Chapter Fourteen #2
Henry bristled. He hated almost nothing more than not knowing things, unless it was having others know of his ignorance.
“On the contrary,” he said stiffly, as Rose, standing on a chair, banged around in the cabinet over the fridge. It seemed she was having trouble finding this Chicago liqueur. “I believe that I grasp most things with ease.”
“No, no, you’re like a newborn babe in the wilderness,” Griffin insisted cheerfully. “You can hardly comprehend anything around you.” He pressed his palm to his chest. “I will be your guide.”
“Thank you, sir,” he told Griffin coldly, “but in the event that I have needed some small piece of information, Rose has provided it.”
Griffin shook his head. “She can’t think of everything you need to know. A person of this time simply takes it all as a matter of course. For instance, do you know how to floss?” Emily laughed.
“Of course I do,” Henry lied.
“Really?” Emily asked, looking intrigued. “You flossed in the Regency period? I had no idea! How often?”
“It varied,” he said vaguely.
A loud clatter came from the kitchen, as though something metal had fallen to the floor. They all looked over, and Henry felt grateful for the interruption.
“Sorry!” Rose called over. “Found it!”
Griffin told Henry, “Well, I think you will find that this era is better than any that came before.” He took a swig from his bottle, then glanced at his bride. “Though in truth, I would be filled with joy in any era, and under any circumstances, as long as I was at sweet Emily’s side.”
She beamed and leaned over to kiss him on the cheek. Henry found himself unduly annoyed.
Rose returned with more drinks and a bottle under her arm.
“I thought you might want to see the label,” she said to Henry, setting the bottle down in front of him.
It appeared slightly dusty, with the words Jeppson’s Malort Liqueur under a red and blue shield.
She poured a measure of the golden liquid.
“But I don’t think you’re going to like it. ”
“We shall see.” Perhaps his tastes were old-fashioned, rendering some food and drink strange to him, but that was not always the case. He’d rather liked the conchas, for instance.
“Well, you don’t have to finish it.” She set down a glass of water as well.
“Thank you,” Henry said and lifted the glass of liqueur. It smelled…bad, actually, but Henry supposed he could not judge by that. Once, in France, he’d enjoyed a soft cheese that had smelled more or less like a horse’s hoof. He took a sip.
His mouth was filled with the worst taste he’d ever experienced.
Or one of the worst. Once, after a dinner of slightly undercooked sturgeon, he’d violently ejected the contents of his stomach. This tasted very similar. Only his awareness of all their gazes fixed on him kept him from spitting it out.
He swallowed hard. At least the foul drink was off his tongue, though who knew what it would do to his insides.
He was aware that his face was screwed up in horror and disgust. The others laughed as he grabbed the water glass Rose had put in front of him and drained it.
This didn’t rinse away all the foul taste.
“So that’s Malort,” Rose said lightly.
Henry turned on her, astounded. “Why would you serve me such an abomination?”
“I did warn you, Your Grace, that you would not care for it,” Griffin said, merriment dancing in his eyes.
“So did I!” Rose protested.
“It’s kind of a rite of passage,” Emily said. “Now you’re a true Chicagoan.”
“I am not a Chicagoan,” Henry snapped.
After a moment of silence, Rose said, “Yeah, Henry really needs to get back to his own time.”
That was, indeed, the best he could hope for. So why did her words also leave a bitter taste in his mouth?
Rose turned to him. “Do you want a glass of wine, after all? That’ll help kill the taste.”
“I—yes, thank you.”
“He’s had a lot of surprises,” Rose told her friends as she stood up. “He was so freaked out when I cut up a pineapple the other day! Apparently, in his time they cost about the same as a car.”
Emily and Griffin both laughed again as Rose made yet another trip to the kitchen.
There was no malice in their laughter, but Henry could not help but wish she hadn’t mentioned it.
Tasting the pineapple with Rose had been a sweet experience in more ways than one, and he didn’t like having it reduced to an amusing anecdote—one at his expense, at that.
Griffin said, “While you are here, Your Grace, you should avail yourself of the pleasures Chicago has to offer.”
Only with effort did Henry keep himself from looking over at Rose. Yes, there were very particular pleasures he’d like to avail himself of, but he had no right to do it, not when he had no intention to stay.
Instead, he gestured at the vile bottle in front of him. “I am not impressed by Chicago’s idea of pleasure.”
Griffin laughed good-naturedly. “You have hardly seen any of it! You must come with us to a Chicago Cubs game.”
“A what?” Henry asked. Rose returned with the wine, smiling.
“It is a sport.”
“It’s kind of like cricket,” Emily interjected. “You have that, right?”
“We do.” Henry took a cautious sip of his wine. To his relief, it tasted pleasant enough.
As Rose settled next to him again, he took a larger swig and tried to be discreet about swishing it in his mouth to rid it of the taste.
Griffin said, “It is played in an amphitheater large enough to hold forty thousand people.”
Was he trying to trick him, so they could all laugh at him again? “I believe you exaggerate, sir.”
“I do not,” Griffin said. “There is no finer place to be in the merry month of May.”
“I’m not into baseball,” Rose said, “but you should go with them.”
Why would he do that? He had no desire to make friends, and even less desire to be away from Rose.
“Thank you, but I have no interest in sport,” he said. “I would sooner spend the time trying to go back in, well, time.”
All three of them looked disappointed in his answer, but Emily said, “Is there any way we can help you?”
Rose scrunched up her face. “Actually, yeah. Maybe you guys could get tickets to the gala thing, too, and you could help search for the astrolabe? I know it’s a lot to ask.”
Emily exchanged a glance with Griffin and then said, “We talked about that. The tickets are sold out now, though.”
Griffin looked thoughtful. “If you go back and pose for the painting, will the picture in the museum be restored?”
“I never thought about that!” Rose said. “That would confuse Aaron even more.”
“And he would have no reason to trouble you,” Henry said.
Rose had told him about how the investigator, someone akin to a Bow Street Runner, had questioned her about the supposed vandalism.
Although she maintained that neither Aaron nor anyone else suspected her of the supposed crime, it made Henry uneasy.
“Ah, but he would,” Griffin said, smiling. “For if there is no investigation, he is free to court Rose, which he has told me he is very eager to do. And Rose, I understand that you have told him you would at least consider his suit.”
Henry swiveled his attention to Rose. A pretty flush suffused her cheeks. For this damnable Aaron Coleman. Emily glanced up from her phone, a bemused smile playing at her lips.
Rose gave a self-conscious shake of her head. “Who knows? I guess part of me always knew he was doing his job, even if I did get embarrassed.”
Griffin nodded. “And that was truly unfortunate. But as you know, I do believe him to be a good man. And I am hardly surprised that he has persisted in his affections.”
“Right?” Emily chimed in. “Rose is the sweetest person I know, and she’s beautiful, and literally magical. Of course Aaron’s still crazy about her.”
Henry’s neck felt hot under his collar. He agreed with all of Emily’s words, of course. Rose’s qualities just didn’t make a difference, when he couldn’t stay here. But did they need to go on and on about a man of their time who could enjoy what Henry could not?
Griffin said, “Perhaps Aaron is the old-fashioned gentleman Rose attracted with her spell. After all, the mystery of the painting has kept him here in our city.” He raised his bottle in Henry’s direction.
“Though your presence here is inconvenient to you, Your Grace, you may take comfort in the fact that it may bring two fine people together.”
Inconvenient?
“I take comfort in nothing of the sort,” Henry snapped. “Have you come over to cheep and jeer at my predicament?”
Emily rolled her eyes. “Nobody’s cheeping. We came over to see if we could help you, you silly potato.”
“Potato?” Henry echoed indignantly.
Griffin raised a finger. “I can explain. A potato is a vegetable. A root, in fact, which—”
“I know what a potato is, you lout,” Henry snapped.
Griffin straightened up in his seat. Every trace of his good humor, which Henry had perceived as being a permanent stamp on his features, was now gone.
“It would be wise, sir,” he said, “to blunt your sharp tongue, lest it endanger your teeth.”
Was the man challenging him to a fistfight? Well, Henry had trained for just such a contingency.
Emily grabbed Griffin’s hand and told him, “Henry’s confused and upset.” She looked at Henry. “They didn’t have potatoes in England in Griffin’s time. How was he supposed to know you had them?”
“I’m sorry,” Rose said to Emily and Griffin.
“It’s not your fault,” Emily said. “We should go. You guys want to get some dinner!” She stood up and Griffin and her dog followed suit.
The latter gave himself a good shake, making his dog tags jingle, as though shaking off the ill temper of the meeting.
Henry got to his feet, too, but only because Rose did.
Emily said to Rose, “Thank you again for watching Andy. I appreciate it so much.”
“Anytime, seriously,” Rose said. “I’m going to miss him!” It was not hard for Henry to imagine that Rose had found the dog to be a much more agreeable houseguest than a misplaced duke.
That impression was only heightened when, after exchanging more goodbyes with her friends and closing the door, Rose whirled around to demand quietly of Henry, “What is your problem?”
“What problem do you refer to?” he rejoined. “That of being served a liqueur so nasty, they wouldn’t serve it in Hell—”
“We warned you!” Rose walked past him to pick up cans, bottles, and glasses. “Plus, believe it or not, some newcomers to Chicago have a sense of humor about doing a shot of Malort!”
“I should’ve thought that was amusing?” he demanded. “And should I have laughed to be told I am stupid as a newborn babe, by your very chivalrous friend?”
Rose looked over her shoulder on the way to the kitchen.
“He said that because that’s how he felt sometimes, when he first came to life here!
” Henry followed her. As she put her burden down on the counter, she added, “How was he supposed to know you take yourself so seriously?” She pitched the empty beer bottle and Diet Coke cans in the blue bin under the sink. “You didn’t have to insult him.”
“His wife had just insulted me.”
Rose picked up the bottle of Malort. “You mean when she called you a silly potato? That didn’t mean anything!” she protested. “She calls her dog that all the time.”
“That hardly makes it more flattering,” he parried.
“Yes, it does! She loves that dog.” Rose considered the bottle for a moment. Then she stood on a chair, opened the cupboard above the refrigerator, and put it away.
“Why are you keeping that!” he demanded, equal parts angry and mystified.
“I don’t know, I might need it!” She hopped down off the chair. “Not all insults are insults.”
“Yet Griffin de Beauford threatened me with violence, just because I called him a lout!”
“Because you meant it!” She shoved the chair sharply back into its place at the table.
“He threatened to knock my teeth in,” Henry snapped.
“I know. That was totally out of line. But you hurt his feelings. He was just trying to help, and he thought you guys were going to be, you know, time travel bros!” She leaned back against the counter as though settling in for a long argument. “They’re my best friends. You owe them an apology.”
“I certainly do not,” he said hotly. How had he become so aggravated?
Rose added, “And you owe me an apology, for putting me in an awkward position!”
He scoffed. “No one is in a more awkward position than I! Dragged to the—”
“Oh, here we go,” Rose said, throwing up her hands. “Poor me, I’m in the wrong century.”
Henry gaped, astonished. She was usually so kind and sympathetic about his predicament. “How dare you?”
“I’m sorry, but it sounds like you were miserable in your own century, too.”
“I…” To his further vexation, her point was hard to refute. “It is more difficult to be here than you can imagine! And who is this Aaron Coleman, who courted you before?”
She shook her head. “He pretended to court me.”
“Why would he do such a thing?”
“Because he was trying to figure out who stole a stone statue at the museum. Of course nobody did, because Griffin just came to life and ran off, but Aaron suspected Emily. He was, like…being a spy?”
Henry nodded slightly, to show that he understood, but he was aware that he was scowling.
Rose said, “And I liked him, and I got my feelings hurt when I found out he was just faking it, but he says he still likes me, and…” She shrugged.
“He sounds like a cad,” Henry said flatly.
“So Griffin’s a lout, and now Aaron’s a cad.” Rose puffed out her cheeks in a frustrated exhale. “What the hell is your problem?”
He clasped his hands behind his back and paced a few steps. “Do you think it can be pleasurable to me to hear your friends speak of a man who intends to renew his suit? Am I to listen to such conversation and smile, as though we were speaking of pleasant weather?”
“You’re the one who said we couldn’t get involved!” she said, holding a hand out to him.
It was true, but his frustration was boiling over. There was no doubt in Henry’s mind now that had he met Rose in 1818, he would’ve courted her in earnest, with the aim of making her his bride as expeditiously as possible.
She went on to say, “I know you don’t want to be here, and I know you don’t want to be with me, so—”
“I do want to be with you!”