Chapter Text
Effie did not sleep well that night. Even in the plush bed of the manor, she still found herself tossing and turning, filled with dread over the prospect of having to spend even more time with Mr. Abernathy. As much as she enjoyed her winters in the countryside, his company surely wasn't one of it's charms. Through the night she found herself unable to think of anything but him. His smugness, his anger at something so unimportant as a chess match, the way that drop of wine had run down his chin.
Turning over onto her stomach, Effie buried her face in her pillow. There was no one there to hide her blush from—no one that could read her thoughts—and yet still she hid them. For some reason her mind had fixated on that lopsided mouth of his. When she would finally become close to sleep, her thoughts would roam on their own accord, back to Mr. Abernathy's lips. How soft they might feel if she had traced her thumb over them, wiping the bit of port away. How they moved around the surface of her pawn when he had been so concentrated on the board, and how that movement might feel on her skin, her lips, between her legs.
She groaned, shaking her head to try to rid herself of the image. Desperation, she figured, was driving her to the brink of insanity, for nothing else could put such an improper and asinine thought into her head. The only temptation of a man like Mr. Abernathy could be his estate, as he lacked everything else that Effie would look for in a mate. He had no charm, no dignity, no manners. Mr. Abernathy was simply a mysterious fortune, coupled with a handsome face. Effie hated herself for losing sleep over such a man.
After hours of moving between shallow sleep, thoughts of Mr. Abernathy, and self-scolding, light finally started to trickle in through her window. Effie sighed, giving up any further attempt to rest. She rolled out of of bed, taking the blanket with her around her shoulders, before finally moving to examine just how much snow had fallen the night previous. The grounds were fully white, near pristine save for a few tracks from whatever critters resided on Mr. Abernathy's property. In the distance she could make out a stone gazebo, from which she could surmise that at least half a foot had managed to accumulate throughout the night. Why they weren't made aware of the snow as soon as it began falling was beyond her, as she would have far preferred to cut dinner short than to be trapped like a princess in a tower.
She was slightly startled when there was a knock on her door, who turned out to be a maid calling to let her know that breakfast was being served. Along with the announcement, however, she came bearing a men's dressing gown, cut from a soft flannel tartan. The color was a deep green, checked with thin black and navy lines.
"The house is rather drafty, ma'am," the maid said, not giving Effie a choice before draping the gown around her shoulders, "Mr. Abernathy didn't want you catching a cold. He apologizes for not having any women's clothes for you, but of course he has no lady of the house for you to borrow from."
It felt strange, going down to breakfast in a man's morning clothes. Intimate, though she knew that was not the intention behind the offering. The house was quite chilly, snowy air creeping through the seams in the windows, especially in the hallways where fires weren't being stoked for warmth.
When she entered the parlor, however, she found she wasn't the only person who had been lent such a garment. Messalina wore a quilted banyan that didn't quite tie in the middle, while Uncle Silius's was a plain deep grey color. Mr. Abernathy, on the other hand, was dressed in his nightgown, knit cap, and a long coat clearly meant for the outdoors. Effie couldn't hide her amusement at such a mismatched ensemble, despite the fact that she was able to deduce that he had merely run out of options. It seemed out of character for Mr. Abernathy to be so concerned for his guests.
"I hope you slept well, Ms. Trinket," Mr. Abernathy said, his mouth already full of toast with jam. Effie was almost grateful for the bit of disgust, as she suspected it would help her intrusive thoughts about the man's lips.
"I slept perfectly well, thank you," she lied, taking the seat beside her aunt.
"'Perfectly', of course, like everything else you do," Mr. Abernathy teased, "That's how your Aunt and Uncle make it seem at least, though I'm beginning to suspect their praises may be too strong, considering our match from last night. Or perhaps I was right, and you had just managed the impossible. Losing perfectly must be quite the skill indeed."
Effie buttered her own toast, trying to collect her thoughts on Mr. Abernathy's assessment. On the surface, perhaps it could be understood as praise for her character, but Effie knew that compliments weren't in his nature. He meant to mortify her, she was sure, for her Aunt and Uncle's excessive accommodations. Her singleness was also being highlighted, as he showed that no amount of skill on her part had increased any person's attachments to her. Worst of all was his knew obsession on that chess match of theirs. It felt strange, her niceties at trying to give him the win being so noticed, and so disdained. Never before had someone sought to criticize her for such politeness. To have even her kinder, softer traits be so reviled made her eager for the snow to melt so she could make her escape.
"I'm not so accomplished," she said instead, refusing to look in Mr. Abernathy's direction, "I draw. I embroider. Dance, read, paint tables, net purses, speak both French and Italian." She paused. "Still, I have no aptitude with a pianoforte."
It was not without trying. She had always jumped to learn any new skill, but for some reason her fingers lacked any rhythm needed to become proficient in music. Her feet had no such struggles, as she was quite the delicate dancer, but her hands could never conquer a melody.
"Alas, even your imperfection fits perfectly into this house," he replied, "For I have no such instruments. This house is free from music."
"No pianoforte?" cried Aunt Messalina, "In this huge place? Why, I don't know how I never noticed! How can you have no instrument?"
Mr. Abernathy shrugged, though when Effie finally looked in his direction she found his face lacked it's usual mirth. His detestful grin did not appear, no playful sarcastic emotion apparent in his features.
"The previous owner had none, and when I took up the place I brought no one with me that could play. An unused instrument does little good."
"It wouldn't be hard to give it a purpose on occasion," Effie replied, "A house like this ought to be used. Surely your neighbors would appreciate a ball, or even a more intimate gathering where the young ladies could show off their talents. Just because it wouldn't get daily use does not mean it would be a waste."
"We've pestered him for a ball many times, but to no avail." Uncle Silius said with a sigh.
"It's such a shame, really," Aunt Messalina continued, seemingly unconcerned that Mr. Abernathy was in the room with them, "He's such a fine gentleman, and yet has such little company. I'm always telling Mr. Abernathy that he needs to liven up the place, meet new people, find himself a nice pretty wife to keep himself from the bottle. What better way to meet new people than a ball?"
"I've told you before, Mrs. Trinket," his voice was exasperated, though somewhat softened by Messalina's genuine concern, "I do not dance, and therefore have no reason for such an occasion."
"Do not, or cannot?" Effie asked, unable to stifle her curiosity. She had danced many a times with men that lacked the coordination for the steps, hitting her toes or moving a beat behind. After many years of such partners, she had found it easy to guess which men would struggle with the steps. Mr. Abernathy had no such tells, his general demeanor lacking the awkward energy that often came with someone who floundered on the dance floor.
"With years of not practicing, I suspect the latter," Mr. Abernathy replied.
"I've been telling him," Aunt Messalina said, "That he just needs the right partner, and he'll be just the dancer I'm sure he was in his youth."
Mr. Abernathy rubbed at his temple, clearly not wishing to entertain the conversation further. It seemed like such a light topic, music and dancing, but it clearly brought up some flurry of emotions for their host. Effie took pity on him, turning the topic to the snow, and how she was sure Prosie would be enjoying the excuse to drink hot chocolate.
After breakfast she returned to her room to dress more properly for the day. Typically she preferred to dress alone, being more used to helping Prosie with her garments and hair styles than receiving much assistance herself. Her fingers had long memorized the deft movements needed to do the ribbons at her back, or pin up her curls. When the maid returned, however, Effie didn't turn her away.
It had been nagging at her mind, the issue of the pianoforte. She could see how someone such as Mr. Abernathy would find it to be too much work to organize procuring an instrument. He did not seem to be the most proactive individual, preferring whatever delights were directly in front of him—wine, books, teasing his house guests. Still, it struck her as odd that the house would go so many years without ever being in need of music.
"How long have you been with the house?" Effie asked the maid, trying to seem nonchalant in her line of questioning.
"More than twenty years now, I believe," she replied as she adjusted the laces of Effie's stays, "Mr. Abernathy kept most of the staff when he moved in, though I believe that was more because of the state he was in when he got here. Didn't want to be bothered about anything concerning the house."
"Did you know him before then?" Effie asked, sitting down to put on her stockings, insisting on tying on her garters herself, "He must have visited the former master, if he was to inherit."
"Oh no, never," the maid replied, "Truthfully when the Viscount passed, none of us knew who was to take the house. It was at least two months before Plutarch Heavensbee and the Viscount's sister showed up with the young Mr. Abernathy. They brought papers to prove that it was his, but none of us much cared once we were assured that we'd be keeping our positions. It helped, of course, how much better it was having Mr. Abernathy in the house than our late master. God rest his soul, but Viscount Snow was not a very kind gentleman. He didn't ever allow us to speak, even to each other."
"Plutarch Heavensbee?" Effie stood once more, trying to hide her shock behind her petticoats as she let the maid help pull them over her head. She had met Duke Heavensbee a few times before, and apparently pleased him enough to always receive invites to his parties, despite her lower status. He seemed to prefer existing in the shadows of society, a person who somehow held every bit of knowledge on his guests, yet was never truly known himself. For all the mystery about the man, however, he was still always pleasant to speak to, utterly charming, and the complete opposite of the brazen Mr. Abernathy. "Was he an acquaintance of the Viscount's?"
"Of his and Mr. Abernathy both. He visits at least twice a year, and usually for a fortnight at a time."
If Mr. Abernathy was friends with Duke Heavensbee, it became even more strange that Effie had no knowledge of him outside of their annual dinners. Surely if Heavensbee was visiting so often, Mr. Abernathy would be forced to return the favor, and if such was the case, then shouldn't Effie had at least seen him at some party or other? Even if he didn't dance, Effie suspected that he could at least be tempted thither by good wine.
"So long we have shared a connection, and yet I never knew," Effie said, trying to tamper her surprise. She reached for her chemisette, looking to cover any part of her skin from cold, but the maid took it from her hands.
"This will hardly do in this weather, best to forgo it," the maid said, "I brought this instead. It will fair far better to keep you warm." She wrapped a knit shawl around Effie's shoulder, pinning it in place at Effie's bust. It was heavier than the fabric of her chemisette, though it did little to cover the skin around her chest. It had been some years before she had gone out in company with so little hidden that she found herself continuing to try to adjust her garments.
Effie joined the rest of their group in the library once more. It seemed that she was right in surmising that Mr. Abernathy rarely ventured out of the few rooms that she had seen already. Aunt Messalina had taken up a small bit of needlework while Uncle Silius and Mr. Abernathy had engaged themselves in a game of cards.
Mr. Abernathy's library was certainly a thing to behold. The ceiling stretched well overhead, with bookshelves going all the way upward. A rolling ladder reached the height of a small landing about halfway up the shelves for whenever the reader needed to find a volume in the higher areas. Having only ever been to the estate for dinner, she had never bothered to peruse through the selection. She took her time, therefore, in finding something worth reading on her snowy day.
There was a large leather armchair that Mr. Abernathy often sat on in the corner of the room. Supposing this to be his preferred space for reading, she began her venture at the shelves closest to the seat, suspecting she would find his most read books there. It surprised her, therefore, to find rows and rows of collected poems. Poetry, Effie had always figured, was for lovers, romantics, people who were described as "sweet" or "thoughtful". In all her years of knowing Mr. Haymitch Abernathy, she would have never deduced him to be an enjoyer of such delicate words. He seemed more fit for books with long accounts of war, or perhaps something scandalous like The Monk. (Of course, Effie herself only knew of the more sordid parts of the story from reading it herself. If Mr. Abernathy had possessed an affinity for such books, she wouldn't be able to fault him for it, as she herself couldn't seem to resist a gothic tale.)
"Are these books you've procured, or are they from the previous owner of the house?" Effie called back over her shoulder, letting her fingers skim over the surfaces of the leather bindings as she moved down the row of shelves.
"A mixture," Mr. Abernathy replied, not looking up from his cards, "And there's quite a few volumes lent from a friend that I don't plan on returning. I suspect he won't notice their absence."
"Do you read much?" Effie asked, "Or are the books merely decoration?" She thought she knew the answer, judging by the spines of the stories. No dust collected on them, and more than one seemed to be in ill repair. There was no greater sign of a great reader than a collection of damaged books.
"It's just about all I ever do," Mr. Abernathy replied.
Effie traced over the titles of a few volumes, mouthing them to herself as she tried to pick an appealing collection. She didn't know much of poetry herself, preferring long prose that could capture her attention for hours.
As engrossed with her task as she was, she didn't notice the sound of Mr.Abernathy's chair scraping against the floor, nor hear his footsteps making their way to her. She was just beginning to reach out for her choice when she felt his breath at her ear, tickling the skin. Every muscle in her clenched, trying to disguise any hint of discomfort. Discomfort, she tried to convince herself, was all that it was, as she watched his arm reach for a volume just above the one she had intended to pull from the shelf. Discomfort, and not anticipation. Discomfort, and not eagerness. That was why she felt frozen, why her heart beat too quickly, why her cheeks felt flushed. His chest was not quite touching her back, and yet still somehow she could feel his closeness.
"This is my favorite, if you need a recommendation," he said, seemingly unphased and unembarrassed by the impropriety of their proximity. His arm bent around her, still careful not to touch as he placed the collection in her hands.
Effie wanted to turn to him, face him as she scolded his behavior, but she was all too aware of how their cheeks may brush if she looked in his direction. Instead, she remained set forward as she quietly said "Thank you," too overtaken as she was to consider a witty response.
"Mr. Abernathy, it's your turn!" Uncle Silius called from the table, apparently unconcerned with or not noticing the pair's behavior. Effie felt one last breath reach her cheek before Mr. Abernathy's presence disappeared, returning to his game.
"I fear we've reached the point where no matter how I play, I will still win," he said, his voice returning to jovial teasing as he sat back down.
Effie remained where she was for a moment, collecting herself. She willed her heart to a slower tempo, rubbing at her cheeks to hide any tinge of pinkness. Once she felt sufficiently unflustered she took her seat in a velvet chair, facing in the opposite direction of Mr. Abernathy and Uncle Silius's game.
The book, at least, gave her an easy distraction. She scanned the table of contents, searching for a title that might best capture her attention. Cauld Frosty Morning she decided on.
'Twas past ane o'clock in a cauld frosty morning,
When cankert November blaws over the plain,
I heard the kirk-bell repeat the loud warning,
As, restless, I sought for sweet slumber in vain:
Then up I arose, the silver moon shining bright;
Mountains and valleys appearing all hoary white;
Forth I would go, amid the pale, silent night,
And visit the Fair One, the cause of my pain.
Sleeping was no easier her second night at Mr. Abernathy's estate. Every time she closed her eyes, she felt as if she could feel him once again. His presence at her back had been so palpable, the very memory able to send goose flesh over her skin.
She was cold, she tried to convince herself, tracing over the little bumps. That was all she was reacting to. Effie climbed out of bed, searching the room for any hidden blankets or additional layers. When she came up short, however, she noticed that the tartan dressing gown hadn't been removed from her room, instead remaining draped over a chair. She picked it up, bringing it close to her chest. The flannel was undoubtedly warm, the perfect solution.
Sae gently I staw to my lovely Maid's chamber,
And rapp'd at her window, low down on my knee;
Begging that she would awauk from sweet slumber,
Awauk from sweet slumber and pity me:
For, that a stranger to a' pleasure, peace and rest,
Love into madness had fired my tortur'd breast;
And that I should be of a' men the maist unblest,
Unless she would pity my sad miserie!
She laid back in bed, pulling the dressing gown over her body as she would a blanket. Warmth seemed to envelope her instantly, yet along with it was a smell she hadn't noticed that morning. With the fabric tucked under her nose, she could taste the rich aroma of Mr. Abernathy's favorite wine. This mixed with the scent of fabric, as well as something else, something muskier, something that she instantly recognized from just hours before. The scent of Mr. Abernathy himself.
Instead of making it easier for her to sleep, that dressing gown ended up making her mind wander back to that moment in the library all the more fervently. The warm of the flannel became the warmth of his body so close to hers, the smell of the fabric dancing to her nose as it had with each breath he had made against her cheek.
The memory being now amplified, she found it difficult to resist indulging in it, replaying it again and again, a moment of so much outward stillness, despite the flurry it did to her insides.
My True-love arose and whispered to me,
(The moon looked in, and envy'd my Love's charms;)
'An innocent Maiden, ah, would you undo me!'
I made no reply, but leapt into her arms:
Bright Phebus peep'd over the hills and found me there;
As he has done, now, seven lang years and mair:
A faithfuller, constanter, kinder, more loving Pair,
His sweet-chearing beam nor enlightens nor warms.
Her fingers rose to her cheek, her ear, the turn of her neck, gliding over the surfaces that his lips had been so close to capturing. Those terribly tempting lips. As she continued mulling over those emotions from the library, her mind began to fill with imaginary actions—what may have occurred if they were the amoral characters of one of her novels.
She could nearly feel how it would have been if he had grabbed her waist instead of his book. How his fingers might have bunched into the fabric of the gown in their quest to dig into her flesh. She could picture his other hand, coming up to undo the pin at her chest, taking pleasure in revealing more of her breasts, their rise and fall with her unsteady breaths.
Her hand clenched into the tartan, knowing she shouldn't continue such improper thoughts, yet also feeling too far gone to stop herself. Heat had begun to swell from within her, passion spurned on by the secrecy of night.
"I couldn't resist you," she thought he might say, his voice deep with need, "I have to have you."
As she imagined Mr. Abernathy's hand beginning to bunch the fabric of her skirt, pulling it upward, she mirrored the action in her bed, until her fingers could reach between her legs. A small gasp escaped her lips, both in her imagined scene and in her reality, the relief of finally touching that bundle of nerves taking over.
In her mind, Mr. Abernathy's chest was pressed firm against her back, his member clearly hard against her as he spread kisses deep into her neck. The rustle of the blankets in her bed became the sound of him undoing the buttons of his pants. She turned her head into her pillow, imagining it was his lips that were swallowing her moan.
Effie knew the motion, but not the feeling of a man being inside of a woman. She knew what it would look like, Mr. Abernathy sliding his cock inside of her, having to hold herself steady on the book case, letting him rock against her, but she yearned to know how it felt. Still, as she imagined the scene, her fingers worked quick circles into her clit, pleasure building at just thought of getting to experience such a foreign feeling.
Her breath was coming out labored, mixing with the imagined sounds of Mr. Abernathy's grunts. Effie's hips moved on their own accord, chasing the sensation of her ministrations and Mr. Abernathy's accelerating movements.
Effie gasped, imagining Mr. Abernathy nails, arms, teeth clenching into her flesh as she reached the heights of pleasure, the crafted scenario matching the pulsing of her core.
As her breathing started to level, her fantastical Mr. Abernathy began to dissipate. Her pillow was her pillow again, not his lips. The dressing gown was once again merely a sewn garment.
"Oh god," Effie said, sitting bolt upright. The haze of orgasmic bliss had worn off, the horror of what she had just done settling in.
It was improper, unladylike, and Mr. Haymitch Abernathy. She had touched herself that way before, sleepless and lonely nights stirring up desperation, but her fantasies normally included a handsome prince, or a mysterious stranger, not the insolent, taciturn, obnoxious, sarcastic man whom she absolutely loathed spending a dinner with, let alone an intimate affair.
She felt flushed, frantic, embarrassed. No one would know her thoughts, but she would be forced to remember her own impulsiveness.
Effie couldn't keep lying in that godforsaken bed. She pushed her blankets aside, feeling a shiver come over her as she stood up. The dressing gown seemed to stare at her from it's place abandoned on it's sheets. It was the temptress that made her choose such out of character actions, and should be left forgotten in the room because of it, but the chill in the air was too much for her. She tucked her arms into the sleeves, trying to ignore it's scent.
Movement helped to keep her mind from wandering back to her shame. She lit a candle before exiting her room, trying to move quietly as she made her way down the stairs. Wine was what she needed, she decided. It would surely make her sleepy enough to forget her actions, and the house must have been fully stocked.
Where to find the wine was another issue. She would hate to wake any of the servants of the house, not wanting them to lose sleep, nor wanting them to perceive her in such a frantic state. Going into that wing of the house to raid the wine cellar was therefore a last resort.
She began her hunt in the breakfast parlor, seeing if Mr. Abernathy's unfinished bottle from that morning was stashed somewhere for the next breakfast. Her candle did little to help in her search, and her need to stay quiet made her task difficult. She was about ready to give up on that room when she heard a low thumb from down the hall.
Effie could be the only person awake at that hour, that she was sure of. Her breath caught, imaging some intruder coming to steal from the estate. No one would expect it with the snow still covering the grounds, and she was sure there were those in the neighborhood whose lives became more desperate in a freeze.
Grabbing the poker from the fireplace, she began creeping down the hallway. The intelligent thing, she figured, would be to return to bed. A thief would be more interested in precious items than a local spinster. When she heard a second thud, however, she found herself moving her steps towards the sound.
The thief must have known something of Mr. Abernathy's behaviors, choosing a room that remained unused by the man. If they didn't leave those confines, no one might even notice anything missing.
She took a breath, her hand slowly reaching for the doorknob. It was idiotic to enter, and yet her night of foolishness continued as she pushed the door open.
The room was large enough, with tall windows letting in the light of the moon reflected against the snow. All the furniture appeared to be covered with white sheets, keeping dust at bay. The wallpaper around the upper half of the room appeared to be decorated with roses, though Effie noticed quite a few spots that appeared to be peeling from the surface. The most notable fixture of the room, however, was a large portrait of a young woman. She wore colors bright enough to stand out even in the low light, her hair seeming almost wild with it's ringlets. Around her neck appeared to be a snake, curling into her clavicle.
"Ah, another ghost," came a gravelly voice, "Welcome to the party."
Effie jumped, her candle flickering as she tried to locate the sound.
In the center of the floor laid Mr. Abernathy, one arm spread out straight, the other wrapped around a bottle. His eyes reflected the little light in the room, looking foggier than their usual grey.
She realized then what an absurd picture she must be, iron poker in one hand, candle in the other. A ghost seemed an apt assumption.
"It's Ms. Trinket," she said, setting down the poker against the doorframe before taking a step into the room, "You're a far too sensible man to believe in ghosts."
His eyes traveled her up and down, making Effie realize just how undone she was. Her hair down, her dressing gown untied. The darkness, she hoped, hid anything immodest, but she pulled the tartan around her, just in case.
"Far too drunk not to," he replied.
It was then that Effie saw the second bottle, already tipped over, emptied, on the floor next to Mr. Abernathy.
"Do you often do this?" Effie asked, "Getting drunk in the middle of the night?" She secretly hoped that knowing more of his bad habits might help keep her more wanton desires at bay.
"Don't normally have to hide it," Mr. Abernathy replied, taking a swig from the bottle, "This is why I prefer not to have guests. Day drinking is much easier." He sat up slightly, moving to let his back rest against one of the covered furnishings. "What secrets then, I wonder, are you hiding that have you up so late at night?"
She was thankful for the darkness, knowing that her blush would've given the truth of his sentiment away.
"I lied before, when I said I slept well last night," she said, hoping the small admittance would be enough, "I sleep very poorly in new places."
"So you chose to haunt the halls of my house instead?"
Effie couldn't hide her embarrassment, only the source of it. She glanced down at her feet, brushing a stray hair behind her ear before she could muster an answer that was both truth and lie. "I hoped a glass of wine would help me."
He didn't question why she hadn't called the maid for such a menial request. Didn't ask why she would think it decent to comb through his rooms in search of such an item. Mr. Abernathy just grinned, his smirk all too familiar, before patting the space beside him.
"You've come to the right place then," he replied, extending his bottle upwards as an offering.
Effie knew it was improper. She shouldn't be alone with Mr. Abernathy at all, the situation made worse by her state of undress, the darkness of night, and the thoughts of her fantasy trying to push their way to the front of her mind. Mr. Abernathy, on the other hand, seemed to be little concerned about the propriety of the moment. His cavalier attitude, however, lacked any sense of danger. While the rules of society didn't seem to matter to the man, Effie felt she knew his character didn't lack honor all together. Mr. Abernathy wouldn't hurt her.
Her feet carried her to the spot next to him, making sure the dressing gown was pulled tight as she sat. Mr. Abernathy traded her bottle for candle, before setting the light on the cloth covered table. Close up, Effie could see a pink ring around his eyes, from the dry winter air, she assumed.
"Glasses?"
"Nobody drinks from glasses at this time of night," he replied, "I won't tell anyone you've drank straight from the bottle."
Effie eyed the container, trying not to think of how her lips would be sharing a space with his.
Taking a drink, she realized, would be a necessity. With her thoughts becoming so easily indecent, she'd need an excuse for her blushes. Drunkenness would do well to hide her embarrassment.
"'m sorry you can't sleep," he said after a moment. She was thankful for the conversation, the silence somehow feeling loud.
"It's not your fault," she said, taking another sip before handing the bottle back, "You've provided all the necessary comforts of a good host. You didn't make it snow."
Mr. Abernathy gave a shiver, following the movement with a swig of his own. "Well you know what they say about snow," he said.
"…What do they say about it?" she said, racking her brain for any phrases about such weather.
"It lands on top."
Effie covered her mouth, trying and failing to hide a giggle. What a silly, nonsensical phrase, she thought. The absurdity of such a normal observation seemed to be heightened by the silence of night. Her giggle caught, forcing Mr. Abernathy to chuckle. Snickers to laughter, turned to breath catching cackles.
"I'm sorry," she said, still giving the occasional giggle, "It's just such an idiotic phrase. Do people really say that?"
"The Viscount use to," Mr. Abernathy said, still smiling from amusement despite the seriousness that started sneaking into his eyes, "Not to me. I didn't know him. I've heard stories, read letters."
"Your maid did not speak well of him," Effie answered.
"She was right not to," Mr. Abernathy replied, "Awful man. The world is better off without him."
There was a pause, the silence once again taking over as they continued passing the bottle. She didn't want to keep prodding about a man that clearly made Mr. Abernathy uncomfortable, despite her curiosity about the matter. Sometimes it felt as if the more she knew on the subject, the less she understood.
"What poems did you read?" he finally asked. It should have been a safe change of subject, but it still lead Effie to her thoughts from her bedchamber. She had to take a large gulp of wine before answering.
"Poetry is not my strong suit, and the language was difficult to parse through, so I didn't make it through many of them," Effie started, receiving a nod of approval from Mr. Abernathy.
"A poem read quickly is not well understood," he said.
"Cauld Frosty Morning is the one I spent the most time on."
Mr. Abernathy immediately recited several lines, seemingly perfectly memorized, though Effie had no way to be sure. The words sounded better on his breath, the meter more natural, the words less awkward in his voice. She wanted to ask for more, keep entertained with his speech while she continued to sip his wine, but resisted the urge, knowing it came solely from that lonely desperation that had been plaguing her.
"Did you enjoy it?" he asked.
"I…" she said, trying to stop herself from remembering just how strong her enjoyment had been, "Well it was certainly a different view on love then I am used to. Immoral actions don't usually lead to such happily ever afters, but the sentiment of the speaker still seems pure, even in his impropriety. It's… well it's certainly captivating."
Mr. Abernathy gave a snort. "Real love isn't proper. No one is going to write a poem about one of those prudent marriages that women like you are seeking. Poetry is for the type of love that consumes you, that calls you out of bed and makes you refuse to keep living with out it."
Effie's nose wrinkled. "Women like me?"
"I didn't mean that," he said with a sigh, running his hand through his hair.
"Women with little means, you mean?" she asked, "No title to their name. You think I must be looking for money only, with no interest in love or passion."
"Well…"
"Well!?"
"You have a reputation," Mr. Abernathy replied, "For ignoring men that try to show you any inclination. Heavensbee said it's because you've never had anyone approach that would serve any value to you."
"Why were you theorizing about my romantic intentions with Mr. Heavensbee?" Effie stood up as she asked the question, appalled.
It was Mr. Abernathy's turned to blush, taking a sheepish sip from the bottle. "Heavensbee started the conversation," he explained, "Being a widower, everyone seems very keen on finding me a match. He knew I was acquainted with your Aunt and Uncle. He recommends you highly, if that's any consolation."
She couldn't help but scoff at the idea. Plutarch Heavensbee trying to arrange a romantic entanglement for her with Haymitch Abernathy? The idea was absurd.
"…So you think I'm a woman after a prudent marriage. A woman who would fall at a man's feet for the chance at any amount of wealth, no matter the lack of passion in the relation."
"It sounds plausible is all I'm saying. I make no judgment."
"If that were the case then, wouldn't I have been fawning all over you? If love means so little to me, wouldn't I be more apt to pay you compliments, fan your ego, make you fall for me?"
"Well you did come in here alone in the middle of the night barely dressed," he answered, his smug smile returning.
"You're unbelievable," she huffed, grabbing the candle off the table, "I'm going to bed. Good night Mr. Abernathy."