Chapter 4
The eleven bidders did not all understand the night the same way.
Important.
I questioned them separately over the next two days.
Three thought the House Purse was harmless nostalgia.
They paid small amounts.
One asked Linnea to balance a spoon on her nose.
Stupid.
Humiliating.
Not conspiracy.
Four knew my father had revived it specifically to challenge my rules.
They participated because they agreed with him.
Two believed the reception was the beginning of something larger.
And two—
including Rosamund—
knew exactly what Benedict intended to prove.
That I had become too protective of people beneath me.
His phrase.
Not mine.
One older captain, Herbert Crane, told me:
“A boss who keeps servants comfortable eventually keeps enemies comfortable.”
I stared at him.
“You think those are related?”
“Compassion spreads.”
He meant it as warning.
I heard diagnosis.
These men did not merely miss old methods.
They believed hierarchy required visible humiliation.
Someone needed to be beneath the room for everyone above to feel where they stood.
Take away the humiliation and rank became less theatrical.
That frightened them.
The House Purse was not entertainment.
It was architecture.
Rosamund understood that better than I wanted to admit.
She had grown up around similar dinners.
Staff silent.
Guests entitled.
Cruelty disguised as wit.
When Benedict approached her with the idea, she did not ask whether it was wrong.
She asked how far she should take it.
That question ended something inside me.
Love remained.
Trust did not.
Again, different problems.
I removed my engagement ring from the small case prepared for our ceremonial exchange and placed it in my desk.
No announcement.
May you like
No decision yet.
But no pretending either.
