The Irresistible Inheritance Of Wilberforce Read Free Page A

own, an object worth only a moment’s glance until the eye moved on to something more rewarding to look at elsewhere in the room.
    The lamb arrived underneath a huge silver dish cover, and then one or two people did glance my way, their attention caught by the theatre of the waiters removing the dish cover with a flourish, to show the rack of lamb underneath with its little paper crowns on each cutlet.
    The sommelier was at my elbow asking if I would like to taste the wine. I dared not speak, but simply nodded my head in assent. A very little was poured into my glass, and the waiter warmed the bowl with his hands and moved it just enough so that the dark, almost purple liquid lost its meniscus for a moment. Then he handed the glass to me. First I inhaled the scent of the wine and then, when its flavour had filled my nose and lungs, I sipped it.
    I knew what to expect: flavours of truffles, spices and sweet fruit. Then those tastes receded and it was like entering another country, a place you have always heard of and longed to go to but never visited. It was an experience almost beyond words, not capable of being captured by the normal wine enthusiast’s vocabulary. I sipped the wine and I was so happy, all of a sudden, that a huge smile came over my face. I think I laughed.
    The sommelier smiled too. ‘Is it wonderful, sir?’
    I handed him the glass and he too inhaled it. ‘It is wonderful,’ I told him.
    He smiled again and said, ‘There is nothing else on earth like it, monsieur.’ Then, with true grace, he poured me a full glass of wine and left me alone to enjoy it. The waiter presented me with two cuts of lamb from the rack, and I ate part of one of them - just enough to allow its taste to complement that of the wine.
    I ate morsels of lamb, and sipped from my glass. And in that other country, where the wine took me, was Catherine. Not exactly sitting at the table with me; it was more subtle than that. She was somewhere behind my left shoulder and, although I could not see her, I knew how she looked. Twenty-five years of age, and pretty as a picture, just as she had been for the last two years. I could smell the perfume she wore, and it smelled the same as the wine. Then, above the clatter of the knives and forks and the growing din of conversation from the tables around me, I could hear her humming. She had once been a member of a choir and it was an air from Bach that she was singing. I don’t remember which one but I remembered the tune very well, and the pure sound of her voice. I hummed along with her, as I sometimes used to, even though she said I had no ear for music.
    The head waiter appeared at my elbow: ‘Excuse me sir, but would you mind not humming so loudly? It might disturb the other guests.’
    The image of Catherine vanished in a moment, and I felt dislocated inside my head. The wine tasted suddenly flat and insipid. ‘Was I humming?’ I said, restraining my annoyance at having my tranquil mood disturbed. ‘I’m terribly sorry.’
    I bent my head over my plate and ate another forkful of lamb, in order that the head waiter would go away.
    He bowed his head and said, ‘So sorry to disturb you, sir. Most considerate, sir. Thank you so much.’
    The sommelier came and poured a little more wine and I noticed I had drunk more than half the bottle. I said to him as he filled my glass, ‘I think you said this was the last bottle but one?’
    ‘Yes, monsieur, that is correct. One last bottle and then it is gone. I do not know that there are many bottles of that vintage left in the whole of London now.’
    ‘Then bring it up and decant it, please.’
    The sommelier replied, ‘Are you certain, monsieur? Two bottles of a wine like this in one evening, for one man. Is it not too much sensation at one time?’
    The thing is, I knew he was right. It was, without a doubt, overdoing it. I could not possibly enjoy the second bottle as much as the first. My palate would become dulled and furred with the