Mind Your Manors

By Donovan Brooks

Bosworth has concerns: The Lord and Lady of the manor are absent. Their estate exists in the custody of unsupervised and negligent personnel, an unruly lot, predisposed to all manner of delinquent behaviour. The manor house and grounds are in decline, and yet most staff and servants could not care less. But Bosworth cares—he has to—it’s his job. So why, then, would he throw open the doors to a force bent on destruction?

Assuming control comes easy for a man of many talents and considerable influence. Maintaining it, however, is another matter; not everyone has been taken in by the man with the wandering eye. Despite the risk, the beguiling stranger knows his deception need last only as long it takes to get what he wants. Little does he realize, no one, himself included, understands the consequences of obtaining it.

A paradox presents when the butler comes to understand, even if the tramp loses, he could still win by default. If the benevolent forces behind the scenes fail Robert Bosworth, the manor and all who dwell within are doomed. The butler holds the key. The fate of the manor hangs in the balance.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Donovan Brooks
• Release date: Sep 12, 2019
• ISBN: 9781775199205

Book preview

A Little About

Mind Your Manors

Bosworth has concerns: The lord and lady of the manor are absent. The estate is in the custody of servants, an unruly lot, predisposed to all manner of delinquent behavior. The manor house and grounds are in a state of decline. Most everyone couldn’t care less. But Bosworth cares, he has to—it’s his job. So why throw open the doors to a force bent on destruction?

Assuming control comes easy for a man of many talents and considerable influence. Maintaining it is another matter; not everyone has been taken in by the man with the wandering eye. Despite the risk, the beguiling stranger knows his deceit need last only long enough to get what he wants. Little does he realize, even if he gets what he wants, no one, himself included, understands the consequences of obtaining it.

A paradox presents when the butler comes to understand, even if the tramp fails in his bid to abscond with the estate’s treasure, by default, he may yet win the day. If the benevolent forces behind the scenes fail Robert Bosworth, the manor and all who dwell within are doomed. The butler holds the key. The fate of the manor hangs in the balance.

Mind Your Manors

an allegoric farce

By Donovan Brooks

Published by:

Babbling Books Publishing Ink, Inc.

Copyright © 2018 Babbling Books Publishing Ink, Inc.

eBook Edition

ISBN: 978-1-7751992-0-5

Written by Donovan Brooks

Cover design by Donald Royer Design

Disclaimer: The material in this book is for mature audiences.

License Notes:

All rights reserved. This book is licensed for your personal use only. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher. Thank you for respecting the work of this author.

For

Benamen

and the Bean

Table of Contents

About the Book

Title Page

Copyright Page

Dedication

Introduction

PART ONE

Chapter 1 – The Management of Change

Chapter 2 – Memo to Self

Chapter 3 – Sentient Affairs

Chapter 4 – Sublime Instigation

Chapter 5 – Stewart’s Deception

PART TWO

Chapter 6 – Mind Your Table, Manors

Chapter 7 – The Aftermath and The Prelude

Chapter 8 – Of Friends and Foes

Chapter 9 – A Tacit Tactic

Chapter 10 – Innuendo

Chapter 11 – What Goes Round

Chapter 12 – Decrypting Keys

Chapter 13 – Preliminary Spadework

Chapter 14 – Skulduggery

Chapter 15 – Oboe’s Ode: Departing Party’s Party

PART THREE

Chapter 16 – Steering Clear

Chapter 17 – Hoodoo vs. Voodoo

Chapter 18 – An Apothecary’s Alchemy

Chapter 19 – Gentry’s Equine and Canine Paradox

Chapter 20 – A Rose by Any Other

Chapter 21 – The Cook and The Crow

Chapter 22 – Love’s Lost and Found

Chapter 23 – Feast or Fodder

Chapter 24 – Smoke and Mirrors

Chapter 25 – Nebulous Conclusions

Chapter 26 – Pretty Trinkets

Chapter 27 – Secrets: Revealed and Cached

Chapter 28 – Lavender Delight

Chapter 29 – Teetotalers Anonymous

Chapter 30 – Moon Flower

Chapter 31 – Recipe for Disaster

Chapter 32 – Illusory Intrusions and Retributions

Chapter 33 – Rallying the Troupe

Chapter 34 – Vindicating Vacated Venues

Chapter 35 – Jump, Horst, Jump

Chapter 36 – Think About It

Chapter 37 – A Slippery Slope

Chapter 38 – The Last Supper

END NOTES

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

CONTACT INFORMATION

Introduction

The eclectic mix of characters in this narration invites a degree of enhanced liberty insofar as dialogue is concerned. To that end, the author has designed a mimetic lexicon for the locution of particular characters. This license is utilized sparingly so as not to detract from the overall comprehensibility. In addition, it should be noted that in an era of excessive ornamentation such as concerns the period herein, the author has taken pains to frame the narrative so as to reflect the times. (Rococo furnishings, frills and lace spring to mind.) Therefore, in the event the reader may sustain minor discomfort as a result of certain verbose passages found to be bothersome or problematic in the context of a complete understanding from an initial reading, in part due to the length of any given statement, or perhaps owing to a proclivity for fanciful expression, you are urged to desist until such time as you are better able to workup the proper frame of mind with which to continue. And continue you should—it should be worth it.

Note: Don’t let the preceding bit of bombast dissuade you from reading this book. It was only added to pad the the introduction. It won’t happen again.

Part One

The Troupe

Who, then, are the actors when players pull the puppets’ strings?

Chapter One

The Management of Change

As night cedes to day and sinister shadows creep deeper into recesses of darkness, texture and nuance emerge. Together, like children at play, they draw back twilight’s cloak of obscurity in a dramatic dance of form and color. Finally a landscape is defined. Aroused, birds begin to preen and call. A rooster crows. Over hilltops to the east, a warm glow, and soon sunlight spills into the valley, lifting ghostly veils to reveal a dewy meadow—glistening. In still, darkened hollows, marshlands, yet undisturbed, slumber beneath blankets of mist. Stands of maple, elm, and oak hold silent communion, not a whisper of wind to stir their lofty heights. The cock crows yet another raucous squawk to herald in the new day, though now with waning enthusiasm.

Central to the valley, perched on a rise, stands a grand old manor presiding over a vast estate. To anyone’s recollection the property has never known a time whereby a properly-titled lord and master held rein over these lands. It’s said, misery has taken up residence in the manor and neglect has settled the land. Once-magnificent gardens are overrun by weeds; choked orchards claw and struggle while fields fumble over yields of botched vegetables; fallen fences and fetid dung-heaps litter the farmyard; and the pride of the estate—a line of champion purebred horses—is now reduced to a dud stud and a pair of ragged flea-bitten nags. Yes, disarray and decay holds sway over all that once made this a distinguished property. In fact, rumor has it even the grand old manor inclines to ruin.

In one of the dilapidated barns, a black mongrel stirs as a ray of sunshine creeps over the threshold of his dreams. He wakes, pulls himself to his feet, and shakes the sleep from his shaggy head. A stretch and a yawn before wandering to the entrance where he sniffs at a weathered panel of wood. Positioning himself, he raises a hind leg to refresh the scent. Straw dust, floating on golden shafts of sunlight, causes his muzzle to twitch. A spastic sneeze erupts giving rise to a flurry of commotion. In the aftermath the dog casts a furtive glance over a shoulder to be certain his gracelessness went unnoticed. Once recomposed, he cocks his head to the side, listening.

The rooster crows.

And the dog growls, disdainful of the repugnant refrain.

Pointing his nose beyond the barn door, he tests the air. Satisfied all is as it should be, the mongrel trots out into the farmyard, a yard filled with a plethora of smells on shifting currents—a veritable doggy delight.

Nero made for the fence nearest the cedars. Once out of the enclosure, the beast picked up the pace, trotting with the lively rhythm of purpose and destination. He climbed through the pines, distancing himself from the slumbering inhabitants of the farm, manor, and grounds. The dog was on the scent of the illusive one known only as Yuno. Nero knew where Yuno would be, but canine pride and the challenge of tracking proved stronger than the urge to simply take the most direct route.

Under the canopy of the forest, the air sat still and cool. Isolated beams of sunlight penetrated the gloom. The black mongrel moved carefully now, picking his way over a padding of pine needles. Sometimes he would stop, or backtrack, to examine the scent more closely when it mingled or became overpowered by pungent combinations of moist earth and rotting vegetation. Cryptic messages decoded in his cranium causing his tail to quiver with excitement. The scent was fresh and getting stronger. Nero closed on his quarry.

A wiry old man sat cross-legged, silent, still, his eyes closed and his weathered face turned to the sun. His breathing was slow and measured as if he were meditating. Faded denim covered his slight frame, and a long white mane of hair lay across his back. Beaded deerskin moccasins adorned his feet. In each hand, resting comfortably on his bony knees, he held a feather. The faintest of smiles flickered across his peaceful visage. Slowly, he opened his eyes and stared into the blinding light.

A clearing near the summit provided an unobstructed view to the east. It was here on a grassy knoll at the edge of a bluff where he came to watch the sunrise. On fine summer days just before first light, he would rise and slip into the forest where he filtered through the trees in a varying and circuitous fashion. His senses were honed to an acute level of awareness, an awareness brought about from the many years spent wandering alone, lost in the woods. Living by his wits and surviving off the bounty of the land was once a way of life. It bestowed him with a profound respect for nature and all that is the living mystery of the world. Nowadays, his forays into the timberland were reserved for the preservation of his skills. That, and the desire for solitude, which was intrinsically connected with the need to bring inner peace to his being through unfettered reflection. Thus, the old Paiute sought out this quiet hillock, far from the commotion of the estate. Here, high among the pines, perched on a precipice with the valley stretching out before him and the warmth of the rising sun on his face, he was free to let his spirit soar.

Staring into the sun, its brilliance filling his soul and warming his old bones, he felt moved to sing an ancient song, a song of his people. A low tone warbled up from deep in his throat, changing pitch before exiting motionless lips. The wavering, rhythmic chanting was carried on a zephyr into the pines.

Nero crouched along the treeline no more than a hundred yards away, studying his prey, every muscle, every nerve in his body tensed and at the ready. The Paiute had his back to him. A low menacing growl escaped through curled lips and glistening fangs. The cur gathered his hindquarters readying for the mad rush across the clearing. In a flash he transformed to a black blur streaking across a green mountain meadow. The dog charged headlong, straining his every fiber for more speed, closing the distance. Then, with only a few short yards to go, Nero ground to a halt and barked. It was the unbearable, wild, unrestrained barking of a crazed animal.

Although he’d relinquished his song, Yuno didn’t flinch. He remained calm, relaxed, and contemplative. In no particular hurry he rose and turned to face the mad dog. Nero ceased immediately. Steel-gray eyes bore into those of the black mongrel-beast. It was a sure, steady gaze, unfocused, and unnerving. Tucking his tail between his legs, Nero whimpered and pressed his belly to the ground. Yuno stepped softly to the cowering mutt, crouched down, and ran a feather the length of the dog’s muzzle. Nero’s eyes fluttered, then closed. His body relaxed. He was asleep. Yuno stood, dropped the chicken feathers on the black dog, crossed the clearing, and faded into the forest.

A whisper of wind lifted sheers covering a second-floor window in the west wing—the one with the broken pane. Inside, reposed amid the chaos, a lanky alabaster body stretched across an immense eighteenth century bed. Although British blood flowed through his veins he pronounced his name with a French accent. (Such that Robert became Rohbair.) He was partial to coffee, not tea, and yet preferred crumpets to croissants. Bobby—as everyone jokingly called him much to his chagrin—lay awake, staring at the chipped plaster that was once an ornate ceiling of these luxurious quarters reserved for head butler. His thoughts drifted in a mild dream-like state.

A tap on the door brought him back to the moment. He knew it was Marlyse. No one else would knock at this early hour, or any hour for that matter.

Rohbair slipped into his robe and called out with the haughty tone he reserved for most everyone who was not of his perceived social standing. Yes, do come in. And I daresay, you’d best have a spot of Java and a hot buttered crumpet with you. He knew she did, she always did.

The French doors swung open. Marlyse flashed a winning smile full of sparkling white teeth. Young and pretty, the domestic appeared justly proud of her fine features; she wore her uniform, snug, accentuating her curvaceous form.

Arms akimbo, Marlyse shook her head from side to side in mock disbelief. Her gaze swept over the clutter spreading out before her, vying for precious floor space. Clothing lay where cast or shed, mingling with discarded books, scattered papers, dinner trays, and a variety of other personal effects threatening to smother every corner of the apartment. Addressing the butler, she said, You best be thinking bout taking care this mess, mon. And don’t be thinking I be coming in here for doing it. Ain’t no way, ain’t no how.

The speed of delivery and the rhythmical articulation of the maid’s Creole heritage forever confounded and exasperated Rohbair. My dear girl, he said, what in God’s name are you going on about? If by chance you are intimating my chambers require a spot of tidying up, I’ll have you know, I shall personally strangle the first person who dares disturb the sanctum of my quarters.

"Like I jest got done saying, Mista Bobby-mon, you needs to be taking care a this mess." With a wink she turned and bent to pick up the tray left on the floor behind her.

Since her back was to him Rohbair indulged in a sly smile. He liked her for her quick wit, but he liked her even more for bringing his coffee and crumpets each morning.

Scat mon, shoo! Marlyse sent a cockroach scurrying from the tray with a flick of her perfectly-manicured middle digit.

Rohbair groaned. His eyes followed the trajectory of the pest as it skittered into his room and disappeared under a limp pair of pants next to the chamber pot. He made a mental note to have a sideboard placed in the hall, next to his quarters.

Marlyse entered, tray held at arms length, picking her way through the rubble of Robert Bosworth’s personal domain. Stopping at the foot of the butler’s bed, she hesitated. Rohbair drew the covers over the satin sheets, providing a reasonably smooth area on which Marlyse could put his breakfast.

There you go Mista Bobby-mon, everything you is hoping for this fine morning.

Oh do spare me the poppycock, said Rohbair, waving her off.

What! Not even a little thank you this morning?

"You are excused, Maid Marliemon."

Marlyse stood for a moment fixing him with a steady gaze. Her lips parted as if about to say something, but instead she simply smiled her sweet-smile, curtsied, and turned to leave.

I say, Miss Marliemon …

Marlyse turned, her brow raised, waiting.

Nothing. It’s just that I, um … well, thank you.

That’s okay, Mista Bobby-mon. Now you best be tucking into them grits ‘cause soon they be too cold even for you, mon.

Whatever could this poppet possibly be babbling about now, thought Rohbair. He watched her exit, leaving the doors to his chamber wide open. He thought better of shouting after her to close the bloody doors. He really was quite fond of her, though it surely wouldn’t do to have that become common knowledge. The butler pulled the breakfast tray towards him, spilling his coffee in the process. With his crumpet now awash in the black elixir, Rohbair heaved a sigh, knowing the day was not off to a great start. He let his eyelids drop and began counting.

At 6:45 a.m. the main kitchen was as quiet as a morgue. Cold tile, steel, and brass reflected the weak light peeking in through small windows set high in the masonry. In dark corners, recesses, and crevices, timid mice twitched their whiskers. A cat lay curled, sleeping on a crude wooden stool. The cook, Marie-Claire, slumped in a chair next to the cat, her head resting on the table with the remnants of a loaf of bread serving as a pillow. A thin wheezing sound escaped through parted lips, as did a dribble of spittle. Littering the stout plank table were platters, plates, and bowls of partially consumed meats, legumes, and fruits. Just beyond her plump fingertips, a silver goblet lay toppled over, leaving a reddish stain on the wood. The empty pitcher of wine perched precariously close to falling from the edge of the table.

Marie-Claire had been oblivious to the presence of Marlyse in the kitchens earlier that morning, even though the maid had made no attempt whatsoever to temper her culinary performance. She hummed, clanged, and banged a breakfast together for Rohbair knowing Marie-Claire would be hours before budging her considerable bulk.

The heavy oak door of the servants’ entrance creaked on old cast-iron hinges as it swung open. It was located in a back corner, sheltered from the influence of the morning light. Though ajar, for a long moment no one crossed the threshold. Then, a stealthy figure slipped into the room and pressed against the wall, melding with the obscurity, motionless, watching, waiting. The smallish thin form seemed camouflaged in a shade of gray identical to the stone walls of the kitchens; it was a double-breasted worsted hounds-tooth, a suit impeccably tailored for its discerning master. Silently, he stepped from the shadows. The light revealed a face with sharp features. A hawk-like nose figured prominently as the main attraction. His skin was the soft-brown of the desert, and his cold, calculating eyes were deep-set and fixed on the slumbering cook. He stole across the floor to where Marie-Claire slouched in her drunken rapture. He stood close, staring down at her big red curls splayed out around her head like a flaming halo. Marie-Claire was no angel. He detested her for her shameful, sottish ways.

Picking up a carving knife, he hefted it in his palm, feeling the weight. Then he brought the blade to his thumb, testing the edge. The instrument wasn’t exactly sharp, but it would do. Raising his arm, he took aim. A thin smile creased his lips as the sunlight, now peaking through the windows, caught the steel and shimmered. He twitched. Closed his eyes. Then swiftly brought the point down in a deft motion that was followed by a light popping sound. He didn’t have to look; he knew he’d pierced the skin and had driven the blade well into the flesh. He drew a deep breath and raised his arm. Opening his eyes again, he let his gaze follow the length of his forearm to the hand holding the carving knife. A bright, shiny orange stuck to the end of the blade. A droplet of juice ran out, rolled down the periphery, and fell with a tiny splat near to Marie-Claire’s head.

Moments later the orange had been cut into bite-sized wedges, arranged symmetrically on a plate, and placed within easy reach of the soused redhead. A bronze goblet containing a bubbling concoction accompanied the offering. The Arabian mystery man had vanished. Time came to a standstill. The kitchen table became the perfect composition for a tableau entitled Still Life With Lush.

Chin made his entrance through the portal of the delivery door.

Built into the back wall, the delivery door consisted of a pair of massive gated panels designed to open wide enough to allow a horse-drawn wagon into the bowels of the cavernous kitchen; practical for discharging a wagon-load of victuals, but far too unwieldy for simply coming or going. As such, a man-sized portal was incorporated into one of the much larger doors.

Chin carried a basket. It contained a dozen or so eggs and a bunch of melancholy vegetables. A couple of limp chickens dangled from his other arm. Foraging on the farm for sustenance proved disheartening at times. However, Chin realized despite the poorly aspect of the produce, if it were not for his diligence to procure food for the cook on a daily basis, everyone would be left to fend for themselves. This would surely lead to further the already-strained relations and bitterness commonplace among the servants of the estate. Chin imagined all manner of desperate scenarios whereby certain individuals—those susceptible to hatching dastardly plots—might go so far as to steal food. Others would surely succumb to starvation. Somebody may well get hurt!

He hung the fowl on a hook and placed the basket on a dusty shelf. Relieved of his burden, he turned his attention to the table. For a long moment he stared at the inert cook. His heart was saddened by what he saw. He loved Marie-Claire—everyone did. How could they not? She was magnificent! So full of life, so expressive, so … emotional. He was devoted to her, and to see her in this sorry state as he did most every morning, was a detail he preferred not to contend with. Yet, it played on his heartstrings like a siren song. Chin felt hopelessly entangled in her overwhelming influence. Much as he would have liked he was powerless to entreat her to stop drinking. Marie-Claire was Chef; Chin was sous-chef, and the lesser of three, at that. Besides, she was too proud. Too belligerent. Too big. As it was, she hardly paid him any mind. Broaching the subject could just as likely get him killed.

Chin absently wiped his hands down the front of his white tunic as he moved to the end of the table. His steps were short and swift causing his voluminous silk pants to billow like bloomers in the wind. Chin was Oriental—Chinese to be exact. His smooth oval face could switch in the blink of an eye from a serene expressionless facade to a hysterical charade of comical laughter—from Zen to zany in a wink.

Chin’s bespectacled eyes surveyed the aftermath of Marie-Claire’s late-night hedonism. Such a waste … he likened Marie-Claire to a drunken sailor. Chin was quickly becoming depressed by these thoughts. Noting the plate of oranges and the goblet of seltzer, he rightly surmised the good Dr. Bin had been there before him. He giggled. A thought had come to flash in his mind apropos of the goblet. Acting on that thought Chin picked up the concoction, wheeled round, and retraced his steps to the shelf. He was eager to contribute to the well-being of Marie-Claire, and so he cracked two raw eggs into the remedial libation. Snickering while blending the mixture, he couldn’t help but feel pleased with himself for recalling what he thought was an ad hoc maxim: Two eggs are better than one.

Rohbair tugged thrice, sharply, on the hem of his waistcoat. The effort was futile; creases, wrinkles, and lint remained. Casting a discriminating glance over the rest of his attire netted a noticeable stain on his neckerchief, but he shook the disturbing image from his mind, dismissing it as a minor issue—a blemish, nothing more. It was imperative he focus on the matter at hand. Maid Marlyse was right, he needed to clean up this mess … and he would, eventually, probably. But for now the grander perspective demanded he play a far greater role. He was head butler, after all. It was time! Today would be different. Today he would take charge. He’d had quite enough of the insubordination and lack of application by his staff. He would initiate and chair a general meeting of the entire sorry lot of them, from household to grounds and stables. He felt a surge of power coursing through his long slender body. Rohbair, well aware he needed to portray an authoritative figure if he was to secure the proper effect, strode to the full-length mirror in his bedchamber. The reflected image gave cause for concern. He frowned. After a moments hesitation he stretched himself into his full six-foot-two-inch-frame and exited his chambers.

It could be said Rohbair fairly enjoyed a brisk stride down the once-gleaming hardwood corridors. His heels hitting the floor had for effect the resounding staccato-clap of a confident man marching with a sense of purpose. And he really let them have a hammering this fine morning. Coming abreast of a door on third floor of the west wing, he rapped sharply and waited, listening. Not the slightest hint of a response from within. He repeated the gesture, but this time with the flat of his fist. The hollow thumping reverberated the length of the long hallway. Rather enjoying all the hullabaloo, Rohbair was reluctant to desist and so was caught off guard when the doors suddenly flew back.

A big-boned, big-breasted woman stood in the doorway. She bellowed: We are having soooo much funny good times, ya? Her angry eyes glared How dare you! Her stance, squarely set, spoke of an undisciplined brute force. She was furious and breathing hard.

Rohbair stood dumbstruck, his mouth unhinged. He looked for moment as if he might speak. But he didn’t.

The woman was seething. WHAT?

Rohbair chewed on the words he wanted to express, incapable of  forming a cohesive phrase. He felt trapped, unable to tear himself away from the disturbing spectacle: tattered robe hanging open; a sheer black negligee; scarcely concealed mounds of heaving flesh; violent eyes framed by a tangled mess of black curls … everything screaming silent obscenities.

The strapping trollop harbored little patience for mute butlers. Still gritting her teeth, Malgreete slammed the doors shut.

The resounding racket faded down the hallway.

Rohbair blinked hard. He’d just been exposed to a sight that so forcibly distracted him from his objective, he didn’t know how to react. His mind tried in vain to explain his timid behavior. In the end all he could do was shake his head, as if to negate the shocking experience. He turned and slowly made his way back down the corridor, a bewildered expression reflecting his thoughts.

Marlyse found herself in the kitchens for the second time that morning, humming as she hovered over leftovers on the table. She was foraging for her breakfast. Plucking up a limp carrot, she inspected it for the tell-tale signs of nibbling mice. It had been spared and so she dropped it onto her plate. She wouldn’t eat the meat because that fat cat gave rise to a gnawing suspicion. Pausing to consider the salubrious concoction destined for Marie-Claire, a naughty grin spread across her face. Marlyse brought the goblet to the spice counter and administered a healthy dose of cayenne pepper. It was a hangover remedy that had been used for ages by all the old creole rum-runners.

Cayenne can fix anything cookie-mon, even you punky head. She spoke aloud, knowing full well the wreckage that was formerly Marie-Claire would remain indifferent. She placed the fortified liquid back on the table and resumed her previous preoccupation.

The portal in the delivery door swung open startling Marlyse and the cat. Marie-Claire remained comatose. A stout figure stood silhouetted in the opening. It was Zero the Greek, head-farmer. He entered the kitchen leading a small pig tethered by a line around its neck. The cat, perturbed and objecting to the presence of the porker, slipped off the chair and pranced out the door, nose in the air.

Ahh, Maid Marlyse, a fair good morning to you my dear, said Zero with his patented deep and melodramatic voice, and let me say, I hope with all my heart, you slept with the pleasant dreams of your desire.

Well thank you, and same to you and you friend.

My friend? Zero looked at the pig. Oh yes. My friend here, has come to join us for dinner this evening. Turning to the chef, he said, And there she is. My sweet Marie-Claire. How she sleeps with the angels.

Marlyse decided to offer the farmer a different perspective. Truth be, she pickled, mon.

Zero ignored the comment. Sleeps with the angels, he repeated as he led the pig to a post to be tied off.

Marlyse took a seat at the end of the table. She was about to commence eating when a fleeting thought gave her pause. She brought her fork back down. You ain’t thinking a gutting you friend here and now, are you?

Zero raised a brow in a show of profound stupefaction. "Surely, the sweet lady jests! To suggest I would disembowel my friend, here, in the presence of feminine gentility, well,—giving Marlyse a warm paternal smile—you fret unnecessarily. Please becalm your disturbed mind my dear maiden. I may be a man of the fields, but I’m no lout, I assure you. I could never put the knife to a friend."

Marlyse grinned and tucked into her breakfast.

Zero strolled to the table to stand next to sweet Marie-Claire. He gazed at her with big, brown, puppy-love eyes.

Marlyse popped an olive into her mouth and smiled.

Zero brought his head low, close to the head-chef’s while reaching for a partially consumed chicken leg. With no apparent regard for Marlyse, he inhaled deeply, sampling the fragrance of Marie-Claire’s tangle of curls. When he raised his head, his eyes were closed and his fleshy countenance bore an expression of utter bliss.

Marlyse grinned, and for a time, no one spoke.

The farmer contented himself by standing next to the cook and chewing his chicken as he admired her profile. He gently caressed her head with his free hand. The pert maid sat at the end of the table happily munching her salvaged morsels.

Marlyse was first to break the silence. You sure is in a loving way with that cookie, mon.

My dear Maid Marlyse, if you could weigh the love I feel for this magnificent woman you’d not find words to express the measure, so great would be the gross.

As Marlyse mulled over Zero’s words a mental image took form in the theater of her mind: Center stage, a gargantuan balance scale, with the cook on the one platter balanced by the farmer on the other. The impression dissolved just then, interrupted by a snort from Marie-Claire, followed by a wheezy sigh. A moment later the cook’s respiration resumed the steady rhythm of sleep. The maid, the farmer, and the pig had paused to regard her for further signs of life. But as nothing was forthcoming, in turn, they returned to their respective contemplative posture.

A raven-haired beauty glided through the main doors leading to the dining-room. Mystifying green eyes shone with excitement. Full, luscious lips beckoned a perpetual smile. A lovely image to behold, she aroused the admiration of all who cast eyes her way.

Zero was first to greet her: My god, Lisa! Your radiance this morning has eclipsed the sun. What a splendid apparition. You light up these dark spaces with an enchanted glow.

Zeroso, she said with a dismissing flick of her wrist, I dunno wadda you talking. You always talking a crazy way for say nothing. Lisa gave Marlyse a mischievous wink and smiled.

Before the ladies could exchange pleasantries, Zero’s bruised ego emerged. He stated to no one in particular, Beauty is a compliment in and of itself. Yet, to spurn a compliment offered as a gift, is to efface the beauty within.

The women turned their eyes from Zero to each other searching for signs of comprehension. Marlyse wagged her head no. Lisa rolled her eyes and shrugged her shoulders. The combined effect left the two of them giggling. Zero the Greek slumped forward, evidently feeling a tad deflated. He reached for the goblet, not taking notice of the turbid broth.

NO! cried Marlyse.

Startled, the farmer froze. And the green-eyed beauty assumed an inquisitive pose. The chef stirred, grunted, then passed out again. The pig simply blinked.

Cookie’s gonna be wanting that tonic, said Marlyse, just soon as she come to. A wave of culpability washed over her, leaving her ill at ease.

Ahhh, I see, said Zero, gathering himself for the delivery of yet another profound statement. A restorative cordial sent from the heavens. No doubt to ease the pain of this fallen angel. Now if I was to—

Zeroso! You gotta some kinda mix up spaghetti-head, you know. How come you don’t just talk like a normal people? All a time you gotta be talking a silly holy-moly baloney!

Lisa, you must forgive my decorative locution. I toil the long day in the fields with not but an ass for social intercourse. So when the gods grant me a forum for verbal interplay, I verily leap to the occasion. But enough of me, what of you? Could you not see it in your heart to be kinder to us lowly peasants? Are you not aware, your beauty should mirror your soul? For when this is so, ohhh dear Lisa, you are divine. You are—

Zeroso! Shut-up a you face. You make a me crazy already.

The farmer stiffened. YOU! With all your vehement spitting of foul words, can you not see your wickedness and cruelty are on display? Shame on you!

Lisa sneaked another wink at Marlyse. Zero, wadda you know? You know nothing—zero!

Zero drew in a deep breath. He fixed Lisa with a penetrating stare and said in a low, menacing voice, "Young lady, you would hold yourself in good stead to consider your boldness to be a detriment to your character. Now, in the prime of your life, you believe yourself attractive in appearance and in temperament. You allow a certain quarrelsome bent to manifest as a show of spunk. But listen to me now, closely. Think of how you will be perceived should you nurture this despicable quality into your august years. Your admirers will vanish as time sees fit to steal your youthful beauty. You’ll be left with nothing but your sour disposition and wrinkled old flesh. You, dear girl, will be a revolting and bitter old hag. And that is how the mirror will reflect your image for all to see."

Lisa and Marlyse were silenced. Zero’s words took shape in their respective imagination. When the petite maid blinked and looked to Lisa, she saw a single tear trickle down her fair skin. Just as quickly, Lisa brushed it away and pulled herself upright. Zero had noticed as well but did not let on. Instead, he looked to the skylight windows and shrugged his massive shoulders.

In an attempt to ease the tension, Marlyse said, You two be slow poking like you do and Marly here is gonna clean up this mess. I might be looking teensy, mon, but I gotta pig belly. Looking to the swine on the line, she added, No ‘fence to our friend here.

I’ll be tending to my chores directly, but I thank you Marlyse for your kind invitation. Zero glanced towards Marie-Claire, brightened some and continued, You would be granting me a monumental kindness, however, should you impart to our dearly departed chef that I offer this restorative libation with the blessings of the gods. With that, he smiled at the two ladies, bowed, and took his leave.

Though still smarting from Zero’s verbal-tongue lashing, Lisa had nevertheless managed a weak smile in return.  Now that he was gone she ran her fingers into her silky hair while shaking her head. Ooooh, Marlysia, sometime I push the people the wrong a way, you know?

Hey now, don’t be pushing yourself the wrong away sweet Lise. Though her voice was soothing, the maid’s words had little effect.

Lisa moved to Marie-Claire’s side. She began inattentively administering a light neck massage. I don’t wanna be a—wadda he say—a old hog? Marlyse smiled at this, but didn’t reply. Lisa continued, I just having a fun with Zeroso. And he gotta get all worked up. And for what? For nothing. The application of the massage progressively intensified as Lisa’s mounting anger struggled to revenge her wounded pride. "Wadda he gotta be proud for? Mister Big Man! He the one coming in a here with a pig. Calling me some kinda old hog! Zeroso, he gotta be blowing the hot air all a time."

Lisa had worked herself into heated state. Beads of sweat formed above her brow. Chef’s neck turned crimson and her forehead lolled and rolled, kneading the loaf of bread under the aggressive treatment. Alarmed, Maid Marlyse sat still, observing with a wide-eyed consternation bordering on panic.

Lisa continued, You thing he a sexy man? He too hairy! He too fat! He gotta stupid name—Zeroso! On that remark, Lisa wound up and smacked the back of Chef’s head with a smarting wallop.

Marlyse popped out of her chair.

Marie-Claire surfaced from the depths of her moribund torpor, slowly lifting her head and straining to focus her squinting eyes. Oooh la la la la laaa, she said, though probably bemoaning the effects of the drink rather than the smack to the head. Breadcrumbs clung to her fleshy pink cheeks. She grimaced and moved her mouth as if she wanted to spit out her tongue. Then she mumbled something in French.

Lisa immediately took hold of the big red head and guided it to her bosom. She smoothed the tossed curls into a semblance of order and cooed words of comfort.

Marlyse sat back down with an air of indecision.

Ah! Here we are. Good morning.

Rohbair had strutted into the center of the kitchens and was addressing the three servants. With barely a glance at the pig, and not paying the slightest heed to Marie-Claire’s state of consciousness, he continued, I wish to inform you of a general staff meeting to be held this evening at eight o’clock sharp. It will be held in the drawing-room and I shall be conducting the proceedings. Please endeavor to be on time. He was about to turn and leave, but hesitated. Directing his attention to the table, he said, Surely, between two maids and four kitchen staff, you could manage to clear a table from time to time. Adding with a sarcastic bite, "If it’s not too much bother that is. Then, with a sharp tug at his waistcoat, Rohbair spun on his heels and marched out the door, bellowing. And get the bloody pig out of the bleeding kitchen!" His captive audience dismissed his performance entirely, resuming their earlier attitude as though nothing had happened.

Marie-Claire whined about feeling poorly again and then asked for something to drink.

Here, said Lisa, reaching for the goblet and guiding it into Chef’s trembling hands. Zeroso, he make a this for you special.

Marie-Claire brought the goblet up to her chubby French lips. She tilted her head back, lifting bloodshot eyes to the ceiling as she drained the contents. Marlyse winced. The chef slapped the goblet back down on the table, hard. Still gripping the stem, she leveled her enormous head. Her eyes bulged and her face flushed. Marie-Claire’s great bulk began to tremble. Lisa stepped back. The pig looked on, seemingly amused. Marlyse shrank in horror, shutting her eyes tight and covering her mouth. Lisa stepped back further still.

AAAAAiiiiieeeeeeeeeaaaaahhh!

The blood-curdling scream rang off the walls, echoing throughout the great kitchen. By the time the ringing in their ears subsided, Marie-Claire was slumped over, sweat dripping into her lap. Marlyse, still covering her mouth, stared, wide-eyed. Lisa trembled. The pig chortled, emitting little snorts and grunts while prancing about as if dancing a jig.

Chin’s Chinese slippers padded almost soundlessly as he traversed the immense main entrance hall of the manor. Massive, intricately-carved oak doors stood sentry over a silent sea of marble flooring spreading forth in every direction. Vaulted ceilings with frescoes portraying cherubim archers and trumpeting angels descended to arched doorways and walls bordered by Baroque frieze. Central to the celestial depiction, a dazzling chandelier grew in concentric circles of diamond-cut crystals. It was suspended over the foot of a grand stairway that swept in a graceful curve to the upper levels of the mansion.

Coming from the opposite direction, Rohbair’s staccato heels rose in volume as he approached. Chin paused and bowed his head in greeting as Rohbair came to a stop, towering over him. Rohbair looked down his nose at the enormous eyes, magnified through the lenses of the oriental’s spectacles. Good man this little bloke, thought Rohbair, bowing and all—shows respect, what!

I say, Mr. Cheong, I should very much like for you to inform the overseer of a servants’ general meeting. It is to be held this evening … in the drawing-room. Oh yes, and be sure to stress that he is to inform his grubby crew of subordinates as well. If you don’t, he won’t—the man is inept. I shall chair the meeting.

Okay Bob, Chin do. I start tomolo, ‘kay?

Mr. Cheong, you will please refer to my person as Mr. Bosworth, or if you must, Rohbair. And do you understand anything I say to you my dear little fellow?

Sure Bob, Chin tell Mr. Herr. I say, you share meeting. Chin’s speech patterns were often punctuated by intermittent head-bobbing and subservient bows.

Rohbair, exasperated, raised his eyes to the ceiling. When they focused, he noted the chandelier was stitched together with a ghoulish mass of cobwebs. He returned his attention to Chin. Mr. Cheong, must you always bob to nod?

Ahhh, very gooood! said Chin. Do not bob to nod. Must remember.

Rohbair gave a tug on his waistcoat and marched off in the direction of the east wing.

Chin watched the butler recede into the gloom at the end of a long corridor, the sound of his footsteps fading with him. Chin smiled the cheeky-smile of a Cheshire cat. Never judge cook by cover, he murmured.

Adolophles lived mostly in his mind, engaging in all manner of conversation with himself and other imaginary persons. Oft times he could be seen talking to himself, though the dialogue was barely audible. And so it was that Adolophles mumbled his way into the barn on this fine morning, shrugging his shoulders from time to time as he was wont to do.

The olfactory sensation associated with barns was as enriching and rewarding to him as