Chapter Text
Reynolds remembers how that footman, Brimsley he is called — since no one goes by their Christian names belowstairs, smiled at him that night all excited at solving a riddle, his grin as bright as a candle in that dark wine cellar.
He has never come across someone so strangely bubbly as Brimsley. Well, not anyone in service anyway. Reynolds own experience in service began at the tender age of six. His mother was a washerwoman in the previous’ King’s court of servants. Thinking back, she really had done her best to raise him and his two older sisters while his father, a locksmith by trade seemed almost far removed from the picture.
He remembers how every night him and his sisters would share a half loaf of bread — meant for the week — while his mother never seemed to eat much if at all.
Her rations were never meant to be for two let alone four. So while young Reynolds and his sisters grew stronger each day, his mother slowly wasted away until one day she simply didn’t wake up any more.
Reynolds and his sisters were left to fend for themselves.
His sisters had it easier in a way, the washerwomen took them both in, teaching them the trade. Reynolds himself however, was relegated to the lowest of the low. A stable hand. He tended to the horses in the stables, fed them and cleaned out their stalls. It was by his own good work that he was promoted to hall boy at the age of ten.
No more smelling like horse shit though his peers in the palace never failed to remind him of it. He knows what it’s like to go to sleep hungry because he’d not been quick enough to grab food at the table. He knows what it’s like to have no one to turn to with his problems. He knows what it’s like to be backstabbed and cheated upon, to suffer punishment at a young age for things he hadn’t done.
Somehow they could sense the weakness upon him, an invisible aura that singled him out and made him the scapegoat each time. Reynolds fought back time and again but there comes a time when one would give up for his fighting never brought about a change and it was then, just as he had resigned himself to his fate and given up fighting, by a stroke of luck that he was saved, allowed to rise above the rest.
Young Prince George had come of age and every young gentleman, especially one that is a Prince would require suitable valet. His mother Princess Augusta certainly thought so too for she was the one who sent word down to the servants that Prince George was looking for a suitable valet. It would be a good opportunity for any one wanting to serve a future King.
Reynolds remembers how his peers had scrambled to sign up for the prestigious role. Princess Augusta had held a trial test for the lot of hopeful footmen and none had passed. In fact, they had all mysteriously left the service of the palace, not that Reynolds minded. He didn’t have a single friend amongst them and it proved to be much quieter after their departure from the palace.
Reynolds signed on too. He knew the apparent risk. Pass and become the future King’s valet or fail and be dismissed. He didn’t tell his sisters of course for they would surely have barred him from even trying. Not that he would have listened to them anwyay.
The test had proved to be difficult indeed for King George had been in one of his episodes then and he had talked about wanting to become a farmer to plant rows of crops. He had talked about horses and riding and hunting.
Reynolds had indulged him, sitting with the young Prince and talking to him about farm life. The various breeds of horses that he had come to know during his time as a stable hand. He told the Prince stories he had heard about legendary hunts, stories which the washerwomen told to him sometimes when he was younger to pass the time.
Reynolds had passed with flying colours.
He had earned his place. His right to be the King’s man and the price? A life sworn to secrecy of King George’s condition. Though come to think of it…he didn’t have anyone to tell for he had grown distant with his sisters over the years with him working within the palace walls. He could not bring himself to see them anyway. He didn’t need them to know his horrible secret.
Up ahead on the trail now, Reynolds watches King George slows his horse to a stop and jumps off, standing in the clearing.
“I should like to have a picnic here,” King George announces now looking expectantly to him, “Will you please arrange it for me, Reynolds?”
“Of course, Your Majesty,” Reynolds answers about to get off his horse when the King stops him with a simple wave of his hand, cancelling out his decision to dismount.
“I should also like to have my work brought out here,” King George continues, “Some fresh air ought to help in the completion of numerous unwanted paperwork.”
“But it looks like rain Your Majesty,” Reynolds points out. He had seen dark clouds in the distance on the ride here.
“A bit of rain never stopped anyone,” King George says with a cheeky grin, “As soon as it begins to drizzle, we’ll head back. How does that sound?”
“As you wish,” Reynolds says with an affirmative nod, “Will you be alright out here in the meantime, Your Majesty?”
“Yes, Reynolds. Thank you for asking,” King George replies with a nod and a small smile, “I believe I shall be fine. You go on. I’ll be here.”
It is one thing to leave the King alone within the palace walls. It is another matter entirely to leave him in the middle of the forest surrounding the palace alone, prone to wandering about the estate. If anything were to happen to King George, it is Reynolds that they will come for first. His head will be the first to roll. He knows that Princess Augusta will not let it slide easily if anything were to happen to her son.
So Reynolds rides like the wind back to the palace, hoping against everything that King George will not have another episode while he is absent and get into any trouble while he is out there alone.
As Reynolds nears the palace’s kitchens he wonders how that footman Brimsley has been. He wonders if Brimsley likes the chocolate that Reynolds had bought for him, a gift when he had gone into town with King George, disguised as they were as a Lord and his valet that day.
The King’s episode had taken him into town and he had asked Reynolds to accompany him. They had gone to a confectionary and a tea house and then walked for hours in the park. Thankfully no one had recognised the King.
Reynolds dismounts with ease now, handing the reins to one of the hall boys who was scrubbing the soot blackened backs of the pots from the kitchen but had stopped when he came into the yard.
He enters the kitchen by means of the backdoor, dressed with his hat and his riding coat draped about him. He knows he commands the attention of everyone within the kitchen as he enters. He sees them whisper, the maids with their heads bent together cheeks flushing with colour as their eyes meet before quickly and shyly sliding away from his own.
“I require assistance,” Reynolds announces as he removes his riding gloves and takes off his hat, smoothing blond locks back into place, “I need a basket to be put together for the King, immediately. He wishes to have a picnic,” he says looking to the cook, “I will also require some of the footmen to assist me with bringing the King’s outdoor desk and his papers to him. His Majesty wishes to have fresh air while he works,” he continues eyes roving across the footmen searching for one in particular for the task.
“Lastly I will need wine a good vintage,” Reynolds says scanning the still scene of the other remaining servants in the kitchen. It is everyone he does not wish to see.
“Where is Brimsley?” He asks now and they all look between themselves unable to tell him the answer either. It would seem that no one has seen Brimsley or bothered to take notice of his absence.
The only one who answers is the cook, “He’s settin’ the table upstairs, Sir. Him and a few others left not before you came in to tell us that His Majesty won’t be lunchin’ in the palace.”
Reynolds lets out a hum of acknowledgement, “You,” he says pointing out one of the other footmen, “Go upstairs and fetch Brimsley for me at once.”
“Right away, Sir,” the footman obliges ducking out of the kitchen.
“And the rest of you stop gawking. Back to work. I need the basket ready in fifteen minutes,” he says, pulling out his pocket watch and staring at the time, “Those who are assisting with the King’s outdoor desk and his papers should set out immediately. Go,” he says angling his chin at a team of footmen, getting them scurrying into action.
His job done, Reynolds turns his back on them standing in a corner of the kitchen as the sounds of work surround him. He sets his riding hat and gloves upon the nearby table, hands clasped behind his back as he studies the timetable that the cook had plastered upon the wall, looking but not really seeing.
Reynolds has never liked being in crowded places.
In fact, the kitchen itself holds bad memories for him. How the other footmen had laughed at him keeping him boxed in a corner that day when they’d all found out about the present he’d given to someone whom he had called friend…someone whom he had finally felt close to. How stupid he had been…and apparently still is…
‘You’re in for it now, Reynolds!’
Their voices ring all about him.
‘We’ll make sure that they find out about what you did!’
‘They’ll probably string you up for it, deviant.’
That scoff, those words from someone whom Reynolds had come to trust. The sneer in the other boy’s words as he pushed him, shoved him into a corner.
Reynolds feels the rise in his heart rate, the fear and anger pounding in his chest. The word deviant reverberates in his brain. He remembers looking it up in the Prince’s study, combing through one of the dictionaries. Reynolds had known from that moment on that he is different, that he is unacceptable. Flawed. Unwanted.
He closes his eyes shutting the memories out, trying to calm himself. It was shortly after that those footmen were all dismissed from service and with them went his secrets. The Prince’s search for a valet had saved him from what would have turned into something horrible indeed.
His tormentors are long gone from the palace now, but that side of him…
“You wished to see me, sir?”
That familiar voice cuts through his memories and Reynolds composes himself, locks his feelings into a tiny box and puts it out of sight. He turns to find Brimsley standing before him. There’s something about the red footman’s livery that doesn’t fit him. Thankfully he isn’t wearing one of those powdery wigs. His chocolate brown eyes are inquisitive and watchful and a spot of soot stains his pale cheek.
Reynolds frowns, “Have you been lighting a fire?” he asks.
“What?” Brimsley replies clueless.
Reynolds clicks his tongue. Softly licking his thumb he swipes away at the black spot upon Brimsley’s cheek watching chocolate brown eyes widen in shock as the footman steps back nearly colliding with someone else in the process.
“Steady there,” Reynolds says gripping the footman’s arm and preventing Brimsley from falling, “Do you always scare so easily?”
“Wh-what? I-I…” Brimsley stutters raising his free hand to his cheek touching the moist spot where Reynolds had previously touched.
“It’s gone now. The coal stain upon your cheek.”
“I see, thank you.”
“Must I remind you that as a servant of the King’s you must always be presentable?” Reynolds asks, “It matters not whether you are serving the King and being seen by him or not. As a member of His Majesty’s staff it is your duty to be presentable and uphold his reputation. Your lack of cleanliness has a lot to be said about you.”
“And that gesture of yours has a lot to be said about you in turn,” Brimsley counters.
Reynolds feels his stomach drop, already twisting into a knot.
“Had I known that I had such a stain upon my cheek I would have been doubly sure to make myself more presentable before meeting you,” Brimsley continues and Reynolds relaxes a little, there is no threat in the footman’s words he is simply…teasing him.
“Answer me this then Brimsley, how did you get that stain?” Reynolds asks.
The footman shrugs a slight lift of his shoulders, “I was starting the fire in the dining room and I suppose some of the coal or ashes must have gotten onto my cheeks. I took my gloves off you see…clean and pure white,” Brimsley says wiggling his fingers in his pristine white gloves, showing no coal marks on them, “It won’t happen again. I promise,” he continues with a bright smile.
“You do not light fireplaces,” Reynolds says, “That is not your job. You are a senior footman not a hall boy.”
“Yes I know that,” Brimsley replies, “I was simply helping him since he did not know how to light a fire and…I did,” Brimsley contineus, “Also…you may let go of me now, sir…” he says eyes darting down to Reynolds’ hand curled about his wrist.
Reynolds looks down too. He hasn’t realised that he’s been holding onto Brimsley all this while. He immediately retracts his hand, “My apologies,” he says, moving to clasp his hands behind his back, a position borne out of pattern and duty, fingers curling themselves into a tight fist behind his back.
“No need,” Brimsley says his face bright and open.
Reynolds feels the tension in his body slowly begin to fade, “You shouldn’t be helping others.”
‘It might give them false hope.’ Reynolds thinks but does not say.
Brimsley lets out a surprised bark of laughter, “Says the man who has just requested my help. This is what? Twice now that you have needed my help? If you say that I shouldn’t be helping others theeeen…perhaps I should go and leave you to your tasks?”
How infuriating Brimsley is. But also how right he is.
“The King,” Reynolds begins, because this has always worked before, “has asked for a picnic to be set up in the forest. You will assist me.”
“So you don’t want me to help others but you want me to help you?” Brimsley asks a twinkle of mischief in his eyes.
Reynolds’ brows knit together. How does he answer that?
“I want…” he begins and then he shakes his head lets out an exasperated breath, “You will assist me to bring the basket of food to the King and you will assist me to lay out the meal. The rest of the furniture has already been sent on ahead.”
“Is there not supposed to a please in there somewhere?” Brimsley teases.
Reynolds frowns. Technically, the King had utilised the word ‘please’ when asking for his picnic, but Brimsley does not need to know that.
“It is an order from the King. I have been sent to see it to fulfilment. As it happens, Brimsley, your assistance is required to see this task to fulfilment. So no, there is no need for polite requests when the order comes expressly from the King. We are, after all, here to serve His Majesty, are we not?”
There is a flicker of something akin to disappointment almost in Brimsley’s eyes. Why he is disappointed Reynolds cannot fathom. He should be proud that Reynolds has chosen him to aid him in this task. But he isn’t…and his disappointment is contagious it would seem for Reynolds feels as though he has done something wrong now.
“If the King requires his picnic now, we’ll never make it in time on foot,” Brimsley says.
“We will not be on foot,” Reynolds says as he reaches to grab his riding gear left upon the table, “We’ll take Zephyr.”
“Zephyr?” Brimsley asks raising a brow, head cocked to the side.
“My horse,” Reynolds says nodding outside and almost at once, like a child on Christmas morning, Brimsley rushes across the kitchen, face pressed to the window, looking out at the black steed standing in the yard tended to by a young boy.
“You have a horse…” Brimsley mutters, looking to him and then looking out the window again, “Of course you have a horse. You’re the King’s man that’s why you have a horse. And we are to ride your horse to deliver the picnic to His Majesty?”
“Yes,” Reynolds answers as he pulls on his riding gloves, sets his hat upon his head.
There is a flicker of something in Brimsley’s eyes as he looks to him now and then the footman draws him aside back to that corner of the kitchen, “I am not riding a horse.”
“But you will have to,” Reynolds says, “That is the only way that we will get there on time.”
Brimsley hums, nervous energy rolling off him, “Yes I know that. But…you see I have never ridden one before,” Brimsley hisses, “I am not about to start now!” he says with a fierce conviction.
“Then you shall walk and you shall be late along with the King’s lunch,” Reynolds says, for it is the only solution that he can think of, “I shall tell His Majesty as such,” he continues turning on his heel heading back outside to deliver the message but he is stopped by Brimsley, one hand curled about his arm.
“Wait! Please…” Brimsley says, hand dropping from his arm as they stand in the small yard behind the kitchen. He lowers his gaze, hand nervously wringing his wrist.
Reynolds doesn’t like how this image of Brimsley makes him feel. Like he’s somehow cornered him.
“I…don’t know…how to ride a horse,” Brimsley confesses, his chocolate brown eyes apologetic, “I have never had the need to do so and I never learned how to so…” he trails off cheeks colouring, “I’m afraid I’ve wasted your time. I can’t ride out with you to assist you.”
“I see,” Reynolds replies.
Brimsley is quiet.
“It is easy,” Reynolds continues to explain seeing chocolate brown eyes widen in surprise, “You do not need to have learnt anything.”
“But you said—”
“That you will ride with me,” Reynolds confirms, “All you have to do is to sit still and hold onto the basket. Do you think you can do that?”
“Holding a basket I can do, but to sit upon the great beast…” Brimsley trails off.
Reynolds cannot help the small laugh that comes from him. He does not mean to laugh at Brimsley out of spite or any maliciousness.
“It is a horse not some beast, Brimsley,” he says as he reaches out to take Brimsley’s hand and sets it upon Zephyr’s muzzle connecting both man and beast.
Brimsely stands with his gloved hand upon Zephyr’s muzzle. The horse snuffles a little but does nothing more, standing there in the footman’s presence.
“Good…boy…” Brimsley coos softly as he pulls off his glove now, his bare hand coming into contact with Zephyr.
It makes Reynolds smile again to see something so pure. Zephyr has always been a good judge of character and to see his horse nosing Brimsley’s hand he feels happy.
“Zephyr does not scare easily,” Reynolds assures the footman as he comes to stand behind him, “If anything he seems to like you and I trust, his judgement more often than not.”
“You trust a horse’s judgement?” Brimsley asks turning to look at him incredulously.
This time it is Reynolds’ turn to shrug, “They are better company than most of the staff,” he replies. “Now, once you mount Zephyr, you need only sit there and balance your weight and the basket. I will take care of the rest.”
- TBC -