The Suggestion Box (Volume 1)

Part 1: A Balloon and A Butterfly (2)

Based on the following suggestions:

Names: Ignatz Ratzkewatski, Butterfly Huffingtree, Horatio Whistlestop
Places: Londonshire, Devonshire, an abandoned castle in Scotland
Times: 7PM June 30th, Sunset, late 1700's
Objects: Rope and hot air balloon

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Chapter 2

Horatio was, at that moment, experiencing the withering death and absolute demolishment of all the hopes and dreams of the last month. He realized now that he had long labored under the impression that all the friends of the Ratzkewatski family would be upper-crust, stately, and polished; the last thing he expected was this barefoot hussy who looked as if she was taking her first holiday from the mists of Brigadoon.

Copper-colored hair? Horatio was reminded, as he watched the bobbing head wobble through the foliage, of the tangled pile of copper springs he had once observed during an outing to a museum in Exeter. He had no doubt that his well-meaning friend had sadly overestimated the other features of her appearance, as well. One thing at least Ignatz had represented closer to the truth than he likely intended: the young lady was decidedly impish. She seemed more comfortable in that tree than she might be on the ground.

The squirrel finally evaded pursuit, bounding speedily out of her reach, and so Miss Butterfly Huffingtree had little recourse but to acquiesce to her cousin's request. She seemed to ignore the twigs and leaves clawing at her hair and dress as she clambered down through the branches toward the trunk.

When at last she alighted, Horatio sneered inwardly as he thought she looked much like a tree herself, with her skin almost brown under the profusion of freckles, and the leaves and twigs covering her hair. This was the delicate beauty Nat wanted him to meet? This was the girl he assumed would be so alike to Horatio that they would compliment each other like two lines of harmony?

Butterfly (she no longer warranted the stately name of Esmirelda) grinned at him, her morning-glory eyes almost white in their paleness within her ruddy face.

"Pleased ta make yer acquaintance, sar!" Her observance of etiquette was not amiss, and she curtseyed well enough. "Are ye that Rate Whistler ma coosin naever stops blatherin' on aboot?"

Horatio no dded his head in a curt bow and responded, as manners dictated, "The pleasure is mine, Miss Huffingtree. I am he."

Butterfly blushed even redder than she had been before, and giggled. "Call me Butterfly, then; Miss Hoffin'tree is tae braw fer me; sae stiff and starched-like!" She flounced a few long paces in the full-skirted cotton dress and flung her arms wide. "Do Ah seem the type to use enna starch a'tall, Mr. Whistle?"

Horatio smiled wanly at her, like an older adult indulging an ignorant young child, even though, as he saw her now, he guessed she wasn't much younger than himself. "No, indeed you do not," he answered. "And please, it's Whistlestop; Horatio Whistlestop."

"Whistlestop?" Butterfly repeated. She burst out into a cackling titter. "Ach! They've fonny names in America! C'n I call ye Mr. Rate?"

Horatio sighed, but acknowledged to himself that it was better to be Rate than Whistle. "If you'd like."

The gong sounded, signalling diner. Automatically, Horatio offered his arm to Miss Butterfly Huffingtree. "Shall we go to dinner?" he invited her cordially.

"Thank ye, sar!" she chirped in her strange accent as she took his arm.

At dinner, she chattered endlessly with all the Ratzkewatski family. The more he listened, the more Horatio became accustomed to her thick accent. There had been a few Scottish students at the school in Exeter, but living among Englanders had softened their accents considerably. He was so unaccustomed to the unadulterated Highland brogue that it sounded akin to a foreign language at times.