The Courtship - Catherine Coulter [57]
“I paid my last quarter’s allowance for this jacket,” the young man yelled in Helen’s face. “I know it is prime style because my father hates it.”
“Hmmm,” Helen said. “I see your point. Very well, then just reduce the size of those silver buttons.”
The young man looked suddenly uncertain and a good ten years younger. “You really believe they are too large?”
“They are wearing you, not the other way around,” she said, saw that his wits were probably too addled from her fine ale to understand, and said, “You are the tail and your clothes the dog.” She turned away then, saying over her shoulder, “Cursing makes you look dull-witted.” She then turned to the rest of the young men, most of whom were just staring at her, bleary-eyed. She was so big and beautiful, not to mention commanding. He could imagine they wondered if they weren’t dreaming they had died and gone to the Vikings’ heaven.
Lord Beecham saw another young man, this one so drunk he was frankly surprised the fellow could even coordinate enough to walk, but he managed it. He also looked furious, his sharp features flushed scarlet. Lord Beecham didn’t like that. He took a step forward, stopped, and said quietly, “Helen, behind you.”
“Oh, yes,” she said, smiling at him as she turned slowly. “You mean this little turnip with a face so red I’ll wager he looks just like his father in a rage?”
“My father’s dead,” the young man said. “It’s my mother. She turns redder than I do just before she flies at me.” Then the young man raised his fists and ran toward her. Helen sighed and said aloud to the room at large, “Why do children have to repeat the horrible behavior of their parents? This fellow is probably too drunk to reason with.” She sighed again. She knew that all the other young men were staring, waiting to see what would happen. When he got close enough, she turned slightly to the side. When he went past her, she smacked her hand on his back. His momentum together with her hit sent him flying, and he slammed into the wall not six inches away from Lord Beecham. Lord Beecham watched as the young man stared up at him, sighed then fell, all boneless, to the floor.
“He’s not red anymore,” he called out to Helen.
She had all the young men’s attention now. They were staring at her, uncertain what to do, since their wits were numbed with too much drink, but they knew enough not to attack her. The young man who had been singing stopped. He began tucking his shirt back into his breeches and making a hash of it.
Helen, hands on her hips, stood in the middle of the taproom. “Listen, all of you. You are a flock of dead-brains. Your innards are awash with my very good ale, and it is a pity because my ale deserves better innards than you young rogues have.”
Lord Beecham wanted to tell her that she had used the wrong word. Every young man wanted to be called a rogue.
“You will all walk out of this taproom and go to the courtyard. Oh, yes, and take these two who are lounging on my very nice oak floor with you.”
Still they simply sat there, staring at her, disbelieving, Lord Beecham thought, what had happened to two of their number.
He stepped forward. “Out,” he said quite pleasantly. Unfortunately he remembered all too well that on a number of occasions he had been just as drunk, just as rowdy. Dear God, but they looked young.
“Now listen here, sir, we—”
“She’s got no right to order us out of here.”
“I still have some of my ale left.”
“She has every right to do anything she pleases with you,” Lord Beecham said to another red-faced young man whose eyes were more vague than a man lost in a fog. “She is Miss Helen Mayberry. She is the owner of this inn, just as she said. Go along with all of you now. Ah, here are some lads coming to assist you out of here.”
“But we don’t want to leave,” one young man yelled, and he turned to Helen. “I can smell that bread baking and I want to eat it.”
Another young man said, “You’re bigger