Rhymes with Love Collection #1 by Elizabeth Boyle

Author:Elizabeth Boyle
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: HarperCollins

Chapter 10

Do you ever make mischief? I know we agreed to live a sober, sensible life, but sometimes one must laugh.

Found in a letter from Miss Spooner to Mr. Dishforth

“Well, I think I have apologized for everything, save the entire Irish race,” Tabitha declared as she came into their room to change before supper. She shot Harriet and Daphne pointed glances. “It should be the two of you down there groveling.”

Harriet glanced up from where she was ensconced on the settee reading the latest Miss Darby novel. “Apologize for what?”

Daphne bit her lips together, but it was no use; she couldn’t hold back the laughter.

Which turned out to be doubly contagious.

Tabitha quickly shut the door and, leaning against it, began laughing until tears were running down her cheeks.

“Did you see her face?”

“That first bark! He did warn her.”

“Who would have thought her so fleet?”

“Or so vulgar?”

They all laughed again, this time falling onto the settee around Harriet and laughing until they could barely breathe.

Mr. Muggins sat at their feet, looking askance at each of them.

He saw nothing humorous in any of it. There had been feathers afoot, and as far as the Irish terrier was concerned, he’d saved them all from a fate most dire.

For the moment Miss Nashe had paraded out of the morning room with her prized costume, she’d been met by Mr. Muggins.

Now some might have seen that confection of green silk, French lace and dyed feathers as the most beautiful costume ever.

They, however, were not an Irish terrier with attitude.

It had taken Mr. Muggins about two seconds to decide that particular gown was a menace to Society.

Miss Nashe, who wasn’t about to relinquish her prize, found herself very quickly backed up against the opposite wall with the gown clutched to her bosom. Not even when faced with a half-mad dog would she release her hold on her prize.

Instead, her screams—sharp, shrieking tones that Lady Essex would later say were inherited from the gel’s fishwife forebears—had brought the entire house running.

Not that Mr. Muggins was going to let anyone near. Not when there were feathers afoot.

“That was a standoff for the history books,” Harriet declared.

Tabitha shook her head. “I still don’t see how she was able to make it nearly to the stairs before Mr. Muggins caught her.”

Mr. Muggins wasn’t the only one in the girls’ room looking askance over the entire scene. Daphne’s maid, Pansy, stood by the clothespress, her mouth set in disapproval over their unladylike display. She sniffed and went back to sorting out Daphne’s gowns.

Thus chastened, the trio of friends did their best to look remorseful, for certainly they would have to make it through dinner and the rest of the evening without falling into another case of the whoops.

“Oh, my goodness,” Tabitha exclaimed, bounding to her feet, “is that the time?”

Pansy glanced over at the mantel clock. “Yes, miss.” She then shot a pointed stare at her mistress, for the maid knew all too well how long it took Daphne to get dressed.

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