The intruder was a small boy clad in a red dressing gown and slippers, in his wake a middle aged woman wringing her hands in discomfort, trying hurriedly to make the boy retreat back to the hall. The boy, however, was having none of it, as he evaded skillfully all attempts of catching him and advanced until he was in the middle of the large ballroom.
Sir Gregory had noticed him quickly, as children were not the customary guests of his famous charity gala organized at his country house. The boy was about four or five with golden hair and pale skin. He was calmly looking around the room, head held high and apparently not at all perturbed that he was the sole focus of a large, confused crowd of adults.
"I'm looking for Old Sir Gregory," the boy said very clearly, addressing all the people gathered around him.
"I suppose that is me," Gregory acknowledged dryly while he stepped closer, and the boy turned around to face him. "But if you would be so kind, child, as to identify yourself and your intentions to my humble self?"
"I'm Arthur," said Arthur the intruder, "and I need your help." He came to stand on front of Gregory, and Gregory noticed that Arthur had very blue eyes that glistered on the light of the chandelier, as if he had been crying recently. "Grandma told me that you know the Welsh corgi best in the world, and my dog is very sick. I need you to help him."
"Well, in that case a veterinary would be more suitable to help your dog, child," Gregory answered, irked that he had been interrupted in his own party for some insignificant mutt.
"But they are not the very best in the world like you, are they?" Arthur puzzled with all the seriousness of a small child.
Someone sniggered in the background — most probably Charles Montague, the sod — and Gregory knew that he had lost.
"Very well," he sighed warily, but Arthur just smiled brightly at him and offered his hand. And before Gregory had really processed what was going on, he was already being led by Arthur down the stairs to the door, with the distraught woman following them one step behind (Arthur had hurriedly introduced her as his nanny).
Parked on the very front of the main door was a Range Rover, a sheepish man looking like a chauffeur and Gregory's butler shooting very dark glares at him and the overrun flowerbeds. Gregory raised both eyebrows to the chauffer, but all he got back was a half-embarrassed, half-defiant, "Master Arthur was wearing only slippers, and the ground is very wet —" before he was interrupted by Arthur himself.
"Andrew, is he okay?"
But instead of answering, Andrew opened the back door of the car and brought a basket on the doorstep. They all looked in silence while Arthur bent down and lifted carefully the covers. "Merlin," he introduced softly the sleeping Welsh corgi with larger ears than normally acceptable even for a Cardigan. The dog was too covered for Gregory to decide whether it was a Pembroke or a Cardigan — or a mix, as he suspected, the horror of horrors! — but it looked to be quite slender and mostly black.
"Named after Arthur's beloved, former nanny who left when he started school," the nanny elaborated with faint bitterness in her voice.
"He is not named after Merlin —" started Arthur with indignation, but he was interrupted by a soft whine from the dog. It opened its eyes, sluggishly and in very obvious pain, but it still tried to get up to its shaking legs to get closer to its master.
"Shh, just lay down, Merlin," Arthur said with tremble in his voice as he fell on his knees to pet the dog tenderly, letting it lick his other hand.
"Please," said Arthur solemnly, turning around, and even Gregory, who prided himself of not being very easily manipulated, was forceless not to compel at the sight of two sets of begging eyes.
When they were proceeding to the kennels, Gregory finally had the opportunity to ask from his butler the one question that had been irking him since the whole farce began. "Why on Earth did you allow them to enter the house?" he whispered furiously, quickening his steps to ensure that they kept their lead in order to speak.
"For the same reasons, I presume, that his lordship came down from the ballroom and is now on his way to the kennels," his butler answered blankly, before looking from the corner of his eyes to the left, behind their backs, where Arthur was being carried on the shoulders of the chauffeur ("If his feet get wet, he'll catch pneumonia!" the nanny had wailed).
Slowing their pace, Gregory had a sinking feeling that someone, somewhere had grossly miscalculated what kind of arrangement would keep this child out of trouble, instead of essentially providing him with fervent help to get into trouble even more.
The kennels Carlisle was the pride of Sir Gregory, renowned for the purebred Welsh corgi — both Pembroke and Cardigan — it produced. It was even an open secret that many of the Cardigans of Queen Mary and Prince Frederick originated from Sir Gregory's stock.
Gregory took them straight to one of the veterinary rooms, which was separate from the other buildings and very easy to disinfect, a very definitive plus on this situation — god knew what disease the miserable mongrel had. Gregory motioned the chauffeur to place the basket with the dog on the table, while Arthur climbed on a nearby chair to be able to comfort Merlin.
"Well then, how old is he and what is his pedigree," Gregory asked putting on the latex gloves. He was met with silence, and when no-one still answered, he raised his gaze to the nanny and chauffeur, who both looked at each other. Arthur was murmuring softly to the dog.
"I—I think he came to the house after Merlin — the other one, Arthur's old nanny — left, sir," the nanny answered slowly. "About six months ago."
Arthur, whose attention was picked by the name, commented more confidently, "I found him in the middle of our garden, drinking from the fountain and he was much smaller than now."
Gregory managed not roll his eyes, but barely, because this was about the last thing they needed. "And I assume that he was then taken immediately to the nearest veterinary to ensure that he was healthy? And to try to find where he came from?
"Of course we took him to a vet. Merlin taught me how to take care of dogs!" Arthur defended, arms crossed over the back of the chair.
"The dog or the nanny?" Gregory quipped sarcastically because the whole thing was starting to give him a headache. None of the other adults looked impressed, and the dog was even growling faintly.
Arthur looked utterly confused. "Merlin can't speak as a dog," he declared, serious.
In the end, to everybody's massive relief (and to Gregory's mild irritation), the cause for the dog's illness turned out to be surprisingly common and quite easy to cure: ticks and most likely the Lyme disease. Sir Gregory removed the two ticks that he found attached to the joint of the back left leg and lectured for the duration of the operation about the need for checking the dog every single time it went near to vegetation. When he was finished, he directed his disapproving gaze to Arthur.
"I check Merlin before we go to bed! Merlin taught me that too," said Arthur defensively, and Sir Gregory turned his murderous stare to the nanny instead. "And I presume he means that he does it all by himself, doesn't he?"
The nanny gulped and muttered something about Lady Igraine.
Promising himself that he would not get involved with this travesty ever again if it came back knocking on his door, Sir Gregory gave the dog the antibiotics to cure the disease and strict orders to visit a local veterinary for a follow-up test the next day.
Very tired after all the proceedings, the dog was lying down spent. But it was still looking at its master with naked worship, an expression, Gregory noted, that was not completely dissimilar to the one worn by both the nanny and chauffeur when they were watching Arthur petting the dog gently, trying to lull it to sleep. After succeeding, Arthur came to Gregory and took his hand into his much smaller hands.
"Thank you," he said sincerely, looking at Gregory with solemn eyes.
And for a very brief moment, when looking at those very blue eyes, not only did Gregory feel oddly touched by the gratitude, but he had the most irrational need to kneel down — presumably to be on the same eye level with Arthur.
"I'm so very sorry to have bothered you, sir, but Andrew and I, we couldn't think what else to do, once Master Arthur had set his mind to come here," the nanny whispered later, stroking gently the golden tendrils of Arthur who even in deep slumber was curled protectively around the dog's basket.
"The dog is really the world to him, and he was so worried, crying even, the poor lamb," she mused when Andrew the chauffeur came to pick up Arthur and the dog to carry them to the waiting car.
Poor lamb indeed, Gregory thought as he watched the car drive away. No older than five and already bending the whole world to his will with more ease and charm than most adults.