Quatre appeared before Dorcas the following morning, utterly sheepish and mortified--and not to mention sore as hell. He was completely lost and confused upon waking up and finding himself facing the Christmas tree, his wreath on his lap, and a mysterious blanket draped over him. And it wasn't until after gulping down three cups of tea when he remembered what had happened, and he endured an excruciating breakfast with a deep flush on his cheeks that wouldn't go away.
Thankfully enough, none of the other staff noticed, being half-awake themselves. Or at least if they did, they had the decency to leave the boy alone. Dorcas, however…
"Quatre, dear, you really should slow down. You look much too red," she sang rather loudly as she went about slicing the freshly-baked bread and refilling the pot of tea. "Or are you feeling a little ill? Hmm? You can tell me."
Quatre thought he caught a hint of a mischievous gleam in her eyes when she handed him his breakfast, which didn't at all help in alleviating his discomfiture. He barely managed to stutter his thanks for her concern before forcing himself to eat, knowing that she was watching him carefully. Anyone who saw him during breakfast would have wondered if he were suffering from a perpetual bout of cross-gender hot flashes.
"All right, listen up," Dorcas spoke up after what seemed to be an agonizing eternity. "The guests will be arriving this afternoon for tea. Then only God knows what they'll be doing between then and dinner, but His Lordship's told me that everyone here is expected to wait on everyone. And you know what this means."
A collective groan rose from the three men, and Quatre stared at them in some surprise. "Aw, hell, we're dressing up again?" Angus whined in his trademark falsetto. "Damn, I hate dressing up!"
"It's orders, dear."
"What do you mean?" Quatre cut in, turning to Dorcas. "Dress up?"
"We've got a closet of uniform-type costumes that we're obliged to wear whenever there's a special party going on," the housekeeper explained, taking a sip of her breakfast tea. "It's just to make us more presentable to the guests, who're all very important people, and their families."
She shrugged as she added, "And if the party isn't particularly big or special, only one of us gets to dress up and serve. That usually means me."
Quatre stared at his empty plate and cup. One word kept swirling in his mind at the thought of mingling with the guests: exposure. People from the peerage and the gentry would be present, and the chances of their being friends or even casual acquaintances of his father's were frighteningly high.
After breakfast, and once the others had left to go about their duties, Quatre approached Dorcas. "Do I have to be part of this, too?" he asked, his forehead breaking out in cold sweat. "I mean--there might be things I could do around the kitchen and so on…"
She looked at him knowingly. "I'm afraid so, dear. Is there someone you're trying to avoid?"
The boy stared at his shoes for several seconds as he debated. Then he realized that at this moment, the only thing he could do was to trust her. He'd no other alternative.
"Yes. I think there'll be people coming who'll know my father," he said in a tiny voice, grimacing as though giving out that bit of information was like tearing his insides out of him.
"I see. His Lordship, Quatre, is expecting only three of his closest friends to show up, and all of them are from the northern counties. If you happen to be from these parts, I doubt if they'd know your father."
A little shot of hope coursed through his chest, and he looked up, his face brightening a bit. "What about Tro--Lord Bethelford's friends? And Lady Catherine's?"
Dorcas gave him a playful smirk at the little stumble. "They're all friends from school. Lady Catherine's expecting five friends to show up, and Lord Bethelford's got three. There'll be other young people, though, who're sons and daughters of His Lordship's guests."
Relief washing over him, Quatre finally let his guard down, and he smiled brightly. "All right then," he said.
"You really ought to smile more often, dear," Dorcas said, tweaking his cheek playfully. "You look absolutely beautiful when you do. I've never seen anyone literally glow when he smiles."
"I need a good reason, though," Quatre laughed.
"Oh, you've got a good reason, all right," the housekeeper said as she handed him a set of rags and pointed to a bucket of water. "It's the hallways for you today."
**********
It took Quatre more than double the amount of time washing the hallways than the main hall the previous day. He was only a third of the way done when he had to stop for a fairly lengthy time to rest his sore knees and aching arms and shoulders. He sat on the floor at one side of the hallway, pressing his back against the wall as he stretched his legs before him, wincing from the dull throbbing that plagued his knees.
Besides, he was still sore from the awkward sleeping position he'd been in all night long, and he was downright feeling ill from all that pain. And he was expected to serve at the party that night? Was he expected to be cheerful as well?
As his eyes wearily scanned the area, they fell on a nearby door, which he recognized as that of the conservatory. He quickly tensed up as he remembered the note Trowa had left for him. Then he remembered Trowa. Then he remembered last night.
"You're an idiot, Quatre Winner," he murmured, staring at the ceiling. "You can't afford to do anything so stupid like…"
The sound of approaching footsteps cut him off in mid-thought, and he quickly scrambled back up and was once again on his cramped hands and battered knees, vigorously washing the floor. The footsteps, which were coming from one end of the hallway, stopped several feet behind him.
"Quatre?"
Instinctively, the boy pulled his hood over his head, immediately hiding most of his face from the unexpected and rather unwelcome newcomer. He stopped his washing and slightly turned his head as he glanced over his shoulder. He didn't even bother standing up as he was supposed to do, being much too confused at the moment.
"My lord?"
There was a brief pause. "I've never met you. I always make it a point to meet new staff on the first day, but you seemed to just slip by without my noticing."
"I'm an unexpected hire," Quatre stammered, frozen in his awkward posture.
Another pause followed. "Do you mind standing up? It's a little difficult talking to you like this. Unless you want me to get down on my hands and knees as well."
"I'm sorry."
The boy stumbled to his feet, his knees threatening to give way from under him. He turned around to face his companion, his hood still obscuring his features. "I'm sorry," he repeated.
The figure before him sighed and stepped forward. His hood suddenly got pulled back, and he found himself staring up at--and uncomfortably standing a little too close to--his young master.
"Much, much better," Trowa said quietly, looking at him intently. "What's your last name, Quatre?"
"Winner--sir."
Trowa nodded with a hint of a smile. Then he pointed to himself. "Trowa Barton, a.k.a. Lord Bethelford, a.k.a. the next Earl of Bethelford."
Quatre began to fidget. Now what? Trowa was staring at him a little bit longer than he wanted and more intensely than he cared for.
"Did you…" Trowa paused, his manner suddenly shifting. He averted his eyes, looking instead at a nearby portrait as he cleared his throat. "Did you find the note--yesterday?"
Quatre flushed. "I did, my lord."
"And?"
It was Quatre's turn to look away so that the two were holding an awkward conversation without once looking at each other. "I've got too many things to do today, my lord, to…"
"Trowa."
"Sir?"
"Trowa. Just call me by my first name."
"I can't do that. I'm a…"
Quatre suddenly felt his hand taken from his side, and he quickly turned to gape at Trowa who was holding it up, looking critically at it before resting his eyes on him.
"This isn't the hand of a servant, Quatre," he said. "It's on its way to being one, but it wasn't born into hard labor." He gently released the boy's hand. "And it wouldn't have been able to play the harpsichord as beautifully as it did yesterday if its owner was really whom he claims to be."
Quatre felt the skin that Trowa touched burn a little. He fell silent, not knowing how to respond.
"Waschen Sie sich die Hände mehr als einmal im Jahr?"[1]
The boy's head snapped up, and he stared at Trowa in surprise.
"Vos mains, vous ne les lavez qu'à la Toussaint?"
Trowa was stifling a smile as he paused, watching the boy gape, then frown, then bite his lip. "Well?" he pursued, the smile forcing itself out despite his obvious efforts to control it. "Quante volte l'anno si lava le mani?"
Quatre suddenly burst out in giggles, clamping a hand to his mouth. "They can't be that filthy!"
Trowa was smiling broadly now as he took hold of the boy's hand and pulled it off his mouth. "Your hands are right now, Quatre. Keep them away from your mouth."
They fell into another awkward silence before Trowa said, "A servant wouldn't have understood what I've just said. Your father--what is he? A viscount? Marquis? Baron?"
Quatre hesitated. "A duke," he replied quietly, a pained expression crossing his face.
Trowa's eyes widened. "Really. Then what…"
"Trowa! Dad needs you!"
The two turned around to find Catherine waving at them from the other end of the hallway. She was decked out in a riding costume, and Quatre couldn't help but wonder how she could manage to ride a horse at breakneck speed in a gown. Even better, why her father would let her do something so unlady-like in the first place. Then he chided himself.
That's stupid, he thought. Of COURSE girls could do it! It's just that none of my sisters got a chance to learn how to ride a horse.
Trowa nodded and raised a hand, motioning her to wait. Then he looked back down on Quatre. "Will I be able to hear you play again?" he asked, a little hesitation in his voice.
"Maybe."
"Maybe?"
The boy glanced over to the conservatory door. Then he nodded. "All right."
"Soon, I hope."
"If Dorcas would let me."
Trowa smiled again. The boy noted how the young lord's eyes brilliantly reflected the light when he smiled, and his breath caught in his throat again at the sight. "I'll make her let you."
"Thank you, my lord."
"Trowa."
"Trowa."
The young man nodded, averting his eyes once more and looking a tad uncomfortable as he quietly spoke. "It's an odd name, but somehow it sounds a little nicer when you say it." And before the boy knew it, he was already hurrying off to join his sister.
Quatre watched him as he approached her. Catherine beamed, twirling around. "Well? What do you think? Can I raise hell in the countryside with this?"
"Catherine, you can raise hell in the countryside in anything," her brother laughed, giving her hat a playful pat.
The two walked off, disappearing around a corner, and Quatre simply listened to their voices and footsteps echo up and down the hallways, eventually dying off as he went back down on his hands and knees.
Curiously enough, he didn't feel as tired and sore as he did earlier.
**********
The flurry of activity after lunch almost drove the boy into an apoplectic fit. The staff ran about, cleaning, restoring, fixing, moving, breaking, fixing again, cleaning again--and so on and so forth. The dining room, the main parlor, the main sitting-room, the conservatory--all were gussied up for the evening, with new Christmas decorations brought in and set up. Elaborate garlands lined every mantle, wreaths holding large gold-colored candles sat on strategic surfaces, mistletoe was hung above the parlor and sitting-room's doorways.
And it was with no small wonder that Quatre watched Dorcas, who'd been cooking all morning long for tonight's feast, manage to oversee every single thing while being confined in the kitchen for the most part. She'd break away from her enormous task of putting dinner together to help out in one way or another, bellowing instructions and orders without her voice cracking or going hoarse even by a smidge.
Everyone barely had enough time afterwards to wash up, go through the closet, pull out their "uniforms," and put them on.
Quatre stared at himself critically in the mirror, frowning. He was wearing something completely different from the others only because they couldn't find one that was his size. It looked as though the earl had had a history of hiring large, burly types for his staff, and it was with a lot of difficulty that they were able to find something appropriate for the occasion that fit him.
He was wearing the standard white, billowy shirt, tucked into smart black breeches with black stockings. An elaborately designed waistcoat in gold and black accentuated his slender form, giving him an almost romantic look--of the sort over which his sisters used to sigh as they read their insipid novels, which were written by equally insipid women. A pair of black flat shoes with gold buckles topped off his ensemble, and he squirmed a little at the idea that he looked more like an extremely self-important servant, if not one of the guests.
Orland had even worked a little bit of what he called "hair goo" into his fine, flaxen locks, combing it through until his hair was gelled back, with a few soft strands dipping over his eyebrows. Quatre's face was completely exposed, those stray bangs accentuating his eyes even more.
"Who is this person?" he asked himself as he continued to stare in the mirror.
Panic and an overwhelming feeling of mortifying self-consciousness washed over him when he heard himself being summoned to the kitchen.
"Oh, look at you!" Dorcas cried, clasping her hands before her as she stared at him on his entrance. "Oh, my dear, you look absolutely priceless!"
Quatre grimaced. "I look overdressed," he said. "I wish I looked like everyone else."
"Nonesense! This costume's more you, don't you think so, Angus?"
Angus, who stood nearby squirming irritably in his own costume, barely looked at the boy. "Yeah, yeah, yeah," he grunted as he tugged and pulled at his collar, sleeves, and breeches. "Real sweet. Goddamn, I hate these foul things! How could anyone live in them, I'd like to know?"
The only differences between Quatre's costume and those of the other male staff were the presence of an antique-looking jacket and the overall color scheme of the suits. Quatre would have preferred wearing a jacket instead of a fancy waistcoat, and he certainly preferred the lighter (and so much less formal) shade of taupe. Even Dorcas, who was wearing a more-elaborate-than-usual gown, was dressed more appropriately for her station than he was.
"People might be offended if I show up looking like this," he said.
"Whatever on earth for? Quatre, don't give a damn about what they'd think," Dorcas replied with a snort, waving her hand at him. "I think you look very handsome. And if they can't handle that, it's nobody's problem but theirs."
That didn't put the boy's mind at ease at all. Having been to several dinner parties as well as larger, more formal gatherings, Quatre knew how the higher-ups thought. He knew how egos can be easily shattered by a mere word and how appearances can be a matter of life or death to the eternally self-conscious and vain wealthy class.
The buzz of voices in the servants' mess hall was interrupted by the hollow ringing of the doorbell, and Dorcas clapped her hands to get everyone going.
"Here we go, folks," she called out, hurrying out into the hallway. "The show begins!"
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
[1]"How many
times a year do you wash your hands?"
(in German, French, and Italian)