Page 23 of The Best of Friends
“‘Woe is me,’ the carrot cried.
The card players eagerly farro-ing.
The chef’s knife sharp and ready
For vegetable narrowing.
When one is on the menu, you see,
Everymeal is harrowing.”
More laughter and applause followed. Daria looked pleased. She’d often spent their games at the house party the previous autumn with a vague look of embarrassment. He’d wondered at the time what had inspired that particular response. Their conversations of late had illuminated that: she considered herself humiliatingly lacking in cleverness, a misjudgment of herself he wished he knew how to counter.
“Gag-isandfarro-ing.” Mrs. Fortier shook her head in amusement. “It seemsinventedwords are the order of the day today.”
“We may have some difficulty awarding the honorific of Most Creative this time,” Mrs. Greenberry said. “Creating new words certainly qualifies as creative.” She sounded vaguely Irish. The story of how this group came to know each other, hailing from such different places, was likely an interesting one.
“We might win the Most Creative prize,” Daria said to him in a hopeful whisper. “I never win any games like this, the kind that require a person to be clever.”
Again, that unflattering view of herself. “It was your suggestion that we not wax poetic about location or company or the experience of those eating a meal that led to such a creative poem. That was quite clever.”
Though she didn’t argue, he didn’t think she believed him.
The game continued on, with the teams fluctuating between humorous offerings and more impressive ones, though the tone of the evening never stopped being lighthearted and convivial. Daria grew more and more at ease and delighted with the undertaking. Seeing the transformation, Toss told himself he would make absolutely certain their friends found opportunities this Season to undertake similar evenings. Daria ought to have every chance to be as happy as she was then.
When had that begun to matter so much to him? He could not, with any degree of honesty, deny that it did.
Mr. Fortier pulled slips of paper from the two hats in what was to be the final round of poetry composition for the evening. “Judgmental,” he read from one paper. Then from the other, “Pianoforte.”
Daria grasped his arm as she addressed the rest of their team. “Wewill have the advantage with this poem. Toss plays the pianoforte masterfully. I’ve heard him.”
Toss wasn’t often put to the blush, but her unlooked-for compliment sent heat across his face. “I don’t know aboutmasterfully.”
“You do though.” Her earnest gaze held his. “You play wonderfully and beautifully. I listened to you play during the house party, and I have not forgotten a single note. I could not. It was, as I have insisted, masterful.”
He set his hand atop hers, still on his arm. “Everyone should have someone like you in their life, Daria Mullins. I am certainly fortunate that I do.”
At that, she blushed as much as he could feel he was. The sweet smile that she gave him and the pink warming her cheeks further convinced Toss that Daria was one of the most charmingly pretty ladies he had ever—perhapswouldever—meet.
“You should consider playing at a musical evening, Mr. Comstock,” Mr. Layton said. “I have been to plenty that featured some whose confidence far outpaced their actual abilities. Someone with true talent would be deeply appreciated.”
“But not by my brother.” Toss knew that without having to ponder; Laurence had made his thoughts well-known on the matter.
“Which would earn you another point in this game of yours,” Mater said.
Mr. Layton grinned at her. “If you mean to forward Mr. Comstock’s cause in this competition, then I will have no choice but to further Miss Mullins’s.”
Mater sat up quite straight, eyeing him with theatrical confidence. “Challenge accepted, Digby.”
“May the best co-conspirator win, Julia.”
Daria giggled, the sound not the least silly or childish. There was such sincere delight in her participation in these things, such joyful enjoyment in her company. Did she realize that about herself? Did she realize what an admirable trait that was?
Mr. Greenberry—father, not son—was very quiet, and until he spoke in the next moment, Toss had all but forgotten he was there. “Do you suppose the pianoforte is meant to be the recipient of the judgment or the giver of it?”
They all began laughing once more.
“What’s it to be, then?” Mater asked the team. “A pianofortetreated withjudgment? Or a pianofortecastingjudgment?”
