Undermajordomo Minor

  Mr. Olderglough stared at his hand with what Lucy took for regret. “No, not an accident,” he answered, and now he laid his left hand atop his injured right and began to stroke it consolingly, which summoned in Lucy a revulsion he couldn’t put words to. Mr. Olderglough emerged from his reverie and asked if Lucy would like a tour of the estate; before Lucy could answer, the man tottered away down the darkening corridor. Lucy followed after, not because he wanted to particularly, but because he could think of no other option, and because he didn’t like the idea of standing alone in the dim, dank place. Other than the stillness of the air it was not noticeably warmer inside the castle, and he did not unbutton his coat.

  2

  Mr. Olderglough was not an enthusiastic guide.

  “This is a room,” he said, pointing as they passed. “Not much use for it these days. Better not to go in at all, is my thought. And here, here too is a room, just a room, serving no purpose whatsoever.”

  In fact, most every space in the castle was not in use, and the property in general had fallen into disrepair: the furniture was covered with canvas, the heavy velvet curtains drawn, and clumps of dust had built up in the corners and doorways. None of the fireplaces they passed were in use, and Lucy asked,

  “Do you never light a fire, sir?”

  “I wouldn’t say never. I’ll admit that it’s rare. Room.”

  “I wonder,” said Lucy, “on what occasion do you light one?” For the deeper they traveled into the castle, the more the temperature fell, with the light growing dimmer all the while.

  “I avoid them, myself,” Mr. Olderglough answered. “It seems I get nothing done with a fire going other than have a fire going. The notion of reading by the hearth is pure farce, so far as I’m concerned. Every half a page I have to set my book aside to nurture the flames—not at all my idea of a relaxing evening.” He gave Lucy a reproachful look. “You’re not cold, are you?”

  “I am not warm, sir.”

  “Well, if you’re after a fire, you may be my guest. But you’ll have to forage your own wood, as the little we have stocked goes to the scullery stove.”

  “That’s fine, sir, thank you.”

  “Yes, boy. And now, if you’ll follow me, please.” They entered a cavernous ballroom. Ringing the high walls were any number of ornately framed oil paintings, portraits of similarly regal-looking individuals, the Barons and Baronesses of yore, Lucy supposed, and correctly. Mr. Olderglough stepped to the center-point of the space; when he spoke, his voice was staggered by an echo on the air. “Yet another room,” he said, “and a very large and empty room it is, wouldn’t you say?”

  “It is large and empty, sir.”

  “This dingy chamber once was filled with music and dancing and laughter and gaiety. And look at it now. Quiet as the grave.”

  Indeed, the ballroom gave Lucy an uneasy feeling, as though it had been host to some godless occurrence or other. “And where have all the people gone to, sir?”

  “After the Baroness left us, then we fell into our Decline.”

  “Do you mean to say she died?”

  “I don’t mean that, no. Only that she departed, and hasn’t returned, and likely will not return. But her leaving was like a death, if you’ll allow me my small melodrama.”

  “Please.”

  “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  “Yes. Well, we’re coming on a full year now that she’s been away, and not a day goes past without my lamenting her absence.”

  “You were very close to her, sir?”

  “As close as one in my position can be. She extended me every kindness—kindnesses many of her stature would have forgone.” Mr. Olderglough moved to stand before a painting of a swan-like beauty in a light blue silk and lace gown: the Baroness Von Aux.

  “A light in a dark place,” Mr. Olderglough said.

  “She looks to be afraid of something.”

  “Yes. Oh, but she was very brave, as well.”

  Lucy asked, “And where is the Baron currently, sir?”

  “The Baron goes where the Baron wishes. And often as not he wishes to go nowhere at all.”

  “I should like to thank him for the appointment, if I might.”

  “The Baron has no knowledge of your appointment. In fact he hasn’t the remotest interest in the mechanics of the castle. Six days out of seven he won’t even leave his room. Seven days out of seven.”

  “And what does he do in there, sir?”

  “I suspect it involves a degree of brooding. But this is not your problem to ponder; it’ll be months before you lay eyes on the man, if you lay eyes on him.”

  “I will wait to thank him, then,” said Lucy.

  Mr. Olderglough shook his head, with emphasis. “You don’t understand what I’m telling you, boy. Don’t speak to the Baron if you see him. As a matter of fact, don’t see him at all, if you can avoid it. That is to say, don’t let him see you.”

  Lucy asked, “Am I not meant to be here, sir?”

  “No one is meant to be here.” Mr. Olderglough was gripped by a shiver. Once it passed he turned to Lucy and asked, “Are you ever seized up like that, boy?”

  “We all catch a chill, sir. I should think a fire would allay it.”

  “No, it’s quite something else, I fear.” He pointed to the exit. “Moving on, then,” he said, quitting the ballroom in what could be described as a hurry.

  3

  They resumed their trek down the hallway, their heels clicking in time, then not.

  “What of your trip, Lucy?”

  “What of it, sir?”

  “Will you tell me about it?”

  “There isn’t much to tell, I’m afraid. I met a pair of villagers on the train.”

  “Oh? And what did you make of them?”

  “I found them somewhat strange, sir. I believe one of them stole my pipe.”

  “You’ve met Memel, it sounds like.” There was an amusement in Mr. Olderglough’s tone, but also something like derision. Lucy asked,

  “Don’t you approve of him?”

  “My approval or disapproval is irrelevant. The villagers are like children, and children can be dangerous entities in that they have no God. Do you understand what I mean when I say this?”

  “Not quite, sir.”

  “If there are no consequences for a person’s actions, what might his motivation be to do right by his fellow man?”

  Lucy wasn’t sure if he was expected to answer the question or not. At any rate, he didn’t know what the answer might be, and Mr. Olderglough didn’t press for a response. A quiet moment passed, much in the way a cloud passes, and Lucy found himself wanting to defend Memel, which was odd, considering he didn’t know the man, and that he had been victimized by him. Pondering this curiosity, he pushed on after Mr. Olderglough, the pair of them descending a flight of stairs, and then another, where the air became thicker, almost swampy. It was scarcely credible to Lucy that this gloomy locale was now his home; presently he fell to wondering what his time would be like there, and so he inquired after his duties.

  “Easier asked than answered,” said Mr. Olderglough. “For our days here are varied, and so our needs are also varied. On the whole, I think you’ll find the workload to be light in that you will surely have ample free time. But then there comes the question of what one does with his free time. I have occasionally felt that this was the most difficult part of the job; indeed, the most difficult part of being alive, wouldn’t you say, boy?”

  “Perhaps you’re right, sir.”

  “Surely I am. Oftentimes I’m confronted with an afternoon or evening off, with not a stitch of work to do, and do you know, I meet this fact with something akin to panic.” Mr. Olderglough sighed. “At any event: in the simplest terms, your foremost function is to anticipate my needs and see to them. Your predecessor was most gifted in this.”

  “Mr. Broom?”

  A cold look crept across Mr. Olderglough’s face. “How did you know his name??
??

  “Memel told me.”

  “And what else did he tell you, I’d like to know?”

  “Nothing else.”

  “Nothing at all?”

  “Not so very much. Will you tell me what happened with Mr. Broom, sir?”

  “Later, perhaps.”

  “May I ask where he is now?”

  “Later, boy.”

  Lucy heard another volley of rifle fire occurring up the mountain. As casually as he might, he asked, “And who are these men with bayonets, sir?”

  Mr. Olderglough peered curiously toward the ceiling, as though clarification would meet him there. “Men with bayonets,” he said.

  “They ran into the forest? To shoot at or be shot at by a second party?”

  “Oh, them.” Mr. Olderglough flapped his wounded wing dismissively. “Harmless. Nothing but a lot of noise. Ignore them, that’s what I do.”

  Lucy found this unsatisfactory, naturally. “May I ask who it is they’re fighting?”

  “Other men.” Mr. Olderglough shrugged. “Men, like them.”

  “And what are they fighting about, do you know?”

  “Well, now, what does anyone fight about, boy?”

  Lucy was baffled. And while he sensed his questions and comments were annoying Mr. Olderglough, he couldn’t help but add, “I do wish I’d known about this beforehand.”

  “Oh? And why is that?”

  “Sir, there is a war taking place outside the castle.”

  Mr. Olderglough rolled his eyes. “It’s not a war,” he said.

  “Bullets are flying through the air.”

  “That doesn’t make it a war. A war is a much bigger production. This is a trifle by comparison.” He thought awhile. “I hope you don’t think anyone will shoot at you.”

  “I pray they don’t.”

  “Of course they won’t. Why would they? A nice young fellow such as yourself.” Mr. Olderglough reached over and pinched Lucy’s cheek, hard. The man’s fingers felt as though they were made of wood. What a long hallway this is, Lucy thought.

  4

  Having reached the far end of the castle, Mr. Olderglough led Lucy back in the direction they’d come, though by a separate series of labyrinthine passages, these no less unpleasant than the others. They were going to visit the scullery, Mr. Olderglough explained. He talked as he walked.

  “You will awaken at five-thirty in the morning, to bring me my tea by six. This will be waiting for you on a tray in the scullery, having been prepared by Agnes, whom you will soon meet, and whom you will surely come to admire, as she is admirable in any number of ways and you are, it would seem to me, a lad with a good head on your shoulders, the sort in possession of the ability to separate wheat from chaff.”

  “I hope that I am, sir, and thank you.”

  “You’re welcome. I will take my tea abed, and so you should be prepared to witness me in my sleeping attire. It is nothing too terribly flashy, mind you, only I thought it prudent to warn you ahead of time.”

  “That’s fine, sir.”

  “Good. Now. I will ask you to ferry me the tea tray as it stands. That is, do not pour the tea from the pot, and neither should you add the cream or sugar to the teacup, as these are small actions I prefer to perform in my own way, and according to my personal tastes, known to no one save for myself.”

  “I understand.”

  “Negligible accomplishments adding up to something significant over a period of time, and cumulatively, do you know just what I mean here, boy?”

  “I believe I don’t, sir.”

  “I shall not sit idly by and settle for anything other than a perfect cup of tea.”

  “No.”

  “Compromise is a plague of sorts, would you agree, yes or no?”

  “I don’t know that I’ve thought of it before, sir.”

  “A man accepts an inferior cup of tea, telling himself it is only a small thing. But what comes next? Do you see?”

  “I suppose, sir.”

  “Very good. Now. After my breakfast, you will return to find your own breakfast awaiting you in the scullery. Do not forget to compliment Agnes’s fare, even if the fare does not warrant it.”

  “I understand.”

  “The fare will not warrant it.”

  “I understand.”

  “You will not starve here, boy, but neither will you grow fat.”

  “No.”

  “After eating, Agnes will likely send you into the village to fetch us our stores for the day. Have you much experience in the marketplace?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Can you identify a fresh vegetable versus a non-fresh vegetable?”

  “I surely can.”

  “What we’re after is a vegetable in its prime.”

  “Yes.”

  “Too young will not do. And too old—worse yet.”

  “I will seek out the freshest vegetables.”

  “That’s the attitude. Now, might I ask what you know of haggling?”

  “I know of its existence.”

  “But have you yourself haggled?”

  “No, sir.”

  “They will name a high price, but you must not pay this price,” Mr. Olderglough explained.

  “No.”

  “You must pay a lower price.”

  “This is haggling.”

  “Just so. And now. What of meat.”

  “Meat, sir.”

  “Have you bought it?”

  “I’ve never, no.”

  “You will want to keep a sharp eye on the wily butcher.”

  “Is he wily, sir?”

  “Is he wily! He will sell you gristle with a smile on his face, then sing a carefree tune all the way home.”

  “I’ll watch him closely, sir.”

  “If you bring gristle to Agnes, it will be unpleasant for you.”

  “I will not do it.”

  “All is right with the world, then.” Mr. Olderglough smiled at Lucy. “This is going quite well, isn’t it? You and I?”

  “I hope so, sir.”

  “It certainly seems it, if you ask me.”

  “Very good, sir.”

  “Indeed. And now, here we are. Let’s see if our grande dame is scampering about.”

  They had arrived at the scullery, an incongruous space in that it was orderly, clean, and well lit, with many candles ablaze, a row of low windows lining the east-facing wall, and a cheering if modest fire crinkling in a small hearth in the corner. This last, in addition to the heat from the stove, made for a warmer room than any other Lucy had met at the castle, and he stood awhile, basking in it. Agnes was nowhere to be seen. Mr. Olderglough was standing with eyes closed, swaying slightly and grinning, as one enamored of a fond memory.

  “Are you all right, sir?” asked Lucy.

  Mr. Olderglough opened his eyes. “There once were twenty souls in our employ here, boy. Can you imagine it? Coachmen, waiting maids, porters, a cook, a nurse. All gone now, alas.”

  “I thought you’d said Agnes was the cook, sir?”

  “Originally she was the chambermaid. When the cook left us, then did Agnes step forward, claiming a deft hand.”

  “But it seems you take issue with her cooking, is that correct?”

  “Not so far as she knows. But in my private mind, yes, I am unenthusiastic.”

  “And why do you not speak with her about it, may I ask?”

  “Because I dislike unpleasantness. Also there is the fact of my being somewhat afraid of her. And then, too, I’m not much interested in eating.” He looked at Lucy. “Are you?”

  “I like to eat,” Lucy said.

  “Is that right?” Mr. Olderglough shook his head, as if to accommodate an eccentricity. “Personally, it never held much sway for me.”

  Lucy said, “May I ask what became of the others?”

  “Well, they’ve gone away, haven’t they?”

  “But why have they, sir?”

  “I suppose they thought it the wisest course of action,
is all.” Mr. Olderglough looked wistfully about the room. “Twenty souls,” he said, “and here, what’s become of us? Well, we’ve got you in our company now, boy, and this heartens me, I can tell you that much.”

  Lucy was not so heartened. He followed Mr. Olderglough to the larder; the shelves were all but bare. There came from the corner the scratching of rodents, and now began a thumping, squabbling battle, a lengthy affair concluding with the agonized squeal of the defeated: high and sharp at its commencement, distantly windy at its resolution. Mr. Olderglough wore a satisfied expression, as though the outcome were favorable to him. Drawing back his cascading forelock, he said, “I find the constant upkeep of the body woefully fatiguing, don’t you?”

  5

  Mr. Olderglough led Lucy up a tight spiral stairwell, impressive in its dizzying, seemingly endless redundancy, in addition to its airlessness and general gloominess. They passed a landing outfitted with a stubby-legged bench of hardwood which Mr. Olderglough addressed with a tap of the toe of his boot. At the top of this stairwell was Lucy’s room, a cramped space with a slanted ceiling and a small window located in the center of the lone exterior wall. The furnishings consisted of a two-drawer dresser, a rocking chair, a modest bed, and a potbellied stove pushed into the corner. Lucy laid his valise on the bed and opened it. Mr. Olderglough, standing at his back, said, “I suppose you must be tired after your journey.”

  “I suppose I must be,” Lucy replied. He was considering his possessions. Here was every single thing he owned, and it didn’t seem like much to him, because it wasn’t.

  Mr. Olderglough said, “Then you may rest, or not rest, as per your desire. At any rate, the afternoon is yours. Tomorrow you will begin your appointment proper, does that agree with you? Well, then, good day to you, boy.”

  “Thank you, sir. Good day to you as well.”

  Mr. Olderglough left the room and closed the door, and Lucy sat down upon the bed. Mr. Olderglough opened the door and re-entered the room, and Lucy stood.

  “I forgot about the letters.”

  “Letters, sir?”

  “The letters, yes. The Baron maintains a robust correspondence with the Baroness, living currently, apparently, or so he believes I should say, in the far eastern province. Every morning you will find a sealed envelope on the side table in the entryway. This will be taken by yourself to the station, where you will meet the nine o’clock train. The train will not stop. The letter will be passed off to the train engineer himself, and achieved thus.” He lifted his good arm high above his head.