Chapter 8 #3
A footman entered, carrying a silver salver with a bottle of champagne and crystal flutes, just as Lottie stepped backwards to retreat, colliding directly with his elbow.
Theo watched it all happen in terrible, glistening detail: the tray lurched, the bottle tilted and, though the footman tried valiantly to steady himself, the contents of his tray cascaded forwards in the drawing room.
Flutes shattered, and a golden spray of effervescence arched through the air.
What Theo did not see coming was Nell, who had launched herself to the left to avoid the falling champagne flutes, striking Theo full in the side.
He staggered, caught off balance by a combination of surprise and slippery footing, and before a single soul could intervene, he fell bodily into Hetty’s lap.
There was a great rustling of fabric and a strangled cry from Hetty as she was suddenly bowled backwards upon the chaise. Theo was sprawled most indecorously across her knees, soaked in champagne .
As silence settled, Lady Tolliver made a sound not unlike a dying pheasant, and Lottie choked on a laugh before attempting – very poorly – to disguise it as a cough.
Theo, whose pride had suffered even more than his coat, attempted to right himself without causing further damage. “Forgive me, Miss Tolliver. I quite lost my footing – ”
“Evidently,” Hetty replied from below him. “You are sitting on me, my lord.”
It was at precisely that moment, of course, that Lord Tolliver entered.
“Good heavens,” he announced, surveying the scene.
“What on earth have I missed?”His cravat was listing to starboard and his spectacles perched precariously atop his balding head.
“I heard the word champagne,” he added, taking in the mess, “and I do hope that means one of you has finally agreed to marry Georgiana. Though between us,” he added in a murmur, “I rather feared she might require bribery.”
“Papa!” Georgie shrieked, torn between affront and amusement. “I have not even had a Season yet!”
Lord Tolliver paid her no heed whatsoever, drawing his spectacles down over his eyes so that he might gaze upon Theo – who, it must be said, was still very much seated on his daughter’s lap. “Ah. You. Theodore Winslow. That explains it.”
Theo, acutely aware of the strangeness of the moment, and the champagne slowly soaking into the upholstery beneath them, scrambled quickly to his feet.
“Ow!” Hetty hissed under her breath. “Watch your knee, you great buffoon. ”
Theo managed a stiff bow to Lord Tolliver, though his mind had entirely absconded with his ability to form coherent speech.
“My, uh… apologies, sir,” he said, straightening with all the stiffness of a man clinging to his last shred of gentlemanly bearing.
“I lost my footing. The tray – there was some confusion – your daughter’s lap – unintentional, and uh… entirely my fault.”
“Hmm,” Lord Tolliver said, looking him up and down with open curiosity. “You appear to be leaking.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well,” he said, quite unbothered, “I presume congratulations are in order, then, Mr Winslow?”
Hetty made a strangled sound.
“Or rather – Lord Langley! Ah yes, I have been mistitling you,” Lord Tolliver added, peering at him with a tilt of the head. “I still cannot think of you as Langley. Your father was a fine man. Terrible shot.”
“I am… honoured to follow him, sir,” Theo managed.
“Quite,” said Lord Tolliver. “He once aimed for a hare and brought down the garden wall instead. But he did marry rather well, and so shall you, my dear boy! I am delighted – truly delighted – to have another fellow in the family. Me and Benedict are quite outnumbered. Not that I don’t utterly adore my girls, of course,” he added, waving a vague hand towards his wife and daughters.
“But they do tend to travel in packs and speak in unison, and one does long for the occasional rational conversation about gun dogs or the state of Parliament without someone bursting into tears over a hemline.”
“Papa, we are not engaged!” Hetty snapped, rising from the chaise and immediately dabbing at her skirts with a crushed lace handkerchief. “There was no proposal, no intention, and – may I remind everyone present – no kiss!”
“Well,” said Lady Tolliver, “here certainly was a lap. And in this house, that counts for rather more than a mere hand upon the elbow.” She turned to the footman – who was quietly trying to mop up champagne without being noticed – and said with great ceremony, “Have Cook send up the good syllabub. There is an occasion to mark!”
Hetty had clearly had enough. “There is no occasion!” she nearly shouted, rounding on her assembled family with the composure of a woman about to renounce all kinship. “There was a moment of – of misinterpretation. That is all!”
“Of course,” Lord Tolliver said, nodding gravely. “Misinterpretation is the foundation of most happy marriages. Ask your Uncle John. He thought your aunt was French for nearly three years.”
“Is anyone listening to a word I say?” Hetty shrieked.
At that moment, the last of the Tolliver daughters appeared in the doorway. “I heard a commotion,” Mari said quietly, clutching an open book to her chest. “Has someone fallen from a window again?”
Hetty did not so much sit down as deflate into the cushions. “No. Worse. It appears I am to be married.”
“Are you?” Mari blinked.
“So I am told.”
“To whom?”
“Theo Winslow,” Hetty muttered, not even bothering to lift her head .
Mari simply looked thoughtful, as though mentally reordering her entire understanding of the universe. “I see,” she said at last. “Well. I suppose it does make a kind of sense. He is very symmetrical.”
Theo, still damp, gave Mari a bewildered bow. “Miss Marianne Tolliver.”
“Oh – how do you do,” Mari said vaguely. “Pray forgive the state of affairs. We are seldom found in such disarray.”
As though the universe needed to prove that this exact sort of disarray was the only way the Tollivers ever operated, from the hall came the sound of claws on polished wood, followed by a yelp from a beleaguered footman.
The dogs arrived. Three of them – one large, two smaller, and all thoroughly muddy – came careening into the drawing room, evading the footman’s desperate efforts at containment.
They barrelled past the chaise, past Mari, past Hetty entirely, and made directly for Theo.
“Good God,” he muttered, though he had no time to brace himself for the onslaught.
The largest hound reared up, planting its muddy paws squarely on Theo’s waistcoat. The second darted gleefully, circling his legs and barking. The third – a squat, wiry creature with the build of a turnip – leapt repeatedly at his knees, tail wagging.
Nell leapt to her feet, waving a handkerchief and smacking the dogs’ rumps. “Montmorency! Pickle! Lady Marmalade! Off the earl, at once! Down, I say!”
With much huffing, tail-wagging and a rather excessive amount of licking, the hounds at last obeyed. They dispersed in different directions, one disappearing behind the piano, another flopping beside Lord Tolliver’s feet and the third attempting to nest atop a discarded bonnet.
Theo glanced down at his person. His coat was soaked through with champagne, his waistcoat bore at least three muddy pawprints and his cravat had wilted entirely in surrender. He exhaled slowly, and there was a pause, just long enough for Theo to believe the worst might have passed.
It had not, for Clara – Nell’s prized hen – was the next to strut into the drawing room. She flapped once, surveyed the gathering with a critical eye, and hopped neatly onto the arm of the settee where she settled with a cluck.
“Oh dear,” said Nell. “Clara has come to judge us again.”
“She is not wrong,” Hetty muttered darkly.
“I knew I ought to have shut the library door,” Mari said quietly.
Lady Tolliver, who had managed to ignore the hen’s presence for all of three seconds, now turned with the full horror of a matron affronted.
“Absolutely not,” she shrieked. “This is entirely unacceptable. Chickens are not suited to drawing rooms, Eleanor! This is not some rustic yard in Gloucestershire, no matter how often you insist that wretched fowl understands Latin. The dogs are one thing – noble, intelligent creatures, practically members of the family – but poultry? Heavens above! What would Lady Withercombe say?”
“I expect she would attempt to race her pigeon against Clara,” Nell replied with perfect calm, “and lose.”
Lord Tolliver, having ensconced himself in an armchair with the air of a gentleman thoroughly enjoying a most diverting opera, released a contented sigh.
“I find it all rather delightful. It calls to mind your grandmother’s engagement party, Hetty.
There was an Italian tenor of some renown and a rather memorable incident involving a blancmange.
Your cousin Edwina fainted directly into it.
Glorious day. I do believe we have not yet had nearly enough fainting. ”
“I give Mama but five minutes more,” said Lottie, regarding her nails with the utmost disinterest. “She’s already well on her way.”
“Hetty will be dispatching Lord Langley to his grave first,” Nell said helpfully. “Then she shall faint over his body.”
“I shall assist in the burial,” Mari added, without looking up, “provided I may inherit his library.”
Theo, now thoroughly surrounded by Tollivers, three dogs and one disapproving chicken, stood with the dazed air of a man uncertain whether he had stumbled into a garden fête or the later acts of Macbeth., and yet, despite the sheer lunacy of it all, he found himself perilously close to laughter.
“Would you all kindly cease your endless prattling?” Hetty hissed.
The room, as one might expect, made no effort whatsoever to comply with Hetty’s plea for silence.
Nell continued murmuring low phrases in Latin to her hen.
Mari, now neatly folded atop the ottoman with her knees drawn beneath her skirts, began calmly listing potential hiding places for Theo’s body.
Lottie had taken firm hold of Theo’s sleeve and was frowning down at the damp embroidery on his waistcoat, turning it this way and that as though weighing whether it might suit her better.
Lord Tolliver, oblivious to the chaos, had engaged the footman in an enthusiastic lecture on the proper method for sweeping broken glass from parquet flooring when feathers were present. Lady Tolliver and Georgie, naturally, had taken to planning the wedding.
“The ceremony must be held at St Bartholomew’s,” Lady Tolliver declared, tapping her fan against her chin. “The roses shall be in full bloom by then and the vicar still owes me a favour after that unfortunate business with the choirboys and your Aunt Belinda’s wig.”
“I shall draw up the guest list at once,” Georgie replied crisply, already rifling through a drawer in search of paper and quill.
“The Ashbrooks must be included – though Mrs Ashbrook will arrive in violet and insist she thought it white. Lady Weatherby too, though she will feign outrage, claim she must depart immediately, and then remain the entire evening.”
“And do omit the Tolberts,” Lady Tolliver added, with a sniff. “They have been insufferably pleased with themselves ever since unearthing that wretched barony from some dismal corner of the family tree. And she once described my gown as ‘adventurous.’”
“She meant peculiar, Mama,” Georgiana replied absently. “But yes, they shall be struck off.”
Amidst the frenzy, Theo stood damp, muddy, and besieged. His sleeve was still caught in Lottie’s grip, his boots squelched when he shifted and he had entirely lost track of his dignity sometime between the dogs and the hen, with no indication of when it might be recovered.
Hetty approached, her chin high and expression thunderous. “Charlotte, take your hands off Lord Langley this instant.”
Lottie looked mildly affronted but released his sleeve all the same .
“I require a moment with the earl,” Hetty added, not bothering to soften her tone. “Alone.”
Lottie, with a shrug and an insouciant grin, stepped back and wandered towards the newly arrived syllabub as if that had been her intention all along.
Theo glanced down as Hetty drew nearer, refusing to look at him. She dropped her voice low, so that only he might hear. “If you do not find some swift and miraculous means of undoing this absurd engagement,” she hissed, “I shall marry you out of spite, and you will most assuredly suffer for it.”
With that, she turned on her heel and swept from the room with all the imperious grace of a queen abandoning a poorly attended court, her skirts swishing and curls bouncing.
Theo remained utterly still, and then, with the resigned dignity of a man who had glimpsed his own doom wearing satin slippers and a scowl, reached for the nearest glass of syllabub, downing it in a single draught.