Persuasions - Part 3
Persuasions Part 1, Part 2
INFO:
Setting: Hyel's Age of Sail 'Verse.
Characters: Polly, Mal, OCs.
Rating: Probably "B"?
Wordcount: 1,248 words.
Disclaimer: The author makes no claim to owning the rights of anything to do with Terry Pratchett or Discworld.
~*~
In the end - or, Polly supposes, at the beginning - Mal takes her to an elegant house near St-James Square. It is late, late enough that the hired cab is nearly alone on the roads, which suits their purposes well. Polly is traveling with a trunk of Mal’s old, remade gowns, and a knot in the pit of her stomach.
“What I don’t understand,” Polly says as the hired cab trundle slowly through the London streets, “Is why I can’t just do this as Ozzer. Surely a man can get… places more easily than a woman can.”
Mal’s mouth quirks.
“Not always,” she responds. “Truth be told old chap it can be a great help to have a wife or a marriageable daughter on hand in order to gain access to certain places.” Mal almost manages to look sheepish at the confession. “That’s a big part of why you’re Miss Margaret,” here she nodded a little half-bow in Polly’s direction, “You’ll give my superior the opportunity to tour you around. Besides,” she adds, “A charming ward, of marriageable age, soon to be coming out of mourning? Dangerous men often have bored wives. They will want to chat you up, find out about you, even if they worry that you’ll be competition for their own girls… You’ll simply have to prove a better listener than they.”
“Oh.” Polly swallows, determined not to twist her hands in her lap. “So I’m to be a different sort of bait, then.”
Mal nods.
“I’m afraid so, dear girl,” she says. “Though time alone will tell what our superiors intend to fish for.”
“So,” the colonel says, quietly, measuring Polly with his gaze. “You’re the young soldier we’ve heard so much about.”
With those words, Polly knows she can sit straighter in her chair, drops the pretence of frightened innocent.
“I suppose I am, sir,” she answers. “What is it that I’m to be now?”
And so it goes. A long discussion that leaves Polly’s head spinning. In three short hours, she learns more than she ever thought she would about the situation with the French, about smuggling information, about a budding alliance with Prussia that may or may not come to fruition.
“For now, though,” the colonel tells her, helping himself to another biscuit, “You’ll be learning from our young Malcolm.”
“You understand the need to move slowly on this,” Mrs Fitzhenry adds. “It matters a great deal that we have you in place long before we put you to any real work. It’s important that you know some of the long game between Prussia and ourselves against France, certainly. But it’s more important that you learn to embody Miss Margaret as deeply as possible.”
“You’re to move into half-mourning a week before All Saints’,” the colonel tells her, “And spend the season re-entering Society. You are to be amiable, but shy, speaking little and observing all.”
“Of course, sir.” Polly feels her heart sink a little at the thought of society dances, when what she wants is to put a stop to a war. “What exactly shall I watch for?”
“Everything.” Replies the colonel, fervently.
Back in her old life, Polly had been used to hearing tittering girls - the daughters of merchant barons, mostly - talking excitedly in the King, right under the noses of their chaperones, about the possibility of having a London Season now that their fathers’ fortunes had so improved. She has, of course, never expected to have such a thing herself and, now that it was happening - on some level, at least - she is trying not to be excited.
It's business, after all, and she’ll have to stay in character - meaning she'll have to be a quiet girl in need of coaxing out of her shell, rather than someone with opinions about anything. There will be very little in the way of dancing.
In her modest room, Polly pulls on long, white gloves. Outside her small window, she can see the lightest dusting of snow collecting on the Fitzhenries’ garden.
Everything.
Well, that’s helpful.
She’s been watching for “everything” for nearly two months, and living in virtual solitude with, well, her employers when she’s not about the business of observation. She’s been introduced to a number of visitors, some of whom are just visitors and, she learns after the fact from Mrs F, are also part of this nest of intrigue and politics. Either way, she spends most of her social time playing the role of Miss Margaret, who is so demure and genteel that she makes Shufti look like Tonker. At least when she was Oliver, she'd had the squad to chat with and, later, confide in. A secret shared is so much lighter to carry, but now she’s in the business of secrets, and the loneliness is digging into her bones.
Unfortunately, the evening’s duties aren’t likely to change that, for all that she’ll be attending a social occasion. She glances out the narrow window at the evening fog already choking the city, and adjusts her shawl over the dove grey gown.
Best to make a start of it, then.
“Oh, Westerley,” the Colonel says, claiming the attention of an elderly gentleman he must know well. “Please allow me to introduce Miss Margaret Ward, lately of Portchester, whose parents were great friends of mine.”
Polly curtsies deeply for the umpteenth time that night. Between the colonel and his wife, she has been introduced to more Society than she’d have ever expected to meet in her life.
“How do you do, sir?”
“Quite well, gel, quite well. I say, have you met my associate?”
Polly isn’t surprised when the young man who melts out of the crowd turns out to be Mal, and it’s not as if she hasn’t know Mal to be nobby, pretty much from the first time they met in that horrible little bar in Tornerbury. But it’s still hard to keep from staring.
“How do you do, Miss Margaret,” Mal asks, offering a genteel bow, after they’ve been properly introduced. A smile is playing at the corners of her mouth and her eyes, bluer than Polly ever realized, twinkle at her in a shared secret.
“I do very well, Mr English,” she answers. “It’s good to meet you.”
Mal cuts a handsome, if slight, figure in her jacket and deep blue waistcoat. Polly can understand how women like Mrs Pemberleigh and Mrs Davenport would want to keep him in contact with their daughters. The lack of two thousand a year might, of course, put a damper on those hopes, but Mal plays the confirmed bachelor so well that they must surely have other prospects lined up for their girls. Polly isn’t sure how Miss Margaret is supposed to react to handsome, wealthy Malcolm English - although she can guess - but what Polly wants to do is to drag Mal into a corner and catch up. It’s been too long, even with the occasional all-business visits that Mal pays to the Fitzhenries and, by association, Polly, and she badly misses her friend.
Instead she makes the rounds of the room, bears the introductions, plays the shy country girl, and watches Mal out of the corner of her eye. The way she dances with everyone’s daughters - jovial and gregarious, but never especially passionate - reminds her, a little, of the way Molly used to dance with her in the kitchens at The King, back before Molly was married, before either of them were old enough to pay much attention to boys and whether they wanted them or didn’t. Polly smiles to herself at the memory, but turns her attention to the task at hand, curtseying to yet another society matron and trying not to dwell too much on why Mal would make her think of Molly.
~*~
And there you have it.
I hope you all enjoyed. :-)
Part 4
INFO:
Setting: Hyel's Age of Sail 'Verse.
Characters: Polly, Mal, OCs.
Rating: Probably "B"?
Wordcount: 1,248 words.
Disclaimer: The author makes no claim to owning the rights of anything to do with Terry Pratchett or Discworld.
~*~
In the end - or, Polly supposes, at the beginning - Mal takes her to an elegant house near St-James Square. It is late, late enough that the hired cab is nearly alone on the roads, which suits their purposes well. Polly is traveling with a trunk of Mal’s old, remade gowns, and a knot in the pit of her stomach.
“What I don’t understand,” Polly says as the hired cab trundle slowly through the London streets, “Is why I can’t just do this as Ozzer. Surely a man can get… places more easily than a woman can.”
Mal’s mouth quirks.
“Not always,” she responds. “Truth be told old chap it can be a great help to have a wife or a marriageable daughter on hand in order to gain access to certain places.” Mal almost manages to look sheepish at the confession. “That’s a big part of why you’re Miss Margaret,” here she nodded a little half-bow in Polly’s direction, “You’ll give my superior the opportunity to tour you around. Besides,” she adds, “A charming ward, of marriageable age, soon to be coming out of mourning? Dangerous men often have bored wives. They will want to chat you up, find out about you, even if they worry that you’ll be competition for their own girls… You’ll simply have to prove a better listener than they.”
“Oh.” Polly swallows, determined not to twist her hands in her lap. “So I’m to be a different sort of bait, then.”
Mal nods.
“I’m afraid so, dear girl,” she says. “Though time alone will tell what our superiors intend to fish for.”
“So,” the colonel says, quietly, measuring Polly with his gaze. “You’re the young soldier we’ve heard so much about.”
With those words, Polly knows she can sit straighter in her chair, drops the pretence of frightened innocent.
“I suppose I am, sir,” she answers. “What is it that I’m to be now?”
And so it goes. A long discussion that leaves Polly’s head spinning. In three short hours, she learns more than she ever thought she would about the situation with the French, about smuggling information, about a budding alliance with Prussia that may or may not come to fruition.
“For now, though,” the colonel tells her, helping himself to another biscuit, “You’ll be learning from our young Malcolm.”
“You understand the need to move slowly on this,” Mrs Fitzhenry adds. “It matters a great deal that we have you in place long before we put you to any real work. It’s important that you know some of the long game between Prussia and ourselves against France, certainly. But it’s more important that you learn to embody Miss Margaret as deeply as possible.”
“You’re to move into half-mourning a week before All Saints’,” the colonel tells her, “And spend the season re-entering Society. You are to be amiable, but shy, speaking little and observing all.”
“Of course, sir.” Polly feels her heart sink a little at the thought of society dances, when what she wants is to put a stop to a war. “What exactly shall I watch for?”
“Everything.” Replies the colonel, fervently.
Back in her old life, Polly had been used to hearing tittering girls - the daughters of merchant barons, mostly - talking excitedly in the King, right under the noses of their chaperones, about the possibility of having a London Season now that their fathers’ fortunes had so improved. She has, of course, never expected to have such a thing herself and, now that it was happening - on some level, at least - she is trying not to be excited.
It's business, after all, and she’ll have to stay in character - meaning she'll have to be a quiet girl in need of coaxing out of her shell, rather than someone with opinions about anything. There will be very little in the way of dancing.
In her modest room, Polly pulls on long, white gloves. Outside her small window, she can see the lightest dusting of snow collecting on the Fitzhenries’ garden.
Everything.
Well, that’s helpful.
She’s been watching for “everything” for nearly two months, and living in virtual solitude with, well, her employers when she’s not about the business of observation. She’s been introduced to a number of visitors, some of whom are just visitors and, she learns after the fact from Mrs F, are also part of this nest of intrigue and politics. Either way, she spends most of her social time playing the role of Miss Margaret, who is so demure and genteel that she makes Shufti look like Tonker. At least when she was Oliver, she'd had the squad to chat with and, later, confide in. A secret shared is so much lighter to carry, but now she’s in the business of secrets, and the loneliness is digging into her bones.
Unfortunately, the evening’s duties aren’t likely to change that, for all that she’ll be attending a social occasion. She glances out the narrow window at the evening fog already choking the city, and adjusts her shawl over the dove grey gown.
Best to make a start of it, then.
“Oh, Westerley,” the Colonel says, claiming the attention of an elderly gentleman he must know well. “Please allow me to introduce Miss Margaret Ward, lately of Portchester, whose parents were great friends of mine.”
Polly curtsies deeply for the umpteenth time that night. Between the colonel and his wife, she has been introduced to more Society than she’d have ever expected to meet in her life.
“How do you do, sir?”
“Quite well, gel, quite well. I say, have you met my associate?”
Polly isn’t surprised when the young man who melts out of the crowd turns out to be Mal, and it’s not as if she hasn’t know Mal to be nobby, pretty much from the first time they met in that horrible little bar in Tornerbury. But it’s still hard to keep from staring.
“How do you do, Miss Margaret,” Mal asks, offering a genteel bow, after they’ve been properly introduced. A smile is playing at the corners of her mouth and her eyes, bluer than Polly ever realized, twinkle at her in a shared secret.
“I do very well, Mr English,” she answers. “It’s good to meet you.”
Mal cuts a handsome, if slight, figure in her jacket and deep blue waistcoat. Polly can understand how women like Mrs Pemberleigh and Mrs Davenport would want to keep him in contact with their daughters. The lack of two thousand a year might, of course, put a damper on those hopes, but Mal plays the confirmed bachelor so well that they must surely have other prospects lined up for their girls. Polly isn’t sure how Miss Margaret is supposed to react to handsome, wealthy Malcolm English - although she can guess - but what Polly wants to do is to drag Mal into a corner and catch up. It’s been too long, even with the occasional all-business visits that Mal pays to the Fitzhenries and, by association, Polly, and she badly misses her friend.
Instead she makes the rounds of the room, bears the introductions, plays the shy country girl, and watches Mal out of the corner of her eye. The way she dances with everyone’s daughters - jovial and gregarious, but never especially passionate - reminds her, a little, of the way Molly used to dance with her in the kitchens at The King, back before Molly was married, before either of them were old enough to pay much attention to boys and whether they wanted them or didn’t. Polly smiles to herself at the memory, but turns her attention to the task at hand, curtseying to yet another society matron and trying not to dwell too much on why Mal would make her think of Molly.
~*~
And there you have it.
I hope you all enjoyed. :-)
Part 4