Servant and Master (I)
Title: Servant and Master (I)
Authors: dalehead
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Orlibean
Summary: Set in Regency England, this is a shortie I think *g* I dunno
Author's Note: For doylebaby and kittylass and Miss Jackieville too, just cos she is such a little sweetie pie *gggg*
“You rung Sir?” Orlando hated being a servant. He hated it with a passion.
“Wine, bring more wine,” my lord had already drunk more than his fill but Orlando really didn’t care. “Yes sir,” he quietly left the room and headed downstairs where the butler was slumped over the table in his pantry.
“Drunk as a wheelbarrow,” Orlando murmured and picked up some more wine, decanted it into my lord’s finest glassware and hurried back to the library where my lord was slumped in an arm chair.
“Your wine Sir,” Orlando was sick of this life. Something terrible had happened last month, her ladyship’s maid had swept into the house and packed up every single trace of the her mistress. The house had been in an uproar and the situation had not improved when half the servants walked out. Now they employed half wits and drunkards, a few of my lord’s family retainers had stayed, servants who had been here for many years or who had family ties in the area. It had taken Orlando many weeks to find out what had happened, why my lord was now a shadow of his former self.
“Her ladyship did what?” he’d hardly been able to take it in.
“ Ladyship ran away with his best friend …” Grantham was my lord’s groom. “And is divorcing him on the grounds of his impotence, she’s still …” he shuffled his feet. “She’s still intact … you know …”
“She’s still a virgin? Orlando’s lips twitched. “And his lordship is … impotent?”
Orlando had always had his suspicions about his … ‘Master’.
“I see.”
He hadn’t said anymore than that but had continued to ‘serve’ his lord, never giving any sign that he knew any more now than he had hitherto, never losing the resentment that an accident of birth hat had stopped him doing all the things he wanted to do.
He gazed down at my lord, his face impassive. Orlando wasn’t unsympathetic; just he couldn’t help wonder why Quality always made such a mess of their lives. If it wasn’t Lord Byron falling in love with unsuitable ladies of quality, it was his employer trying to deny his true nature by marrying a very eligible girl, far too young for him, in an effort to prove something.
Orlando had known my lord’s true nature from the first moment, he served him
~~
The next morning, my lord arose and took his hunter, Salamanca, for a long ride, Orlando was on his way to the morning room to light the fire when my lord swept through. He nearly knocked Orlando flying, turned and swore at his hapless servant.
He was taken aback at the fire that ignited in Orlando’s eyes at this rough treatment. The boy looked at him with something that made him feel like he had never thought to feel again. Not since his wife, Lady Arabella, had caught him in the stables fucking her under groom until he moaned in a way that he had never made her moan.
He had never felt as humiliated as he did when he saw his wife’s beautiful face had blanched at the sight. It had marked the end of a marriage he never should have entered. He hadn’t bargained for his wife’s relentless quest for revenge; he thought it was likely he would never be able to return to London ever again. That last time, he’d gone out in society, Almack’s had gone strangely quiet when he’d walked in.
Lady Jersey, Silence, had taken his arm and chattered inconsequences while the rest of the room had watched and whispered. My lord had blushed to the roots of his blond hair, had vowed never to return to the hallowed alter to all things Tonnish, to at once return to Yorkshire and stay there until his wounds were well and truly licked.
Thank goodness his parents were dead; thank goodness his only sister lived in Rome with her Italian husband and never troubled to come to London but once a year to have a new riding habit made.
Now he looked into deep brown eyes and shivered. “I’m going out,” he didn’t apologise, left the house, slamming the door behind him.
Sighing Orlando dusted himself down and went on with his work, wishing once again that he hadn’t been born into this servitude.
**
Riding across the moors, my lord barely noticed the weather change; he didn’t notice the clouds darkening. His whole life was overshadowed by thunder clouds so that this storm made no difference to him. Except this was more than a storm, it was prolonged Yorkshire rain, the sort that started early afternoon and went on long into the evening. He cursed his carelessness and spoke soothingly to Salamanca who did not like thunder.
“There, there …” he resigned himself to walking most of the way back; it wasn’t so far, about five miles or so.
As luck would have it, Orlando was the only servant to see my lord’s return. Exhausted and soaked to the skin, it was the horse that was made comfortable first, his damp skin rubbed down, a warm mash prepared and finally left in amongst sweet smelling hay, covered with a blanket.
The perfect footman, Orlando had lit a fire in the master bedroom and organised warm water for my lord to wash in, poured a tankard of beer and brought it up alongside bread, cold beef and cheese.
“Thank you…” Orlando nodded. He hadn’t expected thanks, he hadn’t expected anything. “Oliver?”
“Orlando…”
“Orlando?”
“My father was a violinist, he enjoyed Mr Handel’s work,” Orlando wondered why he had told my lord something so private.
“Orlando, I don’t … I feel a bit …” to Orlando’s horror, his employer, big, tall and strong, slumped to the floor.
Not for nothing was Orlando the son of a drinking man. He wasted no time, half dragged my lord to the bed and taking a deep breath, peeled his damp clothes off him. To his horror he realised that far from being drunk, my lord was running a fever.
Authors: dalehead
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Orlibean
Summary: Set in Regency England, this is a shortie I think *g* I dunno
Author's Note: For doylebaby and kittylass and Miss Jackieville too, just cos she is such a little sweetie pie *gggg*
“You rung Sir?” Orlando hated being a servant. He hated it with a passion.
“Wine, bring more wine,” my lord had already drunk more than his fill but Orlando really didn’t care. “Yes sir,” he quietly left the room and headed downstairs where the butler was slumped over the table in his pantry.
“Drunk as a wheelbarrow,” Orlando murmured and picked up some more wine, decanted it into my lord’s finest glassware and hurried back to the library where my lord was slumped in an arm chair.
“Your wine Sir,” Orlando was sick of this life. Something terrible had happened last month, her ladyship’s maid had swept into the house and packed up every single trace of the her mistress. The house had been in an uproar and the situation had not improved when half the servants walked out. Now they employed half wits and drunkards, a few of my lord’s family retainers had stayed, servants who had been here for many years or who had family ties in the area. It had taken Orlando many weeks to find out what had happened, why my lord was now a shadow of his former self.
“Her ladyship did what?” he’d hardly been able to take it in.
“ Ladyship ran away with his best friend …” Grantham was my lord’s groom. “And is divorcing him on the grounds of his impotence, she’s still …” he shuffled his feet. “She’s still intact … you know …”
“She’s still a virgin? Orlando’s lips twitched. “And his lordship is … impotent?”
Orlando had always had his suspicions about his … ‘Master’.
“I see.”
He hadn’t said anymore than that but had continued to ‘serve’ his lord, never giving any sign that he knew any more now than he had hitherto, never losing the resentment that an accident of birth hat had stopped him doing all the things he wanted to do.
He gazed down at my lord, his face impassive. Orlando wasn’t unsympathetic; just he couldn’t help wonder why Quality always made such a mess of their lives. If it wasn’t Lord Byron falling in love with unsuitable ladies of quality, it was his employer trying to deny his true nature by marrying a very eligible girl, far too young for him, in an effort to prove something.
Orlando had known my lord’s true nature from the first moment, he served him
~~
The next morning, my lord arose and took his hunter, Salamanca, for a long ride, Orlando was on his way to the morning room to light the fire when my lord swept through. He nearly knocked Orlando flying, turned and swore at his hapless servant.
He was taken aback at the fire that ignited in Orlando’s eyes at this rough treatment. The boy looked at him with something that made him feel like he had never thought to feel again. Not since his wife, Lady Arabella, had caught him in the stables fucking her under groom until he moaned in a way that he had never made her moan.
He had never felt as humiliated as he did when he saw his wife’s beautiful face had blanched at the sight. It had marked the end of a marriage he never should have entered. He hadn’t bargained for his wife’s relentless quest for revenge; he thought it was likely he would never be able to return to London ever again. That last time, he’d gone out in society, Almack’s had gone strangely quiet when he’d walked in.
Lady Jersey, Silence, had taken his arm and chattered inconsequences while the rest of the room had watched and whispered. My lord had blushed to the roots of his blond hair, had vowed never to return to the hallowed alter to all things Tonnish, to at once return to Yorkshire and stay there until his wounds were well and truly licked.
Thank goodness his parents were dead; thank goodness his only sister lived in Rome with her Italian husband and never troubled to come to London but once a year to have a new riding habit made.
Now he looked into deep brown eyes and shivered. “I’m going out,” he didn’t apologise, left the house, slamming the door behind him.
Sighing Orlando dusted himself down and went on with his work, wishing once again that he hadn’t been born into this servitude.
**
Riding across the moors, my lord barely noticed the weather change; he didn’t notice the clouds darkening. His whole life was overshadowed by thunder clouds so that this storm made no difference to him. Except this was more than a storm, it was prolonged Yorkshire rain, the sort that started early afternoon and went on long into the evening. He cursed his carelessness and spoke soothingly to Salamanca who did not like thunder.
“There, there …” he resigned himself to walking most of the way back; it wasn’t so far, about five miles or so.
As luck would have it, Orlando was the only servant to see my lord’s return. Exhausted and soaked to the skin, it was the horse that was made comfortable first, his damp skin rubbed down, a warm mash prepared and finally left in amongst sweet smelling hay, covered with a blanket.
The perfect footman, Orlando had lit a fire in the master bedroom and organised warm water for my lord to wash in, poured a tankard of beer and brought it up alongside bread, cold beef and cheese.
“Thank you…” Orlando nodded. He hadn’t expected thanks, he hadn’t expected anything. “Oliver?”
“Orlando…”
“Orlando?”
“My father was a violinist, he enjoyed Mr Handel’s work,” Orlando wondered why he had told my lord something so private.
“Orlando, I don’t … I feel a bit …” to Orlando’s horror, his employer, big, tall and strong, slumped to the floor.
Not for nothing was Orlando the son of a drinking man. He wasted no time, half dragged my lord to the bed and taking a deep breath, peeled his damp clothes off him. To his horror he realised that far from being drunk, my lord was running a fever.