“You're entirely bonkers but I'll tell you a secret - all the best people are.” ~ Lewis Carroll
“Well…sir...Murdoch had prior commitments in Sacramento, so…” Scott’s unfinished sentence hung in the air as he watched his grandfather rise and mentally narrow down the possible escort candidates. Harlan’s face took on the hue of the cranberries which were, no doubt, adorning Mrs. Stewart’s figgy pudding.
‘Grab the life jackets, Martin. Rough seas ahead.’
“Johnny? You let Johnny escort her?!”
“Sir -”
“Now, who’s lost their goddamn mind?!”
‘Man overboard.’ Scott sat back to ride out the storm.
It was rare for Harlan Garrett to rely on profanity to express himself - almost non-existent in front of his grandson. When he did, it was obvious which few words he favored. In fact, so ridiculously obvious it was difficult for Scott to maintain a solemn mien when his mouth demanded a half-smirk.
“Goddammit, Scott! Goddammit, all to hell. First, I learn Kinsey is attending a goddamn Stone rally! And then you tell me Johnny Madrid is her escort?!”
“Lancer.”
“What?”
“Johnny Lancer. My brother's last name is -”
“I don't give a good goddamn what his last name is. Goddammit!”
“Sir, if you would just give me a moment to explain -”
“An unruly gunslinger is escorting a naive impressionable girl to a women’s rights propaganda-filled sabbat led by the she-devil, Lucy Stone. What could you possibly tell me, Scott, that would come close to a reasonable explanation?”
“Johnny’s unruly gunslinging days are in the past - if they ever existed to begin with. Kinsey is a bit impressionable but far from naive, trust me. And Lucy Stone is not the spawn of the devil. However -” Scott’s chin dipped to his chest to stifle a laugh. “I admit I have no documented proof to support my last statement.”
“You find this amusing, do you? I have a good mind to have that young lady hauled out of San Francisco and deposited right here in Boston.”
“I'm confident Patrick Culhane would make an admirable escort for Kinsey’s retrieval. He certainly had good taste when selecting champagne.”
“His preference for fine spirits was apparent when I received the man’s expense report.”
Scott could no longer contain his reaction to what had become, in his opinion, a rather humorous discussion. His laughter lightened the mood slightly.
“Goddammit.” With his pontificating outmatched by Scott’s off the cuff responses, Harlan fell back into his chair and finished his brandy in one gulp. “At least tell me she’s given up the absurd notion of marrying Madrid now that she can have a secure future with Seth Westcott.”
Scott’s jovial manner vanished. Harlan Garrett always held his cards close to the vest and seldom made the mistake of showing his hand too soon. Maybe it was the influence of the brandy or his advancing age that resulted in the tactical error. It didn't matter. Scott knew his grandfather, appearing abashed and perplexed, had not intended to mention Seth Westcott.
The first of six chimes resonated to announce the dinner hour. Cocking his head towards the clock, Scott’s eyes then shifted back to Harlan. “Sir, I believe it’s best we finish this conversation tomorrow. The honored guest arriving late for supper would be…” A tenuous smile accompanied his one arched eyebrow. “ ...unacceptable. Wouldn't you agree?”
It took five more strikes from the clock for Harlan to acknowledge his grandson with a nod.
Upon entering the dining room, Scott deemed the presentation nothing short of absurd. His grandfather, claiming the seat at one end of the long table, reigned at the head of multiple courses trooping down the table to meet his grandson at the opposite end. It prompted the notion of what army regiment would be dining with them this evening. Scott appreciated the effort put forth, but, knowing his dear friend had not prepared the dishes, found his appetite diminished.
What hadn't lessened was the rivalry between Mrs. Stewart and Mrs. Whelan. Both women, like Union camp couriers, traveled the route from one end of the table to the other delivering gastronomic delights while sharing their enthusiasm for first-hand knowledge.
Mrs. Stewart flanked Scott’s left. “Mulligatawny soup. Winifred told me herself it be yer favorite.”
“From Mrs. McLoughlin’s own recipe - fricandeau of veal with spinach.” Mrs. Whelan engaged on his right. “I added a wee bit extra sherry in the gravy.”
“Did ye now?” Mrs. Stewart’s tone indicated a pending court-martial. “Well, I’ll have ye know the figgy pudding has the exact amount of rum - it be the way Winifred would’ve wanted it.”
Scott began to question the extent of Winnie’s friendship with these two aides-de-camp as the stewed eels were placed in front of him. He despised the dish featuring the slimy little bastards floating in a green parsley sauce. Sighing, he closed his eyes to picture plopping the last bite of Maria’s enchilada in his mouth. Before he could lick the imaginary sauce off his fingers, his culinary daydream was interrupted.
“Ye be alright, lad?” Mrs. Whelan voice reflected concern.
Scott opened his eyes, dismayed to discover the ladies and the eel still remained. “I’m fine. Thank you.” Casting a downward glance at the fishy stew, he cleared his throat. “However, I believe I've reached my level of endurance and couldn't possibly take another bite.”
After the evening meal, both men declared fatigue to avoid additional awkward moments and retired early. In his room, Scott found the items in his one piece of luggage neatly unpacked and displayed on his bed. Scott hated having things done for him. ‘Well, it appears I need to be one step ahead of someone.’ A new game was afoot - “Out-Maneuver Martin.”
Feeling restless, Scott descended the back stairs that led directly into the kitchen. Cautiously, he opened the door and was relieved to see all was quiet. He’d had his fill of Mrs. Stewart and Mrs. Whelan for one day. Spotting an overlooked eggshell by the stove and spilled flour on a counter, he heard Winnie’s voice regarding cleanliness.
The recollection hit Scott without warning. He was twelve years old and had escaped his grandfather's watchful eye. With his best friend, George, he’d spent the day running the streets, sloshing through puddles while searching for treasures in back alleys and conquering imaginary evil empires.
What he didn’t avoid was Winifred’s wrath as a cartload of Boston dirt followed him through the kitchen door that afternoon. “How many times are ye goin’ ta make me repeat meself, ScottyGarrett? Cleanliness is next to godliness.” Scott not so innocently inquired if being clean was a such a priority in God’s eyes then why did he let the rain fall on dirt to make mud? It was the first time he could remember being called “cheeky”.
He knew coming back here after Winnie’s death would be difficult but he didn’t think he’d feel so damned alone. Opening the pantry door, Scott moved a few spices and a canister of flour out of the way. A sad smile crossed his face as he reached in past the mixing bowl with the blue stripe and handle. ‘It’s gone.’ Stretching his arm another inch or two, his fingers finally grasped a familiar glass shape. He slowly removed what he had hoped to find - “Hello, Jameson.” - Winnie’s secret bottle of whiskey that really wasn’t a secret at all. After a moment of continued reminiscing, Scott respectfully returned the liquor to its proper hiding place with intentions to revisit it and toast his friend before his departure at the end of the week.
“Ah, ScottyGarrett. Yer never alone when ye got yer memories.” Her words had helped him keep his sanity during his imprisonment at Libby. Winifred McLoughlin provided him with some of the best he had. Now, those memories would be greatly needed to survive the next few days.
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