details yet, ma’am,” he replied stiffly. “I am not marrying a dowry, but a lady.”
“That’s it! Mount up on your high horse and stare them all down. But just between ourselves—how much?”
“Enough,” he said, as Lady Bingham was a good friend of his aunt’s, and he could not like to insult her.
He heard whispers of forty or fifty thousand, which was ludicrous. Townsend had four children. Presumably the bulk of the fortune would go to his son. He had only met Mr. Townsend once, for a brief visit. He had not offered for Aurelia at the time. It was Marie who had given her consent to the marriage. She had told him her papa had given herself, the eldest daughter, twenty thousand, the second daughter fifteen, and Aurelia was to get ten, which was certainly not sufficient to “buy” him, if he were for sale. The ten thousand, however, appeared to be a flexible sum, capable of doubling if it should be necessary.
Immediately after dinner, Nick and Pelham joined Jane and Aurelia at the grate, where they were beginning to prepare the mulled wine. The other guests sat around the room in groups, gossiping and getting caught up on the news.
“One cup of water for a pint of wine,” Pelham read. “I have four quarts of wine in the pan. Toss in eight cups of water, Jane.”
“The sugar and spice have to be added to the boiling water first,” she reminded him.
“She’s reached a rolling boil now,” he said, peering into the steaming pot. “Here, let me lift the kettle off the flame and ladle it out. I don’t want you to burn yourself.”
Nick looked sharp at this speech. It was the first one he had heard that held any tinge of concern for Jane. He noticed that Jane smiled fondly in appreciation. Pelham placed the boiling water on the apron of the grate.
“What spices do you use? Let me do that,” Aurelia said. “I want to learn.”
Pelham peered at the receipt book. “Cloves, nutmeg, and cinnamon. Here, Jane has measured them out.”
He handed her a bowl of ground cinnamon sticks and cloves, with a whole nutmeg on the side of the dish. Jane poured in the sugar, and Aurelia dumped in the spices.
Pelham frowned as the nutmeg danced around the top of the water. “It seems to me we used to grate the nutmeg, didn’t we?”
“Yes, it has to be grated,” Jane explained to Aurelia.
Pelham drew it out with a spoon and dried it off. “Here you go,” he said, handing it back to Aurelia, who looked at it in confusion.
“What do you grate it with?” she asked.
“A grater,” Pelham replied.
Jane handed her the grater and showed her how to grate the nutmeg. Before she had been grating for a minute, she handed it to Nick.
“Here, lazybones. Your turn,” she said.
Nick knew this was exactly the sort of evening he had been wishing for. His friends were here; they were performing the old rituals together, yet he was dissatisfied. Every time Jane smiled at Pelham or spoke to him, he felt a pronounced urge to strike someone.
“Not so much sugar!” Jane exclaimed when Pel began to add a little extra.
“I like it sweet,” he said.
“You might think about the rest of us,” Nick said, rather sharply.
“Just as you like. I can always add a little to my own glass later. Here, give this a try, Jane.” Pel held the ladle to her lips. “Careful, now. It’s demmed hot.”
“A little more nutmeg, I think,” she said.
“My fingers are aching,” Nick said. “Can’t someone else take a turn?”
“Here, give it to me,” Pel said, and promptly grated the end off his finger, for the nutmeg had decreased to a minuscule size.
“I am sure you can buy nutmeg already grated in London,” Aurelia said. “It is a great deal of work, making the mulled wine, is it not? I hope it is worth the effort.”
“Do you want a plaster for your finger?” Jane asked Pelham, taking his hand and examining the raw end of his digit.
Pelham stuck his finger in his mouth and sucked it. “Don’t believe that will
“That’s it! Mount up on your high horse and stare them all down. But just between ourselves—how much?”
“Enough,” he said, as Lady Bingham was a good friend of his aunt’s, and he could not like to insult her.
He heard whispers of forty or fifty thousand, which was ludicrous. Townsend had four children. Presumably the bulk of the fortune would go to his son. He had only met Mr. Townsend once, for a brief visit. He had not offered for Aurelia at the time. It was Marie who had given her consent to the marriage. She had told him her papa had given herself, the eldest daughter, twenty thousand, the second daughter fifteen, and Aurelia was to get ten, which was certainly not sufficient to “buy” him, if he were for sale. The ten thousand, however, appeared to be a flexible sum, capable of doubling if it should be necessary.
Immediately after dinner, Nick and Pelham joined Jane and Aurelia at the grate, where they were beginning to prepare the mulled wine. The other guests sat around the room in groups, gossiping and getting caught up on the news.
“One cup of water for a pint of wine,” Pelham read. “I have four quarts of wine in the pan. Toss in eight cups of water, Jane.”
“The sugar and spice have to be added to the boiling water first,” she reminded him.
“She’s reached a rolling boil now,” he said, peering into the steaming pot. “Here, let me lift the kettle off the flame and ladle it out. I don’t want you to burn yourself.”
Nick looked sharp at this speech. It was the first one he had heard that held any tinge of concern for Jane. He noticed that Jane smiled fondly in appreciation. Pelham placed the boiling water on the apron of the grate.
“What spices do you use? Let me do that,” Aurelia said. “I want to learn.”
Pelham peered at the receipt book. “Cloves, nutmeg, and cinnamon. Here, Jane has measured them out.”
He handed her a bowl of ground cinnamon sticks and cloves, with a whole nutmeg on the side of the dish. Jane poured in the sugar, and Aurelia dumped in the spices.
Pelham frowned as the nutmeg danced around the top of the water. “It seems to me we used to grate the nutmeg, didn’t we?”
“Yes, it has to be grated,” Jane explained to Aurelia.
Pelham drew it out with a spoon and dried it off. “Here you go,” he said, handing it back to Aurelia, who looked at it in confusion.
“What do you grate it with?” she asked.
“A grater,” Pelham replied.
Jane handed her the grater and showed her how to grate the nutmeg. Before she had been grating for a minute, she handed it to Nick.
“Here, lazybones. Your turn,” she said.
Nick knew this was exactly the sort of evening he had been wishing for. His friends were here; they were performing the old rituals together, yet he was dissatisfied. Every time Jane smiled at Pelham or spoke to him, he felt a pronounced urge to strike someone.
“Not so much sugar!” Jane exclaimed when Pel began to add a little extra.
“I like it sweet,” he said.
“You might think about the rest of us,” Nick said, rather sharply.
“Just as you like. I can always add a little to my own glass later. Here, give this a try, Jane.” Pel held the ladle to her lips. “Careful, now. It’s demmed hot.”
“A little more nutmeg, I think,” she said.
“My fingers are aching,” Nick said. “Can’t someone else take a turn?”
“Here, give it to me,” Pel said, and promptly grated the end off his finger, for the nutmeg had decreased to a minuscule size.
“I am sure you can buy nutmeg already grated in London,” Aurelia said. “It is a great deal of work, making the mulled wine, is it not? I hope it is worth the effort.”
“Do you want a plaster for your finger?” Jane asked Pelham, taking his hand and examining the raw end of his digit.
Pelham stuck his finger in his mouth and sucked it. “Don’t believe that will
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