vanilla and chocolate chip mint with whipped cream and fresh peaches
Story: Timeless { backstory | index }
Title: Mentor
Rating: G
Challenge: Vanilla #8: my mentor/idol/hero, Chocolate Chip Mint #15: distant
Toppings/Extras: whipped cream, fresh peaches
Wordcount: 4,747
Summary: Isaac Prowse’s first few weeks serving Edward Ashdown are somewhat rocky.
Notes: Welp. Failed brownie. Follows pretty much straight on from Foxholt Alley. I was so tempted to title this one “My Fair Lady”. Fresh peaches: This is a great day to shake off the winter doldrums and prepare for a new beginning!
The closed carriage bumped slightly as the wheels clashed over the cobbles, the silky rain outside scarcely audible on the glistening roof, a soft glow emanating from the quarter lights. Isaac Prowse was sat in the utmost of discomfort, trying not to slouch too much, very well aware of the pale blue eyes watching him intently from the opposite seat. The boy couldn’t have been much more than a teenager but he spoke like...
Well, Isaac didn’t know anyone who spoke like he did.
“I have a little proposition to make, Mr Prowse,” he said suddenly. His tone was indolent, relaxed-and his eyes were astute, moving slowly and taking in everything. Isaac had a feeling that every little flinch would be duly noted. The feeling of being judged, and judged harshly, was inescapable.
His own gaze remained on his tattered shoes. They had holes in them. All of his clothes had holes in them, actually: they were threadbare and coming apart, filthy and grimy, and they stank, he stank, which he hadn’t really noticed (much) until just then. It wasn’t just an unwashed smell; there was the heavy background fug of alcohol to it, too.
I’m not usually like this, he wanted to assure the man, but he realised that it was a lie. Since Charlie had died, he had always been ‘like this’: an alcohol-sallowed mess. How long had it been now? He couldn’t recall.
“Do yer?” he muttered. He couldn’t help but dislike the boy that had introduced himself as Edward Ashdown-so much superiority, so little age. A creeping thought suddenly unfolded in his mind: what if this Ashdown character was some sick murderer that went and picked unfortunate-looking urchins off the street to murder in unimaginable ways?
“Indeed,” Ashdown said, gaze almost predatory. Oh, God. There was something very vampiric about the boy-not just his paleness and formal elegance but a surreal and frightening sort of sharpness in his eyes. He was slenderer than was common but not scrawny in the skin-and-bones way of the poor; just... fashionably slim.
He sickened Isaac.
There was a pause and Isaac wondered if the stranger before him could read his thoughts. He hoped not, though he wouldn’t have been all that surprised somehow.
“I do believe it could be beneficial for the both of us if you were to start working for me,” Ashdown said lightly-and there he went again, twisting his head ever so slightly to the right. Why did he do that? It was frightening to the utmost.
Of course, that was why.
“Why would I do that?” Isaac snapped before he could stop himself. Don’t be stupid, a part of him was warning: he was in need of a job, after all. Another part wanted to scowl, though. Wanted to slouch. Wanted to spit. Wanted to tell this slimy chap where he could stick his job-wanted to make Charlie proud. Charlie wouldn’t have been seen dead acting as the dogsbody for a member of the upper class.
“Pardon me if I sound rude,” Ashdown said, in that infuriatingly calm and patient voice, grey-blue eyes fixed on him serenely, “But I do not believe you have many other prospects. Unless you enjoy throwing knives at a board...?”
That would have done it. That should have done it-if he was any kind of a man, a man like Charlie, he would have smacked the man across the face and told him to piss off. But he didn’t. Unfortunately, Ashdown was right. Isaac had already created for himself in his imagination the dismal future that lay before him: a lifetime of entertaining baying, stinking drunks no better than himself, until he grew too old and his eyesight too dim and his bones too frail to do a thing. And then he would have died. Probably of starvation. If some slow and stinking disease didn’t get him first.
Isaac scowled at his filthy boots and then looked up to Ashdown.
“Why me?” he asked.
“I hear that you are uncommonly skilled at knife-throwing,” Ashdown said, idly running his fingers over the knob of a silver-topped cane. What was a teenager doing, owning a silver-topped cane? Isaac was baffled by the very idea. “You will have to prove this to be true, of course.”
“Yer want a knife-thrower?” Isaac asked, an uncomfortable thought stealing over him. “What, like some sort of court jester?”
“Not at all,” Ashdown said, voice just gentle enough to be scary. “I am sure you are familiar with the world of intrigue that lies behind the facade of business and nobility, Mr Prowse.”
Was he hearing this correctly?
This... this child was in need of an assassin?
“Yes,” Isaac replied uncertainly; he was aware of it. He and Charlie had pulled many little tasks and jobs off for such people before. But not for little boys in shiny shoes like this. Shifting his position, Isaac risked another glance at the worrisome young man sat in front of him and then lowered his gaze again.
“Will you please bear your body more seemingly?” Ashdown asked, for once breaking the barrier of politeness and wrinkling his nose a little. Isaac was tempted to curse but something of his former self stopped him. Charlie’s voice was complaining but something in Isaac wanted to prove that he could do it.
He was a vicar’s grandson, after all. If Ashdown had known how proud Isaac was of that fact, he would probably have felt very sorry for him. Isaac sat straighter and eyed Ashdown wearily.
“Sorry,” he said after a minute. Ashdown offered him another disconcerting smile. Does he really think that looks friendly?
“It’s perfectly all right,” he responded slickly. “For the moment. We will have to work on that, however, Mr Prowse... and your social graces... and your appearance...”
Thanks a lot.
“Why’d you need an ‘ired plugger ter look good?” Isaac asked, sniffing. Ashdown’s brow crumpled in clear affront again.
“Pardon? A what?”
Frowning, Isaac thought of a word that would probably better suit Ashdown’s rather more delicate use of language.
“An… assassin?”
“An assassin. How very twee you are, Mr Prowse... what I have in mind is of a much grander scale than that. As I’m perfectly sure you are aware, there are people all over London who will kill anyone or anything for a little bit of money.” Ashdown tilted his head, directly at the junction between amused and exasperated. “Do you think people like me invite men of the street into my carriage on a regular basis?”
Don’t answer that...
“That’s all I’ve done before,” he muttered, dragging his feet around on the floor of the carriage and consequently wiping London sludge upon it. Wincing, he looked up at Ashdown-who had seen, but didn’t comment. “What else’m I good fer?”
“You see, Mr Prowse, I am looking for someone who will-carry out such delicate tasks for me, per se, but not only that. I am seeking to employ someone as my general aide and bodyguard. That means you will be in the public eye.” Ashdown was too polite to look disdainful, but there was something to that effect in his gaze when he looked Isaac up and down. “I was informed by a reputable source that you are of rather more of a genteel and intelligent disposition than most others of your... situation.”
Who the bloody hell said that? Isaac thought, mystified. For a moment the wild thought that Charlie’s ghost had returned to grant him one last favour, but he quickly put it out of his mind. As if Charlie would ever use the word ‘genteel’, dead or alive.
“Right,” Isaac said awkwardly. He didn’t have a clue what else he was expected to respond with. Ashdown sighed through his nose.
“Yes, well, we shall see about that,” he said, clearly also dubious about the source. “Nonetheless, this is a job offer very much worth considering. You will be housed, fed, clothed...”
Too good to refuse, really. Almost too good to be true.
“Right,” Isaac repeated, and then felt stupid for saying the same thing twice in a row. He cleared his throat awkwardly. He still wasn’t sure about the job but if it meant he didn’t have to spend the night sleeping in a doorway, who was he to argue? He was starving and sleepless and jittery. And not very sober. It had reached the stage where standing up made his vision spot out and the bruises on his back looked like a tattoo from sleeping on the streets.
At twenty-four, this was no respectable state for a man to be in.
Realising that he would have to be insane not to take up Ashdown on his offer-no matter how bizarre he found the teenage boy-Isaac sat back in his seat and resigned himself to his fate. The curtains were closed; he didn’t even know where they were going. He simply trundled on in the carriage through the rain-slicked shadows of London towards an indeterminate destiny.
-----
He had to go into the house through the back door because of some strange rich person’s rule that he didn’t understand. Even so, it was an impressive building; stark and stately and tall, in a broad street filled with similar homes. The servant’s entrance was bordered with an ornately decorated stone archway, and when he walked further down the narrow corridor he noticed that the same motif-roses, twined around and around-was carved into every bit of masonry in the house.
A polite butler, gentlemanly and extremely old, showed him where to go. The place was like a damned labyrinth. There were sneaky little servant’s corridors hidden in the walls while the grander rooms stretched out into acres of gleaming marble. A couple of cleaning maids stopped and stared at him as he shuffled past. He avoided their gaze.
“I have been informed that you will be living here from now on,” the butler-who was called Mr Finch-was friendly enough, though he seemed a little confused as to why his master would want this greasy tramp staying in his house. Nonetheless, a room had been arranged-an entire living quarters, in fact, near to Ashdown’s privy chambers-and clothing had been acquired. He was shown into a small study and then Mr Finch left.
Utterly miserable, Isaac stared around the plush office as though it were the deep cave of some hideous monster. He wasn’t sure what was happening, and to top it all off he wasn’t feeling very well. All he knew was that he didn’t like his new master very much.
Surely seventeen was too young to run a household like this? Isaac had found it difficult to concentrate on one thing for more than eight minutes when he’d been a teenager, and almost every task he’d set himself to (which had been rather a lot) he had fallen flat on. Whoever Edward Ashdown was-he wasn’t at all sure whether he knew him yet-there was an unearthly sort of competence emanating from him that was more unnerving than anything else.
A few moments later Ashdown entered the room. After blinking, he gestured to a seat.
“Would you like to sit down?”
Trying not to glare at him-it was a reaction he couldn’t help when concerning the wealthy-Isaac seated himself on the stupid curly-toed chair opposite to the desk and watched sullenly as his new master moved behind his desk and stood with his palms upon the surface, observing him openly.
“Well, first of all, I expect you would like to get into some news clothes,” Ashdown said after a pause. “You look quite dreadful.”
Actually, the first thing Isaac wanted to do was go to bed-what time was it? Past midnight for sure-but he wasn’t about to argue with the sinister boy. Shrugging, he stood up and started to pull his tattered shirt over his head. Clearly, this was a mistake; when he pulled his head from its collar, Ashdown was staring at him in ill-disguised horror.
Shite.
“I didn’t mean right now, actually,” he said, seeming baffled.
Isaac was baffled too.
It was a moment of pure bafflement on both sides.
It would not be the last.
Being modest or sensitive of personal space was impossible for a member of the true lower class in the seventeenth century. Isaac had shared tiny living spaces with dozens of people at a time-and even when they had truly ‘made it’ and had their own room in which to lodge, he and Charlie had shared one room halved by a thin curtain.
For someone like Ashdown, obviously, the thought of anyone-even close friends and family of whichever gender-becoming unclothed in front of him was an atrocity. He stared for another moment before turning away, eyes averted, biting his lip as he gazed at the wallpaper.
“Good Lord, man-put your shirt back on. You are to be bathed anyway. Your lice-riddled hair is being cut and your stinking clothes thrown away, among various other preparations. Tomorrow you will begin learning etiquette, decorum and societal rules; you will be educated, Mr Prowse. A foolish servant only serves to make his master look foolish, do you understand? How educated are you, anyway? Do you write?”
“No,” Isaac mumbled, thrusting his arms back through the sleeves of his yellowed shirt. He didn’t even read. How could he be expected to write?
“Hmm. Well, we shall have to correct that,” Ashdown sighed. “I need someone without a past, see. Someone like you. I had rather hoped I would save myself the trouble of having to totally educate someone...”
“I ain’t stupid,” Isaac snapped, feeling his cheeks flush with humiliation. He’d never been called stupid before-not that Ashdown had called him it explicitly, but he knew what he meant. Nobody had ever even insinuated he was stupid before. By the standards of the others around him, he’d always been very intelligent, and it was one thing he had prided himself on. Now that Ashdown was utterly outclassing him, he was starting to realise that he was out of his depth. Ashdown would realise he was nothing but a bumbling, moronic street urchin within a few days. He probably already thought so. And then he’d be fired and he’d be back on the streets again...
“Get yourself cleaned up,” Ashdown said, carefully deciding not to reply directly to Isaac’s insistence. “I have had one of the housemaids prepare an evening bath. Once you’re clean, straight to bed... I have business to attend to in the morning, but I shall be able to see you soon after midday.”
And that, apparently, was that.
-----
Isaac couldn’t even remember the last time he’d had a bath. It was heavenly. Steam gently coiled from the hot surface of the water and the room was empty in a pleasant way. The maids had left after shooting him more curious looks and now he was in the process of becoming clean.
He wasn’t sure he’d ever been as clean as he felt in that bath. It was a shiny, pristine feeling on his skin. Years of grime scrubbed off within minutes. He wasn’t as unsavoury as some, but it was hard to keep up a gentlemanly appearance when one lived in the choking back alleys of London-and besides, the last few weeks had been simply terrible. Charlie had died and his life had fallen apart.
Charlie bloody Buckett. Why does it all come back to him all the time? He was just a stupid bastard that got himself killed for no good reason at all...
Watching condensation creep down the frosted windowpanes, Isaac decided that he probably would never like working for Ashdown, but perhaps he could get used to it.
-----
The night-lessons were the worst. Ashdown was always out all day-on ‘business’, whatever that meant-and always seemed to have large stacks of papers and ledgers to sort through when he got home. Nonetheless, the hours between nine to midnight he dedicated to teaching Prowse (he had become Prowse by then; it was coarse to be known by your first name), and Prowse didn’t enjoy the lessons.
“Jove, your diction is awful,” Ashdown sighed after an hour of fruitlessly attempting to teach him ‘proper enunciation’. “It sounds as though it’s all spilling from the sides of your mouth. I can barely understand you...”
Piss off, Prowse thought.
“I don’t see why it matters,” he grumbled rather than stating his thoughts.
“It matters a lot,” Ashdown said, voice colder than Prowse was used to. His master had been quite patient for the past fortnight of late nights. Prowse was a transformed man: his hair was clean and trimmed, his clothes were neat, his shoes shiny. He didn’t feel right, but he was getting used to it.
He quite liked being neat.
“People judge by accents in all walks of life,” Ashdown continued. “There are people in your position who would give a limb to be taught their diction. You do not even seem to be trying, Mr Prowse, to learn how to speak.”
“I can talk,” Prowse growled.
“I mean talk like a human,” Ashdown said, eyes narrowing. “And you are meant to be calling me sir.”
“Sir?” the incredulous exclamation burst from his mouth before he could stop it. He didn’t care. How could this ridiculous teenager be expecting him, a full-grown adult, to call him sir? Ashdown stood up at that point with a very faint creak from his expensive chair, rubbing wearily at his boyish jawline. The room was lit only by a small lamp and Prowse suddenly noticed how tired Edward Ashdown looked.
“You do not seem to realise, Mr Prowse, how much of an enormous favour I am doing you. It could very well be counted as an act of charity. I took you in from the streets upon information that you are what they called a ‘gentleman’-heaven forbid whatever it is they believe to be a rowdy streetsman-and I have housed you, fed you, and I am taking the time to try and educate you. Do you think it’s at no cost, looking after you? The least you could do is act with a bit of civility.”
His teenage voice made it sound like more of a whine than a dignified stand, but Prowse got the message. Because Ashdown was wealthy and slimy and cold-gazed, Prowse had rather much assumed that he was given the moral high ground as complimentary to the situation. He was starting to realise that he could be wrong.
Not that it made him like the boy any more.
“Sorry,” he muttered after a moment, and there was an awkward pause while he swallowed his pride and added; “Sir.”
“And I do hope you are not drinking again,” Ashdown said, before raising his chin as though daring Prowse to own up. Prowse still felt wretched his apparent ungratefulness, and now the reminder of his drinking drove a nail into his heart. He wanted to stop drinking. But it was difficult.
“I...”
“Go to bed,” Ashdown said, fluttering a pale hand dismissively towards him. “I have things to do.”
You should get some sleep, Prowse wanted to say helpfully, but he didn’t. He just left.
-----
It did not take Ashdown long to learn that Prowse couldn’t read, and when he did learn it, he gave a disappointed little sigh. Nonetheless, he gave no comment and did not seem inclined to throw him back out onto the streets, as Prowse had feared he would. Even though he found Ashdown extremely irksome, whenever he failed him-at reading, at writing, at manners, at speaking ‘properly’-he became nervous of being thrown out.
Keeping away from alcohol had been difficult for a short while, but he hadn’t been drinking heavily for very long and after a while his head began to clear. And then the real opportunity that this was began to dawn on him. This wasn’t just a job-this could well be a pivotal point in his life. It would turn his entire life around… and if he made the best of it, in a very good way indeed.
So he worked hard, very hard. And as he drove more effort into his activities, he flourished faster, and Ashdown seemed pleased in his own distant way and he was changing-
Ashdown taught him most things, but Mr Finch also gave him lessons on etiquette, language, servility. Ashdown was a busy man, after all. He wanted to educate Prowse primarily by himself not only to make sure he learned the right things but because the nature of Prowse’s employment and background was to remain a secret. Ashdown trusted his butler, however, and knew it would take far too long to tutor Prowse to an acceptable standard alone, so he allowed Finch the honour of giving Prowse some lessons during the day.
A lot of it seemed to consist of Prowse trailing around after Finch listening to him interacting with others. To his disbelief, Prowse was actually considered far above the serving staff and even Finch himself-or would be, once his training was complete.
Truly, Prowse couldn’t decide whether his newfound employment was a stroke of fortune or misfortune.
Finch seemed to find the entire ordeal slightly amusing. He was a patient, courteous fellow: apparently his father had been a butler before him, and his grandfather. And so on and so forth. Prowse didn’t really listen, but he did enjoy his company. Finch was perhaps not overtly intelligent but nothing got past him, and in the art of butlery he was proud to be one of the best.
One thing Prowse quickly came to adore was reading. He had known some letters before, and had even learned a few combinations and their meaning, but he had put meanings to them as to pictures rather than pieces of language. Once he captured what the written word was, what it really meant, he tapped into its world almost hungrily, mind suddenly open to everything he had been missing. Knowledge stored in books for all of time had seemed almost like an eerie black magic to him before: now the magic was his.
Besides, some books were simply fascinating.
“You’ll need spectacles before the year is out if you keep your face so close to the paper,” Finch said with a chuckle as they both sat in the servant’s quarters late one night. Prowse had no lessons that night: Ashdown was attending some social event or other. Finch was shining his buckled butler’s shoes; Prowse was poring over an old newspaper. He felt little stabs of pride at every word he translated in his head, like a child with a new hobby.
“Nah,” Prowse replied, still just about young enough in his mind to dismiss thoughts of the lasting effects of any of his actions. Spending so much time with Charlie when he had been alive had cast delusions of immortality upon himself as much as it had done to his friend-although Charlie’s own delusions had been shattered violently in front of him.
“How long do you think t’will be before you are attending these social visits with Master Ashdown, then, hmm?”
Prowse nearly dropped his book.
“What?” he asked, startled.
“Isn’t that what all of these etiquette lessons are leading to?” Finch asked, seeming surprised at Prowse’s shocked reaction. “That has always been my understanding.”
Prowse gave him a long, blank stare.
“Me?” he finally managed.
“You are to become his general aide and assistant, are you not?” Finch seemed unable to hold back a smile at his horror; not a malicious smile, merely an amused one. “Are you anxious? You’ve done very well so far…”
“Ashdown’d never take me ter one of his fancy friends’ house,” Prowse muttered, sinking lower in his seat and glaring towards the diminutive fire the servants were allowed. Not that he would complain: it was more than he had ever had before. “I’m only his bleedin’ guard dog. Why’d he want me spoilin’ his reputation with the toffee-noses?”
“I think that is his intention,” Finch said fondly.
“No,” Prowse grumbled, heaving the book open roughly, “I ain’t going and I ain’t never wearing a cravat…”
-----
He was wearing a cravat.
Staring in abject misery at his reflection in the large mirror, he scarcely noticed Ashdown flitting into the room to see how his aide-in-training was getting on. When Prowse finally did see his master’s expression, he couldn’t quite tell whether he approved or not.
“Well, you look better than you did,” he said offhandedly: it was a typically ambiguous compliment-insult. In any case, Prowse disagreed.
“I don’t want to go,” he muttered. “Sir.”
“A shame,” Ashdown replied. “See you in the carriage. And this time you are allowed to ride on the inside. An honour, wouldn’t you say?”
Prowse had not been permitted to be seated inside of the carriage since that first night Ashdown had picked him from the streets. As with all members of the lower class, he had been given a footplate to stand on at the back of the carriage. He hadn’t really minded: there was more air, and the first few times it was slightly thrilling, not that he would ever mention that childish nuance to anyone.
At times like this he wished he wasn’t so tall. He couldn’t fight the feeling that people would be staring at him. His clothing made him feel absolutely ridiculous; nobody else so much as batted an eyelid, but he couldn’t fight off what felt acutely like shame at being dressed like he was. In turkey-leg knee-breeches and white hose, a baggy linen shirt pressed to him at the waist and chest by a dark doublet and those shiny instep-strapped shoes, he felt like he was letting down those that he knew.
He wasn’t dressed in a particularly grand way: his colours were neutral browns and it was clear that he was of a different class to Ashdown with his immaculate waistcoat and wig. Nonetheless, he was dressed better than he had ever been before, and to top it all off he was wearing a bloody cravat.
That single ruffle of white was enough to make him feel queasy.
It was about to get worse.
“At tonight’s gala,” Ashdown began lightly as the carriage began to move, “my young sister Rosalind will be in attendance. If you see any man acting untoward about her person,” and here he paused for effect, “cut them.”
“Sir?” Prowse managed weakly in place of bursting out with some exclamation or other. It didn’t seem worth it, really it didn’t. Interesting as it was to see that even Ashdown had emotions, he really didn’t like the order he had abruptly been given.
“You may refer to me first if you are nervous about doing so,” Ashdown said serenely, “and of course not in front of everyone. But the gala we are attending tonight is… made up of the nouveau riche, if you know what I mean.” He didn’t. Ashdown saw this in his expression. “They are… merchants, goldsmiths, bankers. Families not born into money or the aristocracy.” His silvery gaze moved away to the quarter lights of the carriage. “They are not important and will not attempt to go against a family such as mine.”
Prowse had to try his best not to let his mouth drop open. The sheer arrogance! It was almost admirable. While it was easy to reflect on how easy life must be for one born into such a family, however, he could not help but notice that Edward Ashdown himself worked rather a lot himself. He was no expert on finances, but Prowse couldn’t help but wonder why, if they were so wealthy, Ashdown spent half of his life working.
“Yes, sir,” Prowse finally said miserably. Not only was this his first occasion amongst the rich folk-no matter how nouveau those riches happened to be-but he apparently had a side-mission to stab anyone who so much as looked at Rosalind Ashdown the same way. He’d never even met the girl.
“Don’t sound so glum, Mr Prowse,” Ashdown sneered. “Why else do you think I asked you to bring your knives?”
This will not end well, Prowse decided there and then.