Уильям Голдман - The Princess Bride

The Count left the carriage. Gracefully, he moved to the ground and stood very still. He was a big man, with black hair and black eyes and great shoulders and a black cape and gloves.

"Curtsy, dear," Buttercup's mother whispered.

Buttercup did her best.

And the Count could not stop looking at her.

Understand now, she was barely rated in the top twenty; her hair was uncombed, unclean; her age was just seventeen, so there was still, in occasional places, the remains of baby fat. Nothing had been done to the child. Nothing was really there but potential.

But the Count still could not rip his eyes away.

"The Count would like to know the secrets behind our cows' greatness, is that not correct, sir?" Buttercup's father said.

The Count only nodded, staring.

Even Buttercup's mother noted a certain tension in the air.

"Ask the farm boy; he tends them," Buttercup said.

"And is that the farm boy?" came a new voice from inside the carriage. Then the Countess's face was framed in the carriage doorway.

Her lips were painted a perfect red; her green eyes lined in black. All the colors of the world were muted in her gown. Buttercup wanted to shield her eyes from the brilliance.

Buttercup's father glanced back toward the lone figure peering around the corner of the house. "It is."

"Bring him to me."

"He is not dressed properly for such an occasion," Buttercup's mother said.

"I have seen bare chests before," the Countess replied. Then she called out: "You!" and pointed at the farm boy. "Come here." Her fingers snapped on "here."

The farm boy did as he was told.

And when he was close, the Countess left the carriage.

When he was a few paces behind Buttercup, he stopped, head properly bowed. He was ashamed of his attire, worn boots and torn blue jeans (blue jeans were invented considerably before most people suppose), and his hands were tight together in almost a gesture of supplication.

"Have you a name, farm boy?"

"Westley, Countess."

"Well, Westley, perhaps you can help us with our problem." She crossed to him. The fabric of her gown grazed his skin. "We are all of us here passionately interested in the subject of cows. We are practically reaching the point of frenzy, such is our curiosity. Why, do you suppose, Westley, that the cows of this particular farm are the finest in all Florin? What do you do to them?"

"I just feed them, Countess."

"Well then, there it is, the mystery is solved, the secret; we can all rest. Clearly, the magic is in Westley's feeding. Show me how you do it, would you, Westley?"

"Feed the cows for you, Countess?"

"Bright lad."

"When?"

"Now will be soon enough," and she held out her arm to him. "Lead me, Westley."

Westley had no choice but to take her arm. Gently. "It's behind the house, madam; it's terrible muddy back there. Your gown will be ruined."

"I wear them only once, Westley, and I burn to see you in action."

So off they went to the cowshed.

Throughout all this, the Count kept watching Buttercup.

"I'll help you," Buttercup called after Westley.

"Perhaps I'd best see just how he does it," the Count decided.

"Strange things are happening," Buttercup's parents said, and off they went too, bringing up the rear of the cow-feeding trip, watching the Count, who was watching their daughter, who was watching the Countess.

Who was watching Westley.

"I COULDN'T SEE what he did that was so special," Buttercup's father said. "He just fed them." This was after dinner now, and the family was alone again.

"They must like him personally. I had a cat once that only bloomed when I fed him. Maybe it's the same kind of thing." Buttercup's mother scraped the stew leavings into a bowl. "Here," she said to her daughter. "Westley's waiting by the back door; take him his dinner."

Buttercup carried the bowl, opened the back door.

"Take it," she said.

He nodded, accepted, started off to his tree stump to eat.

"I didn't excuse you, Farm Boy," Buttercup began. He stopped, turned back to her. "I don't like what you're doing with Horse. What you're not doing with Horse is more to the point. I want him cleaned. Tonight. I want his hoofs varnished. Tonight. I want his tail plaited and his ears massaged. This very evening. I want his stables spotless. Now. I want him glistening, and if it takes you all night, it takes you all night."

"As you wish."

She slammed the door and let him eat in darkness.

"I thought Horse had been looking very well, actually," her father said.

Buttercup said nothing.

"You yourself said so yesterday," her mother reminded her.

"I must be overtired," Buttercup managed. "The excitement and all."

"Rest, then," her mother cautioned. "Terrible things can happen when you're overtired. I was overtired the night your father proposed." Thirty-four to twenty-two and pulling away.

Buttercup went to her room. She lay on her bed. She closed her eyes.

And the Countess was staring at Westley.

Buttercup got up from bed. She took off her clothes. She washed a little. She got into her nightgown. She slipped between the sheets, snuggled down, closed her eyes.

The Countess was still staring at Westley!

Buttercup threw back the sheets, opened her door. She went to the sink by the stove and poured herself a cup of water. She drank it down. She poured another cup and rolled its coolness across her forehead. The feverish feeling was still there.

How feverish? She felt fine. She was seventeen, and not even a cavity. She dumped the water firmly into the sink, turned, marched back to her room, shut the door tight, went back to bed. She closed her eyes.

The Countess would not stop staring at Westley!

Why? Why in the world would the woman in all the history of Florin who was in all ways perfect be interested in the farm boy? Buttercup rolled around in bed. And there simply was no other way of explaining that look—she was interested. Buttercup shut her eyes tight and studied the memory of the Countess. Clearly, something about the farm boy interested her. Facts were facts. But what? The farm boy had eyes like the sea before a storm, but who cared about eyes? And he had pale blond hair, if you liked that sort of thing. And he was broad enough in the shoulders, but not all that much broader than the Count. And certainly he was muscular, but anybody would be muscular who slaved all day. And his skin was perfect and tan, but that came again from slaving; in the sun all day, who wouldn't be tan? And he wasn't that much taller than the Count either, although his stomach was flatter, but that was because the farm boy was younger.

Buttercup sat up in bed. It must be his teeth. The farm boy did have good teeth, give credit where credit was due. White and perfect, particularly set against the sun-tanned face.

Could it have been anything else? Buttercup concentrated. The girls in the village followed the farm boy around a lot, whenever he was making deliveries, but they were idiots, they followed anything. And he always ignored them, because if he'd ever opened his mouth, they would have realized that was all he had, just good teeth; he was, after all, exceptionally stupid.

It was really very strange that a woman as beautiful and slender and willowy and graceful, a creature as perfectly packaged, as supremely dressed as the Countess should be hung up on teeth that way. Buttercup shrugged. People were surprisingly complicated. But now she had it all diagnosed, deduced, clear. She closed her eyes and snuggled down and got all nice and comfortable, and people don't look at other people the way the Countess looked at the farm boy because of their teeth.

"Oh," Buttercup gasped. "Oh, oh dear."