The Etiquette Mistress – Part 1: The Dinner Table

The long table was laid for two, with white linen, silver, three glasses at each place and a candelabra throwing gold across the polished wood. The drawing room was silent. A clock ticked on the mantelpiece. The curtains were drawn against the evening.

Beatrice sat at the head of the table with her hands folded. She was fifty-five, a teacher of etiquette for thirty years, silver-haired, erect and immaculate, with a voice that could correct a duke. Nigel was forty-six, a solicitor, her partner of five years, a courteous, anxious man who had told her after a disastrous work dinner that he never felt so calm as when she told him exactly which fork to use.

"Sit," said Beatrice.

He sat at the foot of the table. She slid a card of cream stationery down the cloth. Rules of the Table. His limits and hers, in her flawless hand: no marks, nothing painful, no real humiliation, nothing beyond the room, no one else. The word was Dessert.

"Say it."

"Dessert."

"If you say it, the Mistress folds her napkin. I am Beatrice. We have tea and no further instruction."

"I understand."

"And every half hour, I ask if you wish to continue. You answer truthfully."

"Yes, Madam."

"Not yet." She smoothed her black silk dress and clasped a pair of white gloves at her wrist. Her voice dropped, low, slow and impeccable. "Mr Fenn. Your posture at dinner is a disgrace."

"I am sorry, Madam."

"You will be." She rose and walked the length of the table, her heels soft on the carpet. "Sit up. Shoulders back. Hands in your lap. You will not speak until I ask you a question."

He sat as she directed. She stood behind his chair and, with two cool fingers, straightened his spine, tilted his head and adjusted the angle of his wrists. She returned to her place and sat in perfect silence for a very long time. The clock ticked.

"Are you content, Mr Fenn?"

"Content, Madam."

"Good. The first course will be long."

Continue the story: Part 2 – Dessert.