The Ghosts of Greenwood by Maggie MacKeever

audience, or at least the masculine portion thereof, was charmed. Even young Austen seemed intrigued.
    Lady Dorset found herself considerably less enchanted. She felt queasy, and irritable, and down in the dumps. Livvy wished that she had followed Jael’s example upon hearing of a visitor, and taken herself elsewhere. Not Livvy’s pregnancy prompted these discomforts, but her rakeshame spouse.
    Currently, Lord Dorset was entertaining his companions with an account of the day’s hunt. The three-month season, during which the red-coated hunters were preceded into the field by an army of beaters, had begun the first Wednesday in November and would continue twice a week. Wrinkling her pretty nose, Amanda announced that her sympathies lay with the fox. “Because it cannot be at all pleasant to have a herd of horses galloping at one’s heels. And then there are the hounds. I cannot look upon one of those nasty snarling brutes without thinking it wishes to tear me limb from limb.” Lady Dorset, noting the amused expression on her husband’s handsome all-too-worldly face, decided she wouldn’t mind at all if their guest was torn to bits.
    Lady Bligh entered the room, Bluebeard on her arm. Dulcie’s gown perfectly matched the parrot’s plumage. As did her hair.
    Amanda was first to recover the use of her tongue. “You must be the Baroness! I would curtsey to you, but—” She gestured to her ankle and the cat, who, eyes fixed on the parrot, growled deep in his throat. “I am grateful to you for your hospitality, my lady.”
    “Do hush!” Dulcie chuckled at Amanda’s expression. “Not you, my dear, but the cat. Casanova is jealous of Bluebeard, who is a Hyacinth Macaw, the largest and most beautiful of the parrot family. Alexander the Great had pet parrots three hundred years before the birth of Christ.” She caressed the bird.
    “How now, hussy!” said Bluebeard, and bestowed upon her a velvety look. Casanova turned his head away, tail twitching like a metronome.
    Lady Bligh turned away, also, and floated across the room, pausing by Livvy’s chair. “My dear Lavender,” she murmured, “Dickon did marry you.”
    Which meant precisely what? Dulcie’s own spouse was an impenitent profligate. Livvy clamped her teeth together against a wave of nausea, praying she wouldn’t disgrace herself.
    Sir John had chosen to sit on the Gothic church pew. Dulcie joined him there, first extending her arm so that Bluebeard could hop onto the pew’s carved back. Her gown was fashioned of some flowing material with long sleeves drawn tight in several places and a rounded décolletage drawn into position by a golden cord.
    Another golden cord was tied beneath her bosom. Additional bands were threaded through her heavy hair. The gold showed up nicely against the blue.
    Sir John could not help but smile at her. “You’ve outdone yourself this time.”
    Dulcie cast him a roguish glance. “I hope you’re not going to tell me I should dress my age.”
    “Heaven forbid. I think you should dress however you wish.” This particular dress at closer glance was damned near diaphanous and molded itself to her body so splendidly that Sir John feared hemight have a heart attack. He glanced at Bluebeard, who returned his interest. “Jolly dog,” the parrot remarked.
    Sir John wasn’t feeling especially jolly, what with Ned going off constantly in maudlin fits and starts, Hubert doing his malicious best to set everyone at odds, Lord Dorset flirting with Lady Halliday, and Lady Dorset looking ready to cast up her accounts. “What happened to ‘shiver me timbers’ and ‘pieces of eight’?”
    “Gibbon has been teaching him more appropriate language. Although I do think that ‘twiddle-diddles’ hardly qualifies. Now do hush, dear John! I want to hear what’s being said.”
    “Twiddle-diddles,” crooned Bluebeard, and liked the phrase so much he repeated it several times again.
    Dulcie’s sweet perfume was in his nostrils, and