[Backup] Pink Heels and Rusty

[JMR201804301148 -- backup of original from 16 Oct 2017, with minor edits.]

(Copyright 2017, 2018 Joel Matthew Rees, all rights reserved.)

Rusty's electric blue eyes bored into me, his expression a total cipher.

"You're mad at me."

"Mmm-mmm," he shook his head without taking his eyes from mine or changing his expression. I couldn't look away. The grass under my feet scratched.

"Then what?" Yeah, I was asking the obvious.

"You said your shoes would match my hair." His voice was matter-of-fact, just a shade cool, revealing no hint of what he was really thinking. "I just want you to know that my hair is not hot pink."

My ears burned. I held up my heels, pleading with my eyes.

"And my hair is not fuzzy. Curly, sure. Not fuzzy."

The fake fur ankle straps. Mom had called them excessive. Did the corners of his mouth twitch?

"But they're cute, aren't they?"

"Sure. But nothing on my head is as sharp as those stilts, not even my nose."

Relief flooded me. "Oh my gosh. You had me going."

He tilted his auburn head. "You wear those tonight and your ankles'll be killing you before you leave." I couldn't tell if he was warning or joking.

Maybe both. Then he bent down without changing his expression.

"Uh, what should I do?" I asked as I watched him. I didn't know whether to squat down with him or remain standing. Either way was awkward.

He pulled one shoe off. "Well, you could go barefoot. Myself, I never pass up a chance to go barefoot." Then he pulled his sock off and wiggled his toes. I know it sounds stupid, but his feet were as perfect as his face.

I think I would have died if he had let his focus drift even for a moment to my thighs.

When I was choosing my outfit, my thoughts had been different. I chose the tight cutoff denim hot pants and loose, light blue v-neck tee-shirt specifically to keep his attention on me. But when I arrived at his house for the party, I could see I was out of place.

He had met me on the front sidewalk before I could quite decide whether to say I must be at the wrong house, and had stared, just for a moment, at my high-heeled shoes before saying, "Nice heels! Wanna take a look at the back yard? It's where we'll be dancing later."

Not knowing quite what to do, I had removed the shoes as I followed him around the corner of the house, before both of us came to stand in the soft but scratchy grass.

And now he had removed his shoes.

I do not know how he managed it, but he straightened up without looking once at my legs.

"Let's put our shoes on the porch."

"Rusty!" A girl's voice called through the back door. "What ..." The door swung open and Rusty's sister stepped out. "Ah, you must be Cheryl. Rusty said you would be coming."

"Hi." I didn't know what else to say. I was planning on seducing your little brother? Right. That joke would not fly in this house, not in this group.

"Cheryl, this is Reba, my big sister."

"So nice to meet you. Lovely outfit. Where did you find it? Could you come with me? I could use some help. Mom wants to talk with you, Rusty."

"Thanks, Reeb."

"Uh, ..." I looked back to Rusty.

He just grinned, and my awkward feelings seemed to vanish like mist. "Reeb's a good friend. I'll go see what my mom wants."

Reba came down the steps and hugged me. "Bring your heels. Wouldn't want'em walking off without you."

I followed her up the back stairs, carrying my shoes.

"I'm gonna change to jeans, and I want your opinion," Reba said as she led me into her room.

"Uhm, ..."

"Mmm?"

"I'm dressed wrong."

She started pulling pairs of jeans out of her closet. "Whattaya think o' this pair?"

"I guess I misunderstood when Rusty said casual. Those look nice."

"Think so? I have an old pair that matches these. Not your kind of casual?
Here. Do you think they'd fit you?"

"Maybe. Not my ... usual casual, I guess. Fit me? May I?"

Ten minutes later, we descended the front stairs in matching jeans and tees. She had found me a pink camisole to go under my tee-shirt, and picked a tee of her own that matched the blue of mine. And we were both barefoot. And friends.

I don't quite know how Rusty's family made me feel so at ease so quickly, but I had even forgotten to worry what Mrs. Ellison would say.

"Ah, Reeba, Cheryl, there you are. Come help me with the finger food."

Of course Rusty was right. I would have broken my heels or my ankles or both, dancing in the grass.

The music was loud enough to dance to, but not loud enough to bother the neighbors. In fact, some of the neighbors joined the party at different times.

And it was fun. Reeba and her date led a bit of formation street, and some of their church friends showed us how to dance ballroom style. And there were parlour games, which are kind of like drinking games without the drinking. And nobody paired off to go submarine racing in the bushes or anything.

I got to help clean up, and I found myself driving home thinking that she who had come to conquer was the vanquished. And I didn't exactly hate the idea.

[JMR201804301148 -- backup of original from 16 Oct 2017, with minor edits.]

A Missing Sketchbook, (More Scenes Inspired by the Regency House Party)

This imagined ending is inspired by the missing sketchbook in The Stable Master's Daughter arc of the Regency House Party. I hope it is not too sacharine:

---

Mr. Noyce stood in the door, cap in hand. "It still seems me uncomf'table, Mahlord, to call mah master mah son. And ah am right glad, an muckle shy, that mah concerns, eight weeks sence, were proved so unfounded."

"I am right pleased to call you father, sir. And I am just as pleased that your concerns have been so well answered." Furl, Lord Mellencamp bowed to his father-in-law.

"Mah dear daughter." Words failed the rough gentleman, and he embraced his daughter one last time before turning to leave.

"Thank you Father Noyce, and good night. We'll see you on the morrow."

He turned his head and smiled slyly, "Or the day after, perhaps."

"Good night Father!" Tears of joy welled in Lady Mellencamp's eyes yet again.

As her father walked down the path, Lady Mellencamp reached up and placed her hand on Lord Mellencamp's shoulder. "Shall we retire, Milord?"

Lord Mellencamp turned, and swept his bride into his arms, carrying her again across the threshold. "How have I survived, Milady," he asked, rhetorically, eyes only for his wife's eyes, "one house party that turned my world upside down, your father's doubts, and the need to aswage his wrath, six weeks of the banns, and the friendly sharivari that lasted far longer than I had considered possible?"

The warmth of her smile, and of her hands clasped behind his head, brought that heat into his soul, from the fires which he had kept carefully banked.

"Your brother and his own new Lady, the former Miss Autumn, seemed most determined to outlast us in the sharivari -- had it not been for her father's intervention. Have you and your brother always been so competitive?"

"I'm afraid so."

"You could put me down."

"Not yet." He carried her through the halls to the bedchamber, and set her gently on the bed. She would have pulled him down, but he stood back, his brow wrinkled in some mysterious concern.

"I have a confession to make."

Her brow knit in amused consternation as she sat up. "Well, then, please do so."

He stepped back, leaving her a view of her bureau, with it's large vanity mirror reflecting the glow from the candlestick in front of it, showing the contents of the top spread under the unreliable light of the candle. Something on it seemed out of place.

"I had in my possession ... an item that belonged to one of the young ladies at the house party, and I have procrastinated its return until I am afraid I shall never be able to return it to the young miss."

"You speak in riddles, but if you have something that belongs to one of my friends, I can return it."

She would have turned to look at her husband, but something on the bureau top was drawing her attention. With a small cry, she stood and gathered up the sketchbook. "I thought I had lost this! I so feared that it had fallen into the wrong hands."

"I must apologize. I hope you can find a way to return it to its rightful owner."

She turned and raised her face to his for a kiss, and he responed willingly.

"It is done, and she tells me that you shall be forgiven."

"I fear for the tense of that verb."

She opened the sketchbook, and together they looked at her sketches, recalling their friends, and some of the events of the party.

"We owe a bit of a debt to the Duchess."

"She seems to have her own wisdom." She set the sketchbook open to a sketch of Furl, from when she had not yet begun to believe he would have found interest in her.

"My dear, sweet Margarette, you have no idea how much pain that likeness of myself caused me. So stern. So unflattering."

Smiling, she opened the middle drawer and removed a package which she had placed there that morning. "I had the presence of mind," she said as she unwrapped it, "to remove some pages which might have been the cause of embarrassment. Mr. Arachnit, for instance." She spread a page out for him.

"His shadow shows something of your impressions of his character. I see horns there."

"Thank you for being there when he tried to force his attentions on me. I am afraid I owe my honor to you."

"I do not wish to think of it now, but I am grateful I was able to prevent needing to prove that I would have loved you no less had he succeeded."

She reached around his back and they gazed into each others eyes for an interminable moment before she allowed her attention to return to the papers in her lap.

"What do you think of this?" she asked, spreading out another of the removed pages.

"Your opinions of me were not nearly as strict as I had imagined!"

She smiled, and he kissed the back of her neck.

"My Lord, may I have one last request before we retire?"

"What is that, my love?"

She opened another drawer and found charcoal, and took her husband by the hand, leading him back to the bed. Sitting down, she patted the bed beside her.

Puzzled, he sat.

She indicated the mirror.

"No."

"Yes, my love." She opened the sketchbook to a blank page.

"Well, one more hour wouldn't hurt."

"It won't take that long, I promise." And she began roughing out a sketch of their reflection in the mirror.

Fifteen minutes later, she held up her work.

"I think I shall treasure this one forever," he said.

She set the sketchpad on the bureau, and we are not privy to the rest of their evening.