Author's Notes: So, here is my pet project...the little period piece that I told all of you that I was working so diligently and secrelty on. Well, it's not so little chapterwise, but...the story is small, only four chapters, if decide not to add an Epilogue. Tada! Here it is! And, yes, it is a story that will be centered around Smike, who is one of my favorite Dickens characters and also the most tragic - if you do not like him, if only a little or not at all, I'd ah...suggest leaving straight away. Because this is ALL about him, pre-Nicholas era. :)
In any case, I'll confess that I'm very nervous about posting this first chapter here before I am completely done with the last (which I have not yet begun working on as of yet) for three reasons. Firstly, it took me a month to write and that is a lot of time to be spent on one short piece of writing. Two, it is written in an Austen-esque style, to fit the time period in which it is written, and I'm afraid not many of my regulars would be interested in reading long-winded talking and such. Third, I'm afraid that I've put too much heart and soul into it and it will be ignored completely. So this is my small letter of resignation before I let you begin reading. If you want to say something....critical of the piece, please don't resort to flaming me. I've worked so very hard on this...I can take con-crit but flames...it would break me. :(
Anyway, the title is metaphorical, and you will see why later. The characters will be developed later too, and also the plot, which is, yes, focused on a love story for a character that has no love story in canon-verse. It's AU, even if it's more prequel-like than anything, because I wanted to see this character have something beautiful for at least a little while....
And that concludes my rather long author's note. Feedback is certainly welcomed, if you would not mind putting a little comment in at the end when you're done reading. Also, I will post, later, a link that shows what my characters and Dickens' characters will look like in the story...if you're wondering at all. If not, that's fine...you can just ingore this little tidbit here and move on to the story, since I've nervously rambled for about three paragraphs.
Enjoy!
Disclaimer - I do not own Smike or Wackford Squeers Jr. as they belong to the great and venerable Charles Dickens. I do, however, own my original characters, in order of appearance - Alfred Redgrave, Cecilia Redgrave, Lettie, Benedict and Nathaniel Pickett.
Mr. Alfred Redgrave, in the quaint countryside near the village of Dotheboys in Yorkshire, was otherwise respected for his cordial disposition and vast wit in terms of pleasant conversation. For years prior to his unsettling marriage, which had been received by his rather small circle of acquaintances as 'the conception of ruination' or 'a wittily conceived plan to have us all positively ripe for a good joke', he had socialized with rather vapid company.
His social circle was comprised of pompous physicians, apothecaries and attorneys, all within walking distance of their early retirement. Completing their frontages as gentlemen, on their arms they dangled petty wives, creatures wrought only of loveliness. Their main concern, for these women, was the reception of good gossip to share with their equally paltry neighbors over fine tea cups and on their best doilies sat the most exquisite cakes.
Mr. Redgrave, however, took no wife of this nature, and that was where the the doubt of his peers first took root.
Before the contrived 'ruination', Alfred Redgrave was a renowned physician and prided upon his love of logic and reasoning, which he desired above all else, especially in regards to a patient that had been deemed as an otherwise lost cause.
This profession was the result of mere afterthought, being the son of a well-received gentleman with five thousand pounds a year, as Mr. Redgrave could hardly settle into any lifestyle that presented its fair share of was certainly not partial toward the prospect of being an indolent gentleman all his days. He could not become comfortable with living only for socialization and the refreshing conversation of dinner guests.
In fact, he was so underwhelmed by the concept that, upon his turning of age, invested some portion of his inheritance into a fine education, by which time he was interested in becoming a man of medicine.
During the long years of study, social gatherings had become a petty diversion, and though received with some condemnation on his behalf, were greeted with smiles and all interest in regards to allowing himself some repose from studiousness. His wit was heartily received, and had become the central hub of most gatherings by the tender age of one and twenty; for in the country, after retirement, there was hardly good company to be had.
A great deal of his prime was devoted to this ominous realm of desperation, in which he would study, closely, the true valiance of the human soul in times which seemed utterly hopeless. Not once did he turn his head to one pretty maid who would lavish her affections on him with fine letters and words of praise; all of them seemed much too silly for his taste, and the only logical conclusion, after so many encounters with ridiculous girls, he wrote them off completely as being 'asinine creatures' and 'the very essence of childish mockery'.
That was, until, he met his future wife who, in the days to come, would become the pinnacle of happiness in his life.
It had been a rather gloomy day. Not a speck of beauty promised in the dull, gray sky and the lush grasses which covered the hills in their vivid colors, sprinkled with wildflowers, seemed heavy and tired with dew. Mr. Redgrave had been sent for, after a rather treacherous fever had taken hold of one of Farmer Gray's eldest daughters. And upon discovering that it was, in fact, merely a trifling cold that had taken its course for the worse, he found himself entirely uninterested in the medical aspects of the house call – but was, by no means, weary of the lady herself.
For the entirety of three days, Redgrave had tended to her, and in the weeks that followed after her recovery, appeared at their rather forlorn door with every hope of seeing her once again. To him, she was a marvelous masterpiece – lovely, intriguing, and had acquired an affinity for discussing the dichotomy of love and logic on their long walks across the village countryside. In a matter of a few months, Alfred had summoned the courage to confess his love for her, marry her, and whisk her away to the manor of his inheritance, upon his father's death a few years before.
With her arrival, the manor began to show sparks of life in its once dull walls and lackluster tapestry, and their laughter and merriment filled the empty spaces, high toward the elegant ceilings.
Young Cecilia, their first and only daughter, was born upon the next year – taking the life of her poor mother upon her birth. At first, Alfred could hardly spare a look at the small creature, in fear of realizing the verity of the death of his dearest wife. But as Cecilia blossomed in her childhood, so did her personality. The same affection for romance and pirates and the mysterious beauty of life became apparent in the dear little girl, whose golden curls and adoring eyes were the mirror image of her mother's.
And as the years passed, the agonizing yearning for his wife allayed, settling into one aching realization that he would never see her again.
Nonetheless, it was a comfort knowing he had kept a piece of her there with him.
Little Cecilia…
For as long as could be remembered, Cecilia Redgrave had been constantly surrounded by her father's servants. There was never a time without them, for the days and nights were filled with a variety of company; tall ones and thin ones, and short ones and fat ones. And then there were the colors, colors that, as a child, had perplexed Cecilia completely – silver-haired, as her father, scarlet-haired, russet-haired and flaxen-haired, just as her.
She had often mustered up enough pluck to venture up to this menagerie of colors and sizes, who at first she'd thought were a variation of fantastic creatures in her youth, and ask them, 'please sir...how ever did you find such scarlet to put in your hair?'.
Mostly, the answers were almost always more of the same, and almost always bored her. 'Why, little miss…it seems as if God made me that way'.
And then, once, a man whose name she had never learned appeared mysteriously at the manor, with only a knapsack on his arm and clothes on his back to account for his meager subsistence in the world. His skin was the most exotic color she'd seen yet, and her curiosity found the better parts of her and dredged them up from deep within her innocent child's mind.
"Please sir!" She had tugged lightly on his tattered, windswept sleeve. "Pray, tell me why is your skin such a pretty dark?"
"Why, child," His chuckle was deep and his voice rumbled like thick strands of thunder. "God made me this way."
Again, she was disappointed in such a lackluster explanation for all the variation of humankind in the world, until his knees bent and his lungs heaved a great sigh as his body lowered itself to greet her. "But I believe he had a purpose, child, in making me this way. Why, it's the same reason he made you – such a pretty little thing as you are. We never know 'till we find out ourselves, and God always has his secretive ways, his little purposes. But my mama always told me – never judge a book by its cover."
She believed, the day she met the poor fellow, that the adage was undeniably true. Whatever skins he had been draped in when she had met him, as simple and unsuitable as they were, were a simple backdrop against the colorful soul and matchless heart beneath the miserable human guise.
But she knew of only one misleading concept which fate had devised the day they had met. Not the mysterious man with the knapsack, no...he had been less of a controversy in flesh than him.
It was the boy who held all the essence of mystery.
She wondered, idly, and in her sudden onslaught of rumination, let her needlework fall to her lap. A glance to her left allowed her the pleasure of seeing a young and beautiful face, exuding the ethereal loveliness of Botticelli's angels in its reformed countenance as it basked in the tranquility of somnolence and spring. She grazed her fingertips across his rosy cheek, and her heart trilled lightly inside of its cage, as a bird which longs for freedom, as the quiet lips below moved not in fear, but in contentment.
Yes, pity. Fate had instilled instantaneous compassion as if it had simply been destined all along.
If she had not pitied him, sympathized with the derelict sight of the boy, then would they ever have met at all?
"Father, I long for a walk," came a soft, pleading voice across the long dining table. "Might I persuade you to allow me a turn about the lane?"
The man sniffed distractedly, raising his tea cup over the paper his nose seemed buried into intently. "There is hardly room for your falling with malady with such imperative events in our near future, now is there Cecilia? No, I think not. Have your books not entertained you enough, my dear?"
"My books have not grown stale, father…but for such beauty to be had outside the walls of the library, their black and white pages pale in comparison," she countered obstinately, and her fork clattered noisily as it fell from her gloved hand and onto the porcelain plate set before her. "The weather is fair, the lanes are quite pleasantly dry and I can find no logic in your reasoning that may suggest a walk would do much to deter my welfare. In fact, I would say with the utmost of confidence, sir, that it would do well to enhance it."
"Oh, and how is that so?" The paper crumpled beneath his hands as he folded it and settled it neatly pressed by his untouched toast. "Pray, do enlighten me dearest," he afforded her a warm and genuine smile. "You are well aware of your father's partiality for a good line of reason. Persuade me."
Her mouth twitched with a smirk. "If I may be so bold as to remind you of the date?"
"One and twenty, of March as I have been well informed by Benedict."
"The advent of spring, am I mistaken in deducing this?"
"On the contrary," he smiled, his eyes twinkling affably. "You are not mistaken at all, little one."
She rose from her perch on a lovely mahogany chair, its fabric a fine calico print brushed with jade and rosy pink. Her footsteps seemed dwarfed by the sheer size of the room, and the sounds of her slippers upon the burnished floors echoed across the long, deep halls as she walked purposefully toward the gaping windows, which the servants had been happily obliged to open in welcoming of the fine weather. The fragrances of infant spring wafted in, carried on wind and through the boughs of the trees; the flowers, however, still remained wilted at their post beneath the windowsill, looking forlorn as they bowed their heads, waiting for the temperate heat to wake them from their spells of sleep.
Cecilia Redgrave gestured adamantly out the window. "Do you not see the condition of the elements?"
"I am aware of the fine weather, lovely," her father retorted. "I, too, have a secret partiality for stealing clandestine glances out of our little windowpanes. However, I do not so rashly display my affection for them as you do," he paused, allowing a smirk to claim his mouth. It fell suddenly as a thought occurred to him, "What I am not aware of is your point in the matter? Surely you have not forgotten the inconsistency of early spring as well?"
She inclined her head for a moment, calculating her next argument as she considered her father's rebuttal. Early spring had a tendency to brandish its ability to produce abrupt storms.
"Then I shall wear a shawl and bonnet." She gave a stiff nod that bore an air of conclusion, and offered Mr. Redgrave a reproachful look, at which he promptly responded with an adoring chuckle.
"You laugh, sir, and I speak only of my honest intentions!" She refuted
He motioned her toward him with a soft wave of his hand, and she obeyed merely out of plaguing curiosity. "Out of good humor, I assure you my daughter! And however should I contend with honesty?" He took her gloved hand as she neared him, and clicked his tongue as he appraised her hopeful countenance. A look of surrender passed over his expression, and he gave a sigh. She grinned, accepting his affirming silence as her triumph over his little game.
"But only, my dear, if you wear your shawl and bonnet," he reminded her, and craned his neck to follow her as she dashed toward the foyer. His voice ricocheted off the russet walls. "Your thickest shawl, Cecilia!"
But Cecilia was much too indulgent in her own solid victory to heed his admonishment, and had ghosted through the door so quickly, in her shawl and bonnet, as was directed, that she almost upset a wicker basket of linen and its carrier on her way out. A rather playful servant, Lettie as she was, called after her, 'perhaps the wind may catch you, Miss Cecilia!' and chuckled at her own joke as she continued on her way up the stairs.
As she had predicted, the air was soft with new warmth and the light of the day played gently along the slow-moving currents of a temperate breeze. It sifted through the tendrils of her hair, like a curious child with his toy, and then moved ever on, losing interest quickly in its own perpetual adventures.
Cecilia watched, a little enviously, as the branches above her, beginning to sprout tufts of green on its barren limbs, trembled with the surges of wind that blazed through it; she would admit, to herself only, that she wished she could be as unhinged as the wind and its matchless freedom. She mused that she would travel the world; indulge her whims for exploration on the enigmatic shores of the Americas and the exotic wonders of the tropical Indies.
It was as she reflected the adolescent whims of her childhood, long since nurtured by her father and his own fondness for small adventures, that she heard an unmistakable cry of pain and the sounds of a stumble from around the bend in the trail, rising before her in its offer for new sights and sounds to behold. But upon hearing such a pitiful noise, undoubtedly human and close by, she halted, sharpening her ears for anymore like it, and upon listening in, found that she heard another voice approach, sounding terribly violent and quite…young.
"Been idle again, have ye little slog?!" Called the voice, and a smaller one, submissive to its oppressor, cried out in hurting. The thud of a harsh blow wielded upon vulnerable flesh and bone resonated off the bark of the trees.
Cecilia, alarmed, began trudging purposefully up the dusty trail, nearly losing her shawl in the process.
The smaller voice gave a pathetic plea. "Please…merely fetching tinder, sir! Please!"
"Hardly, ye ol' useless drudge!" Came the venomous reply, and as Cecilia rounded the corner, she came upon a disquieting scene. "Dreamin again, have ye? Ye know that does no good! Earns a good floggin, it does!"
There was a boy there, perhaps half her age or a little more, standing erect with a walking stick in hand. Below him, a bent and wretched creature, its head cradled in its pale hands and its knees bowed in on itself. The oppressor, with his stick, had taken to beating the poor being at his feet with the bludgeon; she could hear the bones as they began to give way beneath the ruthless beatings.
"Yer worthless! More useful dead, I say! Dead!"
"Please, sir!" Beseeched the boy, still curling in on himself like a wilting flower. "Please!"
"Stop!"
The beatings allayed as her voice arose from anonymity, and the young boy with the stick looked up through an oily array of brown hair, which had fallen in his eyes upon his commencement of battering the adolescent at his feet. Upon unfurling from himself, Cecilia saw what looked to be the elder from the traces of structure in the gaunt, dirt-streaked face, writhing slowly and painfully in the dirt.
"Merely submissin', miss," the boy explained, gesturing to the servant lying on the ground, looking utterly devastated as he strained against the aches which throttled him for air. "This here dog…he was laggin' in his work, he was."
She cast him a look of utter contempt, and then turned gently toward the cowering boy. As she drew closer, she detected tremors, like whispers surging through the weakened, pale body. Her shadow was thrown over his trembling form, and upon noticing the alteration in the suspended, green-tinged light, the boy recoiled and gave a low gasp of terror.
"Hush, hush," she murmured softly, and outstretched her hand to the tattered fabric which contained, beneath the filthy, rather flimsy material, a thin shoulder. "My intentions are not to inflict harm on you in any way. Might I inquire after your well being, boy?"
She turned the poor creature over, kindly as she could in regarding the suffering she knew he must have been enduring, he gave a soft, pitiable sigh of pain and his countenance was unveiled. Through the streaks of grime and underneath the oddly shaped assortment of contusions that tarnished the pale skin, she saw the markings of a boy entering manhood…no older than herself, perhaps not even a day to separate their ages.
He did not meet her eyes, and this angered the other, standing quietly nearby with his stick; apparently, he had not attached himself to the idea of being ignored for too long.
"Look at the pretty miss when she's talkin' at ye, ye useless dog!" And a malicious clout was delivered to the servant at her feet, straight to the chest, which sent the poor drudge crying out once more. It subsided to a silent struggle, a wheeze and a cough as he withered, again, into a defensive ball once more.
Cecilia, outraged by the inhumanity of the situation, positioned herself stubbornly between the boy and the servant. She protested vehemently.
"Have you no compassion, little demon, for this poor boy?!" She exclaimed, gesturing to the figure wheezing miserably on the ground. "Have you no heart in that overly indulged little frame of yours?!"
"Ye misunderstand me, miss," the boy replied, giving a self-important sniff as he regarded her. "This here's my father's lowest, most pitiful little cripple of a servant and he's been lollin' off in his duties! My pa, he gave me this here bludgeon, and says that if Smike here don't do what he's told, he'd get a right good wallopin' fer it!"
"I don't care if he is the homeliest creature, or the lowest of drudges!" She objected. "He is but a timid, broken creature, and if he is as you say, then you, little sir, are a mockery of the nature of humanity to treat a poor and unfortunate boy this way!"
The smaller boy snarled and advanced on her, looking as if he would surely put a hurt on her if she dared insult him again. "He's of no bother to ye, miss. Anyway, he's not yers to be lookin' after…he's mine and I can do what I like with him, yer likin' it or not!"
An idea then struck her so surely, as if a bell had begun to toll in her and remind her of the opportunity at hand for a good bargain. She paused, casting a hopeful glance at the servant, who lay fearful behind her, and he returned her glance with one of inquisition and distrust.
She transferred her attentions from the servant to his owner. "Since the nature of your ownership is, unhappily, true…I must nullify this truth," she gathered herself proudly. "I will extend the offer of one hundred pounds for this boy here!"
The boy snorted. "Fer useless, ugly, pitiful Smike? He's not worth twenty, pretty miss, and ye'd be better off spending yer riches on a pretty dress than this here cripple. He can barely trudge up the stairs without puttin' a hurt on himself!" And the snort, as detestable as it was in the first place, developed into a demeaning cackle. Smike, however, was accustomed to such insults and did not look even half slighted by the blatant affront.
"Then should you not be eager to part with him, if he is, as you claim, 'useless'? Especially for the offer I have extended to you?"
The boy's raucous, cruel laughter subsided as the authenticity of the proposition began to settle and nestle into his small, slow-witted brain. Another snort of disbelief escaped him, "Ah, miss…ye must have had a right fall on yer way up here, if ye be wantin' Smike. He belongs to us Squeers 'cause there's no one else who be wantin' 'im."
"And why should I not want a servant of my own? Especially one so acquiescent and persuaded as this one here? I should think I am perfectly sound in my decision to transfer him into my ownership."
Young Squeers considered this a moment, and then dropped the walking stick. "Well, if ye be wantin' him…ye'll be payin' fer him now, I'd expect!"
"I am a woman of my word and would hardly resort to deception!"
"Lead the way then…" Little Squeers offered, and, as Cecilia ventured forward to help the drudge, whose name she'd derived from the unorthodox meeting as Smike, threatened her with the stick in identifying her endeavoring to help him. "Who's the servant here, you or 'im?!"
"You, sir, will not advance on me with that detestable stick or I shall not restrain myself to the limits of feminine decorum in defending myself and my honor!"
And so the boy was left to rise on his own which, as Cecilia observed, seemed a grueling process for him, especially under the effects of such pain. But it was the act of ascension that first made Cecilia's render her heart to the pitiable Smike.
With a low grunt of pain, he gingerly unraveled himself from the fleshy shield he had provided for his small, rather useless body upon receiving the last blow from his vicious proprietor. From his knees, he staggered uncertainly onto one foot and then, as he gained sufficient balance on one leg dragged the other forward, lifting it and, at last, he stumbled forward. His stance afforded no room for inquisition on behalf of his social stature; in all ways, he was a lowly drudge, from the posture to the subservient bow of his head.
Cecilia glanced longingly at the stick in the young proprietor's hand, wishing she could snatch it from him and deal to him what the poor servant boy Smike suffered for what she could only fathom had been years.
Though the path which led her away from her home had been rather short, time seemed to pass nonchalantly on the return journey, as Cecilia found herself amongst cruel and unwanted company. The squat little figure that plodded on beside her seemed such an unfair concept, compared to the slouched creature that staggered on her left, reduced to the expectant cower which she found to be a sort of second nature to the boy's normal habit. His walk, she noticed, seemed to exhaust him completely, as each weight of every step settled over his shoulders as heavily as would the weight of a carriage or an immeasurable boulder.
She pitied him, the poor thing, as every step seemed torture and he was used as a mere slave to the unbending will of his superiors. The work, she wondered and awestruck by the idea, must have been a torment all its own.
The air was cooling as they continued their stroll along the edge of the forest, and Cecilia began to notice the return of the tremors that had throttled his figure before. She put her hand over the shawl which formed like a soft cocoon around her shoulders and stopped before the boy, whose head lowered uneasily with the suddenness of her unforeseen halt.
She offered him an assuaging look, but he did not catch it. His head remained locked in its deferential position.
A shrill voice erupted from behind her before she could unravel the shawl from her shoulders, and she had half a mind to beat the stout young Squeers with a stick for his impatience and cruelty; perhaps, she mused, he'd learn a bit of manners for himself.
"Miss, what do ye think yer doin', eh?"
She rounded on him, with a look that suggested wanton murder in light of his mere presence. "I am conducting a miniature lesson in manners for this slave boy here, and if you would be so kind as to go on, I would be much obliged to lend you the name of my father so that you may be delivered from my presence this instant!"
The boy seemed unfazed by her indignant exclamation. "And who might this father of yers be?"
She ignored him, and gestured toward the manor that had appeared at the bottom of the hill they had begun to descend upon her sudden pause. "There you will bed awarded your funds, though I dare say you hardly deserve them! A servant will be beckoned to the door. Request the audience of a Mr. Alfred Redgrave, and you will be serviced," she shuffled toward him, her expression darkening almost completely as she confronted the malicious beast of a boy. "And if I should find you there upon my return, do not consider that I should be so civil with you as I have been for the duration of our meeting."
Again unfazed, he dipped forward in a courteous bow, a rather crude charade of the proper farewell gesture. "A pleasure meetin' ye, Miss Redgrave."
And he was off, plodding resolutely down the hill. She sighed bitterly, and said, "I could not offer you the same endearment, little beast."
Cecilia returned, immediately, to Smike as her dreadful company at last took his final leave. The boy had not moved an inch since the commencement of the miniature altercation, consisting of only quick-tempered words and indifference on behalf of young Squeers; but as he was mostly the scapegoat for such quarrels where he had come from, his logical mind had admonished him to stray far away from where there was the distribution of harsh phrase.
"You poor, poor thing," Cecilia breathed, and disentangled her wrap from her shoulders. A gust of cold wind caught her uncovered arms, and she realized how chilled he must have been, and was instantly concerned of such exposure to the weather in his less than favorable health. Quickly, she swathed him in the thick material, and he watched, in silent wonderment, as he took in the unanticipated kindness of his new mistress.
"You must be positively exhausted," Cecilia arranged the shawl so that it draped over most of the boy, and then gently took his arm. "Come here, and we'll permit you a rest. There's no need for hastening our return. I'm expected to be on a long, leisured walk."
At last, he attempted words as she helped him settle comfortably into the grass beneath his feet. "Do I…that is…I mean…do I not have…work to be done?"
"Merely a pretense. The most grueling task I will ask of you is to sit with me in my garden, and lend me your ears as I read and you, perhaps, prune the roses," she assured him, and gave a little laugh as she pictured herself parading about her rose bushes, the image complete with her father's white wig and a faux moustache to match as she read aloud a book relating to Parliament.
"So am I…not your new slave?"
She gave a disapproving shake of her head, closing her eyes and enjoying the sun as it spilled over her skin and fanned her pale cheeks. "Absolutely not! I detest the concept of owning the livelihood of another human being. We employ housemaids, but they are given wages. None of their lives belong wholly to us; they may leave when they please."
Smike lapsed into a bout of silence, which was not uncommon for him, as he hardly found anything useful to say that would not find him in a situation that would render him a misfortunate outcome. He merely reposed in the grass, hugging to his gaunt figure the shawl that Cecilia had draped over his shoulders.
"I suppose I must request your name, to obtain a suitable acquaintance between us." She ventured, startling Smike out of wistful contemplation. He bowed his head as she turned to look on him, and she laughed pleasantly, reaching forward with a hesitant hand to lift his chin. Shocked into utter silence by a pair of gentle eyes, Smike felt the overwhelming urge to revert to old habits and bow his head once more. It seemed much safer that way.
"Am I to deduce that it is, in fact, Smike?"
"Yes, miss." He replied obediently.
The wind seemed to carry an eerie resounding within its blustering flow, and their ears, however idle they had been in the simple quiet that had roosted on their little patch of serenity, were roused into attentive interest as they heard a voice from far off.
Miss Cecilia! Miss Cecilia, where are you?!
"Oh posh," Cecilia spat as she leapt from her seat and dusted the loose grass from the back of her lavender dress. "I suppose we must return home, if they insist upon shouting to the winds. An explanation is the least I can offer my father for his unquestioning kindness."
She offered her arm as Smike struggled to stand in the same hasty fashion, but failed miserably and nearly fell straight over in his weakness. Remarkably, he was caught by his new mistress who, under his weight, nearly toppled over herself.
"Are you quite alright? Here, allow me to aid you…" She steadied him and, once he had regained his footing, offered him a walking stick that had been abandoned on lonely turf, from the obliging wood nearby.
"Oh…please…Miss….I am sorry…I did not mean…" His chest heaved as his words faltered, and at once was ashamed…of himself and the sudden onslaught of frailty. After so many years of enduring the hunger, the fatigue, the beatings, he would have expected an acquired tolerance and learned to disregard the qualities of his humanity.
But, much to his dismay, upon the first stroke of luck he'd had in years, he'd managed to spoil the first moment of tranquility he'd experienced in such a long, long time.
"You have done nothing erroneous or wicked in any way that would merit such beseeching," she remarked, and began walking as she straightened her dress. Upon measuring the strain that had begun to mark his countenance, she offered him a smile, and a good amount of it was quelled by the kind intimation of forgiveness that he endeavored to find in her.
"If my curiosity does not offend you," she began, slowing her pace as she recalled his difficulty in walking. "How…did they hurt you? To render you unable…?"
Smike seemed hardly disconcerted by her inquiry, only stuttering in the same nervous fashion that he had first presented to her as mere habit. "I think I was…born this way."
"Then, I believe you have earned an apology from me, for my carelessness," she said awkwardly, and felt her cheeks flush with embarrassment. "Will you…forgive me?"
"It's alright…it's in man's nature…isn't it Miss? To…question something that….doesn't seem quite right? Or…or…quite human?"
She watched the boy from the corner of her eye, and the look in them softened the color to a gentle, swaying blue. "Quite the contrary, Smike. You are the epitome of human."
Upon their return to Thoreau, Smike was immediately transferred to the care of the most prominent housemaid, who led him directly into the spacious sitting room for tea and cakes. Upon being received by her, the boisterous woman who seemed more like a hen clucking around him, he was ushered into the grandeur of the sitting room. He cast Cecilia a rather worrisome glance, questioning, and she returned his anxiety with a gentle smile, allowing him the comfort of knowing that she would not desert him.
"Cecilia, dearest," her father flourished his hand, letting the dramatic gesture motion toward the door to the library, which was left slightly ajar. Cecilia allowed one last glance in Smike's direction, who was being kindly escorted by the taller woman, superior to him in height and girth, into the sitting room.
"Cecilia!" Her father hissed, and she quickly entered the library, turning on him as he shut the door noisily behind him, permitting his annoyance to be known to her.
Upon closing the door, he lingered for a moment, as if enveloped in thought, and his hand slipped languidly off the burnished gold handle. "After all these long years of my persistence in persuading you to acquire a personal servant….now, of all times, is marked by a change of heart?"
"I assure you, father, that heart was most certainly present in this decision, but not for the boy to be delivered directly back into servitude," she replied.
He heaved a sigh of what seemed to be born of nostalgia, but as she risked a glance in his direction, saw him press his fingers to the bridge of his nose, looking suddenly weary. "Then I have simply bought myself a crippled pet, Cecilia? Is that what I am to derive from your understanding with this boy?"
"No, I had meant to have him as a keeper…a caretaker to tend my roses. And I, in turn, will endeavor to return his health to him. It is a mutual respect, father; he has been treated wrongly and I…I could not stand by and watch the poor creature suffer such needless cruelty!"
He settled into the seat behind a long cherry wood desk, upon which lay stacks of papers that were neatly pressed into piles and a book lay open before him. A pair of bifocals, abandoned, she presumed, after the summoning of a servant to receive the fiendish little Squeers.
"Need I remind you of your obligation? The roses will hardly play a part in the weeks to come, and I daresay, they will be abandoned to wither after you are to leave."
She attempted a half-hearted grin, which faltered as soon as it came and disappeared completely within a moment of silent rumination. Upon recalling the silence, and the expectation that remained in the air, she cleared her throat and replied. "Until then, I would prefer to see to it that my flowers are cared for, and I should very much like fair company as well."
There was a pause as Mr. Redgrave sighed, once more, and ambled toward his fine crystal glasses of scotch. As he poured a one for himself, Cecilia regarded his hunched figure, bent by years of burdensome sorrow and regret. "Please, will you promise me father…you will keep him, once I have gone."
"You will not take him with you, Cecilia? Is he not yours now? My, my this is all very perplexing, this affair...is it not?"
"I fear that I will not retain the…ability to keep him."
"I suppose, if he proves himself useful in the garden, that I may…reserve a place in the quarters for him."
"And you…will take good care of him, won't you?"
"Why, Cecilia…do you mean to insult me?" He chuckled heartily, attempting wit and charm in a moment that seemed pertinently solemn, but the purpose of it was lost in a crushing wave of melancholy. "I…I will not abandon him to his tormentors, if that is your insinuation. I am no fiend."
He turned to look at her and, seeing the pensive sadness in her downcast eyes, reached forward and enveloped her with his arms. "Go on then…he is in desperate need of tending himself."
"Yes, father," she replied and, upon being released from the embrace, offered him one last mollifying look and turned to depart from the library altogether.
The sitting room was alive with bustle, quite a contrast to the distant, ruminating silence that had consumed Cecilia in the library. The company of such mournful books, their pages drowsy in the dim lights and the dark atmosphere, only made the despondency seem more alive – at least, against the listless quiet of the room.
But as she came upon the scene, she found that Lettie was fussing over the wearied, bent figure of Smike. He looked rather vigilant, uncertain in regards to responding to her frenzied conduct, pouring tea and chattering and laughing heartily over her own silly wit. And so he merely engaged in a cautious smile, looking nonetheless entertained by her boisterous display.
It seemed impossible for sadness to cast its disquieting spell over such a blithe scene. But it was the way the streams of light seemed to seep through the glittering windowpanes, pouring over Smike and holding his ashen countenance in a sort of bewitching glow. He had been presented with fresh linen, plain but otherwise fresh.
He almost looks....beautiful.
He caught sight of her, and his eyes seemed to soften at once. But realization swayed his better judgment, and the gentle gaze transfixed themselves nervously on the intricately woven rug beneath his feet.
"Miss Cecilia! At last you've come! Smike here as been wonderin' where you tottered off to." Lettie's exclamation severed through the raucous laughter, and seemed to dismiss herself upon realizing Cecilia's arrival, leaving her a cup of tea in her wake. "I'll just be off to throw these here linens in the rubbish for the boy, and ol' Benedict, he's polished one of the rooms upstairs for out little guest here."
:ettie gestured to the wicker basket full of Smike's threadbare clothes. "Poor creature…looks like he's seen the worst of it. A sweet boy, too…such misfortunes should not have been for him."
"Thank you, Lettie. I hope that he will come to find himself quite welcome here. Do you presume he may find…certain discrepancies, in integrating his existence into one household already long since established?"
"Only time can tell ya, miss," Lettie lifted her great shoulders, completing the helpless gesture with a long, wispy sigh. "I must be gettin' on with my duties."
"Certainly," Cecilia remarked and, as Lettie bustled off toward the kitchen with her linen basket, joined the frail-looking boy in the sitting room. She perched herself on the sofa across from him, in order to allow him some self-comfort without her presence to ruffle its innate weakness. She assumed that she would have found it nearly impossible to conduct herself in a way that would suggest prudence and self-containment if she found herself in a similar situation, and could not help perceiving that, though he permitted himself an anxious look at his surroundings every so often, he carried himself in a manner of courage and keen perception.
With her own tea beginning to warm her, and the delicate porcelain sitting prettily in her lap, she abandoned her attentions solely on it and took to observing her companion instead. Upon noticing that her eyes had become transfixed, curiously, on him, he began to fidget, staring at the porcelain as if it may break if he dared lay one dirty finger on it. She then recalled, after such a line of thinking, that his mistreatment had not afforded him a bath in too long a time, and she reproached herself for not remembering at once, before he had been changed.
"Please, drink," she offered gently. "It will warm you."
Beneath the perpetually tautening surface, there was strained movement. His eyes wandered from their settlement on the exquisite rug, and rested bravely on her face. "Please, miss…I only hope you…will not think that I wish to reject your kindness toward me," he murmured, nervously, and his eyes, upon detecting the kind smile that had begun to manifest itself in her features, reverted back to the rug. Safety and security seemed attainable in those deep burgundy threads. "Only…I do not wish to embarrass you with my not knowing how…"
"How to conduct yourself?" She asked mildly and, upon receiving a shameful nod from him, set her cup upon the saucer, placed, for their convenience, on the coffee table before her. She was gentle in asking, "would you care for me to…present proper conduct to you? I confess I am hardly a proficient educator, and am clumsy with the presentation of offering my educative services, but for you I may risk an endeavor."
He smiled, and a brief smile was given when she said, playfully, "now, sir, I must warn you that I am, however, proficient with injurious censure if you dare laugh!"
Her muslin gown rustled delicately as she transferred her perch from the opposite sofa to the very one he sat so nervously on, and for a moment, as she picked up his saucer from the table, it seemed the only noise available in the presence of his unrequited awkwardness.
"Here," she muttered to him, taking his pale hands, weakened by fatigue and work, and offering the saucer to him. "It is quite simple with much practice, but I am afraid that I upset many a cup upon first entering the ah - fragile art."
A small, cordial smile traced his mouth upon detecting her mischievous good humor, and as she lifted the cup to her lips, the saucer kept as a sort of safety net beneath, he mimicked her movements. A cordial warmth spread through him, swift and comforting, and she seemed mildly, if not wholly, pleased with his efficiency, when he had successfully transferred the cup and saucer back its safe-keeping upon the coffee table.
"There!" She cried, offering him a small ovation. "You are a master of the art of tea-consumption, my friend! And if I were left to consider the matter, I should be much obliged to feel envious, as you are a boy and are a great deal more poised than I!"
And as soon as Smike had been given a leisurely amount of time to finish his tea, and indulge in a sort of genial comfort that had not been allowed at Dotheboys Hall, she set her china cup down and gestured to the boy to follow her, resisting the primal urge to go to him immediately upon watching him struggle to rise. The poor creature seemed so tired to her, and though she was not ignorant of the fact that he had been more than proficient in carrying himself from place to place, with a great deal more fluidity than she would have thought in his disability, the impulse was still there.
Luckily for her, she was able to divert her mind elsewhere and distract herself from the impulse. She did not want to risk harming his pride in coddling him as she would a child, and, surely, injure her own reputation in doing so.
Instead, she chattered happily to him about nothing in particular as they walked slowly toward the stairs, an activity which Cecilia Redgrave hardly thought she would ever feel obliged to do. But it seemed to comfort him, listening to her speak, and she could not think of a reason that she should not console him, after all he had been through. In fact, it seemed the least she could do.
"As Lettie was so careless, but kind, as to provide you with new dress before I was given the opportunity to offer you a bath, I suppose that, after I draw you some hot water, and whilst you are bathing, I should find you fresh attire."
In the midst of his struggle up the staircase, he nearly stumbled and, upon her catching his arm, preventing his fall, seemed only to stutter more as he asked. "Bath, miss?"
"Yes, of course…I might add, dutifully, that there is hardly a more comforting thing than a bath. Of course, there is walking along the forest that seems equally amusing as it is lovely, but when the rains forbid such activity outside, there is always reading, and bathing, I suppose..."
If he were at all introduced to the regulations of society manners and the decorum in which Cecilia Redgrave was expected to act, he would have realized straight away that she was digressing in the most mortifying of ways. Certainly the age in which a girl of her stature found herself, she would have been introduced to high expectations on behalf of her peers, and after so much practice in conversing with virtual strangers many years her senior, she felt herself flush at the thought of such impropriety in the presence of someone her own age.
He was not aware, however, and her blush cooled immediately, especially as she found the door to the wash room ajar. "Ah, there we are! It seems as if Benedict has already drawn hot water for you. I suppose I shall allow you privacy, and, once you are finished, you can find me in the parlor. But, mind you, the one to which I am referring is near the library, not the foyer."
Before she could leave, however, Smike caught a small portion of the thin sleeve of her lavender muslin gown. She turned, and saw the faintest of smiles on his face, one, she presumed, was involuntary and was simply an effect of the emotion in him.
And in the softest of voices, he said to her, "I thank you miss…with all of my heart."
She wanted to reply but, upon receiving no words that seemed appropriate for such a kind expression of gratitude, she merely offered him a genuine smile and, as his hand lifted from her sleeve, resumed her descent toward the drawing room.
Upon finishing his bath, and clearing away the water before the task could be prevailed upon by a dutiful servant, Smike skittishly peeked outside the door and, finding clothes left on an obliging settee nearby, snatched them before he anticipated the playing of a cruel joke on him. Despite knowing that he was no longer in the home of the despicable Squeers, he could not help but bear the preventative sense to allow him not a moment's hesitation, should he find himself in deceptive company.
However silly it seemed to him, still he bore it with patience, knowing there was the slightest of chances that it was not silly, and he might need it.
He dressed in the garments that Cecilia had left for him, watching, in the mirror propped up on the wall before him, as the reflected image became ever so clearer to him in presenting someone he had never thought possible to see in a mirror – a boy. Not a drudge, nor a dog, nor a lowly slave. But a boy, worthy of wearing such clean clothes and unsoiled skin.
Already, he felt revived from his wistful stupor, and if he had not been by the warm, consoling tea that he had been offered before, then certainly by the idea of being clean for the first time in what felt like ages.
He reviewed his mirrored replica with some disdain, of course, seeing the unsightly ankles and the pallor that reached even into his eyes, rendering them what he saw as an insipid sort of color without the expressiveness of character to redeem them.
Unbeknownst to him, there was kindness there, and a bud of love and loyalty yet to have bloomed, but because it was not the wickedness of some dashing men that he had rarely seen, or the dark enigma which some possessed, it was merely the light of the sun reflecting off the surface. There was more than enough character to be unveiled in him, and stronger than those who were more witty and educated and sophisticated than he was.
His eyes, he mused drearily, were merely…dull. He could only hope that a new household, with such a variety of qualities to be investigated, that he would find himself amongst the masses. And perhaps, he hoped Cecilia would inadvertently, through her own manner of decorum, teach him to discover his identity within the hollow shell of flesh and bone.
Miss Cecilia, he remembered, was expecting him in the drawing room. He fitted his poor feet into the slippers he'd worn on his arrival and began the exerting activity of descending the staircase.
At the bottom of the stairs, he began to amble upon realizing the enormity of the manor, at least compared to his former sleeping space, which had been at least half the size of the parlor. A hallway seemed promising in producing the aforementioned parlor for him and he ventured into the shaded corridor with some hesitancy, but in his determination, shuffled quietly along.
He began to hear the sound of voices filtering through the wall some way ahead. Drawing closer, the voices became unmistakable to Smike, who, after such long years under the confinement of the Squeers, had learned to sharpen his hearing to prepare for their arrival.
Mr. Redgrave, I am pleased indeed upon hearing of your daughter's introduction into good society. It is a momentous occasion! But I have yet to be informed of its relevance to me? My mother received me yesterday, and was so obstinately vague on the subject of an arrangement concerning Cecilia, which vexed me, I assure you, after she invested all that trouble in mentioning it to me, that I came as soon as I could in hopes of hearing it from the man himself.
I am afraid that I am not at liberty to discuss the situation as of yet, Mr. Pickett. But I may assure you, with much sincerity, that the matter will be settled presently.
Yes, it is all very well but…might I inquire after some inclination pertaining to the situation?
You may not, Nathaniel…I fear I must return to my work. It does not complete itself you know! At this, there was a rather half-hearted attempt at a chuckle. Benedict, would you be so kind as to show the boy to the door? Good man.
Smike had slowed to an absentminded meander, his slippers making wispy sounds as they shuffled across the burnished floor. At once, a door not five feet away opened, and a head of fiery scarlet hair exited the room, belonging to a younger man who looked to be much older than Smike himself. The gentleman was escorted down the hall by a gaunt and weary servant, who trailed dutifully behind him.
The man caught sight of Smike and offered a genteel smile. "Well, good afternoon! I don't believe I've had the pleasure of meeting you before!"
"New one, arrived here only a few hours before," Benedict's deep voice, resembling the fathomless rumble of thunder, seemed to surprise Smike out of the reverie he'd been ensnared within. "Apparently, Miss Cecilia rescued him from a rather beastly little piglet down the way, a loutish sort of boy. At least, I've heard…"
"Might I be so bold as to inquire after your name, boy?" The man offered his hand, and Smike, uncertain as to how to respond to such surprising civility, looked to Benedict for assistance. The servant gestured to his hand, and then to his mouth, as if urging him to speak.
"Smike, sir," he replied meekly, and allowed his hand to be wrung twice.
"Well, I declare good fellow that it has been a delight indeed in making your acquaintance!" He said giddily. "My name is Nathaniel Pickett, an old companion of Cecilia's. Since we were children, really. Or, rather…she was a child."
He laughed cordially and, after pausing to heed an overhead rumble of thunder, looked back at Smike with a rather concerned expression. "Well, it seems as if the weather insists upon my departure. I can only pray the rain will hold until I reach the house! Be well, Smike. I do believe you will be very much attached to this dear old place in no time at all!"
Mr. Pickett was off before Smike even had the chance to conjure an appropriate response. Despite his odd manners, he was very kind to Smike and he had not been opposed to meeting the man at all. Benedict, before following, turned to the boy and motioned toward the library.
"I believe you are looking for that room there, if I am not mistaken…and I am hardly prone to mistakes, boy. It's not in my nature…" He said simply, and continued on after Mr. Pickett.
Smike offered the man a most concerned and curious glance, but continued down the corridor as Benedict followed the guest to the foyer. Again, his shuffling feet were the only sound which filled the vicinity, offering a ghostly aura to an already shadowed, eerie corridor. There were many doors surrounding him, many potential rooms that, without the servant's reference, he might have been visiting for a long time in search of Cecilia. He was glad of the man's unwarranted kindness until he arrived in the room, only to find himself trespassing on restricted territory.
Alfred Redgrave looked quite perplexed as to the appearance of the new servant boy. In fact, as he heard the shuffle abruptly halt at his doorway, and a slight intake of breath that may have been identified as a small gasp of horror, he turned to greet the modest creature and snapped his book shut with one swift clench of his hand.
"I believe Benedict misdirected you. Strictly chance, I can be assured," Mr. Redgrave seemed to entertain a private joke as he set the book down on the corner of his cherry wood desk.
Smike, horrified by his mistake, began to mutter. "Please, sir…please, I…I did not…that is to say…if I had known!"
"I daresay, boy, did they teach you to speak where they confined you?" He offered a laugh of nonchalance and invited Smike in with a wave of his hand. "No matter. It is plain that I have frightened you into submission. You needn't worry yourself into such oblivion; I would never think to hurt anyone, much less you."
"I thank you, sir…" Smike said quietly and paused before the desk, where he happened upon another book, a volume much thicker in sheer size than its predecessor in his master's hand.
"I will risk a wild supposition and say you are in pursuit of Cecilia. Poor boy, you should be shackled to your search for the duration of your life, if you insist upon looking. I have not yet found her…and I, her father, who have raised her and clothed her and enriched her mind!"
Alfred Redgrave was one to speak metaphorically, and all in honor of a good jest. But upon finding that there was too much truth to the statement than could be considered comfortable, he silenced the common chuckle that came after the delivery of a witticism, and replaced the book in his hand to its slot.
He turned, after hearing no response to his clever remark, to find the boy tracing the cover of a volume placed on his desk. Recognition immediately followed and he said, "I see you have acquainted yourself with The Pilgrim's Progress?"
In his shock, Smike emitted a low gasp which could only be described as pitiful, and upset the volume, so that it landed on the floor with a substantial thud.
"You are a creature easily undone, aren't you?" Mr. Redgrave remarked cynically, a contemptuous comment directed toward the cause of the boy's distrustful skittishness rather than its pitiful effect.
"Sir, please…forgive…" Smike swallowed hard against a growing lump in his throat, and the last word was uttered so low that Mr. Redgrave had to crane his neck forward to hear it. "Me."
"I do not comprehend the need to forgive those who are not at fault. It is your former masters who are vastly in need of forgiving, and it is they who do not deserve it." He bent to the ground and picked up the fallen volume. One look at the boy was enough to feel the severity of the neglect he had endured, he could only presume, all of his life. In his sympathy, he could only manage a sigh, and settled the book back on the corner of the desk.
"Cecilia…" He began, gesturing lightly toward the door. "She is in the parlor down the hall. I believe you shall find it on your left, not three doors away."
Smike was about to leave when a voice beckoned him back into the dim light of the library. Mr. Redgrave looked softly on him as the boy, still cowering, glanced tentatively over at the master of the house through his rather demeaned slouch.
"If you…perform well in your duties, which I must confess will be limited to keeping my daughter entertained and her roses lively," he said, and gestured to a book nearby. "I shall educate you in the art of reading. Would you be fond of such an idea?"
Smike heaved a long, wispy breath that could be easily afforded to joy. A smile was summoned from its hidden realm, and he answered with such jubilance that it could hardly be contained in the small voice in which it was conveyed. "I…aye, sir. I would."
And he hobbled out of the library, leaving a rather amused Alfred Redgrave, who began sorting through his unlimited supply of books with a good-hearted chuckle, in his wake.