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6
Ieat dinner alone again.
I’m the only one dining at the extended mahogany table, one single space attractively set with placemats, crystal flutes, and shining silver cutlery.
The manor isn’t empty, though. There are distinct noises from the rooms beyond — Finlay raving and shouting, Rory arguing in a low tone I can tell is his authoritative debating one. It’s an unflappable, pressing sound, a twisted Socratic method, designed to lead the furious, emotional arguer into a well-reasoned trap. It’s the snootyI’m right, you’re wrongthat Rory always uses on me, sending needles down my spine and irritating the fuck out of me when I’m already at the end of my tether.
It doesn’t work on drunk Finlay, either. Rory might look like the better debater, dispelling emotions and being a stoic jackass, but Finlay’s voice rises and rises until I expect the manor to explode in a shower of antiques.
I sip my mushroom soup, distracted.
Armstrong stands a polite distance behind me, waiting for the cue to replace my soup with my chosen main course. It gnaws at me, being served upon. His presence leaves me with a sense of disquiet, that this scenario is wrong and stomach-churning, like watching a seagull gobble down a pigeon.
When it gets too much for me to tolerate, I turn around in my heavy oak chair. “Excuse me…”
“Yes?”
“You don’t… You don’t have to wait on me. I appreciate the sentiment but it’s really not necessary.”
Armstrong raises an eyebrow. “‘Not necessary’? On the contrary, you are our guest here. It is a delight to serve you.” Despite the enthusiasm of his words, he manages to sound thoroughly bland about the prospect.
“No, really. I could visit the kitchen instead and fix something up to eat myself. It’d be no trouble.”
“Interrupt the chefs and insult them to their very faces? No, I’m afraid that won’t do at all.”
I frown, toying with my napkin. No matter how I twist it, everything I say seems to offend Armstrong. “But… isn’t it boring? Don’t you have things you’d rather be doing instead of standing by a wall and watching me eat?”
Armstrong’s eyebrows rise into his hairline. “Forgive me, ma’am, but these questions are irrelevant. There is nothing more I would rather be doing right now than remaining in this room to serve you. You, at least, are fairly civil of tongue and utterly sober.” He glances at my untouched glass of white wine. “Unless the drink is not to your liking?”
“I, uh—”
“I could bring out another bottle for you to peruse? Perhaps the Chablis?”
“No, it’s fine,” I mutter, turning back to my soup.
Fail. An utter fail.
I eat my soup hurriedly, which isn’t hard because it truly is delicious. But all I want is for Armstrong to be out of my hair, which is difficult when he queries if everything is to my liking and if anything can be done to enhance my dining experience, like he’s eager for me to leave a review of his service online. The awkwardness only grows during my tofu stir-fry. As delicious as the satay sauce tastes, and as perfectly crisp as the tofu is, it all dwindles to nothing when the fighting vanishes as suddenly as it started. The only sounds in the dining room become rapidly magnified: the ticking of the mantelpiece clock, my uneven breath, and very faintly, the soft shuffle of Armstrong behind me.
“Where did they go?” I ask, alarmed at the lack of yelling. There’s the very real prospect that they may well have killed each other while I’ve been stuffing my face with tofu.
“If I were the young master, and I were engaging in a lively and robust debate with an old school chum, I would assume downstairs.”
“There’s a downstairs?”
“Of course.”
“What’s downstairs?”
“The fighting pit.”
I swing my head around to look at Armstrong but no trace of humor lines his mouth. “Excuse me?”
“The fighting pit, ma’am. It’s where all the great debates have been solved. I hear the adrenaline really gets the mind pumping.”
No. No, this has gone far enough.
I scrape my chair back and, with sudden compulsion, down the contents of my wineglass in one long, steady gulp. I have a feeling I’m going to need it.
