Chapter 12 #2
“I-I would appreciate that, Miss Dav-Davenport,” replied Lord Kinsale.
His expression was sincere. “Since I came into this ti-title, I have dined with me f-f-friend, Lord Har-Hartwell, on the odd oc-occasion at his clubs. I’ve tried to f-f-follow his lead, but I’m still not entirely clear on which f-f-fork or knife is which.
Or how to hold anythin’ correctly.” He lifted a large hand and turned it, showing Mina his long fingers and scarred, misshapen knuckles.
“These paws are a wee b-b-bit clumsy at the best o’ times. ”
“Oh, I don’t know about that, my lord,” said Mina with a small smile. “Only a few hours ago, those paws of yours—as you call them—delivered a very precise series of blows to the punching bag in your ballroom. I don’t think you give yourself enough credit.”
At that moment, there was a knock on the double doors—the mock turtle soup had arrived.
The footmen served it from a large silver tureen with a minimum of fuss.
Neat bread rolls were deposited on side plates and a dish of elegant butter curls was placed between Mina and the marquess.
Smedley oversaw all, directing operations—including the unfurling and laying of linen napkins upon laps—with the ruthless efficiency of a sergeant major at a military parade.
Or a Parasol Academy tutor during compulsory exercise drills in the Sloane Square headquarters courtyard.
After Lord Kinsale informed the butler that he would ring—there was a small crystal bell within his reach on the table—when he wanted the plates to be cleared and the next course served, Smedley bowed and silently quit the room with the attendant footmen.
As soon as the door closed, Lord Kinsale frowned at his soup and his bread roll.
“See, I-I know wh-wh-which spoon is for the soup. But do I split m-m-my roll f-f-first? Spread it with b-b-butter? Can I s-s-season my soup with salt and p-p-pepper? It is all so very per-perplexin’ for an unrefined man like m-m-me. ”
Mina met the marquess’s gaze. In the golden glow of the gas chandelier above them and the pool of light spilling from a nearby branch of candles, Lord Kinsale’s eyes were the deep, soft green of a shadowy glade.
They were the sort of eyes one could quite happily stare into for hours. Even get lost in …
Good grief, Hermina Davenport. Stop swooning and Cucumberfy yourself, this instant.
Professional resolve rallied—if not fully restored—Mina swallowed, picked up her bread roll, then carefully tore it in two.
“Tearing one’s dinner roll with one’s fingers rather than cutting it with a knife is the accepted way of eating it,” she said.
“And helping oneself to butter is quite acceptable too. Just use the butter knife upon your bread-and-butter plate. Adding a touch of salt or pepper to one’s soup is perfectly fine.
But the most important thing to remember”—Mina picked up her soup spoon—“is to scoop away from oneself.” She carefully slid her spoon from the front of the bowl to the back.
“If the soup is too hot, you mustn’t blow.
Rather, hold it above your bowl for a few moments until it cools.
Then gently sip it from the side of your spoon.
Like this.” Mina demonstrated. “One must never slurp.”
When she looked up, it was to discover Lord Kinsale’s eyes had darkened and all his attention was fixed on her mouth.
Oh my … Mina’s own gaze dropped to the marquess’s wide handsome mouth. Even though he’d been a boxer, he appeared to have all his teeth and she could not detect any sort of scarring that marred its symmetrical perfection. Perhaps the beauty of his mouth was a testament to his skill as a pugilist.
To dispel the strange spellbinding atmosphere in the room—it was almost as though sparks had escaped from the fireplace and danced between Mina and the marquess—she cleared her throat. “My lord, now you try,” she murmured.
Lord Kinsale nodded, then picking up his spoon, he took a perfectly mannered mouthful of his mock turtle soup. “How-how was that, Miss Dav-Davenport?” he asked in a low voice.
“That was very well done, my lord,” she replied. “That’s all there is to it.”
“That’s easy for you … for you to say,” said Lord Kinsale with a lopsided smile. “I’m more than li-likely to s-s-spill me soup all d-d-down me shirtfront.”
But the marquess did not spill a single drop and by the time the soup course was cleared and the fish course had been served, Mina was more than a little convinced that her employer was not as devoid of fine-dining adroitness as he supposed himself to be.
Although, that was before Lord Kinsale began to tackle his sole fillet en cro?te served with lemon, capers, and parsley butter; it seemed he was definitely all thumbs when it came to wielding a delicately wrought silver fish fork and knife.
“A special knife is sometimes provided for the fish course,” explained Mina as she neatly sliced off a section of pale succulent fish encased in golden flaky pastry.
“But some in society believe it’s very bourgeois to use such a utensil.
That one should either use a single fork to flake one’s fish onto a slice of bread, or use two forks to separate the flesh.
But as your cook has prepared sole en cro?te this evening, I do not think the use of a knife is unwarranted. ”
“I just … I just cannot seem to be able to m-m-manage it,” said Lord Kinsale in exasperation as the fish knife slipped from his grasp and clattered onto the edge of the plate. His brow concertinaed into a fierce frown. “I literally have b-b-butter fingers drippin’ with butter.”
Oh dear. The marquess did indeed have buttery fingers. “Perhaps the problem is, we’re sitting opposite each other,” remarked Mina gently. “You’re trying to mirror what I’m doing, but what you’re observing is all back to front.”
“Aye,” agreed the marquess grimly as he wiped his fingers on his napkin then tossed the soiled linen onto the table. Sitting back, he sipped his white wine and scowled at his plate.
Mina put down her fork and knife. “We could always sit beside each other,” she suggested. “That might help.”
“By St Patrick, I think you m-m-might be right.” Lord Kinsale’s expression immediately lightened. Climbing to his feet, he deftly moved his entire place setting, his meal, and his wine glass to the spot next to Mina.
“All right,” he said as he lowered himself into his new chair. “Let’s see if this m-m-makes it any easier.”
Mina blew out a small breath. With the handsome marquess now sitting so close to her—goodness, if she leaned just a little to the right, their shoulders would brush—she wasn’t quite sure if she wouldn’t be all thumbs now.
“Well,” she said, picking up her cutlery again.
“If you grip your fish knife like this—just lightly, like you would an ordinary knife—you cannot go wrong. A nice neat little trick though, is to just turn your wrist a fraction, then use the flat of the blade to either remove any skin or lift the fish directly off the bones—if your piece hasn’t been filleted—or indeed, to help scoop up some of the buttery sauce and then deposit it onto your laden fork. Like this.”
Mina took another bite of her sole en cro?te, then watched Lord Kinsale as he tried again. “Wonderful,” she declared as the marquess took another mouthful without mishap. “You could quite happily dine with the Queen and Prince Albert.”
“Per-perhaps,” said Lord Kinsale, toying with the stem of his wineglass.
“But they’d sure-surely look away as soon as I o-o-opened me mouth.
Or regard me with p-p-pity, which in some ways is even w-w-worse.
Some might even laugh. It’s what I f-f-fear will happen when I speak in Par-Parliament.
I can-cannot be effective if no one will lis-listen or take me serious-seriously.
Me accent is enough to m-m-mark me as an out-outsider. ”
Without thinking, Mina laid her hand on the marquess’s sleeve.
“I promise we will work on your elocution after the meal,” she said.
In truth, she still wasn’t exactly sure how she could help Lord Kinsale to overcome his stammer.
The Parasol Academy Handbook contained minimal guidance in that regard.
Every time she looked within its pages, she kept hoping she would see something else.
A section she’d missed. But so far, she hadn’t.
She could certainly help the marquess to soften his Irish brogue if he wished to do that.
But she was virtually all at sea when it came to suggesting exercises that might alleviate some of the marquess’s worst articulatory difficulties—his awkward pauses and word and sound repetitions.
The terrible tension around his mouth when he struggled to produce particular consonants at all.
If she could just pull a magic wand from her governess’s pocket and wave it and make the stammer go away, she would. In a heartbeat.
The corner of Lord Kinsale’s mouth lifted into a smile. “Miss Dav-Davenport, as much as I enjoy hav-havin’ your hand upon me s-s-sleeve, I cannot help but w-w-wonder if such a gesture m-m-might be seen as a breach of eti-etiquette?”
Mina immediately snatched her hand away and buried it in her lap. Heat scalded her cheeks. “My lord. You’re right and I’m so, so sorry for behaving in such an overly familiar and unprofessional way. It’s behavior that’s certainly proscribed in the Parasol Academy Handbook and quite unforgiv—”
The marquess turned in his seat and caught her gaze. His green eyes were bright with mirth. “Miss Dav-Davenport. I’m not off-offended in the least. I was merely fun-funnin’ you.”
“Oh.” Mina released a little laugh. “Well then … Even so, I-I shouldn’t have. You’re my employer. Uninvited touching is not permitted. Neither is invited touching for that matter.”