With the rest of the tiny staff sent out by the earl on a variety of errands, Dorcas and Quatre felt the full brunt of the daily chores--in addition to the hair-raising amount of work needed to prepare the manor for the upcoming party.
"It's only a pretty small group, thank God," Dorcas said, puffing and sweating as the two sat in the servants' mess hall, reviving their spirits and their strength with refreshing glasses of lemonade.
They'd just cleaned up the main parlor, where the Christmas tree was to be set up, hauling and rearranging furniture to make room for the gigantic fir that was expected to arrive later that evening from a nearby village. They were taking a half-hour break before tackling other rooms in the massive house as well as dragging out the gargantuan oak chest that was hidden in one of the downstairs rooms (thankfully enough). The chest, Dorcas noted, contained the Christmas tree ornaments.
"Young Lord Bethelford and Lady Catherine would be decorating the tree tonight. They're on their own, the poor things, seeing as how much His Lordship would sooner be drawn and quartered than be caught decking the tree with glass ornaments and tinsel." Dorcas paused as she let out a full-bodied belly laugh. "Oh, dear, oh, dear, oh, dear--for all his grumpiness, His Lordship's really a good man, Quatre. He's just tired of the world. Don't let him frighten you."
The boy smiled, wiping sweat from his forehead with his sleeve as he took a large gulp of his lemonade. "Is he pretty liberal with his children?"
"Oh, my, yes--very! Even with all his rules and such, I've never seen a father give his children more freedom than His Lordship has. In fact, young Lord Bethelford scolds him for being too free with them sometimes, but his father just waves him off with a 'pish-posh' and a grunt, saying that the world's too thick and messed up to care about how he disciplines his own children."
Quatre stared at his glass for a second or two as he tried to frame his next question. "Well--how about Lord Bethelford? How is he?"
"A nice young man," Dorcas said thoughtfully as she refilled her glass. "Too quiet for his own good, I think--needs to go out more or at least have friends over more often. I only see them on his birthday and on Christmas. He really needs someone to draw him out. Not that I'm gossiping, mind."
"Does he--um--like music?"
"I think so," the housekeeper replied slowly, her eyebrows furrowing. "Though I've never heard him play. It's always Lady Catherine who uses the harpsichord. And even then, she'd sooner be riding her horses through the countryside as if the devil were after her. Our late Lady Bethelford was the musical one in this family." She suddenly choked on her lemonade, gesticulating frantically to the startled boy. "Oh! I forgot--I need you to come with me to the market later--oh, damn! We're out of glazed fruit and sugar and a whole lot of other things for tomorrow's party."
This additional chore only added to the pressure of getting everything else done on time, and the two didn't even bother finishing their drinks. They simply abandoned everything, shortening their rest time by a good twenty minutes. Quatre felt on the verge of fainting from all the physical exertion to which he was subjecting himself. It was definitely a far cry from lounging on his backside on his mother's favorite divan while being waited on hand and foot by an army of servants.
It was a little past noon when they'd done and informed Lord Bethelford of his pending abandonment. They rewarded themselves with a quick bowl of stew for lunch before running out the door and jumping on the wagon.
**********
The open-air market was located at one of the more distant villages, and with its mind-blowing maze of walkways that cut through hundreds of stalls, it was pure sensory overload. The different stands showcased an obscene variety of food, crafts, and practically every little thing under the sun. It was all that Quatre could do to stumble behind Dorcas, his head snapping from side to side with his jaw hanging, completely bowled over by the environment.
They flitted from one stall to another, and Quatre watched Dorcas haggle her way into every single sale she made, impressing her companion with her spunk and infectious good nature.
Two hours must have passed before they were ready to head back. Arms loaded with bags and packages, Quatre followed the pumped-up housekeeper to the last stall, which happened to be selling a variety of freshly cut holly branches, poinsettias, fresh herbs tied in bunches, ivy topiaries, and gold-dusted pine cones and fruit.
"Time to spice up our little part of the manor, Quatre," Dorcas said, nudging him before strutting up to the merchant.
She'd underestimated her own strength, however, and the rather forceful nudging she gave the boy caused him to lose his already weakened grip on a bag of almonds and candied fruit. With a small cry, he watched the bag land with a dull thud on the ground. He quickly tried to reposition the rest of his burden in his arms for a more secure hold before he made a move to kneel down and pick up the bag. But with his arms fully loaded, he soon realized that it would be impossible to do that without sacrificing yet another bag to the cobblestones under his feet.
"Here. Allow me," a man suddenly said and quickly picked it up for the boy.
Quatre flashed him a grateful smile. "Thank you, sir," he said. "I wouldn't have been able to get it myself with all these."
The man didn't return his smile, and neither did he return his bag. At least not right away. He simply stood before the boy, regarding him steadily, holding the bag between them.
"Um--you could just place it on top of my pile here, thanks," Quatre said, indicating the location with a nod.
The man still didn't move. The boy began to squirm a little under his gaze.
What's going on here? he thought, his face reddening.
"Um--sir?"
The man finally moved forward and gently placed the bag on top of the rest of Quatre's load. The boy forced another smile. "Thank you."
"It was my pleasure--my lord Quatre."
The boy froze, the blood draining away from his face. "I'm sorry?" he stammered.
"The duke's been looking all over the countryside for you, my lord. I'm here to take you home."
Quatre feigned innocence despite the terror that was now consuming him. He swallowed, feeling his throat go dry. "I don't know what you're talking about. You've mistaken me for someone else."
He turned away but was stopped by a firm hand on his arm. "The duke hired me to do a job, sir, and I intend to finish it. If you'd come quietly, all the better for both of us."
"What are you doing? Let me go!"
"I'm not the only one here. If you were to get away from me, there are others who'll find you. We need to go quietly, sir. The duke specifically wants this dealt with delicately."
Quatre struggled against his hold, but with the disadvantage of his heavy burden, he couldn't manage a mere inch. Terror grew by the second as he tugged desperately at his arm.
"Stop it!" he cried, drawing the attention of some passersby. "You have the wrong person, I'm telling you! Let go of me!"
"Not so loud, my lord. Your father doesn't want a public scandal. He…"
"I don't give a toss what he says! I don't even know who you're talking about!"
The more Quatre struggled, though, the tighter the man's grip became, and he felt himself literally getting pulled away from the stall. He put on as much resistance as he could, digging his heels on the cobblestones, while protesting loudly. His tormentor finally dropped all pretenses with his patience having run its course.
"If you don't stop all your noise, you little brat, I'm going to beat you senseless and take you back to your goddamn father tied hand and foot, so help me God," the man hissed, his face contorting horribly.
Before Quatre could utter another word, a silver platter appeared from out of the blue and came crashing on the man's head, knocking him off his feet and sending him sprawling on the ground. People gathered around his unconscious figure in stunned silence. Quatre, for his part, gaped at him in momentary confusion before turning to discover his unlooked-for savior.
It was Dorcas. She was holding the platter in one hand, staring at it critically as she turned it over. And, completely ignoring her senseless victim, she handed the platter back to the amazed merchant with a broad grin.
"You're right," she chirped. "It's a sturdy little piece. I'll take it."
**********
"Thanks again, Dorcas," Quatre said as the two made their way back home from the market. He glanced over to her with an embarrassed little smile. "I really didn't understand why he'd harass me like he did…"
Dorcas, the horse's reins firmly in her grip, threw him a quick, knowing look before responding. "Really." She paused, sighing. "I think you do, Quatre. I think you've got a few secrets that you're too afraid to share with me, and I think that man was one of them. Or at least he's got something to do with one of them."
The boy quickly turned away, flustered. He kept his eyes on the deserted, winding road before them in silence as his companion drove the wagon.
"Talk to me, dear. If you're in any kind of trouble, I want to know."
"I'm not running away from the law. I told you that yesterday."
"Then what are you running away from?"
Quatre fell silent once more, feeling a sickening twinge in his gut. "I'll tell you when I'm ready," he said lamely.
The wagon stopped, and Dorcas turned around to face him. "Remember that I hired you, Quatre, which means I trusted you. And I still do. I told you I hate secrets around the house. We've treated you nicely, like you're a little brother of ours, and you still underma--undermile--no--undermand--oh, bugger it all!"
"Undermine…"
"Yes, undermine our trust and friendship."
Quatre stared at his hands in silence.
"Tell me this much then. Are you under any physical threat if whoever's looking for you manages to find you?"
The boy nodded, still looking at his hands.
"Is anyone in the manor, including his lordship and the family, under any physical threat if you were found?"
"I don't think so. It's just me. I wouldn't get anyone else involved, anyway. I'd sooner die than see anybody get hurt."
Dorcas let a moment's silence pass before speaking again. "You're terrified, aren't you?"
Quatre finally looked at her, his eyes brimming with tears. "I am," he said quietly.
With a tired sigh, the housekeeper pulled him close in a tight hug. "You've got friends, dear. If you're in any kind of trouble--especially through no fault of yours--we're here to help. Remember that. And no secrets, all right?"
"All right."
She pulled away, giving a small, amused laugh as she pulled out a handkerchief and roughly wiped the boy's tears away. "Promise you'd talk to me."
"I promise."
Dorcas put her handkerchief away and picked up the reins, and they were once more moving onward. "I'd appreciate it if you would--my lord Quatre."
**********
The early evening went by in a dizzying blur, what with Lady Catherine's arrival for the holidays coinciding with that of the Christmas tree's. The staff were on their toes, running here and there although Quatre was relegated to the kitchen still, busily peeling, slicing, and chopping vegetables as well as washing dishes and sweeping up the general area.
The decorating of the Christmas tree took place immediately after dinner. And although Quatre wanted desperately to be there if only as a bystander, he knew it was impossible. The tiny family gathered in the main parlor, shutting the door against the rest of the household as well as the world as they went about their happy, noisy business.
Quatre stepped outside once all the cleanup had been done. He wanted some time alone and be rejuvenated by the chilly evening air. Besides, the carolers were due to show up any minute now, and he wanted to be on hand to listen to them belt out more of his beloved songs.
He wandered slowly along the gravel walkway, stopping in his tracks upon seeing the brightly lit windows of the main parlor just off to his side. Quickly scanning the area for witnesses, he stole to the window and carefully peered inside, thankful that the heavy velvet curtains were partially drawn.
Both Lord Bethelford and Lady Catherine were taking turns running up and down a ladder that stood next to the tree, hanging some of the most exquisite ornaments Quatre had ever seen. The chest where the ornaments were stored stood open in the center of the room, and the earl himself sat in an armchair by the fireplace, his nose buried in a book, completely ignoring his children. Tinsel, decorated balls, garlands, and whatnot lay strewn all over the floor as brother and sister gingerly stepped over them, talking and laughing, often tossing handfuls of tinsel at each other.
"For heaven's sake," their father grunted, looking over his shoulder with a dark frown. "Can't you two tart up that tree without all this hullaballooing? You're making enough noise to wake the dead! Catherine! Trowa!"
"Oh, Daaaaaaaaad," Catherine laughed, grabbing some tinsel and tossing it on her father, laughing even more at the sight of the shiny strands hanging down the earl's half-bald head as he scowled.
"Trowa," Quatre murmured upon hearing the name. His eyes followed the dark-haired young man in some wonder, feeling his face flush every time Trowa turned around, showcasing his beauty to the entranced boy.
And as he watched, memories of his own past flashed before him, and he couldn't help but compare the jovial carelessness of the present family to the stiff superficiality of his own. He remembered his sisters: Brianna, Bronwyn, Charlotte, Ophelia, and Sophie. All of them standing around in a very feminine, sedate circle, quietly instructing the boys where to hang certain ornaments. He also remembered his brothers: Quinn, Victor, Arthur, and Morgan. All of them fighting--sometimes literally, as in fist fights--over rights to hang the ornaments, the tree's overall construction being divided into specific levels that for some reason meant something to everyone. So much so that the top of the tree was always looked upon as being the most "prestigious" as it housed the Christmas star and thus was always the bone of contention between his overly testosteronized brothers. Quatre, being the smallest, the youngest, and the weakest, was assigned to the bottom of the tree. He never could figure out the logic behind his family's obsession with form.
And it was with a pang of jealousy that he watched the earl's family go about the tree-decorating with so much abandon despite their being only two children. The obvious closeness between Catherine and Trowa, moreover, harpooned the boy mercilessly, and he had to tear himself away from the window before his heart would break.
Thankfully enough, the carolers appeared just as he got back on the walkway. Quatre hurried to a nearby stone bench and sat on it, crossing his legs under him and pulling his tunic tightly around him to fend off the cold breeze that began to pick up. He watched the young people gather around before the front door, talking in low voices first before they fell into a collective hush. Then, in one glorious voice, they began to sing.
"O Tannenbaum, o
Tannenbaum, wie treu sind deine Blätter!
Du grünst nicht nur zur Sommerszeit, nein auch im Winter, wenn
es schneit.
O Tannenbaum, o Tannenbaum, wie treu sind deine Blätter!
"O Tannenbaum, o
Tannenbaum, du kannst mir sehr gefallen!
Wie oft hat nicht zur Weihnachtszeit ein Baum von dir mich hoch
erfreut!
O Tannenbaum, o Tannenbaum, du kannst mir sehr gefallen!
"O Tannenbaum, o
Tannenbaum, dein Kleid will mich was lehren:
Die Hoffnung und Beständigkeit gibt Trost und Kraft zu aller
Zeit.
O Tannenbaum, a Tannenbaum, dein Kleid will mich was lehren."[1]
Quatre held his breath as he waited for the front door to open. He didn't have to wait too long. Within seconds after the song ended, the earl stepped out, as irritated as he could ever be.
"What the devil was that?" he cried. "I didn't understand a bloody word you said!"
"It's German, your lordship," one of the carolers replied, visibly quaking before the irate peer.
"German? Who asked you to sing in German? How do you expect people to listen to you if they don't understand a confounded word you're singing?"
"Dad, it's a German Christmas carol," came a quiet voice from within, and Quatre's heart jumped. Trowa suddenly appeared beside the earl. "It's supposed to be sung in German."
"Well, I've never heard of such nonesense," the earl huffed. "We speak English here, for heaven's sake! Carols should be sung in English as well!"
Trowa stepped forward and gave the carolers some money. "We'd like you to come in for some treats if you'll sing another song for us."
Quatre smiled at what he heard. He never once expected the withdrawn young man to venture out like this, inviting total strangers into the house. He wondered if his sister put him up to this.
The group thanked him heartily and filed indoors, with the earl looking on in amazement. "Trowa!" he said. "What in blazes are you doing? Setting me up for a heart attack?"
His son laughed, his voice ringing clearly in the night. "Dad, you need to go back in before you freeze out here."
The earl obeyed reluctantly, grumbling as he went. Quatre stood up from his bench at the same time, a bit disappointed at not being able to hear any more. With a tired sigh, he turned around, wondering what he was going to do for the rest of the evening now that his chores were done, and the night was young still.
"Quatre?"
The boy froze, his heart beating rapidly.
"Quatre, isn't it?"
He turned around, in time to see Trowa step out of the door and walk out onto the grounds. He was staring keenly at the boy, cocking his head slightly, his face partially hidden by the shadow of his hair.
"My lord?" Quatre stammered, forcing his legs to move forward.
Trowa hesitated. He continued to watch the boy, looking as though he wanted to tell him something but was unable to frame whatever it was correctly. He finally opened his mouth to speak just when Catherine poked her head out the door and called for him.
"Trowa!" she cried. "Come on, you're going to miss the singing! What on earth are you doing out there, anyway? It's freezing!"
Her brother turned around and waved at her before looking back at Quatre. Catherine called out more urgently for him to come inside. Still looking at the boy, Trowa shook his head. Then, his shoulders visibly slumping, he simply walked back to the manor without another word.
**********
Dorcas gave the boy plenty to do for the rest of the night. Hauling out the decorative stuff they'd purchased at the market earlier, she laid everything out on the servants' table and assigned each person to create something with what they had.
"It's for us," she said, beaming. "His lordship wants us to have something nice and festive at our side of the house. We can put them up wherever you want."
"Aw, hell, do we have to?" Angus whined, wrinkling a heavily-freckled nose at the housekeeper.
Quatre didn't complain. He dove into the project with as much gusto as possible. He was halfway done when his thoughts started to wander to Trowa and the Christmas tree in the main parlor.
"Um--Dorcas--is the family still up?" he asked.
"Let's see." Dorcas glanced at an antique clock on the wall. "No, they're not. None of them stays up past nine--unless they're having a party or something, of course. Why?"
"Nothing."
Quatre then stretched, yawning. "I think I should be heading off to bed, too. I'd like to finish this tomorrow if I can."
"Of course, dear. Good night."
The boy picked up his half-finished wreath and walked off. But instead of heading to his room, he tiptoed to the main parlor and sneaked in.
The room was still warm, with the last of the firewood burning low in the fireplace. Only a few candles were lit, giving the room a cozy, dim glow. The tree stood at one end of the room, completely decked out in sumptuous gold, red, green, silver, and blue. Quatre walked toward it just as reverently as when he entered the conservatory earlier that day, the tree's beauty and its significance regarding his past overwhelming him. Looking around, he quickly pulled an ottoman toward the tree. Then he sat down on the floor, crossing his arms on the ottoman and resting his head on them as he gazed up at the tree in pensive silence.
All thoughts, memories, and feelings swirled inside him in a blur, and before long, he was sound asleep.
He half-awoke to the sound of movement and whispered conversation sometime later. Caught in a state of suspension between REM sleep and consciousness, Quatre heard without listening, the voices seemingly woven into each other in an endless stream of whispers, soothing him even further, and he slowly drifted off once more.
He felt a blanket placed on top of him and someone lightly stroke his hair. Then he heard the same person pick up his half-finished wreath, murmuring something, before setting it back down beside him.
It was right before he slipped into unconsciousness when his foggy mind finally registered the voices he was hearing. One of them was Dorcas's, whispering to her companion about how exhausted Quatre must be to just doze off like that, apologizing as she did. She was quietly and gently reassured and dismissed by her companion, who happened to be Trowa.
And once the housekeeper had left, Quatre heard Trowa walk toward him, pulling the blanket farther up until the boy was completely covered in warmth. He felt his hair stroked once more, a low chuckle coming from the young aristocrat before he quitted the room.
"My Christmas elf."
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
[1]O Tannenbaum (O Christmas Tree)