Abigail

--- 12 ---

I hadn't been able to think of anything else. The murder hit the newspapers this morning and now it was all anyone could talk about. Except they talked about it because they were detached from it, I hadn't uttered a word about it since I had spoken to Mr Ridley earlier today. 

We were spending yet another afternoon in each others silent company, everyone sat reading or writing or drawing. I wished that I could go to the piano and play songs that only I knew, surprise them all with the monstrosity of the future. I giggled at the thought of Mr Ridley and the Queen of England covering their ears at the sound of 21st Century pop. My eyes found Mr Ridley's and I was greeted with the same harsh glare he always showed me, even if a smile graced my own features. I gave him a small wave but when he didn't respond I realised he was simply staring off into space. 

 I knew exactly what he was thinking about, but I didn't want to think about it, instead I picked up a book that was on the desk beside me and then a paper and pencil, with the paper resting on the book, I began to study him.     

It started out as rough lines, the angles that make his jaw and chin, and then his shoulders. His hair neatly combed back, but a few hairs fell in front of his eyes, I recorded how the light touched it, a light shimmer across the brown strands. I copied the curve of his nose, and the heaviness of his brows. I wish I could capture the mossy shade of his eye, but graphite is just a simple tone. Then it came to drawing his lips. The cupids bow, the way they hung open slightly, like he was gazing in awe. I pushed some of my own fallen strands out of my face and tucked them behind my ear as I sketched, when I looked up, he was smirking at me.  He stood from his chair, straightening his jacket, he then came over and sat down next to me, I pushed the book against my chest, hiding the drawing between myself and the novel. 

"What's that?" He tried to stop his face from contorting into a smile. 

"A book." I replied, not making direct eye contact.

"We both know that isn't what I'm referring to." He smiled. "So you might as well show me." 

I sighed, knowing he was right, I handed him the piece of paper, my face heating up as I watched him examine it.  I fiddled with my fingers, watching how his eyes trailed over the lines I'd drawn.

"Why were you drawing me?" He asked, not taking his eyes off the paper.

"You made a good model in the moment is all." I replied, he hummed softly before handing me back the drawing.

"It's good."  He stated plainly before standing again returning to his original chair. I sat and watched him, and he knew I was, he was  avoiding my eye this time, like it was amusing to him. I opened the book to a random page and pretended to read. I had no idea if he had started to look at me now, but I'd decided that I'd have to avoid looking at him.

It was a few hours later and I'd returned to the kitchen again, the chefs and other servants didn't understand why I kept coming back, I did have a reason, I just preferred it down here, no expectations, no particular way of behaving, the people down here acted like real people. The people upstairs all pretended that the way they behaved was normal, like everyone behaved that way naturally, like they enjoyed living that way. When in truth, everyone was just pretending. Just hoping that if they acted that way long enough they'd eventually begin to enjoy it, that the social norms would stop feeling like boundaries.

I suppose I questioned the way they behaved because I'd had so much more freedom when growing up, I was an outsider looking in on a society I was never supposed to be a part of. I wiped my hands on the apron that Ruth had let me borrow. She was sick today, told everyone it was a bug but I knew it was morning sickness, she hadn't started to show yet so she still had some time, I did worry about her but I intended to do everything I could to help.

"You'll be making the food you eat tonight." The man next to me said like it was an out of the ordinary revelation, he was a cook here, the kind that would probably own his own chain of restaurants had he been born a century or so later. 

I'd been set on the task of chopping vegetables for the soup we were going to eat. I was chopping carrots currently, and a lot of them. I wanted to tell Mr Ridley that the people down here were great, that he might even enjoy their company. However most of me knew that he'd just laugh at me, because he has only ever known that the people downstairs were employed to serve him, he wasn't supposed to care about them, or their lives. Although part of me hoped, really hoped that he was different than my idea of a Victorian politicians son, from what I knew already he matched my ideas perfectly, but I hoped that there was a part of him that was completely different. I hoped he had a hidden personality, that he really was just pretending to fit in. 

I also hoped that he didn't really hate me, that he didn't want me to keep my distance, I hoped he like me, or at least found me tolerable. 

I hoped he thought the drawing was more than good and I hoped he was wondering were I was right now. 

I hoped all these things, every single one of them, but I knew that none of them were true. I knew he was a man who was no good for me, a man I was beginning to see in a new light even if i didn't want to.

A/N:

Word count: 1039 

Update!! ( Unedited, hopefully I'll get round to it soon, if you notice any mistakes please don't hesitate to let me know, and please tell me what you think! 

~Lucy :)