The Steward of Blackwood Hall

Chapter fifteen - The best laid plans

Langdale leaned back, stretching his legs before him. "Considering Margaret has offended or disgusted almost every one of our friends, she can no longer afford to be particular. If she does not take care to mind her tongue she will find herself on the shelf, like her sister."

Fielding gripped the back of the chair, as his reply sliced through the dusty air like a rapier. "There is no similarity in their situations, and you know it."

"Now, now." Langdale laughed, holding up his hands in surrender. "I meant nothing against Sally. I know you two were once close. Indeed, at one time I half expected you to marry her."

As much as he liked Henry's cousin, Fielding had no intention of dissecting his friendship with Sarah Mountford for Langdale's benefit. Given the choice he would rather lose himself in estate matters with Henry. "I suppose I should make an appearance upstairs, so Mountford can see for himself that I have survived my ordeal."

Langdale wisely remained silent, and the two men traversed the cramped servant's corridor until they reached Blackwood's piano nobile. They slipped between the travelling cases that cluttered the hallway and followed the voices into the drawing room.

"Finally, the man himself appears!" Mountford called as they reached the open doorway. "You must have heard us talking about you."

The faces turned towards him were all familiar except for one. Mountford stood by the mantelpiece. Sally had curled up on the window seat, while her sister sat on the sofa. The man standing behind Margaret Mountford seemed unnaturally thin, as though he had been stretched out on a medieval rack. The unrelieved black of his morning coat, pantaloons and hussar boots put Fielding in mind of an ebony fence post or, at best, a starving undertaker.

"Ah! M'seur Fielding, I presume. It is, for me, a great plaisir to meet a man about whom I 'ave 'eard much."

The stick-like figure offered a bow so deep that Fielding was curious to see whether he would snap in two. Still, there was no excuse for deplorable manners, and he allowed the silence that followed to stretch past the point of comfort, until Mountford interceded with the long overdue introduction.

"Fielding, please allow me to introduce Monsieur Fournier."

After the traumatic event earlier in the day, he was in no mood to be gracious, particularly when it came to a man like Fournier. He held nothing against émigrés; only those people who did not respect the social order. Still, for Mountford's sake he chose to be civil, if not friendly. "Monsieur Fournier," he acknowledged with a curt nod of his head, before turning with great purpose to focus on their host.

Mountford lifted one shoulder in mute apology before resuming the thread of their conversation. "You are looking very well, my friend. It seems the country air agrees with you."

Miss Latimer's rejection of his suit had left him in lower spirits than he had ever known, but then Henry had never cultivated a perceptive eye; unlike his elder sister, whose penetrative gaze he could feel from across the room. "I managed to keep myself busy."

"You were right, Henry," Langdale said from his place by the door. "I found him buried in the office, surrounded by paper, with a face like a wet Sunday in Scarborough."

Their host shook his head with mock dismay. "I must see what I can do to rectify this shocking competence, or I shall be obliged to double your wages." As Mountford laughed at his joke, the Blackwood housekeeper announced that the guest rooms were now ready.

"If the ladies and gentlemen would like to follow me upstairs," she said, her tone more reverential than Fielding had yet heard it.

"Thank you, Mrs North. Lead the way, if you will." Mountford, still enjoying the novelty of being the host in his own home, chatted with Langdale, Margaret and the Frenchman as they moved out into the hall.