Title: Two Worlds Apart
Rating: PG-13, might go up to R
Author's notes at the end
Margery Cairne
Early 1900s
"Hellsing estate? Oh, such thrill!" Lance said delightedly, even though I could tell perfectly well that he was already loathing the very thought of it. For a moment I feared the mistress Gwendolyn Hellsing would comment on this obvious lack of sincerity, but she only smiled tiredly. Exhaustion made Madam incapable of accepting anything but a half truth or perfect lie that would sooth her vanity and keep at bay the guilt.
She truly does feel guilty, I imagine, and a trifle reluctant to leave Scotland as well – moving about is hardly exciting or a novelty for her, or for myself, ever since I have come in her service. But it's most unhealthy for the child, and, as his governess and entrusted with his development, both academic and otherwise, I have always insisted that Lance has only to suffer from such a constant change of environment. But I hardly am given a chance to speak my mind, as of late, and all council on my part has recently only been greeted by the same studiedly neutral nods, or condescending glances. A most unprofessional attitude, in my most humble opinion, and I do feel that Master Robert carries the entire fault. If not for his continuous and increasing absences, perhaps his father, Master Thomas Hellsing, would not have to make such often calls, and perhaps – also- the Madam would not as easily retire to her chambers, forsaking the poor child on the hands of that man.
It was hardly that I did not care for the Madam, but precisely the opposite. I had always held great interest in Madam's fate, as it is gratitude alone that compensates for the lesser origins of us, the folks of the middle class; and I should always keep Madam in particularly high regard, for all the kindness she has shown me, especially at the time of my employment. But the happenings of this house were simply beyond all morals, and I found it ever more difficult to keep my silence whenever all the rules were bent.
I straightened the folds of my dress, black, as should be, for a daughter in mourning after her dear father. I had been most honored when, in the first week after father's death, Madam had donned the black cloth as well, in what she named loyalty towards one most dear to her. Madam had never forgotten the less noble milieu in which she had bloomed, and therefore saw no shame in relating to a servant's grief. I was touched then, and I was again now, in seeing she had parted with the black cloth that did her beauty no disservice, yet somehow granted her an aged air that did not suit her altogether.
"Now, show mummy how much you love her, pet," she said, kneeing to offer her porcelain-like cheek to be kissed. Another habit I did not condone, but that I found myself tolerating because, as Madam would often put it, all psychological books said that children who were in any way neglected would carry the trauma to their adolescence and well beyond. I had never taken to this psychological rubbish – never, and I've tutored enough children to claim it no more than gossipy filth. But Madam did so like to think herself the expert, and I hadn't the heart to cause her further trouble, not when everything was so troublesome with Master Robert, and-
"Miss Cairne, shall you please see to his bath? I feel I should perhaps rest a mite…" She sounded drained, again, and so I nodded meekly. She retired to her chambers, crumpled letter still in hand, layers and layers of silk and lace draping on the newly cleaned floors. Madam had been unwell, the past days, weak, but today I intuited the cause of her grief, and could only hope that I could divert Lance's attention from his mother long enough for her to recover. Such an odd family, really, but it couldn't be helped.
"Mish?" Lance crawled on all fours near me, playing with the ends of my dress, just as I brought him up and on my lap. The little angel was getting heavier by the day.
"Don't call me that, it's Miss. You can say it, I know you can, you do it all the time with the proper Misses."
"But I don't like them," he said, with a stubborn look that spoke clearly of his intention to never class me with the "proper Misses". He was six, true, but he was also a dear, and fairly intelligent – he could tell that the Misses who called in were no more than plotting hens, with not a decent thought in their heads.
His hands chained to my neck as I tried to balance him in my hands and carry him towards the armoire. I took the towels out –
"The blue one, Mish!" Yes, he liked that one. Putting him down, I began to unfold it, while Lance stoically wrestled with the buttons of his shirt. I should have to wash that, yes, he'd got it all dirty. He usually did when he played in the forest, and to my great displeasure, he had taken to this sort of thing quite often.
"Oh, don't make a sissy of the child," Master Thomas had said, and since he was the closest thing to a paternal element in the sad equation of Lance's childhood, I was left with heeding him… so long as no great damage was done. But, then, it was only quite natural that Master Thomas should feel in this fashion, as it was him to teach the child to play with firearms. Hunting. Hah. A child of this age? Never. He is too young to learn to follow the game, though Master Thomas wouldn't listen, called it the family tradition. And now they always go to the forest whenever Master Thomas comes by, and of course I disapprove, but I shouldn't – mustn't – trouble Madam…
The trousers were first to be slid off, and I sadly noted the presence of a new tear in the knees. I would have to mend them, as Madam was perfectly at place within a salon lounge, or gracious as she served tea – but she had never mastered the arts of the household, and so many times had she tortured her poor fingers, that I had invariably taken it upon myself. Oh, poor Madam, how guilty her apologies whenever she saw me sewing in her place. And she never did listen when I told her I was not in the least upset, that she more than made amends with all her gentle praises and by seating me at her table.
Somehow, when I bundled his clothing, Lance did away with his shirt as well, then started running off (stark-naked! Oh, how indecent!) through the house, raiding madly for the bathroom. Madam and I had luckily prepared the water in advance, and so he'd have something to jump into, and preferably not bring to much harm upon himself. Oh, he was the master of inducing damage in the seemingly most impossible of circumstances.
I managed to find him in the bathroom, facing the tub, though surprisingly, not still in. It then occurred to me that, as Madam had insisted to share the news before his bath, the water might've got a bit too cold for his taste. He was thankfully standing with his back at me, and so I could hang the towel around certain parts of his that should not have been exposed even on such small boys, and then placed a hand in the water, toying with it absently. It was still warm enough. "In you go."
"I don't care to," he said.
This was hardly the time for whims – water, though not scarce at the time, was best used when available, and not wasted. I let the salts slip in, lilac bubbles and rich foam raising in a matter of instants.
"I don't want to go into the water."
"In you go, I said, and look, I even put your favorite salts."
Madam had acquired them during her last receiving, a gift from one of her cousins. Madam had a great many cousins, I knew, and Master Thomas snorted whenever being introduced to one. What a sick, sick man, I could tell what he was thinking – but it was decidedly untrue, they were her cousins, everyone of the region knew that Madam had been a Ripley, and that the Ripley were a numerous family, spread throughout the entirety of England.
"Not the water," he kept murmuring, and this I found rather odd, as he had always taken to baths. Oh well, perhaps he merely meant to play. I fished in the air for his hand, finally catching hold and drawing him closer.
"I don't want to! Not the water! Don't!" His voice was quavering, and as I turned to face him, I saw tears, tears the sort that he rarely spilled. And then something else.
"Oh God, Lance." I trailed a circle on his chest with one finger, and even this was done lightly. Still, he drew in a bit of air. It stung him, and I could see why. Between his undressing and the run through the corridors, I hadn't caught sight of it. But now I cursed myself for not having done so previously.
Blood. Old blood. A long trail of blood marked what was obviously quite a deep and long cut on his chest. It hadn't festered, and the flesh was tying by itself. It needn't care, but its mere existence was a definite cause of concern.
"How did you get this?"
Tears still streamed down his pale cheeks, and he pointed behind me, towards the tub. "Don't make me, Mish, please don't-"
"I shall do no such thing, loveling, now, tell me, where did you-"
He kept pointing and weeping and shouting. "Don't make me, Mish, don't make me! Don't make me! Don't make me!"
He was causing such a terrible noise, that I feared Madam would wake, and Madam was so tired, and I shouldn't upset her, and the child was so aggravated, and –
"Don't make me! Don't make-"
I tried to hush me into silence, but finally, when all else failed, I simply had the tub emptied, the water slowly beginning to drain. "Here, see? No more water."
The sight of it silenced him, but did not calm him in the least. If anything, the way it ran down in circles, down those messy pipes, seemed only to exercise a horrid and fearful fascination upon him.
"Now tell me how you got hurt." My tone was soft, soft and warm and protective. This did him good, as he gradually relaxed, though he still wouldn't look me in the eye, and he still followed the water's course madly.. "Will it be our secret?"
I nodded. His voice came to a whisper. "I was in the forest."
Damned habit, I would speak with Madam the very following day, and I would confront Master Thomas myself, if I had to. All was well until the child got hurt, I had made that perfectly clear. Lance was now bloodied, and I would make certain that Master Thomas never forgave himself if there would be a scar. I somehow felt there wouldn't be. But still.
"How did you fall?"
Silence, at first. And then, "I didn't."
Alarm rang thick in my voice. "Then what came to pass?"
"We were playing."
I blinked off an odd mixture of surprise and indignation. "You?"
"We were playing hunting," Lance said, as if never interrupted, "and I got to be the deer. The hunter got me, and he had to draw blood – " my sudden gasp attracted a small smile, the same sort he had given Madam earlier, the smile that meant he knew all too well my fears, and wanted to be mature enough to lie me into a false security. "He had to, you see, it's how it is. Hunters have to draw the blood of the pray, it's how it is, we always play it like this."
Oh no. This had gone quite far enough. I would draw the line, and whatever friends my little angel had made would have their punishment for this crude, barbaric display of childish play. "Was Grandsire Thomas with you?"
The thought of it seemed to Lance a foreign notion. He frowned, slightly. "He wasn't playing, why should grandsire have come to play?"
This introduced a new problem. If the Master hadn't been there with him, then surely he would argue that the boy could go out hunting so long as he was well- accompanied. Not that a man well in his sixties could ever be accounted for as good company, but it was hardly as if one could hope to convince him of that. I would have to stand my ground firmly, yes, and then Madam would no longer allow him in the forest. Which was more than good. That was no place for children, no, no place at all.
I would address Madam on the matter tomorrow. Yes, indeed I would, though I would have to prepare my arguments and present it all to the Madam gently. No need to upset her. No, I would deal with the Master Thomas myself – and well, perhaps the time we'd spend a month from now, at that Hellsing estate would teach Lance a bit more of finer crafts than hunting. Master Robert would be there. Master Robert would teach him well.
I picked Lance up, and then soldiered on to his bedchamber. The little one was tired. I kissed his forehead gently, wiping a last tear from his soft little cheeks. He looked up to me, this time, and the faintest smile crossed his lips.
"No more water," he said.
No more water - I was nodding again – and soon, no more forest.
Author's note: the first, and last (no need to mention "and only", I imagine?) narrative made by Margery Cairne, governess in the Hellsing's service – this is, as the title puts it, an Interlude from the true story. The next chapter shall return to Kester and London and Alucard.
And yes, this piece was frightfully important. Too important, in fact, as it deals with the plot perhaps more than the other two parts together. And yes, it needed to be inserted right here, and right now. I'd again ask for some trust, but I do fear it becoming a habit.