Ansel of Pryor House

by Hayden Thorne

  He barely had enough time to sit down and gather his wits when the vehicle jerked into motion, and he was being carried off to another part of town. His companion, sitting across from him, remained mercifully quiet, and Ansel hoped his hood as well as the shadows in the coach hid the emotions that continued to play across his tired features. The windows were left open, and he made himself look out at the darkness and try to find comfort in the snow that had just started to fall again.

  * * * *

  Ansel slept like never before, crawling into a small bed practically the moment he entered Mr. Farnham’s room and staying asleep for ten hours straight. Mr. Farnham had said he didn’t want to wake Ansel up and opted to have the boy’s breakfast sent upstairs after he’d eaten, passing the time in a quick walk outside to clear his head for the journey ahead of them.

  Ansel felt a thousand times better when he awoke, his mood a great deal lighter and less shaky, though his clearer understanding of his new situation firmly kept him grounded, self-conscious, and shy toward his benefactor. As he ate his somewhat cooled breakfast, he wondered what Mr. Farnham’s story was beyond what he already knew. That is, the gentleman was quite wealthy and traveled much, at times taking to some of the seedier establishments for drink and perhaps a card game or two, which he’d always win. He had a younger sister who lived alone and was determined to keep a good distance from the world; he also had a daughter and a son, his wife having passed away almost five years previously, and his family lived in a large ancestral hall in the gentler countryside down south, about a two-day coach ride away from Pryor House.

  “I’ve sent word to Mrs. Finn regarding your clothes,” Mr. Farnham said once they were both on the road. “You’ll have a small but practical wardrobe waiting for you.”

  And speaking of clothes, Ansel noticed that the gentleman wore another fine suit in gray and green. Even his silk hat was in gray, though at least no green band embellished it. While it was true there were subtle variations here and there regarding the cut and any embroidery or woven patterns that could be seen, the colors were constant. Mr. Farnham, apparently, was a bit of an eccentric.

  “Oh—I should earn them,” Ansel stammered, taken aback at the news. “I know you said I’m not to be a servant, but I really should be, sir. I can’t take those new clothes if I do nothing to deserve them somehow.”

  Mr. Farnham paused and regarded him thoughtfully for a moment. “What made you think you needed to earn something so basic as clothing, lad?”

  “Well—shouldn’t I? I—I’m not spending a penny,” Ansel replied. “I can’t just take something for nothing.”

  “My dear boy, you deserve far better than what you’ve had. Clothes are nothing.”

  Ansel didn’t have anything to say to that. Perhaps he was too slow in thinking, which was a shortcoming of his, but he definitely knew he didn’t agree with Mr. Farnham. He’d have to turn to the occupants of Pryor House for guidance; surely they’d see things his way and agree for him to prove his—no, to earn his maintenance. He’d no worth to prove to anyone, anyway. The roughness of his threadbare rags against his skin was a constant reminder of that fact.

  “I hope Miss Farnham won’t be too angry,” Ansel said instead. “I can stay out of her way easily…”

  “Her name’s Laetitia Peveler, and I doubt if you’ll be too much for her nerves.” Mr. Farnham grinned. “You remind me of a quiet little mouse, Ansel, and perhaps some time ensconced in Pryor House will help you find your courage.”

  “Miss Peveler, sir? Not Miss Farnham?” Ansel paused, blushing, as he realized the boldness of his question. Happily enough, his companion didn’t seem to care. In fact, it seemed as though Mr. Farnham expected it.

  “As I’ve said earlier, Laetitia was attached once, though she’s single now, and she’s taken on the gentleman’s name. It’s not my story to tell, however, and she’s not one to divulge precious secrets so readily. If she wishes it, she’ll tell you her story, but it’s best not to press her.” Mr. Farnham raised his brows meaningfully, and Ansel nodded. Then he relaxed against his seat again, looking quite pleased.

  “I’ll behave myself, sir, I swear.”

  “Oh, I’m sure you will, lad. If you’re hungry, I’ve a bag of apples here to keep you sated till we stop for rest and a meal.” Mr. Farnham paused and indicated a brown, lumpy bag sitting beside him with a theatrical wave of a hand.

  “Thank you,” Ansel said, his gaze darting from the bag to Mr. Farnham and back. Within seconds, he was holding a large, fresh, crisp apple, not at all remembering when it was given to him. Then again, perhaps he was simply too undernourished to think more clearly. With another stammered thanks, he was soon eating happily, satisfying himself with listening to his companion whenever Mr. Farnham thought best to speak.

  By and large, conversation for the rest of the journey was mundane, dominated by Mr. Farnham, who described towns and villages they passed along the way. Ansel found his companion to be remarkably knowledgeable, but then again, Mr. Farnham was a great traveler who ventured out quite often when restlessness ate away at him or when the need to explore distant places urged him to say goodbye to his family for the moment.

  “I do take care to bring them something back, of course,” he appended with a satisfied nod.

  “Aren’t your children lonely, sir, with you away for days at a time?”

  “Lonely? Hardly! I’m sure the two brats rejoice behind my back. I wouldn’t be surprised if they’d just turned my home inside out while I was away, and I’ll find our furnishings replaced with ones they’d put together themselves. Ancestral portraits? Gone—hidden somewhere, with their own ghastly doodling taking their place.”

  Ansel bit back a smile, ducking his head and taking another bite of his apple instead. For the next few moments, when the conversation fell silent, Ansel satisfied himself with pictures of the two Farnham children: round-faced and apple-cheeked youngsters with far too much energy and cleverness for their father to keep up with.

  Mr. Farnham, after a moment’s silence, spoke. “I know I can be quite impulsive—have always been, in fact. But I don’t regret playing cards for you, lad, heartless though it might sound. It was the only road open to me. Your father’s a brute. He’d actually bragged about his methods of disciplining you. He’s also a drunken idiot, he made it far too easy for me to win, and that was that.”

  Mr. Farnham fell silent, but for some odd reason Ansel thought the gentleman muttered something that was loud enough for him to hear. It was odd because not once did Mr. Farnham’s mouth move.

  It wasn’t a moment too soon, finding you at last and taking you away before your soul was lost to the world forever.

  It didn’t take long for Ansel to dismiss it as nothing more than a curious effect of his remarkable adventures so far. At any rate, he wondered if he were capable of recovering from his past, no matter what the future had in store for him. He was grateful for providence, but he also couldn’t help but doubt its workings all the same.

  Chapter 3

  Past the last bend in the road, Pryor House’s dark gables slowly rose up behind the snow-covered trees and shrubs. The coach had reached its destination before Ansel knew it; apparently Mr. Farnham proved to be a most diverting traveling-companion and helped make the time go quickly with his stories and other chatter. When the coach rumbled up the driveway towards Pryor House, Ansel wasn’t sure if he’d just regressed to being a five-year-old or even younger with the breathless excitement he felt thanks to Mr. Farnham’s colorful tales. The recent past was now nothing more than a foggy moment deserving of forgetfulness. His father’s drunken rages, the blows Ansel had suffered for daring to speak out, the insults hurled at him for looking too much like his mother, the cold and the hunger and the crippling loneliness…

  No, Pryor House seemed to say. Those belonged to another time, another world, and another boy. Ansel leaned forward to stare at the great house as the coach neared it, pulling his cloak tightly around his shoul
ders in a nervous move.

  Now that they were there, Pryor House had turned out to be much larger than Ansel imagined, and his previously high spirits quailed at the sight of what looked like dozens of gables shooting up to the sky and facing every direction. The walls seemed impenetrable—all thick, ivy-choked gray stone that gave way to narrow, recessed windows. The casements were made of multi-colored, etched glass of indeterminate age, making Ansel think of rich gems in the winter sunlight. Crisscrossing diagonal metal lines separated the colors from each other.

  A wild garden surrounded the house. Even in the winter, the bare, skeletal shapes of shrubbery and flowering trees indicated a garden in which plants were allowed to grow wherever they pleased. There had to be narrow footpaths cutting through the collection of plants, but it was difficult to know for sure from where he sat. Ansel would have to wait for better weather if he wished to explore Pryor House’s garden, and he was convinced it was a breathtakingly colorful one at the height of spring.

  “We’re here,” Mr. Farnham said, his voice breaking up Ansel’s thoughts. “I’ll introduce you to my sister after you’ve rested. In the meantime, I’m surrendering you to Mrs. Finn.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The coach door opened, and Mr. Farnham stepped out, Ansel following a brief moment later. The boy could only manage about a second looking up at the great house before him when he was ordered inside the front door, and he felt himself pulled by unseen hands across the threshold. With a brief, worried glance back over his shoulder, Ansel caught the vivid winter landscape quickly vanishing as the doors swung shut behind him, and shadows fell like inky curtains everywhere.

  Nobody greeted them, but Mr. Farnham seemed to expect it. Surely, with only two (or was it three?) servants in such a house, ordinary, day-to-day rituals and roles didn’t apply. Ansel found himself standing in a large foyer, surrounded by so much space but with very little light. Pryor House’s interior was muted by dark wallpaper and wainscoting, the furniture—which was quite sparse but exquisitely crafted—matching the color scheme so that each chair or table seemed to vanish against the walls. The air smelled like what the foyer offered: old wood, old paper, and old fabric. There were no rugs on the floor to add a bit of cheerful color anywhere, but light filtering through the glass of the windows lit the floor with a rich prism of jewel-like hues. Ansel couldn’t help but gape at the effects, which were quite magical, whimsical, and yet mysterious.

  “Follow me, lad.”

  He reluctantly tore his attention from the floor and hurried after Mr. Farnham, his cloak trailing behind him and whipping around his ankles. From the foyer, he was led down a narrow hallway that was softly lit with candles nestled in holders protruding from the walls. Ansel was struck by how dark Pryor House was, and he wondered how many candles were required to keep it livable on a given day.

  There was, however, a curiously magical element about the way they barely kept things visible, their yellow flames flickering playfully even without the presence of a breeze anywhere to threaten the guttering of a candle or two. Against the wainscoting and wallpaper, they seemed to promise little mysteries, revealing a detail or two for a second before hiding it in shadows again. Ansel could imagine them winking conspiratorially at him, fiery little fingers raised and pressed against their lips.

  * * * *

  Only two people made up the full-time staff of Pryor House: Mrs. Finn, the housekeeper, and Mr. Blacow, the “kitchen master,” which was the easiest designation for someone who was both cook and scullery maid—only male.

  With most rooms unused, their furniture safely covered against dust and time, additional help in cleaning, laundry, and gardening was hired as needed from the nearest town, at least according to Mrs. Finn. With only Miss Laetitia Peveler and a handful of rooms to look after, the work remained light, the gardener enjoying a reprieve during the winter months.

  “You’ll learn more about how we run things around here in time—if Miss Peveler allows it. Now stand straight. Chin up. Pull your shoulders back. Is that the best you can do? I suppose that’s fine. Oh, my stars, when was the last time you ate?”

  Mrs. Finn and Mr. Blacow gaped at Ansel, their faces fixed on two different versions of a grimace. Ansel tried not to wet himself under their overenthusiastic scrutiny, reminding himself that these good folks were simply unused to having a third person around for more than a day per week. Not only that, but a young boy to boot. Indeed, the initial introductions were quite awkward and embarrassing, with Ansel glancing several times in Mr. Farnham’s direction, desperately looking for help—though as to what that help might be, he didn’t know. For his part, Mr. Farnham took care to stand as far as he could from the proceedings, the look on his face conveying his desire to see Ansel take some initiative or do whatever was needed to be done in the course of getting to know Mrs. Finn and Mr. Blacow.

  “I ate breakfast with Mr. Farnham, ma’am,” he stammered, reddening. He stood exactly the way they ordered him to, but he wasn’t used to standing like a pole. His muscles were beginning to lock up from being kept from moving; even his breathing felt unnatural, and he inhaled and exhaled in brief, shallow bursts.

  “You’ve got a new set of clothes waiting for you in your room,” Mrs. Finn said, her grimace easing up to nothing more than an expression of speechless shock. She looked him up and down a few times before moving slowly around him. Ansel wanted to crawl off to a corner and die of shame. “I think they’ll be too large for you as I didn’t expect you to be so thin. When I received orders for new clothes, I was thinking of a healthy young country fellow, not a walking pile of skin and bones.”

  “If you could show me how to sew, ma’am, I can fix them myself.”

  “No,” Mr. Farnham cut in. “If you wish them to fit you, you’ll need to eat more, for heaven’s sake.”

  Ansel nodded, embarrassment piling atop embarrassment. With Mr. Farnham and Mrs. Finn behind him, only Mr. Blacow remained within sight, and the fellow did nothing to comfort Ansel. The look of dismay on his face, in addition to the sad shakes of his head and soft tsk-tsk-ing, made Ansel want to gouge his eyes out to avoid being reminded of his place as an object of pity and charity.

  Mrs. Finn finally reappeared, having finished her scrutiny. She took her place beside Mr. Blacow again, this time folding her arms on her chest and meeting Ansel’s gaze with a scowl.

  “We might be able to find a reason to make use of an extra pair of hands, Mr. Farnham, unless Miss Peveler decides otherwise,” she said, her manner firm and authoritative. “The boy will fit in quite well here as long as he doesn’t faint on us from lack of strength.”

  “Very good. Show him to his room, so he can rest. Make sure he eats everything you make him, Mr. Blacow. Give him a couple of days to get acquainted with Pryor House before giving him something to occupy his time with.”

  Mrs. Finn and Mr. Blacow acknowledged Mr. Farnham’s orders. With a wave of a hand, Mrs. Finn beckoned to Ansel, leaving the kitchen through a second door, which was perhaps the servants’ door leading to the rear parts of the house.

  As he stepped through it and into another darkened hallway, Ansel heard the sudden, violent ringing of a bell in the kitchen. He didn’t have time to turn and look, but he overheard the two remaining men speak.

  “It’s Miss Peveler, sir,” Mr. Blacow said. “She’s in the music room.”

  “Ah. Bring us tea, will you? Perhaps something soothing as I expect a bit of a to-do from her over the boy’s ghastly condition.”

  “Just like the others before, sir?”

  “Exactly like the others before.”

  “But he came to you that way.”

  “I know, but she’ll want to say her piece nonetheless.”

  “Yes, sir. Good luck, Mr. Farnham.”

  The hallway was a good deal narrower than the main one linking the kitchen to the rest of the house, but it was lit no differently. The air smelled like old wood and paper, the occasional whiff of melting wax and candle
flame finding its way into the mix. Mrs. Finn said nothing the whole time, and Ansel followed her to the end of the hallway and up a narrow flight of stairs to their left. The smell of old wood and paper grew stronger. Whether or not it was the product of his imagination, of fatigue from his travels, and emotional exhaustion from the recent past, he couldn’t say, but it seemed as though Pryor House had slipped back in time, the essence of history getting heavier with each tentative step up the creaking stairs.

  Sadness as well. Perhaps his mind was a great deal more overwhelmed than he’d thought, but the pervading sense of sadness seemed to creep out of the woodwork and hang back just beyond the edge of candle light, watching him in heavy silence. Once or twice, Ansel glanced behind him, a touch alarmed at the feeling as though someone or something were shadowing his steps, but he saw nothing. Just a narrow corridor barely kept alive with candles in their old holders.

  Chapter 4

  Ansel was safely hidden in his assigned room, and he spent the next moment or so after being abandoned by Mrs. Finn crumbling under the aching mix of exhilaration and anxiety.

  Mrs. Finn was nothing if not efficient as well as gruff in her displays of concern toward Ansel. After ushering him into his room, she proceeded to point out his bed, his wardrobe, his washstand, and even his windows. In his wardrobe a small collection of clean castoffs in excellent condition were neatly kept, and Ansel was nearly overcome with emotion at the thought that complete strangers had thought to spend money on him—a scruffy, half-starved, and illiterate nobody—with about a week’s worth of clothes. It was all he could do to nod, blink away the tears, and run a sleeve against his nose while avoiding Mrs. Finn’s grim, inquiring stare.