Free The Passionate One by Connie Brockway Page B

whenever it
encountered the form of her darlin’ Rhiannon. More worrisome still, whenever
that same man was about, she saw a young woman not given to blushing turn the
color of a red sunset.
    But after hearing
that tone from sweet, biddable Rhiannon, she knew that to pursue the
conversation further was folly. She might be used to Rhiannon’s amenable ways,
but she’d also raised a strong-willed son. She recognized the obstinate set to
Rhiannon’s lips. It was only surprising that the willfulness most youngsters
experienced in adolescence had in Rhiannon’s case been so long delayed.
    “I have a list here
of the things that need doing,” she said in a neutral voice. “It’s going to be
rare busy here about. There’s the young people coming here tomorrow afternoon,
and Lady Harquist insists we attend her annual ball.” Edith sighed in
exasperation.
    Lady Harquist’s
husband had been made a baronet for his patriotism during the last Jacobite
uprising. He’d never actually fought in any battle, but he’d supplied the local
weavers with the free wool that was necessary to make uniforms for His
Majesty’s men.
    Lady Harquist—nee
Betty Lund—took her new position seriously. Thus each spring Fair Badden
society enjoyed its one and only ball. It was no accident that Lady Harquist
had set the date for her gala just before May Day.
    She wished to
contrast the rough-and-rowdy country entertainment with her own sophisticated
party. Fortunately, Lady Harquist never realized she alone thought that in a
contest between May Day and her ball, her ball prevailed.
    “Who’ll all be
there?”
    Edith glanced up at
the innocent tones. “Everyone. Including Mr. Merrick, if that’s what you’re
asking.”
    “Not at all!”
Rhiannon’s eyes widened. “You must try to overcome these prejudices.”
    “Hm.” Edith studied
the girl before turning her attention back to her list. “Then there’s all the
arrangements to be made for the wedding itself. Your dress isn’t even half done
and—”
    “Oh!”
    At the sound of
dismay Edith’s head shot up. Rhiannon scooted back and Stella’s head landed on
the ground with an audible thump. The dog cast an aggrieved look around and
promptly went back to sleep.
    “Hadn’t we best
make plans for the May Day first?” Rhiannon asked anxiously. “I mean, the
wedding isn’t until after—”
    “The day after May
Day.”
    “Yes. Well. Still
after.
There’s still much to do for Beltaine night. You promised we’d bring clover
wine and we haven’t even bottled it yet.”
    “There’s enough to
drink on Beltaine night without our adding to the general insobriety,” Edith
said virtuously.
    “Mayhaps, madame.”
Rhiannon smiled and Edith felt her virtuous mien slip in answer to the girl’s
wheedling ways. “But would you condemn our neighbors to the aching heads and
roiling bellies you know they’ll suffer if they’ve only The Ploughman’s vile
bran ale with which to celebrate the eve of May Day?”
    “Maybe they
shouldn’t drink so much.” Edith sniffed and colored, conscious that she might
have on one or two Beltaine nights imbibed a bit more than was seemly herself,
but unwilling to admit it to Rhiannon.
    “Ach, now, dear.”
Rhiannon reached over and tickled Edith under the chin, her smile
conspiratorial. “ ’Tis once a year we in Fair Badden have an excuse to play at
being varlets and laggards and buffoons. The rest of the year we’re too sober
by half. What’s a celebration without your good clover wine?”
    The girl was right.
Edith herself didn’t want to get, er,
festive
on The Ploughman’s
rotgut ale, and intend to get festive she did.
    “All right,
Rhiannon,” she capitulated with a grumble. “We’ll bring the clover wine but if
there were less celebrating on Beltaine night mayhap we mightn’t have so many
baptisms nine months hence.”
    It was true,
particularly amongst Fair Badden’s younger, farming population. The old custom
of young people