Chapter Fourteen #2
Margaret pulled a face, then she slipped her hand into Cordelia’s and gestured toward the window.
“Have you seen the view? This is such a pleasant room to spend the afternoon in because of the view. You can see my favorite tree from here. Come and look.”
Cordelia glanced over her shoulder to see her husband watching her. He nodded encouragement, and she let Margaret lead her to the window.
“Do you like to walk?” Margaret said. “I could show you some of my favorite places.”
“Yes,” Cordelia said. She met Georgiana’s gaze and smiled. “I’m a great walker.”
“See that?” Margaret continued, pointing to a solitary oak beyond the lake. “I can climb it all the way to the top.”
“Don’t be a fool, Margaret,” Georgiana said. “You can’t climb to the top. It’s too high. And you shouldn’t be climbing trees at all. Ladies don’t climb trees.”
“But I’m not a lady, Georgie. You’re always saying as much.”
“And you never will be if you climb trees.”
“Then I don’t want to be a lady,” Margaret said. “Do you climb trees, Cordelia?”
“I-I’m afraid to admit that I’ve never tried.”
“Would you like to?”
Cordelia glanced at her companions—the stoic footman staring straight ahead, the viscount with apprehension in his eyes, the young lady who wrinkled her nose as if she’d stepped in a pile of horse manure, and, finally, the eager little girl whose expressive blue gaze held a silent plea.
Why the devil shouldn’t she climb trees if she wanted to?
“Yes, Margaret,” Cordelia said. “I would like to very much.”
“Well, I really don’t think—” Georgiana began, but James raised his hand.
“That’s enough,” he said. “I’m anxious to take dinner, then I can retire to enjoy my port in peace away from bickering females. Shall we?”
Cordelia swallowed her shame as he approached and offered his elbow.
Would she ever learn how to behave as a viscountess ought?
In her boudoir in the Lyon’s Den, he was James—her James—all easy manners, lacking affectation, relaxed and content while he spoke of anything and everything.
But here, in this shrine to propriety, he was a different man altogether.
He was Lord Bedford—head of the family to whom all must defer.
Viscount, husband, brother, and master, and he commanded obedience and respect.
Where had that gentle, na?ve young man gone?
Margaret took Georgiana’s arm and the two began to argue, but at a sharp word from James, they grew silent and marched into the dining room, where two footmen and the butler stood in attendance.
James steered Cordelia to a place at one end of the table, then he crossed the floor to the other.
The two sisters sat halfway down each side of the table, facing each other.
Heavens! The table was enormous. Cordelia would have to shout to be heard, he was so far away.
And he is far away—as if a chasm which can never be crossed separates us.
At a nod from James, a footman approached Cordelia, holding a silver tureen. He bowed before her and raised his eyebrows.
What was she supposed to do?
The man at the opposite end of the table watched her, his head tilted to one side. Georgiana’s eyes narrowed and a smile quirked at the corner of her mouth. Margaret nodded to Cordelia then lifted her hands and gestured, before smiling and lowering them again.
Her hands shaking, Cordelia lifted the ladle from the tureen, wincing as it clanged against the side, then she tipped the contents—a clear brown liquid—into the bowl in front of her.
She placed the ladle back in the tureen and smiled as Margaret nodded encouragement.
The footman bowed, then he served Georgiana, circumnavigated the table to Margaret, and, finally, presented the tureen to James.
Clearly footmen had to be great walkers also.
Cordelia’s stomach growled, but she waited for a sign to pick up her spoon. Ought she pick hers up first, or would they all lift their spoons together as if engaging in a dance in a ballroom?
Why did fine folk have to undertake such ridiculous rituals, having a footman prance about the table to serve food in a very particular sequence, at the end of which the food would be cold?
Perhaps, if she was served first, she was expected to also pick up her spoon first. She reached for her spoon, and Margaret frowned and shook her head. But still, three pairs of eyes were upon her.
“Aren’t you going to say grace?” Georgiana said.
“Oh,” Cordelia replied, “I didn’t think to—”
“Quite,” came the reply. “Brother, you ought to have warned me. I have no wish to usurp your wife’s position, but if she’s unable to say grace, you must—”
“My wife is at liberty to consider herself our guest tonight,” James said. “It’s her first night here.”
“Then let me make up for her deficiencies and say—”
“No,” James said, a hard edge to his voice. “I’ll say grace.”
He paused, and the two sisters lowered their heads. Then he met Cordelia’s gaze and she did likewise.
“Bless us, Lord Almighty, for the bounty from this land that graces our table…”
Georgiana lifted her head and reached for her spoon, but he continued.
“…and bless us for the gift that You have bestowed upon our family in the form of my wife, Cordelia. May Your grace shine upon her so that she might find a place in our family and in our hearts.”
He lifted his glass and paused. Margaret raised her glass and grinned, and Cordelia followed suit.
“Georgiana?” James growled. His sister rolled her eyes, lifted her glass, then lowered it smartly to the table.
The meal began. Cordelia winced each time her spoon scraped along the bowl, and despite the deliciousness of the broth, she struggled to finish.
“Do you like consommé, Your Ladyship?” Georgiana said, and Cordelia glanced up to see the young woman staring at her. “I daresay you’ve not tasted it before.”
“No, but I have made consommé.”
“Really? When?”
“Georgiana…” James said, but Cordelia ignored him.
“I used to help out in the kitchens at the Lyon’s Den,” she said. “The food there is known for being the finest in London.”
“It must be such a change for you, then, to dine above stairs.”
“Don’t be horrid, Georgiana,” Margaret said. “Cordelia’s not a servant.”
“No, she’s a—”
“Not at the dinner table,” James growled.
“Where, then?” Georgiana said, her color rising. “Am I to be expected to dine with someone whose position in life is so far beneath mine? Do you think, when people discover who—or what—you’ve married that they’ll associate with us?”
“Then go dine with the pigs, Georgie,” Margaret said, poking her tongue out. “You’ve a face like a sow’s backside, so you’d be good company for them.”
Georgiana’s eyes shone with tears and she dropped her spoon in her bowl with a clatter.
“Margaret, apologize to your sister,” Cordelia said. “You’ve upset her.”
“But she’s upset you,” Margaret said.
“I am not upset,” Cordelia said. “And whether or not your sister is being uncivil is no justification for you to be the same, is it?”
“And would you similarly admonish me, Your Ladyship?” Georgiana said.