( please, he begs and hopes as he maneuvers himself into the chair. no comments on his appearance. he and his pride are injured enough already without a sly comment from mr. bennet. this dinner, he hopes, will go by swiftly and with little conversation. the food will preoccupy his attention enough that conversation won't be necessary or solicited. )
You ( atticus shifts his chair back a little to relieve the pressure caused by the edge of the table on his torso. ) have more faith in my mending abilities than I do, Miss Bennet. Alas, I feel the same as I did earlier. Discomfort is the nature of these sorts of injuries.
( the closest comparison he can think of would be women during their period of confinement — that is, the last six weeks of pregnancy — wherein, they cannot find a place of comfort, no matter what they lay on or in what position.
the footman who delivered atticus's message comes out from the kitchen with a tureen and sets it down on the table. in the dim light of beeswax candles, he leaves and returns several times with various dishes, setting the table with military precision. he finishes with a pudding, a savory kind if atticus's nose is correct. either from kindness or the shilling he gave him earlier, the footman serves atticus a bowl of pea soup for his first course and then asks if he requires looking after. being unaccustomed to servants after an almost decade-long respite, atticus responds that no, he does not. even while injured, he will accept only the bare minimum of assistance. he couldn't lie down, fetch a messenger, or dress on his own so he allowed help; but he can serve his potatoes without aid.
he takes a silent slurp of his soup, bearing great table manners for someone injured and, reportedly, uncouth. ) However, my pride is on the mend. In these past hours, I have concluded that my actions were foolhardy. But well done.
no subject
You ( atticus shifts his chair back a little to relieve the pressure caused by the edge of the table on his torso. ) have more faith in my mending abilities than I do, Miss Bennet. Alas, I feel the same as I did earlier. Discomfort is the nature of these sorts of injuries.
( the closest comparison he can think of would be women during their period of confinement — that is, the last six weeks of pregnancy — wherein, they cannot find a place of comfort, no matter what they lay on or in what position.
the footman who delivered atticus's message comes out from the kitchen with a tureen and sets it down on the table. in the dim light of beeswax candles, he leaves and returns several times with various dishes, setting the table with military precision. he finishes with a pudding, a savory kind if atticus's nose is correct. either from kindness or the shilling he gave him earlier, the footman serves atticus a bowl of pea soup for his first course and then asks if he requires looking after. being unaccustomed to servants after an almost decade-long respite, atticus responds that no, he does not. even while injured, he will accept only the bare minimum of assistance. he couldn't lie down, fetch a messenger, or dress on his own so he allowed help; but he can serve his potatoes without aid.
he takes a silent slurp of his soup, bearing great table manners for someone injured and, reportedly, uncouth. ) However, my pride is on the mend. In these past hours, I have concluded that my actions were foolhardy. But well done.