The Love Egg
Part III: Walk The Duck
Flavio had been a guest at the Livingstones' townhouse for three days, and Jack was already planning to have him evicted. There were a good deal of many reasons as to why Jack wished to turn the transvestite out into the mildly cold to lukewarm London streets, and they were all reasons that the pirate could have endured with a mild headache, had they all occurred individually. Alas, this was not to be, and as fate would have it, poor Jack had taken to barricading himself in the master bedroom, emerging only for food, fresh air, and to ensure that his wife was behaving herself, which meant that he wasn't really barricading himself at all, what with stalking out of the room every fifteen minutes to cast a suspicious eye over Lady Livingstone as she entertained Flavio in the parlour. Running up and down the stairs did provide him with some very good exercise though, so it wasn't such a terrible fate as he had originally thought.
On one such nip down to the dining room adjoining the parlour, he had stumbled upon his daughter, who was going about the house gathering all of the roses.
"What are you doing?" he asked of her, taking in the large basket she carried.
The teenager shrugged. "I become quite the little housewife when bored," she informed him confidentially. "And besides, I hate wilting flowers; their presence always reminds you that you're going to grow ugly and then die, which really isn't the most uplifting of philosophies, and I'm still young and beautiful and I honestly don't need such negative reminders." She viciously snatched up a bundle of roses, shaking the stalks free of water, a childish snarl on her face. "I don't want to be told that I'm going to die by an inert blossom!" she cried, throwing the bouquet into her basket before looking up at her father and adding softly, "And besides, they make Si-Si sneeze, although she's far too civilised and considerate of Flavio's feelings to admit it."
"By Si-Si, do you mean my wife or your duck?" he quizzed.
"My Si-Si, of course," she told him, and Jack sighed in exasperation, as he knew full well that Pearl believed that both wife and duck were "her Si-Si." As if to answer him, there was a feeble quack, and then a white bird waddled over to look blearily up at her mistress with pleading eyes. Pearl beamed brightly down at her pet, bending and cooing over it as though it were a baby. As Jack watched with a mild sense of trepidation—for he was still not entirely at ease with mallards, no matter what he told his wife—he couldn't help but feel as though he should have bought the girl the puppy she had requested at the tender age of five.
"Don't worry," she was comforting the bird, rubbing its white head tenderly as it squawked. "Look, look, Pearl's getting rid of all of the roses for you, just as you wanted, see?"
The duck spread its wings (and Jack took an involuntary leap back) in a gesture of supreme urgency, quacking excitedly. Pearl furrowed her brow, tilting her dark head to the side as she listened to its squawks.
"Oh," she said at long last when it waddled over to a window. "Oh—Oh, I see! Oh, but of course." And she turned to her father and enquired, primly, "Papa—might I be permitted to escort Si-Si as she waddles through St James' Park?"
There was a pause at this.
"…You want to take the duck out for a walk?"
"If you don't mind," she confirmed, looking expectantly up at him with her big blue eyes.
The lord hesitated, looking towards the closed doors leading into the parlour, then back at the frustratingly beautiful girl before him. St James' Park was as nice a park as one could hope for, although he knew—from rumours as well as personal experience—that concealed in its green leaves lurked a dark, seedy underworld of prostitutes, pickpockets, and preachers of the imminent apocalypse. So to allow her to escort the duck, he would personally have to escort the escort of the duck, and to escort the escort of the duck, he would have to abandon his own self-appointed post as secret chaperone to his spouse, which would mean risking—
"Oh, Flavio!" Sierra's voice rang out from somewhere to his left, and the man turned to look out into the hall to see his wife walking arm in arm with the blonde actress. She raised her elegant fingers to her lips as a giggle escaped, looking up at the houseguest in unconditional adoration. "You're so terrible! And poor, poor Ben!" she added with a smack at his arm. "In mating season?"
"He didn't remain true to himself," Flavio defended. "'Twas a heinous crime in need of correction—"
"Well, yes, but—" Lady Livingstone playfully argued, stopping when her eyes fell upon her husband, their daughter, and the family pet. "What's this?" she queried as Flavio darted from her side to coo over the quacking duck, which Pearl immediately scooped up in a most defensive gesture. Straightening, she narrowed her eyes at Flavio, who whimpered and leapt back to cower behind Sierra's red skirts. Like her father, she did not like Flavio, not since the time he'd attempted to exorcise her and her first Si-Si; but although impervious, she knew of the man's unusually charming nature, hence why she'd prevented Si-Si the Second from physically touching the odd blond-haired creature. He'd already taken the first Si-Si away with her!
And as for Flavio's squeak of fear, well—he couldn't actually remember, but he was certain that there was a perfectly legitimate explanation for why he should be—and, indeed, was—afraid of this pale, slender creature with the narrowed blue eyes, struggling white duck, and basketful of roses; indeed, such was his illogical fear that he refrained from commenting on the slowly wilting blossoms, choosing instead to grip tightly onto Sierra's silken skirts and whimper.
"There there," she comforted, tapping the hand that was grabbing at her waist, a mischievous glint in her eyes as they swivelled to rest on the duck. She lifted her gaze to look somewhat knowingly up at Jack, and Pearl, oblivious of this silent exchange, stepped forward to Sierra to look eagerly up at her mother and chirrup in her sweet, eager manner,
"Can we take Si-Si for a walk?"
Sierra blinked at this, confused, before looking down at the duck, who released a squawk of irritation, attempting to leap forward and peck at the woman, who shrieked slightly in alarm and shrank back. Now ducks, as far as birds and other woodland critters go, are not a violent nor vindictive species; however, this was a duck of superior intelligence and something vaguely resembling the beginnings of self-awareness; this duck still recalled a day in the company of Lord Livingstone not so long ago, which she had thoroughly enjoyed, and which had abruptly ended at the appearance of this particular woman, so a violent bitterness could really only be expected from the creature.
"All together," Pearl pressed, unaware of the one-sided rivalry for her father's affections between her mother and her pet. "Can we take Si-Si for a walk? We haven't done anything as a family in so long." She paused for dramatic effect before sneaking a glance at the cowering Flavio and adding spitefully, "Not since he arrived."
"She," Flavio corrected in spite of himself, only to fall back at the derisive glare directed at him.
"Pearl," Sierra began, "do you really think that is entirely appropriate? We have a guest here, and—"
But to everybody's surprise, it was Flavio who piped up to unequivocally agree that yes, what Pearl said was true, that he had been taking up too much of the wife's time, and that a brief turn in St James' Park was a very good idea, and with these niceties successfully concluded, proceeded to launch into a tirade that was part speech, part out-of-tune aria, on the importance of family.
"If that is the case," Sierra had queried in a cold voice coloured with a nuance of hurt, "then why are you not with your family?"
Flavio blinked, confused. "Ti chiedo scusa?"
"Your sister," Sierra pressed. "Your wife, your son?"
"My wife and son?" he parroted, now more bewildered than ever. At Sierra's disbelieving stare, his eyes widened, and he cursed, "Dio caro! I left them in Spain!" before turning tail and immediately dashing up the stairs, no doubt with the intention to write to them immediately.
"Sweet man," Jack commented, stepping forward and giving his wife a kiss. She smiled, curling into him, head resting on his shoulder, and they would have been very content to remain that way had Pearl not began to alternately tug upon their respective clothing most belligerently.
"Si-Si wants to be walked!" she squawked.
"If you had told me eight years ago that I would be escorting a wife and daughter through St James' Park with a duck on a lead, I would have laughed at you," Jack commented as the duck quickened its pace, pulling Pearl a little further ahead of the languorously walking couple.
Lady Livingstone merely smiled at this, adjusting her lace-trimmed parasol so that she might rest her head on her husband's shoulder.
"And if you had told me that I'll be a celebrated society belle married to a wealthy lord with two perfect children whilst secretly writing scandalous French novels and influencing government policies, I'd have sent you to my parents."
Jack raised his eyebrows at this, and turned his head to look at the woman on his arm; she very seldom, if ever, talked of family, and even though it wasn't a part of her life that he was particularly interested in, the rare times that she did bring them up always took him by surprise. The only thing he knew of her mother and father was that they were either rather efficient social climbers, or had always travelled in the highest of circles; considering how easily his missus had adapted to aristocratic life, he was inclined towards the latter.
"Exactly how did this happen to us?" he murmured as he watched his daughter fly to her duck with a squeak of panic, the bird having taken to pecking at the flat leather cord wrapped about her white torso.
"Simple, really; you were being a cold forsaking ass that, upon realising I was with child, wanted nothing more to do with me, until you had heard that I was engaged to an ostracized aristocrat, at which point you promptly snuck onto his plantation with every intention of ripping his throat out."
"Your effortless eloquence betrays your life of novelistic duplicity."
"Oh, stop," she chided with a tap of her fan, just as Pearl began to tell the duck off for pecking at her mistress' fingers.
"Hard to believe that she's actually sixteen, isn't it?" she asked rhetorically of her husband, who smiled and laughed.
"I like her like this," he admitted as Pearl continued to reprimand her feathered Si-Si. "Far better than the alternative."
"What, you mean when she's chasing after boys and sneaking them pass your overbearing nose and into her closet?"
"She gets that from you, you know."
"Darling, I hate to be the one to inform you of this, but it's long since been apparent that you've an unquenchable and frankly irritating zeal for the gentler sex; I honestly believe that her own eagerness for the supposedly superior gender is hereditary, and thus your own doing."
"Now you sound just like my mother," he muttered, disgruntled.
"You always say that when you know I'm right," she replied, unruffled, and inadvertently confirming his small comment. "Darling," she began suddenly, halting her slow steps to look up at him.
Jack shifted slightly, discomforted as he was by the sudden realisation that the woman was about to express something of immense sentimentality.
"Thank you so much," she told him quietly, her gloved hands clutching tightly to her parasol. "I've never actually said this, I know, but… Everything that you've done for me, all that you've given up…"
"Sierra… Darling… You've already said this."
The woman blinked, completely caught off guard. "Did I?"
"Yes: Just after I told you that I'd escort you and the children to London as husband and father, on the understanding that we will cunningly counterfeit my death and the sudden decrease in the Livingstones' funds, thus providing you with the family and security you've so desperately craved and ensuring my own freedom; and then again when I decided to suspend this elaborate scheme for a further six months; and a final time when I announced that perhaps I will be staying with you after all."
"Oh yes, of course; sorry. I forgot."
"No apologies needed," Jack brushed away. There was a moment of silence before Jack said, in what sounded to him like a suspiciously boyish, overeager tone, "But it wouldn't hurt for you to express your gratitude a final time, would it?"
"No," she agreed with a tender smile, lowering her parasol and moving to wrap her arms about his waist, her smiling face resting against the soft material of his warm coat. A moment of this affectionate embrace passed before she asked,
"What, all of it, or should we just skip to the wild, uninhibited lovemaking?"
Jack looked around, noting how his daughter had tucked the lead into her muff before setting off across the wintry but sunny park, duck in tow, and after a moment or so of silent contemplation, resentfully acknowledged, "Well, it is a little cold out here…"
Sierra grinned impishly up at him, and reached up to whisper softly,
"There are some furs in the carriage." After a quick glance about to ensure they were not being watched, she nipped lightly on his ear before calmly informing him that they could, if they wanted, ask the trustworthy Beckham to watch over their daughter for them whilst they were otherwise occupied. Jack honestly couldn't see anything wrong with this plan, and so, with a slight smirk, allowed his giggling wife to lead him away.
Whilst his host and hostess were busy acknowledging and reinforcing their playful passion for one another, Flavio was preoccupied with the sending of his letter. Having long since developed a grim distrust for each and every domestic servant, the actress had decided that, in a cunning, unnoticeable disguise comprised exclusively of his host's wardrobe, to deliver the letter to the post office himself, and it was to this end that the blond could be found walking through some of London's more impoverished, though not necessarily seamier, streets and alleyways, a thick, tightly sealed parchment along with a purse full of his host's, ah, 'borrowed' coin tucked inside his inner pocket.
He knew that he had forgotten something in Spain when he had begun to excitedly pack and prepare for London, but to be perfectly honest, he had thought that it was only his toothbrush; so, he had promptly waltzed out of his apartments to purchase a fine toothbrush, and his anxious mind had been subsequently laid to rest. It was only now that he remembered his lovely domineering wife and their sweet trilingual son, who was to turn eight this year, if he was not mistaken. So when the lovely Sedano had mentioned his interventionist Amata and their maverick Bambino, he had immediately dashed to his room in order to scribe a letter desperately imploring them to follow.
So Flavio was all perfectly innocent and good of heart as he swaggered carelessly down the street, his ears absorbing each and every criers' cry, every orange wenches' croon, and every peddler's wheedling in feigned half interest, when something stopped him in his track; for a man had said, in his deep, rough, Cockney voice, that he had something no man nor woman should do without.
Now Flavio, you see, was an easily-influenced creature; oh yes, there were some subjects on which he was utterly adamant, including but not limited to his gender, his true nationality, his parentage, his social status, and his singing talent, which critics across the continent tended to disagree on. But if all of these basic beliefs were to be put aside, we would find ourselves standing before a thumb-sucking, comfort-blanket-holding, wide-eyed and highly impressionable five-year-old, and it was to this five-year-old that the street trader had confessed that his wares were items that no man (or woman) should go without.
So Flavio stopped. He frowned. He doubled back. He studied. He negotiated. And then, with a sudden pang of guilt, he paid, purchased, hurried on to the post office, and dashed madly back to Cranborne House lest his hosts return before him; and so, when the small Livingstone clan did eventually slip into the warmth of the elegant townhouse (all three of which were vaguely dishevelled, but only two of whom were smirking knowingly) they did so with a sort of affectionate, strengthened unity, and harboured absolutely no suspicions of the hell that was about to be unleashed within their very home.
TBC