Chapter 13
The Dinner
… longed for the power of representing to them all what they were about, and of pointing out some of the evils they were exposing themselves to.
Jane Austen, Persuasion
It was possible that Rosalind had endured less comfortable meals. At the moment, however, she was having difficulty recalling when that might have been.
The food was plentiful and elaborately dressed, but for all its garnish, the soup was watery, and the fish was perhaps a trifle older than it should have been.
The joint was tough, the sauces were more flour and water than stock and wine, and the seasoning on the greens was paltry, if it was there at all.
The staff was like the meal—plentiful but not evidencing any particular quality or skill.
The footmen who waited the table did so stiffly.
Their expressions were not merely the blank mask of the professional servant, but actively bored.
They were not engaged with their work, Rosalind thought.
They were simply going through the required motions, and waiting for the meal, and the day, to be over.
The diners were arranged in the conventional fashion—by rank, sex, and age.
Devon had been seated at the foot of the table while Sir Anthony presided at its head.
The ladies, and Adam, were spaced between them.
No effort, it seemed, had been made to bring in other guests who might “balance” the table, which contributed to the awkwardness of the meal.
It was Mrs. Lynn who kept up at least some semblance of conversation during this uneasy supper.
She managed mostly by remarking on this person or that in such a way that would allow Sir Anthony to deliver some pronouncement about them.
These, Rosalind could not help noticing, were generally unfavorable.
While this tactic worked to keep Sir Anthony amused, it did nothing to relax the general company, much less soothe the anger blossoming behind Cynthia’s silence.
At last—perhaps realizing that she had best attend to the mood of the rest of the table—Mrs. Lynn turned to Devon.
“Lord Casselmaine, you have not told us anything of your recent trip to London.” Her eyes shone with a bright mischief. “I am dying to know if you found time to see the famous Miss Rosalind Thorne. A little bird tells me you know each other quite well.”
Years spent in drawing rooms had given Rosalind a great deal of practice in the art of concealing her reaction to any statement, and she was grateful for it now. Otherwise she might have paused in scraping her fork through the thick gravy that accompanied the joint, or even blushed.
“The famous Miss Thorne?” cried Sir Anthony. “Infamous I would have thought.”
“Her family and mine know each other,” said Devon coolly. “I have met her on a number of occasions.”
“On a number of occasions.” Mrs. Lynn drew the words out, indicating that she had heard rather more from the aforementioned little bird.
“But come, now! Everyone knows you two are fast friends! You must tell us, what is she like? A woman who can ferret out the secrets of the highest in the land … how I long to know her!”
Clara had colored a little. Rosalind felt her breath hitch the tiniest amount.
Elizabeth attempted a laugh. “Well, I for one hope she does not turn her gimlet eyes to us here in Bath. I am not sure our society could bear the scrutiny!”
“But how would we know if she did?” Mrs. Lynn’s tone turned arch. “They say she is quite capable of disguising herself as all sorts of persons. Why, it is nearly race week, the town is full, and all manner of scandalous persons are flocking to Bath! She might already be among us!”
“You must not talk such nonsense, my dear Mrs. Lynn,” said Sir Anthony. “Were she to come among us, we should know this Miss Thorne upon first sight, no matter how she was disguised.”
“Would we indeed, sir?” inquired Rosalind. Adam raised both brows, and took a sip of wine. Devon suddenly seemed to find the greens left on his plate quite fascinating. Clara, on the other hand, busied herself by slicing her beef into minute ribbons.
“Yes, yes, of course,” Sir Anthony said. “Such a woman must inevitably be coarsened by her association with so many rough and inferior types. Writers! Newspapermen! Bow Street Runners!”
Rosalind had to drop her gaze to her own plate. If she looked at Adam a moment longer she would lose all countenance.
“No, no,” Sir Anthony continued. “We would know her at once by her weathered face. Her eyes must lack any true brilliancy, but instead be filled with native cunning! To say nothing of the state of her hands—which must be entirely stained and ruined by the grubbing about she surely must do. I defer to the delicacy of my current company and decline to refer to the stout, graceless figure that such a woman must possess.”
Devon opened his mouth. Rosalind shot him a sharp look of warning. He closed it again.
“And yet, I understand she is received by Lady Jersey herself,” Mrs. Lynn remarked.
Sir Anthony shrugged. “Lady Jersey may find her useful, and may even bestow upon her some condescension or false flattery. However, you can be certain that Lady Jersey withholds from this Thorne creature that true meeting of mind and manners which must occur among women of superior birth and breeding.”
There, at least, his guess came close to the truth. Regardless, Rosalind felt it was past time to change the subject.
She smiled. “Well, however Miss Thorne may be spending her evening, I daresay she is not talking about us.”
Mrs. Lynn laughed. “Oh, you are surely right, Mrs. Rutherford!”
“But what do you think might bring Miss Thorne to Bath?” Adam asked Mrs. Lynn. “Has there been some grave scandal?”
Rosalind bit down on her tongue. What was Adam doing, allowing this line of conversation to continue?
Mrs. Lynn laughed. “Oh, you must not mind me, Mr. Rutherford. I say all sorts of nonsense, mostly to hear myself talk.” Her smile was pretty and vacuous, and did not reach her eyes. “As a matter of fact, I happen to know that Miss Thorne is ensconced in London.”
“And how do you know that?” asked Elizabeth. There was a tense expectation underlying her question. “Have you set some sort of spy on her?”
Mrs. Lynn laughed again. “Good gracious, Elizabeth, how very melodramatic of you! No, I have no spy, but I do have the London papers. Miss Thorne lists her at home days in the social columns. They are Tuesdays and Thursdays, by the by. If she had left London, she would have noted that she would not be at home those days. There.” Mrs. Lynn raised her wineglass to herself and her conclusions.
Elizabeth applauded and Mrs. Lynn bowed her head in acknowledgment. Rosalind noted the relief in Elizabeth’s eyes.
But why would Elizabeth be the one worried about Miss Thorne?
The brief silence allowed Adam to pick a fresh topic for conversation.
“I understand, Sir Anthony, you have a horse entered in the sweepstakes at Lansdown?”
“Are you a sporting man, Mr. Rutherford?” Sir Anthony inquired.
“I have an interest in the turf,” replied Adam mildly.
“Well, then, you will be interested to know that I shall be fielding not just a horse, but the winning horse.” Sir Anthony smiled with a feigned self-deprecation.
“You may not be aware of the reputation of the Kinsdale stables, but the bloodline of our horses is unmatched. I have of late been holding back my participation in the races. The breeding and training of thoroughbreds requires the greatest patience, as well as a superior understanding of horseflesh. But this year the Kinsdale line will return to the turf. Make no mistake, sir, Kinsdale’s Pride will take the purse at the Somersetshire Sweepstakes, and that will be only the beginning. ”
“Of what?” breathed Cynthia.
Sir Anthony turned to her, clearly irritated. “What is that you say, Cynthia?”
Clara winced. A moment later, so did Cynthia, probably because of a sisterly kick to her ankle. But she did not take the hint. Instead, Cynthia drew herself up and looked her father directly in the eye.
“I asked, the beginning of what? The final ruin and humiliation of our family?”
“My dear—” began Mrs. Lynn.
Cynthia did not seem to hear her. “And is that humiliation to be with or without our bankruptcy?”
“Cynthia,” said Sir Anthony sternly. “You will cease this unbecoming behavior immediately!”
“I will not!” Cynthia shot to her feet. “Why should I? You have ruined us! You have listened to this woman”—she stabbed her finger at Mrs. Lynn—“and put the last of our money on that ridiculous horse that will probably drop dead before it reaches the post! And if that was not enough, you have just demeaned and insulted the man who is our one remaining source of income! Over nothing!” Her voice rose to a shout.
“And it was all in front of Casselmaine, who is probably now wondering what he’s gotten himself into, and trying to decide if we can scrape together the money to sue him for breach of promise if he decides to abandon Clara! ”
“That is quite enough,” drawled Sir Anthony. “If you are unable to conduct yourself as befits a young woman of your breeding, you may leave the table this instant.”
“Or what?” demanded Cynthia. “What else can you do to me?” She swept her hands out, indicating both her sisters. “To any of us?”
“I can order you from my house,” said Sir Anthony coldly. “Indeed, I begin to wonder if I should have done before now.”
Rosalind waited for Mrs. Lynn to interrupt with her laughter and her bright teasing, but even she seemed struck by the chill in Sir Anthony’s words.
“Cynthia, you’d better go,” whispered Clara.
“And there will be no need for you to attend the party this evening,” said Sir Anthony.
Cynthia stared at them all. “Yes, of course I should be the one who leaves. The fault is entirely mine for speaking the truth. Well, at least I am excused from another outrageous gathering, and that is something.” Cynthia grabbed up her skirts and shoved her way past the chairs and out of the room.
The silence she left behind was deafening.
“I do apologize for my daughter, Casselmaine, Mr. Rutherford, Mrs. Rutherford.” Sir Anthony’s voice was dry and drawling as it had been when he was commenting on his horse.
“I cannot think what has gotten into her of late. She was always such a meek little thing as a girl. Do you think, Mrs. Lynn, that she should be advised to take the waters?”
“I think she needs a little quiet,” said Mrs. Lynn, but Rosalind could not help but notice the tinge of worry in her bright voice.
“Clearly, she has become overwrought, and who can blame her? There has been so much excitement, what with Clara’s upcoming engagement, and the races, and all the new society we have been introduced to of late.
What a good thought you had, dear Sir Anthony, to excuse her from the card party tonight.
After a night of rest, I’m sure she will be as right as rain.
Now.” Mrs. Lynn stood and beamed at the company.
“I think it is time for we ladies to withdraw.”
There was nothing to do then but for Rosalind to get to her feet and follow along.