by Amanda Scott
“Nothing wrong with knowledge,” he said almost as testily as his brother had spoken earlier. “Wouldn’t have done you a mite of harm, Wyvern, to have attended to your books as a lad.”
“Bosh,” retorted the earl. “Learned more by my travels than I’d ever have learned from books.”
“No doubt,” said Mr. Drake, but his tone was such that no one made the mistake of believing that he was agreeing with his brother.
When the earl turned his head to address a comment to his son, Philippa moved a little away with Mr. Drake, and said quietly, “I was perfectly serious when I suggested appealing to you to set us straight about the matter of the carving, sir.”
His expression softened somewhat. “Don’t doubt that, ma’am, but ’tis a subject that would indeed take long to explain. And don’t,” he added hastily as he noted Miss Pellerin approaching them, “think for a moment that I doubt your ability to comprehend the matter. ’Tis merely that carving was an art, with specific instructions laid down for each sort of bird or beast. Quite fascinating, some of the methods are.”
Having come up to them in time to catch the meaning of his words, Miss Pellerin inquired gently, “Do you by chance have in your possession any of those books of instruction, sir?”
“Indeed,” Mr. Drake replied, his expression gentling even more as his gaze came to rest upon her soft pink face.
“Perhaps you would care to join me in a glass of Madeira, Miss Pellerin, while I tell you about them.” And without so much as another glance at Philippa or Rochford, again beside her, he guided Miss Pellerin to a sofa at some distance from the others, where he kept her engaged in conversation until the butler announced that dinner had been served.
Philippa found herself seated at the long, highly polished table, between the earl and the viscount, across from Miss Pellerin and Mr. Drake. The dinner was a magnificent one, worthy of the occasion, and included several courses and a vast number of removes and side dishes. The first course began with a soup santé removed with fish, which was in turn removed with a roasted turkey and a haunch of venison. The side dishes that accompanied these included semels and poivrade sauce, three sweetbreads, larded and glazed, asparagus and peas, glazed neat’s tongue, a souties of mutton and cucumber, grenadines and endive, and beef collops à la tortue with truffles, as well as numerous other dishes. Chief over all, however, was the boar’s head, that splendid dish of pagan ancestry, which was borne to the table with immense ceremony, upon a magnificent platter of gold, by four liveried, bewigged footmen.
As she stared at the spectacular platter, then looked around at the splendid dining room, Philippa remembered the even greater splendor of the marble entry hall and decided, not without a touch of chagrin, that whatever she might think of Rochford, she must certainly acquit him of desiring her merely for her fortune. With a glance she discovered that he was watching her rather than the procession. Blushing to think he might read her thoughts, she returned her attention to the ceremony.
The boar’s head had been a traditional Christmas dish since the late fourteenth century, and this one, like its ancestors, was decorated with rosemary, bay, and holly, and had an orange thrust between its teeth. No singing or trumpeting accompanied its progress, however, so it was not long before it was set down before the earl, who removed the orange from its mouth and presented it to his butler in lieu of a chief singer. The golden platter was then removed to one of the side tables, where the meat might be cut into narrow slices for serving.
Philippa had enjoyed the ritual, but when the dish was offered to her, she shook her head.
“You don’t fancy boar’s head,” Rochford murmured, shaking his head at the footman in turn.
“I prefer the chicken in celery sauce that I see coming after it,” she told him with a smile, “and if I don’t mistake the matter, there is yet another course to come.”
“And plum pudding,” he told her. “Margaret and Catherine, like my mama before them, believe in doing things properly.”
“Well, if I attempt to eat even a single bite from every one of these delicious dishes, I shall burst a seam before I rise from the table,” she confided.
“In other words, you don’t like boar’s head.”
Philippa grinned at him, and he nodded, satisfied.
The second course was as complete with removes and side dishes as the first, and Philippa made her way through it cautiously, accepting only the narrowest slice of game pie and but a taste of her caramel pastry basket, refusing the chantilly cream altogether. A bite of spinach with croutons, a smattering of broccoli in brown sauce, one small Jerusalem artichoke in white sauce, and the merest slice of pheasant, and she thought herself replete until a footman presented cheesecakes as yet another suggested a mince pie.
“Oh, Rochford, I cannot,” she protested, turning a laughing face toward him. “Send them away, do, for I have not the willpower to do so myself, and I shall surely disgrace myself if I eat another bite.”
The viscount waved the footmen past, chuckling. Then he said with a perfectly straight face, “How disappointed Margaret and Catherine will be that you do not like their dinner.”
Philippa sat straighter, dismayed. “Oh, I would not give offense for the world.” She heard a harsh chuckle to her left and turned quickly to discover that the earl, who had ignored everyone while he attended to his dinner, was looking at her now with very nearly the same charming twinkle in his eyes as she had often seen in his son’s.
“The girls don’t expect anyone to eat everything that is offered, my lady. Indeed, I believe they would stare at anyone who could. You must not allow my detestable son to roast you in such a fashion.”
Philippa smiled at him and turned an accusing grimace on the viscount. “So, sir, you choose to make game of me, do you?”
“Easy game, as it transpired,” he agreed, still smiling. “You rise most eagerly to the bait, ma’am, as always.”
“Well, now I am forewarned and shan’t do so again.”
“As you say,” he replied, bowing slightly. “Ah, here is the pudding.”
The others had noted the arrival of the pudding too, and Lady Luanda’s voice could be heard above the others, announcing that the members of the Drake household had all helped to stir the batter, so as to have good luck through the coming year.
“Even Papa,” she added in her chirping voice. “But we cannot say what is in it, you know, for that must not be revealed to anyone or the wishes we made whilst stirring will not come true.”
Her sister Catherine, a willowy, light-haired young woman, uttered a trill of musical laughter. “Oh, Lucy, you goose, ’tis not the nature of the pudding that must not be revealed, but the nature of the wish.”
“Oh,” said Lucy naively, “but I had always thought, ’twas the recipe. Why, I always tell about my wishes. That must be why they have none of them ever come true.”
General laughter followed her remark, causing her to color up to her eyebrows and look down into her plate, but the arrival of the pudding, crowned with a sprig of scarlet-berried holly and flamed with brandy, took the focus of attention from her small self, and she was soon able to regain her composure and to laugh as heartily as anyone else when the earl was served with the slice containing the thimble, prophesying a single life.
“Dear me,” said that gentleman, “the charm comes after the need.”
“Why, Papa,” exclaimed Catherine, “what an odious thing to say!”
“No, was it, my dear?” he inquired innocently.
Peter Dauntry, discovering the silver coin in his portion, promptly announced that his father must have had a change of heart and meant to increase his allowance in the coming year. “Dashed if I don’t think I ought to go visit the old gentleman if this curst weather holds,” he said generously.
Philippa, breaking into her piece of pudding, noted the gleam of gold and quickly attempted to push the slice back together again, but Rochford, seeing her movement, shook his head and covered her han
d with his.
“No, no, sweet Philippa, you must not hide your fortune from the rest of us. Look here, everyone, Lady Philippa has got the ring.”
“Oh, ma’am, that means you are next to marry, don’t you know?” Jessalyn exclaimed. “I have got a gold charm fashioned like a book, which Mr. Drake says means my studies will prosper.”
“Well, he’s got the wrong end of the stick there,” said Edward with a laugh. “No doubt ’tis a romantic novel, and you will be soundly thrashed and ordered to your bedchamber on a diet of bread and water when Miss Blandamore discovers it in your possession.”
Mr. Drake had opened his mouth to speak before Edward’s interruption, but he graciously gave way to the indignant lady to his right by shutting it again as Miss Pellerin said militantly, “I daresay there is no reason that dearest Jessalyn might not become a very good scholar if she would but put her mind to it. I may say that I have been pleasantly surprised by the progress made by both young ladies these past weeks.”
Mr. Drake hesitated no longer. “Any progress they have made,” he said clearly, “must certainly be due to your excellent instruction, ma’am, for I am persuaded that you turn even the stalest of historical tales into perfectly fascinating drama.”
“Oh, she tells wonderful stories,” Lucy said enthusiastically, as Miss Pellerin turned astonished eyes toward Mr. Drake.
“Here now,” protested Mr. Dauntry, his mouth full of plum pudding, “some of the history I’ve read at Oxford is dashed improper stuff. Not at all the thing for feminine ears, you know.”
“Nonsense, young man,” said Miss Pellerin.
“I am quite certain,” said Lady Kegworth with gentle amusement, “that Miss Pellerin has never acquainted the girls with any but the most improving of historical tales.”
Rochford chuckled and leaned a little toward Philippa to say in an undertone, “I cannot say I ever expected Christmas dinner to be enlivened by an argument over the propriety of educating females, but it has served you well enough, my girl. I had hoped to encourage you to confess that you have come to recognize certain advantages to the married state and soon mean to announce which of your suitors you have decided to accept.”
“I intend to marry none of them, sir,” she retorted, keeping her voice low with difficulty. For some reason quite unknown to her, she experienced a strong desire to snap the viscount’s nose off.
“What, none of them? But you must, ma’am. The pudding never lies, so you must surely choose one amongst the multitude.”
“You are impertinent, sir.”
“No, am I?” His eyes twinkled wickedly, and Philippa found herself one moment wishing she had nerve enough to box his ears in front of them all and the next wishing that when he looked at her in just that way it wouldn’t cause such a stirring in her midsection. She felt warmth creeping into her cheeks and forced herself to look away from him. His chuckle served only to increase her blushes.
Fortunately, everyone else seemed still to be engaged in light argument, although the topic had changed from feminine education to the weather and the possibility of a hunt the following day.
“Why, surely, you will not think of hunting on a Sunday,” protested Lady Kegworth over the other voices. “ ’Twould be most unseemly.”
The younger gentlemen looked at one another in consternation, and it was Lord Reginald who spoke for them all, saying simply, “Forgot tomorrow was Sunday. Daresay the weather will have cleared again by Monday.”
“If it does, will you have your pack out?” Philippa asked the viscount in an attempt to regain her composure.
His grin was not helpful. “I daresay I will, ma’am. Are you remembering my promise of a family hunt?”
She nodded.
“Well, I don’t say there won’t be one, but the weather will have to cooperate, for I know that Catherine and Seldon intend to depart for Sussex a day or so before the rest of us go to Belvoir for the christening, and Margaret don’t like to be conspicuous, as she would be were she the only lady besides yourself to ride with us.”
“There are other ladies in the neighborhood, sir, who would welcome an invitation to join you. I have spoken to several, myself.”
He grunted but did not commit himself either way, and as fortune would have it, he had no need to do so, for although Sunday morning dawned brisk and clear, the ground softening in such a way that all the young gentlemen at Chase Charley fairly chafed to be out and about, by early evening a fog had rolled in, which became so dense by Monday morning that one could not see the terrace stairs from the breakfast-parlor window.
“I must say,” said Edward, turning from the window in displeasure, “ ’tis most unfair. Why, yesterday was perfect for hunting. Whoever laid down such a dashed silly rule, I should like to know.”
Miss Pellerin looked up at him from her place at the table. There was understanding in her expression, but she could not let such sacrilege pass without comment. “Dear boy, surely you would not begrudge the Lord one day of the week?”
Edward shrugged and moved without comment to load his plate at the sideboard. Winkburn, who had been the first of the gentlemen to present himself in the breakfast parlor, exchanged a look with Philippa. “Not himself before breakfast, ma’am,” he said apologetically. “Must beg you will forgive his bad manners.”
She grinned at him, but then turned toward her stepson. “Edward, don’t be surly. Cousin Adeliza spoke to you. You owe her the courtesy of a reply.”
Looking somewhat taken aback by Philippa’s sudden leap into stepmotherhood, Edward glanced at her and then, more sheepishly, at Miss Pellerin. “Expect I owe you an apology, ma’am. Like Winky says, not my best before breakfast.”
“Oh, I understand,” said Miss Pellerin, smiling at him. “ ’Tis most unfortunate that the weather should have taken such a turn just when you must be wishing so heartily for a good day’s hunting.”
“It is a curst misfortune, is what it is,” he agreed tartly.
“You know,” put in Lord Reginald, who had not taken his attention from his breakfast during this exchange, “I shouldn’t be surprised if this doesn’t turn into one of those four-day fogs. You know, the sort that just settles in and don’t dissipate—grows thicker, if anything.”
Groans from his compatriots greeted this morose view of the matter, but as it happened, his lordship was in the right of it. Only his prediction of the number of days was off, for the fog was one that would in later days be noted by historians as one of the longest, densest fogs ever to cover England. It lasted a full eight days, and although by Wednesday there was sufficient visibility in Mr. Assheton-Smith’s estimation to encourage him to lead the Quorn, by the end of the afternoon the gentlemen returned dispirited, damp, and very tired, giving it as their opinion that they might as well all go with Dauntry to visit his father before returning to school.
Word came that same day from Viscount Rochford that he had suggested organizing a family hunt, only to be overruled by both his sisters. Lady Seldon and her husband, he wrote, were still at Wyvern because the weather was thought too unpredictable for travel, but Catherine had no wish for sport unless the sun should present itself, and Margaret agreed with her.
Therefore, when a missive arrived on Thursday morning from the Duchess of Rutland, begging her to put forward her visit to Belvoir by two days, Philippa harried her cousin, her stepdaughter, and the maidservants in such a fashion that by noon she was ready to depart. The journey, by virtue of the fog, was a slow one, but they managed to arrive before dark and were welcomed by the duchess and her mother-in-law with expressions of great relief.
“For I cannot tell you, Philippa,” the Duchess Elizabeth said breathlessly upon greeting her in the pink-and-gilt drawing room, “how dull it has been these four days without any gentlemen about. Rutland took them all with him when he departed for Althorp to meet Prinny and his party. They expected to reach Cottesmore this morning, but whether they did, I do not know, and with this wretched weather, Rutland pos
itively forbade us to attempt to meet them there. Not that I should have done, in any event, for of course I must be here when they arrive on Saturday, but Mama Isabella might very well have done so, only but for Rutland saying she must not.”
“This dreadful fog,” put in the dowager, cocking her head a little to one side to look at Jessalyn as she waved Philippa and Miss Pellerin to nearby seats. “You, girl—I daresay you’ll be wanting to go to young Elizabeth. You can have no wish to be sitting here doing the pretty. Not if I know anything about it.”
Casting a glance at her stepmother and receiving a smile in return, Jessalyn replied with commendable aplomb, “Yes, ma’am, I should like very much to see Beth, if you please.”
The dowager nodded approvingly. “Well, so you shall. Here, Frederick,” she added, turning to the footman who had accompanied them through the corridors, “do you take Miss Raynard-Wakefield upstairs to the schoolroom, where she will find the Lady Elizabeth. And tell Douglas to order tea. Even this room reeks of fog. I must have something hot to drink.”
The footman bowed and held the door for Jessalyn. Once they had gone and the dowager had smoothed her purple Denmark satin skirts, she said, “Poor Prinny, this is all very disrupting for him, I daresay, and he does so like his plans to go smoothly.”
“Have things not gone smoothly, then?” Philippa inquired.
“Oh, dear me, no,” said the duchess quickly. “ ’Tis all most dreadful. I had a letter from Rutland only this morning, you know, and the messenger who brought it also brought us the Times, for you must know that we have had no mail out of London in days, and therefore no news at all, of course, for the newspapers are delivered by the mail coaches just as the mail is, don’t you know.”
“Yes, I had realized that,” said Philippa, smiling at her.
“Oh, I know, my tongue runs on,” said the duchess with a shake of her head.
“It does,” agreed the dowager, reaching for the newspaper which rested at her side on the pink settee. “Here, this is Tuesday’s paper. I shall read you what it says. The great news, of course, and that for which everyone has been waiting these past weeks and more, is that that despicable Bonaparte has agreed to peace again. Not that it will signify in the end, of course,” she muttered, turning pages. “Ah, here it is. Listen to this. ‘The Prince Regent, having condescendingly agreed to stand sponsor to the heir of the Duke of Rutland, left town yesterday for Belvoir Castle, where the ceremony is to be performed with much splendor,’ and so on and so on. Here is the part about the fog. ‘The Prince Regent left Carlton House about seven P.M. yesterday, in two carriages’—a peculiar way of traveling, I should think,” the dowager interjected. “Oh, I see, ‘accompanied in two carriages.’ Well, that is a trifle better, is it not?”
