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Chapter Nine
“For birds are like men in their contests together.”
Private Education: A Practical Plan for the Studies of Young Ladies.
Elizabeth Appleton. 1815.
“Do you think Miss Griffin pretty, Pa?”
“Er…” Seth had once vowed to respond to all of Chloe’s questions most truthfully, but he sensed a trap left as wide as a barn door on a summer’s noon. His daughter dallied by the wardrobe, her innocent green gaze concealing devilish intent, and his own eyes narrowed. “Chloe Maggie Hawkins. Dismiss any tomfool idea rattling around that attic of yours this instant or I shall be forced to add the quilling of tea caddies to your lesson plan.”
His daughter merely grinned. “So, you’re not denying she’s pretty.”
“Waistcoat,” he demanded with outstretched hand. Then flinched. “A bit garish?”
“I prefer to call it burnished, and the gold highlights your eyes. Perfect for an 1811 Champions’ Dinner.”
Shrugging it on, he made for the mirror to attempt a coachman’s knot for his cravat – the cascade style was too much of a faff and made him look like a lace fountain.
“I think Miss Griffin finds you handsome.”
He rolled his eyes…and ignored the frisson to his gizzards. “I’m your father. You’re supposed to think everyone finds me handsome. It’s obligatory.”
“Miss Figstone certainly finds you handsome. Is she coming tonight? I saw her from the landing last time she came to dinner – she bats her lashes at you and thrusts her dumplings.”
“Language, Chloe. Yes she’s coming and no she doesn’t.” Actually she did, but that was by the by.
“Hmm. You stay alert, Pa. She’s got plans.”
“So have you, it appears.” Seth completed the cravat knot with a flourish, straightened it, and donned his jacket. “Is Modesty here yet?”
“No. She’s arriving at seven, and if there’s no rain, her parents are taking us to see the tight-rope walker at Vauxhall Gardens.”
Once a fortnight, Modesty’s parents took the girls out for the evening and so they’d arranged tonight to coincide with the dinner – preferable to having his daughter earwig from the landing.
“Well, keep close to them at all times.” And he bussed her forehead. Not that he had to worry with Chloe’s pugilistic skills.
“Of course. And…maybe you should wear the amber stick pin.”
“Amber?” Odd choice, but he rootled in the bottom of the drawer and held it to the light. “Why amber?”
“It matches the waistcoat.” He peered down. So it did. Chloe tweaked his cravat to crooked – apparently it gave a rakish air – then saturated him with Spanish Leather cologne. “Perfect.” She nodded. “Go slay ’em, Pa.”
* * *
Birds of Paradisein the flesh, Matilda reflected.
Except these were no flighted warm-blooded vertebrates from the Molucca Islands, but the wives of the Prizefighting Champions who flitted about the drawing room for pre-dinner sherries in silks, feathers and lace.
Matilda felt an alliance with the stuffed specimens from Bullock’s Museum – tired, rather moth-eaten and out of their habitat.
Late into last night, she had reacquainted herself with the schoolroom’s copy of Miss Pikesworth’s Guide to Etiquette. Within paragraph five of the chapter entitled ‘Faultless Entertainment’, Miss Pikesworth had pointed out that a hostess should greet her guests with a cordial nod and an enquiry regarding the weather.
But all the guests had appeared to be on familiar terms and so introductions had been a flurry of hugs, kisses, manly handshakes and sturdy backslaps.
No one cared to lament the rain.
Seventeen persons had crowded into the drawing room, a devil of an odd number to later sit for dinner, but nevertheless eleven gentlemen and six ladies now mingled, gulping sherry and scoffing lobster patties.
