That night, we made His Lordship mojitos. He sipped them slowly while he wrote out what would be his final memoirs.
Earlier in the evening, while we were out in the garden, picking the mint, you kept a look out across the manicured lawns while I unlatched the kitchen gate where we would make our escape.
After all, that was how we had snuck in, pretending to be servants with a smile and a uniform. No one looks at servants – they are the invisible hand amongst invisible doors and corridors, separate yet interlocking with the halls where power dwells. With the right jacket, one can walk right through the secret passages and into the confidence of a lord.
You’d almost balked when I suggested it – it seemed like a betrayal of the highest order – but when I promised to set you up as my personal butler and buy you away from the captain … well, you seemed to take to the idea. One should never pass up a promotion, and the captain never did properly appreciate you.
Of course, I never would have come up with the idea if it weren’t for that torrid night off Barbados, when my captain picked you up lost at sea, clutching your cap so you could make a proper presentation when you were rescued. Aye, we turned you into a good cabin boy, fetching us tea as if we were proper gents, while we smuggled the best rum from the islands to the straits of Dover.
Speaking of the rum runners, boy, pass me another mojito.
Follow