IV. Dinner

They dined chiefly on a vast and perfectly prepared selection of fruits de la mer. Irons had chosen to continue with the evening's menu--for the most part--without altering it. He had, at the last moment, once assured it was fresh, agreed to include seal with the saltwater course.

They dined in the formal Sartre dining room, at the table that could seat twenty, he at one end, she at the other--Ian positioned to his right, mid-table.

Christiansen was not one given to speaking over-much--at least not in his experience. Knowing this, he was well-prepared, and shouldered the weight of polite conversation. In general, any discussion between he and Christiansen did not deviate from topics directly related to the boy's lessons.

Tonight, out of a desire to emulate a certain normalcy that he did not feel, Irons worked to make a change from that usual, acceptable pattern. They spoke of art and international affairs of state; he found her to be surprisingly knowledgeable of the many factions caught up in South African politics, and well-versed on pre-Mongolian yurt construction. Mid-way through the third course he shocked himself by casually asking her opinion on his planned restoration of 1547 deNalis, and realizing, mid-sentence, that he actually cared as to what her answer would be. From that topic on, he kept a much closer watch on both himself and the conversation.

As trained, Ian remained silent, eating more than enough to conceal the fact that a complete dinner had already been served to him an hour and a half prior. He kept his head bowed, and his eyes to himself.

Things were going well. And then, most unexpectedly, Ian broke his silence with a voice like that of a startled child caught in a game of hide-and-seek. "Will you play?" he asked Christiansen, his chin high, his eyes wide as they waited on his tutor's response.

Irons' displeased reaction had to be swallowed quickly, and chased down with a generous sip of wine. Ian had never heard Christiansen play. He had planned to keep it so. He surveyed the situation and participants. To interfere now would accomplish nothing. He reminded himself he had not specifically forbidden the boy to speak at the meal, nor had he ever expressly stated that Ian was not to ask Christiansen to perform.

"Whom would you like to hear?" from her seat at the table's opposite end she asked the boy in reply.

"Whatever--" the timbre of Ian's voice at her positive reception took on a color of confidence, "you would like."

It turned Irons' stomach to hear it. He gauged how far he might be willing to let the boy go before reining him in.

"No, Ian," Christiansen lay down her fork and knife. "You have asked--therefore you must choose. My duty as your guest is only to accept."

Ian turned to Irons, his head bowing--as it always should--the change itself enough to indicate that the boy did not know what to say, and had felt his master's displeasure at his unbidden outburst of familiarity toward his instructor.

"No, no," his master agreed. "Christiansen is quite right, young Nottingham." Irons made the effort to seem jovial. "You must choose how to answer her, as would any good host." Irons stood from his place to help the piano instructor up from her seat, withdrawing her chair so that she might make her way to the Irmler grand in the attached salon, where it stayed on days when lessons were not given. Christiansen and Irons each moved to one of the two-story pocket doors which smoothly slid back, whisper-quiet, to join the two rooms so that he and Ian would have unobstructed views of her playing.

At the threshold, Christiansen stopped, waiting for Ian's reply.

It seemed, after all, that the boy might be about to admit, "I don't know," but he paused, visibly thoughtful, his eyes on the china and silver before him at the table. "Chopin," he said. "Please, milady."

"Miss," Irons growled, his tone harsh as he corrected the boy's Danish. "Please, miss." His instincts told him Ian's slip might be less one of grammar than more something graver. Irons raised his eyebrows, to soften Christiansen's interpretation of his and Ian's exchange, and pursed his lips, deliberately appearing to be no more than mildly dismayed at his ward's need for lingual improvement.

...to be continued...

2002 (c) Neftzer
See Chapter One for disclaimers.