Friends and Lovers by Joan Smith Read Free Book Online Page B

asked.
    “We are dining out,” Mama told her. “Did Wendy not tell you? I confess I forgot all about it myself, such a busy day as we have had.”
    “Where are you going?” Mrs. Pudge demanded.
    “Mr. Everett has invited us to dine at Oakdene,” Mama replied.
    The hands that were crossed over Mrs. Pudge’s apron fell straight down and clamped on to her beefy thighs. “You never mean it!” she exclaimed, her eyes large with distress. “You’re not going to sit down at that man’s table.”
    “We do not plan to dine standing up,” I answered sharply, from sheer ill humor.
    “You fill all our faces with shame for you,” Mrs. Pudge said angrily. “That man is laying snares to entrap you into marriage, my fine lady.”
    “Mr. Everett is very comfortable to be with,” Mama said, smiling bemusedly. “An excellent parti too, so very obliging of him to have gone all the way to London for us, and now he is to fix the stairs.”
    “He is to make them back exactly as they were, and he had better do it,” I said, still vexed.
    Mrs. Pudge shook her head at my straying. “So you won’t be wanting any dinner, then?”
    “Not tonight,” Mama confirmed.
    Our housekeeper trudged at a weary gait from the door, soon to be heard in the hall telling her husband we had both run mad and were going to visit the heathen, who had thrown up a Babylonian tent at Oakdene.
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Chapter 5
     
    Where does one begin to relate the wonders of an Oakdene? We were admitted to a house full of blinding light. From every table and wall, lamps blazed, illuminating such a host of finery as was never before assembled in one spot, unless it should be the garish residence of our Prince Regent. My first impression of Everett’s saloon was the yards of red velvet draperies, held back by fringed gold satin cords. The ceilings were festooned with not only plaster moldings and large plaster medallions, but, painted on the flat spaces between, with Grecian deities and cavorting animals.
    The walls were covered with Chinese paper, the furnishings were mahogany trimmed with brass, while the upholstered pieces were covered in red and green. The yards and yards of floor were covered with carpets, all gaily patterned in red, blue and gold.
    “My, how elegant! How colorful!” Mama exclaimed.
    “I see no reason a house ought to be a dismal place,” he answered, pleased with the reaction.
    “No one could call this dismal,” I said, my voice small, overwhelmed.
    “I knew you would like it,” he answered, squeezing my elbow and directing my startled gaze to the three fireplaces that marched down the far wall. Two of them were of red marble, the central one green. All were flanked by caryatids, painted in life tones. Those ladies guarding the red fireplaces were outfitted in green, the ones guarding the green, in red.
    I could go on and on—every table held a dozen intricate bibelots. There were silver bowls, crystal candle holders, vases of flowers, dishes of bonbons and nuts, small statuary, snuffboxes. Each room in the house, at least the dozen or so we saw downstairs, was equally elaborate.
    After being given our choice of any wine in the world, we were told we would want champagne for this grand occasion. “What occasion is that, Mr. Everett?” Mama asked. She liked the place, but bewilderment had set in at such a surfeit of finery.
    “Why, your first visit, to be sure,” he replied.
    We ate our way through a dinner that would have filled a whole battalion of Dragoons. Every meat and every delicacy known to Western civilization was on the board. The board was plenty large enough to hold them all. It cost him only ten guineas, due to his connections in the lumber business, and having it hauled free from London by a tranter indebted to him. We all sat at one end of this monumental table, each with a footman behind us, whose function was to dart down the table’s length, retrieving tasty morsels to tempt us.
    “Pass Miss Harris the prawns,