Chapter 8: Gideon

It was the middle of February, and the weather had unfortunately not improved. The cold air chilled Sam’s bones as he wandered around the various levels of the gardens, examining flowerbeds and raised boxes, writing thoughtfully in a grubby notepad. Lady Ashwater had, naturally, gone off the specifics of her initial autumn admonitions for the intended state of the garden and had now handed the lion’s share of the project over to Sam himself. Whether this was a recognition of some degree of demonstrated talent on his part, of some other unrelated matters that Lady Ashwater might have noticed occurring in his life, or just an excuse to divest herself of the entire affair while still leaving it in moderately capable hands Sam wasn’t sure; but he was taking the task very seriously.

He was lugging a wheelbarrow along the length of the border he had erected for the vegetable garden in order to treat its far end with compost when he happened to look up and spy a figure advancing towards him along the edge of the lawn, weaving in between the apple trees that lined the exterior hedges. As the man approached, Sam could make out a degree of discordance in his appearance- expensively dressed but dishevelled, purposely striding but with a wobble in his step that suggested the influence of drink. The man was taller than Sam- though most men were- and wore a creased lounge suit with a missing tie, the collar popped open scruffily instead. He was unshaven but evidently recently so, and his straight black hair was slicked back with rather too much grease, such that locks of it flopped around wetly like lazy eels.

“You there!” The man called. His accent was moneyed but boisterous, like the public schoolboys that Sam remembered being jeered at by on the street as a child. “Is this still Ashwater house?”

Sam was taken aback at having been addressed first by this bold intruder and scrambled to recover. “Um… yes… yes sir it is. A…a…and by that token, Sir, it is private property and I don’t imagine you are permitted to walk its grounds.”

“Private property, pah.” The man laughed, continuing his advance up the incline towards Sam. “If it’s still Ashwater House I have every right to be here, no matter what my mother might say. Speaking of the old bag, why don’t you go call for her like a good little mutt? I’ll wait out here on the patio. Best not to cause too much of a scandal by daring to step inside my own house.” His face twisted into a resentful sneer and he came to a stop next to Sam’s vegetable plot, glancing occasionally over at the house.

Sam looked dumbfounded. The man’s expression soured further. “Well? What are you waiting for you stupid boy?”

“Your… mother, Sir?” Sam ventured nervously.

“Yes, my mother, Sir! Lady Eleanor Ashwater! I presume I’d have heard if the hag was dead. Don’t tell me I’m persona non grata round here now to such an extent that she prefers to hire idiot servants with no eye for family resemblance!” The man gestured once again for Sam to go into the house.

Bewildered but without a rebuttal, Sam wandered indoors to try and find Mr Rathbone.

This turned out to be unnecessary, however, since Lady Ashwater herself was coming down the stairs just as Sam finished scraping off his boots.

“Hello Samson!” She said in a surprised tone. “Finished already?”

“Um… no Ma’am” Sam said uncomfortably. “I was coming to find you, see, or at least find someone indoors who could find you. Beggin’ your pardon, of course, but there’s a gentleman to see you on the patio as walked up from the bottom of the garden, Ma’am.”

Lady Ashwater blinked owlishly “Well, Samson, I’m sure you know that I’m not exactly in the habit of granting audiences to people who trespass into my grounds instead of coming to the front door or even the servants’ entrance. I presume there’s some reason you didn’t just send him away?”

“Er, well, yes…” Sam looked sheepish. “He says you’re his mother, Ma’am.”

Lady Ashwater’s face instantly contorted into an expression that evoked the idea of attempting to surreptitiously chew a mouthful of bees.

“Does he now?” She said thinly. “I see.” She stood in thought a moment, then continued with the brisk decisiveness she do often displayed when doling out orders to servants. “I suppose I had better go and see what he wants. Though I certainly shan’t be inviting him in, and it’s frightfully cold out there. Samson, please go and light the patio braziers, and then stay close and watch this gentleman until I’m finished speaking to him. It’d be a great help to have a pair of eyes out there beside my own, just in case.” She turned to go up the stairs again, then called out as she saw a figure at the top. “Oh, Marcia! Perfect timing. Can you fetch us a pot of coffee and bring it out to the patio please? There’s a good girl.”

Marcia curtseyed with an “of course, Ma’am” and hurried off to the other staircase. Lady Ashwater turned back to Sam.

“You can tell our visitor that I will be out to see him as soon as I have put on something more insulating and the braziers have had time to warm up.” She said. “He’ll wait for me if he knows what’s good for him.”

Sam didn’t personally think that the man on the patio had the appearance of somebody who had the faintest idea what was or wasn’t good for him, but he bit his tongue and busied himself with venturing outdoors again to visit the coal bunker for brazier fuel.

In short order the two Hellenic-styled wrought iron braziers on the patio were lit and crackling, and warmth was beginning to spread through the air between them to warm the patio and its wrought-iron furniture. Sam himself stood by as officiously as he could manage, trying to imitate the straight-backed pose he’d seen so often from Mr Rathbone. The visitor lounged cheekily in one of the garden seats, which he had moved around the table to sit directly between the two braziers; and had begun smoking a rather foul and cheap smelling cigarette.

A couple of minutes later, when the heat had had time to diffuse, Lady Ashwater stepped outside. She was dressed in furs and thick wool, and eyed the visitor disdainfully as she took her own seat on the other side of the table. Marcia followed after her with a pair of coffee cups on a tray, keeping to heel like a small dog. Lady Ashwater looked up and mumbled some thanks as Marcia placed one of the coffees in front of her, then returned her gaze to the odious man across the table.

“Gideon.” She said shortly.

“Mother.” The visitor replied with a smirk.

“This is not, as I’m sure you are aware, the proper way of seeking an audience.”

“Naturally.” Gideon exhaled his smoke lazily. “But I never get to see the old gardens otherwise, since you won’t have me in the house. Not that impressed, I’m afraid. I’m sure this new fellow—” he indicated toward Sam. “—is perfectly technically competent, but he seems a bit of a dullard if you ask me, and gardening happens to take a bit of nouse. I should know, read rather an involved book on the subject once. I know there’s a war on and whatnot but you really must use a little more discretion when you’re picking the servants.” He looked up as Marcia placed the other cup of coffee in front of him. “Although… perhaps you’ve not completely lost your touch yet. Ding dong…” He reached out and delivered a sharp and cheeky slap to Marcia’s rear, causing her to jump and only just suppress her squeak of surprise. Sam similarly managed only just to compose himself, bristling with embarrassment and indignation at the insults and crudities Gideon was visiting upon him and his… well, whatever Marcia and he were, it rather precluded being manhandled by greasy house callers who weren’t even permitted into the house.

Lady Ashwater stiffened in irritation. “What do you want, Gideon?”

“The same thing I always want when I make these cordial little visits, Mummy dearest.” Gideon took a drag on his cigarette and sneered. “Money.”

“And what makes you so sure you’re entitled to any?” Lady Ashwater raised her eyebrows. “There’s a reason we’re having this conversation out here and not in the house.”

Gideon laughed unpleasantly.

“Don’t play games, Mother. What entitles me is father’s name on my letterhead, and my name on his will. Unless you’re ready to tell me the old coward has finally made good on his threat to cut me out?”

Lady Ashwater’s mouth formed a hard straight line and she fumed silently.

“I didn’t think so.” Gideon continued. “Nothing’s different. I’m sure if he were here now the old fellow would tell me all about how much he’d love to burn my name off the page with a cigar and leave Imelda everything. But he won’t, for the same reason he didn’t the last six times. Moreso, now that Imelda’s off in Australia.”

“Your sister.” said Lady Ashwater thinly. “Is a nurse in an ambulance corps. A damn sight more useful and respectable a vocation than you have ever even shown interest in, let alone undertaken.”

“Yes, yes yes.” Gideon made a nattering gesture with his free hand. “Here’s rotten old layabout Gideon. Crude, irresponsible, embarrassing. Squandering his stipend on all manner of vices. What a useless lout compared to his tireless saint of a sister Imelda!” He melodramatically effected a performed darkening of his expression. “What an absolute pity that Imelda is a girl, and at that a girl whose one singular flaw of character also happens to make absolutely certain the single eventuality her father fears the most!” he stood up and elaborately bent over in a swoon and other mocking pantomimed poses. “Losing the family name and the family home to one of the cavalcade of scheming rotters your daughter deigns to call a pool of suitors would just be too much for poor old Papa, wouldn’t it Mother? Even if that means they pass to the rotter right at home. After all, better Ashwater house, its fortune and its storied name hunker down and prepare to weather Gideon’s loves of fast women, slow ponies, and spirits more familiar to the polishing rag than the glass of ice, than for the whole thing to be folded up and sold to the benefit of some absolute destitute cad from the other side of the world whose name would whitewash over your own.”

“I often think of how I could more valuably have used the time spent pushing you out of my loins, you verminous little man.” Lady Ashwater snarled. “Trimming my nails, perhaps.”

“Now now Mother.” Gideon chided cheekily as he took a gulp of coffee. “Let’s not come to blows quite yet. My point, in case it all got lost in there, is that until Daddy develops some bloody stones, I am and remain the primary Ashwater heir, and am entitled to the Ashwater fortune.”

“Yes, well.” Lady Ashwater sipped her coffee primly. “You may have noticed, Gideon, that neither I nor your father are dead, mortally injured or grievously ill. So I think it fair to say we presently have little need of an heir of any kind, be it you or Imelda. Don’t you think?”

Gideon raised an eyebrow and knocked back what was left of his coffee. “Perhaps so.” He leaned forward and rested his chin on the heel of his hand. “But you’ll need one eventually. And as with most investments a passable heir requires a degree of… upkeep, shall we say?”

Though surely only mere seconds, the silence that ensued seemed to drag on for several minutes. Sam watched the powerful callous wills of the putrid Gideon Ashwater and his imperious mother do silent, motionless battle out of their eyes across the table. Finally, Gideon broke off the gaze, passing the motion off as a need to drag on his cigarette. Lady Ashwater’s mouth turned up slightly in a diluted form of what on her son’s face would certainly have been a leering smirk.

“I don’t think so.” She said firmly. “It’s always best, when one has an unpleasant responsibility looming in the distance, not to put it off until the last minute. Far better to rip the bandage off while the going is good and one has some options to hand.”

“And what is that supposed to mean?” Gideon asked angrily.

“It means that as long as I draw breath, you will not see another penny out of this household, Gideon.” Lady Ashwater snapped. “And once your father is available to have his ear bent I am going to do my level best to ensure that you won’t see one after we have both ceased to draw breath too.”

“You wouldn’t dare.” Gideon snarled. “You don’t have the guts for it and neither does father. I thought I made that very clear.”

“You did.” Lady Ashwater retorted. “And you were right. Nothing’s different. It’s time to be decisive and make a major change to pull us out of this circle we’re running in. The answer to your demand is no, Gideon. And it will remain no. If you need money again you will have to rely on your wits and whatever talents you have that haven’t drained out of you in a public house privy. I rather suspect by now that amounts to confidence tricks and nothing else.” She stood up and leaned forward, both hands on the table.

“Your next invitation to visit.” She said simply. “Will be on the occasion of your father’s funeral. You’ll no doubt want to find out how far we went, and what Imelda and her eventual husband, whomsoever that might be, have left for you. You will be turned away if you come back sooner.”

“You can’t do this to me!” Gideon roared, leaping to his feet. “Your blood runs in my veins, Eleanor Ashwater; whether you like it or not!”

Sam had had enough. Before he quite knew what he was doing, he heard himself clearing his throat.

The Ashwaters both looked at him, and he looked at Lady Eleanor.

“Would you like this gentleman, um, removed, Ma’am?” He asked innocently, not quite certain what he was even saying.

Lady Ashwater looked taken aback but smiled.

“Yes please, Samson, that would be very helpful.” She grinned at Gideon, turning back toward the house and beckoning Marcia to follow.

“How bloody dare you?!” Gideon wheeled on Sam. “I shall not be spoken to or of in that fashion in my own home by some pipsqueak of a servant!”

Adrenaline flooded Sam’s system, doubling his resolve as the image of Gideon’s hand on Marcia’s rear flashed before his eyes.

“We are all out-of-doors, Sir.” He retorted. “And your mother has made it quite patently clear that it is in any case not your home.” He turned his squat, compact frame to square up to Gideon, locked eyes with him, and began advancing forward.

For the first time since he had arrived, Sam saw Gideon falter slightly without finding a cover to play it off. The larger man seemed genuinely taken aback at the determination of Sam’s aggression.

“Look here.” He spluttered indignantly. “This is obviously poppycock and bluster. Even the stupidest specimens of your little troglodyte caste know better ever than even to think of laying hands on a Gentleman.”

“On a gentleman, Sir, absolutely.” Sam concurred, before placing a calloused hand on Gideon’s shoulder and advancing forward, bodily propelling the man a good seven feet back out of the latter’s sheer unprepared astonishment. Gideon stumbled backwards, wobbled as his feet stepped over the incline of the retreating lawn, and fell flat on his back.

Sam looked down at the bedraggled, unshaven wretch sprawled on the dewey lawn in front of him, then glanced behind him at Marcia and Lady Ashwater, who had turned back to the garden and were looking on in surprise and interest.

Gideon scrambled to his feet and dusted some of the grass off his creased and ruffled jacket.

“All right then.” He growled, balling up his fists. “Put ‘em up you little runt.”

Sam’s heart began beating very loudly in his head. He wasn’t trained to fight, at least not formally. The most experience he’d had had been the rough and tumble scraps of growing up the eldest of three sisters on city streets, and he wasn’t sure how far that was going to get him. He rather hoped that this compulsion to decadent laziness that was apparently characteristic of the Ashwater black sheep had historically extended to the subject of things like boxing lessons. At the very least it appeared to his advantage that Gideon had been drinking, but it didn’t seem like that would be sufficient- he’d been sharp enough at the table.

Alerted by a grunt from Gideon, Sam ducked hurriedly to avoid the wild haymaker swung at his head. The swing went wide, apparently pitched too high to account for Sam’s diminutive stature, but Sam suspected that was not a mistake he could count on the bigger man to make more than once or twice. Conscious that he should try and capitalise on his opponent’s mistake, he surged forward with an attempted gut punch. The blow connected, but although Gideon grunted in pain and surprise and stumbled a little, he seemed otherwise unaffected and came back swinging, missing Sam again with a flying fist but following through with his elbow and clocking Sam across the jaw.

Sam tasted blood and staggered backwards. He heard Marcia gasp in horror and steeled himself, standing back up in spite of the ringing pain in his jaw and neck. Gideon was rushing at him, preparing to punch past him and probably knock him out. Sam planted his feet and readied himself for the impact.

Gideon’s fist came thundering towards him, but Sam’s palm shot out and absorbed its momentum at the cost of little more than a jarring sensation of the radius. Seizing the opportunity to capitalise on his counter, Sam rammed his left fist into Gideon’s lower jaw.

Gideon’s head cracked backward before snapping forward to reconnect his eye contact. He snorted derisively and stepped forward into a swing that connected neatly with Sam’s left eye socket, sending a ringing through his ears.

Encouraged, Gideon closed the gap with Sam and wound up for another swing. Sam, in a blind panic as to how to prevent further impending pain, reflexively shot out his leg and kneed Gideon as hard as he could in the crotch.

Gideon roared in pain and collapsed to his knees, writhing on the ground in front of Sam. Sam took a moment to spit the pooled blood out of his mouth before reaching down toward the scruff of Gideon’s neck. When his hand was about a foot away, however, Gideon popped back up into a lounging position, twisted to face Sam and triumphantly punched as hard as he could directly into the area right under the groin of Sam’s trousers.

The impact hurt a little as it drew the fabric into tension, but Sam remained broadly unscathed by this underhanded attack and grasped hold of Gideon’s shoulder firmly.

Gideon looked up at Sam in shock and bewilderment. “What—”

Sam plunged his fist into Gideon’s face and felt the crunch of the older man’s nose breaking under his knuckles. He winced at the sensation and let go of Gideon’s shoulder almost immediately, but the damage was done. Gideon leapt to his feet, clasping his hand to his nose and looking in horror at the blood staining it as he pulled it away. He made incredulous and terrified eye contact with Sam as he fished his handkerchief out of his pocket to try and stem the bleeding.

“Leave.” Sam commanded firmly, trying not to let his voice falter.

Gideon looked for a second like he might burst from rage, but he gathered himself up and scampered away toward the side gate out of the gardens.

Sam watched him leave, then turned toward the house to see Lady Ashwater crossing the lawn toward him with a frantic looking Marcia in tow.

“Oh bravo, Samson!” Lady Ashwater called, clapping delightedly. “A fine showing, and perfect ammunition for my arsenal against Gideon whenever I can next speak to his father. Even whatever ‘rotter’ his sister might end up marrying would most likely not be in the habit of fist fighting the serving staff! Really, what a loyal and dutiful young man you are, and so very capable! Don’t you think, Marcia?”

Marcia seemed very shaken and her lip wobbled as she nodded obediently. This did not pass Lady Ashwater’s notice and her expression became thoughtful.

“That said.” She mused. “He hasn’t come out of the encounter unscathed. Why don’t you take Samson into the kitchen and tend to him, Marcia? I’ll have Charlotte come out to clear away the coffee things.”

As he watched Marcia nod and scurry to his side, Sam became suddenly aware that his mouth was full of blood.

---

“What were you thinking?” Marcia scolded, pressing the cold compress a little harder into Sam’s bruised orbit than seemed to him strictly necessary.

Sam shrugged. “Didn’t like the way the bloke talked to you. Or the Missus, for that matter.”

“Really.” Marcia said coldly. “Well of course that makes it all all right then, doesn’t it, throwing your hands around at a titled fella!”

“He ain’t titled.” Sam sniffed, wincing as the act scrunched the tender bruised skin of his jaw and eye socket. “You heard ‘er ladyship. He’s a family embarrassment she wants to cut ‘er nails of, or whatever.”

“You’re damn lucky she does seem to regret not throttling him at birth, Sam Hocking.” Marcia scowled, roughly applying a cold poultice to the lacerations on Sam’s swollen jaw. “Are you gonna be making a habit of this? Punching up any nobs who get a bit too handsy with me or her ladyship?”

“Don’t know.” Sam mused. “Hope not. That’d rather imply she’d develop a habit of havin’ them round, and I don’t think that’d be healthy for anyone involved.”

“Don’t take cheek with me!” Marcia squeaked angrily. “You’re playing with fire pullin’ stunts like that and you know it. You’ve given up a lot to get a position as good as you have, Sam, don’t go throwing it away just for pride above your station. The occasional houseguest is gonner get a bit lechery and that’s just ours to grin and bear. Time was you knew that.”

“You’d prefer that, then?” Sam grunted. “That I was still like you, and knew it?”

“Don’t say that.” Marcia dabbed at his wounds. “’snot what I meant and you’re well aware it’s cruel.”

“Sorry.” Sam stared into the middle distance for a moment. “But… bein’ honest, Marce, more and more it feels like I can see now I actually gave up rather little, when all’s said and done.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean like, who even was Jessica Hocking?” Sam gritted his teeth and took hold of the compress from Marcia as she worked further round his jaw with the poultice. “I used to think I wanted to go back to being her cause it was, you know; right, and proper, and natural. But… nowadays it’s harder and harder not to see her as a paper cut-out kind of person, one I wore like an ill-fitting coat cause I didn’t know there was anything better. I feared becomin’ Sam, cause it was nuts, and scary; but… look what I’ve gained. The money, the position…” He gently took one of Marcia’s hands and squeezed. “…you.”

Marcia blushed and avoided his gaze. Her expression softened a bit. “Well… I suppose it was rather dashing of you, but let’s not make a habit of it, hm? Runs a risk to our jobs, and to this handsome mug of yours—” She kissed him tenderly on the bridge of his nose. “—And knowing now how comfy you’ve become I’d rather keep both just as they are.”

Sam cracked a smile that spread even across the black bruise on his eye. He reached up tenderly to bring Marcia’s face down to his and pressed his dry, cracked lips to her soft, plump ones.

“So would I, Marce.” He breathed. “So would I.”

“So no more fightin’?” Marcia asked gently.

“For you, Marce. No more fightin’.”

“Good boy.” She took the poultice back from his hand, then her expression became one of playful determination.

“Now hold still.”