Patrick deWitt - Undermajordomo Minor

Lucy looked in the direction of the cottage, though he could no longer see it through the trees. When he had asked his mother where she was going the night before, she’d said she wanted to take the air.

“She seemed an honourable woman,” said the man.

“She is not dishonourable,” Lucy answered, still looking uphill.

“And you’re only leaving there today, you say?”

“Just now, yes.”

In a covert voice, the man said, “I hope you didn’t find the accommodation lacking in some way.”

Lucy faced the field worker. “No.”

“Sometimes you don’t uncover the lack until it’s too late. That’s how it was with the last house. It was slave’s rations by the end of my stay there.”

“You’ll be happy at the Minors’.”

“She seemed an honourable woman,” the man repeated. “I pray she doesn’t mind my being early, but I’ve found it best to get a jump on these things.” He gestured at the incline. “It’s just this way, is it?”

“The path will take you there,” said Lucy.

“Well, thank you, boy. And good luck to you.” He bowed and walked on. He was disappearing around a bend when Lucy called to him:

“Will you tell her you met me, sir? The woman of the house?”

“If that’s what you want.” The man paused. “But who shall I say I met?”

“Tell her you met Lucy. And tell her about our conversation.”

The field worker seemed to think it an odd request, but he tipped his hat. “Consider it done.”

As the man disappeared into the trees, Lucy was visited by an evil thought; and at the same moment the thought became whole, a rush of wind swarmed him, a column of air focused on his chest and face. It was true that at times a gust of wind was like a soundless voice commenting on some private notion or realization. Whether the wind agreed or disagreed with him, who could say. Certainly not Lucy; and neither was he much concerned about it. He continued down the hill. His mind was like a drum, a fist, a sail overflowing, pregnant with push and momentum.

At any rate, he was no longer bored.

Lucy thought he might pay a farewell visit to Marina, and headed to her house to see if she was in. There was no sign of Tor’s gargantuan boots on her porch and he knocked, propping himself in the doorway as one merely happening past. But when she answered, she looked so naturally beautiful that his eyes must have betrayed his true emotions, a cleaved combination of adoration and acrimony. For her part, Marina evidently had no feeling for his being there. Pointing to his valise, she asked,

“Are you going somewhere?”

So, she wasn’t even aware of his leaving. “Yes,” he said. “I’ve been summoned to the Castle Von Aux. Likely you’ve heard of it?”

“I haven’t.”

“Are you certain? It’s in the east, the high mountains — a very picturesque location, they say.”

“I’ve never heard of it, Lucy.” She gazed disinterestedly over his shoulder, hopeful for some diversion or another. “What will you be doing in this very famous and picturesque castle?”

“I’m to be undermajordomo.”

“What’s that?”

“It’s akin to the majordomo, more or less.”

“It sounds to be less.”

“I will be working in concert with him.”

“Beneath him, that’s what it sounds like.” She untied and re-tied her apron, fitting it snugly around her dainty waist. “What’s the wage?”

“It’s a healthy wage.”

“But what is the figure?”

“Assuredly healthy. And they sent me a first-class ticket, as well. A nice touch, I thought. They mean to keep me happy, that much is clear.” In actuality, they had sent a paltry advance which had not quite covered a third-class ticket; he had had to take a loan from his mother for the remainder.

Marina asked him, “How did you get this position?”

“I was assisted by the good Father Raymond.”

Smirking, she said, “That old rag doll. He’s all powdery, like a biscuit.” She laughed at this — laughed loudly, and for a long time. Lucy didn’t understand how her laughter could be so blithe and enchanting when she herself was so covetous and ungenerous. Furthermore he couldn’t comprehend why he felt such an overwhelming desire for someone who, it was plain enough to see, was patently rotten from the inside out.

He said, “You can laugh at the man if you want, but he alone took it upon himself to help me. This is more than I can say for anyone else in these parts.”

Marina couldn’t be bothered to take offence. She peered back into the house and seemed to be thinking of taking her leave, but Lucy wasn’t ready to say goodbye just yet. Feinting, he removed his pipe and pointed its stem at the storm clouds, now tabled across the valley. “Rain’s coming,” he said. She did not look skyward but stared at the pipe.

“Since when do you smoke a pipe?” she asked.

“Somewhat recently.”

“How recently?”

“Very recently.”

A drugged mien came over her, and in a silky voice she said, “Tor smokes cigarettes. He rolls them in one hand, like this.” She see-sawed her fingers against her thumb, her face affecting Tor’s self-satisfaction and confidence. “Did you hear he’s working out the terms to Schultz’s farm?”

Lucy had not, and his mind flooded with insults and epithets, for Shultz’s property was the finest in Bury. And yet he held his tongue, wanting his farewell with Marina to be peaceable, not out of any magnanimity, but so that after Tor ruined her — he felt confident Tor would ruin her — and she was once more alone, she would think of Lucy’s graciousness and feel the long-lingering sting of bitter regret. In a sober tone, he told her, “Good for Tor, then. That is, good for the both of you. I hope you’ll be very happy together.”

Marina was moved by the words, and she crossed over to hold Lucy. “Thank you, Lucy,” she said. “Thank you.” Her hair brushed his face and he could feel her breath against his neck. This unanticipated contact was like a bell struck in the pit of his stomach, and he was reminded of the time of their love affair, which took place during the previous spring.

At the start it had consisted of much forest-walking, hand-holding, and eye-gazing. After a period of a month Marina realized Lucy was not going to make love to her without encouragement, and she encouraged him, and Lucy was scandalized, but not for very long at all. They fell into a routine of daily fornication in the lush, sloping fields below the village. Lucy was greatly relieved to be courting, at long last, and he knew he had the makings of a faithful wife in Marina. As they lay naked in the grass, the clouds moving bovinely over the mountaintops, he pondered their future. How many children would they have? They would have two children, one boy and one girl. They would live modestly, and Lucy would become a schoolteacher or cobbler or poet — some post which did not involve strenuous activity. Each evening he would return to their humble home and his family would swarm him, easing him into his chair by the fireplace. Would he like a cup of tea? Why yes he would, and thank you so very much. What of a scone? Well, why not? These daydreams caused in Lucy a physical reaction, a pleasing tension which ran from his shoulders to the undersides of his feet, toes curling in the sunshine.

His visions of this contented life were bolstered by the field relations themselves, which he had thought were going markedly well. But when, one afternoon, he said as much to Marina, her face darkened. He asked her what was the matter and she told him, “It’s just that … you don’t have to handle me so gently, Lucy.” Soon afterwards she sent him away, and Lucy spent heartsick months studying the curious words with such fervour that they all but lost their meaning — and he never did deduce just what it was she wanted. What he was keenly aware of now was that Tor’s hands were matted in curly brown hair gone blond from sun exposure, and that when he gripped a glass of ale it looked as though he were holding a thimble. Lucy hated Tor, and presently decided to tell a sizeable lie about him. Marina was saying her goodbyes when he said, “But before I go I have something I need to tell you about this Tor.”