He knew he shouldn’t inquire, but he just could not stop himself. “Fire?”
“At home,” she confirmed. “What if Pleinsworth House burned to the ground while we are here in Berkshire? My life’s work, lost.”
Elizabeth snorted. “If Pleinsworth House burns to the ground, I assure you that we will have far bigger worries than the loss of your scribblings.”
“I fear hail myself,” Frances announced. “And locusts.”
“Have you ever read one of your cousin’s plays?” Miss Wynter asked innocently.
Daniel shook his head.
“They’re rather like this conversation, actually,” she said, and then, while he was absorbing that, she turned to her charges and announced, “Good news, everyone! Today, instead of Julius Caesar, we will study one of Harriet’s plays.”
“Study?” Elizabeth asked, all horror.
“Read from,” Miss Wynter corrected. She turned to Harriet. “You may choose which one.”
“Oh, my heavens, that will be difficult.” Harriet set down her fork and placed a hand over her heart as she thought, her fingers spread like a lopsided starfish.
“Not the one with the frog,” Frances said forcefully. “Because you know I will have to be the frog.”
“You’re a very good frog,” Miss Wynter said supportively.
Daniel kept quiet, watching the exchange with interest. And dread.
“Nevertheless,” Frances said with a sniff.
“Don’t worry, Frances,” Harriet said, giving her hand a pat, “we won’t perform The Marsh of the Frogs. I wrote that years ago. My recent work is much more nuanced.”
“How far along are you on the one about Henry VIII?” Miss Wynter asked.
“A yen to have your head lopped off?” Daniel murmured. “She did want to cast you as Anne Boleyn, didn’t she?”
“It’s not ready,” Harriet said. “I have to revise the first act.”
“I told her it needs a unicorn,” said Frances.
Daniel kept his eyes on the girls but leaned toward Miss Wynter. “Am I going to have to be a unicorn?”
“If you’re lucky.”
He whipped his head around to face her. “What does that m—”
“Harriet!” she called out. “We really must choose a play.”
“Very well,” Harriet said, sitting up exceptionally tall in her seat. “I think we should perform . . .”
Chapter Ten
“The Strange, Sad Tragedy of Lord Finstead???????”
Daniel’s reaction could best be summed up in two words: Oh and no.
“The ending is really quite hopeful,” Harriet told him.
His expression, which he was fairly certain hovered somewhere between stunned and aghast, added dubious to its repertoire. “You have the word tragedy in the title.”
Harriet frowned. “I might have to change that.”
“I don’t think it’s going to work very well as The Strange, Sad Comedy,” Frances said.
“No, no,” Harriet mused, “I’d have to rework it completely.”
“But Finstead,” Daniel persisted. “Really?”
Harriet looked up at him. “Do you think it sounds too fishy?”
Whatever mirth Miss Wynter had been holding onto burst out in a spray of eggs and bacon. “Oh!” she exclaimed, and really, it was difficult to summon any sympathy for her plight. “I’m sorry, oh, that was rude. But—” She might have meant to say more. Daniel couldn’t tell; her laughter got hold of her again, cutting off all intelligible speech.
“It’s a good thing you’re wearing yellow,” Elizabeth said to Frances.
Frances glanced down at her bodice, shrugged, then lightly brushed herself off with her serviette.
“Too bad the fabric doesn’t have little sprigs of red flowers,” Elizabeth added. “The bacon, you know.” She turned to Daniel as if waiting for some sort of confirmation, but he wanted no part of any conversation that included partially digested airborne bacon, so he turned to Miss Wynter and said:
“Help me. Please?”
She gave him an abashed nod （but not nearly so abashed as she ought） and turned to Harriet. “I think that Lord Winstead refers to the rhyming qualities of the title.”
Harriet blinked a few times. “It doesn’t rhyme.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” Elizabeth burst out. “Finstead Winstead?”
Harriet’s gasp very nearly sucked the air from the room. “I never noticed!” she exclaimed.