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"You ought to be an actress, dear."
"Why?" She scoffs where she sits on the cot and knits, mouth drawing into a smile. The sounds of camp had been filtered through his presence already, but they die completely now, crushed beneath the richness of his voice. How vague they are, and how real he is. "I never thought they were worth much." Clipped ts. She feels Dutch's gaze on her. He's said he likes the harsh ends of her accent, so she tries not to let them dull. She adds: "They wouldn't like me 'round here. You know that."
"Oh, Molly." Dutch walks from the tent opening he had been considering her from, looking broad and stark in his dark clothes. So morbidly beautiful a man against the lushness of hard work, an overseer. Standing close enough to make her eye the short distance between their knees; couldn't brush, but could strike out and kick, or hook around and draw in. "You're a gem. They'd let you in any role for how lovely you look."
He taps his cigar ash to the floorboards, smudging it into the stained wood with the toe of his boot, before leaning forward to caress her cheek. Molly softens, eyes turned up to him, his intent.
"You put up with me for just that, don't you?" She says, teasing although her tone barely communicates it. Sometimes, when her words fall flatter than she intends, she can see why Dutch calls her catty and sly. She thinks herself romantic and spends much time trying to figure where she could ever appear that way, though she must if he insists that it's true.
Dutch scoffs, now, amused. "Not only," he says, eyes narrowed in a smile that has yet to curl his mouth. Deep and pretty, too, handsomely crinkling. "But I was thinkin' of how good you are at acting."
And now, she trips. "I don't act," Molly says.
"O'course you do," Dutch says. He raises, watches the smoke drift meekly from his cigar for a moment before looking back to her. She's on the verge of defense before he explains himself, looking very pleased with his ideas:
"The upper class is the acting class. It's all your folk do in their elegant clothes 'n' needless social calls, tryn'a remind each other they exist. Easy to forget the faces of people you care about, ain't it? What a dreadful lie." Drawing lines in the sand, talking with the occasional but ultimately useless emphasis that a lecturer might use to make his lesson stick or a preacher, to sell to people who have already bought. "But, you, Molly, you're getting so honest." Lines blur. He waves his hands dismissively, and finally lets their frantic gesturing cease. The cigar begins to coil smoke more casually again. "Bein' around us, I assume that's what it is. You know the best liars are the ones tellin' their own truth."
Molly pauses the repetitive movement of her hands and considers all of this, scarf hanging between needles. She doesn't understand some of it, not because she's incompetent, as she's heard some of these people say, but because to her it sounds like Wilde horseshit. Especially to imply there is any sort of vulgarity to those simple social rituals she grew up with, though it's hardly the first time since settling into his arms that she's heard something like it. She supposes the conviction with which he says it means it's true to someone, just— himself.
And what of liars being truthful? Horseshit, more of it. But Molly has always liked the way talks, how passionate he gets, and so hearing more of his voice is never a bad thing. Anyways, love can forgive, if there must be some insult to her tucked along the folds of his speeches. She is certainly no longer rich, though. Molly continues knitting, slowly, letting her thoughts gather into a response as he awaits it with baited breath.
"I think you've been readin' too much of that Evelyn bloke."
"Oh, c'mon. You sound like my mother," Dutch says, in that joking tone that implies he wouldn't say it sincerely because he means it too much. It doesn't bother her because they've become so comfortable with passing differences. Well— her, comfortable. Him, indifferent.
Molly rolls her eyes, and focuses on her project once more. "You should write a book, I mean it," she says, and does mean it despite her playing. Another row finished of the narrow rectangle, which is starting to approach a good length. Her stitches are tightening while they talk, fingers warm with pooling blood. Once he leaves her to it, she might take a break, but she likes to look busy and hard-working for him too much to allow one now. "You have a lot of ideas, so's Evelyn. He's written one. Why not you?" She says, quieter: "Might make some money."
"I'd be jailed for what I'd write, not paid," Dutch says, laughing shortly. He stands with a fist on his hip and looks down, fleeting image of a man humbled by his own thoughts. "Anyways, I'm no genius like him. I haven't got the passion or the words."
"Nonsense." She doesn't comment on what he should and shouldn't be jailed for. "You're all sorts of smart, Dutch."
He picks up a thread he had let go of again, shifting on his feet. "But, sweetheart, don't you think I'm honest?"
She pretends she must ponder it so that Dutch looks at her, expectant and engaged, a little longer. Eyes drift to the ceiling, to the tent flap that hangs, curved to where it's tied open, between them and the rest of the world. She sees Tilly and Javier talking at the dominoes table, the horses beyond them. "Oh," she sighs, as if she really means to. "I suppose I do."
"I'm a filthy liar," he says at once, motions towards her with his cigar so quickly she fears the ash might fall onto her skirt.
Molly moves her boots back. His excitement at the chance to say what he had planned endears her enough to not care. "Not to me, y'ain't," she says. Another coy look up through lashes. "I'd have your head."
"You prove all those things about Irish women right," Dutch accuses warmly, moving to take a seat beside her on the cot. It dips under his weight and she slides towards him, their hips pressing together. It thrills her.
"And you're a nasty devil," Molly replies easily, returning to her usual quick, sharp motions of knitting without really looking at what she's doing. Practiced, more focused. This back and forth doesn't require nearly as much concentration. "Just like every American man."
Oh, the only person she could love fighting with more would be an Englishman. Dutch lays a hand on her bicep and she restrains her urge to go still and let him have her full attention, eyes peeking from corners at him, feline. She understands why he was watching her so fondly when she sees him here, unshadowed by the tent flaps. The set of the sun paints him so golden, he may as well be made of metal that hopes to be as precious as he is; the lines of his handsome face are drawn in exquisite detail, nothing left to the blur of uncertain morning-time shadows.
"You are a cruel woman," he says, tone impudent and yet with delighted eyes that beg for another beating. Dark brown, looking hazel in the light. She's turned to him without realizing it, hands again without motion, unable to help being entranced by him. "Aren't you, Miss O'Shea?"
She is defeated. "Very."
"What are you knittin', darlin'?" His hand lays on her arm, still, a little too large to rest there comfortably.
Molly blushes. She turns back to it, hands working a little faster, as though finishing it might mean she needn't explain herself at all. "A scarf for Jack."
She doesn't explain why, despite it being a little early into the autumn, because to tell Dutch that Abigail seems to quite dislike her so much she is trying to win her heart through spoiling her son is embarrassing. Bad enough is the flush it brings to her face to struggle with the guilt of thinking the woman's life is tragic and very interesting to her, yet never having had the opportunity to tell her that. Dutch would probably call that sort of discussion a rich woman's habit, but it was how she was taught to sympathize and so it comes most naturally.
Dutch squeezes her arm, then rubs up to her shoulder to rest there. She likes when he touches her like this, maybe thinking she does not notice or care or maybe hoping that she does. "How thoughtful," he praises. The warmth of his smile permeates even the curtain of her curls. "Your heart is my favorite thing about you, Molly."
She blushes again. It's one of those things that he well and truly means, and that she's never heard him say to anyone else. Miss Grimshaw is dashing, Mary-Beth is looking lively, Karen is a firecracker, and little Jack is the biggest comedian of the bunch— but Molly is always kind and bleeding-hearted, even when she feels that eloquent softness has grown one too many teeth to make her mother proud. He always sees through to it, at the end of the day.
"My cruel old heart," she riffs, because it's difficult to think. She's expected to reply, though. He always seems so sad when she doesn't lean into his sweetness.
"Yes, my dear." Dutch chuckles and moves his hand to the other side of her head, kisses her temple. She lives a blessed moment with him surrounding her mind, camp blocked by the heel of his palm over one ear and his chin over the other.
Then, he's up and walking out of the tent towards Hosea, of course, who's leaned onto the dominoes table and looks to be tormenting the two sitting there from the face Javier is making. Always Hosea. She wonders, in the true catty nature he proclaims of her, if he needs both an old and a young perspective to complete his every day.