Of Politeness and Protocol by Newton Webb
A Victorian Gothic Short Story: A recluse reluctantly enlists the help of a polite but manipulative Duke of Hell to master the manners of high society.
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1889, London
In the heart of a London winter a brittle frost wrapped itself around the black-iron railings of Edwin Ingold’s townhouse. Inside, the clock ticked slow and steady, a metronome to Edwin’s life of scholarly pursuits. Books towered around him, stacks of them perched on tables, others lay open across the floor like fallen leaves. He was in the midst of a fascinating volume on the histories of Byzantium—his latest obsession—when a bell rang. He didn’t expect visitors. They knew better.
The bell tolled once more, loud and insistent. Sighing, Edwin set down his book and trudged to the door.
Oh, of course, it is you.
“Brother, what a surprise.” Edwin opened the door and ushered his brother Percival in out of the cold. “It has been weeks.”
Percival stood there, slick with fog and cloaked in an absurd velvet coat, the colour of red wine gone sour.
“False, it’s been months.” Percival sneered as he looked around the house. “This isn’t a home, it’s a library.”
“Thank you.” Edwin nodded, looking at his books approvingly.
Percival gave him an evil look. “That wasn’t a compliment, you goat.” Flexing his shoulders he looked around for wine. Seeing none, he raised his eyebrows and pursed his lips. “Well, Father is unimpressed. You’ve had three butlers quit on you out of boredom.”
“I paid them. They brought me tea, cooked dinner, cleaned—”
“No. We spoke to Geoffrey. He said you wouldn’t let him clean, and you would only eat beef boiled in vinegar with root vegetables. So boring!” Percival didn’t try to hide his contempt. He stroked a book on the top of a pile, wiping the dust off onto his coat. He gasped when he saw it had left a mark and frantically tried to rub it clean.
“Nonsense, I just told him not to touch my books.” Edwin frowned at his brother. “What is this leading to?”
“You are thirty, and unmarried.” Percival resorted to a hip flask for sustenance. “It will not do. No, it will not do at all. Father has decreed that unless you are engaged within the year he will disinherit you.”
Edwin’s eyes widened with horror. “But, how? I don’t do society.”
“Well, my dear brother Edwin,” Percival said with a smug flourish, “I bring you a gift.” He held out an amulet. “We had this made in Grimsdyke, at considerable cost in both money and favours.” When Edwin hesitated, Percival waved it impatiently. “Go on, put it on.”
Edwin obeyed, and as soon as he wore the amulet, he saw a figure standing at Percival’s side. Tall and lean, dressed impeccably in black, the gentleman nodded with a sharpness that bordered on cutting. The man’s skin was pale, as though sculpted from marble, and his eyes gleamed a shade too green to be human.
“Can you see him? Can you see Duke Astaroth?”
Edwin raised an eyebrow, sceptical. He removed the amulet, then replaced it. “A ghost butler?”
The Duke spluttered. “Butler? I’m a Duke of Hell.”
“A demon and a gentleman—well, more or less. Think of him as… a companion. A guide. He’ll help you engage with society, something you’ve sorely neglected.”
Edwin’s eyes narrowed. His family was no stranger to the occult.Indeed, the family fortune could easily be attributed to it. His father had long since lamented his son’s reclusive habits, his aversion to parties, dinners, outings of any sort. Percival had always been his favourite. But this? A demon as a tutor in propriety? Surely even Percival could see the absurdity.
“Edwin,” Percival’s tone turned into pleading, “London has so much to offer. You’ve hidden from it long enough. Duke Astaroth has promised to be of assistance. He’ll get you a wife, whatever it takes.”
At the mention of his name, Astaroth bowed, an elegant motion that nearly concealed the smirk curling at his lips.
Against his better judgement, curiosity got the better of Edwin. “And how, pray tell, will he assist?”
Astaroth’s voice was as sharp as a well-cut suit. “I will teach you the art of gentility, of charm of… normalcy, if you will. Together, we shall cultivate in you a sense of decorum worthy of your standing.” He tilted his head, his eyes glinting… “Worthy enough to attract a suitable match.”
Percival clapped a hand on Edwin’s shoulder, relief flickering across his face. “There. That settles it.”
Edwin sighed, his spine tightening as if bracing for a storm. “Very well, then. We will see if this demon can teach me to conform,at least to conform enough to help me find a wife and satisfy Father.”
The next morning began with Astaroth requesting that Edwin leave the comfort of his study. “We will begin with appearance,” Astaroth declared, pointing to a fitted black suit of the finest wool which had been sent over by Edwin’s father.
As Edwin grumbled his way into the attire, Astaroth’s gaze sharpened, scrutinising each cuff and collar.
When Edwin finally looked in the mirror, he saw a stranger looking back—himself, yet smoother, a portrait of Victorian dignity.
“Now,” Astaroth continued, “you will learn to conduct yourself as society expects.”
What followed were days of endless drills on manners, etiquette, and the conversational arts, Astaroth whispering instructions into Edwin’s ear as he bantered with airheaded dandies. Edwin’s patience was wearing thin, but he endured. He only had to keep this up long enough to get married, then he could slip back to his books and boiled beef. Astaroth was relentless, dragging him to lectures, salons, and tea gatherings.
At each event, Astaroth whispered guidance. “Smile at the appropriate intervals. Offer a firm handshake—firm but not too strong.”
Despite his discomfort, Edwin obeyed, if only to hasten his reprieve. But it was at a grand dinner that Astaroth’s influence went too far.
Across the table, Lady Genevieve—a wealthy baroness with a penchant for lace and lilies—regarded Edwin with a flirtatious gaze. Her smile lingered, her fan fluttered, her eyes glinted under her lashes. Astaroth, looming over Edwin’s shoulder, leaned in.
“Pursue her favour,” he whispered into Edwin’s ear. “She is a good match.”
“I have no interest,” Edwin hissed, though he dared not meet Astaroth’s gaze. “This courtship—it is a farce—it is a game for fools.”
Astaroth’s expression didn’t waver. “If you fail, you’ll be disinherited. They’ll take away your books.”
“My books…” Edwin gasped. He looked down forlornly. “It is of no matter. Even if I did court her, I…” A tear rolled down his cheek. “I would not be able to make an heir. You see, I have a rather unfortunate and long-concealed admiration of the male derriere.”
“I see…” Astaroth growled. “Well, you talking to yourself and crying hasn’t helped your seduction one bit. It is time to head home.”
“It’s over, isn’t it? I’m doomed.” He scampered from the hall, ripping off his cravat and stumbling into the winter air. Astaroth trotted along beside him.
“I was given very specific instructions,” the demon said, his voice now stripped of all its charm. “In order to make you a respectable, married member of society, a task you’ve just made vastly more difficult for both of us, it’s not that we object to you indulging in lust for the male form. That we could manage. Indeed, it's more common than you might think. It’s the fact that you’ve committed the cardinal sin of appearing distinctly odd at a society dinner.”
Edwin’s lips twisted in despair. “This world of yours, this masquerade of civility. I’m not cut out for it. I am beyond saving.”
But Astaroth’s smile only widened, his teeth gleaming. “You misunderstand me, Edwin. I never fail. My instructions are simple. You will be a gentleman. You will conform. We just need to indulge in some more extreme measures.”
Edwin looked at the demon beside him. Astaroth removed his jacket and then slowly unbuttoned his shirt.
“What are you doing?” Edwin’s mouth felt dry, his eyes widening at the sight of the handsome Duke of Hell.
“Remove your jacket, shirt and undershirt. Now expose your chest for me.”
Edwin eagerly obeyed.
Astaroth slid his hand down his own porcelain-coloured, tattooed chest, stroking the inked sigil. It showed two vertical lines over a pentagram, with an upside down crucifix hanging from it.
Edwin stepped forward. “I must confess, I’ve never done anything like this before.”
“Oh, I’m aware.” Astaroth pointed to the sideboard.
Edwin followed his fingers until he saw the object he was being directed to. “A knife?”
“Pick it up. You will need to carve a replica of this sigil onto your own body.”
“Oh!” Edwin froze, his head hanging in disappointment. “I thought you—”
“Only then can my powers mould you into a gentleman. Only then can you keep your books and gain a wife. Extreme measures are called for.” Astaroth’s gravelly voice suddenly stopped as he looked at Edwin suspiciously. “Wait. What did you think I meant?”
Edwin grabbed the knife, moving to a mirror. The Duke slid behind him, his fingers drifting across Edwin’s torso, showing where the blade must cut. Edwin carved the sigil into his flesh. He gritted his teeth as pain seared through him.
Think of the books.
Astaroth watched over his shoulder, carefully directing him. When the sigil was complete, it glowed before fading into his skin with a searing agony. Edwin tried to scream, but his voice was caught in his throat. The amulet turned to dust and fell to the floor. Edwin crumpled to the ground, panting, shivering, every nerve alive with the unnatural change.
Astaroth crouched beside him, placing a cool hand on Edwin’s cheek. “There now. It’s all over. Politeness, protocol, decorum—all shall flow from you as naturally as breath.” He gripped Edwin’s face, his previously insubstantial fingers now strong, holding Edwin in a vice-like grip. Astaroth kissed Edwin, forcing his mouth open. Edwin gagged as he felt something stretching his throat, invading his body.
When it was over, he felt himself rise, against his own volition. He tried to speak, but it was as if he could see and hear everything but no longer control his own body.
“What…what have you done to me?” he asked mentally.
A voice, quite unlike his own, issued from his mouth. It was smooth and charming, with an affectation all too proper. Edwin’s face smiled as Asteroth declared impassionately,“Now I have fashioned you into the perfect gentleman.”
Days passed as Edwin walked through the streets of London. When he passed strangers, he tipped his hat politely, bowing his head just so. At gatherings, he engaged in conversation, his voice refined, his wit sharp as a blade. He had become the very model of Victorian civility. Yet inside he still fought against it.It was as if he was watching a puppet in action. His own flesh and his actions had been twisted and manipulated by the demon Astaroth.
At one such gathering, his brother Percival espied him across the room, a radiant figure clothed in black. Edwin’s eyes met his, and for a fleeting moment, a spark of recognition flickered in Percival’s gaze, followed by a look of confusion.
“Edwin?” Percival said in wonder, his eyes surveying the very model of culture his brother had become.
The figure masquerading as Edwin tilted its head, smiling, but the smile was hollow, a mask over a darkness that seeped through the cracks. “Ah, Percival,” he murmured, his voice low and polished. “A pleasure to see you.”
Percival’s eyes widened as he took in the stranger before him. “Jolly good show, old boy. I’ll be sure to tell Father that those gypsies deserve a bonus.”
The thing that wore Edwin’s skin had a glint in its eye, a sheen of something ancient, malevolent. “No need, I’ve already spoken to Father.” His lips curved in a way that sent a chill down Percival’s spine. “We are concerned about you. You have become all too frivolous. Father has asked me to make a man of you—a tribute to my own training.”
And with that, he bowed, his movements crisp, elegant, and precise. Behind that bow, the spectre of Astaroth lingered, always triumphant, his claws stretching out beneath the skin.
“No!” Percival looked at him angrily. “I made you. I did this.” As Percival staggered backward, he understood, with sickening clarity, that the consequences of his brother’s rehabilitation were soon to wreak havoc on his own life.
Astaroth, as Edwin, placed his arm around his brother’s shoulders. “Do not be concerned. It is an easy task. All you have to endure is a small decorative procedure. In fact, I can do it for you.” He smiled. “It won’t hurt a bit.”
THE END
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