LETTERS TO HELLSING XVI

That afternoon we arrived at the library to find the door behind the spiral staircase, which had heretofore been locked, standing open. I glanced at Walter, then scurried to the opening for a peek inside. It was a study attached to the library and it had to be the coziest room I had seen since arriving.

There was a dark mahogany desk and chair with the requisite brass lamp with green shade tucked into the back of the room. There was a fireplace with a simple yet elegant wood mantle built into the wall opposite the door where I stood with a lovely oriental rug in front of the stone hearth. A small fire had been laid and was crackling merrily. To my left there was a small couch and two wing chairs in oxblood leather clustered around a low mahogany table on top of a smaller, even lovelier oriental rug. The mahogany was continued in the bookshelves lining three of the four walls which were crammed with novels including row upon row of paperback fiction. The floor to ceiling french door windows from the library continued into the study letting in the bright winter light and affording a lovely view of the gardens and grounds of the estate. I fell in love at once. It just looked so homey.

“What is it?” I asked Walter who had entered the room behind me.

“It’s the late Lord Hellsing’s study.”

“It’s wonderful.” I said. “So...friendly.”

“I thought you might find the seating here more comfortable.”

“Oh yes, thank you!” So, Walter had finally tired of finding me tucked into every odd corner of the library instead of using the chairs. Don’t get me wrong, I love old, hard, wooden chairs. I just don’t like sitting in them. Too much like school I suppose.

“Feel free to browse the collection in here but, please, do not disturb anything in or on the desk.”

“Certainly.”

“Shall we say two hours then?”

“All right.”

Two hours later, I had explored most every nook and cranny of that den. True to my word, I had touched nothing in or on the desk but that had not stopped me from looking.

It was a wonderful old desk, big and heavy with a large green blotter that had seen years of use. It had big, deep drawers with carved brass pulls. It even had an old ink well and quill set off to one side next to a handsome display of antique fountain pens. There was an appointment calendar dated from over 10 years ago with what appeared to be a tortoise shell comb just peeking out from between the pages.

Here there were also those lovely personal touches one would expect to see. An ashtray with a pipe. A paperweight very obviously made with the painstaking care of a young child wishing to please a father “on the occasion of his birthday”. Then, of course there were the photographs. One of a man and a woman holding an infant. Another portrait of a young girl of about twelve (Sir Integra perhaps as a child?) And a snapshot of three men standing in front of the manor. Two of the men, one of whom was the man from the family portrait and one whom I did not recognize, stood with their arms about each other’s shoulders like family or old friends. The third man was Walter. A bit younger perhaps, but it was him. He stood next to the man from the first photo but stiffly and slightly apart. Something about that photo made me feel sad and I suddenly felt like an intruder so I turned my curiosity away from the desk to the rest of the room which, unlike the desk area, showed signs of recent usage.

Several current titles in paperback, mostly science fiction, graced the shelves nearest the windows. I discovered a coaster and some pens resting on a side table next to one of the wing chairs and some recent newspaper editions in the hopper next to the fireplace neatly rolled into tight logs for kindling. I unrolled one. It was a section of yesterday’s New York Times containing the crossword puzzle. It was filled out in precise lettering, in ink, without error or correction. Walter, I thought shaking my head in admiration.

I again opted not to sit on the chairs, as comfy as they might have appeared, but had instead chosen the box seat which had been built into one of the windows just next to the furniture grouping. It was the one thing that did not quite fit into the homey but masculine decor of the room and must have been added later.

It was a white wooden box with a hinged lid and pretty embroidered cushions. When I peeked under the lid I found some lovely knitted afghans, a sewing kit, a sock in need of darning and a small box of delicate tatting. I again felt that sad sense of loss so I quickly selected an afghan and closed the lid.

When Walter returned he found me curled up in the window box under the blanket, ruminating over a Frank Herbert novel trying to decide if I should try re-tackling the Dune series. I glanced up from my book when I heard the mantle clock chime and there he was. I have no idea how long he had been standing there but, just for an instant, I thought I saw a shocked expression on his face as if he had seen a ghost. It was gone as quickly as it came making me almost doubt I had ever seen it. I blinked and his face was once again its usual bland polite mask.

“Hello Walter. Has it been two hours already?”

“Yes. I see you found the blankets.”

“Oh. I’m sorry. It was a bit chilly. I hope it’s OK.”

“No. Of course. I should have put one out for you... You find the room comfortable?”

“Oh yes! Very much so.” I said, relieved to feel the awkward moment lifting. “Have you read all of these?” I asked gesturing towards the shelves.

“Most of them.”

“I’m impressed.”

He shrugged, picking up my little stack. In addition to Frank Herbert I had also picked up a copy of “Will” by G. Gorden Liddy and a couple of Terry Pratchett novels. “Interesting Selection.” He said.

“I felt like reading old friends today.”

“Oh yes?”

“Gloomy days always seem to make me feel retrospective.” I said smiling.

“I see.” He said.

“Yes, a blanket, an old book and something warm to drink and I am quite content.” I was comfortable and stalling for time and he knew it but instead of his usual use of evil butler superpowers (such as, *shudder*, the quiet and patient yet disapproving stare) to roust me from whatever nook I was clinging to, he simply nodded his understanding.

“Well, I am glad to say I think I can be of some assistance in that Ms. Doyle.” He said crossing to the doorway. He retrieved a tray from a side table just outside and placed it on the low coffee table in front of where I was sitting. It contained a tea service with two cups.

“Goodness Walter, it’s like a magic trick. How do you do that? Do you keep trays of tea squirreled away everywhere just in case someone mentions it?”

“Nonsense.” He said. “As you say it is a dreary day and Sir Integra is away so I thought I would take tea early.”

‘Take tea’ I thought. I love it! God bless the British. “Oh yes?” I asked staring meaningfully at the second cup not quite sure on the exact etiquette of inviting oneself to tea.

“I had hoped that you would join me.”

“Oh yes please, it’s very kind of you.”

“Think nothing of it. Shall I pour?”

He poured the tea, Earl Grey my favorite (now that can’t possibly be in that folder. Can it?), and I tried to impress him by eating my scones English fashion, sweeting them one bite at a time, but my butter and preserves always seemed to run out on my plate before I ran out of scone. Walter’s plate, of course, always came out perfect. Each bite with just the right amount of clotted cream (does nothing for me, tastes like wimpy butter) and a dab of preserves a sip of tea and everything gone at the same time. Must be some genetic English skill that has been bred out of my line over the generations.

I also had some trouble balancing my cup and plate from my perch on the window box (In all fairness to me Walter had a side table). Leaning over to repeatedly retrieve my tea from the “coffee” table was uncomfortable and I was not about to rest it on the cushion and risk ruining that lovely embroidery. I suppose I could have just moved over to the other chair or the couch but instead somehow ended up sitting on the floor. Walter was not annoyed by this but actually seemed mildly amused by my “Japanese style” approach to an English high tea. He even told me an amazing story of a barely averted international incident involving Emperor Shōwa and a tea service which occurred during a trip he took to Kyoto some years back.

It was my first tea party at Hellsing and I enjoyed it a lot despite my fear of spilling or breaking something or otherwise behaving like an uncivilized colonial in front of Walter. Other than that, it was very relaxing.

Walter would absolutely not discuss work. My one or two questions about Sir Integra or what was going on in the lab were deftly deflected. I took the hint and I soon understood why. There was something about that room. It seemed to be a little separate space divorced from the rest of the world where one could get away from oneself and just, be. Walter had let me into his sanctuary much like Mr. Wemmick had for Pip in “Great Expectations” . I was touched and honored and felt the fragile beginnings of a friendship forming between two people who had, if very little in common, the need to just not be a part of everything around us for an hour or so.

Afternoon tea with Walter soon became a regular and gladly anticipated part of my day. By unspoken agreement, the relationship we shared in the study had no baring on our interactions during the rest of the day. Walter especially, seemed adept at compartmentalizing all aspects of his life into his varied “roles” serving Sir Integra and the Hellsing estate. I had more trouble with it but tried very hard to respect his wishes in this matter as I did not want to, even inadvertently, betray his trust. I owed him at least that much.

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As much as I enjoyed my first tea party in the study, I paid for my pleasure the next day. Word of my little stunt in the barracks had apparently reached the lab staff and they were positively livid over my “premature and unauthorized interactions with other [not potentially but established] non-human subjects.” They demanded both vampires appear in the lab first thing in the morning to begin “interactive testing”. Alucard of course, not only refused, but so vividly and descriptively elaborated his contempt of their summons to the technician who was sent to fetch him that the poor man had to be sedated and sent away for observation.

In answer to their complaint about Alucard’s behavior, Sir Integra had informed them that if they could not even handle one of his mild verbal tirades without a staff member being hospitalized, how did they expect to control him once they got him in the lab and started making him really angry? She suggested that they content themselves with Seras who, while cranky and complaining bitterly, had complied with their summons and was also far less likely to murder the entire lot of them.

So Seras and I spent several hours being poked, prodded and subjected to every stupid test the lab staff could think of until Miss. Pringle got the brilliant idea of doing a scratch allergy test on us with a silver pin and Seras “accidentally” punched her in the bread basket. I am afraid to admit that I was glad to see it happen. Stupid woman. (Good thing Alucard had not been there as he would not have stopped until every single solitary member of the lab staff was, not only dead, but disemboweled, dismembered, run over, burnt and their ashes scattered to the four winds. Unless, of course he was in a bad mood in which case his actions do not bear thinking. Either way, I never would have gotten the blood stains out of my clothing. Stupid, stupid woman).

Needless to say that after that, the staff became a bit more cautious around Seras. They picked Miss. Pringle up off the floor, handed us some specimen cups and pushed us out the door to the bathroom.

As we meandered towards the bathroom, Seras kept glancing at her cup with a puzzled expression. When we reached the door she looked up at me. “What should....I mean I don’t..” She started.

I raised a hand to stop her. “Seras, there are just some things that it’s just too soon to know about each other.”

We looked down at our cups then back at each other.

“We could just leave.”

“Or switch cups.”

We eyed our cups with evil in our hearts.

“Oh, that (giggle) would be wrong.”

“Yes. Yes it would be (giggle) very wrong.”

“Yes, very wrong indeed.” Said a voice behind us. We yelped and turned to find Walter standing about five feet away. How does he do that? He was giving us a thoroughly disapproving look. I felt like the principal had just caught me smoking behind the gym.

“We weren’t really going to do it Walter.” Seras said.

“No, of course not as that would cause confusion, generate more testing and extend the duration of both your time’s in the lab.”

“Oh!” She squeaked.

“Then of course there is the added expense. The wasted staff time. Quite...unacceptable.”

“Yes, of course.” I said with proper chagrin.”

“Ms. Doyle, Sir Integra has requested you meet with her in her office.”

“Certainly. When?”

“Now.”

“OK.”

“Miss. Victoria, you are dismissed from the lab for the remainder of the day.”

We smiled at each other glad to be released from the lab.

“But first...” Said Walter, glancing significantly at the specimen cups.

We sighed and trundled off into the bathroom.