Less than an hour later, Simon found himself seated at a long dining table between Lenora Ellison on his right, and Fiona White, the Methodist preacher’s spinster daughter, on his left. The dining room was decorated in a simpler manner than he’d known in future times. Scarlet fleur-de-lis wallpaper did not climb the walls, only pale yellow paint. It was good to know that underneath the twenty-first century carpet he remembered, the same marble that floored the hall swirled beautifully in here; whoever changed it should have left it alone. The chandelier was different too, though just as striking, especially since this one twinkled with candles and not little decorative bulbs.
Since he’d entered the house, Darby had only spoken to him once, taking him aside to ask if he could partake of normal food. He’d responded in the affirmative, eagerly; the tension of the last few weeks had robbed him of his appetite, and now that he’d passed the first hurdles— returning to the past in time, and getting into this house— he was starving. That he’d been allowed to join the guests for their meal seemed to be another concession on Alexander’s part, for a heated, whispered conversation had taken place between the twins before Simbar, the butler, had been instructed to set another place at table.
Apparently, actors were regarded as something less than respectable. Simon vaguely recalled hearing this in some history class or other. All his memories of history were vague; he’d never found the past interesting. What a cosmic joke that he should be the one allowed to travel backwards in time. There were probably a million history professors who would happily give their arms for a chance like this. He couldn’t help wondering if they would’ve made the mess of things that he had, and in such a short time, too.
And his intentions had been so good.
“You will find the country folk here rather dull, I fear,” Lenora said to him in an undervoice as a footman circled the table serving soup. “When my husband, Reece, was alive, we divided our time between London and Bath and enjoyed the company of many urbane, sophisticated people such as yourself. Poets, artists, as well as the cultured gentry—these were our friends and constant companions.”
Her chin rose. “How difficult it was for me to join my father and stepmother in the industrial North. Here the conversations revolve around glazes and kilns and bone-ash, if you can imagine. Maddening!”
He smiled politely, since she was smiling at him. All her statements had been delivered with worldly amusement and sly, if not downright coquettish, glances beneath long, golden lashes. He was not unfamiliar with the workings of charm, and he felt its delicate strands spinning around him; though to be honest, Lenora did not exert herself only for him. Even so, he’d seen that look in women’s eyes often enough to know she was strongly attracted to him. Her eyes lingered a fraction too long on his; she glanced more than once at his lips; her voice sparkled when she spoke to him. The signals had not changed in the past two hundred years, apparently.
But he didn’t want her to fall for him. The complications could be tremendous. This was not what he’d come here to do. He needed to observe, to understand the relationships among this family, to rescue what he could of the future, his future. Not to mention saving Darby’s life once more.
The footman placed a bowl of soup in front of him, something greyish-white with bits of meat floating in it. Simon looked at it doubtfully, then glanced at Darby, who sat to the left of her uncle, at the far end of the table. He wished again that she had sat by him, but Lenora had grabbed his arm, then the quiet young girl on his left had made a dash for the other chair.
Darby met his gaze solemnly, then looked at her aunt, who sat at the table’s other end.
When all the guests had been served their soup, Aunt Gacia lifted her spoon companionably.
“Wait!” Darby cried. As over a dozen spoons paused in mid-air, she added in a shaking voice, “Had we not better say a blessing?”
“Oh!” Aunt Gacia dashed a look of confusion toward her husband. “Why, yes, of course. We do have an unusual number of clergymen at our table, after all! Er, uh—which one of you reverend gentlemen would like to lead us, or shall I choose? I don’t wish to hurt anyone’s feelings.” She gave a sharp peal of laughter.
“You do the honours, Mr. White,” said the Reverend Victor Suttner, a dignified-looking gentleman with grey streaks in his dark hair and a rather flat nose. He was the vicar of St. Stephen’s of Mirren and sat near the middle of the table with his wife and son, Eustace.
“No, you please, sir,” urged Reverend Ralph White, minister of the Methodist chapel in Mirren. He was a thin, faded-looking man seated with his wife directly across from the vicar.
While the men of God argued politely, Lenora whispered to Simon, “This nonsense is all because Darby has become overly religious of late. She used to only attend St Stephen’s once a month like the rest of us, but now she has begun going every week, visiting St. Stephen’s and the Methodist chapel on alternate Sundays, as if she cannot decide where her allegiance lies. Although she is a dear girl, it is really too vexing of her.”
“Strange,” Simon murmured, eyeing Darby with concern. Suddenly he realized the probable cause of her spiritual search, and currents of embarrassment passed through him.
To his further chagrin, Darby interrupted the clergymen’s dispute by saying, “Why not have our guest pray?”
“Him!” declared Alexander scornfully. “Better to have Caesar ask the blessing. His barks are at least sincere.”
“Alexander, you are behaving abominably!” she lashed. Turning again to Simon, she asked, “Would you mind, sir?”
Simon felt pinned like a butterfly in a display case by the eyes that turned to him. He didn’t want to pray. He hadn’t prayed in years. Of what use was it? All the prayer in the world could not bring back Elena or Tay. But Darby was waiting; all of them were waiting. He was trapped in a role—a fantasy part—he’d brought on himself. And he was going to have to pay for it, he could see that.
Slowly he stood to his feet, childhood prayers flying through his mind. God is great, God is good—no, couldn’t do that. For what we are about to receive, we are thankful—too short. He’d have to improvise.
In the manner he was taught in acting class, he went into himself and breathed calmness. Squaring his shoulders, he bowed his head and closed his eyes.
“Heavenly Father,” he began, and there was nothing else, nothing. Panicking, he searched the dark corners of his mind for words but could find none. As the pause lengthened, one of the men cleared his throat. Someone scraped his chair backwards. Eustace, a teenager just beginning to break his way into manhood, sighed heavily. Simon’s lids flew open, and he saw Darby watching him intently, an expression of surprise and disappointment beginning to shine from her eyes. He closed his eyes again, so he would not have to look at her.
“Heavenly Father,” he repeated, forcing confidence into his voice. He could make something up, he could. Had to. “Thank you for this family and their friends gathered around the table.” He coughed briefly. “Bless them with the goodness that shines from your heavenly light.”
Still too short a prayer for an angel, surely, but heavenly light reminded him of old hymn titles.
It might work. He sucked in another breath.
“Thank you for your amazing grace ... Lead on, oh King eternal ... Blessed be the tie that binds.” That was it; he couldn’t think of anymore. “And, um, thanks for this food, of course. Amen.”
“Amen,” echoed several voices inquiringly.
Craving approval, Simon telegraphed a look of hope toward Darby as he sat down. She smiled at him uncertainly, bewilderment clouding her eyes. Ah, what was wrong with her tonight? Was she having doubts about him? He could not imagine why.
“Well done,” Lenora whispered to him in an amused voice, “You have inspired me.”
He gazed into her dancing eyes and suddenly felt sick. Without answering, he turned to his soup and brought a spoonful to his mouth.
“This is good,” he said after a
moment. “What is it?”
“Why turtle, of course,” Lenora answered with a laugh. “Don’t tell me you’ve never eaten it. Surely America is not so backward as that.”
He choked a little as he swallowed a chunk of meat. “Oh, sure, we have it. I just forgot. What is this broth—some kind of white sauce?”
“I believe Cook makes it with our heaviest cream. We do not stint on the finest ingredients in our food, not at Brightings.”
He smiled weakly and placed his spoon beside the bowl with care. Lenora glanced at him curiously, then shrugged and continued to eat.
Fearing he ignored the girl to his left, he looked at her and smiled. “Your name is Fiona, I believe?” he asked.
She was a plain girl, very pale, with thin brown hair pulled into a tight bun. At his question, her face grew even more ashen. “That’s Miss White to you,” she said in an unpleasant voice. “Don’t be familiar. Don’t know you.”
“Sorry,” said Simon, and turned away. A second later, he felt a fingertip prodding his shoulder with irritating persistence. He returned his attention to the minister’s daughter.
“Don’t mean to be short with you. Got to be careful of men, though. Mamma told me so.” A smudge of soup gleamed whitely at the corner of her mouth.
“I’m sure she’s right,” he said with some distaste.
Even though he still looked at her, she prodded his shoulder again. “You can call me Fiona if it means so much to you. I’ll be home tomorrow, but I will not go in a carriage alone with you.”
“Um, thank you, but I believe I’ll be busy.”
“All right, if I must, I’ll go on a carriage ride with you, but not a closed carriage. ‘Tain’t seemly.”
“Miss White, I can’t take you anywhere. I don’t have a carriage and couldn’t drive one if I did.”
“Very well, since you have your mind set on it, I’ll drive. I shall be here at one tomorrow.”
“No, please! I—”
“Fiona,” Lenora said, leaning forward to speak around Simon, her voice shaking with laughter, “I’m afraid Mr. Garrett has duties here tomorrow. And the next few days after that.”
“Oh, well,” Miss White said. “You must ask Papa about next week. We are holding a revival and I may not be free.”
Simon turned to Lenora in a blaze of relief. Her brown eyes warmed a little too much for comfort, however, and he glanced across the table at the man he’d learned was Claude Heathershaw. He’d already noticed Heathershaw occasionally watching him and Lenora with lazy interest in his heavily-lidded eyes, and now those eyes turned from Aunt Gacia’s chattering face to meet his gaze.
Aunt Gacia’s steady stream of talk broke off at the desertion of her companion’s attention, and Simon seized his opportunity.
“What line are you in, Mr. Heathershaw?” he asked politely.
“I beg your pardon?” came the astonished reply.
“It is all right, Claude,” Aunt Gacia said, misunderstanding. “You may speak with Mr. Garrett across the table. They have probably not taught him all his manners in America, and we are not formal here.” In a louder voice she added, “Do not feel you must only speak to the person on either side of you, dear ones. We are like family with our guests.” She breathed deeply, then screeched, “Aren’t we, Mr. Lightner?”
“Yes, yes!’’ Uncle Richard yelled, his deep voice echoing off the candelabrum spaced down the long, long table. “We are!”
Simon blinked. Apparently, he was breaking all kinds of rules. But what did that matter in the light of this unimaginable adventure? He was talking and eating and breathing in the world of two hundred years ago. He did well to remain conscious.
Currents of joy ran through him as he leaned back to allow the footman to remove his unfinished soup. For a full moment he forgot the heaviness that had become so much a part of him.
Heathershaw continued to gaze at him with curiosity. He had the kind of face Simon imagined could be called aristocratic—a long, thin nose; high forehead; large, well-shaped skull; thin lips and deep-set eyes. It could be a stern face, yet wasn’t; something about the tilt of the mouth, the liveliness of the eyes, and the careless manner in which his windblown hair tumbled across his forehead, gave him an almost comical aspect. Everything about him, even his slouching posture in the chair, looked likable and non-threatening.
“I don’t understand your question, I’m afraid,” Heathershaw said. “What line am I in ... is that an American expression, or are you thinking in actor’s terms?”
“Sorry. I only meant, what is it you do for a living?”
Simon heard muffled laughter at his side. Heathershaw heard it, too, and lifted his brows at Lenora.
“What is it I do for a living?” the gentleman echoed, bringing his wineglass before his eyes and contemplating the liquid as he spun it in circles. “My dear fellow, as little as possible.”
Still chuckling, Lenora held her napkin before her lips and whispered, “That is not regarded as a polite question, Mr. Garrett. Not to Claude, at any rate, who is something of a professional guest.”
“Oh.” Simon looked across the table in surprise. “Sorry if I spoke out of turn.”
Heathershaw winked and lifted his glass higher in a salute. “No offense taken with you, sir, though Lenora has mightily offended me by whispering about me to you.”
“And what makes you think I spoke of you?” she asked archly.
“Your beautiful brown eyes were on me the entire time, a thing I can well understand,” Heathershaw answered, “And what else of interest is there to talk about?”
“You flatter yourself, Claude,” Lenora said, the merry light in her eyes fading a little.
Simon turned to watch the servants enter carrying steaming platters. There were undercurrents here that he did not understand, and he wanted to be silent awhile and observe.
His gaze found Darby’s as it had done repeatedly through the soup course. She seemed quiet, though her brother and the Wallace siblings often engaged her in conversation, conversations that seemed doomed to end quickly as her attention wandered. He knew the cause of that, of course.
Alexander sat at Darby’s left, and Evelyn was seated next to him. Mrs. Wallace appeared to be tangled in an intent conversation with Richard Lightner, who gesticulated frequently and eagerly, sometimes waving his fork in the air with dangerous abandon. Beside his mother and across from Alexander sat Edward Wallace. The pairs of siblings seemed unusually close; when Alexander was not casting incensed looks down the table at Lenora and himself, he regarded Evelyn attentively; and Edward seldom looked away from Darby. Simon couldn’t fault him for that.
While Simon continued to study the faces around the table, the footman placed a dish of meat in thick sauce in front of him. Simon stared at it a moment before lifting his knife and fork.
“Calves’ tongue in cream,” Lenora whispered helpfully.
Simon blanched. “God help me, I’m going to starve.”
“No, you should try it,” Heathershaw said. “In the ordinary way of things, I don’t enjoy tongue either, but the Brightings’s chef could make leather taste well.”
“His method appears to be cream sauce,” Simon observed. Had these people never heard of cholesterol? No, of course not.
“Is something wrong, Mr. Garrett?” Alexander asked in disdainful tones, raising his voice to be heard over the others. “You are not eating. I suppose you’re used to much better fare, traveling around in wagons and cooking over campfires.”
“Nothing’s wrong with the food,” Simon answered. “I’m just waiting for the vegetable course. You do eat vegetables, don’t you?”
“Of course we do—” Alexander began angrily.
“You do not eat meat, then?” Darby interrupted, her incisive voice cutting across her brother’s and ringing with worry. She looked at the morsel of flesh caught in her fork and lowered it to her plate. “Is it wrong to eat meat?”
“Why do you ask him?” exclaimed Alexander
. “He is an authority of nothing!”
“Meat is fine, especially for young women,” Simon interjected rapidly, before Darby could spring again to his defense. “And the cream sauces are good for your bones. But men ...”
Realizing that he now had the attention of everyone seated at the table, he stammered to a halt. Even the footman and maid stood frozen, dishes and serving spoons poised in their hands.
Alexander saw the actor’s discomfort and smiled.
“Please, Mr. Garrett, do continue. We await your wisdom with breathless anticipation.”
I’d like to wipe that sneer off your face, Simon thought. But he hadn’t traveled through time to brawl. He stared furiously at a spot on the wall a fraction above Claude Heathershaw’s head until he felt calmer, hardly noticing when that gentleman worriedly ran his fingers through his hair.
Should he tell these people what he knew about healthy eating, or would it cause more problems down the line? Maybe one of these men would live an extra year or two and sire a child that wasn’t meant to be born. Maybe that child’s great-great-something-grandchild would blow up the world. It wasn’t impossible. Look at what had happened to his future, simply by delaying Darby’s death.
Well, so what. He couldn’t worry about everything.
“Too much meat and dairy products build fat inside your arteries and clog them up. In men and older women, it can cause heart attack and strokes.”
“It causes the gout, too,” said Reverend Mr. Suttner. “My physician warned me off rich foods because of it.”
“But Mr. Garrett is no physician,” Alexander said. “Perhaps he gathered this bizarre information from one of his comedic roles.”
“As you mentioned, I’m no doctor; but what I’m saying is the truth.”
“Well, if eating vegetables is responsible for your fine stature and physique, I say, bring on the carrots!” Uncle Richard quipped.
“Well said, Papa,” agreed Lenora, laughing and raising her glass. Several others also raised theirs, and a general air of relaxation swept around the table.
Only Alexander and his friend Edward appeared unmoved, both eyeing Simon with hard expressions.
Darby's Angel Page 5