The Countess of Beefsbury

historical fiction

Lady McWhopper, Countess of Beefsbury, ran her hands over her upper sesame bun. It had tightened just a little since last week. Her baked goodness pressed against the top of her paper stomacher, offering the gentlemen of the court something to admire, and something for the ladies to scorn in window embrasures.

The time was right to announce; Beefsbury would have an heir.

“My lords,” said the Countess.

“I have joyous news. By God’s grace, I am with cheese.”

The Marquess of McDonaldonia was staring straight at her, her eyes lit at once with fire and ice.

“Curious. How do you account for your condition?” asked the Marquess. “It has been mooted that your lord husband remains unmanned since the death of the first Cun—Countess of Beefsbury.”

Lady McWhopper blanched, her hand gripping the stone around the mullioned window so tightly a drop of blood splashed the rushes below.

“One might ask how you do of an afternoon, and with whom,” the Marquess continued, the breading falling off the two filets pressed tight at her bosom. “Her majesty has noticed your absence from the embroidery circle. Everyone has. At the masque people spoke of nothing else.”

Battling fury and shame, Lady McWhopper’s composure broke.

“Then let it be known!” she panted, tears loosening sesame seeds so that they slid down her décolletage. “Think you I do not perceive my degradation? It was the Burger King. He promised I might have things my way, but then he . . he. . .had his way with me his way!”