Oh, what a tangled web we weave,
When first we practice to deceive.
Scott recognized the irony in the remembered required reading from his third year at Harvard as he stared at the revised stack of romance letters in the middle of Kinsey’s bed.
A stanza, often credited to William Shakespeare, had, in fact, been penned by Sir Walter Scott in his historical romance poem Marmion: A Tale of Flodden Field. The verse referenced acts of deception spiraling out of control - the first trickery being that of a forged correspondence.
“Having second thoughts, big brother?”
“Maybe.”
Johnny crossed his arms and pondered the pile of envelopes. “Must admit, I’m kind of proud of mine.”
“As you should be.”
“Not to mention the fine handwriting.”
“Goes without saying.”
“Be a shame to waste all that talent.”
Scott’s mischievous grin crossed off lingering doubts regarding The Old Switcheroo as he placed Miss Providence’s Green River Gazette announcement on Kinsey’s pillow. “Agreed.”
Composing the new letters had taken longer than anticipated, but the effort had been well worth it. On various stationery, disguised penmanship wrote scenarios which would send any women’s rights supporter into a frothy fit or an embarrassed blush. For authenticity, red wax sealed the envelopes housing the more sophisticated queries.
Scott’s response to his cousin’s latest caper also required careful consideration. A lack of scowling disapproval would be out of character and raise suspicion. The logical decision seemed obvious. Kinsey would discover the tied bundle and Gazette during Scott’s day-long absence, thus giving the young lady enough knowledge she’d been caught and plenty of time to fret over the ramifications.
Estimating the Stockton visitors would return home by mid-morning, the brothers headed out soon after the sun winked at another day. Hours passed with thorough inspections of fence lines, meticulous repairs to breaks, a cooling dip at Martin’s Lake and forty winks caught in the shade of a hospitable oak tree. As shadows lengthened, both men agreed Miss Providence had experienced adequate hand wringing.
Seeking the perfect setting, an impromptu checker game commenced to wait out Kinsey’s arrival.
“How long do you think before Half-pint shows herself?” Johnny’s finger slid his black checker to an empty square.
Scott studied the board. “Not long.” A red checker advanced in a countermove. “I’d say in the next three minutes.”
“Nah.” Johnny’s eyes glinted in sibling competition. “Longer.”
“A Sitting Liberty will prove you wrong.”
A black checker repositioned. “Bet.”
“Scott, where have you been all day?” The young lady’s entrance possessed an undercurrent of apprehension.
Scott smiled. He had to admit, his little cousin had impeccable timing. An open palm patiently waited for the loser’s fifty-cent piece.
“Damn.” Johnny dug in his pocket to fish out a coin.
Kinsey held out the stack of envelopes in one hand and the Green River Gazette in the other. “I had good intentions to discuss this with you.”
“Oh?” Scott crossed his arms and blessed Miss Providence with his version of Winnie’s evil eye. “Discussions usually take place before decisions.” A finger pointed to the held paper, evidence defining guilt. “I would say that ship has sailed. And need I remind you what path good intentions pave?”
“That won’t be necessary, thank you. I’m well aware misunderstanding paves the path of good intentions but eventually leads us to the road of forgiveness.”
Johnny wiped his hand across his mouth to quash a grin.
“To Hell.” Scott’s stern persona hung by a hair. “Good intentions pave the path to Hell.”
“A proper young female avoids the use of expressions glorifying profanity or off-color remarks.” Kinsey validated her statement. “The Ladies’ Book of Etiquette and Manual of Politeness. Chapter twelve. Page fifty-two.”
“I see.” A wave of regret for buying his cousin’s etiquette book necessitated a heavy sigh. “Chapter twelve. Page fifty-two. Noted.”
“Honestly, Scott, my desire all along was to first ask for your blessing but William Jenkins selfishly published this article prematurely and then thoughtlessly surrendered these letters to you when they’re inarguably addressed to me.”
“Will Jenkins.” Since the current discussion had cost him a fifty-cent piece, Johnny felt entitled to get his money’s worth. “Darlin’, does your foot have a desire to say hello to that man’s shin for another go ‘round? Or maybe you miss Val’s jail cell. Want to hang up some pretty yellow curtains there and stay a spell? It’s the only reasons I can think of why you’d want to get hooked up with Jenkins again.”
Kinsey’s head slowly turned toward the conversation’s latest contributor - drilling down her own rendition of Winifred McLoughlin’s evil eye into the middle of his forehead. “I am not hooked up, John. You make me sound like a horse pulling a wagon.”
“I was thinkin’ more along the lines of a mule.
Scott gestured a nod toward Johnny. “Compelling observations, brother. I agree.”
“That I’m a mule?” Indignation stepped up to the table.
“Yes, Freckles. And the fact you’re involved with Will Jenkins.”
“I am not involved.” Kinsey examined the twine bow on the bundle of envelopes. “It’s a business agreement between two mature adults.”
“Right” Scott rose and presented his empty chair with a pointing index finger. “Sit.”
Tossed letters and newspaper landed on the checkerboard. Game over. Kinsey sat down and smoothed out her skirt. “Is this going to be a lecture?”
“It has the makings of one unless you can convince me otherwise.” Standing behind the self-appointed romance advisor, Scott placed his hands on the back of her chair and requested assistance. “Johnny, please inform me of any eye-rolling my little cousin may foolishly give.”
With legs stretched out, Johnny crossed his ankles, laced his fingers behind his head and leaned back wearing an attentive smirk. From his appearance, a passer-by would guess the dark-haired man anticipated a comedic one-act play or, better yet, a lively boxing match.
Adopting the tone of a strict boarding school professor, Scott began. “Kinsey. I think it’s safe to say I am deeply disappointed in your unwise choice to meddle in other people’s affairs and -”
“This is not meddling!” Indignation took a seat.
“Kinsey, I wasn’t finished.”
Providing a visual aid, Miss Providence picked up the bundle of envelopes and waved it. “Scott, this is not meddling. Pointing out your indiscretion to court the McGuire twins simultaneously -”
“Kinsey.”
“And calling it the stupidest decision one man could possibly make during his stay on God’s green earth was meddling. Telling Johnny to stop stuffing Leticia’s bread in his mouth until he looks like a tick ready to pop is meddling.”
The Eye Roll Sentry sat upright. “Hold it right there, Half-pint.”
“Seriously, John. You’re not impressing Miss Lopez with massive consumptions of her culinary expertise.” The stack of writings from lonely hearts took another flap in the air. “These poor lost souls are reaching out for help before they drown in the sea of romance. I’m not meddling. I’m steering them to a safe harbor.” Kinsey delicately returned the envelopes to the checkerboard and neatly folded her hands in her lap.
Johnny’s eyes, which had followed the descent of the Miss Providence letters to their resting place, slowly gazed upward to meet his brother’s. “I’m not takin’ too kindly to her tick remark, Boston.”
Scott pinched the bridge of his nose to squelch the grin that had plagued his brother earlier. “Kinsey, I appreciate your compassion for the lost and lonely, but my concern that you’re opening a can of worms here outweighs my admiration. However ” - an imaginary fishing line cast into the sea of romance - “I believe we can reach a compromise.”
“Compromise?”
The expected nibble. Scott’s smile traveled over Kinsey’s head to reach the bread lover. “I will permit you to pursue this latest venture if, and only if, Johnny and I are present at the opening of these letters so we may oversee your responses.”
“You call that a compromise?”
“Compared to locking you in your room and pitching the key down yonder well? Yes.”
Johnny assumed his previous relaxed posture of a spectator. “Let’s add an apology for calling me a tick to that compromise.”
“Well, it appears I have no choice but to accept your terms.” Kinsey fluttered her eyes in mock sincerity. “I apologize, John. It was childish of me to call you a tick when you so aptly displayed the likeness of a puffed up bullfrog.”
********
Scott raised an eyebrow when his cousin produced a convenient box of flowery pink stationary - never opened and clearly a planned Stockton purchase. A tug on the twine bow sent letters scattering to occupy the tabletop where the checkerboard once rested. With Johnny seated at her side, Scott viewed the proceedings over Kinsey’s shoulder.
A silver letter opener deftly sliced open the top of the envelope to reveal its contents. Clearing her throat, Green River’s Romance Advisor read her first query.
Dear Miss Providence,
The need to enlighten created a pause. “Gentlemen, did you know the word providence means divine guidance and care?”
Johnny grinned. “I met a gal once in a border town -”
“Of course, you did, John. May I continue?” Kinsey’s pursed lips didn’t require an answer.
Dear Miss Providence,
I suffer from a predicament I’m sure other men are cursed with. Any help you can give to fix this problem will be much obliged.
My wife churns butter.
A young lady’s eyebrow raised.
I ain’t saying that’s wrong. A wife should churn butter when she’s not washing clothes, sweeping floors, milking cows, or cooking supper. What’s a man supposed to put on his biscuits if his wife ain’t churning butter?
But, by God, a woman should have enough sense in the head not to churn butter in the presence of her husband before the sun sets. That motion gets my desire for the carnal act all stirred up and the evening food comes late to the table.
So my question is how can I tell my wife to hold off on the churning until after I eat? I don’t want her to have one of those female fits and stop churning all together. As I said, I do like my biscuits buttered.
Butter-churned Husband
Listening to his literary contribution to the world of lonely hearts settled a satisfied grin on Scott’s face. The first of many courtesy of The Old Switcheroo.
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