A knock on his chamber door interrupted Byron's musings.
"A moment, please?” he asked quietly.
But his servant, Geoffrey, neither heard nor heeded his request. He simply proceeded into the room as he always had, carrying his master's freshly brushed cloak and polished shoes. He stopped his purposeful journey toward the wardrobe, though, when he caught a glimpse of Byron's reflection in the mirror.
"Oh my, sir, I am sorry to have disturbed you,” he said.
Byron was shaken and frantically searched the top of his bureau for a cloth to wipe away the traces of his clandestine self. “Never mind, Geoffrey, I was just playing about. I thought about trying a new disguise for this year's masquerade. No bother."
"Well, sir, if I might say so, I think you make a beautiful woman—much more so than many of the women I've seen of late."
Byron stilled his searching. Furtively, he reached a long finger to capture a tube of lipstick that threatened to roll into his powder horn.
"Geoffrey...” he began.
The reflected dichotomy of gender was never more genially displayed. Silently he touched his lips, his cheek, the long narrow ridge of his nose. His mind began to whirl faster and faster, his breath felt cold, and his face became a kaleidoscope—first man ... then woman. Byron then Rebecca. Byron/Rebecca. Byronrebecca. Byrebecon. They flashed before him in the mirror.
"Sir? Sir?” Geoffrey called out, but Byron could not hear him.
He staggered. He tried to hold himself aright by hanging onto the edge of the bureau drawer. Geoffrey ran and caught him. Byron took one last long agonized glance and fainted.
* * * *
Geoffrey easily lifted the fallen figure and carried him to his bed. He sat down heavily onto the counterpane and cradled Byron in his lap. Looking down on the delicate features of his master, Geoffrey felt a sharp pang of despair. This creature could never be. Beautiful, wonderful, Byron was no initiate into the world of men and sex, but he was made for far more than the occasional fling. Here was someone who could bring another man love and happiness, someone who should know the mystery of romance and fan the flames of a life-long desire.
As Geoffrey held the sleeping young man in his arms, he dared to dream of the possibility of finding a mate, a life's partner, for his young friend. If only he could somehow change the course of Byron's life, before he became just another jaded cynic—bereft of feelings, lost without true love.
* * * *
Cynical more than aptly described his Lordship Kincade as he sat beside his fiancé at dinner that night. Not one usually bothered by the more inane subjects of social chatter, Richard Kincade found himself chafing at the bit, as it were, longing to leave such dreadful company. He found Felicity shallow, almost idiotic, and her parents’ pretensions were only outweighed by their hearty girth.
Fat and stupid, he thought as he looked at his potential family. If I do marry her, my children will likely be as bothersome as their mother, for who will raise them except for her, and who will love them? Not me.
He shuddered at the thought of his impending doom, saddled with a household of spoiled and mischievous red-headed brats. Surely no man should have to suffer such a punishment. So dire did his Lordship imagine his future that he failed to notice a small tuft of hair floating in his soup. As he morosely shoveled bite after bite of the dreadful onion concoction into his mouth, he inadvertently slurped the wad of hair into his mouth. Suddenly he realized his mistake. He knew the cook at Cradfield's to be a horror, but her notoriety would soon be justified.
"GADDD,ARRRGH,” he cried and gagged.
Without thinking, he spat the hairy waste across the table, right onto the plate of his hostess. Her gluttonous shoveling was thus interrupted, and she choked on a piece of lamb. Coughing and spewing lamb hither and thus, her Lady screamed in horror at the hairball on her platter. This caused her husband to jump up in alarm, snorting through his large round nostrils the contents of his last generous swallow of port. Sitting beside Kincade, Felicity kept on eating as though nothing were amiss. He looked at her in disbelief.
"Woman, are you with us? Can you not see what is taking place?'
The servants, Portia and young Kevin, snickered. They locked eyes and silently laughed in glee. “Portia!” Her Ladyship appeared to have gleaned an idea that her servant was amused. “Clean this up at once,” she screamed, as though the entire debacle was somehow Portia's fault.
"Yes, mum,” said Portia.
She waved a weary hand at Kevin, indicating that he could begin to remove the plates. The status quo had been realigned with servants in their places and guests contrite.
"Madam, I beg your pardon,” Kincade said stiffly to Mrs. Turner.
"Quite all right, Richard. Did you have something in your throat?"
"Yes, I did,” he said and spared her the tongue-lashing she deserved. He knew even a fool such as Mrs. Turner could look at the dreadful morsel and realize that it was a ball of hair.
"Well,” she said and spread her hands in a magnanimous gesture, “we all make our little faux pas from time to time.” She smiled. “But, Richard, dear,” she wagged a chubby ring-encrusted finger at him, “try not to have them at the table."
Her husband gave a loud, “Harrumph!” in agreement.
His Lordship Kincade had reached his final straw of tolerance. He flung his napkin on the table and announced his departure.
"Felicity,” he stood and nodded to her, “dear host and hostess,” this was tinged with more than just a hint of sarcasm, “regrettably I must be going.” He stood to leave.
Such a breach of etiquette was more than Felicity could bear.
"Richard,” she screeched. “You're leaving? Now?"
"Yes, I have had more than enough for one day,” he said and headed for the door.
Mrs. Turner rushed after Richard, crying and wailing about her cook, but he was not to be deterred. Kincade felt as he imagined a chained dog must feel when loosed from his fetters. He wanted to run from the Turner household and never look back. He could hear Felicity yowling in the background, which spurred him on to race into the great hall, snatch his coat from the waiting young Kevin, and burst through the door into the night.
As he climbed into his waiting coach, he recalled that none of the criminals brought before the Queen's Court that morning had reflected the uncouth nature of humanity quite as distinctly as the Turners. He sighed and decided to officially make his break with Miss Felicity Turner. The courtship had ended. Now he would have to find a new beard.
"Who will I choose?” he wondered aloud. He punched his fist into his palm. “If only I did not have to do this thing. If only I could choose a man ... I would choose ... Byron Jones,” he said.
* * * *
Lord Kincade gave little thought to the livery boy riding on the rear of his coach. Gaston, Godwin's nephew, heard everything. As he hung tightly to holds on the rear of the coach, his body bounced up and down on the rear running board. The little boy did not think it strange that Lord Kincade would prefer to marry a man. He shrugged. All adults were strange to him, but women were especially weird. He reasoned that girls could not do fun things anyway, but boys could hunt with dogs and climb trees. He thought perhaps he might marry a boy when he grew up. Gaston nodded his head and smiled into the brisk night sky.
* * * *
"Gaston!” Portia cried. “Don't be spooning yer blackberry jam onto yer kedgeree."
The boy looked up sheepishly but continued to spread his jam over the flaky fish and rice dish. His uncles laughed.
"Why not? It makes it taste better."
"Jam makes everythin’ taste better,” Godwin whispered to Geoffrey.
Gaston took pleasure in his morning breakfasts with his elders. Early every morning—just past sun-up, come rain or shine, his uncles and his mum met for breakfast at the estate of one of their employers. They breakfasted on the unknown benevolence of their masters and, to truth, enjoyed it greatly.
"I h
eard the dinner had a bad end last night?” Geoffrey asked Portia.
"Oh that! Dreadful, it were. Loads of coughing and screaming. I think the courtship's done,” she said and spooned each man a full plate of kedgeree. “Blood pudding, anyone?"
"No thankee,” said Geoffrey, but Godwin held out his plate.
"It's good and hot this morning,” she said.
"So what happened?” asked Godwin.
"Ack. That blasted Callie somehow got a bit of Whiskers’ hair in the soup."
Both men stopped eating to peer at their plates. Portia noticed.
"Oh, it won't happen when I'm the cook. You can trust that."
They resumed eating. Godwin waved for her to continue with the story.
"Apparently, it was quite a hairball. It looked huge to me, when his Lordship gagged on the thing. He was coughing fit to split, and then he sort of hacked it over on the missus’ plate."
"How'd that twit miss a hairball in her soup pan?” wondered Geoffrey.
"It was onion soup with a cheese and bread topping. The cat is white, so ... I don't know. It weren't me, you know."
"Then what happened?” Godwin asked.
Portia took off her apron and sat down at the table to eat. She propped both elbows on the table and continued her story as she sliced her sausage. She pointed at Godwin with a forkful of dripping blood pudding.
"Then the missus, she starts screeching and the next thing Kevin and I see is the master coughing his port right through them huge nostrils of his. It was a sight! Everything might have still worked out, but her Ladyship got all huffy and more or less accused Lord Kincade of bad manners."
"She didn't!” cried Godwin.
"She did, too!"
"That was when he left, I take it?” asked Geoffrey.
"Too right. He left, and right pissed off he were, too."
"Well, I for one am not sorry to see that fool's errand end. I can't imagine anything worse than having that horrible Felicity in my household,” said Godwin.
"You don't want her in his bedroom.” Geoffrey winked at Godwin.
"No, I don't."
"Trust me. You don't want that spiteful bitch anywhere,” said Portia. “She's stupid and mean—and that's on her good days."
They laughed and continued eating.
Godwin paused for a moment to comment. “It's a pity, though. He'll have to find another one."
Portia nodded. Through her sausage she mumbled, “A man like himself has got to have a beard. Folks will talk. He's a good barrister."
"A decent employer, too,” added Geoffrey.
"We know you think so,” said Godwin, and they chuckled.
For a while only the sounds of cutlery against glass and the satisfied smacks of good eating were heard. Gaston gave a small belch, and the adults had a quiet laugh at his jam smeared face.
"I know who Lord Kincade should marry,” a small voice ventured.
"Who's that, little pip?” asked Portia.
"He should marry Lord Byron Jones. He wants to. I heard him say so last night."
The adults sat in stunned silence looking at one another.
Casually, Godwin said, “What did you say, son?"
"I said,” Gaston repeated, “Lord Kincade said that he wanted to marry Byron Jones. I heard him say it in the coach last night. He was really very loud. He booms when he talks."
"Boys can't marry boys...” Portia started, but stopped when she noticed Godwin put his finger to his lips and shake his head at her.
"Out of the mouths of babes...” laughed Geoffrey. He turned to Godwin. “Remember what I told you about young Byron on our walk over here?"
"Yes, brother dear, I do."
They looked at one another and smiled. Then, in accord, they turned their full attention on Portia.
"What?” she cried.
"Portia, me dearie, what is it that you are always saying about her Ladyship Felicity?” asked Godwin.
"Oh, that if I can make her look a lady, I could turn a silk purse into a sow's ear. That what you mean?"
"It just might work, brother,” Geoffrey whispered.
"Why not?” Godwin's face had a wistful look. “Wouldn't it be grand—those two together ... married."
"But how can we do it?"
Godwin gestured at Portia. “With her help. She's been dressing ladies, since she were only a tiny chit herself. She knows all the ins and outs of fashion. I really think she could do it."
Godwin said to Portia, then, “Yes, that's exactly what we want you to do."
"Well, sort of. We purpose you transform a bloke into a belle,” said Geoffrey.
The brothers started sputtering and laughing. Godwin slapped his thigh and winked at Geoffrey. “Actually, we want you to turn a bloke into a beard."
Portia collected their dishes. While she stacked them in the sink to wash, she listened, as the men and the boy continued to plot out their grand manipulations for Lord Kincade and Master Jones.
"Couple of ole instigators you two are,” she said. She poured the hot water from the kettle into the sink to wash up. The steam rose high fogging the window above the sink. “Going to land us all in hot water. No doubt about it.” She shook her head and laughed. “What a great trick, though. Wouldn't it be? Those two together and right under all those high and mighty noses,” she mused.
"So, Portia, darling...” Geoffrey came and put his arm around her.
"Yes, dear, dear, Portia,” said Godwin and encircled her from the other side. “Won't you help out a pair of hopeless old romantics? We need you,” he wheedled.
"Sure thing, gents,” she said and handed Geoffrey the dish rag and Godwin a soapy plate. “Tit for tat."
She dried her hands and pulled Gaston away from the table and toward the door.
"Time for school, for you young man,” she said. Portia paused at the kitchen door and shook her head. “And you two ... hopeless old romantics,” she mimicked. “More like conniving old mollies."
Chapter Three
Hugh Percival hurried along Parkhurst, past the back gate of Cradfield's kitchen. Portia was pulling young Gaston through the gate just as Hugh passed by, and the delicious morning smells of blood kidneys and baked halibut assailed him. He sighed hungrily, for he had skipped his breakfast. He wanted to catch Byron before he rounded up the morning's office work and headed for court.
The main player for a special game shared by Lord Percival and Lord Kincade had taken ill, and the week's main entertainment would be thwarted if Hugh could not find another player. For some strange, but unremarkable, reason, he had thought of young Byron as a substitute for Edwin, their latest third. Byron, delicious Byron, would be perfect for the evening's selection. Convincing Kincade, though, that his assistant should partake of their pleasure would prove to be tricky, but Hugh felt confident of his ability to persuade.
A trolley laden with barrels of ale rounded the corner just as Hugh walked into the street. Young Gaston chose that moment to pull away from his mum and dash headlong into the middle of the road. The driver yelled lustily at the boy. Gaston froze. The horses were bearing down on him.
"Watch out, boy!” yelled Hugh.
He leapt the curb and raced to the child. He did not stop to get his bearings, but snatched up the boy and dove for the sidewalk. They landed in a mud puddle just shy of the walk.
Gaston started to cry.
"Ho there, young man. What's the pity?” Hugh jumped to his feet and made a fancy bow. His soft-leather boots were covered in mud from heel to mid-calf, where they met the top of his breeches. He grabbed Gaston under the shoulders and hoisted him high in the air further splattering himself with mud, but Hugh did not mind the mud; he was much too concerned for the small boy.
"Thank ye, sir,” said Gaston solemnly. “You saved me life."
Hugh felt his face flush with embarrassment. “Oh, well. Not a problem, not a worry, I always say.” He sat the boy down and brushed away some of the muck. He turned to Portia. “This yours?"
She ran and grabbed Gaston's hand. Her face was pale with shock, but her voice held firm when she scolded her son. “Yes, he is. Thank you.” To Gaston she said, “You almost stopped my heart. What were you thinking?"
"I wasn't thinking about much of anythin', Mum. I spotted that kitty over there.” He pointed to a small calico kitten crouched against the battered red brick of the butcher's shop. “And I wanted to pet it before it ran away."
"See, Mum, the boy meant no harm; he just wanted to pet the kitty."
She smiled and nodded at Hugh. He was busy with his handkerchief, trying to mop through the sludge.
"Sir,” she said. Her cheeks dimpled prettily. “If you'd like, we could return to the kitchen over yon and spiff you up a bit?"
"That would be splendid. I'll take you up on that.” He shook his index finger at her. “But mind, you hang onto that boy when we cross the road. Better still, I'll do it,” he said and grabbed Gaston's hand.
They were crossing the street when Portia cried out to her son's back, “You really gave me a fright, boy. You could've been killed. I might want to be a grandma one day, you know. Ever think of that?"
Gaston's laugh rang out across the street. “Grandma! I ain't getting married, mother dearie; I'm going to be just like Lord Kincade and marry me a man."
Portia choked. “Gaston, shush up,” she managed.
Hugh stopped dead on the street and swung around to face Portia. Her stricken face told tales. “What's this?"
"Git goin', master. Umm, I hear the trolley ... ‘tis coming back."
"Yes, I hear.” He turned and swung Gaston up into his arms and headed for the kitchen.
Just as he reached the door, it opened. Geoffrey and Godwin were leaving on their way to their respective households. Much to their surprise, Lord Percival stood waiting on the other side. Hugh smiled at the two gentlemen.
"Oh my goodness, my Lord. What happened to you?” asked Geoffrey.
"Nothing a hard brush and some soap and water won't cure."
He brushed past the servants into the kitchen, still carrying Gaston.
Phaze Fantasies, Vol. III Page 31