Chapter Two
The three of them stood silently for a moment, staring blankly.
"Mr. Bertrand?" Isabel said pleasantly, breaking the tension.
The man looked startled at her words, his visible eyebrow raising and lips parting slightly as his gaze shifted from Isabel to Thomas, then back again. "Yes," he said quietly after what seemed like an eternity.
Isabel gave a brief curtsy. "Sir, I'm Isabel Bauer and this is my son, Thomas," she indicated the boy with a graceful hand.
The man - Mr. Bertrand, apparently - raised his eyebrow further, but didn't speak.
"I'm here about the advertisement," Isabel said, drawing a clipping from her reticule and holding it out to him. He raised a hand slowly, took the paper from her fingers and read it, his forehead suddenly furrowed, as if he was trying to remember something.
"Ah," he said softly. "Of course." His eyes met hers briefly before flickering to Thomas. He stared at the child, his face expressionless. Isabel looked down at her son, who was staring back at the man towering above him, wide-eyed.
Finally, Mr. Bertrand raised his eyes to Isabel. "You are interested in the position."
Isabel's smile wavered. "Yes, sir. Is it still available?"
"Yes. Yes, it is." He cleared his throat. "Please, come in." He stepped aside and swept his arm up in a gesture of welcome. The movement seemed almost mocking in its formality.
Isabel offered another polite smile and brushed past Mr. Bertrand, tugging Thomas along. The boy seemed to have abandoned any idea of escape and was resigned to get this over with as soon as possible.
It wasn't until she heard the door click softly behind her that Isabel took in the room she was standing in. A wide hallway stretched before her, the walls painted a dark red and mahogany trim framing doorways. A stairwell stood to her right, the worn wooden steps descending into utter darkness as the staircase rose.
Thomas gave a small whimper.
"Please, let us repair to the parlor."
Isabel spun around at the sound of the voice behind her. Mr. Bertrand was in front of the door, his lips forming a small smirk as he strode forward, beckoning Isabel to follow him.
She stepped lightly to keep up with his pace, Thomas nearly tripping over his feet behind her. Her eyes roved about the hall, desperate to seek out some hint of this man's character. She could find none; the dark walls were bare and every door she passed was shut.
The man stood at the door of a room at the end of the hall, his brow set impatiently. He indicated for Isabel to enter with a jerk of his head, and she walked in quickly, Thomas now clinging to her skirts.
The room was large, with a small table surrounded by cushioned chairs. A large sofa sat in the center of the room, faded gray and threadbare. The walls were a peach, almost flesh-colored, and the woodwork framing the doors and windows was the same mahogany as the hall.
Mr. Bertrand pulled a chair from the table and sank into it gracefully. Isabel seated herself on the sofa, pulling Thomas down next to her.
Again, the man gave a slight smirk, one corner of that curved mouth tightening and turning up.
"Well," he said, steepling his fingers and smiling that increasingly frustrating smile. "Mrs. Bauer. Tell me about yourself."
His voice was tinted with an accent, so faint it was barely discernible. His voice... beautiful and smooth, but also sad... and cold.
"What is you'd like to know, sir? That's far too broad a request for me to fulfill without running the risk of babbling."
"Indeed. Forgive me." He looked thoughtful for a moment. "Tell me, Mrs. Bauer, why should I employ a woman who has a small child and an undoubtedly worried husband at home, wondering why his wife isn't there to answer his bidding?"
Isabel shifted in her seat. The vague sense of unease that had followed her into this house intensified... either this man was extremely eccentric or he simply enjoyed other's discomfort. Or both.
"My husband is a coal porter in Liverpool, sir. He understands our... needs, and does not protest my seeking employment to supplement our funds."
"And whatever would he think of his wife and child sharing a roof with a strange man? I would not wish to besmirch your honor." His cool tone dripped with sarcasm.
Isabel felt a corner of her mouth lift, despite herself. "Do no trouble yourself with worry, sir. As I said, he's perfectly aware of the situation. And I'm sure he would be pleased that I may work for a gentleman such as yourself," she added furtively.
"Indeed," Mr. Bertrand said disinterestedly. "I did not, Madame, plan on hiring a woman with a child." He shot Thomas a disdainful look. "Surely he would prove to be a great distraction from your tasks."
The boy slid closer to Isabel, clutching her hand tightly.
"Oh, Thomas is no trouble, sir. He's extremely well-behaved. You would not even know he was here. And he's very self-reliant, for one so young. I would not neglect my duties."
"I see." Mr. Bertrand leaned forward, clasping his hands together and resting his elbows on his knees. Still fixing a steely gaze on Thomas, he snapped at the child. "How old are you, boy?"
Thomas blanched and buried his face in his mother's side.
"Thomas, darling, Mr. Bertrand asked you a question. It's polite to answer."
Thomas made a muffled noise in reply.
"Oh, honestly." She withdrew her arm from around his small body and pushed him away from her, holding his arm tightly. "You're being silly." She smiled apologetically at Mr. Bertrand. "He's not normally like this. He's just shy around strangers."
Mr. Bertrand reclined back into the chair, folding his arms across his stomach. "I am sure."
Isabel gave Thomas a hard look. The boy swallowed and turned towards Mr. Bertrand, hanging his head. "Seven, sir."
"Seven," Mr. Bertrand repeated softly. He raised a hand to his lips, apparently lost in thought.
A moment of awkward silence passed, Thomas chewing on the inside of his cheek and Isabel casting glances around the room; again, it was bare-walled and gloomy, despite its brightly-colored paint. Dust covered the table Mr. Bertrand sat in front of, and there were several ragged holes on the sofa she and Thomas were seated on. If the rest of the house was as neglected as what she had seen so far, she – or whoever was appointed the position - had a backbreaking job ahead of her.
"Mrs. Bauer," Mr. Bertrand said, folding his hands together carefully and meeting Isabel's eyes, "I have just purchased this... shack," - he gestured around the room with distaste - "knowing fully well the state of disrepair it was in and hoping I could remedy that easily enough with some simple hired help. I can repair the structure damage myself, but the upkeep of the house will rest on you and you alone. I have much work to do that I cannot possibly ignore, but I refuse to live in filth any longer or ever again." His features hardened. "My home will be immaculate, Mrs. Bauer. I will not tolerate anything less. Your son will be kept out of my sight. My meals will be prepared and served in a timely fashion. You will not disturb me while I am working."
Isabel simply stared, kneading Thomas' fingers with hers.
A lock of hair had escaped the confines of the pomade that slicked Mr. Bertrand's dark hair back and it slid across the stark white mask, brushing his porcelain cheek lightly. The mask, Isabel noted, was formed perfectly to fit his face. It was a flawless work of art; the curve of the nose and cheekbone as smooth as flesh, the edge running along his hairline in a graceful sweep. The eye it surrounded was sunken in, that much she could tell, and the whites slightly bloodshot. What sort of man would shroud his face so? His visible side was uncommonly handsome, despite the dark circle under his left eye and his sallow complexion. No deformity could detract from that.
"Working, sir?"
"Yes, working," he said stiffly. "I will be honest with you, Mrs. Bauer. Not many are interested in this position. My home is too isolated, my requests too many. I understand it is an odd situation, but I am not... overly fond of people, and wish to hire as few as possible. I am sure what I'm asking of you will serve no great challenge."
Isabel raised her eyebrows. "Oh? What makes you so certain?"
He offered a grim smile. "You are raising a small child while your husband is half a country away. Compared to that, keeping a house clean cannot possibly be unmanageable."
Before Isabel could articulate an answer, Mr. Bertrand had risen and begun to stride towards the door. "The third floor will be yours for the taking. I trust you will find it comfortable. I will be expecting you here Monday morning." He paused at the door, glancing back toward her. "Do you have any concerns you would like to address?"
Isabel stood abruptly, unwittingly jerking Thomas up beside her. He made a grunting protest and rubbed his hand.
"My salary, sir. It hasn't even been discussed."
"Salary. Yes, of course." He tapped the doorframe, thinking. "It is a large task to undertake." He glanced around the room, smiling vaguely at the dust and cobwebs. "I must admit, I do not know the typical rates for such an arrangement, so I must pay you what I feel is appropriate. Say, five pounds a week?"
Isabel's knees locked and she fell back onto the sofa. Thomas, alarmed, grabbed his mother's hands and attempted to pull her upright, only to fall onto her lap when his strength failed him.
"Five pounds... a week?"
Mr. Bertrand looked mildly amused. "Surely that would be suitable?"
"I..." she realized she was gaping and shut her mouth, nodding her head in reply.
"Very well. Monday morning, then, Mrs. Bauer. If you will excuse me, I have business to attend to. Please show yourself out."
A slight bow, a quick turn of his body in the doorway, and Mr. Bertrand was gone.
Isabel looked down at her son's face, still pale and frightened.
"What happened today, Mama?"
"I haven't the slightest idea, darling."
Less is more; I'll keep this brief. Wild applause for Musique et Amour, my friendly neighborhood (well… not really) beta, whose music I listen to while I write, and a special thanks to Mandy the O, CelticHeart and Random-Battlecry for being sweet and squeeful.
