Justine’s head snaps up at the sound of her name, clutching the book she reads to her chest. Immersed in the text, she lost track of time. Her oil lamp is running low, casting dark shadows across the disapproving librarian’s face.
It’s not her fault that spending her time in a very comfortable chair, in the company of an excellent book happens to sap the time away. It’s also not as though she has much else to do, given the third wave of the flu sweeping through New York City. Local officials recommended avoiding crowded rooms like parties, so most of the events on her social calendar have been canceled.
A tragedy.
“My apologies, Mr. Burnham.” She offers a conciliatory smile in return. “Have I overstayed my welcome again?”
Charles Burnham is not an unpleasant man as a general rule. Justine has known him many years, as she has been entertaining herself with Thomas Sheffield’s library since she was young enough to read. Hired as an apprentice to the previous curator, Justine knows that Charles takes his work seriously, and he disapproves when Sheffield’s niece from the next town over happens to stay for too long.
Honestly, it’s a fair concern. Were it not for the attention of the librarian; she might waste away in the throes of good books. As it stands now, she can already feel her stomach rumbling. She likely skipped lunch, if not dinner, given the light coming through the windows.
“Hardly, Miss. You know Mr. Sheffield welcomes you to stay as long as you like.” He glances to the windows. “However, I did not realize you were here, and on account of the blizzard, the last streetcars have already left for Brooklyn.”
“Oh.” Justine weighs her options before waving a hand. “That’s fine. I’m sure my uncle wouldn’t mind having a room made up for me.”
“Mr. Sheffield isn’t here, Miss. He went upstate this morning, before the storm. I’m terribly sorry. Had I realized you were here, I would have ensured that you made it home, but …”
“Well, it seems to be too late for that, doesn’t it.” Justine sighs before pushing up to her feet and stretching her cramped legs. “Don’t worry, Mr. Burnham, I won’t be in your way. I’ll see if Martha can fix up the guest room for me and have some dinner.”
There’s a moment when she feels as though he might interrupt her, insist that what she says is factually incorrect. Whether that’s because she is never in the way, or because he doubts she could ever be not, she can’t tell. But she’s contradicted him enough to see the spirit of contradiction in his features. Yet, he doesn’t confirm either way, merely withdrawing and returning to his desk.
“Of course, Miss Carrington. Enjoy your evening.”
“You as well, Mr. Burnham.” And with that, she turns and heads into the manor in search of Martha.
* * * * *
A fire crackles in one of the common room fireplaces as Charles does his best to wind down for the evening. He’s halfway through his latest volume and hopes to finish before he retires for the evening. Blizzards are always best for reading, with a warm fire and nowhere else needing his attention. He stretches back in the armchair, doing his best to get comfortable and not let his mind wander to the lovely yet frustrating countenance of his employer’s niece.
Mostly because she’s his employer’s niece, yet something about her knocks him off balance. That thread of thought tugs him deeper into a sea of questions that not even the jungles of Africa can save him from, so much so he almost misses the footsteps moving to join him in the small lounge.
“Well. Seems as though we both had the same thought, Mr. Burnham.”
Speak of the lovely devil.
His head snaps up, brow furrowing as he registers which part of the manor she’s currently standing. She seems unbothered by his surprise, winding her way around to perch comfortably on the couch. He turns to face her, eyes narrowing.
“Miss Carrington, you are aware this is the servants’ quarters.”
“I’ve been running around this house much longer than you have. I know quite well where I am.” She settles comfortably on the couch before glancing back at him. “I insisted Martha place me here. There’s no point in trying to heat the whole of this drafty old house poorly when you can heat one part well.”
He wouldn’t deny that it’s a good idea. “I’m sure polite society would have other ideas.”
“Well, polite society isn’t here, is it?” Justine looks up from the pages of her book before raising an eyebrow at him. “Why? Are you going to take advantage of me, Mr. Burnham?”
“I would never.” He would be offended by the question if he weren’t aware she was teasing.
“Then polite society will never have to know.”
Justine returns her attention to her book, and he lets his eyes linger on her. She seems different, and it takes him a moment to realize that it’s because her long dark hair is currently hanging around her shoulders. A deep, dark part of him can imagine winding it around his fingers, but he pushes the thought to the side for now. She’s no more dressed down than she would usually be – Justine’s shed the jacket she was wearing earlier and perhaps her belt and other accessories, but the hair makes this feel more intimate all the same.
She seems quite content in her book, so he takes the opportunity to go back to his, trying to refocus his attentions on the adventure story rather than the alluring woman next to him. An hour passes, and the fire dims, and he takes the opportunity to get up and stretch. As he reaches forward to restoke the fire, he can feel the other pair of eyes in the room on him.
“What are you reading?” she asks, and he blinks as he glances over to her.
“Me?”
“Who else, Mr. Burnham?”
He huffs a laugh before shaking his head. “Jungle Tales of Tarzan.”
“Tarzan!?” She’s delighted by the revelation, getting up herself to check the book. “Why, Mr. Burnham. I never took you for the type. I always thought you preferred stuffy academic texts.”
“Of which you have read aplenty, Miss Carrington.”
“I said they were stuffy. I didn’t say the books weren’t worth reading. The information is important for an educated man to know; I wish that the narrator were not so self-important.” She shifts to rest an elbow against his chair. “I didn’t realize you were the type for an adventure.”
“I think we all could use a little adventure every once in a while.” He smiles before glancing away. “Even those of us who believe that educational reading is important.”
She smiles, and she leans closer, as though sharing a secret. “You aren’t the only one who enjoys a good adventure.”
He glances over and sees the worn cover of The Scarlett Pimpernel. “You know he released a sequel this year.”
“I know,” she makes her way back to the couch and drops into it, obviously verklempt. “I’ve been trying to convince my uncle to add a copy to his collection for months, and he has yet to indulge me.”
“Why not buy a copy for yourself?”
“Because my mother is not one for indulging me. If I spend my money on books or she oft insists that it be something appropriately ladylike. I am fortunate that Uncle Thomas has always been so willing to share his collection. I only hope that when I marry, my husband will be equally indulgent.”
Something drops into the pit of his stomach as he picks up his book, moving to sit next to her. He doesn’t know quite what to say, but he turns to face her after placing a bookmark between the pages.
“Then I think perhaps when considering your prospective suitors, perhaps choosing someone who appreciates that voracious appetite for knowledge more than your more … amorous qualities would serve you best.”
She looks up at him, tipping her head to the side curiously as she studies him. “I will take that into consideration.”
“Good.” He takes a deep breath before stepping backward again. “If you’ll excuse me, I think it’s time I retire for the evening.”
“Of course.” She smiles and nods as she returns to her book. “Good night, Mr. Burnham.”
1/23/21 | january challenge: tarot prompts | original | 1,425
Justine’s head snaps up at the sound of her name, clutching the book she reads to her chest. Immersed in the text, she lost track of time. Her oil lamp is running low, casting dark shadows across the disapproving librarian’s face.
It’s not her fault that spending her time in a very comfortable chair, in the company of an excellent book happens to sap the time away. It’s also not as though she has much else to do, given the third wave of the flu sweeping through New York City. Local officials recommended avoiding crowded rooms like parties, so most of the events on her social calendar have been canceled.
A tragedy.
“My apologies, Mr. Burnham.” She offers a conciliatory smile in return. “Have I overstayed my welcome again?”
Charles Burnham is not an unpleasant man as a general rule. Justine has known him many years, as she has been entertaining herself with Thomas Sheffield’s library since she was young enough to read. Hired as an apprentice to the previous curator, Justine knows that Charles takes his work seriously, and he disapproves when Sheffield’s niece from the next town over happens to stay for too long.
Honestly, it’s a fair concern. Were it not for the attention of the librarian; she might waste away in the throes of good books. As it stands now, she can already feel her stomach rumbling. She likely skipped lunch, if not dinner, given the light coming through the windows.
“Hardly, Miss. You know Mr. Sheffield welcomes you to stay as long as you like.” He glances to the windows. “However, I did not realize you were here, and on account of the blizzard, the last streetcars have already left for Brooklyn.”
“Oh.” Justine weighs her options before waving a hand. “That’s fine. I’m sure my uncle wouldn’t mind having a room made up for me.”
“Mr. Sheffield isn’t here, Miss. He went upstate this morning, before the storm. I’m terribly sorry. Had I realized you were here, I would have ensured that you made it home, but …”
“Well, it seems to be too late for that, doesn’t it.” Justine sighs before pushing up to her feet and stretching her cramped legs. “Don’t worry, Mr. Burnham, I won’t be in your way. I’ll see if Martha can fix up the guest room for me and have some dinner.”
There’s a moment when she feels as though he might interrupt her, insist that what she says is factually incorrect. Whether that’s because she is never in the way, or because he doubts she could ever be not, she can’t tell. But she’s contradicted him enough to see the spirit of contradiction in his features. Yet, he doesn’t confirm either way, merely withdrawing and returning to his desk.
“Of course, Miss Carrington. Enjoy your evening.”
“You as well, Mr. Burnham.” And with that, she turns and heads into the manor in search of Martha.
A fire crackles in one of the common room fireplaces as Charles does his best to wind down for the evening. He’s halfway through his latest volume and hopes to finish before he retires for the evening. Blizzards are always best for reading, with a warm fire and nowhere else needing his attention. He stretches back in the armchair, doing his best to get comfortable and not let his mind wander to the lovely yet frustrating countenance of his employer’s niece.
Mostly because she’s his employer’s niece, yet something about her knocks him off balance. That thread of thought tugs him deeper into a sea of questions that not even the jungles of Africa can save him from, so much so he almost misses the footsteps moving to join him in the small lounge.
“Well. Seems as though we both had the same thought, Mr. Burnham.”
Speak of the lovely devil.
His head snaps up, brow furrowing as he registers which part of the manor she’s currently standing. She seems unbothered by his surprise, winding her way around to perch comfortably on the couch. He turns to face her, eyes narrowing.
“Miss Carrington, you are aware this is the servants’ quarters.”
“I’ve been running around this house much longer than you have. I know quite well where I am.” She settles comfortably on the couch before glancing back at him. “I insisted Martha place me here. There’s no point in trying to heat the whole of this drafty old house poorly when you can heat one part well.”
He wouldn’t deny that it’s a good idea. “I’m sure polite society would have other ideas.”
“Well, polite society isn’t here, is it?” Justine looks up from the pages of her book before raising an eyebrow at him. “Why? Are you going to take advantage of me, Mr. Burnham?”
“I would never.” He would be offended by the question if he weren’t aware she was teasing.
“Then polite society will never have to know.”
Justine returns her attention to her book, and he lets his eyes linger on her. She seems different, and it takes him a moment to realize that it’s because her long dark hair is currently hanging around her shoulders. A deep, dark part of him can imagine winding it around his fingers, but he pushes the thought to the side for now. She’s no more dressed down than she would usually be – Justine’s shed the jacket she was wearing earlier and perhaps her belt and other accessories, but the hair makes this feel more intimate all the same.
She seems quite content in her book, so he takes the opportunity to go back to his, trying to refocus his attentions on the adventure story rather than the alluring woman next to him. An hour passes, and the fire dims, and he takes the opportunity to get up and stretch. As he reaches forward to restoke the fire, he can feel the other pair of eyes in the room on him.
“What are you reading?” she asks, and he blinks as he glances over to her.
“Me?”
“Who else, Mr. Burnham?”
He huffs a laugh before shaking his head. “Jungle Tales of Tarzan.”
“Tarzan!?” She’s delighted by the revelation, getting up herself to check the book. “Why, Mr. Burnham. I never took you for the type. I always thought you preferred stuffy academic texts.”
“Of which you have read aplenty, Miss Carrington.”
“I said they were stuffy. I didn’t say the books weren’t worth reading. The information is important for an educated man to know; I wish that the narrator were not so self-important.” She shifts to rest an elbow against his chair. “I didn’t realize you were the type for an adventure.”
“I think we all could use a little adventure every once in a while.” He smiles before glancing away. “Even those of us who believe that educational reading is important.”
She smiles, and she leans closer, as though sharing a secret. “You aren’t the only one who enjoys a good adventure.”
He glances over and sees the worn cover of The Scarlett Pimpernel. “You know he released a sequel this year.”
“I know,” she makes her way back to the couch and drops into it, obviously verklempt. “I’ve been trying to convince my uncle to add a copy to his collection for months, and he has yet to indulge me.”
“Why not buy a copy for yourself?”
“Because my mother is not one for indulging me. If I spend my money on books or she oft insists that it be something appropriately ladylike. I am fortunate that Uncle Thomas has always been so willing to share his collection. I only hope that when I marry, my husband will be equally indulgent.”
Something drops into the pit of his stomach as he picks up his book, moving to sit next to her. He doesn’t know quite what to say, but he turns to face her after placing a bookmark between the pages.
“Then I think perhaps when considering your prospective suitors, perhaps choosing someone who appreciates that voracious appetite for knowledge more than your more … amorous qualities would serve you best.”
She looks up at him, tipping her head to the side curiously as she studies him. “I will take that into consideration.”
“Good.” He takes a deep breath before stepping backward again. “If you’ll excuse me, I think it’s time I retire for the evening.”
“Of course.” She smiles and nods as she returns to her book. “Good night, Mr. Burnham.”
“Good night, Miss Carrington.”