Lady Fiona's Tall, Dark Folly
Four Weddings and a Frolic, Book 1
Cerise DeLand
Copyright © 2020 by Wilma Jo-Ann Power writing as Cerise DeLand
All rights reserved.
ISBN-13: 978-1-7330794-5-7
W. J. Power Publisher
Designer: Midnight Muse Designs
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
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Contents
Your invitation to the Courtland May Day Frolic
Bath Chronicle
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Epilogue
A nibble of LADY MARY’S MAY DAY MISCHIEF
Who is Cerise DeLand?
Also by Cerise DeLand
Your invitation to the Courtland May Day Frolic
Lord and Lady Courtland
request
the pleasure of your company at their home
for their annual May Day Frolic!
Do know, they plan a serene wedding of their daughter to her troublesome groom. For that wedding, they’ve secured the services of the new vicar with whom they’ve pleaded not to seduce his former lover who will also attend.
Moreover, the hosts expressly hope no guests will conduct naughty affairs in the evenings! Such goings-on occurred last year and the Courtlands will not tolerate shenanigans!
Répondez s’il vous plait!
The house party where every young lady lands in lap of the right beau! (Even the one who loves the wicked vicar!)
Bath Chronicle
Thursday 25 April 1816
A special license has been obtained for the marriage of Miss Esme Harvey to the
Marquess of Northington, which is to take place in the course of the next week.
* * *
Lord and Lady Courtland happily welcome a large party of relatives and friends to their annual May Day Frolic to commence Tuesday next, April 30, at their home Courtland Hall, Wiltshire. Festivities begin with the village annual May Pole Frolic, May 1, the Courtlands’ May Day Ball to follow that evening. The next morning they present their only daughter, Miss Esme Harvey in marriage to her intended, the Marquess of Northington in the chapel of St. Andrew's.
Nine o'clock. Rev. Charles Compton, Vicar, presiding.
As this day is also that of the joyous celebration of the wedding of our gracious lady, Her Royal Highness, the Princess Charlotte of Wales to Leopold, Prince of Saxe-Cobourg, Lord and Lady Courtland present a wedding breakfast in the house for their guests consisting of every delicacy, and a general Cold Collation, Tea, Coffee, Ices, Etc.
Those in the parish are welcome. Public service will be laid on the front lawn. Eleven o'clock, promptly.
N.B.: Should the weather on Thursday prove unfavorable, the Breakfast for parishioners will take place on Friday.
Chapter 1
Thursday April 25, 1816
No. 6 Royal Crescent
Bath, England
Lady Fiona Chastain crushed her aunt's letter. First came the announcement in the morning's newspaper and then this in the mail!
Shock turned her rigid. Anger burned her cheeks.
If her mother saw her, she'd scold her. "Fifi, ma sirène, we do not display emotion."
But this was not passion or desire or affection. No. Fifi blinked. It was...
Anger.
She bristled. Where was her motto? Dance with abandon. Sing in the dark. Live like no one need love you...but you.
"I do. That's enough."
Anger destroyed the best of her. Of anyone. She'd shunned it.
Still at this announcement of her cousin's wedding, Fifi felt rage's hot rush.
That surprised her. Because...well...to be frank, tears should come when one learned that one's cousin snared the man one wished to marry. Shouldn't they?
Yet she remained clear-eyed. With fury. And why? Why?
She frowned.
Fie on Esme Harvey to foil her! Fie on her to scoop up her beau. The one she liked best and had waited for. Waited for in Green Park that morning after they'd met. Waited for. Even though she'd won an ungodly amount of money from him that first night. Even though he'd told her she was delightful. Delicious, in fact, had been his captivating approbation. And then? Then? He'd never called upon her. Never written an explanation or apology. Not a note. Not a blasted word.
"Will you pen a reply, my lady?" Her butler, sweet old man that he was, stood swaying by the withdrawing room door.
"Yes." What she'd write would singe Esme's ears. What Esme deserved was a boxing of her ears! If only Fifi could summon more courage and fewer scruples. She took off her spectacles and pinched the bridge of her nose. "I'll do it later, Jerrold."
"Very well." He shot out a hand to the jamb and steadied himself as he turned for the hall. Dizzy again today, was he?
"Wait!" She waved the rumpled parchment like a flag.
He spun around much too quickly and teetered to one side, then another. Righting himself, he squinted at her. His eyesight was getting worse. Perhaps as bad as hers. "Yes, ma'am?"
"Have a footman hail a sedan chair for me." She disliked the confinement of the ugly little chairs, but she and her mother had sold off their town coach last spring. And it was too far to walk from home to her friend Mary's house in Queen Square in the rain.
"Now?"
"Now. And have Maisie fetch my red wool redingote and umbrella. I'm off."
Jerrold nodded, but shook his head as if he were befuddled.
"Are you well, Jerrold?" She didn't wish to insult him. He had his pride more than most servants.
"Well...well? What well? Ours?"
"No, Jerrold," she enunciated distinctly. "Do you need to sit for awhile? Not feeling up to snuff?"
He bristled, hauling himself up into a piffle. "I do not sniff snuff."
So, he was going deaf, too. Not good. She must talk to Mama about retiring the man. Not that her mother could offer any rational advice. Even if the lady was lucid when they discussed this matter or any others, Mama did not do well with change. "No, of course you don't."
"Anything else, milady?"
She stepped toward him and articulated slowly for clarity. "Please tell my mother I'm going out."
"Shall I say where?"
"You may. I'll call upon Lady Mary Finch."
* * *
No. 21, Queen Square
Bath, England
"Good morning, Fifi!" Lady Mary Finch was not only awake at this ungodly hour of the morning, but from her attire it was clear she'd been outside, tending to her spring garden. Her pale blonde hair was a riot of curls escaping from faded, fraying purple ribbons. She still wore her apron, soiled as it was, and she was in her stocking feet, a sign she'd left her boots at the kitchen door. But all her disarray was normal and forgiven because Mary was unique. Her loyal friend. And this morning, Fifi didn't need a formal greeting from a paragon of society. She'd flown here to find solace in the moral virtue of h
er oldest and truest friend.
Mary rushed across her drawing room without her cane. Vanity prohibited Mary from its use, no matter her pain. Mary never spoke of it and Fifi would never ask.
Mary grinned and hugged her. "I'm delighted to see you. How are you? I knew you'd come."
"Of course you did. I'm terrible! Angry!" Fifi pushed up her spectacles. In her fury, the darn things slipped down her nose. "Hideously angry. And you? Aren't you shocked?"
Mary cocked a hand on her hip. "At anything Esme Harvey does? Ha! No. And neither should you be. Come sit down."
"Sit down! Sit down!" Mary's mad parrot Caesar called from his cage across the room.
Mary frowned at him.
Unbowed, he hopped from one foot to the other. "Good boy. Good boy!"
"I can't. I simply can't." Fifi fished in her reticule for the offending little ball of paper and shoved it into Mary's hands. "Look at this."
"I've seen the Chronicle."
"No. This is a letter that arrived this morning. From my Aunt Courtland. A personal invitation to the wedding!"
Mary beamed at her because Mary always liked weddings. She liked them so much, Fifi wondered why she hadn't yet had one of her own. But then she'd never found one she preferred. Sad, that. Perhaps Mary was too rational to fall in love. "To tell the truth, I assumed all of us who'd been invited to the May Day frolic and your Aunt Courtland's ball would go to the church."
"They planned it this way." Fifi was not placated. "Esme knew we'd be there."
"It's as good a plan as any."
Fifi arched a brow. "Especially when you've acquired a special license and forgo the reading of the banns!"
At that risqué implication of Esme's reason for a speedy wedding, Mary gave her a speaking look. "That's unworthy of you."
"I agree." Fifi was ashamed of herself. She whirled toward the window and stared at the passersby, shaking her head. "Forgive me."
"I love you," crowed the large green bird who took any opportunity to proclaim his passion for Fifi. "I love you."
Fifi placed a hand over her heart. One creature valued her. She chuckled over that. "I come to marry Caesar."
"Not to praise him." Mary scowled at the unrepentant being and drew a hand across her throat. "I know. Forget him."
"I love you!" He could be a nuisance, but Fifi adored him. "Tough bird."
"Caesar, stop that. It's irritating." Mary focused on Fifi. "But I will give you that Esme wants an audience."
Fifi faced Mary. "I'm not in the habit of thinking the worst of people. Even Esme Harvey."
"I had no idea Esme traveled in the same circles as Northington." Mary wished to distract her from her complaint. "Did you?"
"My Aunt Courtland—God love her—is a sweet soul, but if she has any fault it's that she encouraged Esme to exceed her grasp. Excel at French, archery, cards. Anything! You know she did."
"I remember your aunt appearing any night or day at Miss Shipley's demanding Esme do more, study longer hours, practice more diligently. Your aunt was a harpy to her only daughter, but in all else a serene lady with a sense of humor."
"Yes. Well! I cannot laugh at this!" Fifi paced back and forth before the pianoforte.
Mary pointed to the settee. "Come sit down."
"Sit down! Sit down!"
Mary stepped to the bird's cage and dropped his cover over him.
As if that deterred him.
"Now then." Mary hobbled over to sit and pat the cushion. "We'll have tea. Cook made creamed horns yesterday. You like those."
"Oh, Mary. I can't eat."
Mary regarded her with shock. "Dearest, long after I have waddled to my bed stuffed to my gizzard like a Christmas goose, you can always eat."
Fifi sighed. "You're right. Of course. Why do you always state the truth?"
"Hmm. Not the best of traits. My mama always urged me to discretion. 'A little politesse, dear girl,' she'd say. I'm not a diplomat! Never will be! Now do sit—"
"Sit down! Sit down!"
Fifi frowned at the bird. "He becomes more vocal as he gets older."
"And he is company."
Fifi snorted. "You can do better."
"I could hope. Here now." Mary patted the cushion. "Let's figure this one out."
Weary, Fifi strode over and sank to the settee. "I cannot imagine Aunt Courtland would encourage Esme to charm Northington into marriage."
"Does your aunt know you cared for him?"
"I never told her. But my mother might have."
"That had to be two years ago, before your mama became so ill," Mary pointed out.
"But Esme knows."
Mary drew back. Fifi would never confide in Esme. "You told her?"
"Wasn't it always obvious? The year all of us came out? I danced with him at that masquerade ball. Later that night, I won all that money from him! He laughed at my skills. Imagine! No one...no one has ever matched him." She hadn't told Mary—nor anyone else either—that she was to have met him the next day in Green Park. There, she could have wagered her soul, he would have proposed. But he'd never appeared. The scoundrel. Nor had he, over the years even had the decency to acknowledge her with more than a polite nod and smile of dismissal. The cad.
"Fifi, you were eighteen. All of us were green. Foolish."
"Six years ago." Fifi inhaled and her spectacles slipped. She pushed them up. "The wars were on."
Mary stilled. "We had the ridiculous perception that war was glorious...and that all soldiers would return."
"Forgive me." Fifi wanted to kick herself. Mary never liked discussions of the war. On a battlefield far away in Spain, her only brother George had died and she'd not recovered his loss. "I didn't mean to open old wounds."
She squeezed Fifi's hand. "No need to apologize. Things were different with me then. For us both."
Oh, they certainly had been! Her father had been alive, the devil take him. Her mother had not yet begun her ranting and ravings. The unpredictability of one parent had ended just as the other's began. Mary's life six years ago had been more quiet with parents who loved her and each other. But her mother and father were dead. Fifi’s father had died too. And both young women lived far from the homes they'd called their childhood abodes. They now lived in the small town of Bath, removed from the joys of fashionable Brighton, the new resort that Prinny favored.
The two of them had become fast friends at Miss Shipley's finishing school fourteen years ago as girls. Here in Bath as single ladies, daughters of earls, they had privileges of precedence and name recognition. What they did not have was much money. Or gentlemen callers. It was an endless circle that Fiona wished to break. If only she could. Her skills at cards—deliciously evil as they were—might help her pay her bills but they did not provide a stable or profitable future. For that, she'd have to find a gaming hell in Bath. That step was a most ambitious one which she had attempted recently to nasty consequences. Happily, no one knew of it. Not even Mary.
"We must not continue to deny ourselves," Mary cut into Fifi's meanderings.
Fifi blinked. "What do you mean?"
Her friend paused, a sly look dawning on her pretty face. "I've been thinking."
Bravo! Fifi clapped her hands. "That's the spirit. The old Mary!"
Mary's butler Thompson halted in the doorway, his eyes rounded upon his mistress. What was wrong with him? She shot a look at her friend. "You've got a plan? Tell me."
"Well..." Mary flinched.
Fifi knew not why except to say that Thompson did appear...appalled!
"It's not a plan. Not like one of my old ones."
"No?" Fifi tipped her head.
Thompson cocked his head.
Mary frowned at him.
He scowled at her.
What was going on between them? Fifi licked her lips, her mouth watering in anticipation of the sweets on Thompson's tray. "Hurry. I'm hungry."
"Thompson, please." Mary indicated with a wave that she wished him to serve and disappear. She ros
e to gaze out upon the street below as he laid out the cook's treats on the 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 grew perturbed. "Or no cakes for you at all."
Thompson scowled at his mistress. "My lady?"
Mary knit her brows together. "Yes, Thompson. We are well cared for. And do tell Cook her wares make Lady Fiona giddy with delight."
The man barked in laughter and bowed himself away.
Fifi was more interested in the pastry than whatever the two of them argued over. "Oh, Mary, 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 pursed her lips, hesitant, speculating. "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, listening, of course, as she bit into the light-as-air layers of Cook's choux pastry.
"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.
Lady Fiona's Tall, Dark Folly: Four Weddings and a Frolic, Book 1 Page 1