Oh dear. It didn’t seem as though I was off the hook. But at least I would have time to think up a convincing cover story. With relief, and with thankfulness for the fact that I and the girls were fast friends again, I watched Patsy and the others depart.
‘Well?’ my aunt snapped. ‘Why are you standing around gawking like that? Come down to breakfast, or do you expect the rest of us to wait for you?’
‘No, Aunt, I do not expect that.’
‘Then come down! The potatoes are already getting cold!’
If they had been served with Leadfield’s usual speed and alacrity, they had probably been cold long before they reached the table. Yet I didn’t say anything, simply followed my aunt down and to the breakfast table.
Everybody was already seated, apart from Uncle Bufford, of course. The head of the table, where he was supposed to sit, remained conspicuously empty, as always. My aunt could have sat there, but she preferred not to, as a demonstration that my uncle was grossly far behind in the performance of his social duties. Sometimes I wondered whether before we had come to his house, he had already had the habit of dining up in his study, or if that habit had developed to avoid an overdose of female company.
‘Sit,’ my aunt told me, as if I were a misbehaving puppy - which, when I came to think about it, probably was exactly how she thought of me. I took my place at the table directly opposite Ella. She didn’t meet my eyes.
Leadfield started limping around the table, doling out potatoes as he went. The potatoes turned out to be still lukewarm, not cold as predicted. Yet this overwhelming culinary advantage didn’t much increase my motivation to dig in. It seemed that, along with the headache, the inability to eat potatoes was another symptom of excessive alcohol consumption.
Maybe it wasn’t just restricted to potatoes, either. I didn’t feel as if I could have eaten much, even had there been a roasted pheasant in front of me. Any pheasant in the room would have been squashed, anyway, by the elephant in the room that was Ella’s and Edmund’s secret plan. She didn’t know that I knew she was going to flee, and I didn’t know when she was going to flee. I only knew something had to be done about it.
Again, I tried to catch her eye. She kept her gaze firmly fixed on her plate of potatoes as though they were the most fascinating work of art she had ever seen. I knew for a fact they were not. She liked going to the museum or to art galleries, and not to look at potatoes.
I hated seeing her like this, anxious and uncertain. I wanted her to be carefree and happy. I wanted him out of her life. And yet… a tiny part of me suspected that having him out of her life would not exactly contribute to her happiness. She cared for him, and he for her, probably. It was the one thing that had prevented me from going to him and threatening him with exposure, or just disclosing his conduct to his parents. They had to be together to be happy. Yet I couldn’t just let them run off together. I knew Ella, knew the value she placed on honour and propriety. The scandal would follow her everywhere, it would ruin her life.
Still, the alternative… her marrying that nincompoop Sir Philip…
I shuddered from head to toe. She would drown in flower bouquets and be forced to look at that silly grin and over-large nose for the rest of her life. What a hideous prospect.
‘It is a beautiful day, today, girls,’ my aunt initiated the conversation with a glance out of the window, her voice cheerful, which probably meant that she had momentarily forgotten both me and the plate of potatoes in front of her. ‘The sun is shining, for a change. Do you have any special plans?’
‘Maria and I planned to go out for a picnic with the Hendersons,’ Anne piped up. She shot a sideways glance at Gertrude. ‘Want to come? Young Master Charles Henderson will be there, and I’m sure he would be enchanted to meet you.’
She giggled, and not in a nice way. I knew it, because I prided myself on having brought the art of nasty giggling to perfection.
‘No, thank you,’ Gertrude replied quietly, not looking up from her plate. ‘He is five years younger than I, if I am correct. And I would much prefer to stay at home and work some more on my needlework.’
‘I’d like to come,’ Lisbeth put in, her eyes shining eagerly.
Anne chose to ignore that.
‘And the rest of you?’ My aunt’s eyes went from the window, through which sunshine streamed into the room, to me. Her expression soured. ‘What do you plan to do, Lillian?’
My hand, in the act of piercing a piece of potato with my fork, froze in mid-air.
Hell’s whiskers!
What did I plan to do? Up until a second ago, I had planned absolutely nothing. But in the back of my mind, I knew what I had to do, whether I planned it or not. It was a weekday. A workday. If I wanted to keep my position as Mr Ambrose’s private secretary, I would have to go to work. I would have to face him, after everything that happened last night.