Gwendolen
was hoping that Angelina, with whom Sir Thomas had chosen to sit at a table for two only, would take due note of her omission
of the ‘sir’. It was a gauntlet flung down before her rival.
‘As did Dickens himself,’ announced Sir Thomas, turning round having recovered some of his composure. ‘Yes, on Tuesday I believe,
we shall
all
be gathered here for an evening together.’ He then resumed his rapt attention to Angelina, thus leaving Gwendolen with no
option but to try to think of something interesting to say to Oliver Michaels and Samuel Pipkin.
‘Have you thought further on that we spoke of the other evening, Angelina?’ Sir Thomas said in a low voice, throbbing in what
he hoped was emotion. ‘I should perhaps wait for some more romantic hour.’ In fact he had fully intended to wait for a suitably
moonlit warm night, but the trying events of the day had put him so out of sorts that he could stand the waiting no longer.
The affirmative he knew would follow would help him in the discussion this evening with the Prince of Wales. The vote had
been taken, but as Angelina would undoubtedly now regret her stance, she would make her views clear to His Royal Highness.Besides, to appear eager for a decision would be flattering to Angelina. Would she, or wouldn’t she? he murmured, leaning
forward.
‘How is your stomach today, Thomas?’ shouted Gwendolen, determined to be heard.
Sir Thomas flinched, and turned his chair even more deliberately away from the neighbouring table. ‘Well, I thank you,’ he
managed to say offhandedly before once again addressing his rapt attention to Angelina, albeit somewhat shaken from his confident
suavity.
Angelina smiled sweetly and leaned forward herself. She spoke low and earnestly to Sir Thomas. She would
not
, was the gist of what she communicated first. The reasons why took rather longer to explain and, like her decision, was between
themselves, for strain though she might, Gwendolen could not hear. Shifting her chair position slightly, she saw Sir Thomas’s
face pale with emotion, she saw him pick up Angelina’s hand and kiss it with devotion. She saw Angelina remove it modestly,
with a maidenly flush on her cheeks, or thus Gwendolen’s jealous eye perceived it. Maiden indeed, she snorted to herself.
Mrs Langham must be nearly thirty. Mature, as she was herself.
Unable to bear what she saw as her rival’s triumph, Gwendolen turned to face the teacups again, wrapped in misery. Oliver,
observing the scene with the same keen interest as had she, munched his way through a Dickensian gingerbread cake, his emotions
harder to determine than those of his companion.
A few minutes later, Sir Thomas was walking slowly back to the Imperial Hotel in advance of the main party. He had made the
excuse that he needed to be there to greet the Prince of Wales, but making this pronouncement, which he had previously rehearsed
many times, failed to fill him with the satisfaction he had anticipated. For once, his mind was not on royalty and a possible
peerage, not on Dickens, not onhis incipient gastritis, not even on the blow that Angelina had dealt him. It ranged over many other matters, none of which
were pleasant and some of which until he came to Broadstairs he had almost put out of his mind.
‘
Attention
, ladies and gentlemen. It is time. The geese!’ He looked impatiently. Where was Herr Freimüller? He had been detailed to
assist Mr Pegg in placing the geese in the ovens.
Heinrich burst in at the doors, carrying two bottles, followed by Emily, somewhat flushed, holding a bunch of herbs.
‘Thyme for the kidneys,’ she announce nervously in excuse.
‘It is not time for the kidneys,’ shouted Auguste. ‘It is time for the geese,’ extracting his head from the oven.
‘That’s sage, Mr Didier,’ said Emily, puzzled.
Auguste stared at her, wondering whether he was lecturing to imbeciles, and his gaze fell on Heinrich.
was hoping that Angelina, with whom Sir Thomas had chosen to sit at a table for two only, would take due note of her omission
of the ‘sir’. It was a gauntlet flung down before her rival.
‘As did Dickens himself,’ announced Sir Thomas, turning round having recovered some of his composure. ‘Yes, on Tuesday I believe,
we shall
all
be gathered here for an evening together.’ He then resumed his rapt attention to Angelina, thus leaving Gwendolen with no
option but to try to think of something interesting to say to Oliver Michaels and Samuel Pipkin.
‘Have you thought further on that we spoke of the other evening, Angelina?’ Sir Thomas said in a low voice, throbbing in what
he hoped was emotion. ‘I should perhaps wait for some more romantic hour.’ In fact he had fully intended to wait for a suitably
moonlit warm night, but the trying events of the day had put him so out of sorts that he could stand the waiting no longer.
The affirmative he knew would follow would help him in the discussion this evening with the Prince of Wales. The vote had
been taken, but as Angelina would undoubtedly now regret her stance, she would make her views clear to His Royal Highness.Besides, to appear eager for a decision would be flattering to Angelina. Would she, or wouldn’t she? he murmured, leaning
forward.
‘How is your stomach today, Thomas?’ shouted Gwendolen, determined to be heard.
Sir Thomas flinched, and turned his chair even more deliberately away from the neighbouring table. ‘Well, I thank you,’ he
managed to say offhandedly before once again addressing his rapt attention to Angelina, albeit somewhat shaken from his confident
suavity.
Angelina smiled sweetly and leaned forward herself. She spoke low and earnestly to Sir Thomas. She would
not
, was the gist of what she communicated first. The reasons why took rather longer to explain and, like her decision, was between
themselves, for strain though she might, Gwendolen could not hear. Shifting her chair position slightly, she saw Sir Thomas’s
face pale with emotion, she saw him pick up Angelina’s hand and kiss it with devotion. She saw Angelina remove it modestly,
with a maidenly flush on her cheeks, or thus Gwendolen’s jealous eye perceived it. Maiden indeed, she snorted to herself.
Mrs Langham must be nearly thirty. Mature, as she was herself.
Unable to bear what she saw as her rival’s triumph, Gwendolen turned to face the teacups again, wrapped in misery. Oliver,
observing the scene with the same keen interest as had she, munched his way through a Dickensian gingerbread cake, his emotions
harder to determine than those of his companion.
A few minutes later, Sir Thomas was walking slowly back to the Imperial Hotel in advance of the main party. He had made the
excuse that he needed to be there to greet the Prince of Wales, but making this pronouncement, which he had previously rehearsed
many times, failed to fill him with the satisfaction he had anticipated. For once, his mind was not on royalty and a possible
peerage, not on Dickens, not onhis incipient gastritis, not even on the blow that Angelina had dealt him. It ranged over many other matters, none of which
were pleasant and some of which until he came to Broadstairs he had almost put out of his mind.
‘
Attention
, ladies and gentlemen. It is time. The geese!’ He looked impatiently. Where was Herr Freimüller? He had been detailed to
assist Mr Pegg in placing the geese in the ovens.
Heinrich burst in at the doors, carrying two bottles, followed by Emily, somewhat flushed, holding a bunch of herbs.
‘Thyme for the kidneys,’ she announce nervously in excuse.
‘It is not time for the kidneys,’ shouted Auguste. ‘It is time for the geese,’ extracting his head from the oven.
‘That’s sage, Mr Didier,’ said Emily, puzzled.
Auguste stared at her, wondering whether he was lecturing to imbeciles, and his gaze fell on Heinrich.
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