How oft when men are at the point of death
Have they been merry!
William Shakespeare
It ought to have been raining.
That was his first thought when he woke, a thin shaft of sunshine sifting between the drapes, slanting directly across his eyes and making him squint. It was a beautiful morning and there wasn't a cloud in the sky. Yet if there had been any justice at all in the universe, the light would have been drab and gray, the view outside his window cloaked in fog and a fine, silvery drizzle.
Or, so he told himself.
However, William Pratt was not particularly surprised to find it otherwise. As stormy as his disposition had been lately, it would have taken a climate far less temperate than that of South West England in order for the weather to conform to it.
He stared up at the sun-dappled ceiling, making no move to leave the bed, though it was well past his time. Why bother? The day lay stretched before him like an empty road: bleak and desolate and all-too-familiar. It was no wonder he did not wish to face it. That void. That silence. That damned enormous house. Dozens of rooms peopled only with himself and the characters in the novels he read. Not a soul to talk to besides servants and the feeble creations of his own imagination. Loneliness. The agony of it was becoming so acute he felt he could have screamed.
Except, of course, that gentlemen did not.
And God knows we must remain gentlemanly at all costs.
The thought made him smile sourly. How often had he heard that in his youth? How many hours had they spent drilling those rules into his brain? Behaving like a gentleman had always meant adhering to a long list of don’ts: don’t raise your voice; don’t swear; don’t talk slang. Don’t run, or sing, or whistle, or write silly poems, or laugh when you feel happy, or cry when you feel sad. Above all else, do not ever cry. In fact, don’t show any emotion of any kind at any time. Men were stoic; men were strong. Everyone knew this. Only members of the weaker sex could give themselves over to their sensibilities with impunity, and even then only if they were very young.
No wonder, then, that he should feel such a sense of shame when he realized how close to crying he suddenly was. Much better that he should fling the warming pan against the wall in a fit of temper than let the servants catch him on the verge of tears. And what had he to cry about, anyway? Nothing at all.
Nothing, nothing, nothing, he chanted silently, dismally. That is what I have; all I shall ever have. Not a single damned thing.
Of course, looking around his bedroom he had to admit this was not entirely true. He actually had a good deal in the way of material possessions. He had a marble fireplace and a Persian rug; he had a cupboard full of expensive garments and a gold clock on the mantelpiece. He had a large house adorned with quality furniture and a stable filled with fine horses. He had servants and books. He had money. When you came right down to it, there really was not a lot he did not have, aside from simple human companionship.
And I would give up all the rest of it in an instant if I could just have that, he thought mutinously. It is not a lot of ask for, surely. Just someone decent to talk with.
As if in a mockery of this desire, the bedroom door suddenly creaked open and in crept the chambermaid, ready to begin her morning chores. While not particularly offensive in her looks or character, she certainly did not fit his many ideals, and lonesome as he felt, it would never have occurred to William to talk to her.
Still, he watched the girl as she moved about the room, stoking the fire, filling the washbowl with hot water, and opening the draperies. Though not exactly graceful, she performed each chore with such an absence of wasted effort that it almost seemed like a kind of domestic choreography, a working class ballet. He lay still and pretended to sleep—anything else would have been improper—but he could not help marveling at her. How could she sing at her work that way when it was so arduous, so unending? And why was it that he in his idleness never once even felt the urge?
He really did not feel very well at all this morning, and he wondered if perhaps he should forego breakfast and just call for a tray to be brought to his room. There was no shame in that; most men in his position did so occasionally. Yet, his mother had never permitted it in their household—she had considered it lazy and, therefore, unchristian—and William had continued to carry on the tradition of a formal meal even after her death. It seemed somehow wrong to change that now. Disrespectful.
The maid left the room as unobtrusively as she had entered it and, with a low groan, William finally climbed out of his bed. Despite the season—and the generous fire in the hearth—the room felt chilly and damp, and he shivered as he dressed. Shivered and coughed. And coughed. And coughed. His head ached and there was a strange pain in his chest, and he thought wearily that he might as well send for the doctor. He scrawled a quick note at his writing table and handed it to the second footman on his way down to the dining room.
Breakfast, then. It seemed unavoidable, and yet what an absurd scene it was—himself sitting silent and rigid and solitary at a table meant to hold a dozen. It was humiliating, in a way, and so desperately lonely that William felt he would have even asked the scullery maid to dine with him, just to have a bit of company. Except, of course, the scullery maid was coarse and illiterate and smelled of lye where she did not stink of sweat. And if he would not speak with a chambermaid, he certainly would not dine with a girl from the kitchen. He was a gentleman; far higher-ranking servants than these were beneath his notice.
It was something of a pity, really. The girl who milked the cows was not at all bad looking.
He sighed as he took his seat. Rather unappreciatively, he knew, for he certainly occupied a more desirable station in life than did any of the aforementioned staff. Yet the rules were so stifling, the game too competitive for a man as mild-tempered as he. William often thought if he were a bootblack rather than a gentleman of means, he would not be spending every morning eating his breakfast alone.
And just how long had he been alone? As he waited for his food, he tried to remember, but the day of his mother’s death—as well as all those immediately preceding and following it—had the blurred quality of a nightmare. All he could recall was that she had died early in the spring, and it had been raining.
A year ago, then. A little over a year. He had to take a moment to absorb that fact, for it hardly seemed possible he had been by himself so long. It hardly seemed possible he was not yet accustomed to it.
Perhaps he would never grow accustomed to it.
He gazed down at his plate as the footman began to fill it, but the sight of the food did little to tempt him. Although expertly prepared, the eggs, sausages, and bread seemed far too heavy for this hour of the day, and William knew if he ate them, they would sit in his stomach like a pile of stones. He reached for his porridge instead, laid a sap through the middle of it and drizzled in a lacework of treacle. Yet, somehow, the effect was not appetizing.
“Sir?”
He looked up, startled. The footman, though finished serving, was still standing at his right shoulder.
“Yes?”
“I was wondering…” The man hesitated. Then, “Sir, I was wondering if perhaps there is something else you might prefer instead. Something else I might tell Cook to prepare you…?”
There was nothing wrong with the food; it was only his own lagging appetite that kept him from enjoying it. Still, William could not help but appreciate the concern, even if it did come from a servant. He tried to muster an approving smile for the footman, but his head was aching so badly by this time the expression more closely resembled a grimace.
“Thank you, but I think not. I find I am not—that is—I don’t care for breakfast this morning. You may take it away.”
William knew the food would probably end up in the belly of one of the kitchen staff or the hall boy, but he could not bring himself to feel any resentment. It was better they eat it than let it go to the pigs. He pushed back his chair—“Call me when the doctor arrives—”and then escaped to his study. He went with the intention of reading a little in his new book of poems, but climbing the stairs left him out of breath and dizzy. He lay down upon the divan instead, draping one arm across his face to block out the light. Rather than read, he thought perhaps he had better rest for a little while until the doctor came.
It was half-past eight o’clock in the morning, and already he felt very tired.