As Wine Bottles Clunk: My Life as a House
Rating: G
Disclaimer: Anything you recognize isn't going to be mine. Don't try and sue me over it, there's no money involved. If there was, I'd be off spending it, not writing fic.
Spoilers: It's a movie. There's no spoilers. Unless you stopped watching partway through, but who the hell does that?
A/N: This is Sarah's POV. Departs from canon during the fic, you'll know where, and joins up again at the end. It didn't seem right to completely ruin Ishiguro's masterpiece.
Feedback: Oh please. This is my first RotD fic. One, I'd really like constructive criticism, and two, I'm really excited at the prospect that other people out there love this movie/book as much as me. Can't wait to meet you.
Mr. Benn had asked her to marry him. Tom! Tom! Sarah reminded herself. No, wait. Ought she really to be calling him Tom?
The question troubled her for only a moment. She would call him Tom if she accepted his proposal. Yes, that seemed the right thing to do.
And now onto bigger questions. Was she going to marry Tom? Mr. Benn! Mr. Benn! It hadn't seemed likely at first. She had kept thinking that this boarding house idea was just too dangerous. And as she'd once admitted to Mr. Stevens, she was afraid of insecurity. Mr. Benn was forever flitting from one thing to the next. He'd been very good in service, excellent at his job. But he had no heart for it, no heart for any job really. He was one of those people who took the view that a job was incidental in one's life, not fundamental.
Mr. Stevens was just the opposite, if it was fair to call his vocation, his pride and honour, his family history, and apparently his one true passion a 'job'. Briefly Sarah had thought she'd begun to understand Mr. Stevens. That had been a mistake. One of many, she brooded unhappily.
The footsteps did not really surprise her.
She wasn't exactly sure at what point her careful contemplation had resulted in this alarming outburst. Probably when she'd, rather cruelly, reminded herself of the hurtful things she'd said to Mr. Stevens earlier. She'd only wanted a reaction, any reaction. But she'd known she was only hurting herself.
"Stupid," she muttered to herself as the door swung open, accompanied by a fresh burst of emotion.
"Miss. Kenton…" He was close enough to step on her, huddled as she was on the floor. Not so long ago she'd been standing by the fireplace, composed, if wistful. At least he hadn't seen her collapse and crawl for the footstool.
"Mr. Stevens," she managed, wiping her face and looking up at him.
The impossible stillness of his face once again gave her no hint to his feelings. She could guess what he was going to say though. Something little and trivial, about the house. Dusting or polishing, a bed turned down askew. There was a new maid to blame it on now. In the old days, he'd let the heat fall on her.
It was the only way he had of communicating with her, she knew that. He would probably even mean it to be a comfort, that she could find solace in the clockwork of the house the same way he did. She just couldn't bear it any more, this façade of his.
"Mr. Stevens," she began, rising up shakily and sweeping back her hair with as much aplomb as she could manage, "I wanted to talk to you about the new hallboy."
He was carrying a bottle of wine. He had stopped on his way to do an errand for tonight's party. She kept her surprise to herself. Mr. Stevens hadn't even stopped when his father had died.
Mr. Stevens looked somewhat put out. He'd been about to say something apparently.
"Oh?"
"Yes. I'd rather he didn't spend so much time stopping in on the kitchens. Cook says the scullery girl's getting lazy and vain."
Mr. Stevens frowned slightly and Sarah almost took it back. She had decided not to tell Mr. Stevens about this one, it would only upset him and lead to yet another hallboy.
"I shall take care of it, Miss. Kenton. Thank you for bringing it to my attention."
"I should not want to lose Freddy, Mr. Stevens. He's a good hallboy."
"Still, we cannot have all the underservants running off with each other, can we, Miss. Kenton?"
"I do hope you don't want me removing Eliza, Mr. Stevens. It's very hard to come by a willing scullery maid these days, you know."
"Of course, Miss. Kenton. Now, don't you worry about it. I'll sort it out. I shall be looking for a new housekeeper too, I presume?" He said smoothly, with a touch of question in his voice.
She hadn't thought of that. Of course she'd have to be replaced. She didn't like that idea any more than the idea of being usurped. The tears welled up in her eyes again and she had to look away.
"I don't expect you could manage to run the role as well as that of butler, even as capable as you are, Mr. Stevens," she sniffled.
There was a little clunk behind her and an accompanying little clunk in her heart.
Mr. Stevens was going to leave, going to serve the guests. She was going to leave. Still nothing had been said, and it never would be.
She gathered her composure to turn and say her goodbyes, when a hand suddenly reached for her arm.
"Do sit down, Miss. Kenton. It's been a long night. You must be very tired."
He guided her to her chair and she accepted it wordlessly. As she sunk into the cushions her eyes caught sight of the wine bottle on her coffee table.
It had been a clunk of staying, not going. She had no idea what to do.
"I believe I have told you before, Miss. Kenton, that you are very important to this house. That is still true. However, I am willing to grant you leave to join Mr. Benn in the west country at your convenience. If that is what you want?"
Sarah was shocked. Her tears seemed to freeze on her face and in her eyes.
How was she supposed to say she didn't know what she wanted. She didn't want to leave. She wasn't sure about Mr. Benn.
You are very important to this house. She'd held on to that for years now. This house needs you. This house, this house. She had to have more than that, though. More than some kind of inanimate support structure. Maybe she was more like Mr. Benn after all. Maybe she did need people, change, freedom and human affection.
Sarah found a pair of pale blue eyes boring right into her.
"Yes, thank you, Mr. Stevens. That would be most kind of you."
Her heart sank as she said the words. What was she doing?
A kind of hurt seemed to touch him then, or perhaps it was only her imagination.
"Well, I'd better be seeing to the gentlemen," he conceded.
She'd lost him. That wine bottle was about to be picked up again.
"Are you never going to leave this house, Mr. Stevens? Are you never going to go out into the world and try other things?" She demanded desperately.
"Why Miss. Kenton, I believe you have said it for yourself once upon a time. I sometimes think that we are very much alike. I'm a coward," he told her, with no hint of the foreboding of uttering it.
"Isn't that what you would tell me?" He continued.
"I don't think we are alike, at all, Mr. Stevens," she spluttered, somehow offended by his presumption. She lost her nerve quickly however, only able to find the fault in herself. "You would never detain me in this way, I am sure," she offered, finally realizing that she'd lost the battle, and that he may as well be given an avenue of leave.
"It has been a pleasure to have your company, Miss. Kenton," he replied softly, and she saw, just briefly, a deeper person behind those remarkably still eyes.
He hadn't meant just now. He'd meant for as long as she'd been in the house.
She felt silly when the tears started to roll again. At least they were quiet tears so the only sign of them was the occasional candlelit twinkle.
"There, there," Mr. Stevens, rather inadequately tried, "I'm sure that Mr. Benn and yourself will be very happy, and this house will soon be a distant memory."
"I'm still thinking about it," was all she managed, but it was enough.
"What?" He exclaimed sharply.
Sarah glanced at him in surprise.
"I'm still thinking about it," she repeated slowly.
"But you said that you'd accepted…"
"I know. I have. But I'm still…"
She stopped when she noticed her heart clunking again. Why had Mr. Stevens been so sharp about her indecision? She was so unused to any emotional reaction from him that she had nothing to measure it by.
Had he already replaced her? No, no. It couldn't have been that. She stopped her frantic thoughts to look at him once more.
He'd turned away from her, his face now in shadow. Could there possibly be a man beneath the butler's suit after all?
But he turned back, eyes hard. He resolutely reached for the wine bottle.
"Mr. Stevens…"
"Do let me know when you have made your mind up, Miss. Kenton," he answered shortly, heading toward the doorway with his practised even stride.
"Of course, Mr. Stevens."
He closed the door behind him.
And she knew then that no matter how her heart clunked, no matter how important she was to this house, for Mr. Stevens it would always be the same. The same terror of the emotional, the outside.
Tom was forever plotting ways to be outside.
Tom.