"Well, that's torn it."
Clayborne's lips pursed to conceal his smile. He wasn't one to laugh at his own jests, but nor was he above plying his audience to tempt a reaction.
Gesturing with the damaged-torn-umbrella for emphasis, he managed only an acknowledging glance from Captain Peacock and Mr. Lucas, struggling to aid a tipsy Mrs. Slocombe on to the platform.
"She's done it a right mischief in those doors." he continued, shifting the wounded rolly backwards to indicate the now departing train.
"I said this would happen." Shirley's strong voice easily overpowered the din as followed behind her colleagues.
" As soon as she saw them half priced bevies, I knew she was for it."
"Now, Miss Brahms," Mr. Rumbolt began jocularly. "The Grace Brothers annual picnic is something of an occasion after all. Even I have been known to overindulge!"
Scowling, Captain Peacock, his face slightly reddened with exertion, turned to look over his shoulder.
"Not to the point of intoxication."
At this, he and Lucas's burden suddenly lightened itself as Mrs. Slocombe planted her feet and drew away, swaying but indignant.
"Captain Peacock " she insisted, "I am not instropnicated! I merely fost my looting extracting myself from the train."
"I can't seem to find the right platform." Mr Grainger commented sourly as he trudged unsteadily toward them, a worn Bradshaw in his hand.
"Blimey," Lucas bleated at the sight. "I'm not half surprised with that lot. Give us a look."
It was a very old, very familiar scene for Clayborne, one that had played out time and again for more years than he was likely to admit to living. Right now, he felt every moment of every one of them. And that was unusual for him.
Predictably, he let loose of the rolly having his moment of weary oblivion, and bent straight down into the finest coat and sharpest shoes Savile Row ever produced.
"Excuse me." he babbled out quickly, but pausing as he rose to admire the tailoring of an exquisite suit and a briefcase a year of his wages wouldn't buy.
"Not at all."
The voice was like velvet and posh as posh but his eyes were sparkling, warm and dark.
Somehow Clayborne got his hand to working just in time to take back his offered rolly. His voice and physiognomy were another matter, unfortunately. It was all he could do to manage a brief introduction.
A knight no less. All that and a castle to put it in! He stammered and gaped, going a bit weak in the brain and then a bit weak in the legs. By the time he'd recovered, Sir Humphrey Appleby was stepping off the platform and onto the train to Haslemere.
"Ohhh, who was he?" Shirley asked. Her eyes followed him right down the track and Clayborne's heart did very much the same.
"A knight in shining wool." This time, he allowed himself that little smile. It was quickly returned.
"He was ever so handsome." Shirley sighed and inquired.
"You can tell him next time you see him. He's coming round tomorrow for a fitting!"