“Ben? I thought this a picnic but it’s more like the feeding of the five thousand.”
A snort. “Word got around the ladies and widdy-women that some nob from London was attending.”
Grief.
Surveying the crowded table, Jack located Tamsyn at the far end, seated next to a smug-eyed Lynch and opposite the professor. She glanced up and caught his eye, a soft smile on her lips.
His guts twisted.
“I’ve forgotten my picnic contribution; do you think it matters?” Surely one pot of Fortnum’s goose meat wouldn’t be missed?
“Hard to tell,” the lad replied, parasol listing somewhat. “We’ve got two roast duck, three rabbit pies, a collared calf’s head, one roast fowl, two ribs of lamb, one hog’s pudding, three cucumbers and a salad made by Sally Gundy.”
“A salmagundi, perhaps?”
The lad shrugged. “Dunno. Oh, and a muggety pie from Mrs Greg. Her husband died last year.”
“Is he in the pie?”
“No, he’s in the ground. Then there’s the puddings.” Ben took a breath. “Brandy syllabub, junket, a blancmange in its mould, stewed fruit, two dozen plain biscuits, cold plum pudding and a few jam puffs.”
“Anything to drink?”
The parasol drooped. “Six quart bottles of mead, twelve bottles of claret, two bottles of brandy – polite not to ask its origin round these parts – a hamper of champagne, two bottles of last year’s blackberry wine – be careful with that one, my lord – and some lemonade for the ladies.”
Judging by the giggles, the latter remained untouched.
A snap of fingers interrupted them. “Boy! Over here with the parasol! Lady Bawden has sun on her shoulder.” The shaggy one marched up, moustache pursing. “Good to see you here, Lord Winterbourne.”
“Thank you so much for the invite, Captain Lynch. You have created quite an occasion.”
The captain gazed over the proceedings. “It’s adequate; shame we couldn’t fit the pavilion in. You’re placed alongside Lady Cooch.” And Lynch pointed to the empty seat furthest from Tamsyn.
The be-whiskered blighter.
Lady Cooch fluttered a hand and tipped so far forward her bodice ribbons dangled in the hog’s pudding, but as Lynch departed, Miggens materialised at his shoulder with a glass of something hay-coloured. “Although beneath my principles, I have just bribed Mr Fisher to swap seats. You owe me three guineas fifty and a night off.”
Patting Miggens’s arm, he accepted the proffered glass and rounded the table to take said pawn’s place – two squares nearer his queen.
“Oh, Lord Winterbourne, what a pleasure.” Mrs Tripconey, to his left, fluffed her hair. “Do sample my licky pie?”
“Pardon me?”
“That would be the leek and bacon pie to your right,” came a murmur from opposite, and he glanced to Mr Sewell who held a vague curl to one side of his lip.
“My thanks, old chap. It wouldn’t do to sample the wrong pie.” And he winked, reaching for a slice.
“Delightful, Mrs Tripconey,” he said distractedly whilst narrowing his eyes and contemplating his next move. Sir Henry Bawden lay in his path but a marquess always beat knight.
“So, Lord Winterbourne,” purred Mrs Tripconey, skimming a hand along his arm. “Why haven’t you called upon me?”
The captain proffered a slice of rabbit pie and Tamsyn smiled her pleasure, the inviting sea glinting in the distance.
As they had all trooped down the path, trepidation had bit at her heels.
Would visiting this place cause dread to well as memories assailed her – of that cave beyond the outcrop, of death and pain? Or would tears be shed, recalling the carefree days with Jonathan, roasting squabs down here on an open fire with fingers the only cutlery required.
But none of that had happened.
