Undermajordomo Minor (19 page)

W
hen Lucy entered the scullery the Count had Klara pinned in the corner. He was pulling up her dress, rubbing her underside, and licking her face; when she struggled to free herself he began to thrash her, shaking her about, that her head might roll from her shoulders. Lucy crossed the room in broad strides, as though he were floating, almost, or sliding across ice; snatching up Agnes's marble pestle from the butcher's block, he swung this at the back of the Count's head, thinking to knock the man out, but at the last moment the Count turned, and so caught the pestle in the mouth. His skull was ricocheted off the stone wall and he dropped to his knees in a halted stupor. His top row of teeth was gone and rich, red-black blood drew down his face and into his shirtfront. It was moving faster than Lucy thought blood could move. He gestured to Klara, and she came and stood behind him. He was holding the pestle so tightly that his fingernails were sinking into the meat of his palm; when the resulting pain of this occurred to him he loosened his grip, and the pestle fell to the ground, breaking in two. He hadn't struck anyone in his life before this.

The Count stood, leaning against the wall and watching Lucy and Klara with a divine confusion, as though he'd never seen them before—as though he'd never seen anyone before. He drew a finger across his chin and looked at it. Staggering to the basin, he inhaled, then spit out the shards. Straightening his lapels, he
spun on his heels and addressed Lucy, his words made spheroid by the thick blood and dearth of teeth.

“How do I look, boy?”

“You have blood all down your face, sir.”

The Count pulled his kerchief from his breast pocket and dabbed at his cheek. “And now?”

“There is still a good deal of blood.”

He wiped the kerchief all around his face, smearing the blood and disimproving his state considerably. He offered Lucy a questioning glance.

“Much better, sir.”

The Count bowed to Lucy, and then to Klara. “Well,” he said, “the Sandman is calling me, and so I shall retire. Thank you both for a pleasant evening.”

“You're welcome, sir,” said Lucy.

“You're welcome,” said Klara.

The Count left the scullery, and Lucy and Klara watched the empty doorway. The Count reappeared, and Klara gripped Lucy's hand.

“Which is my room? I can't recall.”

Lucy pointed. “Up the stairs, sir, and second on your right.”

The Count left again. Lucy felt faint; he found himself blushing, and so was shy to face Klara. He closed his eyes as she wrapped her arms about his waist and pulled him closer. They held each other, and kissed, and were so very much in love.

I
n the morning, the Countess opened her eyes to find her husband's face a butcher's display of dried blood and flesh so raw and swollen as to produce a shine. She began to scream, and she continued screaming for a good long while.

T
he Count had no recollection of the incident with the pestle. Lucy had cleaned away the blood and tooth fragments in the scullery, as well as the button-like droplets which ran down the hallway and to the base of the stair. When this was deduced to be the blood's point of origin, it was assumed the Count had tripped. The guests and their hosts re-enacted this happening the next morning, and they were very excited to be doing so, all except the Count, who stood back from the others, purple and ghastly. The Baron knelt to touch the blunt edge of a stone step, perhaps the very same one the Count had collided with, and a collective shiver ran through the assembled. The Count attempted to speak but his words were unintelligible. He repeated them, but only the Countess could understand, and she translated:

“He wonders where his teeth went.”

The Duke leaned forward. “Likely you ate them, my good man!”

The Count winced at the thought, then winced from the wincing.

“I suppose you'll find out soon enough!” said the Duke.

The Duchess, who was suffering from a headache, said, “He's not gone deaf, dear. Please keep your voice down.”

They moved to the breakfast table, where it was decided a medical presence was necessary. The Count agreed but would not consider seeing any doctor other than his court physician. The Baron said he would have a letter sent at once to fetch the man;
but no, the Count preferred to recuperate in the comfort of his own estate. This point was argued but the Count was immovable, and now a pall settled over the table, for the premature departure of he and the Countess signaled the collapse of the group. And what of the Duke and Duchess? Yes, it would seem that they, too, were formulating plans to leave; already they were speaking of future meetings, and the unfortunateness of the Count's taking a fall—the pity of it all. The Baron looked on, aggrieved, and a glint of desperation flashed in his eye. He pleaded with the others to stay, speaking of grand dinners and as yet untapped kegs of the finest wines; but none could be persuaded, and now all was silent save for the clattering of cutlery.

Something had gone wrong the night before, something which wouldn't be mended. Who could say whether this was a shared sense of loathsome shame stemming from the ballroom happenings, or some lingering hostility which had taken hold of the group permanently—Lucy wasn't sure the performance of the evening prior was not ongoing. But whatever the reason, the joy vanished from the guests, and also the Baron, and most acutely, the Baroness, who, upon recognizing that the happy times had once more ended, left the table without saying goodbye to her old friends, disappearing into her private chambers and locking herself in.

L
ucy and Mr. Olderglough were kept busy all that day and into the late afternoon, assisting the guests with their packing, and transporting their baggage to the station. The Count was acting the infant, but was clearly relishing being the center of sympathetic attentions. Lucy was made uncomfortable by the man, fearful he would suddenly recall how he had come to be injured; but he only looked to Lucy as another body to lean upon and moan at. Lucy and Mr. Olderglough escorted the Count onto his train; when this pulled away, Mr. Olderglough said, “It looks like we'll have a quieter time, boy, and I daresay we've earned it.” Lucy noticed he was smiling but trying to hide it.

“What is it, sir?”

Mr. Olderglough cleared his throat. “Well, I find myself wondering what exactly
happened
to the Count last night. You wouldn't have any idea, would you?”

“Ah, it seems he fell, sir.”

“That is the theory, yes. Must have been a nasty fall, eh?”

“It must have been.”

“If it was indeed a fall, that is.”

“Yes.”

Mr. Olderglough paused to ponder. “And I wonder, too,” he continued, “just what happened to Agnes's pestle?”

“Her pestle, sir?”

“Her pestle, yes. Didn't you know that she found it this morning, split in two?”

“Is that right?”

Mr. Olderglough nodded.

Lucy shook his head. “That's a shame.”

Mr. Olderglough nodded. “Lastly,” he said, “I am curious as to what happened with young Klara's uniform.”

“Her uniform, sir?”

“Agnes tells me it was ripped at the neck and sleeve. I hope she hasn't come to any harm?”

“No, sir, she hasn't.”

“She got home safe, then?”

“Safe and sound.”

“Thank goodness for that. She seems a very nice girl.”

“She is, sir. And thank you for saying so.”

They walked for a time in silence. They were both smiling, now. Mr. Olderglough said, “Would you agree that the most appealing thing about a mystery is the fact of its mysteriousness?”

Lucy considered this. “Perhaps I would, sir.”

“But also the most frustrating, wouldn't you say?”

“Perhaps it is. But as is not unrarely the case, sir, I must admit to not knowing quite what you're talking about.”

“No?”

“No.”

“Well, no matter.” He looked away. “You may take the night off, if you wish.”

“I would like that very much, sir, and thank you.”

“Yes, boy. Off you go, now.”

Lucy walked toward the village then, listening to the chirring of crickets in the dusky air. He found himself drawn once again to the sight of the smoke spilling from Klara's chimney. He wished he might live forever in that wonderful hovel.

As he came nearer the village he noticed a crowd had assembled
outside the shanty. Stepping to the front of the pack, now he saw the focus of their attentions: Adolphus stood before Klara's door, famished and decrepit, in filth and bloodied rags, held up on either side by two of his comrades. One of these men knocked, and Klara answered, standing in silence and stillness, regarding Adolphus as though he were a specter. When she took him in her arms, a burst of jubilation came up among the villagers. She led him inside, and the crowd dispersed, all except for Lucy. When he recognized it was not possible for him to enter the shanty, he turned and walked away.

T
here followed a desolate era where Lucy didn't know quite where he stood with Klara. It was only days before and they had been connected as if by blood; now he heard nothing from her, and neither did he hear from Memel or Mewe. It was said among the villagers that Adolphus had been tortured and starved and was still very much in danger of dying, but time passed with no news of his demise, and as the smoke continued to spill from Klara's chimney, Lucy knew she had to be nursing and feeding him and tending to his wounds. Meanwhile, and as if in concert with this unnerving scenario, the mood among the castle inhabitants grew ever more removed, with the Baroness forever breaking away from the Baron to be alone in her chambers, and the Baron chasing after her, his voice gone high and pleading. Finally they retired to their respective rooms, and a cruel silence existed in every hall and doorway. From the scullery, Agnes and Mr. Olderglough spoke only in whispers, and their words were unsure, for they were the both of them fearful of what was likely to come. It was an in-between time, and Lucy shirked his duties to spy on the village with his telescope, as when he had first arrived.

One morning he watched Klara walking through the village and to the shanty, a bundle of kindling in her arms. He studied her face, but she wore no expression whatsoever; seven days had passed since Adolphus's return, and a hard kernel of contempt had formed in Lucy's heart. Why had she not come to him? Surely she knew he
was aware of Adolphus staying with her; surely she knew he was in pain about it. What did it mean that she hadn't bothered to address this? Well, what else could it mean? He told himself it was a matter of pride to wait for her, when in fact he was simply too frightened to go himself. When he thought of the way she might phrase her goodbye, he was sickened.

Klara dropped her kindling and stared with an awestruck expression into the distance. Adolphus had emerged from the shanty and was standing under his own power in the doorway. The sun glanced off his face, and while it was plain he was not yet healthy, he was far healthier than before, and he smiled easily, beckoning with his hands for Klara to come nearer, and she did this. They stood before one another awhile, speaking unknown tender words. When Klara reached up her hand and stroked Adolphus's cheek, then did Lucy know he had lost her. This is how it happened that his heart was so superbly broken.

L
ucy was disinclined to leave the castle, and took to maundering in the halls, carrying his burden here and there, eating little, sleeping less, and saying nothing, for he found speaking to be actually painful for him. At last he retreated to his room, blacked out his window with ash, folded and stowed his telescope, and took to bed. At the start he had no specific thoughts or notions but was merely inhabiting a deep, even ache; then came the visions of merciful death, and he pondered the variants with a swooning reverence. On the third day of this, Mr. Olderglough came to visit, and Rose was at his side. As they entered the room, Lucy drew the pillow over his face. “Please don't,” he said.

“Don't what, boy?”

“Don't say it.”

“Don't say what?”

“Don't say anything.”

Mr. Olderglough sat on the bed. “Are you not well, Lucy?”

“I'm not, no.”

“What's the matter?”

“I'm not well.”

“I suppose it's something to do with Klara, is that it?”

Lucy didn't answer. Mr. Olderglough bowed his head, and his forelock came uncoiled. “What may I do to help you?”

“Nothing.”

“And when will you be better, I wonder?”

“I don't want to be better.”

“That's no kind of attitude.”

“I can't help it.”

“Must you speak with the pillow over your face?”

“I must, yes.”

Mr. Olderglough set his forelock in place, looking sterner. “Lucy,” he said, “I'm here primarily because of my being worried about you. But there is also the fact of your being paid to perform services in the castle, and it has been some days where you haven't done so. Now, we all come down with a trace of gloom from time to time, but—”

“You've never once paid me,” said Lucy.

Mr. Olderglough scowled. “Oh, come now, boy. That can't be true.” He thought a moment. “
Is
that true?”

“Never once.”

“Well, that's just terrible.” Mr. Olderglough paused, then brightened. “What if I
did
pay you? Then would you work?”

“No.”

“This is all very discouraging. May I ask after your plans?”

“I have none.”

“But surely you must. What of the future?”

“There isn't one.”

Mr. Olderglough sighed. “I cannot claim to be enjoying this conversation, if I'm to be honest. As a matter of fact, I'm going to go away, now. I'll leave Rose here with you, if you don't mind. I found her wandering the halls this morning.”

“Fine. Goodbye, sir.”

“Yes, goodbye.” Mr. Olderglough left. Rose climbed onto the bed to lie next to Lucy, who presently returned to the swamp of his own self-pity, which was a relief, for as a habitat it was magnificent in its direness; and since it had been created from his own fabric, he felt some stamp of gratification as he wallowed there. There had always been something comforting in melancholy for him, as though it were a purposeful tradition he was taking part in.

The next afternoon, Memel called on Lucy. Lucy did not cover his face for the visit, but stared away at the ceiling. Memel said, “Mewe is down with the grippe. Will you and Rose come for a walk with me?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“I'm too sad to.”

Memel puckered his face. “You shouldn't talk like that.”

“Why.”

“It's sort of disgusting, don't you think?” He sniffed the air. “Why don't you empty your pot?”

“I don't care about it.”

“Clearly you don't.”

There was a discordant note to Memel's voice; Lucy looked at him, and was shocked to see how unwell the man appeared. He'd lost weight, and his color was gone, and he was trembling. “You're still feeling poorly, Memel?”

Memel said, “There's something gone sour in me. I can't seem to get rid of it, whatever it is.” He regarded his stomach, then turned back to Lucy. “Won't you come along? I don't feel like being alone today. And besides that, there's something I want to show you.”

Lucy did not in the least want to go, but Memel seemed so nakedly vulnerable that he felt duty-bound to come along, and so he rose from the bed and dressed, and they struck out, with Rose leading the way. Memel made some weather-related comments in hopes of conjuring a conversation, but Lucy would not be lured into speaking more than a word or two. Finally Memel asked him what was the matter. When Lucy told him nothing was, Memel pointed out that this was a lie.

“Isn't it true that you're having troubles with Klara?”

“I suppose that I am.”

“Because of that soldier?”

“Yes.” Lucy felt strange discussing Klara with Memel. “I wonder what she wants,” he said pallidly.

“I couldn't answer that, boy. And I doubt she could, either.” Memel laid a hand on Lucy's shoulder. “I don't know what she sees in that other one, to tell you the truth.”

“Don't you care for him?”

“I have no regard for a man so willing to give his life for an
idea,
” said Memel, and he spat on the ground to emphasize his indignation. Lucy, for whom the war was still a mystery, said, “Yes, and what is the idea?”

“Precisely,” Memel answered, pausing to catch his breath, though they'd not been walking at all briskly. Lucy offered him an arm; Memel accepted this, and they continued, heading for the tree line. They were passing a section of forest he'd never seen before, and presently they came to a clearing in the wood, a grassy knoll, uneven rows of homely tombstones: the villagers' cemetery. Lucy followed Memel through the rows. They arrived at a grave and Memel pointed. “Klara's mother,” he said. “Alida, was her name.” Kneeling, he said, “I suppose I'll be joining her soon enough.”

“Don't say that.”

“Why not? It's true. I've already written my epitaph. Would you like to hear it?” Lucy said that he would and Memel cleared his throat, speaking skyward, as one reciting a poem:

“He wandered here and there over rolling hills.

He never saw the ocean but

dreamed of it often enough.”

He turned to Lucy with an inquisitive expression.

“It's very nice,” said Lucy.

Memel bowed his head modestly. “Have you ever visited the ocean?”

“No.”

“A man once told me it was wide as the sky and twice as blue. Do you believe it?”

“I suppose I do.”

Memel shook his head at the wonder of this. “What do you think your stone will say?” he asked.

Lucy had never thought of it. What was an epitaph meant to be, exactly? A summation of accomplishments? A representation of one's general outlook? Fine, only he had as yet accomplished nothing, and he had no overarching opinion regarding his life or anyone else's. Lucy was stymied; he shrugged the question off.

“It will come to you in time, likely,” said Memel.

Lucy wasn't so sure. “Why did you bring me here, Memel?” he asked.

Memel nodded, gesturing to Alida's grave. “I was wondering if you were aware that she did the very same thing to me that Klara is doing to you now? And with my dearest friend Tomas, no less?”

It was curious to think of Memel with any other friend besides Mewe. “I haven't met a Tomas,” said Lucy.

“You wouldn't have. He's been dead a good long while. A gambler, Tomas was. He and I were as close as could be, since we were boys, even.”

“And when did he die?”

“Just after the impropriety was revealed. He was murdered, you see.”

“He was?”

“Yes.”

“Who murdered him?”

“I did.”

Lucy said, “You murdered your closest friend?”

“Yes.”

Lucy thought about this. “How did it come to pass?”

“You want me to tell you?”

“I want you to tell me.”

“Well then, I will.”