An Almond for a Parrot: the gripping and decadent historical page turner. Wray Delaney

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       Virgin Eggs, from Being White, Un-soiled

       Boil half a pint of cream and as much milk with a bit of lemon peel, sugar and a pinch of coriander seed, and reduce it to half; when it is almost cold, mix some sweet pounded almonds with it, two or three bitter ones, and five or six yolks of eggs. Sieve it into the table dish and bake it between two slow fires as a cream.

      The new Mrs Truegood not only knew her mind but spoke it to such great effect that the house became well run and my father’s days took on an order that before they had lacked. The main meal of the day we ate together, and for the first time I was allowed to sit at the table rather than wait upon it. I stood in awe of my stepmother, never suspecting that all was but a masquerade and that the play had purpose: the conclusion of the drama would be my marriage. Her designs for Hope were further on, for Hope was already engaged to Mr Sitton. He was a jolly, portly gentleman who by all appearances was besotted with Hope. Unfortunately, his widowed mother did not share in his affections. She let it be known that she would rather be dead than see her son married to what she called ‘that woman’. I could not see any objection to the match and believed Hope to be far too young to be called ‘that woman’. I thought it a harsh way to describe my stepsister.

      Mr Sitton was so incensed by his mother’s pious opinions of his fiancée that for a time he seemed quite downcast. He announced at one supper that he was at his wits’ end to know how to bring his mother round and proposed that he and Hope should be married in secret and let the rest go hang.

      ‘My dear Mr Sitton,’ said Mrs Truegood, ‘I strongly disagree. The marriage will take place with your mother’s blessing or not at all for love isn’t food enough to keep one alive. And if you were cut off from your money, why, what would become of your table?’

      Now there was one thing Mr Sitton loved perhaps a little inch more than Hope and that was food, and even in the height of his argument he could see that it would be hard to survive without vittles, no matter what Mr Shakespeare had to say on the matter of love being a hearty meal.

      ‘I promise, madam, I will do nothing in haste.’ He looked imploringly at Mrs Truegood and said, ‘But I cannot wait – we cannot wait – longer than six months to be married.’

      And by the longing smile he gave Hope it struck me that he really was in earnest.

      ‘Six months?’ said Mrs Truegood. ‘That is far too long. Three and you will have Hope as your wife, sir, with your mother’s blessing.’

      Generals, I am told, prepare for battle, but I doubt if any general had taken as much pain planning a campaign as did Mrs Truegood. Every detail was considered for she was a formidable enemy.

      We started to go to church on Sundays. My father had a pew which gathered more spiders than worshippers and had remained empty for more Sundays than ever it had been full. When we arrived, there wasn’t a person in the congregation who didn’t turn and look at Mr Truegood, his new wife and his very handsome stepdaughters. Our presence encouraged much whispering and I heard some unkind words. I could not think why such things should be said.

      The parson was an exceptionally dull man who spoke not plainly. His sermons were long and the point, if there was one, was often tangled in a knot of coughs and splutters. I think he was trying to cure everyone of their sins by boredom. He seemed to dwell a lot upon the weakness of the flesh and the ruination of morals by wanton lust. By the look of his six squashed-nosed children, I could well imagine little joy to be had in the conception. Every Sunday his poor vase of a wife sat trying to pacify her screaming infant and I felt that I too might scream if I had been born into such a family. Whenever the infant fell quiet the parson would raise his fist and bring it down with such thunderous effect on the pulpit that the baby would start up all over again. In short, a more miserable-looking family would be hard to imagine and I didn’t bother to try.

      Instead, in the hour and a half of the unmitigated sludge of his sermon, my mind would wander free of restraint back to the moment I had met the gentleman in the blue chamber. I delighted in thinking what might have happened if he hadn’t left so abruptly. The thought of those sweet fingers and what further pleasures they might have brought me started a fever without a cure so that by the time the sermon was over my cheeks would be apple-red. The foolish parson, who always smiled at me, his eyes glancing down at my kerchief in hope of seeing my breasts, would inform Mr Truegood that I was a devout daughter. My father was not at all certain what kind of daughter he had. He made no comment, usually because he was put out of sorts by all the preaching and furious at any man keeping him from his dinner and a good port wine.

      Fortunately, Mrs Truegood was far too particular to allow any holy spirit to make a dent in her plans. She was only there to be seen, not to be moved. I will confess to being very naive. I was not brought up in a Christian way and wasn’t much impressed by all I heard. If God was the head of the family, I thought he was a dull man indeed and, like my father, appeared to have a morose sense of justice ruling under the reign of chaos. It seemed unfair that we were all born in sin for how on earth were we to get out of it? And was there really much point? For according to this parson, and the one who had married me, life was but a flickering flame blown out by no more than a draught. If that was so, I was determined to enjoy all such a fragile existence had to offer.

      Two tutors were employed to educate me, or as Mrs Truegood said, ‘To bring me on.’

      I had no idea what that meant and Mrs Truegood would not elaborate on the subject except to say it was essential that I was brought on if I was to amount to anything. She had used the word ‘essential’ about the spit-roast dog, telling Cook that a spit-roast dog was essential if her cooking was to amount to anything half decent.

      Mrs Coker, my elocution tutor, was a fine lady, exceptionally tall and made taller still by her wig. She floated, or so it seemed to me, rather than walked through the house. Her skin was remarkably smooth and she told me she kept wrinkles at bay by pulling certain threads of her hair tight and pinning them to her scalp before she put on her wig. She wore many patches on her white face and Mercy said she looked like a ghost.

      When I told Mrs Coker that I had never been out of the house and barely knew how Milk Street connected with the rest of London, she was genuinely shocked. She questioned me about my life and how I had retained my humour when confined to the house. She concluded that the only way I had managed was by the gift of a vivid imagination. Every word she used was an island in its own sound; her words never ran СКАЧАТЬ