ordinary mortal, God forgive him. The whipping had been severe,
but the girl had survived and all the staff had been vividly reminded of how
the machine must work.
He
started pacing and again stopped. His eyes lifted to the high rain-soaked
windows. So! The girl had survived and was now on her way to London. For the
best. He never wanted to see her again. Let her find her destiny in London. The
people were like children really, in constant need of a strong paternal hand.
Softly
he laughed aloud, then moved quickly back to the bottle of port at the end of
the table, poured himself a glass, and sipped. Good. Fine vintage, warming,
rich-bodied. After a long silence during which time his thoughts repeatedly dwelt
on a white, upturned, enraged face, he sipped steadily, eyed the bottle, and
counseled himself moderation. There still was business to attend to. Later, in
the privacy of his chamber, he would obliterate his thoughts with several such
bottles. It was his cursed loneliness more than anything else. He should have
married. But whom? Twenty years ago, the "eligible and suitable"
girls reminded him of frozen fish, dressed, degutted, and laid out in dead
splendor. Now at forty, it was too late. Those eligible fish were gone and all
that remained were the beasts, the thin sticks that their proper families could
not even pay to get rid of.
No,
he'd remain a bachelor, at least until sixty. Then he would wed some
thin-lipped parson's daughter, as his grandfather had done, impregnate her once
so the line might continue, then go back to his actresses and music hall
entertainers, the warm ones who knew what to do, what to expect. They made him
laugh.
Thinking
on his loneliness seemed to make it worse and, as comfort, he reached again for
the port, refilled his glass, and was lifting it to his lips when the serving
girl reappeared in the arched doorway with the message, "The gentleman,
sir, he's come."
Ah,
distraction. Thank God. "Show him in," Thomas said quickly.
The
girl bobbed her head and disappeared. Thomas' mind, still working in all
directions, found her pleasing, some quality that he'd failed to notice the
first time. Quickly he called after her, "Don't go to bed yet. Bring the
gentleman in and leave us, but wait outside in the hall."
She
looked back at him, a surprise on her face which was quickly replaced with
blank, bland obedience. "Yes, milord," she said, curtsying.
He
took a deep gulp of port for fortification and assumed a position by the
fireplace, a pose designed to impress upon anyone who entered the power of the
Lord of the Castle.
A
moment later a man appeared in the doorway, a large man with a small head,
drenched from the rain, clutching in his hands a well-worn, soft-brimmed tri-cornered
hat. He bobbed his head in deference and stood unmoving, as though fearful or
perhaps intimidated by both the room and the man standing before the fire.
Thomas
smiled. He enjoyed intimidating people, particularly this rascal.
"Come
in," he ordered. "Closer to the fire. You're soaked through."
The
man obeyed, stepped carefully down into the room, and proceeded to the fire,
never once taking his eyes off Thomas. As he approached, Thomas drew back to
the table, a subtle movement designed to keep distance between them. He poured
a second glass of port and left it there. "If you want it," he said.
Again
the man nodded, his eyes darting this way and that, as though the room were
full of unseen hazards. He trailed after Thomas to the table, quickly lifted
the glass, and drained it. The strong liquid caused him a moment's discomfort,
his eyes bulging in an obvious attempt to keep from coughing.
Still
amused, Thomas sat at the table opposite where the man stood. He waited for the
seizure to pass, then spoke. "You are—" He hesitated as though he
were struggling for a name, although he had been aware of both man and name for
several months.
The
man stood as though
but the girl had survived and all the staff had been vividly reminded of how
the machine must work.
He
started pacing and again stopped. His eyes lifted to the high rain-soaked
windows. So! The girl had survived and was now on her way to London. For the
best. He never wanted to see her again. Let her find her destiny in London. The
people were like children really, in constant need of a strong paternal hand.
Softly
he laughed aloud, then moved quickly back to the bottle of port at the end of
the table, poured himself a glass, and sipped. Good. Fine vintage, warming,
rich-bodied. After a long silence during which time his thoughts repeatedly dwelt
on a white, upturned, enraged face, he sipped steadily, eyed the bottle, and
counseled himself moderation. There still was business to attend to. Later, in
the privacy of his chamber, he would obliterate his thoughts with several such
bottles. It was his cursed loneliness more than anything else. He should have
married. But whom? Twenty years ago, the "eligible and suitable"
girls reminded him of frozen fish, dressed, degutted, and laid out in dead
splendor. Now at forty, it was too late. Those eligible fish were gone and all
that remained were the beasts, the thin sticks that their proper families could
not even pay to get rid of.
No,
he'd remain a bachelor, at least until sixty. Then he would wed some
thin-lipped parson's daughter, as his grandfather had done, impregnate her once
so the line might continue, then go back to his actresses and music hall
entertainers, the warm ones who knew what to do, what to expect. They made him
laugh.
Thinking
on his loneliness seemed to make it worse and, as comfort, he reached again for
the port, refilled his glass, and was lifting it to his lips when the serving
girl reappeared in the arched doorway with the message, "The gentleman,
sir, he's come."
Ah,
distraction. Thank God. "Show him in," Thomas said quickly.
The
girl bobbed her head and disappeared. Thomas' mind, still working in all
directions, found her pleasing, some quality that he'd failed to notice the
first time. Quickly he called after her, "Don't go to bed yet. Bring the
gentleman in and leave us, but wait outside in the hall."
She
looked back at him, a surprise on her face which was quickly replaced with
blank, bland obedience. "Yes, milord," she said, curtsying.
He
took a deep gulp of port for fortification and assumed a position by the
fireplace, a pose designed to impress upon anyone who entered the power of the
Lord of the Castle.
A
moment later a man appeared in the doorway, a large man with a small head,
drenched from the rain, clutching in his hands a well-worn, soft-brimmed tri-cornered
hat. He bobbed his head in deference and stood unmoving, as though fearful or
perhaps intimidated by both the room and the man standing before the fire.
Thomas
smiled. He enjoyed intimidating people, particularly this rascal.
"Come
in," he ordered. "Closer to the fire. You're soaked through."
The
man obeyed, stepped carefully down into the room, and proceeded to the fire,
never once taking his eyes off Thomas. As he approached, Thomas drew back to
the table, a subtle movement designed to keep distance between them. He poured
a second glass of port and left it there. "If you want it," he said.
Again
the man nodded, his eyes darting this way and that, as though the room were
full of unseen hazards. He trailed after Thomas to the table, quickly lifted
the glass, and drained it. The strong liquid caused him a moment's discomfort,
his eyes bulging in an obvious attempt to keep from coughing.
Still
amused, Thomas sat at the table opposite where the man stood. He waited for the
seizure to pass, then spoke. "You are—" He hesitated as though he
were struggling for a name, although he had been aware of both man and name for
several months.
The
man stood as though
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