As the gigantic soup tureen arrived, spirits began to rise still further. I gathered from a whispered comment from one of the footmen that Mr Spinney was still a little grumpy as he coordinated the delivery of the dishes from the servants’ hall, but up here in the dining room things were, if not actually jolly, at least pleasingly convivial. Mrs Ruddle had excelled herself. Everything looked and smelled delicious, and from the reactions of the diners, I assumed that the soup, at least, tasted as good as it looked.
With the soup course placed upon the table, we servants positioned ourselves around the edges of the room, ready to serve, but discreetly invisible. I could never work out whether people forgot we were there, or just didn’t care enough to imagine that we mattered, but it happened in houses all over the country. Once we’d put the food in front of them and stepped away, it was as though we didn’t exist. Some servants resented it (in private, at least) but I found it fascinating and sometimes extremely useful – when they felt as though there was no one there to hear them, the upper classes could often be wonderfully indiscreet.
I’m certain that one day some clever scientist will work out how we do it, but I find it’s possible to focus on individual speakers in the hubbub of dinner conversations. I was listening to Mrs Beddows complaining about the treatment she’d received at a dressmaker’s in Kensington, when my attention was suddenly grabbed by an urgent, half-whispered comment from Herr Kovacs to Lord Riddlethorpe.
‘All I am saying, my friend, is that the offer is there. In the light of . . . the recent events, I should be willing to discuss . . .’
I was unable to make out exactly what it was that Herr Kovacs was willing to discuss because his hushed voice was suddenly drowned out by Lady Lavinia.
‘Really, Uncle Algy! You’re incorrigible.’
I turned to look farther down the table and saw Uncle Algy giggling like a naughty schoolboy as he sipped his soup. Mrs Beddows was laughing heartily – the first time I had seen her express any emotion other than disdain, displeasure, or disapproval since her arrival – while Lady Hardcastle attempted to conceal her own laughter behind her wine glass.
‘Not at the dinner table, you think?’ said the old gentleman, still twinkling.
‘Not even at the dinner table in a brothel, Uncle Algy,’ said Lady Lavinia, which made Mrs Beddows laugh even more.
‘I once had the most marvellous dinner in a brothel,’ said Uncle Algy. ‘I remember there was this one gel, Spanish I think she was, and she could—’
‘Algy!’ said Lady Lavinia sternly. ‘No!’
He giggled again and scooped up another spoonful of soup. ‘Don’t worry, m’dear,’ he said once the mouthful was safely swallowed. ‘Young Rosamund here can look after herself. If I should chance to offend her, I’m sure she’ll give me what for. Told that Dawkins fella where to get off, eh?’
‘What are you talking about, Uncle?’ said Lady Lavinia.
‘Last night. At the party,’ persisted the old man. ‘Damn near slapped the poor fella. That’s when I tried to get a game of St Uguzo’s Holy Cheese going. Lighten the atmosphere, what? Never saw what happened after that – young Edmond gave me my marching orders. No fun for Uncle Algy. No fun . . .’ His voice trailed wistfully away, and he returned to the last few mouthfuls of his soup.
‘You never said anything about any of this, Roz,’ said Lady Lavinia.
‘Didn’t seem worth the bother,’ said Mrs Beddows coldly. ‘The oily tick said something vulgar, and I put him in his place.’
‘Vulgar, dear?’ asked Lady Lavinia.
‘Suggestive,’ said Mrs Beddows. ‘Lewd. I told him I’m a married woman and he ought to mind his manners or . . .’
‘Or what, dear?’ said Lady Lavinia with growing concern.
‘He never found out,’ said Mrs Beddows. ‘That was when Uncle Algy tried to organize his impromptu entertainment.’
‘But Roz, darling, you—’
My attention was pulled sharply away from the conversation by a nudge from the young footman standing next to me as he alerted me to the signal from Lord Riddlethorpe that it was time to clear the soup course and prepare the way for the fish.
And then we prepared the way for the sorbet.
And the salad.
And the game pie.
And the puddings.
And finally, the coffee cups were cleared and the port decanter emerged, along with an enormous platter of cheeses. Lady Lavinia stood and said, ‘Well now, ladies, there aren’t very many traditions of which I approve, particularly since most of them seem to be aimed squarely at spoiling my fun, but I do rather think that there’s one we ought to maintain. Let’s withdraw to the library and leave the boys to . . . Actually, I’ve never been quite certain what it is we’re leaving them to, but I’m convinced that we have more fun without them. Library. Cognac. Belgian chocolat. Allons-y!’
And with that, the other three ladies stood, dropped their napkins on the table, and trooped out. I caught Lady Hardcastle’s eye, and with a slight tilt of her head, she indicated that I should follow.
I arrived in the library some minutes later, having taken the long way round via the kitchen. There I had prepared a fresh pot of coffee and had snaffled a selection of Mrs Ruddle’s splendid-looking petits-fours, just in case the promised Belgian chocolate proved insufficient for their appetite for sweetmeats.
I placed the tray on the low table around which the four ladies sat in easy chairs. There was a small amount of fiddle-faddling while I rearranged the brandy decanter and glasses to accommodate the fresh coffee, but they dutifully ignored me, and their conversation continued uninterrupted. I withdrew, and divided my attention between the contents of the bookshelves and the chatter of the ladies as I waited patiently and invisibly in a shadowy corner of the large room.
Miss Titmus had been quite quiet for most of the evening. But she had already exuberantly sampled some of the finer vintages from Lord Riddlethorpe’s cellar, and in this more intimate group of close friends, she was gaining in confidence and volubility. She had begun eagerly and earnestly questioning Lady Hardcastle about her life in China, Burma, India, and the palaces of Europe. Lady Hardcastle, never one to hide her light under a bushel when there was an attentive audience, was happy to oblige with tales of intrigue, espionage, and skulduggery, at least half of which were at least half true.
Miss Titmus hung on her every word, mouth agape, and actually shrieked at the end of a story that had seen the pair of us evading arrest by the secret police of an unfriendly European power while disguised as sailors.
‘Oh my goodness!’ she said, clutching her hand to her mouth. ‘You didn’t! No, really. Did you? You didn’t. Goodness!’
Mrs Beddows broke off from leafing through a magazine to shoot a withering glance at her old friend.
‘Really, Titmouse, do calm down. She’s teasing you. Of course she didn’t. Real people don’t do such things. Honestly, you can be such a credulous chump sometimes.’