Burly Tales

by Steve Berman

  I HAD ASKED HER ONCE, and only once, if she truly loved the Duke. This was the morning of their wedding, with us standing in the small vestibule of our town’s chapel, Amelia draped in her makeshift wedding gown. How I adored my sister, but how at that moment, I despised her. She had the Duke, and I had nothing.

  “He will be good for us,” she replied with such sincerity.

  What she could not know was that I had spied on them the night before, that I heard the Duke express such displeasure at the thought of me living with them, how he thought it was my place to stay and manage our family’s farm, and how Amelia boldly declared she would never abandon me, that their marriage was contingent upon my presence.

  “I will always look out for you,” my sister said in her soothing tone, as if cooing a cholic babe, and I resented it. All of it. No one wishes to be seen as feeble. No one prides themselves in being either bride-price or burden.

  IT WAS MID-MORNING WHEN THE train finally lumbered and stalled and came to a halt. As we gathered our pitiful luggage, my eyes kept darting in search of the porter but he was nowhere to be found. Part of me imagined he would emerge at the last moment and embrace me tightly, offering to let me stay aboard as his steward so the two of us could continue traveling together. A juvenile fantasy, this I know, but I was so inexperienced in the ways of the world.

  3

  WE TRAVELED BY CARRIAGE, PASSING through dismal towns and fields, until we could smell the salt of the sea. Situated near the cliffs, the Duke’s manor was bloated and bulging, perhaps once a simple house but successive, competing owners over the years had erected ever-more ungainly rooms and walls and eaves. One small crack in the foundation and the whole structure could crumble apart and tumble down into the open mouth of the ocean waters below. Awaiting us on the grand steps, the Duke stood with his entourage of servants flanking him in a long militant formation, a full artillery row of housemaids and groomsmen, all dressed in black. They bowed and curtsied, their eyes creased suspiciously at. Amelia and myself were tired and disheveled from overnight travel. Only as the Duke gently kissed Amelia’s hand did they temper their grimacing faces. It was real, the act told them; this was the new lady of the house.

  Once ushered inside, I found myself pulled by the wrist and into the bosom of servants, escorted through the majestic foyer and up the grand staircase to what would be my quarters: a large bedroom, roughly the size of our cottage back home, with two windows overlooking the sea. I was bathed and dressed by these strangers, who I kept pushing away in hopes of some privacy, but their grip was relentless in preparing me for the afternoon. I emerged in a stifling shirt and jacket and led down to the parlor, made to sit on a chaise lounge where a small tray of coffee and tea sandwiches awaited me. I had marveled at the intricate patterns on the plates. My first encounter with real china! My cup was trimmed in gold leaves to match the saucer. To merely sip from its rim was a fretful act—how could I bear witness to such an elegant and fragile thing as it toppled from my clumsy fingers and shattered apart?

  Looking equally frazzled, Amelia was escorted into the room. She wore a draped champagne-colored dress that had obviously been thrust upon her, as she kept adjusting the fabric in agitated fashion and shooing away the lady’s maid who hovered by her side. For nearly an hour, we sat in silence nibbling at our sandwiches—for how could we talk openly when her maid leered over us?

  Finally, the Duke emerged with a stern formality to his entrance. He glared at us for a moment.

  “When I enter, it is custom for you to stand,” he said, and we did as he poured himself a cup of coffee and sipped. “It’s cold,” he grumbled.

  A butler materialized to collect the silver urn and returned promptly with another.

  Only once the Duke had settled into a few sips did his mood improve somewhat.

  “I should say welcome to your new home,” he said as he turned to Amelia, giving her the faintest of smiles. “I’m sure you are tired from your journey, but there is much to do. We must get you acquainted with the staff and your new responsibilities in running the household.”

  Then, he turned to me with an uneasy look in his eyes. “And you will also require some tutoring. You have much to learn about the expectations of your station here.”

  I nodded, making eye contact at first, but then my head dropped submissively, for I was felt paralyzed by his penetrating gaze. I’m sure he appreciated my submission.

  Our moment was interrupted by yet another maid, who came holding our father’s pistol wrapped in a piece of linen and placed it in the Duke’s hands.

  Amelia straightened in her seat. “I was not aware anyone would go through my things,” she said.

  “Fear not, my dear. We keep such objects locked up for good reason.”

  “But what if I want it? What if I’d like to go shooting?”

  The Duke laughed. “Then all you need do is request one of the servants or myself, for that matter, to fetch it for you. Or, if you’d prefer, you can try one of our hunting rifles, though it is some time ’til pheasant season.” And then, as if to discourage any further conversation, he added, “We keep such things locked up when they are not in use.” And to seal off the matter, he rose from his chair and began our tour of the house.

  The manor was impossibly large, a central house with two wings, each full of rooms and passages, some of them practically hidden from view so servants could effortlessly move undetected. We were introduced to various entertaining rooms: the parlor, the drawing room (which should not be confused with the morning room), and the formal ballroom designed for large parties in contrast to the library specifically designated for only the family and elite guests. The lower levels contained a large overbearing kitchen and larders, along with a fathomless wine cellar and the butler’s office. The upper level of the two wings contained endless rows of unused guestrooms, suites, and nurseries. Some rooms had remained closed off for so long that even the Duke could not remember their purpose and did not bother unlocking the door. At first, the tour was overwhelming, as I felt we were being led through a decorative labyrinth and one false step would have me lost among the corridors.

  Our last stop was the west-wing gallery a poorly lit rectangular chamber that existed almost as an afterthought, with plenty of old stonework suggesting it was an original section of the home with little renovation. Despite being an interior room with no windows, we could still sense the presence of the nearby sea, and the narrow rug was so faded and moth-eaten that it did little to absorb the cold rising from the tiles. Drapes of cobwebs existed in every corner. Both sides of the gallery featured rows of framed portraits, each canvas dating back through the generations of the manor’s inhabitants. The Duke droned on about his various ancestors, mentioning that our portrait would soon be added to the collection.

  And then he lingered over the last in the row, a portrait of the voluptuous opera singer dressed in a long scarlet gown, posed serenely next to the Duke with his stoic eyes and blue beard. I had anticipated it but not its sibling, a canvas with the Duke standing with a humble blonde woman dressed in a powder blue dress that was frightfully ill-fitting. And next to it was yet another: the Duke looking impossibly young, his face covered in blue stubble, proudly standing next to a short boxy woman in a silver dress, her eyes bulging in delight. I stood there, methodically examining each portrait until the Duke was suddenly beside me, placing a hand on my shoulder (My heart! It felt like it would leap out of my chest!).

  “Yes. I have loved and lost more than the most men will do in their entire lifetimes,” he said almost distantly. “This house has seen much grief.”

  “There will be happier times, Your Grace,” Amelia said, though I could hear the uncertainty in her voice.

  The last thing I should mention of the gallery was the lone door at the far end, one in such perfect harmony with the stone around it that a careless wanderer might pass by without ever noticing it. It was made of thick wood planks and rusted brass trimmings, and was far too heavy
for an interior door. Curiosity compelled me to approach, and when I made the effort of pulling on the handle, I found it locked.

  “That area is not for you,” the Duke said. And with that, he led us out of the gallery and off to the banquet hall for supper.

  4

  WE HAD ONE WEEK IN the manor, one week to orient ourselves to our new life, and the Duke ensured that our time was well-managed. Those first few days passed in a dizzy intoxicating spell that left me disoriented. Each morning, I awoke before dawn as some unseen servant was lighting the hearth in my quarters. I would fight off the sluggish residue of sleep before a groomsman ushered me out of bed to bathe as a breakfast tray was laid out for me. I rarely had time to finish my meal before I was again collected to be poked and prodded by tailors assigned to make me suitable clothes; an hour-long tutorial followed with the elderly groomsman so I would understand how to speak and eat with etiquette, to know the difference between the cocktail fork from the fish fork, followed by the relentless quizzing on the names and histories of the neighboring aristocratic households. Then, to the music room, where I received my daily lessons on the piano, for if I could not engage in conversation, I must be able to entertain guests in some other way. Every day at noon, our lunch was served in the drawing room, where we ate from silver trays coupled with a tasty treat of port wine to warm the belly, followed by a walk along the cliffs overlooking the sea. Then, we were forced to dress in our formal attire and sat in front of the grand salon’s mantle while a tired-looking artisan began the long and tedious process of our portrait: the three of us standing together in a horrid hushed silence. An entire day of being jostled between instruction and activity would go by, and I was quite relieved that we received no visitors. But then in the afternoon, when there was no obligation, I would find myself alone with nothing to do but count down the remaining hours until dinner.

  EACH EVENING, THE THREE OF us ate alone in the cavernous banquet hall, hovering over an obsidian stone table. By the end of our meals, we retired to the library for whiskey as the servants appeared to bid us farewell for the night. Where they went, I did not know, but they left in unison from the property not to be seen again until the next morning. And it was there, in the library where the evenings grew most grueling, that Amelia was expected to retire earlier than the men of the house, and she would strangely obey, leaving us alone. It was the only time when the Duke would acknowledge me directly, offering me books that I could barely read and forcing upon me glasses of sharp whiskey that I could barely drink. Those nights were my most conflicted. I felt hungry for him, starving even. Yet when I caught his eye, he gave me a menacing glare, judging me harshly until my mind flooded with the sense of trespass.

  5

  THERE WAS ONLY ONE RULE in the house: that lock doors remain undisturbed. And the only door I found locked against me existed in the back of west-wing gallery.

  6

  IN THE DWINDLING AFTERNOONS, WHEN I was left on my own, I learned quickly that I was quite adept at moving about unnoticed.

  WHEN YOU ARE YOUNG AND inconsequential, it is like existing under a cloak of invisibility. I spied on the servants in their own workspaces, sometimes following them throughout the narrows access halls, and marveled at how long it took them to notice my presence. Once, I surprised the head butler in his pantry and the poor old man thrust upon me his own stash of sweetened oat cakes as if to bribe me into silence … but silence over what? Another time, I wandered into the Duke’s private study, observing him peruse his papers, ashing a cigarillo, before I was clasped by the wrist by some maid and forced out. Often, when I was someplace I ought not to be, I was gently escorted back to an appropriate room where I would be more “comfortable”, as they put it. I ended up back in that bloody parlor so many times I began to resent the room altogether .

  One such afternoon alone in the manor, I made my way down to the cellars into the kitchen, where I startled the poor chef, who erupted into boisterous laughter. I liked him immediately. He was a jolly, pot-bellied man with a red beard, and unlike all the others, actually welcomed me into his domain. Maurice was his name. Jolly Mr. Maurice. He was a new hire, he explained, and currently the only chef at hand without even the benefit of a scullery maid to assist him, something he did not seem to mind except that the kitchen was rather lonely throughout the day.

  By mid-week, I gave up my haunting the other servants in favor of heading directly to the kitchen where Maurice had tea waiting for me, anxious for any gossip I had acquired and eager to share his own. We never broached any topics of sensitivity, but we did talk at length about our own lives as I began to assist him with dinner preparation. I figured as time went on, this would be a way for me to make myself useful. That, and there were moments when I caught that glint in his eye that was reminiscent of the train porter’s. I even let my hand brush against his during one of his cooking instructions and we grinned at each other.

  But when I leaned into him, simply to feel that brief connection, he quickly retracted and created space between us.

  “Sir, we must be careful not to get too comfortable with each other,” Maurice said. “After all, you are technically one of my employers.”

  I buckled and felt my face flush bright red. Embarrassment overtook me so that I excused myself as quickly as I could to get dressed for dinner.

  I still thought of it later that night in the library, long after Amelia had gone to bed, and I was alone with the Duke. We drank our whiskey and pretended to read and observed each other in a wordless confrontation. I daresay, with my nerves, I drank too much, and when the hearth embers began to fade, I found I could not lift myself from my chair, having almost fallen sideways into the side table.

  A haughty laugh erupted from the Duke—a swollen belly laugh, which only increased my frustration, so that when he reached for my arm, I shrank away.

  “Don’t help me!” I yelled, my voice cracking with some undeveloped will of masculinity, enough to startle him into a backstep. And, horrified by my own insolence, I slurred out, “I must do this myself.”

  If the Duke took offense, he did not show it, but instead hooked his arms around me and pulled me to my feet where I fell deeply into the heat of his robes, the curve of his belly, and to steady myself, I wrapped my arms around him. This was first time since the train I felt that same urge and anticipation.

  If not for the drink, I would have gushed into a flood of apologies and excused myself out. But, in that moment, I found myself helpless, and the Duke was well aware of my state. He escorted me up to my room in genteel fashion and began to undress me with the tenderness of any trained servant. But he did not leave. I can remember my head against his chest, the rhythm of his heartbeat, the musk of his undergarments, the slow creak of my bed, the curvatures of ceiling medallions above us, and our collective sigh of relief when we were finished. And then, he was gone, as if the manor house had swallowed him up.

  I tried to tell Maurice about it the next day. My mind had been so foggy, delirious with drink, that I still questioned what had actually happened. Yet, I found myself unable to articulate the experience and Maurice, as if sensing a deep confession, hushed me with a slice of cake, his eyes showing temperance.

  Later that afternoon, I walked the halls alone and settled in the west-wing gallery. The locked door stood sentinel. It beckoned me and I shuddered.

  7

  AT THE WEEK’S CLOSE, THE portrait was finally completed. Amelia appeared pale and distant. I looked nothing but an imposter, a farm boy masquerading in a gentleman’s suit. The Duke was his bold self, painted to be the very emblem of all he projected. As I stared at the finished product, I thought solemnly about my act of infidelity with the Duke and wondered if Amelia was suspicious.

  THAT EVENING, WE FOUND OURSELVES alone in the banquet hall, formally standing until the master of the house was seated. When the Duke arrived, he was not dressed in his formal dinner attire, but his traveling clothes. Even Amelia gave him a confused look.

&
nbsp; “I have received a telegram from my accountants back in the city,” the Duke said. “I have urgent matters to attend to of the most sensible nature and must leave tonight.”

  It was Amelia who spoke with her usual confidence. “Then I shall pack my things. I can be ready within half an hour.” My stomach plummeted and then rose again—the thought of being alone in the manor with Maurice felt like an unearned prize.

  “No, my dear,” Duke replied. “These are financial matters I would rather close and be done with altogether.

  I would rather expedite this process on my own. And I should not be gone long, a few days at most.”

  He looked at me.

  “And I think you two should have some time together. I’m afraid my life here is a quiet one, perhaps not suitable for a growing family, so perhaps you both can spend this time plotting on how we can all reemerge in the public life ....”

  The way he looked at me gave me shame. I despised him now; yet I still desired him. I did not know what to do with these feelings.

  “There is one last thing,” the Duke finally said, almost absentmindedly, and produced from his pocket a brass ring full of keys. “While I’m gone, I entrust to you my keys, as this house is as much yours as it is mine and you shall have full control of its access.”