Trail Mix and Guava
Story: Timeless { backstory | index }
Title: Hands
Rating: G/PG, warning: casual racism, related to the time period
Challenge: Trail Mix #7: hallway, Guava #28: kiss and make it better
Toppings/Extras: none
Wordcount: 815
Summary: Edward and Verity Ashdown’s turbulent marriage falls into a temporary lull.
Notes: Pre-abduction, and the first time posting Verity here! Properly, anyway.
“And you are certain that you were simply out with business partners, are you?” Verity asked, dully, as the couple sat in the back of a carriage that was moving towards their London manor house. She was sliding the pins from her silky hair, letting it splay out from the horse-rider’s French plait and rest across the shoulders of her sharply-cut riding jacket. Ashdown sighed.
“Of course, my dear,” he said, moving to rest a hand across hers-she moved her hand out of the way, smartly. He did not flinch at this: her did not want Verity having one of her little Moments. He changed the subject quickly to something he knew would please her. “I have been considering for some time now the notion that we get ourselves a slave for our household,” he said, leaning back in his seat. He reconsidered his words and added, “An African one, I mean.”
Verity brightened considerably.
“Oh, yes!” she said, rolling her head back and smiling her indolent little smile. “That would be wonderful-we could have a woman for me, a man to do the gardening-oh, and I would quite like a young negro child.” Her mind seemed to have disappeared into a little daydream. “Queen Elizabeth had a little negro boy that followed her around, you know: he played a drum, I think.”
“You are not Queen Elizabeth,” Ashdown sighed: Verity blinked, as if she had been under that illusion all along, and then rolled her eyes as if he were being very horrible and ruining a most enjoyable game. “Besides which, I wasn’t thinking of starting a collection,” Ashdown continued with a little frown. “Slaves cost a lot of money, and it’s not the initial price: it’s the upkeep. Food, a place to stay...”
“As if you need to worry about money,” Verity said with a roll of the eyes. The idea of the young negro child was fixed firmly in her mind now.
“I do, rather,” Ashdown said, irritation rising in his voice, “Seeing as you seem intent to spend it all.” Of course, spending all of Lord Ashdown’s immense wealth would be a nigh impossible task: he was what was known as old money, the old money of London, he had wealth going back generations and generations, a stock of not only actual money but heirlooms and houses that seemed to never end.
“Oh, must you always bicker?” Verity drawled, leaning her head back even further and rolling her radiant eyes straight up the ceiling of the carriage as it bumped and rolled. “It’s supremely childish.”
“It is more childish by far to make the spoilt demands you always do,” Ashdown said, trying not to snap, even when alone with her. It had been a good day today, after all: it would not do to spoil it. The carriage drew to a halt. Verity began inspecting her nails as the door was pulled open by a young footman: Mr Prowse was off on a little task, as he often was once the light began to fade from the sky. Ashdown stepped out of the carriage and offered a hand to his wife. She looked at his hand, looked away, and then took it-allowing him to aid her onto the cobblestone drive outside of his manor.
The Ashdown household was tastefully done, in fact, he considered it a piece of art: it was not a bland, white, towering monstrosity as so many aristocrats had built for themselves to show off their wealth. Ashdown had the sort of wealth that was self-evident. It oozed from anywhere he went and anything he did. His home was incredibly old, and it simply sprawled across some extremely impressive grounds. He had designed the gardens too, to be certain that everything was just so.
Verity performed a deft little foxtrot on her way across the marble floor of their hallway, before collapsing into a chaise. Although she simply threw herself into any sort of position, her usual rumpled stylishness instantly snapped into place and she looked immaculate; every stray strand of hair, every loose fold of her clothing looked as if it had been placed there purposely: she looked like a work of art, sculpted from glittering marble.
It was times like these that Ashdown knew why he had chosen this woman as his wife: many said that aesthetic beauty was overrated, and by Jove had he discovered this in the most difficult way, but her beauty compensated a little for her raging moodiness. She looked at him through her round, smug eyes as he walked towards her across the floor and stood, looking down at her. She was careless, insolent, tumultuous, spoilt. She was his wife.
Slowly, she raised a hand, fingers curling elegantly towards his: after only a brief pause, he took her hand in his, and gave it a slight squeeze.