Free Shadows of Doubt by Elizabeth Johns Page B

truly. He especially did not mind the delicious food she served at her table. But he had no intention of partaking of any of her four eligible daughters.
    “Mrs. Bradley.” He bowed regally. “To what do I owe the honour? You will excuse my appearance, I hope.”
    She fluttered her fan furiously and took her time averting her eyes from his drenched person. She was old enough to be his mother. He tried not to laugh.
    “Oh, Mr. Abbott.” She swatted him with her fan. “You and your British manners.”
    He thought to himself ungraciously that she was not so far removed from a harpy in a country ballroom.
    “We only just realized that Mr. Bradley had neglected to secure you for the church bazaar. It is my dear Jenny's birthday and it is her fondest wish that you dance with her.”
    He hoped that he had suppressed the groan that he felt. There was no way to refuse and not sound like a cad.
    “I came right over to fetch you when we realised our omission. There is also a pie contest and we need you to judge.” She smiled coquettishly at him.
    “How can I refuse? I will get dressed and be right over.” Dared he hope there was a whisky-judging contest?
    “I don't mind taking you in my carriage.”
    “That won't be necessary ma'am. I could not live with myself if I knew I’d caused you to miss any more of the bazaar.”
    “Oh, yes, indeed! You are so gentlemanly and thoughtful, Mr. Abbott.”
    He helped her back into the carriage, resisting the urge to shove. He waved and smiled as she drove away, and looked at his porch swing longingly.
    The bazaar was teeming with all the locals. He felt like a pig roasting on a spit when he walked in the door. He would give credit to his English counterparts, for they were for the most part superior in the art of subtlety. He immediately had a line of females asking him to dance. He considered himself open- minded, but this was beyond anything he had ever experienced.
    He was certain the last time he had visited it had not been so different .
    “Ah, Mr. Abbott, you have arrived at last.”  
    At last another man. “Good evening, Mr. Bradley.”
    “I see you've already discovered our backwards bazaar. Forgive my oversight and for sending the missus to fetch you. I was preoccupied with my pie.”
    Backwards was one polite way to put it. “Backwards, sir?”
    “We do it every year for a bit of fun. The men do the cooking, and the ladies ask the men to dance.”
    “You are very forward in your thinking, sir.”
    “Perhaps, but there is really no harm is there? Now you see why the ladies were so keen for your arrival. Can I get you a drink?”
    “Much obliged, sir.” Please keep them coming . He turned to face the crowd of hovering females and smiled.
    “Who's first?”

    Dearest Gwendolyn,

    I attended the ladies’ ‘backwards bazaar’ this evening. Bizarre does not begin to describe it. They have a night where the men cook, and the ladies ask the men to dance.   I hope they made good money for the children's benefit; I left with bruised feet and a cracked tooth. I will say of Mr. Bradley (he owns a neighbouring plantation) that he makes a delicious pecan pie (a nut that grows on trees here), but the other pies were a bit impossible to chew. I was bestowed the honour of judging duty. My neighbours are what we would call new money or, less graciously, cits.
    I believe I danced every dance. Mrs. Bradley saw to it that all four of her daughters were partnered with me. I cannot blame her entirely, for the unattached male crop is either overripe or under-picked. Speaking of crops, would you believe they distill rye whisky here? It is repulsive. I've almost convinced Mr. Bradley to convert to barley. They say George Washington was fond of whisky, and he had a proper Scot to run his distillery. He was, however, rather a stickler about moderation. Now you will be educated in all things important for your visit here. The house is almost ready for you to paint it. Your sketch was