Molly by M.C. Beaton

of the street vendors, the fox-trots of the forties, and the shrill squeals of her friends of the Brooklyn playgrounds. Molly Maguire stood with a lump in her throat and the tears of homesickness rolling down her cheeks, unaware that Lady Fanny had risen to her feet and, instead of taking the salute, was waving merrily and shouting “coo-ee” to the ranks of startled Boy Scouts.
    Molly recovered just as the first scout mounted the platform to receive his prize. “James Benson,” she whispered in Lady Fanny’s ear. “Prize for tracking.”
    “Darling, darling, boy,” cooed Lady Fanny, stroking the startled Boy Scout’s arm. He was a tall, attractive-looking boy with an unruly thatch of thick brown hair. Lady Fanny’s hand had moved from his arm and was now tenderly ruffling James’s hair. “We won a prize for tracking, did we?” she murmured. “Such a dear, clever boy.” James Benson retreated hurriedly and almost fell down the steps. “Next!” shouted Lady Fanny with a joyful, predatory eye. There was an anxious rustling movement among the dignitaries. All was not well. Lady Fanny Holden, the model of upright behavior and strict discipline, was behaving very strangely indeed.
    Molly felt that she must do something, but Mary was already handing Lady Fanny the next prize and murmuring, “Joseph Willicombe, sports prize.”
    Joseph was the smallest of the scouts, with a face like a cherub. He had rosy cheeks and black curly hair and a surprisingly red and sensuous mouth for one so young.
    “My dear boy,” trilled Lady Fanny. “And you are our best at sports. And so small. Are you
small
, boy?”
    “Yes, my lady. Please, my lady,” said Joseph with wide-eyed wonder.
    “Marvelous,” breathed Lady Fanny, staring at Joseph’s red mouth. “Now, Joseph, you will give Lady Fanny a nice big kiss, won’t you?”
    The boy looked wildly around at his scout master for help but the scout master’s face was like wood. Lady Fanny swooped down and kissed the horribly embarrassed boy on the mouth.
    A ripple of shock ran through the crowd. Lady Ann Abbott gave tongue. “What’s the matter with you, Fanny?” she hissed.
    “Nothing,” said Lady Fanny, turning one pale, cold eye on her rival. “You’re just jealous because of my smart suit.” This was said in such accents of concentrated venom that the rest of the dignitaries could not find the courage to stop her ladyship. But Lady Fanny’s pink cloud had dwindled away, leaving her with a nagging ache behind the eyes and a sudden hatred of the whole world.
    A small, thin, cross-eyed scout was standing waiting. “Henry Beddings. Fire-making,” said Molly desperately.
    Lady Fanny stared down at the scout with hatred. “Fire-making!” she exclaimed bitterly.
    “Of all the stupid things to give a prize for. I know you. You’re the one who tried to set fire to my hedge last autumn. I’ll fire-make you, you little pyromaniac.” She tried to swipe Henry with his prize and missed. The boy scuttled down from the platform, and Lady Fanny threw his prize after him. Then suddenly feeling very weak, she collapsed into her chair and fell sound asleep.
    Molly realized that she must do something to save Lady Fanny’s reputation. She moved quickly to the front of the platform.
    “My lords, ladies, and gentlemen,” she cried. The unexpected American accents caught everyone’s attention. “Lady Holden is suffering from a very bad cough. She should have stayed in bed. But she is very conscious of her duty and took some very strong medicine so that she would be able to perform the prize-giving. The medicine is extremely strong and, as you can see, Lady Holden is suffering from its effects. It takes great dedication to duty and to the welfare of Hadsea to attempt to speak despite the influence of a strong drug. I suggest we give three hearty cheers for Lady Holden.”
    Molly had never looked more beautiful. The crowd, glad to have a little excitement, and the