"Everybody can feather their nest, but it's not just anybody that can lay an egg!"
"Yeah, well, me and Pettigrew don't got a problem with demon booze, so don't ask us to join." He turned his attention back to his food. Then all of a sudden Frances was asking him a question.
"Aheum! Quite right!" agreed the draper, though last night's antics weren't particularly good proof of this.
"Um--" Brendan paused with his fork in midair. He'd thought his presence was present enough for Bridget. This courting thing was proving to be more difficult than he thought. "I guess I oughta bring her somethin'." He looked around the table at his eating companions. "What should I bring her?"
Frances must have read Brendan's mind, because she immediately suggested "How about a big bunch of flowers?"
"Ah, but then you put the burthen upon your hosts to do something about the blasted things, at which point they will be whipped away from the girl any way." put in Pettigrew, crushing the blind girl's idea.
"Oh, I never thought of that. Gosh, I'd be pleased as Mr Punch if a gentleman brought me flowers, even if they were whisked away!" replied Frances.
Arabella was frowning hard, really working those dozen or so braincells of hers.
"I got it!" she said finally "Wait there!"
With that she jumped up and ran upstairs, where she could be heard clomping around like a herd of buffalo, rather than a pint-sized girl. There was a rhythmic thump thump thump as she descended the stairs again.
"Here you go" she beamed dumping a very lacklustre grey metal locket, with an engraving of a bird on the front, into Brendan's hands "Don't worry, it's silver, I can clean it up with vinegar and baking soda and it'll be just the shiniest thing you ever did see: you know Bridget's like a magpie when it comes to glintin' shiny things!" she took it off him and put it in Frances' hand, so she could feel it.
"What is in the locket?" the blind girl asked in curiosity.
"Oh, picture o' some old goat: I'll take a new photygraph of your handsome phiz, Mississippi, and pop it in there, so she don't forget what you look like while them Wentworths has got her all locked away and shut in."
So apparently flowers weren't a good option. Well, at least he hadn't said it out loud. Brendan winced as Arabella raced upstairs and made a racket from the floor above the breakfast table. And she'd complained about him and Caroline!
When she came thumping back down the stairs and handed him something, he was surprised, and a little touched that Arabella would give up something of hers for him. Well, technically for Bridget. But it made sense. He and Bridget were, with the exception of Miriam Kaufman, some of Arabella's closest friends.
He squinted at the locket, unsure of why Bridget would want something of Arabella's, until he realized Arabella was right. She'd love it, maybe prizing it above the pennies she found in the street. And she wouldn't even realize it had been Arabella's before.
He wanted to keep looking at the thing, but Arabella took it so Frances could get a feel of it, so Brendan turned back to his food. He looked up as Arabella went on with her plans for Bridget's present. "I never had a photograph taken before," he mused. "How long do I gotta be still for?"
"Everybody can feather their nest, but it's not just anybody that can lay an egg!"
Brendan turned back to his food. He looked up as Arabella went on with her plans for Bridget's present. "I never had a photograph taken before," he mused. "How long do I gotta be still for?"
"'Pends on the light" Arabella replied matter-of-factly "If we was outside in the bright sunlight, why justa couple o' seconds. Problem then is the wind might ruffle your hair or clothes. Inside, in the gloom, a lot longer. It ain't so much you gettin' the fidgets as is the problem, I can put you in a iron brace for that; it's the eyes. See, if a person starts blinkin', ha ha: like you're blinkin' right now..." she pointed out "then the camera captures that, and the finished portrait has this funny glazed, dead look in the eyes."
She took a big bite of bacon and eggs and spoke with her mouth full.
"In fact, it's easier for me to make a dead person look alive in a photygraph, than it is to make a live person not look dead!" She stopped and frowned for a second, thinking about what she'd just said, then nodded "Yes, that's right."
"If you can sneak round to the funeral parlour sometime this mornin', I'll take a plate of you. Can't do this afternoon, I'm rehearsing." she explained "I'm gonna be Cleopatra. Say fellers, you should see the costume: talk about risqué! I got two little metal puddin' basins stuck to ma chest to cover my..."
"Couple of fried eggs?" asked Frances.
"Well, I know they ain't the biggest in the world, but..." Arabella started to object.
"No, I'm asking Mister Pettigrew and Mr Connelly if they'd like a couple of fried eggs with their breakfast!" Frances clarified.
Although the idea of being put in an iron brace didn't sound appealing, it would give Brendan a chance see what Bridget went through every day. There was some sort of odd fairness to it all: if he could be uncomfortable for a little while and wear a stupid brace and manage to not blink, Bridget would have a picture of him to look at and think about while they were apart and she was having to wear a stupid brace.
Except hers wasn't stupid. It was necessary.
Brendan frowned as Arabella pointed out his blinking. "I wasn't..." Damn. He'd blinked again. Maybe if he practiced not blinking between now and then it would help. "What about tomorrow mornin'?" he asked. "I gotta get to work after I finish here."
He chuckled at Arabella's misunderstanding about the fried eggs, although the thought of her pudding basins made him recoil with a kind of brotherly horror at the idea of Arabella's Cleopatra. "I'll take an egg," he said, raising a hand, forgetting Frances couldn't see him. "Pettigrew?" He glanced at the tailor, trying to maintain a sense of normalcy in his gaze and not think about the previous night.
"Everybody can feather their nest, but it's not just anybody that can lay an egg!"
Brendan frowned as Arabella pointed out his blinking. "I wasn't..." Damn. He'd blinked again. Maybe if he practiced not blinking between now and then it would help. "What about tomorrow mornin'?" he asked. "I gotta get to work after I finish here."
Arabella frowned in thought, remembering her schedule in her head: she was quite busy these days, juggling one thing or another. "Mmm, O.K. Come round to the funeral parlour when you can, Mr Jolly'll be pleased to see you - you've practically kept him in business this year." she joked macabrely.
He chuckled at Arabella's misunderstanding about the fried eggs, although the thought of her pudding basins made him recoil with a kind of brotherly horror at the idea of Arabella's Cleopatra. "I'll take an egg," he said, raising a hand, forgetting Frances couldn't see him. "Pettigrew?" He glanced at the tailor, trying to maintain a sense of normalcy in his gaze and not think about the previous night.
"Oh, yes please indeed!" the jovial draper beamed.
"I'm real good in it so far" Arabella kept on jabbering about the production "But Mister Darling is just no good as Marc Anthony, I want Mister Astin to take the part."
"Oh, he's the handsome fellow with the tight britches in all your productions" Mr Pettigrew had clearly taken note of the actor.
"Yeah, except in this play he'll be wearing a little short tunic, with his 'muscular and well apportioned' legs all danglin' down, like a Roman general." corrected Arabella. Well, that was one ticket sold! Pettigrew would probably be in every night.
"It's real odd with me and Astin, when we're off stage, we're just like chalk and cheese, but when we're in a scene together and he's pretending to be a man and I'm pretending to be a woman, and he's kissin and a slobberin all over me, I kinda... well, I kinda get the flutters with him, ain't that strange?"
"Oh-oh!" giggled Frances. "Not 'the flutters!'"
"That is because you are a great actress, Miss Mudd!" opined Worcester, angling for some more of that delicious bacon.
"Mmm, O.K. Come round to the funeral parlour when you can, Mr Jolly'll be pleased to see you - you've practically kept him in business this year."
Brendan scowled. "Shut up." He wasn't really responsible -- if you looked at it the right way -- for any of the deaths people were attributing to him, so why couldn't they just leave him alone about it? The more people talked about it, the more likely it would hurt his chances with Bridget. He knew Arabella meant it as a joke, but it still rankled.
"Yeah, I'm sure you're a real good actress." Maybe if he saved up some money he could go see Arabella in the show. What would be really nice is if he could take Bridget along with him, but he figured that was a long shot. Shoveling his eggs into his mouth, he pushed his chair back.
"I gotta get to work. See you tomorrow, Arabella. I know Bridget'll like the locket. Thanks for the breakfast, Frances." He paused at the door. "And Pettigrew?" He locked eyes with the older man. "See ya for my fitting soon." Grabbing his hat, he ducked out the door and into the street.
OOC: A good place to end? Julie mentioned that for the timeline's sake we may want to delay Brendan's visit to the Wentworths until late September/early October, so we could brainstorm ideas for that.