Feral Park (41 page)

The first course proceeded without unfortunate incident with the exception of the weak-eyed Mr. Maxwell’s ladling turtle soup not into Mrs. Taptoe’s bowl but onto the table, with effusive apologies on his side and a remonstration from Mrs. Taptoe that the incident should not be given a second thought, even as the broth made a rivulet from the locus of the spill to the edge of the table, whereupon it dripped directly into Mrs. Taptoe’s lap. There was also, it should be noted, a slightly awkward moment in which Miss Pints was corrected by Miss Drone for taking her knife to the mullet when the custom was to put a fork in the right hand and a piece of bread in the left; Miss Pints did not take the admonishment easily and began to tear up in her eyes, but just as quickly forgot the whole thing when Mr. Groves said something funny about corsets.

Miss Drone complimented the lamb cutlet and Mr. Waitwaithe complimented the stewed beef
à la jardinière
and Mr. Peppercorn reminded himself aloud to commend Mrs. Dorchester on every tasty dish set upon the table, for she had certainly “outdone herself,” and there was a compliment, as well, from Mr. Nevers for the housekeeper Mrs. Lacey for how beautifully she had lettered the bill of fare. Miss Pints even found the words in spite of her previous abashment to say that it was the best dinner she had ever attended, and all smiled to hear her say it, and to see that Miss Pints had finally poked her funny-shaped head out of its little turtle shell, if but for a brief moment. But it was Dr. Bosworthy who held forth for most of the first course and then through the early moments of the second course of turkey poult and duckling and green goose, both before and after Gemma’s frowning comment that it was a sad pity that the most delectable dinners were those in which baby animals must be slaughtered for consumption and Mr. Nevers’ riposte that he would prefer roasted baby animals to stringy mutton and aged beef in a new-fangled tin, and did not the Lord Almighty give us kids and goslings and newly born veal calves so that we should consume them with a sweet bread
au jus
?

Dr. Bosworthy had migrated from his early tirade against the English judicial system and the putting to death of nearly everyone for the sake of societal convenience. Now he took up the topic of wines, for he had been told that his host, Mr. Peppercorn, boasted a well-stocked wine cellar, although one would not know it from the fact that all that was being served that evening was an unassuming claret, and “in spite of my love of a good, unpretentious claret, I am compelled to ask, Henry, what is keeping those other wines stored below from being drunk this special evening down to the dregs? Are you waiting for England to be overrun by Napoleon in some fresh incarnation and have need of every variety to entertain his ‘Teenyness’ at Feral Park?”

“Indeed not!” said Henry Peppercorn. “I merely thought that, claret being the preference of most who are in attendance here to-night, we should enjoy it without alloy until the dessert champagne appears.”

“Yum-de-yum! Dessert champagne!” exclaimed Miss Pints in happy approval through her cleft.

“Now if you ever wish to entertain the
Prince of Wales
at your house—”

The beginning of the doctor’s teaze was interrupted by Mr. Peppercorn’s interjectional, “I would rather fall down a flight of stairs backwards.”

“—then here is what you should have: sherry with the soup and fish, His Royal Highness would accept the claret with the beef, punch if you are to have turtle, port with game—especially venison—”

“My dear Dr. Bosworthy!” It was now Mr. Groves’ turn to interrupt. “Port is drunk after the meal by the men as the women repair to the drawing-room to take their tea and talk about those selfsame men.”

Gemma giggled.

“Nonetheless, it has all been codified, and I am simply telling you what has been decided amongst the nobility, who, if you ask me, are all drinking themselves to liver necrosis, but life is an education and so I will finish: something sparkling with the confectionary, and Madeira with the sweets.”

“Oh, Dr. Bosworthy, how very ironic it is,”began Miss Drone,“that you should reject the codification of offences that make up the infamous Bloody Code, yet have us all drinking a certain prescribed thing with each of our dinner courses.”

“To be sure,” said Dr. Bosworthy, seeming to take no offence, “but that only proves my long-standing contention that there are in this life rules that we should follow for the betterment of ourselves and others, and rules that should be avoided because they were drawn up by madmen and fools.”

“And in what category,” continued Miss Drone, “would you place the rule that says one should have champagne with whitebait? For this is what I was once told in Eastbourne and I tried it and did not like bubbles with my fish, did I, Miss Pints?”

Miss Pints nodded her head most violently in agreement.

Anna had been quiet up to this point in the conversation, and desired to remain that way since it was not necessary for one to speak when there were those at table with much more interesting things to say. She was also sorely troubled by what she had heard about Perry Alford, and wished that she could go to him at that very instant and comb her fingers through his hair and soothe him and tell him that all would be well after he had been healed of his affliction, and that she would never forsake him, although it was the plan for her to say the opposite to shock him into changing his ways.

Her thoughts were still with Mr. Alford when she noticed that Dr. Bosworthy had risen from the table and was set to go into the house, accompanied by Mr. Maxwell, for the purpose of visiting the wine cellar and bringing up a few bottles of any thing but claret. She turned to her father to see that he was presently struggling to think of something to say to stop him. (Mr. Peppercorn was often slow to devise prevarications when needed.) Finally, Henry Peppercorn spoke out with some sharpness, “For Heaven’s sake, Quentin, sit down! Tell Mr. Maxwell what you wish and
he
will get the bottles for you. Guests should not go browsing about in their host’s wine cellar!”

“Now, Henry. I promise that if I stumble upon a family skeleton amongst the cobwebs and the must, that I will never reveal its identity!”

Miss Drone released a cackling laugh that was not at all her custom, and it was at this moment that Anna realised that her aunt was, in spite of his eccentric nature, incredibly fond of the Oxonian.

Or that she was drunk.

“Then at least suffer
me
to come with you, Dr. Bosworthy,” suggested Anna, rising from her seat, and then to Mr. Maxwell: “You need not be walking up and down dark stairways when you cannot see well even in the bright light of day.” It was a harsh thing to say, but it was true. “And besides, Doctor, there are rats in the cellar, for Miss Pittipaws has not been down there in above a month, so I must go first and inspect the room, and then I will allow you to follow.”

The two then promptly left for the cellar, Mr. Maxwell stepping aside and looking deflated.

Reaching the door which opened upon the descending stairwell to the cellar, Anna, keeping to her word, would not allow the doctor to proceed.“Wait here for but a moment,” said she, holding her candelabrum aloft.“I will tell you when you may go down.”

“But I should like to see the rats if there are any. In some cultures they are considered a culinary delicacy.”

“Please do not tell me, Doctor, that
you
have eaten a rat.”

Dr. Bosworthy nodded. “I have eaten nearly every creature considered edible by indigenes throughout the world.”

Anna felt a wamble within her frail stomach. “Well, we do not eat rats here at Feral Park. We kill them. Excuse me.”

Anna had lost all patience with the man who had taken her away from her very own dinner party, which had until that point been going reasonably well. Sometimes her father’s friend was an infuriation.

Down stairs in the darkness of the cellar, Anna found Miss Godby’s maid Cecilia pacing and clawing at her head in a most vexed state, and her mistress sprawled drunkenly upon her cot with a half empty wine bottle in one hand, and two fully empty ones set upon the slate floor.

“It is not good that we let her drink,” said Cecilia in a distressed tone. “She has been unmanageable and most cruel to me for the whole afternoon and she has said the most awful things. Oh, Miss Peppercorn, I am climbing the walls from this entrapment which allows her to treat me so ill without escape. I think that I shall quit.” With that, Cecilia started for the stairs.

“But Cecilia—you must not!”

Cecilia neither answered nor stopt her retreat. She climbed the stairs and was gone.

Anna went to Miss Godby and found that her secret lodger was in such an intoxicated state that she could hardly form words. As Anna was attempting to peel her fingers from the half-finished bottle, she heard a footfall upon the stairs. “Gracious God! It is Dr. Bosworthy coming down in defiance of my directive, and he will now know every thing. But perhaps it is not a bad thing that he should know, after all, for then I may enlist his help.”

She turned to see not only Dr. Bosworthy approaching her through the shaft of light which shone down from the door, but Gemma as well.

“Oh, no!” was all that Gemma said, the look of horror upon her face saying everything else.

“Is she mad?” queried Dr. Bosworthy as he inspected Miss Godby with curious interest. “How gothic.”

Anna explained the identity of her cellar tenant. She then explained every thing else except the fact that Miss Godby was soon to marry a woman. This secret she had not divulged to a single soul, nor did she intend to.

“By Godby, do you mean Miss Felicity Godby, the daughter of Lord and Lady Godby of Godby Keep?”

“The very one.”

“Oh, what a despicable piece of work
he
is!” said Dr. Bosworthy.

“And why do you make such a bold pronouncement, sir?” asked Gemma.

“I know the man, or perhaps I should say that I have had the misfortune of finding myself on more than one occasion the recipient of his countervailing opinion. With that opinion comes much influence and with that influence the power to thwart whatever it is that one wishes of which he does not approve, and generally speaking, Miss Dray, that is
every thing
that one wishes, for the man will take the opposing side simply for the sport in it.”

Anna, who was holding Miss Godby’s head and attempting to put her tongue back into her mouth, gave her impatience a voice: “Dr. Bosworthy, your support is appreciated but Gemma and I have no idea what you are talking about.”

“Let us help the poor girl for she is vini-poisoned. Miss Dray, go up and procure some strong tea. Let us wet a cloth at the basin. Had we leeches we could do some good with bleeding her, but I am certain that you do not.”

“Dr. Bosworthy, the use of leeches to bleed out the ill humours has been discredited in all of the journals,” said Anna with a snort.

“And who told you that?”

“Why…
you
did,” said Anna in immediate recollection.

“Indubitably. I was merely saying it to see if you ever listen to me.”

“I listen most scrupulously to you, Dr. Bosworthy, for oftentimes you are brilliant. That is, when you are not addled.”

“I take no offence from your assessment of my faculties, for I agree that I am not
consistently
brilliant and my methods do not always produce the desired result, but I should hope that that be the rare exception rather than the rule. Let us walk the patient round the room.”

The two began to walk the all but cataleptic Miss Felicity Godby round the open space in the cellar as Gemma climbed the stairs.

“Now, let me tell you about my most recent contretemps with Lord Godby. I have a dear friend who is dying of a heart ailment and is due to depart the vale altogether by next summer. She is a very devout woman, and I have always been careful to keep my unorthodox religious beliefs to myself. She has been most supportive of my work in various fields, even when my own colleagues have dismissed me as mad. As a tenant of Lord Godby in Gloucestershire she asked her landlord if he would permit next year a Paschal Pageant to take place in the village commons so that all within that parish may observe a unique occurrence that will not be repeated again until the year 2285.”

“I cannot guess what is the ‘unique occurrence’ to which you refer, Doctor. Is it something you have made up to please a religious woman?”

“Indeed not. Ah, we are getting Miss Godby’s legs to move on their own. Keep moving, my dear. You will be back to sobriety in no time.”

“Uhn. Grhhn.”

“But I have very nearly told you, Miss Peppercorn. It is simply this: the earliest possible occurrence upon the ecclesiastical calendar of Easter Sunday will take place next year. I marvel at calendrical anomalies; it is one of my hobbies. Think of it: Easter Sunday will not fall again on the date of March 22 for another four hundred and sixty-seven years!”

“Indeed it is astonishing, and how was it that Lord Godby made it all odious?”

“He would not allow the celebration and did not even believe my calculation. So, alas, in the village of Godby in Gloucestershire next year there will be nothing to distinguish this very special Easter observance other than a brief and passing mention of the calendrical oddity from the pulpit. Perhaps no one will even notice how cold a day this Easter should be, coming so early in the year, since the eruption of Mount Tambora robbed us of our previous summer and froze us so dreadfully nearly the entire year. My friend was heartbroken to see a unique aspect to the celebration of the Resurrection of her Heavenly Lord and Savior taken so contemptuously by the mundane lord Godby, and I believe that the fissure of a broken heart is hastening her death.”