The Moon by Night (19 page)

The paper crackled. Shiloh looked at it again as he ate. Then he dropped it, and Jauncy could tell that he was staring out the window again. Jauncy studied this room closely. It was, he thought, the most attractive room in the house. It was furnished more carefully, he realized, than the other rooms, which were haphazard, it seemed, and curiously bare. But then, with a start, he realized one of the many wide cultural chasms between his home country and this former colony.

All the mansions and homes and cottages I've seen in my life have been hundreds of years old. Even in the village the shanties have all been there, owned by the same families, for generations. No wonder we have so much clutter, so much bric-a-brac, so many family heirlooms—valuable or not—in our homes. These Americans, they're babes compared to us. Why, this house is brand new. I recall now that Sketes told me. Fancy that! And these people, they don't have things from their great-great-great-greats. Even my family has gravestones in the churchyard of Jauncys from 1094, 1113, 1215…

The heavy brass knocker at the front door sounded. “Pardon me, sir,” Jauncy said, hurrying down the stairs. He regretted the shiny elbows and knees in his worn suit. Though the Irons-Winslows had been generous enough to buy him two shirts, one could hardly expect them to replace all of his clothing. And his tie had gotten torn in his horrible nightmare wandering the docks; though he had darned it so carefully one couldn't really see the mend, Jauncy was self-conscious because of it. He felt that the Irons-Winslows deserved a better-dressed manservant. Still, he was British, and Americans appeared to prize British servants above all others. And the more snobbish the better. He raised his chin, drooped his eyelids with disdain, and stuck his nose in the air.

Opening the door, he saw a gentleman arrayed in footman's garb, quite correctly, he noted, with powder blue satin knee breeches, white stockings, pumps with bows, long white satin waistcoat, powder blue satin coat, powdered wig, and over all this splendor an ankle-length billowing black wool cape lined with white satin. With a very slight nod of approval Jauncy said, “Good day to you, sir.”

“Good day to you, sir,” said the footman. With a deep bow and a flourish, he held out an envelope of rich parchment tied with a powder blue ribbon. “An invitation, with Mrs. Victoria Elizabeth Buchanan's compliments.”

Jauncy, impressed by this elegant and most correct social convention, returned exactly the degree of bow required. “Mr. and Mrs. Irons-Winslow return their sincerest gratitude. Good day to you, sir.”

“Good day to you, sir.”

Jauncy delayed a moment, closing the door very slowly, watching wide-eyed as the gorgeously-arrayed footman returned to the carriage on the street. It was like a fairy-tale coach, he thought whimsically, white with gold trim, drawn by four superb white horses with powder blue plumed headdresses. The coachman wore a many-caped greatcoat, while the two footmen were mounted high on the rear of the carriage. The shutters were drawn, so one could not see inside, but Jauncy knew that the lady who owned this carriage would not be inside, herself performing the dreary task of hand-delivering invitations. The carriage was just a symbol of her goodwill—and wealth. He hurried back upstairs and placed the card by the rest of the mail at Shiloh's side.

“An invitation, sir,” he said quietly. With deft unobtrusive movements he poured the rest of the bottle of mineral water into Shiloh's goblet. Shiloh was chewing thoughtfully, still staring out the window with a troubled expression on his face. It was a gray day, with only a slight dirty light where the sun was hidden behind a dome of dingy cloud cover.

“Hey, PJ?”

“Yes, sir?”

“You have a family?” He looked up and focused on Jauncy's face.

“Yes, I do, sir,” Jauncy answered. “My father is still Sir Thomas Rawlings' gentleman. My mother is the housekeeper at Weybridge Manor, their estate house in Yorkshire. I have four brothers and four sisters, sir. All of them are employed by the estate in one capacity or another.”

“That's a fine big family. Are you the eldest son?” Shiloh asked, settling back and finishing off his water.

“No, sir, I am exactly in the middle. Two brothers and two sisters older. Two brothers and two sisters younger.”

“Really? I suppose I thought you were the eldest because you were the heir's gentleman.”

“Ah yes, but you see, sir, my two elder brothers weren't really suited to being valets. My eldest brother is the butler of Weybridge Manor, and he manages the staff of thirty-six servants. My second elder brother is head gamekeeper of the estate. He's a sportsman, sir. So it fell to me to train as Thomas Rawling the IV's gentleman's gentleman.”

“I see,” Shiloh said, his gaze wandering out to that bleakness outside again. “It must be nice to have such a large family. Mine is small and far away….”

“Yes, sir,” Jauncy said rather awkwardly. Sketes had told him in greater detail about the Winslows in Hawaii and Mr. Bain Winslow in the West Indies. His glance fell on the list Shiloh had been perusing, and he noted that it was stores for the clipper
Locke's Day Dream
.

Shiloh roused a little and reached for the invitation just received. “This must be from the Buchanans,” he said. “Giant footman, right? With white hair?”

“I believe that is a wig, sir, a powdered wig,” Jauncy said gently. “And yes, the invitation is with the compliments of Victoria Elizabeth Buchanan.”

Shiloh opened the envelope. “I've got a whole pile of invitations here,” he grumbled. “How do people manage these things? I can't keep up with what's on what night, where this luncheon is, where that promenade is.”

“Why, I can certainly help you with that, sir,” Jauncy said, astounded. “That is, if Mrs. Irons-Winslow wouldn't mind my, er, interference.”

“Mind?” Shiloh said, grinning. “Not hardly. She likes to go to these things, but she's worse than I am at keeping up with them. We've just kind of gone along with me telling her where we're going that night. But now, with the holidays coming, we're receiving a lot of invitations, and I don't know how people manage the scheduling. Do you?”

Incredulously Jauncy said, “Generally, one must keep a social calendar, sir.”

“Really? You mean like a regular calendar, only with your engagements entered in it?”

Jauncy was having trouble with this conversation. It was difficult for him to believe that people of the Irons-Winslows' status seemed not to know how to manage their social obligations at all. He couldn't know that Cheney had always been appended to her mother and father's social life. Then, when she was on her own, her life was much more centered around her career than her social life. And Shiloh, of course, had never had to manage the complexities of social rounds among the elites of Manhattan.

Finally Jauncy told himself that it was obvious that his gentleman needed his assistance, so he stated, “Yes, Mr. Irons-Winslow, you really must get a calendar, preferably a journal. You can purchase them at any stationer's. If you would like, I will organize your cards—I have taken the liberty of going through all of your calling cards, sir, to familiarize myself with your acquaintances—and your invitations and social correspondence. Then perhaps on Saturday evenings after the last mail delivery, we could go over the activities for the week, and I will post them in your calendar. Would that be satisfactory, sir?”

“Sure will. The doc will be glad too, if you can get us organized, PJ. We had a narrow escape just two weeks ago. Mrs. de Peyster was having a recital on Thursday night, and we were also invited to Mrs. Josefina Steen's salon, and I accidentally accepted Mrs. de Peyster's invitation. It caused quite a dustup, I can tell you that,” Shiloh declared. “I was in trouble with the doc, with Mrs. Buchanan, with Mrs. Steen, with Mrs. Duvall, with Mrs. de Peyster…”

“Shocking, sir,” Jauncy said sympathetically. “However did you manage to extricate yourself?”

“I had to go to both,” Shiloh rasped. “I charmed women till I thought my lips and tongue and teeth were gonna melt like big ol' dollops of warm butter. I was sickening.”

“It worked, however,” Jauncy said, arranging the tray to remove it.

“Yeah,” Shiloh said, shrugging. “Guess so. No one scratched my eyes out, and I do think I saw another invitation from Mrs. de Peyster in that stack.”

Jauncy picked up the tray. “Will you be having coffee, sir?”

“Yeah, I'd like that.”

“And sweeties?”

“Something Sketes made?”

“I believe she did mention scalloped apples, sir.”

“Yeah, Sketes makes the best sweets. And see if we have any of Dally's double cream to go with it, please.”

“Yes, sir.”

Soon Jauncy returned with the coffee service and a platter with the steaming apples and the extra-thick cream melting on top. Jauncy poured Shiloh's coffee and stood respectfully back again. Shiloh took a big bite and said, “Mm, this is really good. You should have some, PJ, with your lunch. We've got to put some meat on your bones. And listen, I wasn't just being nosy, asking you about your family. I was asking because I know you haven't had the means to write to them, so I wanted to tell you that you're welcome to use the stationery in the study and include any letters with our outgoing mail.”

“My sincerest thanks, sir. My father and mother will be worried, but of course I had no way of contacting them. Thank you, sir,” he said again.

“Welcome.”

He ate for a while, then picked up Victoria's invitation.

“Hey, PJ?” he said slowly.

“Yes, sir?”

“You know, I've had an idea kinda getting shuffled around in my head awhile. But I haven't known how to go about it. Maybe you can help me with it.”

“I shall certainly try, sir.”

Shiloh finished his dessert, picked up his coffee cup, and went to stand by Jauncy in front of the fire. “See, the doc is so busy with the hospital—I don't know if you knew this or not, but she has a private practice too.” He looked sharply at Jauncy.

The smaller man lifted his face to look Shiloh directly in the eyes. “Sir, I know everything about you and Mrs. Irons-Winslow that Sketes knows. Perhaps it may seem to you that I've been intruding in your private affairs. And so I have. You see, I've always taken it for granted that a retainer, particularly a live-in retainer, would know just about everything about the family for whom he works. It was only natural to me to find out all I could from Sketes and Miss Fiona about you and Mrs. Irons-Winslow. But now that we have conversed, sir, I think I realize that you may not be perfectly comfortable with the old conventions regarding servants.”

Shiloh grew thoughtful. “You know, you're right, PJ. I am having kind of a hard time getting used to it. I've always been alone. I've lived alone, worked alone, went to war alone, been on my own ever since I was fourteen. So I've got a whole new life that I'm trying to adjust to. It's hard because it's so different, but I have the best life that any man could ever hope or pray for right now, so I'm learning as fast as I can.

“Because, you see, my wife is completely different. The Duvalls are not millionaires like the Vanderbilts and the Astors and the Steens, but they are prosperous, and the doc has been brought up in the kind of social atmosphere—with servants and at-home days and social calendars and things—that you know. And that's why I wanted to ask you, PJ…I think my wife would really enjoy it if we did some entertaining. Just small parties of some kind, with her parents and the Buchanans, some other friends we have like the Blues, Dr. Batson. But I don't know how to go about giving that kind of party. And as great as Sketes and Fiona are, they don't either.”

“But I do, sir. I can do just about all of it except the actual hosting, of course,” Jauncy said eagerly. “I would be happy to arrange any parties you would like, large or small!”

“Yeah? But listen, PJ, you've gotta be sure that you and I can do it,” Shiloh warned. “The doc is not going to be bothered with one thing about any of this. Not an invitation written, no worries about the food, nothing. She's got enough to worry about, take my word for it. If giving a party turns into work instead of a time she can enjoy with her parents and friends, then she'll hate it. Right?”

“I agree completely, sir,” Jauncy said. “I give you my word that I can make all the arrangements, plan the menu, order the supplies, everything. And, sir, I know that Sketes is not
le chef d'haute cuisine
. But I believe I can learn enough about good, solid American cooking that we can plan a menu that will impress even Mrs. Josefina Steen. Take those scalloped apples, for instance. Call it
les pommes avec crème,
and soon Mrs. de Peyster will be bribing Sketes for the recipe.”

“You could call it ‘the saddle with cream'?” Shiloh asked, his blue eyes alight.

“Saddle?” Jauncy asked, mystified.

Shiloh sighed deeply. “
Pomme
. Pommel. That big knob on saddles.”

“Oh yes, of course,” Jauncy said with the faintest hint of sarcasm that upper class British servants can do so well. “I had heard that Americans had such an aid on their saddles. English saddles have no
pommel,
sir. At any rate, you likely could call it saddle with cream in French and Americans would never know the difference.”

“My wife would,” Shiloh said proudly. “She's one-fourth French.”

“Is she, sir?” Jauncy said with that scarcely hidden disdain that every Englishman has for every Frenchman.

“She is,” he said and added mischievously, “She's a Bourbon.”

Jauncy dropped the dessert spoon, and his sparse eyebrows shot up. “She's a Bourbon?” he blurted.

“Yeah,” Shiloh said, then uncertainly added, “That's a good thing, right? 'Cause I heard this lady—in fact, it was the Mrs. de Peyster that we were talking about a minute ago, with the recital—I heard her tell another lady that, and this other lady sort of went, ‘Ohh,' only not the bad kind of ‘Ohh' that ladies make when they're saying something catty. It's a good thing, right?”