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“Show my brother in, Freeman,” she ordered, “and set a place for him.”
“Percival already, Lucinda?” asked my grandfather, his visage darkening as he added with heavy irony. “His timing is impeccable.”
“Surely you cannot object to my brother visiting me,” Aunt Lucinda said levelly enough, but her colour rose in what in a younger woman I would have called a blush.
“Good evening, all,” said a suitably sober voice attached to a suitably sober man. “I was just riding by and thought I would stop. It’s been too long since I saw you, Lucinda.”
Of average height and looks, he was dressed in clothes I though much too formal for riding, clothes that to a discerning eye were more than slightly worn. Lucinda simpered, then made the necessary introductions between us. Mr. Mountjoy, it appeared, in addition to being Aunt Lucinda’s younger brother, was - according to her - a light of local society, a consummate gentleman, and the owner of a stud farm once visited by the Prince Regent himself.
Being the daughter of a popular, well-respected, and extremely wealthy man, I was more than accustomed to being fawned over, especially by hopeful young men, but Mr. Mountjoy excelled at the art. Even though he was seated at the other end of the table he worked at engaging me in conversation, evincing a great curiosity about the Americas only, once I had answered his questions, to dismiss my native land and extoll how far superior England was, even going so far as to tell me how happy I should be to finally be in such a wonderful country.
My grandfather held his tongue, though it was a useless exercise as his darkening face expressed his disapproval of our guest. Great Aunt Zipporah obviously did not like Mr. Mountjoy either. Her babyish face tightened until it seemed that she might burst into a tantrum of infantile tears.
Finally, when Mr. Mountjoy paused to draw breath - his periods of unbroken speech were most awesome in length - she said, “I am hoping that dear Edwin might see fit to pay us a visit. It has been far too long.”
Sir Mordecai muttered something that could have been “Not long enough,” but I couldn’t be sure.
“Surely he was here just a fortnight ago,” Aunt Lucinda said a bit more sharply that she probably intended. “I sincerely doubt he would leave the amusements of London so quickly.”
“Not unless he needs money,” Sir Mordecai said dryly. “Again.”
“It is not dear Edwin’s fault that he is kept on such a short leash.” Great Aunt Zipporah’s voice actually took on an edge. “His allowance is much too small for a man of his standing.”
“If he were a man of standing, he would not need an allowance,” Mr. Mountjoy murmured.
“It is not his fault his father did not leave sufficient funds for poor Edwin’s adequate upkeep.”
The crumpled baby-doll face hardened.
“Perhaps he should earn his own money?” I ventured, knowing full well that it would not be well received. Father had said repeatedly that I always did enjoy provoking a good argument.
Great Aunt Zipporah positively bristled.
“Edwin is a gentleman!” she snapped. “He should not be expected to sink so low. One tradesman disgracing the family is enough, thank you!”
I was astonished at her rudeness. Father had tried to tell me about the rigid caste system of his home country, but in true American fashion I believed him to be exaggerating. Now I believed he had actually softened things a great deal.
Great Aunt Zipporah undoubtedly believed that she had triumphed, for I spoke only when spoken to for the rest of the evening, which dragged on to extreme limits. In reality I was not only preventing myself from saying several things even more unacceptably unwise, but conserving my energy and plotting exactly how long it would be until I could escape to London and from there to home.
When the interminably and thoroughly pedestrian meal was finished, Aunt Lucinda rose and shepherded the ladies into a grand withdrawing room. The ladies asked a great number of questions about life in what they viewed as my savage new country. I could only think of how vexed Father would have been with my outrageous answers.
I had just finished with a vivid tale of an Indian raid - which had actually happened, only a hundred years earlier and far to the north of New York City - when the gentlemen joined us, followed by a tea tray. As she poured and Mr. Mountjoy served the cups around, Aunt Lucinda graciously unbent to allow that in honour of my visit we were being served tea instead of negus or bohea, which was apparently a rare and special treat. I tried to smile and act as if I were being honoured, when in fact the stuff was pure catlap, and far inferior to what we regularly served at home, as, until the end, Father had retained enough of his native habits to prefer tea to coffee.
His serving duties done, Mr. Mountjoy stationed himself as close to my chair as was possible, so close that when I moved my arm my elbow had no choice but to brush against the hem of his coat. I was beginning to become aware of why Aunt Lucinda had been so anxious for me to sit beside her on the couch. There was room for a third person on that couch, and obviously she intended it to be her brother, with me trapped between the two of them. I was grateful that Father had raised me to have a distinct sense of self; there are times that being something of an independent contrarian was most beneficial.
“Do you ride, Clarissa?” asked Mr. Broadbank after a quick glare from Aunt Lucinda.
“Yes, when we are at the country house. I prefer to use the carriage when we are in town.”
Great Aunt Zipporah’s eyes widened.
“You have a country house and a carriage?”
It was almost possible to see her mind working, and it was not a pretty sight.
“A carriage! Fancy that,” said Aunt Lucinda in tones of awe. “You mean there are roads fit for a carriage? I would have thought a wagon would be more useful.”
Obviously none of them had the slightest idea of what America was like, and at that moment I didn’t fancy enlightening them that Charleston possessed a great number of civilised streets, to say nothing of a growing number of very good roads between towns - at least, very good when it was not raining sufficiently to turn them to mud. Neither did I tell them that our carriage was a Kimball, and the best model made by most renowned carriage maker in the country.
