Quatre?"
"Hello?"
"What's he doing?"
"Hmm. I really don't--Quatre? Quatre!"
"Hey, kid! Kid!"
"Oy!"
The voices finally registered in his mind, and Quatre snapped back to the present with a start. He blinked several times before glancing around the room to find the other staff frozen in their tracks, staring at him with varying expressions of perplexity.
"Huh? What?"
Everyone continued to gape at him. Then the bewildered silence was quickly broken by Dorcas as she said, "We've been trying to get your attention for the last five minutes."
"Five minutes, hell. It seemed more like the last five centuries," Angus snorted, still gaping at the boy. "What, in God's green earth, is wrong with you, kid?"
"Wrong? Why--nothing," Quatre stammered, now feeling mortified. What was he doing? He looked down and found that he'd been paring carrots--or at least technically he was. His mind obviously wandered while his hands worked on automatic, paring and paring and paring until he only had a little orange stick with a knob at the end and a tuft of leaves sticking out of it.
He looked up. The staff was now staring at the remains of his carrot with the most undecipherable expressions.
"I was--I was just peeling a carrot," Quatre pursued lamely, his face burning.
"Carrot?" Dorcas blurted out, staring at the thing in his hand. "What carrot? That looks more like an edible match stick than a vegetable, Quatre!"
"I don't know," Orland said. "Looks penile to me."
The boy quickly dropped the vegetable on the table as though his hand had just been burnt. The staff burst out laughing, the men slapping Orland on his shoulders and repeating what he'd just said.
"Sorry," Quatre mumbled.
"What's up with you, dear?" Dorcas asked, ignoring the others as they continued to feed off Orland's witticism. "You're very distracted. Anything wrong?"
"No, nothing. I'm just a little tired from last night, I guess."
"Really. You seem to enjoy it--being tired, I mean."
Quatre looked at her. "I don't get it."
Dorcas leaned over the table, waving her ladle in the air between their faces. "My dear, you're glowing. You're distracted and glowing. I don't see that as being tired unless you've come across a magic formula that makes people look positively radiant when they're exhausted from parties and chores."
"Whoa there," Angus broke in. "Did I hear you right, Ms. Dorcas? Did you just say he's in love?"
Dead silence fell on the room, with Quatre doing psychic somersaults as Angus's bluntness hit him with the force of a freak winter blizzard. His companions looked at each other and then turned to stare at him, their expressions shifting to one more curious and--dare Quatre say it--saucy.
"What? Me? No--I was just tired--like I said…"
Yet more silence met his feeble rebuttal, and he swallowed. "Is there something you need me to do, Dorcas?"
The housekeeper was still leaning on the table, ladle in hand, now thoughtfully waving it between them as she watched him closely. A mischievous smile grew as she slowly replied, "I need you to take His Lordship's tea tray to him. He's in the study at the moment."
"But what about the vegetables?"
"My dear, I'd sooner have Tobias work on them. If I let you do it, we won't have any vegetables left for dinner."
"God, imagine serving His Lordship a pretty phallic-looking turnip," Orland broke in before dissolving into fits of laughter, bringing Tobias and Angus down with him until all three were simply hollering. Dishes on the table rattled as they slapped its surface.
Quatre could only scowl at them before abandoning his current task for the tea tray that sat nearby. And as he gingerly carried it out of the room, a final glance in his companions' direction showed Dorcas watching him still, a knowing smile on her face as she slowly shook her head. The other three, in the meantime, were now feeding off Orland's saucy comment with an unending stream of penile references and vegetables, laughing heartily at their smutty jokes.
Quatre reached the study after walking through what seemed to be miles of hallways. The room was characteristically tucked away in the less-frequented east wing, being at one time a large card room. The earl, however, never saw any purpose for card-playing and so had the room converted into his own private sanctuary.
The boy placed the tray on a nearby table and knocked. A familiar bark met his ear.
"Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes--fine--come in."
Quatre quietly opened the door, picked up the tray, and stepped in, shutting the door behind him with a nudge of his foot.
The earl was sitting in an armchair before a raging fire, his feet propped up on a plush ottoman. He was frowning at a massive book before him, giving off an impatient snort every once in a while. Without looking up from his reading, he waved Quatre over, wordlessly directing him to place the tea tray on a small table next to the armchair.
Quatre obliged, and before he could quit the room, the earl arrested his flight with an irritable observation.
"What the devil does this little nebbish think to accomplish by defying her parents like this, I wonder?"
Quatre blinked and turned around. "My lord?"
"This girl--this Clarissa Harlowe--she's downright pig-headed and proud. Her parents only want the best for her by setting her up for a very profitable match, and she defies them at every turn. This is very bad business indeed."
That sparked something in Quatre. "But that's the problem, isn't it?" he blurted out--a little more passionately than he intended. "The marriage is solely made on the grounds of profit. She's nothing better than common chattel to her family…"
"It's her duty to her parents and to her entire family to agree to the match. Disobedience is plain disrespect to authority--to the people she owes her very existence."
"I think a person has a duty to himself first and foremost," Quatre replied more quietly now, memories of his father filling his thoughts. "Especially if what's demanded of him happens to violate every principle he has."
"And how far would this 'duty to oneself' go, pray?"
"A person should be willing to sacrifice everything he has no matter how much it hurts him." Quatre paused and sadly added, "I know I would."
The earl gave another irritable snort. "Sounds like a typically whimsical thing young people would do."
"It's not whimsical! I don't understand why adults always accuse young people of being whimsical whenever they try to assert themselves! We've got our own minds, for heaven's sake! We're capable of making our own judgements!" the boy retorted, suddenly forgetting himself. "We're not toys or puppets that adults can play with however way they want--we're neither helpless nor stupid, and I wish you can see that!"
Silence met this little outburst. And as Quatre slowly realized what he'd just done, the earl started to chuckle.
"Impressive display of an adolescent tantrum," he said. And, without once looking away from his book, he waved Quatre over.
The boy silently obeyed, wondering what punishment was going to be dealt to him for his rudeness. He stood beside his employer, anxiously tugging at the hem of his oversized tunic as he waited for his companion to notice him.
"Give me your hand," the earl finally said, still scowling at the book before him.
Quatre raised his left hand, and the earl held it, bringing it closer to his face. He momentarily tore his eyes away from the book to scrutinize the boy's hand carefully before letting go.
"You have the hand of an aristocrat. I figured as much after hearing you talk. After all, I've never heard of anyone using 'chattel' in regular conversation before. That shows your breeding," he said as he resumed his reading. "And you must have a very interesting story, which I want to hear right now."
Quatre hesitated. What were the chances of the earl and his father being acquaintances?
"Oblige me, Quatre Winner."
The sound of his name being spoken so firmly and yet not threateningly (as it was often spoken at home) encouraged the boy somewhat, and he was soon stuttering his story to the earl, who kept his eyes on his book as he listened.
"Charming little fable," he said dryly once Quatre had done. "Very romantic--sounds like something you find in a fanciful novel. And if you're wondering how I found out about your name, it's Trowa who told me."
"Sir?"
"I wanted to know who it was who was playing the piano like a madman last night. I owe you, Quatre." The earl paused, a smirk playing up his face. "Those people were driving me insane. I would've thrown them all out on their faces had you not volunteered to help out."
"You're welcome, sir," Quatre replied, a bit taken aback. "Is--um--is there anything else, my lord?"
"What, leaving already? Who the devil told you our conversation's over?" the man barked, finally raising his eyes to the boy.
Despite jumping at the unexpected retort, Quatre couldn't help but smile. Trowa had his father's eyes--brilliant and intelligent and, in the earl's case, with a touch of melancholy. The luminous pair of green pools into which the boy was staring at the moment showed a man who was definitely tired of the world, who'd seen a great deal (perhaps too much, one could say), and who'd endured the devastating loss of a beloved spouse. And in the brief moment of silence between them, Quatre felt himself soften toward his cantankerous employer.
"We haven't settled your story yet, young man," the earl said, and he impatiently pointed at the floor beside the ottoman. "Sit there so I could look at you without hurting my neck."
Quatre sat down, crossing his legs under him, a faint blush coloring his cheeks from the steady gaze with which the earl regarded him.
"I like what you said earlier," his companion finally said, and he slammed the book shut with a tiny grimace before waving it before him. "I hate this book with its tiresome puritanical mumbo-jumbo. I hate bullies who try to pass themselves off as parents. If I had my way, I'd have a law passed that would require a license for parenthood. That way, people who deserve to be parents can be." He paused, chuckling, clearly amused at what he'd just said. "I do value independence and integrity--like you."
"You mean you were just testing me?"
"Of course."
He grunted as he shifted in his chair a little. "I don't know your father, Quatre, considering I come from the north, and I don't mingle around here at all. So you've nothing to worry about. However, I'm not too keen on the idea of making my home a haven for teenage runaways."
The boy suspected as much. "I never asked for anyone to do that, sir," he replied in a quiet tone, drawing himself up proudly. "I never intended to stay here forever."
His companion eyed him keenly before nodding his head. "All right. So long as we see eye to eye on that…"
"We do, my lord."
"Very well then. Here. Take it."
The earl lightly tossed the book at Quatre, who quickly caught it. The boy stared at the massive volume in his hands. His mind momentarily flitted back to the days when he read the book, agonizing through what seemed to be endless pages of parent-child quarrels and long, tedious, self-righteous ramblings from the book's heroine.
"Did you want me to read this, sir?" he asked, puzzled, as he raised his eyes to his employer.
"Not unless you like it."
"I hate this book, too."
The earl chuckled dryly. "All right then. Do as you will with it." And after a moment of hesitation from the boy, he added, "Show me what you think of it."
Quatre stared back down at the book, and all he could think of was how much Clarissa's plight paralleled his. From there, his thoughts flew to the heroine's family and by extension to his own. A shot of anger tore through him, and without even thinking about it, he opened the book, grabbed a small section of the text, ripped it clean off the binding, and flung it into the fireplace. He watched, wide-eyed, as the pages were quickly immolated in the blaze.
He turned back to face the earl, who was staring thoughtfully at the fire. "Hmm. I've never considered that before," he muttered. He quickly sat up and took the book from the boy's hands, tearing off another section. "This confounded volume represents everything I hate about human nature and the law, and I'd like to see it go to the devil."
With that, he threw his section into the fire. Then he looked at Quatre, his eyes now dancing mischievously. "I think we need to be more creative than that, don't you think, Quatre?"
The boy couldn't help but smile as he nodded. "I agree, my lord," he said, tearing out several more pages, folding them into sleek, aerodynamic shapes, and sending them flying into the fire.
"Oh, ho! Bravo! Ha-ha-ha! If Richardson could see this…"[1]
The next several minutes found both Quatre and the earl laughing and cheering as they mauled the hapless book, sending bits and pieces of it into a fiery death. Pages took on an assortment of different shapes as the two folded, crumpled, and tore the offending text, with the earl cracking a slew of wry jokes as they did, sending both of them practically rolling on the floor.
The cover was the coup de grāce, and Quatre was given the honor of tossing it into the inferno. He did so willingly despite feeling some guilt at desecrating a book. At the moment, it simply represented his own troubles, and sacrificing it to the fire was a catharsis for him. He felt much lighter and more cheerful in the end.
"I'd like to have more talks with you, Quatre," the earl said once they'd sufficiently calmed down. "You're a bright young man--a little different from those stuffed shirts I'm used to being with. And I'd like to hear more of your ideas about other things."
"Thank you, sir."
"Who knows? I might even reconsider my position regarding your need for sanctuary."
And as the boy walked to the door, the earl called out, "Tell Dorcas that I just received a message from Lady Dummfield and her daughter. They're arriving in the evening and will be spending the next three days with us."
"Any special instructions, sir?"
"No. Dorcas knows what to do."
**********
"Oh, damn, that's just lovely, isn't it?" Dorcas said with a huff. "Of all times for them to come and stay, it had to be now."
"Why? What's wrong? Are they horrible people to get along with?"
"No, just--well--high maintenance. And to think we're a couple of people short," the housekeeper sighed, sipping her tea.
The two were lounging around in the mess hall, that being a very quiet and light afternoon for chores. The three men had been given permission to have the afternoon to themselves and so had understandably fled to a nearby pub.
"I said before that on top of us two, there are five other members of staff here. The two other people are out visiting their folks in the east, and they can't make it back till after Christmas. Ugh. What a headache. We needed them for the party. Now with Lady Dummfield and her daughter coming--I don't know if I should fire them or not."
"It's Christmas," Quatre replied. "I think they can be forgiven this once--especially if they haven't seen their families in a while."
Dorcas regarded the boy with a bit of a frown. "You're too sweet to take over this household, dear. It wouldn't be a minute before servants would be taking advantage of you."
"Then I suppose I need someone else to crack the whip on everybody," he said, blushing and laughing lightly.
"Mmm--someone definitely more your compliment, I'd say. Have you seen young Lord Bethelford, by the bye?"
Quatre gave a start at the sudden mention of Trowa's name and felt a bit suspicious at how that followed her previous point about his needing a compliment in running a household. Did she suspect something? He looked at her warily. "No," he replied slowly. "I haven't. I think he and Lady Catherine are out riding."
"Oh, that's right. They told me that. Ha! Silly me--always forgetting something so quickly."
Dorcas let out a full-bodied laugh, winked at the boy, and retired to her room.
**********
Quatre tried to rest like everyone else (or at least like everyone who was left at home), but he felt fidgety and feisty. A well-deserved nap eluded him completely, leaving him once again tossing and turning on his bed, his mind on overdrive as it kept replaying Trowa's kiss for the zillionth time. And despite his solitude, he still felt his face burn at the memory, and he found himself jumping out of bed to hurry to his window and peer out in hopes of catching a glimpse of his young master as he came home from his ride. An empty, desolate landscape would elicit a tiny sigh of disappointment, and he'd trudge back to his bed--only to repeat the process in another five minutes.
As the time wore on and as he thought things over, he found himself slowly being emboldened.
"God, I must've been positively horrible to him--made him work so hard just to have a decent conversation with me. And not to mention avoiding him this morning when he wanted me to join him for a ride--awful--how awful," he mused, staring at the ceiling.
He pondered some more, the end result being a long-overdue (or so he thought) resolve to be more trusting, more open with Trowa. He now felt the longing for more consistent contact with his--dare he say it--beloved. He wanted desperately to talk to him, and he wanted to listen to the young man share his thoughts, his feelings, his very essence with him. He wanted to be with him--if at all possible--at all times. And he wanted just as desperately to reciprocate all that with Trowa, to render himself just as vulnerable to him, to give all of himself--even sacrifice himself--to him.
All of these strange new thoughts, accompanied by a host of perplexing and even alarming feelings, assailed Quatre as he lay on his bed, helplessly under the influence for the very first time of what he'd long heard people sing about--love.
The arrival of the viscountess of Dummfield and Lady Gabriela Finley provided him with a momentary respite from his tortured state. Tobias, Angus, and Orland still having a good time at the pub, the chore of receiving the ladies and ensuring their comfort fell on Dorcas's and Quatre's shoulders. They ran about, hauling the ladies' bags to the second floor with a great deal of difficulty (the ladies apparently being immune to the concept of traveling light) and serving them tea and treats as they met with the earl in the main parlor.
The viscountess was a woman of very regal bearing and too much constraint (at least Quatre thought). She and her daughter seemed to be exceedingly well-trained in the finer points of high society conduct, curtsying stiffly to the earl and moving about in the most languid, restrictively feminine manner possible. Quatre couldn't help but compare them to Catherine. He imagined her at the present moment tearing wildly through the countryside on her horse, her hat flying off and her hair falling loose from the pins that must have held it secure, her face flushed as she laughed and yelled in delight while racing her brother up and down hills, through meadows, and whatever terrain they happened to traverse in their ride.
Lady Gabriela was about Trowa's age. Unlike the energetic and unconventional Catherine, she was very soft-spoken and serene, timid to the point of almost being catatonic as she expressed herself in virtual monosyllables, her emotions making themselves known through a tiny, dimpled smile or a blush. Every single movement of hers seemed overly precise, no doubt something that was hammered mercilessly into her by well-meaning but equally misguided governesses.
Once the visitors were comfortably settled in and were happily chatting away with the earl, Dorcas and Quatre repaired to the kitchen to start dinner preparations. With all the peeling and slicing and preliminary prep work being done earlier that afternoon, there really wasn't much left to do than to start cooking, something for which Dorcas really didn't need Quatre's help. The boy, therefore, could only sit around, talking and joking around with the housekeeper, keeping her entertained through her duties.
He sat himself by the window, periodically glancing out to watch for Trowa and Catherine's return. And as they talked, their subject eventually fell on their employers, particularly on the two young aristocrats.
"Lady Catherine's really more like her father," Dorcas said, humming a little as she stirred the pot. "She detests formalities, hates confinement, and often gets into an argument with anybody whose views she doesn't buy. If anything, she's like her father, but only more optimistic about the world."
Quatre smiled at the portrait drawn of the lady, and he looked out the window again as his companion continued her little spiel. His breath caught in his throat when he finally spotted the figures of the two riders as they appeared over the horizon, riding wildly toward the house. With his attention now firmly divided between listening to Dorcas and watching Trowa approach, Quatre felt his heart race and his stomach turn a little from anticipation. His young master and mistress were soon home, stopping and dismounting on the gravel walkway that surrounded the house.
"Young Lord Bethelford, though…" Dorcas paused as she cleared her throat a little. "He's more like his mother. Very quiet and shy--and more grounded, so to speak…"
The boy watched brother and sister talk animatedly for a moment as they stood by their horses, then stop and turn around simultaneously, their attention both arrested.
"Oh, sure, he's also like his father when it comes to formalities and such, but he's got a little more of the traditionalist in him…"
Lady Gabriela appeared, greeting both of them warmly though curtsying stiffly. Trowa and Catherine returned her salutations with equal energy, therefore showing their long-standing acquaintance. Quatre couldn't help but smile a little at the strong contrast he saw between Catherine and the young lady as it only confirmed what he'd already imagined.
"We've always had high hopes for him, particularly when it comes to finding someone he could spend the rest of his life with…"
After speaking for several more seconds, Catherine walked off, taking her horse with her. Trowa and Lady Gabriela remained, still immersed in what seemed to be a lively and intimate conversation. They paused and glanced in the direction Catherine took before looking back at each other. Quatre's smile slowly faded.
"I've always thought that he needed someone who's his complete opposite in just about anything," Dorcas said, laughing. "People say I'm crazy to think that, but I'm not changing my tune. Young Lord Bethelford needs someone who could bring out those qualities in him that he's never shown before…"
Quatre saw Trowa and Lady Gabriela talk a little more. Then they paused, and before the boy could fully register what was happening, he found himself watching the two take hold of each other's hands, lean forward, and give each other a light, lingering kiss.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
[1]Samuel Richardson, author of Clarissa (or the History of a Young Lady)