09-24-2025, 07:22 PM
Polite chatter filled the drawing room of Briggswath Hall. With only a few red sofa’s and salon chairs, a few small tables, and a rosewood grand piano in the corner, the room was under-furnished compared to most drawing rooms. But Lady Selby abhorred the vulgar oriental fans, vases and screens, gilded mirros, drapes and tapestries, dried flowers, china, photographs and other paraphernalia that cluttered the drawing rooms of insecure, young brides in lesser homes.
That was not to say that the room was modest. Rather, it’s timeless elegance resulted from the excellent state of the thick carpet; from the intricate details – lions, sphinxes, roses, letters – hidden here and there in corners of the oak panelling around the walls; from centuries of ancestry shown in a few portraits on the walls – bonnets and wigs and armour and all; from the high, neoclassical ceiling with its ornamental relief and painted pantheon.
Lady Selby moved around the room with matching grace, greeting and pairing her guests. Her attire was rather muted for a formal dinner, her dress slightly old fashioned, though made by one of the best dressmakers in Paris, and her jewels modest. But then again, the guests were nothing special: locals with little to recommend themselves in terms of title, rank or connection, but whose company she enjoyed – and also a few whose company she did not enjoy, but whom she could not overlook without giving offense. Whitby wasn’t Mayfair.
She approached her latest arrival with a reserved smile. Mr. Du Pond was a very recent addition to her social circle. She could not decide whether she liked him. But she found that she liked his existence in Whitby’s highest echelons. He was an outsider as an American, as a black man, and as someone who had taken Whitby’s polite society by storm. It seemed to her that only a few weeks ago, no one had ever heard of ‘Frank Du Pont’, and then overnight she had heard his name on every set of lips and he was at every social gathering. His manners were certainly pleasing, but something about them made her suspect that he was hiding something. She couldn’t quite pin it down. She mistrusted him. But she enjoyed his company all the more for that. He was a puzzle and she was up for the challenge. She delighted in the way he had shaken up Whitby’s sleepy society and she surmised that there were interesting developments ahead. “Ah, Mr. Du Pond,” she greeted. “How do you do?”
That was not to say that the room was modest. Rather, it’s timeless elegance resulted from the excellent state of the thick carpet; from the intricate details – lions, sphinxes, roses, letters – hidden here and there in corners of the oak panelling around the walls; from centuries of ancestry shown in a few portraits on the walls – bonnets and wigs and armour and all; from the high, neoclassical ceiling with its ornamental relief and painted pantheon.
Lady Selby moved around the room with matching grace, greeting and pairing her guests. Her attire was rather muted for a formal dinner, her dress slightly old fashioned, though made by one of the best dressmakers in Paris, and her jewels modest. But then again, the guests were nothing special: locals with little to recommend themselves in terms of title, rank or connection, but whose company she enjoyed – and also a few whose company she did not enjoy, but whom she could not overlook without giving offense. Whitby wasn’t Mayfair.
She approached her latest arrival with a reserved smile. Mr. Du Pond was a very recent addition to her social circle. She could not decide whether she liked him. But she found that she liked his existence in Whitby’s highest echelons. He was an outsider as an American, as a black man, and as someone who had taken Whitby’s polite society by storm. It seemed to her that only a few weeks ago, no one had ever heard of ‘Frank Du Pont’, and then overnight she had heard his name on every set of lips and he was at every social gathering. His manners were certainly pleasing, but something about them made her suspect that he was hiding something. She couldn’t quite pin it down. She mistrusted him. But she enjoyed his company all the more for that. He was a puzzle and she was up for the challenge. She delighted in the way he had shaken up Whitby’s sleepy society and she surmised that there were interesting developments ahead. “Ah, Mr. Du Pond,” she greeted. “How do you do?”
