"Will this do?"
Dorcas held up an old tunic that was about two sizes too large. Quatre smiled as he took it from her. "Yes, thank you," he said, quickly putting it on.
"It's clean. It's just been sitting in a chest of old castoffs from previous servants. Are you sure it's all right with you? It looks much too big."
It was too true, but the boy didn't care a jot. The thick, rust-colored tunic hung loosely down to his knees, the sleeves extending a couple of inches past his fingertips. But it was warm, and it provided the needed protection for his own clothes. Above all, it had its own hood, which, because of the clothing's size, fell down to his chin once pulled over his head. At least Quatre didn't have to depend so much on his cloak to do the job of hiding his face--especially when he happened to be doing housework.
He'd woken up that morning with the realization that all the clothes he'd brought with him were much too fine and rich-looking. Even plain white shirts--of which he had a good enough supply--were likely going to give him away. He certainly couldn't afford to keep tearing up and soiling every single article of clothing he had just to save his neck, however, and he realized that a coarse outer garment of some kind would serve his purpose well. After breakfast, therefore, he'd approached Dorcas with his request.
"It's perfect," he said, his voice a little muffled from under the low-hanging hood. He started to roll the sleeves up to his wrists. "Thanks, Dorcas."
"I can't see your face, dear. Keep your hood back, or you'll get yourself into a pretty nasty accident with your vision being blocked like that."
"Oh. Sorry." He pulled back the hood.
Dorcas stared at him closely, cocking her head to one side while narrowing her eyes. "You've got pretty fine features, Quatre," she noted thoughtfully. "Is this your first time working? You don't seem to look--well--broken in, so to speak."
"I'm--uh--I'm not that used to it--yet," the boy stammered in a momentary panic. "I mean--this is my first time away from my family and all. But I learn fast. And I can do anything…"
Dorcas let out a brief, amused laugh. "No--not with you being about a hundred pounds underweight, dear. I'll limit your duties to pretty light stuff within doors."
At that moment, a stocky and incredibly hairy man ambled into the kitchen where Quatre was busy wiping his freshly washed dishes dry. The boy offered a little smile. "Hi, Tobias."
"I gotta go," he said in a low, croaky voice at the boy. "His lordship wants me to go to the village with him, and it looks like we'll be out all day. I can't wash the floor in the main hall. Looks like you'll have to take over for me, kid."
"Quatre's got kitchen duties today," Dorcas broke in with a huff, clearly offended at not being consulted about this. "Have Angus do it."
"Angus ain't here. His lordship sent him off to St. Gwynneth's to see the tailor. He won't be back till tonight."
"What about Orland?"
"At Twydell Heath to look at curricles for young Lord Bethelford. Ain't nobody left, Ms. Dorcas."
The housekeeper sighed and turned to look at Quatre, who was now carefully stacking the dry dishes in preparation for storage. "Are you up to this, dear?"
The boy shrugged. "Sure. Just tell me what I need to use for that…"
Tobias looked at him as though things were crawling out of the boy's ears. "Don't be daft. It's just a bucket of water, detergent, and a rag. What else would you need? Or haven't you washed floors before?" Then he hurried over to a peg where a host of cloaks, jackets, and hats hung, and he pulled out his mud-spattered cloak before rushing out the back door.
"Well, I'll be thrown to the dogs," Dorcas said after a moment's silence. Stress was slowly building up in her judging from the unique purple shade her face had taken on. "That blows my schedule. Well, there's no help for it. Tobias is supposed to clean the windows in the conservatory to get it ready for the party. Looks like you'll have to do that, too."
Quatre nodded, smiling. "I'll be fine. I'm not as helpless as I look, Dorcas."
The housekeeper eyed him strangely once more--much like the way she looked at him the previous day. She seemed to be reading hard into every word he'd said and every shift in his expression. And Quatre, now on his guard from being closely regarded, immediately bowed his head, averting his face a little from his companion's view.
"We'll have to start clearing up the main parlor as well," she said, her native cheerfulness back on track. "The Christmas tree's going to be brought in tonight from Brockleby. I'll need your help with that."
"Of course."
Still a little guarded, Quatre carefully stacked the dishes and stored them properly in their respective cupboards before discarding the damp dishcloths in the laundry pile. Then he searched for a bucket and found about half a dozen different sized ones. Fully aware of his own physical limitations, he chose the smallest one and filled it with water and sprinkling what he thought to be the right amount of detergent in it. Then, with a mighty heave, he lifted the heavy bucket off the floor with both hands and grunted and puffed his way to the main hall.
The next half hour found him on his hands and knees, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, inhaling the faint scent of the detergent. Putting all his concentration on his work, he dipped the rag in the water, wrung it out, and scrubbed the floor, quickly developing an appreciation for what servants had to put up with to keep their masters' houses presentable. The cold, ceramic tile floor was harsh on his knees, and he found himself pausing every so often to stand up and rest his bruised joints, only to get back down and grimace at the painful contact once more.
He was sweating and sore by the time he was done, and with a lot of effort, he hauled the bucket of soiled water away.
**********
Quatre stood before the doors of the conservatory, yet another bucket of water sitting at his feet.
"Well," he sighed, "at least I don't have to be crawling all over the floor this time."
He pushed the door open and stepped in with as much reverence as one would have when entering a sacred shrine. The truth of the matter was that Quatre was more than thrilled at having to clean the conservatory's windows. After his disastrous attempt at a music lesson, his father had the family conservatory made into another sitting-room and the harpsichord moved to one of the unused rooms on the third floor. It was there where Quatre managed to sneak in some self-instruction whenever he could. And because of the growing dust and dirt on the furniture as well as the unbearably drafty environment, these clandestine lessons were very uncomfortable and more than once gave the boy a bad cold.
And, oh, to be in a real conservatory again--even if only as a servant! The thought thrilled him, and he entered the room with some awe and a touch of regret at his lost chance at developing a natural passion.
The conservatory was just as large as what his family used to have, though maybe somewhat darker. Rich mahogany paneling, furniture, and wood floors, in addition to the mahogany damask-like wallpaper, easily overrode whatever light filtered through the gothic-style windows. Wall sconces that held delicate, tapered candles ran along the periphery of the room in elegant pairs, and Quatre could only imagine the soft, golden glow cast by the light in the evening. It was the perfect blend of rich color and texture and soft illumination for a room dedicated to music.
A harpsichord stood in the middle of the room. On every table and mantle lay stacks of music books and sheet music, some of which had spilled over to the floor, creating an inviting scene of artistic disarray.
When Quatre finally recovered from the memories the room stirred up in him, he realized how tight his throat felt. And as he raised his hand to push back a lock of hair from his eyes, he also realized that he'd been weeping. He gazed in some surprise at the moisture on his fingertips.
He sighed and steeled himself. "Come on, Quatre, you can't just stand around, blubbing away like this. You've a job to do."
The boy then picked up the bucket, dropping the rag in the water, and walked through the room toward the windows that stood directly across the area from the door. And as he passed by a side table, he stopped, laid the bucket down, and picked up the sheet music that lay on the floor at his feet.
His eyes scanned the sheet, and he murmured, "Christmas music."
He suddenly felt an overpowering urge to go to the harpsichord and give life to the jumble of notes that danced before his eyes. He glanced through the rest of the stack and found them to be Christmas songs as well.
The call of music proved too much for him to resist. The boy looked around the room, even poking his head out the door for signs of possible trouble from both employers and fellow-servants. And once reminded and reassured of the manor's virtually deserted state, he quietly closed the door and took his place at the instrument, setting one sheet music before him while placing the rest on top of the harpsichord.
He gazed at the notes, studying them, humming to himself as he did to give himself an idea of the key and tempo in which the song was set up. Then he gently placed his fingers on the keys, taking note of sharps and flats, then he took in a deep breath.
"Go on," he coaxed himself gently, and he started playing.
The sound of the instrument's strings getting plucked as his fingers depressed the keys sent shivers up and down his spine. The almost bell-like tinkling sounds produced by the harpsichord felt like nirvana to the boy. And, swept away by the music he was creating, Quatre sang along, his voice quiet and gentle, a perfect partner to the clear music that slowly filled the room.
"Adeste fidelis, laethe
triumphantes
Venite, venite in Bethlehem
Natum videte regim angelorum;
Venite, adoremus, venite, adoremus,
Venite adoremus Dominum."[1]
Quatre let a moment's silence pass once the song was over, savoring the warmth that came with the music. And once his appetite was whetted, he pulled out a random sheet from the stack above the harpsichord and started playing after devoting a minute to studying the music.
"The holly and the ivy,
when they are both full grown,
Of all the trees that are in the wood, the holly bears a crown.
The rising of the sun and the running of the deer
The playing of the merry organ, sweet singing in the choir.
"The holly bears a
blossom, as white as any flow'r,
And Mary bore sweet Jesus Christ to be our dear savior.
The rising of the sun and the running of the deer
The playing of the merry organ, sweet singing in the choir."
Images of past Christmases spent with his family flashed before him as he sang.
"The holly bears a
berry, as red as any blood,
And Mary bore sweet Jesus Christ to do poor sinners good.
The rising of the sun and the running of the deer
The playing of the merry organ, sweet singing in the choir.
"The holly bears a
prickle, as sharp as any thorn,
And Mary bore sweet Jesus Christ on Christmas Day in the morn.
The rising of the sun and the running of the deer
The playing of the merry organ, sweet singing in the choir."
Then came memories of moments spent in solitary artistic and literary pursuits--of hours that were largely stolen and efforts that remained mostly ignored and unappreciated.
"The holly bears a bark,
as bitter as any gall,
And Mary bore sweet Jesus Christ for to redeem us all.
The rising of the sun and the running of the deer
The playing of the merry organ, sweet singing in the choir."[2]
Quatre stared blankly at the sheet music at the conclusion of the song, feeling a host of emotions swirl within him and hating himself for his perceived weakness.
"Oh, God, I'm about to start blubbing again," he said through clenched teeth.
Knowing that it would take almost unnatural effort to pull himself together, he leapt up from the bench and fled the room, blindly tearing through the hallways until he found himself standing in the open air behind the manor. Panting, he raised his eyes to the winter sky before taking in the bleak surroundings. Inhaling deeply, he felt himself slowly calm down, and within seconds, he was finally ready to go back to the conservatory to finish his chore.
He was in the servants' mess hall when he heard voices in the next room. He recognized Dorcas's, but the other voice was unfamiliar, and the newcomer was asking about him.
A shot of panic tore through him at the notion that the newcomer must be someone his father had hired to track him down. The boy tiptoed to the door, holding his breath as he pressed his ear against the wood.
"No, my lord, that would be Quatre," Dorcas said.
"Quatre?"
"The new boy I hired as temporary help yesterday. Is there anything wrong, sir?"
"And he was in the conservatory earlier?"
Quatre gave a little start. The newcomer must the young earl. The boy took hold of the doorknob, slowly turned it and opened the door by a crack. He peered through with one eye, straining to catch a glimpse of his employer.
With some difficulty, he'd managed to get a general picture of Lord Bethelford. He towered over Dorcas, his slender, graceful form enhanced by a simple dark suit made of a gray shirt, a black vest, and black trousers. A pair of brilliant sea-green eyes, full of intelligence and sensitivity, peered from behind a curtain of soft brown hair, causing the boy to catch his breath. The young earl was stunning to behold.
"Well…" he paused and hesitated, averting his eyes a little as he lost himself in thought for a moment. "Tell him that he left the bucket in the conservatory, and he isn't done with his cleaning yet."
Dorcas flushed. "Oh. I'm so sorry, my lord. I'll tell him that as soon as I see him. I honestly don't know why he'd do that, seeing as how he'd been very thorough with every job he'd done so far."
The young earl shrugged carelessly. "He's new. We'll forgive him this once. But you'll have to set him right, Dorcas, if you want things to run efficiently around here. We can't afford any slackers in this household."
"Yes, sir. Very well, sir."
He nodded and then left the room without another word. Quatre shut the door quietly, waited several seconds, and then opened it and walked through.
"There you are," Dorcas cried in surprise, placing her hands on her hips. Then she frowned. "Quatre, young Lord Bethelford was just in, and he said that you've just abandoned your cleaning in the conservatory."
"Yes, I did, but I had to go--you know…" The boy's voice trailed off as he gave a sheepish smile. "Relieve myself. I'm on my way back. I'm so sorry for getting you into trouble."
Dorcas cocked an eyebrow, still frowning. "Well--all right. Go on and hurry back before he says anything more. I'd really hate to see you get sacked, dear, seeing as how this is your first job and all."
After offering yet another round of apologies to the housekeeper, Quatre hurried off and once more found himself in the conservatory. This time, he completely ignored the harpsichord and the sheet music that remained there and grabbed the bucket, hauling it over to the windows.
He was done with his work in half an hour, and he wiped his hands on his tunic as he stared at the now crystal-clear windows.
"I need to put the music sheets back," he reminded himself as he picked up the bucket and lurched over to the harpsichord.
He quickly gathered the pieces of paper and replaced them on the side table where he'd first discovered them. And as he pulled his hand away, a small piece of paper fell out of the stack. It seemed to have been carelessly and hurriedly placed there, and because of its size, Quatre didn't notice it at first.
The boy sighed wearily as he stooped to pick it up. And as his eyes glanced over it, he froze.
It was a note.
It was a note from the young earl, and it was addressed to him.
"Quatre," it read, "I want you to use this harpsichord whenever you wish. As a matter of fact, I insist that you--if not order you to--play on it everyday. What I heard earlier was more than divine. It was nothing short of a miracle."
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
[1]Adeste Fidelis
(O Come All Ye Faithful)
[2]The Holly and the Ivy