Page 16 of One Perfect Dance
Until one day, towards the end of their stay in Paris.
Beckham, the tutor, was sulking. That morning, he had complained again about Rex’s plans to continue to explore the museums and art galleries of Paris without him. Today, they planned to visit the Louvre Museum, in the old royal palace. Rex had talked the official in charge of the restoration of the Louvre Museum into a special tour, ahead of the reopening in July, and Beckham wanted to go, too. “This is part of your education, Lord Arthur,” he insisted. “You will not read, so you must experience.”
At that, Rex lost his usually endless patience and told Beckham that he didn’t know nearly as much as he thought he did, bored his pupils to sleep before he taught them, and was, whatever he said, not coming.
Beckham seethed for the rest of the morning. Rex ignored him, and Ash took his cue from that and continued with his usual morning tasks.
One of the letters in the morning pile was a hand-folded billet on pale lavender scented paper, sealed with purple wax. The stamp was a simple four-petalled rose. Ash opened it, then closed it and said to Rex, “You might not want me to read this one. It is from one of your admirers and is very… shall we say… specific.”
Rex grinned. “I have no secrets from you, Ash, but perhaps we might save it until later.”
“He has no secrets, he says,” Beckham sneered. “So, Mr. Ashby, personal secretary and partner in depravity, has his lordship told you that he does not read because hecannotread?”
“Enough,” said Rex, but Beckham talked right over the top of him.
“He is the shame of the Verseys. Twenty generations of scholars and men of letters, and now this. Is he stupid or just lazy? Even his parents cannot tell, and yet I am meant to tutor him? How, I ask you? He ignores everything I say, and he won’t even try to read the simplest documents. As for writing, his copybook was a disgrace, back when he was young enough to be beaten for it. All they could do was send the dunce overseas so no one at home could find out that he was a buffoon; an ape masquerading as a lord.”
Rex took a step towards Beckham then sat down, gasping for breath, his face white and his eyes wide and anguished.
This had happened once before, and Smith had leapt into action, with a warm flannel on his master’s chest, a bowl of steam, and a glass of hot water and honey. Ash called for him. “Smith! Lord Arthur needs you.”
Beckham ran out of words, staring at the suffering young man. Smith hurried into the room, took one look at his master, and ran to hover over him, rubbing his back and muttering about calming down.
“Get out,” Ash said to Beckham. “Go to your room. Go for a walk. Pack your bag and go back to England. I don’t care but get out. Lord Arthur doesn’t need to see you until he is ready to deal with your insolence and your treachery.”
“You can’t…” Beckham began, but when Ash took several steps towards him, fists clenched, he broke and ran, out of the room and down the passage to his bedchamber.
At Smith’s command, Ash ordered one of the men to fetch a bowl and a jug of boiling water, and soon Rex was breathing in steam, sipping honeyed water, and breathing a lot more easily.
“So, there you have it,” he said to Ash after Smith packed up all the paraphernalia and returned to whatever the crisis had interrupted. “Your employer is an illiterate buffoon.”
Ash shrugged. “Not a buffoon,” he objected. “You’re one of the smartest men I know. Your memory is amazing. You notice things I would never see without you. And you have an incredible ability to work out what other people are thinking so you can talk them into doing what you want them to.”
“Then why can’t I read and write, Ash? Every other child can write their name before they leave the nursery. I could not make anything but a capital A when I was six, and half the time, I got that upside down or on its side, or so they said. It looked fine to me.” He shrugged.
“Once I was in the schoolroom, my governess tried, my sisters tried, everyone tried to teach me my letters. But even after I had mostly mastered them, they wouldn’t form into words. They just wouldn’t. They still don’t. No matter how hard I try, they wriggle away from me, or dance around on the page until my brain hurts. And now you are going to think I am crazy.” He slumped in his chair, staring at his second glass of hot water and honey, which his valet had abjured him to sip, slowly.
Ash shook his head. “I don’t understand it at all. But if you say it is so, I believe you. So, do you want me to read you the Comtesse’s letter?”
Rex straightened and shifted his stare to Ash. “Is that all you have to say? Don’t you mind?”
“For your sake,” Ash said. “Not for mine. I hope you don’t object, but I like knowing there is something I can do for you, when there is so much you do for me. I was feeling quite unnecessary, Rex.”
Rex looked stunned. “Right.” He took a sip from his glass. “Right. Well, then.” Another sip, as he continued to absorb Ash’s reaction. “Go ahead. What does the Comtesse want?”
“You, you gorgeous specimen of English aristocracy, you,” Ash drawled, managing to look disgusted in a suitably envious way. He read the letter, a mix of flowery phrases and earthy suggestions, some of them a real challenge to his growing French vocabulary.
“Is that actually possible?” he asked a couple of times, and Rex suggested he ask Vivienne to demonstrate.
Rex dictated a stiff and proper reply, all polite nothings. “His Grace says that titled women with the morals of barn cats are more trouble than they are worth,” he told Ash. His Grace, Ash was learning, was the fount of all wisdom in the eyes of his youngest son. Poor Rex, to be considered a disappointment by his greatest hero.
They made their tour of the Louvre, Ash watching Rex closely. He was a bit breathless by the end of the tour but recovered quickly in the carriage home. “You don’t have to hover, Ash,” he said. “I usually know my limits, except when I’m ambushed, like this morning.”
“What are you going to do with him?” Ash asked.
Rex gave his most wicked grin. “Send him back to England, and you are going to write a letter to my father telling him exactly what Beckham said. Word for word. His Grace will not be amused.”
Beckham departed as soon as Mitterrand was able to organize his travel. He would arrive several days after the letter to the duke. “If he is wise,” said Rex, “he won’t present himself to my father.”
