“Is not Greystone simply enchanting? Such distinguished tapestries! They do so complement the china—which I believe I’ve seen in the window at Wedgewood & Byerley—twelve shillings apiece? Indeed, a very fine party! And I hear we’re to have some sort of surprise recreation in the morning?”
A general pause ensued, for none of her listeners had expected a genuine question.
“Yes,” Cainewood eventually jumped in to answer, “there’s always a surprise outing during the Greystone Christmas party. A tradition begun by my wife when she was mistress here.” He cast a fond look down to the other end of the table, where Lady Cainewood was seated by her brother.
“Last year it was skating on the River Cainewood,” Claire added.
“How enchanting!” Mrs. Chase exclaimed. “What’s it to be this year?”
“A surprise,” Elizabeth said sweetly, prompting a ripple of laughter.
Mrs. Chase was prevented from responding to this bon mot by the arrival of the first course, which was laid out with great ceremony by a troop of synchronized footmen.
Dish after dish materialized, beautifully dressed and artistically arranged, until scarcely any tablecloth could be seen. Jonathan’s mouth watered, and nothing less than the manners that had been drilled into him since birth could have restrained him from serving himself before the ladies.
Claire was already being helped by her cousin Cainewood, which left Jonathan at the service of Mrs. Nathaniel Chase. “Oooooooh,” she moaned, examining each and every platter with slow, maddening thoroughness. “How on earth shall I choose? Everything looks sublime. And yet I’m full to bursting after the gorgeous luncheon, not to mention the delightful spread in my chamber. I never can help myself when it comes to gingerbread!”
“Gingerbread?” Jonathan echoed bemusedly. Surely she couldn’t mean those tasteless biscuits?
“The gingerbread was capital,” Cainewood agreed. “Though I was particularly partial to the winter-berry tart.” He aimed an admiring nod in Claire’s direction.
She smiled modestly. “The recipes are all your sisters’, Griffin. Oh, excepting the Irish whiskey cake—that one came from the Delaney family. Did it turn out well?”
As everyone within earshot exclaimed over the Irish whiskey cake, Jonathan wondered if he was delirious (from hunger?). Had he somehow overlooked a large, reportedly delicious cache of sweets in his room?
Mrs. Nathaniel Chase continued to hem and haw while every other lady and gentleman were served and began to eat. At length she selected a helping of everything within her neighbor’s reach (and he had a long reach).
Finally Jonathan found himself at liberty to attend to his own plate. His first choice would be the rich stewed lamb immediately before him, and he had the ladle in hand when a figure appeared at his side.
“I beg your pardon, your grace,” Mr. Evans murmured with a deep bow. “May I present your meal?”
Jonathan startled and relinquished the ladle as the butler replaced his empty plate with a full one. “I—er—thank you, Mr. Evans,” he said in utter confusion.
Had the butler taken it upon himself to fill a plate for him? That would be very odd!
But no, upon examining the plate in question, Jonathan realized his mistake—for it contained no food at all resembling what was on the table, instead bearing two delicate silver bowls filled with generous portions of thin gruel and soft-boiled eggs, respectively.
Though it seemed a stretch to call the eggs soft-boiled. They appeared so “soft” they might as well be raw. Which was, well…
The word disgusting came to mind.
In horror and bewilderment, he turned to question the gray-haired butler. But Mr. Evans had deftly retreated. The diners around Jonathan were all engrossed in their own food—except Claire, who watched him with an air of benevolence.
“Our kitchen received the instructions sent from yours,” she said in a discreet undertone, which was nonetheless easily heard by everybody at their end of the table. “I hope such fare will ease your complaint.”
Jonathan was speechless. Their interest now piqued, his neighbors all craned for a look at his plate, afterward displaying their various aptitudes for concealing distaste and derision. “Must be bilious,” he heard Lady Caroline whisper to Captain Talbot.
If Jonathan wasn’t bilious before, he certainly was now. His stomach roiled. But what could he do?
As a gentleman and a guest, contradicting his hostess in public would be unforgivably rude. The only man who might attempt it was Noah, but ensconced as he was at the bottom of the table and in animated discussion with his neighbors, he was, unfortunately, oblivious to his friend’s plight.
Jonathan’s state of mind was fast progressing from desperate to feral.
Days of anxiety and suspense had already depleted his reserves, before ravenous hunger began to gnaw away the remainder. Adding to that, the cruel taunts of the luncheon, the alleged chamber-sweets, and the glorious feast in front of him (with its irresistible fragrance of stewed lamb assaulting his nose), juxtaposed beside the offense of gloopy egg and gray sludge—not to mention the mortifications of his vanished trousers and “bilious” stomach, nor the gall of Claire speaking a bare-faced lie with all the magnanimity of St. Brigid gifting jewels to the poor?—
Well, after enduring all that, could any man be faulted for losing his temper?
And Jonathan nearly did. He was a breath away from upending his plate, seizing the tureen of lamb, and digging into it with both hands.
