The Grenadillo Box: A Novel (5 page)

“I was not intending to make a fool of you in either environ, Henry,” responded Foley suavely. “If your losses are so insupportable to you, I suggest you desist from future play at White’s. Take up cribbage in the saloon instead.”

“I should desist from inviting you to my house.”

“That of course is your prerogative. Provided of course our business is successfully concluded…”

“It soon will be,” said Montfort. Then he fell silent, his chest heaving as he glared malevolently around in a manner which was, if anything, even more alarming than his voluble rage. Stabbing what remained of his partridge with his knife, he ripped a leg from the carcass and bit into it. Rivulets of pink juice coursed down his chin and soaked his cravat. Slowly he wiped himself with the back of his hand, then turned to his attorney, Wallace.

“The documents are in order, I take it.”

“Indeed, Lord Montfort,” replied Wallace. His hand trembled as he spooned butter sauce onto his potato. “As they were from the moment of signing, before witnesses, as stipulated—”

“Nothing can be done to alter them. They are all legally binding. Yes or no?”

Wallace’s frog eyes blinked rapidly. He dropped the spoon in the sauceboat, where it slid beneath the surface. “They are all sanctioned and viable.”

“And should I die this night, would remain so?”

“I sincerely hope nothing will befall your lordship this night, but no, the time would have no bearing. The document would still stand. Unless of course you were physically indisposed…for instance as we discussed earlier…if for instance you were to take your own—”

Montfort held up his hand to silence him, turning in the opposite direction as he did so. He caught his sister staring intently at him. Embarrassment etched itself across her face as she realized she had been apprehended listening to his conversation. I could not but sympathize with her predicament. Montfort’s face ripened from red to purple. He rose unsteadily to his feet. Miss Alleyn was an uncommonly tall woman, towering over her brother by several inches. Yet now, with his barrel paunch looming like a battering ram at her eye level, she was utterly overwhelmed.

“Damn you, Margaret! Do you eavesdrop on my private discussions? Is this behavior to be endured? You are as insupportable as everyone else in this room, even if the subject is beyond your comprehension.” His words were slurred from the strength of the emotion he felt.

Miss Alleyn retracted her neck into her bony shoulders and twisted her napkin helplessly, unable to meet his accusing glare. A pulse in her neck throbbed visibly. “Henry, I overheard nothing. I was merely concerned—as we all are—for your well-being.”

Her contrition only added to his fury. “Do not treat me like an imbecile! Is it for this I have shown you hospitality these past years? Without me you’d have starved, as you still might if I choose to abandon you.”

“But, Henry,” she stammered, “I have never forgotten how much I owe you. I depend on you. You have been the most generous of brothers to me. I did not intend to cause you distress. I simply chanced to hear the conversation…. It meant nothing, as you have acknowledged. I could not understand…”

Montfort lowered over her, mute yet threatening. His eyes seemed swollen with rage, the expression in them wilder. Did I detect a flicker of lunacy? When he spoke it was to spit out his final rebuke.

“What use is exerting myself over such conduct? Your disgraceful actions are no more than I might have expected. I believe you will drive me mad if I remain in your presence. I am leaving now, and understand this, all of you, I mean it when I say under
no
circumstances do I wish to be disturbed.”

Then, with the eyes of the entire company upon him, he marched from the room, crashing the door closed behind him.

A
fter the echo of his footsteps had faded, his ill-humor remained in the room like some noxious odor that even a spring breeze cannot erase. The footman and I stood uncomfortably guarding each side of the serving table. Guests and family stared at the food congealing on their plates. At length Miss Alleyn calmed herself sufficiently to signal to John, who signaled to me to clear away the plates. Meanwhile Robert did what he could to break the chill.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he began hesitantly, “I apologize for my father, who as you see is indisposed. He hasn’t been well these past days. I trust his ill-health won’t intrude upon your enjoyment of this evening.”

“But what has caused his indisposition?” demanded Elizabeth, alarm ringing in her voice, distress raw on her face. “This evening was arranged at his desire. The library is completed for him to unveil to his guests as he intended. Yet today he ordered the room to be left dark, the fire unlit. What has changed? Has he taken leave of all his senses?”

“I have asked myself the same question, sister,” concurred Miss Alleyn, her pinched face still showing the strain of her brother’s verbal assault on her. “I confess I am no closer than you to comprehending it.”

Foley and Bradfield looked conspiratorially at each other and nodded. Foley cleared his throat with a small cough. “I believe I may be the cause of Lord Montfort’s indisposition.”

Miss Alleyn regarded him uncomprehendingly. Elizabeth’s eyes widened. “In what way, sir?” they demanded in almost perfect unison.

“Ladies, I cannot—should not—spoil these happy festivities with such discussion—besides it is a matter of confidence between Lord Montfort and myself.”

“Come, come, Lord Foley, we have already noted the circumstances are far from festive. And it appears that only Margaret, Robert, and I—his immediate family after all—are ignorant of these affairs,” cried Elizabeth.

Whether or not Foley would heed her plea she never discovered, for as in some playhouse melodrama, at that precise moment the servants’ door creaked open and Mrs. Cummings entered carrying an array of syllabubs on a platter. Lord Foley suspended his narrative as Connie and the scullery maid followed, bearing similarly delicious burdens. Murmuring something about attending to the kitchens, Miss Alleyn rose and left the room.

Some fifteen minutes later Mrs. Cummings and her entourage had replenished the table with rinsed cutlery and finger bowls, spice cake, compotes, tarts, and port jellies that gleamed like garnets in crystal bowls. But even these delicacies did nothing to alleviate the stifling cloak of ill-humor that lingered over the gathering. I stood there with aching limbs and heavy heart. I longed to remove my wig and shoes and enjoy a glass of ale with my feet up before the fire. I thought of how I’d recount the dismal conversation I’d just heard for Connie to make her laugh. Yes, I confess, at that moment the gloom of the party struck me as so bizarre as to be almost amusing.

Needless to say Mrs. Cummings had no intention of letting me go. How could she? She was still rushed off her feet, she implored me, for heaven’s sake, to stay “just till the port was out.” What difference could a few minutes make?

What difference indeed!

I
n the hiatus caused by the arrival of dessert, Bradfield left the table to relieve himself noisily in a chamber pot behind a screen. He replaced it politely in the side cabinet (for the footman or me to empty at our convenience), buttoned himself, and returned to his seat. Only three of the guests—Wallace, Lady Bradfield, and Lady Foley—now remained. The two ladies, avoiding the uncomfortable subject of Montfort’s ill-humor, were discussing the niceties of quilling and crewelwork. Which might be the better to cover a sewing box? Wallace sat morosely at the far end of the table, an empty wineglass in front of him.

“What has become of everyone?” Bradfield inquired as he drew his chair closer to the table. He alone appeared relatively unaffected by the emotions of the room and eyed the temptations on the table impatiently.

“Miss Alleyn is attending to matters in the kitchen,” replied Wallace.

“And Foley and Robert and Elizabeth? What of them? Have they too vanished?”

“Foley went to the saloon to admire some painting—a Roman scene of which he seems uncommonly fond. Robert went after him, saying he would discover the precise nature of his father’s anguish. Lady Elizabeth—in a state of some distress, I fear—accompanied him.”

Bradfield shook his head, as if the disappearing diners and foul-tempered host were all beyond him. “Are you aware of the source of Montfort’s agitation, Wallace?”

The attorney twirled his glass. “It may have to do with the reason for my presence here. Lord Montfort summoned me this morning to prepare some legal documents. You will forgive me if professional etiquette forbids me to discuss the matter further.”

“Naturally I would not wish to compromise you,” said Bradfield a trifle indignantly. “Indeed I strongly suspect I know the reason. It was only your corroboration I was after.”

Wallace licked his lips but did not respond. An awkward hush descended. The only sounds in the room were a small gurgle as each man refilled his glass from the decanter, the crackling of the fire, and a series of complaining growls emitting from Bradfield’s stomach. “Can you think of nothing but food?” demanded his wife crossly. It was that admonition that spurred me, in an effort to provide some distraction, to pick up the platter of oranges. I had half-crossed the room with the fruit when the deafening gun blast exploded.

I went flying with my platter. Oranges cannoned across the floor. I cursed myself and dived beneath the table to retrieve them just as the general commotion began.

From my vantage beneath the table I saw the shoe buckles and stockings of Foley and Robert burst into the room, closely followed by the crimson petticoat hem of Lady Montfort. A few seconds later and I was returning to my position by the sideboard when the servants’ door to the kitchen opened and Miss Alleyn flew in like a leaf in a gale. “What on God’s earth was that? Did you not hear it?” she screeched.

“We heard but are no wiser than it seems you are, my dear lady,” responded Foley smoothly. He gave a cursory glance in the direction of Elizabeth, who was now seated at the table, quivering, and clearly incapable of taking charge. Robert was similarly frozen with inertia. “May I suggest you send the servants to inspect both the downstairs and upstairs rooms, and that they ascertain the whereabouts of your brother, who has now been absent for over half an hour.”

Relieved to be told what to do in such a masterful manner, Miss Alleyn bustled back the way she had entered. The footman followed her. Uncertain whether to stay or go—was I a servant? did I belong here? no on both counts—I remained on the spot. Foley meanwhile paced thoughtfully about the room until his gaze came to rest upon me. Now he’d clapped his eyes on my figure they seemed to stick there. He made a disapproving tutting noise while glaring at me crossly as if waiting for me to speak. At length, realizing I would remain silent, he coughed. “You,” he said loftily.

“Yes, my lord?” I responded.

“Are you asleep or idle?” He was standing only a foot away from me, and his voice was far louder than necessary.

“My lord?”

“Why do you not respond to my instruction when you plainly heard me direct Miss Alleyn to send all servants to discover the source of that shot?”

I felt myself redden with embarrassment. I was unused to such interrogation from the upper orders and alarmed to find myself suspected of indolence. “Forgive me, my lord, I was unsure whether or not I should stay in case anything further was required.”

“Well, now you are certain. You now have directions. From me.
Go.
” The last admonition was shouted so loudly I fancied I felt Foley’s breath upon my face. With what I hoped appeared a deferential nod of assent, I stepped swiftly round him and retreated through the servants’ door down the corridor.

“Where are you going?” he shouted after my departing back.

“To the library, my lord,” I replied without diminishing my pace.

“Why there with such determination?”

I stopped dead in my tracks and pivoted back towards him. Lord Foley only narrowly escaped colliding with me. I was several inches taller than he and looked awkwardly down at the top of his elaborately curled white wig to explain my logic. “Because I judged, from the echo, that the shot originated there.”

Without waiting to see if this response would elicit more questions or a further reprimand for boldness, I sped to the door and turned the handle. The brass knob rotated in my hand, but the door stuck fast.