Our Fortunate Lovers

Droplets

1910
It is not particularly easy to focus on much more than a droplet of cerise gleaming from the corner of one's eye. Humankind depends so tediously upon perfection of appearance that it would not overlook the simplest of anomalies; to be catalogued an indecent, insensitive peasant for such a trifling matter is far easier than one would think, and so, we are all condemned to noticing the smallest of irregularities for the sake of aesthetic value and perhaps pride.
This was such the case as I could not veer my attention from the sting of a burst lip — and the sight of it — as I marveled at the vivid skin's reflection on a mirror close to me. I do admit it is quite self-centered, as I could already hear some conversation beginning to unfold in the adjacent room and would be expected to participate in any way I could, but the red, gleaming surface of my lip was entrancing, and I felt equally disgusted by my selfishness as I was captured in awe by the texture and the burn when I brought a finger to the lip.
Violence and politics were twin malevolent sisters that blocked my path towards socialization, though I was satisfied, for those men which my father entertained would not have been my specific choice of company at any time given — my thirteen-year old self had not quite grasped the abstract thought of maintaining good relations with people of interest, however dull their minds were, and so entertained himself with cuts on the lips, and shiny crimson droplets on his blouse.
The call for dinner allowed me to avoid the unavoidable gaucheries through which I would have suffered had I engaged in the adult-talk, far too brute and unsophisticated for me though masked with the beginnings of English cordiality.
"How much has Frederick grown," exclaimed a wife, or a sister, or a cousin, in the birdlike and exuberant way that is characteristic of young — spoiled — women. I dipped my head and smiled courteously before tucking a strand of silver hair behind an ear, obviously — unnoticeably — awkward and clumsy, as is characteristic of me, at dinner with strangers. "Thank you, Lady Mary. I hope your trip is proving to be pleasant?"
I was not sure it was only I who noticed my father's scoffing, but I continued to smile, nevertheless.
The cut stretched and I ached miserably, no doubt had the wound opened.
One of the other men, with the uniform bound so tightly by his large midsection and around his neck, shifted in his seat and gobbled his own words almost before I could decipher whatever he could have meant to say. "My dear boy," please don't call me that. "Fights should only be looked for when there's a chance at winning!"
I refused to look at my father.
When I dipped my head in acknowledgement for the second time so soon, I resolved it looked rather idiotic, and should not do it again for some time lest I be categorized a complying moron. "It is good to see you again, Captain. I feared that, without practice, there should not ever be a chance of winning for me."
The booming laughter almost struck me dumb — as I was not expecting it — but I managed to be satisfied with the response, though I wondered if my father would be pleased to be stripped of all credit.
"Eating well gives you a higher chance. Now, look at me!" The Captain was as gracious as a pig. Instead of scrunching up a nose that itched at the thought of someone so greasy and so unkempt, I went along with his follies and orchestrated an escape plan for later, though it would never be set into action if I wanted to keep my neck and jaw aligned.
Decapitation had always seemed so very humiliating. As a poet, the idea of one's mind being stolen by iron should have become attractive; alas, 'twas not the case. I suppose it was the thought of my head rolling in mud and excrement that made it anathema to me.
Yes, that might be it.
"I hear Carvhal Manor has a new addition to its Service." This was Aunt Violet, who apparently knew less than to intrude in personal household affairs. Her voice was icy; I enjoyed her presence.
Father ran his eyes through her, his tongue working at something that had clung to his incisives. "Yes, a hall boy."
"Pray, what is his name?"
"Why the sudden interest?"
I turned to Mr Lang, our butler, with a questioning brow. He deflected any silent inquiries I should send his way, and, obeying the hierarchy, neither footmen would hint at it.
Asking Father was out of the question, but Aunt Violet would not leave it alone — how grateful I was. Captain Branson's companion perked her ear avidly at the gossip, though he himself picked at his plate, oblivious to the atmospheric tension.
"I hear he is the brother of a soldier in your regiment, Colonel," said she with a distinct tincture of humor in her tone, though it ceased when Father struck the table with his hand harshly (to which I winced half-audibly, dropping my gaze to my lap immediately.)
His gaze was hellfire on my skull, and then it left for different prey — poor Aunt Violet, ignorant and foolish, who must bear with such treatment.
Daniel and Victor had arrived with the next course, though they stood close to the doors with plates still in hand, blocked by Mr Lang's qualified stare.
"We will speak no more of this."
And I wouldn't, and the Captain — who had at last risen his eyes into more pertinent matters — and his wife wouldn't, and Mother would certainly not, as she was preoccupied with the peas still on her plate.
"Have you finally got a secret of your own, Frederick?"