High Tea in Colonial Williamsburg by Patricia Steele
I was twenty minutes early for my birthday event with my friend, Barbara, and I was relieved to see no snow on the ground. The anticipation for Christmas was in the air, as only that holiday season can create, like dewdrops on a rose petal at dawn. Walking for the first time on the cobblestone driveway leading into the foyer of the Williamsburg Inn, I was mesmerized by the mystical beauty. I knew a little of the Inn’s history: Since opening in 1937, the Inn had reflected the vision of benefactor John D. Rockefeller Jr. to provide the experience of staying at a comfortable Virginia estate with gracious décor that retained the graceful elegance of the period-designed rooms.
The lobby and entrance room invited with colonial luxury. However, the valet’s whispered welcome ruptured my preconceived idea that the Williamsburg Inn was only for the rich. With his smile, my misconceptions dissolved. Tall leaded-glass windows sparkled from the sunlight above richly-burnished wooden floors. Colonial-period wool carpet greeted me and dulled the loud click of my heels. Oil paintings decorated the walls; portraits of men in historical clothing, each with one hand hidden beneath their vested coats, pierced me with their dark eyes. The eyes, however, could not match the depth and feeling that shone out of the portraits of the women. Stilled, I studied each one closely and I wondered at the youth and serenity that their faces revealed. The clothing, of course, was Colonial England; their smiles were poignant and a quiet mystery was reflected in their eyes.
The Christmas tree just inside the foyer nearly touched the ceiling, standing regally in front of the tall, glass windows. The decorations were both exquisite and simple, if that is possible. Sparkling lights wrapped around each limb of the evergreen from tip to stalk and everything took my breath away. Plopping down in a striped, satin chair near a Colonial table, I focused my camera and Christmas joy sang in my soul as I snapped to my heart’s content.
While waiting for Barbara to arrive, my eyes flicked around the room to inhale the beauty surrounding me. The watchful eyes in the oil portraits followed me as I walked past the wondrous Christmas tree and into the Inn’s gift shop where I found unique and simple decorations of Colonial Williamsburg.
When I walked into the main artery of the Inn, I found the entrance to the Tea Room, which was still and quiet, almost dark inside. I saw women in long dresses scurrying around with glass-filled trays and Champagne bottles. The white linen-covered tables told me they might expect the Queen any minute. The luscious smells drifted and enticed to add to my anticipation and my heart sped up.
Where was Barbara? She was never late. I tapped my fingers along the door frame, wondering at her delay. Peeking into the room again, I saw linen napkins at each place setting and empty Champagne glasses waiting to hold the bubbly. I had no idea what the solid silver piece was, placed at the right of the knife. I saw beautiful, white china embossed with green trailing leaves amid red birds flitting around the perimeter and in the centers. I strained to look closer at the slightly oblong dish, about seven by nine inches in length. I was, of course impatient for our High Tea to begin for my birthday celebration.
I glanced at my watch again. Ten minutes to three. Where was Barbara? Glancing around, I saw a short glass-walled hallway leading into an elegant dining room where several four-foot brass planters stood on the floor snug against the windows. Each moss-filled box held three breathtakingly beautiful Amaryllis in full bloom in various shades of red, white or candy-stripes. They were intertwined amid green ivy that spilled over the sides of their pots. A festive spirit dominated the area; one side of the hallway abutted the Golden Horseshoe Golf Course where my husband had chased balls as a young boy. The other side was a brick-walled, private courtyard with small rocks littering the ground around various, neatly-planted shrubs. I paused. I wanted to open the double-glass doors and walk down the stone steps into solitude; to pretend I lived in those Colonial times. But I had a birthday date and could almost taste the bubbles of Champagne on the tip of my tongue.
Five minutes later, Barbara had still not arrived. When I found the ladies restroom, I was immediately transported backwards in time. I was in the Queen's castle in London. Subtle brass edged the wood framed, wallpapered walls. But what smacked of opulence inside the entrance were the oyster-colored linen napkins tiered across the marble countertop. No paper towels. No blow-dry machines. I moved toward the corridor again and saw a wicker basket waiting for the patron’s used linen. When I left the room, its luxury wafted after me.
Three o'clock. And still no Barbara. I returned to the entrance to the tea room and sat on a tufted bench beneath a painting of a young woman with vivid blue eyes. I watched ladies enter the tea room in pairs. Time passed slowly. My nerves began to twitch as I stared at scarlet Poinsettias below a large, ornate mirror on the wall across from me. I glanced at the mirror and nearly jumped when the woman’s intense face stared back at me mesmerizingly.
And at that moment, Barbara rushed around the corner in a beautiful Christmas sweater. Her eyes lit up when she saw me, as if she'd found a long-lost friend. She had been waiting near the wondrous Christmas tree in the foyer while I’d loitered in the halls around the tea room. After a good laugh and a bigger hug, we joined other ladies inside the tea room and chose satin, upholstered chairs by a window.
We felt like royalty. All at once, the scent of apples and cinnamon mixed with evergreen struck me. I inhaled the aromas and prepared for the thrill of my first English high tea. Delighted with the elaborate table setting, we raised our eyebrows when our server poured golden, bubbling Champagne into our flutes. As we tapped each other’s glasses and sipped, we were offered several tiny tea sandwiches. No crusts, of course. We chose one of each that included cucumbers and ham sandwiched between white and brown bread, white asparagus and salmon pâté. Everything melted in our mouths.
Tea time. I chose Strawberry Green Tea, Barb chose Berry Tea. Ornate china teapots were steaming hot and I learned the silver tools I’d seen earlier were tea-leaf strainers. I held the tiny, four-inch handle and placed the strainer on top of my China cup before slowly pouring water through it. Then, I replaced it in its silver holder to catch the loose water that might still drip. I felt like a princess. Barb and I couldn’t stop smiling. What next?
A large silver tray filled with Colonial sweets was delivered as my empty Champagne glass was whisked away. Oh! What to choose? The server held it aloft and beckoned us to choose. In a heartbeat, I had a strawberry tart sprinkled with shaved chocolate, a chocolate cake roll stuffed with sweet whipped cream and a sugar-speckled cream puff on my delicate china plate.
The chairs embraced us. The tea warmed us. The sweets made us swoon. And then, a woman in period costume stood beside us.
“Good afternoon, ladies. My name’s Maddie.” She shook our hands. She began a conversation as if she was living in 1773 during the Boston Tea Party. “I apologize for intruding.
I wish you both a Merry Christmas,” she said as she raised her eyebrows and glanced into our tea cups. “I’m very glad to see you fine ladies are drinking Liberty Teas since the new exportation taxes will soon cut the importation of real tea leaves from England. My brother works in Philadelphia, you see, and he has regaled me with the current news on the upcoming protests against the British East India Company.”
Barbara and I smiled at her, bemused with her costume, her voice and the conversation.
“It threatens to decimate small shops so there’s a revolt just around the corner, you see.” Conspiratorially, she whispered, “I hope you learn to enjoy the Liberty Teas since that will probably be all we can drink after March.”
“What exactly is Liberty Tea?” I asked.
“Well, milady. They are teas made from Chamomile, Mint, Peppermint and the like. Not like real tea leaves at all. I fear I will never get used to them, but we must. We must fight this excessive exportation tax and fight we will.” Her eyes sparkled with a fervent promise.
Barbara and I nodded serenely. What could we say to that? Reading about the Boston Tea Party in our history books was quite different than hearing a woman discuss it like it was happening any moment. As we lifted our Liberty Tea to our lips, the woman curtsied, nodded goodbye with a smile and headed toward the next table of ladies. We watched the ladies drink from their tea cups with raised pinky fingers and then forking the food on their little plates.
We turned back to our tea. Fresh hot scones! Could I possibly eat any more? We looked at the two gems that sat on top of plates painted with green vines and red birds. Beside them, a server placed a two-part dish between us filled with lemon curd and clotted cream. A pot of fresh raspberry jam nearly spilled over from the center of the table.
We ate everything.
High Tea at the Williamsburg Inn was amazing; a memorable birthday since it was on December 14, my day. I will always remember the beautiful, glittering tree sprinkled with lights and welcoming spirit as I walked into the door. Friendliness at the Inn seemed to be the epitome of Colonial Williamsburg that day. Oh, and by the way, Barbara had been waiting by the Christmas tree while I was wandering, worried….because I had told her I would meet her there. Forgetfulness comes with each birthday I’m told…
The lobby and entrance room invited with colonial luxury. However, the valet’s whispered welcome ruptured my preconceived idea that the Williamsburg Inn was only for the rich. With his smile, my misconceptions dissolved. Tall leaded-glass windows sparkled from the sunlight above richly-burnished wooden floors. Colonial-period wool carpet greeted me and dulled the loud click of my heels. Oil paintings decorated the walls; portraits of men in historical clothing, each with one hand hidden beneath their vested coats, pierced me with their dark eyes. The eyes, however, could not match the depth and feeling that shone out of the portraits of the women. Stilled, I studied each one closely and I wondered at the youth and serenity that their faces revealed. The clothing, of course, was Colonial England; their smiles were poignant and a quiet mystery was reflected in their eyes.
The Christmas tree just inside the foyer nearly touched the ceiling, standing regally in front of the tall, glass windows. The decorations were both exquisite and simple, if that is possible. Sparkling lights wrapped around each limb of the evergreen from tip to stalk and everything took my breath away. Plopping down in a striped, satin chair near a Colonial table, I focused my camera and Christmas joy sang in my soul as I snapped to my heart’s content.
While waiting for Barbara to arrive, my eyes flicked around the room to inhale the beauty surrounding me. The watchful eyes in the oil portraits followed me as I walked past the wondrous Christmas tree and into the Inn’s gift shop where I found unique and simple decorations of Colonial Williamsburg.
When I walked into the main artery of the Inn, I found the entrance to the Tea Room, which was still and quiet, almost dark inside. I saw women in long dresses scurrying around with glass-filled trays and Champagne bottles. The white linen-covered tables told me they might expect the Queen any minute. The luscious smells drifted and enticed to add to my anticipation and my heart sped up.
Where was Barbara? She was never late. I tapped my fingers along the door frame, wondering at her delay. Peeking into the room again, I saw linen napkins at each place setting and empty Champagne glasses waiting to hold the bubbly. I had no idea what the solid silver piece was, placed at the right of the knife. I saw beautiful, white china embossed with green trailing leaves amid red birds flitting around the perimeter and in the centers. I strained to look closer at the slightly oblong dish, about seven by nine inches in length. I was, of course impatient for our High Tea to begin for my birthday celebration.
I glanced at my watch again. Ten minutes to three. Where was Barbara? Glancing around, I saw a short glass-walled hallway leading into an elegant dining room where several four-foot brass planters stood on the floor snug against the windows. Each moss-filled box held three breathtakingly beautiful Amaryllis in full bloom in various shades of red, white or candy-stripes. They were intertwined amid green ivy that spilled over the sides of their pots. A festive spirit dominated the area; one side of the hallway abutted the Golden Horseshoe Golf Course where my husband had chased balls as a young boy. The other side was a brick-walled, private courtyard with small rocks littering the ground around various, neatly-planted shrubs. I paused. I wanted to open the double-glass doors and walk down the stone steps into solitude; to pretend I lived in those Colonial times. But I had a birthday date and could almost taste the bubbles of Champagne on the tip of my tongue.
Five minutes later, Barbara had still not arrived. When I found the ladies restroom, I was immediately transported backwards in time. I was in the Queen's castle in London. Subtle brass edged the wood framed, wallpapered walls. But what smacked of opulence inside the entrance were the oyster-colored linen napkins tiered across the marble countertop. No paper towels. No blow-dry machines. I moved toward the corridor again and saw a wicker basket waiting for the patron’s used linen. When I left the room, its luxury wafted after me.
Three o'clock. And still no Barbara. I returned to the entrance to the tea room and sat on a tufted bench beneath a painting of a young woman with vivid blue eyes. I watched ladies enter the tea room in pairs. Time passed slowly. My nerves began to twitch as I stared at scarlet Poinsettias below a large, ornate mirror on the wall across from me. I glanced at the mirror and nearly jumped when the woman’s intense face stared back at me mesmerizingly.
And at that moment, Barbara rushed around the corner in a beautiful Christmas sweater. Her eyes lit up when she saw me, as if she'd found a long-lost friend. She had been waiting near the wondrous Christmas tree in the foyer while I’d loitered in the halls around the tea room. After a good laugh and a bigger hug, we joined other ladies inside the tea room and chose satin, upholstered chairs by a window.
We felt like royalty. All at once, the scent of apples and cinnamon mixed with evergreen struck me. I inhaled the aromas and prepared for the thrill of my first English high tea. Delighted with the elaborate table setting, we raised our eyebrows when our server poured golden, bubbling Champagne into our flutes. As we tapped each other’s glasses and sipped, we were offered several tiny tea sandwiches. No crusts, of course. We chose one of each that included cucumbers and ham sandwiched between white and brown bread, white asparagus and salmon pâté. Everything melted in our mouths.
Tea time. I chose Strawberry Green Tea, Barb chose Berry Tea. Ornate china teapots were steaming hot and I learned the silver tools I’d seen earlier were tea-leaf strainers. I held the tiny, four-inch handle and placed the strainer on top of my China cup before slowly pouring water through it. Then, I replaced it in its silver holder to catch the loose water that might still drip. I felt like a princess. Barb and I couldn’t stop smiling. What next?
A large silver tray filled with Colonial sweets was delivered as my empty Champagne glass was whisked away. Oh! What to choose? The server held it aloft and beckoned us to choose. In a heartbeat, I had a strawberry tart sprinkled with shaved chocolate, a chocolate cake roll stuffed with sweet whipped cream and a sugar-speckled cream puff on my delicate china plate.
The chairs embraced us. The tea warmed us. The sweets made us swoon. And then, a woman in period costume stood beside us.
“Good afternoon, ladies. My name’s Maddie.” She shook our hands. She began a conversation as if she was living in 1773 during the Boston Tea Party. “I apologize for intruding.
I wish you both a Merry Christmas,” she said as she raised her eyebrows and glanced into our tea cups. “I’m very glad to see you fine ladies are drinking Liberty Teas since the new exportation taxes will soon cut the importation of real tea leaves from England. My brother works in Philadelphia, you see, and he has regaled me with the current news on the upcoming protests against the British East India Company.”
Barbara and I smiled at her, bemused with her costume, her voice and the conversation.
“It threatens to decimate small shops so there’s a revolt just around the corner, you see.” Conspiratorially, she whispered, “I hope you learn to enjoy the Liberty Teas since that will probably be all we can drink after March.”
“What exactly is Liberty Tea?” I asked.
“Well, milady. They are teas made from Chamomile, Mint, Peppermint and the like. Not like real tea leaves at all. I fear I will never get used to them, but we must. We must fight this excessive exportation tax and fight we will.” Her eyes sparkled with a fervent promise.
Barbara and I nodded serenely. What could we say to that? Reading about the Boston Tea Party in our history books was quite different than hearing a woman discuss it like it was happening any moment. As we lifted our Liberty Tea to our lips, the woman curtsied, nodded goodbye with a smile and headed toward the next table of ladies. We watched the ladies drink from their tea cups with raised pinky fingers and then forking the food on their little plates.
We turned back to our tea. Fresh hot scones! Could I possibly eat any more? We looked at the two gems that sat on top of plates painted with green vines and red birds. Beside them, a server placed a two-part dish between us filled with lemon curd and clotted cream. A pot of fresh raspberry jam nearly spilled over from the center of the table.
We ate everything.
High Tea at the Williamsburg Inn was amazing; a memorable birthday since it was on December 14, my day. I will always remember the beautiful, glittering tree sprinkled with lights and welcoming spirit as I walked into the door. Friendliness at the Inn seemed to be the epitome of Colonial Williamsburg that day. Oh, and by the way, Barbara had been waiting by the Christmas tree while I was wandering, worried….because I had told her I would meet her there. Forgetfulness comes with each birthday I’m told…
