Saturday, 14 February

The young master dug his foot into the gravel as Elizabeth's carriage came to a stop in front of the manor. Glancing with scorn at his jejune fidgeting, I resented having to waste my time oiling and polishing those shoes once more. A trying morning had already irritated me.

Shortly after sunrise, I tapped on his bedroom door before entering. For the past few years it was customary for me to walk in, announce my "good morning" and sweep open the curtains. Seeing as how Ciel wanted to be a little more independent in his morning and evening rituals, I felt it best not to be so intrusive. When no stirring could be heard, I knocked louder.

"Master, it is time for you to get up," I called through the door. This felt most peculiar, I thought, standing outside his room like I had no business entering. Opening the door to peek in my head, the boy was lying on his stomach, tangled among his bed linens. This was an indication that he did not get the best-quality sleep the night prior. With a muffled whine, Ciel flopped over so he would not face me at the entrance.

"This is completely futile," I grumbled to myself. Striding over to the window opposite his bed, I jerked open the curtains. "You have a big day ahead of you, young master," I chirped, trying very hard to remove the budding irritation from my tone. Upon the light flooding the room, the boy retreated under his covers and gave an incoherent bellow of defiance against the beginning of a new day.

"Would you like a cup of tea, young master?"

"Hnnn… yes, three sugars, please."

"Well, breakfast is waiting for you in your study. I assumed you wanted to finish up a bit of work before Lady Elizabeth arrives. Get dressed and you may have your tea." As I marched to the exit, the boy flung the covers from him.

"What is this? Where is my tea, Sebastian?"

"As I said, it is in the study." He grabbed a pillow and hurled it at me. Catching it was by no means difficult. "Young master, we do not have time for games. Please get dressed before your meal gets cold."

In the study was a trolley that carried poached eggs benedict and crumpets, slices of cured ham spiced with clove and a delicate Darjeeling tea. There was the perception that I would have some resistance from the young master with this change in routine. Regardless of whether he asked for it or not, he was used to being spoiled, especially when it came to setting him right in that first hour of the morning.

When the boy entered the study a few minutes later, it took quite a bit of will to refrain from laughing at him. His hair was dishevelled, his tie was crooked, and his shirt was poorly tucked. He missed one of his buttons when buttoning his shirt and one of his stockings was not secure.

"Young master did you tie a knot in one of your shoelaces?" I covered my mouth, because I could not resist grinning.

"Shut up," he growled between clenched teeth.

The only thing on his person he managed to secure with proficiency was that eye patch. "Come here and let me fix you." He stomped over as I pulled a comb out of my jacket pocket. I slipped off the eye patch, combed down his hair, adjusted every fold, tucked every edge, and within a minute he was respectable-looking.

He glared with that cerulean eye as I pulled his chair out from his desk and gestured him to sit. "No massage this morning, Sebastian?" Setting his breakfast in front of him, he slumped into his seat.

"I hardly think that is appropriate at this time, seeing as how you should be refreshed this morning and I have no time to indulge you." So this was the reason for this short temper. Conflicting feelings had that effect on him, but addressing these matters had to wait.

After pouring a cup and I handed it to him. He looked at the teacup. "I said I wanted three sugars."

"Young master, please forgive me for being outright, but you are being a little difficult this morning." I obliged him with plucking three cubes out of the sugar bowl and dropping them in his cup. The sugar tongs clanged as I set them back on the trolley with a little too much force.

Ciel clicked his tongue in frustration. "You splashed tea onto the saucer, you imbecile."

"My apologies."

He turned away with a wave of his hand. "Well, if you have such pressing matters, then leave me be and tend to them. I will call you when I'm done with my meal."

I was grateful to be dismissed since there were quite a few chores that had not been seen to in preparation for Elizabeth's arrival. Mey-Rin was instructed to set new sheets on the bed in the lady's guest room and then dust the main parlour. Finny took the rugs outside to beat the dust from them. Baldroy was directed to start mixing ingredients for a sponge cake and a few custards, as well as pluck and dress a bird for the evening's meal (of course, I told him not to set anything in the oven). Every effort was made to enhance Elizabeth's special day with my young master.

Some would consider my efforts to be excessive, but I knew just how important this occasion was to the Lady Elizabeth. On the other hand, Ciel had grown to detest the holiday and its implications. When he was younger, the boy tolerated his fiancée's affections. Over subsequent Valentine's Day celebrations, much to his chagrin, the cards became gaudier, the expectations rose higher, and the affections were all the more suffocating.

To make matters worse, the boy did not possess any sense of delicacy in matters of romance. Last year, Lady Elizabeth asked him, "Can I expect a new pair of gloves for Valentine's?" Being the boy who was ignorant of romantic English customs, he remarked that she probably had a pair for every Sunday until Pentecost. I thought the reply was quite witty, but I held back my laughter due to the tears brimming in Lady Elizabeth's eyes.

"Don't you know? You are supposed to give gloves to your true love on Valentine's Day as a marriage proposal. If she wears them on Easter Sunday, then she accepts!" The innocent girl explained.

My young master crossed his arms. "But I'm already engaged to you. Why would I want to participate in a commoner's custom?"

Lady Elizabeth burst into tears. "Ciel, you are just so impossible sometimes!" With that, she stormed out of the room.

Ever since that episode, the young master sought to placate the girl's expectations. Despite some of his more extravagant efforts, I could see that Ciel did not extend these gestures out of a deep romantic love for the young lady. This dishonesty towards the girl was a little more than irritating to me. It is not to say my irritation was due to Ciel's dishonesty toward his fiancée, but rather his dishonesty with himself. I sought to bring this fact to his attention in a most uncomfortable manner: by being a most perfect butler.

Opening her carriage door, I extended my hand so that Lady Elizabeth could exit. As soon as both feet were on the ground she bounded towards her fiancé in her usual jubilant fashion. Ciel attempted to give his most charming smile despite his predilection to spend his time engaged with more worthwhile business.

"Oh Ciel, I'm so happy to be spending Valentine's Day here! You'll just love what I have for you!" Elizabeth held fast to the Earl's arm.

The colour drain from his face as he realized, 'I don't have a valentine for Lizzie!' He glared in my direction, so as not to alert the young lady of anything. As I walked past the two I gave him a quick wink, ensuring that I had everything under control.

I opened the door to the manor and bowed as they entered. "Would tea in the parlour be sufficient?"

The two ambled across the chessboard floor of the foyer. "Oh, Elizabeth do you remember how much you enjoyed the trip to France last fall?"

"Yes, it was so very romantic. The French have a real eye for beauty, don't they?" Elizabeth replied.

"Well, it inspired me to have my main parlour redecorated for you to enjoy whenever you come to visit."

Elizabeth gasped as I opened the door to the parlour. It had been transformed from dark, drab and austere into a fanciful, Rococo-inspired salon, of sorts. Dark panelling had been replaced with white-washed moulding, powder-blue walls and gilded rocaille-style ornamentation. The golden accents repeated themselves in the cornice around the ceiling, softening the linear planes of the room. Wainscot panelling also stretched around the length of the room, adding to its elegance. The light from the large French-style windows was amplified by large gilded mirrors that hung on the opposite wall. A quaint, romantic painting of a pastoral scene hung as the room's focal point.

"This room is so precious!" She darted around the room to have a better look at the upholstery. The room was furnished with elaborately carved chairs and couches, cushioned in gentle pastels. Side tables were adorned with brass figures and fresh lilies from the greenhouse. An elegant piano illuminated with hand-painted roses stood in the corner. Every object was bulging with intricacy, curving into fanciful forms, demanding that the lady gaze upon the room's every facet. It was a model of femininity.

"Ciel, I love this painting!" she exclaimed, pointed to the framed work. "Who is the artist?"

"Boucher," he replied, "and while I don't care for the obscenity of a lot of his work, this one felt appropriate for the room." I could not help but smirk at the comment. The English are so very stuffy when it comes to their preferences. Even though the room was decorated in a very Rococo style, the earl's very Victorian sentiments would not allow him to ornament this room to a level the French would have desired in the previous century. It was a style of decadence and reverie, bordering on wanton excess. For propriety's sake, the young master decided it was best to tone it down in a most British manner. As a result, the room lacked a cohesion that was evident in true French Rococo.

Regardless, many of his associates who gazed upon the room found the decoration to be superfluous, old-fashioned and distastefully un-British. Ciel stood by his desire to make up a room for Elizabeth, at which point said-associates would gush at his charming endeavours.

Standing next to the earl, we watched as the lady observed every corner and ornament of the room. A small trinket box was pulled from my pocket and I handed it to Ciel. "I believe you left this upstairs, young master."

He understood the gesture, brow wrinkling as he caught the mischievous glint in my eyes. "Sebastian," the boy ordered, "do you have tea prepared?"

"Most certainly, young master."

Excusing myself, I went to the kitchen to retrieve my trolley. All manner of treats were prepared for the couple, including a sponge cake layered with canned cherries from the previous season, a bakewell tart, and some dainty sandwiches. For tea, I found a most delicate jasmine and hibiscus tea that would pair with the sugary fare. An elaborate silver tea pot and floral tea set was chosen to match the ambience of the parlour.

Elizabeth squealed and clapped her hands as I entered the room with this sumptuous display. While the girl was maturing into a decorous young woman, there was no doubt that she would never lose her exuberance. The two sat on the exquisite green couch in the centre of the room.

"I know that tea hasn't been served, but I cannot stand waiting any longer. I must give you your valentine, Ciel." Elizabeth reached into a pocket in her dress and pulled out a small parcel trussed in ribbons and bows. The boy accepted it with a faint smile, pulled at one of the ribbons to reveal a small frame. It contained an embroidered work: small love poem illuminated with flowers, densely stitched with vibrant thread. Its craftsmanship expressed all the care and devotion Elizabeth held for her betrothed. I poured tea for the lady and handed it to her. She accepted her cup but took no sip, anticipating Ciel's reaction.

"This is your work?" She nodded enthusiastically. "It's lovely, Elizabeth."

"Thank you! I've taken a liking to this craft. Mother said she wouldn't have me painting." She took a sip of her tea. "May I have another sugar, Sebastian?" I obliged.

The young master paid me no notice as I handed him his tea. "Is that so?" Elizabeth's gift was placed on the table. He expressed just enough interest in the trifle token to placate his fiancée.

"Yeah, something about how the current state of the arts is misguiding so many otherwise proper ladies."

"I wonder what aunt means by that, precisely."

The young lady turned to the painting. "Do you think it has something to do with obscenities?" She said the word with a trace of intrigue. I cleared my throat. "Sebastian, would you know something on the matter?"

"Yes, Francois Boucher, the artist who painted that," I pointed to the pastoral scene, "was a very successful painter, well known among the court of Louis XV. If you remember your history, you know the French aristocracy of the time was rich beyond anything imaginable, and this luxury did lead to over-indulgence and eventually a decay of morality." Ciel rolled his eyes, but the girl was entranced by my lecture. "Some of his paintings were rather provocative, many of which were commissioned by various members of court."

I kneeled in closer, as if divulging a most scandalous piece of gossip. Elizabeth played along, in her girlish curiosity. "One such painting was a portrait of Marie-Louis O'Murphy, who won the favour of the King as she was painted as lying prostrate over a—"

"That's enough, Sebastian," the young master barked. He took a sip of his tea. "You should know better than to speak of such things to a young lady. And if aunt hears of what her daughter is learning when she comes to visit…" Elizabeth giggled.

The young lady brought her attention back to the young earl. "Where's my valentine, Ciel?" She sat down her teacup on the gilded coffee table and held her hands in her lap in a most saccharine fashion.

The young master pulled the pink satin box out of his breast pocket, failing to catch my knowing smirk. He was foolish to hand her a trinket box of which he did not know its contents. There were times when I believed Ciel placed too much trust in my judgments.

Elizabeth seized the gift in a manner that would have been considered less than polite. She gasped upon opening it. "Oh Ciel!" Out of the box she pulled a love knot brooch, brilliantly delicate and of a fine karat. The young master's face drained of all colour upon seeing it.

Ciel never gave any specification as to what kind of valentine Elizabeth should receive. He also never gave any instruction on how I might procure this gift. I remembered the small trinket box being locked away in a cabinet in some never-used room – along with a few other treasures he discovered at the house in London. They were belongings of his parents that he wanted to forget but could not bring himself to discard.

Ciel remembered the love knot being a present to his mother; it was one of the first gifts his father gave to Rachel. Angelina, the boy's late aunt, had recounted the story to Ciel that summer afternoon all those years ago.

Elizabeth knew nothing of the origins of the romantic finery, but she understood the implications of the gift. It was a token to express the deep and unshakeable love of the giver. By Ciel bestowing this love knot, he was giving his heart to the young woman. Sure, it was a little old-fashioned, but the sentiment was by no means lost on that love sick girl.

The young woman lunged across the couch to grab her fiancé in a tight hug. "Lizzie, please—" the boy gasped.

"I had always hoped you felt this way towards me!" Elizabeth looked up at Ciel, and he managed to mask his surprise at the young lady's forthcoming and indecent behaviour.

How are you going to play this one, young master? I wondered. He did not want to see Elizabeth wear that brooch; it was too associated with the memory of his mother. He could not take it back, nor could he take back the gesture of giving it to her. His only plausible course of action was to have his demeanour be consistent with this gift.

Ciel patted the girl on the shoulder, and sat her upright on the couch, like a good gentleman would. "I feel like…" the boy stammered, sounding as if he were sorting through his words, "It's difficult, Lizzie. You know, when one has a particular feeling, and he cannot help but be afraid of it." I busied myself with the tart, setting a piece for each on the coffee table next to the now-forgotten tea.

I had the impression he was not referring to any feeling he had for his fiancée.

The young man continued, "I have lost too many I have cared for." Elizabeth stared into that watery blue eye, silent for the feeling of inadequacy, as she had no experience to relate, nothing to match any semblance of heartache.

The young lady started slowly, "Are you saying you're afraid of the feelings you have for me because you don't want to lose me?" In response, the earl looked away, his lip quivering. My goodness, he certainly knows how to put on a show when the occasion calls for it, I thought. This action was a façade to convince Elizabeth of some highly tuned women's intuition.

Elizabeth reached to caress the boy's face, a lady's touch swathed in lace. The gesture was nothing but compassionate. Ciel tried to soften to the gesture, but I felt him grappling with this hidden balancing act he was playing out for his fiancée.

"It pleases me that my gift makes you so happy, Lizzie."

"Everything you do for me pleases me." Her expression brightened, with the need to dispel all hint of melancholy from the occasion. She pointed to the piano in the corner. "I have been practicing, quite a bit. Would you like me to play for you, Ciel?"

The young earl grinned. "Most certainly."

She jumped from the couch and skipped to the piano. Lowering herself onto the bench, she arranged the folds of her dress as a young woman learned in etiquette would. The gloves were pulled off finger by finger and stored in a skirt pocket. After testing a few of the keys, the lady announced, "Today's selection is Schumann's Arabesque, opus eighteen in C major."

The melody started with a flutter of notes, the girl's ungloved hands summoning the melody from the instrument.

Ciel gave his attention to the performance for a moment, before looking in my direction. He motioned me over, and then placed a palm to mine. 'Do you understand what you did?'

'Are you referring to the valentine?'

'What else would I be referring to, you idiot?' I saw the irritation brimming.

'In my opinion, young master, I believe it was a perfect idea. I am sorry you disagree.'

He sighed. 'We'll discuss this later.'

We both listened to Elizabeth give her private recital. The song was very suitable for her in some ways: controlled, feminine, fanciful at times, but with an underlying yearning. There were moments where the song swelled into a lively refrain, and then drifted into deeper chords. She played the allegro with technical grace, but when the music shifted into its more wistful passages her energy did not falter to meet them. When moments called for hesitation, to place emphasis on a pensive tone, she passed through them with the equal fervour, thus failing to capture all the subtlety of the piece.

My young master gave only enough attention to be considered polite, but his thoughts wandered to some preoccupation. He tried to capture a facet of the song's story that he could attach to his own experiences and found the endeavour futile. Elizabeth's song only related to her own dolefulness, being as shallow and transient as the puddle after the storm.

Author's note: original publish date July 5th, 2012. Revised edition published August 1st, 2014.