Charlotte House Affair 01 - My Particular Friend

accept that which has happened.’
    Sir Walter looked at Mr Cuthbertson and it was as if it were the first time he had ever really looked at him. He smiled weakly and said, ‘Thank you, my boy.’
    During this whole scene, Mr Potterthwaite had remained standing and Mrs Fitzhugh said, ‘May I congratulate you and Miss Stilton.’
    ‘Yes, good show Potty,’ Mr Cuthbertson said.
    Charlotte and I also offered our best wishes. Mrs Walthorpe’s graciousness could not extend that far and I could not blame her.
    ‘I am feeling a little unwell myself,’ she said. ‘Please enjoy …’ She let her words trail away and left us although I heard her tell a footman to locate her nephew and bring him to her.
    Sir Walter then stood and announced that he too suffered from the rigours of the day and left, accompanied by his wife, his daughter and Mr Cuthbertson, who solicitously looked after his future father-in-law.
    The Stiltons made a show of continuing the meal but Mr Stilton soon complained that the food had grown too cold for his digestion and left with his wife. Mr Potterthwaite rose to leave as well but Miss Stilton was still eating her pheasant. He whispered to her and she said, ‘But I’m hungry.’ Another whisper from him convinced her to leave as well, leaving my friends and me alone in the dining room.
    ‘That went well,’ I said, and burst out laughing. My friends joined in my laughter.

A Stout Drainpipe
    We finished our meal in a happy mood. Buoyed by the uniting of two couples, Charlotte was in an expansive mood and told us several funny stories that had the footmen struggling to keep from laughing. Mrs Fitzhugh, to my surprise, began to tell stories about youthful indiscretions—not hers, mind you—although Charlotte kept rolling her eyes when she denied her involvement. The wine poured by the attentive footmen fuelled our merriment and I began to realize how servants learned the information that we later learnt from them. Fortunately I kept my head as I suspect did Charlotte, despite her performance as a raconteur. I later had evidence that Charlotte was in control when she interrupted a particularly risqué story Mrs Fitzhugh had begun.
    Many hours after the meal had begun, we finally quitted the dining room, much to the relief I am sure of the servants. I am afraid that freed by the constraints of a hostess or other guests, we had treated the dining room as Liberty Hall and done just what we pleased. We eschewed the drawing-room and instead went up to our bedrooms, Charlotte and Mrs Fitzhugh sharing the rather grand Clock Room, while I went to my small room commensurate with a lady’s companion. As we negotiated the stairs to our rooms, we passed several servants who appeared to be on a mission. #
    I soon saw the purpose of their mission when I opened the door to my bedroom and saw it was now made even smaller.
    ‘Mr Worcester!’ I exclaimed, when I saw him revealed by the room’s candle already lit.
    ‘Please, Miss Woodsen, if you might lower your voice?’ he pleaded. ‘And if you might close the door behind you?’
    I did as he asked even though the situation seemed to perilously parallel one of Mrs Fitzhugh’s tales.
    ‘What are you doing in my room, sir?’
    ‘I am trying to remain one step ahead of the servants my aunt has set on my trail,’ he said in a whisper.
    ‘Oh,’ I said, feeling guilty that in all our joy over the successful uniting of the two couples that we had quite forgotten our client. ‘I am sorry. Your aunt must be frightfully upset.’
    ‘You have said a mouthful, my dear Miss Woodsen, and rather accurately. My Aunt Hermione can be quite frightful when upset. I happened to overhear, while secreted behind a large vase, my aunt give instructions to the servants that they should find me, and it may have been my imagination but I would swear that the words “skin him alive” were bandied about.’
    I kept the smile from my face as I said, ‘I am sure you are mistaken.’
    ‘That may be, but still caution is usually called for in …’
    He was interrupted by a knock at the door and the voice of a maid asking, ‘Miss Woodsen? Is everything all right? There’s been a report of a … burglar.’
    The effect of this on poor Mr Worcester made me feel for him as never before. He looked frantically about the room for some place of concealment, but my small room offered little opportunity. I suddenly realized his only hope would be a bold move on my part. I grabbed him