Never a Road Without a Turning (9 page)

The man raised a single gold eyebrow at him, but his lips curved slightly in response. “Good evening, Phillip.”

Pip went directly to his chair, but no book awaited him.

“I thought perhaps you should choose tonight,” the major said in response to Pip’s questioning look.

Pip’s face split into an even broader grin, and he sauntered over to the shelves, inordinately pleased that the major was allowing him his choice. He decided his spirits were too high for anything too weighty so he settled on a small printing of Shakespeare’s
The Comedy of Errors
. The major actually chuckled when Pip sat down with it, and Pip had to hide his pleasure in so simple a sound behind the pages he held.

He began reading slowly to give him time to familiarize himself with the characters. But soon enough he was fully immersed in the farce, inventing comical voices for all as he went. By the time he reached the second act, Pip was on his feet, playing out the parts, emboldened because the major had actually begun to laugh quietly at his antics, and Pip didn’t want him to ever stop.

When he reached halfway through the part where Dromio and Antipholus of Syracuse were determining the placement of countries on the globe-like body of the kitchen maid, the major snorted, and Pip had to stop reading because he was laughing too hard to speak. His own foolishness and the major’s mirth were too much. Pip fell into his chair, holding his belly as tears fell from his eyes. Every time he thought he’d managed to regain control, the major would start chuckling again and that would set Pip off as well.

Eventually, they both wound down and Pip was grinning like a fool at the major, feeling as if they’d broken more of the barrier between them. But as quickly as it had started, the major’s merriment fled, his expression turned grave, and his gaze almost pained. The man turned away from Pip, staring resolutely into the fire and missing the hurt that had to be written plainly on Pip’s face.

“I think perhaps I’ve had enough for tonight. Thank you, Phillip. You may go,” the major said, his voice cold with all the stiffness of their first encounters.

Why? What have I done wrong?

Pip wanted to object, to reach out and shake the man until he showed some human feeling again. But his throat hurt from more than overuse, and he feared what he might say when he regained his voice. He rose to leave and set the small volume on his chair before making his way back to his empty bedchamber in sullen silence.

After that night, things between them changed for the worse again, and Pip couldn’t understand why. As the days grew shorter and the nights turned colder, the atmosphere in the library chilled as well. No more presents waited for him on his chair. The major went back to staring pensively into the fire and drinking more heavily. He chose all the readings, most of them heavy treatises on medicine and philosophy that defied Pip’s understanding and dragged the minutes into hours. The few times Pip caught the major watching him, the man’s expression was no longer indulgent or amused but pained or unreadable. If Pip asked him whether he’d read something wrong or he wished to be done for the night, the major would only shake his head, ask for another glass of whisky, and wave for Pip to continue after he’d fetched it.

Before long the major began sending for him less and less, a turn of events that Mrs. Applethwaite was quite pleased with even if it left Pip hurt, confused, and concerned for his master’s welfare. Try as he might, Pip couldn’t understand what had happened.

Perhaps as a means of self-preservation, Pip’s hurt eventually transformed into resentment and anger. After all, Pip had tried his best to please the man and what did he get for his pains—only coldness.

Why had he allowed himself to care?

Before he’d given up completely, Pip tried once to express his concerns to Mrs. Applethwaite, not about his treatment of course, she’d have no sympathy for that, but about their master’s well-being.

“I think, ’e might be ill. Shouldn’t we do
somethin’
at least?”

She’d frowned down her hawk nose at him and shook her head. “Do I have to continually remind you of your place, Pip? The younger generation has no sense of propriety. I knew his encouragement of such familiarity would give you airs.”

Pip ground his teeth in frustration. “We’re in the middle of bleedin’ nowhere. Who else is ’e goin’ to be
familiar
with but us? Isn’t it our Christian duty to—”

She sliced her hand through the air to cut him off. “He is a grown man, a gentleman, and fully capable of determining his own needs without the help of one such as you. As long as he is able to speak for himself, it is only for you to do as you are bid and remember your proper place.”

Pip didn’t give a damn about propriety. The major was a man who’d been places and done things Pip couldn’t even imagine. It didn’t make any sense for someone like that to shut himself away from everyone and drink himself into ruin and despair.

But Pip was no martyr either. From his earliest days, he was a survivor. If his help and concern were truly unwanted and unappreciated, as they appeared to be, then the lot of them could go get stuffed for all he cared. He’d do the job for which he’d been hired and nothing beyond. He’d eat his meals in silence with the Applethwaites. He’d take the horse out for his daily ride, and he’d spend the rest of the winter trying to remember why he’d left the comfort and acceptance of Maud and the rest of his people on the sheep farm in Penrith.

P
IP
KEPT
his promise to himself. He remained aloof and silent about his concerns, and the days passed at the cottage, chilly but uneventful until one night in early November, when a fierce storm blew in from the sea. It rattled the shutters and pelted Pip with icy needles each time he was forced outside to check on the animals or to fetch more coal or wood, leaving him in a foul temper all day. He was already tired from another sleepless night he couldn’t explain and unable to take the horse out for his afternoon ride because of the weather.

After a very long day, Pip ate his supper in gloomy silence by the kitchen fire while the wind howled and the cottage creaked around them. He eyed Mr. Applethwaite’s bottle of gin longingly as he rubbed his chilled hands together and wiggled his toes within the dubious protection of the beautifully crafted, but not particularly warm, velvet house slippers. He was pondering the likelihood that he would receive a cuff to the head for his pains if he asked the man for a tiny dribble from his bottle—and whether he’d return the blow in kind if he did—when the bell rang from the library, twice, the major’s signal for him.

Pip was still in the muddy and slightly damp clothes he’d worn all day because his only other set of work clothes was still damp from the rains leading up to the storm the day before. But when the signal was rung again, only a few moments after the first and louder this time, Pip leapt to answer the summons, not bothering to take the time to dig out his best clothes from the chest where he’d buried them. The major would have to take him as he was.

He grumbled a little under his breath, but he hurried just the same, glad to be given something to think about other than the chill in his bones or the fierceness of the storm. But when he reached the library, his relief was short-lived. The major did not appear to be in any better humor than Pip. Instead of relaxing in his chair, the man was pacing in front of the coals, his hands white-knuckled on his cane and his face tight. When the major spotted him, he waved impatiently toward Pip’s usual chair.

“Sit. Read to me. I don’t care what,” the major ordered through gritted teeth before reaching for his glass on the mantel and downing half the amber liquid it contained in one swallow.

Pip felt the tension in the room like a living thing, and he edged nervously around the major to pull a book of poetry off the shelf, hoping it would ease both of their minds.

Pip read for a time as ice pelted the shutters, and the major continued to pace in front of the coals. Pip was halfway through the second love poem when a particularly sharp blast of wind howled past the cottage, banging the shutters against the window frames, and the major slammed his fist on the mantel. “Enough!” he barked. “Choose something else.”

Pip clenched his jaw against the first words that came to mind, closed the book, and carefully set it aside so he wouldn’t chuck it at his master’s head.

What did he have to be so surly over?

Pip was the one who’d been out in that storm all day, freezing his ballocks off so everyone else could stay warm and dry. His nose was red and sore from wiping it. He was tired and cold. But he’d still come to do his duty by his master. And though he was a little ashamed to admit it, he’d actually felt a surge of relief and excitement when the bell had rung, happy that the master deigned to give him the opportunity to share an evening with him again. And now he felt like a fool. He wasn’t a dog to come running back even when he was kicked, and he wouldn’t stand for being shouted at when he was only trying to help.

“Per’aps the master would prefer to be left alone,” Pip gritted out.

“No. The master would not.” The major’s pale eyes speared Pip where he sat as he continued through clenched teeth, “The
master
would like for you to read. Only. Choose. Something. Else.”

Pip stood up, raised his chin, and met his gaze, allowing a bit of his own temper to show. “Per’aps the master should choose the book for ’imself, since ’is servant ’as chosen so poorly.”

The major growled and took one menacing step toward Pip, his eyes blazing. Pip held his ground and was grateful he had a moment later, because the major misjudged his footing and would have fallen if Pip hadn’t leapt to steady him.

The major shook him off at once. “Get out! Leave me!”

Pip hovered for a moment in indecision until the major shouted at him again. “Get out!”

Pip stormed out of the room and through the door to the kitchen, passing under the astonished gazes of the housekeeper and her husband, and not stopping until he was in his own room with the door slammed shut behind him.

He paced the confines of his tiny bedchamber in agitation for a long time, fuming and cursing under his breath. Why should he give a rat’s arse if the bastard rotted in his bloody library? The major could drink himself into an early grave, and it wouldn’t make one bit of difference to Pip. Maybe he should just pack his things now and go back to Penrith as soon as the storm passed. He hadn’t needed to buy house slippers, and he’d given up on the russet waistcoat, so he still had enough put by to pay his way home… although the roads would probably be impassible for some time.

When he finally stopped pacing, a sudden tide of exhaustion and melancholy swamped him. But despite his fatigue, Pip couldn’t bring himself to crawl into his cold, empty bed yet, so he decided to risk a trip to the kitchen for a heel of bread and perhaps a stone to warm his feet. He listened at the door, but all seemed quiet apart from the storm. The Applethwaites were gone when he ventured out, and Pip stirred up the kitchen fire and ate his bread and butter while he waited for his stone to warm. He was resting against the hearth, his eyelids drooping, when a loud thump and a clatter of wood on wood startled him awake. Pip was still angry enough that he considered ignoring the sound, but when a piteous moan followed it, he sighed and went to investigate.

He found the major in a heap halfway up the stairs. The man’s cane lay at the bottom, and Pip picked it up before climbing to his master’s aid. The major’s breath was heavy with whisky as he mumbled and cursed at Pip, but eventually Pip was able to get him upright, and he half carried, half dragged him the rest of the way to his bedchamber.

Once inside, Pip dumped him on his bed and went to stir up the coals before lighting a lamp. He could feel the major’s gaze on his back as he fussed about the room, and when he finally turned to face him, a strange heaviness hung in the air between them. Pip shook his head at his own fancy and frowned disapprovingly at his master. “Do ye need me to tuck ye in, or can ye manage that yerself?”

Instead of the rage Pip expected, the major’s face crumbled. His earlier temper had vanished, the fire in his pale eyes gone, leaving nothing but sorrow in its wake. “Forgive me, Phillip. Please forgive me. Don’t leave me alone,” the major mumbled brokenly as he swayed on the bed.

Pip sighed, his own temper and irritation fading quickly. He stepped forward and attempted to help his master out of his jacket so he could tuck him into bed, but the major grabbed his wrists, stopping him. “Tell me you won’t leave me alone.”

Pip looked at him in confusion. “I won’t be goin’ anywhere in this storm, sir. C’mon now. Let’s get ye inta bed.”

He didn’t wait for a response, he shook free of the major’s grip and went back to trying to get him out of his jacket, a task that was proving uncommonly difficult. Once the offending article was removed, the major quit flopping about enough for Pip to reach for the knot of his cravat. It wouldn’t do to have his master choke in his sleep. The major stilled beneath his hands, and when Pip looked up, the man was watching him intently with something in his eyes that made the blood pound in Pip’s ears.