The Battle of Harmingsdown: Chapter 2

Outside the door, the man in the white coat was waiting.

“Hallo, Master Edmund,” he stepped forward, hand held out in front of him to shake. “A pleasure to finally meet you, really, a pleasure. I have read so much about you.”

“You have me at a disadvantage,” he shook the doctor’s hand.

“Of course, forgive me,” the man blushed and gave an awkward bow. “Doctor Leginald Hamfish, physician and phlebotomist. I’m the head of Advanced Medical Practices at the Lady of Infinite Jest.”

Edmund nodded. The Lady of Infinite Jest was one of the Moulde’s better renowned hospitals, capable of serving the majority of extreme cases in Brackenburg while maintaining a respectable rate of legal conflict and perfectly reasonable numbers of skeletons in the closet.¹

“I must thank you for looking after Matron in my absence.”

“Not at all, Master Edmund. It was the least I could do after your help with the hospital’s Accreditations Committee. You and your family are well respected and we are gratified for your support. Family is…well, it’s important.”

With great force of will, Edmund did not react to the doctor’s understatement. “How is your mother?” Edmund asked instead, after drawing on his encyclopedic knowledge of recent events among the aristocracy.

“She is well,” Hamfish admitted. “Still in morning for the passing of my dear father. She’s having us out for a few days, in fact. Me and my sister and… well…”

Edmund sorted through his memory. “Your brother?”

“He…” Doctor Hamfish coughed. “You understand, my brother is …a bit of the black sheep, and all that. Gone and purchased a factory in the Farrows. Makes cogs or something. Says owning a business is fashionable these days.”

Edmund nodded. He had heard as much from Lady Tinbottom of the Teapot Coterie after she spent an hour detailing the most charming haberdashers she had just purchased.

“May I…” the doctor took a single step forward, his voice dipping in pitch. “Since you have returned from school, am I to assume my contract is discharged?

Edmund stared off into the myriad of possible futures that lay before him. He had spent several hours struggling to salvage his plans on the train already, and after speaking with Matron he saw only a few options…and given time…time he didn’t have…

“Yes, doctor, you are free to return to your regular practice.”

For the ten minutes it took for Doctor Hamfish to collect his things from Matron’s room, Edmund was alone in the hallway. As such, we have no knowledge of what passed through his mind. This, of course, does not prevent scholars from debating wildly, advancing their own pet theories and musings as scientific fact.

One theory is that he was thinking of Leeta, his fiery friend from the Orphanage who had helped him during his first year at Grimm’s school. Another theory is that Edmund had noted the lines of worry around the doctor’s mouth when he mentioned his brother’s factory. Edmund had likely heard the rumors, and war was one of the worst possible times for a steel shortage to rear its head.

What is known for certain is that he thought. And when the doctor stepped out of Matron’s room again, he said:

“Doctor, I am afraid you are not discharged. Please return your things to Matron’s room, I will need you to be on call for the foreseeable future.”

“I say?” Hamfish balked again. “But I…my mother…a few days at her —”

“I will be more than willing to extend a personal apology,” Edmund nodded. It was the least he could do, though the letter would likely end up framed in her parlor.

Doctor Hamfish, however, was not so easily bribed. “Please excuse me, Master Moulde, but I must protest! I have been ‘on call’ for the past year! I do not wish to seem ungrateful to your family, nor to your —”

“Is she getting better?”

“Well…yes, I suppose,” Hamfish shifted uncomfortably before forcing a smile. “As best as one can expect, given the circumstances, but she is old. I am afraid even the most modern of medicines cannot cure that.”

“I disagree,” Edmund didn’t smile.² “There have been astounding advances in the fields of physiological vitaes and heart sustainability. I strongly urge you to consider the implications of Professor Almingbleck’s Academica, especially the chapter on the pancreas.”

“Master Edmund,” Doctor Hamfish’s smile passed from forced to tight. “I’m afraid that I am familiar with the work, and I assure you that I am no mere butcher. I am a physician. Surgery is not a practice I condone. Besides, There is nothing in the gentleman’s book that could arrest the descent of a woman aged ninety.”

Edmund had once tried hitting another student at school. He had read about the effectiveness of a hard strike to the jaw both in calming the hysterical and in arresting the wrathful. It had worked, though a careful study of the situation confirmed for Edmund that it was more surprise and confusion that caused the student to stop ranting, rather than any level of pain or fear.

After an extended period of experimentation with lab subjects, Edmund found a far more efficient and effective method of exerting his will than physical combat. It mostly involved looking at the other person at a certain angle, with a certain tilt of the head, and a certain tone of voice that turned…

“I suggest you read the professor’s work again.”

…into a more potent shock to the system than any slap to the face.

“Of course, Master Edmund, I may have missed something,” the doctor stammered. “May I…ask how…how long you think I will be required to —”

“Until the war is over. At least another year.”

“Sir!” Hamfish struggled to hide a scoff. “I know you are an educated man but…if you will forgive me sir, a year seems a bit…over-confident, to me.”

“You disagree?” Edmund asked.

“Indeed I do,” the Doctor nodded patriotically. “Spain will surrender within the week, a month at the outside. They always have to make a bit of a saber rattle over Gibraltar every now and then, haven’t they?”

Edmund could have gone into the details. He could have explained about economic pressures on coastal fisheries, or how the new copper mines across the channel in Dahlsbad meant that King Wilhelm had a vested interest in keeping an aggressive demeanor, especially after the recent influx of French migrants. Edmund could have explained that if the Spanish Queen had been the one to declare war on Britannia, half the world would not have noticed. Since King Wilhelm had started the war, Edmund could have laid the chain of treaties bare that meant there was not a corner of the civilized world that was not tied into the conflict. He could have mentioned the whispered conversation he overheard on the train, and the hushed expression: “the Great War.”

He could have, but didn’t. Instead, he shook his head. “Things are different now.”

“Ah, are they?”

The self-evident fact that education did not lead directly to intelligence was not lost on Edmund. Especially after having survived five years at Grimm’s.

“And in compensation for your time,” Edmund continued, “I shall increase our annual donation, suitably.”

“Ah?” Hamfish blinked. “Ah! Yes, well…Thank you very kindly, Master Moulde. It is most…most appreciated. I can, of course, ask some of my colleges to lend a hand —”

“No,” Edmund snapped. “No one else. I selected you for your discretion, Doctor Hamfish.”

“Ah. Yes, of course.” The man heaved a sigh. “I see. Well. I shall put my things back, shall I?”

“And when next you speak with your colleges, please impress on them the need for rationing.”

“Rationing?”

“Yes. Limit your use of antiseptics and medicines. Pay particular attention to your stores of Dalby’s Carminative and Turlington’s Balsam. Epsom salts may be raising in price soon as well, so insure a hefty stock.”

“Yes…I…I will pass on the message. Sir? If I may?”

Edmund turned as the doctor licked his lips. “Well?”

“You seem rather…That is, the last thing I would wish is for bad news to rest on your head when you are…obviously beset with great matters. I wonder if…are you certain you…I say, I mean, of course I will be delighted to continue my ministrations to the old girl, but…I cannot promise that I am the best man for the job.”

Edmund nodded as he walked down the hall towards his room. “You will be present, Doctor, and that is more than I soon may be, unfortunately. There is little more that I can ask for.”

---

Students of history will be delighted to learn that the be-decked and be-medaled man who arrived at Moulde Hall later that month, resplendent in his finest military pomp and pride, was none other than General Comfort Ramsbutt Esq. He arrived without fanfare or military guard, in his trademark plumed and ruffled helm.³

“General Ramsbutt,” Edmund stood as the rotund man waddled into the Eastern Sitting Room. “It is a great pleasure to meet you, finally.”

“Indeed?” the booming bass of the General’s voice echoed like a brass drum. “Well, I suppose I must say it’s a pleasure to meet you as well, young fella-me-lad!”

It was here that Edmund felt his first taste of the bizarre dichotomy that is respect among the gentried military. To wit: it could only be a General or a madman who considered “young fella-me-lad” as a proper term of respect to any member of the nine Founding Families, much less an Heir.

But, as history has shown, General Ramsbutt considered comfortable familiarity a prime symbol of respect, such that there is no other historical figure who has said more disrespectful things to more highly ranked and respected people in history,⁴ including famed noble-botherer, the philosopher Diogenes.

“Can I offer you anything?” Edmund asked. “A drink, perhaps?”

“No, sah,” the man held up his hands. “I tucked in on the carriage ride. A fine bit of pheasant, it was. No, I am content with my pipe. Will you share with me, sah?”

“No, but please do not let me stop you. Partake as you will.”

General Ramsbutt didn’t nod his thanks so much as he inclined his body in a sharp rolling spasm. It could have been a nod, had his neck begun at his waist. Sitting down in an offered chair, the General pulled a pipe from his pocket, along with a pouch of sour smelling leaf.

Edmund was pleased with himself. It was the first social call he had ever involved himself in since Grimm’s, and he had already offered refreshments and politely declined an offer. Truly, he was coming into his own.

“Mm.” Ramsbutt blew a small plume of smoke to the ceiling. “Jolly good, what? I say, Your house is a beautiful building. Do you know, The civvies seem to think of it as a bit of a landmark.”

“There has been a Moulde Hall in Brackenburg as long as there has been a Brackenburg,” Edmund nodded. “I am afraid I cannot comment on who sees it as a landmark, as I am unfamiliar with the Civvies family. New money, are they?”

“Oh, dear!” The General grinned, smoke leaking through his teeth like a furnace. “Forgive me, Master Moulde. ‘Civvies’ is what we military men call civilians. Bit of slang, you see.”

“Ah,” Edmund nodded. He had learned a little about slang at school and found it to be an odd combination of secret code and metaphor. He ultimately decided it was useless as a poetic device, as any poem that started with a glossary was more trouble than it was worth.⁵

There was a pause while the General sucked at his pipe once more. Then he sat upright, tugging at his tight jacket and rattling the dangling medals. A face of serious dedication latched onto his fat cheeks, and he cleared his throat like a rifle-volley. “I say, you’ve heard about this War, I take it? Terrible business…”

Thankfully, he had. If Edmund hadn’t heard of any business, it was his solemn duty to nod, frown, (because terrible business deserves a frown) and do his damnedest to convince the General that he was a dutifully-informed citizen. It was well accepted that ignorance was better suited to the lower-classes, after all, and if he admitted any ignorance of his own, he risked forcing the General to admit his own ignorance, and the resulting chain of admissions, if enacted in public company, could result in the downfall of civilization as they knew it.

“I have,” Edmund nodded with a frown.

“Hmm,” the General nodded and frowned, placing his pipe in his teeth and pulling a plume of smoke into his mouth. “Terrible business.”

“Terrible,” Edmund agreed.

“War’s a rum thing, my lad.” General Ramsbutt sniffed, hoisting his gut into the air and settling back down again, like a shifting slumbering bear. He thought for a brief moment before gesturing with his pipe. “Some of these younger soldiers we get nowadays seem to think it’s all glorious charges and coming home to kiss nurses, that sort of thing.”

“It’s not?” Edmund knew it wasn’t; there were too many books in the Library for him to have any illusions about what war actually was.

“Not at all, my lad. Quite improper.” The General frowned, adjusting his sash to a more pleasant position. “Just because we are at war with another country, well, that’s no reason to not behave like a gentleman, what?”

“I would have thought a bit of ungentlemanly behavior was required to fight a war,” Edmund leaned on the arm of his chair, fingers resting on each other. “The General-Scholar Artillicus wrote in his treatise on conflict that —”

“Hm. Sounds foreign. Never trust a foreigner, my boy. Strange people, foreigners. Eat the wrong sort of food. No, my boy, War is the most gentlemanly thing. Its a way of…um…airing out the cupboard, so to speak. Walking the horses around the yard. It happens every once in a while, you see. Some foreign country gets it into their head to have a bit of a row, and we all play along until they’ve had their fun.”

“You make it sound like a cricket match.”

“Oh? Do you play?”

“No.”

“Dashed shame. Nothing more gentlemanly than a game of cricket. All of this is to say, sah, that we in the military don’t want anyone to get all worried about this war. Quite a lot of gossip floating about these days, you know.”

“I hear that Germany has just declared war on Italy.”

“Yes, well,” the General puffed again, “Not to worry. Not to worry at all. Why, one of our soldiers could take twenty Spaniards, no trouble at all.”

“Then the war will not be long?”

“Assuredly not, sah! I’d say half a year at the outside! Don’t you worry, sah. For king and country, the army will give them jolly well what-for!”

General Ramsbutt was of the old-school of soldiering, and as such he had a very clear idea of how these meetings were supposed to go. At the mention of king and country, Edmund was supposed to be filled with a strong sense of patriotism and pull out a bank-book to write out a donation for quite a substantial sum of money.

This sentiment would have gone over better had Edmund been a fool. Current historians are quite clear as to how unprepared Britannia was to fight the first Great War. Unseasonable weather had hampered their food stores, coke supplies were low, and there were shortages in any number of vital materials, such as steel. The obvious counter is this argument is mostly made by historians so eager to deify Sir Edmund Moulde that they must fabricate a hopeless geopolitical situation for him to easily solve with a wave of his hand.

But Edmund was not a fool. It really was unfair, Edmund reflected; the General had obviously gotten it into his head that Edmund was first and foremost seventeen. The far more accurate and safe assumption was that Edmund was first and foremost a Moulde, and as such was more familiar with l’esprit de chambre enfumè⁶ than most monarchs.

“I’m very glad to hear it,” Edmund nodded. “Especially after hearing of the steel shortage.”

“I…beg your pardon?” General Ramsbutt blinked at Edmund’s naturally adroit observation.

“Britannia is running low on steel, General,” Edmund continued, “A vital resource for any military. I dare say, by my estimates, the army will be out of steel in less than a year. That is, unless the new trade agreement is signed with Norway. I believe they recently opened two new iron-ore mines?”

“Well, by Jove!” Ramsbutt gaped. “How did you know all that?”

I read the newspaper, Edmund indulged in silent thought before shrugging: “As I said, I am a graduate of Grimm’s.”

“By Jove, so you are!” Ramsbutt shook his head in admiration. “So you are! Well done, sah! You’re absolutely right, on every mark! I never thought…a certified genius is always good to have on ones own side, I’ve always said. Here, you couldn’t give me a bit more of a demonstration, could you?”

Edmund blinked. “Of my genius?”

“Something to tell the grandkids about. If it’s no trouble, sah.”

Edmund thought for a moment, before he realized that seeing him think was probably not the demonstration General Ramsbutt was expecting. “I am afraid there are more pressing matters at the moment, General.”

“Oh, of course sah. This war, for example. Terrible business, what? I dare say…” the General fumbled for a moment, searching for some modocum of sublety somewhere in his military mind. “We may all have to sacrifice something to ensure victory for king and country.”

“I quite agree,” Edmund began to lay verbal traps around the hapless General, “I’ve thought quite a lot about it, General Ramsbutt, and when it comes down to it, we are all British, are we not? Soldier and Officer alike?”

“Oh, of course, sah. Jolly well British.”

“And if one must sacrifice for the cause of King and Country, well, it simply wouldn’t do for another to go without sacrificing in kind, would it? Why, if the soldiers were the only ones who sacrificed, they might start to wonder if their sacrifice was fair.”

“Quite so, sah, quite so,” Ramsbutt rubbed his hands together. “And quite noble of you too, sah, to sacrifice along with our good soldiers. Now, when we consider how much money…”

“Oh, the Moulde Family will not provide any money at all.”

Certain reactions remain consistent through the ages, no matter the surrounding circumstances. Indeed, if the General had been drinking, Ung would have needed to spend a few minutes scrubbing at the rug with a damp cloth. If the General had been a snuff-user, the sneezing would have startled the nesting birds in the trees. As the General was a pipe-smoker, Edmund simply got a face full of foul smelling tobacco, and had to sit through a few minutes of startled coughing.

“Terribly sorry, sah,” Ramsbutt said when he could breathe again, “but I thought you said —”

“I said sacrifice,” Edmund linked his fingers. “I cannot speak for the other Founding Families, but if the Moulde Family gave you even ten-thousand pounds, well, what sort of sacrifice would that be? Why, we’d hardly feel it.”

“You…wouldn’t?” the General gaped, glancing around again at the dusty room. “Not a bit?”

“Not a jot,” Edmund lied. “No, for the Moulde Family, that would hardly be a sacrifice. More a casual investment.”

“Perhaps…a hu–hundred thousand?” The General began to sweat.

Edmund shot him a sidelong glance, carefully calculated to express how disappointed Edmund was that the General wasn’t following along. “No. True, we might be inconvenienced in some way at so large a donation, but no, our sacrifice must be something that will impact the daily life of everyone in the Moulde Family. We can offer no less.”

“Oh, jolly…jolly good, sah,” the General nodded, gently dabbing his ruddy forehead with the back of his hand. “What…that is…what did you have in mind?”

“The Moulde family must sacrifice the one thing it can ill afford to give, of course. We are offering service.”

Ramsbutt heaved a giant sigh of relief. He had handled this sort of thing before. With careful handling, once Edmund had purchased a commission he’d be eager to chip in here and there…“Of course sah, the army is always delighted to have volunteers. You’ll be happy to know, sah, that the Board of Generals is always looking for a few good chaps to show a bit of team spirit. Of course, some of the old guard is sticking it out, but old Possy isn’t as fresh as he used to be, between you and me, old boy. I’ll tell you what, why don’t you come on down to the clubhouse tomorrow evening. I’ll be honest, we could use another Brigadier, what? Old Goosey is getting a bit on in years, and you could be just the chap for us to make a really good showing this year.”

“I would be delighted to do my part.”

“Absolutely top-hole, old chap! We’ll put you under Old Goosie right away. You can start handling some of —”

“What branch?” Edmund asked.

“Branch? Oh, forgive me sah, I thought everyone knew Old Goosie. Not to worry. You’ll get to know everyone quick enough. Goosie is the Head of the Public Support Brigade. Dashed clever card player, too. Won the Generals’ Card-playing Competition the last three wars in a row.”

“And my duties would be…?”

“Oh, the PSB is a lovely little spot for one of your stature,” Ramsbutt smiled warmly. “Arranging music-hall acts, setting up soirees and donation-balls, that sort of thing. It’s all about making sure the folks back home don’t forget the boys on the front line. Right up your ally, I’d wager.”⁷

“Hm.” Edmund put his fingers to his lips in theatrical consideration. “No, thank you.”

The General’s eyebrows shot upward. “I beg your pardon?”

Edmund shook his head. “A kind offer, I’m sure, but I am not interested in ’lovely’ responsibilities. I would prefer to have a different position; one that had more impact, as it were.”

“You…Ah!” The General stammered, waving his hand in understanding. “Of course, sah. Forgive me, I keep forgetting how young you are. Of course you want a position with a bit of action, a bit of glory on the field, what? That’s the spirit. By jove, when I was younger…well, I know there’s a spot open in the Department of Regiments of Foot with General Phibeous K Chidesdyle XIII. Old Chiddy manages all the Regiments on the front lines, what? A bit of marching, watching the drills and such. You’ll get to ride a horse, and —”

“No thank you,” Edmund shook his head. “Not that.”

“Oh?” The General blinked a moment more before he coughed and collected himself. “Oh, well…we could probably find something for you in the Beurau of Directional Observation. Plenty of fresh air, long walks, some good hunting along the front this time of year, I hear, and —”

“No thank you,” Edmund shook his head again.

“I say, steady on,” The General tugged his jacket indignantly. “I mean, jolly good you knowing your own mind, sah, but this isn’t a menu, what? The King’s Army can’t just give you the position you ask for.”

“Perhaps not,” Edmund shrugged, “but I am certain my skills can be put to better use elsewhere. You see, General, I happen to have gathered quite a bit of skill in managing numbers. Finances, stock-taking, you understand. With my education at Grimm’s and my deft hand with a pen, I believe I could do a great service handling paperwork for the military.”

“Paperwork?” Edmund could tell Ramsbutt was worried: no peer of the realm was ever supposed to enjoy paperwork. “What did you have in mind, sah?”

Edmund tapped his fingers on his lips. “I’m quite interested in the Army Bureaucratic Corps.”

“The Army Beuracratic…Oh no sah!” The General sputtered a moment. “The ABC’s are hardly a fitting place for a gentleman of your stature, sah. They’re little more than secretaries. Why, they sometimes have to go to the warehouses. If you want something to do with numbers, the Home Office of Geometric Artillery is far more fitting for —”

“From what I’ve heard, the head of the Logistical Administrative Legion here in Brackenburg has put in a request for a clerk from the ABC just this past week. I feel I would be a perfect fit.”

“Sah, I implore you, the ABCs are quite unfit for a gentleman like yourself. It’s nothing but filing and clerk work. Signing letters and…stamps…blotting…other things…with ink!”

“I’m afraid my mind is made up.”

“But sah, you don’t understand! Brigadier McNaymare is in charge of the LAL in Brackenburg. A Brigadier commanding a General is…why, it’s impossible!”

“Quite right,” Edmund nodded. “I shall therefore not be a General. Second Lieutenant will serve me nicely.”

The soft thump of the General’s pipe on the carpet was followed quickly by the General stamping out the glowing embers of spilled tobacco. “Second Lieutenant?”

“I recognize it’s a full rank above Officer Cadet, but as I am purchasing a commission —”

“Sah, I…I must protest!” General Ramsbutt blustered with open mouth as Edmund calmly waved him away.

“You will not be able to convince me otherwise. I will help the army by handling files, paperwork, and administrative duties as does any other officer of the…ABC’s. If you wish to test my skills to ensure their suitability for the job, I am more than willing to accommodate.” He paused a carefully measured pause. “I did the same for Grimm’s, after all.”

The General was all set to bluster again before his pipe saved the day by jumping into his mouth to be puffed erratically before the General realized the tobacco was still all over the carpet. He sighed as he began to load his pipe again.

“Will you not accept at least a Colonel’s stripes? I’m certain with your…reputation and status, we could easily commission you as a Colonel, what?”

“Colonel?” Edmund shook his head. “Oh my goodness, no. I am not vain, General. Nor am I a megalomaniac. No, even Major would be too much for me. Second Lieutenant is more than sufficient, I think. A Lieutenant if you absolutely must, but no more!” He leveled a steely gaze to the amazed General. “For King and Country.”

---

In the face of Edmund’s stubborn show of patriotism, General Ramsbutt could only agree. The agreement was made, hands were shook, and that was that. Edmund had joined the Army.

Not officially of course. The amount of paperwork, letters, and contracts involved in any member of the Nine Founding Families volunteering for anything was staggering, but it was all so much performance after the unbreakable vow that was a Gentleman’s Handshake.

Sure enough, not two weeks after Edmund had showed General Ramsbutt to the door, a parcel arrived containing two thin epaulets with two brass buttons apiece.

In the Moulde Hall Library, to the tune of Aoide’s songs and poems, Edmund spent a month reading Mrs. Wappingdale’s Proper Soldiering; a book devoted to the proper behavior and dressing of a military man. In her section devoted to Military Clerks, a list of equipment was detailed in exacting specifics, including how many pens, volume of ink, and heft of paper he would be allowed to use.

Finally, a month and a week after he had shaken General Ramsbutt’s hand, he watched while the carriage-driver hoisted his bag onto the top of the carriage, full of clothing, equipment, and regulation notebooks. Not five minutes ago, it had been held gently in the giant fists of Ung the butler, as Ms. Kippling the maid sobbed into her handkerchief.

“Doctor Hamfish will return once a week,” Edmund said in-between Ms. Kippling’s wails, “and should be accorded every courtesy. Matron will fight him, of course, so if he asks you to slip pills into her tea, please do so.”

“She’ll taste it, begging-your-pardon,” Ms. Kippling’s soggy head shook in despair. “She always does. She’ll taste the medicine and send her tea back…” she collapsed into another sob.

You have responsibilities, Edmund reminded himself. She needs soothing.

“Chin up, Ms. Kippling.” He had never used the phrase before, and after seeing its uselessness he resolved never to use it again. “I’ll be back before you know it. My office will be right here in Brackenburg. I won’t ever be far, and I’ll return once a week for Lunch with Matron. I promise.”

“Oh bless you, sir,” Ms. Kippling wailed. “I know you think so, but…I never thought there would be another war, sir! And you so young…I seen so many young men go off to die…to…” she hiccuped twice and fell to sobbing again.

Edmund decided to let her cry. She was not in any place to listen to the logical explanation for why Edmund wasn’t scared, nor would she understand the whole picture. He appreciated her narrow scope of life; it made him feel good to know that the whole world was not full of people like Matron and himself; people who made plans.

He turned to Ung. “In three days, a letter will arrive for me from a well-dressed Scandinavian. Please make him comfortable and assist him in any inquiries until he becomes irritated and leaves.”

“I’m afraid that will not be possible,” Ung rumbled.

Edmund was halfway turned to the carriage before he realized that Ung had not responded with his characteristic acknowledgment.

“I am positive it is,” he tried again. “You have always done an exemplary job attending to our guests, and I have complete confidence in your abilities to maintain this high level of performance while I am gone.”

“I am afraid Mrs. Kippling will be very busy, and will not be able to attend any Scandinavians.”

Edmund ran back through their talk in his head, searching for the thread of conversation he had missed.

“I’m afraid I don’t understand you,” Edmund started over. “I’m asking you to provide service to a guest who should be arriving in three days. Am I being clear?”

“The Young Master is perfectly clear.” The giant butler bowed.

“Good.” Everything was back on track again.

“It is with regret,” Ung rumbled again, “that I must inform the Young Master that I have given notice to Matron.”

Mrs. Kippling broke into a wail again as Edmund stared at Ung. He was as inscrutable as ever, covered with a granite-like mask of stoicism. Ung waited patiently for Mrs. Kippling’s voice to dwindle in volume before speaking again. “I have provided references for a suitable replacement. She is a niece of mine. Her name is Enga.”

From somewhere deep in Edmund’s memory, the training of a gentleman surfaced. The proper thing for a master to do when informed that a valued servant is leaving is to first offer an opportunity for increased salary, benefits, or suitable adjustment of duties.

“Why?” Edmund asked, defying both his training and his station.

For a brief moment, Ung’s face betrayed a moment of discomfort. “I must.”

If there is nothing to be done; nod, express regret, and provide a suitable reference.

“I expected —”

Edmund stopped himself. That was it, really. Ung had always been there, as steadfast as he had ever been. Edmund had taken him for granted. There was no higher compliment for a British butler.

It was the cruel irony of reliability; if Ung had not been so dependable, Edmund might have been more prepared. Ung’s steady dedication to the Family had become an unmitigated cruelty.

The poet in Edmund crafted words of understanding, disappointment, support, and regret, but in the end he could not bring himself to speak them. All he could manage was to hold out his hand.

After an aching pause, Ung reached out his own to a symphony of sobs from Mrs. Kippling.

Without another word, Edmund climbed into the carriage and knocked on its ceiling, sending the carriage rocking its way down Haggard Hill.

Damnnation, Edmund cursed in his head as all of his plans slowly unraveled. Ung had been important. Not vital, thankfully, but not having Ung’s steady thinking and solid service would mean Edmund would have to split his valuable and limited attention.

For that matter, a new butler would be unpredictable. Who was to say what they would do if an unknown soldier showed up at Moulde Hall and demanded entry. If a letter addressed to some distant relative arrived on the doorstep? He knew what Ung would have done, and it was valuable knowledge.

Now, he would have to deal with a new butler. Even if Enga turned out to be as useful to Edmund’s future plans as Ung would have been, it would mean delays as Edmund studied the new possibilities; what they were capable of, what they were willing to do, and how loyal they would be to the point of following strange and possibly dangerous orders. This would take time in and of itself, but Edmund had the additional struggle of doing so while residing outside of Moulde Hall.

Edmund indulged himself in a sigh. He had asked Ung why, but there were thousands of reasons why he would leave the Moulde’s service. Unsatisfactory pay, no prospects of advancement, no assistants or subordinates to handle the myriad jobs Ung had to do, and to top it all off there was a War coming. This was the time to support families and homesteads, not serve as a butler to others.

Edmund noted the irony; in a way, he was going to do both.

He would miss Ung. Very deeply.