Hadsby ran a lean staff, especially in the winter months. No more than thirty lived in and maintained the house. When it reopened in the spring and summer for tours, the staff tripled.
“Yes, sir. They warned me, sir, that you—” The footman, all of twenty, clipped his words.
“That I what?” Gus carried his plate to his seat.
“That you weren’t so pleasant, sir. On account of being left at the altar.”
“They warned you I wasn’t nice?”
“More like sad…and maybe impatient.” His pale expression implied he’d said too much.
“Then I’ll have to watch myself,” Gus said, taking a bit of his salmon. “Do you have a girlfriend, Miles?”
“Yes, sir, I do. Getting married in June, sir. I’m sorry if I said too much.”
“I appreciate the honesty. And congratulations.” Gus stood to shake the man’s hand, breaking all the rules dividing staff and family.
Do not discuss your personal life.
Do not discuss their personal life.
Never mind Gus’s personal life was all over the media.
From then on Miles tended Gus with an easy smile though the conversation faded into the silence of eating alone. The loneliness seemed to echo through him. He ate breakfast alone in Florida after a run. Dinner was at the pub, usually with Helene in her office. On weekends, he explored the Florida coast, grabbing a bite here and there on the run.
But he’d not eat alone when thirty or so people dined one floor below, laughing and talking.
In truth, he wanted to see Daffy. Talking to her last night was easy. Like it’d always been. Since she was an engaged woman and he a confirmed bachelor, a friendship with her was perfectly safe. Just what the doctor ordered.
When Miles cleared away his dishes, Gus retreated to his apartment. There was nothing on the telly. And though there were thousands of books at Hadsby, he didn’t feel like reading.
He stared out his lounge window toward the lights of the Old Hamlet. What he needed was a night with his old mate Ernst at theBelly of the Beast.
Collecting his wallet and keys, Gus exited his apartment, down the hall to a small, hidden door that led him down a winding staircase to a narrow door. Cutting through covering ivy and a couple of hedges, he escaped over the grounds toward the woods and the gate leading to Centre Street.
He could’ve just gone down the Grand Stairs and out the front door, but why be normal when he could be clandestine? Besides, he wanted to sneak off without Hemstead.
Centre Street, the heart of the Old Hamlet side of town, with its ancient shops and cottages, was sleeping and quiet. The only sound in the cold night air were his footsteps.
However, on the other side of a low row of buildings and the Centre Park was the New Hamlet, loud, bright, modern with tall edifices, flashing lights, revving motors, and car horns.
Gus was in his element in the Old Hamlet. So peaceful and enveloping, full of his childhood memories. Being fifteen seemed like eons ago.
Down the old cobblestone, past the thatched roof shops and flickering Victorian lamps, he turned down Wells Line and aimed for theBelly of the Beast, one of the region’s oldest pubs that overlooked the quay.
“Ah, look who.” Ernst, the owner, greeted Gus with a bow and hearty backslap. Royal protocol took an unusual form in the Beast. “Your Royalness, come. Too long, too long. Betsy, love, prince pint. Lads, your prince. Shape up, sail right.” Ernst motioned to the table by the fireplace. “Food? Stella! Fish chips.”
“No, thank you, Ernst. I’ve had my dinner. Just a pint. One.” Gus thanked the smiling and curtsying Betsy, Ernst’s daughter—or was it his niece?—and drifted easily into the welcoming and familiar atmosphere of the stone floor and rough beam pub. As well as the humorous and curtailed dialect of County Northton natives.
Maybe it was because of the extreme winters in seaside Dalholm or the sloppy, rainy summers, maybe it all started with the hardworking, seafaring founders, but Northtonians shorthanded their speech. Complete sentences not required. Only the words that mattered.
One year the queen allowed the mayor to give a national speech. She thought he’d be prepared to address the entire nation. Instead one would’ve thought he stood on a hamlet corner, speaking to his neighbor. He delivered the whole thing in Dalholm-speak as news presenters frantically called for translators.
“How’s doing? Florida?” Ernst pulled up a chair.
“Florida was good. But I’m home now. The queen sends her regards.”
“Ah, what love. My regards.” Ernst twirled his hand and bowed his head. “Sure? No eats?”
