Great was his relief when he entered the dining room to find—aside from the ladies and old Mr. Nethercote—not one familiar face amongst the lot. Seats were not assigned, but his fellow diners’ careful adherence to the rules of precedence gave evidence of genteel upbringing. He wondered fleetingly what had happened to them all that might account for their present reduced circumstances.
Mrs. Drinkard presided over the head of the table just as if she were hosting an elegant dinner party, while her daughter occupied the foot, arrayed in a blue satin gown that, if not quite in the first stare of fashion, nevertheless made it hard to believe she’d been employed in the kitchen scarcely an hour earlier. Mr. Nethercote, by virtue of his age, occupied the place of honor at his hostess’s right, while Mrs. Jennings sat at Miss Drinkard’s right, apparently for the same reason. The curate sat at Mrs. Drinkard’s left, and Theodore was relieved to discover that this gentleman was at least forty years old, apparently languishing in his present position for lack of a patron; certainly he was too old to have known Theodore at Oxford, or Eton, or any of the other places where young men of noble birth might be expected to cross paths. The lawyer’s apprentice was also a stranger, and one, furthermore, who glared at Theodore from his place at Miss Drinkard’s left with much the same air as a dog guarding a bone. Theodore mumbled a greeting to the group at large, and took the chair between Mr. Nethercote and the curate.
“Good evening, Mr. Tisdale,” said Mrs. Drinkard, inclining her head in a way that set the ostrich plumes in her hair bobbing. “Friends, this is Mr. Theodore Tisdale, who will be staying with us for a while. Mr. Tisdale, allow me to make you known to the other residents. Of course, you’ve met my daughter Daphne. This is Mrs. Mary Jennings, Mr. Edward Nethercote, Mr. Henry Nutley, and Mr. Thomas Potts.”
As everyone was seated, nods sufficed in lieu of bows or curtseys, and the meal began. The dishes in their various serving vessels were already on the table, each one passed around hand to hand so that each boarder might take as much as he or she desired. Mrs. Drinkard explained to Theo that she preferred the presentation of dinner à la française to the growing fashion for service à la russe; Theo suspected, however, that her fondness for the earlier mode had more to do with a lack of footmen on hand to serve each person and then remove the dishes to make way for the next course.
“Tell me, Mr. Tisdale,” said Mrs. Jennings, leaning a little forward in a way that put her long strand of pearls in danger of landing in her soup, “what brings you to Lancashire?”
It was the question he had been dreading, but he knew it could not be avoided. “I’ll be taking a position at the mill in the morning,” Theodore said repressively, daring anyone to ask for further enlightenment.
“Most mill workers live in the cottages on the other side of the river.” The lawyer’s apprentice sounded faintly accusatory, as if he suspected Theodore of taking up residence in the boardinghouse for the sole purpose of seducing Miss Drinkard. “They’re closer to the mill.”
“Then I suppose I’ll have to be sure I get up early enough to walk,” Theodore said blandly, and turned his attention to his dinner.
This proved to be a dish of chicken roasted with potatoes and seasoned with herbs—hardly surprising, since on his trek to the kitchen in search of water, he had seen the chicken and smelled the herbs. The result was a meal which, though woefully plain to one accustomed to elaborate concoctions devised by French chefs, was surprisingly good. Or perhaps it owed its appeal to the fact that Theodore had had nothing to eat since breakfast that morning. Either way, he addressed his plate with enthusiasm, until interrupted by Mr. Nutley, the curate.
“Wherever you choose to make your residence, Mr. Tisdale, I daresay you will find no cause for complaint in your employer. Sir Ethan Brundy is, I believe, a very good sort of man.”
As Sir Ethan had fallen considerably in his brother-in-law’s estimation over the past few days, Theodore offered no reply to this observation beyond a noncommittal grunt. Mr. Nethercote, however, was quick to fill what might otherwise have been an uncomfortable silence.
“Good leg of lamb?” he scoffed. “Balderdash! Anyone can see it’s a chicken, Nutley. And a very good one, too,” he added as an aside to his hostess.
“Why, thank you, Mr. Nethercote,” said Mrs. Drinkard, turning quite pink with pleasure. “It is not always easy to set a pleasing meal on the table when I am so very pressed for—but never mind that! I shall convey your kind words to the cook.”
The other diners, seeing how much this small tribute had meant to her, were quick to add their own praises. Once these compliments were conveyed, however, the curate returned to the subject of his original discourse.
“Yes, a very good sort of man, indeed,” continued Mr. Nutley, blissfully unaware of having touched his fellow diner on the raw. “When Mr. Parsons—the vicar, you know, and very aptly named, is he not?—as I say, when Mr. Parsons made a very casual remark about how the church roof would need repairs before the winter sets in, scarcely a day had passed before Sir Ethan sent over a bank draft sufficient to cover the entire cost!”
Theodore was unimpressed with this proof of Sir Ethan’s generosity, proving as it did that his brother by marriage might have settled Theodore’s debts without the slightest inconvenience to himself, had he only chosen to do so. Once again, he was forced to bite his tongue in order to resist the urge
