Dressed for a dinner he had no wish to attend, Lewis went to Jack’s room. He tapped lightly in case Jack was asleep, but he heard Maggs talking from inside, and a moment later, the door opened wide.
“Yes, yes, Mr. Lewis, do come in, sir,” Maggs said. “We are mostly ready, aren’t we, Mr. Wedbury? We had a bit of difficulty deciding what to wear, ha-ha, but as you see, we came around in the end. Now, Mr. Wedbury, we must just keep your raiment tidy until we return to this room.”
Jack looked handsome in navy, with a silk waistcoat of narrow red and white stripes. His linen was impeccably white, his cravat simple but elegant with a garnet pin as adornment. No reason for an observer to think he’d suffered a day’s illness in his life.
Lewis crossed the room and sat by the fireplace. Jack sat primly in the matching chair, obeying his nursemaid like a child dressed up for an audience with guests.
Maggs stood before the mirror, grappling with his own cravat. He finally settled the knot in place and tucked the ends inside his waistcoat. Then he pulled on his coat, a plain, unobtrusive black expertly tailored to fit his bulk, and stretched out his arms in a grand gesture. “All primed for company. What do you say, sir? Will I embarrass you?”
Jack surveyed him. “You look like a boxer stuffed into a magpie costume. Could stand a little color.”
“A magpie costume!” Maggs laughed at some length. “That’s very good, Mr. Jack. I’ll leave the colored bits to you gentlemen.”
When Robert came to fetch them to dinner, Jack suffered Maggs to give his cuffs a final twitch and strode out the door.
Maggs followed and Lewis brought up the rear, trudging down the hallway. Why was he so bloody nervous? This was not his trial; his parents had tried him years ago and found him wanting. No, this was Jack’s trial. It was a blessing he didn’t know it.
Maggs slid one finger round the front of his neck between skin and cravat. “Don’t know why I should be anxious, Mr. Aubrey. Your mama and papa raised you, they must be as pleasant and broad-minded as you are.”
Lewis had never in his life called them Mama and Papa, and they were neither pleasant nor broad-minded. He could not leave poor Maggs thinking he was safe from them.
“My parents have a special way of sneering at their inferiors. Best be on your guard, Mr. Maggs.”
Maggs almost lost his footing as he turned, wide-eyed. Lewis met his shocked gaze with a shrug. He couldn’t change the way things were.
Sir John arrived at the drawing room door just ahead of them, as though he’d been listening for their voices on the stairs. He gave his son a quick inspection from head to toe, then a quicker one for Maggs. For Lewis he had a broad smile. Artificial, Lewis was sure, though he hid it well. This man and his wife had been Lewis’s models for social grace all his life.
Lewis grinned back—he had learned that lesson, at least—and Sir John responded with a sparkle of real humor, the skin crinkling at the corners of his eyes. He nodded for Horton to open the door and led the way into the room.
While Sir John advanced on Lewis’s father with hand outstretched, Lewis moved to his mother’s side. She was overdressed as always, because silk and lace meant status and the more silk and lace you could show off at one time, the higher your status must be.
“Good evening, Mother.”
“Lewis.” She presented one cool, powdered cheek for his kiss. The same cheek she’d offered when he came home in August after half a year’s absence, barely glancing up from her interminable embroidery.
“We’ve been waiting twenty minutes.” As she spoke, her critical glance swept over Maggs, now being introduced to Father as “a sort of aide-de-camp.” Maggs bowed but did not offer his hand. Right move, Maggs. Lewis could not hear Father’s reply.
As Jack and the others came to greet her, Lewis went to shake his father’s hand.
“Well, Lewis.”
From Father, too, the very same greeting. Except that in August, he’d given Lewis a thorough inspection before sniffing in disdain and delivering the inevitable criticisms. “I see you dropped some blunt on the London tailors, but I can’t say you look much the better for your grand London adventure. Did you cut your hair once in all the time you were gone?”
Lewis had been curious to see if either parent would evince any sign of affection, real or feigned. After a week of waiting, he gave up and transferred his things to White Oaks.
He’d seen them perhaps a dozen times since, at church or around town. After twenty years of insult and neglect, his calluses had grown thick. But there was no reason to subject himself to the daily barbs. Staying at the Wedburys’ made them easy to avoid.
His mother sat by the table that held her drink. Since the other men remained standing, Lewis felt obligated to join her. He could have used a drink himself, but none had been offered since they entered the room.
She took a sip. “Jack seems lively. I expected to see him reduced to a wraith. It’s Sir John who looks ill.”
“Yes, I’m relieved to find Jack so well. We went for a ride this afternoon, and he came through it with energy to spare.”
Lewis ignored the second part of her comment. How unfair that his father should appear so vital. His color was good, and though his black hair showed some gray, he had a full head of it. A full set of teeth too. A stranger might think him fifteen years younger than Sir John, rather than three. Perhaps that was why Father seemed more than usually pleased with himself.
Not nearly soon enough, Horton announced dinner. “Finally,” Jack exclaimed. “I’m ravenous!”
Lewis’s father let out a manly guffaw. “What refreshing candor! I’m much inclined to pull out that line at the next dinner party I attend.” He took his wife’s arm. “Do you think I should, my dear? Or would it be too dreadfully gauche?”
She tittered behind her gloved hand. No one else laughed at his insulting little joke.
Lewis ground his teeth. Jack Wedbury, the poor idiot.