Patrick deWitt - Undermajordomo Minor

“It’s a peach tart, sir, soaked in brandy.”

The Count raised his eyebrows. “Brandy?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Have you yourself ever tried it?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And what is your opinion of it?”

“I have a high opinion of Agnes’s tart, sir.” And this was true — Agnes’s tart was her lone certainty. The Count seemed pleased to hear as much; he drew up his lips like a purse’s drawstring. In a whisper, he asked,

“Did you bring the meat?”

Lucy nodded, and patted his sleeve. “It’s here, sir.” Now the Count made a beckoning gesture, that Lucy should come nearer and produce the salami, but before this could be accomplished the Countess, whom neither Lucy nor the Count had heard approaching, was standing beside the screen, watching them with a sour expression.

“He was going to scrub my feet,” the Count explained.

“Scrub your own feet. Boy, come with me.”

Lucy followed her across the room and soon found himself regarding the clammy folds of the Countess’s naked flesh as he untied her corset. Once freed from the garment she sat awhile, expanding. Sniffing at the air, she said, “You smell like a salami, boy.”

“Yes, and I’m sorry about that, ma’am.”

“It’s something you’re aware of, then?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“Oughtn’t you do something about it?”

“I surely will, ma’am.”

“It is not insurmountable. One doesn’t have to smell like a salami if one doesn’t wish it.”

“No, you’re absolutely right, ma’am.”

“Fine,” she said. “And now, away with you. I should like a rest before the evening’s festivities. Wake me up one hour before dinner service.” Bowing, he turned and crossed the room, stalling as he passed the screen, behind which the Count waved frantically from the bath. Lucy moved closer, rotating his wrist to and fro that the salami might come loose; but the cuff was snug, so that the tubular meat became lodged in his sleeve. He was fumbling with his cufflink when the Countess, who had been watching his progress, thwarted his delivery: “I said away, boy — away!” He made a helpless face at the Count and exited the room, very nearly colliding with Mr Olderglough, who was happening past. They walked together, towards the scullery.

“How does it go, boy?”

“They are as you said, sir.”

“Are they not, though?”

“Indeed, and they are.”

“Tell me.”

Lucy regaled his superior with details of his experience up to that moment, leaving out his having a salami in his sleeve, for it was an unfortunate, even shameful fact; and beyond that, he had taken it from the larder without asking permission. Mr Olderglough listened to the rest, his head down as he took it in. At tale’s end, he said, “Gluttons of the basest category.”

“Yes, sir,” said Lucy. “And what of the Duke and Duchess?” He had seen them only in passing, when they entered the castle some hours earlier. They appeared to be of a piece with the Count and Countess in terms of temperament, though were ever more stylish and healthful; the Duchess in particular was something of a pouty beauty, horse-limbed and taller than the Duke by a head.

Mr Olderglough said, “My experience has been much like yours. I find it something like corralling children, wouldn’t you say?”

“It is.”

“But you are holding up, my boy?”

“Oh, I’m fine, sir.” Actually, Lucy found the task of tending to such people amusing; and this was reflected in his bearing. Now Mr Olderglough had ceased speaking but was only watching Lucy, and with fondness.

“What is it, sir?”

Mr Olderglough considered his answer. “Just to say that I’m glad you’re here with us, boy. Your very mettle has been tested within these walls, and for what it’s worth, you’ve impressed me, and you have my thanks.”

How curious for him to have spoken these heartfelt words, and seemingly out of the blue; and curiouser still, that Lucy should have found himself so touched by the sentiment. But there he was, swallowing a lump in his throat, and when he replied, it was with sincerity. “Thank you very much, sir. And I hope you know that I’m glad to be here with you all, also.”

“Good, then.” Mr Olderglough patted Lucy’s back. They approached the scullery, and a mischievousness came into the older man’s voice: “Now, boy, I hope this doesn’t offend, but we’ve taken a liberty tonight.”

“Oh?” said Lucy. “And what do you mean, sir?”

“A liberty has been taken, is all. Blame Agnes. We needed the extra hand, and she believed it would please you.” Mr Olderglough opened the door and bade Lucy enter first. Stepping into the scullery, he found Klara standing in the centre of the room, wearing a maid’s uniform and a timorous look on her face. Her hair had been cleaned and combed and was pulled away and back; her forearms were bare; her white filigreed smock tied tight about her tiny waist. Here was Klara, only a wholly separate version of her, all the more elegant and feminine, and as Lucy absorbed this unpredicted dream of beauty, then did he feel himself falling in plummeting love a second time.

Agnes, from the larder, called for Mr Olderglough, and so Lucy was left alone with Klara. He moved to stand before her.

“Who did this?” he asked.

“Don’t you like it?”

“I like it.”

“Agnes helped me with my hair.”

“I like it.”

“She has rougher hands than my father.”

“I think you look very nice and I like it very, very much.”

She was smiling, staring at the floor. “But do you really like it?” she said.

“I like it. I love it. I love you.”

She looked up now, pleased and relieved by his reaction; for life in the village had never afforded her such finery as this, and she could see how impressed Lucy truly was. Stepping in closer, she reached out for him. Gripping his arm, she paused, and drew her hand away. “What is that?”

“A salami.”

“Why do you have a salami in your sleeve?”

“It’s not my salami.”

“Why — do you have a salami in your sleeve?”

Mr Olderglough returned from the larder and, upon seeing Lucy and Klara so closely paired, began to loudly clap his hands; over the sound of this, he called to them: “No time for the cooing of doves! Klara, you will go with Agnes in the larder! Lucy, you will assist me in preparing the dining room! We shall cease living for ourselves but only for the others! Servitude is an art! Now and now!” He continued his clapping and encouragements as he walked from the scullery and into the hallway. “Search within yourselves! Excellence! Magnificence!”

Lucy and Klara were smiling. He kissed her forehead and followed Mr Olderglough but cast a final look over his shoulder before exiting the room: Klara straightening her dress; the loveliness of her profile as she spun about, girlishly, and stepping to the larder. Lucy hurried after the sound of the clapping, which was ongoing.

The banquet table was buffed and gleaming, the cutlery polished, napkins pressed, the grand room bathed in the golden colouring of the numberless white candles. The three couples were likewise gleaming and pristinely groomed; they sat upright, nodding politely to one another but speaking little, their conversation stilted and faceless, dealing mostly in governmental gossip. The Baron and Baroness chatted lightly to their guests, but the others wouldn’t be drawn out, and Lucy, in delivering the soup, could read a justifiable concern on the faces of the hosts, for the mood was restrained to the point of creating unease, and the evening was in danger of foundering. But, as the second course was served, and the wine began to pour, the group relaxed, and the banter became freer. By the conclusion of the third course the party was gay verging on raucous, heads tilted back in mad laughter, the Count’s complexion red-going-purple as he spit up some partially chewed morsel of food. The more they drank, then did the traits of the individuals become ever more vague, and now the party took on a single presence, and there was at the edges of this small society an accrual of unkindness, even menace.