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It has been a long time since Liralu had been required to help the marquess bathe, but he remembered those days with fondness. The marquess had been so overcome with guilt, heartbreak, and general despair at his situation that he’d barely been able to care for himself. Liralu had been assigned that duty, but it was one he’d taken on eagerly. It was difficult not to love the marquess, handsome in a thoroughly human way, yet marked by a deep sadness that Liralu knew was beyond him to repair. He liked to think he did help, at least to help him learn to live with that burden, as well as how to care for himself. Liralu had other charges at the prison, and other duties besides, and these days could rarely indulge the time to greet him after a bath with a warmed robe, let alone to wash his hair or anything more intimate. In that regard, today felt like an indulgence.
The robe he carried was a new one – it had been a while since anyone had refreshed the marquess’s wardrobe, and he’d noticed that the stitches had started to pull in his old one, so he had taken it upon himself to replace it. This one was a luxurious deep green silk, simple but elegant, with room for whatever embellishments his grace might feel moved to add if he returned to his embroidery. So armed, Liralu knocked on the door, waiting for acknowledgement before entering.
His marquess was still in the bath, and the steam had rendered his curls even more unruly than usual. He tended to let them grow, waiting for Liralu to tend them rather than risk someone else’s less careful touch. In the early days, another attendant had been allowed to handle the task, and had shaved his hair roughly off – no one wanted to see that repeated. “What is it, Liralu?”
“You have visitors coming tomorrow morning, your grace.” He stepped in and set down the robe, approaching the tub to gauge where or whether he should step in. The water had been scented with a lavender sachet, and the marquess seemed relaxed, though none of the other supplies had yet been touched.
“Tomorrow…”
“Yes, your grace.” It was an expected visit, discussed not so long ago, though it was easy for the prisoners to lose track of specific dates. Visitors typically meant a more thorough grooming than they typically received – a shave and a haircut, and a chance to dress properly if they so desired. The marquess was clear about his preferences: while he was content to put off these procedures on his own account, he was not comfortable receiving guests if he was not able to present himself properly. This was true even though the only visitors he typically received were close family, as in this case, his mother and brother. “If your grace prefers, we can wash and cut your hair now, and discuss what clothes to lay out.”
“Very well,” he acquiesced, sitting up in the water and reaching for the soap. Liralu stood back, giving him space while he washed, admiring from afar, though it was a rather pragmatic affair. It was better this way, certainly for the marquess – Liralu kept his wistfulness to himself, along with everything else, and busied himself preparing towels and setting them to warm with a charm. When the marquess was finished bathing he sat up, leaning his head back with his eyes closed. It had been a while, but the habit came back easily.
All the soaps and shampoos and oils were ones that Liralu had selected. He deferred to the marquess’s preferences of course, and would bring him things to sample, but scents were at the mercy of fashion, and several that his charge had once preferred were no longer available, and he was left in Liralu’s hands. It was always a thrill when his selections met with immediate approval. He poured out some shampoo, rubbing it into a lather before reaching to work it into the marquess’s water-dark curls.
He smiled at the little huff of breath, not quite a sigh, and how the marquess clearly relaxed further at his ministrations. His grace kept most people at a distance and preferred not to be touched, but Liralu was an exception. It made him feel special, even though he knew it was probably a habit from someone who had been tended by servants his whole life. Of the attendants here, he was the one the marquess relied on the most, and Liralu did his best to meet his expectations. Given the opportunity to indulge in his current task, he took his time, working in the lather thoroughly, massaging his scalp and even his neck and relishing every little sound of contentment. When he couldn’t reasonably extend the experience further, he stepped back, reaching for a pitcher of clean water.
“Time to rinse,” is all he said, and the marquess once more closed his eyes and leaned back his head obediently while Liralu sluiced away all of the soap. For a moment, his hair hung straight as it clung to his neck, showing its true length. The then marquess wiped the excess water from the margins of his face and ran his hands along it, and the curls began to reassert themselves.
Next came oils, which Liralu worked through carefully with his fingers. “I’m going to do your beard as well,” he warned, but the marquess stayed as he was to allow it, his head tilted back slightly with his back against the edge of the tub, his eyes closed. He used oils for shaving when required, but this felt different. Perhaps it was just the angle, looking down at his face instead of face to face. It provided an excuse for the extra care it took into massaging it into his cheeks, stroking along the hairs of his neck, lightly tracing around his lips. It would be so easy to trail his fingers lower, through the hair of his chest, his stomach, and then…but no. Such fantasies were for his own time. Breaching his professionalism would mean losing his place here, and his chance at even this much closeness. With a little huff he stepped back. “Shall I fetch your grace a towel?”
“Yes, if you please.” The marquess ran his fingers through his hair again, then gripped the edges of the tub to stand. Liralu took his cue to politely turn away to fetch one of the warmed towels, eliciting a grateful smile from his grace when he passed it over. The drying too had once been one of his duties, along with everything else. Now the opportunities for such intimacy were more limited, but also more special – rare occasions when his grace needed assistance dressing in something particularly complex, was being fitted for new clothing, or for some kinds of medical evaluations. His grace was comfortable with Liralu’s presence even if he wasn’t needed. Liralu averted his gaze mainly for his own sake, turning this time to fetch the green robe, which he held open for his grace to slip into.
“Is this new?” He held his arms up to admire it, then allowed Liralu to belt it and make some adjustments so he could better assess the fit. It was perfect, of course, and green always suited him, bringing out the colour in his hazel eyes.
“Yes, your grace. I hope it’s to your liking.”
“Very much, yes… it could use some embellishing, but I expect you planned for that?”
“I hope your grace does not find it presumptuous.” It wasn’t too much, was it? But the marquess smiled at him again, towelling his hair more thoroughly to keep it from dripping on the garment.
“I always appreciate your thoughtfulness, Liralu.” He seemed for a moment to be able to say more, but faltered, and merely offered another smile. It was probably for the best – some things were best left unsaid.
“Thank you, your grace. Shall I fix your hair, then?”
There was a chair set out for the purpose, and the marquess seated himself while Liralu inspected his implements. This was a more established ritual – he knew just what the marquess preferred. Occasionally he would ask for something different, or would ask for whatever was in fashion at the time, but this time he said nothing, so Liralu proceeded as usual. He wrapped another dry towel around the marquess’s shoulders and set to work. He usually cut it wet, then would dry it to make sure that everything was falling correctly. It usually was – he’d done this so many times over the years since his grace had come into his care that he knew the character of every curl, and just where to snip them to have them fall where desired.
His grace seemed to enjoy the process as much as the product: much like having his hair washed, he relaxed into it, making the occasional small noise of contentment. It was, he acknowledged, harder to gauge the effect with his beard looking like such an unruly mess, but that too was a familiar routine, though they didn’t always go hand in hand as they were today. Liralu hoped it felt as indulgent for his grace as it did for him as he worked the soap into a lather on his brush, then spread it carefully around the marquess’s face. The first pass was just to remove length, the second to cut it down to the skin.
Liralu took pride in many of the skills he’d learned in his position, and that included care for the instruments he used, but he always took extra time in his operations where the marquess was involved. The razor was freshly sharpened to give him the best control and finesse, for greater assurance that he wouldn’t make the unforgivable mistake of cutting his grace. His touch as he tilted his chin, angled just so to make the perfect cut, was careful and light, and though he did his best to keep his countenance professional, his heart was full of tenderness. Even at his scruffiest, when demands of work disrupted the usual routines, the marquess was handsome, but freshly groomed, he was stunning. This too, Liralu took some pride in, though he felt more like a curator of some rare fine art, finding the best angles and lighting to display it.
By the time the shave was complete, his grace’s hair was mostly dry, and Liralu could make final adjustments and present him with a looking glass for approval. This was always harder for him, not because the marquess was critical, but because he seemed to have an uneasy relationship with his appearance. He took great care in it when he expected outside visitors, and appreciated fine and stylish clothes, he just did not wish to look at himself in them. He did not even keep a mirror in his rooms. Whenever he was presented with one, there was always a moment of adjustment before he would engage with what he was seeing. It was heartbreaking. Liralu hoped that he could help him find more satisfaction in what he saw when he did look, and took it as another sign of trust and reliance. It was not his place to question or push for more.
It was his place to prepare his grace, however, and apart from the grooming was the questions of clothes for the visit. This felt like more solid ground, and provided a distraction from the mirror’s cold gaze. Liralu suggested a few options, considering their fit and style – his grace opted for the blue ensemble, a medium shade of velvet over a darker navy waistcoat. Blue was not quite so flattering as green, but he wore it well. The coat was a recent gift from his mother, and she would be glad to see him in it.
With that matter settled, it was time to escort his charge back to his suite, where his usual plainer day wear was already laid out. If he could have made an excuse to do so, Liralu would have stayed to assist, but the marquess didn’t need him for this anymore, and he’d indulged himself plenty already. Tomorrow would bring further opportunities. For now, he bowed his leave and accepted his grace’s thanks, turning the key in the lock behind him.