The Resolution of a Delusional Hair Fetish
A Noah Clan Domestic Melodrama
Every morning of the week at precisely seven o'clock, Rhode Kamelot departed her house, bundled into the back of the barouche with her groaning sack of school-books and, most frequently, her father in attendance, the one to be delivered to her ridiculously expensive and exclusive day-school for Young Ladies of Quality, the other to the hideous Gothic monstrosity of a building that housed the ministerial office where he whiled away the days, plotting the destruction of the human race and making certain, in the meantime, that everyone's taxes were paid and the trains ran on time. By no later than nine o'clock, the barouche had returned to the coach-house, unless the weather was particularly inclement, in which case it could take as long as ten. Thereafter, unless there were errands to be run in the city that required someone to be sent out a considerable distance, or Duke Millennium was in the city and required to be carried somewhere, the coach was not used until it was time for Lady Kamelot to make her morning calls – an infrequent occurrence, given that lady's general constitutional weakness and propensity for ill-health – or until the Young Mistress and the Minister were to be brought home again, much later in the afternoon.
Joszef, the coachman, was therefore somewhat surprised to be stopped at the manor's gate one cool, somewhat rainy morning upon returning home by no less a person than the Minister's younger brother. It was, altogether, highly irregular, though life in the house had been thoroughly irregular since the Duke and his young protégé had arrived the month prior to begin with, and he was unsettled enough that he acquiesced to the request made of him with only a token argument; the Lady never left home on rainy days if she could avoid it, anyway. And then he acquiesced to several more – five in total, as a matter of fact – and by the time he was disgustedly ordered to take the Minister's sibling back to the house, it was nearly time to go retrieve him and the Young Mistress anyway. Later that night, taking his dinner in the apartment of rooms in which he dwelt above the carriage house, he chanced to overhear a conversation between the Minister and his brother, as they made their way back to the house from their evening constitutional around the garden.
"Your daughter, Cyril."
"Why is it that she's always 'my daughter' when she's done something wicked? – It is something wicked, isn't it? Or else you'd not have dragged me out here to talk about it – "
"...Cyril."
"All right, all right. What is it?"
"Exactly how much allowance are you giving that girl?"
"Oh! As to that, well – "
"...Cyril."
"Now, now. I took counsel among my colleagues at the Ministry as to how much they allowed for their daughters, just to establish a vague idea mind you, and – "
"Yes?"
"...I took the highest amount and, ah, quadrupled it? It didn't seem right, you know, to give her only as much as the best that someone else's daughter got – "
"Cyril. Your daughter bribed every barber in the city limits to not cut my hair."
"Enterprising little thing, isn't she? One must wonder where she found the time..."
"Yes. One must."
The house of Prime Minister Cyril Kamelot was run with martinet efficiency by Frau Alfrida Frielinghaus, the sort of woman for whom the term 'battleaxe' had been coined sometime shortly after the actual invention of that implement, the heiress to an ancient and proud Germanic tradition of producing perfectly terrifying female house-servants that no one in their right mind wished to cross either in matters of household management or personal propriety. Under her iron-handed governorship, the household staff – a small army of more than fifty indoor servants, most of them young, Germanic women learning at the knee of a master how to be traumatically vigorous old, Germanic women – kept the manor in a manner that would cast no shame on the name of the man they called their master: the floors and wainscoting never failed to gleam with beeswax polish, the carpeting was never besmirched with the slightest trace of fireplace or tobacco ash, no dust or cobwebs obscured the exquisite plasterwork medallions on the ceilings or the woodwork of the cornices or any of the other numerous architectural embellishments that visitors politely marvelled over. When visitors came to stay – as they often did these days – they were housed in rooms where every luxury of modern civilization was afforded for their comfort and the satisfaction of any want was no more than a bell-pull away. She was aided in her endeavours by Seighard, the butler, whose command of the menservants was as thorough and as comprehensive as her management of the women; between them, there was little that they – or someone they set to a task – could not accomplish if they set their minds to it.
It was therefore a matter of considerable scandal when, one morning, Frau Frielinghaus came below-stairs with the intent of taking stock of the household accounts for market-day and found, within the confines of the little room where the accounting-books were kept, the Minister's younger brother. He stopped what the was doing – and what he was doing appeared to be rooting about in the drawers, evidently looking for something – at once upon her entry, gave her a courtesy, mumbled something vaguely reminiscent of an apology, and hurried out. Later that day, while bustling about the house in her capacity as overseer, she chanced to encounter him again: this time in the kitchen of all places. Again, he was ransacking the drawers, this time the cutlery drawers, and again made a speedy exit – this time under the cover of the cook's assault upon her person, complaining loudly and Frenchly about the thieving house staff, whom he claimed to have absconded with all the meat knives. By the time she sorted that mess out – and it was quite a mess, all the meat knives were found eventually, though everyone was at a loss over how they came to be suspended in the ornamental garden well, beneath the surface of the water in a canvas sack – it was actually quite late in the afternoon, nearly dinner time, when Lady Tricia rang for her. The Lady had managed to mislay her embroidery scissors. It rapidly became apparent, from there, that it was not only the Lady's scissors that had gone missing: her own pairs were gone also, as well as those used by assorted maids throughout the day as a part of their work, and every sort of kitchen shear used by the cook and his assistants, and even the clippers used by the coachman to trim the horses' hooves, tails, and manes. Dinner that night was an uncomfortable affair, attended to by a staff of house-servants in various states of anguish.
It was late that night, nearly time for retirement, when the Minister himself came down below stairs, looking somewhat shamefaced and carrying a leather satchel containing forty-three pairs of scissors and an assortment of other sharp implements. They agreed, between themselves, that the rest of the staff deserved both an apology and a holiday and, probably, a considerable raise.
Among those servants, it was generally acknowledged that the Minister's younger brother, Sir Tyki, was the easiest member of his immediate family to tend to, as he had few needs and even fewer demands, being the sort of man prone to rising and dressing himself without the assistance of a valet, entertaining himself without the need of a maid much to their disgruntlement, and usually doing his own shopping rather than burdening anyone with a thousand and one requests. It was, all things considered, positively indecent: the man didn't even pretend to need someone to tell him which waistcoat to wear, rolled his own cigarettes, and, it was generally understood but never said, could beat soundly at cards any man on the staff, no matter how skilled a sharp they thought they were otherwise. It was therefore an issue of some surprise when, late one evening, he summoned assistance to his private suite of rooms, where it was known that he was bathing. The maids drew lots and the victor, flushed with triumph, hurried up the stairs. A quarter of an hour later, to the very great surprise of all, she hurried back down stairs and into the sewing-room, emerging shortly thereafter with a length of blue silk ribbon, and disappearing into the family quarters yet again. Then next morning it was, according to the footmen waiting at breakfast, a matter of debate who squealed more loudly in delight – the Minister or his daughter – when Sir Tyki came down to dine with his unruly mess of long black hair neatly combed back from his face and confined in a perfectly elegant plait that fell almost to the middle of his back, tied off with an elaborate knot of blue silk.
Later that evening, as Frau Frielinghaus, Joszef, and Seighard sat taking their evening tea together they all agreed: Sir Tyki's hair had always suited him far better short.