Persuasions - Part 2
Persuasions Part 1
INFO:
Setting: Hyel's Age of Sail 'Verse.
Characters: Polly, Mal, mention of Mrs Battye (from Night Watch).
Rating: Somewhere between "B" and "C" according to this rating system (bottom of the page). There's a blush-inducing realization an a discussion of Indiscretions, but not much more than that.
Wordcount: 746 words.
Disclaimer: The author makes no claim to owning the rights of anything to do with Terry Pratchett or Discworld.
~*~
It’s a relief to at least be doing something again.
True, the “something” in question involves bits and pieces of Mal’s former wardrobe being refitted to Polly’s taller, marginally more robust form, and then dyed the flat, matte black appropriate for mourning.
“Is it really appropriate to have a seamstress call here?” she asks, one day, after Mrs Battye had left with a small valise full of clothes to be altered.
“Sandra’s one of the best,” Mal answers. “Discreet as anything. Who do you think makes my suits?”
So someone else knows, Polly thinks. I wonder how many there are.
The wardrobe in the spare room slowly fills with half a dozen carefully stitched black dresses, suitable for Sundays, for playing cards or entertaining in the afternoon, a single, dove grey gown with lavender edging that might suit for a dance if such a thing were to occur. Suitable for a country girl transplanted to the city. There will be more, Polly knows, and finds it a bit overwhelming. There are already more clothes in this closet than she has ever owned in her life.
In the drawing room, overlooking the garden, Mal leads Polly through a dozen different dances, most of which she knew fairly well already, but some of which are new to her.
“This is a little much, isn’t it?” Polly says, as she tries to follow Mal’s lead.
“Probably,” Mal responds. “But, two-three, only because you probably won’t need it.”
The waltz is currently scandalizing London ballrooms. Not the sort of dance that an upstanding young woman - particularly not one who is in mourning - would ever do. But the kind of dance that someone like Malcolm would know and, it is dawning on Polly, the kind of dance that Miss Margaret might need to be able to pull out of her bodice if she ever has to pretend to be someone other than Miss Margaret.
“How do you do it, Mal?” Polly asks, after executing a relatively simple step.
“It’s easy, once you get the hang of it,” Mal answers, guiding her in a new direction. “The steps are simple compared to most dances.”
“I don’t mean this,” Polly says, forcing them to a stop. “I mean… this. How many versions of ‘Malcolm’ are there? How do you keep them all straight?”
“Ah…”
Polly waits, resisting the urge to tap her food.
“You remember when we delivered that letter to the American consulate?” Mal begins. “What you said about me being ‘just me’? You weren’t wrong. Malcolm started out as Malinda with a pair of trousers and an appropriate haircut. Rather like Oliver, no?” Mal walks to the side board, and pours each of them a sherry while Polly considers the length of Mal’s hair, falling easily half-way down her back, and what that means about how long she’s been about this line of work.
“This remains largely the case," Mal goes on, hand Polly her glass. "If I’m called to business, I’m usually just Malcolm, the charmingly promising young man with all the friends in shipping. A great deal of the job is appearing harmless enough to talk to, and interested enough to make people feel talkative.”
“Sounds like bartending,” Polly observes, taking a draught of her sherry.
“Quite so. It’ll be a skill that you use often in this business." Mal sips her own sherry, and continues. "Sometimes Malcolm has to be a little wilder - a bit of a risk taker, a bit of a daredevil. A gambler.” She shrugs. “And sometimes I have to be… a certain type of very persuasive woman. Friendly,” Mal smirks. “I’ve always had a knack for persuasion.”
“You don’t mean…” Polly thinks of what Mal had intended to do, had been ordered to do, while in their old squad.
“Oh, but I do,” says Mal, and shakes her head. “You’d be amazed what people will tell you if they think it will win you to their beds.”
Polly feels the heat in her cheeks, and knows she’s blushing. She remembers Corporal English, before the sniper shot and the subsequent confusion; the confidence and the knowingness. She can see how that could be appealing to a certain type of man, from a certain type of woman.
Polly sips her sherry more carefully, hoping that Mal will put her blush down to the drink.
“You have a talent for this, old chap,” Mal tells her. “You pay attention and you’re good a pretending. You’ll do well.”
~*~
And there you have it.
Comments are, of course, welcome. :-)
Part 3
TTFN,
Amazon.
INFO:
Setting: Hyel's Age of Sail 'Verse.
Characters: Polly, Mal, mention of Mrs Battye (from Night Watch).
Rating: Somewhere between "B" and "C" according to this rating system (bottom of the page). There's a blush-inducing realization an a discussion of Indiscretions, but not much more than that.
Wordcount: 746 words.
Disclaimer: The author makes no claim to owning the rights of anything to do with Terry Pratchett or Discworld.
~*~
It’s a relief to at least be doing something again.
True, the “something” in question involves bits and pieces of Mal’s former wardrobe being refitted to Polly’s taller, marginally more robust form, and then dyed the flat, matte black appropriate for mourning.
“Is it really appropriate to have a seamstress call here?” she asks, one day, after Mrs Battye had left with a small valise full of clothes to be altered.
“Sandra’s one of the best,” Mal answers. “Discreet as anything. Who do you think makes my suits?”
So someone else knows, Polly thinks. I wonder how many there are.
The wardrobe in the spare room slowly fills with half a dozen carefully stitched black dresses, suitable for Sundays, for playing cards or entertaining in the afternoon, a single, dove grey gown with lavender edging that might suit for a dance if such a thing were to occur. Suitable for a country girl transplanted to the city. There will be more, Polly knows, and finds it a bit overwhelming. There are already more clothes in this closet than she has ever owned in her life.
In the drawing room, overlooking the garden, Mal leads Polly through a dozen different dances, most of which she knew fairly well already, but some of which are new to her.
“This is a little much, isn’t it?” Polly says, as she tries to follow Mal’s lead.
“Probably,” Mal responds. “But, two-three, only because you probably won’t need it.”
The waltz is currently scandalizing London ballrooms. Not the sort of dance that an upstanding young woman - particularly not one who is in mourning - would ever do. But the kind of dance that someone like Malcolm would know and, it is dawning on Polly, the kind of dance that Miss Margaret might need to be able to pull out of her bodice if she ever has to pretend to be someone other than Miss Margaret.
“How do you do it, Mal?” Polly asks, after executing a relatively simple step.
“It’s easy, once you get the hang of it,” Mal answers, guiding her in a new direction. “The steps are simple compared to most dances.”
“I don’t mean this,” Polly says, forcing them to a stop. “I mean… this. How many versions of ‘Malcolm’ are there? How do you keep them all straight?”
“Ah…”
Polly waits, resisting the urge to tap her food.
“You remember when we delivered that letter to the American consulate?” Mal begins. “What you said about me being ‘just me’? You weren’t wrong. Malcolm started out as Malinda with a pair of trousers and an appropriate haircut. Rather like Oliver, no?” Mal walks to the side board, and pours each of them a sherry while Polly considers the length of Mal’s hair, falling easily half-way down her back, and what that means about how long she’s been about this line of work.
“This remains largely the case," Mal goes on, hand Polly her glass. "If I’m called to business, I’m usually just Malcolm, the charmingly promising young man with all the friends in shipping. A great deal of the job is appearing harmless enough to talk to, and interested enough to make people feel talkative.”
“Sounds like bartending,” Polly observes, taking a draught of her sherry.
“Quite so. It’ll be a skill that you use often in this business." Mal sips her own sherry, and continues. "Sometimes Malcolm has to be a little wilder - a bit of a risk taker, a bit of a daredevil. A gambler.” She shrugs. “And sometimes I have to be… a certain type of very persuasive woman. Friendly,” Mal smirks. “I’ve always had a knack for persuasion.”
“You don’t mean…” Polly thinks of what Mal had intended to do, had been ordered to do, while in their old squad.
“Oh, but I do,” says Mal, and shakes her head. “You’d be amazed what people will tell you if they think it will win you to their beds.”
Polly feels the heat in her cheeks, and knows she’s blushing. She remembers Corporal English, before the sniper shot and the subsequent confusion; the confidence and the knowingness. She can see how that could be appealing to a certain type of man, from a certain type of woman.
Polly sips her sherry more carefully, hoping that Mal will put her blush down to the drink.
“You have a talent for this, old chap,” Mal tells her. “You pay attention and you’re good a pretending. You’ll do well.”
~*~
And there you have it.
Comments are, of course, welcome. :-)
Part 3
TTFN,
Amazon.