Chapter One #2
He tugs his cap from his balding head, wringing it anxiously between his hands.
“I apologize, sir. I didn't mean to listen in on something that’s none of my business. It’s only that,” he chews at his lip, eyes skittering around the room like a mouse caught in a trap, “well… I have a son, y’see.
He’s a good boy, hard worker. Wouldn't complain none about cleaning if that’s what you need him to do.
Big house like this one? Well, it’s not right proper for a lady of your standing to do that yourself.
If-if you don’t mind me sayin’ so, ma’am. ”
A sweet thing, I decide when he finishes. Soft like cotton, yet strong and unyielding beneath the stares of my strangers.
Mr. Jonas thrusts a hand in the man’s direction, his face lighting up as he turns to his sister.
“Hah, you see? Even the villagers think so, and this place terrifies them. Though,” he pauses to tap a finger on his chin, a frown teasing at his lips, “I’m not sure you should be hiring a young man to come up here, what with you only having Allard to protect you.
I can’t stay with you all year, mind, and I’d worry about you terribly. ”
Ms. Azizi rolls her eyes. “Jonas—”
But the older man interrupts, a spark of opportunity in his gaze as he takes a hesitant step forward.
“Oh no! You’ve nothing to worry about there, I can swear you that.
My boy’s a good one. Nothing untoward about him.
Never had any trouble with the girls in town, and he was raised right and proper.
He’d be happy with the work, and he knows how to be discreet, if you need it, ma’am. Can keep quiet and peaceful like.”
“Is that so?” Ms. Azizi asks, stalking closer to him.
She moves like she does not know that people make sound when they walk.
Her migration from the rug to the wood floors is effortless and silent, her skirts barely shifting with each step.
She pauses in front of the man, something gentle and curious in the tilt of her hips. “And why do you tell me this, Mr…?”
“Villin, ma’am. Alick Villin.” He bows deep, and I notice Mr. Jonas hiding a laugh behind his hand, though it is gone as soon as the other man stands back up. “It is simply that—well, you need the help, and my boy can give it. He uh—”
Mr. Villin gets that shifty look in his eyes again, glancing back in my direction, though I know he does not see me. He is searching for the others in the house, I suspect. Afraid they will hear him.
Ms. Azizi clucks her tongue, and the man jumps softly, turning his attention back to her like a scolded child. “Do not fear, Mr. Villin. You may speak freely here.”
I wonder if that is true. They both seem the kind sort, or as kind as nobility can be, but there is something dangerous about them as well.
Something in the way the both of them move, like something wild in the woods that hunts in the silence of night and shadow, their eyes glinting like a primal cat’s between the trees.
“Well, my lady, it’s just that my boy was born different,” he says, though there is no hint of shame or disgrace in him.
In fact, he straightens himself, raising his chin as if daring them to question him.
“The people in the village, they treat him badly ‘cause of it. I own a tailoring business, and the boy helps out, but my wife is gone now, and I’m getting up in the years, and I—well, I worry about where he’ll be if he can’t pay for himself when I’m gone.
” He pauses awkwardly, shifting and twisting his cap until it is as wrinkled as his face, and gives a hesitant, “Ma’am. ”
Mr. Jonas tucks his hands in his pockets, tilting his head until his dark curls go scattering in the light. “But could he do the work? Cleaning and lighting the house, moving things if she needs? Could he be trusted to shop for her and to bring those things back up here?”
Mr. Villin nods confidently. “Oh, yes sir. He’s small, but he’s strong.
Does most of the lifting for me at the shop.
Big bolts of fabric and boxes of fixin’s he carries easily.
And he’s honorable. Won’t take nothing of yours.
Wouldn’t have a need for it anyhow.” A soft smile spreads over his face as he continues.
“He’s smart too, can count and read best in the village, so you can trust him to shop for you, if you like.
And we’ve a wagon, so he can bring your things up as well. "
I find myself hopeful for this man and his son.
Not only because he seems desperate for the chance, but because it might mean one more person in my home to know.
One more person to watch and learn, to fill my halls with sound rather than the empty hum of the outside wind and the agonizing creaks of the wooden stairs.
The way Mr. Jonas speaks, he’ll not be staying with his sister in my home, and aside from Mr. Allard—who I assume was the man in the tailcoat guiding the workers—she has no other household staff to speak of. It would simply be her, a single servant, and the ghosts. My ghost.
It sounds a lonely life, and though she seems content with the idea of her self-imposed isolation, I do not wish it upon her.
How long would she last before the wallpaper drives her mad like it nearly has me?
How long before she grows bored and lonely, before she decides she does not like my home after all and wishes to leave?
How long before I am alone again?
“Well Azi?” I turn to Mr. Jonas as he speaks, watching him toss an arm over his sister's shoulder and ignore her narrowed glare. “I trust you could take care of yourself if it comes down to it, and you’ll have Allard here to handle the more complicated matters of the estate while you paint. He can even be given charge over the boy, so you need not interact with him at all if you don’t wish it.
Besides, it would ease my mind to know you are not all alone up here on your mountain when I'm not here.”
Ms. Azizi does not answer at first, and I wonder why she is so reluctant, why she hesitates.
Does she truly wish to be all alone in this drafty chateau?
Does she care so little for the company of others?
Would she care to know that I am here as well, haunting her company when she so clearly wishes for seclusion?
“Very well,” she nods at last, smiling sweetly at Mr. Villin as soon as his shoulders slump in relief.
“We shall have a trial period, if that suits you, Mr. Villin. Your son may visit me twice a week to begin with, starting next week, assisting me in unpacking my things and cleaning my home. If I find him suitable, then I shall keep him in my employ. Does that sound acceptable to you?”
Mr. Villin sucks in an eager breath, looking only moments away from blubbering like a fool. He gathers himself quickly and drops into another heavy bow. “Yes ma'am. Thank you, ma'am. I promise you, he will not disappoint.”
He vanishes out the door before they can rescind the offer, much to the amusement of the siblings left behind.
“Get that grin off your face, Jonas,” Ms. Azizi demands with a scoff, ducking away from her brother's arm and slapping him across the shoulder.
“You think you have won, but we shall see how the boy does. Allard is quite a taskmaster, as you know, and if he does not approve of the boy, then neither will I.”
“Dai! Rilassati, sorella,” Mr. Jonas says, and though the words themselves are unfamiliar to me, they sound too fond and playful to be anything but. He waves a hand, unbothered, and stares at the door Mr. Villin disappeared out of, his head tilted slightly in curiosity. “Perhaps this is a gift.”
“Hm. How so?”
“It will give Allard some help in keeping an eye on you. You are too young to hide yourself away from polite society.” That curious look in his eyes melts into something sharp and teasing, and Mr. Jonas leans over to tug playfully at his sister’s hair.
“I know the trouble you can get into when no one is looking, little sister.”
“Yes, because a farm boy is the pinnacle of polite society, Jonas.”
They devolve into the bickering of children, but there is something sweet in the way they tease. Something familiar between them that aches at a spot between my ribs.
Did I have a brother once? A sister? Would they have teased me as softly and lovingly as Mr. Jonas and Ms. Azizi do? Did they mourn me when I passed? Are they still alive?
I turn away from the siblings and find myself in the entrance hall once more.
The men are still shuffling things into the house, and Mr. Allard stands at the base of the grand staircase, directing them to various wings in the house.
I watch Mr. Villin jog towards the front doors, assisting another older man with lifting a large crate over the threshold.
They share a smile and a handshake once the deed is done, and Mr. Villin disappears out into the fading sunshine with a wave.
I wonder who his son is. Wonder if the boy is grateful for how much his father loves him and if he is aware of how far that love stretches up the mountain.
I have no memory of my own father, I realize, though I know I must have had one.
Would he have begged a stranger to take me in?
To give me work so I might sustain myself when he was gone?
Would he have stood up for me with that stubborn chin and that strong voice, refusing to entertain any false words against me?
Would I have been worth the trouble?