December Ficlet - 23
For black_hound who wanted Hornblower: Bush/Maria
It is by default that it happens, or perhaps through grand design. He knows he has no call to be dining at Lady Barbara’s table. He has training and manners enough to conduct himself in the proper manner, sitting quietly unless someone speaks to him directly. Mrs. Hornblower does not have that luxury, her position one that requires skill and knowledge of the social arts, and it doesn’t take Hornblower glances filled with horror and embarrassment to know that Maria has neither. Bush’s job is to know his Captain’s wishes, so it is no problem to turn his body slightly to engage her attention, withdraw the table’s focus from her without them leaving the room.
It becomes a routine, enough dinners and expectations that he finds her just as likely to broach a topic with him as he with her. After each dinner they all retire to the sitting room, men to one side to smoke and drink brandy as the ladies sit opposite sewing or discussing foreign topics such as children and menu planning. Maria looks no less lost than at dinner and, as dinner will not turn to the conflict in France with the ladies present, Bush does the one think he knows he does well and interprets his Captain’s unspoken orders, offering Maria his arm and a stroll in the gardens.
This too becomes a ritual with them at these dinner parties, enough that Maria no longer pretends anything else will happen, that anyone else will engage her. She simply stands at the patio doors and waits for him. He is uncertain how many evenings like this it has been, surprised from the beginning that he enjoys her company and has not bothered to count. She has a gentle sense of humor and an unexpected sharp wit that makes the evenings pass easily.
It has been clear, however, since the start of this evening that all is not normal. Maria’s silence is pointed, directed even at him. Still, she waits for him after dinner, and he takes her arm, leading her along the low, flowering hedge, the air scented by its pale blossoms.
“Is he angry with you?”
“I beg your pardon?” He stops, forcing her to do the same.
“My husband, Mr. Bush.” It is the first time he hears the tone from the ladies in the parlor on her lips. “Is he angry with you?”
“Not to my knowledge, ma’am.”
“It has been no secret that you disapproved of our marriage, and I cannot imagine you’ve changed your impression of me since then. I find myself wondering why he is punishing you with me? Or does your loyalty to him extend to this?”
“This?” His voice remains even, though he feels unsteady as though the ground is pitching wildly beneath his feet.
“I’m sorry.” There’s a bitter taste in the air of her laugh. “I forget that you both see me as a simpleton.”
“No.”
“Do you deny it, Mr. Bush? Deny that you urged he not marry me?”
“Not…”
“And even married, Lady Barbara is far more preferable to me.”
“Mrs. Hornblower.” The words stick in his throat, coated with guilt.
“Oh, you needn’t fear, Mr. Bush. No one suspects my beloved husband of any wrongdoing. Even is suspect he is a victim of his own morals, merely wishing for something he cannot have rather than actively pursuing it.”
“I’m afraid I…”
“Ah. I suppose men have more important topics to discuss.”
“Mrs. Hornblower, please.”
“Ladies do not have such worldly pursuits, so our topics of conversation are of the everyday nature. We take great pride in piercing to the soft spots beneath the armor of our finest dresses and corsets. Did you know, Mr. Bush, that Lady Barbara and her friends call me your loyal hunting dog?” She stares out at the still and silent roses on the other side of the garden. “Perhaps it would be best for Horatio…for all concerned if I were indisposed for these events. I feel quite sure I would not be missed.” She blinks and offers him a smile that barely makes it to the curve of her lips. “ In fact, I think there would be a great sense of relief all around.”
“I cannot speak for anyone but myself, but I would miss your presence, Mrs. Hornblower.”
“Is that so, Mr. Bush?”
“I will not insult you to say I was not concerned over your marriage. I have always been quite sure that Captain Hornblower would have great success, and you seem more suited to the life of…”
“Pray, don’t finish your thought, Mr. Bush. The dog is always destroyed when its master turns against it.”
“You are well suited to a sailor’s wife. You have proven brave and wise and strong.”
“Like a good pet.” She nods, glancing down as he reaches out, stopping his hand short of touching her. “I simply cannot move in such rarified circles.”
Bush shakes his head, feeling something dislodge in his chest, freeing the words. “I feel you would be well-suited as wife to someone like myself.”
He sees her breath catch and his body reacts, startling him. She is clearly flustered, though the hand over her mouth does not completely cover the curve of her lips. Without allowing himself to thing, he reaches out again, touching her cheek. “You’re flushed. I would not wish you to take ill. Let me escort you home.”
She nods and Bush can’t quite breathe, uncertain of what he’s asking, much less of to what she is agreeing. Still, he takes her arm again and holds it close to his body as he leads her inside to say their goodbyes.
It is by default that it happens, or perhaps through grand design. He knows he has no call to be dining at Lady Barbara’s table. He has training and manners enough to conduct himself in the proper manner, sitting quietly unless someone speaks to him directly. Mrs. Hornblower does not have that luxury, her position one that requires skill and knowledge of the social arts, and it doesn’t take Hornblower glances filled with horror and embarrassment to know that Maria has neither. Bush’s job is to know his Captain’s wishes, so it is no problem to turn his body slightly to engage her attention, withdraw the table’s focus from her without them leaving the room.
It becomes a routine, enough dinners and expectations that he finds her just as likely to broach a topic with him as he with her. After each dinner they all retire to the sitting room, men to one side to smoke and drink brandy as the ladies sit opposite sewing or discussing foreign topics such as children and menu planning. Maria looks no less lost than at dinner and, as dinner will not turn to the conflict in France with the ladies present, Bush does the one think he knows he does well and interprets his Captain’s unspoken orders, offering Maria his arm and a stroll in the gardens.
This too becomes a ritual with them at these dinner parties, enough that Maria no longer pretends anything else will happen, that anyone else will engage her. She simply stands at the patio doors and waits for him. He is uncertain how many evenings like this it has been, surprised from the beginning that he enjoys her company and has not bothered to count. She has a gentle sense of humor and an unexpected sharp wit that makes the evenings pass easily.
It has been clear, however, since the start of this evening that all is not normal. Maria’s silence is pointed, directed even at him. Still, she waits for him after dinner, and he takes her arm, leading her along the low, flowering hedge, the air scented by its pale blossoms.
“Is he angry with you?”
“I beg your pardon?” He stops, forcing her to do the same.
“My husband, Mr. Bush.” It is the first time he hears the tone from the ladies in the parlor on her lips. “Is he angry with you?”
“Not to my knowledge, ma’am.”
“It has been no secret that you disapproved of our marriage, and I cannot imagine you’ve changed your impression of me since then. I find myself wondering why he is punishing you with me? Or does your loyalty to him extend to this?”
“This?” His voice remains even, though he feels unsteady as though the ground is pitching wildly beneath his feet.
“I’m sorry.” There’s a bitter taste in the air of her laugh. “I forget that you both see me as a simpleton.”
“No.”
“Do you deny it, Mr. Bush? Deny that you urged he not marry me?”
“Not…”
“And even married, Lady Barbara is far more preferable to me.”
“Mrs. Hornblower.” The words stick in his throat, coated with guilt.
“Oh, you needn’t fear, Mr. Bush. No one suspects my beloved husband of any wrongdoing. Even is suspect he is a victim of his own morals, merely wishing for something he cannot have rather than actively pursuing it.”
“I’m afraid I…”
“Ah. I suppose men have more important topics to discuss.”
“Mrs. Hornblower, please.”
“Ladies do not have such worldly pursuits, so our topics of conversation are of the everyday nature. We take great pride in piercing to the soft spots beneath the armor of our finest dresses and corsets. Did you know, Mr. Bush, that Lady Barbara and her friends call me your loyal hunting dog?” She stares out at the still and silent roses on the other side of the garden. “Perhaps it would be best for Horatio…for all concerned if I were indisposed for these events. I feel quite sure I would not be missed.” She blinks and offers him a smile that barely makes it to the curve of her lips. “ In fact, I think there would be a great sense of relief all around.”
“I cannot speak for anyone but myself, but I would miss your presence, Mrs. Hornblower.”
“Is that so, Mr. Bush?”
“I will not insult you to say I was not concerned over your marriage. I have always been quite sure that Captain Hornblower would have great success, and you seem more suited to the life of…”
“Pray, don’t finish your thought, Mr. Bush. The dog is always destroyed when its master turns against it.”
“You are well suited to a sailor’s wife. You have proven brave and wise and strong.”
“Like a good pet.” She nods, glancing down as he reaches out, stopping his hand short of touching her. “I simply cannot move in such rarified circles.”
Bush shakes his head, feeling something dislodge in his chest, freeing the words. “I feel you would be well-suited as wife to someone like myself.”
He sees her breath catch and his body reacts, startling him. She is clearly flustered, though the hand over her mouth does not completely cover the curve of her lips. Without allowing himself to thing, he reaches out again, touching her cheek. “You’re flushed. I would not wish you to take ill. Let me escort you home.”
She nods and Bush can’t quite breathe, uncertain of what he’s asking, much less of to what she is agreeing. Still, he takes her arm again and holds it close to his body as he leads her inside to say their goodbyes.