So here is Day 1:
Georgie tugged at the white lace cuff
on her sleeve while chewing the inside of her mouth, a nasty habit
her mother always rapped her knuckles over with whatever she happened
to have in her hands at the time. Sometimes it was a hand fan, or a
fountain pen, a sewing sampler, and once she had even smacked them
with a fork. Georgie couldn't help it. She would often chew her
lips raw, close to bleeding, when she was nervous.
The Earl Grey tea sitting in front of
her in the bone China teacup, half drunk, was beginning to cool, the
steam becoming more transparent. The cheerful floral and lace
pattern on the teacup and saucer mocked her as she sat, alone, in the
tea room of her London townhouse. The broken grandfather clock in
the hall groaned a half hour past tea time. She hadn't realized she
had been sitting there for that long; waiting. She was already on
her second pot of tea, having asked her housekeeper, Mrs. Craven, to
refill it.
“He'll be along soon, I'm sure,”
Georgie had told her housekeeper, glancing at the basement door,
hopefully.
“Shall I go down and alert him that
tea is ready, Mrs. Stoker?” Mrs. Craven had asked.
Georgie protested. Her husband hated
distractions of any sort while he was working. She shivered
remembering the poor doorman who had made the mistake of going down
into the basement to tell him he had a visit from his brother.
Georgie was distraught to hear him resign almost immediately after he
came tripped up the stairs, the shouting and screaming of vulgarities
still persisting.
No, it was best to leave him down
there. He knew they were going to have tea together. She had
reminded him, twice, last night.
The teacup on the table across from
her, however, was still full, laying flat, lonely, and untouched.
She felt ridiculous, feeling like she understood how the tea felt
waiting there to be drunk.
She glanced at the basement door,
tightly shut to keep intruders out.
Bang!
A cry.
Georgie sighed. Given the usual
ruckus from the confines of the forbidden room in her own household,
she finally resigned herself to the fact that she would be having
this tea alone after all.
She stared down at her teacup, the
glowing amber beverage begging to be finished. The lukewarm liquid
melted down her throat leaving sweet citrus notes, and the fragrant
taste of something she hadn't noticed before.
Lavender.
Known for it's calming qualities, it
didn't seem to do anything for her. She shook her head as she placed
the teacup back on the saucer, leaving nothing left but a single drop
of tea. She stood from the table, disturbing the hem of the lace
tablecloth with the elegantly bustled folds of her black skirt.
Her peppermint green eyes were being
threatened with moisture, and she balled her hands up into fists, her
nails digging into her palms, to keep the moisture from forming into
pools. It worked, but instead it churned her stomach and made her
heart ache. She sniffed, her footfalls heavy on the hardwood floors
as she passed the basement door towards the stairs. When she started
to close the door to her bedroom, she thought she heard the creak of
the basement door opening.
She didn't care enough to check.
Corvus Stoker stood in the entrance of the
tea room, his gold pocket watch open in his wet palm. His sharp
knuckles were dripping water onto the wood floors. He hadn't been
paying attention while he was working, as usual. It was 15 minutes
till 3. 45 minutes late. He had washed his hands in haste, not
bothering to dry them when he realized that he had failed in being
punctual once more.
But she wasn't there.
He had hoped that she would be sitting
there at the table draped in white lace, the early afternoon sun
shining through the matching curtains, crowning her with a golden
glow, like it usually did when he came up from the basement for a
break and breath of fresh air. She would always be drinking tea,
sometimes with a female guest, but mostly with a book open on the
table, her hands combing through a single marigold curl resting on
her shoulder. It wasn't until yesterday, when he nearly missed
supper, that she finally asked him to take tea with her the following
day. Lately, he had been noticing that she was trying to get closer
to him; talking to him more, sharing an amusing story or joke she had
heard that day. It had made him realize that in the three months
that they had been married he hadn't spent much time with her, nor
had they taken the trip he promised her that was supposed to be their
honeymoon.
His work had to be dealt with.
He wondered how lonely she was in this
house while he slaved away at his work downstairs in the basement.
He couldn't even talk to her about it. What would he say? What
would she say?
Corvus stepped remorsefully to the
table looking down at the offensively cheerful teacups. One was
empty, with only a drop of amber liquid left. The other teacup was
full to the brim with tea. The cup was cool to the touch, left to be
forgotten or drunk cold with the reminder of a broken promise.
With a slick, wet hand, he smoothed a
long dark lock of his hair out of his young face. He sat down across
from the empty teacup. With a single small sip he found the tea in
the full cup was, unsurprisingly, cold and bitter. He gently placed
it back down on the saucer, as though asking for forgiveness for
abandoning it. Resting his elbows on the table, he drew his hands
together and pressed them to his lips, meditatively pecking his
brain.
Finding only disappointment clawing at
his heart and mind, he buried his face into his hands, leaving the
teacup full.
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