Ethel winced. “I fear I’m to blame for that. While enjoying lunch yesterday at the Newport Casino with Matilda, I became annoyed when Mrs. Wickham suggested to Tillie that Walter didn’t deserve the title of catch of the Season considering he couldn’t be bothered to enjoy all the festivities the Newport summer has to offer. That’s when I may have told Matilda, in an overly loud voice, that Walter was expected back today and that I had every hope his matchmaker was going to present him with a long list of suitable candidates for him to consider.”
“That explains why Tillie sought me out yesterday during Mrs. Livingston’s dinner, even though I’d been avoiding her because I’ve concluded she’s not a suitable match for Walter, what with her overly competitive and argumentative nature. She was all sweetness and smiles, and even went so far as toinsist I join her tomorrow at the Newport Casino for a friendly match of tennis.”
Ethel’s eyes widened. “Good heavens, dear, you didn’t tell her you’d play against her, did you? Surely you recall what happened to Cordelia Lowe and her unfortunate eye after she agreed to what I’m sure she thought was going to be a friendly afternoon on the court.”
“I couldn’t very well turn down Tillie’s invitation when I want to see if she’s going to make an attempt to annihilate me while we play, which would definitely take her off my list for Walter.” Gwendolyn shrugged. “Besides that, I enjoy a good game of tennis, although I haven’t played often. My cousin Catriona is an infrequent player at best, and since I spend most of my time in her company—when I don’t feel compelled to take on a temporary position because I need a respite from her—I don’t get to practice often.”
Ethel frowned. “You’re not a paid companion by trade, turned into an assistant matchmaker because of Mrs. Parker’s leg?”
“Oh, I’m a paid companion to my cousin, but there’s a whole story behind that. As I told your son, I thought it would be relaxing to spend a leisurely summer in Mrs. Parker’s employ. However, leisure seems to be nonexistent in Newport, what with the incessant round of frivolities offered every day. But that has nothing to do with this situation, one that may turn contentious if the ladies discover Walter’s not at Sea Haven to appreciate their generosity.”
“Given the dishes currently swimming in delicate cream sauce, he won’t be able to enjoy any of this because it’ll spoil before he returns on Friday,” Ethel said. “As for the ladies being unhappy, I’m not bothered about that in the least, becauseI’mput out with all of them.”
She nodded to a woman with gray hair pulled back in a severe knot and wearing an apron with flour on it. She was rolling outa pie crust on the only surface available in the far corner of the kitchen, the banging of the rolling pin suggesting the woman was in a temper. “Mrs. Boyle is now threatening to leave my employ. She’s the best cook I’ve ever had and has been with me for years.”
Mrs. Boyle stopped banging her rolling pin and lifted her head. “Too right I am considering leaving. My pride is damaged, perhaps beyond repair, and all because the summer residents of Newport evidently believe Mr. Townsend has a substandard cook, hence the reason for delivering all these meals to him.”
Gwendolyn moved closer to the cook. “We’ve not been introduced, Mrs. Boyle, but I’m Gwendolyn Brinley, Walter’s matchmaker. Allow me to put your mind at ease. I’ve been observing the young ladies responsible for what is clearly another fiasco, and take my word on this—your abilities in the kitchen have nothing to do with their decision to inundate Sea Haven with meals. This latest instance of shenanigans is merely a result of too many members of the society set longing to add a Townsend to their family tree.”
She lifted the lid off a beautiful serving dish that had terrapin soup inside it. After taking a whiff of what was certainly going to be a delicious dish, she returned the lid. “If anything, you should take the delivery of these meals as a sign you’ll be able to take the rest of the day off, since obviously you’re not going to need to prepare any meals today.”
“I can’t stop making the pies I was preparing for supper, and the rack of lamb is already basting in the ice chest.”
“It would be a shame if a marvelous rack of lamb went to waste,” Gwendolyn agreed.
“A crime is more like it,” Mrs. Boyle muttered, returning to her pie crust.
“But there’s no possibility we can eat all this food,” Ethel said. “Even if Walter were here, it’s too many dishes, whichleaves me with the dilemma of what we should do with it. I hate to chuck it into the refuse pile.”
“Terrapin should never be chucked into a refuse pile,” Mrs. Boyle said, abandoning her rolling pin again.
“Indeed, but I have no idea how to handle the madness that has swept into Sea Haven,” Ethel said before she nodded to Gwendolyn. “That’s why I’m relieved you’ve come to visit. You seem to have a very managing way about you. Any suggestions on how I should dispose of what is truly a feast of magnificent proportions?”
Gwendolyn began wandering around the kitchen, stopping when a thought sprang to mind. She turned to Ethel.
“Dare I hope you’re acquainted with Mr. Ward McAllister?”
Ethel arched a brow. “I’m a Knickerbocker, dear, as well as a Townsend.”
“I’ll take that as a yes, and also take that to mean you’re familiar with Mr. McAllister’s love of throwing spur-of-the-moment picnics at his Newport residence, Bayside Farm. I believe he’s always telling people he’s asked to “get up” a picnic several times during the Newport Season, something he apparently relishes doing.”
“He does savor entertaining at his farm, although he always makes certain everyone knows what a trial it can be, assigning everyone what dishes to bring for his picnics,” Ethel said.
Gwendolyn’s lips curved. “Then he’ll jump at the chance to not have to worry about that because you’ll be supplying all the food.”
“Rumor has it Mr. McAllister’s staff isn’t always pleased about all the extra work his spontaneous picnics involve,” Mrs. Boyle said, dusting her hands together. “But I’ll volunteer to help set up, as well as bring a few of our maids and footmen to help. It’ll be my pleasure because it’ll allow me to get my kitchen back and”—she directed a smile to Ethel—“it’ll put you in Mr. McAllister’s good graces, which may have him offeringto assist you with the final details for the ball you’re hosting in a few weeks.”
“You’re hosting a ball?” Gwendolyn asked.
Ethel nodded. “It’s a Townsend family tradition to host a ball in Newport. And if Ward McAllister agrees to help me, it’ll be one oftheballs of the Season.”
“Then may I suggest you get on your way to speak with Mr. McAllister?” Gwendolyn said. “I overheard him saying yesterday at Bailey’s Beach he planned to scour his farm for flowers today and then spend the rest of the morning arranging those flowers for Mrs. Astor, who apparently enjoys it when Ward sends her his arrangements.”
“Caroline does appreciate Ward fawning over her, but don’t tell him I said that.” Ethel settled her gaze on Gwendolyn. “Thank you, Miss Brinley, for your brilliant suggestion. I had a feeling you’d know what to do. Any thoughts on how I should explain why Walter isn’t in Newport when I said he was expected today?”
Gwendolyn shot a glance to the window, where weak sunlight was streaming through, and smiled. “Simply tell everyone, if you’re asked, he was delayed due to inclement weather, which could have very well been the case if he’d intended on returning today because it didn’t stop raining until I was on my way here. With that settled, while you resolve matters with Mr. McAllister, I’m going to spend time with the children.”
Curiosity flickered through Ethel’s eyes. “Because... ?”
