Scones and Sensibility Read online

  It was upon a bright spring morn when she was but a young lady of eleven that the elegant Ms. Lindsay Eland decided that, indeed, she wanted to become a published authoress. And so, to this very day, you may find her at her desk, quill in hand, penning novels, tending to her family—including her four charming young children and dashing husband—watering the verge, taking care of her various small mammal companions, and sipping delicately on an iced mocha latte in her small cottage deep in the heart of Breckenridge, Colorado. You may visit her online at www.lindsayeland.com.

  After three years and two months, Mr. Fisk was ready to love once more. And it was time for Fran to find a mother. Time for Clementine to have a gentleman upon her arm, and time for Miss Wiskerton to have her own Mr. Darcy.

  Actually, it was time for me to intervene in these matters.

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  EGMONT

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  First published by Egmont USA, 2010

  This paperback edition published by Egmont USA, 2011

  443 Park Avenue South, Suite 806

  New York, NY 10016

  Copyright © Lindsay Eland, 2010

  All rights reserved

  1 3 5 7 9 8 6 4 2

  www.egmontusa.com • www.lindsayeland.com

  THE LIBRARY OF CONGRESS HAS CATALOGED THE HARDCOVER EDITION AS FOLLOWS:

  Eland, Lindsay.

  Scones and sensibility / Lindsay Eland.

  p. cm.

  Summary: In a small New Jersey beach town, twelve-year-old Polly Madassa, who speaks like a character in her two favorite novels, “Pride and Prejudice” and “Anne of Green Gables,” spends the summer making deliveries for her parents’ bakery and playing matchmaker, with disastrous results.

  (reinforced library binding) [1. Dating services—Fiction. 2. Humorous stories.] I. Title.

  PZ7.E355Sc 2009

  [Fic]—dc22

  2009018118

  eISBN: 978-1-60684-483-0

  CPSIA tracking label information:

  Random House Production • 1745 Broadway • New York, NY 10019

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publisher and copyright owner.

  v3.1

  To my kiddos: Gracie, Isaac, Ella Jane, and Noah,

  who make every day a dream come true.

  And always, to John, who is my own Gilbert Blythe,

  my real life Mr. Darcy, and the love of my life.

  Contents

  About the Author

  Other Egmont USA Books You May Enjoy

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  chapter one

  In Which My Family Is Introduced and I Contemplate the Less-Than-Desirable Traits of My Dear Sisters Boyfriend

  chapter two

  In Which I Act as Patroness of the Bakery and I Suspect Discontent in My Bosom Friend

  chapter three

  In Which I Deliver Dog Bones to a Vile Dog and Come to the Aid of My Bosom Friends

  chapter four

  In Which I Am Assured of My Friends’ Loneliness and Have an Unfortunate Incident with Raspberry Cordial

  chapter five

  In Which I Am Burdened by a Job

  chapter six

  In Which Love Is in the Making and I Hear a Suspicious Noise

  chapter seven

  In Which Fran Gives Me More Distressing News

  chapter eight

  In Which I Meet Clementine’s One True Love

  chapter nine

  In Which I Feel the Weight of My Chosen Task

  chapter ten

  In Which I Deliver a Croissant, Meet the Woman of Mr. Fisk’s Dreams, and Fall into a Delightful Swoon at My Accomplishment

  chapter eleven

  In Which I Am Pursued by a Secret Admirer and My Beloved Friend Is Secured an Adoring Stepmother

  chapter twelve

  In Which Mr. Nightquist Is Burdened by an Unappetizing Tuna Casserole

  chapter thirteen

  In Which Dearest Clementine Is Filled with Sorrow, I Am Threatened, and I Take Matters into My Own Delicate Hands

  chapter fourteen

  In Which My Day Continues to Get Better Moment by Moment

  chapter fifteen

  In Which I Find Myself Held Captive by a Tree, and Horrible, Unromantic Clint Interferes Once More

  chapter sixteen

  In Which Things Go Slightly Awry and I Am Pursued Further

  chapter seventeen

  In Which Terror Strikes Fran’s Home and My Suitor Calls … Again

  chapter eighteen

  In Which I Find Another Suitable Woman for My Bosom Friend and Devise a Plan to Save My Dearest Sister.

  chapter nineteen

  In Which Bradley Continues to Court Me and I Acquire Edwards Help

  chapter twenty

  In Which Mrs. Miller Is Greatly Changed and Clementines Heart Is Hardened Toward Me

  chapter twenty-one

  In Which I Am Shunned, Ashamed, and Filled with Utter Despair

  chapter twenty-two

  In Which I Am. Shunned Once More

  chapter twenty-three

  In Which I Fall into the Sea and Am Plagued with Scarlet Fever, Consumption, or Some Other Rare and Deadly Disease

  chapter twenty-four

  In Which I Seek to Make Amends with My Dearest Sister.

  chapter twenty-five

  In Which I Seek to Make Amends with My Bosom Friend and Her Father

  epilogue:

  In Which I End My Tale

  Acknowlegments

  chapter one

  In Which My Family Is Introduced and

  I Contemplate the Less-Than-Desirable

  Traits of My Dear Sister’s Boyfriend

  It was upon turning the last delicate page of my leather-bound copy of Pride and Prejudice that my transformation into a delicate lady of quality was complete.

  Indeed, I had always been a romantic, and those dearest to me—my parents, whose love was like that in a fairy tale; my elder sister, Clementine; and my bosom friend, Fran Fisk, who I have known since preschool—can attest to this fact.

  Tea parties with cucumber sandwiches had been my activity of choice since I was but a child of five. Most of my clothing from the time I took a breath in this world bore lace and ruffles (except during the unfortunate camping trip where I was forced into cutoff jeans and a tank top that bore the word WHASSUP?).

  And in the fourth grade, after reading Anne of Green Gables, I formed a club with my dearest Fran and for months we reenacted the scenes from that most beloved book. But Fran was not nearly as entranced by the story as I was and became tired of watching me float down the river on her hot-pink raft whispering the verses to “The Lady of Shalott.”

  But we were friends born for each other’s confidence and no amount of Lady of Shalott could tear us asunder.

  So I do not think that Fran was surprised when I finished Pride and Prejudice just three months ago and announced that I would no longer remain a material girl living in a material world, but would rather grasp on to the skirts of those elegant women before me and become at once a young lady of impeccable breeding, diction, and manner.

  Thus it was, as I reclined in my bedroom contemplating these things, that I wa
s suddenly overcome with the summer’s brilliance and glory. The air was thick and sweet like a newly blossomed hydrangea, and the smell of the salt water hanging on to the breeze like clothes pinned delicately on a line was intoxicating.

  On most summer morns I woke to the enticing aromas of fresh-baked bagels, pastries, and croissants. My parents, my sister, and I lived above our quaint bakery (what could be more romantic?!) just a stroll away from the boardwalk and the wild open sea.

  I will say it once more: on most mornings.

  As I sat up on that first day of summer, however, I knew my dearest elder sister had been in charge of the baking because the scent of burnt sugar swept under my door and overtook the breeze that blew in gentle and calm from my open window.

  From below she stirred up a batter of cusswords that caused me to blush. It was definitely not the way any lady should behave, but my sister was a modern sixteen-year-old, whereas I, as my parents often stated, had become a “twelve-year-old, nineteenth-century girl trapped in the twenty-first century.”

  And of this, I assure you, I am most proud.

  A gray stream of smoke poured under my doorway. “One,” I counted, slipping out of my white linen nightgown and putting on my favorite summer dress—the one with the blue gingham pattern and the delicate ruffles along the collar. “Two.” I heard Mama’s soft footsteps coming from her room as she made her way down the stairwell. “Three,” I said, just as the smoke alarm went off and another string of profanity wafted along with the smoke up through the grate and into my bedroom.

  The burnt pastries and muffins, the charred bagels and breads. It was all inevitable when Clementine worked the morning bake shift, so I knew there was no reason for alarm. Instead, I exited my room with the white embroidered handkerchief my bosom friend Fran had given me for my birthday pressed against my nose. The smoke alarm blared above my head, so I delicately stepped up onto the stool I kept close for occasions such as these and waved my handkerchief back and forth until the abominable beeping ceased.

  “This stupid oven burns everything!” I heard Clementine lament from below. “Everything!”

  I sighed. My dear sister and I were but four years apart, but the distance seemed to have grown between us since she had reached the ripe age of sixteen. In our younger years, the two of us, our windblown curls streaming behind us, would spend hours together during the long, sun-kissed summers. Indeed, our beloved pastimes included: collecting seashells together, embarking on bicycle rides down to the local corner store, and spending the rainy days creating dainty bracelets and necklaces or improving our artistic eye with painting and drawing.

  I lingered on the stairs, sighing over these memories. Indeed, I wished that once more the two of us would be entwined in sisterly affection and she would cease the habits that had become increasingly irritating as of late. Habits such as speaking for hours on the telephone with any number of boys (note that I do not call them gentlemen) and listening to blaring music much too loud for the entire household to bear, let alone for her to hear my remarks on propriety. And never having any time for the sister she had both loved and adored since birth.

  Downstairs, Mama comforted Clementine, her tan arm wrapped around my sister’s shoulders, which were splattered with flour and powdered sugar.

  Papa walked in through the door with a bouquet of wildflowers in his hands.

  “What’s all this?” he asked, cradling my mother to his broad chest and kissing her lightly on the forehead. I walked over and hugged him around the waist and he gave me a small kiss on my alabaster cheek.

  Clementine threw up her hands. “I’ve burnt the dumb pumpkin loaves again, that’s what all this is!” A pout formed on her lips. Though self-control was not her strong point, and her temper was often painful to watch, her brow did curve downward in a very graceful arc when she was angered. I often attempted the same look in my mirror, but it never looked quite as regal. “And I told Clint to come by ’cause they’re his favorite. Now what’ll I give him?” I bit my tongue to stop the words that pushed to come out. Clint was my sister’s newest boyfriend and one I heartily disapproved of.

  His looks were pleasing to the eye, but beyond that his appeal lessened considerably. Not only had he made my lovely sister weep on numerous occasions, but never once had he given her flowers, opened her door, or given her any other tokens of affection that a woman desires from a suitor. He was a bore in my opinion and not nearly deserving of my darling sister. He insisted on referring to me as “Pol” and refused to allow me to join them on any of their evening walks, even though I could practically feel my sister’s desperate yearning for me to join them pulsing in the air. He also insisted on addressing my parents by their given names: Judy (though her real name is Judith) and Sam (though his real name is Samuel).

  I had desired the end of their connection practically before it commenced. Indeed, I often wished that I could find a more suitable beau for my dear Clementine. And seeing as I had such extensive knowledge on the subject of love and romance from my reading of Jane Austen, I was quite willing and prepared for the task.

  The idea had merit, and I tucked it away for further contemplation.

  “Not to worry, Clemmy,” Papa said, taking the scorched loaves to the counter and wrapping each loaf in plastic wrap. “We’ll sell them for a dollar each like we do the day-olds. We Madassas can fix anything. As for Clint, I bet he’d love one of our giant blueberry muffins.”

  The blackened loaves sat like large bricks in the wicker basket. In my opinion, it would have been better if they were completely incinerated in the oven rather than served to the waiting public. Really, I had no idea why Mama and Papa had given Clementine the task to begin with. “Your sister needs more responsibility, and besides we need the help during the busy summer season” is all Papa said when I had asked him the reason. But it didn’t seem like things were busy enough to plunge the family business into financial hardship by letting Clementine attempt the morning baking. When I expressed this to him on another occasion, he replied, “You’re being overly dramatic, Polly.”

  Of course, I had nothing against my beloved sister—I loved her dearly as my own flesh and blood—but when you do not have a gift for baking, why force the matter?

  “I know just how to soothe a disturbed and distressed spirit, my dearest sister. Come along and we shall frolic together among the salty waves of the sea! We shall bask in the sun’s lovely rays,” I said, reaching for her hand.

  But Clementine turned toward me, her hands on her hips, with quite an exasperated look upon her face. “You’re kidding, right, Polly? I don’t have time for stupid stuff like that, especially when I burnt the stupid pumpkin bread and now I have to give Clint a stupid blueberry muffin.”

  My spirit sank low at her harsh choice of words, and hot tears threatened to cascade down my cheeks. “Well, you don’t have to be so mean about it,” I snapped back. “I was just trying to help. You’re never any fun anymore!”

  Mama wrapped her arms around me. “Thanks for trying, Polly. But it’s not you, really, it’s just … everything right now.”

  Clementine tore off her apron in a manner most unbecoming of a girl her age and flopped onto a nearby chair. “Stupid, stupid, stupid,” she huffed most indignantly.

  I smiled at my mother and attempted to arch my eyebrows in disapproval of my sister’s behavior, but she had already turned her back on me and was busily lamenting the tragedies of the blackened bricks of bread, adding “stupid” to most every noun in her sentence.

  So instead of lingering, I made my way into our small but sufficient family kitchen. There were day-old raspberry croissants sitting on the counter and I picked one up, nibbling the end as daintily as I imagined Miss Elizabeth Bennet would do. Now if only there was a bit of needlework about that needed to be completed—then I would be even more like that enchanting heroine.

  But since there was none, I sighed, “Ah, me,” and gazed out the window at the early-morning sun peeking its golden ey
e into the kitchen and kissing me with its tender rays. I closed my eyes and lifted my face to the heavens. Its beams soothed my recently rumpled spirit. “Indeed I know of no one that could not be at ease with the sun casting its smile upon the earth.”

  I slipped out the front door, hoping to go quite unnoticed by my family since this wondrous morning should not be spent in a bakery, no matter how quaint and romantic the bakery was.

  I sat myself upon the lush grass and leaned back to face the bright blue sky. There, I closed my eyes and imagined I was a wealthy maiden cast out of her family’s castle for falling in love with a stableboy named Free-drick (for I much preferred this pronunciation to the ordinary Fredrick). Here, in the Meadow of Wandering Dreams, he was to meet me.

  “But what is taking him so long?” I wondered aloud.

  The screen door creaked open behind me and I heard Clementine’s voice. “Polly, what are you doing?”

  I sat up and turned to her. “Oh Clementine, I am just soaking in the rays of love and life!” I stood up and reached out my hand. “Will you not take a turn with me out in the sunshine?” I twirled my way toward her, my dress billowing out around me like flower petals.

  She rolled her eyes. “Polly, you’re acting ridiculous. And you better come and help me or Mom’ll have your head. The morning rush is starting and you’re out here blabbering on about God knows what.”