Thedra

Mr. Bentham has returned from town. I know this because the maids are squabbling about who will serve him refreshments while I scrub the stone kitchen floor on my hands and knees, Evelyn’s favorite soul-crushing task for me these days. My knees are screaming with pain, my hands are raw with overuse, and the end is nowhere in sight. I know from experience by the time I make my way from one side of the big kitchen to the other, she’ll have me do it all over again.

Because there’s nothing else to do, I find myself listening in on the girls’ catty conversation, and feeling just a little sorry for Mr. Bentham.

“I’ll take him tea.”

“No, me. It was my idea, Viola.”

“He might not even want tea,” points out a third maid.

“Then let him turn me away at the door. At least it’s a chance for him to get to know my face.”

“I don’t know what you see in the master,” the third says. “He’s so ugly I can hardly stand to work for him.”

“He’s ugly but he’s rich. You could be mistress of this whole place if you caught his eye.”

“But you’d have to look at him every day, and let him make love to you every night. If he tried to kiss me with that awful mouth of his I’m sure I’d scream.”

“Just do it with the lights off!” a fourth says, and they all laugh raucously.

“No one is so ugly as to make that much money unattractive.”

“Viola’s right, I’m going for it. Now give me the tray.”

“Not a chance.”

“What’s all this fuss?” Evelyn’s harsh voice cuts across the maid’s squabbling, and I cringe reflexively at the sound.

“Viola was just—”

“Silence. Is this how you spend your days? Idly gossiping about your master? Have you forgotten he’s the one who pays your salaries? You girls will treat him with the respect he is due, is that clear?”

“Yes, Mrs. Murdock.”

“You girl, Thedra,” she addresses me and I struggle to my feet, my knees aching.

“Yes, Mrs. Murdock?”

“The master caught a chill on the ride home this morning. Go and build fires in all the upstairs rooms.”

More chores that can only be done kneeling on stone, I think wearily. But of course, Evelyn knows that. It’s why she picked me. I notice none of the maids are fighting for this job, despite the opportunity it presents for running into Mr. Bentham.

“Yes, Mrs. Murdock…”

I go from room to room with my task, sweeping out yesterday’s ashes and rebuilding a fire in each stone hearth. So far there’s been no sign of Mr. Bentham, and I’m glad. After our encounter in the stable yesterday I’d just as well avoid him.

I enter the final room, the master’s big, solemn library, and I gaze momentarily up at the rows of books along the wall. I miss reading. Growing up, it was my greatest delight. But I haven’t had time to myself to read a book in years, or money to own even a single volume. In fact, years ago when my family first began struggling financially, my father’s library was the first thing to go.

Catching myself dawdling as I look up at Mr. Bentham’s wonderful collection, I hurry to the fireplace to kneel on the stone hearth. Just then I hear the door open, and the now recognizable sound of my master’s footfall clips across the hardwood floor. My whole body goes rigid with tension, but I know I must rise and greet him properly. I do just that, conscious of my soot stained uniform, and of what a sight I must surely be.

“I was just preparing your fire, Mr. Bentham.”

He hesitates a moment, looking at me I think, though I dare not meet his gaze. Then he dismisses me with a curt:

“Carry on.”

I turn quickly, grateful for the moment at least he’s displayed no sign of recognition for my indiscretion yesterday. Behind me, the master takes up the seat in front of the fireplace, and I hear the faint sound of pages turning as he opens a book.

I’m just starting to sweep out the hearth when I brush just a little too vigorously and send a cloud of ash straight into my face. I sneeze, not once, but three times in short succession.

I’m so embarrassed; I can feel Mr. Bentham’s eyes on the back of my neck.

“Bless you.”

“Thank you, Sir,” I wipe my nose on my sleeve.

“Are you alright?”

“Yes, Sir. Please pay your humble servant no mind.”

I hear a faint sound, the turning of another page, and I wilt a little with relief. He’s gone back to his book, and hopefully he’s well on his way to forgetting all about me.

I must hurry and finish this task so I can disappear from his sight.

Roderick

I’m weary from my short stay in town and my long ride through the rainy countryside. On arriving home I took a bath first thing, then decided I’d rest inside for the remainder of the day.

On my way to my library where I’ve already collected a mountain of books, I make a mental list of other volumes I’d like to add, since I mean to make my stay here permanent. Of course I could just bring my collection from town, but I rather like the idea of keeping duplicates in each place of residence, that way I’m never without my favorite books.

Upon arriving at my destination I wasn’t expecting to find that maid here, the one who fed my horse yesterday. The girl with the scar on the back of her neck.

I realize now why I’ve never seen her face; she never looks up. Always her face is tilted towards the ground. Out of shyness, I wonder? Or is she just terrified of me?

I take the seat before the fire and stretch my legs out comfortably while the maid kneels on the stone hearth. Her sneezes are startlingly cute, and I very nearly laugh at the sound. Somehow, I manage to restrain myself, and eventually return my attention to my book, but it’s a little hard to concentrate.

I find my eyes keep returning to her figure knelt before the fireplace. Shapely and feminine, with graceful motions even as she performs this humble servant’s task. I recall thinking it once before, the first time I laid eyes on her, that she had the air of nobility.

Before I realize it several minutes have passed, and I’ve done nothing but stare at the back of that girl’s head while she worked. I’m a little startled when she begins to rise from the now cheerfully crackling fireplace, and my head snaps back down to the page in front of me.

“Will there be anything else you require, Mr. Bentham?”

I clear my throat.

“Have Mrs. Agate send up some of her smoked fish with crackers.”

“Is that all, Mr. Bentham?”

I hesitate, glancing up at her, attempting briefly to catch a glimpse of the face that’s always turned away from me, but even from this angle I can’t discern her features. I see only that her forehead is soot streaked and perspiring. She seems very tired.

“You’re dismissed.”

She curtseys in response and I follow her movement out of the corner of my eye all the way out the door till it closes gently behind her. Then I release a short breath I wasn’t aware I was holding and turn my attention back to my book.

What was I reading again?