Respite From the Pain

And the day came, as days so often do.  James slipped in a well-greased kitchen door, allowing him to return to the servant quarters unnoticed, and Nate moved with the shadows through the elaborate back doors.  He stepped lightly, with the deft stride of a thief and the swagger of a brute.  Where those abilities found their source was quite unknown.  Certainly, such attributes of the common folk were not vastly found in the aristocracy.  Nate was one of few who could frequent the peasants taverns and working-men’s haunts without wearing his lineage on his sleeve.  And also, perhaps more importantly, he was one of few that had a wont to.

The manor’s richly colored walls enveloped him, creating dark corners and shadowy halls for him to pass through like an early spring breeze.  The floors were silent, the doors much too well attended to ever let loose a telling creak.  The house seemed a delinquent old man, delighting in the rambunctious affairs of his grand children, offering the assistance it could at every turn.

Nate smiled as he walked past the guest room where his betrothed must have been bedded.  Had she known her husband-to-be had fled her presence to visit a tavern by the name of The Harlot’s Ribbon, had there became embroiled in a fight of dubious origin, and later declared the whole ordeal a “bloody good time” to a nude version of his manservant, Nate had no doubt she would flee the house and engagement with out a backwards glance.  Tempting idea to be sure.  He’d have to tell James of it later… whenever later might be.

A chagrined smile crossed his face as he walked carefully to his bedroom.  The idea was as impossible as it was tempting, he knew.  There were shackles of propriety that rubbed and chaffed at every turn, and rare was a key that undid them.  So he did as he always had: smiled to keep from frowning, laughed to keep from crying, and breathed to keep from dying.  The morning after was always the hardest.

As he walked down another dawn lit hall, a slight noise brought the hackles of his neck upright, and a gifted hand went to his sword hilt. 

“Who goes there?” he demanded, using the voice his father had given him, the tone and inflection of a General on the move. 

“It could be, my Lordling,” came a gravelly voice, peppered with the timbre of the peasants, “that I could be askin’ a question quite the same.” Nate’s eyes went to the figure, that until it had acquired a voice, he’d assumed to be naught more than a shadow.

“Good God, Rick,” Nate said, finally allowing his heart to slow and tension leave his body.  “You scared the hell out of me!”

The man-at-arms smiled and stepped forward, letting the new light of day fall on his craggy features.

“That, m’boy,” he said with a grin, “was the idea.”

Nate allowed a breathless laugh to escape his throat.  Rick was harmless, just an old retired military man, employed to keep the manor free of thieves and other ruffians.  Well, harmless was a broad term, really.  He’d never harm one of the family, that was for certain.  But he’d been to war, and he’d been upon the streets of London, and in those days, the two were nearly the same.  A sword in the man’s hands was a good as a death sentence.  Never had Nate seen any man of any walk stand so easily with a blade at the hip.  Some men were born to peace, Nate had once heard the old soldier remark, and others to protect it.

Smiling at the memory, Nate took in Rick’s usual, just-slightly-ruffled appearance.  He was in the reds and blues of the manor’s uniform, bearing the family crest above his heart.  The huge girth of him was cinched tight with an ancient leather belt, though to think him fat and slow was a mistake only soon-to-be dead men ever made.

Though he wore the livery, it was only with great contempt and scorn; his displeasure was evident in the disheveled coat, unidentifiable stains, and the homely broadsword that never left his side.  Yet the worst affront to the eyes was the bushy red beard which covered his face as ivy would a chimney.  The explosion of facial hair was quite a point of contention between the man-at-arms and Nate’s mother, Lady Williamson.  Every day she ordered him to shave it, and every day Rick would smile, nod, and say, “As it pleases you, milady”.  And through some miracle, despite the twenty years of deliberate disobedience, he’d remained in the manor and the Lady’s good favor.

“And where were ye this fine October night?” Rick asked with a subtle, amused grin. He leaned casually against a mahogany table, his stance casual and his eyes sparkling with mischief. He had to look up to meet the eyes of the just-slightly-taller lordling before him.  Nate tried his best to avoid returning the grin.

“Should a servant so blatantly question the comings and goings of his Lord?”  His tone was jesting, and his eyes alight with their own brand of shared roguishness.

 “‘Twasn’t askin’, my Lord,” Rick replied lightly, putting a slightly distasteful emphasis on the last word.  “Just wonderin’, so to speak.”

“Ah, well, wonder away, my dear, sweet, sword master.  I shall be telling you naught of my travels.”  Nate grinned cheekily, gave a short swift bow, and turned to go.

“Aye,” Rick said quietly, yet the dead halls of morning allowed it to carry.  “Do as ye will, but the Ribbon’s shaky ground for such young blood as yours.”

Nate paused, trying unsuccessfully to keep surprise from his face. Blinking after the now-retreating form of the old soldier, he smiled a bewildered little smile.  The man was a wonder, sure as sunrise.

With a sigh and a shrug, the handsome young lord continued to his bedroom.  His room was as he knew it would be: freshly cleaned and dimly lit.  After undressing, carefully minding his aching side, Nate made his way towards the mahogany and velvet monstrosity that was his bed.  He laid down slowly, feeling warm, comfortable, and terribly, achingly alone. 

________________________________________________________________________

At the heart of every household, there beats a steady throb of routine and familiarity, a gentle rhythm that keeps the house alive and moving.  Every home from hovel to sprawling estate danced to the rhythm kept by kitchen, making daily cycles of meals and tea.  The Williamson manor danced right along with every other home in London, yet the music was rarely heard by any, save the servants.  James, Cook, Rick, and the handful of the others that kept the house running lived by it; the manor’s owners merely saw its outcome.

James contemplated this fact as he sat placidly amongst the routine disaster that was breakfast, rubbing the leather strap of his pendant nervously.  He had downed some tea and biscuits an hour before, and now watched with something akin to awe as Cook diced onions, checked the oatmeal, beat eggs, and threatened a clumsy maid all in the span of several seconds.

“And if ye so much as step foot in m’ kitchen again, I’ll ‘ave your guts fer garters!”  She roared in a thick Scottish brogue as the terrified girl skittered from the room.  The kitchen went through serving girls like water.

Cook turned back to the hearth and heaved a great sigh, straining to look over her voluminous breasts to inspect the oatmeal on the fire. A belle she was not, her hair was thick as twine and had a similar tendency to stick out in every direction.  The great red-brown mess sat in fiery disorder above her brow.

“Can’t find good ‘elp these days,” she muttered darkly, stirring the pot with entirely too much violence.  “Damn girl couldn’t walk a straight line t’were it painted fer ‘er.”

James made an appeasing noise in the back of his throat, knowing all to well that risking any more of a response would just turn her temper his way.

“Want me to take the trays out?” he asked after a time, knowing that the Williamsons would faint if Cook delivered her work in person. She didn’t respond immediately, as was her way, but after a time she scratched the whiskers on her chin and nodded.

“Aye, that’d do.” He nodded fell back into the safety of silence.  Cook would need a few minutes more anyway.

With a tired sigh, he let his eyes slip out of focus as he gazed at the hearth flames.  Subtlety, as his thoughts had tendency to do when he became unaware of their wonderings, he thought of Nate…and remembered.  It was impossible to forget with their love making only hours past.  And even when James’ conscious thoughts shied from the bitter-sweet memories, his body was quick to remind him with happy aches that would fade by sunset.  The slight hurts would distract him throughout the day, as they always did, but it was nothing to the renewed rawness in his chest. He quietly twirled the leather strap of his necklace and blinked in the kitchen’s thick, warm air.  It was like a wound deprived a chance to heal.  Just as numbness overtook misery, the pair would find a moment together. And after that glorious, fleeting spell, they’d return to reality…newly reminded of what they’d come to loose.  

            A heavy sigh escaped James’ lips without consent, and Cook looked up to frown at him from beneath heavy eyebrows, “Got somethin’ ta complain about, lad?” she asked while tending to some sausage.  Her thick and garbled voice that was neither inviting nor cruel.  James shrugged and was about to plead a poor night’s rest, which, incidentally, was not entirely untrue, when the heavy oak doors of the kitchen banged open, and in marched the bane of Cook’s existence…Mr. Rick Cobbler, man-at-arms and protector of the whole of the Williamson Manor

 “Ah, my rose of the Scottish plains!”  He said warmly, striding immediately over to the short, squat woman whose only rose-like feature was the thorny stare she was now giving her courter.

“Ge’ out of me kitchen, ye lousy bum!” She screeched upon seeing him, holding a spatula out in front of her and swinging it wildly when his approach did not cease.

“Ah,” Rick said in a theatrical voice, “how it pains my common heart to hear such cruel words from the mouth of my beloved.”

“I ain’t your anythin’, ye’ bastard,” she muttered, backing herself against a wall.  “Go try yer charms on the whores.”

“Alas,” he replied holding a hand to his brow, “they cannot hold a candle to your beauty, m’love.”

“Aye,” James muttered, scooting towards the door “they’d go blind for seeing her.”  He garnered a hearty laugh from Rick, which was quickly converted to a cough.

Cook hadn’t heard, thank the Lord.  Her deafness was a godsend to all of her disgruntled scullery boys.

By the time James gathered up some trays, Rick had already launched into all the wonderful things he’d do his reluctant mistress if she only consented to wed him.  Next to drinking, whoring, and swordplay, tormenting Cook was high on the soldier’s list of favorites.  She was screeching in some rural tongue as James slid his way from the kitchen.

The morning dinning hall was boring and subdued by comparison.  The gentle spring yellows clung to the walls like sunlight.  The table was a light pinewood, and on it delicate porcelain place settings shimmered like ornaments.  The whole of the Williamson family was dressed and conversing softly.  The Lord and Lady sat at opposite ends of the table, their children filling up the chairs between.  Anna-Maria, the one and only daughter, sat primly next to her mother, sipping milky tea with the poise of a princess.  Jacob, the second son of the family, was visiting for the morning and sat next to his father, quietly discussing some trade agreement.  And there in the middle of the table, sat the glowing, happy entity that sped the heart of the simple manservant.  James was almost able to ignore the presence Nate’s fiancée, who sat eagerly next to her husband-to-be. 

“Ah, about bloody time,” Lord Williamson growled as James set a tray of sausage on the table.  “What the hell is going on in there?” he demanded, indicating the kitchen.  James was about to reply, but the Lady cut him off. 

“Darling, the language isn’t necessary in front of the children.”

The Lord muttered some response under his breath, and immediately served himself a pound of bacon.  Since the question was not repeated, James did not respond; he knew better than to speak when not spoken to.

“My goodness Nate!” Came the shrill, sycophantic voice of Miss Emily Lynch, Nate’s fiancée.  James ignored the flare of pain at her use of the nickname.  “How perfectly treacherous!  Imagine, attacked on your way home from a late mass!  However did you fight the ruffians off?”

Nate smiled, and the corners of his mouth pricked up in that familiar way, quickly reminding James that he shouldn’t be staring so.

“Well, darling, it was a simple affair really.  T’was a dark and stormy night, and the thieves weren’t expecting a victim with any knowledge of swordplay-”

“Speaking of which, Nathaniel,” Lady Williamson said suddenly, “is it really appropriate to spend such time practicing with weapons?  It’s hardly a gentleman’s pastime.”

James wished- wished hard and long- that he could remind the woman that said swordplay had very well saved her son’s life the previous night, but the damned Miss Lynch quickly jumped to her fiancée’s defense.

“Oh, but my Lady, isn’t it so very roguish?” She squealed happily.  “Like a regular Robin Hood!”

Anna-Maria sniffed disdainfully.  “I think that Nathaniel needs to wed and start acting as benefits his status.”

She sniffed again and sipped her tea with one delicate pinky extended.  When she looked up, she blinked at the stares she received. 

“Well, at least that’s what Sara’s mother said,” she muttered quietly.  Lady Williamson glared, but seemed to agree.

James lingered in the back of the room, staying in case the family required anything else.  It was only a little while longer before Miss Lynch stood to say goodbye.

“I really wish I could stay longer, my love,” she said quietly, playing with Nate’s locks, “But Mother is taking me to get fitted for my dress today.”

Nate nodded, and chastely kissed her hand.  “’Tis a shame, my ladybird, but I await your next visit in earnest.”

The bint blushed and tittered, quickly bid goodbye to the rest of the family, and took her leave.  Nate’s eyes found James in the corner and shot him a fleeting, nearly invisible, apology.  As Emily swept from the room, Rick made a hasty entrance, rubbing oatmeal from his beard and chuckling quietly.  He stood next to James and winked conspiratorially.

“Hey, boy,” he whispered, “been running those exercises I’ve told you of?”

James smiled and nodded.  Rick had a mother-hen tendancy to look after all in the household, from mouse to master.  This had resulted, many years past, in James’ unsolicited, and at the time, unwanted lessons in the art of hand to hand combat.  A servant with a sword was perfectly unheard of, so other means where managed.  The first time they’d practiced, Rick had informed him in a rare spell of gravity that “there be points on a man’s body that can fell him in an instant.  Learn ‘em and you’ll never walk London in fear”.  James had been doubtful at first, but, not wanting to disappoint the old man, had given the lessons his all.  Years of work had proved Rick’s words as truth.  James, though no warrior to be sure, could hold his own against many an opponent.

James allowed himself a crooked grin at the man standing beside him.  Sometimes the old soldier acted as the father James had lost all those years ago, but mostly Rick was a mischievous older brother, keen on whores, dice, and jesting.  Shaking his head, the young manservant allowed his eyes to trail back to the manicured breakfast table. 

“She really is a lovely girl,” Jacob was informing Nate.  “’Bout time you finally decided to wed her; you kept her waiting an awfully long time.”

Nate smiled and shrugged, and James rolled his eyes subtly.  Everyone in the room knew without knowing that the Lord and Lady had forced Nate to propose.  The stupid, loveable dolt would have put it off to the end of time, had he the choice.

“Yes, a lucky man I am.”  He smiled that heart-warming smile, and only let his eyes flick to rest on James for an instant. “So, where is our eldest brother, this fine morn?” he queried, changing the subject with less skill than desperation.

“Off with his wife and children at the Palace,” the Lady said mildly.  “He has an audience with the King this afternoon.”

“Ah,” Nate said, unfazed, and continued to pick at his sausage.  There was silence for a few minutes, and then once more Lady Williamson spoke up. 

“Emily is a fine girl, don’t you think, Christopher?”

The Lord nodded in response, but as he started to reply, Rick rolled his eyes grandly.

“Nay,” he muttered.  “She’s a great, stupid bitch.”

“What was that, Mr. Cobbler?” The Lady asked, looking up from the table.

Unstartled, Rick replied, “I said ‘the roof needs new pitch’, milady, especially with winter on the way.”  The deadpan tone made it nearly impossible for James to keep his face blank.

“Oh,” she said, blinking at the apparent non sequitur.  “Very well, make the arrangements.”

“Yes, milady,” Rick said with feigned seriousness, and turned to go.

“And Mr. Cobbler?” She called after him.  “Shave that beard; you look a beggar with that bush on your face.”

Rick smirked, though the Lady could not see him, and replied, “As it pleases you, milady.”

It was another ten minutes or more before the family began drifting from the table. Soon, it was only the Lord and Nate that remained seated.

“What plans have you for today?” Lord Williamson asked as he downed the last of his tea.

“I was considering going to look for new blade with Rick,” Nate replied, and James noticed his discreet attempt to observe his father’s response. The Lord paused for a moment before doing so.

 “Really?  And what’s wrong with the blade I gave you?”

“Nothing!”  Nate said immediately, though James knew the blade to be too bejeweled and adorned to be much use in any real confrontation.  “I just wish to preserve it to pass on to my own children, and, well-”

His father waved his hand to cut off any further response. 

“Fine, fine” he said, standing to go.  “Just do an old man a favor and don’t tell your mother, agreed?”

Nate nodded happily.  “Agreed.”

Lord Williamson nodded distractedly and strode from the room, paying James as much mind as one would give a piece of furniture. Nate remained at the table, giving his plate thoughtful contemplation.

“Is there anything else you need, Master Williamson?” James asked softly as he began clearing the table.  Nate was drawing circles in his syrup with a spoon, his hair cloaking his eyes.  Hair that another was allowed to touch, hair that another would caress lovingly and whisper soft declarations to.  No, James thought savagely, as water threatened behind his eyes, He’s not mine come dawn.  Theirs was the bewitching hour, the sanctuary that shadows lend to the desperate and lonely- but not daylight, no.  Noon and the rest were for the honest, the pure… Nay, never in daylight.

Nate looked up with soulful eyes to regard his slender, secret lover.  His eyes held too much emotion, too much cloaked pain.  How is it that no one knows?  James wondered as his own chest constricted in sympathy.  How could the pair suffer such pain without the world knowing?

No one wishes to see, whispered some far off, truthful part of his mind.  What the world didn’t wish to see, it simply wrote off as impossible; beyond tangible, beyond existence.

“Aye, there’s something I need,” Nate said as he stood and stretched.  He let his eyes fall on James in a tender gaze, and the manservant couldn’t keep his mind from the nail marks that must still stand red on his lover’s back.  The wedding was only a month off.  They’d known it was coming for years; even from the start they’d know to be together was impossible.  But this wedding… it was reality: a loud, unwelcome reminder of the oceans that separated them.  There’d be no furtive trips to Singapore.  And as James took in the burning pain in the eyes of the man he loved, he realized that Nate had just grasped the truth of the matter.

After a moment, Nate coughed slightly and looked away.  

“A new blade…”

“Ah, yes… of course,” James agreed quietly, gathering the tea set.  “You and Mr. Cobbler should have a fair time in the city, no doubt.”

Nate wasn’t listening, James knew. He was striding too close as James piled high the dishes.  It was less than a moment before he stood before the smaller man. 

James turned his head and met the desperate gaze that was only inches from his own face.  No, dammit Nate, this isn’t good!  He thought desperately as he watched his lover raise a hand. Nate’s expression was pained and torn, yet just before his fingers went to an errant lock of hair on James’ brow he cursed softly, closed his eyes, and clenched his fist.  He took several steps back until their stances would raise no suspicion to a passer by.

Nate rubbed his brow tiredly, and James looked after him, concerned.  After a moment, when both their pulses had slowed, Nate whispered in a jaded, tired voice that no other could hear .

“The day after is always the hardest.”

James looked away, gathered up some silver and sighed just as softly.

“Aye.”

For a few moments the only sounds were the delicate clink of dishes and the morning’s finches outside the sunny windows.  Finally, Nate sighed.

“Well, Mister Clavell,” he muttered resignedly, “may the day be good to you.”

“And you, Master Williamson,” James replied without looking up.  He listened to the creak of floor boards that told of Nate’s exit, and once more he was alone- or at least as alone as possible with the ghost of touches that his mind called up in a masochistic display of pain.  And then, as he always did in his moments of worst pain, James said a quiet Ave, and hoped, if for nothing more, a respite from the pain.

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AN: This chapter didn’t come as easily as I’d hoped, but I finally managed to get it out.  It’s been brewing in my computer for weeks, waiting for me to get around to doing the edits my beloved beta recommended (Erika, you’re a life-saver, danka!).  The next chapter should be out soon….it’s already written, but horribly unbeta-ed and short.  –nods- 

Thank you to everyone that reviewed the first chapter.  You’re all my hero, I don’t think I could keep writing without you

Well, my friends, leave me some love!

((Oh, and any suggestions on dialect would be gratefully accepted.  Cook’s dialogue is just ridiculous…-hangs head in shame-))