An End to Compliance

Cuthbert remained by the clock, back poker-straight, eyes front,
like a soldier. In the crook of his arm a serviette hung crisply, the
tray in his hands weighing him down.

Master George was pacing up and down the gloomy hallway, muttering to
himself frantically, his grey hair tossing with every move of his head.
Cuthbert occasionally caught snatches of his words,

'?quite unreasonable, of course? absolutely ridiculous?'
At the sound of his name called sharply, Cuthbert raised his
eyes.
'Sir?'

'I said, do you think my wife is being reasonable, Sewell?'

'I could not say, sir.'

Cuthbert's life seemed full of such phrases: 'I could not say, sir? I
quite agree, sir? as you say, sir?'

'Well I could,' continued Master George feverishly. 'I say she's being
childish. While the bishop was round for tea earlier, he made some
inconsequential remark about those suffragette campaigners. I, of
course, agreed with him - after all, he was our guest - yet while I
would think nothing of it, Charlotte seems determined to believe that
it was a deliberate stab at women in general. She has not spoken to me
since.'

'Indeed, sir?'

He carried on pacing, gesticulating wildly, pausing only to pour
himself another brandy.

Childish? thought Cuthbert, Never. His heart burned the slow dull ache
he was now accustomed to.
I would treat you better than him?

Outwardly, his face made no change, while within he was on fire.
For twenty-nine of the thirty years I have worked for this household, I
have pined for you, Charlotte. For twenty-nine years I have remained
celibate?

For twenty-nine years his dreams had been awash with her sensuous,
flowing hair, now grey as ashes; her velvet-soft skin, once retaining
the delicate flush of youth, now taught and lined, lacklustre, glowing
not with radiance but with fatigue; her eyes, once deep, shining,
bottle-green, now like the weak green of dry mint.

Cuthbert saw none of this change; only her delicate hands, her fragile
frame, her smiling eyes.

While his mind raced recklessly, he maintained his sombre expression,
his only movement being a dextrous turn of his wrist, pouring drink
after drink for his wretched master.

Half an hour later, once Master George was sufficiently inebriated, had
declared himself indifferent to Charlotte's behaviour, and had sobbed
into Cuthbert's shoulder, Cuthbert was standing in the drawing room,
alone, fingering the locket of Charlotte's hair, extracted from the
hairbrush on her dressing table, which had hung round his neck for
twenty-nine years.

In the next room, he could hear Master George's frenzied attempts to
make peace with his wife. Charlotte seemed to be maintaining a
determined silence; usually in such a domestic quarrel, it was about
this time that her reticence was exchanged for an articulate
displeasure.

Cuthbert was confused - he usually knew her moods to the second - yet
privately flushed with some sort of triumph, that the woman he idolised
was standing up so determinedly to her blundering, if loving,
husband.

The sound of the door slamming alerted him to Master George's departure
from the next room. Slipping silently through the door, Cuthbert
appeared at his master's side.

George sat on the stairs, head in hands. When, at last, he raised his
head, Cuthbert noted a desperate look in his eyes, uncommon for the
usually vigorous old man.

' I'm getting old, Sewell,' George finally whispered, listless. 'How
can she do this to me?'

Cuthbert cast an eye behind him into the dimly lit room where Charlotte
sat. Indeed, her pose was elaborately rigid, and from this angle,
Cuthbert could not properly discern the expression of her face in the
gloom.

'I shall retire to my room,' George announced finally, raising his
voice in order to inform Charlotte. She showed no sign of being
impressed. Half-way up the stairs, he stopped, and called meekly, as a
final desperate attempt at reconciliation,

'Couldn't we just put all this behind us?'

A frosty silence was all that met his ears, except the slow ticking of
the grandfather clock. He turned back around, and trudged up the
stairs, a beaten man.

Cuthbert brought Charlotte's dinner in on a tray, which he carefully
placed beside her. He looked at her stern profile in the gloom, her
graceful fingers stretched along the side of the armchair; so elegant
they were, white against the dark, rich burgundy.

He was suddenly gripped, uncontrollably, by twenty-nine years of
repressed desire. He took a step forward, an intake of breath, but fell
back. Words flooded through his mind, yet which words could possibly be
sufficient? Though he tried to deny it, he knew Charlotte had never
shown him any outstanding sign of affection. A smile, a nod, a
customary compliment to his organisation of special occasions; these
were the best he had been able to hope from her. True, she had always
seemed to have a special place for him, while he knew she had no
patience with the other staff, but could this really be a signal of
secret love for him?

Knowing that this would be the last time any heart as old as his could
summon up such courage, he compelled himself to move forward. Crushing
the knowledge that this could be his last act in the household - he
would undoubtedly be dismissed - he lunged at her awkwardly, fell to
his knees, and clutched her hands in his. 'Madam!' he exclaimed,
passionately.

Her pale green eyes looked up at him, surprised, and fixed his gaze.
'Cuthbert?'. Her voice was soft, quizzical.
'I-I-I? forgive me, Madam, I don't know what came over -'
He struggled to rise, but her elegant white hands gripped his and
pulled him back. She leaned forward.

'Take me away?' she whispered.