Chapter 32 - Dahlia #2
It appeared that he was as uncertain how to regain control of the conversation as Dahlia was. Chickens, indeed! Dahlia suspected William was completely aware of what an utterly boring topic it was.
William forged onward. "It's true. Our first attempts at a chicken coop were a terrible failure, though perhaps the sailors didn't see it as such—we had roast chicken the first half of our trip."
Lord Pearson blinked as if he didn’t know what to do with this information.
“However,” William continued, "once we figured out that the native chickens do better in the heat of the tropics, we were able to have eggs along our journey."
"An impressive feat indeed, as chickens only lay eggs when they are comfortable," Dahlia found herself saying, even though she had determined not say a single word to help the bizarre conversation along.
"Exactly." William snapped his fingers. "One can bring a chicken most anywhere, but that doesn't mean it'll be happy enough to lay an egg. You must give it the right surroundings. Safety is paramount, of course. Comfort, food, shelter from the elements, and a little diversion."
“I had no idea so much went into it.”
"Makes you look at your omelette a little differently.”
“Indeed.”
“You know," William said, tilting his head, "in some ways, I think that chickens are much like noble ladies."
Dahlia set her teacup upon her saucer with a sharp clink. If William noticed her narrowed eyes, he didn't let on.
"In what way?" Lord Pearson’s mouth twisted with a slightly fascinated disgust.
"Because one might provide all of the necessities, and it still might not be enough to produce happiness. There is a hierarchy of needs. Security is the most important, but that’s just the bare minimum." His eyes bored into Dahlia's, and she frowned at him.
"I confess this is the most bizarre conversation I've ever been a part of as of late," Lord Pearson said.
William shrugged and flicked the fingers on one hand upward.
"Admittedly, chicken knowledge is not common knowledge.
Of the three of us, only two have intimate knowledge of chickens.
Though I would wager that ratio of chicken knowledge is highly uncommon in the nobility.
You could search every house between here and Hampstead, and there wouldn't be this ratio of chicken knowledge found in any other parlor. "
Stop saying chicken knowledge, Dahlia wanted to blurt. Instead, she said, "Go back to the part where chickens are like noble ladies."
There was a slight edge to her tone, and both the gentlemen heard it. Mara shifted against the far wall, drawing Dahlia's eyes. The maid's eyes were wide, as if she were more shocked by this conversation than any of them.
"You didn’t make your point," Dahlia added. "I'd like to see you flounder some more."
Lord Pearson chuckled as if Dahlia were joking good-naturedly.
Nothing could be further from the truth. If William had such little respect for ladies that he’d compare them to chickens, then it was no wonder that he’d been careless with Dahlia’s feelings.
Something like soft understanding flickered across William's face.
It was there and gone in a moment. Lord Pearson was turning his teacup so that the floral pattern matched perfectly between the saucer and cup; he didn't see it, but Dahlia did.
If it was meant to soften her towards him, it had the opposite effect.
She sat straighter, waiting, her face implacable.
"Because chickens are mysterious creatures.
" William leaned forward, dropping one foot firmly to the floor and propping his elbows on his knees, staring at her earnestly.
"One might put a dozen chickens into a coop, and eleven of them are happy with the bare minimum—food, shelter, water, clean air.
And yet, number twelve isn't satisfied. Number twelve looks around and decides that she wants more, that she deserves more.
It's much like ladies, you see. Many ladies are satisfied with the bare minimum—security, provision, a husband who doesn't mistreat them, a nice home.
But there's always the one who’s just a bit pickier. "
There was no mistaking the expression on William's face, but Dahlia found she didn’t dare name it, in order to better protect herself. However, his meaning was exceedingly clear, at least to her.
"It does no good to have elevated expectations if they cannot be met," she snapped.
He smiled as if he'd won something and leaned back, all casual grace once more.
"On the contrary," he said. "Those chickens, the picky ones, the ones who realize that the whole entire cage setup is a dupe, those are the ones who eventually lay the most delicious eggs."
"I say, this is highly improper." Lord Pearson blinked.
"I agree." Dahlia sniffed. "Ladies do not lay eggs, after all."
"Don't be daft," William said easily. "It's a metaphor, of course. The egg is the life that a lady gives you."
"Gives who?" Lord Pearson frowned.
"Her husband, of course. Her family."
“You mean children?”
“No, I mean what the lady herself adds.”
Lord Pearson looked befuddled. Dahlia pretended as if the crux of William’s message hadn’t landed, that she found him to be an insufferable bore. The truth was, she had understood, and his words had a ring of truth to them.
“The trouble is,” William said, "you never know which one is going to be picky until you get to know them a bit."
"The picky chicken?" Dahlia raised her eyebrows.
"The special chicken."
"Once you do find out, what do you do?"
"You figure out what she truly wants, and you do everything in your power to give it to her."
William's gaze was heavy and languid on the side of Dahlia's face. She sipped her tea and pretended not to notice, but she might as well have tried to ignore his warm hand cradling her cheek. It was useless to pretend he wasn't staring at her.
Lord Pearson's eyes flicked back and forth between William and Dahlia several times. Thankfully, at that moment, Rachel charged back through the archway, Reginald perched on her shoulder.
"Apologies for my long absence," she said. "Reginald simply wouldn't come down from the top of my wardrobe. He's made a nest of ribbons up there, you see."
Lord Pearson glanced up. He jolted, his teacup clattering, brown liquid spilling and sloshing over the rim of the saucer.
"Apologies." He righted himself and swatted at the front of his suit.
"None needed," William said easily. "Some people don’t have a strong enough constitution to deal with birds."