“Oui, Madame.” Therese reluctantly left the window and followed the head housekeeper up the servants’ staircase to the dining room where the rest of the servants were already assembled.

Therese stood alongside Nora. Scanning the anxious faces around her, Therese wondered if some of them were about to be fired. It could be a hundred other things, of course, but that was what was on each of their minds. She could see it in the darting eyes and bitten lips of her coworkers.

Mrs. Howard held a newspaper over her head. It was the Sussex Courier. “As some of you may already know,” she began, “Master Wesley has just returned home. On his journey back to Sussex, he came across a newspaper publishing thinly disguised satires about the Darlington Family.”

Mrs. Howard put down the paper and waited until the buzz of shocked murmurs had subsided. “Master Wesley believes that this embarrassment to the Darlingtons contains information that could only be gleaned by someone living at Wentworth Hall. And since it targets the family, it is most probably a member of the serving staff.”

“Do you really think it could be one of us?” Grace asked, personally affronted.

“I think there’s a distinct possibility,” Mrs. Howard confirmed, anger flashing in her eyes. “And if that is so, I find it very sad indeed. The Darlingtons have always treated the staff here at Wentworth Hall with the utmost respect and consideration. If any one of you has been so ungrateful as to…”

Mrs. Howard’s remaining words were lost as once more the din of excited speculation filled the room. “Quiet! Quiet, please,” Mrs. Howard insisted. “This would be an opportune moment for the author of these satires to confess.”

Therese waited along with the rest of the staff for someone to speak up. The truth was, it could have been any of them. She’d heard any number of the maids making fun of the Darlingtons. She herself had laughed along.

Minutes passed but no one stepped forward. When next Mrs. Howard spoke, she kept her gaze on Therese. “If no one admits to this egregious breach of privacy, we may all lose our jobs. Do you really think the Darlingtons will tolerate being made laughingstocks by someone in their own household?”

Others on the staff noticed that Therese was being singled out and turned toward her. Therese could feel the burn of embarrassment flushing her cheeks. “I do not know who did this, but it was most certainly not me,” she felt compelled to defend herself. “For one thing, I have never learned to write in English.”

“If you ask me,” Nora spoke up, “that Jessica Fitzhugh is a likely suspect. She’s always making disparaging remarks about the Darlingtons, as if she thinks she’s too good for them.”

“Miss Fitzhugh is one of those lampooned in the satires,” Mrs. Howard pointed out.

“I’ve read them,” Nora argued. “I saw the paper on Lady Darlington’s vanity and couldn’t help but glance at it since it was very clear that whatever it was had upset her ladyship; and if you ask me, Jessica Fitzhugh—and Teddy Fitzhugh, for that matter—get off very lightly. Nothing is mocked about him, and the worst thing that’s said of Jessica is that she wears too much jewelry. She probably stuck that in there just so she wouldn’t look guilty.”

“She is always writing in that funny red notebook,” Helen put in.

“And it must be hard to write with her nose up in the air like that all the time,” added Grace.

“But why would she do such a thing?” Rose protested. “She has no need for the money.”

“Maybe she’s jealous,” Nora suggested.

“She’ll soon have much more money than the Darlingtons,” Rose said. “Why should she be jealous of them?”

“Maybe because the Darlingtons are a family and all she has is that aggravating brother of hers, Teddy,” Nora argued.

“She doesn’t seem to think he’s annoying,” Grace pointed out. “Those twins dote on each other.”

“There is no sense indulging in idle and pointless speculation,” Mrs. Howard spoke loudly. “Whoever is responsible for this will confess within the week or it is my firm belief that the Darlingtons will do the only thing they can do—replace the entire staff. You are dismissed. Please return promptly to your duties.”

Despite Mrs. Howard urging that they get back to work, the staff milled about in the dining room discussing the newspaper satires. “No one is getting the sack over this,” Nora told Grace, Helen, and Therese with confidence. “Who are they going to replace us with? How many others are willing to work for little more than room and board like we get here? Not many, I can tell you that.”

“But that’s all the more reason why a person might want to make extra money on the side by selling a funny story to a newspaper,” Therese pointed out.

“There are other ways to make extra besides embarrassing the Darlingtons,” Nora objected.

Mrs. Howard came by, clapping her hands sharply. “Back to work, all of you.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Helen spoke for all of them.

As they dispersed Therese came alongside Nora. “Selling articles might get you your tearoom faster,” she said.

Nora whirled on her, clearly offended. “I told you. I take in sewing,” she said, speaking in a confidential whisper. “Are you accusing me?”

“I am not accusing anyone,” Therese insisted.

“Well I don’t believe you can’t write in English. You can certainly read it,” Nora said, giving Therese a pointed look.

The solicitor’s letter. “Reading and writing are not the same,” Therese said.

“Hmm,” Nora replied. “And how did you learn English in France, anyway?”

“My mother taught me. She lived in England for a time,” Therese said. “Think, dear Nora, it wasn’t me. I have nowhere to go. Why would I risk a warm bed and food in my stomach for a few pounds?”

“I still say it’s that Jessica,” Nora muttered as they headed out of the room.

“You will lose your position for certain if you wrongly accuse one of the Fitzhughs,” Therese pointed out.

“You’re right,” Nora agreed. “But I might just plant the idea in Lila’s head.”

“How would you do that?” Therese asked.

“I have my ways,” Nora said with assurance.

THE SUSSEX COURIER THE FURTHER ADVENTURES OF … THE WORTHLESS SAGA Another rib-tickling installment of our
popular ongoing new series “Wild Stallions in the Ballroom”

What was the scene like at a recent country dance attended by those ever-entertaining Worthless sisters? Our spies tell us it was quite the crush!


Doodles and Snobby Worthless stood in the ballroom of their dilapidated and now empty estate, Faded Glory Manor. They concocted ball gowns by ripping down the peeling wallpaper and folding them into dresses. “It doesn’t matter that Father has sold all our possessions, Doodles,” Snobby told her sister. “By throwing this ball we will find husbands with fabulous fortunes. They will heap jewels on us and restore Faded Glory Manor to its former grandeur.”


“Who has been invited?” asked Doodles.


“All our friends and neighbors! Here are some of our friends now,” Snobby cried. “Welcome, neighbors. Do come in.”


A troop of local shepherds in muddy boots marched in. “Thanks for the invite. Where’s the grub?” says one.


“Grub?” Snobby inquired, confused.


“The food we were promised,” another farmer reminded her.


“Oh, that,” Snobby simpered. “It’s on its way.”


“It better come soon,” another farmer grumbled.


Snobby caught sight of a more suitable guest coming into the ballroom and hurried toward him. “It’s Duke Oldenfat,” she trilled with delight.


The duke, who is a hundred if he’s a day, grinned and winked at Snobby. “So nice of you to invite me, my dear. You know how I’ve admired you from afar.”


“Not that far,” Snobby reminded him. “You sit under my window and recite bawdy limericks.”


“Ah, yes. You once inspired me,” the duke agreed. He squared his shoulders as he prepared to recite. “There was a young woman from Dorset who would let me remove her—”


“That will be enough of that,” Snobby interrupted.


“Hey, where’s the food?” yelled one of the farmers.


“Coming,” Snobby told him. “Doodles, dear, would you go see if you can scrap up something to eat around here,” Snobby requested. When Doodles didn’t answer, Snobby realized that with her sister’s propensity for blending into the background she would never find her now that she’d been literally dressed in wallpaper.


“Food!” another farmer shouted. “You promised us food!”


“Put a sock in it!” Snobby bellowed back. Turning back to Duke Oldenfat she smiled graciously because she knew that he could be an excellent source of funding and at his age wouldn’t last long. Snobby dreams of the day when she would be a Merry Widow.


“Did you like the poem?” Duke Oldenfat asked, drool spilling from his lips as he looked at Snobby with unabashed lechery.


“Utterly divine,” Snobby crooned. Wanting to hurry things along, she took the sides of her dress and yanked them suggestively down so her skinny shoulders were exposed. “Here, duke, sniff me for a while,” she said leaning close to the old duke. “Tell me if you like my perfume.”


The duke held his nose.


“You don’t love it?” Snobby asked, aghast.


“Frankly my dear, everything about you has started to stink. How long do you think you can toy with my affections? You’re young enough to be my daughter and I no longer think it would be fun to have a spoiled brat running around my lavish estate.” He bowed deeply, and the effort he expended brought on a coughing fit.


“But Duke, I could tend to you in your dotage,” Snobby insisted, solicitously helping him stand straight.


“Sorry, young lady. I retract my offer. I bid you adieu.” The duke stormed off, leaving Snobby there to watch him leave. “Oh, who cares about you, you old coot?!” she shouted after him. “I still have Richard, who adores me, and he’s richer than you.”


“Did you say I adore you?”


Snobby whirls around to see Richard behind her. “Of course you do,” Snobby replied with confidence. “Time is running short. When shall we marry?”


“To be honest, Snobby, time is not running short,” Richard replied.


“It’s not?” Snobby questioned.


“No. It’s run out.”


“Run out?!” Snobby cried, shocked. “What do you mean? You adore me!”


“Alas, once I did. But now I have my inheritance and I see that… well, that…” Richard hesitated, momentarily at a loss for words. “There’s no other way to say it, Snobby: I’m just too good for you.”


Lord Worthless enters, dragging a chandelier behind him. “Who is too good?” he inquired.


“Daddy, Richard thinks he’s too good for me now that he is fabulously wealthy,” Snobby explained, running to her father’s side.


“Well, of course he is,” Lord Worthless confirmed. “Everyone is too good for us these days.”