(no subject)
Despite his airy assurances the night before, Lord Peter had no evidence that all would indeed be well. The Lady did not seem to have lost much blood, but he knew from experience the trauma to the body that such things cause. In the war, there were men who died because they wanted that desperately to die, and not because of any bodily injury. Lord Peter was quite nearly one of them.
His night's vigil, however, has produced pleasing results. She is weak, but she dreamed, and moved in her sleep, enough that he is confident a little medical care will set her to rights. And so he trips his way down the stairs to the bar, unworried that he is still in his boating clothes from the night before, and leans on the counter.
Bar, I say, bar.
I should like a bowl of strong chicken broth, an apple sliced into very small pieces and preserved in lemon water, two eggs lightly poached, toast, bacon, strong tea --
Here he gives the machine behind the bar, which served him milky water and half a lemon as 'tea', a mistrustful look.
-- and a tray on which to carry it.
Deuced if I haven't become my own manservant.
He inspects behind the bar and, triumphantly, comes up with a large first-aid kit as the food appears.
Thank you. You may charge it to the room of the fair-haired Lady who attempted an untimely end last night, if you would be so good.
He vanishes up the stairs for long enough to eat and bandage the Lady's wounds, and then returns, replacing the first aid kit where he found it and leaving the tray on a cart near the kitchen door.
[ ooc: Lady Beatrice, if you'd like to play the morning's waking events here, I shall endeavour to manage two separate times in my thread, as Peter is quite interested, having got over his initial shock, in meeting everyonething in the bar. ]
His night's vigil, however, has produced pleasing results. She is weak, but she dreamed, and moved in her sleep, enough that he is confident a little medical care will set her to rights. And so he trips his way down the stairs to the bar, unworried that he is still in his boating clothes from the night before, and leans on the counter.
Bar, I say, bar.
I should like a bowl of strong chicken broth, an apple sliced into very small pieces and preserved in lemon water, two eggs lightly poached, toast, bacon, strong tea --
Here he gives the machine behind the bar, which served him milky water and half a lemon as 'tea', a mistrustful look.
-- and a tray on which to carry it.
Deuced if I haven't become my own manservant.
He inspects behind the bar and, triumphantly, comes up with a large first-aid kit as the food appears.
Thank you. You may charge it to the room of the fair-haired Lady who attempted an untimely end last night, if you would be so good.
He vanishes up the stairs for long enough to eat and bandage the Lady's wounds, and then returns, replacing the first aid kit where he found it and leaving the tray on a cart near the kitchen door.
[ ooc: Lady Beatrice, if you'd like to play the morning's waking events here, I shall endeavour to manage two separate times in my thread, as Peter is quite interested, having got over his initial shock, in meeting everyonething in the bar. ]