Ruteledge and Ruteledge

~II~

James set their little table in silence the next morning, as he always did for he and George to eat together when George came in from work and before James went out. Knives had scarred that table, and wine stained it, and it offered little room for two men. After all, it meant to seat only one, as this was one man's room. George Ruteledge, one-room lodger at Bragg's inn. Only two others lodged there besides Bragg and his daughter Fanny, who served as a maid around the place with hardly less of a snarl than her father. Sometimes Ruteledge wondered whether she knew more of he and George than she let on, but at any rate, she said nothing to anyone, only eyed everyone suspiciously and curled her lip.

George let himself into the room now, emitting a suppressed groan as he hung his coat and hat. "I can't take this much longer, James. I can't live in this accursed world anymore."

James stepped towards his brother and helped him out of his waistcoat. "And by that do you mean you wish to perish or to leave London?"

George sighed and crossed over to their bed, where he sat himself wearily. "Either, at this point. But I was specifically referring to London. No, I can't eat," he replied to James's glance at the table. "I only want to sleep."

James watched him in sympathy and then turned to take his breakfast alone.

"George," he called softly to him after eating, as he cleared his own things. "I'm leaving some bread and things for you; you really ought to eat." He turned at the silence to see his brother already lost to the world of darkness and drew near him as he shrugged on his greatcoat. "Take care, George." He placed a hand on his brother's dark head for a moment, then turned away to the door.

"Ruteledge," Mr Beaumont said suddenly, and James looked up from his figures, almost expecting the banker to address the incident of the night before. He had worried over it all morning. What was in store for him—termination? A strict lecture? But no, Beaumont was simply extending a note towards the secretary, hardly looking up from his own work. "For Mrs Beaumont, and do bring an answer back. She ought to be in the sitting room."

Ruteledge set his pen down and rose to take the note from him. "Certainly, sir. Oh, and—" nodding to a letter on the desk "—Mr Beckett's proposal—"

Beaumont dismissed the rest of the sentence with a wave of his hand. "Deny it. But civilly, of course."

A slight bow. "Yes, sir."

James's footsteps echoed in the grand house as he crossed the marble floor of the vestibule. "Father's steps used to echo like that," he thought, "when he crossed the hall in our great house. I would have to stop my playing at the piano-forte because his steps weren't in time." One. Two, one. Two, one. Two, one. Two—He reached the drawing room and entered it, and at once felt all the gazes which had lingered on him the night before. But now, bathed in the grace of sunlight, it held only two occupants. At one end of a velvet divan reclined the mistress of the house; a comfortable motherly sort of woman, with a face one would be inclined to trust, had she not been so rich. A little seamstress sat perched on the other end, a girl Ruteledge had never seen before, young—scarcely eighteen, he thought—her dark head bent diligently over her work. She looked up at him for a moment when he entered, but at his friendly smile her eyes darted down to her work again, as if it were a sin for her to tarry from it for a moment's glance. Yet at that smile, a kind gesture so rare to a little shadow of a seamstress such as her, a surge of warmth rushed through her veins, and she treasured up the moment for a long while afterwards.

Ruteledge received the response to his note rather distractedly—"Twenty pounds and sixpence"—and bowed first to Mrs Beaumont and then to the little figure who shrank from his curious smile with a strange timidity that emanated from both a discomfort at being so unpresentable before the secretary, and a comfort at his not seeming to mind.

At the end of the day, as he donned his hat, Ruteledge watched the girl hurry out into the streets. He took his greatcoat from the butler and shrugged it on. "I say, Laverty, who's that seamstress?"

"Miss Lovell?" the butler answered. "Don't know much of her. No family, grew up in a girls' school. Just graduated and was sent to Mrs Beaumont by the headmistress. Odd child." He nodded thoughtfully, then looked Mr Ruteledge over. "Your collar's twisted," he mused. Ruteledge raised his eyebrows, fixed the collar, and smiled a thanks before turning out onto the street.

Miss Lovell was already out of sight when Ruteledge stepped down from the Beaumonts' door, though why he even thought to look for her, he didn't know. It's no good being curious, when your life demands an utter lack of curiosity from others. Head down, needle plying. Stitch by stitch, that's the way to live. The only way to live. Ruteledge found himself turning it into a question. The only way to live?

As he neared Bragg's, another man came out, the rusty bell barely clanging in his wake. He was middle-aged, a quiet, weary sort of man—an Oliver Langley. He never spoke much to one save a civil greeting or a comment on the weather. "Good evening, Ruteledge," he said now, with a sad little smile, the sort of smile that's grown tired of hiding that it's not born of any true joy.

"Good evening, Langley," Ruteledge tipped his hat. "Quite well, I hope?"

"Well enough, lad." That smile again. "Well enough."

Ruteledge nodded his agreement and they parted, both thinking the same: Well enough, well enough.

Oh, the monotony of life. Same old splintering door with its peeling painted label: BRAGG'S. Same sneer from Bragg in his same torn chair. Same crooked stairs to be bounded up: two, four, six, and seven. Same brass key in its same brass keyhole—the only variance the one who turned it, the one bounding, the object of the sneer, the hand that pushed the door.

"Good evening, George." James hung his hat and greatcoat and his brother looked up from laying the table. "Hullo, James." A bit more life in his voice, James noted. He unbuttoned his collar to tuck a napkin in place of his cravat. "Did you rest well?"

George shrugged as he spooned a steaming potato onto each of their plates. "Well enough, I suppose. Don't quite feel like dying any longer, if that's what you're after." He looked up at his brother and offered a small smile. James returned the smile and smeared potato on his bread. "Mrs Beaumont's hired a new seamstress," he said. "Young girl, dark, just out of a girls' school where she grew up, evidently. A Miss Lovell, Laverty says."

George nodded, jotting this down in a little pocketbook he kept up his sleeve—James had one just like it, filled with names of people from George's half of their life, to which he had added rather crossly last night "Sybil Worthington". Very rarely did they come across each other's acquaintances, but it was better to be safe than sorry, as the saying went, and the previous night had proved so.

James peered at George's note as he cut himself a piece of cheese. "I don't know her given name," he remarked, and George frowned as he finished writing and shut his book. "I don't see why you should," he said offhandedly, and focused his attention on the meal before him.

"Elouise says," George began after a moment's silence, and James interrupted, "Elouise? No," he added, lifting his fork in thought. "The bartender. Evening Rose. Owner's daughter."

George shook his head incredulously and smiled. "That's about the first person you need to remember. Tavern's just outside Bragg's. Anyhow, Elouise says Beaumont's been rising of late. Not to me, that is, I overheard her say as much to someone else, but I suppose you'd know best?"

James wiped his plate with a crust. "Well, he's wise with his investments and partners, so I shouldn't be surprised. The only numbers I really heed are the ones that affect us." A wry smile.

"Wouldn't it though?" George replied, wiping the corners of his mouth. "If he got a good deal richer, at least?"

James laughed and took up their plates. "Well, then I suppose he'd need to hire two secretaries, and I don't see how that'd help us. But no matter," corking the wine. "Things are going well enough, and in a year or so's time we'll have saved enough to start anew, the each of us."

George took the last swig of his wine and stood. "The each of us." He smiled and swung on his greatcoat. "I like the sound of that."