Sarum - Edward Rutherfurd [532]
Or – this was rare, but it was what Sir Joshua Forest had done – he might study manners.
For in Italy and France, Forest had acquired that most elusive of eighteenth century aristocratic arts – the perfect manner. His manner was so artificial, so polished, that it actually put you at ease. He was as perfect as a china figure that can be turned admiringly this way and that. Even when he moved across the room, his body was held in such perfect posture that one hardly thought he had moved at all. His face, though it smiled amiably, or sometimes frowned, returned quickly and easily to perfect serenity. The physical body, beautifully dressed, infinitely polite even to the lower orders of humanity on the rare occasions when they were noticed, had become almost a marionette. This was the perfect manner of those who dwelt apart in the aristocratic world. If a man like Captain Shockley met them, they could – if they chose – be most agreeable. No man can quarrel with a work of art.
Sir Joshua Forest was a minor work of art.
He introduced Adam to his fellow guests: the men from London were both Members of Parliament. The clergyman – a large, powerfully built man who, he soon understood, held half a dozen rich livings – said several kind words about his valour in the American campaign; and the company in general did him the honour to speak to him as though they might have known him all their lives. In short, they practised the art, known then as condescension – which meant not at all what is meant by the word today, but rather the art of letting a man know, through perfect politeness, that you do not seek to patronise him.
“We shall plague you with questions, Captain,” his host said easily.
It was not long before they moved from the drawing-room with its elegantly designed plaster ceiling to a somewhat smaller room.
“Since we are a small company of friends, gentlemen,” Forest announced to them, “we shall dine in the green room.”
It was a small room looking over the gardens at the back of the house. The walls were covered with green damask. A narrow table had been set in down the middle, under a beautiful plaster carving in the ceiling representing a swan, one of the family crests. On the long wall was a fine picture representing the death of Wolfe at Quebec, and on the shorter wall, over a Chippendale table, hung another similar heroic picture of Clive of Plassey. It was a handsome, pleasant, masculine room.
On the table was laid a magnificent dinner service which, being a man of fashion, Forest had ordered from China, every piece proudly bearing his coat of arms. Splendid, plain silver and crystal glasses completed the picture.
As soon as the gentlemen sat, the talk began. It was Forest’s pride that at his dinners the talk should be good, and he gently guided the conversation with an invisible hand.
The dinner was stately.
First came the fish: a huge pike, fried sole, and trout. It was accompanied by a white German wine.
The talk was easy: of Sarum and county matters. Forest asked him how the place had changed in his absence, which was not much; both the gentlemen from London seemed to know Mr Harris and his son. Lord Pembroke was now in London and Lord Herbert his son now en route from Munich to Vienna on his Grand Tour. It was clear at once that all the men present knew these noble figures personally, but they put him so much at his ease that he felt almost as if he did too.
The clergyman, Adam discovered, had the living of Avonsford amongst his benefices: but he had only once visited the place.
“It’s a small place,” he explained pleasantly. “I have a young curate who does what work there is there, I dare say, very well.”
They spoke of local Members of Parliament, of how effectively in past years Sir Samuel Fludyer had promoted the otherwise lacklustre cloth trade of Chippenham.
“The borough told him he should stand for them in Parliament so long as he promoted their cloth, and by God