CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE
Just Desserts
Following the Christmas church service, the walking party returned to Wintersleigh for a well-earned luncheon. While some members of the party were content and spiritually enlightened, others were still preoccupied with their own miseries and problems. As they sat at the table they could not but help notice the effort Louisa had gone to in decorating the table for the Christmas lunch. On top of the snow white tablecloth of the finest damask sat stunning arrays of flowers, ferns and mosses, along with a beautiful collection of china, polished plates and gleaming glasses. To those who sat at the table, gazing at this finery, it was hard not to be impressed.
Michael Brearly, however, was oblivious to such an exhibition. Like Agnes and Frances, he was in no frame of mind to appreciate the finer details of the Christmas arrangements, nor did he feel like celebrating. During the walk to the church service, he twice attempted to talk to Agnes, but she refused to speak to him on both occasions. She felt that the time for talking had been before breakfast, and not on the way to church, where anyone could overhear them.
As Michael sat at the table, with only his inner turmoil to keep him company, it seemed that his only consolation was the glass of elderberry wine in front of him. Despite a quiet warning from Louisa, he repeatedly refilled his glass from a nearby crystal decanter and consumed it in large gulps, much to everyone’s unanimous disapproval. Michael, in fact, continued to seek solace from his drink, until a censorious glare from Frances, a minute later, prompted him to discard his wine and call for some water.
Jack Maycroft, in the interim, was talking incessantly of insects, and George was continuously, and blatantly, doing his best to break nearly every rule of etiquette at a dinner table. Having wiped his nose on his table napkin, he then proceeded to pick his teeth with his fork. He did this all with a calm unconcern, in spite of the fact that both Louisa and Agnes were regarding him with looks of disapproval.
Through bountiful servings of vegetables, turkey and various cold meats including duck and ham, desultory conversation dawdled on. Until this point, luncheon had been progressing quite smoothly. That was until the dessert was brought in and distributed to each person at the table. As was customary in the Wentworth family, plum pudding, a British institution in itself, was served first, accompanied by serving bowls of custard, plain cream and brandied cream, positioned in the centre of the dining table. Despite the choice of sweet dishes on offer, Michael chose the custard to put on his pudding, and asked Jack to pass him the bowl. Jack was unusually happy to oblige his uncle, but instead of doing what was asked of him, he leaned over the table, scooped out a spoonful of custard, and using the spoon like a slingshot, maliciously fired a shot of custard towards Michael’s face. Unfortunately for Michael, the gluggy projectile dessert found its target, splattering noiselessly against Michael’s nose, with peripheral globules lodging themselves in Michael’s eyelashes.
The gathering at the table drew in a universal gasp, except for Jack, for whom there was no element of surprise. He clearly revelled in this victory over his uncle, and made no effort to curb his joy. George too, was tittering behind his hand.
Without making any attempt to clean himself up, Michael addressed his nephew. ‘Why you horrid little child,’ he declared, through trembling lips.
‘Michael,’ Agnes remonstrated, ‘don’t speak to him like that!’
‘And why ever not? Did you see what that child just did to me?’
‘How could we fail to notice it, Michael,’ George said, drowning in mirth. ‘It was one of the funniest things I’ve ever seen.’
‘I wasn’t talking to you,’ Michael rejoined, ‘so stay out of it.’ He quickly transferred his attention to his brother-in-law. ‘And as for you,’ he added, ‘you should be ashamed of yourself. You call yourself a parent, and yet you let Jack run positively wild. You don’t know the first thing about discipline.’
Thomas Maycroft, as usual, looked unperturbed. ‘Given your vast wealth of parental knowledge,’ he replied mockingly, ‘what would you have me do?’
Michael clenched his jaw in anger. ‘Make Jack apologise to me. It’s the least he can do.’
‘It was only custard, Michael,’ Thomas said, taking a casual sip from his glass of wine, ‘but if it worries you that much.’ He turned towards his son. ‘Say sorry to your uncle, Jack.’
‘No!’ Jack shouted. ‘I won’t say sorry! Uncle Mike deserved it.’
Thomas shrugged his shoulders and ate his dessert as though nothing had happened.
‘You’re not going to make him apologise to me?’ Michael asked, staring at Thomas with incredulity and anger. ‘Are you just going to let him get away with it?’
‘Michael!’ George cried. ‘Stop being so petty. Just clean yourself up and forget about it. Besides, how can anyone take you seriously when you have custard dripping off your nose?’
‘Mind your own business, George,’ Michael commanded.
Frances, in the intervening time, was growing increasingly alarmed by the doctor’s rising anger, and she stared down awkwardly at her dinner plate.
‘Thomas,’ Michael resumed coldly. ‘This isn’t the first time this sort of thing has happened. Did you see what your son was doing this morning?’
‘Michael,’ Agnes implored, ‘please don’t do this on Christmas Day. You’re ruining it for everybody.’
‘I’m ruining it?’ Michael reiterated. ‘How can you say that in all seriousness? I wasn’t the one being disruptive this morning, and I certainly wasn’t the one who flung custard at a relative.’
‘Yes, but Michael,’ George interrupted, ‘you have to admit it was an awfully good shot. The precision was perfect.’ He turned towards his nephew. ‘Have you ever thought about playing cricket?’
At last the doctor could take no more. ‘Just leave it alone, George!’ he shouted. He rose abruptly from his chair, and continued speaking to his brother-in-law. ‘I can’t believe how self-absorbed you are. Ever since you arrived here, you’ve done nothing but please yourself. At Rosewood, you let Jack roam around the estate doing whatever he pleases, when he pleases. Here at Wintersleigh is no exception. That child needs discipline, Thomas, and if you can’t or won’t give it to him, then I will.’ He then caught sight of Agnes, who was wiping her tear-streaked eyes with a handkerchief. ‘I think I’ve had too much to drink,’ he said, to no-one in particular. ‘For that I apologise. For everything else, I won’t. In the mean time, I think it best if I go.’
‘But what about your pudding?’ Louisa cried.
‘I think that’s the least of our concerns,’ George whispered to Frances.
‘I’m sorry, Louisa,’ Michael resumed more calmly, ‘but nothing could induce me to sit at the same table with that child.’ He gave Jack Maycroft one last baleful look. ‘Please excuse me.’ He then quit the room.
In the general silence that ensued his departure, Louisa spoke. ‘Well, I have never seen that before. I think Michael might have been intoxicated.’
‘Drunk?’ George repeated. ‘No, I don’t think so. Michael never drinks to excess. By the looks of him today, I’d say he was just over excited. Perhaps he didn’t like his Christmas presents.’
‘Whether he was drunk or not, is completely irrelevant,’ Agnes asserted. ‘It doesn’t alter the fact that he has just thoroughly ruined my Christmas. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have no appetite left for plum pudding.’
She then apologised to her mother, rose unsteadily to her feet, and hurried out of the room, without even bothering to close the door. After another unsettling period of silence, many of the guests lost their appetite and all interest for conversation, except for George Brearly, who mischievously asked whether anyone wanted some custard.
On that note, the Christmas lunch concluded. The remainder of Christmas Day went by without serious incident or disturbance, except perhaps for Jack, who over indulged on chocolates, mince pies and shortbread and spent the remainder of the afternoon curled up in bed wi
th a stomach ache. Frances and George chatted with each other until dinner, Thomas kept reading his book, and Louisa, still reeling from the disastrous Christmas luncheon, spent her time quietly in the drawing room, dwelling upon the rift in her daughter’s relationship with the doctor. As for Agnes and Michael themselves, they avoided each other for the rest of the day, preferring to spend their afternoon as far away from each other as possible. By dinner, however, they were reconciled, and soon the unpleasantness of the day seemed to them, and to everyone else, a mile away. It may have been put behind them, but to those involved, it was not likely to be forgotten in a hurry, or in some cases forgiven…
Breakfast at Midnight Page 25