Breakfast, insults and uncomfortable beds

I used to be a breakfast kind of guy. I flew the standard for porridge. A scrambled egg and bacon was like magic. Even multicoloured, multi-grained, frosted, bejewelled cereals were not beneath me. Even the ones with toys. Breakfast set me up for the day, and yet now, as my days increasingly start earlier and in places with specialities which turn the stomach before dawn, I have lost the love. Coffee is now breakfast. Pastries with large amounts of jam and icing give an occasional needed whack of blood sugar. The days when I have heard the day before of a colleague, dropping due to fatigue, old age, heart attacks, usually induce a brief spate of fruit eating, but it doesn't have the kind of mastery it used to. There's none of the all singing, all dancing pageantry that breakfast should be. A bad coffee and a limp Danish, wrapped in a napkin, is about as good as it gets. Therefore, I am confused with alternate waves of horror and nostalgia at the feast of frankly Tudor proportions (seriously expecting a gilded swan, any minute) that has come through the kitchen door. My fears are abated for a second. Jane hands me a coffee. A damn good one too. Of course, then Rex insists on us all bowing our heads, blessing the food. The youngest two daughters take the opportunity to sneak the best looking pancakes off the stack, but everyone else appears to respect the moment. There's something about this guy. Something with a reverence and a strict rule. Something, it hits me not for the first time, that reminds me of my father. Heads raise, chatter begins, and food begins to circulate. Part of me wonders if I can stomach it. The rest (in all honesty, ruled by my stomach, ironically) threatens that if I don't, it will take me down. Probably with some kind of caffeine intolerance. I surrender, and accept pancakes. Somehow, Charles has already swung the conversation to the needs of the farming community. You've got to hand it to him, he's good at this. Rex leans back in his seat, tipping it precariously, his hand, holding a steaming mug of coffee, resting on his knee.

"I'll be honest, son. The problems we face here aren't often the kinds that are fixable by any one thing from the government."

Charles, ever the picture of young, democratic charm, leans forward. "Sir, I'd like to be able to offer what I can, but without knowing the problems you face…"

Rex laughs gently. "No matter how much money you have, I very much doubt that you can make it rain, can you?"

Charles laughs, genially. It's like watching an exercise in diplomacy. "Of course not, Sir. I'd just….I'd like to know, if you don't mind telling me."

Rex gives him a long look. Then, "all right, but I'm warning you, this isn't going to help you much." He smiles, and rocks his chair on its two back legs. "My father thought himself to be some kind of politician. He thought he could broker peace amongst me and my brothers. So in his will, rather than leaving the whole place to all of us, or even just to one of us, he legally splits his homestead into three. He gives the house and gardens to my oldest brother, Abe, and the agricultural lands to my other brother, Elias. To me he gives the horses, the stables and the rest of the land. He knew that each bit was almost useless on its own. He thought we could work together and make it work for us." He shrugs, and smiles, slightly, a little rueful. "Course, it didn't work. Abe wanted the land as well, so he could make a go of being a farmer. Elias didn't want any of it at all, and just wanted to move away, but he was a stubborn old dog, and so instead sold his land to Eric Collins, of all people. Abe was left with barely any land, and I with no access to mine, and no house." He smiles again, rueful as ever. "Abe managed to buy some land off the man who bordered him, the other side. He got just enough to grow a little, but nothing like what he wanted. Anyway, he eventually sold me the strip of land down to the road so I could at least get here, but what with that and the money to build this house, Fran and I had to sell the house and lands we already had, just to be able to keep our horses." He drains his coffee, and sets it down on the table. "So," he says. "How can you help a man who hasn't got enough land to make his business really viable, who has to rely on the health of his stock, on the good Lord to bring good weather…" He trails off.

Charles scratches his chin, and smiles. "Well Sir, I don't know but I'd like to help. How do you feel that the government is helping you right now?"

Rex smiles. "Not in many ways, but as I've said, it was my old Daddy who brought all these problems on us, not the government. Now if you could bring forward some bill to stop crotchety old men dividing up their inheritance just to teach their kids a lesson…?"

I feel a smile tug at my mouth. I try to suppress it, not very successfully.

"Look," says Rex, "I would like my taxes to be lower. I'd like it if once in a while religion was talked about rather than just paraded as a tick on a check sheet. I'd like it if…"

He pauses, and glances at me, just as I am rubbing the spot by my eye where a shooting headache has suddenly begun. We are not sitting down to breakfast with a Republican. Are we?

"You're worried?" he asks me.

"Not worried," I say, "so much as wondering what we're doing here."

He looks at me, just looks. "You think I'm wasting your time?"

Charles practically throws himself across the table. "No Sir. Not at all. That is not what Will meant. Right?" he asks, turning to me with a slightly manic look in his eyes. He is so smitten with this girl. Why else is he stopping me from even talking with her father? I sigh. "Mr Bennet, I do not believe that you are wasting our time, but the only political agendas you have mentioned aren't exactly priorities in the Democratic party."

He raises his eyebrows, but before he can say anything, Elizabeth slams her mug on the table, coffee slopping over the edges.

"You wouldn't cut taxes if you could? You don't care about religion? I'd guess you'd also rather people bought their way into power?"

"Lizzie," her father murmurs, a hand on her arm.

I sit up, uncharacteristically straight. "I'd cut taxes tomorrow if it would do good, I care deeply about religion, and I think you should earn anything you get."

Her eyes are like fire. "Then why not have them as part of your policy? Why deride them?"

"Because this country will not get sorted out by everyone paying less, and we can't implement religious belief as law!"

"You see it is just a preferential code of ethics."

Charles and Jane exchanged helpless looks. I'll admit, this is not quite going to plan, but I can't just let her question, no, statement, hang in the air.

"I don't see how a law system with complex systems and hierarchies can sit happily beside a law system of belief in one, all knowing, all powerful God. I can't see how they wouldn't mangle each other into pitiful versions of themselves."

Silence falls on the table. It drops, covering everything. Eyebrows are raised, breathing unsteady. You'd think we were just having a heated debate on the many virtues of porn. Or child labour.

Rex passes his mug to Jane. "Would you, sweetheart…?" he asks, and winks as she fills it up. "Look," he says, seemingly brokering peace. "I'll admit, my values are old fashioned and yes, perhaps they're closer to Republican than Democrat. I'm wary of the changes we would make by letting any and all who want to come here. I'm reluctant to pay more taxes to a government which doesn't seem to be doing much for me. I don't quite understand what Mr Darcy here sees as happening if we bring religion more into the spotlight, but I think we can only improve this country with honest Christian values, can't we?"

No one answers. I certainly don't trust myself. He takes a sip of his fresh coffee.

"But you see," he continues, "I understand that we are facing massive problems, and not just here. It's not just rebates and grants that we need out here for our work. It's better schools and better health care, and I understand where you are coming from when you say we need more money to do that, not less." He leans back again, tipping. "Here's the thing though. I need to be able to trust that you will spend my money better than I will. Can I trust you with that?"

"Sir," begins Charles, eager and earnest, "we are building this campaign on trust." He pauses, and shoots a glance my way, and then nods, ever so slightly. "I'll be honest," he says, looking back at Rex. "We're campaigning on my values, on the things which I believe to be important, but without Will here, this campaign would have died a long time ago."

Elizabeth rolls her eyes.

"When I first started talking about doing this, seriously," Charles continues, "he only had one demand." He glances my way again. "That honesty comes first, in everything, above everything."

Elizabeth narrows her eyes, and puts down her coffee. "Above winning?"

"Especially above winning," I answer, quietly.

The room is silent. Well, quiet above the level of one of the youngest two Bennets messaging on her cell.

"Well," says Rex, smiling, "I'm not sure that was quite the answer to my question, but I think I liked it more. Now, we don't have long till we need to leave to go up to church, so dig in."

Silence remains for a few seconds longer, and then Jane and Charles between them manage some semblance of a conversation. Slowly, the chatter builds, and I am left alone, all but for a pair of dark eyes across the table, scowling.

Bags packed, slung in the back of the cars, breakfast finished and washed up, and Lydia sent upstairs to change into something less likely to incur the tactful pointing out of Bible passages about dressing modestly ("I'll tell Paul what he can do with his letter to Timothy…"), they are all just about ready to leave. Rex wrangles the youngest two into his old pickup, and Sol and Jem hitch a ride, entertaining the girls with their stories of what they used to get up to in church. Charles, standing in the hall way, staring at a framed newspaper page, spins, as Jane rest a hand on his arm.

"Ready to go sir?"

He gives her a look. "It's Charlie. For the thousandth time." He grins. "Yes, absolutely." They walk out onto the veranda, and he smiles graciously at Francesca. "Mrs Bennet, would like to accompany us in the car? It's a delightfully air conditioned, smooth ride." He grins again, causing Francesca to nearly faint, before ushering her into the car.

"Who wrote that article in the hall?" he asks as they settle, buckling in.

"That's…" begins Jane, cut off quickly by her mother.

"That old thing? I think that's something Lizzie did while she was off at Sewanee." She waves a hand, dismissing it. "Jane, on the other hand. You should have stayed longer Mr Bingley. I've got some beautiful videos of her dance recitals…"

The doors slam, Jane pinches the bridge of her nose, and the car drives off down the dusty road.

Lizzie is left, perched on the veranda rails, slowly realising that if they have all left, that only leaves…

"Where is everyone?"

In a move closely resembling her older sister, she pinches the bridge of her nose, eyes closed, breathing heavily. "They're all gone on ahead," she says, resignedly. "I'm going to have to take you."

Will looks sardonic. "No really," he says. "Tell me what you really think."

She rolls her eyes, and then leads the way round the house to the car she bought years ago with Jane. She doesn't quite realise how tall he is, until he tries to cram himself into the seat. "Is this adjustable in any way?" he asks, looking a little helpless, knees hiked up, shoulders crammed forward.

She shrugs. "We've never had to move it. Try there." Between them, they somehow get the seat adjusted slightly. Awkward silence returns. She starts the car, and immediately Will regrets how they adjusted the seat. Now, rather than being crushed at the sides, his head is so precariously near the roof that every pot hole, of which there are plenty, sends him slamming upwards. "Geez…" he mutters, rubbing his head after the first time when Lizzie has thoughtfully stopped. She looks up, and tries hard not to laugh. She is not terribly successful.

"It's not funny," he growls, and adjusts the seat again. He is right back where he started, squashed in the front, arms pinned to his sides. He groans, and Lizzie bites her lip.

"So," she says, "which is the lesser of the two evils? Concussion or, what, peine forte et dure?"

He glowers at her. "That's great. Now she's insulting me in French."

"Law French actually, but who's counting?"

He glares at her for a second then, rubbing his head again, finds himself laughing. "Fine," he says. "This will be fine." He glances back at her and laughs again. "Only two more hours. Two hours…" he mutters to himself.

She starts the car again. "Wow. We really have left an impression."

"On my head, or…?"

Lizzie grins, narrowly avoiding another pot hole. "I meant the emotional scars, but I'm sure your skull will also remember us."

He rubs his neck, smiling slightly, very much resigned.

"That and probably your spine after sleeping on the roll away."

"No, actually that was pretty good." He shrugs at her glance of surprise. "I have slept on some pretty terrible beds in my time."

She raises her eyebrows. "Really? You who has lived in Washington, London, Oxford…"

He smiles. "I've lived there. Doesn't mean I lived anywhere fancy."

"Really? Even in Oxford?"

"Especially in Oxford. Academic excellence and a decent mattress don't appear to go hand in hand."

She smiles. "Maybe you should lobby for that in this campaign."

"Maybe we should."

Silence returns to the car, but at least now it isn't so icy. It is companionable. Almost.

I'm sorry it has been so long! It was a combination of being busy and FanFiction crashing on me. Hopefully, it won't happen again. Oh, and thank you for all my lovely reviews. You're too kind. Really.