A/N: Okey dokey, I'm having a slight spot of trouble with characters being
disobedient and not adhering to the plot right now, so just let Jonathan do
his own thing this evening, and I'll see if I can get his agent to talk to
him or something...kay?
Jessie C: I guess you dumped Imhotep, huh? I could see it coming- first you kicked him off the weakest link, and now you've ditched him as your lover too...does that mean he's single now? Hmmmm *has unprintable thoughts*
Lozza: Aaaaw, you always make me feel so loved *tear* just like in the last scene of About Schmidt *chin wobbles* when Jack Nicholson gets the painting from Ndugu, his little African 'foster son'. *blub*
Bachy A: yup, you guessed it- the lone, masked Evy admirer is none other than... *dun da da dah* ZORRO! Er, I mean Bachy A! Hope that made ya happy, but you are SOOOOO gonna like this chapter...
We the Evil Council: Could you perhaps let my dear friend Bachy A out of his Pringles can long enough to read my new chapter? I give you my permission to lock the nutcase right back in there again once he's finished the review. And I must say, that baking soda/vinegar solution sounds most exhilarating, in a perverse kinda way. I think I'll just go lie in a bath of it now...*sizzle* aaaaaahhh!!! *skin begins to melt*
Toni Isis: Yes, you've guessed it- pre TM fic means no Rick *sigh* I only realised it had to be set before the Mummy when I decided to make Stephen a main character (I think the idea had its genesis somewhere in chapter 5, when I mentioned he fancies Evy). But don't worry- I have some wholly improper shenanigans in store for the two of them... *smirk*
Nakhti: BACK OFF YOU RABID BITCH! Thou art ever a foul, windy wench to thus impugn me so!
Oh, and a word of warning- the chapters are not only getting longer, but more random too!
*******************************************
Chapter 11
*******************************************
"Johnny boy! Evelyn lead me to believe you wouldn't be joining us tonight," Dickie boomed from the other end of the hallway, as Bernard stepped back from the threshold to admit Jonathan into the impressive marble foyer. The formal butler waited with a patient smile while Jonathan divested himself of his coat, then took it from him and discreetly disappeared.
"I do apologise, old chap," Jonathan replied by way of a salutation, strolling forward to clasp his host by the hand. "Dickie, my sister really is the best creature in the world, but she doesn't know her arse form her elbow half the time."
"Oh, I think I could have a good guess at that..." Dickie said with a saucy twitch of his eyebrows, testing Jonathan's unabashed humour.
"Well, you've learnt by experience, haven't you my friend? You try to grab her arse and she gives you the elbow!" He sniggered as he jabbed his own elbow into Dickie's well covered ribs, eliciting a slightly more disgruntled grunt of surprise than he had meant to. But Dickie was as mild mannered as they come, and neither meant nor took offence at anything.
"Well, you missed the Bentley I'm afraid- I've tucked her all up in bed now," he said with a hint of regret as he steered Jonathan in the opposite direction from the garage. "Damn shame, she's a fine piece of work. I always say you should treat your motor just like you treat your lady- get inside her three times a day and really open her up!" At that he slapped Jonathan on the back and lead him through to the billiard room, laughing heartily.
"Brandy?" he asked, going to the corner bar and lifting up a large crystal decanter with a questioning look.
"Naturally." Jonathan replied, flashing him a grateful smile as Dickie sploshed a generous amount of finest French cognac into a large brandy glass, and handed it to him. "Much obliged."
"Fancy having a King Edward with me?" Dickie offered next.
"Oh, not for me- trying to cut down, you know." Jonathan said with an exaggeratedly dismissive wave of the hand.
"Cut down?!" Dickie scoffed, snorting through his nose. "You're having a laugh, aren't you?"
"Course I bloody am- give me one of those stinking great things!" Jonathan chuckled, plucking a big fat cigar from the box proffered to him. This little jest prompted raucous laughter from the collection of landed gentry gathered in the billiard room, most of whom were already into their second or third brandy. Propping up the bar in the corner was the starchy former attaché to the governor of India, Walter Salter, partly obscured by his very unprepossessing ginger handlebar moustache. Jonathan had long ago vowed to shave the damn thing off, taking advantage of one of the frequent occasions when the bald headed old bastard drank himself into a coma. Unfortunately by the time that usually happened, he himself was always so steamed he forgot to do it. He touched his forehead in a mock salute to the old British colonial, receiving a genial nod in return.
The regular contingent of boring old farts was, as ever, regrettably in attendance; Hugh Ponsonby-Smythe, a commissioned officer whose daddy had more connections than the London telephone exchange, was hovering over by the bookcase, drinking scotch from a crystal tumbler. Medium height and build, medium mousy brown hair, and in every other way rather unremarkable, everyone knew he was only a Major at 34 because his father was the celebrated Brigadier General Sir Thomas Ponsonby-Smythe, who had been instrumental in defending Suez during the war. His son was an averagely decent man with an above averagely large legacy to live up to.
Talking to him was Alasdair Fortnum, who by some happy accident found himself distantly related to the famous William Fortnum of Fortnum&Mason, and had secured himself the rather grand sounding position of 'chief buyer in the middle east.' Of course, since Fortnum&Mason actually sold very little of anything from the middle east, Alasdair mostly just holed up in Cairo squandering his extremely generous salary on all manner of gentlemanly vices.
Then there was Rupert standing by the piano, sipping a tall G&T. Jonathan didn't know anyone else who drank gin and tonic except his sister, but then again he didn't know any other man who plucked his eyebrows and took an interest in flower arranging either. Rupert also loved jewellery, and had rather shrewdly invested his inheritance in a diamond mine in Sierra Leone. He spent every last penny of his large annuity trying to convince himself he was everyone's best friend, but that did make him a very popular person to invite to a card game. Only because everyone realised how scandalously easy it was to rob him blind. Too easy really, rather like shooting fish in a barrel, which was why Jonathan had gone easy on him last week. Thought it was the sportsmanlike thing to do.
To Jonathan's delight he also recognised two old acquaintances he hadn't anticipated being here tonight, currently engaged in a friendly game of billiards- friendly because neither had the slightest clue how to play. Jonathan affectionately considered them to be the two most affable and asinine specimens the English aristocracy had to offer; Sir Charles Effing, and his uncle, Lord Toby.
"Helloo Charlie- you Effing bastard!" Jonathan greeted him with their familiar old joke, slapping him on the back as he was about to take a shot. Turning round in mid stroke to meet Jonathan's big grin, Charlie missed the cue ball by a mile, but as he would most likely have buggered up the shot anyway, it hardly seemed to bother him. At that precise moment Lord Toby was swilling his brandy, warming the glass with the palm of his hand, and when he saw his nephew's cue jerk right off his bridge rest and lodge in the opposite pocket, he smacked his hand down against the table so hard he spilled most of the expensive cognac on the expensive red felt cloth. Definitely from the shallow end of the gene pool, these two, but extremely amusing company.
Unfortunately the same could not be said for one of those present. Tucked away in Dickie's eccentrically gothic batwing armchair, Jonathan spotted the hunched figure of Callum McCracken, the seventh Earl of Strath...Grach- something unpronounceably Scottish- peering malevolently out of his skull- like face. With his skeletal fingers hooked over the arms of the chair, he resembled the lord of the dead himself, enthroned in his sepulchre. He only lacked the conventional black robe and scythe to complete the image.
"Evening Callum," Jonathan greeted the desiccated old corpse with genuine surprise, astonished that he had somehow managed to stave off death for another week. The moribund Scot did not reply, but merely raised his eyebrows in brief acknowledgement of Jonathan's presence before resuming his customary glare. Jonathan hated the prospect of that cold stare at his back all night- the old bastard had eyes like piss holes in the snow, and a nasty Gaelic temperament to boot.
"Right you 'orrible lot," Dickie announced, clapping his hands together and making Rupert jump, "now that we've made the appropriate libations, I suggest we make proper obeisance to that great strumpet Fortune."
This was met by an affirmative chorus or 'here! here!' and the shuffling of handmade leather shoes on the polished parquet flooring, as they all made their way towards the large round card table that had been set up across the room. All except Callum, who seemed rather reluctant to relinquish his gothic horror pose. Either that or he finally had kicked the bucket after all.
"Callum, shall we deal you in?" Charlie asked, thoughtfully pushing out the empty chair beside him before he sat down, ready for when the old man finally did manage to make it over to the table. There was no answer from the batwing armchair, which was positioned with its back to them.
"I bet the old codger's fallen asleep, you know," Rupert said, huffing loudly, plonking himself into the chair nearest the window (which, incidentally, Dickie had deliberately engineered so that the reflection in the dark glass would give the entire table a clear view of his hand).
"Watch out- if he hears you call him that, he'll have you." Lord Toby warned jokingly.
"Ooooh, I don't think I'd like that..." Rupert said affectedly, "he's much too old for me," throwing a sidelong glance at Jonathan from beneath his lashes.
"Oh shut up you big poof," Jonathan snapped, slightly unnerved by the apparent confirmation of a suspicion that had steadily been growing over the last few months.
"Will you two either take your lovers' tiff outside or just kiss 'n' make up?" Hugh teased, eager to stop faffing about and get on with the game. He had a wad of cash burning a hole in his pocket, and one way or the other it wasn't going to remain that amount for long.
"No need to be jealous, Ponce," Jonathan shot back, knowing full well Hugh hated that nickname more than anything else in the world. The men at the barracks all laughed at Hugh's name behind his back, and even Lord Toby sometimes referred to him as 'captain queer of the first shirt-lifter battalion'. Not that he shared any of Rupert's limp wristed tendencies, it was just his misfortune to have a surname that was so easy to take the mick out of.
"Oh grow up Johnny," Hugh said in a tone of mild annoyance. Then with a grin, he added, "by the way, where's your buddy tonight?" knowing full well where he wasn't.
"Who?" Jonathan replied innocently, his poker face coming in to play a little early, as he tried desperately not to give anything away. If he let anything slip in front of one of Stephen's superior officers, it might get him into even more trouble than he was in already.
"Lance Corporal Stephen Wilkins. I thought he might show up with you," Hugh pressed. Jonathan shook his head, feigning ignorance.
"Haven't seen him," he said, knowing that the less he said the better. For once he was extremely glad that Stephen was tucked up in bed with a nasty case of gut rot.
"For cripes sake Charlie boy, just deal the cards!" Rupert whined, getting impatient. "Callum can pick it up on the next hand."
"Maybe someone should go and see if he needs help getting up- you know his back gives him trouble." Charlie suggested, always so considerate.
"Oh bollocks to that! The old goat would only snap your head off anyway." Dickie put in, his manners decreasing in negative correlation to the amount of good brandy he had imbibed. "Oi! You big skirt wearing, caber tossing, porridge eating JESSIE!" he called across the room, the only one rich and irreverent enough to dare address the hot-tempered old Scot in such a cheeky manner. "Get over to this table now if you want in!"
Still no answer from the Earl.
"Well, that's it," Dickie said matter-of-factly, "the old buzzard's snuffed it!"
*******
Evy blinked, for about the millionth time that minute, and this time it was more of a struggle to open her eyes again. Her eyelids were getting heavy, and the words weren't going in properly anymore.
"...A splendid midsummer shone over England: skies so pure, suns so radiant..." she stifled a yawn, and the book momentarily closed on her place as her hand went to her mouth. "... it was as if a band of Italian days had come from the South, like a flock of glorious...." She suddenly realised that she couldn't actually remember the last half dozen words or so, and this was the chapter she had been anxiously awaiting for almost three hundred pages! The eve of Jane's departure, Rochester's declaration of love! And she was falling asleep through it.
She rubbed her eyes and replaced her bookmark, catching a glimpse of her gold bracelet watch as she did so. Quarter to eleven? How had that happened? It was well past time for all good little librarians to go off to Bedfordshire.
Evy sighed and stretched languorously, arching her back and feeling the satisfying little clicks of vertebrae settling back into place. She got up off the sofa and plodded wearily up the stairs and into her bedroom, making clumsy work of the buttons of her waistband as she went. Absent-mindedly nudging the door shut with her heel, she stepped out of the slim brown skirt and folded it neatly onto the chair. Next she unbuttoned her thin cotton blouse, carefully dragging the sleeves down one by one, and dropped the garment into the laundry basket. Running her fingers through her long, touseled hair, she reached behind her and pulled her slip over the top of her head, until she was standing in nothing but her bra and knickers. Catching a sleepy look at her reflection, she ran her hands over her stomach and twisted her neck for a quick glance at her behind, wondering if every girl felt quite so dissatisfied with her bottom. Then she unhooked her bra and slid out of her plain white knickers, quickly slipping on her cream silk robe to cover herself up, feeling self conscious even in her own bedroom.
Yawning again she padded down the landing to the bathroom, finding her way by habit rather than sight, for she could barely keep her eyes open. As she sat down on the loo, she honestly couldn't remember if she had locked the door, but she was too sleepy to worry about that now. As Jonathan had said, Stephen probably wouldn't stir all night anyway...
Once again she found herself nodding off, and snapped out of a doze with a surprised jolt to find her chin almost on her chest. She shook her head and made herself get up and turn the shower on. When the temperature was right she slipped out of her robe and stepped into the bath, standing underneath the warm stream of water. She let it fall upon her upturned face and wash down over her shoulders, holding up her hair and trying not to get it wet if she could possibly help it. There was nothing worse than going to bed with wet hair- except perhaps the unruly, tangled mass of curls that would result from it by the morning.
Stepping down out of the bath she reached out blindly towards the towel rack, searching for the fresh white towel she was sure she had put there earlier that day.... eventually her fingers lighted upon it, not where she remembered putting it, but she was too exhausted to care. She buried her face in its soft folds, patting her eyes dry while runnels of water trickled down the rest of her body, dripping onto the bathroom mat.
She slowly moved the towel down her body, drying her neck and shoulders, enjoying the feel of the warm fluffy cotton...but just as she was holding her arms out to wrap the towel around her, she suddenly had the most unsettling sensation. Her eyes flew open, all trace of drowsiness completely chased away, and then she screamed as she had never screamed in all her life.
"STEPHEN!!!"
****************************************************************
A/N: I'm not sure, but I think...yes, I've just had it confirmed down my ear piece, this IS the most pointless chapter since records began. Well, maybe not for Bachy A (are ya satisfied now? You got to see quite a bit of Evy after 8 whole chapters without her! lol)
Jessie C: I guess you dumped Imhotep, huh? I could see it coming- first you kicked him off the weakest link, and now you've ditched him as your lover too...does that mean he's single now? Hmmmm *has unprintable thoughts*
Lozza: Aaaaw, you always make me feel so loved *tear* just like in the last scene of About Schmidt *chin wobbles* when Jack Nicholson gets the painting from Ndugu, his little African 'foster son'. *blub*
Bachy A: yup, you guessed it- the lone, masked Evy admirer is none other than... *dun da da dah* ZORRO! Er, I mean Bachy A! Hope that made ya happy, but you are SOOOOO gonna like this chapter...
We the Evil Council: Could you perhaps let my dear friend Bachy A out of his Pringles can long enough to read my new chapter? I give you my permission to lock the nutcase right back in there again once he's finished the review. And I must say, that baking soda/vinegar solution sounds most exhilarating, in a perverse kinda way. I think I'll just go lie in a bath of it now...*sizzle* aaaaaahhh!!! *skin begins to melt*
Toni Isis: Yes, you've guessed it- pre TM fic means no Rick *sigh* I only realised it had to be set before the Mummy when I decided to make Stephen a main character (I think the idea had its genesis somewhere in chapter 5, when I mentioned he fancies Evy). But don't worry- I have some wholly improper shenanigans in store for the two of them... *smirk*
Nakhti: BACK OFF YOU RABID BITCH! Thou art ever a foul, windy wench to thus impugn me so!
Oh, and a word of warning- the chapters are not only getting longer, but more random too!
*******************************************
Chapter 11
*******************************************
"Johnny boy! Evelyn lead me to believe you wouldn't be joining us tonight," Dickie boomed from the other end of the hallway, as Bernard stepped back from the threshold to admit Jonathan into the impressive marble foyer. The formal butler waited with a patient smile while Jonathan divested himself of his coat, then took it from him and discreetly disappeared.
"I do apologise, old chap," Jonathan replied by way of a salutation, strolling forward to clasp his host by the hand. "Dickie, my sister really is the best creature in the world, but she doesn't know her arse form her elbow half the time."
"Oh, I think I could have a good guess at that..." Dickie said with a saucy twitch of his eyebrows, testing Jonathan's unabashed humour.
"Well, you've learnt by experience, haven't you my friend? You try to grab her arse and she gives you the elbow!" He sniggered as he jabbed his own elbow into Dickie's well covered ribs, eliciting a slightly more disgruntled grunt of surprise than he had meant to. But Dickie was as mild mannered as they come, and neither meant nor took offence at anything.
"Well, you missed the Bentley I'm afraid- I've tucked her all up in bed now," he said with a hint of regret as he steered Jonathan in the opposite direction from the garage. "Damn shame, she's a fine piece of work. I always say you should treat your motor just like you treat your lady- get inside her three times a day and really open her up!" At that he slapped Jonathan on the back and lead him through to the billiard room, laughing heartily.
"Brandy?" he asked, going to the corner bar and lifting up a large crystal decanter with a questioning look.
"Naturally." Jonathan replied, flashing him a grateful smile as Dickie sploshed a generous amount of finest French cognac into a large brandy glass, and handed it to him. "Much obliged."
"Fancy having a King Edward with me?" Dickie offered next.
"Oh, not for me- trying to cut down, you know." Jonathan said with an exaggeratedly dismissive wave of the hand.
"Cut down?!" Dickie scoffed, snorting through his nose. "You're having a laugh, aren't you?"
"Course I bloody am- give me one of those stinking great things!" Jonathan chuckled, plucking a big fat cigar from the box proffered to him. This little jest prompted raucous laughter from the collection of landed gentry gathered in the billiard room, most of whom were already into their second or third brandy. Propping up the bar in the corner was the starchy former attaché to the governor of India, Walter Salter, partly obscured by his very unprepossessing ginger handlebar moustache. Jonathan had long ago vowed to shave the damn thing off, taking advantage of one of the frequent occasions when the bald headed old bastard drank himself into a coma. Unfortunately by the time that usually happened, he himself was always so steamed he forgot to do it. He touched his forehead in a mock salute to the old British colonial, receiving a genial nod in return.
The regular contingent of boring old farts was, as ever, regrettably in attendance; Hugh Ponsonby-Smythe, a commissioned officer whose daddy had more connections than the London telephone exchange, was hovering over by the bookcase, drinking scotch from a crystal tumbler. Medium height and build, medium mousy brown hair, and in every other way rather unremarkable, everyone knew he was only a Major at 34 because his father was the celebrated Brigadier General Sir Thomas Ponsonby-Smythe, who had been instrumental in defending Suez during the war. His son was an averagely decent man with an above averagely large legacy to live up to.
Talking to him was Alasdair Fortnum, who by some happy accident found himself distantly related to the famous William Fortnum of Fortnum&Mason, and had secured himself the rather grand sounding position of 'chief buyer in the middle east.' Of course, since Fortnum&Mason actually sold very little of anything from the middle east, Alasdair mostly just holed up in Cairo squandering his extremely generous salary on all manner of gentlemanly vices.
Then there was Rupert standing by the piano, sipping a tall G&T. Jonathan didn't know anyone else who drank gin and tonic except his sister, but then again he didn't know any other man who plucked his eyebrows and took an interest in flower arranging either. Rupert also loved jewellery, and had rather shrewdly invested his inheritance in a diamond mine in Sierra Leone. He spent every last penny of his large annuity trying to convince himself he was everyone's best friend, but that did make him a very popular person to invite to a card game. Only because everyone realised how scandalously easy it was to rob him blind. Too easy really, rather like shooting fish in a barrel, which was why Jonathan had gone easy on him last week. Thought it was the sportsmanlike thing to do.
To Jonathan's delight he also recognised two old acquaintances he hadn't anticipated being here tonight, currently engaged in a friendly game of billiards- friendly because neither had the slightest clue how to play. Jonathan affectionately considered them to be the two most affable and asinine specimens the English aristocracy had to offer; Sir Charles Effing, and his uncle, Lord Toby.
"Helloo Charlie- you Effing bastard!" Jonathan greeted him with their familiar old joke, slapping him on the back as he was about to take a shot. Turning round in mid stroke to meet Jonathan's big grin, Charlie missed the cue ball by a mile, but as he would most likely have buggered up the shot anyway, it hardly seemed to bother him. At that precise moment Lord Toby was swilling his brandy, warming the glass with the palm of his hand, and when he saw his nephew's cue jerk right off his bridge rest and lodge in the opposite pocket, he smacked his hand down against the table so hard he spilled most of the expensive cognac on the expensive red felt cloth. Definitely from the shallow end of the gene pool, these two, but extremely amusing company.
Unfortunately the same could not be said for one of those present. Tucked away in Dickie's eccentrically gothic batwing armchair, Jonathan spotted the hunched figure of Callum McCracken, the seventh Earl of Strath...Grach- something unpronounceably Scottish- peering malevolently out of his skull- like face. With his skeletal fingers hooked over the arms of the chair, he resembled the lord of the dead himself, enthroned in his sepulchre. He only lacked the conventional black robe and scythe to complete the image.
"Evening Callum," Jonathan greeted the desiccated old corpse with genuine surprise, astonished that he had somehow managed to stave off death for another week. The moribund Scot did not reply, but merely raised his eyebrows in brief acknowledgement of Jonathan's presence before resuming his customary glare. Jonathan hated the prospect of that cold stare at his back all night- the old bastard had eyes like piss holes in the snow, and a nasty Gaelic temperament to boot.
"Right you 'orrible lot," Dickie announced, clapping his hands together and making Rupert jump, "now that we've made the appropriate libations, I suggest we make proper obeisance to that great strumpet Fortune."
This was met by an affirmative chorus or 'here! here!' and the shuffling of handmade leather shoes on the polished parquet flooring, as they all made their way towards the large round card table that had been set up across the room. All except Callum, who seemed rather reluctant to relinquish his gothic horror pose. Either that or he finally had kicked the bucket after all.
"Callum, shall we deal you in?" Charlie asked, thoughtfully pushing out the empty chair beside him before he sat down, ready for when the old man finally did manage to make it over to the table. There was no answer from the batwing armchair, which was positioned with its back to them.
"I bet the old codger's fallen asleep, you know," Rupert said, huffing loudly, plonking himself into the chair nearest the window (which, incidentally, Dickie had deliberately engineered so that the reflection in the dark glass would give the entire table a clear view of his hand).
"Watch out- if he hears you call him that, he'll have you." Lord Toby warned jokingly.
"Ooooh, I don't think I'd like that..." Rupert said affectedly, "he's much too old for me," throwing a sidelong glance at Jonathan from beneath his lashes.
"Oh shut up you big poof," Jonathan snapped, slightly unnerved by the apparent confirmation of a suspicion that had steadily been growing over the last few months.
"Will you two either take your lovers' tiff outside or just kiss 'n' make up?" Hugh teased, eager to stop faffing about and get on with the game. He had a wad of cash burning a hole in his pocket, and one way or the other it wasn't going to remain that amount for long.
"No need to be jealous, Ponce," Jonathan shot back, knowing full well Hugh hated that nickname more than anything else in the world. The men at the barracks all laughed at Hugh's name behind his back, and even Lord Toby sometimes referred to him as 'captain queer of the first shirt-lifter battalion'. Not that he shared any of Rupert's limp wristed tendencies, it was just his misfortune to have a surname that was so easy to take the mick out of.
"Oh grow up Johnny," Hugh said in a tone of mild annoyance. Then with a grin, he added, "by the way, where's your buddy tonight?" knowing full well where he wasn't.
"Who?" Jonathan replied innocently, his poker face coming in to play a little early, as he tried desperately not to give anything away. If he let anything slip in front of one of Stephen's superior officers, it might get him into even more trouble than he was in already.
"Lance Corporal Stephen Wilkins. I thought he might show up with you," Hugh pressed. Jonathan shook his head, feigning ignorance.
"Haven't seen him," he said, knowing that the less he said the better. For once he was extremely glad that Stephen was tucked up in bed with a nasty case of gut rot.
"For cripes sake Charlie boy, just deal the cards!" Rupert whined, getting impatient. "Callum can pick it up on the next hand."
"Maybe someone should go and see if he needs help getting up- you know his back gives him trouble." Charlie suggested, always so considerate.
"Oh bollocks to that! The old goat would only snap your head off anyway." Dickie put in, his manners decreasing in negative correlation to the amount of good brandy he had imbibed. "Oi! You big skirt wearing, caber tossing, porridge eating JESSIE!" he called across the room, the only one rich and irreverent enough to dare address the hot-tempered old Scot in such a cheeky manner. "Get over to this table now if you want in!"
Still no answer from the Earl.
"Well, that's it," Dickie said matter-of-factly, "the old buzzard's snuffed it!"
*******
Evy blinked, for about the millionth time that minute, and this time it was more of a struggle to open her eyes again. Her eyelids were getting heavy, and the words weren't going in properly anymore.
"...A splendid midsummer shone over England: skies so pure, suns so radiant..." she stifled a yawn, and the book momentarily closed on her place as her hand went to her mouth. "... it was as if a band of Italian days had come from the South, like a flock of glorious...." She suddenly realised that she couldn't actually remember the last half dozen words or so, and this was the chapter she had been anxiously awaiting for almost three hundred pages! The eve of Jane's departure, Rochester's declaration of love! And she was falling asleep through it.
She rubbed her eyes and replaced her bookmark, catching a glimpse of her gold bracelet watch as she did so. Quarter to eleven? How had that happened? It was well past time for all good little librarians to go off to Bedfordshire.
Evy sighed and stretched languorously, arching her back and feeling the satisfying little clicks of vertebrae settling back into place. She got up off the sofa and plodded wearily up the stairs and into her bedroom, making clumsy work of the buttons of her waistband as she went. Absent-mindedly nudging the door shut with her heel, she stepped out of the slim brown skirt and folded it neatly onto the chair. Next she unbuttoned her thin cotton blouse, carefully dragging the sleeves down one by one, and dropped the garment into the laundry basket. Running her fingers through her long, touseled hair, she reached behind her and pulled her slip over the top of her head, until she was standing in nothing but her bra and knickers. Catching a sleepy look at her reflection, she ran her hands over her stomach and twisted her neck for a quick glance at her behind, wondering if every girl felt quite so dissatisfied with her bottom. Then she unhooked her bra and slid out of her plain white knickers, quickly slipping on her cream silk robe to cover herself up, feeling self conscious even in her own bedroom.
Yawning again she padded down the landing to the bathroom, finding her way by habit rather than sight, for she could barely keep her eyes open. As she sat down on the loo, she honestly couldn't remember if she had locked the door, but she was too sleepy to worry about that now. As Jonathan had said, Stephen probably wouldn't stir all night anyway...
Once again she found herself nodding off, and snapped out of a doze with a surprised jolt to find her chin almost on her chest. She shook her head and made herself get up and turn the shower on. When the temperature was right she slipped out of her robe and stepped into the bath, standing underneath the warm stream of water. She let it fall upon her upturned face and wash down over her shoulders, holding up her hair and trying not to get it wet if she could possibly help it. There was nothing worse than going to bed with wet hair- except perhaps the unruly, tangled mass of curls that would result from it by the morning.
Stepping down out of the bath she reached out blindly towards the towel rack, searching for the fresh white towel she was sure she had put there earlier that day.... eventually her fingers lighted upon it, not where she remembered putting it, but she was too exhausted to care. She buried her face in its soft folds, patting her eyes dry while runnels of water trickled down the rest of her body, dripping onto the bathroom mat.
She slowly moved the towel down her body, drying her neck and shoulders, enjoying the feel of the warm fluffy cotton...but just as she was holding her arms out to wrap the towel around her, she suddenly had the most unsettling sensation. Her eyes flew open, all trace of drowsiness completely chased away, and then she screamed as she had never screamed in all her life.
"STEPHEN!!!"
****************************************************************
A/N: I'm not sure, but I think...yes, I've just had it confirmed down my ear piece, this IS the most pointless chapter since records began. Well, maybe not for Bachy A (are ya satisfied now? You got to see quite a bit of Evy after 8 whole chapters without her! lol)