Eleanor Tatum

Egad!

A block east of Trevor’s hotel, Catherine carefully shut the ornately carved wardrobe door, so Mrs. Stafford wouldn’t be startled out of the middle of her informative monologue. Her value increased. “So, you see, my dear, tonight’s dinner is important to Mr. Stafford, because he hopes to entice Mr. Pettigrew, our neighbor, into investing in his textile mill.”

“Yes, ma’am. Have you invited the entire Pettigrew family for dinner? Your Kitchen staff, especially Cook, seem exceptionally busy and excited today.” She gathered the discarded undergarments and carefully hung the gowns and picked up the ivory handled brush and began to arrange the lady’s hair for the formal dinner.

“It’s strange you should ask. As you probably already know our nieces from Savannah arrived yesterday. It was truly a surprise. Please don’t misunderstand, we do love them.” She reached for her long white gloves and stretched them in frustration. “Mr. Stafford and I are not used to playing cupid. Are all children like this?”

“Ma’am?”

“Nowadays, do all young ladies expect their relatives to, oh how did Miss Sally word it? Oh yes, ‘arrange things?’ We are childless and we were not expecting this storm of youthful energy and silliness interrupting our plans.”

“I really wouldn’t know. If you do not mind, would you please turn to your left? I need to arrange the style you requested.”

“Of course,” Mrs. Stafford primly turned on the hand embroidered stool, taking the gloves with her. “Suddenly, we need two more men to even the table.” She slapped her gloves against her lap. “Quite frankly, I think Miss Sally and Miss Myra worked their scheme through their father and their uncle.”

Catherine slid a hairpin into the growing mountainous creation. “What do you mean. Mrs. Stafford?” She mumbled through the remaining pin she held between her lips. She removed the pin and began applying some hair cream she intended to never allow near her own head.

Her employer glare down at her gloves and Catherine was unprepared for her answer. “The newest Charleston sensation, The Earl of Warrenwood, Lord Trevor Coffman! Our nieces demanded that we invite him to dinner.” The snap of the gloves brought Catherine back to focus on the slime in her hands, which she had nearly slapped onto her mistress’s neck instead of her hair. “Naturally, we had to invite an additional male and we thought of Mr. Pettigrew’s son, Jared.””

Then her hands did indeed slip.

Enough! Until later