Sat, May 19 2012
| AUTHOR'S NOTE: | In the beginning there was the story that Susan M. Garrett wrote for Adela. This is the Seed Scene that Nice Susan wrote for Nice Daurmith. Any typos that I missed are my fault. |
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"I'm sorry to disturb you, sir."
McIver stood at attention as Phileas looked up from his study desk - as usual, the man's gaze was fixed past him, at the latest painting Rebecca had brought back from London in an attempt to `modernize' the décor of Shillingworth Magna. What his major domo, or indeed his cousin, found fascinating about two black and white spotted cows standing in a field absolutely eluded him. Ah, well . . . art.
"Yes, McIver?"
"It's Mr. Verne, sir."
Phileas released a sigh and replaced the pen in the holder on his desk. He settled back in his chair, turning it to face McIver. "What is it now? Not the housemaids again?"
McIver's eyes were still fixed on that damned picture. "No sir. I think we've gotten that mostly sorted."
"I should hope so." Phileas raised a finger to his lips to hide his smile. His habit of making his residence in London meant there were fewer male house staff on the estate. The first time Verne had been awakened at Shillingworth Magna by the curtains being drawn in his room had resulted in no small disturbance.
It was his own fault, Phileas supposed - he should have directed Passepartout to discretely inquire about the matter in advance, although he still maintained that a man's choice of sleeping apparel, or lack thereof, should be a matter between oneself and one's valet. The thought that Verne, given leave of one of the guestrooms, might seek his repose without benefit of nightshirt had simply never crossed Phileas' mind.
The memory of being awakened by two voices raised in a nearly simultaneous female shriek and male yell - both of which were fairly matched for volume and scope of range - could only be bested by his arrival at the room. Left arm thrust into a silk dressing gown that trailed behind him and right hand holding a loaded pistol, Phileas discovered a red-faced young housemaid dashing from the room. An equally red-faced Jules Verne appeared in the doorway, arrayed solely in a blanket somewhat in the style of a Roman senator.
While Phileas was still trying to deduce exactly what had happened, Rebecca and Passepartout had arrived on the scene, soon followed by McIver and the rest of the servants. He'd turned to Rebecca to ask her thoughts on the matter, only to find her staring at Jules with a wide grin. She then dissolved into absolute howls of laughter having divined the nature of the problem immediately - feminine intuition, one would suppose. Verne had slammed the door, McIver dismissed the servants, and Phileas had resorted to having Passepartout talk Verne into leaving the room - which he later discovered had required at least a half hour's time, the promise of breakfast, and an assurance that the matter would never be mentioned again.
That might have been the end of it - ignoring the occasional titter or pointed remark from Rebecca during breakfast - had not a furious row erupted that afternoon among the five housemaids, all of whom now demanded to be assigned the care of Verne's room and effects during his stay. Thankfully, Passepartout had arrived on the scene before him and by the time Phileas arrived, he found at least two of the housemaids physically restrained by McIver. Another was sitting on the floor with a black eye and torn dress, a fourth divesting her fingers of strands of hair she had pulled from one of her peers, and Passepartout was assisting one girl from a cold-rinse basin; he'd flung her into it in what was described by McIver as a desperate act of self-defense.
Phileas had quit the scene immediately, relieved to discover Verne was out wandering with Rebecca and had missed the fracas. By nightfall, he'd approved the hire of two new footmen to handle arrangements for all male guests at Shillingworth Magna.
That had been at least two months ago and their only other visit in the interim had produced no problem, to his knowledge. He'd considered the matter settled. Phileas glanced up at McIver expectantly.
"It's the boots, sir."
After having spent an inordinate amount of time exposed to Passepartout's mangling of a number of living tongues, McIver's accent - the word `boots' sounding something between `boats' and `bats' - was unaccountably soothing to the ear, his meaning immediately discernible.
"What about his boots?"
McIver lifted one foot absently, shifting his weight, although his gaze still remained fixed on the damnable painted livestock. "He's not putting them out at night to be cleaned, sir. Staff's troubled by this - leads `em to think they're not trusted to return them by morning, if they're returned at all."
"Ah." Phileas sat upright in his chair and considered the matter a moment. Verne's situation was such that he wasn't used to leaving his boots out to be cleaned by servants - something which, again, had never occurred to Phileas. "Have you discussed this with Passepartout? I'm sure that matter would have been solved on the Aurora by now."
Finally, McIver's eyes shifted from bovine contemplation, his expression pained as he met Phileas' gaze. "Mr. Passepartout says Mr. Verne doesn't remove his boots often aboard, sir, except when he sleeps - Mr. Passepartout cleans `em then, if he's able. And he's said that if he's doing your boots, sir, and Mr. Verne comes by, Mr. Verne'll take off his own books and do them himself."
"Well, at least it was a thought."
"Not to be too forward on the matter, sir, but can one assume that Mr. Verne has got but just the one pair?"
"Not forward at all, McIver, in this instance. And, sadly enough, quite true I fear."
"Not much of a pair at that."
Phileas started at that assessment, looking away from McIver at the moment. His first instinct was to send Verne to the town bootmaker with Passepartout in tow for a temporary solution until they returned to London and he could be properly fitted for something more fashionable - but neither of those options was apt to make much headway with Verne. He could be exceptionally stubborn when it came to someone else providing basic needs . . . yet he almost always accepted a gift from Rebecca, if it came to that. Perhaps a quiet word with her? She was always threatening to take Jules riding and he'd need proper boots . . . .
A glance at McIver - the man was looking at those damned cows again - reminded him a more immediate solution would be called for. Proper boots would take a fortnight and at least two fittings. They'd be leaving Shillingworth in three days, but the staff deserved to have this worry alleviated immediately.
"Would any boots do?" he wondered aloud.
"Sir?" asked McIver.
Phileas touched a finger to his lips again. "I've several pair of old boots I no longer use. Could a pair be placed outside Verne's door for the staff to retrieve and clean, then removed in the morning before Verne leaves his room?"
McIver grinned. "I've always said you've the wisdom of Solomon, sir."
"Thank you, McIver. Although I've never thought Solomon uncommonly wise, what with that business with the Queen of Sheba getting about. But one does have to admire the man's persistence."
There was something of the old ways in McIver, a man who held his religion in high esteem and not to be mocked. But he was also a retainer of long standing who knew when the master was having a bit of fun. His expression perfectly blank, he announced, "I'll see to the boots, sir."
"Thank you, McIver. I'll leave the matter completely in your hands." Turning his attention back to the letter on his desk, Phileas smiled as he picked up his pen and dipped it into the inkwell, certain that everything would turn out for the best.
End of the Seed Scene
Seed Scene | The Direction of the Story