Chapter 20
Twenty
Kate
Already excited by the fine, hardly-worn, children’s clothing she’d found in Henri’s boxes, Kate’s humor was fully restored at the idea of a dinner party, even if she had an uncivil soldier camping in her dining room.
She refused to worry about Hugh trying to kill her with a pea-shooter.
That was most likely boys being boys. Tonight, she looked forward to an evening of actual conversation. She missed dinner parties.
She set Rob and Lynly to cleaning dinnerware while the major moved his oily clockworks.
She knew she could repair and alter her new purchases for Easter Sunday, but she wanted something special for their birthdays.
She hoped she had enough coin left to buy Fletch’s automatons—if he was willing to sell them.
She hated to ask, but for her children, she’d do anything.
They had so little frivolous joy in their lives.
But now was not the moment for asking. She had a dinner to prepare out of next to nothing.
Besides her widowhood, one of the many reasons they hadn’t held dinner parties recently was lack of any meat other than chicken.
It had taken all her coins to buy the smoked ham and rashers last fall, and they were almost gone.
Rob had said their guests were bringing their own supper, so she hoped they had enough for all.
Rafe’s meat pie and her spring greens would only go so far.
She washed up and donned her best dark blue bombazine.
The evenings were still cool enough for wool.
She wound blue and gold ribbons through her auburn hair and studied the mirror for signs of gray.
The poor light and badly silvered surface didn’t reveal any, yet.
Then she donned a blue wool shawl with gold embroidery and set out for her first social entertainment in.
. . forever. She hadn’t hosted any dinners during her husband’s illness and very few even before.
George had been a good, decent man who was painfully aware of his lack of gentrified manners and speech.
She was adding watercress to the cheese plate when Rob shouted from the parlor that their guests were arriving. Even though she meant for the children to eat in the kitchen, she’d had them clean up and don their Sunday clothes so they might meet their new neighbors.
Major Fletcher had grumbled and threatened to eat in the barn, but he was at the door before she'd removed her apron. He'd retrieved a tailored uniform coat and a decent waistcoat out of his valise and even ironed his linen himself. As a former officer, he knew how to dress properly.
“We're here with food, fun, and entertainment,” Jacques called as he entered, carrying one of the Hall’s porcelain tureens.
Damien's family had once been wealthy. The family heirlooms he couldn’t give away had been abandoned at the Hall, although Brydie had begun appropriating some for their new home.
“Only Kitty, Othello, and Mercurio have come with me.” Jacques handed the dish to the major as if he were a butler.
Fletch handed it back.
Kitty, Othello, and Mercurio? Trying not to stare at the eccentric assembly obviously using stage names, Kate rescued the delicate tureen as introductions were made.
Kitty appeared to be a very large, raw-boned woman in an elegant silk dinner gown and the shadow of a beard. She dipped a graceful curtsy worthy of a duchess.
Othello was properly. . . bronze. Garbed in flowing pantaloons and a blouse of rust and gold satin, he wore the exotic attire with tall, cuffed boots. His coarse hair and beard were plaited in dozens of piratical braids which were strangely attractive.
An older person of average height and distinguished posture, with silvered hair and olive complexion, Mercurio might pass for an Italian aristocrat.
Even his—her?—accent was slightly foreign.
Their embroidered frockcoat and breeches from an earlier decade were rather dashing—except for the hint of bosom beneath the ruffled linen.
Flustered, Kate ushered everyone in and carried the tureen to the kitchen. Kitty and Mercurio followed, carrying baskets of food.
“Do we need to send plates to the friends you left at home or will they be along later?” Kate set the bounty on the kitchen table and tabulated what serving platters and utensils were needed. Hostess duties had been ingrained since childhood.
“They're rewriting a script and drinking themselves under the piano,” the slender Mercurio replied with a dismissive gesture.
“They have bread and cheese, if they remember to eat.” Kitty made himself. . . herself. . . at home in the kitchen, taking bowls from a cupboard. “Don't let them know you have a pianoforte or they'll be here in a minute. The one in the Hall is out of tune.”
“So is this one, I fear. We haven't had reason to play in a long time.” Kate gave up sorting people out and just followed her training.
“We'll test it after dinner. I'm salivating over the mushroom stew. Apparently some local cultivates them so we know they’re safe?” Kitty picked up the heavy tray of platters and tureens to carry them into the dining room.
“Mrs. Young grows them for extra income. We all do what we can and trade as needed. I haven't seen a feast like this in years.” Not since her father's death over a decade ago, as far as Kate could recall. Life had been hard since the war.
Without servants, they'd been eating in the kitchen. The service door between kitchen and dining room was buried behind racks for outerwear. They had to carry trays through the parlor, where Jacques and Othello were testing the old pianoforte.
The major had vanished. So had Rob and Lyn, for all that mattered.
Trying not to be too concerned, Kate emptied her tray on the sideboard. Her guests exclaimed in enthusiasm over the candelabra, the flowers she'd hastily arranged, and the table settings she had left stacked until she knew how many guests they'd have. If she'd had servants. . .
Their guests didn't appear to care. They helped themselves to plates and began filling them while chattering faster than Kate could follow.
Kate cornered Jacques the instant he joined his guests in the dining parlor. “What have you done with the major and the children?”
He frowned, trying to recall. “Wine and ale were mentioned. They vanished shortly after that. We brought a few bottles with us.”
“The major does not usually drink.” Kate fretted, knowing he used clockworks to fight his urge to indulge. “I meant to have the children eat in the kitchen.”
For a moment, Jacques' usual stoic expression was replaced with a glimpse of sadness. Then he shrugged and returned to insouciance. “Perhaps he fears we are a bad influence. Or they're patrolling the grounds for your intruder.”
“More likely, he's taking apart a clock, but Rob and Lyn must be starving by now. I'll leave plates for them on the stove.” Sympathetically, she took his arm and led him to the buffet. It had to be difficult being ostracized for not fitting into society’s roles.
By the time she had plates ready for the children, Fletch arrived with pitchers of. . . ? What could he have found?
“Mulled cider,” he announced, slamming the pitchers on the table. “My father's recipe.” Without a word of explanation, he took Rob and Lyn’s plates from Kate and carried them to the kitchen.
“How did he do that?” Jacques whispered.
“Cellar,” Kate whispered back, amazed that Fletch had learned his way around so thoroughly.
The cider had fermented by now, so she couldn’t serve it to the children.
He wouldn’t have had brandy or any other alcohol to mull it.
He’d most likely watered it down when he heated it and added whatever old spices he’d found down there, perhaps thrown in some dried apples.
In small quantities, it shouldn’t cause drunkenness.
Without regard to any form of decorum, her guests settled themselves at the table and began an argument over the value of mushroom stew. Perhaps they'd been raised by wolves.
Suddenly uncertain of her role in this unusual company, Kate was about to flee and see that Rob and Lyn were settled, when Fletch returned.
He pulled out a chair at the head of the table and, with an elegant bow, seated her in it, as a gentleman should.
She stared at him. Who was this uniformed squire and where had he been these past days? Or months.
“As there seems to be no order to this meal, shall I serve you a sample of everything or do you have preferences?” he asked courteously.
She wasn't at all prepared to respond. “Not the mushrooms,” fell off her tongue without thinking. She’d had bad experiences with mushrooms in the past and had developed a distaste for them.
By the time he returned with both their plates, she'd recovered some of her muddled brain. Major Fletcher was large and imposing in his brass-buttons and starched linen, but it was his thoughtfulness that confused her. It might be simpler if he growled. “Thank you. The cider was an excellent thought. I didn’t think to bring up the blackberry wine.”
He yanked an empty chair to her end of the table and sat down at her right. “I tried that rot and poured it down the drain. It's vinegar.”
“It's old,” she admitted.
“I noticed. If your friends liberated the wine from the Hall's cellar, it's most likely vinegar as well. Cider seemed safest.”
Kate studied her table of eccentric guests and smiled faintly. “If anyone can drive the Hall’s ghosts screaming back to their graves, Jacques’ jolly company will. He’s lonely. Be happy for him.”
“Once they discover the wine is vinegar, and he tires of their constant brangling, he'll be glad to see the back of them.” He attempted to cut his meat pie with a fork.
She sliced the larger bits of beef for him. “In the meantime, it's good to not be alone out here with Hugh on the loose,” she murmured, before turning back to generate conversation as she’d been taught. “What cities do you play in?”
“Birmingham, mostly,” Mercurio replied. “Bath, when we can.”
“If we can develop a following, we'd like to try Oxford, and then on to London,” stubbled Kitty added. He/she appeared to be the youngest.
“Are all of you from around here?” She was out of practice, but even in these unusual circumstances, she knew how to direct polite conversation.
Jacques speared an onion and waved it on his fork. “The crew back at the house are Oxford. I met them while Damien was there.”
The older gentleman with a bosom pointed at the very large, pig-tailed Othello. “He's from Worcester, proper. We're all from that district originally.”
Rural, then, not London. That couldn’t have been easy.
“Worcester? I don't suppose you know the Marie family? They own a modiste shop, I believe.” Kate was eager to know more of her previously unknown cousins.
Kitty brightened, “Mrs. Marie made my very first frock. I was a lad in school and told her I needed it for a play. She only asked what time period it was set in. I had to learn history quickly so I could tell her.”
“We miss her.” Othello sipped his wine and grimaced. “Her daughter is good but a bit of a prig.”
Which most likely meant she didn’t want to dress men in skirts. Or flowing silk trousers.
“So was Mrs. Marie's assistant,” Kitty admitted. “A real sourpuss. At least, after Mrs. Marie’s daughter took over the shop, she was smart enough to toss the old besom out.”
“The younger assistant wasn't so bad,” Othello mused. “Not bright but she loved fabric. She made this shirt.” He patted the fine satin. “Wonder where she went?”
“Married, most likely. She was pretty and had every man in town chasing her,” Mercurio replied. “We can still rely on the modiste for gowns, but we need to recruit a tailor for breeches and coats.”
“Tailors are hard to come by outside of the city,” Kate admitted, enjoying hearing of a world beyond her own. “Only the wealthy can afford them.”
“Mrs. Morgan is being polite and not talking of herself.” Fletch stood to replenish his plate. “She manages a shop full of seamstresses and is helping to open a dressmaking establishment in the village.”
Kate smiled in gratitude at his recognition and overrode the ripple of excitement from the company.
“Unfortunately, we have yet to find a tailor willing to work in rural splendor. The gentlemen must travel to Birmingham, or allow us to make over the second-hand goods our local peddler finds. So we are not of much use to you.”
“Do you think your peddler might look for clothes to our specifications?” Mercurio asked in excitement. “And then your seamstresses could adjust to what we need? Finding good costumers outside London is impossible.”
Fletch filled his mouth with bread and didn't speak. Jacques turned to her in hope.
Kate floundered. “I can only ask. We tailor and mend the second-hand garments, but none of us are competent at measuring. . .”
“Men’s trousers,” Fletch said bluntly through his bread.
“We can measure your current garments for size and adjust the second-hand ones to fit,” Kate added apologetically. “But the construction of gentlemen’s clothing is beyond our simple means.”
Mercurio grinned, “But can you measure a female for gentleman's garments? Vivien did.”
Vivien? Kate took a healthy gulp of cider.