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Franklin knew he wasn't the brightest. Around your average commoner, he was smart, but not in the aristocratic private schools and butler academy his parents gathered so much money to put him into. Everyone there—from teachers to students—seemed to look down on him. Whether it was for not being born into wealth, or for never knowing half of the things they talked about, everyone told him he was an idiot. But Franklin tried his best for his parents. And, miraculously, was able to pass his butler training by a hair.
Now, in a carriage clacking on a cobblestone road, Franklin headed to his first job. As a servant at the Cunningham estate, for none other than Lord Percy Cunningham himself. Admittedly, Franklin didn't know much about the man before, but decided to read some of his poems once he was hired. And, God, they weren't kidding when people said he was good. They were beautiful, complex, and full of emotion. Telling grand stories in just a few verses. Franklin wished he could write such things, but he never had a talent for words.
He wondered if Cunningham would look down on him because of that. Franklin just hoped he wouldn't be as cruel as his former mentors and peers were.
Twenty minutes later, the carriage stopped in front of the estate. Stepping out, he gazed at the garden spreading across the front, the main manor standing in the middle. Outlined with trimmed hedges and neat beds of flowers. The scenery was a perfect balance of clean and natural. Franklin wondered how much work it took to keep it like this.
As he grabbed his bags and paid the coachman, Franklin heard a voice yelling to him. Turning around, he saw what seemed to be a groundskeeper, with his pants covered in dirt and large shears in his right hand. He stood by the hedges near the house, calling over.
"Are you the new butler?!"
"Y-yes, I am!" Franklin called back, walking over to him. The groundskeeper also walked towards Franklin, the two meeting halfway from the front door.
"Nice to meet you. I'm Geoffry, one of the groundskeepers." Franklin shook Geoffry's hand, dirt staining his palm when he pulled away. "Oh, sorry about that. Should've taken off my glove."
"It's alright," he reassured him, wiping his hand on his coat. "I can wash it off later. My name's Franklin, by the way."
"Franklin… knew I heard that right."
"What?"
"When we heard that Lord Cunningham was going to hire a new butler, we only heard your name once. So, we were a bit split on if it was Franklin or Frankly."
Franklin laughed. "Really? Frankly? I don't think I ever met a man named Frankly."
"London's a big place, you'll probably meet a Frankly at some point." Geoffry chuckled, lightly hitting the butler's arm. "Anyway, you gotta get to the servant's quarters. You can find the entrance inside at the back on the east of the building, or you can use the back door out here."
"Back door sounds fine," Franklin said, scratching his neck. He didn't want to try to navigate his way through such a big house already. It took two weeks just to find his classes on the campus of his childhood private school.
Geoffry lead Franklin to the back entrance, talking about the estate and the famed poet. Apparently, Percy Cunningham's wealth came recently. Mainly from his best-selling poems and from poets that visited and "made deals with" him (Franklin wasn't sure why he put that in quotations). Other than visiting poets, it's just him and the servants most of the time.
"He's not married?" Franklin asks as Geoffry opens the door for him.
"Nope, never tried courting a woman in his life. He always dodges the question whenever someone asks. I have my own ideas why, but I doubt he'd ever tell me."
Franklin hummed. If Cunningham is so famous, wouldn't he have so many desirers wanting his attention? Why hasn't he ever pursued one of those women? Unless he's—no, no, that's unlikely. And you certainly can't go around making assumptions like that.
"Thanks for the help, Geoffry," Franklin said after a few seconds.
"Anytime." He smiled and headed back out to the garden.
Franklin soon got to finding his part of the servant quarters, unpacking and changing into his uniform. Despite it being fitted to him, Franklin always felt too stiff in it. It was very different from his usual, more casual attire. Though that's how he felt for every uniform or fancy clothes he was forced to wear growing up. Franklin knew that his parents did all of this to give him a good life, but sometimes he wished that they had saved the money for themselves and let him live something less luxurious. One where he wasn't thrown into high society and looked down on wherever he went.
Stepping out of the servant's quarters, Franklin walked into what seemed to be a living room, with decorative furniture, a polished fireplace, and many paintings littering the walls. Most seemed to be landscapes, with a few showing fantastical scenarios. Probably from some myth Franklin never heard about.
Franklin looked around a bit longer before walking out of the room. He had no clue where anything was, but he's sure there might be someone he could ask—
"You must be the new butler!"
"AH!"
"Oh, I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to surprise you."
Franklin turned around, seeing a maid with short brown hair and freckles who had suddenly appeared from behind him. "It—it's fine," he stuttered.
"Let me actually introduce myself." She cleared her throat. "I'm Ester, one of the maids, but you can call me Ettie. You must be… Frankly?"
"Franklin," he corrected.
Ettie lightly hissed. "Damnit." She sighed. "Sorry for my language, I just lost a bet."
"A bet?"
"Yeah, everyone only heard your name once, and there was a split on what it was. Now I have to do some extra work, it's nothing, really."
"…you placed bets—"
"Any who, do you need some help to find where to go?" Franklin nodded. "Thought so. I'll take you to the kitchen." Ettie's shoes clicked across the floor at a surprisingly fast pace, and Franklin tried his best to keep up.
"So, Franklin, one of your primary tasks is pretty simple. Lord Cunningham writes for about an hour each morning and night, then a half-hour session at noon. You serve him tea in the morning and at noon, then ask him what he'll want to drink at night and bring it to him."
"Sounds easy enough."
"That's because it's just one of your tasks. You'll still need to notify him of his schedule, clean his clothes, help dress him—things like that. You know how to do that already, right?"
Franklin nodded as they passed the dining room and walked into the kitchen. "Are you, like a head maid or something?"
Ettie chuckled. "Head maid? Not officially, but I do do a lot. Me and Liss—one of the other maids—were the first staff here. I like to guide anyone new." Ettie showed him where the cutlery was, and Franklin prepared the tea tray, delicately placing the teapot, cup, and other dishes on top. It was slow, but he didn't want to risk fine china for efficiency.
"Where is Cunningham's bedroom?" Franklin asked, lifting the tray from the counter.
"Bedroom? He works in his study."
"Ah, s-sorry."
"It's alright. His study is upstairs, third door on the right. Knock first, he doesn't like to be interrupted. Cunningham's a dear, but he can also talk your ear off about poetry. If you want to chat, don't be surprised if you end up standing there for over ten minutes."
Franklin nodded. "Is there anything else I need to know?"
Ettie shrugged. "Not really. Don't be too intimidated, I guess. Lord Cunningham's an aristocrat, but he's also a good person. He just likes to use fancy words."
"I see," Franklin said, relaxing just a bit.
"Alright, I better get going, Liss is probably asleep in a corner somewhere," Ettie sighed, a fond smile on her face. She patted his shoulder. "Whelp, good luck. Make sure to treat him right."
"Okay! Goodbye—" But Ettie had already walked out of the kitchen, calling for Liss. Franklin just shook his head and walked out, gripping the tea tray tightly. As he went upstairs, Franklin tried to picture what Cunningham looked like. Not necessarily physically, but more character-wise. Was he mature, smoking tobacco and writing calmly, or perhaps someone more youthful, moving around to think, then running to his desk to write something down before doing it all over? He wasn't sure if any of his ideas were accurate. Never had he met a poet, so Franklin could only guess what one was like.
Once at the door he determined was his study, he knocked, holding the tea tray against his chest.
"Come in," a posh voice said quickly. A tone he remembered well from private school. Franklin tried to bury that extra anxiety—Ettie said he was nice—and opened the door. The study was pretty big, though it felt a bit small, the walls covered with bookshelves. Next to the wall, Cunningham sat at his desk facing the window. He stared intently at a page in a book, somewhat frustrated. The desk was cluttered with other books and pieces of paper, a quill sitting precariously on the edge. Franklin stood hesitantly, studying the room. Cunningham glanced over to the door—realizing who Franklin was—and put the book down, turning to face him. Getting a good look at his face, the butler could only think one thing—
"Ah, you must be Franklin Mule!"
He was very beautiful.
His blonde hair glistened in the afternoon light, and his clothing—a patterned vest with a ruffled cravat and beige pants—flattered his shape very well. Franklin didn't realize he was staring before Cunningham spoke again. "Or am I mistaken—"
"Oh, sorry, sorry! Yes, I'm Franklin, the new butler." He walked over to his desk, trying to find a spot to set down the tray.
"Good. You can set that on that dresser over there." He pointed behind him at a small dresser squished between two bookcases.
"Dresser?"
He nodded. "I keep extra supplies and gifts from friends in there."
Franklin walked over to it, setting down the tray and starting to prepare Cunningham's drink.
"So, Franklin, has your arrival been good so far?" Cunningham asked, returning to the book.
"Yes, sir. Geoffry and Ettie helped me quite a bit."
"Geoffry and Ettie," he said wistfully. "Good people. They, along with a few others, have helped around here since I inherited the house." Cunningham tapped the pages of the book as Franklin finished up with his tea.
"Do you want milk, sir?"
"Hmm… yes."
"How much sugar?"
"Two scoops, of course."
Of course? Franklin just shrugged, adding the sugar and stirring before taking the cup to Cunningham. He grabbed it out of the butler's hand, taking a sip while continuing to stare intensely at the book. The butler watched him for a moment. Franklin knew he should leave, return the tray to the kitchen and resume his tour of the house, but he couldn't help but be curious about this man.
"What are you doing, sir? If you don't mind me asking," he said after a moment.
"Trying to study this."
Franklin looked over at the other books on his desk, spotting a name on one of the spines. "Pet-ra-rich?"
"It's Petrarch," Cunningham corrected. "Haven't you heard of him?"
Franklin tried to remember if he heard that name. He wouldn't be surprised if he did, but nothing came up. There were many things Franklin learned in school that he simply forgot. With dozens of seemingly useless classes, mean teachers, and cruel peers, his head could hardly keep track of anything. It was a miracle that he could remember stuff at all.
"Not that I recall, no," he said, shaking his head.
"Why, he's one of the most famous poets of all time! Made hundreds of sonnets that wooed the hearts of many." Cunningham set down his teacup and flipped through a few pages, letting them flow onto one another. "I don't study the greats as much as I should. And I should if I wish to be great."
"Aren't you great already?"
"That's what people say, though I know I'm missing something that Petrarch has. But what?"
Franklin mulled over the question. He wasn't sure what to say, afraid of saying something dumb. So, he answered with another question. "Well, what does Pee-track have that you don't?"
"Petrarch," Cunningham corrected once more. "Good question, though. Well…" The next 15-ish minutes were then spent standing as Cunningham went on a long monologue about this 12th century Italian poet. His life, his accomplishments, and his muse, Laura—no one was sure who she was, but she was the subject of many of his poems. At points during his monologue, Cunningham would get up and show him one of Petrarch's sonnets, pointing to his favourite lines and explaining their brilliance. Franklin did his best to keep up, but it was hard with how fast Cunningham talked, all the words he used, and the moments where—when showing him a book—their shoulders touched and Franklin forgot how to breathe, before Cunningham pulled away a second later. As if he also noticed and wanted to pull away, while Franklin wanted to pull closer.
Eventually, the poet sat back down at his chair with a sigh, setting the book in his lap. "Sorry about that," Cunningham chuckled, glancing to the side. "I get… passionate about my craft."
"Oh, no, it's alright. It's actually quite nice hearing you talk."
Cunningham went a little red at the compliment. "…Thank you, Franklin."
There was a bit of silence until Franklin coughed, ending the awkwardness. "He sounds like a great poet."
"He was."
"Yeah," he sighed. "I wish I had that way with words," Franklin thought, walking to the tea tray sitting on the dresser.
"I do too, Petrarch was famous for a reason," Cunningham said, only allowing Franklin less than a second to realize that he said that out loud before he continued. "A big part of getting better is reading and studying more, which I don't do nearly enough."
"Really?" Franklin questioned, looking around the book filled study.
"I said I don't read enough, not never at all."
Franklin wondered what Cunningham considered "enough." Probably too much in his eyes. "I don't think reading and studying did much for me," he stated.
"What do you mean?" Cunningham asked, picking his teacup up again and sipping from it.
He shrugged, feeling unsure of himself. "I don't know. Despite the schools my parents got me into, I've just never been good with words. There are too many, and I hardly understand any of them." He huffed out a laugh. "Never been able to use the right ones, I guess."
"You could always make the right ones."
Franklin blinked. "What?"
"Make up words! It's not something I do—I don't think I could ever pull it off—but it's what Shakespeare did."
"Really? Shakespeare? How did anyone know what he was saying then?"
"They didn't—" Cunningham pointed at Franklin. "—They felt it. Or, the more proper term, inferred."
"Had to do that for most of my life," Franklin muttered, grabbing the tea tray on the dresser.
"It's an excellent skill to have, Franklin. Shows your smart."
Smart? Franklin questioned, but didn't say aloud (he wasn't going to slip up again).
"Though," Cunningham continued. "If you want to be a genius, you've got to ask questions."
"Really?" Cunningham nodded. "Doesn't that just show you don't know anything?" Franklin asked, repeating the words his past classmates told him many times over.
"No. It shows that you're willing to learn."
Franklin thought this over as Percy looked back at the book, taking some notes this time. It made sense, he supposed. But after being called stupid for asking "such simple questions," it made it hard to accept that people like Percy Cunningham could get away with such a thing. Did anyone think he was dumb before he became famous? That would be hard to believe.
Once it seemed like Cunningham finished talking, Franklin picked his teacup from his desk and sat it down on the tray. Just as he picked up the tray, the poet suddenly sprang up from his seat.
"Aha! I've figured it out!"
"Figured… what out, sir?"
"What Petrarch has that I don't! A muse."
"Oh, his—"
"Laura, yes!" Cunningham began to pace around the room, moving his hands excitedly. "This woman whom he longed for, but could not reach. A beacon to harness his emotions into his work. An inspiration, a muse, yes. That's what I need!"
"O-okay," Franklin muttered. "Um, Lord Cunningham—if I may ask, do you… have a muse?"
"…No! But! I think I might have found one."
"Who?"
Cunningham hesitated, stopping his pacing. He glanced around, avoiding looking at Franklin. He opened his mouth a few times before waving him away. "Nevermind, it's stupid," he said, a bit flustered.
"What? How is it stupid?"
"It just is!"
Cunningham's sudden fear shocked Franklin. What could a man such as him think is stupid? Franklin thought it would be someone like himself, but that's clearly not the case. Cunningham had gone back to his desk, holding his chin as he stared at nothing in particular. Franklin waited at the door, but Cunningham didn't say anything else. This likely meant it was his time to leave, return the dishes, find Ettie and resume his tour. But deep down, he knew that whatever or whoever this "muse" was, it wasn't stupid. And Cunningham should know that.
"Well, frankly, sir," the butler started (holding back a smile). "I have to disagree."
Cunningham whipped his head towards Franklin. "Disagree?"
Franklin nodded, despite Cunningham's look immediately flooding his body with anxiety. "Y-yes," he stuttered. "I think that, whatever this muse is, that it isn't stupid."
"…hm, I guess. But—I just can't use it. It wouldn't work."
"How would you know if you won't try? C'mon, you're Percy Cunningham! You've got to have some kind of—" Franklin waved his one of his hands around, trying to come up with something. "—uh, gutsy!"
Cunningham blinked. "Gutsy?"
"Like, having guts. Um, being uh c-cour-courages and stuff…" he trailed off, any ounce of confidence in him disappearing as Cunningham stared at him with a blank expression. God, what was he doing? Coming up with such a stupid word, talking to his boss like this? Where did he get off?
Franklin sighed, looking away. "Sorry, sir. I don't know what I was thinking, um—"
"No, no, it's fine!" Cunningham interrupted. Franklin looked back at him, seeing the poet tap his chin in thought. "Gutsy… That's a fun word."
The butler smiled. "I'm glad you think so, sir."
Cunningham smiled back, then turned to his desk, grabbing a piece of paper and his quill. "Hmm, I'm going to try something. See if that muse works. Come back in, uh, fifteen minutes so I can get your opinion."
Franklin blinked multiple times, trying to process what Cunningham just said. "Wait, you want me—fifteen minutes, your writing session ends after that!"
"Just go! I need to focus," he stated, waving him off. So, Franklin exited the study, standing outside the closed door. Come back in fifteen minutes. Just fifteen minutes. Franklin couldn't help but feel excited that in just a little while he'd get to see a poem he potentially helped with—even if it was just getting the poet started. Which was still a lot. So he headed downstairs, energy in each of his steps.
He returned to the study, fifteen minutes on the dot. Though it felt like an entirety just waiting it out. Franklin was productive with it, figuring out his schedule and what would be expected of him, though he kept glancing at any nearby clocks, disappointed that what felt like an hour was a minute. He bet Ettie had noticed how distracted he was when she was showing him around the house, but she didn't say anything other than "You seem giddy."
But now that time had finally passed, Franklin stood outside the door. Rubbing his hands together, he hesitantly knocked.
"You can come in!"
Opening the door, Cunningham glanced up from his desk and smiled upon seeing Franklin. "Ah, good, you came."
"Of course, sir, you told me to."
"That I did, yes," he said, sounding distracted. He stood up from his desk, and handed a piece of paper to Franklin. "It's a rough draft, but I wanted your opinion on it, especially since I tried your word, "gutsy." It felt odd, but um… might as well try something new."
Franklin looked at Cunningham, eyes wide. "You used… my word?" Cunningham nodded. "Oh! W-well, I'm flattered, sir!"
Cunningham smiled. "Good. Now, read it," he insisted. Franklin looked at the sonnet, squinting his eyes. He mumbled something under his breath.
"Uh—"
"Is something wrong? Can you not read?" Cunningham asked, worried.
"No, no, I can read! It's just… your handwriting," he mumbled, not wanting to insult his boss. "It—it's fine, I just have an easier time reading print." If he were truly honest, any handwriting was difficult for him to read. Especially as it got more fancy, with swirls and loops, it all blended together. Print was much more uniform and easy for him. Though this challenge did not help with how he was seen at school. Or life in general.
Instead of getting mad—like most people have been at Franklin before, Cunningham sighed. He seemed more annoyed at himself, if anything. "I knew I rushed this, but I didn't know it was that bad." He took the paper from Franklin before he could apologize. "Don't worry, I'll just read it for you."
"Uh, you don't have to—"
"No, I insist. I want to know what you think."
Franklin hummed. It was still hard to believe someone like Cunningham could value his opinion. "Do you usually do this with your servants?"
Cunningham hesitated before answering. "Some, yes."
Some, Franklin noted. He wondered if he should ask anyone else if they've been told to review Cunningham's work like this, or to keep this moment to himself, in case it was special. But before he could ponder any longer, Cunningham cleared his throat and began to recite his sonnet.
"There is you, whom I cannot hold
I've seen versions of you before, and the same feeling emerges each time
But I know I cannot have what is not allowed to be mine
Though you may tempt me, I must keep myself controlled
Even if it leaves me so very cold
And though the thought of someone like you seems so sublime
I know it would be a crime
That I have been told
But I must hold on and wait for her
For her, I must hold a bit of gutsy
As she will bring me the warmth I so desperately need
So these temptations I shall deter
As they will fade when she is here for me to see
And she'll stop me from committing any misdeeds."
Cunningham folded the paper once he finished. "It's still a rough draft, and there are many edits I need to do—I don't think I used gutsy right, but—"
"That was beautiful, sir," Franklin interrupted, stunned.
"Oh, don't flatter me, Franklin."
"I'm serious, Lord Cunningham, it was great!" There was much more Franklin wanted to say. The poem spoke to him, it held a feeling he had before. Waiting for the right woman to come, resisting someone. For Franklin, it was usually a man. Though it hurts all the same. Did Cunningham see it through the same lense? Franklin doubted Cunningham was a homosexual—or whatever you call someone who likes men and women, such as Franklin—but a bit of hope bloomed nonetheless. Hope of being seen.
"I'm glad you think that."
"What inspired this sonnet, sir?" the butler asked.
"Well," Cunningham started, speaking slowly. As if he carefully considered each word. "That muse I mentioned before. It represents all those things that tempt us—sin, I guess. And the "her," she represents, um. The prize for resisting. And ultimately, I know resisting will let me be happier in the end. So… my muse is more of a general thing, I guess," he finished, sounding a bit uncertain.
"I see." He tried to hide his disappointment, his hope quickly wilting. "I had a… different view of it."
"Oh, well, that's fine. Art is meant to be interpreted in many ways. Each viewer has a different mind, so with millions of viewers, there are millions of meanings for just one art piece. Even for a simple drawing of an apple. Or a two sentenced story." With a sigh, Cunningham sat back down at his desk, staring at the sonnet. The poet thought to himself. "…I could work on this further."
"But it's nearly 2, far past your afternoon session."
"I know, I know. Really, any time of day is a writing session for me. I just limit myself since there's a possibility I'll get too tired and fall apart."
"Like… burnout?"
"Burnout?"
"When you lose energy after doing something for so long. Another word-thing I came up with."
"…Yes, that's accurate," Cunningham chuckled. He looked back at the sonnet and frowned. "Does this… also feel sad to you? The poem?"
Franklin raised an eyebrow. "Sad? In the beginning, I guess. But it had a hopeful ending."
"Hopeful, right," he said, his expression the same.
They didn't say anything for a minute, Cunningham staring at the paper and Franklin staring at him. The butler eventually went to the door, turning back to Cunningham before leaving.
"Well, have a good day, sir. I look forward to talking to you again."
This made the poet turn his head. He let out a soft breath. "I do as well," Cunningham said with a smile. It was small, but so genuine that it made Franklin's heart melt. At that moment, he realized that he hoped to make Cunningham smile like that. Again and again. Maybe by touching him with a poem, just like Cunningham did with him