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Paragraph eight of the ‘Decorous Dining’ chapter then dictated that in order to avoid embarrassing silences during drinks, the hostess should preserve a flowing conversation via a wide range of topics – the latest music from Vienna, the latest turban fashions from France or the latest silk styles from India.
But this assemblage required no such guidance.
They discussed their children or friends and their professions since retirement, nattering over each other and swapping gossip more adroitly then the Almack’s patronesses.
Matilda made her excuses and left the svelte Mrs Medley chatting to a dapper Mr Belcher about Benjamin Brain’s tripe shop and instead attached herself to a group discussing Wifflin’ Willie, who had ventured to Wales for a ‘milling-set-to’, never to return.
It meant nothing to her. Should she steer the conversation to Vienna?
Matilda disattached herself without anyone noticing, pottered to the decanters to check the sherry was replete and then silently lurked in the corner like the cauliflower she’d pronounced herself.
She pondered whether her lacklustre performance as hostess would be sufficient to earn her a bundle of brown governess gowns at all and then cogitated how long it would take to bury Miss Pikesworth.
The book, of course.
“I do adore your golden frock, Miss Griffin. Is it genuine silk?”
She twisted to a lady in lustrous lilac, tall with ringlets the hue of morning sunshine.
“Thank you so much, I believe so…” And all of a sudden, Matilda became horribly aware she could not remember the voluptuous beauty’s name. “Have you come far?”
Although she was certain the surname had begun with a P…or a D.
“Cheshire, actually. A little market town called Altrincham.”
Matilda blinked. “Goodness, ’tis a long way to travel for a dinner.”
Mrs Pewhurst? No. Dalworth?
“It gives us a chance to visit the London swag shops, and Tim’s never missed a Champions’ grub-up.”
“Tim?”
Tim…?
“Mr Dewhurst, my husband.”
Phew. Faux pas averted.
Matilda nodded sagely.“The gentleman in the black jacket?”
“That’s Giles. Mine’s the one in brown.”
Incompetent nitterwit.
“And your husband won a big…mill?”
Mrs Dewhurst’s lips twitched. “Three Commons titles, actually. Wimbledon, Worcester and Epsom. Tim the Turfer, they used to call him. Previously a butcher, but now we have a little farm.” She twirled a glove-clad hand. “I don’t miss the fight days but I do miss the friends we made. Many of us have not seen one another for an age as we all live in various parts of England now, although Nobbler Nick and his sister still live at their old Marylebone address.” She leaned near, tuberose perfume wafting. “No doubt we’ll all be nattering till the early hours.”
Dear heavens.
Although that was unkind as Mrs Dewhurst was truly delightful. They all were. It was herself who was the odd one out – Matilda the Mopsey.
“And Nobbler Nick is…?”
“Oh, Mr Nick Figstone, the buffer in bottle green talking to Giles. And his sister is chatting to Seth.”
A headache loomed from all the names, but through the throng of guests, she surreptitiously surveyed her employer, who loitered by the French doors conversing with a stunning female in plumage of scarlet with eyes that ran over his splendid torso like ants on a nasturtium leaf.
