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+---- Thread: Don't Rock the Boat (/showthread.php?tid=1056)
Don't Rock the Boat - Winnifred Dawson - 07-16-2025
Her brother actually courting? A woman, at that? Could it be that Norman had finally stopped playing with his boats and actually turned his mind to matrimony? Well, she’d be glad for it. Norman was an odd fellow, always had been. When he was young it had provoked doting chuckles. As he grew older it had frustrated his father. But now that he was a man, it was concerning. She had often wondered if Norman would be in a job at all if it hadn’t been for Hugo’s kindness. Oh yes, she would be happy to finally see him settled. A sensible woman would soon smooth out Norman’s oddities and steer him safely into the harbour of respectability (more likely if one put it to him in those terms).
Norman hadn’t given her much information about this Miss MacKenzie in his letter, but the name had a proper ring to it and Winnifred was eager to make a good impression. In her mind she had already made out that Miss MacKenzie came from a good family, was well connected and very well brought up. Just the sort of person Winnie would like to have as a sister-in-law and friend.
And so, as Winnie went to answer the door, one of the overworked maids was crying in the kitchen, the other was trying to come up with what to put in her resignation letter, and the table looked immaculate.
“Norman!” Winnie said warmly when she had opened the door. She kissed her brother’s cheek. “Oh. But where is Miss MacKenzie?”
RE: Don't Rock the Boat - Norman Garrow - 07-18-2025
Norman scurried up to his sister's front door breathless and flushed, his trouser cuffs flapping against his shins. He was met with an open front door and a perfunctory peck on the cheek.
"Oh!! thank goodness. She's not here yet? Good. Well, not good; I mean good that I am not late. Sorry. Spotted Helmi Järvinen out of Ostend, and I wanted to check if she had that new mast. They haven't repainted her either. I lost track of time." His sentence was laboured as he forced out the words. Not that his sister actually cared.
RE: Don't Rock the Boat - Lailani MacKenzie - 07-18-2025
The streets of Whitby clacked with the steady rhythm of polished boots and the low drone of sea wind pushing in from the grey horizon, but it was the kilted procession that made heads turn.
The palanquin, lacquered in rich koa wood and inlaid with subtle brass flourishes, floated through the narrow lanes like a carved canoe upon cobblestone waves. Suspended between four tall, broad-shouldered Scotsmen—MacKenzies all, each one chosen with a suspiciously gleeful precision by the lady herself—it was a sight Whitby had certainly never seen before. The men wore full Highland dress: green and black tartan swaying about their knees, gleaming buttons, and salt-thick braids down their backs. They didn’t speak much—they didn’t need to. They were ornamental and functional both, and Lailani had arranged them like a painting.
Inside, Lailani MacKenzie sat with one hand braced against the window drapery, trying not to chew her lip. Her other hand clutched the woven lauhala gift basket—a carefully curated selection of delicate shortbread biscuits, mango preserves, three types of candied ginger, two tins of imported Ceylon tea, a pot of guava butter, a pressed posy of plumeria and thistle, and, in a small, sealed ceramic bowl tied with a ribbon of tartan silk: lau lau and poi, still faintly warm.
“I should’ve left out the guava butter. That’s too much. No, no—it balances the saltiness of the pork,” she murmured, glancing again at the basket, then craning her neck toward one of the kilted men.
“Seumas,” she called, adjusting the violet hibiscus tucked behind her ear. “Do you think she’ll think this is—mm—gaudy?”
The eldest of her kinsmen—a man with a weathered face and smile lines that crinkled as he walked—lifted one brow.
“Aye, lass,” he rumbled. “But that’s the point, no? They’ll nae forget ye now.”
“I don’t want unforgettable,” Lailani huffed, tugging at the edge of her pale pink sash. “I want respectable. Normal! Like…oh, I don’t know. A pastor’s daughter in a nice hat.”
“Well, you’ve missed that boat, love,” came another voice—Malcolm, the youngest of her carriers, no older than twenty-five but grinning like a rogue. “Pastor’s daughters don’t come in koa canoes with four men in skirts.”
“Kilt,” she corrected dryly, though her lips twitched.
“You’ll be grand, Lani,”
The palanquin swayed gently with each step, lifted high on the shoulders of four burly MacKenzie men, their tartan kilts catching the summer light with each sure-footed movement down the cobbled lane. Whitby’s seaside scent mingled with the faint, perfumed salt of dried ti leaves tied to the palanquin’s carved beams—an old gesture from Lailani’s mother, meant to protect and bless. It had been Lailani’s idea entirely, of course. Everything about this—especially the arrival—was meant to declare her presence, her mana, her lineage, her future.
Inside the velvet-draped palanquin, Lailani MacKenzie adjusted her posture with unconscious grace, one hand wrapped firmly around the handle of a meticulously arranged basket. Its contents had begun as a simple, elegant hostess gift—a jar of guava jam from Oahu, a tin of Darjeeling, and a sprig of plumeria wrapped in waxed cloth—but sometime between brushing out her hair and selecting her dress, she had added candied hibiscus, a paper fan painted with sea serpents, a silver letter opener shaped like a marlin, and a tiny brass bell. It now looked less like a gift and more like a feverish offering. She clutched it tighter.
“Donnachaidh,” she said, leaning toward the man nearest the carved slit in the palanquin’s side curtain. Her voice held the lilting sway of the Pacific, softened by Edinburgh vowels. “Does my hair still look like something died in it?”
The kilted man snorted but didn’t slow his pace. “You look like an opera goddess, Lady Lailani. The kind that eats sailors.”
“I am a sailor,” she muttered, pushing a dark curl behind her ear. “And I only eat them if they’re rude.”
That got a low chuckle from the others.
“Cam,” she called to the tallest, broad-shouldered even for a MacKenzie, “how far now?”
“Just up ahead, my lady,” he rumbled. “We passed the mill.”
Lailani’s stomach twisted. She didn’t get nervous—she climbed sea cliffs in her drawers, she surfed standing up, she once knocked out a man with a jar of coconut oil—but she felt it now. The weight of the moment. Norman’s sister was, by all accounts, very proper. Educated. Polished. And whatever Norman had told her (probably nothing useful), Lailani knew she herself could seem like a tidal wave in polite society. She was proud of her title, her bloodline, her money—but it all came with sand on the soles of her boots and strange bursts of melancholia that could flatten her for days. What if Winnifred thought she was improper?
She inhaled, then let it out through her nose.
“Alright,” she said to the men. “Slow now. Steady pace. Heads high. Remember, you’re carrying a MacKenzie.”
They rounded the final bend, the house coming into view—whitewashed stone, neat shrubbery, a tidy life Lailani might just fall in love with.
She spotted Norman first, standing in the doorway, flustered and red-faced, shirt slightly rumpled like he’d been running. Too late, she thought with wry affection. Then, a woman beside him—tall, composed, with the air of someone who made good tea and better judgments. Winnifred.
Lailani straightened.
“Set me down,” she instructed calmly. The palanquin lowered with practiced grace.
With fluid ease, Lailani stepped out barefoot—her slippers tucked in her satchel—onto the smooth stones. Her dress was a marvel: silk in ocean blue, fitted at the waist, with subtle Hawaiian motifs stitched into the hem and tartan trim along the sleeves. Her dark hair black hair clearly cared for but free in its style like ink black spirals over her shoulders and back.with a carved coral pin,
She lifted the basket high as she approached, her smile luminous and strange and utterly regal.
“Aloha sister Winnifred,” she said, eyes sparkling as she offered the overloaded gift basket with both hands. “I cannot tell you how pleased I am to meet you. I’m Lailani MacKenzie—thank you for receiving me. I’ve brought you jam, a fan, a letter opener, several other items I no longer recall, and some poke—a fish dish from home, I promise it’s fresh.”
She turned briefly to the kilted Highlander Scottish men and inclined her head. “Mahalo, cousins.”
Then she turned back, beaming, trying to read the flicker of surprise, judgment, or delight in Winnifred’s eyes.
“I hope I haven’t kept you waiting,” Lailani added, her tone teasing. “Norman promised me we wouldn’t arrive late, and so I gave myself an entourage.”
And with that, she offered her hand—steady, warm, ungloved. A Hawaiian princess making her play for English sisterhood.
RE: Don't Rock the Boat - Winnifred Dawson - 07-21-2025
Hmmm. Perhaps she had been a little too quick in her optimism. Norman was still Norman. She was about to chide her little brother, when her disapproval was drawn by a far more appalling scene. She scrunched her nose. Whitby really attracted the mad and vulgar! It wasn’t even summer! And in this quiet residential area?! What was this nonsense all about? She hoped they’d clear off before poor Miss MacKenzie arrived. Oh what would the poor young lady think!
But they didn’t clear off. Instead – Winnifred’s innards turned to ice – the men put the palanquin down and its occupant, a curious sight in her own right, stepped out – oh, it was too much, indeed! – barefoot.
The realization was there, but Winnifred’s mind could not process it, until the lady was right in front of her and confirmed by her own words that she was indeed Miss MacKenzie.
And what had she just called her?
As the ‘lady’ turned to the bearers, Winnifred quickly glanced at her brother, her eyes expressing sheer horror at his choice of fiancée. Oh, and the neighbours! The neighbours! She thought she saw Mrs. Powell’s face swiftly disappear behind a curtain! The shame! This was a respectable neighbourhood!
Whether it was shock or her deeply ingrained belief in politeness, Winnifred found herself unable to actually verbalize her horror and so she turned to one of her most refined skills: passive aggression. She put her hand on Miss MacKenzie’s arm (so she didn’t have to shake hands) and gently guided her to the door, while she said. “How very kind, Miss MacKenzie. But pray, come in quickly, now. Your feet must be absolutely freezing. I shall have the maids bring up some warm water, so you can wash them. These streets can be so very dirty, you know? Linda!” she called out when she was inside. “Bring up a bowl of hot water and a towel! Miss MacKenzie has lost her shoes!” She smiled at her guest and gestured at a chair in the hallway. “Please have a seat, Miss MacKenzie. She’ll be up any minute. Norman, can I take your coat?”
RE: Don't Rock the Boat - Norman Garrow - 07-22-2025
Like the captain of a ship about to collide with another in fog, Norman was paralyzed with inaction and indecision at the sight approaching.
“My God!” He muttered. On the one hand, Lailani was a picture, a goddess on high descending to Earth, but on the other, her entrance couldn’t be more outlandish.
“It could be worse,” he silently reasoned “she could be Lady Godiva arriving on horseback - wait, that’s even more arousing, stop!”
“Lovely to see you my dear. I was beginning to worry. Yes, let’s go inside.”
His sister had become totally absorbed in her duties as hostess. Norman drifted in after them in a demi-world caught up his rapture for his beloved and the sure consternation of his family. "Oh my coat, yes. surely."