Chapter 3
The chatelaine herself went in to dinner on the arm of Major Blount. White hair over red face. Not much left of right ear. “Carried off by a ball at the siege of Lucknow, don’t you know?” A nondescript family and few connections had pinched off a gallant’s chance for promotion, but the major was not one to grumble. The lady of this house was rather taken with him; he squired her often. Not for his conversation, which was perfunctory: Horses. Foxes. Prices. Foreigners’ perfidy. Damned French. The lady must be gaining from the major his sense of assuredness, his sense of ease in difficult times. Blount in turn was astute enough not to press her beyond social friendship. Whatever he might covet of the lady’s landed life—apart from her quick laughter at his bad jokes—he was careful not to show it.
While the guests assembled, serving staff set two large soup tureens on the sideboard.
Thick Green Pea Soup
None of your continental minestrone on an English winter night.
Guests filed in behind the lady and her major, some forty in all, two by two, like a line of intelligent beasts to the Ark. That was how the hard-wrought serenity of this elegant room with its Christmas wreaths and its table setting must appear to many: as an ark against the assaults of an intrusive world.
Footmen and servants waiting at stations along the walls were treated to the swish of colours as ladies entered with their escorts, eagerly sought the hazard of place-cards in the seating arrangement and found their chairs, abuzz with compliments for the design of flower-heads—matching the hostess’s gown—afloat in low, black Wedgwood flower bowls around which nyads gambled in startling white bisque.
Red Mullet with Italian Sauce
The hostess, standing, tinkled a spoon on her wine glass, winning her guests’ silence while she introduced the Reverend Martin Aspel and asked him to say grace. The reverend gentleman had had his own anxieties anticipating this moment. A graduate of St. Edmund Hall, Oxford, the Reverend Aspel had used his college’s form of words for grace often enough, in Latin. However, the epithet “popery” having been whispered in these rustic parts, he retreated from high moral principle and demoted St. Edmund Hall’s version of grace to demotic English: “Blessed is He the Father, and may he bless this food through Jesus Christ, Our Lord.”
The company murmured “Amen.” Several straight-laced, upright persons were very much relieved.
Veal Sweetbread with Mint Sauce
Green Peas and Potatoes à la mode Française
For a moment the dominant sound was the rustle of fabrics as ladies marshalled their skirts and everyone sat. Thus dinner began. Courses came, were complimented, genteelly devoured, dishes removed and replaced.
A louder laugh than most rang out along the table. Benjamin Monfort was Member of Parliament for a distant borough, although one had the impression that his wife had driven him to it and would keep him nailed to his seat in the House no matter what voters decided. Monfort was short and too soft, with darting eyes, as if always searching out opposition or assent. His lady was a study in steel blue, even to eyes lidded with mascaro, a cosmetic fashion so new that its importers had not yet changed the final vowel to the more feminine ‘a’. Mrs Monfort’s expression spoke volumes as she contrived to promote her husband’s ambition for him while seeming to take little satisfaction from his success.
Roast Capon with Watercress Garnish
Asparagus and Hollandaise Sauce
In striking comparison to the M.P., the Reverend Aspel was tall and gaunt, a caring personality disguised by severe features. A spell with the missions years ago had left him wasted by malaria and, although kindly, he looked wasted still. Mrs. Aspel, in cream-coloured silk, stood out by force of personality. The ideal vicar’s wife, she could organise whatever occasion demanded—and frequently did.
Vanilla Soufflé
Thus the company dined, the true landsmen still a bit uneasy at the glory of it all. The County noblesse supped at ease.
As chance (perhaps) had it, the Maps and the Parsons sat across the table from each other. It was the first opportunity the putative in-laws had had to study their opposite numbers at close range, and in a formal setting, too. The mood was not unfriendly, if, at first, a little stiff.
Strawberry Tartlets
Their offspring formed a couple farther down the board. Amidst gaiety and wine in abundance, Alicia and Gregory were becoming more relaxed.
Small Salmon Tartlets à l’Ecosse
Thus courses came and went, the dinner waxed and waned as voices rose, relaxed by the rising warmth of the room, and by wine.
Cheeses & Dessert
The dinner done, some of the party betook themselves up to their rooms—for it was still the custom at gatherings in great houses for guests to stay over rather than risk the roads at night—and then they all repaired to the grand salon to dance to the strains of a small string orchestra carried out from Bournemouth by the Somerset and Dorset railway.
First came the waltz. In the hands of Bournemouth musicians and Mr. Strauss, the waltz served as sedative, settling stomachs burdened by victuals and wine. The orchestra played a second, and a third. The mood was tranquil, warm and happy, bathed in oil-light.