Friends and Lovers by Joan Smith

lad,” he would say, then, before I had got a prawn on my plate, the footman would be ordered to look sharp, and bring me the asparagus, the butter boat, the broccoli, the peas, and where was the ragout, eh?
    “You quite throw our simple party into the shade, sir,” I mentioned between servings.
    “Don’t apologize. An excellent sort of a do, in its own way,” he said leniently,
    “I won’t be able to eat for a week,” Mama said, refusing the smoked salmon.
    “I do not eat so well every night,” he admitted, then went on to outline what his normal meal could consist of—no more than a dozen varieties of dishes, with no dessert, as often as not. “No, I tell a lie. I always have a fresh fruit to top off on.”
    The fact of this evening’s being a special occasion was raised more often than our maiden visit to his home could account for. I began to dread the matter of my moving into Oakdene would come up before I got safely home. I was not mistaken.
    After our Bacchanalia of champagne and dinner, Mama was invited by the host to take a tour of the kitchen and pantries. I assumed I too was to go along, but was restrained from following the housekeeper by a crippling grip on my elbow.
    “I have something I want you to see in the saloon,” he said archly.
    “I have not seen half the objects there,” I said. “I caught a glimpse of a lovely painting, behind a statue by the green fireplace. A Canaletto, I think.”
    “No, it is a genuine Italian thing,” he assured me gravely. “I bought them all from a reputable dealer in London. But it is not the paintings I want to show you.”
    As he spoke, he drew a box from a silver bowl that rested on a table. It was white velvet outside, in that telltale shape of a ring box. I knew my moment of exquisite misery had come.
    My eyes were assailed by a diamond large enough to wear out a finger. The double row of sapphires and rubies that encircled the diamond would fatigue the whole hand. He drew it from its satin nest and lifted my left hand, trying to put it on the proper finger.
    “No, really, Mr. Everett, I cannot accept this.”
    “You don’t have to consider it an engagement ring. No strings attached, though you know by now what my intentions are where you are concerned, Wendy.”
    “I could not take it without being engaged,” I answered, aghast.
    “Suit yourself,” he answered merrily. “I won’t cast a rub in your way if you care to consider yourself the future mistress of Oakdene.”
    I am sure I behaved very badly, but at least I felt no desire to laugh, and it was truly a laughably enormous pledge of his troth. We pushed the ring back and forth between us, he insisting I accept it, even if I were not yet ready to accept him into the bargain, and I insisting I could not possibly do anything of the sort. I was very much aware of the debt of gratitude I owed him—for the trip to London, the box stairs, and a dozen other unwanted gifts of fruit and flowers he had delivered to Lady Anne’s cottage over the past year or so. He was so kind, so generous, so good-natured, I felt a veritable vixen to have to tell him at last that I had no intention of getting married at all, to anyone.
    He took it all in stride, “Have another look around you,” he invited. “You won’t do better than Oakdene,” he tempted, as though it were a house I would be marrying, and not a man. “I’ll try you again a few weeks from now,” he warned, finally returning the ring to its box, and the box to its silver bowl.
    “You’ll find me a dogged salesman. I don’t give up on one refusal. Many is the deal has taken me more than one or two tries to pull off. I didn’t get where I am by being thin-skinned. Would it be an emerald you’d prefer?” he asked. “They had a dandy one at Rundell and Bridges—cost a trifle more than the diamond, but you will never find me a skint.”
    “No, no. The ring is beautiful.”
    “If it is the wee ones you are worrying about, never give