Chapter Five
Beatrice couldn’t believehow easily and swiftly this was happening, like melting butter on the stove. Or as Mr. Carson had put it, “shinning around.” She thought her parents or Charlotte might come to dinner as well, but her mother had one of her infamous gardening meetings, during which she and the other women would drink pot after pot of scandalous gossip-water in the guise of sherry. And her youngest sister had her painting class with her friend, Viola, and her brother, whom they all suspected Charlotte had an interest in.
Thus, her father accompanied her. As they entered Amity’s new four-story, granite-and-brick townhouse, Armand Foure vowed he would stay only long enough to hug his eldest daughter, shake hands with his relatively new son-in-law, and meet the American.
They shook hands.
“You’ve added a dash of excitement, Mr. Carson, right as the last dash was wearing off,” Beatrice’s father said jovially, referring to the recent ducal marriage.
“I am pleased to have met all of you,” Mr. Carson said. “You are a fine family, and your wife and daughters are the kindest people I’ve met in London.”
“Beatrice? Kind?” her father said jokingly.
She didn’t blush, nor did she bother to protest. It was pointless. Mr. Carson had already witnessed her lack of cordiality in the shop. She vowed she would do better when out in society.
“In what hotel are you residing?” the duke asked, as he signaled for glasses of wine to be distributed among the small gathering.
“The Langham,” Mr. Carson stated.
“An excellent choice,” her father said. “One of our most modern and well-appointed hotels.”
“As well as expensive,” added the duke.
“Is it?” the American asked. “I have nothing to which I can compare it. The hotel was recommended by the hackney driver who brought me from the train station.”
“How much?” her father asked.
“Father!” Amity exclaimed.
“What? Can’t a man ask?” Mr. Foure took a sip of wine, looking surprised that it was in his hand, since he’d intended to remain but a few minutes. “I’ll never stay at the Langham although I wouldn’t mind enjoying a meal there. I’ve heard the food is exquisite.”
“The meals are delicious,” Mr. Carson agreed. “And I don’t mind telling you, if I have figured the money correctly, it costs fourteen shillings and six pence.”
“Zounds!” said her father. “For a bed?”
“No,” Mr. Carson explained. “That is the cost for a suite, breakfast with a hot beverage and cold meat, as well as a lavish dinner including soup and a joint of meat, along with a vegetable. And I have my own bathroom and WC, as you call the lavatory.”
“Still!” Beatrice’s father said, draining his glass in his amazement at the price.
“I have the convenience of a steam laundry. The concierge can obtain tickets to any theater in London and even for railroad passage. There are Persian tapestries everywhere! The concierge said they’re putting in electric lights throughout the hotel next year.”
“They shall be able to afford to do so at those prices,” her father said, shaking his head.
“I would like to treat you and your family to a meal there in the main dining room, thesalle à mangeras they call it,” Mr. Carson insisted. “The place is something to see, I assure you, rows of perfectly symmetrical columns and sparkling chandeliers, beautiful white cloths, and the palms you are so fond of here in England, I’ve noticed. And there’s a coffee room with a grand bowed front of at least seven massive windows.”
“I’ve had the pleasure of the coffee room,” the duke piped in. “They serve an excellent brew.”
