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  Fluffball


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Part 41.



December 1937
Christmas Gifts

Gwladys:

If we were in America, we would have a very nice Thanksgiving dinner. But since we were in Bucks, we had something a bit simpler.

Of course, stuffed roast pumpkin tastes simply delicious no matter the occasion, and Cook surpassed herself by making a very fine baked Alaska for dessert. Josslyn, of course, emulated the Old Farmer and ‘et what’s sot afore him.’

He seemed a trifle more subdued of late, and a bit less inclined to start blaming Reggie for everything from the leaves turning color to the quality of the Stilton served with his after-dinner port.

“Josslyn?”

“Hmm?”

We had adjourned to the sitting room. He was immersed in the newspaper, and I was occupying myself.

“Shall we have Christmas dinner here with the family?”

“No.”

“Oh, come, Joss – “

“I SAID NO, WOMAN!”

I put my knitting down again. At this rate, my grandfawn will have a full wardrobe.

Or grandfawns, plural. Judging by my daughter-in-law’s appearance she might be carrying twins.

Or even triplets.

“Honestly, Joss, it’s not like it’s any real imposition. We’ve had the family over for Christmas before – “

“I’m not putting up a herd of worthless relatives to eat us out of house and home!”

“We have plenty of room. You designed the place like that.”

I had him there. He subsided, sulking.

“Besides, we’re not having the entire family over. Would you want your nephew William to come back from Rangoon?”

“Bah!”

“Good. I didn’t think so either. It’ll just be us, Reggie and Willow, and your father.”

He flinched at that, and mumbled something indistinct as he buried his muzzle in the Financial Times. I judged that the battle had gone to me, and my mate was grudgingly retiring from the field.

You had to know how and where to pick your battles.

You may inquire as to why I didn’t mention my own relatives, but the bare facts of the matter are that the Ritterherzes have shunned me ever since Father blew his brains out back in 1901, and my mother’s side of the family – well, we’ve sort of lost sight of each other. No tracks, no scent, out of sight and out of mind.

And I haven’t bothered to go looking.

Part of Willow’s cover story at Minkerton’s was that she was an orphan, and as far as most everyone is concerned (hard stress on most, thank you) her family consists of her mate and her in-laws, i.e., Josslyn and myself.

If nothing else, it will make for a generally quiet Christmas.

Next Christmas will be much better, as there will be a fawn or three in the house.

Now.

“Where should we put the tree this year, dear?”

“Are you asking me?”

“I am asking you, Josslyn.”

“I’m shocked. I had thought you’d just ignore me and suit yourself.”

“Josslyn, you’re my mate, and I love you. And you’re the master of the house, as always. Now, where do you think we should put the tree?”

A monocled eye peered at me over the paper. “Hmmph. Same place as every year, I suppose.”

“We didn’t have one last year.”

“We didn’t?”

“No, dear. You threw it out the front door.”

Josslyn actually looked confused by this piece of information, and I wondered a bit about that. “I did? Hmm, well, the great hall is the best place.”

“The same place as every other year, then.” I smiled at him.

He went back to his paper, and I went in search of Travis.

Time to get the decorations out.


***


Reggie:

You can tell it’s getting close to December in Jolly Old England.

First, it stops raining every other day or so, and starts raining pretty much all the time.

Second, it’s quite a bit colder than I recall it being. Spontoon winters, while nearly as damp, were relatively much warmer.

Miss Haversham came in with yet another stack of those dratted file folders, and I started plowing through them. If I shredded them all up, I could make a nice winter scene in the office – you know, snowdrifts and such.

Or mix up some flour and water and make a papier-mache likeness of the Sire. Lord knows there was enough paper for the job.

I paused at one rather fat folder.

“Miss Haversham?”

“Yes, Sir?”

“My Sire approved this?”

“Yes, Sir. You need to counter-sign it, as Vice-Chairman.”

“Of course, but – seaplanes?”

“Seaplanes, Sir?”

“I suppose I should go beard the Sire in his lair and ask him.” I gathered up the file and headed for his office.

I asked Mrs. Rodgers if he was busy, and she smiled. “Lord Josslyn is always busy, Sir.”

“Of course. Shall I make an appointment?”

She almost chuckled. “I’ll see if he’ll see you now.” With that, she got up and knocked on his door, then stepped in in response to his grunt.

She stepped out almost immediately. “He’ll see you now.”

“Thank you.” I squared my shoulders and went in.

“What is it?”

“Hello, Father. I wanted to ask you about this purchase of two seaplanes.”

“Well?”

“It’s just a bit of a surprise. I would think you’d want to economize when traveling – “

“I hate flying on a commercial airline. Staff never know what they’re doing, the pilots are lazy, and there’s always a crying baby. Enough to make you pull your own ears off. This way, your mother and I can travel if necessary without having to put up with a lot of benighted strangers. The planes are also fitted up so business can be transacted.”

“So I see. A boardroom and everything. It’s an excellent idea, Father. I was just asking about the expense.”

“Your mother and I sat down with that Russian fellow – “

“Sikorsky?”

“Yes, him. They’re building them for Pan-American, they can damned well fit up two more.”

“Of course, Father. Thank you,” and I got out of the office as gracefully as possible.

I signed off on the file, authorizing Sikorsky to deliver two Type S-42 flying boats, named Aeolus and Zephyr, interiors redesigned to such-and-such specifications, from their factory in Connecticut to F. R. Buckhorn and Sons at North Beach Airport in New York, then paused and scratched at an antler.

Father’s behavior seemed a bit . . . off. Of course, he always struck me as being just slightly off the rails, to use a railroad metaphor, but he didn’t insult me once.


***


Willow:

It isn’t often that Reggie can get away from work to enjoy lunch with me.

But the opportunity came up the first Friday in December, so Reggie called me up and let me know he was coming.

Our new cook was doing a pretty good job, and we had just finished our meal when Lodge gave a polite cough and said, “Excuse me, Sir, but the mail has arrived.”

“Splendid, Lodge! Let’s have a look at it.” Reggie held out a paw and Lodge gave him a single envelope. “What, is this all there is to it?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Jolly good! No bills today! Look, Willow, it’s from Rosie.” He held it up, showing that it was, in fact, postmarked Spontoon and carried a bunch of stamps and other important-looking inked marks.

“Well, open it, Reggie.”

“Righto!” He opened it, and took out several pages. As he unfolded them, a smaller envelope fell out.

He picked up the smaller envelope, and I could hear his flag against the back of the chair.

It sounded like he was trying to beat the dust out of the cushion.

“What’s the matter, love?”

Reggie looked up, and swallowed. “Lodge?”

“Sir?”

“Leave the room, and close the doors, please.”

Lodge raised a brow, but complied, and as soon as the doors were closed Reggie said, “I think you’d better see this – both of you.”

(OhnoIhopeit’snotbadnewsOhGodOhGodOhGod . . . )

(Shhh, Grace. Come on now, calm down. We’re not going to get anywhere if you freeze us up now.)

(You’re right.) I could see her taking several deep breaths.

(Better?)

(No. Let’s get this over with.)

I/we held out a paw, and Reggie gave me/us the envelope.

Ever been punched in the stomach?

Yeah, it felt like that.

The paw-writing on the envelope was small, and precise.

And, oh God, so familiar.

The envelope was addressed to Grace Buckhorn, nee Stagg.

My/our paws shook as we opened the envelope and started to read.

I gasped – it was forced out of me.

“What’s wrong, love?” my beloved asked.

I looked up at him, my vision going blurry from tears. “Da . . . “

“Is he all right?”

I gulped back a sob. “He . . . he knows.”


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