AN: Just an idea I had in my head, and I decided to write it down. I hope
everyone enjoys!
~
Prosperine
~
In this world, one cannot take simplicity for granted. This I have learned from a lifelong experience. I am not a careful man, nor did I earn anything that has been given to me. It was pure luck that I happened to be born into an extremely rich family. Everything I see before me, day by day, was given to me by the generation before. And I will pass it on to my only son one day, so that one day, he too will stare at his vast accumulation of material possessions and wonder which of his long dead ancestors actually worked for these luxuries. However, I remain in hopes he will not feel the same emptiness I do. I have nothing left of the life I wished to live. A lonely void replaces all I've lost – my love, my goals, my happiness. My son. But above all, it is the simplicity in my life that I miss the most.
~
My name is Maxwell Morgan. Aside from that, I'm not sure who I am. I often wonder what would have become of me if I had been born under normal circumstances. A mother, a father, maybe a sibling or two… a medium sized family in a medium sized home, with a middle class income and a veil of normalcy covering all the eye can see. I would have gone to school, gotten a job, grown older and married a woman I love, raised children with the same blissful monotony that to this day I have never known.
But none of that was for me, of course. My family was fabulously, ridiculously rich, and as the son and heir I was treated better than royalty. As a child, and even as an adolescent, I enjoyed myself tremendously, but it never occurred to me that there might be other children like me that weren't doted on. It was always a shock when I was exposed to the servant's personal lives—one of them telling an anecdote, or something that had happened to them recently, and then all of them laughing or offering sympathy, whatever the story's subject. I would be hiding, watching, listening; the slow realization dawning on me that the servant's lives did not revolve around me. It may seem selfish, but that was all I had ever known.
As a young adult, when I had a few responsibilities on my shoulders, I realized the ignorance of my childhood and felt disgusted. I resolved that when I had a child, he or she would be as worldly as possible. My child would not grow up blindfolded. And I wanted to be a father. I married quickly, so I could raise a child of my own. The woman I wed was, of course, chosen by my parents, and I told myself that day I would let my own child choose for themselves. Time seemed to speed by, and before I knew it, I was presented with a son.
I was, for a time, happy. I would carry him with me through the vast estate, and when his mother fussed, I bought him a stroller. It was a new experience, to have my own child, and for a while, I enjoyed it. But the truth was always settled at the back of my mind, at the core of my being, only manifesting itself when I would show friends or family my small boy. Their smiles would slip for a moment, hesitate, and something like "He looks so much like his father," would burst forth from them, replaced by an extremely uncomfortable look. Under any other circumstances, this would have been a perfectly normal thing to say, but the unspoken question always hovered silently in the air. Why doesn't he look anything like your wife?
I took my son on walks less frequently; I avoided seeing him when I could. I would take an alternate corridor around his room, so I would not have to listen to his crying or his bubbling laughter. I assigned servants to love him in place of me. Especially one servant, whose eyes turned cold when they settled on me. She spent the most time with him. She knew the truth. And, of course, why wouldn't she? He was her son. She was his mother.
Instead of feeling happy when I heard him say his first word, I felt terrified. Would he tell the truth? Instead of running to hug him when he scraped his knee the first time, I told a servant to go take care of him. Her. Let one parent take care of him, at least. I didn't pay attention when she told me he had a high fever. I waved her away irritably. I didn't want to see my son anymore. Or her. Or my wife. I didn't want to be reminded of what I had done. I didn't feel like a father anymore. I felt like an adulterer. Granted, I was both. But one seemed to outweigh the other, and I ceased playing a role in my growing son's life.
~
Everything has a beginning and an end. The loss of my simple life had two beginnings, one being the day she came, and the other being the day he was born. As I watched the days unfold before me, each a new page of the most monumental change my life would ever undergo, I realized the end was nowhere near. It was somewhere with my son, far away, because he is the living embodiment of everything that had happened. He is the beginning and the end. And he doesn't even know it.
~
I was young then, and hopeful. I knew that my life had just begun, and that everything had been laid out for me. I reclined back on my overstuffed antique reading chair, staring at my wife as she daintily sipped tea that a servant had just given her. She was pretty, with maroon hair tied in a bun and deep brown eyes. I chose her first, and we'd married about a year ago. We still hadn't had a child, and although I was growing impatient, nothing could bother me on a day like this.
It was the prime of spring, and everything was green and new. Outside the birds sang and the fountain trickled peacefully, inside all my inherited possessions were caught in the warm glow of sunlight. Days like these made me want to abandon all my duties as the man of the house and run outside, but of course that was ridiculous. However, I still enjoyed the peacefulness that came with spring mornings like these.
Abruptly the serenity was broken by a loud pounding on the doors. My wife glanced up, wondering what the racket could be, and several servants rushed to the doors. I heard words being exchanged, some loud and some soft, before a timid maid appeared before me.
"Excuse me, sir," she said, staring at the floor, "There is a woman at the door wanting to speak to the head of the house."
I nodded and rose, and walked to the door with my wife trailing behind me. The servants parted to either side as we approached, and I found myself staring at the source of all the noise.
She was perhaps a few years younger than me, the same age as my wife, but the two women were stark contrasts. Where my wife was dainty, she was strong; where my wife was pretty, she was plain. But I could not stop looking at her nonetheless. Her hair was an odd shade, a very light pink, but her eyes were what captured me and held me there. They were black. From iris to pupil. Totally black. I had to tear myself away when I realized she was speaking.
"I want to work here," she declared in a deep, commanding voice. It was as clear as a bell and twice as forbidding. I let my eyes roam over the rest of her. The dress she wore was hardly a servant's dress and the bags she carried bulged with so many things I knew instantly she was a runaway. We never took in runaways, ever. They were complainers, they didn't know what they were doing, and they almost always ran away again. But this girl was different.
"Listen," she said as my wife opened her mouth to send her away, "I can cook, clean, do laundry…" for everything she could do, she raised one finger on her hand, "I'm a good talker and listener, I'm educated, and I love kids!"
"We don't have any children," my wife said softly, and I watched her collapse in on herself.
"I'm sorry."
My wife stepped up beside me. "We don't have any room for more servants," she began, just as I said, "Come in and tell us more about yourself."
Both women glanced at me, one looking appreciative and the other disconcerted. I realized what I'd said and, for a moment, stood in the doorway like a fool. I wondered what on Earth had come over me. The silence was grew uncomfortable, and I knew I needed to follow through on my actions. I invited her in.
We sat in a large room, my wife and I sitting side by side, facing her. Unlike most other new servants, she didn't stare in awe at our large mansion. Her eyes never lingered over some of the more expensive items, she didn't gasp at the size of our banquet halls and libraries. Obviously, she was used to things like this. Of course, she'd run away from it, as well. Why would she come back?
We questioned her background, her family, her schooling, and everything else that would have been pertinent information for an applying servant. Some of the things she said did not make sense, some didn't add up, but I didn't force her to tell her true life story, and I silenced my wife when she tried.
I don't even remember many of the things that were said. I stared at her face, her eyes, and several times she caught me and I looked away hurriedly. But my eyes would always slowly travel back to her. I couldn't help it. Her nose may have been too large, and her lips too small, but everything about her came together in such a way that made her the most beautiful woman I'd ever seen.
After a while, my wife gave me a sidelong glance. She saw me staring at the new prospective servant. Standing, she announced crisply, "I believe that will be enough. I will show you to your quarters now."
I knew that tone. My wife could be a jealous person. She had had the same childhood as I, being given all she had ever wanted and more, and when she came across someone who she thought might have an advantage over her, she would treat them as poorly as possible. I rose.
"I'll come, too," I said, fumbling to look like the head of the house. I didn't want my wife to question me, and make it known that I never came when she would show new servants to their rooms. Luckily I got by with a cold glare, and we headed off to the farthest part of the East wing of the mansion, where the servants lived.
"You'll stay here," said my wife, gesturing to one of the poorest rooms. It was usually saved for a servant or butler that did a particularly bad job.
"No!" I exclaimed. Both women turned to me. "No," I continued, more quietly, "that room has a leaky carpet."
"Carpets don't leak," my wife commented dryly.
"Nonsense, woman! Of course they do. Come." I didn't know where I was going, and they followed me. I felt ridiculous. I knew I had to stop, but somehow, it was impossible. I found myself in front of one of the largest and most luxurious rooms. "Here," I said.
"No, she cannot have that room. Maybe after ten years of service, Maxwell, but not now. Why don't you let me take care of the servants? I know what I'm doing," she added.
"Are you questioning me, wife?" I asked slowly. Her eyes widened, and then she bowed her head.
"No."
"Good." My arm swept the expanse of the room. "You may put away your things here." She nodded; her black eyes on me all the time.
"Thank you, sir," she murmured softly, and I had to fight to keep my composure. Thin as her lips were, they were certainly inviting. I turned on my heel.
"Come, my wife, let us retire," I said, knowing that staying a minute longer would be disastrous. I could feel her dark eyes on my back all the way down the hall. I found myself wishing I had married out of love instead of hurry. I should have waited for her. With a start I realized I didn't know her name. I resolved to change that.
The next day I made excuse after excuse to go and see her, even if it was just a glimpse. I watched as she pondered over bed making and fumbled through dish washing. It was plain she'd never had experience as a servant, or as a functioning member of a household. She didn't even know things I knew. And I'd never worked a day in my life.
Finally I grew fearful my wife might fire her with all precedence. She was doing a terrible job and I knew soon she would be thrown out. I wandered from room to room, deliberating, when finally I found en elderly woman hanging up clothes. She looked as if she had served another person since she was born. I smiled.
"You," I said, as commanding as possible, and the old woman straightened fearfully. "What is your name?"
She stared at me for a moment, then replied. "Ohisa," she said sofly.
"Ohisa, do you know the newest servant girl? She just came yesterday," I said hopefully, wanting to learn her name.
"I know of her, but only how she looks." At my frowning countenance, she added hurriedly, "I'm sorry, sir."
"It's alright. I have a task for you, so listen closely. This new servant girl is not performing her duties to the utmost efficiency. She obviously does not know what she is doing. Please help her." I struggled to keep it at that, but failed, and continued, "And report everything to me at midafternoon each day." That was the time my wife usually laid down for a short nap.
The woman's old eyes lit with a kind of conspiratorial glee. "Of course, sir." I could have sworn she'd winked.
I spun around so Ohisa would not see the red blossoming on my cheeks. "Thank you," I said. "From this day forward your wages are doubled." The soft gasp that came from behind me told me she'd heard my words and they were acknowledged.
~
Her name was Prosperine. Not a servant's name. Nevertheless, it was a beautiful name that played over and over in my mind until I could have written it forwards and backwards in my sleep. From Ohisa, I found that she liked sweet things, like cake and chocolate. She liked pokemon as well, which interested me because I had never wished to have anything to do with them. She told Ohisa that her favorite kind was growlithe, and that one day she would have liked to have one.
My wife asked me why I was suddenly stocking up the pantry with candy and sweets. I told her I had a sweet tooth, and she knew I didn't. I knew she knew what was happening, I knew she felt disgusted by it, but I also knew that there was no love between us. I didn't understand why she was getting jealous in such a petty way; after all, it was her who controlled half the money in the household. A feat Prosperine would never accomplish, although I wished she would.
I was happy to hear that Ohisa and Prosperine were becoming good friends, and I was even happier to find that not one dish had been broken in the month that I sent the old woman to help her. Surely now my wife would have no reason to throw her out of the house, and perhaps she would stay for a very long time. But if those two facts made me happy, what Ohisa reported to me the next week was the very best of all.
Spring was slowly giving in to summer, and the estate was covered in robust yellow sunshine when the old woman came to me. She looked pleased, and instantly I was smiling as well. "What is it?" I asked.
She set her cleaning things down and beamed at me, the wrinkles that bunched around her cheeks giving her a comfortable look. "I talked to Prosperine today," she said.
"And?"
"Well, let's see…" She paused for effect. Ohisa would have been a great actress if given the chance, I mused. She knew exactly how to capture her audience. I was getting anxious as she seemed to deliberate over her words and I reached up and tugged on a small forelock of my hair that grew right between my eyes. "Oh yes," Ohisa continued, "Prosperine says she wants to get a new hairstyle."
"Why?"
The old servant shrugged. "She doesn't like the way her hair looks."
"There's nothing wrong with it!" And there wasn't. Her hair always looked beautiful. Because it was so light a pink, it always looked like it was shimmering. To me, at least. Prosperine wore it long, and it spilled down her shoulders and down to her waist. A fan of bangs covered her forehead and almost drooped over her eyes, but I always thought her hair was perfect. Why she should change it was beyond me.
"I put it into a braid for her," said Ohisa. "She looks lovely."
She always looks lovely, I wanted to say, but I held my tongue for the time being, although I was sure Ohisa knew exactly how I felt about Prosperine. I tried to picture her in a braid and found myself lost once more in her beauty. So much so that I barely registered Ohisa's next words.
"She thinks you are quite handsome, sir."
I jolted out of my reverie instantly. "What did you say?"
"I said, sir, that Prosperine thinks you are a dapper gentleman," Ohisa said. "I remember exactly. She said and I quote, 'If only he wasn't married.' Then she sighed like a girl in love."
I leaned in closer. "You're joking with me."
With that, Ohisa threw her old head back and laughed. Wiping away tears of mirth, she gasped, "I'm sorry, sir. I'm so sorry. It's just that…" A burst of laughter. "It's just that one doesn't see the head of the house acting like a schoolboy often."
"So you were joking."
The old woman grew serious in a matter of seconds. "No, I was not joking. Prosperine never forgot how you let her in and gave her the best room, I think. You're a bit like her hero."
Her hero! I was her hero! It was all I could do to keep from dancing. Ohisa was smiling as well, as if she too shared in my triumph. Then her smile faded ever so slightly. "Sir…" she began.
"Yes, Ohisa?" I dropped my voice, feeling light and giddy. "If that fool butler Hopkins wasn't here, I'd kiss you!"
She shook her head slowly. "Please, sir, I don't mean to speak out of turn…"
I put my hands on her shoulders, an unheard of act between a married man and old woman, but I no longer cared. "Nothing you say will be out of turn, Ohisa, not now or ever after today."
She nodded, trying to compose herself. "Sir, I think you should talk to Prosperine."
The words hung in the air like poison. "No," I stammered, "No. It would ruin us."
Ohisa shook her head. "I don't think so, sir. Just once wouldn't hurt. Just once."
Just once. It was so appealing. To be with Prosperine, just once. I faced the old woman. "Could you… arrange it?" I asked, hardly believing it was me talking. To ask a servant instead of command? The winds of change were blowing strong.
"Of course!" Ohisa cried. "Of course! I'll tell you what she says tomorrow. Good luck to you, sir, and go to sleep early. Look your best for her." Now I was positive the old woman winked. She left noisily, singing to herself in some language I'd never studied.
I did retire early that day. I walked into my huge bathroom and stared at my face, looking for every imperfection Prosperine might see. I scrutinized my face up and down. 'Hm,' I thought at last. 'Maybe I should grow a moustache.'
TO BE CONTINUED
AN: Please review! ^^ Thank you. My other stories have not been put on hold, for those of you who are wondering. I am still slowly working on them. XD
~
Prosperine
~
In this world, one cannot take simplicity for granted. This I have learned from a lifelong experience. I am not a careful man, nor did I earn anything that has been given to me. It was pure luck that I happened to be born into an extremely rich family. Everything I see before me, day by day, was given to me by the generation before. And I will pass it on to my only son one day, so that one day, he too will stare at his vast accumulation of material possessions and wonder which of his long dead ancestors actually worked for these luxuries. However, I remain in hopes he will not feel the same emptiness I do. I have nothing left of the life I wished to live. A lonely void replaces all I've lost – my love, my goals, my happiness. My son. But above all, it is the simplicity in my life that I miss the most.
~
My name is Maxwell Morgan. Aside from that, I'm not sure who I am. I often wonder what would have become of me if I had been born under normal circumstances. A mother, a father, maybe a sibling or two… a medium sized family in a medium sized home, with a middle class income and a veil of normalcy covering all the eye can see. I would have gone to school, gotten a job, grown older and married a woman I love, raised children with the same blissful monotony that to this day I have never known.
But none of that was for me, of course. My family was fabulously, ridiculously rich, and as the son and heir I was treated better than royalty. As a child, and even as an adolescent, I enjoyed myself tremendously, but it never occurred to me that there might be other children like me that weren't doted on. It was always a shock when I was exposed to the servant's personal lives—one of them telling an anecdote, or something that had happened to them recently, and then all of them laughing or offering sympathy, whatever the story's subject. I would be hiding, watching, listening; the slow realization dawning on me that the servant's lives did not revolve around me. It may seem selfish, but that was all I had ever known.
As a young adult, when I had a few responsibilities on my shoulders, I realized the ignorance of my childhood and felt disgusted. I resolved that when I had a child, he or she would be as worldly as possible. My child would not grow up blindfolded. And I wanted to be a father. I married quickly, so I could raise a child of my own. The woman I wed was, of course, chosen by my parents, and I told myself that day I would let my own child choose for themselves. Time seemed to speed by, and before I knew it, I was presented with a son.
I was, for a time, happy. I would carry him with me through the vast estate, and when his mother fussed, I bought him a stroller. It was a new experience, to have my own child, and for a while, I enjoyed it. But the truth was always settled at the back of my mind, at the core of my being, only manifesting itself when I would show friends or family my small boy. Their smiles would slip for a moment, hesitate, and something like "He looks so much like his father," would burst forth from them, replaced by an extremely uncomfortable look. Under any other circumstances, this would have been a perfectly normal thing to say, but the unspoken question always hovered silently in the air. Why doesn't he look anything like your wife?
I took my son on walks less frequently; I avoided seeing him when I could. I would take an alternate corridor around his room, so I would not have to listen to his crying or his bubbling laughter. I assigned servants to love him in place of me. Especially one servant, whose eyes turned cold when they settled on me. She spent the most time with him. She knew the truth. And, of course, why wouldn't she? He was her son. She was his mother.
Instead of feeling happy when I heard him say his first word, I felt terrified. Would he tell the truth? Instead of running to hug him when he scraped his knee the first time, I told a servant to go take care of him. Her. Let one parent take care of him, at least. I didn't pay attention when she told me he had a high fever. I waved her away irritably. I didn't want to see my son anymore. Or her. Or my wife. I didn't want to be reminded of what I had done. I didn't feel like a father anymore. I felt like an adulterer. Granted, I was both. But one seemed to outweigh the other, and I ceased playing a role in my growing son's life.
~
Everything has a beginning and an end. The loss of my simple life had two beginnings, one being the day she came, and the other being the day he was born. As I watched the days unfold before me, each a new page of the most monumental change my life would ever undergo, I realized the end was nowhere near. It was somewhere with my son, far away, because he is the living embodiment of everything that had happened. He is the beginning and the end. And he doesn't even know it.
~
I was young then, and hopeful. I knew that my life had just begun, and that everything had been laid out for me. I reclined back on my overstuffed antique reading chair, staring at my wife as she daintily sipped tea that a servant had just given her. She was pretty, with maroon hair tied in a bun and deep brown eyes. I chose her first, and we'd married about a year ago. We still hadn't had a child, and although I was growing impatient, nothing could bother me on a day like this.
It was the prime of spring, and everything was green and new. Outside the birds sang and the fountain trickled peacefully, inside all my inherited possessions were caught in the warm glow of sunlight. Days like these made me want to abandon all my duties as the man of the house and run outside, but of course that was ridiculous. However, I still enjoyed the peacefulness that came with spring mornings like these.
Abruptly the serenity was broken by a loud pounding on the doors. My wife glanced up, wondering what the racket could be, and several servants rushed to the doors. I heard words being exchanged, some loud and some soft, before a timid maid appeared before me.
"Excuse me, sir," she said, staring at the floor, "There is a woman at the door wanting to speak to the head of the house."
I nodded and rose, and walked to the door with my wife trailing behind me. The servants parted to either side as we approached, and I found myself staring at the source of all the noise.
She was perhaps a few years younger than me, the same age as my wife, but the two women were stark contrasts. Where my wife was dainty, she was strong; where my wife was pretty, she was plain. But I could not stop looking at her nonetheless. Her hair was an odd shade, a very light pink, but her eyes were what captured me and held me there. They were black. From iris to pupil. Totally black. I had to tear myself away when I realized she was speaking.
"I want to work here," she declared in a deep, commanding voice. It was as clear as a bell and twice as forbidding. I let my eyes roam over the rest of her. The dress she wore was hardly a servant's dress and the bags she carried bulged with so many things I knew instantly she was a runaway. We never took in runaways, ever. They were complainers, they didn't know what they were doing, and they almost always ran away again. But this girl was different.
"Listen," she said as my wife opened her mouth to send her away, "I can cook, clean, do laundry…" for everything she could do, she raised one finger on her hand, "I'm a good talker and listener, I'm educated, and I love kids!"
"We don't have any children," my wife said softly, and I watched her collapse in on herself.
"I'm sorry."
My wife stepped up beside me. "We don't have any room for more servants," she began, just as I said, "Come in and tell us more about yourself."
Both women glanced at me, one looking appreciative and the other disconcerted. I realized what I'd said and, for a moment, stood in the doorway like a fool. I wondered what on Earth had come over me. The silence was grew uncomfortable, and I knew I needed to follow through on my actions. I invited her in.
We sat in a large room, my wife and I sitting side by side, facing her. Unlike most other new servants, she didn't stare in awe at our large mansion. Her eyes never lingered over some of the more expensive items, she didn't gasp at the size of our banquet halls and libraries. Obviously, she was used to things like this. Of course, she'd run away from it, as well. Why would she come back?
We questioned her background, her family, her schooling, and everything else that would have been pertinent information for an applying servant. Some of the things she said did not make sense, some didn't add up, but I didn't force her to tell her true life story, and I silenced my wife when she tried.
I don't even remember many of the things that were said. I stared at her face, her eyes, and several times she caught me and I looked away hurriedly. But my eyes would always slowly travel back to her. I couldn't help it. Her nose may have been too large, and her lips too small, but everything about her came together in such a way that made her the most beautiful woman I'd ever seen.
After a while, my wife gave me a sidelong glance. She saw me staring at the new prospective servant. Standing, she announced crisply, "I believe that will be enough. I will show you to your quarters now."
I knew that tone. My wife could be a jealous person. She had had the same childhood as I, being given all she had ever wanted and more, and when she came across someone who she thought might have an advantage over her, she would treat them as poorly as possible. I rose.
"I'll come, too," I said, fumbling to look like the head of the house. I didn't want my wife to question me, and make it known that I never came when she would show new servants to their rooms. Luckily I got by with a cold glare, and we headed off to the farthest part of the East wing of the mansion, where the servants lived.
"You'll stay here," said my wife, gesturing to one of the poorest rooms. It was usually saved for a servant or butler that did a particularly bad job.
"No!" I exclaimed. Both women turned to me. "No," I continued, more quietly, "that room has a leaky carpet."
"Carpets don't leak," my wife commented dryly.
"Nonsense, woman! Of course they do. Come." I didn't know where I was going, and they followed me. I felt ridiculous. I knew I had to stop, but somehow, it was impossible. I found myself in front of one of the largest and most luxurious rooms. "Here," I said.
"No, she cannot have that room. Maybe after ten years of service, Maxwell, but not now. Why don't you let me take care of the servants? I know what I'm doing," she added.
"Are you questioning me, wife?" I asked slowly. Her eyes widened, and then she bowed her head.
"No."
"Good." My arm swept the expanse of the room. "You may put away your things here." She nodded; her black eyes on me all the time.
"Thank you, sir," she murmured softly, and I had to fight to keep my composure. Thin as her lips were, they were certainly inviting. I turned on my heel.
"Come, my wife, let us retire," I said, knowing that staying a minute longer would be disastrous. I could feel her dark eyes on my back all the way down the hall. I found myself wishing I had married out of love instead of hurry. I should have waited for her. With a start I realized I didn't know her name. I resolved to change that.
The next day I made excuse after excuse to go and see her, even if it was just a glimpse. I watched as she pondered over bed making and fumbled through dish washing. It was plain she'd never had experience as a servant, or as a functioning member of a household. She didn't even know things I knew. And I'd never worked a day in my life.
Finally I grew fearful my wife might fire her with all precedence. She was doing a terrible job and I knew soon she would be thrown out. I wandered from room to room, deliberating, when finally I found en elderly woman hanging up clothes. She looked as if she had served another person since she was born. I smiled.
"You," I said, as commanding as possible, and the old woman straightened fearfully. "What is your name?"
She stared at me for a moment, then replied. "Ohisa," she said sofly.
"Ohisa, do you know the newest servant girl? She just came yesterday," I said hopefully, wanting to learn her name.
"I know of her, but only how she looks." At my frowning countenance, she added hurriedly, "I'm sorry, sir."
"It's alright. I have a task for you, so listen closely. This new servant girl is not performing her duties to the utmost efficiency. She obviously does not know what she is doing. Please help her." I struggled to keep it at that, but failed, and continued, "And report everything to me at midafternoon each day." That was the time my wife usually laid down for a short nap.
The woman's old eyes lit with a kind of conspiratorial glee. "Of course, sir." I could have sworn she'd winked.
I spun around so Ohisa would not see the red blossoming on my cheeks. "Thank you," I said. "From this day forward your wages are doubled." The soft gasp that came from behind me told me she'd heard my words and they were acknowledged.
~
Her name was Prosperine. Not a servant's name. Nevertheless, it was a beautiful name that played over and over in my mind until I could have written it forwards and backwards in my sleep. From Ohisa, I found that she liked sweet things, like cake and chocolate. She liked pokemon as well, which interested me because I had never wished to have anything to do with them. She told Ohisa that her favorite kind was growlithe, and that one day she would have liked to have one.
My wife asked me why I was suddenly stocking up the pantry with candy and sweets. I told her I had a sweet tooth, and she knew I didn't. I knew she knew what was happening, I knew she felt disgusted by it, but I also knew that there was no love between us. I didn't understand why she was getting jealous in such a petty way; after all, it was her who controlled half the money in the household. A feat Prosperine would never accomplish, although I wished she would.
I was happy to hear that Ohisa and Prosperine were becoming good friends, and I was even happier to find that not one dish had been broken in the month that I sent the old woman to help her. Surely now my wife would have no reason to throw her out of the house, and perhaps she would stay for a very long time. But if those two facts made me happy, what Ohisa reported to me the next week was the very best of all.
Spring was slowly giving in to summer, and the estate was covered in robust yellow sunshine when the old woman came to me. She looked pleased, and instantly I was smiling as well. "What is it?" I asked.
She set her cleaning things down and beamed at me, the wrinkles that bunched around her cheeks giving her a comfortable look. "I talked to Prosperine today," she said.
"And?"
"Well, let's see…" She paused for effect. Ohisa would have been a great actress if given the chance, I mused. She knew exactly how to capture her audience. I was getting anxious as she seemed to deliberate over her words and I reached up and tugged on a small forelock of my hair that grew right between my eyes. "Oh yes," Ohisa continued, "Prosperine says she wants to get a new hairstyle."
"Why?"
The old servant shrugged. "She doesn't like the way her hair looks."
"There's nothing wrong with it!" And there wasn't. Her hair always looked beautiful. Because it was so light a pink, it always looked like it was shimmering. To me, at least. Prosperine wore it long, and it spilled down her shoulders and down to her waist. A fan of bangs covered her forehead and almost drooped over her eyes, but I always thought her hair was perfect. Why she should change it was beyond me.
"I put it into a braid for her," said Ohisa. "She looks lovely."
She always looks lovely, I wanted to say, but I held my tongue for the time being, although I was sure Ohisa knew exactly how I felt about Prosperine. I tried to picture her in a braid and found myself lost once more in her beauty. So much so that I barely registered Ohisa's next words.
"She thinks you are quite handsome, sir."
I jolted out of my reverie instantly. "What did you say?"
"I said, sir, that Prosperine thinks you are a dapper gentleman," Ohisa said. "I remember exactly. She said and I quote, 'If only he wasn't married.' Then she sighed like a girl in love."
I leaned in closer. "You're joking with me."
With that, Ohisa threw her old head back and laughed. Wiping away tears of mirth, she gasped, "I'm sorry, sir. I'm so sorry. It's just that…" A burst of laughter. "It's just that one doesn't see the head of the house acting like a schoolboy often."
"So you were joking."
The old woman grew serious in a matter of seconds. "No, I was not joking. Prosperine never forgot how you let her in and gave her the best room, I think. You're a bit like her hero."
Her hero! I was her hero! It was all I could do to keep from dancing. Ohisa was smiling as well, as if she too shared in my triumph. Then her smile faded ever so slightly. "Sir…" she began.
"Yes, Ohisa?" I dropped my voice, feeling light and giddy. "If that fool butler Hopkins wasn't here, I'd kiss you!"
She shook her head slowly. "Please, sir, I don't mean to speak out of turn…"
I put my hands on her shoulders, an unheard of act between a married man and old woman, but I no longer cared. "Nothing you say will be out of turn, Ohisa, not now or ever after today."
She nodded, trying to compose herself. "Sir, I think you should talk to Prosperine."
The words hung in the air like poison. "No," I stammered, "No. It would ruin us."
Ohisa shook her head. "I don't think so, sir. Just once wouldn't hurt. Just once."
Just once. It was so appealing. To be with Prosperine, just once. I faced the old woman. "Could you… arrange it?" I asked, hardly believing it was me talking. To ask a servant instead of command? The winds of change were blowing strong.
"Of course!" Ohisa cried. "Of course! I'll tell you what she says tomorrow. Good luck to you, sir, and go to sleep early. Look your best for her." Now I was positive the old woman winked. She left noisily, singing to herself in some language I'd never studied.
I did retire early that day. I walked into my huge bathroom and stared at my face, looking for every imperfection Prosperine might see. I scrutinized my face up and down. 'Hm,' I thought at last. 'Maybe I should grow a moustache.'
TO BE CONTINUED
AN: Please review! ^^ Thank you. My other stories have not been put on hold, for those of you who are wondering. I am still slowly working on them. XD