One magnificent carriage after another appeared at the earl's doorstep, and one magnificently attired person of some significant title after another stumbled out. Carriages, after all, where rather awkward vehicles, and unless a footman happened to be nearby ready with his assistance, the idea of a grand, dignified entrance was a null and void concept.
The earl was characteristically averse to having way too many people cavorting around in his beloved retreat and so had made it a point to request that his guests leave all unnecessary servants at home. Carriage drivers were the only hired help allowed to come with the attendees. And even then, they were relegated to the servants' hall for their own inferior version of a holiday dinner party.
The men got out of this situation with their vanity the most intact. The women, however, were the worst for it, having shown up in the most elaborate gowns imaginable. Each wore those cumbersome hoops under her skirts (housing layers of petticoats), which required not only imagination, but unnatural dexterity to move in. On top of that handicap, the women insisted on embellishing their persons with all sorts of jewelry, fur stoles, and feathers on headdresses. How they'd managed to get themselves inside a cramped carriage was a wonder. And how they'd managed to get themselves out of it was a sight to see.
Quatre could barely contain his snickering every time a carriage would make its appearance. Even when indoors and not waiting on anyone, he could clearly discern what was going on outside solely based on the sounds he'd hear. The opening of the carriage door would be followed by a series of grumbled oaths from a man stumbling out. A moment's pause would ensue, which likely meant that the lady was struggling inside of the carriage to get her bearings together before she took a step out. After the pause would be a long string of a variety of noises. More oaths from the waiting gentleman (who was likely assisting the lady). A snippy exchange between the gentleman and the lady. The sound of tearing fabric. A little cry or wail from the lady at the destruction of her carefully-put together costume. And the sound of shuffling feet on gravel as she finally extricated herself from the vehicle, staggering about as she came in contact with the ground.
The earl, thankfully enough, wasn't one to be dictated by form, and he allowed his guests to mingle freely in any room they so chose. It was a far, far cry from Quatre's experience of having the servants corral the guests in the drawing room like cows on their way to the slaughter house while waiting for the dinner bell to ring.
This freedom of movement made for a very relaxed atmosphere, which the boy enjoyed. With all the pressure of having to put up a show (formalities, that is) finally off his shoulders, he went about his duty with more energy, and he'd even managed to take a pretty good inventory of the guests.
The earl's guests were the more run-of-the-mill aristocrats, friends he'd had, the boy was told, since his university days. They proved to be just as misanthropic as he, and the moment greetings were exchanged, the small group immediately moved off to one of the smaller sitting-rooms, effectively distancing themselves from the more vivacious younger crowd. Tobias told Quatre, as he hurried back and forth from the sitting-room (since it was his duty to wait on them) that they were engaged in a lengthy bitching session about the evils of traveling.
"They complain about everything," the man said, rolling his eyes as he carried a tray of teatime treats to the room. "I'm surprised they haven't killed themselves yet for being so miserable with the world."
The younger people, however, proved to be a more interesting lot to observe. What caught Quatre's attention the most was the clear distinction between Catherine and Trowa's guests and the sons and daughters of the earl's friends.
Simply put, all those with the most airs, pretensions, attitudes, and flamboyant dress weren't of his young master and mistress's circles. Catherine and Trowa apparently mingled with the intellectuals in school and so were surrounded by a small group of young people who were not only much less ostentatious in their appearance and behavior, but a great deal more articulate in their speech. Moreover, their discussions actually had substance. And so, while one segment of revelers indulged themselves in endless chattering over fashion, gossip, and balls, the other engaged in lively debates about politics, art, and social events.
Quatre and Orland were the ones who were given the primary duty of waiting on these young folks, and the boy went about his work a great deal distracted and hating himself for being so easily influenced.
And his detractor was none other than Trowa.
Dressed up for the party, the young lord was a virtual god in Quatre's eyes. Everything about him, to the entranced boy, exuded magnificence and splendor, and Quatre found himself more than once forgetting the purpose of an errand or botching up a relatively easy job such as refilling the pastry tray.
He'd been busy helping out in welcoming visitors to the house and so wasn't able to see his young master until after all the guests have arrived. He'd entered the main parlor carrying a tray of goodies and nearly tripped and fell upon seeing Trowa standing at the other end of the room, happily chatting with his friends. From there on, Quatre's mind was half-occupied.
He was stealing perhaps his thousandth furtive look in the young man's direction when he suddenly caught his foot in a rug and stumbled forward with a little cry of surprise, dropping a cup and saucer on the lap of the guest he happened to be serving at the moment.
"Oh, bloody hell!" the man cried as he jumped to his feet, staring in surprise and anger at his soaked trousers.
Quatre was immediately on his knees before the irate guest, napkin in hand, quickly dabbing the spilled tea while offering a million apologies.
"What in blazes were you doing?"
"I'm so sorry, sir," the boy stammered, his face burning. "I tripped. I…"
"You clumsy idiot! You just burned me, did you know that?"
"I'm sorry, I really didn't mean to…"
"So what the hell am I supposed to do now?" the young man roared, drawing everybody's attention in an instant. "My clothes are ruined!"
"Sir, I could--uh…" Quatre fumbled desperately, feeling everyone's eyes on him at the moment. He felt like an utter fool.
"What? You could what?"
Quatre could only stare stupidly at him, a look of total mortification on his face, the words unable to come out no matter what he did.
"What's going on here?"
Both of them turned to find Trowa walking up to them. At this point, the rest of the guests went back to their business, and the parlor was once again abuzz with lively chattering. Quatre quickly stood up after picking up the cup and saucer and wiping the puddle on the floor. He held both tightly as though they served as some kind of protection against what was about to happen.
"He dropped my tea on my lap, my lord," the guest replied, his manner suddenly changing to one that was more cringing. He seemed to practically grovel before Trowa.
"I'm very sorry, sir," the boy broke in, feeling himself blush even more from Trowa's stare. "It was an accident. I didn't mean to ruin your clothes."
"Quatre, what happened?"
Trowa's voice was quiet and his question gently put to him. It was meant to be soothing, but to the flustered boy, it only served to increase his humiliation.
"I tripped on the rug," he said, turning to face Trowa but unable to look him straight in the eye. He could only raise his eyes as far up as the young man's collar.
"It was an accident, William," Trowa said. "I'm so sorry for causing you so much distress." Then he turned and waved at Orland, who'd just come in with yet another tray of treats for the guests. "I'd like you to follow Orland to one of the guest rooms. There's a change of clothes for anyone who happen to be in the same situation you're in waiting for you there."
"Oh," William sputtered, groveling even more, "you didn't need to do that, my lord. I'll be all right. This is nothing."
"It's obviously something, or you wouldn't have come down so hard on Quatre. I'd like you to go and change. Don't worry about putting me out or anything. I just want to make sure you're happy."
Orland approached them, and Trowa quickly gave him instructions to help William.
"Oh, thank you, my lord. You're much too kind."
"It's my pleasure, William," Trowa replied with a hint of impatience in his voice as the injured guest moved off.
They watched William and Orland leave the room. Then, before Trowa could say anything, Quatre began to assail him with an unending stream of apologies, still staring at his collar as he did. It must have taken a full minute of frantic rambling before he realized that his companion was talking to him, trying to calm him down.
"It's all right, it's all right," Trowa said, lowering his voice almost to a whisper. "Quatre, ssshh. You're fine. Don't worry about it."
The boy finally settled down despite his anxiety.
"Are you okay?" came the gentle question.
"I'm fine. Just rattled."
"Don't worry about William, Quatre. He's an idiot. Always was, always will be. And I'm not the only one in this room to feel this way about him. Don't let anything he says get under your skin. He's not worth the aggravation."
Quatre fumbled with the cup and saucer, watching the delicately designed porcelain sparkle from the glow of candlelight nearby.
"Did you hear what I just said, Quatre?"
The boy's head snapped up. "Yes, sir."
"Trowa."
"Trowa."
The young lord smiled at him the moment they made eye contact. "And I've been meaning to tell you this--I think you look great tonight," he added before turning his heels to join his friends once more.
Quatre watched him, his heart hammering loudly in his chest. "And I think you look perfect," he murmured at the retreating figure.
His attention then was immediately and rather unceremoniously engaged by Dorcas, who wanted him to help her in the kitchen.
**********
The rest of the evening for the most part went by without incident. William was happy in his new change of clothes although now completely snippy toward Quatre. Throughout dinner he'd provoke the boy at every chance he got, dropping little snide remarks here and there about Quatre's presumption in dressing up so fine compared to the other servants, hinting at his shameful self-importance despite his lowly station.
And he apparently had good friends despite what Trowa had said earlier about people's opinion about him--friends who, it turned out, were just as pompous and arrogant as he was. And once he'd told them about the little accident as well as Quatre's presumed vanity, the boy was instantly plagued with more painful comments that were completely undeserved.
He bore with this verbal harassment quietly and bravely, refusing to lower himself to their level by acknowledging them in any way. Before, during, and after dinner, he endured the little jokes and the tittering whenever he passed William and his group, steeling himself against the sting of their taunts and insults.
Trowa didn't seem to notice anything, being much too engaged with his friends. But Quatre didn't mind at all. In fact, he was grateful that his young master was spared the tedium of having to keep his guests in line. He felt it better to just grin and bear it as he waited for the minutes to tick by and for the party to end.
"My dad's a baronet, and he doesn't dress half as fine as you," William said irritably after dinner, when everyone was once again congregating in the main parlor for the post-dinner wind down before their trip home. "You know, it's in bad taste to flaunt your wealth and rank to everybody. It's even worse if you happen to be inferior to everyone and strut around looking like you're above them."
Quatre simply bit his tongue to keep himself from lashing out as he went about cleaning up after people and serving them more desserts and after dinner coffee. William, who'd had a little too much to drink during dinner, was now bolder in his attacks. And his friends seemed to find it to be the most amusing thing in the world, often egging him on.
"Who's your father, anyway?" he prodded, stepping in front of the boy before Quatre could make a run for it.
William's friends tittered nearby as they watched him torment the hapless boy.
"If you'll excuse me, sir, I need to wait on some of the other guests," Quatre replied quietly.
He quickly glanced around and was aghast to catch Trowa leave the room. He was on his own now and would have to deal with this obnoxious non-aristocratic pest alone.
"Ah, hell, you probably don't even know what a baronet is, do you?"
Quatre stared at him. Was he joking? His friends broke out in loud, annoying laughter. And as he watched William laugh along, he decided to play into their little game.
"Of course I do," he said, his small voice effectively silencing them. "A baronet happens to be exactly fifty-nine ranks below my father, roughly seventy-two ranks below his majesty, and exactly forty-four ranks below me."
William and his friends gaped at him, shock written in bold letters all over their faces at what they considered to be Quatre's arrogance and presumption in claiming such a superior place above any of them. The boy worked hard to stifle a grin at the notion that he was actually telling them the truth. In the long, exhaustive list of the precedence among men, not only does Quatre rank way above everyone else in the room, but a baronet wasn't even a peer and was in fact the second to the lowest of the titled folk. It was a fact that was grounded into the boy by the duke from the moment he was able to read, claiming that everyone ought to know their places, and to do that, one should learn this elaborate ranking system by heart.
"Why, you pompous little prat," William breathed, still stunned at what he'd heard.
At that moment, one of his friends, an overly dressed young lady whose nose seemed to be permanently stuck in the air, marched up to them, and, with a smirk, pointed to a nearby table that was laid out with a variety of sumptuous treats.
"La nappe est dégueulasse! On y a couché dessus?"[1] she demanded in a painful, shrill tone that unfortunately was her normal speaking voice.
"Aha!" another young lady squealed from the group, clearly delighted with the game that was starting. She hurried over, carrying a little plate with a half-eaten fruit tart on it. She shoved it under Quatre's nose, saying, "Vous l'avez donné à mâcher à tout le monde, avant de me servir?"[2]
The two girls broke out into shrill laughter. William, who stood nearby, watched them, a puzzled grin on his face. He obviously didn't have a clue as to what his friends were saying.
The first girl now pointed to Quatre's shirt. "On voit que vous employez du vrai beurre à en juger par ces belles tâches qui ornent votre plastron!"[3]
Quatre's face had grown an excruciatingly deep red as he listened. His heart beat rapidly and almost erratically in his chest at every insult he heard. He knew that they were deliberately humiliating him by taunting him in another language, which they thought he didn't understand, being a mere servant.
The second girl now approached him, reaching out a hand to touch his embroidered waistcoat. "Quel bel étalage de modèles de l'an dernier!"[4]
"Ca doit être de la soie--je peux encoure voir les trous de vers!"[5]
This was Trowa's party. Quatre didn't have the right to ruin it for him by lashing out at the guests, and he had to keep reminding himself of this fact as he stood in miserable silence before the group as they mocked him, inviting curious looks from nearby groups of people. His face positively felt like hellfire, and he felt like exploding. The pain of being purposefully humiliated because of his perceived status was unbearable.
"Well?" William finally cut in as the rest of the group laughed. "Don't you have anything to say to all that? You're above everyone here, after all. You should know French, right?"
"I'm sorry, but I'm neglecting my job," Quatre replied stiffly. "I really need to go."
"Humph. Looks like you're not as important as we thought you were."
William finally stepped aside, allowing the boy to dart off and blindly rush out of the room, his ears ringing from the abuse and his eyes stinging from the tears of rage that threatened to come out. He made a beeline for the kitchen, determined to stay there for the rest of the night, and it wouldn't matter a jot if Dorcas fired him on the spot for insubordination. He simply refused to be in the company of pompous, arrogant buffoons who felt all the more important by degrading others.
**********
"There you are. I've been looking all over for you."
Quatre raised his head and found Trowa standing by the door, looking at him with obvious concern. The boy rested his head on his arms once more as they lay crossed on the table.
"I'm tired. I can't help out anymore," he replied, his voice muffled.
"I heard about what happened."
Quatre remained silent as he waited.
"Daniel heard everything and told me when I got back. Quatre, I'm really, really sorry for everything. I can't even begin to imagine what you must've gone through with those idiots."
The boy still didn't respond.
"They're--well--God, what else can I say about them?" Trowa sighed as he walked over to the table. Quatre heard him pull out a stool and sit down directly across from him. "How else can you describe those people--like William?"
"Crétin à crinière."[6]
A moment of silence followed.
"Troglodyte."[7]
Quatre thought he heard light snickering coming from across the table. Encouraged by this, he continued his retaliatory attacks.
"Borné. Ane bâté."[8][9]
"Nackter Wilder,"[10] Trowa piped up, his snickering growing louder. Quatre smiled in spite of himself, but he didn't lift his head from his arms.
"Bourricot,"[11] he said, now chuckling himself.
"Stupider Holzkopf,"[12] Trowa added.
"Grosse brute."[13]
Trowa burst out laughing at this, and Quatre immediately followed. The two were soon completely drowning in mirth, with Quatre finally lifting his head to look at his companion, laughing and hollering as he did, his voice blending in with Trowa's.
"Oh, God," Trowa gasped as they slowly quieted down. He rubbed the tears from his eyes. "Oh, damn, that felt good."
The boy simply held his tongue as he calmed down. He shook his head. "I don't get it," he said. "I don't understand how people could do that to others."
"They'll be gone soon, Quatre," Trowa replied quietly, gazing at him with a wry smile. "Again, I'm really sorry for putting you through this."
The boy shrugged. "It's all right, I suppose. I expected it in a way. William gave me some kind of hint about what was coming when I spilled the tea all over him."
"Well--are you ready to come back out?"
"I suppose so. I--can I wait on someone else instead? I really don't want to go back to the parlor."
Trowa offered another reassuring smile. "Of course. You don't even need to wait on anyone. Actually, I'd like you to come and mingle with us--with my friends and Catherine's friends. Not with the others."
Quatre stared at him, thunderstruck.
"Are you up to it, Quatre? I think their company's much more suited for you."
"I don't understand…"
Trowa bit his lip as he hesitated, looking down on his hands as they rested on the table. "I'd like you to be with me," he said slowly--almost painfully. "Will you do that? Will you humor me this once?"
It was now Quatre's turn to hesitate and to stare at his hands.
"Quatre?"
The boy looked up and found himself staring into the most irresistible pair of green eyes, and he wavered, feeling himself soften and his guard fall.
"I won't leave you, I promise."
"All right then."
Trowa broke out into a brilliant smile, and he stood up. "Come on then. I'd like you to meet everyone, especially Catherine."
Quatre quietly followed. And as they moved toward the kitchen door, Trowa looked over his shoulder at his companion. "Daniel told me that you looked as though you really wanted to say something back to William and the others."
He nodded. "I did, actually."
"What was it? I'm just curious."
Quatre shrugged with a saucy grin. "Il y a longtemps qu'on vous a sorti de votre cage?"[14]
The kitchen and the servants' mess hall were immediately filled with loud, full-bodied laughter from Trowa.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
[1]"This tablecloth is
filthy. Did it come right off your bed?"
[2]"How many people chewed this before I got it?"
[3]"What lovely patterns those grease stains make on your
shirt."
[4]"This is a lovely display of last year's styles."
[5]"This must be silk--I can see the worm holes."
[6]"Long-haired creep."
[7]"Hairy ape."
[8]"Narrow-minded idiot."
[9]"Ass."
[10]"Moron."
[11]"Donkey."
[12]"Blundering idiot."
[13]"Thick-skinned pachyderm."
[14]"When did they let you out of your cage?"