The Savage Miss Saxon (30 page)

“Plenty of belly timber too, Alix,” Billy put in, thinking of the fine menu that had been concocted. “Your grandfather’s a real rum bluffer.”

“Don’t call him a good host until
after
the festivities,” Alix warned. “I’ve been down to the kitchens myself several times in the last days, and let me tell you, some of Nutter’s concoctions look pretty
strange
.”

Nicholas remained aloof throughout a week of meetings and frenzied consultations, limiting himself to a few acid comments on the jumble of activities planned for the great evening, and mostly closeting himself in his study with his brandy decanter—when he wasn’t prowling the halls berating the servants with questions as to when the post was due, that is. “Mustn’t have liked that letter he got,” Poole commented to Martin the footman. “Lord help us iffen another doesn’t come soon to ease his gloom.”

Inevitably, the night of the pantomime arrived with the boys nearly delirious with anticipation; Alix mentally figuring and refiguring her plans for the elopement; Nicholas still appearing to be a bit distracted; the Anselms muttering under their breath about the necessity of traveling to Saxon Hall in their finery; and Sir Alexander and Harold—who had been testing and retesting their recipe for punch—both wearing inane grins and giggling a lot.

The night air was crisp and cold, and the party from Linton Hall traveled the short distance with hot bricks at their toes, arriving at the castle at the same time as the other guests, drawn from the gentry in the nearby villages.

“It’s nice to see Sir Alexander and the countryside hobnobbing together again after all this time,” Nicholas commented, handing Helene down from the carriage. “He has little taste for society, you know.”

Mrs. Anselm, who had not been delighted by the sad crush inside the carriage (so damaging to Helene’s pretty costume), only replied acidly, “Silly me. I always thought it was the other way around.”

The small party was greeted at the door by an ancient little man dressed in moldy green livery. After taking their names, he preceded them through the antechamber, stopping at the entrance of the Great Hall to stamp his staff smartly on the floor three times before announcing them in a quivering voice. Jeremy, complete in his guise of Lord Lollypop, which consisted of one of Nicholas’s cast-off swallowtail jackets, a ludicrously bushy (and crooked) mustache, and a red velvet beret, hastened to greet them, pulling Mannering almost rudely into the room.

Even Nicholas had to admit the sight that greeted his eyes was most impressive. Flambeaux burned brightly from dozens of wall brackets, setting off the armaments and tapestries hanging on the walls to great advantage, while the immense yule log burning in the exact center of the room succeeded in keeping the great height of the vaulted ceiling cloaked in mysterious mist.

The Lord of Misrule could be seen at the opposite end of the chamber—sprawled on his throne like the reincarnation of Henry VIII, and already at least one or two sheets to the wind. Beside him, in full ceremonial splendor, sat Harold, looking just as kingly (and just as pie-eyed) as Sir Alexander.

Oh, thought Nicholas, I wager this could prove to be a most interesting evening! Then Cuffy and Billy joined the group and Nicholas knew he had made a sure bet. Cuffy, at his overdressed best, was Lord Flirt Away to the life—looking the complete dandy in his too-tight, padded jacket and enormous starched shirt points—the gilt quizzing glass he had stuck to his eye (the better to size up the damsels) giving him the appearance of some strange species of fish.

But it was Billy who fair stole the show as Spantu Long Tong Song. From the top of his flat straw hat to the curly tips of his embroidered felt slippers, he was every inch the Chinaman, although he would not answer as to just where his elaborate costume or the long stringy mustache and ratty-looking pigtail had come from. Jeremy might have given a good clue when he put a hand to his mouth and neighed, but Billy wasn’t talking.

“Nick,” Jeremy said then, noticing his brother’s lack of costume. “You were supposed to be Lord Dashaway, dash it all! That is, I mean—where is your costume?”

“And where would you have me stick my quizzing glass, puppy—in my ear?” Nicholas responded with a smile that took the sting out of his words. “Besides,
brother
, do you actually mean to suggest that my patch is not sufficiently ‘dashing’?”

All this byplay left the Anselms standing about entirely too long, at least to Mrs. Anselm’s mind. “And what of our costumes, Jeremy?” she asked, with a pointed look in Helene’s direction. The men all quickly agreed that the girl was Lady Languish to the life, raining down praise on her feathered headdress and oversized lace fan and courteously overlooking her sad eyes and the long sighs that gave real credence to her assumed title.

Helene had every right to feel overwhelmed. Her mother had given her strict instructions to play up to Lord Linton tonight and Helene’s heart just wasn’t in it. She missed her Reginald, that she did, and her several conversations with Alix about him had only brought that fact home to her with greater clarity. She didn’t know what, as her mama had said, “ace” that lady had up her sleeve, but she did know that she may as well put paid to any grandiose ideas she might have been harboring that Mrs. Anselm would give up her scheming. Alix might be a valiant fighter on Helene’s behalf, but although she might be able to bring the two lovers together, getting them married was nigh to impossible. Mama simply wouldn’t allow it!

Summoning a weak smile in answer to the boys’ praises, Helene leaned against her brother Rupert, who quickly shrugged her off, warning her not to crease his jacket. “Lord Dumble Dum Deary has no time for languishing females,” he told her sharply.

“You’re missing your pipe, Rupert,” Jeremy, who had studied the drawings of the characters with some care, pointed out. When Rupert reluctantly produced a battered pipe from his pocket, holding the thing gingerly and eyeing it with some disgust, Jeremy told him to stick the thing in his mouth.

“Or any other appropriate place,” Cuffy muttered under his breath before sending Mrs. Anselm a brilliant smile and flattering the woman with high praise on her incarnation of Mrs. Strut. “And surely you do appear ready for the promenade on Rotten Row, ma’am,” he said with amazing sincerity, keeping to himself the notion that she looked much like Prinney’s pet horse.

Taking the ladies’ arms, Nicholas led them into a saunter about the large chamber, regaling them with the fact that the famed Hyde Park circuit was originally named the
Route de Roi
, but the English pronunciation had corrupted it into Rotten Row, a fact that may not have thrilled them, but at least kept them off the subject of Alix’s noticeable absence from the scene.

As they walked about, their face masks raised to their eyes by means of thin gilt sticks, Nicholas bowed and waved to several acquaintances whose out-of-date, countrified evening dress made them appear as if they too were to be part of the pantomime. They at last approached the two thronelike chairs on the low dais and made their bows to the Lord of Misrule (who was just then nibbling on the tassel of his hat), complimenting him on the decorations.

“Nothing to it,” Sir Alexander chirped happily. “But wait ’til you clap your eyes on the dinner, Linton. Nutter fair outdid himself there, I tell you,” Turning to Mrs. Anselm he said, “You look a treat, Matilda, by Jupiter you do. Either that or I’m in my cups already. Must be that, eh, Harold?” he asked, peering intently at the Indian before looking back at the enraged features of Mrs. Anselm. “Really like that Indian, y’know. Doesn’t talk the leg off a donkey, like some I could mention. You here to toast m’granddaughter and Mannering here, Matilda? Announcing their betrothal tonight, y’know. Damned decent of you to give in so gracefully, old girl. Didn’t know you had it in you.”

“It is never wise to count one’s chickens before they are hatched, Sir Alexander,” Mrs. Anselm replied through clenched teeth.

“Chickens, is it!” Sir Alexander shouted, highly amused. “And a good deal you’d be knowing about chickens, Matilda,” he twitted her, looking Rupert up and down, “for Lord knows you ain’t never raised no
roosters!
”

Just then Alix, who had taken an uncharacteristically long time over her toilette, appeared on the scene, saving Sir Alexander a thorough tongue-lashing at the hands of one highly insulted Mother Hen. Situating herself directly in front of Sir Alexander, Alix dropped into a deep curtsy and said, “Fanny Fandango regrets her tardiness, my lord, and presents her compliments.”

My God, Nicholas grimaced painfully, eyeing Alix up and down, she’d tempt the saints themselves in that getup! Alix, once she had seen a drawing of Fanny Fandango, had entered heart and soul into the character, and the result was indeed breathtaking. Her gown, unearthed from heaven only knew where, was of deepest ruby red velvet, and done in the style of a Spanish dancer—ending well above ankles fetchingly bedecked in finely crossed black velvet ribbons hooked to a pair of soft black slippers. The off-the-shoulder neckline of her gown was as low as her hem was high, exposing a large expanse of creamy white skin, and her midnight black hair hung in several looped braids that caressed her neck and tempted Nicholas to unspeakable acts. When she rose to her full height, spinning round once and snapping her castanets beneath Mannering’s nose, Sir Alexander roared in delight—as it is not often one can actually see beads of sweat appear upon a lordship’s upper lip.

“
Now
, Linton?” the Lord of Misrule teased that poor harassed man unmercifully. “Shall I make the announcement now?”

After much ado the guests were finally seated along one side of the many trestle tables that flanked the two thronelike chairs where their host and his odd consort sprawled in regal grace. They were a colorful, festive sight, this group of fifty or more, and their conversation buzzed with the anticipation of what was to come next.

Suddenly the hoary vassal serving as hall marshall entered the chamber and ceremoniously banged his heavy staff, announcing the dinner as if it were an honored guest. After a slight pause Nutter appeared, attended by two other ancient servants carrying large wax candles. Nutter then bowed to his master and flung out one arm toward the kitchens. First to be carried into the chamber (on the outstretched arms of no less than four overaged waiters) was a tremendous silver platter upon which reposed an enormous pig’s head elaborately decorated with rosemary—and with a lemon jammed in its mouth.

The pig’s head was quickly followed by more silver platters carrying dishes such as pheasant pie, plum porridge, peacock pie, dozens of minor vegetable dishes, towering stacks of bread, and last but by no means least, a truly imposing sirloin of roast beef. From somewhere off in a dark corner a harper began twanging the song of the Roast Beef of Old England (a performance marked with more power than melody), and as the platters were laid about on the tables, the local parson rose to say grace.

Halfway through the long-winded invocation Sir Alexander stood up and bellowed, “If it was bawlin’ wanted, I’da gone to church, by Jupiter. This is a party, man,” he admonished the cowering minister, “not a demned funeral. Now stow the blab and let’s eat. Crikey, if my guts don’t begin to think my throat’s been cut!”

“Amen!” shouted Billy, earning himself a cuff on the ear from Mrs. Anselm, who had somehow been seated beside the youth. There was a short, uncomfortable silence while the parson raised his eyes seeking heavenly guidance, but as he saw only thin clouds of wood smoke above him, he at last merely shrugged his shoulders and sat down.

The feast had begun. Everyone fell to with a will and it was not long before Nutter and his entourage were carrying in flaming puddings as a fitting close to a prime example of the Englishman’s reknowned inclination to overindulge his belly.

After the tables were cleared and the cloths removed, Nutter carried in an outsized silver vessel of most rare and curious workmanship and placed it before the Lord of Misrule before half staggering back to the kitchens. Other servants then brought tray after tray of ingredients and stood ready to serve their master as he presided over the preparation of the wassail bowl.

With Harold hovering at his elbow, Sir Alexander poured bottle after bottle of the richest and raciest wines into the enormous bowl, then added several spiced apples that bobbed about on the surface of the mixture. Various other ingredients were added—a dash here and a cupful there—along with sugar, bits of toast, and a quantity of roasted crab.

Using a huge silver ladle, Sir Alexander stirred the concoction (causing Nicholas to turn to Alix and comment that he half expected the ladle to melt) and then poured out the first sampling into a silver goblet that he ceremoniously handed to Harold. The Indian lifted the goblet to his lips, sniffed delicately at the brew that by all rights should have curled his huge, hooked nose, and took a deep drink. Then he held out the goblet and said something in his own tongue that, to his awed listeners, sounded deep and rather profound.