Free A Sense of Entitlement by Anna Loan-Wilsey Page A

coachman deliver them. That way you’ll be free until the party”—my heart leaped at the words and then sank as she finished her sentence—“to help Mrs. Crankshaw in any way that she deems appropriate. This party must be a success! You know you are my eyes and ears downstairs today.”
    “Yes, ma’am.”
    “Good. I knew I could rely on you.” And with that I was dismissed.

C HAPTER 8
    U nder a brilliant blue sky and with the ocean as a backdrop, the scene of the party was a riot of texture, color, and fragrance. I had never seen anything like it and, if Mrs. Mayhew’s vision was realized, nor had anyone else. On the green expanse of sloping lawn, two dozen white canopy tents, vines curling about their posts, fluttered gently in the breeze. Under their shade, tables and chairs had been brought from inside and decorated as if they too were part of the garden, vines curled around chair and table legs while long stems of multicolored hollyhocks had been interwoven into the backs of the chairs and graced the tables in a variety of centerpieces. Enormous white wooden planters containing towering topiaries in whimsical shapes of deer, rabbits, and birds, including a peacock with real feathers, dotted the lawn. Six actual peacocks strutted about where they pleased, as did Bonaparte the cat. The last time I saw Bonaparte, he was stalking one of the unsuspecting birds under table number twelve. A wooden platform equipped with a grand piano, surrounded on three sides by white wooden trellises overflowing with violet wisteria, marked the stage where the music recital would take place. And everywhere were white rose petals, from Mrs. Mayhew’s prize rose garden, strewn about so liberally that every step released their subtle scent.
    Mrs. Crankshaw, when I had offered my services, had been at a loss to find something for me to do. And then Mr. Brandt, the florist, arrived. I spent most of the morning, to my delight, assisting Mr. Brandt in weaving the vines and arranging centerpieces. With the soothing sound of the ocean, the warm sun, and the fragrant flowers I couldn’t have asked for a more pleasant way to spend a summer morning. And to think I’d been worrying Mrs. Crankshaw would’ve had me folding napkins in the Servants’ Hall or doing some such dreary work. When Mr. Brandt was satisfied that all was done to his specifications, I set out to finish my own work. With the silverware, all engraved with an elaborate M, glinting in the sun, I set a place card above each china dessert plate, painted with climbing vines of wisteria, purchased exclusively for this party. I was almost finished when I read the name on the card again, Mrs. Julia Grice .
    Could it be?
    I had wondered from the moment I deciphered the new guest names Mrs. Mayhew had given me. Along with Mrs. Grice I’d been pleasantly surprised to read the names of Mrs. Oliver Fry and Miss Elizabeth Shaw, known to me as Miss Lucy and Miss Lizzie, the lovely elderly sisters I’d met in Eureka Springs last fall. I didn’t doubt for a moment that I knew these two ladies. They were two of a kind. Besides, they only wintered in Eureka Springs and called New Haven, Connecticut, home. Yet Miss Lizzie, in our continued correspondence, had never mentioned that she and her sister would be in Newport. I couldn’t wait to see them.
    I finished setting out the place cards. As I began to double-check my work with the names on the seating map in my hand, Mrs. Mayhew arrived outside to survey the progress. Maids and footmen alike had been pressed into service decorating and setting up the tables under the direction of Mr. Davies. Ignoring Mrs. Mayhew, I rechecked Miss Lizzie’s and Miss Lucy’s place cards. The name that came next was Mrs. Julia Grice. As with every time I’d seen the name, it brought Walter to mind. Could it be a relation? But here I was seating Mrs. Grice next to Miss Lizzie. The coincidence struck me as extraordinary, but before I had time to think of