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

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      The general view of stepmothers is that they are cruel, with only one intention: to promote their children over and above their husbands’ hated offspring. This turned out to be far from true in my case. If it wasn’t for the arrival of my stepmother I dread to think what would have become of me.

      When on the day of the marriage I fell down the stairs and passed out, it seemed to be for only a matter of moments.

      I couldn’t have been more mistaken, for I woke to find myself neatly tucked up in bed on soft pillows that I never knew we owned, in a room with furniture I had never seen before. I couldn’t think how I came to be there in a fine cotton nightgown with lace at its edges. Such wanton luxury made me wonder if I had died and was in heaven, for there seemed no other rational explanation for these radical changes. Alas, that lofty thought lasted less than a minute. There was a clatter outside, the door flew open and there was Cook, carrying a tray.

      ‘So your ladyship is awake at last,’ she said, coming in with all the grace of an overfed turkey.

      ‘Where am I?’ I asked.

      ‘Where you have been since the day you were born – in your father’s house in Milk Street.’

      Unless my eyes were playing tricks with me, I would swear that Cook looked cleaner. She was wearing a white linen apron and there wasn’t the usual smell of rancid fat about her.

      I was muddled and was on the point of questioning her when the strikingly elegant woman who I remembered seeing in the hall came into the room.

      ‘That will be all, Martha,’ she said, dismissing Cook.

      Martha. It was shocking to learn that Cook had a name, for as long as I had known her, she had been just plain Cook.

      Cook dropped a curtsey, which my father had never had the luxury of receiving, and left as a gentleman in a purple velvet coat with a sprig of lavender in his lapel entered the chamber.

      ‘This is Doctor Ross, Miss Truegood,’ said the elegant lady. ‘It is due to his good care that you are still with us.’

      Doctor Ross had a face that could reassure the dying that they had a lifetime to live. He smiled, gently took hold of my wrist and leaned towards me, his breath smelled vaguely of mint. He looked into my eyes, felt my forehead and pronounced that the fever had passed and I would live.

      Had the world fallen on its head and got up the wrong way? This was all a fuss about nothing. Before I could be stopped I climbed out of bed only to realise my mistake for my legs were not quite as determined as my will to stand upright.

      The doctor smiled again, caught hold of me and helped me back into bed.

      ‘You are lucky that nothing was broken,’ said the elegant lady, who I assumed must be the new Mrs Truegood.

      ‘Why should anything be broken?’ I asked.

      ‘Because you fell down the stairs and had a fit.’

      ‘Then I must have ruined your wedding breakfast. I am so sorry, madam. It has never happened before and it will never happen again.’

      She laughed. ‘We all hope it will never happen again, my dear. But far from ruining the wedding feast you saved us from eating a rotten fowl that no amount of butter in the world could disguise as being edible. If you had to choose a day to have a fit, why, you couldn’t have chosen a better.’

      None of this made any sense at all.

      ‘How long have I been here?’ I asked.

      ‘Ten very worrisome days.’

      ‘What was my ailment?’

      ‘A brain fever,’ replied Dr Ross.

      Mrs Truegood propped me up on the pillows and, as foolish as it was, I burst into tears, for never could I remember such care being taken of me, even if anyone had thought I might need it.

      She leaned forward and said softly, ‘Things will change for the better, Tully. I may call you Tully?’

      Muddled was altogether too gentle a word to describe my feelings at that moment. I was completely befuddled. All that had been before was swept away. Was it possible that this was the new order of things?

      Dr Ross’s prescription was bed rest. I lay half sleeping and half dreaming of the gentleman’s visit and my mind having nothing else to occupy it I began to wonder what lay in a grown man’s breeches and how that joined together with my small mound. In fact, I could hardly think of anything else. The memory of the way his fingers had touched my skin sent a delicious tingle right through me. I tried to think what a plug tail might look like when it belonged to a man and such was my imagination that I found my body would readily ignite and I had no idea how to put out such a persistent flame. I grew fearful that I might still indeed have a fever.

      The only release from these worrying thoughts was the company of my two new stepsisters who took it in turns to keep me entertained, and I began looking forward to their daily visits.

      Never had two sisters been more different in character and looks. Though they claimed to be around my age, they were much more sophisticated and worldly than I. Hope had eyes that giggled into life and the most infectious laugh. She knew just how to dress her curvaceous figure to the best effect, wearing her corset tight so that her breasts sat engagingly high and, surrounded by Belgian lace, were shown off to their best advantage. A dainty dish that I thought a fine gentleman might relish. She had the skin of a fresh peach and only on close inspection could you see that her face was painted and any blemish hidden behind moon and star-shaped beauty spots.

      She would come after breakfast and tell me the changes that had been brought about while I had been lost in the world of sleep. At first I thought there could be no other reason for her visits but to find entertainment in my ignorance, for she knew so much of the world and the ways of society. She read to me from newspaper gossip columns about balls and assemblies, Ranelagh Gardens and the opera. But once she realised I knew nothing about such things she settled for more domestic topics.

      ‘Queenie has had the blue room papered with birds of the wildest imaginings.’

      ‘Queenie?’ I said. ‘Who is she?’

      ‘Oh, I mean Mama – it’s our affectionate name for her,’ said Hope. ‘All the old drapes are taken down.’

      ‘Did Cook do that?’ I asked.

      ‘Cook!’ The very idea made her burst into fits of laughter. ‘Can you see her balancing СКАЧАТЬ