Chapter 1 #2
Hetty opened her mouth, then promptly closed it again, as there were simply too many points of concern to address at once and not nearly enough headache powder in the house.
There was a clatter of footsteps as Lottie strode into the room.
Without hesitation, she seized the hen, lifting it aloft like a victorious gladiator.
The bird shrieked its disapproval, but Lottie, unmoved, gripped it with the same ease one might employ when removing an irate house cat from a chair. “There! The problem has been solved.”
Charlotte Tolliver, aged six-and-ten, was the third daughter and had not yet been presented to Society – a decision their mother maintained was strategic, though most understood it to be a matter of sheer survival.
With five daughters to launch and the eldest still unwed, Lady Tolliver had deemed it ‘utter madness’ to attempt more than one debut at a time, particularly when one of them preferred tree-climbing to curtsying and routinely appeared at luncheon bearing grass stains and scratched elbows.
Lottie’s gown, though respectable in principle, appeared to have come through a hedge, and her hair was confined in a crooked plait that showed evidence of neither a mirror nor a maid.
“I assure you, Lottie,” Hetty said, eyeing the flapping hen with disdain, “the problem has not been solved. There is a chicken in the parlour. Am I to offer it tea and announce it as the latest Tolliver innovation? A fowl for every caller?”
“I cannot see why it would be such a scandalous thing,” Nell said as she flung herself onto the nearest chaise, landing upon her stomach.
She propped her chin in her hands and kicked her feet in the air.
“We already keep three dogs who believe their sole duty is to terrorise the mail carriers. What is one more creature, I ask you?”
At that moment, the hen gave a violent flap, nearly escaping Lottie’s grasp. She caught it just in time, gripping its scaly legs and holding it at arm’s length. “Indeed. This little lady still exhibits better manners than half the gentlemen we entertained last Season.”
The hen shrieked in protest.
“I do not believe holding her upside-down is improving her manners,” Hetty observed, “and you did not entertain any gentlemen last Season.”
“Quite right, sister. I did not entertain them,” Lottie said with a smile, adjusting the hen beneath one arm.
“I merely observed their failings from a safe and elevated distance. It was a veritable parade of pomposity, and not a single original thought among them. One compared your eyes to horses. Do you recall? And not even the fine ones. Dependable, he said.”
“I do believe he meant it kindly,” Nell offered.
“And then there was the poetry. From memory, Lord Bartles said, ‘thy bosom is like unto a ripened peach’ and looked frightfully pleased with himself. I was compelled to feign a choking fit on a biscuit simply to escape the room.”
Hetty pressed her lips together, though an undignified snort escaped. Of all the humiliations she had suffered last Season, that particular declaration had been the worst – second only to being asked whether she played the triangle.
“And need I remind you of Lord Horace Elcombe?” Lottie continued. “Who claimed his estate was ‘modest’ and then spent thirty-seven minutes – I timed it – reciting its acreage and the productivity of his tenant farmers? He even included the number of cows.”
“I think Clara would make a far finer companion than any of those dreadful suitors,” Nell agreed sweetly. “She makes excellent eye contact and never interrupt when others are speaking.”
“Who on earth is Clara?” Hetty sighed.
“My hen, of course. You don’t imagine I would name her something ridiculous like Geraldine, do you?”
At that moment, their father burst into the drawing room.
Lord Tolliver was the embodiment of every loud, well-fed uncle at a country wedding.
His face was round and perpetually flushed, framed by a pudgy neck that always seemed eager to spill over the edges of his cravat.
He could only be described as a generous man – a description that was, in truth, as much a matter of waistline as spirit.
He had inherited his title through sheer chance (his long-forgotten second cousin falling off a horse), and that single stroke of fate had set the course for much of his eccentricities, along with his cheerful disregard for aristocratic convention.
Where his peers walked with composure, Lord Tolliver bellowed and boomed and once tried to auction off the family crest to fund an experimental hot-air balloon.
“By Jove, is that a chicken? What a fine-looking fowl!”
Lottie shifted the bird, presenting it with a flourish. “This is Clara, Papa. Nell won her in a game of whist.”
“Aha! Whist!” Lord Tolliver exclaimed, rubbing his hands together. “That is how we shall get all the best poultry around here, then. Who needs farmers when we have a properly skilled Tolliver at cards?”
“At least someone in this house appreciates my talents,” said Nell.
“My dear girl!” said Lord Tolliver. “Why, I think we ought to make a habit of it! Perhaps we shall hold a card tournament. The prize, of course, will be a most exotic creature. A parrot from the Indies, perhaps! Or better still, an ape from Africa! Think of it, my dear girls! A house full of fascinating creatures and artifacts to rival any noble collection in the kingdom!”
Nell’s eyes lit up. “An ape from Africa? I say, Papa! We should host the first annual Tolliver Menagerie Ball. Guests may mingle with the animals, and perhaps even purchase a new pet to take home. It would be utterly memorable, don’t you think? ”
“I believe that might raise a few eyebrows among our more refined acquaintances, Papa,” said Hetty. “Society approves only of the dullest, most proper pets, such as lapdogs that wheeze and canaries that shriek. I daresay an ape may prove somewhat less en vogue.”
“Proper pets!” Lord Tolliver bellowed. “Utter rot! My dear Hetty, nothing worth having in life is ever proper! What is the use of a dog or a canary when one might have a parrot that demands sherry at breakfast and recites Greek poetry?”
“Greek poetry?” came a voice from the doorway, sharp as a hatpin and twice as disapproving. “The only utterances that dreadful bird ever makes are the sort that would send the vicar’s wife into a faint, thanks to your son’s most unhelpful sense of humour.”
Lady Tolliver swept into the parlour in a flurry of silk and righteous despair.
Her dark hair was arranged in a chignon of such astonishing rigidity that one might wager it impervious to cannon fire, and her gown – an ambitious shade of emerald adorned with peacock feathers – clung to her figure with the hopeful defiance of a woman once declared the Incomparable of her Season and determined to remain so, regardless of time, fashion or circumstance.
“I have said it before and I shall say it again – this house shall be the end of me. There shall be no such ball, and no such exotic animals. My nerves, which have already endured the strain of five daughters, cannot be expected to survive a menagerie! I shall be forced into early retirement in Bath – or worse, Margate! And you know what the sea air does to my constitution!”
Lottie, who had gone quite pale at the sight of her mother’s emerald plumage and rapidly escalating monologue, executed a swift retreat, shuffling the chicken behind her skirts.
She cast a beseeching glance at Nell, who returned it with a conspiratorial smile.
With the ease of a seasoned mischief-maker, she took Lottie’s elbow and began shepherding both girl and hen towards the door with a level of decorum wholly unsuited to the situation.
Hetty and her mother exchanged a long-suffering glance as the sound of stifled laughter and clucking receded down the hallway.
“Yes, quite right, my dear,” Lord Tolliver chuckled, rocking back and forth on balls of his feet. “No apes just yet. But I must away – I’ve reason to suspect that my manuscript on hieroglyphs has been mislaid by the black cat with the crooked tail. I am convinced it is no ordinary feline.”
“Very well, dear,” Lady Tolliver said, sweeping past him. “Do try not to tear up the floorboards this time.”
He vanished with a cheerful hum, and Lady Tolliver gave a magnificent sigh.
She collapsed into her favourite chaise, reaching for her embroidery.
“One cannot so much as thread a needle in this household without hearing of parrots, poultry, or pyramids. You are all conspiring to unseat my reason. Truly, I am owed a statue.” She patted the cushion beside her.
“Now, Henrietta. We must turn our thoughts to your second Season, which is, I remind you, galloping towards us like the Four Horsemen.”
Hetty schooled her features into attentiveness, though she was sure her eyes must betray her despair. Across the room, Mari calmly sank behind her book, as though to say: this is not my affair.