Undermajordomo Minor (9 page)

R
egarding the vegetables, Lucy fared moderately but not particularly well. The grocer, a grimly lipless woman in her later middle years, sold only potatoes, squash, carrots, and onions, and those available were not all that fresh. Upon inspecting the goods, Lucy requested superior merchandise, and was confident superior merchandise existed on the premises, but the grocer was disinclined to do a stranger favors, and made no attempt to mask this. Thinking in the long term, Lucy accepted the partial defeat with a brave face, wishing the woman a happy day as he stepped away from her stall. But he knew he must not falter in respect to the meat, for if this came to pass, then his maiden outing would surely be considered a failure.

As he entered the neighboring stall he took on the posture of a man who could not conceivably be taken advantage of. He was confronted by a blood-streaked brute of a fundamentally dissatisfied man: the wily butcher, who might have said a hundred things in response to Lucy's greeting, but who chose to say nothing, he merely stared, with a look in his eye that somehow imparted both malice and indifference. When Lucy pointed out the fact of his being newly installed at the castle, the wily butcher said, “No more credit.”

“Oh, I've got money, sir,” said Lucy, passing over the coin he'd received as change from the grocer. The wily butcher held the coin in his palm, studying it for a time. “What do you want,” he asked,
and Lucy began to read aloud the list Mr. Olderglough had made out for him. Halfway through this, the wily butcher said, “Stop.”

“But I'm not done with the list yet, sir.”

“That's all you're going to get for the coin.”

“Mightn't you extend our credit just the once more?”

“I might not.”

“May I ask how much is owed you?”

The wily butcher named a figure which was much higher than Lucy would have thought. It was so much more than he'd have guessed that he could think of no words to say in reply, and he wished he'd never requested the information in the first place. The very naming of this numeral set the wily butcher off; his breathing quickened, and his face became increasingly red. “I'd be within my rights to take this coin and give you nothing, what with the amount due me. Is that what you want?”

“No, sir.”

“Then you'll get what the coin allows, and go away happy.” Now he took out his long knife and began sharpening it, his back to Lucy, who stood considering what he might have done differently to have won the unpleasant man's approval. But he could think of nothing, for he had done nothing wrong; the animus belonged to someone else. And yet, it occurred to him, if he came away with faulty goods, who would receive the blame? He alone. His reputation thus imperiled, he called out, “No gristle, now.” When he said it, the wily butcher became statue-still.

“What did you say to me?” he asked.

There was in his voice a just-contained fury, and on hearing this, then did Lucy become aware of the magnitude of his error. When the wily butcher turned to face him, the man's expression was so grotesque that Lucy became fearful of physical violence.

“I meant no offense, sir,” Lucy told him.

“But what did you
say,
” asked the wily butcher, long knife gripped in his fist.

Lucy was considering retreat when a voice sounded behind
him: “You heard perfectly well what he said.” He turned to find Klara standing there, a look of mischief on her face. “Now give him what he asked for already, you mean old bull.”

“Oh, hello, Klara,” said the wily butcher, his eyes dropping shyly to the ground. With her arrival, all the nastiness had left the man, and now he resumed the sharpening of his knife. Klara stepped closer to Lucy. “Hello,” she said.

“Oh, hello.”

“Father says you won't visit us again. Is it true?”

“I suppose it is,” he said.

She peered searchingly into Lucy's left, then right eye, as one trying to locate something in a dark room. “But why won't you?”

“Well, I'm very busy, is all.”

“What is it you're so busy with, can I ask?”

“There are many tasks befallen me.”

“And will you name some of these tasks?”

“I suffer through any number of time-consuming endeavors.”

She said, “I noticed you watching us from your window.” Lucy hadn't thought anyone could see him spying, and he blushed terribly to learn that it was so. Surely Klara noticed his embarrassment, but she had no reaction to it, which exhibited a kindness, he thought. Was there anything crueler than a body commenting on another body's shame?

“What do you see, when you look at us?” she asked.

Bowing his head, he said, “Just, people.”

“No one special?”

“I didn't say that.”

In a tight voice, she said, “But Father claims that you don't like us.”

“No,” he told her. “That's not what it is.”

“Well, what is it, then?”

“Just that I don't enjoy being made to feel foolish.”

“And who is it that makes you feel foolish?”

“You do, for one. And Mewe, and your father.”

“But we were only teasing you.” She was picking at her sleeve, and Lucy noticed again how mangy the coat was, how worn and homely and unbefitting such a person as Klara. She'd got hold of a thread, and as she pulled on it the sleeve became ever more sorry-looking, and Lucy grew rankled by her intentional worsening of the garment. “Stop it,” he said, and she did. The thread had come loose and was sticking to her fingers; she snapped her wrist and the thread slipped away on the air, and they both watched this.

She turned back to face him. “Don't you know why we tease you? Why I do?”

“It's likely you find me funny in some way,” Lucy ventured.

Her face softened. “No, Lucy. That's not what it is at all.”

“What is it, then?”

She thought a moment, then shifted her weight. She was opening her mouth to speak when the wily butcher laid Lucy's goods on the counter with a thud. “Here,” he said. “And tell that Baron he might settle his debts one of these days.” Lucy took up his bundles, nodded to Klara, and exited without another word. As he cleared the village, his mind was teeming with notions and possibilities. It occurred to him that, much in the way one experiences a brightening when walking beneath a cherry tree in bloom, so too did Klara generate and throw light.

T
hat night Lucy couldn't sleep. He sat in his rocking chair before the stove, feeding twigs into its black mouth and staring out the window at the village, half-hidden in a shroud of unmoving fog. It was past midnight when, intermingled with the crackling of the fire, he became aware of an extraneous noise, a muffled bustle taking place behind him, and he turned to look, assuming it was the puppy settling in her sleep. But no, she was dozing leadenly atop his pillow, and Lucy thought he must have imagined the sound. He had resumed his window-watching when it occurred a second time, only more distinctly, and now Lucy's attentions were drawn to the door.

The knob was turning. This was being performed slowly, as though whoever was doing it did not wish to draw attention to the fact that he was. When the knob reached the limit of its rotation, the door swelled in its jamb; but being bolted, it couldn't be opened, and the knob turned backward, just as cautiously as before, to its point of origin. Lucy stared, rooted by fright. When the knob began again to turn, he called out,

“Who's there?”

The reply registered scarcely above a murmur. The voice was a man's, and his tone was illustrative of one possessed by deep confusion and hurt:

“Why are you in my room?”

A simple enough question, and yet these six words summoned
a tingling dread in Lucy. He stood away from the rocker, creeping sideways, and to the bed. Locating the heavy telescope under his pillow, he took this up in his hand, never looking away from the door. “This is not your room,” he answered, as evenly as he could. “This is my room.”

“No,” said the voice, and again: “No.” Now the man began pacing in the hallway, pacing and whispering to himself, hissing some unknown threats or remonstrations. Suddenly he struck the door with his fist, so that Lucy jumped back, holding the telescope high in the air like a club. “No,” said the voice a third time, then shuffled away down the stairs. Lucy moved to his bed but sat up a long while afterward, regarding the doorknob with an anticipatory anguish, and he thought that if it began turning once more he would cry out from the shock of it. When he awoke in the morning, the telescope was still gripped in his cramping fist, and the puppy was sniffing at the base of the door.

L
ucy entered Mr. Olderglough's room, breakfast tray in hand. Mr. Olderglough drew himself up in his bed, patting his lap, casting back his sleeping cap, and looking pleased at the fact of being doted on. After the tray was delivered he began the artful preparations of his tea; Lucy stood by, wondering how he might give voice to his thoughts. At last he decided there was no other way than to simply say it, and so he did: “A man tried to enter my room last night, sir.”

Mr. Olderglough was distracted by the cautious measuring-out of his sugar. “What's that, my boy?” he asked. “What is it, now?”

“A man, sir. Tried to enter my room last night.”

“A man?”

“Yes, and a strange man he was.”

“Is that right?” Mr. Olderglough said wonderingly. Pouring in the cream, he stirred and sampled his tea; finding its taste satisfactory, he nodded in appreciation at life's small but dependable comforts. “And what was so strange about him, I wonder?”

“Well, the fact of him trying to get into my room was strange.”

Mr. Olderglough pondered this. “I don't know that I would call that strange, in and of itself. What are rooms for if not entering, after all. Or else exiting. Indeed, think of how many rooms we enter and exit in our span of days, boy. Room to room to room. And we call it a life.” He chuckled at the folly of it. But Lucy was in no mood for Mr. Olderglough's wistful opining; in fact he was feeling
peevish toward his superior, who was quite obviously acting the innocent when he surely knew just what Lucy was talking about with regard to the visitor of the evening prior.

Lucy said, “I most certainly would describe it as strange, sir. For we must consider that it was not a common-use room, but my own room, and that I was abed, and that it was the middle of the night. If that isn't strange, then I don't know what is. To say nothing of the fact of his attitude.”

“Oh, was his attitude strange as well,” asked Mr. Olderglough flatly.

“It was. He seemed in a fever, and was speaking to himself—cackling and grumbling and disagreeing.”

“As though he were two people, do you mean?”

“Or several people, yes, sir. You are aware of this person?”

“I am, lad. And aren't you glad you locked your door, like I told you? I'm no spring chicken, I won't deny it, but I know of what I speak.”

“But who is he?”

“He is very rarely about, these days.”

“And what is the matter with him?”

“This and that. Actually, I suspect he's mad.”

Lucy took a breath. “That he's mad.”

“Yes.”

“You're telling me that there's a madman stalking the halls of the castle at night, is that correct?”

“Stalking,” said Mr. Olderglough, shaking his head as he spread marmalade over his bread. “There you go with your theatrical wordage again.”

“Is he not stalking, sir?”

“He is walking.”

“But what does he
want
?” said Lucy, his voice taking on a shade of exasperation.

“Who can tell? Surely it isn't only one thing.”

“And why is that?”

“Because no one wants only one thing.”

As calmly as he might, Lucy asked, “Can nothing be done about him?”

“What would you suggest, boy?”

“Expel him?”

“Excellent idea. And do let me know how that pans out for you, eh?”

“All I know, sir,” said Lucy, “is that I shall never feel safe here, knowing he might pounce on me at any moment.”

“No, no. He only comes out late at night. This I can say with certainty. You get to your room at a decent hour, and lock up your door before turning in, and all will be well with you. Now if you don't mind, I—”

“The man thought it his room, sir.”

“What?”

“The man thought my room was his own. He seemed quite sure of it.”

“Is that so?” said Mr. Olderglough.

“It is so. And would you care to tell me why?”

“Why?” said Mr. Olderglough, blinking politely.

Lucy said, “Whatever happened to Mr. Broom, sir?”

Mr. Olderglough's face formed a scowl, and a low growl came from the back of his throat. “No,” he said at last. “I won't speak of it.”

“And why not?”

“Because it is unspeakable.”

Considering the grandly mysterious awfulness of this statement, Lucy became lost in private thought; this was ongoing for such a length of time that Mr. Olderglough felt it necessary to admit, “I find myself wondering when you'll leave my room, boy.”

Lucy retired in a sort of daze, and spent the rest of the morning feeling chased by his anxieties. His duties were performed in half measures, and he found his thoughts turning increasingly to recollections of Bury, the safety and comforts of his home. Mr.
Olderglough, intuiting this mood, and hoping to re-establish a bond of congeniality between them, came to Lucy in his room that afternoon bearing the news that Lucy would travel to the town of Listen the next day, to be fitted for a new suit of clothes. This made little impression on Lucy, who was sulking in earnest, now; but when Mr. Olderglough passed over Lucy's cap, this captured his imagination.

“The little village girl brought it,” Mr. Olderglough said.

“Klara?”

“I don't know her name. The small one with the twinkly eyes.”

The cap issued a muted crumpling, and Lucy discovered a note folded beneath the sheepskin flap. Klara's penmanship was cautiously deliberate, and the words fell at a slant, as though they would march off the edge of the paper:

It's because we like you that we tease you, Lucy. Please will you come and visit us? Your Klara.

Mr. Olderglough peered over Lucy's shoulder, that he might also read the note. “Are you in the midst of an intrigue?” he asked.

“I don't know yet, sir.”

“Will you tell me when you find out?”

“I will.”

“Because I'm curious to know.”

“I'll tell you, sir.”

“Very good,” said Mr. Olderglough, and he left the room.

Lucy spent some moments rereading and handling the note and considering its importance, the influence it might wield over his future. The puppy sat at his feet, looking up at him.

“
My
Klara,” Lucy said.