Page 82 of These Old Lies
That at least got an honest reaction out of Charlie. “Oh God, don’t remind me.”
???
As the servant rang the gong for the guests to assemble around the dinner table, Ned sent up a silent prayer to whatever saints presided over ill-advised Christmas parties. Like all bad ideas, this one had started innocuously enough, with Ned’s decision to celebrate Christmas with his parents early, and then have the day itself with the Villierses. When Charlie hadn’t looked thrilled at the prospect of visiting his sister-in-law, Ned had invited him to join. Then Sophie mentioned she would be in the Cotswolds with Freddy, and Ned had told them they might as well come along too. When they arrived at the door, Hugh was also in tow.
A potpourri of attendees, none of whom were known for their accommodating personalities.
His mother had pulled out all the stops for tonight’s dinner, taking advantage of Heyworth House’s extensive farm holdings to provide the kind of festivities rarely seen since the war started. There were at least three different pine trees decorated with sparkling glass ornaments and sprigs ofholly on every flat surface. The rich fruity smell of mulled wine filled the air.
As was to be expected, his parents sat at respective ends of the oval dining table, with Ned sitting to his father’s right.
For some unfathomable reason, Charlie was sitting at the farthest point away from Ned. They hadn’t chatted properly since last night’s fiasco of intimacy, and Ned didn’t think Charlie being forced to sit through his mother’s political diatribes was going to smooth over whatever had gone wrong. He could already hear her saying, “I just don’t understand how unions are even legal…”
“Thank you again for coming to our rescue,” Sophie whispered in Ned’s ear from where she was sitting to between him and his mother. “Hugh is being an absolute bore at the moment.”
They both glanced over at the other side of the table, where Hugh was ignoring his soup. Ned had been more than a bit dismayed when Hugh came down for dinner. His blond hair barely covered his balding spots and his fingers were yellow with cigarette stains. His eyes flicked between other conversations, but he remained uncharacteristically silent.
“When’s his trial date?” Ned whispered back, not wanting his parents to pick up that their unexpected dinner guest was also at the heart of a torrid scandal.
“Beginning of January, but don’t dare try talking to him about it unless you want your head bitten off.” Sophie looked up from her soup. “You will sort it out, won’t you, darling?”
The leek soup tasted putrid in Ned’s mouth. The last thing he wanted to do tonight was to think about the compromises in front of him.
“The Americans will change the course of the war. Mark my words,” Ned's father said too loudly, managing to speak across the whole table.
“Having a few Yanks around London is never a bad thing,” Freddy answered with just enough coyness in his voice to make Ned wish he could kick his friend under the table. “They are always so… spirited.”
Thankfully his father seemed ignorant of the innuendo. “I agree, my boy, I agree. Muscular American farm boys are just what the war effort needs!”
Maybe not so thankfully.
Ned eyed his wine. If his mother hadn’t been sitting at the table, he might have finished it off in a single go.
“What are you doing for the war effort, Sophie dear? Ned mentioned something with ladies?” his mother asked. This wasn’t the first time the Tautons had come for dinner, and the dynamic between Sophie and his mother always reminded Ned slightly of two vipers dancing around each other, looking for weak points.
Sophie gave a broad smile and leaned back in her chair as the servants collected the soup bowls. “My precious Wrens. Delightfully enthusiastic. I still don’t understand why I couldn’t do something with the young men, though.”
“Fear for their virtue.” The mutter came from Freddy.
Ned downed the rest of his wine. There might not be enough mulled wine in the world for this party.
“Edmund?” Even at his age, Ned took comfort in his father’s deep, calm voice, “You aren’t working too hard, are you?”
“Churchill’s being Churchill, insisting on heading to America for Christmas. We’re managing, though.”
Despite his best efforts, he couldn’t completely hide his exhaustion.
His father glanced up from where the soup bowls were being replaced with the fish course. “I’m well aware that at your age, it’s rather silly of me to think I should be able to provide you with some sort of advice.”
“What on earth do you mean?” If Ned needed advice, the first person he would seek it from was his father.
“Your mother says that Mr Churchill is lucky to have a man like you to advise him. Of that I have no doubt, but I can’t help thinking, my poor boy. Having the weight of the war on your shoulders.”
Ned reached to squeeze the top of his father’s hand, deeply moved but not sure how to respond.
His father made a flicking gesture as if to brush off the unsaid emotions. “I didn’t mean to ruin dinner. What I meant to say is that whatever choices you are making, you will make the right ones. I have faith in you.”
A month ago, Ned would have agreed.