Before the three of them, the table beckoned. Food steamed. There was real butter, a luxury Mrs. Stiles against odds somehow managed to unearth week after week (no one asking how).
In the unlighted parlor adjacent, the radio was off. No music during meals, her father believed. Meals were for thanks to a providing Almighty. Prayer. Gratitude. You righteously and rightfully and right-mindedly worshipped the plenty our (not their) God provided ... despite wanton human persistent ineptitude and moral decay.
We did not deserve.
Yet YOU have provided, oh Lord.
Radio music might come later on Sunday, optionally; a lot depended on her da's mood and the uplift injected by a good dessert.
------
"The potatoes, if you would, Mrs. Stiles."
She would. The potatoes made their usual circuit, through him and on. And then the mashed turnips. And then the meat, today a heavenly roast, the skin brown as a saddle and ruddy inside as an Englishman's cheeks. Everything was ersatz now. Ersatz coffee. Ersatz fats. Ersatz meats that came from god knew how many unsuspected places on God knew what kinds of animals, if even they were animals. Not tonight, though. Tonight was a thick, impressive, bountiful, juicy, recognizably English roast beef, sound and solid. A day for general celebration. And appreciation. A day for gravy, too.
"Thank you, Mrs. Stiles." Jack said with undisguised appreciation. "It looks perfectly delicious."
Claire said, "It does, Ma. It's grand!"
"Would you like more, dear?" her mother implored. "You took almost nothing."
"I'm fine."
"Does Claire look thin to you, Jack?" Mrs. Stiles.
He angled his head toward his daughter. "You do look thin, kitten." He called her kitten when he expected her to like him; an old thing between them. "All the girls look thin these days," he then announced. Mrs. Stiles nodded, as expected. "Sure," he said. "There's not enough to eat, you know."
"It's healthier," Mrs. Stiles insisted. "Not having all you want."
Jack Stiles wasn't quite sure. He considered his wife's idea from several angles. It wasn't past him to tell her she'd said something incredibly stupid. "Aye," he said finally. "Tis."
The meal proceeded. Claire watched her father. Watched his fork heave another full load between his creased lips. Watched his sketchily shaved cheeks stretch to accommodate another helping. Saw a morsel decorate a corner of his mouth; yellow-orange turnip this time. He lifted his napkin and smiled at his daughter.
"Da, I've got something to say." Claire heard the words burst out of her. All right, that was over and done with. Until that very second, she wasn't real sure she was going to speak. Words stuck in her gut like a punch interrupted. Then, Lord have mercy, she spoke. Her rehearsed words jumped out, beyond her control; no going back. She said something. Squeaked something. Something.
------
Claire's father was about to ask for the saltcellar, as he did almost every meal; no offense to the cook: he just liked savory.
But this once, no saltcellar advanced his way.
Instead, in the gloom, Mrs. Stiles stared at her daughter, smiling with encouragement. Claire had her courage up. Everything about her was STS: Something To Say.
------
Mr. Jack Stiles wondered right away: ambush? He thought no speech begun that way — his obedient daughter calling him "Da" in that brave, almost fierce, tone — was likely something he'd want to hear.
He flicked a look at his wife, then at Claire. Then he smiled. Was this a conspiracy in my very own castle? Jack would na put it past them; his women had tried that sort of thing before. He'd say NO. They'd say WHAT IF. But his decisions were for their own good. Somebody with a sound mind had to look out for them. And Jack Stiles was Eveready in that department: just like the battery.
"Martha, did you hear? Kitten has something she cares to say." Something, sure, he did not care to hear. And for which he would, in his persistent awkwardness regarding female surprises, have no reasonable response.
------
Mrs. Stiles looked up agreeably and threw a quick smile in Claire's direction. "What is it, dear? Speak up. We're all ears."
She smiled at her husband, too. Because, Martha believed, he needed the encouragement. Jack Stiles was an orphan. He kept that private. But Martha knew that at some unreachable level he would always be lonely, abandoned; it couldn't be helped. And she knew from deep personal experience: Jack could get terribly lost when his emotions came out of the cupboard. Jack Stiles was an official, a small one. There was honor in that, being attached to the government; he wore that honor sufficiently well.
Then Martha sensed movement and knew the worst was coming.
------
"I've made a decision," Claire declared, a trifle brightly. "And just this week."
"You've made a decision," Jack nodded. He made a face of mulish consideration, as if he'd suddenly changed his mind. "A decision." Hmmm, his face pretended. "On your own. That's nice, Claire." He smiled cold approval. "Was it, pray, a big decision for you, kitten?" A threadbare pause. "Or maybe more a little thing?"
Claire was ahead of him. "You're not going to like it, Da," she said steadfastly.
"Yet," he said, "you made this decision anyway. On your own."
"It was time," Claire said. "I won't get this chance again."
"What is it?" Three poisoned, punctuated words. Don't expect approval, his tone bannered. Nor mercy. She hadn't consulted him and so.
"A man wants to marry me," Claire said. "Major Burke. You met him."
"The Yank," Mr. Stiles snorted. "That was damn fast. He saw something he liked." Leaning toward her. "An easy Irish lass maybe."
"Hssss, Mr. Stiles," whispered his wife. "Language."
"He's a soldier," Jack upbraided his wife. "He's passing through. You know what a woman means to his kind."
"You're calling me a whore, Da?" Claire countered. "Major Amos Burke asked me to marry him. He asked me to become his wife. He's a widower and lonely. And I've accepted. Because I'm lonely, too." She stopped — politely but panting — to give her father a chance. "That's it," she said at last, hoping against all expectation this would be the end of it. Her life; not her da's.
------
"No."
He shut his eyes. Preparatory.
"No!" His complete, total, exclaimed, utter, incontrovertible, don't please argue rejection slammed down final as a fist. He kept his hands to himself, though. That was him: ever the gentleman, despite his rights. "You are wrong, Claire." The king had spoken. "This is not it." Claire recoiled. In passing, she wondered: Could Catholics be any worse? There was more from her father, turned out. He was flying now. And collapsing. Dangerous: sparks from a burning field falling unwanted, unsafe places. Extinguish them. Be watchful. "Not at all!" Mr. Stiles shook his head violently. "The Yank didn't ask my approval, as is my right, as your father and lord. And you did not ask my blessing, as your father and lord." Glare was served. "And so? No, Claire: this will not happen. You will not marry him. My final word."
He paused. Daughter and mother stared back at him exhausted, without much interest left in him or the meal or the future.
"Which is the final word," he concluded; his truth.
------
It didn't last long. Seconds later, Claire demanded just as bone-rigidly, "I'm asking now, Da. Right now. For your approval." She grimaced. "For your blessing." Leaning in. "Can you do that small thing?" she asked, and then flared, "How can you not want me married?"
That was the only question in her arsenal really.
She was wilting.
------
Mr. Jack Stiles sensed weakness. "You think marriage makes you happy? Ask your mother." He turned on his wife, triumphant. "Did marriage make you happy, Martha? Ever? Really? Tell her the perfect truth, Martha, as you know it." His wife decided: Why not?
"Yes, Jack, it did," surprising him as much as her. "Not this very moment, honestly. But yes." She stared at him. "I have Claire. I have you. I have my place in the world. Yes. Marriage did that. It's not all bone china and carriage rides, I'll grant you, Mr. Jack Stiles. Good husbands take some work; though you less than others, for all your bluster and stubborn opinions.
"Marriage changed everything. The commitment changed everything. Being part of a couple changed everything. Changed me. Changed my life. As it will change Claire's life. It makes something of a person. It's what adults are meant for."
------
Jack's lips pursed. He made a noise, a wondering "Hmmmh," while his head nodded. Startled plainly. He'd never asked his wife about their marriage or what she thought of it. And he'd just heard. He was surprised to hear that it pleased her. Which pleased him very much.
------
Claire sat stiff as an Egyptian idol, the kind displayed without comment in a museum. Mrs. Stiles lifted an eyebrow. "I don't know," she said, mostly to herself. Claire tried a bite of food. It had no flavor.
"Still, he should ask me," her father offered.
"He will," Claire rushed to conform. "With pleasure. He will." Mrs. Stiles nodded like a peacock. Why not, she couldn't hold back; because joy flushed through her underneath. Claire jumped from her chair and grabbed her father's shoulders. She kissed him on the forehead, her spring-loaded auburn hair tickling both sides of his face; an intimacy they had not shared since she'd been a child shooed to bed.
Then she pulled her mother into her arms.
Suddenly Claire was famished.
