Brendan tilted his head to one side. If whatever Pettigrew meant by "carnal knowledge" was what he thought it meant, how could he use a less crude term to cater to the man's sensitivity? After giving it some thought, he replied, "We did have a roll in the blankets, if that's what you're askin'. Why?"

A roll in the blankets? Wus smiled. "A roll in the blankets. Ho ho. Yes indeed. A nice term, a nice term indeed. Well, Sir, I only seek to confirm that you are aware of the full extent of Miss Monahan's injuries. And I ask because, I intend to give you every aid like I say, to help the two of you get together and..."

He frowned a little. 

"... May I ask whether you intend to marry Miss Monahan if you get the chance. I understand that you told the late Mr Crabbe that you would not. I'm a little, well, I'm a little confused about that, to tell you the truth, Mr Connolly." he said. He'd had a couple of drinks now, maybe he wouldn't have asked such a forward question had he not.

His gaze drifted to the wall behind Pettigrew's head and a sigh escaped his lips. 

Pettigrew looked up worried, lest his combover had come unhinged: a very real danger if a strong daft entered the room. That scare apart, he was heartened to hear the full story of the night that Mr Connolly's name had been blackened: although, truth to tell, Wus would probably have taken Brendan's side whatever the explanation of his refusal to marry Miss Monahan.

He looked back at Pettigrew. "But now...I got a job and a room at Miz Wigfall's. I can take care of her now. And, Pettigrew, still speakin' man to man...I feel like I gotta marry her. The Wentworths are good people, but they're havin' to care for Bridget 'cause of me. If I'd just agreed to marry her in the first place, Crabbe would still be here."

"Well, you do not know that for certain Mister Connolly. In fact, none of us know when we may breath our last, especially a person of my time of life." that was true, and the aging and obese man wondered whether he should seize his chance with the drunk and grateful Brendan before it was too late, or rather hope that death would come soon and rid him of these awful temptations. 

"Now, the important thing is what happens on your visit, I suppose. You must certainly look your best. Maybe come around here for a proper bath and shave. I shall shave you myself if you wish: no nick or unsightly patches. Then I shall see to your wardrobe personally. No man will have ever looked finer, going to call on his sweetheart. And then the moment of the meeting itself." he looked concerned. "Tell me, have you ever walked into an ambush, Mr Connolly?" Worcester considered that, as a man of action, the Mississippian might have sometime found himself in that exact situation.

"It occurs to me, Sir, that you will be vastly outnumbered at that very crucial moment: why there are more Wentworths in the world than flies on a honey pot... and only one Mr Brendan Connolly!" 

Wus stood up and stumbled, even more clumsily than the last time, to the rapidly emptying whiskey decanter.

"Would you permit me the honour, Sir, of accompanying you to the Wentworths' as your Second?!" he asked the reeling draper. He filled Brendan's glass.

"I can distract those damn Yankees, while you talk properly and without hindrance or interference to that beguiling belle Miss Monahan..." he slurred. He seemed to fancy himself back in New Orleans, where he had challenged Beast Butler to a duel for casting his foul stain on Southern Womanhood during the Union occupation.

Bailey

"Your offer is downright generous, sir. And usually I'd be inclined to accept. We southerners gotta stick together, huh? But here's the thing." Now he leaned on Pettigrew's shoulder. "See, they already think I'm a scoundrel. So I gotta show 'em I'm not. But if I sneak off with Bridget--much as I'd like to--that'll just look bad." He grimaced and knitted his brows for a second, then his face cleared. "But if it comes down to a shootout, I'd be honored to have you as my second."

"Oh my dear Mister Connolly" Wus slurred, putting his arm around the equally sozzled young man "You're all mixed up! I don't mean a shootin' ambush, I mean a social ambush! It is words and questions that will be flying at you, not bullets!" 

He tried to find out exactly what Brendan might be walking into. 

"Now, what is the situation in the Wentworth household? Do we know who looks after her? Who would we need to ask whether she is being given access to her support garment?" Mr Pettigrew seemed to be getting somewhat obsessed with Bridget's corsetry.

So that was what Pettigrew meant by an ambush. Brendan grinned. "Ohhhhh, I been in one a' those, too. You ever talked to Clara Redmond? Lutz, I mean Lutz. She's married now, ain't she? Yeah. Well, she's deadly with those words a' hers."

"I am familiar with the young lady" nodded Mr Pettigrew "Erudite if a trifle over serious." he nodded. She didn't come into his draper's store particularly, but her biggest cheerleader was never out of the place, looking at the dresses, trying on the bonnets, examining the fashion plates that were kept behind the counter, occasionally buying a ribbon. Yes, Miss Mudd was always gushing about Mrs Clara Anne Lutz.

"But I--I don't think I gotta worry 'bout that with the Wentworths. They're all straight-talkers, the Wentworths. Say what they mean and say it plain, so you can understand 'em." Unlike Clara and Pettigrew, and even Arabella sometimes.

"Maybe so!" relied Mr Pettigrew in stentorian tones. So, he wanted straight talking did he? Well, Wus could do that. He could say it slowly and simply like when he was young and he had to talk to the slaves on his father's plantation. "I am not saying the Wentworths are trying to pull the wool over your eyes. They are straight talking. They are honest. But maybe they do not want the same thing for Miss Monahan as we do... for her to be with YOU, Sir!"   

Pettigrew was suddenly off on a tangent about Bridget's corset again. Brendan waved a hand in the air, but misjudged the space between himself and Wus and swiped his fingers clumsily along the other man's chest. "Whoa, hold your horses. I know 'bout as much as you do 'bout this whole thing. Bridget's stayin' with them, that's all I know. But I'd bet that Mrs. Wentworth knows about the corset thing."

"That Sir, is like a glass coffin!" Mr Pettigrew declared "Remains to be seen!"

He wobbled over to the sideboard and picked up whiskey bottle and waved it in the air where Brendan could see. 

"This is nearly done... we might as well finish it off, I guess!" he hiccoughed with a soppy smile on his face.

He was well oiled, but somehow not a drop of the liquor was spilled, and finishing the bottle gave each of them a bumper glassful. Mr Pettigrew clinked his glass against Brendan's.

"Cheers! Here's to God's three most beautiful creations: Louisiana, Mississippi, and Miss Bridget Monahan!" he slurred before taking a final, tongue loosening swig.

"... and you, Mister... Collonny." he added sadly, eyes unfocussed, not really aware of what he was saying anymore.

Bailey

But at Pettigrew's addition, Brendan frowned, his eyes narrowing as though trying to decipher the words in a book. "You...you miscounted. That's four." Brendan, who hadn't even noticed Pettigrew's mangling of his name, tried to count out on his fingers the three, no four most beautiful things, but couldn't really tell which finger was which.

Even as the taboo words had pushed themselves out of his lips, Worcester realised he had gone too far. But the pushing away did not come, the punch in the face did not come, the derisive, spitting name calling did not come. The only objection the beautiful one made was to his arithmetic. 

"But it don't matter if you can't count." He put his hands on Pettigrew's shoulders and leaned down to look into his eyes. "You're a good'un, Pettigrew. And I...I want you to know, I appreciate what you're doin' for me. Don't know if I'll ever be able to repay you, but I...I'm real grateful."

Pettigrew should have been ecstatic at these kind words from the man he was starting to, no dammit, had, HAD fallen in love with. But he was drunk, they were both drunk. Maybe Brendan didn't understand what he had just said. By God, of course he didn't understand. But he had been so kind... Pettigrew was trying to order his thoughts and emotions at the worst possible times.

He patted the butcher's assistant on the shoulder and shook his head.

"No, no Mister Coll... Connelly. I'm not a good 'un. Not by a long chalk. There's, there's something you need to know about me Mister Connelly... and... I need to tell you so you won't feel 'bliged to me in the future. Because..." he collapsed back into his chair and put him face in his hands. He shouldn't tell him, but he no longer had full control of his faculties, and whatever 'faculty' it was that stops a body blurting out important truths was out cold for the night.

"I'm not helping you, Sir, because I'm a good man, or because I am obliged to help your beautiful redhaired Miss Monahan, or any other semi-respectable reason. I am a freak of nature, Mister Connolly, a rightly despised perverted beast, I am helping you... Brendan..." he looked up, he might as well see the object of his desires one last time before the man quite rightly killed him "... because I am in love, I am in love with you."

He gave a slight hiccup and braced himself for the inevitable thump. Connolly had a reputation as a killer, maybe this would put him out of his misery forever. 

Bailey