Page 94 of The Curious Story of the Missing Lady
Powell’s face brightened even further. “Ah, Lady Madeline, you are a sight that would melt the iciest peaks.”
She remembered what Emily had told her about this man and felt as if she should perhaps be better off keeping her distance from him.
Just when she was thinking this, Foster arrived with a tray of drinks. Upon presenting it to Powell, he said, “Drink, sir? I trust you’ll find the rat’s bane to be of excellent vintage.”
Madeline had never seen Ethan Powell at a loss for words. Tonight was surely a special night.
Chapter 66
The musicians struck up Handel’s Water Music, expertly arranged for string quartet, as Madeline entered the dining hall. She’d come in first, eager as she was to see the decorated room, for she’d not seen it at all today. She gasped at the sight of it, hung as it was with flowers and garlands, the silverware shining like polished pearls, the plates so straight and even and reflecting the pearls of light from the fiery chandelier above.
In came the rest of the guests. There was Ethan Powell, of course, as well as Uncle Roger. The latter had put on a great deal of weight since he’d sat for his portrait, which now bore as much resemblance to him as the glass of wine he held resembled a beer barrel. Behind him were cousins Gerald and Liam from up north. They were young, married, and serious, and dressed as if they were going to show off their attire in all the modern galleries. Their wives followed in after them, giggling merrily at some whispered jest. There was the Reverend Carlyle, equal parts sombre and gentile. And there was Dr Brightman, who escorted his wife Eleanor on his arm. She was a plain woman with a kind expression and lines on her face that revealed the map of joyful life. In came Emily, smart, opinionated, lovely, and behind her was Oliver.
Oliver had a look of prepossession about him. It was something Madeline had not seen in him before. He walked in slowly with hands locked behind him, smiling at the decor of the room. When he caught Madeline’s eye, his smile did not increase, but instead looked as if he was regarding some curiosity. It unsettled her a little to see so little change in his countenance, but she put that aside for the time being. This was a time for celebration, and she was intent on enjoying the evening.
They sat down to a sumptuous meal of five courses, each one outdoing the last in all manner of execution, presentation, and flavour.
But before the end, Ethan Powell took a glass and was about to stand when Oliver grabbed his glass and beat Powell to the punch.
“My friends,” he said, “I would like to propose a toast. As you all know, I am betrothed to the fair Lady Madeline. And I pity her, for I am getting the better of the deal. You see here before you a man not well-versed in the art of speechmaking, but one who is sincere, and I hope that it shows. I have known the Whitcombe family for quite some time. Not as long as any of you here, but long enough to realise that at its core beats a very stout heart indeed. Lord Stamford will be my father-in-law, and I could not be happier, for I have grown to regard him as a most loving, kind, gentle, generous, forgiving, and upright man as I would ever want to know in this life. I shall say that I come from humble origins, but tonight, under this roof, I am an Olympian. To His Lordship.”
“His Lordship,” echoed the room.
Madeline looked at her father. There was something there in his eyes that she had never seen before. Or rather, something she had never seen directed towards Oliver before. It was respect of the highest order.
What was this pang inside her?
Why was it that she could only think of Lady Elizabeth, stuck in that terrible place, the victim of a broken heart forced by cruel fate to bear the wicked stamp of him that broke her heart to begin with?
“Lord Oliver,” said Powell, “I am not accustomed to being upstaged at the dining table, but after your performance here tonight, I can only say, ‘well done’, and regard you with a gnawing envy. To you, My Lord.” He raised his glass and drank.
“Well then, Ambrose,” said stout Uncle Roger, “what say you to all this praise?”
“I can only say that I do not deserve a word of it.”
“Finally, some honesty,” said Powell to a burst of laughter from the group.
“You’re looking better and better, Ambrose,” said Uncle Roger, “despite your illness and all that unfortunate business with the Lady What’s Her Name.”
“Roger,” chastised Mama.
Emily leaned over to Madeline and whispered, “Dear Uncle’s had a bit too much to drink, I’m afraid.”
“What did I say?” said Roger. “I am merely remarking on my brother’s good health and cheery disposition despite his legal woes.”
“That’s enough, Roger,” said Mama, more sternly than ever.
“It’s alright, Abigail,” said Papa. “Thank you for your kind words, Brother.”
“Not at all. After all, who wouldn’t have sympathy for an innocent man?”
“And how do you know he’s innocent?” said Madeline, trying to pass off the sentiment as a joke.
“Madeline?” said Mama. “Whatever do you mean, child.”
“Merely a jest,” said Emily.
“A jest,” said Madeline. “One that got me locked up like a dog.”
