Continued from §.11.
Serlo poured himself a tumbler of scotch as his father ambled into the drawing room of Wealdmar Estate, mahogany cane clacking violently off the decorative and newly-swept marble floor.
“How is our dear Cerelia?” Grædig Wealdmaer inquired with scant concealed venom, taking a seat upon the leather armchair opposite his son, who slouched dejectedly over the worn coffee table, eyes to the grain. Serlo could not be certain, but was confident his father’s severe gray eyes were upon him, and did not wish to meet the old man’s gaze.
“She’s fine father.”
“Fine? How could she be fine when she’s still set to be wedded to an Adair?”
“She loves him, father.”
“Love? How swiftly that word is deployed as universal justification.”
“I tried to talk her out of it. Thou knowth the affair sits ill with me, yet, on the matter, her mind is as flint.”
“Thou should more forcefully ply thyself.”
“Have I not done all that may become my name? What else could I have done? Already she has eschewed her inheritance.”
“Thou could, if more rightly blooded, act the man thou pretends, rebuke her ill-fitting suitor, with tongue and arm alike.”
“This avys, father? Again? I can not.”
Serlo rose swiftly, vexed and shaking his head.
“I can not.” He repeated more emphatically, pacing back and forth with nervous excitation.
“Sit thee down, boy. Warm blooded and womanly, thou art.”
“He has not grieved me.”
“That he is Adair is grievance enough.”
“And so, for thee.”
“Nay. Nay! What hath I not given thee but blood? Still, thou hath the temerity to chastise me?”
“Temerity thou couldst use. Curse thy pacing. Sit, damn ye!”
Yetta Wealdmear frowned as she moved into the drawing room, elegantly gowned, pausing in the entrance to better observe the debacle.
“Whatever is the matter?”
“Hear thy mother not? Go on, boy. Flap thy gums since thine bawdryk evades thy callow exercise.”
Serlo opened his mouth to rebuke the old man, thought better of it and spoke to his mother instead without meeting her gaze. He did not wish to see her disapproval anymore than his father’s.
“Father wants me to present a writ of grievance to Adair.”
“He’s still on about it? Why so excited my dear boy? Surely thou art not afraid?”
“Have ye not see the papers?”
“No, I eschew those wretched things.”
“He was attacked.”
“No one knows. Whoever it was, they wanted him dead.”
“Thou should be thanking them, not mincing thy words and wringing thy limp and lotioned hands.”
Grædig Wealdmaer slammed his ciser upon the table and rose, ambling stiffly towards his son, cane at his side, face twisting with disdain.
“Had I the alauntz of my youth, I should have long-since thrashed the welp across the grand thoroughfare, were he man enough to face me. But thee, nobly born, who are so able in thy faculties, shake as a gale-blown leaf. Thou art a coward.”
“Grædig!” Yetta cried in dismay.
“Why must thee treat me so wretchedly?”
The old man looked his son up and down and once more rapt his cane.
“Allye thou art, that worsens the humiliation of this betrayal of bachilrie.”
He sighed and turned away.
“Perhaps, for this, I bear some blame.”
“By noon assent, Father. I am sorry to dissapoint thee so. I shall not do so again; this, I promise thee.”
Thereafter, Serlo, red-faced and despondent, spun on his heel and left the room.
Continued in §. 13 (forthcoming)