Any Other Name (The Split Worlds) - By Emma Newman Page 0,66
with his head still tipped back, looking up at the chandelier as he waved his empty glass around.
“Better than being saddled with a beauty,” he drawled. “They’re so demanding.”
“I say, sir.” Will, not getting a response from Freddy, turned to the host. “I must protest.”
“Must you? What? Why?” Freddy tipped himself upright again. Some drool was shining in his muttonchops and his eyes were unfocused. “Barty, what’s he all worked up about?”
“My apologies, William,” Bartholomew said, raising a hand slightly to assure him it was under control. “Frederick, it’s time for you to go home.”
“Really? Haven’t started playing cards yet though.”
“It’s time,” Bartholomew said firmly.
“Oh.” Freddy looked remorseful. “Have I caused offence, old chap?”
“You have indeed, sir. I demand an apology,” Will replied.
“You have it, old boy! I lose my tongue sometimes and I mean no harm, no harm at all. And your wife is a delightfully spirited filly, I’ll wager she–”
“Frederick.” Bartholomew cut him off with an imperious bark. “Get his cloak and gloves,” he said to the butler and then to Will, “Please accept my apologies too.”
Will gave a curt nod and sat back down as Freddy struggled to his feet.
“Where’s m’wife?” he slurred.
Will watched him with disgust, realising that it wasn’t just form that had elicited his protest. He’d felt genuinely affronted.
“And by questioning his calculations I saved the household over one hundred thousand of the Queen’s pounds per year.”
The ticking of the clock seemed very loud. Both Margritte and Georgiana were speechless, making that awful nervous giggle build in Cathy’s throat as the two women looked at each other. Cathy wondered if there was a social equivalent of chicken being played out silently in front of her. Who would react first? And which way should it go?
“They’re exploiting the fact we would never talk openly about this kind of thing,” she went on, trying to tip the tension over into something in her favour. “And whilst I may have committed a faux pas in being so truthful about it, I hope you see that it’s in our best interests to do so. They have a monopoly so they feel they can bully us into doing things the way they want, but it shouldn’t be that way.”
“Monopoly?” Georgiana asked.
“They’re the only service provider. They know there’s no other agency for us to go to, so we feel we have to keep them happy. It all happens subliminally in the social setting, and then, when the meeting’s over, everything’s geared up to make it difficult, and embarrassing to ask questions or make complaints, do you see?”
“I do!” Margritte said, and slapped her closed fan against her palm. “Georgiana, don’t pull that face, she’s right! We shouldn’t let pride interfere with common sense.”
“The thing about common sense,” Georgiana began in a tone that reminded Cathy of a character in an Oscar Wilde play, “is that–”
The door opened and the butler appeared. “Begging your pardon, milady, but Mr Viola has asked for his wife. I understand he’s about to leave.”
“Oh, he’s drunk and belligerent again.” Georgiana sighed as she stood up. “Really, the man is insufferable.”
She spoke only to Margritte, as if she’d forgotten Cathy was there. The hostess didn’t look surprised and gave Georgiana a sympathetic smile. Hasty goodbyes were made and she left, the sounds of her husband’s bellowing echoing down the hallway.
“Does that often happen?” Cathy asked and Margritte nodded. “Then why do people still invite him? In Aquae Sulis he’d never see the inside of another person’s dining room ever again.”
“Well,” Margritte said, sitting back down and inviting Cathy to do the same, “it’s probably because he’s disgustingly rich.”
Cathy laughed at her plain speaking and Margritte smiled. “Catherine, I believe you may be just the breath of fresh air the Londinium salons need. I would be delighted if you could come to a soirée we’re planning for a week from now. Something gentle to get people back into the mood again after all of this upheaval.”
“Thank you, that’s very kind.”
“Seeing as the Violas have left, perhaps we should rejoin our husbands and play a game of cards a little earlier than usual. I’m sure Bartholomew won’t mind – he seemed quite taken with you, and your husband is a delight.”
“A delight?” She was about to make a comment about telling him that later when she felt the strangest sensation, deep in her stomach, as if she had just been in a very fast lift and reached the top floor.