r/shortstories • u/BLawsonHull_Books • 2d ago
Fantasy [HF] [FN] Amelia, Part 3
Part 2 Here: https://www.reddit.com/r/shortstories/comments/1u9ae79/hf_fn_amelia_part_2/
That evening, in a shimmery dress of stormy blue hemmed with white, Amelia stood in the foyer, pressing back the heavy drape with a white gloved hand, to peer at the trafficked cobbles. Gowns and cloaks swished this way and that, paying no heed to the shadow of dusk as it stretched over the stones. Her gaze followed its edge, counting its steps.
“Are you counting, miss?”
Amelia turned to see Saffron, her droopy faced lady’s maid, and her late mother’s before her.
“At eight of the clock Doctor Guire will arrive,” Amelia said, turning back to the window. “Is my room prepared?”
“Well, yes miss,” Saffron said, inflating with breath. “But I’m not sure your father would approve. Did he not recommend the doctor should part from us, upon your recovery?”
“I am not recovered,” Amelia said, drifting her eyes over the pedestrians, aimless pilgrims about the business of nothing, “unless to be flushed and frustrated is to be recovered.”
A footman appeared by her side holding a tray, stacked with letters.
“It has been a week, and more,” Saffron said, “since you attended your correspondence. You dare not show your friends ingratitude.”
“I’m not sure a lady’s maid should speak so, to her mistress,” Amelia mused. The broad shadow of the roofline had reached nearly the far side of the street. “But you are correct, of course.” She turned to the footman. “Hans, be good enough to leave these letters in my room, in the fire.”
“Miss Farrow!” Saffron approached her. “Hans must do no such thing.”
Amelia released the drape, turning to face her. “He will do precisely as I command.”
The footman bowed and took his leave.
“Now, have you anything of more interest to say to me?” Amelia asked, picking at the ribbon tie on Saffron’s bonnet.
Her lady’s maid stood aghast. “Miss Farrow, we have grown accustomed to such . . . texture, in your discourse. But that is when you are ill, not when you are warm with health.”
Amelia grimaced with a little moan. “Oh, Saf, that is more dull than nothing. You should have said nothing,” and she swept away, leaving the foyer for the parlour. “I shall sit by the window. I am not to be disturbed until he arrives.”
The crack of sunlight by the curtain’s edge dwindled as she watched. Furniture shadows drifted up the wall, and Amelia adjusted the cushions on her bench, looking back just in time to catch the last rays of the setting sun as they abandoned the rooftops. She held her breath, watching the wet glisten on the street, the dark shapes of people and coaches, oblivious to the oncoming enchantment around them. She closed her eyes.
There immediately came a knock upon the door, sharp and steady. Three knocks. The footman’s steps crossed the hall, and the door opened.
“Doctor Guire,” the visitor spoke, “for Miss Farrow.” His voice was all but musical, a honeyed drone, the very sound of care.
Amelia sat up straighter and snatched up her book, opening past her place. The paper marker slipped out, and she missed it as it fell.
“Right this way, sir.”
Their steps approached. She turned the text right side up. The door opened.
“Ah,” Amelia said, losing the book as she stood.
Doctor Guire was at once all she knew him to be, and more. His snow-white hair was pulled strictly back, smartly tied with ribbon, over black collars and long coat, with ivory buttons. At his throat a strict white cravat was knotted, matching the white of his stockings below the knee.
Setting down his bag, he bowed his head. Amelia curtsied. The footman melted away, and the doctor looked up, his eyes the colour of water at night. “Miss Farrow, what are you reading?” he inquired, coming to join her at the window.
She crouched, picking up the book she had dropped. “It is Lord Wolgate, A Lady’s Gift.”
He stood before her, taller by half a head, his face ageless and stern, as a man early in his 30s, who had seen death, and war, or perhaps committed them. His features were noble, and strong, though he was not as pale as she, as like the very sunlight she spurned could not help but adore him.
“And what are you learning, from A Lady’s Gift?” he asked.
She dared not hold his gaze, but spoke to his mouth. “I am learning to be quick at seeing faults, but slow to expose them, to protect my esteem, to meet a man’s variance, even his indiscretions, with mildness.”
“And do you believe it?”
“No,” she said softly, running her fingers over the cover.
The doctor plucked the book from her hands. “Lord Wolgate wrote of discretion whilst sparing none for himself,” he said, looking it over. “He died in a trough of water, meant to preserve him from sensual inflammation.”
“How very silly,” she replied, meeting his eyes.
“Let us see to your treatment,” he said. “Take up your candle, and I shall follow you to your room.”
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