Off to Bed... (AFL, Round 4)

...fordshire

A surprise visit from a bishop sends Patience heading for the hills (or rather, fens) with Damien in hot and bothered pursuit. Will he succeed in convincing her not to seek an annulment and will their romp end in Bed(forshire)?

"My lady," Grimm intoned, holding before her a salver.

Patience shifted her embroidery frame aside. The Persian aux yeux violets would have to wait, although it really was coming along rather nicely. There would be a fine new addition to the litter of pillows now occupying Damien's much-abused library.

She lifted the calling card from the proffered tray and read the name engraved upon it. Her eyes widened in surprise. She looked to Grimm for confirmation; he nodded solemnly.

"Well, I suppose you'd better show him in," she trilled.

Standing, she smoothed the creases from her green dress, then glancing in the mirror over the chimneypiece, she checked the state of her hair. Everything appeared to be in order, but she pinched her cheeks for good measure.

At the same moment, she heard the click of the door and turned to greet her guest.

He wasn't at all what she expected, although in truth she hadn't much time in which to formulate a considered opinion.

She supposed she had thought that he'd be wearing at least a miter upon his head, if not the full gold-threaded robes he donned on the highest holidays. But then again, the miter would likely prove inconvenient when calling upon parishioners in their homes. He couldn't possibly hope that they would all have doorways tall enough to accommodate such a tall pointy hat, and by leaving it at Fulham Palace he really could avoid any unseemly ducking or crushing of felt.

No, he was not nearly as grand as she might have expected. Instead the Bishop of London could have been considered positively drab, entering her parlor with bared head and sporting a habit as humble as that of any rural vicar.

"Bishop," she greeted him, bobbing a curtsey. She wasn't sure if she was expected to kiss his ring, but prayed that if it were necessary he would at least have the courtesy to offer his hand.

"Lady Coulter," he replied, bowing. "I hope I am not interrupting anything of great import, but I was in the area and thought I might take this opportunity to visit you as I have heard so much about you from your husband."

His tone was clipped, precise, as though he had spent many hours perfecting his elocution.

"From my husband?" She indicated a seat. "Are you quite sure?"

"Why, yes," he replied as he sat. "I have known young Damien since he was a boy. I was at Cambridge with his father and he continues to consult with me on matters of importance."

"Oh, I see," she said, nodding.

Only she didn't see. She might not know her husband over well, but she was fairly certain spending time with clergymen was not high on his list of preferred pastimes. Patience was not sure where the present conversation might be headed, but she suspected she would require some fortification. She rang a small bell and Grimm arrived presently.

"I don't suppose you would care for some chocolate, Bishop?"

"Ooh, yes. I simply adore chocolate!" he cooed.

"Very well. Grimm?"

"Yes, my lady."

As Grimm shut the door she turned her attention back to the small man sitting across from her. He really was a rather odd specimen, pushing up the sleeves of his coat and fingering the tails of his cravat. Really, one would have thought the diocese might have sprung for a habit that fit the poor man.

"I'm sorry, Bishop, you were saying?"

"Yes. Yes. I was saying I have known Damien since he was a child and, oh yes, he still comes to me for advice from time to time."

"Indeed. And I take it he has come to you recently for guidance of some sort? Regarding me, perchance?"

"Why, yes. Yes. He mentioned that you had recently elected to come to London after some three years spent closeted at Coulter Park. And I must say, he is most remorseful, most remorseful for having allowed you to languish for so long, unattended, unappreciated, reviled, even..."

"Reviled?"

"Oh, well, perhaps not reviled. But to be sure, he has now determined to make amends! He is even looking forward to the day when you might have a family of your own. Indeed," he confided, "he has shared with me some of the names that have taken his fancy."

"Names? Really. He's naming our children?"

Grimm entered with the chocolate and set the tray before Patience.

"Pray tell," she simpered, as she poured two cups of chocolate from the pot. "What might some of those names be?"

"Well, I...You can be sure that they are all good Christian names."

"Such as?" She held a cup and saucer just beyond the man's reach.

"Such as...Such as Faith, Hope, er, Charity..."

"Penelope?" She smiled. "Was Penelope mentioned?"

"Why, yes. Penelope was certainly among the names he listed."

"I see." She handed him the chocolate. "Yes, I do see. Now, sir, I will allow you to have a sip of chocolate, and then you will tell me just who your master is and how much he paid you to engage in this afternoon's shabby little charade."

***

"Remind me to send a crate of champagne to your father's friend there, what's his...? Oh yes, the Bishop of London! Ha! Ha! It's only right, really, a fair trade for an afternoon's use of his good name. And it's wine, after all, so there couldn't be any objection based on his vocation, really, now could there, what? What?"

Damien slapped Snydley on the back, then grabbed hold of and shook his shoulder. He couldn't remember for the life of him when he'd enjoyed an evening at White's more. A bottle of France's finest smuggled brandy, a well-conceived plan, a tremendous thunderstorm raging outside - all that was lacking was young Crane, who had yet to show his face.

"I should never have agreed to this scheme, Coulter," Snydley muttered. "That wife of yours is sure to fashion her own lady guillotine and see that it's put to immediate and extensive use once she's found us out."

"Oh, my Lord Snydley, you mustn't distress yourself with such imaginings! Your fair cousin will be under my thumb and under my quilt ere long, and trust me, once there she will have neither time nor energy to devote to such trifles."

"I wish that I shared your sanguinity, old man; however, in my experience - and it extends back decades - the woman has never fallen for any such ruse, however well conceived. Her mind is like a steel trap and she possesses a memory to rival Homer. You can be assured that when she does come to know of our chicanery, she will make us pay, and dearly."

Damien was still shaking his head when Crane entered, his man Wilson at his elbow. The latter was still clad in ecclesiastical attire and seemed to have shrunken yet further into the ill-fitting garb.

"So?" Damien queried.

Crane looked to Wilson, then motioned for him to sit.

The three gentlemen drew close 'round the footman; Snydley handed the man a snifter full of brandy.

"Aaaaah," Wilson sighed, inhaling its fine scent. "Lovely."

"Yes, yes. Out with it, man," Damien urged. "We've been waiting here for hours!"

Wilson took a sip and began.

"There is little to tell, my lords. I discharged my duties as required. Her ladyship listened intently to my stories of you, Lord Coulter, and seemed duly impressed with your apparent change of heart."

"And?" Damien demanded. "And how did you leave it? Am I to go to her? I insist that you tell me at once!"

"To be truthful, my lord, I am not altogether certain what to make of the conclusion of our interview. You see, she chose to confide in me, as a man of God, you understand. She chose to tell me...Well..."

Damien turned to Crane.

"So help me if you don't compel the man to speak, I will!"

Crane looked at Wilson and shrugged his shoulders. At last Wilson complied.

"She said that she felt that your efforts simply amounted to too little too late, and the idea that she could undo three years of rejection through a simple ruse involving someone named Snaily was simply absurd." He leaned closer to Damien, lowering his voice dramatically. "She was crying as she told me this, I should add, my lord, truly distraught. I believe there might even have been some brief gnashing of teeth as well." He leaned back again. "And so, she said, she was going to return directly to her family's Bedfordshire estate and from thence seek an annulment."

"She what?" Damien blurted.

"She said she was going -"

Damien waved him off then set to pacing. This was not the plan. She was supposed to fall at his feet, welcome him into her bed, redecorate the nursery - well, perhaps not that last, but certainly the first two.

At last he turned to the three men.

"Well, if that's what it takes to get that woman in my bed, then I'm for Bedfordshire!" he declared. "At least it's not Scotland!"