Quatre felt himself gutted as he watched the viscountess and Catherine suddenly appear, joining Trowa and Lady Gabriela. After another minute of lively chatting, the women all walked off, and Trowa was free to take his horse back to the stable.
"Dorcas," Quatre said, unceremoniously interrupting the housekeeper's long-winded soliloquy about the earl's family history, "are Lord Bethelford and Lady Gabriela engaged?"
She blinked a few times, clearly thrown way off by the sudden shift in subject--as well as the boy's rather blunt inquiry. "Well--I don't think so. Unless they've done it just a minute ago. Why?"
"Nothing."
"It's a favorable match, though--to some people, that is."
"I suppose His Lordship wants it…"
"To be honest with you, dear, I really don't know what His Lordship wants for his son. They'd argued about a number of things before, but their preferences are both similar and--well--different--if you know what I mean." She fumbled for more words but failed in the end and simply shrugged. "I don't know."
"Lady Dummfield wants it, I'm sure."
Dorcas threw the boy a wry glance and cocked an eyebrow. "Lady Dummfield wants everything for her daughter. Marrying Lord Bethelford would be the best thing she could do for her family. That's a few steps up the ladder, after all--not that I'm being cynical, mind."
"And here I am, making you gossip about our guests. I'm sorry," Quatre replied, forcing a rather lifeless smile as he jumped off his perch. "Is there anything you need me to do, Dorcas? Help around here, maybe? Clean somewhere? Anywhere?"
"This place is spotless as far as I'm concerned," the housekeeper said with a proud air. "You're a little eager today, aren't you? Are you bored, dear?"
"No, just feeling a little useless right now."
That was the best excuse he could give. The fact of the matter, though, was that he desperately needed to occupy himself and thus have a good enough reason to avoid Trowa's company for the rest of the day--and if he could help it, the rest of his stay at the Ivy House.
"My dear, you've worked harder than anyone I know since you first got here. I think you more than deserve a day's rest. If you're up to it, there's a lovely little Christmas fair that's going on right now at Siddell. It's not that far of a walk for someone as young and energetic as you. You ought to try it out."
Quatre remembered his near capture at the market a few days ago, though, and gratefully declined the suggestion. He frowned, chewing his lip as he mulled over other prospects, but was quickly jarred back to an uncomfortable state when he spied Trowa walking back from the stables, taking the back route to the servants' hall. He'd be indoors within a minute, and Quatre didn't want to be there when that happened.
"All right, fine," he said hurriedly as he half-ran toward the kitchen door leading to the hallway. "I think I'll try it."
"But I thought you didn't…"
"I changed my mind," the boy cut in as he heard the back door swing open. He quickly waved at the bemused housekeeper. "I'm going. I don't know when I'll be back. Thanks for the suggestion, Dorcas!"
"But you…"
He barely made it through the door when he heard Trowa enter the kitchen and ask for him. Quatre felt sick as he ran out, almost stumbling in his haste to create some distance between him and his--well--ex-beloved. A whole slew of thoughts ran through his mind, making his head ache and his stomach turn even more, but what overwhelmed him the most was his mortification at his own feelings--particularly his seeming presumption at entertaining some hope of…
"Quatre! Ah, there you are!" someone bellowed nearby as the boy crossed the main hall, immediately breaking up his thoughts. He quickly skidded to a halt.
The earl ambled out of a room--presumably another one of his favorite hiding-places--and waved him over. Quatre mutely obeyed and was immediately held by his shoulders and almost literally dragged into the room, the door shutting behind them. His employer marched him toward the fireplace, and Quatre wondered if he were to be asked to do yet another book burning session. They stood next to the warmth with the earl briskly rubbing his hands and holding them near the blaze every so often.
"Bad circulation," the man said when Quatre watched him, obvious wonder in his face. The room was hot, and yet the earl was shivering still. "I'm always cold, which means I positively detest winter."
"My lord?"
"Quatre, I want you to do a job for me."
"Yes, sir."
The earl gazed thoughtfully at the fire for a second or two before replying. "Trowa's been pretty secretive lately. Oh, he's always been quiet and withdrawn, but he seems to have gotten--well--worse. Do you understand what I'm saying?"
"Of course."
"And unlike Catherine, he doesn't have a lot of visitors come by and see him, and he doesn't go out much. Just rides his horse whenever he feels adventurous." The earl broke off with a snort and a shake of his head. "He's wasting his life away, if you ask me. And he's too damn young to be like me."
Quatre patiently waited, feeling a tiny sting of sympathy for his companion, who seemed to wither before him as he continued to warm himself by the fire.
"You're about his age. Quatre, I'd like you to spend more time with him."
The boy gaped at him, stunned. "I'm sorry, my lord, I don't think I heard you right…"
"I said I'd like you to spend more time with Trowa. You know, get to know him more."
Quatre opened and shut his mouth for a few seconds as he stared at his employer, but no words came out.
"What? What's wrong? You look like you've just been condemned to the bloody gallows, boy."
"But--sir--I can't…"
"You can't?" the earl repeated incredulously, his eyebrows rising high up his forehead. "What the devil does that mean? Is there something about what I want you to do that you don't understand? You and my son are about the same age. He needs the company of people he can relate to, and if he's not about to invite friends over or take the time to go out and see them, I think the next best thing is to have someone in the household keep him company and draw him out. Don't you think so?"
Quatre continued to fumble for words, his panic level rapidly shooting up. God, of all the things to ask of him…
His companion stared at him, completely baffled and caught off-guard. Then he sighed as he turned away from the fire and faced the flustered boy, crossing his arms on his chest.
"Do you need a better argument, young man?" he asked a touch irritably. "All right, here you have it. First--Trowa's grown more preoccupied and detached lately, and it's not healthy. Especially since he refuses to confide to his own sister about things. His own sister, for God's sake! Those two are almost like twins! They'd never kept secrets from each other and in fact had always acted as a pair against me whenever one of them happens to be in trouble.
"Second--you're intelligent and well-bred, and you seem to have a good head on your shoulders. You're a perfect companion to him, and I'm not saying that lightly. Have you met some of his friends?"
"No, sir…"
"Well-bred and well-dressed little gits, the whole lot of them," the earl huffed. "They'd spout one Juvenalian invective after another, thinking that quoting dead people makes them witty and interesting. But they've nothing to offer beyond that. All that breeding--all that money spent on their education--it's all ornamental. It's no wonder my son isn't too keen on developing stronger bonds with them."
Quatre listened, feeling some helplessness set in. He knew there was no way out of this one.
"You, however…" the man paused, eyeing the boy critically. "You're different. And I like that a lot. There aren't many in the world who'd go out on a limb like you would. In a funny sort of way, young man, you remind me of myself when I was your age. And I think you make a perfect complement to Trowa. That's just what he needs right now, that ridiculous boy.
"And third--I'll send you back to your father if you refuse. I can't willfully keep a juvenile from his family, after all. I'm breaking the law for you right now, as a matter of fact."
The boy almost fell senseless to the ground at what he'd heard. Cold, numbing, paralyzing terror tore through him as he fought for words to say. "My lord--you can't really mean…"
The earl rolled his eyes and waved him off carelessly. "No, of course I won't do that, Quatre!" he cried. "What the devil do you think I am? A sadist? No, no, no--I was just feeling a little provoked by your response." Then he burst out laughing. "I'm just not used to being questioned by anyone other than my children. But that's good! That's good! All the more reason to have you do this for me."
It took Quatre all he had to keep himself from frowning at his employer and the rather nasty trick he'd just played. All the same, he found himself softening quickly and acquiescing to the duke's request--or, rather, demand--however uncomfortably. He didn't need this. Not at all. This was forcing him to do exactly the opposite of what he wanted in the first place, which was to keep as great a distance from Trowa as possible. The emotional roller-coaster ride he'd been enduring since his first glimpse of his young master was enough to drive anyone with less of a will insane (or at least that was how the boy saw it). Now that his need for greater self-control and even detachment from the object of his (misguided) affection was more urgent, he was being forced into the excruciating position of constant contact with the one person he needed to avoid all the more.
"As you wish, my lord," he said with a small sigh. "Should I tell Lord Bethelford?"
"No, I'll do it."
"Um--if I could be so bold, sir…" Quatre stammered, now laboring under yet another slew of unwelcome thoughts and feelings. "Could I start that tomorrow? It's just that…" he paused, fumbling some more. "It's just that there's a Christmas fair at Siddell that I'm interested in seeing right now. I've--I've been given leave by Dorcas to go, of course…"
"Christmas fair?" his companion echoed in surprise.
"Yes, sir."
"Well--I suppose so. Truthfully, Quatre, I didn't think you'd be into these sorts of things."
"I love Christmas, sir."
"I can see that. Very well then." The earl dismissed him with another careless wave of the hand. "Do as you will today. Tomorrow I'm taking you out of the kitchen and assigning you new duties."
Quatre hesitated, hoping for one last fight here. "But what if Dorcas needs people to help with the chores? I understand that we're understaffed right now."
"Young man, it's called 'hiring new help.' I thought you'd know that by now." The earl walked back to an overstuffed armchair where yet another book awaited him. "Go on now. Go see your little fair. It's a bit frivolous if you ask me, but I suppose we're all entitled to our quirks."
"Thank you, sir."
The boy was almost at the door when his employer arrested his flight with another demand. "I want you to dress more smartly starting tomorrow, Quatre," he called from the warm confines of his armchair. "You're my son's companion now. You're not a drudge. I don't know what kinds of clothes you've brought with you, but I assume they're nothing close to that monstrosity you insist on wearing."
"My lord…"
"That coarse thing that's about ten sizes too large. It's got to go tomorrow. Do you hear me?"
"Yes, sir."
"And if you don't have anything decent to wear, I want you to tell me right away, and I'll send for a tailor. And don't argue with me about footing the bill and all that nonesense. We're doing this for Trowa. All right?"
Quatre stared at the door while he listened, his heart hammering loudly and uncontrollably in his chest, hating himself for being so easily affected. "I understand, sir," he replied quietly before stepping out.
**********
What a fix, he thought as he stood on the crest of a very low hill, gazing out at the bleak landscape around him. I can't believe I'm going to do this. Of all things! Of all things…
He sighed as he turned in the direction of his former home, wondering what everyone was doing at the moment. It was the late afternoon. The sun was slowly dipping in the horizon. That meant that the duke and the duchess would have the family assembled in the large sitting-room for some precious family bonding moments. That is, each member of the family would at least be within fifty feet of each other even if each ended up being encased in his or her own little world. The duke would be scanning the family genealogy books. The duchess would be sewing. Morgan would be wrestling with the dog. Sophie would be playing her harp and singing--albeit grudgingly. Quatre would be reading. It was perhaps the only quirk of his that was borderline tolerated by his father. The duke had to concede that books were equated with breeding, and he allowed a limited amount of time for his son to indulge in this habit; all extra hours spent in literary absorption were solely stolen as with all other things the boy did.
After taking one final look around and feeling himself enveloped by the winter wind, Quatre hurried back to the manor. And as he neared it, he caught a glimpse of the other servants through the mess hall window and felt a slight pang as he watched them talk and laugh among themselves. He was about to leave them. And in a sense, he felt as though he were about to commit one of the seven deadly sins by being elevated in his position to one that didn't require physical labor.
He hated the idea of his separation and wondered how the others had taken to the news. The earl, after all, not he, was the one who hit them with it earlier on, but the boy couldn't bear to be anywhere near when he did. The moment he heard his employer enter the mess hall and call everyone save for him, Quatre immediately fled for the moors. And his discomfort, guilt, and agitation were such that he wasn't able to go to the fair at Siddell, being too preoccupied by the sudden change in his fortune.
"Well, here he is!" Angus crowed as the boy tiptoed in. "Our golden boy!"
The others let out good-hearted cheers as he neared them, smiling and flushing, feeling more and more mortified--and not to mention guilty.
"Congratulations, my dear," Dorcas sang as she waltzed up to him, held his face with both hands, and planted a big kiss on his forehead. "I'm so happy for you. I think you'll do just fine in your new position."
"Well, I never thought he ought to be stuck here in the kitchen, anyway," Orland added, nodding his head while waving a small tankard of ale at the boy. "You've always been better than any of us, Quatre. You've got a lot more to offer than we ever could."
"No! No!" he cried, aghast. "Don't say that! How could you think that way about yourselves?"
"Aw, hell, ignore him, kid," Tobias laughed after taking a swig of his drink from a similar tankard. "He's just feeling a little too fuzzy and fluffy right now. Orland's too emotional. Especially if he's been drinking all bloody afternoon long, both here and at the pub."
Orland laughed just as heartily. "Yeah, ignore me. I'm just--whew--wasted, I suppose. God, that was good ale!" He shook his head, pinching his eyes shut and grimacing as he did. "Goddamn!"
"I'd like to help out still when you need me…"
"Don't be daft, for God's sake," Tobias snorted. "This is an opportunity! Take it! Don't look back! Hell, that's what I'd do if I were you!"
"He's right, you know," Angus piped up as he stretched his arms languorously above his head while yawning. "Good luck like this doesn't happen everytime! Just go for it--we'll be fine. His Lordship's going to be hiring new people, anyway."
Quatre watched the staff continue to banter as they switched subjects rapidly from one to another until pretty soon the news of his elevation was completely forgotten, and they were holding an impromptu limerick contest.
**********
The wind died down, thankfully enough, as Quatre stood outside, watching the carolers gather before the front door. He decided to hide in the shadows this time as he felt the need for obscurity if only for this moment. The sudden turn of events had effectively eroded all hope for some peaceful solitude and even facelessness. His desire to be nobody wasn't going to happen.
The group soon settled down, and after a brief hush, they lifted their voices and started singing.
"It came upon a midnight
clear, that glorious song of old,
From angels bending near the earth to touch their harps of gold:
'Peace on the earth, goodwill to men, from heaven's gracious King.'
The world in solemn stillness lay to hear the angels sing."
Quatre sighed though not contentedly as he listened. He stepped back and tried to lean against the gigantic marble urn that stood behind him. Instead, he felt a couple of hands grip him on his shoulders and hold him back, effectively stopping him short.
"Whoa," the newcomer said. "You almost bumped into me there."
The boy stiffened and instinctively pulled himself away, stepping forward at least three paces. "Sorry," he muttered, his face burning. "I didn't know you were here." He never once took his eyes off the carolers.
"Still through the
cloven skies they, with peaceful wings unfurled,
And still their heavenly music floats o'er all the weary world.
Above its sad and lowly plains, they bend on hovering wing,
And ever o'er its Babel sounds the blessed angels sing."
"I heard about your new position," Trowa said. He remained standing behind the boy, not once moving forward to at least close the gap between them. "That was unexpected."
"I know."
"Though not necessarily unwelcome."
"Glad to hear that."
"O ye, beneath life's
crushing load, whose forms are bending low,
Who toil along the climbing way, with painful steps and slow.
Look now for glad and golden hours come swiftly on the wing.
O rest beside the weary road and hear the angels sing."
A moment's pause followed. "Listen--Quatre--I--um--I was wondering if you could join me in the parlor…"
"When? Tomorrow?"
"No, now."
"What for?"
Trowa paused, clearly taken aback by the boy's abruptness. Quatre continued to watch the singers even though his mind was completely in a different track at the moment.
"Well--just talk, I suppose. Is that a problem? Do you have other things you need to do right now?"
The hesitation and uncertainty in Trowa's voice tore through Quatre, but the boy steeled himself against his young lord's influence. It wouldn't do, after all, to continue his misguided hopes. He'd been wrong about everything, and he simply wanted to wipe the slate clean and start over with a clearer, stronger mind and will.
He took in a deep, painful breath and turned to face Trowa. "As a matter of fact, I do," he replied calmly. "I need to go to bed. It's getting late, and I'm tired. Besides, I've got work tomorrow."
Trowa frowned at him. "What do you mean 'work'? You'll be with me tomorrow, won't you?"
Quatre nodded. "Exactly."
Trowa fell silent as he gazed at him, stunned. The boy offered a tiny, humorless smile. "Well--good night then," he said and walked off.
"For lo! the days are
hastening on, by prophets seen of old,
When with the ever circling years, shall come the time foretold,
When the new heaven and earth shall own the Prince of Peace their
king,
And the whole world send back the song which now the angels sing."[1]
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
[1]It Came Upon a Midnight Clear