Immodest Proposal

Dionysus stepped from the carriage, and made his way purposefully to Lady Dalrymple's back door. Lifting his walking stick, he tapped at the door at a spot nearly four feet from the ground. Nodding at the usual casual greeting from the footman, he inclined his head. "Is Mademoiselle Priscilla with the children?"

"No, Mr. sir! She's taking air in the garden, she is, sir!"

Shivering slightly at the obvious cockney accent, Dionysus stepped around to the back of the large house, and into the small, quarter acre private garden. His heart rate rose unbecomingly when he saw the small, squat figure of Priscilla under the elder tree. Walking carefully, quietly, he stepped up to look over her shoulder at the penny dreadful romance she was reading in the tepid sunlight.

"Enchanté, mon coeur," he spoke smoothly. "I have come to make... a proposal, one might say."

Priscilla smiled gently and modestly, putting down her book. "A proposal, Monsieur Beignet?" she inquired.

"Certainment, mon ami," he said, cursing himself internally for over indulging in French every time he spoke with her. "My lady has need of a new servant. No scullery or cook. Rather, she will, first, I must preface." Pulling himself stiffly upright, the hobbit soldiered forward. “While there is no immediate need, nor, should I say, a start time for a countdown to need, Catherine will upon return from the continent require services of a maid with Governess experience."

An eyebrow rose with practiced grace, a talent that she had used to discipline many a child. "So you are courting me? For this position?" she added with a disarming tilt of her head.

Blushing like the most awkward school boy, Dionysus scuffed his shoe on the paving stones, stepping back from the very thing he most wanted to pull close. "That is, oh, the misfortune!"

Taking his resolve and all the false confidence he could muster, Dionysus sat at the far end of the very low bench, holding his head in his hands. "I fear I have again made the mud and huddle of the conversation in English," he groaned.

Her practiced expression changed to one of concern. "My dearest M. Beignet, whatever is the cause of your distress?" Her body leaned towards his, although she did not move her seat.

Giving in to the stress of the past several days, Dionysus leaned against Priscilla's tender shoulder. "Catherine has flirted with scandal, and by my mistake the servants now believe her with child." Sighing, he continued his confession. "Mlle. will soon marry, but must complete a requirement upon the Continent. No true scandal, but the appearance! OH, the appearance!" Turning to look into the round, deep brown eyes of the lovely matron, he confessed, "Not only for the future of Mlle. and her Mssr, but I must admit, for selfish reasons, I had hoped to convince you to render notice here and take employment in our establishment."

She lay a hand on his and squeezed it comfortingly. "O my dove, I cannot see you making any mistake. It is fools of the underclass who fail you. But I can see your distress at bringing me into such a situation." She raised her hand to his cheek. "Do you wish to wait until you have better control of the house?"

Grasping her tiny, delicate hand in both his hands, Dionysus pulled her hand to his chest, damn the impropriety! "The lower servants to perdition! I wish you to come to our home, and to make it your own home." Sliding from the low seat, he knelt at her feet. "Priscilla, my lady has need soon of your service. But I have an immediate need of my own, too long denied." Kissing her hand, he looked up from his spot, gazing into her face, he implored, "Priscilla, will you consider accepting my request that you be my fiancée? I... I ask for your hand in marriage."

Her rosebud lips parted in surprise as her eyes widened. "O my darling!" she cried out and then lowered her voice. "Of course! Of course! Could I have any other answer?" She looked about to make certain that no one had heard the unbecoming rise in her voice and beamed at him. "Je t'dore," she murmured and pulled his hands to her cheek.

Throwing caution to the wind, Dionysus took Priscilla's face in his hands, and pulled her close for a kiss. Pressing his lips to hers, he inhaled the tea rose scent of her perfume, his palms delighting to the smooth softness of her cheeks. "I... I... Priscilla, you have made of my one with the happiness a giant would be too small to contain!"

Priscilla yielded to the temptation but for a moment before gently pushing M. Beignet away. She sighed, a tiny sigh of regret, leaning towards him even as she moved him back. "Dionysus," she stated firmly. "We will create our own gossip if we yield too much to temptation." She then blushed fiercely. "Dionysus," she said again with obvious pleasure. "May I presume to call you that now and always?"

With regret, Dionysus allowed himself to be pushed back, but clasped both her tiny fists in his hands. "Ah, sacre bleu, the affording of scandal is all too true." Hanging his head, he almost whispered, "I have outpaced myself, I fear. The trouble of the time, the need for myself to feel joy, I have jumped the stick and fired the gun before the wadding can be allowed to pack."

Turning his head, he looked off towards the hazy glare of the barely visible sun. "Because of the rumors running in Mlle.'s house, a governess cannot take immediate employment. Even for us to announce our mutual decision could cast as shadow across my lady."

Her gaze was warm and understanding. "Even more, my love," she said, her voice low. "I would have to give notice to my employer. The boys are nearly grown and off to boarding school, but due to the many years of wonderful employment that they have provided me, I should offer them fair notice and work out the days of my last month. This should give you the time to rectify the odious and willful slander that Mlle's servants are professing about her. This will also allow me time to put together my wedding trousseau and pack my few things. Thus, we may make our hopes come to fruition." She tilted her head at him as if to ask if this were logical and acceptable.

Standing, Dionysus swept her up in his arms. "I care not who sees, nor what is said!" he cried. "In the space of five weeks, I shall return, and we shall make our announcement. In three weeks from then, we shall have a marriage, and the tongues of those who wag tongues in slander may wag as it or they wish, proper verb agreement be consigned to perdition!"

She laughed as she was caught up, the sound merry and full of joy. "Certainement!" she giggled. She gave him a quick peck on the lips and then regarded him sternly. "We are quite out of control, M. Beignet and I seem to have dropped my book. The boys shall return soon enough and what am I to say to explain why I am as giddy as a girlchild and as flushed as if I were a milkmaid caught in the hay?" But she made no effort to break free of his grasp, her brown eyes laughing into his.

Reluctantly, Dionysus slowly set her down, and stepped away. "As always, the fairer gender is the more informed," he said with great reluctance. "I must away soon. Tomorrow we set sail for the Continent, and I have great need of alacrity in solving this Imperial puzzle." Bowing stiffly at the waist, Dionysus took Priscilla's hand in his, and with grace touched his lips to her fingers. "I shall call upon you when I return. Until I shall, I shall be absent from your presence, but take to carry you within my heart." Backing away, never turning his sight from Priscilla, he made his way towards the corner to again alight in the carriage, to a world of care and danger, rather then the feelings of safety and concern he felt with his Prissy. "Adieu, mon cher, adieu."

"Adieu, my love. I shall count the days. Be safe! I will be waiting your return." She watched him leave and blew him kisses, feeling the heaviness in her heart. The weeks would be long; it would be painful indeed not to have his warm, comforting presence in her daily existence. But the giddiness of being the future Mme. Beignet made her smile as she resumed her seat and retrieved her book. Between them, they would take the household of Mlle. Fleming in hand. She would not put up with wagging tongues. She sent a searing glance back towards her house, quite assured that any servants who had the poor breeding to have watched her and Dionysus would understand the stare and keep their tongue.

Climbing into the carriage, Dionysus pulled his starched white handkerchief from his lapel pocket, and wiped at his eyes. Looking up into the curious face of the staring footman, he glared, and muttered louder than necessary, "Your twice-damned London and the coal smog. In civil place, the sun shines on days with no rain." Wiping his eyes from the sting of the smog, he takes his seat, feeling the horses pull the carriage down the macadam-ed street, towards fate and away from his destiny.

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