The soup course proceeded with cautious conversation. As a group, they all seemed to be committed to the most unobjectionable of topics and confined the discussion to the flavour of the soup and the preparation of turtles. Jane offered compliments to Lord Verbury for his selection of a chef, and he returned those to Miss Sarah, who had handled the interviews while he was in England. The conversation nearly faltered there, because they were obliged to discuss the difficulties of finding a good chef here and the comparisons to those who could be engaged in London. That seemed certain to bring to them to a discussion of why Lord Verbury was confined here, but Miss Sarah managed to divert them by making a comparison to the different climes, and then artfully shifted the topic entirely to one of the local weather in Antigua.
There are few topics safer than a discussion of the weather. All can agree that it is too hot or too cold, or that it should certainly be more agreeable if only it would rain or cease raining, depending on the circumstances.
As the first course was laid, Jane found herself saying, “I was surprised in Venice, to discover how grey and cold it was in the autumn. There were days in which I thought I should never be warm again, so to find myself here is quite lovely.”
“You must be careful of the heat, though.” Lord Verbury lifted his glass of claret. “I should not wish to see you overcome again.”
The atmosphere in the room changed almost imperceptibly. Jane paused as she sliced her lamb. “That was unfortunate. You may be certain that I have learned not to go out without a parasol.”
“Yes, the shade helps.” Miss Sarah took a delicate bite of turbot. “Hm … Cook has outdone herself with the turbot. Have you tried it yet? Zeus, please do take the plate down to his lordship.”
Vincent slid a piece of that same turbot across his plate. He had been artfully arranging his meal and lifting his fork at correct intervals, but Jane was not certain he had taken more than three mouthfuls all evening. “Everything really is quite wonderful. In general, I must say that I have been very impressed with how the great house has been run.”
“But not the rest of the estate?” Lord Verbury raised his brow.
“I can hardly compliment Miss Sarah on the rest of the estate, and I thought that some of the credit for the house belonged to her.” Vincent reached for his glass of claret. “Speaking of compliments … your cellar, sir, is everything I recalled it to be. Some excellent vintages. Truly.”
The side of Lord Verbury’s mouth twisted into a half smile, as if he was acknowledging the successful change in subject rather than the compliment. He lifted his own glass and offered a toast in return. “I have always believed in proper management of barrels. However, the credit for this vintage belongs in part to your grandfather, who had the foresight to lay down wine for me.” He swirled the glass, watching the deep, sanguine liquid legs drip back down the crystal. “I have endeavoured to do the same for the next generation. You should … you should feel free to add to it.”
“Thank you.” Vincent regarded his father before lifting the glass to him. “I shall.”
Jane let out a slow, careful breath. Though the conversation had, on the surface, appeared to be about wine, in a very real sense what they had been discussing was dynasty. It was a very small part of the negotiation that this dinner represented, but Jane nevertheless felt a great deal of relief to have any agreement between the two men.
The conversation continued on the topic of food and wine for some time, with Lord Verbury even sharing an amusing story of a dinner with an ambassador from the Ottoman Empire and a blunder his lordship had made when young, involving an embarrassing mistake in translation. That he was willing to share a story and invite them to laugh at him, Jane marked as a great victory. She still did not trust him, but she acknowledged that he could be a charming conversationist when it suited.
Vincent’s countenance began to open, and he shared a story about his first experience with an Italian pasta dish called vermicelli, which was a flour paste drawn out in long threads. “You would think that, as a glamourist, I would be able to handle multiple strands, but no matter how I twisted my fork, it would all slip off and then splash in the sauce, which was a shocking red. My cravat looked as if I had been shot.”
Lord Verbury wiped his eyes, laughing. “Oh … my first encounter with it when I took my Grand Tour went much the same way. Except that it was a sauce made from squid ink. Delicious, but very black. You could have mistaken me for an apprentice clerk who was soon to be let go for wasting ink.” He turned to Jane. “Did you have the opportunity to try vermicelli in Venice?”
“No, the local cuisine largely favours a dish called polenta, which is a sort of porridge made from corn meal and cream. It is buttery, delightful, and eaten with a spoon.”
Miss Sarah sat back in her chair as Zachary cleared the first course and prepared to turn the table. “Oh, yes—tell us more about Venice. Mrs. Whitten lent me a copy of Lord Byron’s Childe Harold, and I was enchanted by his descriptions of the canals.”
“To be honest, we did not spend much time playing the tourist.” Partly because they had been there to work, and Jane did not wish to open a discussion with Lord Verbury of either glamour or of their business with the glassmakers in Murano.