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PART III
MAY, 1780
MÉLISANDE GABLES
LONDON, ENGLAND
ELLIOTT SAT AT his desk in his library watching—but not listening to—the earnest young man in front of him. Viscount Merrill, heir to an Irish earldom that was well managed and prosperous, was utterly besotted with Milly.
Would that Milly reciprocated. She might have, too, had she—and the rest of the house—not overheard Elliott bellowing his plans. He was tempted to make the match despite his sister’s wishes, convinced as he was that she was not suited for sea life at all, much less on a pirate ship.
Celia would break her within a sennight.
His consideration was not that Camille could not return after she perished; it was that she would become an entirely different person and be completely ruined for the life she enjoyed now.
Camille’s body would not die, true, but her spirit—everything that made her the little sister Elliott loved and enjoyed—would. It was not a pleasant proposition.
… interminably idiotic mother …
Then again, it might do so once she was wed to this boy. Oh, Elliott could not think Merrill would treat her badly, but she feared suffocation under his mother’s rule and that her mind would hold no more value at Merrill than it did at Tavendish.
It was a choice between breaking her in a week versus breaking her over a lifetime, a torture similar to the one under which he had watched Rathbone break.
Everyone broke eventually, Elliott mused, thinking of his mother’s grief. Some more than once.
“Merrill,” he said abruptly, interrupting the boy’s enumeration of his qualities that would serve Camille well. “I can’t sign the contract, regrettably.”
Merrill gaped at him.
Elliott huffed, frustrated with himself, with Milly, and leaned back. He looked out the window to his right and dropped his hands on the wooden arms of his chair. “I— I am bound to an impulsive and utterly ill-advised promise I made this morning that has nothing to do with you. While I regret that, I cannot retract it now.” He looked at his desktop because he could not bear to see Merrill’s distress, and toyed with a quill. “Know this: Milly favors you above all her other suitors and I had every intention of accepting your offer when you informed me of it last eve. I find you to be a fine, honorable, intelligent man and, in fact, fairly well-suited to my sister. However, in the hours since, things have changed. And I regret my part in it. In short, I would if I could, and oh how I wish I could.”
There was a long silence, though from under his brows, Elliott could see the boy’s hands busy worrying the edges of his tricorn. “There is nothing I can do to persuade you?”
“Ah, no.” Short of seducing Camille and ruining her, that was. He added dryly, “Do not attempt to compromise her. It won’t work.”
The boy flushed, and Elliott grinned. It was good to know Merrill was not above a bit of trickery to get what he wanted; he would need to hone that instinct once he took his seat in the Lords.
Sharp raps at the door prompted Elliott to bid entrance, since he was mercifully finished with the unpleasantness now. God bless Lynch, always knowing when to step in.
“Cap’n, the leftenant has arrived and awaits you in the morning room.”
“Excellent!” Elliott heaved himself out of his chair with hearty cheer. “Come, Merrill, let me shake your hand. I look forward to becoming better acquainted once you are more in the thick of things at Parliament.”
Elliott dismissed Lynch and escorted the morose young viscount to the front door himself, then turned to address Papadakos only to find the doors to the morning room closed.
All of Mélisande Gables’s door hinges and locks were well oiled. Lynch saw to that the way he had seen to every ship he had served on. Thus, they made no noise when Elliott opened them to find Celia’s lieutenant passionately kissing Elliott’s sister.
And Elliott’s sister was returning that kiss just as passionately, her arms wrapped around the man’s neck, her body pressed against his, with no forthcoming protestations of her arse filling his hand.
Neither noticed Elliott’s presence, and now he was doubly irritated with himself because she would be in close quarters with this man for weeks, if not months, and would likely catch before they reached Algiers.
The sound of his mother’s wheeled chair prompted Elliott to close the doors carefully. If she was grieving now, she would surely be sent to the madhouse upon seeing that.
“Elliott,” she said low, apparently having not noticed his furtive behavior, “I would have a word with you.”
“Is that a request or an order?”
“A request,” she said softly. “Please.”
It galled her, saying that word, but Elliott would not grind her pride into the marble floor. “Thank you, Mother. I would be happy to visit. Come.” He took the handles and propelled her into the library, swept her out of the chair, and gently dropped her onto the fat sofa.
She ducked her head to hide the smile that would not be denied, and he sat beside her. “Can we ever be at peace, Mother?”
A hand rose to brush delicately at her eye. “I would like to be, if you are willing to forgive an old woman,” she said tremulously.
“There is nothing to forgive. I ken your position. And Lucy’s.” He paused. “Mother, do you understand that I have chosen this course for all of us? I have no wish to take Lucy’s work from her. I have no wish to take over command from you, and with Niall unwilling to have anything to do with the earldom, you can keep hold of it. If I stay, I will take over completely because that is what I have been trained to do, and I’ll not stand for being commanded or countermanded.”
Her mouth trembled and still she refused to look at him. “I apprehend that now,” she whispered. “I have been unable to think of anything else, and, Son— You have broken my heart in the best of ways.”
Elliott watched her, confused, but he remained silent.
“Hardship,” she began, “has made you into a man far beyond anything farming could have. Being my steward would have made you happy, but it would not have built … ” She waved a hand vaguely toward his knees. “ … this. A man I am proud to say is my son. Do not mistake me,” she rushed on, “your accomplishments and commendations, your promotions and honors have always made me proud, but you were little more than a name to me then and for so much of your life. I see you now, somewhat in your world with the servants here who nearly worship you—”
Elliott barked a laugh. “Hardly,” he drawled.
“No, they do!” she protested, looking at him then, her expression as earnest and hopeful as Merrill’s. “I bid them tell me of you, of your command, of your adventures and battles, and they have. They are proud to have served under you, proud that they can serve you still. And I think, ‘I do not know this man they speak of, this extraordinary commander, but he is my son. How can that be? How can a mother not know such a beloved son?’”
Elliott’s eyebrows rose to his hairline. “What of Niall? He has a brilliant mind.”
She waved a hand. “That is true, but I know Niall no better than I know you. He hied to Eton, then Oxford, and hasn’t returned to the Grange in all that time. ’Tis why I have stayed here, you see. To reacquaint myself with him, as I will lose him do I not learn the man he has become. And now it is even more imperative, since I will be losing you. I have no wish to lose all three of my sons—and my daughter. Oh, Elliott, please do not take Camille, I beg you!”
Elliott sighed.
“Surely she cannot know what she has done.”
“Nay,” he said low. “She has no idea. Mother, she has the most luxurious life, but is not happy. Happiness, of course, being irrelevant unless one abides with people who have it yet cannot grasp the same for oneself. She cannot be herself without chastisement and she chafes that you and Lucy believe her to have a head full of fluff. She is far from stupid. Do you know what she did—” His mother blinked owlishly through his recitation of Camille’s scheme, how well done, how perfect, and concluded, “I gave her my word and I cannot see that she has anything better to look forward to. Mayhap ’tis best to allow her to experience hardship.”
“It will break her,” the dowager whispered, a tear running down her cheek.
Elliott nodded. “It will. And mayhap, like a bone that has been broken and properly set, given time to heal, she will be the stronger for it. That is my hope, and if anyone can do it, Fury can.”
“I did not know I had so burdened her she was willing to wed just anyone.”
“I dare say she does not know what she wants,” Elliott mused, “and wishes to sail on a tide of whimsy until she finds it.” Mayhap she already had, there in the morning room with a Greek pirate.
“Whimsy!” the countess scoffed, though sadly. “I will never understand that girl.”
“But I do, which is why she wishes to take her chances with me; it seems I cannot deny the women I love their whimsies.”
“Women? There are more?”
Elliott’s grin grew slowly. “Fury and whimsy are bosom bows.”
“A privateer is whimsical?” She paused. Stared at him. Blinked. “Which … makes you happy.” Finally—finally!—she began to smile, however weak and watery. “I adore you when you’re happy, you know,” she murmured, then sniffled. “You always were a cheerful boy and never failed to bring me a smile when I most needed it. I would have liked to meet the woman who has restored this to you. And me.”
Good God, his mother and Celia in the same room together. He could not imagine the carnage, and he grimaced. “Ah, I will ask her.”
The dowager’s mouth dropped open. “She is here? Now?”
“Here in London, aye. She has been for some time.”
“I thought—” She hesitated, then slumped. “Never mind. I don’t know what I thought. I cannot imagine such a woman, but then, I could not imagine I had born a man such as you until your crew waxed loquacious.”
“Mother!” Elliott said when he heard footsteps and Camille’s voice on the other side of the library doors. “Do me a favor, if you please. Invite Lady Hylton and Miss Bancroft to pay a call.”
“Why?” she drawled, casting him a suspicious glance. “I don’t know either of them but that the girl is an idiot, the mother is little better than a whore—” Elliott’s eyes narrowed, and she stopped speaking. She studied him carefully, then lowered her gaze.
“Appearances,” he said low, “are deceiving. Invite them. Be kind.”
“Is that an order or a request?” she asked stiffly.
“An order.”
If you don’t want to wait 2 years to get to the end, you can buy it here.
Pirates!
I like seeing the word ‘sennight’.
First ran across it in a Rex Stout story.
Literally (!) never seen that word before.
“seven-night” aka “a week” == “se’en night” == “sennight”
Yup.
It makes me wonder if fortnight is based on “fourteen”.
I just learned something.
@Rhy: Down the same rabbit holes, we wander.
I’ve never put 2+2 together on fortnight and had never read “sennight” before. Makes sense, though.
In that vein, perhaps my favorite word is “crepuscular,” particularly Learned that while getting a Minor in Animal Behavior. Reminds me of “Terror Twilight” by Pavement. Never got wholly into them cuz I didn’t dive, but damn I love that album. Speaking of, only cuz I was thinking of it at work, “Wolfgang Amadeus Phoenix” is in my Top 5 Albums, for sure. Ten songs, all in ~30min, and just damn good songs. Much more complicated than one would think by casually listening.
One long-click away in macOS Dictionary:
There, are you happy?
No, im trashy, not happy.
Yes , you did give me a nice bonus.
But, the Feds and the state took 36.32% of it, even though I did the work to earn it.
Yes, you did give me an OK (3.6%*) raise.
No, I’m not happy to work 7 days a week.
*what is the inflation rate?
Who else needs my skills? I’m willing to move from a cold, snowy location to somewhere more ammenable.
Yeah, those days are over.
Although I am in “I must move in order to keep my job” territory so there is that I suppose.
After three+ years of layoff and disability and only one decent raise in there I am down who knows what % thanks to inflation.
But I still have a job. 🎉
*since 2018 I should add, so yeah shit raises since then
**and I’m guessing most of the real (unseen) increases in compensation have gone into health care, for which I pay out of my salary more or less reasonable amounts each year now that I use a shit ton of it
What do you do for work PON?
I break shit. They pay me to break shit. I am good at it.
I am a structural test engineer for a popular General Aviation manufaturer. One manufaturer who includes parachutes on every aircraft.
manufaturer = manfacturer
I spl gud
manufacturer – fuck me
*scribbles* don’t further piss off Nick
I have a peculiar set of skills…
I’m guessing you work for Cirrus. I know nothing about your industry. I’m just guessing there must be a comparable job for you in the sun belt.
The REAL inflation rate is much more than 3.6%. It is at least double digits.
And with this new war in Iran
(who do you think is going to pay for that?)
you and me. you and me and our kids and our grandkids.
Ima bout ready to shrug.
Anyboby else?
¯\_(ツ)_/¯
At my accelerated repayment rate, I have at least 9 more years of paying off my 15 year mortgage.
I’ll be 56 this year in the fall. There aren’t many more earning years left. I have had both knees replaced. I have severe arthritis in my LH shoulder. I can feel the arthritis building in my RH shoulder.
I chose a poor mariage partner. I paid for her Masters and PsyD degrees. I made some investment decisions (save a lot early) that bit my ass during divorce procedings. I never wanted to be married in the first place, but she made it a thing.
I might encourage our younger Glibs not to get married. Think about it. Is it worth it?
I turn 57 next month. I have a serious health issue that wants me to remain employed at all costs.
No dependents thank goodness. OTOH living alone turns out to be kind of pricey.
*to maintain a classy first-world lifestyle, that is
I am actually living the American dream of being better off than my parents.
My oil stocks are up but not for long and the prices will ratchet up after.
I’m about 2mill shy of being able to shrug.
Oooh, givin’ Mom orders. She must oddly relish such.
“All of Mélisande Gables’s door hinges and locks were well oiled.” But I’m the Keymaster…
That’s gonna be a ribald ship, goodness. I trust their sways won’t sway their course… (It shall, me thinky. Must. Somehow.)
Oh, no, she does NOT relish it. That’s why she’s so pissy. She feels Elliott to be interloper. She doesn’t SEE him that way because admitting that she does would be very traumatic.
“Relish” in a more facetious manner. She’s proud of all of him and what he’s become, but the consequences of his actions and them drifting further apart is the bitter part. Seems understandably motherly.
Dad, I think like many, wanted me to stay 10 forever. Well, about that…
Damn it was bone chilling today but I stood outdoors for two hours watching the local high school baseball team take on my alma mater. Alma won and their pitcher’s dad and I had a nice talk. He was pretty impressed to learn I was on the team 64 years ago and witnessed our pitcher strike out Reggie Jackson in Mr. October’s very first varsity high at bat.
Potomac TRACON was evacuated for a burning TED (touch entry device) that is a touch screen for radio comms. This led to a ground stop at multiple airports.
Not a chemical smell as news said.
I will say a large majority of ATC will demand evacuation if they smell anything beyond pristine air. They will also probably claim injury.
*circuit card within that equipment failed, probably a popped capacitor, not burning as fire
Mmmm… burnt inner tube smell!
I’m done with this political compass bullshit. It simply invites partisanship and obscures the true moral dynamic: either you’re an authoritarian or you’re a liberal. So I propose a simple stick test for politics with authoritarian on one side and liberal on the other The various strains of fascism and communism occupy one end of the political stick, and liberals occupy the other. To account for the varying policy dynamics along this spectrum, you simply add more sticks, so fascists and communists both occupy one end, and liberals of various stripes occupy the other. You form a big bundle of sticks.
In England, they call that a fag.
Fag is single, faggot is a bundle. Good luck finding that on the interwebs.
Ya smoke fags out behind the bar. Puffed many a fag with my Cockney pianist back in our band days.
Is that a Hebrew plural? They do end in -t IIRC. 🥴
It’s always been linear.
We always had cats growing up. Mom has a thing for cats.
When I was fifteen, one of her pregnant cats gave birth between my ankles. It was winter, I was bundled up in bed. The house was drafty that day, my friends. I woke up to this slimy discomfiture, and found a newborn kitten literally at my ankles. The adventures we went on… are summarized in the following sentence. I took this sad specimen to the slimy, gore-encrusted cat I found nested in my closet, and discovered underneath her another kitten that either she’d suffocated under her own body weight or had died naturally. I never got a chance to interrogate her.
I put it in a cardboard box and put it in the trashcan.
We had a cat give birth to a litter behind the sofa once.
Only because she escaped the house and wandered back a couple months later pregnant.
My question for the world isn’t: what’s life worth, if it’s worth this little?
Or some impossible Freudian question: is maternity so cheapened that a life might spend its last gasping breaths, smothered beneath its mother’s folds
Nor: are we simply playthings of the Gods
It’s just how did I sleep so fucking well as a teenager that a cat births a part of its brood at my feet and I slept through it but now four hours of consecutive sleep is a fucking task
Seems unlikely mama cat accidentally smothered her newborn. Probably a stillborn.