Undermajordomo Minor

IX. THE COUNT & COUNTESS, DUKE & DUCHESS

On the morning of the guests’ arrival, Mr Olderglough had taken Lucy aside and told him, “I will look after the Duke and Duchess, and you will mind the Count and Countess. Is that quite all right with you, boy?”

Lucy answered that it was, but it struck him as curious, for Mr Olderglough had never positioned an instruction in so accommodating a manner before. “May I ask why you prefer the Duke and Duchess to the Count and Countess?” he said.

Here Mr Olderglough nodded, as if he had been found out. “We have been through a good deal together, you and I, and so I feel I can speak to you in confidence, and as a peer. Are you comfortable with that?”

“Of course, sir.”

“Very good. Well, boy, if I’m to address the truth of the matter, none of the coming guests is what might be called desirable company. Actually, I have in the past found them to be distinctly undesirable.”

“In what way, sir?”

“In many ways which you will, I fear, discover for yourself. But your question, if I understand correctly, is to wonder which of the two parties is the worse, isn’t that right?”

“I suppose so, sir.”

“Then I must tell you that the Count and Countess merit that prize, handily. And while I feel on the one hand duty-bound to take the heavier burden unto myself, I must also recognize that I simply haven’t the capacities I once did. To look after people such as those who are coming to stay with us is a young man’s game, and I am not young any longer, and so I take the simpler path, though you may rest assured that when I say simpler, I do not mean simple. The Duke and Duchess are no stroll in the park, and I can attest to that personally, and at length.” Mr Olderglough stepped closer, his eyes filled with ugly memories. “Be on your guard with these people, boy. They answer to no one. They never have, and they never will.”

These words played in Lucy’s head as he stood on the platform awaiting the Count and Countess’s arrival. As the train came into the station, he could hear a man’s wild cackling; when the Count emerged from his compartment he was quite obviously drunken, swaying in place, a cigar planted in the fold of his slick, blubbery mouth. His skull was a softly pink egg, his eyes blood-daubed yolks — he drew back from the sunlight as one scalded. Once recovered, he focused on Lucy, gripping him by the lapel. “Ah, Broom, happy to see you again, boy.”

“Yes, sir, nice to see you, as well. Only I’m not Mr Broom; my name is Lucy.”

“What?”

“My name is Lucy, sir.”

The Count stared. “You’re Broom.”

“I’m not he, sir.”

“Well, where has Broom run off to?”

“He has died, sir.”

The Count leaned back on his heels. Speaking over his shoulder and into the blackened compartment, he said, “Did you know about this?”

“About what?” said the Countess.

“Broom is dead.”

“Who?”

“The servant lad? Broom? You were so fond of him last time we visited.”

“Oh, yes, him. Nice boy — nice colouring. He’s dead, you say?”

“Dead as dinner, apparently.”

“How did he die?”

“I don’t know how.” The Count looked at Lucy. “How?”

Lucy said, “He was possessed by a wickedness and so cast himself bodily into the Very Large Hole, sir.”

The Count made an irritable face.

“Did he say a very large hole?” the Countess asked.

“Yes,” said the Count.

“Large hole?”

“Yes.”

The Countess paused. “Well, I don’t want to hear another word about it.” And with this, she emerged: a corpulent, panting woman with frizzed black hair, a crimson neck, and a fierce displeasure in her eye which Lucy took to be travel fatigue but which he would soon discover was simply her root mood. When he held out his hand to help her from the train, she cracked him across his knuckles with her folding fan, a stinging blow that took his breath away. Pushing past him, she stepped up the path and towards the castle, murmuring vague threats or regrets to herself. Once she was clear of earshot, the Count addressed Lucy breathily, and through a shroud of bluish smoke.

“When is the dinner service?” he asked.

“Six-thirty, sir.”

“Unacceptable.” The Count pressed a coin into Lucy’s palm. “If you could scare me up some type of holdover, that would suit me.”

Lucy studied the coin. It was a foreign currency, and quite useless to him. “Holdover, sir?” he said.

“Something to chew on.”

“Something to eat.”

“I like salt. A meat. Don’t let the Countess see.”

“No, sir.”

“You’re on your own if she does.”

“Yes.”

“And I suppose a bath is in order. Can you see to it?”

“Surely, sir.”

“Fine. Now you fetch us our baggage and then get started on the rest. You seem a good lad, but how many have let me down in the past? Indeed: too many to name.” He trundled up the hill on stumpy legs, and Lucy turned to watch the porter offload the trunks and cases. It was the same porter Lucy had seen before, when the Baroness arrived. They were much the same age, and Lucy approached to assist him.

“What did he give you?” the porter asked, and Lucy showed him the coin. The porter smiled, and produced an identical valueless coin from his own pocket. They each cast their coin to the ground, and as the train pulled away from the station the porter swung onto the caboose. He bowed at Lucy, and Lucy bowed at him, and the both of them returned to their work.

The Count was listlessly fingering the contents of his steamer trunk. He was naked as the day he was born, and other than his height, looked much as he had at that initial emergence. The Countess, on the opposite side of the room, sat at the vanity, admiring her toiletries, laid out in some obscure codification of her own hostile design. In the corner, unseen behind a folding screen, Lucy was pouring out the final cauldron of water for the Count’s bath. He had a sizeable salami up his sleeve and was waiting for the moment when the Countess was not about, that he might unsheathe and present it to the Count. He was hopeful this would happen sooner rather than later, as the salami was cold and oily and felt repugnant against his bare flesh.

The Count held a white silken shirt up before himself. He turned to face the Countess, who told him, “You’ll want to go darker. You’re so ruddy these days.”

The Count sighed.

“You take too much tobacco,” she said.

“It’s more the drink, I fear.”

“Well, whatever the culprit, you mustn’t wear white if you can avoid it.”

He stood before the tilted looking-glass, dolefully assessing his countenance. “So many pitfalls in a life,” he said.

“Yes.”

“The consequences of our appetites confound me. But, you know what my father said: ‘A modesty of appetite represents a paucity of heart.’ He swapped the white for a blue shirt, and appeared pleased, for it truly did mask his hue. “I find myself wondering what’s for dinner,” he said, to no one.

Lucy stepped out from behind the screen. “Cold dill and yoghurt soup, sliced calf tongue in butter, pork knuckle in nettle sauce, and for dessert, a fruit tart.”

The Count and Countess stared at Lucy.

“Did you know he was in the room?” the Count asked.

“I did not,” said the Countess.

“Nor I.”

“I wish I had known.”

“As do I.”

“I knocked before entering,” said Lucy.

The Count said, “I heard nothing like a knock.”

“Neither did I,” said the Countess.

“You should knock harder,” said the Count.

“I’m sorry, sir,” Lucy said.

“Or offer a verbal greeting.”

“I didn’t want to disturb you.”

“But you’ve done just that, haven’t you?” said the Countess. She turned to the vanity, and in a spasm of pique began passionately combing her hair. The Count set his blue shirt to the side, for he had located something of consequence in his navel, and now worked fingers like pincers to remove it.

“Is my bath ready?” he asked Lucy.

“It is, sir.”

The Count padded around the screen and submerged a thumb in the water. Finding the temperature to his liking, he daintily drew a leg over the lip of the tub and eased into the bath, emitting a puff of air as he did so. “Tell me more about this tart, boy,” he said.

“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.

Lucy thought he noticed, then was sure he did, that the Count was watching Klara each time she entered the room. At the start he did this only in stolen snatches, but as the evening progressed his attentions became more overt, so that whenever she came near he made it a point to initiate some slight contact — to touch her wrist when she took up his empty plate, or to stroke her back as she passed by. When he touched her, she froze, and her face was empty, plain; but Lucy knew she was oppressed by the Count’s attentions, and each time it occurred, his stomach pitched. At one point, when Klara had left for the scullery, the Count asked the Baron, “Where did you find that one?”

“Oh, she’s just a village girl.”

The Count found this fascinating. “So she’s not in your employ?”

“Not typically, no. But we hadn’t the time to hire full staff, and so we’re just getting by in the meantime. Why do you ask? Are you unhappy with her?”

“Quite the opposite!”

“My husband is enamoured, I think,” the Countess explained.

“Ah,” said the Baron, nodding. “Well, one could hardly blame you. Though I think you may have some competition in young Lucy, here.”

The group turned to stare at Lucy, who had been standing at the rear of the room, mutely seething.

“Is that a fact?” said the Count.

“See how he draws up when she comes near,” said the Baron, smiling fondly at Lucy. “Take note of the forlorn look in his eye when she departs. Obviously he has given himself over to her, heart and soul.” He laid his hand on the Baroness’s. “It is something which only one in love could identify.”

The Count was watching Lucy. “Well, lad, how about it? Sabres at dawn?”

He was merely making sport, and yet there was an undercurrent of true violence at play as well. You had but to look at the man to see he’d never in his life asked twice for anything he desired. What would it feel like, Lucy wondered, to push a blade into a person? Would it be quick, as when you sliced your hand through a ray of light, or slow, and heavy, like an oar through water? Either way, at that moment he really did want to run this Count through, and so in reply to the query he said, “At dawn, by the light of the moon — just as you wish, sir.”

The celebrants thought this very fine, and they laughed a long while about it. The Baron himself stood and saluted Lucy, and the Baroness clapped her white gloves in his direction. Lucy bowed to the group and left the dining room to find Klara standing on the other side of the door, flushed and beaming, for she had been eavesdropping, and had heard Lucy’s response to the Count’s challenge. Lucy was taken up by an uncommon boldness, and he kissed her there, listening to the swish of her uniform against her skin. A moment of this, and she stepped back, watching him with a look of wonderment. A nameless resolution formed in her eyes, then she led him by the hand, away from the dining room and into the cavernous space of the ballroom, closing the door behind them.

She was not shy, which made him feel shy. She had pressed him against the far wall of the ballroom, and as she undid his trousers Lucy studied her with an idolization so vast it took on physical properties in his heart; the size and weight of it was frightening for him in that he felt he could not contain it. At certain moments in their coupling she became feverish, and it seemed to Lucy she was not herself at all, but possessed by some spirit he hadn’t yet known. He gripped her skull and marvelled at its diminutive delicacy, puzzling over how it could be that so frail a vessel might possess such a force as Klara possessed. At the apex of his passion his body was flooded in light. Lucy had never been so moved.

Klara stood and corrected herself, straightening the hem of her dress with a sensible tug of the wrists. She was smiling with sly pride, and she told him, “I’ll go first.” Lucy nodded but didn’t answer. After she had gone he remained leaning against the wall, legs atremble, trousers still bunched at his ankles. What an eventful day I’m having, he thought.

This sentiment was compounded when the doors swung open and the partygoers entered in a hysterical troupe. Lucy slipped crabwise to stand behind the curtain at his right; he could think of no way to pull up his trousers without bringing attention to his person, and so was forced to leave them be. He stood for a time in the darkness behind the heavy fabric but soon folded back the edge of the curtain, that he might catch a glimpse of the group; and it was from this vantage point that Lucy could and did witness and catalogue the strange and terrible ballroom goings-on. All were present save for the Count, who some moments later scampered into the room, the tart wrapped up in his arms like a swaddled infant, his face descriptive of a perceived immortality.

“Look at how merry he is,” said the Countess.

“Remarkably so,” the Duchess commented.

“Can one be too merry, I wonder?” asked the Baroness.

“One can not,” the Count announced, resting the tart atop the table. “For joy carries no consequence, and is desirous of nothing save for more joy.” As the group digested the statement, the Count stood by, admiring the dessert, smiling sleepily, the picture of satisfied docility. But then some black violence or another occurred in his mind, and a look of cruelty came over him. He punched his fist dead into the centre of the virgin tart.