4.

By the time Childermass comes into the service of Gilbert Norrell, some two and a half years later, he likes to think that he has come up in the world. He has sold himself a few times more, here and there, as needed— mostly in those early days, when he was still meeting the cards. He is still a thief, but nowadays he can supplement his income by reading the cards for people who'll pay for it. He will never make a fortuneteller— he is too accurate by half, and has no interest in telling folk what they want to hear, and furthermore he has still that crow-like aspect and that off-putting, insolent, witchy look— but it something.

And then, to his surprise, he is in service: with a steady income and a library full of magic books. How has this come about? Well, that is another story. What is perhaps significant to tell here is the strangeness of those first few months at Hurtfew Abbey. Childermass has never been in such a house before, nor worked in such a position. He is not well adapted to either. It is a house that is designed, he thinks, as all grand houses are, to make folk such as him feel as low as dirt— to make him feel uncouth and uneasy. He responds to this in a very typical manner: by doing the opposite of what the house wants, which is to say by become ever-more-exaggeratedly ragged, by preserving his accent and refusing to put on airs, by being as much himself as he can muster. Perhaps this is a kind of arrogance. Certainly it is viewed as such by those around him, who already wonder why he is there.

Norrell seems not to notice such behaviour. It certainly does not seem to occur to him that anyone else— servants, visitors, booksellers— might in some way disapprove of it. In the second year of Childermass's employment, Norrell begins sending him out across the country in search of books. Childermass goes to many grand houses, and some not so grand that show the sad signs that once they were. He meets each one with the same obtuseness. They will not have an effect on him. The owners are offended, or at best only startled. But it becomes known that Childermass is Norrell's man, and that Norrell is not someone you want to cross.

Still, here and there he runs into resistance. In the third year of his employment, out in Derbyshire, he deals with a middle-aged baron named Thomas Hurttles. Hurttles has just come into his title and lands, after resentful years waiting on his father's decease. His father knew the worth of the family library, but the younger Hurttles does not care for books, and is just has happy to sell the lot of them. Childermass has come to inspect what is on offer.

Hurttles, however, is resistant to this idea. When Childermass is shown into the room, Hurttles looks him up and down in obvious disbelief. "And who are you supposed to be?" he says.

"I am Mr Norrell's man of business," Childermass informs him.

"Norrell's man of business indeed! I should not be surprised if you had murdered the man and stolen his papers!"

"I am here to inspect the library," Childermass says somewhat wearily. There are times when he quite enjoys these little confrontations— he relishes in creating unpleasant little scenes, for the same reason that he refuses to submit to the houses— but he has ridden a good distance, and is not in the mood.

"Inspect the library? I daresay you cannot even read!"

Childermass says mildly, "Would you like a demonstration?"

Hurttles does not require a demonstration. He looks over Childermass's papers once more very dubiously. He says, "I suppose it is not my business what sort of man Mr Norrell employs. I suppose you have your... uses. I did not know Norrell was that sort of fellow, thogh it does not surprise me."

Childermass rolls his eyes, but says nothing.

"Still, the least he could have done is offered me free use of your services, if he is going to ask me to welcome such a man into my home. Perhaps he does not like to share. It is very ungenerous of him. In fact I find I am quite offended." Hurttles looks at Childermass. "It is a mistake, maybe. He would not want me to be offended. It is a mistake you may remedy."

Childermass stares at him coldly. "I am here to inspect the library," he says again. "That is the instruction I have been given."

Hurttles shrugs with faux-indifference. "I suppose you must crawl back to Yorkshire, then. I find I do not believe you. I require further evidence of your sincerity."

Silence lies between them. Childermass considers the matter. He can, of course, return to Yorkshire and describe this misbehaviour to Norrell. Norrell will not tolerate it. However, this would require describing and, possibly, explaining the Norrell the distasteful assumptions that Hurttles had made. Childermass does not care to discuss these with Norrell, nor does he like the very slim risk that it will raise questions about his own familiarity with the topic. Returning would also mean admitting defeat, which he does not like to do. It would cast doubt on his ability to conduct his business.

He says rather icily, "What evidence do you require, sir?"

Hurttles looks him up and down, a lazy and distasteful smile beginning. "Oh, I'm sure we can think of something."

He has Childermass get on his knees first, right there in the parlour, and take him in his mouth.

"I assume you know what you're doing," Hurttles says. "I suppose you've had a great deal of practice."

Childermass says nothing. He applies his tongue and lips. He could, he thinks, probably finish Hurttles off quite quickly— he acquired some small skill at this, during his time in Whitby. He could have a look at the library and be back in Yorkshire tomorrow. Back in the clean, remote, isolated silences of Hurtfew. Back in the library. Warm dust smells. Scent of leather.

Hurttles puts a heavy hand on his head. "Slowly," he says. "I'm going to enjoy this a great deal."

Childermass closes his eyes briefly in frustration. Slow it is, then: applying suction, allowing Hurttles' prick to slide against his tongue, feeling it wetly jab at the back of his throat.

"Yes, very nice," Hurttles says. "You have the right kind of mouth for it. I suppose Norrell has you do this constantly."

Childermass cannot imagine Norrell even considering such a notion. He suspects Norrell does not know the act exists. It is something he appreciates about Norrell, that curious streak of ignorance in him.

Hurttles grips his head hard and rides his mouth for a moment, thrusting in and out and all the way in, dragging Childermass's mouth down to the base— then pulls him off, panting a little. "Lick it," he says. "Lick it. Just your tongue. All over."

Baffled as ever by the mysterious things that men desire, Childermass obliges him: painting his prick with long licks, running his tongue along the head, tilting his head to caress the underside. When prompted, he sinks lower and laps at the scrotum as well. He is aware that Hurttles is watching him— presumably enjoying the spectacle.

"This is where you belong," Hurttles says, "on your knees before your betters. I'm going to have you after this, fuck you hard, send you back to your master still full and wet with my seed. Perhaps he will think better of employing such offensive servants."

Childermass has such a contrary nature that he cannot resist pausing to comment, "I do not seem to be giving much offense at the moment."

Hurttles clearly struggles for a moment to believe that Childermass can actually have been so openly insolent. Then he seizes Childermass's hair and shoves his prick in his mouth. All the way down, until Childermass chokes on it. He stays there for a long, long, agonizing moment, until Childermass sees white lights in his vision, and thinks that in a moment he will be unconscious. Then Hurttles withdraws and proceeds to fuck his mouth savagely, thrusting into his throat over and over again. When he finally restrains himself and pushes Childermass violently away, Childermass feels quite weak and light-headed. A lesson to himself, he thinks. Don't indulge your mouth. But: oh, it had been satisfying to say.

"Get your breeches off,' Hurttles commands curtly. To Childermass's look: "Yes, here, on the floor. You think I would take you into my bed?"

Of course not, Childermass thinks tiredly. Perhaps he is getting spoiled by Hurtfew Abbey's comforts, that he would think about such a thing as a bed. He kicks his shoes off and removes his breeches, kneeling.

Almost immediately Hurttles is on him, pushing two wet fingers inside his hole. Childermass cannot help a wince. The man clearly has little idea what he's doing, or else his own pleasure is secondary to him; at least the sailors in Whitby were after enjoyment, and were courteous customers, for the most part. This is rough and unpretty, and Hurttles does not stretch him very much before he starts to shove his prick in.

"Slower," Childermass hisses.

"Does Norrell do it slower?" Hurttles ask mockingly. "Does Norrell take his time? Is he very sweet?" He responds by taking hold of Childermass's hips and pushing himself in more forcefully; pushing, in fact, until he is all the way in, until his prick is stretching Childermass rather painfully. He starts fucking him roughly almost at once.

Childermass tries to relax, and it does get easier— his body accepts Hurttles' prick, and Hurttles gets distracted by his own pleasure, forgets to be rough, starts giving him long thorough strokes instead, moaning and pushing deeper and deeper. It isn't easy, but it doesn't smack so much of violence.

He doesn't last very long before he's groaning and gasping and finishing in a burst of wetness. When he pulls out, he sticks his fingers back in Childermass, rubbing that wetness into him, pushing it deeper, making Childermass feel it acutely. "Take that back to Norrell," he says, "you insolent filth."

He would be disappointed, presumably, to know that Childermass does not— that he stops at an inn in rural Derbyshire and scrubs himself clean. Childermass is meticulous about his own cleanliness, these days. No one can call him dirty, filthy, and find any truth to it— not at Hurtfew.

Nevertheless there are things he cannot hide. When he reports to Norrell, he is still sore enough that he has the barest hint of a limp. It had not been easy riding from Derbyshire. He sees Norrell notice it; waits for him to ask. But he does not ask. It is as he had suspected, he thinks: Norrell doesn't know what to ask. Norrell hasn't the slightest idea about things like this.

It makes him feel oddly happy. He is glad to be home. Not that Hurtfew is his home; it isn't. He has no home. And Gilbert Norrell is not his friend. Still, as a place to come back to, it could be worse.