When the gardener had come, (most unnaproprietly running) frantic, into the Ascot's dining room about an hour earlier, interrupting Hamish and his mother, who had been engrossed in worrying over the absent Lord Ascot (who was still out and about with Alice on bussiness, having insisted she need a chaperone. "And rightly so," Hamish had to admit) over tea, he had been the first to volunteer a servant be sent out and his mother (and himself) stay where it was safe. For the gardener, once they had been able to get something coherent out of him, had said there was a madman in a tophat out in the garden.
They would have sent for the authorities immediately if it hadn't been for the fact that, while he was being pushed from the room to go calm down, the gardener shouted that the man had, between waving a large stick about and raving, demanded to be taken to Alice.
At that, Hamist had ordered the gardener right back into the room and onto his mother's sofa (she had voiced a bit of displeasure over this, as the servant was filthy, but Hamish had silenced her with a determined look his mother rarely thought her son capable). Once water was fetched for him, he explained that he had come across the strange man while trimming the rose bushes near the maze, and while he had been on guard against the intruder at first, he'd quickly dropped his suspicions when the man had struck up pleasant conversation about the white roses. He'd seemed like a nice, though most definately odd, gentleman who was in all probability lost (for he was behaving out of sorts enough).
But then things had turned sour. The gardener wasn't even sure what had triggered, but the man had suddenly tore a limb from a nearby tree and began to weild it like a sword, snapping at him, full of uncontrolled rage. He'd started screaming in a language the gardener hadn't recognized and, in fear for his life, he'd fled.
But he had, without a doubt, clearly yelled more than once for Alice.
And thus, Hamish had screwed up his courage (for, while Alice had always been odd, he'd never known her to befriend the obviously dangerous). If this odd man was asking for Alice, Hamish would see him first (for no man in London would see Alice without him making sure he wasn't after her growing fortune. His father had been rather proud of his son when he'd set his foot down, in private, upon the point).
It hadn't taken much to find the strange man, who had still been out amongst the rose bushes, though to Hamish's relief he was no longer brandishing a stick. He was as the gardener had described him first – an agreeable temperment, greeting them politely with a bow before asking, with a bright smile on his pale face, "Is it, by any chance, anywhere near tea time or it's equivalent here in Londonland?"
There is no possible way I am allowing this man into my house for tea, Hamish decided on the spot. Agreeable or not, the man looked out of his mind in a way Alice's appearance would never have hinted. And even his way of speaking, though light and easy, was odd and unnerving. He appeared wide eyed, innocent, and completely off his rocker.
"Sir," Hamish cringed at having to address the man as such, and made no attempt to appear civil as he spoke, but instead adopted his usual pompous carry, "May I inquire as to what you are doing in my family's garden?"
The stranger stared at him, his smile twitching slightly. It was rather creepy to Hamish, meeting this man's vibrant green eyes and trying not to show his fear (for he was growing rather afraid, for no reason he could really put his finger on). But it was hard not to be nervous, what with him being so deathly pale, with sunken cheeks, dark bags under his eyes, untamed red hair, bushy eyebrows, gapped teeth, wide eyes, and outrageous clothing, including a tall top hat, a pink shoulder bag with a strap apparently made out of spools of thread strung together with small chains, a black bowtie spotted with yellows, pinks, and white, pin striped trowsers (which lookd relatively normal, despite them being too short around his ankles, revealing mismatched socks), brown lace up dress boots, a brown jacket which seemed rather beaten up with multicolored ribbons dangling from its left side, a dark vest, and a frilly white dress shirt whose sleeves dangled in excess around his hands, which were wrapped in brown cloth and bandages.
...bloody bandages.
Has this madman hurt himself – or someone else? Hamish wondered wildly, growing more worried by the second. Could he have been wrong? Could Alice finally have befriended someone truly dangerous? Or was this man even really an aquintance of Alice, or some sort of freakish stalker?
Hamish's eyes narrowed at the man, who only smiled wider. "Do you own Londonland, then? I'm terribly sorry, I wasn't aware that I'd be running right into royalty when I'd only just arrived." His smiled slipped off suddenly. "...you're rather plain for royalty. And no hat. I should very much like to hat you."
The sudden proposition – as well as this man's behavior in general, for Hamish was quite thrown by being mistaken for royalty, and still wasn't sure why the man was calling his garden "Londonland" – struck Hamish with a temporary loss for words. He struggled with his senses, his mouth opening and then snapping shut once, twice, before finally saying the only thing that came to mind, "I don't wear hats."
"Don't...wear hats?"
Hamish, even in his still shocked stupor, knew immediately he had said the wrong thing.
The man was glowering at him, no longer appearing young, niave, and harmless. Instead, he seemed tall, his shoulders set, and his eyes bright and menacing and feral.
"Ehs a one thin' ya don' say ta a milna, 'ya don' wear 'ats.' Evra one wears 'ats sumtime, so ta say ya don' makes ya a liar. Anna I don' like ta think tha' tha world whe'e Alice was born is ruled by ah bunch o' liars, so that must mean tha yer just sayin' tha cuz ya don' want me ta hat ya, and tha's an insult ta me trade and ta the last o' tha Hightopp clan AND YA WON' NA BE INSULTIN' ME FAMILY, YA FRUMIUS SLURVISH SLURKING URPAL-"
He was coming – no, more like storming – towards Hamish, a fury about him that needed no weapon. His hand was raised before he'd taken three steps, and Hamish had started backing away before two.
Hamish had all but forgotten the servants he'd brought with him, and it wouldn't have mattered anyhow, for they were all mimicking his panicked face, moving back slowly so as not to draw the madman's attention.
At times like these, there were only two options; Hamish had been raised to immediately revert to them in any emergency, and he didn't even have to think about it now. Option number two was in the works: he was backing away, prepared to run.
The other option? Diplomacy – also known as verbal cowardess.
"Sir, I'm terribly sorry. We have a missunderstanding," he broke into the man terrade of incomprehensible insults, his voice loud and quick so as to be heard (and saved), "I never meant to insult your trade, sir, or your family. I didn't realize you were a-" not watching were he was going, Hamish's leg caught on the discarded branch the man had weilded earlier, and as he stumbled back he shouted his next word much more loudly than intended, "-HATTER!"
"-scrum...size...fez..." The man trailed off, stopping abruptly. His eyes bugged out, looking lost, and his whole body relaxed. When he focused on Hamish again, his lip twitched. "I'm fine."
Hamish just stared at him, dumbfounded. And when the stranger frowned again, Hamish took an involuntary step back once more. But the hatter merely said, in a rather heartbroken voice, "You're not Alice."
Yes, Hamish thought, 'heartbroken' is the only way to describe this pathetic wreck of a man now, but before...
Before, he was nothing but dangerous.
"Where is Alice?" The man asked, looking around like he expected her to pop out and surprise him. And, oddly, he made sure to look not only sideways in both directions and behind himself, but up high in the trees, down on the ground, and then strait up into the sky.
Hamish was struck with the reminder of Alice once telling him she'd wondered what it would be like to fly.
"S-sir?" He was loathe to recall the man's attention, but, insane or not, he was asking about Alice. And, even if he had to do it in fear of his life (and he certainly did fear for his life, frozen almost in place, knees locked and sweating like a pig), he was going to talk to this man about her. How he knew her, when he'd last saw her, what he knew about her. He would find out if this man was, in fact, a friend of Alice Kingsleigh.
The hatter brought his gaze back to Hamish, looking rather startled to find him there at all.
Holding his chin high once again and faking every bit of his confident manner, he said, "I do believe you inquired of tea time? It is, in fact, and we were just having it. If you would care to join us, then we may discuss any matters of Alice you might wish to engage in."
And that was how Hamish had led a madman into his house.
He'd sent the servants away for the most part, making sure no one made mention of what had happened outside to his mother. If Lady Ascot were to find out that Hamish had let him in after that episode, she would throw a fit. She was prone to those.
But now, it didn't matter. Because she was in the room, witnessing first hand the madness of Tarrant Hightopp, Milliner of the High Court of...wherever it was he had said he was from.
At least this time the madness wasn't verbal, nor was it directed at any person in particular. No, it was merely painful screams of agony and anger accompanying blind rage as the hatter tore up their living room. The tea table had gone first, upending and almost striking Hamish in the face. He'd moved just in time, throwing himself to the floor. Then he was up again, grabbing his stunned mother's hand and pulling her to the hall, where, upon hearing the shattering of glass and another unearthly scream, she'd promptly fainted.
The servants had come running, and the immediately set to work moving Lady Ascot, but after Hamish was sure his mother would be fine he pressed himself to the wall, peering into the living room to watch the chaos. Most of the furniture was upturned, the windows broken, lamps smashed, bookcases toppled – anything that could be in any way distrubed, it had been. The milliner continued to rage about the room, tossing things that had already been tossed, smashing things that were already smashed, paying no heed to anything except that he had to keep moving, keep grabbing, keep throwing, keep screaming.
It went on for over twenty minutes, and no one had dared go inside the room. A few still stood outside the door, watching, but when a broken lamp had come sailing into the hallway they'd cleared off. Hamish had joined his mother in her room, where she'd been laid out on her bed, and the servants brought her a fresh cup of tea and a wet washrag when she'd recovered.
She seemed dazed at first, and accepted the tea with poise, but once she set it down, a loud roar rent the air and she sent it toppling to the floor. "Hamish, is that madman still in our house?"
She looked both scandalized and terrified, and Hamish didn't blame her. He still flinched everytime he heard a yell, but they'd grown less frequent in the past minutes. He was hoping the man would calm down enough soon that he could have him escorted off their property and to someplace more fitting for him – like a madhouse.
But Hamish was also aware that he had yet to send for the authorities. Because, insane as it seemed even to himself, he still had questions for the man. He was going to try to talk to him again. But...not now.
A crash rang out, making mother and son flinch.
No, not now.
Now, he wasn't going near that madman.