Chapter Seventeen
The dinner Isabel prepared in honor of Nadir went over tolerably, if not particularly well. The nargesi esfanaaj, a dish of spinach and egg, had overcooked. The aash-e aab leemoo, a thick beef soup, was too salty. The dessert, halva, was the only acceptable course, according to Mr. Bertrand. Nadir, however, had praised Isabel's efforts and expressed gratitude to both her and Mr. Bertrand for the thoughtful meal.
"My mother used to prepare nargesi esfanaaj when I was a child," he mused later in the evening as Isabel served tea to him and Mr. Bertrand in the library. "I haven't had a meal so satisfying in many years."
Mr. Bertrand glanced at Nadir and a shadow of a smile crossed his mouth before he returned his attention to the book in his hands.
She was becoming preoccupied with that smile, that faint curling of lips that happened so rarely. The few men she had known in her life - Daniel, her father, her brother - had all smiled easily, mouths turning up at the slightest encouragement. Mr. Bertrand's lips did not seem to form the shape naturally; his smile looked somewhat awkward and unsure, as if he lacked the confidence to display it fully.
The shyness in the gesture struck her, and as she looked at his fleeting, pleased expression, she saw, for a moment, what Mr. Bertrand must have looked like as a child.
Earlier in the day, Mr. Sanders had accepted the delayed payment magnanimously, twittering on about the "divine honesty of some people. Just divine." The man's unabashed infatuation with her irked Isabel, and she found herself more annoyed than uncomfortable with him.
Of course, her irritation was bubbling quite close to the surface as of late. A by-product, she imagine, of spending a substantial amount of time around Mr. Bertrand.
Nadir coughed, drawing her back into the present.
"If I may be so bold as to say, Isabel," he said, eyeing the plate of scones on the tray in front of him, "these pastries of yours would be welcome at every meal."
Isabel smiled. "Thank you, Nadir. It's my mother's recipe."
"How touching," Mr. Bertrand murmured from behind his book.
Nadir glanced at him briefly before returning his attention to the scones. "Behave yourself."
Mr. Bertrand turned a page in reply.
Isabel clasped her hands together in front of her. "If you'll excuse me, I should tend to my son before bed."
"Certainly," Nadir said lightly, carefully selecting a pastry and popping it into his mouth. "Oh, Thomas asked me to give him this book if I managed to find it." He bent over the side of the chair he was seated on and picked up a small volume, holding it out to Isabel. She took it from him and looked at the cover.
"The Surnames of Europe and Their Meanings," she said, reading the title aloud.
"Indeed. We somehow veered onto the subject of etymology one day, and the meanings of names was brought into the conversation. He was quite interested to know what his name means, and I told him I believed I had seen a book on the subject in the library."
"Thank you." She hugged the book to her chest. "He will be most appreciative." She gave a brief curtsey and walked into the hallway, gently pulling the door shut behind her.
She stepped forward and stopped beside an oil lamp on the wall, flipping the book open. She felt a bit silly, searching through a book in the darkness, but her curiosity was getting the better of her. Finding the Bs, she scanned the page carefully until she landed on what she was looking for.
Bauer
Surname origin: German
From the German word bure or bur, meaning farmer or peasant.
She snorted. "How appropriate." Glancing at the dark hallway behind her, she turned the page and quickly searched out another name. She bit her lip as her eyes rested on it.
Bertrand
Surname origin: French, Italian
From the medieval French name "Bertram", meaning bright raven.
She closed the book and leaned against the wall, studying the shadows she was casting from the lamp beside her.
Bright raven.
"Yes," she said quietly. "Yes, I suppose that's right."
Though she didn't know why, the thought made her smile.
"I merely find it inappropriate, Nadir." Erik placed the book he was holding on the table beside him, stretching out on his chair. "It suggests a level of intimacy that is… unseemly."
Nadir snorted. "I never took you for one to be concerned with the frivolous rules of society, Erik."
"I am not, but at the end of the day, daroga, she is the hired help and should be treated as such."
"You make certain that she is treated like a workhorse, Erik. I prefer to show some respect. It can't be easy, you know, spending all her time taking care of you."
Erik set his jaw. "She does not take care of me, Nadir. She wipes the cobwebs from the corners and prepares meals that she complains I do not eat. That is the extent of her services."
"If that is your opinion, I feel sorry for you. As it is, I have asked that she call me by my given name, and she will continue to do so until I ask her to stop. Which, before you ask, will not happen anytime soon."
"Very well," Erik grunted.
"Very well indeed." Nadir opened his book and flipped through a few pages absently. "I am sure you will scoff at this suggestion, Erik, but I have been thinking… perhaps it is time for you to visit the town that you insist on sending Isabel to every five minutes."
Erik's eyes slowly rose to meet Nadir's. "I beg your pardon?"
"Working on a stable is all well and good," Nadir said quickly, grabbing another scone and poising it in front of his mouth, "but you need to socialize more."
"I need to… socialize more?"
"Yes, you do." The Persian heaved a heavy sigh, stuffing the scone in his mouth and chewing furiously. "You have withdrawn into yourself so much in the past few years," he said thickly through the pastry. "If you do not practice your social skills, I fear they will disappear forever."
"How arrogant you have become, Nadir. Dispensing advice to me like candy to a child." Erik stood from his chair. "I will not be told what is best for me by a man who—"
"Who sacrificed a great deal to keep you from harm's way, if you'll recall." Nadir brushed some crumbs off his trousers and sat back in his chair, making a steeple of his fingers and peering at Erik.
Erik stared at him, a dead weight growing in his stomach. "You feel that I owe you something."
"Do not make such statements of opinion and try to pass them off as fact. I do not feel you owe me anything; I was simply reminding that I deserve your respect."
"You have my respect."
"I am afraid that your good opinion tends to waver somewhat, Erik. Take Isabel, for example—"
Erik groaned. "Must the conversation always return to that woman?"
"In this case, yes, it must. You hired her, correct? You must have liked something about her – a rare occurrence indeed, given your general disdain for all human beings – and yet you continue to speak of her in a most distasteful manner, and treat her like an ignorant servant who is beyond contempt. Why the change? If you were once fond of her – indeed, as fond as you can be of another person – why do you not display some pleasure in her company now?"
"I did not hire her for her company, Nadir. I hired her to clean this shack out from to bottom so that the rats did not eat me alive."
"Your witty retorts will not save you from answering the question, my friend."
Erik sank back into his chair and let his head fall back, gazing at the dark ceiling. "Are you asking me why I hired her?"
"I suppose in a way, yes."
"She was the only response to the advertisement," Erik said simply.
Nadir shook his head. "I am too well-acquainted with your need for perfection to accept that answer."
"You always did have the habit of searching for truths that did not exist. She presented herself in such a manner that I felt she was responsible enough for the position. That is all."
Nadir raised an eyebrow.
"Damn it, daroga!" Erik flew up from his chair and slammed a fist against the bookcase near him, shaking volumes from the shelves to the floor. "There is no secrecy between us now! What do you wish to hear me say? That there was a touch of trust in her eyes I could plainly see? Yes, there was, I confess. There was something intriguing about her that I could not ignore." He glanced at Nadir. "Her husband is across the country, you know. There is much she has not told me, I am sure. I cannot help but wonder why they are so far from each other. Why a father, who loves his child, could be so far from his own son."
"You are concerned for their marriage?"
"I am wary of troublesome marriages," Erik snapped. "The last thing I need is a battered wife to take refuge in my home under the guise of employment."
"I do not think Isabel is battered, Erik. And even if she were—"
"She is her husband's property." Erik finished dryly. "A possession to be treated as he sees fit. Yes, daroga, I am very familiar with the customs of your native land."
Nadir was quiet a moment, stroking his chin thoughtfully. "Erik," he said at length, "I fear I have a goal I wish to reach this evening." He paused, gazing at the masked man. "I would like to speak to you about the child."
Erik shook his head. "There is nothing to say."
"But there is." The Persian breathed deeply. "I am only too aware of the fact that the boy is not far from what Reza's age was… when… when he…"
"Yes," Erik said quietly. "What is your point?"
"Only… only that I do not understand why you treat Thomas so harshly when you were so lenient with my own boy. The child is scared to death of you, yet you remain unyielding." His gaze dropped to the bookshelf beside him, studying it intently. "You were always so kind to Reza, Erik. You were the only thing that gave him joy during those last weeks… I have borne witness to your ability to show gentle caring, yet you withhold it from… everything, now. Surely you would not allow the… happenings of that night affect you so permanently."
"That night ended a great many things," Erik quietly. "As for the boy, I will admit that he is not without certain amusing charms, but on the whole, he is as disrespectful and irritating as his mother."
Nadir scoffed. "Isabel is many things, Erik, but I hardly thing 'irritating' is appropriate."
"She is meddling."
"Ah, yes. Meddling can be so tiresome, can it not, Opera Ghost?"
Erik shot Nadir a dark look. "Your humor is too trying, daroga. Perhaps it would be best if you went to bed."
"You have not sufficiently answered my question."
"Nor do I intend to. I do not need to justify anything to you, Nadir, and you would do well to remember that while you are in my home."
He left the room swiftly, slamming the door as he exited. Taking the stairs two at a time, he ignored the thundering pulse in his ears and entered his room, kicking the door shut behind him.
Isabel suppressed a groan as her son held out his mangled shoe. The outsole was peeling away, muddied, ripped leather being held together by tired stitching.
"Why didn't you tell me about this the last time we were in town?"
"I thought I could fix it," Thomas said grumpily, dropping the shoe to the floor.
"How?"
"Flour paste."
Isabel shut her eyes tightly, resisting the urge to collapse helplessly to the floor. "You tried to adhere the sole back to the body with flour paste?"
"It would have worked, too!" The boy shuffled his bare feet, appearing uncomfortable. "But Mr. Khan saw me doing it and told me I was using too much water."
"Thomas," Isabel sighed, "may you one day have a son of your own. Then, perhaps, you will appreciate what you do to me."
"I'm sorry, Mama!" Thomas looked at his mother pleadingly. "I didn't mean to ruin them!"
"I know you didn't, dear." She let out another sigh. "I suppose this means another trip to town."
"At least we have Bellerophron and Loki, Mama."
"Thank God for small favors."
"Oh, I wouldn't call them small, Isabel." Nadir walked through the door of the kitchen and looked around, smiling. "Though perhaps slight compared to some work horses, they are still an impressive size."
"Good morning, sir," Isabel said, staring at the ruined shoe on the floor.
"Ah, yes," Nadir said wisely, peering down as well. "Thomas's experiment did not turn out as well as he had hoped, hmm?"
"Apparently not."
"I would assume, perhaps incorrectly, that there is a shoemaker in the village. I am sure he can be of service."
"Undoubtedly." She glanced at her son. "Who knows what he will charge for his services, though. And even with the carriage, it is a long ways off."
Nadir seated himself at the kitchen table, eyeing a loaf of bread cooling there. "I have it on good authority that Erik will be needing more items from the apothecary to apply to that truly horrific wound on his palm. Chances are he was planning on sending you into town anyway."
Isabel crossed her arms over her stomach abruptly. "Is it getting worse? The cut?"
"Oh, no. It seems to be healing quite well. He simply wants to be certain that it remains infection-free, and he is very insistent about doing things his own way." Nadir smiled. "As I am sure you have noticed."
Isabel made a non-committal noise in reply.
"I think," The Persian added, a sly grin taking his mouth, "that is it time for Mr. Bertrand to venture into civilization. Don't you agree?"
Isabel and Thomas stared at him blankly.
The ride to the village seemed longer than usual; even with Isabel and Thomas on the back bench and Mr. Bertrand and Nadir in the front, the air surrounding them was thick with tension. Mr. Bertrand's rigid posture was evidence to his displeasure, and Nadir was taking no pains to conceal the triumph he felt in convincing his friend to accompany them to town, which only increased Mr. Bertrand's sour mood.
Thomas had been completely silent during the trip. He had sat perfectly still, his hands folded in his lap, his eyes cast down. The idea of going to town with Mr. Bertrand had not appealed to him, and he had begged to stay behind. Ever since Isabel had refused his desperate pleas, he had remained quiet and melancholy. Even Nadir's attempts to perk him up went unnoticed.
"You never made an effort to hide away in Persia," Nadir argued now, pausing to examine a crate of mushrooms at the market.
"Persia is not England," Mr. Bertrand replied snappishly. A dark fedora covered the masked side of his face, almost hiding the mask entirely. He had returned to the crisp white porcelain once more, and Isabel was slightly sad to see the black leather go. He had seemed more comfortable in it. At least he had smiled while wearing it.
"Your powers of observation are remarkable," the Persian said dryly, peering at a barrel of rum. His eyes traveled around the entire village easily, and Isabel couldn't help but feel that he was seeking something in particular out.
"The only reason I am here, Nadir, is to stop your infernal nagging. I am in no mood to deal with the petulant whining of a grown man."
"Are we in need of any food, Isabel?" Nadir asked, ignoring Mr. Bertrand.
"No, sir," she replied quietly. This trip did not suit her at all; ever since she had seated herself in the buggy, she had felt irritable and tired. She just wanted to get Thomas's new shoes ordered, stop at the apothecary and head home.
"Mrs. Bauer!"
Isabel felt her entire body stiffen as Mr. Sanders' voice reached her ears. She turned and saw him striding towards her, nearly tripping over his own feet in his enthusiasm.
"Mr. Sanders," she said, attempting a bright, cheery voice.
"A delight, as always! Whatever brings you to town again so soon?"
Isabel glanced at Mr. Bertrand's irked expression. "My Thomas needs some new shoes. And we need to stop by the apothecary," she added.
Mr. Sanders' forehead creased in lines of concern. "Are you ill, Mrs. Bauer?" He drew near her, placing a hand on her arm. "Are you quite well?"
"Perfectly well, I assure you," she replied, stepped back from the touch. "Mr. Bertrand needs some more herbs, that's all."
"Mr. Bertrand?" Mr. Sanders looked at her blankly.
"Oh, dear, how rude of me." She straightened and indicated Mr. Bertrand with a graceful wave of her hand. "Mr. Sanders, this is Mr. Erik Bertrand, my—"
"Mr. Bertrand!" Mr. Sanders cried, grabbing the masked man's bandaged hand and pumping it violently. "A friend of Mrs. Bauer's is a friend of mine, yes indeed!" Mr. Bertrand yanked his hand away, wiping it on his trousers and looking distinctly disgruntled.
Mr. Sanders seemed oblivious to the masked man's behavior and instead turned his head towards the Persian. "And Mr. Khan! What a joy to see you all on this glorious day!"
The four travelers turned their heads skywards, wearily eyeing the threatening clouds overhead.
"Mr. Sanders," Nadir said pleasantly, inclining his head in a bow. "How nice to see you again."
Mr. Bertrand shot Nadir a puzzled look, now massaging his palm gently.
"Mr. Sanders is the village's tailor," Isabel supplied quickly.
"Indeed," Mr. Bertrand said icily, looking the mousy man up and down.
Mr. Sanders gazed at Isabel. "In this light, Mrs. Bauer, you hold an uncanny likeness to Botticelli's Venus."
Isabel felt her face burn.
Mr. Bertrand's expression had become disbelieving as his eyes stayed on the short man before him.
"Mr. Sanders," Isabel said, flustered, "it is a flattering comparison, but I have told you before, such compliments are not necessary. Though I appreciate the kind words, they are not always—"
"Who is to say that the comparison was a compliment, Mrs. Bauer?" Mr. Bertrand shifted his gaze from the tailor to the maid. "One may argue that, while Venus is indeed an ambitious artistic attempt, the fact of the matter is, the goddess is a seashell-stranded, forlorn-looking girl who has no clothes on. If you consider the resemblance a testament to your beauty, I suggest you research the source of the 'flattering comparison' before accepting it as a compliment."
Isabel's mind went blank as she stared at the man. The fedora had slipped down, exposing a loose lock of hair and a strip of skin along his neck. She took an automatic step back, bringing her eyes to his. "Thank you for the suggestion, Mr. Bertrand," she said coolly, trying to gather her wits. She turned back to Mr. Sanders and smiled apologetically. "Mr. Sanders, we really must be on our way, but it was lovely to see you, as always."
The tailor tore his eyes from Mr. Bertrand's face and beamed at Isabel, rolling back and forth on the balls of his feet. "Always, always. Stop by the shop the next time you're in town and we'll have tea!" His eyes brightened to an unearthly shade of blue. "You and your little one and your friends! Yes, and we shall all enjoy ourselves!"
Isabel desperately groped around her mind for an appropriate response, but as she opened her mouth, Mr. Bertrand cut her off.
"I'm afraid Mrs. Bauer will find herself greatly indisposed with duties at home, in the near future, sir," he said smoothly, clasping his hands behind his back.
Mr. Sanders' pleased look slowly drained from his face. "Too busy for tea?"
"I daresay," Mr. Bertrand replied, smirking.
Mr. Sanders stood up straighter, smiling once more. "Well, we shall see. These things have a way of working themselves out, you know."
Mr. Bertrand shot Isabel an amused look. "So I have heard," he said, glancing at Isabel. "However, I still would not count on it."
Cursing under her breath, Isabel spun around, grabbed her son's arm and stormed off towards the carriage, leaving the three men standing in the road, all of them gazing after her.
Props to Chat for staying up until an ungodly hour to beta. She is, as they say, the shiznit.
Will I ever run out of excuses to send these poor people to town? Probably not.
The reviews continue to stun and delight me. Mad, crazy, running-around-shrieking-with-glee love to you all.
