Catherine decided to join the tiny group when she realized that she'd be condemned to spend the entire day in Lady Dummfield's company--without the added support of her brother, Quatre, or Gabriela.
"I'm coming with you," she muttered to Trowa as she hurriedly pulled her thick cloak around her. "Absolutely no one's going to make me stay here."
They squeezed themselves in the earl's carriage, with Quatre sitting beside Catherine and Trowa sitting beside Gabriela. Trowa was a tad miffed at the prospect of having to use the carriage with the coat of arms painted on the side. He preferred the plainer carriage he often used when traveling, but the viscountess, thoroughly beaten in her protests against the Siddell excursion, insisted in the strongest terms that the young people at least travel in style.
"Never forget who you are," she'd sniffed, tilting her head back and looking down her nose at the four of them.
"Oh, lord," the earl had muttered as he rolled his eyes and waved her off to shuffle his way back to the library. He'd quickly barricaded himself in the room, effectively preventing Trowa from interfering with whatever it was he intended to do.
The young people chatted amiably among themselves as they made their way to Siddell, with Quatre once again working hard to draw his depressed traveling companion out. Gabriela obliged him for the most part, but it still seemed like getting more than a sentence out of her was no different from getting the dead to talk. To her credit, however, the young lady showed a great deal of interest in the ongoing conversation between her three companions, an interest that never flagged at all.
"There it is, Quatre," Catherine piped up eventually as she lightly poked his side with her elbow and pointed out the window to a cluster of cottages looming ahead, just off to the side of the road. "There's drab little Siddell."
The boy craned his neck as he stared out, anticipation brightening his eyes even more. "It doesn't look drab to me. I think the cottages look like gingerbread houses."
"Hmm. They do, don't they? I've never thought of them in that sense before."
"That's because you don't have an imagination, Kate."
Catherine kept her eyes glued to the landscape beyond the window. "I'll pretend I didn't hear that, Trowa," she said before pointing something else out to Quatre and rambling on about it.
They presently entered Siddell, with Trowa and Catherine acting as tour guides to the other two as they described a host of interesting facets of the town from architecture to history to politics to economics. Quatre felt his head spin from information overload as he continued to gape out the window.
Lady Dummfield had greatly underestimated Siddell in Quatre's eyes. It was really a small town, not a village, with attractive shops lining the main roads and fairy tale-like cottages dotting the periphery. The town square, where the Christmas fair was held, was really a circular cluster of shops surrounding an open central area where an ancient fountain stood.
Orland, who drove the carriage, was instructed to wait for the four young people at one of the inns just a couple of blocks from the square. And while Quatre at first felt a stab of guilt at leaving his former colleague behind, he realized that the cheeky driver was a little too keen in getting rid of his young charges.
"Don't drink too much," the boy whispered the moment he alighted from the carriage.
Orland flashed an innocent enough smile. "I never do. Now go have some fun at the fair." He patted the boy's backside to shoo him off, and it took Quatre all he had to keep himself from slugging the man's arm for being so pert.
The four young people were immediately engulfed by the holiday crowd the moment they reached the square. Shoppers bustled here and there, most of whom were members of the gentry as well as families of wealthy merchants. It was a far, far cry from what Quatre had at first expected. The general atmosphere was one of social elitism almost, and the boy thought he could note some shoppers eyeing and taking stock of every single person who'd pass them--almost as though critically sizing him or her up (by what standards was anybody's guess).
Trowa, Catherine, and Gabriela, however, seemed pretty comfortable in the environment and went about casually noting merchandise displayed behind every shop's window. And with a shrug, Quatre allowed his momentary surprise and slight discomfort slip off his shoulders. And while his companions strolled and chatted and window-shopped, he had his attention fixed on the cornucopia of festive details that now surrounded him.
The town, he noted, must be at least a couple of hundred years old, judging from the architectural style and the materials used for every structure that stood around him. The tall, sloping roofs and the occasional lattice-work design of some of the facades fascinated the boy. So entranced was he, as a matter of fact, that he found himself walking into another shopper or a pole because he was too busy looking up. Trowa more than once had to pull him out of harm's way, laughing at him as he did.
"You're a little dangerous in these excursions, aren't you?" the young man would say as he'd gently squeeze Quatre's hand before letting go.
"Sorry. I'm just overwhelmed."
The fountain in the center wasn't really much of an architectural wonder, but it fascinated the boy in spite of it. The frolicking nymph that stood on a pedestal in the fountain's middle added a touch of romanticism to the square, and it didn't matter if she happened to be half-covered in moss around her legs and bird droppings on her head. The sound of gently cascading water that spouted from a delicately carved urn resting on one of her shoulders was soothing, and, blending in with the cheerful voices of a group of nearby carolers, it quickly warmed Quatre's heart.
The carolers stood at a corner, cozily bundled up in thick cloaks and mufflers. They sang one carol after another in the most glorious blend of voices in complementary keys, their faces flushed and their eyes sparkling from the sheer exhilaration of creating the sweetest music one could hear.
"God rest ye merry
gentlemen, let nothing you dismay
For Jesus Christ our Savior was born on Christmas day
To save us all from Satan's power when we were gone astray
O tidings of comfort and joy, comfort and joy
O tidings of comfort and joy."
Clusters of families bustled to and fro, occasionally bumping into Quatre and holding his attention for a pensive moment or two.
"Mamma, I want that little doll in the shop!" a little girl wailed as she was dragged along by a smartly dressed woman who didn't seem to hear a word that was being said.
Just like Mom, Quatre thought with a rueful smile as he watched them move away.
"What's wrong?"
"In Bethlehem, in Jewry,
this blessed babe was born
And laid within a manger upon this blessed morn
That which His Mother Mary did nothing take in scorn
O tidings of comfort and joy, comfort and joy
O tidings of comfort and joy."
Quatre turned around to find Trowa regarding him curiously. "I'm sorry, what did you just say?"
"I was wondering if there's anything wrong."
"Oh--nothing," the boy forced out a small laugh. "Just watching people."
Trowa fell silent for a moment, his eyes falling on the woman and the little girl as they continued to move away from them. Then he looked back down at Quatre, a touch of sympathy in his gaze.
"Did she remind you of your mother, Quatre?"
He nodded and then shrugged. "She did. Even the way she didn't listen to her daughter reminded me of my mom. Shall we go?"
"The girls went into a lace shop. Did you want to go in after them?"
"Oh. Uh--no, that's all right. We can just wait here."
"From God our Heavenly
Father a blessed angel came
And unto certain shepherds brought tidings of the same
How that in Bethlehem was born the son of God by name
O tidings of comfort and joy, comfort and joy
O tidings of comfort and joy."
The two planted themselves near the window of the lace shop, making sure to keep themselves from getting mowed down by passersby, engaging in occasional small talk but pretty much quietly watching people walk around with vague interest. Or at least that was how it was with Trowa.
Quatre, for his part, found himself staring at families as they passed by, memories of his own past mercilessly flooding his mind in response to the sight. A father severely rebuking his three overly energetic sons. Two pairs of brothers and sisters quarreling over some treats just recently bought at a nearby bakery, with one of the girls bursting into copious tears when her treat got dropped and trampled on by other shoppers. A mother slyly conferring with her husband as they peered through a nearby window, pointing out toys she'd want to purchase for the children.
Of course, the memories stirred by these little snatches of family life weren't at all close to what he'd been seeing. What he witnessed were normal demonstrations of family dynamics. What he actually experienced was specifically a Winner phenomenon, and he was suddenly mowed down by feelings of ambivalence toward his family.
Simply put, all the arguing, bonding, laughing, crying, and other expressions of a strong attachment between members of the family only needed to be reversed for the same scenes to accurately portray his own experiences growing up. His mother's coldness and seeming disinterest in the goings on with her own children. His father's severe control over the children's upbringing and conduct. His brothers' stoic adherence to the molds assigned to them. His sisters' meek resignation to the same rigid codes. His own ongoing refusal to be pegged by anybody and the resulting punishments that often rendered him bedridden from the pain of being flogged heavily or starving from being forced to go to bed without dinner.
"The shepherds at those
tidings rejoiced much in mind
And left their flocks a-feeding in tempest, storm, and wind
And went to Bethlehem straightway, the son of God to find
O tidings of comfort and joy, comfort and joy
O tidings of comfort and joy."[1]
The girls presently trotted out of the shop, little bundles cradled in their arms. They both beamed.
"Wonderful shop," Catherine sighed, giggling a little. "Where to now?"
"I'd like to get something for Quatre's wreath," Trowa replied. "I think there's a floral shop somewhere back that way." He pointed in the direction of the inn where Orland waited.
"Oh, you don't have to do that," Quatre quickly said, startled out of his reverie. "I can get some things for it myself."
"Nonesense," his young master said, leaning down a bit to make sure he was clearly heard amid the bustling around them. "I want to do this for you. It's not a problem at all."
Quatre looked at him.
"It's not, Quatre. Really." Trowa flashed him an engaging smile.
The boy relaxed and then nodded. "All right then."
"Thank you."
And almost imperceptibly, Quatre felt his companion take hold of his hand and lightly rub the back of it with his thumb before letting go. It was a tiny gesture of affection that managed still to give the boy an overwhelming sense of comfort and security, something he seemed to be badly needing at the moment. His childhood memories had done nothing but to plunge him into a state of mild depression.
The four walked into the floral shop and scouted around for possible embellishments for Quatre's wreath, with Gabriela finally coming out of her shell and eagerly pointing out gold-dusted fruit, velvet ribbons, bright red roses, etc., for Trowa's consideration.
"If it's a present for Quatre," she said as she waved a gossamer ribbon in the young man's face, "you need to put in a lot more attention to it. You shouldn't keep it so plain and dull with just--holly. I mean, look!"
Trowa merely chuckled and continued to inspect a holly bough that was wonderfully packed with the most spectacular blend of bright red berries and pointy, variegated leaves.
"It's an ivy wreath, right? Holly won't do anything for it. All you'll have is a couple of different plants put together." The girl pouted a little as she watched her friend. "You need things that'll brighten them up a bit. Like these rose blossoms." She plucked a couple of the flowers and beamed as she showcased them to him.
"I'd like to keep it simple," Trowa replied.
"Simple's too dull."
"It's pure."
"It's dull."
"It's beautiful in its own way."
"How can it be beautiful if it's dull?"
"It's what I want."
"Fine."
With a heavy sigh, Gabriela gave up the fight and replaced the rose blossoms in their basket, ambling over to Catherine, who was immersed in her own thoughts as she inspected an elaborately designed tabletop topiary made of herbs and ribbons.
Quatre, in the meantime, was watching the exchange between Trowa and Gabriela, his mind not quite in the present still. A certain heaviness fell on his shoulders, and try as he might, he couldn't extricate himself from it.
It was a nagging feeling of guilt--for running away, for choosing the easy way out, for being downright weak. He thought of his ongoing fight with his father. It was really nothing more than a difference in opinions and personalities--something to be expected between a father and his son. It may be eventually ironed out, or it may not. But the fact of the matter was that it was something natural. Normal.
And his pending marriage to another duke's daughter. He was, technically, protected by the law. A forced marriage wasn't recognized as a marriage and was in fact a crime. So long as he didn't give his consent, no amount of bullying and threats of physical punishment would change the fact that Quatre was being forced and therefore cannot be made to marry. All his siblings before him assented to their own unions like the obedient children that they were. But not Quatre. He'd resist to the very end.
The boy watched Trowa join his sister and consult with her, noting the unique closeness between the two with a pang of jealousy--the same one he'd felt several days ago when they were busy decorating the Christmas tree. As he mulled over his own situation with his siblings, he realized that to a certain degree, there was some closeness between him and Morgan and Sophie at least. Morgan, for all his brashness and overly masculine displays, was really accommodating toward Quatre. Sophie herself, for all her passivity and moroseness, was largely more attached toward her younger brother than to any other sibling in the family. The connection between the three of them was nothing compared to the one Catherine and Trowa shared, but at least it was there. It was present. And Quatre never really appreciated it.
My God, he thought. I miss them. I really miss them.
He was jarred back to the present when Trowa walked away from the counter with a bundle of holly boughs and made his way toward him.
"I couldn't decide which bough had the best clusters, so I bought a whole bunch," he said, smiling sheepishly at the boy. "I'm sure we could make something out of the extras."
Quatre forced a smile and nodded. "Of course," he said and once more fell into a pensive silence.
Trowa didn't seem to notice the sudden shift in the boy's mood as he herded his companions out of the shop to make their way toward a cozy little public house that sat a little far removed from the square. The girls had been complaining of food deprivation, and the young man was obliged to satisfy them.
Quatre was too deep in thought as he trailed behind his companions. His head bowed, he constantly walked into people, stammering apologies as he went, accepting any annoyed retort from the occasionally harried shopper without so much as a mere peep. At one point, even, he slammed rather forcefully against a man going the opposite direction, and the two staggered about a little from the shock and the impact.
"Oh! Excuse me!"
"I'm sorry--I wasn't looking…"
"It's all right. You didn't…" The man paused as he took stock of Quatre. "Do I know you, sir?"
"No, I don't believe so. Excuse me."
Quatre tried to walk around him, but the man seemed rather insistent and held him back by grabbing hold of his arm.
"What…"
"No, we've met before. I'm sure of it! What's your name?"
"I--no, we haven't," the boy sputtered as he tried to pull his arm away. "Do you mind letting go, sir? I'm about to lose my companions."
"I'm sure, I'm sure--I know you…"
The man's grip tightened, and the look of perplexity and surprise in his face deepened, sending the boy in a bit of a panic as he continued to struggle against him.
"Sir, please--my arm…"
"Your name! Just tell me your name!"
"No!"
"What's going on here? Jasper! What are you doing?"
A statuesque woman marched up to them and towered over the boy as she alternately glared at Jasper and stared at him in amazement.
"Oh--I know this young man," Jasper continued, a strange excitement tingeing both his voice and his expression.
"No, you don't," Quatre snapped as he gave a massive tug and finally extricated himself from Jasper's grip. He felt his arm throb from the struggle.
"Jasper, wait for me over by that shop," the woman said sternly, and Jasper immediately obeyed, that odd expression still on his face. Then she turned to Quatre and offered an apologetic smile. "I'm so sorry about that," she said in a softer tone. "Jasper's not quite there…" She paused to tap her forehead with a masculine-looking finger. "I try to keep an eye on him as much as I can, but he can be pretty slippery. I only hope he hasn't hurt you."
"No, he hasn't," Quatre replied, his heart rate slowing down. "He just startled me, that's all." Then he glanced in Jasper's direction and found the unfortunate man accosting yet another passerby with the same excited--almost desperate--claim. "It looks like he's found someone," the boy added, nodding.
"Oh, lord."
The woman hastily abandoned Quatre and hurried over to her companion's side to save the new victim, who was now angrily pelting Jasper with his umbrella while the latter demanded to know his name.
"Are you all right?" Trowa asked once Quatre had caught up with them.
The three of them hadn't even heard the commotion, what with all the activity surrounding them. They were about fifty or so feet away when they realized that Quatre was missing, and by the time Trowa started a search, the boy had been delivered from Jasper's clutches.
"I'm fine," Quatre said, gingerly rubbing his arm. "Let's go."
Trowa kept to his side from then on, but that still didn't alleviate the heaviness that continued to fester in the boy's chest as they made their way to the public house.
**********
"You really need to show me how to sew these lace trims," Catherine said when they stepped out of the carriage in front of the Ivy House. "Some of my dresses are so dismal-looking, and I'm not very good at sewing."
"Oh, it's easy," Gabriela chirped, her eyes dancing.
Quatre felt a surge of joy at seeing the welcome alteration in the girl's behavior and mood, silently congratulating himself for a job well done.
She just needed some time away from her mother, he thought with a sigh as he watched the two girls link arms and chatter on happily as they entered the house. I only hope she stays this way even if for just a while.
He turned around and saw Trowa give Orland some instructions regarding the carriage, and the boy patiently waited for his young master to join him. He swallowed as he rallied his spirits in a desperate attempt to brave what was about to come. He stared at his shoes, absently rolling a small, smooth stone under the tip of his right foot as he waited.
Trowa presently joined him, holly boughs tucked under his arm.
"Well now," he said in a gentle, confidential tone. "Would you like to join me in putting your wreath together, Quatre?"
The boy hesitated. Then, saying a quiet prayer for strength, he raised his eyes and cleared his throat.
"Trowa," he said, a hint of a tremor in his voice. "I'd like to go home."
"What are you talking about? You are home."
"No--I mean my real home…"
Trowa fell silent. He stared at the boy, uncomprehending. Then he shook his head slightly. "Quatre, what…"
"I want to go home," the boy replied, more firmly this time. "I can't stay here anymore. I don't belong here. I want to be with my family again. I'm sorry."
Trowa didn't utter a syllable, and with the desolate landscape around them, Quatre thought that the silence that ensued was crippling.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
[1]God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen