“Are you?” He set the book down to watch
me with those dark eyes, pools of black like thick tar.
The clock inside his study struck eight, and I thought
a clock never seemed so slow as both of us stopped
and said nothing, simply stared back at each other
until the chiming ceased.
“No sir.”
“I’ll take dinner in here. And a warm bath at 9:15,
if you’d draw it for me.”
I nodded.
While dinner heated, and once I had
assembled soaps for my lord’s bath (one hates to draw
a bath too early and have it be cold), I sat down to
write my mother. A hobby of mine really, I loved to
write. I told her about the manor, the hills with
primroses, the squeals of the radiator. I told her about
everything but my lord. My knowledge of him—his
lips, his hair, his eyes—those I kept for myself, like a
greedy child with a stash of sweets.
I finished my letter, folding it carefully and
setting it aside, and then brought my lord up his
dinner. While he ate, I prepared the water for a bath
with four kettles of steaming water and ten cooler
kettles. A lovely white sink and a wall lined with
mirrors. It occurred to me that anyone getting in or
out of the tub would get a full view of himself—how
French! I stared at myself in the mirror, looking
childish with my blond hair askew. I smoothed my
hair out.
34