green wallpaper in the formal dining hall, wearing spotless white gloves and the most impassive expression he could muster. His irritation at Jenny's rejection yesterday had lessened when Blodgett called him aside to tell him he would be serving the guests of honor tonight, at a formal dinner to celebrate the upcoming nuptials, an assignment which earned Tom looks of envy from several of the other footmen.
“You've done well these past two years, Tom West,” the butler said, nodding his heavy head approvingly. “I believe you are ready.”
Tom had served the Marlowes at dinner before, but this was by far the grandest affair he had seen. Banks of orchids and lilies from the Marlowe's hothouses spilled from every polished table and sideboard; mounds of imported chocolates filled crystal bowls. Fresh oranges and lemons had been shipped at great expense from Spain, while multiple courses of every type of meat, fish, and pastry were piled on silver platters in the kitchen, waiting to be served.
If the master was trying to impress his future son-in-law and his relatives, Tom thought, standing at his post in the dining room, he was sure to succeed.
A string quartet played a lively tune in the background as guests chatted in small groups in the great hall before filing into the dining room, the women in wide-skirted satin and brocade gowns, throats sparkling with jewels, heads covered in feathered and bejeweled headdresses like peacocks' crests.
Miss Abigail Woodbury was dressed in a blue gown simpler in cut than those of the other women, and her upswept chestnut hair was innocent of powder. She had the same unaffected air as when she had descended from the carriage, and she looked about the gathering with open curiosity in her bright eyes.
As she passed by, he heard her remark to her father in a low-pitched voice, “Oranges, in this season? They must have cost a fortune. And look at those dozens of servants standing about, as if we are children unable to do the least little thing for ourselves.”
“Now, none of that, Abigail!” Tom heard her father reply, his voice as low as hers. “Remember, we are guests here. They have their own ways, and we have ours.”
“Yes, Papa, but you yourself said ....”
“Shh. This is not the time or place.”
It only proved what he had heard of Americans, Tom thought, his blank face masking his musings: they were brash and uncultured, unappreciative of the finer things in life. He felt as insulted by the young woman's criticism as if he himself were Lord Marlowe.
He forgot the young American woman's comment as he watched for Blodgett's signal, like a musician awaiting the rise of the conductor's baton. It came—a slight nod of the head—and he fetched a platter to serve the food.
Throughout the meal Maeve Marlowe chatted brightly to her fiancé, leaning over several times to place a possessive hand on his sleeve. She giggled whenever he made a comment, pale lashes fluttering as if he were the wittiest man in the room. The two Americans, seated next to Lord and Lady Marlowe, were deep in conversation with the guests sitting next to them. Tom noted in the back of his mind that Miss Woodbury and Jonathan Marlowe seemed to be getting along very well.
The rest of his attention was focused on serving the dishes in the correct order. Occasionally he glanced at Campbell, at the station next to his, for guidance. There was no room for errors tonight.
Midway through the meal, as he stepped forward with a bottle of wine to refill Miss Marlowe's glass, he overheard Lord Corbus recount some long-winded story about his adventures in America. Throughout the evening, the visitor had made light jokes about his political differences with his American cousin, Miles Woodbury, but now the conversation began to take on a darker edge when one of the guests brought up the American War of Independence.
“Ah yes, the struggle with the colonies. The truth is, that war was not about taxes, whatever
“You've done well these past two years, Tom West,” the butler said, nodding his heavy head approvingly. “I believe you are ready.”
Tom had served the Marlowes at dinner before, but this was by far the grandest affair he had seen. Banks of orchids and lilies from the Marlowe's hothouses spilled from every polished table and sideboard; mounds of imported chocolates filled crystal bowls. Fresh oranges and lemons had been shipped at great expense from Spain, while multiple courses of every type of meat, fish, and pastry were piled on silver platters in the kitchen, waiting to be served.
If the master was trying to impress his future son-in-law and his relatives, Tom thought, standing at his post in the dining room, he was sure to succeed.
A string quartet played a lively tune in the background as guests chatted in small groups in the great hall before filing into the dining room, the women in wide-skirted satin and brocade gowns, throats sparkling with jewels, heads covered in feathered and bejeweled headdresses like peacocks' crests.
Miss Abigail Woodbury was dressed in a blue gown simpler in cut than those of the other women, and her upswept chestnut hair was innocent of powder. She had the same unaffected air as when she had descended from the carriage, and she looked about the gathering with open curiosity in her bright eyes.
As she passed by, he heard her remark to her father in a low-pitched voice, “Oranges, in this season? They must have cost a fortune. And look at those dozens of servants standing about, as if we are children unable to do the least little thing for ourselves.”
“Now, none of that, Abigail!” Tom heard her father reply, his voice as low as hers. “Remember, we are guests here. They have their own ways, and we have ours.”
“Yes, Papa, but you yourself said ....”
“Shh. This is not the time or place.”
It only proved what he had heard of Americans, Tom thought, his blank face masking his musings: they were brash and uncultured, unappreciative of the finer things in life. He felt as insulted by the young woman's criticism as if he himself were Lord Marlowe.
He forgot the young American woman's comment as he watched for Blodgett's signal, like a musician awaiting the rise of the conductor's baton. It came—a slight nod of the head—and he fetched a platter to serve the food.
Throughout the meal Maeve Marlowe chatted brightly to her fiancé, leaning over several times to place a possessive hand on his sleeve. She giggled whenever he made a comment, pale lashes fluttering as if he were the wittiest man in the room. The two Americans, seated next to Lord and Lady Marlowe, were deep in conversation with the guests sitting next to them. Tom noted in the back of his mind that Miss Woodbury and Jonathan Marlowe seemed to be getting along very well.
The rest of his attention was focused on serving the dishes in the correct order. Occasionally he glanced at Campbell, at the station next to his, for guidance. There was no room for errors tonight.
Midway through the meal, as he stepped forward with a bottle of wine to refill Miss Marlowe's glass, he overheard Lord Corbus recount some long-winded story about his adventures in America. Throughout the evening, the visitor had made light jokes about his political differences with his American cousin, Miles Woodbury, but now the conversation began to take on a darker edge when one of the guests brought up the American War of Independence.
“Ah yes, the struggle with the colonies. The truth is, that war was not about taxes, whatever
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