The Forgotten Gift. Kathleen McGurl
her work, as she sets the dining table for the next meal, or crouches by a fireplace to black the grates, or passes a duster over a mantelpiece. I try to catch her on the stairs, and pass her, uttering what I hope is a cheery ‘good morning’ with a smile. She smiles back, and dips her head, and occasionally says to me, ‘good morning, sir,’ in her warm, melodious voice that seems to melt my insides.
And I have begun wondering, what would life be like if she and I could … I know our stations in life are vastly different but does that matter? If two people love each other, why does it matter that one is a gentleman and the other a servant? I think she does like me. We have had a few conversations – just a dozen snatched words as she goes about her work. Comments on the weather, on how well she has polished a sideboard, how hard it must be to keep all Mother’s ornaments dust-free. I speak and she responds and smiles at me, and my day is made. For the first time I have begun to dream of possible futures for myself, and, I confess, in many of those futures Lucy features.
But today, something more happened that I must write here. I came across her in the drawing room this morning, and stood by the door watching her as she bent to plump cushions and straighten antimacassars. Her slim figure stretching over the sofa back was something to behold. She spotted I was there, and stood straight, turning to me.
‘Come in, sir, please don’t let me stop you.’ She curtsied as she spoke, and tilted her pretty head on one side, and I felt my heart flutter. I entered the room, and sat on the sofa she had just finished straightening. To my surprise she didn’t continue working, but stood before me. ‘You like me, sir, don’t you?’ she said, and I blushed to my roots.
‘I-I think you are a very fine servant. And a most b-beautiful young woman,’ I stuttered.
She took a step forward and to my surprise and delight put a soft, white hand on my shoulder. ‘And I think you are a fine young man.’
I confess, my mouth flapped a little like a fish out of water, and then I managed to squeak out some words and bade her sit beside me. The door to the room was almost closed; no one would see us. My mother’s wrath would be fearsome indeed if she’d caught a glimpse of us together. Lucy sat, smoothing her skirts beneath her, placing herself close to me – so close that I could feel the warmth of her leg beside mine, and she turned to look at me, her mouth ever so slightly open, ever so slightly smiling at me. And I was lost for words. I wanted to lean in to her, breathe her scent, kiss her soft lips.
She tipped her head to one side, regarding me. ‘You are lonely, I think?’
‘I-I am. Yes.’
‘Your parents pay you little notice.’ It was a statement, not a question.
‘You are right. Th – they don’t much care for me, I think.’
‘I understand. I have felt it too, in my own family. It is hard to feel unloved.’ And then she put her hand over mine, on my knee, and she leaned towards me and kissed me on the corner of my mouth. I confess, here in my journal, that I was too surprised to respond in any way, and so I just sat there, open-mouthed.
She smiled again and then stood, breaking the spell. ‘I must continue with my chores, sir. It has been nice to talk to you.’ She dipped in a small curtsy once more and then turned away to continue dusting, as I sat there mutely and wondering what it all meant and whether it would happen again and resolving if it did I should kiss her back. But just as I decided to call her back to sit with me again, the drawing room door was pushed open and my father walked in, a newspaper under his arm.
Lucy curtsied to him, gathered her cleaning cloths and brushes and hurried out of the room. My father, I noticed, kept his eyes on her the whole time, a smirk on his face and a calculating look in his eye. I left the room, hoping to find Lucy still in the hallway but she had gone. Perhaps tomorrow I will find her again and we will be able to interact some more, and maybe I will even kiss her properly …
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