Charlotte House Affair 01 - My Particular Friend

bread and some cheese produced from a pocket for luncheon.’ #
    ‘I certainly hope it won’t be,’ I said. ‘I hope for sandwiches and cake and a proper tea.’
    Charlotte said, ‘From the activities of the servants I think we have little to fear.’
    At this time we heard a respectful cough from the doorway and saw a footman trying to attract attention.
    ‘Miss Stilton, there is a gentleman just arrived who would speak with you, a Mr Potterthwaite.’
    Miss Stilton made a high-pitched squeak of excitement that I thought unbecoming and rapidly left the room with the footman.
    ‘Whatever can that be about?’ Mrs Fitzhugh mused. ‘An addition to our party?’
    We soon heard raised voices belonging to Mr and Mrs Stilton and their daughter. A few minutes later all three Stiltons, preceded by Mrs Walthorpe, entered the room.
    ‘I must apologize for my daughter inviting Mr Potterthwaite,’ Mrs Stilton said, speaking to Mrs Walthorpe.
    ‘There is no need,’ Mrs Walthorpe said with only a hint of displeasure. ‘Any friend of your daughter is welcome here.’
    ‘Our hostess bears it well,’ Mrs Fitzhugh whispered to us as we rose to greet our arrivals. ‘An unplanned for guest is such an impertinence.’
    ‘She clearly wants this match for her nephew,’ Charlotte said.
    Mrs Walthorpe turned her attention to us. ‘My friends, our party has a new member. A Mr Potterthwaite, a friend of Miss Stilton, will be joining us shortly.’
    ‘He is a … presentable young man. A curate, and his father is an old friend,’ Mrs Stilton said, trying to put the imposition in a good light. ‘Oh, here he is.’
    We turned as the footman entered the room followed by a very large, young man who paused uncertainly in the doorway. He was well over six feet with unruly black hair and a baffled expression on an overlong face. He was more curate than any two I had ever met. The footman cleared his throat and motioned to the young man to enter.
    ‘Oh do come in Mr Potterthwaite!’ Mrs Walthorpe said in a commanding tone. Her voice broke his hesitation and he entered. The footman, perhaps now feeling his duty superfluous, quietly said, ‘Mr Clarence Potterthwaite,’ and left.
    The requisite introductions were made and Mr Potterthwaite was made to sit down. He was ill at ease, and as he sat his long arms and elbows knocked over a vase that luckily did not fall to the floor, thanks to Charlotte’s quick action.
    ‘Sorry, sorry!’ he said, shooting to his feet. His legs shoved back his chair that nearly fell over, stopped by Mrs Fitzhugh. My friend brought back his chair, placed her hand on his shoulder and guided him to his seat. She also discreetly moved a small picture frame from beyond the reach of his elbows.
    ‘I am so happy to have you here, sir,’ Mrs Walthorpe said, this time in a more modulated tone. ‘I had not the anticipation of your coming … but you are welcome all the same.’
    ‘Thank you, ma’am. I am sorry to be a bother.’
    Mrs Walthorpe graciously dismissed his concern.
    ‘You are a curate sir?’ I asked him.
    He nodded and said, ‘I serve the parish of Stanton Green.’
    ‘Why I know it very well,’ Mrs Walthorpe said. ‘And I know your vicar quite well.’
    ‘Yes ma’am, he has spoken of you often.’
    ‘You now seem familiar to me, young man. Have we met before?’
    ‘On occasion, ma’am.’
    Having made that connexion, Mrs Walthorpe now engaged him in some pleasant conversation that put him at ease. I could see that Miss Stilton appeared relieved that her surprise was meeting with approval.
    ‘So that is Miss Stilton’s intended,’ Mrs Fitzhugh whispered to us.
    ‘He seems a nice enough fellow, if a bit clumsy,’ Charlotte said. ‘You will notice Miss Stilton?’
    ‘Yes,’ I said, ‘she was quite pleased at his arrival. She must care for him.’
    ‘You had doubts, Jane?’ Mrs Fitzhugh asked.
    ‘I do not … I did not like her because of her behaviour toward Mr Worcester.’
    ‘We can excuse her, I think,’ Charlotte said. ‘She is in love and that makes her do stupid things, but there was no real evil in it.’
    I was about to provide a noncommittal answer when I heard Mr Potterthwaite exclaim, ‘Worcester!’ followed by the crash of his chair. I looked and saw Mr Potterthwaite erect and appearing even larger than before. His hands were clenching and unclenching slowly. I also saw Mr Worcester standing uncertainly in the doorway, as Mr Potterthwaite had done a few