State of Grace - Part 2 (A Dark Shadows Story)

[lovesrain44]

Willie parked along the street next to the Blue Whale and locked up the truck, standing in the wind, as it whistled up the street, to pat his pocket, making sure he had his keys before he shut the door. In his other pocket was five dollars, an unexplainable amount of money suddenly given to him for no apparent reason. Not Barnabas in a good mood, surely. Barnabas in a strange mood, most definitely, one that could break into fragments at any moment. Willie shrugged his shoulders deeper into his jacket and flipped his collar against a sudden stinging rain, determined that he would keep a weather eye out and be prepared to duck when the moment came.

 

The Blue Whale was hopping even when he was three doors away, loud and happy and boisterous. Too loud. Definitely too happy. A sudden waft of onions frying and the tang of potatoes in grease called him toward the diner across the street instead. Moving through the ting of the bell over the lintel of the door and the short line of people waiting for their to go orders, he found himself a place at the bar, and settled himself on the padded stool. In the warmth of the diner, and the crowd of people in damp coats standing near, the smell of onions hit him even harder as he studied the splotched menu. Five dollars could go a long way if he was careful.

 

"What'll you have," said a sudden smoke thickened voice.

 

Willie looked up at the white-capped waitress, her hair dyed an amazing shade of orange, and tried not to envision Maggie, wearing a similar cap, pouring out the best coffee a man ever tasted. "Uh, cheeseburger, fries, and coke," he said, thinking that that was half his money right there, if he left a tip. Which he would, if only for Maggie's sake.

 

The waitress was just turning around when someone said, "Make that two," and Willie looked over as the double order was shouted back, surprised to find Wesley Dale sliding onto the seat beside him. The greasy cap was gone, but the smudged name insignia was still there, as was the mass of dark, curling hair, and that smile.

 

"Hey, buddy," asked Wesley, "you ever try the pecan pie here?"

 

Willie shook his head slowly, thinking it would be a cold day in hell before he could afford the luxury of ordering dinner and desert.

 

"Well, you gotta try some, it'll be a sin if you don't. Here," he said now, reaching over Willie as if he'd known him a long time, "lemme grab me that ketchup 'fore someone else does."

 

Leaning back, Willie looked at Wesley out of the corner of his eyes. Wesley had washed up, but was still wearing his work clothes, bringing with him the spatter smell of diesel fuel and the metallic odor of iron shards. Around them in the diner sat other patrons of various shades of unwashedness, but what struck Willie was the fact that there were other stools further down the counter. A table or two that was completely empty, and one of those was even a booth. Wesley could have sat anywhere.

 

As if sensing Willie watching him, Wesley turned, green eyes sparking. "And you know what? I owe you one, so I can pop for that pie."

 

"Y-you owe me?" The mere thought was outrageous. "What for?"

 

"My brother-in-law, Curt, is over the moon about that deal I sent him."

 

"Oh?" asked Willie.

 

The waitress arrived with two enormous, icy cokes, the straws already sifting down to the bottom of the glasses, and Wesley paused to take a sip of his.

 

"Oh yeah, you betcha."

 

"But I-I didn't do anything," Willie replied to this, the back of his throat feeling suddenly overly dry. He reached for his coke just as Wesley slammed him a friendly pat on the back. Willie's hand missed tipping the drink by inches as the nerves along his spine leaped, stinging, to life.

 

"You're kidding me, right?" asked Wesley, seemingly oblivious to Willie as he pressed his lips together until the pain faded away. "Oh, you're a joker, you are, Loomis. Didn't do anything? Give me a break."

 

"But I—"

 

Wesley put his drink down and waved his hand in the air. "I don't know how many hundred cards of Curt's I've passed out, nor how many get tossed away. He was beginning to believe that I never passed out any. Sets a store by word of mouth, does Curt. But then you took the deal to your boss and sold him on it. That was a huge, and I mean, huge deal."

 

Shrugging, Willie tried not to let his mind snap back to exactly what the cost of that deal had been. But looking at Wesley's face, animated by the pleasure of the memory, he knew that to Wesley, and to people like him, like Curt, or even the waitress, the type of payments Willie had been making were nothing to them. Something they couldn't even imagine.

 

"Hey, I mean it," insisted Wesley, a small frown forming above his dark brows. "You're with those rich bastards every single day, but do you realize what it means that my brother sold his gravel to a Collins?"

 

Willie had to nod at this. He knew what it meant.

 

"So now, Curt's got orders for the next six months! Is he happy? Yep. Is my sister happy? She's delirious with joy. Just the way we like her, cause believe me, when she's unhappy, everybody's unhappy."

 

Willie found himself snickering into the back of his hand, thinking that it sounded a lot like Barnabas and his moods.

 

Wesley laughed in return, an open mouth laugh that sounded slightly wicked, as if he knew exactly what Willie was thinking.

 

Their food arrived at that moment, smelling of cheese and fried meat, and the heavy saltiness of fried potatoes. Willie's stomach grumbled in anticipation.

 

"I hear you on that one, man," said Wesley, reaching for his burger. He took a huge bite, and around a mouthful of food, Willie heard him say, "Man, what I wouldn't give for an ice cold beer with this."

 

"Why doncha go to the Blue Whale?" Willie asked as he pushed the huge flake of lettuce closer to the center of the bun with his fingers. "They got food there, too. Just as good as this."

 

Another silent laugh, and Wesley took a sip of his coke. "Hell no!"

 

"Why hell no?"

 

"My wife would pack up and leave me if I did that."

 

Propping his elbows on the counter, Willie bit into his cheeseburger, finding the sudden personal conversation somewhat less disconcerting when he had something else to do besides just listen. "Why's that?"

 

Chewing his way through another huge bite, Wesley seemed to consider this. The smile in his eyes died away like the flicker from a blown-out candle. "Six years ago I was finishing up my ninth bender that year, and she said if I drank a tiny sip of anything fermented or so much as stepped foot in a bar, she'd pack up my babies and take them far away to where I'd never see them again."

 

Silently, Willie chomped his way through a French fry, wondering why Wesley saw fit to confide in him this way. Maybe he did that with everyone. Yeah, that had to be it, because it was so much more reasonable than the alternative, that Wesley was confiding in Willie because he trusted him. Because he liked him. Just didn't seem right.

 

"Were—were you mad at her?" he asked, noting the acid undertones in Wesley's voice, thinking that would have been his reaction to an ultimatum like that.

 

"Hell yes," replied Wesley, with a nodding snap of his head. "Mad, yeah, I was mad alright. But you know what?"

 

With a huge gulp of coke, Willie managed to swallow a mouthful of fries before responding.

 

"What?"

 

"That woman saved me from myself."

 

"Uh-huh," Willie said from the back of his throat, chewing briskly on his cheeseburger in order to keep from making any real reply. What could you say to a comment like that, anyway? Wesley obviously doted on his wife, and he let her boss him around. Willie couldn't imagine letting anyone tell him how much he could or couldn't drink. Or what he could or couldn't do. Or—

 

Snapping his mind away from unpleasant thoughts, he nodded, chewing and swallowing. "So," he managed, not choking, "it's been six years, huh? Ya miss it?"

 

Wesley tipped his head to one side, gaze focused on the French fry he was pushing through the ketchup. "Sometimes. Like with food like this. Or on a hot day. Or even a cold one." He lifted his chin and looked at Willie out of the corner of his eyes. Smiled. "Or any day the sun comes up in the east."

 

"But your wife—"

 

"Wouldn't trade her for a lake of beer, m'friend. Or a whole ocean." Nodding, Wesley chomped down on his cheeseburger, as if the conversation they'd just had was one he shared with his old pal Willie Loomis every so often, and today just happened to be the day. As if it were nothing out of the ordinary for him to be rubbing elbows with the eccentric Collins family's scruffy servant in the middle of The Bayside Diner.

 

Suddenly, with a lunge, Wesley reached out to grab their waitress as she hustled by with a stack of plates.

 

"Two pecan pies, darlin'," he said, "hot, with ice cream. And coffee, for me and my friend here."

 

Willie opened his mouth to protest, but she walked off too quickly, and Wesley sat back on his stool, shaking his head. "Nope, I told ya, I owe ya one. You helped me and Curt make my sister very happy. And when she's happy, well, those fingers around my brother-in-law's fat neck loosen, and he gets the hell off my back. Stops trying to talk me into going into gravel with him. Can you imagine? Me? Working in an office? For him?"

 

Wesley working in an office was the last thing he could picture as an enormous slice of bubbling pecan pie, topped with a scoop of vanilla, was thrown in front of him. A cup of coffee appeared next to it as a metal pitcher of cream was slammed on the counter.

 

"Anything else for you boys?" asked the waitress sharply. Apparently she didn't like being grabbed.

 

"Nope, we're all set here, right, Loomis?"

 

"Yep," said Willie around a mouthful of pie and ice cream, the sensation of coolness sliding down his throat with entirely more ease than the thought of being considered part of a "we." The last person he'd been associated with like that was moldering beneath the flagstones in the secret room in a mausoleum in Eagle Hill Cemetery. Placed there and covered with his own hands. Hands which still sometimes felt as if they were covered in gravedust and chalk. It wouldn't do for that to happen to Wesley. Not that he was like Jason, being an honest working man he was not likely to go hunting for something that didn't belong to him, but in his easy acceptance of Willie and his sitting next to him when no one else would, he brought back to life the nerve endings that had been crushed flat the night Jason had died.

 

And there he was now, shoveling in a mouthful of pie as if he'd not just polished off an entire meal and a coke besides. Part of a pecan was stuck to his lip and he wiped at it with the back of his hand. "My manners," said Wesley, as if this explained everything.

 

"Just don't tell Monica, okay?"

 

Willie shook his head in agreement thinking that a thousand horses could drag him across a bed of nails before he told Monica anything. Feeling the lilt of a smile forming as he tried to hide it and turned away. "Your wife won't hear it from me," he said to his pie as the smile came anyway.

 

"Thanks, buddy," said Wesley. Meaning it. The glint of his green eyes, though, said something else. "But Monica's my sister, my beloved Laura wouldn't care so much."

 

For all his cheerful demeanor, Wesley had problems, too, it appeared. An overbearing sister, a wife with high standards, and a brother-in-law who couldn't mind his own business. Willie shifted on his stool, feeling the skin along his back tingle to life, the bruises there making themselves known.

 

"Oh," said Willie, not quite knowing what would be the right reply. "Well, neither one of them will hear about it, okay?"

 

Wesley nodded. "Knew I could count on you. Now where's that check?"

 

*

 

Barnabas stepped out on the front porch, leaving the front door open to let the light from the candles ice out into the yard. He walked down the steps and followed the flagstones that Willie had laid as they led out through the clumpy, winter-dead grass until they ended, inexplicably, leading nowhere. It was only a few feet to the newly graveled road, and so, with the damp, spring rain pattering down through the bare branches overhead, he walked over to it.

 

The bill for the road repair was tucked into his ledger waiting to be paid, and he'd wanted to examine the results before writing the check, as a gentleman should do, not leaving the running of his estate completely to his underlings. Willie had done the work of talking with the quarrymen, had arranged when they would come out to do the work, and had, apparently, assisted in the laying of the road, and it was time for him to take over.

 

In the sparse, rain-lit night, the white rocks of the gravel stretched out in either direction through the woods, curving against the dark trunks of the trees like a white scarf in the darkness. For a moment, it reminded him of the shell roads in Martinique, which to him always seemed as if they glowed phosphorescent, like the tiny sea creatures that danced in the tides at sunset. Only it was much colder here than in the islands, and instead of the lush, dense smell of vines and undergrowth, there was the sharp, clear essence of pine, and hardwood trees just running to sap. And behind that, if he paid attention, the remnants of diesel fuel from the trucks that had carried the gravel.

 

Now, as the rain dripped down the sides of his face, he could hear the truck's engine start up, and sank back into the deepness of the trees to avoid the headlights that moved through the yard as Willie pulled onto the newly graveled drive. The truck sped past him, and Willie, oblivious to everything but his evening at leisure, did not look up, though Barnabas saw, in the dim glow of the dashboard, that his servant was not smiling.

 

Willie had said there had been eight trucks in all, and that it had taken three days to spread the gravel. Three days that his servant had not, apparently, been attending to his work on Naomi's room. Upon discovering this at sunset, Barnabas had gone down to the kitchen to take Willie servant to task, thinking that he would find Willie gone, or perhaps preparing something to eat, as he usually did at that time of day. Instead he'd been confronted with Willie at his toilette, lounging in the tub like a gentleman after a day's hunt, as if his time were his own and he could do with it as he pleased. He'd grabbed Willie to get his attention, to demand an answer, to bring him to heel. Grabbed him, and then—

 

Then the wanting had taken him, rising up through him with the heat of Willie's skin beneath his hand. Swamped through him with an almost familiar darkness as the humming became an almost perceptible moan, and he knew he could have what he wanted, take the boy in his arms and press him close, absorb the glint of sunlight that shimmered in his now drying hair, soak in the warmth of a body that walked by day and slept by night. Drink the sweetness there, and after, in the moment of stillness that always came, breathe in the quiet.

 

His hand had swept down the back of Willie's neck, of its own accord, and then up again to cup the hard bone beneath fast drying hair. Soft hair, springing up between his spread fingers like silk, and beneath that, the tremor of Willie's skull. He'd stopped, his fingers frozen there, and then he'd lifted his hand away. And Willie, shaking in the water of his bath, his skin almost white in the light of the fire, had fought for air.

 

He could have taken Willie and drawn from him, but he had not, some unknown restraint catching him mid-strike. Though, as he turned to go back into the house to prepare for his soon-to-arrive visitor, he knew it would have aided him somewhat. Even as he turned a deaf ear to the rising pitch of the humming and clamped a mental fist on the desire as it left trails in its wake, the wanting had not left him, and he did not want to be needing to feed when Miss Winters arrived. It would be better to be finished with that, even though that would mean going out and coming back before she arrived. He went up the front porch, a gust of wind sending the door even wider, blowing out all but one of the candles in the front hall. Never mind that now, he would change his suit and leave the soiled one in the kitchen for Willie to tend to later, grab his coat, walk in the night, and come back well prepared for his evening of playing cards.

 

*

 

Candles made everything, even the modern outfit that Miss Winters was wearing, more elegant and refined. Especially with the rain pouring outside the windows, the light from the candelabra and the fireplace made the sitting room close and quiet and peaceful. And in their glow, the Old House became more gracious and lovely than ever, from the sparkle of the chandelier overhead, to the low shine of the marble fireplaces. He restrained himself from pointing this out to her, even as he found himself drawn to staring at her over the tops of his cards.

 

Ladies of her station did not usually play Piquet, but seeing as it was one of the few betting games he could recall that allowed for only two people, they had decided to play it. Upon which, was surprised to see how quickly she comprehended not only the rules, but the underlying strategy of the game. In his experience, not many ladies of her station would have been able to play it that well so quickly, but there Miss Winters was, riveted on her cards, placing her bets with care and dignity. Wearing the most impassive face he'd witnessed in more years than he cared to imagine. But she was not a gambler. Though most of the hands were hers, the pots she won were only enough to cover her losses and keep her in the game, not enough to make any headway. In the meantime, her hands were delicate around the cards, and movements graceful across the tabletop, what did it matter that she was losing?

 

"I'm afraid, Miss Winters," he said, feeling the smile in his voice, "that you owe me six more diamonds." He looked up at her as he tapped the table in front of him. "They're worth $100 apiece, are they not?"

 

"Here," she said, almost abruptly, placing a handful of gaming pieces in front of him.

 

He moved the pile closer to him and then looked up. "You owe me one more diamond." "That's all there is," she replied, not looking at him.

 

"That's impossible, my dear. I have 53 diamond pieces in front of me, there are 41 in the pot between us. You have just given me five. Where is the sixth?"

 

Discomfited, she worried the edge of the tablecloth with her fingers as dark trail of hair fell across her face.

 

"Are you playing a trump card, Miss Winters?"

 

Serious now, she looked up at him, her cheeks slightly pink. "I didn't want to tell you before, but one of the diamond pieces is missing."

 

"Missing?" Dismay flooded him, and the first hints of the humming began to echo in the back of his brain. What could have happened? Miss Winters was such a precise individual, even for a woman, he could not imagine that she had been so careless so soon.

 

"Yes, I'm afraid so. We counted them all, and each shape has 100 pieces each, but the diamond kind, well, there were only 99 of those."

 

"We?" he said, restraining himself against a sudden tide of anger at the thought that she had used the box with someone else, before even sharing its elegant pleasures with him.

 

"David and I, we counted them."

 

Well, that was better then. "Perhaps young David took one of them."

 

"No, I'm sure that's not it. He lost interest soon after he realized there were no moving parts."

 

Barnabas made himself laugh at this, at David's penchant for those things bright and flashy. He was only a child after all and still drawn to such things, and Barnabas found himself wanting to believe that she had not lost it, that it had been, instead, never there.

 

"I was thinking," she said now, drawing his attention to her, "that maybe when the box fell in the kitchen—"

 

"That one of the pieces would still be on the floor somewhere," he finished for her.

 

She nodded, her hair slipping forward even more. She pushed it back with one hand, a slow, slim-wristed gesture he'd seen Carolyn use. So modern and graceful, unlike the ladies of his day, whose hands had usually gone to their upswept hair in nervous short movements to make sure all the hair was in place.

 

"It's possible, isn't it?"

 

"Yes," he said, nodding, "but my dear, it has been several days since then. Willie has cleaned up the kitchen at least once. If it was there, he would have found it and returned it to me." This, of course, was true. His servant wouldn't dare to keep something that didn't belong to him.

 

"Not if he wasn't looking for it," she replied. Contradicting him, yes, but in an utterly charming and frank way he had found disconcerting when he first met her, but that now he had experienced the brashness of most modern women, seemed subdued and refined in comparison.

 

"Would you care to go and look?" he offered. It was such a simple request, how could he refuse her?

 

With a small smile, she ducked her head in a quick nod. "I'd like that very much."

 

Rising, he lifted his hand for her to take, and as she stood up, he grasped the tips of her fingers. "I must warn you, Miss Winters, that the kitchen is not as completely finished as the room we are in now."

 

"Oh, don't worry," she said, almost laughing, as if at his concern for her, "I've been in a lot of places that would surprise you, I think."

 

They walked down the hall together, and as they entered it, he lit a few candles, there on the table, a few on the mantle, and one next to the sink, illuminating the shine of the cast-iron stove and softening the hard edges of the wooden table. And without preamble, they began to look for the missing piece, now long gone, he was sure of it. The dealer had miscounted, or had out and out lied to sell the gaming box at a higher price. Either way, the search was futile and he found himself drawn instead to Miss Winters.

 

She was lovely as she walked around, hair falling forward like a dark waterfall in the candlelight, her arms tucked close at her sides as she scanned the floor. Even bending over to check under the table, she was graceful and quiet. Not boisterous as Carolyn would have been in the same circumstances, talking loudly to counteract the silence that now hung in the kitchen. Instead, Miss Winters seemed completely at ease, looking at the old appliance of the iron stove with interest instead of dismay, and laughing when she came across the pump.

 

"Something amuses you?" he asked her. As she turned to him, he was struck again by her beauty, which in contrast to the rough-edged kitchen, seemed even more luxurious and rare. "I was imagining how cold this water would be, coming straight out of the ground," she said.

 

"Would you like to try some?" He walked toward her, reaching for one of the glasses that Willie kept in the cupboard next to the sink. "My servant tells me it's the best water he's ever tasted." Which was true, although not in the strictest sense; he'd heard Willie say it to someone, though never directly to him.

 

Barely waiting for her nod, Barnabas gestured her aside and began to work the pump. It took two good tries before a burst of water came forth, and then another pump before the water ran in a hard, clear stream. He filled the glass and handed it to her.

 

"Your servant?" she asked, taking it.

 

Barnabas lifted his shoulders in a half shrug, dismissing this. "Well, that's what he is, isn't he?" She nodded as if considering this and took a sip of the water, seeming to roll it over her tongue. Then she took another huge gulp, allowing him the slightly erotic view of her throat as it moved over the swallow.

 

"Yes, it is good," she said. "And cold."

 

Miss Winters placed the glass on the counter, and the roughness of the room became more marked as she turned to face him and he realized that perhaps the kitchen was not the best room for a courtship to take place in. Not only that, but he did not favor the room generally as it was for the preparing of food, which he did not eat, and was the realm of the lower orders. Gathering both of Miss Winters' hands in his own, he led her from the kitchen. Down the hallway, which, in reflection of her earlier comments, seemed somewhat darker than it had earlier, sconces of candles notwithstanding.

 

When their steps took them to the pillars just outside the sitting room, she paused and pulled away.

 

"It's getting late, I should be going," she said, and he was discomfited by the thought that something had gone on in Miss Winters' mind to hasten her away, even from the flickering fire and candlelight shimmering on the crystal decanter of sherry.

 

"So soon?" he asked. Gently, not forcibly, drawing her to stillness with his eyes.

 

Nodding, she drew her gaze away, and with a click, his influence over her, like a fog breaking away in the heat of noonday, vanished. She said she was going, and unlike other women he had known, that was the end of it. Such a strength of character was to be admired, and he reminded himself of this fact as he helped her collect the parts of the gaming box and put them neatly away, shutting the brightly painted peacock lid with a small snap. Then he helped her on with her coat, and held her hand and kissed it, wishing that he had not promised himself that the pressure-cooker technique so late applied so disastrously with Miss Evans would not be repeated. She paused, tucking the weight of the gaming box in the curve of her arm. The expression on her face, much like the one she'd worn when they discussed how the Old House was or wasn't like the pyramids of Egypt, told him that she had something serious on her mind.

 

"You look as though you wish to say something to me," he said.

 

"I guess it disturbs me a little," she said.

 

"And what is that, my dear?"

 

"Well," she began, her lips tightening, "you often refer to Willie as your servant, or your man, as if he belonged to you." She paused as if to check if Barnabas were paying attention. Not as a lady who was being courted would, but as a man would, one who had something important to discuss. "And this house, the conditions in which he lives, in which you allow him to live, it almost seems as if you consider him to be less than human."

 

This was not what he had expected her to say and he found himself with no ready retort, taken aback at her lack of complete approval.

 

"What do you mean?" he asked, feeling it was an inadequate question at best to stem the tide of this unwarranted criticism.

 

"I mean, there's no electricity, no running water, no way to keep food from spoiling, but yet you expect Willie to carry on as if this were normal." Where had this come from? Surely not because of an isolated visit to the kitchen. That could not be it because she spoke as if this opinion had been with her for some time, and she only now had discovered a reason to express it.

 

Somewhat at a loss, he looked down at his hands. "I realize that my preferred way of living is not what is considered normal, but I thought you knew that." Now to take the attack, he looked up at her, feeling the confusion on his face. "I thought you respected and appreciated that."

 

"I do." This said in the straightforward way she had. "I think that your ideal of what life could be, of books and dining by candlelight, of card games and conversation, of hard work and simple pleasures to be, well, to be desirable."

 

"And yet you feel there is some sort of problem?" Now his confusion was real. "It is as you say you would prefer it to be, and yet you feel there is something amiss."

 

"Any other person working as Willie does, in the capacity of handyman, or manservant, as you like to call him, would not have to do without common luxuries."

 

"But you yourself have told me that to modernize the Old House in any way would be to ruin its charm utterly."

 

He had here there. She had said that, and not once, but on several occasions.

 

"Yes, yes I did." Nodding, she gave a defeated little shrug. "You've got me there, it's just that. . . ."

 

She looked around the hall, as the shadows from the candles moved in unseen drafts.

 

"Do go on, Miss Winters."

 

"It's just that, well, walking down the hall just now, from the kitchen, it seemed that the lack of luxury in that room contrasted so greatly with the sitting room or even this foyer." Here she paused to look him directly in the eyes. "Just as your life seems to contrast so greatly with Willie's."

 

"Are you saying you don't approve of the situation in which Willie finds himself? It is of his own making, I assure you."

 

"Yes, I realize that. I also realize that we were all very much against you hiring him in the beginning. Then we realized that a little hard work would do Willie good. I'm sure we still think so. It's just that. . . ." Her voice trailed away as she searched for what she meant, just as her eyes searched the pattern of the carpet, as if for some reasoning for her argument.

 

"It's just that you feel I'm a little harsh with Willie."

 

"Yes, that's it exactly."

 

"Sometimes I have to be, as I'm sure you can appreciate. But this isn't the first time we've discussed this, is it." He ducked his head to look at her.

 

"No." She seemed a little chagrined at this, as if it were not her place to criticize, and she were now only realizing it.

 

"Do not be so hard on yourself, Miss Winters. It is entirely to your credit that you express such concern about Willie. It only gives me further proof of your warm and generous nature."

 

He bent forward to take her hand and she let him, giving him a little smile. Not seeing the futility of her concern. "If it pleases you, I shall look into improving Willie's conditions somewhat. Will that do?"

 

"Yes, thank you."

 

Of course he would do no such thing. The conditions under which Willie worked were the same conditions under which servants worked in his day. They survived it; Willie would survive it. But the lie was necessary, he could see that as her shoulders relaxed and her lips softened. She was a caring individual, and it was important for her not to feel that someone was suffering while she could do something about it. There was no telling where this altruism had come from, but it was charming, just the same.

 

Well-bred ladies of his day had been like that as well, considering it their duty to care for their servants on a personal level. Josette, in particular had been very passionate about this, flying in the defense of a chamber maid being punished for a small offense. At the same time, she never had any thought for the servants in the fields or the stables, even though they lived quite rudely. They were as much to her as the wheels of her carriage. Built for one purpose, charged to function until they could no longer do so. Out of sight, out of mind, and she never counted the change.

 

Miss Winters seemed to be of the same ilk, but was more focused, she thought about things, and never forgot the wheels of her carriage. Far less exuberant and social, she never let her lack of worldly experience keep her from expressing her opinions of what was right and what was wrong. With more peasant stock running through her veins, she had a certain strength, though she always carried herself like a lady.

 

All these thoughts ran through his head as he put on his own coat and opened the front door to walk her home. Of course, Mother would have approved of her on the spot. Father would have looked down his nose as if to say, well, if you must. Dear Sarah would have fallen in love with Miss Winters with one gentle smile, and no one would have said a word about the fact that her lineage was unknown and that she had no dowry. She, herself, would have been enough.

 

"Why are you looking at me like that?" she asked as they stood in the doorway.

 

He realized then that he had let what he was feeling show on his face, though there might be some advantage to letting this vulnerability slip. It could only encourage her to expect that there was even more feeling than she could discern.

 

"You are so enlightened and sensible, Miss Winters, I can only hope to emulate you." He paused to let this sink in. "Though this is quite difficult when distracted by such beauty."

 

For the first time since he had known her, Miss Winters blushed.

 

*

 

At precisely 12:01 by the mantelpiece clock, the door to the kitchen opened, the sound of it shutting echoing through the empty corridors. He had heard the truck drive up earlier, though Willie had remained outside the house, as requested. At last, following orders to the letter, though how long that would continue, Barnabas did not know.

 

Walking down the hallway and into the kitchen, he walked in on his servant. Willie had taken off his rain-dappled jacket and laid it over the back of a chair to dry, bringing with him the scent of rain and the salt breeze from the ocean. His servant was in the midst of getting a drink of water from the pump. But not by filling a glass, or even a dipper. Instead he bent forward, and like the most common villager, cupped one hand under the stream and drank from that. Drawing it through his lips like a farm animal.

 

Barnabas felt himself frowning. Hearing the door shut, Willie stood straight up, splashing the water across the front of his shirt and letting the pump handle drop with a squeak. A half-gush of water continued from the spout, then died away, leaving the kitchen in silence.

 

"The receipt and any change from your dinner, if you please," he said, and instantly caught the twitch of flesh along his servant's jaw as it tightened.

 

"What is it, Willie?" he asked. Gently, he imagined, as the remnants of Miss Winter's comments of earlier were still making their meaning clear. Maybe she did have a point, however modern it might be, that to deny a servant the creature comforts that were afforded any other man in his station was a little harsh.

 

"Well, um. . . ." The mere thought of an answer died unspoken, then Willie shrugged as if straightforward communication were simply too much. He reached into his pocket and handed over a folded five-dollar bill. The very same bill that had been given to him earlier.

 

"What is this?" he asked as he took it.

 

"It's-it's hard to explain."

 

Barnabas waited. Miss Winters could not comprehend how taxing this habit of Willie's was. Her idea of kindness to lower orders would vanish in an instant if she ever had to put up with this insufferable hesitation. The wasting of a master's time, the careless air, the—

 

"You see, I-I ran into Wesley Dale at the diner, an' he—"

 

"Wesley Dale of Wesley Dale Towing?" It was best to set the record straight from the beginning, though he should hardly be surprised that Willie would wish to dally with the modern equivalent of a common laborer.

 

"And?" he prompted, the last of his patience vanishing sharply away.

 

"Well, we ate together, an' then he took the check before I could get to it, an—"

 

"You let him pay for your meal?" He felt his eyebrows fly up in astonishment. It was astounding the liberties that this one would take. "That's no better than taking charity, Willie. As a servant to the Collins family, as a manservant to me, it is your duty to—" He stopped, swallowing his anger as Willie shifted on his feet, cheeks flagged red, and began again. Miss Winters would surely approve of his restraint. "You will take this money and pay him what you owe him, and then bring me the change, do you understand?"

 

Willie's shoulders hunched forward, practically curling in on himself as his forelock slipped forward to cover his eyes.

 

"I asked you a question, Willie, do you understand?"

 

"Y-yes," replied Willie, barely above a whisper.

 

Fully exasperated, Barnabas turned his attention to the bill in his hand. Completely careless, Willie had folded it in thirds, knowing no better, obviously, than to spoil fragile paper money. Though as he unfolded it, it seemed to him that modern paper currency was rather more sturdy than it had been in his day, so perhaps it wasn't as bad as all that. Still, it was altogether cavalier of his servant to treat money in such a fashion when it wasn't even his own. Something small and cool slipped into the palm of his hand. A quarter perhaps, or some other coinage long lost in the folds of Willie's workday trousers. But when he held it closer to the candle on the table, he saw that it was not a coin at all. It was a diamond shaped slice of mother-of-pearl. Exactly like—

 

"What is this?" he snapped, freezing Willie's hand, outstretched in mid-flight as he reached for the five dollar bill.

 

Barnabas needed no answer, the evidence was quite clear, Willie had in his possession the missing playing piece. He held it up, high, so the candlelight could shine off it and his exasperation was replaced by the collective, ice-cold weight of everything that had gone wrong that evening. As well as the acid awareness that he did not, perhaps, know the workings of his servant's mind as he'd thought.

 

"Do you know what this is?" he demanded.

 

A slow nod of the head was his answer as Willie remained riveted on the object in his hand.

 

"Where did you find it?"

 

"In the k-kitchen."

 

"When did you find it?"

 

At precisely that point, the lie began, a lie completely indicative of Willie's lack of compunction in these matters. Barnabas could see it aborning, somewhere in the back of Willie's mind, working its way forward as he opened his mouth to speak. His servant's face became the color of old milk left to spoil, and his eyes, like round diameters of carriage wheels, became almost entirely black as the pupils grew.

 

"T-today," said Willie, "today, when—"

 

"If that is true," said Barnabas with some asperity, "why did you not simply give it to me when I came into the kitchen at sunset?" His fingers moved in a restless sweep over the surface of the piece as he waited for his answer. After a moment, it came, jumbled and confused, as usual.

 

"Because you, you said, well, there wasn't—"

 

A piece of grit wedged inside one of the small filigree edges scratched against his skin, and

Barnabas held the piece closer to look at. White and rough-edged, it tumbled into a powder when he pressed it, and like the plaster Willie used in cornices and walls, left a pale smear across his hand.

 

With a lift of his head he stopped Willie's prattling excuses, feeling the ensuing silence take shape as if it were a visceral thing. The fury rose, and with it, the sound in his head met it with a high pitch.

 

"This has plaster on it. You have not worked on my mother's room for five days, so you have had this with you for five days." This said clearly and slowly so that there would be no mistake. "Five days, Willie, that Miss Winters was forced to assume that it was by her error that the piece was missing. Or that I had lied when I said it was a set entire. Five days for unnecessary concerns to trouble her, when all the while you were the thief."

 

"N-no, I didn't steal it, I found it, I was gonna give it back, I—"

 

"You were going to give it back?" said Barnabas, interrupting, not able to stand another moment while Willie, white-faced and shaking, attempted to dissemble his way out of a blatant falsehood.

 

"Y-yes—"

 

"When, next month? Next year?" He curled his fingers around the piece and showed his fist to Willie. "Were you simply planning to keep it until it suited you to give it back?"

 

If a servant had ever stolen from the Collins estate, he could not recall it, nor could he remember even the vaguest hint of a conversation that any member of the family had discovered missing from their personal effects even the smallest trinket. Not even a thimble had gone astray, and now this. He could feel the anger boiling and the humming as it sharpened in his ears. The evening had gone as badly as it possibly could. A lovely card game, cut short by a missing playing piece. An interesting conversation, spoiled by a misunderstood remark, and then Miss Winter's comments, direct as only she could make them, as she chided him about Willie. Willie whom he had sent away for the evening. Willie, who was so much a part of the Old House, it seemed, that even when he wasn't there, he was.

 

Now before him stood the thief, who had had in his possession for five days the ultimate reason the evening had been a disaster. He would be punished, and severely, too. Not by taking a hand, that was unacceptable in this day and age, but by other means, and when it was done, Willie would rue the day he'd, for reasons yet unknown, taken the piece.

 

"Why would you steal such a thing?" Barnabas asked.

 

White, lips pressed tightly together as if he meant to hold something back, Willie said nothing. Hands clenched together in front of him, he only shrugged and ducked his head, hair over his eyes as he searched the room for something to occupy them.

 

"I asked you a question, and I expect an answer."

 

Now his servant shook his head in deliberate disobedience, swallowing, the edge of his jaw in a fine tremor.

 

"Look at me."

 

Another shake, and a step backwards, and Barnabas knew he would tolerate no more. With a click, he placed the playing piece on the table and moved forward, his quick steps sharp in the silence, and grabbed Willie with one hand, circling fingers around his neck. Realizing that the question of why wasn't as important as the fact that he had.

 

"How dare you keep it," he hissed, watching Willie cringing before him, knowing he needed to keep himself from killing outright. The flesh beneath his hand was chilled, the pulse of heartbeat rapid and flying as if to get away. "How dare you."

 

With a snap of his wrist he sent Willie across the room to land against the wall. There was a sharp sound as if something had broken, and Barnabas realized only dimly it was the plaster in the wall cracking with the weight of Willie's body. Striding closer, his hand held out. Justice would be served. Willie would learn a lesson, so well deserved, about stealing from one's betters.

 

"Give me your belt."


State of Grace - Part 3