by Laurie Brown
“Bravo. It will be so much better with real females,” Whitby said with a boyish grin.
“You’re telling me?” Alanbrooke said, and everyone laughed.
“Will I have a part?” Parker asked.
“All the young people will have a role,” Teddy promised. “I’ll write plenty of small parts so no one will have many lines to memorize.”
“I don’t know how you’re going to do all that by tomorrow,” Eleanor said.
“Never question a master,” Teddy said.
Mindful of her task—at least she told herself that was the reason she spoke for him—Eleanor said, “Don’t forget a part for Shermont.”
“Is he here?” Whitby asked.
“Yes. He’ll join us at the gaming table later, if you have a mind to play a few hands,” Teddy said.
While the others discussed that possibility, Alanbrooke turned to Eleanor with a raised eyebrow. “Shermont?” he mouthed silently.
She shook her head as a blush rose in her cheeks. Alanbrooke must be intuitive. Or was she that transparent?
Thankfully, Deirdre wormed her way into the circle. “I hate to take Eleanor away, but she has yet to meet her dinner partner.” At the groans and offers to take his place, Deirdre shook her finger at them. “And you gentlemen have been shamefully neglecting your own designated partners. Dinner will be served in a few minutes, so I suggest you make amends before you’re doomed to endure a silent meal.” She took Eleanor’s arm and led her away.
“I take it you enjoyed yourself,” Deirdre said with a smug smile. “Unfortunately, it’s now time to pay the piper.” Moments later, she introduced Eleanor to the candy-eating rector, Mr. Fleckart, who by now had a bulging pocket full of Jordan almonds.
He took her hand and bowed. While he waxed eloquent over the honor Miss Cracklebury bestowed upon him by inviting him to partake of what he was sure would be an exemplary meal, Eleanor pulled her hand back and surreptitiously tried to wipe off the sticky residue he’d left. Deirdre gave her an apologetic look.
A sudden hush caused her to turn toward the door. Lord Shermont had entered.
“Good evening,” he said loud enough for all to hear. “I do hope my appearance is not the cause of any inconvenience.”
Of course, he would have to know the opposite was true, but all would forgive the ranking male. If Eleanor could judge by Mina’s welcoming smile, she’d already done so.
Aunt Patience scowled and made a “harrumph” noise.
Deirdre excused herself and rushed to her sister’s side. “We are relieved you are no longer unwell,” she said to him. “And pleased you decided to join us.”
“There I was eating my solitary meal when I realized I was missing the opportunity of spending time with the loveliest females in England.”
Mina giggled, and Deirdre grinned as he bent over her hand. Eleanor understood their reaction and felt a similar welcoming elation. In the course of making his bow, he glanced at her and smiled as if he’d read her mind. Warmth spread through her veins like melted honey.
Shermont made the rounds to greet the guests he already knew, including Major Alanbrooke, and to meet the lieutenants. Despite Carl’s insinuation that the decision to dine downstairs came suspiciously soon after he’d relayed the servants’ gossip regarding Eleanor’s interest in the military men, Shermont’s assessment of the situation proved he’d made the right choice. The younger officers were garrulous, and, in their eagerness to impress, they could inadvertently reveal information valuable to the enemy.
Shermont positioned himself near the fireplace where he could overhear the voluble officers and watch Eleanor, thereby mixing duty with pleasure. On the other hand, it put him in proximity to Patience Aubin, who was not happy to see him, even though she didn’t have the nerve to give him the cut direct.
Patience wore a heavy coating of powder on her face that did little to hide the deep pits that marked her as a smallpox survivor. But it did provide a clue to her vanity—and show him a path he could use to charm himself back into her good graces.
First, he tried a bit of flattery regarding her hideous headgear, an old-fashioned, shiny white turban with an ostrich feather that looked as if it had sprouted from her forehead. Then he added a deferential bow to her judgment on the unnecessary education of girls, even though he had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from voicing his true opinion, and he managed his goal with ease, if not comfort.
“As I fast approach the status of elder,” he said with a gesture that included the young Maxwell girls and the two brash lieutenants by the window, “I find myself championing the value of experience over the exuberance of youth.”
“One would hardly call you old,” Patience responded, flipping open her fan and covering the lower half of her face as if she were still a shy girl. “You are still a youngster to us. Don’t we agree—Lord Shermont is in his prime?” she asked the other chaperones seated nearby.
“Then I must bow to your opinion. If I had a glass in my hand, I would raise it to experience.”
The older ladies responded with girlish titters.
Within a short time Deirdre had realigned certain members of the group with new dinner partners. Her deft handling of the emergency impressed Eleanor, even if the changes did not reach as far down the ladder as herself and the rector.
Fortunately, Fleckart’s incessant chatter on the trials and tribulations of his position needed little input beyond an occasional nod or monosyllabic response. When the gong sounded again, they lined up with the others for the promenade to the dining room. The table was impressively packed with elaborate dishes and candelabra. As soon as they were seated, the footmen served a greenish soup from a large turtle shell. Since she found no peas in the thick broth, she simply pushed the grayish lumps she did find around with her spoon until they removed the bowls.
Fleckart’s single-minded application to the task of stuffing his mouth freed her to watch the sisters for clues to the proper etiquette of the intricate dining rituals. When Deirdre, seated at the foot of the long table, spoke to Shermont, seated on her right, all the women conversed with the person to their right. When the hostess turned and conversed with Major Alanbrooke to her left, all the women turned to their left. Because of the extra female guests at the table, Fiona was seated to Eleanor’s left, and the young girl was more interested in making eyes at Lieutenants Whitby and Parker across the table than talking.
“Psst,” Eleanor whispered to get Fiona’s attention. “This style of dining is … ah … foreign to me. Any help you could give me would be appreciated.”
The girl readily agreed without taking her eyes off Whitby.
Eleanor ate very little. And not just because neither Deirdre nor Mina nor any other woman except the chaperones tasted more than a few tidbits. Eleanor sat equidistant from the ends of the table, and a whole roasted pig had been placed smack dab in the center. His porcine eye stared directly at her, ruining her appetite.
She stole a glance at Shermont. He lounged back in his chair, looking straight at her. He raised his wineglass in a silent toast. His intense regard promised more, and it gave her a fluttery feeling in the pit of her stomach. She had to look away.
The dishes were not served or passed, but everyone simply partook of what was in front of them. Since the table was packed with serving pieces, there was a wide assortment within reach, but she recognized almost nothing. Eleanor had never considered herself a picky eater, but she quickly learned she wasn’t adventurous. Cook apparently wasn’t big on plain food and served almost every sort of meat disguised as something else. The few vegetables presented had been boiled to near mush before being drowned in assorted sauces.
Mr. Fleckart offered her a serving from a bowl in front of him. “Creamed pickled eel?”
Eleanor shook her head, looking away from what resembled slugs floating in clotted milk. She reached for one of the tomatoes placed among the unidentified greens around the pork centerpiece. Fiona, seated next to
her, gasped and looked at her with wide-eyed shock.
“Those are poison.”
“Tomatoes?”
“Love apples. They’re only for decoration.”
Eleanor wanted to argue and even prove the conviction false, but she doubted anyone would believe her. She decided the disturbance that proving her point would cause was not worth the trouble. Instead she reached for a plate of assorted cheeses.
The girl made a negative noise.
“No?” Eleanor asked. “Decoration?”
Fiona ducked her head and whispered from behind her napkin. “We do not eat cheese in mixed company because it is properly eaten with one’s fingers. Most men find the aroma that lingers on a girl’s hands and breath unattractive.”
“Oh.” But apparently men with smelly breath and stinky fingers were tolerated—that good old double standard. Again, Eleanor decided against challenging the cultural conventions. As much as she’d always admired the Regency period, she was beginning to miss modern times.
Mr. Fleckart cleared his throat. When she glanced back toward him he held another dish out to her. She must have missed whatever he’d said, but it appeared to be a smoked white fish devoid of unidentifiable sauce. She smiled and took a small piece.
She nearly choked on the heavily salted bite and drained her glass of wine in order to get it down. One of the footmen standing against the wall immediately refilled her goblet. Thankfully, Deirdre rang the tiny bell near her plate and all the gentlemen stood to pull out their partner’s chair. Mr. Fleckart followed suit after stuffing an entire boiled egg into his mouth.
Eleanor breathed a sigh of relief that the women would be excused to the parlor, but she soon learned she was mistaken. The people, still paired with their dinner partners, milled around the table making conversation, all the time pretending not to notice the servants, while at the same time trying to stay out of their way. The table was cleared completely, covered with a fresh damask cloth, and then set with another bewildering assortment of dishes. If anything, this course was more elaborate than the first. The centerpiece was a peacock complete with feathers.
When Deirdre resumed her seat, everyone else did the same. Eleanor found several small carrots used as a garnish that Fiona didn’t stop her from eating. A footman approached her with a dish in his gloved hand.
She stared at him, uncomprehending.
“Lord Shermont sends his regards,” Fiona said with a sly smile.
“What is it?” Eleanor asked the footman.
He looked startled as he lowered the oval bowl to reveal green beans with almond slivers. “The beans are parboiled and glazed with lemon juice and clarified butter. His Lordship requested Cook prepare this specific dish for your enjoyment.”
“Consider before you partake,” Fiona warned in a whisper. “Sending choice tidbits is a sign of a man’s favor. If you accept … well …”
Eleanor hesitated. What would Jane Austen do? Then Eleanor realized she was too hungry to care about the consequences. How bad could it be? She smiled her thanks to Shermont before taking a generous portion. Then she thanked the footman.
“For future reference,” Fiona said, her voice dripping with scorn, “one does not talk to the servants during dinner.”
“Isn’t that rather silly? What if one needs something?”
Fiona shrugged. “Good service anticipates a guest’s needs. Bad service means you’re stuck. You can always ask your dinner partner to serve you something.”
Eleanor glanced over her shoulder at Fleckart, still cramming food into his mouth as fast as he could chew.
“You will be glad to know,” Fiona whispered, “no hostess worth her crystal salt cellars would repeat partners within a fortnight of dinners.”
While the servants removed dishes for the second time, Teddy practically dragged Beatrix to where Eleanor stood with Fleckart. Mrs. Holcum followed her daughter by mere steps, and Uncle Huxley, the dutiful dinner partner, trailed along in her wake.
“I hope you are enjoying the evening,” Teddy said to Eleanor.
“Of course, I am,” she said, stretching the truth just a little.
Fleckart launched into an ingratiatingly appreciative speech that commanded Teddy’s sole attention.
“So … educational to dine in the society of your betters,” Beatrix said in a low, meant-to-be-overheard voice.
Mrs. Holcum supported her daughter with a nod and a smug smile.
“True. Many of your customs are dissimilar to mine,” Eleanor admitted. The majority of her recent dinners had come from the freezer and had been heated in the microwave. “But different is not automatically superior.” She pasted a sweet smile on her face.
Beatrix opened and closed her mouth like a surprised fish. Apparently, she was not used to those she considered beneath her status standing up to her.
Mrs. Holcum, however, did not let the comment pass. “Are you disparaging your host’s excellent repast?”
Eleanor forced a questioning look and blinked a few times. “What an odd leap of illogical reasoning. I thought we were discussing cultural differences.” She allowed her smile to show a hint of condescension. “Aren’t new experiences one of the joys of travel?”
“Bravo! When in Rome, eh?” Huxley said as he slapped Mrs. Holcum on the back.
Eleanor could almost see the steam coming from Mrs. Holcum’s nostrils as she rounded on Huxley. He grinned, and she visibly struggled to get herself under control. The exchange told Eleanor two things: Huxley outranked Mrs. Holcum’s husband, and he was a bit of an eccentric, which was, of course, tolerated if one’s rank was sufficient.
“Fortunately, I have not had to endure the deprivations of travel beyond this country’s borders,” Mrs. Holcum said. “But if the necessity to do so should ever arise, I’m certain I would uphold the high standards of an English gentlewoman, regardless of native customs.”
“I’m sure you would,” Huxley said.
Mrs. Holcum nodded, pacified by what she deemed a compliment. Although by the twinkle in Huxley’s eyes, Eleanor doubted he meant it as such.
The older woman turned her attack back to Eleanor. “I’ve heard Colonials have adopted many customs of foreign immigrants as well as the native Indians.”
“We are the great melting pot,” Eleanor answered proudly.
“I developed a fondness for the American sensibility after making the acquaintance of Benjamin Franklin some years ago. We had good times when he lived in London. That man loved to sing.” Huxley chuckled at his memories, leaned forward, and whispered, “Especially bawdy tavern ditties. I still miss him.”
“Consorting with the enemy,” Mrs. Holcum said with a disdainful sniff.
“Who’s consorting?” Teddy asked after extricating himself from Fleckart’s clutches. He rejoined the group, bringing Shermont and Deirdre with him.
“We were just discussing an American friend of mine,” Huxley said. “Franklin taught me to take an air bath every day for my health.” The elderly gentleman thumped his chest Tarzan style. “Solid as a strapping youth.”
“What’s an air bath?” Eleanor asked.
Mrs. Holcum grabbed her daughter’s elbow and dragged her to the other end of the room.
Deirdre leaned close to whisper in Eleanor’s ear.
“Uncle Huxley is infamous for sitting on the balcony of his bedchamber without a stitch of clothes on. Avoid the north lawn from two until three o’clock.”
“Thank you for the warning.”
“I believe it’s time to resume our seats,” Deirdre said in a normal voice. She shook a warning finger at her uncle and whispered, “No controversial talk.”
Everyone followed Deirdre’s lead and drifted toward their designated places at the table. Shermont had not needed the reminder that England was at war with the United States. And America was an ally of the French. Huxley went onto Shermont’s list of suspects with the same reluctance that he’d added Eleanor’s name.
By the third remove, Te
ddy, Alanbrooke, and the lieutenants had each sent Eleanor something from their area of the table. In order not to show favoritism, she accepted all the tidbits with gracious smiles, but she ate none of the sautéed gizzards, plovers’ eggs in aspic, calf’s foot jelly, or marrow pâté.
Finally, dessert was served. The table was cleared to the bare wood, and an assortment of fruit, cakes, tortes, pastries, and sugar candies was laid out. Footmen served champagne under the watchful eye of Tuttle the butler. Fiona pointed out the special silver fruit knife and fork. Eleanor chose a poached pear and enjoyed it nearly as much as Fleckart delighted in his apple turnover, chocolate mousse, berry tart, sugared walnuts, and gingerbread with lemon sauce.
Before she’d finished half her pear, Eleanor had to stifle a yawn. The time difference was catching up with her.
Deirdre nodded to Shermont, and he stood to hold her chair as she rose. The rest of the gentlemen scrambled to their feet.
“We will leave you gentlemen to your port and cigars,” Deirdre announced. All the women stood. After thanking their dinner partners, they followed the hostess into the parlor where coffee and tea were served.
Mina, Fiona, and Hazel headed straight for the pianoforte.
“Play something soothing, my dears,” Aunt Patience said as she settled on the settee and pulled out a bit of fancy needlework. The other chaperones clustered around her. They drew Deirdre into their circle to make plans for the picnic the following day, which left Beatrix and Eleanor to chat with each other. In a blatant ploy to avoid that inevitability, Beatrix retreated to the chair by the empty fireplace and picked up a book from the nearby table.
Eleanor recognized the cut, yet felt as if she’d received a reprieve. She wandered toward the window and sat in the chair she’d occupied earlier to listen to the music. The girls took turns playing. Eleanor recognized Beethoven’s Für Elise and the folk song Greensleeves among several unknown pieces. As she fought to keep her eyes open, she heard the melody from Neil Diamond’s Song Sung Blue, and the thought made her smile.
“I could wish that sweet expression was for me rather than Mozart.”