Part 3/4
Before, Now and maybe Then
He's utterly afraid this time around. Scared. Again. But he tries to tell her anyway because due diligence was bred into his soul. He's so confused because he feels he's betraying a sort of trust laid upon him. He wishes he were closer to the bathroom. That way he could have just a very small drink. Life is hard so he swallows the lump in his throat and licks his lips for the third time in a minute. He starts out in a soft trembling voice with words mingling in every which way, but gradually evening out into something disturbingly coherent. All other sounds drown out and with her heart racing now, she wishes that he'd remained in a babbling state.
*
Sometimes he wakes up and sees Mr. Irons in his room looking out his window. He can barely make out the robe he was wearing. It looks maroon and embroidered and the sash in loose. Mr. Irons tells him to go back to sleep. He of course obeys. He knows no other course of action. He's yet to be taught or shown otherwise.
*
There's some sort of stilted reaction within, waking him from a groggy unconsciousness. There's something soft and warm in his hand and doesn't know why he feels it. Wrong. For the first time, he lets go and rolls over to the other side of his little bed. Pulls his legs in slightly and clenches the pillow a little tighter. He doesn't understand and his hands never feel clean now. He never feels clean. Memories like unseen stains that don't fade away.
*
Ian takes longer showers now. He suds up the washcloth with as much Yardley's soap as it can hold before beginning the daily assault. Every inch rubbed, scrubbed and heated with scalding water making him eternally glow pink. He takes his time. Nails, ears, neck, tummy and "down there" too.
*
He's begun to take much longer than necessary and Nanny finally notices. His plan partially works; she notices him and nearly looks him in the eye. She scolds him for being a dirty boy, doing dirty things. He should control himself she says and her anger reaches deep into his ears and soul. Fight dirty thoughts, her mantra became. Eyes widen. She knows. In all respects. He can tell her, she's older than him, he reasons. Being older meant wiser and smarter, like Mister Immo but with less access to needles. Then she must know what to do. She can help. He tries to look at her again, but she avoids his eyes this time as though it makes her nervous or uneasy now. She's now begun to process it all, only because she's been forced to. This thought makes him stop and he pulls back, putting his gloved hands at rest behind him. She might help but she's never really expected anything from him. How can he expect something from her?
*
After being in the house for a mere month he learned that she spends time with Mr. Irons after she's sent him off to bed. Mr. Irons doesn't spend time with unworthy people. Or dumb people, but if he has to endure their presence, he makes it a rather brief meeting. She stays for hours, but never past sunrise. He lets this roll around in his head for a moment and Ian comes to the same conclusion. She must know. It takes him longer to decide how he feels about this revelation.
*
He would wait a few minutes, creep out, and make his way down the hallway. He could make the voyage there blindfolded; three feet up, set two boards to the left, go a few more feet and then he could rest his tiny body against the doorframe pressing into it with his ear. The occupants behind this door were too occupied to even take notice if they had a third party listening in. Or a fourth party watching.
*
They spoke in a strange low guttural language; there weren't too many words, only noises. He'd tried to look it up in a reference book, but it did not offer much assistance. He questioned his Tutor about it. Once. The answer had been affirmed in two parts: a yardstick across out stretched forearms and the task of finishing Beowulf before week's end. It had been hard to turn the pages, but he finished the book early only to discover it exasperated the Tutor even more. Ian wasn't sure what confused him more. The fact that his teacher wasn't going to explain something to him, when the man surely knew the answer. Or that he'd been punished for something he didn't see as a crime, by someone who wasn't Mr. Irons. A correctly phrased question was never a crime. Right? He'd have to shift his paradigm again.
*
She always leaves early in the morning before she comes in to wake him up. The floor is still cold and a scent lingers in the hallway, but she always comes in wearing fresh clothes. Even if it means she wakes him up a few minutes late and they have to rush to get him ready in time. He somehow feels sorry for her that she doesn't get to sleep the whole night in a bed. Could it be that she wasn't as important as his other Nannies, but that too did not make sense. She had lasted longer than any of the other women Mr. Irons had employed to assist in raising him. He had yet to drive her away. He was somewhat pleased with the thought.
*
She never clearly answered him about what to do. She reached down to grasp his hand, ignoring the way he flinched, she yanked him in the direction of the stairs, and they traveled towards parts unknown. His chest burst with joy or perhaps from the exertion of her fast pace. He would always be amazed at the speeds women could reach in heels, but something else in that moment created far more amazement. She was holding his hand, rather tightly yet in a manner that she would not let him go and in that moment he - wait they'd already gone past the library. It was mid morning and Mr. Irons was always in the library this time of day. There is an abrupt understanding and instead of protesting, he lets her momentum carry them along to their destination, the kitchen. His chest hurts more now.
*
He stands by the barstool and watches as she rummages through oak cupboards, the glass rattling after she can't find the correct contents. He'd swear she's a little panicky or maybe just very intent. It doesn't matter and he doesn't care. As she wrenches the next panel open to retrieve a mug, a very annoyed and slightly nasal voice interrupts her search, "Merde woman! Let me get whatever it is before you break something." In the politest of terms, the Faust Mansion's resident Chef would be considered thin and willowy. Wiry was much more apt. The only thing this female was ever gentle with was food. And neither occupant was such at the moment.
*
"You shouldn't give children chocolate every time they cry. It is the root of bad manners." Carefully heating milk for the cocoa, the Chef sent Nanny a scathing look that didn't even hide the implication that she fully knew about her bad manners. While such silent interaction would normally captivate Ian's attention, he was more fascinated by the tears he wiped away from his face. He hadn't even felt them fall. Weren't you supposed to feel some sort of release after you cried? He did not continue these thoughts, as there was suddenly a steaming cup of hot chocolate placed in front of him. Quick and delicious. It was what Mr. Irons had called the Chef's food some months before, or had he been directly referring to the Chef herself? He climbed onto the stool and took a tentative sniff before swallowing a good portion of the drink. He focused on the burning liquid to avoid looking at two pairs of expectant eyes.
*
"It is nice. Thank you." He paused before adding, "Ma'am." The Chef huffed. "Well, when you're done with your nice drink, put it in the sink. Someone will take care of it later." The story of his life. Before exiting her domain, Chef turned towards Nanny once more "If you see him, tell him dinner has been set for quarter past the hour now." With no good retort on hand, Nanny was displeased to be suddenly relegated to messenger. Instead, she acted as though the other woman's comments were not important enough to be deigned with a response.
*
Ian let the thick cream melt before taking another sip of the now tepid beverage. He decided the hazelnut tasted okay and he kept this to himself.
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Disclaimer: Double-checks list…darn, still not mine.
A/N: A slightly shorter chapter for your perusal and many many apologies for the supreme lack of update. I had all my energies focused on finding a job and now that I have secured employment, I can return to doing this. Scooter, my beta, rocks so very much and inspires me to try to be more creative.