would discompose her. Because she was impervious to him. He was boorish and offensive, and she was a lady. The wonder was how she'd ever let him affect her so strongly in the first place. But no more. Today was a new day.
"Mr. Brodie."
"Ma'am."
"Smelling the meat before consuming it is considered ill-bred."
Brodie squinted at the chunk of roast pork on the end of his fork. "Well, now, that may be," he conceded. "But where I'm from it's also considered a life-saying precaution."
"Not here, though, I think we can all rest assured," said Anna firmly. At least he was using his fork; Mr. Flowers took up all his food with his knife. She sighed dispiritedly. It was going to be a long three weeks. Mr. Brodie's table manners were neat but not polished, and definitely more practical than correct. "Bread, of course," she noted a moment later, "is broken off into small bits, rather than eaten whole in great bites."
She spoke in a general tone, looking at no one in particular, but Billy Flowers stopped dead with a giant mouthful of half-chewed biscuit and stared guiltily down at his plate. The evening wasn't going the way he'd hoped. This was the first time he and Brodie had been invited to eat with Mrs. Balfour and Mr. O'Dunne before, they'd taken their meals in the kitchen and he'd been looking forward to it all day. He'd taken special pains with his toilette, slicking his sand-colored hair back with oil and putting on a clean collar under his best plaid jacket. But he wasn't having any fun. Mrs. Balfour was smashing, tiptop, he was half in love with her, but tonight he wished she would shut up. Sit close to the table but don't lean your elbows on it, refrain from loud talking and laughing, use your napkin, not your handkerchief. Billy was so keyed up he couldn't taste his food anymore. He kept his eyes down and tried to look inconspicuous.
"It's rude to blow on one's soup and" Anna laughed lightly, "of course one never
drinks
it; one spoons it up from the bowl and tries not to make slurping sounds."
Billy rose up from a near-crouch and wiped soup from his mouth with the back of his hand. He picked up his spoon surreptitiously, stared at it a moment in perplexity, then dunked it into his bowl. In an effort not to slurp, he put the whole spoon in his mouth, clanging it against his teeth and causing everyone to look at him. He belched nervously.
Brodie began to enjoy himself. Twenty years ago his mother had taught him and Nick all about table manners. Since then he'd gotten… a bit rusty. But compared to Billy, he ate like Prince Albert, and so poor Bill was getting most of the attention. Brodie sat on Anna's right, Billy across from him, O'Dunne on his other side. Everyone had changed clothes for dinner. Anna had on a gray gown of some soft-looking material, silk, he guessed, with darker gray stripes. He liked the way she was wearing her hair; it was softer tonight, coiled on top of her head instead of that bun thing in back she usually wore, and the candlelight was picking out the bright strands of copper and gold and—
"It's also rude to stare."
Brodie turned his slow gaze on O'Dunne, who had been silent up to now. Brodie had wondered a time or two before now if the lawyer was in love with the lady. He was protective enough of her, but Brodie couldn't tell if his devotion was because of love or friendship. He caught himself hoping it was the latter, then wondered why. What difference did it make? None, of course. It was only that Mrs. Balfour, he guessed he'd keep calling her that, it meant so damn much to her, had had a shock, and he knew, from his own very personal experience, that she was in a vulnerable state. He'd hate to see her snapped up by another man, even one as righteous and honorable as the lawyer, before she'd taken enough time to recover.
He swallowed another mouthful of pork and looked about for something to wash it down with. "Anything to drink around here besides this bug juice?" he asked, swishing
"Mr. Brodie."
"Ma'am."
"Smelling the meat before consuming it is considered ill-bred."
Brodie squinted at the chunk of roast pork on the end of his fork. "Well, now, that may be," he conceded. "But where I'm from it's also considered a life-saying precaution."
"Not here, though, I think we can all rest assured," said Anna firmly. At least he was using his fork; Mr. Flowers took up all his food with his knife. She sighed dispiritedly. It was going to be a long three weeks. Mr. Brodie's table manners were neat but not polished, and definitely more practical than correct. "Bread, of course," she noted a moment later, "is broken off into small bits, rather than eaten whole in great bites."
She spoke in a general tone, looking at no one in particular, but Billy Flowers stopped dead with a giant mouthful of half-chewed biscuit and stared guiltily down at his plate. The evening wasn't going the way he'd hoped. This was the first time he and Brodie had been invited to eat with Mrs. Balfour and Mr. O'Dunne before, they'd taken their meals in the kitchen and he'd been looking forward to it all day. He'd taken special pains with his toilette, slicking his sand-colored hair back with oil and putting on a clean collar under his best plaid jacket. But he wasn't having any fun. Mrs. Balfour was smashing, tiptop, he was half in love with her, but tonight he wished she would shut up. Sit close to the table but don't lean your elbows on it, refrain from loud talking and laughing, use your napkin, not your handkerchief. Billy was so keyed up he couldn't taste his food anymore. He kept his eyes down and tried to look inconspicuous.
"It's rude to blow on one's soup and" Anna laughed lightly, "of course one never
drinks
it; one spoons it up from the bowl and tries not to make slurping sounds."
Billy rose up from a near-crouch and wiped soup from his mouth with the back of his hand. He picked up his spoon surreptitiously, stared at it a moment in perplexity, then dunked it into his bowl. In an effort not to slurp, he put the whole spoon in his mouth, clanging it against his teeth and causing everyone to look at him. He belched nervously.
Brodie began to enjoy himself. Twenty years ago his mother had taught him and Nick all about table manners. Since then he'd gotten… a bit rusty. But compared to Billy, he ate like Prince Albert, and so poor Bill was getting most of the attention. Brodie sat on Anna's right, Billy across from him, O'Dunne on his other side. Everyone had changed clothes for dinner. Anna had on a gray gown of some soft-looking material, silk, he guessed, with darker gray stripes. He liked the way she was wearing her hair; it was softer tonight, coiled on top of her head instead of that bun thing in back she usually wore, and the candlelight was picking out the bright strands of copper and gold and—
"It's also rude to stare."
Brodie turned his slow gaze on O'Dunne, who had been silent up to now. Brodie had wondered a time or two before now if the lawyer was in love with the lady. He was protective enough of her, but Brodie couldn't tell if his devotion was because of love or friendship. He caught himself hoping it was the latter, then wondered why. What difference did it make? None, of course. It was only that Mrs. Balfour, he guessed he'd keep calling her that, it meant so damn much to her, had had a shock, and he knew, from his own very personal experience, that she was in a vulnerable state. He'd hate to see her snapped up by another man, even one as righteous and honorable as the lawyer, before she'd taken enough time to recover.
He swallowed another mouthful of pork and looked about for something to wash it down with. "Anything to drink around here besides this bug juice?" he asked, swishing
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