As they walked through the passageway, Margaret noticed how carefully her companion prevented light from hitting his face. Disconcerted and trying desperately not to think about it, she asked, “What usually happens at these affairs?”
“Oh, a lot of toasting and anecdotes.”
“About your family?”
“And the servants’ families as well. There’s one they tell about Brenlaw’s father and Mr. Logan senior, the present grocer’s father.”
“I’d like to hear it.”
“Oh, it comes up every year. Though I should warn you, it’s a bit vulgar in its humor.”
“If I might be quite frank, Christopher, I don’t think there’s a story in the world crude enough to shock me.” She declared proudly, adding with an airy wave of her hand, “I’ve heard it all.”
“I just thought I’d warn you.” There was a definite grin in his voice. He seemed to see her confidence as a challenge.
When they stepped into the dining room, the servants, who were arranged around the large rectangular table, stood and turned to watch the new arrivals’ entrance. As the two continued their progress toward the head of the table, Margaret whispered, “Do they usually do this?”
“I’m afraid so,” he replied wryly.
“I feel like a goldfish in a bowl.”
“And a very beautiful goldfish you are,” Lord Yawron replied, chuckling.
“Thank you very much,” she grumbled.
The pair reached their seats. The earl pulled out Margaret’s chair, and, when he had seen her safely seated, he sat at the head of the table. Soon as he took his seat, so did everyone else.
His lordship spoke, “My good friends and loyal companions, this is Miss Margaret Taylor, a newcomer to the village. She has graciously accepted my invitation and asks that she be admitted as one of our company. She expects no special treatment above that of any guest in any house. She wishes this celebration to go on as it always has—that includes your story, Brenlaw.” There was a ripple of laughter. With the skill of an experienced raconteur, he waited before continuing. “So, let’s have ourselves a wonderful evening.”
After a brief cheer and applause, the noise of normal conversations took over. Margaret looked around. She was seated with his lordship to her left and the elderly housekeeper, Mrs. Niles, to her right. Brenlaw sat directly across the table from their guest. The meal was excellent, with far more courses than she'd seen in a long time.
“We are so glad you could come, miss,” Mrs. Niles said. “I must confess that a lot of us were worried that the townsfolk might scare you off.”
“Some of them tried. I don’t frighten easily.”
“That’s good. And how are you liking the village?”
“I like it very much. It isn't too isolated from London, it has a nice teahouse, and it's quiet, so I can get on with my work.”
“Which is?”
“I write, Mrs. Niles.”
“Fiction, nonfiction?”
“Nonfiction mostly, though I dabble in the other. I write for journals. You know, observances on life, literature and art, that kind of thing. I've even authored some political commentary. I'm currently working on a series about the last war.”
“And are you thinking of writing this evening down?”
“I don’t know yet. If I do, it will probably be called, ‘The Birthday Party that Surprised the Guest.’ ”
“That’s right. His lordship didn’t want us to tell you. Of course, in some ways, he was quite right to do so. What woman would go to a birthday party for someone she’s never met, knowing she was the only guest invited?”
“What woman would go to the house of someone she’s never met for any reason, knowing she was the only guest invited?”
The older woman blinked in surprise and then smiled wryly. “I guess that’s true, miss. Then again, a writer must have curiosity, and this situation is very curious.”
“Yes, it is. Still I feel uncomfortable not having a gift.”
Niles looked at her employer and seemed pleased to find him engaged in conversation with his butler. Turning back to her companion, she explained gently, “Your company is the best present you could possibly give him. He was so sure you'd say no. Even after you said yes, he expected some disaster to hit. He paced and skipped, giddy and nervous at the same time. I haven't seen him like that in ages. He’s been so alone these past years; it was beautiful to watch his excitement. Quite a kid in a candy shop.”
“I'm glad for that, at least.” She paused, unsure if she should ask the question dominating her thoughts.
This woman was obviously fond of her master and would not want to gossip about the family. Given his avoidance of others since the accident, he clearly did not wish others to gawk at or pity him. Should Margaret put this woman in the uncomfortable position of either revealing too much or insulting a guest?
Finally, the writer in her gave in to her curiosity. “What happened to him exactly, if it’s not too awkward a question to answer?”
The housekeeper dropped her voice. “It was horrible, miss. Just gone eighteen, his lordship had. Got himself one of those newfangled horseless carriages, as they were known then. Dreadful mechanical monsters! Death traps, that’s what they are—begging your pardon, miss. I know you own one, but they are terribly dangerous.”
“I agree. Even driving my Morris motor can be treacherous, and it is far more modern than anything from 1913.”
“Indeed. Well, it was an afternoon very much like today, all rain and wind and cold. The young viscount, as he was then, was driving on the road just outside town, the one they call the London road. A deer or something ran into his path. His lordship swerved to avoid it, lost control of his car, and… It was a miracle the thing didn’t catch on fire. His face went right into the broken windshield, though. Scarred up for life, he was.”
“How awful! And that’s when he stopped visiting the village?”
“Yes. You see, when a man of his lordship's standing has something like that happen, the last thing he wants is pity, and the thing he fears most is ridicule and deceit.”
“I quite understand—what Ronstand’s De Bergerac called, ‘The mockery behind a woman’s smile.’ ”
“Exactly, miss.” She hesitated. “I really shouldn’t have told you about it. He wants you as a genuine friend, not one who wants to be kind to someone less fortunate.”
Though she knew what the older woman meant, she glanced around and wondered if he could be considered 'less fortunate' to anyone but the king himself. “Did all his friends abandon him?”
“They all did eventually. Some he drove away, some ran. Even his fiancée deserted him. But then, I believe she never really loved him anyway.”
“His fiancée?” she replied, shocked. She had never heard about a betrothal, not in all the stories her friends told her.
The old woman blinked, perhaps noticing what she’d said, flushed red, and looked away. “I’ve said too much already, and his lordship is almost done talking with Brenlaw. We’re lucky the young man was able to be distracted from you this long.” She sniffed. “I’ll have to scold him about that.”
Margaret suppressed a laugh. Mrs. Niles’ tone was so haughty and irritated, and she sounded so much like an annoyed schoolmistress that the young woman had to try to keep from snorting. That would not be a very polite or ladylike thing to do.
Lord Yawron turned toward them as though on cue. With a cryptic look at his old nursemaid, he reprimanded lightly, “Mrs. Niles, you should not monopolize our guest.”
Trying to save the servant from discomfort, Margaret smiled sheepishly. “I’m afraid it's my fault. I kept the conversation going, asking questions all the time.”
He bowed. “Then all is forgiven. I only mentioned it because Brenlaw is about to tell us his famous anecdote. Proceed, O’ bard!”
Margaret would not have believed it was possible, but the tale did surprise her. The story recounted almost verbatim a lengthy, rambling, insult-filled argument between Brenlaw’s father and Mr. Logan’s father over the price of vegetables. Finally, Brenlaw’s father, having lost the confrontation, collected his parcels and stormed out of the shop into the snow-covered streets. As his foot hit the pavement, he slipped and fell, bottom first, onto the pointed end of a banana squash.
“The results, to his trousers, were tragic,” Brenlaw concluded with a somber tone.
Everyone laughed. The noise grew to a roar when his lordship remarked on Margaret’s red face. Though the sudden, out-of-nowhere aspect of the squash's appearance was the real shocker, Margaret accepted the implied “I told you so” gracefully and laughed with them.
“That’s what I like,” Lord Yawron declared, “A girl who not only has spirit but can laugh at herself as well.”
“Thank you, my lord, for giving me an opportunity to do so.” The servants responded to the quip with a cheer.
“Any answer to that, my lord?” Brenlaw asked dryly.
“No,” Christopher replied with playful petulance. “I’ve been bested at my own table. How will I ever live this down?”
“By accepting it like a man and downing that bitter pill with fine wine.” Margaret refilled his glass and hers and raised her crystal in salute. “To Lord Christopher Tobias, may his mind never soften, may his heart never harden, and may his pride accept that his wit was beaten.”
“Again!” His lordship exclaimed.
“Be careful, my lord,” Brenlaw remarked, with a sly grin. “So quick a tongue can often prove to be quite sharp.”
“I assure you not,” Margaret replied with her hand to her chest in impish earnestness. “I ‘do but jest, poison in jest.’ ”
“Shakespeare again,” the earl declared. “Then I shall answer you in kind; ‘My wit faints.’ I concede this duel to you. I hope we may still be friends.”
“Of course, and here’s my hand on it.”
He took her offered palm in a firm grip. She tensed at his unexpectedly tight grasp. It almost seemed like he captured her hand. Despite her anxiety, he simply shook it in a very short and business-like manner.
“Gosh,” one of the younger footmen laughed. “She handles herself as well as any man.”
“A man? Really?” Margaret glanced over with a raised eyebrow.
“Yes.” The fellow’s slightly defiant tone was greeted by a growl of reprimand from Brenlaw.
Margaret ignored the servant’s disrespect and replied like she was sparring with a friend. “Coming from a man, I suppose I should take that as a compliment.”
He flushed and replied, “It was meant as one.”
Lord Yawron rapped a spoon on the table. “Children, children, please, pull in your claws.”
“Sorry, my lord,” the footman replied.
“Yes, sorry, my lord,” she repeated with a smirking bow of her head.
“Margaret.” the earl’s cowled head turned toward her, apparently flashing her a disapproving look. She just grinned impishly and shrugged. The hood rotated back to face the table. “If everyone is done digging into their dinner and each other, I think it’s time for the cake.”
“Yes, my lord,” Mrs. Niles rose.
“I’ll help,” Margaret added, getting up.
“Please, sit,” Lord Yawron said, resting his hand on hers. “You’re the guest here. She can get it.”
She gently disengaged his fingers. “I want to. Don’t worry, I’ll be back shortly.”
Without looking back, she followed the older woman. The room was completely silent behind her. She felt eyes following her all the way.
“Why did you follow me?” Mrs. Niles asked, after they entered the servant’s hallway. “His lordship is right. I can handle it by myself.”
The cake lay on a small side table that was used to provide a surface to hold food until it was served. An elaborate cloche protected the celebratory pastry. To the side, a bone-handled blade lay ceremonially on a cushion.
“I don’t know why really. It was an impulse. I tend to be impulsive.” She paused. “Did I do something wrong? I meant nothing by it. My father had a small estate, but it’s been years since I’ve dealt with manor-house etiquette.”
“No, it’s all right.” The housekeeper lifted the cover and began lighting candles. “You can carry in the knife.”
Margaret lifted the pillow and carefully followed Mrs. Niles back to the dining hall. Upon their entrance, expressions of admiration rose from those still at the table. The traditional song was sung, and applause erupted as the earl blew out his candles. The knife was then brought forward. Lord Yawron took it and cut the cake.
“The guest gets the first slice, is that right?” He inclined his head slightly toward Margaret, apparently expecting her to answer his question.
“In my house,” she replied carefully, so as not to insult him in front of his servants, “the tradition was the one whose his birthday is celebrated receives the first piece. It’s good luck.”
“Of course.” He obediently took the first portion of cake. Then he handed the knife to the housekeeper. She cut the pieces, and Margaret handed them down the table. Several of the servants seemed uncomfortable being served by a visitor, but they were too polite or too aware of their station to refuse.
As the cake was passed around, it suddenly occurred to Margaret that, in holding the knife, she was unable to see Lord Yawron’s face as he leaned over to blow out the candles.
He’s probably grateful I went to help, she thought. A moment later, she reconsidered. That is, unless he wanted to give me an opportunity to see his face.
“Miss?” Mrs. Niles called gently. The housekeeper was studying her with a worried look.
Margaret blinked and focused on the older woman. “Hmm?”
“If you sit down, I will serve you your piece of cake.”
“What? Oh, yes, of course.” Embarrassed, and with everyone's attention on her again, she hurried to her chair.
“Are you all right, Margaret?” The earl asked.
“Yes, I’m fine. My mind drifted off for a moment, that’s all.”
“If you’re sure.”
“Yes, I’m sure. Thank you, my lord.” Feeling his unseen eyes watching her, she took a forkful of cake and popped it into her mouth. The morsel melted, the taste of chocolate and brandy exploding on her tongue. She closed her eyes, savoring it. “Delicious!”
With a nervous movement, his lordship took a bite and declared to the cook, “Yes, Mrs. Hinten, you really have outdone yourself tonight. But then you always were a wizard with desserts, weren’t you?” The subject of the compliment at the far end of the table grinned, blushing, and thanked her admirer.
After dessert was over, Brenlaw gave a signal. The servants who were not clearing up dispersed to their duties. Rising, the earl offered Margaret his arm and led her back to the drawing room.