In His Proper Place

By Lotus Oakes

William Rowan has always been completely satisfied and in utter control of his life; everything he has always come to him, whether through right of birth or careful planning. But when he has to train a new head butler, William finds himself beginning to question how much of his stable proper life he actually wants, and how much he is willing to change ...

A quiet m/m romance novella, ~25K words.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lotus Oakes
• Release date: Jun 4, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301809370

Lotus Oakes

Lotus Oakes lives in Seattle, where the sun shines more often than you might think, and writes whatever she can, wherever she can. She has been writing for upwards of ten years in a variety of genres and means to carry on in the same manner from hereon.

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In His Proper Place

By Lotus Oakes

Smashwords Edition Copyright 2013

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William Rowan prided himself on being a neat and practical man. He liked for things to be precisely and properly in order, all in neat rank and file, both in his work and in his hobbies; he liked to look out upon the handiwork of tidiness and know that it was a good and proper accomplishment. He once heard two of the maids whispering about him, how it was that the master would insist that no one of the staff touch his private study and -- which was the most unusual part -- it was truly the most organized room of the entire estate. It was a rumor (a truth) that he accepted with pride.

The secret, as he saw it, was that unlike other men who professed a similar fondness to order, William never saw chaos as a thing to be despised -- rather, it was a challenge, and it was a potential. Something that was tangled and messy made his fingers itch to take it apart so that he could put it back together, more gracefully than before; he appreciated the beauty of things properly done because he had himself thrust his hands into muck and mess and wrested something proper out of it. His staff was the envy of Society, and if some of his peers muttered about his tendency to roll up his shirtsleeves and take to sweeping the entrance himself, William paid them no heed. His home, at least, was sparkling and in order, and he could ask for nothing greater than that.

He married, of course; it was to be expected, with the Rowan family poised on the upper echelons of Society. A proper heir needed to be established, and it was easier with a wife than a husband, so he found a quiet and tidy third daughter of some obscure dukeling and courted her. Her name was Lydia, and she shared his interest in ordered space and a properly-kept home; while he did not love her, he was rather fond of her, and more than he expected to be -- which, really, still put him ahead, because being a friend to this woman was not such a terrible thing. Lydia rarely spoke above a murmur and was solid strong bones under a frame that was deceptively delicate in appearance.

With his wife, he had one son, born squalling and redfaced, and afterward, both William and Lydia agreed that childbirth was an exceedingly messy and awkward business, and one that neither of them wished to repeat in any aspect. He bought her new silk sheets for her bed and she gave him an embroidered satchel of lavender to perfume his clothes, because lavender was a scent they both agreed to be soothing and conductive to an orderly mind. He would kiss her in the mornings and she would kiss him in the evenings, and he liked to reflect, as he retired to his bed, that he was a lucky man indeed.

As for the son, William found he liked the infant a great deal better when it became a toddler, dressed in crushed velvets and silks and less prone to making a shitting mess of itself at any given moment. Lydia was also similarly relieved when the boy was trotted out by his nursemaid freshly-scrubbed and neatly dressed; once it could be trusted to control its own bodily functions, she took the steps to instill proper manners and courtesy in the boy: the please and the thank you and the by your leave that were required for a neat entrance into Society, and the proper way to smooth any ruffled feathers or hurt tempers.

The son was named Samuel, and he was a clever boy, if one prone to his fits and his tempers. He had his mother's blue eyes and William's blond hair, and to William's immense relief, he rather quickly began to show a propensity for neatness himself, fussing at servants if things were not folded just so, or put away in such a proper manner. By the time the boy was old enough for boarding school, he had developed a good straight-backed posture and a way of tilting his head to make himself seem that much taller, and he shook William's hand with a handshake that was just shy of being a man's grip -- he was still a little too small for that, but William took some pride in the attempt.

Do your family proud, he said, as the last of Samuel's belongings were loaded into the carriage, and the carriage door was opened. Your mother and I will be there to visit for the holidays.

Samuel nodded, and he rocked up onto his toes just a little as he did. It was a small nervous sort of gesture, and William noticed it but allowed it to slide. Samuel would notice it himself and correct it; he was a clever and observant boy. To humiliate him right before he was off to meet the peers of his generation would only cause a terrible mess down the line, and even as he aged, his bones beginning to creak more often than not, William Rowan continued to do his best to keep things as orderly as possible. He took a step back to be on the stairs rather than the drive itself, to avoid the inevitable cloud of dust as Samuel climbed into the carriage and the driver whistled to his horses, setting them to quick-footed easy movement. He tucked his fingertips into his pockets and watched the carriage drive away; he did not wave. In the window along the back, he saw Samuel's head turn back once, to look at him for a few moments, then turn forward again. William was proud of him all over again.

He truly was a lucky man, he thought, and the satisfaction in that stayed with him throughout the rest of the day; if anything, it grew with the kiss that his wife gave him before they parted ways for the night: he was filled with such a deep and immense fondness for her that he very nearly caught her hands to profess his feelings. He refrained only out of respect for Lydia's preferences -- and his own, because he was not so addled by good feelings that he would abandon his ideals -- and retired to his own room with a warm chest and a pleased smile. He slept deeply and comfortably, and all without dreams.

This was the comfortable and proper course of his life, everything slotted to be exactly where it should; William Rowan thought, with exceeding -- and earned, if he said so himself -- pride, that with patience and persistence, everything worked out precisely as he intended. Even the gears of a machine were nothing to be overly concerned over; those, too, would eventually smooth out, and things would continue as easily as before.

So when the head butler, seventy years old and joints creaking, tendered his retirement notice, William was more thoughtful