Winter (Not Edited)

Chapter 1

  The wind blew rapidly across Winter's dress soaking her with rain. The frigid temperatures would certainly make her sick if she didn't hurry to the front of the estate.

  After Mr. Michelson had died, the head maid at his estate transfer all the maids. Little Winter had ended up where she never thought she would be.

  Emerson Estate.

  Her now wet flats dragged her small frame upon the metal double doors. She could not see the estate properly, for it was dark. Though she imagined it to be beautiful and clean.

It wasn't in fact, the last time the outside of the house was cleaned was about a century ago. Nobody goes to Emerson Estate.

The vines that wrapped the corinthian style columns and sprawled across the front of the house were now unmanageable. Though Grant Emerson would prefer if the entire house was swallowed by the ungrateful weeds, so there was no possible entry of light.

  Shivering not because of the coldness only, but also the nerves. Winter was scared of the things this place could bring. Emerson Estate was known for its emptiness and vast differences from other estates across the England countryside. Known for those things, but feared for the man of the estate.

   Winter brought her shivering hand to the door and debated if she should knock or see if it is unlocked first. It was early morning, she checked her wrist for the time. A dainty gold watch wrapped her skinny wrist. It was two in the morning, surely he would not want some maid banging on his door, she thought.

  Emerson had to be in bed, the lights of the cab that dropped her off faded back onto the main road. He would have awoken from the sound of the car, possibly, she thought.

Winter pushed the grand door open slowly. Her face scrunched as the sound echoed throughout the entire mansion.

She pushed the door back shut, slowly, quietly. When she turned back, her eyes sweep from the top floor to the floor she was on. One more look from left to right and she was positive she should have arrived at an earlier time, or perhaps later.

  With hands of ice, she hugged herself trying to keep warm. Though she was inside, it seemed there was no heat, it was as cold as outside.

  Emerson study the embers of the fire in front of his king size bed. This was the only room in the house that had much heat. He slowly sipped the whiskey he had poured himself. His guilt. His sorrows. His pain. It was all numbed by the expensive drink.

  Sounds of cluttering broke the thick air of the estate. Emerson's muscles tensed as it sounded like there was a thief breaking into his mansion. Though the thought crossed his mind, he did not move. Let them take it, he thought.

Emerson knew his new maid was coming sometime this week, only did he not know when nor did he care. He honestly did not care for the elderly maid who would only make him breakfast and wash his dishes.

  Emerson made his way to his desk and sat down. This was an escape for him, he inherited this estate from his family. His family that no longer was around. He only cared for two things, work and whiskey.

As Emerson sat he had no clue of the young maid trying to climb the extension marble staircase. Her small legs dragged her to the top and wit fully down a hallway.

The hallway lead her to a door where soft crackles of a fire were heard, audibly. No person could sleep here without a fire it was quite obvious.

Emerson had to be in that room, Winter thought.

Her fingers trembled over the door. She gently pushed the door open, creaking slowly, loudly. Winter gulped as she pushed a strand of blonde hair out of her line of sight.

She gracefully closed the door trying not to make a commotion. The warmth of the room filled her senses, she relaxed immediately.

Though not for long, as her eyes slowly registered the beast of a man sitting at the table before her, Emerson, she thought. She shied away a bit. Emerson sat with his leg crossed over one and the glass of whiskey laced between his vein filled hands.

The two of them were rendered speechless, as they both said nothing. Winter, herself was too much frightened by Emerson to squeak a sound. Emerson, was too focused towards the young, virtuous lamb in front of him to utter a single syllable.