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Chapter the First

Pigs and Proposals

In which we meet a few of our characters and some of their rather rambunctious pets

In the year eighteen thirty-five, England was moving forward. It had overcome a civil war and was rather quickly working on regaining its dignity after losing a few colonies. A new young queen was well anticipated within a few years. Trade was growing, industry was booming, and railroads were being laid all over the country, giving maps the odd appearance of a having had young child scribble on them with black ink, in particular in the areas around London and Birmingham. Travel was faster, profit was greater, and people were smarter than ever before.

Of course, there were still rural manor homes. And in these prestigious old estates, there were old-money families. They, of course, frequently had large amounts of servants. And among the servants, at many of these farming manor homes, there were caretakers of the animals. And some of them took care of the pigs. And some of them were named Bit.

Bit, one of the aforementioned pig girls, could be considered somewhat of a blight upon the pristine face of Modern England.

Tripping down the picturesque country road, surrounded by slightly muddy and multicolored pigs was a young woman of questionable age and even more questionable reputation. A birch branch switch was grasped firmly in one grubby hand. This was the hand that could lay low even the most stubborn, odious pig in the neighborhood. Attached to the hand was an arm, and the arm was (indirectly, of course) attached to a face, the countenance of which was singularly irritable, if one was brave enough to peer past the grime and dingy hair. This was Bit. She was not in the least bit pleasing to look on, and nor were her pigs. But who cared? She was the pig girl. She didn't matter, and she didn't care that she didn't matter.

All she knew was pigs and marzipan.

On that particular sunny spring day on Radcliff Manor there was a rather large mass awakening of the yellow and black buzzing insect so creatively dubbed the bee. They had been functioning for some time, now, or course, but the sun was just so delightfully warm and the flowers so agreeably bright that the small creatures had come out en masse to feast upon the pollen of unwitting flowers. The road Bit and the pigs walked down was lined with vivid flowers of all the shades imaginable. Cornflower blue, blushing rose, golden yellow, lavender purple, and an orange that quite distinctly reminded one of October in New England were all in attendance and were accompanied by a plethora of delicate green leaves and dainty white buds, all of which called to the bees as a sticky cake calls to a young child of as-yet-unrefined morals in the area of petty thievery.

Bit, with her simple joys, quite delighted in the lazy, melodic humming of the bees. Unfortunately, the pigs thought quite differently, and when one renegade insect stung the tender rump of a particularly ill-tempered sow, she took off with a great screech and promptly gave Bit one more reason to dislike her darling, bristly charges.

A string of curses soared out in to the once-tranquil country air behind the girl as she chased after the escaping pig.

It was a bit unusual but not overly surprising how many expletives Bit knew. She waded through the very lowest ranks of society, and even if she knew proper manners existed she probably wouldn't be able to reign in her tongue, dripping with words learned down at the stables, the trash-piles of the tavern, and in the cellar. These commonplace profanities were augmented by some of her own creations, for, as you may be able to see, Bit was an extremely creative sort of person.

Leaving the other pigs behind at the road (or so she thought) Bit went gallivanting across the field after the squealing pink animal that had been stung by a bee. The poor bee itself was nowhere in sight. If Bit had a scrap of pity in her, she might feel bad for the squished insect that was slowly dying on the road. Of course, she did not really understand pity, and the bee died uneulogized.

Bit hazarded a glance over her shoulder and – oh dear – it seemed that the other pigs in the flock had quite taken it upon themselves to watch out for their dearly beloved old sow and trample their not-so-dearly-beloved caretaker.

So there they went. A pig at the lead, followed by a scrawny girl, followed by a flock of pink, squealing pigs, all of them traipsizing over the tranquil-before-they-came meadow.

Ah, what a wonderful Sunday afternoon.

"…and I did think the sermon to be quite stirring. I simply must point out, again, that Reverend Bishop's, well, eh eh eh, your father's sermons are always very interesting and enlightening. I must say that I do enjoy sitting in church when your father is preaching!"

A slightly pompous, stuffy voice floated through the garden. A few moments later than was entirely proper, a pinched reply came.

"Ah, really? I dare say I agree…" It was the sort of reply that came from a person who was not listening in the least bit, but was far too polite to make it known.

"That's quite curious! You and I do seem to agree on many things, do we not, Miss Bishop?"

A pause, then, "Yes, of course, that is quite interesting..."

"Eh eh eh! We agree again? I think that makes us quite the pair, do not you? I remember the stirring words your father said about such things two Sundays ago…"

Two figures came in to view around the corner of a boxily clipped hedge. The first, the source of the painful, hiccupping laugh, was a tall, skinny young man with particularly bony elbows, dusty-looking brown hair, and a pair of small, beady green eyes. He was dressed rather dapperly in a trim, soot-colored jacket with a tall, shiny, stately black hat perched on his head. On his arm stood a rather tall – well, taller than him, at any rate, counting the hat – young woman in a white dress and demure straw bonnet. Her face, hidden from the man by the hat, looked more than a little pained – in fact, it was the kind of expression that made one want to run up to the poor soul and give them a dose of morphine. Gray eyes peered rather nearsightedly, looking for some distraction, and light brown curls stuck to the back of her neck in a sun-induced shimmer of 'glow,' for, after all, proper ladies of a certain caliber do not ever sweat. How distasteful.

As the gentleman prattled on, Miss Jane Bishop raised a delicate, gloved hand to her high forehead. She shot a glance at her escort, and murmured, "Mr. Radcliff?"

Mr. Gregory Radcliff talked on. "…however, I am of the opinion that the new laws on are completely unjustified, though perhaps their instillation is in good pertainment to the older regulations…"

"Mr. Radcliff?" A little louder this time, but to no avail. She added a hint of irritation and annoyance to the edge of her voice. "Mr. Radcliff? Sir!"

"…now, as to those at Parliament – oh, yes, Miss Bishop?" His attention finally garnered, Jane wiped away the half-snorting look and promptly replaced the hand to her forehead and clutched Gregory's arm a tiny bit tighter.

"Mr. Radcliff, I am feeling ever so faint – I don't suppose you would mind if I were to leave for my home, now?"

Gregory paled. He did not want some fainting woman on his hands, never mind that it was darling Jane. But it wouldn't be proper to send her home alone (goodness, what would the townsfolk think?), and there wasn't any way that he was walking all the way to the village. No, there was no way around it.

"Oh, Miss Bishop, I wouldn't want for you to have to walk all the way home, not on your own, and certainly not in your present state. Is it the sun that is bothering you? Do come sit in the shade –" Jane plopped down on the cool stone bench with a despondent sigh. "I am sorry I cannot fetch you a glass of water, or some salts, Miss Bishop – are you feeling terribly unwell? Perhaps we could walk back to the house, then fetch a carriage back to your home?"

Jane hid a sigh. That hadn't worked well at all. She had hoped that at worst, perhaps Gregory would insist upon accompanying her home, but she hadn't factored in his profound laziness. Too bad.

"No, thank you Mr. Radcliff. I need just sit here a moment, then I shall be quite recovered."

So they sat in the dappled green light underneath the tree.

Gregory regarded Jane out of the corner of his eye, taking in the curve of her neck over the starched lace collar as it traveled up under the demure rim of her bonnet. Sunlight speckled her green-tinted dress, wide sleeves cinching down to a tiny belted waist. He smiled a tiny bit as her hand reached up to brush a stray ribbon away from her face.

He could only sing her praises. Jane Bishop was sweet, cheerful, pretty, and just wonderfully proper. Her hair was the perfect color (not too dark, not too light ), and she could avoid being overly stubborn when she really wished to.

And now, she was sitting on a stone bench, practically begging for him to ask her to-

Yes. The time was now! Gregory twisted his hands around behind his back and stood up from the bench, walking a few paces away.

"Miss Bishop…Jane – may I call you Jane? –" The lady in question paled.

Bit was beginning to get somewhat tired. Despite their inches-thick calluses, her feet were beginning to smart from banging down on so many sharp rocks and barbed twigs, and her ribcage was starting to constrict around her lungs, making her pant and gasp for air. The stupid pig, however, did not seem to be affected by the hot sun, long run, or lousy terrain.

Finally, they veered towards softer, manicured grass and a line of trees that shaded them from the sun. The flowers were less ragged, and the colors more muted. If she had been paying attention, Bit would have let the damned pigs run on without her – unfortunately for Bit, she was not exactly the epitome of attention-paying at the moment, and, without her prior consent, the runaway sow was pulling the group towards the pristinely cared for gardens of the Manor House. This was one of the worst places for a dirty, ragged pig girl and her pigs to be tramping about.

She began to feel a little spot of uneasiness as they tumbled down a stone staircase and past a slightly green fountain. Somehow, Bit couldn't remember any such furnishings in the farmyard area. This garden looked Anything but familiar.

Slowing a tiny bit, Bit looked around herself. Delicate flowering trees, trimmed bushes, flowers planted for the sole purpose of acting pretty and smelling nice met her eyes, while her ears were serenaded with the sounds of running water, the cries of ornamental birds, and a stately click-clack of pig hoofs on slate pathways.

No, this was not good indeed.

The chase picked up again, this time with a rather much more desperate air. Bit needed to catch the pigs to get out of this fancy area, and the pigs just had to get away from their pursuer. The sow, ever the rebellious leader, took off again, pulling with her the rest of the bunch. Behind them came Bit, in fast pursuit, feeling a whole lot more irritated than she had before her revelation. Revelations have a habit of making people irritated, and this was no different case.

They soared over hedgerows, scrabbled around fences, and trampled through unwitting flower patches in the girl and pigs' respective motives of trying to catch and flee. They passed a rather startled-looking gardener and his flabbergasted assistant, a rather pretty row of brilliant pink roses that were now, unfortunately, trodden upon quite violently, and jumped over quite a few ornate stone benches.

To Bit is dismay, they seemed to be headed towards an area of the garden with short trees. This was not, in fact, an area of short trees but an elegant sunken garden, the hapless inhabitants of which were soon to be quite rudely surprised.

As the motley group of girl and pig galloped towards the sunken garden, they picked up a considerable amount of speed. The first pig finally reached the edge of the garden and launched herself off the wall, galloped to the other side of the garden, and went up and out. She was followed by the rest of the flock (down, up and out in one smooth movement) and finally Bit, who tumbled down in to a flower bed, accumulated a large amount of floral debris about her person.

She was about to stand and run away after the pigs when a shocked little noise came from the bench.

Oh dear.

For there, respectively perched on the stone and kneeling before, was a young woman and gentleman. Everything about the young woman' s face could be described as a large 0: her eyes were wide, her mouth popped open, her face elongated with her hanging jaw, with the brim of her straw hat framing the entire spectacle. The gentleman was rather much the opposite. When the first pig broke through the shrubbery, his face had mirrored his companion, but now that he had identified somewhat accurately the base cause of the chaos, his features had scrunched up in the most unpleasant, lime-sucking way imaginable.

Bit grimaced rather immaturely, then scrambled to her feet and curtsied.

"' m don' na mind me, miss, mista', I'll jus' be goin' gone down there, I suppos'…" She trailed off at the gentleman's glare.

Gregory (for that, of course, was who it was) slowly picked himself up off the grass where he had been kneeling to a rather red-faced Jane.

"What, exactly, were you thinking of when you came carousing by with all those…" it was like the word was too distasteful for him to say-"All those…pigs?"

The difference between their diction's was sharp and profound. Gregory's refined air and classy tone spoke of finery and upper class society, where as Bit is rough speech consisted of dropping the majority of her final consodents and only half-pronouncing the rest.

Bit thought for a moment, trying to figure out what carousing meant. She finally gave up, shrugged, and figured it was something along the lines of running through sunken gardens with pigs and mussing up proposals.

"I dunno, sir, I was jus' gon' try to catch them pigs, I suppos'." It was not any use trying to explain the fine intracies of pig catching and the true plot of her entire tale to this posh gentleman. He would probably scoff and scorn her motley tale, and do, well, exactly what he was doing now. That consisted of turning rather red in the face and pulling himself up to his full height (still a tiny bit shorter than Jane) and storming over to where Bit slouched.

"Stand up straight."

She complied – there was no use going against someone so wealthy. Why, she could practically see the money weighing down his coat pockets. His finely tailored, perfectly made coat pockets.

"Why, exactly, did a flock of pigs come fluttering through the Manor' s leisure gardens?" Gregory glared down at the girl, whom he assumed was some sort of village girl. Probably poor, certainly horribly rude and uncultured. "I was under the impression that this was personal private property, and I do not think you are a person of proper compliance to the estate."

Wiping spittle off her face from the p' s of impression, private, property, person, proper, and compliance, Bit shrugged rather irreverently. She probably should have been a bit more hesitant about contradicting someone with so much pocket weighing-down money, but conscientiousness was not inherently in her nature. So she snorted, shrugged again, and stated with as little pomp and circumstance as was possible:

"N' sir, I work here. I am the pig girl." Then, as if he might not quite understand – "I takes care of the pigs, sir."

Jane was, sadly enough, quite unable to keep her composure, the tiny quick of her pink lips and delicate snort lit the fuse under Gregory' s fairly pompous behind.

"Miss Bishop! You will not laugh at me!" Gregory' s harsh rebuke caused Jane' s brow to furrow. He then spun towards Bit, whose eyes widened as a large hand swung around to clip her on the side of the head. Using a decade and a half (possibly ) of experience, she ducked under the clumsy attempt and jumped for safety beyond the nobleman. Unfortunately, in her desperate leap she missed freedom and ran in to Gregory' s legs, pulling them out from under him and making the both of them land in a tangled pile on the green, clothing-staining grass, Jane' s laughter ringing around them.

Bit sprung to her feet quick as lighting and with profanity loud enough to mirror a rather respectable amount of thunder. A second later, though, she was sprawled back down on the ground, face in the flowerbed with a wiry hand wrapped around her poor ankle.

That was going to swell something miserable.

Gregory scrambled to his feet far in a far more undignified way than Bit. She managed to wriggle out of his hold on her ankle, but he seemed to be performing at higher physical standards than normal – after all, his beloved Jane was watching – and he grabbed her shoulders and shook annoyingly hard. Bit saw her vision blur and jump around as her head wobbled back and forth, and when Gregory eventually released her shoulders, she staggered around like she was drunk. This half-inebriated feeling was increased tenfold when Gregory finally succeeded in beating her about the head – once, twice, he grabbed her shoulders again, a third time (goodness, was that an ugly yellow bird? ) –

"Mr. Radcliff!" Jane hit Gregory' s shoulder with her fan, which hurt far more than it was expected to. (It was a fan, made of flimsy wood and lace. What was it that made it hurt so much? The snap of the wrist? ) "Release that poor girl at once!"

He made a slightly petulant face, then let go of the remaining shoulder. Bit shot Jane a grateful look and scrambled up and over the wall, disappearing from sight behind the bushes.

She remained, though, perched on top of a stone bench, peering through a small, sickly-looking tree. This man had a temper, and Bit, though questionable in her morals, owed Miss Bishop. Miss Bishop had kept her from getting a head injury. Mr. Radcliff was liberal with his hitting, and he couldn't be allowed to touch Jane – though Bit figured that he was probably too much of a coward to actually do Anything terrible.

Still.

As she watched, Gregory reached out a pleading hand to Jane. The young woman returned with a sharp exclamation and a toss of still-pristine curls.

Gregory' s face fell, and he pulled something out of his pocket and strode two long steps to Jane, grabbing her hand and wrapping the mysterious object in it. She glared, pulled her hand back, and stalked up the steps.

Jane paused at the edge of the sunken garden and looked back at the crestfallen Gregory. She said something, probably sharp, for Gregory sank down on the bench at her utterance of whatever it was, and trotted down the path.

All was quiet except for the patter of silky white slippers on slate flagstones, and when the last edge of a flower sprigged dress disappeared around the corner of the shrubbery, not even that remained to be heard. Bit waited for a second, then crept away from the scene, following the tracks of heavily indented pig' s hooves.

The last thing she heard, though, before leaving the garden with a thoroughly reprimanded flock of pigs was a loud swear and the exclamation of:

"Curse you, damned pig girl!"

Bit winced, correctly assuming she was the aforementioned damned and rather more recently cursed pig girl, and picked her way over the last of the crushed poppies and escaped the garden.

A/N: Well, here's to the first chapter of my first story! Hope you like it!