Page 14 of My Darling Mr. Darling

She had prepared herself for the inevitable unease, the sense that all the air had been sucked straight out of the room. What she had not prepared for was the curt, stiff reprimand Mr. Darling delivered as he arrived in the drawing room: “Have none of you any decency at all? You stand when a lady stands.”

Mr. Collins and Mr. Simmons—puppies, really; just babies—jumped to their feet as if under the threat of boxed ears. Mr. Green rose as well, a flush of embarrassment staining his cheeks. Mr. Mitchell, however, took his time, as if to make it clear that he had risen of his own accord rather than any urging by Mr. Darling. Violet might have been exasperated if it weren’t for the fact that it had clearly annoyed Mr. Darling.

“At least some of us,” Mr. Mitchell said, in that slow drawl that would have to be rectified swiftly, “had the decency to arrive on time.”

Oh, dear.

Chill bumps broke out upon her skin as she sensed Mr. Darling’s head swivel toward her, heard the suspicion in his voice as he inquired, “AmI late, then? I had been given to understand I was expected at one.”

“My mistake,” Violet said briskly. “Mr. Darling, Mr. Mitchell, while I appreciate your…enthusiasm, please recall that this is my class. If anyone is in need of reprimand, I will give it.” And as Davis resumed his post, glowering this time at Mr. Darling, she said, “Please be seated, gentlemen. We will begin with tea.”

“Have you got any coffee?” Mr. Mitchell asked, and Davis grumbled something beneath his breath that Violet was certain was not complimentary.

“A good guest does not complain of what he is served, Mr. Mitchell, unless there is a compelling reason for it. Have you such a reason?” Violet asked as she assembled five tiny china teacups in a neat row upon the tray.

“Yes. Tea’s awful.”

Mr. Collins snickered, then abruptly silenced himself before Violet could send him so much as a quelling glance, which lent the curious notion that Mr. Darling had gotten to him first.

Violet cleared her throat to regain their attention. “Then I am afraid you shall be disappointed, Mr. Mitchell, for I am serving tea. You may decline it, if you do not prefer it, but we Englishdo.”

“Ah, hell,” Mr. Mitchell sighed. “I suppose tea’ll do.”

A profound silence pervaded the room. Mr. Collins and Mr. Simmons stared, horrified. Mr. Green shifted uncomfortably. Davis made a strange growling sound in his throat. And Mr. Darling tensed like a vicious beast poised to strike.

And yet he said nothing. But his gaze slid toward her—and she recalled that she had taken him to task for his interference already.

“Mr. Mitchell,” she said, “I am not certain how things are done in—”

“Boston,” he supplied laconically.

“—Boston, but here in England, one does not use such language in the presence of a lady.” He wasn’t even watching her. He was watching Mr. Darling. As if this entire interaction, this terrible display of manners, had never been meant for her at all, but had been only a performance.

“It isn’t done in Boston, either,” Mr. Darling said. “A fact of which Mr. Mitchell is very much aware.” With no small amount of effort he composed himself once more. “I take milk and sugar,” he said to Violet.

What? Oh, the tea—she pulled her attention back to the task and passed him his cup. Mr. Collins and Mr. Simmons took only milk, Mr. Green took only sugar, and Mr. Mitchell—

Requiredsevenlumps of sugar, apparently. Violet gritted her teeth and prepared his cup as requested, which he received but did not drink.

“Miss Townsend, do you not intend to take tea?” asked Mr. Simmons. Violet offered him an approving smile, as it was at least kind of him to have noticed that she had not prepared a cup for herself—it spoke to a consideration for and observance of those around him. Something at leastonein their number did not currently possess.

“No, Mr. Simmons,” she said. “Today I am simply observing.”

“Observing what?” inquired Mr. Green, his teacup halfway to his mouth, moustache twitching in keen interest.

“Your manners, your conduct, your general deportment, and so forth,” Violet said. “If you wish to be welcome withinTonsociety, your behavior must be unimpeachable. The aristocracy can be difficult to navigate, and they do not often welcome outsiders within their ranks. I have counted five errors already that would keep you from the finest of homes.”

“Five?” Mr. Green choked.

“Not to worry, Mr. Green, none of them belong to you. In fact, three belong to our Mr. Mitchell, one belongs to Mr. Simmons, and the last goes to Mr. Darling.”

“I beg your pardon,” Mr. Darling said, and she heard the annoyance in his voice—yet another reminder of the fact that he had not enrolled himself for his own edification, but doubtless for some nefarious purpose as yet unknowable. “Of what sin have I been judged guilty?”

“A disagreeable disposition,” she said at once, and took a perverse delight in his deepening frown. “There is no room for personal differences within this drawing room, or any other. Whatever animosity you might feel for another member of this class”—or its instructor, for that matter—“you will leave it outside this residence.”

For a moment—just one moment—a warm flicker of amusement came into his eyes. Flustered, she turned toward Mr. Simmons. “Mr. Simmons, you are holding your teacup incorrectly; Mr. Collins has the right of it, as you should observe.” And as Mr. Simmons turned toward Mr. Simmons to compare, she rounded at last on Mr. Mitchell.

With a lazy grin and a flick of his hand, he said, “Have at it, then.”