Read Online The Grenadillo Box: A Novel by Janet Gleeson - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Janet Gleeson
Ads: Link
leave of all his senses?”
“I have asked myself the same question, sister,” concurred Miss Alleyn, her pinched face still showing the strain of her brother’s verbal assault on her. “I confess I am no closer than you to comprehending it.”
Foley and Bradfield looked conspiratorially at each other and nodded. Foley cleared his throat with a small cough. “I believe I may be the cause of Lord Montfort’s indisposition.”
Miss Alleyn regarded him uncomprehendingly. Elizabeth’s eyes widened. “In what way, sir?” they demanded in almost perfect unison.
“Ladies, I cannot—should not—spoil these happy festivities with such discussion—besides it is a matter of confidence between Lord Montfort and myself.”
“Come, come, Lord Foley, we have already noted the circumstances are far from festive. And it appears that only Margaret, Robert, and I—his immediate family after all—are ignorant of these affairs,” cried Elizabeth.
Whether or not Foley would heed her plea she never discovered, for as in some playhouse melodrama, at that precise moment the servants’ door creaked open and Mrs. Cummings entered carrying an array of syllabubs on a platter. Lord Foley suspended his narrative as Connie and the scullery maid followed, bearing similarly delicious burdens. Murmuring something about attending to the kitchens, Miss Alleyn rose and left the room.
Some fifteen minutes later Mrs. Cummings and her entourage had replenished the table with rinsed cutlery and finger bowls, spice cake, compotes, tarts, and port jellies that gleamed like garnets in crystal bowls. But even these delicacies did nothing to alleviate the stifling cloak of ill-humor that lingered over the gathering. I stood there with aching limbs and heavy heart. I longed to remove my wig and shoes and enjoy a glass of ale with my feet up before the fire. I thought of how I’d recount the dismal conversation I’d just heard for Connie to make her laugh. Yes, I confess, at that moment the gloom of the party struck me as so bizarre as to be almost amusing.
Needless to say Mrs. Cummings had no intention of letting me go. How could she? She was still rushed off her feet, she implored me, for heaven’s sake, to stay “just till the port was out.” What difference could a few minutes make?
What difference indeed!
I n the hiatus caused by the arrival of dessert, Bradfield left the table to relieve himself noisily in a chamber pot behind a screen. He replaced it politely in the side cabinet (for the footman or me to empty at our convenience), buttoned himself, and returned to his seat. Only three of the guests—Wallace, Lady Bradfield, and Lady Foley—now remained. The two ladies, avoiding the uncomfortable subject of Montfort’s ill-humor, were discussing the niceties of quilling and crewelwork. Which might be the better to cover a sewing box? Wallace sat morosely at the far end of the table, an empty wineglass in front of him.
“What has become of everyone?” Bradfield inquired as he drew his chair closer to the table. He alone appeared relatively unaffected by the emotions of the room and eyed the temptations on the table impatiently.
“Miss Alleyn is attending to matters in the kitchen,” replied Wallace.
“And Foley and Robert and Elizabeth? What of them? Have they too vanished?”
“Foley went to the saloon to admire some painting—a Roman scene of which he seems uncommonly fond. Robert went after him, saying he would discover the precise nature of his father’s anguish. Lady Elizabeth—in a state of some distress, I fear—accompanied him.”
Bradfield shook his head, as if the disappearing diners and foul-tempered host were all beyond him. “Are you aware of the source of Montfort’s agitation, Wallace?”
The attorney twirled his glass. “It may have to do with the reason for my presence here. Lord Montfort summoned me this morning to prepare some legal documents. You will forgive me if professional etiquette forbids
“I have asked myself the same question, sister,” concurred Miss Alleyn, her pinched face still showing the strain of her brother’s verbal assault on her. “I confess I am no closer than you to comprehending it.”
Foley and Bradfield looked conspiratorially at each other and nodded. Foley cleared his throat with a small cough. “I believe I may be the cause of Lord Montfort’s indisposition.”
Miss Alleyn regarded him uncomprehendingly. Elizabeth’s eyes widened. “In what way, sir?” they demanded in almost perfect unison.
“Ladies, I cannot—should not—spoil these happy festivities with such discussion—besides it is a matter of confidence between Lord Montfort and myself.”
“Come, come, Lord Foley, we have already noted the circumstances are far from festive. And it appears that only Margaret, Robert, and I—his immediate family after all—are ignorant of these affairs,” cried Elizabeth.
Whether or not Foley would heed her plea she never discovered, for as in some playhouse melodrama, at that precise moment the servants’ door creaked open and Mrs. Cummings entered carrying an array of syllabubs on a platter. Lord Foley suspended his narrative as Connie and the scullery maid followed, bearing similarly delicious burdens. Murmuring something about attending to the kitchens, Miss Alleyn rose and left the room.
Some fifteen minutes later Mrs. Cummings and her entourage had replenished the table with rinsed cutlery and finger bowls, spice cake, compotes, tarts, and port jellies that gleamed like garnets in crystal bowls. But even these delicacies did nothing to alleviate the stifling cloak of ill-humor that lingered over the gathering. I stood there with aching limbs and heavy heart. I longed to remove my wig and shoes and enjoy a glass of ale with my feet up before the fire. I thought of how I’d recount the dismal conversation I’d just heard for Connie to make her laugh. Yes, I confess, at that moment the gloom of the party struck me as so bizarre as to be almost amusing.
Needless to say Mrs. Cummings had no intention of letting me go. How could she? She was still rushed off her feet, she implored me, for heaven’s sake, to stay “just till the port was out.” What difference could a few minutes make?
What difference indeed!
I n the hiatus caused by the arrival of dessert, Bradfield left the table to relieve himself noisily in a chamber pot behind a screen. He replaced it politely in the side cabinet (for the footman or me to empty at our convenience), buttoned himself, and returned to his seat. Only three of the guests—Wallace, Lady Bradfield, and Lady Foley—now remained. The two ladies, avoiding the uncomfortable subject of Montfort’s ill-humor, were discussing the niceties of quilling and crewelwork. Which might be the better to cover a sewing box? Wallace sat morosely at the far end of the table, an empty wineglass in front of him.
“What has become of everyone?” Bradfield inquired as he drew his chair closer to the table. He alone appeared relatively unaffected by the emotions of the room and eyed the temptations on the table impatiently.
“Miss Alleyn is attending to matters in the kitchen,” replied Wallace.
“And Foley and Robert and Elizabeth? What of them? Have they too vanished?”
“Foley went to the saloon to admire some painting—a Roman scene of which he seems uncommonly fond. Robert went after him, saying he would discover the precise nature of his father’s anguish. Lady Elizabeth—in a state of some distress, I fear—accompanied him.”
Bradfield shook his head, as if the disappearing diners and foul-tempered host were all beyond him. “Are you aware of the source of Montfort’s agitation, Wallace?”
The attorney twirled his glass. “It may have to do with the reason for my presence here. Lord Montfort summoned me this morning to prepare some legal documents. You will forgive me if professional etiquette forbids
Similar Books
