It took two towels -- okay, so that's an exaggeration -- to clean up the whiskey he spat out over the screen of the tv and his crewneck, hand-knitted, thin wool sweater -- glory be it's brown so he can hide the staining -- when he saw Fiona Arundel speaking Welsh like a Welshwoman on National Welsh TV.
     It's been a long, and very quiet night. Longer and quieter all the time despite the ever-encroaching sunlight of lengthening days. It's just him and the dogs now, and the handful of servants that have returned after the holidays and school breaks. But the house isn't completely barren, though his rooms are much quieter. Some of the Morgans are here and a handful of Llywelyns but he can go a full week before running into any of them. It's not like they're sleeping four to a bed...
     Two fat corgis look up as feet thud on the floor, the quick stride of Mars from the living room to gallery to ballroom. This is where he comes to think these nights. To play songs and to think about ... what the hell he's doing...
     Two glasses of whiskey and two cigarettes later, button down shirt over plain black trousers, he is sitting on the bench to his piano and staring at the glowing numbers of a cell phone. Then his lips twist, and he dials...

     It's been a singularly busy time for Fiona - more even than is her norm. Maybe she's been trying to avoid certain things, by keeping so busy; maybe.
     Maybe not. Either way, she's been maintaining her 'day' job at the television studio, putting in the required hours and just ... shuffling them to when she's not off in Wales, working on posturing for the camera. Woe betide the first makeup girl or guy to ask her if she's a natural blonde...
     She's off the air by this time of night, and just out of the studio, dragging a bit around the edges. She's not quite as unfailable in her energy, now she's out of the punk scene. Calmer. Not as angry. More ... contained, perhaps...
     The cellphone buzzes violently as she's walking down the street away from the BBC offices, twisting one tastefully understated pearl earring off, and Fiona mutters something crude under her breath - still in Welsh. When in Rome, do as the Romans, and when in Wales...?
     She sidesteps, narrowly avoiding putting one entirely too expensive heel in a puddle, and huddles up against the shelter of a brick-faced building. The earring is dropped into her shoulder bag, the other yanked off with more speed than grace as she reaches for the phone, flipping it open.
     "Fiona Arundel here, if you're looking for anyone else, you have most definitely got the wrong number. Hello?"

     "I don't think I gave you permission to be in my country," comes the rush of amused Welsh, the low and long vowels, the tripping of a lilting consonant, the trill of 'Rs', "... on national Welsh TV no less, high and mighty we are, speaking the language of the Blessed on the Island of the Mighty..."
     Davydd...
     Evidently excitable -- if nothing else than for the theatrics of it -- his inflection rises and everything sounds like a ruddy question. "And you were just going to come in here, oes," the Welsh rolls off his tongue like rushing water over river-smooth stones, "...without saying hello? So, you are going to visit..." That sounds like a foregone conclusion. As if you could come to his -- ha! -- country and not visit?

     "I figured I'd run roughshod over you, actually," Fiona answers smoothly, dropping the second pearl after the first - and how appropriate, that they'd be pearls, really. Something beautiful formed out of something small causing persistent and prolonged irritation. "I was born in England, after all, and my father's in the House - seems rather the way it ought to go."
     There's a pause for a rush of breath, a hint of suppressed, soundless laughter. She's torn between a vast number of conflicting emotions, and the only way through them is to brute her way through, after all. "Besides, since when do I ask you for permission to do anything? Not my style, and you wouldn't have me changing it, would you? Though I admit I hadn't expected you to notice."
     Reaching down, she absently massages one ankle. Damned heels. They can't see her below the waist anyway, so why's it necessary? "I rather thought you didn't watch television, for some reason - my mistake. As for visiting..."
     There's a pause, the count of heartbeats, pulse just below the receiver and all. "I don't know, Davydd. Is it spring already?"

     "I can't believe you just uttered 'England' on the street where anyone can hear you..." he mulls out. There is a sound of piano keys as one hand idly plays. Can you hear the rolling of his eyes in accompaniment? "Isn't that the gods'," plural! "...truth....if you ever asked me for anything, I might keel over and die." As if! "And ...no..." a great exhale, "... don't go changing," he croons out, both hands on the keys then and tacking on a Billy Joel chord progression. "So... well... it's not quite spring, no... we've a few weeks yet, but... you know... I think we can make one exception, Fiona-bach." A pause. "I'd like you to come visit."
     He's serious about that...
     "You're not in the country often... and I'd like to show you the homestead...and I'll feed you, Powis has about... what... forty rooms," you can just picture the eyes going wide, "...so I'm sure I can put you up somewhere. I won't even get offended if you pile the furniture in front of the door..."
     There's a moment of quiet...
     "And...I'd like to talk to you..."

     "I'll have to ask you for something sometime and see how you react, then," Fiona retorts - it's habit as much as anything else. The rolling of eyes is not just heard; it's assumed. It wouldn't be you if you didn't, just as it wouldn't be her if she didn't say something to provoke it.
     She listens to you, listens to the music in the background, muttering, "Didn't know you could play the piano, Davydd - anything you can't play?" Sentiments, maybe? No, no, you can play on those too... "Mmm. An exception."
     She has to think about it - she's about to say that when you continue onwards, and it's harder to say no. "Well, if you're going to feed me, but I don't really know where you live," Fiona murmurs, glancing at a couple of passers-by with raised eyebrows - the raised eyebrows are for you, not them, but either way, it's likely about to rain anyway, with her sheltering under a poorly conceived awning.
     "Forty rooms? Ah - yes," Fiona then adds in gibingly, "so you can stick me in one all the way across and lose me, right?" In with all your other women... Davydd... Rose and Sandrine and whomever else ... "...William's been talking about the furniture, I see."
     There's another pause as she wiggles her toes uncomfortably in the black heels. Fiona murmurs, "Well, you can talk to me if you like, Davydd. Not promising what I'll see in reply - just giving you fair warning. Okay? So ... I guess the next thing is ... where -are- you?"
     She's never been there, after all.

     "Welshpool," he says, "...first castle to the right. Big red thing, just like me, you can't miss it. Powis Castle...and before you start in on me," he continues in a rumble, "...about 'oh how posh', I earned it fair and square... on the lifeblood of my family and future slavery of my descendants." His laughter is quiet, warm, thoughtful even.
     More keys are touched in the background, but there is no particular song. It is more the progression of fourths and fifths, sixths and sevenths. "Aye, the piano. Anything with strings. I can't play winds," Davydd's voice turns to a smirk, "...how's that for irony? A man with so much hot air and he can't play a flute to save his ruddy jewels. And I won't lose you in the manor. I'll be more than happy to give you a tour, in fact. Some of my family's about, but I won't subject you to the Morgans and Llywelyns on your first trip. You should ease into that..." Davydd grins in a slant.
     "So...good... then it's settled. You'll come see me," me, he says. Not Us. No mention of his 'woman' ... or 'women'... or 'lady'... nor does he call her by name. It's a minor key, a soft, unspoken chord in the background, lingering back there bittersweet. But it was the right thing to do. There is the major lift of no regrets...

     "If I say it's posh, Davydd, it's because it is, and I'll say it no matter how you got it," Fiona points out tartly. "Should I start putting my full name on my business cards? Mother wants me to, you know..."
     She thinks it'll increase my chances of getting a husband, no doubt...
     She begins moving along the pavement again, phone pressed firmly to her ear, other palm pressed to her ear, bag dangling by its strap. "Anyway... You aren't Hwyll, so - no flutes. Got it. You can give me a tour."
     The mention of your family being present actually helps her feel more at ease. It isn't to be just her and you ... no scenes from Wuthering Heights reenacted just yet, nor Austen, nor anything even less reputable.
     "I'll," Fiona pauses, regarding her reflection in a shop window, "I'll go get changed and see about hiring a taxi, or taking a train. Though meeting your family's certainly on the list. They could tell me things, you know. Or is that why you're against it?"
     That which is not spoken of is noticed. It distracts her, slightly. She retreats into herself for a moment, a pause for breath.
     "Listen, I'd best ring off for right now - I'll call you when I get to Welshpool, right? We'll ... see what happens ..."

     "Alright," he clips. "I'll put the kettle on..." Then there's the great whistle, and the lord's sort of voice lifting: Bwci, Rhyddid... get off the divan! "I'll see you then..." he says, again seriously. And then that's that. Call ended.
     End of one chapter...
     Beginning of another?

Posted by rowan at March 03, 2004 09:39 PM