Page 17 of A Sorceress Comes to Call
A bell sounded in the house, and Hester sighed. “Time to dress for dinner,” she said, rising. “I’ll have another shawl sent up to you, shall I?”
Cordelia blinked at her. “You’ve already given me so much,” she protested.
“Bah. You’re doing me a favor by clearing them out. That way Samuel can give me another one for Christmas and I can pretend to be delighted.” She smiled down at the girl. “Lend me your arm, will you child? The stairs are a bit more than I like right now.”
Cordelia scrambled to help her. She was stronger than she looked, Hester noticed. (She had no actual need of help on the stairs at the moment—the weather was fine and her knees were not giving her more than the usual trouble—but such things were interesting to know.) They parted ways and Hester went to her room, her thoughts as tangled as embroidery threads. And much like those threads, I need to find a way to assemble them into a pattern that makes sense. Whatever that might be.
“Damnation,” Hester whispered to herself. “Damn it all to hell and beyond.” Which was not language fitting for a lady, but this particular lady had a problem far beyond the scope of what she’d originally conceived.
She’d known that she would have to save her brother from Doom’s clutches. That was, if not easy, at least a straightforward enough task. But it was beginning to look as if she was going to have to extract Doom’s own daughter as well, and that was a far more complicated proposition.
Hell and damn. I shouldn’t… but I can’t leave her like that. But what if that’s what brings the whole thing down?
But what choice do I have?
Hester was no hero, but there was nothing in her that would allow her to turn away from a person who had been dropped on her doorstep. Even if that person had brought Doom along with her.
CHAPTER 8
Dinner was an unmitigated disaster.
The Squire sat at the head of the table, with Cordelia and her mother on either side of him. She nearly panicked when she saw the sheer number of forks and spoons. Dear god. It was a sea of flatware, all glittering in the candlelight. There was even a fork at the top of the plate and another by the spoons. And someone would have to wash them all up afterward?
She meant to watch her mother for cues, she truly did, but the first thing that happened was that an enormous centerpiece was brought in and placed, some kind of absurd folly with a whole lobster in a sea of aspic. Her mother laughed and clapped her hands like a girl. “Now that’s something like, isn’t it?” said the Squire proudly. Hester rolled her eyes.
Unfortunately the lobster blocked her view of her mother’s plate completely, and she had no idea what fork to use. Was there a lobster-in-aspic fork? Were they all for the lobster, and you were supposed to stab at the thing’s shell until your cutlery blunted?
A footman set a tiny plate in front of her, with three small bits of bread, topped with some kind of pinkish paste and a small triangle of meat. Cordelia stared at it in numb horror. Which fork? Did you use a fork? At home she would have picked it up with her fingers and stuffed it in her mouth, but clearly you were not provided with this many forks if you weren’t supposed to use them. The etiquette primer was no help at all. It had apparently been written by someone who assumed that you already knew which forks to use, and that the worst sin you might commit was passing your plate with a knife or fork on it, or pouring your tea into a saucer to cool it.
The Squire was already eating. Her mother was saying something about the food being delicious, but her voice seemed to emanate from the lobster.
Hester cleared her throat. Cordelia looked over in panic and the older woman tapped the outmost of her forks, almost absently, then picked it up and speared one of the little hors d’oeuvres.
Relief flooded Cordelia so intensely that for a horrible moment, she thought she might faint, followed by an equally intense rush of gratitude. She picked up the outermost fork, which was apparently the small-bits-of-bread-and-pâté fork, and ate.
Next was soup, which used the broad, flat spoon, then asparagus with a mustard sauce, which used another fork and a knife, then a tiny salad, which used yet another fork, and by now even Cordelia was starting to get full and was beginning to understand why Hester kept leaving so much food on her plate. It seemed terribly wasteful.
She remembered belatedly that she was supposed to be charming the Squire. She snuck a look at him but he was deep in conversation with her mother. Cordelia relaxed slightly. Surely she wasn’t supposed to interrupt? No, of course not. The Ladies’ Book of Etiquette said that interrupting was “very ill-bred,” which, coming from Miss Florence, was a judgment so savage as to consign the victim immediately to the fires of Perdition.
Two footmen brought in an enormous piece of beef and set it down. It looked as if it weighed nearly as much as a large dog. What in the name of heaven were they doing serving that much meat for four people?
An arm materialized next to her head and she squeaked. It was another footman, or perhaps an underbutler or something similar, taking a slice of beef and setting it on her plate, with a drizzle of dark sauce over it. “Thank you,” Cordelia said.
Unfortunately she said it into a gap in the conversation and it rang out much more loudly across the table than she had intended. She shrank in on herself and realized that she had not heard anyone else thank the servants at all.
Her mother’s indrawn breath was so loud in her ears that she expected the crystal to rattle. For a moment, she felt like she was back on the doorstep, having just curtsied to the butler.
The Squire turned to her and smiled, his eyes crinkling. Cordelia swallowed and gripped her napkin in white-knuckled fingers. “How are you liking Chatham House?” he asked.
“I… I…” Cordelia licked dry lips. “It’s very grand, sir,” she said, trying not to squeak. “And the maid you lent me is very kind.” Wait, no, she was talking about servants again, apparently you didn’t do that. She was supposed to ask him about himself. Men liked that. “Ah… have you… err… lived here long?”
The Squire laughed, a great booming laugh that made Cordelia shrink again. “All my life,” he said. “The house has been in my family for five generations, since we came across the sea. Though it was not so grand initially. My grandfather had a passion for building and put two extra wings on.”
“Fortunately our father was less extravagant,” said Lady Hester, her voice dry. “He settled for putting in water closets.” She took a sip of wine.
“Water closets are very useful,” said Cordelia weakly. She had a feeling that her mother would not consider this charming conversation. She darted a guilty glance at the lobster.
“Mind you,” said Hester, “for the amount of walls that had to be knocked out and floors torn up for pipes, I’m not certain that an extra wing would have been less trouble.” She smiled politely over the lobster. “I’m sure you know how it is, Lady Evangeline.”
