Scones and Sensibility by Lindsay Eland

think I should at least get to see her. This is a big deal for me. You already have a mother, and I haven’t had one for three whole years.”
    “Say no more.” I lifted my hand out for her to join me. “See her you shall, Fran. But you must promise to allow me to do my work.”
    We started down the sidewalk. “All right.”
    I sighed and locked my arm through hers. “Today, dear Fran, is a most glorious day for you and your new motherly confidante.”

chapter eleven
In Which I Am Pursued by a
Secret Admirer and My Beloved Friend
Is Secured an Adoring Stepmother
    F ran and I made our way to the front of her house, passing by a small bed of lilies of the valley. The delicate white bells hung like drops of dew from the elegant green stalk, and I knew at once what I would do upon meeting Miss Penny in just a little under one hour.
    “Oh, they are darling,” I said, plucking a handful of the flowers and bringing them to my nose. “If I know Miss Penny, and I am sure I do, we being like-minded, she will adore this gesture from your father.”
    “But Polly, my dad didn’t really give her—”
    I placed a hand to her mouth. “
Tsk
, my dear Fran. Remember, you have vowed that you will not hinder the gift I seek to bequeath upon you and your father.”
    She shrugged her shoulders, and I scanned the beds of flowers. From the garden I chose a single delicate red rose to offset the purity of the white, as well as the small tiny flower that resembled frost on the ground from afar. Then removing the white ribbon from my own hair and wrapping it around the bouquet, I held the display out for Fran to gaze upon.
    “It’s pretty. But use this instead.” She held out a new bracelet she had completed.
    Indeed, though the bracelet was made with elegant pink thread, the ribbon was much more becoming. Yet I allowed her this gesture and smiled.
    “Very beautiful indeed, dear Fran.” I breathed in the scent of the bouquet. “But now we must make haste to the delicatessen or we may miss her entirely.”
    “Can I ride your bike? Mine’s still not fixed from when my dad ran over it with the car.”
    “But of course, Fran. I weep over your misfortune, for it is such a refreshing feeling to have the wind kiss your face and the blood rush through your veins from exertion.”
    “Oh, come on, Polly. It’s not that bad. Ooh, what’s this?” Fran pulled a wilted pink rose from the inside of my bike basket. Attached to the flower with black string was a stark blue piece of paper. “ ‘For PollyMadassa, the love of my life,’ ” Fran read aloud. “Polly, do you have a boyfriend you never told me about?”
    “Certainly not! I know nothing of a suitor except at this moment.” I took the rose, my heart rising at the thought of such romance, and opened the paper.
    The paper is blue
    And the rose is pink
    “He knows how to state the obvious,” I said. I coughed into my hand and continued, though the words did not improve.
    I love you forever
    Like a flower that stinks
.
    Fran let out quite an unattractive guffaw at the conclusion of the poorly written poem, if that indeed was what it was. “You do! You have an admirer!”
    I folded the small paper and placed both it and the flower back in the basket of my bicycle. “This,” I said, pointing to the paper, “this, you think, would excite me? Indeed, quite the contrary. I have been insulted to the utmost degree. If he is an admirer, he would be better off showing his affections to someone other than myself. The prince who shall come for me would never declare his love with a wilting rose and a poem with the word
stink
in it. Now come along, Fran. Wemust be about the business of real romance.” And with that, I started down the sidewalk, the heels of my sandals clicking on the cement in rhythm with the beating of my heart.
    It was indeed a wonderful thing to be pursued, though it was unfortunate my admirer was not a true gentleman, something that was first on a long list of