Eleven
Justin made his way down to the dining room for luncheon, wondering as he went if he would be presiding over an empty table. It had been a disaster of a morning, and that was a bit of an understatement. It would not be at all surprising if even now every last one of his guests was busy packing bags and summoning carriages, intent upon putting as much distance between themselves and him as they could before the day was out.
Everyone turned up for luncheon. Without exception.
It was a somewhat subdued gathering, it was true, with bursts of conversation that were halting and self-conscious at best, overhearty at worst. The soup, a simple beef broth, was lavishly praised as though there had never been a soup to match it for taste and substance.
Then Maria spoke up, and silence fell upon the table just as if someone had hit a gong with a mallet.
“I owe everyone an apology,” she said.
There was a halfhearted murmur of dissent, but it lasted only a moment.
“I have observed, before today,” she said, “that people often remember events differently. If you were to ask ten people to give an account of something they had all witnessed, you would surely get ten different stories, some of them varying only in small details, others quite different from one another. Yet all ten people would believe quite sincerely that the event happened just as they remembered it. My mother had vivid and very fond memories of her first meeting with my father, and he always smiled at her when she told the story in his hearing. He never once contradicted her. Lady Maple remembers that evening differently. I was startled in the drawing room earlier when I heard her tell the story as she recalls it, and I reacted without consideration. It was very ill-mannered of me. No, it was worse than that. It was offensive. I did not intend my words to be heard by anyone except Lady Maple herself, but they were in fact overheard by most if not all of you. I insulted her and I embarrassed everyone else, myself included. Inadequate as an apology is, I do apologize. Especially to you, ma’am.”
She looked directly at Lady Maple, who was seated to Justin’s left at the head of the table. There were two spots of color high on Maria’s cheekbones. Otherwise her face was as pale as parchment.
“Handsomely said, Lady Maria,” Sidney Sharpe observed.
“It was my fault, child,” Lady Maple said, picking up her lorgnette from beside her plate before changing her mind and putting it back. “I ought not to have said what I did without first making sure you were nowhere near being within earshot. And that no one else was, for that matter. And I believe that sometimes I speak more loudly than I intend.”
“It is not a normal day with any family,” Leonard Dickson said in his booming voice as he beamed genially about the table, “if there is not at least one crisis to set everyone on their heads. You and Aunt Bertha must kiss and make up after we have eaten, Maria. This is excellent soup, by the way, Brandon. Your cook is to be commended.”
That had taken great courage on Maria’s part, Justin thought, looking at her appreciatively. Not just a private apology to her great-aunt, but a public one to everyone. She was certainly not the timid little thing he had taken her for when he arrived at Prospect Hall, and he was glad of it.
“That is not all,” Maria said, and the footmen who had been about to remove the soup bowls glided back to stand beside the warming dishes with the butler. “I also heard my mother being accused of causing the... the unfortunateriftbetween my father and my half brother. I spoke out in anger and said things I ought never to have said. I am deeply ashamed and beg everyone’s pardon. I begBrandon’spardon for the public nature of my accusations.”
Not for the accusations themselves, Justin noticed, but for making thempublicly.
“We all speak out in anger sometimes, Maria, and regret it almost before the words are out,” Uncle Rowan Sharpe said in his usual kindly way. “Not all of us, though, have the strength of character to say we are sorry.”
“Thank you, Maria,” Justin said. “I hope the air has now been cleared and we can move on to enjoy the rest of our luncheon. Good though the soup was, there is, I believe, more substantial food to come.” He signaled Phelps with a raising of his eyebrows as several people laughed.
“How can any of us be hungry,” Cousin Ernest said as a footman removed his bowl, “when we ate those excellent Chelsea buns no longer ago than a couple of hours?”
“Speak for yourself, young man,” Uncle Harold Ormsbury said.
“You are always hungry anyway, Ernie,” young Rosie said. “You ought to be the size of a house. There is no justice in this world that you are not.”
“I only have tolookat food,” Mrs.Chandler said, “and my stays grow tighter.”
“Mama!”fifteen-year-old Megan said on a gasp. “You saidstaysaloud. Incompany.”
“What was that you said, Miss Chandler?” Watley asked, cupping one hand about his ear. “I had fallen into a dream for a moment. I do beg your pardon. Did I miss something?” He grinned at young Megan, who blushed and giggled.
“Suffice it to say,” Mrs.Chandler said, “that I have to watch what I eat.”
It seemed, Justin thought as he proceeded to make conversation with Aunt Betty on his right and Lady Maple on his left, that his house party had been saved. Though everyone doubtless now believed, probably rightly, that his father had been trapped into marrying the ambitious Miss Lilian Dickson more than twenty years ago. And that he, Justin, had stolen her jewels several years after that and been banished as a result.
***
Lady Crowther and her sister, Lady Felicity Ormsbury, had grown up at Everleigh Park as daughters of a former earl. They did not wish to traipse through the state apartments but chose rather to spend the afternoon with their husbands in the library. Lady Maple announced that she would rest in her room and join the party for tea later. Everyone else gathered in the entrance hall half an hour after luncheon forthe promised tour. The rain had more or less stopped outside, but the clouds had still not moved off. An indoor option was the perfect choice for the afternoon.
Estelle was looking forward to it. It would perhaps take her mind off other matters, even if the tour guidewasunfortunately the Earl of Brandon. She wanted to put the memory of his marriage proposal and kiss out of her head, and she wanted to forget what Maria had said about his stealing her mother’s jewelry. She wanted just to enjoy herself.
The earl had joined them in the hall, and they were about to move off. Mr.Ernest Sharpe, who had informed Estelle just before luncheon, one hand over his heart, that he had been devastated at being cut out of escorting her to the lake this morning by his own cousin, made sure of her this afternoon by offering his arm as soon as the earl appeared. Bertrand, she could see, was between Maria on one side and Angela Ormsbury on the other. He could be relied upon to see Maria through any residual embarrassment she felt after this morning. He had her arm drawn through his now and was smiling, his head bent toward hers as he said something.
The state apartments were rarely used but were opened to visitors on public days or by private appointment, the earl explained. They extended the full length of the north wing and were all connected to one another—with the result, Estelle soon saw, that anyone sleeping in the state bedchamber could have little expectation of privacy. But then, the grand bed looked more like a throne than a sleeping place. It stood on a platform that required three steps to reach it. Intricately carved spiral posts supported an ornate canopy decorated with gilded cherubs and gold and scarlet velvet curtains.
