The Lovers’ Stratagem

By Benjamin Parsons

There's nothing like an engagement party to bring the happy couple's families together for the first time. But when those families hate each other with a fiery passion, fireworks are bound to ensue. How can Oliver and Olivia resolve the age-old feud? Who are their allies? And who are their secret enemies? Inspired by the long tradition of English comedies of manners, this social comedy is part of the collection Tales from the Old World.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Benjamin Parsons
• Release date: May 12, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215164013

Benjamin Parsons

I am a writer and artist from the Westcountry of England now living in London. I write and illustrate stories about love, hate, ambition, revenge, beauty, and the supernatural.

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The Lovers’ Stratagem

Copyright 2023 Benjamin Parsons. First published in 2016.

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I

In the south of Cornwall, where the cliffs are sheer crags plunging into the froth, is a natural feature called the Whistling Hole. It’s a deep blowhole or funnel in the rock at the point of a headland, and sometimes, when the wind howls low from the west, it shrieks and seethes, giving the ‘whistle’ of the name. I once went to visit it, but having chosen a still, calm day, I was disappointed, because the famous noise is all the attraction of the place. From the clifftop there’s little to see except what appears to be a shallow ditch, concealing a grassy ledge below. Even on tiptoe I couldn’t see the entrance to the hole, and since I wasn’t brave enough to clamber down onto the ledge, I was obliged to be content with the view out to sea, which is only as spectacular as any other along that part of the coast. Nobody knows exactly where this chute in the cliff-face comes out, but presumably hundreds of feet down, somewhere near the waterline, since the whistle is never heard except at low tide.

The appeal of the Whistling Hole for me was its association with local folktales and legends. Sometimes the spot is referred to as the Lovers’ Leap, because in times past the hidden ledge has proved an ideal hideaway for secret trysts, and one tale tells of an unlucky pair who hurled themselves to their deaths down the crevice in despair at some opposition to their union. Other couples, perhaps more unfortunate still, have gotten carried away with their amorous occupations and rolled over into the void. No bodies have ever been found, but it’s certainly true that no-one could survive a fall into the Whistling Hole. It is said to sing in triumph when it catches such hapless prey, and so has gained a malign as well as a dangerous reputation— but when have such concerns ever deterred an eager lover?

Another name for this chasm is the Devil’s Staircase, perhaps on account of its ominous renown, but I suspect that the name carries some much older overtones with it. ‘Whistle’ is not far from ‘wisht’, and in some parts of the Westcountry ‘wisht’ means something like ‘haunted’ or ‘held by the fairies’— so perhaps the headland was once associated with a pagan deity that Christianity later bracketed off with the devil. To support my theory is a picturesque little church within a stone’s throw of the Whistling Hole, doubtless erected to replace the earlier shrine of a now-forgotten spirit.

This church, St Peter’s, is so picturesquely situated overlooking the sea that couples from all over the country are eager to be married there, and the lovers of my story were determined to do the same. Their choice was swayed by more than its beauty, however. Both Oliver and his fiancée Olivia were Christened there, and having grown up in the harbour town nestled in the next bay, had known the church all their lives— well enough to have heard the eerie whistling of the hole many times, and to have braved its hidden ledge in search of romantic adventure together.

I couldn’t describe a happier couple than Oliver and Olivia if I tried; so I will not try— you can stretch yourself to imagine a happy couple without my help. They met when young, grew up to be rational people, and decided to meet again as often as possible. They looked, liked, loved and so on without a hitch, until they were ready for a hitch of their own and became engaged.

In one respect they were star-crossed, though, and in classic fashion: their families hated each other. She was Olivia Ducayne, and he was Oliver Trevithick— and to local ears those surnames didn’t even belong in the same sentence.

The cause of the feud was longsince lost to memory, and had settled into an instinctive distrust and dislike. They were both large and affluent local families, so perhaps it was simply a case of familiarity breeding contempt, as it tends to do. The Ducaynes thought (indeed, knew) themselves to be superior to the Trevithicks, and the latter in turn regarded the Ducaynes as something less than real people, lacking in every quality worth valuing. Oliver and Olivia defied these prejudices in getting together, and hoped that their union would promote a more healthy interaction between the antagonistic tribes. To some extent they were successful, too. None of Oliver’s relatives could help liking Olivia’s sweetness and consideration, while hers were impressed and pleased by Oliver’s good sense and humour. No, the families did not oppose the match— rather, they seemed to revel in the opportunities it gave them to air old grievances and stoke up dormant hatreds. The Ducaynes embraced Oliver because their Olivia had deigned to choose him— her choice alone was his apotheosis from his disagreeable heritage. Meanwhile the Trevithicks embraced Olivia because their family knew how to be warm, loving and open-hearted— they only pitied their poor Oliver for having to suffer the brittle insincerities of his bride’s relations.

Now that I’ve set the scene, the story can begin, at a little church hall just along the clifftop lane from St Peter’s, one bright summer’s evening. Inside, an engagement party for Oliver and Olivia was underway, and the happy couple— determined to be as happy as possible— stood side by side in front of the doors, and paused before entering.

Olivia took her fiancé’s hand and squeezed it anxiously.

‘I wish we’d never arranged this party now. It’s going to be a colossal disaster. Why did I even dream it wouldn’t be? They’ll be butchering each other all over the teacakes in there.’

‘I don’t hear any screams so far,’ he replied, with a hug more reassuring than he actually felt. ‘It may be just what they need— and what we want. Look, everything’s going to plan. We’re exactly an hour late, which means they’ve had all that time to mingle and settle down— to get to know each other. If we walk in there now and don’t see a Trevithick throttling a Ducayne —or vice versa— it’s a success. If they can manage an hour together at an engagement party, they can certainly cope with an evening at a wedding.’

‘I don’t trust the quiet, Oliver, I don’t! It must be a stand-off. Atalante must have damned all the Trevithicks into silence with some remark —what am I talking about? A look would do it! You know your family are all terrified of her. And my lot will have rallied round her like a figurehead, sneering and sniggering from behind her back. Your uncle Rory won’t bear it— he’ll say something— he’ll shout something, Oliver! And if Atalante takes offence—!’

She stopped with almost breathless horror. Atalante was Olivia’s cousin, and although a mere year older, the acknowledged head of the Ducayne family. Her father had been the eldest brother, who instilled all his pride and standards into his only daughter, so that when he and his wife died, Atalante naturally assumed his position and consequence. She was beautiful, rich and highly principled, which made her both admired and (especially for the latter quality) reviled. Atalante was always just, always true and always right— virtues much to be admired in a classical goddess, perhaps, but not so endearing in a young woman, however softened by quick humour and elegant manners. To the Trevithicks, she was an anathema.

‘Olivia, Olivia, don’t worry about Atalante,’ Oliver soothed, with a