The Stable Boy: Chapter 11

When Roxanna came through the front door of that villa on the hill, the afternoon’s buttery sunshine seemed to trail behind her in little wisps and curlicues. She set down the day’s purchases on the table and poured herself a glass of water from the stone jug in the cupboard, drinking it all in a single enthusiastic gulp. She burped softly and smiled to herself. How warm the day was! Her cheeks were slightly sunburnt, and she pressed them, first one, then the other, against the palms of her hands, which were cool from the glass. She wanted now to commune with the breezes, out on the veranda maybe, or in the shadows of the cypress trees.

But first she had to attend to her master.

As Roxanna tripped lightly down the hall toward Frederick’s chambers, she sang bits and snippets of an old Shropshire tune. “Hey nonny, hey nonny...In the spring time, the only pretty ring time...” Distracted as she was, she forgot to knock, and thus did she intrude on the following scene:

Frederick, sweat shining weakly on his pale, mottled torso, was sprawled across a chaise lounge. He was on the verge of tears, or maybe he had just finished crying. He was not alone.

Frederick’s head lay in the lap of a man who, while he was not truly shirtless, could not have been called clothed in any real sense of the word. The contours of his glowing, symmetrical frame were apparent for all to see. This man, in a linen shirt open nearly to the waist, was stroking Frederick’s sparse tresses with a sure and gentle hand. He made soothing sounds while his other hand traveled regularly between a plate of grapes and Frederick’s open mouth.

The stranger dropped grapes, one by one, into the hot dark orifice. When Frederick’s teeth bit down, the grapes tore and popped. Roxanna stared, aghast. Who was this man? The stranger looked at her, his lips parting. There, perched against the edge of his upper teeth, was the tip of his tongue, which darted forward when he saw her, as if tasting the air.

Roxanna’s conscious mental processes had abandoned her completely, and it was only by virtue of her years of training that she managed to mumble an apology and shut the door behind her. Back in the hallway, she fell into confusion. Her first instinct was toward prayer (her first instincts were almost always toward prayer), but she did not know what to pray for.

The marbled vestibule seemed to spin around her in a white haze. All around her, the blur of white walls and white pillars and spare mahogany furniture seemed to dissolve into one streak, like a spirit. She sank to the floor, clasping her hands.

And as if a voice had spoken to her, she knew with a sudden strength and certainty that the stranger was not good—nay! that he was evil on earth. She knew that he had come to the villa to contaminate its residents, to possess them with his wickedness. And she also knew, or so whispered the voice that resonated in the inner chambers of her pure white ear, that only she could save Frederick. Felicity, perhaps, must be forsaken, for even Roxanna knew not how to salvage such a wanton shrew. Frederick—Frederick must be saved.

Oh, Gentle Reader, be sure that if this pure maiden of ours had any blemish upon her soul, any indecency to mar her perfection, it was only a propensity to adore and love too greatly. None whom she revered would be harmed, even if she must sacrifice her greatest treasure in order to keep them safe!

Roxanna trembled at the knowledge of how Frederick must be rescued. “I am not worthy!” she whispered to herself, her vestal veins thrumming. But her maidenly soul, however it quivered, could not ignore the command from on high.

Roxanna felt herself drawn outside, as she always did during times of trial. In the garden, the air was cool with the promise of autumn. The vines twined themselves about the tall brick walls and the statues stood serenely, untouched except by the elements. She trailed her fingertips through the clear water of her favorite fountain, in the pool of which a young stone maiden lay prostate at the feet of a scholarly hero, who held an open book aloft in one strong stone hand. Peace settled over Roxanna.

And then, from the eastern corner of her garden, came the earthly, foreboding thunk of a steel spade violating the virgin earth. She lifted her skirts—which were, of course, of white muslin—and sprang toward the source of the offending sound.

As she approached, the sound grew louder. The pitiful whisper of soil as it flew, displaced, grated her soul. The hoarse pants of a laboring man pained Roxanna’s gentle nature. But onward she ran, as if with winged feet.

There, crouched in the patch wherein her precious petunias and beloved rosebush grew, covered in soil that had become dirtied by his touch, was the new gardener who had just been clasping Frederick’s supine form so possessively moments before. He did not notice her presence at first, and she watched in horror as he cast aside the spade and plunged his large, raw hands savagely into the freshly turned soil, over and over. Dirt flew from the holes he dug and sullied the pale, delicately veined petals of her petunias.

He reached into a pouch that hung from his belt, and his red fist emerged full of seeds. He thrust them into the soil, and she gasped in sudden fury. How dare he! He was planting squash.

At her gasp, the new gardener turned and fixed a dark eye upon her. She could feel the heat from its glance and immediately sensed the evil of the heat. He lazily drew a finger across one of the seeds in his palm.

“Pumpkins,” he said, almost crooning. “The soil is fertile here. They shall swell round and flourish. Soon they will look like...”

He trailed off, making circles in the air in front of his chest. He watched Roxanna as though he were waiting for something. But she could not turn her gaze from the patch of garden that she had so carefully cultivated throughout the summer. Pumpkins. Pumpkins. Those lewd gourds! Oh, her sweet petunias! Alas, her darling rosebush!

The almost indecently large seeds lay, garishly white and pale and smooth, like grubs, upon the fresh soil, not two feet from her flowers. With a sudden cry of anguish, Roxanna flung her slender white hand into the dirt and flung the seeds aside. She patted the rumpled earth back into face, smoothing it as if soothing a child.

“Get your pumpkins out of my flowerbed,” she said.

Wonderingly, she held up her hands for the gardener to see. Not a speck of dirt. They were still as clean and white as snow.