“No true scandal. Nothing so ruinous as to render you wholly unfit for society. You are rather theatrical, Hetty. But yes – enough to ensure no gentleman of sense – or his meddling mother – dares consider you a prize worth claiming. It should be rather subtle, I should say.”
“You are far too clever for your age,” Hetty said with narrowed eyes.
“I read.”
Alas, before Hetty could dwell further on the details of her impending descent into scandal, a tremendous crash echoed through the house, followed by shrieks, exclamations and what could only be described as the sound of poultry in distress.
Hetty did not even lift her eyes as she called out, “Nell, I swear upon all that is decent, if that isanother goose – ”
“It is not a goose!” came the cry of her youngest sister, Eleanor Tolliver, with all the wounded dignity of a girl most unjustly accused.
“Well, that is a relief,” Hetty muttered to Mari. “I had begun to suspect we might open a poultry farm at this rate.”
“It is a chicken,” Nell amended cheerfully from the hallway beyond, as a very agitated hen flapped into the parlour, shedding feathers as it went. “A fine one, as it happens – acquired quite legitimately in a game of whist.”
Hetty looked up just in time to witness the chaos unfold. A housemaid barrelled in after the hen with a broomstick, and close on her heels was the butler, Mr Simms, wielding a candlestick as though prepared to defend the household against imminent attack. At the centre of it all stood Nell, breathless and beaming in the doorway as the chicken strutted beneath the pianoforte. With her rosy cheeks, bouncing curls and muslin frock trimmed in blue ribbon, one might, at first glance, mistake her for the picture of innocence – provided one did not look too closely or spend more than half a minute in her company.
At three-and-ten, Eleanor Tolliver possessed the energy of a storm and the ethics of a corsair, though she would argue, quite earnestly, that piracy was merely a form of strategic redistribution. Her pockets jingled as she entered, suggesting she had acquired not only a hen during her game of whist, but possibly several coins and the better part of a silver drawer.
The sight before Hetty was absurd, and yet, not entirely outside the realm of possibility at the Tolliver residence. She closed her eyes briefly, then turned to the flustered servants, who were locked in a losing battle with the hen now flapping atop a chaise longue. “Mr Simms, Mary – thank you. You may return to your duties. I shall handle this matter myself.”
The butler gave a grateful nod and the maid, still brandishing the broom against the offending hen, followed him out reluctantly.
Hetty turned to her youngest sister. “Eleanor… you cannot mean to tell me yougambledfor a chicken.”
“Why, yes. I did. And it was the most splendid wager, Hetty! I won her fair and square, and, naturally, she has come to reside here. In our home.”
“Andwhere– precisely – were you gambling?”
“At the mews,” Nell said. “With the grooms.”
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 stillunwed, 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, “andyoudid 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 ofpomposity, 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.”
