Chapter Eight

Isabel pressed her fists firmly into the dough she was kneading, barely containing a grunt.

Thomas sat on the kitchen floor, tracing his hand on scrap paper he had found on the third floor. The small room that was connected to his, he told his mother, was full of useful items that had been abandoned: pots of ink, reams of paper, trunks full of missives and business correspondence, all aged and worn. A large bundle of lead pencils held together with a twine, and Thomas was overjoyed at the prospect of endless doodling and drawing. She insisted he ask Mr. Bertrand before he began destroying perfectly good paper, but she relented at the look of pure terror her son gave her.

"Darling," she had said softly, sinking down to be level with him, "what is about him that scares you so?"

"He never smiles," Thomas said simply, neatly folding his hands in front of him.

Isabel hadn't been able to think of a reply. The fact was, she later realized, she didn't blame Thomas in the least for his fear. She wasn't particularly frightened of her strange employer herself, but she certainly viewed him with a wariness that she was quite sure wouldn't soon be diminished. She remembered the noises she had heard upstairs after that all-consuming music had suddenly ceased, the loud, angry clamor of slamming doors and breaking glass. Heat rose in her face at the thought of the previous night.

Certainly made an impression, at least.

Both of them had, if she wanted to be honest about it. She with her mocking performance, he with his intoxicating music and eccentric nocturnal habits.

Giving the dough a final pound, Isabel dropped it into a bowl and covered it with a towel. She would bake the loaf later in the day, after she had worked in the library for a while. She grimaced at the thought. After asking Mr. Bertrand if Thomas could use the items he had found on the third floor, she had inquired as to what she was supposed to do in the library.

"Clean it," Mr. Bertrand had replied, not looking up from the sketch he was working on.

"All of it?"

He glanced at her and she noticed a fine line of sweat running from his hairline, slipping under the mask. His hand rose quickly, wiping his brow and brushing his damp hair back. He straightened his back and looked at her squarely. His piercing gaze startled her, and she averted her eyes, staring hard at the stable behind him.

"Mrs. Bauer, I hired you on the presumption that you would be able-bodied enough to determine what needed to be done within the household quite on your own. Do you honestly feel the need to ask me before you begin a project as simple as cleaning a room full of books?"

She had left without a word, silently fuming at herself for bothering to ask him anything at all.

Now she remembered the thoughts that had run through her head when she saw him standing before her, cradling his bloodied hand. "I am perfectly capable of tending to my own wounds." How many times had she offered aid to Thomas as he struggled with something, close to tears with frustration, only to be dismissed with the words, "No, Mama, I can do it myself"?

Why, Mr. Bertrand, your defiance echoes that of a small boy. She suppressed a grin.

"Mama?"

Snapping her head up, she saw Thomas still seated on the floor, paper strewn about him.

"Yes?"

"Did Mr. Bertrand say I could use all the paper?"

"He didn't specify a particular amount to be used, so yes, I think it's safe to say you can have all of it."

Thomas gave a delighted smile.

"You should thank him, Tom."

The smile vanished.

Isabel released a long-suffering sigh. "Really, Tom, I know he isn't the most personable of beings, but he isn't going to chop you up and make a stew out of you."

Thomas crossed his arms and slumped his shoulders, a sour look settling on his face.

"And even if he did," she added thoughtfully, leaning against the counter, "chances are, he wouldn't eat it." She shot a peevish glance at the untouched tray from breakfast. In a friendly gesture, an attempt to form something of a peaceful, calm atmosphere, she had prepared fruit crépes for breakfast, canned berries and cream arranged over the delicate pastries. Of course, she had no idea if he had any taste for crépes, but at least she was making an effort to appeal to the traditions of his native country. And she had been repaid with another uneaten meal.

Really, she thought, moving to the tray and picking at the crepes disinterestedly, if this is his usual habit, it's a wonder he's still alive. She glanced out the window and saw Mr. Bertrand knotting thick rope together, wrapping it around itself and creating what appeared to be a feeding-net. For the horses, she imagined. The ones that he doesn't own.

Not even bothering to try to understand, Isabel turned back to her son. He was staring at the floor, his fingers twisting in his lap. She sank to the floor and leaned against the wall, looking at Thomas quizzically. "What's the matter, dearest?"

"Can I write him a letter instead?"

"Who? Mr. Bertrand?"

He nodded, eyes still lowered.

"Instead? Instead of thanking him in person? No, dear, you should go out there right now and thank him."

Thomas slumped forward and rested his cheeks in his palms, his elbows on his knees. "But he said, Mama. He said he never wanted to see me."

"When did he say that?"

"The first day we came here. When he asked me how old I was."

"Oh." Isabel slid her legs out in front of her, wincing slightly as her knee gave a small pop at being straightened. "Well, I'm sure he would be pleased if you took the time to thank him. Just go out and get it over with."

Thomas drew his knees to his chest and shook his head. "No."

Isabel's brow arched in surprise. "Thomas David Bauer, you'll do as you're told."

"But, Mama--"

"No, Tom. Just go do it." She rose slowly, turning back to the abandoned breakfast tray. "Darling," she said gently, scrapping the food into a slop bucket, "you can't be afraid of someone for no reason. Now, Mr. Bertrand has always been kind to us--" She paused at the flicker of guilt she felt for bending the truth. Dropping her head to her hands, she pressed lightly on her shut eyes, arranging her thoughts. "And anyway, it won't do for you to run from him every time he approaches. We have to get used to each other now."

She turned and faced him, crossing her arms defiantly. "We need to make the best of this. He gave you a gift, and you should show your appreciation."

Thomas sat still, rocking himself back and forth.

"Did you hear me, Tom?"

"Yes, Mama," came his barely audible reply. He looked utterly defeated.

"Up you go."

He rose slowly and walked towards the door in the corner of the kitchen that led to the backyard. She watched him out the window, saw him shut the door quietly behind him and approach Mr. Bertrand, his movements stiff, his shoulders hunched. He looked even younger than he was, hesitantly moving towards the object of his fear, his head hung as if he was marching towards the front of a firing squad.

Mr. Bertrand looked up from his sketches and eyed the boy impassively. She saw Thomas' mouth move slightly, most likely an incoherent mumble of a "Thank you", but Mr. Bertrand appeared to understand. He stared at the boy blankly for a moment, then nodded curtly, said something Isabel couldn't make out, and waved Thomas away, returning to his sketch. Thomas turned and fled back into the house, panting.

"It's inspiring, Tom, how you manage to survive such a perilous feat."

Thomas glared. "I did it."

"I'm very proud of you. What did he say?"

"That if I considered it a privilege to ruin old reams of paper, I must lead a very dull existence indeed."

"As I said," Isabel sighed, wiping her hands on her skirts and walking towards the doorway to the hall, "he's always been kind to us."


Selecting a book off the shelf at random, Isabel flicked through the worn pages, skimming the contents. It appeared to be a compilation of old scientific essays, most of which didn't hold her interest enough to examine thoroughly. She glanced at the shelf. Many of the other titles suggested they were in a similar vein -- The Origin of Species, Experiments on the Generation of Insects. Sliding the dusty volume back onto the shelf, she looked around and chewed her lip absently. The room itself wasn't hopeless: the small table and overstuffed chairs were in need of a good cleaning, but the books were all on their shelves, albeit in minimal order and covered in dust and grime. Mr. Bertrand obviously did not use this room; the volumes and furniture must have been left by the former owners.

Taking a survey of the shelves, Isabel noticed, with relief, that the books were sorted by subject, though carelessly, as if they had simply been shoved into place and forgotten. She raised a finger to her lips thoughtfully, contemplating the best way to go about making the room presentable.

"What's this, Mama?"

She turned. Thomas stood next to her, holding a small book.

"What, darling?"

He pointed to a page and held it out to her. She took it, smoothing the page gently.

O gentle Love, ungentle for thy deed,

Thou makest my heart

A bloody mark

With piercing shot to bleed.

Shoot soft, sweet Love, for fear thou shoot amiss,

For fear too keen

Thy arrows been,

And this the heart where my beloved is.

Too fair that fortune were, nor never I

Shall be so blest,

Among the rest,

That Love shall seize on her by sympathy.

Then since with Love my prayers bear no boot,

This doth remain

To cease my pain,

I take the wound, and die at Venus' foot.

She stared at the words, absorbing their meaning.

"Mama?"

"It's a poem, dearest. It's a book of poetry." She shut the small volume and handed it back to him, turning her attention back to the matter at hand.

"Darling, get me one of the rags we brought from the kitchen." She raised her eyes to the top shelves that were towering above her, giving a slight groan. Thomas didn't reply.

"Tom?"

"Mama, listen to this: The world's light shine: shine as it will --"

"Thomas, put that book down and help me now." She strode across the room and snatched up a rag, returning to the shelf and eyeing it wearily. "Now, get another rag and do what I do." She pulled a book from its place and gently wiped the dust off the top and cover, surprised at the difference it made. The dark red cloth almost shone now, the words Modern Scientific Discoveries gleaming on the cover. She smiled. A small hint of satisfaction pricked her, a feeling she had almost forgotten. Years had passed since she had done anything she was truly proud of, and she felt suddenly pathetic at the effect wiping off a dirty book had had on her. Pushing her momentary flutter of pride aside, she slipped the book back into place and watched Thomas carefully dab at a copy of Scientific Advancements of the 19th Century. He blew on the damp cover to dry it, and held it out for inspection. She nodded her approval and he beamed, putting the book back and selecting another.

Watching Thomas, Isabel felt another surge of pride. There were times when she wished that her husband could be there with them, that they could be more of a family. She knew Daniel deserved to watch Thomas grow, to see his smile and the excitement he expressed over the simplest things - a bedroom with a beautiful view, a meal he enjoyed, a book of poetry - and the way his eyes would light up when he laughed. But Daniel was by the ocean, many miles away, and she knew that wasn't going to change soon. If she dwelled on it, she knew she would only begin to miss the feel of arms around her, the comfort of being taken care of. Shaking herself from her reverie, she grabbed a book off the shelf and wiped, ignoring the faint stinging behind her eyes.


Isabel glanced at Thomas out of the corner of her eye, amused to see him twitching slightly in his sleep. He was curled up on the sofa in the parlor, the book of poetry open on his leg. She set her mending aside and leaned forward, brushing his hair back. She picked the book up and flipped through it, resting back on the sofa and drawing her knees up. Love poems. Of course. Why a seven-year-old boy was interested in love poems eluded her, but he was quite absorbed in them, and she knew he needed to find comfort in something within this house.

"Mrs. Bauer."

She nearly dropped the book in surprise. Mr. Bertrand stood in the doorway, his hands clasped behind his back, his eyes looking tired. Even the mask seemed to sag in weariness.

"Mr. Bertrand. Good evening." She made to get up.

He brought a hand out from behind his back and waved impatiently. "Do not trouble yourself. I simply came to bid you goodnight."

She paused her movements. "Oh. Goodnight, sir."

"I took the liberty of taking a small tour of the library." A corner of his mouth lifted. "It has improved greatly."

"There is still much more to do. It was quite..." she trailed off, suddenly wary of offending him.

"Disgusting?"

Isabel smiled. "Well, yes. It's a shame that all those books were simply abandoned."

Mr. Bertrand indicated the volume in her hands with a nod. "I see you have made use of at least one of them."

"Oh!" She laid the book onto her lap and fought a flush threatening to climb her face. "Forgive me; Thomas was reading it earlier, and I forgot to ask if he could borrow it."

Mr. Bertrand sighed. "Mrs. Bauer, I am not a warden, and you are not a prisoner. Perhaps it would be better if I simply gave you free reign of the house."

"Oh, no, of course not--"

"No, it would be for the best." His mouth curved in a smirk. "I do not appreciate being bothered for trivial matters. I would have been quite displeased if you had interrupted my work to request permission to borrow..." he tilted his head, reading the cover of the book. "Selected Poems of Passion." He raised an eyebrow, looking amused.

Isabel looked at the cover. "Oh, dear. I hadn't noticed the title."

"Indeed. As I was saying, I am not ignorant of the fact that this is now your home as well, and in order for you to perform your duties satisfactorily, you will need to be comfortable in it. That being said, you may take anything you need from any room in the house. Including, of course, reams of ancient paper and books of scandalous poetry."

It took Isabel a moment to realize she was staring. "Why, thank you, sir."

"Mrs. Bauer, I do believe we discussed that unfortunate word before."

"Of course. My apologies, Mr. Bertrand."

"The only room I ask you remain out of is my study."

Isabel waited for an explanation. Realizing he wasn't going to give one, she nodded. "Certainly."

"I am glad to have that all cleared up." He gave a brief bow and turned. Isabel's heart sank when she saw what was clutched behind his back: a large decanter of brandy, the same she had seen in the kitchen cabinet the previous day. Of course. He could not achieve a civil demeanor without such assistance. Anger suddenly flared up in her. He wouldn't eat the food she prepared at his request, but he would poison himself without a thought?

"Have you any preference for breakfast tomorrow, sir?" She asked hotly, enunciating the word he seemed to loathe.

He turned to face her. "No, Mrs. Bauer. I hold the same opinion on most dishes." Another amused look crossed his face. "As I am sure you have noticed."

Refusing to be embarrassed or intimidated by a man tainted with drink, Isabel rose to her feet. "Very well, sir. Good evening."

He gave another bow. "Good evening." He began to leave again.

Snap decisions had never been Isabel's strong suit; they normally led to awkward situations and humiliation. Yet she had never felt this brave before Mr. Bertrand, and she didn't know if this sudden daring impulse would ever resurface.

"Mr. Bertrand?"

Slumping his shoulders wearily, he turned back to her. "Yes, Mrs. Bauer?"

"What..." she swallowed, licking her dry lips and folding her hands in front of her. "What is your first name? Perhaps you'll think me silly to ask, but... I find I believe I should know." She twisted her skirt, mentally cursing her childish habit.

Mr. Bertrand looked at her, examining her face for signs of sincerity. Even if he was influenced by whatever he had consumed during the evening, she was fairly certain that he could tell she was being bolder than usual. His eyes flicked to the door he was about to exit, then landed back on Isabel.

"Erik," he said simply. He turned and walked out the door, closing it softly behind him.


Uber-props to Chat for her betaing and general awesomeness.
"The Sad Shepherd's Passion of Love", by George Peele, appears without any sort of permission or consent whatsoever, seeing as the author died in 1596.
One line of Richard Crashaw's "But Men Loved Darkness Rather Than Light" also used shamelessly.
The reviews have, again, warmed my heart and made me all fluttery and happy. You people make my day better.