Page 13 of The Lyon and the Unicorn
Clara hesitated, then Lady Cholmondeley appeared. “Miss Martingale, let me show you to your seat,” she said. “You can be assured, Duchess, that your daughter’s in safe hands with me.”
Mama nodded, and Clara let their hostess lead her toward the dining table where the unattached young people sat. Her gut churned with apprehension as she spotted Miss Peacock’s venomous gaze, and her heart sank as her hostess steered her toward a seat opposite her nemesis.
She’d endured worse in the slums of London—how bad could one meal sitting opposite a spiteful young woman be?
Could the eveningget any worse?
Far from being able to demonstrate the table manners she’d learned in the weeks since her stepfather had plucked her from London’s slums, Clara had, so far, managed to exhibit the behavior that justified all the witticisms aimed in her direction aboutguttersnipesandurchins. Her dinner companions had managed to maneuver themselves such that there was an empty space either side of her, then engaged in a whispered conversation which she was only partially able to hear, sharing the confidences of best friends. And, given that she hadn’t a single friend here tonight, Clara couldn’t expect to be privy to their conversation.
Not that she wanted to—most likely the topic of their discussion was limited to ribbons, lace, and other fripperies.
Her only allies, her stepbrothers, were at a separate table for the young men.
Clearly Lady Cholmondeley didn’t trust the sexes to behave appropriately together. She had a point, if what Nate had said about Mr. Barrington-Smythe and his wife were true—they’d been caughtin flagrante delictoin Lady Cholmondeley’s library during a Christmas house party, after which they were married somewhat hastily.
Clara glanced across the room, where Corn and Nate were engaged in laughter, as if they actuallyenjoyedthis hideous party. But they’d been born into privilege and knew by instinct which fork to use, how to address a countess, and how to make socially acceptable conversation.
Her stomach had growled with hunger, much to the amusement of Miss Peacock, who seemed to be watching her every move, waiting to point out each faux pas. When Clarahad audibly scraped her spoon against the bowl during the soup course, Miss Peacock had issued a gasp of horror and shared a pained expression with her neighbor.
A footman placed a plate of chicken in the center of the table, complete with serving spoons.
Heavens—was she expected to serve herself? Surely she’d drop the chicken, making herself a laughingstock.
“Do try the chicken, Miss Martingale,” Miss Peacock said, fixing her cold gaze on Clara.
“I-I think I’ll try the bread first,” Clara said, reaching for a knife.
“Ohno!” Miss Peacock exclaimed, shaking her head in mock sympathy. “My dear Miss Martingale, while I applaud your efforts at the dinner table, I feel it necessary to inform you that the knife you’re holding is not a butter knife. It’s for the main course.”
Clara’s cheeks warmed as several pairs of eyes focused on her. Only Miss Goodchild’s expression lacked the malignance of the others, doubtless due to her state of inebriation—she was on her fourth glass of wine.
“I trust you understand the kindness meant in my giving you a little advice, Clara,” Miss Peacock continued. “Icancall you Clara, can’t I? While a certain degree of gaucheness is permitted in a country setting, I fear London Society will be considerably less forgiving. Is that not right, ladies?”
Her companions nodded.
“Are you to be presented at court next year?” Miss Peacock continued.
Clara nodded, and Miss Peacock raised her eyebrows.
“Well! I wish you luck in your endeavors to act with decorum before the queen. Weallwish you luck, don’t we, ladies?”
The other girls nodded, their feathered headdresses dancing in unison.
“I’m sure if you put in sufficient effort, you’ll give theappearanceof gentility, at least,” Miss Peacock said. “Effort should always be applauded, even if it cannot go hand in hand with an equal degree of achievement.”
What was it about women of Miss Peacock’s class that compelled them to use as many words as possible when issuing insults?
“I’d be willing to give you a few pointers,” she continued, twisting her pretty mouth into a smile of superiority. She gestured toward Clara’s place setting. “The butter knife is the small one with the blade that’s rounded at the tip. On the side plate, there.”
Clara stared at the knife, cursing herself. Of course! Mama had told her that countless times.
“You use the plate to your left, not your right, for the bread,” Miss Peacock said. “But your wineglass is on the right.”
“I knowthat,” Clara retorted.
“Then there’s hope for you after all.” Miss Peacock gestured to the knife. “Pick it up, then!”
Clara reached for the knife. Her hand shook, and it slipped from her fingers and clattered to the floor. Female laughter rippled through the company, which increased as she leaned over to pick it up and collided with a footman.
