"Everybody can feather their nest, but it's not just anybody that can lay an egg!"
He nodded to her, "If that alters our agreement, tell me now. Otherwise, let's both get to it."
"Nah, we still got us a deal. just do your best. I'll convince her that she sat on 'em but I kin get 'em fixed." the little minx reluctantly agreed.
"And as to the rest, I promise you... my hands do not shake."
"Yeah, we'll see how they get on at seven!" Arabella said slyly. "See yuh later" she bid farewell and coolly exited the building, trying to look like she did this sort of thing every day, but actually feeling tremendously excited at the way this day was going, her heart beating wildly at playing the grand matchmaker and hoping against hope that the girl she had in mind would come along tonight.
Otherwise she'd have to foist Jemima Wigfall upon the poor limey bastard.
[Continued below]
"Ladies should be seen and not heard"
There was a rap at the now closed and locked Gunsmith's door at around eleven minutes past seven: perhaps there had been an unavoidable delay, or perhaps it was another of Arabella's little games. One could just picture the giggling grin on her pixie face as she imagined Mr Smith spending a good ten minutes looking at his pocket watch in his sweaty, if not shaking hands.
Roland had probably had a fright around 6.30 when Jemima Wigfall had turned up, tipped off by Arabella that there might be some cleaning and laundry work going at the Englishman's place. If he had thought that fright was his 'date' he might have packed his grips and high tailed it out of Kalispell right there and then.
But now Arabella was here with the real McCoy.
She rapped on the door and Anæsthesia stood behind her, at 5 foot seven seeming to tower above the tiny Miss Mudd. In her hands she carried a miniscule, and therefore useless, clutch bag and a wooden box containing the revolver that she had bought off Mister Winter and its associated impedimenta. A dark colored cloak covered and protected her dress: a frilly and fluffy concoction of blush pink and snowy, virginal white that seemed to have no place in windswept, muddy Kalispel.
Arabella had been rummaging in the late Mr Crabbe's dressing-up box and was decked out, of all things, in a sort of white aproned, black dressed, 'lady's maid' outfit which she apparently deemed suitable for 'waiting on' duties tonight. She was an odd girl, Anæsthesia had long since decided. Still, an offer to meet the new gunsmith and have him oil her cylinder for free seemed like too good an offer to miss. "He might even fill yer cartridge box too, Miss Orr" the little ingenue had told her, temptingly.
So here they were, the door opening, Miss Orr curious, Miss Mudd strangely curiouser.
Anæsthesia was surprised how far she had to look up to greet the new man in town, she had somehow expected him to look the same as the last owner: but this fellow was taller by far, bearded like Mr Winter had been and of more mature years, but Smith was less smooth looking, a little more weather beaten, but much more handsome, by far.
She gave him a very, very slight smile: just the right amount of friendliness recommended by the pages of her monthly journal The Lady. Maid Arabella sprang between them. "Miss Orr, may I present Mr Roland Smith of England, Mr Smith, may I present Miss Anæsthesia Ether Orr of Kalispell Montana."
The tall blonde girl did not speak, but merely held out a fey, white gloved hand for him not to shake, judging by the angle of the thing, but to reverently kiss or otherwise slobber over.
Arabella was loving every second of this, it was like a play, and she was in it: even if she only had a supporting role.
@[Cuban Writer]
A good person is like a good gun: Reliable to the Last.
Roland had indeed consulted his pocket-watch more than once this day, but not merely in impatient anticipation.
He kept himself on a schedule to keep his tasks on a firm delivery timeline. X time to draw schematics, Y time to rough-shape the frames. Z time to find plates suitable for 'lenses.' The rudiments of the construction were now assembled. Tomorrow, actual work on those rudiments would begin.
But that was not all, of course. 'A' time devoted to a bath. 'B' time to prepare the bake.
And now he could C what his schemes had wrought.
When he heard the young woman's name announced in full, he was almost sure a practical joke was being played upon him. Anesthesia Ether? His gaze shifted to the little troublemaker who'd arranged it all. He would play along for now, on the slim chance that this was real.
Even at the better chance that his leg was being pulled, it was likely to be the best entertainment he'd enjoy for a while. Life on the frontier could be dull when it wasn't bringing terrifying life-and-death scenarios.
"Miss Orr, Miss Mudd. It is my honor to receive you. Please come in. You may call me Roland, and leave the Smithing for the workshop."
He smirked at his little joke, and then gave a look to Mudd that said, 'I'm on to you' before taking the hand in his and holding it briefly and bowing his head slightly before letting it go.
"I hope you enjoy chicken. I've created a bake and some biscuits for supper, and have a nice claret to drink besides."
Roland was no master chef, but he could create a reasonable repast when life demanded it of him. It was more a consequence of being a bachelor than any talent on his part. Practice made- if not perfection- at least improvements to the natural state of things.
"Ladies should be seen and not heard"
"Miss Orr, Miss Mudd. It is my honor to receive you. Please come in. You may call me Roland, and leave the Smithing for the workshop."
"Ha ha - Smithing! I get it." laughed Arabella, but Miss Orr seemed less impressed "Isn't that rather forward, Mister Smith" she enquired quietly but firmly. "After all, we have only just met." She seemed put out from the start, but her 'little maid' jumped in again.
"Oh, you'll have to excuse Rolly, Miss Orr, he just just can't get used to dropping his knighthood now he's in the States!"
Miss Orr, who was a nice little mid-western small town snob, changed her disposition immediately. "Ohhhhh, I am so sorry Sir Roland, of course that is different and quite the correct form of address." Now she did a little curtsey. Yep, it seemed that simple toffee nosed snobbery was Anæsthesia's Achilles heel, or at least one of them.
"Now, Miss Orr, how about you show Rolly your little pop-gun what you got off of Mr Winter, then I'll serve us up some nice supper."
"I hope you enjoy chicken. I've created a bake and some biscuits for supper, and have a nice claret to drink besides."
Arabella's eyes went round, she clearly thought this was a romantical blunder on Smith's part too. Well, he had instructed her to show him the way to the desired female's heart, and she took her role very seriously. She skipped over to the ineffably tall man's side.
"Oh men!" she declared, taking his arm and giving it a squeeze - well more of a warning pinch really - a woman slaves all day over a hot stove and then a man comes along and stirs the gravy and thinks he's cooked it all himself. Of course Sir Roland didn't cook it himself - that's work for peasants and menials like, er, like me!" she smiled. She clearly thought A.E.O. would not be impressed by the fact that he did his own cooking or mending or washing. She herself, had she not been the other way, would have snapped him up in a trice.
"I'll go and turn my biscuits over, you have a look at the gun, Rolly." she said and flounced off to the kitchen, looking back to make sure he didn't reveal that he'd also been scrubbing the floors.
The dainty young Miss Orr, who was at least 18 by the looks of her, opened up her box. Inside was a neat, but not particularly tiny or feminine 1858 model Lefaucheux 5 shot revolver.
"I've been practicing with it quite regularly, Sir Roland, and I'm starting to run out of ammunition. Also, I wonder if you could examine my barrel and tell me if I'm cleaning it properly." she asked in a soft clear voice.
@[Cuban Writer]
A good person is like a good gun: Reliable to the Last.
Roland was gradually able to understand that everything he'd learned since coming to America was wrong. Or at least it was wrong when dealing with Miss Orr. Somehow, her breeding had remained rarefied despite dwelling at the edge of civilization.
It caused Roland to wonder if there wasn't some elite enclave of high society hiding somewhere near Kalispell. This was the first sign he'd seen of it, but surely Miss Orr couldn't have spawned wholly formed from nothing and kept apart from her surrounds without a bubble of similar folk to insulate her from the rest.
He turned his attention to the firearm- a contraption with which he held much more comfort than the complicated workings of women. Yet even here, he found himself on somewhat unfamiliar ground.
"Ah. This maker has enjoyed worldwide popularity. I knew several had been imported during the recent unpleasant friction in your country between the Northern and Southern states. Twelve-millimeter pinfire, sometimes marked as eleven-millimeter for reasons which only the French know. It has diminished in popularity over the past decade. I do have the facilities necessary to custom-manufacture the ammunition... or we could convert the weapon to rimfire operation."
He peered at the cylinder of the weapon curiously, "I have never had the pleasure of inspecting a five-shot variant, however."
Taking up the pistol, he returned to his shop's counter, quickly removing the cylinder and setting it aside before studying the weapon's barrel. He also checked to see if it was one of the single-action or double-action varieties. One was more common in military circles, while the other was favored by civilians.
"I have a seven-millimeter revolver from the same maker in my stock. It's much more along the lines of what ladies typically carry.
I'm impressed that you practice with such a serious weapon, Miss Orr. You are clearly a formidable woman.
Would you care for some tea before supper?"
"Ladies should be seen and not heard"
"Ah. This maker has enjoyed worldwide popularity. I knew several had been imported during the recent unpleasant friction in your country between the Northern and Southern states. Twelve-millimeter pinfire, sometimes marked as eleven-millimeter for reasons which only the French know. It has diminished in popularity over the past decade. I do have the facilities necessary to custom-manufacture the ammunition... or we could convert the weapon to rimfire operation."
Anæsthesia tipped her head and listened with polite, feigned interest: it was all over her head.
"How very fascinating." she fibbed.
He peered at the cylinder of the weapon curiously, "I have never had the pleasure of inspecting a five-shot variant, however."
"I am so very glad to have given you the opportunity, Sir Roland." she said.
"I have a seven-millimeter revolver from the same maker in my stock. It's much more along the lines of what ladies typically carry.
"But I like this one" the sweet looking girl pouted a little "Mister Winter tried to make me take a silly little lady gun." she said, in a tone of voice that implied that she had thought less of the man for it. whether Roland picked up on that, or truly meant his next words, only he could know for sure:
I'm impressed that you practice with such a serious weapon, Miss Orr. You are clearly a formidable woman.
This seemed to please her inordinately, and her smile, her real smile, not her practiced whisp of one, lit up her face. "Thank you, Sir."
Would you care for some tea before supper?"
Well, that wiped the smile off her face! "Tea?! As an aperitif?!!" She looked very hurt and quite shocked by the notion.
Luckily, Arabella bustled in from the back rooms carrying a tray with two small glasses on a tray filled with some brown liquid.
"Sherry?" she beamed. She was getting into this whole serving maid thing. She bowed a little as she proffered them both a glass.
"Miss... Sir..." the 'maid' intoned as she waited on them hand and foot. "Very good, Arabella." said Miss Orr, haughtily, looking down her nose at the shorter girl: whether she really felt this was the sort of fawning sycophancy she deserved from her social inferiors in the town, or whether , like Arabella, she was just enjoying the 'game' too, it was hard to tell.
Anæsthesia smiled happily at Roland. "Sherry before supper, how civilised! You really had me fooled, Sir Roland. Tea indeed!" she said and raised her glass.
Arabella gave a little curtsey and bustled back to the kitchen. Once there, she poured out the claret, which was nicely chambréd, and into the glass destined for Miss Orr, put a good glug of Granny Miggins' home brewed, 100% 'chill tonic', before putting the stopper in the jug, before the rest of it evaporated.
Then she hurried back to the front of the store, where Roland and Anæsthesia were enjoying their aperitifs.
"Sir, Miss, dinner is served." she chirped. Roland seemed to be picking up that the way to Miss Orr's heart was right up her pretty little snooty, stuck-in-the-air snout.
@[Cuban Writer]
A good person is like a good gun: Reliable to the Last.
Roland gave an almost hesitant chuckle as Arabella de-fused the tea debacle and Miss Orr took it all for a jest.
Despite his education, Roland hadn't seen the offer as a potential debacle. It was a reminder that he was a bastard to a fallen line, and had not enjoyed the high-society engagements that might have prepared him for such social stumbles. He found himself on edge around Miss Orr, as every turn of conversation and every simple act seemed to contain the potential for grievous offense. She was a pretty flower, but merely standing in her presence seemed to be risking barbs. Ever since coming to the States, he had become accustomed to being 'the refined one' in any room he entered. Now he felt like a stumbling bumpkin.
At the timely rescue, Roland dipped his head covertly in thanks to the 'menial.' It began to occur to him that he had more in common with her than with tonight's date.
He deftly reassembled the weapon after his inspection, and said, "If you will allow me until tomorrow afternoon, I think I can assemble two-dozen cartridges for you, Miss Thornton. My gift to you."
He raised his own glass and shared a sip. Before long, the dinner was ready. Well, it had already been ready, but apparently that had been a faux pas as well. He wondered what Arabella had been up to in there.
"Shall we," he asked, holding out his hand to escort Miss Orr to the dining room. Only then did it occur to him with some alarm that the features of his new home- from the table to the plates and utensils- might not be up to this woman's exacting standards. They'd impressed friends in London well enough, but who knew what Anesthesia would think of them...
"Ladies should be seen and not heard"
He deftly reassembled the weapon after his inspection, and said, "If you will allow me until tomorrow afternoon, I think I can assemble two-dozen cartridges for you, Miss Orr."
"Oh, that would be splendid!" enthused the blonde, he big blue eyes lighting up. "You may send the invoice to my address, I shall have Arabella give it to you." But he had a stinger...
"My gift to you."
Anæsthesia didn't want for money, but she pined for generous gestures.
"Oh, Sir, you really are a gentleman." she sighed, imagining that anyone else would have been charged full wack, but that her beauty and charm had melted his heart.
"Shall we," he asked, holding out his hand to escort Miss Orr to the dining room.
"Oh, wrong side!" she giggled, shifting rather clumsily so that she was on Roland's left as they made their Grande Entrée to his dining room.
The snooty young girl surveyed the laid table and smiled "Oh, how wonderfully rustique!" she condescended.
After Roland had pulled out her chair for her (of course), and she had placed her dainty little bottom on it, and the Lord of the Manor was also sat sitting, Arabella started to bring in the grub and serve it. Then she apportioned the wine, making sure 'Lady Muck' got the right one.
"It's the '76 claret, Sir." she said to Roland portentously before scooting behind Anæsthesia and pointing at her with one hand and with the other holding her index finger up to her nose and then pushing it up until she looked like a pig, crossing her eyes and generally trying to look like a snooty little snob. It other words 'Lay it on thick with the posh stuff!'
Anæsthesia took a slug of the wine and almost choked. "Oooh, it's very... fruity!" she said and sniffed it "And what an intriguing bouquet!"
Arabella went and fetched some more grub and put in on the table then, when she was out of jobs, just stood subserviently by the door and waited for orders, while her 'mistress' and 'master' made small talk. Years later, when she was a star on Broadway, she would recall it as one of the best acting jobs she ever did.
"A lot of weather we've been having, Sir Roland" mentioned the empty headed heiress insightfully, slugging her wine, then noticing that their host's glass looked half empty, motioned to Arabella imperiously "Girl, more wine for Sir Roland!" The Mudd girl bobbed a curtsey and came over to the table.
"One really can't get good servants here. We have this one girl Jemima, she is totally hopele..." Anæsthesia started, but then cut off and Arabella gave a loud "Whoops" as she deliberately spilt some of the wine onto the table.
"Oh, I'm so sorry, m'Lordship!" she cried backing up towards Miss Orr's end of the table.
"Oh, you stupid girl!" bellowed the already tipsy blonde, standing "Look what you've done to Sir Roland's tablecloth! You should be horsewhipped."
Arabella threw herself to her knees in a performance worthy of Ellen Terry.
"Oh please don't, it was an accident!" she yelped.
The spoiled little rich girl looked down her nose at the cringing, ill bred, common, muddy little Mudd girl: all her pent up hatred of the uncouth, barbaric, uncivilised local yokels bubbling up inside her alcohol loosened spleen. then she looked at the noble Roland: so sophisticated, so handsome and accomplished, and now her tête-à-tête with this... this gentleman, at last... in her midst had been spoiled by the clumsiness of the hill-billy girl.
She drew herself up to her full height, looking gorgeous, proud and cruel in her pink and white dress.
"Would you allow me to punish her for you, Sir Roland?" she asked, politely.
A good person is like a good gun: Reliable to the Last.
Roland's head tilted ever so slightly in a quizzical expression as he once again wondered if this whole affair wasn't a ruse manufactured for the sole purpose of justifying his work on the glasses. But by the same token, so much effort would have to be put into this that it made no sense as any variety of scam he could think of.
"Oh, yes," Roland agreed insipidly, "there's scarcely been a day without weather since I arrived in your fair country."
No. This could not be a ruse. Miss Orr was too serious. About herself, especially.
This is just how she is, he thought to himself with a touch of horror.
But it turned out his horror was premature.
A spill was bound to happen from time to time- (had she done that on purpose?!) but it seemed to Roland that making a fuss about it was more disruptive than the error itself. When that fuss evolved into an offer of punishment, a series of thoughts paraded through Roland's mind.
First- that watching one woman punish another woman was a deliciously seedy thing to contemplate.
Second- that Miss Orr was exactly the flavor of self-superior bully that Roland had objected to throughout his entire life. The same sort who'd decried him as a bastard and beaten him in the yard... but with a female skin wrapped around her bully body. A delightful skin it was... but the willingness to commit violence to her social inferior robbed her beauty of its charms.
"The fashion of punishments in London has evolved of late, Miss Orr," Roland said, "by virtue of the recent Victorian Menials Correctional Standards Proclamation by our Majesty, on May seventh of this very year. As a subject of the crown, I am bound by its dictates, as are all who would deliver corrections in my stead.
But then, I do not expect you are familiar with the approved methodology, having lived in the colonie- that is, these United States, over the period in question.
Well... No cause to fret. If you will round the table and bend over my knee, I can illustrate the method." He extended one leg out from beneath the table and patted his thigh.
"And then you can do me the great favor of passing it along, as it is more meet for a Lady to discipline a menial female such as this, than for a gentleman to do it."
"Everybody can feather their nest, but it's not just anybody that can lay an egg!"
"The fashion of punishments in London has evolved of late, Miss Orr," Roland said, "by virtue of the recent Victorian Menials Correctional Standards Proclamation by our Majesty, on May seventh of this very year. As a subject of the crown, I am bound by its dictates, as are all who would deliver corrections in my stead. But then, I do not expect you are familiar with the approved methodology, having lived in the colonie- that is, these United States, over the period in question.
The dumb Anæsthesia would have had trouble following all of that even if she hadn't been rendered incredibly tipsy by the toxic trio of sherry, wine and Granny Miggin's lethal phocine. She borrowed a line from Arabella:
"Uh?"
"He means they changed the law and you gotta spank folks in a special way now, else you'll be all out o' fashion in England." Arabella translated into the vernacular as she got to her feet.
Well... No cause to fret. If you will round the table and bend over my knee, I can illustrate the method." He extended one leg out from beneath the table and patted his thigh.
"Oh, ain't that nice, Miss Orr: Sir Roland's offerin' to show you how it's done!" Arabella chirped. Ooh, Roland wasn't letting her down, he was just as big a blackguard as she was, or whatever the female equivalent of a blackguard was. They always said 'it takes one to know one'.
"He is? Is that good?" A frown wrinkled the flawless brow of the dozy doxie.
"And then you can do me the great favor of passing it along, as it is more meet for a Lady to discipline a menial female such as this, than for a gentleman to do it."
"Yeah, come on, this is how they lead 'em to the place of execution, I read about it in the London Times" Arabella informed the taller blond, reaching up and grabbing her by the earlobe in a painful pinch and pulling her head down, leading her in a hobbling stumble toward Roland, before pushing her over his knee.
"Oooh, ow!" she protested, but going along with it all in her confusion.
Arabella flipped up Miss Orr's dress and her layers of petticoats, exposing the white linen of the drawers that came down to her knees, her white stocking clad calves and her little booted feet. In those days ladies under garments were of the pantalette type, with a convenient split which allowed convenient access when one had to use the, well... conveniences. Thus, it was the work of a second for Arabella to pull apart the two sides of the split to expose the twin pale globes of Miss Anæsthesia Ether Orr's pretty little privileged derrière.
"Oh dear! Is this really quite necessary?!" her voice sounded from somewhere down below.
Arabella looked down at the two trembling white buttocks, then swivelled her amused face to Roland: her oddly hard gaze met his: "Lay it on hard!" she hissed, making a vicious smacking motion in the air with her hand, then nodded knowingly, as if to say 'That'll do it'. Then she swivelled her eyes back to the soon to be reddened bottom of the snobbish beauty with a look of slightly evil anticipation on her little face.
