Very Fawnedly Yours

© 2013 by Walter Reimer

(All characters courtesy of  EOCostello,  MercMarten and  Major Matt Mason. Any resemblance between characters depicted herein and any real person, living or dead, is too bad for them.)

The setting is Spontoon Island, in the story section Let's Doe It (Let's Fall In Love).

Art by  turnbolt

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Part 9.


Reggie:

I didn’t step off the lift at first.

I had clipped my pawkerchief to my fountain pen, and waved it outside the car. When it wasn’t shot away immediately, I poked my head out.

No sign of any Irish Guards.

Only a dozen secretaries, their desks organized in a phalanx or gauntlet between me and the door to Father’s office.

I had poked my head out just in time to see my father’s flag disappearing through the office doorway. Scuttled like a spider, really, which reminded me of poor Pedro back in New York.

A few deep breaths, a squaring of shoulders, and I exited the lift.

“Good morning, Mister Buckhorn.”

Each of the secretaries, femmefurs of various ages and species (but every one a herbivore) greeted me as I passed them, forcing me to repeat “Good morning” to each and every one. I suspect that Father planned it that way.

Finally the door loomed before me, like the gates of some gloomy fortress in those books I used to read as a fawn.

Except, instead of a dragon or evil wizard, my father waited.

I reminded myself of the revelation I’d had back in Spontoon. He had been scared of me, and I thought he might be scared of me sending him off to the proverbial room with soft walls. And I doubted he could fire me; Mummy and Willow would most decidedly have something to say about that.

So I squared my shoulders again and knocked.

“Come in.”


***


Josslyn:

He looks fit, confound it.

Quiet smile on his face, too. At least he isn’t gawping. Being sober must have sobered him up.

And married.

And, blast it, a father.

“Hullo, Father.”

“You’re early by two minutes.”

“Sorry.”

I raised a brow. “Nothing to be sorry about. You’re early. That’s g – “

“G – “

Dash it all.

“Good,” I finally manage to force the word out. I wave to a chair. “Sit down. We’ll talk first, and then get you to your office.”

“Yes, sir.” He sets his briefcase down. It doesn’t explode right off.

“You’ve read the papers I’ve sent you.”

“Yes, Father, I have.”

Boy seems subdued. Probably scared.

Good.

We talk a few things over, most of it about the papers I had sent as he was on the way. “I heard how you dealt with that tamandua aboard the Altoona.”

“I guessed you were receiving reports on me.”

Clever boy. “I would have sacked him. Why didn’t you?”

“He’s a good worker, with a spotless record, Father. I would have hated to see him hire on with one of our competitors.”

I have to admit that he’s right.

But I’d yank out my antlers before I’ll admit it to him.

“I’ll have a secretary show you to your office. You’ll find some paperwork there, and the Board meeting’s at eleven. Promptly.”

“Yes, sir.” He takes the briefcase with him. When the door closes, I actually find myself relieved.

Whatever epic prank he has in store for me, it won’t happen just now.

But I’ll be on my guard.


***


Reggie:

As soon as the door closed I sighed in relief. Tension had been thick in the air in there, like treacle.

Not good-tasting treacle, either.

Remember when I said that I thought the old buck had a huge world map with colored flag pins to show where our ships were in relation to Fenwick’s?

Score one for the old imaginer, then. He does. But it doesn’t have just red and blue flags; it also has green, yellow and black. I’d expect Father to keep a very weather eye on all of our competitors.

“Excuse me? Mr. Buckhorn?” I turn and here’s this rather middle-aged mouse femme dressed in a very demure and businesslike frock smiling up at me.

Now, ordinarily, dear readers, the sight of the femme form ensconced within such couture would prove irresistibly attractive to me. The lady was safe from roving eyes for two reasons.

First, I am married, and knowing Willow I wouldn’t survive.

Second, she barely came up to my chin and was easily twice my age.

“I’m Miss Haversham, your secretary.”

“Excuse me, did you say my secretary?”

“Yes, Mr. Buckhorn.”

“Good Lord. Er, I suppose you’re to show me – “

“Where your office and everything is, yes, sir. Come with me, please.” She led me away from father’s office, and with each step I felt my heart getting a little lighter.

My office as ‘Vice-Chairman and Junior Managing Director’ (you’ll recall the title showed up on the business cards I got just before my wedding) turned out to be at an opposing corner of the building, away from Father. That suited me, as did the south view from the windows.

Smaller than his, too. No room to loom.

It was pretty basic; desk, chair, phone, two smaller chairs in front of the desk. Two bookcases, already crammed with books, stood sentinel against the walls.

I glanced at a few of the titles. None of the Fawn’s Own series here, very businesslike.

Miss Haversham’s desk was outside the office, near the door so she could act as gatekeeper and factotum. Near enough to respond to any need for assistance, but far enough away to discourage propinquity (if there ever was any; I guessed that fear of Father’s wrath prevented many corporate trysts among the single set).

The desk was unadorned except for a large, thick folder.

“Your copy of the agenda for the meeting, Mister Buckhorn,” Miss Haversham explained as I looked inside the folder. “Along with background materials. I put it together myself.”

“Oh? Jolly good, then. If you’re not doing anything, then, I think we should go over what’s what, and you can brief me on who’s who at the meeting.” I gave her my best smile, and stuck out a paw. “I’m Reggie, by the way.”

She seemed a bit taken aback, and looked at my paw as if expecting to see a joy buzzer in the palm. She then smiled and shook paws with me. “Marcia, . . . Reggie.”

“Splendid! Now, I expect Father wants me to get to work, so pull up a chair, and let’s see what we have.”


***


Willow:

By lunchtime I had thought of a plan of attack.

A careful check of the paperwork showed that Neatsfoot, et. al. were gouging us pretty severely. The amounts on the papers weren’t matching the amounts in their letter.

(You know what this means.)

(Way ahead of you, Grace. This means war, but we’re on unfamiliar ground here.)

(So we tread carefully.)

It was a fairly clear (at least to me) case of breach of contract, but we were new to town and I wasn’t inclined to start life in London in the red.

I looked up from my lunch as Lodge walked in. “Pardon me, Madam.”

“No problem, Lodge. This is a working lunch. Any luck on finding a lawyer?”

The beaver nodded. “I have contacted several, but have selected one firm that I feel will be most effective as well as efficient.”

“And they are?”

“Bunn, Whackett, Buzzard, Stubble and Boot.”

“Bunn, Whackett, Buzzard, Stubble and Boot?”

“Yes, Madam.”

“Good Lord. With names like that, how can we miss?” I sipped at my tea. The cook, Coney, had looked scandalized when I asked for my tea with ice in it. Well, he’d better get used to it.

I’m still wondering why he looked at me like that yesterday.

“Lodge?”

“Yes, Ma’am?”

“Having a lawyer or three in our corner will be useful in getting this taken care of, but I think we might need something more.”

“Indeed, Ma’am?”

I nodded, the stray thought I’d had turning around three times and curling up. I resolved to get it a bowl of kibble before it wandered off. “Could you get me the phone directory, please?”



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