Crane walks into the dining room exactly two hours later to find the long wooden table set for two. One place setting is at the head of the table, the other beside it.
It looks cozy. Intimate.
He frowns.
Abbie walks in with a large tureen. "Right on time," she says.
"What's this?" he asks.
She sets the dish on the table. "Dinner?" she slowly answers, wondering why he is confused.
"I prefer to dine alone," he replies. In truth, he would love to dine with her. The problem is, eating requires him to remove his mask and he doesn't want her to see his hideous face.
She frowns. "Um, all right… I guess I'll just… eat in the kitchen then…" she trails off, mumbling something additional he doesn't catch as she begins gathering her place setting.
"What was that last part?" he asks.
She turns around. "I said, 'like a servant, because that's obviously what I am,'" she answers.
He wasn't expecting her to actually tell him what she said, and it throws him. "Miss Mills…"
"No," she stops him. "I get it. I'm here to work off a debt. I was stupid to think that getting to know one another might be a good idea since I have no idea how long I'm going to be here. I'll eat in the kitchen, like the help, and you can dine in here, alone, like the Lord of the Manor you clearly are."
"Stop," he says, louder than he intends, but it does the trick. She stops but does not turn. "I said I preferred to dine alone," he replies, slightly exasperated. His hands clench and unclench at his sides, fingers twitching in a nervous habit he's had as long as he can remember. It hasn't exhibited itself since he became a hermit. A beast. He heaves a sigh and she turns around. "Set your place at the other end." He points to the opposite end of the long table. There is a centerpiece and several candelabra in between them that should effectively prevent her from being able to see him. I will simply remove the mask but retain the cloak.
She looks at him for a moment, seems to decide against speaking whatever it is she is thinking, and brings her dishes back to the table, setting them at the appointed place. "Look, Mr. Crane—"
"Doctor," he corrects, the title jumping out automatically.
"Doctor?" she asks, looking up. "You're a physician?"
He sits. "No. I am not that sort of doctor," he explains. "I am a research scientist."
She walks towards him, cursing her distractedness for not being bright enough to fill her bowl with stew before initially moving it. "What do you research?" she asks, wondering if he hides his appearance because he had some sort of horrible laboratory accident.
"My area of expertise is horticulture," he answers.
Abbie spoons some stew into his bowl first, then hers, thinking of the strange rosebush in the back garden and wondering how he got it to bloom all the time. Can't ask that right away though. "Really? Is there a lot of research you can do on plants?" she asks instead. She fills her goblet, takes a piece of cornbread, and walks back to her seat.
He leans down and smells the rabbit stew as he reaches for some bread. It smells heavenly, and the cornbread is still warm. "This stew smells—"
"Satisfactory?" Abbie interjects, a wry smile curving the corner of her mouth.
Crane chuckles once. It is the most laughing he has done in years. "I was going to say it smells delicious," he answers. He looks down the length of the table and sees only candles and the large vase in the middle. He carefully removes the cowl obscuring his face and begins to eat.
It's the best rabbit stew he's ever had. An unconscious groan escapes.
"I hope that was a good sound." Her voice floats across the stillness.
"Yes," he confirms.
"Good," she answers.
They eat in silence for a short time. The cornbread is heavenly, moist and slightly sweet. He could eat an entire pan of it and still want more.
"So who's blood was that in the snow outside?" Abbie suddenly asks.
"Mine," he answers. "It seems your sister has an unexpected talent for pugilism."
"She punched you in the nose, hey?" she answers, laughing. "You're lucky she didn't kick you in the… um…"
"Quite," he tightly agrees.
She pauses a moment. "Is your nose all right?"
"It was bloodied, but I do not believe it has been broken," he answers.
"I can take a loo—"
"No."
He hears her very deliberately set a utensil on the table. "I don't care what you look like, all right? You don't need to cover yourself just because you think I'll faint at the sight of you, because I promise you I won't, no matter what it is you've got going on under that cloak."
He downs his wine and sets the goblet on the table with a bit more force than necessary. "You have no idea about which you speak," he sharply replies.
"Look. I—"
"This topic is not up for discussion." His normally warm voice is like ice.
"Fine," she snaps, suddenly standing and heading to the kitchen.
Crane gapes, not knowing what to do. He didn't wish to be short with her, but he knows there is just no way he can let her see him. He hates that he started to lose his temper, hates that he made her leave, and hates that he let his guard down as much as he has done with her. But he feels undeniably drawn to this beautiful young woman, and his attraction combined with the obvious hopelessness of the situation has addled his wits and soured his mood. She is a ray of sunshine and I must stand in the shadows.
When Abbie returns a moment later, he nearly jumps out of his skin.
"Cover up, because I've brought dessert," she barks, clearly still annoyed.
He quickly pulls the hood of his cloak down and huddles deeper into it.
"I found some dried fruit in your pantry and made tarts," she says, her demeanor still cool as she drops a small pie in front of him.
Then she leaves again, clearly going to eat her dessert in the kitchen.
Crane stares at the remains of the delicious stew in his bowl and finishes it, determined not to waste it despite the fact that he no longer has much of an appetite.
Bowl empty, he pulls the tart towards him and takes a bite.
It is divine.
xXx
Crane finds Abbie in the kitchen a short time later. He has brought all the dishes from dinner.
A small peace offering.
"The entire meal was the best I have ever eaten," he simply says.
"I doubt that's true, but thank you," she quietly answers. She notices his mask is back on, but says nothing.
"I would assist you in cleaning the dishes, but unfortunately, my…" he lifts his gloved hands, not exactly sure what to say.
"Hands too, huh?" she asks. She looks at him for a beat longer, but says nothing, obviously once again deciding against commenting further.
"I shall be in the parlor. I will show you to your rooms when you are finished."
Abbie merely nods, already tending to the dinner dishes.
She hears the door close and only then do his words sink in. Rooms? Plural?
Dishes do not take long, and she has put the remainder of the stew back in the cold stores, thinking she might make a rabbit pie from the leftovers. It's always easier to stretch food further this time of year, what with the easy access to cold.
She ticks off a mental list of things she needs as she walks to the parlor, remembering what he said earlier that night and hoping she didn't anger him so much that the offer is no longer on the table. Her time alone in the kitchen gave her some space to think, and she realized she had been making assumptions before she learned all the facts. Mama would not be pleased with me.
He hears her footsteps and is just setting his book down when she comes into the room.
"This way," he says, standing. He passes her with scarcely a glance, and she follows.
"I'm sorry," she softly apologizes as they walk. They reach a staircase and he begins ascending. Abbie is surprised; she assumed she would be shut into the room where Jenny had been held.
"For?" he asks.
"For pushing you about your… appearance. I'm sure you've got a good reason for hiding from the world, and I should respect that. My mama taught Jenny and me that we shouldn't make assumptions, and that's exactly what I did," she says. "It was insensitive of me."
His steps slow for a second, and he turns. "Thank you," he answers. "Believe me when I say it is for the best."
She doesn't believe him, but the sadness in his voice is so heartbreaking that she nods anyway. He pauses at a door, almost as though he is having second thoughts about opening it, but then he does.
"This is bigger than my entire house," Abbie blurts, immediately regretting it. It is a two room suite, with a small parlor just inside the door and a larger sleeping chamber just beyond.
"These were my mother's rooms," Crane quietly says. "Many of her things are still here. They are at your disposal."
"Oh," she replies, blinking. She wonders how long his mother has been gone and if her things are in any state to be used. I guess I'll find out. She slowly walks through the room, and it dawns on her that it is spotlessly clean. No dust. No smell of decay or mildew. He keeps this space clean. She can't decide if that is sweet or sad. "Thank you," she simply says.
"Do you know your letters?" he asks.
"Yes," she answers, not offended at the question. Only about half of the people in her village can read and write, and most of them are men.
"Make a list of anything you require. My man will do the best he can to meet your needs," he says, gesturing to a desk in the corner. "He will be here the day after tomorrow."
She nods.
"You… you are free to go anywhere in this house… apart from my rooms," he says, moving towards the door.
She angles her head at him. "Where are your rooms?" she asks. "So I know not to go there."
He sighs and only answers because he is rather certain that she will find out on her own if he doesn't. "The far end of this corridor, on the opposite side. There is a library directly beneath your rooms if you care for some entertainment."
"Thank you," she repeats.
He nods, and as he turns towards the door, something occurs to her. "The statue Jenny broke… that was your mother's likeness, wasn't it?"
He pauses, but does not turn. "Yes," he answers, then disappears.
xXx
Abbie gives Crane her list in time for him to pass it along to his agent, which is something that has piqued her curiosity. Her host is a recluse, but it seems he has one acquaintance who is willing to assist him with his needs. On the appointed day, she hovers near the front door, waiting for him to appear.
As the grandfather clock in the parlor strikes ten, Crane appears, striding quickly and purposefully through the house to the door. She had purposely saved the front windows for this day.
"Miss Mills, please move away from the window," Crane says, his voice soft, but it is most definitely an order.
Abbie scowls but obeys, moving to another wall.
Then there is a tap on the door.
He opens it a crack, peering out.
She stops working, intent on listening, but can only catch bits and pieces.
"…know there is more than usual…"
"…do not pay you to ask questions…"
"…of course not…"
"…won't find anyone else willing…" This is the other man's voice, and Abbie's eyebrows lift a bit.
"…Van Brunt… very well. Now go."
Then there is the unmistakable metallic clink of coins. Crane closes the door and Abbie quickly returns to her task.
"He is a philanderer with few scruples," Crane comments, almost offhandedly, as he walks back through the parlor. "It is for your own protection that he not see you, as he has very little self-control once he sets his sights on a beautiful woman."
He disappears into his laboratory, leaving Abbie standing there gaping. She is wearing a skirt that is too long (Crane's mother was apparently a tall woman), a smudged apron, and the tight spirals of her hair are currently being held away from her face with a kerchief. A rag dangles from her hand and she is certain her face is dirty.
Yet he called her "beautiful" with a casualness that suggested he felt it an obvious observation.
Apart from that event, the next few days pass innocuously enough. Crane keeps to himself, disappearing for hours at a time into his laboratory in the back of the house, asking only that she knock on the door and wait for him to bid her enter should she need him for any reason.
Abbie busies herself cleaning and cooking, and in a short time the filthy windows are clean and the entire house is brighter. She notes that while her rooms – the late Mistress Crane's private quarters – are clean and well-tended, the rest of the house has fallen into a state of neglect. She wonders about the state of his rooms, but knows better than to investigate.
At least not now.
xXx
On the fourth day, Abbie chooses to knock on the laboratory door.
"Give me a few moments, please." Crane's voice is distant but clear.
"All right," she answers, waiting. She slowly, carefully tries the handle and finds it locked.
A minute later, she hears the bolt slide and the door opens, revealing her cloaked host.
"What was the purpose in explicitly telling me to knock and wait if you have the door locked anyway?" she asks.
"I did not know if I could trust you or not," he admits.
She looks up at him. "Fair enough," she decides. "I probably would have done the same."
"With what do I owe the pleasure of your company this afternoon, Miss Mills?" he mildly asks, walking back to a bench covered with small pots of dirt.
"Do you have a preference for dinner? I can roast us a chicken or there's still more of that pork shoulder…"
"Why have you really come to my laboratory?" he asks.
Abbie isn't sure, but she thinks she can hear a slight smile in his voice. She's not really surprised he saw through her ruse. "Curiosity, mainly," she answers. "What are you doing?"
"Attempting to create a new hybrid," he explains.
"Of?" she asks, coming closer.
"Beans," he answers. Surprised, she laughs, and he finds it as musical as when she sings. She often sings or hums when she works, and he's never heard a voice more beautiful.
"I was expecting something… grander. Like, I don't know, roses," she carefully ventures.
"Why roses?" All of the good humor and warm feelings have drained from him at her words.
"Well, you've got that one in the yard," she says, walking towards the windows (which are clean, she notes, likely due to the need for sunlight in here). "The one that is still blooming into late November, so naturally I assumed it was a creation of yours."
He is silent for a long, uncomfortable minute, and she hopes she hasn't overstepped her bounds.
"It is not a creation of mine," he says in a tone that suggests it is another of his Items Not Up For Discussion.
Abbie simply nods, noticing there appear to be two fallen blossoms beside the bush. She decides not to comment on it, moving away from the window to walk around a little. Deciding to change the subject, she asks, "What's in here?" She taps a wooden crate.
"Mushrooms," Crane answers. "They grow in the dark."
"Yes, I know," she replies, moving to what appears to be a wall of herbs. "This is clever. The vertical arrangement saves space," she observes. "Lavender. Rosemary. Sage." She names herbs as she sees them, stopping to smell a few. "What is this? It smells delicious."
He turns. "Ocimum basilicum. Basil. That one is from Italy. The one beside it is from the Far East."
She rubs a leaf on one, then the other. "I can smell the difference."
"Impressive," he notes.
"You should keep bees," she notes, moving to a large cabinet filled with small drawers. They are all labeled with neat handwriting and she opens a few, peering inside. One is filled with packets of tiny black seeds. "Poppies, Dr. Crane?" she asks, raising an eyebrow.
"They have medicinal uses as well as recreational, as I am certain you well know," he answers. "And I have considered keeping bees; they are wonderfully helpful. But I'm afraid it isn't possible."
Because of whatever he has hidden under that cloak. His unspoken words are clear in her mind. She nods. "I'll leave you to your work," she declares, heading towards the door. "Do you have a preference for dinner?"
"Chicken," he answers, not moving to follow her.
"Not going to lock the door after me?" she asks, fingers on the handle.
"I am choosing to trust you," he answers. "Do not make me regret that choice."
She gives him a final nod, and disappears. Outside the laboratory, she waits a moment, listening for the sound of a bolt sliding into place. There is nothing.
xXx
After dinner, Crane hovers in the doorway of the kitchen. He heard Abbie singing while washing the dishes, and found his steps slowing, then stopping in the corridor. He knows the song; it's an old lullaby about a bird.
She turns and startles. "Oh! I keep forgetting how silent you are," she says, self-consciously tucking her hair into her scarf. I look a mess.
"You have a beautiful singing voice," he simply says. "My mother used to sing that to me when I was a boy." He instantly regrets letting that detail slip, and steels himself for more questions.
"So did mine," she answers, surprising him by asking no questions. "She's dead, too."
"I am sorry," he quietly says.
"Thank you. I, um… noticed there is a tub in… in my room," she hesitantly starts, feeling strange calling it her room.
"There are kettles under the worktable," he says. "I'm surprised you haven't already found them, due to your proximity to the floor."
"Dr. Crane, was that… a joke?" she asks. "A joke about my very respectable height?"
"I admit nothing," he answers. "Please let me know if you need assistance carrying water. I am much stronger than I appear."
Abbie already knows this, but answers, "Thank you."
He walks away, once again heartsore, his confusion over her presence only growing the longer she stays here. Yet he can't bring himself to set her free, because as painful as being in her presence is, it will pale in comparison to being bereft of it.
After he helps her haul the kettles of water up to his mother's beautiful copper bathtub, he finds himself once again hovering outside a door, this time a closed one. Guiltily lurking like a… common pervert, listening to her bathe. He squeezes his eyes shut and stalks to his room. It takes everything in him to not slam the door.
The fact that a third blossom has fallen from the rosebush does not help his mood at all.