“Hasn’t Lady Delphina said anything?”
“She left before she could arrange anything. But she sent the invitations some time ago, so that the guests didn’t make other commitments.
Oh. My. God.
“Are you saying that a hundred people are coming to Denby next Friday and there is nothing arranged?”
“A hundred and ten,” Lance corrects me.
“A hundred and ten people and nothing arranged?” I repeat, astonished.
He remains unperturbed. “This is why I’m giving you due notice.”
“And a week would be fucking notice, according to you?”
“Due, Your Grace. Due notice.” He doesn’t get my anxiety.
“Can’t we do the same as you did last year?” I ask, in panic.
“Last year the guests were entertained by the Canterbury Choir.”
“That’ll do! Let’s have them back!”
“The choir must be booked at least two months in advance,” Lance replies, unperturbed.
I stumble and my breathing becomes shallow.
“Do you feel well, Your Grace?”
“No, I don’t,” I say, shaking my head.
“Panic attack?” Lance has now learned to spot them.
“Yup.”
“Medicine?”
“Please,” I beg.
“Follow me to the kitchen,” he says, leading the way.
Five minutes later, I’m sitting on the kitchen worktop nibbling pink cotton candy. Warm, enveloping, sticky cotton candy cheers me up in no time. Whoever says tea is relaxing should try this!
“Your Grace, now that you feel better, you may evaluate some solutions for Friday.”
“A dance party?”
“What theme?” Asks Lance.
“Do you need a theme for a birthday party?” I ask.
“You need a theme for a dance party. And it should be communicated to the guests.”
“A dinner?” I give another go.
“Magnificent! A dinner dance!”
“Isn’t it a dance party, then?” I ask, confused.
