The Viscount's Decision

A Short Story

A foreigner to the town, with a new skin-colour of brown.

A birth of new intelligence, an emergence of opportunity and its game of chance.

The Viscount can overlook the former for the rest, for he is a man that decides being able to walk is not necessary for him to impress.

So he takes a decision and a risk, unconventional, shameless, and resolute.

Is this means equal to the end? It doesn't feel quite right.

This is a background to my main character, renamed.

Themes: #challengestereotypes #fiction #YA #historical

The Viscount's Decision: About

Part 1

It was a decision, one that had to be made.
It didn’t have to have heart and soul, like so many might say, but it was a decision that had to align with his motives.
The man had plenty of experience making decisions, he made them every day, in fact: Which of them is guilty or innocent, which of them should be hired or fired, which of the Baron’s letter’s to reply to and send his aid, when to hold a celebration in his own honour. His was a Viscount, after all.
The ‘them’ he was referring to are the townsfolk down in Twyn. Twyn was somewhere in between a city and a town, for it had all the prestige and influence of a city, however the population wasn’t quite so varied. Nathless, the Viscount found his Manor, his personal lands and the league of hills, cliffs and the Sichase river he protected to be pleasant and most certainly not superfluous.
Whenever, his Manor was set upon to host some of those townsfolk, the commoners he liked to call them, he only deigned to visit them for one reason. “Good morning, your grace, how do you do, your grace, we are here for your expertise, your grace.” He liked that honorific, ‘your grace’, it relayed the symphony of congratulations and gratification, apropos to his divine work. Whichever fool proposed entitlement alienated the common man from the peerage ought to be drawn and quartered, as medieval and barbaric as the method was, the Viscount thought. They deserved that right to express their adoration for his noble work. On occasion, he would even ask his wife to call him that – on those days he had thought he had made a mistake.
The Viscount pondered some more. The decision shouldn’t be too difficult, for it concerned his duty to the Viscount, himself and the next, and he always did right by the Viscount.
“Hmm,” he frowned, suddenly recalling a faded memory, far in the distance, sun-bleached and trapped behind a wardrobe.
It was the previous Viscount. The late Viscount had been a grave man, serious and unyielding. He had never failed in his quest to secure his family the wealth and position the current Viscount enjoyed. He had taken his job and his legacy as a solemn oath, no matter how arduous the decision and its repercussions.
That Viscount had come often enough into the current Viscount’s room as a child, muscling in through the small door- frame with his heavy-set jaw, tailored, pressed clothes and his usual litany. He was a giant in the small room, his presence booming and proud, like he knew he was an idol.
However, in this moth-eaten memory, the norm had inflected.
“You are a viscount,” the late Viscount had said in his gravelly growl. “Do you know what that is?”
It was late, the window was dark, and the house was quiet. The servants had left a long ago and his mother had just dragged him crying away from his toys. Now he was tucked into bed, eyes red and raw, throat scratchy and sore. He had shaken his head, because he had been young and ignorant of the ways of the world. Plus, he rarely saw the Viscount and hence rarely dared to speak to him.
“You are a name, a great person,” he had said, his silhouette dark, but his eyes flashed as a sliver of moonlight adorned the Viscount, as though he had commanded the moon to give him a spotlight.
The young viscount-to-be had smiled, awed at his powers. “Like a King?”
The older viscount had frowned then, and the shadows lengthened from his heavy brow, so that he had transformed into a figure from a nightmare, a knight of the underworld.
“A viscount does not dream, that is for the serfs. We make decisions, that is what we have been chosen for – our divine right. A viscount trains in his childhood, away from his toys, so that he can make decisions when others cannot.” He stepped forward, and the young viscount-to-be shrunk back in his silk, plush covers away from this great guardian. “Remember, never let a decision just happen or unfold. Own it, control it. We are a dream. We make decisions.”
The young viscount-to-be had straightened up as he listened and watched the late viscount once more, eyes wide with wonder at his assisted epiphany.
“But, don’t overstep your mark, young viscount,” he said as he turned to leave. “Study hard in your philosophies, young viscount, so you know your duties to those that do not know theirs. You decide what you should be.”
Encouraged by his words and wisdom, the young viscount said bravely as the viscount turned his back to open the door again, “Isn’t it who do not, sir?” He had just had his lesson on decorum and oration that morning.
The late viscount had paused and glanced around, something strange flickering in his eyes. Was that the divine power he talked about? “It was my decision to use ‘that’. Do you want me to call you ‘it’?”
Something lodged in this throat as he stared at the late viscount with those dark shadowed eyes. The present viscount shook his head, what the foolish young boy he had been.
He now recalled those nightmares he’d had as a child, of being swallowed into those infinite obsidian eyes. He had been frightened of that word ‘it’ a lot in his youth. He’d grown out of that word, but that feeling of helplessness lingered whenever he used ‘it’, so he avoided the word and only saw fit to use ‘it’ to make himself feel better.
The previous viscount had been right, of course, about decisions. To control was to own, and to own was to live. Pure and simple was his philosophy. So, who better to make the decision but him?
He had a few things to consider, however, for it was not a simple process for him to provide for his family and his people. He was not the King, but the true King was so far away and hardly called upon him, for he knew the name of Viscount Mont-garret commanded presence and power. Hence, until the King visited, the land he protected was his and the people his to protect. Thus, this decision had to respect the fine balance of leadership, recognising its wholly dependence on this viscount’s decisions.
Philanthropy would promote his image, the Viscount thought at his grand desk, book shelves crammed full of theories of philosophy and the more practicable economics. Experience had taught him the power of adoration and respect amongst the townsfolk, and also how to tip the scales of give and take in his favour if he simply disguised taking as giving.
So what to do?
It would be one more mouth to food, but that wouldn’t break his private accounts. However the mouth would grow to require more food and clothes. There was little need for it to read, he mused. It could aid the new young viscount and his older sister, after it had been trained up a bit.
The Viscount nodded slowly. Yes, he thought. I think I will adopt it.
He rang a bell, the finest for leagues. Let’s see what the Viscountess thinks about this decision.

The Viscount's Decision: Text

Part 2

The next day, the Viscount and the Viscountess took a trip into town after issuing his proclamation the night previous that they were to adopt an orphan child. They had both decided that they should issue it as soon as possible, in order to start the rumours circulating of their noble-hearted endeavour, for, yes that very same orphan child that had mysteriously popped up in the forest late one night.
Now, don’t mistake the town for having no orphans that this particular orphan babe was such a gossiping point in the town the past week. There were a few, the products of great tragedies from wars or skirmishes or illnesses. The previous Viscount had, however, put a stop to the ‘throw-away orphans’ that had previously plagued the small city.
‘If you have any unwanted children, a special provision will be set aside from the taxes to aid finding these babes a home. Should none of the townsfolk adopt, then they will be provided for by the castle under the supervision of the Baron and his household.’ So it was in faith of reward, not punishment, that no babes ever turned up in the woods, rigid, grey as stone, and etched with the marks of foraging fauna instead of a name.
It was a credit to the late Viscount’s memory that it two decades had passed since a babe was found in the infamous woods at the west of Dwayn. According to the gossip that the Viscountess had heard and relayed with a morbid excitement in her eye, the King’s Ranger who lived not too far from Dwayn and closer to the woods than any else in a dingy cabin, had found the tiny babe. A red cloak had been wrapped around the poor babe, of all things.
The Viscountess, a pretty, well-dressed, demure woman, turned to her husband to discuss his decision. When he relayed what he had been thinking, she said dismissively, “Oh, apparently the cloak was of no true value despite its royal impersonation. Perhaps we should allow the babe to keep the cloak.”
The Viscount glanced at her in surprise. The Viscountess was not a lady to express her emotions or opinions on such matters so off-handly, for she’d had the best education her father had been willing to afford: she was poised, graceful, let people do things for her, yet clever. They were all the qualities he had desired of a supporting character, alongside her beauty, and she had proven herself more useful than he had hoped for since their union.
The Viscountess was probably correct, the Viscount thought. “Indeed, we shall. It is slight a decision.”
The Viscountess smiled appreciatively, making her cheekbones more prominent. “I do believe we have arrived, my dear.”
Her nose wrinkled as the carriage rolled to a stop and the coachman opened the door. Her slender frame picked carefully down the carriage steps.
“M’lady. Your grace,” he greeted politely, his local accent twanging discordantly.
The Viscount nodded to him as he too left, however his attention was soon focused on the house before him. They were near the edge of town standing gingerly on the grime in front of a small house. The Viscountess nearly described it as decrepit, but the owners could not help the foundations of the house. After all, there were signs that it was looked after; scrubbed brown walls, the faint odour of washing soap that hung around the place to ward off the foul-smelling grime that ran through half-open sewers, a wreath of dried flowers and herbs on the tatty door, and a small rose-bush that seemed to be struggling.
Giving his wife a side-long glance that spoke volumes into his distaste, he took a breath for preparation. Immediately, he regretted his decision for he gagged. The Viscountess too had politely bury her nose into her scarf and gloves.
Adoration, he reminded himself. I must be seen to give back. He urged himself on and made three sharp raps on the door.
Immediately, he heard a scuffle and squeak from within the abode. “T’was true, the Viscount is here. I saw it from the window.”
The Viscount and the Viscountess had the same question flash across the mind. There was a window, where?
The door creaked open and they looked in upon a pair of ruddy-faced women. “Oh, your grace, milady. Do come in and make yourself at home,” the plump woman curtsied, her great bosom heaving with pleasure.
“Would you like some tea and biscuits, or perhaps some fruitcake. I baked it especially,” the younger blonde curtsied, turning to the table beside her and offering up her goods exuberantly.
The Viscountess had to hide her dissent with a smile of thought. She was used to better quality. She’d accept the plate, perhaps, but they could keep their food. They looked like they needed it.
The house was clean, thankfully. Their meagre furniture and possessions were shoved into the walls in order to squeeze just a little more room from the four-walls, a few colourful weaves hanging around the walls trying to soften the rough stone walls. In one wall, there was a doorway, which they could both see led into an even smaller room with a bed, which these two women must share. On the opposing wall, a deep basin of soapy water sat in one corner, with mounds of white powder and crushed flowers rested on one side, piles of clothes from the households around them on the other. On the only armchair, lay a swathe of red material.
“Yes, that is the babe,” the plumper one said. She was obviously a few years older than the other.
“Good.”
Together, they headed over to look at the babe.
It took one look. That was all. They couldn’t take this babe. Could they ask for a new one instead?
They exchanged a look, obviously hosting the same doubt.
They had known that the babe was poorly blessed with being the colour of that which plopped in the toilet, vile really, the Viscountess thought, but it was so dark. She had seen a few of them walking around town, in Dwayn and in her hometown, but she had always avoided them. Now she would be adopting this one. It didn’t even look healthy. Perhaps it had Foreign AIDS. That was a thing, right?
The Viscount’s thoughts were more aligned with her latter thought. Where would all those plans for praise and profit be if the babe died?
The townsfolk would be talking about them for years. ‘You remember them, the Mont-garrets? They couldn’t even take care of a stray babe. One touch of their hands and it died.’
He would bring shame upon his family, his proud name.
‘Xenophobics they were, mhmm,’ he heard them say in the tavern, when topic of conversation was sparse, or perhaps even when it was not. ‘It was a good thing, the King stripped them of their titles and lands and shunned and shamed them. If that is not the sign that they were not working for the one true god, then I don’t know what is.’
No, they couldn’t let this happen.
The Viscountess smiled at the ladies, noting how they had plastered themselves to the far wall, as though it would make the dingy hut bigger. Laying a graceful arm on the viscount’s, she drew her husband closer to her side and said quietly,
“Your grace, I realise the one true god has suggested to adopt the babe, but are you positive it was this babe he was referring to? This babe seems… off colour.” She giggled, surprised at herself. “Oh, my. Do excuse my choice of words, husband. Your grace, the babe seems unable to tackle life. It is struggling to breathe. Perhaps it is a sign the babe is not … meant to be with us,” she simpered.
The babe was so small, thin and still. Its eyes were glued shut, it’s nose plugged up, it’s mouth dry as it tried to breathe. They could not have such a scandal in their hands.
The Viscount felt a surge of affection for the Viscountess like he had never felt before. He seized at the opportunity, and agreed, “Indeed, Viscountess, you are correct of course.”
He had told the town, however, and needed a game-plan to deal with the rumours that would ensue once he had returned back to the manor empty-handed. He took the two measly steps to the two women. Their eyes were wide, faces pleased and adoring. They curtsied before him again, awaiting his words that would conclude that he was taking the babe off their hands. Undoubtedly, they thought they rejoiced that they were avoiding the slander when the baby died and perhaps drown their tiny business, the Viscount realised.
“The babe is unwell,” he barked loudly and abruptly. “I was under the impression you were taking care of the babe. Yet, looking at it’s condition, it seems you are xenophobics!” he spat in their faces.
The women blanched, paling so they blended into their crisp white-washed clothes. They stuttered and spluttered, shaking their heads, eyes rolling this way and that, like cattle.
“No, my lord--”
“Your grace,” the Viscountess corrected automatically.
“Your grace. We have no such affiliation or affliction. We took in the baby to make it well,” babbled the plumper lady, her wayward mousy hair electrified in her anxiety.
“The Baron passed us the baby for he had no wet-nurses available at the castle,” the other woman added hurried. “Our child was stillborn you see, so we took in the babe, to care for it as needed.”
“The babe already had the head-cold when she was passed to us. It has had trouble feeding because of it, hence it has lost a lot of weight,” the plump woman continued hastily. “She is a sweet little thing,” she said, evidently trying to sell the child as not a broken good, so as to get it off her hands.
“You expect me to believe this?” the Viscount retorted testily. “You expect me to believe that this child is at death’s door from no fault of your own. I should take this babe to save it from your murderous hands and send you both to the castle dungeons.” He paused, looking at their aghast expressions. They had a bigger shock to come. “Unless… of course you wish to make reparations and care for the baby as your own?”
Their eyes widened. Yes, there you go. You thought you could dupe the Viscount?
“Oh, your grace, we would be delighted to care for the child!” they whooped, eyes brimming with tears of joy, hugging each other.
“Oh, thank you, your grace, thank you!” the plump one blubbered, frothing at the mouth in joy. “We would never harm a hair on little Hekata’s head.”
The younger made to hug the Viscount, but then reconsidered as he instinctively moved away. “Yes, thank you. We promise to care for her with everything we have. Will you want her once she is well?”
The plump woman’s face fell slightly. The Viscount considered, glancing back at his wife, seeking advice. She was equally as stumped, however.
“You have already taken it upon yourselves to name her, in full knowledge that we would come to take her?” the Viscount shook his head, evading their question. “That is quite an imposition,” he said more calmly. Instead of outrage or angst, he only felt confused. Why would they want such a babe?
“Oh no!” the plump woman smiled, not at all worried at another accusation. “She named herself, the wee thing.”

The Viscount's Decision: Text

Part 3

The air between the Viscount and the Viscountess was strange on the ride home. With the curtains drawn, the light that battled through the material was weak. Plush cushions did little to set them at ease and their eyes stared at each other in the gloom.
Since their marriage five years previous, their union had not always been a happy one, nor one that didn’t oft frustrate each other. Their personalities were not as compatible as one might think from all of the gossip around town, so only common goals had motivated them to struggle through the hurdles until their first child, little Elspeth. After that, they began to learn of their separate qualities and goals, hence the Viscount understood the Viscountess better and the Viscountess could empathise with the Viscount a little more. Sometimes, they though it was enough, then other times they seemed to be flowing down different streams, barely able to see each other as they were swept through different scenery.
The Viscountess knew this was definitely one of the latter times.
Why had he agreed to keep the babe?
Wrapped in the red cloak, the babe struggled to keep gasping to breathe, snapping awake for a few moments and showing us brilliant green eyes that contrasting so terrifically with her dark skin, before she would drift back to sleep, and back to the rasping it was. Why did he risk compromising our perfect image for this little girl-babe?
The Viscount could see the unspoken question in his wife’s eyes, however, he did not answer her. His mind was whirring, thinking up so many possibilities that arose from his decision, disregarding plans and making new and refined ones. He could not waste this opportunity; it could change everything.
The babe appearing in the forest was divine intervention, a godsend, aimed to remind him of his own responsibility. Recently, perhaps he had slacked off, allowing himself to be governed by greed more than normal, but with this decision, he had moral support; the one true god and the philosophers that lined his shelf. Plus the economists.
The babe was clever. It could speak at barely a month, recognise individuals and had already began learning from those woman’s behaviour. If he played this correctly, giving the babe the best tutors for economics, mathematics, science and perhaps a censored philosophy. It would change our very perception, science and more. He couldn’t just leave it there with those women where such a chance might die, he would ensure it lived and then train it to become a saviour for society.
He smiled. It seemed that if anyone could dream, they should dream of this little girl.
His mind paused its frantic excited whirring as he glanced down at it. As he watched it struggling against the cloth, eyes turned towards him, his heart was suddenly conflicted. For, suddenly, the it was on the verge of not being an it.
No, the voice of the late viscount filled his head. You are not a commoner. We make decisions, no matter the cost. Decisions do not involve the heart and soul. They must be made with the mind, not left to unfold by the universe. You are a viscount.
That ghost of the past was right. He had made sacrifices for his family back in the day, and now it was his turn, and this little babe’s. The Mont-garret’s had a knack for making the right decisions, and he had a knew this decision aligned with his philosophy. The Principle of Permissible Harm, he though, and glanced out of the window to hide his heartbreak.
The tear that the current viscount shed in the carriage that day was the last until his demise half a decade later.
When that day came, this Viscount Mont-garret, the last of his line, finally realised. The case through which his heart had watched through these past seven years had melted and the shards in his heart pushed a little deeper, for now he knew.
Finally, he had realised why the late viscount had called him an ‘it’ that night in his bedroom. It had been his lesson or perhaps his confession. His father had called them ‘that’ and his son ‘it’ to distance himself from others, so his soul wouldn’t hurt so much. He had learnt the cost of his decisions and the betrayal of his philosophy. So, in order not to feel the slow loss of his heart, he trapped it away and forgot how to live.

The Viscount's Decision: Text