Pretty Polly

by M C Beaton

  “I do not want to go,” said Verity, “but poor Papa is telling me stories to force me to go. He even said he was going to marry you!”

  Emily’s round face turned pink. “How very flattering,” she gasped. “Did he mean it?”

  Verity was about to laugh with scorn and say no. But something held her back. Emily’s eyes were shining and her plump fingers, holding a library book, were tightly clenched.

  “I think you will need to find out for yourself,” said Verity slowly. “I must go, Emily. I have many chores.”

  Verity looked carefully at her father at supper that evening. He was a small man with a slim, wiry figure and the same black eyes as his daughter. He was quite handsome although his hair was thin, thought Verity. But, goodness, he was so very much older than Emily. The whole idea was ridiculous and Verity wished she had never teased Emily on the subject.

  * * *

  Three weeks later, Verity Bascombe traveled to London on the mail coach and then took a hack from the City of London to the West End.

  Charlotte’s house looked very imposing. Verity glanced down at her pelisse and gown, which had looked so modish when she had left Market Basset and suddenly felt shabby.

  To her relief, although Charlotte was out walking, she was received by the servants with every flattering courtesy. Her bedchamber was prettily decorated with flowered wallpaper, and had one of the latest design of beds, without posts or canopy. By the window was a very large desk with an enormous inkwell and sheets and sheets of blank parchment. It was odd to see such a desk in a bedchamber.

  The butler had told her that tea would be served in the drawing room in half an hour, the time Charlotte was expected to return.

  Verity brushed her hair, washed her face and hands, changed her gown for one of blue muslin, rang the bell for a footman, and was conducted to the drawing room.

  The smell of the drawing room and its occupants made her take a nervous step back.

  “Mrs. Manners’s pets,” said the footman. “Not savage, miss. Quite docile.”

  Wondering, Verity went into the room. “That one’s dead,” said the footman, moving past her to where a pathetic little corpse lay on the hearthrug. “I’ll just take the nasty thing away.” The “nasty thing” was a dead monkey dressed in a red jacket.

  A French greyhound limped forward on its spindly legs. It was as fat as a barrel and its coat was dull. On a perch by the fireplace stood an enormous mangy parrot staring at Verity out of strange, clever, reptilian eyes. On the sofa lay a large cat, its eyes half closed. It looked near death. Verity stroked it and said, “Poor pussy,” and the cat roused itself and bit her hand.

  Rubbing her hand and hoping the animal wasn’t rabid, Verity turned her attention to the parrot. She scratched its head feathers. It hopped down on her shoulder, dug its talons in, and leaned against her hair, giving a strange crooning noise at the back of its throat.

  Verity tried to dislodge it, for it was very heavy and smelly, but it only gripped harder. Its feathers were scarlet and gray, but it had a strange golden fringe on its legs. It was like no parrot that Verity had ever seen.

  Charlotte’s voice sounded from the hall. The parrot, hopping back up on its perch, stood motionless.

  A vision of golden curls, rose-leaf complexion, and wide blue eyes tripped into the room. “Verity, my love,” cried Charlotte Manners. “How wonderful to see you. Are you content with your room?”

  She hugged Verity, who had risen to meet her, and Verity, surprised and pleased with the warmth of the reception, smiled at Charlotte.

  “You have not changed a bit,” cried Charlotte. “Have I?”

  “Yes,” said Verity truthfully. “You are more beautiful than ever.”

  “Oh, we are going to have such fun,” cried Charlotte. She sat down carelessly on top of the cat and then leaped up again in a fury. The cat had bitten her.

  Charlotte rang the bell. When the butler answered it, she said, “Get rid of this zoo, Pomfret. Nasty, smelly things. They bore me.”

  “Where shall I put them, ma’am?”

  “In the dust bin.”

  “Very good, ma’am,” said the butler, advancing cautiously on the parrot, which leaped onto Verity’s shoulder, making her stagger under its weight.

  Verity thought of the poor monkey. She was very sentimental about birds and animals, a weakness of which she was thoroughly ashamed. Considering animals as pets was a decadent luxury when there were so many children starving to death.

  But somehow Verity found herself saying, “I wonder, Charlotte… I may call you that?”

  “By all means, dear Verity,” cooed Charlotte. Verity’s remark about her being more beautiful had pleased her greatly.

  “If you would let me take care of the dog and cat and bird,” said Verity, “I think I could restore them to health.”

  “As you wish,” said Charlotte with a wave of her hand. “That parrot cost a fortune and it never says a word. Tiresome, ugly thing.”

  The butler looked relieved.

  “I wish you would go back to your perch,” said Verity to the parrot. “What is its name, Charlotte?”

  “The villain who sold it to me said it was called Pretty Polly. Stoopid name for an evil-looking bird.”

  “Go back to your perch, Pretty Polly,” said Verity, trying to shrug the parrot off.

  To her amazement, the parrot promptly flew to its perch, cocked its head on one side, and regarded her with an almost paternal eye.

  “It seems to like you,” said Charlotte. “But if you want to look after the things, Verity, they have to go in your room.”

  “Very well,” said Verity, looking at the small zoo with a sinking heart. “I know the correct feeding for cats and dogs, but what do you feed a parrot?”

  “I don’t know,” said Charlotte crossly. “I must have fed that bird a ton of sugar plums and yet never a word did it say.”

  Which, thought Verity, probably explains the mangy condition of the bird.

  “I am afraid your little monkey is dead.”

  “Where is it?” asked Charlotte, peering under the chairs and sofa.

  “The footman took it away.”

  “Good. You can’t trust servants these days. They might have left it somewhere to rot and it would smell so. I must leave you soon, dear Verity, but we shall have a long coze on the morrow. Lord Strangeworth is coming to take me to a fête champêtre in the Surrey fields.”

  “You hinted in your letter,” said Verity, “that I might be of use to you in some way.”

  “First of all I want you to solve a mystery for me,” said Charlotte. “I am very beautiful and very rich.”

  Verity blinked at this piece of vanity and decided Charlotte had not changed from the spoiled brat of the seminary. “Two gentlemen have come to propose to me this year. On each occasion, when I descended to the drawing room to accept their offer, they ran past me, babbling about another appointment, and neither has come near me since. I want you to find out why. One is called Sir Brian Vincent and the other Lord Chalton. But do not spend too much time over that. I am after bigger game.”

  “Indeed?”

  “The present Duke of Denbigh proposed to me when he was a mere younger son without much money. I refused him. Now, of course, the situation is altered. I am a widow, beautiful, attractive, and prepared to reanimate his affections. The irritating man shows no signs of coming to London for the Season. That is your job!”

  “But what can I do?”

  “Dear Verity, you must write letters for me, winning, amusing, charming letters to draw him back.”

  “Very well,” said Verity, relieved that the task was so easy. “When would you like me to begin?”

  “As soon as you have rested,” said Charlotte after a little pause, during which she had been about to command Verity to begin right away. But she was very pleased with Verity. Charlotte was not popular with her own sex, and for the moment, the novelty of having a female companion of her own age pleased
her.

  “I shall go and change,” said Charlotte. “Do not forget to take these creatures to your room, Verity, else I shall have them destroyed.”

  She dropped a light kiss on Verity’s cheek and tripped from the room.

  Verity looked at the cat, the dog, and the parrot. She gave a little sigh and rang the bell. When Pomfret, the butler, answered it, Verity shyly asked him for two leashes, one for the dog and one for the cat. “And, Pomfret,” she said “I would be most grateful if you could find out for me what is suitable food for a parrot and purchase it for me. The cat is to be fed a small amount of plain, boiled fish and given a spoonful of fish oil. No milk. Just plain water. The dog, I think, plain oatmeal with some vegetables and gravy and a bowl of water. I shall be keeping them in my room. Am I asking too much of you? In a household this size you must have many chores to occupy your time.”

  “I shall be glad to oblige, miss,” said Pomfret with a wooden face.

  I should not have apologized. How he must despise me, thought Verity—not knowing Pomfret was shortly to tell the staff that it was a great relief to serve a lady for a change.

  When the leashes were produced, Verity stood and then winced as the parrot hopped onto her shoulder. “I will need to find a piece of leather for my shoulder, Pomfret,” said Verity ruefully, “until I can train this bird. What are the names of the dog and the cat?”

  “The cat is called Fluff and the dog Frou Frou.”

  “I think I shall change their names, you know,” said Verity. “Something more ordinary, I think.”

  “Mrs. Manners changed the names,” said Pomfret. “The cat was called Peter and the dog Tray.”

  “Well, Peter and Tray they shall be once more. I think fresh air would do them all good. Hyde Park is near here, is it not?”

  “Yes, miss. Go right along to the end of Mount Street and across Park Lane.”

  The parrot gave Verity’s hair a peck and flew back to its perch.

  “I would leave the bird’s perch in here at the moment, Pomfret,” said Verity uneasily.

  “Seems to have taken a great fancy to you, miss, if I may say so.”

  Verity looked at Pretty Polly doubtfully.

  “If you are going out walking, miss, I will tell James, the second footman, to attend you.”

  “I trust the young man will not find the expedition too humiliating,” said Verity. “Very well, tell James I shall be ready to set out in ten minutes.”

  When Verity had put on a warm, if unfashionable, wool cloak, she returned to the drawing room. The house was large and she had no idea where Charlotte’s apartments were.

  She put a leash on the cat.

  James, the second footman, was a magnificent creature in scarlet livery. “I have never seen a cat on a leash before, miss,” he volunteered.

  “Neither have I,” said Verity cheerfully. “But we must try.” She put the other leash on Tray, and dragging the cat and leading the dog, she made for the street door. The great parrot sailed off its perch and landed on her shoulder with a thump.

  “Oh, no,” said Verity. “Not you. But I suppose my thick cloak will protect me from your talons.”

  The first footman rushed to open the door and Verity handed the dog’s leash to James. “If you will gently walk the dog, James, I will try to cope with the cat.”

  The butler stood on the step, watching with amusement as the odd procession made its way slowly down Mount Street.

  The day was brisk and sunny with great flying clouds. Verity thought Londoners were a very staring sort of people. Quizzing glasses were raised. People stopped in their tracks. They didn’t say anything. They just stared.

  Pretty Polly did an ecstatic little shuffling dance on Verity’s shoulder, and she groaned. The cat sat down for the umpteenth time, so she stooped, nearly falling over under the weight of the great parrot, and scooped it up in her arms, hoping it would not bite.

  The vast, treeless expanse of the middle of Hyde Park came as a delight to Verity. She walked past the round reservoir, leading her odd menagerie until she found a seat by a footpath. She sat down, slipped the cat’s leash, and set it down. She then unfastened the dog’s leash. The dog immediately ran around in circles, barking with delight, and then fell panting at Verity’s feet, its sides heaving. The cat slouched off and disappeared from view. The parrot sailed off into the air.

  “Now what am I to do, James?” asked Verity.

  “I wouldn’t worry, miss,” said James, standing at attention behind Verity’s seat. “If they don’t come back, Mrs. Manners will not be upset. Awful mess they make. Not house-trained, if you take my meaning.”

  “Oh, dear, the cat must be allowed out at all times and the dog must have regular walks.”

  “Mr. Pomfret has sent for a veterinary surgeon, miss, to help you with the parrot’s feed.”

  “How very good of him, James. I confess country people such as I do not expect such thoughtfulness from Londoners.”

  “I am from the country myself,” said James.

  “Indeed! Will you not sit down, James? The day is quite hot and it must be extremely tiring to stand there.”

  “Thank you, miss, but it’s not done.”

  “Oh, I am not the complete country bumpkin,” Verity said easily. “I know that, but there is no one around.”

  James’s feet hurt. He had been running errands all morning. He cautiously edged around the seat and sat down gingerly next to Verity.

  Soon, he was responding to Verity’s questions about his country home. James had been drawn to London by the thought of working in a London mansion and of the livery he would wear. But it had, so far, been a difficult and strange existence. He thought that his quiet conversation with Verity in the middle of Hyde Park in the sunshine was one of the most pleasant things that had happened to him since he had come to town.

  Verity took respect from servants as a matter of course. She treated her own small staff with friendly courtesy and kindness and never realized it was her own manner and behavior that brought out the best in them. She had, however, expected London servants to be very stuffy and grand and was pleasantly surprised by Charlotte’s staff.

  As the shadows began to lengthen across the grass, Verity awoke the now sleeping Tray. “Perhaps I will return this evening and see if I can find the other two,” she said uneasily.

  James took the leash from her and they both walked slowly toward the lodge at Park Lane, for the poor dog was so fat it could hardly move. There was a sudden whirr of wings and then Pretty Polly landed with a thump on Verity’s shoulder. “Well, that’s one, anyway, James,” she said cheerfully.

  James looked back. “I’m blessed,” he said. “Here comes t’other.”

  Peter, the cat, came skulking up behind them. Verity bent down to put on its leash, but it bared its teeth, hissed a warning, and backed away.

  Verity walked on, looking back from time to time, and found to her surprise that the cat was following at a distance. When they got to the end of Mount Street, she looked back. Peter was lying stretched out in the middle of the pavement. She ran back, picked the cat up, and patted its dusty black fur.

  A low, creaky, whirring sound, like the sound made by a rusty clockwork toy, came from somewhere inside the cat’s body. The dreadful Peter was purring.

  Feeling a warm sense of achievement, Verity conducted her small menagerie back inside the house.

  Now to send off that first letter.

  Chapter Two

  Verity sat at the huge oak pedestal desk in her room, chewing the end of a quill pen. Lying stretched out on the far side of the desk was the cat. The dog lay curled at her feet. Both animals had been examined by a veterinary surgeon. He had agreed with Verity’s ideas on diet, dosed both animals with sulfur powder, and then recommended a purge. But Verity could not face the idea of a night in her bedchamber with two purged and unhousetrained animals and so had refused. Sunflower seeds and fresh fruit had been provided for the parrot.

  Pre
tty Polly had fascinated the vet. He had kept shaking his head and saying he had never seen a bird quite like it. It was very large, even for a parrot, and he had been intrigued by the gold fringe of fine feathers on the bird’s legs, which gave it the peculiar appearance of being dressed in exotic and ragged knee breeches.

  Verity had then had supper served on a tray and found herself free at last to begin her task.

  In order to do her best for Charlotte and repay her hospitality, there must be something in the letters that would make the duke want to return to London. He had once proposed to Charlotte. He might still be in love with her. Verity frowned. But surely aristocrats did not fall in love. Marriages were more like business partnerships than marriages of true minds. On the other hand, the duke had only been twenty-four when he had proposed and Charlotte seventeen, so perhaps it had been love.

  At last she decided that the first letter should simply be one of condolence. He had recently lost both brothers and father.

  She wrote a short letter, remembering her own grief at the death of her mother and putting a great deal of warmth and sympathy into her sentences.

  She had just finished it when Charlotte came into the room. “Oh, you have begun work already, you dearest of creatures,” cried Charlotte. She looked a picture in white spotted muslin with a very high waist and a very low neckline. However, Verity privately thought that Charlotte’s enormous bonnet, lined with pink-and-black-striped taffeta and tied under her chin with broad ribbons of the same material, was a trifle garish.

  Charlotte picked up the letter and read it and made a moue of disappointment. “Not very lover-like, Verity,” she commented.

  “I could not really write anything else,” said Verity. “When he replies, I shall send a further letter and try to charm him for you. But, in the circumstances, I could hardly write anything of a light and flirtatious nature. It would look most odd.”

  Charlotte, who had been scowling horribly, suddenly smiled. “You always were a clever puss. I shall trust your judgment. Now, Lord Chalfont is to call tomorrow and I know he means to propose.”