That didn’t happen. She did notice that Ted Cavanaugh, Professor Longworth and the Meehans were seated near the front.
I can understand why the Meehans might be here, she thought. But why would Cavanaugh and Longworth show up? she wondered.
Anna settled in next to an elderly gentleman who seemed to be alone. She was about to introduce herself and tell him her Cecil B. DeMille story, when the lecturer walked to the podium.
Julia Witherspoon was a severe-looking woman of about seventy. After introducing herself, she explained that she usually only spoke about dining etiquette. But on this voyage, it seemed appropriate to review the quintessential good taste of a century ago.
As Witherspoon began to speak, she had no way of knowing that Ted Cavanaugh was one of her most interested listeners. From the time he was a boy and had developed his love for Egyptian antiquities, he had also been interested in what constituted good manners in ancient times. He knew it would be a distraction to hear about the mores of society one hundred years ago, and he needed that distraction.
“Since what was known as etiquette a century ago is so disgracefully lacking today, you may be interested to hear about the beautiful customs that prevailed in the late nineteenth and early twentieth century.
“Let’s start with wedding etiquette. When a young man gives his intended an engagement ring, he follows a tradition that began more than eighty years ago. The proper engagement ring is a solitaire diamond because it is the conventional example of, and I quote, ‘the singleness and endurity of the one love in the groom-to-be’s life.’
“At the first family dinner after an engagement, the girl’s father would raise his glass and address the assembly by saying, ‘I propose that we drink a toast to the health of my daughter Mary and the young man she has decided to add permanently to our family, James Manlington.’
“The young man should respond by saying, ‘I, er . . . , we thank you all indeed for your good wishes. I don’t think I have to tell you, the thing for me is to prove, if I can, that Mary has not made the mistake of her life by choosing me, and I hope that it won’t be very long before we see all of you again at our own table with Mary at the head of it and I, where I belong, at the foot.’?”
Witherspoon sighed. “What a shame that life is so rude today.”
She cleared her throat. “And now to the wedding. The bride’s gown should be white. Satin and/or lace are most appropriate.
“As for the bridal party, Emily Post put it this way: ‘A distinguished uncle was asked, “Don’t you think the wedding was too lovely? Weren’t the bridesmaids beautiful?”?’
“?‘His answer was, “I did not think it was beautiful at all. Every one of the bridesmaids was so powdered and painted there was not a sweet face among them. I can see a procession just like them any evening on the musical comedy stage.”?’?”
Witherspoon went on to talk about the proper furnishings of a bride’s home, including the necessary number of servants, the butler, two footmen, a cook with two kitchen helpers, a housekeeper and two maids.
She then proceeded to tell about how to garb a house for mourning.
By the time her lecture was over, there was no one in the audience who did not feel guilty of somehow making many a faux pas along the way.
? ? ?
As Witherspoon spoke, Ted Cavanaugh found himself only half-listening as his mind immediately returned to the challenge in front of him. Lady Haywood had finally told the truth, that she had the Cleopatra necklace that her husband had given to her. Whether she likes it or not, besides being famous explorers, Sir Richard and his father were tomb raiders, Ted thought. That necklace should have been on display all these years at the Museum of Cairo. She has no right to give it to the Smithsonian. If she does so, that will probably mean a protracted lawsuit to get it back. I could make a lot of money suing the Smithsonian, but I don’t want that to happen.
I’m going to point out to her that if she doesn’t want her husband and his father to be known as grave robbers, she should agree to turn the necklace over to the Cairo museum. Maybe I can convince her, he hoped. I’ll certainly give it my best effort.
Ted Cavanaugh was not the only member of the audience who was not giving Witherspoon his full attention. Professor Henry Longworth made it a habit to attend the presentation that preceded his. It gave him a chance to size up the audience reaction, to see the type of material they responded to.
Longworth did not want to admit how eager he was to attend Witherspoon’s lecture. He had never been able to lose the bitter memories of those poverty-stricken years in Liverpool, but even more so, of the ridicule he encountered when he first arrived in Cambridge. He had poured tea into his saucer at the first university dinner, raised it to his lips and slurped. Then he had caught the snickers and glances from the other students at the long table. The snickers broke into laughter when the student next to him poured his tea into his saucer and began slurping it too. Then the other students at the long table followed his example.
Henry could still hear their laughter pound in his ears. That was why he had studied etiquette as an avocation. And it had served him well. He knew his slightly aloof manner, as well as his compelling lectures, added to the air of mystery he had created for himself.
What others did not know was that he owned a home in Mayfair that he had bought long ago when prices were affordable. He had carefully studied magazines that showed society homes, and little by little, he had turned his home into a paragon of good taste. Year by year he had furnished it with beautiful objects collected while speaking on tours. Only his cleaning woman knew it existed. Even his mail was sent to a post office box. The house and the furnishings were his. In his smoking jacket he would sit in the library, and as his eyes moved about the room, one by one he would enjoy and relish a beautiful painting or a fine piece of sculpture. In that room he truly became himself, “Lord” Henry Longworth. It was the fantasy world that had become his reality. And after a trip he was always happy to return there.
He listened as Anthony Breidenbach, the entertainment director, announced that his Shakespeare lecture would begin after a fifteen-minute recess. At three-thirty, gemologist Celia Kilbride would present.
21
Celia was gratified to see that Lady Emily, Roger Pearson and Professor Henry Longworth were in the first row of the auditorium. Not only that, but the occupants of the table next to hers at dinner last night were there as well.
She had about the same number of people in the audience as Longworth had had. The moment before she began to speak, she felt a wave of nervousness paralyze her, as usual. And then it was gone.