Page 33 of Pride & Petticoats

“Eel!” Charlotte pushed the plate away with a force so strong it almost toppled to the floor. The ever-adept Andrews caught it and whisked it away.

“On the contrary, it’s quite good, as you would find for yourself if you would eat it instead of throwing it on the floor,” Freddie ground out.

“How many courses remain?” she said dubiously.

“Not many,” Freddie said, then mumbled, “And at this rate, we may never eat again.”

Julian would not be pleased to see so many of his dishes returned untouched. Freddie would have to pay the cook handsomely to keep him from leaving. Not only were the servants going to be unhappy, but Freddie himself was in dire jeopardy of losing yet another training session. He had to remember rule four: colonists are simple. Perhaps he had overwhelmed her with table manners. Should he break the lesson into smaller, more digestible portions?

Freddie speared another bite of his eel, but he could not enjoy it with Charlotte staring at him, lip curled, from the top of the table. Finally he waved at the footmen to take the eel away and bring the next course. As soon as he saw it, Freddie gritted his teeth, reached out, and intercepted the footman carrying the calf’s head to Charlotte’s end of the table.

“Andrews, I’ll do the honors tonight,” Freddie said. He’d seen some women balk at carving a calf’s head, and he was taking no chances.

“What is it now?” Charlotte asked, and Freddie was relieved the table was long and covered with enough flower arrangements, wines, pots, platters, and sauceboats to obscure the calf’s head.

“It’s beef,” Freddie answered, cutting into it. “You do eat beef?”

Charlotte sipped her wine again, and Freddie noted that, though she only sipped this time, she appeared not to realize her glass was refilled each time she drank. He continued carving, giving her the best, most delicate parts. Andrews took her plate away, and Freddie began carving his own portion. A gasp from the end of the table jolted him, causing his hand to slip and cut a finger.

“Dash it! Now what?” Freddie yelled, standing up and clutching his napkin to his bleeding finger. “There’s an eye in my food,” Charlotte said, standing with hands fisted. Her face was ghastly white now.

“It’s a calf eye. A bloody delicacy, you daft woman!”

Charlotte threw her napkin on the table. “Me, daft? You’re the one serving eel and calf eyes and—” She poked at the other item on her plate.

“Neck,” Freddie said and watched her sway. He started toward her, but she gripped the back of her chair and seemed to recover. Mumbling something unintelligible, she turned on her heel and marched past Dawson.

“Madam,” Dawson began, but she shot him a glare, then opened the door behind him, striding straight into the butler’s pantry. Freddie put his uninjured hand over his eyes and shook his head.

“My lord, do you think she’ll realize—?” Dawson began and then was interrupted when the door opened again, and Charlotte reemerged, looking sheepish. Freddie had to give her credit. She held her head high as she strode to the correct exit.

Freddie watched her go, then checked the progress of his finger. The bleeding had slowed, but when he looked down, he saw that he’d gotten blood on his tailcoat and added red splotches to the greenish cabbage soup stain on his breeches. “Bloody hell,” he growled and followed her through the door and into the entrance hall.

“There he is! My lord, come tell this misguided miscreant that I have first rights to this tub. I must prepare your bath.” Wilkins was standing in the middle of the foyer, on the first step of the stairs, playing tug-of-war with Charlotte’s servant. Two maids who had obviously been assisting with the chore of carrying the tub upstairs cowered on a third step.

“Now, Mr. Wilkins,” Charlotte, who appeared to be attempting to restore order, said, “we’ve discussed this before. Please try and remain civil.”

“Civil?” Wilkins howled, yanking viciously on the tub. “Civil! Try telling that to this madcap rudesby.”

Freddie blinked. “Madcap—?”

“She all but snatched the tub from my hands.”

“Now, Miss Charlotte, that ain’t nothing but a bald-faced lie,” Addy bellowed from her position on the second step. “I had the tub and these here girls were helping me to carry it to your room so I could prepare your bath, when this here skinny legged fool tried to snatch it away.”

“Perhaps you could prepare my bath after Lord Dewhurst has finished,” Charlotte said tentatively. “Or I could bathe in the morning. In any case, it appears Lord Dewhurst needs a bath far more than I.”

She glanced back at him, her eyes resting on the bloody napkin about his finger and the sundry stains on his clothing.

“Egad!” Wilkins cried, jumping back, releasing his hold on the tub, then wheeling his hands to keep his balance on the steps. “My lord, now what have you done?”

Freddie’s stomach dropped as it hadn’t since he was eight and had been caught using a mirror on a pole to look up the maids’ skirts. He had the strange urge to stare at the ground and shuffle his feet before he remembered that Wilkins was not his guardian and that the man, in fact, worked for him.

“Now’s our chance!” Addy screamed at the maids. “Grab the other end and be quick about it.” The maids rushed past Wilkins and grabbed the tub, and Addy began herding them upstairs. Wilkins watched, apparently torn between establishing his dominion over the tub and rescuing his master’s second-best tailcoat from further ruin. To Freddie’s surprise, the valet opted for the tub and scampered after Addy and the maids, calling,

“Stop! Thief! Tub pilferers!”

Charlotte stared after the rowdy group and then turned back to him. “Do you have any more of that wine?”

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