Page 5 of Lady Mary's May Day Mischief
Thompson, wide-eyed, fought for an iron decorum. “My lady?”
Mary managed to respond. “Yes, Thompson. We are well cared for. And do—” she said as she glanced at Fifi’s ravenous expression over the tea cakes, choux and creme horns, “—do tell Cook her wares make Lady Fiona giddy with delight.”
The man—unable to control himself—barked in laughter and bowed himself quickly away.
Fifi—thank heavens—was more interested in getting to the pastry and raspberries and jam before her than in looking abashed or chastising Mary or her abrasive servant. “Oh, come. Sit down here and serve me. I am famished. It’s been a horrid morning. Good, there now. Hmm, yes, that one. And that. Do not hesitate over any item. I shall enjoy all. Thank you. And now as I relish these lovely things, you will tell me your plan.”
Mary, for once, chose her words. “Well, next week, for three and half days, we are to be in very good company.”
Fifi rolled her eyes and groaned the name of her nemesis. “Esme.”
“And her parents. Who are delightful hosts. And we will do them proud as good guests.”
Fifi nodded, her mouth too full of layers of Cook’schouxpastryto comment.
“We know that Ivy and Grace will attend.” Two of their other former school friends always attended Lord and Lady Courtland’s May Day Frolic.
“And Willa?”
“Yes.” Willa Sheffield was the daughter of the Earl de Courcy and she loved the May Day event. Occasionally, other school friends attended. Millicent Weaver, the shy but sparkling wit who was the daughter of a knight. Sandrine De Compiègne, whose parents were emigres from the Terror in France. “Willa wrote me the other day to say she’ll come if she’s recovered from her sniffles. The Frolic is always a wonderful reunion for us.”
Fifi gulped down her tea. Behind her tiny spectacles, a fire burned in her blue eyes. She could care less if Esme attended her own funeral, much less her parents’ party…or her own wedding. “And your point?”
“Your Aunt Courtland always ensures there are enough young gentlemen in attendance to partner with each unmarried lady.”
Fifi fingered her next delicacy. “Wallflowers.”
“Hmm. Yes. But we ten at Miss Shipley’s were never that.”
“No. Something to be thankful for, eh?”
“So that means the numbers are always equal.”
Fifi picked up her serviette and wiped her mouth. “Always. And?” She carved an impatient circle in the air with one hand. “Come now. Fire, flood, men. You always have a solution to any problem.”
Any, it seems, save my own.
Mary put on a confident tone. “You’ll pick one.”
“Pick one what?”
“Man.”
“Who?” Fifi got a befuddled look on her face.
“Anyone.”
“Not one specific man?”
“No. You must choose. Not I. I’ve not had much luck match-making lately.”The disaster with Millicent Weaver was the mishap I wish to avoid.
“I see. That bit with Millicent went awry. But then why am I choosing just any man? I refuse to romp around the May Pole with Lord Hornsby or that Mister Weymouth.” She made a face.
“With someone who appeals!”
“If they invite the same neighbors who’ve attended the past two years, my answer is no. We’re in for a good snore.”
“They won’t. They’ll invite new faces this year.”
