The Mysterious Man

The seamstress down at the shop had called him the most prolific womanizer in town. She said he climbed the social ladder as he climbed into women's beds. Mr. Desmond at Town Hall said he was a good-for-nothing deserter, said the man had run off with his trousers falling off at the sound of the first gunshot. The ladies that breakfasted in the Alcot room called him the most handsome man ever to walk the earth, but Donna from the bar called him as ugly as he is short. The only thing anyone was sure of was that there was someone new in town.

The town was tightly spaced, neighbors' windows aligned, and their lives were opened to each other. The village had relaxed in peacetime accommodations for years now. Newcomers were far and few in between. Everyone was quite weary of the great mundanity that plagued their lives. The only relief of this painful routine came from the endless gossip mill that ran the town.

The mysterious man rode into town at dawn on a black horse, or maybe he came at midnight in a white carriage; versions differed. The villagers woke up early to peak at the strangers and guessed who the newcomer was. Foreigners trotted down the street trading goods from carts, travelers wandered into shops, but none of these faces lived up to the rumors. Sunbeams slowly lit the town as the hours passed by and the villagers gawked at every face sight.

Night settled, and conversations over the mysterious man broke out once more. The men at the bar spoke and challenged a man they'd never met to fights or duels. They flashed their muscles and boasted of their conquests in both love and battle. They called the mysterious man a coward or a fool or woman, but most denied having seen him during the day. The proud Mr. Dernel said he saw the man dressed like a disheveled nobleman and pawned all his belongings for a gun. Many others claimed to have seen him, yet none said the same things.

Sitting in a circle, men cleaned the beer that dribbled on chins. Their voices were loud enough to be heard all the way to the city. Music blared in the background. The fisherman had a stubbly beard and wore a beer-soaked shirt. Mr. Dernel pulled his sleeves to show off his watch, and the Baker still had flour on his pants. 

"I could take on the man blindfolded!" yelled the fisherman

"You can't even face your wife!" The Baker said.

"Neither of you could, not with that gun of his!" Mr. Dernel added.

"Bogus, Desmond said he's a deserter. The bloody coward."

"He's not a deserter; he's a nobleman." Dernel insisted.

"Sherril said he's a war hero."

"He's a womanizer! Probably lied to woe her" 

"And probably succeeded."

...

The members of high society that lived in the town square had also taken an interest in this mystery man. The ladies gushed over his supposed looks; they hoped this man was noble, as many had said. Some planned their weddings when talk started over the newcomer. High lords and their sons fussed over business proposals that could be made. Lady Wildemore, the young wife of the richest and least intimidating Lord in town, became obsessed with him.

It happened that Lady Wildemore's curiosity overcame her, and she forced her poor husband to invite the stranger over for dinner. To everyone's delight, the man accepted. Small crowds stopped to stare at the Wildemore Mansion as night drew closer. Many who lived in the country rode into town to snoop around the neighborhood. But even as the hours passed, no one had spotted the fellow.

The villagers said that the gold bars around the columns were a bit gauche. The mansion overshadowed every other building in the area; Lord Wildemore's mother had made sure the family home made every head turn as they passed by. No foreigner could miss it, not even the mysterious man. 

Lady Wildemore was in the same agitated manner, but she had adopted a more graceful performance. She stood still and steady with her pulled-up hair adorned. Her emerald gown graced the marble floor as she cracked her knuckles quietly and paced at the door. A footman entered and trumpeted.

"Mr. James Smith"

Lady Wildemore let out a deep breath and clutched her stomach.

Footsteps grew louder, Wildemore peaked at the white hallway.

James Smith was not particularly short or tall; he had dry, mousy brown hair and plain brown eyes. His build was apt for any work, with no muscles in clear sight nor bone nor fat. He was not dressed as a soldier or a disheveled nobleman but wore a sensible old brown suit. His skin was smooth as far as the eye could see but was patched with blotches. He was not ghoulishly pale, but he wasn't reddened either, but he shed no impressive tan. He was simply the most ordinary man Lady Wildemore had ever set her eyes on.

...

The sounds of the workday started again. Chimes of opening doors, the chatter of traders, and the yelling of mothers woke the town. All anxiously traded stories about the night before: some promised that a man with a purple coat had entered the mansion, others told tales of a man in a dress that trotted in.

The town ladies met with Lady Wildemore for tea, all of them craving gossip.

"Is he tall, devilishly handsome?" Said lady Moley

"Not quite," Answered Wildemore.

"Is he horrid? slobbish and rude?" Asked Lady Yore

"Not so"

"Well, what is he then?"

"He is a common businessman from the city; he has a wife and two children at home. He came looking for a larger family home and is looking for good pricing. He is modest and plain in every way."

The ladies quieted, now toying with their tea. They fidgeted with their jewelry and pursed their lips as they looked out the window.

"I heard the most horrid rumor about Lord Leroy's estranged son," Lady Yore told the group.

Soon enough, their lively chit chat revived. They traded stories about this new mysterious man.