What in the world is Cinco de Mayo? Eleanor wonders. It sounds somewhat Latinate, the language she’s had to study, along with her French, to maintain her status as a titled lady of noble birth, but, somehow, it’s not the same. She’s heard that in the surrounding villages, peasants are readying their small feasts and getting ready to dance in celebration. But, in celebration of what? Rumors of strange-sounding dishes have swirled about the castle. What, pray tell, could “refried beans,” “chiles rellenos,” “carne asada,” “enchiladas,” “salsa,” and “tamales” possibly be? They sound nothing at all like venison, pheasant, eel, or pigeon, or haddock. How could people eat such things?
Of course, Eleanor loves a celebration, so she wishes she could join in. ‘Twould be such a perfect pretext to invite that ever-so-handsome — though arrogant — Lord Hugh to Blystoke…and, who knows what might happen then? She blushes salsa-red.