by Mark Eller
After dragging his bags through the gate, Aaron let them lie. Since the manor was set some small distance away, he wouldn't try to carry everything himself. Because the place was huge, and as he seemed to have an employee who did nothing except watch the gate, Aaron figured other servants must live on the premises. One of them could lug his gear.
"We can go now?"
"Whatever the sir desires."
Mistress Willow turned back toward the house and shuffled off again. Fifteen feet later she reached a padded leather chair set beneath a shade tree. A permanently placed umbrella stood guard over it. "I will let you go your own way. The house is right down this lane."
Aaron watched as she settled into the chair. If asked, he would have sworn her bones sighed relief.
An old man rounded the corner of the house as Aaron drew near. The fellow stepped lively while pushing a rotary mower before him. Upon seeing Aaron, he released the mower's handles and walked confidently forward. The powerful odor of sweat and freshly cut grass reached Aaron before the man did.
"You would be Mister Turner?"
"I would be, yes."
"Please step inside. I will prepare the staff. It won't take long. We've expected you for the last several days."
The foyer led into a great room which appeared unimpressive because of its rundown antiquity. From the cracked paintings on the walls to the worn carpets and the leaning furniture, the place stank of moldy age. Even the once white paint on the baseboards was yellowed and cracked.
As promised, the staff soon gathered. They appeared both young and sprightly--but only when compared to the ancient great room. The youngest had to be at least sixty-five. The oldest appeared to be over ninety. The gardener took charge of introductions.
"First in line are your cooks, Miss Adams and Miss Bentley. The next four people are your maids. They are all Buntsons, married to myself this past year. Beyond them is Mister Hodkins, your butler, and Miss Lavine who handles the household accounts and does our outside purchasing, and Miss Cartridge, our major. She coordinates our duties and answers all correspondence that does not require the Mister's attention. She also arranges social invitations and plans parties to be held here at Billowby Manor. I am, of course, Mister Buntson, your gardener and maintenance man."
Disbelieving, Aaron looked the group over. Of them all, Mister Buntson and Miss Cartridge were the only two who owned any pretense of good health. The others appeared stiff and slow, in horrible shape. He found it amazing they all made it to the great room without someone dying.
A cottage, he reminded himself. A place where he could be alone. A place where he could live peacefully. He had wanted a little land, few neighbors, and a cottage.
Galesward was ruined for him. Because of this place, no one would believe he was just a small businessman. Treated with reverence and suspicion, he would always be three steps outside the fringes of the crowd. No matter how hard he tried, he would never fit in.
So--he would give Amanda a few months to find him someplace else. Meanwhile, he would relax and catch up on his reading. The world was big. It owned poor communications and plenty of places where people did not know the name of Aaron Turner. Amanda had screwed up, which didn't mean she wouldn't get it right the next time. Not after they had a little talk.
When Buntson cleared his throat, Aaron realized he had been staring at the group for some time. They expected something from him but damned if he knew what. It wasn't as if he was used to having servants. Other than hiring a cleaning lady every once in a while, Aaron mostly kept to himself.
Giving them his habitual half smile, Aaron gestured pointlessly with one hand. "Very well. Is there anything I should know about the house?" He gave the great room a slow look. "Are any ceilings likely to cave in?"
Miss Cartridge took a step forward. "Sir, your rooms are in the west wing. We servants traditionally lived on the second floor, but we moved into the lower south wing a few years ago. One or two of us have difficulty traversing the stairs. Because of this, I am afraid the upper floor is not as pristine as it should be. Also, a visitor waits for you."
Aaron blinked. "Already? I just arrived."
"Miss Tremont has showed up at first light for the last several days. She refuses to leave until just before dark."
Aaron looked pointedly around. "Where exactly is this persistent Miss Tremont?"
"She is in the lesser den. If you care to follow me?"
No, Aaron did not care to follow, but he was too polite to say so. Instead, he wanted to go to his still unseen rooms so he could lie down and wallow in self pity. He had held hope for Galesward, but that was pretty much shot down. Just went to show life, or Amanda Bivins, had it in for him.
Reaching up, he pulled Zisst from around his neck and held it out. "This is Zisst. Please put it in my rooms."
"It?" Miss Cartridge asked. Her lips thinned, and she took half a step back as her wrinkled hands folded tight against her belly. Then, with a shake of her head, she reached out to accept the animal.
Grinning at her reluctance, Aaron handed Zisst over. "I've never been sure if Zisst is a he or a she, and apparently it isn't sure either because it seems to prefer being called an it."
"I see," she said, eying Zisst doubtfully as it settled into her arms.
Aaron didn't blame her for her reluctance. The multi-colored animal was like nothing else Aaron had ever seen. When Zisst had been younger there had been no telling what the beast would look like from one day to the next. Even in its old age, his pet still changed its coloring and configuration at least once a month.
Aaron followed Miss Cartridge through the left hand door of the great room and down a short hallway to the second door on the right, where Miss Cartridge opened the door. "The Mister," she announced.
Miss Tremont wasn't the supplicant Aaron expected not a young woman or even a middle-aged one. She was, in fact, a child of nine or ten who sat very primly on the visitor's chair, hands folded neatly in her lap, eyes closed. Her head tilted back and a small snore issued from her elfin mouth.
Miss Cartridge released a grunting laugh startling and waking the child. Jerking erect, Miss Tremont jumped hurriedly to her feet as her eyes found Aaron. Folded hands pulled apart to brush at her dress, smoothing down invisible folds and wrinkles. She bit the lower lip on a face which suddenly appeared serious and very frightened.
Aaron watched her nervous movements for a moment before walking around the large walnut desk dominating the room. He sat in the chair behind the desk, the only seat except for the one Miss Tremont had recently vacated. A pile of dusty correspondence papers sat at his right hand. Picking up a sheet, he crumbled it, took aim, and launched the paper at an empty wastebasket in the corner. The wadded paper sailed gently through the air, touched against the wall, and struck against the rim of the wastebasket. It hovered indecisively for a moment before falling to the floor.
He had missed.
Miss Tremont appeared confused. She smiled nervously. The tip of her tongue peeked forth to wet dry lips.
Aaron wadded up another sheet and tossed it. The second one struck the rim and bounced away. Shaking his head, he gave her his best puppy dog eyes.
Miss Tremont giggled.
Aaron frowned in mock sadness. "I suppose you could do better?"
She shook her head. "Oh no, sir. I could never."
"Prove it. " Wadding up a third sheet, Aaron tossed it to her. "Put one of those in the basket ten times. If you get all ten in before I do, I'll give you a full copper. Oh, Miss Cartridge--you may go."
"Thank you, sir. " She left, taking Zisst with her.
The girl might be unsure and nervous, but when it came to making money she wasn't slow. Without hesitation, she leaped to his desk. They both grabbed up several sheets, and a sudden flurry of flying paper followed. Aaron lost count of how many baskets she managed, but that didn't matter. After a couple minutes, he arbitrarily declared her the winner. It had become increasingly difficult to deliberately miss
without her catching on.
Miss Tremont's face flushed with excitement when he handed her the coin. Aaron liked the new expression much better than the serious one she had worn before.
After helping her clean up their mess, he sat her back down and propped his feet up on the desk. "Now then, I hear you've been waiting to see me."
"Every day for the past week and more," she said. "I was here almost every daylight hour except for going home to get lunch and make supper for me mum."
Aaron grimaced at her worried tone. The effects of his little game had been short lived. Whatever bothered the child must be important to her, which did not mean important to him. He gave her an encouraging nod and wished she were not there. The last thing he needed was to get involved when he planned on leaving as soon as Amanda found him someplace else.
"You've something to say?" Aaron hated the forced formality of his tone. The girl's lost waif eyes made him nervous.
"Yes, sir. " Her face grew even more serious, an unpleasant expression on a child so young, pulling a cord on Aaron's heart.
The girl bit her lip, and then spoke in a rush. "Please don't fire me Mum. I know she was late for work Sunday before last, but she really didn't mean to be. It was just that my stomach hurt terribly bad the entire night before, and she had the most difficult time getting the doctor to come so he could make me stop hurting, and really, the other people probably covered for her so I doubt production was hurt at all."
Aaron slowly closed his eyes, counted to three, and opened them again. He didn't like the implications of this conversation. The clothing store he'd directed Amanda to purchase shouldn't have more than two or three employees, and they should not have "production" to worry about.
"Why," he asked carefully,"would I want to fire your mum? I've never fired anyone because they had sick kids. I'd never think of such a thing."
"But Mister Grebfax says you'll fire everybody if they miss work or take short days. Mum always looks tired when she comes home, and she never gets enough sleep because it's way after dark, and there's still so much work to do at the house. She bumps into things and sometimes hurts herself. She told me the factory will kill her if this keeps on."
A cold feeling ran through Aaron. He sat quiet for several moments while her liquid eyes pierced him. Her tears welled up, started to spill, and he wished he were anywhere but there.
"What factory?" he finally asked.
"Your factory. The one making the runabouts. " She appeared confused, though not half as confused as Aaron felt.
"The runabouts?" he heard himself ask.
Amanda had promised him a gentleman's clothing store, for the God's sake, not a factory. Hopefully, this snit of a girl had the wrong person. Maybe the factory belonged to some other poor sap living in some other god-forsaken house.
"Yes, sir," the young Miss Tremont said with a quaver. "The runabouts. Mum said they started building them last month after the name on the sign was changed to Turner Fabrication. She says things were bad before, but now they're worse, and she doesn't know what she's going to do if she gets fired, because there aren't many jobs left where a person can make enough to feed themselves and a daughter, too."
Oh yes, Amanda Bivins would pay. She would pay big. Take a woman to bed one time--one time--and suddenly she thought she knew how to run a man's life even better than she had run it before. Anger boiled his blood. Amanda had her own affairs. She had damned well better pay attention to them and leave his life the hell alone.
Gods. It wasn't as if he had not told her exactly what he wanted. A quiet place in a nice quaint community where he could run a simple gentleman's clothing store. Was that too much to ask? Was it really?
"Sir?"
Aaron jolted back to find Miss Tremont looking at him with a worried expression. She twiddled her fingers, and her cheeks were damp, making Aaron curse his callousness. Now was not the time to wail about his troubles. After all, he was an adult and well suited to dealing with these matters. Miss Tremont was a young girl who worried about her mother, her home, and herself. She needed reassuring while he needed to find out what the hell was going on.
"Could you do me a favor? Please don't mention this conversation to your mother. I want to see the factory without anyone knowing you spoke to me. Is that okay? Could you do that?"
"Yes, sir," she said, but her voice was unsure.
Aaron smiled encouragement. "Thank you. I promise things will get better for your mother. If she loses this job, I'll see she gets another, and it won't be one where she worries about getting fired because her child is sick."
Rising from his chair, Aaron went over to her. Placing his hands on her shoulders, he looked straight into her eyes in an attempt to be reassuring and believable. "All I ask in return is that you don't let anyone know you came to see me. Not yet."
Large eyes, set in a face finally starting to relax, studied him. "Yes, sir. Thank you, sir."
"Oh, and Miss Tremont."
"Sir?"
"What's your first name?"
"Julia," she answered. "You can call me Julia."
* * *
The wing his servants assigned him was considerably different from the rest of the house. For one thing, it was newer. The east wing consisted of a master bedroom, two smaller bedrooms, a den, a library, and a large sitting room. The walls were freshly painted in colors he liked. The pictures were copies of Bouveit, Hallen, and McNivit, artists he had shown a preference for in the past. The carpets were new, as was the furniture, and praise the Lady and Her Lord, the chairs had actual usable cushions on them. Aaron's skinny butt demanded a certain amount of cushioning when he sat.
The library, he found, was well stocked. The older books had obviously been there for some time, but the newer ones included his favorite authors along with several writers he had never encountered before. Opening one of those unknowns, he read a long passage, finding the author was both succinct and knowledgeable. The woman spiced her writings with humorous observation on ancient cultures, a subject Aaron was interested in.
Disgusted, Aaron slapped the book shut and threw it across the room. Any lingering doubts he held were gone. Everything could have been a horrible mistake. Wires could have been crossed. Messages could have been scrambled. Amanda could have claimed unknowing innocence--but no. He had been played. Everything in his rooms had been chosen with him in mind.
Damn her! The woman thought she could continue running his life.
Fuming, he checked the drawers and closets to find the clothes he had shipped overseas were not there. Instead, they had been replaced with clothes better cut and of a much higher quality. Aaron counted three racks of ties. He had not worn a tie more than half a dozen times in his life.
A piece of paper was pinned to the front tie. Folding it open, Aaron saw that it diagramed the steps needed to properly tie a knot.
He growled Amanda's name.
So! She manipulated! He had half a mind to tell her off. By using his Talent for transferring, he could be back in N'Ark in a moment. Hell, he could be in her bedroom.
But that might lead to her interfering again. Aaron did not need Amanda Bivins or her hirelings to do for him. He could go back to N'Ark, grab some money, and search out his own place. Galesward and this manor and the unknown factory would be history by tomorrow evening. Hell, they could be history before then.
Aaron slammed the closet door shut. Frowning, he glared at drapes in a style and pattern he liked.
He was out of here. He would take off and leave this mess for Amanda to handle. She deserved the headache.
Large liquid eyes stared at him. Please don't fire me Mum.
"Shut up," Aaron muttered to the memory.
They spoke Jut in Scotsdale. He could go there. True, their accent was atrocious, barely understandable, but he would catch on in time. Scotsdale was an interesting place. They raised lots of sheep. In fact, it was the sheep raising capital of the world.
He hated sheep.
M
um always looks so tired.
"Damn you, girl. Shut up!"
A bell near his suite entrance rang. He went to the door, swung it open, and found Mister Hodkins stooped before him. Several moments passed before the man caught enough breath to speak.
"Sir, there is some small argument among the staff. Your input would resolve matters."
"And the problem is?"
"The matter has to do with your luggage. Several of the servants are in disagreement as to whose duty it is to bring it into the manor."
Right. Of course they argued. With the exception of the gardener, it was likely none of his staff could lug in a single piece, let alone all of it.
"I'll see to the matter myself."
"Very good sir. And does the sir wish to dine?"
"When will it be ready?"
"It would be ready now," Hodkins said. "Previously, the House always dined at six o'clock sharp. We have kept your meal warm for the past half hour."
Aaron blushed and had no idea why. It wasn't as if they had told him the food was ready. Besides, the last he noticed, these people worked for him, not the other way around.
"I'll be down in a bit."
Hodkins did not move. "Perhaps I should provide escort since you have not yet been to the main dining room?"
"Of course. Why don't you lead the way?"
"And the animal?"
Right, Aaron supposed Zisst wouldn't be terribly welcome at the main table. Besides, it was getting on in years. Of late, his pet enjoyed a good nap more than a new exploration.
"Zisst will remain here. Bring up a small amount of meat and some vegetables. Now, how about that leading the way thing?"
Hodkins nodded. "Please follow me."
From the pace Hodkins set, he wasn't in a hurry. After five or six eternities, they made it to the dining room.
