Thaxter’s aunt come to see him.”
“Doesn’t matter,” said Mr. Fairfield, in the slurry drawl of a Virginian. “The Governors will never believe a gang of towsers and tosspots like us . . .”
Spots of color appeared on Mr. Ryland’s cheekbones, and he stepped back—with rigid reserve—as Fairfield led the way briskly into the left-hand chamber. The Indian Weyountah bowed to Abigail and gestured her to precede him, then followed her in, leaving Mr. Ryland upon the landing and the door open behind them.
Horace got quickly to his feet from the desk where he sat by the window. The chamber was the usual one for the College : small, very tidy, furnished with a desk by the window, a couple of chairs that young Mr. Fairfield had obviously brought with him from Virginia, a small fireplace, and a little table. On a neat sideboard were ranged a coffee-roaster, pot, and a lacquered Chinese canister, presumably for coffee beans; there was a smaller caddy for tea, spouted blue-and-white pots for tea and water, and tidily arranged cups and saucers, not all of them matching.
Horace Thaxter hadn’t changed much in two years, Abigail reflected; she didn’t think his weight had increased by so much as an ounce, though he’d grown a good five inches, and he had not been short when last she’d seen him at fifteen. All elbows, knees, and spectacles, he wore an extremely shabby suit of faded black coat and breeches, clearly handed down from someone both shorter and more robust. He said, “Aunt Abigail—!” and held out a bony, ink-stained hand.
From the doorway, Ryland said, “I’m glad to see you on your feet, Thaxter,” a small crease of worry between his brows. “Captain Fairfield, if I may remind you—”
“I know, I know, dash it! That hell-begotten Greek class, may they all descend unto Avernus together—”
“Hades, actually,” put in Horace, stepping aside as an elderly black man—who’d been arranging wood and kindling in the hearth—gathered his hearth-brush and ashes and slipped from the rather overcrowded room . . . Presumably Diomede, Abigail guessed. And presumably the one responsible for the room’s spotless order. There was a chest in the corner that, by what John had told her of the Virginia and Carolina men when he had studied here, would contain the slave’s blanket, upon which he would sleep on the floor . . .
“Avernus being the Latin . . . Aunt Abigail, you truly shouldn’t have—”
“Horry, I shall smite you with the poker if you tell me once more the difference between Latin and Greek . . . Yes, yes, Ryland, take your duty to the Muses as given, and I’ll be along as soon as I’ve done my duty to decent manners.”
“I shouldn’t want you to be—”
“It’s my business if I’m sent down or not,” Fairfield snapped. “You’re not my dry nurse. Dash it,” he added, as Ryland disappeared into the shadows of the rather gloomy staircase, “now I’ve offended him again. If it’s not one thing, it’s another. Diomede”—he thrust open the door to the inner chamber—“go fetch some water for Mrs. Adams for tea—or would you be of the Rebel persuasion, m’am, like all the rest of the Adamses I’ve heard of, not to speak of every other scholar in this curst school? Or is the issue of tea now considered settled once and for all?” And he raised his brows in a quirky jest.
“Coffee,” said Weyountah, “is I believe the proper alternative. Or cocoa.” And he guided Abigail to one of the chairs beside the cold hearth.
“You sounded as if a visit would do you good.” Abigail took Horace’s hand with a smile and set her basket on the corner of the table. “You know your mother would never forgive me, were you left to languish without someone at least making sure you were still alive.”
“Cocoa, then,” said Fairfield, snapping his fingers as Diomede appeared in the doorway. “And sink me if that dashed Beaverbrook hasn’t stolen my cocoa . . . Go
“Doesn’t matter,” said Mr. Fairfield, in the slurry drawl of a Virginian. “The Governors will never believe a gang of towsers and tosspots like us . . .”
Spots of color appeared on Mr. Ryland’s cheekbones, and he stepped back—with rigid reserve—as Fairfield led the way briskly into the left-hand chamber. The Indian Weyountah bowed to Abigail and gestured her to precede him, then followed her in, leaving Mr. Ryland upon the landing and the door open behind them.
Horace got quickly to his feet from the desk where he sat by the window. The chamber was the usual one for the College : small, very tidy, furnished with a desk by the window, a couple of chairs that young Mr. Fairfield had obviously brought with him from Virginia, a small fireplace, and a little table. On a neat sideboard were ranged a coffee-roaster, pot, and a lacquered Chinese canister, presumably for coffee beans; there was a smaller caddy for tea, spouted blue-and-white pots for tea and water, and tidily arranged cups and saucers, not all of them matching.
Horace Thaxter hadn’t changed much in two years, Abigail reflected; she didn’t think his weight had increased by so much as an ounce, though he’d grown a good five inches, and he had not been short when last she’d seen him at fifteen. All elbows, knees, and spectacles, he wore an extremely shabby suit of faded black coat and breeches, clearly handed down from someone both shorter and more robust. He said, “Aunt Abigail—!” and held out a bony, ink-stained hand.
From the doorway, Ryland said, “I’m glad to see you on your feet, Thaxter,” a small crease of worry between his brows. “Captain Fairfield, if I may remind you—”
“I know, I know, dash it! That hell-begotten Greek class, may they all descend unto Avernus together—”
“Hades, actually,” put in Horace, stepping aside as an elderly black man—who’d been arranging wood and kindling in the hearth—gathered his hearth-brush and ashes and slipped from the rather overcrowded room . . . Presumably Diomede, Abigail guessed. And presumably the one responsible for the room’s spotless order. There was a chest in the corner that, by what John had told her of the Virginia and Carolina men when he had studied here, would contain the slave’s blanket, upon which he would sleep on the floor . . .
“Avernus being the Latin . . . Aunt Abigail, you truly shouldn’t have—”
“Horry, I shall smite you with the poker if you tell me once more the difference between Latin and Greek . . . Yes, yes, Ryland, take your duty to the Muses as given, and I’ll be along as soon as I’ve done my duty to decent manners.”
“I shouldn’t want you to be—”
“It’s my business if I’m sent down or not,” Fairfield snapped. “You’re not my dry nurse. Dash it,” he added, as Ryland disappeared into the shadows of the rather gloomy staircase, “now I’ve offended him again. If it’s not one thing, it’s another. Diomede”—he thrust open the door to the inner chamber—“go fetch some water for Mrs. Adams for tea—or would you be of the Rebel persuasion, m’am, like all the rest of the Adamses I’ve heard of, not to speak of every other scholar in this curst school? Or is the issue of tea now considered settled once and for all?” And he raised his brows in a quirky jest.
“Coffee,” said Weyountah, “is I believe the proper alternative. Or cocoa.” And he guided Abigail to one of the chairs beside the cold hearth.
“You sounded as if a visit would do you good.” Abigail took Horace’s hand with a smile and set her basket on the corner of the table. “You know your mother would never forgive me, were you left to languish without someone at least making sure you were still alive.”
“Cocoa, then,” said Fairfield, snapping his fingers as Diomede appeared in the doorway. “And sink me if that dashed Beaverbrook hasn’t stolen my cocoa . . . Go