Fic: A Fish Out Of Water - Part 5
Apr. 4th, 2005 12:51 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
lonelybritHmm. I remember around this point realising that some kind of plot might be needed. So, there is an attempt to introduce one here, LOL! Again, huggles and snuggles to the lovely ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
eloise_bright for holding my hand and being my beta!
Previous parts are all here.
Chapter Five:
Simple stunned surprise kept me voiceless for a few seconds after Will’s heartfelt greeting. Will himself, still visibly trembling, continued in his new trend.
“I’ll gut him like a trout. His own mother won’t recognise him by the time I’m through. If he thinks he can get away with this, he’s got another thing coming- And YOU don’t go anywhere! Christ knows, he and your Dad move in the same circles, maybe you can give us the inside scoop.”
This last comment, directed at Pryce, finally jolted me back into life. Despite my natural concern at seeing Will so upset, I still felt a twinge of indignity at having my valet addressed effectively as ‘Hey, you’.
“Will,” I began soothingly, “calm down-”
“I’ll hang him from the highest tree-”
“- count to ten -”
“- the crows will have a field day -”
“- take a deep breath and - ”
“WILL YOU STOP RABBITING ON!”
“Would you care for a drink, sir?”
I gave Pryce a freezing look. The last thing you need to do when Will is out for blood and on the warpath is give him alcoholic beverages. But before I could open my mouth, Will gasped out: “Oh thank God, a man with some speck of intelligence. Pryce. Bless you.”
The drink did wonders. The first touch of glass against lip had an instant soothing effect, the tension draining from Will’s shoulders and only a mere smouldering of homicidal rage lingering in his eyes. The gaze he gave Pryce as he handed back the glass was almost tender.
“The bastards, Liam,” he said, this time more heartbroken than furious. “How could they. I don’t give a toss about the money but… bugger it, it’s her money! How dare they even think of putting their tainted fingers on it!”
He continued like this for several minutes, muttering increasingly florid and detailed vows of vengeance upon these deserving if nameless ‘they’. Pryce, although not physically leaving my side, did that blending in with the furniture trick, thus leaving me effectively alone to try and decipher what the hell Will was going on about.
“If I need an alibi,” he finished in a low voice, “you’ll provide me with one, won’t you, Liam?”
“Always,” I agreed, leaping on the gap in his monologue. “But, Will, I’m not saying these people don’t deserve to be ‘buttered over the lawn’-”
“Nor that his plan to disembowel them, feed their innards to the fishes, boil the fishes and use them to make glue to paste Vote Spike posters in Leicester Square, is ill-advised, sir?”
“What? No. Thank you, Pryce.”
“Not at all, sir, and regarding Master Davis’ vow to-”
“Thank you, Pryce!”
“Very good, sir.”
“Will,” I resumed, firmly, locking eyes with the man, “what the hell are you going on about? Look, no question, if someone’s crossed you then I’m right there with you when it comes to teaching them a good lesson, but I’d like to know why first. Or maybe even some actual names!”
Will snorted and rolled his eyes, sparing me the briefest and most exasperated of glances.
“Haven’t you been listening, ass,” he snapped, “Wolfram and Hart, Liam, Wolfram and Hart. Or to be more precise, old man Holland and his demon seed. They’re trying to get their mitts on Aunt Edith’s property.”
“What?” The gears of my brain crunched as they tried to adjust to this new nugget of information. “You mean… they’re after the house?”
Will gave me a look of utter contempt.
“The money, you nit,” he said coldly. “Fine, I’ll repeat it all again then, just for your benefit. You know that poetry collection published a while back; ‘View of the Mind’s Eye’?”
Pryce and I both nodded. ‘View of the Mind’s Eye’ had hit the English bookshelves with deceptive lack of fanfare last summer. It then went on to become the kind of book where the more appropriate question was who hadn’t read it rather than who had. Even in America. Some of the more uptight critics complained the poems lacked clarity, but quite honestly some of the more uptight critics had all the heart and soul of a dead woodlouse. And those verses were all about heart and soul.
“A great book,” I said warmly, “I swear I almost cried several times when reading it and you know me, I was the only kid who didn’t cry when Robin Hood died.”
“Certainly a most enjoyable collection of works,” Pryce agreed with quiet sincerity.
“That lady Miss Ruth M. Lees has a talent.”
“Had a talent,” Will put in sourly. “Had a talent, Liam. There is… was no Miss Ruth M. Lees. It was a pseudonym. For Mrs E. Davis. Or Lady Cusplip. My aunt, Liam. She wrote all that, and she never told me.”
I stared and even if Pryce didn’t gape, his eyes did widen the smallest tiniest fraction.
“Aunt Edith?” I repeated dumbly. “Your Aunt Edith?”
“But that’s not the problem. The problem is, poor trusting creature that she was, she only went and signed up bloody Wolfram and Hart as her agents,” Will continued, ignoring our reactions. “I just got collared by that smug swine MacDonald. Told me the whole sorry tale. Sir Git Holland put up the money to publish the book – Aunt Edith didn’t have the funds and of course she was never going to ask Uncle Eddy for it, you know what she’s like about spending anything on herself.”
I didn’t, sadly, since I’d never met the lady myself. I’d occasionally seen her from a distance at large school celebrations when families from all four corners of the world came in to wave the flag. A vague memory of a tasteful hat and spotless gloves. But beyond that, I’d only heard what Will told me about her.
Will was blinking hard, staring down at his shoes, his jaw tight. When he looked up and restarted, his eyes were bright and cold with determination.
“Listen, I really don’t give a rat’s arse about getting any money myself. And I’ll have words with anyone who tries to say otherwise...”
“But why would anyone… She left you something?”
“She left me all her profits,” Will said flatly, showing no delight in what was technically a piece of very good fortune. “As one poet to another I suppose, and it’s not like she had brats of her own to spoil. Only as her agent, Manners is claiming a ‘large’ percentage.” His nostrils flared and he tossed his head like a war horse listening for the call to charge. “Meaning he wants all of it. Her fairly earned profits. She wrote and earned every last bloody penny and there’s no way I’m letting some slimeball like Manners get his filthy hands on it. Understand? It’s not happening; we’re not going to let it.”
“We?” I pricked the ears, the old blood rising. There had been times in New York when Will and I would go after some idiot who needed knocking down a peg or two. A worthwhile fight did wonders for the soul. And right then, when I was stuck in some room that might have been the Moon for all I knew, a familiar plan seemed like just what the doctor ordered.
Will nodded grimly, no doubt in his head hearing the call of the trumpets and standards fluttering in the breeze. The lines were being drawn, the forces gathered.
“Manners is officially reading the will tomorrow, mid-morning. So we need to have this fixed by then. I don’t want anything upsetting Uncle Eddy; the day’ll be hard enough for him already without people scrapping over her money.”
Throughout all this, Pryce had obediently given Will his undivided attention, his eyes initially bright with polite interest, but nothing more. As Will continued speaking, though, I watched Pryce noticeably unbend. His pose softened, shoulders relaxing, his eyes narrowed a little with what looked like genuine concern. And even if he didn’t exactly beam at Will, his gaze had definitely warmed by the time the tale ended.
I wasn’t really surprised. Will has that effect on people. Well, he does if they give him the chance. Will is the kind of guy who’ll meet you with a posture and cocky smile and some smart remark. People tend to think him some shallow, lay-about young whippersnapper who cares about nothing other than drink, clothes and having fun. Which isn’t quite true. Will does care a great deal about drink, clothes and having fun, but he can also do other things. He can take care of people, he often knows your mind scarily well, and he can waffle on for hours about the beauty of a tadpole when he’s in a certain mood.
Will snorted with frustration.
“So, as I was saying,” he said, “by this time tomorrow morning we’ve got to make this problem disappear. Anyone got any ideas?”
“I say we hold them out over a high precipice until they agree to back down,” I suggested.
Pryce and Will both looked dubious.
“Sir Holland is not a man to be easily swayed by simple brute force, sir,” Pryce said ruefully. “He would merely use it as a tool to move the battlefield to the courtroom; a location where he would have the advantage. His knowledge of the laws and statutes, and his ability to invoke those favourable to his cause, is unparalleled.”
“Meaning we make that Plan B,” Will translated grimly, again eyeing the carpet like a general overseeing the battlefield.
Pryce’s silence was apologetic.
“Alright, so, the brutal but honest plan goes on the backburner. Meaning we do it Holland’s way.” And if I didn’t sound exactly happy, it was because I wasn’t. I’m no saint. I know how to ‘play dirty’ along with the best of them, I was the best of them back in the day. But that was then. More recently I’d changed tactics, preferring to stick with the kind of warfare where everyone knows where they stand from the start.
“So, Pryce, any ideas?”
Will still glowered down at the carpet, his question clipped out from nowhere with iced calmness. He asked it with the same deliberate casualness that I imagined prisoners were asked for their final requests. Pryce showed no sign of annoyance at the tone; he merely tilted his head slightly on one side.
“Sir?”
Will’s face was set, his voice hard.
“Don’t ‘sir’ me, Pryce.” He raised a gimlet gaze, his eyes dark. I’d seen similar expressions on his face just before he launched himself at someone who’d compared an object of affection to a farmyard animal. “I know all about your family. Don’t think I’m blinded by this valet act. Your father and Holland may be on opposite sides, but they play the same game, don’t they? How else could either have survived this long? If anyone knows what it takes to make Holland back off, it’ll be your team.”
“Will.”
“So, start talking. I’m sure your Dad’s mentioned something-”
“Will.”
“Not now, Liam.”
“Will!”
“What?” The word spat out like a bullet, Will shooting me a daggered stare that could have nailed lead.
I tried to figure out what exactly I had wanted to say. Obviously, one part came from personal pride. I didn’t like having my valet grilled without my permission. Kind of an odd feeling and actually quite scary considering how new I was to the whole employer thing, but there it was. I felt for Will, I did, but I also felt like he’d crossed a line somehow. The main part, though, which I would have explained to Will if I’d been given the time to put a proper sentence together, was that whilst Pryce was still a mystery to me, one thing I was fairly sure of was that bringing up mention of his father was never a kind or fair move. And I was pretty sure Pryce didn’t deserve it.
Pryce gave a polite, soft cough.
“I fear, Mr Davis, that you are under the impression that I and my father, despite our different positions, share some form of confidence. This is not the case, and hasn’t been for some time. My father’s activities are not a matter on which I am kept well informed.”
Pryce kept his voice quiet and even, his face grave, and he held Will’s gaze steadily. Even so, I could feel something boiling just below the surface. Will’s eyes narrowed.
“Is that so, Pryce?”
“Yes, sir.”
A moment of silence, then Will pursed his lips. “Well, then we’re sunk.”
“I will endeavour to think on the matter, sir. Perhaps some solution will come to light before tomorrow’s meeting.”
Will shrugged. “Sure, why not.”
“Will there be anything further, sir?”
It took a moment to realise that this question was directed at me.
“Oh, uh, no, Pryce. That’s everything, thank-y-”
But he had gone before I could finish, and I spoke the last words to a pillar of empty space. I collected my thoughts, then turned on Will.
“Look,” I began, “I really am sorry about your Aunt, and believe me I’m going to help you find a way to keep that Manners off, but, well, Will, did you have to chew Pryce up like that?”
“Like what?” Will looked at me, frowning like he was confused. “I just asked him a question, and a perfectly valid one considering where he comes from.”
“He’s not his father,” I pointed out, feeling oddly defensive on that point, as well as quite certain that I’d never say so in front of Pryce. It would be too personal, somehow. “You’ve only just met him and already you’re treating him like you expect him to spout horns and start breathing flames.”
“He might,” Will muttered sourly. He scuffed a toe on the carpet, scowled, then sighed and cursed softly. “All right, all right. Point taken. Like father, like son, just with a pinch of salt. I guess it makes sense, I mean, Christ, no way anyone could ever mistake you for your old man.”
“Thanks.”
“No problem.”
We shared rather belated and sheepish smiles. The tension finally went away to pester someone else.
Since Pryce had vanished, I flagged down a passing maid to get some needed refreshment. Once armed with our glasses, Will and I removed ourselves to the gardens for a stroll so we could plan without interruption. We chatted about the virtues of a single malt versus a blend as we traversed the house and began passing through the kitchen garden en route for the main lake. The boundaries of this patch were marked out by a stretch of privet. The top of this green fence easily soared over both mine and Will’s heads, so we heard the voices beyond the leaves before the persons responsible turned up the gravelled path and came into view.
“Ah, now don’t you worry your pretty head about these matters, we’ll take care of it all.”
“Your wit as always astounds me, Lindsey.”
“You know you love me, Lilah.”
“Oh yes, almost as much as a hole in the head. Would you like one, by the way?”
Lindsey MacDonald and Lilah Morgan saw us at the same instant that Will and I screeched to a horrified halt.
They made a pretty pair, but then again a pair of snakes always do look oddly charming until they suddenly turn up on your foot. Both of them wore respectful black, although she wore it far better than he did. Morgan was one of those women who could probably make the potato sack the height of fashion given a moment to choose the right lipstick to go with it. MacDonald looked less comfortable, the beautiful tailoring of his suit unable to hide the fact that you could still smell the country air and rolling plains on him.
“Well, look here, it’s Mr Wordsworth, again,” MacDonald said with perfect charm. He turned a critical eye my way. “I suppose this would be the sidekick you were telling me about, Lilah?”
“Neanderthal forehead, dazed expression, girth equal to a whale… Yes, I do believe it is, Lindsey.” She gave me a perfectly sweet smile, “How are you, Mr Connor? Such a beautiful day, is it not? Makes one feel positively charitable…”
Will had been bridling throughout, a tick going in his jaw; face steadily flushing a very deep red about the cheeks. At Lilah’s last words he let out a snort like a starting gun and launched himself at the grinning pair.
“You under-handed scheming pig-headed-”
“Will!” I exclaimed, snatching at the tail end of his jacket. “Think about this, you can’t flatten a knight’s family under his nose!”
“Unhand me! I’ll snap them like twigs!”
“I’d listen to your friend, Willie,” Lindsey advised with a smug quirk of the eyebrow. “Despite appearances, his brain might actually be working.”
I narrowed my eyes at him, digging my heels in a little more firmly and tightening my grip as Will strained away from me. His jacket began making a nasty stretching sound.
“Go dig a grave and lie in it, MacDonald,” I gritted out.
“You first.”
“Oh, boys, take it upstairs,” said Lilah with a stifled yawn. “That kind of behaviour is for the bedroom, not a public garden.”
Will almost escaped as I instinctively drew myself up. MacDonald shot her a filthy look.
“Mr MacDonald, sir?”
The new voice barely registered, although the tension in my hands eased as Will drew back, his instinctive host instinct taking over. He greeted the unwanted fourth person, but I had my attention on the sun-browned face smirking at me.
When it comes to the upper-class English male, there are, roughly, two types.
The first is the pale, blue-blood breed. The kind who couldn’t lift anything heavier than the book they’re currently reading; their skin pale and thin and totally alien to sun and outside air.
The second type is the kind who lives on the country air and thrill of the hunt and thump of the long hard walk. They could row for England, stop a runaway horse, and could flatten you with one fist.
Mr MacDonald should have been in this second class. Except for one small flaw. Namely his height. The strong shoulders and sun-streaked hair were all present and correct, but sadly for him, the usually trademark looming was an act simply out of his reach.
“So, you’re the muscle little Mr Davis decided to bring along for protection? How touching.”
Now, some people you meet, and you just click straight away. You’re sharing cigarettes and childhood tales before the sun sets. Others, like Will, mature like a good cheese; showing their good side after a few colourful years. A few you just know from the start you’ll never get on with. They dislike you, you dislike them, and you both know that nothing would give you more pleasure than to score a point off the other.
Lindsey’s lip curled as he slowly looked me over, placing him very firmly in that final category.
“Nice suit,” he sneered, “looks brand new. How many potatoes did your pa have to sell for it?”
I didn’t notice that my hands were empty, Will having completely broken free by then. My loathing for this smug creature hit new levels.
“Keep going and I’ll happily bury you like one.”
“Oh, I’m quaking in my boots,” said Lindsey mockingly. He cast a disdainful look over at Will who now stood off to the side with a rather round pageboy. The young boy was gaping at me and Lindsey, fascinated by the smell of imminent battle. “Honestly, you two lowlifes come crawling out the swamp, and you really think a few sharp suits and a borrowed cottage give you the right to be here?” He shook his head, and gave a low chuckle. “It’s laughable, you up against Wolfram and Hart. It’s a pipe-dream, never going to happen. My advice? Take it on the chin, kiss the money goodbye and go back across the ocean to-”
The sentence ended prematurely with a furious bark of surprise, Lindsey calling me a wonderful collection of names. Hardly surprising considering I had one hand round his neck, my free arm spinning him around. A little more footwork, one good solid heave, and Mr MacDonald was airborne and heading on a direct route northwards. In the corner of the enclosed garden, nestling peacefully in the shade of the hedge, lay a pile of that most vital tool of horticulture. The compost heap. Lindsey hit it with arms flailing, potato skins and nameless black organic remnants scattering about him.
I turned back to Will, breathing heavily.
“I think we should return indoors,” I said stiffly.
Will’s face began breaking into an expression of pure bliss, but then suddenly flickered. Not much warning, true, but enough. I half-turned just as the ripe smelling MacDonald cannoned into me. We almost hit the pageboy on our first tour, the lad dodging a stray elbow with surprising agility. I caught a glimpse of him tearing back towards the house, a blur of uniformed blue, blaring like a foghorn, and then I was busy trying to intercept Lindsey’s fist with something that preferably wasn’t my face.
One brawl is really the same as another, so I won’t bore you with details. Sometimes we circled, sometimes we charged. MacDonald got one shot in, by pure luck, when I tripped on a border, and I found myself sitting in the smelly mound he had just vacated. After that, it was all out war. In fact, I had finally gotten his neck in a good grip under my arm, and was judging the distance to the nearest pond or rain butt, when the hammer of doom fell upon us.
“Mr Connor! Mr MacDonald! What is the meaning of this!”
The red haze cleared from my eyes.
The audience spilling out from the kitchens was the aristocratic equivalent of a mob waving pitchforks and flaming torches. The hoard of beak-nosed, gimlet-eyed harpies was headed by a towering thundercloud disguised as Lord Cusplip. His eyes blazed with the fury of a thousand suns as he said in a voice of purest steel, “You will kindly explain yourselves at once.”
Next part here.
eloise_bright for holding my hand and being my beta!Previous parts are all here.
Chapter Five:
Simple stunned surprise kept me voiceless for a few seconds after Will’s heartfelt greeting. Will himself, still visibly trembling, continued in his new trend.
“I’ll gut him like a trout. His own mother won’t recognise him by the time I’m through. If he thinks he can get away with this, he’s got another thing coming- And YOU don’t go anywhere! Christ knows, he and your Dad move in the same circles, maybe you can give us the inside scoop.”
This last comment, directed at Pryce, finally jolted me back into life. Despite my natural concern at seeing Will so upset, I still felt a twinge of indignity at having my valet addressed effectively as ‘Hey, you’.
“Will,” I began soothingly, “calm down-”
“I’ll hang him from the highest tree-”
“- count to ten -”
“- the crows will have a field day -”
“- take a deep breath and - ”
“WILL YOU STOP RABBITING ON!”
“Would you care for a drink, sir?”
I gave Pryce a freezing look. The last thing you need to do when Will is out for blood and on the warpath is give him alcoholic beverages. But before I could open my mouth, Will gasped out: “Oh thank God, a man with some speck of intelligence. Pryce. Bless you.”
The drink did wonders. The first touch of glass against lip had an instant soothing effect, the tension draining from Will’s shoulders and only a mere smouldering of homicidal rage lingering in his eyes. The gaze he gave Pryce as he handed back the glass was almost tender.
“The bastards, Liam,” he said, this time more heartbroken than furious. “How could they. I don’t give a toss about the money but… bugger it, it’s her money! How dare they even think of putting their tainted fingers on it!”
He continued like this for several minutes, muttering increasingly florid and detailed vows of vengeance upon these deserving if nameless ‘they’. Pryce, although not physically leaving my side, did that blending in with the furniture trick, thus leaving me effectively alone to try and decipher what the hell Will was going on about.
“If I need an alibi,” he finished in a low voice, “you’ll provide me with one, won’t you, Liam?”
“Always,” I agreed, leaping on the gap in his monologue. “But, Will, I’m not saying these people don’t deserve to be ‘buttered over the lawn’-”
“Nor that his plan to disembowel them, feed their innards to the fishes, boil the fishes and use them to make glue to paste Vote Spike posters in Leicester Square, is ill-advised, sir?”
“What? No. Thank you, Pryce.”
“Not at all, sir, and regarding Master Davis’ vow to-”
“Thank you, Pryce!”
“Very good, sir.”
“Will,” I resumed, firmly, locking eyes with the man, “what the hell are you going on about? Look, no question, if someone’s crossed you then I’m right there with you when it comes to teaching them a good lesson, but I’d like to know why first. Or maybe even some actual names!”
Will snorted and rolled his eyes, sparing me the briefest and most exasperated of glances.
“Haven’t you been listening, ass,” he snapped, “Wolfram and Hart, Liam, Wolfram and Hart. Or to be more precise, old man Holland and his demon seed. They’re trying to get their mitts on Aunt Edith’s property.”
“What?” The gears of my brain crunched as they tried to adjust to this new nugget of information. “You mean… they’re after the house?”
Will gave me a look of utter contempt.
“The money, you nit,” he said coldly. “Fine, I’ll repeat it all again then, just for your benefit. You know that poetry collection published a while back; ‘View of the Mind’s Eye’?”
Pryce and I both nodded. ‘View of the Mind’s Eye’ had hit the English bookshelves with deceptive lack of fanfare last summer. It then went on to become the kind of book where the more appropriate question was who hadn’t read it rather than who had. Even in America. Some of the more uptight critics complained the poems lacked clarity, but quite honestly some of the more uptight critics had all the heart and soul of a dead woodlouse. And those verses were all about heart and soul.
“A great book,” I said warmly, “I swear I almost cried several times when reading it and you know me, I was the only kid who didn’t cry when Robin Hood died.”
“Certainly a most enjoyable collection of works,” Pryce agreed with quiet sincerity.
“That lady Miss Ruth M. Lees has a talent.”
“Had a talent,” Will put in sourly. “Had a talent, Liam. There is… was no Miss Ruth M. Lees. It was a pseudonym. For Mrs E. Davis. Or Lady Cusplip. My aunt, Liam. She wrote all that, and she never told me.”
I stared and even if Pryce didn’t gape, his eyes did widen the smallest tiniest fraction.
“Aunt Edith?” I repeated dumbly. “Your Aunt Edith?”
“But that’s not the problem. The problem is, poor trusting creature that she was, she only went and signed up bloody Wolfram and Hart as her agents,” Will continued, ignoring our reactions. “I just got collared by that smug swine MacDonald. Told me the whole sorry tale. Sir Git Holland put up the money to publish the book – Aunt Edith didn’t have the funds and of course she was never going to ask Uncle Eddy for it, you know what she’s like about spending anything on herself.”
I didn’t, sadly, since I’d never met the lady myself. I’d occasionally seen her from a distance at large school celebrations when families from all four corners of the world came in to wave the flag. A vague memory of a tasteful hat and spotless gloves. But beyond that, I’d only heard what Will told me about her.
Will was blinking hard, staring down at his shoes, his jaw tight. When he looked up and restarted, his eyes were bright and cold with determination.
“Listen, I really don’t give a rat’s arse about getting any money myself. And I’ll have words with anyone who tries to say otherwise...”
“But why would anyone… She left you something?”
“She left me all her profits,” Will said flatly, showing no delight in what was technically a piece of very good fortune. “As one poet to another I suppose, and it’s not like she had brats of her own to spoil. Only as her agent, Manners is claiming a ‘large’ percentage.” His nostrils flared and he tossed his head like a war horse listening for the call to charge. “Meaning he wants all of it. Her fairly earned profits. She wrote and earned every last bloody penny and there’s no way I’m letting some slimeball like Manners get his filthy hands on it. Understand? It’s not happening; we’re not going to let it.”
“We?” I pricked the ears, the old blood rising. There had been times in New York when Will and I would go after some idiot who needed knocking down a peg or two. A worthwhile fight did wonders for the soul. And right then, when I was stuck in some room that might have been the Moon for all I knew, a familiar plan seemed like just what the doctor ordered.
Will nodded grimly, no doubt in his head hearing the call of the trumpets and standards fluttering in the breeze. The lines were being drawn, the forces gathered.
“Manners is officially reading the will tomorrow, mid-morning. So we need to have this fixed by then. I don’t want anything upsetting Uncle Eddy; the day’ll be hard enough for him already without people scrapping over her money.”
Throughout all this, Pryce had obediently given Will his undivided attention, his eyes initially bright with polite interest, but nothing more. As Will continued speaking, though, I watched Pryce noticeably unbend. His pose softened, shoulders relaxing, his eyes narrowed a little with what looked like genuine concern. And even if he didn’t exactly beam at Will, his gaze had definitely warmed by the time the tale ended.
I wasn’t really surprised. Will has that effect on people. Well, he does if they give him the chance. Will is the kind of guy who’ll meet you with a posture and cocky smile and some smart remark. People tend to think him some shallow, lay-about young whippersnapper who cares about nothing other than drink, clothes and having fun. Which isn’t quite true. Will does care a great deal about drink, clothes and having fun, but he can also do other things. He can take care of people, he often knows your mind scarily well, and he can waffle on for hours about the beauty of a tadpole when he’s in a certain mood.
Will snorted with frustration.
“So, as I was saying,” he said, “by this time tomorrow morning we’ve got to make this problem disappear. Anyone got any ideas?”
“I say we hold them out over a high precipice until they agree to back down,” I suggested.
Pryce and Will both looked dubious.
“Sir Holland is not a man to be easily swayed by simple brute force, sir,” Pryce said ruefully. “He would merely use it as a tool to move the battlefield to the courtroom; a location where he would have the advantage. His knowledge of the laws and statutes, and his ability to invoke those favourable to his cause, is unparalleled.”
“Meaning we make that Plan B,” Will translated grimly, again eyeing the carpet like a general overseeing the battlefield.
Pryce’s silence was apologetic.
“Alright, so, the brutal but honest plan goes on the backburner. Meaning we do it Holland’s way.” And if I didn’t sound exactly happy, it was because I wasn’t. I’m no saint. I know how to ‘play dirty’ along with the best of them, I was the best of them back in the day. But that was then. More recently I’d changed tactics, preferring to stick with the kind of warfare where everyone knows where they stand from the start.
“So, Pryce, any ideas?”
Will still glowered down at the carpet, his question clipped out from nowhere with iced calmness. He asked it with the same deliberate casualness that I imagined prisoners were asked for their final requests. Pryce showed no sign of annoyance at the tone; he merely tilted his head slightly on one side.
“Sir?”
Will’s face was set, his voice hard.
“Don’t ‘sir’ me, Pryce.” He raised a gimlet gaze, his eyes dark. I’d seen similar expressions on his face just before he launched himself at someone who’d compared an object of affection to a farmyard animal. “I know all about your family. Don’t think I’m blinded by this valet act. Your father and Holland may be on opposite sides, but they play the same game, don’t they? How else could either have survived this long? If anyone knows what it takes to make Holland back off, it’ll be your team.”
“Will.”
“So, start talking. I’m sure your Dad’s mentioned something-”
“Will.”
“Not now, Liam.”
“Will!”
“What?” The word spat out like a bullet, Will shooting me a daggered stare that could have nailed lead.
I tried to figure out what exactly I had wanted to say. Obviously, one part came from personal pride. I didn’t like having my valet grilled without my permission. Kind of an odd feeling and actually quite scary considering how new I was to the whole employer thing, but there it was. I felt for Will, I did, but I also felt like he’d crossed a line somehow. The main part, though, which I would have explained to Will if I’d been given the time to put a proper sentence together, was that whilst Pryce was still a mystery to me, one thing I was fairly sure of was that bringing up mention of his father was never a kind or fair move. And I was pretty sure Pryce didn’t deserve it.
Pryce gave a polite, soft cough.
“I fear, Mr Davis, that you are under the impression that I and my father, despite our different positions, share some form of confidence. This is not the case, and hasn’t been for some time. My father’s activities are not a matter on which I am kept well informed.”
Pryce kept his voice quiet and even, his face grave, and he held Will’s gaze steadily. Even so, I could feel something boiling just below the surface. Will’s eyes narrowed.
“Is that so, Pryce?”
“Yes, sir.”
A moment of silence, then Will pursed his lips. “Well, then we’re sunk.”
“I will endeavour to think on the matter, sir. Perhaps some solution will come to light before tomorrow’s meeting.”
Will shrugged. “Sure, why not.”
“Will there be anything further, sir?”
It took a moment to realise that this question was directed at me.
“Oh, uh, no, Pryce. That’s everything, thank-y-”
But he had gone before I could finish, and I spoke the last words to a pillar of empty space. I collected my thoughts, then turned on Will.
“Look,” I began, “I really am sorry about your Aunt, and believe me I’m going to help you find a way to keep that Manners off, but, well, Will, did you have to chew Pryce up like that?”
“Like what?” Will looked at me, frowning like he was confused. “I just asked him a question, and a perfectly valid one considering where he comes from.”
“He’s not his father,” I pointed out, feeling oddly defensive on that point, as well as quite certain that I’d never say so in front of Pryce. It would be too personal, somehow. “You’ve only just met him and already you’re treating him like you expect him to spout horns and start breathing flames.”
“He might,” Will muttered sourly. He scuffed a toe on the carpet, scowled, then sighed and cursed softly. “All right, all right. Point taken. Like father, like son, just with a pinch of salt. I guess it makes sense, I mean, Christ, no way anyone could ever mistake you for your old man.”
“Thanks.”
“No problem.”
We shared rather belated and sheepish smiles. The tension finally went away to pester someone else.
Since Pryce had vanished, I flagged down a passing maid to get some needed refreshment. Once armed with our glasses, Will and I removed ourselves to the gardens for a stroll so we could plan without interruption. We chatted about the virtues of a single malt versus a blend as we traversed the house and began passing through the kitchen garden en route for the main lake. The boundaries of this patch were marked out by a stretch of privet. The top of this green fence easily soared over both mine and Will’s heads, so we heard the voices beyond the leaves before the persons responsible turned up the gravelled path and came into view.
“Ah, now don’t you worry your pretty head about these matters, we’ll take care of it all.”
“Your wit as always astounds me, Lindsey.”
“You know you love me, Lilah.”
“Oh yes, almost as much as a hole in the head. Would you like one, by the way?”
Lindsey MacDonald and Lilah Morgan saw us at the same instant that Will and I screeched to a horrified halt.
They made a pretty pair, but then again a pair of snakes always do look oddly charming until they suddenly turn up on your foot. Both of them wore respectful black, although she wore it far better than he did. Morgan was one of those women who could probably make the potato sack the height of fashion given a moment to choose the right lipstick to go with it. MacDonald looked less comfortable, the beautiful tailoring of his suit unable to hide the fact that you could still smell the country air and rolling plains on him.
“Well, look here, it’s Mr Wordsworth, again,” MacDonald said with perfect charm. He turned a critical eye my way. “I suppose this would be the sidekick you were telling me about, Lilah?”
“Neanderthal forehead, dazed expression, girth equal to a whale… Yes, I do believe it is, Lindsey.” She gave me a perfectly sweet smile, “How are you, Mr Connor? Such a beautiful day, is it not? Makes one feel positively charitable…”
Will had been bridling throughout, a tick going in his jaw; face steadily flushing a very deep red about the cheeks. At Lilah’s last words he let out a snort like a starting gun and launched himself at the grinning pair.
“You under-handed scheming pig-headed-”
“Will!” I exclaimed, snatching at the tail end of his jacket. “Think about this, you can’t flatten a knight’s family under his nose!”
“Unhand me! I’ll snap them like twigs!”
“I’d listen to your friend, Willie,” Lindsey advised with a smug quirk of the eyebrow. “Despite appearances, his brain might actually be working.”
I narrowed my eyes at him, digging my heels in a little more firmly and tightening my grip as Will strained away from me. His jacket began making a nasty stretching sound.
“Go dig a grave and lie in it, MacDonald,” I gritted out.
“You first.”
“Oh, boys, take it upstairs,” said Lilah with a stifled yawn. “That kind of behaviour is for the bedroom, not a public garden.”
Will almost escaped as I instinctively drew myself up. MacDonald shot her a filthy look.
“Mr MacDonald, sir?”
The new voice barely registered, although the tension in my hands eased as Will drew back, his instinctive host instinct taking over. He greeted the unwanted fourth person, but I had my attention on the sun-browned face smirking at me.
When it comes to the upper-class English male, there are, roughly, two types.
The first is the pale, blue-blood breed. The kind who couldn’t lift anything heavier than the book they’re currently reading; their skin pale and thin and totally alien to sun and outside air.
The second type is the kind who lives on the country air and thrill of the hunt and thump of the long hard walk. They could row for England, stop a runaway horse, and could flatten you with one fist.
Mr MacDonald should have been in this second class. Except for one small flaw. Namely his height. The strong shoulders and sun-streaked hair were all present and correct, but sadly for him, the usually trademark looming was an act simply out of his reach.
“So, you’re the muscle little Mr Davis decided to bring along for protection? How touching.”
Now, some people you meet, and you just click straight away. You’re sharing cigarettes and childhood tales before the sun sets. Others, like Will, mature like a good cheese; showing their good side after a few colourful years. A few you just know from the start you’ll never get on with. They dislike you, you dislike them, and you both know that nothing would give you more pleasure than to score a point off the other.
Lindsey’s lip curled as he slowly looked me over, placing him very firmly in that final category.
“Nice suit,” he sneered, “looks brand new. How many potatoes did your pa have to sell for it?”
I didn’t notice that my hands were empty, Will having completely broken free by then. My loathing for this smug creature hit new levels.
“Keep going and I’ll happily bury you like one.”
“Oh, I’m quaking in my boots,” said Lindsey mockingly. He cast a disdainful look over at Will who now stood off to the side with a rather round pageboy. The young boy was gaping at me and Lindsey, fascinated by the smell of imminent battle. “Honestly, you two lowlifes come crawling out the swamp, and you really think a few sharp suits and a borrowed cottage give you the right to be here?” He shook his head, and gave a low chuckle. “It’s laughable, you up against Wolfram and Hart. It’s a pipe-dream, never going to happen. My advice? Take it on the chin, kiss the money goodbye and go back across the ocean to-”
The sentence ended prematurely with a furious bark of surprise, Lindsey calling me a wonderful collection of names. Hardly surprising considering I had one hand round his neck, my free arm spinning him around. A little more footwork, one good solid heave, and Mr MacDonald was airborne and heading on a direct route northwards. In the corner of the enclosed garden, nestling peacefully in the shade of the hedge, lay a pile of that most vital tool of horticulture. The compost heap. Lindsey hit it with arms flailing, potato skins and nameless black organic remnants scattering about him.
I turned back to Will, breathing heavily.
“I think we should return indoors,” I said stiffly.
Will’s face began breaking into an expression of pure bliss, but then suddenly flickered. Not much warning, true, but enough. I half-turned just as the ripe smelling MacDonald cannoned into me. We almost hit the pageboy on our first tour, the lad dodging a stray elbow with surprising agility. I caught a glimpse of him tearing back towards the house, a blur of uniformed blue, blaring like a foghorn, and then I was busy trying to intercept Lindsey’s fist with something that preferably wasn’t my face.
One brawl is really the same as another, so I won’t bore you with details. Sometimes we circled, sometimes we charged. MacDonald got one shot in, by pure luck, when I tripped on a border, and I found myself sitting in the smelly mound he had just vacated. After that, it was all out war. In fact, I had finally gotten his neck in a good grip under my arm, and was judging the distance to the nearest pond or rain butt, when the hammer of doom fell upon us.
“Mr Connor! Mr MacDonald! What is the meaning of this!”
The red haze cleared from my eyes.
The audience spilling out from the kitchens was the aristocratic equivalent of a mob waving pitchforks and flaming torches. The hoard of beak-nosed, gimlet-eyed harpies was headed by a towering thundercloud disguised as Lord Cusplip. His eyes blazed with the fury of a thousand suns as he said in a voice of purest steel, “You will kindly explain yourselves at once.”
Next part here.
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Date: 2005-04-03 06:15 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-04-03 06:19 pm (UTC)“Neanderthal forehead, dazed expression, girth equal to a whale… Yes, I do believe it is, Lindsey.”
And I do feel for Will, and for any poor soul who gets in his way when he's in this sort of mood - he's a force to be reckoned with. I'm loving Liam's growing protectiveness of Pryce - the boy has got it bad.
And a lovely cliffhanger to finish!
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Date: 2005-04-03 09:17 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-04-03 09:57 pm (UTC)I've just read all 5 parts and I'm thoroughly addicted. I adore Liam and can't wait for more of his attempts at conversing with Pryce. Whom, I'm sure, is coming up with a cunning plan, even as we speak. I felt so bad for him when Knox showed up. *pets poor Wesley*
I hope more of this is coming soon, before I die of suspense. It's wonderful!
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