Abernathy: Chapter 5
The Abernathy Trilogy
Abernathy, Abandon, America
by Kristen
Abernathy
Chapter 5
Brian
All through breakfast, I can think of nothing else but our conversation on the hill last night. I replay and dissect his words in my head, over and over, desperately seeking a confirmation of my hopes. My wild dream that maybe, maybe I have found another man with the same desires as myself. And the idea that this man could be Justin---the beautiful and captivating blonde boy with whom I am rapidly becoming infatuated--it seems almost too good to be true.
I cannot explain my feelings for him. There is an attraction, the strength of which I have never before felt in my life. Yet until last night, I had no real reason to believe that my feelings would ever be reciprocated. But now, whether he realizes it or not, he has given me that dangerous spark of hope. And my mind can focus on nothing else.
Tonight I have the honor of hosting the Viscount Delaney and his wife for dinner. Had I any appreciation for their company, I might welcome the excuse to get Justin out of my thoughts, even for a few hours. But as it stands, I find both of them so numbingly dull, I can only cringe at the prospect of entertaining them for an entire evening.
Around five o'clock they arrive, and I am obligated to express overwhelming delight that they have brought along a Miss Mina Fiske, sister of the viscountess. I can see it in their faces as they introduce us--I am supposed to be impressed with Miss Fiske's beauty and delicate charm. When in reality, I am struggling to bolster myself for a night of pretended interest and fake pleasantries.
By the time the soup is served, it is even clearer that Miss Fiske has been brought along for a specific purpose. Lady Delaney makes every attempt imaginable to bring her sister into the conversation, and is quick to point out every virtue of my estate, from the "charming" furniture to the "impressive" grounds. Miss Fiske agrees to each comment with overbearing enthusiasm, and flashes me a wide smile laced with perfect teeth. It takes every ounce of restraint in my body not to strangle her.
I'm sure they can't imagine why I'm not proposing right here at the table. Miss Fiske is very attractive, or "fetching" as one might say. Of course it would be unthinkably rude of me to ignore her completely, but I am afraid to give her any encouragement whatsoever. How can I explain that, despite all her best attempts, I cannot see past the innocuous blonde slave that has become a permanent fixture in my mind? The slave who, by the dictates of convention, had to be banished to his room for the evening, so that those of us in "polite society" might dine properly.
The evening ends, finally, and I am met with the entreaties of all three demanding a reciprocal visit. And my response, of course, is that I would love to, that I should be delighted to see them again, that I count the days until then, and so forth. After they exit, I struggle to suppress the urge not to slam the door on my own fingers.
Josephine having already retired for the evening, I set to work clearing the table. Mentally, I am exhausted, though it is not nearly late enough for me to be truly tired. I retrieve my glass of wine from the table and refill it, hoping that it will quicken my fatigue, so I might go to sleep and put this night behind me.
After cleaning up, I find myself looking around the room, vaguely unsure of what to do next. It is too late for a walk, but I am too restless to read. The wine has warmed me, but not to the point of the haziness for which I’d hoped. After a few moments' consideration, I realize, resigned, that I miss Justin. I have become too used to his presence, his conversation. And now it is as though I cannot put this day to rest without at least bidding him goodnight. So I set forth on my fateful trip upstairs.
Abernathy, Abandon, America
by Kristen
Abernathy
Chapter 5
Brian
All through breakfast, I can think of nothing else but our conversation on the hill last night. I replay and dissect his words in my head, over and over, desperately seeking a confirmation of my hopes. My wild dream that maybe, maybe I have found another man with the same desires as myself. And the idea that this man could be Justin---the beautiful and captivating blonde boy with whom I am rapidly becoming infatuated--it seems almost too good to be true.
I cannot explain my feelings for him. There is an attraction, the strength of which I have never before felt in my life. Yet until last night, I had no real reason to believe that my feelings would ever be reciprocated. But now, whether he realizes it or not, he has given me that dangerous spark of hope. And my mind can focus on nothing else.
Tonight I have the honor of hosting the Viscount Delaney and his wife for dinner. Had I any appreciation for their company, I might welcome the excuse to get Justin out of my thoughts, even for a few hours. But as it stands, I find both of them so numbingly dull, I can only cringe at the prospect of entertaining them for an entire evening.
Around five o'clock they arrive, and I am obligated to express overwhelming delight that they have brought along a Miss Mina Fiske, sister of the viscountess. I can see it in their faces as they introduce us--I am supposed to be impressed with Miss Fiske's beauty and delicate charm. When in reality, I am struggling to bolster myself for a night of pretended interest and fake pleasantries.
By the time the soup is served, it is even clearer that Miss Fiske has been brought along for a specific purpose. Lady Delaney makes every attempt imaginable to bring her sister into the conversation, and is quick to point out every virtue of my estate, from the "charming" furniture to the "impressive" grounds. Miss Fiske agrees to each comment with overbearing enthusiasm, and flashes me a wide smile laced with perfect teeth. It takes every ounce of restraint in my body not to strangle her.
I'm sure they can't imagine why I'm not proposing right here at the table. Miss Fiske is very attractive, or "fetching" as one might say. Of course it would be unthinkably rude of me to ignore her completely, but I am afraid to give her any encouragement whatsoever. How can I explain that, despite all her best attempts, I cannot see past the innocuous blonde slave that has become a permanent fixture in my mind? The slave who, by the dictates of convention, had to be banished to his room for the evening, so that those of us in "polite society" might dine properly.
The evening ends, finally, and I am met with the entreaties of all three demanding a reciprocal visit. And my response, of course, is that I would love to, that I should be delighted to see them again, that I count the days until then, and so forth. After they exit, I struggle to suppress the urge not to slam the door on my own fingers.
Josephine having already retired for the evening, I set to work clearing the table. Mentally, I am exhausted, though it is not nearly late enough for me to be truly tired. I retrieve my glass of wine from the table and refill it, hoping that it will quicken my fatigue, so I might go to sleep and put this night behind me.
After cleaning up, I find myself looking around the room, vaguely unsure of what to do next. It is too late for a walk, but I am too restless to read. The wine has warmed me, but not to the point of the haziness for which I’d hoped. After a few moments' consideration, I realize, resigned, that I miss Justin. I have become too used to his presence, his conversation. And now it is as though I cannot put this day to rest without at least bidding him goodnight. So I set forth on my fateful trip upstairs.