| Subject: Chapter 239 - Part 2 (16 and above) (end of chapter 239) |
Author:
KatherineG.
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Date Posted: Monday, April 24, 07:20:28am
In reply to:
Katherine Gilbert
's message, "Dreams in the Dark (chapters 221--?)" on Monday, February 13, 07:24:07am
It was this truth which was wracking her, her desire to have her husband back beside her *right now* about to drive her mad, when there was finally a knock on the door. Her heart jumped in hope, before she started thinking clearly again--Michael not needing to knock; she sighed, answering. "Yes?" It wouldn't do her any good to be rude just now.
Her visitor proved to be Joseph, the porter, whom she invited in after a brief exchange. She might look like Hell, but there was no helping that; she smiled at him wanly, as he brought her the mystery concoction. There were only so many miracles the studio could expect her to perform.
This wasn't true, of course--Premier expecting much more than miracles from her--but she didn't want to think about this now. She smiled at the man as warmly as she could manage, in her current sorrow, as he handed her the drink. Still, she didn't try it yet, not wishing to subject him to its inevitable results. There was only so much gossip she really needed to spread.
This man had done little to prove that he would spread or listen to such rumors, but she really wasn't thinking too deeply into her environment just now. He only smiled at her, his concern quite genuine. "How're you feeling today?" He had given all previous deliveries to her husband.
She managed to nod--her condition at least better than on the journey up, tried to reassure him. "Not too bad. Just a little . . ." She shrugged, giving up. Some things, it was better not to describe.
He didn't object, nodding at her. "I understand. Women get that way, at such times."
This seemed only a polite sort of comment, barely drew her real attention--but she managed to remain friendly, tired to her soul though she was. "Do you have a wife?" It seemed about the only conversation-starter she could find.
"Yes, Ma'am," he nodded--but the look was sad, haunted. She noticed it even more than the deferential way he had addressed her--this man at least a good 30 to 40 years older than she was; it was unsettling to have him defer to her, especially given the demands and prejudices of society which went with such expectations. Still, his words went on, drawing her in. "But she died, a good time ago now, along with my son." His gaze went distant; he seemed to barely notice he was speaking. "Over 20 years now." But that was the sort of revelation which was very difficult for her to answer.
He drew himself back to his surroundings in the next moment, smiling at her--trying to lighten the atmosphere. "But I don't mean to upset you with my stories." He started to go. "I'm sorry to trouble you."
It wasn't a trouble, of course, her look quite sympathetic--his information only playing into her fears. Her words were genuine. "I'm sorry." She only hoped that no one would have to give such condolences to either she or Michael someday soon.
He didn't know her terrors, was only stopped by the sympathy in her tone; the sigh he gave was deep, as he paused at the door. The move itself was odd enough, drew her attention--the porters usually doing their best to be seen and heard only when the passengers wished it. Finally, he turned back to her, his gaze cautious--as though he didn't dare hope to wish for whatever sort of bounty he needed. "I know I shouldn't do this. It's my job to serve you." There was another pause. "Still, . . ." He seemed a little afraid but finally met her eyes. "Could I ask you a favor?"
She could only really blink, had no idea where this was going--and even less of how unheard of this sort of treatment was. If his employers heard about it, he would be fired in an instant, despite his decades of useful service. His was a job many men would have done nearly anything to get, was about the only well-paying, and marginally-respected one--if such a term could be used for a position which entailed, essentially, the work of a servant--a man of his race could hope for. But she knew none of this, despite many similarities in the country where she had been raised. And she simply wasn't demented enough to come up with such expectations on her own.
Still, she nodded, waiting to see what he wanted--never wanting to promise any man "anything," until she heard what it was; her background had taught her that too well, however sympathetic he might seem. He let out a sort of sigh, returning toward her. "There's an actress who used to work for your studio. I don't know whether you know her." His look fell a little, seemed embarrassed to try to get out the next few words. "I think she works as a maid now."
Lord. Her eyes widened. Could he mean . . .? "Terry . . .?" His wide, haunted eyes met hers, before she could even complete the name; she nodded, wondering what all this meant. "I know her," she assured him. Although she never would have said all she knew.
This was probably for the best, even if he didn't quite believe her last statement--assuming she knew the ex-actress only as the maid of a friend. For the more open sort of rich people, it wasn't unusual to refer to their servants as their "friends." He managed not to shake his head. But God help the servant who actually treated his employer as an equal.
Still, this opening was enough. He moved closer, his hand reaching into his jacket pocket to pull out a letter; a second later, he held it out to her. "Is there any way . . .?"
He didn't even know how to finish the request, the very fact that he would ask her high treason against every requirement of his job, every expectation of the country. Still, she nodded, taking it--too surprised to think through any of this, unlikely to share the sentiments, even if she had. "Of course." But she still had no idea what any of this might mean.
He looked unbelievably grateful at her acceptance, nodding his thanks--his breathing slowing finally, some of the terror disappearing from his eyes. Still, he said nothing else on the subject, about to flee, before she could change her mind. There was only one last change of plans, just as he was about to reach the door, his voice quiet. Having already risked this much, there seemed little left to lose. "Do you mind if I give you some advice?"
This was only her second huge surprise, since the man's arrival--still holding what she assumed to be a fan letter in her hand. She was nodding, had to remind herself to answer out loud, the man's back to her. "Alright." But she wasn't certain whether it were going to be about delivering the letter or not.
It turned out that it wasn't, the mood before her shifting terribly. When the porter turned back, his look was almost red-eyed with sorrow, his voice nearly hoarse with it. "Whatever happens between you and your husband, treasure every day of it." His look grew even more devastated. "You never do know when the world's going to play a cruel sort of joke."
They were both caught in the look which ensued, Nikita's breath seizing at how close to her own reality his words were. Still, he seemed to catch himself a second later, looking horrified; there was clearly no further he felt he could push his luck, the moment over. After murmuring a "So sorry to bother you," he was gone. All she could do was watch.
Her surprise at this very strange meeting didn't diminish for quite sometime, but it did at least distract her slightly from her fears. Still, the man's words had also deepened her terrors, making it so very hard to forget what would be. By the time her husband returned with what passed for their supper, she had put the healing drink aside, pushed away the sandwiches, to just hold him close--needing him in her arms. Despite all the questions and concerns, there was no reason to focus on anything but their love. Nothing else could truly matter now.
[End of Part 239]
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