teenage son, had clapped eyes on her sweet, innocent form and determined to be the first to enjoy her. According to Constance’s enthusiastic account, this was an easy enough challenge. Elizabeth was little match for Montfort’s guile. She was swiftly persuaded to drink too many glasses of champagne and to accompany him on a moonlight promenade, which led to her brusque deflowering beneath a marble nymph. Some time later Elizabeth’s father had discovered his daughter wandering the gardens in distress. Having established what had taken place, he threatened uproar unless a marriage was hastily effected. Thus within a matter of weeks had the hapless Elizabeth left her comfortable, sheltered childhood and the parents who doted on her, to become the wife of Lord Montfort. Thus ever since, I deduced, had she been bullied and ill-used by her husband.
Connie was less sympathetic than I to her plight. Elizabeth had her consolations, did she not? What were these consolations? I demanded. Connie spelled them out for me: Elizabeth was rich; she was mistress of this grand house; she had friendship tendered to her by Miss Alleyn, who viewed her as the daughter she’d always longed for. And then (here Connie paused theatrically) there were other consolations. “What do you mean,” I cried precisely as intended, “ ‘Then there are other consolations’?” Connie winked knowingly, but more than that she wouldn’t say.
I was rinsing cutlery and glasses in the urn specially fitted for the purpose (Mr. Chippendale does thriving business in such accoutrements for the well-appointed dining room—the most popular being a matching pair, one lead-lined for rinsing, the other fitted for storing cutlery), when the sound of Foley and Bradfield guffawing at the other end of the table distracted me. Foley’s lips glistened with grease, and his cobweb cuffs swirled as he gestured with a drumstick caught between bony thumb and forefinger. He had finished eating, and his plate was piled with white-picked bones. Bradfield listened avidly; suddenly grasping Foley’s witticism he was racked with convulsive laughter. Morsels of half-chewed flesh spurted from his lips, adding to the ancient encrustations on his belly. To Lord Montfort the sight of this messy hilarity was insupportable. His face flooded deeper crimson than his wife’s garb.
“Foley,” he snarled, “you may well jest. You are leaving my house the richer.”
There was a long pause, during which I froze, not wishing to draw Montfort’s fury by an injudicious clattering of spoons. Montfort’s vitriol must have been as unmistakable to Foley as to me, but he ignored it, turning instead to engage his wife in conversation. “My dear Jane, do you catch sight of this picture of the Veduta, is it not quite as ravishing as that of San Daniele I purchased last spring?”
The snub served only to incense Montfort further. “Sir,” he spat, “I would ask you to respect my presence. You may make a fool of me at the gaming table but not at my dining table.”
“I was not intending to make a fool of you in either environ, Henry,” responded Foley suavely. “If your losses are so insupportable to you, I suggest you desist from future play at White’s. Take up cribbage in the saloon instead.”
“I should desist from inviting you to my house.”
“That of course is your prerogative. Provided of course our business is successfully concluded…”
“It soon will be,” said Montfort. Then he fell silent, his chest heaving as he glared malevolently around in a manner which was, if anything, even more alarming than his voluble rage. Stabbing what remained of his partridge with his knife, he ripped a leg from the carcass and bit into it. Rivulets of pink juice coursed down his chin and soaked his cravat. Slowly he wiped himself with the back of his hand, then turned to his attorney, Wallace.
“The documents are in order, I take it.”
“Indeed, Lord Montfort,” replied
Connie was less sympathetic than I to her plight. Elizabeth had her consolations, did she not? What were these consolations? I demanded. Connie spelled them out for me: Elizabeth was rich; she was mistress of this grand house; she had friendship tendered to her by Miss Alleyn, who viewed her as the daughter she’d always longed for. And then (here Connie paused theatrically) there were other consolations. “What do you mean,” I cried precisely as intended, “ ‘Then there are other consolations’?” Connie winked knowingly, but more than that she wouldn’t say.
I was rinsing cutlery and glasses in the urn specially fitted for the purpose (Mr. Chippendale does thriving business in such accoutrements for the well-appointed dining room—the most popular being a matching pair, one lead-lined for rinsing, the other fitted for storing cutlery), when the sound of Foley and Bradfield guffawing at the other end of the table distracted me. Foley’s lips glistened with grease, and his cobweb cuffs swirled as he gestured with a drumstick caught between bony thumb and forefinger. He had finished eating, and his plate was piled with white-picked bones. Bradfield listened avidly; suddenly grasping Foley’s witticism he was racked with convulsive laughter. Morsels of half-chewed flesh spurted from his lips, adding to the ancient encrustations on his belly. To Lord Montfort the sight of this messy hilarity was insupportable. His face flooded deeper crimson than his wife’s garb.
“Foley,” he snarled, “you may well jest. You are leaving my house the richer.”
There was a long pause, during which I froze, not wishing to draw Montfort’s fury by an injudicious clattering of spoons. Montfort’s vitriol must have been as unmistakable to Foley as to me, but he ignored it, turning instead to engage his wife in conversation. “My dear Jane, do you catch sight of this picture of the Veduta, is it not quite as ravishing as that of San Daniele I purchased last spring?”
The snub served only to incense Montfort further. “Sir,” he spat, “I would ask you to respect my presence. You may make a fool of me at the gaming table but not at my dining table.”
“I was not intending to make a fool of you in either environ, Henry,” responded Foley suavely. “If your losses are so insupportable to you, I suggest you desist from future play at White’s. Take up cribbage in the saloon instead.”
“I should desist from inviting you to my house.”
“That of course is your prerogative. Provided of course our business is successfully concluded…”
“It soon will be,” said Montfort. Then he fell silent, his chest heaving as he glared malevolently around in a manner which was, if anything, even more alarming than his voluble rage. Stabbing what remained of his partridge with his knife, he ripped a leg from the carcass and bit into it. Rivulets of pink juice coursed down his chin and soaked his cravat. Slowly he wiped himself with the back of his hand, then turned to his attorney, Wallace.
“The documents are in order, I take it.”
“Indeed, Lord Montfort,” replied
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