"What do you mean 'no'?"
"Well--no. As in n-o."
"But why not?"
"Because, because, because!"
"Dorcas!"
The housekeeper laid the teapot back down on the table and eyed Quatre through narrowed slits, resting her hands on her hips. "Quatre, I don't have any reason to fire you."
"But--but you do!"
"Like what?"
"Well--the party's over! You don't need me! There's no reason for me to stay!"
"Christmas is coming. The family needs us. That's a damn good reason to stay."
The boy stared at her, aghast. He couldn't believe that he was stuck there. On hearing Dorcas's earlier refusal to fire him, he tried to quit, but she refused to take his resignation as well. She was making life pretty damn difficult for him.
"If I broke an heirloom vase…"
"You'll be reprimanded then forgiven," Dorcas smiled. "Not fired."
"Let the horses out of the stables to run off and disappear?"
"A reprimand, a salary deduction, and maybe some additional hard chores, but you'll still be forgiven, not fired."
"If I were to steal something…"
"Quatre, you simply don't steal anything. You're not the type, and it doesn't matter what you say about how tough and gritty you are and all that. You're not a thief."
The boy sighed, staring down at his breakfast. What now?
"My dear, I've never seen a servant so keen on getting himself sacked by his boss. What's going on with you?"
He certainly couldn't tell her the truth regarding Trowa. So he gave a kind of a half-truth (that is, he did believe it to some extent despite its not having any bearing whatsoever to the present situation). He cleared his throat.
"I think it's getting dangerous for me to stay with you any longer."
"Ah--it's got something to do with that creep who was harassing you at the market the other day, doesn't it? Do you think you're going to be traced to the Ivy House?"
"I'm sorry--Ivy House?"
The housekeeper nodded as she sipped her breakfast tea. "That's what this place is called. Didn't you notice all that ivy crawling up the walls outside? It's horrendous! That's decades upon decades of growth there."
"Well--to answer your question, yes, I'm afraid I'll be traced here."
"By your father?"
The boy nodded, feeling himself instinctively tense up. They were starting to tread on thin ice here.
"Quatre, are you ready to talk to me yet?" Dorcas asked after a minute of silence from him.
He looked at her, scrutinizing her face for signs of threat--any kind of threat--and found none. Dorcas was giving him a small, gentle, and encouraging smile, her maternal aura in full gear. She'd always been very motherly toward him, showering him with a certain kind of fondness he'd missed from his own mother. The duchess, after all, depended heavily on the hired help to take care of her children's needs and pretty much acted more as a supervisor than a mother to them, watching over their growth and development as a disinterested third party, who gave orders to the nannies and permission to the children.
"I think I am," Quatre finally said. And with a heavy sigh, he plunged into his story.
It didn't take him long to relate everything as it was a pretty brief story to begin with, but he'd captivated his companion with his tale as he spoke in soft, almost weary, tones. His face alternately lit up and darkened at every turn his story took, his eyes mirroring those shifts in emotion in luminous blue.
"Oh, dear," Dorcas breathed once he'd done. "I don't even know what to call you now. I know I heard that man call you 'my lord Quatre' the other day, but I really didn't think much of it--even parroted him because I thought it was kind of cute calling you that. But I never realized it was actually true."
"It's a ridiculous title, Dorcas, and I really don't want you to call me anything but by my name. I'm a servant here, after all."
"But you're still a duke's son…"
"But not his heir. I'm not taking the title. I've got four brothers ahead of me, and the oldest one's much too healthy to easily give that up to the next one in line. As far as I'm concerned, I'm nobody--just someone who was born to a rich couple. That's all."
"I still think you're somebody, dear, and I'm not referring to titles here." Dorcas sat back, watching him thoughtfully. "Now if I were to let you have things your way and sack you, where would you go? What would you do?"
Quatre chewed his lip. "I really don't know. I've never been on my own before, and I'm not familiar with this area. I know I can't go to the big cities since my dad's friends are mostly out there. I can only hide out in the country."
"But if you were to go from one place to another, wouldn't that just make you suspicious to everyone? They'll all be wondering why you're jumping ship so much. I think you're better off staying here…"
The boy's head snapped up, and he stared at her anxiously. "But…"
"You're better off staying here," Dorcas repeated, raising a hand to silence him. "If it makes you feel any better, at least for a month. If you let the scent grow cold, it'll be easier for you to start looking for other places to hide in."
She let out a little groan and then smiled wryly. "And here I am, contributing to the delinquency of a minor. Quatre, I'd really hate for you to go. I've grown fond of you, dear."
"But I've only been here for a few days."
"And you've got a pretty low opinion of yourself. You can charm the pants off anyone, did you know that? It's very easy to be taken in by you, and I'm sure I'm not the only one in this household who's feeling some affection for our little runaway."
She gave him a rather cryptic smile as she spoke, which quickly switched to one a good deal more rueful, and she shook her head gently. "Please think about it, Quatre," she said. "I really hate the idea of you wandering the countryside in the middle of Christmas, knocking on doors and hoping someone would take you in. You deserve better--much, much better."
The boy was moved by what he heard, and he returned her smile with one that was more cheerful. He hated to admit it, but he was himself feeling some aversion to the idea of leaving the Ivy House so soon, and he wasn't sure if it were because of his growing attachment to the household or if it were his growing affection for Trowa. At any rate, he felt some relief in the thought of not having to leave--at least not right away.
"All right," he replied quietly. "I'll stay--indefinitely, that is."
"My dear, you've no idea how happy you've just made certain people feel," Dorcas said as she poured him another cup of tea.
**********
"God, did I make this stain?" Quatre muttered as he stared at the ornate Oriental rug. He was back in the main parlor to put the room back together and to do some more touch-up cleaning. That was good. At least he didn't have to scrub the hallways for the next two hours.
He went down on his hands and knees, damp rag in hand, to get a much closer look at the mysterious dark stain. It looked like a tea stain, and he couldn't help but think of the little accident he had with William the previous night.
"Oh, no," he said, dabbing the spot with the rag and seeing no signs of improvement. "I ruined it!"
"Quatre?"
He quickly looked up and found Catherine standing at the doorway, smiling at him. "I'm not used to seeing you on the floor like this," she said. "I always think of you now as this nice-looking boy sitting at the piano, making the most stupendous music I've ever heard."
Quatre colored deeply at the compliment as he stood up before her. His hand almost reached back to pull his hood over his head, but he knew it was useless to hide any more. Dorcas knew his story. Trowa knew his father was a duke. There was nowhere in which he could hide himself now.
"Thank you," he merely stammered, twisting the rag in his hands. "Is there anything I can do for you, my lady?"
"Well--how much longer are you supposed to be cleaning?"
"This is it. Then it'll be kitchen duties for me after lunch."
"Good," the young lady beamed. "I'd like you to join me at the conservatory the minute you're free."
Quatre swallowed, anxiety setting in. "All right."
Catherine turned her heels and was soon gone, leaving the boy staring into space and once again wondering about Trowa. His young master must be galloping off all over the countryside at the moment. Quatre never gave him a response to his invitation for a ride and in fact made it a point to avoid him all morning long.
And right now he was starting to regret it.
He spent several more minutes working on the stain and realized that there was no help for it. He returned to the kitchen, mentally rehearsing what he'd tell Dorcas about the stain and wondering how much would be taken off his first pay as compensation.
"Wonderful. I'll probably owe them my whole year's salary," he said, grimacing. "I'm definitely not going to be able to leave."
The housekeeper was nowhere to be found, so Quatre went on ahead and washed up and hurried over to the conservatory, where he found Catherine sitting at the harpsichord, playing tentatively. She broke off often, sighing irritably while staring hard at the notes before proceeding.
She quickly turned around and flashed him a smile when she heard him enter the room, motioning for him to join her.
"I'd really like to listen to you play again," she said once he drew near. "I'm terrible at music--never had the ear for it. So I'm afraid I'll have to live vicariously through you if you don't mind indulging me this once. Will you play for me, Quatre?"
The boy's embarrassment grew at her praise, and it took all he had to stifle the flustered snickering that threatened to burst out. "I'd be happy to," he said, and Catherine immediately removed herself from the harpsichord while Quatre sat down. "Um--what would you like me to play for you?"
"Hmm. Good question. Sorry," she laughed, playfully tapping her forehead with her knuckles. "I was just so excited about hearing you play that I didn't even think about what I wanted you to play. Ugh. What a blockhead."
She hurried over to the different tables that surrounded the instrument, rifling through the piles of sheet music (sending several flying down to the floor). She paused several times when she thought she'd found something she wanted. But once she stared at the music, she'd quickly shove it back in the pile with an impatient huff.
Quatre waited patiently at the harpsichord, watching her with some amusement and comparing her with his sisters as he did. None of his sisters particularly enjoyed music despite the fact that they were extremely well-trained by the best music tutors. Perhaps the fact that they were forced into learning how to play (that being an important part of a well-bred young lady's education) had a lot--if not everything--to do with it.
Catherine reached the last table before she finally found something she wanted. With a small cry of relief, she pulled out a stack of sheet music and marched on over to the harpsichord.
"Here," she chirped, taking out the sheets that sat before him and replacing them with what she had. "It's been forever since I've heard someone play Christmas music on this thing. Not since Mom passed away, that is. I'd really love to hear you play these songs."
"Of course," he replied, quickly looking through them.
"Start with anything," Catherine cut in before he could say anything more. "I'm feeling very nostalgic at the moment."
Then she hurried over to a nearby chair and sat down, taking care to move the chair so that she didn't have to stare at the boy while he played but at the same time allow her to periodically glance in his direction easily enough.
Quatre settled on a piece and, after a brief moment of studying the notes, started playing.
"Once in royal David's
city, stood a lowly cattle shed,
where a mother laid her baby in a manger for his bed.
Mary was that mother mild, Jesus Christ her little child.
He came down to earth from
heaven, who is God and Lord of all,
And his shelter was a stable, and his cradle was a stall.
With the poor and the meek and lowly, lived on earth our Savior
holy.
And our eyes at last shall
see him, through his won redeeming love;
for that child so dear and gentle, is our Lord in heaven above.
And he leads his children on, to the place where he is gone.
Not in that poor lowly
stable, with the oxen standing by,
we shall see him, but in heaven, set at God's right hand on high.
When like stars his children crowned, all in white shall be
around."[1]
"Oh, God, that reminded me so much of Mom," Catherine sighed at the conclusion of the song. She glanced over her shoulder and smiled at the boy. "Don't worry. Keep playing more songs. I get sentimental and nostalgic, but I'm not one to start blubbing away so easily."
Quatre pulled out another sheet and started playing a non-vocal piece, listening to Catherine hum along and give out a contented sigh on occasion.
"That was my favorite," she piped up once he was done. "Planxty Irwin was probably my most requested song when Mom used to play for us during Christmas. Go on. Play some more."
Encouraged by his listener's enthusiasm and moved by her memories, Quatre threw himself into his playing with all his heart, determined to give the young lady what she wanted as it was the only way he could realistically pay her back for all the kindness she'd shown him. He played one song after another, with Catherine giving off one interesting anecdote associated with each song at its conclusion, thus entertaining the entertainer as well.
She stood up after about half a dozen songs were played and motioned for him to continue as she walked around the room, no doubt to stretch her legs.
Quatre soon lost himself in his music, completely swept away by it all, and even completely losing track of his companion. He played continuously until he had about three songs left.
He sighed wearily at the end of the last song he played, sitting back and pulling his hands away from the keys to rest them on his lap. "Will that do for now, my lady?" he asked, still staring at the music sheet before him.
"Catherine's stepped out. Or didn't you notice?"
The sound of the voice behind him made him jump from the bench and skitter away from the harpsichord. He stood beside a nearby table (almost knocking over a vase when he mindlessly bumped into it), staring in both shock and bewilderment at Trowa, who leaned against the doorway.
"What? Did I scare you? I'm sorry. I didn't think you'd react so drastically to my presence," he said, looking just as surprised himself.
"I didn't know you were here," Quatre stammered, listening to his heart rate slow down a little. It was still beating fairly rapidly in his chest, but it was all for completely different reasons. "I thought Lady Catherine…"
"Just Catherine."
"Catherine--was still here."
"Would you like me to call her back?"
"No, no--it's okay. I'm done, anyway." Quatre paused, frowning at Trowa. "I thought you were out riding."
The young man shrugged. "I didn't have anyone with me. It's dull riding around the countryside alone. I honestly don't know how Dad could handle it with his solo walks."
Quatre nodded, fidgeting a little. "Well then," he said, "I guess I should go back to work. Dorcas must be…"
"Dorcas said you're off for the rest of the day," Trowa cut in, crossing his arms on his chest as he watched the boy's reaction, an amused half-smile on his face. "I managed to convince her."
Quatre blinked, not knowing exactly how to respond. "Um--thank you--I guess," he stammered.
"Okay. Now that we've settled this, would you join me for a walk, Quatre? Riding's out of the question right now, but I'd like to spend some time with you still."
"All right."
Trowa brightened, flashing him an unself-conscious, bubbly, and irrepressible smile. And Quatre couldn't help but feel his spirits lift at what he saw since it seemed to be a rather rare thing to see from his young master, who was characteristically more controlled in the way he expressed himself. Trowa moved off, and the boy hurried out of the room behind him.
**********
The two walked the perimeter of the Ivy House's grounds, engaged in a variety of discussions that ran the gamut from light-hearted to downright angstsy. And it didn't take much for Trowa to convince his companion to share his story. He already knew a little something about it, anyway, and besides, Quatre felt that he owed him that.
Trowa was silent for some time after Quatre had finished his story, staring at the gravel under his feet as they walked on. "So you think you'll be leaving sometime then?" he finally said without glancing at his companion.
"Eventually, yes," the boy replied, wincing at what he'd just said. The stab of pain that came with that response was wholly unexpected, and he felt a little ill from it.
"I agree with Dorcas's recommendation, though," Trowa said after another brief pause. "If you could stay with us for a little bit longer…"
He didn't bother finishing his statement as he suddenly stopped in his tracks, looking up at the house that loomed beside them. "If you were a plant, Quatre, what would you be?"
The boy blinked several times at the sudden shift in subject. "I'm sorry?"
"If you were a plant, what would you be?"
Quatre's eyebrows furrowed as he stared at Trowa, but his companion continued to look at the house thoughtfully, patiently waiting for his reply.
"I've always thought myself to be an ivy plant," the young lord said when Quatre didn't speak. "It clings to the walls of an old house--just creeps along--like the way I'll be clinging to this house when I take over someday. All that tradition and the name that's been around for centuries--I'll be carrying them for a while. Then they'll pass on to Catherine's son once I'm gone since Dad doesn't have any other living relative around."
"And what about you? Aren't you going to have children of your own someday?"
"It's impossible for me to do that."
"Why not?"
"Because I'm not marrying."
"Why not?"
Trowa turned to look at him, another hint of a smile playing up his face. He walked on without replying. "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," he sang softly.
"I've always loved that song," Quatre said, barely able to stifle a smile at the sound of Trowa singing.
"It's an appropriate metaphor to use. Ivy tends to be dull and monotonous. It needs something drastically beautiful and different like holly to be worth singing about. At least that's how I've always looked at it." Trowa let out a small, tentative laugh. They were nearing the front door at the moment. "Can you imagine decorating your mantle and your doorway every Christmas with just ivy?"
"They're a perfect pair, I think," Quatre replied as he mulled over everything. There was something in what his young master was saying that was eating away at him, but try as he might, he couldn't place his finger on it.
There was something.
They finally entered the house, grateful for the comfortable warmth that enveloped them, and they walked on back to the conservatory. They'd both fallen silent at this point, clearly immersed in their own thoughts, with Quatre working furiously to make heads or tails of their conversation.
They stopped at the doorway, and Trowa peered in. "No Catherine here. Looks like you're relieved of your musical duties for the day, Quatre." He turned to face the boy. "And I really enjoyed listening to you play, too. I hope to hear more from you while you're still with us."
Quatre felt that pang again, and he gulped. "Anytime," he said quietly.
"What was that last song you played?"
The boy fell silent as he racked his brain. "Oh. It's called Il Est Ne, Le Divin Enfant."
Trowa nodded thoughtfully as he listened. "It was a sweet little piece. Reminds me of you a lot." Then, after yet another awkward pause, he stepped forward and bent his head, grazing Quatre's lips lightly with his. He pulled slightly away, only to nudge forward again to kiss the boy a little more deeply for another second or two.
He finally lifted his head and stepped back, color creeping up his cheeks as he looked at the stunned boy. He lifted his hand and pointed up at the doorframe.
"Mistletoe," he said.
Without another word, Trowa walked off, his footsteps echoing up and down the hallway.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
[1]Once in Royal David's City