Chapter
Thirty-Seven

“Father,” Kate said with a laugh, “when you decide to do a thing, you certainly don’t go at it by half measures, do you?”

“I like to think that about myself,” he said, still huffing and puffing slightly after his exertions. “But to what exactly are you referring in this instance?”

“When I suggested that you should dance with Mrs. Murphy, I didn’t mean you should feel the need to dance with all the female help. After she came back from wherever she disappeared to, you even danced with Fanny!”

“Yes, well, in for a penny, in for a pound. And you know, the pound is worth so much more.” He gave a last big exhale. “Although I must confess, that Agnes of yours can dance—that girl wore me out!”

“I think everyone’s a bit worn out now,” Kate said, assessing the music room, in which everyone had finally ceased dancing, preferring to talk in small groupings, and even Mr. Wright had grown a little lackluster in his manning of the gramophone. There had been at least a few minutes’ gap between when the last record ended and this one began.

“I think,” Father said, “that some refreshments are in order and then to bed for all of us.”

“I quite agree. I’ll just tell Mrs. Owen to—”

“No, don’t do that,” Father said. “I mean, of course Mrs. Owen will need to organize the food end of things, and Fanny will need to help her, but I have another idea.”

“Which is what, exactly?”

“It’s what you said before.” He tapped his forefinger against his lips. “About not doing things by half measures.”

“I’m afraid I don’t follow.”

“When I said that we should have a dance this evening and that we should include the servants, as a diversion for every one of us from all this unpleasantness this weekend, well… It’s not much of a diversion for the servants, is it, if they immediately have to go back to waiting on us?”

“It is what servants are for, Father. If they did not serve us, how else would we know that they are servants?”

“Yes, of course. But wouldn’t it be more—oh, I don’t know—festive, if we were to pitch in, too?”

“Festive?” Kate narrowed her eyes. “What are you proposing? That I chop up some beef and Mother can roast it in a pan? That Lizzy whip up a blancmange and Grace—well, I can’t think right now what Grace might be good for, but give me some time and I’m sure I can manage to come up with something.”

“Of course that is not what I am proposing—don’t be absurd! I already indicated that Mrs. Owen and Fanny would still need to do the more…kitcheny things, and of course the footmen would have to carry any heavy trays.” He put his hands in front of him and then slowly separated them outward, as though laying out whatever scene he was envisioning in his head. “Then everything could be set up in the front parlor—no, make that the back parlor. Since the servants will be joining us, it might as well be in a less formal room. Plus, you know, less nice things for them to muck up. And then—”

“You want us to take our refreshments with the servants? And we’re supposed to help out somehow?”

“Am I not making myself sufficiently clear, Kate? I want this to feel festive! For just a few minutes, it’ll be a real holiday for everybody, like a Christmas before Christmas. So we will assist the servants in bearing the refreshments to the back parlor. I promise you, it won’t be anything too difficult on our end, just the smaller things and I can, oh, I don’t know, carry a lemon or something.”

Kate lifted her eyebrows so high, she could practically feel them hit her hairline. “A lemon?”

“For tea! Some people take lemon in their tea, you know.”

“Yes, I do. And I also know that, sometimes, you are too good for this world.”

“Hardly. Now, then…” Father looked around the room, his eyes eventually settling on the person he sought. “Wright!” he called across. “A word over here, please, if you would!”

When Wright did as had been requested, Father explained his little plan, at which point the butler stiffened and said, “With all due respect, Your Lordship, but have you gone insane?”

…

“Has Martin gone insane?” Grandmama said a half hour later as she used her cane with her left hand while carefully conveying a small pitcher of milk in her shaking right hand.

Kate had never pictured her grandmother and Wright having much in common in terms of ideas—or in anything else, really—but in this, it would appear, their attitudes were as one.

The whole group had processed up from the kitchen and were now making their way through the house and toward the back parlor. It was a snail’s progress with their three remaining healthy guests and the rest of the family except for Grandfather carrying small items ahead, while the servants with their far more burdensome trays took up the rear. No matter that it might make sense for the servants to go on ahead to set things up and ease their burden, it wouldn’t do for them to pass their betters.

“He thought it would be fun,” Kate said brightly.

“Fun.” Grandmama invested the word with scorn. “‘Fun’ is a nice juicy bit of gossip that you didn’t expect to hear that day and coming from a quarter from which you never expected to hear such a thing, preferably that Rowena Clarke person, who strikes me as someone who fancies herself above it all. ‘Fun’ is an enemy finding herself in a preposterously embarrassing situation. ‘Did you know you had your hat on backward or is that the fashion in Paris these days?’ But this?”

“The others seem to be enjoying themselves,” Kate said with a chin nod ahead.

It was true. The rest of the family and guests bearing their small items, even Father with his lemon—they all appeared to be having a jolly time; well, except for Grace, who was doing her part by carrying something, but only in a half-hearted fashion and with a somewhat grim and distracted look upon her face. But outside of her? They all seemed happy enough. Indeed, Cousin Benedict and Rowena Clarke appeared to consider it quite the good game, occasionally trading their items between themselves, something along the lines of “You take the sugar bowl for a bit and I’ll carry the little silver dish with jam in it with its tiny spoon shaped like a silver pineapple.”

“Then they are simpletons!” Grandmama said. “And why did Martin get to carry the lemon? Come to that, why are there not more lemons? How will we ever get by with just the one?”

“It’s symbolic,” Kate said. “I’m sure the servants are bringing more.”

“I could have carried a lemon,” Grandmama huffed, “instead of this ridiculous milk pitcher.” As she said it, the pitcher wavered some more. “And why aren’t you carrying anything?”

“Because I’m walking with you and making sure you are all right.”

“If that is the case, then you should be looking after that other grandparent of yours. He cannot be trusted to carry anything.”

“Which is why he isn’t and why I am blessed with the distinct pleasure of accompanying you.”

“Do you think I am feeble? Do you think me incapable of carrying a small pitcher of milk without dropping it?”

Kate sought for the politic answers to both these questions, but before she could come up with something, Grandmama was on the attack again.

“And why is Fidelia the only one besides you and that wretched father of hers to be carrying nothing? Martin doesn’t need minding. Shouldn’t she be contributing to all this fun we are having, too?”

Now this Kate did have an answer for.

“You know that all Father ever expects of Mother is that she look beautiful and be happy.”

As far as Kate was concerned, her parents had a perfect marriage.

“He spoils her,” Grandmama said. “He always has, much to my chagrin.”

Those walking ahead had already stepped onto the black-and-white large-checked marble floor beneath the gallery, which they would need to cross to get to the back parlor beyond. But suddenly all progress stopped and there appeared to be some kind of commotion going on, and she could hear a thumping coming from upstairs.

Kate left her grandmother’s side and pressed through, in order to see what was going on, arriving just in time to discover the duke pointing at something overhead.

Kate looked up to where he was pointing, at a portly figure clad in a nightshirt who appeared to be moving in an unsteady fashion toward the pink marble railing of the gallery.

“Look!” the duke said. “It’s Mr. Young! He’s made a complete recovery!” Then concern filled his voice. “But are you sure you should be out of bed, Mr. Young?”

“It can’t be,” Grace said, dumbstruck. “This isn’t happening. It’s simply not possible.”

“What are you talking about?” Kate demanded.

“That can’t be Mr. Young up there.” Grace paused, gulping. “Merry is dead.”