The Nothing Cadence

It is too much to ask for that wrongs be pardoned and transgressions forgotten for the benefit of any one individual? No, we must hold to blame an entire country or people to make a point, even when, or especially when, the reputation, good fortune, and family of a man depends upon a good impression. If he plans to attend a ball, he must ask to borrow a friend’s carriage so as to arrive in style, he must prepare his conversations in his mind before arriving so as to gracefully make his way around any topic without fumbling for words, and it is of the utmost importance that he be prepared to find himself a suitor. It is too much to ask for leeway in this world where our every moves are scrutinized and our sentences picked apart for blunders. However the slightest, they will be found.

It is too much to ask that in this society we be given our own identity and our own life? For we are forever a part of our father’s family, forever we are kept responsible for knowing the first and last name of every individual we come into contact with, and their relations, and forever we are seeking what cannot be found under such strict pretenses: love.

Love of a father to a son, of an aunt to a nephew, of a friend to a friend.

Perhaps I am being vain.

-

A letter arrived:

Dear Mr. Mackin,

Your presence is requested at the Bluethorn Estate this Saturday evening for a ball.

Sincerely,
The Beckett Family

It would not be a decision for Mr. Mackin to make, whether to attend the ball or not. It was not simply a matter of preference; he would be made to attend the ball. And he would be made to do it with a smile.

He would accompany the Demoin sisters in their carriage, for he stayed at their estate upon his father’s request, and he would be their chaperone to the ball. The Demoin sisters were the daughters of his father’s closest friend, and he would be expected to marry one of them in order to inherit a portion of his father’s many lands and a good sum of his fortune. The sisters were highly accomplished; all of them could deftly perform the piano and they were splendidly handsome. Their beauty was known far and wide, and they often had suitors at their door, being introduced as ‘the son of Mrs. Baker’s sister’, or ‘the nephew of Monsieur Le Pois’.

The ladies would be dressed in fine lace and linen, their breasts sparkling with powder and their hair made up with strings of pearls and various adornments. They would giggle mercilessly among themselves and assimilate helpless victims into their gossip, despite their greatest attempts to circle the black holes and keep from falling in. And Mr. Mackin understood this, for was this not the point of having such a show of splendor and grandeur as a ball, if the ladies of the country could not talk?

Mr. Mackin has lived in Huntshire for a twelvemonth and still he has not found a lady that suits his shaky and often unstable but quiet nature; there have been plenty handsome hopefuls, and several accomplished girls, but none that fit perfectly. He stood, the chair in which he sat squeaked against the shiny, hardwood floors.

“Please, Jane, alert the men that I will be in need of the carriage tonight for the ball,” he told Jane, the maid that stood at his elbow. She curtsied and exited the room.

Mr. Mackin approached the piano in the northwest corner of the parlor and rested his fingers on the keys. He played a sonatina he had known from birth, his mind was hardly needed in the recounting of the classical piece. His mind wandered out the window, while his long fingers continued to command the keys.

“Sir, sir-,” someone tapped on his shoulder. Her manner was apologetic, deeply was she mortified that her intrusion upon his concentration would be mistaken for presumptuous behavior.

“Yes, Jane?”

“Sir, it is past dusk, you must be leaving soon if you are to make it on time, sir.”

He glanced out the window, the sky had darkened to purple and the stars were alight. “Ah, it seems that you are right. Are the ladies ready?”

“Yes, sir. They are waiting in the carriage.” But Mr. Mackin did not make a move to leave, far away were his thoughts.

“Sir, sir, you must be leaving now,” she prodded with sincere regret.

“Oh, yes. Have you my coat?” he questioned. He turned around and she helped him into his frock. “We will be back in the morning, please be sure to have the bath ready.”

“Yes, sir,” she complied, hurrying to open the door for him.

He gripped his cane from the stand near the door and proceeded to traverse the gravel drive and step up into the carriage held waiting by a stableman, for his legs were long enough and his body lean enough to just step into the carriage as opposed to climb in, as others would have done.

Inside the Demoin sisters talked over the great riches and spoils that would await them upon marriage. Lucy kept a steady stream of talk about a new pearl necklace she should want, on the occasion of her engagement to a certain Monsieur Garnet. Margaret batted her eyelashes at a nonobservant, distant Mr. Mackin. Her attempts to get his attention failed and her plump, girlish lips turned upwards in a pout.

“Sean, surely you will entertain us with prose until we arrive at the manor.”

“My dear, Margaret, I should hope I do not spoil the fun of your evening so soon before it is to begin by my dreadful renditions of prose.”

“Mr. Mackin, your voice is surely the best suited to prose, there is no one in all of Huntshire that can recite like you,” Lucy blushed and the car lapsed into heated giggles. Mr. Mackin’s thin lips were drawn into a smile. When the warmth reached his eyes, the light blue around the center jumped with sparks and the darker blue ringed outside pulsed with intensity. The wind-tousled look of his curly, auburn locks could only be matched by those on the head of God’s most beloved angel. His lips and eyes were crafted by saints and his body by the most meticulous Greek artist. When he sat still long enough, he could be presumed a statue. And often he did.

“Sean, Sean!” the car again lapsed into giggles as a blush crept over his unsuspecting features.

“My ladies, my dead ladies, how handsome you all are this evening, I cannot hope to command your attention for so long as a minute!”

“Oh, Sean! We will dance with no one but you tonight,” Margaret trilled.

“How thoughtful, how generous, but tonight is meant for dancing and fun! You shall dance with every man in the hall, except for you, Miss Lucy. You, Lucy, will dance with none other than Monsieur Garnet!”

Blushing, “You cannot be so presumptuous! Mr. Mackin, Monsieur Garnet and I are no more than acquaintances-!” the whole of the carriage knew the sparkle in her eye meant she was lying, and they had seen the quiet exchanges between the two at the dinner party last fortnight. The two were destined for marriage. Raucous laughter rocked the carriage.

Banter lasted between the occupants until the carriage rolled to a stop at the doorstep of Bluethorn Estate. Mr. Mackin exited the carriage first and moved to the head of the four-horse team. He rubbed his palm between the ears of the nearest stallion and nodded to the stablemen up top. He returned to the Demoin sisters and, linking arms with Margaret and Sarah and the foursome made their way into the entry hall of the manor.

Candles in groups of four and five littered the mantels and every crevice was alight with yellow, flickering light. Draperies were hung and flowery boughs of greenery dripped from every surface. Farther down, the hall emptied out into the main ballroom and bright music and chatter drifted back to the group. They gave their coats to the waiting hands and proceeded down the hall. Mr. Mackin excused himself to retrieve drinks for the party. He downed a glass of wine and looked around. Everywhere there was food and wine, every floor was covered with groups of people talking, and the dancing was ceaseless, though beautifully choreographed. The music rose in flurries and fell in swoops and dives, the violins raced along with the easy bass plucking out his own rhythms. A dance ended and the hall erupted in applause. Mr. Mackin joined and smiled, for he knew this would be his last moment of solitude before he was being pulled in four different directions by the daughters of the rich and famous.

“Sean! Mr. Mackin!” Margaret pulled at his sleeve, her cheeks were rosy with wine. “The Becketts request your presence at once!”

Mr. Mackin pulled an easy smile over his face and followed her gentle pleadings over to the foyer of the manor, a large room paneled with dark wood and home to rich, deep colored furniture. His eyes found the hearth in which a fire crackled. Margaret slid her arm around his and guided him to the waiting Beckett family. She presented him, “Mr. and Mrs. Beckett, may I present to you Mr. Mackin.” Mr. Mackin was not attending to the conversation at present, however, due to a quite abrupt change of attention.

His skin was creamy smooth, like the surface of water in the dead of night. His mouth red and thick, proportional to the deeply sloping, dark eyebrows. His cheekbones were high and reflected the candlelight as marble would. His hair clung to his temples and the nape of his neck in deep, dark brown waves. His vest and jacket were of the finest velvet, and his shirt of pressed white linen. His shoulder were thin and graceful, giving way to long arms that ended in the fingers of angels. His hips were narrow and his figure lean. Mr. Mackin’s eyes traveled the length of the man’s body and then back up, landing on his downcast eyes. The candles disillusioned them distant, shimmering puddles of amber, half masked by the shadows that fell across his face and half alight by the candle light of near.

“Well, I have heard much about you, Mr. Mackin. The company finds you quite agreeable and I hear you are an excellent musician,” the man started. His voice resembled the way a pianoforte sounds upon a cold night, clear and dripping like wax from a candle with gentle ease and grace. His skin stretched like new canvas around his limbs, his veins like rivers below the surface. Mr. Mackin imagined the red in them as champagne colored streams like the ones that flowed from an upturned bottle, and his bones like charcoal that would shatter when dropped and blow away with wind.

“William. William Beckett,” the other continued, his eye searching.

“Yes, well- the, the music- I try- It seems as though- Can-n-not find- Pardon me, my lady,” Mr. Mackin said to Mrs. Beckett, “sir,” he said to Mr. Beckett. He turned heel and walked out of the foyer, out of the hall and into the gardens beyond. The singing and laughter followed him as far as he walked down the path, the lights showed him his way even though he had left them far behind. He looked towards the heavens and saw only an array of brilliant specks of light, too far away to do anything but gaze at but just near enough to offer him the comfort that he was not alone standing on the gravel pathway between the rose bushes.

God, if Mr. Mackin had only seen beauty of this quality before! When he blinked, the imprint of William’s face was forever seared into his eyelids. What was this? what blasphemy! The man might as well have had wings sprouting from between his shoulder blades for how angelic he was, a halo tipped at a casual but elegant angle above his head. And that still is not enough of a comparison between the amiable innocence of the man’s countenance and the candor in his eyes. How the sun and the skies do not even begin to compare!

The fates could not have timed it better, for the very figure Mr. Mackin was thinking about appeared behind him at the exact moment Mr. Mackin sighed, “Damn.”

“Pardon me for intruding, sir.”

Mr. Mackin, shocked, no doubt, turned on his heel, his frock whipping around his knees. His heels turned the gravel up in a crescent. The lights from the ball splashed the ground with uneven, jerking shadows and made the shadows of the two men extend beyond them until they merged with darkness beyond the gardens. His hair shone auburn in the light, and the immense handsomeness of Mr. Beckett daunted Mr. Mackin.

“Mr. Beckett,” he nodded.

“What a vicious party in there, and to think they’ll go on at this rate for hours yet.” Mr. Beckett indicated to the ball, silhouettes danced merrily against the glass windows.

“Sir, Mr. Beckett, is this not your ball? I should think you would be ecstatic at the mere turnout. You must have half the countryside in your ballroom at this exact moment.” Mr. Mackin’s voice came with surprised elocution. He smiled at himself, despite the situation.

“Please, it’s William.” Mr. Beckett smiled, his lips looked as the petals of a flower at dawn, full and smoothly rounded. Mr. Beckett reached out a hand to brush a fallen blossom off Mr. Mackin’s lapel. As his arching fingers brushed the fabric on his chest, Mr. Mackin felt an unwelcome stirring in his abdomen, an unwelcome guest tightening around his crouch. His blood began to take notice of what his brain was sending out and rushed a little faster through the ropes of his veins, his pulse flickered in his neck.

Mr. Mackin’s comment; “the night is so cool, and yet the women are baring their shoulders and breasts to society without a second thought,” drew another smile to Mr. Beckett’s thin face.

“Ah, but they are inside and we are the ones outside with winter nipping at our heels.” His intent, though evident if anyone were to pass by and hear the tones of their lowered voices, was cached behind secretive eyes and downcast glances. Mr. Mackin could not make sense of the situation at hand; was it not sacrilegious to feel this way. The night was gusting over them, and the blossoms falling from the trees whether out of chill or wind could not be told, but Mr. Mackin’s cheeks heated with a blush and he lowered his eyes to the garden pathway. Far off in the night, father than he remember, the band at the ball started a new sonata and a new dance began.

“Look at me,” Mr. Beckett’s words were accompanied by a gentle persuasion by his hand on Mr. Mackin’s chin. Mr. Mackin’s clear blue eyes not could hide from the searing browns of Mr. Beckett. “You do not seem well, are you ill?” he questioned.

“I feel well.” The pressure on his jaw left but their eyes remained at an even height. Neither of them pushed the gaze, it could simply have been two friends laughing about yesteryear. Mr. Beckett’s smile faltered, the corners of his perfectly sculpted lips turned down. Creases etched themselves deeply into his face by candlelight as he frowned, his eyebrows sloped violently across his brow.

“What is it?” Mr. Beckett questioned.

“Surely you must know what they say about you! you cannot be ignorant of their whispers. The ladies in the hall and in the street talk about you and you affinity for…for men. It is as if you do not hear or you choose not to acknowledge. Even so, sir, I cannot help but to remember summers back when we spend the long days dreaming of growing up. Have you no memory of those days? those years?”

“Oh, but I do. I do now. I remember Frost Creek with the weeping willows and the pond that never froze, even when the snows were above our heads. I remember racing the ponies across the hills even when we were due back for supper ten minutes past.”

“What has changed? We dreamed of marrying handsome ladies of silk and scarves, and you dreamed of becoming the lawyer your father hoped you would be. We spent only summers together on account of my father’s will, but I knew you well enough to know that nothing but love drove your ambitions. Love for life and for passion itself. But the ladies…the ladies in the street murmur, and no one can help but to over hear, even when it is against their best wishes and best memories.”

“Changed? Everything changes in a moment, have you not realized?” his breath came quicker with ever sentences, his brows furrowed more fiercely as he punctuated his thoughts. “Changed? I have always been this way. I have always admired you and honored your memory, but if I had but known you would be disgraced at what you have heard, even before meeting me again in this light! Maybe I would not have bothered. I remember, you, too! you always tagging along even with the difference in our ages and our histories, you became my shadow. We were blood brothers! I could not mistake that kind of love.”

“And after all these years? Now what? What have you to say to me?” anger flared in Mr. Mackins’ cheeks, but reminiscent loves heated his passion.

“After all these years, I have not forgotten you. Oh, but I had hopes that you would have by now. Perhaps this would not be so hard to say if you had forgotten, if I knew I was nothing more to you that an acquaintance met at a ball last month.”

“Out with it, sir!” Mr. Mackin spat, preparing to turn back to the ball and put on a brave countenance for the duration of the party and sitting through the chatter of the newest generals and their privates in the carriage on the way back. Surely someone has missed him by now. There must be scores of people looking for him.

“Mr. Mack- Sean, I have never forgotten you. When your father sent you back to Huntshire this past year, I had fancied notions of seeing you again and being the friends we used to be.”

“Mr. Beckett, what are you insinuating?”

Mr. Beckett reached out a hand, thought better of it, and closed his fist on empty air and returned it to his side. “Let us run away together! They will not accept us here, but elsewhere we will pardon our names and start anew! We could have it all. You and I.”

Mr. Mackin looked down, his pulse rocketing until it was a drum beat in his neck and a stiff drumming in his pants. “I cannot feel this way towards you for fear of disgracing my family-“

“Oh! but we could have the life we’ve always dreamed of!”

“The life you have always dreamed of, perhaps, but not I.”

Mr. Beckett drew nearer until their breath mixed and the wind picked up the ends of their curls and they formed one blend of black and brown. One of Mr. Beckett’s hands found the back of Mr. Mackin’s neck and the other his waist. If another moment had been taken before Mr. Beckett made a move, all would have been lost, for Mr. Mackin would have been given ample opportunity to draw back and move away. But as it were, Mr. Beckett took a gentle and slow but commanding plan of attack and Mr. Mackin had neither a defense nor an offense and so the moment when off without a hitch.

Mr. Beckett’s rosy reds met Mr. Mackin’s pale thin lips in a moment of utmost passion and care. Neither advanced nor retreated because the simple pleasure was enough for the moment. The music went on behind them and the light that had once cast two shadows could only find one figure, their bodies were pressed together. It was not lust that had spoken through his warm hands, or through his rosy red lips that seeked out Mr. Mackin’s with such diligent care, but a rekindled love. A love Mr. Mackin had not known existed and could never have hoped to have found in the arms of another man.

They stood for a comfortable minute, until Mr. Beckett drew back and their lips tingles and their eyes tentatively met. Mr. Mackin had not the control to smile, but Mr. Beckett was well prepared and took an easy smirk onto his face.

“I have to return to the ball, I will be sorely missed,” Mr. Mackin struggled to get out. He looked back towards the ball and felt the gently weight of Mr. Beckett’s hands leave his hip and neck. Mr. Beckett moved away and nodded, and Mr. Mackin was free to return to the party. And so he did.

The night went on in a flurry of lights and sounds and the lull of words on the floor to the waves of applause in the air. As expected, the ride home in the carriage was naught but talk of men and riches and fortune and who had danced with whom and who had smiled the most, who’s speech was most eloquent and who had made the most introductions. It was concluded that Lucy would indeed be engaged to Monsieur Garnet within the season and that Margaret’s eye had been caught by the traveling nephew of a friend. His charm was apparently dazzling and his conversation ability astonishing, and he was accomplished in career and dance. Margaret might add that he was wealthy and owned the deeds to three estates in two countries. They had danced the better half of the night away together.

But Mr. Mackin had not been missed, his absence had been overlooked by the events of the night. And when the party returned to the manor, Jane had the bath ready and the three women retreated to their bedchambers for the evening and Mr. Mackin returned to his desk by the hearth in the parlor. A heavy sigh preludes an even heavier hour of silent thought on the subject of the night. And with a heavy hand, Mr. Mackin took upon his shoulders a battle of head and heart. The heart and the head are separated by a mere eighteen inches, but for all the trouble it was to reconcile the two into an agreement, one would think the distances was an ocean.

His heart and his head battled for rights to his hand as he began:

It would please me to no end to be able to spend a fortnight thinking over tonight’s events. Somewhere in the mix, I lost my head and with your hand on my heart I let you lead me down a path I had never seen before. You reopened doors I have not remember since childhood and I thank you dearly for the memories you have resurrected. I fear, however, that my father requires my return to London immediately on the Wednesday of this next week. If only there were more time. If only we did not live in this world and this time. But the world is full of ‘if only’s’; nevertheless I do believe if we had more time.

Alas, my friend, it will never work. Give up while you are young, sir, and do not let the next years of your life be haunted by tonight’s endeavors.

Sincerely,
Sean

--

The night of the Bluethorn Estate ball and the memories it would hold with it forever made the next two days of William’s life bearable at the very least. He was happier than even before and his family attributed it to being home from the war and seeing the girls he had known before grown into handsome women. William was prepared to let them think the best of him until it was too late and he would have to run away, but even then he was determined to be happy. And he would be, because the mere thought of Mr. Mackin left him shaking.

The letter arrived on the third day. William read it with a fierce thudding in his heart. When the thudding died down, and the anger abated, and the pride dissipated, there was nothing. William had been broken, emptied, shattered, and was left throbbing from every cell in his body.

His family found him on the eve of that third day floating on Frost Creek.

--

Two years saw Mr. Mackin travel back to London, explore the streets and his career, and come to the conclusion that he had known love and happiness and it was behind him in Huntshire. He was empty and desolate in London and asked his father for permission to return to the Demoin manor and resume his life there.

Permission granted, he traveled back and settled into his home again. His mind burst with the possibilities and his heart ached with longing. Upon calling at the Beckett home, he was recounted the tale of the night two years ago by a housemaid.

As lore would have it, Mr. Mackin did not end his own days by painful way of knife, poison, or gunshot. No, he endured a pain far worse. He lived the rest of his days void of feeling and thinking, shaking in his shell of a body. He was consumed by grief, literally eaten away by remorse and ultimate sorrow.

He wasted away into nothing.

But for a night, and perhaps for the following few months, he tasted love. And that is more than most do in their lifetime.