An Unfortunate Slight

The sweet scent of flowers invades Anna’s senses when she opens the door, permeating the small room, and no doubt clinging to the sheets and curtains as strong as it is.

She closes the door behind her, careful of any noise and squeak of its hinges.

With soft steps she walks straight to the bed, eyeing the unmoving form of Robert in nothing but his thin shirt, the slow rise and fall of his chest the only proof he’s even alive.

His pale skin, blonde hair, and white shirt appears luminous in the moonlight as he lies atop the dark duvet, and she touches the back of her fingers against his temple, grimacing at how cold and clammy he feels.

Moving quickly, she sets a fire, lighting various candles throughout the room. And soon her surroundings are glowing with a pleasant warmth and coziness.

A pipe lays innocently beside its owner on the bed, reflecting the light around it in its polished wood. She reaches for it carefully, as if its very touch would have her too sprawled out and dead to the world.

She’s surprised at its weight and craftsmanship. It’s not bamboo as she first thought, but ivory, meticulously carved and shaped, with a strange ceramic figure at the top. After inspecting it closer to the light, she sees it’s a dragon’s head, a tiny hole in its mouth. It’s a gorgeous piece of artistry. Beautiful and innocent in appearance, yet if the state of the inert man on the bed is anything, it’s truly a deviously wicked little device.

She sets it, and the tin stamped with exotic oriental symbols, on the nearby drawers, planning on locking them away when she leaves. Searching his wardrobe, she finds clothes, choosing a clean shirt.

With only the slightest apprehension, and much work, she manages to strip Robert of his shirt, damp with the sour smell of his sweat. He mumbles and stirs during her handling, but never fully wakes.

She’s heard of certain places, lurid stories of exotic, filthy dens in London’s docklands, that prey on weak men hoping to forget. She has no experience with such places or men, so she’s not altogether sure if Robert’s current oblivious state is even normal.

After pouring water into the basin, she soaks a cloth in it before squeezing out the excess and setting upon her task. There’s no eroticism in her actions, carefully washing away the sweat from Robert’s skin. But there is curiosity that she tries not to give into, and fails abysmally.

She’d seen the light tuft of hair on his chest, peeking out beneath his shirt and loose cravat, but she had no idea the expanse of it. It’s darker than the blonde hair on his head, but still light and glistening as she wipes it with her wet cloth. It covers across his wide chest, which usually seems so thin and lean under his shirt and fitted waistcoat, but the breadth of it surprises her.

His stomach and abdomen are bare though, muscles contracting easily under the skin with his every breath. The movement has her hypnotized for a time before she continues, cloth and hand moving lower.

She’s not shocked by the sight of him, having an idea of what lay under a man’s breeches. But the fact that this was Robert, that she’d fondled him, makes her mouth dry. Deciding not to go further, she looks away, quickly finishing his arms before grunting with effort to slip the clean shirt over him.

After covering him with his sheet, she sits in the leather chair nearby, set on watching over him until he wakes, when she can tell him just how foolish he is.

She hadn’t anticipated Mrs. Flynn, forgetting Martha’s explanation of Mr. Marriott’s order to check up on their patient.

Their eyes lock in astonishment, neither speaking as Mrs. Flynn stands in the doorway holding a serving tray.

“Miss Smith?”

Anna swallows before standing, trying to think of some reason she might be here.

“I heard... he was ill. I only wanted to check on him.”

Mrs. Flynn gives a sad, understanding smile, though what she understands exactly Anna’s not sure.

After closing the door she sets the tray on the bed, sighing wearily as she does so. “Martha’s been talking again has she?”

“No,” Anna says quickly. “Well, yes. But it’s not her fault.”

The older woman only nods. “Mr. Marriott found him like this yesterday after he didn’t show for breakfast or lunch. Asked me to keep an eye on him till his wife comes for him.”

Time seems to suddenly stop, her stomach plummeting as it twists painfully within her. “His wife?”

“Mr. Marriott sent a letter off to her yesterday,” she explains, eyeing Anna with pity, “asking what it was she wished for him to do.” With a shrug, she peers at Robert before picking up the tray and laying it on the nearby desk. “I expect she’ll send someone for him within a few days.”

Anna barely hears her, her world collapsing under this truth he kept from her. Married? She glares at him, a hate she didn’t know she possessed roiling inside her. “Hopefully they come soon,” she says through gritted teeth.

“Aye.” They stay like that, silent as Mrs. Flynn looks on Anna with sympathy and Anna eyeing Robert with scorn. “Miss Smith,” the housekeeper starts gingerly, but Anna doesn’t want to hear the pity of this old woman for a simple-minded girl who allowed herself to be misled by a man.

With a huff, she seizes the pipe and tin, skirts rustling as she escapes with haste before Mrs. Flynn can argue.

If he wished to hurt her and his wife by trying to turn her into his whore, then she would hurt him thrice.

Rushing from the manor, with no cloak or bonnet, she races with purpose through the garden and across the grounds, skirts catching as she makes her way through the heath. She tries not to think, instead only brood about the insurmountable betrayal, and anguish over how stupid she feels.

Finally, she smells the salt in the air, the damp breeze coming up from the sea nearby whipping her skirt and the loose tendrils of her hair. She walks carefully to the cliff edge, remembering the times she’s warned John of getting too close. She peers down at the sharp cliffs below, the drumming sound of the sea crashing against them, soothing.

She squeezes the pipe in her hand, the ivory, cool and smooth. She knows he can get another - knows he will - but she doesn’t care. If he wants to be a **** to his **** she won’t stop him, but seeing the furious look in his eye when she tells him just what she’s done with his fancy instrument of pleasure has her feeling just a tad bit better - as childish as it is.

With a gleeful satisfaction, she hurls it over the cliffs into the North Sea, followed by the tin, hopefully gone forever.

Like him.