Bullmina the Courageous Bulldog to the Rescue

Contents

Chapter 1: Grand-père Georges

Chapter 2: Lady Evelyn’s Crusade

Chapter 3: Max and Dieter Visit the Kennels

Chapter 4: A Suitor for Beatrice

Chapter 5: Bullmina Returns to the Boulangerie

Chapter 6: Claude’s Torment

Chapter 7: Back to France

Chapter 8: Lisette Fights Back

Chapter 9: Stormy Seas

Chapter 10: Millie’s Visit

Chapter 11: Life at the Kennels

Chapter 12: Sadie’s Litter

Chapter 13: Matthew Connors

Chapter 14: They’re at it Again!

Chapter 15: Orphans

Chapter 16: Justice is Served

Chapter 17: The Fosters

Chapter 18: Beatrice and Willie

Chapter 19: Cassius

Chapter 20: Chou Chou II’s First Litter

Chapter 21: Lisette’s Choice

Chapter 22: Bullmina and Cassius

Chapter 23: The Duke’s Wrath

Chapter 24: Willie’s Handkerchief

Chapter 25: The Vicar’s Kind Words

Chapter 26: Mrs. Pigeon’s Orphanage

Chapter 27: Rescued

Chapter 28: Dreams and Letters

Chapter 29: The Pendant

Chapter 30: Bon Voyage!

Author’s Notes

The Bush Baby, a Bulldog Rescue Story,

By Mary Aiken

Tank: The Marines Save One of Their Own,

By Dave Mageau, Jr.

Interview with Jennifer Thomas

Final Notes: Choosing a Dog from

a Rescue Organization or Shelter

About The Bullmina Foundation

Bibliography and Resources

Photo Credits

Acknowledgements

Proceeds from the sale of this book will benefit

Bulldog Rescue Organizations

and other animal rescue groups.

For additional information about Lita Eitner-England and the Bullmina Foundation, please visit

www.bullmina.com

Tiffany Konishiki Bullman, Tiffy

9/28/01 - 11/24/09

For Mojave,

Buck,

Norman,

Sammy,

Magnolia Blossom,

Princess Annie Wiggles,

and, of course,

Tiffy

…and for those

who have set up

little rescue sanctuaries

in their own homes…

Chapter 1: Grand-père Georges

Lisette St. Germaine had just finished packing another order of flaky croissants into a delivery box and tying it with string when she heard her grandfather’s deep, rasping cough echoing from his small bedroom upstairs. Chou Chou II, Lisette’s beloved English Bulldog, immediately jumped out of her wicker basket in the corner and stood at attention, barking with concern as she looked up at her mistress.

Lisette heaved a sigh as she lined another empty box with parchment paper. Grand-père can’t even take a nap in peace because of that terrible cough. He should be getting better, but he’s been sick for months now.

The beautiful, red brindle Bulldog seemed to understand as she crouched back down on the floor, looking up at Lisette with her expressive brown eyes.

The St. Germaine Boulangerie in London, England, was no longer a bustling, happy bakery anymore. Lisette’s grandfather, Georges St. Germaine, had been ill since late November of last year. First he felt weak and tired, then he lost his appetite, and then came the racking cough that seemed to get worse with each passing day. Finally, he was bedridden, and the doctor bills were mounting. None of the prescribed medicines were doing any good.

It was now March, 1836.

"Here’s another tray of tarte aux pommes, Lisette," called Claude St. Germaine, Lisette’s father, bursting through the door with a big tray of apple tarts, fresh off the cooling rack for Lisette to pack. Claude’s face was red and his forehead was beaded with perspiration from tending the fires underneath the ovens and feeling their blasts of heat each time he used his long wooden palate to add and remove loaves of bread.

Chou Chou II whined happily and galloped over to Claude as he set the warm, fragrant tray on the long table. "Oui, oui. I know, I know, ma petite. He’s coughing again," Claude said sadly, looking down at her as he grabbed a clean, soft rag to wipe the perspiration off his brow. He was exhausted. With his father sick in bed, everyone had to work harder.

Claude’s nephew, Jean Paul, was out making the deliveries that Grand-père Georges always made. Lisette had to do more of the mixing, kneading, decorating, and boxing of all the cakes and pastries now. She had taken over most of the store management duties, too, particularly bookkeeping and ordering supplies. Whenever Jean Paul was out making deliveries, she also had to take turns with her father waiting on customers in the little bakery storefront and keeping the shop area tidy.

Each day was long and tiring.

The little bell that dangled from the front door, signaling the arrival of eager, hungry customers, had already rung several times that morning. Customers came by foot and carriage from miles around for the beautiful artisan breads that the St. Germaines were known for: golden, crunchy crusts that revealed a light, fluffy texture that literally melted in one’s mouth when the loaves were torn open. Claude and his father had developed their own unique starter for their French bread. They also perfected their recipes for hearty wheat and dark rye as well as the buttery croissants that were snatched up quickly every morning.

The extra work and caring for her grandfather kept Lisette and Chou Chou II up late at night. Lisette ignored her exhaustion and sore muscles so she could help her father stay healthy and strong. She could see the toll all the worry and responsibility was taking on him, but she refused to acknowledge how much of a toll it was taking on her own mind and body.

Do you need any help shaping the dill rye loaves? she asked, tying string around another box.

Non, exhaled Claude. Jean Paul shaped them and set them to rise just before he left.

Bon, Lisette nodded, picking up the hem of her smudged, gray apron and gently patting the perspiration from her forehead. Then I’d better go upstairs and check on Grand-père. It’ll give this next batch of tarts a chance to cool a bit more before I box them up.

Merci, ma fille, said Claude softly, gazing at his beautiful daughter. I’ll keep an ear out for the bell until Jean Paul returns, he added, watching Lisette climb up the narrow staircase that led to their tiny bedrooms above the bakery.

Lisette had grown so much in the last few years. She had just turned sixteen, with beautiful, thick black hair and big brown eyes. Claude was grateful to have such a loving, caring daughter. But he felt guilty, too. These were supposed to be the best years of her life, years that should be enjoyed before she got married and was locked into the drudgery of endless cooking, cleaning, washing diapers, and feeding children.

Claude had hoped that he and his family would be able to enjoy a little bit of peace and prosperity now that Bullmina, Chou Chou II’s mother, had finally been returned to Lord Anthony Charleston Waverly III, the Duke of Chathamworthshire. As a thank-you gift for all the care Lisette had lavished upon the wounded Bullmina after she rescued her from the alley behind their boulangerie nearly five years ago, the Duke let Lisette choose one of Bullmina’s puppies to keep for her own.

Chou Chou II, who the Waverlys also called Bullmina II, or Bee Two, was the spitting image of her regal mother. Chou Chou II had the same symmetrical brindle markings around her eyes, a broad white chest, and white stockings on her legs. The only way one could tell mother from daughter was the striking brindle teardrop in the middle of Chou Chou II’s forehead. Once Bullmina’s rambunctious puppy was housetrained and settled in, Claude was certain their lives would finally get back to normal and stay that way for a while.

He was wrong.

Grand-père Georges was wasting away upstairs.

Claude knew his father was dying, but he wasn’t about to tell Lisette. Not yet, he told himself with a sigh, heaving his tired body onto a stool for a minute’s rest before he went back to shaping another batch of honey-egg batter loaves. I should be grateful that we still have some orders to fill and lots of customers from the street traffic, he muttered, shaking his head, but these bills…how am I ever going to pay all these doctor bills?

Chou Chou II dutifully followed Lisette up the stairs and silently padded into Grand-père Georges’ cramped bedchamber. It smelled foul, heavy with sweat and human feces.

Grand-père greeted his granddaughter with a long fit of coughing. Trembling, he could barely lean over and spit a wad of bloody phlegm into the pan on the small nightstand beside his bed. He threw himself back against the damp pillows with difficulty and looked at his granddaughter with tears in his eyes. Forgive me, he whispered hoarsely, gesturing at the chamber pot on a chair close to his bed, I tried, but I couldn’t make it in time.

"C’est bien, Grand-père, that’s all right, said Lisette reassuringly with a warm, cheerful tone. Don’t worry. We’ll get you cleaned up straightaway."

Grand-père Georges shut his eyes briefly then opened them again. It hurt him to see the dark circles underneath his beloved granddaughter’s sparkling brown eyes. I’m sorry to be such a sick, old bother. You have so much work to do downstairs, and I’m not making things any easier for you, am I?

"Ça va, ça va. You’d do the same for me, Grand-père," smiled Lisette, tossing it off as she gently rolled her grandfather over onto his side so she could clean him up and change the bed linens.

Grand-père Georges had difficulty keeping his meals down and often vomited on himself, too. Lisette had been through this many times before, and she kept a large cistern of water in the corner of her grandfather’s room, which she filled everyday. She also kept lots of old towels and rags near his nightstand to help clean up the daily messes.

It was hard work hauling piles of soiled sheets and towels downstairs, boiling and washing them in the laundry area behind the bakery, then scouring her own arms and hands thoroughly with harsh lye soap because she didn’t want to contaminate the baked goods she helped prepare and box. The repetitive chores kept her from focusing on how much her legs and shoulders ached every time she went up and down the narrow, creaking staircase. She loved her grandfather dearly and she was more than happy to help care for him.

"Remember, Grand-père, you still have a lot more to teach me…helping me perfect all my tart pastries: the pâte brisée, pâte sucrée and the pâte sable. And I still need to refine my génoise cake for petits fours."

Ah, oui, ma chère, he smiled. "It can take a lifetime to master the perfect génoise with just the right texture – firm but not too dry."

"D’accord, Grand-père. Everything has to be just the right temperature. I’ve ruined so many batches because the butter was too warm and deflated the eggs," she said, tugging the corners of the sheet away from the lumpy mattress.

And one time you were so distracted you forgot to put the cake pans into the oven immediately, Grand-père Georges laughed with a raspy voice. Then all the butter sank to the bottom!

I still have years of apprenticing to go before I master everything, she agreed. You have to get over that cough so you can keep teaching me, just like you taught Papa. Lisette rolled her grandfather back over so she could pull the other side of the soiled sheet and the thick, protective pad away and make the bed with fresh linens.

With a wheezing sigh, Grand-père Georges closed his eyes and pressed his head deeper into the sweat-soaked pillow, remembering happier days when he taught Claude the fine art of making delicate pastries.

Chou Chou II sat quietly on the small braided rug on the floor at the foot of the bed. She knew better than to jump up while Lisette was changing the sheets and getting her grandfather situated once more. She watched as Lisette unfolded a clean sheet, spread it out, then smoothed it just so, tucking it in at the top and bottom corners on the right side of the bed. Then Lisette carefully rolled Grand-père Georges onto the clean part of the bed, placed another thick, quilted cotton pad underneath him, and finished pulling and tucking in the rest of the sheet on the left side of the mattress. Satisfied with her mistress’ deft work, Chou Chou II yawned and curled up on the rug. She was soon snoring away with her black and pink chin nestled on her white paws.

Aahh…I hear you down there, little one, coughed Grand-père Georges weakly, breaking away from his memories and looking toward the foot of the bed. He seemed to perk up whenever Chou Chou II was in the room. She often kept him company when Lisette was busy in the bakery. She looks so much like her mother, the original Chou Chou, his sunken eyes smiled as he pushed himself up to see her better.

"Oui, she certainly does, agreed Lisette. But Chou Chou II has a bit more white on her shoulders and back, no?"

I think you’re right, and the brindle patches around her eyes are a little bigger and darker.

And she doesn’t have any spots behind her ears, noted Lisette. If they stood side by side, it would be hard to say who the prettiest one is.

Why, Chou Chou II is the prettier one with that beautiful teardrop on her forehead, boasted Grand-père Georges. Plus, she doesn’t have any scars from fighting in the dogfight pits!

But Bullmina couldn’t help that, Lisette protested, wrinkling her brow as she defended Chou Chou II’s mother. She didn’t ask to be stolen from behind our bakery by those wicked Neemy Brothers and forced to defend herself in the dogfight pits! I still think Bullmina’s very beautiful.

"Ah, forgive me, ma chère. I remember when you first rescued her years ago. She was thin and only a little chewed up then. Hardly a scar on her until the Neemys got a hold of her. I can’t bear to think about it – being forced to fight like that. It’s a miracle she survived such a brutal life. Oui, all of Bullmina’s scars can’t hide her noble beauty. But now I’m even sicker than she was," he groaned, collapsing back into his pillows and coughing several times.

But you’ll get better soon, just like she did, Lisette said encouragingly, massaging his back and helping him into a clean nightshirt. Wait and see. You’ll be dancing around with Chou Chou II in a few more weeks.

From your lips to our Savior’s ears, Grand-père Georges exhaled deeply, shifting his weight painfully. He didn’t share Lisette’s optimism. I had hoped to dance at your wedding, but now I wonder if I’ll even live long enough to see Bullmina again, he thought to himself sadly. He didn’t think he’d ever see any of her friends again either: Andrew Cameron, the trainer who spared Bullmina’s life on Fortie Billingsley’s estate; the brave Trevor Sheffield, who fled from the Neemy Brothers with her, risking arrest rather than let her fight to the death in the ring with Jared McCreath’s undefeated Pit Bull, Cassius; and Lady Evelyn, the kind, gracious Duchess of Chathamworthshire.

Voilà! said Lisette at last, plumping up a clean, dry pillow behind Grand-père Georges’ head. I’ll take all these downstairs to wash and then bring you up some broth with a bit of potato and boiled chicken. That should go down nice and easy.

Oh, no, no, no, he coughed, squeezing his eyes shut and rolling his head back.

But Grand-père! scolded Lisette. You must eat or you’ll never get better!

"I’m not hungry, ma chérie. Besides, I don’t think anything else will stay down, he winced, grabbing a glass of water from the nightstand by his bed with a trembling hand. The glass quivered as he took two small sips to soothe his raw, scratchy throat. Don’t put yourself through any more trouble. You’ve done enough for today."

But you must try to eat something, she pleaded. How can you get stronger if you only drink water?

After all these months his appetite still wasn’t coming back. He weighed less than a hundred pounds, and Lisette could pick him up and carry him over to the chamber pot all by herself. She seriously began to worry about him. His color was bad, and the texture of his skin was like old, yellowed parchment paper. She could easily feel his ribs and his spine when she bathed him. She was perturbed because she was never allowed in the room when the doctors were examining him. Claude didn’t want her there, but she felt she had a right to be included since she was the one taking care of Grand-père Georges. Defying her father’s admonitions, Lisette always listened in at the crack by the door, but they spoke in such hushed tones she could barely make out a word or two.

All I know is it’s not consumption, Jean Paul told his cousin one afternoon.

Well, what is it then? Lisette asked.

Jean Paul shrugged his shoulders. He didn’t know either.

Physician after physician had come out of that dark, stuffy room shaking his head. Why couldn’t they do anything? What was the matter with them? They were supposed to help people, not stand there wringing their hands and then give Claude another bill to pay.

A wave of anxiety swelled up inside Lisette’s chest. She was beginning to grasp the unthinkable possibility that her grandfather might not ever get better. How could she imagine life without Grand-père, and who would serve as a buffer against her father’s angry temper when he was gone?

Chapter 2: Lady Evelyn’s Crusade

At the Duke of Chathamworthshire’s country estate, miles from London, Chou Chou II’s mother, Bullmina, lay on the floor on a large piece of oilcloth. Holding a big, raw shinbone regally between her two front paws like a scepter, she carefully looked for just the right spot that contained the most succulent morsel of meat. When she finally found the spot, she latched on to it with her strong jaws.

Meanwhile, Bullmina’s brother, little Funston, joyfully batted his shinbone back and forth across the floor. After snorting a few times, he grasped the bone with two chubby paws and rolled over onto his back with it. The bone swayed back and forth, and back and forth again. Finally, Funston thrust the bone into his mouth with great aplomb.

Oh, look at you with that bone, my little Boom Boom, cooed Lady Evelyn Waverly, the Duchess of Chathamworthshire, looking up from her newspaper with a glorious smile beaming from her hazel-green eyes. You think it’s just a big toy, don’t you? She reached down and scratched Funston’s chubby tummy. He snorted and slobbered with delight from all her attention.

The two dogs were just days away from their seventh birthday. Fawn and white little Funston, the runt of the litter, was still in fine shape for an older Bulldog. He could still gallop and prance about with the youthful exuberance of a dog half his age.

Bullmina was another story.

A hard life on the streets of London, and an even harder life in the Neemy Brothers’ cold, drafty kennels had aged her. She had more than a touch of arthritis in her joints now, and she couldn’t jump up on the chairs and sofas in the Morning Room as easily as she used to. Her face had aged, too. The symmetrical, brindle patches around both her eyes had lost their coppery red color and started turning white.

That’s my beauty, said Lord Anthony Charleston Waverly III, the Duke of Chathamworthshire, smiling down at Bullmina. It didn’t matter to him how time had aged his favorite princess. Her faded fur and hanging jowls made him love her even more. Keep those jaws and teeth strong. When you’re done with that bone, let’s you and I go for a little walk and loosen up our legs a bit. We’ll go visit Andrew and Sebastian and see what they’re up to.

Bullmina looked at the Duke with her warm, brown eyes as she licked the grease from her jowls. She nodded in agreement and then slammed her large head back down on the bone, gnawing away with even more enthusiasm.

The grinding and chomping of teeth against bone created an acoustic duet that serenaded the Duke and Duchess almost every morning. The housekeeping staff had placed big pieces of oilcloth down in the Morning Room so the little pearls of gristle and fat flying from Bullmina and Funston’s gnashing teeth wouldn’t stain the imported Persian carpets.

Lady Evelyn’s contentment was interrupted by a disturbing article in the newspaper. Oh, Tony, look at this, said the Duchess, leaning over to show her husband the section of the paper she was reading. This is absolutely appalling. Why can’t they do something about this?

About what, darling? asked the Duke, perusing his section of the paper.

Oh, it’s right here, she said, snapping the paper for emphasis. Look, right there. Another story about pit fighting. The Duchess tapped the column impatiently with her finger.

Well, look on the bright side, my dear, Lord Waverly glanced at the paper and looked over at his wife with his sky-blue eyes. At least they caught the miserable ringleaders and shut them down.

"But there’s far too much illegal dog fighting still happening, Tony," she said angrily, tossing her chestnut-brown curls.

Well, what do you expect, darling? You know it’s bound to continue, reminded the Duke with a chuckle, running his left hand through his wavy, light-brown hair with just a touch of gray at the temples.

Nonsense! These horrible men are breaking the law! You and the other lords in Parliament voted to outlaw dog fighting and bull-baiting, along with bear-baiting, lion-baiting, and heaven knows what other kind of savage baiting –

Change doesn’t simply happen over night, Evelyn, interrupted the Duke, picking a piece of lint off his waistcoat. Parliament can pass as many laws as it likes, but illegal dog fighting will still continue underground for many more years to come.

But how can we just sit here while these dogs are being tortured and mutilated for the sake of sport? It’s terrible. Just terrible!

I can appreciate your passionate outrage, my dear, the Duke sympathized, but not everyone is going to follow a law like this immediately…especially when –

Oh, rubbish! The law just needs to be enforced more stringently, that’s all!

Well, constables can’t be here, there and everywhere, shutting down dog-fighting rings all over the countryside. They certainly have better things to do, what with –

That’s a convenient argument, but the law is the law, Tony. If they need to hire more men to enforce the law, then that’s what they need to do!

And what if they don’t? replied the Duke, raising his eyebrows.

Why, you sound like you don’t even care about these poor dogs!

Of course I care about them, Evelyn! I voted to outlaw dog fighting, didn’t I? But it’s a matter of practicality. Fiscal responsibility. Scraping together municipal funding for more patrols to scour out every back lot and alleyway from Kensington to Redbridge isn’t that easy. We can’t raise taxes just for that, my dear. People don’t want to be taxed any more than they have to be.

I realize that, the Duchess exhaled deeply, shaking her head. But there’s got to be another way, Tony. She paused for a moment and looked down at Funston and Bullmina.

It made Lady Evelyn shudder to imagine what Bullmina had suffered in the dogfight pits. She reached down and stroked Bullmina’s head, gently caressing the scars where the fur no longer grew on her forehead and on her jowls. Then she scratched behind Bullmina’s right ear. Part of it was gone, bitten and torn off in one of Roger and Rigel Neemy’s dogfights. There was another massive, ragged scar on Bullmina’s back, between her shoulder blades, a medal from a match she barely won. Trevor Sheffield, Bullmina’s trainer at the Neemy Kennels, now worked for the Waverlys and told Lady Evelyn that Bullmina had lost a lot of blood in that particular match. Luckily, a veterinarian had been close by to help Trevor sew up the wound; they had to work quickly or Bullmina would have bled to death.

Lady Evelyn gazed over at Funston. My little Boom Boom, she whispered. Funston dropped his bone and scampered over next to his sister to receive his mistress’ warm caresses, too. The Duchess massaged little Funston’s velvety forehead. His mostly fawn and white coat still looked almost perfect, with a barely perceptible scar or two from chasing squirrels through the rose bushes on the estate.

The Duchess remained silent for several minutes while she scratched and massaged the two Bulldogs. Lady Martha Scott Brown and I will simply have to pitch in ourselves. Yes, that’s it! she announced. "That’s exactly what we’ll do! If there isn’t enough money for more constables, we’ll go on patrol. And we can recruit others, too! It’ll be splendid! she said enthusiastically, her eyes growing wide with excitement. That’s the only way we can keep dog fighting from going on underground, Tony."

But aren’t you and Lady Martha doing enough already? My word, Evelyn, the two of you have already taken in quite a few dogs from some of the kennels the constables have shut down. How much more can you do? said the Duke, growing weary as he reached for his teacup.

Oh, there’s plenty to do, Tony. Lady Evelyn’s eyes gleamed as she planned her strategy. I’ll contact Lady Martha at once. We’ll hold a meeting and set up a schedule of citizen patrols, and we’ll see about finding new homes for the dogs that Andrew, Trevor and Sebastian have already managed to re-train. Then we’ll have room to take in even more!

And what are we going to do with the ones they can’t re-train?

We’ll keep them here.

Ahem, my dear, began Lord Waverly, gently clearing his throat as he sipped his tea, "I didn’t want to worry you with all this just yet, but now is as good a time as any. Since we’re on the subject of finding new homes for some of these orphans…we may have to let some of our trainers and handlers go, too."

What? That’s absurd.

Evelyn –

You can’t be serious!

Yes, I am.

But…but why? We have plenty of Bulldogs, and with the other dogs that we plan on rescuing coming in…I…I don’t understand.

Chathamworthshire is no longer breeding and training dogs for bull-baiting rings, so our finest dogs aren’t producing as many litters as they once were. We don’t need to keep as many trainers on hand even with the few dogs you’ve already rescued.

A deep furrow cut its way into Lady Evelyn’s brow as she dropped her head. Is it truly that bad?

I’m afraid so, darling. Dozens of our wonderful dogs from Thurston IV’s line were sold years ago to other estates when bull-baiting was still legal. Thurston’s pups sired many fine dogs. We needed trainers and handlers then. Those dogs were eventually sold or… he swallowed self-consciously, died in the bull-baiting ring. So now we don’t need three top-drawer trainers like Sebastian, Andrew and Trevor anymore. One of them will have to be let go.

"But we can’t let Sebastian, Andrew or Trevor go! They’re practically like family. Where will they go? Training dogs is all they know."

I realize that, and I’m prepared to write whoever we let go an excellent letter of reference. He’s sure to find another position on another estate.

But Tony!

Now, Evelyn, we have to be practical about our budget, fiscally responsible –

Oh, don’t give me that again, Tony! Lady Evelyn’s hazel-green eyes flashed. They’re the best trainers we have. We need them to help Lady Martha and I socialize the new dogs we rescue so they can be placed in good homes.

Oh, Evelyn, the Duke said with impatience as he put down his teacup and reached up to massage his throbbing forehead. You can’t find a home for every single pit-fighting dog! Now, I admire the compassion you and Lady Martha have shown in taking in these dogs…

Lady Evelyn’s eyes widened with encouragement.

But experienced trainers like Andrew Cameron and Sebastian Phillips already know that we’re going to have to euthanize some of them, Lord Waverly continued. As a matter of fact, we might have to destroy more than a few of the ones you take in because they simply can’t be rehabilitated. They’ll have to be kept chained up in pens or they’ll tear your limbs off.

Oh, my Lord! Please, don’t say that!

It’s true, Evelyn! I’ve tried to be supportive, but the truth of the matter is these dogs have been bred to fight and kill. That’s all they know. And no decent family in England would want any of the least aggressive ones either. Even with months of training they could turn on you in an instant, he said firmly.

What about selling them to the butchers?

Lord Waverly shut his eyes for a moment and sighed. Sadly, there aren’t enough butchers to take them all in, my dear. We’re talking about hundreds of dogs. And those are just the ones you and your crusaders can easily rout out.

Lady Evelyn was not to be discouraged. But they might make excellent guard dogs on someone’s estate.

What did I just say, woman? He was getting irritated. Think of the liability! What if a family’s child gets hurt? Or a guest gets bitten…then what?

But Lady Martha said some of them would make wonderful watchdogs. And there’s still some hope for the youngest ones. They could become –

"So, Lady Martha Scott Brown’s a dog expert now, is she? The Duke heaved another exasperated sigh and rolled his eyes at the thought. A vicious pit-fighter turned into a docile companion animal? It’s madness!"

Tears began to well up in Lady Evelyn’s eyes. But what about my sweet Ginger? she asked, referring to the reddish brown female Pit Bull mix she had recently taken in. She’s the most perfect, well-behaved dog –

"That’s only because I let you bring her here as a puppy, my Lady, a six-month-old puppy! Now let’s not turn this into a debate about whether I should allow Ginger in the house. Blast it all, you already know how I feel about that. I forbid you to bring her in here with the Bulldogs and the children."

Well, Lady Martha has already successfully placed a couple of her dogs with families…

Don’t try me, Evelyn. I won’t go back on my word. Once again, those were young dogs. And the families have older children. What about the seasoned dog fighters with years of victories under their belts? Has she managed to find homes for them yet?

Well, no, but we simply can’t put them all down… the Duchess sputtered, …euthanize them. Can’t we just bring the most incorrigible ones here? Build a huge kennel for them? Let them live out the rest of their lives in peace?

My God, what sort of fantasy is this, my Lady? They certainly can’t roam free in packs up in our north pasture. They’d rip each other to pieces in the biggest free-for-all dogfight in history!

I realize that, my Lord, the Duchess insisted, but they deserve some comfort and security after all they’ve been through.

So the alternative is keeping them caged up here in kennels forever like wild beasts at a zoo?

Well, many of them have already lived out most of their lives in crates…

"If we can’t reform them, we’ll keep them jailed up just because they’re already used to it? What kind of life is that? A miserable life for them and a miserable life for us, their jailers."

The Duchess gazed down at her hands, So murdering them is better?

You can’t save them all, Evelyn! I’ve listened to your ranting and indulged this fantasy of yours long enough. And I’ve already let you bring a few dogs like Ginger here. You realize Chathamworthshire has produced some of the finest Bulldogs in all of Great Britain! We have a reputation to maintain, for God’s sake. We are NOT going to turn this estate into a bloody shelter!

Now, Tony, I won’t stand for that vulgar tone. You’re not chastising one of the stable boys, you’re speaking to me, Lady Evelyn sniffed with vexation, quickly brushing her tears away. These dogs are living creatures! None of them asked to be trained for killing!

Oh, this is just too aggravating. I might as well be talking to a stone wall! The Duke bolted up from his chair and began pacing the floor, lacing and unlacing his fingers behind his back as he strode from one end of the carpet to the other and back again. Can’t your talents be put to work elsewhere?

Lady Evelyn’s eyes narrowed. "How many more boring luncheons am I expected to attend, your Lordship?" She only called her husband that when she was thoroughly frustrated. How many more afternoon teas where I’m expected to sit there and listen to endless gossip? She was building momentum. How many more tapestries do I have to embroider? How many more rose bushes must I delicately prune? Yes, I’m quite the genteel lady, your Lordship, but I feel bored and useless. And I’m tired of it. Yes, sick and tired of it all!

The Duke pivoted on his right foot and stood there in silence, his jaw set firmly, his hands tightly clenched behind his back.

The Duchess glared right back at him, her delicate hands folded on top of the newspaper lying on her lap. "You had your fun with bull-baiting for many years. And you’re still breeding dogs. But what about me? Isn’t it about time I found something that inspires me and brings a sense of fulfillment to my life?"

You still have your late sister, the Lady Catherine Hartley Stewart’s children to take care of, the Duke reminded her coldly. Especially now that their father, Lord Stewart, has succumbed to malaria in India while serving the Empire.

One of those orphaned children, nine-and-a-half-year-old Millicent Stewart, had been standing just outside the door, listening in all this time. Millie, as she was called, dropped her eyes and swallowed. She missed both her parents deeply, especially when her aunt and uncle quarreled.

They’re quickly growing up, the Duchess countered. Hopefully, Beatrice will soon be married, and the boys and Millie won’t be far behind. What then?

"I meant