Maria, for her part, focused on identifying security features and cameras in case it became relevant later. When Coulson reached out an unneeded hand to her elbow in a steadying gesture, she knew he'd seen the twitch of a curtain in the entryway windows as well. So she added a bit of a wobble to her gait, an artful stumble, and played up the part of the completely frozen and nature-hating person she was supposed to be.
"Just remember you're my secretary."
"That's sexist."
"It's practical, and explains why you keep calling me sir."
"Touche."
"That would be harassment." His face remained inscrutable, but Maria knew him well and could hear the amusement rippling under the surface. "You'll have time to get me back for the indignity, I'm sure."
"Damn straight, sir."
Coulson gave her a Look and reached a hand to the door. He had barely touched skin to weathered wood when it was opened by a suit-clad man with a rather annoyed expression on his face. He was every inch the stereotypical harassed butler. "Welcome to Canmore House."
The man stood aside to let the dripping agents into the hallway, where the distant sounds of laughter and clinking glasses reminded the Americans (and what else could they be with those cuts of suits and no coats in this weather?) that they were both cold and hungry. "I am terribly sorry, but are you expected?"
"Well, no," said Coulson, as he took a clean handkerchief from his pocket and passed it to Maria so she could dry her face off. "Our car seems to have shredded a tire, and I'm afraid the rim bent beyond my ability to repair it."
"I see. I will notify madame as to your presence, and call for assistance. May I know your names?" Maria handed the cloth back to Coulson, marveling that the butler hadn't gone cross-eyed with all the looking down his nose he was doing.
"Carlson, I'm Mark Carlson. This is my P.A., Mary Morstan." Maria shot Coulson a glare as the butler nodded and led them to a side room to await the dispensation of the lady of the house.
"Mary Morstan," she whispered once the man had gone.
"Be quiet, Mary."
"At least you didn't say your name was John Watson."
"That was an order."
"Yes, sir."
There was, at least, a roaring fire in the grate, and they moved towards it without the need for discussion. Their clothes nearest the grate steamed gently, and Maria let the thought occur that she might at some point in her future be warm again.
"If I catch pneumonia and die, sir, I am going to haunt you."
"So noted." Coulson hated getting his suit messed up; it just wasn't professional, but he was more worried about his junior agent. She'd spent most of the last decade gallivanting around dry deserts as a Marine, and though it got cold there, it wasn't wet and cold. "Should that happen, rest assured I will mourn you my life long."
"You'd better," she murmured as they both felt a draft across their backs and noticed a flicker in the flames. "Who else will take your notes and remember how you take your coffee?" Her voice was the mildly peeved tone of the rightfully aggrieved secretary, and Coulson privately applauded her choice. She was coming along nicely.
"I have been instructed to see you both to a guest suite where dry clothing of a suitable nature is laid out." The butler ushered them out of the room and down a darkened hallway, then up stairs so narrow and steep Coulson knew they must be the servants' stairs. He supposed the pair of them were being insulted in some manner.
"You'll forgive us, but all the other rooms are occupied, I was compelled to place you and your… secretary into one suite." Now Maria caught the insulting tone and the insinuation burned in her gut.
"We'll make due, thank you. We'll be out of your hair," and here Maria silently cheered Coulson's wording because the butler had no hair on his shiny head to speak of, "as soon as the tow truck or whatever you folks have shows up."
The butler sniffed haughtily and practically herded them into the suite before slamming the door and storming away.
