miles baines: riff-raff! street rat! (mimicks) wrote in emillion, @ 2013-11-04 10:08:00 |
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Entry tags: | !complete, !log, juliette coulombe, miles baines |
You look so familiar, have we ever met before?
Who: Juliette Coulombe & "Patrick Callas", manservant.
What: Why does the new substitute servant look so familiar?
Where: The Coulombe residence at the Albrecht guest house.
When: Monday, around noon.
Rating: G.
Status: Complete.
The only way to survive the intended humiliation of this lost wager was to dive full-tilt into the game. And once he did, Miles even started to have some fun with it, viewing it as a challenge, a small acting con to keep himself busy between his actual acting jobs. And thus Patrick Callas came to life: a manservant from a family of servants, polite and hard-working and well-used to waiting on Emillion’s nobility. He spent a large portion of the week at the Coulombe guest house. He hadn’t set foot in the Albrecht house just yet (at least not as Callas—he’d been there for parties as his noble identity). Though he eyed it every time he entered and exited, the gears starting to turn and tumble in his mind. A plan was forming. A way to get some use out of this temporary charade, wring some profit out of the embarrassment. Miles polished the thought even as he polished the cutlery, wiped down the dining table, dusted the pillows, folded the sheets, and generally kept the house in good working order. He was busying himself with that exact plan when he heard the sound of a key twisting in the lock, a click, and the door opening. He was prepared to break character and start slinging insults at the entryway, expecting Audrey, his cruel mistress — but the sound of the arrival was more restrained, less Audrey’s galloping enthusiasm. (They could dress her up and she could feign nobility all she liked, but fifteen years of habit tended to slip out whenever she thought she wasn’t being observed. He’d been watching, of course.) Juliette entered the house, Boris at her side, with an aim toward picking up something quick to eat before returning to Ashwyrm Hall. She had nearly two hours between sessions this afternoon, and she preferred her solitude where she could get it. Thus she had liberated Boris from the garden and entered the guesthouse, then stopped at the doorway, uncertain, as she realized she was not alone. Alys had warned her, of course, that she had hired a temporary replacement for Ms.Han, but it was still disconcerting to walk in and see a man in the kitchen, broom in hand and all. “Good day,” she said, setting down her bag. Boris padded in after her; his hackles raised. “Friend,” Juliette said, her voice quiet but firm. The dog gave the man a suspicious look, but then relaxed, tongue lolling out. “Please excuse us,” she said. Perhaps her quiet lunch would not transpire, after all. “Nothing to excuse, miss. This is your home.” It was as if someone had flipped a switch: Miles Baines was gone, swept up by that broom and into the trash and away. He was all Patrick Callas now: lighter hair tied back into a tight, severe ponytail, not one lock out of place, his demeanour obeisant and humble and without a single lick of sass, nor sarcasm, nor backtalk, nor attitude. Granted, the enormous person-sized dog might have been part of that, too. The servant watched the creature warily. “My name is Callas—your sister hired me on temporarily. My apologies if I disturbed you, miss.” Patrick’s voice was a slow, steady pace, measured and patient. (Not Miles’ usual whiplash ranting and rolling tongue, as if he couldn’t wait to be rid of his words.) “A pleasure,” she said; she did not offer her name, assuming that he, like every other servant she had ever met, would simply call her ‘my lady.’ There was something about the man…. she could not quite put her finger on it, but he seemed strangely familiar. Had she run across him at the greengrocer’s, perhaps? She did tend to frequent places visited by servants more often lately… And really, that was not at all the point; she stood awkwardly in the doorway for a few moments longer before venturing, “Might I make use of the kitchen?” Ms. Han, who had accustomed herself to Juliette’s oddities, would already have found something to do -- as if on accident -- elsewhere in the house, but with this oddly familiar stranger, she felt compelled to ask, perhaps because the Demiel servants had turned her out of the kitchen on the Lady’s orders more than once. Besides, this kitchen, much like the house, was not terribly large; with him in the middle of the room that way, they were bound to run into each other. Patrick looked aghast at the suggestion. “You need not ask me for any permission, my lady. Do whatever you must, and I’ll be sure to stay out of your way.” And so he skittered off to the side, sweeping up the last of his efforts into the dustpan and dumping the crumbs, dust, and dirt into the trash can. Boris was blocking his path out of the room, so the manservant paused with another nervous look at the hulking pet. “Good dog,” he said feebly, holding out the back of his hand for inspection and hopefully-not-homicidal canine greeting. While Boris investigated the servant, Juliette got quickly to work. She did not have much time to spare, but a quick vegetable omelette would be the work of a few minutes, and she had gotten quite adept at whisking eggs and milk and chopping up whatever vegetables were conveniently available to go into the pan (squash and tomatoes, today). Where once she had chopped with slow and careful precision, she could now work and speak simultaneously. “He will not harm you,” she assured as she swept everything into the pan. She had told Boris the man was a friend, and Boris never disobeyed her, which was perhaps fortunate considering he likely had twice her strength. He had been a somewhat pampered guard dog at the Demiel estate; there was little to guard from here, however (considering the Countess’ own excellent security) and sometimes Juliette wondered if he didn’t miss growling at people and making himself look as frightening as possible. Once the contents of the pan were properly bubbling, she turned back to the man and the dog and asked, “I wonder -- have we… perchance met before?” Maybe he had served at an estate she had visited, but surely she was not imagining the familiarity. The man froze at the question, as if he’d been put on pause while he worked out how best to respond. The main test of the game had been seeing if he could lurk under Genevieve and Juliette’s noses without notice, without either of them pegging the resemblance between their new servant and Basil Norwood, hapless attendee of their noble bashes. Vague familiarity was perhaps the best outcome he could hope for. “All my family work as servants, milady,” Patrick eventually said, with a blandly apologetic smile. “I have a few cousins installed at various other estates. There’s quite the family resemblance. Perhaps you’ve seen them at other parties or drawing rooms? It’s a pride line of work for us Callases.” “That must be it,” she said agreeably. Family resemblance was as likely an explanation as any, and she had to admit she had not paid much mind to servants until quite recently. “Do… carry on, then,” she finally said, feeling a bit as though she had disturbed him, even if he would have been bound to talk to her for hours had that been her wish (fortunately for both of them, they were spared such indignity). She went about the business of plating her food as well as fetching something from the icebox for Boris, who came padding over as though summoned by some inaudible signal just in time to have his bowl set on the floor. The departure of the dog meant Miles/Patrick’s path was opened up (and he would have breathed a slight sigh of relief, were the noble girl not there), and so with a polite little bow, stiff-backed and deferential, the man managed to scurry out of the kitchen. Back to his planning and scheming, then, and reciting lines from Godot under his breath, and counting the steps from each corner of the Albrecht estate, and reflecting on how the two Coulombe sisters were as different as night and day. |