rested possessively on Anatole's sleeve, and she had been following the conversation with more than her usual interest.
Mr. Woodbury looked at her with a smile. “Directly after the wedding, Miss Marlowe. We sail from Plymouth a week hence.”
Maeve turned her dark-rimmed gaze on Abigail, running her eyes contemptuously over the American's simple blue frock. “And you, Miss Woodbury? Will you be sorry to give up the center of fashion and intellect for the wilds of America?”
“Oh, I do not think Cambridge is so wild,” Abigail said mildly. “I believe the average American lives as comfortably as most Englishmen, if not more so. Why, the shops in Boston carry the same merchandise one can find here!”
The subject turned away from politics, and tensions slowly defused.
But when Maeve turned to her fiancé, she clucked her tongue. “How ungrateful those Americans are, considering we have given them everything they pride themselves on possessing,” she murmured. “I for one say good riddance to the lot of them.”
Anatole looked at her, the corners of his eyes crinkling, but their expression was humorless. “I agree, my sweet. However, after a few more years of brawling with each other I wager they'll come crawling back to us for good governance.” His voice rose again, and Abigail Woodbury fixed him with a hard look before returning to her conversation with Sir Jonathan.
Standing directly behind Anatole and Maeve with a tray of food, Tom had heard the entire exchange but was barely aware of its undercurrents. He had learned a considerable amount of politics and culture from overhearing other dinner conversations, but tonight he cared little about what the Marlowes or their guests were discussing. America held no interest for him. It could have been the moon for all he cared.
He refilled their wine glasses—Miss Marlowe's normally pallid cheeks were already flushed—and then made another long trip downstairs to the kitchens, returning with a large platter of sole.
What happened next was Lord Corbus's fault, really. Illustrating a point with a flourish, the guest of honor threw back his hand with such force that it knocked the heavy platter out of Tom's hands as he was passing by. Fish slithered onto the carpet as if swarming from the net. Anatole swiveled around, heavy black brows flying downward, and Maeve turned in her seat at the same moment.
Frozen, Tom realized he was once again the focus of attention. Even the two Americans broke off their conversations and glanced in his direction.
Dropping to his knees, he mumbled an apology and scooped the fish back onto the platter as quickly as possible, making as dignified a retreat as possible. When he burst into the kitchen, Mrs. Snow looked up from making pastry with a patch of flour on her plump cheek.
“Back already? But you just—”
“Have you another platter of sole?” His words were uncharacteristically short. “Quickly!”
“But ....”
He brushed away the cook's questions and hurried back up the two flights of steps to the dining hall, slowing to a stroll just outside the open doors. There he hesitated, reluctant to enter. Campbell must have noticed the mishap, and of course there would be no keeping it from Blodgett. Tom heartily wished he could have found someone else to finish serving in his place, but there was no one. The entire staff was in service tonight.
Disaster ... disaster ….
He forced himself to enter. Further lingering would only throw off the delicate timing of the seven-course meal and draw more notice.
Campbell was busy decanting a new bottle of wine, and he hoped by some stroke of luck the other footmen had missed the whole thing. Neither Miss Marlowe nor her fiancé looked up as Tom returned to tend to their plates. Maybe by some miracle they had forgotten the incident, he hoped. Or, at least, perhaps they had chosen to overlook it. The thick Persian carpet had muffled the clatter; perhaps the disruption had not been
Mr. Woodbury looked at her with a smile. “Directly after the wedding, Miss Marlowe. We sail from Plymouth a week hence.”
Maeve turned her dark-rimmed gaze on Abigail, running her eyes contemptuously over the American's simple blue frock. “And you, Miss Woodbury? Will you be sorry to give up the center of fashion and intellect for the wilds of America?”
“Oh, I do not think Cambridge is so wild,” Abigail said mildly. “I believe the average American lives as comfortably as most Englishmen, if not more so. Why, the shops in Boston carry the same merchandise one can find here!”
The subject turned away from politics, and tensions slowly defused.
But when Maeve turned to her fiancé, she clucked her tongue. “How ungrateful those Americans are, considering we have given them everything they pride themselves on possessing,” she murmured. “I for one say good riddance to the lot of them.”
Anatole looked at her, the corners of his eyes crinkling, but their expression was humorless. “I agree, my sweet. However, after a few more years of brawling with each other I wager they'll come crawling back to us for good governance.” His voice rose again, and Abigail Woodbury fixed him with a hard look before returning to her conversation with Sir Jonathan.
Standing directly behind Anatole and Maeve with a tray of food, Tom had heard the entire exchange but was barely aware of its undercurrents. He had learned a considerable amount of politics and culture from overhearing other dinner conversations, but tonight he cared little about what the Marlowes or their guests were discussing. America held no interest for him. It could have been the moon for all he cared.
He refilled their wine glasses—Miss Marlowe's normally pallid cheeks were already flushed—and then made another long trip downstairs to the kitchens, returning with a large platter of sole.
What happened next was Lord Corbus's fault, really. Illustrating a point with a flourish, the guest of honor threw back his hand with such force that it knocked the heavy platter out of Tom's hands as he was passing by. Fish slithered onto the carpet as if swarming from the net. Anatole swiveled around, heavy black brows flying downward, and Maeve turned in her seat at the same moment.
Frozen, Tom realized he was once again the focus of attention. Even the two Americans broke off their conversations and glanced in his direction.
Dropping to his knees, he mumbled an apology and scooped the fish back onto the platter as quickly as possible, making as dignified a retreat as possible. When he burst into the kitchen, Mrs. Snow looked up from making pastry with a patch of flour on her plump cheek.
“Back already? But you just—”
“Have you another platter of sole?” His words were uncharacteristically short. “Quickly!”
“But ....”
He brushed away the cook's questions and hurried back up the two flights of steps to the dining hall, slowing to a stroll just outside the open doors. There he hesitated, reluctant to enter. Campbell must have noticed the mishap, and of course there would be no keeping it from Blodgett. Tom heartily wished he could have found someone else to finish serving in his place, but there was no one. The entire staff was in service tonight.
Disaster ... disaster ….
He forced himself to enter. Further lingering would only throw off the delicate timing of the seven-course meal and draw more notice.
Campbell was busy decanting a new bottle of wine, and he hoped by some stroke of luck the other footmen had missed the whole thing. Neither Miss Marlowe nor her fiancé looked up as Tom returned to tend to their plates. Maybe by some miracle they had forgotten the incident, he hoped. Or, at least, perhaps they had chosen to overlook it. The thick Persian carpet had muffled the clatter; perhaps the disruption had not been
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