There were eight long tables in the hall, and each table fell to making individual toasts: “to the Inniskilling Dragoons” and “to the fallen” and “to the militia” and “to the ladies,” and no sooner had Edmund said to himself, “a few of these fellows have had rather too much to drink,” than he realised a belligerent mood was arising at the next table.
“You were best to leave well enough alone, Templeton,” someone said, and Edmund, with a feeling of foreboding, heard the captain reply, “And who are you, hey, to tell me my business? Damn you.”
“You go too far, sir, and you will find that the lady you allude to—”
“The lady! what a fine lady she is! I give you the name of Mrs. Bertram, coupled with—coupled with—”
The captain’s dinner companions growled at him, and one said, “for shame, sir!”
“Shame?” answered the captain. “What have I to be ashamed of?” He snatched up his glass, and, red-faced and staggering, crossed to Edmund’s table.
“Who can find a virtuous woman? For her price is far above rubies—ain’t it, Bertram?”
Edmund pushed back his chair and stood up, and so did everyone else at his table. Captain Templeton drained his glass and set it down, as he continued: “Her candle goeth out not at night. No indeed, it does not! She openeth her mouth with... oh, what is it now, ah yes, with wisdom; and in her tongue, ah, her tongue, hey Bertram?”
“I will thank you,” said Edmund with a calmness which belied his inner contempt, “to refrain from speaking of my wife, now and in the future.”
By now every man in the hall was watching the encounter and Dr. Ritchie was beckoning two of the waiters to come over.
“Oh! Oh! Beg your pardon, my good fellow,” cried Captain Templeton, but he continued advancing toward Edward, clutching onto the backs of the dining chairs as he went, weaving crookedly. “I am most, most dreadfully, most... awfully sorry, if I besmirched the spotless name of your lady. Lady Beautiful. Lady Bountiful. As more than one knows, eh Bertram? I hear tell there is a certain Earl, back in England, who—
Cries of “Shame! Shame!” drowned out the rest of the slur.
“Templeton, you are a disgrace!” exclaimed Dr. Ritchie. “Remove yourself sir, this instant.”
“What did I say? What did I say?” said Templeton, rounding on the doctor, then weaving back to Edmund. “Did I speak falsely? Tell me, Bertram, am I maligning the lady? Am I lying when I say that Lord Elsham knows your wife, knows her, knows her well, knows her biblically, I should say.”
Templeton’s voice echoed to the rafters. The other men stood with expressions ranging from consternation and scorn, to apprehension, and even amusement. Edmund’s face, however, was unreadable.
At last the two waiters, with every evidence of unwillingness, advanced upon the choleric captain, and each attempted to grab an arm. He was a strong burly man, and he threw them off easily, but the violence of the struggle caused him to flounder backward, then forward—he fell to the ground, sprawled out at Edmund’s feet.
“Well?” Captain Templeton hiccoughed, twisting his head about, looking confused. He could see only feet and chair legs. He addressed the nearest ankle, which must belong to Edmund. “Well? Hey? You cuckold, you pander, you bible-walloper!”
“Templeton, I am a clergyman and you are a drunkard,” Edmund bit out the words. “There is, I think, nothing more to say.”
“Nothing more to say! Really? Nothing more, indeed.” Templeton clumsily pulled himself up using the chairs. Edmund wanted to turn his back and walk away, but he was hemmed in all around by tables, chairs and curious fellow diners. Templeton suddenly lunged out, attempting to strike Edmund across the face. Edmund stepped aside easily, the captain overbalanced and fell to the floor again.
“There will be no duel,” said Edmund, more loudly than before. “You are not yourself sir, or rather, if you are, I disdain to know you.”
The waiters, now aided by some dinner guests, managed to seize each of the Captain’s four limbs, and they dragged him out of the hall, the captain shouting incoherently all the while.
There was a brief, unpleasant silence, followed by some awkward coughing. One elderly man clapped Edmund on the shoulder. “I congratulate you, young man, on your Christian forbearance! Turn the other cheek, eh?” but as Edmund glanced around, he observed that no-one would meet his gaze. “Good heavens, is that the time? I must be getting home,” someone said. Others murmured their good-nights.
The hall emptied rapidly, save for a few young men determined not to let the unfinished wine go to waste; they moved swiftly from table to table, gathering up the bottles. The waiters began clearing away, and soon the only sound in the hall was the quiet clinking of dishes and cutlery, and still Edmund stood, lost in thought.
* * * * * * *
The lights were all blazing on the main floor of his home when Edmund finally returned, later that night. Mary was waiting for him in his study.
Edmund had seen his wife angry before, but this was new, different. Mary’s face was colourless, even her lips were pale, but she appeared to be lit from within, with an incandescent anger.
“Edmund, I understand that Captain Templeton insulted me, repeatedly, by name, in front of all of Belfast tonight. Is it so?
“Yes, it is, Mary. I cannot recall the exact words, but, yes.”
“And why did not you—but no, wait, I may have been misinformed. I will hear you first. Tell me, what did you say? What did you do?”
“I told him he
