Sweet's Folly by Fiona Hill

Author:Fiona Hill
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781626814745
Publisher: Diversion Books
Published: 2014-11-06T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter IX

The Misses Deverell were entertaining, a thing they rarely did except between themselves. Tonight, however, a guest was within the little house in Bench Street—a guest, moreover, from the highest rank of local gentry.

“You do not think he will find our table wanting?” Mercy asked timidly, just after his acceptance of their invitation had been received.

“Wanting? But wanting what?” Prudence was in a fine humour; her scheme appeared to be working famously.

“Wanting variety,” Mercy suggested promptly. “Or richness. Or imagination.”

“Do you find it wanting?”

“O no!”

“Then he will not.”

“That is very sensible, Prudence,” said the other musingly. “I should never have thought of that. I do not, so he will not. It is very sensible. And symmetrical,” she added. “I like that.”

“Good, my dear. Then you run upstairs and prepare your toilette, while I confer with Mary. She must be reminded how to serve a dinner, I daresay. She appears to have forgot the proper fashion.”

“Do you know, Prue, I thought that!” Mercy agreed, much struck. “Just yesterday she held out two dishes to me at once, and neither of them equipped with a ladle, and I said to myself, ‘Mercy, I do believe Mary has forgot how to serve a proper dinner.’ I said those very words, Prudence!” she went on, wondering mildly. “Though only to myself, naturally.”

“Naturally, my dear.”

“Naturally.”

Miss Mercy mounted the stairs as she had been bidden, and descended not long after looking very fresh and trim in a light blue muslin gown. She was in plenty of time to greet the squire, which was well, since Prudence had forgot to dress until she heard his knock upon the door.

“Do come in,” said Mercy cordially, leading the way into the cramped parlour. The squire looked about himself for a moment, searching for a person to whom he might hand his cape and hat and so forth.

“Harrumph,” said he, regarding Mercy’s heedless back as she left him to himself in the tiny entrance-way. “So there you are!” he cried, finally espying poor Mary, who stood cowering in a dim corner of the hall, alarmed at the magnificence of the gentleman before her. For Sir Proctor had chosen to dress formally for dinner this evening. He rarely went out, and therefore had no notion of distinguishing between a banquet provided by the local politicos for his benefit and a dinner for three cooked in homely fashion in Bench Street; he never went to London, nor perused any modish journal, and therefore had no notion whatever of trousers; and in consequence of all this, he was attired in the most correct of outfits—according to his lights. He wore knee-breeches, buff in colour, silk stockings, and shiny, buckled pumps. His white cravat was plainly but most neatly tied above a white waistcoat, and his coat was elegantly cut. With his superb head of snowy hair, he looked excessively handsome (though slightly out of place in the shabby little house) and rather like a fashion plate from a magazine ten years out of date.

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