Work Text:
To be a valet is to know a man thoroughly. The propriety and charm he presents to the outside world — upright posture when among men, sweet cologne among women — fall away in his bedchamber. To know how a man really smells, the musty scent of his sweat, to notice whether he has been drinking and must be brought gently to bed.
To dress a man daily is to know his body, how warm his skin is after leaving the heat of his bed, how soft it is after bathing. The way his hair curls when he has come in from the rain. Witness how a man talks to himself, his offhand comments, his quiet laugh. To be a valet is to see slumped shoulders, tears, despair, and pretend not to notice, so as to not steal away the last of his pride.
“Sir, I know it is not my place, but—” a valet longs to say, before launching into some heartfelt sentiment, but the words never leave his lips, for it would be improper. Many others, with much more power, have failed to make change with their words, so why should those of a valet make any difference? A touch might help, but that is out of the question. As the valet buttons his shirt, his hands do not linger.
To be a valet is to break down the door of a chamber one is afraid to enter. The body is so familiar, but the soul has fled. The wetness of blood on the face evokes the image of tears. The family is allowed to be insensible with grief, but the valet must carry on his duties, stoic and resolved.
To be a valet is to return to the bedchamber, empty and cold, and to choose his clothes the final time; a black suit and white shirt are suitable for a burial. His nicest shirt is hanging in the wardrobe, for he wore it just yesterday.
To be a valet is to do things properly. But to be a man is to press one’s face into the fabric, smelling his scent for the last time.