Scones and Sensibility (18 page)

“Hello, Polly. Is your sister at the oven again this morning?”

I sighed. “I am afraid that is so. I hope the scent has not caused you too much discomfort.”

She waved me away and reclined again on the chair. “Nothing you can do, I suppose.”

“Yes, I suppose not. Though in the fall, when she is once again engaged in the trials and tribulations of high school, the pollution she causes will diminish.” I stepped forward, receiving a menacing growl from Jack the Nipper. “I have come to deliver another tart from your devoted Mr. Nightquist.”

“Oh, really?” She sat up and reached for the bag. “You know he taught me how to fly a kite last night?”

I nodded. “And he said you were a dream to behold, your silhouette upon the setting sun.”

“Well, the man practically strangled me with the rope from one of those blasted kites and then it dive-bombed me.” She lifted up her arm and pointed to a small brown splotch on her arm. “I bruise very easy
and that’s what that kite of doom did to me!”

I felt my cheeks redden. Dear Mr. Nightquist thought their evening together a dream, yet she thought quite differently upon the matter.

I had to salvage their love before they were pulled asunder!

“Upon my word, his heart would break if he knew the pain caused you by one of his kites. On the contrary, he adored the culinary concoction you brought and looks forward at this moment to another rendezvous to take place this very evening. I believe he even likened you to the elegant Jane Bennet.”

“Really?” She opened the box containing the tart and nibbled at the flaky crust. “Yes, I agreed to meet him, though this is his last chance. I want to live past the age of fifty-three.”

“And I’m sure you will. He and you together, living in love’s eternal bliss.” I went back along the walkway and through the small gate, hoping that my words had soothed her troubled mind. “I must be off, Miss Wiskerton. I wish upon you a most pleasant day.”

“Hmm.”

And as I continued with the rest of the deliveries for that morning, the love of Miss Wiskerton and
Mr. Nightquist preoccupied my every thought. That evening I would need to intercede on their behalf. Perhaps with scented candles upon the sand, and an array of savory delights to encourage the budding romance.

Yes, I was certain that this was the current course I must take in order to ensure a romance between the two lovers.

I returned home after completing my deliveries and reclined upon my bed. With Lucy and Mr. Fisk’s meeting just hours away, and the two other romances—that of Mr. Nightquist and that of Clementine—pressing upon me, I sought wisdom in Jane Austen’s elegant words.

But just as I found myself sweeping across the floors of Pemberley the telephone rang. I lifted it to my ear, expecting my dearest friend to be on the other line.

“Can I talk to Polly?” a young man’s voice said into my ear.

“This is she. With whom am I speaking?”

“It’s Brad. Brad Baker.”

“Why … Bradley. I was not expecting your call. How … how are you?” I asked politely, for a lady must be cordial to even the unwanted suitor.

“Good. I’m leaving to go and visit my dad next week and was just calling to see if you wanted to go to Macko’s sometime before I leave. I’ll buy.”

My heart fluttered. Was this really—? I was being asked out for the first time in my life! Heat rose into my cheeks, and I could hardly contain the excitement that bubbled up inside me. I had only dreamed of this moment before now! This was not merely a telephone call about his family history. This was a date!

Bradley continued. “We won’t be able to get a whole lot of pizza or Coke, but I have enough for both of us.”

“But of course,” I said, suppressing my excitement that almost became a giggle. For any gentleman would pay for the lady upon which he set his heart and affections. I was glad that Mr. Baker was refined enough to know this.

“Great, do you want to go tonight?”

I coughed delicately into my handkerchief. “Tonight? Whatever do you mean, sir?”

“Well, you just said, ‘But of course.’ So how does tonight sound?”

Really, I could hardly think straight, this being the first time I had been asked out on a real date—a real
date!—in the course of my entire life, yet still I knew I could not. Not at the moment. “Upon my word, I am indeed sorry, Brad, for the miscommunication. I … I have no intention of meeting with you tonight.”

I was met with silence and regretted the tone in which I had spoken to him. Surely he was unsuitable for myself, but a kind young man I could not deny.

“I offer you my apolo—”

“Oh, don’t worry, Polly. I know that girls like to play hard to get sometimes. But I won’t give up, okay?”

Was the gentleman serious? “I am sure, dear Brad, that I do not—”

“I’ll call you tomorrow.” And the telephone clicked into silence.

I sat upon my bed pondering the conversation that had just taken place. It was just like dear Elizabeth Bennet and Mr. Collins, the unwanted suitor who attempted to push his affections upon her.

And I could see clearly that Mr. Brad Baker, like Mr. Collins, would not give up easily, and I would be forced to use firm words to dissuade him.

Ah, in addition to excitement beyond words, to be admired so intensely did have its problems indeed.

The telephone rang again, and my heart pounded
within my chest as I imagined Brad unable to withhold declaring his sentiments once again.

I allowed the telephone to continue ringing, but my suitor was quite determined, and he called two more times, forcing me to answer.

“Please, Brad, I cannot meet with you. I must assure you that I do not hold the same feelings for you as you—”

“Polly?”

My words ceased momentarily as I came to realize that it was not my unwanted beau, but instead my bosom friend. “Fran? My dearest friend? My apologies for speaking thus to you, but I have had a most distressing conversation with—”

“Tell me later, Polly. You gotta come over quick!” Fran said in a most terrifying manner.

“Oh my gosh! What’s wrong?” I sought to compose myself in her time of trial. “What is it, my beloved friend?”

“Just come over now!”

And at that, I departed hence.

T
he scene unfolding at the home of my dearest and truest of friends was one of complete chaos and terror. A large man was in the process of throwing his massive fist against the Fisks’ front door in a manner that was not becoming to a gentleman at all. Indeed, the language he spoke was also not appropriate for ladies such as myself and Fran to hear.

I rode to the backyard to avoid the beast and discarded my bicycle on the ground. Relieved to find that Mr. Fisk had not yet relocated the spare key from its secret location underneath the loose brick to the right of the back door, I quickly entered their home.

Fran met me, her eyes brimming with silvery tears and her cheeks flushed red with anxious worry.

I scanned the room once I was assured that she was sound of body. “Where is your father?”

“He’s on the phone.”

“Alerting the authorities of this madman’s rage, I am sure.” Convinced that we were not all about to be bludgeoned, I turned to her and clasped her hands in mine. “Now please, my dearest Fran, tell me all.”

“Well, the guy came up to the house about fifteen minutes ago. He came to the door and asked if my dad was there.”

“And that is when your home came under siege.” But who could the great brute be? Whom had Mr. Fisk angered so?

“Stay away from my girl!” he yelled in the midst of a string of the most ghastly profanities.

The scene became, at once, all too clear to me.

Mr. Fisk was wooing the computer woman, Miss Ruthie Carmichael, who was otherwise betrothed to a ruthless suitor with a jealous temper. Seeking a harbor in her desperation, Miss Carmichael sought a compassionate man and was united in cyberspace with Mr. Fisk. But one night, as Miss Carmichael sat conversing with Mr. Fisk on the telephone, their intimate conversation was heard and the man’s jealous rage burst into flames. And so he lit upon Mr. Fisk to enact his vengeance.

“Polly?! Come on, you have to tell them this is all a big mistake!”

Fran stood before me, her hands clasped as in prayer. Mr. Fisk held in his grip a golf club—his chosen weapon of defense.

“As you wish, beloved Fran. My dear Mr. Fisk,” I said. “Though I do not like this task, I must tell you that Miss Ruthie Carmichael’s vengeful suitor is at your door. I hope the authorities are on their way. I am sure he is quite dangerous when in his rage.”

“Ruthie? Polly, what are you talking about?” Fran stood, her hands upon her hips. “It isn’t Ruthie. He’s saying something about Luc—”

“Please, David. Stop this now!” a delicate woman’s voice called from outside.

The lady’s voice sounded so very familiar to my ears. Could it be that I knew this Miss Carmichael?

“Stay out of this, Luce,” the low voice said firmly. “You’re my girl, and I’m not going to let any fancy talker steal you away.”

“But please, David.”

Fran grasped my arm and squeezed so that I feared developing a bruise. “Not
Ruthie
, Polly. He’s saying
Lucy
, as in
Lucy Penny
.” She said these last words through clenched teeth so that Mr. Fisk could not hear.

The name of Mr. Fisk’s intended drained all color from my rosy complexion, and I felt the ground
beneath my feet swirl. “Oh, dear,” I declared, certain that a swoon was upon me.

“Don’t you dare faint, Polly Madassa,” Fran said, squeezing my arm ever tighter. “You got us into this mess and you need to get us out.”

Could it be? Could it be that the one lady worthy of the honorable Mr. Fisk was involved with such a beast? Had I been deceived? I banished the thought. I had seen in her elegant eyes the admiration and adoration of her suitor—Mr. Fisk. “I cannot believe it is she. I must see with my own eyes.”

“All right,” Fran said, dragging me quite indelicately by the arm to the window. “See, there she is.”

I peered through the lattice and saw that indeed, much to my dismay and the breaking of my heart, it was true. There stood Miss Penny, elegant in a long lavender gown and straw hat, her curls cascading down her shoulders. She was prepared for the tea. Perhaps this … 
David
had followed her in secret to this very home, suspecting that her affections had turned to another.

“What is going on, girls?” Mr. Fisk’s voice was stern behind our backs.

And in the brief moment upon which I turned toward my bosom friend’s father, I felt a deep loss and
hopelessness at the situation. I had failed Mr. Fisk and my dearest Fran. Yet furthermore, they were now in grave danger. The tears that threatened to fill my eyes over this lost romance were suppressed by the chilling thought of harm, which overwhelmed me.

“Come on, Polly,” Mr. Fisk spoke softly, though with a hint of urgency. “It’s all right. But you have to tell me what’s going on before he breaks the door down.”

Fran wrapped her comforting arm around me, squelching my tears. I took a life-giving breath and was about to repent, when the horrible yelling ceased and instead the delicate voice of Miss Penny called through to us.

“Mr. Fisk. My name is Lucy Penny. I am very sorry for this. Please come out and talk with me so that we can get this whole thing resolved.”

Mr. Fisk walked promptly to the door, with Fran and me clutching his shirttails in an effort to rescue him should he need our aid.

“Be ever so careful, Mr. Fisk. A lover scorned is a terrible force,” I whispered.

He turned to me and raised his eyebrows with a questioning gaze, then opened the door. “Miss Penny? I’m George Fisk. Can you—?”

But dear Mr. Fisk was not able to complete his sentence, for David was not to be restrained and lunged for my friend’s father.

“Stop!” I wailed as loudly as any young lady in such dire circumstances would and succeeded in stopping the assault for the moment.

And those around me grew quiet and still.

“Just stop. It’s all my fault … I mean, it is I—I who has brought this unfortunate situation to fruition.”

Fran smacked her hand upon her alabaster forehead.

“What are you talking about, Polly?” Mr. Fisk asked, his arms still poised as if defending a blow.

“Surely Miss Penny knows who I am.”

“Of course. This is the girl who brought me the flowers and the pastry from Mr. Fisk.”

“But I never sent anyone—” Mr. Fisk broke in.

And all at once, all who were present became my attentive audience.

“Indeed, it was I,” I said. “Fearful, Mr. Fisk, of your involvement with this woman whom you have met on that computer, I persuaded your dearest daughter to allow me to find you a suitable, elegant, and beautiful woman, one worthy of your affections. Miss Lucy
Penny was the woman whom I found, and to whom you gave a lovely bouquet of flowers and a most delicious pastry.”

“So it wasn’t actually him who sent me the flowers?” Miss Penny asked.

With eyes downcast, I shook my head no.