Lady Mary's May Day Mischief: Four Weddings and a Frolic, Book 2 Page 2

  Six years ago, Fifi had a different life, too. Her father was alive. Her mother had not begun to stumble over carpets or mumble phrases as mismatched as pieces from two different puzzles. The result was that Fifi lived in her large Georgian home in the Crescent—and for all intents and purposes, she was as much alone as Mary.

  At twenty-four years of age, both of them had increasingly secluded lives. Bath was a lovely little town, quaint and tranquil as the patina of its dark honey-colored stone. But the place where society had flocked for more than a century to take the waters, gossip and dance until two in the Assembly Rooms, was so very passé.

  The town to see and be seen, to find drama and romance and a man who might truly grow to love a lady, was Brighton. To the coast, south of London, society flocked. There the roly-poly spendthrift Prince Regent lived, and lavishly so. He added to his Pavilion with impecunious abandon, brought his mistresses to entertain him and drew the ton to him for dinner, musicales, the theater—and affaires de coeur.

  And Fifi and I cannot go because we haven’t the desire—or the blunt.

  But that doesn’t mean we must continue to deny ourselves.

  “What do you mean?” Fifi blinked.

  Mary caught her lower lip. One day soon she must master the art of keeping her truths to herself. Or learn how to present them in a more acceptable fashion. “I’ve been thinking.”

  Fifi clapped her hands. “That’s the spirit. The old Mary!”

  Her butler stood in the open doorway with the tea tray—and stared at her. She balked. He was just in time to feed Fifi. But he’d been present when one of her so-called plans had erupted. Millicent Weaver, one of their school friends, had barged in two years ago to her parlor in London and bemoaned how their silliness had ended her relationship with one young man and ruined her life. That failure had put her off any future interference.

  “You’ve got a plan?” Fifi urged her to speak. “What is it? Tell me.”

  Thompson glared at Mary. He was seventy, if a day. He was spry, an inveterate walker and former boxer. He was her Cerberus, her watchdog. Her major critic. He cocked a bushy grey brow in warning.

  “Mary, tell me!”

  Her butler might have been set in stained glass, so transparent was his intent to dissuade her from her old ways.

  She winced. “Well, it’s not a plan. Not like one of my old ones.”

  “No?” Fifi tipped her head.

  No? Thompson imitated her friend.

  Mary frowned at him.

  He scowled at her.

  Fifi licked her lips, wiggling in anticipation. “Hurry. I’m hungry.”

  “Thompson, please.” Mary indicated with a wave that she wanted him to finish his service and disappear. She rose to consider the street below as he laid out the feast on the little table before the settee.

  “Oh, lovely little sweets. Your cook, Mary, is superb. Look at this! Never let her go.” Fifi rubbed her hands together. “Or if you must, send her to me. I will dismiss every servant I have to fund her wages. The cakes and—”

  “Caesar wants cake.”

  “Quiet, Caesar.” Mary swallowed a chuckle. “Or no cakes for you at all.”

  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’s choux pastry to 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.”

  “How do you know?”

  She drew in a breath to gird her for the battle. “I had a letter from Esme this morning.”

  “Oh! How could you not tell me? What did she say?”

  That she hopes you won’t be horridly mad at her. That she loves Northington and he loves her. “That her mama has invited four more gentlemen in addition to the regular coterie of past years.”

  “Hunh! About time. Ivy and Grace threatened to leave last year after they got tied up in the May Pole ribbons. Trussed up like chickens, they said, with two local men.”

  “In any case, there will be more gentlemen to chose from.”

  “Did Esme give any names?”

  “No. Because she wanted to surprise us.”

  “She’ll suitably surprise me if she breaks her engagement.”

  Mary set her gaze on Fifi. Before next Tuesday, Fee had to come round. Perk up. Make an effort to have fun at this party.

  “I will. Don’t worry.”

  She’d spoken her thoughts aloud again? After Fifi left, Mary was going to sew her lips shut with her tapestry needle.

  “So? That’s your plan? Dance with a new guest?” Fifi threw her a rueful look.

  “More than that.”

  Fifi squinted at her. “How much more?”

  “Smile. Laugh. Kiss him.”

  Fifi grimaced. “If
I can find one with dry lips.”

  “Be serious, Fee!”

  “I am. Have you ever kissed a man with wet lips?” She shuddered. “Like Mister Weymouth?”

  Weymouth always appeared to have just kissed a slimy cod. “Did you kiss him?”

  “Absolutely not! He kissed me.” Fifi shivered.

  Oh, to get past this! “You must show Esme that you don’t care if she marries Northington.”

  “What? That’s not true!”

  “Of course not.” But it is. If you loved the man, you would have come here with red eyes, handkerchiefs wadded up in tiny sodden balls of grief. Instead, you came with anger glowing red hot and boiling. “You must prove to her that you don’t care for Northington so that he will believe it.” And so will you.

  Fifi put down her empty plate. “Good point. And I’ll do that by… I know.” She snapped her fingers. “Giving him the cut direct.”

  “Forget Northington. Choose another man, someone kind and sweet. Allow him to pay his attentions to you. Smile. Dance. But at any cost, do not play cards with him!”

  “Very funny.” Fifi shook her head. Her glasses slipped again. “I don’t always win, you know. Last week, I lost—Never mind. In any case, I couldn’t pretend to like a man. I’m not a good actress.”

  “No acting involved. Just look appreciative. Interested. It’ll be easy, Fee.”

  “How?”

  “Keep to the fun of it. No kisses if you don’t want them. No disappearing into the library. Or whatever one does. Just simpering and cow eyes.”

  “Cow eyes? I can’t see well enough to do that!”

  Mary burst into laughter.

  “I’m not kidding. I failed at flirting our first year out.” Fifi reached for another tiny choux. “It doesn’t work.”

  “Oh, god, Fee! Pretend!”

  Fifi regarded her with a ruthless glee Mary had seen only once before. “I’ll pretend if you will.”

  “Oh, I couldn’t.”

  “It would be easy. Isn’t that what you’re telling me?”

  “Well, I—”

  “Mary, it’s simple. Smile. Dance. Play cards!”

  “Now you’re being funny.”

  “I’m deadly serious, Mary. You do so many things to help others, but never yourself. Do this. Just once. And have a bit of fun.”

  Chapter 2

  April 30, 1816

  “Another thirty minutes and we’re there,” Mary told Fifi, then dropped her father’s gold pocket watch back into her reticule. The trip from Bath to Chippenham usually took nearly three hours. Once there, Lord Courtland would send his own traveling coach into the town to take Fifi and Mary the next three miles to the Hall.

  Fifi smiled, settling into the public coach, a much different lady than the one who’d argued with Mary days ago. She had a determination about her that had always been one of her hallmarks…and which had gone lacking in the past two years. Today, she wore a new redingote, a gorgeous sapphire corded silk that lit up her pearl-like complexion and complemented her blue eyes. Best of all, she wore a smile that was genuine. “I cannot tell you how grateful I am that you thought of this little ploy. I haven’t had such a good time at my seamstress’s in years.”

  “And she did well by you.” Mary relaxed, relieved that Fifi embraced their little solution to the Esme Problem, as they’d dubbed the next few days. But Fifi had also apologized twice for her outburst last Thursday. Two of her other characteristics were that she never was angry for long, nor did she hold a grudge.

  “I needed a few new gowns. To help me face the gentleman I’m to marry.” She fluttered her lashes like a conspirator at Mary, then at Mary’s lady’s maid, Welles, who sat across from them. When they went to Courtland Hall each year, they could take only one maid between them. And Fifi was not demanding, nor was Mary. So sturdy Welles easily cared for them both.

  Mary took Fifi’s desire for new clothes as a sure sign Fifi would enjoy herself at the Frolic.

  “So I didn’t mind the expense. Mama needs for nothing these days. Poor dear. She always loved a party. And she especially always adored this one. Yesterday, she had a moment of clarity and asked me what time of year it was and would I go to Courtland Hall. When I said I would, she beamed at me. ‘Dance, ma sirène,’ she said. So I humored her and told her I would stand up for each one.”

  “Really?” Mary squeezed Fifi’s gloved hand. Fifi perpetually claimed to have no sense of rhythm and longed to sit out. “You will dance? That means I’ll play cards.”

  Fifi threw her a rueful glance. “You should dance. I’ll play cards!”

  “And rob the men blind?” Mary chuckled. But her hand went to her right thigh, the very limb that prevented her from ever taking to a chalked floor with anyone. “Not the way to a man’s heart, Fifi.”

  “I don’t want any man’s heart. Just his agreement to appear that I have it. For three days only.” She wrinkled her dark brows. “I keep trying to figure out which man I should approach.”

  “What of Lord Marleigh? A polite young man. Eyes black as licorice. Dances well.”

  “Perhaps. But I’ve gone over all the regular guests and not one inspires me. You?”

  Mary pressed her lips together. “My usual problem.”

  “Shall I start my sermon?” Fifi pushed up her little spectacles and challenged her with a toss of her head.

  “No. I know it by heart.” I’m too particular. I bore easily. But that’s because I don’t wish to speak of the latest on dits or the dessert cakes or admire one’s new manner of tying one’s cravat.

  “I think you need a new man. A Highlander.”

  “I canna decipher the brogue.”

  “Ha! How about an Army man! Someone who’s been to France and Belgium and—”

  Mary winced. “I don’t want to talk about the war.”

  “I don’t blame you.” Fifi sighed.

  They rode in silence for many minutes.

  “I’m glad we weren’t joined by any more passengers this morning,” Fifi said as the rickety coach creaked and groaned over the road east. “Odd, don’t you think, that so few are traveling?”

  “It’s a short distance. I’d say most would take the trip in their own conveyances.”

  Fifi touched a fingertip to the fraying leather upholstery near her window. “As would we if I still owned mine and yours didn’t need repair.”

  “Your Aunt and Uncle Courtland will welcome us no matter how we arrive. They always do each year.” Mary shifted in the lumpy squabs as the carriage jounced along. Her own had broken an axel and her groom, now working alone in her mews, had not had time to repair the vehicle before today’s journey.

  “Before we arrive, let me say this about Esme.” Fifi looked about as if to find the rainbow in the matter. “To be fair, she is not so rabid to rise in society that she would wed a man she didn’t care for. And Northington deserves to be loved.”

  Mary rejoiced at this largesse from Fifi. It meant she was coming around to her usual bright self. That way, she’d catch a man not merely in jest, but in truth. Even Welles, who normally showed no emotion, toyed with a grin over this.

  “Oh, my dear, you deserve it too,” Mary said.

  “And you,” Fifi added, her normal cheer glowing in her blue eyes. She removed her glasses, tucked them away in her reticule and rubbed the bridge of her nose.

  “Ahh, well!” Mary waved away Fifi’s belief. Only once had she felt the desire she heard other women claim they bore one certain man. That was two years ago when Blake was home and the elation of a romance between them was so fleeting she had to discount it as fantasy. “I don’t think there is anyone for me.”

  “You have much to share with a man. Besides, for this party, you promised me you would flirt.”

  The coach lurched to one side.

  “What’s happen—?” Mary slid against Fifi as the coach shivered and shook.

  Welles yelped as she fell forward onto Mary. “Milady!”

  Horses
neighed.

  The conveyance swayed one way, then shuddered…and stilled.

  Mary was crushed against Fifi.

  Welles was on the floor, blinking at her mistress.

  Outside the horses raised a ruckus.

  The coachman and his three footmen shouted at each other.

  Welles pushed backward, but gained no traction. The coach wobbled on an angle and Welles fell to her knees once more. She clamored to one side to try to right herself. “I’ll get help, milady.”

  Fifi jiggled the handle of the door to try to open it. “Stuck.”

  Mary’s bonnet slid over her left ear, the ribbons strangling her. She tugged at them and tore them away. She tried to push up from Fifi. “We could say that the famous Flying-Post Coaches from Bath to London, don’t fly at all.”

  Welles fell upon the coach door and rammed her shoulder against it. The coach jostled at her thrust, but did not move. Still, at the precarious angle the coach hung, this maneuver looked dangerous to Mary.

  “Stop, Welles. Don’t risk your safety.”

  “Milady,” said Welles, “we must get out. I’ll try the door again.”

  “I won’t have you hurt, Welles. Let the men get us out.”

  More shouts met their ears.

  The horses added more of their objections to the din.

  “Look!” Welles pointed toward the road. “Another coach.”

  “Thank heavens.” Mary peered out but had not the same angle of visibility as her maid. “More help, the better. Fifi, if you could not dig your nails into my—” She shot a glance at her friend who sat, her face pressed to the dingy leather upholstery. “What’s wrong?”

  “My…foot,” Fifi managed, her face ashen.

  “What’s wrong with it?”

  “Hurts.” She gulped.

  “Don’t move, Fee.” Alarm swept through Mary. The sounds of men shouting to their horses gave her some comfort. “Stay still, both of you. We’re out of here in a thrice. You’ll see.”