Dinner Conversation
By Laura Schiller
Based on: Bleak House
Copyright: Charles Dickens' estate/BBC
In the dining room at Bleak House the Second, halfway through the soup course, Allan Woodcourt was already regretting his idea of introducing his mother to his future wife. It had seemed the proper thing to do – and, after all, his mother would have been furious if he'd left the introduction any later – but one look at Esther's strained little smile across the table was enough to make him wish that the two ladies had never come within a mile of each other.
"I don't suppose, Miss Summerson," said Mrs. Woodcourt in her high-pitched, accented voice, "That you have ever heard of the Battle of Orewin Bridge in 1282?"
"Not much, ma'am," Esther admitted quietly.
Mrs. Woodcourt shot a significant glance at her son, as if to say, You see? She knows nothing, cares nothing, about our heritage – and this is the girl you intend to marry?
"Come now, Mother," said Allan, striving for a tone of mild civility. "Not everybody shares your enthusiasm for … ancient history."
Especially not this sort of history, he thought. If she decided to tell the story of Llywelyn the Last, whose dead body was crowned with ivy and dragged through London by the soldiers of Edward I, Allan would be seriously tempted to fling his bowl at her.
"No," replied Mrs. Woodcourt, shaking her head. "Sadly, they do not. I understand that in England, young ladies of your … antecedents … are not encouraged to pursue their education."
She cut her black eyes at Esther, once again implying much worse than what she had said. Esther flushed and lowered her eyes, stirring her bowl of lamb stew with clockwork precision. Lamb stew – cawl – a traditional Welsh recipe, which Esther had discovered heaven-knows-where and Mrs. Woodcourt had not offered one word of praise.
Allan was just about to say something – change the subject, mention anything, the food or the gardens or even that everlasting English staple, the weather – when Esther suddenly straightened up in her seat, put down her spoon, and met Mrs. Woodcourt's eyes head-on with her own level blue gaze.
In moments like this, he could see her resemblance to the late Lady Honoria Dedlock. Scars and all, Esther Summerson was truly beautiful.
"I may not know much of history or politics, Mrs. Woodcourt," she said, a touch of pink still on her cheeks, "But I have been studying as much I can since I became engaged to your son. I know that there is bad blood between your people and mine, and I am sorry for it."
It was Mrs. Woodcourt's turn to blush. She opened her mouth, either to agree or protest, but at a gesture from Allan, she fell silent.
"I believe it is very wrong for one country to claim ownership over another, or to judge a person for something they cannot help."
Mrs. Woodcourt's eyes softened; she began to nod along with Esther's words.
"Something such as race … "
Mrs. Woodcourt kept nodding.
" … or parentage."
Mrs. Woodcourt froze.
Esther gazed back at her as coolly as if they had, indeed, been discussing nothing but the weather.
Allan wanted to jump to his feet, salute her in the naval fashion, and sweep her into his arms. In consideration for his mother, however, he contented himself with smiling warmly at his betrothed across the table.
"But … but, surely," said Mrs. Woodcourt, her voice higher than ever with unease, "Surely it is a good thing, to be proud of the achievements of one's ancestors? Provided, that is, they are worthy of such pride."
"I have always found," said Allan, moving in to support Esther (although he doubted she would need it, "That the best way to honor one's ancestors is to avoid the mistakes they might have made – "
Mrs. Woodcourt's sharp eyes did not miss the way he looked at Esther's modest engagement ring, which sparkled on the hand she was using to lift her spoon. Lady Dedlock's mistake was one her daughter was determined to avoid, and (all temptations to the contrary) so was Allan.
" – and to follow their virtues with actions as well as words," he wound up.
"As you did in the shipwreck," said Esther, blue eyes bright with gratitude. "Don't you think he did, Mrs. Woodcourt?"
A struggle came across Mrs. Woodcourt's plump face; she seemed to be torn between pride in her son, irritation at agreeing with Esther, and a grudging respect for the young Englishwoman's diplomatic skills.
"Indeed," she finally said, reaching out to pat Allan's hand. "Morgan ap Kerrig would be proud of you."
Allan cleared his throat awkwardly, hardly knowing where to look. It was a strange sensation, to feel the two women in his life moving so suddenly from cool suspicion of each other to warm praise of him. It was like walking along the cold, windy beaches of Wales, watching the sun burst out from behind its gray cover clouds.
"Thank you, Mother," he said, "Thank you, Esther. By the way … the, ah, stew you made is quite delicious. Where did you find the recipe?"
"Harriet found a book for me," said Esther. "My guardian's housekeeper," as an aside to Mrs. Woodcourt. "I know it's meant to be made with leeks, but since they're not in season - "
"Never you mind, Miss Summerson," Mrs. Woodcourt interrupted. "You've done very well for a first attempt. It could use a touch more pepper, though."
"Thank you." Esther dipped her curly head, in a gesture that was polite without being servile. "I shall keep that in mind."
"Taking charge of my son's kitchen already, are you?" Mrs. Woodcourt inquired, with a glitter of amusement in her bright black eyes. "Even though you still reside with Mr. Jarndyce?"
Esther shrugged slightly, unapologetic. "Allan asked me to come and make something special for you, so I did."
"Good girl," said Mrs. Woodcourt, nodding sagely. "It's never too early to learn."
Esther's face lit up like a sunbeam at what might have been the first genuine kind words her future mother-in-law had ever spoken. Looking from one to the other, Allan found himself smiling as well, with confusion as well as joy at the way they were suddenly speaking each other's language – if not literally, then figuratively.
He would never understand women, he decided. But, Duw, how he loved them both!