“Look! Here is the tea now. How lovely.” Mrs. Mortimer shifted on the sofa cushions, beaming at Dixon as she set down a new tray.
It was nearly impossible for Eva not to roll her eyes as she poured the woman a fresh cup and handed it over.
“Thank you, dear. Now, as Mrs. Quibble was saying, in the past you have elevated the fundraiser to one of the most well-attended social events of the season. I am loath to admit Miss Ellsworth hasn’t had quite the same success. Don’t get me wrong, she is a fine young woman, yet she does not own the same attention to detail you possess, so please say you will take the reins on this.”
Eva shook her head. “As I said, I have a lot to manage as is.”
“Oh, do say yes. The entire fate of the relief society hinges on this one evening.” Mrs. Mortimer’s lower lip quivered. With a great flourish, she produced a flowery handkerchief and clutched it to her chest.
Such dramatics. Overly so, actually, for despite Mrs. Mortimer’s distress, Eva would swear before a magistrate that she caught something calculating shining in the woman’s eyes, almost as if Mrs. Mortimer wanted to push her to the brink of overexertion. But that made no sense, not with the way she was always harping on her about being far too busy.
“At least consider it, Miss Inman,” said Mrs. Quibble.
Eva poured her own cup of tea. Planning a gala would be a welcome distraction to brooding over the unpaid tax bill and the endless waiting to hear about the relics sale. Honestly, though, it would be more than that. She had always found her charity work to be profoundly fulfilling. When she was helping others, she felt a sense of purpose and belonging that nothing else quite matched, as if she was making a real difference in the world—for she had been, leastwise to those in need.
She fortified herself with a stout swallow of black tea. “Can you tell me what Miss Ellsworth has accomplished thus far?”
“The Rosewood Assembly Hall has been reserved,” Mrs. Quibble answered. Mrs. Mortimer’s mouth was too full of toast now.
“And?” Eva asked.
“And what?”
An uneasy feeling settled like a layer of oil over the swallow of tea in her belly. “Have invitations been sent? Musicians held on retainer? A menu planned with a cook and serving staff hired? How about table linens and dishes, someone in charge of giving a speech, and take-home pamphlets ordered from the printer to remind the guests of what the whole occasion is about?”
“She didn’t say, exactly, but I do believe she left behind a list.”
“That is good. It would be impossible to know where to begin without that.”
Mrs. Mortimer clapped her hands together, twittering a squeal of delight. Crumbs flew past her lips. “I knew you were the right woman for the job, and I don’t mind telling you how much we have missed your attendance at the society meetings. It is so lovely to have you back.” She rose, beckoning for Mrs. Quibble. “Come along, Marian.”
“Wait a moment.” Eva stood as well. “I have not said yes yet. How many days remain until the gala?”
Worry marks traveled across Mrs. Quibble’s brow like tiny bird feet. “The event is slated for December seventh, so—”
“Eighteen days,” Mrs. Mortimer answered. “And I’m sure I needn’t remind you it is this occasion during which the relief society garners most of its funding for the entire year. If we do not hold the gala—or the affair is such that it leaves a bad taste in the mouths of donors—then I daresay the poor of Royston will suffer the most. None of us would want that on our conscience.”
Sweet heaven. The woman certainly knew how to go right to the jugular. But la! In the past Eva had started planning for the gala by the end of August, and here it was with November more than half spent. If she agreed, how in the world would she pull off a successful fundraiser in a little over two weeks? That would be more than a challenge. It would be impossible.
Mrs. Quibble reached for Eva’s hand. “Please, Miss Inman. You are the relief society’s one and only hope.”
Bram ducked—barely in time. An icy ball of snow whizzed past his ear and splatted against the cottage doorframe. Frozen flecks hit his cheek. Hoots and hollers rang out at his back.
“Did you get him?” Penny shouted.
“Not yet,” yelled Jonathan Barker.
Bram yanked open the door and slid inside, the distinct thwack of another snowball hitting the instant he shut it. Boys ... and a tomboy girl. Playful pups all.
He doffed his hat and shook off the ice crystals from the shot that had skimmed the top of his head.
“Well, well,” Uncle Pendleton called from across the room. “I see the lost sheep has returned to the fold at last.”
“I could not leave you and the fellows unattended for too long. Heaven knows what sort of tomfooleries the lot of you would get into—or are getting into, as is the case.” Bram dragged a chair over to his uncle’s bedside, the strong scent of a mustard-glazed ham hanging like a cloud above the man. “How are you?”
With only a slight wince, his uncle pushed up from the mattress, stationing himself higher on the mound of pillows behind him. “I find I am unable to shake the craving for Scotch eggs with mustard sauce, but other than that, thanks to Mrs. Pottinger’s poultice, my back is feeling much better.”
“Excellent. That is exactly what I wanted to hear, though I insist you continue to lay low until tomorrow. We won’t get much accomplished today, what with the snow, though with the sun shining so brightly, I expect it should mostly be gone by tomorrow.” Hopefully, at any rate. They could not afford any more delays.
