“I couldn’t possibly,” Alice said repressively. Had nobody taught this young man that it was not polite to prattle on forever, let alone dwell on the intricacies of pig breeding to ladies? Especially ladies he’d only just met.
“Go on, guess!”
“Puce!” Lucy guessed.
Mr.Carswell laughed heartily. “No, no. Try again.”
“Blue!”
“Ha-ha. Try again.”
Alice looked around, hoping for some release from what promised to be an endless guessing game. But there was no sign of Gerald or the refreshments, she could see nobody else she knew, and the concert hadn’t yet begun. The fireworks would come later.
“Pink?” Lucy said.
Mr.Carswell sniffed. “Pink? Common everyday, ordinary pigs are pink,” he said disapprovingly. “My pigs are special.”
“Then put us out of our misery and tell us what color your very special pigs are,” Lucy said.
“White!” he said triumphantly. “Pure, glorious white from snout to tail. They are refined pigs, you see, bred by refined people.”
“Is the flesh white too?” Lucy asked. “I can’t imagine eating white ham. Or white bacon.”
“Oh, we don’t eat them,” Mr.Carswell declared, shocked. “They are purely for show.”
“Then what’s the point?” Alice asked crossly.
“My dear lady,” he began, “the breeding of pigs is a complex and delicate process, rather beyond the lesser understanding of our dear females, but I shall try to simplify it for you.” He then embarked on a long and dreary explanation.
Alice gazed out over the throngs of people wandering through the pleasure gardens and wished Gerald would come back so she could strangle him for inflicting this appalling fellow on them.
Gerald finally returned at the same time as a waiter bearing a tray with champagne. Gerald glanced at Lucy, who was listening to Mr.Carswell with every appearance of fascination. She looked up, gave him an absent little wave and turned back to Mr.Carswell with a rapt expression.
Scowling, Gerald handed the drinks around, then said loudly and heartily, “Well, how are you all getting on?”
“Famously,” Lucy said. “Mr.Carswell has been tellingus all about his fascinating pig-breeding program. Do you have any idea of the complex process in getting bacon onto your plate, Lord Thornbroke?”
“No.”
“Then you must tell him aaaall about it, Mr.Carswell,” Lucy said. “I’m sure he’ll be as fascinated as I was.”
“Oh, I will, I will,” Mr.Carswell said.
Gerald’s mouth tightened. Alice narrowed her eyes. So, he knew perfectly well the kind of man he’d inflicted on them. She would have words with Gerald.
“And did you know,” Lucy said, bright-eyed, “that Mr.Carswell is in line to become the Baron of Beef?” Alice choked on her drink.
“No, no, dear lady,” Carswell corrected her with an indulgent smile. “I’m to be the Baron ofButtsfield.”
“Silly me, my mistake,” Lucy said gaily. She raised her glass at Gerald. “Good health, Lord Thornbottle.”
The waiter then returned bearing more refreshments, including bread and butter, some chicken, an onion tart, some cheesecake and a dish of the shaved ham that Vauxhall was famous for.
“Call this ham?” Mr.Carswell picked up a slice with his fork and held it up disdainfully. “Paper thin. And not near enough fat on it.” He then embarked on a long-winded explanation of how other pigs he’d bred in the past produced a much finer ham than the stuff they were being served. He had just begun to describe the various breeds of pig and their entrancingly different qualities, when the concert began.
“Hush now, everyone,” Alice said crisply. “I very much dislike it when people talk through musical performances.” She directed a beady eye at Mr.Carswell.
He swallowed and the flow of porcine information abruptly stopped. The music swelled, and under cover of the sound she had a quiet word with Gerald. “What on earth do you think you’re playing at?”
