Chapter 11
A SUMPTUOUS SUPPER SERVED AT A PRIVATE BALL SHOULD BE ARTFULLY arranged to reflect the generosity and good taste of the host and the splendor of the evening overall.
It was a mid-ball boost, a time to rest one’s feet and fill one’s stomach, with the assistance of fine bone china and fresh-rubbed silver, an array of candelabras, mirrors stationed to multiply their effect, a spectacle of sweet and savory dishes, and an ever-proliferating supply of claret.
This supper, Annabel knew, would not disappoint.
Lady Gidding-Wedmore stood, busily pairing couples for the procession to the dining room, with Mrs. Lackington her faithful lieutenant.
As it was customary that a gentleman’s last dancing partner should be his dining companion, it was thought that a suitor wishing to further his acquaintance with a young lady would be wise to reserve the dance just before a meal.
So it was that Lieutenant Revell arrived with Miss Cassandra Blake on his arm, one of the first couples through the door, with a nod of approval (and a wink to the elder sister) from their hostess.
The pairing of “Mr. Doofus” with Althea Warnaby raised Mrs. Lackington’s hackles, but it was the arrival of D’Evercy, with Annabel on his arm, that caused a certain stir.
“Aren’t you two lovely!” said Lady Gidding-Wedmore, as Mrs. Lackington inserted herself into the matter.
“But, Mr. D’Evercy! I have a most wonderful surprise for you.”
No sooner had she said it than a beautiful young woman appeared at her side, dressed in cunning peach silk with a crown of blossoms perched atop her coiffed curls.
“My daughter, Miss Harriet Lackington.”
With tepid smiles, mother and daughter each arched an eyebrow in Annabel’s direction as Harriet hooked her hand onto D’Evercy’s free arm with a death grip while Annabel’s own hand slipped away.
It happened so fast, he had no time to object and was playing too well-mannered a gentleman to do so, even if Annabel caught a look of stiff irritation on his face. He smiled thinly.
“Miss Lackington. A surprise, indeed.”
“I am early arrived, I know,” said Harriet, voice like syrup over sandpaper. “But Paris was not the same without you.”
The way she said it, the assuredness, the innuendo, made Annabel sink a little, which seemed its intended effect.
She couldn’t imagine why: She was no threat to Harriet-whoever-she-was, in this world or any other.
But she reminded herself that a Regency Society is a club like any club, and not everyone would welcome interlopers, however temporary.
Or maybe this was why they liked “new blood”—fresh na?fs to prey on.
Annabel wasn’t sure who’d set it, but she’d fallen right into the trap.
D’Evercy glanced at her politely but was stuck. Again, there were rules she didn’t know, but about which they were strict. Bunty had said so twice.
“Miss Blake, if you’ll excuse me,” D’Evercy said with a slight bow of his head, at least acting apologetic.
“Of course.” Annabel’s cheeks pinked with embarrassment, but she gave them her most winsome smile. They were all playing characters straight out of an Austen novel, and despite her disappointment at Harriet’s arrival on the scene, she could play her part too.
As she watched D’Evercy escort his new companion into the dining room, Fanny sidled up to her, loosely attached to Warnaby’s arm.
“Enter Harriet Lackington, who believes it preordained that she, and no one else, should be mistress of Ellesmere.”
“Ellesmere . . .” Annabel said, feeling the romance of the word in her mouth, how it rolled off the tip of her tongue and hung in the air like a wish.
***
The ten tables in the wood-paneled room were each set for twelve, a sit-down dinner à l’anglaise, with the serving plates, bowls, and tureens neatly arranged around a magnificent centerpiece, and each guest serving every other whatever dish was nearest. A rowdy clink of silver, crystal, and conversation ensued.
Reverend Tudor held court at the end of one table, his mouth full, plate teeming with everything on offer: roast venison, fowl, lamb, and game pie; crayfish in jelly, potatoes and peas, patés and terrines, meringues, tartlets, and ham. A footman filled his glass.
“Where would the world be without a roast saddle of mutton and a good glass of claret?” He raised his glass, wine slopping over the rim. “I ask you that!”
Food bits spittled out of his mouth, and a green thing clung to his discolored teeth.
The others raised their glasses in a cacophony of pings and happy chatter, except for Cassie, with Lieutenant Revell on one side and Mrs. Lackington on the other, to the reverend’s right.
She had a horrified look on her face. Annabel knew her sister well enough: She was staring into Tudor’s gaping maw at his rotten teeth and the food stuck between them; now she was glancing around the table and seeing nothing but crooked teeth in every shade of cream, yellow, and brown, nothing close to her preferred gleaming white.
Cassie gave her sister an incredulous look, but Annabel returned a stealthy shrug: It’s England, what do you expect?
Annabel was trying to enjoy herself, while avoiding looking at D’Evercy, or Harriet beside him, who was flirting openly.
“Mr. D’Evercy, shall we tell them more about our adventures in Paris?”
Wow, Annabel thought, Harriet is not letting it go. Again, she wondered why the “Lackingtons” played their parts so over-the-top.
“I should think it far more riveting to hear something of life in Virginia,” said D’Evercy, glancing at Annabel, straight across. Apparently, word had gotten around.
Annabel cleared her throat. “Well . . . it is a simple country life, at best.”
“Oh, but Bloomingdale’s must be very beautiful this time of year!” Althea chipped in, bubbling with curiosity.
Annabel looked at Althea, then Cassie. “Bloomingdale’s . . . ?”
“Our lovely home, dear sister,” Cassie said with a self-congratulatory smile.
“‘Bloomingdale’s,’” said Lieutenant Revell. “I like the sound of it.” He looked at Cassie with renewed interest, baldly playing the scoundrel.
Apparently, everyone liked the sound of it; they couldn’t stop saying it.
“Have you been, Mr. Doofus?” said Warnaby. “To Bloomingdale’s?”
Billy puffed up his chest, getting the hang of it all. “Actually, I have been to Bloomingdale’s, one time. And it is . . . splendiferous. Indeed.”
“Splendiferous!” Reverend Tudor repeated, chortling with a mouth full of beef. “What a word! Who can keep up anymore?”
Cassie cut a piece of potato, carrying on blithely, enjoying the bit. “Of course, Miss Warnaby, some prefer Bloomingdale’s in the Christmas season! But I enjoy its colors and varieties all the year round.”
Lady Gidding-Wedmore, who had the highly sensitive directional hearing of a barn owl, called from the other end of the table to Annabel. “Why, your sister tells us it has six floors!”
Annabel did a spit take but managed to pat her mouth with her napkin just in time.
“Six floors,” said Lieutenant Revell. “Well, well.”
“Astonishing,” said D’Evercy.
“Nearly beyond belief,” Harriet added, with the signature Lackington brow.
“Quite!” Mrs. Lackington said, punctuating her daughter’s doubt.
“Well, six very modest floors.” Annabel hoped that would be an end on it.
But Cassie wasn’t done. “I prefer the third!” She popped the piece of potato into her mouth.
Fanny leaned forward and glanced at Annabel down their side of the table, amused.
“And you, Miss Blake,” Althea asked her excitedly. “Which floor do you prefer?”
D’Evercy looked at Annabel, chin cocked with curiosity. She marveled at how they all seemed happy to play along. He wasn’t the only one looking at her, awaiting further dazzling details. She opened her mouth but couldn’t think what to say, when Cassie came to her rescue.
“Truly, each floor is more wonderful than the last!” she said, raising her glass. “To Bloomingdale’s!” Cassie winked at Annabel and smiled with her blazing white teeth. “A reflection of everything we believe is beautiful and good.”
Annabel smiled back, surprised Cassie had even registered what she’d said that morning, but relieved it seemed to satisfy the table and circle the conversation to a close. She joined in the general clinking of glasses all around.
“To Bloomingdale’s!” said Reverend Tudor, sloshing his glass, chewing his beef, and laughing all at once, when suddenly he began gagging and growling, trying to cough up a piece of meat stuck in his throat.
“Good Lord!” said Mrs. Lackington. “I believe the reverend is choking!” She tapped his shoulder ineffectually.
“Hit him hard on the back,” said Lieutenant Revell.
“I don’t think you’re supposed to do that,” Billy said quietly.
Reverend Tudor sucked in one last bit of air, as the meat lodged in his windpipe. His eyes bulged. He grabbed his neck.
“Wait, is he choking for real?” Billy asked.
D’Evercy stood from his chair and threw down his napkin. Annabel stood too.
“Does anyone know the Heimlich?” she asked.
“The what?” asked Warnaby.
“The Heimlich maneuver!”
Annabel scanned the table quickly: nothing but blank stares. Cassie shrugged and looked at Billy.
“I’ve never done it,” he said.
“Done what?” said D’Evercy, as he reached Tudor, who was still clutching his throat, not a sound issuing forth. “We’ve got to do something.”
This was no playacting. Reverend Tudor was purple as a beet.
Annabel moved swiftly. “I don’t know if I’m strong enough.”
“Strong enough for what?” Lieutenant Revell stood as well, though to no effect.
“We have to get him up!” Annabel took one of the reverend’s elbows, and D’Evercy took the other. But she didn’t have enough leverage to budge him.
Billy finally jumped to his feet and took her place opposite D’Evercy. The two of them heaved the reverend out of his chair. Annabel tried to get her arms around him from the back.
“What is she doing to him?” said Mrs. Lackington. “Let go of him at once!”