The Hounds of Bath: Or the Idyllic Landscape of a Forlorn Love

By Xlibris US

Beginning as a simple story, The Hounds of Bath becomes a transcendental journey for a young man known only as Robert, trying to discover the source of love, the trials of betrayalhis own and that of othersand the meaning to things that truly matter and those to be disregarded.

A member of a piecemeal though loving and supportive family, Robert is finding the paradisiacal aspects of life that had not previously been afforded to him. Residing in the home of Aunt Ellenora, an altruistic woman taking in strays and acting as matron to all, silently suffering from her own lost true love, Robert finds himself surrounded in comfort for the first time. An adoring young girl, Little Alice, holds him as her pride and joy, and a butler, who is much more than that, plays a myriad of roles. Uncle James and Jacques, a chocolate lab that seems to understand Robert more than any otheror at least, was the most hungry for his attentionas well as a vast array of acquaintances frequenting the soirees of Aunt Ellenora at her grand estate.

Just as he is basking in the perfection that has found and rescued him, Robert receives a letter, a haunting phantasm of his past. A woman he once playedwith faulty self-respectpuppet for now calls him back once again. The taunting strings of nostalgia and the ropes of past dedication pulled tight, Robert has no choice but to abandon all that he has gained to give the relationship one last attempt.

Advised and berated by his best friend, Arthur, he argues the reasons of why he must return, while his small companion upholds alternative disputes to why he should remain and not forsake all that has befallen him, the most important being a young woman that is already falling in love with our young hero.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Dec 22, 2014
• ISBN: 9781499007510

Book preview

Copyright © 2014 by Eric P. Fick.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Rev. date: 12/17/2014

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Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Echo Papillon Foxtrot

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Denouement Or The Final Act[aeon]

Chapter One

It was a poetic morning. A morning able and willing to embrace the scene presented to it with all the necessities that are required to fulfill the sensations that the imagination credit to the enchanting idyllic season of spring, and with it all the characteristics that casually lead one into a reverie, a somnambulistic appreciation of this landscape that can be nothing of this world but reside only in the realm of dreams.

It is here, in the cradling arms of so miraculous a morning, a morning that we first meet our hero; the proper introductions will come in due time, but for the moment we should pause and perceive him as he is now, relaxed, warm in the lazy sprawls of sun, and not quite contemplative but focused on something (someone) far away, foreign to this patio where gathered a throng of family and friends that seemed not to notice.

He is well dressed, our hero; pressed slacks of a greyish doe color, thin wool socks of a hound’s tooth pattern consisting of light earthen tones, and polished shoes of a hardened mahogany leather. His shirt is pristine in the white light of the early sun beneath his jacket, accessorized with both tie, neither slender nor broad, and suspenders. His left leg is bent at the knee and that foot and ankle rest on his lower right thigh, where his hat is perched, cocked at a loose angle from the toe of his shoe, which taps gently to some unheard rhythm. His elbow, the right, is propped on the arm of his chair, chin cradled by thumb, the pointer finger extended vertically, resting along his eye, while the remaining three fingers curl in a lackadaisical fist, where they nearly hide the smile tucked in at the corner of his mouth.

It would seem, as it did to those seated around him, that he was thoroughly engrossed in the recitation of poetry that was taking place out here on the terrace, looking over a wide expanse of a still river that flowed lazily into the large lake no more than a stone’s throw away. But we, we have that insight as observers that seems lost on so many, unable to deduce a truth although presented all with the same pieces of evidence; and we know that his attention is elsewhere. And we know beyond that that it is not a lack of appreciation for poetry, especially Tennyson, nor is it that his niece in her new little dress and freshly curled golden hair—adorned with ribbons of early spring hues—bores him, for we know he absolutely adores the little girl. And though he has helped her practice this particular piece for the past three weeks, day in and evening out, he never tired of her voice or her youthful manipulation of the words and the lines of the lyrical master, the very same that penned The Idylls of the King.

No. There is something else that has snagged his concentration, and it has given him a little pleasure. And as we have all, at some time or another, been occupied by such a secret fancy, we are able to understand how precious it is to entertain these phantoms when they return for a visit, even if that instant is fleeting. So let us now away and leave him, our hero, for just a short while and give him some privacy with his daydream guests while we survey the rest of the scene and take in some lines of poetry that have been so arduously rehearsed for just this occasion.

Fear not, though, reader, we will return to him soon enough, as I have already promised you a proper introduction. It is only in politeness that we presently turn our heads aside and cast our gazes on the other gathered personas.

A dragonfly flits to the sound of a hummingbird’s wings, the quick creature darts from one trumpet-shaped blossom to the next while the former seems to have no destination and or plan established, merely ambling about. And while the thief leaves one petaled scene-of-the-crime for the next, the flowers appear eager to part with their pollen, throwing their fortunes to the fates of germination, willing to gamble on a momentary pleasure (and hope to repopulate), knowing that life is only gifted once and one should accept that fact early and soon after investigate all of its possibilities while those possibilities are still available. Persisting through the passions of the plants and those pollenating, as well as the other idylls of Demeter’s rejoicing season—the long-awaited return of a budding daughter thought to be lost to the harshness of winter—was a small but confident voice:

You must wake me and call me early, call me early, mother dear; To-morrow’ll be the happiest time of all the glad new-year.

Sighs, coughs, rustling in wicker chairs, attempting to find a more suitable or comfortable position permeated throughout the lines, though the very nervousness, the bane, she thought, of the little girl actually acted as a shield; for each in the audience was at her mercy and felt guilt at every movement, clearing of the throat, or even sipping of tea—or for the more brave and adventurous, an early cocktail; however, she took notice of none of it, although she had been coached beforehand by her dear uncle, whom she beamed at the whole while with both personal pride and the pride in knowing that he was pleased.

Darling, he had said to her, do not focus on them, perceive them not for they are not really there. It is just you and I and Mr. Alfred. That is the way he prefers it. You have developed a relationship you can never let go of. That is very important, and despite other distractions, always let that come first. At least in recitation, he should have added. He thought about this often but never brought himself to vocalize the amendment, and unfortunately for us, we observers, we know or can at least anticipate that he will come to regret this; not so much for her sake as for his own. That very unspoken lesson would haunt him, and as we are able to deduce, is haunting him even now. O the ability to be able to see how to make so many things right in another’s life when our very own is tormented and stands precariously on a foundation of shambles.

I am sorry. I apologize. For we have already stated that at this moment we will leave our hero alone and here I am drawing him back into the story. What more does one truly want than to be left completely alone, even in sorrow—O such a selfish thing, sorrow; there is no place for welcoming arms, nor is there any space for sympathy (gods, that wretched thing called sympathy). Is there anything more detestable? I think not. If one truly strives for sympathy then… I am sorry, yet again, this is his story, not my own, and I will not infringe, nor will I attempt to portray how he feels in such circumstances for I see him as a much better man than myself.

So back to the story at hand…

Aunt Ellenora swatted at a mayfly and then all too soon dodged the bumbling of a bee. She righted herself immediately and regained proper composure. Hands settled lightly in her lap, head held firm and high. She was a quite beautiful woman—if one could only glimpse the photograph of her at the age of eighteen alone—who kept mostly to herself but had a tendency of always having a soiree consisting of anywhere from three to twenty people, sometimes a theme, dressed costumes and masks; most others just dinner and/or lunch, where all mustered would enjoy not only her company (the most precious of all) but that of others as well, conversations, jokes and humorous anecdotes, recipes, and news exchanged by persons otherwise not brought together to brood.

She straightened her skirts and again put her attention forward onto the little girl reciting the May Queen.

She threw a glance quickly around to see how everyone was taking in the display, both accepting and opposing the various reactions. One cough in particular caused quite the distraction to her attention as she could attest, which she most likely would to anyone who would listen after lunch, was done intentionally. She cast a disapproving glare that he never received, the messenger adamant about the bell but the door never being opened by the occupant, then began to ignore him and all the others, giving herself wholly to her young niece.

The man that the cough belonged to, or more rightfully, the man that belonged to the cough, was of a larger build, balding, reddish in the face, chubby in both brow and jowl, and could be described, rightfully, by any of the guests as quite oafish—that is, if oafish, in detail, described the following: a gentleman (if the term could be used loosely) that was sweaty, loud (not quite boisterous), with a good palate though containing no care for finer food or drink, and will oftentimes begin a conversation that he neither completes nor establishes a point in, and who makes a better accessory to a chair in a corner than does to company gathered in good cheer. He was not outwardly rude in nature, nor was he detestable, an acquaintance to each and every there, though these each and every would be hard pressed if interrogated of the reasons why they held his company.

There was always a smell of alcohol about him, an old stale scent, aged, but not done so in cool, dry conditioning but harbored in the depths beneath his hot, moist breath. He was not to be taken as a drunkard, though he was rarely, if ever, witnessed without a drink in his hand. And this being the case, it most, undoubtedly, explained his present annoyance with the situation, as his glass had been emptied some moments before, where after a long purveyance of the close proximity of the grounds, seeing no servant in sight, it was set down in the lush grass beside the front leg of his chair, though the ground proving an unstable surface it fell without a sound as if it were, and not of drink alone, thoroughly exhausted.

Expelling another of his signature coughs into a tightly clenched fist, he readjusted himself in his chair, and propping his chin, gazed off into the distant trees that bordered the property, as if there was something more interesting than the young girl reciting the mastery of agonies lurking there; but then again, it was not unknown among most of the company that he had an affinity for young girls.

His name is Stefan, and his most remarkable idiosyncrasy is his undeterred advances upon Aunt Ellenora—for everyone called her aunt—coupled with his inability to comprehend the cold hard fact that she did not care for him or for his company. She turned her attention away from him, partially in disgust, and let her eyes roam over the newly planted herb garden, created and tended by a young girl she had recently met and was anxious to introduce to Robert just as soon as the occasion presented itself.

However, he was obviously not the only other person present. A man of great girth called wolf although he much more resembled the stature and countenance of a bear; not in the least bit short of temper, but mild, albeit not outwardly affectionate, he upon appearance conjured the word cuddly. A great mass of man solid through and through.

He was accompanied by his lady friend who glowed with a golden tan; the sun gentle and kind to her flesh. She was soft spoken, though when she did enter into conversation it was apparent that what she spoke was sincere and heartfelt.

There was also quite a dear friend, and presently dozing as was his habit, a man with a boisterous companion. Together they were well liked by all, and separately they were liked as well, but always as though some facet of themselves was missing. The dog, belonging to Aunt Ellenora, who had just moments before come trotting up from the stream with a large branch clenched between his teeth, now lay at the feet of this napping man, napping himself, just a small pile of chocolate lab curled at his feet, one paw under chin, the other extended forward to lie on his prize stick, as if to protect his newly attained property.

This man who found it impossible to evade sleep was of some minor, and long forgotten, royalty of a lineage he could not, nor could he muster the ambition to attempt it, trace, though it carried with it some connotation of respect as he was, at this point in his life, independently wealthy and had no need or liking for work. The acknowledgement, or mere acceptance, of this heritage had little effect on him, carrying no airs about him and impersonating no princely attitudes.

His companion, seen much more often than himself in these social soirees, liked to take hold of that transparent title and hold it to the light for all that it was worth. She had a comment, openly opinionated and not shy of it, for every subject of conversation. She was likeable enough on her own but it appeared as though she had a difficult time realizing that as she seemed always needing to prove herself. It was not a negative against her character, just an unexplainable oddity. Similar to—in analogy alone, for looks were neither kind to her nor were they necessary—a young beauty who is perceived so by all that see her yet feeling constantly insecure.

There were a handful or two of other guests, but as none of them will play a part later in the narration it seems pointless to introduce them. And as Aunt Ellenora is thoroughly enrapt in the recitation, let us return to both it and our hero.

I will deliver you back to the exact moment we left him. His time alone has been actualized but we will make a brief visit in hindsight and quickly catch up to where he is now, approximately on the second cough, because it is there—well, rather very soon after—that he is interrupted, and there is no need to disturb him twice. We will simply glide along his reverie and then take a ride upon the coattails of his awakening from reminiscence.

His elbow, the right, is propped on the arm of his chair—wait, we went a moment beyond that. His fingers were curled—I believe we described it as a lackadaisical fist—concealing, or nearly doing so, the smile that was lodged in the corner of his mouth. And although it appeared he was engrossed, thoroughly so, in the recitation, it was in actuality a reverie that was at fault for that mischievous smirk. It was, however, the little voice and the words it draped over the crowd that instigated this reminiscence that held him captured in thought.

There’s many a black black eye, they say,

but none so bright as mine;

There’s Margaret and Mary,