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I was seatedbetween Fiona and Cym for dinner, their husbands on either side of them. The table was adorned with the best china and silver. Candles burned between small, short bouquets of hydrangeas.
Papa, at one end of the long table, and Mama at the other welcomed everyone. “We say prayer in this house, no matter how many are at the table,” Papa said to Mr. Masters. “Would you care to say it for us tonight or shall I?”
“You do it, please. I have a feeling you’re better acquainted with him than I.” The corners of his caterpillar mustache twitched. Did they not pray in New York City?
Papa bowed his head, as did the rest of us. “Dear father in heaven, thank you for this food we are about to enjoy and thank you for bringing our esteemed guests from so far away and for James, who has given our family much joy. Please keep us all well and guide us in the direction of your will. Amen.”
A chorus of amens was followed by one of the maids bringing in the first course, a cold cucumber soup. This was one of Lizzie’s specialties, using the cucumbers from our own garden. I ate mine without my usual enjoyment, wishing the night were over so that I could be in my room with Delphia.
James, who was seated across from me, would not look at me. He seemed to be playing the good fiancé role this evening, I thought, bitterly, as he whispered something in Lena’s ear. She cackled at whatever clever thing he’d said. Much too loudly.Trying too hard, I could almost hear Delphia say.
Mr. Masters had engaged Mama in a conversation about education. From what I picked up, he seemed to think it should be afforded only to the rich and middle class. Mama, too polite to argue with him, simply nodded between spoonfuls of soup. She looked stunning, as she always did, slim and elegant in an off-white gown. Her hair was up tonight, arranged by her maid into a chignon on her long neck, as she’d worn when she was the young bride at this table instead of our matriarch.
On the other side of the table, Delphia had been seated between Mr. Masters and James. She seemed small between the large, wide-shouldered men, and wore an expression of turmoil tinged with mischief. I could only imagine her thoughts. Hopefully there would not be a frog in Lena’s bed tonight. Our older siblings had done that and other naughty things to the various nannies that poor Papa hired for his unruly brood in the years before Mama had come to them. I had captured a few of those times in the pages of my manuscript. They were the stories of my siblings, really. Passed down to me, the family storyteller. If there was no other reason to write them, it would be to at least have them on record for generations to come. Would I have any of my own children? Anyone to pass the traditions of our family on, or would I become the eccentric aunt who remained with her parents? I almost groaned at the thought.
Just then, a racket outside the dining room windows drew all of our attention. I could scarcely believe my eyes. Our mama pig, Daisy, had escaped from her pen and was snorting her way among the flower beds where the purple foxgloves grew tall and pretty.
“Daisy, no,” Delphia cried, jumping to her feet. “She could eat the foxgloves. Someone needs to stop her.”
“What’s all the fuss over foxgloves?” Lena asked no one in particular.
“They’re poison to pigs,” I said.
“Why would she eat them, then?” Lena asked.
“She loves all flowers,” Mama said. “She’s ruined more than one of our beds over the years. That pig is a menace.”
“Aren’t we supposed to eat pigs?” Lena said. “Why is he running around like a dog?”
“Daisy’s a she,” I said, irrationally enraged by her lack of pig knowledge. “And a mama. We don’t eat mama pigs.”
“Good Lord, what a sight,” Mr. Masters said. “She’s enormous. What does she eat besides flowers?”
No one answered him. We were too busy worrying about what to do about Daisy. She hadn’t seemed to notice the foxgloves, sniffing around near the dahlias instead.
“She’s tearing up the flower bed,” Mama said. “Alexander, what should we do?”
Papa was standing by then, looking greatly amused.
“We have to save her.” Delphia looked to Cym, who nodded, as if it were perfectly normal for a flower-loving pig to interrupt the soup course.
Delphia darted toward the door, with Cym following closely behind. They loved Daisy, troublemaker though she be. This was not the first time she’d somehow burrowed her way out of her pen on a summer evening looking for a treat.
Before they were out of the dining room, the new gardener, Jesse, appeared in the window frame, running fast toward Daisy.
“The gardener’s got him,” Papa said to my sisters. “No reason to ruin your dresses.” He pointed toward the window.
Mama exclaimed at the sight of Jesse. “What in the devil?” she asked, her eyes wide.
It was not the attempt to save Daisy that caused Mama’s alarm but rather his lack of attire. Jesse wore no shirt at all this evening and was dressed only in a pair of dungarees with suspenders hanging down his backside. The copious, robust muscles in his shoulders and chest rippled to grand effect.
Just as Daisy was making her way toward a particularly juicy-looking foxglove, Jesse flew through the air, wrestling the unsuspecting pig to the ground. They rolled around like boys in a schoolyard for a moment, before Jesse rose to his feet and reached into the pocket of his pants, pulling out a peach.
“Daisy loves peaches,” I said under my breath. “That should do the trick.”
I was right. Daisy seemed to have forgotten completely about the foxgloves and was now snorting her way toward Jesse, who was backing up slowly.
“Who is that?” Lena asked.
