The Paintings on the Wall [CLOSED]

[Qyron]

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.

 

[Becaa57]

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

 

[Qyron]

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.

 

[Becaa57]

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"

 

[Qyron]

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?"