[I take a few liberties with the time line. And with nautical procedure. And with sundry other things. As for Mr. Wodehouse’s characters? I shall leave them to take liberties with each other. They like it better that way. Really.]
It was a bitter, frigid night aboard the RMS Titanic. Not just the weather, mind you, although given that we were twixt and tween the North Sea, that ran the opposite of balmy. No, the chill came entirely from my dragon-clawed aunt.
Aunt Agatha had launched herself over the pond to fetch me back from the innocent pleasure of New York. Worse, she had fetched a bride-in-waiting along with her other baggage. Not that the beezle in question wasn’t a fetching baggage, mind you. Just more that … what with the events of my American stay… my tastes had rather changed. Less of the blonde and bubbly, more of the brunet and brainy. Once particular brainy brown-haired sort who I had packed along on my own behalf, and in fond encouragement of some less-than-innocent pleasures.
At this point discretion urges silence. Sorry.
Also, I suppose, I should apologize for media res-in matters again. Although thinking on it, that moment really was as much as start as any other. The Auntly one and self were repasting the usual sort of seabound fare in the first class dining room. Or past repasting, seeing how the Waldorf Pudding had been whisked away a fair hour before. We were lingering over brandy and the grim silence she used in place of conversation.
I was all for tottering off myself, but the nephew crusher had a firm (if metaphorical) grip and would no more let go than a bulldog with the Filet Mignons LIli. That last explains why, when a nasty sort of grinding noise made a surprise introduction, I took it as my signal to exit forthwith. Politely, one must allow.
“I say, old thing.” I rose with the help of the anchored table. Things were proving unstable, and not just because of the multiple glasses of wine taken to warm the Wooster insides. “That sounded rather … wrenching. Not to put too fine a note on it. Plus I spot the captain making a swift egress. Shouldn’t we be calling for out coats? Or rather those life jacket thingies?”
“Nonsense, Bertram.” Aunt Agatha settled more formally into her chair, as one above such petty weakness of the world such as gravity. You will sit down, you will eat your pudding, and you will wait until Miss Plum makes her appearance. Then you will dance with her, propose to her, and if you have any regard for your own skin you will marry her.” Her frown turned impossible grimmer. “Preferably before the ship docks in England.”
no subject
By Darklady
[ Quick fic. No beta – no value – no excuses.]
[I take a few liberties with the time line. And with nautical procedure. And with sundry other things. As for Mr. Wodehouse’s characters? I shall leave them to take liberties with each other. They like it better that way. Really.]
It was a bitter, frigid night aboard the RMS Titanic. Not just the weather, mind you, although given that we were twixt and tween the North Sea, that ran the opposite of balmy. No, the chill came entirely from my dragon-clawed aunt.
Aunt Agatha had launched herself over the pond to fetch me back from the innocent pleasure of New York. Worse, she had fetched a bride-in-waiting along with her other baggage. Not that the beezle in question wasn’t a fetching baggage, mind you. Just more that … what with the events of my American stay… my tastes had rather changed. Less of the blonde and bubbly, more of the brunet and brainy. Once particular brainy brown-haired sort who I had packed along on my own behalf, and in fond encouragement of some less-than-innocent pleasures.
At this point discretion urges silence. Sorry.
Also, I suppose, I should apologize for media res-in matters again. Although thinking on it, that moment really was as much as start as any other. The Auntly one and self were repasting the usual sort of seabound fare in the first class dining room. Or past repasting, seeing how the Waldorf Pudding had been whisked away a fair hour before. We were lingering over brandy and the grim silence she used in place of conversation.
I was all for tottering off myself, but the nephew crusher had a firm (if metaphorical) grip and would no more let go than a bulldog with the Filet Mignons LIli. That last explains why, when a nasty sort of grinding noise made a surprise introduction, I took it as my signal to exit forthwith. Politely, one must allow.
“I say, old thing.” I rose with the help of the anchored table. Things were proving unstable, and not just because of the multiple glasses of wine taken to warm the Wooster insides. “That sounded rather … wrenching. Not to put too fine a note on it. Plus I spot the captain making a swift egress. Shouldn’t we be calling for out coats? Or rather those life jacket thingies?”
“Nonsense, Bertram.” Aunt Agatha settled more formally into her chair, as one above such petty weakness of the world such as gravity. You will sit down, you will eat your pudding, and you will wait until Miss Plum makes her appearance. Then you will dance with her, propose to her, and if you have any regard for your own skin you will marry her.” Her frown turned impossible grimmer. “Preferably before the ship docks in England.”