Both Broomes waved cheerfully from their new group of table-mates. For two spinsters enjoying a chance to see the world, they wished to experience as much of the ship as possible. Giles did not care who he and Louisa sat with, so long as they were civilized.
Mrs. Meyer swiveled in her seat to introduce the young man who’d taken the Broomes’ place at the dinner table. “May I present Mr. Perry?” she asked.
Philip Sheridan Perry was a tall, thin, ruddy-looking fellow. He boasted a New England accent as he bowed and shook hands with Lord and Lady Granborough. “I have the honor of being named after General Sheridan.” He put up his fists, grinning. “You know—‘Fightin’ Phil’, famous for the Burning of the Shenandoah Valley.”
“I confess, I know little of American history,” said Giles. The United States Civil War had not been included in his curriculum at Eaton, though the other guests eagerly educated him on the finer points of Sheridan’s Ride.
Louisa took pity on him, steering their conversation toward the present. She sipped prettily from her champagne glass, asking, “What do you do for your living, Mr. Perry?”
The young man downed his drink in one gulp. “How kind you are for asking! I am an electric kettle salesman, and am on my way to Britain, where I’ll surely make my fortune among the tea-drinking masses.”
Monsieur and Madame de Roubernon conferred between themselves, as if they hadn’t understood the man’s words. Perhaps the idea was so novel that it didn’t translate.
Mr. Meyer laughed. “Electric kettles? What will they think of next?”
It came as no surprise to anyone why Philip Sheridan Perry had finessed a seat next to one of the world’s wealthiest department store owners. “No longer shall a woman be chained to her stovetop,” he explained. “She can make tea in any room of the house, even her boudoir!”
Louisa countered, “It’s not only women who make tea…”
“No, indeed, ma’am! The electric kettle can be used by anybody, anywhere there is an outlet. Plug it in at the office for when a meeting runs late. Even a bachelor like myself can have a comforting cup without touching the range.”
While Mr. Perry made his sales pitch, white-jacketed waiters busied themselves about the tables, ladling consommé from silver terrines to fill each diner’s bowl.
Madame de Roubernon spooned her soup, saying, “It would be convenient not to have to ring for a footman or wait for a steward.”
Too many servants made for too many eyes. If this elegant Frenchwoman was anything like his mother’s Parisian friends, Giles imagined she preferred to keep her afternoon entertainments discreet.
“Modern ladies must fend for themselves,” mused Madame,“oui, même dans le boudoir!”
If Mr. Perry understood the implications, he never broke his stride. The fellow marched on with his spiel. “It is well to consider it an investment to save you time and money. One less servant on the payroll. Why pay someone when you can do it yourself? Fill ‘er up, plug ‘er in, and after a few short minutes, boiling water is right at your fingertips.”
The other diners found the idea of electric tea kettles fascinating, but Mr. Perry wondered what the lone Englishman thought.
“I doubt the invention shall find much success in Britain,” said Giles, plainly. “Most English households do not have electricity, and aren’t interested in tangling themselves up with complicated wires.”
Few aristocrats could bear the expense of fitting their townhouses with electric lighting when gas was affordable and readily available. Queen Victoria had only installed electricity in Buckingham Palace over the past decade, and at great inconvenience to everyone at court.
Building electrical stations in the country was a near impossibility. Only someone as rich as Louisa could dare to be so extravagant.
Naturally, she liked the idea. “You must give me your card, Mr. Perry.”
Giles explained, “Her Ladyship is interested in all the modern conveniences.”
He wondered how his Fifth Avenue princess would fare at Granborough, where oil lamps and beeswax candles were still in use. He longed to discover how beautiful his wife would look in the soft glow of candlelight as she presided over his dinner table, or curled up in bed by the crackling warmth of a hearth fire.
There were moments when returning to Granborough had its appeal…
Waiters served the fish course, moving from guest to guest to offer portions of halibut in cardinal sauce.
Louisa took some of the flaky white fish, explaining to Mr. Perry, “My father owns a carpet mill.”
“Then you, my lady, understand the value of a dollar!” Mr. Perry produced his card, handing it to her with a flourish.
The interaction made Giles jealous and grumbly. He felt old-fashioned and outdated, for he couldn’t understand this Yankee craze for everything new. Hob kettles had been in use for hundreds of years and worked perfectly well. His staff—though, admittedly, a skeleton crew these days—made delicious tea. Should he put some poor kitchen maid out of work in the name of advancement?
He swiped the card from Louisa’s gloved hand. “I’ll take that, dear.” To her, he whispered, “What were you going to do with it, stick it down your bodice?”
“You’d better be dyspeptic, my lord, to be as sour as you are. What has gotten into you, tonight?”
