At Your Service

A/N: Another fabulous storyline by moi! Lol. Well, I hope you think so, anyway. I know when I posted this before the crash in early December, it had a quote at the beginning of the chapter. I am searching for this, and will add it in when I do find it (and an appropriate one for ch 2). Thanks so much for reading (and reviewing)!

Dane

PS: This is my first historical piece, so if you notice any outstanding errors, please please please let me know and I will be more than happy to fix them.



"It is a woman's business to get married as soon as possible, and a man's to keep unmarried as long as he can." George Bernard Shaw, "Man and Superman", 1903



At Your Service


Chapter One: A Good Family

"Good families are generally worse than any others." Anthony Hope, "The Prisoner of Zenda", 1894


The Rathford family mourned the loss of old Wright dearly. The old man had served as their butler for more than fifty years. He had known every foible of every member of the family: Lord Rathford wished always for a few fingers of brandy to steel himself against a night at a society function. His son Edgar, just back from the Continent, wished for a whole bottle before having to face the Determined Mamas, who always seemed to be determined to nab him for their pinch-faced daughters. He usually, however, compromised with himself—two stiff glasses of whiskey, just to hold him over until he could escape to his club when his mother wasn’t looking. Pricilla, Lady Rathford, was one of the dreaded Mamas. The woman could finagle an introduction to every eligible bachelor within an hour of arriving at a ball, and filled her daughter’s dance card with only the best—that is, richest—choices. And Pricilla loved balls. She dragged her family to as many as she could get invited to. Which left her only daughter, Melody, in her third Season, with many a worn-out dance slipper, and a talent for inane chatter about the permanently abysmal London weather. And a strong desire for a wee glass of sherry before the evening festivities began.

“How,” Melody sighed to her maid as she readied herself for a musicale, “is one supposed to explain to a stranger exactly why one needs a bit of, ah, support to get through an evening with one’s mother? Why, a man would have to be here at least a week to understand! A week! Do you know how many nights are in a week, Julia? Far, far too many. Why, the idea of getting through a single night without any, ah, support, is enough to make me want to hide under my bed. Do you agree?”

Julia, looking stoically at Melody’s reflection in the vanity mirror over a mouthful of hairpins, remained silent.

“Of course you agree. You know my mother. The woman would have Napoleon shaking in his boots.” Melody shuddered.

“And there’s no telling what lengths to which she’ll go if I don’t find a husband this Season. Oh, Lord. I can see her now, going door to door, petitioning men to petition for my hand. Do you think she’d offer to pay them? Of course she would. The woman has absolutely no shame. Can’t I sit on the shelf in quiet dignity? Can’t she settle for getting me a cat instead of a husband? Of course not. And so I go to another function, where something akin to music will be played and plenty of unmarried men, as eager for a wife as my philandering brother, will struggle to avoid me and my overbearing mother, while my father hides in the smoking room. Good Lord, preserve me. Oh, are you finished with my hair now, Julia? It looks lovely, as always. What would I do without you?”

Julia blinked a response and slipped silently from the room.

“Well, perhaps it will all turn out all right. After all, how different can the new Wright be from the old Wright?” She thought of the stately old man’s thin face and frail hands and lively mind, and the way he knew exactly when to appear with some question or other relating to the household accounts or some such that would save her from her mother and sighed. Surely the new Wright couldn’t be as wonderful, even if he was the old Wright’s son.

*****

At that moment, the old Wright’s son was staring at the world through the bottom of a bottle. Or rather, staring at the bottom of the bottle as if the whole world were inside. He set it down again, dejected. “Gone,” he muttered. “I can’t believe it.” The gloom in his voice did not stem from the loss of his father, but the emptiness of the bottle. Already Horace wished for more of the cheap gin, but there was none to be had. The house had no booze at all—a travesty, in his opinion.

Then again, the house didn’t have much of anything in it, since his son had run off to claim his post, taking his wife and his belongings with him. The ungrateful wretch had taken everything of his except enough money to pay for a week’s stay in some squalid room. Enough time to find a job, the brat had said.

Horace had had a job. Or, he was going to have one—the same one as his father had had, and his father before him, and his father before him. The Wright family had served the Rathford family for as long as that family had been landed. Who did that boy think he was to be jumping that tradition? Greedy. That’s what his boy was. Greedy. Taking his post and his things and even his wife, just so he didn’t have to share with his old dad. It just wasn’t right. And Horace wouldn’t let that go unpunished, by God. He was going to do...something. Right after he had fortified himself with a bit more gin.

*****

She was never going to an event with her mother again, Melody swore for the seventeenth time since leaving the house that evening. The woman was utterly exasperating. Melody would have thought by now that she had met every eligible bachelor within a fifty-mile radius. Still Pricilla had managed to find two more men to torture her daughter with. Tonight, Melody had met the young Duke of Caswell—who had just turned eighteen and was looking for a wealthy wife to supplement his funds. He was a pleasant enough fellow, if one discounted the pimples on his face. They were really quite huge. Melody found herself wondering if they rumbled before they exploded, like a volcano.

“Yes, it looks quite volatile, doesn’t it, your grace? As if at any moment, heaven might open up and rain hot lava on us all,” she had said in response to his comment on, of course, the weather.

Lord Haliwold was even worse, if that was possible. He was as old as the Duke of Caswell was young. He had to be fifty, if he was a day. His hairline was receding faster than the young women around him. Four large red moles had taken up residence in the bare wasteland of scalp, and that wasn’t even the worst thing about the man. Horrified fascination caught Melody, drawing her gaze again and again to the hairs growing out of Lord Haliwold’s nostrils. She imagined them as jungle vines, searching voraciously for human flesh on which to feed. Even if he weren’t ugly, Melody would never be able to kiss him; she would be too afraid that his jungle hairs would grow up her own nose and suffocate her.

“Simply frightful,” she mumbled under her breath.

“What was that darling?” Lord Haliwold asked eagerly.

“I beg your pardon?”

“What was that you said?”

“Oh. Er, I said that this weather is simply frightful,” she said.

“But the stars are out.”

“Yes, yes. I hate it when the weather is different than usual. The whole day seems off-kilter. Give me rainy days and foggy nights anytime. You can have your sunshine, Lord Haliwold,” she huffed, and fled.

These were the most eligible men her mother could find for her? She fumed as she wound her way toward the refreshment table. The very old, the very young, the ugly and the stupid? Whatever faith her mother had once had in Melody’s ability to attain a husband had apparently long since disappeared. Was it so bad to want a handsome man? A smart, clever man with a smooth voice and gentle hands? Money was not the most important thing to young Melody. She wanted Romance—but she would settle for a cat, if only her mother would stop throwing her at rich idiots.

And just at that moment, at that lowest moment, as if it were fate, she saw him. He was tall and slightly muscular, as if he spent his days pulling young women from snake-infested pits and riding hours bareback over the green English countryside. His hair was dark, dark brown, worn a bit long, and his eyes were the color of sweet honey. His hands were large, but they took the hostess’s own gloved hand as if it were made of the finest glass. His jacket was well cut of dark green velvet, like...grass? A hedgerow in the springtime? Leeks, perhaps—but no, that was Shakespeare, referring to some dead man’s eyes. Definitely not leeks, then. Melody couldn’t think of an analogy that could properly describe this man. Now, this was a man whose introduction would be her pleasure.

For the first time since she had first been brought into society, she was eager for her mother to gain her an introduction. And sure enough, within minutes she saw Adonis heading toward her with their hostess, presumably to make the introduction. Pricilla was nowhere to be seen, and Melody thanked God for that small mercy.

Uncaring of her new mint green satin gown, she rubbed her suddenly damp palms surreptitiously down her sides.

“Miss Rathford, I believe you have not met my cousin, Lord Weatherdale. He is recently returned from France,” her grace, Lady Waring said with a smile. Perhaps, Melody thought, Lord Weatherdale had a matchmaker of his own. She would have felt bad for him, if it hadn’t worked so well to her advantage. As it was, all she could do honestly was smile beatifically and dip into a graceful curtsy.

“My Lord,” she murmured, not addressing the man in front of her so much as commenting on his handsomeness, which was so much more compelling up close. She barely resisted the urge to touch a hand to her throat, where her windpipe did not seem to be working properly, impelling her heart to race.

“Miss Rathford,” the young man greeted. Good God. Even his voice was beautiful, running like cream over her. The sound of it affected her so much that she could only revel in it while he continued speaking, not really comprehending the words. Her concentration was not improved at all when he took her gloved hand and pressed a kiss lightly on the back of it.

“It really is quite dreadful,” she managed upon catching the word “weather.”

“Excuse me?” Lord Weatherdale asked, taken aback.

“Oh. Oh, er, I’m very sorry, my lord. I don’t believe I heard you correctly. It is rather noisome in here,” Melody lied.

“Understandable. Quite understandable. Happens all the time to me at functions like this,” Lord Weatherdale said kindly, but his eyes twinkled as if he knew she hadn’t really been paying attention.

“I said,” he continued, “I was wondering whether you would like me to perhaps claim some seats for us, if your mother wouldn’t mind my company.”

“Of course not! I mean, of course she wouldn’t mind, not of course I wouldn’t like you to...I would love you to. I mean—“

“Well, then, we had better move now if we don’t want to sit in the front. One can’t get away with sleeping in the front, and one can hear so much better,” Lord Weatherdale advised, saving Melody from having to finish her sentence. Once again, her thought process came to an abrupt stop when he folded her hand into the crook of his arm, escorting her to a seat in the back. Melody sat in a glow that seemed to emanate from Lord Weatherdale, and thankfully, the memory of his smooth voice and his cool lips on her arm obliterated the atrocity called music that abused the other guests and their ears.

And on the ride home with her mother, and of course the coachman, but he wasn’t sitting inside with them, Melody didn’t even mind when her mother said that a mere promise from Lord Weatherdale to come calling was not enough to stop the ongoing husband search—though a different kind of promise, one that included an interview with Lord Rathford and a ring, might suffice. Until then, the hunt would continue. Melody, however, barely even heard, busy instead replaying every moment of her evening with her new beau in her mind. It was official: she was in love.


*****

Henry hadn’t been there an hour. He had barely unpacked his bags in the butler’s quarters he was sharing with his mother. He hadn’t even shaved yet. But he had had three missives, begging, actually begging for alcohol before the Rathford family went out for the night. And here people think alcoholism is limited to the lower class, he sneered silently. He had hoped he had left that kind of behavior behind with his father, but apparently not.

His mother would be gravely disappointed. She had been so eager to meet her son’s new employers. Her father-in-law, who she had always adored, had spoken well of them in his letters, but of course he had been discreet. Gossiping about one’s employers simply wasn’t done.

Furthermore, it wasn’t any business of his what the Rathfords did, beyond his duty to ensure that whatever it was they decided to do went smoothly. If they wanted to drink themselves into oblivion, that was their right. At least as butler he would not have to worry about cleaning up the effects of that right.