“We’re in for a real treat with the soup, my dear fellow. It is the cook’s famous spicy artichoke soup, the one your father always liked so much.” Algernon pulled his chair in closer to the table, his huge frame on the thing causing a fearful scraping of wood on wood.
“Yes, Father really did like that soup. Whenever we were heading over here for dinner, he always commented in the carriage on the way that he hoped the cook would be serving her special soup.” Hunter laughed, finally beginning to enjoy the happier memories he had of his father, the ones which were not tinged with so much sadness.
The worst of his raw grief was over, the grief which had been deferred a little when the true extent of Felicity’s betrayal had hit him like a rock falling from a mountainside. In the end, the two different sets of grief had seemed to mingle together until he could hardly pick through them. The pain of the grief of his father’s passing had gone on longer than it should have, once it had poked its head above the morass of other feelings, and it had taken a great hold. But Hunter could feel himself coming out on the good side of it all, feeling better day by day.
Even Felicity’s betrayal had seemed to lessen although, in truth, he did not spend too much time dwelling on the details lest he find that he was not as recovered as he had hoped.
“Well, tuck in, my dear fellow,” Algernon said, almost diving into his soup bowl with his spoon the moment the housekeeper and butler had left them alone.
Algernon ate with such speed, his silver spoon intermittently twinkling as it caught the light of the chandeliers, that Hunter wondered how it was his cousin did not end up by dropping much of the soup down his immaculate black waistcoat.
But Algernon had always eaten with speed and eaten great quantities. It was little wonder that he was so tall and broad, and yet there was none who could call him fat.
“Your cook has surpassed herself again, Cousin. This soup is exactly as I remember it, and every bit as flavorsome,” Hunter said appreciatively, supping one spoon to every three that his cousin took.
Hunter dined with Algernon regularly and, more often than not, they dined at Braithwaite House. Whilst Algernon spent a good deal of time at Addison Hall, Hunter had secretly preferred to eat in the much smaller dining room of his cousin’s home.
It was but a tenth of the size of the great dining room at Addison Hall, and Hunter thought that was what he liked most about it. That and its lightness and very much smaller portraits. At Braithwaite House, the dining room walls were panelled but a third of the way up, and the wood painted white. Above the wooden panelling, the smooth walls were painted in a pale green, the color of faded garden peas.
There were two doors into the dining room, both of them tall and wide arches, painted in white also. There were three chandeliers, one of which hung directly above the center of the walnut table, which was long, but not too long. There were seats enough for twelve people, very much more intimate than the immense dining arrangements at Addison.
“That certainly was exactly as I was expecting,” Algernon said, pushing his plate towards the middle of the table. “Wonderful.” He wiped his mouth with the heavy white serviette and patted his belly, clearly ready for his next course.
The custom at Braithwaite House, as in many of the fine houses in England, was to lay out everything that they were to eat throughout the evening, filling the table without overcrowding it.
Algernon had chosen not to have his staff waiting on point in the dining room in case he or his cousin needed anything else. Hunter knew that his cousin much preferred less formal meals when there was just the two of them, the informality lending itself to easy, private conversation.
“Have I to wait for you?” Algernon went on, his hand hovering over the handle of one of the silver platter lids.
“No, you carry on, and I shall serve myself when I finish this soup.” Hunter laughed. “How it is that you do not live in a permanent state of indigestion, I do not know.”
“I understand entirely why you might think such a thing, but I have trained my digestion to the point where it is now a highly evolved mechanism.”
“Mechanism?”
“Yes, mechanism. I like the word.”
“Good heavens.” Hunter laughed before turning his attention back to his soup.
“So, how goes it with Miss Emmeline Fitzgerald?”
“I think it goes well,” Hunter said in a non-committal fashion.
“And is that it? Is there nothing else for you to say upon the subject?” Algernon prodded.
“No, I do not think there is anything to be said. If things continue as amiably as they have done thus far, I shall speak to the lady about making an announcement in the near future.”
“Of course, time is running out for her and her family, is it not?”
“Yes, I believe it is. But I shall not leave it too long before making my mind up.”
“Making your mind up? But I thought your mind was made up already? I thought your mind had been set upon your plan before you had even approached the lady herself.” Algernon was helping himself to thick slices of beef and assorted vegetables covered in a thick butter sauce. “What has changed?”
“Nothing has changed. My mind is, of course, already made up. What I mean is, I shall make up my mind on what date I shall announce my engagement to Miss Fitzgerald, that is all.” Even to himself, Hunter’s voice sounded evasive.
“Am I to take it that the curious cousin, Mr Kent Fitzgerald, has upended your thoughts a little?” Algernon spoke cautiously, one eyebrow cocked in question.
“Kent Fitzgerald? What has he to do with it all?” Hunter was being defensive, and he knew it.
The truth was, ever since he had seen Emmeline and her cousin sitting a little out of things, alone at the afternoon of bridge in the home of Giles Calloway, he had felt a little upended. As he had tried to concentrate on his game, Hunter had found his eyes flitting with increasing regularity across the room to where she sat.
At first, he had simply been enjoying her appearance. Emmeline had been wearing a dress of very fine, dusky pink fabric. The colour suited her complexion perfectly, and her hair, where great curls fell from her chignon to her shoulders, contrasted nicely in its darkness. The overall effect was quite stunning, despite the fact that she was, in truth, very simply dressed. Hunter had thought that it was the very simplicity of her gown which made her natural beauty stand out. Beauty that was not fighting with high-fashion or one too many adornments.
However, as his thoughts of her became a little fonder, Hunter had returned his attention to the game. He knew he never wanted to be at the mercy of such feelings again; he did not want to feel that same enchantment, for there lay the way of danger.