It was only by concentrating upon my own impending discomfort – as my boots were black, thigh high, and heavily cuffed, and surely contained the leather of an entire steer; and my grey shirt, though linen, seemed to weigh ten pounds and it scratched; and my coal breeches were wool, need I say more – that I did not fling myself upon him.
He regarded me with curiosity when I stood after jamming my foot into my last boot.
“What?” I asked, as I could see mischief begin to play about his eyes.
“You are not revolting,” he said, fighting a smile. “And you do not look as you do when you dress for the part of Lord Marsdale,” he added seriously.
“Thank the Gods for that,” I sighed.
He stepped in close and kissed me, deeply. I savored it and fought the urge to touch him.
“You are mine,” he whispered. “And not even my father will keep me from enjoying that this night.”
My breath caught, and my cock stirred in a somewhat annoyed manner that I should not have informed it before now that something was afoot. I wished to strangle my matelot, or rather, I wished to throttle another piece of his anatomy first until it bestowed its happy blessing upon me, and then strangle him.
Knowing me far too well, he quickly dodged out the door.
I was intent on telling him what a cock tease he was, but as I stepped out of the bathing room I saw that everyone was dining in the morning shade of the atrium, and while I think Pete and Striker, and possibly even Dupree, Rucker, and Agnes would have found amusement in my sentiment, I thought the Marquis, and my sister, who appeared somewhat green as pregnant women often do in the morning hours, would not.
Gaston squared his stance, and I knew he struggled to find the mask. I stepped up beside him and placed my arm across his shoulders, hoping he would accept the gesture as one of reassurance and not an unwanted display of affection. He thankfully relaxed beneath my arm.
“Good morning,” I said cheerily to the assemblage.
I assumed all introductions had been made. They were arrayed casually about two small tables that sat somewhat askew to one another, so we were not forced to negotiate the potential confusion of a formal seating arrangement. Striker, Pete, Sarah, and the Marquis, with Dupree sitting in a chair nearby sipping tea, sat around one table, and Rucker and Agnes sat at the other. We quickly joined Agnes and Rucker with great relief, which I struggled to keep from my face. The positioning did leave us facing the Marquis, but Gaston did not care. He barely had time to give his father a polite nod before Agnes shoved a sketchbook in front of him.
Thus we began to eat and an exhaustive discussion of each sketch ensued while Sarah, Striker, and Pete remarked from the other table on ones they found particularly enlightening or disturbing, such as Agnes’ rendering of globules in blood or of the number of little parts an insect possessed. The Marquis frowned with interest; and Dupree with consternation as he attempted to translate the English. At last they moved closer to the table. Gaston was too involved in what he was seeing to show concern at his father’s change in proximity, but he did turn the sketchbook somewhat so his father might have a better view, and he began to discuss the various pieces in both French and English. I found amusement in the fact that my matelot did not do this so that he was speaking directly to his father, but such that he spoke to Dupree so that he might make a better translation.
I was, of course, quite interested in what the book held, but I knew I could see it again anytime I wished and that we would probably be spending many an afternoon looking through the lenses ourselves. I was more interested in the Marquis. He was far less disheveled, with his hair combed and his clothes straightened, but he had eschewed his wig and coat. He spent as much time studying his son as he did the book, and was surely aware of my scrutiny though he made no remark of it, not even by a silent meeting of my gaze. And he was truly paying attention to what was being discussed and not merely observing his son: when the pages were turned to Agnes’ sketches of the things she found in water, he looked down at his tea cup with alarm.
“They do not exist in boiled water, such as that used in the tea,” I said quickly in French.
Agnes frowned at us, and Gaston quickly translated for her.
“Nay,” she said. “They do still exist, they are just dead.” She pointed to another page. “At least the larger things are. I boiled a very small sample of water and viewed it. I suppose one would not notice the dead ones in a large pot, as they sink to the bottom.”
I thought it likely we would have to change our instructions to Sam concerning the boiling of water.
My sister proved my father sired no fools once again. “I have told Samuel to never use the dregs,” she said.
“Would it not be something akin to soup?” the Marquis asked after Dupree translated for him.
Gaston frowned at this, and actually met his father’s gaze. “Oui.”
“Did you learn all this from Doucette?” the Marquis asked.
“Non,” Gaston said and returned his gaze to the book. “I started learning of such things from the monks.”
The Marguis gave a little head bob with a small moue of surprise. “I am impressed.”
“Thank you,” Gaston said. Then he regarded his father again and asked, “That the monks should know such things, or that I should learn it?”
His father raised one thin eyebrow and cocked his head. “Both. I did not realize the monks would be so interested in the natural world, I have always felt they are much like priests and nuns in that regard.”
“Non,” Gaston said. “The monks I lived with regarded the natural world as God’s creation and a thing to be studied in order to gain a better understanding of God.”
He continued to gaze at his father.
“And…” the Marquis sighed with a sheepish mien. “Your mother was never particularly intelligent, but perhaps it was because she was educated by nuns.”
“So you have felt I was mentally deficient?” Gaston asked him with the beginnings of the Horse’s usual tone.
His father shrugged. “I have lacked any evidence to the contrary until I arrived here and found you were considered a physician. I supposed your letter was written by another for you, and that Doucette had lied in all of his in order to gain favor with me, and prior to that, the only reports I received from any school’s headmasters said nothing about your academic performance.”
I lay a calming hand on Gaston’s thigh and was rewarded by his returning his attention to the sketchbook and sighing heavily.
The courtyard was silent: even though only Sarah, Rucker, and Dupree understood the exchange, they did not translate it for anyone, and thus all felt the tension but few understood the why of it. I was interested to note the Marquis had even changed his position in his chair, pulling back and away from Gaston in a seemingly casual fashion. It made me wonder how Gaston’s mother’s Horse had sounded, and what warning signs she had given.
“I can see where you may have come to such a supposition over the years,” I said carefully, “if your mind was already prejudiced to that outcome, and, as you said, you had no information to contradict it.”
“I meant no offense,” the Marquis told Gaston. “I am pleased and relieved to see that I was very wrong.”
Gaston’s Horse was now very evident to me, to the degree I no longer cared how evident He was to anyone else. He seemed to take up the entire table, nostrils flaring, eyes intent, and flanks quivering with the need to charge or flee.
I tightened my grip on my matelot’s thigh until he turned to me with glittering orbs of emerald rage.
I met his gaze calmly. “Perhaps…” I began.
Gaston’s head cocked ever so slightly in warning, in the manner of a dog ready to bite or a bull to charge.
I darted my head closer, and whispered firm words in his ear. “It is unfair. But do not kill him. Say what you wish to say, or do what you wish to do, and be done with it. Or go and visit the puppies and calm yourself.”
He gave a hissing inhalation. I sat back. His eyes were calmer: still angry, but not with madness.
He turned on his father, who was frowning at us intently. “I am not my mother,” Gaston said levelly. “And you have destroyed my illusions of her and left me with… you.” He spat the last word contemptuously.
Gaston stood and took stock of his surroundings: embarrassment gripped him. He gave Agnes an apologetic look and spoke in English. “Agnes, you are, as always, brilliant and talented. I will wish to see the lenses later.” Then he looked at Sarah and nodded. “If you will excuse me.” Then he left us, marching himself around the atrium and out to the stable.
Pete and Striker relaxed; Sarah appeared sympathetic; Rucker was curious, as was Dupree; and Agnes was close to tears, as she ever was when praised so.
Seemingly oblivious to everything but making his point, the Marquis leaned across the table and spoke earnestly to me in French. “I did not mean to offend him, but to compliment him.”
Sarah heard him, and began speaking to Striker about some matter in English in a ploy of politeness. Dupree proved he was well-versed in the diplomacy of large households, and withdrew to pour himself another cup of the tea. Rucker, the only other French speaker at the tables, also realized he should not listen, and quickly excused himself. The Marquis and I were essentially left alone with our discussion in French, though Agnes watched us with curiosity.
I awarded the Marquis a small smile. “Oui, but are men not ever at the mercy of others’ interpretations of their actions, no matter what their intention might be?” I shook my head. “He loved his mother. I feel she has been an angel in his heart all these years, a Madonna who would have loved him if only she had been allowed; whereas, you have been a demon who must be placated.”
He winced. “He knew she was mad,” he beseeched.
Agnes decided we were indeed having a private conversation, and excused herself almost inaudibly.
“Oui, but he is mad, and he knows his madness, and I think he has thought hers quite similar in manifestation when perhaps it was not.” I shrugged. “Without evidence to the contrary,” I gave a pause to allow my choice of words to be noted, “she was the perfect mother, flawed only by her madness, which from his experience would not make her mean or hateful toward him. It is why he loved his sister so. He saw no duplicity, only love. And since it was such a damn rare thing in his life, he had nothing else to compare it to.”
“He has thought me evil all these years?” he asked with a pained expression.
I tried to keep the incredulity from my face, and then I realized I was not doing as I should yet again. I was letting my Horse handle the matter and stir up my memories when it was not my Horse’s problem.
“Non,” I said softly. “He has thought he failed you all these years. He has thought you cast him aside because he was flawed and deficient in your eyes. And your attempt to lay the matter to rest by admitting this was indeed the case has brought no resolution in his heart. It will take time.”
He sat back, the fingers of one hand pinching his lips, and studied the potted plant next to the table.
“How long can you stay?” I prompted after a time.
He shrugged. “Hopefully as long as necessary.” His gaze returned to mine. “How do you control him so well?”
I shook my head. “I do not control him; I assist him in controlling himself. And it is more complex than that… and I do not feel I wish to discuss it this day.”
“All right. Then can you answer some other questions?” he asked with another shrug that seemed to cast the whole matter aside.
“If they are brief. I should go to him.”
He seemed somewhat surprised in that, and then apologetic. “Ah. I will be brief then. Who should I request the hospitality of if I wish to stay for some time?”
“My sister, and I will see to it,” I said.
“Your sister?” he asked, and glanced at Sarah.
“Oui, Madame Striker,” I said.
He raised an eyebrow at that, and I went to speak quietly with Sarah and Striker. Pete’s golden head was quickly bowed into the circle.
“He wishes to stay for a time,” I said. “It is acceptable to Gaston and me. I feel it is necessary. There is much they need to discuss and it will take time.”
“Is he going to be setting Gaston off every time they talk?” Striker asked.
“Possibly,” I said with a touch of annoyance. “And thus it is best done amongst friends in a place of safety rather than elsewhere.”
Striker held up a placating hand. “I’m just curious how much Gaston wants to see him if they don’t get on well. I’m thinking of him, not worried about what kind of ruckus they might cause.”
“They need time to learn to get on well,” Sarah chided him. “I wish we had such an opportunity with our father.”
Her husband frowned at that, but he nodded. “That would piss me off to the ends of the Earth, watching you argue with him.”
I was not sure whether I wished for such a thing to happen, but I supposed I did.
I left Sarah to tender their hospitality to the Marquis and went to find Gaston. I was momentarily alarmed when he was not with Bella, but then I found him behind the stable. He had bloodied his knuckles punching a beam, and now sagged with his head and hands against the wall.
“I should have left with you,” I murmured as I pulled him into my arms.
“Why?” he asked, all Horse. “Did he say something to anger you?”
I sighed and held him tighter.
At last he relaxed and pulled back to regard me. “I knew they still thought me a child, but I did not think they thought me an imbecile. It makes me wonder how he truly treated my mother, despite his affirmations of love for her. Or was she truly what he describes?”
I sighed. “I do not know if we can ever know the truth, but… He is staying. You shall have ample time to discuss the matter with him as you are able.”
“I do not know if I can,” he said sadly.
“It is only the first day you have seen him in so many years,” I said and kissed his cheek. “You will grow more accustomed to his presence, and perhaps it will become easier. And you are doing well.”
He looked down at his bloodied hand and shook his head. “You are too kind.”
“He even remarked upon it,” I said, and then thought better of it, but it was too late. I told him all his father and I had said.
He snorted when I finished. “You shall speak for me. You will discuss it with him and relay it to me.” He grinned.
“I do not know if… He is not my father,” I said.
He regarded me with curiosity.
I shrugged and sighed. “They are deeply tangled in my heart, and my Horse is tripping, trying to tread the proper path in dealing with yours. I find myself saying things that are from my heart and not necessarily your sentiments. I represent you poorly, as I cannot seem to do it selflessly.”
He smiled and pulled me into his arms again. “I do not hold it against you. You speak truth, and whether it is my heart or yours, it does not matter. We are one.”
Though my heart ached at his sentiment, it did matter to me. I told the Gods I would need guidance on this path They had set before us.
Fifty-Seven
Wherein We Float, Steeped in Irony
We sat for a time with Bella and the puppies. Though Gaston was far from truly calm, our silence was at least companionable and not burdened by things unsaid. He held my hand and finally lay down with his head upon my thigh. I played with his hair and let him think. I did not wish to think: I felt if I allowed my mind to wander it would find old trails that were best left dusty and unused. I did not feel those thorny paths would discover the proper words to tell Gaston’s father how to make Gaston happy, or make mine do the same for me.
Sam poked his head in the doorway sometime later. “Masters? There’s a messenger from the governor here, and Mister Theodore.”
I told him we would
be along shortly, and swore silently once he departed.
Gaston smiled as he pulled himself upright. “I hate Port Royal.”
I sighed and grinned. “As we came into port, I was thinking the same, and how the only good thing about the place is that I met you here, and Theodore, and Striker and Pete, and… I suppose we must take the bad with the good.”
He nodded thoughtfully. “I wish for a better definition of love.”
I frowned.
He smiled apologetically. “I am sorry, I have been thinking. I wish to determine the true nature of love, so that I can measure people’s declarations of love and find them either within the parameters of true love or outside of it. You once thought you loved, and you did not, truly. I have done the same.”
“And now you question your father’s definition?” I asked.
“Oui.”
I grinned. “My love, far be it from me to disparage any endeavor of yours, but you are attempting to tread in the realm of poets, playwrights, and Gods. Men spend their entire lives there and produce nothing but sophistic verse.”
He seemed to think on that, and then awarded me a fine grin. “I am already mad; what would it matter?”
I laughed; and thus in good humor we picked the straw from each other and went to discover what the Gods wanted of us now.
Sarah had apparently retreated upstairs, possibly with Striker or Pete, or both, as none of them were present. Rucker was also absent. Agnes was sitting at a table watching our guests with her sketchbook open and charcoal in hand, and I wondered what she had been drawing before the messenger arrived. The Marquis was sitting in a chair perusing a small folded piece of paper, with Dupree leaning over his shoulder to read and translate it while the governor’s messenger stood waiting for their reply. I thought it likely it was an invitation. I suppressed a sigh.
Theodore greeted us warmly as always.
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