The Paintings on the Wall [CLOSED]

Qyron

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Outside, it rained. A slow and steady trickle that covered everything in sight with a grey veil. Inside, in his office, Abel Atwood was at his desk, shuffling papers from one side to another, trying to remember what was to happen on that day. He had the vague notion there was something important but could not recall it. Finally, with a huff and a pile of papers flying through the air, he sat back on his chair, the wood and leather construct complaining of the sudden weight thrown at it.

It was really of no great concern to him. He didn't felt like leaving the house. He hadn't felt like it for the last four years. Then his eyes settled on the picture in front of his desk, hanging from the wall between two windows, the only part of the room completely absent of clutter. A bitter, shallow, smile curved his lips, as he looked at the picture and the two cushioned chairs underneath it. After a moment, absent mindedly, he grabbed a book from the table and opened it at random. There was no need for concern. Whatever it could be, either someone would come to him or he would receive a more or less displeased note from someone in a day or two.

He crossed his legs, settled as comfortable as possible in his chair, and started to read. Outside, the rain kept falling.
 
Rebecca Abrams, hating the rain, trying to stay dry turns up the sidewalk in front of the address she is clutching in her hand. Wondering again, what he life has come too. A year ago she was a married woman, dealing with her husbands illness. The money they had save, rapidly draining on his medical expense. It was almost a relief when he didn't wake up one morning. The funeral expenses took the rest of their money, and while his parents "loaned" her enough to buy him, she knew as the casket was lowered, so was her life ending.

She had stayed in the house as long as she could, but eventually the bank took it back, and she was in a boarding room, fighting off lecherous men.

This was the 3rd place the agency had sent her too, the other two just didn't work out. Not sure what they wanted, she suspected the wife involved in it

From what the agency told her, several other ladies had tried to work here, but left for one reason or another
For Rebecca it was either this or the street corner, and she wasn't desperate enough to sell her body at least not yet

Walking up to the door, she knocks and waits fingers crossed hoping this time she can make it work
All she knows is he's a single man, a widower with particular expectations

After 5 minutes, she knocks again

she's about to turn around when the door opens
 
The train of thought in his mind lost, he found himself looking at the pen between his fingers and the last word he had taken down. He couldn't tell what it had been, but something had broke his concentration, pulling him out of the near transe he had been just a moment before, that almost blissful state of abscense from reality he found when he wrote. But now it was gone. Dissolved like a plume of smoke by the breeze.

He looked at the clock on his left, a barroque, heavy looking object, made of dark wook, marble and brass, that looked as if it was fighting to keep its place on the shelf it sat on, holding back the books that pilled around and atop it, threatning to push it off if a few of the large volumes joined forces. The metal on the face was dull and the glass was dirty but the hands were clearly visible and told it was near mid morning. A quick glance at a window showed it still rained.

Abel couldn't remember if he had eaten already. Perhaps it had been that. Physiological needs, an empty stomach, that had brought him back, pulled him from his work. How annoying.

He set the pen down and walked out of his office, pulling his robe de chambre tighter around his figure. He hadn't bothered to properly dress yet, beyond a pair of trousers and a shirt. The house seemed awfully cold that morning. Almost chastisingly cold. A thought that he should throw a couple of logs onto the main fireplace crossed his mind, to stave off the chill gripping onto the house. Maybe he would do that after he had eaten. He had a vague memory of the butcher having delivered some cured sausage a few days before. Some of that and a few biscuits, along with a good glass of wine, would do.

He was nearing the kitchen door, counting his steps as he walked, his slippers knocking on the hardwood floor, his clothes ruffling as he walked, sounds so soft yet so loud in the heavy silence that filled the house, when a sharp noise cut through the stillness. A slight rap. Had it been that? A sudden gust of wind blowing down the chimney made the man consider it could have just been a shudder from a poorly locked window. But it had been ages since the front windows had last been open. Unlikely, then. Maybe it had just been the house settling on itself. The answer half satisfied him but not enough to let him at ease. Could there be someone at the door? It was an unusual hour for such. Too early for visits, too late for deliveries, Abel rationalized, his thoughts clinging to the memory of the image of the face of the clock in his study, that the grandfather clock across the corridor refused to confirm or deny as it stood silent and still, the last time it had been winded up a long forgotten event.

No harm would come if he was to check the door.

With slow, almost dragging his feet, steps, the man moved towards the door that separated his reality from the outside, braving the gloom that filled the long corridor, only broken by the pale grey light that managed to slip in through the dirty glass panes on the doorjamb.
The old lock groaned has the key turned and pulled back the heavy bolts that ran into the door frame, iron scrapping stone, but the well balanced door pulled back smoothly and softly, without a sound. Outside, on the step, a figure was standing under the rain.
 
While she's waiting for him to come to the door, she know he's up, can see a light towards the back of the house, although the window is filthy. Wondering when this place was cleaned last.

Even the grounds are overgrown weeds everywhere dead plants in what I think at one time had been a very pretty garden. If she didn't know better, she'd have guessed the house to have been abandoned.

The knocker on the door has frozen so I'm forced to knock with my knuckles. she walk around, trying to warm up some
the woman hates rain like this, penetrating everything, feeling like she is soaked to the skin even though even though she has a heavy coat, and scarf

She is just about to give up, go back to the agency and tell them nobody answered, when she hears a series of locks unlocking. Sounds almost like a prison lock.

The door swings open, and she turns to see who opened it

Standing in the doorway is a very disheveled man, looks like hasn't bathed or comb his hair for a while. A perfect example of someone who has given up on life. She recognizes the look, because it's very similar to how she looked after her husband passed. It was the shock of her losing her house that make wake up.

taking a deeper breath she says

"Hello Sir, my name is Rebecca Abrams, the agency I believe arranged with you for a housekeeper?"
"They sent me here that position"

"They were supposed to have sent you references, and the like"
 
The words forced him back to reality. Madness or whatever it was always lurking in the dark corners of his mind coiled back. He saw the woman standing on the front step, a poor figure enduring cold and wet, just to meet him. Where were his manners? What was happening to him?

"Step away from that awful weather, Mis. Come inside, please."

His mind reeled and connected to another vague memory of having the last housekeeper announce her resignation. When could that have been? A month ago? Maybe two? The woman was in fact apt and efficient to her role but had tried to insert herself into the governance of the house above of what was designated. A pitty. An image of the other woman, matronly, severe, flared in his mind. A sharp contrast to the woman in front of him.

"I'm afraid I do not know from which agency you come, Mis. But is of no immediate concern. I'm sure someone will eventually send a letter of collection for their services of your hiring to this house."

He gestured to an empty coat rack and started walking away, hands behind his back.

"I assume you were informed of the conditions of employment, yes? We provide food and boarding and your salary will be paid daily, for the first two weeks, starting today. After that, if you fit well into your role, you'll be paid monthly."

He stopped in front of a closed door, looking at the handle has if it had just materialized in front of his eyes on that very moment. His slender fingers wrapped around the metal, the ring around the small finger of his right hand clanging on it, then pushed the door, that swung inwards without a sound. Inside, the same pale greyish light filtering in, to weak to tell what was in the room.

"You will have a day and a half for your own affairs, weekly. Usually Saturday afternoon and the entire Sunday. Uniform will be tailored for you, if the already available does not fit."

His tone never changed. Smooth, calm. Every word perfectly pronounced. Then came another door. The same sequence of the prior events followed: noticing the handle, opening the door, pushing it, look inside for a moment, carry on.

"You'll be expect to take care of the house day to day affairs, mostly cooking, and cleaning, and pantry provisioning will be under your supervision as well. The house suppliers visit weekly."

A third, fourth and fifth door came. The kitchen, which was near the end of the corridor, after a door that could be closed to separate the area from the rest of the house, was ignored by the man. Although it was as dark inside as in the rest of the house, it was easy to smell the smoke, the congealed and rancid fat on metal, the sweet sickning scent of spoilling fruit and the hint of moldy bread. He ignored it. Across from the kitchen entry was a room with no door, just like the kitchen itself, pitch black.

"That is the staff room. You can have your meals there. The kitchen has no room for it."

Right at the end of the corridor, two doors faced each other. Plain, smooth, dark wood. A third, perhaps three steps further, had a large glass pane covered with a very dirty curtain through which ligh struggled to get into the space.
Abel stopped in front of the two opposing doors, a tall, thin, dark figure cut in contrast by the light.

"That door leads to the back garden. It doubles as the service door; suppliers come through here, as well. These are the staff rooms. You can have your pick. Both rooms have working bathrooms."

He breathed out through his nose, heavily. A tired sound. As if he had gone through a heavily taxing task.

"So, Mis., are the conditions of employement to your agreement?"
 
He looks stunned when he sees the woman in front of him, obviously not expecting her or anyone. But some manners come back and he invites her in.

Confessing that he has no idea who sent her, for the position. That statement tells her a lot about the mental state he is in

He leads me through the house and I as I follow I see that it hasn't been cleaned, not even dusted for what seems to be a couple months if not more. Wondering why he doesn't have a house keeper that just left, looks more like she left months ago


The kitchen was the worse, not only dirty, but a sink of dirty dishes and the smell of rotten and moldy food

At the end of the tour he turns and asks

"So, Mis., are the conditions of employment to your agreement?"

"Yes, although I have some questions if you don't mind, but not in the kitchen, too dirty"

They both move to the sitting room, he settles in an armchair and I perch on a couch, raising a small cloud of dust

"First it's Mrs., not Miss I am a widow, but still go by Mrs."

"I have found that previous housekeepers uniforms do not fit me, if you give me the name of the place who does the fitting I can let them know my size"

"The duties sound good, I can cook, and I can keep a clean house"
"Although I will warn you, getting this place clean again will take a while, I'll start with that kitchen first"

"I've dealt with most suppliers, so I don't think that will be a problem"

"On my free time, am I expected to vacate the premises, or would it be ok if I stay. I don't have any family, and no longer in contact with any of my friends"

"Would it be possible for me to borrow a book from the library to read? I enjoy reading"

When she see's the look of surprise on his face

"I wasn't always a housekeeper sir, at one point I was the lady of the house, circumstances have changed"

"If it's ok with you, I'd like to start today, have you eaten anything???"
"That is if you're ok with me staying"
 
Hearing it again, Abel found the voice of the woman quite pleasing. Clear, sharp, but warm. That was a nice thing to have around.

"Let's move ourselves to the lounge, then."

He walked by her and led them back down the corridor, to one of the rooms he had opened before. Like all the rest, it was drowned in shadows but he walked in with no hesitation. The sound of his foot steps on the floor told of a hard surface, probably the same hardwood of the corridor, then a softer area, then a hard surface again. After that it came the rustling of heavy fabric and with a sharp dragging sound of metal on metal, a heavy curtain was pulled back, allowing for light to flood the room, through a tall and wide window.

A small fireplace on the left wall, the end wall of the room, dark stone and wrought iron, set the tone for the space. A thick, perhaps dark brown or very deep red, carpet covered the center of the floor, with an armchair pining each of its corners. Two tall backed armchairs near to the where the fire would burn, two other, smaller, across from it. A large couch, in between the two smaller armchairs, where four people could sit comfortably faced the fireplace. Two bookcases, glass faced, standing from floor to ceilling, full to the brim, behind it, guarded the connecting door to the next room, and siding the fireplace were two low cabinets, perhaps for spirits. The chandelier was a band of black metal.
The entire room was dark wood, leather and hard, clean, surfaces. Not spartan but austere. No decorations or small trinkets anywhere to be seen, except for a few candle holders and a couple of kerosene lamps. Even the room's clock, atop the mantelpiece, was plain, merely functional, an undecorated wooden box with a brass and glass face.

Abel made a gesture for the woman to step inside as he moved to the armchair closer to the window, with the back facing the corner of room. His chair. He averted his eyes from the chair on the other side of the fireplace. He knew it would all still be there.

When focus came back to him, the woman was carefully placing herself on the arm of the sofa. She spoke softly but with an assertive tone and he listened, making small mental notes to himself of her concerns. He opted to overlook her status of a widow; some matters were better off left untouched.

"Well, Mrs, Abrams, if those are all of your more pressing concerns, I see no obstacle for you to start your employment in this house, starting immediatly."

He cleared his throat, feeling it dry and coarse, unaccustomed to speaking for so long.

"You'll find the uniforms in the staff quarters. I'll give you the address of the tailor and they can either fit it for you or make new ones. They're an efficient lot. Bartley and Bartley. They will take care of it.

In the meanwhile, make use of whatever you deem necessary to perform your duties. No concern for how long it takes to properly care for this house. It needs it; that is more than obvious."

He clenched his right fist, unconsciously, and beat it on the padded arm of the chair. It was hard to sit in that room, that chair, without her, without his wife. It was hard to sit in that room and take in how much and for how long he had overlooked the house. When he took account of his sudden outburst, he was appalled. Sitting as upright as he managed, he tried to reclaim his composure.

"Your leave is yours to take as you please, Mrs. Abrams. The only thing I'll require from you is for meals that can had cold to be made in advance. And do feel free to search through the bookcases of this house for readings of your liking. Book it is not in short supply of."

He rose, shakily, put some steel back in his posture, and made his way to the door, head leaned forward, eyes on the ground, his hands behind his back.

"I'll take my leave from you now, Mrs. Abrams. You can find me in my study upstairs, if some matter requires my attention. First door from the stairs. Dinner is served around 6pm in this house. I'll come down; no need to bring to me."
 
He lead her into a small room very dark at first, but then he pulls back the heavy drapes. letting what sunlight can get through the dirty windows into the room

Revealing a very masculine and dark room. The furniture stiff. The only ones that look comfortable are the two armchairs by the fireplace, however by the way he doesn't look at one of them. It's obvious that was his late wife's chair.

As he sits down, I see that he is momentarily overcome with emotion, clenching his fist and hitting the arm of the chair. Before getting control of himself and coming back to being in the room with her, not his wife.

He listened to my questions and concerns

She is relieved to learn that she can use her alone time however she wants and doesn't have to leave. With her finances and how far out of town proper this house is. That would've been a problem.

"If I'm going to be out of the house, I will makes sure that you have a meal available. But if I'm staying in, I will probably make you a hot meal as well. I have to eat, so just as easy to make two as it is one"

After he leaves the room, she gets up, leaving the curtains open for now at least. Goes to the front door and retrieves a suitcase, containing her processions. hardly any just some clothes and grooming items

Taking it ack to the one of the servant rooms, she puts it on the bed, opening the wardrobe inspecting the uniforms hanging. Most of them are way too big for her, she was never one of the full figured women. Finding one that was probably meant for a young girl. she slips out of her travel clothes and puts that one on. It's a bit tight in the chest but otherwise a good fit.

Deciding this will work until she can get into the tailer. she hangs her dress and slip to dry out.

Because it's late afternoon, she knows she has to start dinner

Going into the kitchen, opening the drapes and windows in there and first just throwing away the spoiled food. Then opening the ice box, relieved to see that whoever had put some food in there, also put a block of ice.

Lighting a fire in the stove, she puts together a meal for him.

As it cooks, she also boils water to use for cleaning. Spending the next hour, scrubbing the counter and table top. Finding that there is a small orchard in the back she is able to squeeze some lemon juice into the water.

By the time the food is cooked, the kitchen is somewhat clean and smelling of lemon

She moves into the dining room, and dusts the table and chairs.
Opening the drapes in that room too.
Setting up the place for him to eat when he comes down.
She leaves the rood warming on the stove.

While waiting for him to come down, she explores the rest of the 1st floor, opening drapes as she moves from room to room. If he doesn't like it, she is sure he will mention it. But she was never comfortable in a dark room, too many bad memories come forward
 
Back to his private study, Abel busied himself finding the address of Bartley&Bartley, so Mrs. Abrams could have her uniforms properly fitted. She was, afterall, gifted with a figure radically different from what the previous housekeepers sported. Maybe she would be so lucky and find something better fitting left from the staff from before. From when his beloved wife ran the affairs of the house personally. He was about to give up when a bruised and yellowed card decided to pop out from one of the mountains of paper on his desk. It would serve its purpose but he would have to ask Mrs. Abram to bring back another card, to properly add it to the house's books.

It was then he realized he had to produce the daily wage for the woman and an extra for whatever expenses she had to incur to take care of of the house. She seemed competent, which was a relief. And apparently cultured. He had noticed her manners and propriety.

A glance towards the clock on the bookcase told him the hours and horrified him. For the first time in who knows how long, he truly saw himself. The unruly hair, the unshaved face, the dark rings under his eyes. A sad figure. A poor one. One that would have put him through a severe scowling back then. The least he could do would be washing himself and change into a more proper attire. More fitting of his role as the lord of the house. The figure in the painting in front of him smiled as always but know it seemed a sad one, not a drop of the warmth he always saw in it present.

He stood, a fire burning in his belly, and walked out of the study into the floor bathroom. The figure on the mirror inside cursed and taunted him. He opened the faucet and after an initial reddish spurt of liquid, clear water started pouring into the wash basin. It was deathly cold but he washed his face nonetheless. When he was done, the skin prickled and burned, but he felt renewed. It was still close to nothing but still. He would take a proper bath the next day and would shave. For the hair, he would have to go to the barber. Another day. Or maybe he could request the barber to come to the house and have a proper shave along with the haircut.

As all of these thoughts coursed through his mind, Abel now moved towards his bedroom. This time, having the curtains closed bothered him. He pulled them back and allowed light to enter the room to reveal a floor covered in dirty clothes. He would have to request the housekeeper to spend some time caring for the room, ahead of others. He would speak with her at dinner. A proper dinner, after so much time, at a proper table, his table. Their table.

He could picture the room in his memory perfectly, the wide table, polished to a mirror finished, the comfortable chairs, the cabinets filled with dinnerware and display pieces. Everything carefully chosen and placed to form an harmonious set, an inviting room where family and guests felt at ease.

A wave of nausea came over him. All the fire he felt course through his veins only a mere moment before died. He couldn't do it. It was too much. He wanted to be alone, to be left alone. Forgotten.

It was a painting hanging slightly crooked on the wall that brought him back. He rose from the bed he had been writhing on, approached the frame and tenderly set it level. On the image, his late wife, sitting on a field of green, dotted with coloured flowers, under the shadow of a tree, hands on her lap, a garland on her head. She was smilling. The smile that had shone over him and his life like a beam of sunlight for so many years. A tear formed at the corner of his eye. Almost mechanically, he took off his dirty clothes and changed into fresh ones, his late wife lovingly overlooking him from the painting. All of them. Each one from its place on the wall, where no clutter near it was present or allowed.

When Abel looked at his figure again, on the large standing mirror, a figure in dark pants and pale yellow linen shirt, stared back at him. The hair was combed, put in its orderly place, a little dull, but clean, as it was the short beard covering his chin and face. His dark eyes, crowned by thick black brows, moved from one side to the other, taking in the full image, noticing how the red jewel on the ring on his right hand sparkled in sharp contrast with the simple wedding band on his left. A pair of tall soft boots on his feet finished the set. An aura of living death still surrounded him but now he could walk in his house, feeling like he deserved to be there.

Walking down the stairs to the ground floor was almost painful. How the boots announced his coming on the hardwood, how the dust kicked up at each step from it, how the once shined to mirror finish handrail now looked dull. It was then and there that he noticed there was true light inside the house. On the ground floor, doors were open and windows uncovered, letting in the last few rays of light of the day. His nose was quick to pick up the scent of warm food.

"Mrs. Abrams!"

He called out, his voice, loud, almost alien to him after so much time of living of whispers and half muttered words.

"A moment of your time."

The woman emerges from a door. The visiting room, her room, her domain, where guests were welcomed and invited to spare a moment. He stands still. There, he won't go. Not on that moment. Another day. Maybe tomorrow or the day after that. As the housekeeper approaches, he extends two envelopes towards her. He is sure she can notice how his hand his shaking.

"As mentioned before, here is your wage for the day."

The plain envelope is sealed with wax and stamped. The other is open.

"In the other you will find some money for day to day unforeseen expenses you may find necessary. Ask for receipts with every purchase. The address for Bartley&Bartley is in there as well. Remember to ask for a new card from them when you visit the shop, please."

He noticed the woman had changed into a uniform. The simple dress, cut of a deep dark red fabric, had been personally by his late wife. It had been the talk of the town when the staff went to the nearby farmers market, with the hugging cut and the low square neck line that showed a bit of skin bellow the throat. No one could call improper but many called it vulgar. He smiled to himself at the memory. He smiled again as he noticed it he could not remember of remembering so many things in one day.

"You have made clear you have put yourself to work already."
 
While she is waiting for him to come down, she can hear footsteps so she knows he's still alive at least.

she explores the 1st floor more, finding very nice but dusty furniture in each room. A bigger library, looks more like it was his wife's area as the colors and fabrics are softer. Pale rose flowers on the reading chairs. No sofa just several chairs with a small table beside them. There is a mini grand piano in one corner. A small table against the wall that would work perfect for holding a tea set of which there is one on it, needs to be washed and when she opens the pot she see's that the tea that was in there had evaporated leaving a coating on the bottom

She Takes it into the kitchen and fills it with hot water, hoping that by tomorrow it will have loosened up, it looks like something her mother would've had

She hears him call Mrs. Abrams

She exits the area and he is standing in the hallway
She notices that he's cleaned up, fresh clothes and his face washed and his combed, a big improvement

"You like nice Sir"

He hold two envelops towards her
she takes them as he explains what they contain

"As mentioned before, here is your wage for the day."
"In the other you will find some money for day to day unforeseen expenses you may find necessary. Ask for receipts with every purchase. The address for Bartley&Bartley is in there as well. Remember to ask for a new card from them when you visit the shop, please."


"I know where Bartley&Bartley is, I used them for a suit for my husband a dress for me, before"
Not mentioning that it was suit he was buried in.

"I will get a new card from them"

"I was able to find a uniform that fits me to a degree"
"It's actually nicer and prettier then I expected"

"I did make a lot of progress in the kitchen, and I've dusted off the dining room table, for you dinner"

"When you are ready, you should go in, I will bring your food. I've kept it warm on the stove"

"It's not much, but the best I could do, when are you expecting a new food shipment?"

He moves into the dining room, sits and I bring out his dinner

"If you need anything else sir, I found the bell, I can leave with you, just ring it, and I'll come check"

leaving him to enjoy his meal, at least I hope he enjoys it
 
Again, her efficiency was apparent. Obvious, if he was to be completely honest. Managing to take care of the kitchen, prepare a meal and still find time to start dusting and open rooms to sunlight was something to be respected. It was a start. A very good one, although still a long way from what the house used to be.

At the mention from Mrs. Abrams that she had readied the dinning room for him he was taken aback. He would be happy enough to eat at the staff room. A part of him would even prefer it, as he had done so many times in the last years. There had been enough friction between him and the staff throughout the years as shied he away from life and avoided using what she so lovingly created for the both of them to enjoy under their roof.

"The dinning room, Mrs. Abrams? Very well. I'll be there shortly."

The door to the lounge stood open and he walked inside again. There they were, as he ordered, still covered, on their places on the wall, siding the fireplace. It was clear the new housekeeper had focused on the more social areas of the house first. Which was good. It was fitting he himself did what was going to be done. He hesitated for a moment, hand outstretched. Then, in a near fit of fury pulled the cloth covering the wall, releasing a thick cloud of grey dust that spread across the room. Not stopping to look at what he had returned to the light for anyone to see he moved to the other side of the fireplace and uncovered the second painting, releasing a second suffocating cloud of dust.

On the wall, now revealed, two life size portraits hung, the figures in them looking down into the room, the master and mistress of the house, pictured in that same space. In her portrait, she sat across the armchair, a figure of dark hair that flowed down her shoulders and fiery eyes, dressed in a simple watered pink dress, leaning on her left side, left hand hanging from the arm rest, the right holding a fan on her lap. The neck line of the gown was cut low and showed a very generous amount of cleaveage. A sheep skin still with the wool on it lined the seat and ran to the ground, where her feet, bare and exposed, rested. By contrast, in his portrait, the master of the house stood next to his chair, his right arm over the back of it, turned a bit towards the chair, but facing forward. Earth brown fitting pants, a dark green vest over a white shirt. On his feet, riding boots. Perfectly groomed, his figure looked gravely over the room.

In the present moment, a very different Abel held back a fit of cough, against the dust that slowly settled.

"Have the front door office throughrouly clean tomorrow, Mrs. Abram. I'll be spending more of my time there from now on. After that, this room and the main library are to be taken care of. Unless I say so, do not move or remove any paintings from the walls."

He threw downs the sheets and started to dust himself off as he walked out of the room.

"The day after tomorrow will be collection day for our suppliers. When they arrive, bring them around to the office. Draw me a list of the supplies you require. Until then, if you find our pantry is running below your standards, you can go to the village farmers market. I'm sure you can find there at least the bare essentials to resupply it."

He entered the dinning room, dragging her behind him with his words.

"And I would very much appreciate if you could run a warm bath for me tomorrow morning. In the upstairs main bath."

Sitting down at the dinner table was bitter sweet. A single place set. Taking a look around the room, it was clear breath of fresh air had been blown into it, although it was easily noticeable much still waited to be taken care of. The table was clean enough but far from the gleaming surface it had once been and the chair cushion let off a puff of dust has he sat into it. The tableware, in contrast, was spotless; the pure white, unadorned, plates would easily denounce the slighest unattention to it.

While Abel was lost in his thoughts, Mrs. Abrams slipped out of the room unnoticed and returned carrying a steaming tray amd set it on the table. It was warm, smelled of fresh food, it was all he cared for. He excused her and started on his meal. It was hearty, filling, comforting. Better than what he had had in a very long time. As the plate got empty, he mused on the orchard and the back garden, forgotten and left to die. Wondered what would take to make it rebound to productivity. He would take a look into it later. After dinner. Stretch his legs for a bit as well. Years of disregard aren't undone in an afternoon.

Having finished his meal, he looked at the bell on the table, at arms reach. Already polished, he could see himself on the silvery surface. Bit he didn't ring it. She was the one that loved using it and she was the one that made everyone answering her call love to do so. Even himself. He was the done that measured his days in minutes and hours, made every moment, every event, of his day predictable, so there was never a need to call for someone. Unless his late wife was around him. Then, the bell would be used.

He stood and walked down the corridor, towards the kitchen. The grandfather clock was running again, announcing the hour in tandem with the village church bell. He found the housekeeper in the kitchen, busying herself.

"I'm done, Mrs. Abrams. Thank you very much for the care put into the meal. It was wonderful."

Far from his intentions, she was startled as his words came to her. Most probably, she wasn't expecting him to walk over there.

"I'm going to step outside for a bit. Clear the table and retire for the night. Have a good evening."
 
He comes down for dinner and as they are walking towards the dining room, he gives her tomorrow's instructions. A hot bath in the upstairs bathroom, clean the front office a warning not to touch any paintings on the wall, which she's only seen a couple

"Yes sir, hot bath and the front of the house"
"What time do you rise? Do you eat breakfast in the mornings, if so anything particular?"
"I notice we have some eggs and if the bacon hasn't turned I can make you that"
"If you prefer porridge, I can start that tonight, it will be ready in the morning"

When she informs him that his place is set at the dining table, he seems surprised and maybe not what he wanted? She made a note to ask him, perhaps he prefers taking his meals in the library or lounge.

She'd cleaned and dusted the table, but she knew it needed a good polishing. The dishware only had a light coating of dust, which she had cleaned off. The bell she spent more time polishing, it was beautiful.

As he sat and poured himself some wine, she brought out dinner. A roast of pork, with applesauce she'd made from some overripe apples and roasted vegetables. But she knew the orchard and garden area needed a lot of work. She made a note to talk to him some point about that
Dessert was sliced and grilled peaches with honey drizzled over them.

After he had dismissed her, she went to the kitchen to continue cleaning in there, washing the pots and utensils she'd used to prepare the meal.
She is lost in thought when he comes into the kitchen
He startles her, when he speaks, telling her he is done with dinner and it was good
Then instructing her to clear the table and retire for the night

"Yes Sir, she replies"
Although she appreciates the idea of her retiring, there are still several things she wants to get done tonight.
 
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