Writings

Longer than a piece of string (Work in Progress)

Chapter 1

It was all rickety fences and hard spiky sprigs of grass for as far as the eye could see and a dusty dirt track winding off into the distance. The stables were clean, if a little shabby looking but there was nothing shabby about their occupants. The horses were obviously well cared for, bright eyed with sleek coats and even un-knotted manes, clean as any horse can rightly be expected to be. There were maybe half a dozen of them in the stables, from what could be seen and no doubt a few others laying down inside out of the scorching midday sun. Most of the stable doors were thrown open though, and a couple of young lads were working with pitchforks, mucking out what mess there was to muck and putting down fresh bedding to replace the soiled lot they’d removed.

A small, skinny boy with a head of unruly black hair was washing down a stallion out in the yard front. Or at least, he was attempting to wash the horse. A big animal by any standards, easily 18 hands at first reckoning with a sleek chestnut coat slick with sweat and a bit of a temper. The horse was tossing his head and stomping nervously, his tail whipping from side to side and catching the kid in the face every time he ventured close enough.

Patrick was in the office next door to the stables, sitting with his feet propped up on the untidy desk, the papers there fluttering gently every time the face of the electric fan inclined itself his way. He was on the phone, talking to Jones, the new guy from Sharter’s feeds who thought that maybe Patrick ought to try some new mixes for the fine animals in his possession. Patrick politely informed the man that the horses were just fine with what they were already getting, but if they started to complain he’d be sure to give young Mister Jones a call.

“Well, I guess that’s just about as good as I’m gonna get from you, ain’t it, Patrick?” the man said with the air of someone who knows just how hard he can bang his head off a brick wall and still not get it to budge even an inch.

“I reckon it just might be,” Patrick said, his grey eyes smiling as he brought his cadence inline with the other man’s. The office chair creaked as he swung himself further back into it and told Jones that he’d look forward to meeting him when he brought their usual order out to the ranch next week. He hung up the phone and swung his feet back down to the floor. He grabbed his hat off the top of an old lamp that sat on the wooden chair next to the desk and had long since quit working and he pushed a few errant strands of hair behind his right ear before he put the hat on and strode out of the office.

“Hey, Thomas, you be careful of that horse. We don’t call him Thor for nothin’,” he called, walking over to where the kid was attempting to rub down the brown horse without getting in the way of the stallion’s restless hind legs. “Here, let me see him.” Patrick took the horse gently by the head, and spoke to him softly. Thor snorted gently, and pushed his nose against the man’s shoulder. “Where have Billy and Gus got to?” Patrick asked.

Thomas shrugged awkwardly, colour rising to his cheeks as he muttered something unintelligible. Patrick frowned as the boy watched his own shoe scuffing off the ground.

“You want to tell me what’s going on?”

The boy looked up at him, fear and tears glistening in his wide, green eyes. “I… I was just arrivin’ here when they tol’ me to take‘imin an’ wash‘imdown,” Thomas said, his voice coming out all in a rush as his shoulders stiffened, “An’ I jus’ did what they tol’ me to do… They said they were goin’ down the way to get Daisy an’ Diamond…”

Patrick watched as the kid blinked and the tears that were welling up in his eyes, rolled down his cheeks. “Hey, come on,” he said gently, practically crouching down to be on level with the youngster, “It’s not worth crying over.”

“…Thing is,” Thomas gulped, scrubbing at his face with a dirty hand and leaving black smudges across his cheek, “I can’t right reach the top of him, and Thor don’t much like me tryin’…”

“Well that’s cos you’re just not tall enough yet, Tom, which is why I told Pete to do the job. And besides which,” Patrick smiled, squeezing the boy’s shoulder gently, “Thor don’t much like anyone or anything most days and Billy knows that well.”

“I’m sorry,” Thomas sniffed loudly, drying his eyes as best he could.

“What do you say we not worry about it, eh?” Patrick said, straightening up. “What age are you, Thomas?”

“I’ll be twelve next March, sir.”

“Well, I’ll tell you what, Thomas,” Patrick said, “You’re the first eleven year old I’ve ever met that wouldn’t run away at the prospect of washing that horse down.” He reached down and picked up the sponge from the ground. “Why don’t you go splash a bit of water on your face, take a minute for yourself and when you’re ready I’m sure the other lads would be glad of some help with the mucking.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And no more of this ‘sir’ nonsense. My name’s Patrick.”

Thomas nodded. “Yes, sir… Patrick.”

Patrick grinned as he watched the kid go for a moment before he turned his attention to Thor. “Hey there, fella,” he said, patting the stallion gently on the neck. “You gonna behave yourself for me, now?”

The horse shook his head agitatedly and snorted.

Patrick smiled. “Yeah, I thought not. I think Bill knew exactly what he was doing when he passed you on to someone else, huh?”

Chapter 2

Patrick looked up from the paperwork he was completing at the slight hum of an approaching engine. A black car was making its way down the road, kicking up dust in its wake. A couple of the boys came out into the yard from the stables, curious as to who owned the big, black car. Billy propped his elbow against the gate and watched as the car rolled to a stop just outside the yard and a man with grey hair and a face lined with character stepped out. The man looked around himself, his blue eyes twinkling as they took in everything he saw.

“Can I help ya, sir?” Billy asked, tilting his head to the side as he observed the man.

“I believe you might just be able to do that,” the man said, the proper British inflection of his accent seeming as strange in the setting as the pristine grey suit he wore. “You wouldn’t happen to know where I might find Patrick Madden?”

“Patrick Madden?”

“Oh, you know, devilishly handsome fellow. Blond hair, nice bum…”

The boy looked taken aback for a second and then flashed the man a devilish grin. “That depends on what you’re sellin’, sir.”

Patrick chuckled at the exchange and ventured as far as the office door. “It’s okay, Billy, I’ll take it from here,” he said to the boy, “you get on back to work.”

“Patrick!” the grey-haired man exclaimed, genuine warmth colouring his tone. “How are you, my lad?”

“Not bad at all, Brophy. And my ‘bum’ is just fine too. Why don’t you step on into my office?”

Brophy nodded, stepping away from his car and into the office as the young lads watched him curiously. Patrick looked out at them and made a gesture that clearly meant for them to get back to work before he closed the office door and offered the other man a seat.

“You look like a regular cowboy, Patrick,” Brophy said, taking a seat and perusing the get up of the man in front of him. “The wild west must be agreeing with you.”

Patrick laughed, taking a seat of his own. “The wild west doesn’t answer back one way or the other, Brophy. It’s part of the appeal.” Patrick tipped his chair back slightly, lifting his chin to see the older man from under the brim of his hat. “But I’m sure you didn’t come all the way out here to enquire after my health.”

“I’m not sure if I should be insulted, Patrick,” Brophy said, effecting what could only be described as a pout, “You don’t think I care enough to wonder how you are from time to time?”

“I think you know how you use a phone, Brophy,” the American drawled, “It’s slightly less of a hassle than coming all the way here from… is it still England?”

“Indeed,” Brophy said with a nod, “And yes, you’re right, of course. I’m not here to ask after your well being, though I’m glad to see you doing so well. I came to ask you to consider a job.”

Patrick closed his eyes for a moment, as he listened to the old grandmother clock on the wall tick away the seconds. “Ah, Brophy. You know I quit that lark. I just couldn’t do it any more. When you find yourself dreading every day, wondering who might be killed…. It’s not worth it. It’s time to retire to the country with a few horses and a quiet life.”

“I know how you feel, Patrick. Believe me, I know.” Brophy sighed softly, removing his glasses and rubbing the bridge of his nose.

Patrick watched him for a long moment and the silence of the room ticked marked only by the clock on the wall and the faint stomping of one of the horses in a stall next door. “You want to tell me what we’re talking about?” Patrick said at last.

“Vincent Green,” Brophy said.

“What about him?”

Vincent Green was the son of Harry Green, an Irish human rights activist who, whilst famous in life had quickly achieved a cult-like status in death. Vincent had achieved a celebrity of his own as he rose swiftly through the British show jumping ranks a couple of years ago when he had taken top honours away from almost all of the major shows. The press in England had made Green their new sweetheart and when the lad had suffered a career threatening injury he had made all the headlines in the horsing world last year, though Patrick suspected it had as much to do with his famous name and handsome features as anything he had achieved on a horse. His high cheekbones, green eyes and flyaway curls made him highly photogenic and as a result he had graced the cover of pretty much every horse related magazine worth its salt at some time in the past year.

“He’s been getting death threats, mostly through the mail. Serious ones, by all accounts. The police are worried; Vincent’s distraught.  He wasn’t taking it seriously at first. I’ve been trying to persuade him that some extra personal security would be a good idea for a while time now, but he’s only started taking things seriously since the last letter arrived. Personally delivered, to his stables. He has grudgingly accepted that maybe a bodyguard might be a good idea after all.”

“And no doubt it is, but why have you come to me? I think you knew what my answer would be before you came out here, Brophy.”

Brophy smiled sadly. “Maybe I thought I could coax you out of retirement for one last job as a favour for an old friend? Or maybe I just wanted the best man for the job. Vincent is… he’s very important to me. I don’t know what I’d do if something happened to him.”

Patrick reached up and took his hat off, scratching his head thoughtfully. “Well, I supposed Gus could make a good enough job of looking after this place for me ‘til I get back…” he said thoughtfully. “Do you think I’ll need to get a haircut?”

Brophy’s eyes brightened as he smiled back taking in Patrick’s mane of shaggy, greying, blonde hair. “Oh, I think we can make an exception for you, Patrick,” he said, standing up and embracing Patrick where he sat. “It suits you when it’s a little long like this.”

Patrick grinned and stood up, hauling the older man into a proper hug. He sighed softly as he pulled away. “What am I getting myself into, Brophy?”

Chapter 3

A week later Patrick found himself in the back seat of a black BMW as it travelled though heavy iron gates and up the winding driveway of an English country estate. Wilting deciduous trees sprawled low over the road creating a carpet of oranges and deep reds and making the driveway quite colourful until it opened up into a large fountain, circular in design and carved out of white marble. The centrepiece of the fountain was at first glance, a sculpture of four swans intertwined, but as he looked more closely at it Patrick realised that the uppermost form was that of a young boy, neck stretched high and swan wings extending from his back. The boy’s face was a strange mixture of ecstasy and sorrow and Patrick found that he was reluctant to look away. Before he knew it the driver had pulled the car to a halt in front of an impressive manor house.

A flight of five or six wide, marble steps led up to a great mahogany double door.  As Patrick stepped out of the car the door opened and Brophy came out followed by another man, who looked to be in his early thirties and was dressed casually, in jeans and a beige sweater.

“Patrick!” Brophy exclaimed in a voice that oozed delight, “Welcome to Wiltshire House, so glad you could make it!” he said, rushing down the steps to greet him. “How was your flight?”

“It was… long,” Patrick said with a grin. “I slept through most of it.”

“Well, that’s the way to do it.” Brophy nodded, patting Patrick on the arm again. “Oh Patrick, how rude of me, I almost forgot to introduce you to Mark,” he said, smiling over at the man in the beige sweater who was busying himself unloading Patrick’s luggage from the car. “Mark’s been working here for coming on four years now. His official title is ‘butler’ but he’ll try a hand at most things so if you need help with anything around the house he’s the man to talk to.”

Mark put down one of the suitcases he was carrying and stuck out his hand to grasp Patrick’s in a firm handshake. “It’s good to meet you, Patrick,” he said with a genuine smile. “I’m glad you decided to join us. Please do like Brophy says and feel free to come to me if you need anything or have any questions.”

“Thanks, Mark,” Patrick said, returning the smile. “I’ll be sure to keep that in mind.”

“Patrick, why don’t you go with Mark and he’ll show you to your room. You’ll be staying in the west wing of the house.  I’ll come up to you in half an hour or so after you’ve had the chance to get settled in, maybe freshen up a little after your flight.”

“Sounds good, Brophy,” Patrick said, picking up his briefcase. “I’ll see you in a while then.”

“See you then.”

Mark turned and made his way up the front stairs with Patrick’s suitcases and Patrick followed him. Through the exterior doors the arrived in the front hallway, which presented them with a number of corridors. The hall was decorated with beautifully frames mirrors and a couple of painted portraits but the dominating feature of the area was the stained glass window that covered most of the wall opposite the door. The pattern on the leaded window was that of a horse grazing in an open field and the light flooding through the coloured glass painted the hall with dappling blue and green.

“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” Mark smiled as he caught Patrick gazing at the window.

“It is.”

Patrick nodded thoughtfully, following Mark as he led him to the ornate, dark wood staircase was just to the left as they entered the house. ‘It’s also a serious safety hazard,’ he thought regretfully as he climbed the stairs behind Mark. The window provided a wide area easy for breaking and entering. Something would need to be done about it if he was to be guarding anyone here. At the top of the stairs a wide landing greeted them. The walls had the same wooden panelling as the walls in the downstairs hallway, but the floor was covered with plush cream carpet. Mark turned left down a well-lit corridor and it was here that Patrick saw the first evidence that the house was, in fact, lived in. A couple of the doors on the corridor were not fully closed. One door was ajar just enough to allow him the slightest glimpse of tiled flooring. Though the next door was closed the muted sound of heavy rock music could be heard from the room. Vincent’s bedroom perhaps?

“Don’t worry,” Mark said, looking back at Patrick as they passed the room. “That racket won’t bother you from your room.”

“No?” Patrick asked. He would want to stay near his primary, even if it meant braving that kind of noise. What use was a bodyguard if he was sleeping too far away to notice any trouble?

“Vincent doesn’t sleep there,” Mark said, chuckling softly as if he had known exactly what Patrick had been thinking. “That’s Sam’s bedroom. The music is bloody awful and I have the dubious honour of sleeping next door,” he added, knocking on his own bedroom door as he passed it on his left hand side. “That’s Brophy’s bedroom there.” Mark gestured to his right as he continued down the corridor towards a large panelled window that looked down over the manor courtyards and the surrounding land. A narrow staircase to the ground floor started just beyond the window. “And this,” he said, gesturing to the door on his left as he came to the end of the corridor, “is Vincent’s room. You’re right across the corridor.”

Mark opened the door of the room to his right and walked in. He set the cases he was carrying down at the foot of a large king-sized bed with an oak frame and mounds of forest green linen and plump red cushions. 

Patrick looked around at the room, clearly impressed by his quarters. A built in oak wardrobe and study desk lined one wall and natural light poured through the windows on either side of the bed. Patrick walked as far as the head of the bed and drew the net curtains on the window back far enough to get a proper look at the same view as the window at the end of the corridor afforded. “Well, this is nice…”

Mark grinned at him. “It is, isn’t it? I don’t mind telling you that I love working here, and I’m sure you can imagine why. Mr Johnson treats the staff very well, and we didn’t generally see all that much of Vincent though he’s around a good bit more this year than before. Only one that gives us any cause for grief is Samantha. She does tend to have terrible mood swings, poor dear…  oh, and Charlie can be a right rascal, but we love him all the same.”

“Charlie?” Patrick asked in amusement. Brophy had gone into great detail about Vincent’s sister Samantha, and about her moods, but he’d failed to mention anyone called Charlie.

“That would be Vincent’s dog.”

“Ahh.”

“He misses Vincent when he’s off at one of his events. Always seems to end up down in the kitchen tripping everyone up,” Mark said, with obvious affection. “Alright then, if that’s all I think I’ll leave you to it. Brophy will be along soon enough, I suppose. I imagine he’ll show you around the place himself, but if there’s anything you want to know about the layout of the house or whatnot I’d be more than happy to help.”

“Okay, thanks,” Patrick said once more as the other man left, closing the door behind him. With a sigh he sat down in the office chair next to the desk and looked around him once more, taking in the green floor-to-ceiling drapes on the windows and the thick red patterned carpet. The Greens certainly had money, and knew how to spend it, but from what Brophy had told him of the nature of the letters Vincent had been receiving, money was not the issue.

Patrick scratched the back of his neck thoughtfully for a moment before he got up and, leaving his briefcase on the desk, went to find his toiletries and some clean clothes. He wanted to have a shower before Brophy came to find him.

Chapter 4

When Brophy arrived the door was opened by a fresh and revived Patrick in a white shirt, and smart, pressed black trousers, his too-long hair still wet from the shower.

“Patrick, really,” he said, perusing the man with an appreciative eye, “there’s no need at all to get dressed up for work around here. None of the staff wear formal dress and I certainly don’t expect you to.”

Patrick shrugged. “Thought I might make a good impression, first day on the job,” he said with a lopsided grin.

“Well, your usual clothes are perfectly acceptable around here. In fact they’re probably a necessity. I think while you’re protecting Vincent, you could end up spending rather a lot of time around horses. Now throw on a t-shirt quickly and let’s get going.”  Patrick did as he was told and Brophy stepped forward and took Patrick’s arm guiding him out of the doorway and down the hall the way Patrick had come with Mark a short while earlier. “But we can talk about such things later. For now I just want to show you around the house and grounds. Vincent owns four acres of forested land surrounding the house. We’ve had the whole perimeter checked out and secured but I know you’ll want to have a look yourself tomorrow.”

Brophy took Patrick down the hall, straight past the various bedrooms of the house’s inhabitants and across to the east wing of the house. The east wing was mostly disused. Rooms full of ornate furniture and beautiful wall hangings and paintings. There was a snooker table in one large room which had originally been, Patrick supposed, intended to be a bedroom. Brophy explained that Vincent had bought the table a few years ago when he had taken a sudden interest in snooker. The interest had just as quickly disappeared when he had found that he did not have the patience for snooker, as the scratches the table bore testified. Vincent, Brophy explained, could have all the patience in the world with a nervous animal but give him a snooker table or a computer and he would have himself tied up in knots about it in no time.

The ground floor portion of the east wing was much the same. A magnificent ballroom with an adjacent dining hall took up much of the area though Brophy said that they were seldom used. The last time a party had been held in the house was for Vincent’s twenty-first birthday, and that had been almost two years ago now. The front room of the east wing was a sunroom, positioned to catch as much of the afternoon sun as possible.

“This place is a nightmare,” Patrick muttered, almost to himself.

“Hmm? How so?” Brophy asked, turning to the man with a questioning look. “You don’t like it?”

Patrick shook his head, having not at all intended to insult his friend or the house. “No, the house is beautiful, Brophy. I’m very impressed. It’s just… logistically it’s a nightmare. It’s full of great open windows and sprawling boundary walls… Those walls will take a lot of security camera’s to cover.”

Brophy nodded pensively. “Well, that’s why you’re here, Patrick. I’m sure you’ll be no time telling us which doors to lock and what windows to board up. Money is no object when it comes to making this house safe, you know.” Brophy looked thoughtfully at the glass walls of the room once more. “Come on now, tomorrow we can worry about things like security and problem windows. For now you must see the part of the house we actually use,” he said at last with a wink.

Patrick chuckled at the older man’s enthusiasm and followed him out of the room and back out into the front hallway where he had entered the house for the first time. As they the moved down the corridor on this side of the house Patrick could easily see what Brophy meant about the house being in use. Www dot cbs news dot com forward slash stories forward slash 2005 forward slash 02 forward slash 25 forward slash evening news forward slash consumer forward slash main 676597 dot shtml. There was a homely looking living room with an assortment of sofas and beanbags and an entertainment system again against one wall.  A grand piano sat in one corner of the room, which was Sam’s, “When she could be bothered to play it,” Brophy said with the air of a long-suffering parent.

The room was warm and welcoming. A fire burned merrily in the hearth and a golden retriever lay sprawled out on the mat in front of it sleeping. “That’s Charlie,” Brophy said as he noticed Patrick looking at the dog. “You’ll be seeing a lot of him.”  Patrick almost felt like he would like to go in and join Charlie if Brophy had not taken his arm and led him on to a door across the corridor.

“And the library…”  Brophy opened the door and they stepped into a wonderfully decorated. A couple of crystal chandeliers hung from its high ceiling and there was a small bar in the far corner of the room. A built in bookcase covered one entire wall and a packed trophy cabinet was against another. The furniture here was elegant and tasteful. A number of high-backed soft chairs that Patrick was sure were antique, much like the furniture in the unused part of the house and resembling the living room very little. A large study table stood against one wall with four chairs pulled in around it and an arrangement of flowers in the middle. “Or the study, as Vincent and Sam were fond of calling it as children,” Brophy added. “Needless to say they were not overly fond of the room itself. They still aren’t. I daresay it holds bad memories of grammar and algebra lessons.” Looking around, Patrick could well imagine why this room was used as a study.

The next room was a smaller sitting room that was used by the staff of the house. A wide screen television dominated the room and the furniture was an eclectic assortment of hard and soft chairs and footstools. A pile of newspapers and magazines sat high on a small coffee table, and the bookshelf in the corner of the room was filled with a higgledy-piggledy assortment of books. “Sally, our housekeeper doesn’t seem to be as particular about this room as she is about the rest of the house for whatever reason,” Brophy explained, his eyes twinkling. “But now, enough of that!” Brophy exclaimed, clapping Patrick on the back. “I do believe I smell food.”

The kitchen was a haven of warmth and light and the smell of freshly baked bread. For all the dark, relaxing quiet of the living room, the kitchen was all bustle.  It was an old-style room, with pots, pans and cooking utensils hanging from every available wall space and heavy black iron stove up against the wall radiating a pleasant heat into the room.

A busty woman, who must have been in her early fifties, with long greying hair tied up in a bun was taking a baking tray filled with scones out of the oven.

“Patrick, this is Martha. She’s been working for us her for almost 15 years now, and she makes the best apple tarts you’ll ever hope to eat.”

“How’re you doin’, sir?” Martha said, pulling her oven gloves off and shaking Patrick’s hand. There was a slight Irish lilt to her voice and a few strands of hair fell down into her face when she spoke, which she quickly pushed back behind her ear. “If you don’t mind me sayin’ it, we’re very glad you’re here.” With that she took off and started busying herself setting the large oak farmhouse table that dominated the other half of the room.

“Martha lives in Wiltshire. The village,” Brophy explained. “It’s only a few minutes away by car, or about twenty minutes walk. Martha is here every morning to serve breakfast at nine. Dinner is served at half seven and she goes home after that. Though if you’re feeling peckish in the evenings she keeps a very well stocked pantry.”

“Sounds good.”

“Indeed,” Brophy agreed. “Well, the grand tour ends here.” Patrick followed as he walked out the back door of the kitchen and came to the bottom of a narrow staircase. “Though perhaps Vincent will show you the stables before dinner. You can take a look at the bedrooms and the grounds tomorrow, work out what you want to do regarding security…”

“Brophy,” Patrick interrupted the man, placing a hand on his shoulder as Brophy turned to make his way up the stairs. “How serious is this threat, really? You haven’t shown me the letters yet, and now you’re talking about security like there’s no urgency at all needed.” He released Brophy’s arm as the man turned to face him. “Be straight with me, please. I need to know what I’m dealing with to do my job properly.”

“Ah Patrick, my friend, I fear this threat is very real. The letters I will be sure to show you later, after dinner. The thing is, Vincent… he is not overly fond of the idea of having a bodyguard.  He feels that… well, to be perfectly straight with you Patrick, I know you’re perfectly aware of the circumstances of his parents’ death. I cannot tell you how much persuading was needed on my behalf to get him to even consider hiring a bodyguard. I was hoping that your head would not be quite full of figures and security measures when you first met him. I must confess that one of the reasons you were the man I wanted was that you have a lot in common with him. I think if he gives you any sort of fighting chance he’ll like you, but we might need to give him a chance to get used to the idea before you turn the place into a fortress.”

“Oh…”

“Which is what I want you to do, Patrick,” Brophy said urgently, “That’s what you’re here for. Because you’re the best there is when it comes to this… but just… give him today to get to know you a little before the real work begins. He’s young, and I know these letters are frightening him but he’s still going to be wary of you. He can’t help it.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

Brophy turned then and Patrick followed him up the stairs back to where they had started past the panel window and past Patrick’s bedroom door until they were standing at the door next door. Brophy’s Bedroom.

Brophy raised his hand and rapped sharply on the door.

“Just a minute!” a voice came from inside the room followed by a couple of bangs and thuds and then the door was opened by a young man in threadbare jeans and an orange and white flannel shirt. Even though Patrick was surprised at the young man answering the door of Brophy’s room he would have recognised Vincent Green anywhere. He had seen enough pictures of him and the boy’s face was certainly memorable enough. Apparently Vincent knew who he was too. “Oh, hello. You must be Patrick?” Vincent cocked his head to the side and looked his new bodyguard up and down appraisingly.

“That’d be about right,” Patrick agreed with a smile as he shook the younger man’s hand. “Glad to meet you, Vincent.”

“You too,” Vincent said, grinning back, “You’re not what I expected at all.”

“What were you expecting?” Patrick asked, sounding genuinely interested.

“Well, less hair for one thing, and a suit, you know? Jacket, tie, all that jazz…” Vincent looked down and wiggled the toes of his stocking-ed feet. “I’m making a fool of myself now, aren’t I?”

“No, you’re right,” Patrick assured him, “But I think Brophy is going easy on me here. He knows I don’t like suits.”

“I know that any suit you wore would be destroyed within a week around here,” Brophy said with a tut. “Vincent, I’m sure Patrick would like to see the stables. Would you show him around outside before dinner?”

“Sure.” Vincent looked down at himself for a moment and then back up at Patrick. “Just give me a minute to put on some shoes.”

Patrick looked down at his own patent lace-up shoes and smiled. “No problem, Vincent. I think I’m going to go change into better footwear too actually.”

“Okay, cool. So… just knock on my door when you’re good to go, yeah?” Vincent said uncertainly.

“Yeah.”

...to be continued...