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Madam Roberta Meserole was known for being a very entertaining woman. Her parties were for the elite – no one knew what exactly would gain you an airy ‘Oh, but you must attend a little get-together – everyone is just dying to meet you.’ But whatever it was, it was never easy. If it was, then you had cause to worry.
Her friends called her ‘Bobbi,’ she gaily informed those she met. It must surely say something, mused Lady Sarah Havisham slightly sourly, that no one had ever come across someone who did. The woman stared – politely, of course – down into the dregs of her obscenely expensive champagne. Her husband had somehow been detached from her side, and was looking slightly beleaguered amongst a crown of serious looking men, and she was a little unsure how to relate to… Bobbi, who appeared to have no such reservations. Vaguely, she wondered where her daughter had wandered off to.
~~~
“Father says her arrangements are always terribly bourgeois,” announced Isabella rather too loudly, “And that tonight will most likely be very dull. There’s nobody of consequence here at all.”
The eight-year old twisted a carefully-set curl that could optimistically be called blonde around one finger, staring down her nose at her companion.
“Who are your parents?” she demanded.
The pale boy tilted his head up at her ever so slightly. “They are not here,” he replied after a slightly-too-long pause, just enough to cause the little girl to glance over her shoulder in inexplicable nervousness.
“Oh. My father is Lord Havisham. What family are you from?”
“Vetinari.”
“Oh.” Clearly, this explained everything. “My father says they got involved with foolish and dangerous principles and committed suicide.”
“Indeed.”
Havelock looked impassive, blue eyes fixed blankly on the slightly taller girl who launched herself blithely onto another topic.
~~~
Aimless after her host had sailed off to corner another woman, Lady Sarah couldn’t help stopping the child making his quiet way through the room. Such a little thing, he couldn’t be more than five or six.
“Are all right there, my dear?” she smiled, with the overly-sweet rather nervous tone of an adult who spends little time around children.
The coolly unreadable gaze turned on her by the fair-skinned, black-haired boy makes her reassess that thought. Though small and slight, he had to be older than he appeared.
“What are you doing? Do you need me to help you find your parents?” she pressed on. It wasn’t as if she didn’t have a daughter herself. The poor boy was probably shy.
“No thank you, Lady Havisham,” Havelock said quietly.
“Oh. Well done, then.” She patted him on the head. His expression did not change from its stony blankness. “You are a polite boy.”
It wasn’t until he had silently vanished from her sight that she thought to wonder how he knew who she was.
~~~
Havelock Vetinari, aged eight years old, made his unobtrusive way around the room. Being by far under the eye line of most adults helped, but the boy was also unremarkable by nature. The butler had been somewhat put out at his mistresses nephew being more discreet than he. Until they had forged an alliance of necessity against the cook who had designs of marriage on Parsons and designs of abduction and merciless cheek-pinching and babytalk on Havelock, that is.
Madam beamed her way out of a small gathering and purposefully to the edge of a small trestle table where she softly inquired as to the wellbeing of a plate of egg-and-cress sandwiches.
From under the table, the boy gravely assured her that he was perfectly all right.
“And how was dear little Isabella Havisham?” Madam asked a champagne bottle, before using it to refill her glass.
From underneath the table, there was an eloquent pause.
“Ah,” she smiled, apparently to a waiter.
“Lord Havisham is not a close-mouthed man,” said the small boy thoughtfully. “Much as he may like to pretend it in company.”
On the other side of the room, completely separate from where her nephew had been all evening, was the man in question, looking unconvincingly aloof. Not for the first time, Madam wondered if perhaps St James’ School for Young Gentleman might not be inadequate for Havelock.
“However, his attitude is much as you suspected. He may take convincing to change his views.”
“Thank you, Havelock.”
The vase of ivory tulips didn’t reply.
~~~
Lady Sarah’s relief when it was time to go was not long-lived. Her husband appeared to be deeply in conversation with a man she had not seen herself, and after a few gentle hints, told her to go home without him.
Deeply put out, but hiding it behind a socially acceptable smile, she bid farewell to Madam Roberta Meserole, and turning to go and search for her daughter, nearly fell over the woman’s pale nephew.
She could have sworn he had been in the other room. “Oh- I’m terrible sorry, my dear. I didn’t see you.”
“Havelock.” Madam nodded to the boy. “Thank you so much for coming, Lady Havisham. It has been a delight. And your charming daughter – you know,” she added, with an air of confidence, “I do believe she made quite an impression on Havelock.”
The two women laughed. The young boy’s polite but unreadable expression did not change.
~~~
Sarah Havisham did not attend the next time her husband was invited to one of Roberta Meserole’s gatherings. She stayed at home with her daughter Isabella, who refused to go anywhere near the place, saying something about the shadows throwing things and nearly hitting her.
This, of course, was ridiculous, thought her mother, and paid it no mind.
When the maid discovered neat holes punched through the sleeves and skirts of her party dress, she chalked it up to carelessness on the little mistress’s part.
Her friends called her ‘Bobbi,’ she gaily informed those she met. It must surely say something, mused Lady Sarah Havisham slightly sourly, that no one had ever come across someone who did. The woman stared – politely, of course – down into the dregs of her obscenely expensive champagne. Her husband had somehow been detached from her side, and was looking slightly beleaguered amongst a crown of serious looking men, and she was a little unsure how to relate to… Bobbi, who appeared to have no such reservations. Vaguely, she wondered where her daughter had wandered off to.
“Father says her arrangements are always terribly bourgeois,” announced Isabella rather too loudly, “And that tonight will most likely be very dull. There’s nobody of consequence here at all.”
The eight-year old twisted a carefully-set curl that could optimistically be called blonde around one finger, staring down her nose at her companion.
“Who are your parents?” she demanded.
The pale boy tilted his head up at her ever so slightly. “They are not here,” he replied after a slightly-too-long pause, just enough to cause the little girl to glance over her shoulder in inexplicable nervousness.
“Oh. My father is Lord Havisham. What family are you from?”
“Vetinari.”
“Oh.” Clearly, this explained everything. “My father says they got involved with foolish and dangerous principles and committed suicide.”
“Indeed.”
Havelock looked impassive, blue eyes fixed blankly on the slightly taller girl who launched herself blithely onto another topic.
Aimless after her host had sailed off to corner another woman, Lady Sarah couldn’t help stopping the child making his quiet way through the room. Such a little thing, he couldn’t be more than five or six.
“Are all right there, my dear?” she smiled, with the overly-sweet rather nervous tone of an adult who spends little time around children.
The coolly unreadable gaze turned on her by the fair-skinned, black-haired boy makes her reassess that thought. Though small and slight, he had to be older than he appeared.
“What are you doing? Do you need me to help you find your parents?” she pressed on. It wasn’t as if she didn’t have a daughter herself. The poor boy was probably shy.
“No thank you, Lady Havisham,” Havelock said quietly.
“Oh. Well done, then.” She patted him on the head. His expression did not change from its stony blankness. “You are a polite boy.”
It wasn’t until he had silently vanished from her sight that she thought to wonder how he knew who she was.
Havelock Vetinari, aged eight years old, made his unobtrusive way around the room. Being by far under the eye line of most adults helped, but the boy was also unremarkable by nature. The butler had been somewhat put out at his mistresses nephew being more discreet than he. Until they had forged an alliance of necessity against the cook who had designs of marriage on Parsons and designs of abduction and merciless cheek-pinching and babytalk on Havelock, that is.
Madam beamed her way out of a small gathering and purposefully to the edge of a small trestle table where she softly inquired as to the wellbeing of a plate of egg-and-cress sandwiches.
From under the table, the boy gravely assured her that he was perfectly all right.
“And how was dear little Isabella Havisham?” Madam asked a champagne bottle, before using it to refill her glass.
From underneath the table, there was an eloquent pause.
“Ah,” she smiled, apparently to a waiter.
“Lord Havisham is not a close-mouthed man,” said the small boy thoughtfully. “Much as he may like to pretend it in company.”
On the other side of the room, completely separate from where her nephew had been all evening, was the man in question, looking unconvincingly aloof. Not for the first time, Madam wondered if perhaps St James’ School for Young Gentleman might not be inadequate for Havelock.
“However, his attitude is much as you suspected. He may take convincing to change his views.”
“Thank you, Havelock.”
The vase of ivory tulips didn’t reply.
Lady Sarah’s relief when it was time to go was not long-lived. Her husband appeared to be deeply in conversation with a man she had not seen herself, and after a few gentle hints, told her to go home without him.
Deeply put out, but hiding it behind a socially acceptable smile, she bid farewell to Madam Roberta Meserole, and turning to go and search for her daughter, nearly fell over the woman’s pale nephew.
She could have sworn he had been in the other room. “Oh- I’m terrible sorry, my dear. I didn’t see you.”
“Havelock.” Madam nodded to the boy. “Thank you so much for coming, Lady Havisham. It has been a delight. And your charming daughter – you know,” she added, with an air of confidence, “I do believe she made quite an impression on Havelock.”
The two women laughed. The young boy’s polite but unreadable expression did not change.
Sarah Havisham did not attend the next time her husband was invited to one of Roberta Meserole’s gatherings. She stayed at home with her daughter Isabella, who refused to go anywhere near the place, saying something about the shadows throwing things and nearly hitting her.
This, of course, was ridiculous, thought her mother, and paid it no mind.
When the maid discovered neat holes punched through the sleeves and skirts of her party dress, she chalked it up to carelessness on the little mistress’s part.
