Antonio Fernández-Carriedo, the newest addition to the staff at his house, had been working there for a full week now.
The immigrant from Spain arrived at 10:30 every day, half an hour later than what was initially arranged, with loose clothes on his body and apologies for having difficulties with a small, stubborn boy he took care of. He'd began on the vegetables during the first half of the week, then tended to the flowers during the second half; it was a decent system, Roderich could admit, but it was flawed. Or, rather, way Antonio completed the system was. He put most of his energy into the early work and tuckered himself out before the task was fully complete. It was a little irksome, to see a worker slumbering beneath a tree with a hat over his face every hour, but after a half-hour long nap and a friendly chat with the maid Elizabeta when she brought him a drink, he was pepped up and able to fling himself in his work again.
Because of that hard-working aspect about him, Antonio wasn't that bad; he was even charming, in some kind of way.
Roderich unlocked the door to the music room and stepped inside, breath catching in his throat. His superiors had been particularly weary on his nerves that day, and he was anxious to release his tension.
Four long strides had him across the room and seated on the piano bench. With feet on the pedals and hands on the keys, he closed his eyes and let a nocturne by Chopin flow through him. Opus 2, no. 9 had always been the outlet he'd chose to vent his frustrations. It was calming and quiet; it was the kind of piece that could lull children to sleep and soothe adult headaches.
After zipping through the piece, he let the last notes resound through his bones for a moment. His nerves were significantly less frazzled now, and hopefully they would stay that way for today.
Suddenly, another tune reached his sharp ears. Roderich turned his head, reaching up to adjust the glasses on his nose as he stared out the window.
Antonio was singing, loudly and jovially, and in Spanish because Roderich couldn't understand it. He carried an empty basket in front of him with both hands, and a wide-brimmed straw hat kept the hot sun off of his grinning face. His beige shirt was halfway open, revealed a broad, tanned chest, and he walked long, lazy strides in large rubber boots. The gardener slowed to a stop in front of a bed of bright pink tulips. His singing stopped, or at least quieted to where Roderich couldn't hear from the distance, and he placed the basket down.
"Ai, damn weeds," he said, taking a moment to observe the flowerbed with his hands on his hips. "I have to pull you out of Señor Edelstein's flowers every single day. You just can't make my job any easier, can you?"
Roderich quirked an eyebrow. Yes, Antonio sure was charmingly strange; talking to weeds? He did know they couldn't reply, right? He pressed his lips into a thin line, trying to stop the corners of his mouth from twitching upward at the odd behavior.
Roderich was about to turn back to his piano keys and maybe channel a little Mozart, but then Antonio dropped down onto his hands and knees, unknowingly displaying a round, very firm rear end to his employer at the piano beside the window as he crawled forward, began to yank at the accursed weeds, and whistle a cheerful, lively tune.
His cheeks wholly lit themselves on fire. Roderich gawked, watching Antonio drop a newly-pulled tangle of unruly grass into the basket beside him. His tongue suddenly felt like sandpaper, and he closed his mouth when he realized it was hanging open and tried to swallow. The heat warming his cheeks spread to his ears and down the back of his neck as he blinked, swallowing hard again as the gardener's hips dipped downward when he reached out to yank another weed.
The warmth in his face began to trickle away, rushing through his veins and pooling in the pit of his stomach. A self-warning to stop staring nagged at the back of his brain, but Roderich bit his lip and watched, oddly entranced as Antonio shook his rear to the tune of whatever he was whistling and dropped more weeds into the basket.
"Jesus," Roderich whispered, bringing a hand up to cup his burning hot face.
"No, Mr. Edelstein, that's Antonio."
A shrill scream of surprise clawed out of his throat as Roderich whirled around. One of his servants, Elizabeta, was standing in the middle of the music room, a tray laden with tea paraphernalia and a small plate of cookies on it. She looked startled at his shriek but managed not to drop her tray.
Roderich stared at her for a moment, eyes round. Then, he closed them and heaved a sigh, placing a hand over his racing heart. "Good Lord, Miss Hedérváry," he breathed. "You nearly gave me a heart attack! Don't sneak up on people like that!"
"But Mr. Edelstein, I knocked several times," she protested, stepping forward and placing the tray on the edge of the piano. She carefully handed him the only cup on the tray, and removed the plate of cookies from it as well. "You didn't answer, but I knew you were in here because of the music, so I decided to enter."
"O-oh, well," he said lamely, coughing. He brought the cup to his lips and took a sip; perfect as always. "Thank you for bringing the tea."
She nodded and gave him a small smile. Suddenly, one corner of it twitched upward, and the Hungarian maid was smirking at him.
Roderich frowned up at her, shoulders tensing as he lowered his tea. "What?"
She didn't even attempt to fight her smirk as she picked up the tray again. "Nothing, sir," she replied smugly, dark green eyes flickering to the window. She raised her hand and moved it, waving. "I just noticed that the new gardener is doing a fantastic job. Haven't you?"
Roderich turned back to the window, alarmed frown in place. Antonio was sitting back on his calves and wiping his sleeve across his forehead. He was twisted at the waist, one hand raised and waving at Roderich and Elizabeta in the window. The Austrian felt his cheeks turn hot again, and he returned the wave weakly. His hand was trembling. "Yes, yes, I have."