Goddess of the Hunt (The Wanton Dairymaid Trilogy #1)(92)

Of course, this probably wasn’t quite the dinner party he’d imagined.

Where could he be? She tried to think, but between the musicians and the small army of servants and the clatter of cutlery, forming a coherent thought proved difficult. Lucy smiled. The deafening roar from this evening would echo through the Abbey for days. Perhaps weeks. Farewell to cold, sinister silence.

A chicken bone sailed through the air, causing her to dodge left. Her guests seemed to be enjoying themselves. She’d given up waiting for Jeremy a half-hour ago and ordered dinner to be served. One didn’t keep upward of a hundred guests waiting about hungry. You could only let them sit around drinking ale for so long before an acceptable delay became simple rudeness. This might have been Lucy’s first time hosting a party, but she knew that much.

She nibbled a bit of roast beef from her own plate. She’d ordered simple fare for the meal, and plenty of it. The long tables lining the center of the room were laden with platters of roast meat, boiled potatoes, game pies, puddings and sausages, and bread with fresh-churned butter. The men, women, and children lining the long tables seemed to have no complaints. Food was disappearing at a prodigious rate, and serving girls bearing flagons of ale kept up a steady procession from the kitchen to the hall.

Hetta Osborne pushed her way through the merriment. Lucy’s smile widened. “I’m so glad you could come!” she shouted above the cacophony.

“My father!” Hetta yelled back, tilting her head toward a silver-haired man wearing spectacles and a black tailcoat. He bowed, and Lucy curtsied in return, holding up the skirts of her new gown. Themodiste had finished it just yesterday—all silk, in a poppy-red shade that her maid calledcoquelicot , with gold braiding at the waist and a low, square neckline that enhanced the curve of her bosom.

“Albert and Mary?” Lucy mouthed.

Hetta shook her head. “They wouldn’t come. Albert had a message for you if you care to hear it. He said, ‘Tell her highness she can take her … ’” Her voice trailed off in the din.

“I can’t hear you!”

“Just as well.” Hetta crossed to Lucy’s side and shouted in her ear, “Youshould be glad we came—I doubt this evening will end without at least a few injuries!”

Lucy laughed. So the men were a bit drunk. And a few of the women, too. Hungry tenants were unhappy tenants. People well-fed and in their cups tended to look more favorably on their hosts. It was all part of the plan.

As were the servants who began clearing the tables away from the center of the room.

“What now?” Hetta asked.

“Games, then dancing.”

“Games?”

“Contests of strength and skill. Arm-wrestling … lifting …”

The servants began piling straw bales at the far end of the hall, under the ever-watchful eyes of the late earl’s mounted trophies. Two footmen entered bearing targets, and a third followed with bows and arrows.

“Archery?” Hetta shouted. “Indoors?”

“Well, we can’t very well have them shooting rifles, now can we?” Hetta stared at her. “Next year,” Lucy explained to mollify her new friend, “we’ll have the harvest home at the proper time of year. Outdoors—with canopies and booths and hoops for the children.”

The guests moved to the sides of the hall, buzzing with excitement. Lucy once more searched the crowd for Jeremy, in vain. She reluctantly swept to the center of the room. This was supposed to be his moment, drat him.

The crowd fell silent. A hundred pairs of eyes fixed on her. Lucy cleared her throat, suddenly feeling a bit anxious. She ought to have had some of that ale herself.

“Thank you for coming,” she began. “It is my honor to welcome you as guests to Corbinsdale Abbey. I hope you enjoyed your meal.”

Enthusiastic applause and cheers echoed off the hall’s vaulted ceiling. Lucy smiled.

“I apologize for the delay in His Lordship’s arrival, but I’m certain he will be joining us soon. In the meantime, we have prepared a few contests to entertain you before the dancing begins. We will begin with archery, and the champion will be rewarded handsomely.” She pulled out a small purse and shook it, rattling the coin within. The crowd whooped.

“Who will step forward to test his skill?” she asked.

“I will.” A tall, burly fellow with a bushy ginger beard stepped forward, and the crowd erupted. He raised his arms, spurring the cheers to an even louder pitch. A good portion of the guests began chanting his name. Lucy couldn’t quite make it out, but it sounded like “Hanson.”

A wiry youth was thrust forward into the center of the room by his laughing friends. A third pushed his way through the crowd, a dark, stocky man with huge mitts for hands and a grave mien.

“Excellent,” Lucy shouted, raising her hands for silence. She motioned to the servant, who distributed bows and arrows to the three men. “Your mark will be here,” she said, sweeping to the end of the hall near the entryway, opposite the straw targets. “Each man will have three arrows, and the best accuracy overall will earn the purse.”

The men took their places and began fitting their arrows to their bows.

“But my lady,” the man called Hanson called out, “I don’t know that the purse is sufficient reward. Don’t you think,”—he looked to the crowd for support—“you should sweeten the pot?” The assembly broke into wild applause.