Herman turned from Isabel to Helene. He looked at her again with such devotion that I understood her indulgence as he gave time to Isabel. In my world, I’d call it flirting—regardless of the inappropriate age difference—and so would Isabel. In his, I suspected, he would call it chivalry. And Helene was right; it was a gift.
“Let us toast to your anniversary.” Aaron raised his champagne glass. “That is truly something worthy.”
“Helene always wanted to come to the English countryside and most especially to Bath . . . We’ve saved twenty years for a trip, and this is what she chose.” He leaned to Isabel. “Like you, these stories have been very important to my wife.”
He then looked around the table and seemed surprised by what was before him. We held our glasses high. Herman reached for his so quickly he almost toppled it.
Helene helped him right it, and he joined us. “We celebrate my beautiful bride.”
In that toast and flowing from Herman’s obvious warmth, the disparate groups in the parlor became one. Conversation flowed smoothly throughout an endive salad, a light fish course, and a main course of beef tenderloin, before the discussion turned to tomorrow and the roles we were to play.
“It was not a hard choice for me. I have always loved Elizabeth Bennet,” Helene said, “but my time for her has passed. At my age, I am more suited to Mrs. Bennet or Lady Catherine de Burgh. But either would give us all a headache. But Mrs. Jennings, as you said, dear . . .” She looked to me. “She enjoys life and has fun.”
Helene’s very nature contradicted any comparison to the sour and dour Lady Catherine of Pride and Prejudice.
“Jane Bennet was easy for me too. I’ve never been called quiet or demure, and I’ve wondered what’s so alluring about those qualities.” Sylvia winked at Aaron.
He raised a brow. “I find nothing alluring about them at all. Ice and fire, dear.” The raised brow became a wink and his wife turned crimson.
“What about . . .”
“And . . .”
The names and stories flew faster than I could catch them. Isabel sat in the center of it all and visibly relaxed, but having read all the books in a week, I was soon lost in the myriad ancillary characters.
“And you, Mary? How did you choose Catherine Morland?” Gertrude’s soft question reached me through the cacophony.
“I . . .”
Isabel lifted her chin. “I’m not sure she’s right for you. We’ll discuss it tonight. You might have more fun joining with Clara and Helene.”
Clara grinned at me. “Mama says I’m Margaret from Sense and Senseless.”
“Sense and Sensibility.” Isabel’s correction fell harsh and heavy.
Clara bit her lip and frowned at her lemon tart.
The conversation continued, but Clara did not raise her head again and I did not speak. I suspected we struggled with the same weight. I laid down my fork. She pushed her tart away, untouched.
“Clara,” Sylvia scolded from across the table. “Don’t push your food. We eat what we are served.”
“I won’t,” Clara whispered and scowled at the dessert.
“Children.” Isabel’s voice lifted with her eye roll. “You’d think she’d love this. When I was young I used to believe there were two separate compartments in the stomach, one for dessert alone and nothing else could fill it. In fact, Daddy used to tell me that . . .”
Isabel’s words drifted away from me as I watched Clara. She was losing the fight against tears.
“Youth does not excuse my daughter’s behavior.”
Isabel and Sylvia squared off. They knew it; I knew it. I looked around and suspected everyone caught the tremor of battle. Aaron watched his daughter.
“As I said . . . Children.” Isabel dismissed the conversation and returned to her own dessert.
Sylvia focused on hers as well. Clara was the only victim. She had struggled for Isabel’s attention all night and now she had it—and her mother’s. Her lip trembled and she caught it between her teeth.
I stretched my leg out under the table and kicked her foot. She looked up. “Hi.” It was all I could think to whisper, but it seemed to work.
“Hi.” The single word released the poor lip. She wiped her hand across her nose and slid the plate back in front of her. Sylvia sent her a brusque nod.
“Gertrude, whom do I see about reserving horses for tomorrow? Clara started riding lessons last year, and I think she’d enjoy riding here.” Sylvia’s chipper voice sent a clear message: Clara was forgiven. Horses were her reward.
Gertrude, now standing, gestured for us to adjourn to the parlor. “The path is marked to the west of the house, and you’ll find the staff ready to assist with riding, fishing, lawn games, and walks throughout the property. Or you may tell me the time you’d like to ride and I’ll notify the stables.”
“We could go for a ride together.” I met my new eight-year-old friend at the end of the table. “You could teach me. I’ve never been on a horse.”
“If you can do that, I’ll think you have magic in your little finger.” Isabel walked behind us and spoke in the high-pitched tone she hated.
Clara and I both halted: Clara at the comment, me at the tone. Isabel bent to face her. “Mary is afraid of horses. She doesn’t like animals whose heads are at the level of her own. Isn’t she silly?”
“I am not afraid of them. I’ve just never had any interest in riding.”
Isabel continued. “When I was your age I won local events. I had trophies all over my room. I’m not sure Mary knows what a pommel is.” She offered a trilling laugh and led Clara into the hallway. Her heels clicked a steady tap across the marble.
I watched them go.
“Are you coming?” Aaron paused. As his eyes shifted from me to his daughter and Isabel, I plastered on a quick smile and fell into step beside him. “Thank you for being kind to Clara. This trip might be hard on her. I am afraid we misunderstood the formality when we booked our reservation.”
I, too, watched Clara trail Isabel across the room. “Please don’t let us make it that way. Ignore us if you need to.”
Aaron’s eyes narrowed at Isabel, then he directed his gaze back to me. We agreed—there was no ignoring Isabel.
We took the final step into the parlor. It had been transformed. The furniture was now situated into one large cluster centered on the fireplace. It was a wonderful subtle signal that we constituted one party now. Family members. Beloved guests.
The side tables were fully laden with coffee and teas and a variety of small desserts. Sonia picked up a cup to pour coffee for Isabel.
Isabel flicked her finger to me. “She’ll drink that. Could you pour me a cup of tea? Preferably mint?”
“Certainly.” Sonia handed me the cup and prepared Isabel’s tea.
“Thank you.” Isabel looked around the room. “I expected more guests to be here. There must be more rooms. It’s such a large house.”
“There are eight more guest rooms, but this isn’t our busy time. The house is full most weeks in summer, from June into September, and then the Stanleys either come for Christmas or rent the house for a private party in December.”