--

"One half of the world cannot understand the pleasures of the other."

Emma

--

A week later, Walter Harriman was at the end of his rope. He had known when taking this job that his employer had a history of being difficult to deal with, but the true extent of the man's obtuse nature could never have been anticipated. Instead of tending to matters that legitimately needed tending to, like dealing with the demands of tenants or the repair and restoration of the East Wing and its subsequent decoration, the man had spent the last seven days tending to that fence, a task even the lowliest farm hand could have easily completed.

What's more, O'Neill had yet to accept any invitations from the local society. Not one tea attended or card game played or ball danced at—in fact, Walter himself was more widely known in Gateshire society than the man he worked for, a state of affairs that could not be allowed to continue if Colonel Jack O'Neill was to have any kind of positive reputation in his new neighborhood.

Desperate to change the status quo, Walter was forced to resort to extreme measures. After careful consideration, he decided that the best course of action would be to simply prevent the Colonel from continuing his work on the fence. Having decided on this course of action, he was prepared when O'Neill came to him one Thursday morning, looking predictably puzzled.

"Walter," he started, bewilderment in his voice, "do you know where all of the nails might be?"

"Nails, sir?" Walter parroted.

"Yes, for the fence. We had a whole…I didn't think Teal'c and I had gone through that many, but today they're not…." He trailed off, glancing back at the stable as though it would suddenly provide him with a suitable answer.

"Perhaps you have gone through all the nails on hand. I can have someone run down to town and fetch some, if you like."

"I…no, no, don't worry about it. Teal'c and I can go ourselves this afternoon."

"Very well, sir."

O'Neill wandered off, still looking a bit bewildered, and Walter sighed with relief. A trip to town was a beginning, albeit a small one. At least this way people could see him, and he'd be forced to exchange words with at least a small handful of people. Now he simply had to figure out what to do with the thirteen boxes of nails currently residing under his bed.

--

Samantha Carter gritted her teeth and tried to walk a little faster without actually giving in to the urge to pass out. For once she was dressed up in full visiting gear. Certainly, that was reason enough to be uncomfortable, but on top of the unfamiliarly formal attire, the only corset she had been able to find that morning was at least one size too small. She had been putting off obtaining another new one and now was suffering for her procrastination, barely able to draw breath in the horridly tight undergarment, let alone gasp in enough air to properly hasten her way to the afternoon tea to which she was perilously close to being late for.

Her monthly tea with Lady Travell was what Samantha thought of as a necessary evil—evil because the woman was everything that people thought Samantha should be and nothing she actually wanted to be, but necessary because keeping the appointment meant staying on the narrow edge of good opinion that was so dearly held both by Gateshire citizens and, more importantly, General Carter himself. In one of her few allowances to these opinions, Samantha continued to don her most staid outfit, tightest corset, and horrifyingly prim boots in order to spend a miserable afternoon once a month discussing whatever small talk Lady Travell threw in her direction while in the company of all the other ladies of "good" society.

Of course, things never seemed to go quite smoothly. Today, for instance, Samantha had merely been running an experiment on the pH of soil with regards to the growth rates of various plants and before she knew it, it was past noon and she hadn't even begun to dress. But was it really her fault that acidic and alkaline solutions were more interesting than the perfect recipe for a lemon pound cake?

All of this contributed to her current rush, trying to make her way through the main part of town without getting any of the abundant mud in the streets permanently mashed into her petticoats, a feat she had never quite mastered. (In fact, she quite suspected that the secret to walking through all sorts of muck and coming through unscathed was one of those skills passed down from mother to daughter, and as such, she had been doomed to failure by circumstance.) Still, she was making a fair amount of progress—more than two thirds of the way there and still no major stain marring her voluminous skirts.

That is, until she looked down for a good place to cross a particularly muddy section of street and was nearly run over by a solid wall of muscle and man coming from the opposite direction. The impact registered, and for a few seconds time seemed to slow while her balance wavered, then failed her. With what she would be a bit disturbed to know came out as a squeal, Samantha went reeling back into the mud, pulling her assailant down with her.

A few horrified seconds later, she opened her eyes to see Colonel O'Neill staring back at her. "You know," she said thoughtfully, inching her way out from under him and standing up to take stock of the damage, "forget throwing shoes. I should have shot you."

Strangely, this seemed to please him, if the smirk on his face was any indication. "Oh, come now. You hardly seem the type to be perturbed by a bit of dirt."

Uncertain as to whether or not he meant that as a compliment, she just let it pass for now. "Any other day, you might be right. But today, I am supposed to spend an afternoon politely discussing embroidery techniques and proper menu planning over lukewarm cups of tea."

O'Neill's expression of distaste was an almost perfect personification of her own feelings on the prospect. "Good heavens. Why? That sounds dreadful."

"It is, rather," she admitted, giving up on her clothing as a lost cause. "Well, at least now they'll have something interesting to talk about when I leave," she said dryly.

"There are worse things than providing amusement for others," O'Neill allowed.

Blinking at him, she smiled. "You should know. Your tie is on wrong again."

"I'm standing here, covered in nearly as much mud as you are and probably looking twice as ridiculous, and yet you choose to criticize my tie?"

She shrugged. "I enjoy it."

"Ah. Well then, by all means…."

Wondering why in the world a man as supposedly capable as he couldn't seem to manage it, she stepped forward and adjusted the wayward accessory for him. Once corrected, she stepped back and met his eyes only to find them strangely expressive with an emotion she could just label as fond curiosity, and even then, it lost something in translation. "I think," he began slowly, "that if you must attend boring teas that last for hours, you'd best come to Cheyenne Manor for them. I'm sure Walter can dredge up some suitably awful tea, and while Teal'c and I know little of weighty things like sewing techniques, I am certain that we could manage to entertain you if we put our minds to it. If all else fails, we could go fishing."

"Fishing?" she repeated.

"Yes. The fish in my lake are quite something, you know, and Teal'c doesn't appreciate the art of fishing quite as much as I'd like."

Somehow, she didn't find that entirely surprising. But neither did she find it surprising that O'Neill himself was a fan of the sport. "Well, I accept the offer of tea, but we'd best put off the fishing for another time. I've given the town quite enough to gossip about this week, I think."

Looking down at the mayhem of her stain-covered dress, O'Neill smirked again. "You can always tell them that it was my handiwork."

She laughed, shaking her head. "Yes, because that would lessen the scandal," was her sarcastic reply before continuing on her way.