Read Online Jane and the Twelve Days of Christmas by Stephanie Barron - Free Book Online
Authors: Stephanie Barron
Ads: Link
may give Lady Gambier fifteen years,” I replied, somewhat startled.
“And that is exactly why I say it,” the gentleman replied, as he was served with crackling. “Only observe how much enjoyment Mrs. Austen betrays, and she with one foot in her grave! Aunt Louisa might as well be at a tragedy-play, for all the animation she offers.”
“Perhaps she is anxious for her husband,” I suggested. “The Admiral has been absent some time in Ghent, I believe, about the American treaty?”
“That is true,” he admitted, “but they never seemed particularly bosom-bows when Dismal Jimmy was in country.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Dismal Jimmy is my uncle’s name in the Service,” Mr. Gambier confided. “On account of he’s so particular about Sunday Service, and no end pious when going into battle. He and my aunt never drove well in harness. A life spent at sea ain’t conducive, you know, to a love-match, particularly when there are no children in the case.That’s why Mary and I”—this, with a nod to his sister, not my brother James’s wife—“spend such a deal of time in Aunt Louisa’s pocket. Cheers the Relation no end—and ensures we shan’t be cut out of the Will by a hired companion. When my father stuck his spoon in the wall last year, he left more debts than funds. Family habit. Must look to the future, and provide.”
Unblushing frankness appeared to be one of Mr. Gambier’s gifts. After an interval for appreciation of the second course—which was comprised of a beef roast, cauliflower in orange sauce, veal ragout, a dish of macaronis, and a pasty filled with spinach—I managed a reply.
“Are you then the Admiral’s heir?”
“Must suppose m’self to be,” he replied. “Unless there’s an inconvenient by-blow hiding in the wings. But I shouldn’t think the Admiral much given to natural sons—too devout by half. They call him the Praying Captain, you know. Devilish bent on Divine Service in the Fleet, and not ashamed to flog all shirkers. No, I think he’ll do the handsome—and remember his nephew, when Davy Jones calls him to the Deep.”
I could not like the thought of burials at sea, with poor Charles presently aboard—and gave Mr. Gambier no answer. I consoled myself with mince pies and apricot tart.
A FTER NEARLY THREE HOURS of jollity and conversation, Eliza rose from her place and nodded to the ladies. We left the men to their privacy and their port. I little doubted, with a Member of Parliament passing the bottle, that talk should be of the American War; and dearly wished I might have overlistened the gentlemen’s opinions. It is not often, living in retirement as we do, that the Austen ladies are treated to informed society; we rely upon the London newspapers fornearly all of our intelligence of Government events. But this evening I should have to contain my impatience a little longer. I congratulated myself, however, that Mr. Chute must receive his papers promptly, no matter the condition of the roads, owing to his position—and that I might have a comfortable coze with them in the library while the men were out hunting.
Dessert was sensibly arrayed in the drawing-room on the Chutes’ massive sideboard, so that we might sample the brandied fruits and biscuits, the oranges and raisins, the wafers and sugared almonds at our leisure. Coffee was poured out, too, once the gentlemen joined us.
“I say,” Edward Gambier cried as he entered the drawing-room before the others, “it is as well that none of us must depart The Vyne tonight—for there is a gale of snow falling! I’d lay odds we’ll see no hunting.”
“Then it will be the first St. Stephen’s Day in memory that the pack lies in,” William Chute growled. He looked most unhappy, and went immediately to the large French windows giving out onto the back garden. A bitter swirl of frozen air blew into the room as he opened one of them, and the flames in the great hearth darted and hissed.
“Lord,
“And that is exactly why I say it,” the gentleman replied, as he was served with crackling. “Only observe how much enjoyment Mrs. Austen betrays, and she with one foot in her grave! Aunt Louisa might as well be at a tragedy-play, for all the animation she offers.”
“Perhaps she is anxious for her husband,” I suggested. “The Admiral has been absent some time in Ghent, I believe, about the American treaty?”
“That is true,” he admitted, “but they never seemed particularly bosom-bows when Dismal Jimmy was in country.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Dismal Jimmy is my uncle’s name in the Service,” Mr. Gambier confided. “On account of he’s so particular about Sunday Service, and no end pious when going into battle. He and my aunt never drove well in harness. A life spent at sea ain’t conducive, you know, to a love-match, particularly when there are no children in the case.That’s why Mary and I”—this, with a nod to his sister, not my brother James’s wife—“spend such a deal of time in Aunt Louisa’s pocket. Cheers the Relation no end—and ensures we shan’t be cut out of the Will by a hired companion. When my father stuck his spoon in the wall last year, he left more debts than funds. Family habit. Must look to the future, and provide.”
Unblushing frankness appeared to be one of Mr. Gambier’s gifts. After an interval for appreciation of the second course—which was comprised of a beef roast, cauliflower in orange sauce, veal ragout, a dish of macaronis, and a pasty filled with spinach—I managed a reply.
“Are you then the Admiral’s heir?”
“Must suppose m’self to be,” he replied. “Unless there’s an inconvenient by-blow hiding in the wings. But I shouldn’t think the Admiral much given to natural sons—too devout by half. They call him the Praying Captain, you know. Devilish bent on Divine Service in the Fleet, and not ashamed to flog all shirkers. No, I think he’ll do the handsome—and remember his nephew, when Davy Jones calls him to the Deep.”
I could not like the thought of burials at sea, with poor Charles presently aboard—and gave Mr. Gambier no answer. I consoled myself with mince pies and apricot tart.
A FTER NEARLY THREE HOURS of jollity and conversation, Eliza rose from her place and nodded to the ladies. We left the men to their privacy and their port. I little doubted, with a Member of Parliament passing the bottle, that talk should be of the American War; and dearly wished I might have overlistened the gentlemen’s opinions. It is not often, living in retirement as we do, that the Austen ladies are treated to informed society; we rely upon the London newspapers fornearly all of our intelligence of Government events. But this evening I should have to contain my impatience a little longer. I congratulated myself, however, that Mr. Chute must receive his papers promptly, no matter the condition of the roads, owing to his position—and that I might have a comfortable coze with them in the library while the men were out hunting.
Dessert was sensibly arrayed in the drawing-room on the Chutes’ massive sideboard, so that we might sample the brandied fruits and biscuits, the oranges and raisins, the wafers and sugared almonds at our leisure. Coffee was poured out, too, once the gentlemen joined us.
“I say,” Edward Gambier cried as he entered the drawing-room before the others, “it is as well that none of us must depart The Vyne tonight—for there is a gale of snow falling! I’d lay odds we’ll see no hunting.”
“Then it will be the first St. Stephen’s Day in memory that the pack lies in,” William Chute growled. He looked most unhappy, and went immediately to the large French windows giving out onto the back garden. A bitter swirl of frozen air blew into the room as he opened one of them, and the flames in the great hearth darted and hissed.
“Lord,
Similar Books
