Sod them all to Hades and back. Let them play with their money, not him.
* * *
Halfway down the block, though, he was already regretting his decision. Dream or not, what if she could show him how to be a proper gentleman? What if he could change himself into a … a bloody valet or … whatever that fellow Milton was now, a butler, wasn't it? Then, Mick, ol' chum, you could live in a fine, clean house all the time, too. And send a lot more money to Cornwall and the brood. Everyone could live better. Even Freddie here might just appreciate a carriage house, if it was dry and clean and got sunlight into it. And you like the way she talks, you know. Not to mention the way she smells.
Besides, a gentleman almost certain got to get a lot closer than any ratcatcher to the tall, timid-fierce girl who'd thrown him out over bathwater.
----
Chapter 4
« ^ »
M r. Tremore's foot treads diminished without a pause, his and the soft-click trot of his dog's. Down the stairs they went, through the front hallway, then the front door opened and slammed. Edwina stood there in her modern bathroom, listening to silence. It was a funny moment, the house achingly quiet where only a moment ago it had rung with the most colorful talk, and lots of it.
She listened, waiting to hear his knock downstairs on her front door. He'd return, because he was smart and because it was in his best interest to reconsider. And because he was wrong.
When hushed stillness, however, only attested to his intention to remain wrong, she was surprised by the steep descent of her disappointment.
"My lady?"
She startled. It was Milton. "Yes?"
"Shall I clean up the bathroom then? Do you wish anything further?"
She had to think a moment to make sense of his questions. "Oh. No." She shook her head. "I mean, yes. Please clean up. But I won't need anything further from you. Not till tea at ten." She always had a cup of chamomile before bed.
She left the room, thinking, So. That was that.
A shame, she consoled herself. Mr. Tremore was perfect in any number of ways. She didn't very often hear a linguistic pattern as distinctive as his. And she would have guessed by his alert attention, not to mention the way he mimicked sounds, that he would have made a good student. An excellent study. Ah, well.
What a plummet though. She felt utterly depressed as she came down the stairs.
She went about her business. The house was calm and orderly. She spent the afternoon tutoring: first a lawyer's daughter with a lisp, then a Hungarian countess who wanted to pronounce English better, then the daughter of country gentry who had "picked up an accent" in her native Devon. The last girl left. Edwina went to dinner, which was punctual, elegant, and delicious, thanks to a French-schooled cook.
Very late that night, however—with her in her flannel nightgown, padding around in the dark, looking for the key so she could wind her father's old clock—she heard a faint knock at the door below stairs, then voices at the kitchen entrance.
She went to the top of the stairwell to be sure, then smiled: There was no doubt. The sound of Mick Tremore's unmistakable, deep voice filled her with a kind of joy. It was so delightful to hear his dropped H's, his wadden's for wasn't's, his ruined diphthongs and flat vowels.
"I come to a decision," he said. "And it wasn't"— wadden — "t hat chronic to get to."
"Chronic, sir?"
"Long and painful. Was easy, once't I saw it."
Edwina's smile widened as she heard Mr. Tremore ask quite clearly, "So would you help me"— 'elp me— "what's your name again?" Whot's yer nime?
Clearly or not, Milton didn't understand him. They grappled with Mr. Tremore's pronunciation for a few moments, until Milton finally said, "Oh, you want my name?"
"Yes." Ace.
"Milton, sir."
"Milton, I be wantin' a bath and shave, since the lady says I got to."
Edwina felt her senses come alive. Elation. As she heard Milton admit Mr. Tremore into the house, she did a little dance
* * *
Halfway down the block, though, he was already regretting his decision. Dream or not, what if she could show him how to be a proper gentleman? What if he could change himself into a … a bloody valet or … whatever that fellow Milton was now, a butler, wasn't it? Then, Mick, ol' chum, you could live in a fine, clean house all the time, too. And send a lot more money to Cornwall and the brood. Everyone could live better. Even Freddie here might just appreciate a carriage house, if it was dry and clean and got sunlight into it. And you like the way she talks, you know. Not to mention the way she smells.
Besides, a gentleman almost certain got to get a lot closer than any ratcatcher to the tall, timid-fierce girl who'd thrown him out over bathwater.
----
Chapter 4
« ^ »
M r. Tremore's foot treads diminished without a pause, his and the soft-click trot of his dog's. Down the stairs they went, through the front hallway, then the front door opened and slammed. Edwina stood there in her modern bathroom, listening to silence. It was a funny moment, the house achingly quiet where only a moment ago it had rung with the most colorful talk, and lots of it.
She listened, waiting to hear his knock downstairs on her front door. He'd return, because he was smart and because it was in his best interest to reconsider. And because he was wrong.
When hushed stillness, however, only attested to his intention to remain wrong, she was surprised by the steep descent of her disappointment.
"My lady?"
She startled. It was Milton. "Yes?"
"Shall I clean up the bathroom then? Do you wish anything further?"
She had to think a moment to make sense of his questions. "Oh. No." She shook her head. "I mean, yes. Please clean up. But I won't need anything further from you. Not till tea at ten." She always had a cup of chamomile before bed.
She left the room, thinking, So. That was that.
A shame, she consoled herself. Mr. Tremore was perfect in any number of ways. She didn't very often hear a linguistic pattern as distinctive as his. And she would have guessed by his alert attention, not to mention the way he mimicked sounds, that he would have made a good student. An excellent study. Ah, well.
What a plummet though. She felt utterly depressed as she came down the stairs.
She went about her business. The house was calm and orderly. She spent the afternoon tutoring: first a lawyer's daughter with a lisp, then a Hungarian countess who wanted to pronounce English better, then the daughter of country gentry who had "picked up an accent" in her native Devon. The last girl left. Edwina went to dinner, which was punctual, elegant, and delicious, thanks to a French-schooled cook.
Very late that night, however—with her in her flannel nightgown, padding around in the dark, looking for the key so she could wind her father's old clock—she heard a faint knock at the door below stairs, then voices at the kitchen entrance.
She went to the top of the stairwell to be sure, then smiled: There was no doubt. The sound of Mick Tremore's unmistakable, deep voice filled her with a kind of joy. It was so delightful to hear his dropped H's, his wadden's for wasn't's, his ruined diphthongs and flat vowels.
"I come to a decision," he said. "And it wasn't"— wadden — "t hat chronic to get to."
"Chronic, sir?"
"Long and painful. Was easy, once't I saw it."
Edwina's smile widened as she heard Mr. Tremore ask quite clearly, "So would you help me"— 'elp me— "what's your name again?" Whot's yer nime?
Clearly or not, Milton didn't understand him. They grappled with Mr. Tremore's pronunciation for a few moments, until Milton finally said, "Oh, you want my name?"
"Yes." Ace.
"Milton, sir."
"Milton, I be wantin' a bath and shave, since the lady says I got to."
Edwina felt her senses come alive. Elation. As she heard Milton admit Mr. Tremore into the house, she did a little dance
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