<hr/><div class="floatleft">(http://gunsofold.com/marshal_badge_silver_balltip.jpg)</div><br/><strong>Name:</strong>First Lieutenant Edward Baldrick<br/><strong>Faction:</strong>Unknown<br/><strong>Date:</strong>May 3rd, 1876<br/><strong>Time of Day:</strong>Early Evening<br/><strong>Location:</strong>Inside the Golden Mare<br/><strong>Tagged:</strong>Margeurite, Harley, Virginia, Goudeau<br/><hr/>Edward Baldrick took slings and arrows of outrageous insult, slowly seething as his generous offer to the poorly dressed mademoiselle was not just rebuffed, but derided thrice over.  His soft chin quivered, his moustache trembling as beads of sweat trickled down his brow.  The dark-haired Baltimore socialite had robbed him o some of the better part of his sense, it was true, and perhaps he’d acted without the most proper of intentions or bearing – but it was the West, god damn it, and not a mile from where they stood was a whore house selling yellow ass for a quarter.    To pretend that anyone here was fit company for a gentleman such as himself was charity on his part – and  they might as well have been hooting and laughing in his face.<br/><br/>It was like the Army, all over again, and those ghastly enlisted soldiers who never seemed to respect his position as an officer, even when he’d bought his promotion.  He fumed, his fists shaking at his side, one insult after another piling – and then Ginny was being there, sweet and reassuring – only to turn treasonous upon him.<br/><br/>He’d spent<em>weeks</em>coming to this idiotic arrangement, travelling West  by train, through Southern, Northern, and Independent states.  She’d been pretty enough, certainly, although the Whateley name carried far less weight in Georgia than it had before all the Whateleys had summarily departed.  Months, and his charity turned into a hard slap across his cheek and a pot of dumped tea.<br/><br/>His chin quivered, and his throat constricted with rage.<br/><br/><strong>”I will not be addressed so,”</strong>he swore.<strong>”Not by a… a… <em>Mexican</em> or a <em>whoremonger</em>,” he snapped, waving at Harley and Miss Greene.  “And certainly not by some big-titted plebian with <em>delusions</em> of aristocracy.”    His lips trembled.  “And certainly not by some inbred Whateley who thinks she’s the belle of the ball because she lives at the arse-end of the world.  Yes, Virginia Whateley, you’re the Queen of Gomorrah!  There’s not a soul here who would even merit <em>invitation</em> to one of my family’s balls.  You’re a modest fish in a tiny pond no one cares about, and in Georgia you would be checking coats and praying a Baldrick might grace your lackluster features with a moment’s gaze.”</strong><br/><br/>He wiped tea from his face, the skin reddened by the tea.<strong> “The Good Lord had it right when he turned Gommora to salt and ash the first time.  I hope he reaches summary judgment about <em>this</em> hellhole soon enough, and you all get what you so richly deserve.”</strong><br/><br/>He was storming towards the door, then, shouldering past Virginia and Goudeau as though they were well and truly beneath him.<br/>