Tale Teller Club Digital: Pasha du Valentine

Diary of the Countess of Brighton and Hackney

"An Intrusion Most Foul and a Songbird’s Lament"

Greetings, my beloved subjects and gentle companions,

Tonight, I recount a tale of such nerve and villainy that it shall live in infamy within the annals of my court. As I recline now in my tub, the waters scented with lavender to soothe my frayed spirits, I must unburden my soul to you, my ever-loyal confidantes.

’Twas but last night, after the day’s labors and triumphs, that I retired to my chamber of rest and refreshment. My bath drawn, I did recline, washing my delicate person with the care befitting a Countess. The hour was late, and the night air still. Then, lo, a most dreadful sound reached mine ears—a ruckus, as though some brutish beasts had descended upon my palace unbidden.

At first, I thought it a mouse, for my abode, like any noble’s, is occasionally troubled by such tiny creatures. Yet no! The noise was heavier, angrier, and full of menace. I lay still as stone, listening intently, and then—oh, horror!—I heard footsteps, booted and heavy, ascending my fire escape. Voices followed, coarse and gruff.

I, your Countess, called out, “Who dares disturb the sanctity of my palace? Who treads so boldly where they have no right?” No reply came. Grabbing the nearest cloth—a towel so small it might as well have been a kerchief—I leapt from the bath, dripping and incensed, and flew to confront these intruders.

Up on my mezzanine I spied them—two men of ill repute, their figures shadowed but their intentions clear. I shouted, demanding their purpose. “Begone!” I cried. “Lest you face the wrath of my court!”

Hearing my voice, they muttered foul oaths and made to flee, clambering down the fire escape like thieves caught in the light. I pursued them, as any noble protector of their realm would, but they vanished into the darkness before I could seize them. Yet their escape was not the end of it. No, dear reader, for justice would soon be meted out.

This morning, with my court guards summoned and the fire escape barred with iron bolts, I set forth a decree to hunt the knaves. By midday, they were captured and brought before me, quaking and covered in filth, as they deserved. I sentenced them to a punishment both fitting and revolting—dunking in the slurry pits of my estate. There, their sins would be washed away in a tide of foulness most befitting their audacity.

But now, to other matters that weigh upon my heart. For though my spirit burns with righteousness, there is one criticism oft whispered beyond my court that wounds me deeply: the claim that my voice, my sweet and melodious song, is not in tune.

Can you imagine such gall? Within my court, none dare utter such falsehoods. Indeed, my loyal subjects clap and swoon when I grace them with a tune. “Like a nightingale,” they say, their eyes bright with admiration. Yet beyond my domain, in the murmurings of commoners, I am accused of shrieking like a crow or wailing like a banshee.

It is slander, pure and simple. Do I not possess the poise of a songbird? The grace of a lark? And yet, these unrefined ears, unfit for the delicacies of my art, spread their cruel assessments.

I shall not be swayed by their lies. When I sing, I bring forth the joys and sorrows of the soul, uniting heaven and earth in melody. If they cannot appreciate the beauty, it is because their own hearts are unworthy of such gifts. Still, I wonder—might there be truth in their jests? Could my pitch stray? Perhaps it is the fault of the chamber’s acoustics, not mine own.

I shall practice anew, for a Countess must always strive for perfection. Tomorrow, I shall sing in the grand hall and let my notes soar to the rafters. Let the critics come and hear for themselves, though I doubt they possess the courage to face me directly.

Ah, but enough of these trivial grievances. The day ends, and I must rest, my subjects. My bath grows tepid, and I find myself longing for a warm goblet of mulled wine to chase away the chill.

May your nights be peaceful and your dreams filled with grandeur befitting the loyal companions of a Countess. Until tomorrow, my dearest friends.

The Countess of Brighton and Hackney

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Nov 25, 2024

Countess Diaries, Chapter 28, Gifts for the Magnificent Countess

Diary Entry: Gifts for the Magnificent Countess

My dearest admirers, it is no secret that being a Countess of such unrivaled stature brings with it an unending stream of adoration, and with adoration comes gifts. Oh, how they arrive—by courier, by hand, even by the occasional tipsy pigeon, burdened by some poor fool’s misguided attempt at novelty. My palace, while grand, is in constant peril of becoming a storage facility for the well-meaning offerings of those seeking my favor.

Naturally, there are treasures that delight even my refined sensibilities. Why, just last week, I was presented with a crate of the most exquisite beluga caviar, accompanied by a magnum of vintage champagne so rare it practically whispered aristocratic secrets as it was uncorked. Such gifts, I assure you, are treated with the reverence they deserve—savored in the salon with dear friends (and the occasional envy-prone frenemy) under candlelight, as Bach’s cello suites waft through the air. Perfection.

Then there are the… shall we say, lesser gifts. Just yesterday, a local artist—a dear, albeit misguided soul—arrived bearing a sculpture fashioned entirely from driftwood and what appeared to be discarded bottle caps. While I commend the creative spirit, my immediate thought was, “Where shall I hide this until the next high tide reclaims it?” Fortunately, the palace’s west wing has a charming utility cupboard that has become something of a purgatory for such pieces. From there, many find their way, quite miraculously, to the hands of needy urchins and beggars who, one assumes, will make better use of them.

Another gem of an offering arrived in the form of a knitted scarf. Knitted! Now, I appreciate a touch of handmade charm as much as the next Countess, but this particular item appeared to be the result of a lengthy battle between wool and good taste, with neither emerging victorious. It was so long that I briefly considered using it as a makeshift clothesline in the garden. Alas, it now graces the shoulders of a rather enthusiastic local postman who expressed his gratitude by bowing awkwardly and mumbling something about his mother being a fan. The community, you see, benefits immensely from my largesse.

Children, too, often bring gifts—bless their sticky little hands. Finger paintings, seashell necklaces, and the occasional petrified frog have all been placed at my feet with wide, expectant eyes. These I cherish briefly before discreetly redirecting them to the palace’s secret bin—a receptacle reserved for the most heartfelt yet irredeemable tributes.

Still, some gifts are so absurd they simply demand to be shared. Who could forget the taxidermy ferret clutching a fake ruby in its jaws? Or the antique chamber pot (mercifully unused) that someone dared to describe as "vintage chic"? Both caused much merriment during my soirée that evening, especially when the ferret was posed mid-table alongside the caviar as a kind of ironic centerpiece. The chamber pot, meanwhile, now resides in the garden, where it serves as a planter for a rather aggressive basil bush.

Of course, none of this is to suggest I am ungrateful. No, no, no! Every gift, regardless of its merit, serves to remind me of the love and admiration that my public—nay, the world—feels for me. And if the champagne and caviar are enjoyed with gusto while the knitted scarves and ferrets find new homes, it is all part of the grand ecosystem of generosity. One must give to receive, and I am nothing if not charitable. Besides, the sight of a beggar wandering the streets with a questionable sculpture or oversized scarf surely warms the heart of any observer, does it not?

So, my darlings, do keep the gifts coming. Shower me with your tributes of affection and adulation, and know that whether they end up in my dining room or in the hands of a street urchin, you have contributed to the grand tapestry of my life as the Countess of Brighton and Hackney. And for that, I am forever grateful—well, almost.

Yours in magnificence,
The Countess of Brighton and Hackney

© 2024 Sarnia de la Mare