“Why thank you, ma'am,” Miss Katie Lawrence replied fervently. “I'll do my
best and work ever so hard.” The girl's openhearted manner and country-bred accent made her all the more appealing.
“No need,” Katerina replied, waving her hand in the young brunette's
direction. “There are only two of us, and while my husband is a bit… messy, I'm
not. I'll never work your fingers to the bone. Only do your job to the best of your
ability. That's all I ask.”
“Thank you, ma'am.”
“When will you be able to start? Is tomorrow too soon?”
“Not at all! I'll be here bright and early…”
“At nine,” Katerina interrupted firmly. “After my husband leaves for work.
That will give me time to help him find his socks and gloves and get him out the
door so he's not late.”
“I'll do just that,” Katie vowed. “Thank you again, Mrs. Bennett.”
“Excellent, Miss Lawrence. I'll see you then.”
The young woman gathered up a flowered satchel in which she'd carried a stack of copies of her references and scooted out the door.
Flushed with success, Katerina decided to put off writing polite rejection letters to the other two applicants for a few minutes and wandered down the hall
from her parlor to the music room. I need to ask Christopher if he can secure me some fabric to make curtains. Surely, I can manage a simple straight hem or two.
I hope he has a vivid red. This room needs color and red looks so lovely with theblack of a piano.
She sank onto the bench and squinted at the sheet music in front of her.
Changing her mind about serious practice, she instead translated her giddy, positive mood into a spritely bit of Mozart, and then chased it with “Fur Elise.”
The familiar pieces busied her fingers and allowed her mind to wander.
So far, I adore being married. My charming husband pleases me
tremendously both in bed and out. The bishop made me think I would grieve and
be miserable for a while and then begin to heal, but in fact, the two processesseem to be simultaneous. I still have those old feelings of fear and melancholythat have been my constant state for the last ten years, but they're nowinterspersed with moments of radiant joy. I must allow myself to grieve when it
rises; it has to be felt to be healed, but I'm far from miserable most of the time.
How can I be when I have Christopher to hold and kiss and talk to me?
Grinning, music ringing in her heart, she had no trouble making her way to
the kitchen for a cup of tea and then back down the hall to the parlor, where she
hunted for paper and a pen. On the small table, Christopher had brought from his
apartment, she located a folio filled with sheets of paper, which she opened in hopes of finding something blank.
Instead, each sheet had the logo of the Wilder printing company. The name
Robert Browning capped several collections of raggedly uneven lines.
“These are poems,” she realized aloud, setting her cup down and digging
through the collection. “The conversation pieces Christopher mentioned, I'll wager.”
She took a sip of her tea and regarded the first poem, her eyebrows drawing
together at the title, “Porphyria's Lover.”
Oh, it's a naughty poem, she thought. Perhaps like Byron? Feeling naughty herself, she rationalized, Well, I'm a married woman, am I not? I have experienced passion. If this poem proves a little scandalous, I’m ready.
So, she read. This poet writes with a bit of a lisp, she realized, lips moving soundlessly as she stumbled over the ragged rhythm and hunted for the rhyme in
the middle of multi-line phrases.
