For Blandings was not one of those houses–or shall we say hovels?–where the upper servants are expected not only to feed but to congregate before feeding in the steward’s room. Under the auspices of Mr. Beach and of Mrs. Twemlow, who saw eye to eye with him in these matters, things were done properly at the castle, with the correct solemnity. To Mr. Beach and Mrs. Twemlow the suggestion that they and their peers should gather together in the same room in which they were to dine would have been as repellent as an announcement from Lady Ann Warblington, the chatelaine, that the house party would eat in the drawing-room.
When Ashe, returning from his interview with Mr. Peters, was intercepted by a respectful small boy and conducted to the housekeeper’s room, he was conscious of a sensation of shrinking inferiority akin to his emotions on his first day at school. The room was full and apparently on very cordial terms with itself. Everybody seemed to know everybody and conversation was proceeding in a manner reminiscent of an Old Home Week.
As a matter of fact, the house party at Blandings being in the main a gathering together of the Emsworth clan by way of honor and as a means of introduction to Mr. Peters and daughter, the bride-of-the-house-to-be, most of the occupants of the house-keeper’s room were old acquaintances and were renewing interrupted friendships at the top of their voices.
A lull followed Ashe’s arrival and all eyes, to his great discomfort, were turned in his direction. His embarrassment was relieved by Mrs. Twemlow, who advanced to do the honors. Of Mrs. Twemlow little need be attempted in the way of pen portraiture beyond the statement that she went as harmoniously with Mr. Beach as one of a pair of vases or one of a brace of pheasants goes with its fellow. She had the same appearance of imminent apoplexy, the same air of belonging to some dignified and haughty branch of the vegetable kingdom.
“Mr. Marson, welcome to Blandings Castle!”
Ashe had been waiting for somebody to say this, and had been a little surprised that Mr. Beach had not done so. He was also surprised at the housekeeper’s ready recognition of his identity, until he saw Joan in the throng and deduced that she must have been the source of information.
He envied Joan. In some amazing way she contrived to look not out of place in this gathering. He himself, he felt, had impostor stamped in large characters all over him.
Mrs. Twemlow began to make the introductions–a long and tedious process, which she performed relentlessly, without haste and without scamping her work. With each member of the aristocracy of his new profession Ashe shook hands, and on each member he smiled, until his facial and dorsal muscles were like to crack under the strain. It was amazing that so many high-class domestics could be collected into one moderate-sized room.
“Miss Simpson you know,” said Mrs. Twemlow, and Ashe was about to deny the charge when he perceived that Joan was the individual referred to. “Mr. Judson, Mr. Marson. Mr. Judson is the Honorable Frederick’s gentleman.”
“You have not the pleasure of our Freddie’s acquaintance as yet, I take it, Mr. Marson?” observed Mr. Judson genially, a smooth-faced, lazy-looking young man. “Freddie repays inspection.”
“Mr. Marson, permit me to introduce you to Mr. Ferris, Lord Stockheath’s gentleman.”
Mr. Ferris, a dark, cynical man, with a high forehead, shook Ashe by the hand.
“Happy to meet you, Mr. Marson.”
“Miss Willoughby, this is Mr. Marson, who will take you in to dinner. Miss Willoughby is Lady Muriel Mant’s lady. As of course you are aware, Lady Mildred, our eldest daughter, married Colonel Horace Mant, of the Scots Guards.”
Ashe was not aware, and he was rather surprised that Mrs. Twemlow should have a daughter whose name was Lady Mildred; but reason, coming to his rescue, suggested that by our she meant the offspring of the Earl of Emsworth and his late countess. Miss Willoughby was a light-hearted damsel, with a smiling face and chestnut hair, done low over her forehead.
Since etiquette forbade that he should take Joan in to dinner, Ashe was glad that at least an apparently pleasant substitute had been provided. He had just been introduced to an appallingly statuesque lady of the name of Chester, Lady Ann Warblington’s own maid, and his somewhat hazy recollections of Joan’s lecture on below-stairs precedence had left him with the impression that this was his destined partner. He had frankly quailed at the prospect of being linked to so much aristocratic hauteur.