Burning books, it quickly turned out, was just too damn boring. Especially since he was doing it alone, Quatre more keenly felt the weight of his conscience as he stared at the desecrated volume in his hands. He didn't have the earl's company to egg him on, to overlook the fact that what he was destroying must be several years' worth of a man's blood, sweat, and tears.
He'd only burnt about a fourth of the book before he decided to place it back on the pile, muttering a feeble apology to its creator as he did. And now that he was once again free, he felt all the more depressed in spirits as he glanced around the room in a desperate bid to find something with which to amuse him.
"My God, how do governesses keep themselves from going insane when they're not tutoring anybody?" he muttered, feeling some irritation set in. [1]
No chores to do. No need to keep Trowa company. No Catherine with whom to spend some time. No earl with whom he could debate. He couldn't even leave the house for a quiet ramble somewhere or to visit the Christmas fair at Siddell as his services might be called for at any time. He was, in plain words, stuck. Life in his new position was downright dull, something he never once thought would be.
He was still debating on what to do next when the library door suddenly opened, and Catherine poked her head in. Quatre felt a surge of hope upon seeing her.
"Oh, hello, Quatre," she said, her eyes darting around the room. She frowned a little. "Have you seen Gabriela?"
The boy's spirits sank a little. "I saw her with Trowa in the parlor about an hour ago."
"Ah. I see."
"Did--um--did you want to do something, by any chance?" he asked, ignoring the possibility of coming across as being pushy. "I mean--I'm free if you did…"
"Not right now, love. I'm playing hostess to an invisible friend at the moment."
"Oh. All right then."
Catherine was about to shut the door when she paused, looking down thoughtfully. Then she stepped back into the room and gave the boy a sheepish smile. "By the bye, I'm sorry about what happened earlier. I didn't mean for you to get into trouble with Lady Dummfield."
Quatre offered a small smile. "That's all right, Catherine. I've already been in trouble with her the moment she arrived."
The young lady rolled her eyes. "She'll be here for a couple more days, I think. Don't worry." She then added in a low tone, "If it makes you feel any better, neither Trowa nor I can stand her, either. She just happens to be Dad's friend. And we like Gabriela."
The boy chuckled despite his disappointment in striking out with her.
"Are you burning books right now?"
"No--I'm tired of it."
Catherine laughed, shaking her head. "Oh, I swear--you and Dad. But I'm glad, though. He's taken to you pretty well, which you should take as a compliment. He tends to be pretty picky about the company he keeps. And I'm doubly glad that you don't let his moods get to you."
"I like him a lot. He's a good man."
His companion winked and lifted a finger to her lips. "I know. But don't let him hear you say that. Then he'll try even harder to be all crotchety to the rest of the world."
Quatre giggled and nodded, and Catherine soon abandoned him once more to the dull silence of the library, the sound of crackling firewood being the only noise that periodically broke through the deadness of the room. He finally willed himself to find a book--any book--that even remotely interested him. He just couldn't stand the general feeling of uselessness that hovered over him like a black cloud.
He was skimming through a potential candidate when the library door opened once more. This time around, it was Trowa who poked his head in. And though normally Quatre would be at a complete loss as to how he ought to react in Trowa's presence, he was relieved of that burden when he noted a very distracted air in his visitor.
The distraction seemed strong enough for Trowa to look a little confused at seeing the boy at first. Quatre watched realization slowly dawn on him, his eyes mirroring the growing clarity his mind was going through. As he stared at Quatre, the dulled light in his eyes eventually dissipated, and the familiar gleam of recognition took its place. Along with it came a small, self-conscious smile that the boy regarded with some wariness.
Trowa's behavior, after all, had been baffling him for some time, and he wasn't sure exactly how to take any subtleties his young master would throw his way.
"Quatre," he said, the smile still there, "I'm looking for Anthony. Have you seen him around? Has he been here at all?"
"No, I'm afraid not."
And, just as quickly as the light appeared, it vanished, being replaced once more by that dullness as well as the restlessness that occupied the young lord when he first entered.
"Maybe Catherine knows," he muttered, his voice loud enough for Quatre to hear him clearly still.
"She was just here, looking for Gabriela," the boy offered.
"What? I thought those two were together all this time. Are you sure about this?"
"Yes, I'm sure."
Trowa was now frowning darkly, his agitation seemingly increasing by the second. "Damn it," he said under his breath. Then, without so much as a word, he hurried out of the room, not even bothering to close the door behind him.
Quatre stared at the empty doorway in amazement for a little while. Something was wrong here, and though his first response was to run after Trowa and offer his assistance if needed, he felt it more prudent to simply stand back and wait. He therefore went back to perusing the shelves until he finally found a volume he could use and decided to take it to one of the sitting-rooms where he could read in peace.
He was wandering down the hallways when he passed by one of the lesser-used sitting-rooms and found Gabriela inside, alone. She was doing some lacework, it seemed, but she was going about it in the same distracted, agitated air he saw in Trowa earlier. Quatre paused by the doorway as he quietly observed the girl, watching her fingers deftly fly and manipulate the little spools of thread as she created an intricate pattern of flowers and curlicues. He also watched her pause every so often and lift her head up and stare off into space, a tense, almost distressed expression crossing her face. Then she'd go back to her work, only to break off once more and toss it aside as she'd stand up and pace back and forth, her eyes glued to the floor. She remained completely oblivious to the boy's presence just outside the door.
Quatre felt his heart soften even more toward her. In so many ways, she'd reminded him of his own self, of his own oppressive upbringing. And whatever restlessness and bursts of energy that would occasionally show themselves in her otherwise serene character were regarded with much empathy from the boy.
And it was this empathy that pretty much pushed him to approach her. He cleared his throat, causing the girl to stop dead in her tracks and look in his direction, wide-eyed.
"Oh!" she cried. "Quatre! I didn't know you were here!"
"I'm sorry if I startled you…"
"Well--yes, you did, but it's okay." Gabriela laughed lightly and walked back to her work, sitting herself daintily on the divan once more. "Would you like to join me?"
Quatre entered the room, wondering how to broach the subject. He observed the agitation to be present still despite the casualness with which she carried on her work. Her fingers may be flying across the pins and spools of thread--the lace pattern may be slowly taking shape before her--but her mind was clearly somewhere else.
"You're very skilled," the boy said. That sounded like a good enough lead-in.
"Thank you," Gabriela replied quietly. There was a dryness in her tone that surprised Quatre. "Like I've said before, I'm very skilled at any kind of handiwork. I'm a girl, after all. I should be skilled, anyway, right?"
Quatre couldn't respond to that. He simply watched her in sympathetic silence.
"So tell me about the books you've burnt, Quatre," she said without lifting her eyes.
"Tell you what about them?"
"How do you feel about those books?"
"I honestly don't care for them. Otherwise, I wouldn't be willing to destroy them like I did."
The girl nodded, her eyes still fixed on her work as she spoke in her usual quiet accents. "I've always hated Pamela. It's done nothing but cause me grief since…"
She caught herself and finally raised her eyes to meet Quatre's. Blue met blue, distress with concern, confusion with sympathy. "Do you mind if I talk to you like this?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper now.
Quatre could sense the emotion behind it, though, and he gave her an encouraging smile. "I don't. Please talk if there's something you'd like to get off your chest."
"Thank you. I've never confided in a boy before, but there's something about you that tells me to trust you even if we've only met. Do I sound silly?"
"No, you don't. Not at all. Please go on."
Gabriela forced an awkward smile before looking back down at her work. "Where was I? Oh, yes--Pamela. Anyway, that book's always given me problems for as long as I can remember. It's done nothing but put all these ridiculous ideas in Mamma's head about how it's such a victory for women to marry above them. She's taken this all in to such a degree that I can't even marry someone I want unless he happens to be a few ranks higher. I've had several suitors before, but they were all rejected because Mamma didn't think them good enough for me."
"Did you ever talk to her about how you feel about all this?"
"I have. Didn't work. Never will."
Quatre stared at his hands in silence, not quite knowing how to proceed. This conversation unnerved him somewhat even if his involvement in Gabriela's problems was minimal. "I don't know what to say. I'm sorry."
"Don't be. Just be glad you're not a girl."
Another moment of silence passed between them before Gabriela continued.
"Mamma wants me to marry Trowa," she said, causing Quatre's blood to run cold.
He glanced at her. "How do you feel about it?"
"What does it matter how I feel?" she suddenly retorted, her voice rising a little. Her fingers, though at first moving swiftly and gracefully, were now spasmodically flying across her work, occasionally stopping and unwinding botched stitches.
"Stupid book," she hissed, her face turning red. "I hate it--does nothing but flatter women's imagination. And it's killing me."
She suddenly stood up and flung her work aside. Without looking at Quatre, she stammered, "I'm sorry if I made you uncomfortable just now, Quatre. I'm just feeling a little ill."
"It's nothing, really. I'm glad you trust me enough to confide in me…"
She glanced at him briefly, her face now pale. "I've nobody else," she replied quietly before hurrying out of the room.
Quatre listened to her footsteps die off, and he himself got up and moved off, not quite knowing how to take this conversation. He walked thoughtfully down the hallway, not even aware of where he was headed. His pace slowed down, and he eventually stopped by a window, still thinking. A movement beyond the glass jerked him back to the present, and he looked out.
He saw Trowa and Anthony outside. Apparently they'd gone out for a walk, no doubt indulging in some very serious heart-to-heart talk about something. Quatre watched them despite a nagging voice that chided him severely for being such a gossip.
The two seemed to be engaged in a heated argument. Quatre watched them talk without once hearing their words, the expressions on their faces and the almost exaggerated gestures they used to emphasize what they were saying pretty much betraying the emotions that prevailed.
Anthony seemed to be the most affected of the two as he paced around, continually running a hand through his now disheveled hair. His face was flushed a deep red, and his eyebrows looked permanently furrowed. He often paused in his tracks to glare at his companion and then belt out an angry reply, wildly waving his hand about as he did.
Trowa, for his part, was a lot more restrained although likely just as agitated as his friend. He'd respond no less excitedly despite the lesser severity of his gestures. Quatre felt his stomach tighten at the tension, and he didn't find it difficult to extricate himself from the window.
"Hey, Quatre!"
The boy turned to find Angus ambling down the hallway toward him. He brightened.
"Hello," he called back, grateful at the familiar sight. He'd always associated his experiences as a servant with a feeling of comfort.
"You're needed in the drawing-room for tea," Angus replied once he'd drawn near. "His Lordship's orders. God, where've you been, anyway? You're a hell of a lot harder to find since you got your new job."
"I'm sort of caught in between, really. You didn't need me in the kitchen, and they didn't need me around, either. I wasn't sure where else to go but the library."
Angus shrugged. "Well--you'll get used to it. It isn't so bad, I'm sure. At least you don't have to spend hours on your hands and knees with a bucket of dirty water and soap."
"Sometimes I wish I did, though."
The man laughed, patting Quatre's arm roughly. "Ah, hell--you're just saying that. Anyway, go on to the drawing-room before you get into trouble with anyone. His Lordship doesn't appreciate tardiness."
Angus quickly abandoned him, and Quatre made his solitary way to the drawing-room, his mind vacillating between the conversation he'd just had with Gabriela and the angry exchange he'd just witnessed between Anthony and Trowa.
Everyone, save for the two young men, were gathered in the elegant, spacious room. The earl was sitting by the fire (as always), reading a book (as always). Catherine sat by the window, a sketchbook propped up on her knees, humming to herself as she tried to sketch the landscape outside, occasionally letting out a sigh or a groan whenever she needed to erase something. The viscountess sat at one end of an elaborate sofa, sewing. Gabriela pointedly sat at a distance from her mother, her own sewing on her lap. Quatre noted that the girl seemed to have sufficiently calmed down since their talk and was now quietly absorbed in her work.
Everyone greeted him in his or her characteristic way when he entered, and he quickly picked a chair off to the side while waiting for the tea and snacks to arrive. He opened the book he brought with him and started to read. But try as he might, he couldn't ignore this growing sense of discomfort. He raised his eyes on occasion to find everyone just as engrossed as he was in what they were doing, and he chided himself for being silly.
Nonesense, he thought, frowning at the pages before him. You've got an overly active imagination, Quatre Winner.
Nevertheless, the feeling stayed, and he couldn't get himself to concentrate on his reading.
A seeming eternity must've passed before all hell suddenly broke loose. Anthony strode into the drawing-room, completely agitated. He stopped before the viscountess, causing not only her, but everyone else, to look up at him in amazement.
"My lady," he said, his voice roiling with emotion, "I'll say this just once, and you won't hear from me ever again. Everything that I've said earlier about how I felt for Gabriela was true. I'd always loved her, and I will always love her regardless of how you feel about our attachment. I never courted her for her money, and to be honest with you, her position can go straight to the devil for all I care…"
A gasp escaped the viscountess's lips, but she wasn't given a chance to utter a word as Anthony raised a hand to silence her while he continued with his rebuke. Gabriela, for her part, sat calmly by, watching the young man. She'd grown pale, however, and the tensing of her jaw muscles belied her own distress.
"I asked for your blessing earlier with as much respect and goodwill as was required for the occasion, knowing full well the risk I was running in being so presumptuous in wishing to marry your daughter. I've humbled myself, given you all the deference you required for your station--a deference I now question…"
Trowa had appeared at that moment. But upon seeing how apparently late he was in stopping his friend, he simply stood by the door, watching everything in disbelief.
"Question? How dare you!" Lady Dummfield cried, her jaw hanging low in complete shock.
"You, Lady Dummfield, are cold, heartless, and undeserving of any man's respect…"
"Anthony!" Trowa cried, but his friend didn't seem to hear him at all.
"You care about nothing but yourself, and you're willing to sacrifice your own daughter's happiness for your selfish whims…"
"Young man, I think we've heard enough," the earl barked from his chair, looking just as stunned as everyone else.
"Yes, you have," Anthony replied, his voice calming down somewhat. "I've said my piece. You won't see me again, and may I add that my father won't take too kindly to any desire you may have of future visits to his house once he hears about my usage. I would've taken to a rejection well, Lady Dummfield, but not to insults. And you've insulted me and my family beyond any hope of forgiveness. Goodbye."
With that, he turned his heels and strode out of the room, leaving everyone looking on in strained silence. Lady Dummfield looked about ready to faint from sheer anger while Gabriela merely continued with her lacework. The earl and Catherine looked completely lost and in shock. Trowa stood by the door for a moment, clearly stewing, before he followed his friend outside.
"And you wanted to marry him," the viscountess presently hissed through clenched teeth as she turned to face her daughter. "That ill-bred, presumptuous upstart--you wanted to marry him."
Gabriela sighed and looked up, a perfect picture of serenity now. "Yes, Mamma, I did. I still do."
"How could you even consider it? You've got better prospects, for heaven's sake!"
"Oh? You mean like Trowa?"
The sudden energy and bluntness with which the girl put her question stunned her mother. "I never said…"
"Oh, but you meant it, didn't you? Well, guess what--neither Trowa nor I want to marry each other…"
"What are you talking about? I saw…"
"You saw us kiss," Gabriela finished, cold fury now coloring her voice despite the serenity of her countenance. "That was a joke I put him up to, Mamma…" She suddenly laughed bitterly. "How clever, wasn't it? I even got Catherine fooled, I'm sure."
"A joke?" Quatre blurted out in spite of himself. His mind reeled.
"I asked him to kiss me because I knew that was what you wanted to see. We saw you coming for us from the stables with Catherine…"
Catherine, now having found her own voice, stammered, "Gabriela, what--how could you?"
"Call it spite, Catherine," the girl replied coldly. Then she stood up, gingerly placing her sewing aside as she smoothed her skirts with trembling hands. "Trowa's innocent. Like I said, I put him up to it. He didn't even know why I asked him to kiss me. He just did it like the obliging friend that he is." She burst out laughing again despite the hollowness that characterized it. "He probably thinks I'm such a silly, whimsical girl for asking. Just like Mamma probably thinks I'm such a silly, whimsical girl who can't think for herself."
She turned to the earl and curtsied. "If you'll excuse me, my lord, I'd like to go to my room. I've got a horrible, horrible headache."
Then, without waiting for a response, she quitted the room, gliding out noiselessly. More tense silence fell on everyone, and Quatre forced himself to stand up and hurry out as well, not even caring what his employer would say to his abrupt exit. He flew down the hallways, pausing every so often by a window and looking anxiously out in hopes of finding Trowa somewhere.
Before he knew it, he found himself in the kitchen, running past the servants and out the back door. He made his way to the stables and sure enough, he found Trowa there, leading his horse out.
"Trowa," the boy called out, causing the young man to pause in his tracks and look at him in surprise. "What--where are you going?"
Trowa looked decidedly upset still and ignored his question as he continued to lead the horse out. Quatre glanced around, but there was no sign of Anthony. Their guest had gone home. He hurried over to his young master, not knowing what to say to him and yet feeling the need to be by him at all costs. His mind was too muddled, his emotions too mixed for him to function normally.
As he neared Trowa, he could hear him talk angrily to no one in particular as he proceeded to mount his horse.
"Damn fool," he said through his teeth. "I told him to wait. I told him! And that Gabriela--God, she could be so stubborn!"
He mounted the magnificent gray mare. Then, almost as though noticing Quatre's presence for the first time, he looked down at the boy, his eyes flashing angrily still. He leaned over, stretching an arm out to him.
"Come on," he said in a quieter tone. He pulled his foot out of the stirrup. "Here. Use this," he added as he scooted forward a little on the saddle to make room for him.
Quatre stared at him. "But..."
"Quatre, take my hand."
The boy hesitated and then grabbed his hand, stuck his foot in the stirrup, and hoisted himself up. Swinging his other leg over the horse's back, he plopped onto the saddle behind Trowa. He pulled his foot out of the stirrup and wrapped his arms around the young man's waist, leaning against Trowa's back and resting his cheek against the soft cloak that enveloped his companion.
"You ready?" Trowa called back, gently touching Quatre's hands that were clasped on his stomach. "Hold on tight!"
He dug his heels into the horse's flanks, and they were off, riding on the wind as they flew toward the road and away from the manor.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
[1] Governesses were typically impoverished but well-educated, which made their status in a household unique. They were poor enough to be treated like servants but well-educated enough to be treated like one of the family on occasion. They therefore occupied a status that was neither an outsider nor an insider and were often forced to spend a lot of time alone because of it.