Page 22 of Death at the Dower House
I won’t bore you with a detailed synopsis of dinner. The food was passable and everything else excruciating.
Or perhaps I shouldn’t say that. There were high points. Having Christopher to share my amusement with was one of them. Watching Constance and Francis coo on the other side of the table was another. Then there was Laetitia Marsden and her determined pursuit of Crispin, which had its moments of extreme hilarity. They were playing footsie under the table, or at least she was trying to play with him, and quite brazenly, too. He seemed a bit less inclined, I have to say, albeit without being rude about it. The third time he kicked my foot in his effort to get away from hers, I spoke up. “Footsie, St George?”
He flushed. “Sorry, Darling.”
He actually seemed sincere, and sincerely put out, either because he’d had to apologize to me, or maybe just because Lady Laetitia’s brazenness really was embarrassing to him. As such, I took pity on him and didn’t employ the sarcastic comment I had planned to utter next.
Instead, it was Laetitia Marsden’s eyes that narrowed on me across the table. “Have we met?”
She uttered it like a challenge. As in, how dare I get in the middle of her flirtation with my pseudo-cousin?
“We have,” I told her blandly, “several times, although I wouldn’t expect you to remember. As I recall, you were well marinated each time.”
Crispin’s lips compressed at that. I don’t think it was laughter. Laetitia herself just stared at me for a moment, perhaps to see if she could determine whether I was joking or not. When I just looked at her placidly, she sniffed. “Well. I never.”
“I know,” I nodded, as condescendingly commiserating as I could. “Since you don’t seem to remember me, I’m Philippa Darling, Christopher’s and Francis’s cousin. My friends call me Pippa. St George calls me Darling, and won’t stop, even with as many times as I’ve asked him to.”
I gave him a lingering sort of look across the table, and added just a hint of what I thought might look like intrigue in the sweep of my lashes. Next to me, Christopher let out a hysterical snort, and across the table, Francis sputtered into his glass.
“You know, Darling,” Crispin told me, completely straight-faced, “there are other things I’d like to call you, if you’d only let me.”
Oh, no doubt. I abandoned the overblown coquetry in favor of grinning at him. “Perhaps some time when we’re alone, St George. You wouldn’t want to let that kind of language out in polite company.”
At that point, Christopher gave up the fight and started laughing so hard he cried. Laetitia and Johanna exchanged a barbed glance of mutual incomprehension across the table, and the rest of us went back to our food. Crispin didn’t kick me again after that. Perhaps Laetitia didn’t try to trap him anymore, or perhaps he’d simply decided that he preferred to deal with her rather than with me.
Seven
I’d liketo say that the rest of the evening improved somewhat, but I’d be lying.
After dinner we retired to the parlor, where there was a gramophone and a stack of records. Gilbert Peckham put music on, and we danced the foxtrot and the Charleston and a few other of the popular dances. Johanna and Laetitia still tried to monopolize Crispin, of course, but since there were two of them and only one of him, it turned into more of the pitched battle Aunt Roz had predicted. And by now, Gilbert had realized what was going on with Francis and Constance, too, so he was glaring alternately at both Crispin and Francis.
Christopher is an accomplished dancer, so he and I had some fun, at least until Laetitia and Johanna caught on, and after that, whichever of them wasn’t dancing with Crispin started to monopolize Christopher, as well. I ended up with Geoffrey Marsden, since Gilbert was too busy playing fire extinguisher to do anything other than glare at practically everyone else.
Geoffrey was not a particularly graceful dancer, and after the second time he trod on my toes, he suggested that we should sit down. Gilbert mixed me up a cocktail at the bar cart—equal shares Bombay Sapphire, Calvados, and Apricot Brandy in a water glass with an orange peel twist; also known as an Angel Face—and then Geoffrey escorted me over to a sofa in a quiet corner, and sat down rather too close to me. I tried not to mind, because he was exceedingly handsome, just like his sister was exceedingly beautiful. Gorgeous face, smooth-shaven, with bright, blue eyes surrounded by thick, dark lashes, and jet-black hair that shone with brilliantine in the overhead lights.
No, the problem wasn’t his looks. He had those, and in spades. And it wasn’t that his personality was actually a problem. He was pleasant enough, if rather boring. I’m used to talking to Christopher, who’s clever and quick-witted, and to Aunt Roz, who is both of those things, as well. And much as I abhor St George in practically every way, I must admit that as a conversationalist he’s first rate. One can’t afford to let one’s guard down for a second when speaking to him, or one will find oneself missing some sly, or snide, or downright wicked inference, or an admittedly clever pun.
Marsden wasn’t like that. His conversation was straightforward, rather plain, and—yes—somewhat boring. But that wasn’t the problem, either. I’ve been trained to put up with boring conversation. It’s part of the price you pay for being among the upper classes. They’re frequently boring. At least the older set.
No, the problem with Marsden was that he seemed to have got the impression, God knows where, that I was easy. He appeared to think that all he had to do was feed me a drink, and sit down next to me, and put his knee against mine, and then, as time went by, the rest of his thigh against mine, and as a result of all that, I’d let him pet me.
And I’m not easy. Far from it.
Now, I’m not a wet blanket. I’m not opposed to a little snuggle with the right man. But Geoffrey Marsden wasn’t he. And he just wasn’t taking the hint.
He put his leg against mine. I moved mine away.
He moved closer. I scooted an inch farther over toward the bolster.
He followed, and then put his hand on my knee.
I moved my knee out of reach, by folding it over the other knee.
As a result, my dress rode up. So did Marsden’s hand.
At that point, I had the choice between making a scene, or at least getting up and walking away from him, or alternatively finding someone to rescue me, so I wouldn’t actually have to offend him.
It should be said that I wasn’t opposed to offending him. He was certainly offending me, with his uninvited, wandering hand. But I was a guest in someone else’s home, and Marsden was a lord of the realm and a friend of the Peckhams. Unless I missed my guess, the Dower House was actually part of the Marsden estate, and Lady Peckham might have been a Marsden before she married Lord Peckham. It’s been a long time since I consulted Debrett’s, but I wouldn’t discount it. So while part of me dearly wanted to impersonate a screaming meemie and puncture his eardrums, the other part thought it might be better to be a little more circumspect about the situation.
