Part 4 of The Rise & Fall of Donald Trumpet Esq.
This is it, blog post #500. I began writing this blog in 2014 but by March 2016, I had written only 80 blogs. The other 420 have been written since then. It is fun but it does take time to find your groove, so to speak. I’m not interested in telling everyone what a wonderful day it is or donning my pom poms and running a cheer – believe me, it would not be either a pretty or edifying sight. On the other hand, I am a writer and crave readers. I don’t write what you want to read all the time and I’ve certainly never fashioned my reading for such a result. But I do try to post things that make us all think about who we are and what we’re doing. Unfortunately, these are questions I find myself asking almost every day. If I can guide anyone or offer experience or advice, an opinion or a comment, I’m there. Those who know me, know they don’t need to ask, as for those who don’t, well, ask. Thank you for taking the time to read my rambles. Onwards and upwards, eh?
Thomas Wellspring II’s plans to oust the nefarious Trumpet were well in hand. Through family connections he mustered the support of those Council members who were independent of Trumpet’s crooked wiles and, through secret talks, gathered the support of the wealthy families, those founding fathers who controlled the old money and industry of the town.
Now the election was at hand, he was ready to strike. First, he must meet Bench, Trumpet’s man who has sent him a private note by messenger, declaring, mysteriously, how this meeting might be to his advantage.
His father, Thomas Wellspring I, advised against it, claiming it could be some sort of trap. ‘Bilge,’ grandfather Benjamin declared, ‘Bench is a good man, from a good family.’
Thomas thought it over and decided to attend to Bench, nothing was ever certain with Trumpet so he must use whatever support he could muster for his cause.
Donald Trumpet felt like he was walking on air. His boat had just come in in the shape of a perfumed and handwritten note from the woman of his dreams, Mademoiselle Fifi Fontaine, inviting him to have supper with her that night in her private chambers at La Confiture.
‘Bench, Bench’, he called out, wondering why his retainer was not in his shadow, lurking, as was his wont.
Bench appeared in the doorway. ‘Yes, sir?’
Trumpet noticed a spring in Bench’s step, even the hint of a smile, lingering in the corner of his mouth that was usually shut tight in a lipless slit. But he was too distracted to bother with his lackey’s humours.
‘Bench, fetch me my finest suit. Lay it out in my room, I have a dinner date this evening with Mademoiselle Fifi. By the way, what is the progress with Connell’s house, I hope that gypsy and his brood are cleared out by the weekend.’
Bench, the shadow of a smile still lurking somewhere in his visage, assured him everything was in hand, before disappearing from the room.
Mrs. Mayfly didn’t know whether she was coming or going. All afternoon the house was abuzz with preparations. The girls were told to dress in their best and most alluring gowns. After a flurry of telegraphs, to and fro, Mademoiselle Fifi told her she was expecting guests. She was also expecting a special guest for supper in her private chambers. She wanted La Confiture fitted out for a great party for her guests, with fine wine and food. The supper in her private chambers, she announced, would be a different matter.
Whatever Mademoiselle wished, she would deliver. The young lady was a chip off the old Madame, cut from the same cloth, for sure. She had everything in hand but would keep the details to herself until it was to her advantage to employ them.
That suited Mrs Mayfly. She was well paid by the young mistress and the old Madame had assured her security, too, in her will.