But not this guy Eol Stoltio But n ot this g uy Eol Stoltio Ovi ebooks are available in Ovi/Ovi eBookshelves pages and they are for free. If somebody tries to sell you an Ovi book please contact us immediately. For details, contact: ovimagazine@yahoo.com No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior permission of the writer or the above publisher of this book An Ovi eBooks Publication 2025 Ovi eBookPublications - All material is copyright of the Ovi eBooks Publications & the writer C But not this guy But not this guy Eol Stoltio Eol Stoltio An Ovi eBooks Publication 2025 Ovi eBookPublications - All material is copyright of the Ovi eBooks Publications & the writer C But not this guy I t was a rather unremarkable morning when the scandal of the century, if one could call it such in a modestly sized village like Upper-Todborough- on-the-Wimp, unfurled itself like a poorly folded napkin at the family breakfast table. Lady Agatha Hatherleigh, the matriarch of the es- teemed Hatherleigh clan, sat regally at the head of the table, a woman whose influence extended beyond the village to the farthest corners of the neighbourhood, and whose opinions were treated with the reverence usually reserved for royalty or perhaps the occasion- al well-bred dog. Her powdered wig rested atop her head like a carefully sculpted piece of confectionery, and her sharp eyes never missed the slightest ripple in the social fabric. Eol Stoltio “I simply cannot understand,” Lady Agatha was saying to her nephew, Reginald, who was in the midst of attempting to stifle a yawn behind his newspaper, “why my daughter, Millicent, insists on throwing herself at that penniless artist fellow, Rupert Bird- whistle. Birdwhistle... can you imagine such a name? If I didn’t know better, I’d say he was a birdwatcher who forgot to stop taking notes.” “Not an entirely unreasonable assumption, Aunt Agatha,” Reginald muttered, lowering his paper. “Though I dare say a birdwatcher would have more sense than to woo Millicent, if I may be so bold. At least a birdwatcher doesn’t expect to inherit any- thing.” “Exactly! Exactly, Reginald!” Lady Agatha’s voice rose in triumph, as though she’d just discovered the solution to a particularly perplexing crossword puz- zle. “And now they’ve eloped! Eloped, Reginald! And to make matters worse, he’s taken her to a place called ‘The Artist’s Retreat.’ I’ve no idea where it is, but I do know one thing: it’s certainly not a ‘retreat’ from fi- nancial responsibility!” Reginald, who had a great deal of sympathy for the penniless artist, and was rather fond of Millicent’s captivating smile (when she wasn’t scowling at him But not this guy for no apparent reason), leaned back in his chair with a resigned sigh. “I suppose it’s too late to discuss a proper retreat with a bit more profit attached?” Lady Agatha paused, clearly torn between a flare of righteous indignation and the nagging suspicion that Reginald’s approach might be more logical than her current one. But logic was rarely her strong suit. “No, Reginald, no! The situation requires immedi- ate action!” she declared, standing up so swiftly her wig threatened to take flight. “I shall go to this ‘Art- ist’s Retreat,’ and I shall return my daughter before she comes to the conclusion that marrying for love is in any way acceptable!” And thus began the farce of Lady Agatha’s deter- mination to reclaim her family’s honour, in the most absurd of manners, as only a family of such pomp could possibly manage. Eol Stoltio I. Lady Agatha Hatherleigh, the matriarch of the ven- erable Hatherleigh clan, had an ironclad understand- ing of what constituted civilization. It involved plush chairs, impeccably starched napkins, and, above all, an environment where the smell of manure was kept at a respectable distance. So, when she arrived at the so-called “Artist’s Retreat” with her long-suffering nephew, Reginald, trailing behind her like an unhap- py duckling, she had a very specific expectation in mind, something along the lines of a large, tasteful- ly decorated house, where charming, well-groomed artists could gather to contemplate the complexities of the human condition while sipping tea from por- celain cups. What she found instead was a structure that, to put it mildly, looked as though it had been plucked out of a particularly ambitious game of hide-and-seek But not this guy by a family of goats. The building resembled a large shed, if one could call it that, perched at the edge of a swamp, its roof sagging as though in perpetual disappointment, while a number of very free-range chickens seemed to have mistaken the vicinity for a spa. The whole affair was surrounded by foliage that appeared to have been left to grow with the wild en- thusiasm of a botanist on holiday. “I must say,” Lady Agatha remarked, narrowing her eyes at the place as if it were a disagreeable per- son she’d just been introduced to, “I had expected a house . Not this... this hovel , if I may call it such. I do hope they have some modicum of hygiene. I cannot abide dirt , Reginald. You know this.” Reginald, who had learned to accept that the only way to survive these occasional excursions into what his aunt called “charitable intervention” was to make himself as small and undetectable as possible, adjust- ed his cravat and tried not to make eye contact with the chickens, who, given their lack of boundaries, seemed to be regarding him with more than a pass- ing interest. “Actually, Aunt Agatha, I think you’ll find...” he be- gan, peering through a crack in the door, but was im- mediately interrupted. Eol Stoltio “Nonsense!” Lady Agatha snapped, swishing her gloved hand dismissively as though to dismiss not only the entire building but also the entire notion of ‘artists’ from the planet. “I know a hovel when I see one. And the chickens? Good heavens, I would soon- er spend the day in a chicken coop at home , rath- er than endure such an affront to my sensibilities. What’s next? An artist’s smell ? I shall positively expire from the thought of it.” As she ranted, a wild-eyed, bearded man appeared at the door, wearing nothing but a paint-splattered apron that may or may not have been a deliberate fashion choice. His hair was in such disarray that it looked as though it had been combed by a particu- larly enthusiastic wind. His eyes shone with the kind of fervour one might expect from a person who had recently discovered that brushes, rather than family heirlooms, were their true calling. “Good morning!” he greeted, entirely unperturbed by Lady Agatha’s horrified expression. “You must be Lady Hatherleigh! Rupert Birdwhistle at your ser- vice.” Lady Agatha’s eyes narrowed, the effect making her resemble a hawk eyeing a particularly juicy rabbit. “I am not Lady Hatherleigh. That is my mother . I am But not this guy Lady Agatha Hatherleigh, matriarch of the Hather- leighs, soon to be rescuing my daughter from your ruinous influence.” Rupert, whose idea of a proper greeting seemed to involve a startling lack of conventional manners, beamed as though Lady Agatha had just paid him the highest compliment. “Ah! A rescue mission!” he exclaimed, clapping his hands together with uncon- tained glee. “How delightful! One can never have too much drama in their lives, can they?” “Don’t you dare try to make light of this!” Lady Agatha’s voice rang out with the sort of force that one might use to command a brigade of horses into battle. “I’ve come to take my daughter back to civili- zation , where she can be surrounded by reasonable people. Not...” she paused dramatically, sweeping a hand toward the artist’s retreat as though it were a particularly offensive piece of modern art... “ this .” “Oh, no need for the drama,” Rupert said airily, shrugging off her scorn as though it were an errant feather that had settled on his sleeve. “Millicent’s quite happy here, you know. We have a lovely com- munal living space, some very avant-garde chickens, and I’ve painted a very abstract portrait of her. It’s, uh... something to behold.” Eol Stoltio Reginald, who had been trying to make himself useful by studying the flock of chickens with the in- tense focus of a man who had just been informed there was no escape, suddenly snapped his attention back to the conversation. “A portrait? What... exact- ly, is it of?” he asked, raising an eyebrow with all the finesse of an aristocrat discussing the latest fashion trends. “A ‘self-portrait’, of course,” Rupert replied, with the proud grin of someone who had just unveiled a great artistic masterpiece. “I painted her as a fish .” Lady Agatha turned several shades of purple, as though the concept of a fish having the gall to rep- resent her daughter had just caused her blood pres- sure to exceed safe limits. “ A fish? ” she said, her voice wavering between outrage and the distinct sense of a matriarch who had just discovered a coup within her own household. “I will not stand for it, Rupert Bird- whistle! Fish indeed. Fishes , Reginald! What’s next? A portrait of me as a chicken?” “I think that might be too... on the nose ,” Rupert said, scratching his chin thoughtfully. “Though, I do appreciate the idea. You’ve got the whole regal air about you. Quite chicken-esque, I daresay.” But not this guy Reginald was in a difficult position, standing be- tween his aunt, who was a volcano of indignation, and Rupert, whose irrepressible enthusiasm for the bizarre art forms of his mind threatened to overrun the entire conversation like a particularly well-be- haved herd of elephants. “Aunt Agatha, perhaps we should...” he started, but was cut off once more by Lady Agatha’s dramatic response. “No, Reginald, no! I shall not stand for it. A fish! A fish in place of my daughter? What will the neigh- bours say? What will the postman say when he de- livers the next batch of invitations? ‘Oh, did you hear? Millicent has been painted as a fish. That’s so avant-garde !’” “Well, they’re bound to talk, Aunt Agatha,” Regi- nald said with a sigh. “It’s what they do best.” But Lady Agatha was in no mood for reason. “I shall not have it,” she declared. “This is not art. It is a travesty . A disgrace to the very notion of family hon- our!” Rupert, whose familiarity with family honour was probably as fleeting as his acquaintance with a scru- pulously pressed shirt, looked utterly unfazed. “Ah, well, family honour, Lady Agatha, is very subjective, Eol Stoltio don’t you think? One might even argue that this is a modern interpretation of honour, one that... rede- fines the boundaries, as it were.” “A modern interpretation of honour?” Lady Aga- tha’s eyebrows shot up, causing the wrinkles around her eyes to become even more pronounced, like a landscape of indignant disapproval. “If this is your idea of redefined honour, then I shudder to think what your version of a wedding reception might look like.” “It would be a feast of raw emotion, Aunt Agatha!” Reginald interjected, finally realising that the situa- tion would require every ounce of his charm to de- fuse. “A whole evening of emotion , raw and undilut- ed, accompanied by... well, chickens .” Lady Agatha’s expression softened, and for a fleet- ing moment, it seemed as though she might actu- ally understand . “Chickens, Reginald, chickens... A wedding with chickens. I have heard of many things, but that is beyond the pale. I simply can’t take it any longer!” “Well, Lady Agatha,” Rupert said with a cheerful grin, “the chickens will be part of it, I assure you. They’ll even wear ribbons, for added artistic flair.” But not this guy And so, as Lady Agatha’s carefully composed world threatened to unravel before her, she found herself facing the shocking revelation that her daughter’s happiness—and, more alarmingly, her artist’s hap- piness, might be found in a shed, surrounded by avant-garde poultry and a very fishy portrait of her- self. Eol Stoltio II. Millicent, the self-proclaimed bohemian daugh- ter of Lady Agatha Hatherleigh, received her moth- er’s arrival with the same nonchalant air that a cow might greet a farmer with a pitchfork. Lady Agatha, however, was not a cow, nor was she interested in be- ing regarded as such, even by the most leisurely of barnyard creatures. “Oh, Mother,” Millicent began, her tone dripping with sweetness and rebellion, “we’re quite happy here. Rupert and I have found a very... liberated way of living. It’s so much more fulfilling than those tire- some balls and society teas you insist on attending.” Lady Agatha blinked twice in rapid succession, as though the sheer concept of her daughter speaking such words had caused her brain to perform a hic- cup. But not this guy “Balls?” she said, her voice verging on a screech that would have sent all nearby birds into an aero- dynamic frenzy. “What is wrong with balls? They are the lifeblood of society! I dare say, I am one of the only people who still receives an invitation to the Grantham’s autumn gala, and you, my daughter, are here, in this... this... artistic den of iniquity, calling it a revolution!” Reginald, who had been desperately attempting to make himself invisible for the last ten minutes, cleared his throat loudly and stepped forward, hop- ing to divert the proceedings into safer waters, pref- erably somewhere that didn’t involve his Aunt Aga- tha’s famous arsenic-laced glares. “Millicent, I do believe your mother was looking forward to your return,” he said in a tone that was more diplomatic than a Secretary of State at a peace treaty negotiation. “After all, she’s always happy to see you.” “Oh, I’m sure she is, Reginald,” Millicent said airily, as if the very idea of her mother having emotions was about as likely as her mother taking up tap dancing. “But we’re happy here, you see. Rupert and I have found our... calling in life, and it doesn’t involve the tedium of stuffy dinners or pointless chatter about fabrics.” Eol Stoltio “Fabrics?” Lady Agatha repeated, her voice like a cat caught in a very inconvenient box. “What on earth are you talking about? Fabrics are essential to civilization! You do realize, don’t you, that the Grand Duchess of Cavendish-Whitemore herself just or- dered her spring wardrobe from me? And here you are, in this godforsaken shack, talking about revo- lutions and liberated living. What’s next, Millicent? Are you going to tell me you’ve been communing with the earth?” Millicent, whose natural state of indifference could have put a damp rag to shame, gave her mother the sort of look that a sloth might give a hasty squir- rel. “Mother, you do know that ‘the earth’ is where our food comes from, don’t you?” she said, sound- ing more like someone informing an elderly relative about the dangers of riding a tricycle than a person actually answering a question. Lady Agatha, whose understanding of farming ex- tended as far as knowing that the lettuce she ate had been grown in some garden somewhere, let out an exasperated huff. “I do not wish to have this conver- sation right now, Millicent,” she declared. “I’ve come to bring you home, and if you do not come home im- mediately, I shall have to tell the entire village exactly where you’ve been. I daresay it won’t be at an artist’s But not this guy retreat, as you so charmingly put it. And as for your little ‘revolution’—I shall have no part in it. I’ve been part of society’s finer circles for twenty-seven years, and I shall not throw it all away for the sake of a man who spends his days painting clouds on bits of can- vas while wearing only a waistcoat.” “Ah, but you see, that’s the beauty of it, Mother!” Millicent said with the kind of dreamy enthusiasm that only the truly lost could muster. “Rupert’s paint- ings represent something. They aren’t just pictures of clouds. They’re thoughts, expressions, essences.” She looked deeply into her mother’s eyes, as though her very soul were revealing itself to the woman who had given her birth. Lady Agatha, whose understanding of the word ‘essence’ was limited to the highly questionable bot- tle of perfume she wore when she thought no one was looking, could not have been more confused if Millicent had suddenly announced she was planning to marry a cactus. “Essences?” she repeated, her voice rising like a boiling kettle. “Millicent, you cannot live on essenc- es! You need something practical. A job, for instance, or at the very least, some sense of personal hygiene! Do you realize what you’re telling people, dear? Eol Stoltio You’re making them think you’ve eloped with a pen- niless artist. The scandal, Millicent! The humiliation! People are already whispering ...did you know, the Dowager Marchioness of Eastwick says she’s certain you’ve become an unmarried woman and refused to tell her how many buttons are on your waistcoat?” “I shall never go back to that dreadful village of yours, Mother,” Millicent said, the soft, rebellious smile on her face making Lady Agatha’s blood boil to the temperature of a fresh pot of tea. “This is my home now, with Rupert and the chickens. It’s the place where my spirit is free ...free, you understand? ...to express itself. No more restrictions, no more balls, no more... no more petticoats.” “Petticoats?” Lady Agatha repeated, for the second time that day, with a slow, horror-stricken intake of breath. “I can’t even ...Millicent, stop this at once. You are not living in some sort of... of... heathen jungle! You are not going to sit here and tell me that a waist- coat is all you need to make a successful life! What is it about artists and their ridiculously low standards of dress? It’s bad enough that they cannot afford an invitation to a decent dinner, but now you want to marry one and live in squalor with... chickens?” Millicent’s smile turned ever so slightly smug, as