(by Yune)
His tea had long since grown cold, but he drank it anyway and smiled through its bitterness at Elizabeth. The girl sat demurely across from him with her eyes lowered, but every so often she would glance up at him through her lashes with the hint of a promise on her lips. That promise had kept Jean-Pierre in the Baylors' parlor for the past hour despite over-brewed tea and stale biscuits and the frigid presence of Mrs. Baylor.
He'd met the son of the family on a dig in Guatemala, both of them archaeology students. He had become fast friends with Robert, enough to plan to accompany him to his home in England on one of their breaks. Jean-Pierre had no home of his own worth speaking of. It'd been years since he'd been to France, and his parents had long since disowned him. He was most at ease in the rain forest anyway, with dirt on his face and tools in his hands. Not with these formal phrases tripping his tongue and this dark suit stifling his movements as he expressed his regrets about the accident on site that had claimed Robert's life just before break.
You must come anyway, Elizabeth had written on behalf of the family. Robert told us so much about you. Then a line that had been, he hoped, entirely on her behalf despite its plural: We want to meet you.
Robert had told him that his sister was "a lovely girl. You'll like her, Jean-Pierre." And he did, very much indeed, to the point where Robert's death, once a painful knot in his heart, was easing away into forgetfulness.
"Mama, please." Elizabeth put a hand on her mother's arm, interrupting the list of Robert's accomplishments. "I want to hear about what Robert did on the dig."
Mrs. Baylor slammed her teacup and saucer onto the table; through some miracle, the ceramic did not shatter. "That dig killed him!" She rose and rushed out of the room.
"Mama never approved of Robert going into archaeology," Elizabeth said, sounding unconcerned. "But I think that's how he would have liked to go. Not this young, of course, but involved in a project. Poor Robert. He tried very hard to be a proper older brother. Always introducing me to his friends out of the fear that I would become a spinster at this rate." She smiled. "But I didn't like any of them. Men these days... I do have my standards, you know."
He wondered if she was warning him off. But the curve of her mouth was impish. "So what do you look for in men?" he asked.
She tilted her head and thought for a moment. "Directness," she decided. "And wit."
Jean-Pierre swallowed. Wit was not his forte. Ancient artifacts required no clever words. But her eyes were a coquette's, and her mouth so inviting, and directness he could do. Gamely, he spoke of the two things that had been on his mind ever since he entered this place: "These biscuits and tea are horrible. Would you care for dinner elsewhere?"
Her smile widened. "Very much. I've been wishing you would say something like that. If you'd done so earlier, I wouldn't have had to be the one to chase Mama off, and we wouldn't have had to sit here for the past hour and a half."
He wished so too, now. But not too bad a start, he reflected as he held the door open for Elizabeth. After all, wit is that which was often thought but ne'er so well-expressed.