Feral Park by Mark Dunn Page A

Marie Dray, Gemma having placed herself nearest the door to order the footmen about in the customary fashion.
    “’Tis a pity,” said May, who was much more forthcoming with her opinions than her older sister Gemma, “that we are not all sharing the same table, for now we will have difficulty carrying on any sort of conversation betwixt us all. We are instead required in the present setting to prosecute two separate conversations or perhaps even more, and upon my word the mindless chatter that generally visits a game of whist or speculation will not be put too far from mind and may indeed insinuate itself upon us with impudence due in large part to the post-prandial-like atmosphere of our present circumstances.”
    “Yet such, in my opinion, should not be so terrible a thing for the sake of variety,” said Marie, who generally said little of anything, and, no doubt, enjoyed the mindless discourse which usually accompanies a game of cards.
    “We may even shout at one another if we like,” offered John with a grin, having overheard his cousin May’s prediction and speaking in a raised voice (both elevated in volume and in pitch). “And how would you like that , Miss Peppercorn?”
    “How would I like what , Mr. Dray?” replied Anna, who was busy sliding something leafy and green to the area of her plate from which food would not be eaten.
    “For us to spend the entire evening hallooing across the room as would importunate children sequestered from the parental dining room with their own miniature goose.”
    “It is not my preferred means to conversation, sir,” answered Anna with a sly smirk over the drollness of the circumstances. “But I will make do.”
    Gemma now turned to the overseeing butler standing nearby. “Please shut the door if you will, Collins. That revolting smell has worked its way into this room, as well.”
    “Yes ma’am.” The door was promptly closed.
    “And shall we later repair to the dining room to play cards?” enquired John with a sportive chuckle. Anna noted that, as with his earlier declaration, the question was highly pitched. She recollected Gemma’s mention of this feminine aspect to her cousin. Anna did not, however, find it wholly to his discredit or too unusual. She knew of other men who maintained characteristics of the softer sex, and in the case of the vicar and the milliner, seemed more womanly than manly, if truth be told. Yet the aspect was not so strong in Dray as to put her totally in mind of the other two. Still, it was queer.
    “I find this room to be perfect for every purpose!” proclaimed Miss Younge, as she raised her glass for more wine. “A most capital room indeed! And so let us, therefore, drink and nourish ourselves and enjoy to the fullest the company of one another with less attention to rigorous convention than is customarily required.”
    “Here, here!” said Mr. Peppercorn from the other table, raising his glass as well and lingering his gaze upon Miss Younge when all others had fixed their looks elsewhere.
    Soon every glass had been upheld for the purpose of relaxing convention and loosening lips and Mrs. Dray, the hostess for the evening, decided that there should be no harm at all to a loosening of propriety, and that it may even be of some benefit, for nerves needed a bit of “the balm of the grape” after what had earlier occurred, and, after all, the evening would not be offering a musical recital by her daughter May upon the new pianoforte, and so the card tables having been employed in service to a meal rather than to a game of whist, might, instead, prove excellent anchors to prandial frivolity and happy intercourse, the likes of which had long been absent from Thistlethorn since the tragic death of its master, Mr. Oliver Dray, through post-coital drowning.
    By the final course all were happy indeed. John’s voice had gone even higher and Miss Younge’s tongue had become ever the more operable, the latter regaling those at her table