kingdomsofrain | tfln open post

What does 'inveterate' mean, please?

Don't laugh.

I've no interest in laughing at you.

'Confirmed.' 'Established.' In this case, one for whom careless flirting and breathing go hand-in-hand.

Let Venetia et al guess at your fascination all they like. It's no business of theirs whether I find my wife charming.
Or a natural in bed. Or worthy of what little trust I'm capable of entertaining.

~~...Well, that certainly makes more sense than 'vertebrate'.~~

Do you truly think I

Am I so natur

I have no earthly idea what I'm doing in

I'm certain I -

There is always room for improvement. In any endeavor.

[...]

You are being a dreadful flirt.

Am I? From a could-be-inveterate coquette, I'll take that as a compliment.

If you'd like, once you've made your way back home, we can see about a few of those improvements.

Only 'could-be' now? Have you lost faith in my coquetry?

I shall have to show my ankles to some poor prig and then send him to tell you that I am just as much a flirt as I was five minutes ago.

[...]

As to the other.

Perfection is only achieved through dedicated practice.

[...]

And I am particularly enthusiastic about perfecting my art.

That 'poor prig' ought to count himself honored; should he die on the spot, he would meet his end knowing he's seen what most can only dream of.

I suppose the trouble comes if he doesn't instantly expire. After glimpsing what you have to offer, the poor prig will never be satisfied with any other. Flash your ankles, and you've consigned a man to a fruitless, life-long search for what he simply cannot have.

Foolish of him to focus on those ankles, when there's so much else he's missing.

[ ... ]

I'll send Johanna home.

Ah, that explains the madness men suffer from a provocatively short petticoat: they haven't expired as they ought to have done, right on the spot, and with a smile on their faces.

Living with such unquenchable desire must be dreadful.

[ ... ]

I suppose I could make my excuses - but really, Treavor. I have had four headaches already this month. And if I were to stop going out entirely, people would talk.

And come to the house.

Yes, yes, that madness makes horrors of us all.

We'll need to work on your excuses, won't we? There must be other ways of excusing yourself. Tell them Johanna has had a spill. Tell them Wallace is ill and your husband is too intoxicated to be left alone.

Mm. If you find yourself obliged to remain in the company of Venetia et al - and if you've no qualms about leaving your husband to languish - I'll ask that you at least permit your husband to continue these communications.

No one would care if Johanna took a spill; recall, so few care about the wellbeing of the 'help'. And that excuse would work only once. As for the other excuse, it would require opening my husband up to criticism, which I - steadfastly, you recall - refuse to do.

Nevermind that no one would believe Wallace is ill.

But please, do continue these communications. In the interim, I will have plenty of time to think of ways to make amends for causing you to - 'languish'.

Perhaps Johanna's a clumsy girl. And even if none of THEM care about her, they know you carry a soft heart. Borne out of country air, perhaps.

...You make a valid point regarding Wallace. You're determined to make this difficult, aren't you?

Wicked girl, toying with your husbands affections.

Not difficult. You know how I am so terribly inclined towards schemes.

I could simply tell them why I am suddenly required at home, each time I AM required at home? Honesty is an admirable quality in a woman, I hear.

[...]

I think the 'wickedness' is a result of the country air, not the soft heart.

Some of us may find it admirable. I doubt any of your companions are among them.

Besides, I doubt they'd credit your confession. It's a vast jump from 'never fucks nor looks at his wife' to 'frequently requests her artful attentions.'

Oh? And what wickedness does country air instill in such an agreeable woman as yourself?

As often as you bandy about the word 'wicked' when describing me, I'm almost offended you felt the need to ask.

However, as I am so agreeable, I will be sure to be thorough enough in demonstration of said wickedness that you need never ask again. Save to refresh your memory, of course.

But. I suppose you're correct about the 'confession'. You should look at me more often in public; perhaps I could then begin employing the excuse that my husband is languishing without my attention.

Or you could accompany me on these outings and find opportunity to -

Hm.

Please. I don't believe I've plumbed the depths of your wickedness. Sensed it, maybe. Seen it? Doubtful.

If you'd care to offer up those dredges, I wouldn't turn away. You might even receive my utmost appreciation, and some small token of my gratitude.

Take care what you suggest; I think we both know you'd soon regret my company. Though that might solve the problem of your being called away so frequently. Once they know you're sure to come trailing your wretched brute, they'll think twice about inviting you in.

Something to discuss in depth in an hour, when I may reasonably say that I am fatigued and must take my leave, as my alternative excuse would be dismissed as prevarication.

I think you ought to reconsider this belief of yours that I would tired of your company or affections. You would be surprised how much I desire.

And anyhow - I far prefer the company of my wretched brute to the inevitable encounter with Bernadette and Madeleine, who appear to have become fast friends. Madeleine must have sensed her own impending downfall.

Ah. Speaking of people who interest me not at all: I've solved the mystery of the Banana Man. Or, at least, why he wished to regale me with stories of bananas whenever he saw me.

A whole hour? I'll see what I can do to change that.

We can't very well fuck in public, Katrina. Or did you have more subtle expressions of desire in mind?

In any case, you know I don't care for spending my time in the company of lackwits. Or sunlight. Nor am I inclined to keep my vexation to myself.

That Madeleine's managed to wrap Bernadette in her snares is... What's the word for it? Horrific?

...I'm sure I don't care a damn what the Banana Man is or isn't about. But if you'd care to share, I might be capable of listening.

Now, Treavor, I'm sure you possess more imagination than merely stopping your train of thought at 'in public'.

Or you can trust in mine, I suppose. Uncouth farm girl that I am.

Heer Hennessy was laboring under the impression that he required my approval to court Johanna, and was attempting to give me his qualifications.

Yes, yes, I was wrong in supposing the attraction was one-sided.

I told him Johanna is of age and perfectly capable of making her own decisions. I suspect in seven or eight months' time, I shall require a new ladies' maid.

But there we have it. Johanna Banana.

Do you plan on ducking into an abandoned butcher's shop? Or perhaps some not-quite-out-of-the-way closet at the next party. Somewhere we might just chance to be discovered. Thrill of the risk, etc.

You're to have a banana in the family. Wonderful. I suppose this means I won't need to challenge Hennessy to a duel over my wife's honor. That's one weight off my mind.

It also explains why he's been trying to winnow an invitation to our home for weeks now.

I don't care for the idea of another new face in the house. At least Johanna has been reasonably... discreet.

Johanna Banana.

Banana.

Johanna.

The bedroom will become a tiresome venue, don't you think? Another year, another ten years, those not-quite-out-of-the-way closets will begin to look very inviting.

Yes. Thrill of the risk.

[...]

Would you really have challenged him to a duel? You don't seem the type.

WE are to have a banana in the family.

You are mine, and I am yours. Family, that is.

We, then. You can hardly fault me for wishing to distance myself from these walking bananas.

Suppose they reproduce. There'll be bananas for ages, Katrina. The whole of Manhattan drowned out in fruit.

And you've given your blessing. I hope you're proud of the future that awaits.

[ ... ]

Are you suggesting that those closets aren't already inviting? Were my wife to draw me in at, say, the Boyles' upcoming soirée, I wouldn't bat an eye.

I may have challenged him to a duel. I never said I'd uphold my end of the dispute.

As if I'd trust myself with any pistol. Lord.

You are inviting. The closet is a matter of location only. And I shall bear in mind that there will be no objections.

Yes, yes, Manhattan will drown in fruit. I've told you before, Van Tassels breed like rabbits. Most of them, anyhow. You had best resign yourself to our dear cousin filling the ranks of the social elite with bouncing baby bananas.

[...]

Please - refrain from challenging anyone to a duel if you don't mean to meet them on the field of honor. That has legal consequences in New York.

If you wish for satisfaction, I suppose I might manage the situation on your behalf. Mother did teach me to use Papa's pistols...

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