Charlotte House Affair 01 - My Particular Friend

his attention to the fowl, attacking it with a trencherman’s appetite. #
    ‘Do you shoot, Mr Worcester?’ Charlotte asked.
    ‘Eh? Quite a bit when I was younger, but I’m afraid I’ve lost my interest,’ he answered jocularly between mouthfuls. I scarcely recognized him as the diffident young man I had met on the bridge.
    ‘A young man should be well versed in firearms, Mr Worcester,’ Mr Stilton said. ‘With horsemanship, it is an essential skill for life in the country.’
    ‘You are not comfortable on a horse, my dear,’ his wife said.
    ‘I do agree with you, Mr Stilton, that a gentleman should shoot. To his credit however, I suspect Mr Worcester is very capable on the dance floor,’ Charlotte said.
    ‘I am comfortable on a horse. It is the horse which is not comfortable with me,’ Mr Stilton muttered. From his girth and deportment I could well understand the horse’s attitude.
    ‘I believe I have that reputation, Miss House,’ Mr Worcester replied.
    ‘I also wager that a fashionable man such as yourself is familiar with the waltz.’ #
    I realized now that Charlotte’s strategy—keeping the conversation moving from topic to topic to discourage talk of the betrothal while lowering Mr Worcester’s opinion with the Stiltons—stood some chance of success.
    ‘The waltz is considered quite scandalous,’ I said, pretending to have first-hand knowledge of it. I only recently heard of it from Mrs Fitzhugh as some sort of continental thing of which she did not approve. ‘So much touching.’
    ‘Albert, I hope you have not sunk so far,’ his aunt said.
    ‘Touching what?’ Mr Stilton asked, now reaching for the fish.
    ‘Stephanie, you have not danced this waltz?’ Mrs Stilton asked.
    ‘In the Viennese fashion, the gentleman may put his hand on his partner’s shoulder, or around her waist,’ Mrs Fitzhugh provided, happy to impart her knowledge. ‘It is in ¾ time.’
    ‘Why shouldn’t I, Mama?’
    ‘Jolly fun the wortz,’ Mr Worcester said, mangling the unfamiliar word.
    Charlotte’s skilful campaign of character assassination was a perfect complement to the dinner, from the
Mignonette de poulet petit Duc
to the
Sylphides à la crème d’écrevisses
to the
Diablotins
and finally the fruit. In my mind, I tallied the sins of which Mr Worcester stood accused: a bad shot, a bad horseman—no wait, that was Mr Stilton—a libertine and during the dessert it was revealed he was an indifferent player of whist and an abuser of animals (his story of the goose though amusing did not put him in a good light). I was surprised at how nobly he suffered these accusations upon his character. True, we had warned him of our strategy but nevertheless he shewed considerable fortitude.
    At times I feared Charlotte would arouse in Mrs Walthorpe a natural defence of her nephew, but Charlotte always first gained her co-operation. ‘I understand from my brother that you are fond of whist, Mrs Walthorpe.’ And from there she discovered that Mrs Walthorpe and Mrs Stilton were often partners and also discovered that Mr Worcester’s appreciation of the game was mild at best, he being more fond of
vingt-et-un.
#
    After dinner, we retired to the drawing-room while the men remained for brandy in the dining room, although Mrs Walthorpe also provided us an excellent port.
    ‘Your nephew seems a charming young man, Mrs Walthorpe,’ Mrs Fitzhugh offered after we had settled.
    ‘Hmph.’
    ‘I don’t know when I’ve known a more delightful gentleman. His stories were so …’ I stopped when I saw a pained look on Mrs Stilton’s face.
    ‘That was funny about the goose,’ Miss Stilton said, smiling. ‘Seems a shame he had to …’ she did not continue but instead made a wringing motion with her hands.
    Mrs Stilton sighed but then roused herself. ‘I’m sure his high-spirited ways will quiet once he is married.’
    Mrs Fitzhugh agreed with her. ‘No doubt Miss Stilton will influence him to take a more … sober tone.’
    Mrs Walthorpe and Mrs Stilton both quickly looked at Miss Stilton who still seemed to be thinking of the fate of the goose, and then both those women looked at each other and simultaneously took a sip—perhaps more than a sip—of port.
    Charlotte then gave me a look and quickly put a finger to her lips. She did the same with Mrs Fitzhugh and I realized she wanted us to halt our campaign and let time do its work. We remained mostly silent, drinking port, until the gentlemen rejoined