engineer and all that. Yes, you must tell me all.”

It took an hour or more, with the earl interrupting from time to time to ask a question or make a comment. Ross told him about being sent to Ohio to help the Americans construct Rolls engines, and of his enrolling in the institute and his three years of hard study, technical and cultural—elocution classes every Saturday, and a chautauqua program he had joined for two weeks every summer to study the classics. And he told of the company he had formed with his friend to purchase war-surplus Liberty and Packard airplane engines, and then of their decision to design and construct airplanes.

“Fascinating, Ross. Most interesting indeed,” the earl said as he stood up and walked over to the cabinet where the whiskey was kept. “This Liberty engine you speak of—wouldn't that have done for your new aeroplane?”

“It's certainly powerful enough, sir, but not suited for the aircraft carrier. Experience on the English carrier, the
Argus
, proved that the hard landings a plane makes on a ship's deck causes problems with the radiators of liquid-cooled engines. Air-cooled radials are a must, and Blackworth's makes the best.”

“I've met Sir Angus a couple of times—own stock in his company. Any way I can be of help?”

“That's very nice of you, m'lord, but everything's moving along smoothly now.”

The earl poured whiskey into two glasses and carried them back to where Ross was seated in a leather chair by the fire.

“It seems like a millennium since you were last in this room, Ross. The first winter of the war, to be exact. You came to tell me you were leaving here to join the Rolls-Royce company at Enfield. I was quite put out about it as I recall. Leaving me with no one competent to replace you. I can remember your telling me to learn how to drive the car myself. That bit of advice only irritated me further. Well, there's been a good deal of water past the mill since then. I'm a damn good driver, I'll have you know—and I've even been up in an aeroplane.”

“That's worth drinking to, m'lord.”

“Times have changed so much. It seems a tragedy that it took a war to do it, but there you are. God's bitter jest, I suppose. But if it hadn't been for the war, you'd probably still be driving me around and not building aeroplanes in San Diego, California. Curious thought, is it not?” He raised his glass. “Let's drink to that instead, Ross. To your continued success.”

“Thank you very much, m'lord.”

“And no more calling me
m'lord
, Ross.” He smiled wryly. “You're an American citizen now. You chaps fought a revolution to avoid calling chaps like me
m'lord.
”

The earl walked with him along the terrace and around to the back of the house where he had parked his car.

“I'm sorry Charles isn't here, Ross, but he's up in Derbyshire staying with his brother. He mentioned your name just the other day on the way to the station. We had some trouble with the car, and Banes—do you remember Banes, by the way? He was Lord Gavin's driver, over at Newton Cross.”

“I think so. Elderly man.”

“A good deal more elderly now, I'm sorry to say, but it's difficult finding young chaps who are willing to go into domestic service. They'd rather drive taxis or live off the dole. Not a bad driver, Banes, but quite hopeless when faced with the mysteries of the internal-combustion engine. Anyway, we were driving Charles to the station when the car began to act up, stalling every time we stopped at a crossroad. It seemed to Charles and me like a simple matter of adjusting something or other, but Banes got all fluttery and said he'd have to call the Rolls people in London and have them send a man down. Charles turned to me and said, ‘Ross would have fixed it in a minute.' So you see, we all remember you.”

“I'm glad Mr. Charles is all right. I was afraid to ask.”

“He's fine. Had some problems, but he's over them now.”

They reached the car and the earl shook Ross by the hand. “I'm glad you decided to drop by. I enjoyed our chat very much.”

“So did I.” Ross paused by the car door. “Did they send a man down, by the way?”

“Rolls? I'm sure they will eventually, or we'll take the car into Guildford. There's a halfway decent mechanic there.”

“Let me have a look at it, sir.”

“Oh, no, my dear fellow. Wouldn't think of troubling you like that.”

“It's no trouble. I'd enjoy it, as a matter of fact. Haven't tinkered with a Rolls car engine for years. Sounds like the idle is set too low—or the fuel-inlet needle is clogged—or—”

The earl laughed and held up his hand. “Why, you're positively straining at the bit, like an old war-horse hearing a bugle. Very well, if you insist. I'll go find Banes and have him give you the ignition key.”

Ross swung open the garage doors so as to let out the exhaust fumes, while Banes, unhappy at being dragged away from his tea, looked on morosely.

“There's nought much you can do with it.”

“Oh, I think there is.” He got into the car, turned on the engine, and sat listening to its uneven reverberations for a few minutes before switching it off and climbing out.

“Told you,” Banes said gloomily. “Sounds like a major malfunction to me.”

“Don't be daft, man. Where's the tool kit?”

The old chauffeur stared at him blankly. “I think there's one in the boot.”