Anne
Within the vast expanse of this mansion, the concept of human interaction is an enigma, a scarce occurrence like a fleeting apparition. The cavernous rooms swallow the echoes of my voice, lost amidst the grandeur that seems to mock the emptiness within. Can this colossal, seemingly lifeless structure truly be christened a home? No, it stands as a mere space, devoid of the warmth and vibrancy that define a sanctuary. Within its walls, I find myself entwined more with the tendrils of my own solitude than the presence of Eliot. It is a dwelling where the palpable loneliness becomes a silent, omnipresent companion, overshadowing any sense of belonging or familiarity.
Even with three more letters awaiting my attention, including missives from my parents and Constable Green, I made the deliberate choice to deliver the letter to Elliot personally. Despite the convenience of entrusting it to a house helper, an unspoken desire propelled me to bridge the professional distance that lingered between us. Perhaps, in this small act, a seed could be sown toward the cultivation of companionship.
Gazing at the wax-sealed envelope, I couldn't help but smile at the gracefully scripted name adorning its summit—Marrisa. In a world where friendship with Elliot remained elusive, I entertained the notion of teasing him about the mysterious letter, a privilege reserved for those who shared a closer bond. Yet, a shadow of concern eclipsed this fleeting amusement.
The prospect that Marrisa might be more than a mere correspondent gnawed at my heart. Did Elliot harbor a lover back in Azurelia, kept at a distance due to my presence in his life? The thought cast a subtle ache, a silent lament for any unintended disruption I might have caused in his personal affairs.
Curiosity spurred me to indulge my senses, and with a gentle inhale, I sought the fragrance of rosemary and cinnamon that clung to the sealed envelope. In this brief moment of whimsy, embarrassment swept over me like a sudden gust. I chuckled at the realization that I had, albeit inadvertently, taken a momentary plunge into the intimacy of someone else's correspondence.
With the envelope cradled in my hand, I stepped out of my room, the corridors of the mansion stretching before me like silent witnesses to my own inner musings. Amidst the diligent hum of workers engaged in the mansion's upkeep, I traversed the expanse, their bowed gestures met with a reciprocal nod and a smile from me. The one-sided dance of courtesy, where deference flowed solely in my direction, did not sit well with the principles instilled by my father. In our household, kindness begets kindness, regardless of status, and I carried this ethos with pride.
Confidence enveloped me like a protective cloak as I descended the grand staircase, each step echoing with the subtle assurance imbibed from familial teachings. Yet, as the threshold of his room drew near, the veneer of self-assurance began to erode, replaced by the anxious fluttering within.
The anticipation of breaking the professional wall between us carried the weight of uncharted territory, and the confident strides morphed into hesitant footfalls. His room, a bastion of privacy and solitude, became the focal point of my trepidation, an arena where vulnerability coexisted with the desire for connection. The journey from assurance to apprehension mirrored the delicate dance of emotions that accompanied this daring venture into unexplored realms of companionship.
An anxious gulp betrayed the nervous flutter within me as I scrutinized the letter clutched tightly in my hand. My gaze, averse to the imposing dark brown wooden door ahead, sought solace in the delicate fabric of my dress. A floral summer creation, gifted with maternal love from Azurelia, adorned me in an off-white canvas adorned with a myriad of tiny blossoms. Its modest design offered coverage from chest to ankles with a shadow of the cleavage showing, along with short sleeves framing the anticipation etched on my skin.
A cascade of loose locks framed my face, a conscious choice to eschew the confines of tied hair within the sanctuary of home. The simplicity of the floral dress and the freedom of my untethered hair contrasted sharply with the complexity of emotions tangled within.
A subtle clearing of my throat preceded a mental rehearsal of words, a futile exercise in scripting an encounter where spontaneity would reign. There was nothing to practice. All that lay ahead was a simple act—to knock on his door and assert that a missive intended for him had erroneously found its way into my possession. A simple exchange, yet the prospect of breaking the six-day silence hung heavy in the air.
The last shared words lingered in my memory—a conversation woven amidst the backdrop of Mr. Garham's grandson's christening. Since then, a silence, pregnant with unspoken sentiments, had enveloped our interactions. As I stood before his door, the chasm of those six days stretched out, a void begging to be bridged by a simple knock and the opening of a door.
As my hand poised in mid-air, ready to rap against the door, it swung open with a swift momentum that caught me off-guard. The anticipated act of knocking became an awkward dance, my hand left suspended as he emerged into the doorway, garbed in a thin white shirt and beige trousers. His presence, an unexpected interruption, painted the scene with a mix of surprise and decorum.
Upon meeting my gaze, his eyes widened in apparent astonishment. With a practiced bow and a courteous greeting, he addressed me, "Good afternoon, Your Highness." His hands were dutifully tied before him as he stood with military precision, an embodiment of professionalism. The air brimmed with a respectful formality, his inquiry laced with a readiness to address any concern I might harbor.
"Is there anything I can assist you with, Your Highness? Is there a concern or issue that requires attention?" he inquired – gazing around the corridor, his hand instinctively reaching for the dagger secured at the back of his trousers. The juxtaposition of his polished manners against the backdrop of this impromptu encounter left an indelible mark. Even in moments of leisure, this man carried the weight of a concealed weapon, a silent testament to a vigilance that transcended the boundaries of professional obligation.
A quick, almost instinctual shake of my head accompanied my attempt to dispel any notion of urgency. "Oh, no – no," I waved my hands in a gentle, reassuring motion and offered a soft smile as if to reassure both him and myself that all was well. "Everything is alright," I affirmed, the words carrying a subtle weight beyond their surface meaning.
His attire, far from the usual formal garb, signaled that this encounter was unplanned. The absence of shoes and the untamed cascade of natural curls that framed his face hinted at a relaxed state, a departure from the polished exterior he often presented. Despite the evident informality, a question, spurred by an unforeseen curiosity, escaped my lips, "Uh, are you off somewhere?" I queried with a light chuckle masking the underlying uncertainty that prompted the inquiry.
"No, Your Highness," came his soft reply, each word delivered with a gentle cadence, as if addressing a child or perhaps an elder. The simplicity of his explanation belied a nuanced attentiveness, "I saw a shadow underneath the door, so I opened it to check," he calmly explained, the words wrapped in an unwavering sense of duty.
"You needn't have ventured to my quarters, Your Highness. If there was a specific service you sought, a simple request to summon me would have sufficed," he added with a respectful undertone. A fleeting frown marked his features, and he continued, "Or did you find no one at your beck and call, Your Highness?" The slight sternness in his tone carried an unspoken expectation of protocol.
The weight of his professionalism pressed upon the atmosphere, creating a palpable distance between us. A realization dawned, a stark acknowledgment that perhaps Kelly's discernment was accurate—this man, staunch in his commitment, existed within the confines of duty and formality. A momentary pang of disappointment gripped me, the hope of transcending the roles of princess and bodyguard dissipating like morning mist in the sun's warmth.
A soft sigh escaped me as I spoke, "Oh no, Elliot, there was no such issue. I came here of my own accord," I affirmed, my gaze momentarily dropping to the letter clutched in my hand. With a gentle motion, I raised my eyes to meet his and continued, "I brought you your letter. It was mistakenly delivered to me." The transfer of the letter from my possession to his was a delicate act, laden with an unspoken acknowledgment of the unforeseen connection that had drawn me to his door.
A subtle shift in his countenance betrayed a lack of satisfaction upon receiving the letter. The typically stoic expression yielded to a slight sourness, casting a shadow over the lines of his face. His gaze lingered on the missive for a few contemplative moments before, with a discernible reluctance, he accepted it into his grasp. The paper, once pristine, now bore the marks of his tightened grip.
Observing this uncharacteristic display of tension, I met his eyes just as the frown began to relent. A sudden transformation overcame him as he straightened, assuming the formal posture of respect. "Thank you for delivering my mail, Your Highness. However, for future instances, please feel free to enlist the help of our servants. I sincerely apologize for any inconvenience you experienced due to my oversight," he conveyed with a seamless blend of courtesy and regret, all while maintaining a gracious bow. The words, a symphony of politeness, concealed an undercurrent of self-blame and a genuine desire to spare me any inconvenience.
A sigh escaped me, a tangible release of frustration as my shoulders slumped. This was the perpetual state of our interactions—marked by an impenetrable wall of professionalism. Despite sharing a dwelling and maintaining a facade of intimacy for the Silverhelm residents, attempting to foster even a semblance of friendship felt akin to coaxing warmth from a stone-cold existence. Elliot remained an unyielding presence, a fortress I couldn't breach, and the realization settled with a heavy finality.
"I must leave now," I muttered, my words carrying a tinge of resignation. Once again, he bowed in response, a gesture that mirrored the rigidity that defined our connection. Rolling my eyes at the predictability of his response, I turned away. Yet, before fully retreating, I couldn't help but steal a glance at his hand as he crumpled the letter into a ball.
Curiosity ignited within me—a yearning to unravel the mystery of Marrisa and the enigma she seemed to pose to him. Who was she, and what had she done to evoke such a reaction from a usually calm and collected Elliot? The questions lingered, dancing on the periphery of my thoughts as I walked away.