Intolerable Civility

Chapter Twenty-Nine: The Tenth Woman

"Dry," Mr Maddox said, chewing vigorously. "I don't understand why so many people can't cook fish without making it dry."

"It reminds me of a meal I used to eat as a child," the vicar chimed in. "A sort of baked rice pudding, to which the cook would add chopped almonds."

"It sounds delicious," Cate said politely.

"Well, I don't understand why it would remind you of that!" Mr Maddox said contemptuously.

Between the two of them, however, and with whatever fragments of conversation drifted down the table from others, the meal passed quickly enough. Cate even became slightly less anxious when she realized that, obnoxious as he was, Mr Maddox wished her no ill. Indeed, from the secretive glances he darted at her, she began to suspect that he found her attractive. It had been a long time since she had had cause to suspect anyone of admiring her in silence, and she took some small pleasure in it. The appeal of her femininity was not entirely lost if she could entice the glances of strangers, and if it was not entirely lost, then perhaps one day it might appeal to her husband too. Even if he had just boldly rejected her three hours ago.

By the time the dessert of nuts and confections arrived on the table, conversation everywhere stilled. The vicar could not come up with any reminiscence of a similar dish, and Mr Maddox was yawning loudly and muttering under his breath that he did not understand why he was so tired. At the other end of the table, Lady Balley had ceased her soliloquy on What Is Wrong With The World Today and left no more criticisms for David to politely agree to. In the middle, Annabelle was staring into space and completely ignoring Paul's sympathetic inquiries about the processes of her digestion. Even Laurie was silent, drinking deeply of a pudding wine and looking rather bored.

Into this silence, Sarah spoke boldly.

"A toast to my cousin David," she said. "To his generosity, his selflessness, in taking into his home and family a boy who is not his own."

Around the table, people stirred slightly. Several raised their glasses. Cate did not. There was something vaguely insulting in Sarah's tone of voice.

"Indeed, he gives himself as father to a boy who has none," Sarah continued with a cold laugh. "What higher gift could there be?"

Cate stared at her plate, uncomfortable and anxious.

"You flatter me, Sarah," David said. "It is not generosity. I love the boy."

"But it is most generous of all to give him love. And to a boy whose father could be anyone. I cannot name another man in England who would do the same."

Cate took in a sharp breath. At the other end of the table, Sir William looked up, his mouth set.

"We know the father," he growled. "Let us not mention his name."

Sarah looked surprised. "Oh. But I thought... it was someone else? David gave me the impression that the father was not James Redwood. Was I mistaken?"

She blinked down the length of the table at David, who met her gaze impassively.

"I'm Luke's father now," David said. "That is all that matters to me."

"This is an uncomfortable conversation," Laurie said, looking up from her wine with something approaching interest. "Who started it? Oh, you, Sarah. Of course."

"Yes. Perhaps we should talk of something else," the vicar said. "I am reminded of the book of Ruth..."

No one was listening to him. At the other end of the table, Sir William was looking coldly at Sarah and Lady Balley was scowling at Cate.