When she woke from her nap, she heard a rustling noise inside and then a knock on the door. The door opened without permission, and Cynthia, seeing who it was, smiled faintly.
“Janice.”
“How are you feeling?”
“Much better. Just like today.”
Her face, once pallid from months of illness, now noticeably radiated vitality. Janice was as delighted with the change as if it were her own. Without realizing, she had come up to the bed and sat beside Cynthia.
“That’s good to hear. Where’s Charlotte?”
“She stepped out for a bit.”
“She came in late yesterday too.”
Cynthia almost brought up Franz’s name but decided against it. It was something that could be acknowledged if asked, but there was no need to mention it prematurely. Charlotte had also mentioned she did not want to be misunderstood.
A woman from the working class and a nobleman. Even if the age difference wasn’t an issue, to some, the relationship seemed entirely improper. Sometimes, what was rumored to be mere gossip turned out to be true.
Cynthia, managing a stiff smile, shrugged.
“It must be stifling for her, coming from a big city to here.”
“She’s still young; it makes sense. Does she have a lover?”
“Perhaps.”
“Really?”
Janice’s eyes sharpened at Cynthia’s evasive demeanor. Cynthia averted her gaze and spoke slowly.
“…Just my guess. It seems she might be seeing someone.”
“Don’t know his name?”
“Not yet.”
“How old is he?”
“I’m not sure. Probably around her age.”
The probing was persistent. Like a cornered herbivore, Cynthia grew anxious and fixed her gaze towards the window, changing the subject.
“It seems winter is starting already.”
No answer came. Patiently, Cynthia continued, “It was around this time we first met, remember?”
“…How could I forget?”
Tracing back the connection between Janice Brown and Cynthia Hegel required revisiting over two decades. Precisely, the noisy announcement of the birth of the second son of the Kensington family marked the beginning of their connection.
Cynthia’s first day at the Mistymoor Hall as a servant was memorable. After passing various health checks and receiving a formal recommendation from her previous employment, she passed the interview, but the night fell without even a glimpse of the young master she was to care for.
In a house full of peculiarly exclusive individuals, while she was busy learning about the estate’s structure and the hierarchy of the servants, a woman approached her.
“You must be the one. The servant for the young master.”
“…And you are?”
“I’m Janice Brown, Lady Seymour’s maid.”
The woman was about her age, which meant if she were married with children, her child would just be a baby. She had long, curly chestnut hair and black eyes, beautiful features but with a stubborn look.
She was tall and thin with a somewhat worn impression, but her eyes, seasoned and sad as though she had weathered many storms, captured one’s attention.
“Are you married?”
“Yes, I have a daughter.”
“…I’m envious.”
That was all that was said in the conversation. It was a time when nothing was known about Gredel Hill, so it was unclear whether the envy was about having started a family or if there was another underlying meaning.
Soon after, the two became as close as childhood friends. Janice, who smiled like a hollowed-out shell of a clam, soon got promoted to a housemaid. Although Cynthia had left Mistymoor Hall for a while, when she returned, the two remained as close as sisters.
After reminiscing for a while, their conversation continued with trivial matters. They chatted about the weather, illnesses, and other employees until the noon clock in the hallway signaled the end of lunchtime.
As Janice was about to leave the room after a formal goodbye, Cynthia hesitated and called her name.
“Janice.”
“Yes?”
“Could you get me a lily?”
“…”
“Sir Richard’s memorial day is coming up soon.”
Janice looked at her friend lying on the bed for a few seconds before nodding.
“I will, Cynthia.”
***
Charlotte reached for a bookshelf after climbing a ladder. She pulled out an old novel, thick with dust, and read the title.
“Carmilla.”
“No, the book next to it.”
The response was cool. Charlotte quickly looked down, but frustratingly, the man was out of her sight, at the opposite bookshelf.
“I didn’t realize I’d have to teach you every little thing.”
Her voice tinged with annoyance, Charlotte, feeling a surge of emotion, pulled another book from the shelf as well. Their eyes met through the gap in the now-empty bookshelf.
The two were currently organizing books in the library. Ostensibly, Charlotte had volunteered to help Richard, who needed people for the library organization. The idea had been Charlotte’s.
“A child?”
The word oddly reminded her of a previous incident. It wasn’t her fault that day. It was all because he had forced her into unwanted clothes in an unwanted place.
The opera had been mysterious and a new experience, but she could hardly concentrate as her heart pounded. It didn’t matter that no one recognized her. Especially, Richard’s cruel prank had almost driven her to tears. If she hadn’t run into Miss Louise in the powder room by chance, she might have made a huge blunder.
“If I’m a child.”
As if waiting for her to say something more, his calm face eventually pushed her to explode.
“Then, sir, you are dating a child.”
She deliberately elongated the word ‘sir’, a term he detested for it starkly highlighted the difference in their social status. As she gathered her courage, the words flowed more freely.
“Come to think of it, I am seven years younger.”
It was a defiant statement, not quite a rebellion. Richard’s lips curled coldly. Goosebumps rose on her skin, but it was already too late.
“Well, it looks like we’re done here then…”
“And so.”
As Charlotte averted her gaze, trying to backtrack her words and descend the ladder, a hand reached out and caressed her cheek. Where his long fingers touched, a warmth spread like a mild fever.
“So, have you come to dislike me?”
“…”
“Do boys your age, who are still wet behind the ears, catch your eye now?”
His tone was smooth and affectionate, but his kindness was more akin to poison. It was as if he was a predator that blinds the enemy with camouflage colors and swallows them whole, leaving not even a bone behind.
Charlotte shook her head urgently. She tried to lower her gaze, but even that wasn’t allowed. His cold hand lifted her chin.
“No. I didn’t say that.”
“Then what?”
Richard asked leisurely, as if biding his time to pounce, while his gaze traced her delicate neckline.
“It sounds to me like you prefer inexperienced young men who are still wet behind the ears.”
“Richard…”
Her voice trembled, followed by a thunderous tone.
“Of course, that’s my preference.”
“Stop it…!”
Her face, which had paled from his earlier words, now flushed with heat. Charlotte managed to tilt her head back, pulling away from his grip as she descended the ladder. Thankfully, the bookshelf was in the way. She turned her head and hurried away. Her long skirt entangled her legs.
“I think we’ve done enough organizing for today. I should be going…”
She had to run. Instinctively, her steps moved towards the door. She was almost there. As she breathed a sigh of relief and reached for the doorknob, a larger hand covered hers.
“Who?”
“…”
“Who said you could stop?”
His voice resonated above her head, deeper than usual. It felt like facing a starving beast. Growling, Richard then wrapped his arms around her waist and pulled her into his embrace.
“Let go, please!”
“Why.”
“If someone sees…”
“No one can come in.”
“But still…”
“You don’t really mind.”
Her floundering resistance was effortlessly subdued. Richard looked down at her ears, now indistinguishably red whether from embarrassment or anger, and chuckled quietly.
“…It’s cruel.”
Knowing full well she couldn’t refuse.
As Charlotte mumbled, her body seemed to lift off the ground, and she was cradled like a princess in his broad arms. Closing her eyes tightly, her body swayed several times before his steps halted. He then sat down with her still in his lap, and she felt a soothing hand patting her back.
“What are you doing?”
“Consoling a little tantrum.”
“What…?”
Incredulously blinking, she listened as he calmly retorted.
“You seemed upset, didn’t you?”
“I thought you weren’t even paying attention…”
“How could I not when you’ve been sulking for days?”
It was a conversation that could be mistaken for one between ordinary lovers. It felt like just yesterday when her heart raced from a mere touch, but now Charlotte was comfortably nestling into his lap, familiar and deeply affectionate. She wanted to fall asleep just like that, soothed by his warmth.
The man who once shot wild dogs without blinking an eye, who dragged home the game he hunted in burlap sacks. She used to be horrified at the sight of blood and his harsh, intimidating gaze. Once, she would have fled from him in fear, but now he was her lover.
Her lover, known only to her.
The sound of curtains being drawn echoed behind the couch where she sat, and with it, the dazzling sunlight vanished, cocooning the room in a comforting, cradle-like coziness.
“If you’re tired, then go to sleep.”
Richard closed her eyes for her.
“Won’t you sing me a lullaby?”
“I can’t sing.”
“Maybe a hymn then?”
“…”
Thinking she might have asked too much, Charlotte quickly added, “I’ll just sleep then.”
“Instead, I’ll read you a passage from a book.”
Holding the book Charlotte had just pulled out, which he seemed to have brought over without her noticing, Richard began to read softly.
“Carmilla whispered, ‘My love, your little heart is wounded. Do not think of me as cruel. I merely follow my instincts. If your lovely heart is hurt, my rugged heart will bleed with you.’”
The rest of the passage drifted to her in bits and pieces as she fell into a light sleep.
“You belong to me, and I will make you mine. You and I will be one forever.”
🍉🍉🍉
