Then, at some point-let us say, when there were but two or three letters more to be answered-Sir John heaved a great sigh and asked how many more there were till we were done.
“Not many,” said I, “a few, no more.”
“Well, let us answer them, and then I would have you visit that fellow with the biblical name-what is it?”
“Deuteronomy,” I suggested.
“Yes, of course, Mr. Deuteronomy Plummer. I suggest you visit him and ask if anything has gone amiss with your friend Mr. Bennett. I must admit that I have a rather bad feeling about him.”
“Something tangible?”
“No, I wish it were, but it’s simply an uneasiness I have.”
And that was the way we managed it. Having done all that could be done that day, I parted from him, promising to return for dinner by seven o’clock at the very latest.
“No matter what, I want you back by then. Is that understood?” And that is all he would say about it.
What, I wondered, could be so terribly important that I should be told so sternly to be back at seven for dinner? Were we to have some special guest? Was something secret planned? Such questions as these troubled me all the way to Haymarket-and would today, as well, if I were to find myself in a similar situation, for I am one of those who dislikes surprises. Perhaps this is because I, more than most, had suffered at life’s vagaries. At bottom, I suppose, I was even then a rather settled sort.
Having arrived in Haymarket, I went direct to the coffee house and jog-trotted up the stairs to the upper floor. I banged mightily upon the door and waited. There was no response. Twice more I repeated this, with the same result. I put my ear to the door but heard nothing. Well, there was still much time before it would be seven, and so I took myself down the stairs to the coffee house, and there did I spend the better part of an hour, reading and sipping that most hearty of blends. It did move me to further action and sent me up to the top of the stairs once again to knock upon the door. Yet again and again did I knock, to no avail. But then a sudden thought came to me. I had in my pocket a pad of paper, which I had lately taken to carrying about, as well as a pencil. Putting the two to use, I wrote out a note to Mr. Deuteronomy. In it, I said that we had waited for Mr. Bennett at Bow Street, and then I had come to Haymarket in search of Mr. Deuteronomy. Though I had waited, I had missed him, too. “I shall come early tomorrow to discover what has happened,” I wrote. “Sir John is worried, and I, as well.”
Having written that, I felt that I had done all I could under these awkward circumstances. It was now certainly time to return to Bow Street. I folded the note and slipped it under the door so that it was just visible from the outside. I saw that the street lamps were now lit, and only a bit of light could be seen in the west. It was now well past six and time to hurry home.
Coming in as I did, I spied Mr. Donnelly-doctor, surgeon, medical examiner for Westminster, and friend to us all. He was just entering Sir John’s chambers at the end of the hall, and that (I told myself) must mean that there is to be some special guest of honor. He was always present at such occasions, lending his own wit and good humor to the dinner conversation. Upon entering the kitchen, I saw that Clarissa, rather than Molly, was serving as cook this evening. That gave me a bit of a surprise, for though she had often cooked dinner before, and had proven her worth again and again, she had never done so for one of Sir John’s guest-of-honor affairs. I wondered where Molly was and what she was about. Clarissa looked up at me and smiled.
“Ah, it’s you, Jeremy. Quickly with you now, get upstairs and change into your best. This is a grand occasion.”
“But what-What is the occasion?”
“Oh, I’m sure you can guess. Go, go, go! Out of the kitchen, if you please.”
Thus was I driven out and up the stairs where I did hastily change into my better suit of clothes (I had but two)-really quite ordinary-looking; yet the shirt, recently washed and crisply clean, seemed to work a sort of magic upon the attendant parts. I was indeed ready to present myself to whoever was to be the guest of honor.
When I descended into the kitchen, I did so with as much grace and dignity as I could muster. Therefore, I was somewhat taken aback when, no sooner had I made my appearance than I was given a great platter containing ribs of beef by Clarissa and told to bring them to the dining-room table.
“You must carve them, as well,” she did call after me.
Was this why I had dressed myself so handsomely? Was I to be a mere server? Yet Clarissa, who was herself excellently decked out in her finest, and prettier than I had ever before seen her, followed me closely with the Yorkshire pudding. The sauce, as she pointed out, was already on the table.
But where was the guest of honor? As I carved the lovely beef, I kept throwing anxious glances at the door, wondering what personage might come through it and excite us one and all. Then, however, did I note that there were but six places set at the table. Where would he sit?
Finally, as I sat down beside Clarissa, it came to me at last that there would be no others at the table, and that the guests of honor were already with us, sitting across from us, touching fingers upon the table, beaming smiles, each at the other. Mr. Gabriel Donnelly and the widow Molly Sarton were about to announce their engagement. Yet, it seemed, they would have to wait a bit.
Sir John called down to his lady: “Kate, my dear, what is proper form here? Do we toast them before or after we eat? I know how it’s usually done, but are there special rules for this special occasion?”
“None that I know of, Jack. Do it as you like.”
“Well then, I always think that toasts are best drunk on a full belly, and so I say to you all, fill your bellies!”
There was laughter round the table at that as we fell to the dinner-and what a dinner it was! Could this truly have been cooked by Clarissa? Though of course it could, for had I not always said that she had only to put that considerable mind of hers to cooking and she would soon be the best cook in all of England? Perhaps she was not yet quite so good as all that. Nevertheless, as we cut into our meat, and the juice ran forth, we must each have had the thought that we had never eaten better before. Thus the table fell silent as all continued to eat, and, of all compliments paid to a cook, that sort of silence is the most profound.
There were seconds asked for and quickly consumed. Clarissa’s Yorkshire pudding was near as much in demand as the roast of beef. Many is the trip I made round the table with bottles of claret in hand. It was quite the finest and most festive meal we had ever eaten. Our bellies were full. It was now time for toasts to be offered. I made sure that all glasses were filled. Sir John rose and raised his glass.
“I shall not make this a long oration, though the Good Lord knows that I could. There is so much to tell of Gabriel Donnelly that I’m quite sure that I could fill the rest of the evening with it. It was in 1768 that we met, and immediately we did, we found a basis for friendship, and it was as a friend that I rejoiced when, but a year ago, he came to me and declared his interest in Molly Sarton, who had come to us from her home in Deal where she had been recently widowed. She agreed to fill in for us as cook for a time-we never thought for a moment that we could hold on long to one as talented and experienced as she. In any case, her time with us has not been wasted, for here in Bow Street she met Mr. Donnelly, and that has led to a most favorable situation for both. They are here to announce their engagement, and we are here to celebrate it.”
Then did we raise our glasses and, standing, drink a toast to the two of them. As we resumed our seats, Mr. Donnelly remained upon his feet and, looking slowly round the table at each of us, he smiled and began his own brief oration.