“And dancing,” Harriet added.
One corner of her mouth tweaked. “And dancing.”
Harriet had to look away. She’d not been this distracted and compelled by someone since—well, since John. She’d thought that part of her had died, stomped into the mud of Balaklava and frozen over with a forever winter. Spring was coming again, an appalling surprise. She flailed for something to say. “Would you like to see our chicken run?”
It was the right thing, apparently. Miss Wraxhall beamed. “Naturally.”
3
The Thornycroft Hall chicken run was spacious and solid and needed only a good scouring before the three Bickerton Greys could take possession. Lydia agonized the entire night before, but ultimately she could not bear to split the feral flock and so all six wound up leaving Lydia’s cozy coop and moving into the hutch built against the stately grey stone walls at Thornycroft. “Just remember,” she said, “three of them are mine.”
Mrs. Boyne snorted. “Which three?”
“The best three.”
Mrs. Boyne laughed outright at this, as Lydia had hoped.
It was hard to stay formal when fowl were involved. They were Harriet and Lydia by the end of the first week. Now the only thing was to accustom the wild birds to the presence and handling of humans. Dusty, scratchy birds took home no awards—and Lydia was determined to show these birds at their best.
The hens resisted: Bickerton Greys were intelligent enough to be wary, and these hens had been defending themselves from predators for all their lives. Lydia eventually decided to move Walter to Thornycroft as well, as a sort of poultry ambassador. Shockingly, the tactic worked, and one clear day the hens permitted themselves to be washed.
It was a wintry dazzle. Tubs with soapy water and clean steamed in the air, silver-laced plumage sparkled in the sharp November sun, and the flock bustled around Walter like a sextet of pearls around a ruby.
“They need names,” Lydia said.
“Hmm?” Harriet raised her head from her book: she had brought a wooden bench into the yard and often sat there, reading and letting the birds grow familiar with her presence. “Will they know their names?”
“Of course.”
Harriet shrugged. “Alright.” She raised a gloved hand, elegant as any queen, and began pointing. “One, Two, Three, Four, Five, and Six.”
Lydia rolled her eyes. “Astonishing. Absolutely astonishing.”
“Alright: Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday—”
“Now you’re just listing ordinary things!”
Harriet grinned. “You try it, then.”
Lydia scrutinized the little flock, the six guardian Greys and the tall red rooster in the middle. A shadow flickered over the yard—a sense of swooping wings—and the hens as one bunched up around Walter, a clear defensive formation that, just as clearly, puzzled him.
Lydia began pointing. “Boudicca, Joan, Minerva, Atalanta, Camilla, Penthesilea.”
Harriet snorted. “Penthesilea?”
“Penny for short, if you’d like.”
Lydia grinned, as Harriet very visibly refused to rise to the bait of this provocation. The widow watched the birds, who had relaxed as the bird overhead moved on without incident.
They were a very managing breed, Lydia had realized; she also realized that she found it rather endearing.
Harriet asked, “Which ones will do best in the show, in your expert opinion?”
Lydia considered this. “Boudicca and Minerva have the best plumage. Minerva especially: the lacing is so sharp and the color contrast is strongest.” She cocked a head, watching as the birds milled about Walter, nudging him for attention. “But Penny has the best shape overall, I think.”
Harriet’s eyes were narrowed, one hand raised to her forehead for shade as she watched the birds. “How do you judge a breed that’s supposed to not exist anymore?”
“We can find an old catalog of the points somewhere, I’m sure. Mr. Finglass has a collection.” Lydia sat beside her on the bench. “Besides, it’s only been ten years—Mrs. Outerbridge alone has grudges that are twice and three times as old as that. Someone will remember the last time the breed was shown, and will not hesitate to tell us how our bird compares to the ideal.”
