How My Perfect Life Was Inverted II
Chapter Twenty-One: Scripted Conversations
Whilst I had been entertaining my uncle and relatives with my incongruous grammar and wavering pronunciation, Flavio and another maid had taken on the task of giving Daniel a damn good scrub, the details of which I welcomingly allowed to wash over me; anything to lessen the impact of Christophe's words and actions. According to Flavio, it had taken over half the afternoon to wash and comb away the last of the lice nesting in his hair; and before I had left for supper, my maid had loudly estimated, as a shivering Daniel hid behind a changing-screen, that it would take the entire evening for the pair to make his body… presentable. And the rags that the boy called clothes had to be burned, post-haste.
Naturally I protested at this last suggestion, and was peeved to discover that Flavio had already ordered another maid to toss the clothing out.
"Flavio, how could you?" I groaned as he carefully plaited my hair for bed. "We have nothing else to offer him; do you expect him to just prance about naked?"
"Of course not," Flavio said, fishing about my dresser for a ribbon. "As a matter of fact, I've already asked the Houghtons to measure and prepare by tomorrow a set of clothes. Nothing elaborate, just something serviceable. It's a very good thing the governor invited them to stay here, you know."
"Oh? Why's that?"
"Well, if they'd remained in their little shop, it'll be somewhat difficult for us to travel to them every day and check on their progress, wouldn't it? Far better to have them here, where you can try each gown on, and have the necessary adjustments made as they go along. Less time wasted all around."
"I suppose that's what Governor Hale had in mind," I agreed, frowning at my golden-cast reflection whilst Flavio secured my plait. "By the by, where is Daniel, Flavio?"
"I put him in a room of his own; I didn't think it'll be the best thing to have him where he can… you know: panic."
"Panic?" I repeated, and saw Flavio's reflection nodding vigorously.
"He's been in a foul mood ever since his bath, you know," Flavio told me sagely. "Wouldn't even let me dry his hair; so I locked him up in a guest room."
"…You locked him up in a guest room?"
"Oui."
"Did you leave him a lantern or something?"
"No; he might have burnt something."
"I assume you left the window unshuttered?"
"Why would I do that? He might try to escape!"
"…So what you're effectively trying to tell me is that, in an attempt to calm a kidnapped child who has been bathed against his will, you thought it best to lock him up, alone, in a dark room with no source of light whatsoever?"
"…No?"
"Flavio!"
After five minutes of struggling and petty arguing, my maid reluctantly led me to the locked room in which Daniel lay incarcerated; after a meaningful glare and hard poke, he stepped forward and opened the door for me.
The room's total darkness was such that even I, a fully-grown woman, felt nervous. Tightening my jaw and scolding myself for my childish fear, I raised the lamp high and stepped through the doorway, following the flickering light as it guided me towards—
…an empty bed.
For a moment, I simply stared at the rumpled sheets in shock, trying to logically deduce why the pillows and thin blanket had been stolen. Then, very, very slowly, I quietly circled the foot of the bed until I had reached the other side.
A medium-sized lump that I assumed was Daniel lay innocently on the floor, cloaked completely in the white blanket. From under one edge of the covering, I spotted the straining corner of a plump pillow.
A quiet giggle escaped my throat, and I knelt down, placing the lamp on the floor beside me; Flavio, I knew, was still guarding the doorway, lest Daniel suddenly jump up and make a bid for freedom.
Very quietly, so as not to disturb him from what I assumed was the most peaceful rest he had had in… well, in a very long while, at any rate, I inched closer and closer to the sleeping boy until I was able to grab hold of the coverlet with relative ease. Gently, I raised and folded the material back several inches, smiling when I saw that he was hugging the pillow tightly to him. A tuft of messy dark hair now poked out from where the blanket curved into a gentle fold; overwhelmed with a curiosity to see his sleeping face, I wriggled closer and experimentally brushed my fingers against the blanket's edge.
"AARGH!"
And with this war cry, Daniel suddenly reared up (face still obscured by his hair) and proceeded to aggressively beat me to death with his pillow.
"Daniel! Stop!—it's me! STOP!" I yelped, covering my head—apparently his favourite target—with my arms and crawling clumsily backwards. It was a miracle that I didn't knock the oil lamp over.
"DANIEL!" I heard Flavio yelp from behind me, and in seconds he had dived around the two of us and lifted Daniel, still kicking and struggling, futilely attacking air with his pillow, clear off the ground, holding him firmly to his chest whilst I regained my bearings and gathered what was left of my shredded dignity.
"Daniel," the maid said again, quietly but no less firmly. I frowned at his voice, surprised at the maternal authority I found there. Daniel soon stopped flailing and, presumably embarrassed by his outburst, promptly buried his face into the pillow.
"Good boy," I heard Flavio tell him; and then, to me, "You alright?"
Straightening my considerably messier plait as best I could, I clambered to my feet in wounded dignity and nodded, bending briefly back down to pick up my lantern. "Yes, I'm fine," I replied aloud. "Just a little shocked; your reaction was certainly unexpected, Daniel."
Daniel made a muffled noise from behind his pillow which I doubted was ever intended to be understandable.
"Sorry for disturbing you," I diplomatically changed subject, motioning with my hand that Flavio put Daniel down on the mattress, an order he immediately obeyed. "I just wanted to see how you were. …How are you, by the way?"
Daniel made another incomprehensible noise, his pillow nodding furiously. I assumed this meant 'Fine, thank you.'
"Oh good," I murmured in agreement, fiddling awkwardly with my nightdress. "And, um… How was your evening?"
Another gurgle, accompanied with a shrugging of his thin shoulders.
"Oh that's nice." After another awkward ten seconds, I told him that we were going to leave him now; that, for his own safety, we were locking his door, and was he alright with that? That I slept just in the next room with Flavio, so if he needed anything…
"…don't hesitate to knock. Or yell. Alright? You um, you're perfectly clear on…? Of course you are. Right. Um, I'll just… go to my own bed now." And with a hesitant pat on his head, I retrieved his blanket, bade him goodnight, and closed the door.
"So?" Flavio asked as he turned the key in Daniel's lock. "What do you think? Can we keep him?"
I hesitated, looking thoughtfully back at the door as we retreated.
"…No," I said at last, somewhat hesitantly. "No, I don't think that would be at all wise Flavio; when Forrester finally visits us, I think it best to hand him straight over."
The arrival of Governor Swann and his supposedly scandalous daughter occupied the attention of the entire household, not least that of Governor Hale; he forbade me from touching breakfast until I had been properly fitted into one of the two gowns the poor Houghtons had worked the night through to complete, a simple but expensive morning gown comprising of a plain, pale green skirt with a pattern of vine leaves and flowers along the hem and a tightly-fitted matching jacket that was clearly never meant to be worn undone. Then I was ushered away to the parlour by a maid whose name escaped me—Flavio was begging the Houghtons to quickly throw together some clobber for Daniel, who (as I reminded Flavio) was still locked in his room—where Governor Hale awaited, directing his wife and other niece to sit about the room in a ladylike montage.
"They'll be here any minute! Louise, go sit in the windowseat with your embroidery—I don't care if you despise it, just decorate this cushion!—Geneviève! You're a lady not a soldier, play something more relaxing—Damn it! Would you be so kind as to translate for her, Lady Hale? You can break your fast later, Nicolette, now come and sit down right here—Oh Lou, what are you doing? Don't stare down at your work, look pensively out the window! I want the Swanns to see your profile when they enter—Nicolette, don't just stand there, find something accomplished to concentrate on—Geneviève, that piece is far too slow! Argh, must I do everything myself?"
"I honestly don't see why you bother, my lord," Lady Hale said primly, staring out the window as her husband instructed. "The Governor is an intimate acquaintance of yours, and we all know his daughter cares little for propriety."
"Yes yes, but we must present Nicolette—" he stopped abruptly, as though realising what he was about to confess to his wife.
"What of Nicolette?" Lady Hale picked up sharply, as though I was in another room entirely.
"Nothing at all, my lady," the governor returned hastily, and then, clearly hoping to prevent his wife from questioning him further, he turned, grabbed my arm, and pushed me down onto the couch before stepping back and studying me carefully, clearly racking his brains for some ladylike accomplishment I could turn my hand to.
"You there!" he snapped at an idle-looking footman, making the servant jump. "Go to the library and bring back one of my books!"
"Which boo—?" but the governor cut across with a huffed "I don't care, any book at all!" The manservant bowed quickly and immediately scurried off, and the governor spent the time until his return repositioning me on the sofa with an imaginary book in my lap.
"My lord," the man announced, bopping his head as his master snatched the slender tome from his hands and threw it unceremoniously into my lap.
"Well don't just sit there, open it!" my uncle rounded on me and, startled, I hastily flipped to one of the first pages.
…Encouraged by this, her hands became extremely free and wandered over my whole body, with touches, squeezes, pressures…
Startled, I snapped the book shut and looked guiltily around me, which I think would be the default reaction for the majority of people upon realising they were unwittingly reading lesbian porn in front of other people.
"Uh, Uncle—"
But the governor screeched and indicated with a flapping arm that I be silent; his stress was such that he even took off his wig and wiped at his cropped hair with a handkerchief. I took this to be a silent indication not to press the matter, and simply settled back into my seat, erotica in my oh-so-casual hand.
After about ten minutes attempting to look effortlessly leisured and aristocratic, we heard the sound of approaching hoofbeats, punctuated with Governor Hale's squeak of trepidation. "It's them, the Swanns!" And he plopped his now lopsided wig back on, walked towards a mirror, and attempted to straighten the gracefully grey curls. Lady Hale slammed her forehead into her open palm with a groan, causing her husband to fly across the room and physically move her body back into a satisfactory position. Geneviève and I were thus treated to a comical two minutes of husband and wife wrestling each other in a manner not unlike Punch and Judy, only with a half-embroidered cushion instead of a slapstick.
"Oh George, you're obsessed!" she screeched, wrestling the cushion back from her husband and knocking his wig aside with it. Their preoccupation with one another was such that not even Governor Hale noticed the tell-tale sign of the audible hoofbeat slowing from a rapid gallop to a lazy trot, nor, indeed, ceasing altogether. Nor were they aware of the sounds of a kind, muffled male voice, the disembarking of two pairs of feet, the opening of the front door; likewise, the presence of the footman who came to announce the arrival of the guests and paused in the doorway, doing a double-take upon viewing his master and mistress wrestling in the windowseat and, at Geneviève's nod, left the parlour with a subservient bow, also went unheeded.
And so it came to be that the first scene the Swanns would behold was ironically one comprised of a wrestling host and hostess, watched by his two perturbed (but ladylike) French nieces.
After several moments of shocked staring by all four of us, the moment was broken by a female laugh that was quickly smothered. The Hales froze, as did us Frenchwomen, and presumably the Swanns; then, with exaggerated care, Governor Hale plucked himself from off his dishevelled wife, placed his wig back onto his head, and said stiffly, "Well my dear, I think it's safe to say we've chased that spider away."
Lady Hale blinked in confusion, but decided to play along, nodding graciously and thanking him for ridding her of the terrifying arachnid. She then turned an imperious stare onto the woman who dared to laugh at their predicament—Miss Swann of Port Royal.
How can I describe the Governor Swann? Everything about him seemed to be average; neutral. He was of average height, with kind eyes and skin that was neither dark nor fair; his nose was rounded, his jaw protruding, but not strong, his cheekbones apparent, but never sharp. When he smiled, his face dimpled pleasantly, and his dark eyebrows always drooped downwards, making it seem as though sadness was never far from his countenance.
As for his clothes; well naturally 'Warren' Swann wore what appeared to be the height of Restoration fashion, which was clearly his and my uncle's era; a coat of navy-blue cloth, clashing colourfully with a silk viridian waistcoat, neutral grey breeches, flawless white stockings, black shoes with silver buckles.
And as for his daughter, Miss Swann; well let me first say that she was not at all what I had expected. I had been 'introduced' to her as a freckled, dark-haired girl of twelve in Governor Hale's recollection of the Hair-Burning Incident, and as eight years had passed, I had thought of her as an average-looking brunette with adorable freckles and a childish fascination with pirates. I had expected her to be clumsy, and perhaps still carry a little puppy fat; basically, I thought I was going to meet a twenty-year-old child. But the Miss Swann that stood before me… Well…
The following is an unedited transcript of a conversation between Flavio and myself that had occurred on the evening of the Swanns' highly-anticipated arrival, as I was preparing for bed:
Me: Flavio…
Flavio: Sì…?
Me: You know that Elizabeth Swann…
Flavio: Sì, signora.
Me: Oh, you're Italian again.
Flavio: Sì, signora.
Me: Does that mean you're going to pretend you can't speak or even understand French?
Flavio: Sì, signora.
Me: …Are you going to pretend you can't speak or understand English?
Flavio: …Sì, signora.
Me: Oh dear. Flavio, you are without doubt the most annoying creature that's ever lived.
Flavio: Sì, signora.
Me: …
Flavio: You were saying, signora?
Me: Hmm? Oh yes, of course; thank you for reminding me. As I was saying, you know Elizabeth Swann…
Flavio: Oui, madame.
Me: …
Flavio: …Sorry; I'll be very good now.
Me: Anyway… That Elizabeth Swann…
Flavio: While do you always trail off immediately after you say her full name?
Me: Well, I was hoping the silence would speak for itself.
Flavio: …Why?
Me: Because that's what happens.
Flavio: In what?
Me: …Novels, of course; you trail off, and the silence speaks for itself. It's the lazy author's way for building up atmosphere; a get-out clause for character description. Duh.
Flavio: But that doesn't make any sense.
Me: I beg your pardon?
Flavio: The whole idea of silence 'speaking for itself'. I mean, if silence could speak, it wouldn't be silence, would it? It'll just be another chatty atmosphere.
Me: …Oh, what do you know of literary technique and artistic licence?
Flavio: Nothing; I'm just being logical.
Me: Logical? Hmm, I don't think so; not so much logical as pedantic, at any rate. That's what you are, Flavio: pedantic. So much so that I've half a mind to write a series of bestselling children's books entitled Patrick the Pedantic Pendragon and base them all on you.
Flavio: Well I'll be damned if I'm not honoured!
Me: As you should be.
(Pause.)
Flavio: …Si-Si?
Me: Sì?
Flavio: What's a Pendragon?
Me: …I don't actually know. A dragon that's no longer wild, I assume.
(A significant pause.)
Me: Flavio?
Flavio: Yes…?
Me: You know that Elizabeth Swann—
Flavio: Oh Christ, not this again!
Me: No wait, I've actually figured out what I want to say!
Flavio: I approach the following conversation with much scepticism.
Me: That Elizabeth Swann, right…
Flavio: …Yes…
Me: She's not that pretty, is she?
Flavio: …I fail to understand.
Me: Is she?
Flavio: Oh, good heavens, no!
Me: Thank you.
Flavio: Not pretty at all, no!
Me: I know!
Flavio: As far as prettiness goes, you're prettier by far.
Me: Well, I already knew that.
Flavio: Whereas Miss Swann…
Me: Oh, yes, the poor, unfortunate thing.
Flavio: …Is the epitome of beauty and grace.
Me: …What?
Flavio: I mean, she is perfection in its purest form.
Me: WHAT?!
Flavio: An angel of light—
Me: Flavio, I think you're confusing me with Miss Swa—
Flavio: A goddess amongst mortals—
Me: Well if she's a goddess, then so am I!
Flavio: Venus, come to earth—
Me: FUCK, NO!
Flavio: …
Me: What's wrong?
Flavio: You just said a Bad Word.
Me: I'm sorry, but you can't say I was unprovoked, can you? Look, as far as goddesses go, I'm Venus, alright? I mean, out of the two of us, I'm the young, voluptuous deity of sensual delight, whereas Miss Swann… To use this goddess metaphor, she's more of a Diana than anything else.
Flavio: And what makes you say that?
Me: Well… I think Diana was beautiful, but she was a virgin, so most of the appeal of seducing her was simply because you could say you did afterwards; whilst Venus was—
Flavio: A slut? OW!
Me: Desired for the sake of desire. Coveted, for the sake of coveting. Wanted for herself, actually.
Flavio: …Je ne comprende pas.
Me: Basically, you wouldn't want to fuck Miss Swann.
Flavio: AAAAAAH! Bad Word! Bad Word!
Me: (grins evilly)
(Pause.)
Flavio: …Well, you're not really one to talk, are you?
Me: Beg pardon?
Flavio: About whether you would want… you know.
Me: What? Take a stroll through Lily Avenue?
Flavio: Exactly. I mean, you have a preference for the Tin Toy Trekker.
Me: (defensively) That's actually not the case. Oh, I might say it's the case, but it really, really isn't.
Flavio: (snorts) You're just saying that in the hopes of lending your opinions an air of validity.
Me: I have, I have! Really, I have! I've been known to… potter about the vegetable garden…
Flavio: Oh, really? With whom?
Me: …
Flavio: Exactly.
(A long and significant pause.)
Me: Well, what about Cate? I'll be more than happy to replant her cabbages.
Flavio: …Sorry, you've lost me completely.
Me: I just said I wouldn't mind fucking your sister.
Flavio: …(faints)
Me: Oh dear.
And that, my dears, was how I felt about Miss Swann; interpret as thou wilt.
After the initial introductions were completed, the group was divided on the politically-incorrect grounds of gender; us ladies remained in the parlour, awaiting the tea in awkward silence, whilst the men retreated to what I assumed was Governor Hale's study for brandy or port or whatever it was men traditionally drank.
Though Lady Hale could of course speak English fluently, her antipathy for Miss Swann was such that she spoke nothing but French, and always to Geneviève; I, being the only other English-speaking Frenchwoman in proximity, was subtly told to entertain her.
The entirety of our conversation is as follows:
Me: Would you like sugar with your tea, miss?
The Annoyingly Skinny One: Oh, yes; two please.
Me: (starts) You take sugar?
The Annoyingly Skinny One: (apparently confused) Well, yes.
Me: I mean, you're not allergic to, you know… things that taste nice?
The Annoyingly Skinny One: No, I don't believe I am.
Me: So you're saying you don't… swell up and bloat like a beached whale the moment you have something sweet?
The Annoyingly Skinny One: (apparently confused) Er, no. Why?
Me: (studies her intently in a non-homoerotic manner) Oh, nothing.
And a little later:
Me: It's very good tea, isn't it?
The Politely Distracted One: Hmm? Oh, yes; very good tea.
And a little later still:
The Attempting To Be Sociable One: The weather's very good for this time of year.
Me: Oh? How do you mean?
The Attempting To Be Sociable One: Well, this is usually the monsoon season, but we've only had three storms so far.
Me: Oh, is it? My, that is very good weather.
The Attempting To Be Sociable One: Yes, so I said.
Me: Mm.
Thankfully, I was rescued by Daniel, who came squealing into the parlour just as I was beginning to strike up another failed conversation.
"Miss!" he squeaked, and promptly dove into my lap, causing me to accidentally knock tea onto Miss Swann's skirt.
"Daniel, what—Oh, Miss Swann! I—I'm sorry, I didn't mean, I—Daniel, what's wrong?"
Daniel simply whimpered, and clutched tighter still, practically burrowing himself into my dress. Miss Swann wisely chose to move away, wiping at her dress as best she could. I think she was far too shocked by the boy's unexpected entrance to say or do anything else.
"Daniel! What's wrong?"
"Hide me, Miss!" came a whisper that carried across the room.
It was only then that I realised what the matter was: only Flavio could incite that amount of terror.
"Daniel—" I began, but he screeched and promptly began clawing at the sofa, determined to bury himself amongst the cushions. The three other ladies had, out of some sort of mutual survival instinct, retreated to the far side of the room, and were watching us fearfully.
"Daniel!" I snapped, forgetting my French accent completely. I was very tempted to slap him; instead, I simply grabbed hold of his shoulders and shook him as fiercely as I could. "Daniel, Daniel! Look at me, Daniel; look at—"
My words died in my throat as, miraculously, he obeyed, staring up at me with wide, frightened doe eyes. A part of my brain was telling me to release his arms, to hold his face, to stroke his cheeks, to comfort him—but all I could do was gawp, mouth agape, as he looked pleadingly into my eyes.
"N-No," I said at last, whilst somewhere near the door came the sound of Flavio screeching to a halt and curtseying respectfully.
"M-M-May I have him, miss?" he stuttered, also forgetting to speak in French. "I—I didn't mean to let him escape; but he bit me, you see—"
"Oh, that's alright," I said, though with all the attention I gave him, I could have been speaking to empty air.
"Miss?"
But I paid him not the slightest mind; thoughts, disjointed, whirled through my head. Of course; how could I have been so stupid? How could I not have recognised him, the brown eyes, the dark hair and—and the eyes?
He looks so much like his father…
"Miss?" I heard Flavio say; and then, closer, his breath whispering against my ear; "Sierra?"
"Hgfh," I gurgled, unable to be distracted even by Flavio's waving hand.
"Si-Si?" Flavio queried worriedly. "Say something, Si-Si; you've been sitting like this for two whole minutes."
"Grfgph," I replied, still gawking.
"And—And—And there are people here, Si-Si," Flavio said, but the only reaction he was able to elicit was the snarl that always came whenever someone attempted to forcibly take a child away from me.
"Si-Si—Ah!" he added as I suddenly stirred; but it hadn't been Flavio who had jolted me back to reality.
No… I mouthed; in my shock my grip loosened, prompting Daniel to scurry back to Flavio with a squeaked "Hide me!"
No…
I hadn't heard what he had said, but that hardly mattered because I still recognised his voice. Oh God, I recognised his voice! And I shouldn't have done… He couldn't be here, he just couldn't…
"Nicolette?" Governor Hale murmured, half-irritated, half-concerned. "Will you not greet our guest?" he added in French.
Gripping Daniel's shirt, Flavio shuffled meekly away, allowing my uncle to loom ghoulishly before me. "Nicolette," he hissed, seizing my wrist and forcing me to stand on trembling legs. "Come along, girl, a 'bonjour' would do. Nicolette?"
I nodded, slowly, to convince him—and in part, myself—that I was fine, that I could stand and smile and 'bonjour' Paul and Christophe and Governor Swann and—
"Steve?"
-x!x-
AN: Yes, I know, I know; nothing on the fanfic front since July, and I now have the audacity to come swaggering back with incomplete proof-reading, script format and a terrible un-thought-out cliffhanger… (I would apologise profusely, but I think you've learnt to expect it by now. Sorry anyway.)
And now… Shameless self-promotion time! I've started to write an answer to the question "Hmm, I wonder what happened in Jack's childhood/teens/early twenties?" The result is the overlong Petites Affaires, in which eight-year-old Jack all but channels his not-yet-born-daughter's spirit, the only real difference between Jack and Pearl being that Jack's a boy, and only HE is in control of the Breakfast Monkey. You know, just in case you're interested…