Читать книгу Winter Is Past - Ruth Morren Axtell - Страница 9

After their last meeting, Althea hardly expected to see Simon again in the evenings for an early supper. In those days of upheaval around the country, parliamentary sessions often went on until midnight. She knew from Tertius, who was a member of the House of Lords, that members would leave the chambers to take their supper at a local restaurant or tavern, then return while speeches were still going on.

So she was surprised one evening when the footman came up and began setting up the card table in Rebecca’s room.

“Your father says he shall be up presently to dine with you, miss.”

Althea rose from the bed. “Why don’t you set the table up in the sitting room?” she suggested to Harry.

“Oh, yes!” Rebecca clapped her hands. “I’m tired of being in this old bedroom.”

“Very well, miss.”

Simon entered Rebecca’s room a short while later. “Good evening, ladies.”

“Oh, Abba, you look so handsome!”

Althea looked at her employer, realizing the little girl spoke the truth. Although he was only of medium height and slim build, he presented a dashing figure in evening clothes. For once, every curl on his head was in place; his cravat was starched and brilliantly white. The dark jacket and knee breeches were impeccably cut. His spectacles only added to his elegant appearance. In one hand he balanced a parcel.

“Where are you going, Abba?”

“To the opera, after I’ve supped with my darling.” He approached Rebecca, who sat in the armchair awaiting her papa’s visit. He held out the parcel with a flourish. “For you, specially ordered from Gunter’s…if you eat all your dinner.”

“Ohh! Let me see.” She quickly undid the string, and sucked in her breath at the sight of the luscious strawberry tart inside. “My favorite! May I have it now?”

He chuckled, taking the tart away from her. “After dinner.”

He looked around for the table, and Althea quickly explained, “We decided to set up the table in the sitting room. So it would seem more like a real dining room,” she added.

“Very good. Here, you take charge of dessert, while I bring Rebecca.”

“I can walk. I’m feeling much stronger.”

Althea watched Simon’s face as he observed his daughter stand and walk toward him, a smile lighting her whole face. He held out an arm for her and escorted her to her seat at the table next door.

“Is this what it’s like at a real dinner party, where the gentlemen escort the ladies into the dining room?” Rebecca asked as he pulled out her chair. She looked back at Althea, who stood in the doorway. “What about Miss Althea? Who is going to escort her?”

Simon made his way to the door. “I can do the job of two gentlemen this evening,” he answered, offering Althea his arm. She laid her hand gingerly on it, and let him lead her to her place. After he held the chair out for her, he took his own seat.

“Speaking of dinner parties, I am going to give one of my own.”

Rebecca’s eyes widened. “A real dinner party? Right here in our own house? Oh, when? May I come?”

Simon smiled at his daughter, not replying to any of her questions right away, seeming to prefer to let her anticipation build. Althea was always amazed at the transformation in her employer when he smiled at his daughter. Although he was civil to Althea, the underlying tone of mockery never quite disappeared. But with Rebecca, he was charming, patient and kind. Althea caught herself contrasting his manner to her own father’s, whose conduct had been characterized by a sort of offhand kindness, as if he had been afraid of demonstrating too much interest in his only daughter. Althea brought herself up short at the direction of her thoughts and quickly dismissed the mental comparisons.

The footman brought up their food, and they sat quietly as he served. Althea caught the slight grimace Simon made when he looked at his plate. After the footman exited, she asked, “What is it?”

He shrugged. “Nothing. Cook should know by now I’d prefer not to be served pork,” he added in an undertone.

“You keep the dietary laws,” she commented in surprise, having found very few signs of Jewry in his household.

“Apparently not,” he answered dryly, taking up his fork, awaiting Althea to say the blessing, accustomed to it by now. “Old habits die hard. When you’ve had it instilled in you since birth that certain foods are unclean, it’s hard to overcome such prejudices, no matter what the rational mind says.”

She nodded in understanding, remembering how difficult it had been for her to break away from the rituals of the Church of England.

Rebecca knew by now that she would get no more information from her father until she had taken a few bites of food. As soon as she could, she swallowed down a mouthful and asked, “Are you going to Covent Garden tonight?”

“Yes, I have been invited to someone’s box,” he added with drama. “We are going to see The Marriage of Figaro. The Prince Regent will be present.”

Rebecca drew in her breath. “I wish I could be there. Is he as fat as his portraits? I don’t think princes should be fat, do you, Miss Althea?”

“I think princes have a lot of food to eat, and find it hard to refuse it all,” she replied with a look at Rebecca’s plate.

“Abba, whose box are you going to sit in?”

“That of Baron and Lady Stanton-Lewis.”

The names sounded familiar to Althea, echoes from a world she had briefly glimpsed though never felt a part of.

Rebecca repeated them. “They sound very grand. Do they live in a palace?”

“I daresay they have one or two in their possession.”

Rebecca suddenly remembered something more important. “Abba, you said you were giving a dinner party. When?”

“Next week or so. I don’t know precisely.” He turned to Althea. “How long does one need to prepare for these things?”

Althea put down her fork, surprised at the question. She dug back in her memory to the days when she still lived at home. Simon’s dark gaze was fixed on her, awaiting an answer. “I suppose it depends mainly on the number of guests invited.”

He shrugged. “Oh, I don’t know, perhaps twelve…sixteen.”

She pursed her lips. “A week to a fortnight should suffice under normal circumstances.”

“And what precisely are ‘normal circumstances’?”

Again she hedged. “A normally running household—” How could she say a normally running household had a mistress? “You haven’t entertained in some time?” she asked instead.

“No, not since Hannah—Rebecca’s mother—died.”

“Of course not. What I mean is, in order to prepare for a dinner party, a house usually undergoes a thorough housecleaning. A menu must be drawn up as well as a guest list, which requires a proper seating arrangement. Foods and wine must be ordered, flowers—”

Simon held up a hand. “Enough, Miss Breton. If you meant to scare me, you have succeeded perfectly. You make hosting a dinner party sound more complicated than passing a law through Commons.” He drummed his fingers on the tablecloth, then just as suddenly stopped and focused his attention on her again. “I know what I shall do—I shall put you in charge.”

Althea’s fork dropped with a clatter this time. “I beg your pardon?”

He continued as if he hadn’t heard her. “You can consult with Mrs. Coates, and together the two of you can oversee all the arrangements. You’ve had the experience growing up on a large estate. Mrs. Coates will be there to carry out your orders. There are enough servants, I trust, to do whatever housecleaning must be done in the interim. I shall fix the date for a fortnight from today, how is that? That should give you ample time to hire more servants if that is what is needed.”

Althea could only stare at her employer. How had she got into this situation? A moment ago she had been eating a dry pork chop, and now she was expected to sit down with the housekeeper and plan a full-scale dinner party? She had not been a part of the fashionable world in eight years; she no longer knew who was who. And to work with Mrs. Coates—give her orders? She pictured the iron-faced housekeeper, or dour Giles, the butler, for that matter, taking her suggestions, much less “carrying out her orders.” It was preposterous—no, downright impossible.

“Mr. Aguilar, I really couldn’t possibly—”

“Oh, Miss Althea, say yes,” begged Rebecca. “It will be so much fun.”

“If you need someone to help you with Rebecca, we can have one of the maidservants help out for a few days.”

“Say yes, Miss Althea, please!”

Meeting Simon’s eye, Althea noted the ever-present trace of mockery, but this time it was laced with something else. Was it a challenge?

Sending a question and plea heavenward, Althea turned helpless eyes to her two dinner companions and swallowed. “Very well,” she said barely above a whisper, asking the Lord for a miracle in the coming fortnight.

The matter settled to their satisfaction, Rebecca and Simon turned to other topics. “Miss Althea has promised to bring me downstairs to the yellow salon tomorrow.”

Mr. Aguilar looked at Althea, one black eyebrow raised. “Indeed? What do the two of you have planned?”

“Miss Althea has promised to play the pianoforte for me. Then we shall look out at the garden. She has spotted a few snowdrops peeking out—isn’t that right, Miss Althea?”

As Rebecca chattered away to her father, Althea was too distracted to remind her to eat her food. Her own throat had tightened so that not even a swallow of water would go down.

A dinner party in Mayfair in a fortnight…the event had all the allure of a cholera epidemic in the East End.

Althea’s faint hope that Simon had forgotten his impulsive request of the previous evening proved in vain. The next afternoon she was summoned to the library.

Althea had not been in that room since the day she was interviewed there. Now, once again she stood before his desk, this time with a silent Mrs. Coates standing beside her.

“Here is a list of the guests I wish to be invited. Mrs. Coates, you will consult with Miss Breton and defer to her on all matters pertaining to this dinner party. Is that understood?”

“Yes, sir,” answered the stout, gray-haired housekeeper, her hands folded in front of her.

“Miss Breton has mentioned something about a thorough housecleaning. Isn’t that right?” He turned to Althea.

Althea cleared her throat, uncomfortable with the notion that she was the instigator of a major household upheaval. “That is correct, sir—at least of all the rooms that will entertain guests that evening.”

“You will see to that immediately, then, Mrs. Coates?”

The housekeeper gave a short sniff, accompanied by a nod. “Very well, sir.”

“That will be all. Keep me informed as things progress.”

Feeling dismissed, Althea followed Mrs. Coates out of the room. In the hallway, she turned to the housekeeper. “Would you like to go over the guest list now? I have a few moments before I have to be with Rebecca.”

Mrs. Coates, who had taken immediate possession of the scrawled sheet of paper, gave another sniff. “I can perfectly well see to it.” She turned and walked off toward her sitting room, muttering “…Methodite do-gooder….”

So, that was the cause of the servants’ unfriendliness, Althea thought. She stood for a few seconds before ascending the stairs to Rebecca’s room.

“May we go down now?” Rebecca sat in her chair, just the way Althea had left her when she’d been summoned into the library.

“Yes, we shall go down forthwith. Do you feel up to walking if you take my arm?”

“Oh, yes!” Rebecca stood promptly.

Althea offered her arm and the two walked toward the door. The girl managed the stairs slowly, but once in the yellow salon, she was chatting away happily. Althea pointed out the signs of spring in the otherwise drab garden.

“See there, those little green shoots pointing through the dirt?”

“Yes, yes, I see them. What are they going to be?”

“Crocus. There! There are some coming through that patch of grass where the snow has melted. Now, look over there. Do you see the white flowers?”

Rebecca pressed her face to the glass doors. “Yes. Ohh, what are those?”

“Snowdrops. The very first sign of spring.”

“They are so pretty. So tiny against the black dirt.”

Althea straightened. “Are you ready for some music now?”

“Yes.”

“Then, let us get you comfortably settled and tucked in.” Althea led her to a brocaded armchair and turned it so the girl could either watch her at the pianoforte or continue gazing out the window.

On her way to the instrument, Althea paused at the fireplace. Upon the mantel stood a brass candelabra. She ran her fingers over it curiously. “How unusual.” She counted the holders. “Nine,” she commented, turning to Rebecca.

“That’s for Hanukkah,” the girl said promptly.

“Hanukkah? What’s that?”

“A holiday in December. Each night for eight nights we light a new candle and wait until it burns down completely.” After a moment, she added, “We don’t celebrate Christmas.”

“I see. What is Hanukkah in celebration of?”

“It’s about the Jewish people winning a battle. Papa knows the story better. We didn’t light them this December. I was ill.”

Althea nodded, then walked over to the pianoforte. She sat down, wondering what to play. She played a few scales to get her fingers warmed up. The sheet music in front of her was a hymn of worship written by Charles Wesley. She played the first few bars, then continued, enjoying the uplifting sounds. The second time she played it through she began singing the words. She finished that one and began to play and sing another she had been practicing: “‘Come, my soul, thou must be waking/Now is breaking/O’er the earth another day: Come to Him who made this splendor…’”

She turned toward Rebecca with a smile. “Would you like to hear any more?”

“Oh, yes, please. Those are such cheerful songs.”

Althea played a few more hymns, then glanced at the girl. Her eyes were closed and her dark head leaned against the back of the chair. Althea rose from the instrument.

She stood gazing down at Rebecca. The child looked fragile and wan against the bright, brocaded pattern of the upholstery. Her burgundy hair ribbon slipped across a pale cheek like a rivulet of blood. Her thin hands lay over the blanket, the veins blue bumps upon the snowy skin.

“I’m not asleep, Miss Althea.” Her lips curved in a smile and she opened her eyes. “I was just listening to the music.” After a pause, she continued, “It was all about God, wasn’t it?”

“Yes, it was.”

Rebecca looked toward the garden. “Do you believe in God?”

“Yes, dear.”

The little girl gave Althea a straightforward look. “Abba doesn’t.”

“How do you know?”

“I’ve heard him say God is an outdated notion and no rational mind can accept Bible stories as anything but myths.”

Althea considered the parroted words, shocked despite herself. “Do you believe in God, Rebecca?”

Rebecca tilted her head back against the chair. “I don’t know.”

Hiding her concern, Althea eased herself onto the arm of the chair and touched the top of Rebecca’s head. “Why is that?”

Rebecca turned her eyes up to her. “I’ve never seen Him. I’ve never heard Him. Who is to say He is really there?”

Althea nodded. “You are absolutely right. If you have never felt His presence, you cannot say for certain He is.”

Rebecca studied her. “You have felt His presence, haven’t you?”

“Yes, dear,” she answered with a smile, her hand stroking Rebecca’s hair.

“What does that mean, ‘feel His presence’?”

Althea pursed her lips, considering how best to reply. “I’ll show you.” Gently, she placed both her hands against the sides of Rebecca’s head and turned it away from her, toward the garden. Then she removed her hands completely from Rebecca. “You can’t see me, can you?”

Rebecca shook her head.

“You can’t feel me touching you anywhere, can you?”

Again she shook her head.

“Now I shall stop speaking and you won’t be able to hear me. Let’s do that, shall we?”

Rebecca nodded her head.

Althea waited silently a little while, not moving. As the silence stretched out, she forgot Mrs. Coates’s earlier scorn, the impossible task Simon had assigned her, and the myriad distractions that had clouded her real purpose in this household. As God’s peace descended upon her, she gazed out the windows at the black outline of espaliered trees against the brick wall enclosing the garden. The ground was a patchwork of snow and brown grass between the gravel paths.

“Miss Althea?”

“How do you know I’m still here?”

Rebecca turned toward her a face radiant with discovery. “I can feel your presence, can’t I?”

Althea smiled at her.

“Let’s do it again!” Rebecca cried happily, turning her gaze back toward the garden.

“Very well. But this time, don’t turn around until I tell you to.”

Rebecca nodded happily.

They played the game several times, at Rebecca’s insistence. The final time Althea quietly slipped outside the room and stood just beyond the doorway. After a while, she heard Rebecca’s “Miss Althea? Miss Althea? Are you there? Where are you?”

Althea immediately stepped over the threshold. “Here I am. What did you feel that time?” she asked as she walked back to Rebecca’s chair.

“I felt alone.” The child’s deep-set eyes, so much like her father’s, stared up at her in wonder. “I started wondering whether you were still there. The room felt empty. I waited a little longer, but then I couldn’t help calling out.”

Althea knelt in front of her, taking both her hands in her own. “Sometimes we can’t feel the Lord’s presence, just as you experienced now. But once you have felt His presence, you’ll know even then that He’s still with you. Just as I was right nearby, just outside the door, God is always with you, even when you can’t feel His presence. He promises us, ‘I shall never leave you nor forsake you.’”

“How can I come to feel His presence the way I did yours?”

Althea rubbed the back of the girl’s hands with her thumbs. “You invite Him into your heart. And you believe in your heart that He will come in.”

“Can I do it right now?”

Althea smiled. “Right now.”

The little girl bowed her head and said a simple prayer beginning with “Dear God.” Althea was unsure whether to tell her about Jesus, not knowing how the girl’s father would feel about her evangelizing his daughter. Althea remained silent for the moment, knowing the Lord would guide her in that direction when the time was right.

For the present, she knew God heard the girl’s prayer and would answer it.

A few days later Althea entered the house, the heavy front door shutting behind her with a bang on a gust of wind. She had had to bend her face downward during her walk, but the air had invigorated her. Surely if March were coming in like a lion, there was a good possibility it would go out like a lamb, she consoled herself as she wiped her boots against the mat in the quiet hall. She looked up startled at the sound of a throat clearing.

The housekeeper stood with her hands folded in front of her. She looked like a plump, curved urn, round on top and bottom, cinched in at the waist by her apron ties. Tight curls framed a face prematurely wrinkled, as if a sculpture’s knife had slipped, leaving deep lines along her cheeks.

“Oh, pardon me, Mrs. Coates. I didn’t see you standing there. May I help you with anything?”

“Yes, miss, if you please.”

Althea wondered at the subdued tone. “Let me just hang up my damp things and I shall be right with you.”

She joined the housekeeper in her sitting room.

“Would you like a cup of tea?” the housekeeper asked stiffly, gesturing toward the pot on the table before her.

Amazed, Althea took a seat at the table. “That would be lovely. It’s quite cold outside.” She waited quietly as the housekeeper poured the steaming liquid into a cup and covered the pot with a cozy.

Mrs. Coates sat down opposite her. A stack of correspondence lay on the small table between them. Noticing her glance, the housekeeper said, “Them’s the replies.”

“The replies?”

“For the dinner he’s giving.”

Not liking the way she was referring to their employer, Althea said, “The dinner Mr. Aguilar is hosting?”

“That’s right. The replies’ve been comin’ in. Most are acceptances.” Mrs. Coates sighed, her ample bosom rising. She pushed forward a sheet of paper. “I was working on seating arrangements when you walked in.”

“I see. How are they coming?” she asked, looking at the blank sheet of paper.

Mrs. Coates fingered the corner of the paper. “Not so well. You see, he—that is, Mr. Aguilar—hasn’t been too clear about how he wants it. Only thing he told me was to seat him by—” she shuffled among the correspondence until she came to the right one “—Lady Stanton-Lewis.” She pushed the reply toward Althea.

Althea took the folded vellum. A hint of a floral fragrance drifted to her nostrils as she unfolded the creamy sheet. Lord Griffith and Lady Eugenia Stanton-Lewis accepted the invitation to dinner at the residence of the Honorable Simon Aguilar on the evening of the twelfth of March. Althea remembered the names Simon had mentioned the evening he was going to the opera.

She made a greater effort to recall them from her days in London society. She remembered the name was a good one, but that was all that came to mind. “Very well,” she said, “let us put her on Mr. Aguilar’s right—unless, of course, we find someone who outranks her. We shall need to look at all the other replies to see where her husband ranks. Do you know if Mr. Aguilar has a copy of the Peerage in his library?”

“I wouldn’t know. It’s been many years since there’s been any entertaining under this roof.” Mrs. Coates sat back in her chair and took a sip of tea. “Before the missus died, they did some entertaining, but it was mostly amongst their own kind. There’s never been what you’d call ‘society’ here. I don’t think they’d know much of such things.”

Althea noted the disdain in her tone but said nothing. She took a swallow of tea, then pushed away from the table. “I think I shall just look in the library and see if he doesn’t have a copy. That will help us in these arrangements.”

“Very well, miss.”

Althea entered the quiet library. No one went in there on the days when Simon was at the House. She closed the door softly behind her, trying to decide where to begin. On the two occasions she had crossed this threshold, her mind had been too preoccupied with the coming interviews with her employer to take in her surroundings to any significant degree. Now she could enjoy the peace and comfort of this room. It reminded her of her father’s library on his country estate in Hertfordshire.

She walked slowly into the long vast room, breathing in the scent of book leather and paper, over which lingered the acrid tinge of a spent fire in an unswept grate. Walls of bookshelves on two sides accentuated the length of the room. Stacks of books and paintings along the walls waited to be shelved or hung, as if in the years since the original order of the room had been established, more books, paintings and objets d’art had been accumulated but no time or interest found to place them properly.

Rich carpets covered the floors, muffling her footsteps as she ventured farther into the room. Heavy velvet curtains framed the wall of casement windows at the far end of the room.

Midway the length of the room stood a fireplace with a sculpted marble front. Gilt-framed oil paintings, one above another, hung around the fireplace from ceiling to wainscoting. The walls beneath were a rich red. A welcoming group of brass-studded leather chairs and a small, upholstered sofa faced the fireplace. Althea touched a leather armrest, remembering the hours she had spent as a girl curled up in just such a chair, safe from all eyes.

She rubbed her fingers together, noticing how grimy they had become. She examined the rest of the furniture more closely, noticing the film of dust over every surface. Brushing the dust off her hands, she decided that was a problem to be tackled at another time.

The rest of the room was given over to floor-to-ceiling bookshelves made of dark oak. She began examining the bookshelves, looking for a classification system. She found histories; biographies; works in Latin, Greek and Hebrew, which made her wish she could spend a few hours in that section; another section devoted to novels, including many of the newest; stacks and stacks of old issues of The Times and The Observer as well as the newer more radical publications like Cobbett’s Political Register. There were countless political and philosophical tomes. Althea also came upon a stack of pamphlets containing Simon’s name. Curious, she riffled through these, reading the various titles he had authored: factory reform, parliamentary reform, arguments in favor of a minimum wage, abolition of the tithe. The topics sounded altogether radical for a member of the Tory party. She placed them back in a neat stack.

Althea ran her fingers one last, lingering time over the spines of the books. The wisdom of humanity contained in a roomful of shelves, she mused, craning her neck upward. Solomon had written, “Wisdom is the principal thing; therefore get wisdom….” But he had also begun the book of Proverbs with the preface “…the fear of the Lord is the beginning of knowledge.”

Althea considered all the knowledge Simon had extracted from these centuries of human understanding and knowledge. But one thing he lacked, she thought, paraphrasing Jesus’s words to the rich young man: the fear of the Lord, and without that, all the rest of the wisdom was in vain.

She finally spied copies of both Debrett’s Peerage and Baronetage. They were placed in an area with some copies of The Morning Post, The Court Guide and The Royalist, a periodical known for its scandals and on dits. Clearly, Mrs. Coates’s opinion that Simon knew nothing of society was ill-formed, Althea thought as she picked up one of the two volumes on family names and genealogies.

The rest of the afternoon was spent with Mrs. Coates, pairing off ladies and gentlemen for the dinner party, deciding who would escort whom into the dining room and where they would be seated.

“Oh, dear, Mrs. Coates, there is a surplus of gentlemen,” Althea said, looking at the invitations laid out in two groupings.

“Don’t suppose he knows many society ladies. As I said, he’s lived a very quiet life ’til recently, mostly working in Parliament and visitin’ his family. He’s brought gentlemen ’round now and then for a bite to eat and game of whist.” She eyed the scented note. “Never known him to entertain a female, leastways not here in his home.”

“Well, we shall just have to do the best we can with what we have. Perhaps some replies will still come in.”

As she located the family names in the books, she remembered more and more of the details from her two London Seasons. In the end there were only a few she didn’t know what to do with. She supposed they might be colleagues of Simon’s.

“I think we have done all we can this afternoon. You shall just have to consult Mr. Aguilar about these remaining names. You can show him our chart and he can pencil them in where he deems appropriate.” She considered. “Perhaps I shall mention to him the imbalance in the number of ladies and gentlemen.”

“Oh, very good, miss.” Mrs. Coates stood as soon as Althea did, her face troubled. “You don’t think he’ll mind that we moved Lady Stanton-Lewis, do you?”

“Don’t trouble yourself about it. I’m sure he’ll understand that we had no choice in the matter, with a duke outranking a baron. If he has any objections, tell him to see me about it. Now, have you had a chance to review the menu?”

“No, miss. But, if you have a moment, perhaps we could go down now and consult with Cook?”

“Let me see if Rebecca is awake. I shall join you in the kitchen momentarily.”

“Yes, miss.”

The two exited the sitting room together, with Althea heading up to see Rebecca. When she told her about the dinner party arrangements, Rebecca wanted to know the names of the guests who had accepted. Promising to tell her upon her return, as well as to describe the dishes to be served, Althea went back downstairs to review the menu.

Mrs. Bentwood, the cook, was showing Mrs. Coates the menu when Althea joined them. Although she had been talking with the housekeeper, the moment Althea entered she fell silent. Mrs. Coates handed Althea the list. Althea took it from her without a word and began reading: Clear Consommé, Salmon with Shrimp Sauce, Dover Sole, Chicken Fricassee, Giblet Pie, Roast Pheasant with Egg Sauce, Haunch of Venison, Peas, Potatoes, Cauliflower, Kidney Pudding, Preserves, Tongue with Red Currant Sauce, Lobster Bisque with Champagne, Pastry Basket, Fresh Fruit, Syllabub.

The menu sounded appropriate. Althea had watched her family’s cook prepare many such menus in the cavernous kitchen at the estate where she spent her childhood. She had probably spent more time in their cook’s company than with her own family. Althea knew well the army of kitchen maids needed to successfully prepare such an array of dishes. She looked up at the cook, thinking of the overcooked meats, cold potatoes and dry puddings that had been her fare since coming to this household.

“This is quite an ambitious menu. Mrs. Coates tells me the master has not entertained in quite some years. Will you need any extra help—”

Mrs. Bentwood pulled herself up to her full height, crossing her arms beneath her bosom. “I’ll ’ave you know I’ve worked in the finest ’ouses of London. Many’s the menu I’ve planned.”

“Yes, of course. Has everything been ordered?”

“Hit’s all being taken care of.”

“Very well. The menu looks very good. I wish you the best success with it. Let me know if I may be of any help.” She turned toward Mrs. Coates. “I will go up to Rebecca, if you should need me.”