Chapter Six
Daniel,
Our first night here is underway. Thomas is fast asleep; the poor dear was simply exhausted from watching me work all afternoon. And work I did.
I suddenly know why Mr. Bertrand is being so generous with my salary. This house is an utter disaster. It took me two hours to make any difference at all in the kitchen, and it was one of the tidier rooms. The library is in complete disarray- what looks like a thousand books shoved onto shelves in no order whatsoever. There's very little furniture in the house, from what I've seen, and it's all ancient and ill-cared for. The beds Thomas and I were provided with emitted such dust clouds when sat on, we both had to open a window to clear our lungs. I've only worked on the first floor so far, and even that isn't done. The parlor, where the interview was conducted, is still in dire need of a good cleaning. The cobwebs alone are enough to turn my stomach.
The servant's quarters are on the third floor. It reminded me of WeatherbyPark a bit too much; many flights of stairs to climb when you were already weary. Our new home consists of four rooms and one long hall, all dark and damp. I've let Thomas have the nicest room for his own. It has a beautiful view of the gardens, and he deserves some pleasant scenery after spending most of his life in town.
Whoever designed this house deserves to be thrown into the Bastille. It's dreary and cold, as welcoming and cheery as a tomb. Mr. Bertrand hasn't done much to improve the atmosphere; for a man of such apparent wealth, he certainly doesn't seem interested in spending any money on furnishing his home. Even the rooms that aren't completely bare – our rooms have beds and chests of drawers, the library and parlor have some tables and chairs – seem empty, almost lonely, as if they're devoid of any touch of life whatsoever.
I'm dubious of the second floor; if it's anything like the first, my hands will be bleeding before nightfall. I hate to even consider it, but I may have to ask Thomas for help. He spent most of the evening in the library, nearly struck dumb in wonder at the sheer volume of books to be had. I believe he would have ripped pages from their bindings in excitement if I hadn't reminded him that Mr. Bertrand's belongings are not ours to intrude upon, and if he'd like to borrow a book, he would have to ask permission. That certainly quieted his enthusiasm. He's quite terrified of Mr. Bertrand, you see. He's an odd sort, Mr. Bertrand. (Oh, dear. I don't even know his first name, do I?) Very imposing, to say the least. I can see how he would intimidate a small boy, particularly one of Thomas' character. I love the boy more than life itself, but he's not the bravest of creatures.
I shall have to go to town tomorrow, if I hope to get this letter to you in a timely fashion. I need to go to the market, as well. I'm afraid I used most of the edible provisions for dinner tonight, and I don't know how impressed the master of the house would be if I failed to provide him with a meal after my first day. Not that he'd notice; I went to collect his tray after dinner and I found it on the floor outside his room, completely untouched. I'm trying to not be offended.
It's late now, and I do not want to dwell on what a horrific day I may have to face tomorrow. I have to ask Mr. Bertrand is he expects me to organize his shamefully jumbled library; a question I am, frankly, terrified to hear answered.
I hope you are well. Thomas sends his love.
Sincerely,
Isabel
Grunting, Erik lifted the heavy wooden plank onto the makeshift sawhorse he had assembled out of large, overturned steel buckets. The garden shed, a large building that he hadn't bothered to set foot in until this night, was overflowing with long-neglected tools and equipment. Several wooden boards, aged but sturdy, rested against one wall. Though it wasn't enough to complete the stable, he had sufficient supplies to make a satisfactory start.
He raised the saw he held to the weak lantern light, feeling a stab of annoyance at the rust on the blade. He had always loathed working with inferior tools, even as a child. His perfectionist nature and stubborn refusal to make do with anything less than his idea of adequate had earned him many snide remarks and poison glances over the years. Remembering the frustration of working side-by-side with inept builders, he felt grateful for his current solitude.
Setting the blade to the wood in front of him, he began the rhythmic motion, relaxing as he cut deeper into the plank. Yes, this was what he needed. The fruits of this labor were laid in front of him, taking shape before his very eyes. It was part of the reason why he loved architecture: the progress was more visible than music, the completion of a project celebrated with calloused hands and aching bones, pains much more satisfying than the cramped fingers and sore hands composing produced.
Running a thumb along the edge of the wood, Erik made a noise of surprised approval at the smooth cut the old saw had made. Lifting another long plank onto the buckets, he began again, slowly slicing through the wood until he heard the tell-tale crack and watched the two pieces fall to the ground.
Marking off another plank with a lead pencil, he found himself smiling at the unexpected pleasure he was feeling. The stable was a small job – not even worth mentioning, compared to the palaces in Persia – but the task was having the desired effect: his muscles were loosening, the tension beginning to evaporate from his body, the raging in his mind falling into a peaceful silence. The cool, crisp air was delicious, sweet and fragrant with the cherry blossoms and budding flowers. He wasn't one to entertain such a ridiculous sentiment normally… sweet-smelling air and the simple beauty of blossoms unfurling from their winter sleep, but the moonlight was settled on the tops of the cherry trees, basking them in a white glow, and a gentle breeze brushed the hair from his forehead, cooling his skin. Placing the saw next to the cut planks, he looked around him and realized, for the first time in all the weeks he had lived there, what an exquisite home he had.
"You know my weakness for beautiful things."
Erik paused, the memory startling him. He had known many experiences in Persia – the seduction of opium, the khanum with her twisted lust and petty wrath, the indulged and shortsighted shah – and he had accepted, forgiven and forgotten almost all of them… but the daroga of Mazenderan and his son stood out in his mind like a bright beacon amidst the dark.
Reza.
Erik grabbed the saw and began his work once more, suddenly desperate to distract himself from these thoughts. So absorbed was he in his efforts, he failed to notice the light shining from the third floor window above him, the silhouette of a woman gazing down.
Isabel squinted, peering down through the glass pane in front of her. Unless her eyes were deceiving her, Mr. Bertrand was sawing a plank of wood next to the garden shed three stories below her window. There was no clock in her room, but it was surely past midnight by now. She had been slipping her letter to Daniel into an envelope when she heard a loud thud from outside. Alarmed, she had flown to the window and stifled a surprised gasp at the sight below her: irritable, quiet Mr. Bertrand was bent over a wooden board propped up on buckets, apparently cutting it in half.
She's had her suspicions before now, but this capped it: her new employer was a very strange man.
She was about to return to her letter when Mr. Bertrand dropped the saw he was holding and made a distinct hiss of pain, though, as usual, it sounded more annoyed than anything else. Pausing at the window, she watched him examine his hand for injury and briefly considered going to aid him. She quickly dismissed the idea, suppressing a giggle as she imagined his reaction to her interference.
"Now, Mrs. Bauer," she said in her silkiest voice, placing her hands on her hips, "I do believe I asked that you do not assist me while I perform my bizarre midnight rituals."
She let out a chortle and straightened her back, folding her arms delicately.
"Mrs. Bauer, I merely request the meals, I do not eat them. It is a common trait among gentlemen of my status. I find that consuming any food at all may sate me and therefore destroy my surly nature."
Laughing now, she held one hand to her stomach and wiped her eyes with the other.
"If you search through my revolting cabinets enough, I do believe you will find –"
"You really should learn to shut your door in the evening, Mrs. Bauer."
Isabel spun around.
Mr. Bertrand stood at her doorway, his eyes narrowed and one hand curled tightly around his bleeding palm.
I decided to try my hand at cliffies. Meh.
Mad love to the beta, Le Chat Noir, or Chatastic, as she's known on this here fanfiction website.
The reviews have been wonderful and lovely and they fill my heart with warmth and gooeyness. I adore you.
