Excerpt: THE HONEST, BUT RATHER SCANDALOUS TALES OF CHARLES WESTCOMBE

Grey, ominous English mornings have no better remedy than a brisk ride through the country. There was nothing more refreshing than the damp, cool air whipping against one's face as one trotted fresh new paths in the grassy fields. This morning, as Charles' arrived at the stable to fetch his horse, he came upon the sight of a new stable hand, a Dennis Crick, whom the stable keeper Gould said began that very day. He was at most a few years older than Charles, tall, lean, weathered, and as dirty as these first few hours at his new position could afford him. One could tell he was no accustomed to interfacing with decent society. His blond hair was greasy and unkempt, and his clothes were worn and ill-fitting. Most obvious were his manners, his total disregard of propriety. When Gould sent him to fetch the young master's horse, he kept in his place for good while and inspected them thoroughly with his frank blue eyes before he disappeared into the stone shelter.
Charles frowned and turned his head away. He was not at all pleased with this new stable boy. He carried himself with an air of confidence that was far too great for his place among the lower classes. If there was one thing Mr. Westcombe taught his son well, it was of the politics of society. The poor and working class occupied a distinctly separate, primitive sphere of existence, and it was more than foolish for them to feign any sort of commonality with the gentry beyond fundamental humanity. One could understand well enough what to expect of the rough class, and how to value their utility. Those who served their purpose with some decency, like Gould, were very useful. Orders could be given, both simple and elaborate, and executed without fuss or delay. But this Crick was something else. His sauciness threatened that reliability like the low, malcontent growl of a caged lion.
Charles watched the stable boy return, and wondered what sort of discord he could potentially cause at Merrywater. Was Crick not just like a cat as he approached him, head low, body hunched over, eyes fixed securely upon him, every muscle fully engaged as he waited for the perfect moment to strike?
Crick continued to look at him with his menacing eyes as he guided the chestnut mare out and handed her off. Just when Charles was prepared to take the reigns from him, Crick held his hand back and said cooly, "You have fine mount, sir." The boldness of the declaration stunned him. For nearly a minute Charles stood there, motionless, and it was not until Gould rushed to his side to help him up did he inelegantly take the reigns from him and mount the chestnut. Looking down at Gould, Charles gave him a nod, affirming that he would discuss this with him upon his return. Gould turned to shoo off the stable hand, and Charles clicked his heels to begin his ride.
He had not gone very far when the initial shock of Crick's behavior wore off. He allowed himself to become indignant, thoroughly offended by the audacity of his servant. The stable boy had not been employed for a full day and yet he already felt himself comfortable enough to directly address him. Did he really have such little respect for his authority? Robert would later tease him about the incident, remarking that he was obviously such an ineffectual figure in the eyes of the servants. And unlike his brother, he would have hit him, right then and there, and teach him that nothing but the utmost respect would do from him. Robert had hit the servants before. Recently, it was one of the maids whom he said had been careless and made a despicable mess in one of the guest rooms upstairs. She had screamed when he struck her, and Robert had threatened to do worse were she to botch her work again. Robert was always terribly eager to take up Mr. Westcome's role as man of the house when he was out of town, and believed that among his duties was correcting his younger brother as well.
Charles and Robert fought often as children about trifling, juvenile things, when their other amusements ran scarce. It was during winter time more than any that Robert would grow discontent from the lack of horse-racing, as horses were a favorite sport of his, and take his frustration out on his brother in every way imaginable. Yet once they reached their years of young adulthood, they had developed more subtle and effective ways of vying for supremacy and establishing their self-worth. Charles learned early on that fighting his brother, especially when their father was away, would not end with any favorable result. Indeed, Robert derived his authority simply from being the stronger of the two, though as the future heir to Merrywater, it certainly did not hurt his case. Still, Charles did not believe a reasonable man had any need to physically dominate another in order to receive the respect his class deserved. No, in fact, the way of a true gentleman was beyond the brutish slugging matches that seemed to be the course of action of the lower masses. A gentleman was taught reason and skill from an early age, he was to be proficient with the written and spoken word, he was bred with refined taste and manners, and it was these he was expected to use to demonstrate his natural superiority. What had taken place this morning between himself and Crick, Charles reasoned, was either his failure to fully manifest these immanent qualities, or the stable boy's failure to recognize them. For it went without saying that the working class did not by nature know or understand these signs of gentility, they had to be trained to identify them. Crick's education, whatever it may be, was obviously lacking in this manner. And what a dangerous omission it was! Had it been his brother or his father, Crick would have surely been beaten, if not dismissed on the spot, his livelihood and future employment uncertain. For such a poor, unfortunate creature, dependent on the whims of his master, indignation was not the proper response. Charles realized that Crick needed his guidance. He would be stern with him, but well-meaning, teaching him the knowledge his position needed in order to ensure a long and useful tenure at Merrywater. Corporeal punishment had its limits and to be sure, Charles did not believe he was very skilled with the method.
A content smile came upon his lips and spread across his face with a warm glow. Charles was quite pleased with this resolution, believing it utilized his strongest skills to produce the greatest good. Instinctively, he stroked the mane of his mare, as though thanking her for the idea. She received a great deal of affectionate touches from her master. Charles often rode his horse when things bothered him and his mind was too heavy to do much else. He was amazed at how quickly his predicaments resolved into answers when he considered them in a well-paced trot. It was as though all his thoughts, misshapen and jumbled, were smoothed of their rough edges and bounced into place. The very physics of horse-riding were conducive to problem-solving, he believed. Upon his horse he sat at an elevated height, which meant fresher air and, quite literally, a broader perspective. With each step of the movement of his mare beneath him, Charles was propelled forward, which additionally helped his mental analysis.
Clear-minded, Charles could detect something in the rhythmic clapping of the horse's hooves against the ground. There was something about it that caught his attention, something very distinct and very familiar, that when he remembered, made his stomach churn.
It was the sound of lovemaking, and the memory of his father's tryst returned. His beloved ritual, something that was once so sacred and healing, had been polluted. The movement of his horse had become obscene, contaminated by the unfortunate likeness it bore to carnal indulgence. Against his better judgement, Charles recalled the moans, the cries, the pounding of flesh, everything as he sat fixed to the door, bearing aural witness to the undertaking. He was too shocked to move, and to curious to leave. At fourteen years of age, he had very little experience with such activities, indeed it was his first encounter save his own onanism. Granted, he had learned a great deal from Robert as he shared various details from his own trysts, but it was something else to have hearsay confirmed by one's own father. Charles did not wish to ride any longer. He could not even bear staying on top of his horse, and dismounted hurriedly. He turned around and headed straight back home.
Charles met Gould at the stable and told him to call out Crick. The servant replied that he had already dealt with the boy, and assured him that nothing of the sort would ever happen again. Remembering his promise to himself, Charles thanked him for his swift correction, but insisted he wished to see Crick himself. It was with obvious displeasure that Gould did as he was told, knowing well that it was his responsibility to punishing his workmen and only under extraordinary circumstances did the master get involved. Charles recognized the man's displeasure, knew he was breaching the proper code of conduct, but he was firm in his decision. Gould brought forth the boy with a stern look on his face, muttered something to him that sounded much like 'behave yourself boy', and went back to his work in the stable. Contrary to the advise, Crick approached him, bearing that same the strong look of defiance, that smug confidence which had unsettled Charles before. He showed no signs he suspected the reason for his being there, but looked convinced he had nothing to worry about. He sauntered casually as he approached him, and stopped but a few paces in front of Charles, folded his arms, and waied. The raw smell of his labor was embedded in his clothes, and Charles turned his nose slightly as a breeze brought it to his attention. Conceit was a fitting description of the image standing before Charles, and he worried whether Crick would take well to his direction.
"Have you any idea why I called you, Crick?"
"Mr. Gould said ye were displeased with my behavior this morn, sir," he replied. His displeasure, Charles noted, did not seem to have had any affect on on the stable hand.
"Did he explain to you why that was the case?"
"No, sir, he didn't."
"You spoke out of turn, Crick. I did not speak to you, nor was there was any need for you to say anything to me when you brought me my horse."
"You mean to say I should only say somethin' when you've spoken to me?"
"Yes. It is entirely inappropriate for a servant to address his master unwarranted."
Crick looked very displeased. He pursed his lips and scratched his neck, sniffing the air. Charles assumed it was his way of thinking.
"If you don' mind me sayin' sir, I think that's absolute rubbish."
"Never mind what you think, Crick," Charles said sternly. "If you intend to remain employed in the service of this family, you shall follow the expected protocol. Were I not as lenient or as forgiving as I am, I could have had you sacked. My father would never tolerate such behavior."
"Yes sir," Crick replied. The defiance in his eyes had transformed into disgust. "Is that all, sir?"
"For now, yes."
Crick bent stiffly at the waist. "Thank you, sir," he said, holding his hat on his head. He stood upright again, turned his face away, and marched back to the stable.