The Enigmatic Coleworths (Chapter 2)

Chapter 2

Not too long after, an elderly man approached with a slight limp.

“Yes Sir?” was all he said.

“Yes, are you Mr. Coleworth?”

“Yes Sir, Carl Coleworth.”

“What relation are you to Josiah Coleworth whose farm lies across the meadow?”

“Uncle, Sir.”

“Let me ask you, do you read?”

“Yes Sir.”

“What do you read?”

“Plant labels and such mostly, Sir. And the Church Hymnal.”

“What about Plato?”

“No, Sir. Don’t have much use for that.”

“Curious. Are you aware that your nephew reads Plato?”

The gardener’s assistant’s eyes went to the ground.

“Yes, Sir.”

“It’s all right, Mr. Coleworth. I am very interested in finding out about the intellectual pursuits of my tenants. No one is in trouble. If you are not interested in the books in our library, how do you think your nephew became so?”

“I’m not sure, Sir, all I know is that on my afternoon off, when visiting my nephew, he usually asks me to bring a book or two next time. Sorry for not mentioning it to anyone, Sir.”

“No matter, I understand. In future, please inform me when you wish to borrow anything.”

“Yes, Sir.”

Sir Henry John Essex had always been a curious person himself. He greedily consumed the books required during his schooling, as well as many others, and continued the habit while helping his father manage the family estate. It was customary for gentlemen to be so engaged, but for tenant farmers and their sons and daughters, well, he had never heard of it.

He decided next day to pay another call on the Coleworths.

This time he was greeted at the gate by Mrs. Coleworth who was leading the cow into the barn for its hay and oats before the evening milking.

“Good Day, Mrs. Coleworth?” She nodded in assent.

“ I am Sir Henry John Essex. I spoke to your daughter yesterday. Mr. Coleworth has also written me explaining his necessary leave to aid his cousin. How are you faring in his absence?”

“Thank you, Sir. We are faring well. Catherine mentioned your kind visit. Albert can do the heavier work while Josiah’s away.”

“Let me repeat my availability should you require it.” Sir Henry said as he bowed and turned towards his horse.

“Thank you, Sir,” said Mrs. Coleworth.

“Proud folk,” Sir Henry thought to himself as he rode away, “not wanting to ask for help.” Or was he being proud in thinking they would suddenly need him once they were aware of his proximity? Perhaps it was he that needed them. For what? A diversion. From what? Boredom with his aristocratic life.

He was never a materialistic person, preferring nature, theology and philosophy to military, colonial, and estate matters. The word that was distasteful to him about all three was the word, “acquire”. It bespoke of greed and selfishness. One would think he would have been a philanthropist with his distaste for taking, but giving carried with it a certain presumptuousness too. Who was he to decide what was best for people? His loyalty to his family was such that he would be a responsible Lord once his father died, but he would not take pains to either enlarge or diminish the estate. Stability and responsibility were noble enough goals for him.

If he needed these tenants, at least to satisfy his curiosity, so what? He decided to return home and wait for Mr. Coleworth’s return. Meanwhile he’d suggest to his mother that she not speak of the tenant’s book-reading to his father. Lady Essex had never stressed a need for class distinctions, not that the subject had come up much. Her manner to the servants was equinanimous, calling them by their titles and surnames, and considering their welfare when delegating duties. In contrast, his father’s keen sense of proper order and efficiency would be offended by the idea of the intellectual advancement of tenants. The link between education and inefficiency in the lower classes appeared to be more of a psychological one. Once the workers’ minds were broadened, they would become discontent with the narrow scope of their menial lives. They would become greedy like their masters apparently, and there must not be enough material things to go around for that.

The Enigmatic Coleworths

Chapter 1

Sir Henry drew his horse up from his gallop at the fence. Over the rolling fields he spied the little cottage of one of his family’s tenants. He wasn’t supposed to wonder what went on there as long as they kept up with their yield of cabbages. Still, he wondered if they wondered about the goings on of his class. He dismounted and drew from his saddle-pack paper and pencil on and with which he wrote,

Dear Tenants,

It is my belief that you do not concern yourself with what occurs beyond this fence. You are content with your own lives and perceive ours to be beyond reach in both possibility and knowledge. I will tell you that it is my impression that the responsibilities that come with wealth also bring a stifling quality to luxurious life. The amount of choices one is faced with induces an unsuspected amount of stress. I would imagine that a life taken up with hard labor and no choices brings a stronger sense of peace. Is your life peaceful?

Sincerely,

Sir Henry John Essex

Sir Henry folded the letter, removed one of the leather tongs from his saddle, and affixed the note to the other side of the fence.

Next day he came back and found that the paper remained. Removing it from the fence he saw that it had additional writing on it.

Dear Sir Henry,

Au contraire. We are not such simple folk. In our spare time, between cabbage picking, clothes wringing, butter making, candle-dipping and cabbage stew boiling we find time to read borrowed copies of Plato, Chaucer, and Pythagoras. Granted we do not have the burden of choosing which fine goods we would like to purchase or which country we would like to tour, but we find the questions of existence and immortality enough to keep us wakeful many a night in quandrous sweating. The rich do not have a monopoly on stress.

Demystifyingly,

Josiah Coleworth

After pondering over the response, Sir Henry prepared another draft,

Dear Mr. Coleworth,

Thank you for your informative and surprising reply. As you have sought to find common ground, I would like to meet with you to see if it be adequate for further conversation. Since you have fewer opportunities for such occupations and, being on holiday, I am at your disposal, I await your apprising me of time and place.

Till then,

Sir Henry

Next day there was another reply.

Dear Sir Henry,

I am honored by your request, but regret that I am off to visit my cousin in the next county as his wagon was destroyed by hitting a ditch exceedingly hard due to a runaway mule. The mule is fine, but the wagon will require as many hands as possible to fix. I do not know when I will return.

Regretfully,

Josiah Coleworth

Hoping to catch Mr. Coleworth before his departure in order to offer monetary assistance, Sir Henry rode around to the opening in the fence and headed over the cabbage fields towards the cottage. A young woman who was feeding the chickens in the yard turned her blonde, curly head at the sounds of hooves, revealing surprised large, blue eyes.

“Good-day,” Sir Henry spoke with aristocratic confidence despite not knowing if he should say Miss or Madam. The girl quickly bowed her head in acknowledgement.

“I am looking for Mr. Josiah Coleworth.”

“My father is Mr. Josiah Coleworth, Sir. He left early this morning and will be gone for a few days.”

“Ah, too bad. I am Sir Henry John Essex. Will his absence require more hardship to those who remain?”

Curtsying she said, “Thank you, Sir, but no. Unless one counts having less reading-time a hardship. My brother, mother, and I can manage.”

“You read too!” Sir Henry could not stifle his surprise. “Pray tell what authors.”

“The prayer book, the Bible and a few others.”

“Only fitting.” Her embarrassment in answering revealed a desire to be respected.

“Could you please tell your Father that I request notification when he returns home. And if you need anything in the mean time, please send word to the house. Good day.”

Sir Henry rode back, happily distracted by his new protégées.

“Mother, you’ll never guess!” Sir Henry called upon entering the great, stone manor that had been his family’s country estate for generations.

“In here, Henry,” his mother called from the dining room where she was adjusting the great bouquet of roses, snapdragons, and fern fronds.

“The tenants are educated intellectuals! The father says he reads borrowed books on philosophy, and the daughter reads the Bible and prayer books!”

“I wonder from where they’ve borrowed these books and who taught them to read?”

“I have a suspicion.” Sir Henry left to go to the library. He picked up The Complete Works of Plato, flipped through the pages, and there on the second to last chapter, was a dried cabbage-leaf bookmark.

“Well-done, Mr. Coleworth!” exclaimed Sir Henry. “Now who assisted in this “borrowing”?

Sir Henry thought through the servants. “Mother!” Henry called as he returned to the dining room. “Do we have any servants named “Coleworth” in the house or stables?”

“Let me ask Mrs. Ludlum.” Lady Miriam Essex rang for the head housekeeper.

“Yes, my Lady?”

“Mrs. Ludlum, do we have anyone under our employ with the name “Coleworth”?

“Yes, my Lady. I believe the gardener’s assistant bears that name.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Ludlum.”

“Would you like me to fetch him, my Lady?”

Lady Essex turned to her son, eyebrows raised.

“Why yes, Mrs. Ludlum. If you would.”

“Of course, Sir.”

“I’ll be on back lawn.”

“Very good, Sir.”

Sir Henry passed through the marble halls, descended the stone steps and walked out towards the lawn furniture to wait and think of how to broach the subject with the other Mr. Coleworth.

What Would the Phantom Do?

Haley settled in her chair with anticipation. All it takes is to start typing and the story will come to life. She liked the idea of the story taking a life of its own without the stifling interference of an outline or a rainbow arc. There were characters in the netherworld waiting to tell their story. Their story, not hers. Lost things and people do not remain hidden, but they do wait for an entrance. The white paper and her fingers were all that were required.

Her breathing slowed as she felt the story approach. Each stroke of her fingers was a birth. A birth of the tiny cells that would form a new living organism. A story.

Kenneth was a deeply romantic single person. He believed in true love, but noticed that girls did not find him exciting. His love was too accepting, too puppy-doggish. He did not provide the rush that girls were waiting for. His friends that were girls told him that they preferred the Phantom of the Opera to Raoul. He was Raoul and believed the Phantom to be a messed up criminal. He could not understand the attraction; neither could he deny it. He decided he would just have to accept that girls wanted to feel guilty about loving their heart’s desire. He decided to become a rogue.

First he removed all of the pastels and plaid from his closet. Wearing black should help. It would be better if he had black hair, but he wasn’t going to go so far as to dye its original medium brown. His hazel eyes would also have to do. He’d have to compensate for their innate gentleness some other way. As much as it made him uncomfortable, he realized that he would have to stare confidently at prospective girls. It would seem presumptuous and rude, but he would do it for their sakes. He wanted them to feel the thrill of victory. But he would have to be careful not to be too free with it so as to appear sleazy. He should also add a guilty look to activate their maternal side.

After making the wardrobe changes, Kenneth practiced his knowing stare, followed by a subtle guilty tightening of his features. Constrained desire should definitely work. Women love a man at war with himself.

Haley’s fingers stopped. She liked Kenneth, but worried that he was wanting to attract women-in-general instead of the woman of his dreams. Someone who wants a relationship isn’t as good a subject as someone who has found Her.

Nevertheless, Kenneth decided to test out his new look in the park: black t-shirt over casual jeans and sneakers. But walking alone in the park didn’t sound cool. Maybe he should borrow a dog. He heard that a great way to attract female attention would be by walking a dog. No. The Phantom of the Opera would not have a pet. He would probably steal other people’s pets and kill them in the bushes where they’d be found with notes attached to their collars. Girls love guys who write notes.

He took out his sticky pad, wrote notes on a few of them and put them in his pocket. Haley was dying to find out what the notes said, but she’d have to wait.

Kenneth sat on a bench in the park and waited. The Phantom isn’t desperate, except for revenge. Jogging men and women, couples and ladies with strollers and/or little kids on bikes passed him by, but no attractive women of around his age of 23, walking dogs. Towards evening he decided to go to Petsmart and look there. He went to the dog food section and found an attractive young lady in a jogging outfit, accompanied by her dog, reaching for a large bag. Kenneth approached, offering to hold her dog. The girl looked at him funny, thinking it would have been manlier if he’d offered to lift the 25lb. bag of food. Reading her frown, he thought, “the Phantom wouldn’t care about that. He’d just take the dog and keep going.” Instead Kenneth attached the sticky part of a note to the inside of Rover’s collar while her back was turned.

She still thanked him as she reached for Rover’s leash. Kenneth nodded after staring knowingly and made his exit. While at home waiting for his experiment to contact him, as he had included his email address in the note, he wondered what the Phantom would do in his free time? Desperately wait by the computer? No, he’d watch CSI for ideas for how to kill people. He casually checked his computer when the episode was over.

Sure enough. “Dear Opera Ghost, it is not my custom to answer emails from people I do not know. However, since you were helpful at Petsmart, I am curious to know the nature of your request. Sincerely, mst4.5k@gmail.com.”

Should he answer right away? Most definitely, the Phantom doesn’t worry about appearances. Well…

“Dear Myst 4.5, Thank you,” scratch the thank you – too grovel-lish. “You have wisely taken this chance. Your wisdom will better serve you if you and your dog will join me for coffee outside the Café du Fronde (women love it when mysterious men speak French) at 4pm tomorrow afternoon.” He hoped she wouldn’t be so desperate as to answer in order to make him feel more secure. He wasn’t a child. The Phantom would know that she would show. If she answered, he probably wouldn’t.

She didn’t, so he did. Early. The Phantom probably would have waited in order to have the advantage of observing her first, but he was more secure than that. He bravely sat on the tiny wire chair, legs apart, wrist dangling. He glanced at her boldly when she approached in her white t-shirt and floral skirt with a matching green leash. Rover knelt at her heals as she sat across from him. He forgot to look sheepish about it.

Neither of them spoke at first, but looked steadily into each others’ eyes. He narrowed his to look less gentle. Christen was expressionless. “Can you sing?” he asked, pushing her coffee and the packets of creamer and sugar towards her. “Not really”, she said evenly as she poured in two creams.

“Doesn’t matter, I can.” He took a sip before he leaned towards her, “When you’re beautiful, no one CARES,” in an operish, though quiet whisper.

Her gaze said her heart was his. “It worked!” he shouted inaudibly so that only Haley could hear. His return gaze promised that he would flirt with her every day for the rest of their lives. Haley was very glad for them.

The ground will catch you if you fall, eventually.

Ungnostic detachment precludes formless imagination. Judgment, hurt feelings, and dreams slip under the radar as they are pushed and held down to drown. Words of new freedom from painful bindings express unempty absences. Which to cultivate...