Chapter Three

Summary:

Giles, the butler, is in love with Elizabeth, the young noblewoman he has served since her birth. Elizabeth is unhappy about her upcoming marriage to Steel, a man she does not love. She tells Giles that she wishes to flee and join the low-borns, but Giles knows that she cannot.

Giles tells Elizabeth that Lady Sheeks, her mother, insists that she wear her new blue gown for the ball. Elizabeth is not happy about this, but she knows that she has no choice.

Giles leaves the room, feeling sorry for Elizabeth. He knows that she is not happy, but he cannot help her.

'Twas his crowning moment. Giles curled his rugged fingers at his sides, ready to serve. He raised his gray stubbled chin, and thence he took in a fine deep breath. Ah! How her vanilla scents were as strong, and more pleasant than the Azores.

The better if she hadth speech to match, for her words drained souls.

"Her heart ist made of brick," Elizabeth said, twirling the curls that fell at her wet cheeks, “If she hadth one. Canst thou discern not? We grow weary and hath so little freedom. For to be free from her is no freedom at all. I'm given to the house of a person as formidable as she; who offereth even less.”

Giles said nothing. He wast too enchanted to listen. One couldst hardly help but admire the glow cast behind her, which came like the morning sun that finally shewed its face; lighting her blonde hair on fire, as it turned her youthful skin white as snow.

His heart, now in its six score, tenth, and a fourth year, palpated in her presence, like a youth at Christmas tide.

He hadth served since her birth, being the highest and most trusted servant of the house e'en at that time.

Throughout these years, there wast no greater privilege than to see her blossom from a precocious child, how e’er unruly, to a sweeter lady than any he hadth known.

She gazed into her morose reflection in the trickling window, and stroked the front of her white night kirtle. Like a fallen porcelain doll was she whose countenance was shattered from the inside out; unable to be pieced into its once whole and beautiful self.

She sighed and sniffled, and thence faced the ceiling with a most pitiful dejection.

"O’ Giles, save us," she said, as she fidgeted her hands, "Rid us of this dreadful parade. Wouldst that we hadth fled long ago and joined the low-borns, and with a glorious banner. Disowned. Forsaken. Thence none wouldst force us to endure the pains of pretty garments, and the meaningless persons we wear them for."

Giles bowed, and thence raised slow. He sighed within himself. Wouldst that he didst not hath to bear a message so opposed to her complaint, but duty came before heart.

He said, clearing his throat, "Lady Sheeks' insisteth that thee wear thy new blue gown. And we quoth, ‘Wear naught else ‘aside this, for 'tis in Steel's favorite shade.’"

“Our favorite shade is a goodly red, like that of his embarrassed countenance,” she quipped with a smirk, thence turned downcast to the window. She looked upon her wrists, “or the shameful noble blood in our veins.”

He blinked away her discomforting words.

“She testifies that this shade of blue is favored...because they are so much like your eyes. And we say also, if we may be so forward and bring thee comfort, they are like the dreadful blues of the Atlantic one faces when lost at sea." 'Twas too bold, but the words couldst not be retracted. She cared naught that he were free in language, tis' truth, but a hall full of ears picked up and repeated the slightest whispers.

"Mm. Tell her," she started, and thence she bit her tongue. She entangled her hair above her head, like a loosened ball of yarn, "By and by we cometh, but stress our mind: we like it not. And go fetch our ladies, that they might ready us for our inevitable doom."

She let her hair flop down o'er her sunken shoulders and pouted, like an silenced unruly child.

Giles lowered his head and frowned. He wished for all the world there wast something he might doest or spake to bring anent her perfect happiness, but he possessed no means to spare her. They both wist her dreadful fate wast sealed.

Giles rubbed his lumpy throat, as though the words he longed to tell her were stuck inside. He gulped, and placed both hands behind his back.

He swallowed the air, and the stuck words, for there wast naught left to say on this wise. He bowed low.

Believeth it or not, a servant was not unlike an unwillingly betrothed noble, in that 'twas better to hath no thoughts of thine own, but only that which was dictated. To ‘shut thy mouth and endure’ was a way of life, in a setting where your enviable betters were free in both speech and action.

She noticed him not.

He cleared his throat again, and spake, "We shalt heed as thou hast wished, our lady."

There wast no servant in all the realms of all the world who wist a mistress’ heart better than he didst hers.

She wast not so unloved. She hath love not from whence she secretly longed, and so refused it altogether. Save for her now late father.

Elizabeth tossed her head at the window’s reflection, as she cupped the sides of her neck with both hands. She sighed low into her bosom.

There was no excuse for further delay. No further help he couldst offer. He departed from the room, making a pitiful glance Elizabeth overlooked.

For all her wealth, glamour, and great privilege, Elizabeth Sheeks was the sorriest sight of all women, and the most to be pitied.