A/N: So thrilled at the interest you all have in these recent chapters—I'm so excited to get to the H/M/C war up ahead and finished this chapter for you wonderful readers! Thank you bobcatwriter, Elena, atperhach, Jakegajowski1, Michelle Marie R, nursejoh, joel shell, and Guest!
CHAPTER 9 – ACCOUNTABILITY
"Wh-where are you going?" Honoria asked, watching Charles quickly stride into his bedroom, a metallic thud as he set yet a suitcase on the floor. Thankfully, Charles had not locked his door behind him this time, and so she walked right into his room behind him, watching him place several pair of swimming trunks, hunting boots, and a carefully placed box of records into the open suitcase.
"Are you leaving again? What did f-father say?"
"I am to move out of my current residence in South Boston," he replied flatly, holding up his copy of the written contract. "And I am to take Miss Anne Coolidge on a date at the Oakmont this Sunday."
"Are you and M-major Houlihan over—"
"No," he cut in.
"So w-wait—are you saying you agreed to th-that?" she whispered, quickly moving back to the door to shut it. "You're a g-grown man, Charles. You have the right to m-make your own decisions."
"Surely you are aware that Father has had my name removed from all my accounts. The only money I currently have to my name is my Boston Mercy income beginning a mere three months ago."
"W-what about your army money?"
"I gave it away."
She gaped at him.
"To whom? Major H-houlihan? I don't understand—"
"The damn charity drive for one…. The orphanage," he spat irritably, now adding records to a second box he'd carefully placed inside the suitcase.
"Wow," Honoria began, taken aback yet again, "that's s-so generous of—"
"It was a mere trifle, Honoria," he interrupted, not allowing her to compliment him. "A drop in the bucket compared to the funds I'd presumed I'd had waiting at home for me. I don't deserve praise for such an act."
"So Father is making you d-do these things in exchange for—"
"For at least some of my rightful inheritance!" Charles exclaimed. "Reinstatement of access to my two larger accounts. Money for a new car."
"You're free to k-keep the Cadillac as long as y-you need it. I have been using a ch-chauffer, which has been working out rather w-well for me, in fact."
"It is your car, Honoria. As soon as I purchase myself a vehicle, you will most assuredly get it back."
"Please d-don't involve me in your decision to listen to a man who h-has n-no right to tell you how to live your life."
"Then why are you here, hmm? You'd spread your wings to fly multiple times already, and then when you stumbled and fell, you came right back to the nest. Now you're denigrating me for having done the very same thing!"
"I f-for one d-don't have the opportunities you do, Ch-charles," she cried, raising her voice now. "You w-were able to see the w-world, p-perform surgeries in Tokyo, s-save lives in K-korea! I d-don't have the ability to find m-my way alone like you did. It also d-doesn't help that I stutter!"
Charles looked up from the suitcase he'd been packing to see that Honoria was now silently crying, her arms tightly crossed across her chest as if protecting herself from the cold, her eyes, so similar to his own, overflowing with tears.
He stood up then, shutting his eyes as he moved to her.
"My sincere apologies, Honoria," he said, wrapping his arms around her and pulling her into another all-consuming hug. "You are a dear, sweet person and you deserve nothing but happiness. I did not intend to hurt you."
"Please consider what you are d-doing in the name of m-money, Charles," she murmured. "There are some things money c-can't buy."
He patted her back gently now as he broke the embrace, a smug little grin on his face as he replied.
"Well, I've yet to discover one."
Charles returned to South Boston long after dark, one final overstuffed suitcase in the back seat of the car, a basket of Winchester dinner leftovers on the passenger seat. He would have a lot of things to discuss with Margaret tonight, and a lot of back-breaking work in removing his many suitcases from her cramped second-story apartment.
Frowning, Charles pressed the button to ring up to Margaret's unit. With the ensuing buzz, he was able to shove through the door, using the fragile basket as an unwilling battering ram to enter the hallway.
Exhaustion overtook him as he stood just outside her door after ascending the stairwell. Why in the world hadn't they installed an elevator in this hovel?
As soon as his knuckles rapped against the door, he could hear movement inside and Margaret appeared, hands on hips.
"You had me worried sick!" she exclaimed, looking at him and at his basket. "I have been pacing back and forth all evening, trying to figure out what was wrong with you!" Growling, she reached up and grabbed him by an ear, pulling him into her apartment and shutting the door behind them as he complied wordlessly.
Charles allowed for Margaret to pull him over to the couch and sit him down as she stood above him, hands returning to her hips.
"Now, what the hell was that all about today?" she exclaimed. "I deserve an explanation!"
"You certainly do, Margaret," Charles began, "and now that I am not at the mercy of an eavesdropping maid surreptitiously lifting a receiver elsewhere in the house, I can be frank with you. I mean… you know what I mean."
"Go on," she said, lifting an eyebrow. "I'm all ears."
"Right," he said, rubbing his own sore ear as he placed the basket on the ground next to him. "I'm not certain where I should begin."
"How about when you said, and I quote, 'take the bus' and 'goodbye?' Let's start there."
"In fact, Margaret, what prompted my actions today happened well before that time."
"Well, go ahead and begin there."
He currently had two trains of thought that were in danger of slamming into each other head on, one regarding his own loss of self-control and the other regarding the loss of his birthright. For the sake of his sanity, he would address the easier of the two subjects first.
"As I have previously mentioned, my father has locked me out of all my finances, accounts that were opened decades ago that have amassed quite a bit of money over the years. Yesterday's eye-opening meeting with the new financial advisor predicated my decision to confront him, to implore him to reconsider his actions."
"Then why were you acting so weird with me in the car? I'm not your father or your financial advisor! You couldn't even look at me!"
"My father is a very powerful man," he began, painfully lying through his teeth. "I've never had reason to confront him about such matters before. In relation to your specific queries, I confess to being preoccupied by the thought of how poorly it could possibly go."
"And how did it go?"
Now Charles was silent. He'd considered what to tell her in regards to his blatant begging for his inheritance, kneeling there like a jackass in his father's study. It had not been so much a confrontation as an act of charity on his father's part. Furthermore, the caveat regarding Miss Coolidge was something on which he would tread exceedingly lightly. He would approach the subject of the confrontation gently and decide if that agreed-upon single dinner date was even worth mentioning, based on Margaret's reactions to the former.
"My father agreed to reinstate my access to my two larger accounts in exchange for my finding another place of residence."
Predictably, Margaret scowled.
"For how long?"
"Here," he said, pulling the document out of his coat pocket. "Read it for yourself."
Margaret took the document from him and read through it slowly, her eyes darting from side to side as she read the agreement in its entirety. When she finally finished reading the document, the look she gave him was that of befuddlement. She handed him back the document, shaking her head.
"Well, I'm just amazed there isn't some clause in there forcing you to see other women in the meantime. Now that would be inappropriate as hell."
"Ha," he spat humorlessly. "Would it now…"
"Anyway," she answered, "it's good to see that in spite of your father being a shameless elitist, he's above making you find someone else while you're with me. Glad to see the Winchesters have some sense of decency."
"Right," Charles said, rubbing the back of his neck.
That did it—now he could not mention the extra expectation, that being his upcoming date with Anne Coolidge at the Oakmont. What sort of reason could he use to excuse himself during that time on Sunday night? That would be his newest quandary.
"You do realize this is the last night you'll be spending here, at least for a while," Margaret commented, peering over at the tall man beside her as he lie flat on his back in his light blue pajamas, his eyes locked on the ceiling.
"I do. What of it?"
She sat up in bed, pulling the covers over her bare skin.
"Would you like to have one final hurrah?"
Charles turned his head now to look at her, involuntarily wincing at her suggestion. A little scoff exited his lips.
"You know what?" Margaret exclaimed, shaking her head with disappointment. "I see what's going on now. History is repeating itself."
Charles blinked rapidly as he watched her carefully.
"What in the world are you talking about?"
"That French woman—Martine, was it? You were infatuated with her, staring at her like she could disappear any second and eating up her every word, not to mention risking death with your little private picnic together in the minefield after you spent the night with her in her t—"
"What?" he blurted, his eyes wide now, shocked by her statement. "How did you—"
"And then, just like that, it was over," she continued, snapping her fingers. "I feel like you're using your family as an excuse to end this just as quickly as you ended your relationship with her. It's probably why your father only expects you to stay moved out for two weeks. Hell, he probably figures this will be over and done by then."
"I for one chalked it up to believing that had he extended it, I would have been less likely to agree to it. Margaret, I assure you; I am not trying to end things with you."
"Then why do you still look like you'd rather be anywhere else? I made it perfectly clear that I'm fine with your getting your own place. We'll still see each other at work and in the evenings. If I'd been in your shoes, I probably would have agreed to it as well."
"I'm glad you understand my perspective," he murmured, still looking stricken.
"Then what the hell is your problem?!"
Now they were both sitting up in bed and discussing Charles's fears, he in his blue pajamas and she now clad in a robe. Margaret had since relaxed their tongues sufficiently with wine, and they were now quickly imbibing their third bottle.
"What in the world makes you think you're going to be blackmailed?" she asked him, her voice just a bit slurred.
He grimaced now, recalling their trek to the ladies restroom, their emergence after a couple of minutes with clothing all askew. He'd witnessed the knowing glimmer in the bartender's eye as he sheepishly paid their lunch bill with cash, throwing in a sizable tip for good measure. Carefully he rested his almost empty wine glass on the nightstand next to the bathrobe he'd flung over it.
"Margaret, I am a Winchester," he answered, not quite drunk enough. "My family has much influence in the Boston area. And need I remind you, I work a mere mile away from that restaurant!"
"Funny, I didn't realize you were wearing your embroidered white coat when we—"
"It's the principle of it; do you not see?!" he said, his voice falling to a whisper as he extended his hand in front of him. "I, Charles Emerson Winchester III, Harvard Medical '43, Chief of Thoracic Surgery at Boston Mercy Hospital, fornicated in a ladies' restroom in a dining establishment in downtown Boston. Can you just picture those headlines?"
"Don't hold your breath for it," she muttered, crossing her arms. "I for one am not worried about it in the least."
"Yes, well, you are not me, are you? You are a relatively new arrival to Boston, an unknown in this city. You've the freedom to come and go as you please and you can afford to sully ladies' rooms all across the city without attracting undue notice."
"If you're upset about making the room dirty, Charles, by all means, volunteer to be a janitor there for a day so you can clean that sink and your conscience!"
"Do you not realize that I—that we could have been arrested for what we did in there!?"
"With what proof? You could say you simply needed assistance going to the restroom. You were limping quite noticeably. How the hell would they know any different?!"
He took a quick breath of air, momentarily shutting his eyes before speaking.
"I get your point, but that's not exactly what I am most concerned about, regarding what happened."
"Then what? Spit it out already! Here—let me pour you some more wine," she offered, holding the bottle out as she refilled his glass.
"It is in fact… my complete loss of control in that series of moments," he muttered, taking a large swig of the wine, his chest deflating like a balloon, face reddening as he finally admitted the difficult truth.
Now Margaret had turned fully to face him, stunned that he had admitted such a thing.
"I don't know what came over me," he muttered, shaking his head. "I was like an animal in there, desiring nothing more than to, to…." His voice trailed off and he did not finish his statement.
"Well, I for one have never been so turned on in my entire life as I was today," she admitted.
His jaw dropped.
"Surely you jest."
"Surely not," she replied, beaming at him. "I loved getting to see you uninhibited, unbridled. It was wonderful."
"Might I remind you, Margaret, that I am a Winchester and I have standards of behavior to uphold—the dignity befitting my name," he said, a blush spreading over his face. "Somehow my family has yet to learn of my actions, but I am certain something will come of this. Mark my words."
"So are you telling me you're going to be miserable until you are properly punished for what happened today? Even though that means our last night together here is going to be—"
"Yes," he interrupted, wincing. "The man I was today is not the man I strive to be."
"But what if punishment never comes? What if, as I predict, no one else cares and life goes on?"
"Then I shall have been punishing myself in the meantime with my own mental torture awaiting the arrival of such retribution. Ergo, I suffer the consequences either way."
Margaret turned back to face front as Charles leaned heavily against the headboard, drowning in the shame of his earlier impulsivity. He most certainly was feeling the strange lightheadness that accompanied moderate alcohol intoxication. Despite their imbibing much of the central nervous system depressant, it would be a sheer miracle if he could attain any sleep this last night in Margaret's abode.
"Why not get it over with now?" Margaret suddenly suggested. "Then you can move on."
"Get what over with?"
She turned to face him now, her face matter-of-fact.
"Your punishment."
A/N: I don't know if anyone remembers the earlier Margaret, when she was with Frank. We may see a hint of that Margaret in the next chapter! Please let me know what you think...
