Ruth would have enjoyed hearing all of those. And would have put them in good use in due time. One could tell by her smile, while she waited for an answer. She wasn’t going to be easily impressed… but then, again, was she ever?

“Wonderful, a country gentleman with a large estate he has definitely fully entrusted to you and a reputation that will not do anything but elevate you, I am sure.” She said that in a really sweet tone of voice, with a giant smile that took half of her face “I am glad you want to inform me that you are going to make quite a bit of extra money. Twice now.” She rested her elbow on the side of the carriage, while her fingers still stuck to the side of her face, making her even more pensive. She had only said very nice things indeed.

At the mentions of her nieces and nephews, Ruth looked a little less ironic, but it didn’t last long.

Ruth made a gesture with one of her hands an answered “Well, I haven’t met the woman, I really cannot judge her for herself, but I like Kitty. She is a good woman. And we are fairly close in age. And you know that.” In fact *maybe* Ruth was actually older than Kitty, but she wasn’t going to point that out “And indeed, she sounds like an excellent prospect for any aspiring husband with goals that align with hers.” Which he wasn’t and they both knew “We shall see. I am dying to meet her.” she dropped delicately, with a singsongy voice.

“Swimmingly,” she repeated. The prospect of Zechariah with a proper bride was so absurd she was eating the idea up. There had to be some chaos to distract her there. Also, if HE make another scandal, their family could be too distracted to pay attention to HER scandal hit them.

She gave up on fighting for the honour of the skirt and just said “While I am here, where do you think I could find a bicycle?”

She was maybe letting that go. There were juicer things to think about. Maybe. Just maybe.

“You’re an expert, right?”

“Sung by countless poets for its dark beauty. But I imagine not everyone knows,” *everyone* “Oh, that you’d know, right? The hills. I am impressed you remember so vividly. When was the last time you were there… at all?” And then came a more precise question. Ruth chewed slightly on her lips “I needed a vacation.” Very believable. “And the sea is an obvious choice for a mermaid.” She put both her hands on her sides.

Ruth did not mean a single kind word she said, and Zechariah knew it.

What else was he to do but treat said sarcastic words as the God-given truth?

“I am glad you can finally see reason, Ruth,” Zechariah congratulated. “It looks as though I will need that extra money, seeing as how much you have left to it. So down in your luck are you that you are stuck in trousers! The shame.”

The face he wore when he rolled his eyes belonged more on a gossiping operetta starlet than the dour barrister he played (… with more than a dash of exasperated sincerity) in the papers.

“What?” Zechariah said with a disbelieving look. “Hardly. You are in your prime – I was shocked she could even still carry!”

He had no idea how old Kitty was, beyond too old for their young Uriel. Was she actually early thirties? … Nah. Oh, God. He would be thirty in three years.

Zechariah inexplicably felt the corners of his eyes and mouth, glancing in the carriage reflection.

Though his poker face had only grown stronger with time, British living, and media exposure … the faintest telltale color flushed in his cheeks. Surely, it was not that difficult to picture Zechariah, a man of careful grooming (less careful flogging) and a romantic nature, with a woman!

“I suppose I can invite her over with your watchful eye to keep us out of trouble.”

As if he would ravage anything in a skirt that posed no threat of getting arrested for wearing it.

And if he had to make certain both Ruth and Sonia were swimming in drink to get Ruth to can it about that for just one peaceful bar? Then it was time for the prayers of wine and of enough.

Brows arched high when Ruth mentioned a bicycle. Ah. She was one of those types these days. He suspected similar of Nesah, for what were his sisters going to do but revolt against men under a man’s roof? Not that he dared interrupt their rebellion.

Thank God Fater was too far away to yell at them. (It was a toss-up whether he yelled at Zechariah or Ruth more, though she had won by time being yelled at accumulated over the years thus far.)

“I believe Nesah was holding revolutions in the guest room,” he said dismissively. “Perhaps she stashed a bicycle in there, too.”

He folded his arms behind his head at the thinly veiled accusation.

“I cannot say I have not felt the inside of a skirt on British soil.”

Is this what he spent his impressionable years going to school for? Euphemisms so thick Oscar Wilde could hang himself with them? Apparently.

The look he fixed upon Ruth was unimpressed. Yes, yes. Dark beauty, hills, Germany this and Germany that. He had heard it all before, and his eyes had rolled back into his head those times, too. That was – until the excuses came.

And then? Oh, then Ruth was center stage. Zechariah steepled his hands under his chin.

“A vacation, from dark, beautiful, unrivaled Germany,” Zechariah reiterated, dripping with skepticism.

He sat up suddenly, as though hit by a sudden realization.

“Is it a man?” Zechariah ventured with an utterly knowing look, then put a hand to his chin in deep, deep smug thought. “Wait, wait,” he said dramatically. “Is it a woman? Is that why you are here wearing trousers? Did you steal them from her husband?”

Those trousers would look ridiculous(ly amazing) on a man and he knew it.

If Ruth had known about her brother’s doubts, she would have been deeply offended. Why, how could she possibly be sarcastic when it came to her little brother’s career, happiness or place in the world?

Ruth tilted her head to the side “I am sorry, I thought we had established I was wearing a skirt?” Pick one, Zech, both jokes will not work at the same time.

And besides, there were plenty of trousers to joke about.

Someone else would have just smirked at Zechariah’s expression, but Ruth allowed herself “Dear brother, sometimes I think you have missed your real call.” and she was going to leave it at that. Zechariah could guess her meaning on his own.

Ruth raised her eyebrows. “Well, perhaps she just looks older.” But Ruth was fairly certain that she wasn’t. The difference really didn’t sound that big between the two of them.

Ruth smiled very wide and so warmly one could easily be afraid of it. “Oh, I am sure I can do a wonderful job at chaperoning” while finding out WHAT exactly was going on. Maybe Ruth didn’t know for a fact -maybe- what Zechariah’s interest were, but no man in love spoke like he did. The bride couldn’t just be ugly, there had to be something else. That something else was probably, at least in part, her brother’s preferences but it couldn’t be all. The woman couldn’t be a complete idiot either, or Zechariah would have avoided the situation.

Ruth was very well aware of their Father’s potential reaction, but she had always being one to yell loud than anyone, so she was prepared. Or so she told herself, comfortably on the other side of the sea, where she had only her siblings to face -and in even smaller number than expected-.

“I will check between the bombs and seditious pamphlets.” She assured him.

The euphemism was so out there Ruth literally had to go for a really, really slow facepalm. Perhaps she was getting old, but she just… couldn’t reply to that. “Shame, brother.” For the euphemism, not for the inside of the skirt.

Ruth thought she had *just about* made it and had an answer ready when he sounded doubtful about her going out of Germany. She was maybe even too quick in her answer “An artist sometimes needs to explore a different world.” It had come out quick and not loud enough.

Ruth almost laughed in his face at the prospect of it being a man and so did her trousers. Ruth opened her mouth then the brother continued. “I thought it was a skirt…” she protested again and then had to laugh at the theory.

“Yes! I run away with half the closet of my lover’s husband to England and now I am looking for a bike to put it to good use!” She would not admit it, even under tourture, but her brother was genuinely cheering her up with the absurd accusation of being a trousers thief. It was better than the reality.

Zechariah? Pick one lone opinion and stick to it? Ha! Only under contract, Ruth.

There was a furrow of his brows at the remark on his true calling, but his sister had always been something of a world unto herself. If he spent too much time trying to pick apart her insinuations, well, he would hardly get anywhere to begin with. She could keep her mysteries.

Ruth schemed, and Zechariah … was not nearly as concerned as might do him well. She was nosy. Most of them were terminably nosy. What was she going to do? Figure out he exclusively fancied men? If any of them guessed that, it would probably be her. She need not a fairy court case to satisfy herself with that tidbit.

“Check between?” he scoffed. “Dear, me. Color me impressed if you fail to add your own. I regret,” he continued glibly, “to inform you that none of the socialists here are Russian.”

In other words: just starry-eyed goyim instead of their own loftier cousins embarrassing him. She could expect to be dutifully mocked, whereas Zechariah would have had to stuff his oh-so educated opinions to most who would hear them lest he draw the wrong attention to their struggling own.

“She was the most beautiful woman I ever had,” Zechariah countered, dismissively.

Then looked thoughtful with a frown. That fellow had seemed to have a love of skirts that went beyond the bedroom, and it had not lasted long between them.

The cart was beginning to slow down. He was half-tempted to call out and tell the driver to take them to a tavern instead. Once she knew his place by sight, after all, it would be that much more difficult to get her out of there. All the worse when (eugh, not if) she stepped past the threshold and ten dozen full clothing racks materialized out of thin air the next morning.

Small mercies were one of the few mercies Zechariah knew how to grant. Did he pry out whatever tale of woe she fled? Would he stand for her prying out the hope that had choked out, day by day, as deed by sordid deed wafted out like London sewage around the man he had planned to spend his life with? To do more than tease about the rather sensitive boy who had grown callouses in England, and then iced over on the coast?

No. Whatever humiliations (or worse) that she suffered – they were hers to have, and hers to share if she chose to.

“Fake trousers,” Zechariah ‘compromised’.

There were more important things to eviscerate, after all.

He blew out his cheeks and threw up his hands.

“And those are what you have to show for it? Steal a lover with a-” at that absurd line, he cracked up, “better husband! God. You should have gone to France like Nesah.”

There *might* or might not be a contract, somewhere, that Ruth had Zech sign before he could know what those were. When those few years count… but probably not. Maybe.

Ruth did not cling to her insinuation, it was pointless and Zechariah was semiresistent anyway. It was better to keep trying.

As for the fiancée… she shall see.

Ruth slammed her large hand to her chest, with a dramatic “puff “ of her jacket “Me? A seditionist? Why, I’d never…!” She protested, not even making an effort to sound vaguely believable if seen from a distance maybe. But also, she didn’t specify what sort of revolutions she might be planning herself. And also didn’t ask about Zechariah’s role in it or how he knew what sort of socialists were in town: that was a conversation they were going to have some other time. After all, the town was *that* big.

Ruth blinked twice in hearing that. Well, that was a compliment she was not expecting. But also it was oddly formulated. Her curiosity was horribly tickled and her brother terribly cheap when it came to information. She just allowed herself a doubtful look and left it at that, promising to herself to prepare a letter to invite the lady to visit, together with a strongly worded one for her younger sister.

“A type of trousers,” Ruth immediately renegotiated and immediately diverted.

“Has Nesah gone to France to steal trousers from husbands? Boy, that’s a long way. Also, it is illegal to wear them, as far as I know.” Not that had had ever stopped her when she had visited, obviously.

Potentially sensing Zechariah’s half intention to flee, Ruth jumped off the carriage without warning and stared, hands on her hips, ahead of her, ready to face her new accommodation.

Probably not. When the maids were potty-training them, Fater was drilling the implicit social contract of being inside a home and defecating in the right place.

… Also, Muter pulled that one first.

He waved a dismissive hand at her renegotiation, which could mean anything from unintentionally ceding by way of forgetting they had renegotiated it in the first place to digging his heeled, pointed shoes as deep into this as humanly possible.

Zechariah nodded at her vivid assertion. Yes! Clearly Nesah was going to come back, dressed as a French soldier with bounty posters and whatever notices France issued for crossdressing crimes.

“You would know,” he tsked with a smirk.

Zechariah watched as she jumped out of a moving cart, moving nothing but his judgmental face in the process. Did he expect anything more of her? Hardly. The cart came to an abrupt stop, driver looking concerned.

“Keep going!” Zechariah yelled.

A couple curtains drew open nearby, well-to-do faces peering like they were the next circus.

They weren’t going to discuss the matter of her trousers further, that much was clear. They had better things to bicker about, at some point. Or maybe they were arriving, as Ruth wrongly assumed.

If Nesah was going to be arrested for wearing trousers, Ruth would embark on a journey to save her (also wearing trousers), just to personally share her disappointment. But she was fairly sure her little sister would bring back her regular amount of revolution and then some. After all, they couldn’t leave their brother’s guest room empty, right?

Ruth shrugged “I haven’t the slightest, dear brother” and that was when she got off. Well the carriage had gotten really slow and she had been sitting long enough in the train… but that had been precipitous. She heard her brother yell, so, naturally, she did the most obvious thing: she whistle really loud to stop the horses and yelled louder “Stop!”
They heard her in Cornwall, or so the tale tells.

The carriage driver was either sufficiently terrified to stop or had completely lost the control of the horses that, had just stopped on their own. Either way, she could jump back. For good measure, she asked for the address, before sitting back in the carriage.

“Are you in a hurry, dear brother?” She said, in a more human tone of voice.

Euch! They must have heard her in Cornwall, the damned opera singer. He would have to import a driver from Scotland if that was all it took to shake an English driver into someone else’s submission.

His mouth was open in unvoiced disapproval, and when Ruth managed to hop in? He rolled his eyes, as though he were still that disgruntled teenager from their youth. Time had changed him, certainly, but some of the fundamental annoyance was still in tact. Flourishing, even.

“My dearest redheaded sister,” Zechariah drawled on back.

She was his only redheaded sister, thankfully.

“Before I had to fetch you, I had been just about to sit down for a nice, romantic dinner-” where he imagined Crane across from him, or perhaps tied up as he hand-fed him dessert, “with the stars and the sky, finally with a peaceful moment to myself.”

He smiled, nostalgically – the kind of smile he would want the reporters to catch rather than one that came unpracticed. No mention of Moneybags von Dowry.

“But it seems you are. I am going to finish my nightly walk.”

Meaning: leave her with the bags. He had not done a nightly walk since Simon was arrested.

If Zechariah was going to import a driver from Scotland, Ruth was going to learn how to shout at him in Scot and then Gaelic, for good measure. If both of those didn’t terrify the poor man, then she was going to drive the carriage herself, if she had to.

And at that youthful comment, Ruth laughed. “I missed you too, little brother,” she said with that deep, soft voice she had. Maybe that could have been believable as a sincere comment. Maybe. But then she added “Red is right,” and old southern German motto she had taken from somewhere. Or maybe just a prisoner of Zenda’s quote, who could tell.

Ruth followed the whole odd tale with interested and concluded with a “thank you”. She was going to enjoy her first night in Whitby. Also, she was exhausted, way more than she could tell, emotionally drained and distress. Maybe some nice food was going to give her the comfort she could get from her brother. Granted, she could never have asked. That was their way. [end]