he mouthed silently.
She shook her head as a blush rose in her cheeks. Alanbrooke must be intuitive. Or was she that transparent?
Thankfully, Deirdre wormed her way into the circle. “I hate to take Eleanor away, but she has yet to meet her dinner partner.” At the groans and offers to take his place, Deirdre shook her finger at them. “And you gentlemen have been shamefully neglecting your own designated partners. Dinner will be served in a few minutes, so I suggest you make amends before you’re doomed to endure a silent meal.” She took Eleanor’s arm and led her away.
“I take it you enjoyed yourself,” Deirdre said with a smug smile. “Unfortunately, it’s now time to pay the piper.” Moments later, she introduced Eleanor to the candy-eating rector, Mr. Fleckart, who by now had a bulging pocket full of Jordan almonds.
He took her hand and bowed. While he waxed eloquent over the honor Miss Cracklebury bestowed upon him by inviting him to partake of what he was sure would be an exemplary meal, Eleanor pulled her hand back and surreptitiously tried to wipe off the sticky residue he’d left. Deirdre gave her an apologetic look.
A sudden hush caused her to turn toward the door. Lord Shermont had entered.
“Good evening,” he said loud enough for all to hear. “I do hope my appearance is not the cause of any inconvenience.”
Of course, he would have to know the opposite was true, but all would forgive the ranking male. If Eleanor could judge by Mina’s welcoming smile, she’d already done so.
Aunt Patience scowled and made a “harrumph” noise.
Deirdre excused herself and rushed to her sister’s side. “We are relieved you are no longer unwell,” she said to him. “And pleased you decided to join us.”
“There I was eating my solitary meal when I realized I was missing the opportunity of spending time with the loveliest females in England.”
Mina giggled, and Deirdre grinned as he bent over her hand. Eleanor understood their reaction and felt a similar welcoming elation. In the course of making his bow, he glanced at her and smiled as if he’d read her mind. Warmth spread through her veins like melted honey.
Shermont made the rounds to greet the guests he already knew, including Major Alanbrooke, and to meet the lieutenants. Despite Carl’s insinuation that the decision to dine downstairs came suspiciously soon after he’d relayed the servants’ gossip regarding Eleanor’s interest in the military men, Shermont’s assessment of the situation proved he’d made the right choice. The younger officers were garrulous, and, in their eagerness to impress, they could inadvertently reveal information valuable to the enemy.
Shermont positioned himself near the fireplace where he could overhear the voluble officers and watch Eleanor, thereby mixing duty with pleasure. On the other hand, it put him in proximity to Patience Aubin, who was not happy to see him, even though she didn’t have the nerve to give him the cut direct.
Patience wore a heavy coating of powder on her face that did little to hide the deep pits that marked her as a smallpox survivor. But it did provide a clue to her vanity—and show him a path he could use to charm himself back into her good graces.
First, he tried a bit of flattery regarding her hideous headgear, an old-fashioned, shiny white turban with an ostrich feather that looked as if it had sprouted from her forehead. Then he added a deferential bow to her judgment on the unnecessary education of girls, even though he had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from voicing his true opinion, and he managed his goal with ease, if not comfort.
“As I fast approach the status of elder,” he said with a gesture that included the young Maxwell girls and the two brash lieutenants by the window, “I find myself championing the value of experience over the exuberance of youth.”
“One would hardly call you old,” Patience responded, flipping open her fan and covering the lower half of her face as if she were still a shy girl. “You are still a youngster to us. Don’t we agree—Lord Shermont is in his prime?” she asked the other chaperones seated nearby.
“Then I must bow to your opinion. If I had a glass in my hand, I would raise it to experience.”
The older ladies responded with girlish titters.
Within a short time Deirdre had realigned certain members of the group with new dinner partners. Her deft handling of the emergency impressed Eleanor, even if the changes did not reach as far down the ladder as herself and the rector.
Fortunately, Fleckart’s incessant chatter on the trials and tribulations of his position needed little input beyond an occasional nod or monosyllabic response. When the gong sounded again, they lined up with the others for the promenade to the dining room. The table was impressively packed with elaborate dishes and candelabra. As soon as they were seated, the footmen served a greenish soup from a large turtle shell. Since she found no peas in the thick broth, she simply pushed the grayish lumps she did find around with her spoon until they removed the bowls.
Fleckart’s single-minded application to the task of stuffing his mouth freed her to watch the sisters for clues to the proper etiquette of the intricate dining rituals. When Deirdre, seated at the foot of the long table, spoke to Shermont, seated on her right, all the women conversed with the person to their right. When the hostess turned and conversed with Major Alanbrooke to her left, all the women turned to their left. Because of the extra female guests at the table, Fiona was seated to Eleanor’s left, and the young girl was more interested in making eyes at Lieutenants Whitby and Parker across the table than talking.
“Psst,” Eleanor whispered to get Fiona’s attention. “This style of dining is … ah … foreign to me. Any help you could give me would be appreciated.”
The girl readily agreed without taking her eyes off Whitby.
Eleanor ate very little. And not just because neither Deirdre nor Mina nor any other woman except the chaperones tasted more than a few tidbits. Eleanor sat equidistant from the ends of the table, and a whole roasted pig had been placed smack dab in the center. His porcine eye stared directly at her, ruining her appetite.
She stole a glance at Shermont. He lounged back in his chair, looking straight at her. He raised his wineglass in a silent toast. His intense regard promised more, and it gave her a fluttery feeling in the pit of her stomach. She had to look away.
The dishes were not served or passed, but everyone simply partook of what was in front of them. Since the table was packed with serving pieces, there was a wide assortment within reach, but she recognized almost nothing. Eleanor had never considered herself a picky eater, but she quickly learned she wasn’t adventurous. Cook apparently wasn’t big on plain food and served almost every sort of meat disguised as something else. The few vegetables presented had been boiled to near mush before being drowned in assorted sauces.
Mr. Fleckart offered her a serving from a bowl in front of him. “Creamed pickled eel?”
Eleanor shook her head, looking away from what resembled slugs floating in clotted milk. She reached for one of the tomatoes placed among the unidentified greens around the pork centerpiece. Fiona, seated next to her, gasped and looked at her with wide-eyed shock.
“Those are poison.”
“Tomatoes?”
“Love apples. They’re only for decoration.”
Eleanor wanted to argue and even prove the conviction false, but she doubted anyone would believe her. She decided the disturbance that proving her point would cause was not worth the trouble. Instead she reached for a plate of assorted cheeses.
The girl made a negative noise.
“No?” Eleanor asked. “Decoration?”
Fiona ducked her head and whispered from behind her napkin. “We do not eat cheese in mixed company because it is properly eaten with one’s fingers. Most men find the aroma that lingers on a girl’s hands and breath unattractive.”
“Oh.” But apparently men with smelly breath and stinky fingers were tolerated—that good old double standard. Again, Eleanor decided against challenging the cultural conventions. As much as she’d always admired the Regency period, she was beginning to miss modern times.
Mr. Fleckart cleared his throat. When she glanced back toward him he held another dish out to her. She must have missed whatever he’d said, but it appeared to be a smoked white fish devoid of unidentifiable sauce. She smiled and took a small piece.
