Once Upon a Noon Sun.

I.

 

The blindingly golden beams of the noon sun shone through the crisp white curtains of a brick-walled countryside house. It was soon after lunch and Mrs. Wood was just taking a nap – as usual. After such a fatiguing activity like lunching, the lady always lies down to “gain strength” for the afternoon reading club. In the meantime, as usual, her husband found peace from her rather talkative female nature behind the closed doors of the library. The chamber of books was a rounded room, with ceiling-high wooden bookcases and a single window. The gentleman sat in fr­­­ont of his large bureau, a beautiful craft made from dark oak, the pride and throne of the household. It was a habit of his to wipe his hand over the surface of the desk as to investigate how busy the maids were that day. After finding out that both the table and his hand were dust-free, he laid back in his armchair. Here he often dwells on his thoughts for as long as he pleases. Nevertheless, lately his thoughts were not as pleasant as what suits a summer afternoon. For there was a secret lingering in his mind and he could not let it out of the cage he put it into.

One could never imagine the darkness of Mr. Wood’s mind. In this typical countryside village in Cornwall he is the most amiable and respectable man around, both in action and age. His Sunday church attendance is regular, his household is known to be under perfect control (even the maids are described as “tamed”) and his social life literally glittered, as only the parties that he attended were worth remembering, as his entertaining yet intellectual nature made social events less of a bore, both for the guests and hosts. As for his private life, it was a mystery to all. Bright and humorous the gentleman was in public, but of his past no-one knew a single word. However, due to his honourable reputation, everyone kept quiet, but wondrous about it: “What a shallow wife he has! Curious to think where they might have met!”, “How can such an intelligent gentleman marry such a woman astounding in looks but ordinary in knowledge and soul?” or “Why do they not share a single word in public?” are one of the many questions whispered between the gossipy housewives of the town. Mr. Wood was very much aware of the attention his rather passive relationship with his “new” young wife receives. How, oh how can he explain himself? How will he ever find peace with such a dark secret in his wrinkling mind? 

Determined, Mr. Wood pulled open one of the many drawers of his desk and drew out a piece of hard paper, the one with his initials thickly printed in cursive letters in the bottom-left corner. As he repeatedly dipped the pointed fountain pen in its inkstand, he formulated the words he was about to write in his thoughts. 

“Helen,” wrote he, delicately curving the letters on the horizontally-lined paper. The addressor of the letter took all the ink the pen could handle for one use, a refill was necessary in order to continue. As Mr. Wood was about to place the tip of the refilled pen on the letter he just began, the doors behind him suddenly opened. Without turning around he knew it was the least “tamed” maid Patricia, the most thunderous out of them all. She had a way of turning the handle without knocking and without addressing the man of the house with the respectful “Sir” and all in one breath she – how very unladylike – now exclaimed,

“The lady isn’t breathing!” 

“Of course not, she never was aware of the term” The gentleman remarked calmly in his mind while his body actively sprinted into the living room, towards the couch where the lady’s curved body, warm with early thirties youth laid breathlessly without any motion of life. “How peaceful she looks, not a single wrinkle of experience on her forehead,” the man thought to himself watching the woman he had been tied to for the last five years. Five years of hypocrisy, wasted time in literary clubs and afternoon siesta, five years of married life and yet separated bedrooms. He himself did not mind his wife, though she (unaware of the attention he pays to the details of her actions) often did not control a smirk or eyes piercing the ceiling. It was an arranged marriage – the more “human” name given to a deal, a business agreement to “glue” two family trees together, all for the price of a higher profit from two generation-to-generation companies. The Woods lived in prosperity, with maids, cooks, a horse stable with a few stallions and mares – all for the purpose of fashion or transportation -, they even had their own tailor! The newest of which had just produced a most exquisite piece of under clothing for the madam; a corset, feminine, black and obscure to Mr. Wood as his wife who so far hasn’t showed it to him. 

Bathing in his thoughts, Mr. Wood remained silent and still in the room that increasingly resembled a busy bee hive, as the maids and servants buzzed all around the immobile Helen, but the man heard nothing, so deep in his thoughts was he. Next to the couch where his dear wife laid was a small table – Chinese wood – and on it was Chelsea tea porcelain, sprinkled with crumbles of a sweet substance, a sample of which the lord thoughtfully took to his mouth and tasted with the kind help of the tip of his finger. 

 “Sir! This is an absolutely (“this one’s got quite a sense for drama,” thought the still-calm man, making sure he is standing back to her so his grin remains unnoticed and unpunished) dire situation! The lady has not been breathing for quite some time now and I dare-say, this is no time for Victoria-cake tasting!” cried Patricia, while ordering with a single movement of the hand to a young servant to (go now,-) get a bowl with cold water. The man winced and still with his fingertip at chin-level, he turned his head slightly to ask: “Victoria cake?”

 Patricia put her hand on her hip, located somewhere beneath the formless working dress. “Yes sir, Lady had one baked and she ate two slices just this afternoon, in case you may take any interest in her diet,-” replied she, in a tone so bitter that was also overflowing with the kind of sarcasm that any servant or maid refuses to use towards their employer if to keep their job. Mr. Wood ignored this. 

“Two slices you say? That is more than she eats in an entire month” he smiled to himself. After a glance at the motionless wife, he looked at the tiger-eyed servant: “I was told you have some experience with corsets, is that true, Patricia?” Failing to melt from the fervidness of her master’s gentlemanly charm, she nodded. 

“Well then, take to the Lady and untie her corset.” The maids that were twittering about the room in chaos suddenly stopped to gasp: the sir noticed this change of air. “Or a little of loosening will perfectly do,” he corrected himself. By this he loosened the breath of the ladies in working dresses who sighed in relief. Patricia took to her chore, biting her lower lip in repulsion of being ordered to do something so unacceptable… and in public. But oh! A single notch was easened and the creature breathed into life. Suddenly the room resembled a henhouse, the maids chattering away in amazement of the renaissance of their lady. Helen, looking like a winter hare in all her fragile beauty woke and slowly sat up to face a small crowd of astonished pairs of eyes, all directed at her. 

 “Come when you need me, I will be in my workplace”, said Mr. Wood, taking off from the over-populated room. “And Patricia?” the servant looked up, “Next time, knock” and the only noise that filled the silence of the living room was the echo of the bang created by the dramatic closing of the doors to the library.

II.

It was soon after supper and the clouds hid the Sun that now was descending far from the horizon. Mr. Wood was sitting in his armchair in the living room, smoking a Virginia while reading the day’s paper. The only sounds filling the room, a universe of its own, were the sounds of a burning fireplace, the gentleman’s occasional turn of page and the smacking of his lips, holding the cigar in place when his hands were far too occupied by the process of reading. He was alone in the room, peacefully enjoying the leisure of the evening. The old grandfather clock on the wall suddenly vehemently exclaimed the time, as a mother nudges her insomniac child. The man looked up - eleven pm – and returned to his activity. The paper did not revive his attention for long, as Helen entered the chamber, subtly as only she can. Her gown was brown and long, her skin pale in the moon light, her hair resembling a nymph’s in their curls and waves. She is a beauty no man can ignore, yet it did not manage to catch her husband’s eye for more than a second. Slowly she sat onto the sofa next to her husband. The ticking of the clock continued, so did the woods’ last cries before burning to ashes and the rustling change of page. Playing with her thumbs, she observed the room around them; the familiar turns of the ceiling and corner ornaments she studies every afternoon while resting, the books she never opens, the vases containing organised wild flowers. The atmosphere, though peaceful, made her nervous.

 “What are you still doing here at this hour?” she asked. He looked up from his paper, evoking bad conscience in Helen for such a dull question when it was so obvious. His dark almond-shaped eyes behind rectangular glasses (a new luxury at the time) observed her from head to toe, like a teacher checks a student’s uniform. After looking away he replied, cigar in mouth: 

 “Reading, catching up with the day”. Helen bit her lower lip – this surely was a failed attempt for a conversation! She thought it might be much easier, he saved her life today, should he not be in a joyous mood, exclaiming “Oh Helen, my dear, dear Helen, what my life would be without you!”? Yet then, their discussions were never easily evoked and such an emotional talk would be too much for the gentleman who got the most vivid only in the presence of high-numbered company and kept his feelings secure beyond the doorway of their household – as if on purpose. Commencing with a deep breath, she said:

 “I came here to… to thank you” the man did not move one bit, but the slight twitch at the side of his mouth gave her confidence to continue. “I put my own and especially your reputation to risk and I thank you for saving me from… um,”

 “Death?” Mr Wood said with lifted eyebrows, closing his paper and throwing them on the Chinese table. With one of his spare hands he took off the glasses, the other helped his body turn towards his wife, looking equally surprised and nervous.  “Helen, do not play this game with me. I know from the first moment you were told to marry me that you despise me. If you aim to thank me every time I happen to save you from ending our marriage due to unnatural happenings, then you will be thanking me every second of every day. I know you would love any other man besides me, but love can be learnt.” Looking up from her hands in her lap, she asked: 

 “In that case, do you love me?” The man chuckled. 

“Men are not expected to love – we are expected to supply a home with all of its expenses, nothing more, nothing less. This deed was prescribed centuries ago in the English society; hence do not look at me like I am fulfilling my obligations on purpose to torment you.”

 “You have not yet answered my question.” She replied indifferently, straightening her back in increased attention and determination for an adequate answer. Calmly he thus said:

 “Helen, you are still a child if you cannot deal with your Fate. We were married five years back and yet you still attempt to escape from me through Death. The long bath, the knot on the ceiling of your bedroom, now the surfeit- I may be old, but not blind. How can I love someone who does all to leave me alone in this world? Do you not think that selfish?”

 “You will not leave me alone either. You refused to dance with me during the ball last week. Was not that thoughtless and selfish, especially in front of all those people?” Elegantly, he replied:

 “Even if we would have danced together, I believe you would barely allow me to put my hand on your waist and so, for that matter, I have saved us both the embarrassment, frankly speaking and,” he smiled “why would you suddenly permit me to touch you when you even ask the servant to pass me sugar or salt when I specifically ask you for it?”

 The woman clearly did not know how to respond. This man, experienced with verbal communication, confused her to the extent that she did not ever know how to reply! Cynicism, sarcasm, metaphor, rhetorical questions, he knows it all- but she does too, now!

 “Well then, let’s dance!” and stood up as to prove she is being serious. The man laid back in his chair in surprise and amusement. “Up, up with you!” The man lifted himself obediently, though slightly against his will in front of Helen, now so different from the maiden he married. Suddenly she was no longer the fragile being who shook at the very sight of him and whose voice trembled every time they spoke; now she was a grown woman with mature beauty, a confident gaze and a stable, authorative voice.

 “If you want to dance, then we shall – but not with you in your evening gown.” He pointed at her outfit, wiggling the single finger up and down in the upward and downward direction of her slim body.

 “Alright, I shall go and change – but you must as well!” 

 “What outfit would content you and your dancing desires?” he grinned.

 “Last week’s ball suit will perfectly do. At midnight, we meet here – and not a minute later!” And with that the Woods departed for their separated bedrooms and dressing rooms for the following half-hour remaining until the next day. They both slammed their doors loudly, waking the servants in the cottage opposite as the sound caused the walls to tremble. Thinking this to be yet another sign of a quarrel, they did not take much notice of it. 

 “The Woods need some knocking on their heads” Patricia sneered, the maids laughed and returned to their overnight slumber. This was the night when no-one would get sleep, but this was something nobody knew by then. So as Helen and Mr. Wood were getting ready for their first (midnight) dance, the romantically-minded maids observed their silhouettes against the curtains. They watched Helen putting on and tying her new black corset before putting the dress over it and Mr. Wood taking out last week’s ball outfit from his closet. While putting it on, Helen was combing her hair and as she was finishing it off (putting it into a high bun with trails of angelic curls on the sides), Mr. Wood cleaned his shoes.

 “Those are the black leather dancing shoes, I recognise them!” One of the maids exclaimed. The cottage immediately, once again, resembled a hen house and a rumour of an exciting night spread throughout the rooms, waking all the half-naked servants (it was a hot night), sleepy maids, even the needle-eyed tailor. Crowded around the two wide windows, the maids especially giggled and awaited with high spirits the events that were to happen. This was to be a night to remember.   

III.

The diamond-shaped stars sparkled brightly on the midnight English skies and though distant, they captured almost as much attention as Helen when she returned to the living room. Mr. Wood was struck by her elegance and charm; the silk blue dress seemed to literally float on her smooth alabaster skin and the embroidered belt made of the most exquisite beads highlighted her slim bust. Her earlobes and cleavage were decorated by shiny pearls, a contrast to her dark brown hair, assembled into an organised bun with a few untamed springs of waves and curls resting on her neck. Her body was upright and oh, very doe-like! Her eyes shimmered as they met Mr. Wood’s, who could not hide his stupefaction by her angelic beauty; his jaws slightly opened, this small detail alone made Helen smile with amusement as well as bashfulness. Wincing back into reality, he said, looking first at the grandfather clock and then at her,:

 “You have a small delay – it is a few minutes past midnight”

 “Well, I would not be a true woman if I came on time, would I?” she laughed. He smiled too. Once realizing this mutual reaction, her evident merriness decreased, as her mouth narrowed back into their usual arrangement. This time it was not out of passivity or hostility; no, she was bewildered. Why is she this nervous? It is not cold at all, why the shaking? What are these… these stones in my stomach, the nausea I feel, what is happening to me, inside of me? What she did not know was that Mr. Wood was going through similar emotions. In the silence he observed her, this princess that grew into a queen in his household, an empress entitled to wear his name but who he never had a touch or much knowledge of. 

 While lull filled the Wood house, the cottage with the maids was live with excitement; the young women lied, sat, stood cramped by the window and at this point were far too amazed by the sight. No argument! No throwing of objects, dropped books, dissembled glass that once formed a vase or glass… the servants could barely breath, afraid that even a single sigh could catch the Woods’ attention and thus ruin the night that’s events at this point were beyond belief. 

 “If only we could hear what they’re saying,” said Patricia, much to the others’ annoyance. A collective “Shhh, they’re speaking now!” shut her mouth once and for all; superiorly she folded her arms, though this was truly insignificant and not worth anyone’s attention right now. Back on the stage, the Woods’ eyes finally met and – finally! – Their mouths (in turns) opened.

 “Are you still convinced that you wish this to be the night we dance?” the gentleman asked. 

 “Perhaps so, if you convince me” replied Helen, lifting an eyebrow as a sign of challenge. Mr. Wood laughed in and nodded. 

 “I have an adequate reputation for my dancing skills” replied he.

 “Yes, “the lightest feet in Cornwall”, she grinned, “I did hear a useful thing or two at the literary club”. The man laughed and bent towards the nearby gramophone. It was the only one in the region and so with great care he handled the object as he placed the needle onto the plate. Within seconds, fervid music filled the living room; suddenly the hall was no longer cold and empty as the sounds of a string quartet flew around the two figures like a fresh breeze. The music could be heard across the yard all the way to the cottage with the servants, eagerly waiting what will happen next. The loudness seemed to be irrelevant to the couple, they had eyes only for each other. One of the maids suddenly exclaimed: 

 “Oh, they moved towards each other! Look, look! Oh goodness me, they are going to dance!” and she clapped merrily. The tailor and coachman, standing the furthest from the window, gave each other a look of contempt, though the small twitch of a smile was clearly visible. 

 It was a simple waltz. Mr. Wood’s feet were light, his hand on the bottom of Helen’s long straightened back firm and confident and with ease they seemed to be levitate as they moved in circles around the centre of the room. Helen’s dancing skills were less swell, but her grace made up for the occasional stumble or a step too much (or little). The good spirit that ruled the house was contagious, as maids joined in the music and began dancing in pairs or with a willing (or forced) lad, whose feet were not even in the slightest as prompt and light as Mr. Wood’s. 

 “Oh, oh, stop now! They stopped too!” at once cried that very same maid as before. All obediently stopped and rushed towards the window. But oh? Helen was lying still on the floor! Panic replaced the joy and excitement of just passed moments.

 “She is not breathing!” “Again?!” “We have to help!” “Oh, good lord, just when it looked so good!” “Is she dead?” “What is happening?” In the chaos of it all came Patricia’s voice, clear and piercing as no other:

 “Dumb woman, stupid fashion, ridiculous corset!” and she ran out of the cottage, sprinted across the yard and –once again – without knocking –literally-  barged into the house, straight into the living room. The habitants of the servants’ cottage watched her enter the room, stand by the door, listen to (the still, calm standing) Mr. Wood and making her way back into the cottage, slowly and leisurely, an absurd sight in such a dramatic situation like this!  Before all the maids transferred themselves from the window to the entrance door towards Patricia, the workwoman stopped them all with a single lift of a hand: 

 “Calm yourselves and watch”, indicating with her tilted head the house opposite them. And what do they see? Mr. Wood lifted slightly Helen’s slim body and with a little twist of fingers he untied the corset at the back. Only a little was necessary, needed as,-

            “Oh, she’s alive!” someone exclaimed and a group loud exhale of relief was released.

“Of course she is, but no more Victoria Cake for her!” Patricia sneered."She is lovely the way she is, Victoria-cake diet or not” the tailor boy sighed. Back at the house, the Woods stared each other in the eyes – so deeply that in water they would have drowned by now. Their words, though incomprehensible and mute for the servants, were obvious, as they continued to observe each other in utter bewilderment and enchantment. 

“Thank you for saving me” gaped Helen, breaking the silence. Mr. Wood looked at her fixedly, with such tenderness that could be felt even through the yard. 

"Believe me when I say that I would do anything for you” replied he, still observing her pretty face. Oh, the thick eyelashes, the sweet curve of the nose, the pale cheeks and the loveliness of the whole of her… “my dear, dear Helen, you know I would.” 

With that their lips met for the first time; a sweet kiss, soon after midnight. And by the way Mr. Wood carried Helen into his bedroom and their silhouettes (still attentively observed by the now cheering servants) of indulging tender caresses it was certain it would not be their last either.

THE END