Manservant

by Harwood, Michael

  The cottage was set back from the main road down a short gravel path. A tall line of trees would completely obscure it from view in the summer, but now, in the middle of winter, the bright white-painted façade was clearly visible through the skeletal branches as I approached.

  The first thing I noticed was that the picket fence that had been broken and dilapidated the last time I was here had been replaced and painted a beautiful sage green to match the front door. The lawn had been re-turfed, and new flower beds dug on either side. As I slipped the key into the lock I noticed that a smart new sign had replaced the tatty old one bearing the name of the cottage.

  “Rose View Cottage. Hello, I live at Rose View Cottage. Yes, that’s right, Rose View Cottage,” I said to no one except myself.

  The interior smelled strongly of fresh paint, and for a second when I stepped into the living room I thought I was in the wrong cottage. Looking around I recognized absolutely nothing about it. I had expected it to have had a bit of a spruce-up, a lick of paint here and there and maybe some basic furniture to replace the beaten-up old stuff that had been in here the last time I visited. These “grace and favor” cottages are usually basic at best, with the landowner providing only the bare minimum of home comforts. But this one looked like it had just undergone the mother of all TV makeovers. A makeover, that is, carried out by someone with exquisite taste.

  It had been completely redecorated, and where the battered old Chesterfield used to be sat a big, plump overstuffed sofa scattered with cushions. On the floor were old Persian rugs, and an ornate, Georgian gilt mirror was hanging over the fireplace. The last time I had visited the windows had been partially covered by old sheets held in place by drawing pins, but now they were hung with lovely vintage curtains. Nothing matched, but everything in the room looked like it belonged together.

  I stood, just trying to take it all in, when I spotted a small box and an envelope with my name on it sitting on the mantelpiece. I turned the thick vellum envelope over and on the back was Lord Shanderson’s crest embossed in gold. I tore it open, and on a slip of Castle Beadale–headed notepaper it simply said:

  Welcome to your new home.—Drummond

  Shanderson.

  PS—I see no reason why you can’t enjoy your

  fish and chips in style next time.

  I picked up the small blue box and noticed the familiar logo for Asprey’s of London on the lid. Inside, beneath a layer of tissue paper, was a perfect replica of a wooden chip fork cast in solid silver.

  I turned it over and over in my hand, trying to fathom why Lord Shanderson would have given me such a beautiful gift. Maybe Barb was right; perhaps in my short time at Castle Beadale I had made a particularly good impression on His Lordship. But somehow it didn’t seem right. This was all a bit much for a staff cottage, not to mention for someone who had worked here for all of five minutes.

  My train of thought was broken when I heard a car pull up outside, followed by a knock on the door.

  When I opened it, a guy was standing on the porch, writing information onto a form attached to a clipboard.

  “Anthony Gowers?” he asked.

  “Yes, that’s me,” I said, admiring the glossy black Mini Cooper he’d just climbed out of. “Nice car,” I said.

  “Yeh, lucky you. Sign here please.” He held out the clipboard and a pen.

  “Sorry, I don’t understand. What exactly am I signing for?”

  “That,” he said, pointing to the car with his thumb.

  “Sorry, mate, I think you have got the wrong address.” I laughed. “I think I’d remember if I’d bought myself a brand-new car.”

  He rolled his eyes and snatched the clipboard out of my hand.

  “Mr. Anthony Gowers. Rose View Cottage, Beadale Estate, West Sussex. Is that or is that not you?”

  “Well, yes. It is.”

  “Good, sign on page one and page three, the top copy is yours,” he said, handing me a set of keys.

  As I attempted to sign my name with a shaking hand a white van pulled up behind the Mini and sounded its horn. The delivery guy forced a smile before taking the clipboard from me.

  “Enjoy your new car,” he said, before joining his colleague in the van and quickly driving away.

  So, Lord Shanderson, what have I done to deserve all this? I thought as I jumped into the driver’s seat and ran my hands over the silky smooth leather interior. And more to the point, what am I going to have to do to earn it?

  I turned the key in the ignition and felt a thrill run through me when the powerful engine roared to life. With only two bags of clothes and an old espresso cup to move into my new home, if I got a move on I would be fully ensconced by teatime. I drove much faster than was strictly permitted within the walls of the estate and sent herds of deer scattering in every direction as the fat wheels rattled noisily over the cattle grids. I arrived at the castle in a matter of minutes, almost running over Tom when I entered the stable yard.

  “Bloody hell, you could have killed me!” he said as I pulled up alongside him and wound down the electric window. “Where did you get this from?”

  “It’s my new company car,” I said, trying not to allow a note of smugness to creep into my voice. “Fancy a ride?”

  “Are you kidding? Of course I do; it’s beautiful,” he said, running his hand over the bonnet.

  “Give me a chance to grab my stuff, and then we’ll go. I’ll give you a guided tour of my new cottage too if you like.”

  With my bags safely stashed in the tiny boot of the Mini I decided that rather than head directly to Rose View I would take us off the main road and follow the farm track that ran around the perimeter of the estate. I glanced over at Tom as we dipped and bumped our way along the rough, unsealed road and he, just like me, was grinning like an idiot. I was enjoying driving the Mini so much that I considered going off the estate entirely and really opening it up on the country lanes, but it occurred to me that racing around the country lanes of West Sussex in my brand-new car would be the perfect way to spend my next day off.

  When we arrived at the cottage, Tom was out of the car and halfway up the path before I’d had a chance to kill the engine.

  “Blimey! I heard they’d done the place up, but this is like a palace!” he said, admiring the outside of the property.

  “Wait till you see inside. Come and have a look,” I said, leading the way.

  Once inside, I dumped my bags down and began to show Tom around.

  “They’ve certainly not spared any money on this old place,” he said, checking out the living room. “It used to be a right old dump.”

  “I know, I was here only last week, and you’re right, it was in a bit of a state.” As soon as the words left my lips I regretted mentioning my previous visit.

  “I’d offer you a cup of tea, Tom, but I haven’t had a chance to stock up yet,” I said as we entered the kitchen. “As you can see the cupboards are bare.” I flung open the doors of the large pine dresser to make my point, but far from being empty the cupboards were packed fit to bursting with tea, assorted biscuits, jars of jams and marmalade, sugar, in fact just about everything one could need. I moved over to the fridge, and that was fully stocked too. There were milk, eggs, butter, bacon, and bread—everything had been thought of and placed there in time for my arrival and all bearing the distinctive green and gold labeling of Harrods Food Hall.

  “Wow!” I said, staring into the fully loaded fridge. “That’s a lot of food.”

  “You’re not kidding. Certainly looks like His Lordship is trying to make a good impression on you,” Tom said. “Never quite known him to go this far before.”

  “Oh, don’t you worry, I’m sure I’m going to have to work very hard to justify all of this,” I said.

  As I cast an admiring eye around the kitchen a shard of sunlight bounced off something sleek and shiny on the countertop. Its modernist stainless steel case made it stand out against all the traditional kitchen paraphernalia, and my heart ski
pped a beat when I saw what it was. It was a brand new Gaggenau espresso machine. Even better, it was a more up-to-date version of the one I had back in London. At that exact moment in time I thought my heart would burst with happiness.

  “ESPRESSO!” I squealed, clapping my hands like an excited schoolgirl. “Coffee, proper Italian coffee—want one?” I asked, flicking the switch to fire up the machine. Tom just laughed and shook his head.

  “No, ta, I’ve got to go and run some errands for my mum. You enjoy your coffee though, won’t you,” he said, heading for the door. “And welcome to your new home, Anthony.”

  As soon as Tom was out of the door I unzipped one of my bags and took out the tiny package containing my favorite cup. I made a double espresso and took it through to the sitting room to savor whilst I tried to get my head around Lord Shanderson’s overwhelming display of generosity. It was not particularly cold in the cottage, but I couldn’t resist lighting a fire. Moments later with the fire crackling loudly in the grate I lay back on the sofa and drifted off into a light sleep.

  I couldn’t have been asleep for long, but I was so relaxed and contented I knew that if I didn’t get up now, I never would, and it was time to change and head back to the castle to serve Lord Shanderson his dinner.

  On my way out of the door I remembered that I hadn’t yet written a thank-you note. I also realized I didn’t actually have anything to write one on, so in desperation I pulled open the drawer of the writing desk in the living room, and sure enough there was a pile of Castle Beadale notepaper, matching envelopes, and a silver pen.

  Sending silent words of thanks to whomever had thought of such details, I quickly wrote a few words. I tried not to gush, but it was a struggle. I managed to keep it simple but sincere. I hoped so, anyway.

  I folded the paper and placed it in an envelope before tucking it into the pocket of my tails and jumping in the car.

  When I passed through the kitchen on my way to set the table, Vera looked like she wanted to stop and chat.

  “Settled in, dear?” she asked, wiping her floury hands on the front of her apron.

  “I certainly have—I couldn’t be happier,” I said, beaming.

  “I’m so glad, Anthony; I really am. And I’m happy you are getting on so well with His Lordship. He can be a tricky old sod sometimes, we all know that, but he seems to like you. A lot. It’s all about chemistry, the relationship between master and servant you know. If you get it right, everyone benefits.”

  “And if you get it wrong?” I asked.

  “Well, let’s just say that plenty before you have got it very wrong indeed, and where are they now, eh?”

  I laid the table, taking extra care with each tiny detail. I folded His Lordship’s napkin into an extravagant bishop’s hat and double-checked that all the silver was perfectly aligned. Finally I propped my thank-you letter against his wineglass. I then retreated to the butler’s pantry until I heard Lord Shanderson come into the dining room.

  When he took his seat I waited for a few moments before I went through with a decanter of 1999 Chateau Margaux in hand.

  “Good evening, Your Lordship,” I said, filling his glass. My thank-you letter had been opened and was carefully folded by his butter knife.

  “Do you play billiards, Anthony?” he asked, quite out of the blue.

  “I’m not sure I do, Your Lordship. I played pool and snooker in my youth, but not billiards.”

  “Would you like to learn?” he said, a faint smile hovering around the corners of his mouth.

  It struck me as less of a question and more a statement of what was about to happen.

  “Of course if you have plans after work I would fully understand. It’s just that I do like a game of billiards, and I’ve yet to convince Vera to take up my offer of lessons.”

  “I have no plans, sir, and learning a new game would be fun, I’m sure. Are the rules complicated?”

  “My rules are very simple, Anthony, so I have no doubt you will pick them up in no time. Why don’t you meet me in the games room after dinner?”

  Lord Shanderson ate more quickly than usual, and all three courses were done and dusted in less than half an hour. When I returned the empty dessert plate to the kitchen, Vera stood by the Aga with her hands on her hips.

  “What is wrong with that man tonight?” she said, shaking her head. “He’ll do himself a mischief bolting his food like that. I spend all day cooking, and the whole lot is gone like that.” She snapped her fingers above her head.

  I just nodded my agreement and went back through to offer him a Cognac. But when I got to the table he was gone. I finished clearing the dinner things away and blew out the candles before heading to the games room for my very first billiards lesson.

  CHAPTER 12

  The games room was at the far end of the house, but as I walked through the Marble Hall I detected a faint trace of His Lordship’s distinctive cigar smoke in the air. The sweet scent grew stronger as I approached the door. I knocked once before entering. The wall lights were turned down so low that only the barest glow emitted from them, and the only other light came from a large brass lamp over the enormous billiards table. I squinted until my eyes adjusted to the gloom. Lord Shanderson was nowhere to be seen. The cigar smoke was strong enough for me to think that he wasn’t far away, so I decided to explore the games room while I waited for him to return.

  Not only did the room have a distinctly male feel, with its rows of stuffed animal heads and assorted hunting paraphernalia hanging from the blood-red walls, it smelled masculine too. At the far end there were banks of floor-to-ceiling bookshelves tightly packed with ancient leather-bound books. It was probably the antique leather of the bindings mixed with the sweet scent of fine Cuban cigars that contributed to the masculine aroma permeating every corner. It was an unusual smell, and one I found strangely arousing.

  As my eyes wandered over all the nooks and crannies of the room, I realized I could hear the sound of classical music coming from somewhere. I moved toward the bookshelves and noticed that between two of them was a chink of flickering light. Up close I realized that the central bookshelf was in fact a false door behind which was another room entirely.

  One book had been partially pulled out to form a door handle, so I gently pulled the heavy door toward me to reveal a small study. Mozart’s Requiem played softly from speakers concealed behind the walls.

  “Lord Shanderson?” I said in a quiet voice.

  I got no reply, but something pulled me in regardless.

  The room was small and windowless, furnished with just a desk, an old leather sofa, and a low coffee table piled high with yet more books. The walls were covered in a mixture of antique copper engravings and quite arty black-and-white photographs. There was barely an inch of wall space between them. It was hard to make out much detail in the half-light, but when I did study one of them up close I was quite taken aback by the subject matter. My eyes darted from one to another until I was satisfied there was a distinct theme running through all the pictures. Each and every one of them depicted scenes, to a greater or lesser degree of severity, of bondage, domination, and sadomasochism.

  I went back to the door and fumbled around on the wall until I found the light switch. Once the room was flooded with light I studied the pictures in more detail.

  There were lots of grainy early Victorian photographs of women being flogged over the knees of gentlemen with extravagant mustaches, and even more involving riding crops and whips. Sandwiched between a copper print engraving of two Georgian men in powdered wigs spanking a street urchin and a Victorian photograph of a corseted lady pleasuring herself with an enormous ivory dildo, there was a very modern and very famous Robert Mapplethorpe photograph. It depicted Mapplethorpe himself wearing black leather chaps and positioned with his back to the camera. In it he’s bent at the waist and has the thick woven handle of a bullwhip inserted deep into his arse, his face turned defiantly toward the camera.

  Say what you want about Lord
Shanderson’s taste in art, it’s nothing if not diverse, I thought as I continued to check out his extraordinary collection.

  Eventually my eyes rested on some modern-day photographs. They were of much poorer quality than the rest, not much more than snapshots really. There must have been a dozen or so featuring the same guy in the center of the frame. In each photograph he was either hooded or wearing a leather mask so his face was not visible in any of them, but I could tell it was the same guy by his toned physique. In one of them his wrists were intricately bound with rope and hoisted high above his head. His chest bore the red marks of having been recently flogged. In another, he was kneeling naked with his hands tied tightly in front of him, palms pressed together like he was praying. In the next one he was lying facedown over an old-fashioned leather vaulting horse. At first my eye was drawn to the actual horse itself as I was reminded of all those hideous gym lessons I had tried to wriggle out of at school. And then, I noticed the tiniest detail in the photograph; in the center of the photograph, high up on the guy’s backside, probably barely noticeable to anyone but me was a small tattoo. It was not legible from the photograph, but I knew instantly what it was. It was the words “Honi soit qui mal y pense”—evil be to him who evil thinks. It was Lord Shanderson’s tattoo, and it was Lord Shanderson beneath the mask. And then I heard a voice from behind me.

  “Ready for your lesson?” His Lordship said from the doorway, causing me to gasp sharply.

  He was holding two billiards cues. “I see you have found my closet then. Not many people know it exists. I like to hide from people in here. It’s where I like to do all my thinking, amongst other things.”

  “It’s hardly what I would call a closet, sir,” I said, confused by his choice of words. “More of a study surely?”

  “‘But thou, when thou prayest, enter into thy closet, and when thou hast shut thy door, pray to thy Father which is in secret; and thy Father which seeth in secret shall reward thee openly.’ King James Bible, Mathew 6:6,” he said with a teasing smile on his lips. “I think you’ll find that’s the correct name for small rooms such as this in houses built around the same time as Beadale. They were built during the Reformation for people to hide away and worship away from prying eyes.”