Amanderella Gottsnobbler and the Bangolin Tree Chapter 7

Chapter 7.

 

A bunch of lilies.

 

Algersome Eartrembler arrived at Mrs Gaffletter’s with a bouquet of damp lilies and a voice that rumbled like a heavy cart. Amanderella watched from the upstairs window, compass in hand.

“He has the structural integrity of a suet pudding,” she whispered to her notebook.

She had no idea who he was.

Mrs Gaffletter opened the door with the serene composure of a woman who had seen far worse, insurance salesmen, and the man who once tried to sell her a collapsible canoe. “Yes?” she said.

Algersome cleared his throat. “I am here to see Lady Gottsnobbler.”

Mrs Gaffletter’s eyebrows rose a fraction, the only sign of the internal alarm bells ringing.

“I see,” she said. “And do you have an appointment?”

Algersome blinked. “An… appointment?”

“Lady Gottsnobbler does not receive gentlemen callers,” Mrs Gaffletter said, in the same tone one might use to explain that the moon does not receive picnickers. “It is a house rule.”

“Oh,” Algersome said, visibly wilting. “But her parents gave me her address.”

Upstairs, Amanderella closed her eyes. Of course they did.

Mrs Gaffletter did not sigh, she never sighed, but the air around her conveyed the distinct impression of a sigh happening somewhere close by. “Your name?” she asked.

“Algersome Eartrembler,” he said, straightening as if this might help.

Amanderella’s notebook snapped open again.

Name: Algersome Eartrembler.
Status: Unknown.
Purpose: Dubious.
Moisture level: High.

Mrs Gaffletter considered him for a long moment, then said, “I shall inform Lady Gottsnobbler that you called. Whether she chooses to descend is another matter entirely.”

Algersome clutched the lilies as if they were a lifeline. “Please tell her I bring flowers.”

Amanderella, hearing this through the floorboards, added:

Flowers: damp.
Suitor: damp.
Prospects: negligible.

She tucked the compass into her pocket, straightened her hat, and prepared to descend, not because she welcomed the intrusion, but because she believed in confronting hazards directly.

After all, she had survived monsoons, jaguars, and the Gottsnobbler family’s approach to matchmaking.

One unexpected gentleman caller would not defeat her.

Amanderella paused halfway down the staircase, listening to the murmur of voices below. Mrs Gaffletter’s tone was polite but edged with the unmistakable firmness of a woman who had once ejected a door‑to‑door accordion salesman without raising her voice.

“I repeat, sir,” Mrs Gaffletter said, “Lady Gottsnobbler does not receive gentlemen callers.”

Algersome Eartrembler made a noise like a kettle losing confidence. “But her parents assured me—”

“Her parents,” Mrs Gaffletter replied, “are not in charge of this household.”

Amanderella allowed herself a small approving nod. She continued her descent, boots silent on the carpet runner.

Mrs Gaffletter turned slightly. “Lady Gottsnobbler,” she announced, “a gentleman has arrived without an appointment.”

Amanderella’s gaze swept the parlour.

She had never seen the man before in her life.

He stood clutching a bouquet of damp lilies, his posture wavering like a jelly attempting to impersonate a spine. His hair was plastered to his forehead by either rain or nerves; it was difficult to tell which.

Amanderella stopped at the door. “Good morning,” she said, in the tone one might use to greet an unexpected geological formation. “You are…?”

Algersome attempted a bow. It came out as a forward lurch that Mrs Gaffletter intercepted with a single, well‑timed hand.

“Algersome Eartrembler, my lady,” he said, voice wobbling. “Your parents, that is, they, well, they gave me your address.”

Amanderella’s expression did not change, but something in the air cooled by several degrees.

“I see,” she said. “And what brings you to my door, Mr Eartrembler?”

He thrust the lilies forward. Several petals fell off in protest.

“I… I wished to pay my respects.”

Mrs Gaffletter’s eyebrow rose a full quarter inch. It was the household equivalent of a thunderclap.

Amanderella regarded the flowers, then the man, then the flowers again.

“Mr Eartrembler,” she said, “I do not receive gentlemen callers. It is a rule of this house.”

Algersome swallowed. “Yes, the good lady there mentioned that. Several times.”

“Quite right,” Amanderella said. “It is a sensible rule.”

Algersome wilted visibly. “Oh.”

Amanderella studied him with the calm, analytical eye she reserved for unfamiliar insects.

He did not appear dangerous.
He did not appear competent.
He did not appear entirely waterproof.

“Very well,” she said at last. “You may speak for one minute.”

Algersome brightened with the fragile optimism of a man who has misread every sign.

Mrs Gaffletter stepped back, arms folded, the embodiment of silent steel.

Amanderella folded her hands behind her back. “Mr Eartrembler, before you continue, I must ask: did my parents also send those lilies?”

He blinked. “Why, yes. Your mother said they were—”

“—‘romantic,’” Amanderella finished. “She always did have a fondness for vegetation that looks as though it has recently lost an argument with the weather.”

Algersome laughed, a sound like gravel being poured down a metal chute. “Ah! You have a sense of humour. Splendid. I was told you were… formidable.”

“Accurate,” Amanderella replied.

He attempted another bow. The lilies drooped further, shedding a final, despairing droplet.

“I have come,” he boomed, “to offer my hand.”

Amanderella regarded the hand in question. It was large, damp, and trembling faintly, as though unsure of its own purpose. “Your minute has begun.”

The clock on Mrs Gaffletter’s mantelpiece seemed to tick with a newfound, judgmental rhythm as Algersome Eartrembler began his desperate sixty seconds.

Algersome took a breath that whistled through his teeth like a leaky bellows. “My Lady, your mother spoke of your return from the… the damp places. She is quite concerned. She feels a lady of your, ah, vertical disposition shouldn’t be wandering about with insects. She suggested I might… offer you a more stationary alternative.”

Amanderella’s eyes didn’t blink. They remained fixed on the bridge of his nose, as if she were waiting for a rare species of beetle to emerge from his nostrils.

“A stationary alternative?” she repeated. Her voice was the temperature of a well‑chilled cucumber.

“Indeed!” Algersome squeaked, encouraged by her repetition. “My estate, Eartrembler Manor, is entirely indoors. We have several rooms that haven’t seen a draught since the beginning of the century. I have a collection of pressed ferns that require almost no movement to enjoy. No jaguars, no mud, and certainly no, if you’ll pardon the expression, exploring. Every part of my estate and house has been thoroughly certified against adventures.”

Amanderella glanced at her watch. “Forty seconds remain, Mr Eartrembler. You have spent twenty of them describing a life that sounds remarkably like being a stuffed owl.”

Mrs. Gaffletter made a sound like a polite sandpaper scrape. It might have been a suppressed laugh, or it might have been a warning that Algersome was shedding a petal onto her rug.

“But Lady Amanderella!” Algersome persisted, waving the lilies so vigorously that a drop of tepid water landed on Amanderella’s boot. “The world is so… so large. And unpredictable! Why go to the Amazon when one can stay at home with a nice bowl of lukewarm gruel and a sturdy roof?”

“Time,” Amanderella announced.

She stepped forward. “Mr Eartrembler, you have managed to confirm my best suspicions. You offer me a life of ferns and gruel. I am about to undertake a long and no doubt hard lecture tour.”

Algersome blinked, his jaw hanging open. “Lectures? But… but your mother said you were looking for a husband!”

“My mother,” Amanderella said, moving toward the door with the steady purpose of a woman who knew exactly where she was going, “is currently suffering from a congestion of the imagination brought on by the draughts at Gottsnobbler Hall. I, on the other hand, am entirely clear‑headed.”

She turned to Mrs Gaffletter. “Mrs Gaffletter, would you be so kind as to show Mr Eartrembler the way out? And perhaps suggest a florist who sells flowers that haven’t quite given up on life.”

“With pleasure, my lady,” Mrs Gaffletter said, opening the door with such suddenness that Algersome nearly lurched into the street.

As the door clicked shut, Amanderella took out her notebook and made a final entry.

Ferns are for parlours.
Gruel is for the unimaginative.
Algersome is for someone else.

She turned from the window, the faint hum of a motorbike drifting up from the street like a promise of freedom.

And with that, Lady Amanderella Gottsnobbler returned to her maps, her lectures, and her life, entirely unencumbered by lilies, suitors, or the faintest whiff of gruel.