He sat at the top of the pine wood table. The butler came in to serve him tea. He adored his morning Earl Grey, accompanied with hot brioche with melted butter and the good ol’ porridge.
“How was your day, sir?”the elderly server asked.
“Good” the ginger head young man answered with very low interest or regard for his caretaker. The butler was somehow used to the snotty nose of his master’s son.
The maid got in the room bringing a metal food trolley , she served him the porridge which he was quick to dig in, a jar with a white freshly cut daisy and the newspaper of the day. He was rapid to stop his meal to toss the spoon with disgust.
“Jarvis, where did this noobhead incompetent figure came from?”
“That’s Anna, sir. She’s been with us since you’re seven” the butler answered.
“Is there any problem, Sir” Anna intervened.
“Of course there is you idiot. Since when do I read the Figaro? I always have the Gazette at breakfast, go get me one” he sneered
“I’m sorry, sir. But your father always reads the Figaro…”
“Am I my father? No! He’s with mother in the capital for business, so I am the man of the house. So go on…serve me properly”
Anna gulped and retreated.
They all already knew what was the toll on serving Sir Mortimer Archibald Henry Thomas-Henry the III, son of the dear Lord Archibald of Leechensteir Moors. He was nothing but a spoiled ginger haired brat. He was a nasty 20 years old- tall and lean; his skin had (besides freckles) a yellowish hue, a pointy noisy over thin snake like lips and a ridiculous attempt of a van Dyke which he sported to make him look more mature… He was betrothed to Caroline of Dantes – a young and beautiful daughter of a merchant whose beauty enchanted every man. Oh, how the maids and service men of Archibald Manor felt bad for the poor girl.
“How’s the day today?” he asked to the butler.
“It is foggy, sir”
“Well, I still feel like going on a horse ride. Call on the stable boy to prepare by pure-blood Lusitan” he ordered.
Mortimer took the whiplash from the boy’s hands with rudeness. He mounted his horse and even before giving the animal the option to move, he lashed his back just for the sake of it. The horse neighed; he made it cross the patio straight for the moors. Mortimer rode into the fields on the outskirts; he rode on the main road scaring poor workers going to the town or coming from the fields. He actually laughed at the scared peasant-like people. He entered the forest where he used to hunt and made the horse jump over logs and puddles, when he stopped to look around he was in a bifurcation where he had already been.
“Viriato, we’ve been here so many times and never took the left turn. Shall we?”
The horse neighed.
“Oh, stop it you scared little horse” he lashed the animal and made him cross the gloomy path. There were thorns growing in the side of the road, the trees had their top leaves conjoined in an awning. He whipped the horse once again riding it at higher speed, he was approaching a clear when suddenly the horse stopped and crammed back almost throwing Mortimer down. The spoiled brat calmed down the horse using more lashes and only then noticed what had caused the entire problem. Moaning on the ground and old crooked figure picked itself up from the floor. It was an old woman; she wore a black cloak and had a basket with mushrooms. Her hair was white and her face was plain scary - a pointy chin, blue very clear eyes and a long, thin nose with a wrath on its top.
“Look where you’re going” she talked back.
“You insolent old fool! Who do you think you are, you almost made me fall on the floor? This suite is beige, if I had fallen I’d get all dirty in a moment”
“I could’ve broken a hip…thank you very much for your kindness” she growled.
“Old crow, just die already!”
The lady who had already gave her back turned around to face him one more time.
“Well, aren’t you a little arrogant brat? Watch your tone!”
“You dare to call be a brat? Do you know who I am? The son of Lord Archibald, I should burn down your house and make you starve to death…you, you sack of shit! Don’t even bother to answer back, my words are too elegant for your kinds”.
Her almost toothless mouth was agape.
“Aren’t you an obnoxious…Oh, my lordship I’m sorry for having almost made your suite dirty. Here, you look tired and thirsty, please have something to drink” she said. Her boney hand searched around her cloak and she retrieved a flask with a grayish liquid.
“I don’t want that, your hands have polluted it I’m sure!”
“No, I haven’t touched I swear. I haven’t drunk a single drop of it, please make me happy, your lordship and accept my token” the old lady begged. Mortimer rolled his eyes and stretched his hand to receive the flask from her. He opened it and took a gulp…the taste was awful. He felt so bad and nauseous that felt down the horse to the ground.
“What did you do?” his voice indicated he was nearly breaking to tears. “Mommy!”
“Well, this old witch here will teach how to be more respectful and simple even if that takes hard measures!”