[Continued from here]
"Oh stop it," Eppie shot back with a stern pinch of her brow. "Did I say a word of your limp? No. I was speaking of your clear agitation, although I cannot expect that is healthy for you, either. I do not care if the air is Swiss or French or Patagonian, I only would have you breathe. You know my feelings about medical quackery, and it is unfair to lump me in with such men." Yes, she was huffing. Yes, she had allowed herself to also become provoked, but his flinging about such comparisons could not be borne.
From her place upon the chaise, she watched him all a-flutter, this temperamental friend of hers. She would have it all solved with the wave of her hand were she able, but not being magician nor witch, there was little to do but frown her disapproval as the onslaught continued to wash over her. "Some situations cannot be fixed, Fran," she pointed out, and congratulated herself for the steady firmness of her voice. Francis could not be blamed for his ignorance to the peculiarities of her own marriage; it was not a tale she often felt burdened to share.
"Of course I believe it, I would never have said so otherwise." The reassurance seemed to have soothed him, but then he was off again as quickly as before, and Eppie sat back with a soft sigh.
Her mouth had opened with the intention of explaining how keenly she understood such a shift in position and expectation, but Francis' train of thought veered into accusation before she could manage the words. Blinking, Eppie reared her head back as though she had been slapped.
"I have been friends with the new Duke of Argyll many years now, not that it is your place to judge who I keep a confidence with!" Her pulse had begun to flutter in her throat. "Whatever he may have done in the past, he has more than proved his devotion in the time I have known him." Mouth set in a line, she stared Francis down. "I will not hear you speak ill of him. I will leave before I allow it, Fran, I mean it."
A rake. He'd said Alistair was a rake. Had he been, all those years before he sailed? Was he yet, smiling at exotic women who could not help but be charmed? Mouth gone dry, Eppie swallowed, and then cleared her throat.
"I think it's very unfair of you to judge him for things he did years ago, Fran. I would expect better of you."
"Oh stop it," Eppie shot back with a stern pinch of her brow. "Did I say a word of your limp? No. I was speaking of your clear agitation, although I cannot expect that is healthy for you, either. I do not care if the air is Swiss or French or Patagonian, I only would have you breathe. You know my feelings about medical quackery, and it is unfair to lump me in with such men." Yes, she was huffing. Yes, she had allowed herself to also become provoked, but his flinging about such comparisons could not be borne.
From her place upon the chaise, she watched him all a-flutter, this temperamental friend of hers. She would have it all solved with the wave of her hand were she able, but not being magician nor witch, there was little to do but frown her disapproval as the onslaught continued to wash over her. "Some situations cannot be fixed, Fran," she pointed out, and congratulated herself for the steady firmness of her voice. Francis could not be blamed for his ignorance to the peculiarities of her own marriage; it was not a tale she often felt burdened to share.
"Of course I believe it, I would never have said so otherwise." The reassurance seemed to have soothed him, but then he was off again as quickly as before, and Eppie sat back with a soft sigh.
Her mouth had opened with the intention of explaining how keenly she understood such a shift in position and expectation, but Francis' train of thought veered into accusation before she could manage the words. Blinking, Eppie reared her head back as though she had been slapped.
"I have been friends with the new Duke of Argyll many years now, not that it is your place to judge who I keep a confidence with!" Her pulse had begun to flutter in her throat. "Whatever he may have done in the past, he has more than proved his devotion in the time I have known him." Mouth set in a line, she stared Francis down. "I will not hear you speak ill of him. I will leave before I allow it, Fran, I mean it."
A rake. He'd said Alistair was a rake. Had he been, all those years before he sailed? Was he yet, smiling at exotic women who could not help but be charmed? Mouth gone dry, Eppie swallowed, and then cleared her throat.
"I think it's very unfair of you to judge him for things he did years ago, Fran. I would expect better of you."
word count: 438