while I finally brought it up.
“You remember the day my father died?” I asked him.
His face grew somber, “Of course, I wouldn’t be here now if it weren’t for your father’s strong arms dragging me back.”
“He mentioned a chandelier that he made for you, before he died,” I said simply.
“I remember. I should have thought of that sooner. Let’s go take a look now; the hall should be empty at the moment. Better now than when they start getting ready for dinner. I’m sure you’ll want some privacy.” His eyes were full of sympathy.
We walked together and I was reminded again of how much I had come to value the duke’s friendship. “Your father was very good to me,” he said as we walked. “He had a lot of hidden depths.”
I nodded in agreement, not knowing what to say.
“Most people didn’t notice, because he didn’t waste a lot of time talking, but I could tell the first time he did some work for me,” he continued.
“What was it?”
James chuckled, “A broken axle on one of our wagons. It had broken a month before, on a trip to Arundel. I let the smith there fix it, but his weld didn’t hold up. Your father had some colorful things to say about that.”
That I could well imagine. He had always had firm opinions about shoddy craftsmanship. “I’m guessing he refused to re-weld it.”
James’ eye lit up, “That he did. Said it would need a newly forged axle and the old one should just be tossed in the scrap pile. I wanted him to just patch it up like before, but he wouldn’t hear of it. I thought he was just trying to get me to pay more, so I argued with him about it. You know what he told me?”
I had a fair idea what he might have said but I didn’t want to spoil the story. “No sir,” I said.
“He said if I wanted a ‘shitty job done’ I could damn well find someone else to do it. I thought he might spit fire when he said it.”
I started laughing, “What did you do then?”
“I had it taken to another smith. I was fairly angry with your father then. You have to understand, being a duke, and young, I wasn’t used to being talked to like that. At the time I seriously considered having him punished for insolence, but I held my temper. Two months later the axle broke again.” He paused for a moment as we went through the door into the great hall.
As we entered I could see the new iron wrought chandelier hanging above the high table. “What did you do then?” I prompted my host.
“I swallowed my pride and took it back to him. He never said a word about it, but his eyes told me all I needed to know of his opinion regarding my foolishness. I paid him double what he asked for when it was done. I never used another smith after that,” he smiled at the memory.
“I hadn’t heard that story before, but it sounds just like him,” I agreed. Staring upward I could see why my father had wanted me to come here.
Most people don’t think of iron work when they think of art, and in truth Royce had never been an artist, not in the strictest sense of the word. He simply did very good work. The chandelier above was simply designed, with long elegantly curved bars rising up to meet in the center, supporting a ring of lamps. I knew enough of his craft to guess where the welds were, but they weren’t visible. The metal had been lapped and hot welded carefully before he polished away any imperfections in the joins.
To an inexperienced eye it was merely functional, but my eyes could see the meticulous care he had put into creating it. It was perfect in every detail. I stared at it for long moments, till my vision grew blurry and I was forced to wipe away tears.
He hadn’t made it for me, or for anyone else. As with everything else he had built it simply for the joy of making it. His message was clear, even to me. Once again I could hear his words, for he had said them to me often, if something is worth doing, it’s worth doing right.
My father hadn’t always succeeded, for he was no more perfect than I was, but he had tried, in everything he did. I could only hope to live up to his example.
Afterword
It bears noting that my own father died just as I was starting to write this book. His passing had a large impact on the tone of the later story. Much of what was written here about Royce Eldridge was written remembering him and the things he told me during my own childhood. By necessity I had to change some of the language, but the spirit was there. His last scene in the story, and the epilogue were directly inspired by my own experiences during his last days. I can only hope he would have approved.
