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  KatieKat


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Part 60.




Lodge:

While I was by no means privy to what was said between Her Grace and her guests, Her Grace’s valet Barclay confided to me that Her Grace had not only refused all help in re-boarding, but that she had, "practically floated back onto the train."

By this I will judge that everything went satisfactorily.


***


Willow:

The parlor in ‘Pocono’ had been restored to its more club-like setting, and I had decided to stretch out a bit and do some reading while Reggie slept.

I was reading Mallory King’s latest, The Connecting Door. I’ve always been a fan of murder mysteries, and King writes some dillies.

My ears flicked and I heard the soft thump of crutches and hooves coming. Her Grace came into sight, and I gestured for her to sit down.

“I'm sorry all of this has put you to a lot of trouble, Willow," said Katie as she sat down.

Mysteriously, a small silver pot of coffee and some sugar cubes appeared on the table in front of her. Probably Lodge.

I shook my head and smiled. "Oh, no. We planned for a day over in New York before we board the Queen Mary, and even with the detour, I think we're only a few hours behind. Anyway, with or without you, we still would have had to detour around that derailment near Altoona, so we're pretty much where we would be right now anyway. Reggie has a meeting tomorrow with some Wall Street types, so he's getting his beauty rest. My little one isn't in the mood for resting." So saying, I rubbed my stomach affectionately.

"Your first?"

A soft nod in response.

"When is the fawn due?"

"In about three weeks or so, the doctors say."

"Buck or doe? Do you know?"

"Don't know. Don't care, either. I've been looking forward to this for a long time . . ." I rubbed my stomach again, this time more thoughtfully and with a distant look.

Katie looked a bit more wistful than I was, I guess. A little sad, too.

"You know," she said at last, "I once helped deliver a fawn."

Down went Mallory King, and up went my ears. This was news I hadn't heard . . . or expected.

"You did?" I asked, "When?"

"In Papua New Guinea, at the Iso Gold Mine. She and her husband ran the store and trading post . . . and he was also what passed for a doctor."

I could only stare at her. I had never read Gold From Hell in its entirety, but I'd read enough excerpts to know that the Iso mine had been no place for a pregnant femme, much less a place to give birth. Her Grace must have read it in my face, because she immediately threw back her head and gave a hearty horse-laugh.

"Oh, don't think I didn't TRY to get her to leave, and take the children with her. Yeah, they had two other fawns." She shook her head, still in amazement after all the years that had passed since then. "Might as well have been trying to move the Rock of Gibraltar with a crowbar, for all the good it did me."

Now I was laughing too. I couldn't help it; Her Grace's mirth was just too infectious.

"Tough one, eh?" I said at last.

Katie responded by closing her brown eye and favoring me with her blue one, something I'd found mildly disconcerting until I'd gotten to know her a little.

"Let me put it this way, the reason I had to assist with the birth was because she refused, point blank, to let any mel except her husband see her in that position . . . and I was the only other female in camp, except for my maid - and she was down with a fever at the time."

I laughed again, we both did. Whoever this other doe had been, she WAS one tough cookie.

But then there was something else I needed to ask her.

I didn't WANT to, but I needed to.

"How did the birth go for her? Was she . . . was there a lot of pain?"

Katie pulled at her nose for a second. She seemed to be choosing her words carefully.

Finally, she just gave it to me, straight up, no chaser.

"Yeah . . . yeah, there was. But you have to remember that these were the most primitive conditions imaginable. In a proper hospital, there would have been no problem to begin with."

Was that really true . . . or was she just trying to ease my mind?

To cover my discomfort, I glanced out the window and sat up a little. City lights were glowing through the frosted windowpanes. "Ah, we're in Fillydelphia. Home stretch. We might be able to see the new stadium site from here. Lucky; if we were going the normal route, we wouldn't have been able to."

“That the new one? With the retractable roof?”

“Yes. It’ll be a damned sight better than the old one, that’s for sure. Lots of construction jobs, too.”

“How much longer before it’s completed?”

“Still about two years away, my mother-in-law says. Then it'll be time to tap the kegs of Odenwald."

A quiet horse-chuckle. "Mnh-mnh-mnh-mnh-mnh. A good business deal all around, wouldn't you say? Odenwald Brewing gets to increase its sales of beer in the Mid-Atlantic corridor, and that'll mean Buckhorn & Sons gets to increase its sales of hops and malt to Odenwald."

I snickered back and nodded. "Yes, that was one thing about the new stadium Gwladys had NO trouble getting past Josslyn, I can tell you."

"I'm sure your father-in-law was relieved." Katie pulled at an ear. "It's funny. Your mate doesn't seem very much like him."

I nodded. "I've seen the portrait of his grandsire back at Monongahela House, and I’ve met him. Reggie's a dead ringer for him, right down to the posture."

Katie raised her coffee-cup as if proposing a toast. "Here's hoping that he's got as sharp a brain as his sire. Joss is a tough one across the table, I can tell you. I'll never forget the negotiations for the rights to Zepps cookies."

“Sometimes it's not the brains you have, but how you use them, that makes the difference.” I looked thoughtful for a moment. “Reggie has a much gentler touch. Might not be as colorful as when Josslyn Buckhorn blows his stack, but I think he gets the same result, in the end."

"Joss's way isn't my style either, if you want the truth. I want furs around me with brains, vision, and the guts to voice their ideas. If I didn't, there wouldn't BE an Odenwald Brewing Company. It's all right for my folks to argue with me . . . just make damn sure you realize that my final word is THE final word."

She poured herself some more coffee. "Will you be coming back to America any time soon? I'd love to have you and Reggie as my guests at Calico Point sometime - that's my house up on Lake Champlain. It's wonderful in the summer, the big bands play Mallett Bay every Wednesday, and their shows beat anything you'll see at the Savoy." She grinned. "Biased opinion, of course."

"I'm sure we all would love to come," and I patted my stomach significantly – then frowned. “Only . . . I thought you were returning to Britain, later this spring."

Katie looked like she was forcing herself to not grimace, and I thought she might have said something indiscreet. She leaned closer.

"Yeah . . . well, it seems that in gratitude for the Panay, Uncle Sam is gonna be restoring my pilot's license. So there goes my main reason for leaving the States right there."

I gave her a cynical grin. "Awfully nice of them. Er . . . why didn't you say so before?"

"Coz Long doesn't want it hitting the papers before he makes the formal announcement." Katie shrugged and flipped a hoof back and forth. "Politicians. Go figure."

At that point, there was a blaze of light visible in the distance, and I pointed out the window.

There wasn’t much, physically, to see, just a great deal of cleared area and some poured concrete. What seemed to be more impressive was the activity going on beneath the lights. Not only at the building site, but at the shipyard that was cheek-by-jowl with the new stadium.

I guess I must have drifted off, because when I woke up, Katie was gone, and my book (which I distinctly recall I had in my paw) was on the table.


***


Katie:

One of the warships in the shipyard . . . was an aircraft carrier.

There was still time, of course. Time to complete plans; in the air, on the ground, and on the seas. How much time remained, though.

That was the question.

I’ve seen where the world was going, but it was out of my paws. It was out of the paws of many in Whitehall, the Quay D'Orsay and the White House as well. Whether any in Rome, Berlin, Moscow, or Tokyo had time in their grasp was an open question, too.

Furs propose, God disposes.

Willow had fallen asleep, so I put her book on the table, turned the lights off, and went back to bed.

When I woke up, the train had stopped moving, and a glance out the windows showed that we were at Pennsylvania Station.

That’s very sweet; I could see Reggie pushing Willow along the platform in a wheelchair. A lot of upper-class furs would have left that chore to servants, so it was very touching to see Reggie doing it for himself.

Mental note, Katie: Say a proper goodbye to them before they boarded the Queen Mary. And I certainly must have an appropriate thank you gift waiting for them in Southampton when the ship docks.

Hmmm, what about something in silver . . . a Revere piece if I can find one, preferably with an acorn motif.

That reminds me.

I rang the buzzer, and Lodge comes to the door.

"Good morning, Your Grace. Your gentlefur has arranged to take your luggage to the Pierre Hotel, and I have also taken the liberty of sending a message to Mr. James Spanaway, informing him of your arrival in New York. Oh, and there's a message for you from a Mr. Zeke Bronstiel. He and his family are on their way and should be arriving in Vermont the day after tomorrow. In the meantime, the Buckhorns have left instructions that a driver is to be placed at your service to take you to your hotel, after you finish breakfast."

Christmas, this guy isn’t just omnipresent, he’s omniscient.

Hmmm. Breakfast.

"Are there any more corn muffins left? And wheatcakes?"

"Yes, Your Grace. I omitted to mention that Mrs. Buckhorn gave orders that a case of the muffin mix, along with a seasoned pan, be delivered to your staff. I understand detailed instructions have been prepared by the gentlefur in the galley to allow your cooks to duplicate the recipe."

That was a minor bit of news, but none the less welcome for it, and the tips given the staff of the car reflected it.

Well-fortified by another pot of coffee and a generous ration of the muffins and wheatcakes, I could meet the day with whatever the Japanese, the War Department, Col. McCormick, the Cliveden Set, bossy French mistresses and balky machinery could throw at me, singularly or collectively.

I don’t care; I have a purpose in my life again.

Just before I got into the Packherd limousine, I hobbled around to the back, while Barclay and the chauffeur watched curiously. After pausing for a long second, I traced a Chinese character in the layer of frost coating the trunk.

A symbol for good fortune.



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