gown, training her displeasure upon her plate. Francis Forster took the chair opposite, eager to speak with Aislabie. They fell swiftly into a discussion about the new stables, to the point that Aislabie called for Bagby, ordering him to bring in the plans for closer scrutiny. Lady Judith overruled her husband, her clear voice cutting above the rest. ‘Not at supper, dearest. Poor Mrs Fairwood is drooping with boredom.’
I was seated to her left, Mr Gatteker upon her right. She leaned closer, whispered in my ear. ‘Forster is a tedious fellow. I’m glad that you are at my side tonight.’ I felt a slim hand on my knee, followed by a gentle squeeze.
Sneaton, placed between Mr Gatteker and Mrs Fairwood, reached for the salted fish, struggling with his damaged hand.
‘If you will permit me, sir,’ Mrs Fairwood offered, bringing the dish closer.
‘Much obliged, madam,’ Sneaton replied.
The exchange was brief and excruciatingly polite. They clearly loathed one another.
‘How quiet you are, Master Fleet,’ Lady Judith scolded Sam, cocooned in silence to my left. ‘I believe you have not spoken one word since we sat down.’
To my surprise, Mrs Fairwood spoke up in his defence. ‘Is that not refreshing, madam? To speak only when one has something pertinent to say?’
Lady Judith was too subtle to acknowledge the insult. ‘Now there is a noble ambition! Though I fear under such instruction, the dining rooms of England would fall silent at a stroke. Tell me, Master Fleet, do you enjoy your stay at Studley Hall?’
I sensed Sam’s consternation at the question, and his horror at being asked anything at all, to feel the eyes of the table swivel upon him. An honest reply would be no, he was not enjoying his stay at Studley, that – in fact – he hated it and wished more than anything to be gone. I had at least taught him enough manners to know that this was not an acceptable response.
‘Yes,’ he lied.
I trod on his toe.
‘Thank you,’ he added, miserable.
Another press of the toe, as if he were a pipe organ.
‘Madam.’ Half yelped.
‘There is much to commend a quiet gentleman,’ Mrs Fairwood announced to the air, dark ringlets shaking with the force of her feeling. ‘It suggests a thoughtful nature. To speak is a common necessity. To listen – a rare virtue.’
‘Quite so, well said, madam!’ Forster cried. ‘Nothing worse than a fellow who cannot keep his mouth closed. I have always felt . . .’
Lady Judith gave me a satirical look.
The supper continued. No one mentioned the threatening notes, or the deer. Talk returned to the stables, and the gardener’s extravagant bill for seeds, and then worse: politics. I could sense Sam growing increasingly restless. Eventually, he could bear it no longer.
‘Mr Sneaton. How were you burned?’
There was an appalled silence.
‘Mr Sneaton—’ I began.
He waved away my apology with his damaged hand. He seemed unable to speak. Gatteker poured himself another glass of claret, the wine glugging from the bottle in the silent room.
‘There was a fire in my London home,’ Aislabie answered at last, in a flat voice. ‘Many years ago now. My son William was a baby at the time. I tried to reach him . . .’ He swallowed hard. ‘I was forced back by the flames. Mr Sneaton ran into the fire and the smoke, and he found my son. I lost my wife, my Anne.’ He grabbed Mrs Fairwood’s hand. ‘But Mr Sneaton saved my son. He almost lost his own life as a consequence. He suffered years of pain. Still suffers now, without complaint. Mr Sneaton is the bravest, most admirable man I have ever met. I owe him everything . ’ He glared down the table. ‘Does that answer your question, Master Fleet?’
‘Yes,’ Sam said, reaching for the salt. ‘Thank you.’
The company rose from the table, subdued by Aislabie’s story and his obvious distress. I sent Sam to our rooms, which pleased him very well. He had plans to sketch in his room, using candles
I was seated to her left, Mr Gatteker upon her right. She leaned closer, whispered in my ear. ‘Forster is a tedious fellow. I’m glad that you are at my side tonight.’ I felt a slim hand on my knee, followed by a gentle squeeze.
Sneaton, placed between Mr Gatteker and Mrs Fairwood, reached for the salted fish, struggling with his damaged hand.
‘If you will permit me, sir,’ Mrs Fairwood offered, bringing the dish closer.
‘Much obliged, madam,’ Sneaton replied.
The exchange was brief and excruciatingly polite. They clearly loathed one another.
‘How quiet you are, Master Fleet,’ Lady Judith scolded Sam, cocooned in silence to my left. ‘I believe you have not spoken one word since we sat down.’
To my surprise, Mrs Fairwood spoke up in his defence. ‘Is that not refreshing, madam? To speak only when one has something pertinent to say?’
Lady Judith was too subtle to acknowledge the insult. ‘Now there is a noble ambition! Though I fear under such instruction, the dining rooms of England would fall silent at a stroke. Tell me, Master Fleet, do you enjoy your stay at Studley Hall?’
I sensed Sam’s consternation at the question, and his horror at being asked anything at all, to feel the eyes of the table swivel upon him. An honest reply would be no, he was not enjoying his stay at Studley, that – in fact – he hated it and wished more than anything to be gone. I had at least taught him enough manners to know that this was not an acceptable response.
‘Yes,’ he lied.
I trod on his toe.
‘Thank you,’ he added, miserable.
Another press of the toe, as if he were a pipe organ.
‘Madam.’ Half yelped.
‘There is much to commend a quiet gentleman,’ Mrs Fairwood announced to the air, dark ringlets shaking with the force of her feeling. ‘It suggests a thoughtful nature. To speak is a common necessity. To listen – a rare virtue.’
‘Quite so, well said, madam!’ Forster cried. ‘Nothing worse than a fellow who cannot keep his mouth closed. I have always felt . . .’
Lady Judith gave me a satirical look.
The supper continued. No one mentioned the threatening notes, or the deer. Talk returned to the stables, and the gardener’s extravagant bill for seeds, and then worse: politics. I could sense Sam growing increasingly restless. Eventually, he could bear it no longer.
‘Mr Sneaton. How were you burned?’
There was an appalled silence.
‘Mr Sneaton—’ I began.
He waved away my apology with his damaged hand. He seemed unable to speak. Gatteker poured himself another glass of claret, the wine glugging from the bottle in the silent room.
‘There was a fire in my London home,’ Aislabie answered at last, in a flat voice. ‘Many years ago now. My son William was a baby at the time. I tried to reach him . . .’ He swallowed hard. ‘I was forced back by the flames. Mr Sneaton ran into the fire and the smoke, and he found my son. I lost my wife, my Anne.’ He grabbed Mrs Fairwood’s hand. ‘But Mr Sneaton saved my son. He almost lost his own life as a consequence. He suffered years of pain. Still suffers now, without complaint. Mr Sneaton is the bravest, most admirable man I have ever met. I owe him everything . ’ He glared down the table. ‘Does that answer your question, Master Fleet?’
‘Yes,’ Sam said, reaching for the salt. ‘Thank you.’
The company rose from the table, subdued by Aislabie’s story and his obvious distress. I sent Sam to our rooms, which pleased him very well. He had plans to sketch in his room, using candles
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