Page 33 of The Summer Country
“Oh yes, please. Thank you,” said Emily to the footman, who continued to look straight ahead. Of course he did. Aunt Millicent would never have countenanced any of her servants speaking to the guests. Emily ducked her head to her plate. “What is pepper pot?”
“I suppose you might call it . . . a stew? Do try some, Mr. Fenty,” urged Mrs. Davenant. “It is one of our local delicacies.”
“Delicious,” gasped Adam as tears formed in the corners of his eyes.
“You might want to try it with bread,” murmured Mr. Davenant to Emily, who nodded her thanks and took a large piece to sop the sauce. Laura, Emily noticed, had gingerly taken a bite.
“If you come again,” Mrs. Davenant was saying to Adam, “we’ll give you calipash and calipee.”
“Turtle,” explained Mr. Davenant, leaning sideways to Emily. “Well . . . part of the turtle. The squishy bit beneath the shell.”
“Thank you, George,” said Mrs. Davenant. “Did your grandfather explain nothing to you, Miss Dawson?”
Not about turtles, certainly. “We never had pepper pot. Or—calliope?” She looked inquisitively at Mr. Davenant.
“Calipash,” he provided for her.
“And what did he tell you of Peverills?” Mrs. Davenant was looking at her with that disconcerting directness.
“Nothing at all.” Emily surreptitiously gulped down half her glass of lemonade, trying not to pant too obviously. She would have suspected that the pepper pot had been served by way of trial by fire but for the fact that both Mr. and Mrs. Davenant were eating the dish with obvious relish.
“Did he tell you that Peverills belonged to the Davenants?” persisted Mrs. Davenant.
“Until we lost it,” put in Mr. Davenant.
“You make it sound as though we misplaced it,” retorted Mrs. Davenant. “It was mismanagement, pure and simple. The estate was run into the ground. The Davenants were decorative, I’ll give them that, but they didn’t have the slightest idea how to operate a plantation.”
Mr. Davenant helped himself to more pepper pot from the dish held by a silent servant. “What about Grandfather?”
“What makes you think he was any better? He tried, I’ll give him that. The damage had already been done. He meant well,” she said grudgingly. To her grandson, she added, “You’ll do better. I’ve had the training of you.”
“With rigor,” said Mr. Davenant.
Emily drained her lemonade and set her fork aside. “Might I trouble you for some of that training? I would be grateful for any advice.”
Adam gave a little cough. “You don’t want to bother Mrs. Davenant with all that. I’m sure her agent . . .”
Mrs. Davenant fixed him with a basilisk stare. “I am my own agent. Agent and estate manager and court of last resort. I gave up on hiring help. They were sots, most of them, more interested in the bottle than their work. Of course, there’s George,” she said, dismissing her grandson with a wave of a heavily incised silver fork. “But he’s much to learn yet. You want to know anything about sugar, you ask me.”
“I want to know everything about sugar,” said Emily frankly. “I know about the use of it, but nothing about its cultivation.”
“You’ll have to if you want to keep Peverills,” said Mrs. Davenant.
“You can’t possibly—” Adam began, but Mrs. Davenant went on as though he hadn’t spoken.
“You could hire someone to manage it for you, of course, but there’s no guarantee he won’t rob you blind. In fact, it’s quite likely anyone you hire would. They’ll have your measure in a minute: a woman. English. Absentee.”
“And utterly ignorant,” added Emily.
“Exactly,” said Mrs. Davenant approvingly. “You might as well sign the estate over now.”
“And,” said Emily, “I imagine it would cost money to hire an agent—a good one. And I haven’t any at present. Money, that is.”
Adam winced. “Surely this isn’t a proper subject for—”
“Land poor, are you?” Mrs. Davenant leaned both elbows on the table, her diamond earrings glittering in the light. “That’s nothing of which to be ashamed—although I find it strange in Jonathan Fenty’s granddaughter. I heard your grandfather was a warm man.”
“My grandfather knew I could be trusted to make my own way.”
