The Forest - Edward Rutherfurd [316]
A huge asset were the French officers. Glamorous, undeniably aristocratic and God knows – although there was no need to say it – only too glad to go anywhere that offered dancing and free food, the Frenchmen would dance with the tradesmen’s daughters and speak to Mr Martell as equals. She would happily have entertained a hundred regiments upon such terms. ‘It will really seem’, she said to her husband, ‘as if Versailles has come to Lymington tonight.’
But even so, unless a romance should develop between a French aristocrat and one of the girls, the Frenchmen ultimately were pawns in the grand game of connections she meant to play.
Could the town’s fashionable doctor be introduced to Mr Martell? Surely, yes. Some of the other girls’ merchant parents? Probably not. The encounter she dreamed of was that of the blessed discovery. If, say, the Burrards were to come and meet some other major family, and note that she was already their friend – why, then, they would accept her too. Thus, if Mr Martell brought Mr Drummond, Mr Drummond would find that she knew the Albions. And, of course, if she could then have got herself into Cadland and met the Burrards there … ‘These are connections, Mr Grockleton,’ she would explain. ‘It is all a question of making connections.’ Perhaps a quarter of Mrs Grockleton’s huge mental energy was expended in dreaming about discoveries and connections. ‘Whoever comes,’ she said – by which of course she meant only people like the Drummonds or the Burrards – ‘they will find the Tottons and ourselves and the Albions and Mr Martell all friends together. Just so long as it all goes well.’
‘It will, my dear,’ said her husband. The main room really looked very well. The card tables were all set up in a side room. The food, which Mr Seagull of the Angel had provided, the wine and brandy, which Mr Seagull had also sold the Customs officer at full price, without a twitch of his face – all were in place. In half an hour, when the guests began to arrive, he was sure they could not fail to be delighted. ‘And as soon as the music starts,’ he said cheerfully, ‘and the dancing begins …’
Mrs Grockleton nodded. Then Mrs Grockleton stopped. And then Mrs Grockleton let out a cry that was almost a shriek: ‘Oh, Mr Grockleton, Mr Grockleton, whatever shall we do?’
‘What is the matter, my dear?’ he cried in alarm.
‘Everything is the matter. Oh, Mr Grockleton, I have forgot the band!’
‘The band?’
‘The orchestra. The musicians. I forgot to engage them. We have none. Oh, Mr Grockleton, how are we to dance without any music?’
Mr Grockleton had to confess he did not know. His wife stared wildly round at her children, as if she could transform them, like a magician, into so many fiddlers. But as no such miracle occurred, she turned back to her husband. ‘A dance without music! What is to become of us?’ Then a worse thought: ‘What if the Burrards should come? Quick, Mr Grockleton,’ she cried, ‘run to the theatre and see if the musicians are there.’
‘But if there is a play …’
‘A play is only words. They must come here.’
‘There is no play tonight, Mama,’ cried one of the children.
‘Find the musicians, then. Hurry. A piano. Mr Grockleton. Bring me a piano. Mr Gilpin shall play. I know he can.’
‘Mr Gilpin may not wish …’
‘Of course he must play. He must.’ And crying out frantic orders, Mrs Grockleton soon had her husband, children, servants, even Isaac Seagull rushing about in every possible direction. Twenty minutes later there was a piano in the room, albeit somewhat out of tune. Moments