Quatre spent a miserable night huddled inside a massive fireplace of a burnt farmhouse a few miles down the road. He had to find some cover against the winter air, and given the bleak, open moors that made up the surrounding landscape, this was his only hope for protection. Pulling his hood farther down over his head and his cloak tighter around him, the boy eventually fell asleep, to be periodically awoken throughout the night by sudden, biting gusts of cold wind or a cramped muscle. By the time he fully woke up at sunrise, he reckoned he must have slept a grand total of four hours.
He crawled out of his makeshift bedroom, groaning, feeling dizzy and tired from hunger and lack of sleep. He looked up at the gray winter sky above him and sighed. Then, stretching his twisted, sore limbs, he gazed around, beyond the decaying shell of the farmhouse and at the handful of bare trees that stood as lonely sentinels here and there.
A part of him began a string of bitter reproaches for making such a rash move--especially when he realized how terribly hungry he was. He walked back toward the dirt road and looked at the direction of the manor. And as he did, a harsh reminder jerked him back to his original resolve.
What awaited him back home, after all? Comfort, luxury, servants at his beck and call, warmth, and good food. Of course, he also had his family. A severe, unyielding father. An ineffectual, distant mother. A careless automaton of a brother. A morose, passive sister. Hell, the boy might as well be living with the Borgias. And there was the threat of a forced marriage to a girl he'd never even met and who was just as much of a pawn to her family as he was to his.
Quatre swallowed, feeling his spine tingle at the thought, and he set his sights at the other end of the road instead, where uncertainty, adventure, and even danger lay. He rallied his spirits, hoping to find a public house or an inn along the way, and forced himself to move forward.
Quatre had walked some distance before realizing that by using the main road, he was setting himself up for possible capture. His father must have unleashed every hound from hell to track him down at this point. Scanning the moors for possible footpaths, he found a couple and quickly chose one, not even knowing where he was headed. But it didn't matter.
The narrow trail disappeared in places, not to reappear for several more feet (and after frantic searches by the boy) through the drab landscape. And with the rolling terrain, Quatre was often forced to climb up a number of hills, expending whatever little energy he had to begin with, and by the time he cleared the fourth hill, he simply collapsed on the slope on his way down.
Quatre lay in a crumpled heap, staring at the sky for several moments in weary silence, waiting for his strength to return. It never happened, though, and with the occasional gust of wind chilling him to the bone, he had to force himself back up and keep moving before he'd freeze to death.
And after scaling a couple more low hills, he finally set his eyes on a drab, gray manor a short distance from where he stood, and he took heart, never once minding the fact that the manor was the only building standing. The nearest village would be several miles beyond the moors.
Sniffling and sneezing as he went, Quatre half-ran, half-stumbled toward the stately mansion with its gray stone walls choking with ivy and moss. He walked up a gravelly path toward the front door before pausing.
"An aristocrat lives here, I'm sure," he said, gazing up at the imposing façade. "I can't afford to have anyone who might know Dad see me."
He turned and crossed the manicured lawn toward another gravel walkway that led to the rear of the manor. He realized that he had a better chance of escaping possible capture by appealing to the servants--maybe even bribing them if they proved immovable. Then, almost as an afterthought, he decided to take his plan one step further and become one of the servants instead.
"That would work much better," he mused. "No one would think that the duke's son would do such a thing. It'll be an easy way to hide from everyone."
Buoyed by his plan, he quickly retraced his steps and went back to the edge of the moors and threw himself bodily onto the dirt. Rolling around on the ground and grabbing handfuls of dirt and smearing them on his clothes (even tearing little patches here and there), Quatre tried to make his disguise as convincing as possible--although he had to draw the line in getting dirt in his hair.
"No. That's disgusting," he noted with a grimace as he dirtied up his cloak as well.
Then, after looking over his person with some satisfaction, he picked up his bag and hurried back to the manor, taking care to go to the rear part. Disguise or not, he wanted to play it safe and make sure none of the house's owners saw him.
Rounding the corner after walking what seemed to be miles of gravel (stumbling and twisting his ankle a couple of times, even), Quatre finally found the back door. He took in a deep breath and knocked.
The door was immediately opened by a pudgy, matronly woman in a plain black gown and a white lace bonnet. She gazed in some surprise at the shivering, sneezing boy for a few seconds before breaking out into a friendly grin.
"Oh--you must be Master Roderick's boy. You're early, you know. My lord won't be home till tonight."
"No--ma'am--I'm sorry, but I'm not anybody's boy," Quatre stammered, a little taken aback. "I'm here to offer my services…"
The woman blinked, her smile wavering for a second or two before restoring itself. "You want to work here?"
"Yes, ma'am."
She paused for a moment, thinking, her eyes roving up and down Quatre's person. "You're filthy."
"I'm poor."
"Oh. Of course, silly me," she laughed, her eyes disappearing as she did. "You wouldn't be here looking for a job now, would you? Oh, dear, oh, dear, oh, dear, how silly I can be sometimes…"
"Uh--ma'am? Do you need any help here?"
"Well, what can you do?"
Quatre's heart dropped to his shoes. Uh-oh. I've never thought of that before, he told himself, biting his lip.
The woman continued to smile amiably at him, cocking her head to the side as she waited for his answer. She clasped her hands demurely before her as she did.
"Uh--I can gather wood and--and clean and help you cook…" the boy stammered mindlessly. He knew, however, that he couldn't do squat around the house, being high born and therefore raised to be practically useless in virtually anything.
"Hmm. I suppose we could use the extra help, what with Christmas coming up soon. There's going to be a large party in a few days, as a matter of fact." The woman paused, carefully turning things in her mind before looking back down on the nervous boy as he stood fidgeting at the doorstep. "All right. We could use you as temporary help for now. Depending on how well you perform, we may or may not keep you after the holidays."
Quatre breathed deeply, feeling the weight lift off his shoulders. "Thank you, ma'am…"
"Call me Dorcas," she said as she shook his hand heartily. "I'm the head housekeeper here--in charge of hiring and firing as I see fit."
"Thank you, Miss Dorcas…"
"Oh, you little flatterer. I'm really Missus Dorcas, but I'm widowed, so I suppose it doesn't hurt to call me Miss though technically it should be Ms.," she said, laughing heartily, her words flying out of her in a steady stream. "And your name, my dear?"
"Quatre, Miss Dorcas. I mean, Ms. Dorcas, ma'am."
"Cute name. Well, come on inside where it's warm. And I'll tell you your duties."
"Thank you, Miss--uh--Ms…"
"Ah, hell," Dorcas cut in with a careless wave of her hand. "Just plain Dorcas would be fine, Quatre, seeing as how you're completely lost with this Miss-Ms. thing."
Quatre blushed, offering her a sheepish grin. "All right--Dorcas--ma'am…"
"And no 'ma'am,' either. It's too--well--too old-sounding. I'm not even in my sixties yet, for heaven's sake."
The boy followed her through a spacious hallway. "Yes, ma'am. Oh--I mean, Dorcas."
"You've got this thing for titles, don't you, Quatre?" Dorcas asked, looking over her shoulder at the flustered boy as they entered a room. "Get over it, dear."
She guided the boy toward an old oak table that seemed to span the entire room and made him sit on an equally aged stool. Quatre felt his skin tingle from the sudden shift in temperature, and he breathed more easily as the warmth of the room slowly enveloped him.
The room seemed to be an old or secondary dining room of sorts, perhaps one that the servants used for their meals or simply for hanging out. It was bare save for the table and stools that surrounded it as well as the fireplace, the walls a drab gray with only a couple of small, high windows that provided the needed illumination.
"Okay, here's the deal," the woman said cheerfully as she walked in and out of the room, bringing in dishes for Quatre to use. The boy reckoned that the servants' kitchen might be next door. "You'll answer only to me. There are five other servants in this household--which isn't a surprise since my lord tends to shy away from company a lot. They've all got their duties, and they follow a strict hier--uh--hieracks--no--uh--hierartian…"
She gave an exasperated sigh. "Oh, bugger, I can never get that damn word right."
"You mean hierarchy," Quatre broke in quietly and politely, stifling a smile.
"Right. Whatever. But you're new, and you're temporary. So you answer to me. I'll tell you what you need to do, which means that your duties will change quite a bit around here. Do you understand?"
"Yes, ma'am. I mean, Dorcas."
"Good. Today, since we're pretty much done with our duties, with it being the early afternoon, you can just rest yourself and do some light help in the kitchen."
Quatre smiled gratefully as she disappeared momentarily in the next room and then reappeared carrying a tureen. "Here's your lunch, dear," she chirped. "Eat all you can. You look a bit emaciated. I guess you must be poorer than dirt if you're so horribly thin."
The boy helped himself to the rather bland and murky soup and the stale bread that came with it, feeling himself revive, both in body and in spirit.
I think this'll work out real well, he said to himself with a satisfied smile.
"So tell me about yourself, Quatre," Dorcas suddenly piped up, making the boy choke on his soup.
"I'm sorry," he gasped, loosening his collar. "What did you just say?"
"Tell me about yourself."
Quatre stared at her, saucer-eyed, feeling his blood turn cold. Then he forced himself to calm down. As long as I don't tell her everything, I'll be okay.
"Well--like what? I mean, what do you want to know?"
"Whatever you want to share with me. It's only fair, don't you think so? I've just hired you, after all. I'm entitled to know something about you."
"I've--I've got a family…"
"So does the rest of the world, dear."
"I--don't get along with them--very well."
"So does the rest of the world, dear."
"And--I'm just trying to--uh--survive on my own."
"So does the rest of the world, dear."
Quatre bit his lip, feeling his face burn. "I don't know what else to say," he said lamely, nervously swirling his spoon in his soup.
"Ah, hell," Dorcas sighed. "I suppose I'll let you be for now. You've got a secret or two, Quatre. I can see that. But I'm not one to pry. But so long as you're not running away from the law…"
"Oh, no, I'm not," the boy quickly cut in, shaking his head vehemently. "I swear."
"Okay, okay. I won't bother you then. But I hope you'd trust us enough to confide in us every once in a while, Quatre. I can't stand secrets around here. It doesn't make the work environment con--uh--condasive--no--condensive…" Dorcas slapped a hand to her forehead, grimacing. "Damnit, these big words!"
"Uh--I think you meant conducive."
"Yes, that. So how'd you know these words, dear? Did you actually go to school? It must've been hell for your parents to send you to one if you're so poor."
Quatre gulped. He wanted to kick himself hard at that moment. "Uh--no--I've just heard them used by other people--rich people--before."
Dorcas eyed him strangely but then broke out into another genial grin. "Well," she replied with a careless shrug, "I'm sure I'll be learning more about you as we go on, Quatre."
**********
The boy was told that his employer was an earl--a brilliant man with an all-too-pronounced misanthropic nature, which pretty much dictated his choosing such a lonely spot in which to live. His wife had long passed on, leaving two children in his care and who were thankfully enough at an age in which they could function independently of their father (at least to a degree).
The older child was a daughter, who was currently away at school but who was expected to come home at any day now for the holidays. It was she who insisted on having guests over to cheer up the otherwise lonely manor.
The younger was a son who, until two days ago, was also away at school. His arrival, however, didn't do much to change the dour atmosphere of the place, being just as withdrawn (though not as bitter) as his father. He didn't have many friends, contenting himself instead with only a handful of young men with whom he'd been extremely close. He was often shut away in a room somewhere in the house, immersed in books, only to emerge whenever it would please him to favor the rest of the world with his company--which was quite rare.
The earl himself was one to go off on solitary rambles all over the countryside, often staying out for most of the day, sometimes ending up at a nearby village where he'd stay for the night and then coming home to a household of frantic servants who didn't know whether he was alive or dead.
Quatre listened to all this with some amusement and interest. He also felt some satisfaction at the thought that his employers wouldn't pose too much of a threat to him regarding his discovery. That is, so long as he didn't expose himself to them.
The day passed quickly and uneventfully enough. Quatre met the rest of the staff and found them to be just as friendly and talkative as Dorcas, entertaining him with anecdotes regarding the earl and his family as well as their own.
He spent the late afternoon in the kitchen, peeling vegetables and washing dishes, feeling a curious sense of accomplishment at being able to do chores so simple, this being his first time doing them, at that. Dinner was served, and once the earl and his son were through, the servants took their places in the servants' mess hall, talking and laughing over a hearty meal. Quatre was still a touch uncomfortable at finding himself in such a wildly different environment, but he enjoyed himself immensely as he listened to the others talk and banter.
Dorcas had everything cleaned up and put away by seven o'clock. Quatre was amazed at that, considering his own family's rather leisurely take on the evening meal. Cleanup was usually done by ten at the Winner household.
Quatre had just cleaned himself up and changed to fresh clothes in his room when he heard the distant sound of voices singing. He froze, straining his ears as he listened. It was unmistakable. Somewhere outside, someone was singing Christmas carols. The boy's heart jumped. He quickly grabbed another cloak and threw it on, hurrying out of his room and flying through the hallways to the back door, skidding around corners as he did.
He reached the outside within seconds, listening for the voices, and he realized that they were coming from the front of the house. He ran through the lawn, excitement egging him on, feeling a warm thrill at being able to listen to carolers on his first night of independence from his family.
He stopped a good distance from them, pulling his hood back so as not to have any obstructions to his hearing. There was a break in the clouds overhead, and the moon shone on the group of young people who stood in a festive cluster before the manor's door.
"Wassail, wassail all
over the town,
Our bread it is white, and our ale it is brown,
Our bowl it is made of the white maple tree
With the wassailing bowl, we'll drink to thee…"
Quatre beamed as he listened. He recognized the song as one he used to sing as a child to family guests when they wanted him to entertain them after dinner.
"Here's the health to
the ox and to his right eye
Pray God send our master the good Christmas pie
A good Christmas pie that may we all see
With the wassailing bowl, we'll drink to thee.
"Here's the health to
the cow and to her long tail
Pray God send our master a good cask of ale
A good cask of ale that may we all see
With the wassailing bowl, we'll drink to thee…"
Quatre found himself humming along, and he could barely contain a small laugh as he continued to watch.
"Come butler, come fill
us a bowl of the best
And I pray that your soul in heaven may rest
But if you do bring us a bowl of the small
May the devil take butler, bowl and all.
"And here's to the maid
in the lily-white smock
Who tripped to the door and slipped back the lock
Who tripped to the door and pulled back the pin
For to let these jolly wassailers walk in."[1]
The boy was swept away by a tide of warmth as the carolers finished their song, waiting for the earl to open the door and reward them.
The earl came to the door, all right--to shoo the young people away with angry curses and complaints of being disturbed in the middle of a very important matter. The carolers stared at him, stunned, as he mowed them down with angry words while punctuating them with his cane, which he waved about above his head.
"Oh, my gosh," Quatre murmured in shock as he watched what was happening. "I can't believe he just did that!"
He stood frozen on one spot, gaping at the scene before him until the earl withdrew with a loud slamming of the front door, leaving the carolers staring at it for some time in silence. Then they turned to look at each other, their eyes bulging, their jaws hanging.
"For heaven's sake," Quatre muttered as he pulled out his coin purse that hung from his belt.
He stuck a couple of fingers in his mouth and whistled, the shrill sound startling the carolers as it echoed throughout the desolate area. They turned to him, and he frantically waved at them, motioning for them to come over.
"I'm sorry about that," he said as he gave them some money, feeling a flush of pride at seeing their eyes widen at the coins they held. "My lord is just in a very bad mood tonight."
"Thank you, sir," one of the kids stammered, looking up at him in some awe.
"You're very welcome. I really enjoyed your singing. I hope you'd come back soon."
The carolers thanked him heartily once again with promises of returning before they hurried off to a waiting wagon that sat some distance on the dirt road. Quatre watched them, smiling. Then he turned around to head back to the house. And as he did, his eyes caught a glimpse of a nearby window. He froze on his tracks.
The curtains were drawn back, revealing the figure of a young man silhouetted against the antique window frame. He was looking out--specifically at Quatre. He stared at the boy intensely, as though trying to make heads or tails of what he was seeing. Quatre stared back in surprise as well as with some interest. The young man was likely the earl's son. The boy had never met them, being assigned kitchen duties all day, and he found himself struck by the vision before him.
In the brief moment that they regarded each other, all that Quatre could note was how intensely beautiful the young man's eyes were. But a sudden jolt shook him when he remembered that his hood wasn't covering his head, thereby exposing him to the other's scrutiny.
"Oh, no," he muttered as he quickly pulled it up and over, making sure to bend his head down to further cover any other features that wouldn't otherwise be hidden by the hood and its shadow. "Oh, that was real smart, Quatre. Get yourself out of here. Now."
With that, he turned his heels and ran off into the darkness, feeling himself watched still as he disappeared into the night.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
[1] The Gloucestershire Wassail