Kendra saw that the horse-drawn wagon was already parked (could you park horses?) on the other side of the trees so as not to ruin the tranquil ambience of the area. Mrs. Danbury and Mr. Harding must have come with the wagon, because they were already there, keeping an eye on the footmen who were setting up the tables and chairs.
It was like a Ralph Lauren ad come to life. Somebody had even produced—and lit, for heaven’s sake—heavy brass candelabras on the tables. Lady Atwood may have wanted to dine alfresco—gipsying, as the maid had called it—but that didn’t mean she wanted a picnic, Kendra reflected wryly as she helped shake out the white linen tablecloths and napkins.
Footmen uncorked bottles of fruity white wine and set them in the lake to chill. Bottles of red were kept to the side. The servants congregated around two of the tables that were laden with plates of food that would be served: baked trout swimming in cucumber sauce; roast beef and ham so thinly sliced it was almost transparent; baby asparagus salad as a side dish. Butter cakes were set alongside fruit stacked like pyramids.
Mrs. Danbury checked her pocket watch, and nodded to Mr. Harding. There was a military precision to planning such an event that Kendra hadn’t appreciated before. She’d been to similar functions, but always as a guest.
“’Ere they come,” whispered one of the maids, who apparently had ears like a bat. Half a second later, Kendra heard the voices interspersed with feminine laugher and masculine chuckles.
They were an exotic parade, thirty men and women in total. The Duke of Aldridge led the way. On his arm was a small, plump woman in a vivid blue dress and bonnet decorated with an enormous peacock feather. Alec was right behind him. He looked more handsome than the last time she’d seen him, probably because he wasn’t scowling. Instead, he seemed relaxed, smiling at the woman he was ushering into the clearing. Kendra couldn’t see the woman’s face, since it was angled toward Alec, and obscured by the bonnet and gauzy white veil she wore. Wife or girlfriend? Kendra wondered as she observed the intimacy between them.
She nearly jumped when Alec turned his head suddenly, looking straight at her. Even from that distance Kendra could see the green eyes narrow in suspicion. His companion turned, too, and looked at Kendra.
She wasn’t beautiful, Kendra noted with some surprise. That, she supposed, was her own prejudice. Guys who looked like Alec usually had a beautiful woman on their arm. This woman—Kendra pegged her to be in her early twenties—had pleasant enough features, but her skin was severely pockmarked, destroying any hope of beauty.
When the woman turned back to say something to Alec, drawing his attention, Kendra deliberately shifted her gaze to the rest of the group. It was odd that there were more women than men. Societal mores, she’d have thought, would have paired up the sexes.
She spotted the brats, Sarah and Georgina, at the end of the procession, dangling off the arms of two young men who were dressed like the other men in the party—cravats, shirts, vests, coats, breeches, and boots—except the points of their collars were so starched and exaggerated, their cravats so elaborate, that their chins were swallowed up in yards of fabric.
“Lady Atwood, you’ve simply outdone yourself,” trilled an exquisitely lovely blonde in a sugary pink-and-white striped dress and matching coat and hat. She paused to admire the table settings. “’Tis absolutely delightful.”
“You are too kind, Lady Dover.” The woman on the Duke’s arm gave a gracious nod. “Thankfully, the weather is cooperating. ‘Tis been a dreadfully chilly summer.”
As the nuncheon began, Kendra concentrated on her duties, but couldn’t help but overhear snippets of conversation. In many ways, this was no different than social gatherings in her own time. Chatter centered around mutual acquaintances and the latest gossip from London. Yet she nearly dropped a plate when someone mentioned the health of King George and the political intrigue surrounding the Prince Regent.
Sweet Jesus. Mad King George. The guy America had revolted against. He was freaking alive!
“Careful with the dishware,” one of the maids whispered.
“Sorry.” She shook off her sense of amazement, and tried to pretend she was watching a period play. There was a lot of flirting going on, plenty of fluttering of ivory fans and eyelashes. It was weird to think that in another two hundred years people would flirt by pole dancing, twerking, and sexting.
The lunch seemed to stretch on interminably. But maybe that was because the maids were required to stand silently in the background. The footmen had the more active job, replenishing wineglasses under Mr. Harding’s direction, and serving the food under Mrs. Danbury’s eagle eye. When one of the young ladies dropped a spoon, Mrs. Danbury snapped her fingers, and a footman scooped it off the ground and replaced it with a clean spoon within seconds. If this had been a restaurant, it would’ve registered five stars.