Mrs. Hornby gestured to a footman to pour more wine for her. A stern-looking man on Mrs. Hornby’s left—Captain Hornby, presumably—leaned toward her and muttered something in her ear, dismissing the footman with a wave of his hand. Mrs. Hornby hissed something back at him, and when he pulled away, his cheekbones were stained with red. His wife took another gulp of wine and fixed her gaze on Mr. Drayton.
“Mr. Drayton,” she called out in a strident voice. All eyes turned to her, glasses and forks halted mid-motion. “Aren’t you going to propose a toast to Lord and Lady Stanhope? Are we not here to celebrate their—” She broke off for a moment, befuddled and frowning. “Indeed, Mr. Drayton, pray tell, what are we celebrating?” She looked around the table at the other guests. There was an awful silence that was broken by a nervous titter. Rose felt her cheeks burning but kept her gaze defiantly up, her fingers crushing her napkin in her lap.
“An excellent notion—” Mr. Drayton began in a determinedly cheerful voice. He scraped his chair backward to stand up, holding his wineglass half aloft, but before he could say more, Mrs. Hornby interjected again.
“Oh, I know!” she cried. “Let us drink to Lady Stanhope’s remarkable forbearance. Such a fine quality in a lady!” She stood abruptly, and her own chair fell back, landing on the floor with a loud clatter. She staggered slightly, sloshing wine over herself and the table. The same footman rushed forward to lift her chair.
“Lydia!” Captain Hornby was standing now too, his expression quite furious, his colour high. “Stop this at once! You are embarrassing Mr. and Mrs. Drayton and their guests.”
“Oh, am I?” she cried. It was a cry of anger and disbelief, but then she looked around the table, at the faces of the guests, and said it again, this time in a faintly horrified tone. “Am I?” Everyone looked away, embarrassed by her display of emotion.
The captain ignored her. He turned to Mr. Drayton. “I beg your pardon, but I believe my wife is unwell. I must take her home.” He took her arm, and she sagged against him. “Mrs. Drayton,” the captain added with a nod in his hostess’s direction. “My sincerest apologies.”
Mr. Drayton rose from the table to see the Hornbys out. It was only when the door closed behind them that Rose finally looked at Gil. He was staring at her, a haunted expression on his face. Their eyes met for barely a moment before she looked away.
Gradually, the tinkle of cutlery against plates and the swell of muted conversation brought the room back to life. When Mr. Drayton rejoined his guests, he initiated a spirited conversation about a production of MacBeth he and his wife had seen the previous evening. Several others at Rose’s end of the table had also seen it, and a lively debate ensued of its merits and flaws. Mr. Drayton sought Rose’s opinion on both Shakespeare and the play, despite the fact she hadn’t seen the performance under discussion. She was grateful to him, even though part of her would much rather have sunk through the floor. Her involvement in the conversation was halfhearted at best, and soon she’d lost the thread of it. All she could think about was that all the world knew her husband had had scores of other women since his marriage to her.
It was no surprise Gil’s actions were common knowledge. She’d read the scandal sheets herself, hadn’t she? But it was one thing to know it. It was quite another to have someone point it out publicly; to really understand the degree and depth of that universal knowledge.
It felt like hours until the meal finally came to an end and Mrs. Drayton rose to lead the ladies to the drawing room for tea, leaving the gentlemen to their port. Rose couldn’t bear to even glance at Gil on her way out. She walked past him, staring straight ahead, aware of his eyes upon her even as she resolutely ignored him.
In the drawing room, she drank tea and joined in the chitchat about the latest fashions. It was torture. All she wanted was to go home. After a while, she drifted away from the other ladies and made her way to the pianoforte. She began sheafing through the music, seeking something to play. Preferably something familiar. Her fingers were still trembling. After a few minutes, one of the other ladies joined her. She was a pretty, plump woman, married to a forgettable baronet. Lady Charlotte something or other.
“I felt so sorry for you at dinner, Lady Stanhope,” the woman murmured in a low voice, too quiet for the other ladies to hear, “being subjected to that awful display by Mrs. Hornby. Like as not she has just found out her husband has been friendly with a certain actress for some months now!” Lady Charlotte’s blue eyes shone bright as she shared this nugget. Rose felt sick.