Bath Scandal by Joan Smith Page A

drinking sherry for her cooking. Deborah had added two teaspoons of salt to the bottle, to insure that it was used for cooking and not for purposes of debauchery. She had told Cook that in future she must use only the cheap sherry for cooking, etc. Demmed interfering of Deborah! What the devil had she been doing at the house when he was away?
    “Not bad news, I hope?” Bea inquired.
    “Merely a domestic crisis. Deborah handled it.”
    “Which of the servants has she had a fight with now?” Gillie asked.
    “Don’t be impertinent,” he said curtly, and rammed the letter into his pocket.
    Gillie fastened a demanding pair of eyes on her brother. “I hope it wasn’t Abe or Elmer.”
    “Of course it wasn’t a groom. What would Deborah be doing in the stable?”
    “I wonder what she was doing at the house,” Gillie continued, then answered her own question. “Cook’s birthday! I expect you gave her Armitage’s birthday envelope to deliver.”
    In the confusion of his unplanned trip, Southam had forgotten this minor domestic celebration. He doubted Deborah had remembered it, either, but he knew now why the footman had been taking the bottle of sherry. The servants would have their own little celebration for Armitage. The sherry incident must have put a fine crimp in it. He’d have to apologize to Armitage. He’d send her a little something extra for her birthday and ask her to have the dismissed footman recalled. Deborah was only trying to be helpful, of course, but at times her help could be a demmed nuisance.
    “Exactly,” Southam said.
    It was obvious to the meanest intelligence that he was lying, and that he was upset.
    Before Gillie caused any further deterioration in her brother’s mood, Bea changed the subject by calling for sherry. “You will observe, if you please, that I have taught your savage sister to sip her sherry without wincing,” she said, handing Southam a glass. “She demanded ale the evening she arrived.”
    “I still prefer it,” Gillie said, but she said it with a smile.
    The conversation turned to their holiday and continued on that subject through dinner. To push Gillie into the proper frame of mind, Bea said casually, “Sir Harold Whitehead and his mama called on me this afternoon. She mentioned that Mrs. McIvor hired a pianist for her dinner party. That would be to allow the youngsters to dance this evening, to throw Tannie and Miss Althea together.”
    “And she didn’t invite me!” Gillie said, not angry, but slightly miffed.
    As Bea knew perfectly well that the entertainment was to be a concert and doubted very much that either Duncan or Tannie would attend, she tried to smooth it over. “I believe she had her guest list made up a week ago. No doubt the dancing was a last-minute thing, when she learned Tannie was to attend.”
    Southam was more interested to hear that Sir Harold had been allowed to call, when he himself had been turned out. “I trust Sir Harold and his mama did not remain long enough to delay your packing for Bournemouth,” he said.
    “Only long enough to invite me to a card party tomorrow evening, which I, of course, was obliged to decline. I gauged their reaction closely when I explained the reason. You will be happy to learn, Southam, you are considered completely harmless. No eyebrows rose—well, not more than an inch or so. Sir Harold harrumphed in displeasure, at which point I hastily inserted that Miss Pittfield would accompany us.”
    Southam was obliged, by Gillie’s presence, to hear this slight in silence. “Where is Miss Pittfield?” he inquired. “I have not seen her since my arrival.”
    “She dines with us when we are at home alone,” Bea explained. “She tells me she does not dine with company at Elmland. She seems to consider you company, Southam. She insisted on eating with the housekeeper this evening.”
    “Miss Pittfield came to us as a governess years ago. We consider her part of the family, but she stands high on her