He stared at the soft muslin garment before him as warily as a hunter might trying to gauge the ferocity of his potential prey.
To one side was a folded stack of his clean laundry, returned to his room. As he had picked it up to place it off the inn's bed, THIS had fallen-slipped-out from among it.
A woman's shift.
But not just any woman's shift. He leaned in, suspiciously, to inspect its embellishments. They were many, and intricate. This piece of handwork had likely cost more than the concierge's entire cuboard of clothes. More than whatever they had paid for the small servant girl who kept their fires lit. It was a fine, richly-made bit of underclothes. A woman's underclothes.
He had not yet touched it.
He kept no servants here. Employed no man. There was no one to whom he could call out to have it taken away from him-to have this confusion, this mistake, set right.
And he was filthy. Covered, post-day-long lesson in the persistent dust of this place, mingled with the sweat his exertions of the day under the tuteldge of his master had conjured from him. Without removing his glove, he snatched at the intimate garment, the middle of it wadded into his fist, and opened the door to stomp his boots down and toward the steaming kitchen and someone who could relieve him of this distracting burden.
He opened the great door to the kitchen and (he hoped) to the inn's Madame Concierge and found her-and another woman. As with many things these days that were not sharply shiny and potentially deadly in the right hands, he paid little mind to the other female present. He had been in a condition since arriving not unlike that of the master swordsman he had come to study under: blindness. If it was not a sword, nor a threat to him that might need be fought with a blade-it interested him little if at all. If he ate he did not notice it. He ate only for strength. If he drank it was only to supply his body with the fluid depleted from his workouts. If he spoke it was to this blind master, to the blade in his hand, to the few people he needed assistance from in order to devote himself wholly to his enterprise. He was an island of obsession unto himself, unto his sword. He did not imagine he could ever feel any happiness greater.
Was this, he wondered at nights as his body lay, exhausted, being re-taught things it had thought it already knew-was this what it must be like to be born to play a violin-and never before have felt one in your hands? Was this passion? Was this finding yourself?
"My sir," the concierge looked up from where she was at folding other laundry, shocked to find the quiet boarder in her kitchen, her look of surprise matched only by the disconcerted expression upon his at finding himself here. Both were rendered uncomfortable.
"You have mistakenly left this in my room-" he said, his eyes scanning about the kitchen rather than meeting hers, his lips giving no name to item in his hands.
"I do not know what you mean, my sir. 'Twas your laundry I brought to you, just as you asked."
"No. I mean, yes. Of course you did. But this-which is not mine-was among it." He let part of the shift flow from out of his grip.
"How terribly awkward," he heard another voice in the room-the other person-a woman, her voice like muted chimes; dark but soothing.
His eyes snapped to where she was.
"It would appear that you have been given some of the laundry I asked madame to wash for me-"
The apples of her cheeks became brighter-tinged in red. Rather than giving her a blotchy complexion, it seemed to heighten the liveliness of her countenance. He had of course not intended to bring embarrassment upon anyone.
"I am-I am-that is-" he looked for somewhere to put it down, to get it out of his hands. The concierge did not offer to take it. The lady was several steps across the room, standing upon the lower steps of a back stair. And a table stood between them.
Far too long a moment passed while he still clutched the shift. His mind recalled to him the stitchwork upon it. He took it and put it down, rather clumsily-its neck lacings had become tangled with one of his gauntlets-on a table to his back, which was covered in unwashed parsnips.
"Please accept my apologies for-any imposition," he said, his eyes clearly wishing for the shade of a hat to hide his discomfort with the situation. "Please be assured, it was entirely without intent."
The lady gave the sort of nod and averted her eyes to show she accepted his apology. He did not wait for Madame Concierge to reply.
The door shut behind him, and the two women were now alone in the kitchen.
Several moments passed, as if both were waiting to ensure that he was not coming back.
"As agreed," the woman known as Anne said to Madame Concierge, extending a coin toward the older woman's hand. "One introduction he will surely not forget."
"Will my lady wish the shift washed again?" the innkeeper's wife asked.
Anne looked from her perch on the lower stair over toward her best undergarment. "I should think so. He may be rich, and handsome enough in the face, but besides being utterly backward he's positively filthy."
Despite her summation of the gentleman's shortcomings, she did not attempt to hide the satisfied smile now growing at her lips as she turned to travel back up the stair.
...tbc...