Chapter 10
LUCIEN
The sound of the fork hitting the porcelain plate sent a shiver through Lucien as he watched his son struggle to pick up peas with his utensil.
Normally, he would have helped him. But he had decided that it was time for Marianne to at least try to bond with Henry somewhat.
He knew that their marriage would end sooner or later, but they were going to be tied together for several months, and she had to find a way to make a connection with Henry somehow.
She dabbed the corners of her mouth with her napkin and looked at him. He felt her eyes burning into the side of his head, but he kept his eyes on his mutton, casually slicing through it with his fork, and then chewing as if he didn’t have a care in the world.
“Lady Marianne, will you help me?” Henry said.
Marianne placed her fork and knife down and came around the table, sitting down next to Henry.
“Of course,” she said. “Well, let us see.” She started slicing his meat, stared at the pieces, and then sliced them in half again, assessing them as though they were some rather complicated project. Then she decided to cut the pieces once more, even smaller.
He smiled. “I do think he shall be able to manage. He is not a mouse who can only eat morsels.”
“Yes. Of course. I did not want him to—”
“I have teeth,” Henry said. “I can chew.” Then he attempted to pierce a pea with his fork once more.
However, he missed, and the fork scraped across the plate, sending a terrible screech through the dining room.
Lucien shuddered, and he saw Marianne do the same.
Their eyes met, and they smiled. Then she placed her hand around Henry’s and stabbed the fork into several peas.
“There you are,” she said. “That will work.”
He ate a piece, but then threw his fork down. “They taste strange.”
“Well, how do they taste?” Marianne asked.
“Round,” he announced.
Lucien pressed his napkin against his mouth to muffle a chuckle.
“They taste...” Marianne said, stumped now.
“I do not like it. They taste round,” he said. “I do not like round food.”
Lucien motioned with his fork, making a smashing movement, and Marianne understood.
“I see. Well, let us see.” She took the fork from the boy and smashed the peas until they were mush. “There you are. Now they should not taste round anymore.”
Henry took a forkful, ate, and nodded. “Yes, that is better. Thank you.”
Marianne returned to her own seat.
“Thank you,” Lucien said. “He does not like round foods in general. Eggs, apples, cherries—anything has to be cut smaller so that it does not taste round.”
“Is that not going to be a hindrance for him in the future? What if he is invited to court?”
Lucien smirked. “Well, I do hope my son will one day be invited to court, but I venture to say that by then he will have grown out of this strange habit. When I was a boy, I would not eat anything orange because I was determined that everything that was orange would taste like a rotten carrot I had once eaten. I remember when my grandmother came to call at Christmastide and brought oranges. I would not eat them because I was convinced they would taste like carrots. In the end, she presented me with a glass of orange juice and bribed me with a new wooden horse if I would take one sip. I did. It worked.”
She nodded. “Right. I see. Well, I suppose...” She got no further because a loud splash interrupted them.
She gasped and looked up, quite mortified to see that the right side of her face was now covered with mashed potatoes.
The potatoes, of course, had to be smashed as well, because they would have otherwise tasted round.
Lucien chuckled while Marianne looked absolutely mortified.
“I beg your pardon, Marianne. Henry, what are you doing? We do not throw food at our guests.”
“But she is not a guest. She lives here now,” he said.
“We still do not throw food at ladies,” Lucien said, anger seeping into his voice.
He got up and rang the bell, which the staff knew at this time usually meant that he was calling for the governess.
The woman appeared less than a minute later, since she was generally stationed right outside the dining room.
“Master Henry shall require a bath. And then he will go to bed.”
“But—” Henry said, his chin wobbling. A tear spilled out of his blue eyes.
“No,” he said. “And before you go, you will apologize.” He walked over to the still-standing Marianne, tears now running down his chubby cheeks. “I beg your pardon, Marianne. I wanted to have a game.”
To her credit, Marianne recovered her composure and placed a hand stiffly on his shoulder. “It is quite all right, Henry. Just do not do it again.”
“I will not,” he said.
As the governess took him away, Lucien closed his eyes and looked at Marianne. She had managed to remove most of the potato from the side of her face, although some blobs remained in her hair.
“Would you allow me to help you?” he asked.
“He is just a child,” she said. “It is understandable.”
“No, it is not,” he said, and picked up his napkin.
Then he moved to her side and gently ran the napkin through her hair, picking out the blobs of mashed potato.
As he did, his hand brushed against her face, and he noted that she was not wearing any of the crushed white pearl powder that was so popular amongst young ladies.
Her skin was naturally fair, rather like porcelain.
And… soft. He felt it when the back of his hand brushed against her skin.
It was like silk. A shiver rushed down his spine, and for a moment, he wondered what it might be like to caress her face with his hand, to cup her cheeks.
Foolish thoughts. He knew it. And yet, they were there, lingering at the back of his mind.
Making matters worse was her scent. She smelled divine of something like vanilla and cherry.
Quickly, he removed the offending potato from her hair and stepped back, out of the plume of sweet perfume and away from her silky, soft skin and the comfort and joy it promised.
“There,” he said. “Now you are potato-free.”
“Thank you,” she said.
“This is my fault,” he said. “Some weeks ago, the cook made the most atrocious porridge, and I said it was only good for food battles. When I was a boy, my grandfather would on occasion have such food battles with my younger cousins and me. It was quite inappropriate and wasteful, but I had made the comment, and Henry asked if he could try, and I allowed him. It was the only time, and I told him that it was never appropriate to do with actual food. It was just that the porridge was entirely inedible.”
“So you had a food fight with him in the dining room?”
“Oh no. We took it outside. I have no idea why he thought he could do it in the dining room. I do beg your pardon.”
“It is quite all right. And it will give the servants something to talk about.”
“That is certain,” he said with a chuckle.
The two finished the meal in relative peace, although he could not help but look at Marianne, who subconsciously continued to fidget with the right side of her hair where the potato had gotten stuck earlier.
She was lovely. Young. And she at least understood children well enough to know that Henry had meant no malice by his actions.
He remembered a time in the past when Henry had been just a baby, and Arabella had grown upset because he had thrown up over the side of her gown, as though he had meant to do it on purpose. He shook his head.
“Are you quite all right?” Marianne asked.
“Memories of the past haunting me,” he said. “It is nothing to concern yourself with.”
“I suppose we all carry such memories with us.”
“I suppose we do,” he said. “How is your friend settling in?” he asked, eager to change the subject.
“Well, I hope. I shall see her after dinner. I wish to show her the estate.”
“Do not let me keep you,” he said, noticing that she had already finished her meal and had declined dessert. Now he understood why.
“Are you certain you will be quite all right on your own?”
He smiled at her. “I assure you, this is how I have lived my life for a very long time. I can take a meal on my own. I am perfectly content with my own company. I always have been, as are you. And when I do find myself lonely on occasion, there is always Mrs. Greaves and Henry.”
She looked at him for a moment, her eyes searching and her lips parted, as though there was something else she wanted to say—something perhaps she wanted to ask—but she thought better of it. After a moment, she rose and left the room.
He sat there looking after her, and then stared at her place setting and then Henry’s. For an odd moment, they had almost been a family. A rather dysfunctional family, but a family nonetheless.