Thomas laughed. “Anything.”
Miss Vaughn re-entered the room and their awkward tête-à-tête was at an end.
“I’ll wait for you in the hall,” he said, leaving the room.
Miss Vaughn carried in her arms a beautiful blue gown made by Worth. The beadwork on the bodice was a work of art—resembling flowers and vines. Cordelia couldn’t help but touch it. She untied her robe and let it fall to the floor. She lifted her arms and Miss Vaughn carefully helped her into her underclothing and her corset. Then, at last, the gown, buttoning up the back. Miss Vaughn rearranged her hair and put on her jewels—her favorite pearl necklace and matching earrings.
Cordelia picked up her long cream gloves off the table, opened the door, and pulled the gloves up past her elbows. “Shall we go down to dinner?”
Thomas offered his arm and she placed her hand inside the crook of it. They walked down together, and for the first time, she recognized the smell of his cologne—it was an American scent. A bit of tobacco, with a natural note of cedarwood. For a brief moment, she felt the warm familiarity of home. Had it been a gift? Or had he bought it for her?
They entered another large, dilapidated room. Dowager Lady Farnham and Penelope both wore somber black dresses. Standing beside them were two sober-faced, middle-aged gentlemen that Cordelia instantly recognized as clergy.
“Cordelia,” Thomas said with a ready smile, “may I introduce you to our cousin and rector, Mr. Ryse?”
She held out her gloved hand and the older man bowed over it.
“My lady.”
She stiffened a little. Titles were such silly things, after all. It wasn’t as if she’d done anything to earn it, besides being extremely wealthy.
Mr. Ryse released her hand and pointed to the red-bearded gentleman at his side. “Lady Farnham, may I introduce you to my colleague Mr. Hudson.”
Cordelia held out her hand once again. “A pleasure. And how clever of you, Mr. Ryse, to have a friend visiting so that our numbers at dinner would be even.”
The rector gave her a polite smile.
Mr. Hudson kissed her hand and laughed merrily at her little joke. “Believe me, Lady Farnham, the pleasure is all mine.”
The group did not wait for a pre-meal drink but headed into the adjacent dining room. It was enormous and drafty like the rest of the house, with a long table down the center.
Cordelia felt a little overdressed and overbejeweled as she sat at the end of the table. Thomas sat at the head. They were as far from each other as possible, and she missed his scent. His mother and ward sat across from each other in the middle. Mr. Ryse was seated by her mother-in-law, and Mr. Hudson by Penelope on the opposite side. Hibbert led the two footmen into the room, and they began serving the first course of white soup—it was lukewarm. Only the butler served the wine.
“I am so glad that you have returned, Thomas. America must be a dreadful place,” Dowager Lady Farnham said in a loud voice. “I hear there are no servants there.”
Cordelia choked on her wine.
“Mother, there are servants in America,” Thomas said, his cheeks bright red as if he were embarrassed by his mother’s ignorance. “It’s not uncivilized there.”
She continued, undeterred. “I thought Americans did not like to be servants.”
“Oh, they don’t,” Cordelia agreed with a smile, recovering her countenance.
“Then, you have no one to wait upon you?!”
“At least no Americans,” she assured them with a saucy wink. “All of our working class are English.”
Mr. Hudson let out a loud guffaw and pounded the table with one fist. Cordelia almost giggled at her own wit before she realized that she had offended the rest of the party. Thomas’s face looked strained, Penelope’s countenance had gone three shades paler, and Mr. Ryse’s permanent scowl could have been etched in stone. Her lively sense of humor could not have been worse timed.
“I am glad to hear that the English who live in America know their class and don’t try to rise above their stations,” Dowager Lady Farnham said with an approving smile.
“Unlike some people,” Mr. Ryse said, lifting his glass of wine to drink it.
Cordelia blushed and wondered if the rector was referring to her. Her fortune was from railroads, and not from dusty old ancestors. The English aristocracy seemed to think that working was beneath their dignity. It was no wonder they were all going bankrupt.
“Ah, Cook’s white soup,” Thomas said, attempting to ease the tension. “How I’ve missed it.”
Cordelia wasn’t sure why, because the soup was lukewarm and the cream was separating from the broth. As if it had sat too long, waiting to be served, or the walk from the kitchen was too long.
