“Young couple want to start on Honeymoon. Got a proposiss … a proposal. They want to go to Reckavile Castle. The trains no good, too unromantic, I got my coach here, won competition yesterday, or day before, I forget which. Bring it round here, and we’ll all go in style. Only just beyond Brighton eh? No distance. What der say Hugh, old bounder?”
It suited Reckavile’s mood. Anything to get into the air, and the swift motion especially with the excitement of being driven by a drunken man appealed to him. After all he might just as well see her to the Castle, it was more seemly, then he could slip away from there.
Wynter issued his orders to a waiter who peeped through the door, holding it like a shield in case of attack. The meal had now become an orgy; even Winnie had let herself go, and Curtis was reciting risqué stories which had lain dormant in his mind for a generation. The subaltern had slipped to the floor, and Florrie was sitting on Harding’s knee, while he proposed solemnly to her again and again. Reckavile was singing Tom Bowling to his own accompaniment, while empty bottles strewed the floor, and the spilt wine ran on the table like the blood of a sacrifice.
The sound of a horn outside roused the revellers, and Wynter gathered his passengers together.
They must all come, he would take no refusals. Only Curtis was adamant, and at last they gave up trying to persuade him. The rest were packed away, and they started off, the horses trotting bravely out of London.
They were all sound asleep before they reached Portham, and the gloomy old castle in the woods, only Wynter had driven at a cracking pace, and the air had sobered him.
“Sound your horn, now, a joyful blast,” he said to the groom, and the lad responded with vigour.
All was bustle and excitement when they arrived, the servants crowded to the door, the butler leading, and helped the stiff party down. They had expected only Lady Reckavile, as Hugh had told them, but the great kitchen was soon busy, for in those days when telephones and motors were unknown every country house was well stocked, and soon chickens and hams were simmering, and the table groaned with good fare.
“Brandy, and plenty of it,” said Reckavile swallowing a lump in his dried throat.
Winnie went straight to her room; she wanted to look her best at dinner. The mad party had no luggage, except Wynter who had brought his on the coach, and there was much merriment as Wynter’s two friends raided Reckavile’s ample wardrobe.