The silence came down again, a bit thicker this time. I looked at Georgiana, who was staring straight ahead, pale but unspeaking.
‘This is a fine pickle,’ said Lady Hackwood – an unfortunate choice of word, one couldn’t help feeling, since a proprietary pickle or relish was just what seemed to have gone missing.
Amelia began to sob. I shuffled about doing a bit of plate-clearing, hoping that some stage business might ease the tension.
Bicknell responded to his stricken master’s gesture and refilled his glass to the brim.
Rupert Venables glanced up and down the table with a look that you might, had you not known the circumstances, have taken for satisfaction.
‘I’m sorry that the news had to emerge in this way, Sir Henry,’ he said. ‘I had hoped for a chance to speak to you alone before dinner.’
‘And what about Georgie?’ said Amelia.
‘I’m all right, Ambo,’ said Georgiana in a very small voice.
At this point I was required on chicken fricassee duty in the kitchen. After a hectic few minutes to and fro, I settled into a steadier rhythm of touring with the broccoli dish – making sure to come in from the left-hand side. I couldn’t help noticing as I did so, the worrying shade of purple that Sir Henry’s face had taken on.
‘I wish you and your family the very best good fortune in the future,’ said Rupert Venables, ‘and I trust that in the circumstances …’
He tailed off as a noise like an exploding water main came from Sir Henry. ‘For heaven’s sake be quiet, you ridiculous young popinjay,’ said the baronet. ‘How dare you come into my house, sir, make up to my niece then discard her in this impudent manner?’
Rupert Venables looked round the table for support. He smiled, a touch nervously. ‘I think I’ve explained, Sir Henry. Personal matters which it would be indelicate to reveal, have made it impossible for me to—’
‘To hell with your personal matters,’ said Sir Henry. ‘Georgiana’s father was my wife’s brother. He was as fine a man as ever drew breath, if somewhat overfond of port. I take my responsibility to his daughter very seriously. As for you, young man … You can pack your bag and leave my house. At once.’
One might at this point have expected either of the senior Venableses to stick in a word for the fruit of their loins or Lady H to offer a calming ‘there, there’ to her niece. But the next voice to be heard – a warmish baritone – belonged to P. Beeching.
‘Sir Henry, might I, with due respect, urge a moment’s calm on us all? The happiness of many is at stake. There is another engagement here that is not, if I may say so, eiusdem generis. And if—’
‘Don’t give me that Latin nonsense, Beeching. You’re not in the High Court now. And if you still think you’re going to marry my daughter, you’d better think again pretty smartly.’
Amelia let out a stricken cry and Georgiana began to sob silently. Lady Hackwood said, ‘Really, Henry!’
For all I could tell, Dame Judith Puxley might at this moment have put in her two bob’s worth, but all conversation was brought to a sudden end by the sound of the front door bell ringing clangorously in the hall.
With heavy and suspicious tread, Bicknell left the dining room.
A cathedral hush came over the company. I stood like a dummy by the sideboard; I could think of no consolation except to tell myself that things could not possibly get worse.
How wrong I was.
The double door from the hall swung open and filled with butler.
Clearing his throat, Bicknell drew himself up to his fullest height and announced to one and all: ‘Lord Etringham.’
THE WOOSTERS ARE generally acknowledged to be made of stern stuff. We did our bit in the Crusades and, I’m told, were spotted galloping into the French at Agincourt under a steady downpour of arrows. We don’t duck a challenge.
When the time comes for a strategic withdrawal, however, we withdraw alongside the best of them. I couldn’t see how anything helpful to the happiness of those near or dear to me could emerge in the next few minutes; and just as in the normal day there is a sense of noblesse oblige, so in my position of humble footman I could see no way to be of further service. I therefore exercised the historic right of the worker to down tools and call it a day.
I was into the kitchen, through the corridor, up the back stairs and inside my simple quarters – pausing only to gather up an unregarded bottle from the dresser – before you could say Burke and Debrett.
It was a flummoxed, wits-endish Wooster who, an hour later, became conscious of a polite knocking at the door. Wondering only what fresh curses might have been called down on my head, I went to open it.