Casualty part two -- Obsessive Endeavors from The Chair

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Date Posted: 20:23:43 06/02/02 Sun
Author: voodoodolly
Subject: Casualty part two
In reply to: VoodooDolly 's message, "Casualty" on 20:20:15 06/02/02 Sun

Part two

She didn�t sleep much that evening, nor did she accomplish a lot of work the next day. Her mind wandered. Thinking, not about to her employer, but other things as well. Most of which, she tried hard to push down. As she was scrubbing the marble tile of the entryway, thoughts drifted to her mother. It was a natural progression, she told herself; how many times had her mother done this very thing, her own fingers growing wrinkled and red from the harsh water? Did her mother think of him, too, at those times?

No, she reflected, that was unlikely. Her mother had been such a private and somber woman. Not the sort to be distracted by such things. And Mr. Irons had probably never noticed her; certainly not in the manner he had shown last night. Her mother had been rather ordinary, not Mr. Irons� type at all.

They would have remembered her mother, of that she was sure. Aware, getting through the front door was only because of her relationship to a prior employee.

Only she�d never thought that she�d get hired � she had little experience at this sort of work, no true recommendations. Why had she even bothered to apply? Because she had nowhere else to go? Because, after her mother�s death, nothing seem worth any effort? Or because she had hoped she would find something �maybe the notion of simplicity?

The throbbing in her knees, helped to bring her back to her task. The day went in stages. From mop buckets and silver polish to thoughts of her own desires, then the chastising logic of her own common sense, calling her back to reality. By the time she had finished her work, she knew she had to deny him. It wasn�t right, no matter how needy and warm the feelings he invoked. She set in her room with firm determination, waiting for his dark henchman. In her mind, she went over every possible way she could tell Irons �no�. Eventually, the waiting got to her. Pacing, her hands shaking, the anticipation tying all her emotions into knots.

Sometime after one, with no sign of Nottingham, she laid her head on the pillow and fell into a tense sleep.

An early chill from the cracked window broke her dreams. She bathed, and dressed convincing herself she was relieved he had forgotten her so soon. When she touched her body, her urge and remembrance gave truth. It mocked her morals. All of the flesh tingled. Inside she tried to discard the aching frustration and worry.

It didn�t matter now, she told herself. She had work to do. With a final smoothing of her apron and a touch to her hair in its tight bun, she made her way to the kitchen.

But her resolve faltered as she entered the room and all conversation stopped. The rest of the staff was there � a small staff, especially for a house this size, but they managed. They were required to live in the residence; it was a bit old-fashioned, but it kept things predictable and manageable. Mr. Irons paid them well for this inconvenience.

Mr. Parker, the butler, lifted a silver tray from the counter. �I was afraid, I was going to have to come get you myself,� he said, his baritone voice holding a particular condescension. He held out the tray to her, and she took a certain satisfaction in noticing the liver spots and wrinkles in his pudgy hands. �Mr. Irons, has requested that you serve him his breakfast this morning.� She opened her mouth but was cut off. �Now would be a good time.� Turning on his heel, he strode out of the room.

The others made various excuses, and started to leave themselves. She was not alone. As she stood holding the tray, wondering what she was to do, Mr. Nottingham entered from the doorway that lead to the main hall. Without looking at her, he made his way to the table and sat down, taking a piece of toast. It was only as he bit into it that he looked up at her.

His eyes held nothing, no recognition, no thought, no emotion. They were dark and cold � as was he. Empty. Taking a step backwards, she turned and left, feeling his gaze pressed into her back.

By the time she arrived at Mr. Irons� private rooms, her arms hurt from the weight of the tray.

He sat up in the elegant bed, a smile on his pale face, from something he was reading in the newspaper he held. He was wearing a lavish robe of deep purple that brought out what little color was in his eyes. Making him look less moody than he had the last time she had seen him. Here, in his bed and robe, be almost looked comfortable.

As she set the tray over his lap, she had to lean forward to keep it from tilting. He made no move to touch her, and his eyes stayed on the newspaper, never acknowledging her at all.

Disappointed, she kept her hands in front of her. �Is that all, sir?� she asked quietly.

He didn�t move the paper, and from where she now stood, his face was no longer visible. The room was silent except for the faint hum of a mower coming from the outside. Dawn was slipping through a small parting in the drapes, a thin line of sunlight slowly reaching across the room. She followed it as it made its way across the middle of the bed, one sharp ray in the dimness. Unbidden, it reminded her of him � an intruder coyly slipping through a strong guard, uninvited, yet offering a small gift of clarity and warmth.

Unexpectedly, he put down the paper, the sound startling. She jumped and gasped, surprised, and he chuckled. �A bit skittish this morning, my dear?�

She couldn�t look at him. �No, just� if there is nothing more you require, I must attend to other duties.�

�There is nothing on your agenda today � or ever, for that matter � that should take precedence over me. Forget those little tasks, at least for the moment.� He arched one eyebrow, the corners of his lips turning up slightly. �I trust that you slept well last night?�

�Yes, thank you,� she answered trying to remain unmoved.

�Good � even though your lovely eyes do seem a bit dark this morning. Perhaps you should re-evaluate your answer. I abhor lies even small ones.� His voice was cold, distant.

�No, sir, I did not sleep very well.�

He nodded, looking down to his breakfast. Her own stomach growled as she watched him take a bite of his poached egg. As with all things, he was completely in control; the yellow of the yoke never spilled, didn�t even try to escape from the perfect white protein that held it. �It would appear you didn�t eat well, either. Breakfast is the most important meal of the day, my dear � didn�t your father never teach you that?�

Blinking, taken aback, she utter, "I didn�t know my father."

�Ah.� He took another bite, then continued, �That doesn�t surprise me. From what I have heard, your mother was - shall we say, very generous with her passion?� He said it as casually as if he were discussing the weather. �Don�t be offended, my dear. I�m only repeating what I have heard. Were you very close to her?�

�Not really. Did you know her at all?�

He chuckled, replacing the cup in its saucer. �Really, do you think I give such attention to all my servants? No, I�m afraid that she was only here a few years.�

She stared at him, aware that his hair was perfect, not one of them out of place. �Why do you afford me such attention?�

He chewed more slowly, and then swallowed before answering. �It is best not to ask too many questions,� he said softly. Then he smiled. �But for now, I will indulge you.� He patted the bed beside him, the invitation clear. �I must say, I find it quite interesting that you have come here. You are by no means simple or stupid. On the contrary, your records show that you are quite well educated, and quite intelligent. So I wonder � what is it you are running from? Or, perhaps, what are you looking for? Whatever would possess someone, of your abilities, to settle for a position in menial service?�

It was as if someone else moved her body. Pushing her forward, setting her down, digging the words out of her mouth. Keeping her eyes on the folded hands in her lap, shifting, trying to find a comfortable yet polite position. �Perhaps it is easier this way. Having a position with a lot of responsibility is tiring, and often frustrating. Here, I don�t worry with having to pay the light bill or deciding what to have for dinner or what to wear. Perhaps you are correct in one sense; I am not running from something, but more realistically, I think I am escaping from something. From the doldrums and obligations of everyday existence. Here, my day is planned for me, and it is physically challenging, but not mentally exhausting. While I work, my mind is free to wander, to pursue its own thoughts. And here, no one grades me on them. The expectations are minimal and thoroughly detailed. My worst offense is dropping a teacup, or leaving a smudge on a doorknob. And I am safe here. Here with in these walls nothing out side can touch me and there is no one to amaze.� Even though it seemed such a comfort to confesses to him, as if she could spill out anything he wanted to know. Still she felt a bit embarrassed. Also a bit shocked by how many words she had accomplished. How they slid out so easily.

Never taking his eyes from her he listened. The side of his mouth coiled up for a moment, then he continued eating his breakfast. After a few more bites he started to question her. �So, how is mommy dearest?�

�Dead.� The word was like lead; for the first time, she seemed to actually feel it.

�My condolences,� he said, and it sounded sincere. �So, then, you are alone?�

�Yes.� Her stomach made another noise and she wrapped her arms around her body.

He picked up one of the perfectly cut triangles of toast and spread a bit of currant jam across it. Then, leaning over toward her, he held it to her lips.

Instinctively, she turned away.

�You must eat,� he said politely. �I can�t have my possessions falling into ill repair.�

She stiffened at the words but held out her hand for the offered bread. He sighed and shook his head. �Open your mouth.�

Slowly leaning forward, letting her arms hold her weight, she took a small bite.

His smile widened. �See? That wasn�t so hard, was it?" His tone was seductive, and despite her instincts, she found herself giving in to him.

�So how did it work out with your friend?�

Eyebrows arched studying her, he shook his head. �Her lover died.� Frozen, briefly, his face held something. The fine eyebrows coming together in a knot, lips and cheeks drawn in, this giving off an almost skeletal appearance. Closing his eyes he let his breath out through his teeth. It made his voice into ridicule. �It was her own shortcomings, her own, impulsiveness. I tried to warn her that the affair was doomed from the beginning. Instead she went her own way and paid a high price for it.� His voice changed, as though he were trying to be even more sarcastic. But it came out as a whisper. �Truly a shame. Brings a tear to the eye.�

She sat, watching him, wondering how deeply this woman touched his life, then asked, � Will she come back?�

He sighed and opened his eyes. �Perhaps. It depends on her resolve.�

�To stay away?�

He smiled at her, seeming his old self. �To survive.�

The reply was accepted with a nod. Feeling it unwise to press she remained quite. He shared the reminder of the breakfast with her. Nothing else. Never touching but to graze her chin faintly with the back of his hand.

After they were done, he dismissed her. Sweetly telling her, �Later.� One word spoken in a way that made her fret and anticipate. And dread.

Evening came, the last lights of the long day extinguished. Night took the room and held it tight. Sitting on the edge of the bed, she didn�t want to break the spell of safety the dark gave her. Without light, she had the illusion of calmness, security. She could pretend to be in another time, another place, somewhere away from prying eyes and hands, from anyone looking for her. Wanting her.

In the blindness of the gloom, her thoughts were her own, no one could take them, twist them.

And she could convince herself. I will not go back to him. I will not let him inside of me. I will not let him consume me. The comfort of submission is not worth the price he will demand. His toll will be far too high. I will leave here tomorrow, go far away. I will not fall with this house.

Over and over she said it to herself, a mantra. She had to go, had to get away from him, from her own weakness.

Eventually, her eyes drooped and she fell asleep, the mantra passing into her dreams.

At first, the muffled sounds seemed to be part of her dreams. Then, a firm hand gripped her arm, drawing her up and awake. When she opened her eyes, the pressure of the touch was still there, real. The room was still dark, too dark to see, but she could feel the presence beside her.

Somehow she was not startled but strangely calm, groggy and silent. She didn�t resist as he helped her from the bed then guided her from the room. She registered sensations, feelings: the swirl of her nightgown around her knees, the plush carpet under her bare feet, the warm energy of his guiding hand on her arm. Were it not for the physical awareness, she would not have thought this to be real.

She didn�t want it to be, didn�t want to have to make the choice. A dream would have been better; she could wake from it without the guilt, the pain. She could accept what she wanted to have happen without concern for the ramifications.

When her guide spoke, she made it part of her imaginary state, her pretend dream. His voice seemed to come from far away, his words of little consequence because the situation was not real.

�You seek solace, a sort of redemption,� he said softly. �This place will never afford you sanctuary. Run, while you still can.�

In her denial, she wanted to ignore him, wanted to stay in the fantasy. But some part of her heard something in his voice, perhaps a hint of pain that lay under his perception of the truth. Despite her will, she spoke, challenging him �Like my mother ran? That was a mistake.�

Her own voice seemed to be as far away as his, and she wondered if she had actually said anything at all.

Their forward motion stopped, and despite the darkness, she could see the outline of a door � a different one, not the same one from the morning. Never the same door, she had been told.

As that vague realization skittered across her consciousness, he turned back to her, his face so close to her that for the first time, she could see his eyes clearly. Unlike the last time, now they were not empty of emotion. �Her mistake,� he stressed, �was that she came back.� And she recognized sorrow in the depths of his intense stare. Sorrow and hurt. Then he was gone, and she found herself at a threshold, alone and bewildered.

Before she could think, the door opened and another hand guided her through the doorway.

The room was alluring. It was the one that she had always preferred, her favorite of the twelve bedrooms in the huge mansion. Painted in burgundy, the trim a deep mustard; the combination was misleading, making it seem far larger than it was. The sparse furnishings gave it a simplicity that appealed to her.

He moved to the room�s only chair, motioning for her to follow. As he sat, he took her hand and guided her to the floor, her bare knees sinking into the thick rug. �I would not take much of what Ian says to heart,� he said softly. �He enjoys drama, more so as of late.� Then, casually, he reached to the table beside the chair and picked up the book that had been sitting open on top of it. �I find poetry very soothing this time of the night, don�t you?�

She frowned up at him, confusion permeating the fog in her head. �You brought me here, in the middle of the night, to read to me?�

He laughed. �Hush, my dear, and learn to appreciate my attentions. Unwind. Accept. I will protect you, if you will allow me to.� The glow from the lamp put odd shadows across the tenderness in his face.

With a sigh, she gave into his charm, to the moment. She leaned her head against the side of his chair, and absently, he placed his hand on it, letting his fingers flow through her long curls.

Sinking into the rhythm of his rich voice as he read to her, she relaxed. In a while, finding her face resting against his leg, his warmth passing to her. She closed her eyes, the poem becoming a lullaby that took her back into the dream.

You know nothing of your past. You have dreamed it,
Yes, most assuredly dreamed it.
I see your face in the rain�s gray brilliance.
November shrouds the landscape and my life.
And your life I know nothing of, nor do I wish to.

Your eyes murmur of remote cities, hazy-
I shall never see them
Or hear their names in your own voice.
November comes over me, and across the plain.
I watch you, unrecognized, drift this side of formerly.

And things long dead,
Irremediably:
Music and extinguished richness.
November stands at the door, I am sure of it.
I can see you heart giving life to what it forgets.

--O.V. de L. Milosz

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Replies:

Casualty part three -- VoodooDolly, 20:26:10 06/02/02 Sun

Re: Casualty part three -- Miculawitch1, 17:18:05 06/05/02 Wed