I am sitting by the window watching the rain fall over the fields like a gray mantle. It is in tune with my spirits, and I wish the tears could fall so easily from my eyes.
My small red canary Cerise is singing as though his heart would break. He loves this rain that is falling after months of drought. I wish Cerise would let me hold him, but he is averse to my touch. After months he is still terrified when I reach inside of his cage to replenish his food or water.
I feel so sad and alone. On days like these I long for even a single memory of Mortimer's regard or kindness. I know he does not think of me, but if he knew the depth of my feelings for him, would he be able to remain unmoved?
I think I hear the sounds of wheels on gravel outside, but how can it be?
*
I couldn't believe my eyes as I looked out the window and saw the Morts' carriage. My heart skipped a beat, then two beats, as I saw the tall, straight figure of Mr. Mort emerge in the gloom and advance toward my home.
Quickly I hurried downstairs. Today I was ill and wore only my negligee. Quickly I drew my absinthe-green filmy robe over my garment for the sake of modesty and my hair, which I did not have time to pin, I brushed quickly and let fall down my back.
The house was entirely dark and filled with the sound of rain beating against the roof. It was cold too with no fires lit. I never bother with these things for myself. The only lamps and creature comforts were in my bedroom, where I had been lingering all morning with my diary.
I pulled open the door and found myself face-to-face with Mr. Mort's stony visage. "Please come in," I said quickly. "The rain, how bothersome for you." I don't know why I would trouble over what must have been his free will to travel to me in a storm, a much-needed storm alleviating the summer's drought.
He said nothing to me. He merely entered where I bade. I had never before let him into my home, but he seemed unsurprised by it. I guess it is really almost as gloomy as the morgue here, with old furnishings, poor lighting, and unbroken silence. Someone like him might be uneasy in a sunny, laughter-filled home with bustling servants and family members to and fro, but not this place. Though he has always seemed averse to my presence, we really have so very much in common. I still do not know if he really wished to hire me, but I have always hoped he would recognize our common ground and soften toward me.
"May I get you some tea, Mr. Mort?" I asked politely when we reached the parlor.
"No, thank you." He pointedly looked at my clothing and raised an eyebrow.
I suppressed a sigh. It was difficult to please Mr. Mort. I knew he was already angry with me for missing work today. I had been very ill, and he had been abrupt when I had called him this morning. Most days at work he didn't seem to want me there anyway, and I could do no right in his eyes. I felt he must want me as far away from him as possible. Why, then, would he come to my home in the rain?
When he looked back at me, his eyes were even colder, if possible. "You know," he said, "that I have offered you a job in my business because our families were once friends. I promised your dead parents I would look after you. However, business being poor as it is, I can really no longer support both you and my son. I would like you to consider finding a job elsewhere. I am under obligation to support you one way or another, but I must warn you the support from me will become thinner and thinner with time. I am seriously considering offering closed-casket funerals exclusively in future, which would eliminate the need for you entirely."
He glanced up as though startled by my involuntary gasp of dismay.
"I see," I said quietly after a long moment. "I will try to find something else to do."
The rain had if anything increased in the last few moments, and lightning slashed at the parlor windows. "Please, Mr. Mort," I said, the words issued with difficulty as I was so upset and disheartened, "won't you sit down for a moment or two and wait out the storm."
His reply was lost with a sudden punctuation of thunder.
"How very awkward," he muttered, but I could tell it was not quite what he had said the first time.
From my bedroom, my red canary had begun to sing. The entire house was at once filled with its silvery peals reverberating over the sound of falling rain.
The kettle on the stove was still very warm. It took only a moment or two for me to boil water for tea and bring a tray to Mr. Mort in the parlor.
When I re-rentered the room he was looking at pictures on the mantel. It looked like he was looking at the one of me at my parents' funeral. I stood next to their caskets in a plain black dress, my long black curls framing my face on either side.
He turned and was startled once more. Even when he should most expect to see me Mr. Mort is startled by my presence. I have learned to ignore his starts and exclamations.
As I poured his tea I thought with pain in my heart how often I had dreamed of doing just this, having a conversation with my employer after years of strained silence, and that only now, when he announced to me that my services were no longer needed, would he be sharing a cup of tea with me.
"I must go," he said.
"But the rain. Won't you first have a cup of tea, Mr. Mort?"
"No, I cannot." He gesticulated wildly and turned toward the door, or where he thought it might be, but he was mistaken. I went to him and touched his arm, and he reacted to me as though burned.
"Evangeline-- Evangeline--"
He fled the room, in his long black garments looking, as he always did, like a mourner. But his voice. There had been such pain in it.
I hurried to the door and watched as he was engulfed by the pouring rain, then swallowed into the darkness of his carriage.
"Mr. Mort," I said softly to the retreating carriage. "Why do you dislike me so much? Why?"
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