Mr. Love: A Romantic Comedy by Sally Mason

bleeding in at the edge of drapes that are definitely not hers.
    Fighting back panic she decides she is dreaming and listens for the familiar morning sounds of East Devon.
    Birdsong, the trundle of the milk cart and the tolling of the church bell.
    But all she hears is a muffled, almost predatory roar.
    A sudden r ealization has Bitsy sitting bolt upright, throwing off the comforter and rushing to the window, tearing open the curtains to reveal the vertiginous view over Manhattan, with its traffic clogged streets so very far below.
    Panic takes hold and Bitsy battles for breath, turning away from the window, fumbling for the glass of water beside the bed.
    As she sips from the glass Daniel Quant’s gorgeously weathered face appears before her and he says in that deep, melodic voice: “In the midst of all the movement and chaos that is to come, keep stillness within you.”
    His presence, even though it’s a trick of her memory, is enough to calm Bitsy and remind her of her purpose: she is not here for herself.
    She is here to save the Quant Foundation.
    She will endure whatever hardships and privations are hurled at her to achieve her objective.
    Bitsy checks the time on the bedside clock: 7 :00 A.M.
    Still plenty of time to prepare herself before Jane Cooper arrives.
    Drawing on a robe, Bitsy goes through to the bathroom—a huge expanse of marble littered with gold fixtures.
    She brushes her teeth and then returns to the bedroom, wondering what she should wear today.
    It doesn’t matter, does it?
    She will be peeled of her unsuitable clothes—like her unsuitable name—and remade in the image of what these New York publishing gurus consider to be a successful author.
    How she longs for this to be over.
    To be back in Vermont, traveling up to Daniel’s farm.
    She imagines the moment when she hands over the first installment of the money that will keep the Quant Foundation alive.
    Imagines Daniel’s smile of gratitude.
    Smells the fresh, slightly cinnamony scent of his skin as he takes Bitsy into those powerful arms and holds her close, his lips finding hers.
    This absurd, almost sacrilegious, reverie is shattered by the doorbell.
    Who is this?
    It’s much too early for Jane Cooper.
    Bitsy crosses the vast sitting room, the buzzer shrieking again.
    “Who is it?” she says, standing by the closed door.
    “Son of Sam.”
    “Is that you, Gordon?”
    “Who else could it be, Bitsy?”
    She opens the door and sees her brother in corduroys and a tweed jacket, his hair still damp from the shower.
    “You’re up early,” she says.
    He pushes past her.
    “I just wanted to spend a bit of time with you, Bitsy. Brushing up on things.”
    “I need to meditate, Gordon. To center myself.”
    “Oh God, Bitsy, you have the rest of your life to gaze at the lint in your navel. We really need to run through things again, I don’t want any slip ups.”
    “Gordon,” the new Bitsy says, “please leave.”
    “What?”
    “Leave. Go. I want to be alone until Jane arrives.”
    He stares at her, mouth agape.
    “You’re serious?”
    She points at the corridor.
    “Go. Vamoose.”
    “ Vamoose ?”
    “Scat. Make yourself scarce.”
    He steps out of the door, his mouth still hanging open, and as Bitsy closes the door in his face she can’t quite smother a laugh.
    Maybe today isn’t going to be so bad, after all.
    Gosh, maybe it’s even going to be fun .

21
     
     
     
     
    Jane, sitting in the rear of a cab with Bitsy (she must get used to calling her Lizzie) is reminded of the pauper-to-princess fantasies she’d had as a kid.
    But those fantasies always cast Jane as the one who was transformed, never in the role of handmaiden to the reluctant princess-to-be.
    Watching Bitsy , who sits staring out at the crowded sidewalks with a look of barely concealed apprehension, Jane feels a twinge of sympathy for Gordon Rushworth.
    No matter how he may pretend otherwise, it can’t be anything but painful for him to watch his dull sister