This is my first long story in quite a while. I usually don't write anything but one-shots, which are what I feel I am best at. But once I started writing this, I realized it would be way too long to be a one-shot.
If you're unfamiliar with the way I write Grell, please feel free to check out "Unfit to Serve", a collection of one-shots featuring him in butler form only (in which he is completely human and not death god at all), which I try to update every so often. It will be on hiatus for a while though, as I work on this story.
/
It came as all the others did – carefully wrapped up and secured within layers of brown paper, and tied with the same rough twine, done up in a neat knot at the top. Grell followed it with his eyes as it was lifted down from the shelf where it sat, and carried to where he stood waiting at the front of the room. Mrs. Turner's place was a small and cozy little establishment, well-kept despite the rolls of bright fabric scattered on every flat surface, and the woman herself very kind, but a particular type of paranoia always seemed to overtake him whenever he came for the reason he had today. He almost wished he could view the item for a moment, just to be certain that it was indeed what the madam had ordered. But how silly he was, for when had it not been?
"Thank you for your few minutes' patience, Mr. Sutcliffe," the aforementioned seamstress spoke, smiling, and passed the parcel into the butler's hands. The package, like most of the others before, was quite hefty. As he had come to learn, Madam Red was very much fond of requesting a full dress each time she placed an order, underskirts and all.
"Oh, not at all…the pleasure is mine to stop in, as it always is," responded Grell, shifting his burden about in his arms, and subsequently emitting a grunt.
"Will you require any assistance, sir?" Mrs. Turner asked as she observed him. It was the same question he heard every time.
"…I am most grateful for your concern, Ma'am, but please be assured that I will be all right…I have only to walk outside to the carriage."
The middle-aged woman hesitated, but eventually nodded, though moving to open the door for the heavy-laden servant nonetheless. "Very well. Please send my greetings to Ms. Durless, and let me know if I may be of further help."
At last obtaining a firm hold around the massive bundle, Grell nodded in return, his face partly concealed by one corner. It would have been more polite to bow, but lowering the parcel would only warrant more grappling with it when he went to pick it up again. "Of course. Thank you very much for everything, Ma'am. Good day!"
And thus, precariously stepping through the door so generously held open, he made his way back onto the streets of West End London.
/
THUMP.
Grell winced as the object causing his arms so much grief slipped from his grasp and hit the hardwood floor of the upstairs hallway. Ah, and how very close he had come to making it all the way to the madam's bedchamber without this very thing occurring! Well, the fact that he had managed to haul it up the stairs without any sort of injury must certainly be commendable anyhow, he reminded himself.
The dull yet very audible sound had served as an abrupt signal to the lady of the house, and appearing in the hall, she briskly made her way over to where Grell was crouching and preparing to lift the dropped brown-paper package. The servant raised his gaze upon hearing the approaching footsteps. "My lady – your new dress is at last here! Please allow me just one moment and I will have it in your room!"
Madam Red sighed, watching him rise to his feet as he simultaneous struggled with the bundle. "Thank you. Just take care not to hurt yourself, please." Moving past him, she directed her steps toward the door of her bedroom, and with arms full, Grell followed.
Once they were inside, she promptly turned to face him, and it was only then that her anticipation over the completed outfit finally revealed itself. With glowing eyes and a broad, eager smile, she extended her hands toward the parcel which Grell, exhaling in relief, was laying to rest on the bed. "Well then, I appreciate your assistance. You are now dismissed."
"My lady – pardon me, but will you be – ah, that is –" fumbled Grell, attempting to put to words the question which he could not find it in himself to resist asking, however indirectly.
For Madam Red however, his inquiry was easily guessed. "Yes, I will wear it for a bit today, so you will be able to see it and give your criticism."
"Oh, Madam, I don't expect that any criticism will be necessary!" the flushing butler exclaimed, raising his hands. "Indeed, I cannot recall a single time when you have worn anything that did not befit you! I am merely…I suppose, well…"
"You are curious," Madam Red stated, concluding the thought he was so poor at hiding. Perhaps overly so. But, she only continued to smile. "I know. You always are. Now –" she gestured to the door. "Go on, but do not linger too far, in case I need you, though it is not likely."
"Of course, my lady", Grell replied, and performed his usual, ungainly bow. "Do not hesitate to call if you must." These words were admittedly insincere however, as the thought of helping Madam Red to dress always caused great anxiety. He was no maidservant, which both of them knew, and he still did not know why she did not employ at least one to help in such daily situations as this. But somehow, Madam Red had grown adept at doing herself up each day, hooks, ties and all the rest. There had only been a few instances when his assistance had been required, each of which involved catching an unwanted glimpse of and/or touching her undergarments, and which had, each time, sent Grell's head reeling and left him a tomato-red, trembling mess.
After closing her door, he drifted down into the drawing room, where he wandered about for several minutes to see if anything needed tidying up. But before much time had passed, a cry pierced the air.
"UGH! No, this cannot be!"
He flinched at the shrill, unexpected sound, but nonetheless found himself nervously rushing back down the hallway. His gloved fingers brushed the doorknob, but remembering the etiquette of a servant, he pulled them away at the last second. Taking a deep breath and blinking away sudden mental images of petticoats and chemises, he called out, "My lady, is everything all right?"
Her voice again sounded, irritation leaking from it. "Come in at once!"
Meekly and with lowered eyes, he entered the room.
"It's all right, Grell, you can look up."
He did. There she stood in her new attire, but what the source of her displeasure was, he could not for the life of him tell. The outer skirt was beige in color, one side drawn up a bit above the knee and held in place by maroon velvet pieces made to resemble a flower. The underskirt, revealed at the bottom where the outer one was drawn up, was a smoky green with wide, maroon stripes. The high-collared bodice was also beige, a thick maroon stripe running vertically down each side of the center, another, smaller flower situated at the left shoulder. Each sleeve had a maroon band encircling the cuff, and each band was yet again accented by a velvet flower. The dress was just as, if not more so, splendid as Grell had envisioned, and he found it to even further enhance his madam's overall loveliness. But why were her arms crossed over her front?
He was granted only a moment to stand and behold her, half in rapt admiration and half in perplexity, before she rose her voice, impatient. "There's been a mistake. Heaven only knows how it came about, but I have never heard of a dressmaker making such a grave error before." Her speech was penetrated by her scowl.
Cautiously, he spoke. "And – and what would that be, Madam?"
"Can you not see?!" came the exclamation. At his flummoxed look, she rolled her eyes. "It's this bodice. It is not the right size."
Hearing this, Grell was at last able to perceive the problem. Her hands were gripping the front edges of the jacket-style bodice, holding it closed around her. She was without a doubt correct; it clearly did not fit her and appeared to be made for someone with a somewhat larger frame.
"Oh, my lady!" he cried out, hand thrown up to his forehead in dismay. "This is a calamity! How could they have conceived of wronging you so?! The ultimate masterpiece it would have been, if not for this faux pas!" How could anyone disgrace his worthy madam like this?
"Indeed," she sniffed, clutching the bodice tighter. "I would never in a thousand years have imagined such inferior service from Turner's. I can only wonder which one of her girls it was who became so careless. I am sure there is no true spite involved – merely distraction – but that does not make this any less excusable."
Upon hearing this, the accusatory thoughts which burned in Grell's head were, in an instant, snuffed out as the flame of a candle. Whoever was behind this blunder now dined at the same table of Poor Service that he did…that table at which he seemed forever fated to carve and serve the meat of Failure. If anything, he should be preparing the unknown seamstress-in-training a seat.
He only nodded in response. Madam Red, after briefly casting her eyes at the brown paper wrapping that lay discarded on the bed, again spoke. "You can expect me to accompany you to town tomorrow, for I will have certain words made ready for Mrs. Turner. Let us hope that she will just as soon have a refund ready for me. Now, please excuse me."
"Yes, Madam." With a final covert glance at the dress, he turned to go, shaking his head. "What a pity that it must go to waste, if I may say so…it is of a marvelous design, if nothing else…" At seeing the sour look she still wore, he trailed off, thinking that perhaps it was best if he took his leave quietly.
Ah, what a dark day tomorrow would be for that kind dressmaker and her helpers.
/
It was something which struck him as a bit unusual. Here it was, a new day, well into the morning, and Madam Red had not yet issued the command – the command that he drive her down to the shop, where she would doubtlessly cause a great uproar in demanding her refund. He couldn't believe that she would not make the trip at some point today, but currently, she only remained inside her study, and the oddness of it made him just the slightest bit apprehensive.
Despite her not coming out however, he needed to go in, though for an entirely unrelated reason. Armed with feather duster, rag, and furniture polish, the wary butler approached the door, and gingerly knocked.
After a moment of silence, her calm reply was heard. "Yes."
Holding his supplies against him in one arm, he used the hand of the other to slowly open the door. Advancing inside a step, he bowed, causing the duster to slip away from him and softly hit the ground. Grell tried not to let this distract him as he cleared his throat and said, "Please excuse the interruption, my lady, but I believe I am scheduled to perform a thorough dusting of the study this morning?"
Leaning back in the chair behind the desk, she turned her head away from the nearby window and stared at him. The absent look in her deep red eyes was difficult to miss. Startled somewhat, Grell could only wonder if he had unwittingly disrupted some profound reverie. But then, she shook her head as if to clear it, and regarded him with her ordinary, steady gaze. "That's right. I must have forgotten about that. Please, do begin. Pay no mind to me; I am not yet through reviewing the mail."
Having said this, she straightened in her chair, and reached for one of several folded papers lying before her. Grell retrieved the feather duster and set down the objects he carried, but found himself reluctant to proceed. It was not often that Madam Red stayed nearby while he was cleaning or doing most other menial chores. Her presence, and more significantly the scrutiny she was likely to observe him with, only heightened his already incessant self-consciousness.
But strangely, she didn't seem as though she intended to watch him all that much. She didn't even seem that focused on the mail, Grell noticed after a few minutes as he carefully wiped down the surface of a small table. Rather, her eyes had restlessly strayed back to the window, her figure again reclining in the white armchair. Knowing it was not his place, he did not press her about this unusual behavior, but continued with the task at hand, making sure to keep out of her line of sight.
"Grell…did I ever tell you about my grandmother?"
Surprised, he turned to face her. "Why, no…I don't believe you have, Madam."
"She wants me to come and visit her."
"Is that…so?" He cast a glance down at the letters and newsjournals that lay in a heap on the desk.
"Yes." Still without looking at him, she continued. "She lives just outside of Castle Camps. It's a small town – a village, you might say – quite a distance north of here. When I was a child, we would visit her often. The excitement and sheer size of London was too much for her, she always said, and I don't recall her ever traveling down to see us in our home. I have not received word from her in – oh, quite some time, until today." She paused. "According to her letter, she is preparing to at last hand down the many family heirlooms and other treasures in her possession. She asks that I come to claim what she has for me."
"Oh?" Grell asked, already imagining in dread the journey that would surely be in order, and the many preparations it would entail.
"Yes. Otherwise, she says, she may decide to sell them to charity, either now or when she eventually passes. In all truth, I think she simply wishes to see how many of us will come to see her."
Grell nodded, in the back of his mind trying to remember where the madam's traveling bags were kept.
"However," and here she heaved a great sigh, at last pulling her eyes away from the view of the outdoors and once more resting them upon him. "there is a problem. There is one item that I would be overjoyed to accept from her – really, I can't think of who else is left but me to take it – but I know she does not plan to offer it to me. She has made it clear that it is for one person alone – and that is Rachel."
Hearing and swiftly recognizing the name not often uttered, Grell brought his remote ponderings to an abrupt halt, and stood uncertainly, not quite knowing how to respond or react. When mentioning her dear, deceased sister, Madam Red would at times speak with fondness and at other times with grief, and so Grell had learned to take great care whenever the name was brought up. It wasn't always easy to determine when words of comfort were called for, or when keeping quiet was the better alternative. In this case, he chose to simply nod.
"So, do you see how this is a dilemma?" the lady went on, hardly registering the bob of his head. "Rachel, for obvious reasons, cannot go to claim anything. But my grandmother – who is aged and with her mind half gone – believes that she still lives!"
At this, Grell could not conceal a bit of astonishment. "Does she really? But, my lady, has she not been told? Or supplied with some sort of evidence?"
"Of course she has. But she still will not believe any of it. In a way, I can almost understand; after all, she loved Rachel more than anyone." If Grell was not mistaken, the slightest trace of bitterness had slipped into that statement. He watched with unintended interest as Madam Red frowned to herself. "This object I speak of, by the way, is a ring – one which we always saw her wear, and which Rachel and I both admired. I still remember it – it is a silver band crowned with the most lovely garnet stone. Sometimes we would speak among ourselves about which one of us might inherit it someday. But we were so young, and the future seemed so far off then." She sighed, and held a hand to her head as though it ached. "If Rachel doesn't come for it, that ring will surely be lost to me forever. And – and I just can't let that happen!"
Try as he might, Grell could not find it within himself to sympathize with her. He had grown up in very different circumstances, after all, and had always kept himself from hoping for most things – and especially material things. Soothingly, he asked, "Is there any way, Madam, that you may be able to convince your grandmother of the truth?"
She shook her head, and shifted forward to rest her chin within her palm, elbow against the desk. "It's not likely, but all I can think to do is try anyway. I've always wished for that ring; it would go so wonderfully with many of my clothes. I must try my hardest to bring it home with me."
Grell scratched his head, attempting to mask his uneasiness at the thought of his lady resorting to stealing this ring, an underhanded act indeed. No, Madam would never do something so insidious! A contemptible person I am, for considering such a thing…
"I do hope you will be able to speak some sense into her, Madam," he managed to supply. And, doing all he could to suppress thoughts of his dear Lady Red turned thief, added, "Do not hesitate to let me know if I can help in any way."
A few moments' stillness passed, and upon seeing her fall silent once more, Grell slowly resumed his work. But then – several minutes later, midway through his best attempt to delicately dust a picture frame – it happened.
With extreme suddenness, Madam Red jumped from her seat to a standing position, the movement so rapid and her expression engraved with such extraordinary shock that Grell, leaping backward and slamming into the wall in fright, almost believed her to be possessed. Wide staring eyes turned toward him, and he cringed through the newly-born throbbing in his head. What had he done?! He had done something, hadn't he?! Either that or a mouse had run across her foot, but he was only ever inclined to assume the worst.
"MyladyI'msosorryformyactionsIbegyourforgivenesspleasepardonmydespicableselfIdonotmeanto-"
"No, Grell, no! Listen! Stop that bowing; stand up and listen! Yes, that's better. Now – I've just figured it all out – you are the answer – the solution!"
The overwhelmed butler did not – could not – comprehend. He still felt as though he had literally jumped out of his skin, and his boggled mind remained partially convinced that he was at fault somehow.
In unwavering excitement, Madam Red continued. "Grell, listen to me. I need you to unpack that dress from the other day – the one that doesn't fit me. Instead of returning it, I want you to try it on. If it fits, you can accompany me to Castle Camps posing as Rachel, and my grandmother will most certainly hand over the ring!"
He heard the words…but for some reason they were having an awfully difficult time being absorbed into his brain. He nearly felt outside of himself, as if he was listening to her proclaim such a silly notion to someone else, a notion that made no sense at all. When the mental fog finally began to dissipate, he noticed her watching him intently, and silently repeated to himself the words he recalled hearing. It was like waking from a dream…only to discover in terror that the dream was real.
It sunk in, what she wanted him to do. He gaped, his face contorting into ten times more alarm than before. "Madam…you…you can't be…that's…it's so…so…" Despite all of the adjectives running through his head, it was impossible to choose just one to complete the thought.
"It's all right; I truly believe that it can work! Didn't I say that my grandmother's mind is half gone? The last time I saw her, there were many things she mistook for other things, or that she had to be reminded of in order to remember. I know that it's a sad thing, but if we tell her that you are Rachel…"
No longer mindful of responding respectfully, Grell stumbled back a step, bumping again into the wall, though this time with much less violence. "No…I can't! No – it's preposterous! Except for those who are hindered by physical blindness, there is not one living, breathing human being on this earth who would be fooled – not even your grandmother. And besides – I would look – no. I am sorry, but…"
…but it's the most harebrained scheme to ever come into existence!
"Grell, you can do it! I know you can! All you need is to be disguised properly! We can pin your hair up – oh, thank goodness for your hair! I can loan you a hat, as well. Oh, but you should try the bodice on first. I think you're about the right size for it. Stay with me, now – don't go and faint!"
He was trying with all his might to keep from doing just that. The more her fantastical visions flowed forth, the more his panic escalated. He shook his head to show that he heard, but made no move to leave the room.
"Grell." Her enthusiasm simmered a bit, and her voice became gentle. She raised an arm and reached toward him, resting it lightly on his shoulder. "I don't want you to hate me. But if we do this and do it right, no one but you and I will ever know about it. And, we don't even need to stay for more than a day. Just one day, with only the three of us and perhaps a servant or two in the house. I know I can't make you into a perfect woman, either…we will probably have to compromise on several aspects of this. Perhaps we can find a way for you to hide your face, if it would make you feel better."
It was no use; her assurances didn't seem to have any effect. Perhaps it was necessary to approach him from a different angle. "…if I must, I will give you something in return for your help. A reward of some kind. What about a bonus in your pay? I did hear you mumbling the other day about needing a new shirt. Not good enough? Well, how much money will it take? What else could you possibly want?"
Poor, flustered Grell did not know how to respond. The concept of a reward to carry out this unappealing plot did not seem to make any difference. Her next offer, however, captured his attention:
"…well, what would you say to a day off?"
Never was that topic so loosely discussed. Days off were extremely few in number for Madam Red's lone servant, and those were official holidays only. The thought of any old day freely granted to him was definitely tempting, but was even that worth what she was asking him to do?
She noticed right away the subtle glimmer in his olive eyes…but still no answer came. She had brought him to the point where he couldn't make up his mind, at least…
"…all right!" she exclaimed, the desperation plain to see. "Two days off to do as you please! We can even write a contract, if you wish – but I cannot give you anything more! Would you consider that? I cannot do this without you!"
Perhaps it was that final plea – one which did much to elevate his sense of being needed – combined with the undeniable allure of two days all to himself, that did it. He could not bear to know that he would willingly let her down and cause her sorrow, even if he had, unspeakable as it was, considered it at first. He drew a deep breath.
"My lady, your offer is appreciated…and accepted. I am at your disposal."
To say that she was thrilled was an understatement. So much genuine happiness, he had never before witnessed from her. "Do you mean it?! Grell – you cannot imagine how much this means to me!"
One final question, however, remained to be asked – one that expressed the abiding fear which Grell could not manage to rid himself of. His voice quaking badly, he asked, "Aren't you afraid, though, Madam, that I will…make the most abhorrent mistakes, and bring everything to ruin? What if…what if something happens, and someone sees me for what I am?"
She was quiet, but after a moment looked him fixedly in the eye, her authoritative demeanor restored. "If something happens…well, I will be there, and I will have to handle it. But this being my grandmother, the chances are virtually none. Do not work yourself up over such thoughts; only concentrate on the things I will teach you."
Swallowing down the boulder in his throat, he nodded, and pretended to be encouraged, as though he was not about to embark on the most foolhardy journey of his life.
"…yes, my lady."
/
Historical note: In the Victorian age, dresses (according to my research) were made of not one but of at least two separate pieces, the bodice and the skirt(s). In this way women could mix and match their clothing and save money. The dress in this story is based off of a picture of a Victorian-age dress I found online. If anyone would like to see it, let me know and I'll post the link on my profile page.
I am about to torture Grell far more than he deserves, which I admittedly feel kind of bad about, but hey, it does make a good story. I am hoping that this will turn out to be as epic as I want it to. Sorry Grell, you're just too loyal to Madam Red and tempted by days off to say no.
Please review!
