In Service

The Duke of Ashcombe had never made a habit of denying himself any pleasure within reach, be it the thrill of a fine horse beneath him or the quiet acquiescence of Miss Farleigh, his sister's governess. He rode her regularly, as he did his horse, and the rides were equally pleasant, though of necessity, shorter -- for governesses, unlike horses, had a vexing tendency to blush, weep, or speak of ruin if detained too long. It amused him greatly that she seemed to resent his attentions; it amused him more that she never refused them.

It was on a close summer evening that the butler found Miss Farleigh in His Grace's library, adorning a couch with such admirable companions as Milton and Byron, clad only in a shift, deep in sweaty slumber. His Grace was nowhere to be found, though the butler raised an eyebrow at certain unmentionable items of his wardrobe strewn carelessly upon the floor.

He averted his eyes, gently, but not before catching a glimpse of her -- her shift displaced, doing little to impede his gaze. The parlourmaid, he decided with a grave nod, was the proper person to summon: both to conduct the young lady -- he gave a silent, ironic cough at the term -- and to cleanse the couch. No small task, he reflected, with a grudging admiration for His Grace. No wonder he had four children, and all boys at that.

He hastened to the door. Everything must be done expeditiously and thoroughly. Miss Farleigh -- and every trace of His Grace -- must vanish before Her Grace returned from her call at the Vicarage. A proud lady, his mistress, and this would break her heart, he thought with a sigh. A butler, to keep his dignity, must walk, not run. Within the limits of this stricture, he hastened to the kitchen.

When Miss Brown entered the library two minutes later, Miss Farleigh had left. Byron and Milton lay scattered on the old oaken floor, mute witnesses to her hasty departure. A faint musky odour lingered in the air, and the butler quietly put a small via of perfume on the writing table. Blushing slightly, Miss Brown dabbed at the couch, plumped the cushions, and opened the windows wide. The old Family Bible, handed down through ten generations of Dukes and Duchesses, stood unmoved on the shelf overlooking the now-empty couch

All was well.

The front door banged, shortly after the butler had left the library. The Duchess walked into the hall, and then into the stately dining room. He stood with his back guiltily against the library door, like a child hiding a stolen treat. The tall lady, with her calm, grey eyes and impassive face, walked past him wordlessly before entering her room - their room he thought. He caught one glimpse of her face before the door closed with a heavy thud.

Her Grace stood before her looking glass, her flaming hair framing her pale set face. As she loosened her hair and untied her gown, her eyes grew softer and her fingers played irresolutely with the dainty white gloves that she had shed a moment ago. And then, the gown was a cascade of purple that rushed down her body and pooled at her feet. She folded her damp shift neatly, carefully removing some hay that seemed stuck to it. It wouldn't do for the maids to see it, she thought blushing furiously. At that moment, the aged wise face of the butler burst into her mind, and the shame suffocated her. She sank into an armchair. No more trysts with the Vicar's prodigal son, she decided. She knew not if she loved him. But what else could a lady of limited fortune, married to a cruel man of circumstance do? A glint of passion shone in her eyes for a moment, but then, they became sad and dull and deathly calm as she dressed for the evening.

The butler trudged to the parlour and poured himself a glass of brandy before sinking into his chair, his joints aching. He could hear the voices in the kitchen - cooks and maids and even the odd gardener bandying words - stains, smells and shifts. He sighed. His eyes closed as he remembered the day he had entered service as a footman. He remembered the boy, playing in the great driveway as he met the old Duke. He remembered a sad autumn evening, and the young man weeping at his father's deathbed. He remembered the pretty bride, crossing the threshold on a magical midsummer eve. He remembered the brave soldier returning home from Waterloo - wounded but proud. Would that he had died in battle, before he fell, he thought

. Would that I had died, he whispered to himself as he recalled the Duchess' face as the bedroom door had closed.

Nothing was well.