Persuasions - Part 4
Persuasions Part 1, Part 2, Part 3
INFO:
Setting: Hyel's Age of Sail 'Verse.
Characters: Polly, Mal, OCs.
Rating: B (Still quite tame, I'm afraid).
Wordcount: 1,210 words.
Disclaimer: The author makes no claim to owning the rights of anything to do with Terry Pratchett or Discworld.
In-Which Polly Starts to Notice Budding Feelings and Tries to Ignore them.
~*~
This is how the season passes. Cards here. Tea there. The occasional private ball - at Christmas, they are enormous but, usually, they’re smaller affairs - or musical evening. Polly learns to play three short, simple pieces on Mrs Fitzhenry’s pianoforte, the kind that can be repeated over and over as if they are a longer piece, should the need arise. Her hair grows back in thick profusion and she complains to Mal, in a rare moment of unsupervised conversation, that she must look like a sheep. She is grateful for the bonnets and turbans that keep the mess largely hidden from view.
Polly pays attention, visits her new “friends” on their at home days, and dearly wishes she had somebody, anybody, to confide in that didn’t require a hovering chaperone to be present. She tours rooms, houses, and eventually gardens with the nosey wives and almost-grown daughters of men whom Mal is watching carefully.
She hates it.
At least the letters she sends to her father are full of appropriate news - all balls and teas and errands, nothing out of the ordinary for a lady’s companion. She feels useless, very nearly missing her days at The King where, at least, she was able to keep herself busy.
Far more rarely than she writes home, she writes to Mal, not wanting to arouse suspicion but needing to talk to someone about what her life is really like.
I can’t imagine how this is doing any good, she confides, in one such missive. Surely no-one expects these girls to whisper their fathers’ secrets to me during a game of Hot Cockles? Are they hoping some society matron will show me her husband’s secret passage? What on earth is any of this accomplishing?
Still, Polly can’t ignore that fact that she’s getting better at noticing things. Most of what she notices she passes along to one or another of her superiors, often as not in the coach while returning from some visit or other. But some of what she sees, she keeps to herself.
Mrs Pemberleigh has five daughters of marriageable age.
Clara whispers to her of a young man of meagre means who has caught her eye, a young man with hopes of a parsonage. Polly thinks of Alice, whose faith was made of stone, and wonders how the girl is getting on. Lucy and Mina giggle behind their hands at every eligible bachelor who calls on their house, and Polly blushes at their jokes, for all that she’s heard considerably worse in the army. Lizzy has hopes for a decorated Lieutenant, or even a Major, and all Polly can think of is Major Blouse and his Emaline, the letter she found and damped. She hopes Lizzy gets what she wants, and that she doesn’t regret it. And then there is Jane. Jane who buries her nose in books of verse, who tolerates her gentleman callers, but who would rather dance with her sisters - once, even, with Polly - than take to the floor with a man. Polly sees her casting wistful glances at the daughter of their aging gardener, and feels a flutter of recognition at the sight. She pushes the thought away.
Mrs Rochester has a propensity for hosting social occasions through-which to while away the long, dark evenings of Winter, and takes great joy in playing match maker. Mrs Pemberleigh is often in attendance with her daughters, and is more than a little fond of a sherry or two while she plays whist with the other matrons.
Polly spends the winter playing cards with the chaperones, watching Mrs P’s nerves get worse and worse; and parlour games with Mrs R’s other young guests. Buffy Gruffy, Cross Questions and Crooked Answers - at which Polly excels but, carefully, not too much - and The Aviary.
“I shall give my heart to the swan,” Polly intones, all solemnity, one evening, after the dark has set in. “My secret to the dove, and I shall pluck a feather from the cockerel.”
The others go round the circle, telling young Ensign Rochester their intentions.
Miss Clara whispers her secret to the wren and Polly, sitting next to her, overhears, filing the girl’s fears away as relevant information.
Mal says she will give her secret to the raven, pluck a feather from the pheasant - a forfeit from Miss Maryanne, who giggles as she offers up her handkerchief - but give her heart only to the vulture.
“Oh dear,” she laughs, kneeling before Polly. “I thought I was safe, choosing a vulture.”
But Polly, supressing a completely inappropriate flutter in her stomach, remembers a turkey vulture, high in the forbidden blue, and wonders.
“So what was your secret?” she asks, quietly, once the dancing has begun.
“You, my dear girl, are not the raven, and so you shall never know.”
Mrs Pemberleigh has a husband who is away much of the winter at sea.
“Oh, my dear,” says Mrs P, halfway through a glass of sherry. “You must sit here by me and tell me of your parents.”
Polly obliges, even though visions of her own aunt Hattie are rising, unbidden, in her head. She wonders if Mrs Pembreleigh will start telling horrible jokes before too long. Polly invents, carefully, a tale of her father, who captained a modest ship, and a mother who was good with numbers.
“Oh, to be lost at sea,” Mrs P moans. “My poor husband is at sea even now, and I fear for him dreadfully. Take my advice, my dear: Never marry a sailor.”
Polly, who files away this tidbit of information on Mr P’s absence, and who has dreaded marriage since she turned thirteen, says that she will certainly take that advice to heart, but that the decision is not entirely up to her.
In due time, the snow melts, the spring rains come, and the buds begin to swell on the trees.
Gathered in the Fitzhenries’ drawing room, Mal makes the announcement.
“It would seem,” she says, “That a certain Master Pemberleigh has not been entirely honest.”
Polly lifts her eyebrows.
“Not away at sea, then?”
Mal grins, light on a knife’s edge.
“Not entirely, no.”
Polly knows that Master-Comander Pemberleigh has returned from his long sea voyage - miraculously unscathed by winter storms - because Mrs Pemberleigh had sent around invitations to yet another dance in order to celebrate his return and, alas, wish him further safe travels on his next voyage, soon to depart.
“One of my contacts,” Mal informs the three of them. “Peberleigh has been leaking information.”
Finally! Thinks Polly. She has seen enough of war that ‘glory’ never enters her head, but the hope, even so faint as this, that she might get to do something towards the effort of preventing another war, that's something to stir her soul.
“What’s to be done?” she asks, all business.
What’s to be done is, perhaps, unsurprising. Attendance, good wishes, and, the colonel explains, the nonchalant stealing of a few incriminating letters allegedly hidden somewhere in the Master-Comander’s house.
“I’ve got a fairly good idea of where they’re likely to be,” Mal offers. “But, if I’m rummaging through the cabinets, I’ll need someone to keep watch.”
Polly’s mouth quirks.
“Sentry,” she says. “Well, at least we know I can do that already.”
~*~
Hope you all enjoyed. :-)
Part 5
INFO:
Setting: Hyel's Age of Sail 'Verse.
Characters: Polly, Mal, OCs.
Rating: B (Still quite tame, I'm afraid).
Wordcount: 1,210 words.
Disclaimer: The author makes no claim to owning the rights of anything to do with Terry Pratchett or Discworld.
In-Which Polly Starts to Notice Budding Feelings and Tries to Ignore them.
~*~
This is how the season passes. Cards here. Tea there. The occasional private ball - at Christmas, they are enormous but, usually, they’re smaller affairs - or musical evening. Polly learns to play three short, simple pieces on Mrs Fitzhenry’s pianoforte, the kind that can be repeated over and over as if they are a longer piece, should the need arise. Her hair grows back in thick profusion and she complains to Mal, in a rare moment of unsupervised conversation, that she must look like a sheep. She is grateful for the bonnets and turbans that keep the mess largely hidden from view.
Polly pays attention, visits her new “friends” on their at home days, and dearly wishes she had somebody, anybody, to confide in that didn’t require a hovering chaperone to be present. She tours rooms, houses, and eventually gardens with the nosey wives and almost-grown daughters of men whom Mal is watching carefully.
She hates it.
At least the letters she sends to her father are full of appropriate news - all balls and teas and errands, nothing out of the ordinary for a lady’s companion. She feels useless, very nearly missing her days at The King where, at least, she was able to keep herself busy.
Far more rarely than she writes home, she writes to Mal, not wanting to arouse suspicion but needing to talk to someone about what her life is really like.
I can’t imagine how this is doing any good, she confides, in one such missive. Surely no-one expects these girls to whisper their fathers’ secrets to me during a game of Hot Cockles? Are they hoping some society matron will show me her husband’s secret passage? What on earth is any of this accomplishing?
Still, Polly can’t ignore that fact that she’s getting better at noticing things. Most of what she notices she passes along to one or another of her superiors, often as not in the coach while returning from some visit or other. But some of what she sees, she keeps to herself.
Mrs Pemberleigh has five daughters of marriageable age.
Clara whispers to her of a young man of meagre means who has caught her eye, a young man with hopes of a parsonage. Polly thinks of Alice, whose faith was made of stone, and wonders how the girl is getting on. Lucy and Mina giggle behind their hands at every eligible bachelor who calls on their house, and Polly blushes at their jokes, for all that she’s heard considerably worse in the army. Lizzy has hopes for a decorated Lieutenant, or even a Major, and all Polly can think of is Major Blouse and his Emaline, the letter she found and damped. She hopes Lizzy gets what she wants, and that she doesn’t regret it. And then there is Jane. Jane who buries her nose in books of verse, who tolerates her gentleman callers, but who would rather dance with her sisters - once, even, with Polly - than take to the floor with a man. Polly sees her casting wistful glances at the daughter of their aging gardener, and feels a flutter of recognition at the sight. She pushes the thought away.
Mrs Rochester has a propensity for hosting social occasions through-which to while away the long, dark evenings of Winter, and takes great joy in playing match maker. Mrs Pemberleigh is often in attendance with her daughters, and is more than a little fond of a sherry or two while she plays whist with the other matrons.
Polly spends the winter playing cards with the chaperones, watching Mrs P’s nerves get worse and worse; and parlour games with Mrs R’s other young guests. Buffy Gruffy, Cross Questions and Crooked Answers - at which Polly excels but, carefully, not too much - and The Aviary.
“I shall give my heart to the swan,” Polly intones, all solemnity, one evening, after the dark has set in. “My secret to the dove, and I shall pluck a feather from the cockerel.”
The others go round the circle, telling young Ensign Rochester their intentions.
Miss Clara whispers her secret to the wren and Polly, sitting next to her, overhears, filing the girl’s fears away as relevant information.
Mal says she will give her secret to the raven, pluck a feather from the pheasant - a forfeit from Miss Maryanne, who giggles as she offers up her handkerchief - but give her heart only to the vulture.
“Oh dear,” she laughs, kneeling before Polly. “I thought I was safe, choosing a vulture.”
But Polly, supressing a completely inappropriate flutter in her stomach, remembers a turkey vulture, high in the forbidden blue, and wonders.
“So what was your secret?” she asks, quietly, once the dancing has begun.
“You, my dear girl, are not the raven, and so you shall never know.”
Mrs Pemberleigh has a husband who is away much of the winter at sea.
“Oh, my dear,” says Mrs P, halfway through a glass of sherry. “You must sit here by me and tell me of your parents.”
Polly obliges, even though visions of her own aunt Hattie are rising, unbidden, in her head. She wonders if Mrs Pembreleigh will start telling horrible jokes before too long. Polly invents, carefully, a tale of her father, who captained a modest ship, and a mother who was good with numbers.
“Oh, to be lost at sea,” Mrs P moans. “My poor husband is at sea even now, and I fear for him dreadfully. Take my advice, my dear: Never marry a sailor.”
Polly, who files away this tidbit of information on Mr P’s absence, and who has dreaded marriage since she turned thirteen, says that she will certainly take that advice to heart, but that the decision is not entirely up to her.
In due time, the snow melts, the spring rains come, and the buds begin to swell on the trees.
Gathered in the Fitzhenries’ drawing room, Mal makes the announcement.
“It would seem,” she says, “That a certain Master Pemberleigh has not been entirely honest.”
Polly lifts her eyebrows.
“Not away at sea, then?”
Mal grins, light on a knife’s edge.
“Not entirely, no.”
Polly knows that Master-Comander Pemberleigh has returned from his long sea voyage - miraculously unscathed by winter storms - because Mrs Pemberleigh had sent around invitations to yet another dance in order to celebrate his return and, alas, wish him further safe travels on his next voyage, soon to depart.
“One of my contacts,” Mal informs the three of them. “Peberleigh has been leaking information.”
Finally! Thinks Polly. She has seen enough of war that ‘glory’ never enters her head, but the hope, even so faint as this, that she might get to do something towards the effort of preventing another war, that's something to stir her soul.
“What’s to be done?” she asks, all business.
What’s to be done is, perhaps, unsurprising. Attendance, good wishes, and, the colonel explains, the nonchalant stealing of a few incriminating letters allegedly hidden somewhere in the Master-Comander’s house.
“I’ve got a fairly good idea of where they’re likely to be,” Mal offers. “But, if I’m rummaging through the cabinets, I’ll need someone to keep watch.”
Polly’s mouth quirks.
“Sentry,” she says. “Well, at least we know I can do that already.”
~*~
Hope you all enjoyed. :-)
Part 5