Dizzy Dilemmas Read online

  Dizzy Dilemmas

  Mary Beeken

  Copyright © 2012 Mary Beeken

  All rights reserved.

  DEDICATION

  For Margaret Beeken

  For Matthew, Janice, Dylan and Lewis

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Many thanks to:-

  The ‘ladies that lunch’; Margaret, Sally, Michelle, Gill, Chris, Glenice,

  Liz and Sue.

  My family as always.

  Dizzy Dilemmas

  DEDICATION

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter One

  Taking a deep breath, Dizzy surveyed the overcrowded ballroom with some trepidation. Offering to fetch a glass of water for her grandmother and her crony had given her the perfect excuse to stretch her legs and to escape the matrons’ incessant chattering for a few precious moments. But now with a glass clutched in each hand, and a myriad of people between her and her goal, namely her grandmother and Lady Gosport who sat on the far side of the room, it no longer seemed at all sensible.

  “I will just take my time. I am perfectly capable of carrying two glasses; small ones at that,” she muttered to herself before taking her first step; a large confident step to set the tone for the rest of her journey.

  “Oomph!” Dizzy still watching the water gently swaying in the glasses as she had started to move, was completely startled and confounded by the hard wall that had unexpectedly appeared and halted her progress before she had truly gotten under way.

  “What in blazes…?” growled a deep voice somewhere above her bowed head. She surmised by the irritated tone, that the wall was not best pleased at having her plough into it.

  “I’m awfully sorry…” Dizzy began the automatic response that always sprang to her lips upon the all too frequent mishaps that occurred around her but today she was not to complete her utterance before she was interrupted, quite rudely too she concluded. Not interrupted with the usual disclaimer most people uttered, kindly acknowledging the fault as theirs even though everyone knew it was not their fault at all but hers. No, this time the wall was most decidedly not admitting to any fault at all or portraying the social niceties that demanded he brush off the collision with a small smile and gentle good humour.

  “I cannot believe the lengths you girls will go to in order to attract our attention! Dropped handkerchiefs, fainting fits, and turned ankles when we are nearby but pouring drinks over us at a ball is just going too far!” expostulated the wall.

  Dizzy’s head snapped up and glared at the obstacle in her path; a six feet, three inch obstacle with a handsome if somewhat autocratic visage at present sporting a scowl directed solely at her. For a split second she could fully empathize with the ladies who had swooned at his feet but good looks or no, he was insufferably rude and arrogant and that would not be borne.

  “To accuse me of pouring drinks on you on purpose just to attract your attention is outside of enough! It was obviously an accident. And why are you using the royal ‘we’ in that insufferable way? You must be so puffed up with your own self-importance to refer to yourself in the plural!” she retorted in an outraged manner, although keeping her voice quiet for she had no desire to attract the attention of anyone nearby.

  “I mean ‘we’ as in eligible men,” the wall responded in exasperation before sighing deeply and continuing “Obviously you are not going to admit to anything other than an accident but be warned, your scheming and wiles will not work on me.”

  “You came and stood in front of me just as I started to walk!” Dizzy exclaimed “So yes, you are right; it wasn’t an accident at all. It was your fault. I don’t know! What lengths you gentlemen will go to in order to harass us young ladies with your attentions!”

  “I assure you, I have absolutely no need to create ridiculous scenes to meet young women,” the wall responded with a smugness that made Dizzy grind her teeth in a most unladylike way. “Thanks to your antics, I shall have to go home and change,” he continued whilst she was still spluttering over which pithy reply to make. “It has left a rather awkward mark on my clothing.”

  Dizzy followed his gaze down to the patch of wet.

  “It is only water and will soon dry,” she exclaimed, whilst perusing the offending stain which marred the finely cut, buff coloured trousers. Her gaze lingered, noting how the quality material moulded itself so wonderfully to long, well-muscled thighs no doubt the result of many hours spent in equestrian pursuits. A quiet cough made her flush crimson and hastily she raised her eyes to those of her tormentor which were no longer annoyed but very much alight with amusement.

  “Precisely,” he said knowingly, making her blush even more. “A modest young maiden would definitely not be staring at that particular part of my anatomy!”

  “You obviously do not know many young maidens then!” Dizzy mumbled disdainfully.

  “I’m sorry. I am not sure I quite caught that,” he responded, although they both knew that he had caught it and heard quite correctly too.

  “Oh just go and stand behind a potted plant! I no longer wish to converse with you,” she snapped and began to turn away but was halted by his next words.

  “There, you see!” it was almost a crow. “‘I no longer wish to converse with you’ is an admittance of guilt. Go on confession, as they say, is good for the soul. Admit that you deliberately poured water on me to get yourself noticed. Tut, tut, tut. Such deviousness!”

  Dizzy studiously held his stare for a full ten seconds and then without averting her gaze she deliberately tipped a glass so the water cascaded down his cream waistcoat and dark blue jacket before enlarging the damp patch on his thighs.

  “That was on purpose! Can you discern the difference? Now you need not concern yourself that someone will think you have had a toileting accident!”

  Expecting an angry outburst as she stomped off, she was surprised to hear him laugh and somewhat chagrined when several people turned their heads to see what had caused such vocal amusement.

  “Oh, bitterballens!” she muttered.

  Marcus William St John Connaught, Seventh Duke of Glenmore watched as his adversary weaved her way through the crowds and noted how many people seemed to step well back when they saw her approaching. Many seemed to know her, going by the smiles and brief comments but at no point did she pause or detour on her route across the room, only stopping when she reached the seats opposite where two matrons promptly paused in their conversation as she joined them. Marcus continued to watch as one of the ladies took the proffered glass and peering into it with a puzzled frown, tipped it first one way and then the other before raising her shoulders in a miniscule shrug and drinking from it.

  “A trifle wet I see, Glenmore,” came an unfamiliar voice and turning, Marcus noted that an acquaintance from his university days had witnessed the whole drenching incident.

  “Lord Gideon Brockton is it not?” Marcus asked holding out his hand which was grasped in a firm handshake. “You saw that did you? How she expected me to believe that she had accidentally spilled the water, I will never know!”

  “Actually, old chap” drawled Lord Brockton “it was an accident. Oh not the second time. That was definitely deliberate but the first time was very much an accident.”

  “Oh come on, Brockton. No-one is that clumsy!”

  “She is,” he retorted.

  “And you know
this because…?”

  “She’s my sister. Dizzy has been incredibly clumsy since the day she was born!”

  “Her name is Dizzy? What sort of name is that pray? A good name for a cat I grant you, but a girl? Do not, I beg, tell me that your parents had some strange foresight of her awkwardness and named her accordingly for I shall not believe you.”

  “No. Of course not! I named her myself,” and receiving an enquiring look from the Duke of Glenmore continued, “I see I shall have to explain. Are you engaged for the next set or have you got half an hour spare, for it could take some time?”

  “You have my undivided attention,” Glenmore assured him, faintly interested.

  “Mothers as you know, like to boast about their progeny’s achievements, early to walk and talk and so forth and my mother, bless her, was no different. That is until it came to my youngest sister. Although she began talking much earlier that the rest of us, she never crawled and was nearly two before she walked. Mother was getting quite concerned but that was nothing at all compared to how she felt when my sister did eventually find her feet. She was so unbelievably clumsy. I do not exaggerate when I tell you that if she was walking through a wide open doorway, she would bump into the frame.”

  “Perhaps her eyesight is poor,” Glenmore interposed.

  “That conclusion was reached by my parents also” replied Brockton, “but after consulting the eye doctors they were told that her vision is perfect. By the time she was four, no-one considered it in any way odd when my mother had several duplicates made of all the family breakable heirlooms before having the originals packed away and placed in the loft where they have remained ever since. Dizzy, I should point out, is banned access to the loft.”

  “So you have established she was a walking accident. What about her name?” Glenmore prompted, his faint interest now turning into a mild curiosity.

  “I am getting to that. By the time she was seven everyone was used to her ways.” Brockton smiled at the memory. “She was a funny little thing; covered in bruises, hopeless at sporting activities but in winter could ice-skate better than anyone. Can you believe that?”

  “No, it is totally incomprehensible! But can we get to her name?” Glenmore’s mild curiosity was certainly piquing into something stronger.

  “Yes all in good time. One thing she was good at was making up stories. Played for hours with her little dolls, coming up with the most amazing plots, I can tell you. She used to record them all in picture form until she learnt her letters, that is. Then she would write reams and reams. Of-course her handwriting was, and still is for that matter, absolutely dreadful; totally indecipherable. Do you know I bet even our best cryptologists would be defeated by her scrawl?” Brockton observed.

  “Yes, they should have used her in the war effort! Might have proved counter-productive if our side were unable to decipher it, of-course. A minor issue, though, I’m sure. But what is her name?” Glenmore’s mild curiosity piquing into something stronger was now a fairly blatant curiosity.

  “Give me a chance! As for talking; it was incessant! Never any peace, you know. She always had so much to say, so many observations to make, endless questions to ask. Of-course we never listened to her; well you just couldn’t, I mean to say it was exhausting if you listened to a quarter of what she said, or even a fraction of it. She cottoned on to the fact that we all would just nod occasionally to appease her and give the impression that we were paying attention, so do you know what she did?” Brockton asked but continued before an answer could be proffered. “She started to ask us questions on what she had said. Tested us to see if we had listened! We always got found out then and her ‘you weren’t listening were you?’ was quite wrenching I can tell you. Her looking up at you with those big, blue eyes clouded with hurt. Made us all feel terribly guilty.”

  Glenmore debated bringing up the name issue again but there was something else he wanted to know first. “Did you start listening to her, then. If she made you feel bad?” Goodness knows why, but he felt bad! He needed to be reassured that the little, blue-eyed Dizzy didn’t remain hurt!”

  Brockton looked at him askance. “Good Lord, no! Haven’t I just told you it was impossible to keep up with her? That it was too exhausting? No we just got very good at foisting her onto strangers. They always tried desperately hard to listen and respond, especially those not used to children. After all, it is what politeness and good manners dictate, isn’t it? Pity they didn’t understand that it made her talk all the more; a captive audience and all that!”

  “Oh for goodness sake!” sighed the Duke. “Let’s just get on to her name!”

  “Her name; that’s what I am telling you, isn’t it? If you stopped interrupting I would get there quicker,” Brockton said. Taking a deep breath he continued. “Where was I? Oh yes. One day when she was about seven she was having a particularly clumsy day. Did I mention that when she gets tired she starts to limp quite badly and she somehow becomes even more ham-fisted than she normally is?”

  “No you hadn’t mentioned it” Glenmore’s teeth were almost clenched with frustration.

  “In that case….”

  “But let’s take it as read,” the Duke hastily interrupted before Brockton could go down another tangent. “I understand she limps when tired. Carry on. Her name?”

  “But it isn’t just a limp old boy, her leg aches terribly, causing her a great deal of discomfort and us a great deal of worry as we don’t know what she is going to drop; walk into; fall over; damage….”

  “Believe me, I fully understand,” the Duke exasperated interrupted again but this time he caught the twinkle in his companion’s eye and realised he was being deliberately baited.

  “Sorry Glenmore. I could not resist a little taunting. After all I must help my little sister in any way I can, no matter how small,” Brockton laughed.

  “Point taken, Brockton but can we now get back to her name,” good humouredly accepting the ribaldry.

  “Very well, I am ashamed to say I was a sullen, bad tempered teenager and one particularly bad day my sister’s clumsiness drew my ire and I was very cruel to her, which just meant she got even more awkward and gauche. As a family we had all gathered for breakfast and I thought it would be amusing to stick my foot out as she went past.”

  “Not the most gentlemanly of actions.”

  “No, I am not proud of what I did but as I said, I was a perfectly horrid teenager,” Brockton continued. “Predictably she went sprawling, but less predictably to an unthinking, irresponsible boy was what happened next. She crashed into the sideboard; where all the dishes were being kept warm, and slid right along the polished surface sending everything hurtling up and spraying various family members, before it all landed in an unholy mess on the floor. Pandemonium broke out, because even by Dizzy’s standards it was bad. What with Geneviève screaming that she was bleeding to death; though it turned out to be tomato sauce, and Mrs. Honey Dew slipping on the kippers, it was a full ten minutes before any semblance of order could be restored.

  “And what about Dizzy? Was she hurt?” Glenmore wanted to know.

  There was a slight pause before the answer came. “Yes she received several minor burns and one quite serious one. She still bears the scars today.” Another pause followed this statement, longer this time whilst each man weighed up the other. “Do you know, Glenmore, you are the first person to ever ask after Dizzy. Whenever I have told this story before, the recipients have always questioned my parent’s reaction, or wanted to know about the damage done, but never how poor Dizzy faired.”

  Brockton glanced over at his sister and caught her looking at him, a frown marring her pretty face. He could very well guess what was troubling her and so he grinned at her, turning her frown into a positive scowl.

  Glenmore had not missed the interchange between the siblings and said. “Your sister is not best pleased to see us conversing, is she? So if I just smile and wave I can push her vexation up a notch or two!” Upon Dizzy’s scowl
turning ferocious he added, “There! That is a more than satisfactory result!”

  “If I could just drag your attention away from Dizzy, Glenmore,” Brockton laughed, “I believe you wanted to hear about her name?”

  “Of-course I want to know her name. It has been an epic tale to get this far it would be foolish indeed to miss the end. Pray, at long last, please enlighten me.”

  “After the pandemonium, knowing I was going to be in serious trouble when it became known that I had purposefully tripped her, as well as being an obnoxious brat, I shouted that her name didn’t suit her and she ought to be called a Dizzy Disaster. She stood there with egg in her hair and her eyes shimmering with tears and looked at me with so much hurt and betrayal that I felt like a complete heel. I expected her to tell everyone that it was not her fault this time; that I had deliberately tripped her but she didn’t. If she had I was not so lost to propriety that I would have denied it and I would have been thrashed and rightly so; but she took it all on herself and saved my unworthy behind! From that day on I swore I would always champion my little sister, because for all her clumsiness and eccentricities she’s a real Trojan. ”

  “So from that day on she has been called Dizzy,” Glenmore stated.

  “My father sweetened it by saying that she wasn’t a dizzy disaster at all but his Dizzy Delight and that seemed to stick. It went from Dizzy Delight to Dizzy Dee and within a very short time everyone just called her Dizzy. Despite its unfortunate birth, it does suit her so much better that her given name.”

  “Which is?”

  “Ah I shall only tell you that if you come now and I will make a formal introduction,” Brockton said.

  “Oh no! I would be insane to go within twenty feet of your sister, thank you very much!” Glenmore expostulated. “Even a fool would think twice about approaching her after that first skirmish. I shall stay over here where it is safe. Or better still, I shall take her advice and stand behind a potted palm until I have quite dried off.”