by Mrs. Cummings. She was in a fluster on account of Miss Alleyn, in her capacity as housekeeper, thoughtlessly giving three of the staff the night off. On top of this, the second footman had fallen unaccountably ill (Mrs. Cummings blamed the potency of the ale at the tavern). That left only Connie and a scullery maid to help in the kitchen and the footman to serve. Thus she’d begged for my assistance “just till the dessert is on the table,” and foolishly I’d succumbed. Now, standing here in a scratchy wig, squeezed half to death by scarlet livery and gold tassels, like some ridiculous confectionery box in a shop window, I regretted my acquiescence.
How different was this chilly assembly from the raucous jollities at the Blue Boar or the Fountain. Were it not for Partridge’s inconvenient absence I should have been there—or, even better, I should have been at the playhouse with Alice. I yearned for the throng, the gaudiness, the cacophony of song, the air thick with the smell of roasting meat, boiling puddings, tobacco smoke, and sweat. I yearned, above all, to distance myself from this dismal gathering.
Bradfield’s gawking expression showed me he was taken aback by Montfort’s mood, but he didn’t inquire the reason for it. Perhaps he didn’t dare. Perhaps he already knew what lay behind it. At any rate, not wishing to squander his storytelling talents on an unappreciative recipient, he shifted his attention towards the other end of the table, where he caught Lord Foley’s eye. Foley was clad in a black velvet suit that gleamed with the luster of moleskin, untouched by any imperfection. A froth of milky lace accentuated his skull-like face with its great beak of a nose and dark-socketed eyes. He gave Bradfield a vague half smile, all the encouragement needed for that gentleman to hasten on with his narrative.
“I have it on excellent authority his mistress is always vastly good for two or three days after his Sunday sermon, but by the time Thursday comes all the effect is worn off.”
Catching the joke, Lord Foley bared his wolfish teeth. Given an instant longer he might have responded with some clever witticism, but Montfort unexpectedly interrupted.
“You do not want to leave your mistress with Foley even till Thursday, for I wager he’ll have her himself, itch or no itch. Ain’t that right, Foley?” Montfort had turned an ominous shade of puce, and his breathing was labored, his expression thunderous. Sensing his master’s mood, the lurcher, until then asleep under Montfort’s chair, began to stir.
Foley pointedly avoided Montfort’s gaze. Taking a corner of his damask napkin, he dabbed a droplet of soup from his lower lip. He turned to Montfort’s son, Robert. “You intend to leave for Italy soon, I understand.”
Robert was dissecting a woodcock. Detaching its head and long pointed beak with extraordinary delicacy, he laid it on the edge of his plate like a wreath on a gravestone before responding to the inquiry.
“I hope to depart by the end of the month. I’m filled with as much impatience to be gone as my family are keen to be rid of me. Don’t you agree, Elizabeth?”
This last question he addressed to his young stepmother, who was seated between the bulky forms of his father and himself. Her voice was soft and rather high-pitched. She spoke rapidly, as if afraid she would be told to be quiet. “I am sure you will find much to entertain yourself, Robert. As for your family’s eagerness to be rid of you, I cannot be the judge of that—but I shall be sorry to see you go.”
Montfort glared at his son and his wife. A moment later, wheezing furiously, he heaved himself to his feet, shuffled past me to the windows, and pulled back the curtains. Nothing gave him as much pleasure as the prospect from this room, he declared, and he refused absolutely to have them drawn for the rest of the evening. Catching the nasty set of his mouth, none of the assembled company dared remonstrate
How different was this chilly assembly from the raucous jollities at the Blue Boar or the Fountain. Were it not for Partridge’s inconvenient absence I should have been there—or, even better, I should have been at the playhouse with Alice. I yearned for the throng, the gaudiness, the cacophony of song, the air thick with the smell of roasting meat, boiling puddings, tobacco smoke, and sweat. I yearned, above all, to distance myself from this dismal gathering.
Bradfield’s gawking expression showed me he was taken aback by Montfort’s mood, but he didn’t inquire the reason for it. Perhaps he didn’t dare. Perhaps he already knew what lay behind it. At any rate, not wishing to squander his storytelling talents on an unappreciative recipient, he shifted his attention towards the other end of the table, where he caught Lord Foley’s eye. Foley was clad in a black velvet suit that gleamed with the luster of moleskin, untouched by any imperfection. A froth of milky lace accentuated his skull-like face with its great beak of a nose and dark-socketed eyes. He gave Bradfield a vague half smile, all the encouragement needed for that gentleman to hasten on with his narrative.
“I have it on excellent authority his mistress is always vastly good for two or three days after his Sunday sermon, but by the time Thursday comes all the effect is worn off.”
Catching the joke, Lord Foley bared his wolfish teeth. Given an instant longer he might have responded with some clever witticism, but Montfort unexpectedly interrupted.
“You do not want to leave your mistress with Foley even till Thursday, for I wager he’ll have her himself, itch or no itch. Ain’t that right, Foley?” Montfort had turned an ominous shade of puce, and his breathing was labored, his expression thunderous. Sensing his master’s mood, the lurcher, until then asleep under Montfort’s chair, began to stir.
Foley pointedly avoided Montfort’s gaze. Taking a corner of his damask napkin, he dabbed a droplet of soup from his lower lip. He turned to Montfort’s son, Robert. “You intend to leave for Italy soon, I understand.”
Robert was dissecting a woodcock. Detaching its head and long pointed beak with extraordinary delicacy, he laid it on the edge of his plate like a wreath on a gravestone before responding to the inquiry.
“I hope to depart by the end of the month. I’m filled with as much impatience to be gone as my family are keen to be rid of me. Don’t you agree, Elizabeth?”
This last question he addressed to his young stepmother, who was seated between the bulky forms of his father and himself. Her voice was soft and rather high-pitched. She spoke rapidly, as if afraid she would be told to be quiet. “I am sure you will find much to entertain yourself, Robert. As for your family’s eagerness to be rid of you, I cannot be the judge of that—but I shall be sorry to see you go.”
Montfort glared at his son and his wife. A moment later, wheezing furiously, he heaved himself to his feet, shuffled past me to the windows, and pulled back the curtains. Nothing gave him as much pleasure as the prospect from this room, he declared, and he refused absolutely to have them drawn for the rest of the evening. Catching the nasty set of his mouth, none of the assembled company dared remonstrate
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