A/N: Sorry about improper letter format. ff defeated me. :(


[H]ouse Characters in this Chapter

Gregory House = Gregory Vaughn = Gregory Vaughn Hutchinson

James Wilson = James Wilcox

John House = Colonel John Hull

Chris Taub = Christian Thibeau

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Dear Wilcox,

Hope this letter finds you in relatively good spirits (imbibing good whisky),

and in the same feverish fog that led you to this "Hull" hole and dump

me here. Are you happy, you do-gooder asshole? You couldn't leave me in a

fancy bordello full of sweet-smelling, fluttery women, could you?

.

Leather bound, gilded books, you said. Latin and Greek and Shakespeare,

you said. Didn't you notice the best books were behind glass doors with

working locks?

.

Hull is a miserly, raging maniac—that's from the Greek, maniakos, if you

didn't know. See how much I learned in a week?

As for Latin, Hull insisted on pronouncing 'Ch' for 'C' and 'W' for 'V,'

as if he's the last reigning Emperor or the current Pope. We had a long, philo-

sophical discussion about that. It ended with me at the wrong end of his

disciplinary cane. I came, I saw, I want out.

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Latin isn't the only thing that's dead. You are, if I ever see you again.

.

Yours disrespectfully,

Gregory Vaughn "Hutch" Hutchinson


Hutch added an extra splat of ink below his signature to serve as the date. He watched the glistening strokes dry upon the page while he sat patiently, straddling a kitchen chair as the man behind him patiently applied ointment to the swollen welts on his back. He crumpled the paper into a ball and lifted it. "Mail it, Thibeau."

The crunched up paper magically disappeared as Christian Thibeau did his bidding. "Oui, Hutch."

Thibeau walked to the other side of the room, opened the woodstove door, and tossed the letter into the smoldering fire. "C'est mailed."

He returned to Hutch with a spoon, a hunk of crusty bread, and a steamy bowl of chicken soup, and laid everything on the table. "Hull told me you were not to eat anything but bread and water. Broth is only flavored water, yes? And it's not my fault if meat and vegetables get caught in the ladle, no?"

Hutch broke off a piece of bread and dipped it in the golden liquid. A chicken breast the size of a raft was caught on a seabed of carrots and celery. "I thought Hull inventoried how many chickens went into the pot. Won't you get into trouble?"

"It's not worth his time when I've finished cutting a bird into gentlemanly bites. He's a "Hull" of a man, my boss." Thibeau deadpanned.

One swallow of the aromatic fluid, and the throbbing of Hutch's back lessened. The moist meat melted on his tongue and he involuntarily blinked with contentment. The cook and general all-around servant had become Hutch's only friend at the Academy. Thibeau freely shared stories about his family and was never above joking about the Colonel. What Hutch conceived as a calculated plan of escape had transformed into friendship.

Almost immediately, the small Cajun with the big nose and receding hairline had taken to calling him Hutch, and the nickname dissolved some of his defenses. He liked the alias and did not correct him. The best part of his day was spent with Thibeau.

"Thibeau you should be head chef at the St. Charles."

"You flatter me, Hutch." Thibeau beamed. "Maybe one day I'll own a restaurant. Then I can have my family around me. I'll never worry about them starving."

"How big's your family, again?" The details of Thibeau's family always slipped Hutch's memory, maybe because Thibeau could never keep the tally straight.

"Eight or ten children." He shrugged. "I get to see Rachelle once every six months. Last time I went home, I was just in time to boil the water for the mid-wife and see my newborn twin boys."

Not much stopped the steady progression of a spoon to his mouth, but this news did. "You mean every three months don't you?"

"No, mon ami. I go home for Christmas and the Fourth of July."

"The last time was Christmas?"

"Oui."

"The time before that was July?"

"Oui." The answer was soft and patient, but the dark eyes glinted with humor. Thibeau raised his hands as if to fend off the next attack on his mathematical skills and intelligence." My wife is a beautiful woman who was never meant to be alone. Many of the children have the Thibeau nose, and many do not. Meanwhile, all those old enough to stand on two legs come running to greet me with shouts of, 'Papa!' whenever I come home. I'm a rich man."

Phantom pain streaked across Hutch's heart. The man in front of him gave half the children in the Bayou his name, but Hutch had no father of his own. In a few weeks, Thibeau would be going home to visit his family, and Hutch would serve out his prison sentence alone under the baleful gaze of Colonel Hull.


The first time Greg saw the white-haired Colonel, he was standing at full attention on the veranda, hands clasped behind his back. Hull had the unmistakable bearing of an officer. Just another gray man in another gray uniform. A warhorse put out to pasture before his time. Greg had seen his fill of these bitter men in New Orleans.

At the sight of Hull, Wilcox's informal posture stiffened as if he were following an order. There was a sharp snap and vigor to everything he did. He yanked the valise from behind the seat and approached the passenger's side of the buggy.

Hull showed his teeth in a crocodile smile, his eyes predatory. He nodded, and a small man in an apron scurried from inside the house, bowed, and took the case from Wilcox. The man lifted his eyes toward Greg and consigned a shy smile in his direction.

Not until Greg stepped from the carriage did Hull join them. His smooth salutation caught in his teeth as his eyes darted to Greg's new but mismatched shoes. The wrinkles around the mouth set into hard lines. "Welcome to Hull Academy, Mr. Wilcox, Master… Hutchinson."

Wilcox must have spotted the glance because Greg felt a warm hand rest protectively on his shoulder. He looked at Wilcox, hoping for a signal to return to the carriage and leave. Instead Wilcox apologized for being late and said smoothly, "Greg didn't believe me when I told him about the many wonders of your home and school. Would you kindly give us a tour?"

The question cleverly aimed at Hull's vanity. His eyes gleamed and his officer's demeanor took on more of the Southern gentleman. He waved them into his home. Wilcox respectfully removed his hat and flicked Greg's brim prodding him to do the same as they stepped inside.

Wilcox never left Greg's side, flashing warnings at him whenever Greg so much as twitched his lips. More out of curiosity to see the house than respect for Wilcox, Greg held his tongue while Wilcox put on an appreciative show, nodding and looking properly impressed as Hull led them from room to room, extolling on the custom woodwork and windows, the loftiness of the ceilings painted with fluffy clouds. He pointed out and named the exotic hardwoods in the paneling and in the borders of the hardwood floors. He never commented on the furniture in the parlor and dining room. The furnishings were sparse and not the same quality as the structure. All the other rooms on the main floor were filled with serviceable tables, chairs, and desks. Hollow footsteps accompanied them from room to room because of the lack of rugs and curtains.

Hull led the small expedition up a curved staircase, blatantly checking Greg on every other step. Greg was fine as long as he held on to the banister and watched where his right foot landed, but he felt self-conscious and tempted to disregard common sense. As if reading his mind, Wilcox edged ahead of him and obstructed the Colonel's view. He paid for his good deed when they reached the top, and coughed quietly into his ever-present handkerchief. Hull stood impatiently, apparently annoyed at the fitness of his recruits, but Wilcox waved them on; before they were halfway down the hall, Wilcox had caught up and was back at Greg's side.

Except for the two formal rooms downstairs, and a locked master suite on the upper level, everything else was converted to classrooms. They circled back to the staircase. Greg asked, "Where do I sleep? On top of the chemistry table?"

Without looking behind him as he walked down the stairs, Hull explained in a flat, dismissive voice, "Out back. The carriage house was converted into a barracks for you young bachelors. Since the school year ended, only a couple of boys are here. You'll have most of the building to yourself. The cookhouse is not far away. All the students love Thibeau's cooking. The only time you'll come to the main house is for daily tutoring with me. You need to get ready for the upcoming year."

Greg sized up the situation. Hull had turned his home into a school to save it from falling into the hands of the taxmen like many family homes. Not for the joy of stimulating young minds. No matter. He'd prefer to stay in the adjoining sharecropper's cabins or the stable than anywhere in Hull's vicinity.

His cynical attitude slipped when they entered the library. The room was perceptibly cooler than the rest of the rooms and less bright. Thick curtains hung from the windows to protect the books—thousands of books. Evidence that Wilcox did not lie about everything. The room was two-stories high with a spiral staircase leading to a gallery, the turnings and banister elaborately carved like the trim on a steamboat. The walls were paneled in volumes, matching sets and individual books in a myriad of muted colors. The musty smell of paper and leather assailed his senses. Compared to the incense and exalted atmosphere of St. Louis Cathedral, it was more intoxicating. A heavy silence emanated from the tomes—each a tombstone marking the life and death of an author or an event. Greg yearned to turn the pages of every book and release the spirits that dwelled in them.

Glass fronted-cabinets covered one wall. Greg walked over to inspect what was inside. The books were either exquisitely bound or about ready to crumble into dust. He opened a door, but before he could pluck a book from the shelf, Hull barked an explanation, "Those books are one-of-a-kind or first editions." He clearly meant, hands off.

"Thibeau." The authority in Hull's voice made the summons a command. His servant appeared as if he had been waiting outside the room.

"Show Master Hutchinson his sleeping quarters while Mr. Wilcox and I finish our business arrangements in my office." Without waiting for a reaction, Hull left the room.

Wilcox followed, but halted when a string of thin coughs shook his body. Thibeau nodded over Wilcox's strangled words and disappeared from the room, evidently empathizing with his need to collect himself. As soon as Wilcox and Greg were alone the sudden attack vanished.

Remorse and desperation showed on Wilcox's face. "Greg, I may have been hasty in choosing this school for you. If you don't want to stay, I'll take you back to New Orleans, but I don't have the funds or time to find another school. Hull won't refund the tuition, and my train leaves tomorrow. The best I can do is ask Jacques if he could find a job for you at the St. Charles."

Greg considered his options. Put up with Hull's arrogance, wash dirty dishes, or take direction from the obnoxious fat kid behind the registration desk. There was always Madam Adelaide's…

A finger wagged in his face. "Don't even consider going back to the bordello. Adelaide will work you day and night for next to nothing. You won't have a dollar to your name. Before you realize what happened, you'll be up to your nonexistent whiskers in debt."

Wilcox was right. If he went back, he'd never be able to leave. No one left Adelaide's with good references, especially if you were valuable to her. His mother was barely cold when Adelaide pinned the blame on the cook and fired him. He had to travel to Lafayette to get a job.

Clammy sweat clung to his palms as he thought of his future and blurted, "I can't stand this place for a whole a year."

"How about six months? I promise to return by then… or somebody will."

"Seriously, Wilcox? You'll probably be dead under three. Who's gonna care enough to come without you nagging them?"

A grimace twitched Wilcox's mouth. "Look, I might have hammed up the coughing while we were on the River Road. All I need is to rest for a while. I'll be back."

Greg believed Wilcox's admission about his dramatics, but doubted his understanding regarding the depth and persistence of his cough and fever. A brief sojourn in dry mountain air would do little to remedy what ailed him. Without thinking, he wiped his palms off on his pants forgetting about the scrapes from earlier. A stinging sensation snaked through his hands snapping him out of doldrums. Except for this once, Wilcox always lied to him. Why not make this his first lesson at Hull. Learn how to be cagey to get what he wanted. He mustered the guileless tone that never seemed to work on his mother or Adelaide, but did well with strangers. "You promise? You'll be back in six months?"

"Less, if I recover faster," Wilcox said with a warm, sincere smile. "I have to finish with Hull, but I'll say goodbye before I leave."

Greg hung his head, partially for effect, and partially to hide his pleasure over how well Wilcox was buying his forlorn act. He savored turning the tables on his wily opponent as he heard Wilcox's retreating footsteps. He adamantly refused to rely on Wilcox. From now on he was determined to make every observation and remark count toward his own escape.

Thibeau's timing could not be better. He rounded the corner and beckoned Greg to follow him to his new quarters. The easy smile on the man's face told Greg all he needed to know. He returned the greeting with a shy one of his own while schooling his face not to reveal his thoughts. Thibeau would make the perfect lab rat for his experiment.


"Hutch? Hutch?"

Thibeau gently woke him from his slumber, dangling his shirt in front of his face. He'd fallen asleep at the kitchen table, his head cradled in his arms, the bowl of soup gone. "Mhmm?"

"You best skedaddle back to the carriage house before the Colonel makes his nightly rounds. Unless you are studying with him, stick to the rules and stay out of his way. Can you do that?"

"You sound like Wilcox." Hutch groaned. He stiffly rose from the chair and hooked his shirt with a finger. "His farewell words to me were, 'Behave like a gentleman.'"

"Good advice, which you ignored. If I were you, I wouldn't push the Colonel too far."

"Has he killed anyone?" Hutch asked, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

"Many." Thibeau assured.

Hutch dropped his jaw in amazement.

"In the War," Thibeau finished, his eyes sparkling with glee from his jest.

Too tired to smile or ask more questions, Hutch shuffled to the kitchen door. "'Night, Thibeau."

"Bonne nuit, Hutch."

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When he entered the carriage house he was relieved to hear the drone of snores wafting from the end of the room. He avoided the creaky third step as he climbed the stairs. Only two other students, Harry Newton and Dale Goodwin, occupied the premises. Thibeau had explained that each month alumni would return like stray dogs looking for food and shelter until the week before school commenced. Then there would be a flood of new and old faces. If Tweedledum and Tweedledee were examples of the rest of the Academy's scholars, his life would be made a living "Hull." They were prigs and pompous snobs who went out of their way to ignore him. He wasted no time trying to persuade them otherwise, eating meals at different times, and bunking alone on the stuffy second floor.


He managed not to piss anyone off for over a week, which worked well with his master plan.

Successfully completing another session with Hull without starting another war of words, Hutch sought the privacy and shade of a sprawling oak at the back of the property—not all that distant from the house. As he suspected, the income producing fields were sold off to save the home. Hutch eased his back against the trunk, testing the rough bark. Five ghostly yellow stripes were all that remained from the previous week's lashing. Hull expected him to bury his nose in a book about conjugating Latin verbs, but he brought Wilcox's Bible with him instead. He wanted to spend an afternoon deciphering the family tree. Figure out if any of the people could be friends or relatives of his mother.

First, he traced any birthdates close to Alice's age. The two that fit best were Wilcox and his brother, Howard, older by four years. He noted a third brother, Denis, but he died in infancy. Knowing Wilcox, he had no idea whether these brothers were alive, dead, or completely imaginary. His original misgiving returned to him. Wilcox's moniker might not be any more real than any of these others. More likely he belonged hanging off a branch of a Caribbean pirate's family tree.

And what was Wilcox about to say on their trip to the school? He closed his eyes and concentrated. Something about stubborn. Stubborn just like your— Like who? Not his mother. She was loyal and loving. She had a prideful streak, but she was practitioner of Southern charm, persuasive, much like Wilcox. Not what he would call stubborn. Who was Wilcox comparing him to?

The sound of dirt grinding beneath thick-soled shoes broke into his thoughts. He opened his eyes upon a pair of fancy riding boots. Leaning his head back he saw Goodwin's face looking down on him, a sneer adding interest to his bland features. Newton's hovered right behind, nearly a twin image.

Hutch inwardly sighed. This day had been coming and the timing was right. He might as well get it over with. "What do you want?"

"Reading the Bible, Hutch? Praying to Our Father for deliverance?"

Hutch closed the book and laid it carefully by his side, taking his time. "Does that surprise you, Godwin? You've been here longer than me, and from your less than brilliant grades, you'll still be here when I'm gone. You should be praying with me."

"It's Goodwin!" Dale bellowed needlessly. "You been snoopin' at my scores? I knew you were a weasel the first time I saw you. Ain't that right, Newt?"

"Right, Win."

"Win, yeah, that's a hoot and holler," Hutch snorted, mildly amused by the good ole' boy patois Dale adopted when upset. "Reckon that's a proper name for a carpetbagger's son since you'll never be a true Southerner." He kept his voice calm as he observed both boys' hands roll into fists.

"Take that back! I'm Creole!"

"Your daddy buying a Creole home and living in it, doesn't make you a Creole, idiot." He shook his head in mock disappointment. "You're making it easy for me to prove that you ain't, I mean, you aren't smart."

He instinctively reached for the tree trunk to support his bad foot as he straightened up from the ground, surreptitiously sizing the two boys up as he dusted himself off. He spied Newton cupping his hand over Goodwin's ear and whispering. He wondered what they were up to. They were a head shorter than him but brawnier. Maybe he should delay his scheme until he could get one alone. "Damn. One minute with you two, and I'm talking like a hick. You'll pardon me while I find better ways to waste my time."

"In what ways would that be, huh? Horseback riding? Hiking? Fencing?" Goodwin taunted with regained confidence, his pronunciation and grammar much improved. He thrust out his chest. "You planning on wasting your time with one of those gentlemanly pursuits, Hutch the Crutch?"

"Why you—!" Hutch lost his temper and launched himself against the wall of bullies, his fists punching any body part he could contact, but his opportunity was brief as four fists slammed back and pummeled him to the ground. The last thing he remembered was the salty taste of blood in his mouth.


"You're a troublemaker!" Hull hissed. "How dare you insult my students and start a fight. I should have followed my instincts and doubled your tuition when I met you."

"See if I care if you double it," Hutch mumbled through his swollen lips. "I'll gladly leave in half the time."

"Wilcox and I agreed on the terms. We shook hands. There's no way I'm going back on an agreement with a lieutenant of the Confederacy."

"Wilcox, an officer?" The words slipped out before Hutch could stop himself. The thought of Wilcox bayoneting a man was unimaginable.

The Colonel grew pensive and chewed his bottom lip. "I spoke out of turn. Many men don't want to talk about what they did or saw in the War. Surgeons as well fighting men."

Hutch almost forgot his aching bruises as he pictured Wilcox's hands in a soldier's stomach, his arms covered with blood up to his elbows. Some of his anger seeped away as he absorbed the news, but then he remembered. Wilcox was not above lying to get what he wanted. He may have manufactured the story to cut a favorable deal with Hull.

He was roused from his thoughts by a harsh guttural noise. Hull cleared his throat.

"Are you listening to me?" The sour tone was back in Hull's voice.

"In spite of trying hard not to, I am."

"Listen, you smart alec. Listen real good. You're in my charge and not leaving here until I break you of your arrogance."

"Canings won't change my opinion of you or your school."

"Not every punishment starts with a whipping, boy." Hull's eyes glittered in the afternoon sun. "But you can depend that all end with one. There's kitchen detail and icehouse duty. It's high time I give you a personal tour of the property. Get up and follow me."

Hutch had no choice but to trail after Hull.

Set off from the outbuildings was a windowless stone structure nestled in a grove of trees. Low to the ground, the wooden door nearly met the curved roofline. Hull shot the bolt and opened it. A chill whispery breath greeted Hutch.

"Not much ice left in June. The interior is no colder than the snowy nights our ragged soldiers coped with in Rappahannock Valley. Let's see if spending a night in the icehouse can cool off that hot head of yours. Get in."

Hull pushed him. Hutch barely had time to duck his head before he stumbled down the short flight of steps. The air was frosty. An icy tongue laved his skin, leaving goosebumps. His teeth began to chatter. "Hull, I don't have a coat. I'll freeze to death in here!"

"If you're resourceful, you'll survive. We'll have to wait until morning to find out if you are or not. And if you are, then it will be my pleasure to warm your hide with a tanning you won't forget."

The light narrowed as Hull swung the door closed. Hutch lunged for it, but tripped on a step as the last slice of light fled the room with the sound of a sickening thud. He panicked and raked the wood with his nails. "Hull! Come back!" he shouted, but was met with silence. He leaned his head against the door, muttering over and over that this was an icehouse not tomb. Finally, he calmed and slid to the floor, shivering from a combination of fear and cold. He had overplayed his hand and gotten in deeper than he ever dreamed.

.

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TBC


Thank you for reading! All comments welcome.