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  libation, Lydia almost fell into the lap of the seated visitor from Argentina.

  “Ohhh! My apologies. I did not see you sitting there. My father can be

  a hand full after a night on the town, and I sometimes have to resort to stern

  measures to keep him in line.”

  Lydia pretended to be fully intent on her conversation with the stranger,

  but as her father tried to take a fast swallow of his precious treasure, she swept

  the bottle from his grasp and away from his lips.

  An anguished cry of protest was all Liam Peters could muster as he

  watched the liquid gold soak into the turf. When the bottle was empty, Lydia

  again addressed her father.

  “Now, we won’t say a word to Dr. Murphy about this little incident, will

  we?” She slid the bottle quietly into a nearby refuse bin.

  Lonfranco had sat watching this whole scene as if being entertained by a

  theater troupe. But even with his senses dulled by the alcohol consumed the

  night before, there was no mistaking the breathtaking beauty of this young

  woman. He was unable to move, mesmerized by the lilt of her accent, so soft

  and melodic, even when chiding her recalcitrant father.

  Her sparkling blue eyes contained the same mischievous twinkle as her

  father’s. Combined with her flaxen hair, she stood before Lonfranco as an image

  of feminine pulchritude unlike anything he had ever seen in South America.

  He shook his head to clear the cobwebs away.

  “Ooooooohh laaaa.” The pain shot across his forehead.

  “Are you alright? Can I be of any assistance? You look quite peeked.”

  Lydia’s voice was the first soothing sound Lonfranco had heard all day.

  “The lad’s a wee bit under the weather this mornin’, Lydia, as I expected.

  He’s the one I told ya that might need some carin’ for. Señor Lonfranco De

  Seta of Buenos Aires, Argentina, allow me to introduce my daughter, Lydia

  Anne Peters, R.N. That’s registered nurse, if you don’t know, my friend. I asked

  Lydia to come along today in case you fell off one of those hay burners and did

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  yourself in. You weren’t movin’ too well when we said our good-byes last night.

  Matter o’ fact, you weren’t movin’ at all.”

  The words that Peters spoke were not registering in Lonfranco’s brain as

  he struggled to rise from his seat to take the lady’s hand.

  “It is my pleasure, Señorita, to make your acquaintance. I apologize for my

  lack of manners. I am not at my best at this moment.”

  “Father, were you out drinking with this poor man last night? A visitor to

  our country and this is how you welcome him? Sir, it is I who must apologize

  to you for my father’s lack of consideration and contemptible behavior.”

  “On the contrary, Señorita, your father was most hospitable . . . from what

  I can recall. We had the pleasure of doing business yesterday afternoon, where,

  in fact, your father and I concluded a transaction involving one of his prize bulls.

  As gentlemen are wont to do, we then retired to the nearest establishment of

  good tidings to cement the deal. It would seem that I consumed a bit too much

  ‘cement.’ Believe me, no harm was done. I am the proud owner of a pedigreed

  steer, an acute hangover, and an embarrassed polo team. What more could a

  visitor to your country ask for, except maybe some buffer salts?”

  He noticed how delicate her hand felt as he raised it to his lips for the

  traditional Latin greeting. His words brought a sweet smile to her lips.

  Sweet Mother of Jesus, she is a beauty, he thought to himself. His heart was

  pounding in time with his aching head, and he was unsure if the lightheadedness

  that he felt was due to his current situation or his former intoxications.

  “Well, if it’s salts ya be needin’, Lydia’s the one to find them fer ya. As I

  said, she’s a registered nurse. Served in the army field corps in France during

  The Big One. You’ll be an easy job to patch up after what she’s seen! Why

  don’t you take Señor De Seta past the apothecary and then on to his inn to

  recuperate. I’m sure that Mrs. Peters and I would be honored to have you at our

  table for dinner tomorrow night, if you have the strength for it.”

  Lonfranco knew that such an invitation would be difficult to refuse, but

  he surprised himself at the speed of his acceptance. His business in England

  was all but concluded, his last polo match played, and he had a week to kill

  before his departure for South America. He had planned to travel on his own,

  perhaps to France for a few days, but nothing had been etched in stone.

  How strange he felt climbing aboard Liam’s small carriage, forced by

  circumstance to sit scandalously close to Lydia. A brief word with one of his

  fellow teammates as to his plans for the next forty-eight hours, and he and

  Lydia were off to Hillingdon Inn.

  Liam preferred to remain behind and partake of the buffet that the

  Hillingdon Polo and Hunt Club had organized in honor of their Argentine

  guests. He would pass along Lonfranco’s humble apologies and regrets due to

  a sudden illness and offer to assume the place of his old and intimate friend at

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  their sumptuously set table. He instructed Lydia to return for him once Señor

  De Seta was feeling more comfortable and to remind him of his commitment

  the following night. With that, Liam Peters was off to join the revelry.

  A crack of the whip sent the carriage on its way. Lonfranco’s whole being

  was swept up in a rainbow of the senses. The sights, the sounds, the smells, and

  the feel of his thigh against the soft material of Lydia’s dress all assaulted his

  clouded mind. He wanted to capture this moment and stop it in time so that

  he could analyze what on earth was happening to him when he had his full

  faculties back intact.

  Since Maria’s death, there had been no feeling in his heart except emptiness

  and resignation to a life alone. He had rationalized against another marriage

  as a means of protecting himself from further emotional disappointment. His

  work became his first and only love, and after his persistent refusal to socialize

  in a romantic context with members of the fairer sex, the Porteño society

  matchmakers grudgingly gave up and left him alone.

  He had thought himself incapable of the feelings that he was experiencing

  at this moment, the giddy infatuation that this wisp of a girl was causing him.

  And he had known her less than an hour!

  Her voice was like a lullaby as she made small talk. The early afternoon

  sun fell flush on his face as they traveled, and he closed his eyes and basked in

  its warmth.

  Lydia asked if he preferred to ride in silence and apologized for “cackling

  on like a magpie.” Now it was his turn to apologize for being such bad company

  and encouraged her to continue to soothe him with “the voice of an angel.”

  Lydia laughed and sang a lilting Irish tune that had often been useful to

  hearten the wounded soldiers in her care, or so she sadly imparted. Lonfranco

  could not fathom such a delicate creature in the midst of the slaughter that had

  become known as ‘The Great War.’ He had been an ocean a
nd a world away

  from it in Argentina.

  Images and impressions of Liam Peters kept popping into his mind. The

  old man had told him during their liquid shenanigans together that he had “a

  bit o’ the Irish in him, a bit o’ the English in him, and a lot o’ the Scotch in

  him, preferably Glenlivet!” He certainly did have the latter in him that night,

  perhaps two full bottles worth by Lonfranco’s best guess.

  The South American had warmed to the British hybrid from the outset.

  Their initial meeting took place in the Peter’s barn at ‘Lowliam,’ his sprawling

  farm northwest of London. The nearest town of any notability went by the name

  of High Wycombe. It was said that Liam’s Irish grandfather and namesake

  renamed the dairy establishment and the surrounding lands that he purchased

  after himself as a way of mocking his snobbish English neighbors.

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  Liam Peters the Third was now the owner and overseer of one of Britain’s

  most modern and successful livestock operations. He had been introduced

  to his newest friend and business associate from Argentina by Percy Pellet,

  a professional livestock broker from London. Pellet’s services were retained

  specifically to search for premium breeding stock, in both beef cattle and

  thoroughbred horses.

  The prospective purchaser found, within seconds of their meeting,

  that there was absolutely no pretension about Liam the Third. When Pellet

  introduced the two, the Brit was in a stall, mucking out one of his ‘beauties.’

  The hand that he extended for Lonfranco to shake was covered by the most

  unsightly effluent. The visitor didn’t flinch. He grasped the hand with a strong,

  full grip, and continued to hold on and shake it vigorously as Pellet made the

  usual salutations with a shocked, disgusted look on his face.

  Liam smiled broadly as he invited his guests to join him for a close-up

  look at his champion stud. It was only Lonfranco who accepted the offer. The

  two men inspected the bull from every possible angle, standing knee high in

  excrement and shavings.

  When all was said and done, both men knew that the other had a profound

  knowledge of the ‘whys’ and ‘wherefores’ of the bovine world. No one would be

  taken advantage of here. A price was stated, Pellet was consulted briefly, and a

  deal made in a matter of minutes.

  Lonfranco had noted that the stout, blond-haired breeder seemed to have a

  number of personalities and dialects that he used as suited his purpose. He was

  perfectly capable of intoning the King’s English in a thoroughly convincing

  nasal whine when addressing the haughty Mr. Pellet of London. Yet he seemed

  to prefer the blarney of an Irish leprechaun or the biting sarcasm of a Scottish

  warlord when scrutinizing the private parts of his four-legged loved ones. He

  had the South American doubled over in laughter on more than one occasion.

  There was no way of refusing to join him for a cleansing ale once the deal was

  struck and Pellet sent on his way to draw up the formal papers.

  After a short stop at the chemist, it was on to Hillingdon Inn for Lydia

  and Lonfranco. Despite his condition, he was disappointed when the carriage

  ride was over. He would have gladly stayed by her side the rest of that fine

  afternoon, just to listen to her hypnotic voice.

  Lydia made certain that her charge took the prescribed medicine she

  had purchased for him. She ordered some strong coffee and fruit juice to his

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  room, soaked a cloth in cool water for his forehead, then made ready for her

  departure.

  “Would you like me to send a carriage for you tomorrow evening, Señor

  De Seta?”

  “Only if you will be in it, Miss Peters,” he responded.

  “Well, Señor, as much as I might like to be, my place at that time tomorrow

  will be with my mother and sisters, preparing the evening meal. Father doesn’t

  believe in servants! Besides, with ten siblings and my parents around, there is

  hardly room for another soul. I would imagine that one of my brothers could

  fetch you around five o’clock. Does that sound suitable?”

  He didn’t want to have to wait that long to see her again, but tried his best

  to hide his impatience.

  “That would be fine, Señorita, and thank you for your kindness today.

  You have made me a new man, or, at least, I hope to be a new man when this

  medicine takes effect.”

  “It is the least I could do, Señor De Seta. Someone must make penance

  for the evil that my father hath wrought upon you. Demon rum, the scourge of

  the weak and godless!”

  Her soft smile told him that she meant her last comment as a jest. After

  the barbarism that she must have witnessed in France, it was a wonder that she

  still believed that there was a God at all.

  Lydia closed the door gently behind her as she left, and her new admirer

  listened to the footsteps receding down the hall. Lonfranco reclined on the

  bed, closed his eyes, and tried to conjure up her enchanting image in his

  mind. Nothing did her justice. He awaited the following evening with great

  anticipation as he fell into a deep sleep.

  Liam Peters loved to preside over a boisterous and bountiful table. The fare

  this evening was traditional English roast of beef, Yorkshire puddings, fresh

  vegetables galore, and a well lubricated trifle for dessert. A new wine preceded

  every course, and there was ample ale, stout, and bitters, not to mention the

  host’s favorite, Glenlivet, to quench everyone’s thirst. It was evident, just by

  looking around the table, that Liam Peters was as productive a sire as any of

  his prized stock. He had fathered eight sons and four daughters, much to the

  delight of the Catholic priest in the village. The old stallion had put all of his

  children to work at Lowliam when it did not conflict with their schooling, and

  each child now took a keen interest in the operation and preservation of their

  thriving enterprise.

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  The Great War did not leave Liam’s brood unscathed, however. Liam the

  Fourth, once a muscular, towheaded youth, had returned from the front in

  1916 severely gassed. The former Coldstream Guardsman was now just a mere

  shadow of his former self, confined to a wheelchair and unable to function

  without round-the-clock assistance. The family rallied to his side, and Mrs.

  Peters would often say that “It was their duty to care for him, just as it had

  been his duty to go to France to protect them.”

  Then there was young Will, sweet Will. He had been under the minimum

  military age, unable to cross the Channel in uniform. But he had inherited his

  father’s ingenuity and began saving his money to purchase false documents

  that could be obtained on the black market. The lad had left a note, asking

  forgiveness from his parents and assuring them that he would be ‘just fine.’

  From the day he left until the day the telegram was delivered, his mother knew

  that she would never lay eyes on him again.

  ‘Missing in action,’ was the way the Home Office described it. Did those

  words mean tha
t there was a chance that he could be ‘found’ again? It all

  seemed so uncertain at the time.

  Lydia and two of her sisters joined the British Expeditionary Force nursing

  corps, eventually heading to the continent with high hopes of finding their

  brother. It never happened. Sweet Will was lost to them forever.

  There was also Betsy, Lydia’s youngest sister. Bright, inquisitive, a virtuoso

  on the piano, little Betsy had succumbed to dysentery while serving near the

  front lines in Belgium at the end of the conflict.

  Two dead, one gassed and disabled. It was a tragic toll for any family to

  suffer, but Lonfranco was impressed with how well everyone had picked up the

  pieces. Each member seemed ready to face the future, with Liam’s contagious

  optimism. He had toasted his departed children in a heartfelt and emotional

  blessing as the family gathered around the table. That said and done, his ruddy

  face lit up like a lantern, and the stories and refreshments continued into the

  wee hours of the morning.

  The guest of honor took every opportunity to engage Lydia in conversation.

  When that was impossible, he would steal a glance in her direction. Occasionally,

  Liam would catch him and let loose the canons.

  “Be there something wrong with your neck, Señor De Seta? I see that

  you seem to be facing in the opposite direction whilst I be recounting this

  extremely informative discussion on cattle suppositories. Perhaps an injury

  from yesterday’s match? I should send for the doctor if the condition persists.

  On second thought, I know the precise cure. Lydia, come sit beside your loving

  father. That way our guest will not do himself further damage as he tries to

  sneak a peek in your direction.”

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  Lonfranco had been found out and could feel the flush of his face. He tried

  in vain to change the topic of conversation back to cattle suppositories.

  Lydia, for her part, played the evening very coyly. She was always polite,

  but never gave any indication of a spark in her heart, while an inferno raged

  in Lonfranco’s. At thirty-seven years of age, he felt ridiculously child-like. This

  behavior was certainly not becoming to a man of his age and stature. Try as he

  may, however, he was unable to get control of his feelings. The slightly tipsy