Sunday Skimish

By Honorat
Written for the Sunday Drabble Challenge

November 3, 2005

Before him glitters more silver and china and crystal than he has ever seen in his life. The room shimmers in the glow of dozens of sconces. Will has made it through the gauntlet of introductions, through escorting a stranger to the dining hall, through the intricate maneuver of seating a lady in a cartwheel-wide skirt and armoured corset. Now he must do battle with cutlery instead of cutlasses.

Indeed, he thinks fifty barracking pirates striding over drifts of stolen treasure were less intimidating than these twenty denizens of Elizabeth’s family and friends poised before this elegant table. He comes forearmed with the knowledge that he may only speak with the seatmate on his right or on his left, never across the table. But he has no idea what he will say to either of the two brocaded confections beside him. An informal, intimate dinner, Elizabeth assured him. He has a brief, nostalgic picture of the cozy little kitchen above the smithy.

But Will would walk barefoot over live coals for Elizabeth, and so he will do this for her as well. As the meal is served, he finds himself watching the fine guests with the concentration he reserves for a sword fight to the death. Every motion of his opponents, he mirrors. The silver in his hand does not feel alien. Like steel, it is the bones and blood of the earth. There is a rightness to its form, a way that it wants to move. He has crossed blades with pirates with his hands tied behind his back. He can do this now. Gradually he slides into that place where he responds instinctively to the actions of others around him. There is no more awkwardness, only his native grace.

Now he is free for strategy. The fight will take care of itself. The attention of the woman to his right is being claimed by her partner, so he turns to the other. A flicker of memory whispers in his ear: Jack’s voice, “How many times do I have to tell you, whelp? You treat a fine lady like a ship. Let her tell you what she wants.” The corners of his lips curve. The formidable matron on his left is not immune to that smile on the face of the handsome boy with the gracious manners—so much better than she was given cause to expect. Tentatively, Will asks about her journey.

Several minutes later, they have progressed from her sciatica and her husband’s gout to the historical ailments of all nine of her children, the youngest of whom is the father of three. Underneath all those furbelows, this woman is no different from the wife of the chandler, Will realizes, relaxing further. Replace the London surgeon with the quack from the traveling variety show and the stories are the same. His eyes alight with gentle amusement, he encourages her volubility. Later she will tell her husband that Elizabeth’s young man is a wonderful conversationalist, no coarse accent at all. Weatherby has always been an old fussbudget.

In the lull as the matron is drawn away by the man on her left, Will catches Elizabeth’s eyes across and up the table. He nods assurance. It’s all right. She tilts her head up—all the light and sparkle of silver and gems fading before her smile. Everything will be all right.

~.~

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