Chapter 13
T he next catastrophe began, as many Tolliver calamities were inclined to do, with dinner.
It was not a humble repast, of course. Lady Tolliver would sooner dine in a pigsty than preside over anything so vulgar as an ordinary supper.
No, this was a Dinner, hastily arranged, frightfully expensive and prompted by an ill-timed mention in The London Weekly Scandal.
(The column in question had referred to Hetty as ‘the darling of Langley’s eye and the ruin of his reason,’ – a line which Lady Tolliver read aloud no fewer than six times over breakfast, once with tears in her eyes and once with toast in her hand, declaring it both “a disgrace to the family” and “the most romantic thing I have ever encountered.” This peculiar state of being both outraged and utterly delighted was, it must be said, one in which she frequently excelled.)
The Tolliver dining room had been transformed – by a flurry of footmen, maids, a panic-stricken cook, and no fewer than three bouquets flung out for being “too provincial” – into a tableau of domestic splendour.
Candlelight flickered from twin chandeliers, and new flowers (spirited in from the conservatory at dawn and rearranged half a dozen times under Lady Tolliver’s despairing gaze) nodded graciously from every surface.
The Tollivers themselves had arranged like an eccentric theatrical troupe: five daughters in varying stages of composure, from serenely smiling to violently pouting; one heir who sat like a man awaiting his own execution; and a smattering of relations so peculiar in expression and so varied in temperament that no playwright would dare invent them.
The honoured guest of the evening, Lady Langley – the Dowager Countess, matriarch of the Winslow line, and most importantly, Theo’s mother – arrived precisely on the hour, as though summoned by some invisible bell of propriety.
She was everything a Society matron ought to be: composed without warmth, stately without softness, and in possession of a gaze so exacting it could reduce a debutante to tears at thirty paces.
That she also happened to be a lifelong friend of Lady Tolliver rendered her presence both a singular honour and an unspoken menace.
The two women had been presented in the same Season.
They navigated Almack’s, matrimony and motherhood side by side – and now sat atop their respective family empires like rival generals in an ever-shifting campaign of social manoeuvring.
“Such a handsome match,” Lady Langley had observed not ten minutes earlier in the drawing room, offering a gracious nod in the direction of Miss Tolliver and her own son. “And such impeccable timing. The columns are positively brimming with speculation. ”
“I do not read the columns,” Hetty had lied, as her mother beamed and Theo made a strangled sound not unlike a man perishing upon a canapé.
“They claim your kiss was quite the spectacle,” said Aunt Belinda, lifting her sherry. “One young lady reportedly swooned. Another was seen climbing a hedge for a better view! My, my, what a tonic for Society’s doldrums.”
Cousin Edwina, who wore a turban of such alarming circumference it might reasonably have concealed a modest ham, leant forwards with great sobriety.
“I have always said engagements formed under duress make the most enduring matches. My dear friend Mrs Penwhistle met her husband during the Gunter’s riot of ’08.
A scuffle over strawberry ices, I believe.
They have been hopelessly attached ever since. ”
Lady Tolliver, who had stiffened at the very mention of “duress” as though someone had waved a French flag in her drawing room, gave a genteel little laugh.
“Oh, my dear Edwina,” she said sweetly, though her eyes glittered with menace at her niece, “how delightfully dramatic you are. But I do assure you, there was no question of duress. Theirs is an understanding formed in the most proper of fashions! Such affection on both sides.” She looked at Lady Langley.
“Indeed, I am sure your ladyship must have witnessed it yourself. Such an atmosphere of… mutual esteem and devotion.”
Hetty had smiled and nodded, as any well-bred young lady must, but inwardly, she had contemplated – most earnestly and with increasing appeal – the notion of hurling herself bodily through the nearest window .
Now, in the dining room, Lord Tolliver presided at the head of the long table, beaming vaguely at no one in particular.
Beside him, his younger brother, Admiral Tolliver (retired) was engaged in quietly polishing a brass compass which he insisted had once saved him from certain doom off the coast of Gibraltar.
Georgiana, seated between the Admiral and Theo’s second cousin, Mortimer, was holding forth on the subject of floral arrangements. “Lilies in March are, of course, wholly improper, and yet Mama has rendered them almost tolerable. Have you not, Mama?”
Mortimer, whose eyes had not strayed from Georgie’s golden curls and rosy cheeks since the moment of her arrival, nodded with the fervour of a man recently struck by lightning.
Hetty, seated to Theo’s left at the centre of the table, wore a modest gown of dove-grey silk muslin which chafed most abominably at the shoulders. The lace-trimmed neckline itched so infernally she was half-tempted to tear it off.
Theo, to his credit, looked every inch the well-bred gentleman, with his cravat starched, cuffs immaculate and hair brushed to the point of rebellion, though his white-knuckled grip upon his wineglass and the tic at his temple betrayed a man who would rather be anywhere else than beneath his mother’s hawkish eyes and surrounded by an assembly of Tollivers behaving very much like characters in a farcical novel.
To Theo’s right, Lottie was engaged in what could only be described a silent contest of wills with Cousin Horatio, who had, for the third time that evening, directed the conversation to the noble art of fencing.
“The Stoics considered the duel to be a true measure of one’s inner fortitude. Do you fence, Miss Tolliver?”
“Indeed,” said Lottie, tilting her head in a manner that might, to the untrained eye, appear demure. “Though I confess I favour pistols. The outcome is so very much swifter.”
“A most unorthodox preference, Miss Tolliver. There is no grace in pistols. No poetry! The sword, on the other hand – ”
“Requires far too much preamble,” Lottie interrupted, still smiling. “Ten paces, turn, fire! So elegant in its finality.”
“Elegance,” Horatio countered, drawing himself up as though preparing to deliver a lecture to a room of inattentive schoolboys, “is found in discipline. In footwork. In control of the wrist!”
Lottie sipped her wine. “And yet one well-aimed shot renders the wrist quite beside the point.”
Mari, seated beside Cousin Edwina and her enormous turban, had yet to utter a single word.
She observed the proceedings through her spectacles with the quite forbearance of one who would much rather be reading beneath a blanket.
At her side, Nell bounced in her seat, presently attempting to conscript Edwina into the creation of a napkin duck.
“If we give it feet,” Nell whispered with great urgency, “it might walk across the table.”
“I do not condone the animation of table linens,” Edwina replied, adjusting her lace cuffs with a prim sniff. “Nor the mistreatment of poultry, whether fabric or feathered.”
At the other end of the table, Aunt Belinda, seated beside Lady Langley and now three sherries deep, had just arrived at the crescendo of her account of the Swan Boat Incident of ’98.
“And there I was,” she cried, fanning herself, “entirely convinced the fellow was a French count. But no! Only the footman in disguise, though he did have a remarkable moustache.”
Lady Langley made a sound that might have signified disapproval, or indigestion. It was, as ever, impossible to determine.
Lady Tolliver sat resplendent and watchful in a gown of emerald which, though not quite fashionable, was certainly eye-catching. Her eyes darted constantly between her eldest daughter and the gentleman she had all but strong-armed into a formal engagement.
When the conversation had reached a particularly discordant lull – Aunt Belinda was attempting to describe the topography of the lake where the swan boat incident had occurred – Lady Tolliver cleared her throat with the sort of authority that could hush Parliament.
“Well,” she announced, raising her glass, “I believe now is as good a time as any to share our most joyful news.”
Theo, in the midst of sipping his wine, stilled. Hetty went rigid.
“I have obtained a special license,” Lady Tolliver declared. “The wedding shall take place a week hence, on Thursday!”
“What wedding?” asked Uncle John vaguely, fumbling in his waistcoat pocket for a boiled sweet, which he then examined with deep suspicion before returning to its lint-lined resting place.
Hetty choked on her wine. Theo reached for her glass and substituted it with water before her coughing had subsided.
“My wedding?” Hetty said faintly, at precisely the same moment Theo asked somewhat helplessly, “Whose wedding?”
Lady Tolliver’s smile was benign, but her eyes sparkled with triumph.
“Why, yours, of course. There is no sense in delay when the matter is already settled, and a special licence grants us the happy liberty to proceed without further ado. Banns are all very well, but in cases of pressing importance – and let us not feign ignorance of certain columnar circumstances – one must act swiftly. The Archbishop was most obliging.”
Lady Langley gave a slow nod. “A wise course, given the present climate.”
Theo, who had gone rather pale, leant nearer to whisper, “Are we to be married next Thursday?”
Hetty, blinking rapidly, replied, “Apparently so.”