Tea Time for the Captain and the Reverend
This is something I wrote for motetus' birthday, and it is probably the most embarrassing thing I have ever done, ever. A lot. I nearly didn't post it, because ... well, you'll see. But she talked me into it and I an very biddable, especially when porn is involved.
I hereby disavow all knowledge of what I have just written and posted.
*blush* oh god, do not read it.
by the by, it is all based on this early Victorian tea set. Early Victorian art is fabulous, because it's before they started putting lace over everything.
In which Cpt. Aquliaine takes his tea, eventually, and he and the Rev. St. John Rivers discover the various perils of switching rôles.
~*~
Cpt. Aquilaine shook his coat vigorously in the small entranceway, sending up clouds of dust as he did. “Good God, what wretchedness,” he muttered to no-one in particular. For good measure, he knocked his shako sharply against the door frame, sending up a smaller but equally determined puff, one which made him cough yet again and scowl at the grittiness of his teeth, an action he had been undertaking for most of the afternoon.
“Muniya, lass, are you home? Come give your Baba a kiss!” No footsteps answers his request. Indeed, the entire house seemed almost preternaturally still. Coughing a little more, for good measure, he slapped more dust off his trousers and then glanced about in despair at the mess his arrival had created.
The drought in the Bengali territories had now reached its 4th month, and combined with the weak monsoons of the year prior, the land was deeply parched. Everyone feared a repeat of the cruel famine which had ravaged Agra eight years past, carried off so many and spread so much suffering through the rural villages. It was almost universally acknowledged, by British and Indian alike, that the upcoming summer would be difficult, and that everything depended on good rains come July. In the meantime, while they waited, the dust worked its way into every crack in the plaster, every seam and stitch of clothing, and (if the servants were careless) nearly every bite of food. Their small household did not employ careless servants-not for very long, at any rate-and so at least for the Captain, returning after work was a constant delight. Then he could take tea with Muniya and listen to her talk while he relived the days of his own childhood, when he still enjoyed school and and the world seemed a grand and wonderous place that promised merely to become yet grander and more wonderous the more he explored it. Some days, if work or charity or politics or the church had not kept him away, the Rev. Rivers also joined them, and then the three would drink together, contented and cheerful. In a season of red and watering eyes, throats scraped raw from coughing, and the constant covering of noses with damp handkerchiefs, he took great enjoyment in coming home to good company and hot tea.
Today, however, no one answered his hallos.
He wandered through the parlour, marvelling at the quietness of the house-an increasingly rare state for it to find itself in-and put his head into the kitchen. No cook, no footman. Still no Muniya, either; the entire population of their tiny townhouse appeared to have gone on holiday. But he smelled something fresh and fragrant, with a hint of bergamot …
The Captain hastened into the library at the back of the house. This room was a veritable home within a home, a calm, quiet little room filled with books, comfortable chairs, and a queer sort of oriel window, incorrectly placed on the ground floor by a junior architect attempting to be fanciful. Few things were as delightful to him as when he would find the Reverend reclining on the window-seat, reading some theological essay or simply staring at the dust motes drifting by. And when Rev. Rivers' mood turned dark and he retreated to his private study above the library, the Captain would often sit below and smoke, listening to the footsteps overhead and wishing helplessly that he could do something to soothe his friend's ill temper. When they had time to themselves, they liked to lunch there together, make a greater show of their affections than they otherwise could, and reflect on the many ways their humble lives had brought them joy.
As he stepped into the room, Cpt. Aquilaine was rewarded by both of his heart's desires: St. John Rivers, and tea.
“Oh thank God, St. John. Between the heat and the dust, and an entire afternoon spent in the sun inspecting long guns, you have no idea how badly I need a cup.”
“Yes, I assumed as much.” The Reverend did not glance up from his devotional, so the Captain bent down to kiss him on the cheek; St. John tilted his head to one side, allowing for better access, but did not take his eyes off the text. Cpt. Aquilaine ignored this unsociable behaviour-it could hardly be considered out of the ordinary, considering the Reverend's habit of reading even at the dinner table-and he looked over the table in immense satisfaction.
A brass kettle steamed gently on its hemp trivet. Next to it sat the round, cheerful teapot, sugar bowl with chipped lid, and stately creamer, all unglazed red with silver scroll-work detailing. (The set, a popular style from the Wedgwood company in Staffordshire, had been a gift from Mary Wharton, née Rivers, on the occasion of her wedding three years earlier.) On either side of the table, with an almost mathematical precision, there were bone china cups and saucers, spoons, dessert plates, butter dish, jam and clotted cream pots, strainer, and sugar tongs. On one serving plate teetered a pile of tea-cakes with currants, another held fresh crumpets, and a third offered bright orange jalebi. Beneath it all lay a wealth of fabrics: green silken table cloth, embroidered place mats, somewhat clumsily-tatted doilies that they did not dare throw out because Muniya was so desperately proud of them, and napkins still in their silver rings.
“Where is everyone at present? The place seems to be deserted.”
“Nurse has taken Muniya and the twins to the bazaar to buy … scarves or shawls or whatnot. Cook is shopping for dinner, and the footman has the afternoon off.”
“I am delighted to hear it. Then it shall be just you and I-” Cpt. Aquilaine paused halfway through his thought; whatever he was about to say next fled his mind entirely.
Sitting on the table, next to his cup and saucer, was a switch.
The Captain looked at the switch, then the tea, then the switch again, and then finally at the Reverend (who steadfastly kept his eyes on his book).
“St. John, you set the table yourself, did you not?”
“Indeed.”
“And … I have apparently committed some error that you feel demands reproof?”
“Indeed.”
“Such as what?”
“Such as the fact that I have spent five hours this morning going through a year's worth of household accounts, trying to discern whyfor we are nearly £40 poorer for the year than anticipated. I will admit to cleverness on your part-it took me some time to discover exactly by how much we had fallen short of the mark, and how the money had vanished in the first-and yet more time to shift things around enough for us to make good on all our bills.” The Reverend finally looked up from his book; his eyes were calm and cold. “I cannot imagine what you were thinking. Forty pounds! We scarcely make £250 per annum, between the two of us. With every passing month it seems the bills grow larger and the prices more dear. And yet you have, over the past 12 months, hidden away a full £40-to what end?”
Cpt. Aquilaine glanced back to the table and the switch; it now seemed a safer course than holding eye-contact. “It is a secret. You shall know, soon enough.”
The Reverend set his book on the table with a thump and the spoons rattled in their saucers. “If I was a more foolish man, I would worry that you were having some sort of indiscretion, and had fiddled it away on ear-rings and perfumes. Luckily for us both I know that is not the case, but what then? Have you made a bad loan to a friend, and are ashamed to tell me? Did you buy stock in some failed company? Have you taken to gambling on cards?”
The Captain turned sulky. “You will learn presently. I am not going to say another word on the subject before then.”
“Ha. I suspected you would say as much, or-more precisely-as little. Therefore, you must choose.” The Reverend gestured silently at the Captain's place setting.
“Choose?”
“Yes, Marcus. There is tea and a switch, and the choice is yours.”
Cpt. Aquilaine tried to remain cheerful, despite the tides that were running very much against him. “Well, I suppose if you are insistent, St. John, and if a choice must be made, then I shall take the tea, thank you.” He made motion to reach for a jalebi; for this he received another piercing look. Rev. Rivers appeared to be in a particularly severe mood that afternoon, never a good thing. The Captain retreated, empty-handed.
“It is not an exclusive choice, one or the other! Rather, my dear Marcus, the choice is both-” St. John narrowed his eyes at the Captain, “-or neither.”
“Ah. That was not entirely clear.”
“Now I have clarified it.”
Judging from the expression on his face, the Reverend held the moral high ground and knew it, although he did not yet realise the full extent of the betrayal; for the Captain had not only spent their money most extravagantly, but had also spent it on a purchase that would continue to bleed funds from the budget with each passing month. Cpt. Aquilaine decided not to mention that detail-the situation (from his vantage) was unfortunate enough already.
Unfortunate, or fortunate. The veil between the two was flimsy, at present.
Testing the waters gingerly, searching for the correct response, he replied, “Perhaps I will simply head down to the pub and have a pint. A cool ale on a hot day is both refreshing and convivial, which is more than I can say for your company.”
In answer, Rev. Rivers simply took up the strainer and carefully, deliberately, poured out a single cup of tea. The scent of Earl Grey filled the small room. Without so much as a glance upwards, he retrieved a rough lump of sugar with one hand and the creamer with the other, then stirred. When he was satisfied, he stood and offered it to Cpt. Aquilaine, who merely gazed longingly. After a long moment's silence, St. John set the now-full cup on the Captain's saucer with a shrug.
“Go have a pint, if you like. It is one and the same to me.”
Cpt. Aquilaine saw his opening and took it. “If you must know, I am rather inclined to stay here, but … I cannot tell exactly how displeased with me you are, St. John.”
“Quite. Very, even.” The Reverend's expression did not change even a whit.
“Yes, that is abundantly clear, but there is a unique blend of anger and annoyance in every instance of your displeasure, and I am uncertain as to that current balance.” He leaned over the table until they were nearly nose to nose. The Reverend remained impassive and severe, but now the Captain could spot the merest hint of softening about the lips, and perhaps a needful quality to the eyes suggesting that anger (if not annoyance) had some time ago given way to other emotions. It was a complex sort of game, of course, and one that neither man was ever willing to admit an interest in playing, and so quite often getting from the proposition to the acceptance to the heart of the matter was a sore trial in and of itself. Arrive overly-quickly, and they would feel too shamed to continue. Arrive too slowly, and they ran the risk of mingling faux disagreements with more genuine ones.
“I think you are too aggravated with me today.”
“I will admit I am in a temper, Marcus, but you know I do not act out of anger. Rather, it is sorrow at that which must be done. I assure you, I do not relish my duty.”
Cpt. Aquilaine lowered his gaze to the table as casually as he could manage, ostensibly to look longingly at the tea once more. Subterfuge, however, was scarcely necessary, as the true purpose of his glance made itself abundantly clear: the good Reverend spoke false. He could not help but smirk. “I think you are in violation of the ninth commandment, St. John.”
The Reverend stern countenance gave way to bafflement. “You are accusing me of coveting Mrs. Mackenzie?”
“No, you are bearing false witness!”
“Oh good heavens. That is the eighth commandment, and now you are stalling. Choose.”
The Captain sighed; he had lost some time ago, and knew it, but there was no point in giving away too much, too quickly. “Very well, I bow to your superior sense of … justice. But I want a cup of tea first.”
“Certainly not!” St. John exclaimed. “That is not how it works.”
“Come now, I am absolutely parched, tired, dusty, and out of sorts, which means I am not likely to, ah, profit overmuch from all of this, if I do not have anything to wet my throat first.” Almost as an afterthought, he muttered, “For God's sake, St. John, give over a bit.”
“Half a cup, then.”
Cpt. Aquilaine stared at him for a moment. “You're a hard bastard, aren't you?”
The Reverend shrugged and handed him the tea, a bit ungraciously. “Half a cup, and you may have the rest when I am finished with you.” The Captain accepted it, grudgingly, and sipped as slowly as he could manage, which was still far too swiftly. St. John had some years ago made a study of the proper way to prepare tea, whilst searching for a tangible way to show his affections even when his mood was black. As with most things, when he worked intensely at a problem he achieved his desired results. The Earl Grey had steeped neither too little nor too much, and was blended with just the right amounts of cream and sugar. When he had drunk his allotted amount Cpt. Aquilaine set the cup down as per orders. He had half a mind to finish it in one hot gulp, but that might have ended things immediately; they were so close to the heart of the matter now, and in truth his enthusiasm matched the Reverend's. Instead, he turned to the task at hand.
While he was distracted by the buttons on his trousers, St. John touched him on the arm and murmured, “I would settle for a simple explanation, of course.”
They made eye contact, just long enough for Cpt. Aquilaine to read the hesitation on the Reverend's face, his uncertainty as to their present course of action. So he smiled, briefly. “I am silent as the tomb, St. John, and you will have to reconcile yourself to it.” With that, he leant over the table and settled onto his elbows.
~*~
Whish.
Exposition, climax, dénouement. No-the narrative structure of a novel did not quite apply to the current situation, however much St. John might like the idea. Music, perhaps? Crescendo, forte, diminuendo. He did not think this was correct, either, although it drew closer to the heart of the matter, closer to its ebb and flow. Also, the genteel Italian of musical cadence lent a poetic gloss to what was, frankly, immoralità su larga scala.
Whish.
Exordium, confirmatio, peroratio? He doubted rhetoric could assist (although if any scholarly tradition could, it would certainly be Greek). Thus the Reverend utilised the simple act of observation. This, however, required a good deal of focus, which left him feeling more like spectator than participant. He would prefer to lose himself in the rhythm. Nevertheless, observation had served him well in the past, and he had a rôle to play. Back to the task at hand.
Whish.
The Captain inhaled sharply and flinched; after a long moment of tension he exhaled, unclenching his fists as he did so. The expression on his face was one of reluctant concentration. Close behind him and a little off to one side, the Reverend tapped his foot on the carpeting, impatiently, and wondered if his present irritation showed that he still harboured more anger than previously admitted. Realising that the question was not soon to be resolved, he drew back his arm.
Whish.
Again, the Captain flinched, tensed, and relaxed. St. John watched with a dispassionate sort of interest, as the sharp red line across white flesh blossomed into a wider, pinker swath. He had always been fascinated by the Captain's skin, how it turned dark and ruddy in summer while the parts permanently hidden away from sunlight remained as pale and delicate as St. John imagined a maiden's must look like (not that he had ever seen a maiden's arse, nor ever would at this rate).
Whish.
What a privilege, to be allowed this much power over another person, to encounter someone at their most vulnerable and both add to and exploit that vulnerability. To also do so in a way that brought both of them an almost shame-faced amount of pleasure was a delight he had never once expected to taste. They did this rarely, as time and circumstances and mood scarcely ever aligned to provide the opportunity; it was far less frequent than either of them would prefer.
Whish.
It all started shortly after Muniya began school. She came home one afternoon in tears, having gotten her hand caned for talking in class. Cpt. Aquilaine, furious, demanded that the Reverend ensure no such thing happened again. So St. John had spoken to his fellow-teacher (who resolutely ignored him) and then to the board of directors, making a plea to modernise disciplinary methods. The board had been so impressed with the Reverend's paedogological theories-
Whish.
-that they promptly offered him the position of interim Superintendent, and so he had returned home that very day with an armful of canes and switches, angry at the Captain for interfering with his employment. The Captain, as was his wont, then joked about not letting such a good opportunity go to waste. Since they had, ages ago, agreed to accommodate themselves to each other's wishes at least once, rather than simply rejecting ideas out of hand-
Whish.
-they had thus discovered just how much the Captain enjoyed being whipped, and how much the Reverend enjoyed doing the whipping. The rôles suited them both just fine. St. John could not understand why a man who spent all day commanding others might wish to come home and submit entirely to someone else's authority; then again, the idea of caning schoolchildren churned St. John's stomach, but caning the Captain made his pulse race with joy.
Whish.
This was a Pandora's box of temptation; what was learned could not be unlearned, and pretending otherwise only caused the flames to burn hotter. Better, they agreed, to give sin a place at the table, lest it take over the house in secret and lurk in every corner of their now-sullied minds. Better to recognise an opportunity-in today's case, a dull dinner party that would be much improved (for both of them) by the knowledge of what had transpired three hours earlier-and seize it.
Whish.
Nevertheless, the Reverend struggled against looking the proverbial gift-horse in its proverbial mouth. Cpt. Aquilaine preferred the idea of pain to the reality, and would only submit to it if his rather strict conditions were met: deliberate pacing and speed, nothing too vigorous. Given the myriad restrictions and conditions St. John laboured under, he sometimes wondered exactly whom wielded the switch, and whom yielded to it. Still, he could not complain overmuch.
Whish.
Halfway done. A deepening red, and small raised weals where the switch landed on previously-marked skin. Now St. John wished he could strike harder, or less regularly, anything that might throw the Captain off balance and push him past pleasure into discomfiture. Fortissimo, rather than forte.
Whish.
Strangely, though, today he could not settle into the right frame of mind (meaning any frame of mind, good or bad, that increased his arousal). Judging from appearances, the Captain was also struggling to join in the spirit of the venture.
Whish.
Perhaps St. John had not yet set aside his anger at the missing £40, and Cpt. Aquilaine sensed that genuine displeasure. Or perhaps it was time to expand his horizons a bit, and test the boundaries of what he would easily allow, or endure. Only one way to determine it.
Whish.
The Captain flinched and hissed, “St. John, it is too … I cannot … ” The words trailed off as he shifted his hips uneasily, staring at the tablecloth. “I am sorry. I do not think, today … ” St. John's fist tightened around the switch in frustration.
Whish.
Too swift, too vigorous. With a gasp, Cpt. Aquilaine jerked halfway upright, and one of his hands lept back to clutch at where the switch had landed moments before. Remorse flooded over St. John as he realised his mistake; he had indeed let anger overtake annoyance, which was entirely contrary to their unstated agreement. He knew what must be done.
“Marcus, love, I am sorry-I am being too stern. Here, let me remedy it.” With his left hand, he began to knead at the small of the Captain's back, hoping to transmute pain into something altogether more pleasant. With his right, still holding the switch, he gently shifted Cpt. Aquilaine's hand back onto the table, then took up running his own thumb carefully over the hard, reddened welt he had just created. Sin and more sin-that simple action proved as stimulating as anything St. John had ever experienced. The Captain evidently felt it too. What desire could arise between them from something as simple as touch!
When the Captain had calmed and began to shift about more happily, the Reverend murmured, “You are almost done, Marcus, merely five to go. Can you manage?”
Cpt. Aquilaine nodded. “I want to-you know I do-I think I can.”
“You can. I have no doubt of that.” It was ridiculous, insupportable, trying to convince his friend to bear up patiently under a trial that was entirely of the Reverend's own making. It was not as if he had a bone that needed setting, and must simply grit his teeth until the task was done. They could stop at any time, and yet they both behaved as if this came entirely from some uncontrolled, external force. What a mystery it all was.
He took his thumb away and raised his arm.
Whish.
Finally, finally the desired result as Cpt. Aquilaine sighed and clutched at the tablecloth-not out of discomfort, but out of need. The Reverend began to wonder if he would actually reach the end of the whipping before his legs gave out from under him (the Captain, at least, had a table to lean on).
Whish.
St. John half wished they could continue like this as long as the Captain could bear it, and half wished they could stop immediately so he could yield to his own desires. But not quite yet.
Whish.
Making eye contact across the dinner courses, knowing what had transpired between them, and thinking how the Captain must feel to sit on an unforgiving wooden chair for hours at a time …
Whish.
Oh dear-
Whish.
St. John collapsed over the Captain, leaning his weight on the larger man, one hand groping around for his friend's erection whilst the other moved insistently over the welts, hard and red, that he had just placed on the Captain's skin. “Marcus, God, what a pretty sight you make thus bent over for me. I cannot wait, not another second. Please.”
“Yes, hurry,” Cpt. Aquilaine nodded urgently. So the Reverend shifted his focus to his own trouser-buttons, and very swiftly matched the Captain's naked state. Thus unclad, he bent once more over his friend, and would have begun an attempt at even further intimacies, if the Captain had not had the presence of mind to gasp out, “Oil?”
“Next to the crum-Blast, I left it upstairs!”
The Captain laughed as he straightened up. “A little over-eager today? Never mind. There are plenty of other ways to manage-here.” He grasped the Reverend from behind in an embrace, one arm around his waist, the other reaching down further and encircling his arousal. Without further preamble, he began to slowly stroke up and down the length of St. John's cock, sliding back the foreskin as he went.
Such a deliberate pacing and speed was not the Captain's first preference; he preferred quicker, firmer, more vigorous intimacies. But such practices quickly overwhelmed the Reverend's more sensitive nature (“tender as a maid,” Cpt. Aquilaine would mutter on occasion), pushing him past enjoyment into a sharp discomfort, and so the Captain over the years had studied the art of slower, more deliberate activity. And he had learned it well. St. John shook and he leant heavily on the Captain's arms. As his head sagged onto Cpt. Aquilaine's shoulder,the Captain ran his teeth down the side of the Reverend's neck and tugged at one ear with his lips, until the room began to fade before St. John's eyes and he felt he were drifting, floating along on a slowly advancing wave of pleasure.
“There, that should do.”
The Reverend's eyes flew open as the sensation of a warm, tight hand on his cock was replaced by cold air and a sudden, gaping emptiness. His tongue was thick and clumsy; his lips tried and failed to form words; he glanced down at his arousal, which jutted obscenely into the air, hard and red, then over to the Captain, who was very carefully tucking his own erection back into his trousers. Finally he stammered out, “Wait, Marcus-how? What?”
“I said, that should do for now.”
“You have stopped.” His mind moved too slowly, and the great and trembling need welling up within him suddenly began to ache unpleasantly. “Why have you stopped?”
“That should be half-a-cup's worth, or so,” Cpt. Aquilaine replied as he cautiously sat back down in his chair. He raised his eyebrows and gave St. John an arch expression that St. John recognised, ruefully, as being one of his own. “You may have the other half-a-cup when I have finished my tea.”
~*~
“Oh Baba, Baba, she's beautiful! Is she really mine, really?” Muniya clapped her hands over her mouth to muffle a squeal.
“Try not to be too disappointed, Maina-bird. I know most young ladies get silk dresses and balls and such when they turn ten, but I am afraid you will have to content yourself with this.” In response, Muniya threw herself around the Captain's neck, laughing and kissing as she proclaimed him the best father any girl had ever had, anywhere.
“Will I get riding lessons, too? How often can I come and see her? What should I name her?”
Cpt. Aquilaine laughed. “Ah, so you do like your present, after all.”
“She's perfect! Can I learn how to jump her?”
As he watched from a slight distance, St. John's heart sank into his stomach. Muniya, an only child perpetually surrounded by grown ups, was ever attuned to the moods of the adults around her, and she noticed his dismay almost immediately.
“Are you unhappy, Reverend? Don't you like her?”
He immediately shifted his expression and gave her the brightest smile he could muster; there was no point in letting financial concerns dampen her happiness. “I think she is excellent, Birdie. She has a good colour and build, and will make an excellent mount for a young lady such as yourself. But is she not a little … small for a horse?”
“Oh, but she's not a horse at all,” Muniya corrected him artlessly. “She's a Welsh Mountain Pony. They're much better than horses. They're stout, and brave, and not fussy, and they don't shy easily.”
The Captain beamed down at her. “I had no idea you knew so much about the breed, Maina. Where did you learn all this?”
She shrugged. “I read a few books about them, is all. And Welsh ponies are great jumpers, Baba. Am I going to get riding lessons?”
“Of course!” He waved over the stable's resident trainer. “You shall have riding lessons twice a week, and may come over after school as often as you like to help with grooming. Mr. Atta will teach you how to care for her and how to ride, and-when you are ready for it-that shall include jumping. I promise.”
Hearing this, St. John felt compelled to speak up. “Are you serious, Marcus? I am no horseman, but even I know that such maneouvers are hardly safe for a woman. I do not want to see Muniya injured. A dignified canter is one thing, but hard riding and leaping about like on a fox-hunt are activities best left to men, are they not?”
The Captain, Muniya, and Mr. Atta all started to correct him at once; eventually, the Captain's loud, soldierly voice won out. “Mt. Atta, show him the saddle. Really, St. John, these are modern times, and technology has progressed wonderfully. Here, do you see this?” The trainer held up the saddle, and Cpt. Aquilaine began explaining the finer points of women's horsemanship while Muniya nodded emphatically. “The balance girth, here, evens out the load and removes any danger of being cast off. The stirrup is sturdy, and able to bear as much weight as a man's stirrups are; it can be leant on for hard riding. And see this pommel here? This is a new innovation called a leaping horn. While the left leg fits underneath, as usual, the right knee wraps around and over so a skilled horsewoman cannot be thrown, even whilst in mid-air. It is in all points as safe as riding astride, and far more modest.”
“I suppose, if you are comfortable with it … you are her father, after all.” St. John shook his head. “I shall keep my opinions to myself.”
Muniya gave him a distraught look. “You don't approve, Reverend? But I'll never be able to enjoy myself, if I know you don't think it's right!”
St. John stared at her for a moment, blinking; every time he thought he had lost the ability to be surprised, Muniya overthrew that assumption. It both impressed and infuriated him, how insights that had taken him a lifetime to realise spilled so carelessly from her lips. (He, too, lost nearly all pleasure in an activity if someone he respected voiced their disapproval, but it was 30 years before he discovered that unfortunate fact.) When his voice returned to him, he replied,
“I think you will make a very fine rider, Birdie, for you have the heart of a cavalry officer, and the refinement of a young gentlewoman. I never rode much, myself, and so I am more hesitant than I ought to be, but do not be discouraged. I do approve, entirely, and in fact I hope my gift reflects that. As your father is giving you a horse, I thought it might be appropriate if I gave you a proper riding habit. Would you like that?”
Muniya's eyes got very wide, and she nodded silently. She was not, however, quiet for long. “A proper habit? With a long skirt, and a jacket with brass buttons, and a hat with a veil, and a riding crop, and boots and gloves and everything? Really?”
Next to them, the Captain stiffened perceptibly. St. John's smile widened. “Really and truly. If you are going to learn to be a horsewoman, you must have the right equipment.”
For a moment, Muniya looked as though she might also throw her arms around the Reverend; then she remembered herself and instead gave him a dutiful peck on the cheek. “Thank you, Godfather.” By now, she knew better than to show her true affections for him in public, even if she did not understand entirely why (and pray God it would be years, if ever, before she truly understood). St. John would collect his kiss in the privacy of their little home. Then Mr. Atta enquired as to whether she wished to come and watch him while he groomed her new horse, and she vanished in the direction of the stalls.
Cpt. Aquilaine edged up next to the Reverend, and there was an awkward pause, which St. John enjoyed very much. “Something on your mind, Marcus?”
“Merely this: a riding habit? You did not mention that to me-I certainly would have remembered it. Have you just thought that all up?” he murmured.
“Entirely.” St. John mentally set aside the present he had already purchased-a matched, leather-bound set of Bible, Concordance, and Commentary on the Gospels, which he had chosen for her with such pleasure and pride, and which he belatedly realised would have likely been received far less enthusiastically than a riding habit-and tried to accustom himself to his new gift. “But it will suit her nicely, and given how ravaged they have already become, a few more pounds for clothing shall hardly be the death of our finances.”
“I was hoping to speak to you on that. It is £5 a month for stabling, feed, and lessons, and I doubt we cannot simply economise on the butcher's bill to make up for it. Perhaps I can take on extra work at the Fort … ”
“Certainly not. We shall have to use the interest from her inheritance. Did you know Marcus? It earns her more than £15 per month. I do not see how it would harm her to understand the choices adults have to make.”
“But do not compel her to spend it, St. John! That is not fair.”
“I would not do that, not for anything. But she may decide she prefers to use some of the interest, rather than see you work even longer hours than you already do. I think we can trust her to start making those choices, now.”
They both turned to watch her as Mr. Atta began his first formal lesson, on how one must always keep one's hand palm up and fingers straight when offering a horse a bit of carrot. Eventually, the Captain cleared his throat.
“By the by,” he muttered, “do not get any ideas.”
“O Marcus, it is far too late for that.”
“The answer is no, absolutely not, no way and no how.”
“Did we not promise to each other, quite some time ago, that if one of us had an interest in a … particular sort of act, the other ought to at least try once before ruling it out altogether?”
“I have not forgotten that,” the Captain conceded, grudgingly. “That was, if I recall correctly, the one time me fellavisti.”
“Hush, now. It is not that infrequent.”
Cpt. Aquilaine scowled and crossed his arms. “This is payback for the tea, is it not?”
“Oh yes, entirely.”
“And you will figure out some manner of, ah, doing so that I dislike, but not quite enough.”
“Then I shall soften the blow first, as your fellator.”
“So to speak.” The Captain scowled; he had lost again.
“Indeed. So to speak.”
I hereby disavow all knowledge of what I have just written and posted.
*blush* oh god, do not read it.
by the by, it is all based on this early Victorian tea set. Early Victorian art is fabulous, because it's before they started putting lace over everything.
In which Cpt. Aquliaine takes his tea, eventually, and he and the Rev. St. John Rivers discover the various perils of switching rôles.
~*~
Cpt. Aquilaine shook his coat vigorously in the small entranceway, sending up clouds of dust as he did. “Good God, what wretchedness,” he muttered to no-one in particular. For good measure, he knocked his shako sharply against the door frame, sending up a smaller but equally determined puff, one which made him cough yet again and scowl at the grittiness of his teeth, an action he had been undertaking for most of the afternoon.
“Muniya, lass, are you home? Come give your Baba a kiss!” No footsteps answers his request. Indeed, the entire house seemed almost preternaturally still. Coughing a little more, for good measure, he slapped more dust off his trousers and then glanced about in despair at the mess his arrival had created.
The drought in the Bengali territories had now reached its 4th month, and combined with the weak monsoons of the year prior, the land was deeply parched. Everyone feared a repeat of the cruel famine which had ravaged Agra eight years past, carried off so many and spread so much suffering through the rural villages. It was almost universally acknowledged, by British and Indian alike, that the upcoming summer would be difficult, and that everything depended on good rains come July. In the meantime, while they waited, the dust worked its way into every crack in the plaster, every seam and stitch of clothing, and (if the servants were careless) nearly every bite of food. Their small household did not employ careless servants-not for very long, at any rate-and so at least for the Captain, returning after work was a constant delight. Then he could take tea with Muniya and listen to her talk while he relived the days of his own childhood, when he still enjoyed school and and the world seemed a grand and wonderous place that promised merely to become yet grander and more wonderous the more he explored it. Some days, if work or charity or politics or the church had not kept him away, the Rev. Rivers also joined them, and then the three would drink together, contented and cheerful. In a season of red and watering eyes, throats scraped raw from coughing, and the constant covering of noses with damp handkerchiefs, he took great enjoyment in coming home to good company and hot tea.
Today, however, no one answered his hallos.
He wandered through the parlour, marvelling at the quietness of the house-an increasingly rare state for it to find itself in-and put his head into the kitchen. No cook, no footman. Still no Muniya, either; the entire population of their tiny townhouse appeared to have gone on holiday. But he smelled something fresh and fragrant, with a hint of bergamot …
The Captain hastened into the library at the back of the house. This room was a veritable home within a home, a calm, quiet little room filled with books, comfortable chairs, and a queer sort of oriel window, incorrectly placed on the ground floor by a junior architect attempting to be fanciful. Few things were as delightful to him as when he would find the Reverend reclining on the window-seat, reading some theological essay or simply staring at the dust motes drifting by. And when Rev. Rivers' mood turned dark and he retreated to his private study above the library, the Captain would often sit below and smoke, listening to the footsteps overhead and wishing helplessly that he could do something to soothe his friend's ill temper. When they had time to themselves, they liked to lunch there together, make a greater show of their affections than they otherwise could, and reflect on the many ways their humble lives had brought them joy.
As he stepped into the room, Cpt. Aquilaine was rewarded by both of his heart's desires: St. John Rivers, and tea.
“Oh thank God, St. John. Between the heat and the dust, and an entire afternoon spent in the sun inspecting long guns, you have no idea how badly I need a cup.”
“Yes, I assumed as much.” The Reverend did not glance up from his devotional, so the Captain bent down to kiss him on the cheek; St. John tilted his head to one side, allowing for better access, but did not take his eyes off the text. Cpt. Aquilaine ignored this unsociable behaviour-it could hardly be considered out of the ordinary, considering the Reverend's habit of reading even at the dinner table-and he looked over the table in immense satisfaction.
A brass kettle steamed gently on its hemp trivet. Next to it sat the round, cheerful teapot, sugar bowl with chipped lid, and stately creamer, all unglazed red with silver scroll-work detailing. (The set, a popular style from the Wedgwood company in Staffordshire, had been a gift from Mary Wharton, née Rivers, on the occasion of her wedding three years earlier.) On either side of the table, with an almost mathematical precision, there were bone china cups and saucers, spoons, dessert plates, butter dish, jam and clotted cream pots, strainer, and sugar tongs. On one serving plate teetered a pile of tea-cakes with currants, another held fresh crumpets, and a third offered bright orange jalebi. Beneath it all lay a wealth of fabrics: green silken table cloth, embroidered place mats, somewhat clumsily-tatted doilies that they did not dare throw out because Muniya was so desperately proud of them, and napkins still in their silver rings.
“Where is everyone at present? The place seems to be deserted.”
“Nurse has taken Muniya and the twins to the bazaar to buy … scarves or shawls or whatnot. Cook is shopping for dinner, and the footman has the afternoon off.”
“I am delighted to hear it. Then it shall be just you and I-” Cpt. Aquilaine paused halfway through his thought; whatever he was about to say next fled his mind entirely.
Sitting on the table, next to his cup and saucer, was a switch.
The Captain looked at the switch, then the tea, then the switch again, and then finally at the Reverend (who steadfastly kept his eyes on his book).
“St. John, you set the table yourself, did you not?”
“Indeed.”
“And … I have apparently committed some error that you feel demands reproof?”
“Indeed.”
“Such as what?”
“Such as the fact that I have spent five hours this morning going through a year's worth of household accounts, trying to discern whyfor we are nearly £40 poorer for the year than anticipated. I will admit to cleverness on your part-it took me some time to discover exactly by how much we had fallen short of the mark, and how the money had vanished in the first-and yet more time to shift things around enough for us to make good on all our bills.” The Reverend finally looked up from his book; his eyes were calm and cold. “I cannot imagine what you were thinking. Forty pounds! We scarcely make £250 per annum, between the two of us. With every passing month it seems the bills grow larger and the prices more dear. And yet you have, over the past 12 months, hidden away a full £40-to what end?”
Cpt. Aquilaine glanced back to the table and the switch; it now seemed a safer course than holding eye-contact. “It is a secret. You shall know, soon enough.”
The Reverend set his book on the table with a thump and the spoons rattled in their saucers. “If I was a more foolish man, I would worry that you were having some sort of indiscretion, and had fiddled it away on ear-rings and perfumes. Luckily for us both I know that is not the case, but what then? Have you made a bad loan to a friend, and are ashamed to tell me? Did you buy stock in some failed company? Have you taken to gambling on cards?”
The Captain turned sulky. “You will learn presently. I am not going to say another word on the subject before then.”
“Ha. I suspected you would say as much, or-more precisely-as little. Therefore, you must choose.” The Reverend gestured silently at the Captain's place setting.
“Choose?”
“Yes, Marcus. There is tea and a switch, and the choice is yours.”
Cpt. Aquilaine tried to remain cheerful, despite the tides that were running very much against him. “Well, I suppose if you are insistent, St. John, and if a choice must be made, then I shall take the tea, thank you.” He made motion to reach for a jalebi; for this he received another piercing look. Rev. Rivers appeared to be in a particularly severe mood that afternoon, never a good thing. The Captain retreated, empty-handed.
“It is not an exclusive choice, one or the other! Rather, my dear Marcus, the choice is both-” St. John narrowed his eyes at the Captain, “-or neither.”
“Ah. That was not entirely clear.”
“Now I have clarified it.”
Judging from the expression on his face, the Reverend held the moral high ground and knew it, although he did not yet realise the full extent of the betrayal; for the Captain had not only spent their money most extravagantly, but had also spent it on a purchase that would continue to bleed funds from the budget with each passing month. Cpt. Aquilaine decided not to mention that detail-the situation (from his vantage) was unfortunate enough already.
Unfortunate, or fortunate. The veil between the two was flimsy, at present.
Testing the waters gingerly, searching for the correct response, he replied, “Perhaps I will simply head down to the pub and have a pint. A cool ale on a hot day is both refreshing and convivial, which is more than I can say for your company.”
In answer, Rev. Rivers simply took up the strainer and carefully, deliberately, poured out a single cup of tea. The scent of Earl Grey filled the small room. Without so much as a glance upwards, he retrieved a rough lump of sugar with one hand and the creamer with the other, then stirred. When he was satisfied, he stood and offered it to Cpt. Aquilaine, who merely gazed longingly. After a long moment's silence, St. John set the now-full cup on the Captain's saucer with a shrug.
“Go have a pint, if you like. It is one and the same to me.”
Cpt. Aquilaine saw his opening and took it. “If you must know, I am rather inclined to stay here, but … I cannot tell exactly how displeased with me you are, St. John.”
“Quite. Very, even.” The Reverend's expression did not change even a whit.
“Yes, that is abundantly clear, but there is a unique blend of anger and annoyance in every instance of your displeasure, and I am uncertain as to that current balance.” He leaned over the table until they were nearly nose to nose. The Reverend remained impassive and severe, but now the Captain could spot the merest hint of softening about the lips, and perhaps a needful quality to the eyes suggesting that anger (if not annoyance) had some time ago given way to other emotions. It was a complex sort of game, of course, and one that neither man was ever willing to admit an interest in playing, and so quite often getting from the proposition to the acceptance to the heart of the matter was a sore trial in and of itself. Arrive overly-quickly, and they would feel too shamed to continue. Arrive too slowly, and they ran the risk of mingling faux disagreements with more genuine ones.
“I think you are too aggravated with me today.”
“I will admit I am in a temper, Marcus, but you know I do not act out of anger. Rather, it is sorrow at that which must be done. I assure you, I do not relish my duty.”
Cpt. Aquilaine lowered his gaze to the table as casually as he could manage, ostensibly to look longingly at the tea once more. Subterfuge, however, was scarcely necessary, as the true purpose of his glance made itself abundantly clear: the good Reverend spoke false. He could not help but smirk. “I think you are in violation of the ninth commandment, St. John.”
The Reverend stern countenance gave way to bafflement. “You are accusing me of coveting Mrs. Mackenzie?”
“No, you are bearing false witness!”
“Oh good heavens. That is the eighth commandment, and now you are stalling. Choose.”
The Captain sighed; he had lost some time ago, and knew it, but there was no point in giving away too much, too quickly. “Very well, I bow to your superior sense of … justice. But I want a cup of tea first.”
“Certainly not!” St. John exclaimed. “That is not how it works.”
“Come now, I am absolutely parched, tired, dusty, and out of sorts, which means I am not likely to, ah, profit overmuch from all of this, if I do not have anything to wet my throat first.” Almost as an afterthought, he muttered, “For God's sake, St. John, give over a bit.”
“Half a cup, then.”
Cpt. Aquilaine stared at him for a moment. “You're a hard bastard, aren't you?”
The Reverend shrugged and handed him the tea, a bit ungraciously. “Half a cup, and you may have the rest when I am finished with you.” The Captain accepted it, grudgingly, and sipped as slowly as he could manage, which was still far too swiftly. St. John had some years ago made a study of the proper way to prepare tea, whilst searching for a tangible way to show his affections even when his mood was black. As with most things, when he worked intensely at a problem he achieved his desired results. The Earl Grey had steeped neither too little nor too much, and was blended with just the right amounts of cream and sugar. When he had drunk his allotted amount Cpt. Aquilaine set the cup down as per orders. He had half a mind to finish it in one hot gulp, but that might have ended things immediately; they were so close to the heart of the matter now, and in truth his enthusiasm matched the Reverend's. Instead, he turned to the task at hand.
While he was distracted by the buttons on his trousers, St. John touched him on the arm and murmured, “I would settle for a simple explanation, of course.”
They made eye contact, just long enough for Cpt. Aquilaine to read the hesitation on the Reverend's face, his uncertainty as to their present course of action. So he smiled, briefly. “I am silent as the tomb, St. John, and you will have to reconcile yourself to it.” With that, he leant over the table and settled onto his elbows.
~*~
Whish.
Exposition, climax, dénouement. No-the narrative structure of a novel did not quite apply to the current situation, however much St. John might like the idea. Music, perhaps? Crescendo, forte, diminuendo. He did not think this was correct, either, although it drew closer to the heart of the matter, closer to its ebb and flow. Also, the genteel Italian of musical cadence lent a poetic gloss to what was, frankly, immoralità su larga scala.
Whish.
Exordium, confirmatio, peroratio? He doubted rhetoric could assist (although if any scholarly tradition could, it would certainly be Greek). Thus the Reverend utilised the simple act of observation. This, however, required a good deal of focus, which left him feeling more like spectator than participant. He would prefer to lose himself in the rhythm. Nevertheless, observation had served him well in the past, and he had a rôle to play. Back to the task at hand.
Whish.
The Captain inhaled sharply and flinched; after a long moment of tension he exhaled, unclenching his fists as he did so. The expression on his face was one of reluctant concentration. Close behind him and a little off to one side, the Reverend tapped his foot on the carpeting, impatiently, and wondered if his present irritation showed that he still harboured more anger than previously admitted. Realising that the question was not soon to be resolved, he drew back his arm.
Whish.
Again, the Captain flinched, tensed, and relaxed. St. John watched with a dispassionate sort of interest, as the sharp red line across white flesh blossomed into a wider, pinker swath. He had always been fascinated by the Captain's skin, how it turned dark and ruddy in summer while the parts permanently hidden away from sunlight remained as pale and delicate as St. John imagined a maiden's must look like (not that he had ever seen a maiden's arse, nor ever would at this rate).
Whish.
What a privilege, to be allowed this much power over another person, to encounter someone at their most vulnerable and both add to and exploit that vulnerability. To also do so in a way that brought both of them an almost shame-faced amount of pleasure was a delight he had never once expected to taste. They did this rarely, as time and circumstances and mood scarcely ever aligned to provide the opportunity; it was far less frequent than either of them would prefer.
Whish.
It all started shortly after Muniya began school. She came home one afternoon in tears, having gotten her hand caned for talking in class. Cpt. Aquilaine, furious, demanded that the Reverend ensure no such thing happened again. So St. John had spoken to his fellow-teacher (who resolutely ignored him) and then to the board of directors, making a plea to modernise disciplinary methods. The board had been so impressed with the Reverend's paedogological theories-
Whish.
-that they promptly offered him the position of interim Superintendent, and so he had returned home that very day with an armful of canes and switches, angry at the Captain for interfering with his employment. The Captain, as was his wont, then joked about not letting such a good opportunity go to waste. Since they had, ages ago, agreed to accommodate themselves to each other's wishes at least once, rather than simply rejecting ideas out of hand-
Whish.
-they had thus discovered just how much the Captain enjoyed being whipped, and how much the Reverend enjoyed doing the whipping. The rôles suited them both just fine. St. John could not understand why a man who spent all day commanding others might wish to come home and submit entirely to someone else's authority; then again, the idea of caning schoolchildren churned St. John's stomach, but caning the Captain made his pulse race with joy.
Whish.
This was a Pandora's box of temptation; what was learned could not be unlearned, and pretending otherwise only caused the flames to burn hotter. Better, they agreed, to give sin a place at the table, lest it take over the house in secret and lurk in every corner of their now-sullied minds. Better to recognise an opportunity-in today's case, a dull dinner party that would be much improved (for both of them) by the knowledge of what had transpired three hours earlier-and seize it.
Whish.
Nevertheless, the Reverend struggled against looking the proverbial gift-horse in its proverbial mouth. Cpt. Aquilaine preferred the idea of pain to the reality, and would only submit to it if his rather strict conditions were met: deliberate pacing and speed, nothing too vigorous. Given the myriad restrictions and conditions St. John laboured under, he sometimes wondered exactly whom wielded the switch, and whom yielded to it. Still, he could not complain overmuch.
Whish.
Halfway done. A deepening red, and small raised weals where the switch landed on previously-marked skin. Now St. John wished he could strike harder, or less regularly, anything that might throw the Captain off balance and push him past pleasure into discomfiture. Fortissimo, rather than forte.
Whish.
Strangely, though, today he could not settle into the right frame of mind (meaning any frame of mind, good or bad, that increased his arousal). Judging from appearances, the Captain was also struggling to join in the spirit of the venture.
Whish.
Perhaps St. John had not yet set aside his anger at the missing £40, and Cpt. Aquilaine sensed that genuine displeasure. Or perhaps it was time to expand his horizons a bit, and test the boundaries of what he would easily allow, or endure. Only one way to determine it.
Whish.
The Captain flinched and hissed, “St. John, it is too … I cannot … ” The words trailed off as he shifted his hips uneasily, staring at the tablecloth. “I am sorry. I do not think, today … ” St. John's fist tightened around the switch in frustration.
Whish.
Too swift, too vigorous. With a gasp, Cpt. Aquilaine jerked halfway upright, and one of his hands lept back to clutch at where the switch had landed moments before. Remorse flooded over St. John as he realised his mistake; he had indeed let anger overtake annoyance, which was entirely contrary to their unstated agreement. He knew what must be done.
“Marcus, love, I am sorry-I am being too stern. Here, let me remedy it.” With his left hand, he began to knead at the small of the Captain's back, hoping to transmute pain into something altogether more pleasant. With his right, still holding the switch, he gently shifted Cpt. Aquilaine's hand back onto the table, then took up running his own thumb carefully over the hard, reddened welt he had just created. Sin and more sin-that simple action proved as stimulating as anything St. John had ever experienced. The Captain evidently felt it too. What desire could arise between them from something as simple as touch!
When the Captain had calmed and began to shift about more happily, the Reverend murmured, “You are almost done, Marcus, merely five to go. Can you manage?”
Cpt. Aquilaine nodded. “I want to-you know I do-I think I can.”
“You can. I have no doubt of that.” It was ridiculous, insupportable, trying to convince his friend to bear up patiently under a trial that was entirely of the Reverend's own making. It was not as if he had a bone that needed setting, and must simply grit his teeth until the task was done. They could stop at any time, and yet they both behaved as if this came entirely from some uncontrolled, external force. What a mystery it all was.
He took his thumb away and raised his arm.
Whish.
Finally, finally the desired result as Cpt. Aquilaine sighed and clutched at the tablecloth-not out of discomfort, but out of need. The Reverend began to wonder if he would actually reach the end of the whipping before his legs gave out from under him (the Captain, at least, had a table to lean on).
Whish.
St. John half wished they could continue like this as long as the Captain could bear it, and half wished they could stop immediately so he could yield to his own desires. But not quite yet.
Whish.
Making eye contact across the dinner courses, knowing what had transpired between them, and thinking how the Captain must feel to sit on an unforgiving wooden chair for hours at a time …
Whish.
Oh dear-
Whish.
St. John collapsed over the Captain, leaning his weight on the larger man, one hand groping around for his friend's erection whilst the other moved insistently over the welts, hard and red, that he had just placed on the Captain's skin. “Marcus, God, what a pretty sight you make thus bent over for me. I cannot wait, not another second. Please.”
“Yes, hurry,” Cpt. Aquilaine nodded urgently. So the Reverend shifted his focus to his own trouser-buttons, and very swiftly matched the Captain's naked state. Thus unclad, he bent once more over his friend, and would have begun an attempt at even further intimacies, if the Captain had not had the presence of mind to gasp out, “Oil?”
“Next to the crum-Blast, I left it upstairs!”
The Captain laughed as he straightened up. “A little over-eager today? Never mind. There are plenty of other ways to manage-here.” He grasped the Reverend from behind in an embrace, one arm around his waist, the other reaching down further and encircling his arousal. Without further preamble, he began to slowly stroke up and down the length of St. John's cock, sliding back the foreskin as he went.
Such a deliberate pacing and speed was not the Captain's first preference; he preferred quicker, firmer, more vigorous intimacies. But such practices quickly overwhelmed the Reverend's more sensitive nature (“tender as a maid,” Cpt. Aquilaine would mutter on occasion), pushing him past enjoyment into a sharp discomfort, and so the Captain over the years had studied the art of slower, more deliberate activity. And he had learned it well. St. John shook and he leant heavily on the Captain's arms. As his head sagged onto Cpt. Aquilaine's shoulder,the Captain ran his teeth down the side of the Reverend's neck and tugged at one ear with his lips, until the room began to fade before St. John's eyes and he felt he were drifting, floating along on a slowly advancing wave of pleasure.
“There, that should do.”
The Reverend's eyes flew open as the sensation of a warm, tight hand on his cock was replaced by cold air and a sudden, gaping emptiness. His tongue was thick and clumsy; his lips tried and failed to form words; he glanced down at his arousal, which jutted obscenely into the air, hard and red, then over to the Captain, who was very carefully tucking his own erection back into his trousers. Finally he stammered out, “Wait, Marcus-how? What?”
“I said, that should do for now.”
“You have stopped.” His mind moved too slowly, and the great and trembling need welling up within him suddenly began to ache unpleasantly. “Why have you stopped?”
“That should be half-a-cup's worth, or so,” Cpt. Aquilaine replied as he cautiously sat back down in his chair. He raised his eyebrows and gave St. John an arch expression that St. John recognised, ruefully, as being one of his own. “You may have the other half-a-cup when I have finished my tea.”
~*~
“Oh Baba, Baba, she's beautiful! Is she really mine, really?” Muniya clapped her hands over her mouth to muffle a squeal.
“Try not to be too disappointed, Maina-bird. I know most young ladies get silk dresses and balls and such when they turn ten, but I am afraid you will have to content yourself with this.” In response, Muniya threw herself around the Captain's neck, laughing and kissing as she proclaimed him the best father any girl had ever had, anywhere.
“Will I get riding lessons, too? How often can I come and see her? What should I name her?”
Cpt. Aquilaine laughed. “Ah, so you do like your present, after all.”
“She's perfect! Can I learn how to jump her?”
As he watched from a slight distance, St. John's heart sank into his stomach. Muniya, an only child perpetually surrounded by grown ups, was ever attuned to the moods of the adults around her, and she noticed his dismay almost immediately.
“Are you unhappy, Reverend? Don't you like her?”
He immediately shifted his expression and gave her the brightest smile he could muster; there was no point in letting financial concerns dampen her happiness. “I think she is excellent, Birdie. She has a good colour and build, and will make an excellent mount for a young lady such as yourself. But is she not a little … small for a horse?”
“Oh, but she's not a horse at all,” Muniya corrected him artlessly. “She's a Welsh Mountain Pony. They're much better than horses. They're stout, and brave, and not fussy, and they don't shy easily.”
The Captain beamed down at her. “I had no idea you knew so much about the breed, Maina. Where did you learn all this?”
She shrugged. “I read a few books about them, is all. And Welsh ponies are great jumpers, Baba. Am I going to get riding lessons?”
“Of course!” He waved over the stable's resident trainer. “You shall have riding lessons twice a week, and may come over after school as often as you like to help with grooming. Mr. Atta will teach you how to care for her and how to ride, and-when you are ready for it-that shall include jumping. I promise.”
Hearing this, St. John felt compelled to speak up. “Are you serious, Marcus? I am no horseman, but even I know that such maneouvers are hardly safe for a woman. I do not want to see Muniya injured. A dignified canter is one thing, but hard riding and leaping about like on a fox-hunt are activities best left to men, are they not?”
The Captain, Muniya, and Mr. Atta all started to correct him at once; eventually, the Captain's loud, soldierly voice won out. “Mt. Atta, show him the saddle. Really, St. John, these are modern times, and technology has progressed wonderfully. Here, do you see this?” The trainer held up the saddle, and Cpt. Aquilaine began explaining the finer points of women's horsemanship while Muniya nodded emphatically. “The balance girth, here, evens out the load and removes any danger of being cast off. The stirrup is sturdy, and able to bear as much weight as a man's stirrups are; it can be leant on for hard riding. And see this pommel here? This is a new innovation called a leaping horn. While the left leg fits underneath, as usual, the right knee wraps around and over so a skilled horsewoman cannot be thrown, even whilst in mid-air. It is in all points as safe as riding astride, and far more modest.”
“I suppose, if you are comfortable with it … you are her father, after all.” St. John shook his head. “I shall keep my opinions to myself.”
Muniya gave him a distraught look. “You don't approve, Reverend? But I'll never be able to enjoy myself, if I know you don't think it's right!”
St. John stared at her for a moment, blinking; every time he thought he had lost the ability to be surprised, Muniya overthrew that assumption. It both impressed and infuriated him, how insights that had taken him a lifetime to realise spilled so carelessly from her lips. (He, too, lost nearly all pleasure in an activity if someone he respected voiced their disapproval, but it was 30 years before he discovered that unfortunate fact.) When his voice returned to him, he replied,
“I think you will make a very fine rider, Birdie, for you have the heart of a cavalry officer, and the refinement of a young gentlewoman. I never rode much, myself, and so I am more hesitant than I ought to be, but do not be discouraged. I do approve, entirely, and in fact I hope my gift reflects that. As your father is giving you a horse, I thought it might be appropriate if I gave you a proper riding habit. Would you like that?”
Muniya's eyes got very wide, and she nodded silently. She was not, however, quiet for long. “A proper habit? With a long skirt, and a jacket with brass buttons, and a hat with a veil, and a riding crop, and boots and gloves and everything? Really?”
Next to them, the Captain stiffened perceptibly. St. John's smile widened. “Really and truly. If you are going to learn to be a horsewoman, you must have the right equipment.”
For a moment, Muniya looked as though she might also throw her arms around the Reverend; then she remembered herself and instead gave him a dutiful peck on the cheek. “Thank you, Godfather.” By now, she knew better than to show her true affections for him in public, even if she did not understand entirely why (and pray God it would be years, if ever, before she truly understood). St. John would collect his kiss in the privacy of their little home. Then Mr. Atta enquired as to whether she wished to come and watch him while he groomed her new horse, and she vanished in the direction of the stalls.
Cpt. Aquilaine edged up next to the Reverend, and there was an awkward pause, which St. John enjoyed very much. “Something on your mind, Marcus?”
“Merely this: a riding habit? You did not mention that to me-I certainly would have remembered it. Have you just thought that all up?” he murmured.
“Entirely.” St. John mentally set aside the present he had already purchased-a matched, leather-bound set of Bible, Concordance, and Commentary on the Gospels, which he had chosen for her with such pleasure and pride, and which he belatedly realised would have likely been received far less enthusiastically than a riding habit-and tried to accustom himself to his new gift. “But it will suit her nicely, and given how ravaged they have already become, a few more pounds for clothing shall hardly be the death of our finances.”
“I was hoping to speak to you on that. It is £5 a month for stabling, feed, and lessons, and I doubt we cannot simply economise on the butcher's bill to make up for it. Perhaps I can take on extra work at the Fort … ”
“Certainly not. We shall have to use the interest from her inheritance. Did you know Marcus? It earns her more than £15 per month. I do not see how it would harm her to understand the choices adults have to make.”
“But do not compel her to spend it, St. John! That is not fair.”
“I would not do that, not for anything. But she may decide she prefers to use some of the interest, rather than see you work even longer hours than you already do. I think we can trust her to start making those choices, now.”
They both turned to watch her as Mr. Atta began his first formal lesson, on how one must always keep one's hand palm up and fingers straight when offering a horse a bit of carrot. Eventually, the Captain cleared his throat.
“By the by,” he muttered, “do not get any ideas.”
“O Marcus, it is far too late for that.”
“The answer is no, absolutely not, no way and no how.”
“Did we not promise to each other, quite some time ago, that if one of us had an interest in a … particular sort of act, the other ought to at least try once before ruling it out altogether?”
“I have not forgotten that,” the Captain conceded, grudgingly. “That was, if I recall correctly, the one time me fellavisti.”
“Hush, now. It is not that infrequent.”
Cpt. Aquilaine scowled and crossed his arms. “This is payback for the tea, is it not?”
“Oh yes, entirely.”
“And you will figure out some manner of, ah, doing so that I dislike, but not quite enough.”
“Then I shall soften the blow first, as your fellator.”
“So to speak.” The Captain scowled; he had lost again.
“Indeed. So to speak.”