Bea crossed her arms and looked stonily at me. “You really do think that I hang about doing dressage all day.” She and Marj traded an amused glance. “You’re about to get rudely awakened.”

“If she can handle the Red Cross, she can handle you two,” Marj said. She put on her glasses. “Beatrix and I have already hashed out the logistics for the next several months of planning.”

“Logistics about the logistics,” I quipped.

“We’ll run point together until you leave, and then I’ll merely consult while Beatrix is in charge,” Marj said. “Once you’re home from what I’m certain will be a smashing success, I shall step away completely, and you’ll be all hers.”

“In other words, don’t muck this up, or else we will not have a pleasant beginning.” Bea leaned over and placed her hands on the desk. With her slicked-back hair and black pantsuit, she looked like a panther poised to spring upon its prey. “Is that clear?”

Nick and I raised our eyebrows at each other. As a friend, Bea’s loyalty was peerless and fierce. But almost any directive from Eleanor promised to be a vacation compared with being under the professional, official thumb of Lady Beatrix Larchmont-Kent-Smythe.

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FOUR

That is appalling.” Eleanor sat back in her armchair in disgust. Her pewter topknot bobbled. “Does that man need an eye exam? That pitch clearly painted the corner.”

I bit back a smile. “Are you having fun yet?” I asked.

“There’s an awful lot of spitting and adjusting oneself,” she said.

“I did warn you,” I said.

“Yes, well, you were also correct that a proper game is very diverting,” Eleanor allowed. “I particularly like the players who pull their socks up over their trousers. It’s jaunty.”

True to her word, Eleanor had spent the last ten weeks having me explain the rules of baseball. Our lessons had started off rocky; I hadn’t realized how weird baseball is until I had to dive into the nitty-gritty with a person who felt the need to interrogate absolutely everything.

“Are you telling me,” Eleanor had said irritably, “that you pitch the ball, but you can also pitch a ball, and they mean different things?”

“Yes,” I said. “You’ll get used to it.”

“It’s nonsensical,” Eleanor said. “They need to call it something else. A fault, like tennis. Or a miss.”

“Okay, but a missed swing is already a miss,” I said.

“A ball is already a ball,” she fired back. “Ludicrous.”