“Boys, boys, settle down,” I said as I pulled them apart and reseated Neal on his chair. The last thing I needed was for Charles to hear the commotion and come to investigate.
Thankfully, Cook had had the presence of mind to feed the children first, and moments later the servants arrived bearing a wonderful array of food specially prepared to appeal to small boys. There were little pork pies with images of bunnies and ducks carved into their crusts and battered cod with slices of deep-fried potatoes, a new culinary trend. During their meal, the silence was interrupted only by their occasional requests for help cutting or buttering bread.
Meanwhile, the noise level from the dining room had risen to a steady hum. Crystal glasses chimed as the servants cleared away the first course and set down the roast pheasant, but I could make out Charles’s voice. It was slow and careful, verging on pedantic.
“I have a clear vision of the path this country and the empire should be on,” he was saying. “We can’t yield to the bloody isolationists. Colonization is the only way forward. We do the world a great favour. What could be better than British know-how? We are superior at most things, by far.”
Who was he talking to? I peered through the gap behind the door. The backs of those at the head of the table were only a few feet from my hidden seat. I recognized the back of Charles’s head, of course, with its bald spot carefully combed over. On his right, I saw the grizzled silver hair of his uncle, Lord Ainsley. I leaned forward to catch a glimpse of the lady on his left; I couldn’t quite make her out at first. I thought it likely to be Lady Margaret but was startled to see the thick black hair and milky skin of Mrs. Sledge. Why did she have such an honoured seat? And where was Harriet?
I leaned back, a little precariously, on two legs of my chair, scanning the faces at the far end of the table. There she was. Instead of chatting to the guest on her right, as etiquette would dictate, she was staring, unabashedly, at the head of the table. She looked even paler than she did before dinner.
“Miss Charlotte!”
I almost lost my balance and overcorrected, the front legs of my chair landing on the floor with a loud thud. There was a pause in the main room before the conversation resumed.
“Yes, Donald. What is it?”
“What are we having for the pudding course? And when is it coming?”
“I don’t know, but we can find out.” I made my way over to the writing desk in the corner where the capsule pipeline was installed. “Let me show you the very latest in technology that our host has installed for our comfort.” I scribbled a note on a scrap of paper. “You see, all I have to do is write my question, put it in the round cylinder, and…” I opened the small brass door in the wall beside the desk and placed the canister through the opening. With a loud swoosh, the canister was snatched from my hand and sucked into the vacuum.
“Ohhhh,” the boys said in unison.
“Cook will be sending her note back directly.”
The three sets of small eyes grew rounder as we waited in hushed silence for a few moments until a rattling in the tube told me my return note had arrived. I opened the little brass door and the cylinder popped out into my hand.
Opening the note, I read, “ ‘Thank you for your note, miss. The pudding will be chocolate, and there’ll be apple cake with caramel sauce. Paul will bring it up directly.’ ” I added my own postscript: “Dessert is reserved for those little boys who have eaten at least half the food on their dinner plates.”
The boys dove for their seats and attacked their plates.
It was not long after the dessert course that, with immense relief, I welcomed the presence of our butler, Sandwell. He ceremoniously entered our little den and, bowing, announced that the carriage had arrived to take the boys and their mother home, as it was long past the young masters’ bedtime. He ushered them into the main dining room to say their good nights.
I watched through the door crack as Mary rose from her seat and herded her sons over to where Lord Ainsley sat. Charles stepped in and formally introduced them to his uncle. Each child, the perfect model of propriety, bowed slightly and shook the older man’s hand. After a few minutes of observing from afar, Hari stood and walked the length of the room to join the group. With what seemed an afterthought, Charles introduced her to the boys. I saw her nod to each in turn, a forced smile on her face. Mary and her brood soon left, and I watched Hari wander back to her seat. I wished I was there to console her.
Settling back down, I noticed the youngest, Neal, had left part of his apple cake, and I didn’t hesitate to pull it across the table towards me.
“Lovely young lads, a credit to their mother,” I heard Lord Ainsley say. I put down my fork. Now that the children were gone, I could hear the conversation at the head of the table even more clearly.
“They’re fine boys. I know them well, and I wanted you to get a chance to meet them,” Charles replied.
“Three healthy sons. Some women are blessed. How I wished my Margaret would have been. How long have you been married now?”
“Three years.”
There was a pause before Lord Ainsley
