the tea in China would Charlotte go into details of that return and death, nor would she be pressed upon her upbringing in Australia, however imperiously Miss Nightingale enquired. No, she thought decidedly, it is no business of anyone else if my mother and stepfather were transported, and not the free citizens they had claimed to be.
She decided to throw the lady a sop. ‘My godmother was Lady Margaret Fenton,’ she said casually, suppressing a smile at the image of that illustrious lady beating an importunate admirer about the head with her parasol. Meg had declared, in her impeccably well-bred accent,
‘I may be a whore, sir, but I promised my brother, the earl, that I would be a circumspect whore. He would never allow me to stoop to an affair with a pork butcher.’
Charlotte stifled the bubble of laughter that threatened to escape her lips as she recalled Meg’s afterthought.
‘That is, unless the pork butcher in question were to offer me a very large inducement in guineas.’
‘I see that you suspect me of vulgar curiosity,’ Florence Nightingale surprised her. ‘Acquit me of that, Mrs Richmond, for I have a scheme in mind that could work to our mutual advantage.’
At that point, Barnard bustled into the room bent on jollying his guests into further excesses of food and drink and managed, by deafening her with his jovial bellow, to bully Miss Nightingale into tasting the wassail brew.
‘Here we are, here we are,’ he cried, seizing the silver ladle and starting to dole out generous helpings of the steaming, spicy liquid from the enormous silver bucket Lily had unearthed in the cellar. ‘All the traditional ingredients,’ he announced, though Charlotte was well aware that Lily and her cook, having despaired of findinga recipe, had concocted their own. ‘Wine and spices and currants, slices of oranges and apples, um, other fruits, berries, you name it. What do you call ’em? Er, yes, raisins, that’s right, you’ll find ’em all in the Finchbourne Wassail.’
He looked so absurdly pleased with himself that those of his guests who were clustered around the dining-table laughed and shrugged and suffered him to hand them a glass. Charlotte, glad to see no evidence of rats or kittens swimming in this particular brew, looked askance at the cinnamon and spices floating on her drink along with odds and ends of candied fruit, but she nodded and smiled and raised her glass, so Barnard was satisfied. It was warming on a cold day, she supposed, though the taste of cinnamon was strongly dominant and that was not a spice she particularly relished.
‘As long as it’s hot and wet and alcoholic,’
as her beloved stepfather, Will Glover, had once remarked,
‘it’ll do the trick.’
That was when someone had handed him a glass of something resembling rum, distilled somewhere on a sugar cane plantation. Hot, certainly; the temperature had made a mockery of the thin muslins and sunbonnets that Charlotte and her mother were wearing, and everyone who tasted the potion had become instantly flushed in the face. Wet also, and potent too, in spite of the cornucopia of berries floating on the amber liquid. Charlotte could recall, as clearly as though it were yesterday rather than ten years earlier, the startled widening of Will’s blue eyes as the full force of the alcohol he had injudiciously gulped down, had struck him.
Soon most of the guests were willingly toasting the baby’s health along with hearty greetings for Christmas and the New Year. Lord Granville was there, nodding and smiling, genial as usual, but still, Charlotte thought, peering round at every lady who came within his orbit. She had been watching Lady Granville skilfully circumvent her lord’s every attempt to approach any female guest. He would bob up in one direction, only to find his wife appearing from another. It was like watching a dance, Charlotte reflected, deciding that his lordship was quite outflanked by his determined lady. Indeed, as
She decided to throw the lady a sop. ‘My godmother was Lady Margaret Fenton,’ she said casually, suppressing a smile at the image of that illustrious lady beating an importunate admirer about the head with her parasol. Meg had declared, in her impeccably well-bred accent,
‘I may be a whore, sir, but I promised my brother, the earl, that I would be a circumspect whore. He would never allow me to stoop to an affair with a pork butcher.’
Charlotte stifled the bubble of laughter that threatened to escape her lips as she recalled Meg’s afterthought.
‘That is, unless the pork butcher in question were to offer me a very large inducement in guineas.’
‘I see that you suspect me of vulgar curiosity,’ Florence Nightingale surprised her. ‘Acquit me of that, Mrs Richmond, for I have a scheme in mind that could work to our mutual advantage.’
At that point, Barnard bustled into the room bent on jollying his guests into further excesses of food and drink and managed, by deafening her with his jovial bellow, to bully Miss Nightingale into tasting the wassail brew.
‘Here we are, here we are,’ he cried, seizing the silver ladle and starting to dole out generous helpings of the steaming, spicy liquid from the enormous silver bucket Lily had unearthed in the cellar. ‘All the traditional ingredients,’ he announced, though Charlotte was well aware that Lily and her cook, having despaired of findinga recipe, had concocted their own. ‘Wine and spices and currants, slices of oranges and apples, um, other fruits, berries, you name it. What do you call ’em? Er, yes, raisins, that’s right, you’ll find ’em all in the Finchbourne Wassail.’
He looked so absurdly pleased with himself that those of his guests who were clustered around the dining-table laughed and shrugged and suffered him to hand them a glass. Charlotte, glad to see no evidence of rats or kittens swimming in this particular brew, looked askance at the cinnamon and spices floating on her drink along with odds and ends of candied fruit, but she nodded and smiled and raised her glass, so Barnard was satisfied. It was warming on a cold day, she supposed, though the taste of cinnamon was strongly dominant and that was not a spice she particularly relished.
‘As long as it’s hot and wet and alcoholic,’
as her beloved stepfather, Will Glover, had once remarked,
‘it’ll do the trick.’
That was when someone had handed him a glass of something resembling rum, distilled somewhere on a sugar cane plantation. Hot, certainly; the temperature had made a mockery of the thin muslins and sunbonnets that Charlotte and her mother were wearing, and everyone who tasted the potion had become instantly flushed in the face. Wet also, and potent too, in spite of the cornucopia of berries floating on the amber liquid. Charlotte could recall, as clearly as though it were yesterday rather than ten years earlier, the startled widening of Will’s blue eyes as the full force of the alcohol he had injudiciously gulped down, had struck him.
Soon most of the guests were willingly toasting the baby’s health along with hearty greetings for Christmas and the New Year. Lord Granville was there, nodding and smiling, genial as usual, but still, Charlotte thought, peering round at every lady who came within his orbit. She had been watching Lady Granville skilfully circumvent her lord’s every attempt to approach any female guest. He would bob up in one direction, only to find his wife appearing from another. It was like watching a dance, Charlotte reflected, deciding that his lordship was quite outflanked by his determined lady. Indeed, as
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