mr_bastable [The Social Season]

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=====Mr. Bastable=====

"Is it the location or the curvature," Christmas had asked, "that appeals to you so much?"

Mr. Bastable wasn't quite sure what it was about hills that contented him so.

The hiking, he could understand. //One must always make time for a hot drink//, he'd always said. And when one's work was mostly confined to the same little house - on a family excursion to the Cotswolds, say - coffee was best enjoyed with some fresh air. As for //hills//… there were plenty of respectable low-altitude trails to pick from, down in the valleys. And yet he'd always found himself drawn to the next peak, another summit to enjoy.

Was it the sense of accomplishment? Maybe twenty years ago. But Mr. Bastable knew his value, and no climbing would be needed to prove it.

//Perhaps it's just the view//, he decided.

He was about halfway up, by now - and due for a short rest. Finding himself a nice spot to sit, he took his time surveying the landscape.

His gaze, inevitably, was drawn back to the house. There would be the Darlings, and Thomas too, now just as much a part of the family. He'd left the four of them playing pall-mall in the yard. At the time, Christmas and Henrietta had been embroiled in fierce competition to provide Duke Chesterton with the best tutelage on the game; a contest he rather suspected Georgianna had had a subtle hand in starting. He wondered if they'd still be at it, upon his return.

And before then, Mr. Pickering (from the market) was due to come by with supplies for tonight's dinner. Though not all that much had been in stock, this morning: just a rather awkward selection of vegetables. Which would be a challenge, if he was to cook something all the family would enjoy. A shame, too - Lady Henrietta had been rather hoping to try some of the local cheeses by now.

"Good day to you, Mr. Bastable," he heard a chipper voice call out.

He looked round, nodding politely to the elderly woman peeking over a wall behind him. "Ah, indeed so, Mrs. Walsh. The weather has been most agreeable this afternoon."

"Looks like Mr. Pickering's having some trouble," she replied with a toothless grin, before pointing out into the valley.

Narrowing his eyes, he tried to follow her outstretched arm. "//'Some trouble'//, Mrs. Walsh?"

"Oh, yes. Don't you see his cart there, down by the farmhouse?"

He opened up his bag. //Let's get a better look, then//.

Packed at the very top, of course, were the sandwiches. He'd wrapped them all up in paper, so they couldn't very well have sat //beneath// anything. A flat sandwich was a spoiled sandwich, at last so far as he was concerned.

Then, //hm//, coffee tin, cup, hot water, cold water. A blanket for the meal. A spare pair of socks - one never knew when one might have to wade through a particularly troublesome puddle. An emergency medical kit for, well, emergencies. And - aha - a telescope. //Thank you, Pater//.

//And now// -

It took a bit of searching, but yes, he could see it. Mr. Pickering's cart - or, to be precise, its underside - resting serenely in a ditch by the road, the wheels still spinning slightly. Mr. Pickering himself looked a margin less serene, though his horse at least appeared to have taken this in stride.

…//Ah//. Well, at least //someone// will have enjoyed today's dinner.

"I must credit you with most impeccable eyesight, Mrs. Walsh. But - well, if you'll forgive me, I'd better go see if Mr. Pickering needs a hand."

It seemed that the summit would have to wait. But hills, he'd found, were content where they stood. It would still be here tomorrow.

-- //Written by James P.//