“Juliet.” Behind them, in the dining room’s doorway, stood Father. “Are you regaling our guest with tales of Virginia’s founding?”
With an apology, she started toward the scarlet-paneled chamber where a great many enticing aromas mingled.Everyone else was seated, and Father returned to the head of the table, which left two empty places side by side. Alas, Loveday was safely ensconced between Mrs. Ravenal and Frances. Juliet had no other options. She looked at all the dishes spread upon the cloth and went from famished to flummoxed. Another lost opportunity for Loveday.
“A blessed day when ten are gathered round this table,” Father was saying, clearly in the highest of spirits. Raising his wine glass, he looked toward Zipporah. “To new beginnings!”
Flushing, she raised her glass in turn. “Indeed, my love.”
All followed suit, then fell upon the Sabbath feast as if there’d been no breakfast. Juliet passed platters and dishes, explaining the less obvious ones to the man on her left as conversation hummed on all sides of them.
“Succotash,” she said. “Father’s favorite. A medley of okra, tomatoes, corn, and bacon.”
“Okra,” he repeated as if perplexed.
“You have none in Scotland, then. Well, try these sweet potatoes, though I doubt you grow them either. They’re my sister’s choice.”
“What is yours?”
“These yeast rolls.” She passed him Rilla’s specialty, their buttered tops golden.
“Bread I recognize,” he replied wryly, adding it to his plate.
She handed him another steaming dish. “And lastly, the humble potato and turnip.”
“Neeps and tatties. Fine fodder for livestock.”
“I suppose your Scots fare resembles little here. I do wonder what you’d serve me if I were to sit down at your Glasgow table.”
“Haggis.”
“And what, pray tell, is that?”
“You’re liable to cast up accounts if I tell you.”
“Oh?” That odd amusement she’d begun to experience in his presence bubbled to the top again.
“I do enjoy your Virginia hams seasoned with brown sugar. Second to none,” he said, taking plenty of that.
Over the next hour, Father steered them safely around all political talk. Their voices echoed in the large chamber and their laughter seemed deafening. Company was a refreshing change since it was often only Juliet and Loveday of late.
Toward the end of the meal, she tried to catch her sister’s eye. To no avail.
“I’m hoping my sister shows you the dovecote,” she said to Mr. Buchanan. “’Tis said to be the oldest structure here at Royal Vale and is quite charming. It even bears my great-great-grandparents’ entwined initials.”
“Your sister...” He took a drink of claret. “Why not you?”
She paused, fork halfway to her mouth. Mr. Buchanan was nothing if not forthright, though she’d found that to be true of many Scots. “You may be tiring of my company.”
He turned toward her slightly as he set down his glass. “Mayhap you’re tiring of mine.”
Was she?Nay.The realization turned her pink. She felt a rush of heat from her head to her slippered feet. Thankfully, Rilla brought dessert, a French custard, while Mahala poured coffee. The strong, almost burnt scent braced her, and she took a sip without her usual sugar and cream, trying to clear her head.
This didn’t fit into her scheme. She thought matchmaking would be simpler. Loveday was the prettiest, the most engaging. The most desirous of being wed. Yet not once had Loveday looked at Mr. Buchanan or directed a comment toward him during dinner. Obviously, Juliet must change her tactics.
But for now, she herself would show him the dovecote.
19
A plump widow needs no advertisement.
