“Surely that didn’t include Americans,” said George.
Ruthven smiled appreciatively at this witticism over the top of his sherry glass.
“Nor the French,” he said. “Really, Sarah. Lighten, as they say, up. You really can be such a prat.”
“I think you’re just being horrid,” said Sarah sulkily. “He’s quite nice, actually.”
George seemed to twig the situation for the first time.
“Oh, I see.” He chanted the sing-song of the playground: “Sarah fancies Jeffrey. ”
“Stop it. I feel sorry for him, that’s all. Being so far from home and-”
Sir Adrian cut in: “You can all stop it. I get enough of the man during the day. All that perkiness: it’s like having Meg Ryan scampering about the house.” He cast eyes upward, beseeching an indifferent heaven, then glared at each of his offspring in turn. “Whatever did I do to deserve this quarrelsome family?”
“It rather begs the nature versus nurture question, doesn’t-” began Albert.
“That’s enough!” Sir Adrian could bellow, when he wanted to, loud enough to shatter glass. “This is a joyous family gathering and you are all, for once, going to behave yourselves. What must Violet be thinking of us?” He gave her a little hug; her narrow form seemed to disappear somewhere into the folds of the cummerbund.
“It’s just that it’s nearly the holidays, and he’s far from home, that’s all,” repeated Sarah.
Now even Sir Adrian began to twig. He turned on her-or rather, maneuvered twenty degrees more in her direction, like a submarine.
“Don’t even think it,” he said. “No daughter of mine is going to get involved with an American secretary.” From his tone, he might have been contemplating her elopement with a Bedouin tribesman.
For perhaps the first time in her life, real defiance welled up in Sarah. She drew herself up in what she hoped Jeffrey would think of as a queenly posture.
“You think to tell me with whom I may or may not get involved? Under these circumstances?” She cocked her head in Violet’s direction. “Are you forgetting why we’re all here?”
It was the first time any of them had referred even indirectly to the happy occasion which had brought them together. Her siblings stirred uneasily.
“At least he’s not a mur-”
“Not a what?” Violet could match Sir Adrian’s frosty tone, icicle for icicle, thought Lillian. Bravo.
Having come to the edge of the cliff, Sarah found she couldn’t leap.
“Under these circumstances?” Sir Adrian repeated slowly. “Yes. Under these or any other circumstances I will tell you exactly what to do. You’re my daughter and if you expect to ever see a penny from me you’ll drop the whole subject right now.”
“I don’t want-”
Ruthven, seeing an opportunity to ingratiate himself with his father at Sarah’s expense, cut in. “He’s only after your money, Sarah. Don’t be such an ass.”
The fear that what Ruthven said might be true made her lash out. With a nod in Lillian’s direction, she said:
“You should know all about that.”
Albert, who had only been half-listening to the conversation up to this point, said, “I say. That is rather rich, coming from you, Ruthven. I doubt you’ve ever done a deed in your life that wasn’t motivated by money. Same goes for you, George. Just leave Sarah alone for once.”
“Coming from me? Me?” said George. “As if you hadn’t spent all your life sucking up to Father over money.”
“I?
”
Sir Adrian roared: “I said that’s enough.”
He looked at each member of his rancorous brood in turn with steely eyed displeasure, his face contorted like a gargoyle’s on a Gothic cathedral. It had the hoped-for, withering effect.
“Not another word or I’ll see you all regret it.”
To Violet’s amazement, they all-including Natasha-exchanged quicksilver glances, as if relaying some pre-arranged signal. In unison, they clapped their mouths shut, like a perfectly orchestrated firing squad having used up its round.
Paulo, who had been lurking in the hall outside, admiring his long, dark hair in the Louis Quinze mirror while eavesdropping on the conversation, judged it a good moment to step inside and announce, in perfect imitation of the perfect servant, “Dinner is served.”
Sir Adrian offered his arm to Violet and without a word began heaving his slow way in the direction of their meal.
“I don’t know what you mean,” shouted Sarah to Albert.
They sat across from one another in the trompe l’oeil dining salon reserved for formal occasions. Reminiscent of the wedding invitations, and probably serving as the inspiration for same, the decorative panels lining the walls featured cherubs, scantily diapered in clouds, sitting atop Roman columns, the whole in a style that somehow managed to marry the worst of Gothic and Renaissance excesses.
Paulo had by this point brought in the fish with its accompanying wine. The volume of conversation seemed to have increased exponentially with each course.
“What are you saying? You’ll soon have the real story?”
Albert noticed for the first time that Lillian, to his right, had torn her attention away from Violet to tune into his conversation.
“We’ll talk later,” he shouted back. By this time, he had had more than his share of wine, although his eyelids hadn’t yet started dropping to half-mast as they normally would have done by this point. Instead, he seemed animated by whatever news he was hugging to himself.
That sleepy look of his could sometimes be deceptive, Sarah knew. Albert was becoming well-known for giving entire stage performances-some of his best performances, at that-whilst completely intoxicated. Often, it wasn’t until he collapsed backstage after the final curtain call that his fellow actors realized he had been in the bag the whole time.
Somehow they got through the meal, making inconsequential replies to each other’s small talk and surreptitiously watching Sir Adrian and Violet the while. She sat at the opposite head of the table from Sir Adrian-a blatant indicator of her elevated status, which Lillian, demoted to her left hand, had not failed to notice.
George, on Violet’s right, pointedly refused to engage her in conversation, and, most unusually, made small talk with Sarah about her book. Never retiring on this subject, Sarah warbled forth, relieving George of the task of doing anything more than feigning interest as he shoveled in food.
When Paulo began serving the port and Stilton, Lillian quickly rose to lead the ladies away for coffee in the drawing room, precisely as if she owned the place. Sir Adrian waved her back to her seat. He tapped a spoon against his glass and a hush descended. Turning to Violet, he said, “I think it’s time we broke the news, don’t you, my dear?”
“I think it is well past time, as I’ve told you previously, darling,” she said.
Sir Adrian stood and, raising his glass, beamed at them in turn.
“My happy little family, once they hear the news, will understand all and forgive all. Isn’t that right?”
In unison, they folded their hands politely, no one but George making a move to prepare to raise a glass in toast.
“You’ve all journeyed far to be here and to share my happiness on this day. Do not think your joy in the occasion has gone unnoticed. To have my own flesh and blood in my home to share this moment is… well, it is a happiness beyond description. Without further ado, I ask you all to drink a toast to my wife, Violet, the woman who has made me the happiest man in England.”
“Father, you mean, future wife, don’t you?” said Sarah.