Platters and tureens heaped with fresh sliced bread, boiled and herbed potatoes, peas, gravy, and eel pie were passed around, and then passed around again, often nearly colliding on their way totheir destinations amid chuckles and cries of “look out!” and “butter on its way!”
Kirke took a bite of eel pie.
Chewed.
Closed his eyes with wonder.
Opened them again and stared at Mrs. Hardy and Mrs. Durand.
“What manner of witchcraft is this?” he demanded.
Everyone beamed delightedly at him.
“Helga is better than a genie,” Delacorte declared.
“Lord Kirke, if you would be so kind as to pass the peas, which are languishing by your elbow,” Mrs. Pariseau requested.
“Miss Keating, careful with your sleeve, it’s almost in the gravy,” Dot urged. The gravy was en route to her via Lord Bolt’s long arm.
“Oh my, thank you for the warning.” Keating tucked her arm back.
“Butter, if you would, when you’re finished with it, please,” Captain Hardy said, and Angelique, who currently had custody of it, handed it over.
Next to him Mr. Delacorte ate with speed and efficiency and the utter trust that came from knowing he was never going to get a bad bite to eat here in this boardinghouse. He created gravy rivers among his potatoes. Across from him, his pleasant view was of Miss Keating, happily, neatly, and thoroughly demolishing her dinner.
This effect of the dining table was similar to that of the sitting room. It was subtle, but it was as if his spirit had been offered a chair after years and years of standing.
“We’ll convey your compliments to Helga for you, Lord Kirke,” Mrs. Hardy said.
“Thank you, please do,” he said. “Will you please pass the eel pie, Miss Keating?” he asked to get into the spirit of things.
She handed it over to him, beaming.
“Gordon caught a mouse outside and brought it into the house!” He heard Dot marvel. “He ate it and only left behind one toe!”
“Maybe not at the dinner table, Dot,” Delilah replied with great patience.
“Miss Keating, did you enjoy last night’s ball?” Mrs. Pariseau wondered.
“Oh, it was grand. I danced with some pleasant young men. Although one of them laughed at all of his own jokes—which weren’t very funny—and none of mine.”
She flicked a surreptitious, mischievous glance across at Kirke.
He felt a surely outsized gratification at the acknowledgment that she’d agreed with him about her dance partner.
Mrs. Pariseau clucked in sympathy. “Oh, I know the sort! Not all men are like that, fortunately, dear.”
“Why on earth wouldn’t you laugh at all the jokes you possibly could, no matter who made them?” Mr. Delacorte wondered sincerely.
Kirke thought of all the children who were crammed into workhouses and orphanages. And now he understood why The Grand Palace on the Thames wanted to create a familial atmosphere. Mrs. Hardy and Mrs. Durand clearly understood that basic human need to belong, to feel apartof something. Wanted, welcomed, even needed. And they’d gathered around them people who felt like family.
“I understand you’ve just returned from the shipbuilders,” Kirke said to Hardy and Bolt. “Fruitful?”
“Yes, thank you.The Zephyrshould be seaworthy again inside two months,” Hardy told him.
“Do you think the builders could use a few very young apprentices to the trade they’re willing to pay and board?”
Bolt and Hardy exchanged glances. “We will definitely ask, if you’d like. But yes, I imagine we can use our influence to find a few places for them.”
