Page 10 of Plucked By the Orc

“Very good.” He pulled on a silk ribbon near the armchair and a tinkling bell startled her. A merry-looking woman with red cheeks soon joined them in the library.

“Miss Gabbert will join us for a fortnight, Mrs. Thompson,” he said. “Please see to it she has everything she requires.”

Chapter Four

Having left Iris Gabbert in the capable hands of his housekeeper, Mrs. Thompson, Duncan proceeded in his customary manner. Why shouldn’t he? For all he rued so many of the vulgar English customs, a schedule brought a reliably comforting pattern to the day. It was a habit he took to nearly right away.

Life in the Hidden Realm had a similar rhythm. Duncan often pined for his homeland. The Hidden Realm was located in a corner of what humans had christened Northumberland, on the border between England and Scotland. He missed the view of the Cheviot Hills from the back porch of his family home: a solid wooden structure with six simply constructed rooms encircling the central fire where they gathered for meals and conversation.

He thought of the wharves along the coast of the sea to the north, utilized by Orcan fishers and merchants for centuries. The calming sound of the rain pattering against the canopied thatched roof as he enjoyed a meal of hearty bread that retainedits freshness for days, slathered with goat’s milk butter and the tart jam his mother made from damson plums and blackthorn berries. A salted licorice for dessert.

And the space. Most of all, Duncan missed the freedom of looking around and seeing naught but forest and sea, unlike the business and crowds of the city.

So the exacting schedule he kept transcribed in his diary helped alleviate this homesickness somewhat. At precisely three, confirmed by a glance at his pocket watch, Duncan joined his brother, Albion, at their gentlemen’s club on St. James, as was their custom on Tuesdays and Thursdays.

Their father, rest his soul, intended for Duncan to be the stalwart diplomat of Orcan society. That was the duty of the eldest. To carry on the work of one’s parents and to be always unflappable and beyond reproach.

While Duncan missed the Hidden Realm, honor demanded he carry on his father’s mission to maintain peaceable relations between human and orc. Their time in the club gave him a chance to listen to a concern regarding matters of trade or to earn favor with a prominent parliamentarian by accepting an invitation to a musicale where his daughter was performing.

In contrast, Albion was meant to be the showman. The younger brother who might demonstrate to the Englishmen that their neighbors to the north could be fun as well as reliable.

Albion always had been a lively one, outspoken and sometimes outrageous in manner. He spoke his mind when least expected, though he knew enough to keep his emotions carefully masked when in the company of humans.

Truth be told, Duncan was not thoroughly convinced that the club was worth the effort. He found most human food barely palatable, but was famished and about to tuck into the lamb chops with mint sauce when his brother spoke.

“Something’s wrong,” Albion declared.

Duncan paused, his oversize pewter fork hovering in mid-air, and addressed his brother. “Why the devil would you say such a thing?”

“You’re smiling.”

“And what precisely is the problem with that?”

“Nothing, only that such an expression so seldom graces your mug. I rather thought you were allergic. So now tell the truth of it: who are you, and what have you done with my brother?”

“It’s a fine day. Nothing wrong with a smile.”

“And so would say a good many,” Albion said, “But not you, Dunc.”

“Will you stop calling me Dunc? You make me sound like a children’s toy—a spinning top or some such. ”

Ignoring the request, per usual, Albion continued. “I’ve never known you to see a day fine enough that you couldn’t manage a sour expression when facing it.”

“Something of an exaggeration. You haven’t taken on that human tendency for overstatement in order to achieve drama, have you, brother?”

“I merely want to know the source of your happiness.”

It wouldn’t be a proper luncheon without his brother asking too many questions. Duncan glanced about, wishing the other diners were not so engaged in their conversations and having their tables cleared to start a game of Faro. This would be a convenient time for an interruption. But today, blast it all, he and Albion were left to their own devices.

“I suppose I could relate my latest endeavor,” he told his brother.

In a matter of minutes, Duncan summarized his encounter with Miss Gabbert outside the theater and her current residence in his house. And while his younger brother raised his eyebrows when he arrived at that part of the arrangement, he otherwise letDuncan speak—a rare occurrence when they were in dialogue, to be sure.

“She has a lively intellect,” Duncan said. “I think she will make something of herself in the world with the proper tutelage. I shall provide as much.”

“And if you don’t succeed?” Albion asked.

“Well, if Miss Gabbert hasn’t the stamina to follow through—”

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