Constance looked concerned, and Francis hastened to reassure her. “They’re like that. Always have been. Pippa’s been with us since 1914, and she and Crispin got off on the wrong foot almost immediately.”
“Apparently I poached his best friend,” I said, with a glance at Christopher, “something I wasn’t even aware of doing until last week.”
Francis nodded thoughtfully. “I suppose there’s something to that.”
“If I had realized it sooner, there might have been something I could have done about it. Made sure I included him more, perhaps. But by now I’m afraid it’s too late.”
“Definitely,” Francis said. “I don’t think friendship—”
He stopped with a wince, as if someone had kicked him in the ankle.
“What?” I looked down. If he’d been kicked, it was not immediately apparent. No one’s foot was hanging about temptingly close to Francis’s ankle.
He cleared his throat. “I was going to say, I don’t think his friendship with Christopher is what’s motivating him anymore. I’m sure he’s over that by now.”
“Oh, clearly. They get along simply fine, anyway. But he still doesn’t like me.”
I sent a disgruntled look across the room, to where Crispin was still standing alone, hand on the back of his chair, still watching the byplay over by the door, between his father, his uncle, Lady Peckham, Mr. Peckham, the lovely Johanna, and now Aunt Roz as well.
“He looks lonely,” Constance said, and I glanced at her and back at Crispin.
To me he looked sulky, like he had been excluded from the group of popular children and it bothered him, but perhaps that was the same thing she was seeing, and she just interpreted it differently. He was standing alone, anyway, while all the rest of us were bunched into groups. That alone might have been enough to put the idea into her head.
“We’ll go and find our seats,” Francis told her, with the air of one trying to remedy the situation, “and that way he won’t be standing alone anymore.”
Constance nodded, and he offered his arm gallantly, for the few steps from where we were standing over to the table. Constance blushed when she rested her hand on it. I wanted to roll my eyes, but I refrained.
We were eleven for dinner.An uneven number, which made the seating arrangements a bit peculiar. No doubt Tidwell had been tearing his hair out quietly while getting everything ready, and it wasn’t made any easier by the fact that I’m fairly certain Mr. Peckham didn’t sit where he was supposed to, between Aunt Roz and his sister to the left of Uncle Harold, when it came time to be seated. Instead, he pounced on the seat between his mother and Johanna on Uncle Harold’s right. That left Uncle Herbert to sit next to his wife, which is never supposed to happen. But of course one couldn’t tell the honored male guest that he’d made a mistake, whether on purpose or not, so Peckham stayed where he was, and Uncle Herbert obligingly sat between Aunt Roz and Constance on the left side of the table.
On the other side of Constance was Francis, which was nice for them both, and perfectly appropriate, except Constance ought really to be on the other side of the table between what should have been Uncle Herbert and Crispin, and it was Johanna who should have been on the off-side with the non-titled Astleys. Constance was Lady Peckham’s real daughter, and as such more prominent than Johanna; she should have been the one seated next to the son of the house.
Of course Constance had absolutely no desire to converse with Crispin, who surely felt the same way about her, so they were both fine with the snub, and so, naturally, was Francis. But it was all very irregular.
I should have been sitting between Francis and Christopher, I suppose. Or at least I would have sat there, if I’d truly been their sister.
Or perhaps not. Perhaps I should have been sitting between Francis and Christopher if I werenottheir sister. Either way, and for whatever reason, Tidwell had decided to put me on the other side of the table next to Crispin. Perhaps it was so that we’d at least match from side to side. With eleven at table, and Uncle Harold at the head, that left five chairs on either side. Which I suppose made more sense to Tidwell than six on one side and four on the other, even if Christopher and Francis ended up sitting next to each other.
Crispin realized it at the same time I did. He curled his lip. “It appears you’re over here next to me, Darling.”
I rolled my eyes. “Should make for a quiet meal, then.”
Francis smothered a laugh. “How can you possibly say that, Pipsqueak? The two of you bicker relentlessly.”
“I’m sure St George will be busy amusing the dining companion on his other side,” I said, as I prepared to make my way around the table.
His eyes narrowed. “Are you suggesting I haven’t been taught the proper etiquette, Darling? You’re to my right, so I’ll be conversing with you during the first course.”
“And then leave me to myself for the rest of the meal, I suppose.”
He didn’t say anything to that, or perhaps I was just too far away to hear his response at that point. Perhaps it was muttered under his breath and didn’t carry far. He did pull out the chair for me when I arrived next to him, however, and seated me properly before sitting down himself. I shook the napkin out and draped it over my lap while I waited for Tidwell to bring the soup.
“So tell me how you’ve been, St George.”
“Good God,” Crispin said, and looked like he was thinking about putting his head down on the table, “you’re going to make me do it, aren’t you?”
I held back a smirk. “Do what?”
“Converse politely with you.”
