by Merry Farmer
Polly weighed the benefits and drawbacks of honesty. She set Elizabeth’s brush down and combed her fingers through the silk of her hair as she decided.
“I know for certain,” she said at last. No point in keeping this tidbit to herself when the woman involved was someone Elizabeth cared about. “George is in Alexandra’s room right this minute. They didn’t get much sleep last night.”
She met Elizabeth’s eyes pointedly in the mirror.
Elizabeth sighed. “In a way, I can’t blame her,” she said. “George Fretwell is one of those devilishly handsome and charming men who good women can’t help but go bad over. Why, I’m not certain that I wouldn’t part my legs for him if he crooked his finger just right.”
Polly indulged her mistress with a smile for that comment. Elizabeth would no more part her legs for George Fretwell than she would for Jason Throckmorton or Hal the second footman. Though it would be a lark to convince her to part her legs for something else.
She sucked in a breath and forced her thoughts away from dalliance. There was no time to indulge in that sort of fancy, not when the game was playing out all around her.
“Would you like me to arrange for Alexandra to discover a startling truth or two that will guide her away from this dangerous path?” she asked Elizabeth.
Elizabeth bit her lip and made an anxious face at herself in the mirror. “Part of me wants to say yes,” she admitted. “Anyone with eyes can see that George Fretwell wants Lady Arabella Richmond’s money. Except Alexandra, apparently. But Alex is a grown woman, and if she wants to have an affair, far be it from me to stop her.”
Polly paused, piling her mistress’s hair into a fashionable style. “Do you think Alexandra knows it is merely an affair?”
Elizabeth hummed in uncertainty.
Polly changed tactics as she fixed Elizabeth’s hair with pins. “On another note, you may be interested to know that George wasn’t the only Fretwell to spend the night in the room of a Dyson woman.”
Elizabeth snorted with laughter. “I wondered about that. Dear old Aunt Charlotte. Well, I suppose that assignations can happen at any age.”
Polly arched an eyebrow. “I’m not so certain that one is merely an assignation.”
Elizabeth’s brow flew up. “Really? You think there’s something serious between Aunt Charlotte and Mr. Fretwell?”
Polly shrugged. “He has been courting her in the open as well as behind closed doors.”
And indeed, he still was as the house party guests wound their way through The Dragon’s Head’s front gate and along the wide, stone stairs that led to the lake. Mr. Anthony Fretwell escorted Lady Charlotte openly, covering her hand on his arm with one of his own. He smiled as he spoke to her, and the way Lady C. smiled back at him dropped years from her age.
“What do you think of that pair?” Polly asked Flossie as the two of them brought up the rear of the procession of grand lords and ladies. They each carried a basket of supplies in the form of food and bandages, to be ready for any occurrence.
It took Flossie a moment to shake herself out of her thoughts. That in itself piqued Polly’s interest. What had her friend been staring at so intently?
Of course, there was no mystery to that. She’d been staring at Jason Throckmorton. Polly itched to know more about that.
“Which couple are we scrutinizing?” Flossie asked.
“Mr. Anthony Fretwell and Lady Charlotte,” Polly said, though she would have loved to hear Flossie’s assessment of half a dozen other couples.
“Hmm.” Flossie narrowed her eyes into the expression the two of them had honed to perfection while painting the characters of every other person of their acquaintance growing up. “He’s the one who was friends with her late husband, isn’t he?”
“That’s the one,” Polly said.
From higher up the stairs, they had a perfect view of the party guests and all of the townsfolk who had come to watch the game as they reached the sturdy wooden dock. Mr. Fretwell continued to hold Lady C’s arm, and for her part, Lady C. didn’t seem to be in any hurry to let it go. A few yards away from them, closer to the water, George Fretwell stood entirely too close to a smiling Lady Arabella. He brushed a lock of hair out of her face. And in the center of the assembly, Mr. Throckmorton was fussing and fidgeting and brushing his hands obsessively over the pockets of his coat. Why was he wearing such a ridiculously inappropriate coat in the first place?
“I think that they make a lovely couple,” Flossie delivered her assessment of Mr. Fretwell and Lady C. “It’s nice that two people in their golden years can find happiness again.”
“Golden years?” Polly laughed. “Flossie Stowe, you are a romantic.”
They reached the bottom of the stairs, but hung back from the guests. Mr. Throckmorton stole a peek at Flossie that raised the color on both of their faces. Polly wanted to yelp with her desperation to know what was going on there.
“I worry that if anything does happen between Lady C. and Mr. Fretwell,” Polly went on, pretending nothing was amiss, “then Lady Alexandra will be in a pickle.”
“Oh? Why?” Flossie asked. She was still looking at Mr. Throckmorton as he sought to gather and organize the guests.
“Because Lady Alexandra has a tender spot for George Fretwell,” Polly said, understating the situation in the extreme. “But George Fretwell has other ideas.”
George Fretwell was now whispering something in lady Arabella’s ear that had her giggling, a lace gloved hand to her lips.
At last, Flossie dragged her eyes away from Mr. Throckmorton to look at Polly. “That would be unfortunate for Lady Alexandra,” she said. “I hope it isn’t so, that she has no special feelings for Mr. Fretwell. Clearly he has Lady Arabella in his sights.”
Polly was prevented from making further comment as Mr. Throckmorton raised his arms and spoke.
“Ladies and gentlemen. Around this dock you will notice a variety of small rowboats. These boats will be the vehicles for our challenge today.” He turned and gestured out over the Brynswater. “You will see that this section of the lake has been marked off, separating a large space of water from the rest of the lake. Within that area, you will notice a great deal of smaller, colored buoys. Attached to those buoys, under the water, are tokens—large rings fastened by hooks. Each buoy has a limited number of these rings.
“We will divide into teams of two. Each boating pair will man one of the rowboats and traverse the lake collecting tokens. The team with the most ring tokens at the end of half an hour—as judged by our kind volunteers, Miss Florence Stowe and Miss Polly Penrose—will win a prize, to be delivered at the hotel at the end of the competition.”
The instructions were met by a chorus of approval from the ladies and a few playful boasts by the gentlemen. The townsfolk who’d come to watch whispered amongst themselves and even placed a few bets. Polly smiled at it all. The titled class was always entertaining when engaged in frivolous pursuits such as this.
“Gentlemen, it is time to pick your partners,” Mr. Throckmorton finished.
Polly leaned closer to Flossie. “This won’t be much of a surprise.”
Flossie suppressed a giggle. In fact, Polly was right. Almost before she could say boo, George Fretwell had claimed Lady Arabella for his partner and Lady Charlotte was claimed by Anthony Fretwell. Mr. Throckmorton was a slightly more difficult case to call, but only by a bit. Of course, Polly knew he would partner with Elizabeth, but before he could seek her out amongst the waiting guests, that old bag, Lady Stratton, approached him. Polly grinned, eager to see how this would unfold. Lady Stratton had blown on and on to her about Mr. Throckmorton’s prowess between the sheets and her itch to seek out his company that first day when Polly had been called on to unpack the woman’s trunk. As far as Polly had been concerned, the woman had an even chance of a romp, depending on how randy Mr. Throckmorton was feeling these days.
But no, to Polly’s surprise, it was as if Mr. Throckmorton didn’t even see Lady Stratton.
Quite literally. She sashayed up to stand nearly directly in front of him, but Mr. Throckmorton turned to the side. He refused to look at her.
“Mr. Throckmorton,” Lady Stratton addressed him, attempting to step into his line of sight.
Mr. Throckmorton’s eyes avoided her altogether. He glanced up, to the side, and finally straight at Flossie. His mouth twitched, and there was something bright and mischievous in his eyes. Flossie cleared her throat. She was smiling. Polly wanted to shake her friend into revealing the game the two were playing.
“Do excuse me, Lady Stratton,” Mr. Throckmorton said, still not looking at the woman. He spotted Elizabeth waiting to the side, as coy as a Paris coquette, and marched right to her. “Lady Elizabeth, would you do me the honor?”
“Why, I would love to,” Elizabeth answered.
And that was that.
“If you find yourselves in need of assistance,” Mr. Throckmorton raised his voice to the surrounding guests, now almost all paired up, “Miss Stowe and Miss Penrose will be out on the lake rowing with us. Please approach them if necessary.”
Flossie nudged Polly, and together the two of them started for one of the rowboats moored near the back of the dock. Lady Stratton was approached by a rather disappointed young booby, Mr. Caldwell, who had been boring everyone at Huntingdon Hall with his stories of travels in Germany. Lady Stratton sighed and took his offered hand.
“I don’t know how I let you talk me into this,” Polly said as she helped Flossie climb into the rowboat.
“It’ll be fun,” Flossie answered with a bright smile. “Remember all those times we used to go rowing on the pond back home?”
“I do.” Once Flossie was seated, she handed the baskets of supplies to her, then swung her leg over to climb into the boat herself. “I also remember the two of us landing in the drink more often than not.”
Flossie laughed. “Well at least we know we can both swim.”
Flossie took the oars and maneuvered the rowboat wide of the other boats as the ladies and gentlemen climbed aboard. Polly did her best to keep her scorn to herself at the mash most of them were making of it. How difficult was it to climb into a boat and row into clear, open water? At least Elizabeth was sensible and gave Mr. Throckmorton no trouble. They were the first team to row out into the open water, aside from Polly and Flossie.
“You might need to give the guests a few clues as to where the buoys are placed,” Mr. Throckmorton called across to Flossie as they both rowed farther from shore.
“You don’t mind that it could dampen the competition?” Flossie asked him. She steered their boat until it drifted right up alongside Mr. Throckmorton and Elizabeth’s.
Mr. Throckmorton shrugged, then gave his oars another powerful tug. “I don’t see it as much of a competitive sport to begin with. More like an idyll.”
Flossie laughed. “I believe you’re right.”
Flossie, her dear friend, positively glowed under the warm gaze of Mr. Throckmorton. And she hadn’t addressed him as ‘sir’ once. As Mr. Throckmorton maneuvered his oars and then pulled hard to speed away, Polly could practically feel the wink that he wanted to send to Flossie. She was so impatient to know what was going on that she could have drummed her feet on the floor of the boat. She tossed a look at Elizabeth, but her mistress was focused on something closer to the dock.
That something turned out to be George Fretwell and Lady Arabella. The two of them were beaming and peals of laughter rang up from their boat as George pushed off and headed for open water. They made a lovely couple.
They were also boring. Polly shifted to study her friend. Flossie was hard at work, rowing them into the center of the water where the buoys were bobbing. Her face was set in concentration, and she kept her chin up, surveying the scene to be sure they were in the right place. But even through her concentration, she continually glanced to Mr. Throckmorton, who was now chatting with Elizabeth, a proud, mannish smile on his lips. It was Flossie’s smile every time her eyes strayed across him that had Polly’s heart beating faster.
“Oh, you simply must tell me, Flossie,” she burst. “I hate asking these things outright, but I must. What in creation is going on between you and Mr. Throckmorton?” Her stomach ached with disappointment at her failure to discover the truth covertly. Asking outright was always a let-down.
Flossie blushed and lowered her eyes. “There’s nothing going on.”
Polly huffed. “That’s a lie and you know it, Flossie Stowe.”
For a moment, Polly thought Flossie would clam up. Instead, her lips tipped into a grin and she sent Polly a sheepish look.
“All right, if you must know, Mr. Throckmorton and I have become good friends through our work at the hotel.”
Polly could have growled in frustration. She grit her teeth to keep from accusing Flossie of lying like a Turkish dog. There had to be more to it than friendship, there just had to be.
“Friends,” she said. “I’m impressed. Mr. Throckmorton is a powerful man to be friends with.”
Flossie shrugged. “He’s a man like any other man. He has great strengths, but he has a few weaknesses that he doesn’t want others to know about.”
Polly’s breath caught in her chest. Heavens above, Flossie would be the death of her, dangling something like that in front of her without telling all.
“Someday you will have to tell me what they are,” she said, hoping she sounded joking when, in fact, she was deadly serious.
Flossie laughed. “You know me, Polly. When secrets are entrusted to me, they are as safe as if in a bank vault.”
Polly laughed with her as she writhed with resentment. She loved Flossie, truly she did, but at times it was a trial to have a friend who was so concerned with discretion.
“Flossie,” Mr. Throckmorton called out to them as he and Elizabeth rowed near again. “Can you see if the participants are locating the tokens easily enough?”
Flossie sat higher in her seat, looking out at the lake and the boats. All of the pairs from the house party had made it into the water. Some were rowing madly through the small, choppy waves while others, like George and Lady Arabella, were less concerned with competing and more concerned with each other.
“They seem to be doing all right,” Flossie replied.
Mr. Throckmorton nodded, turning his boat so that he faced toward her. “Good. I wouldn’t want the competition to be too difficult.”
“Don’t you want to win, Mr. Throckmorton?” Elizabeth asked.
She sounded casual enough, but Polly could tell she was irritated. If she was right, it was likely because pairing with Mr. Throckmorton wasn’t proving to be the advantage over the rest of the field that she thought it would be. Elizabeth liked to win the games she played, as Polly well knew.
“My dear Lady Elizabeth,” Mr. Throckmorton replied with a teasing grin. “Winning for me, in this case, is providing the most enjoyable experience possible for ladies and gentlemen who could return to The Dragon’s Head in search of diversion they would be willing to pay for at some future point.”
“Oh, I see,” Elizabeth replied with mock seriousness and a smile. Polly could sense the roll of her eyes. She cleared her throat, then asked, “Mr. Throckmorton, you must tell me. Why do you insist on wearing such a great, heavy coat when we are out rowing on a lake in June?”
Polly saw the question as the punishment it was intended to be. Elizabeth must have been annoyed if she was willing to point out the man’s eccentricities.
“I….” Mr. Throckmorton stumbled.
His posture tightened in defense. He let one oar drop into its rowlock and swept a nervous hand across his coat, reaching for the pocket. His hand slipped into the pocket for a split second before he drew it out again, as if something inside was red-hot. The gesture was entirely reflexive, completely suspicious. It would have passed unnoticed, but for a tiny glimpse of something pale that poked out of the pocket in question as he drew his hand away.
Flossie gasped and fumbled her oa
rs. Mr. Throckmorton’s expression pinched to sharp question, and when he saw how wide Flossie’s eyes had grown, he glanced down at himself. Glanced down to where he was sitting. Polly’s sense of scandal pricked. Mr. Throckmorton only looked at his pocket after he’d checked his front. When he saw the flutter of something pale, he jolted as if he’d been struck. He dropped both oars and scrambled to shove whatever it was back into his pocket.
It took all of Polly’s powers of concentration to stay focused on what he was doing, especially with Elizabeth muttering, “What in heaven’s name?” and Flossie snorting in an attempt not to laugh. Polly was desperate to find out why Flossie was laughing, but she needed to concentrate. She was rewarded when Mr. Throckmorton tugged the thing in his pocket further into view before shoving it out of sight, but the small glimpse was enough.
Good Lord. The man had a French letter in his pocket. And Flossie was red-faced and shaking with suppressed laughter. That settled it in Polly’s mind. The evidence had added up to a verdict. Flossie and Mr. Throckmorton were almost certainly lovers. The discovery was so delicious that Polly laughed right along with Flossie.
“Mr. Throckmorton, you will drift away if you’re not careful,” she said, hiding the true intent of her laughter. If ever there was a time for her to play innocent and pretend she didn’t see what she clearly had, it was now. The looks that passed between Flossie and her employer—both at that moment and the ones that lived in Polly’s memory—took on entirely new meanings. Friends indeed! Why, the air practically sizzled between them now that she saw it.
She was kept from any further observations, and Flossie and Mr. Throckmorton were spared any more embarrassment, by a loud splash that sounded from closer to the dock.
All eyes flew to a capsized boat. Lady Arabella’s head popped above the water, and she screamed.
“Don’t worry, Arabella, I’ve got you,” George Fretwell shouted, loud enough for half the lake, not just Lady Arabella, to hear.
He swam close to Lady Arabella and must have looped an arm around her under the water. With his free hand, he righted the rowboat, then set to work hefting the sodden, weeping lady back in. Polly’s brow flew up at the speed with which he settled her and climbed back into the boat himself. As soon as he was safe and sound, he embraced Lady Arabella, who clung to him as though he were the hero of the moment. Why, to her he probably was. Judging by the way he bent close to whisper to her and the adoration in her eyes, George Fretwell knew exactly where he stood with the lady. In fact, Polly would have bet money the accident had been deliberate.
