Patrick deWitt - Undermajordomo Minor

Mr Olderglough’s face formed a scowl, and a low growl came from the back of his throat. “No,” he said at last. “I won’t speak of it.”

“And why not?”

“Because it is unspeakable.”

Considering the grandly mysterious awfulness of this statement, Lucy became lost in private thought; this was ongoing for such a length of time that Mr Olderglough felt it necessary to admit, “I find myself wondering when you’ll leave my room, boy.”

Lucy retired in a sort of daze, and spent the rest of the morning feeling chased by his anxieties. His duties were performed in half measures, and he found his thoughts turning increasingly to recollections of Bury, the safety and comforts of his home. Mr Olderglough, intuiting this mood, and hoping to re-establish a bond of congeniality between them, came to Lucy in his room that afternoon bearing the news that Lucy would travel to the town of Listen the next day, that he might be fitted for a new suit of clothes. This made little impression on Lucy, who was sulking in earnest, now; but when Mr Olderglough passed over Lucy’s cap, this captured his imagination.

“The little village girl brought it,” Mr Olderglough said.

“Klara?”

“I don’t know her name. The small one with the twinkly eyes.”

The cap issued a muted crumpling, and Lucy discovered a note folded beneath the sheepskin flap. Klara’s penmanship was cautiously deliberate, and the words fell at a slant, as though they would march off the edge of the paper:

It’s because we like you that we tease you, Lucy. Please will you come and visit us? Your Klara.

Mr Olderglough peered over Lucy’s shoulder, that he might also read the note. “Are you in the midst of an intrigue?” he asked.

“I don’t know yet, sir.”

“Will you tell me when you find out?”

“I will.”

“Because I’m curious to know.”

“I’ll tell you, sir.”

“Very good,” said Mr Olderglough, and he left the room.

Lucy spent some moments rereading and handling the note and considering its importance, the influence it might wield over his future. The puppy sat at his feet, looking up at him.

“ My Klara,” Lucy said.

The tailor was a sallow man with a monocle, a wisp of a moustache, and blackly shining, harshly parted hair. He read Mr Olderglough’s letter of introduction and instruction with a serene detachment, elbow akimbo, one eye — the non-monocled — gently shut. After folding the letter away, he looked Lucy up and down and said the word: “Fine.” Lucy was made to disrobe to the essentials and stand upon a dais surrounded by tall, gleaming mirrors. Regarding his reflection, and being unused to such events and attentions, he felt self-conscious, this made all the more pronounced by the sorry state of his undergarments. His shirt was pitiable; his shorts, grievous. The tailor must have had an opinion regarding these unsavoury articles but kept it hidden, throwing himself headlong into his work; tape in hand, he fairly crawled all over Lucy, calling out measurements to an assistant who remained out of sight and who in fact never made any sound whatsoever.

Afterwards, Lucy dressed and rejoined the tailor in the front of the shop, where he was told the suit would be ready in two weeks’ time, and that it would be sent by train to the castle. Lucy thanked the man and was on his way out the door when he caught sight of a richly blue three-quarter-length cape hanging from the wall. He pointed.

“And how much is the cape, there?”

“That is a ladies’ cape.”

“Yes. How much does it cost?”

The tailor named a figure amounting to nearly twice the price of the suit.

“So much as that?” said Lucy. But in inspecting the cape he could see that it was of the highest quality: double-stitched and lined in silk, with fox fur ringing its hood. In a breezy tone of voice, as though it were half an afterthought, he told the tailor, “We will put that on the bill as well.”

The tailor hesitated. “Mr Olderglough makes no mention of this in the letter.”

Lucy waved his hand. “It’s nothing to him, I wouldn’t think.”

“I’m certain that’s so. But I should like to ask him first, if you don’t mind.”

“As a matter of fact I do mind,” said Lucy.

“I’d be glad to hold it for you until I receive his reply,” the tailor told him.

Lucy shook his head. “You will either hand over the cape now, and make a nice profit in the bargain, or forget it altogether, and content yourself with the few modest coins earned on the suit.”

Long moments passed with the tailor staring up at the cape. Lucy knew the only way his attitude would prevail was if the man was a merchant at heart, rather than someone idling in a temporary position. As it happened, the tailor had been raised in the shop. It was his father’s before him, and before that, his grandfather’s. The world of commerce was all he knew, and all he wanted to know; and while his not confirming the purchase with Mr Olderglough was a clear breach of protocol, he couldn’t pass up the opportunity to unload the cape, and so he took his chance, acknowledging the coup with a curious, twirling twist of his forefinger, followed by a birdlike, trilling whistle. Lucy did not believe these gestures were meant to pinpoint any one specific emotion, but rather were meant to celebrate, in the round, another fruitful day on earth. And so it was.

While the cape was being wrapped by the same invisible assistant, the tailor and Lucy were toasting brandies in the upstairs office, chatting about any little thing, as though they were old friends with shared histories and attitudes. Lucy felt very worldly and pleased with himself. He managed to drink his brandy without gagging, and what a relief this was, for it would have ruined the entire adventure had it happened otherwise.

Klara opened the door to find Lucy standing in the darkness, a package tucked under his arm. After welcoming him in, she moved to the stove to pour out water for tea. Lucy sat at the table, the package on the bench beside him. The state of his nerves was such that he found himself growing over warm. He removed his coat, and then his cap, laying this on the table to study it. Klara spoke with her back to Lucy.

“I see you got your hat.”

“Yes,” said Lucy. “Was it very hard to find?”

“It was, actually.”

“Well, thank you for it.” He laid the package on the table before him. “And for the note, as well.”

Klara said nothing to this, but brought the tea to the table. When she saw the package she asked, “What’s that, there?”

“What, this?” Lucy said.

“Yes,” said Klara. “What is it?”

“This here?”

“Will you tell me what it is or not?” She poked the package with her finger.

Lucy pushed it nearer to her and she said, “What now? Am I to open it?”

“Yes.”

“But why?”

“Because it’s for you.”

This seemed to startle, even upset Klara. When at last she undid the ribbon, she used only one hand, leaving the other to rest upon her lap. The package bloomed, a crinkling, staggered blossom, and when she spied its contents, her spine went stiff. “What is that?”

“It’s a cape. Don’t you like it?”

“Why did you bring me this?”

“It’s just that I noticed your shivering the other day, in the marketplace,” he explained. When he said this, a look of shame came over Klara, and here Lucy recognized his mistake.

“You must think me very shabby,” she said quietly.

“No, Klara.”

“A shabby girl in need of charity, is that it?”

“That’s not what it is at all.”

But now she was rewrapping the package, and Lucy saw the moment was getting away from him. “Stop,” he said. “Wait.” When she did not stop, he said it again: “Stop.”