Poison or Protect
Page 17
After dinner, it was back to the drawing room for the ladies, where Formerly Connie’s tether allowed her to join them. They conversed politely on matters of little interest for the requisite half-hour, at which point the gentlemen reappeared, smelling strongly of cigars.
At this juncture, the party redistributed itself according to taste. With one of the footmen acting as her hands, Formerly Connie played whist with her father, brother, and Miss Leeton.
Preshea spent time with Lady Violet and Mr Jackson, more to appease the Duke of Snodgrove’s glares than with any ulterior motive. Nevertheless, she used the aura of conviviality to press him into wild declarations and romantic nonsense, pleased every time he said something that made Lady Violet wince.
“My pearl of the sea,” he declared at one point, “I will find for you all the delectables of the briny deep. Have you ever had winkles?”
“Pardon me?” Lady Violet was taken aback.
“Winkles!” said Mr Jackson loudly. “Sea snails, don’t ya know? Like whelks, only smaller. Very tasty. You must try them. Next time I visit the seaside, I shall return with a bouquet of the little creatures.”
“Oh, dear.” Lady Violet was coming over faint. “I don’t think. Not a snail. Too far, I’m sure.”
“Oh, but my dear Lady Vi, they are dee-lish!” Mr Jackson hardly needed Preshea’s encouragement. His boisterousness was doing more to nip the burgeoning romance in the bud than any scheme of hers. Really, even if he were not a fortune hunter, these two were most ill suited.
Lady Violet seemed a sensible little thing. Given time, she would figure this out on her own. Ridiculous of her father not to have more faith in her.
Still, there was the other assignment to think on. Preshea stared out the window a moment, but there was nothing to see; it was quite dark.
She glanced at the window seat, where she had made up the fourth earlier. Captain Ruthven was back charming the young ladies. Miss Pagril glowed under his kind regard. Preshea thought he was wasting his time with that one, although it would be a good match (he had exactly enough money for her lack not to be seen as grasping). For some reason, Preshea found that painful to consider. What had been congenial when she was a participant seemed depressing when she was across the room. This is what comes of attempting friendship.
Using the excuse of a long day’s travel, she retired just as Miss Leeton sat at the piano. It might have been thought rude, but she didn’t care.
CHAPTER FIVE
Ghostly Consequences
Gavin wasn’t one to drink every night, in the way of some refined gentlemen, but he did occasionally take a drop of claret in the wee hours to settle his ghosts.
There were some ghosts, like the one at dinner – real, interactive, haunting her old home. And there were some ghosts that haunted a man instead of a place. Ghosts that were made of formless stuff, spirits of a brutal past, undead lurking in corners of men’s minds. Especially after war.
Gavin didn’t regret his soldiering days. He knew for a fact that he didn’t have it as bad as most. Some ex-soldiers drowned themselves in gin. It was cheaper and better at dulling memories than claret. Gavin couldn’t abide gin and he didn’t require saucing to sleep. His ghosts were only occasional visitors. In the wee hours, they woke him, sweating, with no memory of which battle he’d revisited or whose faces he’d seen damned.
Gavin’s ghosts were impressions left on the backs of his eyelids, of werewolves shifting not for joy of the hunt but for war. The sounds troubled him, not the loud bangs but the softer crunching bone that always went with a vanguard of fur, the nighttime attack of the great packs of the Empire. The smell was there too, copper and sulfur, blood and blast. His ghosts were borne aloft on the glory of men’s suffering. His eyes popped open to the buzz of fear and anticipation, as if he too might shed skin for the madness of a moon.
Wakefulness was immediately followed by an amorphous feeling of profound loss.
He excused himself that, under such circumstances, a glass of claret was medicinal. Mawkins certainly made no judgments. For a change. Perhaps he too indulged for the sake of his ghosts.
Sometimes, Gavin drained the snifter quickly, seeking numbness, and rolled into the less sweat-soaked side of the bed – to dream of lesser ghosts, or better, nothing at all.
Sometimes, he took his claret to the window and stared into the night, enjoying the peace of smaller hours.
And sometimes, he awoke to a restless hunger.
“Dainty sandwiches,” he said, into the silent room. Two bites at most. Cucumber or egg and mayonnaise, the bread spread thick with butter.
He would not ring for Mawkins. It was gone two in the morning. He would make shift for himself. Surely, the pantry held something for a man to nibble.
He got himself out of bed. It was a cold night, yet Gavin wasn’t one for nightshirts. Mawkins professed to be shocked, but had learned to tolerate this eccentricity. In case of fire or sandwich peregrinations (Mawkins was well aware of his master’s habit of midnight food pilfering) the valet set out a banyan.
It was a quality robe, all dark blues and greens, dignified and big enough to cover Gavin entirely, crossing over at the front. Of course, a banyan was considered outdated in these days of smoking jackets and indoor trousers. It had been his father’s, but it was such a nice plaid. Gavin thought he looked rather well in it. Plus, it reminded him of his da.
Candle holder in hand, he padded softly downstairs into the bowels of the house, where delicious things resided. He found an apple, a wedge of brown bread, and a bit of Stilton left over from the cheese plate. He ate them standing up like a barbarian, confident that Mawkins would explain the midnight theft so no servant would take the blame for his gluttony.
At this juncture, the party redistributed itself according to taste. With one of the footmen acting as her hands, Formerly Connie played whist with her father, brother, and Miss Leeton.
Preshea spent time with Lady Violet and Mr Jackson, more to appease the Duke of Snodgrove’s glares than with any ulterior motive. Nevertheless, she used the aura of conviviality to press him into wild declarations and romantic nonsense, pleased every time he said something that made Lady Violet wince.
“My pearl of the sea,” he declared at one point, “I will find for you all the delectables of the briny deep. Have you ever had winkles?”
“Pardon me?” Lady Violet was taken aback.
“Winkles!” said Mr Jackson loudly. “Sea snails, don’t ya know? Like whelks, only smaller. Very tasty. You must try them. Next time I visit the seaside, I shall return with a bouquet of the little creatures.”
“Oh, dear.” Lady Violet was coming over faint. “I don’t think. Not a snail. Too far, I’m sure.”
“Oh, but my dear Lady Vi, they are dee-lish!” Mr Jackson hardly needed Preshea’s encouragement. His boisterousness was doing more to nip the burgeoning romance in the bud than any scheme of hers. Really, even if he were not a fortune hunter, these two were most ill suited.
Lady Violet seemed a sensible little thing. Given time, she would figure this out on her own. Ridiculous of her father not to have more faith in her.
Still, there was the other assignment to think on. Preshea stared out the window a moment, but there was nothing to see; it was quite dark.
She glanced at the window seat, where she had made up the fourth earlier. Captain Ruthven was back charming the young ladies. Miss Pagril glowed under his kind regard. Preshea thought he was wasting his time with that one, although it would be a good match (he had exactly enough money for her lack not to be seen as grasping). For some reason, Preshea found that painful to consider. What had been congenial when she was a participant seemed depressing when she was across the room. This is what comes of attempting friendship.
Using the excuse of a long day’s travel, she retired just as Miss Leeton sat at the piano. It might have been thought rude, but she didn’t care.
CHAPTER FIVE
Ghostly Consequences
Gavin wasn’t one to drink every night, in the way of some refined gentlemen, but he did occasionally take a drop of claret in the wee hours to settle his ghosts.
There were some ghosts, like the one at dinner – real, interactive, haunting her old home. And there were some ghosts that haunted a man instead of a place. Ghosts that were made of formless stuff, spirits of a brutal past, undead lurking in corners of men’s minds. Especially after war.
Gavin didn’t regret his soldiering days. He knew for a fact that he didn’t have it as bad as most. Some ex-soldiers drowned themselves in gin. It was cheaper and better at dulling memories than claret. Gavin couldn’t abide gin and he didn’t require saucing to sleep. His ghosts were only occasional visitors. In the wee hours, they woke him, sweating, with no memory of which battle he’d revisited or whose faces he’d seen damned.
Gavin’s ghosts were impressions left on the backs of his eyelids, of werewolves shifting not for joy of the hunt but for war. The sounds troubled him, not the loud bangs but the softer crunching bone that always went with a vanguard of fur, the nighttime attack of the great packs of the Empire. The smell was there too, copper and sulfur, blood and blast. His ghosts were borne aloft on the glory of men’s suffering. His eyes popped open to the buzz of fear and anticipation, as if he too might shed skin for the madness of a moon.
Wakefulness was immediately followed by an amorphous feeling of profound loss.
He excused himself that, under such circumstances, a glass of claret was medicinal. Mawkins certainly made no judgments. For a change. Perhaps he too indulged for the sake of his ghosts.
Sometimes, Gavin drained the snifter quickly, seeking numbness, and rolled into the less sweat-soaked side of the bed – to dream of lesser ghosts, or better, nothing at all.
Sometimes, he took his claret to the window and stared into the night, enjoying the peace of smaller hours.
And sometimes, he awoke to a restless hunger.
“Dainty sandwiches,” he said, into the silent room. Two bites at most. Cucumber or egg and mayonnaise, the bread spread thick with butter.
He would not ring for Mawkins. It was gone two in the morning. He would make shift for himself. Surely, the pantry held something for a man to nibble.
He got himself out of bed. It was a cold night, yet Gavin wasn’t one for nightshirts. Mawkins professed to be shocked, but had learned to tolerate this eccentricity. In case of fire or sandwich peregrinations (Mawkins was well aware of his master’s habit of midnight food pilfering) the valet set out a banyan.
It was a quality robe, all dark blues and greens, dignified and big enough to cover Gavin entirely, crossing over at the front. Of course, a banyan was considered outdated in these days of smoking jackets and indoor trousers. It had been his father’s, but it was such a nice plaid. Gavin thought he looked rather well in it. Plus, it reminded him of his da.
Candle holder in hand, he padded softly downstairs into the bowels of the house, where delicious things resided. He found an apple, a wedge of brown bread, and a bit of Stilton left over from the cheese plate. He ate them standing up like a barbarian, confident that Mawkins would explain the midnight theft so no servant would take the blame for his gluttony.
