Her face grew hot. Without stopping to think she said, “In Langmarsh you had old servants who knew the place intimately, and you entertained old friends, who would take Langmarsh as it was with no more light than a few candles and the fire. In the field, soldiers are accustomed to soldiers fare. This dinner you plan, however, is for people who will arrive with their ears pricked, their eyes sharpened, and their noses twitching to judge us by everything they hear and see and smell. They will rate the service, the food, the look of the place, and our manners, yours and mine. None of the guests know us well, some may be maliciously inclined to dislike us, and none of the guests, I’ll wager, have ever been on a field of battle, nor would they like the setting, the food, or the manners they would find there.”
She had been carried away, had heard herself “spouting” and stopped, too late, for she looked up to find his eyes fixed on her, really looking at her, with an expression that she could not read. It was not angry, but neither was it appreciative. Weighing, perhaps. Deciding. “Where have you picked up all this?” he growled. She faltered. If he was offended, she couldn’t blame Aufors, and apology would only convince him he was right to be annoyed. Well, now was the time to press a momentary advantage.
“As your hostess, I am responsible for the success or failure of social events, Father, and I have been asking questions, as I was taught to do. You sent me to school to learn how to do this! I was a dedicated, faithful student and I have learned. Now you really must let me do it. The house will be in a frenzy over the next several days. I need to be here. If you will make the courtesy calls by yourself, it would help enormously.”
He grunted at her, still with a very equivocal expression, and went to his rooms, demanding Terson, his servant, to bring something light by way of supper. Genevieve breathed deeply.
“Good for you, my lady,” whispered Delia from behind a portiere.
“Good for Aufors,” breathed Genevieve. “Now if I can only hang on and Father will just . . . settle down.”
The days that followed were too full of work for any enjoyment. The Marshal made his calls alone. Workmen came in and workmen went out. Carpets were taken up (leaving great continents of dust on the floor) to be cleaned and turned; furniture was sent to be repaired, draperies were removed, shaken free of several years’ worth of detritus, brushed carefully to reveal unexpected colors and patterns, and those that were whole were rehung while worn ones were shifted about to hide the wear, there being no time to have new ones made.
Foodstuffs were delivered and preparations begun. Wines were fetched from the cellars—thankfully, rather good ones—and set ready in the cooling room. Plate was polished. The dining room was given a complete going over, walls and ceiling as well as floors, evicting generations of spiders from behind the cornices while the huge table was brought to a silken polish by two newly hired young footmen who flung themselves back and forth along it on lambskins, much to the amusement of the equally new housemaids.
Responses to the invitations arrived, virtually all of them acceptances. Those who refused were replaced by others nominated by Aufors. “These people I’m suggesting are not important,” he said, “but they are amusing. Just as every dinner needs a little spice, every dinner party needs a few people to be diplomatic and pleasant, to keep things moving.”
On the day of the dinner, Delia insisted that Genevieve do nothing but lie about.
“Is everything done, Delia?”
Delia put out her lower lip, hands on her hips, and nodded firmly. “Everything is as close to done as it’s going to get, Jenny. Everything’s delivered, put up, put down, plucked, stuffed, cooled, warmed, hung or unhung, as may be. Everything that’ll take a polish has been polished at least twice and what won’t polish has been hidden behind something that will. The cook’s in a temper, which Halpern tells me is a good thing. Her dinners are always delicious, he says, when she’s in a temper. The table looks lovely. The flowers just came, sneaked in the back way by somebody who knows or works for the Duchess Bellser-Bar, so he told us. She’s a friend of the Colonel, it seems. I think it’ll all go fine.”