Page 112 of The Summer Country

“Are you mad?” Robert half rose from his seat, staring at Mrs. Boland with a combination of scorn and rage. “I thought you were buying Beckles sugar!”

“Mr. Davenant made a compelling argument,” said Mrs. Boland firmly. “I’ve looked at the books, and I believe there’s promise in it.”

“Oh, the books,” said Robert. “Is that what they’re calling it now?”

“Robert,” said his wife flatly. “Stop.”

“Do you realize what this means?” Robert seemed to have lost all awareness that there were other people at the table. “We’ve half the crop with nowhere to sell it! All because some jumped-up bogtrotter’s widow fancies my idiot brother.”

Mr. Fenty pushed back his chair with a scrape. “Take that back.”

The other men all half rose, but Charles was there first, clamping a hand on Jonathan’s arm. “He’s drunk.”

“The wine is in and the wit is out!” offered the captain.

Mrs. Poole giggled.

“He’s insulted a worthy lady.”

“Lady, is it?” Robert tried to push back from his chair and almost managed to send it over with himself still in it. “With a complexion like that, you have to wonder just where old Boland picked her up.”

“That’s enough, Robert.” Charles had one hand on Fenty’s shoulder, holding him in check. “Apologize.”

“To whom? Your pet Redleg? Or her?” He made no effort to hide his scorn. “This is what happens when women play at men’s business.”

“Get out.” Charles’s voice was clear as breaking glass, each word sharp-edged. “You are no longer welcome here.”

Robert looked at him incredulously, his blond hair flopping in front of his eyes. “You can’t throw me out of my own home.”

“It’s not your home,” said Charles, and Jenny could see how much it cost him, how hard it was for him to repudiate his own blood. “It’s mine. And I cannot have my guests insulted.”

Robert looked like he might have argued, but Mary Anne rose from her chair, gathering up her gloves and fan. With a put-upon sigh, she reached for her husband. “Come along, Robert. Let’s go soak your head in a trough.”

“Get off me, you harpy.” Robert pulled away from her and went sprawling. He struck out at his hapless manservant, who bent down to help him up. He staggered to his feet. “I don’t need you. I don’t need any of you. I’ll go where I’m wanted.”

There was a horrible silence as he lurched from the room, Derry jogging behind him, grabbing him as he stumbled.

A moment later, they all heard the sound of retching from the veranda.

“It’s the brandy does it,” said the captain virtuously. He held up his glass to be refilled. “I make a practice of never drinking but claret and good Barbados rum punch.”

To Mary Anne, Charles said, “I’m so sorry.”

He was, Jenny knew, apologizing for more than just the evening.

Mary Anne smiled determinedly at him. In a carrying voice, she said, “Is there any more treacle tart? You must have your cook send to mine with the receipt. When ours attempts it, it always comes out looking and tasting like molasses mixed with mud.”

Mrs. Poole, looking for hysterics, looked greatly disappointed. Following Mary Anne’s lead, the conversation became general, although there was still a tense set to Fenty’s shoulders and a troubled look to Charles’s eyes.

When the guests had taken themselves off, earlier than usual, Charles seized the opportunity to speak to Mary Anne.

“I’m so very sorry. For everything. I feel responsible.”

Mary Anne shrugged, turning her back to Jenny so Jenny might wrap her in her shawl. “You know how he gets. We’d counted on the Boland contract.”

“I didn’t think. I ought to have realized . . .” Charles looked at Mary Anne with concern. “Beckles sugar is justly famed. Surely you can find another buyer?”

“Easily,” said Mary Anne, lifting her chin, although Jenny knew that it wasn’t going to be as easy as that.