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 Created on 2-5-08
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 Story Rating G
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Jessica was still pulling me up the stairs, but with less force than before. Her look had been altered, just as Cook’s had. Her eyes were thoughtful but resigned.
"Boy, that was a good thing you did back there in the kitchen." I trudged up the steps. I knew it was, but I didn’t want to boast.
"Ok."
"You should tell My Lady when she arrives…assuming you’re ready for her. Get up in the bathroom! I’ll send Marie to help you." Marie was a short, stout, African girl. She was probably a few years younger than I was. Big brown eyes, long black hair, light brown skin… she was beauty itself. Her job was to clean the house, not uncommon to today’s traditions. She also, when given the order, took care of me, which I found slightly awkward seeing as she was younger than I was. After awhile you get tired of being babied and want to do things yourself, but I was never trusted with being clean cut and perfect by myself. That’s why I had Jessica and Marie to help.
Marie came into the bathroom as I began to undress.
"Water hot, Sir?" She said in broken English. She never spoke English that well, and she was never required to because she knew enough, but I always found it hard to take her seriously when her sentences were missing verbs and adjectives.
"Yes, Marie. That would be very nice." She went to the tub and turned the golden handle to the right. I watched her elegant movement, the way her body moved back and fourth, up and down. I was sixteen years old, and as well brought up as I was, there was only one thought on my mind. Her black uniform was wet from leaning over the tub to check the heat of the water. Next to the sink was a closet full of towels. I opened it and handed her one with flowers on it.
"Oh no, Sir. My lady would be angry with me."
"Don’t be ridiculous, Marie. You’re dress is wet."
"Uniform, Sir."
"You’re uniform is wet. Take the towel and dry yourself." Her nimble hand reached for the towel as my outstretched arm held it for her. I watched as she quietly dabbed the wet spot on her stomach.
"Sir, anything else? I will leave?" Her brown eyes peered into mine, and for a moment I thought all the air had been pushed right out of me.
"Yes, yes… I’m fine. You… you can go." And off she went.
The bath was luke warm, just right after working hard outside. I let the water lick my skin, letting the warmth nuzzle its way into my very soul. It’s time like these where human beings should be thankful they feel the simplicities life so joyously has created. Ah, but back in my time no one felt anything unless they were told to feel it. That’s why being alone was such a treat; when you could let go of all the orders and the constant hounding of someone who is "above you". It wasn’t just the workers who were hounded day in and day out. Trust me, I had my fair share of orders, maybe not hard labor, but still, for a boy to grow up in constant formality, I’m pretty sure I could’ve used at least a little break. But that’s not the way it was. My Lady was coming.
To clarify, My Lady was Elizabeth Sonya George III, and to me, commonly known as mother. She was the Duchess of Irvington, a small town in England. When I was born, she shipped me off with my Grandmother to live in Virginia. My Grandmother, Lady Hilts, died when I was seven, but by that time Cook and Jessica had made their way into the family. Mother was always in England. I only ever remember seeing her on big holidays, and she always came to Virginia. I was never allowed to go to England. That part of her life was always a mystery. I asked her about it once, when I was younger.
"It’s none of your concern, son." She had said. She did what everyone expected her to do. She was a Duchess, and Duchesses do what Duchess are supposed to do, be of royal blood and look nice.
Now, don’t get me wrong, my mother had a head on her, that’s for sure. She was always level headed, but she was also very narrow. I guess that comes with the title, but I was so much more constricted when she was around. I can’t say if I loved her. I’m sure I did, in some small way, but she was never around long enough for me to get to know her. I knew her from pictures and stories. As a young boy I would sit at the fireplace with Jessica and listen to her tell me stories I never thought could be true. How MY mother was this Goddess and everyone looked up to her for her wisdom and advice, and how she dined with Kings and Queens. Those stories were fantastical, but they were only fairy-tales. My mother wasn’t much of a Goddess. I can’t feel bad about not having strong emotions for her, for, in my lifetime, I can only imagine how little emotion she must have had for me, her only son.
And hence the haste to be perfect for her arrival. I could hear Cook downstairs banging pots and pans together. Whether in search for a pot or putting one a way, I didn’t know, but the sound of the clashing metals tightened the muscles in my shoulders. I stepped out of the bath, freshly pink and clean, grabbing another flowery towel. She would be there within the next hour, that much was certain. Jessica was hollering, "Marie, DO NOT hang that portrait up! My Lady will be furious, oh and Cook will you please finish those brownies, you know My Lady will want one, and for heaven’s sake why is the dog in the house?" One can only guess the amount of stress she was under…
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