Page 27 of Provoked
The following day was busy, and it was late when David got home.
The hearing on Mr. MacAllister’s case had taken all day and had been hard fought, but Chalmers had succeeded in persuading the judge that, of all the many reasons the magistrates had given for refusing to enrol Mr. MacAllister as a voter, only one had any potential merit. The judge had agreed that little evidence would be required to settle the matter and had ordered a further hearing just a few weeks hence to hear the case in full. It was a significant victory. Cases often ran for years in the Court of Session, and Chalmers had advised Mr. MacAllister that the magistrates were likely to try to push the case beyond the coming election to deprive it of any practical purpose. That they had failed to do so was down to a number of factors: David’s meticulously prepared submissions, Chalmers’ calm, confident delivery and finally the judge’s goodwill. For of course, the judge knew and liked Chalmers well. It was part of what the client paid for when he chose to instruct the man.
After the hearing, Mr. MacAllister insisted on buying them all a dram to celebrate. It turned into considerably more than a few drams, and now David found himself weaving his way home, feeling thoroughly intoxicated after far too much whisky and no dinner.
He had entirely forgotten that it was Tuesday and that Euan was due to come to his rooms. He only remembered when he got to his front door and found the lad slumped outside, dozing.
“Dear God,” David exclaimed. “I forgot you were coming! Come in and get warm. I’ll get a fire going. It’s damn near freezing tonight.”
Once he’d unlocked the door, David pulled the younger man to his feet and guided him inside, aware of his own unsteady gait.
“Sorry, Davy,” Euan muttered as he allowed David to steer him into the sitting room. “I never meant to fall asleep. I just thought I’d sit and wait awhile.”
“Don’t be daft,” David replied, mortified. He gently pushed Euan towards an armchair and turned away to light a candle. “My fault entirely. I’ve been preoccupied—but that’s no excuse.”
Once the candle was glowing, he bent to light the fire that Ellen, the maidservant, had already made up and put a kettle on before heading to the larder to find out what he had to eat. He felt suddenly ravenously hungry.
Ellen had fetched him some cold meat pie for his dinner and left it in the larder with a pot of plums. He got out two plates and divided the pie roughly between them, adding a hunk of cheese, a scattering of oatcakes and a couple of the plums to each plate to bulk out the simple meal.
When he got back to the sitting room, the fire was blazing and Euan was looking more awake, chafing his hands in front of the flames. He smiled wanly over his shoulder at David, then frowned.
“You don’t need to feed me again, Davy.”
David made an impatient sound. “Doesn’t it occur to you I might be hungry myself? It’s customary to offer some of what you’re eating to any guest you have, didn’t you know?”
Euan flushed and accepted the plate that David thrust none too politely at him.
David fetched cutlery from the sideboard drawer and passed it over silently, nodding at Euan’s muttered thanks before he settled himself on the other armchair, and they began to eat.
David ate his pie quickly, almost groaning with pleasure over the short, lardy pastry and cold, pressed ham. He made short work of the cheese and oatcakes too, then set his plate aside and leaned back in his chair with a plum.
The immediate, sharp sourness of the purple skin drew a rush of saliva into his mouth. The mellow sweetness of the golden flesh that followed was like nectar. He ate the fruit in a few bites, dropping the stone onto his plate, then rose to lift the now-boiling kettle from the fire.
“I’ll just get us a toddy,” he said, giving Euan an overly wide berth as he walked past him with the heavy kettle. Experienced with intoxication, David was a careful drunk, compensating expertly for his lack of coordination with slow, practised movements and over-precise diction.
In the kitchen, he mixed up some of the hot water with whisky and honey, pouring the mix into two pewter cups and stirring them thoroughly to melt the honey.
“What’s in this?” Euan asked, frowning, when David handed one of the cups to him. “I don’t drink spirits.” He looked every the inch the theology student then, with his thin, earnest face, and his slender, scholarly fingers wrapped round the pewter cup.
“There’s a bit of whisky in it, but the hot water burns off the spirit,” David replied. “It’ll stop you catching a chill from sleeping on my stoop.”
Euan took a swallow and immediately coughed. “How much whisky did you put in?”
“A good measure,” David admitted with a chuckle. “It’ll warm you up,”
Euan looked unconvinced but lifted the cup and gingerly sipped at it. “It’s not your first dram tonight, is it?”
“No,” David said, relaxing his head against the back of his chair. “I’ve already had a few.”
“Yes, I can tell.”
David raised a self-mocking eyebrow. “And I thought I was hiding it so well too.”
“You are, actually. The most telling thing is how much more relaxed you seem.” Euan paused. “And you smile more. Is this who you really are, Davy?”
David chuckled again. “In vino veritas? No, it’s just that all drunks smile. When they’re drunk anyway.”
“Are you a drunk, then?”