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nineveh_ukI’ve been cruel to Harriet, so I felt it was about time I was cruel to Peter.
Their return to Talboys was remarkable only for Peter’s observing that if one was going to be sick on one’s wedding night one might just as well have done it between Southampton and Le Havre.
Parsnip wine
It is dainty to be sick, if you have leisure and convenience for it. R.W.Emerson
”Not faint canaries, but ambrosial.”
“Hmm.”
Peter’s hands, watched so intently earlier laid on the steering wheel, now sliding over her hips, who hath with his hands fulfilled that which he spake with his mouth – He stopped abruptly and raised his head.
“Darling?”
He closed his eyes for a moment, opened them, and then muttering “Excuse me!” thrust himself from her so as to send her reeling, and bolted through the kitchen door.
Harriet caught herself against the settle. Considering phenomena, it seemed unlikely that this should be a species of wedding night nerves (and where had her own disappeared to? Lost on the road somewhere between Miss Twitterton’s cottage and Beatrice’s dying flame). She followed him into the kitchen. The back door was shut, which removed one possibility. A voice called from the scullery, over the sound of water falling on enamel.
“My lady?”
He was leaning on his hands over the sink, head bowed, as Bunter assisted him out of his shirt. There was an unpleasant aroma of what had been claret and quail, and something else familiar but unplaceable.
“Oh dear.”
“Yes, my lady. I fear Miss Twitterton’s parsnip wine may be to blame.”
Peter groaned in what she took for assent.
“Poor darling.” His shoulder was clammy beneath her touch. Bunter cast her an eloquent glance and withdrew with the much-tried shirt.
Peter turned his head and smiled faintly.
“I’m sorry. This wasn’t quite the white linen hence that I was thinking of.”
“Perhaps it’ll be all right now you’ve got rid of it,” said Harriet, practically.
“I wouldn’t be too – Oh God.”
She sluiced the sink again and brushed his limp hair from his forehead. Her hand came away rather grey with soot. She stifled the temptation to laugh. She could not even manage to be angry with Aggie Twitterton. It was too ridiculous. All this time and now here she was on her honeymoon with her husband – with Peter, who had waited so very long – half undressed in her arms and he could only stand like Keats’ droop-headed flower, the hand of joy distinctly far from his lips.
“I think that last bit was my stomach lining.”
“Look, there’s a chair here. Try and sit down for a bit.”
“All right. Oh hell, dearest – “
“Don’t worry about it. It doesn’t matter.”
“No doubt we shall laugh over it at some unspecified future date. It will make a good sort of anecdote that people don’t quite know whether to sympathise over or feel vaguely indecent about. But this is very much not the bridal night I wanted to give you.”
“Well, you can’t do much about that. And you do seem a bit better.”
“Yes, but I’m very much afraid that if I move my head, something dreadful is going to happen.”
“Oh. Then we’d better stay here for a bit.”
Bunter’s footsteps on the back stair, coming from the bedroom. A mysterious rattling in the kitchen, and a glass was being pressed into her hand and a voice murmuring something about hot water and the bedroom fire.
“Oh, thank you, Bunter.” Peter raised his head from her shoulder. “Come on, Peter. Drink this and then we’ll get you upstairs.”
He drank obediently, as if accustomed. Now that she thought of it, he was a good patient, obeying with a sort of quiet resignation; not, she thought, like most men, who were prone to fuss. Still, perhaps it would be kinder –
“Bunter, will you take Peter upstairs and, and look after him? I’ll hunt around for a bucket or something – just in case.”
A flicker of some indecipherable expression on Bunter’s face, and then an understanding nod.
“Very good, my lady.”
Better give them ten minutes. The scullery was remarkably ill-equipped – Mrs Ruddle did for Noakes, where did she keep things? Kitchen cupboards? No. There was some sort of shed outside, but it proved to contain only paraffin. Harriet brought some indoors for the lamps. But there was a cellar, wasn’t there? Not where she’d want to keep things, but Noakes didn’t seem the sort to care much for the servants’ convenience. She took up a lamp and made her way down the cellar stairs.
Bunter found her standing in the kitchen, staring blankly out of the window at the dark garden beyond.
“I have made his lordship comfortable, my lady, and there is a small quantity of hot water for you in the dressing room.”
“Bunter!”
“My lady?”
“Bunter, something rather terrible has happened.”
He turned an unreadable eye upon her, “Yes, my lady?”
“Bunter, I’ve found Mr Noakes.”
Their return to Talboys was remarkable only for Peter’s observing that if one was going to be sick on one’s wedding night one might just as well have done it between Southampton and Le Havre.
”Not faint canaries, but ambrosial.”
“Hmm.”
Peter’s hands, watched so intently earlier laid on the steering wheel, now sliding over her hips, who hath with his hands fulfilled that which he spake with his mouth – He stopped abruptly and raised his head.
“Darling?”
He closed his eyes for a moment, opened them, and then muttering “Excuse me!” thrust himself from her so as to send her reeling, and bolted through the kitchen door.
Harriet caught herself against the settle. Considering phenomena, it seemed unlikely that this should be a species of wedding night nerves (and where had her own disappeared to? Lost on the road somewhere between Miss Twitterton’s cottage and Beatrice’s dying flame). She followed him into the kitchen. The back door was shut, which removed one possibility. A voice called from the scullery, over the sound of water falling on enamel.
“My lady?”
He was leaning on his hands over the sink, head bowed, as Bunter assisted him out of his shirt. There was an unpleasant aroma of what had been claret and quail, and something else familiar but unplaceable.
“Oh dear.”
“Yes, my lady. I fear Miss Twitterton’s parsnip wine may be to blame.”
Peter groaned in what she took for assent.
“Poor darling.” His shoulder was clammy beneath her touch. Bunter cast her an eloquent glance and withdrew with the much-tried shirt.
Peter turned his head and smiled faintly.
“I’m sorry. This wasn’t quite the white linen hence that I was thinking of.”
“Perhaps it’ll be all right now you’ve got rid of it,” said Harriet, practically.
“I wouldn’t be too – Oh God.”
She sluiced the sink again and brushed his limp hair from his forehead. Her hand came away rather grey with soot. She stifled the temptation to laugh. She could not even manage to be angry with Aggie Twitterton. It was too ridiculous. All this time and now here she was on her honeymoon with her husband – with Peter, who had waited so very long – half undressed in her arms and he could only stand like Keats’ droop-headed flower, the hand of joy distinctly far from his lips.
“I think that last bit was my stomach lining.”
“Look, there’s a chair here. Try and sit down for a bit.”
“All right. Oh hell, dearest – “
“Don’t worry about it. It doesn’t matter.”
“No doubt we shall laugh over it at some unspecified future date. It will make a good sort of anecdote that people don’t quite know whether to sympathise over or feel vaguely indecent about. But this is very much not the bridal night I wanted to give you.”
“Well, you can’t do much about that. And you do seem a bit better.”
“Yes, but I’m very much afraid that if I move my head, something dreadful is going to happen.”
“Oh. Then we’d better stay here for a bit.”
Bunter’s footsteps on the back stair, coming from the bedroom. A mysterious rattling in the kitchen, and a glass was being pressed into her hand and a voice murmuring something about hot water and the bedroom fire.
“Oh, thank you, Bunter.” Peter raised his head from her shoulder. “Come on, Peter. Drink this and then we’ll get you upstairs.”
He drank obediently, as if accustomed. Now that she thought of it, he was a good patient, obeying with a sort of quiet resignation; not, she thought, like most men, who were prone to fuss. Still, perhaps it would be kinder –
“Bunter, will you take Peter upstairs and, and look after him? I’ll hunt around for a bucket or something – just in case.”
A flicker of some indecipherable expression on Bunter’s face, and then an understanding nod.
“Very good, my lady.”
Better give them ten minutes. The scullery was remarkably ill-equipped – Mrs Ruddle did for Noakes, where did she keep things? Kitchen cupboards? No. There was some sort of shed outside, but it proved to contain only paraffin. Harriet brought some indoors for the lamps. But there was a cellar, wasn’t there? Not where she’d want to keep things, but Noakes didn’t seem the sort to care much for the servants’ convenience. She took up a lamp and made her way down the cellar stairs.
Bunter found her standing in the kitchen, staring blankly out of the window at the dark garden beyond.
“I have made his lordship comfortable, my lady, and there is a small quantity of hot water for you in the dressing room.”
“Bunter!”
“My lady?”
“Bunter, something rather terrible has happened.”
He turned an unreadable eye upon her, “Yes, my lady?”
“Bunter, I’ve found Mr Noakes.”