Chapter 1
My dear Topper,
I hear tell you are bound for Sevastopol, which I understand gets ferociously cold in winter so I enclose with this letter some socks.
Well, a sock. More of a tube really, as I had no idea how to make the heel.
But it is in a very manly shade of lavender and I hope you can find a use for it.
Now I consider the artefact in question, it crosses my mind I may be some kind of hitherto unrecognised genius for it occurs to me that it could provide valuable insulation for a particular and intimate region.
I think I shall call it the Gentleman’s Muff, it will come in a range of tasteful colours to suit all tastes and inclinations, and perhaps I shall not have to marry an heiress after all.
The Season has come to its close and I am at last released from social bondage to be myself again.
I think I may seize my freedom and escape to Cambridge to see our brother.
I have barely spoken to him since the Regatta, which I think he only attended to please me in the first place, and I am half-convinced he has not left a library in the last year.
He grows paler than a ghost, though he does not seem discontent.
But then, he never does, does he? I cannot tell if that is his curse or his blessing, while we rail foolishly and flutter our wings like sparrows on birdlime.
The marquess, as usual, is not best pleased with me, for I made something of a spectacle of myself at Lady Cavendish’s fancy dress ball and some of the details got into the scandal rags and, really, far too much has been made of the matter.
It could have happened to anyone. You see, our father made the profound strategic error of leaving the matter of my attire in my own hands, which was such an unprecedented degree of liberty that it quite went to my head and, well, the long and the short of it is, that I resolved to attend dressed as a crocodile.
A feat that required an extraordinary unification ’twixt tailoring and engineering.
History in the making, old boy, history in the making.
And, honestly, it gave me more to think about than the rest of the Season taken end to end.
Since His Lordship does not permit me to distract myself with painting, I confess I sometimes fear some kind of private, soul-deep atrophy but my dear crocodile awakened me like Galatea.
I had such tremendous fun. I only wish you could have been there.
The ball was much as any other. They all said I was terribly original, but with that edge of censure in their voices.
The marquess was furious, naturally, but there was nothing he could do about it, not unless he wanted to shout between my teeth.
It made me wish I could wear a crocodile suit every day.
Eventually, he calmed down sufficiently to introduce me to some nabob’s daughter which was, of course, the whole point of the evening.
It is quite abominable of me, but I cannot recall her name, only that she was wearing a vast, pink concoction, with more tiers than our hostess’s chandeliers and as frighteningly wobblesome as a poorly prepared blancmange.
The newspapers later reported that it had no fewer than, oh I don’t know, eighty-seven thousand real diamonds sewn into it.
Completely lost for what to say to her other than “argh my eyes, my poor eyes,” I asked about her costume.
She suggested I guess and, not wanting to respond with “you have come dressed as a monstrosity,” I went with Marie Antoinette, which turned out not to be too far wrong, as she explained she was (wait for it, old boy) a shepherdess.
I then enquired if she herded golden fleece, a remark which endeared me to neither our father nor hers.
At this point, there was little left for our families to do but glare at each other in silence.
Given my crocodile (oh brave crocodile, crocodile the saviour) I was in no position to ask her to dance but, desperate for any escape route, I offered to bring her some lemonade.
This would, I am sure, have been terribly gallant of me but, in the awkwardness, I had quite forgotten my tail.
It had been quite the trickiest part of the whole operation, after the mouth, and I had been forced to rely on the reinforcement provided by a light steel girder.
I had the misfortune to catch the young lady shepherdess behind the knees and she had the misfortune to topple into the champagne fountain.
Of course, being a gentlemanly crocodile, I tried to go to her aid, but crocodiles do not flourish upon highly polished marble floors, so I went in also, taking with me two footmen and a dowager.
You see. It is as I said: it could have happened to anyone.
I am, once again, unworthy of the Montrose name, a blot on the escutcheon, a worthless son and a less than worthless heir.
But Cambridge will hold out her golden arms and welcome me.
And I will paint, I will paint until my heart is the blank canvas.
Come home soon, George, come home safely.
I miss you, and the world is waiting. As is your pretty Rosa with her summer golden hair.
Do not, please do not, you absolutely must not, fall upon some distant battlefield to sate our father’s damnable pride.
Live, dear brother, and I will too. We will both learn to live.
I remain your loving brother,
E.