Clutching their impromptu picnicking feast, Alice turned decisively toward the strand. There it was that the young men were to be found walking this time of day. Yet surely there was nothing more seemingly innocent than two well-bred young girls enjoying the fresh air of the ocean.
Without chaperones!
The deliciousness of the thought thrilled Alice's admittedly sheltered heart and made her companion gasp with pleasurable alarm when she shared it.
"Mother will be so cross!" Constance gloated, excitement quickening her forward motion so that Alice had to step lively to keep up with her colleague. "Think of it -- cheese and young beaus of questionable family connections."
"They may be complete strangers to us," Alice added, not without the passing glimpse of her parted cousin's face before her. Surely Lizzie would not simply pass judgment on this recklessness, not after all they had been through together. It's not as if we were courting pirates, Alice, reminded herself. I have lived a wild life indeed, she asserted boldly as if her cousin were tsking at her just then. This little adventure is nothing compared to kidnapping.
Constance had no inkling of these tortured thoughts, instead aiming her mild face toward the sands that awaited their dainty steps. Surely adventure and dashing young heroes would be found in abundance there.
"This is so like a novel!" Constance crowed happily.
"Some novels," Alice cautioned, the memory of Miss Fielding's instructive tome still weighing heavily upon her memory. That the novel in question had survived the sea soaking seemed to Alice the height of inconvenience, particularly as Mrs. Forward had looked with a certain rapacious eagerness at its educational pages, wrinkled as they were by the voyage. While the book had yet to dry to a readable state, Alice was certain that the tiresome lessons of Mrs. Teachum's charges were sure to fill her evenings as soon as the pages dried.
"Oh, here's a nice spot," Constance cooed, pointing to a large sandy opening close to the water's lap.
"Perhaps not," Alice said after a moment's consideration. "Do you notice how the sea encroaches upon each successive wave? We would be under water soon, my dear friend." Constance looked rather crestfallen, so Alice cheered her by pointing to another spot nearby. "See there? A couple of flat rocks will allow us to sit comfortably without sand marring our skirts."
"Excellent, Alice. Oh, you are so very clever!"
Alice blushed at this unexpected acclaim. She had never met anyone quite as easy to impress as Constance. While Alice naturally enjoyed this unrestrainedly complimentary approval, she found herself missing the more measured assessment of her cousin Lizzie. Dear cousin, wherever she might be -- no doubt Lizzie would not be embarking on such a wild adventure as this. Alice could not decide whether that realization filled her with more fear or excitement.
The two young women seated themselves daintily upon the rocks, assuring one another that they were far more comfortable than any of the chairs in their pension (true enough, more's the pity), then spread the bounty before them, eager to sample the delights purchased.
"Alice," Constance asked with sudden perturbation, "How shall we open the wine?"
Alice's cheery smile evaporated. Here was a perplexing problem! Constance looked eagerly to Alice for answers, but the latter could only shake her head in confusion. A fine start to our adventure, Alice thought.
Sunday, September 14, 2008
Monday, September 08, 2008
11.0
"Is this the way to adventure?" Constance asked Alice rather meekly as they lingered outside a shop that appeared to be a green grocers. Alice had led the two of them around town with a wayward step, unwilling to admit that she wasn't exactly certain how to go about finding adventure.
In the most recent past, adventure had done the finding of Alice. She had very little idea of how to importune fortune's help and her every natural inclination laboured against seeking out the likeliest locations of adventure. But they had to start somewhere.
"In here," she told her companion with a falsely hearty reassurance. "We must have supplies for our adventure." Alice pushed fearlessly into the shop but was immediately intimidated by the rather grumpy looking middle-aged woman behind the counter tying up bunches of garlic. Alice turned adroitly as if intending all along to reconnoiter the loaves of bread lined up like soldiers along the shelf above the onions.
Alice made a great show of examining the loaves as if she were well-versed in the qualities of fine baked goods. It was a wonder that Alice had never really examined a loaf of bread in its natural state. Toast with tea was already sliced and grilled. Alice selected a loaf and brought it to her nose. As she inhaled, the warm fragrance filled her nose with an image of the kitchen back home in Mangrove Hall. She felt a sudden surge of loss for the kindness of Mrs. Perkins and the peculiar habits of her mother.
"This is very good bread," she told Constance, endeavouring to cover her uncomfortable feelings. Constance took this comment as gospel and welcomed the loaf into her arms as if it were a foundling, grinning broadly.
"Shall we have cheese as well?" Constance inquired, mindful of her mother's undoubted disapproval of such extravagance.
Alice agreed. "Yes, certainly we must. And wine!" It seemed a good idea after all that an adventure might start with the right kind of meal.
"How shall we carry all this?" Constance asked suddenly, which made Alice realize that they were not at all prepared for their adventure. If they had had more time to plan – ah, but then would it be an adventure, she asked herself.
Alice eyed the woman behind the counter. She seemed an unlikely confederate, but there was little else in the way of possibility. People are not always what they seem, Alice reminded herself with a shake.
"Pardon, madame, er, mademoiselle," Alice hastily corrected herself. "Je n'ai pas un panier…" The words seemed to crawl only unwillingly from her throat and once more Alice regretted her poor attention to lessons.
The shopkeeper looked irritated at first but taking in the open face of Constance and the ingratiating tone of Alice's speech, she mumbled something non-committal, then pulled out a linen bag from under the counter and handed it to Alice, saying simply, "et voila!"
Alice grinned broadly and Constance clapped her hands with joy. The woman gave them a crooked grin, charmed by their simple cheerfulness. Alice selected a small bottle of wine and a couple of cheese in close consultation with the shopkeeper. By the time they left, the three were firm friends. Alice waved a farewell as they turned the corner outside.
"Where now?" Constance asked brightly.
"I have a wonderful idea." Alice said with a smile.
In the most recent past, adventure had done the finding of Alice. She had very little idea of how to importune fortune's help and her every natural inclination laboured against seeking out the likeliest locations of adventure. But they had to start somewhere.
"In here," she told her companion with a falsely hearty reassurance. "We must have supplies for our adventure." Alice pushed fearlessly into the shop but was immediately intimidated by the rather grumpy looking middle-aged woman behind the counter tying up bunches of garlic. Alice turned adroitly as if intending all along to reconnoiter the loaves of bread lined up like soldiers along the shelf above the onions.
Alice made a great show of examining the loaves as if she were well-versed in the qualities of fine baked goods. It was a wonder that Alice had never really examined a loaf of bread in its natural state. Toast with tea was already sliced and grilled. Alice selected a loaf and brought it to her nose. As she inhaled, the warm fragrance filled her nose with an image of the kitchen back home in Mangrove Hall. She felt a sudden surge of loss for the kindness of Mrs. Perkins and the peculiar habits of her mother.
"This is very good bread," she told Constance, endeavouring to cover her uncomfortable feelings. Constance took this comment as gospel and welcomed the loaf into her arms as if it were a foundling, grinning broadly.
"Shall we have cheese as well?" Constance inquired, mindful of her mother's undoubted disapproval of such extravagance.
Alice agreed. "Yes, certainly we must. And wine!" It seemed a good idea after all that an adventure might start with the right kind of meal.
"How shall we carry all this?" Constance asked suddenly, which made Alice realize that they were not at all prepared for their adventure. If they had had more time to plan – ah, but then would it be an adventure, she asked herself.
Alice eyed the woman behind the counter. She seemed an unlikely confederate, but there was little else in the way of possibility. People are not always what they seem, Alice reminded herself with a shake.
"Pardon, madame, er, mademoiselle," Alice hastily corrected herself. "Je n'ai pas un panier…" The words seemed to crawl only unwillingly from her throat and once more Alice regretted her poor attention to lessons.
The shopkeeper looked irritated at first but taking in the open face of Constance and the ingratiating tone of Alice's speech, she mumbled something non-committal, then pulled out a linen bag from under the counter and handed it to Alice, saying simply, "et voila!"
Alice grinned broadly and Constance clapped her hands with joy. The woman gave them a crooked grin, charmed by their simple cheerfulness. Alice selected a small bottle of wine and a couple of cheese in close consultation with the shopkeeper. By the time they left, the three were firm friends. Alice waved a farewell as they turned the corner outside.
"Where now?" Constance asked brightly.
"I have a wonderful idea." Alice said with a smile.
Monday, September 01, 2008
10.9
Lizzie could not have been unconscious for more than a moment or two before she awoke. She was somewhat flustered to find herself sprawled across Mr. Tilney’s lap and struggled to rise from the indecorous position.
"Easy now," came Tilney’s steady reply. Did she only imagine it, or was there a hint of humor in his words? Lizzie did not hesitate, however, regaining her unsteady feet beside Darcy, who seemed unruffled by the sudden appearance of a second rider, although he was sweating from the exertion of their race.
Her own mount circled skittishly, still unnerved by the sudden surprise and the wild ride. Lizzie shook her head to clear it and took a step away from Tilney. Looking up she saw that he was no looking off in the distance, a view blocked from her by Darcy. His face looked suddenly grave. Lizzie bent down and peered under Darcy’s neck in the same direction.
Across the clearing was a group of men. Lizzie was quick to realize what Tilney no doubt did – the men were engaged in a duel. The duelists stood some yards apart, surrounded by what were surely their seconds (or so Lizzie reckoned from her reading). There was a singular delight in seeing before her something she had read about so many times. Just as the first glimpse of the Bonny Read in full sail had filled her heart with a singing joy, the romantic sight of the battling rivals gave Lizzie a certain satisfaction and brought a smile to her lips. The smile faded when she beheld Tilney’s expression. "A duel," she ventured to whisper toward him.
Tilney glanced down but his grimness remained. "Duels are illegal," he said simply.
Lizzie looked again at the knot of men and saw a similar grimness on their faces. It came to her, somewhat belatedly she understood, that they were in some danger. Once more she cursed the wine muzzing her head. It was slowing her reactions.
One of the men shouted at them in French, brandishing his weapon heavenward. Tilney looked down at Lizzie. "What's he saying?" He could tell it was not good. "Can you persuade him we will not interfere?"
Lizzie tried to clear her throat and felt a sudden strangle of fear around it. "Pardon, messieurs!" she began, her voice stretching to a higher register than she had intended. What to say? Lizzie shouted that they were sorry and had come there by accident, but the men leveled their pistols at the two of them, announcing they were to come forward. She hastily explained to Tilney, who dismounted and stood by her side. It felt better to have him there and Lizzie had to resist the impulse to take his hand, something he would not at all expect from George Bennett.
"Anglais?" one of the duelists asked Lizzie as they approached. She nodded. His second squinted at Lizzie and looked back at his friend.
"C'est une femme, no?"
Lizzie felt a thrill of fear and stopped in her tracks. Tilney looked at her with surprise and then looked at the men with something like alarm. Lizzie had a moment to realize that every trace of the lazy drawler was gone from his frame. He looked ready to act.
She gulped. What to do now?
"Easy now," came Tilney’s steady reply. Did she only imagine it, or was there a hint of humor in his words? Lizzie did not hesitate, however, regaining her unsteady feet beside Darcy, who seemed unruffled by the sudden appearance of a second rider, although he was sweating from the exertion of their race.
Her own mount circled skittishly, still unnerved by the sudden surprise and the wild ride. Lizzie shook her head to clear it and took a step away from Tilney. Looking up she saw that he was no looking off in the distance, a view blocked from her by Darcy. His face looked suddenly grave. Lizzie bent down and peered under Darcy’s neck in the same direction.
Across the clearing was a group of men. Lizzie was quick to realize what Tilney no doubt did – the men were engaged in a duel. The duelists stood some yards apart, surrounded by what were surely their seconds (or so Lizzie reckoned from her reading). There was a singular delight in seeing before her something she had read about so many times. Just as the first glimpse of the Bonny Read in full sail had filled her heart with a singing joy, the romantic sight of the battling rivals gave Lizzie a certain satisfaction and brought a smile to her lips. The smile faded when she beheld Tilney’s expression. "A duel," she ventured to whisper toward him.
Tilney glanced down but his grimness remained. "Duels are illegal," he said simply.
Lizzie looked again at the knot of men and saw a similar grimness on their faces. It came to her, somewhat belatedly she understood, that they were in some danger. Once more she cursed the wine muzzing her head. It was slowing her reactions.
One of the men shouted at them in French, brandishing his weapon heavenward. Tilney looked down at Lizzie. "What's he saying?" He could tell it was not good. "Can you persuade him we will not interfere?"
Lizzie tried to clear her throat and felt a sudden strangle of fear around it. "Pardon, messieurs!" she began, her voice stretching to a higher register than she had intended. What to say? Lizzie shouted that they were sorry and had come there by accident, but the men leveled their pistols at the two of them, announcing they were to come forward. She hastily explained to Tilney, who dismounted and stood by her side. It felt better to have him there and Lizzie had to resist the impulse to take his hand, something he would not at all expect from George Bennett.
"Anglais?" one of the duelists asked Lizzie as they approached. She nodded. His second squinted at Lizzie and looked back at his friend.
"C'est une femme, no?"
Lizzie felt a thrill of fear and stopped in her tracks. Tilney looked at her with surprise and then looked at the men with something like alarm. Lizzie had a moment to realize that every trace of the lazy drawler was gone from his frame. He looked ready to act.
She gulped. What to do now?
Sunday, August 24, 2008
10.8
The rapid staccato tattoo of her mount's hooves echoed in Lizzie's ears as she pulled in vain at the reins. The shots had spooked him, though, and there seemed to be little hope of stopping him until his panic subsided. She could hear Tilney's hoofbeats behind her, starting belated pursuit, but Lizzie could not help but fear that his arrival would come too late.
She cursed herself for the over-consumption of wine at luncheon. Had she been wiser, she would not have given in to Tilney's imprecations and would have been more alert – and likely far less woozy than she was beginning to feel just then. The rapid pace, normally a bracing one for that adventuresome rider, was taking a toll on her less-than-wholly settled stomach and knocking her slightly tipsy brain even further off kilter.
“Oh, mumbles,” Lizzie muttered, still pulling impotently at the reins, “I shall fall off surely.” It was not a fate to be anticipated with any glee.
The track along which the runaway horse carried her was growing ever more wild. Somehow they had left the wide path that led from the public house and headed off into a more thicjly forested area. Lizzie was alarmed to find the sound of shots repeated and at closer range. Some kind of danger lurked in the woods, that was certain, but it was a little difficult to think about it too much while she was desperately attempting to maintain her seat upon the horse. She cursed her poor training, cursed the copious wine and cursed her relative unfamiliarity with trousers.
Trousers were a revelation, indeed, she had discovered, but they did not immediately replace the expectations of a life time spent in skirts. Every thing, every motion seemed to take on a new shape. Who knew inexpressibles could have so profound an impact?
Her head began to fill with a soft susurration that promised to cloud out all logical process. Lizzie fought desperately against its force, but came to realise that her efforts were failing. I shall never be able to live with myself, Lizzie thought, if I faint away like some trifling girl. While a more dispassionate reader might find such a thing eminently forgivable given the particular circumstances, Lizzie was known for her unflaggingly harsh opinions when it came to her own conduct (for that matter, she was known to be a tad harsh when it came to the conduct of others as well, but we shall leave that by the side at present).
Just as she felt the agonizing slip into the murky state of unconsciousness, Lizzie sensed the light improving as the horse bolted into a clearing where a small number of men stood, pistols drawn and appearing to be just as surprised by her presence as she was by theirs. Even the runaway seemed to evince a puzzled air, for his steps surely began to slow, allowing in that instant a breathless Mr. Tilney to dash up and make a grab for Lizzie's reins just as she slipped sideways in her saddle.
“So very sorry,” Lizzie muttered as she fell across Tilney's lap.
She cursed herself for the over-consumption of wine at luncheon. Had she been wiser, she would not have given in to Tilney's imprecations and would have been more alert – and likely far less woozy than she was beginning to feel just then. The rapid pace, normally a bracing one for that adventuresome rider, was taking a toll on her less-than-wholly settled stomach and knocking her slightly tipsy brain even further off kilter.
“Oh, mumbles,” Lizzie muttered, still pulling impotently at the reins, “I shall fall off surely.” It was not a fate to be anticipated with any glee.
The track along which the runaway horse carried her was growing ever more wild. Somehow they had left the wide path that led from the public house and headed off into a more thicjly forested area. Lizzie was alarmed to find the sound of shots repeated and at closer range. Some kind of danger lurked in the woods, that was certain, but it was a little difficult to think about it too much while she was desperately attempting to maintain her seat upon the horse. She cursed her poor training, cursed the copious wine and cursed her relative unfamiliarity with trousers.
Trousers were a revelation, indeed, she had discovered, but they did not immediately replace the expectations of a life time spent in skirts. Every thing, every motion seemed to take on a new shape. Who knew inexpressibles could have so profound an impact?
Her head began to fill with a soft susurration that promised to cloud out all logical process. Lizzie fought desperately against its force, but came to realise that her efforts were failing. I shall never be able to live with myself, Lizzie thought, if I faint away like some trifling girl. While a more dispassionate reader might find such a thing eminently forgivable given the particular circumstances, Lizzie was known for her unflaggingly harsh opinions when it came to her own conduct (for that matter, she was known to be a tad harsh when it came to the conduct of others as well, but we shall leave that by the side at present).
Just as she felt the agonizing slip into the murky state of unconsciousness, Lizzie sensed the light improving as the horse bolted into a clearing where a small number of men stood, pistols drawn and appearing to be just as surprised by her presence as she was by theirs. Even the runaway seemed to evince a puzzled air, for his steps surely began to slow, allowing in that instant a breathless Mr. Tilney to dash up and make a grab for Lizzie's reins just as she slipped sideways in her saddle.
“So very sorry,” Lizzie muttered as she fell across Tilney's lap.
Sunday, August 17, 2008
10.7
Lizzie felt her feet stumble with unaccustomed awkwardness, as if they were very remote from her instead of attached to the ends of her legs. "Oh, mumbles," thought Lizzie, "I must be foxed!" It was a thought equally frightening and exhilarating. While she had seen Lord Mangrove stagger on occasion from an exquisite over-indulgence in West Indian rum, she had never imagined experiencing the effects herself. I must remember it all precisely and write it in a letter, Lizzie thought. To the King of Naples, she added quickly, then immediately realised that she could do no such thing.
This experience, although fascinating, could not have come at a more precarious time, for she needed to maintain the easy masquerade as George that she had taken up as well as concentrate on guiding her horse, for Mr. Tilney was already aboard Darcey and looking to be quite high in dudgeon, impatient to be on his way. Darcey had picked up his mood and stamped his feet with an excess of vital energy.
Lizzie's horse showed signs of the same restiveness and she had to hop helplessly on one foot as the pony danced around her, trying in vain to spring aboard the saddle. It was to her shamefaced embarrassment that the groom finally had to take a hand and help her up. She had no more than lighted in the saddle when Tilney took off at a sharp clip and Lizzie was forced to follow.
Although she wanted very much to go more slowly – and thought the sudden speed a less than prudent idea immediately after a meal and particularly when the horses were cold – Lizzie held her tongue and bounced along in Tilney's wake as well as she might, although the sloshing of the plonk in her stomach soon proved discomforting.
I shall never drink again, Lizzie promised herself foolishly, particularly if I know that vigorous exercise on horseback will follow fast upon such indulgence. Her head had begun to ache unaccountably badly and she could feel a glow of perspiration exude from her forehead. The swiftly tilting scenery went past with a nacreous green glow.
All at once a sound rang out which Lizzie recognized from recent events to be the sound of pistol shot. Tilney's head whipped around in the direction from which the shot seemed to come, reining Darcey in slightly, but the lively chestnut was unwilling to stop altogether, shying coltishly away to the left while Tilney craned his neck left, a hand raised to shade his eyes.
Coming upon the pair so quickly and with the lag of liquor in her blood, Lizzie failed to rein in sufficiently, her horse bumping into Darcey, who reared and snorted loudly. Her more timid mount shied, cowering from Tilney's stepper. At that moment another shot rang out, rather close to the two riders and Lizzie's horse took this as sure sign of danger and bolted wildly, ignoring Lizzie's heartfelt cry of "Stop! Stop!"
This experience, although fascinating, could not have come at a more precarious time, for she needed to maintain the easy masquerade as George that she had taken up as well as concentrate on guiding her horse, for Mr. Tilney was already aboard Darcey and looking to be quite high in dudgeon, impatient to be on his way. Darcey had picked up his mood and stamped his feet with an excess of vital energy.
Lizzie's horse showed signs of the same restiveness and she had to hop helplessly on one foot as the pony danced around her, trying in vain to spring aboard the saddle. It was to her shamefaced embarrassment that the groom finally had to take a hand and help her up. She had no more than lighted in the saddle when Tilney took off at a sharp clip and Lizzie was forced to follow.
Although she wanted very much to go more slowly – and thought the sudden speed a less than prudent idea immediately after a meal and particularly when the horses were cold – Lizzie held her tongue and bounced along in Tilney's wake as well as she might, although the sloshing of the plonk in her stomach soon proved discomforting.
I shall never drink again, Lizzie promised herself foolishly, particularly if I know that vigorous exercise on horseback will follow fast upon such indulgence. Her head had begun to ache unaccountably badly and she could feel a glow of perspiration exude from her forehead. The swiftly tilting scenery went past with a nacreous green glow.
All at once a sound rang out which Lizzie recognized from recent events to be the sound of pistol shot. Tilney's head whipped around in the direction from which the shot seemed to come, reining Darcey in slightly, but the lively chestnut was unwilling to stop altogether, shying coltishly away to the left while Tilney craned his neck left, a hand raised to shade his eyes.
Coming upon the pair so quickly and with the lag of liquor in her blood, Lizzie failed to rein in sufficiently, her horse bumping into Darcey, who reared and snorted loudly. Her more timid mount shied, cowering from Tilney's stepper. At that moment another shot rang out, rather close to the two riders and Lizzie's horse took this as sure sign of danger and bolted wildly, ignoring Lizzie's heartfelt cry of "Stop! Stop!"
Sunday, August 10, 2008
10.6
Tilney seemed to awake from his momentary reverie, hastening to fill Lizzie's glass, which alarmed her. She could tell the effects of the wine were already creeping into her thoughts and it would take some effort to control them.
To distract him, she pressed for further information. "What else, pray tell, do you do to win the hearts of the delicate ones?"
Tilney sighed. "I have not been much of mood to do so lately, Bennett."
"Now, now," Lizzie said, trying to keep the arch tone out of her voice, although the roguish effect of the wine inclined her toward that outlook. "You can't let one bad experience color your actions, Tilney. Show a little spark."
Tilney chuckled and gargled a little more wine. "You're right, I suppose. But mind my words, young George, stay away from women with dimples. Dimples as a sure sign of a sensuous nature and a fickle heart."
"What about men with dimples?" Lizzie said, taking care not to smile herself. "For I noticed just now when you laughed that you have dimples yourself."
Tilney looked rather sharply at her, one brow arched high. For a moment, Lizzie feared that she had gone too far, but then the young man at last burst into laughter that was not without an edge of bitterness. "I suppose what is true of the goose must be likewise true of the gander. Damme, Bennett, but you're too clever by half. I shall have to watch myself around you."
Lizzie felt a giggle coming on and was at great pains to stifle it. Oh dear, she thought, this must be an consequence of the wine. I must get Tilney talking and distracted. She reached across to fill his glass with the last of the bottle. Better him than me, Lizzie thought. "Never mind that, Tilney, you were on to the next sure fire trick in your bag. Tell on, I need educating in the habits of fine women."
"Oh, let us not speak of women any more," Tilney said, the animation draining away from his face. "Let us speak of horses, trousers, banking schemes -- anything but women. I am through with women for the nonce." Tilney threw back the last of the wine and gestured for the landlord. Lizzie quailed at the thought that he might order more wine, but Tilney merely settled the bill and stood quickly to go.
Lizzie stood, too, and immediately felt how the wine had nudged her equilibrium off course. Swaying a little, she gripped the edge of the table and tried not to trip over her chair. Fortunately Tilney had not noticed her inebriation as he was already striding toward the door with his deliberate steps. Lizzie grabbed the last slice of bread to nibble as she followed tipsily in his wake. This will be an interesting ride, Lizzie thought.
As she passed by the table with the two young women, one surreptitiously caught her eye and smiled winningly. Lizzie smiled before she realized it and hurriedly even more quickly for the door.
To distract him, she pressed for further information. "What else, pray tell, do you do to win the hearts of the delicate ones?"
Tilney sighed. "I have not been much of mood to do so lately, Bennett."
"Now, now," Lizzie said, trying to keep the arch tone out of her voice, although the roguish effect of the wine inclined her toward that outlook. "You can't let one bad experience color your actions, Tilney. Show a little spark."
Tilney chuckled and gargled a little more wine. "You're right, I suppose. But mind my words, young George, stay away from women with dimples. Dimples as a sure sign of a sensuous nature and a fickle heart."
"What about men with dimples?" Lizzie said, taking care not to smile herself. "For I noticed just now when you laughed that you have dimples yourself."
Tilney looked rather sharply at her, one brow arched high. For a moment, Lizzie feared that she had gone too far, but then the young man at last burst into laughter that was not without an edge of bitterness. "I suppose what is true of the goose must be likewise true of the gander. Damme, Bennett, but you're too clever by half. I shall have to watch myself around you."
Lizzie felt a giggle coming on and was at great pains to stifle it. Oh dear, she thought, this must be an consequence of the wine. I must get Tilney talking and distracted. She reached across to fill his glass with the last of the bottle. Better him than me, Lizzie thought. "Never mind that, Tilney, you were on to the next sure fire trick in your bag. Tell on, I need educating in the habits of fine women."
"Oh, let us not speak of women any more," Tilney said, the animation draining away from his face. "Let us speak of horses, trousers, banking schemes -- anything but women. I am through with women for the nonce." Tilney threw back the last of the wine and gestured for the landlord. Lizzie quailed at the thought that he might order more wine, but Tilney merely settled the bill and stood quickly to go.
Lizzie stood, too, and immediately felt how the wine had nudged her equilibrium off course. Swaying a little, she gripped the edge of the table and tried not to trip over her chair. Fortunately Tilney had not noticed her inebriation as he was already striding toward the door with his deliberate steps. Lizzie grabbed the last slice of bread to nibble as she followed tipsily in his wake. This will be an interesting ride, Lizzie thought.
As she passed by the table with the two young women, one surreptitiously caught her eye and smiled winningly. Lizzie smiled before she realized it and hurriedly even more quickly for the door.
Sunday, August 03, 2008
10.5
Compared to the wine they had drunk with Black Ethel, this vin ordinaire seemed far rougher stuff, Lizzie thought to herself, not venturing to voice her opinion which Tilney would no doubt disparage with good natured humor. So she was surprised to hear him comment upon that very quality.
"Palatable, but not much more. Eh, Bennett?" Tilney said, his head held at a speculative angle. "In town this would be beneath my touch, but as we're in the country proper, I guess it will do." He poured a little more into each of their tumblers and grinned at Lizzie. "We'll get a little bosky and share the secrets of our amours."
"Oh, that wouldn’t really be sporting, now would it? I only asked for your advice in the broadest general terms, Tilney. No need to ramble through your conquests."
Tilney laughed. "No stories of you calf-loves, then? All right, I will share my secrets for success with the descendants of Aphrodite. Listen and learn, Bennett, and you will be a success with the pinkest of the pink when you return to our native land."
"Lawks, man, on with your advice then," Lizzie said, feeling emboldened by the wine's warm glow.
"The key," Tilney said with a knowing look, "is to flatter them of course."
"Well, yes, that works with everyone, men included," Lizzie interrupted.
"Ah, but you have to flatter women differently," Tilney insisted. "Men like to have their good qualities noticed. Girls on the other hand, need to have their imaginations awakened. Now listen first," Tilney said, noticing Lizzie's impatient gesture. "I know whereof I speak."
"A woman needs to have a picture painted of the vision she forms in your mind. She can't bear to be simply what she is -- lovely as that might be. Most of 'em have read far too many novels so they get these notions of dramatic scenes and romantic ideals. They want to be heroines, not just women, so you have to convince them that they are -- at least to you."
"I'm sure there are many sensible women whose imaginations have not been corrupted by the reading of novels," Lizzie retorted a shade too vehemently, swigging a little more wine from her tumbler.
Tilney chuckled. "Sensible women are no fun to flirt with."
Lizzie flushed, feeling again as if this sharpish young man had somehow seen through her charade. "I suppose that's true enough. Well, how would you begin to spin such a web of deceit before a docile young maiden of the realm?"
"Oh, it needn't be all lies. After all, the truth is much easier to remember." Tilney laughed a bit too heartily for such a slim joke, but poured more wine into his glass. "You must praise every limb of her frame with excessive enthusiasm --"
"My mistress's eye are nothing like the sun," Lizzie intoned bitterly as she stared into her glass.
"Oh, yes, poetry is always good -- provided it flatters," Tilney said with a strange look at his drinking partner. "Poetry sufficiently obscure might be passed off as one's own."
"Then I suppose it helps to woo an ignorant girl."
Tilney smiled but the expression stopped short of convincing. "As the sweet sweat of roses in a still," he intoned with a sonorous tone, "As that which from chafed musk cat's pores doth trill, / As the almighty balm of th' early east, / Such are the sweat drops of my mistress' breast."
"A girl might well be bewitched by your recitation," Lizzie admitted, washing down a little more red, "provided she is not scandalized by your choice of poets. Is Donne really fit for a gentle woman's ears?"
"What? A churchman of the first order, a loving husband --"
"And once a libertine who thought a true woman as rare as a falling star." Lizzie looked frankly at her companion, wondering again what really lay beneath his too-smooth exterior.
"He was onto something there," Tilney said, staring off into the distance. "Although he seemed to repent once he found such a gem."
"Is it the nature of all libertines to repent at last?" Lizzie was hardly aware of speaking her thoughts aloud, but it did not matter as Tilney appeared not to have heard.
"Palatable, but not much more. Eh, Bennett?" Tilney said, his head held at a speculative angle. "In town this would be beneath my touch, but as we're in the country proper, I guess it will do." He poured a little more into each of their tumblers and grinned at Lizzie. "We'll get a little bosky and share the secrets of our amours."
"Oh, that wouldn’t really be sporting, now would it? I only asked for your advice in the broadest general terms, Tilney. No need to ramble through your conquests."
Tilney laughed. "No stories of you calf-loves, then? All right, I will share my secrets for success with the descendants of Aphrodite. Listen and learn, Bennett, and you will be a success with the pinkest of the pink when you return to our native land."
"Lawks, man, on with your advice then," Lizzie said, feeling emboldened by the wine's warm glow.
"The key," Tilney said with a knowing look, "is to flatter them of course."
"Well, yes, that works with everyone, men included," Lizzie interrupted.
"Ah, but you have to flatter women differently," Tilney insisted. "Men like to have their good qualities noticed. Girls on the other hand, need to have their imaginations awakened. Now listen first," Tilney said, noticing Lizzie's impatient gesture. "I know whereof I speak."
"A woman needs to have a picture painted of the vision she forms in your mind. She can't bear to be simply what she is -- lovely as that might be. Most of 'em have read far too many novels so they get these notions of dramatic scenes and romantic ideals. They want to be heroines, not just women, so you have to convince them that they are -- at least to you."
"I'm sure there are many sensible women whose imaginations have not been corrupted by the reading of novels," Lizzie retorted a shade too vehemently, swigging a little more wine from her tumbler.
Tilney chuckled. "Sensible women are no fun to flirt with."
Lizzie flushed, feeling again as if this sharpish young man had somehow seen through her charade. "I suppose that's true enough. Well, how would you begin to spin such a web of deceit before a docile young maiden of the realm?"
"Oh, it needn't be all lies. After all, the truth is much easier to remember." Tilney laughed a bit too heartily for such a slim joke, but poured more wine into his glass. "You must praise every limb of her frame with excessive enthusiasm --"
"My mistress's eye are nothing like the sun," Lizzie intoned bitterly as she stared into her glass.
"Oh, yes, poetry is always good -- provided it flatters," Tilney said with a strange look at his drinking partner. "Poetry sufficiently obscure might be passed off as one's own."
"Then I suppose it helps to woo an ignorant girl."
Tilney smiled but the expression stopped short of convincing. "As the sweet sweat of roses in a still," he intoned with a sonorous tone, "As that which from chafed musk cat's pores doth trill, / As the almighty balm of th' early east, / Such are the sweat drops of my mistress' breast."
"A girl might well be bewitched by your recitation," Lizzie admitted, washing down a little more red, "provided she is not scandalized by your choice of poets. Is Donne really fit for a gentle woman's ears?"
"What? A churchman of the first order, a loving husband --"
"And once a libertine who thought a true woman as rare as a falling star." Lizzie looked frankly at her companion, wondering again what really lay beneath his too-smooth exterior.
"He was onto something there," Tilney said, staring off into the distance. "Although he seemed to repent once he found such a gem."
"Is it the nature of all libertines to repent at last?" Lizzie was hardly aware of speaking her thoughts aloud, but it did not matter as Tilney appeared not to have heard.
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