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Not a large one by Newport standards, only thirty-two guests, but the names on the list carried money, marriages, political favors, and old resentments. Railroad men from New York. A senator from Massachusetts. Two widows with fortunes large enough to make dukes look decorative. And Mrs. Lydia Vale.
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The moment you saw her name, the head cook crossed herself.
“That woman sent back soup at the Winthrops’ because the bowl was too reflective,” Cook said.
You looked at the guest list. “Soup is not meant to flatter her.”
Cook snorted. “Tell her that.”
Briggs found you in the servants’ hall reviewing seating with a pencil tucked behind your ear. “You are aware Mrs. Vale dislikes being seated near Mrs. Astor’s niece?”
“I am aware Mrs. Vale dislikes being seated near anyone who has not recently praised her.”
Briggs’s mouth twitched.
You moved one card. “She will sit beside Senator Bell, who likes hearing himself speak. She will be too busy correcting him to notice anyone else.”
“And if she notices?”
“Then we give her excellent soup in a dull bowl.”
Briggs looked pleased.
“You are enjoying this,” you said.
“I enjoy competence,” he replied.
“No. You enjoy watching Lord Edmund realize he should have hired me six weeks sooner.”
“That too.”
The dinner should have gone smoothly.