Chapter 9: Feeling Accepted.
1317 Words
“The girls in the laundry room have been whispering about your little visit the other time, Mrs Higgins said suddenly.
My heart skipped a bit. “I hope I was not too harsh on them. I just felt that if I’m going to live here, I can't have them treat me like a ghost that shouldn't be seen.”
“Harsh? Miss Oma, they were terrified. And they should be, because this house has been run like a museum for a decade; cold, quiet, and perfectly preserved. But a house shouldn't be a museum; it should be a home with all its characteristics. And now with you in it, I am looking forward to it”
“I am flattered Mrs Higgins” I said blushing.
“You shouldn’t be” she said.
The afternoon sun was beginning to dip, casting long, amber shadows across the polished marble of the grand hallway. I found myself in the conservatory, a glass -walled sanctuary filled with exotic ferns and the heavy scent of blooming orchids. I was staring out at the beautiful rolling green lawn, my hand resting absently on my stomach, when the soft click of practical heels announced the arrival of Mrs Higgins.
The house keeper carried a tray with a single porcelain cup and a small plate of ginger biscuits. “I noticed you didn't eat much at lunch, Miss Oma,” she said, her voice neutral and professional as always. “Ginger is good for the delicate state you find yourself in.”
Her voice brought me back to the present. I turned and gave the older woman a weary smile and said. “Thank you, Mrs Higgins. You’re very observant.”
Mrs Higgins set the tray down on a wrought -iron table. Usually, she will curtsy and vanish back into the shadows of the mansion, but today, she lingered. She adjusted the placement of the spoon by a fraction of an inch, her eyes fixed on the silver.
Then she finally looked up. Her grey eyes which are usually as sharp as flint, were softened by something I couldn't quite identify.
She took a step closer, her posture losing a bit of its rigid formality. “I’ve served Mr Jones since he bought this place. I’ve seen the women who came before you, Models, heiress, corporate sharks. They looked at the furniture, they looked at art, and they looked at his bank account. But they never looked at him. Not really.”
I listened, captivated, then I asked. “And what do you see when you look at me, Mrs Higgins?”
The housekeeper sighed, a sound that seemed to carry the weight of years. “I see a girl who looks like she's waiting for someone to ask for the bill so she can go home. I see someone who is overwhelmed. But, she paused, a small, genuine smile twitching at the corners of her mouth, “I also see the first person who has made Mr. Jones look like a man instead of a machine.”
She reached out afterwards, her hand hovering for a second before she lightly touched my forearm. It was the first time any of the staff had initiated a physical contact with me and it gave me a feeling of being accepted.
“My true feelings, Miss Oma are that I was worried when he brought you here. I thought, here is another lamb for the s*******r. But then I saw you in the kitchen last night at midnight, making your own toast because you didn't want to bother anyone. And I saw the way you defended yourself to those gossiping girls.”
Mrs Higgins bent forward, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial tone “Between us, I ‘ve worked for billionaires my whole life. Most of them are hollow, but you? You have a soul. And this baby is going to bring noise and life to these halls. For the first time in ten years, I might actually have a reason to bake a birthday cake instead of just ordering a catering service.” She smiled as she said those last words.
I felt a lump in my throat. “So, you don't think I'm just the waitress who got lucky like others?”
Mrs Higgins pulled back, but her eyes remained warm. “Luck had nothing to do with it, Miss Oma. Richard Jones is a man who gets exactly what he wants because he knows quality when he sees it. You aren't lucky to be here, rather, this house is lucky to have someone who knows the value of a hard day's work.”
She smoothed her apron. “Now, eat your biscuits. If you're too thin, Clifford will start complaining that the Master’s heir is being neglected, and I won't have a butler lecturing me on nutrition.
As Mrs Higgins turned to leave, she stopped at the door. “And miss Oma?” She said, “Don't worry about Sophie and Evelyn. I’ve given them extra silver to polish, it keeps the hand busy and the mouths shut.”
And with a crisp nod, she was gone, leaving me alone in the sunlight.
It felt so good to be accepted. The growing acquaintance with Mrs Higgins and the assurance of a peaceful home was more nourishing than the biscuit and ginger tea she served me.
The rest of the day felt light and more pleasant.
The following Monday, Richard didn't go to the office. Instead, he gave me a black titanium credit card and a stack of blueprints.
“The east wing,” he said, waving a hand towards a suite of rooms currently filled with mid-century modern furniture that looked more like museum pieces than seating. “It's cold, grey and entirely unsuitable for a child. I want you to turn it into a nursery for the baby and a private suite for yourself; anyhow you want it is fine, spare no expenses. If you want the walls covered in hand-printed silk from Florence, call the architect. If you want a gold-plated crib, buy it too.”
I looked at the card in my hand. It felt heavy, like a talisman of the world I didn't quite trust yet.
“Richard, I don't need gold plated anything. I just want soft colours, and maybe a chair that doesn't feel like it's judging my posture, something moderate and comfortable.”
Richard pulled me closer to him and kissed my forehead. “Make it yours, Oma. I have a back-to-back depositions today. I’ll see you at dinner.”
He dashed out and vanished into the hall way.
The next two weeks were a strange, beautiful home life and me trying to adjust to a new reality outside my home, diner and the shelter.
Richard on the other hand, a man who usually worked eighteen-hours a day, began to come home at five. He traded his stiff blazers for sweaters, and he sat with me on the terrace, watching the sunset as I told him about my dreams of becoming a lawyer, not for the money, but to protect people who wouldn't be able to protect themselves.
"You have the mind for it," Richard told me one evening, his eyes following the way I was able to analyse a complex legal case he had described. "You don't just see the law; you see the justice behind it. When the baby is born, I’ll get you the best tutors. You’ll get your degree, I promise."
“I’d like that; I would really want my child to know her mother didn't give up, but I would prefer a proper law school environment to private tutors.” I said excitedly with a genuinely smile. “I am glad you believe in me.”
He lifted my hand and kissed it
“I do” he said.
- Writer
