sane, he seemed a perfect balance for Estelle's
giddiness. Olivia hoped fervently that he would make known his intentions
towards her cousin soon. Not only were they well suited in every way but one
wedding in the family might well divert her aunt's attention from trying to
force another.
Having
spent much of the evening in the billiards room with his host, Clarence
Pennworthy—manager of the merchant bank with which Templewood and Ransome did
business—Sir Joshua suddenly materialized in their midst. "And where might
your worthy escort of the evening be, my dear?" he asked Olivia with a
heartiness she found rather overdone.
"I
have no idea," she answered frostily. Why the hell did everyone
think she was Freddie Birkhurst's keeper!
"Not
taking his escorting duties seriously enough, eh?" he teased, chuckling at
her unconcealed chagrin. "Well, don't tell your aunt you've been careless
enough to lose him, will you?"
"Lose
who, or is it whom?" Betty
Pennworthy, a vague, twittering woman with perpetually untidy hair that looked like
a nest and gave her the air of a sparrow, appeared, casting quick glances at
everyone's plates.
"Young
Freddie. Haven't seen him all evening."
"Nor
likely to, Josh," his hostess said sternly with a firm grip on his arm,
"if all you men do is closet yourselves in corners talking politics and
money. If I hear another word about that wretched Afghan problem, I
swear I shall have hysterics. Clarence?" she issued a command to her
husband, who was engaged in hot argument with a portly gent with a walrus
moustache. "I wish you would persuade your guests to start eating, dear,
before the dinner turns stone cold and absolutely in edible!"
"In
a moment, pet," her husband responded impatiently. "Another beer,
Josh?" Wiping speckles of froth from his whiskers, Sir Joshua patted Betty
Pennworthy on the hand absently and both men walked off, waving their empty
tankards in the direction of a bearer.
It
was while the pudding, a rather flattened caramel custard, was being passed
around and Olivia had resignedly joined her aunt's circle for a dutiful
discussion on heat boils and the iniquities of native servants that a diversion
occurred to put an untimely end to the evening jollifications. Freddie
Birkhurst was discovered in the garden under a croton bush, drunk and out cold.
In the commotion that ensued, with Dr. Humphries bellowing for smelling-salts,
American ice and hot tea, the party inevitably disintegrated, with the caramel
custard forgotten by everyone except Estelle, who, under cover of confusion,
gave herself several generous servings. Escorted by Lady Bridget, Mrs. Humphries,
and one or two others, Betty Pennworthy repaired to her bedroom to have her
vapours in comfort and, one by one or in couples and families, the guests
started to discreetly go home.
The
ride back in the Templewood carriage was conducted mostly in grim silence.
"If he can't hold his liquor, the silly ass has no right to drink!"
Sir Joshua made no bones about his disgust.
Behind
a lace hanky, Lady Bridget sniffed. "I can't see what the fuss is all
about," she murmured, bravely making the best of her own mortification.
"Gentlemen do occasionally go one over the eight— you should know that
as well as anyone, Josh." Pointedly, she sniffed again.
"One
over the eight? Twenty-eight more
likely!"
Only
Estelle dared to giggle. "He has much more, Susan Bradshaw says her
brother tells her, at the Golden Behind where—" Too late, she broke off
and clamped a hand to her mouth.
There
was a moment's ominous silence. Then, in a voice hushed with anger, Sir Joshua
asked, "And what may you know of the Golden Behind, my lass?"
Estelle
gulped. "I'm only s-saying what everybody s-says, Papa—"
"No
daughter of mine is every body!"her
father roared. "My daughter is—or is expected to be—a lady, not a
crude-tongued gutter-snipe, is that clear, Estelle?"
"Y-yes,
Papa."
"And
if this is the language you share with your friends, I must say I
giddiness. Olivia hoped fervently that he would make known his intentions
towards her cousin soon. Not only were they well suited in every way but one
wedding in the family might well divert her aunt's attention from trying to
force another.
Having
spent much of the evening in the billiards room with his host, Clarence
Pennworthy—manager of the merchant bank with which Templewood and Ransome did
business—Sir Joshua suddenly materialized in their midst. "And where might
your worthy escort of the evening be, my dear?" he asked Olivia with a
heartiness she found rather overdone.
"I
have no idea," she answered frostily. Why the hell did everyone
think she was Freddie Birkhurst's keeper!
"Not
taking his escorting duties seriously enough, eh?" he teased, chuckling at
her unconcealed chagrin. "Well, don't tell your aunt you've been careless
enough to lose him, will you?"
"Lose
who, or is it whom?" Betty
Pennworthy, a vague, twittering woman with perpetually untidy hair that looked like
a nest and gave her the air of a sparrow, appeared, casting quick glances at
everyone's plates.
"Young
Freddie. Haven't seen him all evening."
"Nor
likely to, Josh," his hostess said sternly with a firm grip on his arm,
"if all you men do is closet yourselves in corners talking politics and
money. If I hear another word about that wretched Afghan problem, I
swear I shall have hysterics. Clarence?" she issued a command to her
husband, who was engaged in hot argument with a portly gent with a walrus
moustache. "I wish you would persuade your guests to start eating, dear,
before the dinner turns stone cold and absolutely in edible!"
"In
a moment, pet," her husband responded impatiently. "Another beer,
Josh?" Wiping speckles of froth from his whiskers, Sir Joshua patted Betty
Pennworthy on the hand absently and both men walked off, waving their empty
tankards in the direction of a bearer.
It
was while the pudding, a rather flattened caramel custard, was being passed
around and Olivia had resignedly joined her aunt's circle for a dutiful
discussion on heat boils and the iniquities of native servants that a diversion
occurred to put an untimely end to the evening jollifications. Freddie
Birkhurst was discovered in the garden under a croton bush, drunk and out cold.
In the commotion that ensued, with Dr. Humphries bellowing for smelling-salts,
American ice and hot tea, the party inevitably disintegrated, with the caramel
custard forgotten by everyone except Estelle, who, under cover of confusion,
gave herself several generous servings. Escorted by Lady Bridget, Mrs. Humphries,
and one or two others, Betty Pennworthy repaired to her bedroom to have her
vapours in comfort and, one by one or in couples and families, the guests
started to discreetly go home.
The
ride back in the Templewood carriage was conducted mostly in grim silence.
"If he can't hold his liquor, the silly ass has no right to drink!"
Sir Joshua made no bones about his disgust.
Behind
a lace hanky, Lady Bridget sniffed. "I can't see what the fuss is all
about," she murmured, bravely making the best of her own mortification.
"Gentlemen do occasionally go one over the eight— you should know that
as well as anyone, Josh." Pointedly, she sniffed again.
"One
over the eight? Twenty-eight more
likely!"
Only
Estelle dared to giggle. "He has much more, Susan Bradshaw says her
brother tells her, at the Golden Behind where—" Too late, she broke off
and clamped a hand to her mouth.
There
was a moment's ominous silence. Then, in a voice hushed with anger, Sir Joshua
asked, "And what may you know of the Golden Behind, my lass?"
Estelle
gulped. "I'm only s-saying what everybody s-says, Papa—"
"No
daughter of mine is every body!"her
father roared. "My daughter is—or is expected to be—a lady, not a
crude-tongued gutter-snipe, is that clear, Estelle?"
"Y-yes,
Papa."
"And
if this is the language you share with your friends, I must say I
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