Proper English

by K.J. Charles

She’d been doing the same thing for too long, that was the problem. If one had enough to do, one could carry on doing it indefinitely without looking up from one’s tasks to take a wider view.

It had seemed to her the perfect basis for marriage: a friendship combined with a job opening.

It seemed greedy to demand perfect compatibility if one’s prospective spouse also had a kind heart, overflowing coffers, and that bosom. Not that it was any of Pat’s business, because the woman was marrying Jimmy. Lucky bloody Jimmy.

She didn’t think Jimmy would serve her such a trick, but he was a man, so her expectations were low.

“Look at me. I don’t look serious. I’ve got a big bosom and a giggle. Nobody ever takes me seriously. Daddy has never explained telephones to me, not once, and when I set myself to learn he looked at me as though I were a dog that had set itself to turn head over heels, and laughed, and then two days later he sent me to finishing school. So that was that. I am pretty and sweet.”

There’s no shortage of any kind of people, so we might as well let each other be ourselves.”

Fen positively glowed. Her eyes were bright, her mouth was a perfect curve of satisfaction, her hand was warm on Pat’s knee, and if Jimmy Yoxall had appeared at that moment, Pat might have been tempted to shove him into the lake.

“But if he came out, we could shoot him and blame Jack. Jimmy, why on earth—”

In true British fashion the weather carried them through the next fifteen minutes or so,

Everyone says a woman has to get married to settle down—to have someone else possess her—but you’re self-possessed. That’s what I want.”

“Take it off,” Pat said, and clapped her hand to her mouth as Fen’s eyes widened. “I meant, take it out. From under you. I really did mean that.”

“Shall I not do that?” “No! That is, yes. I mean, please don’t not do that.” Fen’s eyes lit with laughter. “So, just to be sure, you definitely don’t want me to not stop continuing?” “Oh, shut up.” Pat swatted her behind.

She paused so Bill could fill in the gaps. He did not. Men had no idea how to conduct a conversation.

“But one sees classical statuary all the time. We’re positively encouraged to appreciate naked male bottoms.” “Marble ones. Whereas that was Jimmy’s, and I have never aspired to see it, and I wouldn’t put it in a museum either,” Pat said, and couldn’t help but join Fen as she went off into a peal of laughter. Nothing about this was very funny at all, but she’d rather be laughing than crying.

“Murder is ill-mannered,” Fen said. “Gosh, that sounded rather good, didn’t it? Like an axiom in an etiquette book.”

“How many country-house murders do you think we’re likely to encounter?”

Oh no.