“Heaven forfend that the evening air should find its way to our delicate lungs!” he said. “One can never be too careful, for we are now into September and autumn is upon us. You wrapped up well on the drive over here, I trust? There will be fur wraps and hot bricks available for you upon departure, and if you take care to drink some beef tea when you reach home, warm but not too hot, you may be tolerably confident of surviving the night.”
She giggled. “Your mama is lovely, and if she worries over your health somewhat, that is easier to bear than some other matters a mother might concern herself with.” Her eyes strayed to her stepmother, presently engaged in conversation with Mrs Atherton and her friend. Lady Esther wore her habitual expression of restrained polite interest, but Bea thought shedetected something more. Was it possible that her stepmother was surprised?
They went in to dinner soon afterwards, and Bea found herself, to her astonishment, seated next to Mr George Atherton. Her stepmother naturally had the place of honour on his right, but Bea sat to his left, and wondered quite what she would find to say to him. Did he know about her betrothal to Bertram? And if so, was it a good thing or a bad thing that he singled her out for this attention? Was he hoping to discover some hitherto unsuspected virtue in her, or was he wishing merely to confirm his previous bad opinion? She was sure his previous opinion had been bad, for even her father, who loved her unreservedly, thought she was bumptious and unrefined.
There was a small delay in serving the food, since Mrs Atherton’s friend, Miss Priscilla Hand, called for grace to be said.
“Of course, dear,” Mrs Atherton said. “Silence, everyone! Carter, keep the soup for a moment. We are about to say grace. Hush, Penelope, dear. Thank you.” Everyone bowed their heads. “Um… bless this food to our use, O Lord, and us to thy service. Amen.”
The refrain rumbled round the table, and the footmen hurried forward with the tureens of soup.
“Oh, no, Jane! That is hardly adequate,” Miss Hand said, her fingers playing agitatedly with the cross at her throat. “Perhaps Mr Atherton could bring the necessary gravitas to the occasion?”
The footmen were waved away again, and once more heads were bowed. Mr George Atherton might have had more gravitas, but he was just as brief as his wife.
“For what we are about to receive, may the Lord make us truly thankful. Amen.”
The chorus of‘Amen’was louder this time, with an air of relief to it, but Carter held the footmen back, watching Miss Hand.
“Oh, dear,” she said, playing with her cross even more violently.
Mr Atherton sighed. “Perhaps, madam, you would care to take the task upon yourself?”
“Oh… far be it from me to put myself forward… but if you insist, of course. Lord, bless this food and grant that we may be thankful for all thy manifold mercies. Bless us with thy grace, and…’
Eventually, some interminable time later, an interval punctuated by someone’s stomach rumbling loudly, followed by muffled giggles, the prayer ended and the soup was permitted to be served. It was barely warm by that time, but no one minded.
Under the cover of the rising level of conversation, Mr Atherton leaned towards Bea and whispered, “She used to be such a mischievous girl, too. Always in some scrape or other. Sadly, when her mother was widowed, she remarried a dean… or an archdeacon at the Minster, I forget which, and both the ladies caught a severe case of piety. There is no cure.”
Bea laughed, and whispered back, “Is it infectious?”
He pulled a horrified face. “Heavens, I hope not! She is here for a sennight, at least.”
After that, he turned his attention to his soup, and Bea did likewise, but she was a little intimidated by him, all the same. All the Athertons intimidated her. No matter how affable they seemed, there was still an air of inherent nobility about them which made her very conscious of her humble beginnings. If her betrothal were real, Mr George Atherton would be her father-in-law, and even though he was a mere gentleman now, in time he would very likely be the Earl of Rennington. When she had been betrothed to Walter, she had taken great care to be on hervery best behaviour in the earl’s company, and although she fully intended to set Bertram free before too long, she nevertheless wanted to look well in his father’s eyes.
For the whole of the first course, therefore, she took care to mind her manners and be as ladylike as possible in all her actions, as well as her conversation. When offered a dish, she took only a delicate spoonful. When asked how she had enjoyed her stay at Landerby Manor, she replied that she had enjoyed it very much and everyone had been prodigious kind to her. When asked her opinion of the Duke and Duchess of Wedhampton, she responded that they had been most gracious and affable.
By the second course, she was beginning to be bored. Mr Atherton was engrossed in conversation with Lady Esther about family matters at Corland Castle, and Bertram, on her other side, was being monopolised by Miss Hand, who was talking about the Archbishop of York and some uninteresting clerical matters. Only Mrs Atherton’s constant refrain of‘avoid the fish bones… take the greatest care with bones… please be cautious, for there are bound to be bones’enlivened the table.
So when Mr George Atherton turned to her with twinkling eyes and said, “How are you getting on with your Latin, Miss Franklyn? Bertram tells me you are an excellent scholar,” she was delighted to have a more interesting topic of discussion.
“He is too kind, and so patient with my silly mistakes. I do my best, but it is not at all easy. One may learn the regular declensions very readily, but there are so many irregular ones to know, and so many words the meanings of which vary subtly from one situation to another. But it is fascinating to me to use the words of people who lived so long ago. Do you not think so, when you read Virgil or Horace?”
He laughed and shook his head. “It is a puzzle to me how I raised a son who is so proficient in the language, for I lost interest in it many years ago, and Greek, too. English and alittle French are adequate to most occasions, as far as I am concerned.”
“You do not even like Horace?”
“Not even Horace can tempt me. It is a favourite with Bertram, I know, and perhaps with you, too. Did you not recite one of the Odes at Landerby?”
“Oh, yes! It was the most amazing fun! It was book three, number nine — do you remember it?”
He shook his head, but with a smile.
“It is so beautiful! I wanted to learn it for my own amusement, but Bertram persuaded me to recite it aloud when the duchess was having an evening of poetry readings. The words are so wonderful — they echo in my head, and leave me feeling… oh, I cannot even describe it. There is something so magical in the Latin poets, do you not agree? The way the words sound when they are spoken aloud.‘Donec gratus eram tibi nec quisquam potior bracchia candidae cervici iuvenis dabat, Persarum vigui rege beatior. Donec non alia magis…’”
Mr Atherton said nothing, listening with his full attention on her, and since she addressed herself solely to him, at first she did not notice the effect her words were having. But gradually it dawned on her that the general conversation around the table had died away. She became aware of her own voice, far more resonant than usual, and the eyes of the company turned towards her. Her voice dropped into uneasy silence.
“No Latin, Bea, remember?” Bertram said, smiling at her.
