A Stranger in Mayfair - Charles Finch [80]
“Where is she?” asked Lenox.
“With her nurse. She’s not coming to the party, though she may sneak down for a moment. Look out for a woman with a face like a tombstone and see if she’s holding a baby. If she is, the baby’s George.”
Lenox laughed. “Can I get you anything? A glass of water?”
“No, thank you.”
“Are you sure? It’s better to drink.”
“Everyone has been inundating me with glasses of water, I promise you. Now go, sit! I want to eat soon.”
Lenox knew that it was to be a “white” meal, a tradition in Toto’s family every Sunday, but especially observed on days of baptism. All the food would be white, and the tablecloth and candles, too. But he hadn’t realized the imagination that would go into it all.
To begin with, for each person there was a glass of champagne and a white-robed chocolate with G written in cream-colored cursive on it. Then there was an oyster, potato, and cauliflower soup, warm but not steaming, and perhaps made with white wine, because it felt very light. After that was a lovely piece of haddock, dressed in a sauce of celery and butter, and then suprême de volailles, white chicken in cream sauce, stuffed with (hidden) mushrooms and served with pure white potatoes, sliced thin and steamed. With these two courses was a crisp, fresh Sauterne; with the next was light sherry, fresh out of the cask according to the butler who served it alongside small plates of wafers and two sorts of white cheese.
Dessert, however, was where Lenox found himself most impressed: a meringue, then a light-as-air piece of sponge cake with the browned crusts removed, and on top of that a perfect mountain of whipped cream.
As a final touch there was another chocolate, again robed in white, again with a cursive G written on it, and coffee. Coffee was the mystery they all spoke about (“They’ll overcream it,” Lady Jane predicted confidently), but when it arrived it surprised them all; floating above the black coffee was a thin white disc of crystallized sugar. They broke out into spontaneous applause at that, and Toto blushed.
“It was my father’s thought,” she said, and her father reddened slightly, too, then looked very serious and said, “Oh, no, quite a frivolous idea,” and hastily drank off a great gulp of his wine.
After the food there were speeches. McConnell’s father addressed them in a deep voice, with his son sinking into a chair like a young child at his father’s table; he spoke about Scottish traditions, the Scottish countryside, and even Scottish food with tremendous veneration, and concluded by saying, in a loud voice, “To our Highland granddaughter! May she live a full, happy life!” This drew overwhelming applause from seven or eight McConnell relatives and polite clapping from the rest of the party.
Then Toto’s father stood up. “I shall be very brief,” he said. “This is the happiest day of my life.” He sat down, quite emotional, and earned truly overwhelming applause, along with shouts of “Hear, hear!” Lenox felt goose pimples on his arms; he knew how dearly, more dearly than anyone, the man loved Toto, and how pained he had been by her unhappiness over the years.
Finally there was the bishop, who blessed the meal, called the day “joyouth indeed!” and sat down with the beaming face of a man who has done the work of God and, in the way of business, drunk six or seven glasses of good wine on a warm afternoon.
When the lunch was finished the women and men retired to separate rooms, the women to sewing and gossip, the men to cigars and gossip. As it neared six o’clock some people, particularly the older ones, left, and others started for the ballroom, where guests were beginning to congregate. McConnell was at the threshold there, promising Toto would come down soon. It was a large, very high-ceilinged room, which was usually full of his sporting equipment but had been emptied out and varnished for the occasion. Along one wall were tables with