Lilith curtsied as Owen took her hand. "You honor me, Captain Strake."
Owen kissed it, then straightened. "My pleasure, Miss Bumble."
He then offered his hand to the fourth member of the Bumble party. "Good to see you again, Reverend Beecher."
Beecher, who looked a match for Livinia save for being taller, nodded curtly. "I see you fare better on land than on the sea."
"Which is why I serve in Her Majesty's Army and not the Royal Navy." Owen shook the man's hand firmly, resisting the temptation to crush it. Beecher had not been unkind on the ship. More than once he'd joined Owen at the heads, vomiting over the side.
Mrs. Frost called them all to dinner. The Bishop sat at Dr. Frost's right hand, in the space Caleb would have occupied had he been present. Owen sat on the left, with Lilith at his side and Bethany opposite her. Beecher sat at Bethany's right. The children ranged between the young adults and the end of the table where the two matriarchs sat.
The meal consisted of three courses. It began with a fish chowder containing maize and potatoes in a milk broth. Onions and pepper had been added, the latter in a profligate quantity. Owen's throat closed with the first spoonful, but eased after a little wine.
The Bishop noticed. "You will find, Captain, that spices are not as dear here as they are in Norisle. We tend to demonstrate our fortune with their overuse."
Doctor Frost snorted. "And we drink very expensive wine to wash spice away."
"Praise God you can afford it, yes, Archibald."
"Quite, Othniel. To your health, Captain."
A steaming haunch of beef came next. Doctor Frost carved, offering a small lecture on the primacy of red meat as he cut. The Bishop got the King's cut, but the slice that ended up on Owen's plate nearly matched it. The cuts got progressively smaller, save for the last two, which went to Hettie and Livinia.
Bowls brimming with green beans and squash circulated. Never having had the latter, Owen watched how much others took. Butter and more pepper had been used in the squash, so when it came his turn, he served himself a conservative portion. His first taste, however, pleased him so much he kept an eye on the bowl in case there was any left over.
Conversation remained light during the meal. Owen had once been told that a gentleman "is neither a bore nor seated next to one at dinner." Doctor Frost's comments ranged on subjects far and wide, while Lilith remained coquettish and flattering. Owen did his best to cope with each, offering a couple of stories of his time fighting on the Continent. For the most part, however, he kept quiet.
This was not entirely out of manners. Bethany, though she smiled at both men on either side of her, did not appear to be her lively self. From what Owen could overhear, Beecher's attempts at conversation consisted of repeating selections from the great sermons. His delivery would have taxed the patience of a stone.
Bishop Bumble did not speak much to Bethany, save for a few mumbled comments during Owen's tales. Bethany reacted stiffly to the comments. Color drained from her face and she chewed mechanically for a time after that. Though she recovered enough to laugh politely at Owen's stories, Bumble clearly had upset her.
To the delight of the children, a pudding with berries and raisins finished the meal. They were served first, then the women excused themselves and herded the youngsters away. Beecher slid down into Bethany's chair-uttering a sigh Owen would have preferred not to have heard.
Doctor Frost poured a small cut-crystal glass of sherry for each man, then hoisted his in the air. "To the Queen's health."
Owen quaffed the sweet wine. It burned all the way down, but gently, at least to his throat. Beecher appeared to have more difficulty with it, much to the silent amusement of the two older gentlemen.
The Bishop refilled their glasses, then set the bottle in the center of the table. "Captain Strake, I would ask you a question."
"Please, sir."
"Are you not proud of your service?" The question came in a voice that was nine-tenths innocent. "Neither here nor to church did you wear your uniform."
"I am very proud of my service." Owen met the old man's dark stare openly. "I feared that the bright coat, the gold braid, would seem ostentatious and arrogant on the Lord's Day. I didn't wish to disrupt your service."
"I wish you had." Bumble picked up his glass and slowly spun it. Sunlight sparked rainbows. "I would have bid you come forward and sit in the front so my flock could see a proud officer of Her Majesty's Army. Too many people here are given cause to think poorly of our government. Colonel Langford and others set a frightful example."
Archibald Frost smiled. "I think, Othniel, you judge the people of Temperance harshly."
"I wish I could agree with you, Archibald, but the fact is that our people have lost their way. They have forgotten that we are all children of God, and that He has established an order to the Universe. We are to serve His purpose, and His purpose is clear. Our monarch is His ordained representative on this Earth. We believe that because He has granted us the bounty of this continent, we are somehow superior to the men of Norisle. A ridiculous proposition, wouldn't you agree, Captain?"
"I am not a theologian, sir. I pray to shoot better and faster than my enemy."
Beecher leaned forward, raising his glass. "And it is a good thing that God grants you that prayer for you are His agent in the war against the Atheists."
The Bishop and Dr. Frost exchanged glances at Beecher's outburst. Frost could not suppress an indulgent chuckle. "Not all Tharyngians are Atheists, Mr. Beecher."
"Their revolution overthrew God's ordained King and established the rule of the Laureates. They refuse to acknowledge God as their superior."
Bumble set his glass down. "Mr. Beecher, I have suggested you need more precision in your thinking and words. It is vital for your career. Doctor Frost is correct. The Laureates tolerate worship. Many of them are Deists, and most are Agnostics. Only a select few are Atheists. That is their nature. They assign Science the highest order and acknowledge that Science can neither confirm nor deny the existence of God."
"And they shall burn in Hell for that."
"Indeed they shall, but this does not make them Atheists, merely wrong." The Bishop smiled at Owen. "What would you do, sir, if you had a man like Mr. Beecher in your command?"
"That is what we have sergeants for."
Beecher sat back. "I am certain none of them are Atheists, are they, Captain? War not being a thing to promote such nonsense."
Though Owen knew better, he rose to the bait Beecher had so carelessly offered. "To be frank, Mr. Beecher, war is the last thing to promote a belief in God. When you've seen a man's head blown open by a musket-ball, with a chunk of his skull missing, and he sits there reciting nursery rhymes or begging for his mother, you wonder what sort of a God could condone war. And I understand and believe that these men will be rewarded in Heaven, but I cannot help but wonder if even an eternity of pleasure is just recompense for sitting with your guts in your lap, or watching a surgeon take your arm off with a saw."
Beecher paled. "I only meant…"
"I know what you meant, sir, and I know the fallaciousness of it. Perhaps, Mr. Beecher, if the opportunity ever presents itself for you to join a military expedition, you will take it. You will learn a great deal about men, war, and yourself."
"Quite right." The Bishop nodded solemnly. "You know, Captain, I offered the blessing before the Mystrian Rangers sailed for Norisle. I gave quite a good sermon but I wish I had heard your words. I would have gone. Perhaps, had I been there, I could have stiffened their spines or, at least, eased their torments."